It's been a long time, sorry. My story muse has been very rebellious.
Although it was only his second visit to Tortuga, James felt a good deal more comfortable setting foot on the island. Of coure, MacFarlane, Yardley, Pintel, and Ragetti were with him. The former marine was glad for their presence. They were far more used to rowdy taverns than he. If trouble arose, they could handle it. Not that he would stand idly by and let them have all the fun! His sword, once belonging to Corporal Southerland, hung reassuringly at his hip. The other men were similarly armed. MacFarlane and Yardley, he noted, wore their sailors' knives as well. Habit, most likely.
"C'mon Twig!" Ragetti called out as the others were entereing the nearest tavern. James felt his face grow warm. He hadn't realised that he'd falled behind. In the wild streets of Tortuga, being caught alone meant certain trouble.
MacFarlane was sidling up to a well-filled-out barmaid as James entered the crowded tavern, close on Ragetti's heels. Yardley and Pintel were in the process of shoving away a pair of passed-out drunks from a table, thus claiming it for themselves. Their two companions joined them quickly, pleased at finding a table so easily. A barmaid was not long in coming round to place full mugs in front of the four men. As James lifted the heavy vessel to his lips, he found his gaze lingering on the barmaid's ample bosom, quite visible as she bustled about. There was something quite alluring about the way the girl filled out her simple dress. A foolish grin came onto his face, which he quickly hide behind his mug. He was woefully inexperienced in dealing with barmaids and wenches.
An elbow dug into his ribs. "Best be careful 'ow yew stare, Twig. Sum o' them barmaids gots sharp tongues and daggers!" Ragetti warned sagely, elicitng a laugh from his mate Pintel.
" 'E's right mate. That one 'specially."
James' face flushed hot and he dropped his gaze to the heavily-scarred table top. There was a lot more to learn than he'd first thought. A scraping thud caught his attention and he looked up to see MacFarlane dragging a chair over to join them, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
"Well me lads, wot's the doin's?"
Ragetti elbowed James roughly, a wolfish grin on his face. "Twig 'ere's jus' about t'tell us why 'e went mad on them damn marines."
He was? James stared at Ragetti in disbelief, not sure why the man was interested in such a topic. It was far too complicated to be related over mugs of rum in a noisy tavern. "I don't really think - "
"C'mon, Twig, we wants to know! You was on'y wiv 'em fer two years. Gotta be somethin' more t'the tale than jes' a bit o' 'arsh words."
"Aye, let's 'ear it. Bad as them red-coats is, they ain't so rough as to make a lad break," Pintel chimed in. James looked around at the eager faces, pausing as he saw MacFarlane start to grin. That bastard had opened his gob.
"You put 'em onto it, din't you?"
MacFarlane only offered a smug grin as he stuffed a pinch of tobacco into his cheek. Sighing, James took a long pull from his mug. There wasn't any way out of relating the story of his entire bloody life. Damn you MacFarlane. He didn't want any of it known, least of all to these men. It was bad enough that he'd lived it once, and to have to go through it all again by retelling the miserable story...
"C'mon, out wivvit."
James gave in with a sigh, his shoulders sagging. "Fine, y'want the tale? It ain't a happy one or short, but I ain't tellin' all o' it. Surrey lads, least the ones wot grew up in the wood-camps, ain't nice lads. Maybe 'cause o' all the lumbermen about, but there ain't a soft lad anywheres. Even the wee ones carry themselves like proper ruffians. There's this one lad called Thomas, meanest-spirted blackguard in the place. Skinnin' fieldmouses an' puppies was his favourite, when he wasn't peelin' the hide off younger lads." The Surreyman paused, forcing himself to shrug nonchalantly. "Got a few scars meself. Been called Twig fer years, started with that lot, usually when they was lookin' fer another bit of hide. Reckon that was the spark wot lit the fire."
It was as much as he intended to say on the subject, but it appeared to be plenty. Ragetti and Pintel were staring at him with expressions nearing something like pity - which James found difficult to believe was an emotion either man capable of displaying - while Yardley, MacFarlane's mate, had taken an interest in a fly buzzing round the table. Only MacFarlane appeared unruffled by the story. Feeling uncomfortable with the revelation he'd just made, James finished the last of his rum and stood up. The evening had been quite ruined for him.
"I'm goin' back to the ship. Feelin' a touch weary."
