THE PIRATE'S GOSPEL
CHAPTER X
Twenty-two years had passed since the pirate in the big black hat had carried his nine-year-old daughter from the quay on Welsh Back to the house at Queen's Square; however, time seemed to fold back upon itself as Charlotte walked alongside her father toward the ships moored along the Avon. Even after having been absent for many years, Captain Barbossa remained a recognizable local figure and the family's maritime exploits were still remembered. Charlotte relished the celebrity that came with being the famous pirate's daughter. She forgot about her broken nose and throbbing hangover. Barbossa also enjoyed his notoriety and basked in the attention he received—such an honor was not meted out indiscriminately in a homeport claimed by scores of famous pirates.
Bristol's wealth came in with the tides. The port remained the type of place where the difference between privateering and pirating had always been an issue of semantics and little else. More than a dozen of the impressive houses on Queen's Square had been paid for with letters of marque or activities condoned by such documentation. Yet, a casual observer would never suspect that so many of the stately homes had been built and occupied by men belonging to such an uncivilized profession. While there was no shame in being a successful pirate, many captains underwent a strange transformation after their boots touched the cobblestone streets of their hometown. Brogues softened, manners surfaced and charming gentlemen emerged as soon as the layers of salt and dirt were washed away.
That was not to say that the occasional "piratey" scandal did not surface. Bankrupt and disaffected with the British government, one night Captain Woodes Rogers attracted the attention of a suspicious Londoner lurking around the Llandoger Trow trading drinks for sea stories. Rogers could not be bought by the glass, but once the stranger's price hit its mark, he pulled no punches in the furious exposé he unleashed. Charles Johnson (rumored to be Daniel Defoe in disguise) published a bestseller with his General History of the Pyrates in 1724 and Bristol's society gossips almost drown in its wake. Some of the locals were horrified by the presence of so many real names in the text, while others were equally incensed to have been left out. Since Rogers was a close friend of the family, the Barbossas escaped any direct reference, although Aunt Amelia had found at least three instances where Charlotte's father appeared unnamed in the background.
Anyone familiar with the pirate haunts in the Caribbean or Far East had a good chance of meeting at least half a dozen familiar faces along the quays. Charlotte failed to recognize any of the men who tipped their hats to her father, but she knew of quite a few of their ships by reputation alone. The hulking brigs, frigates and East Indiamen were lined up, bow to stern, as far as the eye could see. A fair number were privately owned or underwritten by nameless financiers, and crewed by men who had taken their oaths on the Code of Morgan and Bartholomew.
"Captain Barbossa?" an oddly pitched male voice called out.
Charlotte turned around to see a tiny bald man flanked by a pair of outlandish courtesans wearing matching red gowns and carrying parasols. She wished Pascal had been with them as little people fascinated him. To complement his diminutive frock coat and ruffles, the dwarf wore an unusual collection of keys around his neck and its bawdy symbolism became clearer the longer he stared at Charlotte.
"Master Martin," Barbossa smiled politely, but the strained tone of his voice suggested he was less than pleased to see the little man, "how fare ye?"
Marty nodded to his two companions and his smile boasted. "Can't complain none. And who is this lovely creature?" His lusty gaze continued to bear down on Charlotte.
"She's be me daughter." Barbossa snapped.
"Oh." Marty lost interest and shifted his attention to the conversation at hand. "I heard the story about the Pearl—is it true then? She's been lost?"
Barbossa patted his right thigh. "This not be a fashion statement."
"Well, I'll be honest then when I say that I am damn pleased I overslept at Miss Allison's on Tortuga." He whistled. "So now what? A few blokes I was talking to last night seemed to think that you'll be heading out to take on Blackbeard. Any truth to it?"
"Tavern stories, I'm sure. Ye may trust that I plan to have nothing more than a short conversation with Edward Teach concerning the compensation he owes me and the forms of payment I'm amenable to accepting."
Marty shook his head. "They say he came back from the dead and has a zombie crew."
"And what, pray tell, Master Martin, do they say about yours truly?" Barbossa replied with an irritable sigh.
