Chapter 9 – Old Alliances

The old sailor sent a stream of cusses after the lad who ran alongside his small jetty, spraying sand and water droplets over the chart he had been diligently sketching. However, re-examining his work, he decided, on second thought, that the inclusion of organic material gave his drawing more realism. He looked about for the turtle he had been drawing, realizing it had swum into a large shadow. What was there to cast a shadow here? He'd carefully picked this quiet spot round the headland from the main Tortuga port so that he and his subject wouldn't be disturbed.

He looked up to find a fine ship quite literally staring down at him, its figurehead with its blank stare boring into his very soul it seemed. He had been so engrossed in his work, he hadn't even noticed its approach.

Suppressing a superstitious shudder at the sight of its black sails and sombre, antiquated appearance, he examined it more closely. Surely he recognized this figurehead…a skeletal form it was, but it seemed different from that which he remembered. This one was dressed in the semblance of a sailor, with an elaborate hat atop its skull and heavy cuffs falling over its bony fingers. Instead of the scythe he remembered suspended over its head, there was now a great bird with its wide wings outstretched, giving this deathly visage an incongruously angelic appearance…

A winged Death…a flying Dutchman…

He started as a loud splash sounded close by him. A huge black bird, rather like the one on the masthead, plunged into the water and re-emerged with a struggling fish clutched in its beak. It perched on the ship's rail to devour its fresh-caught meal, then fluttered to the waiting arm of the man standing upon the deck. The man stroked its glossy feathers absently, his eyes staring out at the wild tangle of the jungle, beyond which stood the merry pirate metropolis of Tortuga, with a wistfulness in his expression…

The old sailor stared. If he hadn't seen that very same mournful expression beside him at the Black Pearl's capstan-

"Hey! Hey there! Master Will, Will Turner- Cap'n Turner!"

Will started from his reverie and glanced around, searching for the source of the voice. Glancing downwards, he saw the whiskered old sailor standing right beneath him, as it were, upon a tiny jetty, a sketchbook clutched in his hand. Will squinted, recognizing the man. Of all the people, in all the places-

"Gibbs?!" he asked incredulously. The sailor responded with a merry halloo and a jaunty wave. "What are you doing here?" There was an eager note in his voice; after so long in isolation upon the Dutchman, unable to seek out old friends who dwelt on land, almost any familiar face was a welcome sight.

"I be drawin' sea turtles!"

Remembering the last time he had heard a mention of sea turtles from Gibbs' lips, Will was slightly taken aback. "What manner of island madness have you caught? The same as Jack, perhaps?"

Gibbs roared with good-natured laughter at that. "Let me aboard and I'll tell ye all 'bout it!"

A fine old bottle of port had been set out upon the table in the captain's quarters when Gibbs entered it. The two men drank – well Gibbs did, quite heartily – and talked things over amicably, both rather happy to be in old company. Will had learnt most of what he knew of actual sailing more from Gibbs than from Jack, having tended many a ship beside the older man all those years ago, when he had been an inexperienced deck-hand; he had a respect for Gibbs, despite his humble appearance and coarse mannerisms. Gibbs himself had rather a paternal liking for Will, whose honest and determined nature he appreciated, reminding him much of old mates he had had during his time with the Royal Navy.

Gibbs chuckled as Will explained his former passenger's haste to disembark. "He looked like 'e'd got a bit o' the ghost in 'im! 'E was runnin' fit to tread upon water 'e was, cruisin' like a sloop and didn't look to be slowin' any time soon. Does right to abide by superstitious feelin's sometimes, though. There be too many fearful things in the ocean's depths to take a case of the ol' heebie-jeebies too lightly. Not when there be fearsome men like you lurkin' 'neath the waves, Cap'n!" and he raised his glass to Will in acknowledgement, tipping back the fine vintage with gusto.

"What of you, Master Gibbs?" Will asked with a reminiscent smile at the man's gluttony for fine wine. "You're not out chasing the fountain of youth alongside Jack? I should think that you should be more interested it in than him."

