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Chapter 10 "Tortuga"
Tortuga. Constructed on the hills that sprung up from a protected, secluded harbor, the ramshackle town had turned into one of the busiest, and seediest, ports in the West Indies. A thousand settlements sprung up in the West Indies in the same fashion, but due to the easily overlooked bay and the proximity to trade routes, Tortuga's shores were the last refuge for criminals, fugitives, and especially pirates. In a town where each man's business was his own, no questions were asked, and no personal information was volunteered. Escaped prisoners ran the local shops. Men once destined for the noose operated the taverns, and every woman that wandered the crowded streets was a "professional" in one way or another. To an outsider, no one in Tortuga was worth the dirt that covered the town's winding roads, but to a brigand with a price on his head Tortuga was the pot of gold at the end of a very dangerous rainbow.
The rowdy village existed in a state constant turmoil. Hardly anyone called this matchless locale home. Buccaneers passed through briefly to refit before returning to the open seas to rape, pillage and plunder. Convicts on the lam lurked only long enough to secure passage on any outbound vessel. The Navy's most wanted laid low until the servants of the Crown had given up their search.
Very few people came to Tortuga with any intention of staying. Even fewer could trace their lineage to the founders of the raucous town. Those who did come to stay were legends in their own right and everyone passing through knew their names. One-eyed George McKinney, one of the deadliest men in the Caribbean, even after loss of his eye and his right leg, tended bar at the Lady Fate, his saloon by the docks. Spanish Rose graced George's stage every night. Rusty Cutter, one of the few pirates who lived to see retirement, was master of the harbor, and Scarlet Quinn ran the Lonely Sailor, the most celebrated brothel in the region. No one made port in Tortuga without paying a visit to one of her famous citizens. At one time, Scarlet would have topped that list. However, after the lady took up with a one-armed pirate with a jealous bone and a lightning fast temper, she was able to merely own the Lonely Sailor instead of "operating" in it.
On a nearby ridge, mournfully watching over the sins of the city below, stood a lonely white building. A steeple rose towards heaven in a silent plea for the souls of those living in debauchery. The Spanish missionary priest, who'd said Mass every Sunday for the past eight years, was widely regarded as a man who'd lost his wits. Outside the forgotten sanctuary lay the most densely populated area on the island. The town where rabble from all corners of the globe converged boasted the largest graveyard of any settlement in the West Indies. The dingy, weed-filled cemetery sprung up around the church and now spread clear to a ridge overlooking the sea. Funerals were nonexistent, friends and family of Tortuga's deceased had likely denounced or given them up for dead long before the reaper actually came knocking. The only memorial service anyone in town could recall was held for a blacksmith who'd gone to the grave far too soon. The headstones were nothing more than wooded crosses erected by the Spaniard or maybe a whore who happened to give a damn. Most had no names, or dates for no one knew enough about anyone in Tortuga to know who'd come there to die. Two crosses on the edge ridge in clear view of the harbor did have names. The same name. Turner. Both had been carved by the same grieving pirate.
The very same pirate stood in the gloomy cemetery, head bowed, in front of three wooden crosses. The newest addition bore a carving, but no name. It simply read "My Love." She deserved so much more. She deserved hundreds of mourners with tears in their eyes, beautiful flowers and voices raised in song. She deserved a eulogy from a grieving crew and Captain. She deserved a solemn priest reading from a black bible, and a granite sculpture built to commemorate the life of an exceptional pirate, and a truly great woman. Concealing the knife he'd used to fashion his final declaration, the pirate trudged away from her cross. She'd deserved to hear him voice that declaration, at least once.
The man's weary gait halted in front of the church's open door. The door always stood open as an invitation for lost sheep. He doubted anyone ever accepted that invite. Not knowing why, the pirate climbed the crumbling stone steps. He paused at the threshold for a split second before entering. Nothing happened, despite the number of times he'd been told that God would strike him down if he'd dared to enter a place of worship. He wondered briefly if God still knew about this church. Thick dust covered the pews and aisles. Silence, dense and heavy hung in the air. To the pirate's left, stood rows upon rows of candles, most were lit. Their flickering light symbolixed a prayer for someone's soul. Quickly and quietly, the pirate lit a candle and exited the building. She deserved more, but he'd never given it to her in life and, now, he didn't know how to give it to her in death.
Head still bowed, he walked down the road that led back to town. Darkness was descending and the streets were coming to life. Warm lights in the tavern windows offered a meal and a drink to anyone who stumbled inside. Warm beds inside the bordellos offered pleasure to anyone with enough gold or silver. The pirate refused both offers. He avoided Tortuga's south side and continued north.
