Fic: "Contradictions 3: Lose" (Part 2)
Jun. 1st, 2011 06:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
veronica_richThis is a continuation of a POTC fic. See Part 1 for disclaimers, etc.
As Jack dozed, his subconscious filled in gaps between what his mind called for and what his conscience dictated …
“Oh, Jack … it must be terrible for you, to be stuck on this island …”
“What? Oh … um, yes, it is terrible, but the company is-” He pulled away a bit to say something different to Elizabeth, but she was no longer there. Seated next to him on the sand, next to the campfire, was Will. His vest was gone, as were his shoes and stockings, and his hair, unclubbed, fell around his shoulders.
Jack stumbled over his words, throat closing up at the glow of fire through the strands of Will’s lightening hair. “Th’ company’s infinitely better than last time … and th’ scenery …” He couldn’t finish around the constriction below his Adam’s apple, especially not with Will tilting his head and gazing at him like that. “Rum?” he offered his bottle lamely.
“I don’t want your rum, Jack.”
“Well, technically speakin’, it’s not really mine t’ begin with.” Jack turned his attention to the squat, wide bottle, rolling it between his hands. “How’d you get here, instead o’ ‘Lizbeth?”
“You tell me. Your dream.”
“No, I was really here. This weren’t a dream.”
“Was I there?” Jack didn’t speak. “How, then?”
“I couldn’ stop thinking ‘bout ye,” Jack finally admitted. “Was worried t’ death that monster’s crew’d try something on ye while you’s their prisoner.”
“I’m here now.”
“I know.” Jack’s brain thought it was reliving actual events and, as such, tried to intervene by having its owner rise to his feet to get away from the younger man, though a bit drunkenly. Mainly because he was – well, drunk, not to put too fine a point on it. He swayed, and Will, who’d magically climbed to his feet as well, caught him by hands on his shoulders. “Ye shouldn’ be doin’ that, mate,” he mumbled, pulling back.
Innocently: “Why not, Jack?”
Remembering his silent vow to Bill that he’d honor his son’s space, Jack protested. “Stop sayin’ me name like that.”
“Like what, Jack?” For some reason, Will’s voice was right next to his ear, then. “Jack … oh, Jack …” he murmured, hands sliding down his shoulders; the captain felt a light quiver go through him. “Good God, Jack … yes, Jack …please, Jack …”
The object of that appellation twisted his head to the side abruptly, catching the speaker’s mouth with his own. He rationalized it was to shut Will up, but such a distant façade was difficult, at best, to maintain with a delectable young blacksmith’s tongue down one’s throat. Jack’s blood fired, his body moving of its own accord to wrestle his partner to the sugary sand, limbs and lips tangled. Every time the side of his nose brushed Will’s, the younger man moaned into his throat, and Jack would groan in return, until they were both panting, lips barely brushing, Will’s fingers wound into his dark, beaded locks, the heels of his hands cradling Jack’s jaws just below his earlobes. “Jack,” he whispered into his lover’s mouth.
“Will …” He could feel the cry in his throat, the way he spoke the name different from every other time he addressed his friend. He opened his eyes to see the smith’s, which were large and dark, only inches away, hotly roving his features as if searching for a focal point to ground them; certainly, at least Jack felt like he was falling.
And then Will tilted his chin up to meet Jack’s lips again, and the captain let his eyes fall shut, drowsily laving kisses on that windburned, delicious mouth, which pushed back, parting and smiling for him – for him, alone – and spoke occasional whispered snippets of endearment-
A horrific booming noise shattered Jack’s dream, snapping him from intense fantasy into clammy reality in the space of less than two seconds. He sat straight up, sheet twisted between his bare legs, right fist up with a wicked six-inch blade gripped tightly within. He suspended his breathing, listening.
He didn’t have long to wait; less than a minute later, another deafening report rocked his cabin, and he ripped the sheet away with his free hand, feet on the floor to cross the short distance to the sideboard. Tossing the dagger point-first into a scarred wooden beam of the wall, he made short work of pulling on trousers, boots, shirt, and sash and loading up assorted weapons, accomplishing the feat in less than three minutes. Yanking his door open, he was met in the corridor by a few crew members who’d apparently not taken the same care in dressing, a couple not wearing anything at all.
“Dress and on deck,” Jack growled at them, yanking a scarf into a hard knot at the back of his head. “Now!”
As the crowd hurriedly moved out, an exhausted-looking Will stepped forth, rubbing his face. “Where’re we at?” he yawned. He was dressed, but his own billowing shirt was untucked, and the cuffs hung from slender forearms, unbuttoned.
“S what I intend t’ find out.” Normally, Jack might’ve appreciated the view; now, he barely noticed, not even having time or presence of mind to feel abashed at what had been on his mind regarding this man not five minutes earlier. “Round up a coupla the crew and check th’ cannons,” he ordered. “I wan’ know who’s firin’ and why. Bring them on deck.” With that, he spun and lightly sprinted for the steps leading to deck, taking them two at a time.
