Hello, if I haven't yet replied to your review yet, don't fret! I was crazy busy this week with a final and I wanted to post this chapter before all interest wanes. Enjoy!
Chapter 10 – The Upper Hand
Oh God, Jack mused. Should I take advantage of Lizzie in such a state? She may hate me in th' mornin'… Or may never speak to me due to shame or guilt or anger or feelin's of betrayal an' wotnot only familiar to th' minds of womankind. But I'm a pirate. An infamous pirate, terror of the Caribbean. Take wot yet can, an' give nothin' back, we all say. I should be grantin' her th' greatest thrills of her life at this moment—yet, instead, most of my body, at least, is holdin' back. Wot to do, wot to do….
Without another thought, he slipped an arm below Elizabeth's backside, the other arm cradling her back, and lifted her off her feet, cradling her in his arms. Still in a bit of a daze over what had been said, he made his way up the stairs, carrying Elizabeth all the while.
I cannot bloody believe this, he mused, watching her gaze seductively at him, licking her lips as she gently stroked his cheek with the back of a hand. Did th' whelp teach her all this? If so, I have more respect for 'im. Even though I'll soon be sleepin' wiv his wife….
Once Jack had reached the landing at the top of the stairs, Elizabeth's hand dropped from his face. He glanced subtly down at her to see that her eyes were closed.
"Lizzie, you awake?"
She didn't respond. He shook her about in his arms but she did not stir. His night with her was suddenly made clear. This was where it would end.
"Jus' wot I thought," he muttered bitterly, feeling the excitation that had begun in his loins fade as soon as it had appeared. "It was th' rum talkin', after all. Should've known better than to assume she'd start a pursuit, wot wiv her carryin' th' whelp's child."
He repositioned Elizabeth's body so that she was now draped over his shoulder. Staggering ever so slightly under the new weight, Jack staggered back down the stairs and ducked out of the building into the abandoned moonlit streets on his way back to the Black Pearl.
Once Jack and Elizabeth had returned to the Black Pearl, he entered her cabin and set her down carefully on her bed. It was then that she awoke, glancing up at him through heavily-lidded eyes.
"Stay with me, Jack."
He sat down on the bed beside her lying form. Suddenly it was possible that his night could again be interesting. But her look was not seductive. It was one of fright perhaps; of need.
"Just—please stay here. Please."
"Are you certain?" he said, tenderly running a finger along her sweaty forehead.
"Yes, Jack. I need you."
"Alright, luv. Wotever you say. But don' say I didn' warn you."
She closed her eyes, remaining sprawled across the bed. He tucked his hands under her armpits and shifted her to a side of the bed, pulling her blanket out from under her body and using them to cover her up to her chin. Jack observed Elizabeth carefully as he slipped his bandanna, waistcoat, shirt and boots off and slid silently into bed next to her.
Oddly enough, a wave of relief washed over him as he lie in Elizabeth's bed next to her peacefully sleeping form, watching the blankets covering her chest rise and fall with each breath she took.
It was better that I did wot I did, he mused. Wouldn't be very thrillin' makin' it wiv an unconscious thing…I suppose. Mayhap th' time will come when it will require no rum for her to reveal her true intentions, wotever they may be. A hard one to figure out, she is...
Beckett's first evening shackled to the hull of the merchant vessel was miserable. Firstly, his arms had all but completely fallen asleep and were currently tingling painfully. Secondly, no one had brought him a drop of food or drink.
Why couldn't I have just stayed hidden, he mused, desperately trying to shake his arms awake again. Do I have no control over my hunger and thirst? If I had simply stayed hidden in that corner, I'd be just as miserable, but I least I wouldn't be restrained. Now I have the additional issue of escaping from these shackles once we arrive in Southampton. I certainly can't address redemption when being brought in by men wanting reward. And how much do they know of my state needed for collecting the reward? If they realize that I can be brought in dead, they may very well kill me before we arrive in Southampton.
