The Briar and The Rose: Chapter Seven
It was an unrelenting night and Evie was taking refuge in the Goose’s Breast. Outside the rain plummeted down, stripping the streets to sludge and the taverns were crammed full to their very extremities, their patchy walls groaning against the weight of the jumbled lot of sailors, pirates and whores that filled them. A few other girls who’d grown weary of the hustle were there as well, warming themselves over mugs of rum and hot pies. Evie was not much concerned about missing a couple of hours. The demand far exceeded supply and she’d no sooner walk back into a tavern then she’d be back at work. In weather like this there was no going under the docks or even bothering with the trek back to her room - it was all done around the corner and up against a wall, meaning no sooner would she wipe one fellow off then she’d snap up another.
She was ravenous from the evening’s exertions to date and tucked into her fish supper with a gluttony lately acquired through Barbossa’s influence and her head was pleasantly abuzz from hot rum, feeling the soaked edges of her skirts beginning to steam dry in the wonderful heat of the cosy little tavern. Jasmine lowered herself into the chair opposite Evie and grunted a greeting as she took an enormous mouthful of eel pie, licking the gravy off her lips.
“More worms dan holes to hide dem dis night” she muttered to Evie and Evie murmured in agreement. “Who’s dat young filly over dere, you seen her afore, Evie?”
Evie looked to where Jasmine inclined her head, to a dim-lit corner of the small tavern where a figure hunched over a tankard, an ill-fitting yellow dress and heavy cloak obscuring any easy look at her. “Can’t say as I ‘as, Jas,” she replied with a small frown furrowing her brows. “What’s she doin’ ‘idin’ like that anyhow?” They watched the mysterious whore for a moment or more but she did nothing more interesting than take a furtive gulp or two from her drink and rap grimy ringed fingers against the table and so the two companions lost interest and turned back to their suppers.
Black Ruth delivered them another round of drinks and to Evie’s elbow a tight-wrapped packet Evie knew contained coca leaf. “To keep yer spirits up, lass.” Ruth nodded to her, heavy chins doubling against her collarbone.
“Who’s that doxie over there, Ruthie?” Evie enquired with a jerk towards the cloaked figure and Ruth gestured to the remaining tankard in her hand. “That’s what I’m about to find about, m’love. Skulked in short before you did, got a drink and fled to the corner. Would like to know what she’s about, I would.”
And with that she strode towards the corner, hips swaying in pronounced motions that spoke of her resolve. Evie reached over the table and spooned up a mouthful of Jasmine’s pie, washing it down with rum. “Seen ‘owt of your sweetheart lately eh?”
Jasmine had become entwined with a dishonest sailor who was fond of gifting her many beautiful things that were fast becoming the envy of most of the women of Tortuga being as how they were new and not second-hand. Jasmine flushed at mention of him and grinned.
“He write me a letter de other day dat I got. I couldn’t read it, but ol’ Bessie say it says to expect him in at de end of de month. And he enclose some coin.”
“Got it all worked out, then eh.” Evie wiped at her mouth and grinned. “Think e’ll marry you?”
Jasmine’s smile grew wider and her eyes gleamed. “I workin’ on dat. Don’t you worry.” And the two whores chuckled. “An’ you got it worked out not so bad yourself, what with your fine Cap’n and all. A Cap’n, even a Pirate, is a damn sight better than a sailor.”
Evie pushed her plate away and her smile grew a little smaller. It had been a good six months since last she had seen Barbossa and though such long disappearances were to be expected from those who sailed the sea, still she wondered about him. When he had avenged her at his last visit and spent several days ensconced with her in her room her every step had been upon a cloud and her head swollen with delighted giddiness. The gold he’d left her was too much for her hiding places and so a new one had to be discovered and into it she’d slipped the ruby necklace and the music box he’d given her also. And though he’d told her the voyage he was taking now was expected to be a long one, still she had rather much hoped he’d have stopped in by now. “E’ ain’t the marryin’ sort,” she muttered, but then, did it matter so long as he would continue to visit her? Before Jasmine could reply a shriek threw up from the corner where Black Ruth and the mysterious cloaked figure were:
”JACK SPARROW!” Ruth’s voice was rageful as she revealed the “whore” to be the dreadlocked rascal who ducked and threw his skinny hands up as though shielding himself from the blast of Ruth’s cry.
“Jack Sparrow?” Evie exclaimed and Jasmine echoed her and the two of them leapt up, as did every other whore in the tavern.