Gibbs grinned ruefully, readily acknowledging that since they had last met, there was now more grey in his whiskers. He proudly opened his sketchbook, showing Will his biological diagrams of marine life, turtles carefully drawn with a sharp stick of lead. Gibbs must've had a surprisingly steady hand, when sober, to patiently draw such fine illustrations.

"I be getting' too old to go gallivantin' round. Had my share of a pillager's booty," he declared. "Old sea legs like these need to know when to settle down on land. I always wanted to study fauna or botany, go on them explorer ships to new worlds an' document the undiscovered species of far off lands. But when I started out as a young 'un, I was undereducated, and now most lands 'ave long been discovered these days, neatly labelled on the charts. I have more modest aspirations now; I got a nice bit o' pension, a few choice heirlooms saved away from old adventures, an' I'm happy to live humble-like, with me islander hut an' hip-flask an' sketchbooks, with crabs crawlin' in an' out me door. A man needs to know when to stop chasin' dreams about the seas an' start lookin' for the ones within 'is reach."

"I see," said Will quietly, sipping his mug of wine thoughtfully. Gibbs' words had struck at something deep within him, touching upon a thought that had been festering in his mind for the past ten years. When will I be free to settle down as an old man like that? he wondered bleakly. If I live ten-score years more, I have in that time only ten days in which to truly live the life I want, with those I love, if they indeed live that long themselves. What kind of life is that? What's the point of having this ship to command, chasing brigands about the waters which I call mine own territory, when all I want is to settle down on one bit of land with my family? Why bother existing at all, if solely for something as worthless to myself as this?

Gibbs looked at the introspective expression on Will's face, divining that as the young man appeared to look deep into his tankard, he was in fact looking deep into himself, sent hither by Gibbs' own words.

"You be lucky, mate," he said quietly, confidentially. "I 'ad a woman as waited for me once, somewhere far from this disreputable place. A woman o' real quality. I had big dreams for meself. I wanted to make meself a better man for her, wanted to make meself the best I could be for her. I tried to climb high as I could in the Navy, tryin' to impress 'er like. But I was an unfit man for a high rank, low-born and common in me ways. When me big dreams never came true, I fell to drink, and drove her away from me. She's long gone now, all but forgotten after all these years. At least you won yerself a faithful lady who'll wait for you, no matter what yer past beginnin's or future circumstances. You 'ppreciate her all the more, won't fail her like I did me own lady love. Yer a more noble man than I ever amounted to."

Will was touched by the man's personal words. "You're quite a good man yourself, Joshamee Gibbs."

Gibbs, seeing his words had had effect, patted the young man companionably on the arm; the two of them knocked their mugs together in understanding.

"Where ye be headin' next lad?" Gibbs asked after another sip, something occurring to him. "Why, speakin' o' such, it must almost be ten years now since…?"

Will nodded, a slip of a smile lightening his serious young face. It does youth well to smile, Gibbs thought to himself. Though ten years had passed since they had last met, Will was still a lad compared to himself. Yet how little of the lad was left in this hard, weary face, with its steely expression and commanding mien. When he smiled, however, the difference was astounding; the earnest and optimistic nature of the lad glimmered through in that brief moment.

"There's still about two weeks until the ten years run out. Now that our shipwreck survivor is safe and sound, our next berth will be at that island."

Gibbs nodded knowingly. He knew well the place that Will spoke of, the scene of so much tragedy, the island where he had spent those last fleeting hours with her…the spot upon which a young man's hopes were now charted…

"Here's to a timely an' heart-felt reunion," Gibbs declared, his intonation filled with absolute sincerity. "May the bitter dregs o' the past decade be washed away with the sweetness o' a new day's vintage."

Both men raised their mugs silently, solemnly, at this toast, and drank deeply.

They talked a while longer, Bootstrap looking in and joining them for a time. Gibbs was surprised and delighted to see him, having known him casually many years ago and having been sorry to hear of his death. Thus reunited, they had numerous stories of their former captain to share, comparing wild and fabulously embellished stories of Jack Sparrow for Will's entertainment.

