The last clouds were long gone. Stars shone in the clear sky, the night idyllic and dreamy. In the horse's opinion, mostly dreamy. He gazed gloomily at the silhouette that had just woken him.
Jack Sparrow was doubtfully examining the bridle. It seemed to be made of ridiculous amount of parts, unlike, say, a decent rigging. The ornaments and spangle garlands dangling all over it complicated the matter even more, but he was almost sure the long metal piece was intended for the mouth. He glanced at the sleepily swaying muzzle and felt a sudden rush of hearty attachment to all ten of his fingers.
"You'd be janglin' and glitterin' like a Spanish infanta on her dad's coronation," he said. "And anyway, they don't expect to see it ever again, do they? It's rude – to disappoint people, especially the Company's people, especially in consideration of Tortuga's reputation, savvy?"
The replying huff was suspiciously alike to snoring.
Jack rolled his eyes and went toward the shed. "Brisk and bucking, eh? Well, you cope fine with sheds attackin' from behind, same for the Company's agents," he chuckled. "D'like to know how long were they congratulatin' to each other in His Enlightened Majesty's stables, once that brig had disappeared beyond the horizon, together with you and your, ahem, little fear."
This time the huff was louder.
"Oh right, right… If asked, I'll be tellin' you've got the fiery temperament, literally."
The basic building philosophy on Tortuga was: if it stands for five minutes, certainly it will stand forever. Considering the shed not only had stood this morning but also survived till now, Jack took it off his list of the most unreliable structures in the neighbourhood. At least it didn't take on water. He knelt in the corner and put the coiled bridle back under the saddle. After short hesitation he reached for the knob. It was too dark inside to see anything, but he fingered the folded paper for awhile, and finally shoved it under his shirt. Then he turned and groped on the ground. Somewhere there should be that length of…
Rope in hand, he returned to the horse, walking around the rump in a wide circle, and cautiously patted the warm shoulder. "Come on, wake up. You'll sleep it off during the day, you can believe the expert."
The horse snorted.
Jack rolled his eyes again. "And ya think I'm delighted? A self-respecting pirate giving back his swag?!"
One hirsute ear stood straight up. Its curly end looked like a question mark.
"Uh, right, other's swag…"
Another snort. The whites of the big eyes flashed as the muzzle evaded the oncoming loop.
"Not swag? Dear mate? Sure, you're good chap, whatever. Oh come on, d'ya know what stables De Villiers has? I've, er… heard myself. And he's not very weighty. Well, wasn't once. Anyway he could lose weight, or try to. Give 'im a chance. You haven't even gotten to know each other yet. You'll see the pastures and decide if the company suits you. An' d'ya know how many mares there is? Blondes, brunettes, ginger, freckled…!" Jack grabbed the horse's mane and stood on his toes. "Come on, bow your head. No, no steppin' back!"
One eye blinked at the loop's knot. Jack suddenly remembered the hooves and tried to jump back without losing his grip on the mane.
"Mate, they're longin' for ya like Davy Jones for a debtor. You'll see, just a short time and it'll be Port-au-Prince and you'll kick them in farewell. Not that you'd have to bother anyway, that tub of their doesn't need much more… Nonono, stop! No worries, she surely will manage these few miles yet! Well, she should. Providin' they'll set off soon, the sooner the better. An' without ya they won't set off at all! They'll put roots into that reef and will blaze at everythin' movin'. They'll kill Anamaria. An' then Anamaria will kill me. Come on, you'll save all and will be a hero. Dunno what for. Don't ask me!"
The loop passed over the ears at last. Jack hastily pulled it down and clenched the free end like on an unexpectedly gifted bottle. Just in case, he backed away as far as the rope allowed.
"See? That was the hardest part," he announced in the tone of manic cheerfulness. The horse, already calmly standing, blinked suspiciously.
xxx
The next part was the hardest too.
"Come on, you walked this way once."
"…"
"Really, in the opposite direction."
"…"
"Maybe he tied your eyes? No offence, mate, but it wouldn't help me."
"…"
"Can lend you my hat…"
xxx
And the next one too.
"Ei, be careful with this tail slappin', will ya?"
"…"
"No, don't turn…!" NononoNO, here's two hundred feet down!"
"…"
"Cause it's dark! Ya should be glad you can't see it! Just mind where you're steppin', right?"
"…"
"Owww! An' on what are you steppin'…"
xxx
And the next…
"Mud, so what? Would ya rather trip on these rocks up there? An' don't splash so much, thank you kindly."
"…"
"Ya could at least be grateful y'aren't luggin' that gala dress of yours. Ya know what it means, eh? Means that's me who'll have to lug it later. Good thirty pounds of silver."
"…"
"Not mentionin' the wood…"
xxx
Far on the horizon, a pale strip of dawn marked where sea and sky merged, but the road, sluggish after the rain, was still deep in the night.
