"Thank ye kindly, once again, Miss Evie." Gibbs grinned drunkenly at the whore who smiled and chucked his cheek before opening the door that he might depart.
"You take care now, ducks, alright?" she dropped a hand to his shoulder and patted it. The pirate blinked at her blearily and smiled a touch wider, swayed unsteadily, then began a lurching departure from the room. He near-tripped over the rug, but made it through the door without further incident. He hummed a little to himself as he went, turning about the hallway in confusion for a moment before locating the staircase and stumbling toward it.
Evie shut her door, smiling a little still and wondering if he would make it to the streets without breaking his neck. Gibbs was an old dear and all the whores of Tortuga were mighty fond of him. His coin more often than not went on drink but he always scraped together enough on a regular basis for carnal pleasures and would rotate amongst them, paying whatever their top rate was. It was good of him and he was gentle and considerate and did not ever overstay his welcome. A prince among pricks, Evie had always said.
Evie dressed herself once more, trembling. Lately, she was much taken to violent chills even when the weather was fine, and would warm her gin at the hearth to help keep them at bay. Fastening the hooks of her bodice, she checked her reflection in the rippled glass to see if it pleased. The dress she wore had been hemmed and rehemmed many times over, its edges grown ragged from dragging in the mud, so that now it skimmed the back of her calves. Its bodice had been cut much lower when Evie had turned twenty-nine and noticed fine lines in the corners of her eyes and that meant that its once lavish lace trim had been discarded. Nonetheless, it still fit her well and its jewel-tone was still bright and cheerful enough to catch the eye, especially against the red of her hair, and that was still long and thick.
Squinting at herself Evie judged that her lip colour needed deepening and so slugged back long and hard of her gin bottle and hastily rammed what was left of her cold pie in her mouth before judiciously applying a streak of carmine. Smacking her lips together and fluffing up her hair, she gave herself a wink then let herself out of her room, trotting quick down the stairs to make the most of the rest of the night, a pretty and bouncing little creature in a green silk dress.
Out on the warm and dusty streets of Tortuga, whores flirted and men drank and all of them fought. Musicians stood in every corner, at every window of every tavern and belted jolly tunes in time to the punching, sword-clashing, guzzling and grunting. But Evie did not have to elbow a single person out of her way as she moved along the streets. My, but Tortuga was a quiet town these days! Business was still fair enough, but Evie had long given up thoughts of early retirement, though Barbossa's last generosity would last a good few years once the time did come – Tortuga was still a free port, and a cheap one.
Under one awning, a make-shift stage had been set up, a couple of strapped barrels forming a podium over which hung a rough-painted sign: "Buy a Bride". Evie peered over the dust kicked up by a quarrelling duo and spied Scarlet there, as usual, making the most of her little venture. Nearing forty, Scarlet had all but given up whoring and had instead initiated this innovative little scheme – the men would bid for their bride, the local parson (a man ejected from his parish in Scotland due to a penchant for ceremonial wine and altar boys) would marry them and the bride would go home and entertain her dearly beloved, playing house and ensuring she got him drunk enough over the next few days to make good an escape and be back at the podium again a couple of nights later to go to a new bidder.
The parson got a cut, and Scarlet got forty percent of all the bids from the wenches who wanted in. Scarlet herself had been wed over twenty times now and from the looks of things was about to make another successful union; she stood upon the stage twitching her rose-coloured skirts and grinning at the one-legged fellow who put up for ten silver pieces.
Evie laughed to see it and continued on her way. Such a sport was not for her; for one thing she would split her earnings with no one and for another there was still a pleasure in the chase of the game for her. Fortunately, for all whores who worked the ports of the Caribbean, the odd successful pirate ship still carried men so fuelled by triumphant ecstasy that no sooner had gold touched their hand than it bounced straight back out of it and into the coffers of publicans and the pockets of whores. Unfortunately, such was the scarcity of truly worthwhile hauls on the seas anymore that the pirates were all the more inclined to be tight-fisted in times of hardship. The pirates of old – the pirates Evie remembered from her mother's days and from her own early career – Roberts, Morgan, Blackbeard, Drake and Bellamy – fellows so glorious, so bedecked in finery and the shine of their own legend that they dazzled the eye to look upon them, so preceded by their reputation that they seemed gargantuan in comparison to all the men about them – those near mythological men bellowing laughter, brandishing swords, leading battles that thundered throughout the oceans and wanting nothing more than to spill gold and dance and drink when they were at rest – why, those men were long past into history and now seemed merely myth next to the sorrowful, bedraggled and whimpering lot of the times, who whinged and whined and near bored Evie stiff.