"An' how is me ol' mate Jack these days anyway?" Gibbs asked. "Bein' in this place I only occasionally hear anythin' of goin's on on the sea when I head down to The Faithful Bride, and that's hardly reliable talk as goes on down there. Is 'e still goin' or has he finally met 'is maker?"

"If he hasn't, it's not from want of trying," Will murmured with a rueful grin. "He goes to see Elizabeth in Port Royal every so often, brings me word of their doings on the rare occasions I meet him on the seas. Tries to get free drinks out of her, from what she's written me. Last I saw of him myself, he was still looking for the fountain of youth, in the form of a rather mean-looking whale he was chasing in a longboat. They could be half way across the Atlantic by now; who knows where he is. Considering he's Jack Sparrow, after all, he could be just about anywhere."

Jack clamped a hand to his belly to try and stifle his rumbling stomach. The pirate in the storeroom door glanced around vaguely, wondering if the Walrus had hit some rough swells, seeing as her timbers were groaning; then he returned to his duties, thinking no more of it.

Jack relaxed against the large barrel he was hidden behind. That had been a stressful episode. It called for a drink.

He tugged free the dagger he had stuck up to its handle through a knot hole in the barrel's side. A trickle of amber liquid flowed out; he carefully caught it in an old tinder box he had found on the storeroom floor. Too impatient to let it more than half-fill, he replaced the dagger to stop the flow and sculled the draught back in a single gulp. It did plenty for his nerves, but little for his empty gut.

It had been five days since he had swiped a handful of hardtack from a pirate's private stash, tucked away behind two kegs of powder on a storage shelf; he had exhausted it in two. If he dug around a bit, he'd probably find more, but hard tack was just so…hard. And he was getting bored. He had made a nest of sorts for himself on a pile of spare sails and ballast sandbags, taking a swig of rum every so often. He had passed the days in a relatively pleasant, but rather uneventful rum-induced stupor. Sitting around drunk was one thing; guiding a ship through a hazardous reef whilst drunk was another experience entirely, and there was no doubt as to which was the more interesting experience. Thus he had decided to navigate the hazardous route to the galley, in search of more appetising morsels.

And rather hazardous it was. Even a simple trip to the latrine was an exercise in stealth. The storeroom had been relatively deserted during the first few days of sailing, whilst the galley had been fully stocked ready for the voyage and the pirates preoccupied with their duties tending the ship. But now that the initial hectic days were over and the roster of daily duties established, more pirates were loitering in the store during their spare time, or coming to fetch goods for the stove which were lacking closer at hand.

It was there in the galley that the tastier fare would be kept, away from the greedy hands of the common crew. So that was the mission Jack, with his usual selfish disregard for his greater mission, was going to risk undertaking.

He listened carefully for the sound of footsteps in the corridors, then tottered swiftly through them, his boots emitting an occasional dull thunk as he tread on a particularly resonant board. He scurried behind a door jamb, then darted within a thick coil of rope, then slithered beneath a slackly-hanging hammock. He thus made his furtive progress towards the galley, from which savoury perfumes coiled, filling the ship's underbelly with a desirable aroma and making his own underbelly growl again, threatening to give him away if he didn't get it a portion of whatever smelt so scrumptious.

He paused in the doorway, peeping cautiously in. Someone was working at the stovetop with their back to him. A woman, it looked like; her skirts swayed as she turned towards him slightly. He scurried back a bit down the corridor, but she merely picked up a plate of dried scallops which had been on the bench at her elbow and tipped it into the pot. As she turned her back to him again, Jack decided a little firm coercion might be fitting. He began to creep stealthily through the tiny kitchen area, towards the woman's vulnerable back.

"No need to be so sneaky 'bout it," she muttered suddenly, and Jack froze. "It ain't ready yet, and it won't be tasting too good til it's done, so quit creepin' round me galley and make yourself useful above deck til supper time, or you'll get a ladle to the side o' your face."

Jack, made uneasy by this unexpected confrontation, stopped in mid-stride, trying to decide whether to retreat or not. As he dallied, the woman sighed impatiently and began to turn around.

Too late now then, Jack thought, and reached for his knife. A moment later, he realized his knife was still stuck in the barrel back in the storeroom. A moment after that, he forgot the knife completely.

