veronica_rich (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
veronica_rich) wrote2011-06-01 06:40 pm
veronica_rich) wrote2011-06-01 06:40 pm
Fic: "Contradictions 3: Lose" (Part 3)
This is a continuation of a POTC fic. See Part 1 for disclaimers, etc.
Not five minutes earlier he’d given the command to attack; now, Jack and the Pearl’s crewmen stood ready with their grappling hooks and ropes, ready to throw and climb as the undaunted French ship drew nearer. Cannon fire had ripped holes in its hull, but it was far too large and secure to be brought down by such a thing. Jack noted it was roughly one-and-one-half times the size of his own ship – a fine prize to be sure, but not one he’d try to take this day. He still wasn’t certain who was running the thing.
Jack turned his attention to his two mutineers as he waited for the ship to get close enough to board. Curly and Connors were being held near the rail by two of Jack’s burliest men, and the captain squinted a saccharine smile at the miscreants. “Well … I’ve changed me mind, boys,” Jack drawled, thrusting out his chin and cocking his head as he spoke. “Seein’ as we’re the ones have t’ clean up your mess, I really don’ think it fair ye should get any of th’ spoils that mayhaps come into our possession from this little venture.” He flicked his dark eyes to the two guards. “Gentlemen – help th’ boys here greet their fate proper-like.”
The burly men glanced at one another, shrugged, and hoisted the protesting mutineers over the rail. “Captain!” cried Connors, kicking at his handler. “Don’ put me off! Was all ‘is idea, ever’ bit o’ it!”
“MY idea?” the dangling Curly howled, somewhere in the midst of indignation, pain, and frustration. “You’re the one who came up with how to take out th’ ol’ mute!”
As the two verbally harangued one another, Jack glanced sideways at Will, who was arching a brow at the pair, looking extremely doubtful of the veracity of their desperate statements. Then the blacksmith met his eyes and lifted both eyebrows, rolling his dark eyes – Jack could swear the lad’s expression was checked amusement. He grinned in return and turned his attention back to the mutineers.
“Show these fine gentlemen their new home.” Jack nodded at the burly men, Tanta and Moses, whose huge arms barely rippled as they gave Curly and Connors a toss into the briny drink. The captain leaned over a bit to watch them hit, then surface, clawing about, before he remembered an unusual fact about the usually-silent Connors. “Oh dear – don’t think th’ poor boy can swim,” he mused aloud.
“You mean to leave them down there?” Will had joined him at the rail and was looking over, too.
“They meant t’ get us into this mess,” was Jack’s only reply.
The smith looked up at his captain. “Not much room for mistakes among thieves, eh?”
“Mistakes?” Jack nearly choked on the word, laughing as he was. “Twas no mistake – they accomplished ‘zactly what they set out t’ do, mate. Just not for themselves, is all.” He straightened, sobering his speech. “This is a democracy, Will; as such, we all live an’ die by each other’s decisions. Mine was t’ keep us out of harm’s way, at least this day. People’re gon’ die today to pay for their decision; only proper an’ fair they should be first, since nobody else had a vote.”
He didn’t have time to even issue a “savvy?” to the end of his explanation, catching sight of the ship from the corner of his eye; they were finally at an angle so the name of the vessel, the Versailles, was fully visible, the appellation painted in man-high letters. Jack pulled up his hook, weighted the hilt in his hand, and launched it toward the other ship’s higher rail. “Board!” he ordered the approximately twenty men around him.
Because of his title, Sparrow was the first aboard, scrambling along the rope and pulling himself over the rail. He was greeted by two dark-eyed swashbucklers stabbing for him. Spinning, the captain fairly twirled out of their range and pulled his own sword free at the same time. When they figured out he’d pirouetted sideways, he already had the point of his blade at the side of one’s neck. “Who are you?” Sparrow demanded in a growl.
The man scowled, and Jack realized it was in incomprehension. “Comment tu appellez tu?” he queried in French, ignoring the nicety of the formal “you” address under the circumstances. “Como te llamas?”
That banished the blank, angry look, replaced with mere anger now. “Conquerors for glorious Spain,” the man replied in Spanish, before snarling, “And who might you be?”
Jack had no intention of answering before he had to. “Pirates?” he queried back in the man’s language.
The other man sniffed as if insulted. “Privateers.”
Sparrow glanced around as he was surrounded by his own men boarding; he could see others of the Spanish crew also hurrying forth. He noted the crass, lopsided dress of the crew and their dirty state in contrast with the sleek, clean wood of the ship – he‘d come to expect more of government-sanctioned Spanish buccaneers, who generally had style, if nothing else. Many looked underfed and rangy, too. “If you’re a privateer, I’m me own Aunt Fanny,” he scoffed. “You‘re no more employed by th‘ Spanish Crown than I am.”
“You’re treading a dangerous line, friend,” the second pirate sneered.
“I’ll take me chances, mate.” Jack twisted the sword a bit, drawing a point of blood from the first pirate’s neck, causing the man to grit his teeth. “Where’s your captain?”
“Below, with the gunners.”
Jack grinned. “Hidin’ out, is he? Hell of a foe, have I, this fine day.” He withdrew his sword enough to allow the man to breathe, but just. “Well, summon him. Ye may tell your captain tha’ he’s gettin’ th’ rare pleasure and privilege of meetin’-”
“Captain, look out!” From the corner of his eye, Sparrow caught sight of Will lunging for him, and instinctively ducked. Turner’s blade whistled overhead and a wet, sticky plop accompanied the singing, indicating a direct hit upon a body. Jack felt the flat of the wielded blade strike his shoulders as the standing corpse dropped it, obviously in mid-attack on Sparrow’s back, then glanced up to see Will’s arm retract, his tight fist gripping the hilt of a glistening red blade.
Jack stood, nodding a curt, silent thanks at the blacksmith, then narrowed his eyes in a scowl at the two pirates he’d been holding at bay. “So that’s how it’s t’ be, then.” His voice was gravelly, escalating. “Men! Help these fine sailors meet their Maker!”
With a roar and a charge, the Pearl’s crew threw themselves into the fray, attacking with a frenzy borne of not having a prize to chase for the past three weeks. Jack himself exercised a bit more restraint, challenging and parrying long enough to see if his opponents would drop their swords; more often than not, they didn’t, which is when he’d get bloodthirsty and lunge, pierce, and hack.
The only person scoring more hits on the rapidly-growing onslaught of Spanish pirates above deck was Will, who wielded both his sword and a shorter blade. His body lunged and spun almost effortlessly, and Jack was reminded of natural-born runners. Most people had to struggle to run, to attain any sort of speed or endurance – a lucky few, though, were able to defy gravity and seemed to coast along the ground, not so much running as paddling through space gracefully. While he was the former, Will Turner was definitely the latter type.
