Geers Voort, as it transpired, was a difficult man to track down.
The Sagitta had dropped anchor at Bridgetown just past midnight, and, to James's surprise, Brodie had immediately told the men that his business in Barbados would take at least a week, and so the men were at liberty to do as they pleased. Careful not to betray his concern amidst the wide grins and lusty cheers of the other sailors, James wondered at Brodie's leisurely attitude – the captain had been quite adamant to the Frenchmen in Port-au-Prince about his desire to obtain the mysterious totem, and had insisted that it was a matter of some urgency. Did that mean that he was uncertain where or when he was to meet the Dutchman who allegedly possessed the artefact, or did he have other nefarious business planned for his excursion to Barbados? Or was he merely spinning a tale in order to belay any suspicions that might have arisen had the Sagitta's stay in port been too brief to warrant the journey? James knew the only way to answer those questions was to follow Brodie's trail, but he also knew that the risk of being discovered was far too great; he was a seaman and a military man, not a spy, and he had no skill for covert surveillance. He had already fallen from Brodie's graces after the incident with Madame Devereaux, and he knew that he had no goodwill left to squander should the captain catch him out.
And so James had decided that the best way to discover the answers he sought was to find Voort himself. It was perhaps not the wisest strategy – if Brodie found out that he too was seeking Voort, he would surely suspect that James had somehow gotten wind of his plans. But after bearing witness to Niamh's terrible fate, James could no longer remain neutral; though, in truth, he had decided to cast his lot against his traitorous captain even before discovering what a rank villain Brodie truly was. Perhaps he was no longer in the King's service, but James had never been a man to take oaths – or loyalty – lightly. Discovering what Brodie had done to Niamh had only cast his decision with iron-clad certainty.
Yet so many pieces of the puzzle were still incomplete – and James realized that the less information he had, the greater his danger. He still did not know whom among the crew he could trust, nor what the 'Totem of Ikenna' was or what purpose, if any, it served; nor did he know who Brodie's fellow Jacobite conspirators were – other than they were, at least some of them, located in Charles Town, in the Carolina colony. And so, with so little to go on, James felt obliged to follow the one lead he did have – Voort, the Dutch trader who supposedly was holding the Totem of Ikenna for Brodie somewhere in Bridgetown. At least, if he found Voort, he might get some answers about the mysterious artefact and why Brodie wanted it so desperately.
Unfortunately, Voort was proving to be a rather elusive character. James had scoured most of the dockside taverns and inns upon arrival in Bridgetown, asking the publicans and patrons if they had seen or heard of a Dutch trader by that name; but, to his dismay, most of the patrons were fellow strangers who knew little of Bridgetown's affairs, and could tell him nothing. The publicans were scarcely more helpful; most merely grunted and shrugged, and James sensed that they were reticent to divulge any information that might brand them as loose-lipped gossips, discretion being at a premium among the clientele who provided the publicans' livelihoods. Even the few whose tongues had wagged upon the production of a tuppence had provided very little helpful information: the proprietor of the Keelhauled Johnny (named, so the man boasted, after himself, he having allegedly survived such a punishment aboard a 'merchant ship,' which James assumed to be piratical in nature) could only tell James that he knew of Voort, but had not seen him in Bridgetown in some months – which, Keelhauled Johnny was quick to add, did not mean that Voort was not in Barbados, only that he himself had not encountered the trader. Thoroughly disappointed with his paltry bounty, James thus finished off his bottle of rum (it would have been rude, after all – to say nothing of suspicious and conspicuous – if he had not partaken of each tavern's fare as he went about his investigation) and stumbled out into the streets of Bridgetown. It was well past midnight by now and his head had gone a bit fuzzy from the effects of the rum, and thus James was quite pleased with himself when he alighted upon an idea that would enable him to earn some rest and comfort as well as, with any luck, provide him with some answers about Voort.
And so it was that he found himself awakening the following morning, bleary-eyed, in a small but tidy room, aware of a solid but not-unpleasant weight pressing against the upper half of his body. As his eyes gradually focused in the morning light, he glanced down and smiled at the wench who lay draped across him, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder and her legs entwined messily with his. It was a thoroughly pleasant way to greet the new day, and one he'd desperately needed after the dreadful revelations that had bombarded him in successive waves ever since Port-au-Prince.
The whore, a pretty little mulatto, regarded him with a winsome smile, and he responded with a lingering kiss, savouring the opportunity for much-needed female companionship. It was not long before the kiss deepened by mutual accord, and James soon found himself mounted atop her, thrusting frantically as they gasped and heaved in satisfaction before finding their release together. Spent, James flopped over onto the mattress while the whore snuggled up against him, her fingers tracing lazy patterns against his sweat-dampened chest. He closed his eyes and sighed, enjoying the post-coital bliss. Only the sound of a clattering cart on the street below, accompanied by a guttural string of creative oaths snarled by the cart driver urging drink-sodden or slow-witted pedestrians out of his way, broke through James's reverie, and he recalled, much to his dismay, that he had other things to do besides wile away the hours in bed with a lovely woman.