Sparrow had recently sprung up on the Spanish Main and though he was but a boy still in his twenties, identified himself to anyone who asked as “Captain”, though his crew was meagre and his reputation unknown. Unknown, that is, to any but the whores of Tortuga who all knew him very well indeed - Sparrow was a charmer with a silver tongue and a boyishly pretty face but he was also a determined rascal and most of the whores there had one reason or another to be vexed with him. Evie, as it so happened, had a very pressing one indeed and she pushed her way through the small circle of indignant ladies to where Sparrow stood, Black Ruth grasping him firmly by the scruff, trying to placate the angry crowd of motley whores. “What you doin’ ‘ere you rum blighter, this is OUR tavern!”; “Sparrow, I still owes yer for that biter you made me loose last time you was ‘ere!”; “What right do you think you have to be gussyin’ up and listenin’ in on our private affairs,eh?” whilst amidst it all Sparrow, ridiculous in the dress he’d evidently stolen, a smudge of colour on his lips, waved his fingers and entreated “Ladies, ladies, please! This shoutin’ does not become you!”
And Evie who stepped forward and shouted. “Sparrow, you dirty bastard, you owe me two gold pieces and you ain’t gettin’ out here tonight without me gettin’ ‘em!”
“Evangeline!” Sparrow flustered, the rings on his fingers winking in the dim light. “But I was sure we was all squared up!”
Evie came to a halt under Sparrow’s nose, narrowing her eyes in a fearsome glare. “We was. But you fingered another two from me shoe, and don’t try denyin’ it, cos I keeps a careful count!”
The wretch grinned, ingratiating, as the whores muttered and shook their heads, swearing to each other, their rouged cheeks flushing brighter with fury. “Ah! Now, y’see, that’s exactly what I have always liked about you, Evie, your sharps. “
Evie jabbed the scoundrel in the chest. “Me gold!”
“Now, you see, here’s the thing - I’ve not a brass piece on me. I have to go to the bank - “
“Then I’ll ‘ave these!” and with that exclamation Evie grasped at Sparrow’s hands and swiftly de-ringed them. The women all about her gave up a cheer as Sparrow attempted a feeble protest only for Ruth to shake him vigorously.
“You know what I ‘eard about our mate ‘ere, girls?” Ruth cried, “I ‘eard he been seen about with young Millie and now her sailor’s back in town and put the call out for young Jack’s jewels!”
“Oooh, you’ll be singin’ ‘igh when ‘e’s done with you, Jack!”
“Hope I’m there to catch the show!”
“What should we do with the blighter, ladies,” Ruth roared and the cry went up “To the pigs, to the pigs, yes throw ‘im in the swine’ouse!”
And a group of them grasped Sparrow wherever they could, the edges of his dress, his arms, the locks of his hair and hustled him out of the tavern at once. Evie did not bother; she was not getting soaked to the bone for that, no not when she had a couple of fine-looking rings to examine. Moving closer to a candelabra, she held one of them aloft and squinted at it in puzzlement. Chased gold with a filigree setting into which was embedded a ruby… now this was very much… no, exactly like one of the rings Barbossa wore. Evie raised the ring to her nose and sniffed at it, as though she might catch the scent of him upon it, but it smelt only of brine and metal. But she was sure of it… sure as could be. Had Sparrow then seen Barbossa of late? Where? And what had happened, that he might have Hector’s ring? Evie cupped the ring in both hands and pondered the mystery before an angry grimace contorted her little face. Well, he had thieved it of course - as Sparrow was wont to do - and an insurmountable indignancy consumed Evie’s breast - thieving from her Captain, the bleeding scallywag! Well - she had a mind to - she would go to Sparrow this instant and find what he was about - and when exactly he had crossed paths with Barbossa. Slipping the ring upon her thumb and gathering up her skirts, Evie hastened out the doorway and into the pelting rain beyond.
But by the time she reached the swine house, Sparrow had vanished.
The rain was as heavy the next evening, with wondrous bolts of lightning striking the sky and illuminating it all a silver-grey. Evie stood upon the porch of the Mason Rouge and watched the deserted streets run black and contemplated the evening ahead of her. She circled the ring around her thumb, spinning it over and over again. She knew it’s every angle by now, every bump and point. But she did not know where its owner was or what state he might be in and that tormented her. Never taking her eyes from the flashing black and silver landscape she brought her hand to her mouth and kissed the ring. Something glittered in the night - there - deep down the pitch of the street directly ahead and she straightened. Someone was approaching. Some brave soul dared the elements and made his way steadily towards her. The thought caused her pulse to rise but she felt compelled to stand in her place instead of retreating within and then, lightning struck again and the figure was, for a brief moment, entirely illuminated in shades of charcoal and slate and she let out an involuntary cry and heedless of her boots or gown or kohl-lined eyes ran out into the storm to meet him.
