Fic: Metal and words, 1/16
Title: Metal and words, 1/16
Author: Aletheia Felinea
Beta: Within a year and half, this fic turned out a serial beta killer. All the more I'm grateful to compassrose7577, who put a lot of care and effort into making my English acceptable. The very first reader of the translation was fiquet, I took also her opinion into consideration.
Rating: PG-13 overall
Wordcount: about 2 950, this chapter
Characters: Jack Sparrow in a crowd of OCs.
Genre: Gen fic supposed to be a crime story.
Time: Months before CotBP.
Summary: The sweet air of Tortuga can be dangerous sometimes, even for the certain Captain. And curiosity can kill a sparrow. Or... save?
Warnings: Scandalous cases of fanciful and shameless treating of respectable resources. Historical, for example. Sometimes.
Disclaimer: Not my hunting territory, The Big Black Mouse prowls here.
Note: The fic was translated from Polish. Jeśli wolisz czytać w oryginale, zapraszam.
I must admit that I'm exceptionally excited posting this, and anxious about the reception. Will it be interesting for you? Let me know, please, and now I'm leaving you with black sheep and one bird. :)
The sun rose, lighting the bay’s waters. The morning breeze filled sails set in the roads, waking the waves splashing against wooden keels and stone docks. The wind advanced amidst narrow streets of Tortuga, vanishing there quickly and ignominiously. The infamous atmosphere of the town met one like a lighthouse, announcing the island’s presence by a good half mile, by favourable (or rather, malevolent) wind. Some hoarse cock at the top of its lungs, and with the rasped throat, strove to best the screeches of gulls, oblivious to no one appreciated its efforts in a town which never slept. The day promised to be sweltering and bustling… as every day.
However, the subject which dominated that day’s buzz wasn’t an everyday one. A rumour raced from tongue to tongue, spreading between the port and houses, passed amid fishermen, strumpets and tramps, carried as fleas on rats, whispered in lanes, shouted in taverns, louder and louder. “Under the old pier, they found Rusty Hans Snoggerson!” it was proclaimed. “Rusty Hans stiff as a dried herrin' and with an extra smile pretty carved on the throat!” By the fifth tavern, Rusty Hans had already, “blinkers goggled, teeth bared an' all shags stickin' up, strike me dead if I cram, I've seen by myself!”
The version carried onwards, that is “…and yet hand he had a shred of rag, surely from the togs of the one who dispatched 'im for the eternal watch! And he was missin' shoes! Hans, that is to say…” already went right past Jack Sparrow harbored snugly in the sixth tavern. To tell the truth, he would have believed the shoes bit - mostly because Rusty Hans had rarely been seen with them. But for Jack, the scanter version was sufficient. He sighed heavily and, with a certain effort, unstuck himself from a sticky table at which dawn had seen him slumbering. This world’s going to the dogs, he decided. It’s damn harder and harder for a honest pirate to steal for his daily rum, and yet the free piratey Brethren slaughters one another as the East India Trading Company shareholders on the eve of the election to Court.
Jack would have drank the deceased’s health, if he had something to drink. Nobody can say Jack Sparrow forgets his creditors! And Tortuga’s mud as his witness, every time he had spotted Rusty Hans, he had recalled that he owed him fourteen shillings and three mugs at Faithful Bride since last spring. He recalled it usually in time to dodge into a lane or behind the nearest cote. Why disturb old Hans with the sight of him? A decent mate, he was, and Jack had wished him well, so he spared him the unpleasantness of encounters with the thin and shabby debtor.
“It’s Skiver Ed and Ugly Wessley. ‘S their job,” someone next to Jack muttered, cutting through his gloomy thoughts. The pirate glanced at the expert on the night doings of Tortuga’s merry folk and hastily made a mental review of the possible state of his liabilities in this case. The memory reported this time, exceptionally, Jack’s record as clean and pure as seawater, somewhere very far from this port. The prospective candidate for a creditor was stretching himself and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A moment earlier, he had unstuck himself from this same table, a far easier task for him, since he was completely bald. And besides, gaptoothed, hare-lipped, broken-nosed, web-eyed, with a long, matted beard and a peg leg, in which woodworms not only lived, but probably bequeathed and mortgaged, so it was no wonder that, in the face of such a walking assemblage of nicks hints, the public surrendered and just called him Joe Morgan.
