Disclaimer: I don't own POTC. Or the song below, except I changed the words
slightly from "Black Freighter" to "Black Pearl." :-p
You people can watch while I'm scrubbing these floors
And I'm scrubbin' the floors while you're gawking
Maybe once ya tip me and it makes ya feel swell
In this crummy old town
In this crummy old hotel
But you'll never guess to who you're talkin'.
No. You'll never guess to who you're talkin'.
Then one night there's a scream in the night
And you'll wonder who could that have been
And you see me kinda grinnin' while I'm scrubbin'
And you say, "What's she got to grin?"
I'll tell you.
There's a ship
The Black Pearl
with a skull on its masthead
A-coming in...
There's a ship
The Black Pearl
turns around in the harbor
shootin' guns from her bow
Jennifer, a young woman of about eighteen (although no one knew for sure, least of all herself) sang softly to herself as she swished soapy water over the rough pine floor of the Tortuga tavern. She tried not to think about what she was cleaning up—the customers last night had been, as always, hopelessly drunk, and they weren't shy about expelling some of the excess in their stomachs onto the ground. She hummed the song a little louder to keep her mind occupied. She'd always liked it, ever since she was a girl, because the mythical pirate-woman shared her name. Now they even shared the same occupation: Floor-Scrubber. And the Pirate Jenny was so strong, so resilient... everything Jennifer respected and aspired to someday become. Jennifer took fierce pride in her independence. And someday... like the song... she'd look out to sea...
A small bell clanged rather non-melodically, and she started up to see none other than the proprietor himself striding in through the door with several of his friends. "Gin and tonic all around!" he roared, unnecessarily loud as always. Jenny rolled her eyes privately and went back to her scrubbing.
After a minute she became aware of a man watching her, one of the two who had come in with the proprietor. He was handsomely attired, but his voice was unpleasantly oily.
"Working hard there?"
She didn't answer.
"I asked you a question," he said, and there was a definite threat in his undertone.
"Yes sir," she said quietly. She may be proud, but she wasn't stupid, and she didn't go looking for fights. She shifted to start scrubbing facing another direction.
"How about a tip then," came the voice again. She turned her head, and saw him holding a single copper penny between his thumb and forefinger. She seethed at him for mocking her poverty, but she didn't dare refuse it. But when she got up to take it, he didn't hand it to her.
"You know, it occurs to me," he drawled softly, "that I should ask for a little bit more for my money than a clean floor."
"I'm afraid I have no other services to offer, Mr...?"
"Buchanan."
"Buchanan," she repeated.
"But I really think you do," he said softly, drawing a few steps closer to her.
She matched him step for step, going backward. "I'm quite sure that I don't. And I don't need your money, thank you, Mr. Buchanan." She glanced over desperately to where Tom was making the drinks, and the proprietor and his other friend were looking over with interest. Tom looked at her apologetically, but she knew very well that neither of them could do anything. This was the proprietor's friend. That meant he was basically royalty in this tavern.
Buchanan caught her wrist and yanked her back to him, so she stumbled and fell against him. "That's better," he murmured, and with his other hand he reached up and stroked her hair, traced the contours of her cheek with his thumb. He stank, not of alcohol, but of something else, something even fouler.
She struggled and tried to get away, but he encircled her waist with his arms. "Kiss me, darling," he said, thrusting his face into hers.
She got her arms free and began pounding ineffectually on his shoulders. He laughed, whispering, "Don't resist me." Finally she stomped heavily on the instep of his right foot, more than half by accident. Surprised, he let go of her and stumbled back a few steps, limping. She knew this was her opportunity, and she dashed past him toward the exit, but one of the two men were waiting to intercept her course. They seized her bodily and flung her to the ground, where she landed hard on her hands and knees. The two men grabbed hold of her and forced her onto her back. She was a strong woman, but not strong enough to take two grown men at once. Buchanan was recovered by this time, walking toward her, glowering.
"I gave you the chance to take the easy way, darling," he spat at her, still obviously favoring his right foot as he walked. "But you wanted the hard way, and you'll get the hard way." He stood over her for a moment; then suddenly, without warning, he delivered a swift and sharp kick into her side. She doubled over, gasping with pain.
"Here! Leave her—" she heard Tom begin to say, rushing toward her. One of the men left and, out of sight, she heard some chairs fall over, a punch being delivered, then two, then three, and then the struggle stopped. Quite calmly, the man walked back over and rejoined his two companions, dispelling any hope she'd had that Tom had been giving rather than receiving the blows.
"What do you say now?" Buchanan said, smiling viciously at her pain, pacing around slowly to her other side. "Think you want to come with me now?"
