Disclaimer: "Pirates of the Caribbean" belong to Disney. The line from "Marcos de Obregon" belongs to its author Vincente Espinel. "La Serena" song doesn't belong to me either, but it's anonymous.
A/N: 1) "Sepher Yetzirah" is one of the most famous Kabbalah texts, and was written about 200 B.C. 2) Pandeiro and tar are names for two kinds of frame drum (similar to a tambourine); pandeiro was played in Galicia, Portugal and Brasil, and tar in the Middle East.
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II
When I manage to get up, I notice that I don't know the place I was sleeping in. It's not the Captain's cabin, but a dark, long room with a very low ceiling. Nobody is here; I'm lying on a blanket. The air is thick and fusty. It's probably a place the crew is sleeping, and now everybody is at work.
"What, ye get up already! Are ye alright?"
It's Smallpox; he's coming to me with a cup of water in his hands, smilling broadly.
"What are you doing here?"
"What? I've brought ye water..."
"I must bring Captain's dinner... how many hours was I here?"
"Hours? Yer lying here fer four days, matey!"
I blink.
"Ye've got a nasty fever an' were sleepin' all the time," he laughs. "But yer almost cured already, I can see... Want some water?"
I drink it feeling ashamed like never in my life.
"Were you caring for me?"
"Sometimes me, sometimes Sharpe. Ye're not that hard to care for, though. Sleepin' only an' drinkin' water. Pretty strong, ye are," he smiles again sitting next to me.
I sigh and scratch my head. I would never expect anybody on this ship to care for me when I were ill; I've never been much cared for, to tell the truth - and I still remember my first encounter with Sharpe and Smallpox...
"Um, thank you, mate... what's your name?"
"'Tis Pete."
"Ah. Thank you, Pete..." and I look at him with a slight suspicion. Would he want me to thank him in that only currency that is accepted everywhere... or did he take his payment from me, when I was lying here unconscious? For I've seen worse already, and I know that nobody is tending after the sick without interest.
"Why are ye lookin' at me? Our Captain told us to look after ye. He'll be glad t'see ye now," he says winking at me and patting me on the back. I hiss.
"Aw, sorry, mate," he chuckles. "Still hurts? Told ye it's no trifle. Don't talk too much when the Captain's present, he doesn't like it. Ye should know when it's time to shut up. Alright, c'me with me, ye'd better wash yerself before going to the cabin."
It's difficult for me to bow over the bucket of water, my back still hurts, and I'm hungry as always, but it's delightful to be able to wash, and when I go upstairs, my wet hair turns dry and curls in no time. The breeze is soft and the sun is warm, and when I look at the working men, I hear them greeting me with some sort of rough sympathy. Then I go to the galleys, take the Captain's meal, knock on his cabin's door and enter.
He's sitting at the table, which is barely visible from under the maps, and doesn't raise his head. I take the chair quietly, place the tray on it and return to the door.
"Close the door," I hear, so I go out, but then another orders goes after me. "No, not from the outside, stupid! Come in."
I close the door and lean against it lightly, not sure if I'm to step in. I'm not going to do anything he doesn't want me to. I look at him; he seems annoyed and impatient, but then his green eyes soften a little bit and a smile twitches his mouth for a moment. He takes the maps to the table under the window and invites me to come closer. I take the tray from the chair and place it before him with my eyes downcast. The very closeness of him makes me absent-minded with joy. What's happening to me? The only treatment I get from him is harsh words, beatings and careless screwing, and yet I want to be close to him. I've slept with men several times, for money or food, or because I was forced to, but never felt anything more than fleeting sting of pleasure at best; I've slept with women because I desired them, or because they were paying me, but never valued them more than my own safety and profit. And now I've met a person to whom I'll gladly and lightly give my body and soul and eternal salvation and whatever else I have.
He's laughing, it's my modest demeanour that amuses him so.
"Now, now, I can see ye finally learnt how to be quiet. All ye need is a good thrashing, then. I'm glad yer well. And hungry, perhaps?"
I cast him a quick look, but say nothing.
"Sit down an' share my meal. Ye must be starvin', as always."
I sit next to him, still unable to say anything. Why has he to say all these cruel things to me? If he despises me so, why does he allow me to sit and eat with him? And I notice that the food is fresh - it's bread, not the hard-tack, and there is even something like a pie, and fruit.
"Did we land somewhere, Captain?"
"Aye, we did. I've entrusted our senor Ayala and the rest of Joya del Mar to my friend; we'll be going back in some time, but now we're going to Antigua Island for a rest, and to careen our ship."
I can't hide my disappointment; I've lost my first chance to see the New World! But maybe on Antigua, then... and I feel a sudden joy, because they didn't leave me on that island. I was only a burden to them, but they chose to take me with them. I look at the Captain with gratitude. He sighs.
"What's wrong with you gapin' at me all the time? Eat an' be off to work."
"Aye, Captain," I say obediently and grab a piece of bread. Isn't he glad that he can have me here again? And I've washed myself... maybe it's my shirt... it's dirty as hell. They probably covered me with it in night, because it's stained with blood, and the sleeves are nearly black. I was working in it and sleeping in it. Oh, yes, it must be the shirt. And maybe something else too... I catch Captain's look, and I know: it must be the way I'm eating. Well, he is always mocking me because I'm always hungry, but it can be that he's disgusted too. He is a nobleman and I'm not, and it's the table where the difference between us is easiest to notice. When he's watching me eating like that, he knows that I'm nobody he should as much as think about taking into account. So I begin to eat very, very slowly, with small bits, and very quietly...
"Tell me, Ritchie," he says suddenly, "are ye really fifteen?"
I raise my head at the hint of anger in his voice. His green eyes are narrowed; he stopped eating.
"To tell the truth, Captain," I say cautiously, "I don't know for sure."
"Explain."
"It's... uhm... I've figured it out myself... from what people around me were saying. I mean... I can be sixteen... or fourteen."
"Ahh. Yer father or mother ne'er told ye when ye're born?" He smiles, looking at me, but there's no smile in his eyes. "Oh, wait. Let me guess. Ye don't know yer father either. Or was he some prince with twenty castles, an' yer mother was a pretty village girl? Tell me what lie d'ye have for this occasion."
I'm looking down on the pearl ornament of the altar cape. The piece of bread in my hand becomes warmer and warmer.
"Oh good. No lies. Ye learnt yer lesson well. Frankly, I don't give a damn who or why sired you, so ye don't have to answer, don't worry. There are other interestin' things that I'd like t'know. Ye weren't that scared of our cat o' nine tails, an' I've seen yer back. Ye've been flogged before. What for?"
"N... nothing big." Please.
"I'm sure 'twas nothing big. I'm asking ye what it was."
"I've been caught stealing."
"Stealing what?"
"Various things. Money. Food."
"That's all?"
"Yes," I say.
He smiles, leaning back in his chair.
"So yer a thief."
"I've done it once or twice, but I'm not a thief."
"Alright, Ritchie Brown, yer not a thief. I've forgotten - yer a whore."
"I'm not."
"Oh, what were you doin' in that old Spanish lady's bed, then?"
I look into his eyes with a rising fury.
"She was not old," I say. "She was truly beautiful. More beautiful than many young girls anywhere."
"Ah, how touchin', now yer confessin' yer love for her. Tell me then, what are ye doin' with me here, on my ship? 'Twas my crew an' me who's responsible for yer lady's death, but I've ne'er seen you sheddin' a tear over her, an' yer lettin' me fuck you without a word. You've bought yer way into a New World with yer body, now yer buyin' yer life with it. Who are you if not a whore, pray tell me?"
"If it would please you to call me that..."
"What is this that ye said? Yer kindly allowin' me somethin', or did I overhear you jus' now?"
I avert my eyes quickly.
"Yer too smart for yer own good, Ritchie. Don't forget who you are. Ye can try to impress me by yer table manners or by yer innocent looks, but spare yer fatigue. Don't try yer little games with me. Is that clear?"
I'm biting my lips with despair. What did I do to him? Is he blaming me for giving myself to him without any protest? But what sense was to protest, when I was in his power? Yes, I don't value myself much, but why should I? I'm not a nobleman nor a virgin with some stupid honour or virtue to protect - these are merely names for things that don't exist. I have only one thing to protect at any cost, and it's my life, nothing more. If I don't win this man's favour, I'm dead anyway, and now he's telling me that because it's him who decides, I'm not allowed to try. Oh, but I know it's him who decides... wait. Is this possible that it wasn't me that his little tirade was addressed to?...
