Chapter XII – Dining with Pirates
Rachelle woke up the next morning completely famished. She groaned, waking up, realising that she had slept in her clothing. Stretching and yawning, she swung her legs around to the side of the bed and put them down. Right onto something warm and soft; or at least softer than the grimy wooden floor.
Pulling back immediately, worried that she had stepped on her puppy, she leaned over and peered down, just as a deep groan came from where her feet had been. Looking over the edge, she saw Michael sleeping on the floor, in what she assumed was a rather uncomfortable position. He flopped over onto his back as his eyes fluttered open, looking almost innocent. If it weren't for the tan and scars, she could have believed it.
Reaching up onto his table, Michael yanked down a leather bag as he sat up. Rachelle watched curiously as he opened the pouch and pulled a small piece of paper out of it. Then he pinched some dried herbs into it and rolled it up. Next thing you knew, he had a match out, lighting the end of it and was puffing away.
"What is that?" she whispered softly.
His eyes travelled to hers. Then he studied her cinched body, wondering how she could breathe. How she could even move. But he answered anyway.
"It's tobacco. Ye come across all sorts o' strange things on yer travels. Started smokin' it, and can't stop now." He shrugged, dragging himself up off the dirty floor, seemingly oblivious to the grime caked onto his body and clothes. She flinched back at the thought of someone being so grubby and not caring. Not even noticing.
He wiped his hands off on his trousers, then his torso, wincing slightly. She didn't ask about that, thinking that questioning a pirate on why he was wincing would be a bad idea.
Now she could get out of bed. Jennifer hopped out of her bed at the end of the pirate's own, and wound herself around Rachelle's legs repeatedly.
"Nice dog," Cutthroat said calmly as Monkey bound onto his shoulder. Rachelle just stared at the monkey in disbelief.
Noticing her stare, he said gruffly, "This is my monkey, Monkey." He nearly keeled over in shock when she dipped into an automatic curtsey, borne through years of training. When "this is . . ." is said, you curtsey.
Seeming to realise what she had just done, a flush began to colour her cheeks. That was until Monkey dipped into a bow, speaking to her in his own animal tongue. Giggling, she reached out and shook his paw.
"Nice to meet you, Monkey."
He attempted to repeat the sounds.
"Enough," Michael snarled at his pet who gave him a reproachful glare. He turned and strode to the door, to leave the room. However, he was unable to as Rachelle asked before he exited:
"I am ever so hungry; when do we eat?"
He stopped and replied, back to her. "Pirates eat only at night. The rest of the time we're too busy to eat proper. We jus' snatch things as we go, love."
Finding it odd to be referred to as "love", especially by a brute like this, she was slightly taken aback. But she didn't argue what he said, just ignored it as best she could.
"But I happen to be a lady," she said, head high, gathering her skirts about her, "of high breeding. I expect to be fed."
"Fine," he snapped, "wait here." And with that, he left, Monkey turning on his shoulder to bow again to Rachelle. She giggled some more, putting her hand to her mouth. That was a very strange animal. Not only was it a beast with fine manners, but somehow he had learned on a ship full of pirates who wouldn't recognise good manners if they danced naked on deck.
Minutes later, she heard stomping back to the door. In it appeared Cutthroat with a pirate who looked just as fierce, but a good half-foot shorter. The man was massive and she suspected it was mostly muscle. He seemed quite adverse, with a great, deep scar down his right cheek. His arms were covered in tattoos and more scars; she knew this because his shirt had the sleeves ripped off, exposing his arms. When he swatted Monkey away, who had leaned over to chatter in his ear, she noticed that two of his fingers were missing. On his left hand.
He also had something that Michael did not: a gold earring in his right ear. On top of that she noticed, that unlike the captain and Cutthroat who had long hair with some sort of twists running through it and items strung together, he had no hair on his head at all. As well, unlike the captain and first mate, he did not have any makeup around his eyes.
But he sure was dirty!
"This is James," Michael said quickly. "He's the cook on this here ship."