The whore whimpered sadly as he rolled reluctantly out of bed, and as he stretched the kinks out of his limbs, he could not help but contrast her willing eagerness to the surly reluctance of Margie, back in his days of penury on Tortuga. He supposed he was being unfair, he thought as he located his breeches in the corner of the room and tugged them on; Margie had not been employed in an elegant bordello, and he doubted Crusty supplemented her wages beyond what she earned on her back. Perhaps, he mused as he threw on his shirt, he would pay her a visit when the danger with Brodie was past – he'd cajoled a free favour out of her with such an assurance, after all. Assuming he were still alive to do so. He suppressed a shudder – thinking of Brodie reminded him what a dangerous and lethal villain his captain was, and underscored how urgent his task today was.
"It's a shame you must leave so soon," the whore – whose name was Polly, James recalled with a great deal more clarity than he'd managed with Margie all those weeks ago – pouted. He granted her a smile as he regarded her lovely nude body sprawled atop the sheets. Yes, it was a shame, but one that could not be helped. Pulling on his coat, James reached into his pocket for a shilling. He'd paid her last night, but he wished to request an entirely different sort of favour from her now.
"I regret that I must depart so early. You are a very lovely lass, and I thoroughly enjoyed our evening together," he said graciously, placing the shilling on the small bedside table and smiling as she goggled at it, dumbstruck by his bountiful generosity. "There is only one more thing I must ask of you before I take my leave, if you would be so kind."
Shyly reaching out to touch the shilling, Polly regarded him with wide, incredulous eyes. "Of course, love, anything you need." Her smile grew lascivious as she rose from the bed, gifting him with a splendid view of her luscious curves. "Anything at all."
James swallowed hard and reminded himself that he did not have time for any more diversions, pleasant though they were. "As much as I'd love to indulge your offer," he said, his mouth curiously dry, "I am afraid I really must be on my way. But I must ask of you a question before I leave: are you familiar with a Dutch trader named Geers Voort?"
Polly's countenance shifted from aroused to perplexed at once. "Geers Voort? I'm sorry, love, but I don't exactly remember their names, you know?" However, she must have seen something in James's face – profound disappointment, perhaps – that caused her to reconsider her answer.
"Well, there is a Dutchman," she amended, a hopeful lilt in her voice. "He comes every so often. Always asks for Katie, he does. I think he likes his women yellow-haired, you know? He won't look twice at me, but that ain't unusual." The casual tone with which she detailed her rejection set James's teeth on edge; he'd immediately identified Polly as by far the loveliest of the brothel's girls. Clearly Voort – assuming he was the Dutchman in question – was not so egalitarian in his attitudes. James mentally shook the thought away; he needed information on Voort, whatever the man's predilections might be.
"And do you know if he has been around to see Katie recently?"
Polly creased her brow. "I ain't seen him, but that don't mean much – like I said, he don't look for me." She paused, an idea occurring to her. "Do you want me to go fetch Katie? Then you can ask her yourself."
"Well, I wouldn't want to be any trouble –"
"Oh, ain't no trouble." She grinned at him again, and he was beginning to think the shilling had been a wise investment. "You just make yourself comfortable, love. I'll fetch her straight."
James sat on the edge of the bed, and Polly returned a few minutes later with a buxom, flaxen-haired vixen in tow. The fair one – Katie – gave a lusty grin as she saw James perched on the bed.
"Oh, this one wants to make a three, does he? It ain't usually in my trade, but I might make an exception for such a handsome gent." She leered at him openly, and James struggled to keep his cock from responding too eagerly to such an direct invitation. Amongst all his debaucheries, that was an act that remained an undiscovered country, and he could not lie and say the proposal was not tempting, not with such lovely, willing, and eager lasses.
He shook his head firmly. No – he could spare no more time. "As… delightfully adventuresome… as that sounds, miss, I'm afraid I have less pleasurable business at hand. Polly informed me that you occasionally entertain a Dutch trader by the name of Geers Voort, and I must know whether he is in Barbados at present. I have an urgent matter of business with him which must be discussed at once." He hoped he was not laying on the story too thick, but perhaps if Katie believed they were business partners, she would be more helpful, since he had not offered her a shilling for her assistance.
He needn't have worried. "Oh, Geers?" she said, her voice awash with recognition. "Aye, he was in a few nights ago. He weren't the same as he usually is, though. Had a bit of a time raisin' the yard if you catch my meaning." She and Polly shared a bawdy snigger.