Halfway across the deck, Jack stopped. Stock-still. He tilted his head back, looking into the sky as he made a slow circle, ending by facing the bow. Those stars should be to port, he deduced. It didn’t take a scientist to figure out what had happened, and Jack turned himself back toward the stern, ready to demand answers from Cotton at the helm.
Only it wasn’t Cotton … “Where’s th’ helmsman?” Jack demanded, coming up the steps carefully to face Curly.
“You’re looking at ‘im.”
Jack didn’t care at all for the tone, pausing at the top of the steps, hands at his sides. “No, I’m lookin’ at me newest prisoner, I don’t get th’ answer I want,” he replied with false calm. “Where is Mr. Cotton?”
A small, curious smile flitted across Curly’s sunburned features. “Takin’ a nap.”
Somewhere in the red haze settling across his mind, Jack gave short pause to hope the mute – and his parrot – were still among the living. “I see,” he continued, moving imperceptibly closer. “And who’d be helpin’ ye in this?”
“You, in about ten minutes.” He lifted a hand toward the bow. “We’re comin’ up on her, probably be close enough to board in less than a knot.”
Despite himself, Jack craned his head toward the bow, and caught in his peripheral vision something being held out to him. “Go on,” smirked Curly, nodding with more confidence, probably since he was still standing on the boat and not swimming through sharks. Jack took the telescope and extended it, hoping the moon would shed enough light to explain what the hell was going on, though he had a sinking feeling he already knew.
Sometimes, he really hated being perceptive.
The ship he’d refused to approach and board earlier in the day – at least he was fairly sure it was one and the same – was plowing their direction, practically on a collision course, and Jack came to a sickening realization. “We fired on her,” he murmured, lowering the telescope. He ignored the sailors pounding to deck from below, and turned to face the tall redhead at the helm again. “You fired on her,” he amended, voice sobering as he felt his insides clench, chill.
“Well … technically speakin’, Captain, you fired on her. Bein’s the Pearl is your ship.” Curly slapped the wheel sharply, jovially. “Shall I give the order to drop anchor, or would you like to?”
Jack had never been so drunk he couldn’t remember what was happening at any given time, and he rarely imbibed even enough to be mildly tipsy, despite appearances to the contrary. It was in such a stupor many years before in some dive in Tortuga, though, that he’d concluded he possessed quite a long tether between the spark of someone making him angry, and snapping on following through with any action acknowledging it. Frankly, the snap had damn near come when cannon fire had jolted him out of a perfectly pleasant wet dream, and Curly had just provided the lovely shearing of said rope.
He only knew he moved; he had no real idea what he’d done until he was holding the redhead bent back over the rail by his stringy hair, the man screeching in pain as the fingers of his left hand wiggled, tried to claw away from their master, which had been pinioned palm-up to the wooden rail by the dagger Jack usually cradled in sleep more intimately than any lover. Instead of being shocked, Jack allowed the hot blood to course. “Now what I need from you,” he calmly addressed the wailing mutineer, “are names.”
“N-Names?” the man managed to hitch out between cries of pain.
“Glad to know your hearing isn’t affected. Names,” he repeated calmly, yanking on the hair in the opposite direction of the pinned hand. “Who’s helping you?”
“I c-can’t-”
“Do you know the average shark can smell blood up to over a knot away?” Jack lectured. “Smart, hungry boys, they are. These waters are positively riddled with th’ buggers, and I doubt they’d turn down a free meal, even one such as yourself, Curly.”
“C-Connors! Connors helped me!”
“And?”
“Just … him! No one else!”
Jack gave his hair a vicious yank. “Who else?” he snarled. “God damn it, TELL ME!”
“Nobody! I swear t-to God! Me mother’s own g-grave!”
“And that’s supposed to make me believe ye?” Jack leaned in very close, the tip of his nose touching the man’s quivering bottom lip. “As if your mother’d be anything great to swear ‘pon, you son of a bitch.”
“Jack. Captain.”
“What?” he ground out, not taking his eyes from Curly.
“We found Connors. And Cotton; he’s hurt, but alive.”
Somewhere in Jack’s mind, it recognized Will’s voice not too far behind him. “Bring Connors up here.”
“Captain, we-”
“I said bring him forth.” Jack closed his eyes, trying to find something calm where there was none – not even for Will Turner.
“Jack,” the voice appealed rationally, “the other ship’s almost on us, and we really need to be-”
“Are you incapable of following a simple order, Mr. Turner?” Jack wheeled, releasing Curly, and closed the distance between himself and Will so quickly the smith actually took a couple of steps back. “I said, bring him up here, NOW!”
Will’s eyes widened and he swallowed, but he didn’t have any other visible reaction. “Yes, sir,” he answered a bit scratchily, turning on his heel and striding down the steps at a measured, stiff pace.
Eyes intently on the approaching vessel, Jack grabbed the front of Connors’s tunic when he was near enough, dragging the man to the rail next to his buddy. Reaching forward, he plucked his dagger from the hand and wood, ignoring Curly’s yelp of pain. Not taking his eyes from them, he called for Ana, who joined him on deck shortly. “Meet our diplomats,” he told her in clipped tones, gesturing to the two frightened men.
