The Briar and The Rose: Chapter Six
The cards fluttered, their bright illustrations in red, black and gold twinkling in the fading sun. Evie cut the deck, riffled them, and then strip shuffled the whole lot. They were a beautiful deck, to be sure. She’d bought them down at the docks; of course, from a pirate’s plunder upon a passage ship and they were a lady’s deck, with gold-embossed backs and a pretty pale-green velvet pouch to keep them in. She would have to pick out the embroidered initials later, but the whole deck was far flasher than the faded cards Barbossa had given her - not that she’d give those away in a hurry, no, but kept them in a drawer of her dresser.
She dealt herself two cards and then laid out the flop on the uneven, mossy surface of the rocky wall she sat on.
The Ace of Clubs, Seven of Diamonds and Three of Clubs.
In her hand she held the Two of Clubs and a Jack of spades. The makings of a straight flush, a flush, or a straight, but not much else. Worth playing on for? Other players could have an Ace, or two, a high pair or even a low pair; Three of a Kind by now, it was a possibility. All a helluva lot more than she was holding. It was also a possibility they had nothing. She laid out the turn. A Four of Hearts. All right, so a straight. Others could be playing for the same, or have two pair, a three… Evie gnawed on her lower lip and took a sip from her gin bottle. It was all so perplexing. She’d want to keep playing this hand, but then what if a Five didn’t turn up on the river? She could always bet low… but then what if a Five did turn up? Then she’d be cursing not playing harder. Barbossa had warned her that she couldn’t win all hands - not yet. Sometimes she were bound to lose, it was simply the way of the game. “Some say it be a game of chance, and some say a game of skill - well, it be both in equal parts. Ye need to learn how best to play the hand yer dealt - same as life, wench, exactly the same and if ye play well enough most of the time then the little falls don’t matter as much. Ye need to work it so that ye bluff others out of the game or so that when ye lose, yer losin’s are but dross - insignificant. “
He would not teach her to cheat until she had mastered the honest game well enough to beat him at least half the time. Evie had become bewitched by the game and played it at every opportunity - first with Barbossa when he was in port and satiated enough to stop awhile and then with Giselle on quiet mornings when neither of them could sleep. She nearly always beat Giselle, being peppered by her cocoa leaf and bullied into hard playing by Barbossa. Barbossa nearly always beat her, either with a better-played hand or betting her into folding. She was not yet bold enough to play for her bread, he would assert and make her play again and again. “Once I’ve taught ye the tricks, ye needn’t be worryin’ about loosin’ money when yer older - there’ll be endless ships of foolish sailors willin’ to bet their earnin’s in game with a woman, if not loose them in bed with her.”
Soon enough a small group of whores were playing at The Goose’s Breast and Evie was getting better and better. The others viewed it as a diversionary sport, a pleasure - they never bet for coin amongst each other, for that way only disaster would lie - but for a motley jumble of hair pins, sticks and scraps of fabric - but they did not see the potential in it as a retirement plan and so did not set to it with the same fervour that Evie did. Indeed, not many ever thought of what awaited them once they got too old to turn tricks (but then, what was too old? Old Mae still made a decent enough wage and she were well into her sixties) and nor had Evie until the idea had been put into her head. After all, she was barely twenty now. Like the sailors and pirates who plundered their loot almost as soon as it hit their hands with never a thought for old age, so too did the whores of Tortuga spend their hard-earned coin on life’s pleasures. A few saved hard and retired in comfort, but when it was so easy to replace what was spent, it was difficult indeed to practice pragmatism. Even with Evie’s hoard of coin she wanted something to fall back on.
And the playing of cards was deeply enjoyable and practiced the skills she had acquired as a whore - her keen observation of character and perceptiveness, her ability to glean ever more coin with a charming smile - and kept them well oiled.
In the beginning Barbossa had not kept what he won from her and they’d played only in brass, but now he was upping the stakes and keeping the winnings, the better to “force her play” so he claimed and Evie found herself scrambling to play a better game each time and practice, such as she were doing now, alone as much as against other players.
But the sun was surreptitiously edging down over the horizon ever steadily and behind her, the town of Tortuga was slowly beginning to awaken, the faint murmur of fiddles and fresh laid fires, sober drunks bawling for their first rum drifting on the breeze to float by her ear. It was time to turn her head to business and with that, she turned over the river. A Three of Diamonds. Nowt but a pair with an Ace High - nothing at all. With a snort of disgust she gathered the pack together and slipped it into its little purse, which was nestled straight into her hidden pocket and got to her feet, dusting off the dark green skirts that skimmed her calves. The port was awash now in the iridescent lavender of twilight, a magical gleam that never failed to make her catch her breath a little and tonight was no exception. She gazed out into the harbour, where the periwinkle blue of the sky was just beginning to twinkle with the first stars of night, where all the ships floated in grand silence, only a few of their dark eyes aglow with the warmth of a lantern within. If she stood this way, with the breeze blowing just right, all she could smell was the fresh, rich brine of the ocean beyond the curve of the bay, the enormous world that existed there, as distant and mysterious to her as her long lost virtue. And where was Hector now, upon it? Were his journeying bountiful, a brim with pleasure and adventure? And did he ever stop in the midst of it all, when the sea, perhaps, was calm and the holds were full and he’d ate and drank till washed with satiety - did he then stop, perhaps in the pause between counting his wealth and opening the crisp pages of one of his books, and spare a thought for her?
It was a bewitching path for her mind to take - she could see him, reclining in his chair, his boots upon the great table in his cabin, coring an apple, one of those green apples he was so fond of, and pausing suddenly, one those quiet, secretive smiles playing upon his lips. And to bring about such a smile - thoughts of her, of his Evie, naked and hot and writhing in his arms, or fetching him another glass or a good meal from The Duck and Swan. It was bewitching indeed and so she did not take immediate heed to the fellow who’d stopped in his way to the streets beyond her and eyed her up and down, did not take heed until he was breathing down her neck.
“You on then tonight, love?” He queried, blackened teeth arcing in an ingratiating grin.
Evie roused herself from her fantasies and forced a smile upon her face. “For you, me darlin’, I’m never off!” This was a bet then she knew with certainty she’d win. And taking the fellow by the arm she turned her back on the sea and all thoughts of Barbossa.
Many hours later, Evie was bone-tired and ill tempered. The night had been a brisk one, indeed scarcely had she finished with one bugger than another sprung forward to take his place, and her cunny felt chafed inside and out. They weren’t big spenders tonight and so she was ill inclined to turn a one of them down and take a breather, although truth to be told she just wanted to call it a night. She didn’t bother over much with service - not a one of them wanted the luxury of her room and all elected for the docks and she was sick of shaking sand out of her skirts and bodice and sidestepping the rats and the muck so when the next gentleman - a sinewy Irishman with a pronounced limp and one eye - tried to haggle her fee she damn well near felt like screaming.
But she didn’t - the fellow was dangerously drunk - and instead smiled with the very last vestiges of charm she had for that night: “Sorry ducks, but I got to earn me keep, same as you. One piece of silver it is, and you’ll get its worth in the suck alone.”
“It seems overmuch for a docks whore,” he whined in response, clenching and unclenching his fists. She noted the gesture and moved to placate, stroking his arm soothingly.
“Aw, darlin’, you just never been done properly by a docks whore before. Come on, come with me and I guarantee you’ll be blowin’ your top in no time.”
