We sailed on, of course. Bootstrap and I seemed to be the only ones who missed Kolibrí's energy and enthusiasm. But soon, it was Aciguato who had recaptured and refocused our attention.
Late one fall afternoon, the winds were low and since we were without a heading, I didn't feel it was necessary to continue at a fast clip. We sailed the calm waters between New Spain and Cuba, lazily on the lookout for merchant colors on the horizon. Barbossa was at the helm, and I leaned casually against the port rail, looking out at the vast sea, not a spit of land in sight.
Aciguato was singing a low, rather mournful song in a clear tenor that made the back of my neck prickle with memories. It was a song unfamiliar to me, but the lyrics were simple.
Gold piled high, wealth so vast,
Greater than Eldorado,
If it be there where you aim your mast,
Calamity shall follow.
Row, me hearties, row!
The Island's grip can't hold
Them what resist curséd gold!
Row, me hearties, row!
The legacy of Cortés, treasure to be found there,
More riches than ever in Golkonda,
If you can't resist and land there,
Eternal damnation shall haunt you.
Row, me hearties, row!
The Island's grip can't hold
Them what resist curséd gold!
Row, me hearties, row!
After a few more verses, the crew had caught on and sang along with the baleful tune. I finally asked Aciguato what the song was about. And then he told me about the fabled gold that Hernán Cortés had siphoned from the treasury and hidden during his years as a clerk in Cuba. Later, after he'd sacked Tenochtitlan and married one of Montezuma's daughters, he took the Aztec gold from that union and hid it, along with countless other Spanish treasures he'd gathered over his years of service. But, according to rumor, he was never the same after meeting with the Aztecs. Some say, he became paranoid and had his wife appeal to Quetzacoatl himself to protect the treasure from the Spanish lords who envied him.
So, somewhere, on some island in the Caribbean, lie some great and supposedly cursed treasure. The knowledge was enough to make me feel better than I had in weeks. "Barbossa," I called, "set sail for Tortuga. If there's any truth to this fable, we'll find the seeds of it there, eh?"
Barbossa made a gesture that suggested to me that he didn't want to waste his time chasing down myths, but then, he had little choice. I was still captain, after all. He turned us to starboard and the wind caught our sails hard. We were in the pirate port just before midnight.
It was hard to find anyone who had any idea what I was talking about, but finally I was engaged in a conversation with an extremely drunk man who claimed that he knew of Cortés' treasure. Of course, that was the last coherent statement he'd made.
"S'likely 'n th' sea, y'see?" the man slurred at me, his lids falling shut.
"Yes,of course it's in the sea, but have you any idea where it might be, mate?" I asked, drumming my long fingers impatiently on the oaken bar.
"Yesh, o'course. 'Ztec gold be in-" he began. He never finished. Rather, he dropped his head to the bar and slipped off of his chair. I sighed and let him lie. I turned back to the bar and took a healthy pull on my rum bottle.
That's when a greying sailor next to me spoke up, "So, yer lookin' after that cursed gold, eh, sailor?"
I looked at him and nodded, "You wouldn't happen to know where it was, now would you?"
He stood and gestured for me to follow. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I followed. He led me to a dark little corner. "Best not be too loud 'bout this, ye hear?" he said once we'd taken our seats. I nodded conspiratorially and he began with his version of the story.
"Well, it's been nigh on three years I been sailin' in there here waters, mate. An' I heard lots o' stories, aye I 'ave," he took a drink from his mug and set it down empty. He glanced at my partially filled bottle and I gave him a splash of my rum. He grinned at me and continued, "Well, an ol' salt on a merchant rig I sailed fer tol' me the map you seek is written on the skin of a man from Cuba." His voice was so low, I had to really concentrate to hear him, and when I finally made out what he said, my eyebrows lifted. Maybe the years at sea had adversely affected the man.
He shook his head at me and pressed on, "It's the Lor's honest truth, it is! It's a tattoo on his back."
