Shipless and Sober
The cool spray of the sea tickled Anamaria’s face as she made her way down the creaking dock toward every pirate’s favorite port. The night was young, the bustling pubs and gritty streets illuminated by the bright moon and flickering torchlight. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Anamaria supposed she should be grateful to that drunken imbecile Jack Sparrow, for offering her one adventure after the next. After all, that was why she had pursued a life of sailing: for freedom, adventure, and the unpredictable. But over the years, Jack had become all too predictable.
And now he was going to pay.
Again.
She swaggered into Tortuga shipless and sober, sporting the male disguise she and most other female pirates donned when on land. She currently concealed her female form beneath a tattered tanned frock coat, her black hair bound up under a triangular hat. As she made her way through the port, her dark eyes wandered the dirty, jovial crowds, searching for two certain acquaintances. Jack Sparrow had upset more women in his time than any man could count; but on the island of Tortuga, two above all were known for harboring a special contempt for the infamous pirate. Anamaria tended to disdain women of their profession—after all, she’d become a pirate in part to avoid that degrading role. But she had to tip her hat to Scarlett and Giselle, for their enthusiasm in putting Jack, and with men in general, in their place.
She found them outside their usual brothel. Putting on her most masculine voice, Anamaria called to the pair, “Evening, strumpets! I’m looking for Jack Sparrow.”
Giselle’s face brightened. “Anamaria, darling! It’s been ages!”
“How long?” Scarlett asked.
“Not long enough,” Anamaria said, dropping the act. “That bastard cheated me again. Where is he?”
“The drunken sod’s down at the Admiral Benbow,” Giselle jerked her head toward the inn’s direction. “Hiring hands for a crew, they say.”
“Would you like us to hit him for you?” Scarlett offered.
“No, but thank you,” Anamaria said. “I’ve got this handled.” She touched the flintlock pistol tucked into her belt, and moved on down the street.
The inn, like most, was dimly lit and crowded with scum. She asked the bartender about Jack Sparrow, and was directed to a group of musicians in the corner, playing an English sailing tune. Her male persona back on, she strode through the crowd to the lead musician, a doughy young man with thin locks of unkept hair framing his flushed face. He paused strumming his instrument to gaze up at her through small, squinty eyes.
Doing her best to sound masculine, Anamaria said, “I’m here to join Jack Sparrow’s crew.”
The man’s gaze moved up towards a crowded overhead balcony, where residents spending the night lingered outside their rooms. “Oy, Captain! New hire! It’s another one of them lasses-dressed-as-lads types!”
Anamaria felt her jaw tighten. Either this man was more clever than he seemed, or her skill for deception was waning. Well, she was a sailor, not an actress.
Half with embarrassment, her eyes wandered up to the balcony. Surely enough, there was Jack, peering down at her from a crowd of drunken pirates. She wasn’t surprised to see that he hadn’t changed his hair or attire since she’d last seen him, two or more years ago. Jack lingered long enough for Anamaria to lock eyes with him. He gave her a graceful two-fingered salute, then vanished into the crowd. It was as if he hadn’t even recognized her. Like he were just welcoming another, insignificant new shipmate aboard.
Her adrenaline surging, Anamaria bounded up the stairs.
“Hey,” the Englishman called, “You need to buy yourself a room before goin’ up there!”
Anamaria shoved her way past disgruntled pirates and wenches, until she found Jack’s jingling back. Something about his locks seemed different; maybe he’d changed something in his style after all. Jack’s pace quickened and Anamaria matched it, drawing her pistol. Jack slipped into a room, pulling the door shut just a moment too late, the lock clanging against the barrel of Anamaria’s gun. With her pistol she shoved the door back opened and forced her way in, stomping into the room as the door slammed shut behind her. Jack simply stood there, frozen in his famous swagger, framed by the room’s opened window. Across the street, another window in another inn displayed a group of pirates swaying their flasks to some tune, oblivious to the violence that was about to occur next door.
“Jack Sparrow!” Anamaria spat, in her real voice.
She yanked off her hat, allowing her black locks to tumble to her shoulders. Jack’s petrified eyes were much larger than she recalled. And the rest of him seemed smaller. Perhaps it was simply the raging confidence that swarmed Anamaria now. When Jack finally spoke, barely above a whisper, even his voice seemed weaker and more slurred than Anamaria remembered.