He scowled but went along with her to the piers where they vanished, the darkness quickly enveloping them.
He scowled still when they stopped to do the exchange and Evie knew there was nothing upon this earth she could do to make him happy - and wondered why she’d pushed for the coin at all. But she’d taken it now and she’d do her job and keep a smile upon her face, even if the wretch couldn’t.
“Come on, darlin’” she smiled, leaning back against a barnacle-encrusted pillar and loosening her bodice. “Come collect your prize.”
But the fellow did not approach, but darted his one eye back and forth nervously.
“Not ‘ere,” he scowled. “I don’t want nobody ‘earin’”
Evie was incredulous in the face of this shyness, as she always was. “Why do you care? None of ‘em will!”
But he ignored her and strode on, further under the piers and towards the water where it lapped upon the shore like the salty tongue of some great beast.
“This is far enough, for sure,” She exclaimed after a few feet but he shook his head stubbornly and continued on. All of a sudden her sense of him - her sense that he couldn’t be satisfied unless it were all his own way, that he was a born complainer - amplified, and she didn’t want to be here, so far away from anyone, alone by the water with him. She halted in her tracks and felt the wind cool the sweat she’d worked up following him, where the velvet of her dress clung to her back.
“I’m going back.” She said defiantly. “And I’m keepin’ your piece for me trouble.”
And before she could recall the darting of his eyes, or the way his fists had clenched before, she’d turned her back on him.
The blow came, harder than she could have anticipated and she hurtled to the sand, the wind knocked from her upon impact. Then, he was upon her and she dared not waste a breath screaming (for what, when she was so far from the town and screams rent the night all about anyway?) but instead bit out as savagely and hard as she could, kicking her legs with all her might. But he was all sinew and overcame her resistances and when her teeth found purchase in the grimy flesh of his arm he shouted in fury and backhanded her so hard her teeth rattled. “Whore, whore, whore!” he hissed through clenched teeth as he drove his angry cock into her, grasping her by the hair and slamming her head again and again into the sand. She had no breath to cry out now, but still she struggled as he assailed her, determined not to give him the satisfaction of cowering. Her cunny burned with the fury of his attack and her head swum as though she’d had a six bottles of gin and the hangover all at once and then his hand was at her throat and she knew then, as sure as her hair bloomed red, that she was about to die.
But then his grip loosened and she sucked in one deep, rancid, gloriously renewing breath, and he let go altogether. He’d spent himself, she realised through a fog, and now he was pawing at her skirts again. What now, what now - and she burst to life again as she remembered her earnings.
“No!” she screeched, a wailing sound that infuriated him once more and now his fists pummelled her without cessation - her face, her gut, her arms and legs. She lifted her arms to shield her face but he wrenched them apart and knocked her with livid deliberation. She shut her mouth tight and hoped to God he hadn’t knocked any teeth from her, or loose, and that he would stop before he rendered her all but worthless, and then he landed one final, savage blow to her stomach and she could do nothing but tremble in pain as he raided her skirts and located her earnings, fumbling at the velvet pouch to pry out the card deck, letting them fall, and scatter about her inert form as he realised they were worthless. Pocketing her coin he spat once more: “Whore” before turning on his heel and darting away, back to the liveliness of Tortuga and Evie lay, doubled-up on her side and let herself pass out.
It was some time later she came to, and the tide had come in enough to soak her legs. Freezing, it was and she sat up too quickly and almost vomited from the dizzying pain that overcame her. Gingerly, she put her hands to her face and felt all about. Nothing felt set out - everything felt bloody tender though and she feared the thought of catching sight of herself. Even more reluctantly, she checked her teeth, pushing her tongue against each one and trying to wiggle. All remained fixed in place and she relaxed somewhat before recalling her losses. All that work - all those men she’d fucked - for that money, and now it was gone. The rotten bastard. She could kill him. If she could - if she could - if she could sneak upon him and stick a knife in his throat, she could kill him.
The thought of spilling that bastard’s blood gave her the strength to clamber to her feet, clinging to one of the nearby pillars for support. Swaying unsteadily. She scrambled to retrieve her cards - those pretty ladies cards she’d so been admiring just a few hours before. She wouldn’t even be able to tell if this were all of them until she was out in the light and how would she come back then to get the rest if they were missing - if they hadn’t been carried off the ocean? Oh, fuck it all. Fuck it all.
She’d been raped before, and beaten and even robbed, but a long stretch of time had passed between the last and this and it was no less an insult for it. She should’ve known when he’d started clenching like that, that he was itching for some violence and some stupid bitch to act it out upon. And she was that stupid bitch, wasn’t she?
She couldn’t kill the bastard. As she limped toward where the dim glow of Tortuga burnt beyond the dock, sidestepping the flotsam that littered the sand as well as she could in her sodden boots, she knew this for a fact. If she could even find the bastard before he was off again, he was far stronger than her and she feared him now. Yes, and she cursed it, cursed herself, but she feared him. She reached the end of the docks and began a weary ascent back up the broken path and into the town, by now vibrant with noise and activity. No one paid her any mind. A bruised whore was not so uncommon a sight, after all, and she sighed and stretched her aching limbs and picked her tender way through the streets, flinching now and again at any sudden roar from a drunken sailor - who might be her assailant, returned to finish the deed - and knew it was ridiculous. He was off, spending her money.
She reached the Mason Rouge and hobbled up the stairs, sucking back a gasp of pain at every breath until finally, finally she came to her floor and fell upon her door with a mere groan of relief, unlocking it as quick as her trembling fingers could manage, for all at once it seemed the shadows of the stairwell were rearing to pounce and then she was on the other side and the door was shut and fastened quickly and she stood, panting, in her own room, secured once more.
The candles were lit and the fire set ablaze and the pot quickly turned on while she stripped, gulping from a bottle of gin as she did so. The dress, the green velvet concoction that so flounced nicely upon her hips and lifted her breasts just right, was discarded into a corner -she no longer cared for it but could ill afford to burn it. And her boots - they were laid by the fire to dry, but her stockings were ruined.
The pot hissed and spat and she snatched it from the blaze and prepared her tub quickly, mixing the water so that it was scalding and promptly steamed her blue-black skin lobster red as she sank down into it, feeling the burn wash over her sore genitals, assail her wounds.
Evie stared ahead, to her dresser, where her combs and unguents, hairpins and trinkets piled one over the other, a bright and twinkling jumble of colour that seemed to belong to another. She took another swing of the gin and felt a dull buzz slowly over wash the throbbing. Her eyes glazed over and she let her head slump forward onto her arms, and slept.
Two full days and nights she spent locked away in her room, feasting on nothing but gin, shunning even her beloved coca leaf for she didn’t want her spirits to be further agitated. The gin soothed and dulled and she laid out her cards and counted them. Five missing. Useless then, the whole fucking pack, and dug out the ones Barbossa had given her, and practiced. Once or twice Giselle dropped by with a hot pie and some mash and bread with butter but the delicacies that Evie would usually devour with gusto grew cold on her sideboard. She just wasn’t in the mood and wouldn’t be until her face healed up and she felt pride enough to show it. She wouldn’t make a brass button out there like she was at the moment - one eye was swollen nearly shut and her mouth was bloomed up like a grotesque purple flower. She fiddled with her cards, drank her gin, and bathed her face in hot water and herbs Giselle brought her with her meals and cursed the bastard who’d brought this ill fortune upon her and every night she didn’t make another penny. She looked amongst her dresses, mended a few rips, polished some jewels and heaped damnation upon herself for being too tired, too ill tempered, too greedy to note the usual signs. She barely slept and when she did, it was in short and unfulfilling snatches. She didn’t cry, oh no what was the point? Life went on. She wasn’t the first whore to be so brutalised and she wouldn’t be the last. If she weren’t stuck to this bloody room she wouldn’t even waste time sulking so. What’s done was done.