Jack couldn’t, though wouldn’t mind, running up a debt with Joe, for the simple reason that Joe also wouldn’t mind running up a debt with Jack. So yesternight, after an unexpected meeting en route from one tavern to another, and ascertaining that neither had more than an ear to lend, they spent the night luring chaps willing to buy a round for no more than tall tales and promises of everlasting friendship, or reckless enough to be enticed with cards. The pack had been Joe’s, the deft hands Jack’s, and the stakes guests’ at their table, at least until the moment they jangled from pouches to the tabletop. In private, Jack deemed it a fair deal. All of Tortuga knew that anyone who sat down to cards with Jack Sparrow rose broke, but amused as never in a life. Many came back, some with another pouch instead of a pistol in hand.
The pirate grinned on this reminiscence. He leaned back on a rickety stool and looked around the tavern, as if the owner of the crumbling walls, sooty ceiling, six beaten-up tables and sturdy counter. In the interior, designed in the traditional style le Tortuése baroque, that is 'drink, pay and get out', the last component was the most solid object within sight, and the most capacious, with just enough room underneath to fit the bartender and as many bottles as he might catch, when the clientele cheers up, and mugs, hats and bullets began to fly. It wasn’t Sally McDonnell’s first day in Tortuga nor her first business, so she could write guides for the innkeeper trade. That is, if Sally could write. That morning, she stood at the bar, scrutinizing the obscure room, assessing which was better to sweep out, and which to leave. Or rather who, because the morning tidying rarely included more than clients from under and atop of tables. She rolled her eyes when her survey come across the brilliant grin of Captain Sparrow, to which he returned an even wider one. Then he turned toward Joe.
“And why, pray tell, just Skiver an' Ugly, eh?” Jack said. “If you can see wha’s goin’ in port from behin’ this table and with your nose in a mug, then mebbe you’ll also detec’ that galleon heavy wif silver, the one hurled on a reef by that hurricane month ago? A shallow there, they say, so now you’re a clairvoyant, I’ll help you draw ou’ the silver. For a half of the output an' if you ask pretty enough”.
Morgan sent him a glare from above his beard, which he tried to entangle a bit. “Not on me second sight, but you seem a might blind. As I’ve been sayin', too much rum, Jackie! Knaves’n’kings were confusin’ for you by night’s end, so mebbe you’re not quite awake yet. Or actually you’re struck blind for good.” Joe jabbed air behind him with his thumb, pointing to the opposite side of the room.
“There isn’ any ‘too much’ for me,” Jack protested reflexively, while looking in the indicated direction. He wasn’t alone. Many glances were cast furtively or outrightly towards the corner enclosing the least rickety and relatively cleanest table. The corner was officially called “the alcove”, for special - that is jingling with silver and gold - guests, usually captains celebrating successful raids. A curtain of worn velvet, now drawn back, separated it from the rest of the space. Three chairs had backrests, the fourth padded upholstery, the middle of the table adorned by a weighty bronze candlestick, firmly nailed to the tabletop, of course, as Jack had tested long ago. Sally knew really her trade and, more importantly, her clients.
That morning, Wessley lounged on one of the chairs. Having just pushed away his plate, he got down to the dignified picking of his teeth. Wessley, or as he used to introduce himself, Edward Wessley Viscount of Westingmore, did everything in a dignified manner, including flea hunting. In private, Jack was of the opinion that his viscountship could be quite true, and in the way “truth” was used in the world distant from Caribbean waters: under the eternal fog-rainy sky and an omnipresent bureaucracy, demanding to certify knighthoods by documents weighty with regal seals. Wessley had aristocratically smooth features, with the cold beauty of a marble statue and probably also a brain of it. In Jack’s opinion, the Viscount of Westingmore’s hat - always studiously matched to a satin coat, brocade vest and batiste shirt, festooned with lace - could outwit its owner. There was plenty to win from him, but Jack would rather propose to Sally McDonnell than touch the cards with Wessley. It would be very hard to not outplay him, and but one way to amuse him: look frightened. There were, however, many ways to incline him to seize the weapon: outplay him at cards, or call him “Ugly” within earshot, the nick being difficult to resist, in view of all the Viscount’s spotless finery.
