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The Sacking of Port Royal
by TortugaBlack

CHAPTER 4: The Faithful Bride

The usual uncontrolled mayhem that constituted a normal evening in Tortuga had the added thrum of excitement that always heralded the arrival or departure of a raiding party. News traveled fast among the inhabitants of Tortuga. The women were on the streets as usual, but instead of their eager flaunting of favors there was a noticeable migration toward the docks. Stores usually closed were open and thriving.

Joshamee Gibbs, the middle-aged bewhiskered first mate aboard the Black Pearl, picked his way through the crowds, kept his head down to avoid unnecessary attention and moved with single-minded purpose toward the tavern at the end of the street. Reaching the open doors of the drinking establishment, he checked his back trail before shouldering his way inside.

The Faithful Bride, dark and strangely quiet for early evening, was heavy with a feeling of sudden abandonment. Chairs around the dive’s numerous tables were pushed about, some lay on their sides, while others dripped with liquid from spilled drinks. The barkeep wiped the scarred and stained bar top half-heartedly and with little interest, looking up occasionally to check the lone customer seated at a table to the rear of his establishment and, getting no summons for another rum, he returned to his task.

The captain of the infamous Black Pearl sat at the table furthest from the door, his back to the wall, his dark eyes, exotically enhanced by kohl-accented lids, studied the quiet room with hooded impatience. A callused, but slender hand thoughtfully fingered two small beaded braids of the goatee at the end of his chin. Jack Sparrow was a man of contradictions even to the delicately handsome features under the sweat-darkened bandana tied low on his forehead. The fancy ladies of Tortuga vied jealously for his attention, hardened men of his profession who knew him cut a wide swath before crossing him, while the unwary who underestimated him were quick to learn – at their cost – the misleading fine-boned face, with its drooping mustache and fringe of dark beard along the jaw, concealed a buccaneer…scalawag…pirate, a master of trickery and manipulation who always found a way to get what he wanted.

The door of the tavern opened, spilling a path of lantern light across the hard-packed dirt floor before admitting a man with the roll of the sea to his walk and a determination in his step. Pausing only long enough to take in the surprisingly empty tavern and get a nod from the barkeep pointing him toward the darkest corner of the establishment, the Black Pearl’s first mate moved without further hesitation toward the lone occupied table.

“Cap’n.” Joshamee Gibbs wet suddenly dry lips, immediately disliking the silence of the empty room where the boisterous rowdiness of a drunken crowd normally would have assured the privacy of their conversation. Taking a seat across from the younger man, Gibbs leaned in close and lowered his voice. “They be holdin’ their meetin’ on the docks. Pulled in a big crowd, too, they did, promisin’ shine t’ any man with a ship and a crew what’ll signed Articles with them…more shine to sailors looking for a berth to help fill out the crews.” He looked again about the room. “I left ‘afore the festivities were completed with the payin’ of the shine…but it won’t be long ‘afore those with it comes to spend it.”

Sparrow nodded. “Port Royal?”

“Aye. Just like you had it figured, Cap’n. The action’s afoot two nights from now…dark of the moon.”

“Ahh,” Sparrow acknowledged, his voice low. “How many signed?”

Looking quickly about them, the seaman leaned closer still until his face almost touched the other’s, his voice a harsh whisper. “The Manta makes four ships what has signed Articles with Pease and the Moor.” Gibbs paused. “Already they be ridin’ low, their holds heavy with powder, shot, and ball.”

“While the British cat’s away– ” Sparrow gave his first mate an amused grin before shifting his attention past Gibbs to the bar. The barkeep met his eye, read the ‘do not disturb’ in Sparrow’s hard look and turned his back on the occupied table.

“Pease set conditions to the Articles that any domestic stock found is to be taken alive and divided between his own self and the Moor, any other plunder goes to the crew what takes it. Seein’ as how the Spot and the Jackal are heavily armed and can cover the attacking fleet’s back, most see it as a good deal.”