She’d still kill the bastard, if she could.
She was waking from a gin-fogged daze the evening of the third day when there was a rap on her door. Thinking it was Giselle, come by with more sustenance for her, she flopped back down upon the pillows and called: “Come in, love.”
The door creaked upon its hinges and fell backwards to reveal not Giselle at all - but Barbossa. Startled, she sat up, forgetting all about her face and bruised collarbone, clutching the coverlet to her naked breast - of all things she might expect to come upon her doorstep, he was not one of them. He stood in her doorway and gazed upon her, a dandy in green pants and waistcoat, lavishly embroidered jacket of purple and the tuft of yellow feathers in his hat scraping the low ceiling. He was grand and she was naked and broken, and wished he had not come.
“Three days I been in port and not seen hide nor hair of ye,” He spoke softly. “Thought it best I came to see if ye’d taken ill or taken up with someone.” His eyes flickered and darted upon her face and she remembered her condition and was shamed, turning her face quickly out of the candlelight’s glow.
“’Ad a spot of bother,” she muttered. “Haven’t felt much up to walkin’ about.”
She heard his tread as he walked into the room, swinging the door shut behind him. “Nice to ‘ave you about though.” She managed gamely and then fell silent again, gazing numbly into the coverlet. The bed creaked beneath his weight as he sat down beside her and then his rough hands were cupping her face and he was turning her head towards him. “Come, wench, let me see.” He said gruffly and she thought it was possibly the gentlest he’d ever touched her.
She burned as he gazed about her swollen countenance, feeling the weight of her unhealed ugliness heavy as lead around her neck. But he remarked upon nothing, nor showed a glimmer of revulsion; indeed the tenderness of his fingertips and the gentle thoughtfulness upon his brow filled her with a sudden rush of emotion and she swallowed hard against its tide.
“Ye should mind to keep that smart mouth shut with some fellows, or filled at least” he murmured, “Not all find pertness so endearing, unless it be there own.”
He didn’t laugh but looked at her gravely and she felt the dam crumble. She flung herself upon him and, for the first time, she wept, openly against his vest and poured out the whole sorry tale.
It wasn’t until she fell silent that she felt his hands moving in her hair, gently, softly, brushing a soothing path down to their ends and she felt shame again. Now she was weak, now she asked him for tenderness and what better reason could she give him to turn on her? Drawing in a calming breath she took deeply in of his scent and buried herself still deeper, the linen and silk of his clothing soothing her bruised cheek, the scratch of his chest hair luring her further. She heard the hollow pop of a cork and felt the hard weight of a bottle nudged against her. Rousing herself she took it from him and sculled back the bitter liquor and it burned its way to her gut and there took flame. “Calm yeself,” he said, though not unkindly, “Tis no use now, to be spillin’ tears.” And she gulped back more, for tears threatened to rise.
“I knows that.” She protested, her voice raw from the alcohol. “I ‘ad a lot to drink and it’s made me maudlin-like.” And she straightened herself up, pushing back the tendrils of hair which had clung to her soaked cheeks. “And all that bloody money I lost and more asides, thanks to that bastard.”
He stood, back to her and walked across the room, boots clomping a slow, heavy tune. “We must all take our losses with our winnin’s, missy. Or none of us might ever see sunup again.”
She felt wretched, and drank more, slipping her aching body still further under the covers, tugging at the velvet curtains of the posters to blot out the glow of the room, and he, tall and implacable - well what did a man know of such things? She had not expected much more from him - but still, she’d rather hoped - what?
Barbossa’s eyes wandering her dresser, the tumult of frippery there, and passed over her washstand and the mantel of her fireplace where next to clustered candlestick the crucifix from her mother’s death bed stood and a much-aged and small portrait, in sharp contrast to the exotic nudes of her walls, rested against the wall. His face was quite inscrutable, he could as much have been contemplating the weather as considering what she had told him, and there was no surprise in that. Well, how many girls had he ruined himself? And he turned, towards the bed, and she thought then she caught something in his eye that spoke of weariness, the corners of his mouth pressed every slightly down and he looked upon the empty bottles that lay next to the bed on the worn oriental rug and clustered in amongst them, his old deck of cards.
“Have ye been practisin’?” He broke the silence and strode over to the bedside, stooping to retrieve the deck and began lazily to shuffle, long fingers expertly flicking the cards so that she could not follow their progress.
“Aye,” she said. “What else am I to do, confined in ‘ere?”
He said nothing, and sat back down besides her, tossing his hat to the chair, where the yellow feather bobbed and trembled, and dealt out a hand.
They played for a while and he corrected her foolish errors harshly and with little patience so that all of her concentration was fixed upon the game. But now and then her eyes darted to his face, ran themselves over the lines that marked a hundred journeys there, traced an outline around his lips - those sensual, full lips that could so quickly curl into cruelty as curve into merriment - and longed for those lips upon her.
She reached over and pressed her hand upon his arm. “Fuck me, won’t you? Get the stench of him off me good and proper like.”
He paused only long enough to dash the cards aside and then grasped hold of her. He was not gentle, or tender but fierce and all consuming in the way that he took her and opened her wide to him and she found that she preferred it. There was an exhilarating cleansing to the surety of his hand and the force of his body and feeling his weight upon her made her gasp in relief and he kissed her all the way through it, his lips growing more bruising as he reached his climax then softening into a gentleness so sweet she thought she could weep. This, and the heat of his seed and the sense of him growing slack within her were her comfort as she slipped into a restful sleep.
When she awoke, Barbossa was gone, and a place within her breast ached. But, so it was. She got out of bed to use her pot with considerably less stiffness than before and thought wryly of the wonders a good fucking could bring.
A glance at her face in her mirror confirmed the swelling had gone down and though she still had a black eye, some powder and judiciously applied kohl should disguise it well enough for her to go out tonight and recuperate some of her losses.
She was fastening her stays when the door flew open and Barbossa strode in, tossing a couple of crab rolls onto the sideboard. “Eat and dress and make haste about it,” he directed her even while she gaped at him in shock; half delight, half bewilderment. “Get to it, wench!” he barked at her puzzled face and she hastened to obey. He was dressed still as he had been when he first came to her door, so he had not been back to his ship. Where then, had he been, and what had he done that now he required her?
After a few swigs of gin she was sharpened enough to move at a pace that pleased him and it was but a few moments later they were hurtling down the dubious staircase of the Mason Rouge and out into the streets of a dim afternoon that Evie nonetheless had to blink at. She licked the butter off her fingers, the paltry remnants of the first food she’d had in days, and it was a bliss she wanted more of. “Can’t we stop at that vendor there for more grub?” she entreated Barbossa and he responded by producing another roll from his pocket and handing it to her before taking hold of her arm and hurrying her through the streets. Never had she seen them so quiet, but then, never was she usually awake at this hour.