"About the same," the dwarf shrugged, "but I think the general consensus is that you're a lot nicer and more sane."
"It's good to know me collegiality precedes me." Barbossa smirked. "Who might ye be sailing with these days?"
"Sailed over with Captain Chevalle and I've been looking to go back with Simon, but then I heard someone say that Captain Teague himself was headed up to London town so I might see if I can't get on with him."
"Captain Teague, you say?" He leaned on his crutch. "More than a little far a field of the Caribbean, you think?"
"Reliable source," Marty shrugged again, "and perhaps Captain Jack's with him."
"Oh, that would be most delightful." Barbossa stepped backward and started to turn away.
"If I see him, I'll tell him you said hello, Captain Barbossa," Marty bowed, "and best of luck with Blackbeard, but I think it's damn near suicidal to take him on."
Charlotte waited until the dwarf was out of earshot. "He was a odd little fellow. Who's Teague?"
"Little wretch isn't of much more use than ballast. Teague be naught more than an old acquaintance," Barbossa said dismissively, "however, we be keeping an eye out for him in London. Out of character for him to drift past the Antilles."
The freshly painted Argyle was berthed between a formidable old frigate dubbed the Leprechaun and an unimpressive coastal collier off loading its cargo. Barbossa displayed an increasing degree of agility as he made his way through the tangle of activity before arriving at the base of the Argyle's gangplank. Upon reaching the ship, his demeanor changed and his voice assumed an even more commanding tone.
"You! Mangy dog! Set ye foot to it and tell your Cap'n Fergusson that Barbossa be here to see him!" He barked at one of the sailors on the deck. At the mention of his name, Charlotte noticed how some of the sailors drew back and others stared at them with dumbfounded looks of curiosity. "And I ain't having the time nor patience to be waiting for ye to haul ye filthy carcass across that deck like a whore headed to the confessional. Set to it!"
In a matter of minutes, a wiry gray haired captain came careening across the deck. The tall man with the angular face looked as though he'd escaped from an infirmary and his deep-set eyes had a feverish quality to them. Despite his frail appearance, he shoved his sailors out of the way with elaborate sweeping gestures accompanied by an impressive range of profanity that was only slightly obscured by his outrageous Gaelic accent. By the time he made it to the opposite end of the gangplank, Charlotte judged him completely mad and liked him for it.
"Hector! You be late!" he roared. "Now do come aboard! Come aboard!" He glared at his crew. "Ye know who the hell this is? You ought to, you worthless gaggle of dimwitted fools. If I didn't spit on formality round here, I'd have the lot of ye sorry shites beat." He groaned as he offered his hand to Barbossa. "Worthless grandsons and whatevers—stupid bastards all. To hell with it, though, because I have laid me hands upon a case of port worthy for drinking to the death of all the Bourbons and Borgias. By God, we're goin' to drink! But, good morning sweet Jesus!" His gaze landed on Charlotte. "Tis looking back in time with this one! Even sober, I doubt I'd not think she was your Josie, Hector." Dramatically, he put his hand to his heart and bowed to Charlotte. "The wee little one, all grown!" He then seized her hand and kissed it, but noticing her bruised and swollen nose. "Holy hell, little lass, what's wrong with your face?"
Barbossa rolled his eyes. "Bloody uneven threshold."
Charlotte blushed. "It looks worse than it is."
"You think? Cause it be looking like shite."
Barbossa gave the other man a sideways glance to silence him. "Charlotte, I don't expect you to remember me cousin Seamus given he looks worse each time ye see'em?"
She smiled good naturedly, but truly she could not recall having seen him more than twice since she was eleven years old. Even though she did not recognize him, she knew hundreds of her father's stories about Fergusson. The two men had sailed together for most of their lives.
Fergusson nodded self deprecatingly. "Right, so that means you be related to a half dozen of these little slack jawed shites fouling me deck, but mind you not close enough to preclude any relationship if you develop an interest in taking one of them off me hands—"
"She's married to a mathematician, Seamus."
"A magician!" Fergusson gasped. "Oh that's grand!"
