POTC Son of Irish Seas pt1

Title: Son of Irish Seas
Author: Terrabm
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean prequel-verse
Characters: Hector Barbossa, various OC and historical pirate figures
Rating: P-13 purely for violence and some vague sexual advances
Summary: Okay, prequel time! We're spiraling way back in the history books to the beginnings of our favorite pirates, featuring much of the previous generations histories and how they shaped the lives of Barbossa, Jack, Sao Feng and others.
This story focuses on Barbossa, long before he was known by that name, and explains his unique heritage and how exactly he came into the hands of Sao Feng through a series of destined run-ins with legendary pirates and pirate hunters.



***




She stood in the surf with the waves rushing at her feet and burying he toes and heels further into the ebbing sand, while the soft sea breeze fanned her long red hair and kept at bay the humid swelter that was waiting just further up the shore.
It seemed to her that the sound of waves, and flutter of the wind and spray of salt water was the only thing that calmed the now cooing babe in her arms. He was less than two days old, a squirming pink miniature with a shock of fine red hair upon his head, a rounded nose and squinting pale blue eyes. She wrapped her shawl around him and admired his calm expression, wondering at him. He'd been the very last thing she had expected, and far from what she wanted. Anne had always vowed to herself that she would grow to be more than a nursemaid, weighed down and trodden upon by the responsibilities of her gender.  Her unexpected pregnancy had been a curse it seemed, making sailing that much more difficult, and often she had spoken, out of exhaustion and terror, of giving the wretched thing up the moment it had left her. But now as she held him, she was torn.
She didn't hear Calico's approach, but sensed him as he came to stand behind her on the shore, and turned to catch a glimpse of his face. He smiled at her and moved aside her veil of long red hair so that he could look better at the bundle in her arms. He touched the infants head, thumb running lightly over the wispy red hair and noting the strange soft areas of his skull, reminding him how deeply fragile he was. "A son, Anne, I couldn't be more proud."
She didn't answer him, staring from the boy to the ocean. "What's there to be proud of? It's not as if we can take him with us. He would never survive the voyage. We haven't food or supplies for a child."
Calico Jack nodded, scratching the dark hair on his chin, "I told you before that we could put into port for a time, until you're both a little stronger. There's no need—"
She turned to him with accusing eyes, "And you'll leave me there and forget all about me. And what could I do about with a wee babe attached to my teat, eh? Oh now, Jack Rackham, I'm not even giving you the chance to be tempted by such an opportunity."
Rackham bristled a little, as Anne had a way of cutting to his pride like no man could. "You don't think much of me, do you, girl?"
"I think as much of you as any woman should a pirate." She answered somewhat tiredly. "I love you, but I am not as foolish as all that." The baby in her arms fussed a little and little hand groping for something. Jack let it wrap around his thick finger. "Well, it isn't as if you're the mothering type. Maybe he is better off here." He gave pause then and added; "Can Mary not stay a month or so with him?"
Anne gave pause at the idea, for Mary Read, her female companion and partner, had expressed far more interest in her own son than she did. For all of Mary's gruff ways; she had never known a sailor as hardy or fearsome than Read and few more knowledgeable, she had more tenderness than herself, more compassion. "I had discussed this with her yesterday. She offered to stay with him, but, I do not think it wise to leave such a valuable member of the crew behind, not knowing when we could return." She looked again at the man that would be her husband; "You know as well as I, Jack, that the men respect her. She keeps them in order better than you yourself. She belongs aboard the ship."
Calico glared at her. "So that's it then? You have made your plans, and none of them for him. Have you no consideration for him at all? How unfortunate, my son, to have a mother whom would rather cast him into the sea and be rid of him than to care for him!"
Anne turned away bitterly, angrily and the boy in her arms stared to weep, sensing her distress. She shushed him angrily, and Calico removed him from her grasp, almost fearful she would cast him into the surf and he would be swept away. The boy's feeble cry went on for a few minutes, but the pirate was able to sooth him back to sleep.
Anne knelt in the sand, letting the water soak her skirts. "I am a wicked woman."
"Not wicked, my dear, no. To tell you plain, you have always been as mysterious to me as the sea herself." The words were meant to console, but Anne could find no comfort in them. "He will stay with Dayana and her husband. And in a year's time, we will return for him."
"And what then?"
The red haired woman cast her eyes out to the horizon, not wanting Calico to see her tears. "Only time can tell." Her heavy words came not out of callousness, nor unfeeling for the child. They came out of years of uncertainty, and knowing that fate could take a strange turn at any time. "Perhaps I shall bring him then to my father, and perhaps he will be good enough to take him until he is of proper age."
Her husband did not know how he felt about this plan; Anne had been raised in good standing, and her father still had plenty of wealth and a good seat in his community. It would be a comfortable life for a time,  if not a dull one.
Calico looked at the boy, "He needs a name. A good, strong, sailor's name."
"Hector." She said after a time, looking up at them. "I'll call him Hector."