The woman whirled around with a frustrated glance, more galling words on her tongue; they stayed there, as she started back in surprise.

"Jack Sparrow?!"

Jack's amazement matched hers.

"Anamaria?!"

Slap!

The sharp strike to the side of his face snapped him out of his shock with an even greater shock. He rubbed his smarting cheek.

"Is that any way to treat an old friend? What did I ever do to deserve that?"

She ignored this statement; indeed, her glare as she faced him was far from friendly.

"What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I asked first."

"I'm a captain. My question has priority."

"Not on this ship it doesn't, and you're lucky I so much as lower myself to look at you. I have half a mind to sing out right not at the top of me lungs that we have a stowa-"

Before she had a chance to say any more, Jack clamped a hand over her mouth.

"I'd 'preciate it for the sake of our past relationship if you kept it to yerself, love."

She tore his hand away. "I was going to say 'but I won't, cos I'd even rather have you here in me galley than the filth as calls themselves sailors on this ship'. At least you, for all your other short-comings, used to let me lend a hand in the runnin' o' the Pearl and didn't keep me squanderin' below deck as nothin' but a lousy kitchen maid. Hussy like me's only fit to scrub the plates, they say, eh? I've long had half a mind to poison 'em all, if I could just get my hands on the stuff, and if they didn't make me sup from everthin' first-"

Jack held his hands up for silence. "And just what are you doin' as kitchen maid on this ship?"

"You remember the man who offered to take me on as mate last time I saw you in Tortuga?"

"You mean the one you were flirtin' with to make me jealous?" Jack favoured her with a suggestive grin.

"The one who offered to take me on as mate," Anamaria repeated firmly. Jack opened his mouth to contest the claim, saw the look in her eye and closed it again, allowing her to continue uninterrupted.

"He says 'e likes the look of me – smart as paint, 'e says – and offers to give me a job on 'is ship. A crime for a fine lass such as me not to be given a high rankin' position amongst the crew, 'e says, an bein' a woman bein' none of it, he says, if you're a fine sailor, you're a fine sailor, whether you tread the deck in pants or skirt. I tell 'im I'll be havin' no place lower than mate, as I've had my place on board a ship abused before-" here she gave Jack a sharp look "-and I won't take no loose behaviour from menfolk in the crew. Sure as sure, he tells me, I'll answer to none but 'im and if I dislike the way a man looks at me, I send 'im off with his tail 'tween his legs in fear of a thrashin'. So with me thinkin' it might be the best I can hope for, seein' as I never be getting' my own ship-" here she looked daggers at Jack, who wore an expression of feigned innocent confusion on his face "-I jump ship an' join the crew o' the Walrus.

"Course it was all a ruse. They keep up the charade for barely a day, then they rustle me up, intendin' to exchange me for pay with some trader in the east who sells females for men's pleasure. They don't count on me bein' able to give 'em a bit of a wallop unarmed, and when I've knocked the teeth outta half a dozen men's mouths, the gunner, who's a massive man, lifts me up an' dumps me in the bilges, and they leave me there I don't know how long, a few days, til I'm too weak to put up much of a fight. And then they drag me back before that man, an 'e says 'e underestimated me, that I be a woman in a million, that I could be more use than 'e first thought. And 'e strikes me round the head like a coward, knocked me out cold, an' when I wake up in the galley, I'm told to cook for em', and to turn me vicious nature toward the good o' the Walrus and her crew, that I should be prepared to fight for her and do me quartermaster duties well, else me throat be slit without a second's hesitation. So I cook, and I wait for the opportune moment when I can jump ship unstopped and take a long boat as far from 'em as I can get. And you, Jack Sparrow," she said, shaking a dangerous-looking finger at him and eyeing him with a hard gaze, "you had better not be interferin' with that opportunity."

Jack waved his hands soothingly. "Wouldn't dream of it, love. You see now that there be worse men on the ocean than me. At least I let you handle the Pearl's helm. Twice. And you had the pick of whatever chores you liked; you did it all, just like any member of the crew. You weren't made to be motherin' us."