That night, a crewmate entered the hold, a young Irishman only about the age of seventeen or so, not much more than a cabin boy.
"Sir," Beckett said, feeling ill at having to address this person so. The Irishman was obviously flattered and looked over at the shackled prisoner.
"Yes?"
"Is it possible that I can have a drop of water? I'm quite parched," he told the man.
"Certainly."
A cup was brought over and the man held it to Beckett's lips, letting him drink the refreshment.
Beckett as of yet was not needful of a visit to the restroom, but he would be by early the next day. And there was the issue of the nerves in his arms tingling annoyingly. Perhaps he shouldn't push his luck yet….
"Thank you, Sir," Beckett murmured, his mouth no longer unbearably dry.
"You are welcome. I trust that you do not need to use the facilities?"
"Actually," Beckett said with an internal smile, "I was rather hoping to do so… in a civil fashion."
The young Irishman left quickly to fetch the keys for Beckett, and soon returned with the keys—as well as a pistol. As he stood behind Beckett and unshackled him, he held the pistol under an arm. Soon Beckett was standing, his arms finally free. Thankful for the break, Beckett shook his arms about until the numbness and tingling had subsided.
"What are ye doin'?" the Irishman asked.
"Having my arms behind me is quite dreadful. Both of my arms were tingling quite painfully."
He proceeded to use the facilities (a port hole) whilst being aimed at with the Irishman's pistol, and then turned around to face the boy. He already had the shackles ready to go.
"Sir, may I request that you shackle my hands in front of me, rather than behind." And with that, he boldly walked up to the Irishman, holding his hands out in front of him to be shackled. "I'm unable to escape either way. I will give you no trouble."
The power of being addressed as Sir was certainly influencing the Irishman's actions. The boy looked down at Beckett's hands held out to him, remaining perfectly still. If he refused to shackle Beckett's hands in the front, he might attempt to wrest away, and then it would become apparent to all that he had been freed in the first place. He'd probably never sail with them again.
"Alright."
And for the first time since being discovered by the ship's crew, Beckett was able to smile unabashedly in the inky black darkness of the ship's hold, sitting with arms shackled in front of him, leaning up against a barrel.
The next morning Elizabeth awoke to a pounding headache and the rumblings of nausea. She sat up swiftly in bed, her eyes adjusting to the light that had made its way underneath the door to her cabin.
How did I end up here, she mused. All I remember last night is leaving the first tavern with Jack and settling down in a second tavern later on that evening. I don't remember returning to the ship.
She soon came to the realization that she was wearing the same clothing she had worn the night before, indicating that she had not bothered to change into her nightclothes. This fact frightened her… but not nearly as much as the dreadlocks spread out over the pillow next to her.
"Oh no," she whispered aloud to herself. What have I done? Oh, God, I don't even remember what happened.
"Jack," she said aloud. The body next to her did not stir. She tapped the figure on its back, over the blankets that hid the person's identity—though it was obvious from the dreadlocks that this was the Pearl's captain.
Jack rolled over so as to face his bedmate, lips smacking quietly as his kohl-lined eyes opened to the sight of Elizabeth staring at him disapprovingly, blankets pulled up to her chest.
"Wot's wrong, luv?" he said, his voice gravelly.
"I think you know very well what's wrong," she replied.
He blinked indignantly.
"No, in fact I do not."
"How did I end up here? More importantly, how did you end up here?"
Jack sighed with exasperation, which greatly irked her.
"So you remember nothin' of last night," he stated slowly.
Panic rose in her throat.
"I only remember leaving the first tavern and settling down into the second tavern," she replied. "After that it's just a blank."
"Bugger, I should have figured," he muttered.
"What did we do, Jack? Did we—" She could not speak anymore, instead looking at the bed.
"No, that we did not."
"Then why are you here?"
Bloody hell, the nerve of some women, he mused. Th' most well-born of 'em tend to feel th' guiltiest th' next mornin'.
