Disclaimer: "Pirates of the Caribbean" belong to Disney.
A/N: 1) Technically this fic is a sequel to my two previous fics, "A Look on Helen's Face" and "The Serpent and the Spider", but it can stand on its own. 2) Escovitch is a Spanish/Portuguese method of marinating seafood, prevalent in Jamaican cuisine. 3) Johnny-bread is a kind of cornmeal pancake, quite popular in the Caribbean.
I
I wake up and sit even before the tiny hand touches me. A little boy with a wild thatch of dark hair gasps and freezes, looking at me. I smile at him to calm him down.
"Th-the old man Gibbs is downstairs," he whispers.
"Oh, good. And what is he doing?"
"He's eating his breakfast... escovitch fish, and bread, and... Haven't heard what else..."
"Good. What is he drinking?"
"Ale."
"Which one? First? Second?"
"Was drinking the first one when I was there."
"Very good, Jimmy," I say yawning.
He scowls at me. Oh well, I know. You're awake because you want your sixpence that I've promised you for guarding Gibbs, and you're afraid that I won't keep my promise.
"Here," I say, throwing him the coin. He catches it and suddenly beams with joy, and now I notice how bright the whole room is. It's dusty and unkempt, its only colours being shades of grey, but even its opaque window-panes can't hide the glory of this morning, when the sun changes the bed, chairs, table and walls into pure gold, and even my little lute, with its graceful neck leaned upon the chair's back, seems to open its almost-living rosette in the sunrays.
I squint my eyes, unable to bear all this richness, and I turn slightly to the side to look at the black hair of the woman sleeping by me, but even this patch of dark is full of golden flickers. Ah, how many mornings like that have I seen here in the Caribbean?
I free myself gently from the plump arm's embrace.
"What do you think, Jimmy," I ask ruffling my hair, "should we wake your mom as well?"
"I dunno," he murmurs. "Do you need her again?"
"No, I don't," I say. "She has every right to sleep till evening. And I should be sleeping too, to tell the truth, but I have work to do."
"When she has guests in the night, she can sleep in the morning," says Jimmy quietly, looking at his bare feet.
"That's all I wanted to know. Listen, Jimmy, run for some water for me, will you? There's a penny to your collection."
I pretend not to notice the suspicious look he gives me before leaving the room. He's jealous and anxious about his mother, but he wants to earn some money nonetheless and it's why he's still quite civil to me. There is nothing but understanding for his state of mind in me, for Jimmy's childhood is a sad distortion of my own disorderly happy one.
When I'm dressed, I go to look out the window. It must be quite late already, judging from the sun. Some black woman is washing clothes by the well, the hens are walking proudly around, the Red Stocking's servants are running to and fro, carrying milk, ale and water. Ah, yes, it's the same tavern where I met Commodore Norrington some time ago, and maybe it's the same room that we kissed (or rather I kissed him, for that matter) - I don't know, for I was drunk and feverish at the time. I wanted to pay him back for the unimaginable kindness he showed me: he bought me a meal, and he didn't arrest me even though he knew that he should. But my honest offer was all in vain, because it came out that the Commodore would rather have Jack Sparrow than me. Yet it wasn't entirely out of gratitude for Norrington that I vowed to myself to bring Sparrow to him, it was also because I wanted to meet the man who killed my Captain, and to try to make him suffer as he has made me.
I'm back in Port Royal now, after my rather unfortunate encounter with Sparrow. I was working for him on the Black Pearl, the ship at which he grabbed promptly after my Captain's death, just like vultures grab at the fresh carcass. But Sparrow isn't stupid and he realized that I'm too different from his good-natured crew; and it's only through sheer luck that I've escaped with my life. I feel the net tighten around me - Sparrow's friends are now aware of me, and Norrington has got enough time to enquire who I am, and he probably wouldn't let Captain Barbossa's accomplice escape; yet I have to meet both Norrington and Sparrow again.
Things got complicated and dangerous, but I'm not a novice, and I feel that I can win if I play my cards carefully. And besides, I'm not in a mood to worry on this fresh morning, when everything is gold that glitters - just like my last morning here, when I was taking a French leave with...
"Oh, is that a pistol?"
... with Commodore Norrington's pistol up my breeches.
"Aye, Jimmy, that's a pistol. Thanks for the water."
I must support the water-jug immediately, for Jimmy can't be bothered to place it properly on the table. Ah, little boys.
"C-can I hold it?"
"Here," I say giving him the pistol. "Barrel down, please. And no, don't touch this thing, or I'll take it away. I must wash myself, don't have time to keep my eye on you."
He sighs.
"Are you going to kill Gibbs?"
"Of course not. Give me that cloth."
He hands me over a linen cloth that may have been called a towel in its better days.
"Alright, enough of your pistol worship, Jimmy," I say, snatching the pistol from him as well. He's a bright boy, God knows what might get into his head. "Tell your mom that I'll be back in the afternoon, should she worry."
Jimmy puffs out his cheeks and scowls at me again.
"Why are you coming back to her?"
"Why, because I like to."
"Do you like her?"
"Sure I do," I say, reaching for the door-knob.
"Other women are laughing at her," he murmurs, not looking at me. "Saying she's too fat. Becky, and Nelly, and Cathy... They..."
"Look, Jimmy," I say impatiently, "why are you listening to them? There are men who would choose your mother BECAUSE she isn't as skinny as them, and they are just jealous. Your mother is pretty - there are various kinds of prettiness, and it's what makes the world interesting. And these girls don't know anything, sitting all the time here, and I've seen the world. You'd better listen to me than to them."
