On the Children
Chapter 3
As his son's most trusted mate, it was up to Bootstrap Bill to make sure all was ready for what might be a prolonged submersion. He had the crew lash down cannons and supplies, furled up the sails, and secure the rigging. Smaller items were stowed away so they wouldn't float into the sea, the ropes were checked for wear and breakage, the powder kept dry, and the men told to find secure hand- and footholds.
As Will was giving his speech, he kept an eye on the men and the ship. It seemed impossible for him to have missed the signs, but there they were. The continual wetness of the deck, no matter when the men had last swabbed them. A smell of decay and dank in the hold. The line of barnacles, even lengths of seaweed, which had begun growing along the hull and wood, impossible to eradicate.
The captain was always affected first by his neglect, but he had little doubt that the men would follow. Already the crew were struck by paranoia, some of them checking themselves for sea life on their flesh and clothes every hour. Bootstrap himself did not look – he did not want to know. And the mutterings had grown ever louder – that Captain Turner was deliberately abandoning his duties, that he was a new Davy Jones unable to cope with only a day on land every ten years, that they had to leave the ship or even… and this was just a whisper… do something about their captain. Get a new one, maybe, without any attachments to land.
So he was glad to see this mutinous undertone being expelled by Will's speech. He saw sailors shouting in fury that turned to righteous vengeance, the crew eager to do what was being asked. Men shifted closer, nodding to each other and themselves –Captain Turner was right, he did have their welfare in mind after all, and he had no more intended this to happen than they did.
"We will go where they cannot!" Will shouted. "We go DOWN!"
Their cries filled the air; it might have been triumphant if they were not all so angry, and then they began moving to assigned posts. There was a scuffle going on somewhere in the back as men tried to find their way to their assigned handholds. Will swung himself up the rigging, looked at his father, and nodded.
"Down!" exclaimed Will.
The ship began to move forward, preparing to make its descent. The shuffling was growing more obvious; he could see men moving, almost in confusion –
"No!"
Bootstrap turned suddenly at the sound. He knew the voices of every man on the ship, but this cry was not one he recognized at all.
"No!"
There seemed to be greater movement down on the deck. Frowning, he moved forward, forgetting to hold to the railing as he descended the steps of the quarter deck. The ship creaked, its bow beginning to ease downward.
"Stop! Wait-"
That's a boy, Bootstrap realized in consternation. The figure running forward was a boy. He whirled around, saw Will looking out and the shock mirrored on his face –
And then the boy shouted a word:
"Father!"
God's wounds. "Bring the ship up!" he shouted. "Bring-"
And then the ship smashed into and through the sea and the boy was knocked aside by the torrent of water.
Bootstrap Bill moved forward even as the water tore at him too and the white foam obscured all sight of men, ship, or boys. He was older, bigger; more importantly, he had experience with this, and despite the waves buffeting at him, he managed to grab onto the edge of the ship railing while still pushing his way blindly down the deck as the water drenched him, as the roar filled his ears.
Then the stream of foam and bubbles cleared, revealing the small form of the boy whirling up like a mote. They had reached the low silence of the ocean; all he could hear was his own breath in his head. There were other dark forms surrounding him, the rest of the crew flapping like sails in the wind, and he swam past them, releasing his hold on the railing so that he could almost float towards the boy, grabbing rigging and line as he went. The press of the waters was becoming less, and he reached out for the child's flailing limbs, hoping he wasn't too late –
He wasn't. As the child wriggled frantically, he managed to take hold of the boy's skinny arm in his grip – now he would not go flying off into the vast ocean. But while Bootstrap did not need to breathe, the boy did, and he could not drag him back down or the child would drown, and he hesitated for one moment –
White foam obscured his vision, and he heard the distant roar of water – looking up, he could see it like a vast, moving blanket above him, except that now it was coming down –
And with another crash, the water slammed him down onto the surface of the ship, knocking him loose from the rigging and almost pushing him over as well. The air was instantly cold against his wet skin and clothes, his body heavy as it left the buoyancy of the waters. Under his grasp he felt the boy stumble as well, and that induced him to steady himself on a nearby rail and try to hold the child up. He spat out salty water and shook droplets free from his hair. The crew was in the same position of trying to pull themselves upright, the ones who were nearest and steadiest turning eyes on them.
