It was mercifully cooler in the evening; especially down by the docks but during the day the heat sometimes made it difficult to sleep. Often she would drink until she completely passed out, slumbering naked on the floor, head on a pillow, then arising somewhat later than normal and having to hasten to get ready. The whores wore less and less; forgoing dresses altogether for not much more than their underpinnings, dressed up with feathers and lace.
The weather was on the fringes of becoming more bearable as Evie dressed one damp, limpid evening and let herself out the front door of the Maison Rouge and picked her way through the muddy streets. Even the merest foot wrong could land one knee deep in muck at this time of the year. The villains and sailors kept to the taverns and then so too must she and it was to these she made her way now. First stop would be the Smoky Dragon, a cavernous pit of a place that served food, ale, rum and had lodgings up the back – everything a sailor or pirate caught in a storm could want, save a warm female body – but the women were drawn to the men and so the Dragon was the perfect abode with the showers coming every half-hour.
She’d rounded the corner of Cross St, stepping over an unconscious drunkard and his whimpering dog, and had the Dragon in her sights, a welcome haze of ruddy light and flickering action, snatches of rum songs billowing up like bubbles in the distance, when a whistle drew her to a halt.
As a hot shower began to pour down with sudden ferocity, Evie turned to see Jasmine, plump and gorgeously dark, beckoning her from a dingy porch. Hands over her head to shield herself as best she could, Evie darted across the sodden road to huddle there with her.
“What’s news, Jas’?”
“De Siren weighed anchor ‘bout ten minutes ago. Word is, de Capt’n off to de Duck an’ Swun. Tawt you wan’ know.”
“You’re a doll,” Evie placed a kiss on Jasmine’s round cheek and pressed a coin into her hand. “I ‘preciate that.”
The rain pummelled down still, turning the streets of Tortuga into a filthy brown river, but Evie was loathe to wait and she turned back the way she came from, retracing her steps in a splashing, stumbling dance, finding sure purchase on stone steps and rotting porches as often as was possible. She paused just long enough in a leaking tunnel to tear her petticoat off and, using it to shield herself from the elements, continued, ignoring the jeers and taunts the pirates let up from their dry nooks as she went past.
Black Ruth let out a guffaw at the sight of the sodden whore who slumped in relief against the door of the Goose’s Breast.
‘Now, I knows you like yer leaf, love, but didn’t think you was that desperate.”
“Apples, mum” Evie responded, curtly. “You got any?”
Ruth shrugged. “A few. Was going to do pig tomorrow. Your Capt’n back in then, eh?”
“That’s the word.” Evie wrung out her petticoat and shook out her hair, letting loose a miniature shower of her own on the tavern floors. “I’ll ‘ave six. Green.”
“Evie’s got an eye on the Capt’n’s treasure!” a titter went up from a nearby table and she responded with a rude gesture.
“Go fuck yerself, saucepot. I don’t see anybody else been doin’ it lately.”
The other whore responded by throwing a crust of bread Evie’s way but her attention was already focused on the bar, where Ruth was returning from the storeroom.
“Awright, lovey, here you go. Only ‘ad five green so one’s red. You’ll just have to make do. “ Black Ruth’s voice was even, her tone expressionless but the flicker in her eye said more to Evie than any intonation could.
She slapped a few coins on the table and swept up the small sack.
“I’m just protectin’ me income.” She said defiantly.
Ruth shrugged, her face blank. “I didn’t ask, ducks.”
The Duck and Swan was smaller than the Smoky Dragon and it had no lodging rooms, but it was by far the grandest tavern in all of Tortuga with the best in feasting to be had. The more refined gentlemen amongst the scoundrels that made berth in Tortuga were its regular clientele and women were allowed only if they could behave themselves. No frolicking in the booths, no dancing on the tables. Barbossa visited it to dine, for the quiet and for the quality of the food but would not often stay longer, preferring the less restrictive environs of the rummer houses to make merry in. But even more he preferred to feast well then shack up for the night with the sort of company he had not known for the long months at sea and make merry as he would in any taverns, but without the foul stench of other men, only the sweet perfume of a woman’s naked breast. Since that first night she’d entertained him, Barbossa had returned to Evie’s room each time The Siren was in the harbour and she was intent to keep him coming back. This was now his fourth call into Tortuga in ten months and she had things well in hand. The only thing she could not risk was being with another gent when he arrived and missing him – for his loyalty would not stand the wait and he would choose another girl to keep him company. It had happened one or two nights during his stays, but she couldn’t expect anything else.
Apples back in her room, changed into a dry dress and her damp hair twisted up into a messy chignon, Evie was scurrying toward the Duck and Swan in less than ten minutes, trusting it was not too late.
Its small quarters were packed to the brim with those seeking shelter from the rain, though it had since abated, and the humidity sent the steam rising from their damp clothes to clog the air. Evie pushed her way as delicately as she could through the tightly packed crowd, the tipsy chatter all but drowning out the screech of the fiddle. The Duck and Swan was not the usual haven of quiet murmurings this night. She pushed and squeezed and rose frequently upon tiptoe, but petite as she was it did her no good and by the time she reached the bar there’d been no sign of him.