I shut the door quietly and go downstairs, paying attention to loose steps and cracking handrails. Oh, the Red Stocking is as ugly as before, as there's not a single sunray on the staircase. I wouldn't have chosen this sorry shack, if not for my main purpose now, which is spying on Gibbs.
Poor Gibbs! I know Sparrow was really reluctant to let him go to Port Royal. I was forced to take a little girl hostage to escape from the entire crew of the Black Pearl (not that they posed any serious threat to me, except maybe for Anamaria), when they were dining in the Tres Morillas tavern in Tortuga, and then they searched the island for me, but time was running out and they had to give up. They were ready to continue their journey to Cancun, but Gibbs - God bless him - begged Sparrow to let him visit his sister in Port Royal. She was so worried about him, he hadn't seen her for such a long time! It was so cruel to leave poor old Sophie like that, she will perish from anxiety! Oh, Captain, she's alone with no kind soul to open her heart to, and she is a poor cripple, she is stuttering and her right leg is shorter, yet she has to work hard, day and night, for some pampered, selfish lady... I was splitting my sides, when little Antonia, my former hostage, who visited me in the old haunted barn, was telling me all that rubbish, mimicking Gibbs' hoarse voice and his round eyes full of concern.
How could good 'Captain' Sparrow not grant his faithful friend's request? He allowed him to go to Port Royal, and I went after him. And here we are, me sitting in the darkest place, near the door, and Gibbs seated in the middle of the Red Stocking's main room, almost empty in the morning, with dirty jugs and leftovers in the corners and sleepy servants pretending that they're cleaning yesterday's mess. Some apathetic hens are wandering shyly around the entrance, not daring to venture further. The intense light of the morning is hardly allowed to leak in through small windows, and the stinky memories of the past night still rule here.
There are some lonely guests, sitting here and there, so I'm not so conspicuous as I feared I would be. The Red Stocking's girls are trying to pick up some clients, but mostly out of habit, for they're tired and they are saving themselves for tonight. It's Saturday, and in the evening all sorts of guests fill the Red Stocking. It was Saturday night when when I met Norrington here, as well, and I'm waiting for him just as the doxies are waiting for their sweethearts. I must talk to Norrington tonight...
Gibbs is finishing his third ale (if my calculation is right), and he's talking to a small bunch of fellows he befriended last night, seemingly petty sea-thieves, watermen and fishermen. Their table is the noisiest in the whole tavern; they are pushing the tinker plates with their elbows, gurgling down the ale like they've just returned from the desert, and burping loudly. I hate myself for listening to this scum. Why are they spoiling such a fine morning? At least they are able to calm down when Gibbs starts to speak; it's clear that they respect him greatly.
"Well, mate," he replies to some question from a skinny bearded man in a straw hat, "if you wish, you may come with me to Tortuga. You won't be disappointed, I can guarantee ye that."
"Nah, mate, ye don't have to guarantee me nothin'. I know all too well that these who sail under Captain Sparrow's command can call themselves lucky," the fellow replies politely.
"Oh, listen, he says he's one of them Captain Sparrow's crew," exclaims pretty Nelly, who is sitting next to me, pressing her white-stockinged leg to me and pretending that it's only out of absent-mindedness. "I'd never call him a pirate."
"Well, love, there's not much of pirate spirit in any of Sparrow's crew," I say pouring her some of my ale. "Just witness how good-natured old Gibbs looks."
"That's true," Nelly says, drawing yet nearer to me, her fair locks touching my cheek. "I've always imagined them big and severe-looking, and with pistols and beards, and big hats. And they won't be talking to the likes of this scarecrow in the morning."
"Never seen a pirate before?"
"No," she says. "I was born here, in Port Royal, and Commodore Norrington and Governor Swann have managed to get rid of real pirates in these waters. Last time they came was months ago, when Barbossa attacked the town, but that's the only case I remember. And Barbossa is dead and he will never come back."
"And Jack Sparrow with his Pearl will never attack Port Royal, or any other town, like a pirate should," I say.
"Why do you think a pirate should attack any town?" asks Nelly, suddenly discontented.
"Why, because he's no pirate if he doesn't," I say smiling. "Simple, isn't it?"
She shudders.
"I never want to encounter a pirate who'd be any more piratey than uncle Gibbs, then," she says.
"Oh, I'm sure you're not going to," I assure her, covering her hand with mine.
"No, we ain't going to sail south of Tortuga," says Gibbs to his audience. "Ain't goin' to pester honest folks livin' on these shores. We want to repair the Black Pearl's reputation, jus' as we repaired her black sails."
I try to suppress a laugh and I almost spit in my ale. Aw, blimey, Gibbs's going to kill me early in the morning.
"W-what's wrong with you?" asks Nelly with anxiety.
"Nothing big, love. I'm just tired."
"After the night, I know," she says half-playfully, half-reproachfully. "Why did you have to take Fat Elsie with you? She sucks men's life forces out."
"Oh, it's not so bad," I say, laying my head on the table and looking into Nelly's bright grey eyes, "I still have some left..."
But she eyes me with suspicion and pretends that she doesn't understand me; she wants me to declare myself more clearly. I smile and don't move, for I only pretend that I have any interest in her. She seems pretty demanding and quite jealous, and I haven't got enough time to play with touchy girls now. Still, I don't want to offend her, so I don't let her take away her soft hand.
"Ah, mate, that be a hard task," says Scarecrow's pal, a round fellow in too-tight breeches, with a web eye that makes him appear less intelligent than he in fact is. "Ev'rybody in the Spanish Main would be runnin' away just at the name of the ship. She was a curse of these waters for more than ten years. The only way to improve her repute is to change her name for good."