No, the old days were long gone and now there were only ghosts of them left in the sallow, knock-kneed old gents that were content to pilfer a whaling boat if it meant they would not run afoul of the East India Trading Company – no spirit to them anymore. There was only one true pirate threat left on the oceans… and that ship never dropped anchor in the port of Tortuga. Not anymore.
All that she knew of Barbossa these days were stories. Stories of ports brought to their knees and ship after ship dusting the bottom of the ocean as he and his crew cut a swathe through the oceans. It seemed no force could bring them down, not even the Company; any ship that it sent after it met a wretched fate. Barbossa almost single-handedly kept the legend and spirit of piracy alive, whispers of the tall and ferocious pirate lord with a flair for the dramatic, the cruel smile and the compelling presence still fluttered on the lips of sailors and wenches alike who found themselves on Tortuga's shores. Evie had at first listened to each one with eager hunger, pumping every informant for the last skerrick of knowledge they had, but these days it all sounded the same. It was the same – Barbossa and his crew sailed, they attacked, they conquered. They had become noted for the type of gold they seemed to prize above all else – anything exotica, of the Incas, the Aztecs and other relics from the Americas – so long as it were gold – and Evie did not need to ponder long, simple whore or not, to gather the motivation behind that. But what did it matter? After a while, Evie stopped wondering if Barbossa would call in again, if she would lay eyes upon him. She stopped composing speeches of the things she would say to him if he did or playing out fantasies of the life they might lead together if he was triumphant in his pursuit and returned to her. After awhile, she ceased to think of him at all. Except once, sometimes twice, a month when she would take a night off with wine and rum, fetch out her old music box (the tune would not always play now, or when it did would veer screechingly off course, the damp had got into it one month when it had rained constantly) and play with her old trinkets and drink until she passed out, as quick as she could so as to outrace the tears.
Evie stopped into the Duck and Swan, catching up the arm of one cheerful fellow for a quick jig out of which she scored a drink, neatly lifting it from the fellow's hand as he bellowed his delight, and went to perch in her usual corner. This was a place much changed now – where once it had been for those who fancied themselves (or could afford to pass off as) more genteel than the usual scruffy mob, where soliciting directly had not been permitted and where you might expect to find a high standard of – well, just about anything at all you needed from a tavern on Tortuga, with prices to match – now it had been obliged to open its doors to whomever fancied entering. Whores fraternised freely and its best vintages had long been sold out for half of what they'd originally cost. It had been Barbossa's favourite of course, for quiet when he needed it, and always first choice for a decent feed. She drained the tankard (ale, for pity's sake! What swill!) and almost wondered what he would think to see it now.
Nearby, a table of salty dogs, long retired from sea, were wearily enduring the presence of some whelp who blustered and blagged about his recent success with the pirate ship he'd taken up with. Evie immediately pegged him as a potential customer and began listening carefully so as to best devise her approach.
"Chinese ship, it was, filled with objects such as the likes of which you'd never seen! All manner of torturous instruments, such as only the minds of a barbarian could conceive – and a lot of good it did them too!" Here, the lad, a lithe brunette with a criminally beautiful face, laughed and slapped his hand upon the table. "We sold 'em all to the slavers in Port Royal and kept their fancies for usselves. Truth be told, they didn't have much as what was any good, but I got my hands on a couple of nice things – weapons and such – but these, these are me pride they are!" and he delved into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a ragged blue kerchief, tightly wrapped. Placing it on the centre of the table, it made enough of a clunk to cause Evie to sit up quite straight, and he carefully unfolded it to reveal the delicious yellow hue of gold.
But not just any gold. No, not just any gold at all. Gold in all shapes and sizes, with all manner of designs stamped into it, constantly passed into Tortuga, and into Evie's hands. She had seen almost as many patterns as men, but there was only one design that was burned into her memory and she near choked and leapt from her skin to see it there, winking as slyly at her as it had nine years prior. Cursed Aztec gold.