***



Mid-day on the island of Cuba, in a small, seedy, cloistered cove sheltered by heavy palms and waist high ferns edged by glittering beaches; a teaming landscape traveled only by the intrepid or the desperate. Here on the long beaches that formed shoals between them and the jagged rocky reef that kept larger ships from running aground, a small community of buccaneers were scratching out a meager living.
They could scarcely call themselves "pirates" by any true definition. They were a gaggle of runaway slaves, escaped members of Naval and merchant pressgangs, penniless sailors and landless farmers, who found their odds better here than back in their native lands or poverty stricken villages. It was here Anne Bonny and Calico Jack Rackham abandoned their son to the care of others, for good or ill, eighteen years ago.



The man lingered as close to the shoreline as he could get without putting himself directly out in the late afternoon sun, which was dazzling in its severity and scorching to the skin. But the sea breeze rolling in from the growing tide was just enough to cool the sweat on his long pale neck. His hair was damp and sticky at the ends with sweat, which made them curl slightly. He was an easy sight to spot; a ginger haired, fair skinned Irishman among a motley crew of dark skinned Cubans and Haitians and the occasional wayward European scoundrel.
He was a bit awkward, long-limbed and painfully thin like the others, with a long strong chin and rounded bulbous sort of nose that stood out on his face. His eyes were a bit droopy and rounded, and were a brilliant watery blue like the ocean. He stood now beneath the shade of a low palm, ravenously sucking juice from small mango he had managed to save from their previous meal. The past season had been stormy and difficult, destroying much of their food supply and damaging many of their fishing boats and rafts. Overhunting had left them vulnerable too, so that the growing fear of famine was rising among them. It had never been in particularly plentiful supply, but the fish and the fruit kept them from starving to death. But now in the last two years, their numbers had doubled, while their supplies had only dwindled.
The problem had only been made worse by poor bartering. The island was visited at times by passing ships, who in exchange for fresh fruit and meat would trade them clothes, rum, and sometimes medicine.
Their leader, a former Captain named Jonas Hurwood, had been taken advantage of by a particularly cunning  Commodore, whom had taken the bulk of their stores and left them with swill for grog and rum,  and blankets and clothing that had once belonged to stricken crewman, which had spread disease quickly among them. There was talk of abandoning the shanty town, and heading further north along the coast, or trying to get across to one  of the other islands. Hector was rather keen on this idea.