The Viscount’s companion, however, was decidedly not so spotless. At the very moment, he half-laid, hat lowered over his eyes, on the next chair, the padded one. It was hard to say who first nicknamed Skiver Ed, for no one was willing to confess. Anyway, the name clung as tar to a deck. In general, the most noticeable of Skiver Ed was that he was distinguished from Ugly Wessley not only in disgust for perfumes and taste for clothing more common between self-respecting vagabonds, but in every way. Almost everything amused him, although no one had heard his laugh. Yet he smirked quite often, especially when hearing something about himself. The smirk, however, tended to put a chill in bones of those watching, in spite of the fact that no one had seen him with a weapon in hand, though he always carried an unspecified blade at his side. From a distance and secretly, some sneered, claiming it was surely no more than an empty scabbard with a protruding hilt. Even if that was true, that Skiver Ed never touched a skiver of any kind, he always had one at hand, in the shiny figure of Ugly Wessley. One look at this duet was to see that Skiver Ed was the sole owner and user of a brain which worked for both of them. In light of that, he was mockingly bestowed with Wessley’s first name, what he, surprisingly, accepted.
In general, one look at Skiver and Ugly was enough to see many things. That was why Jack Sparrow never relied upon one look or the first thought, regarding the pair. 'Many' means often 'too little' and 'not the most important'.
“So?” he asked, out of pure spite, for he knew well what Morgan had meant. It was plainly etched on every face in the tavern, most plainly on those who hurried away the instant Skiver’s hat raised slightly.
Morgan rolled his eyes. “Cash on them,” he explained slowly and patiently as if speaking to a colonial clerk. “And don’ you see how they look like?”
“How?”
“As if they…! Come on, uh! …somebody!”
“As usual, then…”
“You’re stupid, Jack.” Morgan lost his patience. “As usual, when one... uh, you know, somebody! …then one tries to look innocent, and when can’t, then gets out of people’s sight at least. For this, uh, suspicions. To not promp… not prop…not bring to mind.”
“Didn’ know you’re so practised in the business…” Jack opened his eyes wide with exaggerated wonder. “Then it looks like they aren’t ‘ere at all, and at the table our ‘allucinations are sittin’, or someone other uh-ed old Hans, after all.”
“Nothin’ looks, doesn’ look at all! Don’ cut in, I’ve not finished yet! If they wouldn’ sit, then the all’d suspec’ them! Cause they disappeared! So they’re just sittin’ on purpose and look as if they, uh…! Crafty, eh?” the genius of deduction and the expert on a criminal mind finished, very satisfied.
“Crafty. Like a cat in fron’ of a corked mouse hole,” Jack assured with a straight face. Not waiting for the ‘praise’s’ essence to sink in Joe, he added: “But apparen’ly you’re not the only one not fooled, since everyone suspects them. They’d better come straight off, instead of wasting the time an’ contrive these craftinesses”.
Morgan looked suspiciously at Jack’s grin, beaming with 24-carat sincerity, but said nothing. Instead, he rummaged in his pockets, pulled out a pipe, and rummaged in pockets again. Unable to find tobacco, he pocketed the pipe back and grunted at last: “An’ it’s not my business, anyway. An’ it ain’t yours, neither.”
“Sure,” Jack agreed. “Wha’s the use of suspicions? If Sally was to throw out anyone with a mark on the record, this place would be as deserted as the cemetery at a gravedigger’s burial.”
Morgan glanced at him askance and fidgeted uneasily.
“Eh, why anyone…?” he muttered. “You know, a brawl happens, an’ there’s a crush, and your knife gets tangled, an’ then turns out it’s in someone’s guts… And anyway, when a some cocky sod offends a decent man, kick up a fuss, spills his rum…”
“Carries gold in pockets…”
“… carries gold… what?” Morgan blinked and turned red. “Aw heck, it was no longer of use to ‘im, so only a fool’d leave it! Someone could steal it otherwise! It’s one thing to attend the useless, an’ quite another thing to butcher somebody on purpose!”