It was Barbossa.
She could not help but notice the limp he now walked with as they moved up the stairs and into her room; but he would not speak to her despite her entreaties, moving swift ahead of her despite the wound and she hurried to keep up.
Once in her room he went straight for the sideboard where her liquor stood and she shut the door fast behind them and hesitated but a moment before moving to light the fire. He was hatless and coatless and the fine linen of his shirt was stained and ragged. His cutlass still hung by his side, however and his back were as straight. He drank straight from the bottle of rum, gulping it back thirstily as amber rivulets rolled down the corners of his mouth and into his beard, and she moved, perturbed, to stand by one poster of the bed, partially shielding herself in the curtains that hung there.
When he had sated his thirst, he slammed the bottle back down upon the sideboard and turned to her, his vivid eyes gleaming dully. They darted upon her as though he were uncertain what to say, then he barked:
“Make me up a bath.”
But the sound of his voice broke her reserve and she rushed over to him, grasping him by the arms and entreating: “Oh, but what happened to you? Are you all right? ‘Ow did you ‘urt yourself?”
He tolerated her shaking with a grimace for a moment before grabbing hold of her and roughly pushing her away. “Did ye not hear me, wench? Hot water, now!”
Stung, she turned to comply, moving her pot onto the fire and stoking the blaze a little higher. He watched her with a steely gaze for a moment before sinking down upon the bed and pulling the scarf from about his head, one tired hand pushing the hair that fell into his face back around his ear.
“It’s all gone.” His voice was hoarse. “Everything. Lost.”
She straightened from the fire and stared at him. “What do you mean, everythin’s gone?”
His face grew suddenly, awfully thunderous. “Ye stupid whore!” And he grasped up the empty rum bottle and threw it across the room so that it shattered into a dozen singing pieces. “I’ve lost everythin’! It be all at the bottom of the sea!” And he rose from the bed and limped towards her, his eyes wide and wild, a snarl about his mouth. “All that I lived and worked for these last twelve years, gone! Taken from me, now, when not in tempest and hurricane all these long years have I ever been robbed of that which be rightfully mine! And now, now the sea chooses to claim my ship - my Siren - and all upon her for herself. That’s what I mean, ye daft hussy!”
He raised his hand to strike her and she gasped and flinched and he caught himself, instead burrowing his hand deep into her hair, grasping her there so that she whimpered; his eyes playing upon her face in a maddened, furious dance.
Then, sharply pushing her from him he let go and paced her room, his limp pronounced and his lip curled. She felt tears rising hot behind her eyes at his cruelty but knew it would not serve her well to shed them now and instead turned back quick towards the fire and the hissing pot, silently obeying his command.
When the water was mixed, she turned to him with the basin, the merest tremble in her hands and the slightest fear in her eyes and silently, he undressed. As he did so, he drew from within his vest something square shaped and wrapped up in stained rags that he placed besides him on the bed. She heard the chink of coin and guessed it was the last of whatever he might have of all his worldly possessions. And she could not help but think of the portrait of his long dead wife, now lost to the inky depths.
As he stripped off his pants she saw that his knee was roughly bandaged and that he winced slightly as he unwrapped the strip of cloth that bound it to reveal a messy wound, swollen and bloody though it did not yet seem infected.
“Caught.” He said shortly to her enquiring glance, and she flushed. “On a splintered mast.” And his voice was bitter. She rose silently and went to her wardrobe where from a drawer she withdrew an old linen shift and rent it into strips for clean bandages. Another drawer revealed a myriad of small coloured glass bottles and packets and from this motley assortment she identified some lavender and myrrh oil and took them to where Barbossa wearily sopped himself. Using one of the strips of fabric she carefully freshened the wound until the dried blood was thoroughly removed, then applied the oils. “It’ll ‘elp” she explained briefly and then wound the fresh linen tight about his knee, fastening it securely so that the knot was tucked under. Barbossa said nothing, but finished his toilet and stiffly drew on his pants once more with some difficulty of movement that made her want to move to assist him, but knew better than to. Once they were fastened he lay back against her pillows, bare-foot and bare-chested and called for another bottle of rum. Wordlessly, she fetched it for him and as she delivered it to his hand, slipped the ruby ring from her thumb and passed that to him as well.
Distractedly he lifted it to his line of sight and then his eyes widened as he recognised it as his own property and he sat up from the cushions.
“Where did ye get this from, Missy?” He demanded.
She sat down next to him and took a swig from her own gin bottle. “Some cad as goes by the name Sparrow. He owed me some money and I took that to square it.”
