It all started when an old seaman, with a sabre cut upon their face, took up lodging at the Nightingale Inn.
He walked in through the inn door, rolling a sea chest behind him in a hand barrow. He was tall, strong and heavy, dark skinned, with one black pigtail twist to his hair that hung over the shoulder of a soiled blue coat.
His hands were ragged and scarred, his nails black with lack of care. The most remarkable feature, though, was that long and pale white scar that ran across one of his cheeks.
As he walked through the door, a deep rumbling sound came from his chest, as he sang absently.
> Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish Ladies,
>
> Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain.
>
> For we've received orders for to sail for ole England,
>
> But we hope in a short time to see you again.
The voice, even beneath his breath as he sang, was broken and dry. A twisted and ugly sound that grated at the ear. It wasn't exactly that the man could not hold a tune, though it did not help, but that his voice would be awful even if he were not singing.
He rapped on the outside of the Nightingale Inn door with something that might be supposed to be a walking stick. It was thick, stout and shaped much like a cudgel of the highlands.
The owner of the business let him in, and quickly found himself serving a glass of rum to the newcomer.
The scarred man drank it slowly, quietly. Savouring scents, and every moment of taste, as if it were the finest wine from the oldest of vineyards. He lingered over the glass, but his eyes moved freely over the inn.
"A cove, most useful." He said at length, "And grog properly sitting. Must be busy for company, hereabouts."
The innkeeper shook his head, "I am afraid not. In the time of my father, certainly. However, since East India went their way, there are few who make their way here."
"Ah, don't be down. I ain't looking for company, and that makes this the berth for me." The stranger announced his intention, "You there, boy! Bring up me chest. Put it to the room, I'll stay here for a bit. I'm simple. Rum, bacon and eggs is what I want."
The innkeeper nodded slowly to the youngest in the room, and they began to act the obedient young master. "What may we call you, sir?"
"A name? Bah. More names than skies in this world." The man said sourly, before scrounging into a pocket and throwing three gold pieces onto the table. "Call me Cap'n. And let me know when you've worked through that lot."
The innkeeper took the coins, attempting not to appear greedy as they did. Another eye was watching the exchange, however, with as much fascination as fear.
Their father was right, few people came to the family inn anymore. This man, however, stood out amongst anybody. The clothes were almost as coarse as his voice, and he did seem the kind to lead, and expect to be obeyed when they spoke.
A man who might well turn that cudgel against anyone who hesitated to follow.
Neither Taylor, nor their father, learned anything further of their guest, that night.
The newcomer was silent man, by custom. Most days he hung round the cove, or walked upon the cliffs with a brass telescope. Every evening found him sat in the corner of the parlour, beside the fire. There he drank a bottle or three of rum.
When he was spoken to, the Captain would only look up, fierce and angry. Breathing heavily through his nose, as his face began to redden. It did not take long for all the regulars to learn to leave him be, and for Taylor to detest the chore of asking after him each night.
Each day, when he came back from his stroll, the Captain would corner Taylor. Necessary or not, he would stand over them, one hand firmly clutching their shoulder. Then he would ask Taylor, the same thing. "Any seafaring folk, today?"
At first, Taylor's father thought it was the company of friends that the Captain was seeking. However, it didn't take long for the two of them to comprehend that the Captain was looking to avoid sailors.
Now and then, seamen did put up at the Nightingale, on their way around the coast. When that happened, the Captain would eye them off, from around corners or from the landing up above. Moving silently to gaze at them, trying to ascertain something.
Only when satisfied would he move in to the parlour, and he was always silent when the sailing kind were present. Gone were the songs, and even the occasional grunt disappeared.
He was nought but a shadow upon the wall.
Taylor saw it as fear from the very beginning. They shared the fear, in their own way. She had been young, when their mother was lost to a brazen pirate attack. Taylor's father had been left broken, and the singular parent of a young girl in a cruel world.
The anxiety of Taylor, in being found out, and entering the halo of moonlight that would be the attention of the many uncouth figures who crossed the inn's thresholds, led unexpectedly to the Captain seeing them as a confidant.
The Captain took them aside one day, and promised her a silver fourpenny, without their father's knowing, every first of the month. All that was needed in exchange, was to notify them if a seafaring man with one leg every made an appearance.
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Now and then, when Taylor came to ask for her payment, the man would grunt and grumble, and she'd flee. Fearing the red face, and what might follow it if she pressed what little luck she had.
However, inevitably, the Captain would come and find her later. Press the silver coin into her rough hands, and repeat the instruction to keep an eye out.
That anybody should intimidate such a man as the Captain, terrified Taylor down to her bones. The one legged man haunted her dreams. A shadow that walked across the cliffs, crawling down them, before bursting out of the sea to burn the Nightingale down to ashes.
Taylor found herself locked within the wooden walls, screaming, as the one-legged man stood over her. Grinning toothily, and singing ever so quietly.
> We will rant and we'll roar like true British sailors,
>
> We'll rant and we'll roar all on the salt sea.
Though that fear plagued her dreams, by day, Taylor found herself becoming less afraid of the Captain. Whilst he might be somewhat cruel, and always so very angry, there were nights when the rum took him a little further.
When he would sit and sing old and wild sea songs, minding nobody at all. Whilst Taylor could do without hearing about a woman's legs that began lily white, and then scarlet come the morn, the beat of the music was something she enjoyed.
