Hunted and Hated
An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque
I do not own X-Men.
Chapter 14: Defiance
(A/N: Let me reiterate one more time that the opinions Pedro expresses in this chapter are not intended to malign or insult the Catholic Church in any way, shape, form or fashion. This is merely a story, with a purpose to entertain its readers. Nothing more, nothing less.)
Somewhere...
Contrary to what Errol Flynn and Johnny Depp may lead one to believe, being on an old-fashioned sailing ship was not a pleasant experience.
The food was, more often than not, spoiled or spoiling. Fresh water went stale very quickly, so many seaman had to make do with rum or ale. Produce, such as fruits and vegetables, rotted in the dank, musty cargo hold. Meat was really the only food to be had here, but even that was almost unbearable; it was standard procedure to pickle the beef and pork in salt, and the result was a taste so overpowering that many tars had to get tipsy with rum before forcing it down. The infamous hardtack was also on every menu. The rock-solid biscuits were almost certainly infested with weevils, and it was preferred to consume them in the dark so the sailors could not to see the worms' heads poking out of their evening repast. Such a limited diet produced periodic outbreaks of scurvy, that bane of sailors everywhere; indeed, it was not uncommon for a man to die, not from sword slashes or musket balls, but from malnutrition, food poisoning, or any one of a dozen diseases.
Those ailments spread like wildfire on board a ship. The living quarters were cramped and confined, infested with rats and cockroaches and all manner of filthy vermin. Sailors often fought over tattered blankets infested with lice or fleas, and the lower decks were awash in bilgewater and human excrement. The captain was probably the only man aboard any blue-water vessel who had an entire cabin all to himself, and it was often resentment among his crew that spurred the bloodiest of mutinies.
Then, after all that, one must take into account all the day-to-day risks of such work. A tar could fall from the mast and shatter like an eggshell, he could be caught in a gale and swept over the side. Or he could commence quarrelling with one of his shipmates, and die with a dagger between his shoulder blades. Discipline on almost every vessel was commonly draconian, the only exception being the privateers who operated under more democratic conventions. But to sailors in a more honest line of work, the captain held absolute power in all things. Minor offenses commonly warranted floggings, after which salt water would be dumped on the man's wounds. Striking a superior officer warranted anything from the loss of a hand to instant death, and even then there were a multitude of options available for execution. Hanging was standard, as were firing squads, but by far the most barbaric practice was the feared punishment known as keelhauling. The poor soul who had to endure such a fate was stripped to the waist and a rope tied along his ankles, whereupon he would be slung over the stern of the ship and dragged underneath her all the way to the bow. The razor-sharp barnacles that encrusted the ship's hull would in the process scrape and shred the flesh of the man's back, and he would likely bleed to death if he did not drown. Even if the unfortunate tar emerged from the sea alive, he would probably die a slower, more agonizing death when his wounds became septic or rotted with gangrene.
Kurt Wagner would have gladly taken his chances and jumped over the side, were it not for the ball and chain around his ankle that slowed his pace.
He did not know how long it had been since the Inquisition had marched him into the brig and locked him there. The passage of time lost meaning to the poor mutant, surrounded as he was in the darkness of the warship's lower decks. The only light that ever shined here was from the lantern carried by the man assigned to feed Kurt, but given the prospect of what he was being fed for, the young man soon lost his appetite. The Inquisition needed him to still be breathing when the galleon dropped anchor in Rome, so for the sake of his future execution Kurt needed to be kept alive.
But just barely.
If Kurt had been a wreck before, he now looked like a corpse, malnourished and thin with almost no weight on him. His daily meal consisted only of stale water and hardtack, and even then the guards would sometimes withhold the food just for the hell of it. It never failed to satisfy Pedro and his men when they could watch Kurt's pain and suffering.
Even Pedro Sanchez himself "visited" Kurt from time to time, describing in lurid detail the various tortures that would lead up to his hideous demise. The Spaniard would spend long hours indulging ecstatically on Kurt's misery, and Kurt had concluded, quite correctly, that the man was a complete raving lunatic.
Today's visit was no different. Pedro had walked in on Kurt when he was trying to sleep, but a bucket of seawater soon jolted the hapless mutant into wakefulness.
"You do not deserve rest," Pedro said casually, putting the bucket down. "You will only close those hideous eyes when I am done killing you. And that will not be in the near future, demon. You deserve to suffer before the Church sends you back to Hell."
Kurt spat the saltwater out of his mouth. "Is that…what you keep telling yourself?" he rasped, his voice husky from disuse. "You…torture people, innocent people, and for what? What…did those people…ever do to you or your Church? What could they have done…to deserve such a fate?"
"Those swine went against the doctrines of the Catholic Church!" Pedro snarled. "They did not deserve to live for defying God's will!"
