Disclaimer: "Pirates of the Caribbean" belong to Disney.
Beta: Ewa. I thank you, mate, with all my heart for all your help, suggestions and encouragement.
Warning: This fic is about Captain Barbossa. No Jack, Will, Elizabeth, or other good folks, they stayed home this time.
A/N: This story - which is going to be pretty long - is dedicated to my friend and fellow Barbossa fan, Mint Condition, and has a prequel "Maid or not, It Suits You".
I thank all my wonderful reviewers and readers. You are my treasure. Special hugs for Bren Eldrid Bera and Alteng.
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I
I don't want to wake up, but the morning sun is cruel to me. I've secretly hoped that all the previous day was a dream, nothing more, and I'll find myself on the soft bed, in my beatiful lover's arms, looking forward to morning cocoa and morning kiss... Alas, I am lying on the hard floor of the Captain Barbossa's cabin, half-naked under some clothes, and my body is aching like hell. I'd better get up, though, because I need something to eat - I'm nauseous from hunger.
I sit up and stretch out in the bright sun warming up the floor. Oh, I was sleeping under Captain's jacket - the same jacket he wrapped around me yesterday, when his crew was going to keelhaul me, but he decided otherwise. So he cares about me a little. Then my eyes go to the scarlet dress. I was wearing it on his command, because I was to be a gift for his crew - luckily it was only the Captain who finally got me. We shared the bed that night, but only for awhile, and after we finished, he ordered me to wash myself, blow off the candles and go to sleep.
"But where am I to sleep?" I asked innocently.
"Ye have all the cabin to sleep," he said laughing. "Any piece of floor that pleases yer fancy."
I couldn't resist a longing look at his bed. He noticed it.
"Floor, Ritchie. The bed is for me and my lady, when I entertain her in my cabin. Understood? Or d'ye prefer to sleep with the crew?"
"I'll sleep on the floor," I said quietly.
"Good. An' put the dress off, before ye lay down."
I did what he ordered, placing the dress on the chair, but I've felt suddenly cold before dawn and took the dress to cover myself up. Now I take it stealthily, and...
"What are ye doin' with that cursed dress?"
"Nothing, Captain. It must've fallen from the chair."
He smiles, apparently in a good mood.
"An' ye drapped it over yer precious self when sleepin', right?"
I lower my head.
"Right. Listen to me, Ritchie, this is to be yer last one. Be it lil' matter or big, ye lie to me once more an' I'll have ye killed, though it pains me much. 'Tis dangerous for me to have a liar aboard my ship. An' yer lying like breathing. Think twice before ye say anything or it'll end up sadly for ye. Understood?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Good. Now go to the chests there an' try to find yerself somethin' to wear. Make haste, I'm waitin' for ye."
What for, I think to myself looking through chests with clothing. Why is he waiting for me? And why must he always know when I'm lying? He's kind to me, but how am I to know how is he going to react when I do something he doesn't like? He didn't hurt me; he took me without passion, but without cruelty either, still he wouldn't hesitate to kill me if I don't please him. Oh, not that I don't want to...
I've managed to find a pair of breeches that aren't too loose around the waist, but there's no shirt that fits me, each one is too big, and I don't touch ones that look new. I look shyly at the Captain, while I'm trying next shirt on. The Captain has risen from the bed and is fastening his belt, not looking at me. I wonder what time can it be. Why is he putting all his clothes on? It's early, and we can start the day more pleasantly than hurrying somewhere... after all, I'm here at his orders.
"What are ye lookin' at?"
"Nothing... I'm trying to find a shirt."
"Roll the sleeves an' bloody move on. Don't try me patience. An' tie up yer hair. Aye, like that. Hurry up."
We walk out into the sun and then I stop in a sudden panic. All the crew is gathered before the cabin - over thirty pairs of eyes meet us, and everybody has this knowing, leering grin. They don't look at the Captain, of course, for he's their God, beyond their judgement; everything he does is right and justified. They look at me and I almost feel their delight - they understand I'm not going to get any special treatment here, and they're oh so eager to show me my place... or at least what they consider my place. I cast my eyes down just to calm myself, and then look stealthily at them. Smallpox, Broken Nose, Knee-Holder, Venera's Crown and Bleeding Hand, all those fellows that wanted to, well, kill me (to put it shortly), they're standing here before me, smilling and elbowing each other. Oh, joy.
"Gents," the Captain says, "here be our new crew member, lil' Ritchie Brown. He's goin' to sail with us for awhile. As me cabin boy."
Oh, yes, you'd all drop dead if you didn't whistle and smack now, you dirty blockheads.
"Now, now, boys," the Captain continues, "look, the poor lad's blushing. Be decent an' shut up. He's to work with ye, too."
What? Wait! They're going to skin me alive. At least keep me in your cabin, Captain, I beg of you! I'm not going to stay outside with this wild horde... But I can't say anything; I feel dizzy from fear. No, no, Ritchie, calm down. If he wanted you dead, he would've thrown you to them yesterday. They won't be allowed to harm you. You're his cabin boy, didn't he say that?
"No harassin', an' no beatin'... unless he deserves it. An' you, Ritchie," he says turning slightly to me, "yer to work hard an' to respect elders. An' seein' that yer the youngest here, yer to obey everyone of the crew. An' if orders ye receive are contradictory, yer to obey Sharpe," he points at Broken Nose. "He's second in command here. An' if ye don't obey orders, well, ye'll have to obey cat o' nine tails. Is that understood?"
I hardly believe my own ears. I'm on these men's mercy, and there is no doubt I'll taste every abuse and humiliation possible; and I'm to be their drudge that can't even defend himself? Hell, no. If this is to be the next test, then I will pass it, no matter how high my expense will be.
The Captain is looking at me with a shade of a smile, waiting for my answer.
"Yes," I say dryly.
"Good," he says. "Now go to the galleys an' bring me my breakfast. Ye may have yours after. An' then Sharpe will show you yer part o' work. Move on."
Uhm, I'm a maid again, I think sourly, standing with Captain's bottle of table wine behind his chair. But what am I to do? I'm trapped perfectly on La Aranha here, and I don't even have a place to go. I don't know anyone in the New World, and if the survivors of La Joya del Mar's crew recognize me anywhere, I'm doomed. My lover's husband, don Diego de Ayala, is the owner of a huge estate on Santo Domingo, and if he gets me in his hands, I'm dead. I don't have any means to go back to Europe, and nobody is waiting there for me either. I'm alone anyway. I have nobody but the Captain to lean on. And he's not very eager to defend me or to protect me for that matter. I'm just a burden to him, perhaps. He buggered me once and that's all - maybe it was nothing more than confirming his power over me. He has his lady for love, I'm a whore in his eyes - he met me when I was a whore and I'm to stay a whore to him; not a very desirable one at that. And as a pirate, I don't have any value either - I've never killed a man, I'm not very strong, and I don't know what a life at sea is like. Yesterday's question comes to me again: how am I to prove myself worthy in this man's eyes?
