Chapter 6: The Witchy Woman and Saint Peter
Pintel and Ragetti were able to clean up their mess in the bath with very little incident or mishap. After all, their special purpose on the Black Pearl was swabbing the deck and other clean up duties. Captain Sparrow had quickly learned that they weren't good for much else. He was rather a sore one for getting holes in his beautiful black ship. He found out soon enough and in a rather bad way that you didn't put Pintel or Ragetti on any kind of navigational duty. They couldn't figure out whose left the Captain was talking about with the sails, and they weren't too sure what port or stern was. Pintel was a fisherman before he took up piracy, but he didn't need to learn all the fancy terminology. Ragetti had become Pintel's helper and learn everything from him. That didn't take long at all. Putting Pintel on the lookout didn't work out at all. The cry of "Land, Ho!" was a little late after the ship had already run aground. Ragetti was no good on lookout, because he was afraid of heights. Pintel's sense of direction was already discussed in an earlier chapter. Suffice it to say, Pintel could not find his way out of a wet paper bag. After the Pintel experience (How did one get the ship out in the middle of the Atlantic when sailing from Florida to Jamaica?), Sparrow was none too keen upon putting Ragetti to the navigational test. Although Barbosa thought Sparrow was a daft fool of a donkey (for a lack of a better name for him), he had to agree that the dynamic duo were best cut out for clean up duty. For an undead captain of an undead crew, Barbosa was a meticulously clean captain. So, after ten years on the job, Pintel and Ragetti had got the clean up duty down to a fine art. It was nothing that the Merry Maids Service would brag about, but it was passable.
Ragetti had thrown off his coat and his boots because of the heat and humidity of the island, and he was exerting the most energy of the two. Besides, it felt more at home without shoes or coat. He did his job quietly. That was alright, because Pintel made enough noise for the both of them. He sat up on a barrel and did his supervising job (and he did it well), telling Ragetti what spots he missed, then he would complain quite vocally about the nerve of that woman telling them what to do. Of course, Pintel was the type of person, who spent more time trying to get out of work than it actually took to do the job in the first place. In this case, it worked out for him, since Ragetti did all the work.
The taller pirate only smiled as he took the buckets outside to empty them. It was safer that way. Pintel would have found a way to slop it across the building. As before mentioned, the shorter pirate did have the habit of missing the side of the ship with the daily rubbish. Pintel followed his partner outside and worked hard on finding more things to gripe about.
Sensing Pintel's special purpose, the younger man looked to his friend and remarked, "I'm gettin' right 'ungry for sure." He glanced up at the setting sun, that was now moving happily along its merry way to those special Colombian fields and leaving the Jamaican port in the dark. Oh well, more than half of the population was in the dark most of the time anyway. "We missed lunch, and I think we might be missin' dinner right now." He looked down at his growling stomach.
Pintel scratched the back of his head and looked down at his own growling stomach. "I guess, I have got to agree with ye there, mate. It be kinda a pain to be alive 'gain."
Ragetti shrugged. "In a way, but I sure did like Bootstrap's clam chowder, and Sparrow got some of those Viennese truffles that one time."
"Yeah, ye got a point there, my friend. Me wife, she be a pain in all ways mentionable, but she cooked one 'ell of a mutton with all the fixin's."
"Mayhap, Mrs. Marita will give us something to eat. I don't think she be wantin' to starve us."
Pintel squinted his eyes up at the taller man. "No, I don't think she be plannin' on starvin' us, boy. Ye know what I be thinkin'?" That could be a dangerous activity for the older man.
"Uh . . ." Ragetti answered, not wanting to equally engage in such a dangerous activity.
"I think she be up to something a bit more sinister than a baker'," he spoke with a hint of mystery and fog in his voice, but that could have been from the lack of alcohol in his body at this time. His liver was sighing with relief and was feeling quite comfortable for the well earned vacation.
"Whatcha mean, Pintel?" Ragetti asked with his usual puzzled look on his face.
Pintel was loving it. He lived for these moments. The boy was hooked on his words. "Well, ye e'er be wonderin' where she be gettin' these fanc' clothes from?"