The old dogs put in a valiant effort to make impressed noises at the lad's coup, but there was not much passion in it. Evie knew they must be calling to mind the hauls of years past, and probably wishing they had put a bit more of it away. But Evie was very much interested in this boy's swag and it propelled her from her seat and into action, making a loud cluck of appreciation.
"My, my, fine bit of swag you 'ave there, my young genel'man!" she declared, lifting a hand to the boy's shoulder and smiling up at him, her very brightest and most shining smile.
The lad smiled down at her, just as widely and began wrapping up his precious bundle once more. "Why, I thank you for your most enthusiastic admiration, madam, but I fear I may have to disappoint you – I intend to keep these very fine pieces as commeratives of my first successful venture – and with all due respect, were I to spend any gold this eve, it would be on one somewhat younger. " He tucked the kerchief back into his pocket snugly, and smiled with all the self-assurance of youth. Evie did not miss a beat, laughing merrily as though he had made a fine jest and indicating to the old dogs.
"Did you 'ear the lad, gents! 'E thinks a scrawny ragamuffin as the likes of 'im is what I crave! Not that you're not pretty, mind!" she reassured the lad kindly and he politely tried to refrain from rolling his eyes.
"Thank you, I'm sure."
The old gents clustered around the table smiled wryly amongst themselves and gazed back into their tankards.
"Life treatin' you alright then, Evie?" One half-grinned and took a gulp from his drink. They all knew her, these fellows, and would not betray her. Indeed, she rather thought they would enjoy whatever she had in store for the lad.
"Yeah, not bad ducks." Evie rubbed a hand over his grizzled head and returned her attention to the lad, who cocked one hip forward arrogantly and surveyed her from thickly lashed lids. "No, no, my darlin', you was more right in your first utterance – is gold, is what I crave, but not from sweatin' under the docks is 'ow I intend to get it. I was merely wonderin', sweet'eart - " and from within a fold of her skirt she withdrew her old, stained card deck and riffled it loudly in her hands with high-raised brows and an inviting smile. " – if you was a gamblin' man?"
The lad took a step or two back from Evie and let his eyes openly traverse her up and down in a blatant assessment. For all his swagger, Evie could see straight away he was very new to these parts and trying to hide it. To him, she probably looked like nothing more than an alcoholic whore, past her prime and desperate yet to try and persuade a copper or two from him, even if she had to lose a few first to get there. And she knew it to be a certain when he, with a mocking flourish, accepted to sit down to a game with her.
He made a derisive comment on the state of her pack and Evie acknowledged openly it was a ragged old deck indeed (and how could the brat know what it meant to her?) and inwardly mused upon how the boy had survived this far – if he did not realise that a much-used pack was nowt but indication of experience rather than affluence? The folly of youth – though Evie had never been that young, not like that! She smiled, fluttered her lashes at the boy, ordered a bottle of gin for herself, shuffled, cut and dealt.
Evie was at first mindful to lose as much as she won and let him win a few very high-stakes hands so that the glow of victory would fire his blood and urge him to push all the harder. And when he was all but crowing in his chair and she was down to but a few brass pieces, she began in earnest to play. She stacked the deck and played him hard. It took only an hour or two and then the whelp was sitting, head in hands and moaning as Evie carefully counted her winnings into her purse, not seeming to favour any coin over the other though her heart thundered with every medallion that clinked into her lap. He had hesitated over wagering them, but the blush of his earlier triumph was still upon him and he thought surely the odds must swing his way again, never realising that Evie held full rein over the odds and in whose favour they would steer.
"Seems as there's much to be said for bein' somewhat advanced in years, wouldn't you agree, ducks?" she queried him chirpily and the old dogs at the table beside them, who had watched the whole game with far livelier interest than they had paid to the boy's stories, chuckled to themselves. When the lad shot them a fierce, red-eyed glare, one gave him a kindly nod and placed a gnarled hand upon his pistol, a clear advisement of what would await if the boy chose to debate his loss.
Evie bundled her winnings tight, drained her bottle of gin, dropped a kiss upon the forehead of each of the old sea gents, and skipped from the tavern into the star-speckled town beyond, knowing it was time to call it a night.