“You didn’ say you’re givin’ up the piracy trade and assumin’ the habit.” Jack grinned cheerfully. “Only mind to not mistake contemplatin' friars with converting ones, or else you’ll cut and run back to the pirate brethren, if you’re so sick of gore”.
Morgan began to get purple. “To roll out guns and hois' the Roger in the pirate way and in broad daylight, also not the same what…!”
“What?”
Morgan cast a reflexive glance toward the alcove and said, barely audible: “By night. An' from the behind.”
“And for gold?” muttered Jack. He also glanced, at Wessley’s plate, with a vague feeling that breakfast was a great invention of mankind.
Morgan mumbled something vaguely acquiescent and rummaged again in the folds of his clothing, probably in search of non-existent tobacco. For a while, Jack observed these manipulations from the corner of his eye, and then pulled out his own pipe. Empty since time immemorial and cold as Davy Jones’ chest, he turned it in his fingers, studiously inspecting the smoothed bowl, and asked quietly: “An’ by you, how much could Hans have in ‘is pockets, then?”
“He’d 'ave to have these pockets first,” Joe snorted. Then he suddenly blinked again, opened his mouth, shut it, glanced once more at the alcove, and back at Jack.
“Uh-huh,” Jack nodded, leaning on the wall and biting at the pipe’s stem. Rusty Hans Snoggerson, who, besides being a true redhead, always had worn the same tattered breeches and holey shirt. He was completed by an even more tattered straw hat and a small knife dangling on the end of a string supporting his breeches. If Hans had something more, and he rarely did, then he kept it on his bosom. Even for the least demanding robber, and in the port’s dimness, he couldn’t have looked promising. Skiver and Ugly weren’t little demanding.
“He hadn’ to 'ave on 'im…” Morgan muttered.
“Then I haven’ heard about a more crafty method yet, to knoc’ off somebody who hides gold, in order to find the hidin’ place,” snorted Jack.
“He’d could jus’ hide it in the port.” Morgan perked up. “And mebbe somebody followed…!”
He stopped and drooped at Jack’s meaningful gaze. In a place tread every day by hundreds of feet, seen by hundreds of eyes and changed after every storm, only the newer wharves being paved, the old pier fringed with sandy beaches, such a hoard would have been excellently hidden, beyond any reach. Especially the owner’s.
Jack could have told Morgan to not bother with inquiries. Wherever and whatever hoards Rusty Hans had possessed, he would have nothing to put in them. If someone was to look for Jack Sparrow in every tavern, then they plainly are so desperate that wind undoubtedly whistled through their pockets. But Jack said nothing. As Joe Morgan had said himself, it’s not Joe Morgan’s business.
The pirate bit the stem of his pipe again and gazed thoughtfully on the blackened wood of the tabletop before him. Actually… Nah. Joe Morgan was right: there wasn’t much need to put knives in motion, and not every knife gets stuck in someone’s guts by the will of the one who wields it, or in throat, for that matter. Neither is every knife drawn because of gold, and for sure not for the gold of Hans’ skin. Jack would stake everything what jingled which passed through his hands last night on that. Rusty Hans had obviously tread on somebody’s toes, and Tortuga toes were very sensitive, knives sharp and flashing readily. One had to have flashed for old Hans, who had never tread on anybody’s toes, so far as Jack remembered. The pirate shifted his eyes to look at the slowly emptying tavern.
Actually…
He pocketed the pipe and looked around for his hat. Discovering he was sitting on it, he sprang to his feet, wiped the worn leather with his sleeve, and put the crumpled tricorn on the place more entitled to it. Slightly surprised by this sudden burst of haste, Morgan didn’t try to stop Jack as he rushed to the door. Last night, they had settled accounts on the spot, and Joe, to Jack’s regret, could calculate fine. Sparrow dashed onto the street, making a great point to no look in the direction of Skiver and Ugly. The careful not-looking assured him that they paid him no attention.
Actually, from who had he heard lately, that Rusty Hans Snoggerson had been looking for him?