"The tailor shop, I would be guessin'. They do make quite nice clothes and all. I was in one once when I was a kid. Me and some other kids nipped off with the profits and a nice corset for Randal's girl." the other replied as he fingered the sleeves of the once white somewhat now dirty and smelly canvas shirt. "These are quite nice, ye know, like the clothes in that shop."
"'Ow ye e'er learned to take one step ahead of the other is beyond me!" the smaller pirate growled in disgust.
"From me brother Mike," he answered obliviously to Pintel's scorn, "Why ye ask?"
Pintel threw up his hands and shook his head. "I bet 'is real name was just Mike, too."
"Nah. Da named 'im Michael. We just called 'im Mike. Why all the interest in me family? I thought we were talkin' about clothes and sinister bakeries."
"Oh, ne'er ye mind!" he remarked, "The point I'm gettin' at is just this. Why would our 'ostess be 'avin' men's clothes 'bout? I mean," he said in a hushed voice and motioned for his companion to come closer. Ragetti obliged. "I be wonderin' if there may be some interestin' ingredients in those sausages she be makin'."
"She's got a baker', Pintel. Ye can't buy sausages at a baker'. They sell bread and donuts and scones and . . ."
"Hush, boy! Don't be confusin' the issues 'ere! Me, I've been 'round a little longer than ye, and "I've 'eard things that would make ye grey before yer time. I've 'eards once about some women, who took some men into their 'omes. Right pretty lasses from what I 'ave 'eard, but that be only in the light of day. Once the sun disappeared from the sky and darkness came, they became 'ideous monsters . . ."
"Kinda like what we used to do, huh?" Ragetti piped in happily.
Pintel held up a finger to hush him. "Don't be interrupting me, boy. This be important. Besides, you looked better as a rottin' skeleton."
"Oh," replied the younger, as he scratched his shoulder.
Pintel grabbed him by the his shabbily tied tie. Ragetti was forced closer to the other's face and forced to listen closer. "Anyways, you see, them women, they took these men out the back of the house and . . ." Pintel drew his finger across his throat in a dramatic way. The younger pirate turned pale and swallowed hard. "Next thing ye know, them men folk, they ended up in the stewing pot and those 'ell women shared the pot with all their neighbors."
"Crimony! That's worse than Bo'sun's Monkey Hash!" Ragetti exclaimed with wide eyes.
The smaller older pirate narrowed his eyes at his companion. "Why do I e'en bother?"
Ragetti shrugged and headed back to the bakery with the empty buckets. Pintel threw up his hands and followed. Someone had to keep him out of trouble.
Marita wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. It had been a long hard day. The bakery had been especially busy, and it was difficult to keep up with the vast flood of demands. She hoped that things would be less hectic in the future with her new help. She didn't know Pintel and Ragetti at all! She cracked out the kinks in her neck and shoulders and stretched her back. She would be glad when the hangings were over. That day, she would be really busy again. Everyone wanted pastries for the main event. Mankind needed a different past time than executions.
She pulled the leftover bread and pastries from the racks and gathered them on a plate. She placed them on a table in the front of the store. These few pieces would be good enough to suit her needs. Her two uninvited guests in the back would be getting hungry, and they would need to be fed soon. She would have to cook supper for four and not two.
She moved to the door to lock up for the evening, when a last minute customer came in. The woman looked up at the dark haired comely Commodore Norrington. She sighed exasperated. What did the bloody man want now!
"Good evening, Commodore. What can I help you with tonight?"
Norrington rubbed his sore head. He hated doing business with Mrs. Schmidt. It felt like dealing with his old school master with the ruler included. Oh well, she did have the best scones in town. Unfortunately, he had to bow out of dinner at the governor's house tonight. He had too much paper work to attend to with all the scheduled executions, escaped prisoners and explaining to his suspicious superiors what he had been doing parading around the Caribbean in the royal navy's proudest ship for the last couple months. At least, he still had the notorious pirate Jack Sparrow in custody, and that was enough in of itself to get the King's men off his back for awhile.
"I was wondering if you might still have some of those scones left. You know the ones with the dates," he asked hopefully. Yes, he was here on business, but if he buttered her up with the purchase of her fine baking goods, then maybe she would be less volatile and would be more apt to answer his queries.