"Aw, Twig - " Ragetti began, then caught himself, realising he'd used the nickname that James had come to hate so. "Sorry mate, din't mean to - "
The Surreyman shrugged. "S'all right, I knows you don't mean it harsh. Have a good evenin', lads." He hurried from the tavern before any of them could voice more objections. Inwardly, he cursed MacFarlane for giving them the idea to ask about that, it was not something he cared to have known. Bit late for all that, he thought bitterly.
Surprisingly, he made the journey back to Dolpin without incident. With a nod to the deck-guard, he descended to the gun deck and wasted little time hanging his hammock. Only once he was safely cocooned in his hammock and with his face buried in the rough blanket that he took care to drape over him, did he allow himself to weep the bitter tears that had been welling up over time.
"C'mon, me boyos, shift yerselves! This ain't no kinda pensioner's reunion!"
Marines grunted and sweated, hauling heavy barrels of provisions up the gangplank to the sloop that would bear them to Tortuga. They had shed their distinctive scarlet coats in exchange for the more drab colours of loose-fitting sailors' slops and many had chosen to forego shoes for simple bare feet. The handful of sailors who would be sailing with them stood off to the side, intently listening to a summary of their task being given by one of Dauntless' boatswain's mates and the coxswain from the lost Interceptor. On the other side of the waterfront, preparations were likewise underway as final stores were loaded onto Dauntless' cutter to be rowed across to the second-rate. Commodore Norrington had been quite insistent that Dauntless should return to sea as soon as possible and he had been given his way.
Corporal Cross Johnson, a man strangely if fittingly named, paced up and down the dock, glaring at marines who slowed slightly or appeared to be dawdling. The seven marines he had been given for the voyage toiled silently under his fierce gaze, unwilling to provoke him to temper. He had fairly burst with delight when he received the news that he and part of his section were to sail for that pirates' haven to hunt down the three deserters. The Hampshire native heartily looked forward to the reknown that would come when he and his marines caught the murdering traitor Blackburn.
"Everythin's aboard, Corporal," a heavily-perspiring face appeared before him, belonging to the Irishman Wicklow. Nodding crisply, Johnson turned away to seek out the boatswain's mate who would be in charge of the sailors going with them. The man was still standing with his sailors, entertaining what few questions that he had been told he could answer.
"Whenever yer done bumpin' yer gums, then!" Johnson called out, irritated that the Tars had stood by and allowed the marines to do all the work themselves. His encouragement thus delivered, the corporal strode briskly up the gangplank, joining his marines on the main deck. Thankfully, they had not formed up into to neat lines as was their hard-learned habit. Instead they lounged about the deck and were apparently glad for the necessary lack of the normal routine.
After a delay, the sailors ambled aboard and set about the task of guiding the sloop away from the dock. Rutland, the coxswain, cast a withering glare at Johnson as he assumed his place at the ship's wheel. Neither man cared much for the other and had not since their first meeting aboard Interceptor. Neither had been pleased at all to learn they were to be forced into close company again.
"Hurry up lads, sooner we're clear the bay sooner we're at our ease!"
Robbins the boatswain's mate, at least, had the willing respect of his sailors, whereas Johnson's marines respected him only because he held rank. An ocean's difference and already showing itself. The marines stirred to life as the sloop glided toward open water, moving to help the sailors with their various tasks. Annoyed but determined not to show it, Johnson stomped up to the foc's'le to watch Dauntless carry on her own preparations in the distance.
Aboard the second-rate, the last barrels were being hauled aboard. Gillette watched the proceedings with a keen eye, standing as he was at the starboard poop deck rail. Captain Collins had done a surprisingly smart job of overseeing the bulk of the work while the rest of the officers were ashore, and the marine officer now stood quietly on the leeward side of the deck. It was hard not to wonder at the abrupt change in the man's demeanor. To so suddenly snap out of his funk and become the quick and able officer he was known to be? Most puzzling. Gillette made a note to enquire about the bizarre change from Lieutenant Forsythe, who was most likely to know the cause of it.
"Nearly done, Lieutenant?"
"Aye sir. Another ten minutes at the most," Gillette answered, touching the birm of his hat at the Commodore's approach. "There goes the sloop."
Across the bay, a sloop was making her way to open sea. The hunting party bound for Tortuga. Norrington nodded slightly, turning his steady gaze to his first lieutenant. "They will have luck in their hunt, I'm sure. Has Major Collins spoken of anything within your earshot?"
