He would have fought them had he strength. He’d have died at the end of a pistol or a sword instead of the rope set in the square. A rope they’d let him stare at through the iron bars for three days now. Three days. Three years. So close to the end now as he suspects, they’re really one in the same. Yet even now, feet so solidly placed upon this god forsaken dirt, the sea finds ways to sway his fate. Sway it in that he finds himself pulled from his iron cage along with others. Others like him, and others not. All lined up like cattle, though to a slaughter perhaps not.
A proper gentleman, in so much as Havana could ever afford one. Spanish words Billy doesn’t understand exchanged with the guard that holds the keys to their chains. A pair of eyes Billy already wants to pluck from the man’s skull eyeing each in turn as he passes. Billy knows what this is. He’s not fool enough not to. No matter how dim witted some might have once thought him. And even for all that the pirate has lived through perhaps his stomach still turns when the Spaniard stalls before him.
Stalls and eyes Billy up and down and up again. A kind of curiosity in his gaze the pirate recognizes. And to once bosun’s credit his jaw sets, his chin tilts up by degrees. He dwarfs the other man as easily as he does most. But its not his size that Billy’s projecting but rather his defiance. A short stop and a sudden stop isn’t his first choice but its better than the alternative worse case that this gentleman’s presence hints at.
“Sí, señor, nos dijeron que lo sacaron de los escombros.”
A pause that seems to go on forever. A daring hand that poke at an arm. Dares further to grasp it. Test its metal. And for his audacity, Billy wrenches his arm away. Spits at the man’s feet. Something the guard is only so quick to answer with a flogging. Yet at the last moment a lace framed hand halts the soldier’s advance. Something of a smile creeping onto the Spanish gentleman’s face. A smile that can only mean Billy’s fight was perhaps exactly what he was looking for.
Brows that furrow together both in confusion and anger his action hadn’t deterred the over dressed bastard. Though it takes away none of that defiance in him. Jerking away from the soldiers that come to collect him from the line. That herd and press him towards a laden cart. One he is quite literally hitched to the back of, along with three of the others that are also not entirely dead men. Others that with him are forced to march. Out of the prison and into the busy square to the echoing sound of coin exchange.
Back where he started. And this time worse for it, as he is led further and further from the coastline. A sensation he’s always been able to feel in his bones. One he could never explain. Not even to the Old Man. A sentiment that grinds teeth together as he does his best to catch himself when the cart lurches and then stops. Hands bracing him against the painfully dry wood of the wagon’s frame. Fingers curling inward over its rough surface. A distinct opposite–a screaming parallel–of where he started what feels like a life time ago.
Yet even in this it only shores his resolve. Whatever fate finds him at the end of this march it will be only temporary. He will fight his way out or he will die trying. The sentiment straightening his spine. Giving him the strength to drag his gaze up from where it had fallen to the dust. The wherewithal to keep his bearings in so much as he can within a city he hardly knows. And somewhere amid the strangers and the foreign landscape…a singular face comes into view. One that Billy Bones feared to haunt his conscience to the end of his days.
But no sooner does blue squint against the harsh sun, to ensure his eyes do not deceive him, the cart lurches and pulls him forward. Nearly right of his feet with how little he can move them. And by the time his gate settles into something that can keep up–James Flint is gone amid the dust and sunshine.
Skeleton Island and its trials and tribulations seemed so long ago, the betrayal endured at the hands of his quartermaster having induced a rage anew, undying, deep beneath his flesh, perhaps mixed in with his very marrow. He bears a deep, vindictive grudge, but keeps his rancor at bay if only so he can blend in. He’d not lasted long at the plantation and had not lasted long knowing who was present there and the ramifications it may have for said person. James McGraw was long dead, only the ghost of him remained in the form of the persona he’d meticulously crafted over the years for himself, a ghoulish phantom that struck fear into the hearts of men everywhere. Flint is all that remains, and he cannot shed this guise, he cannot remain in a place that expects him to work as a laborer when once he was the scourge of the seas. So, one night, he chokes a guard to death and disappears into the shadows, the thicket past the fields, crossing over into freedom. Let them place a bounty on his head; he will lay low until it is removed, until he regains enough power to reclaim what is his.
He stows away on a cargo ship after tipping the boatswain a small portion of the money stolen during his escape, sailing fuck knows where, thinking only of himself and his survival — once, his closest compatriot had done the same. He doesn’t think of Silver these days, knowing that time between them has ended, and little could be salvaged of it. Not that he has much mind to, for once, wanting only to steer himself into a proper direction going forward, resurrecting his once-renown ( not for glory, not for gold, but simply for want of a worthwhile life! ) It is what he finds he longs for most, to be free of the metaphorical shackles. Little does he know his erstwhile boatswain now finds himself in those very same shackles, though they’re quite physical. As far as he’s aware, Billy Bones is long gone, fallen into the sea, presumably drowned, just as he’d been the first time the crew had lost him.
A coastal town awaits him, a place where he can get his bearings once more and ascertain the course ahead. It would be a rocky path, and he would bleed as necessary if only to climb his way back to his former position and once again commandeer a crew of his own. He recalls when he’d first been a stranger to Nassau, using his sharp wit to get his way and gain the trust of his lost crew. But the desire to return to that forsaken town was next to nonexistent. A ‘haven for pirates’ had fallen victim to bureaucracy, and despite the downfall of Woodes Rogers, he would find no peace of mind returning to a place that only reminded him of a lost dream. Should he find a way to contact old allies? Perhaps, but currently his means of existing would entail secrecy. Certain people were best off not knowing he still lives and breathes, wanting him dead, and on top of a potential bounty for his whereabouts he won’t risk anything until he’s properly established himself once again. He is an unfamiliar figure among the crowds in the town square, dressed in muted colors and partially concealed with a cloak.
Through the gaps in the crowds, eyes see eyes, and Flint finds a scowl of displeasure abruptly changing his features. Perhaps he should have obscured his face, that he may not be recognized by the man imprisoned, kept within a cart like he was cattle. Still, despite his antagonism with regards to Billy Bones, seeing another pirate imprisoned leaves a particularly bad taste in his mouth. He says nothing, though resolving to himself that something would be done for Billy’s situation. He turns and disappears, as though he were but a mirage. He would track the cart and its path from afar, keeping a low profile until after dark. He had no reason to assist the supposed enemy, though he understood the worth Billy once held. Perhaps in this new era, he would find something fruitful by changing the outcome of the whole matter and sending a clear message to the Spanish in the process.