"That's it," he heard one whisper. "It's 'im…"
"The stowaway…"
"It's just a whelp-"
"Kill it!" An answering snarl from nearby men.
Bootstrap flung the boy behind him without thinking; distantly he heard the child's feet slide along the drenched deck. "Back, all of you!" he shouted; his hand dropped to his sword. "This is for the captain to deal with!" Said captain was staring at the scene below him; Bootstrap saw him shake the water from his face and move away from the wheel to get a closer look.
A low grumble. "Captain wanted to find the stowaway, and 'ere he is," hissed a big man nearby. "Let's 'ave 'im!"
The boy's arm was writhing in Bootstrap's grip, trying to get away, but he held on tighter. "You going to kill a child, Maccus? Hmm?" He eyed all of them. "Thought you stayed on this ship to be different. Thought you had an aim to redeem yourself on here."
"Oh, shut it and let us-"
"You dare speak that way to your first mate?" he shouted back. He saw with some satisfaction how the men drew back. Even Maccus hesitated. "We let the captain deal with this, so all of you, back to your stations!" When they didn't move: "Now!"
The mumble of voices was unhappy but obedient, slouching off to the main deck. Bootstrap caught Maccus sending the both of them a baleful glare, but paid it little heed. Only when they had cleared a small area around him did he turn towards the boy, now shivering from cold in his grip.
"God's sake, boy!" said Bootstrap. "What were you thinking?"
The boy looked up at him, shrinking back as far as he could when his arm was still held in Bootstrap's grip. "I'm – I'm – sorry." His teeth were beginning to chatter. "I just wanted – wanted to see the cap – the captain."
Bootstrap Bill pushed the boy around so that he could see him. "Why?" When the boy did not respond, Bootstrap gave him a shake. "Why, boy? Who are you?!"
But the boy shook his head, still shivering, hair plastered against his head from the water. Some of the nearby crew was staring in spite of themselves, and a few were daring to draw nearer, curious: the boy's words carried easily in the still night.
"I just – want to see him," the boy said, with a stubborn set to his jaw that was so familiar it took away his breath.
He wanted to see the captain. Father, he had called out to him. The boy had shouted Father, while staring up at Will. At his son.
The thought was forming, insistent but not wanting to be realized. Bootstrap grasped the boy again. "Look at me, lad," he ordered.
The child stared at him, and Bootstrap stared back. Under the moonlight, the boy's features were thrown into relief, but still he could see – the shape of the eyes and the brow and the lips, the length of the face.
The realization slammed into him, harder than any wave he had ever encountered.
This was Will's son. His grandson.
Had Will known? He could not have, had never mentioned it. Was this Elizabeth's child? And somewhere his mind brought up another memory and he realized they were standing only a few feet from where Bootstrap had first encountered Will on the Dutchman, and he had to fight inexplicable, painful urge to laugh.
He heard footsteps, saw Will coming down from the quarter deck. His steps were heavy, face almost… petrified, and Bootstrap realized that his son had just arrived at the same conclusion as him.
At the same time, he remembered just where they were, and who was around.
"Get back!" shouted Bootstrap, releasing the boy from his grip. He glared at the braver crewmembers who had tried to sneak closer despite his commands. "All of you! Below decks, now!" Some of the ones furthest away scurried off, but not enough – there was still a disobedient grumbling from them. "Do as I say, you scurvy bastards!" he roared, real anger in his tone. "Get down below or it'll be a lashing for all of you!"
At that the men rushed away, fleeing to the gun deck and down the steps. Bootstrap looked up and saw Will only feet away from them – and the boy, who was staring at him with what looked to be absolute terror.
Bootstrap whispered, "Tell him your name, boy," and gave him a gentle push forward.
Will took the last step – and then only stood there, staring at the boy. Emotions raced across his face and that of the boy's, too quick to be identified.