"No, ye heard wrong, numbers—maths." Barbossa raised his voice.
The distinction registered with the other captain. "Bloody shame, that's dreadful boring." He sighed. "All the same, I really wouldn't wish one of these idiot buggers on anyone, unless ye know someone who might be interested in being the benefactor of a lecherous simpleton?"
"Can't say that I do." Charlotte politely declined. As she started to follow the two men across the deck, she instinctively began noting the ship's structural integrity and scrutinizing its value. Apparently, the Argyle had been a ship of the line at the turn of the previous century and its battle scars served as evidence of both its solid construction and long service. She kept to her father's elbow as they followed Fergusson toward the stern. By the time they reached the captain's cabin she had estimated the ship's tonnage, determined how much speed might be coaxed out of the old canvas and appraised its value. Conservatively, she decided that, if asked, she would not underwrite it for less than 30% up front. For a moment, she paused and considered what her father said about factoring in the crew and captain and reconsidered her decision—the Argyle probably would not be a good investment at all.
Fergusson's elegantly appointed cabin hinted at the ship's glory days and the crates of port and rum hinted at his perpetual drunken state of over exuberance. Charlotte followed her father's lead and sat down in one of the high backed chairs around the chart table while Fergusson retrieved a tray with three glasses and grabbed a bottle of port from the cupboard. After pouring his guests very generous amounts servings, he took off his hat, pitched it at the gallery bench and collapsed into his chair. The thin-faced man looked exhausted.
He noted Charlotte's look of concern. "Don't mind me, darling, me ague comes and goes—been dying from it since I was twenty." He dug into his coat for a silver flask. "I drink more of this holy Peruvian bark water than I do rum."
"You look like hell, Seamus." Barbossa tapped his glass to his cousin's silver flask.
"You're not looking that good ye self, Hector. You noticed ye missing a leg?"
Barbossa looked down at his prosthesis and feigned surprise. "I wager I can still kick your arse with me good one."
"Don't doubt that one bit." He chased the quinine mixture with a long drink of wine. "Is that one of your old man's hats?"
"Bit hard to keep hold of a hat all the while sawing off a limb and dangling from a yardarm." Barbossa took off his hat and straightened the brim. "And, yes, it is one of me father's," he added with a chuckle. "Which reminds me, did you stop by Langley's before ye left London?"
Charlotte had been dreading this question since she started for Bristol. "There was a bit of fire in Cornhill last March and Langley's burned to the ground."
Barbossa appeared genuinely crestfallen.
Fergusson started to laugh.
Charlotte waited for her father to get up and murder him, but he seemed to accept the other man's ridicule in stride.
"Seriously, Hector, you lost your leg, your ship, your crew and probably a bloody obnoxious monkey, but now you're only really and truly heartbroken because you've lost your hat." He slapped the table.
"Go straight to hell, Seamus."
"Your daddy," Fergusson turned to Charlotte, "has always been so bloody picky about everything being just so-so, it knocks me over to think how he ain't starved to death or why he ain't still sitting at the dock in Willemstad remaking that poor blighted crew redo every knot in every line of the Leper's rigging."
"If there's something to be done it'll be done the right way and if I'm to bother wanting something in particular, I'm not going to take anything other than what I actually be wanting."
"And, God bless them both, but I blame ye parents. Had you grown up with seven brothers, you'd not be so picky." Fergusson wagged his finger and refilled the glasses. "As it was you were bloody well spoiled."
"Was not."
"You were."
"Was not."
"You were, because otherwise you'd not got it in your head nor had the pocket money to buy that first big black hat you got yer hands on."
"I have fair skin. If I don't wear a hat with a decent brim—"
"Woodes Rogers told ye that and—"
"And I don't have fair skin?"
"Ye do and horribly so, but you started wearing that hat because Woodes Rogers wore the same bloody—"
"Might I interrupt for just a moment," Charlotte interjected, "to have my glass topped off?"
"Certainly, dear lassie," Fergusson refilled her glass, "and how many little picky fair skinned mathematicians with large noses are there?"
