A Dark and Stormy Night

Lightening and thunder continued their endless debate across the night sky. Spidery white cracks zigzagged across the dark firmament, illuminating it into a surreal bastardization of day. The ramshackle buildings, the beach, all eight fishing boats and one merchant ship in the harbour, as well as the small group of sailors employed on aforementioned merchant ship all were clothed in the neon purple light for an instant. It had scarcely faded before an ear-splitting crash of thunder caused some of the men to flinch and all of them to curse.

A typical night on the island of Tortuga, the year of grace 17- , when sailors have found a stowaway aboard and are making their way to the nearest magistrate in the middle of a storm.

One burly, bearded rogue, who appeared to be the leader of the bunch, hammered rudely on the door of the office of the honourable Judge Daniel Webster Esq. His honour was somewhat of a prodigy of law at the tender age of sixteen winters, but now over two score years later he had fallen far from the zenith of his magnificent career. But, the absolute filth, stench, and squalor of this infamous haven of the nefarious scourges of the sea: pirates, appealed to his adventurous side and he thoroughly enjoyed the challenges of bringing these scoundrels to justice. Of course, there was so many lowlifes in Tortuga that the police tended to look the other way whenever a group of sailors committed acts of piracy. It never could be proved, and so many ‘sailors’ and even privateers of his Majesty would get away with innumerable crimes at sea and this particular group was no exception.

“Open up, you old carrion!” the leader called up, addressing the magistrate with the same degree of politeness with which he summoned his mangy hound-dog. “We found a stowaway aboard my ship, and intend to see justice done.”

The rest of the men threatened the lawman, in terms of breaking the door in, or burning the house down (whichever came first), along with various unprintable oaths.

Finally, the door was opened by a black slave, who leaped nimbly out of the way to avoid being bludgeoned on the head as the leader and his men stampeded into the foyer.

“That’s far enough, Jameson.” The judge stood at the top of the stairs, fully wigged and robed as if he had never been to bed and indeed there was a myth that he never slept. In both his hands he aimed a pistol at his amiable guests. “I’m a fair skill with firearms and while I may not be able to shoot all of your despicable deckhands, you will be the one who goes down first.”

“As I’ve stated afore this evening,” the leader said, undeterred, “We’ve found a runaway in the cargo hold, and as far as my modest knowledge of the law understands that that’s a crime.”

“You’re a fine one to talk.” the judge said, sneering, “Bring the culprit forth and I’ll decide for myself whether he be guilty or no.”

The men parted and a man even taller and more muscular than the rest, strode forth with a large, lumpy sack over his shoulder.

The judge frowned, first puzzled, then suspicious. Was the bundle…moving?

The man turned the sack inside out and the contents spilled onto the floor in the form of a small boy, unlike any other in all the village. He was smaller than most which might cause one to misjudge his age at first but a closer look would prove otherwise. Around his head was tied an old red bandanna which looked as though it might have been very fine fabric at one time, showing rather well against the shock of jet black hair. The rest of his attire was all designed for a grown man, the frock-coat trailing almost to his heels, the edge of his waistcoat reaching below his knees, with baggy trousers, and the leather belt encircling his narrow waist was so large that it had to be tied in a knot to fit. On his feet were a pair of quite nice-looking (and therefore probably stolen) folded-over leather boots.

The boy stood up and imperiously brushed himself free of the men’s restraining grasps.

“Your honourable periwiggedness,” said this strange young gentleman with profound dignity, “I beg to inquire (with all due respect) as to why you do not shoot this filthy, miserable, talking turd where it stands.”

The “turd” in question, leaped forward, roaring curses that would shock the most vile mouthed fishwife; whereupon the lad ducked between the man’s legs causing him to bend over, and quick as a wink, he kicked the upturned rump with all his might. Jameson howled and grabbed his crotch, for his groin had received a goodly portion of the blow.

“Get ’im!” hollered Jameson from his fetal position on the floor.

The men surged forward and the boy darted up the stairs. The judge let him pass but cocked his pistols at the pursuing sailors, backing up as he did so with an authoritve snarl: “Hold, or I’ll shoot!” which he did when they did not hold; two of them received head shots, one got a bullet in the throat and the only one who did not died of his, had his head turned and his mouth open and the bullet tore through the soft lining of both his cheeks. Years later when the wounds healed there was still extra two holes in his face which could appear to be moles if you squinted very hard.

Evidently having enough, the amiable gentleman who had so inadvertently obtained a new pair of beauty marks, called to his comrades (the ones who were still living, that is) that they were leaving.