The publican grinned at her in between pouring drinks and she ordered a large gin. A shout behind her and a wave of drunken sailors, unsteady on their feet, pushed her hard up against the bar.
“Oy!” She shrieked. “Get off me ya great lummoxes!”
The men swayed, the weight of one throwing off the others and she swore in fury as her breasts were crushed. The melee passed, chanting a ridiculous song, save for one who caught her predicament and came forward, slapping his rum bottle on the bar and lifting her high into the air to place her beside it.
“Sorry ‘bout that, young missy!” He exclaimed, an expression of stricken inebriation upon his face. “Youse so little there we missed ye altogether. Well worth the catchin’ though. Can I buy ye a drink by way of an apology.”
Evie was not stupid enough to knock back a clear sell just yet and she quickly regained her composure, smiling as though nothing whatsoever could vex her.
“’Ow could I say no to a strapper like yourself? Rescued me, you did! I thought for sure I’d be squished!”
“T’were nothin’!” He shouted back over the roar. “Any genel’man would do same!”
He shouted for the publican’s attention and with him so distracted, she used her new perch to scan the crowd.
There! At a table, in conversation with foreign men she did not recognise, far over to the left. A plate with the bare scraps of what had been a fine meal was before him and he was wiping his fingers off, a laugh on his mouth. She smiled to watch him, the dark humour that ever creased his brow, the confident set of his back, before catching herself and turning back quick to her newfound companion. She was here by coincidence, and nothing more. The right place at the right time. And now, up here on the bar, one of only a handful of women scattered in a sea of men, she was sure to catch his eye.
She chinked her glass against the young man’s and feigned interest as he dove into an account of his last six months at sea. Now and then she dared a quick glance in Barbossa’s direction, but his attention was ever fixed upon his own companions and she was beginning to grow desperate, wondering how she might put herself more obviously in his path when she raised her eyes once more only to find his upon her. And she realised he’d known she’d been there for some time.
She blushed and the smile on his lip matched the one in his eye. He regarded her for a long moment, head cocked, before gesturing to her with a jerk of it. She’d been summoned.
“’Scuse me, darlin’” she said to the sailor as she slid off the bar, ignoring his confused enquiries, and vanishing into the crowd. She could no longer see him once within its press so crossed her fingers and instead raised her eyes to the ceiling; to the low-slung candelabra she thought was the one that hung above his table.
Emerging finally on the other side of the rank odour of a hundred unwashed bodies, she beheld him, feet up on the table, smoking his pipe with one arm folded across his chest, lace sleeve grazing his reddened knuckles. He did not look at her straight away and she lingered – were they doing business of a type? Upon the table there was a small carved wooden box and a purse and the other pirates – swarthy Indian men in brilliantly coloured robes – wore grave countenances.
Sidling quietly up to him, she slid her hands over his shoulders. Still he did not acknowledge her but bared his teeth in a shark’s grin at his companions before leaning over to draw the box to him with long fingers.
“Gents, it appears time has come for me to be off. Pleasure doing business.”
His hand was arrested by the coal black, heavily ringed one of one of the Indians who fixed his gaze, black as onyx, on Barbossa’s face. Evie felt a tremble pass through her.
“Have a mind for what I have told you, sir. “
She could feel his shoulders stiffen beneath her hands and knew he did not like the man’s liberty of touching him. Wrenching his hand free he defused the tension with a dismissive chuckle. “Gents, t’were not through imprudence I’ve kept me station these ten years past. I thank ye – and bid you farewell.” Not, Evie noted, goodnight. Standing, tucking the box beneath one arm and encircling Evie with another he turned his back on the Indian pirates, who watched their retreat silently.
Back in the room the mysterious box was forgotten as she fell into his arms and the heat of his kiss, his rough hands and lips blazing their mark upon her flesh. The first time was always frantic, furious and almost violent. Then he would become more languorous, more generous with his affections, kissing every inch of her until she was delirious with sensation. Up against the door he had her now, rattling the hinges until the plaster above the doorframe cracked. She did not notice; he gnawed at her neck and grasped her buttocks, keeping her aloft at his level. She did not bother with the ceremony of bathing him now, but he would request it from her after his first spending. Barbossa was a man who took care with his appearance.
He helped himself to wine and noted the apples with a laugh, taking one and tossing it in the air to admire its shiny flesh. Evie, from her place on the bed, stared at the mysterious box that lay on the washstand. It was of a dark red grainy wood, highly polished and intricately carved – from where she lay she could make out all manner of strange creatures dancing out of the depths of the wood. Serpents with wings and a lion with the head of an eagle and others she could not make out. As she stared at them they seemed to ripple and sway, almost rising up and transfixed, she moved forward to lift the box and examine it closer. Barbossa’s large hand clapped down on hers even as her fingers grasped the corners and she started.
“Now, now, m’love,” He purred with unsmiling eyes. “Such is not for the likes of ye. Keep yer interests to the carnal lest ye be taken captive by that which ye can scarcely understand.”
Was he insulting her or cautioning her? “What is it?” she queried, trying to keep the note of petulance from her voice. Barbossa kept her hand in his, pushing her back onto the bed.