"Yes, it's very clear, Captain," I say obediently, rising from my chair. "I'll go to work, if you excuse me." Then I snatch one more piece of bread from the tray and turn away to go outside.
But he catches my arm into his ironlike grip and drags me back, then throws me against the table. I wonder if he hits me, but he doesn't.
"Ye have to clean the table first," he says coldly. "An' if I see you stealin' my food again..."
"I won't, Captain," I say looking into his eyes and promising myself not to change my way of living in the slightest.
"Good," he says. "Now get off."
I get off with a not-so-heavy heart, thinking of this little conversation. The Captain is trying to convince himself that I'm not worth his attention? Then I'm on a winning side.
My companions - if I can call them that - greet me rather amiably, asking about my back and what the Captain said, and tell me that we're going to reach Antigua in three, maybe four days, if the wind is good.
Then I have to sit down to repair the sails. Good, I think, no more of the cursed deck polishing. I wonder about stupid Bucky's leg, and as far as I can see there are two camps now: Sharpe and his friend Pete, and most of the people are on my side, and the lesser part is Bleeding Hand and Bucky, and some other folks. But nobody is openly against me, and I feel they accepted me as one of them more or less. Smallpox - I mean Pete - has taken me under his wings and explains things to me. Nobody asks where I am from or what my life was until now, as the common etiquette of the condemned forbids it. To our own conscience we're men without past, we have a hopeful future and it's all that matters.
They are working with a zeal, and seem very high-spirited. Antigua means fresh food and girls, and we have a swag to spend too.
"We'll rest there maybe fer even a week," says Pete grinning. "We deserve that, we do. An' our Captain, he's goin' to meet his sweetheart at last."
There are laughs and murmurs in our working group, and I can't help but raise my head for a moment. Bleeding Hand notices it.
"Hah, it means that the boy's goin' to get some rest too," he says with a false sympathy. "D'ye still remember how it's to be sleepin' without bein' fucked, Ritchie?"
The men laugh looking at me with an open leer. I'm pretending I didn't hear it. I can't be running around and stabbing people all the time, but Bleeding Hand has it coming for sure.
"Awww, a nice lady she is," says a short and round man called Paco. "Never saw such golden hair as she has."
"Wonder if she has golden hair there too," says Paco's brother, who'd look just like him if it weren't for the right eye lacking.
They laugh again and there's a strained silence. I can almost feel how their thoughts grow thick and greasy.
"Um, mate," I whisper to Pete, "who is that Captain's lady?"
"She's an Irish, named Rose O'Mallory. He met her in the Irish colony on Montserrat and took her with 'im, an' now she's a mistress of some rich merchant. She knows things, ye see... an' it's why our Captain knows things too. It's thanks to her that we got yer pretty Joya del Mar, Ritchie."
Ah, now I see. She is not only a precious ornament for Captain Barbossa. She is his deadly weapon as well. She provides information so that the Captain knows where to go and when to strike. She is indeed a double treasure to him, he has every reason to love and to value her. Oh, it's good to know that I have such powerful a rival... and she doesn't even know about me. I'm nothing compared to her, and it makes me feel relieved.
But I can't help being curious about her. I'd like to see her, I want to meet her. I want to see the Captain with her. Does he change when she is close? Is he delicate and chivalrous to her, or is he ashamed to show his attraction? How long are they together? And why is the crew calling her "lady" - only because she's the Captain's lover, or because she is really something better than women who sleep with pirates?
I'm lost in thoughts and don't even notice the sunset. It's time for Captain's supper, and he'll be eating with Sharpe, they have a counsel. I'm serving them half-heartedly, because all my thoughts are on the Captain's lady Rose. My eyes go unwillingly to the boxes, chests and shelves. He should have her portrait somewhere. I know he doesn't wear any medallion, he's not that sentimental. But he can have something from her: a letter, a drawing, a lock of those golden hair. I forget to pour the wine and to look after burnt candles.
"Are ye payin' attention at all, ye lazy bastard?!" the Captain yells at me finally, when I knock bread off the table. "Ye can't do anything properly!"
"Maybe he'd like to serve noblewomen only, Captain," says Sharpe with a broad smile.
"He'd like not to do anythin' at all, shameless brat. Eatin' and sleepin', he's good at it, nothin' more. Alright, let's go outside. Yer to clean that mess, Ritchie."
Oh, great. Now that these two are gone, I can look through the cabin a bit. I put the table in order, throw away bread crumbs, close the wine caraffe, and then, with a candle in one hand and an apple in the other, I go to the shelves.
My first thought was to look through the drawers of the table under the window. But it's a dangerous thing. I can pretend that I'm dusting the books or something, but if the Captain catches me with his drawers open, he'd probably kill me. He can be back any moment; I'll wait with the drawers.
I bit the apple (well, I'm not allowed to eat anything from the Captain's table, but the temptation was strong) and look at the shelves. They are reaching the ceiling and definitely need dusting. I can't even see the titles of the books at the highest shelves. But it's unlikely that the Captain is keeping anything connected with lady Rose there. It's a forgotten place, maybe for his former lovers. Let's see what we have on the lower shelves.
I place the candle on the table nearby - I'm not that stupid to risk burning anything - and taking another apple bite I look at the imprinted golden and silver letters on the books' backs. And my heart is suddenly beating faster, because I recognize dona Ursula's books: "Lazarillo de Tormes", "Celestina"... ah, it seems so long, long ago, when we were sitting at the round table of dona Ursula's cabin, and she was correcting my accent and asking me if I ever had been to Bologna, Florence and Siena, like Guzman; and as I know Florence a little, I'm telling tales about its palazzos and streets, and ladies beautiful, but not more beautiful than dona Ursula...
There are several religious books, some in Latin, some in... um... is it French? I don't know. Then I blink suddenly at a dusty volume bound in morocco. Hebrew letters! Does the Captain know Hebrew? I take the book cautiously. Oh, it's "Sepher Yetzirah". I feel shivers down my spine. It's no good sleeping in one room with magic books!
"Tell me, Ritchie, what d'ye think yer doing now?"
The Captain came back so quietly I didn't even hear him opening the door. I don't know what to do first: close the book or finish eating my apple. I'm trapped anyway. He's standing in the door for a short moment, then comes quickly to me. I'm clutching the cursed book like a shield - I know books are too valuable to risk destroying them. Especially magic books. I'm safe as long as I have this one in my hands.
"I thought it'd be good if I dust them, Captain."
"Yer dustin' them in the night? With what?"
I look in his eyes desperatedly.
"I thought I'll do it from now. Just..."
"Why the hell would ye ever touch my books, ye lil' thief?"
"I know how to care for books, Captain," I say quietly.
Now he blinks and looks at me, frowning.
"Can ye read?"
I look at the book I'm holding.
"Can ye read Hebrew, Ritchie?"
"Aye, I can," I say in a barely visible whisper.
"And understand what yer readin'?"
"I don't know..."
"Read here and tell me what does it say."
"Three letters... the three mother letters A, M, Sh are the foundations of the whole... they resemble a balance with the good in one scale, the evil in the other... the oscillating tongue of the balance is between them."
The Captain is looking at me and starts to laugh.
"Where did'ye come from? Ye can read "Sepher Yetzirah"? Are you a Jew?"
"You know I'm not," I say with an embarrassed smile. He is laughing again, because it's true - he had me in his bed and he knows I'm not circumcised. "I've learned it when I was living in Thessaloniki, but it's a long story..."
"Alright, alright. Can ye read English too?"
"Yes, I can."
"What else?"
"Latin... um... Greek. Some French, and Italian. And dona Ursula was teaching me Spanish. I've been learning it in Thessaloniki and I was speaking more Ladino than Spanish."
He takes another book from the shelf and I throw the rest of my apple out of the window.
"Read here, then."
A Spanish book. Well, let's see... I look at the sentence he's pointing to me.
"La humildad con los poderosos es el... um... fundamento de la paz... la soberbia, la destrui... destruicion de nuestro sosiego."
"An' what does it mean?"
"Humility in the presence of the powerful is the basis of peace... and the arrogance is the destruction of the... of our tranquility."