If the words had any affect on the younger man, there was little sign of it except for the sudden hardness that touched the dark eyes. “Diego Reyes and Ben Pease,” he spoke the names with obvious distaste. “They and their crew of black hearts will be lookin’ for naught but black treasure…”

“Aye, blackbirders, they be,” Gibbs spat the words with the same obvious distaste as his captain. “Pease and the Moor be seein’ Port Royal as a field of opportunity long in need of harvesting…it’ll be a bloody scythe they’ll be cuttin’ across her.” Gibbs met the other’s dark gaze and lowered his voice. “A’sides the Pearl, the Rona be the only other ship what seems to show no interest in the doin’s. A few others are holdin’ out, but will likely join up with a little more pushin’,” Gibbs warned.

“It’s a good plan,” Sparrow admitted reluctantly. “But the Moor has long made habit of leaving a fight before it’s done. He and his crew will not stand under heavy fire once their holds are filled.” Sparrow’s eyes narrowed with speculation. “It might be to our advantage to find out why the Rona stands apart. Is she still in dock?”

Gibbs glanced nervously about the quiet room, then nodded. “She be berthed nigh the Pearl.” The be-whiskered man leaned closer. “It be her crew brought the news of the Dauntless with Norrington aboard seen sailin’ through the channel.”

Sparrow leaned back in his chair; thumb and forefinger of his right hand unconsciously smoothed the dark mustache that adorned his upper lip. With his shift in position, the long thin braids, heavy with their assortment of beads, danced among the matted dreadlocks in a shoulder-length mop of dark hair. “Interesting.” His small strangely sensuous mouth formed the word carefully, his low baritone voice putting a bemused edge to it. “That would seen to be an incredibly stupid move on Commodore Norrington’s part…” Dark brows disappeared under the edge of the bandana. “…Or is it Captain Norrington with only the Dauntless in his fleet of little ships?”

Gibbs snickered wickedly at Sparrow’s musings.

Silence settled over the small table and its occupants. “What say the crew, Mister Gibbs?”

Gibbs hesitated nervously, his captain’s mind not always a course easily plotted. “Ready to follow you, Cap’n, as always.”

"Is the Pearl seaworthy and battle-ready, Mister Gibbs?” Sparrow pressed.

“Aye, Cap’n!”

“With swag in her holds?”

“There be swag, Cap’n, ” Gibbs agreed. His expression reflected both increased unease and puzzlement.

“Then what say the crew?” Sparrow asked again.

“There be those of the crew eager to add to our plunder,” Gibbs answered truthfully.

“Aye,” Sparrow spoke softly more to himself than his first mate. “There be those,” he repeated, his voice, a hard fist in a velvet glove. The dark lids slid lower to hide the man’s piercing gaze from the other. “What say the rest, Mr. Gibbs?”

“There be no love for Port Royal among any of the crew, Cap’n,” Gibbs answered truthfully. “Most have lost mates to Norrington’s ropes and would like to take their pound of flesh while they can.” He hesitated then pressed on. “Some be rememberin’ it weren’t so long ago that their captain stood on Norrington’s trap awaiting the hangman’s pleasure. Those feel it’s his right…his duty…to take full payment.”

“Ah…” Sparrow mused softly, allowing a finger to slide over his lips as if to silence the words that followed. “And those some we speak of, Mister Gibbs, have they considered the possibility that what awaits any member of the Brethren in Port Royal might also be a trap of another sort, which could lead to the trap of the first sort?”

A look of confusion crossed Gibbs face as he struggled to make sense of Sparrow’s words.

Not waiting for a reply, Captain Jack Sparrow rose gracefully to his feet. Taking a greatcoat from the back of his chair, he shrugged into it, the bulk of it giving further emphasis to the lean wiry body dressed in vest, shirt and breeches beneath and quickly hiding the flintlock pistol shoved in the sash at his waist and the belted sword. A tiny smile pulled at the sensual lips under the dark mustache. “Then we’ll not keep them waitin’, Mister Gibbs. I’ll be at the Rona.” Kicking the chair out of his way with the toe of his boot, Sparrow stepped around his first mate and strode with purpose toward the door. There was none of his customary sway and swagger in his stride. “Tell the crew we shove off at three bells, ” he called back over his shoulder.

“Aye, Cap’n…” Gibbs watched the captain of the Black Pearl push through the tavern doors and disappear from sight. Mumbling under his breath, he glanced longingly at the bar then sighed and moved reluctantly towards the door.