They wound their way through the streets of Tortuga -a wretched sight indeed, by the light of day and it was no wonder few braved it, for it the buildings seemed to sag by night then by day they crumbled and if the streets were littered with waste under a dark sky then by a light one they were choking with it - and came to a lonely spot mashed tight into a dark corner of the town, between a tunnel such as the sort that suited cutthroats and thieves and a disintegrating tavern such as the sort that tipped out the most malleable victims. In that spot was a well, long since abandoned for all but dunking the heads of drunks in, for the water in it now more resembled a putrid grease, and against that well of grey and suspiciously stained slabs, stood a ropy figure clenching and unclenching his fists and Evie stopped sudden in her tracks and her heart stopped with her. What was this?
The fellow had started as well, upon catching sight of her, that grimy fellow with the one eye and bum leg, and echoed her thoughts in savage demand to Barbossa: “What is this?” and glared savagely at Evie who darted behind Barbossa and clung to his coattails, trembling at the voice of her assailant.
The crisp, sharp zing of a sword being unsheathed rent the air and Barbossa snarled: “Are ye prepared to make good on our wager, ye bitch’s spawn, and test ye skills against mine, or do you acquiesce, ye miserable cur?”
“What’s she doin’ ‘ere’?” The fellow retorted, darting forward in nervous, angry steps. Barbossa grasped Evie and flung her to one side so that she stumbled against the well and cowered back as the fellow’s agitated eyes fell upon her. But Barbossa drove him back, the sharp point of his cutlass waving but a few inches from the fellow’s throat.
“Fight me or be run through where ye stand, ye lily-livered dog.” And she had never seen him in quite this way, poised to battle with a fearsome countenance as dark as a stormy sea and the fellow had no choice but to draw his own sword and block.
And the duel began. Evie had seen sword fights before; Tortuga was flush with them, but none such as this. Brawls in Tortuga took place in taverns by sailors and pirates so inebriated they could barely see where to strike their cutlass and often ended up doing more damage to their surroundings than to each other. Watching such battles was a merry sport for the whores who would titter and drink and lay bets amongst each other who would loose his trousers first.
But what unfolded before her now was spellbinding, but not in the least bit amusing. Barbossa’s every move was liquid flame as though it had been calculated several steps in advance and the grace of his sweeps was belied only by the savagery of his strikes, which the other fellow scrambled to defend, each blow that clanged against his sword forcing a grunt of exertion from his lips. Barbossa, on the other hand, made barely a murmur but moved like lightning, with a snarl twisting his mouth and his eyes never moving from his prey. Evie sat upon the well and watched, transfixed, at the blaze of darting colour that was her Captain and the strength with which he riposted and thrust and drove the fellow to parry frantically against every onslaught. It quickly became clear to Evie that this was no match at all - the other fellow bore none of Barbossa’s quickness, nor his grace, nor his strength and not a jot of his skill. Barbossa was toying with the fellow, and Evie’s mind fell to a similar fight she had observed once, a few years ago, of a cat who scrambled with a mouse only to lift its paw. The wretched little thing had sat there for a few moments, in utter stillness, before daring to believe its escape and darting across the cobbles only for the cat to pounce and in swift bite, sever its spinal cord with a sickening crunch. Now Barbossa engaged, permitted disengagement, feinted, the fellow parried and Barbossa knocked the sword from his hand then landed a boot in his chest and the fellow sprawled in the dust, spluttering. Barely could he gasp for mercy when the hilt of Barbossa’s cutlass met his chin and Evie heard, quite distinctly over the grunt and the scattering of dust, the jaw dislocate. But Barbossa was scarcely done. He sheathed his cutlass and took to the wretch with fisticuffs, holding him up by the scrag of his throat and landing blow after blow about his face and head. The fellow lolled and his head sagged drunkenly and Barbossa paused to catch his breath and roared at Evie, his eyes fixed upon his prey in curious detachment. “Come, wench, come and balance the scales, I have delivered the bastard to ye!”
As though in a trance, Evie slipped down from the well and stepped delicately around the blood that smattered the dirt until she came to face to face with her assailant, gazing down into his bloodied and broken face as it rolled back, his whole self held up only by Barbossa’s hand firmly knotted in his lapel. She looked into the face of the man who had raped and robbed her and his fast-swelling eyes swam to her and blood and spit burbled at the corner of his lip.
In a sudden fury she fell upon him, striking at his face and shrieking “miserable cur, miserable cur!”, but the bones of his face hurt her wrists and she grasped him by the shoulders and kicked instead, kicked at his gut and balls with all the strength the could muster, again and again as he grunted and coughed and mewled. She heard nothing but the thick, muffled sound of her foot finding its purchase in the softness between his legs and the raggedness of her own breath in her ears. She kicked until her leg began to tremble and Barbossa pushed her back, his arm insistent, and gentle. Withdrawing his weapon once more he pressed the blade against the fellow’s throat. “Hold yeself up, and die like a man.” He commanded and let go the fellow’s collar. He lurched and threatened to tumble sidewards but Barbossa snatched him again and with a sneer of disgust plunged the blade deep into the man’s throat. The fellow’s eyes rolled right back into his head and a slow, wet wheeze rose from him - though whether from his mouth or the wound that rent him open, Evie could not say, and she watched, eyes wide as Barbossa pulled back his sword and the man’s severed jugular gave up a hot spray of red and the fellow fell backwards, dead in the dirt, his blood pooling about his head and his eyes white and filming even as they watched.
Barbossa bent and wiped his sword clean on the fellow’s jacket and resheathed it. Evie looked at the dead man and felt nothing - not for him. She was vindicated.
“Come, Missy,” Barbossa rasped, mopping the sweat from his brow, “I’ve a mind for a meal and yer company to temper it.”
She turned to look at Barbossa as they walked away from the sallow corpse, passed under a bridge and headed towards the heart of the town, but his eyes were fixed at the road ahead, his mouth straight, as though this event were but another drop in the ocean. To him - perhaps, perhaps it was. But she grasped him and pulled his head down to meet hers, kissing him as fervent and frantic as her heartbeat rose to match it, the tang of blood was in the air between them and the salt of his sweat wet her lips and drove her ever hungrily upon him. He responded with a like passion and let himself be pushed against the stone wall that hid them in the shadows of a fast-dying day and she dropped to her knees at his feat and tore at his pants and took him in her mouth.
When she finished, she blushed at her lack of restraint, lowering her eyes as she wiped her lips, but he leant to grasp her by the elbow and lift her to her feet. “That’s a favour better than a kerchief for showing yer gratitude.” He chuckled and she smiled and took his arm, leaning her head upon it and feeling for the first time, as they wandered the streets of a slowly wakening twilight, so joined together, some semblance of normalcy that softened her soul. In another country, in another town, in a lavender dress whose collar went up to her throat and her hair piled atop her head, and he in a respectable suit of deep blue and a trimmed beard, why they might even have passed as wed - but this was Tortuga and they looked nothing more than they were - a notorious pirate and a known whore who enjoyed each other’s company, perhaps overmuch.
At the Duck and Swan she spooned tender morsels of pork into his mouth and raised his flagon to his mouth and lay kisses upon his ear as he chewed and drank and revelled in her attentions.
“You know - “ she began, and hesitated but Barbossa grunted she should continue, devouring a victorious mouthful of meat and sauce. “I knows your reputation. I knows what you done to lots of young girls at sea. So why you done that for me then - what you did back there.”