“What’re they doing, Captain?” she wanted to know.
“Why, this is our welcoming committee,” he gestured with a wave of his wrist that had sacrificed its trademark grace for jerkiness from white-hot anger. “They’ll be at the front of th’ boardin’ party.”
Ana pulled at his shirt from behind and in a low voice, murmured in his ear, “So we’re attacking, then?”
Jack looked at her very briefly, then raised his voice. “You don’t have to whisper – crew deserves to know what’s happening.” Gesturing sharply toward the two men, he silently sent Ana over to guard them, then moved to the steps to speak to his crew.
“We have aboard two traitors who’ve taken it ‘pon themselves to engage us in an attack on the ship we spotted earlier in the day,” he let his command voice carry the words out across the deck. “Because we’ve already fired – and seeing as we’re not exactly on Mother England’s good side right now-” Here he paused, anticipating, and getting, guffaws at the understatement. “We are indeed going to fight and board.”
He cut himself off as an equal mixture of rowdy cheers and exhausted groans went up from those assembled; it seemed some of the crew remembered well enough his hesitation earlier in the day. If he were proven right – as he suspected he would be soon enough – at least this would stand as an example against mutiny in the future. As if Barbossa weren’t warning enough, he snorted inwardly. Curly and Connors had been part of the Interceptor crew and should’ve known better. They deserved whatever came their way; the rest of the crew didn’t.
“Damn it all to hell,” he muttered to himself, palms gripping the rail as he continued to face the bow and a likely foolish decision he had no control over. Some days, he really hated being the guy wearing the big hat.
Despite appearances to the contrary – tales of indolent pirates suddenly spying a ship, leaping up, and scuttling over and easily besting the innocents after firing a few suppressive cannon shots – executing a raid was rather hard work, and not to be undertaken with only five minutes’ planning. Jack’s crew, like any good one – “good” meaning “still alive” – not only kept their ship in shape but themselves as well; Jack insisted on drills and had recently put Will in charge to help those challenged by wielding swords.
Nevertheless, Jack faced the fact he only had minutes to prepare further attack and a boarding party to follow up. He directed that Connors and Curly be tied to the mizzenmast until further order, and the rest of the crew to their various stations – cannons, armory, ropes, and grapples. Though he normally would’ve been the first one at the bow, ready to board, Jack hauled himself up a bit into the rigging and extended his telescope, thankful for the full moon still overhead. What little light it cast showed the ship steadily plowing closer, no signs of surrender.
Jack squinted; he couldn’t be sure, but he thought it sailed beneath a military flag. Glancing down around deck, he spotted the best pair of eyes on the Pearl. “David!” he bellowed, getting the boy’s attention. “Front an’ center!” He snapped his fingers, indicating the youth should join him on the mast.
Without question, David scrabbled up the mast, crablike, perching just below Jack’s position. “Captain?” he asked, cocking his head in eager confusion; the pirate could imagine he liked feeling useful.
“Take a look at that an’ tell me what you see.” He offered his glass, and David accepted, turning to face the bow and extending the glass, balancing himself in rigging and craning forward to concentrate. Jack put out a hand on the boy’s shoulder to steady him, almost holding his breath to hear the verdict.
It was a couple of minutes before David apparently felt confident enough to speak. “It looks as though they’re sailing under a French flag, sir.”
“What do ye see on deck?” Jack lifted his chin and stared over David’s head, as though he could discern from this distance with naked eye.
A hesitant pause. “Doesn’t look like officers. No uniforms.”
“Hmm.” Jack had seen the same thing and didn’t want to think about what it meant. “That’ll be all, boy. Get down an’ out of sight.”
“Sir,” David turned and handed back his telescope, “I can help. I can load-”
“I gave you a direct order, whelp.” Jack’s tone was hard and unyielding. “Do ye mean to imply you know ship’s business better ‘n I do?”
David blinked, then silently shook his head. Jack noticed a set to his jaw and mused on how much it resembled one of Will’s scowls. “Off with ye,” he pushed down on the lad’s shoulder, clearly dismissing him. “Hide, or I’ll have yours.”
Jack fairly slid down the ropes and landed on deck with a thump of booted heels. Looking about, he found Ana overseeing preparations at port to prepare small weapons and board. Pulling her back by an elbow, he leaned in and spoke near her ear. “Get below and oversee th’ cannons,” he ordered.
She turned, giving him an odd look of consternation and curiosity. “That’s Mart’s job.”
“Well, then go help him. I’ll get after this,” he gestured toward the men readying to board. “I wan’ a full volley on her ‘til we get aboard, once I give th‘ order; then I want you at the helm, ready to make way on a moment’s notice. I give th’ signal, ye be ready to turn an’ plow.”
“Are you sure it’s wise to-”
“Dammit, woman, does everyone think me daft this mornin’?” Jack ground out in exasperation. “’M the captain, and I oughtn’t be questioned so much. I occasionally know what ’m doing.” Pitching his voice lower, he didn’t drop his tone. “Why in th’ world would I come up with such a plan if I never intended t’ need it, anyway?”