I look at him discreetly. He's eating, and as far as I can see his manners are perfect, his moves measured and elegant, neither hasty nor slow, and I realize that he must be a nobleman - maybe of even higher standing than senor Ayala. But then another thing dawns upon me - he has to be fed up with all those dumb folks from his crew. I'd bet only few of them can read, nobody can behave as his equal - he's rarely letting them in his cabin. Oh, so there is a chance for me.
But he doesn't show any interest in me, he's behaving as if he were alone. No questions who I am or where I come from, or what's my upbringing, or how I made acquaintance with the Ayalas - nothing. He's not noticing me.
"Roll up yer sleeves, when yer pouring me wine, yer little lout," he sighs. "I don't want 'em in my drink."
Oh, so he is noticing me after all! I give him a grateful glance.
"Don't look at me, watch yer sleeves!... Ah, yer useless. Get off to work."
Work?... I feel utterly miserable, but there's nothing to do, and I go out of the cabin. Luckily all the crew is at their posts already. I must find Broken Nose... Sharpe, I mean.
But he finds me first, and without any word shoves me to the bucket and something between a brush and a clout. It seems that they forgot about feeding me; but I'm determined not to ask them for anything. I'll see if I can steal something to eat later.
The next hours seem endless to me. I'm cleaning the deck in the full sunshine, and after a short time my hunger is foreshadowed by desperate thirst. My sweatdrops land around my knees, my arms are fainting, and my vision becomes dull. Some of the crew are hanging around, pretending that they're working too, but all they do is trying to push me and make fun of me. I don't care for them now; I want to drink something.
A man is crouching before me. Oh, it's Bleeding Hand. I eye him suspiciously, but he says with a trace of sympathy in his crude voice:
"Yer workin' handsomely, lad. Should drink somethin' or ye faint. Here," and he hands me over a cup... a cup of water.
I thank him with all the gratitude my eyes can express and grab the cup - but before I touch the liquid I know it's a nasty trick, and I drop the cup, shedding the sea water over Bleeding Hand's legs.
"Ah, ye dirty louse, you," he yells and raises his hand to hit me - but is stopped by Smallpox.
"Wait, matey," he says in mockingly amiable tone, "what are ye doin'? Have mercy o'er yerself! Yer not goin' to mar our Captain's little fuck, are ye?"
"An' why not? He still has yesterday's bruises, mate. One more or less, nobody's goin' to complain. He won't be droppin' things next time."
"Nah, there'll be fresh bruises there. Or wait, jus' don't hit this pretty face an' ev'rythin's alright."
"Oy, people," says a tall fellow with a blond beard, "me thinks ye can do what ye want. Seems the Captain doesn't fancy him so much. He's thrown him away like that the next mornin', right?"
I'll have my repay, you'll see, I think helplessly, while pretending that I've got back to work. I can't move anymore, I just have to drink some water and rest in a shadowy place. I hate work like this. I've run away from a life of labor and I'm not going back, damn! And there's nowhere to hide, and all these stinkers are laughing at me. But first of all, I have to...
Somebody grabs my right arm and brings me to my feet. It's Broken Nose.
"Yer to bring Captain's meal," he says. "An' here's water. No, don't ye worry, it's a good water. Now drink an' be off."
I don't know what time of the day it is, I'm sleepy and weak from the lack of food, and the smell of the Captain's meal is annoying me to tears, but I don't even have a chance to sneak a piece of bread from his table - I know that the weariness has slowed my reactions, and the Captain would notice quickly if I were attempting to steal anything. So the only thing I can do is to doze off behind his chair, and, well, to watch my cursed sleeves - they are so dirty now that the Captain would shoot me if they touched his drink, probably.
"How's yer work, Ritchie?" he asks all of a sudden, and I jump off as if slapped.
"My... my work? Oh, good," I answer calmly.
He smiles and turns around to see my face.
"Is it? I'm glad t'hear that. An' how's the crew treatin' ye, I wonder?" He narrows his green eyes.
"Pretty damn well," I murmur under my breath.
"What did you say?"
"I said they're treating me well, Captain," I say in my clearest voice.
"Very well, then. Go back to work," he says in his amused tone.
Or drown yourself, I think stepping out of the cabin. He didn't order me to take the dishes back to the galleys, and I saw he's left some of his food! I feel a sudden wave of self-pity inside when I'm taking again the brush... or whatever the cursed thing is. Is he going to let me starve to death or what?
"Here," somebody says slipping a wooden bowl into my hand. Oh. What's this, I wonder, sniffing the grey mud in it. God, it stinks, I'm not going to eat this; they probably pissed in it.
The rest of the day passes in relative peace for me, if I'm not to count innumerable dirty jokes and innuendos, almost sung behind my back. They are making fun of my every move, guessing what the Captain must have done to me today, that I'm so slow at work. I'm polishing the cursed deck with my teeth clenched, and swear to myself to get even, be it the last thing I will do. The rage slowly boiling inside me gives me strength to continue the work, or else I'd fall asleep right among them.
Then the merciful evening comes, and I'm send by Broke... Sharpe to Captain's cabin. I barely can walk, and all I want now is to sleep, but when the Captain orders me to light the candles on the table, my eyes fall on the leftovers on the plate - and my body betrays me, my stomach groaning suddenly like a damaged organ in an empty church. I feel tears of humiliation threatening to burst out.
The Captain laughs.
"Are ye that hungry?"
"N..." I say, then hesitate. "Yes." And I turn away from the table, partly to light candles on the smaller table under the window, partly to hide my pathetic despair. He's not going to pity me anyway, and I don't need anything from him. I just want to sleep, so that I can simply forget all this.
"Come here, Ritchie." He points to the chair next to himself. "Sit an' eat, if ye like."
I can't believe that - he's allowing me to sit with him! Why?! I'm all dirty and, after all, I'm only his... well, I don't really know...
"Don't look at me. Eat. Slowly, or ye throw up, stupid. Yer supposed to eat what the crew eats, ye know that?"
"Uhm," I say, then go back to eating.