For several moments, the Pearl’s crew attacked the swarm as best they could; Jack was heartened to see many were surviving and avoiding injury. When he caught sight of Chin going down with a blade through his chest, though, he growled, angry anew. The young Oriental pirate had joined up with the Interceptor as part of the original crew to rescue Elizabeth, and had been as loyal as he was quiet. He shouldn’t have died, not today, Sparrow chastised his own lack of foresight for not picking out his mutineers before they acted, though he rationally knew there was no way he could’ve determined such a thing. Again.
As he withdrew his own blade from the chest of Chin’s killer, he stepped back, hard, into an ungiving body. He tensed just as he heard, “It’s me, Captain!”
“What’re ye doin’ back there?” Jack asked half-conversationally, not breaking the contact as he held his blade out, threatening.
“My job,” came the dry reply. “Watching your back.”
“Aye, this is somewhat familiar,” he chuckled. “Where’s Norrington when ye need him, anyway? Bet he’d love a go at these boys.”
“Too busy keeping the seedier bars of Port Royale safe from docking miscreants,” Will replied, and Jack laughed aloud, recalling how the Commodore had forced them to flee the Red Snapper so many months ago.
“Stay with me and make way to the rail, Will.” Jack turned his head over his shoulder briefly to give the subdued order in English, wagering that at least some of the pirates who could hear wouldn’t know what he was saying. “Nice an’ slow-like.” Raising his voice, he barked a similar order to the rest of his men. “Follow the plan!” he yelled.
It took a couple of minutes, but the crew slowly followed their captain’s words, edging to the rail, stepping across felled bodies on the way. Looking hesitant, each man hauled himself over and quickly slid back to the Pearl as Jack and Will edged to the rail in unison, their backs still pressed tightly together. “Now!” Jack ordered as they were against it, reaching for a rope.
He threw himself over, hands gripping the rope, after briefly pausing to sheathe his sword. Those who had already escaped were busily cutting their own ropes, beginning to release the Pearl from her oversized French barnacle. Halfway down, he looked over and realized he couldn’t see Will. At the same time, he heard the man’s voice call out a familiar name.
“David, no!”
Blast, what the hell? Jack tightened his grip and let his head fall back to look back up; all he could see was Will moving away from the rail, closer into the center of deck. No, you fool, not that way! he thought, automatically beginning the climb back toward the Versailles. He’d be damned if he’d leave any crewman while he escaped, let alone Will Turner.
He clamored back up the railing a moment later, spotting Will holding off a stand of pirates with his sword, his other arm thrown around the front of the Pearl’s cabin boy, just under his chin; David seemed frozen, eyes huge with fear. With a leap, Jack was over the rail, drawing his sword even as another group of pirates swarmed him, getting between him and his crewmen.
It was then he realized everyone else truly had left, and he slowly lowered his sword; even Jack Sparrow was outnumbered at fifteen-to-one odds. “Drop your weapon, Mr. Turner!” he ordered loudly enough to be heard by all. “Now!”
He waited until Will had obeyed before letting his own clang to the deck, keeping his eyes steadily going among a few hostile faces before him. “Parlez,” he said quietly, fixing on one.
“You surrender?” the man asked.
“Your captain?” Jack volleyed, ignoring the question. He hoped he was providing enough of a distraction for the Pearl to get away, much as he hated to keep Will and David here.
On cue, a tall, broad-shouldered pirate clomped across deck, pushing others aside and his way through the swarm. Jack saw him spot something over his shoulder, beyond the rail, and immediately, the dark-haired human mountain growled a sharp string of Spanish cursing the Pearl for daring to sail away and ordering his men to make ready for firing and pursuit. “Captain!” Jack raised his voice above the others. “A word?”
The man paused in turning to head back wherever he’d come from, and closed the space between himself and Jack in a few long steps. Jack studied him quickly, noting a slight limp in the fellow’s left leg, deep lines etched into his inscrutably-aged face, the broad hat cocked on his head, and worn brown leather armguards laced around his forearms. “Who might you be?” he demanded of Jack, looking him up and down, clearly deeming him impudent for addressing a superior out of turn.
“I’d be th’ captain of yonder vessel,” Jack replied in his best voice of command. “And I can tell ye she’s not worth your time – no swag aboard, no armaments worth stealin’.”
“You? A captain?” The Spanish captain took in the much slighter man before him, and Jack cursed himself anew for not properly outfitting in anything more than boots, trousers, sash, and shirt. “What be your name, sailor?”
“Captain Jack Sparrow.” He leveled his dark gaze up at the other man, watching with amused curiosity at the change that came over his features.
“Not the Jack Sparrow?”
“Captain … my title, if you please. Jesus knows I’ve worked hard enough to earn it.”
The larger man regarded him darkly. “My apologies,” he answered in sarcastic Spanish. Then he grinned. “Well, I’ll be – Captain Sparrow on me vessel, at me mercy. Hardly seems the time or place for such things.”
“Hmm. Ye mind tellin’ your men to take their shinies off me blacksmith and cabin boy?” Jack gestured toward the two in question.
“An’ what’re two such non-combatants doing in a raiding party?”
It was a good question, but Jack hadn’t the inclination to explain it away – not just yet, at any rate. “First things first,” he changed topics. “Who am I addressing, sir?”
“Captain Elias Francois,” the hulk replied, dipping his chin in a slight bow. “I must say, Captain Sparrow, I wasn’t entirely sure you were a real personage, given the stories about ye.”
“Stories?” Being the egotist he freely admitted he was, Jack was always up for hearing stories about himself. He flicked his eyes meaningfully toward Will and David. “Do tell.”
Francois took the hint and turned to issue rapid orders to the pirates holding the pair captive; they relaxed their demeanors and lowered their swords. Back to Jack, he answered, “Well, th’ curse of Cortes, o’ course; that’s th’ most interest to us.”
“Ah, yes. Lovely man ye produced, there,” Jack remarked dryly.
“You English have certainly loosed your share o’ mongrels on th’ seas.”
“What makes ye think I’m English, man?”
Francois narrowed his eyes. “I’m not stupid, Sparrow.”
“Never implied such a thing, Francois.” Jack rolled the name on his tongue, then grinned cheekily. “So, tryin’ to get a ship that matches your name, eh, mate?”
“Forgive me for not bein’ quite that clever,” the man answered with just a hint of mirth. “But I make me decisions based on size and armament. ‘Twas in th’ market for a new ship and came ‘cross these French dogs – seemed fitting.”
