Chapter Four: Captain Storm (EDITED)

The thing that she was aware of first was that the floor was moving; not violently, but it was rocking enough to suggest that wherever she was going, she was getting there with fair speed. The movement caused her to groan, and as she sat up, she felt nausea bubble in her belly, which growled emptily as her legs tingled from where she had lain on them. Her head hurt too, and she grasped it, gingerly cracking her eyes open.

Florencia winced. The setting sun, which was visible only as a pinkish-orange smear on far horizon, filled the great cabin with dying light, which stung her eyes and cast the carved walnut wood panelling in a rosy glow. Shadows like monsters sprung from the corners, and she raised an arm to shield herself, flinching again as she caught the scabby wound on her bottom lip. The brunette warily felt the rest of her face, feeling the weals on her cheek with a shudder of horror. Her stomach felt bruised as much as it did hollow, and, with dim hope, she looked around for something-anything-to eat.

She found nothing, just as she expected, but realised that she was on a much bigger ship than the Le Dauphin, for the cabin she was in was twice the size and taller too, filled with faded opulence and the remains of gold leaf scraped from the walls.

Careful not to be too quick in case she fainted again, Florencia stood up. She shook a little and dared to take the time to accustom herself to the rolling floor beneath her. It was only then that her sense of smell detected the stench of sweat that oozed from the woodwork. Her stomach assault by it, she staggered away and walked into the invisible cloud of rum vapours that shrouded a cabinet clinging to the wall, whilst the tattered old rug in front of the desk smelt of smelt of old, dried blood.

She lurched away, retching into her hand and staggering as a sudden, large swell underfoot caused her to topple backwards into a patch of darkness beside the drinks cabinet; something jangled harshly as she collided with it, and, yelping, Florencia leapt back in terror. She found herself staring wildly at a man-shaped-and-sized gibbet-thing that had loose joints as it hung limply on the wall, rather like some grotesque puppet.

Her mind, already wild with uncertainty, took her imagination to new heights. She saw a grinning and shrunken head with long hair nailed to the back of the door; it had a very big nose, whilst across from it was a captured Jolly Roger that fluttered feebly against its nails. The cabin was humid, shafted by the sun’s rays, which reflected off a big bird statue that was smothered crackled gold gilding. The room was airless too, and the stale smell that pervaded it settled on her foully on her tongue.

Florencia whimpered. Her blue silk dress had been taken from her, leaving her with her stays and shift, but no shoes, for she had lost them both in the ensuing chaos. She squealed and ran as a rat dashed out in front of her, and, tripping her way over to the desk, she turned around, looking for the little beast as her hand brushed something hard and smooth. It felt quite rounded too, and large, so it was with dread that Florencia looked down and saw a largely toothless skull.

However, it was not the skull itself that made her scream and her frizzy hair stand on end, but the three jagged holes puncturing its right hand lobe. She stumbled away from it and caught her foot on the rug; flying forward, she landed with a thump and a hiss as she knocked her funny-bone. Florencia raised a hand to rub it ruefully, only to freeze as the door rattled.

It cracked open an inch or two, but the ship tilted just then, slamming it shut again with the sound of shaking glass. Her scalp was tingling nonetheless, and with the spare few moments that she had, Florencia scrabbled up and dived behind the desk and hid between it and the battered fauteuil chair that stood behind it. She hoped beyond hope itself that the pirates would not come in and noticed that the desk in question had three small drawers; with her mind flashing back to her father’s bureau, her fingers found their way to one of the desk’s slender drawer handles. She gripped it and jerked the middle one open, her other hand reaching inside as she felt around desperately for anything that might help her.

Florencia had barely put her hand in when the door opened for a second time. It burst forward with such force that it bounced off of the wooden wall, the tarnished knob deepening a pre-existing hole somewhat as it did so. It did not slam shut, but was kicked so as eyes the grey colour of an angry hurricane swept the rapidly darkening room. The pirate sneered as he caught sight of Florencia, who cowered at the other end.

