"Ah, Master Gibbs, short we are, a map. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to provide us a heading," Barbossa implores, his tone laced with smugness and false propriety as he looks down as Gibbs who is slowly rising from where he was thrown to the floor by the naval officer.
Mr Gibbs flashes his eyes at the compass on the table, looking reluctant, before he turns to the map table to get a good view. He turns his head gently to the side, addressing one of the naval men beside him, "be a gem n'pour me a gulper."
"We be privateers, not pirates Master Gibbs. And in the kings name, we behave as such," Barbossa retorts, dismissing Mr Gibbs request.
"Aye... Captain," Mr Gibbs replies, his tone laced with disgust. He returns his focus to the maps and begins to trace the map with his pointer finger slowly.
"Be we on the proper course, Gibbs?" Barbossa barks, displeased with the slowness of the man. His eyes burn with anger and impatience, showing his true self for a moment.
"Aye, it be proper," Mr Gibbs nods, before smirking gently and raising his finger to point behind the Captain, "there's your proof."
Barbossa and his two minions turn in the direction Mr Gibbs points to and immediately leap into action. Barbossa's stick and wooden leg thud loudly on the wooden deck as he races to the bow to get a better look into the horizon. His officer, Groves, is just a few steps behind him and appears quickly at his side, extending his spyglass to look at the 'proof'.
There on the horizon are three Spanish galleons, sailing onwards on the same course. The galleons dwarf the H.M.S Providence in size, being only a two masted frigate class sailing ship.
"A Spaniard!" Barbossa curses, his voice low as he immediately bursts into movement.
"All hands, battle stations! Turn windward. Move the cannons! Gunners take posts!" He exclaims, spitting out orders as he accelerates across the deck in fury. The crew around them scramble, frantically running to their posts and preparing for the incoming battle.
"Await orders!" He calls out as the men look between themselves, preparing to shoot.
"Guns armed, awaiting orders sir," another officer affirms.
The ship falls silent as they anxiously await further instructions from Barbossa who has since stopped barking orders and has began to stare blankly into the horizon, looking out at the three passing ships.
"Sir, orders sir?" Groves inquires, puzzled by the captain's sudden silence.
Barbossa gulps, unable to take his eyes off the image presented before him.
The unmistakable glare of shining red hair can be seen from aboard the first ship, the same exact colour that Lily's used to be. It takes him by surprise; the sudden shame, guilt and heartbreak circulating through him and landing deep in his gut. His throat closes up and he finds it impossible to speak as he looks out at the fiery red glow in the background. He's drawn to it like a siren's call, an unfathomable pull.
He suddenly returns to his senses a few moments later and rips the spyglass out the hands of his officer and extends it to his own eye, desperate to get a better look himself.
He looks out and finds no Lily... and no one with red hair. A sense of embarrassment washes over him then, realising how foolish he had been. Lily was dead and would remain so. He curses himself and focuses in on the Spanish men, realising that despite them being aware of their presence, they pay no mind to them.
"Never so much as turned his head," Mr Gibbs comments as Barbossa retracts the spyglass, thrusting it into Groves' hands with renewed anger.
He casts one last glance at the Spanish ships before he stalks off, cursing under his breath as he storms into his cabin, the wooden door pounding shut behind him with a resounding thud.
Now alone, he exhales a weary sigh as he takes a seat at his desk, throwing off his hat and beginning to peel away the leather belts that secure his wooden limb. Sucking in a breath through his teeth at the sensitivity of his scarred stump, he throws the wooden prosthesis and padding cloth to the floor and runs his hands over the disfigured limb, cringing at the feel of his calloused hands on the scars, despite the satisfying ease of his phantom and friction pains.
The residual limb and the blemishes upon it only serve as a reminder of the night his truest friend was ripped from him and the lingering guilt and grief wash over him once again.
His hands rise from his leg and he runs his hands over his face, as if it will wipe away his sadness. He half believes that he's going mad, her death playing out for him like a picture slideshow behind his eyes repeatedly.
He doesn't sleep anymore, haunted by the memory of her. Guilt lingers in his bones at the very thought of her, an emotion he had forgotten long ago.
He was certain he had spotted her. He'd committed it to memory sometime ago; the exact shade of her flaming locks and the shine of them in the sun; creating a sort of fiery halo above her figure. His heart had stopped upon seeing the familiar tint upon that Spanish ship. He knew it couldn't be real, after all the insanity hadn't fully sunk in yet, but he had hoped with all his might in that brief moment that it was Lily.