"Next time ye throw yer food overboard, yer goin' three days without eatin', understood?"
"Yes," I say, "but Captain..."
And then I stop. What am I going to tell him? "They hate me and I suspect them of pissing in my meal"? He's not my mother, and I don't even know what a mother would do in this case. Ah, but I'm full now and I'll think about it later...
"An' what d'ye think yer doing now?"
He pushes me away, I almost lose my balance, although I'm still sitting in the chair.
"My table isn't a place yer allowed to sleep!" he yells at me. "An' yer still on duty, ye lazy brat! Take those dishes to the galleys, or I'll have ye scrub the deck all night. Now!"
What I am to do with this man? He allows me to eat at his table, then he's roaring at me, because I've closed my eyes for a moment... and what did his gaze mean, when he was looking at me? It must've been the despise for me, because I was devouring the food as if I were starving for ages. Oh... he's a nobleman after all, he wouldn't behave like that even under the pain of death.
When I'm back in his cabin, he's looking out the window, and the fresh air is filling the room. I start blowing off the candles, according to his orders, and when I reach for the candlestick near him, he suddenly grabs my wrists and tells me to turn around.
I'm deadly tired, but his touch is the gratification in itself and I find myself pressing against him - only to be reminded that I'm not allowed to reach for my satisfaction. I'm not allowed to initiate anything; so be it. I begin to unbutton my shirt, but he stops me. Ah, it's not allowed either. Or rather, it's not needed. He's not going to caress me, he just wants to come in me - because, well, I'm something better than his own hand. He doesn't want to think of me more than necessary, and he expects of me that I'll adjust to his demands; I've only to slid down my breeches, then stand on my toes, for I'm much shorter than him; he steadies me with his hands on my hips, and we're ready. It's a short, merciless tryst - were it without oil, I'd be screaming with pain - but it's still an unexplainable delight to me. I'm burning for this man, can't he see it? I'm trying to look at him, but he doesn't want me to; I'm trying to lean back against him, he's shoving me off lightly, but impatiently. I don't insist.
Then he goes away to his bed, and I lie down under the chests, wondering what the next day will be - but my thoughts are interrupted by heavy sleep at the point I don't even know.
And the next days get worse and worse. I'm falling off my feet from exhaustion and hunger. I have to scrub the deck and handrails, wash the dishes, clean Captain's cabin and warm his bed - not literally, alas. He forbids me even to sit on his bed. I'm not his love, I'm not his favourite, I'm just an outlet for his lust. In fact, he's nicer to me when I'm pouring him wine than when I'm bending over for him.
I don't know what the crew thinks about Captain's relations with me, but they are treating me with more aversion and contempt every day. Maybe it's my lack of reaction that is to blame, because my silence and obedience only irritates them more, but I'm too tired to do anything. They spit openly when they see me, I've got boiled rats in my food (if not for Captain's leftovers that I now don't hesitate to steal, I'd be dying already), and I've got slapped, kicked and punched more than once.
And today, when I'm really worn out and got a scolding because I couldn't wake up, the tall fellow with a blond beard is going to make fun of me. He's just eaten his breakfast, put his big silver spoon into his boots, next to the knife, and he's walking around me in circles, winking at his chums seated on the railing. He's annoying me to no end, but I'm still waiting. I swear, I can't stand this anymore. I may not survive to the nearest port. Oh well, let's put an end to it. Today. Now.
The stupid bloke is still walking around me, and his circles are smaller and smaller. I raise my head and stop scrubbing the deck.
"Hey, mate," I say, "stop it. You're bloody disturbing me."
The audience chuckles in blissful anticipation, and he raises his brows.
"Did'ya say sumtin'?"
"I said you're disturbing me. I'm working here."
"Awwww, the little princess has spoken, folks! Yer workin', ye say? An' I am takin' my everyday walk here in yer lil' garden, princess."
I sigh to calm myself. I need to be precise soon.
"I'm warning you, mate. Really. Hear my words."
"Oh, but princess, I'd risk me life to look at yer pretty ass once more," he says, circling me very slowly and very closely. Then he steps with all his weight on my left hand. And then, with my right hand, I snatch the knife from his boot and pin his right leg to the deck with all my might.
Now there's such a pandemonium around us that I hardly can hear anything, except Blond Beard's howlings. His mateys rush to us, somebody runs away screaming. I'm proud of myself, he's bleeding like a pig, blood is flowing from his enormous boot. But before I manage to stand up, several hands seize me and try to pull the knife out of my grasp. I'm holding it convulsively, though, and they can't take it, until the quartermaster - Sharpe alias Broken Nose - throws me on my knees, presses me down, grabs my right hand and slams it repeatedly upon the deck, so that I must open it.
All the crew is gathered around us, Blond Beard, now silent and exhausted, is sitting and gazing at me dully, and Venera's Crown is bandaging him. I'm calming down in Sharpe's big hands, but there's something that startles me - there's silence now. Nobody is shouting at me, nobody is demanding my death, nobody wants to keelhaul me as before. I'm trying to look around, but can't see past Sharpe's broad shoulders.
"Capt'n," says Smallpox with strangely trembling voice, "Bucky's hurt, he can't stand... um..."
"I can see that," I hear Captain's voice. "Did he step on some nail or what, yer dumbhead? Tell everythin' as it was."
"Ekhm, Capt'n, it's that he was walkin', an'... he..."
"Captain, it's that little sneaky bastard, he stabb'd me!" wails Blond Beard, as if he suddenly got his voice back, only much more pitiful. "He stabb'd me with me own knife! I won't be standin' for weeks!"
"Shut up," says Captain coldly, and Blond Beard shuts up momentarily. "D'ye know what yer sayin'? D'ye have any sense of honour, ye pathetic maggot? Lil' Ritchie stabbed you with yer own knife! Did'ye present it to him on a silver tray or what?"
Oh, they are laughing at him. Good.
"Capt'n, sir," says Smallpox, "he was, um, messin' up with Ritchie. The lad was workin', an' Bucky was walkin' around him, an' then he, um, stepp'd on his hand, an' he had a knife in his boot, so... Am I right, mateys?"
"Aye, 'twas right like ye say!"
"The boy was jus' doin' his work."
"Told ya it'll end up badly!"
"'Twas bit too hard fer the lad, I says."
"You stabbed him, because he was pesterin' you, Ritchie?' Captain asks.
"Yes," I say. "I've warned him. And I've stabbed him only once, because Sharpe here took my knife away."
"An' what does it mean, pray tell us?"