James's brows creased in concern, and he ignored the lewd jibe in his preoccupation. "What was the matter? Did he seem worried, angry, out of sorts?" Did he know Brodie was coming for him, to collect the totem? Was he afraid that the Scot would find it safer and easier to leave behind no witnesses to his treachery?
"Aye, definitely out of sorts," Katie affirmed. "Wouldn't say why, though. Sounded to me like somethin's got him spooked. He kept on jabberin' about 'throwin' it in the ocean, leavin' it to the sharks.' Got no idea what 'it' is – he wouldn't tell me nothin'."
James knew exactly what had the trader so spooked, and could hazard a guess as to why. "I see," he said carefully. "Do you know where he is now?"
Katie shrugged. "He told me he'd sold his rooms and was livin' in a tavern, that it'd be safer that way."
James frowned – he'd been to most of the dockside taverns last night. Had Voort been right above his nose the entire time and he hadn't even known it?
"Do you recall which tavern?"
Katie squenched her face, deep in thought. "Was it the Boar's Head? No… not the Hottentot neither… maybe the Mast and Mainsail?"
James, growing a bit exasperated, was just about to thank her kindly for her assistance and begin, once again, to dredge through the various inns and taverns of Bridgetown when Katie snapped her fingers decisively. "The Mariner's Delight! That was it, all right! I remember now 'cause Geers was sayin' how it was funny to be named as it is, seein' as it's not on the docks like most of the seafarer's taverns."
James felt a vast wave of relief rush through him – the notion of poking through every tavern in Bridgetown was as appealing as searching for a needle in a haystack, and he was glad to be spared the waste of time. "Excellent, Katie, thank you. You've been a tremendous help." She grinned at him with undisguised lust, and once again he had to set aside his urge to take her up on her rather unconventional – yet undeniably intriguing – offer.
"'Tis a true pleasure to aid such a lovely gentleman as yourself," Katie leered, and Polly's eyes sparkled with desire as well. Good Lord, he must abscond from this place at once before he squandered an entire day in the arms of such sweet and eager mistresses! He stood at once to leave, desperately hoping that his twitching cock would not give him away through his breeches.
"Your kindness and generosity shall be remembered, ladies," he assured them, nodding graciously to Polly and Katie in turn as he quickly exited the room, able to breathe comfortably again only once he'd stepped outside the brothel's doors onto the crowded, bright street below. Taking in a deep lungful of fresh air, James found that all thoughts of reuniting with Margie had fled; no, if he survived his encounter with Brodie, he might just take Katie and Polly up on that invitation.
The Mariner's Delight was ironically named, as it turned out, being located on a crowded market square well away from any sight of the bustling docks or the sea. Threading his way through the market where vendors and mongers of all sort hawked their wares, James pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the tavern and strolled inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted from the bright tropical sun to the dank and ill-lit interior. The place was not crowded, though James could make no accurate estimate of how many patrons were present; the tavern was a jumbled rookery of alcoves, odd corners, and rooms that appeared to have been cobbled together piecemeal at varied intervals throughout the building's life. Perhaps that was why Voort liked it; he could see who entered without being seen?
James strolled up to the bar, where the barkeep swabbed halfheartedly at a pewter mug – reminding him, once again, of Tortuga, and of Crusty's unending quest to clean his filthy drinkware. The barkeep glanced up at him with a lazy, disinterested eye, never ceasing his swabbing all the while.
"What'll it be, mister? Ain't got any gin, if that's your fancy. God damned ship hit a sandbar and my shipment's about five fathoms deep. Got plenty o' rum, though, the finest in the Indies, made right here in Barbados."
"Then I'll take a bottle," James agreed. He'd learned yesterday that publicans were notoriously tight-lipped until you spent money. He passed the barkeeper a coin and lifted his bottle in thanks before uncorking it and taking a slow sip.
"Aye, that is fine rum," he said. It wasn't, in truth, any finer than any other he'd had in Tortuga or elsewhere, but a little flattery never went astray – a truth he'd learned applied equally to tavern keepers and whores. "Perhaps you can help me, sir. I am looking for an associate of mine, and I have heard that he frequents your establishment."
The barkeeper arched his eyebrows and nodded over James's shoulder. "That your 'associate' there? Because he sure looks like he knows you, but he don't look too happy about it."
Frowning in concern, his sense of danger pricked to full alert – because, of course, Voort did not know him, and the only person in Bridgetown whom James could imagine approaching him in anger was Brodie. James set his rum on the bar and dropped his hand to his blade before whirling around to face –
A fist, flying towards him before he had time to react, clocked him in the jaw. Staggering back against the bar in surprise, James swore viciously as he grabbed the bar to steady himself. The blow had not been particularly hard, and it had been more unexpected than anything; and so James rallied at once and raised his own fists to trade blows with his assailant. Lifting his head, he got a good look at the man for the first time, and felt his jaw drop in stunned disbelief.
