Finally!
Thank you for everybody who held on as I slowly worked on my next chapter. Times have been pretty busy lately, but hopefully I've caught a break where I can work on my story more frequently. So, without further delay, I continue with:
Confessions of a "Ded Man"
The initial reaction of a dead man coming alive in the streets of Tortuga was admittedly a more hectic scene than usual in the mecca that was the pirate stronghold. When Delmaria laid eyes on Jeremiah struggling to flee while still disabled on the ground, his immediate reaction was to subdue and capture him while he would still be useful. He darted across the King's Arm before anybody else realized what he was doing, pushing over debris of the skirmish and people who stood in his way. Yet by the time he had made it across the square and thrown himself on top of Jeremiah to keep him from moving, the crowd made eye contact with who was thought to have been shot down nearly instantly upon the impact of the bullet. Some gasped, some looked away, and some just stared; however, within moments, chaos erupted.
As often described by any witty sailor, pirates in Tortuga are notoriously known as being some of the most superstitious in all of the Caribbean. Every wayward who shifts around between the tables of strangers is either looking for a drink to leech off of or a good tale to hear or share; often, some of the most notorious pirates in the entire Caribbean were the ones who were able to tell the best stories, even if some of them weren't true. Men were always looking for something to keep their minds rolling and alive, so one could imagine watching a man resurrect in the streets before their eyes is something not only to behold, but to study. Cheating death in Tortuga was often the norm, but coming back from it was a rare jewel that every pirate wanted to add to his trove, no matter what the cost.
Within seconds a crowd of vicious piranhas had swarmed to the scene, some of the more interested and violent ones attempting to tear Delmaria right off of Dedman. They grabbed at his coat, his shirt, and even his hat (which Delmaria had managed to secure to his head by wrapping a thick black ribbon around the width of his cap tightly) to try and pry him off Dedman, but he held on tightly to the pirate who was desperately trying to breath around the large group of people. They were kicking up clouds of dirt all over the place, nearly blinding the inner circle of men who tried to get at Jeremiah. On the outside of the mass, pirates tried to push their way inward, and a few pirates even ended up with fists in their faces and knees in their stomachs. It took Delmaria a few minutes to realize that this fight over Jeremiah was not just about superstition, as it was about which side you fought for.
While a group of the men who grabbed at Dedman were eager to take him prisoner, there were others with much darker intentions. They saw his ability to come back from life as though it fulfilled the scriptures, and they grabbed at him in hopes that they would lead him to a side stronger than what they were affiliated with. One woman crawled in between the legs of the pirates up to Jeremiah and spirited from him a drop of blood that was trickling down from a damaged nose, immediately rubbing it on her forehead and reciting a strange, voodoo chant of some sort before being brutally knocked over by a shift in the brawl. It was evident that just as many men would fight for freedom, some were willing to die for those who went against it.
Finally, the pirates were able to whisk Jeremiah away in to the King's Arm, and there they laid guard, keeping an eye for anybody who tried to break in and liberate him. A good group of about three dozen men held themselves up inside the tavern, securing it by nailing planks back over the windows and barricading tables and chairs against both the back and front doors. A few of the more brave were instructed to stand guard at the top of the tavern on it's forward balcony, bringing with them muskets to shoot back anybody that looked like they were preparing to storm the tavern. They locked the doors behind them for good measure as well, for it's unpredictable in the Caribbean as to who may show up at your doorstep and how acrobatic they are.
For two days the crew stayed held up inside the tavern, with none of them so much as even motioning near the doors. The large crowd that once had waited anxiously outside the bar, demanding that they release Dedman, had now settled down. Tortuga began to return to its usual pace, with still a small group of buccaneers keeping a heavy eye on the tavern. Yet while the surface still seemed calm, beneath it worry ran amok. Rumors began to shift through the backstreets and lower taverns, allegiances began to be made, and within the King's Arm, strain was beginning to be felt by those who remained loyal to the Brethren.
1
September 1st, 1725
The King's Arm, Tortuga, Hispaniola
12:03 PM
The tavern still remained tense with speculation and drag in to the third day. Many of the soldiers who held the fort down simply sat by themselves across the room, only getting up to get a drink or perhaps spark a quick conversation with their fellow man. Some of them thought it funny to let their imaginations run rampant and conjure up a few stories or rumors surrounding Captain Rott and his companions, but they stopped when Delmaria happened to walk past them. Every time he caught them of speaking of Rott, he shot them a dark, hateful glare that would silence anybody who it met face to face. Darkskull did not take talk lightly, for he knew that words could carry over in belief, and belief could carry over in to treason.