He hummed a shanty to himself as he ate, juice dribbling down his chin, and buried his feet in and out of the sand, watching them come up again and again, covered in fine glittering grains. One a small crab scuttled across his leg and came to rest on his knee for a time. Hector thought for a bleary moment that it was actually staring up at him. Eventually he brushed it aside, and watched as it vanished into beach again.
A group of raggedy boys ran past him, heading towards the surf, ignoring the shimmering heat in hopes of catching crab or stranded fish in the tide pools. One boy, a bulky blacked-haired English youth about his age sneered back at him with a mouth full of crooked teeth. "What's the trouble, Hector? Afraid to get wet?"
The blue eyed man leered back at him lazily, "Why trouble m'self with the labor if I have a gaggle of willing monkeys to do it for me?"
The brutish youth, who was dubbed Joseph marched back towards him, shaking his fist and showing a row of scraped and bloodied knuckles. "Hows about I black yer eyes, eh?"
"Come on then if ye think ye be so bold," he sneered back, even knowing where it would land him. The bulky lad lifted him bodily from his seat by the collar of his shirt and shook him about so that he could hardly get his footing before clouting him once about the face with his fist. Even as his nose and cheekbone throbbed, the lankier boy grit his teeth, dug his heels into the sand and grappled the bigger lad about his thick middle and managed to knock him backwards into the trunk, where it's ragged bark tore his back and shoulder blades bloody. The other boys, seeing their mate in trouble, fell upon him in short order, all beating and grabbing at him until he was nearly torn out of his shirt all together and had even sustained a deep bite mark one his forearm from one of the smaller boys.
It was only the bellow of one of the elder men that finally sent the thugs scattering down the beach, knowing that if they couldn't be caught, they couldn't be punished. Hector laid in the sand, trying to shake it out of his eyes and hair, spitting and cursing.
"Idiot boy," the man above him muttered, his accent thick and guttural, twisted with his native tongue and spat out sourly in English. Sebastian was from Jamaica, and had worked on at least four different sugar plantations there in colonies.  The story was that he had once had an affair with one of the owners' wives, fathered a few mulatto children with her, and then fled on a boat before he could executed for what he had done. Hector would have hated to see how he might have raised them, as he had been nothing but a terror to the himself ever since he had learned to walk.
"Yer always opening yer mouth when you damn well had ought to keep it closed." He gave the young man a light slap across the lips to illustrate his point. Then he looked down beside him and found them discarded and now ruined remains of mango. His long face dropped into a sour sort of scowl, exaggerating his thick black stubble and jowls. "Ye greedy, wasteful, little white devil. You know what I have told you about this, you know what Captain Hurwood said! Wasting food is worth a whippin'!" He tried to tug off the coarse bit of leather that was around his waist to lash the other man with, but Hector wasn't going to sit there and quietly wait for his abuse. He pushed the other man back hard, knocking him back several steps before he caught his balance. "I'm not yer whipping boy, old man! I'll leave this rock any time I please."
The older man balked at him, laughing loudly and showing off his huge teeth as he mocked him. "Dayana fillin' yer head with that again, is she? Keeps tellin ye that one day you're gonna sail away from here, make something grand of yourself? Fool of a woman. Yer whore mother left ye here eighteen years ago, Hector. What makes you think she's ever coming back?"
This time Hector lunged at him, managing to tackle him into the sand. But the older man had been in more scraps and brawls than Hector had years, and he easily beat the boy back, pinning him down into the sand with his arms above his head and his fist in his face.  "Maybe a few hours in the stocks will knock some of that devil fire out of ye. Though I doubt it."  He grabbed the other man by the hair and dragged him again, cursing and spitting like an angry cat. He managed to drag him a yard or two up the beach before Hector broke free by kicking the man right in bad left knee and making a run into the jungle.
Sebastian cursed and called after him, but Hector heard only the sound of his bare feet thrumming and thumping across the soft grassy floor. He had run a mile before he stopped, climbing a mossy tree so that he could get a better look at what may or may not be coming behind him, and paused to catch his breath. His so called father was always more physical when he had been at the rum, but never so much as when they were dry.  
He laid his head against the bark, letting his arms wrap around the limb and scowled into thicket of humid green flora that shielded him from the rest of the world for a time, still hearing the roar of the surf beyond.  "I hate them all," he muttered to no one. "The whole lot of them; nothing but drunkards, harlots and slack-jawed idiots. I'll haul the lot in, Hurwood and all his crew, just as soon as I get passage aboard a ship."
If only. If he could barter passage aboard a ship, he could get to Port-au-Prince, where he could barter with the French and English sailors there on one of their merchant vessels. And then what? He didn't know exactly what he would do if he ever reached that point. But just to get there. Oh, just to get there!
His stomach clenched and gurgled a little, and he hushed it angrily, knowing he had nothing to give it. He would rather sit out here and starve for awhile than go back to camp and humble himself for a scrawny bit of goat meat that had passed it's prime. With nothing else for it, and his head still smarting from the blows Sebastian and Joseph had dealt him, he curled up in the bend of the trunk which cradled him easily, and fell asleep, waiting for the heat of the day to pass and dreaming of white snowy sails on the horizon that would carry him away from here.


