For tiamary, "Old Christmas Revived, Part II" by mamazano
Moderator's Note: This was written in five chapters so I posted it as such. All parts will be linked at the bottom of each LJ Cut for easy sifting. If you come through at the halfway mark, and I'm not finished posting, please bear with me. Thanks! -'Drea
Title: Old Christmas Revived, Hospitality Restored (Part Two)
Author: mamazano
Rating: G
Characters: Various characters from POTC, along with some OC’s
Disclaimer: Borrowed from Disney, without permission, with all intentions of giving them back…maybe.
Written For: For the 2009 merrypirates fic exchange, for Tiamary, who requested a story that includes tidbits about how Christmastime was observed in the Caribbean in the 1700s.
Summary: The crew of the Black Pearl on holiday in Tortuga. Set post-AWE, at Christmastime. Fancy that!
A/N: Tremendous gratitude goes out to all my darling danglingdingle, for her unflagging encouragement, unfailing support and spot-on suggestions, all of which have enabled this story to unfold.
A special thank you also goes out to stealmybike, for reading through the final draft for continuity and story flow.
*
Old Christmas Revived, Hospitality Restored
Chapter 2
****
The butler and baker, they now may be glad,
The times they are mended, though they have been bad;
The brewer, he likewise may be of good cheer,
He shall have good trading for ale and strong beer;
All trades shall be jolly, and have for relief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.
The holly and ivy about the walls wind,
And show that we ought to our neighbours be kind,
Inviting each other for pastime and sport,
And where we best fare, there we most do resort;
We fail not of victuals, and that of the chief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.
The cooks shall be busied by day and by night,
In roasting and boiling, for taste and delight;
Their senses in liquor that's nappy they'll steep,
Though they be afforded to have little sleep;
They still are employed for to dress us in brief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.
****
The moonlight cast a silvery sheen across the deck of the Black Pearl, while the men on anchor watch did their best not to doze in the peaceful hours before dawn. Their captain had taken first watch and had retired to his cabin at eight bells, giving strict instructions to be awakened if anything suspicious were to occur.
So when Marty heard a thump, then hushed voices, he’d hurried to the captain’s cabin and knocked softly. The door opened a crack and a bleary eye peered out.
“Captain!” Marty whispered, “You better come.”
Jack poked his head out and listened. A shuffling was heard and a muffled curse and then a squeal? Raising an incredulous eyebrow, Jack slipped through the door, pistol in hand. Crouching beneath the stairs he placed a finger to his lips and motioned with his head for Marty, knife at the ready, to do the same. They waited in silence to see what materialized.
“Watch it, you moron! You wanna wake the crew?” Pintel whispered loudly, somewhere to port.
“You try then,” Ragetti whispered back in a hurt tone. “It ain’t so easy you know.”
There were more thumps, and shuffling and another muffled, what definitely was, a squeal. Jack peered around the corner to find the two men with their arms full, literally, with a squirming burlap sack. As he watched in surprise the bag squealed again and began struggling more intensely.
What the bloody hell…? Jack wondered silently.
As if to answer his unspoken question, Ragetti said proudly, “I can’t wait to see the look on the Cap’n’s face when he sees what I caught.”
“You caught?” Pintel said with exasperation. “You wouldn’t of caught it if I hadn’t set the trap.”
“But whose idea were it to set the trap?” Ragetti argued back.
Pintel stopped and wagged a finger at Ragetti. “Yer idea was to catch one of them infernal birds yer always squawkin’ about.”
Pleased with his joke, Pintel chose that moment to let go of his end of the sack, which was a mistake. With one more great effort the bundle squirmed free, revealing a young, flawless piglet. Startled, the little pig took off across the deck, with the two men scrambling after it.
“Now look what you’ve done!” Pintel shouted.
“Yer the one that let go!” Ragetti shouted back. “Quick, catch ‘er before she goes in the sea and drowns.”
“When was the last time you saw a drowned pig?”
The small pig ran by, with Pintel and Ragetti in hot pursuit. Jack swooped down with one quick move and snagged the piglet, holding the squirming, frightened animal firmly in his arms. “I prefer my dinner to be less lively,” he said to the two men, who skidded to a panting halt in front of him.