Back in her room, Evie nestled in the centre of her bed and let the medallions clink through her fingers, bouncing onto the coverlet with dull thuds. She shivered and pulled her old wool wrap tighter about her shoulders, feverishly taking a sip of hot gin. The death's heads grinned garishly at her from where they lay and she stared them down, thinking of all the mischief they had caused these past ten years. She did not altogether know what would happen now, or what even to do – but these medallions, at least, were safe with her and would go no further than this room for a time. No, here they would stay, secured carefully in the post of her bed, and wait, as long as they needed to.
As it turned out, that wait was not a long one.
It was barely two weeks later, one very late and unusually chill afternoon, that Evie was jerked from a deep slumber by a thunderous roar.
She sat up in bed, gasping, her heart beating fit to break, struggling to understand what it was that had so roused her. A storm, in the dry season? From beyond the walls of the Maison Rouge she could hear the sounds of the town, though it seemed somewhat early for things to be quite so lively. And as her breathing slowed and her heart rate calmed, Evie realised it was not the sounds of people laughing and cheering, there was no fiddle beating out a jolly tune – no, what filtered through to her dark, small, shabby little room were the sounds of panic and fear – screams and shouts, entreaties and protestations, swords clanging and guns blaring and then –
- there was another roaring explosion, louder even than the first, as though it were nearer to where she lay, and Evie cried out and threw the covers up above her head, trembling in terror at this strange and inexplicable catastrophe of sound. Oh what was it, what was going on?
A sudden hammering at her door and Evie shrieked despite herself and quaked still further until the familiar voice of Giselle could be heard above the din:
"Evie! Evie! It's me, are you in there?"
Evie flung the covers back and darted for the door, hastily unlatching it and throwing it open to admit her pal. The two bore down on the door, shutting it heavily and Evie locked it again with shaking hands before they ran back to her bed and there buried themselves beneath the covers, clinging to each other in panting fear.
"We're under attack!" Giselle squealed, her breath hot on Evie's face beneath the covers. "Tortuga is under attack!"
Another explosion ripped through the air, prompting the girls to scream out again and Evie felt herself grow faint even as she struggled to understand what Giselle was saying.
"But what do you mean? Who would attack Tortuga? Why? Is it the Tradin' Company then?"
Giselle shook her head, her face strained and taut with fear. "Nay, darlin'. Oh God, Evie. I was down at the docks when they got 'ere. It's the Pearl!"
Evie felt herself freeze, a lurch in her chest so sharp it caught her next exhalation at the base of the throat. She felt her grip on Giselle grow tight, her nails digging into Giselle's skinny back so that the other girl gasped to feel it. If it was the Pearl – if it was Barbossa – then they were here but for one thing – and she knew what it was.
She freed herself from the entanglement of the covers, leaping to her feet on the bed, not heeding Giselle's panicked entreaty. Fumbling with fingers so anxious they locked at the joints, cursing herself blue, Evie pulled the medallions from their hiding place, the clink of them in the little purse sharp against the cacophony of violence beyond. Giselle was up on her knees clutching at Evie's shift:
"What are you doin'? You're not goin' out there, for God's sakes, you'll be killed! It ain't the old days!"
Then there was a blood-curdling scream that caused both women to start and Evie fell to her knees besides Giselle. The scream had not come from outside – but from within the house.
Evie recovered quickly, struggling to her feet, into a robe.
"Giselle!" She panted. "I 'ave to go. I know why they're 'ere. You stay put, alright?" There were tears streaming down Giselle's face now as she tried to grasp Evie and pull her back. "Don't' ask me to explain now!" She wrenched herself free and gave her friend a pleading look. "This 'as to be settled."
And then she was at the door, unfastening it and bolting down the swaying stairs. On the first floor she drew up short; before her were a gang of pirates, a weeping, half-naked whore restrained by the bulging arm of one cruel looking fellow, whilst the others pulled apart her furniture and tossed it out onto the landing, shredding pillows and dresses so that feathers and velvet misted the air like some peculiar snow. She recognised them, remembered them when they had sang and drunk and spent money deliriously; now they swivelled filthy necks to stare at her with wild, desperate glares.
Her breast rose and fell with haggard breath and one dark fellow with dreadlocks snickered and made towards her with lascivious eyes.
"Don't touch 'er!" The wooden-eyed fellow said and the dark one stopped, tossing him a confused snarl. "It'll be the worse for us." He rolled his good-eye back to Evie and stared at her with a curiously dead expression. "Let 'er find 'er own fate with the Cap'n'."