Barbossa turned the ring over and over in his hand, gazing at it in mute contemplation. “Thought it t’were thieved from me in Trinidad. I aspose I be owin’ that whore an apology.”
She felt herself stiffen a little at that but Barbossa seemed not to notice and slipped the ring back upon his middle finger. “I don’t take to liftin’ me hand against a woman unless she be deservin’ it. It seems she didn’t. Sparrow, ye say?” Evie nodded. “Don’t recall him.”
“Young fella. Showed up as of late. Couple o’ missin’ teeth. Dreadlocks and a flashy manner.”
Barbossa pursed his lips and his brow furrowed slightly as if straining through the fog of memory. “I were in a celebratory fashion in Trinidad. T’was a few weeks after last I saw ye and I had what I thought were a promisin’ voyage ahead and drank to suit it. All the taverns were abrimmin’ and I exchanged many a word with many a whelp.”
“Reckons ‘e’s a captain. Got ‘is own ship apparently - The Black somethin’ or other.” And Barbossa pricked up at that and he drank hard of his rum to mask the twitch of irritation on his lip.
“Aye. I recall now. Fool of a fellow, to be sure and a mite over interested in ghost stories. Ye say he had this?”
Evie nodded and Barbossa stared hard at her and then back at the ring. “Ye be a good lass.” He said finally, soft and gruff and her spirits restored themselves somewhat. “You look ‘alf-starved” she declared. “Let me fetch you supper.” And Barbossa glanced at her from the corners of his eyes and lay back against the pillows, pulling towards him the ragged bundle. “Hold a moment. I’ll be damned if I live off the back of a whore.” He swore and pulled from the bundle a purse of coin, fetching a few pieces from it and pressing them into her hand. As he did so she caught sight of what else was in the bundle - the little carved box. Why, she had all but forgotten it. Its carved mermaids and manticores seemed to wink at her as Barbossa’s movements shifted it a little and she once more could not draw her eyes from it. He caught her gaze and gave a short, sharp laugh, tossing one corner of the rags so that they obscured the box from view once more. “Aye, it survived too, the wretched thing. And to it, ye may attribute me misfortune, though I am loathe to be rid of it just yet.”
She reached over to stroke his cheek, longing to kiss him but feeling he was not in a mood to tolerate such affections just yet. ”Will you be vexed if I ask you what you mean?”
And a half-smile twisted his mouth.
“T’was not the box, so to speak, but the map it contained that so caused me ruin. But the map, and its other contents, be too valuable still to condemn to the depths.” He paused a moment as though considering whether to continue, then queried in a vague tone: “What have you heard tell of Charbydis and Scylla?”
Her face contorted at the strange names. “Nothin’ that I can think of.”
“Then no matter,” he muttered and turned back to his thoughts. She waited a moment, but he said no more and so she turned on her heel and left to brave the night.
He was asleep when she returned and she felt a bloom of tenderness swell within her at the sight. Placing the suppers on the hearth to keep them warm she quickly undressed and slid her naked form in beside him curving her body against the crook of his back, knowing that the feel of her breasts against his flesh was one he much relished. Her fingertips curled in his chest hair and she laid kisses upon his shoulder and quietly waited for him to be rested, and awake.
She was woken herself, sometime later though how long she could not guess at, by Barbossa lips upon her breast and his hand deep between her thighs. His mouth soon followed suit and she gasped and knotted her hands in his hair at the much-missed pleasure. His lips had not lost any of their skill nor attention to detail and she luxuriated in the sensations she so rarely knew. Her climax poured over her like hot butter, her hips shuddering. He raised himself up, his chest sliding against her breasts before faltering and stifling a curse against her neck. He fell to his side and urged her back against him, pulling her leg up and over his hip so that he could enter her in this fashion without further straining his injury - or surrendering his control.
To feel the gentle stretch of him within her was but further bliss and she grasped the hand that cupped her breast and arched her throat to his lips as he took his pleasure of her. He bit her ear and groaned with his final ecstasy and she could not help the wave of satisfaction that filled her.
With wine he devoured his supper, for she had thought to get some, and twice as much to dine upon as well and he finished the lot of it, and by the close of their late candle-lit meal beneath her coverlets, a gleam akin to the one of old had taken spark within his eye and a small smile played about his lips, and she flattered herself she had something to do with it.
The next evening she awoke to the noise of Barbossa fastening his sword about his waist, a grim visage of determination set on his features. She rubbed her eyes and stretched, pondering this sudden activity and wishing him back to bed with her. But he drank heartily of rum and pulled on his boots and when he spied her woken eyes watching him he bid her rise at once and dress to step out with him.
