Chapter One

Stowaway

"Lieutenant," Gillette calls from the main deck, "I think you should come see this."

James Norrington huffs for two reasons. One, because it seems his men are incapable of doing anything remotely useful unless he is there supervising their every move, and two because in the past few hours he's seen more on this crossing from England than he's seen in all his years of sailing. And the thrill is quickly wearing off.

He pinches the bridge of his nose to try and release the tension in his head, bracing himself for whatever his officer is about to show him. "What is it now Gillette?" he asks, and he doesn't bother to hide the irritation in his voice.

"The men found something in the cargo hold," was Gillette's vague reply.

With a sigh, James rises from his perch on the forecastle ladder and makes to follow. He replaces his cocked hat as Gillette leads the way towards the hatch, lamenting the fact that his few minutes of rest was cut so short. As they cross the deck, heeled boots clipping along the wood planks, his gaze finds the governors daughter still standing next to the boy they found drifting not ten minutes ago.

"Has he said anything?"

He didn't mean for his voice to sound so harsh but he's tired and irritated. Elizabeth jumps and spins around, words tumbling out of her mouth in surprise. "His name's William Turner, that's all I found out."

He attempts to offer some words of encouragement but the best he can muster is, "Very good." He has more pressing matters on his mind, like what was in the cargo hold that required his attention so badly. Surely the sailors could handle anything they found down there. Still, he feels a twinge of regret pass through him for scaring the girl. She's only trying to be helpful. She watches him with wide brown eyes, hands clasped behind her back. Her freckled nose flares as she draws a breath, lips pressed together like she has a secret she wants to share but cant. She's still young, years before her season, but James knows that the governor will have his hands full when the suitors come knocking.

He nods to excuse himself and follows Gillette's retreating figure down the hatchway. The smoke from the merchant ship, now likely at the bottom of the ocean, still clouds the air and leaves a sharp, lingering smell. When they descend below decks the suffocating smell subsides, but only to be replaced with the musty, dampness of the hull.

Between the merchant ship wreck, the boy in the water, and now whatever was in the cargo hold, the would-be easy, routine crossing was quickly turning into so much more. James has half a mind to ask for a promotion and an increase in pay at the rate he's going.

Four decks down and the ship is dark and smells of human sweat. There are three other men below, including Gillette and James. A sailor lights a lamp and hands it over to James, who lifts it higher. A warm glow falls over the cargo hatch, casting shadows from supply crates and barrels filled with gun powder. The wood creaks and groans as if protesting their presence in the quiet and reclusive belly of the ship. James squints through the dim light and moves closer to whatever the sailors are standing over, Gillette close at his side. As he nears, he notices Gillette's features are pinched with a frown, and wonders if the officer has been wearing the expression since he called him down to the hold. James had been too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice.

The sailors step aside as he nears and he finally sees what all the commotion is about. Wedged between a box of ammunition and a large crate of steel parts is a woman and a young girl not much older than Elizabeth.

The frown on James's face deepens and he can feel the headache that has been dogging him all day. A pair of stowaways is the last thing he needs.

He crouches down, setting the lamp at his feet. The girl sits with her knees tucked to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs, and looks between him and who he assumes is her mother. They have the same slightly upturned noses. Bare feet peek out from under layers of tattered skirt and a shift, black with dirt. She's skinny with sharp cheekbones and circles under her guarded eyes. Her collarbones and shoulders point like a wire hanger. But she's nothing compared to the mother. James shifts his gaze to the aforementioned woman, and it doesn't take long to surmise that she's dead. Her skin is waxy and whiter than the canvas sails, with cracked lips and sunken eyes. Her hair, streaked with grey, is frizzed and falls limp on her shoulders. Her head hangs at an odd angle but the rest of her body remains upright, pinned between the two crates. James reaches forward and wraps his hand around her foot, also bare, and feels for how cold and stiff they are. She's solid as a marble statue. She hasn't been dead for long.

He sighs and pulls his hand back. He can feel Gillette's gaze on the back of his head, and the sailors are probably waiting for him to say something, but he finds himself at a loss for words. He's dealt with a stowaway once or twice before, but never this far from a port, never with a young girl, and certainly never with one that had died half way through the journey. He briefly wonders how the two managed to stay hidden for so long.

"We tried to get 'er to talk, but she won' say anythin'," one of the sailors mumbles and it takes all of James's self control not to roll his eyes.

Of course the girl isn't going to speak. She likely watched her mother die some hours before, leaving her alone on a strange ship with strange men, and the questions forming in her head were likely par to the questions forming in his own head. If he was stunned to silence, she was smitten to reticence.

He reaches up and rubs his hand over his face, trying to think. He glances back at the girl. She's coiled tightly within herself, ready to spring at any moment. Her eyes are hard as they flicker back and forth between James and his men. He notices a surprising lack of fear in them but he can't deduce what's there instead. When he moves closer, she doesn't shrink back into her mother's corpse. She levels with him cautiously.