“Aye, Cap’n,” Pintel said giving Ragetti a glare.
“Do tell me this isn’t on the menu,” Jack said handing the pig back to Ragetti.
“No Cap’n, she’s too little, and…well, I’ve been thinkin’…”
Jack raised an eyebrow at the stammering cook as Marty eyed the little pig hungrily.
“Big enough to roast,” Marty told Ragetti, who protectively held the pig away from him.
“I’ll just be puttin’ her in a pen,” he mumbled and hurried off down below deck
“Remind me again why I didn’t maroon those two?” Jack said, watching their receding backs.
Marty just grunted in reply.
****
Dawn broke to a flurry of activity along the wharfs. Several new ships had dropped anchor in the night and were busy offloading their cargos into boats, which were met with great excitement at the dock by the town merchants, all eager to fill their shops for the festive days ahead. Their shouts as they haggled over prices carried across the water to where the Black Pearl rest at anchor. There was no mistaking one voice in particular, the sing-song French accents of the dressmaker Pierre, engaged in heated battle with a Mrs. Pomfrey over a particularly elegant bolt of silk.
“Madame! This cloth, it is too magnifique for the likes of your atrocities.”
“Why I never!” The red-faced seamstress straightened, fists balled on waist. “How dare you insult me frocks in such a fashion!”
“Fashion? The grotesques you call gowns? Bah!” Pierre waved her sputtering protests aside. “Whereas Pierre Bouspeut, he creates the beauty, the elegance, the…”
The remainder of his speech was muffled, as the insulted Mrs. Pomfrey saw fit to liberally apply the bolt of cloth in question to the smaller man’s head.
A pair of arms and several shouts later had separated the two combatants. “None of this now,” Gibbs said as he pulled the dressmaker aside. “There’s plenty to go around.” He bent down and picked up a slightly squashed hat from under his boot. “I believe this is yours, ma’am?” he asked, straightening the brim as best he could.
The flustered woman snatched the hat from Gibbs and crammed it on her head. “You keep that French fop away from me shop, you here?” she screeched.
“I would rather die then set foot in the chamber of the horrors!” Pierre spat back.
From their vantage point at the Pearl’s rail, Jack and Marty watched with evident humor.
“So much for the spirit of Father Christmas,” Jack said with a joyous grin.
Marty shrugged. “It’s Tortuga.”
****
A thump on the side of the ship signaled the boat from shore. Jack watched as Gibbs helped Pierre up the sea ladder, the latter’s arms full of his latest conquest. Shoving the brightly colored cloth into Gibbs’ arms, Pierre advanced on Jack with open arms and a beaming smile.
“Ah, Capitaine Sparrow, what a wonderful coincidence!”
Jack, anticipating the Frenchman, sidestepped the embrace neatly, grabbing Pierre’s hand in a greeting instead, with a smile of his own. “I see you have not lost your touch for getting what you want,” Jack said, with a nod towards the hard-won silk.
“That woman, she is a cow!” Pierre sniffed. “Quel désastre! She makes the dresses, most hideous, and charges too much. The poor girls, they come to Pierre, begging me to do the repairs. Pah! She would only make the sow’s ear out of the lovely silk.”
Pierre glanced around. “But what is this I hear, about you not leaving the ship? How am I to cook you the fattened goose, the plum puddings you English are so fond of, if you do not come to my feast de Noël?”
Jack waved away the words. “Christmas, blah.”
“C'est quoi, ça? How can you say ‘Pah!’ to Christmas!?” Pierre sputtered.
“Blah.” Jack repeated and jabbed a challenging finger at Pierre. “Christmas or not, we weigh anchor day after tomorrow.”
“But Christmas, it is Twelve Days, no? What of your men, do they not want to make merry?”
“Bloody buggering hell!” Jack threw his arms up in exasperation. “We’ve already been in port three days as it is. Hell, half the crew won’t make it past four without running out of coin.”
“Or killing themselves.” Ragetti piped up helpfully.
“Right!” Jack said brightly. “So we shall give Tortuga two more days, and then we’re off. Seems bloody fair, if you ask me. ”
“And the feast?” Pierre batted his eyes hopefully at Jack.