"Hardly a proper thing to ask."
"You should meet the mathematician." Barbossa laughed. "He's a hell of a catch."
"I fear I've never harbored much respect for the discipline of mathematics. I had a bastard of a tutor—remember? I used to threaten to publicize that I was one of his students." He smiled triumphantly. "What's her mathematician like?"
"He's a raving lunatic with an unhealthy obsession with rabbits, but he doesn't come at it honestly."
"The rabbits?" Fergusson scooted his chair closer to the table.
Barbossa groaned. "The lunacy."
"Oh be nice," Charlotte grew defensive, "you make him nervous."
"And do I? I reckon all the wormwood tonic he's sucking down has nary an effect on him?"
"Wormwood?" Fergusson's bloodshot eyes lit up. "That be loads of fun."
"He's not taking a wormwood tonic." Charlotte corrected her father.
"I beg to differ having read the bottle." Barbossa paused to fill his cousin in on the whole story. "She's took the wind out of his jib by convincing him he ought to be drinking licorice extract for his vitality. But, now he's gone and gotten it mixed up with wormwood. Couldn't tell the difference between the Spanish and Portuguese apothecary labels after he broke the bottle and his rabbits ate the Latin."
"Rabbits eat Latin?"
Charlotte winced. "You obviously attempted to explain this to him?"
"Aye, but fair winds if you think he'll let go of it since he now thinks it be a cure-all."
Fergusson reached over and patted Charlotte's forearm. "Sweetie, there is no doubt in my mind that you are not indeed your father's child and by extension the granddaughter of his mother and great niece of me own mother. You see that degree of devilishness can only grow from the little wispy bit of yer soul made up of muddy Irish curses, skinny drunks and evil screaming harpies. You're brilliantly wicked, but doomed to be hanged by your own petards."
"Speaking of petards," Barbossa redirected the conversation, "who do we know in the Admiralty?"
"A few jackasses and a handful of simpletons—why, what are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking that I be requiring a fast ship in order to expedite my intentions to cleave Edward Teach in two with me blade."
Fergusson almost choked on his wine. "To hell with him, Hector, he ain't worth it. Let's go chase off the African coast—give the Portuguese a last run. Half this ship is yours and three quarters of what's left of the Leper."
"Seamus, I be far from ready to bow out and either way I'm not taking you down with me." He took a deep breath. "I plan on doing this with a letter of marque in hand and at the helm of one of his majesty's ships."
The other man remained unconvinced. "You could have your pick of any ship in Bristol for ain't no one not heard about you taking on the Flying Dutchman. By god, I'd wager me soul that you could walk right up to the Howland Docks in London even and the Company's boys would hand you any shiny new East Indiaman you set your heart to in exchange for a promise not to repeat the incident with the Endeavor." His voice hinted at a more than a touch of regret. "Hector, we're getting old, what lot there is left of us. Take the boons they'll offer up cause they'll offer'em. Better to end your days a wealthy man than chase the devil himself down into the deep."
Barbossa brushed off his cousin's concern. "You remind me of me mother. Not interested in the swag, but I swear on me soul that this time Edward Teach will be dead at my hand." He added, "I'm not afraid of the pirate Blackbeard—I've been to hell and back and, if that pathetic whelp had any sense, he'd develop a healthy fear of me and slit his own throat." Barbossa's voice was frightfully clear. For a moment, his blue eyes grew cold and dangerous. "That swings me full circle," his grin returned, "think about it. It'll be the brass ring. So which of our old mates, us antiquities, in a place to give me a leg up on getting at it?"
The feverish drunk started to open his mouth, but snapped it shut apparently thinking better of what he had to say. Charlotte moved to the edge of her seat watching him. With a sigh, Fergusson recovered his speech. "Wouldn't put in him with our mates, but Savage Mostyn has tried to turn decent and is sitting pretty in the Admiralty as Comptroller of the Navy. He's especially paranoid as of late about some of his past associations coming to light and keen to get the attention off his wee little run from Etienne off the French Coast. Maybe blown out of proportion, but his own navy boys at Portsmouth have even taken to taunting him about choppy water and the French threat. He stood before a court martial just to clear his name up. You willing to deal with Savage?"