Jennifer was nothing if she wasn't stubborn. And since they were the ones asking for a fight now, they would get one. "I'd rather die," she shot back.
The smile faded from Buchanan's face. "Oh, that can be arranged." She heard the click of a pistol being cocked, and looking up, saw the dead black barrel staring at her, point-blank. She felt her heart catch in her throat. She hadn't meant it. She wanted to live, more than anything, she wanted to...
The next moment she felt a stab of pain in her right side. But he had only kicked her, again. She rolled on the filthy floor, trying to ease the pain and nausea, trying to find a direction in which she could roll to safety. But the three men had her in a tight triangle.
"But that would be too easy," said Buchanan. He reached a hand down to her and yanked her roughly to her feet. Her sides throbbed where his heavy shoes had dug into them. She'd have vicious bruises tomorrow—hopefully, because the only alternative was not to be alive.
The proprietor of the tavern took hold of her upper arm, above her elbow, where his fingers dug black-and-blue points into the flesh. The second friend did the same to her other arm. She looked helplessly at Buchanan. She was afraid now, more afraid than she had ever been, even when she had first come to Tortuga lost and alone and without work...
"What do you want with me?" she whispered. She was not going to cry. She was not going to cry before these three cruel, twisted, disgusting men.
They laughed mirthlessly. "We want you, darling," the proprietor whispered in her ear from behind, but loud enough so the others could hear. "I told them you made a fine specimen of a woman. Once you're tamed, we'll get a good price for you." He gave the other two men wicked smiles back and forth. "And the taming's the best part, isn't it, men?" They gave their assent readily with low cheers. Jennifer cast her eyes about in panic. She'd heard of girls being kidnapped and sold into slavery, where the slave dealers used them worse than even the perverts who bought them. But it could not be happening to her.
"You're—you're the proprietor," she whispered desperately. "You're not a—"
"Come now, you didn't think I made all my money from this miserable little pub, now, did you?" he asked maliciously.
Before he could even expect an answer, she elbowed him hard in the stomach, flailed her arms, wildly, trying to get free. She got about three steps closer to the door before Buchanan grabbed her again. He forced her to face him and then slapped her soundly.
"You'll be a fun one, alright," was all he said, smiling faintly, as if he had done nothing. Then, to preempt further discussion, they marched her out the door.
You people can watch while I'm scrubbing these floors
And I'm scrubbin' the floors while you're gawking
Maybe once ya tip me and it makes ya feel swell
In this crummy old town
In this crummy old hotel
But you'll never guess to who you're talkin'.
No. You'll never guess to who you're talkin'.
Then one night there's a scream in the night
And you'll wonder who could that have been
And you see me kinda grinnin' while I'm scrubbin'
And you say, "What's she got to grin?"
I'll tell you.
There's a ship
The Black Pearl
with a skull on its masthead
A-coming in...
There's a ship
The Black Pearl
turns around in the harbor
shootin' guns from her bow
Jennifer, a young woman of about eighteen (although no one knew for sure, least of all herself) sang softly to herself as she swished soapy water over the rough pine floor of the Tortuga tavern. She tried not to think about what she was cleaning up—the customers last night had been, as always, hopelessly drunk, and they weren't shy about expelling some of the excess in their stomachs onto the ground. She hummed the song a little louder to keep her mind occupied. She'd always liked it, ever since she was a girl, because the mythical pirate-woman shared her name. Now they even shared the same occupation: Floor-Scrubber. And the Pirate Jenny was so strong, so resilient... everything Jennifer respected and aspired to someday become. Jennifer took fierce pride in her independence. And someday... like the song... she'd look out to sea...
A small bell clanged rather non-melodically, and she started up to see none other than the proprietor himself striding in through the door with several of his friends. "Gin and tonic all around!" he roared, unnecessarily loud as always. Jenny rolled her eyes privately and went back to her scrubbing.
After a minute she became aware of a man watching her, one of the two who had come in with the proprietor. He was handsomely attired, but his voice was unpleasantly oily.
"Working hard there?"
She didn't answer.
"I asked you a question," he said, and there was a definite threat in his undertone.
"Yes sir," she said quietly. She may be proud, but she wasn't stupid, and she didn't go looking for fights. She shifted to start scrubbing facing another direction.
"How about a tip then," came the voice again. She turned her head, and saw him holding a single copper penny between his thumb and forefinger. She seethed at him for mocking her poverty, but she didn't dare refuse it. But when she got up to take it, he didn't hand it to her.