Will Turner, his face a mask of taut rage, stood before him, fists clenched in fury. James blinked in confused astonishment.
"What in bloody hell are you doing here?" he blurted.
"You son of a whore," Turner swore viciously. "I ought to run you through. I ought to demand satisfaction!"
James stared in bewilderment at the face of the little whelp he never thought he'd see again, and certainly not in a tavern in Barbados; but as Turner's angry words sank in, James's bewilderment was quickly supplanted by a steeply mounting ire. Here – here – right in front of him, after all these years: the boy who'd pranced onto the battlements of Port Royal like a jaunty little bantam cock in that stupid foppish cavalier hat and stolen his fiancée, his love, his Elizabeth, right out of his arms and onto a filthy pirate ship like the thieving low-born bastard he was.
"You ought to demand satisfaction?" James repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "You, who stole and destroyed one of His Majesty's warships? You, who absconded with another man's intended bride? You have the gall to demand satisfaction from me?" He realized he'd fair shouted the last words, and his attention was temporarily distracted by the barkeep, who slapped a grubby hand on the bar.
"Hey! No brawling in my tavern! If you gents have a quarrel, you'll be taking it outside!"
James, his ire fully roused, glared balefully at Turner. "And a good thing it is for you, whelp," he snarled. "You aren't worth the blood I'd have to clean from my blade."
Turner's face flushed hot and red at the insult. "You'll regret those words, Norrington," he said. "Just as you'll regret debauching Elizabeth, you wicked rake! You never deserved her!"
The puzzle shifted into place and suddenly Turner's fury made sense. James could not help but enjoy a self-satisfied smile as he realized that Turner had discovered that he'd plucked Elizabeth first.
"I debauched her? Is that what she told you?" he said, feeling a vicious glee suffusing through him. "Did she tell you how she begged me to take her? How she eagerly assaulted me for a repeat performance the next morning? How she draped her naked body across me and pleaded for me to tell her the stories of my scars? Did she tell you all that?" He paused for dramatic effect, enjoying the way Turner's jaw worked back and forth in mute rage.
"The truth is that she debauched herself. Do you feel betrayed, Turner? Cuckolded? What did you expect, from a woman who would enter into a betrothal on false pretences?" He ploughed on relentlessly, though Turner's countenance had faded from his awareness, and all he could see was a vision of Elizabeth, standing before him on the battlements, telling him that her betrothal to him had all been a cruel lie.
"Elizabeth is a false and fickle woman, and you have now learned the lesson that I learned three years ago. You have only yourself to blame for trusting her, and I have no pity for you, fool." James could not have said if he was speaking to Turner or to himself; all the memories of Elizabeth's betrayal had dissipated his mirth at mocking the young blacksmith, and he was only too glad, when Turner came at him with a furious bellow, to find a willing target for his rage.
His fist swung up, hard and fast, and clubbed the whelp across the head, dropping him cold. Someone, probably the barkeep, was bellowing, but James was not listening; he glared hotly at Turner, lying crumpled on the ground, and if the stupid boy wouldn't rise on his own, then by God James would drag him to his feet and force him to take his beating like a man –
"For God's sake, James, stop!"
A voice that was definitely not the barkeep's cut through his rage, for it was distinctly feminine, and tinged with the desperate hysteria of a woman near to tears. Breathing heavily, his fist clenched in a white-knuckle grip, James looked up, only to be greeted with the second jaw-dropping surprise of his day in the form of Elizabeth Swann, who stood, her face a mask of despair, several paces behind Turner's prostrate form. From the way she stood stiffly immobile, James gathered that she had been there for some several moments. She must have heard every furiously hateful word he'd said.
"Elizabeth," he said, her name like sweet poison on his tongue. "We meet in the oddest places, you and I."
A/N: So sorry for the lengthy wait, folks! *insert standard disclaimer about how crazy-busy law school is* Unfortunately, it's not likely to get better in the next month or so, as Final Papers of Doom loom large in the next month. Needless to say, I can make no promises about how quickly the next installment will come out, but rest assured, it WILL come. I know exactly where this story is headed and it will be finished eventually, that I can promise :)
This chapter's a bit shorter than the ones that came before, partly because a) I didn't want it to get too long and unwieldy, since a lot of stuff has to go down in Bridgetown, and b) this was a good place to end. I hope the return of Elizabeth pleases some of you and will tide you over until I'm able to write the next chapter. Thanks for reading and, please, take the time to leave a review - they are so appreciated and let me know that people are actually reading (and hopefully enjoying) my story. :)