***


He woke again to growing dark and the feeling one someone yanking on his foot to gain his attention. He cursed a little, and looked down, only to find the woman called Dayana looking up at him, "Come down from there," She was Haitian by birth, but her father had been French. She had skin the color of dark toffee and hair that fell in a thick mane that ended at her shoulders, twisted into a heavy braid at the back.  She was petite and frail looking, and her dress and corset were slightly too big, making her look even more fragile. Hector clambered down the tree to stand next to her, and she took his face between her rough hands and turned it side to side, checking him for marks. "Ye been fighting with that man again. What good do you think we'll come of it? Haven't I told you to keep away from him when he's goin' on like that?"
"Somehow he always finds me." The young man snorted. He turned away from her and started picking up heavy bits of bark and fallen branches from the ground, testing them for pliancy. He had been collecting materials for a week now, attempting to build a raft of his own so that he could travel down the coastline to the more heavily forested shores lay, still ripe for fishing, and foraging. "Don't be too hard on him. He's been without a drop of good liquor for neigh eight days, and it makes him a brute. You know he doesn't mean it."
"He means every blessed word." He answered bluntly. He glanced over his shoulder, noting her deflated expression, "It doesn't trouble me, why should it trouble you?"
She lifted her trailing skirts and put her arms around him, trying to hold him as she had when he was a small boy. "You're all the son I'll ever have, that's why. And he ought to love you for that alone. But he's hard man. Life and drink have made him that way."
He put his hand over hers for a moment and then pulled away. "Don't worry about it. I'll get passage on the next boat, and when I've made a living for myself, I'll come back for you. You won't have to scrap out a living on sand anymore."
She smiled and nodded encouragingly, and bent to pick up a few branches of her own for the bond fire.
"He called my mother a whore again." He noted after a time without preamble. "Was she?"
Dayana gave him a pitying look and shook her head; "Yer mother was a fine lady. A sailor, like your father."
"Women don't sail."
"Oh you think you know so much." She chuckled at him. "They say a ship's no place for a woman, but yer mother commanded her own as I recall. She feared no man and didn't' live by any of his laws either. Just the Code."
"And what be 'the Code'?"
"It's what Captain Hurwood tries to spout off at times, but he doesn't know it any better than you do. He's no pirate, ol' Hurwood. Just a mad old man without a ship, waiting out the end of his days like the rest of us."
"Pirates have a code?" The idea seemed to boggle the young man. There were many in their company that had claimed to be pirates, and from what he had seen and learned of them, they had never possessed any type of honor or moral center that could scarcely be looked upon as guidelines. She patted his cheek fondly, "As I said, much to learn."

By the time they had gathered two hefty bundles for each purpose, there was little light coming horizon, replaced by the bright orange splashes of flame that came from the bond fires that littered the sandy coastline. Hector squinted through the trees as he looked beyond the dancing shadows of people coming and going across the beach, to the skyline and what he perceived at first to be oddly formed clouds. "Do you see that there?" he pointed.
The woman squinted after him, her dark eyes widening. "Those are no clouds."
"Sails!" His jubilant expression startled even himself, as he was suddenly filled with the possibility of escape. He dropped his bundle of wood and took Dayana's boney arm, pulling her along eagerly. "The traders must have made it early!"
As they approached the beach, a noise grew. Not the normal din of the crowd, but the shrill, harsh yelps of panic, accompanied by unfamiliar bellows from English voices. As they came to the edge of the trees, they saw their compatriots and kin scrambling across the dunes in raw terror, trying to abscond with whatever they could carry, as armed Naval troops surged the shore, seizing any stragglers they could catch. Hector had never seen such a thing before and was stunned, but Dayana was frantically trying to pull him back into the trees. "A pressgang!"
They were spotted gawking by two sailors, one armed with a musket and the other with a club. "Halt!" they bellowed, running towards them. Dayana tugged him backwards fiercely and finally they turn and ran, the sailors close behind.  They tried to loose the men in the thicket, Dayana pushing Hector ahead of her, as the men closed in behind them.
Hector had never encountered this sort of terror before. The sailors that had come before, whatever their origins, had always been more interested in bartering than any kind of violence. If there was any to be visited, it would have been by their own doing, as sometimes Hurwood and his men schemed to steal cargo from their masters, and even their ships. But these men seemed to have come ashore for the sole purpose of catching their tiny village unawares.
Dayana was falling farther behind, loosing wind. He turned to tug her along, only to watch as she was struck by a bullet fired from the sailor's musket.
It struck her  below the shoulder and she went down in heap, blood blooming across her tea colored blouse like a cloud. Hector was jolted by the sight and stood rooted to the spot, staring down at her, eyes wide and mouth agape. The men were on him then, grabbing and tearing at him in an effort to force him to the ground. He bellowed and clawed at them, wrenching away from their grasping hands and the sharp tips of their bayonets, until one struck him across the nape of the neck with his club and sent him sprawling. They stood over him, gun poised to shoot should he so much as twitch, when someone new approached them.
"I heard shots fire!" A thick English accented man called, his voice somewhat high and stiff. He came towards them then, glaring at them in the dark. "I need live men for the Navy, gentlemen, not corpses." The wounded woman was writhing on the ground, and the ships' apparent captain looked down at her with no small amount of disgust. She whimpered in pain, eyes wide with fear as she tried to scramble away still. "She was trying to escape with this one, Captain," the man with the club answered, motioning to the subdued man at their feet.
Lifting his lantern, the Captain stepped a little closer, peering down. The sight of the captive's bright copper hair struck him mute for a second, so liken was it to the woman he had been seeking for many long years. He crouched beside the lad in the dark, holding the lantern aloft to get a better look at his face. The young man looked back at him with clouded blue eyes, not quite seeing him.
"Do you know him, sir?"
The Englishman ignored the inquiring, continuing to look at Hector with a wondering, appraising eye. "What's your name, son?"
But the answer was lost on his lips as his head met the ground again and everything was blotted out of memory for a time.