Surprisingly, he smiled kindly and gave Rachelle a half-bow. She curtsied automatically back, which in turn, surprised him.
"C'mere, fine lady," he said in a deep voice that matched his figure. She went over timidly. "I ain't gonna hurtcha." Looking to Michael he said with a smirk, "On strict orders, we are. Couldna hurcha if I wanted ter."
"Remember that," Michael said lowly, clapping him on the shoulder. Then he turned to leave but was halted yet again when the cry of:
"I'm outa rum!" sounded through the corridor. Michael growled, rolling his eyes – would he ever get his ass on deck? Jack walked by, an empty bottle of rum in his hand. He shook it in front of Michael's face. "Why are we outa rum, lo . . . lad?"
"We'll gitcha more, cap'n," he said with a smirk, stepping aside to leave his room. Right then, when the path to the captain was clear and Rachelle spotted him, she dropped into yet another curtsey.
Jack's kohled eyes widened and he pointed at her. "Did she jus' curtsey to me?!"
Michael looked from the captain to Rachelle and back again, then shrugged. "It seems so, Jack . . . lyn." Flashing everyone a broad grin, he sped out of there, and went up on deck. Seeing as the captain wasn't there, he was especially needed. Jack just shook his head, casting Rachelle a wary eye, and ambled off, on a desperate search for more rum – he had to have a hidden stash somewhere!
James smiled again at Rachelle and led her out of the room, then through the ship. They entered a room similar to the one she had been in when searching for Jennifer on her now destroyed ship.
"Is this the kitchen?" she wondered, looking around the nearly identical, but much more messy and smelly room.
"Galley, Miss. It's a galley."
"Oh."
"And aye, it is." He walked around, trying to find something for her to eat. "Ye say yer hungry, lass?"
"Of course I am!"
"We 'ave some bread here." He lifted up a loaf of partially stale bread.
She wrinkled her nose, but walked over anyway.
"Ever 'ad honey befer, love?" Pulling out a jar from a ramshackle cupboard, he handed it to her.
"A few times," she admitted in awe, "but it is a delicacy!"
"Aye. We're pirates, only tha best fer us," he said, smirking.
"So you pilfered it then," she murmured, setting it down as if it were dangerous.
He opened his mouth to answer, but noticed her expression and decided to tone it down to her level. "Ye could say that, aye."
She knew that honey never seemed to go bad, so allowed herself a few slices of bread with it slathered on. It was ironic, she thought, to have something her friends would consider in the absolute height of posh so casually on a pirate ship.
James smiled. "Good, Miss?"
She mumbled through the food in her mouth, went red and covered her mouth and nose daintily with her hand. Swallowing she was then free to reply, "Yes, thank you so much."
He grunted, shifting his weight. "Tha's what I'm 'ere for."
She curtsied to him, then let him lead her out of the galley.
Rachelle spent all day on deck, shaded by her parasol to avoid burning and tanning, watching the men work, or staring out at the sea. She had to admit that this was a lot more interesting than being forced to stay in her cabin, although quite unconventional. Plus, the stink wasn't as bad out here as it was in the hull. The men reeked God awful and it really made her sick. She would have to remember to carry a pomander ball around if she could get the things she needed. Or at least a scented handkerchief. Luckily one of the things "saved" by the pirates was her crate of personal effects, so she had her perfumes and such on her.
That night, because the sea was as fine and smooth as a piece of expensive glass, and the sky was completely clear, the crew had dinner all together, instead of in shifts. There was nothing for them to crash into, no danger of them being blown way off course and no ships in the distance, so it was safe for them to dine as one group. The table in the galley, all the preparation things and leftovers shoved off or stored away, was covered in food. Chairs surrounded the stained table, more marked and pitted than the one on the ship Rachelle was from.
She sat at one end, being their "guest" and the captain sat on the other, Michael to his left, at the corner. Watching in horror as the men grabbed food off the beat up silver serving trays, using their daggers to spear food and eating it right off the blade no less, she could not bring herself to eat. Her fork was held daintily in one hand, her knife in the other, ready to take her food and eat, but with all these manners – or lack thereof – she couldn't move. She was too stunned.