"Not particularly willing, but not above it." Barbossa narrowed his eyes as he added, "That be said, if his own are calling him out for what he is, what good is he to me?"
"He's still a golden goose and doubly so, not only has he got the Admiralty by the…" he stopped short and remembered Charlotte, "purse strings, he's managed to crawl his way into Parliament thanks to his family ties. Makes me half sick to say, but Savage is on his way to being an admiral."
Barbossa helped himself to the bottle of port. "Ye a bigger man than me self, hearing that makes me fully sick."
Charlotte recognized the name. "Mostyn? I must know, gentlemen, how do you two know the aspiring admiral? I've played cards with the wife of his brother John and the family seems more than a bit…not this." She gestured broadly to the ship.
"Oh, we met him in an official capacity." Barbossa mimicked her with a flapping gesture to the ship around them.
"And in the official capacity of our meeting, as we were surveying the parameters of the property under consideration we encountered the potential admiral in a comprising situation..." Fergusson stopped, realizing that he had tread too far into a story that perhaps should not be retold in mixed company.
Barbossa butted in, "As a matter of propriety, Charlotte, perhaps we'll just have you use your imagination."
"You can't start a story such as that and just stop." She protested. "Using the phrase 'compromising situation' has opened the door to a litany of interesting indiscretions—you can't just leave it at that."
"Aye, sweetheart, we can." Barbossa smiled coolly.
"Really? I'm over thirty years old. I grew up here in Bristol—I've not been cloistered away—and your voice carries," she accused her father, "so I heard just about every story you ever told Uncle Gaspar." She took an unladylike gulp of the port, linked her arm through her father's and launched into her best impression of him. "Three saucy wenches for the price but one, nay couldn't climb the shrouds for the week, but I'd—"
Barbossa appeared genuinely shocked before cutting her off with what he obviously identified as the lessor of two evils. "Absurd, you've gone and confused me with someone else. But since she's obviously in command of such a decadent imagination, best get on with it, Seamus. What ever did we discover whilst surveying the property under consideration?"
"Heather, Clarissa and Bridgette?" Fergusson gasped and refused to abandon the other compromising story Charlotte had hinted at.
Barbossa's glare grew menacing.
"We'll circle back around to that one when the angel is away. By your leave, I'll get on with Lieutenant Mostyn's perverse tale of misfortune." He fortified himself with a long drink and began dramatically, "You see, lass, apparently the lieutenant had failed to note the ship had been seized."
"Slept straight through being boarded," Barbossa contributed.
"And he liked to sleep in fancy women's clothing," Fergusson's face colored and he winced as though it physically pained him to say it, "with an overgrown cabin boy tucked under his arm."
Charlotte's eyes widened. "No, you must be joking!"
"On me soul, little miss, sure as hell wasn't something ye spy every day. Disturbing enough it was that I feared we was going to have to start going to Mass after running across that sight and mind you, we be the bloody fecking pirates and your daddy ain't close to being a good Catholic."
"What did you do?" Charlotte demanded.
Barbossa picked up the story. "Well it didn't take long before he realized that it wasn't just him and his pudgy friend down in the hold. When Mostyn jumped up to his feet the first thing out of Seamus's mouth was, 'You corrupt bastard, me mum had a dress like that!"
Already into their cups, Fergusson and Barbossa began interrupting each other adding details and the sordid story grew ever more outrageous. Charlotte also knew that there was still much that was being omitted in her company. The tale was proving to be as off color as she expected, yet she found it more entertaining to see two hardened pirates in their sixties carrying on in such an adolescent manner.
"And you," Fergusson howled slapping the table, "was laughing so hard it sounded like we was getting murdered down there. You was doubled up like that time you got shot in the gut." He turned to Charlotte. "While we is being made worthless by the horror of what we was seeing, there's a calamity of stomping up above across the gun deck cause our crew's coming down to save us and that really set Mostyn into a panic—"
"—and not because the ship has been taken on his watch."