“Well, I’ve no great love for th’ French.” Jack scratched at his chin, giving the Pearl more time to get away. “And seein’ as you’ve already a fine vessel, what’s to be gained by sinkin’ mine? Tell you what – you put me an’ the whelps here on a rowboat back to it, and we’ll steer clear of each other, respect each other’s space from here on out, eh?”
Francois regarded him with amusement. Finally, he laughed. “Barbossa was right; you do try to talk your way out o’ everything.”
Jack tried not to let on that the name raised bristling hackles in him. Shrugging his slender shoulders, he adopted a faintly bored air. “I find it better ‘n tryin’ to kill a man right off, is all.”
“Aye, maybe you’re right.” The captain eyed Jack. “I’ll not be sailin’ after your ship for now, Captain – but I think you and your companions will stay on as my guests for awhile. Savvy?”
The turning of his own well-known expression on him ground at Jack’s pride, but he only smiled, crinkling his eyes invitingly. “Why thankee, Captain,” he murmured graciously. “We’d be e’er so delighted t’ bunk here.”
“Bullshite,” Francois parried, and his crew laughed. “But I’ll tender your acceptance, Sparrow, anyhow. Who knows – maybe I’ll even find a way for you an’ your crewmen to pay me back for th’ damage to my ship an’ crew.” A collective guffaw went up from the pirates surrounding them as Francois gestured about at the damaged railings and that which couldn’t be seen from deck – hull breaches – as well as to the dead bodies still littering the deck.
Jack fought his natural inclination to snarl at what the man was implying, especially in regards to the child. “You do that,” he only smiled again, letting his eyes narrow to dangerous slits instead of merely squinting in good humor. A brief lift of Francois’s eyebrow told him the captain “savvied” that unspoken warning well enough, at least.
*****
Letting the paper slip a bit, Jack’s eyes wandered to the waxing moon suspended over a dark, dark ocean. Its reflected light glittered off the calm waves, and he wondered how like his blood they churned beneath.
He must’ve been resting or in a trance, for the next thing he knew, a hand was at his elbow and a voice in his ear. “Jack?” it queried in a proper young English accent. “You there?”
The captain let his head fall back a bit, the motion carrying his glance to Will, who stood uncertainly, watching him, inches away. “Whatcha need?” Jack asked, speech lazier than usual from the four tankards of rum – not grog, but pure, spiced dark cloudy distilled sugar – at supper.
“You seem quiet.”
Jack allowed himself to drift in those large, dark eyes, caressing worry and apprehension, seeking guidance from the older and wiser. He had the urge to tell Will it was all an act, that while he was eighteen years older he was really no more savvy than the blacksmith when it came to what to do in this particular hostage situation. Or any hostage situation, really; he simply kept true to his name and winged it when such things occurred. “Contemplative,” Jack corrected.
For the first time since they’d boarded the French ship, Will smiled.
Something inside Jack shifted. Melted. He swallowed, wanting to laze within the curves of those wide lips, wanting to turn and slide his fingers up into chestnut-gold hair, to nibble at the square chin just below the small goatee, feel Mr. Turner’s proper throat muscles bob uncertainly and his voice hitch and pitch a little before surrendering to Jack’s questing tongue. He dropped his eyes to half-mast, openly studying the blacksmith’s slightly parted lips, but in the dark he was fairly sure it went unnoticed for all the time it took him to flick alert eyes back up to Will’s. “An’ how’s David?”
“Out like a candle. You’re right, that half-tankard of rum really put him under. May be the best thing for him, if he’s scared.”
“’Intrigued’ is th’ word I’d use, mate.” Jack turned back to his study of the paper against the moonlight streaming into the open cabin window. “In fact, he’s so wound up with wantin’ to scurry around this ship an’ see all what’s goin’ on tha’ we may have a time an’ a half makin’ him concentrate proper on his duties to ye.”
“He’ll listen.”
“Aye,” Jack agreed with a nod. “’Cause you’re his newest hero, an’ it wouldn’t be fittin’ for him to dis’point ye, Mr. Piratey Blacksmith.” Jack turned once more, grinning cheekily, the beads and metal in his hair clinking with the swing. “Ye’ve quite an influence goin’ on that boy, Will.”
“Nothing I asked for, Jack.”
“Makes it better, don’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer, turning his attention finally back to the map he held unrolled. “This’d be a simple matter to redraw, given th’ proper tools an’ charcoals,” he thought out loud.
“Why don’t you just tell Francois you know how to draw maps?” the smith suggested, sotto voce. It was night and they were probably alone in the “guest” cabin, but one never knew what ears poked aboard a pirate ship, or where. “You could get your charcoals and things, you wouldn’t have to hide … and I’m sure you could convince him of something to your advantage.”
“Nay, you’re wrong,” Jack shook his head. “Far better he thinks me a mostly ignorant bedbug who only knows how t’ drink an’ sing at me helm. Why you think I’ve worked so hard to cultivate th’ reputation?”
“Well, you are mad,” Will reassured him dryly.
“For doin’ this, I must be,” Jack agreed. “See, what I do is lay another skin over this, skew it just so, an’ trace the original map through.” He felt Will lean in to examine what he was doing, his chest pressed into Jack’s shoulder blade, nearly holding the captain upright from behind, the man’s breath warm against his temple. He closed his eyes briefly, wanting to sway into that hold, turn into those arms and nuzzle at that sinfully long column of skin he called a throat. “Sends ever’thing a bit to th’ southeast, is all. Hardly noticeable.”
“Well, until you end up in Guinea instead of Spain,” Will pointed out.
“That could be noticeable, I s’pose,” Jack conceded. “Important thing is, we won’t be th’ ones endin’ up in Guinea.” He turned questioning eyes on Will, who smirked and volleyed back, “Savvy.”
“Entirely too smart for me own good,” Jack muttered, pleased the smith had picked up on his plan as he lay the map out on the nearby table. “Now we jus’ got to figure a way off this tub, where we don’ drown or turn into shark nibblies.” A small noise from across the room drew both men’s attention, and they turned in unison to regard the boy curled up on the only available bunk, knees tucked up into his midsection, arms curled around himself in slumber. “Or get him killed,” Jack added quietly.
Will nodded, hands on his hips, brow furrowed in what the captain suspected was his usual serious thought. The man seemed incapable of having a flighty idea – which was probably good, given how many times the Pearl’s commander tended to fly off at most anything shiny or even halfway appealing. Gods above knew someone needed to balance out Jack Sparrow. “Oh well … I s’pose takin’ over the helm’s out o’ the question,” he sighed.