About a mile from the bay was fine, Jack decided. First was to fasten the horse somewhere, and then shoot. Before leaving Hans' valley, he had pulled the bullet from his pistol and tucked it in his deepest pocket. Better to move away some hundred yards and then fire, he reckoned. The beast would be less frightened. Besides, one never knew where the nearest patrol might be and how much time he had to flee. A thicker tree would be best, lest the horse break off the twigs before they arrived…
A sufficient one was over there. Jack walked to it; the horse tramping behind. The darkness was its deepest at that part of the road, the crowns of the trees joining overhead. Jack reached for the trunk and… froze. He listened for a few heartbeats and then hastily pulled the horse behind the tree. Half-consciously, he embraced the big head and put a hand over the warm muzzle.
Short time later, what he had heard became discernible words, approaching.
"Why not a day more? They would pay." The voice put to mind the finest claret's hue, if it could be turned into sound. It also had a very expensive diction.
"With a noose." This one was rather cheap ale or tannery's sewage.
"We could still—"
"I do judging. You had a lesson not long ago." A looming shadow moved fast down the road.
The other, following him, stopped in a not so dark spot. "He did pay once," it said, crossing arms.
Even among wet foliage and mud, Edward Wessley managed to look county. The pale shine of stars lightened the white lace and, when he tilted his head, an ostrich feather on his hat waved. The same feather Jack had glimpsed on the pinnace by the brig yesterday.
Skiver Ed stopped too, and turned back. "What if he'd known?"
"But he didn't." The tone was defiant, but Wessley averted his eyes.
"Wrong answer." Skiver's voice was even. "What if he'd known?"
Wessley turned his head, as if drawn by an invisible leash. He rested a hand on his sword's guard. "I would have taken it on my own," he hissed, his eyes fixed on Skiver's this time.
"We wouldn' be here if you hadn't already taken somethin' on your own," Skiver said in the same calm tone. Not changing it, he added: "Get out, Sparrow."
Jack didn't move, not counting his eyes widening for a moment.
Skiver turned his head and gazed straight at him. "You can sneak like a ghost, but not with a horse," he explained almost affably. "As they say in Virginia."
Rumours were that Skiver Ed was once a guide in the endless British-French-Iroquoian war, and came to the Caribbean fleeing the noose as the result of his chronic indecision as to which side paid better. A reasonable move, in Jack's opinion, considering there were more sides in the Caribbean. And if Skiver confirmed any rumour concerning him, it meant he wouldn't bet a fake pence on the expected length of Jack's life.
Considering all of that took the pirate a half second. Another half he spared for weighing the dubious advantage of the dark – and confined – shelter of the thicket, over the open space of the road. Then he withdrew his hand from his pistol and stepped out with a wide grin and even wider spread arms. The horse followed.
"Roads are crowded 'hese days... er, nights as if paved with shillings," Jack exclaimed merrily. Neither had drawn a weapon yet, he noticed with an ocean of relief and a droplet of offence.
"Indeed," came from the dark across the road. Something long hit Skiver's chest, and he reflexively caught it. Jack wrinkled his nose. Pitch? A tarry splint?
"Light it up." The order was supported with the click of a gun being cocked. Skiver hesitated then reached to his pocket without a word.
Sparks hissed and died in the stuffy air. Finally, the torch flared into a hot flickering glow. The surrounding darkness thickened and turned into a welter of shimmering shadows.
Anderson emerged from one and stopped just beyond the brightest circle of light. The pistol in his left hand was aimed at Skiver; the right held a sword on Wessley.
"What didn't I know?" the agent asked.
Skiver eyed him. "That we'd find him sooner than you could expect, sir?" he offered, slightly jerking his head toward Jack. "Or that we wish to raise the price?"
The pistol didn't budge; the blade lifted a bit. "What did I not know? I will not ask the third time."
Skiver nodded and smirked. "As you like." The 'sir' vanished; maybe it never existed.
"Ya didn't know one doesn't make business with Ugly, and later ya didn'—" Jack shut his eyes tight, and opened them again immediately. A sword point hovered an inch from his nose. The pirate tried to take a careful breath and felt something warm flowing down his cheek.
Judging on how Anderson sprang back, he hadn't noticed Wessley unsheathing his blade too. Jack fleetingly wondered which of his statements was the reason, providing Wessley had guessed what the second was going to be.
"Drop it!" the agent growled, casting an anxious glance somewhere behind Jack. At the horse, the pirate realised.
Wessley looked at Skiver, standing with imperturbable ease, torch in hand. Skiver turned his eyes to Anderson.
Jack sighed discreet relief when the blade moved away from his face in a smooth arc toward the agent. This time Anderson didn't step back. It was his third serious mistake that night, in Jack's private opinion, after following the pair of 'tools' sneaking out from camp, and his stubborn inquisitiveness. Or maybe the fourth: revealing himself?
"The price is still negotiable," Skiver said. "This time not only for him and the horse." He flashed a wolfish smile. "I won't make the offer a third time."
Anderson frowned. "Why should I be interested in your price now?" he snarled.