Delmaria always kept his eyes on the cellar door behind Johnny's bar, though he never actually went down there. Beneath the small trap door, Dedman had been imprisoned, and since the night he had been chained nobody even bothered going down there. Not only had he been too tired to cooperate, but he refused to speak of anything, and never even went close to the questions they asked him. The only thing he ever did was yell curses and make personal comments about whoever ventured down there, so they decided it would be best to let him sit in the dank darkness until they could figure out what they could talk to him about. If Delmaria would have had his way, Jeremiah would have been dead in the water by now; unfortunately, he knew that wouldn't serve him any good in the long run.
It was that afternoon that a loud rapping at the door protruded through the tavern. Though many of the pirates became unsettled in their seats and slowly reached for their guns, Delmaria simply dismissed them, believing it was just another disgruntled drunkard looking for a few pints from his usual bar. Yet this one seemed much more persistent - instead of fading off after a few seconds, it continued for upwards of a few minutes. Delmaria stopped pacing back and forth and watching the door shake slightly under the constant beating it was receiving from the other end. From the other side, he could hear what seemed to be a very muffled yell of a single man, and so his assumptions led him back to believe it was nobody.
It was only until one of his mates came through the balcony doors did he consider that it wasn't just anybody else. A scrawny young man with a dirty brown bandanna tied around his curved forehead came shambling through the doors (only opened by completing a specific knock on the door that resembled the rhythm of how McVane washed his bar glasses, which usually served as the entrance to the smugglers den that sat quietly around the corner from the tavern) and made eye contact with the captain, who was at little startled by a sign of active life. "Cap'n, the Fat'er is at tha' door."
"Fat'er? What's that, some sort of pig?" Delmaria joked, to which a few of the men behind him giggled to themselves.
The guardsmen rolled his eyes, saying "No s'r, no pig. I's Fat'er Molony, s'r."
Delmaria grumbled. He had never been in very good standing with the priests of the Caribbean, despite being a man of faith - many turned their backs on him because of his lifestyle of piracy, and by their words "Spawns such as these are not welcome in His house!" Father Molony was no exception; the poor old man had lived in Tortuga for the large portion of his adult life, and watched as the port slowly became more and more chaotic as the years passed on. He managed to sustain one of the only churches that remained standing on Tortuga, while the rest had been burned, looted, or torn apart for the needs of ship repairs. Even at that, his church was usually empty, and the scorning old man had even taught himself to use a pistol in case he had to defend himself against somebody who tried to steal the few artifacts that remained in his home. Ironically, one of his only patrons who did his best to make a visit each time he came in to port was Delmaria, who would often sit in the back pews as he lectured his sermons to the small group of old Spanish women who sparsely populated the front rows. Molony would always turn Darkskull away as he figured he would only draw ruckus from the pirates who loitered nearby, and from their faiths the two had derived a fierce feud against one another. Though, as much as Delmaria wanted to turn him away as he always did to him, he knew doing such a thing would be disrespectful to the men of faith beside him - so, reluctantly, he ordered Molony inside.
The old Irish man hobbled over the piles of boxes and chairs as the door was quickly opened and shut behind him. His long black robe swayed back and forth as he struggled to walk, his age and frail structure finally getting the best of him after his seventy-five years of his "God blessed" years on earth. His thinning, frizzled grey beard that hung slightly off his chin swayed back and forth a little as he came forward, directed by his old, lackluster eyes. His green eyes had the bewildered look every elderly person gains at a certain age, though they were still able to fix on Delmaria. He breathed in with a huff, and let out a raspy yet still emotionally stereotypical Irish accent. "Damn heathen, what in the name of our savior do you think you're doing!? Chaining a poor man in such rancid conditions!"
"I'd ask you the same question, considering you've so politely intruded in to our business. You're lucky you weren't shot on the way here." Delmaria looked down on the short old man, who was small in comparison to the five-foot-eleven Delmaria.
Molony breathed in a little raspily as he looked around the room at all the men who were staring at him. He then turned back to Delmaria, and pointed a bony finger in to his chest. "You think this way because you are not one with God! He protects me!"
"I don't care how many essences you've been smelling lately Father, you shouldn't be here. This is not your place." Delmaria shook his head. As much as he had a feud with Molony, he was not ready to watch a priest be killed in the mean streets of the city he devoted his life to cleansing.
"No, this is my place!" Molony scoffed, turning away from the pirate and beginning to walk towards McVane, who was nonchalantly drinking from one of his own bottles behind the counter. "My son, surely you can direct me to where they are keeping that poor man hostage. Your soul must not be corrupted by them!" the friar shouted, throwing his arm back to the rest of the room.