“Jack!” Will hissed.
“Come on, mate. It’d be fun, we didn’t have t’ worry about small fry, there. Admit it, jus’ you an’ me upendin’ those Spanish bastards over the side? Don’t say it doesn’t appeal to ye somewhere in there.”
“Well …” The smith hedged and turned to lift an eyebrow. Jack would’ve cackled if he knew it wouldn’t awaken David.
“Now that’s th’ son William Turner produced.” He grinned briefly, then shook his head. “I’ll come up with somethin’; you two jus’ keep them occupied, find out what ye can roamin’ the ship to make repairs, an’ bring it back to me.”
“What, and you’ll make a map of the ship?”
“Not hard t’ do, mate.”
Will shook his head ruefully, apparently amused. “I just can’t picture it. Jack Sparrow – excuse me, Jonathan Sparrow – confined in some back room-”
“Jackson,” the captain corrected.
“What?”
“Me name. It’s Jackson. Hasn’t been a John in th’ family for goin’ on five gen’rations, now.”
“I see.” Will stroked his small beard. “And the last name?”
“What of it?”
“Is Sparrow your real last name, Jack?”
“What, are ye writin’ an epic poem about me?”
“Uh-huh,” Will nodded. “I figured as much.” Then the younger man paused, grinning; even in the semi-dark, Jack could see the light flicker behind those brown eyes. “What’s your nickname?”
“Kind of question is that?”
“All the infamous pirates have nicknames, Captain. But not you.”
That drew Jack up short. “Are you implying, sir, that I’m not famous enough for a nickname?”
“Not at all – and you‘re stalling.” When Jack hedged and dissembled, Will nodded. “You don’t have one.”
“No … I’d just prefer not t’ tell it.”
“Liar.”
“Ship or no ship, I’m still th’ captain here, son.”
“And I’m calling your bluff – what’s your nickname?”
“And if you don’t shut up, I’ll give you a nickname! How ye like that?” By this point, they were facing one another, Will’s arms crossed at his chest, Jack gesturing wildly, tilting forward into the other man’s personal space, nearly growling out his whispers as a counterpoint to Will’s hint of a smirk.
As the smith was about to reply, a rustling stopped them both. They looked at one another guiltily, then over to the bunk, where David was sitting up, head down on his knees. “Aw, shite,” Jack muttered. “Look wha’ we did.” Will started to move toward him, but Jack’s hand went out, settling on his arm. “Let him be for a moment; might just be sleepwalkin’ or somethin‘.”
David’s head bobbed a bit, and he raised it to look around, but didn’t seem to be comprehending what he saw, though his eyes were wide and seemingly alert. Finally, he muttered something and fell back against the pillow, shifted a bit, and turned onto his side, curling up once again. “What was that?” Will whispered in the darkness, glancing at Jack.
“You’ve never seen a sleepwalker?”
Will spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Mum didn’t move around like that; neither’d my father, what few times I saw him home. Nobody on the Pearl does … that I know of.”
“So what you’re sayin’ is you’ve not slept with enough people to quite find that out yet, eh?” Even in the dim conditions Jack knew Will was blushing, by the set of his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes. “Well, that’s sleepwalking – only with Davey, seems there’s not a lot of walkin’ to it. Some people walk, some of them just get up an’ move ‘round.”
“Did we wake him up?”
“Technically speakin’, he never woke up, really. Reflex his body has, is all. Just means we need t’ keep an eye on him, since this is a strange place. Don’ want th’ boy to fall over into th’ drink or down some steps.”
Will studied him a bit as comprehension dawned in the dark eyes – Jack could tell by the way they shifted under the reflective moonlight streaming into the open window, in whose path the smith stood. “You’re a sleepwalker, too,” he murmured.
There seemed little point in denying as much. “Used to be.”
“Do I need to keep an eye on you?” Bit of humor to that.
He shook his head. “Th’ rum usually does me in ‘nough to quell down such few urges I have. Unless ye jus‘ like watchin‘ me sleep.” Before Will could retort, he removed his hand from the man’s arm and nodded toward the bunk, which was at least wide enough to be mostly empty even with the boy in it. “I’m on first watch. Get some rest so you’ll wake when I need ye to, Mr. Turner.”
Jack turned back to the small table by the window and glanced down at the wash of moonlight illuminating the map of the Atlantic. He ran calloused fingertips over its surface and pulled out the regular compass he kept tucked in his vest to check the ship’s bearing once again, mentally gauging where they might be headed and how long it would take to arrive at present velocity. He didn’t flash the small silver instrument around, preferring instead to let people think he was guided solely by the strange little black box that hung from his sash; in reality, it was good to lead them to only one place, an island Jack no longer had any need to frequent.
Something about the way the moonlight struck the paper made the captain scratch his chin in thought. The map was drawn on onionskin; it would have to be traced on onionskin. He’d been trying all evening to think of a way to get his hands on a large enough piece of glass to prop against his open window so he could lay one over the other and draw from the natural illumination of sunlight, since there was really no other way to do it. But perhaps if the onionskin were thin enough …
Jack glanced back behind him, noting the moon was in a phase only to get more full, not wane. Should provide plenty of light, given no cloud cover, for several more nights – and I bet I could see through onionskin well enough to trace this on the table, instead. He grinned in sudden comprehension; it was far preferable to risking discovery in the daytime. Since they were supposedly Francois’s guests, they would be left alone at night so he could work. Perfect.
Having solved that small problem, Jack turned and dropped into a chair, his back to the window, and brought his bare feet up on the table, crossing them at the ankles. From this angle, he could survey the cabin, the door, and the bed; he noticed Will was stretched out on his back on one side of the bunk, head pillowed on his hands, nose tilted toward the ceiling, clearly not yet asleep. Probably contemplating, as Jack was at present – but what, the captain couldn’t guess. He’d bet anything it was escape; and again, Jack couldn’t disagree that he wondered about the same possibility.
Francois had explained earlier, over a fattening meal of succulent fowl and pork, that Jack, Will, and David should consider themselves his guests, to roam the ship at will, but he’d let the undercurrent settle there, that something more might be expected of them at some point. Noting the way more than one pirate had eyed Will and David both throughout the day, Jack had been quick to offer their services as master blacksmith and apprentice – from watching Will keep himself busy on the Pearl for so many months, he had no doubt the lad could find plenty to do even on a ship as fine as this. And David needed an excuse not to be commandeered as cabin boy, especially since Jack knew what Spanish pirates were wont to do with such young, pretty males – unfortunately for his own national pride, it wasn’t much different than what any other given crew of pirates might do to a young, pretty male on board. He was trusting that Will could keep David occupied with training and, from that morning’s display out on deck, also protect him should the immediate need arise.