The next part.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Comments and remarks welcomed and appreciated. :)
Author: Aletheia Felinea
Beta: Within a year and half, this fic turned out a serial beta killer. All the more I'm grateful to compassrose7577, who put a lot of care and effort into making my English acceptable. The very first reader of the translation was fiquet, I took also her opinion into consideration.
Rating: PG-13 overall
Wordcount: about 2 950, this chapter
Characters: Jack Sparrow in a crowd of OCs.
Genre: Gen fic supposed to be a crime story.
Time: Months before CotBP.
Summary: The sweet air of Tortuga can be dangerous sometimes, even for the certain Captain. And curiosity can kill a sparrow. Or... save?
Warnings: Scandalous cases of fanciful and shameless treating of respectable resources. Historical, for example. Sometimes.
Disclaimer: Not my hunting territory, The Big Black Mouse prowls here.
Note: The fic was translated from Polish. Jeśli wolisz czytać w oryginale, zapraszam.
I must admit that I'm exceptionally excited posting this, and anxious about the reception. Will it be interesting for you? Let me know, please, and now I'm leaving you with black sheep and one bird. :)
The sun rose, lighting the bay’s waters. The morning breeze filled sails set in the roads, waking the waves splashing against wooden keels and stone docks. The wind advanced amidst narrow streets of Tortuga, vanishing there quickly and ignominiously. The infamous atmosphere of the town met one like a lighthouse, announcing the island’s presence by a good half mile, by favourable (or rather, malevolent) wind. Some hoarse cock at the top of its lungs, and with the rasped throat, strove to best the screeches of gulls, oblivious to no one appreciated its efforts in a town which never slept. The day promised to be sweltering and bustling… as every day.
However, the subject which dominated that day’s buzz wasn’t an everyday one. A rumour raced from tongue to tongue, spreading between the port and houses, passed amid fishermen, strumpets and tramps, carried as fleas on rats, whispered in lanes, shouted in taverns, louder and louder. “Under the old pier, they found Rusty Hans Snoggerson!” it was proclaimed. “Rusty Hans stiff as a dried herrin' and with an extra smile pretty carved on the throat!” By the fifth tavern, Rusty Hans had already, “blinkers goggled, teeth bared an' all shags stickin' up, strike me dead if I cram, I've seen by myself!”
The version carried onwards, that is “…and yet hand he had a shred of rag, surely from the togs of the one who dispatched 'im for the eternal watch! And he was missin' shoes! Hans, that is to say…” already went right past Jack Sparrow harbored snugly in the sixth tavern. To tell the truth, he would have believed the shoes bit - mostly because Rusty Hans had rarely been seen with them. But for Jack, the scanter version was sufficient. He sighed heavily and, with a certain effort, unstuck himself from a sticky table at which dawn had seen him slumbering. This world’s going to the dogs, he decided. It’s damn harder and harder for a honest pirate to steal for his daily rum, and yet the free piratey Brethren slaughters one another as the East India Trading Company shareholders on the eve of the election to Court.
Jack would have drank the deceased’s health, if he had something to drink. Nobody can say Jack Sparrow forgets his creditors! And Tortuga’s mud as his witness, every time he had spotted Rusty Hans, he had recalled that he owed him fourteen shillings and three mugs at Faithful Bride since last spring. He recalled it usually in time to dodge into a lane or behind the nearest cote. Why disturb old Hans with the sight of him? A decent mate, he was, and Jack had wished him well, so he spared him the unpleasantness of encounters with the thin and shabby debtor.
“It’s Skiver Ed and Ugly Wessley. ‘S their job,” someone next to Jack muttered, cutting through his gloomy thoughts. The pirate glanced at the expert on the night doings of Tortuga’s merry folk and hastily made a mental review of the possible state of his liabilities in this case. The memory reported this time, exceptionally, Jack’s record as clean and pure as seawater, somewhere very far from this port. The prospective candidate for a creditor was stretching himself and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A moment earlier, he had unstuck himself from this same table, a far easier task for him, since he was completely bald. And besides, gaptoothed, hare-lipped, broken-nosed, web-eyed, with a long, matted beard and a peg leg, in which woodworms not only lived, but probably bequeathed and mortgaged, so it was no wonder that, in the face of such a walking assemblage of nicks hints, the public surrendered and just called him Joe Morgan.