Bootstrap had hated his time under Davy Jones, but he had learned one thing – when it was best to leave a scene. And now he did that, backing away until he was in the shadows of the overhanging roof placed over the deck. With water still pouring away from the decks, and the lamps doused and the mast and riggings hanging with seaweed from their submersion, the ship looked like one from out of a nightmare, like Davy Jones's Dutchman come again. And when Will drew nearer, the barnacles livid under the night sky, Bootstrap had a sudden notion of what his son had been feeling that rainy night they encountered each other on the Dutchman – betrayed by a friend, confused, and confronted with a man bristling with sea life. And his son had been a man grown, while here there was only a fearful, half-drowned child.
Will was now only a foot away from the boy. The ship was still shifting atop the waves and under the swirling water, and he saw the boy stumble. Will suddenly knelt – perhaps he too was unbalanced – and the boy instinctively grabbed onto his coat to steady himself. Just as quickly he recoiled back – but Will grabbed ahold of the child's arms, holding them gently.
"What is your name?" Bootstrap heard Will ask.
The child's shivering seemed only to increase. "Henry," he said. "Henry Turner. Son of William and Elizabeth Turner." Emotion flashed across Will's face. The child continued, as if in recitation, "My – my full name is – William Weatherby Henry Turner. William, for my – for my father, and his father. Weatherby for her father. And Henry for myself."
Another William Turner, Bootstrap thought. Three generations of them on this ship. What kind of cruel god would arrange this?
Will was still staring. He raised a shell-encrusted hand and reached for the boy; thankfully the child did not flinch back this time. Bootstrap could not see Henry's face, but Will's was clear under the starry skies – curiosity and awe and longing, all mingled together. Slowly, Will gripped Henry's face in his fingers, tipping the boy's chin up. His eyes moved across the boy, and Bootstrap knew he was seeing what he already had – his own features, and his wife's, in a new form.
Without warning, Will moved forward, wrapping the boy up in his arms. Bootstrap saw Henry stiffen in surprise – but in the next second, the child went limp, arms coming up as well. Will's fingers were wrapped tightly in Henry's coat, eyes half-closed in astonishment, the joy of discovery, and Bootstrap had no doubt that Henry looked exactly the same.
As Will backed away, lips rising in a sudden grin, still holding for dear life onto his son – as Henry's shivering body loosened and he held onto his father's coat, barnacles and all – Bootstrap could only think that this father-son reunion had gone far better than his own.
When he sat back and looked, actually looked, at Henry – his son – Will could see that the boy was shivering intensely, was probably freezing from the cold water. His son could not quite seem to meet his eyes, sometimes darting up to look at him, then just as quickly looking at the ground. His appearance, Will thought; not only were both of them still drenched, he knew the growth of barnacles had accelerated. He remembered his own disgusted flinch when he faced his father for the first time in over a decade, and it stalled his urge to scoop up the boy and hold him tighter, to feel the solid realness of this child he had just laid eyes on.
Vaguely, he also realized that there was almost nobody on the ship except for himself, his son, and his father – he had a distant memory of them being ordered below deck. As if to remind him, he glanced up and saw Bootstrap Bill standing in the shadows, watching them. At his glance, his father nodded, then headed below decks, perhaps to get dry clothing. Or drier. Their aborted dive into the sea had no doubt soaked everything with water again.
Their dive. He had almost swept his own son overboard. The thought alone made him tighten his grip on Henry again, despite his previous attempt not to. No doubt another reason for the child to fear him. Another urge was rising in him – to not have this boy, his son, recoil every time he looked. To explain.
He crouched low, pushing Henry's face up again. "Henry. I – You –" He felt as clumsy and fumbling as when he was still a lowly blacksmith's apprentice trying to speak to the elegant and refined governor's daughter. "You're cold," was all he could say.
Henry nodded. Strands of his hair were getting in his face from his shaking. Will let go of him, and offered a hand, the one with less growths on it.
"Here then. We'll – let's go to my quarters."
Somewhat to his relief, Henry did not hesitate to take his hand, but he still seemed to find it difficult to look at him. In silence, the two turned and entered the nearby cabin, Will closing the door behind him before lighting the lamps. Under their glow, he could see Henry's features even more clearly, could see something resembling his own face in the brow and eyes, and something of his father and mother, with just a touch of Elizabeth.
Elizabeth. She had not said a word about Henry's existence. When he had been sailing towards the island, on his return from the land of the dead, Will had thought he'd seen a small figure holding onto her, but she had dismissed it. Only a boy from the village, she'd said, curious about the fabled green flash and now back in his parents' home. And then she had drawn him into her bedroom and he had forgotten all about young boys or anything else, save for her.