“Bon appetit!” Jack said, with a wave and a whirl of coat tails as he headed back to the relative sanctuary of his cabin.
“Merde! He is the most stubborn ass!” Pierre straightened his lace cuffs and sniffed. “If the good Capitaine will not come to the feast, then the feast shall come to the Capitaine. Mister Gibbous! I shall need two assistants.”
Gibbs smiled as he caught sight of Pintel and Ragetti sneaking away.
“Aye, aye, Pierre. I have just the two for you.”
****
“This reminds me of Christmas up at the big house, when I was a girl.”
Giselle paused in her stirring, and wiped a hand across her brow. With her disheveled hair and that spot of flour on her nose, cheeks flushed pink from the heat of the hearth, she looked as if she were fifteen once again.
“Cook always used to let us help stir the puddings,” she giggled, eyes far away in reminiscing. “Those not old enough to reach the table had to stand on a chair.”
“Aye, we always took a turn with the Christmas puddings,” Gibbs said, smiling fondly at Giselle. “Everyone in the family would take a stir, east to west. T’was good luck.”
“How about you, Letty?” Giselle asked Scarlett, who was busy preparing the stuffing for the goose. “Did you have plum pudding at Christmas?”
“It wouldn’t be Christmas otherwise.” Scarlett put down her knife. “I remember going to church with my family, Stir-up Sunday we called it. The prayers would open with, ‘Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of they faithful people, what they plenteously bring forth the fruit of good works…’ and so on.” She smiled, eyes twinkling with good humor. “But we always changed the words to, ‘Stir up, we beseech thee, the pudding in the pot. And when we do get home tonight, we'll eat it up hot.’ Mother always scolded us after church, and then hurried home to start the puddings.”
They all laughed.
“And what about you, Pierre?” Gibbs asked the Frenchman, returning from the cellar with an armful of wine bottles. “Did you have plum pudding for Christmas?”
“The plum pudding? Pah! It is a most English of foods. Only the English would put la viande hâchée menu, the chopped beef, and the mutton in the pudding.” Pierre sniffed. “No, the plum pudding is for the barbarian.”
“Oi! Watch it!” Pintel growled from his corner by the sink where he sat peeling potatoes, a surly expression on his face.
Pierre waved away his protest. “But is this not why the English, they are so fierce? Why the other countries, they all tremble in fear of you English pirates? Your mothers all fed you the plum puddings.”
“I think you’re fierce,” Ragetti told Pintel, who only scowled more.
“So what did you French eat?” Gibbs asked, stopping to take a swallow of rum.
“We ate the Gateau des Rois, the King’s Cake,” Pierre said proudly. “It is a cake, most magnifique, a cake which requires the utmost of care, attention, and the finest ingredients.” He paused and held up a finger. “But before you can begin to mix the cake, all the ingredients, they must be prepared, the flour, it must be dried and sifted, the currants, they must be washed, the nutmegs grated, the spices pounded, the candied fruit cut into the most thin of slices, the almonds bruised with the rose water, the sugar sifted, and the eggs whisked.” He shrugged. “It is a most complicated cake, one the simple Englishman with his boiled pudding, would not comprehend.”
He set the wine bottles on the sideboard and dusted his hands. “But we are here to prepare the English feast, no? So we shall have the plum pudding, and minced pies.” He snapped his fingers at the two men in the corner. “I have been told you have caught the small piglet, oui? What is more English than the roast pig?”
“You can’t roast Penelope!” Ragetti sputtered. “She’s just a baby! T’would be barbaric it would.”
“Ah, the fierce pirate, he has made a pet out of the pig, no?” Pierre smiled. “There is no need to worry about your petite pet, monsieur Ragetti. No. The English Christmas feast requires the boar most enormous, its head served on the platter, with the garlands most gay.”
Gibbs shook his head. “First goats, now pigs,” he muttered. “More like Noah’s ark than a pirate ship.”
“Come, come, we must not waste time,” Pierre clapped his hands. “We still have much to do, the hour, it is growing late. I, myself, shall now prepare the beverage requiring the most skillful mixture, a drink that is too, how is it you say? Too abstruse, too complex for the comprehénsion of the ordinary person.”