“I’ve upset my unfair share of women Luv, you’ll have to refresh my memory.”
Anamaria stopped with her face centimeters from Jack’s. “You stole my boat! And sank it!”
Jack gapped at her.
“And the boat you got me to replace it exploded!"
Jack cocked his head, almost as if this was news to him. Had rum deluded his memory that much, or was he mocking her?
“And the boat you got me after that was marked by the Spanish law, in connection to you! I was almost sold back into slavery because of you, you son of a bitch!”
Jack’s finger came up. “Now, now just a moment...”
Drunker and weaker, he also almost sounded...feminine? Perhaps he’d become a eunuch since their last encounter. Anamaria liked that idea.
"Then,” Anamaria continued, “I finally find myself captaining a decent ship, with a decent crew, and what happens next? Why the whole damned thing gets swallowed up, by a creature that for all the world looks like the legendary Davey Jones’ kraken!”
“Bu—”
“And what man do all the rumors credit for upsetting Davey Jones enough to unleash his ‘terrible beastie’ onto the Caribbean? Who else, Jack Sparrow!”
Jack muttered, “I think he would prefer ′Captain Jack Sparrow.’”
“I don’t care what that drunken—” Anamaria froze. “‘He?’”
“Jack’s” eyes bulged, realizing his mistake. Anamaria seized the impostor’s hat and tore it off. A mane of brunette hair, far more feminine and luxurious than Giselle’s and Scarlett’s put together, tumbled around a face that was clearly not Jack’s. Anamaria could only stare as the woman peeled off her mock facial hair.
“So,” her accent was thick and Spanish. “Yet another woman who has been scorned by the infamous Jack Sparrow.”
“Who are you?” Anamaria demanded, sheathing her pistol in her belt.
“That does not concern you.”
“You’re protecting Jack,” Anamaria accused.
“Hardly,” the Spanish woman said darkly. “I’ve waited far too long for my revenge on that dog. He destroyed my marriage to the Lord.”
It took a moment for Anamaria to understand what she was saying. “You were a nun.”
“I was ready to take my vows. You asked my name. It’s Angelica. So named because my mother hoped to raise me in the ways of God, not to be like my father. I’ll not tell you who he is, as you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
“Likely not,” Anamaria replied dryly.
“So Jack betrayed you too then,” Angelica straightened, began to turn away. “I’ll send him your regards, when I catch up to him.”
“You’re not going to catch up to him,” Anamaria said sternly, “because I’ll have killed him already.”
Angelica laughed. “It seems you haven’t had the best of luck out-clevering Jack Sparrow. But if you think you can get past me...” she spun back around to face Anamaria, and with a metallic swish, drew her sword. “...I do need practice.”
Without any change in expression, Anamaria drew her pistol again and brought it to the Spanish woman’s face.
Angelica’s black eyes fell to the gun. “A pirate who fears a sword fight is hardly a pirate.”
“I didn’t become a pirate to be a pirate. I became a pirate so I could have a boat.”
“So get yourself a boat,” Angelica said simply, without letting her fencing posture fail.
Anamaria felt her eye twitch slightly. “I suppose you think I’ll show mercy, because you’re a fellow woman.” She cracked her gun. “I didn’t hesitate to suggest throwing that spoiled governor’s daughter back to the ghost pirates. And I won’t hesitate to shoot a Conquistador, whatever her sex.”
Angelica’s face changed. “You think I see myself above you, because you’re Mulatto? I was taught that all are equal in the eyes of the Lord. But if you think you can stop me by waving this silly pistol in my face, then go ahead and shoot.”
“Don’t think I won’t!"
“Don’t think I don’t think you won’t!”
Something must’ve shown in Anamaria’s face, or maybe the movement of her hand, because the moment her finger closed on the trigger, Angelica’s sword parried the gun’s barrel, sending the shot into the floor. Cries of shock and annoyance could be heard from below, where the bullet had probably caused a leak in someone’s bottle of rum, or perhaps found a home in some unlucky pirate’s head.
Angelica’s sword expertly flew back up, cutting one fine button off Anamaria’s coat. For a moment Anamaria just stood in affronted shock, while Angelica turned and dived for the opened window. Anamaria took aim again, just missing the Spanish pirate’s backside (which she noticed, not without an amount of envy, was perfectly crafted). Roaring through her teeth, Anamaria charged to the window and took a look out. The window overlooked an unkempt garden within the walls of the inn. The door to the next building over was swinging back and forth.