“The time for self-pityin’ be at end. This eve we will be out to round up what be left of me crew and procure meself a new ship.“ Already his back was straighter and his shoulders thrown back and the confidence to the jut of his chin made her wonder what he was thinking of.
“What’s in your ‘ead, m’love?” She queried, and Barbossa lifted his roughened hand and gazed at the ring that gleamed darkly there before replying with a single word:
“Sparrow.”
She was ravenous from the evening’s exertions to date and tucked into her fish supper with a gluttony lately acquired through Barbossa’s influence and her head was pleasantly abuzz from hot rum, feeling the soaked edges of her skirts beginning to steam dry in the wonderful heat of the cosy little tavern. Jasmine lowered herself into the chair opposite Evie and grunted a greeting as she took an enormous mouthful of eel pie, licking the gravy off her lips.
“More worms dan holes to hide dem dis night” she muttered to Evie and Evie murmured in agreement. “Who’s dat young filly over dere, you seen her afore, Evie?”
Evie looked to where Jasmine inclined her head, to a dim-lit corner of the small tavern where a figure hunched over a tankard, an ill-fitting yellow dress and heavy cloak obscuring any easy look at her. “Can’t say as I ‘as, Jas,” she replied with a small frown furrowing her brows. “What’s she doin’ ‘idin’ like that anyhow?” They watched the mysterious whore for a moment or more but she did nothing more interesting than take a furtive gulp or two from her drink and rap grimy ringed fingers against the table and so the two companions lost interest and turned back to their suppers.
Black Ruth delivered them another round of drinks and to Evie’s elbow a tight-wrapped packet Evie knew contained coca leaf. “To keep yer spirits up, lass.” Ruth nodded to her, heavy chins doubling against her collarbone.
“Who’s that doxie over there, Ruthie?” Evie enquired with a jerk towards the cloaked figure and Ruth gestured to the remaining tankard in her hand. “That’s what I’m about to find about, m’love. Skulked in short before you did, got a drink and fled to the corner. Would like to know what she’s about, I would.”
And with that she strode towards the corner, hips swaying in pronounced motions that spoke of her resolve. Evie reached over the table and spooned up a mouthful of Jasmine’s pie, washing it down with rum. “Seen ‘owt of your sweetheart lately eh?”
Jasmine had become entwined with a dishonest sailor who was fond of gifting her many beautiful things that were fast becoming the envy of most of the women of Tortuga being as how they were new and not second-hand. Jasmine flushed at mention of him and grinned.
“He write me a letter de other day dat I got. I couldn’t read it, but ol’ Bessie say it says to expect him in at de end of de month. And he enclose some coin.”
“Got it all worked out, then eh.” Evie wiped at her mouth and grinned. “Think e’ll marry you?”
Jasmine’s smile grew wider and her eyes gleamed. “I workin’ on dat. Don’t you worry.” And the two whores chuckled. “An’ you got it worked out not so bad yourself, what with your fine Cap’n and all. A Cap’n, even a Pirate, is a damn sight better than a sailor.”
Evie pushed her plate away and her smile grew a little smaller. It had been a good six months since last she had seen Barbossa and though such long disappearances were to be expected from those who sailed the sea, still she wondered about him. When he had avenged her at his last visit and spent several days ensconced with her in her room her every step had been upon a cloud and her head swollen with delighted giddiness. The gold he’d left her was too much for her hiding places and so a new one had to be discovered and into it she’d slipped the ruby necklace and the music box he’d given her also. And though he’d told her the voyage he was taking now was expected to be a long one, still she had rather much hoped he’d have stopped in by now. “E’ ain’t the marryin’ sort,” she muttered, but then, did it matter so long as he would continue to visit her? Before Jasmine could reply a shriek threw up from the corner where Black Ruth and the mysterious cloaked figure were:
”JACK SPARROW!” Ruth’s voice was rageful as she revealed the “whore” to be the dreadlocked rascal who ducked and threw his skinny hands up as though shielding himself from the blast of Ruth’s cry.
“Jack Sparrow?” Evie exclaimed and Jasmine echoed her and the two of them leapt up, as did every other whore in the tavern.
Sparrow had recently sprung up on the Spanish Main and though he was but a boy still in his twenties, identified himself to anyone who asked as “Captain”, though his crew was meagre and his reputation unknown. Unknown, that is, to any but the whores of Tortuga who all knew him very well indeed - Sparrow was a charmer with a silver tongue and a boyishly pretty face but he was also a determined rascal and most of the whores there had one reason or another to be vexed with him. Evie, as it so happened, had a very pressing one indeed and she pushed her way through the small circle of indignant ladies to where Sparrow stood, Black Ruth grasping him firmly by the scruff, trying to placate the angry crowd of motley whores. “What you doin’ ‘ere you rum blighter, this is OUR tavern!”; “Sparrow, I still owes yer for that biter you made me loose last time you was ‘ere!”; “What right do you think you have to be gussyin’ up and listenin’ in on our private affairs,eh?” whilst amidst it all Sparrow, ridiculous in the dress he’d evidently stolen, a smudge of colour on his lips, waved his fingers and entreated “Ladies, ladies, please! This shoutin’ does not become you!”