He pulled a large silver bowl out from a cupboard and held it high. “The pièce de résistance, oui? Behold, the wassail bowl!”
*
| Part One | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five |
Title: Old Christmas Revived, Hospitality Restored (Part Two)
Author: mamazano
Rating: G
Characters: Various characters from POTC, along with some OC’s
Disclaimer: Borrowed from Disney, without permission, with all intentions of giving them back…maybe.
Written For: For the 2009 merrypirates fic exchange, for Tiamary, who requested a story that includes tidbits about how Christmastime was observed in the Caribbean in the 1700s.
Summary: The crew of the Black Pearl on holiday in Tortuga. Set post-AWE, at Christmastime. Fancy that!
A/N: Tremendous gratitude goes out to all my darling danglingdingle, for her unflagging encouragement, unfailing support and spot-on suggestions, all of which have enabled this story to unfold.
A special thank you also goes out to stealmybike, for reading through the final draft for continuity and story flow.
*
Old Christmas Revived, Hospitality Restored
Chapter 2
****
The butler and baker, they now may be glad,
The times they are mended, though they have been bad;
The brewer, he likewise may be of good cheer,
He shall have good trading for ale and strong beer;
All trades shall be jolly, and have for relief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.
The holly and ivy about the walls wind,
And show that we ought to our neighbours be kind,
Inviting each other for pastime and sport,
And where we best fare, there we most do resort;
We fail not of victuals, and that of the chief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.
The cooks shall be busied by day and by night,
In roasting and boiling, for taste and delight;
Their senses in liquor that's nappy they'll steep,
Though they be afforded to have little sleep;
They still are employed for to dress us in brief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.
****
The moonlight cast a silvery sheen across the deck of the Black Pearl, while the men on anchor watch did their best not to doze in the peaceful hours before dawn. Their captain had taken first watch and had retired to his cabin at eight bells, giving strict instructions to be awakened if anything suspicious were to occur.
So when Marty heard a thump, then hushed voices, he’d hurried to the captain’s cabin and knocked softly. The door opened a crack and a bleary eye peered out.
“Captain!” Marty whispered, “You better come.”
Jack poked his head out and listened. A shuffling was heard and a muffled curse and then a squeal? Raising an incredulous eyebrow, Jack slipped through the door, pistol in hand. Crouching beneath the stairs he placed a finger to his lips and motioned with his head for Marty, knife at the ready, to do the same. They waited in silence to see what materialized.
“Watch it, you moron! You wanna wake the crew?” Pintel whispered loudly, somewhere to port.
“You try then,” Ragetti whispered back in a hurt tone. “It ain’t so easy you know.”
There were more thumps, and shuffling and another muffled, what definitely was, a squeal. Jack peered around the corner to find the two men with their arms full, literally, with a squirming burlap sack. As he watched in surprise the bag squealed again and began struggling more intensely.
What the bloody hell…? Jack wondered silently.
As if to answer his unspoken question, Ragetti said proudly, “I can’t wait to see the look on the Cap’n’s face when he sees what I caught.”
“You caught?” Pintel said with exasperation. “You wouldn’t of caught it if I hadn’t set the trap.”
“But whose idea were it to set the trap?” Ragetti argued back.
Pintel stopped and wagged a finger at Ragetti. “Yer idea was to catch one of them infernal birds yer always squawkin’ about.”
Pleased with his joke, Pintel chose that moment to let go of his end of the sack, which was a mistake. With one more great effort the bundle squirmed free, revealing a young, flawless piglet. Startled, the little pig took off across the deck, with the two men scrambling after it.
“Now look what you’ve done!” Pintel shouted.
“Yer the one that let go!” Ragetti shouted back. “Quick, catch ‘er before she goes in the sea and drowns.”
“When was the last time you saw a drowned pig?”
The small pig ran by, with Pintel and Ragetti in hot pursuit. Jack swooped down with one quick move and snagged the piglet, holding the squirming, frightened animal firmly in his arms. “I prefer my dinner to be less lively,” he said to the two men, who skidded to a panting halt in front of him.
“Aye, Cap’n,” Pintel said giving Ragetti a glare.
“Do tell me this isn’t on the menu,” Jack said handing the pig back to Ragetti.