He takes the book from me, places it on the shelf, and then looks at me amused and pleased.
"Think about what ye read, Ritchie. Did I allow ye to touch my books?"
"N-no, Captain, but I thought..."
Now his glance is again serious and cold.
"Use yer head effectively. Yer not allowed to touch anything here without my order, is that clear?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Good." Then he hesitates. "Ye can write too?"
"Yes, I can..."
"Is there anything more ye can do?"
I think intensely. Oh, I have something!
"I can play lute, Captain. And vihuela, and..."
He sighs, looking at me, and his eyes soften.
"Ye can make a decent livin', Ritchie. Ye can read, write, yer not stupid, but yer a bloody nuisance an' ye can't help getting' yerself into trouble. But yer not among ordinary folks anymore. Ye can't count on my good heart, because good heart in my trade counts as stupidity. Don't make me kill ye. It'd sadden me, but it may be necessary, if ye try me patience like that."
I can see he's looking at me differently now. I can read, I know languages, he doesn't have people like me here. He will need me, I know my time will come, now it's not only my body he could use. Oh... but he can use it as well.
"Alright. Blow off the candles an' go to sleep. Yer have work tomorrow. It's still three days to Antigua."
What? Is he just... dismissing me like that, after four days I've spent under the deck? Doesn't he want anything from me?
"Ye didn't hear me or what? Put off the candles."
I cast him one long glance, but he doesn't seem - or want - to understand. I do what ordered and then go to my place under the boxes. I lie down, but then I sit again. No, he just forgot. He's thinking about Antigua, or about the ransom that the Ayala family must pay him, or about something else he was discussing with Sharpe; he just forgot about me.
"Um, Captain... don't you need anything?"
"What d'ye want, Ritchie?"
"Nothing, just asking... I think I should go and bring some water, there's only little left... in case you need it after."
"After what?"
"I don't know... in the morning."
"What are ye talkin' about?"
"Nothing."
"Shut the hell up and sleep. Ye can bring water in the morning."
No, no, no, it's not right! He doesn't want to touch me, why? Because my back isn't healed? Or because... wait. It's his lady. It must be her. He's saving himself for her. He won't waste his desire now. There's only three days left; and he'll see her and give her all his passion, strength, tenderness, longing. I don't count for him now. When she's so close, I disappear.
The next day I'm trying not to look at the Captain. I feel wasted as never in my life. I'm trapped on this ship with no way to go, and I don't want to go anywhere, because the tall man with green devilish eyes, big hands with long aristocratic fingers and with cold, cruel smile has me in his power, and doesn't even need me that much. He's telling me he's going to kill me when he sees it necessary... and I don't give a damn about it. I must be ill. I must be under a spell. Doesn't he have the Kabbalah book in his cabin? Hah... but he doesn't need me anyway, why would he put a spell on me? It's me who is to blame. Aw, how lowly I've fallen, I don't even value my own life anymore.
I brought the water in the morning and after the breakfast the Captain went to talk to Sharpe again, leaving dishes on the table. I start cleaning the cabin with a piece of bread in my mouth, when I see Captain's signet on the shelf. He must have removed it when washing his hands.
I take it and weigh it in my hand. It's not very heavy, strange - given the size. I look at the entangled letters on it; so many of them, I'll decipher them later. But why is the signet so light? There must be a reason to it.
Ah, I see. It has a lock. Something is hidden in it. Wait, it is maybe lady Rose's portrait! I open it, dizzy with curiosity, and suddenly feel panic.
There's a yellow powder in it. Only a little, but it seems so much, because I know what it can be. Oh, Captain, what are you thinking about? Do you believe that death is a way of escape, when everything is lost? When you're caught and you know that it's nothing you can hope for, only the gallows or the sword?
What a stupid, pathetic thought! It must be those idiotic ideals of the noble folk. It's better to die than to be disgraced, if we have nothing left, there is still honour to protect, let's die honourable death, so those who look at it will write cheap Christian books of how noble a criminal can be in his last hour. There, there, what do you know about the joy of living and the balm that is hope? "Dum spiro, spero" - I know my Latin too. No, I won't allow those false principles to kill my Captain. Even if his soul - which doesn't belong to me - is poisoned already, I won't have this cursed powder to poison his body I've already had. And I throw the yellow, powdered death out of the window without second thought.
I have enough time to place the signet on the shelf again, when I hear the sound of the Captain's boots, and return to cleaning the table. He's realized that he's forgotten the signet and is going to take it back.
I can feel he looks at me suspiciously, but I don't raise my head. He takes the signet from the shelf, but instead of going to Sharpe again he stops there.
"Did'ye touch my signet, Ritchie?"
I put the tray back on the table and look at him.
"No, Captain, I didn't." I try to remember if I put the signet in the same place he left it.
He narrows his eyes and opens the cursed thing.
"Are ye sure ye didn't touch it?"
"Why?" I ask quietly, feeling my blood freeze. Must he check everything on the spot? Now he knows I'm lying... what should I do?
"There was somethin' inside an' it's empty now." He looks at me without anger, but with a strange expression I can't understand.
"Maybe the lock is loose and it slipped out..." I say before I can think.
He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, smiles lightly, and then slaps me in the face so violently that I'm on the floor before I can even realize what happened. I tried to grab the table corner, but I failed and managed to catch only the altar cape; now I have all the dishes over me, plus the wine. What a mess! I can feel blood in my mouth.
"Stand the hell up," he yells at me.
I stand up.
"Why did ye throw it away?"
I'm silent, of course.
"Ye heard me or not?"
"Why, it's a poison... it's dangerous... and not necessary, Captain. There is always a way of escape! Everything is better than a suicide. It's stup... it's not good, Captain, why are you thinking of it?"
He is looking at me with an utter dismay and starts to laugh again.
"An' what makes ye think I carry the poison for meself?"
I blink. What?
"It's not for you?"
"I have enemies, Ritchie." He smiles. "Aye, it can come in handy when there's nothing left. But it's better to use it on others. Now tell me, why d'ye think I've hit ye now?"
"I don't know..."
"I told ye not to lie to me, right?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Ye lied to me again. I should shoot you now." He smiles and takes my blooded hand from my face. "But it's a nice day. We will be tomorrow at Antigua. I'm in a good mood, so I'll give ye one more advice. D'ye know why I can say that yer lying?"
Well, that's something I definitely want to know, Captain.
"Because ye wide yer eyes an' immediately look more innocent than usual. Keep it in mind. Don't try it again, especially when my lady's present. She is cunning like hell. She will know I had my way with ye. And when ye run afoul me in her presence, she won't say a word in yer favour. Now clean that mess and get off to work. And yer to sleep with the crew tonight."
When he goes away to talk with Sharpe, I feel somewhat anxious. I still remember my first encounters with the crew. They didn't do me harm recently, when I was sleeping with them, but it was because I was unconscious. I know some of them hate me still, for the disappointment that they couldn't play with me, and for what I did to Bucky. I sigh going out with a tray and the broken wine bottle.
"Aw, mate, what happen'd to ye?" Pete stops me. "Ye have blood on yer face!"
"I've just..." I say and can't find the word. I suddenly feel tired.
"What, did ye make Captain angry? Don't worry, Ritchie, he's goin' to see his lady tomorrow, he's all impatient. 'Tis nothin'."
"You know, Pete, I'm to sleep under the deck tonight. Should I bring something there?"
"No, we have some spare blankets, I think." He's blinking and looking at me with heart-wrenching sympathy. "What did ye do to cross 'im that much?"
"Nothing big. Just broke the wine bottle."
"Ye did?" he's laughing. "'Tis a trifle! He can't wait to see her, that's all. He's impatient.'Tis been a long time, poor old devil." He winks at me. "We'll go an' have our fun with Antigua girls too, I tell ye. I'll show ye a nice house." He chuckles. "La Espina."
"A strange name for a bawdy house."
"'Tis no real one. The true name's La Rosa Sin Espina, but ye see, there's no bloody rose without thorns. So it's just The Thorn fer us."
I sigh, going to the galleys with the sad remains of the Captain's breakfast. I'm not sure if I'm going to enjoy our stay on Antigua. I've never liked roses anyway.