She glanced up to the window opposite hers.
Anamaria sheathed her gun, took a few steps back, and ran into a leap. She faltered, just barely getting a hold of the other window’s frame in time to stop herself falling. On the other side of the dirty glass, a group of French pirates stood huddled around their drinks in a semicircle. A few of them were still sober enough to notice the noise, and glanced at the mulatto woman hanging outside their window like a massive spider. Anamaria hoisted herself fully over the ledge and gave the window’s lock a kick. It took two more to have it opened, while the Frenchmen watched in bewilderment. She tore through the group of befuddled drunks, dodging a swinging sword and a storm of French insults, and turned down the hall.
She found herself on an indoor balcony identical to the one in the last building. Surveying the crowd below, she easily found Angelica, attempting to weave through the crowd to the door. Anamaria realized that wasn’t exactly positive she wanted to kill this woman; perhaps just put a ball in one of her ankles, to teach her a lesson. But the Spanish woman saw Anamaria, and instantly took a few awkward leaps to the right. Without thinking, Anamaria copied her move. Then Angelica brought her sword into a tight rope along the wall. Anamaria realized the Spaniard had just positioned her for the old chandelier trick. Without wasting time to look up, Anamaria rolled out of the way, just before the tiny chandelier crashed down into the spot on the railing that she’d been leaning over moments before.
When Anamaria rolled back up, the chandelier was tumbling off the railing, down onto the gasping crowd below. And going with it was a long chord of rope. Anamaria bounded up onto the railing and seized the rope with both hands, awkwardly holding her pistol in just a few fingers. She rode the chandelier’s rope down to the floor, softly landing feet-first on top of a drunken Scotsman. Discarding the rope, she took aim once more at Angelica, who was nearing the door, and fired. Her third and final bullet hit the wooden doorframe, startling an exotic bird perched on a snoring old drunk’s shoulder. She cursed harshly.
Now would be a good time to forfeit the fight. But Anamaria was not one to back down when someone fed her temper. She tore back into the garden, with her empty pistol raised; not surprisingly, Angelica was waiting for her just outside the doorway. Her blade nearly swung into Anamaria’s throat; this time it was Anamaria who parried Angelica’s move with her pistol’s barrel.
Angelica grinned coyly. “You’re out of bullets.”
Anamaria’s other hand was already drawing her hidden curved knife, and she expertly brought it to Angelica’s throat. The Spanish woman’s eyes flicked from the blade to Anamaria, her face falling into irritable defeat. Anamaria’s deadpan stare was unmoving.
With impeccable timing, the door from the other building burst opened, and the British musician gripped the wall urgently. “Captain! Yer old Scrum’s just heard some most distressing news about Jack Sparrow! Word is he’s been captured out in the Atlantic, taken back to London to stand trial!”
The two women looked at each other.
“It seems English justice moves more swiftly than scorned women,” Anamaria said dryly.
Angelica’s face melted into a disdain that put Anamaria’s to shame. “You obviously don’t know Jack Sparrow as well as some people, if you think he’ll disposed so easily.”
“Orders, Captain?” Scrum pressed.
Angelica’s eyes remained on Anamaria. “Rally the crew we’ve hired, and return to ship. We set sail as soon as possible; after all, if one wants to slip out of the shipyard unseen, it should best be done before dawn.” She gave Anamaria a long, meaningful look.
Her temper finally cooling, Anamaria moved her knife away from Angelica’s throat. Angelica’s sword gracefully swung away from Anamaria.
Keeping her voice hard, Anamaria demanded, “Make sure Sparrow pays.”
Angelica grinned. “He will.” She twirled her sword back into its sheath. “When he meets my father.”
Anamaria raised her eyebrows, silently urging the Spaniard to continue.
“Blackbeard.”
Anamaria instantly felt her face and entire body slump into that unimpressed pose she sometimes took on, when someone was trying and failing to dupe her. “Pull the other one.”
“I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”
The Spanish woman vanished back into the other building before Anamaria had time to reconsider her response. She stood for a few moments in the alley, pondering the possibility, then decided she didn’t care. She jabbed her knife back into place under her belt, and tucked her useless pistol away. She had precious little time to purchase more bullets and other previsions, if she wanted to slip into the shipyard before sunrise.