On to Part 4 ...
Not five minutes earlier he’d given the command to attack; now, Jack and the Pearl’s crewmen stood ready with their grappling hooks and ropes, ready to throw and climb as the undaunted French ship drew nearer. Cannon fire had ripped holes in its hull, but it was far too large and secure to be brought down by such a thing. Jack noted it was roughly one-and-one-half times the size of his own ship – a fine prize to be sure, but not one he’d try to take this day. He still wasn’t certain who was running the thing.
Jack turned his attention to his two mutineers as he waited for the ship to get close enough to board. Curly and Connors were being held near the rail by two of Jack’s burliest men, and the captain squinted a saccharine smile at the miscreants. “Well … I’ve changed me mind, boys,” Jack drawled, thrusting out his chin and cocking his head as he spoke. “Seein’ as we’re the ones have t’ clean up your mess, I really don’ think it fair ye should get any of th’ spoils that mayhaps come into our possession from this little venture.” He flicked his dark eyes to the two guards. “Gentlemen – help th’ boys here greet their fate proper-like.”
The burly men glanced at one another, shrugged, and hoisted the protesting mutineers over the rail. “Captain!” cried Connors, kicking at his handler. “Don’ put me off! Was all ‘is idea, ever’ bit o’ it!”
“MY idea?” the dangling Curly howled, somewhere in the midst of indignation, pain, and frustration. “You’re the one who came up with how to take out th’ ol’ mute!”
As the two verbally harangued one another, Jack glanced sideways at Will, who was arching a brow at the pair, looking extremely doubtful of the veracity of their desperate statements. Then the blacksmith met his eyes and lifted both eyebrows, rolling his dark eyes – Jack could swear the lad’s expression was checked amusement. He grinned in return and turned his attention back to the mutineers.
“Show these fine gentlemen their new home.” Jack nodded at the burly men, Tanta and Moses, whose huge arms barely rippled as they gave Curly and Connors a toss into the briny drink. The captain leaned over a bit to watch them hit, then surface, clawing about, before he remembered an unusual fact about the usually-silent Connors. “Oh dear – don’t think th’ poor boy can swim,” he mused aloud.
“You mean to leave them down there?” Will had joined him at the rail and was looking over, too.
“They meant t’ get us into this mess,” was Jack’s only reply.
The smith looked up at his captain. “Not much room for mistakes among thieves, eh?”
“Mistakes?” Jack nearly choked on the word, laughing as he was. “Twas no mistake – they accomplished ‘zactly what they set out t’ do, mate. Just not for themselves, is all.” He straightened, sobering his speech. “This is a democracy, Will; as such, we all live an’ die by each other’s decisions. Mine was t’ keep us out of harm’s way, at least this day. People’re gon’ die today to pay for their decision; only proper an’ fair they should be first, since nobody else had a vote.”
He didn’t have time to even issue a “savvy?” to the end of his explanation, catching sight of the ship from the corner of his eye; they were finally at an angle so the name of the vessel, the Versailles, was fully visible, the appellation painted in man-high letters. Jack pulled up his hook, weighted the hilt in his hand, and launched it toward the other ship’s higher rail. “Board!” he ordered the approximately twenty men around him.
Because of his title, Sparrow was the first aboard, scrambling along the rope and pulling himself over the rail. He was greeted by two dark-eyed swashbucklers stabbing for him. Spinning, the captain fairly twirled out of their range and pulled his own sword free at the same time. When they figured out he’d pirouetted sideways, he already had the point of his blade at the side of one’s neck. “Who are you?” Sparrow demanded in a growl.
The man scowled, and Jack realized it was in incomprehension. “Comment tu appellez tu?” he queried in French, ignoring the nicety of the formal “you” address under the circumstances. “Como te llamas?”
That banished the blank, angry look, replaced with mere anger now. “Conquerors for glorious Spain,” the man replied in Spanish, before snarling, “And who might you be?”
Jack had no intention of answering before he had to. “Pirates?” he queried back in the man’s language.
The other man sniffed as if insulted. “Privateers.”
Sparrow glanced around as he was surrounded by his own men boarding; he could see others of the Spanish crew also hurrying forth. He noted the crass, lopsided dress of the crew and their dirty state in contrast with the sleek, clean wood of the ship – he‘d come to expect more of government-sanctioned Spanish buccaneers, who generally had style, if nothing else. Many looked underfed and rangy, too. “If you’re a privateer, I’m me own Aunt Fanny,” he scoffed. “You‘re no more employed by th‘ Spanish Crown than I am.”
“You’re treading a dangerous line, friend,” the second pirate sneered.
“I’ll take me chances, mate.” Jack twisted the sword a bit, drawing a point of blood from the first pirate’s neck, causing the man to grit his teeth. “Where’s your captain?”
“Below, with the gunners.”
Jack grinned. “Hidin’ out, is he? Hell of a foe, have I, this fine day.” He withdrew his sword enough to allow the man to breathe, but just. “Well, summon him. Ye may tell your captain tha’ he’s gettin’ th’ rare pleasure and privilege of meetin’-”
“Captain, look out!” From the corner of his eye, Sparrow caught sight of Will lunging for him, and instinctively ducked. Turner’s blade whistled overhead and a wet, sticky plop accompanied the singing, indicating a direct hit upon a body. Jack felt the flat of the wielded blade strike his shoulders as the standing corpse dropped it, obviously in mid-attack on Sparrow’s back, then glanced up to see Will’s arm retract, his tight fist gripping the hilt of a glistening red blade.
Jack stood, nodding a curt, silent thanks at the blacksmith, then narrowed his eyes in a scowl at the two pirates he’d been holding at bay. “So that’s how it’s t’ be, then.” His voice was gravelly, escalating. “Men! Help these fine sailors meet their Maker!”
With a roar and a charge, the Pearl’s crew threw themselves into the fray, attacking with a frenzy borne of not having a prize to chase for the past three weeks. Jack himself exercised a bit more restraint, challenging and parrying long enough to see if his opponents would drop their swords; more often than not, they didn’t, which is when he’d get bloodthirsty and lunge, pierce, and hack.
The only person scoring more hits on the rapidly-growing onslaught of Spanish pirates above deck was Will, who wielded both his sword and a shorter blade. His body lunged and spun almost effortlessly, and Jack was reminded of natural-born runners. Most people had to struggle to run, to attain any sort of speed or endurance – a lucky few, though, were able to defy gravity and seemed to coast along the ground, not so much running as paddling through space gracefully. While he was the former, Will Turner was definitely the latter type.