The day passes too quickly; I polish the deck, carry trays to Captain's cabin and try to be generally unnoticed. I succeed. He dines with Sharpe and doesn't even look at me. When the night comes, I go hesitantly downstairs, praying that nobody sees me. But I'm not that lucky. They obviously cannot sleep, all agitated about tomorrow; they're sitting in the scanty light of tallow-candles, playing cards or looking through their clothes.
"Oooh, mateys, look who's come down to our humble quarters!" It's Bleeding Hand. "Not the Captain's cabin tonight? What happened, love? Spurn'd already?"
I know that he hates me, because he got stabbed in his hand when the crew was quarrelling about who's to have the first turn with me. But I'm not in a humble mood now.
"Tell me about your hand, mate," I say. "Healed already?"
"Come here," he says standing up slowly. "I'll show ye if it's heal'd or not."
"Now, now, stop it, men," says Paco the Fat, standing between us. "Save yer strength fer tomorrow."
"No, I must teach this little slut that he's to keep his foul mouth shut!"
"Wait, wait. He can amuse us," says Pete. "Sharpe said he can play lute. Let's have him play us somethin' nice."
I hear the murmur of anticipation. Oh, good. But don't they have a musician? I've heard that pirate vessels usually have some.
"We had three," says Paco, "but two are dead, an' one's run away in Nassau Port."
"So you have a lute here?"
"A lute an' a lil' drum. An' this one," he shows me a sad excuse for a tar. Or is it a tar? Looks rather big, and has one jingle missing. The lute doesn't seem to be in a good state too.
"Do you have somebody who cares for these instruments?"
"Well, we 'ave this Squall here," says Paco. "He can play drum. But the fellow who played lute got hanged, God save his poor dirty soul. An' the lute man ran away, an' took his lute with 'im, may Saint Virgin curse his legs. An' the pandeiro man is dead too."
Ah, so the tar is called pandeiro here. I look at said Squall. He's a tall young fellow - about twenty years old, I guess - with slightly bulged, not very bright eyes. I know his story, his name is Dick or something like that, but he got his nickname when he fell overboard during the squall and got rescued against slight chances. Lucky Squall, they call him.
"Alright, matey," I say, "I'll play the lute and you take the drum. Let's start from something not very lively. Don't worry."
Squall nods, wipes his running nose off and takes the drum between his knees. I know already what I will sing. I'm hearing this song inside my head for two days now. I will sing "La Serena" - "if the sea was milk and the boats made of cinnamon, I would walk in to save my banner..."
The men start to laugh, but they became strangely quiet with the third stanza. I'm lingering at it so long that I surprise myself, prolonging the words and making pauses. It hurts, and yet I cannot tear myself away.
"En la mar hay una torre,
En la torre hay una ventana..."
I know all too well that "in the sea is a tower, in the tower is a window, in the window is a girl, the girl that loves sailors." There are always some girls that love sailors, but why was I so sure that sailors love their girls only from time to time and don't run away from what is willingly and lightly given by others?...
I sing the fourth stanza, the one that another man should be singing:
"Dame la mano tu palomba,
Para suvir a tu nido..."
I see myself in his place, standing under her window and calling her "my dove", asking her to give me her hand so that I can come up to her nest. Ah, "unlucky are you that sleep alone, I am coming to sleep with you..." Oh, damn.
But I meet with a genuine applause. The poor rascals are thinking of their own "dove", a girl with full breasts and her heart as generous as her body. And I spend half of the night playing and singing cursed Sephardic romances, fanning those poor morons' desire for a woman to unbearable height, trying to kick my own stupid soul unconscious in some dark corner.
The next day everybody who doesn't have to work is hanging on the ropes and railings, and swears that he can see the land. I bring the Captain's meal from the galleys and I'm going to slip out of the cabin, but he stops me.
"Wait, Ritchie," he says. "I'm visitin' my lady, an' you an' Squall are goin' to attend me."
He's looking at me with an almost innocent joy. He doesn't think of me. He forgot everything. Or was there anything he should remember? Maybe it's only my own overheated imagination. He is using me, because his lady can't be sailing with him. He is using me, because he doesn't have anybody more suitable than me. He will use me from time to time, that's the only thing I can hope for. I should be happy he's keeping me at all.
"Aye, Captain," I say dully.
"Not 'aye, Captain', ye have to wash yerself! An' tell Squall to do the same." Then he gestures towards the silken screen. "Ye have new clothes there."
I throw myself to the screen. New clothes? Now there's something! His lady, whoever he is, won't see my unbearably dirty shirt and no less dirty breeches. Ah, these things... are they really for me? The shirt is delicate and soft, the breeches have nicely polished buttons... oh, there are top boots with square-shaped noses and loose bootlegs, and even... even a hat?... A hat with feathers... it's been so long since I had a hat!
And when I finish washing, Sharpe calls me and gives me a pistol. I feel dizzy with pride now. I caress it, weighing the treasure in my hand, and I can't help kissing it, as if I were kissing a long-lost friend. It is my friend now, my one and only. Then I put my new clothes - and boots - on and tuck the pistol in the belt, bind my hair nicely and finally put on the hat. I'd like to know how I look, but as I feel suddenly approving looks from the men, I'm sure the effect is not bad. And I go to help the Captain to dress.
We're already very close when I take one of heavy coats, embroidered with discreet silver, in my suddenly cold hands, and hold it so that the Captain can put it on. I touch his shoulders for all too brief a moment, smoothering the folds, and feel myself even colder, shivering. But my time is gone, now comes lady Rose's reign, and there's nothing I can do. I hand over Captain's hat, and we go to the main deck.
It's my first step into the New World, but it pretty disappoints me. I've seen much more impressive things than the forts on Blake and Rat Islands, and the main town, Falmouth, can easily be compared with any Spanish or Italian town on the Mediterranian coast. There's only one thing that startles me: black people. So many of them, they are everywhere, yet they step asunder from any white man so obediently and quietly! Men seem much more subdued and frightened than women; they stoop, walk with their heads between their shoulders, talk with strangely high voices. But women, ah, they are so beautiful and proud, they walk so lightly and cast us such wondering or lofty glances that I can't help but smile at them openly.
Only one half of the crew was lucky enough to be allowed to go freely to town; they are to go back after four days and change the other half, and then the careening is to begin. But the Captain, Squall and me are going to lady Rose's house, walking proudly - the Captain is first and we're after - through stony little streets. People look at our silken coats (yes, I've got a coat too), our well-shod boots, then at our pistols, and step aside with a respect that is too hasty to be real. We're not carrying anything, we have just some money - I have five dubloons, and that's all. The Captain has much more of course, but presents for his lady are still on La Aranha.
We go past the court house, which serves also as the only church on Antigua, or at least Squall tells me so; we pass some stony houses with their shutters closed, and finally stand in front of one of them. The Captain gestures to me, and I take the copper ring and knock on the gate.
It opens surprisingly quickly, that old man with a long gray beard must have been sitting behind it. He hesitates when he sees me, but then his eyes go to the Captain and his face is suddenly beaming.
"I'm going to tell our lady, this moment," he babbles scratching his head with both his hands. "Please, please, Captain, do come in..."
The Captain gives him a coin, and I hear a sound of shutters being opened - or closed? - and before the old man manages to go across the patio, the doors swing open, pushed by a strong hand, and the Captain's mistress herself steps on the doorsil.
Why do I know that it's her and not a servant? It's not a dress or a hairmake, though they can easily mark a lady; no, it's those lively moves and eyes so terrifyingly bright that make her on a par with my Captain. She doesn't look at Squall or me, her first long, greedy look is for the Captain alone, and although they are observing the forms, I can feel how deep and meaningful is even that mere touch of their hands, when she gives him her long delicate fingers, so that he can kiss them according to the old Spanish custom. She is truly beautiful, full of powerful, sparkling energy like a fresh mountain spring. It's not only her hair that shines, she shines all with her light porcelain, fair skin, with her fingers rosy at the ends, with the long white neck; she resembles a sugar figurine under the generous rays of the sun. But she is no frail doll, I can tell it from her sharp, deep dark eyes. She looks at Squall and smiles at him - she knows him already; then she looks at me and then at the Captain with a polite inquiry in her eyes.
"This is our new crew member," the Captain says with a smile, "his name's Ritchie Brown."