"And how…do you know…what God's will is?" Kurt asked. "None of us…do."
"DO NOT SPEAK OF THE LORD ALMIGHTY, HELLSPAWN!" Pedro roared. "You are not fit to lick my boots!"
"You are blinded by your hate," Kurt stated from his position behind the cell bars. "I've…never done anything…to hurt anyone…even to your men, who tried to kill me."
"And what about those men who lie dead back in Spain?" Pedro hissed. "You murdered thirteen of God's soldiers when we took you prisoner, to face His justice!"
Kurt would have laughed, but he didn't have the energy for it. "I couldn't care less what you do to me. I only killed them…because they would have killed Kitty…Would have let them live…if given the choice…"
"Lies," Pedro snarled. "More and more lies from between your foul lips. You enjoyed cutting my men down! The servants of Lucifer find joy in destruction!"
"Then…what does that make you?" Kurt riposted, grinning crookedly. "From what I hear, you're not…a paragon of virtue, Sanchez."
"It was necessary, to purge Europe of evil," The Spaniard replied automatically.
Kurt wheezed in lieu of full-blown laughter. "What was that old saying? 'Necessity…the tyrant's plea…' Those people did nothing to you or your precious Church…they only had different thoughts and opinions…"
"The Church is always right in all things," Pedro said with absolute conviction. "Anyone who says otherwise must be in league with Satan, like you."
"I'm not gonna waste my breath…trying to change your mind on that one."
"A shrewd decision," Pedro replied. "You will need it when you scream your last at the stake."
Meanwhile…
Black John Hughes ran his coarse, calloused fingers over the tiller of his vessel, the Ranger. It was of the class known as the brigantine, rigged square on the foremast, and gaff-rigged on the mainmast with trysails and stay-sails in between. At eighty feet long, the Range was larger than the sloops most privateers preferred, carrying twelve cannon and a hundred men at Black John's command.
The presence of a woman aboard would be troublesome, he knew. Many of Hughes's hearties were very superstitious, and convinced that a member of the fairer sex on their vessel would bring them to ruin. Hughes himself held no belief in such ridiculous poppycock, but the fact remained that he had given young Ms. Hernandez his word, and he meant to keep it. The bag of gold she'd offered as payment(and the lure of sultry Italian women once Hughes and his men arrived in Rome) had thankfully been enough to stifle most of the men's complaints. But at least one tar had insisted on "sharing" Kitty among his mates.
Hughes had shot that fellow in the chest. Just because they were thieves, he'd said, didn't mean that his men had to act like savages. His eyes had narrowed dangerously down the length of his still-smoking barrel. Mistress Pryde was a guest on his ship, and should be treated accordingly, Hughes had told his men, and anyone who so much as looked at her the wrong way would be thrown over the side.
There was a strong wind the day the Ranger left the harbor of Barcelona, and Hughes barked out orders in between tugging thoughtfully at his beard.
"Two points to port," he called to his quartermaster. "Hard a-lee, Mr. Smith! Make sail!"
"Haul on the sheets!" Smith relayed his orders. "Hard a-port! Heading north-northeast! Look lively!"
"Aye, aye, sir!" the men roared as they scurried about the deck like ants, and the sails billowed as they caught the breeze.
Hughes had mapped the entire trip out the previous evening. The Ranger would sail around the coast of Spain, passing through the Strait of Gibraltar before entering the Mediterranean Sea. Admittedly, those waters were ruled by the Barbary Corsairs, but Hughes had won enough scrapes with Moors to know that they'd give him a wide berth. From there, it would be a straight shot to the nearest Italian port, and there Kitty would disembark. Rome was further inland, and a ship could not sail on dirt. It would be up to Kitty to find further transportation after that.
The girl, Hughes decided, had never been to sea once in her entire life. The Ranger had barely begun moving when she'd come down with seasickness. Hughes, a gentleman among pirates, had graciously offered her the use of his cabin until she found her sea legs. She was in there right now, the captain knew, and likely with her head in a bucket.
The loss of his bed for a few nights didn't really bother Hughes. He preferred to sleep under the stars anyway, and he'd rather cut off his own hand rather than turn his back to a lady in discomfort.
It was not that Hughes was going soft. He merely wanted to fulfill his end of the deal, and he wouldn't be able to do that if Kitty died from some disease contracted in a filthy hammock.
Deep in the confines of Black John's luxurious cabin, Kitty made a silent vow as her stomach churned once again.
Hang on, Kurt. I'm coming…
A/N: Well, I hope you all enjoyed this latest chapter! ^^ Will Kurt survive his harrowing journey? Will Kitty reach him in time? And will Vittorio's evil scheme come to fruition? Find out in coming chapters!
Your humble servant,
-Quill N. Inque
(P.S. Don't worry about saying goodbye to Black John. He has a much bigger role than the one he's playing now…)