"Sir?" Spoken of anything?
"His... behaviours. Or anything relating to them." The Commodore hesitated, glancing pointedly at the marine officer and lowering his voice. "I am somewhat uneasy with the sudden change."
Gillette looked sharply at his superior, unused to hearing him speak so plainly about anything that personal, and in a public way no less. "I haven't the slightest idea, sir."
Futher speech was rendered unnecessary by the timely appearance of Matheson the boatswain. The ruddy-faced older sailor knuckled his brow and waited respectfully for leave to speak. Norrington gave a nod, effortlessly sliding back into the facade of cool detachment that he had perfected.
"Stores are all aboard sir. The lads are lashin' down the lot below. Shouldn't be too much longer 'fore we're ready."
"Thank you, Mister Matheson. Give the word to weigh anchor as soon as all the stores are secure. You know the routine."
"Aye sir." Matheson was gone again, his signature rattan cane in hand. The two officers remained silent as they observed the taking-aboard of the cutter. All in keeping with routine, though Gillette sensed an undercurrent of excitement in the crew's movements. They knew they were returning to the hunt and to a man were eager for it.
The shrill notes of All Hands rang out, followed up immediately by Matheson's gruff roar of "Fore-noon watch aloft, off-watch man the capstan! Idlers to yer duties!"
Feet drummed over the deck as the ship's Company sprang to its tasks. On the poop deck, Norrington and Gillette were joined by Captain Somersby, who was fairly beaming with relief at being off to sea again. Gillette noted that Collins had drifted toward the larboard rail and was gazing toward the distant fort. Perhaps he was not so free of the disquiet plaguing him as he let on. It was something to ponder at a later time, for the Commodore had moved toward the stairs leading to the quarter deck.
"I would like to see all officers in my cabin once we are clear of the bay."
"Aye sir," Somersby answered, his round, open face losing a touch of its happy glow. Dauntless' master said nothing of his thoughts however and was quick to assume the mantle of command as the Commodore retired to his cabin. Would this hunt prove more fruitful than the first? Gillette hoped so, if only to bring about a return to the normal state of things. The unruffled, predictable existence that he both chafed at and welcomed.
Another scarlet coat appeared on the poop deck, belonging to Lieutenant Forsythe. The likeness between the marine's relationship with his captain was not very much removed from Gillette's with his own superior, though he was hardly providing the bulk of leadership in the Commodore's stead, as was Forsythe for Collins. A shame, he thought. Forsythe was an able enough officer, though just a shade unready for the enormous weight of command that had been forced upon him. It was hardly fair, but precious little in the service was.
Overhead, canvas rustled as the freshening breeze caught the close-reefed sails. Sailors still in the yards called to one another, sharing the rush of excitement that came with nearing open sea. Dauntless was nearly clear of the confines of the bay, her great anchor slowly sliding up from the depths. The hands heaving at the capstan were half-way finished with their work. Gillette's features softened almost imperceptibly. He was glad to be sailing again as well.
As previously agreed, the two men met in the same noisy tavern as they had during Toby's last visit. Toby had arrived first and took advantage of the time by helping himself to full mug of rum and the attentions of his favourite barmaid. When Gibbs turned up, however, the girl made herself scarce and the two set down to business.
"So, Blackburn. How's he turned out?"
"Well 'nuff. 'E'll get 'long wiv yer lads all right. Can't 'ave 'im aboard no more anyways, 'e's a 'uge risk," Toby answered, pleased they were not wasting time with idle pleasantries. "Scotchy donnae like it, but that's 'is issue. I wants 'im off me ship, an' 'oo better t'take 'im than Sparrow?"
Gibbs gave a restless shrug. "True enough, Jack's got a reputation all his own. One more lad with a black mark against him comin' aboard won't bother Jack. When are ye sailin' again?"
"First light, ain't waitin' about 'ere when I c'n lead the bloody Navy on a wee merry chase 'round the Caribbean. Figger tha'll set yew and yer boss right fer a safe 'scape."
"Aye, that'll please the Cap'n. Where's the boy at now?"
"Out wiv the lads. Scotchy, Toms, Rags, an' Pintel is wiv 'im. Reckon they'll be proper outta it wivvin a couple 'ours. Best time t'take Blackburn aboard's then."
A bushy eyebrow arched curiously, "You're really keen to be rid of the lad. What's wrong with him?"