You have a point, Web Eye. The Pearl won't be the Black Pearl under Sparrow's command anymore. Or he should change her name to White Pearl, Castitatis Lilium or Immaculata, for all I know. She was black and fearsome only when my Captain was guiding her through the Caribbean waters. Now she's become nothing more than a safe haven for the mellow harbour folk who want to earn money without sailing too near the wind, and a cradle for innocent tales.
"No, I don't think it's a good idea," says Gibbs plainly. "A good idea is to have decent sailors aboard, that's what we'd call a good idea. And since that devil Barbossa is gone, we're on the right course, I'd say. It can only get better now without his foul shadow around."
I feel my head and fingers becoming cold, and my eyes go to Gibbs. Hey, uncle, I beg of you, watch your mouth! You're lucky that you have an account in my book, and that it's a beautiful morning, and that I'm sober and in a good mood - but don't insult my Captain's memory in my presence, for I may well forget why I am here. God is good, but don't dance in a currach, as the Irish say.
"Eh, ye may be pretty sure yer safe from him now," says some smaller fellow with a perky nose, who was devouring the fish with his head almost hidden in the plate.
"From him, maybe, but not from his minions," says Gibbs in what he probably thinks is a whisper. "Would ye believe, mateys, there are still some out here."
"Hah, I believe ye, Mr Gibbs," says Web Eye, laughing. "There's a strange gossip going around. I mean, ye all know this big black beast that was Barbossa's right hand?"
"An' he was his Bo'sun, so he was called Bo'sun..." Scarecrow murmurs.
"Aye, Bo'sun was how he was called. So, people are saying that he has been seen here and there. On the Windward Islands. I've met a fellow who swears he's seen Bo'sun on Martinique."
My stupid heart is beating wildly like a Turkish drum. Wait!... If Bo'sun is alive, then there is a chance... a shadow of a chance, but still a chance...
"Bah, a Negro," snorts Nelly. "Why would a great captain choose a Negro for his right hand? No doubt he was killed by Captain Sparrow!"
I narrow my eyes looking at her plain white face. Ah, girl, what do you know about a true value of a man?
"Aw, that's just a mill-house story, mate," says Gibbs, waving his hand impatiently. "If Bo'sun is alive, Barbossa could be alive as well, and we'd have their breaths already on our backs. And as for now, we have only one Barbossa's man who's alive and kicking, but it's for sure, 'cause I've been talkin' to him just as I'm talkin' to you now, and he's just slipped from among our fingers when we were stayin' in Tortuga."
"Ye mean, ye let him escape?" asks the little fellow that loves to eat fish.
Ah, let's hear what fairy-tale uncle Gibbs has to tell about yours truly.
"And what would you do, man? The bastard took a lil' girl hostage! Grabbed her from her chair by her neck, like a kitten, so that she was danglin' in the air - we all thought he'd strangle her on the spot, but no - shouted at her to open her mouth... the poor child opens her mouth, so he can force his gun's barrel into it, and he says to us, 'if you don't fall on your knees with your hands in the air, I swear on all the forces of hell, I'll blow this pup's brains out, so help me God.'"
I'm drinking my next ale - no, I won't pass this morning being sober, it seems - being careful not to choke myself from laughter. Nelly covers her mouth with her hand, utterly horrified.
"So what would you do in our place, I ask ye?" Gibbs continues, delighted with his companions, who are rendered speechless by his tale. "The girl's mother, poor woman, who loved her more than anything in the world - it was her only child, ye know - lost her senses already and was lying in my arms, so there wasn't even anybody to beg for the girl's life. But then, our Captain Sparrow orders us not to move, lest the scum hurt the girl, and says only, 'I'll kill you, Ritchie Brown, I swear, but if you hurt the girl, I'll do it slowly.' And let's hope he'll keep his promise..."
"Oh God," blubbers one of the tavern girls, "did he hurt her?"
"Eh, well," says Gibbs, frowning, "not entirely... she returned home in the night... But anyway, she changed for the worse, started to spit at everybody and kick and scratch, especially at the owners of the tavern. And her mother is trying to make her living there, so ye can imagine, it's all pretty hard for her."
Brave Antonia, I think, hiding my smile in the jug.
"Wait," says Scarecrow, "I don't know the git's name at all. Was he with Barbossa all these years?"
"Yeah, mate, it tells ye've never showed your nose out of Jamaica," says Web Eye, patting Scarecrow on his back. "Ritchie Brown, I remember him. The youngest of Barbossa's crew, and a whoreson of the deepest dye... the crew all hated him, but Barbossa had a soft spot for him. If he's still around, then I'd believe that he's got as many lives as a cat. I didn't know that he was with Barbossa all these years."
What a morning, I think, first my Captain gets his share, now it's poor Ritchie's turn. I have to endure all this bashing anyway, as it proves once more that honour and profit lie not in one sack.
"No, he wasn't," says Gibbs shaking his head. "He cleared out of the Caribbean before the curse. Our Captain said he'd heard of him from his good mate, Bootstrap Bill... the one that Barbossa killed after the mutiny."
Ah, so that's how Bootstrap ended. Oh well. I'm not going to weep after him. Hm, wait... so Sparrow knew who I was from the beginning?...
"Was he Bootstrap's friend as well?" Scarecrow asks.
"Oh no," Gibbs laughs. "From what Captain Sparrow said, Bill and Ritchie were at daggers drawn from the beginning till the end. No wonder, 'cause Bill was truly a paragon of a good pirate, and he wouldn't keep company with such scum as Ritchie." He sighs. "'Tis so sad to see that the bad seed is still growing whilst the good one had been ripped."
"Don't worry, mate," Web Eye says. "'Tis true that ill vessels seldom miscarry, but he's alone and fer all I know, he'd better not show himself in Port Royal, or he'll find himself in rough water. Our Royal Navy here ain't got no tolerance for the remnants of Barbossa's crew."