The pirate was the one from earlier, in front of whom she and her sister-Florencia swallowed at the memory-were deposited for inspection. He was still wearing his hat and head-kerchief, and was a few inches taller than the average grown woman, so she saw as he began to stalk her. His boots were loud on the plank floor, and Florencia, shivering like a leaf, seized the first thing she touched. She pulled it out and thrust forwards with a piercing of cry of-

“Stay back or I will hurt you, I swear it!”

The pirate stopped in tracks, sneering incredulously. He surprised her by knowing Spanish, broken though his grasp of it was, as he replied, “With a poppet?”

Florencia, who had squeezed her eyes shut, cracked one open and let out an ear-splitting screech that was even louder than the cry with which she had delivered her threat. She dropped the leathery wood doll down onto the desk beside the holey skull, gazing fearfully at the glass eyes that stared up at her, blank and black.

Someone snorted.

“No offence meant, little girl, but I know the stories of witches from Africa who impart their dark powers on white women.”

His voice, which was oddly contralto for a man, was slightly hoarse from shouting. He smirked rather maliciously and resumed walking towards her, although at a lazier pace than before.

“And you seem like an unlikely pupil…but then again,” he said more quietly, “I’m only an ‘umble pirate; ‘ow could I possibly know about what goes on in yer nursery…?”

He snickered at his own words and rounded the desk without warning, grabbing for Florencia, who squealed fearfully and ran around the other side, putting the old piece of furniture between them. She eyed his malevolent smirk with a shudder and wondered what terrible ideas were being crunched by the feculent cogs in his long head.

Wonder, however, transpired to be Florencia’s weakness, for she was so lost in thought about what the pirate might be planning to do to her that she nearly missed him all but throwing himself over the table in order to reach her. His lunge though was clumsy. The skull bounced out of the way as he slid over the polished wood, Florencia feeling his strong fingers snagging her dress as he did so, but she leapt away, shrieking, her ears full of his cursing and cloth tearing as the pirate ripped away her petticoat.

It was not all success for Florencia, for, as she fled his murderous grasp, she met her old adversary, the rug, and caught her foot under it for a second time. She went flying again, landing painfully on her hip as laughter, wicked laughter, the wickedest she had ever heard, roared behind her, not stopping until a coughing fit seized the deathly amused pirate. His lungs rattled frightfully as he fought for air. His face was bright too, almost cherry red with the exertion of trying to breathe; even his thin, bitten lips seemed to glisten with blood.

“What…are yer…look-” his breathing hitched for a moment as he brought something up, spat it out and finished, “’in’ at?”

Florencia stared up at him. He was sitting on his desk, silhouetted by the very last of the sun’s light.

“N-nothing, s-s-sir,” she replied, just like she had been taught, although she stuttered with fear, “I-”

He raised his hand swiftly, which made her flinch expectantly, but he did not hit her. Instead, he took his hat off and threw it down before striding to the door, which he opened and stepped into, shouting in a language that Florencia did not understand. A small man scurried up to the pirate, took an order and then fled with his arms over his head. The first, taller pirate slammed the door and came back to his chair, in which he threw himself, gnashing his rotten, baccy stained teeth as he waited impatiently for something-or someone.

As he waited, he shifted restlessly in his chair, which made it creak and wobble. Florencia, standing in the dark with baited breath, froze as she heard a drawer open and stuff be dragged and scraped about before the pirate pulled out what he was looking for. He pulled the stopper out of a bottle, and by his outline in the great bay window, she saw that it was made of blue glass. He drank from it, violently cricking his head and neck at the unspeakably awful taste. He retched once or twice for good measure and gasped, nearly spilling his medicine as he did so. Florencia, scared stiff, could hear his fingernails scrabbling about on the desk’s wooden stopper, which he found and put back. He returned the bottle to its draw and pulled something else out which he also choked down, clutching his gullet against the pain.

There was a knock on the door and Florencia started. She momentarily glanced, quite alarmed, over her shoulder and saw a light bobbing in the dark outside. It lit the glass up and the man’s white shirt as he knocked again and stuck his head around the door.

“Captain?” He said in Spanish to Florencia’s immense surprise. His voice was lowered respectfully, “Can I light up now?”