"Speaking of which, Jack, where is your crew? Why, of all the ships on the seven seas, are you on the same ruddy boat as me?"

Jack leaned in confidentially. "You remember why we set out from Tortuga on the Interceptor about eleven years ago?"

"Yeah, to save that upper-class broad and her wimpish boy-love. Crazy as you, the pair of 'em! Too caught up in their own affairs, never cared if the rest of us lived or died undertaking their business! And I never got that ship as settlement of your debt to me neither!"

"I gave you the Pearl whilst I was on the Isla de Muerta; you gave 'er back."

"I was letting you reassume command. If I'd known you'd never pay me back – I suspected as much anyway – I would've kept her for meself and left you high and dry."

"Well, even if you wanted to now, you can't anyway, cos first you'd have to get it back off he who already left me without me ship once and has gone and done it again a second time."

"What on earth are you talking about?!"

"I haven't seen the Pearl these last ten years; Barbossa's taken off with her again."

"Barbossa?!" she stared at him incredulously. "Barbossa's dead!"

"You be speakin' ta me, girl?"

A voice sounded just outside the galley's entrance. Anamaria quickly forced Jack down behind the bench out of sight and turned to face the speaker who appeared not two seconds later in the doorway.

"I'm just sayin' to meself, first mate Anderson, that these vegetables are near dead and decayin'. We make nowhere near enough trips into port to pick up fresh supplies."

"Not givin' ye enough chances to jump ship, eh, poppet?" the man smirked. Anamaria glared fiercely at him. He'd hit it right on the head. "Ye do yer duty well without complaint or tryin' to escape, or you know what becomes of you!" He drew his finger across his neck, making a horrid sound in this throat to punctuate the action. "The crew be gettin' hungry. Make sure that's ready, free from mouldy vegetables, in an hour.

He turned to leave, then turned back again hurriedly as he heard a loud thud followed by a vicious hiss behind him.

"Stock's boiling over," Anamaria said with a casual shrug. "I should let it boil over, let this whole boat and her rotten crew be burnt to ashes."

"You try it, love, and those of us left alive will throw you in the flames."

With one last threatening look, he lumbered off.

Jack popped his fingers in his mouth. "You trod on them on purpose!"

Anamaria shrugged sullenly. "I needed to take my anger out on someone, and you were closer to stomp on than 'im. Now, you'll be the one in danger if ye don't explain what you're doin' here, no lies, tricks or falsehoods." She held up a heavy pan, wielding it with murderous intent.

Jack scurried backward across the floor, out of harm's reach. "Ok, ok, I'll tell you it all, but I warn you, the truth is far stranger than any story I could invent."

"I highly doubt it; you have a naturally creative, dishonest mind, Jack Sparrow."

"At least it'll be entertaining then."

"Whilst you entertain me, why make yourself useful and peel these for me?" She tossed him several onions.

"Now you're trying to make me cry?"

"Exactly."

Jack picked up an onion and sniffed it testily. Not altogether pleasant, he decided, but a grumbling stomach sometimes couldn't be choosy. He was about to take a bite out of it, when Anamaria banged the pan down viciously on the cook top like a clarion. Jack gave her a furtively glance, his mouth half-closed on a papery onion skin. Then he took up a knife and obediently began to peel it instead, speaking as he did so.

"It all started about ten years ago. I tell you, those Turners will be the death of me- well, technically one of them already was…"

Will and Elizabeth settled into an easy routine upon the Lusitania. Will would help Morgan every day with his cabin boy's duties, splitting the tasks between the two of them. The workload didn't bother him at all; all the same, the moment he slipped into his hammock each night was a welcome one, the day's work settling a comfortable drowsiness upon his energetic young limbs, feeling like a true sailor as he slept suspended in his swinging bed, just like any other crew member. Now that he had earnt the older boy's approval, Morgan proved an eager and companionable mate. The two would often work side by side, exchanging an occasional word, a quip about the captain when he was out of earshot, or snatches of sea song which were often taken up by the entire crew as well. There was a merry atmosphere of camaraderie beneath the Lusitania's sails.

