NOT WITHOUT MY FATHER
by Jashi
N O T E: I don't own PotC. Thanks to all who reviewed, and please continue to do so with criticism or if you like it. No flames, please.
CHAPTER TWO
When I was born, my father named me William.
When he died, there was no one left to call me William.
So I left the name William behind under the old tree where my father died on that cruel, cold February morning on the border between France and England.
My name died with my father, and so I was born again. This time, I took the name Bill.
I am not William anymore, and I was never William again.
A year after my father died, I took my leave of England to go to the colony of Jamaica. I was sick of England and her cold ways and her cold ground and her cold, cold people. I did not love my country of birth anymore, in fact, I hated England. My father had died for nothing. My friends had died for even less. They had died for hope, and it had given them nothing but a life wasted.
My father was the best man I had ever known, and the English had killed him by leaving him behind, by abandoning him for a righteous cause that was never completed nor repaid to her people.
For a life lost is a life lost forever.
And so I came to hate England.
I left England when I was fifteen, and I was bound for Jamaica. When the ship finally glided into the warm waters of the Caribbean I fell in love with the deep blue of the waters, the gorgeous hues of the white shores and the green palm leaves. It was an oasis in the desert; the Shangri-La of the ocean. It was heaven after walking through the dark abyss of hell for years, with flames scorching your feet and the air heavy with poison.
I stepped off that ship on to the docks, I fell to my knees for a moment and saw the clear, flowing sky that was not choked by black smoke, until a redcoat jerked me up and pushed me onwards.
My first night in Jamaica I slept on the roof of a tavern, and it was exactly where I wanted to be. I watched the sky, trying to memorize each inch and star in all of its wonder.
I lived in Port Maria, Jamaica. Three months or so after I came to this lovely place, I was walking back to the man's house whom I worked for. He was a carpenter, and he gave me room and board and an extra shilling every once in a while for helping him. His name was Stephen, and he was a decent man.
I was walking back to his house, and I saw redcoats in the darkness of an alley. I turned my head to look in, and saw two of them with a girl. All three were down on the ground, and I heard the sounds of struggling and scuffling, and I heard the eerie rasp of a man.
"Quiet, wench. You're not skivving off this time!"
I saw the girl; she must have been younger than me. I took the package in my hands…it was a hammer, all wrapped up in brown paper and twine. My fingers moved nimbly, I untied it and leaves of brown wrap fell to the ground.
The hammer felt wonderfully solid in my hand. The tool was meant to do work. It wanted me to swing it.
My feet moved towards the two men, slowly, slowly, so slowly I wondered why I was moving so lazily. One man was holding the girl down, the other was ravaging over her in such a way that I became ashamed to be a man myself.
My shame turned to anger, though through and through forever whenever I came upon an incident such as this I felt such utter shame I almost became physically sick.
I came behind the man doing the terrible deed, and I was so close to them I could see the dark tresses of her hair spilling out on the hard cobblestones. Her eyes were wide and seemed to scream in fright; her irises were imploring, their darkness struck my soul deeply with something I was not familiar with.
Was it pity?
My arm moved before my mind told it to, and I squared the redcoat in the side of the head with my master's hammer. He made a soft 'oh' sound as he fell aside limply. The other officer released the girl and jumped up with his sword drawn. The girl jumped up and skittered away, her eyes not leaving mine as her feet fled.
Thank you, her eyes told me, remember there is no mercy.
Her eyes entrapped me so that I could not run, and then something hit me over the head, and I fainted.
I woke up at the gaol. Redcoats took me into a room and beat me until my world spun, blood ran from my eyes, my skin was gone, and I begged for mercy.
Remember there is no mercy.
They did not listen, so I watched the stars through the pathetic, crumbling window of the room. I watched them blaze in the gloaming of the beautiful Jamaican sky. They burned into the sky, the dark night becoming the black scorch marks of their fire.
My eyes burned and they beat me until I gave up, and fainted again.
I woke up and I was alone and bloody. My body ached as though someone was singeing my skin with matches. Or more likely, I was burning like I was already in my funeral pyre. Then fever came, and I wished to die, for I was almost certain I would. The redcoats let me rot, all by myself, burning and sweating to death. They were cold, cold people, and would perhaps never know my fire. Sweet delirium came; I saw my father. I begged for mercy.
O sweet mercy…where did you go?
And so I came to hate England.