“If you must, Flower,” his captain grunted, “but be quick about it-or else!”

The aggressively in his order did not go unnoticed by Florencia, who shrank back like a night creature as the other man entered, carrying a lantern. The light from it threw the cabin’s panelling into relief, as well as his creased, swarthy face and eyes, which were as dark as blackwork; both she and the captain watched him stretch a scarred hand up, reaching for the bowl that hung above the desk like a make-do chandelier. He pressed a skinny twig with a tiny flame to the smelly tallow inside and quickly backed away as the flame took hold and spread light everywhere, unfurling and rolling into every dusty, damp corner.

Florencia, who was still watching him warily, noticed how well dressed he was for a pirate. His cotton shirt was grey but not ragged, whilst his woollen breeches were threadbare but not yet patched, and his waistcoat, which seemed to be made of leather, was supple and shiny from age and constant wear. The man himself was rather tall and sparely built.

“Captain,” he murmured, bowing at little at the waist.

He turned to leave.

“Are we ‘aving singed, exposed and twice-boiled-in-mustard-flavoured-water rat again? I think I might decline your cooking for once if that is the case, as I doubt there’s any turtles left.”

The other man-Flower-shook his head.

“Some of the barrels that were recovered have salted meat in them, captain. I’m boiling a joint as we speak.”

He used Spanish again and spoke it fluently, although Florencia, a Spaniard herself, could tell by his accent that it was not his native tongue. He left without another word.

“I bet you,” the captain suddenly began, “feasted on peppered chicken, mulberry pie, cured hams, sprouts, roasted pigs and baked cod when yer sat in yer ivory tower.”

He sneered somewhat jealously and added vicariously, “Yer’ll get none of that now, I can tell yer-in fact, yer’ll be lucky if yer get a weevily biscuit or leather satchel ter gnaw on!”

He stood, walked around the desk and came to hover over Florencia, who flattened herself against the floor and cast her eyes down. The pirate’s eyes bored of her head for a little while before he bent and attempted to seize by the hair, but she rolled away and was caught by the clavicle instead. His grip was steely but he had a remarkable soft palm. He pulled her up, crushing her collarbone as he used his left, grubby hand to open her mouth and look at her teeth; once satisfied, he shoved her aside and resumed his silent vigil from the comfort of his chair. He was so silent and still that Florencia half thought, half hoped that he had gone to sleep, for a beastly thought began loom in the forefront, almost like an oily spillage behind her eyes.

“Are you not going to have your way with me then?” She said, very, very quietly.

The pirate’s chuckling unsettled her.

“That desperate ter get deflowered, are yer?”

Something glinted at her from under his hat, which he had covered his face with against the light.

“No!” She shot back rapidly, and a rather dark blush crept into her cheeks, “Of course not! But that’s why you took me, isn’t it? So get it over with-!”

Florencia squeezed her eyes shut and looked away.

“’M‘fraid I’m not like that.”

She turned her head so sharply that she cricked it, swearing that she had misheard him.

“Excuse me?”

The pirate, whose name she had still not heard, moved his hat up a little and peered at her with great solemnity.

“I don’t like girls.”

He sat back again and doubled Florencia’s bemusement.

“You-you don’t like-?” She spluttered, shocked, “Then what about-”

“I don’t like woman either,” he finished for her, “but girls most of all.”

Florencia stared gormlessly at him, although his brownish face was obscured by his hat.

“Kill me then,” she told him, suddenly thinking about Margarita, “end it now, if you won’t-”

“No.”

“So why bring me here?” Florencia exploded, scared, upset and confused, “You are the captain! You took me prisoner! You must want something-!”

“I do an’ yer’ll soon see what,” he told, “But ‘til then, yer’ll only speak when told-!”

“I won’t be!” Angry overrode her fear, causing her to shout, “You brought me here and you will tell me why-!”