“Who knows why you do the things you do?” Ana sassed, but shook her head and turned to head off. Jack grabbed her elbow again. “Savvy?” he pressed through gritted teeth.
“Aye, Captain.” She shook herself free. “I’ve never refused to follow your orders.”
Jack said nothing as she walked off, unable to rebut that. He approached the crew sorting out ropes and hooks, and paused briefly to inspect each pirate’s progress. “Listen up!” he called about him to get their attention for the second time in less than a day; all paused, and Jack looked them over, resting his eyes on Will briefly at each pass to anchor his thoughts. “I’ve real simple orders for you dogs: On deck, attack where ye can, scramble back o’er here.”
“The cargo, Cap’n?” piped up one of the newer sailors.
“Leave it,” Jack ordered gruffly, shaking his head, beads swinging slightly. “Don’t have time for spoils; this’n’s not a ship to be messin’ with. Shouldn’t’ve attacked in the first place,” he scowled darkly, stiffening his shoulders. “But what’s done is done, and our best bet is t’ get th’ crew and the Pearl out safe, avoid being chased if we can. Means you all come back when I give th‘ order to follow th‘ plan.” He flicked his eyes beyond the rail and frowned anew at the ship bearing down; it would be within firing range in mere minutes. “Damn thing can’t even be sunk properly.”
Still, it had to be tried. Turning on his heel, Jack headed below to the cannons. He passed pirates in various stages of preparation along the way, mostly strapping on blades and checking pistols for shot and powder. As his boots clipped along the time-dampened thick wood, he wondered about heading back to his own cabin for coat and hat – wasn’t quite proper for the captain to go boarding looking like a common crewman – but quickly pushed the notion aside as he reached the cannons.
Weaving through rushing men, Jack crouched across the largest gun from Mart, who was undoubtedly standing on a crate to see over the iron. “They all ready?” Jack queried.
The midget nodded, apprehension slightly coloring his expression. “It’s a big ship, Captain.”
“I don’t ‘spect we’ll be sendin’ her down t’ see Ol’ Hob,” Jack assured him. “I just need her crew distracted by a bigger problem so we can get over an’ hopefully, disable enough of the crew that we can get away intact.” As he spoke, Jack patted the iron, as if encouraging it.
“No swag, then?”
Jack reflected this was probably the longest conversation he’d held with Mart. “Too risky; half our people’d get maimed or killed in the process. Better to come back, live to raid, pillage, an’ plunder some other day.”
“Well, I can guarantee we’ll keep them distracted for at least a while,” Mart nodded. “But we’ll not want to be using up all the ammunition.”
“Someone needs to be at the helm.” Ana’s voice cut into their conference from behind the cannon, where she stood with hands on her hips.
“Aye, that’d be you,” Jack nodded. He cut a glance sideways at Mart, but the smaller man said nothing.
She arched a dark brow at the ensuing silence. “No last-minute pearls of wisdom?”
“Jus’ don’ run me ship into a reef or an isle, or pick up any more curses,” he half-growled. “Had to work like th’ devil to get rid of the last one.”
“Good luck, Jack.” With that, Ana left, and Jack and Mart were left once again facing each other over the cannon. “How long?” the captain tilted his head toward the other ship, which the Pearl had turned hard to port to attack.
“Couple more minutes,” the chief gunner replied, his faced tilted toward the sea, judging, measuring.
Sparrow was quiet a bit longer. “Ye know,” he finally spoke, “maybe I’ve been hasty, not lettin’ ye at the helm. With a crate, in calm seas, you could prob’ly fare well.”
“And why not rough waters?” Mart pushed. “It’s not like I’ve never helmed a vessel before, Captain. Just because I’ve not the long legs of a gazelle doesn’t mean I can’t hold my own.” Jack lifted a curious brow at the tone. “After all, he’s less experience being a seaman than I do.”
“It is the height,” the captain admitted. “But th’ whelp’s good-” Jack caught himself; to a man Mart’s age, it probably wouldn’t help being reminded someone a few years younger was being given responsibility he’d been denied thus far. “Turner’s a good choice to steer th’ helm. He’s all that upper-body muscle from workin’ the anvil for so many years. And he can see over it without any help, mate.”
Mart said nothing, and Jack took his silence for acquiescence and let it stand for the next couple of moments, until the midget moved along the iron toward the fuse. He caught his captain’s eye and nodded, and Jack’s hand immediately went to his sash, feeling for the guns, daggers, and sword he’d buckled on so shortly before. He cast his eye once again on the approaching ship, still bow-first facing the Pearl; its guns were not aimed this way, and Jack was highly suspicious. Once again he was reminded why he didn’t want to take on the French vessel.
Finally, he could take no more waiting; it was time, or else. “Or else, indeed,” he muttered under his breath, then stood a bit taller in the confined vertical space of the gunnery. Glancing about at the prepared pirates manning the other cannons, Jack caught Mart’s eye, nodded, and brought the flat of his hand down hard on the iron.