After a few minutes, however, the impolite grumbling of her stomach (which couldn't be heard over the grunts and chewing of the men) forced her to pick some food off of the platters nearest her and put it down on her plate. She couldn't even understand why the men used plates; it seemed that everything they ate went into their hands, then mouths, and just bypassed the whole plate step.
She ate carefully and slowly, back straight with perfect posture, nary a body part touching the table. All the pirates had their elbows on the table and were leaning over their dishes. They periodically drank from flasks, although the captain seemed disappointed. She remembered that there was little to no rum, and for some reason that upset him. Perhaps he didn't bring whatever he had left to dinner because he didn't want to share.
Watching as food fell from their mouths, knifes, hands or off the bone, she realised that the plates were there to catch their food, not to hold it.
That was revolting.
But she continued eating anyway, trying to ignore everyone around her. It was only a few seconds before her attention was grabbed, though. Snarling was heard from the end of the table, then strings of words she could only assume were cuss words, as she had never heard them before.
Jack speared the piece of meat Michael had just stuck his knife into.
"That's mine," the captain spat.
"Mine," Michael growled back. They each took their hands off their daggers at the same time, holding their hands up. Then, in unison and in the exact same way, they each went for a large drumstick off the half-eaten bird at their end. Eyes locked as if this was a battle to the death, they began duelling, periodically taking bites out of their "weapons of choice", meat falling all around, with Monkey clapping happily from Cutthroat's shoulder, egging the men on.
"Really!" Rachelle exclaimed, fed up with the horrific manners as she slammed her palms on the table. "That is quite enough!"
Everyone looked at her and she cleared her throat daintily. Jack and Michael stared with wide eyed matching expressions, their drumsticks still in the air. Then turning, Michael's face iniquitous, he swept his drumstick across Jack's throat, then took a big bite of the meat, looking quite smug. Rachelle could only see the corner of the first mate's mouth for the meat, but she thought that he wore a playful smile, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth.
With a sigh, the captain hacked out the cut of meat they both wanted, and dropped it in his first mate's plate, still with his knife sticking out. Michael pulled it out, pocketed it then finished his drumstick. Once he was done that and had chucked the bone to the floor, he dug into the meat he had won.
Absolutely revolted now, Rachelle stood up, the crew's eyes following her.
"I will take my meal to my room," she said clearly over the din.
"My room," Michael snarled into his food, any pretence of glee gone.
She made a face. "Your room." Turning to look at the cook she said, equally clear, "James, would you please make me a plate and bring it to Cutthroat's room when you're done." Giving the group one last glare, she swept up, nose in the air.
Michael snickered. "Careful James, or we'll all find out yer really a woman," he took a swig of his drink and a ferocious bite of meat, "like poor Jacklyn here." He grinned viciously at the cook and took another bite.
~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***
Ah, Pirates. That's all I really have to say. Mika and I haven't done any writing since what, August? *Beats Mika over the head with a rubber fish* Get online damn you – or over to my house, that'd be better – so we can do more work on the sequel!!!
*Sighs*
Please review
Sukkumbus and the absent Mika
Ohhhhhhh . . . *checked out the reviews before posting and I realised I had something to say.* To the person who said:
JAL Williams
2003-11-04
3
Anonymous
not mary sue? she seems as mary sueish as a girl can get...just a thought...
Heh. I wonder if he/she/it read the whole story. OH WAIT. Chapter three? Piddling. I figure he/she/it thinks he/she/it knows the whole bloody story and can tell me everything about Rachelle and Michael, because OBVIOUSLY they know more about mine and Mika's characters than we do.
Stupid sod. Mary Sue my ass. Hm, she acts like she should, she's a spoiled rich brat who's completely oppressed by the men in her life . . . REAL PERFECT!! *sarcasm sarcasm*
Ohhh, but let me guess. The fool thinks that this story is the same as many of the others. Rich girl + Jack = story.
WRONG
You will all see.
Sukkumbus