"Ah, I do hope so, but I don't need no Royal Navy to take care of me. For you know, Captain Sparrow was of a mind that Ritchie's comin' to Port Royal after me."
His comrades laugh, but Nelly is shuddering by my side.
"I w-wonder what that Ritchie Brown looks like," she whispers to me. "I'm afraid he'd come to the Red Stocking to kill poor uncle Gibbs, because Gibbs is now alone as well."
"No, love, he's not stupid, he wouldn't come here. Don't be afraid. And if he does, just run straight to me," I say, showing her my pistol, and she clings to me without a word.
"Hey, Gibbs, mate, how does he looks like?" asks the small fellow who ate all the fish.
Gibbs purses his lips and thinks for a while. He's clearly hesitant to tell them that I'm not, in fact, very impressive-looking.
"We-ell," he says slowly, "he's quite tall and eh, w-well built. And quite strong, yeah. I've told you he carried a nine-year-old child out of the tavern holdin' her in one hand." He sighs and looks sadly at the empty plates, and then his look changes from sad to anxious.
"Awww, forgive me, mateys," he says scratching his head. "I forgot. Have to go an' see me old sister."
I look over to find little Jimmy, who is washing dishes and raises his head watchfully. I wink at him.
"Run after Gibbs," I whisper, giving him another coin, "and tell me which way he took. I'll be waiting here."
"Where are you going?" asks Nelly, seeing me adjust my hat slowly.
"Just to stretch out in such a glorious morning," I say, kissing her on the ear.
"Will you be back soon?"
"Ah, I guess I will," I say, not adding that I'll be back for Fat Elsie and not for her.
Gibbs is rather unaccustomed to walking fast and he hasn't managed to get far yet, when I go out of the Red Stocking. His steps are slow, he resembles a slightly dizzy bear that's been taught to walk and even to dance, but he still feels unsure of his abilities and would rather go back into the wilderness. He is parading through the busy streets with pride and he doesn't pay any attention to what's going around him - he apparently doesn't feel any fear, although being a deserter and a pirate he most definitely should. It seems that he regards himself as a thoroughly honest man who never did any harm to another honest man, and his self-confident appearance just gives away the long years spent at sea in the hard labour on merchant and Navy ships - nothing more and nothing less. He doesn't have the slightest suspicion that I could have followed him to Port Royal. He simply doesn't think it possible that anyone in the world would want to hurt him now. I don't have to hide myself from him so much, for he wouldn't believe his own eyes if he saw me in the Red Stocking or now in the street; there's almost no chance that he'd notice me.
I wonder if he notices the splendour of this morning that seems to feed on the street pedlars' cries, and to swell with the savoury smells of fried fish, bammy pancakes, baked chicken and the ubiquitous Johnny-bread... He's heading to the house, where his precious sister is serving some 'pampered lady', and he doesn't stop to look at street fights nor at street singers, so much he is determined in his pursuit of his little smelly family warmth. As if he really needs it in the generous warmth of the Caribbean morning that embraces us all, foes and friends, villains and decent folk alike.
He stops in front of a small villa. I slow down, looking for a safe place to hide. I want to hear and see as much as possible, and my eyes fall on the walls of a garden on the opposite side of the street. The walls are crumbling, bougainvillea, jasmine and nightshades hold sway over the deep dark garden. There is a house there too, and it looks abandoned, with its shutters hanging hopelessly from the empty windows. Ah, what a nice friendly place for me, I think, taking cover in the garden in the corner of the garden and peeping out at the street.
Gibbs takes a deep breath. He's reluctant to knock and stands by the gate for a while, sighing heavily and shifting his weight from one foot to another. He looks like a little boy afraid of his mother's scolding. Finally he grabs the knocker, and after a few pulls the gate opens.
I can't see the person who is greeting Gibbs with wild, teary exclamations and questions, but from the timbre of the voice I guess that it's Gibbs' sister herself. To my greatest dismay, she doesn't invite Gibbs inside. They stand by the gate, and she is explaining something with great difficulty - it seems she's stuttering quite heavily, and being moved to tears doesn't help her. I can only recognize that she's speaking about visitors that her lady is awaiting tonight.
Gibbs nods and promises to come tomorrow, after the Sunday mass. Then he leans forward to kiss his sister loudly, and the gate closes again. Gibbs stands before it for a moment, just like he did before knocking, and sighs, with great, genuine relief this time. I wonder why he is so anxious - when I was working with him on the Black Pearl, it was quite obvious to me that he holds his sister in great affection and yearns to see her... oh well, I will figure it out tomorrow. It's even better that I don't have to set a watch on Gibbs tonight, therefore being able to devote my time to making love to Fat Elsie and to talking to Norrington.
When Gibbs sets off to go back to the Red Stocking, and I snuggle out of the hole in the garden wall, ready to go after him, a familiar tune flows out of the villa's windows. I halt in my steps as if held by a spell, for I recognize the instrument. It may sound like a lute or a mandolin to unaccustomed ears, but not to mine; I know it, it's a Turkish baglama, and I know the melody as well.
No, wait, it's impossible, I try to assure myself. No one would be playing the "Mandira" tune in English Port Royal, no, no one. You must be mistaken, you must have drunk too much ale this morning... ah, but it must be it. I recognize not only the instrument and the tune, but even this light tapping on the box is familiar to me. Ah, but if even the rumours of Bo'sun being alive are spreading everywhere, why can't I meet here somebody who has to be alive and well anyway?
