"Contradictions 8 - Claimed" Part 3
Aug. 29th, 2005 10:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
veronica_richThis is a continuation of a fic. See Part 1 for disclaimers, description, etc.
Jerking to attention, Jack stood in a swift motion that belied his age and slightly arthritic knees. He turned to look off into the horizon Pearl was approaching, and Will used the opportunity to scramble to his feet, as well. He blinked into the sunlight – they’d been in the shadow of the stairwell, somewhat hidden from much of the crew – and realized the sunlight was no longer a problem. “Why’s there a mist?” he asked aloud. “Too late in the day for fog.”
“Eddies,” Jack explained. “’S not a typical rain that’s comin’. Bloody tropical storm, or maybe a hurricane.”
“Isn’t it the wrong time of year for that?” Will asked, worried. Jack was rarely wrong when it came to weather prediction, but he hadn’t expressed much concern the night before when he’d announced a storm might be headed in their general direction.
“Aye, but least that explains why I didn’ give it more room than I have.” He looked and sounded angry, and proceeded to start giving orders. “Drop canvas! Store ever’thing below – if it’s not tied, make sure ‘tis in th’ next half-hour!” He paused, turned back to Will. “Make sure your fire’s out completely,” he ordered.
He didn’t know for how long everyone rushed and worked, tied, hauled ropes to the deck to tie crew members to the ship. Jack ordered as many to stay below as possible, both for safety and to bail and patch any rips in Pearl’s hull from the oncoming storm. He was one of the few who stayed up on deck, and he and Will damn near came to blows when the captain tried to order the blacksmith below, until some urgent matter or other demanded Jack’s attention. He threw Will a disapproving look, but the smith ignored him and worked on tying knots and checking tie-downs on equipment, narrowing his eyes against the tiny nail-like drops of rain already peppering the deck.
Several minutes later, the rainfall increased and it didn’t take long to gain such volume and sluice across the deck as though waves were leaping to claim the ship – Will was already worried this was a literal inevitability, since the sea was so choppy that Pearl actually dove and rocked rather than her usual bobbing. He helped Jack make sure everyone was tied to the mast or hooks in the planking, as the sound of the storm increased, before wrapping his own rope around his midsection. Then, he found a rope and sat down to maintain his balance and become a more difficult target to blow overboard, as he tied a secure knot.
He was just in time. Not two minutes later, the ship started rocking more violently side to side. Will steadied himself, forcing himself not to vomit – his sea legs had taken a while to kick in, but they had eventually. He would not embarrass himself by throwing up after nearly a year doing this, he would not, Oh no he wouldn’t.
Water pounded the deck, driven by high winds that whipped harder, sending the heavy ship nearly twirling in the water. Jack hadn’t dropped anchor because to do so might put them in a worse predicament – as long as the ship could drift, her planks had a better chance of staying neighbors with one another, instead of being ripped from her iron. Logically, Will understood, but his stomach argued violently with his common sense.
Old Benjamin hadn’t made it below in time, and was wrapping his rope around his wrist. Wait, it was tied to his waist a few minutes ago! Will scrambled to his knees to crawl to the physic, pausing at every forward push to hunker closer to deck, actually falling back twice, wondering why the hell the man had uncoupled himself in the first place, and what he thought he would actually be protecting by only holding the rope. This wind was too violent to trust to anything less than a good sailor’s knot; Will was having trouble even seeing, the rain driven into his eyelids by gusts that whipped his hair around into his eyes every time he opened them, too.
When next he looked up, he saw Benjamin trying to get to his feet. Will knew the man was a little old, but he seemed sane enough and practical, not given to stupid chances such as this. Well, not without a good reason. He looked around, blinking and squinting, wondering what was going on, and then he heard Jack’s shouting between the wind gusts.
“Stand down … an order … the hell do you …? Not important! I … a direct order!”
Benjamin was moving toward something, now on his feet, stopping to hunker every step or two. Will kept crawling, resisting the urge to get up and run for him, tackle him to the deck for his own good. He hugged to the wood on all fours as he moved.
Behind him, the wind shifted momentarily and slammed the ship at starboard. Will fell to the palms of his hands, having already forgotten the splinter wound, but something more painful caught his attention anyway – Benjamin was thrown off-balance and backwards, skittering toward the rail. Will opened his mouth to shout in protest, as if that would help, the words dying when he saw Jack stumble into the man and push him toward deck. Will exhaled and pushed himself to his knees once more, relieved – then frowned. He noticed no rope leading to Jack’s waist. “Jack!” he called, as the man climbed to his feet, presumably to go back to his own rope. “Jack, get down!”