Barbossa finished his chewing and turned to look at her with his blue eyes unfathomable and his mouth utterly still. He looked upon her for a moment with an expression she could not decipher as she waited, growing fearful, then knotting the fingers of one hand in her hair and lifting his flagon to his lips for a deep draught before he spoke:
“I don’t take kindly to me treasures being mishandled.”
And that is all he would say on it.
She dealt herself two cards and then laid out the flop on the uneven, mossy surface of the rocky wall she sat on.
The Ace of Clubs, Seven of Diamonds and Three of Clubs.
In her hand she held the Two of Clubs and a Jack of spades. The makings of a straight flush, a flush, or a straight, but not much else. Worth playing on for? Other players could have an Ace, or two, a high pair or even a low pair; Three of a Kind by now, it was a possibility. All a helluva lot more than she was holding. It was also a possibility they had nothing. She laid out the turn. A Four of Hearts. All right, so a straight. Others could be playing for the same, or have two pair, a three… Evie gnawed on her lower lip and took a sip from her gin bottle. It was all so perplexing. She’d want to keep playing this hand, but then what if a Five didn’t turn up on the river? She could always bet low… but then what if a Five did turn up? Then she’d be cursing not playing harder. Barbossa had warned her that she couldn’t win all hands - not yet. Sometimes she were bound to lose, it was simply the way of the game. “Some say it be a game of chance, and some say a game of skill - well, it be both in equal parts. Ye need to learn how best to play the hand yer dealt - same as life, wench, exactly the same and if ye play well enough most of the time then the little falls don’t matter as much. Ye need to work it so that ye bluff others out of the game or so that when ye lose, yer losin’s are but dross - insignificant. “
He would not teach her to cheat until she had mastered the honest game well enough to beat him at least half the time. Evie had become bewitched by the game and played it at every opportunity - first with Barbossa when he was in port and satiated enough to stop awhile and then with Giselle on quiet mornings when neither of them could sleep. She nearly always beat Giselle, being peppered by her cocoa leaf and bullied into hard playing by Barbossa. Barbossa nearly always beat her, either with a better-played hand or betting her into folding. She was not yet bold enough to play for her bread, he would assert and make her play again and again. “Once I’ve taught ye the tricks, ye needn’t be worryin’ about loosin’ money when yer older - there’ll be endless ships of foolish sailors willin’ to bet their earnin’s in game with a woman, if not loose them in bed with her.”
Soon enough a small group of whores were playing at The Goose’s Breast and Evie was getting better and better. The others viewed it as a diversionary sport, a pleasure - they never bet for coin amongst each other, for that way only disaster would lie - but for a motley jumble of hair pins, sticks and scraps of fabric - but they did not see the potential in it as a retirement plan and so did not set to it with the same fervour that Evie did. Indeed, not many ever thought of what awaited them once they got too old to turn tricks (but then, what was too old? Old Mae still made a decent enough wage and she were well into her sixties) and nor had Evie until the idea had been put into her head. After all, she was barely twenty now. Like the sailors and pirates who plundered their loot almost as soon as it hit their hands with never a thought for old age, so too did the whores of Tortuga spend their hard-earned coin on life’s pleasures. A few saved hard and retired in comfort, but when it was so easy to replace what was spent, it was difficult indeed to practice pragmatism. Even with Evie’s hoard of coin she wanted something to fall back on.
And the playing of cards was deeply enjoyable and practiced the skills she had acquired as a whore - her keen observation of character and perceptiveness, her ability to glean ever more coin with a charming smile - and kept them well oiled.
In the beginning Barbossa had not kept what he won from her and they’d played only in brass, but now he was upping the stakes and keeping the winnings, the better to “force her play” so he claimed and Evie found herself scrambling to play a better game each time and practice, such as she were doing now, alone as much as against other players.
But the sun was surreptitiously edging down over the horizon ever steadily and behind her, the town of Tortuga was slowly beginning to awaken, the faint murmur of fiddles and fresh laid fires, sober drunks bawling for their first rum drifting on the breeze to float by her ear. It was time to turn her head to business and with that, she turned over the river. A Three of Diamonds. Nowt but a pair with an Ace High - nothing at all. With a snort of disgust she gathered the pack together and slipped it into its little purse, which was nestled straight into her hidden pocket and got to her feet, dusting off the dark green skirts that skimmed her calves. The port was awash now in the iridescent lavender of twilight, a magical gleam that never failed to make her catch her breath a little and tonight was no exception. She gazed out into the harbour, where the periwinkle blue of the sky was just beginning to twinkle with the first stars of night, where all the ships floated in grand silence, only a few of their dark eyes aglow with the warmth of a lantern within. If she stood this way, with the breeze blowing just right, all she could smell was the fresh, rich brine of the ocean beyond the curve of the bay, the enormous world that existed there, as distant and mysterious to her as her long lost virtue. And where was Hector now, upon it? Were his journeying bountiful, a brim with pleasure and adventure? And did he ever stop in the midst of it all, when the sea, perhaps, was calm and the holds were full and he’d ate and drank till washed with satiety - did he then stop, perhaps in the pause between counting his wealth and opening the crisp pages of one of his books, and spare a thought for her?
It was a bewitching path for her mind to take - she could see him, reclining in his chair, his boots upon the great table in his cabin, coring an apple, one of those green apples he was so fond of, and pausing suddenly, one those quiet, secretive smiles playing upon his lips. And to bring about such a smile - thoughts of her, of his Evie, naked and hot and writhing in his arms, or fetching him another glass or a good meal from The Duck and Swan. It was bewitching indeed and so she did not take immediate heed to the fellow who’d stopped in his way to the streets beyond her and eyed her up and down, did not take heed until he was breathing down her neck.
“You on then tonight, love?” He queried, blackened teeth arcing in an ingratiating grin.
Evie roused herself from her fantasies and forced a smile upon her face. “For you, me darlin’, I’m never off!” This was a bet then she knew with certainty she’d win. And taking the fellow by the arm she turned her back on the sea and all thoughts of Barbossa.
Many hours later, Evie was bone-tired and ill tempered. The night had been a brisk one, indeed scarcely had she finished with one bugger than another sprung forward to take his place, and her cunny felt chafed inside and out. They weren’t big spenders tonight and so she was ill inclined to turn a one of them down and take a breather, although truth to be told she just wanted to call it a night. She didn’t bother over much with service - not a one of them wanted the luxury of her room and all elected for the docks and she was sick of shaking sand out of her skirts and bodice and sidestepping the rats and the muck so when the next gentleman - a sinewy Irishman with a pronounced limp and one eye - tried to haggle her fee she damn well near felt like screaming.
But she didn’t - the fellow was dangerously drunk - and instead smiled with the very last vestiges of charm she had for that night: “Sorry ducks, but I got to earn me keep, same as you. One piece of silver it is, and you’ll get its worth in the suck alone.”
“It seems overmuch for a docks whore,” he whined in response, clenching and unclenching his fists. She noted the gesture and moved to placate, stroking his arm soothingly.
“Aw, darlin’, you just never been done properly by a docks whore before. Come on, come with me and I guarantee you’ll be blowin’ your top in no time.”
He scowled but went along with her to the piers where they vanished, the darkness quickly enveloping them.
He scowled still when they stopped to do the exchange and Evie knew there was nothing upon this earth she could do to make him happy - and wondered why she’d pushed for the coin at all. But she’d taken it now and she’d do her job and keep a smile upon her face, even if the wretch couldn’t.