“It’s a box.” The tone of his voice was final but she persisted.
“I know that. What I mean is, what’s it about?”
“Come, come Missy.” He thundered. “Don’t be a-vexin’ me. It is a box, one I have long coveted, and that be all ye need to know. If I see ye near it again this eve, ye’ll get a hidin’.”
Was it his inarguable instruction or the strange intrigue of the box that kept her bewitched? She could not draw her eyes from it, but strained to see, in the dim candlelight, if the creatures really were writhing and snapping at each other, or if it were merely a trick of the light. Barbossa broke the spell abruptly by dropping his hat down upon the box and turning to take her face in his hands, his vivid blue eyes inscrutable.
“Trouble ye mind no more about it, pet.” He murmured. “Turn a mind to ye duties and remind me why it is I return to ye.”
Later, they lay on the bed, she curling her fingers in his chest hair, he cupping one of her breasts.
“Twenty-seven years I’ve been on the sea” He answered the question she’d asked, his eyes shut.
“Lord a’mighty! That don’t leave a lot of room in life for a sweetheart!” She exclaimed and he laughed softly. Did he realise she was fishing?
“I were married.” He stated it simply and she turned her head to look up at his face. “Off this blasted place to be joined in wedlock is simply what must be undertaken by a man, if he to be expectin’ a warm place to hang his hat upon his return from travels. But I confess I were young. I would not do same again now, not for any woman. Asides, it has been more than ten year since I returned to the place of me birth. The sea be me true home, and me true love now. Cannot bear to be parted from her more than a few days, which ye must already know.” His smile was gentle and she knew his amusement was directed inwards. And she could not help but ask:
“Did you love her?”
A chortle escaped the back of his throat.
“Aye. I loved her with all the misguided passion of a boy, though it surely helped me affections that she did not object to me long absences, like the wives of other sailors did. We wed when I had already been a seaman for eight years, though I were but one and twenty, and could sorely be expected to change me habits. But I loved her, and I kept upon me a miniature of her likeness for many a year and yearned for her when I was abroad.” He opened one eye a crack and peered at her in sardonic humour. “Not that it kept me breeches buttoned.” He shut his eye again and stretched, his tattoos flexing striated blue over his long limbs. “I still ‘ave that miniature, somewhere about, in me cabin. I expect so. I have not set eyes upon it for a long while.”
She hesitated, shifting up into a fully sitting position, crossing her legs besides him, letting one hand drift the length of his torso, caressing the entwined figure of a mermaid nursing the yawning skull of an enchanted sailor that curled there. “What happened to her?” Even now, in a distant land, she could be living and rearing his children.
“Her letters found me all across the world.” He replied. “Like she’d enchanted them. No matter what course I took, where me travels led me, still her letters would be delivered straight into me hand. At first I responded, not to all, but when there was a quiet eve with nothin’ else to do. But there was much to be done at sea, ranks to climb, skills to acquire, treasures to be won and I stopped. The less I replied, the more letters came until finally I was trying to outrace them, changing ships as often as we made berth in a port. But still, still they chased me down, sodden and wretched stories of the town I’d left behind, the woman who bore my name but not my spawn and who sat by the window of our small cottage and looked out to sea, awaitin’ each ship to bear me back to her. “ He paused, eyes lifted to the canopy above, avoiding the sight of himself in the mirror. “She were beautiful, in a common way, a country girl and I had six years on her. I loved her, for thoughts of her kept me warm at night when the ship were a’rockin’ and nursed me through rough times when the pickings were slim and I were still a bare-footed member of crew. But I loved her not enough to be by her side, or answer her letters. With each time that I did return to deliver riches that kept her in comfort, each time further and further apart, a web of sorrow was casting a grey pallor over her pretty features though ne’er a word of complaint did she utter and the sight of it drove me longer and further away. “
Barbossa glanced at the gnawed apple core clutched in one hand and frowned, tossing it away. “And then one day, I returned, newly a Captain of me own ship. And our cottage was empty of her.”
Evie felt her stomach clench. “She’d run off.”
He snorted and sat up, reaching for another apple. “No. She’d died.”
“Died?” Her heart thumped hard and aching.
“Aye. Consumption. Her mother told me. She’d had it for near a year and never mentioned it, not once. “ He eyed the apple critically, searching for flaws before taking a large bite and lying back down against the pillows, a small knot between his eyebrows.
“Why do you think… why did she never tell you?”
For some moments he did not reply, but chewed at his apple, calm and thoughtful. Finally, his lip curled and he seemed to snicker. “I don’t think she wanted to test me loyalties.”
The candles had almost completely burned down, two in fact, already had, and the other four cast only a weak and darting light about the room. In the gloam, she looked down into his face, a hundred years of adventures engraved into every crease and fold of his skin and she wanted to ask: “And what of me? Do you think kindly of the likes of Evie?”
But she did not. She knew to do so would be folly.
Instead, like the nameless and sorrowful bride of Captain Barbossa, she said nothing, but drew him into her warm and sensuous embrace and offered him the comfort of silent acceptance.
© 1998, 1999 Truffle