“No Cap’n, she’s too little, and…well, I’ve been thinkin’…”
Jack raised an eyebrow at the stammering cook as Marty eyed the little pig hungrily.
“Big enough to roast,” Marty told Ragetti, who protectively held the pig away from him.
“I’ll just be puttin’ her in a pen,” he mumbled and hurried off down below deck
“Remind me again why I didn’t maroon those two?” Jack said, watching their receding backs.
Marty just grunted in reply.
****
Dawn broke to a flurry of activity along the wharfs. Several new ships had dropped anchor in the night and were busy offloading their cargos into boats, which were met with great excitement at the dock by the town merchants, all eager to fill their shops for the festive days ahead. Their shouts as they haggled over prices carried across the water to where the Black Pearl rest at anchor. There was no mistaking one voice in particular, the sing-song French accents of the dressmaker Pierre, engaged in heated battle with a Mrs. Pomfrey over a particularly elegant bolt of silk.
“Madame! This cloth, it is too magnifique for the likes of your atrocities.”
“Why I never!” The red-faced seamstress straightened, fists balled on waist. “How dare you insult me frocks in such a fashion!”
“Fashion? The grotesques you call gowns? Bah!” Pierre waved her sputtering protests aside. “Whereas Pierre Bouspeut, he creates the beauty, the elegance, the…”
The remainder of his speech was muffled, as the insulted Mrs. Pomfrey saw fit to liberally apply the bolt of cloth in question to the smaller man’s head.
A pair of arms and several shouts later had separated the two combatants. “None of this now,” Gibbs said as he pulled the dressmaker aside. “There’s plenty to go around.” He bent down and picked up a slightly squashed hat from under his boot. “I believe this is yours, ma’am?” he asked, straightening the brim as best he could.
The flustered woman snatched the hat from Gibbs and crammed it on her head. “You keep that French fop away from me shop, you here?” she screeched.
“I would rather die then set foot in the chamber of the horrors!” Pierre spat back.
From their vantage point at the Pearl’s rail, Jack and Marty watched with evident humor.
“So much for the spirit of Father Christmas,” Jack said with a joyous grin.
Marty shrugged. “It’s Tortuga.”
****
A thump on the side of the ship signaled the boat from shore. Jack watched as Gibbs helped Pierre up the sea ladder, the latter’s arms full of his latest conquest. Shoving the brightly colored cloth into Gibbs’ arms, Pierre advanced on Jack with open arms and a beaming smile.
“Ah, Capitaine Sparrow, what a wonderful coincidence!”
Jack, anticipating the Frenchman, sidestepped the embrace neatly, grabbing Pierre’s hand in a greeting instead, with a smile of his own. “I see you have not lost your touch for getting what you want,” Jack said, with a nod towards the hard-won silk.
“That woman, she is a cow!” Pierre sniffed. “Quel désastre! She makes the dresses, most hideous, and charges too much. The poor girls, they come to Pierre, begging me to do the repairs. Pah! She would only make the sow’s ear out of the lovely silk.”
Pierre glanced around. “But what is this I hear, about you not leaving the ship? How am I to cook you the fattened goose, the plum puddings you English are so fond of, if you do not come to my feast de Noël?”
Jack waved away the words. “Christmas, blah.”
“C'est quoi, ça? How can you say ‘Pah!’ to Christmas!?” Pierre sputtered.
“Blah.” Jack repeated and jabbed a challenging finger at Pierre. “Christmas or not, we weigh anchor day after tomorrow.”
“But Christmas, it is Twelve Days, no? What of your men, do they not want to make merry?”
“Bloody buggering hell!” Jack threw his arms up in exasperation. “We’ve already been in port three days as it is. Hell, half the crew won’t make it past four without running out of coin.”
“Or killing themselves.” Ragetti piped up helpfully.
“Right!” Jack said brightly. “So we shall give Tortuga two more days, and then we’re off. Seems bloody fair, if you ask me. ”
“And the feast?” Pierre batted his eyes hopefully at Jack.
“Bon appetit!” Jack said, with a wave and a whirl of coat tails as he headed back to the relative sanctuary of his cabin.