He gripped the nearby wall for a moment. He had no doubt Henry was his son, or that she had remained faithful. But to not even mention that they had a son… he could not quite smother the sting of betrayal there.
He turned his gaze back on his son. Henry was standing near the doorway, still shivering and staring at the nearby table, where lay Will's meal. The crew of the Dutchman did not need to eat or drink, or sleep, or even breathe, allowing them to stay underwater indefinitely and ferry souls without need for supplies. But they still felt the pangs of hunger and thirst, the ache of fatigue or the agony of the lash and, amongst the less disciplined, the lust for flesh. Will himself would still take meals, though usually it was only one, which he would pick at throughout a day.
Henry, of course, was different.
"You're hungry?" Will asked. Henry jumped and turned to look at him. Will pulled out the chair and gestured towards the food, not caring if the two of them dripped water everywhere. "Go on. Eat."
The boy hesitated, but could not resist his hunger for long. In seconds, he was sitting at the table and tearing apart a roll. Disposing of it in a flash, he made his way through the salted pork and spooned up a nearby bowl of porridge. Will came over, sitting down to just stare at the boy. The past half hour felt unreal, and he half believed he was dreaming, that he had gone as delusional as his father had once been and created a son in his embittered mind. He wanted to take in all of Henry's features, to hold his hand again to assure himself that this child was real, that this was his son who had made his way aboard the Dutchman.
There were so many questions he wanted to ask, and they all clustered in his head demanding to go first so that he could only blurt out the one that made the most sense at hand. "How did you eat while you were on here?"
Henry paused, a guilty look crossing his face. "I – I was hiding in the hold. There was food there… and sometimes I went up to the galley and would… take some." Henry's eyes glanced over the barnacles on his face. Will knew they had to look even worse under the light, but Henry seemed to take it in stride and bent over his food again.
"We searched the hold," Will pointed out, still wondering how his son could have gone unnoticed.
That guilty look again. "I – hid in a barrel."
Will could not help smiling. Yes, a child would fit there where a grown man would have difficulties, and his crew had not been searching for a child. "That's… clever."
For the first time, he saw a smile pass over Henry's face, shy and hidden. Then it was back to the food, and back to Will marveling over him, every movement, every change in expression. He could see a lot of Elizabeth in his mannerisms and the way he spoke. With a rush of feeling, he wondered how Henry had grown up, with only his mother for all his life. Will, at least, had had his father for a few years, enough to retain some memories, but Henry had none. And still he had stowed away on his ship, determined to look for a man he had never met and probably knew only through Elizabeth's stories.
"Were you happy with her?" Will asked, then made to clarify. "With your mother?"
Another small grin. "Yes." Then he dropped his eyes. "But… I missed my father." He picked at the porridge a moment. "All the boys in the village had fathers. They talked about them. I didn't."
And so he had lived with the hole in his childhood, one Will could well remember – like a gap, often unnoticed but which ached when attention was drawn to it. He suddenly wished his own father was with him, to talk with him about this. You owe me nothing, Will, Bootstrap had said long ago, an implicit apology there for abandoning him – and though Will had not left his wife and unknown child willingly, nevertheless, he was not there with them.
He wondered, too, how Elizabeth had dealt with the last ten years – alone, without her husband, and then with child and having to raise him by herself. It could not have been easy. And yet when Will had seen her, she had seemed unmarked by any hardship – she would not be the Elizabeth he loved if she had not risen to the challenge and learned to thrive under it.
"Do you…" Will hesitated, not sure if Henry could answer this, but went on. "You know that I did not know about you." Henry nodded. "Do you know why your mother did not tell me?"
Henry's spoon stopped at the edge of his mouth. "No. But she…" He frowned, clearly thinking. "She just told me that… she wanted one day with you… and that she would let you see me in the morning."
"The morning?" Will pondered it a moment. "When did she tell you this?"
"At sunset, when we saw the green flash." He lowered his spoon. "I ran away after you left."