"You are here awfully late in the day. The sun is gone and darkness is setting in," she answered as she lit some lanterns, "I'm getting ready to close up the shop for the day." She led him to the table where she had put the leftovers. "This is all I have left for the day."
Norrington nodded and chose one with the bright fruit of this tropical island. At least, he thought it came from this island. He thought that it was called a papaya, but he wasn't sure. He had lived on this island for more than eight years, and he still didn't know the local flora and fauna. Oh well, he got by.
"You should be more careful, my dear lady," he said, turning to her, "There are many dangers out there and many dangerous desperate men prowling the streets of Port Royal, despite what my men and I can do. It really isn't safe for a woman to be on her own." He couldn't come out and exactly tell her that his men had bungled up, and they lost a couple of the damn pirates. He had tried to tell her a similar kind of thing before, and he received many jeers and sneers. It wasn't worth the effort.
Marita stood up straight and put her fists on her hips. "Commodore, you lousy two timing cretin!" she retorted. Oh well, this way didn't go over well either. "Can't you let the fire die out over the governor's daughter before you start chatting up another woman!"
"Madam!" he replied haughtily, "that is not my intentions at all! Your husband has been dead, killed by a pirate from the recent pirate raid, for two months now. You wore black and was in mourning for the whole of three days, then you went about business as usual. It was well known that there was no love lost when Karl Schmidt met his untimely end, but it is also widely known that you are the sole protection of this household and business."
"My dear Commodore," she answered with steady measured words, as she casually walked behind the counter like a fluent shadow. "My husband taught me many things in the way of survival whether he wanted to or not, and I have learned to put my faith in St. Peter. He will always protect me, and he never misses his target." She easily hefted the musket up from behind the counter.
Norrington smiled with laughter on his lips. What ever happened to the mild meek maiden in distress. All the women he knew were pistons! "As long as you are prepared to do what you must, madam."
He nodded to her and laid a coin on the counter. He left the bakery the way he came in. Marita shook her head and placed the musket back to its place behind the counter. She had better lock up before more trouble walked through.
Pintel and Ragetti were able to clean up their mess in the bath with very little incident or mishap. After all, their special purpose on the Black Pearl was swabbing the deck and other clean up duties. Captain Sparrow had quickly learned that they weren't good for much else. He was rather a sore one for getting holes in his beautiful black ship. He found out soon enough and in a rather bad way that you didn't put Pintel or Ragetti on any kind of navigational duty. They couldn't figure out whose left the Captain was talking about with the sails, and they weren't too sure what port or stern was. Pintel was a fisherman before he took up piracy, but he didn't need to learn all the fancy terminology. Ragetti had become Pintel's helper and learn everything from him. That didn't take long at all. Putting Pintel on the lookout didn't work out at all. The cry of "Land, Ho!" was a little late after the ship had already run aground. Ragetti was no good on lookout, because he was afraid of heights. Pintel's sense of direction was already discussed in an earlier chapter. Suffice it to say, Pintel could not find his way out of a wet paper bag. After the Pintel experience (How did one get the ship out in the middle of the Atlantic when sailing from Florida to Jamaica?), Sparrow was none too keen upon putting Ragetti to the navigational test. Although Barbosa thought Sparrow was a daft fool of a donkey (for a lack of a better name for him), he had to agree that the dynamic duo were best cut out for clean up duty. For an undead captain of an undead crew, Barbosa was a meticulously clean captain. So, after ten years on the job, Pintel and Ragetti had got the clean up duty down to a fine art. It was nothing that the Merry Maids Service would brag about, but it was passable.
Ragetti had thrown off his coat and his boots because of the heat and humidity of the island, and he was exerting the most energy of the two. Besides, it felt more at home without shoes or coat. He did his job quietly. That was alright, because Pintel made enough noise for the both of them. He sat up on a barrel and did his supervising job (and he did it well), telling Ragetti what spots he missed, then he would complain quite vocally about the nerve of that woman telling them what to do. Of course, Pintel was the type of person, who spent more time trying to get out of work than it actually took to do the job in the first place. In this case, it worked out for him, since Ragetti did all the work.