Jack couldn’t, though wouldn’t mind, running up a debt with Joe, for the simple reason that Joe also wouldn’t mind running up a debt with Jack. So yesternight, after an unexpected meeting en route from one tavern to another, and ascertaining that neither had more than an ear to lend, they spent the night luring chaps willing to buy a round for no more than tall tales and promises of everlasting friendship, or reckless enough to be enticed with cards. The pack had been Joe’s, the deft hands Jack’s, and the stakes guests’ at their table, at least until the moment they jangled from pouches to the tabletop. In private, Jack deemed it a fair deal. All of Tortuga knew that anyone who sat down to cards with Jack Sparrow rose broke, but amused as never in a life. Many came back, some with another pouch instead of a pistol in hand.
The pirate grinned on this reminiscence. He leaned back on a rickety stool and looked around the tavern, as if the owner of the crumbling walls, sooty ceiling, six beaten-up tables and sturdy counter. In the interior, designed in the traditional style le Tortuése baroque, that is 'drink, pay and get out', the last component was the most solid object within sight, and the most capacious, with just enough room underneath to fit the bartender and as many bottles as he might catch, when the clientele cheers up, and mugs, hats and bullets began to fly. It wasn’t Sally McDonnell’s first day in Tortuga nor her first business, so she could write guides for the innkeeper trade. That is, if Sally could write. That morning, she stood at the bar, scrutinizing the obscure room, assessing which was better to sweep out, and which to leave. Or rather who, because the morning tidying rarely included more than clients from under and atop of tables. She rolled her eyes when her survey come across the brilliant grin of Captain Sparrow, to which he returned an even wider one. Then he turned toward Joe.
“And why, pray tell, just Skiver an' Ugly, eh?” Jack said. “If you can see wha’s goin’ in port from behin’ this table and with your nose in a mug, then mebbe you’ll also detec’ that galleon heavy wif silver, the one hurled on a reef by that hurricane month ago? A shallow there, they say, so now you’re a clairvoyant, I’ll help you draw ou’ the silver. For a half of the output an' if you ask pretty enough”.
Morgan sent him a glare from above his beard, which he tried to entangle a bit. “Not on me second sight, but you seem a might blind. As I’ve been sayin', too much rum, Jackie! Knaves’n’kings were confusin’ for you by night’s end, so mebbe you’re not quite awake yet. Or actually you’re struck blind for good.” Joe jabbed air behind him with his thumb, pointing to the opposite side of the room.
“There isn’ any ‘too much’ for me,” Jack protested reflexively, while looking in the indicated direction. He wasn’t alone. Many glances were cast furtively or outrightly towards the corner enclosing the least rickety and relatively cleanest table. The corner was officially called “the alcove”, for special - that is jingling with silver and gold - guests, usually captains celebrating successful raids. A curtain of worn velvet, now drawn back, separated it from the rest of the space. Three chairs had backrests, the fourth padded upholstery, the middle of the table adorned by a weighty bronze candlestick, firmly nailed to the tabletop, of course, as Jack had tested long ago. Sally knew really her trade and, more importantly, her clients.
That morning, Wessley lounged on one of the chairs. Having just pushed away his plate, he got down to the dignified picking of his teeth. Wessley, or as he used to introduce himself, Edward Wessley Viscount of Westingmore, did everything in a dignified manner, including flea hunting. In private, Jack was of the opinion that his viscountship could be quite true, and in the way “truth” was used in the world distant from Caribbean waters: under the eternal fog-rainy sky and an omnipresent bureaucracy, demanding to certify knighthoods by documents weighty with regal seals. Wessley had aristocratically smooth features, with the cold beauty of a marble statue and probably also a brain of it. In Jack’s opinion, the Viscount of Westingmore’s hat - always studiously matched to a satin coat, brocade vest and batiste shirt, festooned with lace - could outwit its owner. There was plenty to win from him, but Jack would rather propose to Sally McDonnell than touch the cards with Wessley. It would be very hard to not outplay him, and but one way to amuse him: look frightened. There were, however, many ways to incline him to seize the weapon: outplay him at cards, or call him “Ugly” within earshot, the nick being difficult to resist, in view of all the Viscount’s spotless finery.