First and foremost the girl needs food and a look over from the ships doctor. Some warmer clothing wouldn't hurt either. He rocks back on his heels and stands up, taking the lamp with him. He turns to the sailors.

"I'm sure your attention is needed elsewhere," he says evenly and one by one they disperse back to the upper decks. He turns to Gillette and says softer, "Fetch the governor, tell him what we've found."

"Not the doctor?" the lieutenant asks and James shakes his head but offers no further explanation.

The officer nods and weaves back towards the ladder to the main deck, leaving James, the girl and the body. With a sigh, he sets down the lamp on top of a barrel ivory, and rubs his fingers along his temple.

James has exactly zero experience with children, as was the case for most of his men aboard the ship. The few that do have wives and families go months—even years—before seeing them in between voyages. There are a few scullery maids from the governor's entourage that he could probably call upon, but they were young women, most often single, and employed for house care. They weren't much better suited for the task he had in mind.

If anyone were to get the slight stowaway out of the cargo hold, away from her dead mother, and in the presence of the surgeon, it would hopefully be the fatherly words of comfort from the governor. He had raised Elizabeth almost entirely on his own, and as unorthodox as it was, it proved most beneficial. He had experience with children, young girls especially. Perhaps he would know what to do and what to say.

James glanced at the girl again. She wasn't looking at him, but rather stared off into some other part of the cargo hold. Again, he tried to decipher the look on her face, but she remained passive, almost calm, and James wasn't sure what to make of it. He turned his attention to the ladder as he heard voices and two pairs of boots ascending. Gillette returned, closely followed by Governor Swann.

The governor's wiry grey brows were pinched with hesitant tenderness. His eyes quickly went to the girl, once they were close enough, and the look deepened into pitying frown. He either didn't see, or purposely avoided looking at, the dead woman.

James quickly stepped back as the governor, barley acknowledging him, went to the girl and crouched down. Gillette came to stand beside him and the two waited in reverenced silence, watching Governor Swann lean over the girl and begin talking in a soothing, gentle tone. He spoke too softly for either of them to hear what was exchanged.

James couldn't help the hurt in his pride that came with asking the governor for help. He was a lieutenant, after all. He's lead hundreds of men to conquer territory along the south African coast, fought naval battles with the French off the West Indies, and now heads a crossing to the new harbor town of Port Royal, but god forbid a little girl get the best of him. He should be the one getting the stowaway to the doctor's quarters, but with everything that's happened lately, he's not sure he's in the best state to coax her out of her hiding place. Like luring a frightened fox from its hole.

He's a creature of self sufficiency; people ask him for help not the other way around. Calling on the governor makes him feel more like a helpless teenager than a lieutenant. But the stowaway seems to have gotten the best of him. He makes himself set aside his ego because for the first time in a long time, he has no idea what will happen next. He tries to cover his slight embarrassment by reminding himself that it was his brilliant idea to get the Governor. Had he not suggested it, they likely would have never gotten the girl out of the cargo hold.

He watches with Gillette as Governor Swann leans forwards, and two twig like arms wrap themselves around his neck. He stands up and turns to the officers. He holds the girl in his arms, her face nuzzled into his periwig and his hands hooked under her shoulders and knees. Without a word, he carries her towards the ladder and in the direction of the surgeon's quarters.

Gillette looks at him.

"What do we do with the body, sir?" he asks.

James purses his lips and looks back at the dead woman, laying between the cargo.

"Wrap her up, but keep her below decks. The girl can say her goodbyes and we bury her at dawn," he says slowly, then remembers the boy and the sunken ship. "We'll have a ceremony for the lost merchant sailors as well."

Gillette nods.

"You and Groves oversee the men searching the wreckage. Notify me if they find any survivors other than the boy. Bring along any goods that haven't been destroyed as well."

Another nod, then, "Sir?"

James looks at his companion, who seems hesitant to voice whatever is on his mind. But James has worked with Gillette for too many years not to know what he's thinking. He's always been too concerned with the wellbeing of others.

"I'm fine, Gillette," he sighs and offers a smile to reassure him. "Just make sure everything goes smoothly, will you? I've had enough excitement this voyage. The sooner we land in Port Royal the better."

"Yes sir."

Gillette turns and leaves. James takes a few minutes, reveling in the silence of the lower decks. Or rather, almost silence. The ship rocks lazily, its timbers groaning against the movement, but no one is shouting orders or reporting trouble to him. It's a nice change of events. He sighs, grabs the lantern, and goes to check on the girl.

He knocks on the door to the physician's room and opens it. The ships doctor sits at a wooden table next to the stowaway, who now wears a wool blanket. He looks up as James comes in, says something to the girl who is slumped in her chair, then stands up and indicates to his Lieutenant that they should talk in the passageway. James steps asides as the doctor closes the door after them.

"She's well enough," the older gentlemen sighs to him. "Malnourished obviously. Governor Swann mentioned the dead mother, so she's likely mourning her loss. She's not saying much but as far as I can tell she's not sick or injured."

The doctor finishes with a shrug.