"It means I'd like to..." and I shut up. I'm not going to say too much, damn.
"You'd like to kill him? Is that so?"
I'm silent.
"Have you ever killed a man, Ritchie?"
"No, I haven't, Captain," I say, "but I can and I will, if you want me to."
He looks at me with a long, thoughtful glance, and answers to his own thoughts with a short smile. Then he turns to the crew.
"Gents," he says, "speak up. Who's guilty here?"
I hear my name and Blond Beard's name shouted alike, and the Captain silences them.
"Bucky's a worthy man, an' he won't be able to work for many days to come. Yet it's his fault, because he provoked the lad - an' why d'ye think I said there's to be no harassin' him? 'Twas fer yer own safety, ye poor moron, 'cause the boy's no cryin' sissy, thank God."
Oh, are they all nodding now? Had I known that all I had to do was to stab somebody...
"Seein' that both of them are guilty, I therefore say that both of them are to be punished. An' although it is a rare thing on our ship, but so is the quarrel that ends up in drawing blood, both of them are to get dozen of lashes each."
Dozen of lashes? Oh, it's nothing; I've been beaten more than that. Aha!... But why is that poor bastard almost crying?
"Fer Christ's sake, Capt'n, I've got my share already... my foot..."
"Ye'll be thinkin' of yer back more than of yer foot, Bucky, that'll do ye good. Ye'll get proper care fer yer injuries, don't worry." And he's turning away from him.
"I can take twice that, if I only could get your left foot too, you crying chicken," I murmur to Blond Beard.
And the Captain hears me - he turns out to look at me. It's a suddenly cold, grave look. I feel my blood freeze.
"There is to be no further animosity over this. It is finished an' never to be evoked again." He pauses. "Sharpe - there's a lil' alteration. Two dozens for Ritchie. For his big mouth."
"Aye, Capt'n."
Oh no, what have I done? Why do I have to get twice the punishment that stupid Bucky is getting? And why the Captain is always treating me like that - can't he set up his mind and get me killed once and for all, instead of putting me through one test after another? Well, I'll show him I can endure anything. Two dozens, it's not a big deal.
Or is it? The crew is silent and they are looking at the Captain with sudden fright and confusion. Are they astonished, because he's not sparing his "little fuck"? Or is there another reason beyond those wide opened eyes and mouths?
"Look, Ritchie," whispers Smallpox in my right ear, "breathe shallow, d'ye hear me? An' watch out fer yer tongue, don't bite it off, mind. Yer to be first."
I don't understand him. It seems he's to help me to, well, take off my shirt, and he's to tie me to the cannon. To tie me? Is it necessary? I'm not going to run away!
"It's nothing," I say. "I've been beaten in my life. 'Tis only two do..."
"Shhh, yer stupid or what? Ever tasted a cat o' nine tails?"
"No, but... and you don't have to tie me up, really..."
"Shut up an' listen, ye dumbhead. The cat has nine tails, each's two feet long an' one inch wide. Were ye jus' standin' like this, ye'd be knocked down by the first blow. Ye see? One dozen o'our cat is like fifty lashes o'the military cat, an' yer to get two dozens. Sharpe'll to be changed after the first, an' then it may be me. I'll try..."
I widen my eyes looking at him. Hundred lashes, what a trifle! And then I look at the Captain - shortly and slyly. I don't want him to think I'm going to ask for his mercy. But he's not looking at me, he's looking somewhere above us, and I notice to my dismay that he seems a little bit nervous. He wants it to end. But he's irritated all the same. I take my eyes off him, look at Sharpe approaching, and then at Blond Beard, who's grinning widely, happy that I'm going to suffer more than him. I forget about the Captain, I feel my burning, warm anger building up inside me again... and there comes the first blow.
Smallpox was right - were I not tied up, I'd be lying on the deck already. I'm pretty weak after all those days of working and nearly starving and there are only ropes that I'm holding on now. I feel blood in my mouth - I've bit my lip. I remember what Smallpox was saying about not biting my tongue... but it's impossible to think of anything than the pain now. And it's coming from the most unexpected parts of my body - I don't feel it as much on my back as I'm feeling it in my stomach or I don't bloody know where - somewhere deep inside myself. And then my lungs feel like bursting up, I can't breathe - breathe SHALLOW, Ritchie - I don't know if I'm making any noises at all... wait, what's that? Yes, it's me, it's my own voice. Aw, what a shame... so I'm trying to muffle my cries, and I feel more blood, this time on my tongue instead. What a mess... I've got a good advice and couldn't use it.
I don't know when it's all over. I feel dizzy like hell, I feel... um... drunk, yes, that's the word. And I'm shivering... I'm very, very cold.
Smallpox - why the hell is he so gentle with me now - bows over me and asks:
"D'ye hear me, Ritchie?"
"Yeah... lis-ten, why am I so cold?"
"He'll be jus' alright, Capt'n. Says he's cold, but 'tis a lil' loss o'blood."
"Good." I feel a real joy in Captain's voice, and that little part of me that is still sober and healthy starts to wonder, very, very slowly, what does this joy mean... I look up a little. He's staying not so far from my head. Ooh, nice boots... must be cordovan or something.
"Don't use sea water on his back, ye hear me. An' the same with Bucky."
"What are we t'take, then, sir?"
"We have Joya del Mar's supplies still. Use the salt."
Oh no, shit, impossible. I won't allow them to rub salt in my back!
"L-listen, mate, I protest," I shout, or rather try to shout. "Please, not the salt! I can do... I can r-recover without any accursed bloody salt!..."
"Shut up," says Smallpox. ""Tis be the Captain's orders, an' he's gone to his cabin. Yer damn tough, Ritchie, ye didn't faint. He's impressed. Now ye have to rest an' ye'll be nice an' well in no time."
"Wait, m-matey... why is he impressed?"
"He wanted to see how ye take it. Ye know, our Captain, he's no ordinary fellow. He hadn't been flogged in his life, but if he were, I'd bet he wouldn't plead to be spared, right? An' we all are common folk, havin' been thru things. Look at that idiot Bucky, he's pleadin' when he's goin' to be punished, 'cause he thinks he can change somethin'. An' ye took it well, no pleadin', an' yer goin' to be well. He thinks ye worthy of bein' on the pirate ship, I reckon. Now don't move, or I'll call others to hold ye."
"What are you..."
"Shut up," he says taking a handful of salt from The Bleeding Hand, who's grinning at me. "Ye'll have somethin' warming up to drink after this."