"You drank a bit too much an' passed out for a spell." Understatement of the century, he thought bitterly. "I brought you back here, set you down in your own bed, an' you woke up for a moment an' asked me to stay. So here I am."
"Is that all?" she said, studying his expression carefully with eyes narrowed. Paranoia overcame her. Had she said anything damning?
"You did kiss me—once—but that was it. Then you fainted. Can't say I blame you, after kissing th' lips of th' most famous pirate lover there ever w—"
Her face paled several shades as her mouth went agape.
"What did I say, Jack? Did I say anything inappropriate leading up to that?"
He opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find the words. She saw the answer she dreaded in his eyes.
"Oh, Jack, I am so sorry for anything foolish I may have said to you." Her headache was throbbing now, certainly not aided by her newfound craving to break down in tears.
"Actually, I rather enjoyed th' things you said," he replied, slightly relishing the fact that Elizabeth was now blushing.
"Do I want to know what I said?" she asked him.
"No. That you do not. Unless, of course, you in all actuality possess th' fundamental feelin's beneath wot all that was said an' have been dyin' for a way to express them all to me, which was accomplished quite splendidly last night, if I may state quite plainly."
"Oh my God."
He propped a fist under his chin, gazing intensely at her.
"Step one has been accomplished, Lizzie. Th' ice has been broken. There needn't be any—awkwardness between us."
"You know very well that I—" she began in a harsh voice, but watching his expression change from excitement to annoyance made her stop mid-sentence. Instead, she sighed loudly with a downward scoot of her body, allowing her head to fall once again on the pillow.
"Are you telling the truth when you say nothing happened—besides the kiss," Elizabeth said with a sigh, glancing only briefly at Jack's face in its close proximity. "Oh, I feel ill," she added, clutching her stomach.
"I swear, on pain of death, that nothin' else occurred between us," he stated, looking back at her gravely.
He watched the expression of relief wash over her features, and felt a bit insulted.
"Am I that repulsive to you? I must tell you; I can vouch for the hundreds o' satisfied women I've… satisfied, that I can bring about the greatest pleasure one has ever—"
"You're not repulsive, Jack. But you are a good man, no matter what you claim to the contrary." Elizabeth leaned in, planting a kiss on his cheek, and then turned back over to face away from him. He said no more, only shifting his body so he was lying on his back, flashing her one last fleeting glance before deciding to sleep in a bit longer.
He hated to hear Elizabeth speak those words, but yet he couldn't deny that what she had said was true.
"Maybe I should send the crew out into England to find the heart," Will said to his father, staring idly at his stiff pinkie fingers, which seemed to be calcifying in some way.
"It'd be like findin' a needle in a haystack. Ye need to wait until the heart aches ye again, and then send yer crew after 'im."
"Well, what should we do until then?"
"I think we should linger close by, yet not make ourselves as apparent to the livin'," Bootstrap offered.
Will noticed the trace of a seashell appearing along his father's hairline.
"To the depths then, for the time being?" Will suggested, swallowing hard. "Mayhap it will keep us human for longer."
"Aye, son. To the depths."
An hour later, Jack found himself being jarred about in bed, much like the heaves and dips of a steadily advancing ship on the water. But at this point we are still supposed to be in the harbour, he mused, feeling instant alarm.
Staying absolutely silent, he crept out of bed, being careful not to awaken the still-unconscious Elizabeth. He pulled a slice of ginger root from his pocket and placed it on the table beside her bed. Good thing I carry such an antidote about for th' followin' mornin' after a night o' drinkin', he mused, slipping his shirt, waistcoat, and boots back on.
Jack made his way onto the gun deck, seeing sunlight streaming through the gun ports. He snuck over to a larboard gun port and noticed the ocean moving astern.
Bloody hell, we've already left. How did this come about?
He backed away from the gun port quickly, continuing to gaze out at the moving waves beneath the traveling ship—backing into a stunned Barbossa.
"Sparrow!?—what are ye doin' here—I mean, where've ye been all this mornin'?"