Will let his son continue eating, now at a slower pace. He thought he knew what Elizabeth had done. Neither of them had been sure that their one day would become two, then three, then weeks and months and years. They had hoped, but could not know until the sunset of the next day had passed. So she had hidden Henry away, not wanting father and son to meet until she knew they could be together, to spare them the pain of having to be apart. As before, she would have resolved to bear this burden herself.
Remembering his own words to her – I won't return – Will found himself agreeing – and understanding. Was his own leaving her not for the exact same reason – to spare Elizabeth more pain? There was no place for his son here. He would have to go back to his mother – and Will would not see him again. It might have been easier for him to have not known about this son at all.
Henry lowered his spoon again. "Father," and the word seemed to strike something in Will's nonexistent heart. The boy began picking at a spot on his coat. "I'm sorry."
Will was taken aback and stared. "For what?" If anything, he was the one who had more to be sorrier for…
"For… this." And Henry reached out hesitantly and hovered his hand over Will's, where the barnacles grew. "I didn't know that… when I was hiding on your ship… that I was making everything… bad. I just wanted to meet my father. Mother told me so much about you."
Will had opened his mouth to speak, but could find nothing to say. Was this why he was so frightened? Because he thought his father blamed him for his state? He knew that he had just committed himself to another night without souls to ferry, knew it would continue to exacerbate the changes in his appearance, but at that moment, with his son sitting almost tearfully in front of him, Will could not care less about it at that moment.
"Henry…" He held the name a moment, still unfamiliar. "Do not blame yourself. None of this is your fault." He took a long breath. "If there is anyone who should be apologizing, it's me. I nearly had you swept overboard."
His son gazed up at him. "But you said you couldn't ferry souls because of me."
Never had he regretted a speech more. "I didn't know. If I had known it was you, and why you were on here, I would not have said that." He reached for the boy again, unsure if Henry would accept his touch, but he did, letting Will run his thumb across his jaw for a moment. "I am... sorry, for what I did."
Henry had gone still when his father had reached over, but he did not seem frightened anymore. He met Will's eyes. "It's all right... Father." And when Will withdrew, he thought he saw disappointment flash across Henry's face at the loss of contact.
It seemed to release something in Henry, and he ate more quickly. Soon he was finishing his food and yawning. His clothes were a little drier, but Will still told him to take off his coat, shoes, and stockings so it could dry faster, and let him sit on the chair with a blanket from the bed wrapped around him. He wanted to ask him more questions, about his childhood, about Elizabeth, about what he did and what he learned, but it seemed that the next moment he looked, Henry was lying on the chair with the blanket tucked around him, asleep.
Henry had only meant to close his eyes for a second, but he had been so comfortable and warm and happy (his father did not blame him!) that he couldn't help drifting off… and when he next opened his eyes, there was a cold spot beneath his head and all the lamps were doused except for one at the big table with a lot of maps. It was directly across from him, so that if he opened one eye just a tiny bit, he could see the dark shape of his father hunched over a map.
His father. Henry had to resist the urge to sit up and go to him. They had only spoken a few moments, but he was so much like how his mother had described him, even with the barnacles, kind and stern all at once but happy, happy to see him –
A quiet knock at the door had him shutting his eyes and dropping his head down. He heard footsteps cross the room and open it.
"First mate wants to see you," someone outside said.
There was a quiet murmur, too low to decipher, then two sets of footsteps and the sound of the door swinging close.
"Spent enough time with your son?" asked one voice – not his father's, it sounded older.
"Is that why you took so long?" That was his father, sounding a little amused. "You did not need to stay away for so long – he is also your-"
The other interrupted. "A father is more important. Every man should have some time with his son, especially lost ones. How is he?"
The pair of footsteps drew quite close to him. "Ate, drank. He's asleep now."
Their voices sounded like they were coming directly over him. Henry could feel their presence near him; he imagined them standing there, looking down at him. He did his best to appear asleep. It must have worked, because he heard them walk away a few seconds later. Only then did he dare open his eyes a crack. His father and the other man were back at the table, where the lamp illuminated their faces. Henry recognized the new arrival now – it was the same man who had been up at the wheel with his father – the first mate, which was what the sailor at the door at said.
When his father next spoke, all the humor was gone. "I nearly killed him."
The other man moved closer. "Will-"
"We could have searched harder."
"You did not know."