He doubted he was ever heard, but his vision was crystal-clear for what happened next. As soon as the captain gained his feet, pulling himself up by the rail, a wave crashed into starboard, knocking his hold loose. He danced back with that eerie grace only Jack Sparrow could maintain in a terrific storm and as soon as the ship rocked back on her keel, he shook his head, throwing dark, choppy locks of hair behind his shoulders. Neptune could rattle, but Sparrow could flitter.
Another port wave hit. Hard, this time.
Will knew it was going to happen, but he still gasped when Jack was thrown forward and tumbled over the railing with no ceremony, no grasping, no hitches. Just hit and tossed like a piece of driftwood. The smith waited just long enough for the deck to roll back, to get to his feet and run to the rail, holding it dearly and looking over into the choppy water. “Jack!” he called, knowing nobody could hear down there. “JACK!”
Immediately, he turned and yanked on his rope, seeing how much give its length offered. He was gripping the railing, lifting his leg over when someone grabbed his arm. “It’s not long enough!” Anamaria was shaking her head, holding her floppy hat on with her left hand to shield her eyes. “It’ll only get you to the water!”
“Get me one that is!” Will snapped.
“Where?” It was not helpless flailing, but genuine curiosity, since they were already using all the rope.
But Will was already tearing at the knot, yanking it apart with large hands made strong from years of grappling with metal and tools. The water made it more difficult to handle, and he pulled a dagger from his belt after a few seconds, impatiently slicing through the thick hemp and letting it fall to Ana’s hands. “Dump that barrel!” he ordered, pointing to one not far away.
“It’s gunpowder!”
“I don’t care if it’s gold!” Will cut her off. “Help me!”
It took them a couple of minutes to pry off the lid and knock the barrel over, scattering powder into paste on the deck. Will and Benjamin hauled it over the rail after Will hastily tied the ruined end of his rope to a small knothole near its open end, and Will scanned the water for Jack to make sure they didn’t hit him. He couldn’t even see the pirate, and felt his stomach lurch, despite realizing the wind was not blowing nearly as hard now. They dropped the barrel, and Will hauled himself up, still scanning the water. “Watch for me!” he told Ana and Benjamin, finally spotting white that didn’t look like foam. “Pull up the rope when you see both of us!”
He plunged beneath the surface and immediately began tearing his way toward air, ignoring the shock of the churning water made colder by currents deep below pulling lower temperatures toward the top. The last time he’d fallen this far from a ship, he’d been only ten and had barely managed to crawl aboard some wreckage before passing out – the possibility of it happening twice had haunted his dreams for several months following. Remembering his terror vividly now that he couldn’t even breathe, he grasped above him for air, not feeling it.
We’ll both die he thought. Please, don’t let Jack die – don’t let me die before I can get to him, God. I’ll … just help me.
He was close to bursting, passing out, when one hand felt wind. Tilting his face up, he broke the surface two seconds later, gasping oxygen hard and sharply. Rain still pelted him, but he blinked hard several times and forced himself to look around, locating the barrel a few feet away. He swam for it, grabbing its lip to float before he turned his attention back to looking for Jack. For good measure, he called the man’s name, yelling as loudly as he could, kicking his legs to rise higher above water level each time a small wave hit him.
Every few passing seconds alarmed him, as he knew nobody could fight for long in these conditions, not even the immortal, stupidly lucky Captain Jack Sparrow. His own lungs were working double time, his limbs getting rubbery and losing control. He gritted his teeth as he nearly went under again, and when he bobbed up, he screamed out in frustration. “Where the hell ARE you? Jack! JACK!”
Impossibly, something caught the corner of his vision. He jerked his head around, seeing a familiar beringed hand paw at the air twice before dropping. He was still several feet away, but if he could raise his arm, he was at least alive.
Will released the barrel and put on a burst of speed, paddling toward the white, soaked, linen-wrapped arm. He breathed out heavily when his hand closed around the wrist, and he pulled the man toward him. Jack was conscious, but barely, and he was moving sluggishly even with Will’s assistance. Getting an arm behind his captain’s back, the smith tugged at the waterlogged body, paddling with one arm toward the ship. Jack apparently noticed and tried to help, leaning forward to swim alongside him.