Skiver's smile didn't waver. "Cause y'want to know how far the rumours about you have spread. You won't set off till dawn. That's enough time to ask 'im and enough to get the answer. But without us you won't be sure he's not lyin'."
Jack bit his lip. All this was taking a very alarming course.
Anderson snorted. "And with you, I will?"
"Nahin."
Three heads turned as one. Skiver eyed Jack askance, but said nothing. Anderson stared at the pirate as if noticing him for the first time.
Jack glanced at Skiver. "Amazin' how everyone deems me a spring of knowledge lately. How flatterin'," he huffed with irritation. Then he turned to Anderson and switched to Hindi again. "Tum pekd nahin… You will not. They know you do not like witness any."
It was hellishly difficult, to keep the eye contact with Anderson, mind Skiver's face and Wessley's hands, and recall a language he had not used in almost fifteen years, mostly a gutter version at that. Some distant part of his mind registered a tense trembling of the horse's chest behind him and the regular puff on his hair. Sniffing the fire or blood?, a vague thought flashed and ran away. He shot a beamy grin at the agent. "Your... you not had time, did not take no one with you, right? Men with the camp. You alone. And one shot. Not enough."
Anderson watched him thoughtfully. "Two is enough," he replied at last in the same language. His gaze moved for a moment to Jack's belt and back to the pirate's eyes.
Jack's grin widened. He wasn't exactly fond of the Company, but liked its agents – they always took him for a fool. "Is delight to hit an understanding with you, Mister—!"
"Shut up, Sparrow. Traded stuff doesn' talk," Skiver cut in. He cast a suspicious look at Anderson, then at Jack. "Whatever game you're tryin' here, quit it. What you think? Who will get out of this alive?"
Jack looked in turn at each of them. "Choose, y'all," he said. And then he snatched Wessley's hat and threw it onto the torch.
Skiver, startled, dropped it, the mud snuffing the flame immediately. The following darkness was absolute for eyes accustomed to the light. The sticky smell of tar mingled with the stench of burning feathers, and then the heavy smoke of powder when a shot fired. A flame flashed in the gloom, then metal rasped on metal, followed by a half-finished curse and stifled groan. There was a sound of something torn and a short crack...
Jack didn't hear it. His world was limited to the thud of hooves, splattering mud, lashing branches, the wind howling in his ears, and above all, a feeling that all of last year's storms had gathered under him and were doing their best to crush his bones. He had no idea by what a miracle he had managed to get onto the horse and refused to worry about how the horse, running like a devil, managed to find his way in the dark. The thing only he was sure of was that Hell could froze before he would release the arm around the horse's neck. The other hand clasped his hat in place, his eyes shut tight.
So he kept his eyes shut and tried to not bit off his tongue, ignoring protests of his creaking ribs and some more precious parts being turned into what felt like mincemeat. His last sober thoughts had been left somewhere behind and the mad hurricane bucked under him, running on and on...
xxx
All eternity seemed to have passed until Jack realised the world had ceased moving, and the hot mass of muscles and bones under him stood panting. He tried to swallow, found his mouth sand dry, and made a brave decision to crack one eye open, then the other. He lifted his head and spat a few strands of hair, his or the horse's, he wasn't sure.
The eternity had to last some half an hour, cause his surroundings were more grey than black. A golden-scarlet glow spilled across the sky, the last shadows retreating the thickets. The reddish mud separated from the pale trunks and the foliage gradually grew green.
The road was little broader where the horse stood. Straight ahead of his muzzle, a pair of boulders framed a narrow path where it branched from the main track. It ran to the east-southeast, Jack remembered, then turned south, into Hispaniola's heart.
He stared dully at the strip of mud between the boulders and where it disappeared among the trees. At last he sighed and rested his hands on the horse's nape.
"Mebbe you're right," he said wearily. "Tis' not about one battered boat stuck on the reef. Once they get away, t'will be only the beginning."
He ran a hand over his chest, making the paper under his shirt rustle. "He knew he'd gotten into something nasty," he murmured. "Thought when I read it to him, it would... what?"
He fixed his unseeing gaze at the mud by the horse's hooves. And then he clenched his teeth in a sudden surge of seething rage. "It's just a bloody paper," he hissed, "and bloody ink. Bloody calligraphed diplomacy, wrapped in silver, guarded with iron and lead. The Company, a favour, oh monsieur, a high treason! All that's just bloody words!" He flashed his teeth in a wild grin. "Fine."
He set his hat straight and looked down. The rope was gone from the horse's neck. No matter. He tugged a handful of mane and pointed to the path with his other hand. "Go on, mate. Full ahead!" he ordered and straightened proudly.
He had only enough time to open his eyes wide, when he realised the horse's sweaty coat was slicker than it had been an hour and many decisions ago.
At the sound of a splashy thump the horse turned his head to look back. The expression in his eyes could be described only as longsuffering patience. One ear raised expectantly.
"Ouch... Mebbe a moment yet..."
nahin (Hin.) - no