Davey sat in his dark, dank cell listening to the sounds of a scaffold being built just beyond his arrow-slit of a window. The narrow beam of light that came through allowed him to keep track of time as it went.
He has often heard men speak about how slowly time went when a man sat deep in a dungeon. Obviously, they never sat waiting for the hang-man, or knew the moment they were set to die. He did know… “Seven days hence,” were the king’s words.
It’s been six days and six nights so far… six small meals, six cups of water, and six beatings to boot.
Several times now he could swear he has heard his name come whispering on the breeze. Each time his swollen ears would perk up like an old hunting dog and his eyes would gaze at the gray light. Never did a friendly word follow[semicolon] harsh laughter and more pounding were all to be heard—spit in the face after a kick in the balls, his daily bread.
Every fool knows that life isn’t fair, its one lesson every poor soul learns at an early age. Even so, a fate such as this is reserved for villains, or so he was raised to believe.
Sure, he’s led a less than perfect life, made a few mistakes, cut a few corners, maybe gone a little too far once or twice… six times, max.
So what? You could call him a criminal, an outlaw, a pirate, a bloody-handed scallywag scoundrel, but really, the realm is filled with men like him. Men like him are the ones often called on when the king is in serious need on short notice.
You could lay a thousand sins at his feet, all of which he’ll own, with pride. He’s never done a single deed he wouldn’t own up to, nor has he denied any laid on him, if accused. He has morals, dignity, and respect. Of all things known far and wide about him and his, it’s that they’re loyal to the crown. He has never struck a foul blow against his King or country, so why must he die a traitor’s death? Taxes…
As he sits staring at the failing light through swelling eyes he can’t help but to think of her and wonder: Where is she? How is she doing? Does she know he loves her? And mostly, how did it all come to this?
“Davey! Help!” He was climbing out of his coach (stolen) in front of his hideout: an old riverside warehouse with one steel enforced door, “Da-Locka.” His rusty hair tucked beneath his fashionable wide brimmed black hat, one which kept his blue eyes shaded, and matched his black leather vest, boots, and britches.
He looked at the young girl, 14, 15 max, with small breasts, hay-colored hair, and a half-swollen face. He asked her, “What the devil’s goin’ on missy?” Davey didn’t know her at all, but all the poor folk in London Towne knew him and his gang—they were the underworld’s best known secret. She stumbled over to him and went down on her bruised knees as if he were some lord or the likes. He pulled her up, “No-naw, just be tellin’ me whatcha need missy.”
By this time Two-Dimes Nick had gotten down from the steering box. He was about this girl’s age now, but was found by a lady of the night in an old basket with a note and two dimes. Nothing upset the lad like a beaten woman. Davey didn’t like it either.
The young lady’s eyes began leaking tears and her bloody nose began to run. “Well, uh, um, ya see, me an Janey were hungry, so’s we was atryin’ to beg–“
Nick cut her off. “Truthfully sis (They were all his sisters.), werentcha stealing?”
She ran a stick-thin arm across her bloody nose. It made a very sad mess on her blackening cheek. Her lips trembled as she said, “No sir, I sware it. We was a begin’ sir, naught stealin’.” She was a miserable sight: dirty, beaten, and well past half starved.
Davey waved an arm at Nick as he told the girl, “Out with it quick now, wares yer friend Janey?”
Living on the poor side of the river, he’s heard a hundred beginnings to the same story—a story that always ended the same way and would again—unless he made it in time. Her trembling lip quivered, “She’s me sista, an she’s over by the gawdes dammed ‘Royal Nest’. They was a draggin’ us into an alley an I got away.”
Nick asked her, “”Ow long ago was it, sis?”
She shrugged and began crying even more.
Davey asked, “How many were they missy?”
She shook her head like a pup with a tick in its ear, or like a child trying to shake a bad dream as she said, “Thare are three Davey! Richy’s. Bigguns Davey, oh lord help me Davey, please.”
Two Dimes Nick was already climbing up on the box. Davey said, “You knock on that door over yonder,” He pointed to the reinforced front door to ‘Da-Locka’. “Ask Maggie to get my sista, Alley Cat, for ya, dontcha leave till we get back.”
The poor thing’s whole body was shaking now with fear, shock, pain and shame, “W-w-wat do I say? Will Janey be okay? Dontcha need help?”
“What’s yer name missy?”
She blinked away tears. “Jenny, sir, Janey-n-Jenny, like rainy an penny.”
Davey looked her in the eyes. “Well, Jenny, I promise ya, you’ll be okay, an so will Janey. Ya get in there an talk to my sista Cat. Go on.” He turned her towards the door and gave her a gentle push.