“FIRE!”
On to Part 3 ...
As Jack dozed, his subconscious filled in gaps between what his mind called for and what his conscience dictated …
“Oh, Jack … it must be terrible for you, to be stuck on this island …”
“What? Oh … um, yes, it is terrible, but the company is-” He pulled away a bit to say something different to Elizabeth, but she was no longer there. Seated next to him on the sand, next to the campfire, was Will. His vest was gone, as were his shoes and stockings, and his hair, unclubbed, fell around his shoulders.
Jack stumbled over his words, throat closing up at the glow of fire through the strands of Will’s lightening hair. “Th’ company’s infinitely better than last time … and th’ scenery …” He couldn’t finish around the constriction below his Adam’s apple, especially not with Will tilting his head and gazing at him like that. “Rum?” he offered his bottle lamely.
“I don’t want your rum, Jack.”
“Well, technically speakin’, it’s not really mine t’ begin with.” Jack turned his attention to the squat, wide bottle, rolling it between his hands. “How’d you get here, instead o’ ‘Lizbeth?”
“You tell me. Your dream.”
“No, I was really here. This weren’t a dream.”
“Was I there?” Jack didn’t speak. “How, then?”
“I couldn’ stop thinking ‘bout ye,” Jack finally admitted. “Was worried t’ death that monster’s crew’d try something on ye while you’s their prisoner.”
“I’m here now.”
“I know.” Jack’s brain thought it was reliving actual events and, as such, tried to intervene by having its owner rise to his feet to get away from the younger man, though a bit drunkenly. Mainly because he was – well, drunk, not to put too fine a point on it. He swayed, and Will, who’d magically climbed to his feet as well, caught him by hands on his shoulders. “Ye shouldn’ be doin’ that, mate,” he mumbled, pulling back.
Innocently: “Why not, Jack?”
Remembering his silent vow to Bill that he’d honor his son’s space, Jack protested. “Stop sayin’ me name like that.”
“Like what, Jack?” For some reason, Will’s voice was right next to his ear, then. “Jack … oh, Jack …” he murmured, hands sliding down his shoulders; the captain felt a light quiver go through him. “Good God, Jack … yes, Jack …please, Jack …”
The object of that appellation twisted his head to the side abruptly, catching the speaker’s mouth with his own. He rationalized it was to shut Will up, but such a distant façade was difficult, at best, to maintain with a delectable young blacksmith’s tongue down one’s throat. Jack’s blood fired, his body moving of its own accord to wrestle his partner to the sugary sand, limbs and lips tangled. Every time the side of his nose brushed Will’s, the younger man moaned into his throat, and Jack would groan in return, until they were both panting, lips barely brushing, Will’s fingers wound into his dark, beaded locks, the heels of his hands cradling Jack’s jaws just below his earlobes. “Jack,” he whispered into his lover’s mouth.
“Will …” He could feel the cry in his throat, the way he spoke the name different from every other time he addressed his friend. He opened his eyes to see the smith’s, which were large and dark, only inches away, hotly roving his features as if searching for a focal point to ground them; certainly, at least Jack felt like he was falling.
And then Will tilted his chin up to meet Jack’s lips again, and the captain let his eyes fall shut, drowsily laving kisses on that windburned, delicious mouth, which pushed back, parting and smiling for him – for him, alone – and spoke occasional whispered snippets of endearment-
A horrific booming noise shattered Jack’s dream, snapping him from intense fantasy into clammy reality in the space of less than two seconds. He sat straight up, sheet twisted between his bare legs, right fist up with a wicked six-inch blade gripped tightly within. He suspended his breathing, listening.
He didn’t have long to wait; less than a minute later, another deafening report rocked his cabin, and he ripped the sheet away with his free hand, feet on the floor to cross the short distance to the sideboard. Tossing the dagger point-first into a scarred wooden beam of the wall, he made short work of pulling on trousers, boots, shirt, and sash and loading up assorted weapons, accomplishing the feat in less than three minutes. Yanking his door open, he was met in the corridor by a few crew members who’d apparently not taken the same care in dressing, a couple not wearing anything at all.
“Dress and on deck,” Jack growled at them, yanking a scarf into a hard knot at the back of his head. “Now!”
As the crowd hurriedly moved out, an exhausted-looking Will stepped forth, rubbing his face. “Where’re we at?” he yawned. He was dressed, but his own billowing shirt was untucked, and the cuffs hung from slender forearms, unbuttoned.
“S what I intend t’ find out.” Normally, Jack might’ve appreciated the view; now, he barely noticed, not even having time or presence of mind to feel abashed at what had been on his mind regarding this man not five minutes earlier. “Round up a coupla the crew and check th’ cannons,” he ordered. “I wan’ know who’s firin’ and why. Bring them on deck.” With that, he spun and lightly sprinted for the steps leading to deck, taking them two at a time.