“Come on, darlin’” she smiled, leaning back against a barnacle-encrusted pillar and loosening her bodice. “Come collect your prize.”
But the fellow did not approach, but darted his one eye back and forth nervously.
“Not ‘ere,” he scowled. “I don’t want nobody ‘earin’”
Evie was incredulous in the face of this shyness, as she always was. “Why do you care? None of ‘em will!”
But he ignored her and strode on, further under the piers and towards the water where it lapped upon the shore like the salty tongue of some great beast.
“This is far enough, for sure,” She exclaimed after a few feet but he shook his head stubbornly and continued on. All of a sudden her sense of him - her sense that he couldn’t be satisfied unless it were all his own way, that he was a born complainer - amplified, and she didn’t want to be here, so far away from anyone, alone by the water with him. She halted in her tracks and felt the wind cool the sweat she’d worked up following him, where the velvet of her dress clung to her back.
“I’m going back.” She said defiantly. “And I’m keepin’ your piece for me trouble.”
And before she could recall the darting of his eyes, or the way his fists had clenched before, she’d turned her back on him.
The blow came, harder than she could have anticipated and she hurtled to the sand, the wind knocked from her upon impact. Then, he was upon her and she dared not waste a breath screaming (for what, when she was so far from the town and screams rent the night all about anyway?) but instead bit out as savagely and hard as she could, kicking her legs with all her might. But he was all sinew and overcame her resistances and when her teeth found purchase in the grimy flesh of his arm he shouted in fury and backhanded her so hard her teeth rattled. “Whore, whore, whore!” he hissed through clenched teeth as he drove his angry cock into her, grasping her by the hair and slamming her head again and again into the sand. She had no breath to cry out now, but still she struggled as he assailed her, determined not to give him the satisfaction of cowering. Her cunny burned with the fury of his attack and her head swum as though she’d had a six bottles of gin and the hangover all at once and then his hand was at her throat and she knew then, as sure as her hair bloomed red, that she was about to die.
But then his grip loosened and she sucked in one deep, rancid, gloriously renewing breath, and he let go altogether. He’d spent himself, she realised through a fog, and now he was pawing at her skirts again. What now, what now - and she burst to life again as she remembered her earnings.
“No!” she screeched, a wailing sound that infuriated him once more and now his fists pummelled her without cessation - her face, her gut, her arms and legs. She lifted her arms to shield her face but he wrenched them apart and knocked her with livid deliberation. She shut her mouth tight and hoped to God he hadn’t knocked any teeth from her, or loose, and that he would stop before he rendered her all but worthless, and then he landed one final, savage blow to her stomach and she could do nothing but tremble in pain as he raided her skirts and located her earnings, fumbling at the velvet pouch to pry out the card deck, letting them fall, and scatter about her inert form as he realised they were worthless. Pocketing her coin he spat once more: “Whore” before turning on his heel and darting away, back to the liveliness of Tortuga and Evie lay, doubled-up on her side and let herself pass out.
It was some time later she came to, and the tide had come in enough to soak her legs. Freezing, it was and she sat up too quickly and almost vomited from the dizzying pain that overcame her. Gingerly, she put her hands to her face and felt all about. Nothing felt set out - everything felt bloody tender though and she feared the thought of catching sight of herself. Even more reluctantly, she checked her teeth, pushing her tongue against each one and trying to wiggle. All remained fixed in place and she relaxed somewhat before recalling her losses. All that work - all those men she’d fucked - for that money, and now it was gone. The rotten bastard. She could kill him. If she could - if she could - if she could sneak upon him and stick a knife in his throat, she could kill him.
The thought of spilling that bastard’s blood gave her the strength to clamber to her feet, clinging to one of the nearby pillars for support. Swaying unsteadily. She scrambled to retrieve her cards - those pretty ladies cards she’d so been admiring just a few hours before. She wouldn’t even be able to tell if this were all of them until she was out in the light and how would she come back then to get the rest if they were missing - if they hadn’t been carried off the ocean? Oh, fuck it all. Fuck it all.
She’d been raped before, and beaten and even robbed, but a long stretch of time had passed between the last and this and it was no less an insult for it. She should’ve known when he’d started clenching like that, that he was itching for some violence and some stupid bitch to act it out upon. And she was that stupid bitch, wasn’t she?
She couldn’t kill the bastard. As she limped toward where the dim glow of Tortuga burnt beyond the dock, sidestepping the flotsam that littered the sand as well as she could in her sodden boots, she knew this for a fact. If she could even find the bastard before he was off again, he was far stronger than her and she feared him now. Yes, and she cursed it, cursed herself, but she feared him. She reached the end of the docks and began a weary ascent back up the broken path and into the town, by now vibrant with noise and activity. No one paid her any mind. A bruised whore was not so uncommon a sight, after all, and she sighed and stretched her aching limbs and picked her tender way through the streets, flinching now and again at any sudden roar from a drunken sailor - who might be her assailant, returned to finish the deed - and knew it was ridiculous. He was off, spending her money.
She reached the Mason Rouge and hobbled up the stairs, sucking back a gasp of pain at every breath until finally, finally she came to her floor and fell upon her door with a mere groan of relief, unlocking it as quick as her trembling fingers could manage, for all at once it seemed the shadows of the stairwell were rearing to pounce and then she was on the other side and the door was shut and fastened quickly and she stood, panting, in her own room, secured once more.
The candles were lit and the fire set ablaze and the pot quickly turned on while she stripped, gulping from a bottle of gin as she did so. The dress, the green velvet concoction that so flounced nicely upon her hips and lifted her breasts just right, was discarded into a corner -she no longer cared for it but could ill afford to burn it. And her boots - they were laid by the fire to dry, but her stockings were ruined.
The pot hissed and spat and she snatched it from the blaze and prepared her tub quickly, mixing the water so that it was scalding and promptly steamed her blue-black skin lobster red as she sank down into it, feeling the burn wash over her sore genitals, assail her wounds.
Evie stared ahead, to her dresser, where her combs and unguents, hairpins and trinkets piled one over the other, a bright and twinkling jumble of colour that seemed to belong to another. She took another swing of the gin and felt a dull buzz slowly over wash the throbbing. Her eyes glazed over and she let her head slump forward onto her arms, and slept.
Two full days and nights she spent locked away in her room, feasting on nothing but gin, shunning even her beloved coca leaf for she didn’t want her spirits to be further agitated. The gin soothed and dulled and she laid out her cards and counted them. Five missing. Useless then, the whole fucking pack, and dug out the ones Barbossa had given her, and practiced. Once or twice Giselle dropped by with a hot pie and some mash and bread with butter but the delicacies that Evie would usually devour with gusto grew cold on her sideboard. She just wasn’t in the mood and wouldn’t be until her face healed up and she felt pride enough to show it. She wouldn’t make a brass button out there like she was at the moment - one eye was swollen nearly shut and her mouth was bloomed up like a grotesque purple flower. She fiddled with her cards, drank her gin, and bathed her face in hot water and herbs Giselle brought her with her meals and cursed the bastard who’d brought this ill fortune upon her and every night she didn’t make another penny. She looked amongst her dresses, mended a few rips, polished some jewels and heaped damnation upon herself for being too tired, too ill tempered, too greedy to note the usual signs. She barely slept and when she did, it was in short and unfulfilling snatches. She didn’t cry, oh no what was the point? Life went on. She wasn’t the first whore to be so brutalised and she wouldn’t be the last. If she weren’t stuck to this bloody room she wouldn’t even waste time sulking so. What’s done was done.