His thoughts crossed to Jack. He'd expected him to be angry, after all what man wouldn't be after he had taken everything from him, but he hadn't anticipated the gratification he had felt. Jack had lunged at him, scrambling over the table in his anger, flailing his limbs and Hector had stood there and allowed it. He never moved, nor did he make any action to fight back. He deserved it and more. Jack's anger and actions had felt sickeningly cathartic to him, though his penance never came. He was stuck in purgatory.
He'd never meant for Lily to get hurt; She had been safe on land, left on Tortuga with her new husband celebrating their nuptials. How could he have known she was aboard the pearl? How could he have known Blackbeard was on their tails, waiting in the wings for them?
'If that ship be sunk properly, you should be sunk with it.'
Jack's words replayed in his mind again and again, haunting him almost as much as the visions of Lily. He knew it was true, every word.
It had been years since Hector had felt this lost, this hopeless. Not since...
He reached into his jacket and opened the secret hole he had fashioned into the lining, pulling out an old, worn photo from many years ago.
His Maggie.
Her bright eyes beamed in the light of the photograph, illuminated further by the contrast of her raven hair. Her beauty never failed to make him pause, it winded him in ways he couldn't describe. He flipped the photo over and gazed at the drawing on the back, a rough drawing of the constellation Argo Navis. His thumb grazes the long-dried ink as he spends a rare moment reminiscing.
Another woman lost, he thinks sadly to himself.
A little over an hour passes as he sits dozing in his plush chair, his stump propped up an a cushion on the wooden desk within his cabin. His eyes flit around the cabin, looking at every excruciating detail in the architecture of the ship, the British details so foreign to him in design. His mind flashed back to the familiar cabin aboard the Pearl where he had lived out more than a decade of his life. The wooden furnishings, the ornate metal candle holders, the creaking floorboards, the chest full of Lily's clothes at the foot of the bed...
Memories of her flashed painfully through his mind again, the ache in his chest never truly easing, the guilt and grief clawing at his from the inside out. She was haunting him, it was the only plausible explanation, and he was certain he deserved it.
He thought back to that fateful night when Blackbeard attacked and he lost everything, his pain and grief twisting into a much more sinister being. Blackbeard was the orchestrator of all his pain, the one who truly deserved to suffer.
He came back to reality with a shock, his mind and body renewed with a shocking realisation. He had been dealing with this completely the wrong way. No longer would his fate be determined by that of Blackbeard and his past ghosts. Vengeance soared through his entire being like poison in his veins and he silently swore to avenge Lily by cutting down the rabid cur responsible for all of this.
He would kill the murderous bastard in the most heinous way possible and atone for his misdoings later, silencing the nightmares he suffered and finally reclaim autonomy over his own life again.
He threw down his leg from the cushion where it lay, scrambled to hoist on the protective bandage and the wooden leg, buckling it haphazardly in his hurry. He burst through the cabin doors and all but flew onto deck, spitting orders to the men so loudly he could have raised the dead from the wrecks below.
"Haul the sheets, make way with haste!" Barbossa snapped, his wooden leg thudding loudly on the deck, "all hands on deck, set to and make haste!"
The men around him scattered without hesitation, following through with the captain's orders, each of them setting to their posts and raising the sheets to allow the HMS Providence to gain speed.
The captain looked around, feeling a pull of the ship coursing quickly through the water, the speed picking up exponentially in a short time.
A wicked grin came to his face, his features all twisting into a malevolent smirk as he looked out at the waters surrounding them, knowing just what he had to do. He was going to take great pleasure in every second of his revenge.
—————
A little while later, Hector sits atop the poop deck at an oddly ornate table taking his afternoon tea, consisting of tea in the finest China in his majesty's Navy, some unmarked but recognisable brown liquid in a crystal carafe and a finely sliced green apple upon a silver plate. Just as Barbossa pours the brown liquid into a fine China mug and takes his first slice of the green apple, using a pure silver fork with his pinky finger extended, Groves moves to stand beside him with a nervous disposition, his hands tucked behind his back to convey a sense of courage.
"Sir?" Groves enquires, causing Barbossa to place down his fork delicately, though he does not turn to the younger man.
"Aye?"
"Captain. Sir. I am unhappy to report rumours, sir, among the crew, as to our destination," Groves stumbles through his words as a few men gather behind him, keeping their distance to a few yards away as they pose as onlookers to the conversation happening before them. Each man subconsciously held their breathe as they witness the conversation, fearing the repercussions and consequences of such an act, knowing that their captain was volatile at the best of times, never mind when questioned.