"Thank you, doctor. And the boy?" James asks.

"Same as well," he replies, "Water in his lungs and exhausted from swimming but doing fine otherwise. He's been sleeping since he was brought on board, and the governor's daughter can't seem to leave his side," he smiles briefly, "I suppose we'll see by morning whether either of them makes it but I can't imagine we'll be burying more bodies than we already are."

"I should hope not," he answers, "Will you stop by the galley and have the cook bring up a plate for the girl?"

The physician nods his head and excuses himself. James turns and opens the door. She hasn't moved from her position at the table. She swivels her head up and over to watch him enter the room and slowly take the seat across the table from her. He studies her again, and she scrutinizes him back. She has bright, intelligent hazel eyes that James would have noticed before, if he wasn't distracted with her flushed skin and hallow cheeks. She looks at him comfortably, like she's known him for years, and it unnerves James, especially because, try as he might, he can't seem to find any hint as to who this girl is and how she managed to sneak onto his ship. She's just been caught as a stowaway. She should be shaking with thoughts of keel hauling and over boarding and whatever rumors sailors spread to keep squatters away from the ships. She doesn't show any signs of fear and that annoys James for some reason.

"How are you feeling?" he tries but already knows what her reply will be.

She says nothing.

"Was that your mother, down in the cargo hold?"

Nothing.

"Have you a name?"

Again, nothing.

He leans forwards and places his forearms on the wooden table, lacing his fingers together. He tells himself to be patient with the child, but it does little good. This isn't a game he's playing. He needs information and her unwillingness to cooperate is trying his tolerance. He sits straighter to look more authoritative.

"Will you tell me if I guess it?"

He receives an answer for this, or rather a shrug of a shoulder as a reply. He can't help the twitch of a smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth. She really is just a little girl.

"Alright, then," he says and leans back, the wood of the chair creaking with the shift of his weight. "Felicity?" he tries.

She doesn't give him anything, so he assumes it's not her name.

Something biblical perhaps.

"Miriam?"

It's not.

"Charlotte?"

She shakes her head no. James sighs and glances over at bulkhead of the ship. His gaze traces the caulking around the wood, the curve of the panels and the pattern of the grain, fishing for more names. Before he can guess another, the door opens and the cook enters with a plate, which he places in front of the girl. He leaves wordlessly and James indicates with his hand for the stowaway to eat. Her eyes flicker to the food—salt pork, peas and a slice of cheshire—before she lurches at the plate. She grabs up the cheese and eats it by the mouthfuls, never stopping to swallow or take a breath. James has seen wild dogs converge on garbage scraps the same way, and has a feeling that if he reached towards the plate, she would bite his hand without remorse. He watches her, nose wrinkled slightly at her lack of manners that would give even his most barbaric men a run for their money.

He waits while she eats. Disgusting as it is to watch, he's glad she has such a ravenous appetite. She looks like she hasn't had a decent meal in weeks. With her elbows on the table, her shoulder blades poke out of the top of her dress like two points of a mountain, a ridge of spine bones trailing down the valley of her back. She leans down and bites into the slab of meat cupped in her hands.

As she finishes, she looks back at James. She sits up and she licks her lips.

"Are you going to tell me how you came aboard my ship?" James asks after a long moment of silence. His voice is lower, softer, patiently waiting for an answer.

A few more minutes of silence stretch between them, but this time James decides he's not going to prod her with questions. He will wait until she gives him an answer, any answer. She just watches him with her wide, knowing eyes. James shifts in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest to let her know that he has no intention of speaking again before she does. She seems to accept the challenge, crossing her own arms.

Two could play this stubborn game of refusing to speak first.

Her face remains calm, placid, while James can feel his mouth curve with a frown as his patience wears thin.

The silence goes on.

Finally the girl shifts uneasily in her chair and James, thinking she's about to speak and that he's won their match, smirks at her in triumph. Her face pales considerably, she opens her mouth, leans over, and retches over the side of her chair. After weeks of living off pitiful portions of rancid food and falling asleep to the sharp pain of hunger, the rich food from the galley does not sit well in her stomach. The food itself is hardly satisfying, at least in James' opinion, but it's enough to set her stomach in a fray. The muscles in her abdomen seize and cramp as she doubles over again, gagging out the food she just consumed.

Annoyed and disgusted, James shoves his chair back and stands up, going for the door. He has three children on his ship now, two of which he knows nothing about. He did not join the Royal Navy to become a governess.

"Evangeline," the girl sputters out before he leaves. He stops, halfway through the threshold, and turns to look at her. She's still hunched over, but her eyes meet his. There's a sheen of sweat on her brow and upper lip. "My name is Evangeline," she manages to say between shuttering breaths. Her voice is husky and rough with poor enunciation. When James imagined her speaking, it was softer and refined, nothing like the inflections that came out of her mouth now. Nothing like the way Elizabeth speaks.

"My mother called me Evie."

She says the last part quietly before her body is wracked with another gag. James turns and closes the door behind him.