She’d still kill the bastard, if she could.
She was waking from a gin-fogged daze the evening of the third day when there was a rap on her door. Thinking it was Giselle, come by with more sustenance for her, she flopped back down upon the pillows and called: “Come in, love.”
The door creaked upon its hinges and fell backwards to reveal not Giselle at all - but Barbossa. Startled, she sat up, forgetting all about her face and bruised collarbone, clutching the coverlet to her naked breast - of all things she might expect to come upon her doorstep, he was not one of them. He stood in her doorway and gazed upon her, a dandy in green pants and waistcoat, lavishly embroidered jacket of purple and the tuft of yellow feathers in his hat scraping the low ceiling. He was grand and she was naked and broken, and wished he had not come.
“Three days I been in port and not seen hide nor hair of ye,” He spoke softly. “Thought it best I came to see if ye’d taken ill or taken up with someone.” His eyes flickered and darted upon her face and she remembered her condition and was shamed, turning her face quickly out of the candlelight’s glow.
“’Ad a spot of bother,” she muttered. “Haven’t felt much up to walkin’ about.”
She heard his tread as he walked into the room, swinging the door shut behind him. “Nice to ‘ave you about though.” She managed gamely and then fell silent again, gazing numbly into the coverlet. The bed creaked beneath his weight as he sat down beside her and then his rough hands were cupping her face and he was turning her head towards him. “Come, wench, let me see.” He said gruffly and she thought it was possibly the gentlest he’d ever touched her.
She burned as he gazed about her swollen countenance, feeling the weight of her unhealed ugliness heavy as lead around her neck. But he remarked upon nothing, nor showed a glimmer of revulsion; indeed the tenderness of his fingertips and the gentle thoughtfulness upon his brow filled her with a sudden rush of emotion and she swallowed hard against its tide.
“Ye should mind to keep that smart mouth shut with some fellows, or filled at least” he murmured, “Not all find pertness so endearing, unless it be there own.”
He didn’t laugh but looked at her gravely and she felt the dam crumble. She flung herself upon him and, for the first time, she wept, openly against his vest and poured out the whole sorry tale.
It wasn’t until she fell silent that she felt his hands moving in her hair, gently, softly, brushing a soothing path down to their ends and she felt shame again. Now she was weak, now she asked him for tenderness and what better reason could she give him to turn on her? Drawing in a calming breath she took deeply in of his scent and buried herself still deeper, the linen and silk of his clothing soothing her bruised cheek, the scratch of his chest hair luring her further. She heard the hollow pop of a cork and felt the hard weight of a bottle nudged against her. Rousing herself she took it from him and sculled back the bitter liquor and it burned its way to her gut and there took flame. “Calm yeself,” he said, though not unkindly, “Tis no use now, to be spillin’ tears.” And she gulped back more, for tears threatened to rise.
“I knows that.” She protested, her voice raw from the alcohol. “I ‘ad a lot to drink and it’s made me maudlin-like.” And she straightened herself up, pushing back the tendrils of hair which had clung to her soaked cheeks. “And all that bloody money I lost and more asides, thanks to that bastard.”
He stood, back to her and walked across the room, boots clomping a slow, heavy tune. “We must all take our losses with our winnin’s, missy. Or none of us might ever see sunup again.”
She felt wretched, and drank more, slipping her aching body still further under the covers, tugging at the velvet curtains of the posters to blot out the glow of the room, and he, tall and implacable - well what did a man know of such things? She had not expected much more from him - but still, she’d rather hoped - what?
Barbossa’s eyes wandering her dresser, the tumult of frippery there, and passed over her washstand and the mantel of her fireplace where next to clustered candlestick the crucifix from her mother’s death bed stood and a much-aged and small portrait, in sharp contrast to the exotic nudes of her walls, rested against the wall. His face was quite inscrutable, he could as much have been contemplating the weather as considering what she had told him, and there was no surprise in that. Well, how many girls had he ruined himself? And he turned, towards the bed, and she thought then she caught something in his eye that spoke of weariness, the corners of his mouth pressed every slightly down and he looked upon the empty bottles that lay next to the bed on the worn oriental rug and clustered in amongst them, his old deck of cards.
“Have ye been practisin’?” He broke the silence and strode over to the bedside, stooping to retrieve the deck and began lazily to shuffle, long fingers expertly flicking the cards so that she could not follow their progress.
“Aye,” she said. “What else am I to do, confined in ‘ere?”
He said nothing, and sat back down besides her, tossing his hat to the chair, where the yellow feather bobbed and trembled, and dealt out a hand.
They played for a while and he corrected her foolish errors harshly and with little patience so that all of her concentration was fixed upon the game. But now and then her eyes darted to his face, ran themselves over the lines that marked a hundred journeys there, traced an outline around his lips - those sensual, full lips that could so quickly curl into cruelty as curve into merriment - and longed for those lips upon her.
She reached over and pressed her hand upon his arm. “Fuck me, won’t you? Get the stench of him off me good and proper like.”
He paused only long enough to dash the cards aside and then grasped hold of her. He was not gentle, or tender but fierce and all consuming in the way that he took her and opened her wide to him and she found that she preferred it. There was an exhilarating cleansing to the surety of his hand and the force of his body and feeling his weight upon her made her gasp in relief and he kissed her all the way through it, his lips growing more bruising as he reached his climax then softening into a gentleness so sweet she thought she could weep. This, and the heat of his seed and the sense of him growing slack within her were her comfort as she slipped into a restful sleep.
When she awoke, Barbossa was gone, and a place within her breast ached. But, so it was. She got out of bed to use her pot with considerably less stiffness than before and thought wryly of the wonders a good fucking could bring.
A glance at her face in her mirror confirmed the swelling had gone down and though she still had a black eye, some powder and judiciously applied kohl should disguise it well enough for her to go out tonight and recuperate some of her losses.
She was fastening her stays when the door flew open and Barbossa strode in, tossing a couple of crab rolls onto the sideboard. “Eat and dress and make haste about it,” he directed her even while she gaped at him in shock; half delight, half bewilderment. “Get to it, wench!” he barked at her puzzled face and she hastened to obey. He was dressed still as he had been when he first came to her door, so he had not been back to his ship. Where then, had he been, and what had he done that now he required her?
After a few swigs of gin she was sharpened enough to move at a pace that pleased him and it was but a few moments later they were hurtling down the dubious staircase of the Mason Rouge and out into the streets of a dim afternoon that Evie nonetheless had to blink at. She licked the butter off her fingers, the paltry remnants of the first food she’d had in days, and it was a bliss she wanted more of. “Can’t we stop at that vendor there for more grub?” she entreated Barbossa and he responded by producing another roll from his pocket and handing it to her before taking hold of her arm and hurrying her through the streets. Never had she seen them so quiet, but then, never was she usually awake at this hour.
They wound their way through the streets of Tortuga -a wretched sight indeed, by the light of day and it was no wonder few braved it, for it the buildings seemed to sag by night then by day they crumbled and if the streets were littered with waste under a dark sky then by a light one they were choking with it - and came to a lonely spot mashed tight into a dark corner of the town, between a tunnel such as the sort that suited cutthroats and thieves and a disintegrating tavern such as the sort that tipped out the most malleable victims. In that spot was a well, long since abandoned for all but dunking the heads of drunks in, for the water in it now more resembled a putrid grease, and against that well of grey and suspiciously stained slabs, stood a ropy figure clenching and unclenching his fists and Evie stopped sudden in her tracks and her heart stopped with her. What was this?