The Viscount’s companion, however, was decidedly not so spotless. At the very moment, he half-laid, hat lowered over his eyes, on the next chair, the padded one. It was hard to say who first nicknamed Skiver Ed, for no one was willing to confess. Anyway, the name clung as tar to a deck. In general, the most noticeable of Skiver Ed was that he was distinguished from Ugly Wessley not only in disgust for perfumes and taste for clothing more common between self-respecting vagabonds, but in every way. Almost everything amused him, although no one had heard his laugh. Yet he smirked quite often, especially when hearing something about himself. The smirk, however, tended to put a chill in bones of those watching, in spite of the fact that no one had seen him with a weapon in hand, though he always carried an unspecified blade at his side. From a distance and secretly, some sneered, claiming it was surely no more than an empty scabbard with a protruding hilt. Even if that was true, that Skiver Ed never touched a skiver of any kind, he always had one at hand, in the shiny figure of Ugly Wessley. One look at this duet was to see that Skiver Ed was the sole owner and user of a brain which worked for both of them. In light of that, he was mockingly bestowed with Wessley’s first name, what he, surprisingly, accepted.
In general, one look at Skiver and Ugly was enough to see many things. That was why Jack Sparrow never relied upon one look or the first thought, regarding the pair. 'Many' means often 'too little' and 'not the most important'.
“So?” he asked, out of pure spite, for he knew well what Morgan had meant. It was plainly etched on every face in the tavern, most plainly on those who hurried away the instant Skiver’s hat raised slightly.
Morgan rolled his eyes. “Cash on them,” he explained slowly and patiently as if speaking to a colonial clerk. “And don’ you see how they look like?”
“How?”
“As if they…! Come on, uh! …somebody!”
“As usual, then…”
“You’re stupid, Jack.” Morgan lost his patience. “As usual, when one... uh, you know, somebody! …then one tries to look innocent, and when can’t, then gets out of people’s sight at least. For this, uh, suspicions. To not promp… not prop…not bring to mind.”
“Didn’ know you’re so practised in the business…” Jack opened his eyes wide with exaggerated wonder. “Then it looks like they aren’t ‘ere at all, and at the table our ‘allucinations are sittin’, or someone other uh-ed old Hans, after all.”
“Nothin’ looks, doesn’ look at all! Don’ cut in, I’ve not finished yet! If they wouldn’ sit, then the all’d suspec’ them! Cause they disappeared! So they’re just sittin’ on purpose and look as if they, uh…! Crafty, eh?” the genius of deduction and the expert on a criminal mind finished, very satisfied.
“Crafty. Like a cat in fron’ of a corked mouse hole,” Jack assured with a straight face. Not waiting for the ‘praise’s’ essence to sink in Joe, he added: “But apparen’ly you’re not the only one not fooled, since everyone suspects them. They’d better come straight off, instead of wasting the time an’ contrive these craftinesses”.
Morgan looked suspiciously at Jack’s grin, beaming with 24-carat sincerity, but said nothing. Instead, he rummaged in his pockets, pulled out a pipe, and rummaged in pockets again. Unable to find tobacco, he pocketed the pipe back and grunted at last: “An’ it’s not my business, anyway. An’ it ain’t yours, neither.”
“Sure,” Jack agreed. “Wha’s the use of suspicions? If Sally was to throw out anyone with a mark on the record, this place would be as deserted as the cemetery at a gravedigger’s burial.”
Morgan glanced at him askance and fidgeted uneasily.
“Eh, why anyone…?” he muttered. “You know, a brawl happens, an’ there’s a crush, and your knife gets tangled, an’ then turns out it’s in someone’s guts… And anyway, when a some cocky sod offends a decent man, kick up a fuss, spills his rum…”
“Carries gold in pockets…”
“… carries gold… what?” Morgan blinked and turned red. “Aw heck, it was no longer of use to ‘im, so only a fool’d leave it! Someone could steal it otherwise! It’s one thing to attend the useless, an’ quite another thing to butcher somebody on purpose!”