The unhurriedly increased tempo tells me that the musician is deep in thought and just follows the line, knowing that the sorrows will be finally sorted with this persistent, patient melody. It seems that my own fears and hopes will get sorted tomorrow as well... or I must get sober as quickly as possible.
tbc
A/N: 1) Technically this fic is a sequel to my two previous fics, "A Look on Helen's Face" and "The Serpent and the Spider", but it can stand on its own. 2) Escovitch is a Spanish/Portuguese method of marinating seafood, prevalent in Jamaican cuisine. 3) Johnny-bread is a kind of cornmeal pancake, quite popular in the Caribbean.
I
I wake up and sit even before the tiny hand touches me. A little boy with a wild thatch of dark hair gasps and freezes, looking at me. I smile at him to calm him down.
"Th-the old man Gibbs is downstairs," he whispers.
"Oh, good. And what is he doing?"
"He's eating his breakfast... escovitch fish, and bread, and... Haven't heard what else..."
"Good. What is he drinking?"
"Ale."
"Which one? First? Second?"
"Was drinking the first one when I was there."
"Very good, Jimmy," I say yawning.
He scowls at me. Oh well, I know. You're awake because you want your sixpence that I've promised you for guarding Gibbs, and you're afraid that I won't keep my promise.
"Here," I say, throwing him the coin. He catches it and suddenly beams with joy, and now I notice how bright the whole room is. It's dusty and unkempt, its only colours being shades of grey, but even its opaque window-panes can't hide the glory of this morning, when the sun changes the bed, chairs, table and walls into pure gold, and even my little lute, with its graceful neck leaned upon the chair's back, seems to open its almost-living rosette in the sunrays.
I squint my eyes, unable to bear all this richness, and I turn slightly to the side to look at the black hair of the woman sleeping by me, but even this patch of dark is full of golden flickers. Ah, how many mornings like that have I seen here in the Caribbean?
I free myself gently from the plump arm's embrace.
"What do you think, Jimmy," I ask ruffling my hair, "should we wake your mom as well?"
"I dunno," he murmurs. "Do you need her again?"
"No, I don't," I say. "She has every right to sleep till evening. And I should be sleeping too, to tell the truth, but I have work to do."
"When she has guests in the night, she can sleep in the morning," says Jimmy quietly, looking at his bare feet.
"That's all I wanted to know. Listen, Jimmy, run for some water for me, will you? There's a penny to your collection."
I pretend not to notice the suspicious look he gives me before leaving the room. He's jealous and anxious about his mother, but he wants to earn some money nonetheless and it's why he's still quite civil to me. There is nothing but understanding for his state of mind in me, for Jimmy's childhood is a sad distortion of my own disorderly happy one.
When I'm dressed, I go to look out the window. It must be quite late already, judging from the sun. Some black woman is washing clothes by the well, the hens are walking proudly around, the Red Stocking's servants are running to and fro, carrying milk, ale and water. Ah, yes, it's the same tavern where I met Commodore Norrington some time ago, and maybe it's the same room that we kissed (or rather I kissed him, for that matter) - I don't know, for I was drunk and feverish at the time. I wanted to pay him back for the unimaginable kindness he showed me: he bought me a meal, and he didn't arrest me even though he knew that he should. But my honest offer was all in vain, because it came out that the Commodore would rather have Jack Sparrow than me. Yet it wasn't entirely out of gratitude for Norrington that I vowed to myself to bring Sparrow to him, it was also because I wanted to meet the man who killed my Captain, and to try to make him suffer as he has made me.
I'm back in Port Royal now, after my rather unfortunate encounter with Sparrow. I was working for him on the Black Pearl, the ship at which he grabbed promptly after my Captain's death, just like vultures grab at the fresh carcass. But Sparrow isn't stupid and he realized that I'm too different from his good-natured crew; and it's only through sheer luck that I've escaped with my life. I feel the net tighten around me - Sparrow's friends are now aware of me, and Norrington has got enough time to enquire who I am, and he probably wouldn't let Captain Barbossa's accomplice escape; yet I have to meet both Norrington and Sparrow again.
Things got complicated and dangerous, but I'm not a novice, and I feel that I can win if I play my cards carefully. And besides, I'm not in a mood to worry on this fresh morning, when everything is gold that glitters - just like my last morning here, when I was taking a French leave with...
"Oh, is that a pistol?"
... with Commodore Norrington's pistol up my breeches.
"Aye, Jimmy, that's a pistol. Thanks for the water."
I must support the water-jug immediately, for Jimmy can't be bothered to place it properly on the table. Ah, little boys.
"C-can I hold it?"
"Here," I say giving him the pistol. "Barrel down, please. And no, don't touch this thing, or I'll take it away. I must wash myself, don't have time to keep my eye on you."
He sighs.
"Are you going to kill Gibbs?"
"Of course not. Give me that cloth."
He hands me over a linen cloth that may have been called a towel in its better days.
"Alright, enough of your pistol worship, Jimmy," I say, snatching the pistol from him as well. He's a bright boy, God knows what might get into his head. "Tell your mom that I'll be back in the afternoon, should she worry."
Jimmy puffs out his cheeks and scowls at me again.
"Why are you coming back to her?"
"Why, because I like to."
"Do you like her?"
"Sure I do," I say, reaching for the door-knob.
"Other women are laughing at her," he murmurs, not looking at me. "Saying she's too fat. Becky, and Nelly, and Cathy... They..."
"Look, Jimmy," I say impatiently, "why are you listening to them? There are men who would choose your mother BECAUSE she isn't as skinny as them, and they are just jealous. Your mother is pretty - there are various kinds of prettiness, and it's what makes the world interesting. And these girls don't know anything, sitting all the time here, and I've seen the world. You'd better listen to me than to them."
I shut the door quietly and go downstairs, paying attention to loose steps and cracking handrails. Oh, the Red Stocking is as ugly as before, as there's not a single sunray on the staircase. I wouldn't have chosen this sorry shack, if not for my main purpose now, which is spying on Gibbs.
