Muddied Waters - Coda

Chapter Two - An Embarrassment of Riches

"Eh," the soldier leaned in. "Eh," he grunted again, snapping his fingers irritatingly close to Jackson Teague's face.

"I told you already," the ex-pirate said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "I won't tell you again." Coins littered the table where they sat. Their eyes strayed to the silver pieces. The Panamanian sentry, equally as inebriated, leaned back as well, mirroring the arm-folding gesture. Teague glanced around the group of patrons watching the card game, then fixed his gaze back onto the soldier. He wasn't going to find any allies in this tavern.

"Pendejo," he heard someone mutter.

"I know what that means, cunt," he shot back, eyes on his adversary. He pointed to the cards. "High trips beats high pair."

The sentry pointed to his full house. "Aces."

"Aye, aces."

"Reinas."

"I can see that. But that's two. Dos, aye? But see, my three," he indicated his trip sixes, then the sentry's fours, "beats your three. This isn't highest cards wins, amigo. We both have full houses, and the highest three wins. This," he indicated the aces, "means fuck-all. I. Win."

"Estas hacienda trampa," the soldier accused.

Teague was beginning to regret teaching this game to the locals and in all honesty, he wasn't exactly sure of the rules himself. He'd only just learned the card game recently, taught to him by an American merchant passing through the port. In spite of this, he mustered an air of confidence. He wanted the coin bad enough to push the scenario through its conclusion. He wanted a win. He had just won.

"Look," he explained. "It's easier to get a pair than three of a kind, which makes my hand higher than yours." He reached over the table to collect his coins. The sentry grabbed his wrist roughly.

"Pinche pendejo," he growled, standing up. Teague followed suit.

"Aye, I heard your mate, shite-for-brains," he growled back. "What else do you have in that scholarly repertoire of yours, eh? Pinchay. Pindayho. Fucking Spanish don't even know how to insult a man. How's this: when that poxy tramp of a woman slid you out into this world, the midwife raised you by your wrists and slapped you in the face."

The put-down was met by uncomprehending silence. The sentry, motionless, had not loosened his grip on Teague's wrist. He wrenched it toward himself, throwing the man off balance and punched him in the mouth with his free hand.

He came to in the dry shrubbery lining the road across from the tavern some time later thinking his jaw might be broken. The right side of his face had swollen mightily and bright bruising under his left eye threatened to darken in the coming days. Teague made a cursory effort to dust himself off then he began to walk. His shift at the fort began at dawn; he made it there just in time.

New Panama's improved fortress looked out over the glistening waters of the Pacific Ocean with a deliberation borne of tragic history. None remained that remembered first-hand the acute embarrassment handed to the Spanish colony by privateer-turned-governor Sir Henry Morgan, but tales were passed down to following generations with vivid clarity. The ruins of Old Panama, mere kilometers to the east, could be seen from its ramparts. Rather than rebuild the mostly burned-down city, a new one had been erected within easy sight. Some colonists said it was done this way so the people wouldn't ever forget what the British and French had perpetrated. The more pragmatic explained it was simply easier to start fresh on new, undamaged soil. Regardless, the former of the two reasons remained as true as the rising sun. Jackson Teague appreciated this aspect of Panama. It was one reason why he'd chosen to settle down there – another being no other colony remained in the New World that wouldn't expedite a short trip to the gallows in lieu of another pardon offer. Certainly no English-held colony – those bridges had been burned as effectively as Morgan's handiwork. Of course, being an Englishman in a settlement held by a foreign kingdom, Teague's promise to leave life on the account behind had cost him more than just his word. Much of the ill-gotten gains that he'd recovered from that island's shores with his stolen diving bell were confiscated along with the former Nassau governor's galleon, and he had been signed on for a lengthy spell of indentured servitude. He'd expected Panama's grudging hospitality to come with an unreasonable price, but a fugitive on the run from the Royal Navy was lucky to have that option at all... and he'd become so very tired of running. He was older, if not wiser, and had come to realize rogues that managed to reach middle age should appreciate every day that didn't end with a violent death. If Teague was to continue surviving in this harsh and ever-changing world, he'd have to adapt and, more importantly, compromise his ideals. It was a good thing for him that abandoning dogma came easily in the face of capital punishment. If only it was as easy to forget all the mistakes that had led him to this point.