"—but because he's frantic that we're going run him up on the deck in front of his mates so they might all see him in his ball gown and tawdry lingerie."
"Aye, but the pure madness be that in the middle of it all, he gets it to his mind to try to negotiate with us as an officer of the ship still while still dressed like a bloomin' harpy."
"Right!" Fergusson started to slide down in his chair as his laughter overcame him.
Barbossa put his hand to his chest and affected a exaggeratedly proper accent, "As the post-captain lieutenant harlot whatever of this vessel, I am charged with asking for your terms. Are you privateers in the employ of the king of France or Spain?"
"It's like we was supposed to ignore the dress, the wig, the rouge and the fat friend he's got hog tied and just settle down to business. You can't ask for bloody terms as a post-captain in the middle of all that!"
"Aye, but ye be forgetting it was the proper shade of blue for an officer!" Barbossa lost his composure.
"Oh bloody hell, Hector, that be true! But officer's dress or not, the two of us was already retreating up the ladder backwards—backs against the wall like in a Turkish prison!" Fergusson took a deep breath. "And while we was going up there was Etienne coming down the ladder..." Unsteadily, he rose from his chair for his impersonation of the famed Penniless Frenchman. "C'est quoi ce bordel? Oh mon dieu! C'est de la merde! Oh mon dieu!"
Charlotte was suitably impressed by the string of profanity.
"So there we be—I ain't caught me breath enough to shoot the prissy bastard, Seamus is saying the rosary, Chevalle's having a swearing fit and waving his arms around," Barbossa took a breath, "and that's when Mostyn picked up a gaff and started in like he was going to tear his way out through the hull. He was screaming all the while 'You'll not talk! I'll shut you up!' after which I figured that the time to put an end to the farce that be upon us."
"So ye daddy starts back down there to take Mostyn's head off and the pervert begins pulling the planking right out of the hull. Mind you, there's no way you can pull a hull apart with a gaff wearing a dress! It ain't possible!" Fergusson trailed off as he looked at his cup as if wondering what happened to its contents. "No, the sneaky blokes of the navy had built in a false front down there in the hold where no one might notice there was a bursar's cache behind it. Ain't never imagined to see gold like that on such a small ship. Ain't never imagined either that he was going to pay us out not to say anything about the dress and associated scene we stumbled in upon." He wiped the tears from his eyes as he reached for an uncorked bottle. "Minute I saw that gold, I could care less what he was wearing or doing previously."
"Aye, but all the same he be so wrapped up in his own guilt and worried that we might run off to sully his good reputation, he not only handed over the gold, but he traded us the names of five other ships with similar shine hidden onboard for our word that we'd say naught."
Fergusson nodded. "Aye, if we look back on the situation with the wisdom of maturity, here one has an upright and coming officer in the Royal Navy," he paused looking at Barbossa with feigned seriousness, "puns should be construed as intended—and his ship is taken by a mangy lot of pirates, he's a bloody fool to divulge any more information than necessary. We was nothing to look at, we'd been drunk for days and it was hot as all hell and nary a breeze blowing. We was hungover, irritable and pretty damned broke. Granted," he smiled at his compatriot, "you was going to take off his head, but just as much we'd been pleased as peaches to take that shiny swag, the powder and everything sharp, pointy or weapony off that ship and stumble away with a good laugh and a hell of a tavern story. But Mostyn was daft enough to think that we going to go running back to his mother and daddy in London, and therein set himself up to be blackmailed for his whole damned life. On my honor, I've always kept to the Code and my word is nigh near golden amongst my professional associates, but he's wearing a bloody dress and got his face all painted up—there's no honor extended under those circumstances. We'd been loony fools to miss an opportunity of such proportions."
"If I might be so bold to add, in all honesty, Seamus, I think if you were to sit down and have a good read of it the Code has stipulations negating the binding properties of negotiations undertaken with His Majesty's officers whilst wearing women's clothing. I know this because I had it amended me self." Barbossa paused until Seamus's howling subsided once more. "Aye, after we gave our word as good Englishmen, we went back up to what we'd left of the captain's cabin and the captain and I put me hands on the ship's manifest!" Barbossa joined in Seamus's wicked mirth, although slightly clinging to the table.