“Merde! He is the most stubborn ass!” Pierre straightened his lace cuffs and sniffed. “If the good Capitaine will not come to the feast, then the feast shall come to the Capitaine. Mister Gibbous! I shall need two assistants.”
Gibbs smiled as he caught sight of Pintel and Ragetti sneaking away.
“Aye, aye, Pierre. I have just the two for you.”
****
“This reminds me of Christmas up at the big house, when I was a girl.”
Giselle paused in her stirring, and wiped a hand across her brow. With her disheveled hair and that spot of flour on her nose, cheeks flushed pink from the heat of the hearth, she looked as if she were fifteen once again.
“Cook always used to let us help stir the puddings,” she giggled, eyes far away in reminiscing. “Those not old enough to reach the table had to stand on a chair.”
“Aye, we always took a turn with the Christmas puddings,” Gibbs said, smiling fondly at Giselle. “Everyone in the family would take a stir, east to west. T’was good luck.”
“How about you, Letty?” Giselle asked Scarlett, who was busy preparing the stuffing for the goose. “Did you have plum pudding at Christmas?”
“It wouldn’t be Christmas otherwise.” Scarlett put down her knife. “I remember going to church with my family, Stir-up Sunday we called it. The prayers would open with, ‘Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of they faithful people, what they plenteously bring forth the fruit of good works…’ and so on.” She smiled, eyes twinkling with good humor. “But we always changed the words to, ‘Stir up, we beseech thee, the pudding in the pot. And when we do get home tonight, we'll eat it up hot.’ Mother always scolded us after church, and then hurried home to start the puddings.”
They all laughed.
“And what about you, Pierre?” Gibbs asked the Frenchman, returning from the cellar with an armful of wine bottles. “Did you have plum pudding for Christmas?”
“The plum pudding? Pah! It is a most English of foods. Only the English would put la viande hâchée menu, the chopped beef, and the mutton in the pudding.” Pierre sniffed. “No, the plum pudding is for the barbarian.”
“Oi! Watch it!” Pintel growled from his corner by the sink where he sat peeling potatoes, a surly expression on his face.
Pierre waved away his protest. “But is this not why the English, they are so fierce? Why the other countries, they all tremble in fear of you English pirates? Your mothers all fed you the plum puddings.”
“I think you’re fierce,” Ragetti told Pintel, who only scowled more.
“So what did you French eat?” Gibbs asked, stopping to take a swallow of rum.
“We ate the Gateau des Rois, the King’s Cake,” Pierre said proudly. “It is a cake, most magnifique, a cake which requires the utmost of care, attention, and the finest ingredients.” He paused and held up a finger. “But before you can begin to mix the cake, all the ingredients, they must be prepared, the flour, it must be dried and sifted, the currants, they must be washed, the nutmegs grated, the spices pounded, the candied fruit cut into the most thin of slices, the almonds bruised with the rose water, the sugar sifted, and the eggs whisked.” He shrugged. “It is a most complicated cake, one the simple Englishman with his boiled pudding, would not comprehend.”
He set the wine bottles on the sideboard and dusted his hands. “But we are here to prepare the English feast, no? So we shall have the plum pudding, and minced pies.” He snapped his fingers at the two men in the corner. “I have been told you have caught the small piglet, oui? What is more English than the roast pig?”
“You can’t roast Penelope!” Ragetti sputtered. “She’s just a baby! T’would be barbaric it would.”
“Ah, the fierce pirate, he has made a pet out of the pig, no?” Pierre smiled. “There is no need to worry about your petite pet, monsieur Ragetti. No. The English Christmas feast requires the boar most enormous, its head served on the platter, with the garlands most gay.”
Gibbs shook his head. “First goats, now pigs,” he muttered. “More like Noah’s ark than a pirate ship.”
“Come, come, we must not waste time,” Pierre clapped his hands. “We still have much to do, the hour, it is growing late. I, myself, shall now prepare the beverage requiring the most skillful mixture, a drink that is too, how is it you say? Too abstruse, too complex for the comprehénsion of the ordinary person.”
He pulled a large silver bowl out from a cupboard and held it high. “The pièce de résistance, oui? Behold, the wassail bowl!”
*
| Part One | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five |