Halfway across the deck, Jack stopped. Stock-still. He tilted his head back, looking into the sky as he made a slow circle, ending by facing the bow. Those stars should be to port, he deduced. It didn’t take a scientist to figure out what had happened, and Jack turned himself back toward the stern, ready to demand answers from Cotton at the helm.
Only it wasn’t Cotton … “Where’s th’ helmsman?” Jack demanded, coming up the steps carefully to face Curly.
“You’re looking at ‘im.”
Jack didn’t care at all for the tone, pausing at the top of the steps, hands at his sides. “No, I’m lookin’ at me newest prisoner, I don’t get th’ answer I want,” he replied with false calm. “Where is Mr. Cotton?”
A small, curious smile flitted across Curly’s sunburned features. “Takin’ a nap.”
Somewhere in the red haze settling across his mind, Jack gave short pause to hope the mute – and his parrot – were still among the living. “I see,” he continued, moving imperceptibly closer. “And who’d be helpin’ ye in this?”
“You, in about ten minutes.” He lifted a hand toward the bow. “We’re comin’ up on her, probably be close enough to board in less than a knot.”
Despite himself, Jack craned his head toward the bow, and caught in his peripheral vision something being held out to him. “Go on,” smirked Curly, nodding with more confidence, probably since he was still standing on the boat and not swimming through sharks. Jack took the telescope and extended it, hoping the moon would shed enough light to explain what the hell was going on, though he had a sinking feeling he already knew.
Sometimes, he really hated being perceptive.
The ship he’d refused to approach and board earlier in the day – at least he was fairly sure it was one and the same – was plowing their direction, practically on a collision course, and Jack came to a sickening realization. “We fired on her,” he murmured, lowering the telescope. He ignored the sailors pounding to deck from below, and turned to face the tall redhead at the helm again. “You fired on her,” he amended, voice sobering as he felt his insides clench, chill.
“Well … technically speakin’, Captain, you fired on her. Bein’s the Pearl is your ship.” Curly slapped the wheel sharply, jovially. “Shall I give the order to drop anchor, or would you like to?”
Jack had never been so drunk he couldn’t remember what was happening at any given time, and he rarely imbibed even enough to be mildly tipsy, despite appearances to the contrary. It was in such a stupor many years before in some dive in Tortuga, though, that he’d concluded he possessed quite a long tether between the spark of someone making him angry, and snapping on following through with any action acknowledging it. Frankly, the snap had damn near come when cannon fire had jolted him out of a perfectly pleasant wet dream, and Curly had just provided the lovely shearing of said rope.
He only knew he moved; he had no real idea what he’d done until he was holding the redhead bent back over the rail by his stringy hair, the man screeching in pain as the fingers of his left hand wiggled, tried to claw away from their master, which had been pinioned palm-up to the wooden rail by the dagger Jack usually cradled in sleep more intimately than any lover. Instead of being shocked, Jack allowed the hot blood to course. “Now what I need from you,” he calmly addressed the wailing mutineer, “are names.”
“N-Names?” the man managed to hitch out between cries of pain.
“Glad to know your hearing isn’t affected. Names,” he repeated calmly, yanking on the hair in the opposite direction of the pinned hand. “Who’s helping you?”
“I c-can’t-”
“Do you know the average shark can smell blood up to over a knot away?” Jack lectured. “Smart, hungry boys, they are. These waters are positively riddled with th’ buggers, and I doubt they’d turn down a free meal, even one such as yourself, Curly.”
“C-Connors! Connors helped me!”
“And?”
“Just … him! No one else!”
Jack gave his hair a vicious yank. “Who else?” he snarled. “God damn it, TELL ME!”
“Nobody! I swear t-to God! Me mother’s own g-grave!”
“And that’s supposed to make me believe ye?” Jack leaned in very close, the tip of his nose touching the man’s quivering bottom lip. “As if your mother’d be anything great to swear ‘pon, you son of a bitch.”
“Jack. Captain.”
“What?” he ground out, not taking his eyes from Curly.
“We found Connors. And Cotton; he’s hurt, but alive.”
Somewhere in Jack’s mind, it recognized Will’s voice not too far behind him. “Bring Connors up here.”
“Captain, we-”
“I said bring him forth.” Jack closed his eyes, trying to find something calm where there was none – not even for Will Turner.
“Jack,” the voice appealed rationally, “the other ship’s almost on us, and we really need to be-”
“Are you incapable of following a simple order, Mr. Turner?” Jack wheeled, releasing Curly, and closed the distance between himself and Will so quickly the smith actually took a couple of steps back. “I said, bring him up here, NOW!”
Will’s eyes widened and he swallowed, but he didn’t have any other visible reaction. “Yes, sir,” he answered a bit scratchily, turning on his heel and striding down the steps at a measured, stiff pace.
Eyes intently on the approaching vessel, Jack grabbed the front of Connors’s tunic when he was near enough, dragging the man to the rail next to his buddy. Reaching forward, he plucked his dagger from the hand and wood, ignoring Curly’s yelp of pain. Not taking his eyes from them, he called for Ana, who joined him on deck shortly. “Meet our diplomats,” he told her in clipped tones, gesturing to the two frightened men.