"And the moral of the story is, little Miss Charlotte," Fergusson raised his finger in an authoritative manner, while slurring his words, "literacy should not be underestimated or undervalued!"
.
Much Later…
Charlotte woke with a start, her head swimming. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light, she sat up and realized that she had fallen asleep on the couch in Fergusson's chartroom. She rubbed her head trying to shake off the dizziness when it hit her— the ship was moving. Horrified, she started for the door and she almost collided with a young man.
"Apologies, Miss Charlotte!" He stumbled backward desperately trying to avoid upsetting the teapot on his tray. "You father said you would probably want some tea."
"Are we moving?"
"Well yes," he stammered as he continued to struggle with the tray, "we've been underway for about seven hours now."
"Seven hours…uh, Mr.—what was it?"
"Jimmy, er, I mean James Cook…from Yorkshire."
"Right, right," she replied dismissively, "Mr. Cook, why in the bloody hell are we moving and where is my father?"
"Underway to London and on the quarterdeck with Cap'n Fergusson. You probably should drink some tea—sea might get a little rough later today and you ought have some tea."
Charlotte pointed at the table. "Pour me a cup, then Mr. Cook. Perhaps you can tell me why we're going to London at this moment?"
He handed her a cup spilling half of its contents on the chart table. "I'm stowing to London because I need to get back to Tyne—I've been apprenticing with the Walker brothers went with a crew to Bristol, but now I need to get back home. Captain Fergusson offered and I'm trying to get some experience on bigger ships, such as this. I'm still pretty weak kneed aloft." He caught himself, "However, I'm certainly not the reason why you're going to London. Do you know someone there?"
"No, you're probably not the reason and actually I live there." She snapped after fortifying herself with the tea. "Quarterdeck, you said?"
Charlotte pushed past Cook and made her way out to the protected quarterdeck. The cold salty air struck her like a brick hurled through a plate glass window. Steadying herself, she plastered a smile on her face and approached the two older men sitting on the railing. At some point the port had been stowed and the good rum brought out.
"Afternoon, Charlotte," her father raised his cup to her, "kind of you to join us. Given your habits, I'm surprised ye accomplish anything during the daylight hours."
"And where might we be going?" She kept her voice even and pleasant despite her mounting anger.
Barbossa pointed toward the bow of the ship. "London."
"Was this planned?"
"Couldn't make it down the gangplank—matter of personal safety an all. Figured we might as well go on." He beamed at his own cleverness. "Tried to inquire as to your opinion of the matter, but you're pretty damn worthless when you're drunk, sweetie."
Charlotte's dismay could not be disguised and despite her best efforts to seem nonchalant, her expression betrayed her. Her lip quivered involuntarily.
Fergusson laughed.
"Truly, Charlotte?" Barbossa's voice took on a sing-songy cynical tone. "I sent a message back to Pascal. They'll catch up after a few errands and too much idle chitchat about rabbits. My darling, there was no in way in hell I was going to share a coach with ye beloved. I don't believe I like him."
Ultimately, his decision made sense and as long as Pascal had been informed, she could not argue with him. She had not been looking forward to returning to London in a coach either. Furthermore, even if Pascal had not been informed, there was little she could do about her situation. She knew that she was always safe with her father, yet also knew that only a fool would argue with him or challenge his authority on a ship.
"Straight to London, right?" She exhaled. "Not London via the West Indies or Singapore?"
"There be the coastline, love," Fergusson jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "besides we be running on a short crew and while Jimmy, there, is worth his weight in gold, I need a few more seasoned boys up tops to handle the trade winds in this old shoe."
"Miss Charlotte," Jimmy spoke almost on cue, "shall I bring you a chair?"
She turned and smiled politely at the dashing young man who appeared woefully out of place on the quarterdeck of a ship as disreputable as the Argyle. "I would be eternally grateful."