“Cum’ on Davey! Damn!” called Nick. Before he could get the coach’s door shut, Nick had them rattling off in a fever pitch. One good thing about stealing a rich man’s ride, the horses always had new shoes, and folks made way for the bigwigs. It was maybe six lanes over and four lanes up to make it to the “Royal Nest”, they made it there in a matter of minutes without killing anyone. Davey sprang out and Nick hopped down. They scanned the lane and its adjoining alleyways.
A steady stream of decently dressed folk roamed up and down the line of shops and taverns. All seemed normal. Then he heard a yelp and a cry.
Nick yelled, “Rite dare dey ar Davey,” as he took off running. Davey was hot on his heels as they both barreled headlong into an alley. Even at midday the alley was a dark labyrinth of shadows—shadows engrossed in their own dark games. Nick dove headfirst into the back of the first shadow he met with. Davey came in like a hurricane.
There’s a thing to be said about growing up on a pirate ship. ‘Ye learn ta fight well, or ya suck soup fer life.’ Davey hates soup nearly as much as he hates cowards. So he had no qualms about smacking a man in the back of the head with a wine bottle. If you’re gonna rape young ladies—even poor ones—you earned it. Before he or Nick could get to the third one, he let go of the girl and drew his sword.
Davey and Nick pulled their knives, Davey had his dead father’s cutlass, and Nick had a long dirk. They flanked the sorry bastard. Nick jumped at him, a flash of steel and a ring made Davey smile.
The shadow asked them, “What-ho? Are you a pair of cowards? Won’t fight a man like gentlemen ought to?”
Davey spit at him, then took a halfhearted swipe, just to hear it whistle. “Gentlemen don’t rape lasses in alleys on city streets.”
Nick gave him a fresh swipe. One easily dodged. They were really just moving him away from Janey’s whimpering shadow.
“You two might ought to just leave. I’m an Earl’s son. Cause me trouble boys, and die,” he laughed.
Davey laughed too. “Earls, Princes, or Paupers: a piece of shart rapist gets his in my court.” Davey did a shuffling side-step and a double swipe. “Swish, swish.” Nick added a slice, steering the Earl’s son out into the lane. He wore a deep blue velvet doublet and seal skin breeches, gold thread, and a fair amount of gold chains. He was oily-handsome. Rich. He said, “And pray tell. Who the hell do you think you are?”
Davey stepped out into into the lane, men and women stopped their roaming to watch these men with swords, one said: “Dat dares Sir James, da Earl’s son.” Davey tipped his hat, “They call me the Prince of the gutters.”
Sir James hissed, “You’re him, Davey, Davey Jones,” then without another word he launched an attack. “Ha! He-ha!” first high then low, his sword flashed like lightning as he went for Davey.
“Go fetch yer sista Nick, I’ll speak wid the Earl’s son, ha!”
Davey dodged a swipe with a spin and took a swipe at the bastard’s neck. “Tang!”
Nick disappeared down the alley.
Sir James smiled a thin-lipped razor smile. “Oh, this is a lovely day—free flowers freshly picked, AND a bounty for scum’s flesh, he-ha!”
Davey threw himself into a roll, dust and dirt billowed up as his leather covered body tumbled away. He sprang up fresh as a fish. “Scum, sir, are men in power who have nothing better to do then use that power to violate young ladies. And this sword, it was made to kill scum, ha!” Davey gave a poke at Sir James’s arm, and when Sir James parried Davey spit in his face.
A young boy yelled, “Kill ‘im! Kill ’em, Sir James.”
Davey suddenly realized his folly. No one knew his cause, as fast as he thought that one thought, a pair of hands came for him. He spun away, but in doing so, Sir James got a weak slice on his left arm. “Ha-ha! Scum, first blood means I win. You’re as good as dead now. Outlaw scum, he!”
Davey’s left arm was throbbing, and now two men were trying to grab him. He had one chance, trickery, or run. He looked over Sir James’s shoulder and yelled, “Stab him in the back, Nicky! Do it now!”
For a split second Sir James’s eyes turned left as he twisted to the right. Davey lunged into his gut, then twisted his sword. No one was behind Sir James, but he didn’t know that. Davey smiled as Sir James fell screaming to his knees. Davey kicked him off his blade and said “Earl’s sons bleed just like—“
The world went black in a flash. Davey was knocked out from behind.