The taller pirate only smiled as he took the buckets outside to empty them. It was safer that way. Pintel would have found a way to slop it across the building. As before mentioned, the shorter pirate did have the habit of missing the side of the ship with the daily rubbish. Pintel followed his partner outside and worked hard on finding more things to gripe about.
Sensing Pintel's special purpose, the younger man looked to his friend and remarked, "I'm gettin' right 'ungry for sure." He glanced up at the setting sun, that was now moving happily along its merry way to those special Colombian fields and leaving the Jamaican port in the dark. Oh well, more than half of the population was in the dark most of the time anyway. "We missed lunch, and I think we might be missin' dinner right now." He looked down at his growling stomach.
Pintel scratched the back of his head and looked down at his own growling stomach. "I guess, I have got to agree with ye there, mate. It be kinda a pain to be alive 'gain."
Ragetti shrugged. "In a way, but I sure did like Bootstrap's clam chowder, and Sparrow got some of those Viennese truffles that one time."
"Yeah, ye got a point there, my friend. Me wife, she be a pain in all ways mentionable, but she cooked one 'ell of a mutton with all the fixin's."
"Mayhap, Mrs. Marita will give us something to eat. I don't think she be wantin' to starve us."
Pintel squinted his eyes up at the taller man. "No, I don't think she be plannin' on starvin' us, boy. Ye know what I be thinkin'?" That could be a dangerous activity for the older man.
"Uh . . ." Ragetti answered, not wanting to equally engage in such a dangerous activity.
"I think she be up to something a bit more sinister than a baker'," he spoke with a hint of mystery and fog in his voice, but that could have been from the lack of alcohol in his body at this time. His liver was sighing with relief and was feeling quite comfortable for the well earned vacation.
"Whatcha mean, Pintel?" Ragetti asked with his usual puzzled look on his face.
Pintel was loving it. He lived for these moments. The boy was hooked on his words. "Well, ye e'er be wonderin' where she be gettin' these fanc' clothes from?"
"The tailor shop, I would be guessin'. They do make quite nice clothes and all. I was in one once when I was a kid. Me and some other kids nipped off with the profits and a nice corset for Randal's girl." the other replied as he fingered the sleeves of the once white somewhat now dirty and smelly canvas shirt. "These are quite nice, ye know, like the clothes in that shop."
"'Ow ye e'er learned to take one step ahead of the other is beyond me!" the smaller pirate growled in disgust.
"From me brother Mike," he answered obliviously to Pintel's scorn, "Why ye ask?"
Pintel threw up his hands and shook his head. "I bet 'is real name was just Mike, too."
"Nah. Da named 'im Michael. We just called 'im Mike. Why all the interest in me family? I thought we were talkin' about clothes and sinister bakeries."
"Oh, ne'er ye mind!" he remarked, "The point I'm gettin' at is just this. Why would our 'ostess be 'avin' men's clothes 'bout? I mean," he said in a hushed voice and motioned for his companion to come closer. Ragetti obliged. "I be wonderin' if there may be some interestin' ingredients in those sausages she be makin'."
"She's got a baker', Pintel. Ye can't buy sausages at a baker'. They sell bread and donuts and scones and . . ."
"Hush, boy! Don't be confusin' the issues 'ere! Me, I've been 'round a little longer than ye, and "I've 'eard things that would make ye grey before yer time. I've 'eards once about some women, who took some men into their 'omes. Right pretty lasses from what I 'ave 'eard, but that be only in the light of day. Once the sun disappeared from the sky and darkness came, they became 'ideous monsters . . ."
"Kinda like what we used to do, huh?" Ragetti piped in happily.
Pintel held up a finger to hush him. "Don't be interrupting me, boy. This be important. Besides, you looked better as a rottin' skeleton."
"Oh," replied the younger, as he scratched his shoulder.
Pintel grabbed him by the his shabbily tied tie. Ragetti was forced closer to the other's face and forced to listen closer. "Anyways, you see, them women, they took these men out the back of the house and . . ." Pintel drew his finger across his throat in a dramatic way. The younger pirate turned pale and swallowed hard. "Next thing ye know, them men folk, they ended up in the stewing pot and those 'ell women shared the pot with all their neighbors."