I take my hat off lightly and bow to her in the Spanish manner. She seems pleasantly surprised, or should I say dismayed? I know she didn't see in my stare this naive worship she saw in Squall's eyes; but she smiles at me as well.
tbc
A/N: 1) "Sepher Yetzirah" is one of the most famous Kabbalah texts, and was written about 200 B.C. 2) Pandeiro and tar are names for two kinds of frame drum (similar to a tambourine); pandeiro was played in Galicia, Portugal and Brasil, and tar in the Middle East.
------------------------------
II
When I manage to get up, I notice that I don't know the place I was sleeping in. It's not the Captain's cabin, but a dark, long room with a very low ceiling. Nobody is here; I'm lying on a blanket. The air is thick and fusty. It's probably a place the crew is sleeping, and now everybody is at work.
"What, ye get up already! Are ye alright?"
It's Smallpox; he's coming to me with a cup of water in his hands, smilling broadly.
"What are you doing here?"
"What? I've brought ye water..."
"I must bring Captain's dinner... how many hours was I here?"
"Hours? Yer lying here fer four days, matey!"
I blink.
"Ye've got a nasty fever an' were sleepin' all the time," he laughs. "But yer almost cured already, I can see... Want some water?"
I drink it feeling ashamed like never in my life.
"Were you caring for me?"
"Sometimes me, sometimes Sharpe. Ye're not that hard to care for, though. Sleepin' only an' drinkin' water. Pretty strong, ye are," he smiles again sitting next to me.
I sigh and scratch my head. I would never expect anybody on this ship to care for me when I were ill; I've never been much cared for, to tell the truth - and I still remember my first encounter with Sharpe and Smallpox...
"Um, thank you, mate... what's your name?"
"'Tis Pete."
"Ah. Thank you, Pete..." and I look at him with a slight suspicion. Would he want me to thank him in that only currency that is accepted everywhere... or did he take his payment from me, when I was lying here unconscious? For I've seen worse already, and I know that nobody is tending after the sick without interest.
"Why are ye lookin' at me? Our Captain told us to look after ye. He'll be glad t'see ye now," he says winking at me and patting me on the back. I hiss.
"Aw, sorry, mate," he chuckles. "Still hurts? Told ye it's no trifle. Don't talk too much when the Captain's present, he doesn't like it. Ye should know when it's time to shut up. Alright, c'me with me, ye'd better wash yerself before going to the cabin."
It's difficult for me to bow over the bucket of water, my back still hurts, and I'm hungry as always, but it's delightful to be able to wash, and when I go upstairs, my wet hair turns dry and curls in no time. The breeze is soft and the sun is warm, and when I look at the working men, I hear them greeting me with some sort of rough sympathy. Then I go to the galleys, take the Captain's meal, knock on his cabin's door and enter.
He's sitting at the table, which is barely visible from under the maps, and doesn't raise his head. I take the chair quietly, place the tray on it and return to the door.
"Close the door," I hear, so I go out, but then another orders goes after me. "No, not from the outside, stupid! Come in."
I close the door and lean against it lightly, not sure if I'm to step in. I'm not going to do anything he doesn't want me to. I look at him; he seems annoyed and impatient, but then his green eyes soften a little bit and a smile twitches his mouth for a moment. He takes the maps to the table under the window and invites me to come closer. I take the tray from the chair and place it before him with my eyes downcast. The very closeness of him makes me absent-minded with joy. What's happening to me? The only treatment I get from him is harsh words, beatings and careless screwing, and yet I want to be close to him. I've slept with men several times, for money or food, or because I was forced to, but never felt anything more than fleeting sting of pleasure at best; I've slept with women because I desired them, or because they were paying me, but never valued them more than my own safety and profit. And now I've met a person to whom I'll gladly and lightly give my body and soul and eternal salvation and whatever else I have.
He's laughing, it's my modest demeanour that amuses him so.
"Now, now, I can see ye finally learnt how to be quiet. All ye need is a good thrashing, then. I'm glad yer well. And hungry, perhaps?"
I cast him a quick look, but say nothing.
"Sit down an' share my meal. Ye must be starvin', as always."
I sit next to him, still unable to say anything. Why has he to say all these cruel things to me? If he despises me so, why does he allow me to sit and eat with him? And I notice that the food is fresh - it's bread, not the hard-tack, and there is even something like a pie, and fruit.
"Did we land somewhere, Captain?"
"Aye, we did. I've entrusted our senor Ayala and the rest of Joya del Mar to my friend; we'll be going back in some time, but now we're going to Antigua Island for a rest, and to careen our ship."
I can't hide my disappointment; I've lost my first chance to see the New World! But maybe on Antigua, then... and I feel a sudden joy, because they didn't leave me on that island. I was only a burden to them, but they chose to take me with them. I look at the Captain with gratitude. He sighs.
"What's wrong with you gapin' at me all the time? Eat an' be off to work."
"Aye, Captain," I say obediently and grab a piece of bread. Isn't he glad that he can have me here again? And I've washed myself... maybe it's my shirt... it's dirty as hell. They probably covered me with it in night, because it's stained with blood, and the sleeves are nearly black. I was working in it and sleeping in it. Oh, yes, it must be the shirt. And maybe something else too... I catch Captain's look, and I know: it must be the way I'm eating. Well, he is always mocking me because I'm always hungry, but it can be that he's disgusted too. He is a nobleman and I'm not, and it's the table where the difference between us is easiest to notice. When he's watching me eating like that, he knows that I'm nobody he should as much as think about taking into account. So I begin to eat very, very slowly, with small bits, and very quietly...
"Tell me, Ritchie," he says suddenly, "are ye really fifteen?"
I raise my head at the hint of anger in his voice. His green eyes are narrowed; he stopped eating.
"To tell the truth, Captain," I say cautiously, "I don't know for sure."
"Explain."
"It's... uhm... I've figured it out myself... from what people around me were saying. I mean... I can be sixteen... or fourteen."
"Ahh. Yer father or mother ne'er told ye when ye're born?" He smiles, looking at me, but there's no smile in his eyes. "Oh, wait. Let me guess. Ye don't know yer father either. Or was he some prince with twenty castles, an' yer mother was a pretty village girl? Tell me what lie d'ye have for this occasion."
I'm looking down on the pearl ornament of the altar cape. The piece of bread in my hand becomes warmer and warmer.
"Oh good. No lies. Ye learnt yer lesson well. Frankly, I don't give a damn who or why sired you, so ye don't have to answer, don't worry. There are other interestin' things that I'd like t'know. Ye weren't that scared of our cat o' nine tails, an' I've seen yer back. Ye've been flogged before. What for?"
"N... nothing big." Please.
"I'm sure 'twas nothing big. I'm asking ye what it was."
"I've been caught stealing."
"Stealing what?"
"Various things. Money. Food."
"That's all?"
"Yes," I say.
He smiles, leaning back in his chair.
"So yer a thief."
"I've done it once or twice, but I'm not a thief."
"Alright, Ritchie Brown, yer not a thief. I've forgotten - yer a whore."
"I'm not."
"Oh, what were you doin' in that old Spanish lady's bed, then?"
I look into his eyes with a rising fury.
"She was not old," I say. "She was truly beautiful. More beautiful than many young girls anywhere."
"Ah, how touchin', now yer confessin' yer love for her. Tell me then, what are ye doin' with me here, on my ship? 'Twas my crew an' me who's responsible for yer lady's death, but I've ne'er seen you sheddin' a tear over her, an' yer lettin' me fuck you without a word. You've bought yer way into a New World with yer body, now yer buyin' yer life with it. Who are you if not a whore, pray tell me?"
"If it would please you to call me that..."
"What is this that ye said? Yer kindly allowin' me somethin', or did I overhear you jus' now?"
I avert my eyes quickly.
"Yer too smart for yer own good, Ritchie. Don't forget who you are. Ye can try to impress me by yer table manners or by yer innocent looks, but spare yer fatigue. Don't try yer little games with me. Is that clear?"
I'm biting my lips with despair. What did I do to him? Is he blaming me for giving myself to him without any protest? But what sense was to protest, when I was in his power? Yes, I don't value myself much, but why should I? I'm not a nobleman nor a virgin with some stupid honour or virtue to protect - these are merely names for things that don't exist. I have only one thing to protect at any cost, and it's my life, nothing more. If I don't win this man's favour, I'm dead anyway, and now he's telling me that because it's him who decides, I'm not allowed to try. Oh, but I know it's him who decides... wait. Is this possible that it wasn't me that his little tirade was addressed to?...