Her throat was parched from shouting, and she felt wobbly from having not eaten. She watched as if in slow motion as the pirate calmly arose from his seat and came around the desk to stand in front of her; Florencia took a step back in fright and confusion as he began to undo his greasy shirt. She watched, transfixed with horror as he slid one nacre button free from its hole and then popped out another with a big, bold smirk as his eyes glittered with forbidden knowledge.

There was more fabric beneath his shirt, she saw, prompting Florencia to wonder if he was wounded, or if the bandages held medicinal poultices, for he winced painfully as his breathing hitched once again. She took another step back as the third and then the fourth button were loosened, before he took both halves of his shirt and started peeling them back.

“Cap’n!”

The pirate in question swore vividly and jerked his frockcoat around himself. He pinned it closed with his arm and snapped his head around to look at the fool who had not knocked but simply opened the door. Florencia could feel the rage emanating off him, and swallowed nervously as he began swearing in English at the other man, who walked in and brought a gust of cool, salty sea air with him, one that blew away the smoke, cobwebs dust and reek of sweat.

It was the little pirate with the pipe. He carried a tray and the pewter on it rattled with his fear as he scurried passed his captain and stuck the man’s dinner down on the table. The sight and smell of the pork and hardtack caused Florencia’s mouth to water and belly to grumble, so loudly that both pirates looked at her, one afraid and one annoyed.

“Yer better take the girl with yer, Newland,” the captain ordered sullenly, “put ‘er somewhere away from the slaves an’ the crew-or else I’ll ‘ave yer eyes!”

Newland, who had already reached the doorway, hesitated for a moment and then retraced his steps, bowing and scraping. He grabbed Florencia by the wrist with a clammy hand and started pulling her away with him, but she screamed, “Let go of me!”

The fresh night air beckoned her with its healthiness, and it was only when she had put a foot over the threshold that she suddenly realised that the pirate captain was the lesser of two evils aboard his ship.

“No!”

Her guardian jumped and Florencia pulled against his sweaty grip, fighting to get back beside the captain, who would only kill her unlike the rest. She wanted to cower beneath his desk and she fought, she heard a chair scrape against the wooden floor. A fist came out of nowhere and smacked her, cracking the scabs on her lip again as the bigger pirate threw both her and Newland out of his cabin.

They fell into an untidy heap on the quarterdeck, with Newland tripping over his boots. He nearly landed on Florencia, blocking out the light for a moment as the captain slammed his door shut, which made the glass rattle. The latter locked them out for good measure, and Newland, sighing heavily with relief, sat up slowly.

He took a dirty kerchief out of his pocket, wiped his sweaty brow with it and put it back before grabbing Florencia again.

“C’mon,” he grunted, although she did not understand him. He tugged her to her feet and led Florencia to the hatchway, which was just in front of the main mast. It was little more than a gaping chasm in the decking, through which, she found, was the gun deck, lined with eighteen cannons, each nearly as long as she was tall. A pirate or two sat at every one of them, using them as tables, leering and whistling as Florencia stumbled into their lair; they pelted her with bits of food and called out lewdly, but in Patwa, not Spanish, sparing her the worst of their lasciviousness.

Newland prodded her over to another ladder and down to a deck that was so dark that it was almost suffocating. A little light came out from under a door at her back, from which the smell of cooked pork and hot sea water also came wafting, but Newland did not let her pause. He dragged a few feet closer to the door, but only so that he could propel her down another ladder into the very bowels of the Dark Horse, where it stank of bilge sodden, damp wood, mould and rats’ droppings.

A huge coil of rope broke Florencia’s fall. She was forced to screw her nose up against the unutterable smell. She pinched her nosed and silently wished for a peg as Newland took her by the wrist. He had a lantern on him, one that he had snatched on their way down from the gun deck, and it was this he used to find his past cannons in storage, barrels of stuff and the sow from the Le Dauphin, tied in the dark to the root of the main mast.

“Over ‘ere!” He barked at Florencia, who tiptoed gingerly around a huge pool of slimy bilge water that welled up through the grating. The wooden floor had become soft with rot, adding a sweet hint to the air.

Keys jingled and she heard an unused door creak; looking up, she saw Newland pulling it open, and before she could protect, he had her by the sleeve and was tossing her in.