The north section of town stood, appropriately enough, at the end of Tortuga's main road. Most of the village's visitors never bothered to explore this far, finding everything they needed much closer to the harbor. Here the taverns served watered down grog to men who'd drank so much they couldn't tell the difference anymore. Here the whores, who's cruel lives were clearly etched on their faces, gave men whatever they wanted in a dark alley instead of between satin sheets. Here men died and weren't found for days. People on Tortuga's north side clutched desperately to the end of their ropes, not yet ready for anyone to erect a sad, wooden cross over their unidentified remains.
In day's gone by, Captain Jack Sparrow of the illustrious Black Pearl, would never have wandered these streets. The proud pirate would have perched on the bar in the most crowded pub by the harbor and told tales of unparalleled adventure and danger on the high seas. Dozens of sailors would have bought him drinks and just as many women would have offered their bed, free of charge. At some point, Scarlet would come in and slap him silly for failing to visit her. His sailing master, Gibbs, would be playing games of chance, and losing. His mute boatswain, Cotton, would be letting his parrot drink rum. And, his first mate would be reclining in a corner booth, listening to his stories with a sly smirk on her face, for, she knew the truth behind the fairytales.
Not tonight.
This night, the arrogant Captain Jack Sparrow was still out at sea, somewhere. In his stead was a broken man with slumped shoulders who looked a lot like Captain Sparrow.
He didn't know, or care, where he was headed. His only thought was to get as far from her haunting memory as possible, to find some warmth in a world that was suddenly so cold. A whore, whose good looks had been devastated by her profession, sauntered towards him. Her eyes were unfeeling, clouded by the laudanum she probably took to dull the pain. Hands with grimy nails pawed at him, leading him towards a nearby alley. The pirate put up little resistance as the soiled dove pinned him against a stack of barrels and began unbuttoning his breeches. He closed his eyes as she knelt in front of him. He closed his eyes longing for warmth and hoping to forget.
The pirate's heart protested, but his body responded. The whore rose to her feet. Leaning over one of the barrels, she hitched up the back of her skirt and offered herself to the pirate. Standing behind her, he did what was expected, but the woman's ravaged body held no warmth or respite. He let her guide his hands to her withered breast. He buried his face in her tangled hair, but her body remained cold. He just wanted to lose himself, but before he could try anything else a hand grabbed his shirt collar, pulling him off of the whore. Spinning him around, the hand let go of his collar, clenched in a fist, and slugged the pirate square in the jaw. The woman let out a startled yelp as her companion hit the dirt.
"Get out of here," a deep, gravelly voice demanded, and the woman skittered away into the darkness. "Get up," he said, this directed at the miserable heap at his feet.
Licking the blood that was trickling from the corner of his mouth, the pirate rolled onto his back. The full moon behind his attacker silhouetted his body leaving his face in shadow. The man would have been tall even if the pirate had not have been staring up at him from the ground. He was dressed nearly all in black, a long coat hung down to his ankles, and a wide brimmed hat was pulled low over his brow. He stood, one arm hanging limply by his side, the other resting on his hip in a gesture of supreme impatience. The pirate could have laughed aloud when thinking of how he must look, bleeding in the dirt with his pants around his ankles. If she were here, she'd be disgusted by the depths to which he'd let himself sink.
His attacker repeated the command, but the pirate did not want to get up. Maybe, if he just laid there, the man would get fed up and kill him. His assailant, however, did not get fed up. Instead, he reached down, grabbed the front of the pirate's shirt and threw him up against the wall. The pirate's head connected with the stones. Holding the pirate against the wall, the man leaned in closer. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" The words were forced out from a clenched jaw so that the man's question sounded like a menacing, guttural growl.
A good question. What was he doing? Looking for companionship among the only people who might feel worse than he did? Dishonoring her memory by lying with a wasted whore? "She's dead, what does it matter," the pirate said, answering his own accusation.
The other man scoffed. "No, she isn't, you ignorant wretch," he snarled, venom in his words.
"What?"
"Goddammit, look at me, Jack," the man ordered, bringing the back of his hand hard across the pirate's face. "Look at yourself."
The pirate's head snapped to one side. Now, he did laugh. "I'm not Jack Sparrow," he said dully.
"You're right. You're not." The man stepped back and hit the pirate a second time. He fell to the ground, and, mercifully, blacked out.
TBC
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