Elizabeth enjoyed the trip as well. She would walk the deck regularly, sometimes in a simple cotton frock which drew the crew's admiring glances, other times in men's trousers which accentuated her slender waist and allowed her to clamber nimbly up the rigging to help unfurl the sails, a feat which won her even more respect. The captain had at first tried to discourage such common and improper conduct on her part, but since he was too conscientious to launch an all-out protest, and she was too rebellious to alter her behaviour for the sake of the conservative man, he soon desisted, and paced the quarter deck anxiously whenever she ventured aloft.

The trip, on the whole, was a thoroughly enjoyable one, though fears still lurked in the back of Will's mind. On more than one occasion he had woken abruptly in the night, his fitful dreams of dark waves and bright knives, still-beating hearts and dripping blood and coarse laughter causing him to throw himself out of his flimsy bed, grappling with unseen assailants in his sleep. To his uneasy mind, rough waves on the ship's side would become sinister footsteps upon the deck, harsh bird cries the death-shriek of a murdered man. Often he would wake during the night to see his mother sitting up, watching the door warily as though expecting, or daring, someone to burst in on them.

In such frames of mind, Will would think of the sinister-looking man in the galley and shudder. He tried to avoid visiting the kitchen when he could, giving duties that would take him there to Morgan, an arrangement the other boy hardly minded as the cook would often slip him a small treat for his troubles. Somehow, Will couldn't shift the image of the kitchen hand's sullen stare from his mind. He knew that both he and his mother would feel a lot better when they finally reached their destination.

A few idle men were holding conference behind some barrels stowed near the ship's prow. Their voices were furtive, secretive; yet their words resonated with unrestrained violence, with impatience that grated in their semi-coherent mutterings like a rusty knife scraped from its unyielding scabbard.

"Speak softly? Speak softly?! I 'ad enough of speakin' bloody softly! That swarmy lace-adorned imbecile what calls 'imself cap'n is givin' us a hazin', an' he be enjoyin' it too. Damn bourgeoisie steppin' on the common man like 'e was cockroaches. Us panderin' to 'im when we could be not only cap'n of this very boat ourselves, but lord o' every ocean it could possibly sail upon as well! So I ain't in no mind to be speakin' softly, an' rightly so I say! If he don't wanna be takin' that for 'imself in good time, I be takin' it afore 'im, and 'e can try an' get it off o' me! 'E likes this set-up, flatters 'imself he's an honest gentleman, eh? Honesty ain't ever won a fortune or kept a crew."

The other men murmured assent at his words, responding in fierce growls better suited to street mongrels squabbling over a scrap than to civilized men.

"Speak softly?" the man continued in a scornful rasp, spitting bitterly upon the deck. "Speak softly round a mere woman an' child? I ain't afeared o' no strumpet and 'er whelp, no matter who the husband is. He ain't here, an' I be here at an opportune moment. I see no point in speakin' soft when I can take what I ruddy want without a word at all. I'll storm that there cabin an' get the key an' the chest right this moment, an' send that fool Bellamy, the Turner wench and 'er little pip-squeak o' a son down to speak softly with the fishes on the seabed below!"

At these words, there was a muffled clatter close at hand. The pirates peered round a stout barrel. A pasty white face moaned in fear and retreated hastily, hopelessly before the malicious stares directed at it. Having already lost the sticky brush from his hand to mar the cleanly swabbed decks in his shock, more tar fell from the pail in the lad's hand, trembling uncontrollably as the gang of ruffians advanced sinisterly upon him.

His thoughts flew to his friend faster than he himself could, his warning left unspoken. Will was at the other end of the ship when the knife flashed and the pail fell limply from the pudgey hand, young flesh made clammy with death's touch before its time. With a louder thud, Morgan fell beside his discarded brush, the tar laying in thick streaks upon the deck from the upended bucket, alongside his own spilled life's blood.

With the first man down and the scent of blood rejuvenating their peace-dulled senses, the pirates drew blade and pistol. The first warning shot whistled through the mainsail; the Lusitania instantaneously descended into turmoil.