And though they all continued to glare at her with murderous intent, they drew back and let her pass, not thinking to ask what it was Evie clutched so tight against her bosom in a little green purse. And though Evie knew they would continue to strip each room and brutalise the whores they found sleeping there, Evie did not tell them either, for her business was with their Captain, and it had nothing to do with the medallions.
Outside on the streets it was pandemonium. The sun had slowly begun to set, disregarding the wretched scene completely, going about its tradition with indefatigable intent. Men lay groaning and wounded, or completely still and in abnormal positions in the dust and muck, Whores and wenches shrieked and ran for cover in taverns and boarding houses. Amongst it all, the crew of the Black Pearl – a group of a mere thirty men – wreaked havoc, setting fires, breaking windows, doors, carriages, shooting randomly into the crowd and violently bringing down women in the middle of the streets. Buildings were sacked, their contents torn apart and strewn about, what meagre valuables as existed in Tortuga were taken and gun powder was lit in their place so that the air rang with explosions and Evie's eyes streamed water and her throat burned from the stench and acrid smoke. But she kept on, ducking and darting through the alleyways, keeping as close to the walls and buildings as possible, taking advantage of the late afternoon's long shadows for concealment while she surveyed the hurly burly for one familiar figure, the purse of medallions growing heavier in her hands with each street corner empty of him.
Then finally, at the junction by an old, disused well, where once she had seen him fight before, his tall and regal silhouette appeared from the smoke, striding forward with unflinching surety, his blade swishing through the air to clang hard against the axe-handle that was wielded against him by the publican of the Mermaid's Tail. The unfortunate fellow was disarmed, then Barbossa swung again, slashing him through so that he seemed to first hover in the air before crashing hard to the dirt, blood spattering around him. Barbossa did not blink, did not smile or grimace, merely turned and continued in his purposeful stride, his mouth set in one hard, straight line, and Evie felt her stomach clench, her head swim even as she propelled herself forward, straight towards him, leaping over a crumpled body, her cloak falling from her shoulders so that her hair tumbled out, catching the last dying rays of the setting sun, the hand that held the purse slowly unfurling from her side, proffering it toward Barbossa.
With a cruelly vacant gaze, Barbossa withdrew his pistol, cocked it and aimed in her direction. Evie stopped mid-step, her heart leaping upwards to obstruct her throat. Is this how it would end then, he would shoot her down on the street as though she were a stranger to him? Was this what it would all come to. Evie wavered, her plea for mercy dying on her lips, her eyes swimming with scalding tears. Then Barbossa fired and there was a grunt and a thump in the dust behind her and Evie whirled on her heels to behold a scarred and grimy fellow bearing a hatchet, evidently intended for her neck, clutching his chest and grimacing.
She turned back to Barbossa, who continued to advance, holding the smoking weapon aloft, his eyes hard and expressionless upon her although the merest sneer curled his lip. She rather thought it would be wise to run, but found she could not, that she could not summon courage even to scream.
He came to a halt a few paces from her and lowered the pistol, tucking it back into his belt, even as the fellow he shot staggered to his feet and, throwing his Captain a puzzled glare, took up his hatchet to bring misery elsewhere.
Cocking his head he looked her up and down and when he spoke his voice was low and coarse: "A wise girl would be mindin' herself and findin' a secure place to hide about now, Missy."
She dared instead to blink and the tears that had risen to her eyes when she thought she was about to die slipped over her lower lids with relief to roll down her cheeks. No more followed them and she gazed back at him intently.
"You know my name." She said firmly. "You've known it a long time."
And his lip twisted into a cynical smile and she heard the whisper of what might've been a laugh.
"A very long time." He affirmed. "But I've not much use for time nor history these days, Evie."
She blanched a little, but then straightened her shoulders and looked him firm in the eye, though it hurt her to do so for she could see nothing there that called to mind the charismatic pirate Captain that had so thrilled the days of her youth, the man who had kissed her so tenderly and so often on long, sultry nights so that her head was filled with thoughts of him long after he'd gone. Best she get this over with quickly, then.
"Thought these might be of use to you." She said, voice harsh, and thrust the purse of medallions in his direction.