"Obviously not where you expected to find me. You tried to leave me behind, ye yellow scurvy-ridden weasel." Glaring at the taller captain, he unsheathed a dagger from his side. "An' now you have elected to be killed, wiv no questions asked, per our agreement."
He pointed the dagger at Barbossa's throat, watching Barbossa's lack of response.
"Jack, we agreed to the offender bein' shot, not stabbed. An' I happen to know ye lack the implement to carry out yer side of the agreement. So yer side of the agreement is thus forfeited. On the other han'," he added, brandishing his pistol and cocking it, "I happen to possess jus' what ye lack."
It was then that Barbossa's eyes went wide, and he fell to his knees with a resounding thud, having been knocked out cold. His feathered hat flew off his head, fluttering several feet away, and his pistol dropped from his frozen fingers, clattering noisily to the floor below.
Gibbs appeared behind the fallen captain, a bottle of rum in hand, as he glared downwards, obviously enraged at the man.
"An' that's fer yer never-endin' treachery!" he shouted down at Barbossa's still figure, the older captain's eyes affixed open in an eerie fashion.
"You saved my life, Mr. Gibbs," Jack said to his First Mate. The bearded pirate seemed to jump a foot in the air.
"Jack?"
"Wot's wrong wiv you? I thought you hit him so as to prevent him from offin' me. You needn't act so surprised to see me, mate. Your humility has been noted."
"I'd no idea ye be here. I'd figured he'd left ye behind. He was already goin' about sayin' ye ran into some trouble with the law an' had to be left behind to save the rest of us. I didn' believe 'im fer a second. He even tried to get me to leave ship. Had an awfully strange night, courtesy of him. Didn' know how he did it 'til this mornin', though."
"Why, wot did he do."
"The bastard slipped some Spanish fly into my rum," he replied, giving the still body on the ground a little kick. "Explains the urges I be havin'. Foun' the powder in a folded handkerchief. An' as ye know, only he carries handkerchiefs aroun'."
Jack's jaw dropped.
"Ah, so he got ye as well," Gibbs said, reading his friend's response. "Prob'ly wanted us to stay ashore, up all night busy with whores, while he set sail in the meantime."
"Elizabeth," Jack muttered, eyes distant.
"Aye, where be Elizabeth? I haven't seen her as of yet today. Ye don' mean to tell me Barbossa had her left behind, do ye? We can always turn back, Jack; don' worry."
"No, it's not that; she made it aboard," the dreadlocked captain replied. "It's just—she acted quite unlike herself last night… an' now I recall that it was she who swigged down half of th' bottle that Barbossa snatched out of me hands earlier in th' evenin'. An' let me tell you, she is quite a force to be reckoned wiv when she's randy."
"Did you two—"
"No."
Jack didn't know what else to say. Instead, both of the men looked down at Barbossa, who was beginning to come to. Though his expression remained tranquil, Jack gave his downed co-captain a swift kick to the stomach.
Barbossa let out a loud groan and tried to move away, but he knew he was surrounded. He simply sat up from his position on the floor, staying silent, legs crossed Indian-style. Gibbs aimed his gun at the back of Barbossa's head, the barrel positioned against Barbossa's sky-blue bandanna.
Jack stood above the seated captain, his kohl-lined eyes in their narrowed state looking rather ominous. He spoke to his mutinous former First Mate.
"Give me one good reason why Gibbs shouldn't cause th' immediate an' irreversible fragmentation of your puny peanut of a brain into th' vicinity of my ship."
"Jack," the older captain began.
"Aye, that's my name, but it's not a valid reason," Jack immediately replied.
"I wasn't finished," Barbossa spat, rolling his eyes in irritation.
"Oi, did you hear somethin', Gibbs? I think it was the bloody Spanish fly buzzing aroun' our heads. No matter—"
"Gents, 'twas a simple joke, the Spanish fly," Barbossa stated in a croaky voice. "I refuse to be thanked fer yer everlastin' libidos, by the way."