And Evie who stepped forward and shouted. “Sparrow, you dirty bastard, you owe me two gold pieces and you ain’t gettin’ out here tonight without me gettin’ ‘em!”
“Evangeline!” Sparrow flustered, the rings on his fingers winking in the dim light. “But I was sure we was all squared up!”
Evie came to a halt under Sparrow’s nose, narrowing her eyes in a fearsome glare. “We was. But you fingered another two from me shoe, and don’t try denyin’ it, cos I keeps a careful count!”
The wretch grinned, ingratiating, as the whores muttered and shook their heads, swearing to each other, their rouged cheeks flushing brighter with fury. “Ah! Now, y’see, that’s exactly what I have always liked about you, Evie, your sharps. “
Evie jabbed the scoundrel in the chest. “Me gold!”
“Now, you see, here’s the thing - I’ve not a brass piece on me. I have to go to the bank - “
“Then I’ll ‘ave these!” and with that exclamation Evie grasped at Sparrow’s hands and swiftly de-ringed them. The women all about her gave up a cheer as Sparrow attempted a feeble protest only for Ruth to shake him vigorously.
“You know what I ‘eard about our mate ‘ere, girls?” Ruth cried, “I ‘eard he been seen about with young Millie and now her sailor’s back in town and put the call out for young Jack’s jewels!”
“Oooh, you’ll be singin’ ‘igh when ‘e’s done with you, Jack!”
“Hope I’m there to catch the show!”
“What should we do with the blighter, ladies,” Ruth roared and the cry went up “To the pigs, to the pigs, yes throw ‘im in the swine’ouse!”
And a group of them grasped Sparrow wherever they could, the edges of his dress, his arms, the locks of his hair and hustled him out of the tavern at once. Evie did not bother; she was not getting soaked to the bone for that, no not when she had a couple of fine-looking rings to examine. Moving closer to a candelabra, she held one of them aloft and squinted at it in puzzlement. Chased gold with a filigree setting into which was embedded a ruby… now this was very much… no, exactly like one of the rings Barbossa wore. Evie raised the ring to her nose and sniffed at it, as though she might catch the scent of him upon it, but it smelt only of brine and metal. But she was sure of it… sure as could be. Had Sparrow then seen Barbossa of late? Where? And what had happened, that he might have Hector’s ring? Evie cupped the ring in both hands and pondered the mystery before an angry grimace contorted her little face. Well, he had thieved it of course - as Sparrow was wont to do - and an insurmountable indignancy consumed Evie’s breast - thieving from her Captain, the bleeding scallywag! Well - she had a mind to - she would go to Sparrow this instant and find what he was about - and when exactly he had crossed paths with Barbossa. Slipping the ring upon her thumb and gathering up her skirts, Evie hastened out the doorway and into the pelting rain beyond.
But by the time she reached the swine house, Sparrow had vanished.
The rain was as heavy the next evening, with wondrous bolts of lightning striking the sky and illuminating it all a silver-grey. Evie stood upon the porch of the Mason Rouge and watched the deserted streets run black and contemplated the evening ahead of her. She circled the ring around her thumb, spinning it over and over again. She knew it’s every angle by now, every bump and point. But she did not know where its owner was or what state he might be in and that tormented her. Never taking her eyes from the flashing black and silver landscape she brought her hand to her mouth and kissed the ring. Something glittered in the night - there - deep down the pitch of the street directly ahead and she straightened. Someone was approaching. Some brave soul dared the elements and made his way steadily towards her. The thought caused her pulse to rise but she felt compelled to stand in her place instead of retreating within and then, lightning struck again and the figure was, for a brief moment, entirely illuminated in shades of charcoal and slate and she let out an involuntary cry and heedless of her boots or gown or kohl-lined eyes ran out into the storm to meet him.
It was Barbossa.
She could not help but notice the limp he now walked with as they moved up the stairs and into her room; but he would not speak to her despite her entreaties, moving swift ahead of her despite the wound and she hurried to keep up.