"And, have you any idea where I might find said tattooed man?" I asked, taking the last gulp from my bottle. The sailor watched the amber liquid disappear rather sadly. He spread his hands to indicate that he did not know. I leaned back in my chair and steepled my fingertips, contemplatively.
"Well, mate, thank you for your time, eh?" I said dismissively, looking around for Barbossa to see if he'd had any better luck.
"Jack Paulet?" The old man asked, realization spilling down over his shaggy features and serving to light him up like a newly oiled lamp.
My eyes riveted to him. No one had called me that in years. It felt like the air had been sucked from the room. And then I realized who the man was.
He reached across the small table to grasp my hand, "Time and tail feathers, Jack! It can't really be you!" He pumped my hand cordially.
"It can, Gibbs, it can," I choked out. Time had greyed the man and made him much more portly, but I was surprised I hadn't recognized him. Joshamee Gibbs, the man who sailed Cary and I to Paris.
"Where's your friend, Jack? The skinny one?" he asked grinning foolishly and looking around,as though Cary might appear with a round of ale.
I shook my head and struggled to swallow the sudden lump in my throat. I don't know whether it was caused by the sudden collision with my past or the memory of Cary, "the skinny one."
"The sea took him, Gibbs. Mermaids," I replied, also looking around for a barmaid and stiff drink.
"No!" he replied with a sneer and a quick sign of the cross, "Filthy beasts, they are. I heard lot of tails of their trickery, I have." I simply nodded in reply, thankful of the barmaid heading in our direction with a fresh bottle.
"So, Jack, what tide brought you to Caribbean? Treasure, eh?"
I grinned, the rum bringing back some of my composure, "Fortune more likely. And, it's Captain Jack Sparrow, now, mate."
"Sparrow, hey? I heard that name many a time. A right reputation you got yerself, my boy!" he tapped his bottle with mine and we drank heartily.
I brought the conversation around to the gold, once more. "So, is there any truth to this tattooed map?"
He shrugged his shoulders, "You know how many ghost stories float between sailors. They're as common as Kraken sightings and, well, mermaid lovers." He took another drink and stared into the liquid, considering before he continued. "But, you know the best place to get yerself inked is Santiago."
I nodded, hoping against hope that I caught his meaning. "Will you sail with me, mate?"
He shook his head to indicate the negative, "Not I, Jack. I have a few prospects around here that I wish to investigate a might further," he looked pointedly at a Rubenesque beauty near the bar who was fairly falling out of her garments as she pouted at Gibbs. "But, if I ever have a need to sail under the Roger, you'll be the first man I look up."
I grinned at him and put out my hand, "And, you'll be welcome, mate!" I stood and eagerly scanned the room for my first mate. I was anxious to set sail for Tortuga. I knew if we left immediately, we could be there by sunup.
It took me longer than it should have to assemble the crew. They were not happy to pull out at the late hour, but I was adamant. Once aboard the Pearl, I gave my heading and silently praised Joshamee Gibbs. And, then I retired to my cabin to contemplate the art of tattooing.
As I'd hoped, we arrived in Santiago with the dawn. My crew was weary, so Barbossa and I sailed alone to the shore. Aboard the longboat, I told him my plan.
"I'm going to scout out a tattoo artist and see what I can learn about this map. The man I spoke to had a strong idea that Santiago would be the place to continue the search," I smiled. I thought it was a good plan. And, directly after, I planned on getting back onto my ship and getting some sleep. Or, perhaps, I could find comfort in the arms of a Spanish lady on shore. My mind wandered along that happy path, until Barbossa snapped me back to reality.
"Jack, do you even listen to me?" at my silence, he rolled his eyes, "I said that the crew isn't happy about investing so much time in a fairy tale. The bosun isn't even sure it's real."