"I should not have done it in the first place. Even if it wasn't my son – I might have drowned him, or swept him off the ship. What kind of way is that for a father to meet his son?"
"I recall having to flog you when I met you again." A creak. "I know what it is, to hurt someone without intention to do so."
There was a short pause, during which Henry almost put his head up. This man had whipped his father? And why did he called him Will and not Captain?
"You know I forgave you for that," said his father. In the light, he looked angry and earnest all at once.
"Then he will forgive you for this," said the first mate, gesturing at Henry, who hastily closed his eyes. "You are his father."
There was a rustle; Henry's father was shaking his head. "I do not feel like it. I did not even know until an hour ago - and now he's here, and I don't know what to do with him."
"You are doing far better than I ever did," said the first mate. "Particularly for one who did not have much of a father in his own childhood." There was a sound, possibly of protest, but the first mate just held up a hand. "No, do not try to defend me. Look to your own son instead."
For a few moments there was nothing said, the only sounds that of the ship creaking back and forth or the flicker of flame in the lamp.
"What do I do with him?" Henry heard his father whisper again.
He opened his eyes a moment and saw now that the two men were huddled quite close to each other, their voices almost whispers.
"What do you want to do?" asked the other man.
His father jerked his head up. "I have my duties to attend to. Three nights I've gone without ferrying those souls to the afterlife. It will start to affect all of us."
"That's all?"
Another pause, the longest so far. "No. I would like to… know him. He's my son." Another creak, Henry wasn't sure if it was the table or ship. "But he cannot stay. And I cannot know him. I told his mother I would not return. This…" There was another silence. "And he's not bound to the ship. The crew are already uneasy, they do not like him on here." Henry bit his lip.
"Do not think of the crew, I will take care of them. Think of yourself for once, Will."
"Myself? But Elizabeth will be missing him." There was a dry chuckle in response, and a silence. Then: "What should I do?"
The older man moved around the table. "You will have to bring him back. We will need to return to the land of the living. Sunset, perhaps."
A nod. "Yes. You're right."
"But Will-" the first mate attempted to say.
"No. This is… selfish. Foolish."
"Will."
"We should wake him. Tell the crew-"
"William." Henry saw the first mate grab his father by the arm. "You'll have an entire day before we can return. What do you intend to do during that time?"
"Take him back to his mother-"
"That will only take a few hours, perhaps less. Will." The man stepped in front of him. "Even I had you for a few days on the Dutchman. If you do not plan to ever return, then let yourself have some time with your son."
A long breath. "I should not."
"Aye." The first mate released his arm. "Because of the pain of leaving him."
"Yes."
The only sound was that of the light, flickering against the glass panes of the lamp. Henry waited with some trepidation, not sure what his father would say. He knew he had to go back, but he wanted so badly to stay, at least for a little while.
Finally, the first mate said, "You remember, when you were on the Dutchman with me? I sometimes wished you might stay. There was selfishness… wanting you there when Davy Jones was captain and all of us were bound to the ship."
"You told me to go."
"It was best for you. It's not selfish for a father to want his child with him, just so long as he does the right thing for them. I knew what was safest for you. You know it for your son. But let yourself know him, especially if you do not wish to return. A boy ought to have some memories of his father."
His father was staring at the man. "How do you know all this?"
"I've been at this longer than you have," said the other man, sounding quite dry about it. There was a creak as he stepped back. "Shall I alert the crew that we'll be going down come sunset?" Henry saw his father nod. They both began walking towards the door, and Henry squeezed his eyes shut quickly as they passed by.
"And Will." Henry heard the footsteps pause. "Being a father longer, I should tell you… your boy's not asleep."
And as Henry stiffened in surprise, he heard the door open and close, leaving him alone again with his father.
A/N: The line "Bootstrap could only think that this father-son reunion had gone far better than his own" was one of the first lines I came up with and basically helped inspire and build the rest of the story. My conception of how the bound souls eat and drink and sleep seems a bit odd to me, but it was the only way I could think of having food on the ship for Henry to eat, while also taking into account that the Dutchman would be in the land of the dead for a decade with no way to re-supply. Plus, the idea of the Dutchman just pulling up at an island to buy supplies is too inherently funny for me to consider putting it in a serious story.