Once in her room he went straight for the sideboard where her liquor stood and she shut the door fast behind them and hesitated but a moment before moving to light the fire. He was hatless and coatless and the fine linen of his shirt was stained and ragged. His cutlass still hung by his side, however and his back were as straight. He drank straight from the bottle of rum, gulping it back thirstily as amber rivulets rolled down the corners of his mouth and into his beard, and she moved, perturbed, to stand by one poster of the bed, partially shielding herself in the curtains that hung there.
When he had sated his thirst, he slammed the bottle back down upon the sideboard and turned to her, his vivid eyes gleaming dully. They darted upon her as though he were uncertain what to say, then he barked:
“Make me up a bath.”
But the sound of his voice broke her reserve and she rushed over to him, grasping him by the arms and entreating: “Oh, but what happened to you? Are you all right? ‘Ow did you ‘urt yourself?”
He tolerated her shaking with a grimace for a moment before grabbing hold of her and roughly pushing her away. “Did ye not hear me, wench? Hot water, now!”
Stung, she turned to comply, moving her pot onto the fire and stoking the blaze a little higher. He watched her with a steely gaze for a moment before sinking down upon the bed and pulling the scarf from about his head, one tired hand pushing the hair that fell into his face back around his ear.
“It’s all gone.” His voice was hoarse. “Everything. Lost.”
She straightened from the fire and stared at him. “What do you mean, everythin’s gone?”
His face grew suddenly, awfully thunderous. “Ye stupid whore!” And he grasped up the empty rum bottle and threw it across the room so that it shattered into a dozen singing pieces. “I’ve lost everythin’! It be all at the bottom of the sea!” And he rose from the bed and limped towards her, his eyes wide and wild, a snarl about his mouth. “All that I lived and worked for these last twelve years, gone! Taken from me, now, when not in tempest and hurricane all these long years have I ever been robbed of that which be rightfully mine! And now, now the sea chooses to claim my ship - my Siren - and all upon her for herself. That’s what I mean, ye daft hussy!”
He raised his hand to strike her and she gasped and flinched and he caught himself, instead burrowing his hand deep into her hair, grasping her there so that she whimpered; his eyes playing upon her face in a maddened, furious dance.
Then, sharply pushing her from him he let go and paced her room, his limp pronounced and his lip curled. She felt tears rising hot behind her eyes at his cruelty but knew it would not serve her well to shed them now and instead turned back quick towards the fire and the hissing pot, silently obeying his command.
When the water was mixed, she turned to him with the basin, the merest tremble in her hands and the slightest fear in her eyes and silently, he undressed. As he did so, he drew from within his vest something square shaped and wrapped up in stained rags that he placed besides him on the bed. She heard the chink of coin and guessed it was the last of whatever he might have of all his worldly possessions. And she could not help but think of the portrait of his long dead wife, now lost to the inky depths.
As he stripped off his pants she saw that his knee was roughly bandaged and that he winced slightly as he unwrapped the strip of cloth that bound it to reveal a messy wound, swollen and bloody though it did not yet seem infected.
“Caught.” He said shortly to her enquiring glance, and she flushed. “On a splintered mast.” And his voice was bitter. She rose silently and went to her wardrobe where from a drawer she withdrew an old linen shift and rent it into strips for clean bandages. Another drawer revealed a myriad of small coloured glass bottles and packets and from this motley assortment she identified some lavender and myrrh oil and took them to where Barbossa wearily sopped himself. Using one of the strips of fabric she carefully freshened the wound until the dried blood was thoroughly removed, then applied the oils. “It’ll ‘elp” she explained briefly and then wound the fresh linen tight about his knee, fastening it securely so that the knot was tucked under. Barbossa said nothing, but finished his toilet and stiffly drew on his pants once more with some difficulty of movement that made her want to move to assist him, but knew better than to. Once they were fastened he lay back against her pillows, bare-foot and bare-chested and called for another bottle of rum. Wordlessly, she fetched it for him and as she delivered it to his hand, slipped the ruby ring from her thumb and passed that to him as well.
Distractedly he lifted it to his line of sight and then his eyes widened as he recognised it as his own property and he sat up from the cushions.
“Where did ye get this from, Missy?” He demanded.
She sat down next to him and took a swig from her own gin bottle. “Some cad as goes by the name Sparrow. He owed me some money and I took that to square it.”
Barbossa turned the ring over and over in his hand, gazing at it in mute contemplation. “Thought it t’were thieved from me in Trinidad. I aspose I be owin’ that whore an apology.”
She felt herself stiffen a little at that but Barbossa seemed not to notice and slipped the ring back upon his middle finger. “I don’t take to liftin’ me hand against a woman unless she be deservin’ it. It seems she didn’t. Sparrow, ye say?” Evie nodded. “Don’t recall him.”