"Yes, it's very clear, Captain," I say obediently, rising from my chair. "I'll go to work, if you excuse me." Then I snatch one more piece of bread from the tray and turn away to go outside.
But he catches my arm into his ironlike grip and drags me back, then throws me against the table. I wonder if he hits me, but he doesn't.
"Ye have to clean the table first," he says coldly. "An' if I see you stealin' my food again..."
"I won't, Captain," I say looking into his eyes and promising myself not to change my way of living in the slightest.
"Good," he says. "Now get off."
I get off with a not-so-heavy heart, thinking of this little conversation. The Captain is trying to convince himself that I'm not worth his attention? Then I'm on a winning side.
My companions - if I can call them that - greet me rather amiably, asking about my back and what the Captain said, and tell me that we're going to reach Antigua in three, maybe four days, if the wind is good.
Then I have to sit down to repair the sails. Good, I think, no more of the cursed deck polishing. I wonder about stupid Bucky's leg, and as far as I can see there are two camps now: Sharpe and his friend Pete, and most of the people are on my side, and the lesser part is Bleeding Hand and Bucky, and some other folks. But nobody is openly against me, and I feel they accepted me as one of them more or less. Smallpox - I mean Pete - has taken me under his wings and explains things to me. Nobody asks where I am from or what my life was until now, as the common etiquette of the condemned forbids it. To our own conscience we're men without past, we have a hopeful future and it's all that matters.
They are working with a zeal, and seem very high-spirited. Antigua means fresh food and girls, and we have a swag to spend too.
"We'll rest there maybe fer even a week," says Pete grinning. "We deserve that, we do. An' our Captain, he's goin' to meet his sweetheart at last."
There are laughs and murmurs in our working group, and I can't help but raise my head for a moment. Bleeding Hand notices it.
"Hah, it means that the boy's goin' to get some rest too," he says with a false sympathy. "D'ye still remember how it's to be sleepin' without bein' fucked, Ritchie?"
The men laugh looking at me with an open leer. I'm pretending I didn't hear it. I can't be running around and stabbing people all the time, but Bleeding Hand has it coming for sure.
"Awww, a nice lady she is," says a short and round man called Paco. "Never saw such golden hair as she has."
"Wonder if she has golden hair there too," says Paco's brother, who'd look just like him if it weren't for the right eye lacking.
They laugh again and there's a strained silence. I can almost feel how their thoughts grow thick and greasy.
"Um, mate," I whisper to Pete, "who is that Captain's lady?"
"She's an Irish, named Rose O'Mallory. He met her in the Irish colony on Montserrat and took her with 'im, an' now she's a mistress of some rich merchant. She knows things, ye see... an' it's why our Captain knows things too. It's thanks to her that we got yer pretty Joya del Mar, Ritchie."
Ah, now I see. She is not only a precious ornament for Captain Barbossa. She is his deadly weapon as well. She provides information so that the Captain knows where to go and when to strike. She is indeed a double treasure to him, he has every reason to love and to value her. Oh, it's good to know that I have such powerful a rival... and she doesn't even know about me. I'm nothing compared to her, and it makes me feel relieved.
But I can't help being curious about her. I'd like to see her, I want to meet her. I want to see the Captain with her. Does he change when she is close? Is he delicate and chivalrous to her, or is he ashamed to show his attraction? How long are they together? And why is the crew calling her "lady" - only because she's the Captain's lover, or because she is really something better than women who sleep with pirates?
I'm lost in thoughts and don't even notice the sunset. It's time for Captain's supper, and he'll be eating with Sharpe, they have a counsel. I'm serving them half-heartedly, because all my thoughts are on the Captain's lady Rose. My eyes go unwillingly to the boxes, chests and shelves. He should have her portrait somewhere. I know he doesn't wear any medallion, he's not that sentimental. But he can have something from her: a letter, a drawing, a lock of those golden hair. I forget to pour the wine and to look after burnt candles.
"Are ye payin' attention at all, ye lazy bastard?!" the Captain yells at me finally, when I knock bread off the table. "Ye can't do anything properly!"
"Maybe he'd like to serve noblewomen only, Captain," says Sharpe with a broad smile.
"He'd like not to do anythin' at all, shameless brat. Eatin' and sleepin', he's good at it, nothin' more. Alright, let's go outside. Yer to clean that mess, Ritchie."
Oh, great. Now that these two are gone, I can look through the cabin a bit. I put the table in order, throw away bread crumbs, close the wine caraffe, and then, with a candle in one hand and an apple in the other, I go to the shelves.
My first thought was to look through the drawers of the table under the window. But it's a dangerous thing. I can pretend that I'm dusting the books or something, but if the Captain catches me with his drawers open, he'd probably kill me. He can be back any moment; I'll wait with the drawers.
I bit the apple (well, I'm not allowed to eat anything from the Captain's table, but the temptation was strong) and look at the shelves. They are reaching the ceiling and definitely need dusting. I can't even see the titles of the books at the highest shelves. But it's unlikely that the Captain is keeping anything connected with lady Rose there. It's a forgotten place, maybe for his former lovers. Let's see what we have on the lower shelves.
I place the candle on the table nearby - I'm not that stupid to risk burning anything - and taking another apple bite I look at the imprinted golden and silver letters on the books' backs. And my heart is suddenly beating faster, because I recognize dona Ursula's books: "Lazarillo de Tormes", "Celestina"... ah, it seems so long, long ago, when we were sitting at the round table of dona Ursula's cabin, and she was correcting my accent and asking me if I ever had been to Bologna, Florence and Siena, like Guzman; and as I know Florence a little, I'm telling tales about its palazzos and streets, and ladies beautiful, but not more beautiful than dona Ursula...
There are several religious books, some in Latin, some in... um... is it French? I don't know. Then I blink suddenly at a dusty volume bound in morocco. Hebrew letters! Does the Captain know Hebrew? I take the book cautiously. Oh, it's "Sepher Yetzirah". I feel shivers down my spine. It's no good sleeping in one room with magic books!
"Tell me, Ritchie, what d'ye think yer doing now?"
The Captain came back so quietly I didn't even hear him opening the door. I don't know what to do first: close the book or finish eating my apple. I'm trapped anyway. He's standing in the door for a short moment, then comes quickly to me. I'm clutching the cursed book like a shield - I know books are too valuable to risk destroying them. Especially magic books. I'm safe as long as I have this one in my hands.
"I thought it'd be good if I dust them, Captain."
"Yer dustin' them in the night? With what?"
I look in his eyes desperatedly.
"I thought I'll do it from now. Just..."
"Why the hell would ye ever touch my books, ye lil' thief?"
"I know how to care for books, Captain," I say quietly.
Now he blinks and looks at me, frowning.
"Can ye read?"
I look at the book I'm holding.
"Can ye read Hebrew, Ritchie?"
"Aye, I can," I say in a barely visible whisper.
"And understand what yer readin'?"
"I don't know..."
"Read here and tell me what does it say."
"Three letters... the three mother letters A, M, Sh are the foundations of the whole... they resemble a balance with the good in one scale, the evil in the other... the oscillating tongue of the balance is between them."
The Captain is looking at me and starts to laugh.
"Where did'ye come from? Ye can read "Sepher Yetzirah"? Are you a Jew?"
"You know I'm not," I say with an embarrassed smile. He is laughing again, because it's true - he had me in his bed and he knows I'm not circumcised. "I've learned it when I was living in Thessaloniki, but it's a long story..."
"Alright, alright. Can ye read English too?"
"Yes, I can."
"What else?"
"Latin... um... Greek. Some French, and Italian. And dona Ursula was teaching me Spanish. I've been learning it in Thessaloniki and I was speaking more Ladino than Spanish."
He takes another book from the shelf and I throw the rest of my apple out of the window.
"Read here, then."
A Spanish book. Well, let's see... I look at the sentence he's pointing to me.
"La humildad con los poderosos es el... um... fundamento de la paz... la soberbia, la destrui... destruicion de nuestro sosiego."
"An' what does it mean?"
"Humility in the presence of the powerful is the basis of peace... and the arrogance is the destruction of the... of our tranquility."
He takes the book from me, places it on the shelf, and then looks at me amused and pleased.