For several moments, the Pearl’s crew attacked the swarm as best they could; Jack was heartened to see many were surviving and avoiding injury. When he caught sight of Chin going down with a blade through his chest, though, he growled, angry anew. The young Oriental pirate had joined up with the Interceptor as part of the original crew to rescue Elizabeth, and had been as loyal as he was quiet. He shouldn’t have died, not today, Sparrow chastised his own lack of foresight for not picking out his mutineers before they acted, though he rationally knew there was no way he could’ve determined such a thing. Again.
As he withdrew his own blade from the chest of Chin’s killer, he stepped back, hard, into an ungiving body. He tensed just as he heard, “It’s me, Captain!”
“What’re ye doin’ back there?” Jack asked half-conversationally, not breaking the contact as he held his blade out, threatening.
“My job,” came the dry reply. “Watching your back.”
“Aye, this is somewhat familiar,” he chuckled. “Where’s Norrington when ye need him, anyway? Bet he’d love a go at these boys.”
“Too busy keeping the seedier bars of Port Royale safe from docking miscreants,” Will replied, and Jack laughed aloud, recalling how the Commodore had forced them to flee the Red Snapper so many months ago.
“Stay with me and make way to the rail, Will.” Jack turned his head over his shoulder briefly to give the subdued order in English, wagering that at least some of the pirates who could hear wouldn’t know what he was saying. “Nice an’ slow-like.” Raising his voice, he barked a similar order to the rest of his men. “Follow the plan!” he yelled.
It took a couple of minutes, but the crew slowly followed their captain’s words, edging to the rail, stepping across felled bodies on the way. Looking hesitant, each man hauled himself over and quickly slid back to the Pearl as Jack and Will edged to the rail in unison, their backs still pressed tightly together. “Now!” Jack ordered as they were against it, reaching for a rope.
He threw himself over, hands gripping the rope, after briefly pausing to sheathe his sword. Those who had already escaped were busily cutting their own ropes, beginning to release the Pearl from her oversized French barnacle. Halfway down, he looked over and realized he couldn’t see Will. At the same time, he heard the man’s voice call out a familiar name.
“David, no!”
Blast, what the hell? Jack tightened his grip and let his head fall back to look back up; all he could see was Will moving away from the rail, closer into the center of deck. No, you fool, not that way! he thought, automatically beginning the climb back toward the Versailles. He’d be damned if he’d leave any crewman while he escaped, let alone Will Turner.
He clamored back up the railing a moment later, spotting Will holding off a stand of pirates with his sword, his other arm thrown around the front of the Pearl’s cabin boy, just under his chin; David seemed frozen, eyes huge with fear. With a leap, Jack was over the rail, drawing his sword even as another group of pirates swarmed him, getting between him and his crewmen.
It was then he realized everyone else truly had left, and he slowly lowered his sword; even Jack Sparrow was outnumbered at fifteen-to-one odds. “Drop your weapon, Mr. Turner!” he ordered loudly enough to be heard by all. “Now!”
He waited until Will had obeyed before letting his own clang to the deck, keeping his eyes steadily going among a few hostile faces before him. “Parlez,” he said quietly, fixing on one.
“You surrender?” the man asked.
“Your captain?” Jack volleyed, ignoring the question. He hoped he was providing enough of a distraction for the Pearl to get away, much as he hated to keep Will and David here.
On cue, a tall, broad-shouldered pirate clomped across deck, pushing others aside and his way through the swarm. Jack saw him spot something over his shoulder, beyond the rail, and immediately, the dark-haired human mountain growled a sharp string of Spanish cursing the Pearl for daring to sail away and ordering his men to make ready for firing and pursuit. “Captain!” Jack raised his voice above the others. “A word?”
The man paused in turning to head back wherever he’d come from, and closed the space between himself and Jack in a few long steps. Jack studied him quickly, noting a slight limp in the fellow’s left leg, deep lines etched into his inscrutably-aged face, the broad hat cocked on his head, and worn brown leather armguards laced around his forearms. “Who might you be?” he demanded of Jack, looking him up and down, clearly deeming him impudent for addressing a superior out of turn.
“I’d be th’ captain of yonder vessel,” Jack replied in his best voice of command. “And I can tell ye she’s not worth your time – no swag aboard, no armaments worth stealin’.”
“You? A captain?” The Spanish captain took in the much slighter man before him, and Jack cursed himself anew for not properly outfitting in anything more than boots, trousers, sash, and shirt. “What be your name, sailor?”
“Captain Jack Sparrow.” He leveled his dark gaze up at the other man, watching with amused curiosity at the change that came over his features.
“Not the Jack Sparrow?”
“Captain … my title, if you please. Jesus knows I’ve worked hard enough to earn it.”
The larger man regarded him darkly. “My apologies,” he answered in sarcastic Spanish. Then he grinned. “Well, I’ll be – Captain Sparrow on me vessel, at me mercy. Hardly seems the time or place for such things.”
“Hmm. Ye mind tellin’ your men to take their shinies off me blacksmith and cabin boy?” Jack gestured toward the two in question.
“An’ what’re two such non-combatants doing in a raiding party?”
It was a good question, but Jack hadn’t the inclination to explain it away – not just yet, at any rate. “First things first,” he changed topics. “Who am I addressing, sir?”
“Captain Elias Francois,” the hulk replied, dipping his chin in a slight bow. “I must say, Captain Sparrow, I wasn’t entirely sure you were a real personage, given the stories about ye.”
“Stories?” Being the egotist he freely admitted he was, Jack was always up for hearing stories about himself. He flicked his eyes meaningfully toward Will and David. “Do tell.”
Francois took the hint and turned to issue rapid orders to the pirates holding the pair captive; they relaxed their demeanors and lowered their swords. Back to Jack, he answered, “Well, th’ curse of Cortes, o’ course; that’s th’ most interest to us.”
“Ah, yes. Lovely man ye produced, there,” Jack remarked dryly.
“You English have certainly loosed your share o’ mongrels on th’ seas.”
“What makes ye think I’m English, man?”
Francois narrowed his eyes. “I’m not stupid, Sparrow.”
“Never implied such a thing, Francois.” Jack rolled the name on his tongue, then grinned cheekily. “So, tryin’ to get a ship that matches your name, eh, mate?”
“Forgive me for not bein’ quite that clever,” the man answered with just a hint of mirth. “But I make me decisions based on size and armament. ‘Twas in th’ market for a new ship and came ‘cross these French dogs – seemed fitting.”