“Like hell you are!” snarled Jameson whose bruised buttocks and genitals did not prevent him from standing up and bellowing once more. “Get that miserable brat!”

The judge stopped the advance of Jameson and the flight of the youth by pointing his flintlock at the former and seizing the collar of the latter.

“They’ll do no such thing.” he said with finality. “And if you fools didn’t notice a stowaway onboard during however many months you were at sea I say you are the ones to be horsewhipped for such negligence.”

“Why’d yer bring ‘im ‘ere?” the man who had carried the sack bawled complainingly at Jameson. “We could’ve done whatever we wanted to ‘im once we had ‘im safe in tha- ”

“Ah, but that would be illegal, wouldn’t it?” the judge said with another sneer. He knew Jameson always tried to pretend he was an upstanding citizen, forever pointing out others’ misdeeds to draw attention away from his own crimes.

Judge Webster lifted the boy’s chin with his long, pale fingers. His lips twitched a little as he observed how the boy’s already large eyes were widened so that they seemed to eat up his face. They were very dark, the color of black cherries, each of them lined with a fringe of thick lashes as well as kohl. A caricature of wistful innocence. Which he knew just by looking at him that this sprog was anything but. The judge bit his lip to keep from grinning outright. “If I let you go,” he asked his prisoner, “will you promise not to stowaway on these fine gentlemen’s ship again?”

“Not if they were to fall on their knees an’ beg me!” the boy pulled away and the judge let him go. He turned to the sailors. “You’ll be sorry for this one day, I guess,” he said with a air of theatrical flamboyance that indicated that this wasn’t his first exit speech, and probably wouldn’t be his last. “you’ll look back on this day and remember the dashing, brave…”

“I released you,” growled the judge keeping his pistols trained on the men who were now reluctantly filing out the door but with many a baleful backward glance at their young tormenter. “Go along, now!”

“…and, unlike you lot, most devilishly handsome,”- he flashed his teeth in his tanned face and the judge saw the yellow glint of a gold tooth (whereupon he wondered what the world was coming to when youths of thirteen already had gold teeth)- “Jack Sparrow. When I get a ship I’ll be a captain.”

“When I kill you, you’ll be- ” But Jameson never got the last words out as the judge shot him between the eyes just as he was drawing his pistol. The rest of the men had fled out into the night. The boy, Jack, had also bolted, through the parlour and out the back door. There was muddy boot-prints all through the parlour not to mention the foyer; what wasn’t covered in the rapidly spreading red pool seeping from the five fresh corpses that is.

Judge Daniel Webster Esq. shook his head. What a mess. “Moe,” he called his slave (who was really more like a member of the household he had been there so long), “drag these miscreants outside and lock the door. Then you can go to bed. We’ll clean this up tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Moe knew that he would be the one mopping and Judge Webster supervising, but he didn’t care. He had it better than most of the slaves in the New World.

****

“Blast!” Jack swore as he stepped out into the muddy back-alley and immediately was soaked with about a gallon of collected rainwater from the awning. Slamming the back door had caused it to come loose. He swung a vicious right cross at the loose, swinging canvas and was rewarded with a second (albeit smaller) deluge, right on the head, plastering his long hair to his scalp and face and running down his collar in unpleasant, freezing little rivers.

Instead of swearing again, or punching the troublesome canopy, the boy delicately parted the heavy curtain of wet hair with two index fingers and blinked his eyes trying to clear his vision.

“Bloody Pirate Haven my foot! (Or other appendages.) I should know. Why, blimey if I’m not an expert on pirate utopias an’ buccaneer never-never lands an’ swashbuckling Cloud-bloody-nines. Where’s the tavern in this feculent lump of swamp?”

Then, a familiar and welcome wooden sign hanging from two rusty chains caught his eye with the letters painted in red: The Faithful Bride Inn and next to the inscription was a crude painting of a rotund maiden in a wedding dress and veil. She looked very demure holding her bouquet.

Actually there were several smaller taverns that looked equally full, public houses, and brothels. Jack only mistook the absolute immorality of Tortuga because he was on the respectable (and therefore very small) side of the island. And to be honest it wasn’t all that respectable. The sleeping townsfolk were sleeping it is true but with those other than their spouses.

“Ahh…” that gold toothed smile again which looked absurdly old and out of place on the young, childish face, “that’s my kind of wench! But I’ll give my recommendations when I’ve tasted the rum. Savvy?” He glanced beside him and looked genuinely surprised to find he was alone. Then with a rolling gait which is altogether indescribable he ambled toward the candlelit windows and the sounds of rowdy singing and laughing assured him that the rum was quite likely the best this side of the Seven Seas.