But I close my eyes tight, although the thought of alcohol is truly heartening me up, and finally, blissfully black out.
tbc
Beta: Ewa. I thank you, mate, with all my heart for all your help, suggestions and encouragement.
Warning: This fic is about Captain Barbossa. No Jack, Will, Elizabeth, or other good folks, they stayed home this time.
A/N: This story - which is going to be pretty long - is dedicated to my friend and fellow Barbossa fan, Mint Condition, and has a prequel "Maid or not, It Suits You".
I thank all my wonderful reviewers and readers. You are my treasure. Special hugs for Bren Eldrid Bera and Alteng.
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I
I don't want to wake up, but the morning sun is cruel to me. I've secretly hoped that all the previous day was a dream, nothing more, and I'll find myself on the soft bed, in my beatiful lover's arms, looking forward to morning cocoa and morning kiss... Alas, I am lying on the hard floor of the Captain Barbossa's cabin, half-naked under some clothes, and my body is aching like hell. I'd better get up, though, because I need something to eat - I'm nauseous from hunger.
I sit up and stretch out in the bright sun warming up the floor. Oh, I was sleeping under Captain's jacket - the same jacket he wrapped around me yesterday, when his crew was going to keelhaul me, but he decided otherwise. So he cares about me a little. Then my eyes go to the scarlet dress. I was wearing it on his command, because I was to be a gift for his crew - luckily it was only the Captain who finally got me. We shared the bed that night, but only for awhile, and after we finished, he ordered me to wash myself, blow off the candles and go to sleep.
"But where am I to sleep?" I asked innocently.
"Ye have all the cabin to sleep," he said laughing. "Any piece of floor that pleases yer fancy."
I couldn't resist a longing look at his bed. He noticed it.
"Floor, Ritchie. The bed is for me and my lady, when I entertain her in my cabin. Understood? Or d'ye prefer to sleep with the crew?"
"I'll sleep on the floor," I said quietly.
"Good. An' put the dress off, before ye lay down."
I did what he ordered, placing the dress on the chair, but I've felt suddenly cold before dawn and took the dress to cover myself up. Now I take it stealthily, and...
"What are ye doin' with that cursed dress?"
"Nothing, Captain. It must've fallen from the chair."
He smiles, apparently in a good mood.
"An' ye drapped it over yer precious self when sleepin', right?"
I lower my head.
"Right. Listen to me, Ritchie, this is to be yer last one. Be it lil' matter or big, ye lie to me once more an' I'll have ye killed, though it pains me much. 'Tis dangerous for me to have a liar aboard my ship. An' yer lying like breathing. Think twice before ye say anything or it'll end up sadly for ye. Understood?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Good. Now go to the chests there an' try to find yerself somethin' to wear. Make haste, I'm waitin' for ye."
What for, I think to myself looking through chests with clothing. Why is he waiting for me? And why must he always know when I'm lying? He's kind to me, but how am I to know how is he going to react when I do something he doesn't like? He didn't hurt me; he took me without passion, but without cruelty either, still he wouldn't hesitate to kill me if I don't please him. Oh, not that I don't want to...
I've managed to find a pair of breeches that aren't too loose around the waist, but there's no shirt that fits me, each one is too big, and I don't touch ones that look new. I look shyly at the Captain, while I'm trying next shirt on. The Captain has risen from the bed and is fastening his belt, not looking at me. I wonder what time can it be. Why is he putting all his clothes on? It's early, and we can start the day more pleasantly than hurrying somewhere... after all, I'm here at his orders.
"What are ye lookin' at?"
"Nothing... I'm trying to find a shirt."
"Roll the sleeves an' bloody move on. Don't try me patience. An' tie up yer hair. Aye, like that. Hurry up."
We walk out into the sun and then I stop in a sudden panic. All the crew is gathered before the cabin - over thirty pairs of eyes meet us, and everybody has this knowing, leering grin. They don't look at the Captain, of course, for he's their God, beyond their judgement; everything he does is right and justified. They look at me and I almost feel their delight - they understand I'm not going to get any special treatment here, and they're oh so eager to show me my place... or at least what they consider my place. I cast my eyes down just to calm myself, and then look stealthily at them. Smallpox, Broken Nose, Knee-Holder, Venera's Crown and Bleeding Hand, all those fellows that wanted to, well, kill me (to put it shortly), they're standing here before me, smilling and elbowing each other. Oh, joy.
"Gents," the Captain says, "here be our new crew member, lil' Ritchie Brown. He's goin' to sail with us for awhile. As me cabin boy."
Oh, yes, you'd all drop dead if you didn't whistle and smack now, you dirty blockheads.
"Now, now, boys," the Captain continues, "look, the poor lad's blushing. Be decent an' shut up. He's to work with ye, too."
What? Wait! They're going to skin me alive. At least keep me in your cabin, Captain, I beg of you! I'm not going to stay outside with this wild horde... But I can't say anything; I feel dizzy from fear. No, no, Ritchie, calm down. If he wanted you dead, he would've thrown you to them yesterday. They won't be allowed to harm you. You're his cabin boy, didn't he say that?
"No harassin', an' no beatin'... unless he deserves it. An' you, Ritchie," he says turning slightly to me, "yer to work hard an' to respect elders. An' seein' that yer the youngest here, yer to obey everyone of the crew. An' if orders ye receive are contradictory, yer to obey Sharpe," he points at Broken Nose. "He's second in command here. An' if ye don't obey orders, well, ye'll have to obey cat o' nine tails. Is that understood?"
I hardly believe my own ears. I'm on these men's mercy, and there is no doubt I'll taste every abuse and humiliation possible; and I'm to be their drudge that can't even defend himself? Hell, no. If this is to be the next test, then I will pass it, no matter how high my expense will be.
The Captain is looking at me with a shade of a smile, waiting for my answer.
"Yes," I say dryly.
"Good," he says. "Now go to the galleys an' bring me my breakfast. Ye may have yours after. An' then Sharpe will show you yer part o' work. Move on."
Uhm, I'm a maid again, I think sourly, standing with Captain's bottle of table wine behind his chair. But what am I to do? I'm trapped perfectly on La Aranha here, and I don't even have a place to go. I don't know anyone in the New World, and if the survivors of La Joya del Mar's crew recognize me anywhere, I'm doomed. My lover's husband, don Diego de Ayala, is the owner of a huge estate on Santo Domingo, and if he gets me in his hands, I'm dead. I don't have any means to go back to Europe, and nobody is waiting there for me either. I'm alone anyway. I have nobody but the Captain to lean on. And he's not very eager to defend me or to protect me for that matter. I'm just a burden to him, perhaps. He buggered me once and that's all - maybe it was nothing more than confirming his power over me. He has his lady for love, I'm a whore in his eyes - he met me when I was a whore and I'm to stay a whore to him; not a very desirable one at that. And as a pirate, I don't have any value either - I've never killed a man, I'm not very strong, and I don't know what a life at sea is like. Yesterday's question comes to me again: how am I to prove myself worthy in this man's eyes?