"Think about what ye read, Ritchie. Did I allow ye to touch my books?"
"N-no, Captain, but I thought..."
Now his glance is again serious and cold.
"Use yer head effectively. Yer not allowed to touch anything here without my order, is that clear?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Good." Then he hesitates. "Ye can write too?"
"Yes, I can..."
"Is there anything more ye can do?"
I think intensely. Oh, I have something!
"I can play lute, Captain. And vihuela, and..."
He sighs, looking at me, and his eyes soften.
"Ye can make a decent livin', Ritchie. Ye can read, write, yer not stupid, but yer a bloody nuisance an' ye can't help getting' yerself into trouble. But yer not among ordinary folks anymore. Ye can't count on my good heart, because good heart in my trade counts as stupidity. Don't make me kill ye. It'd sadden me, but it may be necessary, if ye try me patience like that."
I can see he's looking at me differently now. I can read, I know languages, he doesn't have people like me here. He will need me, I know my time will come, now it's not only my body he could use. Oh... but he can use it as well.
"Alright. Blow off the candles an' go to sleep. Yer have work tomorrow. It's still three days to Antigua."
What? Is he just... dismissing me like that, after four days I've spent under the deck? Doesn't he want anything from me?
"Ye didn't hear me or what? Put off the candles."
I cast him one long glance, but he doesn't seem - or want - to understand. I do what ordered and then go to my place under the boxes. I lie down, but then I sit again. No, he just forgot. He's thinking about Antigua, or about the ransom that the Ayala family must pay him, or about something else he was discussing with Sharpe; he just forgot about me.
"Um, Captain... don't you need anything?"
"What d'ye want, Ritchie?"
"Nothing, just asking... I think I should go and bring some water, there's only little left... in case you need it after."
"After what?"
"I don't know... in the morning."
"What are ye talkin' about?"
"Nothing."
"Shut the hell up and sleep. Ye can bring water in the morning."
No, no, no, it's not right! He doesn't want to touch me, why? Because my back isn't healed? Or because... wait. It's his lady. It must be her. He's saving himself for her. He won't waste his desire now. There's only three days left; and he'll see her and give her all his passion, strength, tenderness, longing. I don't count for him now. When she's so close, I disappear.
The next day I'm trying not to look at the Captain. I feel wasted as never in my life. I'm trapped on this ship with no way to go, and I don't want to go anywhere, because the tall man with green devilish eyes, big hands with long aristocratic fingers and with cold, cruel smile has me in his power, and doesn't even need me that much. He's telling me he's going to kill me when he sees it necessary... and I don't give a damn about it. I must be ill. I must be under a spell. Doesn't he have the Kabbalah book in his cabin? Hah... but he doesn't need me anyway, why would he put a spell on me? It's me who is to blame. Aw, how lowly I've fallen, I don't even value my own life anymore.
I brought the water in the morning and after the breakfast the Captain went to talk to Sharpe again, leaving dishes on the table. I start cleaning the cabin with a piece of bread in my mouth, when I see Captain's signet on the shelf. He must have removed it when washing his hands.
I take it and weigh it in my hand. It's not very heavy, strange - given the size. I look at the entangled letters on it; so many of them, I'll decipher them later. But why is the signet so light? There must be a reason to it.
Ah, I see. It has a lock. Something is hidden in it. Wait, it is maybe lady Rose's portrait! I open it, dizzy with curiosity, and suddenly feel panic.
There's a yellow powder in it. Only a little, but it seems so much, because I know what it can be. Oh, Captain, what are you thinking about? Do you believe that death is a way of escape, when everything is lost? When you're caught and you know that it's nothing you can hope for, only the gallows or the sword?
What a stupid, pathetic thought! It must be those idiotic ideals of the noble folk. It's better to die than to be disgraced, if we have nothing left, there is still honour to protect, let's die honourable death, so those who look at it will write cheap Christian books of how noble a criminal can be in his last hour. There, there, what do you know about the joy of living and the balm that is hope? "Dum spiro, spero" - I know my Latin too. No, I won't allow those false principles to kill my Captain. Even if his soul - which doesn't belong to me - is poisoned already, I won't have this cursed powder to poison his body I've already had. And I throw the yellow, powdered death out of the window without second thought.
I have enough time to place the signet on the shelf again, when I hear the sound of the Captain's boots, and return to cleaning the table. He's realized that he's forgotten the signet and is going to take it back.
I can feel he looks at me suspiciously, but I don't raise my head. He takes the signet from the shelf, but instead of going to Sharpe again he stops there.
"Did'ye touch my signet, Ritchie?"
I put the tray back on the table and look at him.
"No, Captain, I didn't." I try to remember if I put the signet in the same place he left it.
He narrows his eyes and opens the cursed thing.
"Are ye sure ye didn't touch it?"
"Why?" I ask quietly, feeling my blood freeze. Must he check everything on the spot? Now he knows I'm lying... what should I do?
"There was somethin' inside an' it's empty now." He looks at me without anger, but with a strange expression I can't understand.
"Maybe the lock is loose and it slipped out..." I say before I can think.
He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, smiles lightly, and then slaps me in the face so violently that I'm on the floor before I can even realize what happened. I tried to grab the table corner, but I failed and managed to catch only the altar cape; now I have all the dishes over me, plus the wine. What a mess! I can feel blood in my mouth.
"Stand the hell up," he yells at me.
I stand up.
"Why did ye throw it away?"
I'm silent, of course.
"Ye heard me or not?"
"Why, it's a poison... it's dangerous... and not necessary, Captain. There is always a way of escape! Everything is better than a suicide. It's stup... it's not good, Captain, why are you thinking of it?"
He is looking at me with an utter dismay and starts to laugh again.
"An' what makes ye think I carry the poison for meself?"
I blink. What?
"It's not for you?"
"I have enemies, Ritchie." He smiles. "Aye, it can come in handy when there's nothing left. But it's better to use it on others. Now tell me, why d'ye think I've hit ye now?"
"I don't know..."
"I told ye not to lie to me, right?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Ye lied to me again. I should shoot you now." He smiles and takes my blooded hand from my face. "But it's a nice day. We will be tomorrow at Antigua. I'm in a good mood, so I'll give ye one more advice. D'ye know why I can say that yer lying?"
Well, that's something I definitely want to know, Captain.
"Because ye wide yer eyes an' immediately look more innocent than usual. Keep it in mind. Don't try it again, especially when my lady's present. She is cunning like hell. She will know I had my way with ye. And when ye run afoul me in her presence, she won't say a word in yer favour. Now clean that mess and get off to work. And yer to sleep with the crew tonight."
When he goes away to talk with Sharpe, I feel somewhat anxious. I still remember my first encounters with the crew. They didn't do me harm recently, when I was sleeping with them, but it was because I was unconscious. I know some of them hate me still, for the disappointment that they couldn't play with me, and for what I did to Bucky. I sigh going out with a tray and the broken wine bottle.
"Aw, mate, what happen'd to ye?" Pete stops me. "Ye have blood on yer face!"
"I've just..." I say and can't find the word. I suddenly feel tired.
"What, did ye make Captain angry? Don't worry, Ritchie, he's goin' to see his lady tomorrow, he's all impatient. 'Tis nothin'."
"You know, Pete, I'm to sleep under the deck tonight. Should I bring something there?"
"No, we have some spare blankets, I think." He's blinking and looking at me with heart-wrenching sympathy. "What did ye do to cross 'im that much?"
"Nothing big. Just broke the wine bottle."
"Ye did?" he's laughing. "'Tis a trifle! He can't wait to see her, that's all. He's impatient.'Tis been a long time, poor old devil." He winks at me. "We'll go an' have our fun with Antigua girls too, I tell ye. I'll show ye a nice house." He chuckles. "La Espina."
"A strange name for a bawdy house."
"'Tis no real one. The true name's La Rosa Sin Espina, but ye see, there's no bloody rose without thorns. So it's just The Thorn fer us."
I sigh, going to the galleys with the sad remains of the Captain's breakfast. I'm not sure if I'm going to enjoy our stay on Antigua. I've never liked roses anyway.
The day passes too quickly; I polish the deck, carry trays to Captain's cabin and try to be generally unnoticed. I succeed. He dines with Sharpe and doesn't even look at me. When the night comes, I go hesitantly downstairs, praying that nobody sees me. But I'm not that lucky. They obviously cannot sleep, all agitated about tomorrow; they're sitting in the scanty light of tallow-candles, playing cards or looking through their clothes.