Jack glanced over at Gibbs.
"Alright, Gibbs, I've heard his case an' it is not convin—"
"Wait, Jack—what is it ye want from me?" Barbossa asked, raising his eyes to look up at the other captain.
"I'd say your next state of bein' is rather clear," Jack replied. "That bein' in Davy—ehem, Will Turner's Locker, searchin' for peanuts in th' sand wiv a slew of white stones."
"What?" Barbossa asked, confused.
Jack looked up at Gibbs, which was not lost on Barbossa.
"Surely I can be of more use to ye livin' than dead," Barbossa said to Jack.
"No, actually."
"Ye'll have full captaincy again, Jack. An' Mr. Gibbs, the possession of yer cabin. What more could ye want?"
"Actually we could acquire that wiv your death jus' as easily. In fact, your death would make those realities become—reality—wiv even less fuss. Aye, I think it simpler to just do away wiv you. Gibbs, you may commence—"
Barbossa immediately threw his head forward towards the ground as low as his lanky body would allow in the same instant that Gibbs pulled the trigger.
The gunshot rang out as Barbossa heard the ball whiz over the top of his ducked head, followed by Jack's sinking to the ground, the ball having lodged itself in his thigh.
"Jack!" Gibbs exclaimed, moving quickly towards his captain. In the meantime, Barbossa noticed his pistol lying off to the side and snatched it up as Jack sank to his knees, then back onto his rump, blood seeping from the fresh wound.
In Gibbs' rush to attend to his fallen captain, Barbossa stole away to his cabin, locking himself in for the time being. Where had Jack hidden himself? I'd checked everywhere fer 'im before settin' sail—everywhere save fer Elizabeth's cabin. Hmm, interestin'… e'en more reason to rid the Pearl of him, foolin' aroun' with our Dutchman's bride….
The next morning Lieutenant Morgan and the admiral of the Royal Navy met in a long dining hall in the admiral's home. The room was quite spacious and splendid, with a large maroon oriental rug decorating the wooden floor, rich curtains in every ceiling-height window, a golden chandelier adorned with countless candles, a roaring fireplace at one end and a double door at the other end.
Lieutenant Thomas Morgan lowered himself to his knees to place at his feet the small chest he had been cradling in his arms, following up this deposit with a smart salute to his commanding officer, Admiral Kensington of the Royal Navy.
The admiral returned this formal greeting, and then dispensed with the other formalities by approaching the infamous chest.
"Is that the—Dead Man's Chest?" the chubby old admiral asked Morgan. "I have been told by many that its cargo is all that is needed to control the seas."
"Yes, Sir," Morgan stated.
The admiral attempted to lower himself to a squatting position in front of the chest, but his old joints wouldn't allow him.
"I trust the trip back was uneventful. No sign of pirates."
"Yes, Sir."
"If this is truly the Dead Man's Chest you have with you—it is invaluable to the entirety of the civilized world!"
"Yes."
"That's truly splendid. It was rather disheartening to learn of its possession by the East India Trading Company some time ago."
"Well, Sir, it is now ours. And in bringing you this invaluable item, I request to be promoted to the rank of Vice-Admiral—"
"If this is indeed the Dead Man's Chest you certainly will have earned the position. Between you and me, the current Vice-Admiral and I do not get along in the least."
Morgan flashed the admiral a smile, pulling out the papers for promotion.
"You will not be disappointed, Sir."
He held out the papers to the admiral, who shook his head. Feeling an internal scoff coming on, Morgan laid the papers and a quill on the table in front of the admiral.
"In due time, Morgan," the admiral stated with a jolly tone. "I'd like to hear this for myself."
The lieutenant's eyes widened as Kensington lifted the chest by its gleaming handles to his ear, the old man focused completely on leaning his head against the chest to hear the sound.
"So... it is true, what they say," the admiral muttered seemingly to himself, his wrinkled face as white as a ghost's, yet cheeks strangely pink.