The crowd of pirates said nothing, as the majority of them relied on faith to keep them through long voyages. Delmaria, however, stormed over to the bar in protest. "God dammit, this isn't your place you old hag!"
The priest gasped, turning to Delmaria as he tried to dig in to the deep side pockets of his robe. He pulled out a small set of rosary beads, gripped it by the small cross that hung from the beads, and waved it in front of Delmaria. "Scum, speak not of your Father lest you wish to be damned yourself!"
Delmaria huffed, swiping the rosary beads viciously out of the old man's hands and wrapping them in his own hands, to make sure they didn't fall out. "I've been damned for twenty years and the devil hasn't caught me yet. You're not going to stop me." Delmaria turned about and walked straight before the landslide of rift-raft that blockaded the doors to the tavern. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to ask you leave."
Molony hobbled over, trying desperately to keep up with the captain. "You’re wrong with that! The devil may not have killed you, but his demons reside within you!" Molony pointed another bony finger in to the pirate's chest.
Perhaps the priest was correct, Delmaria thought to himself. He may not be dead, but he often caught himself thinking that he either should be, or wanted to be. All of the spoils and victories in his life were just dust covering the larger painting of his life, which played out a romantic depiction of the deaths and tragedies that he had witnessed before him. Whether the work of demons, or the work of his own doings, it was and would remain a mystery to him until he stood before the scales. As Molony turned around in rebellion and began heading back towards the bar, Delmaria tucked the rosaries in to his pocket, and chased after the old friar.
If there was one thing that Molony was, it was persistent. When reached the bar, he slammed his hands down on top and turned back to the rest of the tavern. “Please, children of God, do you not see this injustice!? Every man must be introduced to faith!” he shouted at the top of his old, dusted lungs.
Before Delmaria could turn away, however, he caught eye of a shift in the tavern. He was the men beginning to shift where they sat and rub their necks uncomfortably. They bit their lips to prevent themselves from saying anything, though they wanted to say much more than would be healthy for them if Delmaria could reach them with a few seconds of their lives. Darkskull knew that the last thing he wanted was the tavern to turn on him, because many of the men in the bar still turned to faith daily, whether on the seas for protection or just to make them through a rough night – they would turn their backs on him before they turned their backs on God.
“Fine.” Delmaria sighed loudly, breaking the composure of the tavern. Many of them sat up from their slouches and tilted their hats up in bewilderment as they watched the disgruntled pirate slide over the counter of the King’s Arm, on to the patch of floor that sat just before an old, rusty trap door that sat next to him. It was a large, heavy piece of oak looking as though it had been thrown down on the floor and left to wade under time – but beneath it, something much more sinister laid.
Delmaria reached down and grasped a firm hand around the iron rung that sat on top of the door, heaving it upward and letting a gust of stale, dusty wind come up from the basement. He pointed to five pirates closest to the bar consecutively, and then to Johnny, and finally Molony. He wanted them all to come.
2
The motley crew descended in to what looked like a black hole in the middle of the floor, in to a deep, perpetual darkness that seemed to keep them from seeing more than 3 feet in front of their face, like a black fog. Luckily Delmaria grabbed a hold of a small lantern that sat on the counter of the bar, and lit it as he descended down the narrow would stairs ahead the rest of the group. It illuminated the dank, creepy holding area; a room of complete cobblestone acting as a small winery, with two extremely large winery canisters for holding larger qualities of alcohol sitting side by side, which covered nearly the entire width of the room on their halve. Opposite, boxes, chairs, tables, brooms, and other not-so-necessary necessities were thrown lazily on top of one another, as though somebody felt like setting a bonfire but only got so close as to creative the mound of wooden junk. Cobwebs ran littered across the floor, and a few rats scampered across the floor to head in to hiding behind the barrels and crates.
Molony clenched his hand over his noise as the putrid smell of spilt and mixed alcohol fumes ran up his nose, and Johnny behind him winched painfully in remorse as though he did not want the priest to feel uncomfortable. The five pirates in front of them clutched their muskets tightly as one by one of them made eye contact with the devil that sat in the room. Delmaria simply walked in to the middle of the room and stared a cold, hard stare down at the man before him.
Jeremiah looked as though he had run through a battleground. His coat dusted and torn in patches, it was thrown dolorously off to sit at the bends of his elbows, tucked beneath the blood-stained clothes that ruffled on his body. His face was a mess, beaten and bruised in all sorts of places after hours of “interrogation” from the pirates, but the stonewall had refused to talk. He was now chained by the chest to the farthest of the two canisters, sitting with no manner in his face, and slowly drifting off to sleep.