I look at him discreetly. He's eating, and as far as I can see his manners are perfect, his moves measured and elegant, neither hasty nor slow, and I realize that he must be a nobleman - maybe of even higher standing than senor Ayala. But then another thing dawns upon me - he has to be fed up with all those dumb folks from his crew. I'd bet only few of them can read, nobody can behave as his equal - he's rarely letting them in his cabin. Oh, so there is a chance for me.
But he doesn't show any interest in me, he's behaving as if he were alone. No questions who I am or where I come from, or what's my upbringing, or how I made acquaintance with the Ayalas - nothing. He's not noticing me.
"Roll up yer sleeves, when yer pouring me wine, yer little lout," he sighs. "I don't want 'em in my drink."
Oh, so he is noticing me after all! I give him a grateful glance.
"Don't look at me, watch yer sleeves!... Ah, yer useless. Get off to work."
Work?... I feel utterly miserable, but there's nothing to do, and I go out of the cabin. Luckily all the crew is at their posts already. I must find Broken Nose... Sharpe, I mean.
But he finds me first, and without any word shoves me to the bucket and something between a brush and a clout. It seems that they forgot about feeding me; but I'm determined not to ask them for anything. I'll see if I can steal something to eat later.
The next hours seem endless to me. I'm cleaning the deck in the full sunshine, and after a short time my hunger is foreshadowed by desperate thirst. My sweatdrops land around my knees, my arms are fainting, and my vision becomes dull. Some of the crew are hanging around, pretending that they're working too, but all they do is trying to push me and make fun of me. I don't care for them now; I want to drink something.
A man is crouching before me. Oh, it's Bleeding Hand. I eye him suspiciously, but he says with a trace of sympathy in his crude voice:
"Yer workin' handsomely, lad. Should drink somethin' or ye faint. Here," and he hands me over a cup... a cup of water.
I thank him with all the gratitude my eyes can express and grab the cup - but before I touch the liquid I know it's a nasty trick, and I drop the cup, shedding the sea water over Bleeding Hand's legs.
"Ah, ye dirty louse, you," he yells and raises his hand to hit me - but is stopped by Smallpox.
"Wait, matey," he says in mockingly amiable tone, "what are ye doin'? Have mercy o'er yerself! Yer not goin' to mar our Captain's little fuck, are ye?"
"An' why not? He still has yesterday's bruises, mate. One more or less, nobody's goin' to complain. He won't be droppin' things next time."
"Nah, there'll be fresh bruises there. Or wait, jus' don't hit this pretty face an' ev'rythin's alright."
"Oy, people," says a tall fellow with a blond beard, "me thinks ye can do what ye want. Seems the Captain doesn't fancy him so much. He's thrown him away like that the next mornin', right?"
I'll have my repay, you'll see, I think helplessly, while pretending that I've got back to work. I can't move anymore, I just have to drink some water and rest in a shadowy place. I hate work like this. I've run away from a life of labor and I'm not going back, damn! And there's nowhere to hide, and all these stinkers are laughing at me. But first of all, I have to...
Somebody grabs my right arm and brings me to my feet. It's Broken Nose.
"Yer to bring Captain's meal," he says. "An' here's water. No, don't ye worry, it's a good water. Now drink an' be off."
I don't know what time of the day it is, I'm sleepy and weak from the lack of food, and the smell of the Captain's meal is annoying me to tears, but I don't even have a chance to sneak a piece of bread from his table - I know that the weariness has slowed my reactions, and the Captain would notice quickly if I were attempting to steal anything. So the only thing I can do is to doze off behind his chair, and, well, to watch my cursed sleeves - they are so dirty now that the Captain would shoot me if they touched his drink, probably.
"How's yer work, Ritchie?" he asks all of a sudden, and I jump off as if slapped.
"My... my work? Oh, good," I answer calmly.
He smiles and turns around to see my face.
"Is it? I'm glad t'hear that. An' how's the crew treatin' ye, I wonder?" He narrows his green eyes.
"Pretty damn well," I murmur under my breath.
"What did you say?"
"I said they're treating me well, Captain," I say in my clearest voice.
"Very well, then. Go back to work," he says in his amused tone.
Or drown yourself, I think stepping out of the cabin. He didn't order me to take the dishes back to the galleys, and I saw he's left some of his food! I feel a sudden wave of self-pity inside when I'm taking again the brush... or whatever the cursed thing is. Is he going to let me starve to death or what?
"Here," somebody says slipping a wooden bowl into my hand. Oh. What's this, I wonder, sniffing the grey mud in it. God, it stinks, I'm not going to eat this; they probably pissed in it.
The rest of the day passes in relative peace for me, if I'm not to count innumerable dirty jokes and innuendos, almost sung behind my back. They are making fun of my every move, guessing what the Captain must have done to me today, that I'm so slow at work. I'm polishing the cursed deck with my teeth clenched, and swear to myself to get even, be it the last thing I will do. The rage slowly boiling inside me gives me strength to continue the work, or else I'd fall asleep right among them.
Then the merciful evening comes, and I'm send by Broke... Sharpe to Captain's cabin. I barely can walk, and all I want now is to sleep, but when the Captain orders me to light the candles on the table, my eyes fall on the leftovers on the plate - and my body betrays me, my stomach groaning suddenly like a damaged organ in an empty church. I feel tears of humiliation threatening to burst out.
The Captain laughs.
"Are ye that hungry?"
"N..." I say, then hesitate. "Yes." And I turn away from the table, partly to light candles on the smaller table under the window, partly to hide my pathetic despair. He's not going to pity me anyway, and I don't need anything from him. I just want to sleep, so that I can simply forget all this.
"Come here, Ritchie." He points to the chair next to himself. "Sit an' eat, if ye like."
I can't believe that - he's allowing me to sit with him! Why?! I'm all dirty and, after all, I'm only his... well, I don't really know...
"Don't look at me. Eat. Slowly, or ye throw up, stupid. Yer supposed to eat what the crew eats, ye know that?"
"Uhm," I say, then go back to eating.
"Next time ye throw yer food overboard, yer goin' three days without eatin', understood?"