"You know, it occurs to me," he drawled softly, "that I should ask for a little bit more for my money than a clean floor."
"I'm afraid I have no other services to offer, Mr...?"
"Buchanan."
"Buchanan," she repeated.
"But I really think you do," he said softly, drawing a few steps closer to her.
She matched him step for step, going backward. "I'm quite sure that I don't. And I don't need your money, thank you, Mr. Buchanan." She glanced over desperately to where Tom was making the drinks, and the proprietor and his other friend were looking over with interest. Tom looked at her apologetically, but she knew very well that neither of them could do anything. This was the proprietor's friend. That meant he was basically royalty in this tavern.
Buchanan caught her wrist and yanked her back to him, so she stumbled and fell against him. "That's better," he murmured, and with his other hand he reached up and stroked her hair, traced the contours of her cheek with his thumb. He stank, not of alcohol, but of something else, something even fouler.
She struggled and tried to get away, but he encircled her waist with his arms. "Kiss me, darling," he said, thrusting his face into hers.
She got her arms free and began pounding ineffectually on his shoulders. He laughed, whispering, "Don't resist me." Finally she stomped heavily on the instep of his right foot, more than half by accident. Surprised, he let go of her and stumbled back a few steps, limping. She knew this was her opportunity, and she dashed past him toward the exit, but one of the two men were waiting to intercept her course. They seized her bodily and flung her to the ground, where she landed hard on her hands and knees. The two men grabbed hold of her and forced her onto her back. She was a strong woman, but not strong enough to take two grown men at once. Buchanan was recovered by this time, walking toward her, glowering.
"I gave you the chance to take the easy way, darling," he spat at her, still obviously favoring his right foot as he walked. "But you wanted the hard way, and you'll get the hard way." He stood over her for a moment; then suddenly, without warning, he delivered a swift and sharp kick into her side. She doubled over, gasping with pain.
"Here! Leave her—" she heard Tom begin to say, rushing toward her. One of the men left and, out of sight, she heard some chairs fall over, a punch being delivered, then two, then three, and then the struggle stopped. Quite calmly, the man walked back over and rejoined his two companions, dispelling any hope she'd had that Tom had been giving rather than receiving the blows.
"What do you say now?" Buchanan said, smiling viciously at her pain, pacing around slowly to her other side. "Think you want to come with me now?"
Jennifer was nothing if she wasn't stubborn. And since they were the ones asking for a fight now, they would get one. "I'd rather die," she shot back.
The smile faded from Buchanan's face. "Oh, that can be arranged." She heard the click of a pistol being cocked, and looking up, saw the dead black barrel staring at her, point-blank. She felt her heart catch in her throat. She hadn't meant it. She wanted to live, more than anything, she wanted to...
The next moment she felt a stab of pain in her right side. But he had only kicked her, again. She rolled on the filthy floor, trying to ease the pain and nausea, trying to find a direction in which she could roll to safety. But the three men had her in a tight triangle.
"But that would be too easy," said Buchanan. He reached a hand down to her and yanked her roughly to her feet. Her sides throbbed where his heavy shoes had dug into them. She'd have vicious bruises tomorrow—hopefully, because the only alternative was not to be alive.
The proprietor of the tavern took hold of her upper arm, above her elbow, where his fingers dug black-and-blue points into the flesh. The second friend did the same to her other arm. She looked helplessly at Buchanan. She was afraid now, more afraid than she had ever been, even when she had first come to Tortuga lost and alone and without work...
"What do you want with me?" she whispered. She was not going to cry. She was not going to cry before these three cruel, twisted, disgusting men.
They laughed mirthlessly. "We want you, darling," the proprietor whispered in her ear from behind, but loud enough so the others could hear. "I told them you made a fine specimen of a woman. Once you're tamed, we'll get a good price for you." He gave the other two men wicked smiles back and forth. "And the taming's the best part, isn't it, men?" They gave their assent readily with low cheers. Jennifer cast her eyes about in panic. She'd heard of girls being kidnapped and sold into slavery, where the slave dealers used them worse than even the perverts who bought them. But it could not be happening to her.
"You're—you're the proprietor," she whispered desperately. "You're not a—"
"Come now, you didn't think I made all my money from this miserable little pub, now, did you?" he asked maliciously.
Before he could even expect an answer, she elbowed him hard in the stomach, flailed her arms, wildly, trying to get free. She got about three steps closer to the door before Buchanan grabbed her again. He forced her to face him and then slapped her soundly.
"You'll be a fun one, alright," was all he said, smiling faintly, as if he had done nothing. Then, to preempt further discussion, they marched her out the door.