Poor Gibbs! I know Sparrow was really reluctant to let him go to Port Royal. I was forced to take a little girl hostage to escape from the entire crew of the Black Pearl (not that they posed any serious threat to me, except maybe for Anamaria), when they were dining in the Tres Morillas tavern in Tortuga, and then they searched the island for me, but time was running out and they had to give up. They were ready to continue their journey to Cancun, but Gibbs - God bless him - begged Sparrow to let him visit his sister in Port Royal. She was so worried about him, he hadn't seen her for such a long time! It was so cruel to leave poor old Sophie like that, she will perish from anxiety! Oh, Captain, she's alone with no kind soul to open her heart to, and she is a poor cripple, she is stuttering and her right leg is shorter, yet she has to work hard, day and night, for some pampered, selfish lady... I was splitting my sides, when little Antonia, my former hostage, who visited me in the old haunted barn, was telling me all that rubbish, mimicking Gibbs' hoarse voice and his round eyes full of concern.
How could good 'Captain' Sparrow not grant his faithful friend's request? He allowed him to go to Port Royal, and I went after him. And here we are, me sitting in the darkest place, near the door, and Gibbs seated in the middle of the Red Stocking's main room, almost empty in the morning, with dirty jugs and leftovers in the corners and sleepy servants pretending that they're cleaning yesterday's mess. Some apathetic hens are wandering shyly around the entrance, not daring to venture further. The intense light of the morning is hardly allowed to leak in through small windows, and the stinky memories of the past night still rule here.
There are some lonely guests, sitting here and there, so I'm not so conspicuous as I feared I would be. The Red Stocking's girls are trying to pick up some clients, but mostly out of habit, for they're tired and they are saving themselves for tonight. It's Saturday, and in the evening all sorts of guests fill the Red Stocking. It was Saturday night when when I met Norrington here, as well, and I'm waiting for him just as the doxies are waiting for their sweethearts. I must talk to Norrington tonight...
Gibbs is finishing his third ale (if my calculation is right), and he's talking to a small bunch of fellows he befriended last night, seemingly petty sea-thieves, watermen and fishermen. Their table is the noisiest in the whole tavern; they are pushing the tinker plates with their elbows, gurgling down the ale like they've just returned from the desert, and burping loudly. I hate myself for listening to this scum. Why are they spoiling such a fine morning? At least they are able to calm down when Gibbs starts to speak; it's clear that they respect him greatly.
"Well, mate," he replies to some question from a skinny bearded man in a straw hat, "if you wish, you may come with me to Tortuga. You won't be disappointed, I can guarantee ye that."
"Nah, mate, ye don't have to guarantee me nothin'. I know all too well that these who sail under Captain Sparrow's command can call themselves lucky," the fellow replies politely.
"Oh, listen, he says he's one of them Captain Sparrow's crew," exclaims pretty Nelly, who is sitting next to me, pressing her white-stockinged leg to me and pretending that it's only out of absent-mindedness. "I'd never call him a pirate."
"Well, love, there's not much of pirate spirit in any of Sparrow's crew," I say pouring her some of my ale. "Just witness how good-natured old Gibbs looks."
"That's true," Nelly says, drawing yet nearer to me, her fair locks touching my cheek. "I've always imagined them big and severe-looking, and with pistols and beards, and big hats. And they won't be talking to the likes of this scarecrow in the morning."
"Never seen a pirate before?"
"No," she says. "I was born here, in Port Royal, and Commodore Norrington and Governor Swann have managed to get rid of real pirates in these waters. Last time they came was months ago, when Barbossa attacked the town, but that's the only case I remember. And Barbossa is dead and he will never come back."
"And Jack Sparrow with his Pearl will never attack Port Royal, or any other town, like a pirate should," I say.
"Why do you think a pirate should attack any town?" asks Nelly, suddenly discontented.
"Why, because he's no pirate if he doesn't," I say smiling. "Simple, isn't it?"
She shudders.
"I never want to encounter a pirate who'd be any more piratey than uncle Gibbs, then," she says.
"Oh, I'm sure you're not going to," I assure her, covering her hand with mine.
"No, we ain't going to sail south of Tortuga," says Gibbs to his audience. "Ain't goin' to pester honest folks livin' on these shores. We want to repair the Black Pearl's reputation, jus' as we repaired her black sails."
I try to suppress a laugh and I almost spit in my ale. Aw, blimey, Gibbs's going to kill me early in the morning.
"W-what's wrong with you?" asks Nelly with anxiety.
"Nothing big, love. I'm just tired."
"After the night, I know," she says half-playfully, half-reproachfully. "Why did you have to take Fat Elsie with you? She sucks men's life forces out."
"Oh, it's not so bad," I say, laying my head on the table and looking into Nelly's bright grey eyes, "I still have some left..."
But she eyes me with suspicion and pretends that she doesn't understand me; she wants me to declare myself more clearly. I smile and don't move, for I only pretend that I have any interest in her. She seems pretty demanding and quite jealous, and I haven't got enough time to play with touchy girls now. Still, I don't want to offend her, so I don't let her take away her soft hand.
"Ah, mate, that be a hard task," says Scarecrow's pal, a round fellow in too-tight breeches, with a web eye that makes him appear less intelligent than he in fact is. "Ev'rybody in the Spanish Main would be runnin' away just at the name of the ship. She was a curse of these waters for more than ten years. The only way to improve her repute is to change her name for good."
You have a point, Web Eye. The Pearl won't be the Black Pearl under Sparrow's command anymore. Or he should change her name to White Pearl, Castitatis Lilium or Immaculata, for all I know. She was black and fearsome only when my Captain was guiding her through the Caribbean waters. Now she's become nothing more than a safe haven for the mellow harbour folk who want to earn money without sailing too near the wind, and a cradle for innocent tales.