Upon reaching the barrel, Will tried to upend it. Again, Jack noticed and helped, pushing as much as he could until the water ran out and the barrel was once again floating on the water. Only one of them could fit, and one glance at Jack’s exhausted features told Will he couldn’t hang on to a rope long enough to be pulled up. Getting one arm beneath Jack, he held the lip of the barrel with the other hand while he helped the man inside it. Grabbing the rope himself and keeping one arm around Jack, Will tugged hard to signal, hoping people were left to hoist – the wind was still howling and the ship was still rocking, leaning dangerously hard toward them.
For a couple of minutes, nothing happened. When someone finally started to pull and the barrel slapped the side of the ship, Will felt Jack go slack. He tightened his arm, holding him like that as they bumped up the side of Pearl, ascending slower than he would’ve liked.
Ana steadied the barrel as Benjamin helped Will over the rail, then both men pulled Jack up. He sagged to deck, still unconscious; Will dropped to a knee and checked Jack’s pulse, making sure it wasn’t as bad as the suddenly-pale man looked. “He’s freezing,” Will commented, shaking his head. “He’ll catch a death of cold out here, he stays.”
“Get him under some covers,” Benjamin told Will. He was kneeling on Jack’s other side.
“Storm’s movin’ off,” Ana added. “Go light your forge, take him there.”
“What the hell were you doing taking off your rope?” Will demanded suddenly, nearly yelling at Benjamin. He was angry, irrationally so, and his nerves were too raw to censor himself. “It nearly got him killed!”
While the man looked sheepish, it wasn’t for what Will thought. “The captain didn’t have a rope for himself,” Benjamin answered, shaking his head. “He was holding on to the mast line. I was going to share mine – nobody misses an old man, but I think a captain gone to Davey Jones might cause some problems for the ship.”
He looked so sincere and truthful, and leaving himself without a rope if there weren’t enough was just the sort of unexpected, misguidedly noble thing Jack might actually do, that Will sighed, deflated. “I’m sorry,” he said, hands still on Jack’s chest.
“Let’s get you both to the smithy,” Benjamin waved it off. “Get him up, and let’s be quick.”
Getting his arms beneath Jack’s still form, Will inhaled and forced a quick burst of energy. He climbed to his feet, nearly staggering from exhaustion and muscle ache, but curled his arms around Jack, surprised at how small the man felt. He was bedraggled and missing his newest red headscarf, soaked to the skin. The smith followed Benjamin quickly as he could, taking advantage of a rare calm half-minute to cross deck to the steps that led below.
*****
On to Part 4 ...
Jerking to attention, Jack stood in a swift motion that belied his age and slightly arthritic knees. He turned to look off into the horizon Pearl was approaching, and Will used the opportunity to scramble to his feet, as well. He blinked into the sunlight – they’d been in the shadow of the stairwell, somewhat hidden from much of the crew – and realized the sunlight was no longer a problem. “Why’s there a mist?” he asked aloud. “Too late in the day for fog.”
“Eddies,” Jack explained. “’S not a typical rain that’s comin’. Bloody tropical storm, or maybe a hurricane.”
“Isn’t it the wrong time of year for that?” Will asked, worried. Jack was rarely wrong when it came to weather prediction, but he hadn’t expressed much concern the night before when he’d announced a storm might be headed in their general direction.
“Aye, but least that explains why I didn’ give it more room than I have.” He looked and sounded angry, and proceeded to start giving orders. “Drop canvas! Store ever’thing below – if it’s not tied, make sure ‘tis in th’ next half-hour!” He paused, turned back to Will. “Make sure your fire’s out completely,” he ordered.
He didn’t know for how long everyone rushed and worked, tied, hauled ropes to the deck to tie crew members to the ship. Jack ordered as many to stay below as possible, both for safety and to bail and patch any rips in Pearl’s hull from the oncoming storm. He was one of the few who stayed up on deck, and he and Will damn near came to blows when the captain tried to order the blacksmith below, until some urgent matter or other demanded Jack’s attention. He threw Will a disapproving look, but the smith ignored him and worked on tying knots and checking tie-downs on equipment, narrowing his eyes against the tiny nail-like drops of rain already peppering the deck.
Several minutes later, the rainfall increased and it didn’t take long to gain such volume and sluice across the deck as though waves were leaping to claim the ship – Will was already worried this was a literal inevitability, since the sea was so choppy that Pearl actually dove and rocked rather than her usual bobbing. He helped Jack make sure everyone was tied to the mast or hooks in the planking, as the sound of the storm increased, before wrapping his own rope around his midsection. Then, he found a rope and sat down to maintain his balance and become a more difficult target to blow overboard, as he tied a secure knot.