"Come on, mate, pirating has got to be fun. We have quite a hoard at the Isla de Muerta, enough to last us the rest of our lives." I said. Barbossa was unmoved. I knew there could never be enough for him. I sighed but forged ahead, "Look, I just have a feeling that this Aztec gold is going to be something. Something big, eh, Barbossa? Something big enough, perhaps, to get you your own ship. Perhaps even a bonny lass or two, and a whole orchard full of those apple trees you like so well." The more I pushed, the more I could see the greed in his eyes. I knew he could convince the rest of the crew if I could convince him. And I knew I just had. The man was simply crazy for those damned apples. A little too biblical a fruit for my tastes, but to every man his own and all that rot.
When we made port, I could feel Barbossa's new hunger for the fabled gold. I thrived on it. We finally located the only disreputable tattoo house in the town. Anywhere of repute was was of no use to me.
We entered the low, dark hut and I immediately cringed from the scream I heard from the back. I was seriously reconsidering my decision to patronize this gentleman's shop. I looked at Barbossa and was about to ask him if he had any interest in getting a tattoo when a small wiry-looking woman stepped from behind a curtain.
She was beautiful, if a little on the thin side, with large dark eyes and a tumbled mass of red hair. From the blood and ink staining her hands, I took her to be the tattoo artist. Gentleman indeed.
"State your business," she said roughly after look us each up and down. She had a proper British accent, that sounded quite surprising coming from her mouth. She looked anything but proper in a simple cotton gown that revealed her every angle and curve.
As I opened my mouth reply, a wan-looking Spaniard came from behind the curtain, clutching his left upper arm. Fresh blood stained the linen tied around his arm and I saw the trace of tears left on his grimy cheeks. The man tossed some coins on a table, muttered something darkly in Spanish and pushed past us to the door. Though I was sorely regretting this, I couldn't back out now.
"Well, love, I was of a mind to use your services," I began, eloquently disguising my fear. At least, I thought I was.
She strode right up to me and rolled up my right sleeve and pressed her dirty finger into the flesh of my forearm, "Here," she said before turning back to the curtain. She looked back at me and lifted her eyebrows. "Now," she demanded before letting the curtain fall.
I looked at Barbossa, and he just gave me one of those gruesome grins and gestured toward the curtain. I followed the lady back.
It was even darker in this part of the hut. There was a small window, but it was covered in soot and grime, effectively blocking the light. I gulped down the knot in my throat and spoke, "How do you go about seeing back here, eh?"
She had her back to me and was laying out her instruments. "I don't have to see. I just feel."
"Oh, that's just, er, splendid," I muttered. I took a seat and watched her. "What will you be feeling to put on my arm then?"
"What's your name?" she asked, turning abruptly toward me. She looked evil, her flame hair a blaze around her small, dirty face, holding a violent looking bit of bone in her hand.
"I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, love," I began. She cut me off with a sharp nod. She sat down facing me and exposed my arm again. She took a soaked piece of linen and carefully wiped away the dirt there. I just watched, fearful of how my voice would sound in the face of those awful instruments.
She picked up a pointed bit of metal that looked like a chisel and placed it midway between my wrist and the crook of my elbow. I swallowed hard. "Keep still," she spat. I pinned my arm to the table next to me. "This will hurt," she said, none too kindly.
She pounded the metal into my flesh and blood poured from my skin. It hurt. She made a few more incisions and the pain gradually dulled to an overall throb. After each few slices, she'd rub some blood away and smear ink into the new wound. It was so dark in the room, I couldn't even see what shape the picture was taking. I guess it didn't matter much. After I got used to the pain, I began to ask her about the map. "So, have you done this long?"
"One year here, one in London," she replied. She never looked up at me.
"Oh, well, that's reassuring then," I quipped. No response. So I forged on, "Do you know any of the local legends?"
"Some," she continued, piercing an especially sensitive bit just above my wrist. I bit back tears. This hurt a lot.
"So, have you heard anything about a young man with a map tattooed on his back?"
"Of course," she sat back to examine her work, though I don't know what she saw in the mess of blood and black ink. She reached behind her and selected a smalled bit of sharp bone and went back to work. The bone was no more gentle.