“What’re they doing, Captain?” she wanted to know.
“Why, this is our welcoming committee,” he gestured with a wave of his wrist that had sacrificed its trademark grace for jerkiness from white-hot anger. “They’ll be at the front of th’ boardin’ party.”
Ana pulled at his shirt from behind and in a low voice, murmured in his ear, “So we’re attacking, then?”
Jack looked at her very briefly, then raised his voice. “You don’t have to whisper – crew deserves to know what’s happening.” Gesturing sharply toward the two men, he silently sent Ana over to guard them, then moved to the steps to speak to his crew.
“We have aboard two traitors who’ve taken it ‘pon themselves to engage us in an attack on the ship we spotted earlier in the day,” he let his command voice carry the words out across the deck. “Because we’ve already fired – and seeing as we’re not exactly on Mother England’s good side right now-” Here he paused, anticipating, and getting, guffaws at the understatement. “We are indeed going to fight and board.”
He cut himself off as an equal mixture of rowdy cheers and exhausted groans went up from those assembled; it seemed some of the crew remembered well enough his hesitation earlier in the day. If he were proven right – as he suspected he would be soon enough – at least this would stand as an example against mutiny in the future. As if Barbossa weren’t warning enough, he snorted inwardly. Curly and Connors had been part of the Interceptor crew and should’ve known better. They deserved whatever came their way; the rest of the crew didn’t.
“Damn it all to hell,” he muttered to himself, palms gripping the rail as he continued to face the bow and a likely foolish decision he had no control over. Some days, he really hated being the guy wearing the big hat.
Despite appearances to the contrary – tales of indolent pirates suddenly spying a ship, leaping up, and scuttling over and easily besting the innocents after firing a few suppressive cannon shots – executing a raid was rather hard work, and not to be undertaken with only five minutes’ planning. Jack’s crew, like any good one – “good” meaning “still alive” – not only kept their ship in shape but themselves as well; Jack insisted on drills and had recently put Will in charge to help those challenged by wielding swords.
Nevertheless, Jack faced the fact he only had minutes to prepare further attack and a boarding party to follow up. He directed that Connors and Curly be tied to the mizzenmast until further order, and the rest of the crew to their various stations – cannons, armory, ropes, and grapples. Though he normally would’ve been the first one at the bow, ready to board, Jack hauled himself up a bit into the rigging and extended his telescope, thankful for the full moon still overhead. What little light it cast showed the ship steadily plowing closer, no signs of surrender.
Jack squinted; he couldn’t be sure, but he thought it sailed beneath a military flag. Glancing down around deck, he spotted the best pair of eyes on the Pearl. “David!” he bellowed, getting the boy’s attention. “Front an’ center!” He snapped his fingers, indicating the youth should join him on the mast.
Without question, David scrabbled up the mast, crablike, perching just below Jack’s position. “Captain?” he asked, cocking his head in eager confusion; the pirate could imagine he liked feeling useful.
“Take a look at that an’ tell me what you see.” He offered his glass, and David accepted, turning to face the bow and extending the glass, balancing himself in rigging and craning forward to concentrate. Jack put out a hand on the boy’s shoulder to steady him, almost holding his breath to hear the verdict.
It was a couple of minutes before David apparently felt confident enough to speak. “It looks as though they’re sailing under a French flag, sir.”
“What do ye see on deck?” Jack lifted his chin and stared over David’s head, as though he could discern from this distance with naked eye.
A hesitant pause. “Doesn’t look like officers. No uniforms.”
“Hmm.” Jack had seen the same thing and didn’t want to think about what it meant. “That’ll be all, boy. Get down an’ out of sight.”
“Sir,” David turned and handed back his telescope, “I can help. I can load-”
“I gave you a direct order, whelp.” Jack’s tone was hard and unyielding. “Do ye mean to imply you know ship’s business better ‘n I do?”
David blinked, then silently shook his head. Jack noticed a set to his jaw and mused on how much it resembled one of Will’s scowls. “Off with ye,” he pushed down on the lad’s shoulder, clearly dismissing him. “Hide, or I’ll have yours.”
Jack fairly slid down the ropes and landed on deck with a thump of booted heels. Looking about, he found Ana overseeing preparations at port to prepare small weapons and board. Pulling her back by an elbow, he leaned in and spoke near her ear. “Get below and oversee th’ cannons,” he ordered.
She turned, giving him an odd look of consternation and curiosity. “That’s Mart’s job.”
“Well, then go help him. I’ll get after this,” he gestured toward the men readying to board. “I wan’ a full volley on her ‘til we get aboard, once I give th‘ order; then I want you at the helm, ready to make way on a moment’s notice. I give th’ signal, ye be ready to turn an’ plow.”
“Are you sure it’s wise to-”
“Dammit, woman, does everyone think me daft this mornin’?” Jack ground out in exasperation. “’M the captain, and I oughtn’t be questioned so much. I occasionally know what ’m doing.” Pitching his voice lower, he didn’t drop his tone. “Why in th’ world would I come up with such a plan if I never intended t’ need it, anyway?”