***  


Hector woke sometime later as if from a bad dream, to the sound of seagulls crying somewhere in the distance, the smell of the sea tide mixed with the wafting scent of palms and tropical blooms and the sounds of men calling and shouting to one another.
But as he opened his eyes, he realized that these sounds were farther off than expected, and that he was not waking up inside his flimsy hammock in their make-shift tent near the tree-line. The ceiling of the room itself caught him somewhat off guard, so much so that he flattened himself and refused to move at first. Having never had a proper roof over his head, the idea now of seeing something as grand and ornate as fresco painting of men, women, and mermaids drifting loftily above his head was enough to give the poor man a shock.
Slowly he crawled from the bed, and took stock of himself. He wasn't hurt anywhere that he could see, other than the large bruise that had formed tenderly at the back of his neck and made him wince when it was touched. This seemed to assure him that he was not in fact dead as he first might have guessed.
The room, in which he found himself the sole occupant, was larger than any he had seen before, and would have housed at least six of the same shabby tents and make-shift shacks which he had resided in his whole life. It was covered end to end in fine plaster, gold filigree tapestries, dark portraits of men and women that to him looked to be Kings or Queens, and a few scattered trappings like chairs, a desk, a rather large mirror and dressing screen and velveteen chaise in dark purple.  He padded barefoot around the room, tugging at the strange nightshirt he found himself in and wondering where his own clothes had gone, or where anything had gone for that matter. He passed a pair of thin double doors and he pried them open, allowing a wash of sunlight to fill the room from the newly exposed balacony which over looked the town and docks below.
He stepped outside cautiously, looking about in a daze. He had never seen a city like this, and knew of none close to his home, at least not for many more miles than he had traveled. Below on the cobblestone streets, gentlemen in uniform and other fine attire came and went, some by foot, some in horse-drawn carriages, and not one of them chanced a glance up at the gawking youth staring down at them in wonder and bewilderment. Somewhere in the distance church bells pealed, sending another flock of ocean birds into flight, veering off towards the sparkling blue sea beyond.
"It's a rather stunning view from the hill, isn't it?"
He turned so sharply his feet slipped on the marble and he was forced to grab the rail of the balcony to keep from falling flat upon his ass. The man whom had startled him approached from the opposite door, and Hector recalled him as the one whom had spoken to him on what he guessed was the previous evening.  He was of average height, wearing a smooth white wig common to high ranking Naval commanders, and wore a fine tailored jacket and vest in the same colors of his naval uniform. His face was somewhat bland, possessing a rounded jaw and small upturned nose and a pair of somewhat accusing green eyes beneath sharp brows. "For a second time I see that I have caught you off guard. You needn't be so frightened of me, lad."
Hector frowned and rubbed the tender spot at the back of his neck. "Needn't I?"
"I am sorry about that. The crimps can be somewhat brutal about their methods when men run from them. They're used to dealing with a more savage lot, you understand," the man replied, reaching as if to touch the offended spot but Hector slipped his grasp again, backing against the wall. The man gave him a bemused look of pity, "Please, there's no need for that. I promise that no harm will come to you. Tell me, please, what is your name?"
"Hector." He answered at length, looking the man up and down as if trying to riddle him out. "Now I'll ask a question; why did ye bring me here?"
The man was just staring at him with a sort of wistful expression upon his features, his tight lipped mouth turned up in a smile and bunched his thick cheeks. "Hector. I should have known she would pick such a title. It's not the name I would have chosen for you, but none the less…" He noted the younger man's perplexed expression and chuckled, clearing his throat lightly. "I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? You must forgive me, it's just that I've been searching such a long time, and now that I've found you…well, you look just like her."
"Like who?" Hector barked.
"Your mother of course. My wife."
For a moment he stood in silence, face slack and eyes wide, then his lips curled and he scoffed, folding his arms in front of his chest and leaning against the wall. "Ye've shanghaied yerself the wrong man, mate. My mother and father abandoned me years ago on that spit of rock and sand, ne're to return."
At this the Captain sighed and looked to the floor, folding his hands behind his back, "Yes, I had rumors as such. You don't know how it angered me to hear that she had left you in the care of those…," he cleared his throat again and attempted another smile. "I'm sure that she felt it was at your best interest in at the time. In danger as she was, she would not have wished to endanger your life should she be found and arrested."
He stepped a little closer to him, peering closely into his face. "You even have her eyes." Hector tried to flinch away from his again, feeling a faint flush come to his cheeks at this intense investigation of his appearance. "What proof do you have?"
The Captain laughed again in the same tight, airy fashion as seemed fitting of their strange environment. "I can see the proof before me. I received intelligence soon after her untimely departure that she was with child. I searched for her everywhere, I only wanted to bring you both safely back home with me. But, I'm afraid she was afraid I would reject her, so she hid both of you away. I was lost."
"I…don't understand."
"Your poor mother, I'm afraid, fell to temptation by a pirate." He looked away again, this time at one of the portraits upon the wall near the bed. The woman in the painting was pale and pretty, with long red hair, just a shade darker perhaps than Hector's, and the same vividly blue eyes. "That's her. That's my Ann."
Hector stared at the portrait for a time, gazing upon the still woman's face, trying to find some small trace of it in his memory. Dayana had never told him much about her, except for her love of the sea. The Captain's story seemed somehow plausible if not slightly misconstrued. The Captain put his hands upon his shoulders and gave them a light squeeze; "You're home now, Hector, where you belong."