He cocked a brow but did not take his gaze from hers, holding it still in an unyielding stance as he reached out a long arm and plucked the purse from her hands with begrimed though elegant fingers. Working it open, he delved in a hand and withdrew a medallion, holding it up level to his eye, where it caught the orange sunglow and flamed bright, dazzling them both. And though she had to squint, she caught the way his expression altered, the merest ripple of astonishment temporarily smoothing out his crows' feet, the light that sparked in his eye.
"Been keepin' 'em safe for you." She offered as an abrupt explanation and he snapped his head to her, keeping his countenance stiff and hard as though he feared what he might reveal if he did not keep a close hold on himself. "Ain't you goin' to say thank you?" And it might've been pert or cheeky in years gone past, now it sounded only bitter and weary.
But Barbossa smiled again as the last of the sun disappeared over the bridge and the buildings, both of them bathed momentarily in the final blood red haze, and Evie felt she might collapse to see the fire it set in his hair and beard, and in the yellowed depths of his eyes, crumble wretchedly at this final bright flash of what she had lost.
"Ah, ye cannot know, ye cannot, what it means to be within mere inches of ye and not even able to catch the scent of ye upon the breeze. To see ye here before me, so very, very close – " and he enunciated the words heavily " – and know it will never be close enough. That to touch ye, will be to want to crawl deep inside of ye, to feel it like an itch, grippin' me right through, suffocatin' me." And suddenly there was such longing on his face, Evie thought she could almost feel it herself, the pained desperation that creased his brows and trembled on his lips as he took another step forward, a hand wavering inches from her hair as though he feared she would vanish if he dared touch. She burned to touch him, but dared not, feeling the closeness of him as keenly as a wound driven deep into her breast. His voice was a mere whisper as he spoke now, eyes flickering wretchedly over her face.
"Try though I might I cannot recall the taste of yer lips, the scent of yer hair or the sensation of bein' deep within ye, and I have tried, wench, I have tried. Lost, it be, lost to time, lost to another life. Where once I could delight in the very peal of yer laughter, now I fear it would merely madden me."
And he snatched his hand back just as Evie thought it would betray him and delve into her hair. She gasped, started forward to grasp him and he fixed his face into one of such hardness that she felt it pierce her right to the very core. His longing was once more masked, what glimmer of tenderness that flickered there had been once again stifled and now he looked merely cold and savage.
"There be more bitterness now than anythin' else when I look at ye." His eyes dragged icily over her face before he tore them away, jaw clenching. "And of late I have taken to destroyin' that which I can no more have."
Evie's own gaze tumbled over him desperately, wanting to entreat him if there nothing left of her, nothing at all that could spark pleasure in his heart But then she saw the violent tremble of his hands, their knuckles near-splitting with the ferociousness of his clench as they hovered at his belt, and she let her own hands fall idle by her side, her heart thudding dully in her breast. She lifted a teary gaze to his face once more, to the aged and rougueish face with its scar and thousands of tiny wrinkles and aristocratic nose, wanting just once more to see some spark of that old pirate lord twinkle at her amid the dust and the blood. Under the weight of her gaze he slid his eyes back to her, a muscle moved in his jaw and he narrowed his lids viciously.
"So get out of me sight." He barked and she leapt back a little at the savageness in his voice, but staring at him still, not wanting this to the last way she ever saw him, yet not able to tear her eyes away. "Now." he spat. And his hand was on his sword.
So finally, she turned on her heel and left him there. She did not run, or even hurry, she was too sick at heart to rouse such decisiveness from her limbs, which were heavy with sorrow and a splintering pain that locked her joints. The pirates of the Black Pearl were wrapping up their affairs, hurtling back towards the docks with whoops and bellows of triumph, leaving behind them a torn and broken town to be put back together. Evie was alone on the streets but for the injured and dying bodies that littered the way, the air still smoky from gunfire and blazes and the smell of blood tangy in her nostrils. She did not stop to enquire or offer assistance to any who moaned or wept, but kept her path, arms hugging herself against the deep chill she felt. And though within her heart was splintering in a way that it seemed to send up a scream that rang in her ears, she kept her head held high and no tear fell from her eye.
Behind her, Barbossa stood in the twilight, alone with a purse of Aztec gold and blood on his sword, and twining around his fingertips, where they had clung after being freed from the bindings that tied together the purse, were a few stray strands of red hair.