“Young fella. Showed up as of late. Couple o’ missin’ teeth. Dreadlocks and a flashy manner.”
Barbossa pursed his lips and his brow furrowed slightly as if straining through the fog of memory. “I were in a celebratory fashion in Trinidad. T’was a few weeks after last I saw ye and I had what I thought were a promisin’ voyage ahead and drank to suit it. All the taverns were abrimmin’ and I exchanged many a word with many a whelp.”
“Reckons ‘e’s a captain. Got ‘is own ship apparently - The Black somethin’ or other.” And Barbossa pricked up at that and he drank hard of his rum to mask the twitch of irritation on his lip.
“Aye. I recall now. Fool of a fellow, to be sure and a mite over interested in ghost stories. Ye say he had this?”
Evie nodded and Barbossa stared hard at her and then back at the ring. “Ye be a good lass.” He said finally, soft and gruff and her spirits restored themselves somewhat. “You look ‘alf-starved” she declared. “Let me fetch you supper.” And Barbossa glanced at her from the corners of his eyes and lay back against the pillows, pulling towards him the ragged bundle. “Hold a moment. I’ll be damned if I live off the back of a whore.” He swore and pulled from the bundle a purse of coin, fetching a few pieces from it and pressing them into her hand. As he did so she caught sight of what else was in the bundle - the little carved box. Why, she had all but forgotten it. Its carved mermaids and manticores seemed to wink at her as Barbossa’s movements shifted it a little and she once more could not draw her eyes from it. He caught her gaze and gave a short, sharp laugh, tossing one corner of the rags so that they obscured the box from view once more. “Aye, it survived too, the wretched thing. And to it, ye may attribute me misfortune, though I am loathe to be rid of it just yet.”
She reached over to stroke his cheek, longing to kiss him but feeling he was not in a mood to tolerate such affections just yet. ”Will you be vexed if I ask you what you mean?”
And a half-smile twisted his mouth.
“T’was not the box, so to speak, but the map it contained that so caused me ruin. But the map, and its other contents, be too valuable still to condemn to the depths.” He paused a moment as though considering whether to continue, then queried in a vague tone: “What have you heard tell of Charbydis and Scylla?”
Her face contorted at the strange names. “Nothin’ that I can think of.”
“Then no matter,” he muttered and turned back to his thoughts. She waited a moment, but he said no more and so she turned on her heel and left to brave the night.
He was asleep when she returned and she felt a bloom of tenderness swell within her at the sight. Placing the suppers on the hearth to keep them warm she quickly undressed and slid her naked form in beside him curving her body against the crook of his back, knowing that the feel of her breasts against his flesh was one he much relished. Her fingertips curled in his chest hair and she laid kisses upon his shoulder and quietly waited for him to be rested, and awake.
She was woken herself, sometime later though how long she could not guess at, by Barbossa lips upon her breast and his hand deep between her thighs. His mouth soon followed suit and she gasped and knotted her hands in his hair at the much-missed pleasure. His lips had not lost any of their skill nor attention to detail and she luxuriated in the sensations she so rarely knew. Her climax poured over her like hot butter, her hips shuddering. He raised himself up, his chest sliding against her breasts before faltering and stifling a curse against her neck. He fell to his side and urged her back against him, pulling her leg up and over his hip so that he could enter her in this fashion without further straining his injury - or surrendering his control.
To feel the gentle stretch of him within her was but further bliss and she grasped the hand that cupped her breast and arched her throat to his lips as he took his pleasure of her. He bit her ear and groaned with his final ecstasy and she could not help the wave of satisfaction that filled her.
With wine he devoured his supper, for she had thought to get some, and twice as much to dine upon as well and he finished the lot of it, and by the close of their late candle-lit meal beneath her coverlets, a gleam akin to the one of old had taken spark within his eye and a small smile played about his lips, and she flattered herself she had something to do with it.
The next evening she awoke to the noise of Barbossa fastening his sword about his waist, a grim visage of determination set on his features. She rubbed her eyes and stretched, pondering this sudden activity and wishing him back to bed with her. But he drank heartily of rum and pulled on his boots and when he spied her woken eyes watching him he bid her rise at once and dress to step out with him.
“The time for self-pityin’ be at end. This eve we will be out to round up what be left of me crew and procure meself a new ship.“ Already his back was straighter and his shoulders thrown back and the confidence to the jut of his chin made her wonder what he was thinking of.
“What’s in your ‘ead, m’love?” She queried, and Barbossa lifted his roughened hand and gazed at the ring that gleamed darkly there before replying with a single word:
“Sparrow.”