"Please sign this, Sir," Morgan stated, indicating the papers.
"Very well. You've been in the Royal Navy for quite a few years now and this discovery will have catapulted you to this high ranking."
The admiral, face ever paling, held the chest greedily up under the crook of his arm, signing the papers with his free hand. Once the papers had been signed, he held the chest for a minute longer, his eyes focused on possession of the living contents, unexpectedly finding it difficult to breathe.
All of a sudden, the Dead Man's Chest clattered to the ground, round droplets of metallic sheen splattering off in various directions as the admiral clutched his own chest, sinking to his knees. A series of alarming tightening sensations radiated across the admiral's chest as his heart rate increased by leaps and bounds—followed by excruciating pain that restricted his very ability to breathe.
Admiral Kensington's eyes, already dimming from a lack of oxygen to his system, registered the form of Morgan squatting down by his side—and then nothing but blackness. Kensington was dead.
"Make haste, men. The admiral has collapsed."
Morgan reentered the meeting room with five officers of the Royal Navy, who immediately sprinted over to their fallen commanding officer. Upon seeing his lifeless form sprawled out onto the ground, they stared up at Morgan in alarm.
"What happened? What did he say?" they insisted, talking all at once but asking the same couple of questions.
"Once the admiral realized the contents of this chest, he suddenly froze, dropping the chest to the ground. I knew something had to be wrong, for him to drop such a precious item. Before I could find out why he dropped the chest, he then clutched at his own chest, and collapsed onto the floor. I hadn't even had a chance to thank him for the promotion he had awarded me."
"What promotion?"
Morgan cradled the chest in his arms as he spoke to the officers. He held out the signed papers indicating his promotion.
"From what I have found and its implications for the Royal Navy in its control of sea affairs, he promoted me to the rank of Vice-Admiral."
"The Vice-Admiral assumes the rank of Admiral at the Admiral's retirement or death," one of the Royal Navy men stated in a monotone of disbelief.
"You're the admiral now?!" another said in a roar of confusion. "But Vice-Admiral Dollanger—"
"I suppose Morgan is to move into that ranking now, being that Admiral Kensington…"
Morgan interrupted the man with a slight lifting of his arms that were supporting the chest from beneath.
"Gentlemen, behold the Dead Man's Chest."
The men looked skeptical, glancing at the chest and the tentacle design on each of its panels, its handles reflecting a perfect, yet strangely liquid glimmer. It only made sense that the Dead Man's Chest looked so unearthly.
"Place your ear upon this panel of the chest, to best hear the sound," Morgan said, nodding his head at the chest to indicate the spot. "Do not touch the chest otherwise. The less the human contact, the more responsive the item inside will be to the application of an ear to this panel in particular. No one understands exactly why this is."
Each of the men in turn listened to the heartbeat echoing within the confines of the chest. Upon observation of their pale, drawn faces and resounding silence, Morgan curtly requested that they remove the admiral's body from the room to prepare it for a proper burial. The men were still in shock from the revelation of the chest—and quietly did as told, soon leaving the room.
Once the body was removed, Morgan extracted a wad of handkerchiefs from his coat and wiped the handles of the chest clean of the liquid with which he had previously coated them. A substance that gleamed like molten metal, yet which remained perpetually liquid. It had taken many broken thermometers to collect enough mercury for this purpose.
Admiral Morgan sat in the cushiony chair once occupied by Admiral Kensington. He glanced over at the chest, a smile crossing his lips.
Now all I need to do is find the key, he mused, staring into the roaring fireplace. Once I am able to hold the heart in my hands, I will have supreme influence over the sea.
A/N: Sorry for the late update, but I couldn't find a good place to end the chapter. Hope you liked it! Thanks for following along!
Preview for chapter 11:
Elizabeth was unabashedly sobbing now, her eyes shut tightly as tears streamed from them.
"No. I'm being punished. I'm being punished for my sins, I just know it."
Jack's breath caught in his throat.
"Wot do you mean?"