"No, I don't think it's a good idea," says Gibbs plainly. "A good idea is to have decent sailors aboard, that's what we'd call a good idea. And since that devil Barbossa is gone, we're on the right course, I'd say. It can only get better now without his foul shadow around."
I feel my head and fingers becoming cold, and my eyes go to Gibbs. Hey, uncle, I beg of you, watch your mouth! You're lucky that you have an account in my book, and that it's a beautiful morning, and that I'm sober and in a good mood - but don't insult my Captain's memory in my presence, for I may well forget why I am here. God is good, but don't dance in a currach, as the Irish say.
"Eh, ye may be pretty sure yer safe from him now," says some smaller fellow with a perky nose, who was devouring the fish with his head almost hidden in the plate.
"From him, maybe, but not from his minions," says Gibbs in what he probably thinks is a whisper. "Would ye believe, mateys, there are still some out here."
"Hah, I believe ye, Mr Gibbs," says Web Eye, laughing. "There's a strange gossip going around. I mean, ye all know this big black beast that was Barbossa's right hand?"
"An' he was his Bo'sun, so he was called Bo'sun..." Scarecrow murmurs.
"Aye, Bo'sun was how he was called. So, people are saying that he has been seen here and there. On the Windward Islands. I've met a fellow who swears he's seen Bo'sun on Martinique."
My stupid heart is beating wildly like a Turkish drum. Wait!... If Bo'sun is alive, then there is a chance... a shadow of a chance, but still a chance...
"Bah, a Negro," snorts Nelly. "Why would a great captain choose a Negro for his right hand? No doubt he was killed by Captain Sparrow!"
I narrow my eyes looking at her plain white face. Ah, girl, what do you know about a true value of a man?
"Aw, that's just a mill-house story, mate," says Gibbs, waving his hand impatiently. "If Bo'sun is alive, Barbossa could be alive as well, and we'd have their breaths already on our backs. And as for now, we have only one Barbossa's man who's alive and kicking, but it's for sure, 'cause I've been talkin' to him just as I'm talkin' to you now, and he's just slipped from among our fingers when we were stayin' in Tortuga."
"Ye mean, ye let him escape?" asks the little fellow that loves to eat fish.
Ah, let's hear what fairy-tale uncle Gibbs has to tell about yours truly.
"And what would you do, man? The bastard took a lil' girl hostage! Grabbed her from her chair by her neck, like a kitten, so that she was danglin' in the air - we all thought he'd strangle her on the spot, but no - shouted at her to open her mouth... the poor child opens her mouth, so he can force his gun's barrel into it, and he says to us, 'if you don't fall on your knees with your hands in the air, I swear on all the forces of hell, I'll blow this pup's brains out, so help me God.'"
I'm drinking my next ale - no, I won't pass this morning being sober, it seems - being careful not to choke myself from laughter. Nelly covers her mouth with her hand, utterly horrified.
"So what would you do in our place, I ask ye?" Gibbs continues, delighted with his companions, who are rendered speechless by his tale. "The girl's mother, poor woman, who loved her more than anything in the world - it was her only child, ye know - lost her senses already and was lying in my arms, so there wasn't even anybody to beg for the girl's life. But then, our Captain Sparrow orders us not to move, lest the scum hurt the girl, and says only, 'I'll kill you, Ritchie Brown, I swear, but if you hurt the girl, I'll do it slowly.' And let's hope he'll keep his promise..."
"Oh God," blubbers one of the tavern girls, "did he hurt her?"
"Eh, well," says Gibbs, frowning, "not entirely... she returned home in the night... But anyway, she changed for the worse, started to spit at everybody and kick and scratch, especially at the owners of the tavern. And her mother is trying to make her living there, so ye can imagine, it's all pretty hard for her."
Brave Antonia, I think, hiding my smile in the jug.
"Wait," says Scarecrow, "I don't know the git's name at all. Was he with Barbossa all these years?"
"Yeah, mate, it tells ye've never showed your nose out of Jamaica," says Web Eye, patting Scarecrow on his back. "Ritchie Brown, I remember him. The youngest of Barbossa's crew, and a whoreson of the deepest dye... the crew all hated him, but Barbossa had a soft spot for him. If he's still around, then I'd believe that he's got as many lives as a cat. I didn't know that he was with Barbossa all these years."
What a morning, I think, first my Captain gets his share, now it's poor Ritchie's turn. I have to endure all this bashing anyway, as it proves once more that honour and profit lie not in one sack.
"No, he wasn't," says Gibbs shaking his head. "He cleared out of the Caribbean before the curse. Our Captain said he'd heard of him from his good mate, Bootstrap Bill... the one that Barbossa killed after the mutiny."
Ah, so that's how Bootstrap ended. Oh well. I'm not going to weep after him. Hm, wait... so Sparrow knew who I was from the beginning?...
"Was he Bootstrap's friend as well?" Scarecrow asks.
"Oh no," Gibbs laughs. "From what Captain Sparrow said, Bill and Ritchie were at daggers drawn from the beginning till the end. No wonder, 'cause Bill was truly a paragon of a good pirate, and he wouldn't keep company with such scum as Ritchie." He sighs. "'Tis so sad to see that the bad seed is still growing whilst the good one had been ripped."
"Don't worry, mate," Web Eye says. "'Tis true that ill vessels seldom miscarry, but he's alone and fer all I know, he'd better not show himself in Port Royal, or he'll find himself in rough water. Our Royal Navy here ain't got no tolerance for the remnants of Barbossa's crew."