Sometimes, the Captain would pay for a round of drinks, and force a tall tale or three upon the paid audience. Violent battles at sea, or fighting to sail through impossible storms, among the more common things to come forth.
Now and then, would find the Nightingale's walls shaking with the combined chorus of all inside, as they sang along with the old sailor, fearing he might turn to bitter anger if they didn't.
During these odd moments, the Captain was the most difficult companion that could be known. He could issue silence with a single slap upon the table, or launch to screaming rage at a singular question. Yet, if no one ever inquired after some detail, that too would turn him to drunken wrath.
In those moods, no one was ever allowed to leave the inn. Not until the Captain had his fill, and then staggered off to bed.
The stories were what frightened everyone, most of all.
They featured hangings, walking of the plank. The terrible storms at sea, and the islands of the Dry Tortugas. Exotic places, wild deeds, and terrible adventures upon the Spanish Main.
By his account, the Captain must have lived his life among the worst and cruellest that ever sailed upon God's cruel seas. The language he used to describe his stories shocked the sensibilities of the simple country folk, almost as much as the crimes described therein.
Taylor and her father disagreed upon the effects of the tales. The elder believing that it could well be the end of the inn, with customers tyrannized by the man. Finding themselves lost to nightmares, upon their beds.
However, the younger thought that the Captain's presence did them good. People may be frightened, but they seemed to enjoy it, all the same. An excitement to insert into their quiet country lives.
There even seemed to be a small group of younger men that admired the Captain, calling him a true sea-dog, and a real old salt, and the like. Men who were proud that people such as the Captain gave England a terrible name at sea.
The Captain could well have been leading the Nightingale towards ruin, all the same.
The gold he originally handed over, came and went. Yet he stayed, week after week, month upon month. The twice that Taylor's father plucked up his courage to ask for more, the man practically exploded in anger.
Taylor got to see her father on his knees, begging, as the Captain threatened to swing that stick of his, with all the wrath of the man from his tales.
She began to pass on a little of her silver, pretending it came from other guests and patrons, out of sheer guilt. Taylor shouldn't be profiting from this uncomfortable relationship, whilst her father fretted about keeping the candles lit.
The Captain, for all his boisterousness, was not a social character. In all the time he spent at the Nightingale, he never changed his clothes. His hat brim fell down, and his stockings were stretched and torn through. The man's coat was a hand-stitched patchwork.
His sea chest, the great item he'd dragged up to the door on that first day, had never been opened within sight of another living person.
He never wrote or received a singular letter, and apart from his drunken story tellings, never spoke to another customer.
For all his fierceness, the man was only crossed but once. Towards the end, when Taylor's poor father was declining rapidly in health, and the fear was closer to resignation.
Dr. Livesey came late one afternoon to see his patient, before he took a small dinner from Taylor, and then went into the parlour to smoke.
Taylor followed him indoors, and was startled by the contrast of the neat, bright doctor, with black eyes and pleasant manners, to the filthy, heavy scarecrow of a pirate. The Captain gone to the rum, arms upon the table.
As Taylor watched, the seaman began to sing, as he ever did.
> We will rant and we'll roar like true British sailors,
>
> We'll rant and we'll roar all on the salt sea.
>
> Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England.
Taylor, now and then, tried to imagine how a sailor such as that might have tried to fetch a woman. So confident that any lady might turn a thought to the Captain. She didn't see it. However, having heard the song so often, she thought not a thing of it.
In fact, that night, the song was new to nobody but Dr. Livesey, and he absolutely did not find it agreeable. He looked up angrily as it hit the air, but continued his conversation with old Erik, the gardener, about some thoughts on rheumatics.
The Captain brightened as he sang, words booming out, and suddenly he slammed his hand upon the table, in a way we all knew to mean silence.
All voices stopped at once - all but Dr. Livesey's. He went on speaking, clearly and kindly, pausing only to puff briskly at his pipe at the end of a sentence.
The Captain glared at him for a while, before slamming his hand harder. And then again. Before bursting out in a thunderous voice, "Silence between decks!"
"Were you addressing me, sir?" The doctor drawled lightly, looking over at him with a face showing no obvious emotion.
"Blood and sweat, I'll have you silent!"
The doctor replied lightly, "I have only one thing to say to you, sir. That if you keep on drinking rum, the world may sooner be quit of a dirty scoundrel."
It took a moment for the insult to reach the mind behind the eyes.
When it did, those eyes lit up in a dark fury, and the Captain sprang to his feet. Drawing a flick knife from within his coat, even as he grabbed the doctor by his shirt and pinned him against the wall.
The doctor spoke to him in the same tone as before, but slightly louder, so that all the room might hear. "If you do not put that knife into your pocket, I promise upon my honour you shall hang at the next assizes."
The two stared into each other's eyes, and Taylor actually heard the churning of her nervous stomach, as she waited for one of the other to act.
The collective breath of the room was held, waiting for the spirit of one of the two men to break. The wrathful glare of the rough and ready Captain, against the calm and cool eyes of a doctor who had seen more blood than most.
The Captain caved, flicking closed his blade, and tucking it away as he grumbled under his breath.
"Now, sir." The doctor brushed himself off, "Since I now know there is such a fellow as yourself in my district, you may count that I will have an eye upon you. Day or night. I am not only a doctor, I am a magistrate. If so much as incivility, like tonight, reaches my ears, I have the means to have you hunted down. Keep it upon your mind."
For the rest of that night, and for many more evenings to come, the Captain held his peace.