“Who knows why you do the things you do?” Ana sassed, but shook her head and turned to head off. Jack grabbed her elbow again. “Savvy?” he pressed through gritted teeth.
“Aye, Captain.” She shook herself free. “I’ve never refused to follow your orders.”
Jack said nothing as she walked off, unable to rebut that. He approached the crew sorting out ropes and hooks, and paused briefly to inspect each pirate’s progress. “Listen up!” he called about him to get their attention for the second time in less than a day; all paused, and Jack looked them over, resting his eyes on Will briefly at each pass to anchor his thoughts. “I’ve real simple orders for you dogs: On deck, attack where ye can, scramble back o’er here.”
“The cargo, Cap’n?” piped up one of the newer sailors.
“Leave it,” Jack ordered gruffly, shaking his head, beads swinging slightly. “Don’t have time for spoils; this’n’s not a ship to be messin’ with. Shouldn’t’ve attacked in the first place,” he scowled darkly, stiffening his shoulders. “But what’s done is done, and our best bet is t’ get th’ crew and the Pearl out safe, avoid being chased if we can. Means you all come back when I give th‘ order to follow th‘ plan.” He flicked his eyes beyond the rail and frowned anew at the ship bearing down; it would be within firing range in mere minutes. “Damn thing can’t even be sunk properly.”
Still, it had to be tried. Turning on his heel, Jack headed below to the cannons. He passed pirates in various stages of preparation along the way, mostly strapping on blades and checking pistols for shot and powder. As his boots clipped along the time-dampened thick wood, he wondered about heading back to his own cabin for coat and hat – wasn’t quite proper for the captain to go boarding looking like a common crewman – but quickly pushed the notion aside as he reached the cannons.
Weaving through rushing men, Jack crouched across the largest gun from Mart, who was undoubtedly standing on a crate to see over the iron. “They all ready?” Jack queried.
The midget nodded, apprehension slightly coloring his expression. “It’s a big ship, Captain.”
“I don’t ‘spect we’ll be sendin’ her down t’ see Ol’ Hob,” Jack assured him. “I just need her crew distracted by a bigger problem so we can get over an’ hopefully, disable enough of the crew that we can get away intact.” As he spoke, Jack patted the iron, as if encouraging it.
“No swag, then?”
Jack reflected this was probably the longest conversation he’d held with Mart. “Too risky; half our people’d get maimed or killed in the process. Better to come back, live to raid, pillage, an’ plunder some other day.”
“Well, I can guarantee we’ll keep them distracted for at least a while,” Mart nodded. “But we’ll not want to be using up all the ammunition.”
“Someone needs to be at the helm.” Ana’s voice cut into their conference from behind the cannon, where she stood with hands on her hips.
“Aye, that’d be you,” Jack nodded. He cut a glance sideways at Mart, but the smaller man said nothing.
She arched a dark brow at the ensuing silence. “No last-minute pearls of wisdom?”
“Jus’ don’ run me ship into a reef or an isle, or pick up any more curses,” he half-growled. “Had to work like th’ devil to get rid of the last one.”
“Good luck, Jack.” With that, Ana left, and Jack and Mart were left once again facing each other over the cannon. “How long?” the captain tilted his head toward the other ship, which the Pearl had turned hard to port to attack.
“Couple more minutes,” the chief gunner replied, his faced tilted toward the sea, judging, measuring.
Sparrow was quiet a bit longer. “Ye know,” he finally spoke, “maybe I’ve been hasty, not lettin’ ye at the helm. With a crate, in calm seas, you could prob’ly fare well.”
“And why not rough waters?” Mart pushed. “It’s not like I’ve never helmed a vessel before, Captain. Just because I’ve not the long legs of a gazelle doesn’t mean I can’t hold my own.” Jack lifted a curious brow at the tone. “After all, he’s less experience being a seaman than I do.”
“It is the height,” the captain admitted. “But th’ whelp’s good-” Jack caught himself; to a man Mart’s age, it probably wouldn’t help being reminded someone a few years younger was being given responsibility he’d been denied thus far. “Turner’s a good choice to steer th’ helm. He’s all that upper-body muscle from workin’ the anvil for so many years. And he can see over it without any help, mate.”
Mart said nothing, and Jack took his silence for acquiescence and let it stand for the next couple of moments, until the midget moved along the iron toward the fuse. He caught his captain’s eye and nodded, and Jack’s hand immediately went to his sash, feeling for the guns, daggers, and sword he’d buckled on so shortly before. He cast his eye once again on the approaching ship, still bow-first facing the Pearl; its guns were not aimed this way, and Jack was highly suspicious. Once again he was reminded why he didn’t want to take on the French vessel.
Finally, he could take no more waiting; it was time, or else. “Or else, indeed,” he muttered under his breath, then stood a bit taller in the confined vertical space of the gunnery. Glancing about at the prepared pirates manning the other cannons, Jack caught Mart’s eye, nodded, and brought the flat of his hand down hard on the iron.
“FIRE!”
On to Part 3 ...