"Crimony! That's worse than Bo'sun's Monkey Hash!" Ragetti exclaimed with wide eyes.
The smaller older pirate narrowed his eyes at his companion. "Why do I e'en bother?"
Ragetti shrugged and headed back to the bakery with the empty buckets. Pintel threw up his hands and followed. Someone had to keep him out of trouble.
Marita wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. It had been a long hard day. The bakery had been especially busy, and it was difficult to keep up with the vast flood of demands. She hoped that things would be less hectic in the future with her new help. She didn't know Pintel and Ragetti at all! She cracked out the kinks in her neck and shoulders and stretched her back. She would be glad when the hangings were over. That day, she would be really busy again. Everyone wanted pastries for the main event. Mankind needed a different past time than executions.
She pulled the leftover bread and pastries from the racks and gathered them on a plate. She placed them on a table in the front of the store. These few pieces would be good enough to suit her needs. Her two uninvited guests in the back would be getting hungry, and they would need to be fed soon. She would have to cook supper for four and not two.
She moved to the door to lock up for the evening, when a last minute customer came in. The woman looked up at the dark haired comely Commodore Norrington. She sighed exasperated. What did the bloody man want now!
"Good evening, Commodore. What can I help you with tonight?"
Norrington rubbed his sore head. He hated doing business with Mrs. Schmidt. It felt like dealing with his old school master with the ruler included. Oh well, she did have the best scones in town. Unfortunately, he had to bow out of dinner at the governor's house tonight. He had too much paper work to attend to with all the scheduled executions, escaped prisoners and explaining to his suspicious superiors what he had been doing parading around the Caribbean in the royal navy's proudest ship for the last couple months. At least, he still had the notorious pirate Jack Sparrow in custody, and that was enough in of itself to get the King's men off his back for awhile.
"I was wondering if you might still have some of those scones left. You know the ones with the dates," he asked hopefully. Yes, he was here on business, but if he buttered her up with the purchase of her fine baking goods, then maybe she would be less volatile and would be more apt to answer his queries.
"You are here awfully late in the day. The sun is gone and darkness is setting in," she answered as she lit some lanterns, "I'm getting ready to close up the shop for the day." She led him to the table where she had put the leftovers. "This is all I have left for the day."
Norrington nodded and chose one with the bright fruit of this tropical island. At least, he thought it came from this island. He thought that it was called a papaya, but he wasn't sure. He had lived on this island for more than eight years, and he still didn't know the local flora and fauna. Oh well, he got by.
"You should be more careful, my dear lady," he said, turning to her, "There are many dangers out there and many dangerous desperate men prowling the streets of Port Royal, despite what my men and I can do. It really isn't safe for a woman to be on her own." He couldn't come out and exactly tell her that his men had bungled up, and they lost a couple of the damn pirates. He had tried to tell her a similar kind of thing before, and he received many jeers and sneers. It wasn't worth the effort.
Marita stood up straight and put her fists on her hips. "Commodore, you lousy two timing cretin!" she retorted. Oh well, this way didn't go over well either. "Can't you let the fire die out over the governor's daughter before you start chatting up another woman!"
"Madam!" he replied haughtily, "that is not my intentions at all! Your husband has been dead, killed by a pirate from the recent pirate raid, for two months now. You wore black and was in mourning for the whole of three days, then you went about business as usual. It was well known that there was no love lost when Karl Schmidt met his untimely end, but it is also widely known that you are the sole protection of this household and business."
"My dear Commodore," she answered with steady measured words, as she casually walked behind the counter like a fluent shadow. "My husband taught me many things in the way of survival whether he wanted to or not, and I have learned to put my faith in St. Peter. He will always protect me, and he never misses his target." She easily hefted the musket up from behind the counter.
Norrington smiled with laughter on his lips. What ever happened to the mild meek maiden in distress. All the women he knew were pistons! "As long as you are prepared to do what you must, madam."
He nodded to her and laid a coin on the counter. He left the bakery the way he came in. Marita shook her head and placed the musket back to its place behind the counter. She had better lock up before more trouble walked through.