“You didn’ say you’re givin’ up the piracy trade and assumin’ the habit.” Jack grinned cheerfully. “Only mind to not mistake contemplatin' friars with converting ones, or else you’ll cut and run back to the pirate brethren, if you’re so sick of gore”.
Morgan began to get purple. “To roll out guns and hois' the Roger in the pirate way and in broad daylight, also not the same what…!”
“What?”
Morgan cast a reflexive glance toward the alcove and said, barely audible: “By night. An' from the behind.”
“And for gold?” muttered Jack. He also glanced, at Wessley’s plate, with a vague feeling that breakfast was a great invention of mankind.
Morgan mumbled something vaguely acquiescent and rummaged again in the folds of his clothing, probably in search of non-existent tobacco. For a while, Jack observed these manipulations from the corner of his eye, and then pulled out his own pipe. Empty since time immemorial and cold as Davy Jones’ chest, he turned it in his fingers, studiously inspecting the smoothed bowl, and asked quietly: “An’ by you, how much could Hans have in ‘is pockets, then?”
“He’d 'ave to have these pockets first,” Joe snorted. Then he suddenly blinked again, opened his mouth, shut it, glanced once more at the alcove, and back at Jack.
“Uh-huh,” Jack nodded, leaning on the wall and biting at the pipe’s stem. Rusty Hans Snoggerson, who, besides being a true redhead, always had worn the same tattered breeches and holey shirt. He was completed by an even more tattered straw hat and a small knife dangling on the end of a string supporting his breeches. If Hans had something more, and he rarely did, then he kept it on his bosom. Even for the least demanding robber, and in the port’s dimness, he couldn’t have looked promising. Skiver and Ugly weren’t little demanding.
“He hadn’ to 'ave on 'im…” Morgan muttered.
“Then I haven’ heard about a more crafty method yet, to knoc’ off somebody who hides gold, in order to find the hidin’ place,” snorted Jack.
“He’d could jus’ hide it in the port.” Morgan perked up. “And mebbe somebody followed…!”
He stopped and drooped at Jack’s meaningful gaze. In a place tread every day by hundreds of feet, seen by hundreds of eyes and changed after every storm, only the newer wharves being paved, the old pier fringed with sandy beaches, such a hoard would have been excellently hidden, beyond any reach. Especially the owner’s.
Jack could have told Morgan to not bother with inquiries. Wherever and whatever hoards Rusty Hans had possessed, he would have nothing to put in them. If someone was to look for Jack Sparrow in every tavern, then they plainly are so desperate that wind undoubtedly whistled through their pockets. But Jack said nothing. As Joe Morgan had said himself, it’s not Joe Morgan’s business.
The pirate bit the stem of his pipe again and gazed thoughtfully on the blackened wood of the tabletop before him. Actually… Nah. Joe Morgan was right: there wasn’t much need to put knives in motion, and not every knife gets stuck in someone’s guts by the will of the one who wields it, or in throat, for that matter. Neither is every knife drawn because of gold, and for sure not for the gold of Hans’ skin. Jack would stake everything what jingled which passed through his hands last night on that. Rusty Hans had obviously tread on somebody’s toes, and Tortuga toes were very sensitive, knives sharp and flashing readily. One had to have flashed for old Hans, who had never tread on anybody’s toes, so far as Jack remembered. The pirate shifted his eyes to look at the slowly emptying tavern.
Actually…
He pocketed the pipe and looked around for his hat. Discovering he was sitting on it, he sprang to his feet, wiped the worn leather with his sleeve, and put the crumpled tricorn on the place more entitled to it. Slightly surprised by this sudden burst of haste, Morgan didn’t try to stop Jack as he rushed to the door. Last night, they had settled accounts on the spot, and Joe, to Jack’s regret, could calculate fine. Sparrow dashed onto the street, making a great point to no look in the direction of Skiver and Ugly. The careful not-looking assured him that they paid him no attention.
Actually, from who had he heard lately, that Rusty Hans Snoggerson had been looking for him?
The next part.
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