***


Captain Bonny, as he learned, gave Hector a set of fresh clothes and shoes, finer than any he'd possessed, and escorted him about the grand estate on which he found himself. "Is this all yours?"
"Not all," the Captain replied as they walked down the polished wood halls, adorned with similar trappings as Hector's room had been. "I am in the employ of the great Woodes Rogers, whom is my close and personal friend. I live here with him and help him manage his estate, as I'm afraid it's become a bit of a burden for the Captain on his own." He explained, "Captain Rogers is a published writer, a great tradesman, a fine sailor and ever a boon to his Majesty's crown."  That seemed like a great deal of accomplishments for one man indeed. "He's even circumnavigated the world."
Now this peeked Hector's interest indeed, for he had only heard tales of such a feat from passing sailors, mostly by men who were long dead before his time. "Ye seem to be very fond of 'im."
"And you will be too. We'll be having dinner with him tonight."
The idea of food suddenly made Hector's mouth salivate and his stomach rumble loudly; so much that he paused in embarrassment. The Captain raised a sharp eyebrow, "My, that sounds somewhat serious. Feeling pekish?"
"I could eat."
The older man frowned at this turn of phrase, but brushed it off for the moment. "Let us take you down to the dinning room then and have breakfast. I'll have the cook make you something."
"Much obliged. I ain't had nothing but fruit and rotten goat for a week."
"Goat?"
Again Hector flinched in embarrassment at the obvious sound of disgust in his new found relation's voice. "I suppose ye don't eat goat around here."
"No. But there is plenty of other meat for you to enjoy. You are a bit malnourished." He lifted the lad's arm revealing how thin it was compared to his own. "To think my only son should go nothing but rotten meat…well, no more, I assure you."  He escorted him down the grand stairway, into the glittering foyer with his ornate chandler above their heads reflecting off the hot tropical sunlight, and to the left into another large room where stood a long table that could seat ten or twelve men. Hector plopped down into one of the chairs and looked around, once more confused by his surroundings as servant woman came and brought him a china plate and silver cutlery. The redhead poked at it all with growing wonderment. "What's this for?"
"To eat with, of course, Hector."
"Well, I recognize the knife, and the fork. But what the bloody hell is this?" He held up a large rounded spoon that would be used for soup. The servant and the Captain both gaped at him like he was a savage. "Oh dear. I can see that this is going to be a very long process, undoing all the damage." He muttered.
"Is this real silver?"
"Yes, Hector."
The youth admired the sheen of it and the delicate embroidery on it's edges. The only tools he had ever used for eating had been made of iron, and were often scuffed and even rusted in places. He brought a bowl of ripe fresh fruit, which he proceeded to dig into with his hands, stuffing as much as he could in his mouth. Juice and pulp ran down his chin and made his fingers and wrists sticky with it. When he paused in his gorging to look up, he again saw his father figure staring back at him, aghast and swallowed hard. "S'rry," he muttered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve for before extending a handful of banana towards him. "Want a bite?"


***