"Oooh, mateys, look who's come down to our humble quarters!" It's Bleeding Hand. "Not the Captain's cabin tonight? What happened, love? Spurn'd already?"
I know that he hates me, because he got stabbed in his hand when the crew was quarrelling about who's to have the first turn with me. But I'm not in a humble mood now.
"Tell me about your hand, mate," I say. "Healed already?"
"Come here," he says standing up slowly. "I'll show ye if it's heal'd or not."
"Now, now, stop it, men," says Paco the Fat, standing between us. "Save yer strength fer tomorrow."
"No, I must teach this little slut that he's to keep his foul mouth shut!"
"Wait, wait. He can amuse us," says Pete. "Sharpe said he can play lute. Let's have him play us somethin' nice."
I hear the murmur of anticipation. Oh, good. But don't they have a musician? I've heard that pirate vessels usually have some.
"We had three," says Paco, "but two are dead, an' one's run away in Nassau Port."
"So you have a lute here?"
"A lute an' a lil' drum. An' this one," he shows me a sad excuse for a tar. Or is it a tar? Looks rather big, and has one jingle missing. The lute doesn't seem to be in a good state too.
"Do you have somebody who cares for these instruments?"
"Well, we 'ave this Squall here," says Paco. "He can play drum. But the fellow who played lute got hanged, God save his poor dirty soul. An' the lute man ran away, an' took his lute with 'im, may Saint Virgin curse his legs. An' the pandeiro man is dead too."
Ah, so the tar is called pandeiro here. I look at said Squall. He's a tall young fellow - about twenty years old, I guess - with slightly bulged, not very bright eyes. I know his story, his name is Dick or something like that, but he got his nickname when he fell overboard during the squall and got rescued against slight chances. Lucky Squall, they call him.
"Alright, matey," I say, "I'll play the lute and you take the drum. Let's start from something not very lively. Don't worry."
Squall nods, wipes his running nose off and takes the drum between his knees. I know already what I will sing. I'm hearing this song inside my head for two days now. I will sing "La Serena" - "if the sea was milk and the boats made of cinnamon, I would walk in to save my banner..."
The men start to laugh, but they became strangely quiet with the third stanza. I'm lingering at it so long that I surprise myself, prolonging the words and making pauses. It hurts, and yet I cannot tear myself away.
"En la mar hay una torre,
En la torre hay una ventana..."
I know all too well that "in the sea is a tower, in the tower is a window, in the window is a girl, the girl that loves sailors." There are always some girls that love sailors, but why was I so sure that sailors love their girls only from time to time and don't run away from what is willingly and lightly given by others?...
I sing the fourth stanza, the one that another man should be singing:
"Dame la mano tu palomba,
Para suvir a tu nido..."
I see myself in his place, standing under her window and calling her "my dove", asking her to give me her hand so that I can come up to her nest. Ah, "unlucky are you that sleep alone, I am coming to sleep with you..." Oh, damn.
But I meet with a genuine applause. The poor rascals are thinking of their own "dove", a girl with full breasts and her heart as generous as her body. And I spend half of the night playing and singing cursed Sephardic romances, fanning those poor morons' desire for a woman to unbearable height, trying to kick my own stupid soul unconscious in some dark corner.
The next day everybody who doesn't have to work is hanging on the ropes and railings, and swears that he can see the land. I bring the Captain's meal from the galleys and I'm going to slip out of the cabin, but he stops me.
"Wait, Ritchie," he says. "I'm visitin' my lady, an' you an' Squall are goin' to attend me."
He's looking at me with an almost innocent joy. He doesn't think of me. He forgot everything. Or was there anything he should remember? Maybe it's only my own overheated imagination. He is using me, because his lady can't be sailing with him. He is using me, because he doesn't have anybody more suitable than me. He will use me from time to time, that's the only thing I can hope for. I should be happy he's keeping me at all.
"Aye, Captain," I say dully.
"Not 'aye, Captain', ye have to wash yerself! An' tell Squall to do the same." Then he gestures towards the silken screen. "Ye have new clothes there."
I throw myself to the screen. New clothes? Now there's something! His lady, whoever he is, won't see my unbearably dirty shirt and no less dirty breeches. Ah, these things... are they really for me? The shirt is delicate and soft, the breeches have nicely polished buttons... oh, there are top boots with square-shaped noses and loose bootlegs, and even... even a hat?... A hat with feathers... it's been so long since I had a hat!
And when I finish washing, Sharpe calls me and gives me a pistol. I feel dizzy with pride now. I caress it, weighing the treasure in my hand, and I can't help kissing it, as if I were kissing a long-lost friend. It is my friend now, my one and only. Then I put my new clothes - and boots - on and tuck the pistol in the belt, bind my hair nicely and finally put on the hat. I'd like to know how I look, but as I feel suddenly approving looks from the men, I'm sure the effect is not bad. And I go to help the Captain to dress.
We're already very close when I take one of heavy coats, embroidered with discreet silver, in my suddenly cold hands, and hold it so that the Captain can put it on. I touch his shoulders for all too brief a moment, smoothering the folds, and feel myself even colder, shivering. But my time is gone, now comes lady Rose's reign, and there's nothing I can do. I hand over Captain's hat, and we go to the main deck.
It's my first step into the New World, but it pretty disappoints me. I've seen much more impressive things than the forts on Blake and Rat Islands, and the main town, Falmouth, can easily be compared with any Spanish or Italian town on the Mediterranian coast. There's only one thing that startles me: black people. So many of them, they are everywhere, yet they step asunder from any white man so obediently and quietly! Men seem much more subdued and frightened than women; they stoop, walk with their heads between their shoulders, talk with strangely high voices. But women, ah, they are so beautiful and proud, they walk so lightly and cast us such wondering or lofty glances that I can't help but smile at them openly.
Only one half of the crew was lucky enough to be allowed to go freely to town; they are to go back after four days and change the other half, and then the careening is to begin. But the Captain, Squall and me are going to lady Rose's house, walking proudly - the Captain is first and we're after - through stony little streets. People look at our silken coats (yes, I've got a coat too), our well-shod boots, then at our pistols, and step aside with a respect that is too hasty to be real. We're not carrying anything, we have just some money - I have five dubloons, and that's all. The Captain has much more of course, but presents for his lady are still on La Aranha.
We go past the court house, which serves also as the only church on Antigua, or at least Squall tells me so; we pass some stony houses with their shutters closed, and finally stand in front of one of them. The Captain gestures to me, and I take the copper ring and knock on the gate.
It opens surprisingly quickly, that old man with a long gray beard must have been sitting behind it. He hesitates when he sees me, but then his eyes go to the Captain and his face is suddenly beaming.
"I'm going to tell our lady, this moment," he babbles scratching his head with both his hands. "Please, please, Captain, do come in..."
The Captain gives him a coin, and I hear a sound of shutters being opened - or closed? - and before the old man manages to go across the patio, the doors swing open, pushed by a strong hand, and the Captain's mistress herself steps on the doorsil.
Why do I know that it's her and not a servant? It's not a dress or a hairmake, though they can easily mark a lady; no, it's those lively moves and eyes so terrifyingly bright that make her on a par with my Captain. She doesn't look at Squall or me, her first long, greedy look is for the Captain alone, and although they are observing the forms, I can feel how deep and meaningful is even that mere touch of their hands, when she gives him her long delicate fingers, so that he can kiss them according to the old Spanish custom. She is truly beautiful, full of powerful, sparkling energy like a fresh mountain spring. It's not only her hair that shines, she shines all with her light porcelain, fair skin, with her fingers rosy at the ends, with the long white neck; she resembles a sugar figurine under the generous rays of the sun. But she is no frail doll, I can tell it from her sharp, deep dark eyes. She looks at Squall and smiles at him - she knows him already; then she looks at me and then at the Captain with a polite inquiry in her eyes.
"This is our new crew member," the Captain says with a smile, "his name's Ritchie Brown."
I take my hat off lightly and bow to her in the Spanish manner. She seems pleasantly surprised, or should I say dismayed? I know she didn't see in my stare this naive worship she saw in Squall's eyes; but she smiles at me as well.
tbc