He awoke to a series of kicks, then was dragged into the royal court. His head was an aching pain making it nearly impossible to see or think. Thankfully, his left arm was half-arsed-bandaged up. There were scores of men and women dressed in silks and velvet, a dozen shades of red, blue, and canary yellow. The glitter of gold, silver, and precious stones was everywhere. Davey was hauled before the King and Queen—both of whom looked bored with it all. He was fat and pudgy, she was regal and fresh.
The King spoke: “What,” he looked at Davey for a beat, “What… pray tell, is your name… boy?”
Davey was 21 years old. He thought about lying but, then again, it’s best to go out standing: “Jones,” he groaned in pain, “Davey Jones.”
A punch hit him upside his head. The guard said, “You speak with respect, or you die, scum.”
Davey barely heard him past ringing ears. “Yer Majesty,” he amended.
The Queen smiled. “That’s what I was told… boy. Davey-boy-Jones. A pirate.”
Davey remained silent. He had the feeling anything he said would earn him a punch.
An older fellow in a fine blue doublet stepped forward and bowed. “Your Majesty, my Queen, this seaborne scum murdered my son, your loyal subject. I demand, I mean to say, I respectfully appeal for justice, Your Majesties.” Then he spat at Davey. “Scum.”
For some reason Davey was punched. His vision went blurry.
The King spoke again, “We know, Earl Leek, but six good men claim it was a fair fight. Sir. So…” Davey was punched again.
Winning a fair fight seemed to be a misdemeanor around here. Earl Leek spoke again: “Yes, well Your Majesty must recall there was a price on this man’s head.”
The Queen snickered. “Yes, and here it is. We simply needed to speak to this… man, on matters of taxes.”
“Taxes!” exclaimed the Earl.
The Queen’s emerald eyes sparkled. “Yes, Earl Leek, taxes—you know, fealty in coins,” She looked at Davey. “Or blood or favors.”
The King cut in. “Well… boy. I hear you own a ship?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Whack!
“I also hear you own a tavern, boy.”
“No you,” Whack! “Yes, Your Majesty.” Blood was filling Davey’s right eye.
“For how long have you owned said property, boy?” Before he could answer, he was hit again. Whack!
It took him a minute to spit out enough blood to say, “Three years.” If he was gonna get punched with steel covered fists anyway, why should he be respectful? Whack!! Davey couldn’t see it, but the Earl was smiling, and the Queen was mad.
The King spoke for the last time: “A trading vessel and a tavern for three years in London, hmm… you boy owe me three hundred pounds. Do you have three hundred pounds? In your pocket? No? Well then, boy, you will hang for it in seven days hence. You’ll dance a merry jig for the Earl. Good day, boy.”
Since then it’s been dirty water, rotten soup, and kicks to the balls… his daily bread.
Every poor man’s friend is pain and hunger, one to remind you that you live, the other to remind you why. Every inch of Davey’s body hurt. His arm was swollen and infected, three teeth were loose and his ears were still ringing. But every time he seen Jenny’s ghost, he smiled and knew the Captain would’ve been proud.
A clink and a clank turned his head. He sat in complete darkness. The daylight had faded while he was lost in thought. The heavy door swung open, blazing torchlight invaded his cell.
It must be time for a new kick in the balls and fresh spit in his face… dinner.
His tormentor stood over him. “Stand up… Stand up Davey. Stand up or die like a dog.”
It is best to go out standing, so he fought his way up to stand on trembling, weak legs. He held his head up the best that he could.
A flash of steel glistened in the torchlight, then a sword was pressed into his hand. The guard said, “Last night my youngest sister was at my home when I got there. Her and my wife were crying.”
Davey wobbled and nearly fell, his guard steadied him, then went on.
“She asked me if I remembered coming home and finding her beat all to ‘ell a few spans ago. I told her I did…”
Davey could barely see the man’s face. This place was dark and cold, and the torch was behind him. “Well, she said it was you. She said she’d never forget it: Davey Jones, a man in black, saved her life, and maybe a bit more.”
The guard turned his back and began walking away. “I don’t know if I locked the door up there, or the name of the redheaded girl who is there, or her two friends Rainy an Penny. But I do remember my sister asking me to tell you, ‘Thanks,’ and that you’re always in her prayers.
“Thank you, Mister Davey Jones, sir. It’s time for my nap. I can’t remember my last one.” Then he vanished down a dark corridor.
Davey was crawling by the time he made it up those cold stone steps, dragging his dead father’s sword—tears of pain leaking from blackened eyes.
The room he crawled into was lit by a pair of rush torches. Cat’s hair looked like fire, and a pair of golden-haired girls were with her. He can never remember what they said before he passed out, but the looks on those girls’ faces was one of his life’s greatest memories…
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