“Get the hell up.” Delmaria kicked Jeremiah in the leg, jolting the man to an abrupt awakening. His head hit back against the wood of the container, leaving a throbbing pain in his bald head.
“Oh God, leave him be!” Molony shook as he pushed the pirate guards aside. He ran in the general direction of Dedman, but before he could reach him Delmaria quickly reached out an arm and whipped the man back.
“Oh Christ, I know you’re a missionary, but you aren’t blind!” Delmaria skimmed him back over to the rest of the men, who caught him and held him back. “You said you wanted to see him, not perform miracles. Shut your mouth and let me talk before we throw you back upstairs.”
“Tempered, aren’t we?” Dedman’s dry, twisted voice croaked from the floor.
“Damn right I am, now shut your mouth.” Delmaria gruffed. “Have you been having fun down here, staring in to the shadows?”
Jeremiah shrugged as much as his sore shoulders allowed. “It’s tiring when all you have to talk to is the rats. Nice job of cleaning, by the way, Johnny.” Dedman smiled over to McVane.
“Oh don’t baby yourself. I did this for ten days without a single mention of contact.” Delmaria lectured proudly.
“Sounds more like you pity yourself than anybody else here, Darkskull.”
Delmaria shrugged the comment off. “You know, this could all be over if you simply told us where Rott was. You would make all of us a lot happier, and we could all go our merry ways.”
“Oh obviously not. I know your game, Delmaria – you would have me rat out my captain and then shoot me on the spot. Don’t think I haven’t seen or heard of what you’ve done in the past.”
“The only reason I’ve ever shot men like that in the past is because they either begged for it, or it was because they pestered me to the point I simply needed satisfaction of killing them.”
“Ah, so that’s why you killed your son? For satisfaction?”
Delmaria’s heart stopped. Normally when he spoke or argued he gathered a pace of motion, and he was only interrupted in that pace when he was offset. In the second in which his pattern broke, and he froze, he built up enough rage to kick his foot square in to Dedman’s nose, sending a spout of blood straight down his nasal canal, and sandwiching the back of his head on to the front of the canister. Delmaria stepped back, and watched as Jeremiah moaned and groaned under his pain. He didn’t say anything yet – he wanted Jeremiah to seep up all the pain of the moment before he said anything.
When Jeremiah finally calmed down, he continued. “You truly do enjoy being a loser, don’t you?”
Dedman sniffed his nose, sending a drop of blood that dangled from his nostril back in to hiding, and moaned behind a muffled, dying voice “Only because you like seeing me as one.”
“I’m selling your freedom at this point. Either you accept my offer or we leave you here to be eaten by the rats.”
Jeremiah look around the room in a daze, as if he looked for somebody to back him up, and continued. “I have nothing to lose by dying here. The rats won’t eat their own, either.” He cackled in between shallow gasps for air.
Delmaria had had enough. He turned about and began walking by, but as he did Molony wrestled free of the pirate guards and broke away from their grip, shambling over to Jeremiah. He knelt down next to the cursed pirate, and Delmaria, in shock, turned about as he reached for his gun.
Molony pleaded with Dedman. “Oh my son, how you have been turned from your course! Can you not see the light and turn towards your savior, Jesus Christ!?”
Jeremiah nodded his head no, a disgusting, predatory smile coming over his face. Delmaria knew he had to step in, and nearly lunged forward as he reached for his gun as Molony continued.
“Why not, my son?” Molony gasped, caught in awe as he gazed in to the man’s eyes.
Dedman stopped tilting his head and instead turned straight in the direction of Molony. His eyes were lit ablaze with a deep, sickening fire, and his smile was mired by that of a lost child. “Your God is not here, Father.”
Before Dedman could slip his hand out of the chains and grip Molony by the neck, Delmaria grabbed the priest from behind and threw him backward in to the hands of the guards. His pistol went straight in to Dedman’s face, and he stomped his foot down on the pirate’s hand to keep him from taking it anywhere. For a brief moment, the two made eye contact – and in that time, Delmaria could see Dedman’s smile light up even brighter. He knew that if he let him die, death was in what he could find happiness.
He cut short the second-long decision to fire his pistol, and instead hit the barrel of the gun against the nozzle that controlled the release of the alcohol just above Dedman’s head. A deep red wine came pouring out, drowning Dedman as he gasped and fought for air. Darkskull turned around, ushering the men quickly out of the basement as a pain-stricken Molony cried in grief.
And as Delmaria descended up the stairs, he could hear Dedman shout something. It was all gurgled, except for one word; the word “Spectacular.”
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