Barbossa simolymturns his head ever so slightly towards where Groves stands, barking, "shut yer traps and make way." His tone is flat and dismissive as a little piece of apple spits out of his mouth with his harsh words before he turns away to focus on the apple before him.
Groves stands dejectedly, swallowing audibly as he awaits what will happen. After a moment of tense silence, Barbossa audibly huffs and reaches for wooden his leg which is propped up on a stool beside him, casting it to the floor as he hurls himself up, pausing only briefly to reach for his crutch to place it under his left arm.
"That's the way of it, then?" Barbossa questions, now facing Groves head on.
"No disrespect, sir," Grove retorts, his face not conveying the same respect that his words imply.
"What do the men fear? Say it. Speak the words," Barbossa asks, his tone reflecting his newly found irritation as he leans closer to Groves talking directly into his face.
"Whitecap Bay."
Barbossa suddenly lurches forward, pushing Groves aside with a shove of his crutch as he moves quickly forward towards the helm rail where the sailors have all gathered below, looking on with trepidation.
"Aye, and every worthless seamen fears the name, rightly so, though few know why, or dare to ask," Barbossa addresses the men below him. Gibbs worms his way quickly to the front, speaking directly to Barbossa.
"Be the stories true?" Gibbs continues to move forward until his arms are resting in the navigational plinth at the helm.
"Listen, that your voice should quiver like a fiddle string! Say what robs you of your staunch heart, Gibbs, or forever leave it to the wider fields of fancy," Barbossa probes, casting a waiting glance towards the man before him, never having seen fear overcome the ex first mate in such a way.
"Mermaids, captain," Gibbs answers leaning in to Barbossa, who instantly looks out towards the men as he bellows, addressing each and every man on deck.
"Aye. Mermaids. Sea ghouls, devil fish, dreadful in hunger for flesh of man. Mermaid waters, that be our path." He then looks down directly at Gibbs, who's eyes are still wide with fear. "Cling to your soul, Mister Gibbs, as mermaids be given to take the rest, to the bone." His voice drops to a dangerous growl as he nears the end of the sentence, installing a sense of fear in the men rather that alleviating it, no doubt what the men had hoped to achieve by questioning the captain.
Murmurs of fear spread instantly among the crew, each man looking towards the next in fear.
Groves steps in immediately to draw order back upon the ship as Barbossa looks near gleeful at the riled up crew.
"Steady, men. Find your courage -- or be ready to purpose your fear!" Groves warns, standing strong beside Barbossa.
Almost immediately a sailor in the center of the crowd backs away and takes a run right towards the rail of the ship calling out desperate pleas as he flings himself over the rail and down to the sea below, his sense of fear too great.
"Man overboard!" Groves cries out as the crew lunge tot he port side rail to get a view of the fear stricken man who can be seen desperately swimming for his life out towards a distant island which could barely be seen.
"Nay. A deserter," Barbossa interjects, dismissing the man.
"Come about!" Groves shouts, ignoring his captains orders out of blind panic for the fallen man. Barbossa whips his head round to face Groves and snaps back at him as Gillette and the other officers stand back observing the tense confrontation between the pair.
"Nay. I shan't ask any more of a man than what that man can deliver. But I do ask - - are we not King's men?" Barbossa begins to say, once again addressing the whole crew. Affirmative replies come from the sea of men, prompting Barbossa to continue,
"On the King's mission? I did not note any fear in the eyes of the Spanish as they passed us by. Are we not King's men?"
The men reply almost enthusiastically this time in comparison, stirred up by the thoughts of the unwavering Spanish as they thrust their hands up with an overreaching 'aye,"
"Aye! Double-reef the mizen topsail and hoist it up! Haul her close! Bare her away, Stave on ahead to Whitecap bay!" Hectors eyes blaze as he finishes his speech, stirring the men up just as he had hoped. Each of them disperses back to their stations with renewed enthusiasm except for Gibbs who takes a moment to look upon the man overboard, seeing his movement getting ever shallower as the adrenaline slips from his body and exhaustion takes over. Gibbs is certain the man will not make it even close to the island.
"And may God have mercy on our souls," he mutters, instinctively reaching for the flask at his waist, a new sense of disappointment washing over him as he realised that once again that it was still empty. He grumbles below his breath and gets back to work on the charts.