The fellow had started as well, upon catching sight of her, that grimy fellow with the one eye and bum leg, and echoed her thoughts in savage demand to Barbossa: “What is this?” and glared savagely at Evie who darted behind Barbossa and clung to his coattails, trembling at the voice of her assailant.
The crisp, sharp zing of a sword being unsheathed rent the air and Barbossa snarled: “Are ye prepared to make good on our wager, ye bitch’s spawn, and test ye skills against mine, or do you acquiesce, ye miserable cur?”
“What’s she doin’ ‘ere’?” The fellow retorted, darting forward in nervous, angry steps. Barbossa grasped Evie and flung her to one side so that she stumbled against the well and cowered back as the fellow’s agitated eyes fell upon her. But Barbossa drove him back, the sharp point of his cutlass waving but a few inches from the fellow’s throat.
“Fight me or be run through where ye stand, ye lily-livered dog.” And she had never seen him in quite this way, poised to battle with a fearsome countenance as dark as a stormy sea and the fellow had no choice but to draw his own sword and block.
And the duel began. Evie had seen sword fights before; Tortuga was flush with them, but none such as this. Brawls in Tortuga took place in taverns by sailors and pirates so inebriated they could barely see where to strike their cutlass and often ended up doing more damage to their surroundings than to each other. Watching such battles was a merry sport for the whores who would titter and drink and lay bets amongst each other who would loose his trousers first.
But what unfolded before her now was spellbinding, but not in the least bit amusing. Barbossa’s every move was liquid flame as though it had been calculated several steps in advance and the grace of his sweeps was belied only by the savagery of his strikes, which the other fellow scrambled to defend, each blow that clanged against his sword forcing a grunt of exertion from his lips. Barbossa, on the other hand, made barely a murmur but moved like lightning, with a snarl twisting his mouth and his eyes never moving from his prey. Evie sat upon the well and watched, transfixed, at the blaze of darting colour that was her Captain and the strength with which he riposted and thrust and drove the fellow to parry frantically against every onslaught. It quickly became clear to Evie that this was no match at all - the other fellow bore none of Barbossa’s quickness, nor his grace, nor his strength and not a jot of his skill. Barbossa was toying with the fellow, and Evie’s mind fell to a similar fight she had observed once, a few years ago, of a cat who scrambled with a mouse only to lift its paw. The wretched little thing had sat there for a few moments, in utter stillness, before daring to believe its escape and darting across the cobbles only for the cat to pounce and in swift bite, sever its spinal cord with a sickening crunch. Now Barbossa engaged, permitted disengagement, feinted, the fellow parried and Barbossa knocked the sword from his hand then landed a boot in his chest and the fellow sprawled in the dust, spluttering. Barely could he gasp for mercy when the hilt of Barbossa’s cutlass met his chin and Evie heard, quite distinctly over the grunt and the scattering of dust, the jaw dislocate. But Barbossa was scarcely done. He sheathed his cutlass and took to the wretch with fisticuffs, holding him up by the scrag of his throat and landing blow after blow about his face and head. The fellow lolled and his head sagged drunkenly and Barbossa paused to catch his breath and roared at Evie, his eyes fixed upon his prey in curious detachment. “Come, wench, come and balance the scales, I have delivered the bastard to ye!”
As though in a trance, Evie slipped down from the well and stepped delicately around the blood that smattered the dirt until she came to face to face with her assailant, gazing down into his bloodied and broken face as it rolled back, his whole self held up only by Barbossa’s hand firmly knotted in his lapel. She looked into the face of the man who had raped and robbed her and his fast-swelling eyes swam to her and blood and spit burbled at the corner of his lip.
In a sudden fury she fell upon him, striking at his face and shrieking “miserable cur, miserable cur!”, but the bones of his face hurt her wrists and she grasped him by the shoulders and kicked instead, kicked at his gut and balls with all the strength the could muster, again and again as he grunted and coughed and mewled. She heard nothing but the thick, muffled sound of her foot finding its purchase in the softness between his legs and the raggedness of her own breath in her ears. She kicked until her leg began to tremble and Barbossa pushed her back, his arm insistent, and gentle. Withdrawing his weapon once more he pressed the blade against the fellow’s throat. “Hold yeself up, and die like a man.” He commanded and let go the fellow’s collar. He lurched and threatened to tumble sidewards but Barbossa snatched him again and with a sneer of disgust plunged the blade deep into the man’s throat. The fellow’s eyes rolled right back into his head and a slow, wet wheeze rose from him - though whether from his mouth or the wound that rent him open, Evie could not say, and she watched, eyes wide as Barbossa pulled back his sword and the man’s severed jugular gave up a hot spray of red and the fellow fell backwards, dead in the dirt, his blood pooling about his head and his eyes white and filming even as they watched.
Barbossa bent and wiped his sword clean on the fellow’s jacket and resheathed it. Evie looked at the dead man and felt nothing - not for him. She was vindicated.
“Come, Missy,” Barbossa rasped, mopping the sweat from his brow, “I’ve a mind for a meal and yer company to temper it.”
She turned to look at Barbossa as they walked away from the sallow corpse, passed under a bridge and headed towards the heart of the town, but his eyes were fixed at the road ahead, his mouth straight, as though this event were but another drop in the ocean. To him - perhaps, perhaps it was. But she grasped him and pulled his head down to meet hers, kissing him as fervent and frantic as her heartbeat rose to match it, the tang of blood was in the air between them and the salt of his sweat wet her lips and drove her ever hungrily upon him. He responded with a like passion and let himself be pushed against the stone wall that hid them in the shadows of a fast-dying day and she dropped to her knees at his feat and tore at his pants and took him in her mouth.
When she finished, she blushed at her lack of restraint, lowering her eyes as she wiped her lips, but he leant to grasp her by the elbow and lift her to her feet. “That’s a favour better than a kerchief for showing yer gratitude.” He chuckled and she smiled and took his arm, leaning her head upon it and feeling for the first time, as they wandered the streets of a slowly wakening twilight, so joined together, some semblance of normalcy that softened her soul. In another country, in another town, in a lavender dress whose collar went up to her throat and her hair piled atop her head, and he in a respectable suit of deep blue and a trimmed beard, why they might even have passed as wed - but this was Tortuga and they looked nothing more than they were - a notorious pirate and a known whore who enjoyed each other’s company, perhaps overmuch.
At the Duck and Swan she spooned tender morsels of pork into his mouth and raised his flagon to his mouth and lay kisses upon his ear as he chewed and drank and revelled in her attentions.
“You know - “ she began, and hesitated but Barbossa grunted she should continue, devouring a victorious mouthful of meat and sauce. “I knows your reputation. I knows what you done to lots of young girls at sea. So why you done that for me then - what you did back there.”
Barbossa finished his chewing and turned to look at her with his blue eyes unfathomable and his mouth utterly still. He looked upon her for a moment with an expression she could not decipher as she waited, growing fearful, then knotting the fingers of one hand in her hair and lifting his flagon to his lips for a deep draught before he spoke:
“I don’t take kindly to me treasures being mishandled.”
And that is all he would say on it.