Chapter XIV – Hatred and Comfort

Sobbing could be heard out in the dank corridor.  James went through the darkness, following the soft sound, until he hit the galley.  Someone was crying in there, and he knew of only one person on board who would actually cry.

"Miss?" he said in a whisper, edging his way into the galley, "Miss, are ye alright?"  He went to the table/island counter where he had dishes stacked up to be washed, food out to be prepared.  There were already dishes stacked up in the old sink, some drip drying on the counter.  Barely able to see her over the things spread out and stacked, he went around to the place she had sat the first and only night she ate with the crew.  The men joked that Rachelle knew that James was a woman just like Jacklyn (which only Michael could say within earshot of the captain, but the men were allowed to snigger) but he didn't mind.  They all knew that for all his harshness and cruelty when fighting, he had a major soft spot as well.  He had his own children and had a daughter not that much younger than Rachelle.  He even saw them as frequently as possible, and his wife, never really agreeing with his chosen profession, never really arguing it either, always welcomed him home with open arms.

The sniffling young woman looked up, eyes bloodshot from tears, nose running.  He handed her his handkerchief, probably the cleanest one on the ship.  He was around relatively clean water all day and had chances to wash it.

Compared to her handkerchiefs it was filthy.  Compared to the rest of the ship, however, it was absolutely pristine.

A thought made her giggle unexpectedly.  At least the pirates didn't march around in lockstep.

Bewildered by this sudden change, James just stood awkwardly, shifting his weight.  Rachelle took the proffered handkerchief politely.  To refuse a hardened man's one moment of kindness would be brutally cruel.  And she knew she wasn't as clean as she used to be.  She had spent too much time in that damnable Cutthroat's room.

Dabbing at her eyes, then wiping her nose and cheeks daintily she cleaned herself up.  She then handed the handkerchief back to the big man.  He pocketed it, deciding that he would clean it later.  Plus, a bit of a lady's snot and tears were nothing compared to some of the things he had been exposed to.

"Thank you," she croaked, her hand fluttering to her mouth in embarrassment at the sound of her voice.

He gave her a crinkled smile.  "Nae a problem, lass.  Ye should have someone not yellin' atchye on this ship."

"A friend," she whispered, eyes shimmering with fresh tears.  Brow furrowing, her melancholy affecting him as he hated to see a young girl, and one reminding him so much of his own, in so much pain.  He did not understand why, but he knew those tears.

"Ye lost a friend?" he ventured.

She nodded and put her head on her arms, bawling.  He backed away slowly.  Here was where his expertise dwindled.

"Would ye like to talk ter someone?" he asked softly.  She shrugged and he went off to find the only pirate on the ship who had a remote chance of understanding her.

Ten minutes or thereabouts and James was back, Thomas in tow.  The green pirate looked from the brute dragging him to the young girl past the stacks of pots, pans and food on the table.

"She's upset about somethin'," James murmured past the back of his left hand. 

"What?" Thomas whispered back over the crying.

"A friend . . . I didna git much more than that, boy."  He pushed the scholar pirate forward.  "Yer of her class, ye should know 'ow to talk to her."

Thomas turned around to argue, saying that men were not taught how to deal with women or girls, except to woo them and get them heavy with child, but by the time he had spun about, James had already fled.

Resigning himself to this, Thomas walked slowly over to the crying woman and touched her arm gently.  Against the others he looked perfectly clean.  But when his skin touched hers, other than the shivers that coursed through him, he realised just how dirty he really was.   He looked brown against her paleness.

She looked up at him, tears dripping from her eyes.

"Do ye – you, do you need to talk, Mi . . . Rachelle?"

When she inclined her head slightly in a nod, he pulled up a chair and sat down with her.

"Tell me," he whispered, his palm running gently over her forearm.

Sniffing, she said, "I was such a fool."

His eyebrows knotted.  "A fool, why?"  Perhaps she was upset about the day before.

"Because!"  A sob welled up in her throat and broke, and soon she was blubbering without shame.  "Because I always clung onto the hope that my friend was still alive!  I always knew she had been killed, had always been told, but there's always the hope a best friend has . . ." she trailed off, into out-right wailing, her face in her arms once more.

"Your friend is dead?"

She nodded against her arms, his hand under her cheek.  Neither mentioned it, and he didn't bother moving.  Looking up at him once more, meeting his grey eyes with watery green, like the sea itself, she took his silently offered handkerchief.  Mopping herself up, she resumed speaking.

"Twelve years ago she ran away.  We were just eight.  She got onto a merchants ship but it was attacked by pirates."  Her voice cracked and trembled, going up a half-octave.  "She was raped and killed, thrown overboard!  But as a foolish child, I hoped I would see her again some time.  I couldn't understand it!  And that juvenile hope manifested into hope as an adult . . . only to be shattered," she finished dramatically without meaning to, voice barely a low whisper.

"How do you know?" was all he could think of saying.

"Cutthroat told me," she said flatly.

"He was probably getting your goat, love."

She couldn't understand why when he said that it sent chills up her spine.  Then she shook her head.

"No.  He was there.  Watched the whole thing he said."  Her eyes lowered, then her head went along with them.

Thomas stroked back her long red hair, smiling slightly.  "He was playing with you."

"He had the pearl!" she screamed into the table, forehead on her arms.

"Pearl?"

"Yes!  Jennifer and I each had half a black pearl.  And Cutthroat had it on him, I even held it.  It was the same one, the other half of mine.  And he said he got it from Jennifer while her clothes were being torn off . . ." she trailed off, crying again, "and, and being raped!  And there was no other way for him to get it!"

Realising that there was nothing he could say to go against the first mate's word – Thomas knew he was telling the truth, but hadn't wanted to agree with the cruel man – decided that trying to tell Rachelle a lie would end up being worse. 

"I'm here for you," was all he said as he rubbed her back.

"Thank you," she responded breathlessly. 

"But at least Michael is protecting you from the others.  You do realise that do you not?"

"I hate him!  He was there, he should have stopped it!  I hate pirates!  They murdered my friend!"

"I'm a pirate," he informed her softly.

"You are different," she grumbled.  "You are not bloodthirsty and you have been educated.  You are also of my class.  You are nothing like them."

He studied her, realising then just how naïve she was.

"They are horrid beasts, pirates are.  All of them should be killed."

"But Michael is protecting you.  They killed your friend, it's true, but we have spared you.  A pirate is protecting you from other pirates.  And we would all protect you from other ships.  Do you understand that at least?"

A slight hesitation, then a monotone, "Yes."

"Good."  He stood and offered his arm.  It took her a moment to glance up but when she did, she seemed a slightly surprised.

He gave her a smile.  "Walk with me.  On deck.  Let the fresh sea breeze clear your head."

Standing and giving him a thin smile, she took his arm and let him guide her out of the galley.  They stopped first at Michael's room to grab her only parasol then they went up on deck.  They walked for hours, just bathing in the sunlight and soft wind.  She knew it was horrible for her complexion, but the sun felt so fresh, so good.  For half of their stroll she kept the parasol down, allowing herself to soak up some of the heat, drying her tears.

For now, hanging on Thomas' arm, things didn't seem as wretched.

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How's bout a nice update eh? :D  Mika and I actually wrote some more of the sequel!  *gasp*  Oh, and there's some real good stuff coming up.  Well, it's kinda a progression – I won't give it away, or else Mika will come flying and screaming at me with a knife. 

Tankies for the reviews all.  Oh and . . . please review :D

Sukkumbus and Mika