“Well, I’ve no great love for th’ French.” Jack scratched at his chin, giving the Pearl more time to get away. “And seein’ as you’ve already a fine vessel, what’s to be gained by sinkin’ mine? Tell you what – you put me an’ the whelps here on a rowboat back to it, and we’ll steer clear of each other, respect each other’s space from here on out, eh?”
Francois regarded him with amusement. Finally, he laughed. “Barbossa was right; you do try to talk your way out o’ everything.”
Jack tried not to let on that the name raised bristling hackles in him. Shrugging his slender shoulders, he adopted a faintly bored air. “I find it better ‘n tryin’ to kill a man right off, is all.”
“Aye, maybe you’re right.” The captain eyed Jack. “I’ll not be sailin’ after your ship for now, Captain – but I think you and your companions will stay on as my guests for awhile. Savvy?”
The turning of his own well-known expression on him ground at Jack’s pride, but he only smiled, crinkling his eyes invitingly. “Why thankee, Captain,” he murmured graciously. “We’d be e’er so delighted t’ bunk here.”
“Bullshite,” Francois parried, and his crew laughed. “But I’ll tender your acceptance, Sparrow, anyhow. Who knows – maybe I’ll even find a way for you an’ your crewmen to pay me back for th’ damage to my ship an’ crew.” A collective guffaw went up from the pirates surrounding them as Francois gestured about at the damaged railings and that which couldn’t be seen from deck – hull breaches – as well as to the dead bodies still littering the deck.
Jack fought his natural inclination to snarl at what the man was implying, especially in regards to the child. “You do that,” he only smiled again, letting his eyes narrow to dangerous slits instead of merely squinting in good humor. A brief lift of Francois’s eyebrow told him the captain “savvied” that unspoken warning well enough, at least.
*****
Letting the paper slip a bit, Jack’s eyes wandered to the waxing moon suspended over a dark, dark ocean. Its reflected light glittered off the calm waves, and he wondered how like his blood they churned beneath.
He must’ve been resting or in a trance, for the next thing he knew, a hand was at his elbow and a voice in his ear. “Jack?” it queried in a proper young English accent. “You there?”
The captain let his head fall back a bit, the motion carrying his glance to Will, who stood uncertainly, watching him, inches away. “Whatcha need?” Jack asked, speech lazier than usual from the four tankards of rum – not grog, but pure, spiced dark cloudy distilled sugar – at supper.
“You seem quiet.”
Jack allowed himself to drift in those large, dark eyes, caressing worry and apprehension, seeking guidance from the older and wiser. He had the urge to tell Will it was all an act, that while he was eighteen years older he was really no more savvy than the blacksmith when it came to what to do in this particular hostage situation. Or any hostage situation, really; he simply kept true to his name and winged it when such things occurred. “Contemplative,” Jack corrected.
For the first time since they’d boarded the French ship, Will smiled.
Something inside Jack shifted. Melted. He swallowed, wanting to laze within the curves of those wide lips, wanting to turn and slide his fingers up into chestnut-gold hair, to nibble at the square chin just below the small goatee, feel Mr. Turner’s proper throat muscles bob uncertainly and his voice hitch and pitch a little before surrendering to Jack’s questing tongue. He dropped his eyes to half-mast, openly studying the blacksmith’s slightly parted lips, but in the dark he was fairly sure it went unnoticed for all the time it took him to flick alert eyes back up to Will’s. “An’ how’s David?”
“Out like a candle. You’re right, that half-tankard of rum really put him under. May be the best thing for him, if he’s scared.”
“’Intrigued’ is th’ word I’d use, mate.” Jack turned back to his study of the paper against the moonlight streaming into the open cabin window. “In fact, he’s so wound up with wantin’ to scurry around this ship an’ see all what’s goin’ on tha’ we may have a time an’ a half makin’ him concentrate proper on his duties to ye.”
“He’ll listen.”
“Aye,” Jack agreed with a nod. “’Cause you’re his newest hero, an’ it wouldn’t be fittin’ for him to dis’point ye, Mr. Piratey Blacksmith.” Jack turned once more, grinning cheekily, the beads and metal in his hair clinking with the swing. “Ye’ve quite an influence goin’ on that boy, Will.”
“Nothing I asked for, Jack.”
“Makes it better, don’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer, turning his attention finally back to the map he held unrolled. “This’d be a simple matter to redraw, given th’ proper tools an’ charcoals,” he thought out loud.
“Why don’t you just tell Francois you know how to draw maps?” the smith suggested, sotto voce. It was night and they were probably alone in the “guest” cabin, but one never knew what ears poked aboard a pirate ship, or where. “You could get your charcoals and things, you wouldn’t have to hide … and I’m sure you could convince him of something to your advantage.”
“Nay, you’re wrong,” Jack shook his head. “Far better he thinks me a mostly ignorant bedbug who only knows how t’ drink an’ sing at me helm. Why you think I’ve worked so hard to cultivate th’ reputation?”
“Well, you are mad,” Will reassured him dryly.
“For doin’ this, I must be,” Jack agreed. “See, what I do is lay another skin over this, skew it just so, an’ trace the original map through.” He felt Will lean in to examine what he was doing, his chest pressed into Jack’s shoulder blade, nearly holding the captain upright from behind, the man’s breath warm against his temple. He closed his eyes briefly, wanting to sway into that hold, turn into those arms and nuzzle at that sinfully long column of skin he called a throat. “Sends ever’thing a bit to th’ southeast, is all. Hardly noticeable.”
“Well, until you end up in Guinea instead of Spain,” Will pointed out.
“That could be noticeable, I s’pose,” Jack conceded. “Important thing is, we won’t be th’ ones endin’ up in Guinea.” He turned questioning eyes on Will, who smirked and volleyed back, “Savvy.”
“Entirely too smart for me own good,” Jack muttered, pleased the smith had picked up on his plan as he lay the map out on the nearby table. “Now we jus’ got to figure a way off this tub, where we don’ drown or turn into shark nibblies.” A small noise from across the room drew both men’s attention, and they turned in unison to regard the boy curled up on the only available bunk, knees tucked up into his midsection, arms curled around himself in slumber. “Or get him killed,” Jack added quietly.
Will nodded, hands on his hips, brow furrowed in what the captain suspected was his usual serious thought. The man seemed incapable of having a flighty idea – which was probably good, given how many times the Pearl’s commander tended to fly off at most anything shiny or even halfway appealing. Gods above knew someone needed to balance out Jack Sparrow. “Oh well … I s’pose takin’ over the helm’s out o’ the question,” he sighed.
“Jack!” Will hissed.
