CHAPTER ONE

As I sat in the corner of the small crowded tavern and took an occasional drink of rum I watched the things going on around me. I wondered when my life would ever get remotely interesting. I watched the drunken men chasing the whores around the tables. I pity whatever fool takes me for a whore or a silly little girl. I am not silly, or a girl. I am a woman, nineteen, in fact. While somewhat short and resembling a girl because of said height, I am nothing of the sort.

Just as I was thinking about this some stupid excuse for a man strode (more swaggered actually) toward my table. Before a word passed his nasty lips I knew his intentions. Anybody would know instantly from the gratuitous expression on his worn, drunken face. "'Ello, Poppet" he slurred, the evident smell of too much drink on his breath.

"No, thanks so much" I replied, making certain to keep my tone steady and dismissive.

"Maybe you don't know who I am." He said, somewhat annoyed and probably more anxious than before. "My name is Captain Farling. Now I ask again: Care for a drink, poppet?"

Maybe you don't know who I am." I responded, not even attempting to hide the defiant tone that was building in my voice as I got calmly up from the table (his nasty arm still around my back) and pointed my pistol between his eyes. "My name is Rose Sparrow. Still fancy a drink, poppet?"

"No, no... miss Sparrow. Sorry to have bothered you." He stammered as he hurriedly got up and took his arm from around me, anxious to get out of my shooting range, pushing through other drunkards to the tavern's exit.

"Thanks very much" I said quietly, more to myself than him, as I picked up the ratty old bag he had left. It was of no special material. But that was of little concern to me. Its contents were my concern. "Ahhh..." I said contently, as I extracted twenty shillings from the little purse. "Wonder what he planned to buy." I said mockingly as I threw the now empty bag aside and placed the money into my own purse. Just then, I thought of what he could possibly have wanted for that much. It then occurred to me. He thought I was a whore. He had to pay for that mistake. Dearly. I utterly detested when men took me as a whore just because I wasn't ugly and I was in a tavern. I calmly got up from the table and moved toward the exit, having to push aside many approaching men before they could even say hello. I had something to do and wanted no distractions. Just as I was about to leave, the kindly old gentleman who ran the tavern man yelled over the crowd "Rose! You forgot to pay again!"

"Oh. Sorry, Mr. Bridge!" I yelled across the noisy bar and tossed him two shillings for the rum.

"Another one to chase?"

"Yes! See you tomorrow!" I yelled, knowing that unless by some miracle I found my father in the next 24 hours I would, in fact, be back here drinking as I watched everyone else live their life.

Outside the tavern the air was cold and moisture still hung heavily from the earlier storm. Black clouds still loomed overhead, but it was clearing up and the light was sufficient without a torch to find and probably hurt that brainless old dog. As I walked along the dirty side street rain left over from the storm spattered on the already wet road and my head, which, I must say, was quite refreshing, since I had not had a decent shower for at least three days.

When I finally got all the way to the docks and still saw no sign of the old man I decided to go home and sleep for the night. Just before I turned around to leave the beautiful sight of the ocean something caught my eye. A ship was coming in. An unusually dark ship, in fact, the ship was still about a hundred metres or so off, but from where I was standing it appeared to have black sails. I had heard something about a ship with black sails, as I recalled. It was called the Black Pearl. Yes, the black pearl, and its Captain had just recently died in a fight with what was rumored to be the greatest pirate ever to sail the seas. Perhaps I could become a pirate. I could, if I really wanted to. Truly. I had the language of a pirate, the drinking habits, the obsession with any kind of treasure, and I had heard from listening to a few bar conversations that my father had been a pirate. How composed or intelligent he was, I had no idea. But I suppose the greatest pirate ever to sail would have at least heard of my father at one time or another. Surely he must have. Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by forthcoming footsteps from somewhere close behind me. Probably that old man coming back for more humiliation (well, he was not really a man, but more of a fish, or maybe he was a eunuch. I really didn't know or care). When I felt the footsteps ever so slightly vibrating the ground beneath my bare feet (I never wear shoes of any kind. They confine my feet. And if there's one thing I do not need it will be confinement. I need to be free.) I pulled out my pistol (With no shots left, but only I knew that.) and aimed straight at the head of this nameless shadow.