I tried to hide my excitement and pressed on, "What have you heard?"
She finally looked up at me, "The man I worked for when I arrived here did that tattoo." I just stared at her. She continued, after resuming her work. "I mean, I assume it's the same one. It was when I first arrived here. I was to apprentice this man, Kandra. He'd been a friend of my father's." She went on hacking away at my arm for a few more minutes before she continued. "I was here when it happened but I was not allowed to watch this particular tattoo. A man brought in a young boy, perhaps, ten or eleven, and demanded that Kandra tattoo a map to his back. He promised to pay well. And, when the tattoo was complete, one of them killed him. I hid away in the trees out back, so I was spared. They seemed to be in a great hurry and left quickly."
I knew I was too lucky for her answers thus far, but I pressed on. "Do you remember what either of them looked like?"
"The boy looked like any other you'll find around here. Dark eyes and hair, he was terrified, though. I could see that much. The man was very old, but strikingly tall. He had a long grey beard and wore a curly white wig. He also had black teeth. He made my skin crawl."
"Did you ever see the tattoo?"
She shook her head to indicate the negative and sat back once more. "It's finished." She wiped away the blood on my arm to reveal and setting sun and a sparrow flying to the right. It was expertly formed and crystal clear, though my wound was already weeping blood again. She wrapped my arm with a bit of fresh linen. "Try to keep it clean and dry for a few days. It'll be one pound or two doubloons."
I fished out the fee and handed it to her. "You can see yourself out, then?" she asked, already turned away from me a cleaning up the tools.
"One more question, love, how long ago was this?"
"Two weeks," she threw over her shoulder. Two weeks! Either news travels fast in the Caribbean or he wasn't the first boy to bear a tattoo of a map leading to cursed Aztec gold.
I stood and the room spun and swayed around me. I clutched at the table, still crashed to the floor. I woke up in my own cabin. Barbossa leaned against the stern windows. He turned to look at me when he heard my stir.
"Have a nice nap, Princess Jack?" he scoffed at me, and broke into a harsh laugh.
My head pounded and my arm throbbed, but I still managed to sneer at my mate, "It's Captain Jack, if you recall."
"Fine, fine, but what did you find out?"
I told him what I knew and he grinned one his disgustingly toothy smiles at me. "Glad to hear that we're not just chasing air. There is a pirate I've run across that matches that description."
"Enlighten me, Barbossa," I said, reclining against the wall behind me.
"He was an old man when I was just new to the sea and he captured the first ship I ever sailed on. His name was Kennedy and he was as mean a pirate that I'd ever come across. I heard he had his hands in some other lines of business as well." I was surprised. For Barbossa to call anyone mean, they must really be a dirty son of a bitch.
"A pirate and a pimp, then? Lovely combination," I interjected.
"Yes, well, he managed to mutiny against old Black Barty and stole his ship," Barbossa continued.
"Oh yes, I heard that story somewhere," I remembered Cotton had sailed under Captain Bartholomew Roberts and had a soft spot for the man. He was a very successful pirate and it would have taken someone powerful to mutiny him. I was beginning to not like this Kennedy. "So, where can we find him?"
"I'm not sure. The only place I ever met him was in the open sea. Tortuga?"
I shook my head, "Let's go north to New Providence."
He agreed and left me in peace. I was just settling back into my bed when I heard her voice again.
"How's your tattoo healing, Captain Jack?"
I sat up and looked around. The red-head stepped out of the shadows and into the light.
I pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. "It's fine. Why are you on my ship?"
"I saw my chance to get off of Cuba and I took it. I helped your mate carry you on board, and I just never disembarked," she walked towards my bed and unwrapped my tattoo. The blood had dried, but it still ached. "You aren't mad, are you?"
I pulled her down and possessed her mouth with my own. I felt her tense and then give beneath my kiss. When we broke apart, I grinned up at her. She was flushed and her lips were swollen and red. "I'll get over it."
