Author's Notes: This is going to be a little bit different sort of work for me. I haven't done an age of sail story in awhile, let alone a PotC one. The chapters are going to start out somewhat short until I get into a good working rhythm. Hopefully I can get a good beta who knows the canon characters better than I do, so when they appear, they won't be too off.
Also, to my Third Watch readers. Fear not! I love you dearly and I haven't forgotten or abandoned 'Away From You', nor have I left our ever-shrinking fandom. It's simply a serious lack of canon muse going on. Is A&E still showing reruns, does anyone know? That story deserves a happy end!
For you rabid fangirls, this is not your usual 'Go Jack/Pirates' story. Neither is it a 'Worship Scruffington!' story. For the record, I heartily dislike what the script writers did with the commodore's character - and, really, with the entire second move period - as I'm one of the distressingly rare Navy/Marine-shippers. This story, however, is set after the events of the first movie, with a slightly different take on what happened after Jack escaped. We shall open with a bit of action.
Disclaimer: None of the characters that appeared in the two Pirates of the Caribbean movies are mine. I am making no profit from this story and intend no infringement upon copyrights. This story will be removed should Disney, et al, request it.
Now, the story!
How long had he endured snide comments and practical jokes from the other marines? Ever since he had first joined Dauntless's detachment of marines two years ago, at least. By all accounts he should be used to it by now, but part of him had stubbornly refused to harden against the rough treatment. The dangerous part of him remained vulnerable and constantly wounded by the words and actions of his supposed comrades. Even after the brief show of unity at that pirate Sparrow's botched hanging a week past, matters had not changed. What would it take, for those bastards to leave him be?
James Blackburn stared down at his bayonet, sharp and deadly, as it lay in his open palms. Even that day, the marines were cracking jokes at his expense. 'Jimmy the Twig' was a favourite and he heard it often. How he was coming to hate every marine in the garrison! They were all the same, small-minded and cruel. Nobody was spared from their mistreatment - not even, as one would have thought, fellow marines. The part that grated the hardest on James' nerves was the fact that he appeared to be the only one so tormented. Not even those incompetent bastards Murtogg and Mullroy received so many rough words or were the targets of harsh pranks.
Why him? It wasn't his fault that he was built like a willow branch, dammit. The Surreyman's hands clenched abruptly into fists, despite the bayonet he held. He gripped the keen-edged blade tightly and relished the sensation of warmth oozing from his palms. Those bastards thought they had the softest target on the island for their sick pleasure, but they had another thought coming, and wouldn't they be shocked by it!
"Oi, Twig, 'urry up there, yer due on the walltops."
He trembled with silent rage at the words, resenting every one of them. The marine who had spoken them was that insufferable git George Durham. That one was constantly harassing him. It seemed his favourite form of entertainment. James glanced down at the bayonet clenched in his hands, taking in the crimson that was oozing slowly along the shining steel. His own blood. Did he dare add the blood of another to it, to erase one of the sources of his pain?
"Din't ya 'ear me, I said..."
"I heared you, y'damned loud mouth bastard," James burst out, lifting his glare to meet Durham's. The older marine stared back in shock, never having heard the Surreyman talk back to anyone.
"Wot did ya call me, ya liddle weasel?"
James sprang to his feet, his already-bloodied bayonet in his hand. Durham's eyes snapped down to stare at the weapon, widening as he quickly realised the other marine's wild expression was the precursor to something he had only seconds to comprehend. His reflexes were what saved him. James leaped at the other marine, bayonet leading, His intended target had been Durham's chest, but the older man managed to sidestep and the razor-sharp blade sank into his shoulder instead.
"Marines to the guard-'ouse!" Durham roared, staggering back against the wall. James ducked the musket butt swinging his way and grabbed his own musket. His most pressing concern was now fleeing before the entire fort came running. Durham had pulled the bayonet from his shoulder and thrown it aside, running after the swifter marine into the courtyard. "Marines to the guard-'ouse, stop that man!"
He'd really done it now! James heard and saw marines charging out of nearly every possible building, drawn by Durham's bellowing. A musket cracked and a lead ball whipped past him. Well wasn't that lovely then! His instincts screamed that he return fire, but he was hopelessly in the open. The stables! That big stone building where all the horses of the fort were lodged. He could lose his pursuers quite quickly if he was able to steal a horse.
"Stop there! You treacherous little bastard!"
James heard himself begin to laugh. That was his corporal, that damn Irishman McIntyre. How many times had he gone to that stupid clod for help and been told to buck up? Buck up this, Corporal! James wanted to shout. His long legs had given him a respectable lead on the pursuing marines and he stopped short, swinging around to face his new enemy. His fellow marines.
"Stuff you, Corporal!" James cried and fired quickly. If he had managed to hit anybody he wouldn't know, for he wheeled sharply and resumed his flight to the stables. More wild shots cracked through the air around him and it seemed as though every marine in the horde behind him was shouting. And there were officers appearing from the large stone building ahead of him. Why the hell did the bloody stables have to be clear across the fort?
"That's quite enough, marine," a Navy officer barked, his sword drawn and flashing toward the marine. James parried the blow with his musket and succeeded in knocking the officer aside. Nearly there! What was that bit about a twig again? The Surreyman thought wildly as he sprinted the last few yards to the stables. A horse would get him out of the thoroughly-hostile fort in a fine hurry.
There was a sizeable gathering of marines closing on the stables when he burst out through the Dutch doors, firmly a-saddle and hunched low over the animal's withers. Lead balls cracked and whizzed around him, but his former fellow marines were too hasty in compensating their aim for the galloping horse's speed. James's stolen mount raced across the dirt track leading to the main gate, which, he noted with a surge of elation, had been left entirely unguarded. What luck!
Out through the gate and down the road toward the town. At last! Freedom from that wretched life and those miserable sods. James whooped like a madman. He would be the last to admit that he had momentarily lost every semblance of control. Hearing that hated nickname had set off something within him that he had never known existed. But it didn't matter now. Nothing did. Nothing except he was free!
The marine patrols scattered throughout the town would have no idea what had taken place in the fort just yet... oh shite. James swore aloud as the echoing notes of a bugle rang through the afternoon air. A warning, a call-to-arms, to alert the patrols in town of danger. He was in for it now, but he was too far ahead of them for it to matter much at all. The docks were not far. James dropped the reins and ripped off his crossbelts, heaving them onto the street. His woolen scarlet coatee, black cravat, and stiff white leather collar were next, and he felt several pounds lighter. Cheering as loud as he could, the Surreyman gave his tri-corne a heave, watching it spiral into the gutter. With his uniform thus shed, he could not be recognised as a marine.
Now, to the docks, where he could find a way off this blasted island. But to what end? Turn pirate like that notorious Jack Sparrow? Not if he could help it! Honest work at sea, where he would not be bothered by the constraints and harshness of life in the marines. Or perhaps a trade ashore, working in the forests as his father did. Either way, this was a dream come true, certainly!