"Uvver than 'e's a deserter an' a 'unted murderer? Nuffin's wrong wiv 'im, 'e's just... a wee bit dumb." Toby took a healthy pull from his mug and shrugged. "Way've I 'eared it, 'e wudden't've made it off Port Royal wivvout Scotchy 'elpin' 'im."
"Dumb, you say?"
"Aye, 'e's not all tha' bright, is Blackburn. But 'e's a fair sailor. Counts fer summat, I s'pose."
Gibbs' gaze drifted down to the scarred tabletop before him and he considered the matter for a moment. Another sailor was certainly needed aboard the Black Pearl, though he was hesitant to take on a lad who was so desperately pursued by the Navy. After a long silence, he looked up again and rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "Aye, I'll take him on. We'll fetch him now, though, less fuss than later."
"Fair 'nuff. They was goin' to a place just round the corner." Dolphin's master finished his drink in a long swallow and rose, winking roguishly at the barmaid he had been entertaining earlier. "I'll be back, me dear, save yew some time fer me!"
Footsteps on the deck brought him awake with a start, and for a moment he thought the others were back from the tavern already. He began to sit up in his hammock to call out to them when a hand clapped over his mouth and he was pulled roughly from his hammock. Startled but instinctively fighting back as best he could, James saw a brief flash of a face in the dim light of a nearby lantern, then he was pinned to the deck. The harsh fibers of a rope wound around his wrists and a panic raced through him. He'd been discovered somehow and his assailants were marines come to drag him off to a slow death by musket butt and shoe heel.
" 'Urry up, the lads'll be back 'fore long!"
That was Toby's voice! Hot fury rushed through him and he resumed his struggling against the restraining hands on his shoulders and arms. His teeth found the grimy palm over his mouth and the hand's owner gave a pained howl, jerking the wounded appendage away.
"Bastard!" James cried. "An' ya call me a traitor! Bastard! May you rot in - "
A boot collided with the back of his head and stars burst across his vision. Dazed by the blow, James fell silent and limp, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the painful shards of lantern light that danced amid the shadows of the gun deck. He was hoisted up from the deck and slung roughly over someone's shoulder, swiftly being borne topside. The movement was jarring to his already-throbbing head but he had not the energy or clarity of thought to put up any further resistance.
Voices hummed around him, exchanging comments in hushed tones that he could not make out. Even if he had wanted to, James found it impossible to look around. His head and face were half-buried in the back of a rather smelly shirt and he dared not guess the last time his captor had bothered to change his clothes. Or what he had rolled in to produce such a stink. More voices came near but faded away again just as quickly and the brain-jarring movement continued. Where the hell were they going?
Suddenly, his hearing returned and the buzzing he had been sensing became distinguishable words. Toby's voice was droning on, about payment or something of that nature, and James began listening intently.
"... no less than three pounds fer 'im, Gibbs, an' I ain't movin' off tha'!"
Gibbs. He knew that name. Where from, he could not work out, the ringing inside his head persisted too strongly. All he could tell for sure was he was being sold, like a worthless side of meat to the highest bidder, and the thought made him bitterly angry. Where's MacFarlane when I need him? He really should have stayed in that damn tavern.
Without warning, the man carrying him stopped and set him down. Caught unawares by the unexpected action, James sagged to the ground, only to be dragged back to his feet by Toby's rough grip. "Stan' up, yer abowt t'meet yer new cap'n."
Still feeling slightly dizzy, James peered into the darkness and made out the outline of a ship, rising and falling gently on the whispering tide. At length, a shadow detached itself from the quarter deck and moved toward the gangplank, its gait a little unsteady, as though affected by too much drink. Who the hell have I been sold to?
A new voice came then, from nearby. "Gotta a new sailor fer us, Cap'n."
"Bring him aboard then," the shadow instructed, moving into the faint, flickering glow cast by the lantern hanging from a post on the dock. James was struck by the many beads that decorated the man's hair and how they clinked rhythmically together as the man walked. If one could call it walking, anyway. Toby's hand came against James' back, propelling him up the gangplank. Minding his step so as to not fall into the harbour, James reached the main deck and there stopped, refusing to go any farther.
"Where am I?" The Surreyman demanded, aware that his hands were still firmly bound behind him, rendering him enitrely defenceless.
The unsteady man gave a smile. "Welcome aboard the Black Pearl."