He was just in time. Not two minutes later, the ship started rocking more violently side to side. Will steadied himself, forcing himself not to vomit – his sea legs had taken a while to kick in, but they had eventually. He would not embarrass himself by throwing up after nearly a year doing this, he would not, Oh no he wouldn’t.
Water pounded the deck, driven by high winds that whipped harder, sending the heavy ship nearly twirling in the water. Jack hadn’t dropped anchor because to do so might put them in a worse predicament – as long as the ship could drift, her planks had a better chance of staying neighbors with one another, instead of being ripped from her iron. Logically, Will understood, but his stomach argued violently with his common sense.
Old Benjamin hadn’t made it below in time, and was wrapping his rope around his wrist. Wait, it was tied to his waist a few minutes ago! Will scrambled to his knees to crawl to the physic, pausing at every forward push to hunker closer to deck, actually falling back twice, wondering why the hell the man had uncoupled himself in the first place, and what he thought he would actually be protecting by only holding the rope. This wind was too violent to trust to anything less than a good sailor’s knot; Will was having trouble even seeing, the rain driven into his eyelids by gusts that whipped his hair around into his eyes every time he opened them, too.
When next he looked up, he saw Benjamin trying to get to his feet. Will knew the man was a little old, but he seemed sane enough and practical, not given to stupid chances such as this. Well, not without a good reason. He looked around, blinking and squinting, wondering what was going on, and then he heard Jack’s shouting between the wind gusts.
“Stand down … an order … the hell do you …? Not important! I … a direct order!”
Benjamin was moving toward something, now on his feet, stopping to hunker every step or two. Will kept crawling, resisting the urge to get up and run for him, tackle him to the deck for his own good. He hugged to the wood on all fours as he moved.
Behind him, the wind shifted momentarily and slammed the ship at starboard. Will fell to the palms of his hands, having already forgotten the splinter wound, but something more painful caught his attention anyway – Benjamin was thrown off-balance and backwards, skittering toward the rail. Will opened his mouth to shout in protest, as if that would help, the words dying when he saw Jack stumble into the man and push him toward deck. Will exhaled and pushed himself to his knees once more, relieved – then frowned. He noticed no rope leading to Jack’s waist. “Jack!” he called, as the man climbed to his feet, presumably to go back to his own rope. “Jack, get down!”
He doubted he was ever heard, but his vision was crystal-clear for what happened next. As soon as the captain gained his feet, pulling himself up by the rail, a wave crashed into starboard, knocking his hold loose. He danced back with that eerie grace only Jack Sparrow could maintain in a terrific storm and as soon as the ship rocked back on her keel, he shook his head, throwing dark, choppy locks of hair behind his shoulders. Neptune could rattle, but Sparrow could flitter.
Another port wave hit. Hard, this time.
Will knew it was going to happen, but he still gasped when Jack was thrown forward and tumbled over the railing with no ceremony, no grasping, no hitches. Just hit and tossed like a piece of driftwood. The smith waited just long enough for the deck to roll back, to get to his feet and run to the rail, holding it dearly and looking over into the choppy water. “Jack!” he called, knowing nobody could hear down there. “JACK!”
Immediately, he turned and yanked on his rope, seeing how much give its length offered. He was gripping the railing, lifting his leg over when someone grabbed his arm. “It’s not long enough!” Anamaria was shaking her head, holding her floppy hat on with her left hand to shield her eyes. “It’ll only get you to the water!”
“Get me one that is!” Will snapped.
“Where?” It was not helpless flailing, but genuine curiosity, since they were already using all the rope.
But Will was already tearing at the knot, yanking it apart with large hands made strong from years of grappling with metal and tools. The water made it more difficult to handle, and he pulled a dagger from his belt after a few seconds, impatiently slicing through the thick hemp and letting it fall to Ana’s hands. “Dump that barrel!” he ordered, pointing to one not far away.
“It’s gunpowder!”
“I don’t care if it’s gold!” Will cut her off. “Help me!”
It took them a couple of minutes to pry off the lid and knock the barrel over, scattering powder into paste on the deck. Will and Benjamin hauled it over the rail after Will hastily tied the ruined end of his rope to a small knothole near its open end, and Will scanned the water for Jack to make sure they didn’t hit him. He couldn’t even see the pirate, and felt his stomach lurch, despite realizing the wind was not blowing nearly as hard now. They dropped the barrel, and Will hauled himself up, still scanning the water. “Watch for me!” he told Ana and Benjamin, finally spotting white that didn’t look like foam. “Pull up the rope when you see both of us!”