Fergusson waited for Cook to step back inside the chartroom. "That one, now he'll go far. Got's a good head on him. Too polite to end up out here on the Account, but he'll give the navy a better sort of officer than what they've been accustomed to."
"There are a few gentlemen on the Account," Barbossa interjected.
"Name one." Fergusson shot back, "and, while ye might look the part, Hector, I've known you as long as I've been alive, so don't cite yourself as an example."
Barbossa looked off into the distance, and seemed to be running down a long list of pirates he had known. He started to speak several times, but changed his mind as he thought of something ungentlemanly about the individual. After a long pause he pointed his finger at Fergusson triumphantly. "William Turner."
"Bootstrap?" Fergusson laughed and shook his head. "I don't think so—no, belay that, hell no!"
"Nay, William Turner…junior."
"Heard weird things about him." Fergusson held his tongue when Cook appeared with the chair and waited for him to take his leave before continuing. "Heard that boy was a loon."
"Aye, a loon but a gentleman as well, though. He be crusading every time I turned around—a governor's daughter the first time out and after Bootstrap's soul the second time. Very stupid, yet cavalier—so, makes him a gentleman."
"No," Fergusson folded his arms, "he sailed with Jack Sparrow and that negates any pretense to gentlemanly behavior or association, ergo leaving him just a loon."
"Disagree. He remained a gentleman in spite of sailing with that idiot—I'm sure there's extra credit he gets just for that alone."
"I'll concede that, but where's Turner now?"
"On the Dutchman last I saw."
"So, he's off the Account."
"Technically," Barbossa begrudged, "but, doesn't make any difference to the example."
"Does. We're talking present tense, right now. Active examples."
Barbossa was silent for a while as he returned to his mental list. "Really, it'd help if I had a roster of some sort. There's one, at least."
"Define what you mean by gentleman." Charlotte coaxed. "If we're going to tread into the shallows of who could be and could not be identified as a gentleman whilst also on the Account, we need a consistent working definition."
"Alright," Fergusson accepted her challenge, "according to the stories about damsels and dragons and all, a gentleman is mannered, fights fair, respects ladies, don't take advantage of the weak and is honorable."
"Then I can name one quite easily." Charlotte smiled triumphantly.
"Ain't giving you no points for naming your dear older-than-me daddy." Fergusson teased.
"I have me good qualities and only older by half a year."
"Sorry," Charlotte smiled, "you don't fight fair."
"Well, certainly no pretense about that any more." he tapped his peg leg on the deck.
"Hector," Fergusson shook his head, "you didn't fight fair when you was twenty. Alright lass, if it ain't your paternal figure sitting here deluded that he ever fought fair, who is it?"
"A pirate, yes. A captain, no. You did not stipulate the example had to be a captain and I've a very good example that demonstrates how an individual can be both a pirate and a gentleman." She gestured the bottle of rum between the two men and pushed her cup and saucer at Fergusson.
He looked to Barbossa for permission before he obliged. "Now, your example, love? And he has to be a pirate on a ship and active, not imaginary friends."
"Mr. Spaghetti—I mean Ragetti."
"Skinny bloke with a false eye?" Fergusson shook his head. "Didn't look like much of a gentleman."
"But he was a true gentleman," Charlotte smiled broadly, "even if he didn't look the part."
"Aye, but the lass is right." Barbossa raised his teacup of rum to the memory of the emaciated one-eyed sailor. "To the last of the gentlemen of fortune."
"And all that leaves out here are the old bastards past their prime like us and the sorry sons of bitches whose reckoning fast approaches." Fergusson leapt to his feet with an unexpected energy. "And here be the pale horse whose rider be Death," he stretched his arms out to the ship around him and turned in a full circle, "and Hell will come following after'em. There that be ye warning, Eddy Teach!" Fergusson roared above the sound of sea and the wind. He then turned back around to look at Barbossa and a grim determination settled on his face. "Nay, while we can't go back in time, you're right in that we can still return it all to course and make up for what we didn't do all them years ago."
Barbossa only smiled.