"Ah, I do hope so, but I don't need no Royal Navy to take care of me. For you know, Captain Sparrow was of a mind that Ritchie's comin' to Port Royal after me."
His comrades laugh, but Nelly is shuddering by my side.
"I w-wonder what that Ritchie Brown looks like," she whispers to me. "I'm afraid he'd come to the Red Stocking to kill poor uncle Gibbs, because Gibbs is now alone as well."
"No, love, he's not stupid, he wouldn't come here. Don't be afraid. And if he does, just run straight to me," I say, showing her my pistol, and she clings to me without a word.
"Hey, Gibbs, mate, how does he looks like?" asks the small fellow who ate all the fish.
Gibbs purses his lips and thinks for a while. He's clearly hesitant to tell them that I'm not, in fact, very impressive-looking.
"We-ell," he says slowly, "he's quite tall and eh, w-well built. And quite strong, yeah. I've told you he carried a nine-year-old child out of the tavern holdin' her in one hand." He sighs and looks sadly at the empty plates, and then his look changes from sad to anxious.
"Awww, forgive me, mateys," he says scratching his head. "I forgot. Have to go an' see me old sister."
I look over to find little Jimmy, who is washing dishes and raises his head watchfully. I wink at him.
"Run after Gibbs," I whisper, giving him another coin, "and tell me which way he took. I'll be waiting here."
"Where are you going?" asks Nelly, seeing me adjust my hat slowly.
"Just to stretch out in such a glorious morning," I say, kissing her on the ear.
"Will you be back soon?"
"Ah, I guess I will," I say, not adding that I'll be back for Fat Elsie and not for her.
Gibbs is rather unaccustomed to walking fast and he hasn't managed to get far yet, when I go out of the Red Stocking. His steps are slow, he resembles a slightly dizzy bear that's been taught to walk and even to dance, but he still feels unsure of his abilities and would rather go back into the wilderness. He is parading through the busy streets with pride and he doesn't pay any attention to what's going around him - he apparently doesn't feel any fear, although being a deserter and a pirate he most definitely should. It seems that he regards himself as a thoroughly honest man who never did any harm to another honest man, and his self-confident appearance just gives away the long years spent at sea in the hard labour on merchant and Navy ships - nothing more and nothing less. He doesn't have the slightest suspicion that I could have followed him to Port Royal. He simply doesn't think it possible that anyone in the world would want to hurt him now. I don't have to hide myself from him so much, for he wouldn't believe his own eyes if he saw me in the Red Stocking or now in the street; there's almost no chance that he'd notice me.
I wonder if he notices the splendour of this morning that seems to feed on the street pedlars' cries, and to swell with the savoury smells of fried fish, bammy pancakes, baked chicken and the ubiquitous Johnny-bread... He's heading to the house, where his precious sister is serving some 'pampered lady', and he doesn't stop to look at street fights nor at street singers, so much he is determined in his pursuit of his little smelly family warmth. As if he really needs it in the generous warmth of the Caribbean morning that embraces us all, foes and friends, villains and decent folk alike.
He stops in front of a small villa. I slow down, looking for a safe place to hide. I want to hear and see as much as possible, and my eyes fall on the walls of a garden on the opposite side of the street. The walls are crumbling, bougainvillea, jasmine and nightshades hold sway over the deep dark garden. There is a house there too, and it looks abandoned, with its shutters hanging hopelessly from the empty windows. Ah, what a nice friendly place for me, I think, taking cover in the garden in the corner of the garden and peeping out at the street.
Gibbs takes a deep breath. He's reluctant to knock and stands by the gate for a while, sighing heavily and shifting his weight from one foot to another. He looks like a little boy afraid of his mother's scolding. Finally he grabs the knocker, and after a few pulls the gate opens.
I can't see the person who is greeting Gibbs with wild, teary exclamations and questions, but from the timbre of the voice I guess that it's Gibbs' sister herself. To my greatest dismay, she doesn't invite Gibbs inside. They stand by the gate, and she is explaining something with great difficulty - it seems she's stuttering quite heavily, and being moved to tears doesn't help her. I can only recognize that she's speaking about visitors that her lady is awaiting tonight.
Gibbs nods and promises to come tomorrow, after the Sunday mass. Then he leans forward to kiss his sister loudly, and the gate closes again. Gibbs stands before it for a moment, just like he did before knocking, and sighs, with great, genuine relief this time. I wonder why he is so anxious - when I was working with him on the Black Pearl, it was quite obvious to me that he holds his sister in great affection and yearns to see her... oh well, I will figure it out tomorrow. It's even better that I don't have to set a watch on Gibbs tonight, therefore being able to devote my time to making love to Fat Elsie and to talking to Norrington.
When Gibbs sets off to go back to the Red Stocking, and I snuggle out of the hole in the garden wall, ready to go after him, a familiar tune flows out of the villa's windows. I halt in my steps as if held by a spell, for I recognize the instrument. It may sound like a lute or a mandolin to unaccustomed ears, but not to mine; I know it, it's a Turkish baglama, and I know the melody as well.
No, wait, it's impossible, I try to assure myself. No one would be playing the "Mandira" tune in English Port Royal, no, no one. You must be mistaken, you must have drunk too much ale this morning... ah, but it must be it. I recognize not only the instrument and the tune, but even this light tapping on the box is familiar to me. Ah, but if even the rumours of Bo'sun being alive are spreading everywhere, why can't I meet here somebody who has to be alive and well anyway?
The unhurriedly increased tempo tells me that the musician is deep in thought and just follows the line, knowing that the sorrows will be finally sorted with this persistent, patient melody. It seems that my own fears and hopes will get sorted tomorrow as well... or I must get sober as quickly as possible.
tbc