“Come on, mate. It’d be fun, we didn’t have t’ worry about small fry, there. Admit it, jus’ you an’ me upendin’ those Spanish bastards over the side? Don’t say it doesn’t appeal to ye somewhere in there.”
“Well …” The smith hedged and turned to lift an eyebrow. Jack would’ve cackled if he knew it wouldn’t awaken David.
“Now that’s th’ son William Turner produced.” He grinned briefly, then shook his head. “I’ll come up with somethin’; you two jus’ keep them occupied, find out what ye can roamin’ the ship to make repairs, an’ bring it back to me.”
“What, and you’ll make a map of the ship?”
“Not hard t’ do, mate.”
Will shook his head ruefully, apparently amused. “I just can’t picture it. Jack Sparrow – excuse me, Jonathan Sparrow – confined in some back room-”
“Jackson,” the captain corrected.
“What?”
“Me name. It’s Jackson. Hasn’t been a John in th’ family for goin’ on five gen’rations, now.”
“I see.” Will stroked his small beard. “And the last name?”
“What of it?”
“Is Sparrow your real last name, Jack?”
“What, are ye writin’ an epic poem about me?”
“Uh-huh,” Will nodded. “I figured as much.” Then the younger man paused, grinning; even in the semi-dark, Jack could see the light flicker behind those brown eyes. “What’s your nickname?”
“Kind of question is that?”
“All the infamous pirates have nicknames, Captain. But not you.”
That drew Jack up short. “Are you implying, sir, that I’m not famous enough for a nickname?”
“Not at all – and you‘re stalling.” When Jack hedged and dissembled, Will nodded. “You don’t have one.”
“No … I’d just prefer not t’ tell it.”
“Liar.”
“Ship or no ship, I’m still th’ captain here, son.”
“And I’m calling your bluff – what’s your nickname?”
“And if you don’t shut up, I’ll give you a nickname! How ye like that?” By this point, they were facing one another, Will’s arms crossed at his chest, Jack gesturing wildly, tilting forward into the other man’s personal space, nearly growling out his whispers as a counterpoint to Will’s hint of a smirk.
As the smith was about to reply, a rustling stopped them both. They looked at one another guiltily, then over to the bunk, where David was sitting up, head down on his knees. “Aw, shite,” Jack muttered. “Look wha’ we did.” Will started to move toward him, but Jack’s hand went out, settling on his arm. “Let him be for a moment; might just be sleepwalkin’ or somethin‘.”
David’s head bobbed a bit, and he raised it to look around, but didn’t seem to be comprehending what he saw, though his eyes were wide and seemingly alert. Finally, he muttered something and fell back against the pillow, shifted a bit, and turned onto his side, curling up once again. “What was that?” Will whispered in the darkness, glancing at Jack.
“You’ve never seen a sleepwalker?”
Will spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Mum didn’t move around like that; neither’d my father, what few times I saw him home. Nobody on the Pearl does … that I know of.”
“So what you’re sayin’ is you’ve not slept with enough people to quite find that out yet, eh?” Even in the dim conditions Jack knew Will was blushing, by the set of his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes. “Well, that’s sleepwalking – only with Davey, seems there’s not a lot of walkin’ to it. Some people walk, some of them just get up an’ move ‘round.”
“Did we wake him up?”
“Technically speakin’, he never woke up, really. Reflex his body has, is all. Just means we need t’ keep an eye on him, since this is a strange place. Don’ want th’ boy to fall over into th’ drink or down some steps.”
Will studied him a bit as comprehension dawned in the dark eyes – Jack could tell by the way they shifted under the reflective moonlight streaming into the open window, in whose path the smith stood. “You’re a sleepwalker, too,” he murmured.
There seemed little point in denying as much. “Used to be.”
“Do I need to keep an eye on you?” Bit of humor to that.
He shook his head. “Th’ rum usually does me in ‘nough to quell down such few urges I have. Unless ye jus‘ like watchin‘ me sleep.” Before Will could retort, he removed his hand from the man’s arm and nodded toward the bunk, which was at least wide enough to be mostly empty even with the boy in it. “I’m on first watch. Get some rest so you’ll wake when I need ye to, Mr. Turner.”
Jack turned back to the small table by the window and glanced down at the wash of moonlight illuminating the map of the Atlantic. He ran calloused fingertips over its surface and pulled out the regular compass he kept tucked in his vest to check the ship’s bearing once again, mentally gauging where they might be headed and how long it would take to arrive at present velocity. He didn’t flash the small silver instrument around, preferring instead to let people think he was guided solely by the strange little black box that hung from his sash; in reality, it was good to lead them to only one place, an island Jack no longer had any need to frequent.
Something about the way the moonlight struck the paper made the captain scratch his chin in thought. The map was drawn on onionskin; it would have to be traced on onionskin. He’d been trying all evening to think of a way to get his hands on a large enough piece of glass to prop against his open window so he could lay one over the other and draw from the natural illumination of sunlight, since there was really no other way to do it. But perhaps if the onionskin were thin enough …
Jack glanced back behind him, noting the moon was in a phase only to get more full, not wane. Should provide plenty of light, given no cloud cover, for several more nights – and I bet I could see through onionskin well enough to trace this on the table, instead. He grinned in sudden comprehension; it was far preferable to risking discovery in the daytime. Since they were supposedly Francois’s guests, they would be left alone at night so he could work. Perfect.
Having solved that small problem, Jack turned and dropped into a chair, his back to the window, and brought his bare feet up on the table, crossing them at the ankles. From this angle, he could survey the cabin, the door, and the bed; he noticed Will was stretched out on his back on one side of the bunk, head pillowed on his hands, nose tilted toward the ceiling, clearly not yet asleep. Probably contemplating, as Jack was at present – but what, the captain couldn’t guess. He’d bet anything it was escape; and again, Jack couldn’t disagree that he wondered about the same possibility.
Francois had explained earlier, over a fattening meal of succulent fowl and pork, that Jack, Will, and David should consider themselves his guests, to roam the ship at will, but he’d let the undercurrent settle there, that something more might be expected of them at some point. Noting the way more than one pirate had eyed Will and David both throughout the day, Jack had been quick to offer their services as master blacksmith and apprentice – from watching Will keep himself busy on the Pearl for so many months, he had no doubt the lad could find plenty to do even on a ship as fine as this. And David needed an excuse not to be commandeered as cabin boy, especially since Jack knew what Spanish pirates were wont to do with such young, pretty males – unfortunately for his own national pride, it wasn’t much different than what any other given crew of pirates might do to a young, pretty male on board. He was trusting that Will could keep David occupied with training and, from that morning’s display out on deck, also protect him should the immediate need arise.
On to Part 4 ...