He plunged beneath the surface and immediately began tearing his way toward air, ignoring the shock of the churning water made colder by currents deep below pulling lower temperatures toward the top. The last time he’d fallen this far from a ship, he’d been only ten and had barely managed to crawl aboard some wreckage before passing out – the possibility of it happening twice had haunted his dreams for several months following. Remembering his terror vividly now that he couldn’t even breathe, he grasped above him for air, not feeling it.
We’ll both die he thought. Please, don’t let Jack die – don’t let me die before I can get to him, God. I’ll … just help me.
He was close to bursting, passing out, when one hand felt wind. Tilting his face up, he broke the surface two seconds later, gasping oxygen hard and sharply. Rain still pelted him, but he blinked hard several times and forced himself to look around, locating the barrel a few feet away. He swam for it, grabbing its lip to float before he turned his attention back to looking for Jack. For good measure, he called the man’s name, yelling as loudly as he could, kicking his legs to rise higher above water level each time a small wave hit him.
Every few passing seconds alarmed him, as he knew nobody could fight for long in these conditions, not even the immortal, stupidly lucky Captain Jack Sparrow. His own lungs were working double time, his limbs getting rubbery and losing control. He gritted his teeth as he nearly went under again, and when he bobbed up, he screamed out in frustration. “Where the hell ARE you? Jack! JACK!”
Impossibly, something caught the corner of his vision. He jerked his head around, seeing a familiar beringed hand paw at the air twice before dropping. He was still several feet away, but if he could raise his arm, he was at least alive.
Will released the barrel and put on a burst of speed, paddling toward the white, soaked, linen-wrapped arm. He breathed out heavily when his hand closed around the wrist, and he pulled the man toward him. Jack was conscious, but barely, and he was moving sluggishly even with Will’s assistance. Getting an arm behind his captain’s back, the smith tugged at the waterlogged body, paddling with one arm toward the ship. Jack apparently noticed and tried to help, leaning forward to swim alongside him.
Upon reaching the barrel, Will tried to upend it. Again, Jack noticed and helped, pushing as much as he could until the water ran out and the barrel was once again floating on the water. Only one of them could fit, and one glance at Jack’s exhausted features told Will he couldn’t hang on to a rope long enough to be pulled up. Getting one arm beneath Jack, he held the lip of the barrel with the other hand while he helped the man inside it. Grabbing the rope himself and keeping one arm around Jack, Will tugged hard to signal, hoping people were left to hoist – the wind was still howling and the ship was still rocking, leaning dangerously hard toward them.
For a couple of minutes, nothing happened. When someone finally started to pull and the barrel slapped the side of the ship, Will felt Jack go slack. He tightened his arm, holding him like that as they bumped up the side of Pearl, ascending slower than he would’ve liked.
Ana steadied the barrel as Benjamin helped Will over the rail, then both men pulled Jack up. He sagged to deck, still unconscious; Will dropped to a knee and checked Jack’s pulse, making sure it wasn’t as bad as the suddenly-pale man looked. “He’s freezing,” Will commented, shaking his head. “He’ll catch a death of cold out here, he stays.”
“Get him under some covers,” Benjamin told Will. He was kneeling on Jack’s other side.
“Storm’s movin’ off,” Ana added. “Go light your forge, take him there.”
“What the hell were you doing taking off your rope?” Will demanded suddenly, nearly yelling at Benjamin. He was angry, irrationally so, and his nerves were too raw to censor himself. “It nearly got him killed!”
While the man looked sheepish, it wasn’t for what Will thought. “The captain didn’t have a rope for himself,” Benjamin answered, shaking his head. “He was holding on to the mast line. I was going to share mine – nobody misses an old man, but I think a captain gone to Davey Jones might cause some problems for the ship.”
He looked so sincere and truthful, and leaving himself without a rope if there weren’t enough was just the sort of unexpected, misguidedly noble thing Jack might actually do, that Will sighed, deflated. “I’m sorry,” he said, hands still on Jack’s chest.
“Let’s get you both to the smithy,” Benjamin waved it off. “Get him up, and let’s be quick.”
Getting his arms beneath Jack’s still form, Will inhaled and forced a quick burst of energy. He climbed to his feet, nearly staggering from exhaustion and muscle ache, but curled his arms around Jack, surprised at how small the man felt. He was bedraggled and missing his newest red headscarf, soaked to the skin. The smith followed Benjamin quickly as he could, taking advantage of a rare calm half-minute to cross deck to the steps that led below.
*****
On to Part 4 ...