"Yes," I say, "but Captain..."
And then I stop. What am I going to tell him? "They hate me and I suspect them of pissing in my meal"? He's not my mother, and I don't even know what a mother would do in this case. Ah, but I'm full now and I'll think about it later...
"An' what d'ye think yer doing now?"
He pushes me away, I almost lose my balance, although I'm still sitting in the chair.
"My table isn't a place yer allowed to sleep!" he yells at me. "An' yer still on duty, ye lazy brat! Take those dishes to the galleys, or I'll have ye scrub the deck all night. Now!"
What I am to do with this man? He allows me to eat at his table, then he's roaring at me, because I've closed my eyes for a moment... and what did his gaze mean, when he was looking at me? It must've been the despise for me, because I was devouring the food as if I were starving for ages. Oh... he's a nobleman after all, he wouldn't behave like that even under the pain of death.
When I'm back in his cabin, he's looking out the window, and the fresh air is filling the room. I start blowing off the candles, according to his orders, and when I reach for the candlestick near him, he suddenly grabs my wrists and tells me to turn around.
I'm deadly tired, but his touch is the gratification in itself and I find myself pressing against him - only to be reminded that I'm not allowed to reach for my satisfaction. I'm not allowed to initiate anything; so be it. I begin to unbutton my shirt, but he stops me. Ah, it's not allowed either. Or rather, it's not needed. He's not going to caress me, he just wants to come in me - because, well, I'm something better than his own hand. He doesn't want to think of me more than necessary, and he expects of me that I'll adjust to his demands; I've only to slid down my breeches, then stand on my toes, for I'm much shorter than him; he steadies me with his hands on my hips, and we're ready. It's a short, merciless tryst - were it without oil, I'd be screaming with pain - but it's still an unexplainable delight to me. I'm burning for this man, can't he see it? I'm trying to look at him, but he doesn't want me to; I'm trying to lean back against him, he's shoving me off lightly, but impatiently. I don't insist.
Then he goes away to his bed, and I lie down under the chests, wondering what the next day will be - but my thoughts are interrupted by heavy sleep at the point I don't even know.
And the next days get worse and worse. I'm falling off my feet from exhaustion and hunger. I have to scrub the deck and handrails, wash the dishes, clean Captain's cabin and warm his bed - not literally, alas. He forbids me even to sit on his bed. I'm not his love, I'm not his favourite, I'm just an outlet for his lust. In fact, he's nicer to me when I'm pouring him wine than when I'm bending over for him.
I don't know what the crew thinks about Captain's relations with me, but they are treating me with more aversion and contempt every day. Maybe it's my lack of reaction that is to blame, because my silence and obedience only irritates them more, but I'm too tired to do anything. They spit openly when they see me, I've got boiled rats in my food (if not for Captain's leftovers that I now don't hesitate to steal, I'd be dying already), and I've got slapped, kicked and punched more than once.
And today, when I'm really worn out and got a scolding because I couldn't wake up, the tall fellow with a blond beard is going to make fun of me. He's just eaten his breakfast, put his big silver spoon into his boots, next to the knife, and he's walking around me in circles, winking at his chums seated on the railing. He's annoying me to no end, but I'm still waiting. I swear, I can't stand this anymore. I may not survive to the nearest port. Oh well, let's put an end to it. Today. Now.
The stupid bloke is still walking around me, and his circles are smaller and smaller. I raise my head and stop scrubbing the deck.
"Hey, mate," I say, "stop it. You're bloody disturbing me."
The audience chuckles in blissful anticipation, and he raises his brows.
"Did'ya say sumtin'?"
"I said you're disturbing me. I'm working here."
"Awwww, the little princess has spoken, folks! Yer workin', ye say? An' I am takin' my everyday walk here in yer lil' garden, princess."
I sigh to calm myself. I need to be precise soon.
"I'm warning you, mate. Really. Hear my words."
"Oh, but princess, I'd risk me life to look at yer pretty ass once more," he says, circling me very slowly and very closely. Then he steps with all his weight on my left hand. And then, with my right hand, I snatch the knife from his boot and pin his right leg to the deck with all my might.
Now there's such a pandemonium around us that I hardly can hear anything, except Blond Beard's howlings. His mateys rush to us, somebody runs away screaming. I'm proud of myself, he's bleeding like a pig, blood is flowing from his enormous boot. But before I manage to stand up, several hands seize me and try to pull the knife out of my grasp. I'm holding it convulsively, though, and they can't take it, until the quartermaster - Sharpe alias Broken Nose - throws me on my knees, presses me down, grabs my right hand and slams it repeatedly upon the deck, so that I must open it.
All the crew is gathered around us, Blond Beard, now silent and exhausted, is sitting and gazing at me dully, and Venera's Crown is bandaging him. I'm calming down in Sharpe's big hands, but there's something that startles me - there's silence now. Nobody is shouting at me, nobody is demanding my death, nobody wants to keelhaul me as before. I'm trying to look around, but can't see past Sharpe's broad shoulders.
"Capt'n," says Smallpox with strangely trembling voice, "Bucky's hurt, he can't stand... um..."
"I can see that," I hear Captain's voice. "Did he step on some nail or what, yer dumbhead? Tell everythin' as it was."
"Ekhm, Capt'n, it's that he was walkin', an'... he..."
"Captain, it's that little sneaky bastard, he stabb'd me!" wails Blond Beard, as if he suddenly got his voice back, only much more pitiful. "He stabb'd me with me own knife! I won't be standin' for weeks!"
"Shut up," says Captain coldly, and Blond Beard shuts up momentarily. "D'ye know what yer sayin'? D'ye have any sense of honour, ye pathetic maggot? Lil' Ritchie stabbed you with yer own knife! Did'ye present it to him on a silver tray or what?"
Oh, they are laughing at him. Good.
"Capt'n, sir," says Smallpox, "he was, um, messin' up with Ritchie. The lad was workin', an' Bucky was walkin' around him, an' then he, um, stepp'd on his hand, an' he had a knife in his boot, so... Am I right, mateys?"
"Aye, 'twas right like ye say!"
"The boy was jus' doin' his work."
"Told ya it'll end up badly!"
"'Twas bit too hard fer the lad, I says."
"You stabbed him, because he was pesterin' you, Ritchie?' Captain asks.
"Yes," I say. "I've warned him. And I've stabbed him only once, because Sharpe here took my knife away."
"An' what does it mean, pray tell us?"
"It means I'd like to..." and I shut up. I'm not going to say too much, damn.
"You'd like to kill him? Is that so?"
I'm silent.
"Have you ever killed a man, Ritchie?"
"No, I haven't, Captain," I say, "but I can and I will, if you want me to."
He looks at me with a long, thoughtful glance, and answers to his own thoughts with a short smile. Then he turns to the crew.
"Gents," he says, "speak up. Who's guilty here?"
I hear my name and Blond Beard's name shouted alike, and the Captain silences them.
"Bucky's a worthy man, an' he won't be able to work for many days to come. Yet it's his fault, because he provoked the lad - an' why d'ye think I said there's to be no harassin' him? 'Twas fer yer own safety, ye poor moron, 'cause the boy's no cryin' sissy, thank God."
Oh, are they all nodding now? Had I known that all I had to do was to stab somebody...
"Seein' that both of them are guilty, I therefore say that both of them are to be punished. An' although it is a rare thing on our ship, but so is the quarrel that ends up in drawing blood, both of them are to get dozen of lashes each."
Dozen of lashes? Oh, it's nothing; I've been beaten more than that. Aha!... But why is that poor bastard almost crying?
"Fer Christ's sake, Capt'n, I've got my share already... my foot..."
"Ye'll be thinkin' of yer back more than of yer foot, Bucky, that'll do ye good. Ye'll get proper care fer yer injuries, don't worry." And he's turning away from him.
"I can take twice that, if I only could get your left foot too, you crying chicken," I murmur to Blond Beard.
And the Captain hears me - he turns out to look at me. It's a suddenly cold, grave look. I feel my blood freeze.
"There is to be no further animosity over this. It is finished an' never to be evoked again." He pauses. "Sharpe - there's a lil' alteration. Two dozens for Ritchie. For his big mouth."
"Aye, Capt'n."
Oh no, what have I done? Why do I have to get twice the punishment that stupid Bucky is getting? And why the Captain is always treating me like that - can't he set up his mind and get me killed once and for all, instead of putting me through one test after another? Well, I'll show him I can endure anything. Two dozens, it's not a big deal.
Or is it? The crew is silent and they are looking at the Captain with sudden fright and confusion. Are they astonished, because he's not sparing his "little fuck"? Or is there another reason beyond those wide opened eyes and mouths?
"Look, Ritchie," whispers Smallpox in my right ear, "breathe shallow, d'ye hear me? An' watch out fer yer tongue, don't bite it off, mind. Yer to be first."
I don't understand him. It seems he's to help me to, well, take off my shirt, and he's to tie me to the cannon. To tie me? Is it necessary? I'm not going to run away!
"It's nothing," I say. "I've been beaten in my life. 'Tis only two do..."
"Shhh, yer stupid or what? Ever tasted a cat o' nine tails?"
"No, but... and you don't have to tie me up, really..."
"Shut up an' listen, ye dumbhead. The cat has nine tails, each's two feet long an' one inch wide. Were ye jus' standin' like this, ye'd be knocked down by the first blow. Ye see? One dozen o'our cat is like fifty lashes o'the military cat, an' yer to get two dozens. Sharpe'll to be changed after the first, an' then it may be me. I'll try..."
I widen my eyes looking at him. Hundred lashes, what a trifle! And then I look at the Captain - shortly and slyly. I don't want him to think I'm going to ask for his mercy. But he's not looking at me, he's looking somewhere above us, and I notice to my dismay that he seems a little bit nervous. He wants it to end. But he's irritated all the same. I take my eyes off him, look at Sharpe approaching, and then at Blond Beard, who's grinning widely, happy that I'm going to suffer more than him. I forget about the Captain, I feel my burning, warm anger building up inside me again... and there comes the first blow.
Smallpox was right - were I not tied up, I'd be lying on the deck already. I'm pretty weak after all those days of working and nearly starving and there are only ropes that I'm holding on now. I feel blood in my mouth - I've bit my lip. I remember what Smallpox was saying about not biting my tongue... but it's impossible to think of anything than the pain now. And it's coming from the most unexpected parts of my body - I don't feel it as much on my back as I'm feeling it in my stomach or I don't bloody know where - somewhere deep inside myself. And then my lungs feel like bursting up, I can't breathe - breathe SHALLOW, Ritchie - I don't know if I'm making any noises at all... wait, what's that? Yes, it's me, it's my own voice. Aw, what a shame... so I'm trying to muffle my cries, and I feel more blood, this time on my tongue instead. What a mess... I've got a good advice and couldn't use it.
I don't know when it's all over. I feel dizzy like hell, I feel... um... drunk, yes, that's the word. And I'm shivering... I'm very, very cold.
Smallpox - why the hell is he so gentle with me now - bows over me and asks:
"D'ye hear me, Ritchie?"
"Yeah... lis-ten, why am I so cold?"
"He'll be jus' alright, Capt'n. Says he's cold, but 'tis a lil' loss o'blood."
"Good." I feel a real joy in Captain's voice, and that little part of me that is still sober and healthy starts to wonder, very, very slowly, what does this joy mean... I look up a little. He's staying not so far from my head. Ooh, nice boots... must be cordovan or something.
"Don't use sea water on his back, ye hear me. An' the same with Bucky."
"What are we t'take, then, sir?"
"We have Joya del Mar's supplies still. Use the salt."
Oh no, shit, impossible. I won't allow them to rub salt in my back!
"L-listen, mate, I protest," I shout, or rather try to shout. "Please, not the salt! I can do... I can r-recover without any accursed bloody salt!..."
"Shut up," says Smallpox. ""Tis be the Captain's orders, an' he's gone to his cabin. Yer damn tough, Ritchie, ye didn't faint. He's impressed. Now ye have to rest an' ye'll be nice an' well in no time."
"Wait, m-matey... why is he impressed?"
"He wanted to see how ye take it. Ye know, our Captain, he's no ordinary fellow. He hadn't been flogged in his life, but if he were, I'd bet he wouldn't plead to be spared, right? An' we all are common folk, havin' been thru things. Look at that idiot Bucky, he's pleadin' when he's goin' to be punished, 'cause he thinks he can change somethin'. An' ye took it well, no pleadin', an' yer goin' to be well. He thinks ye worthy of bein' on the pirate ship, I reckon. Now don't move, or I'll call others to hold ye."
"What are you..."
"Shut up," he says taking a handful of salt from The Bleeding Hand, who's grinning at me. "Ye'll have somethin' warming up to drink after this."
But I close my eyes tight, although the thought of alcohol is truly heartening me up, and finally, blissfully black out.
tbc