Chapter Eleven

Jonathan Mardling stepped jubilantly onto the dock, relishing the freedom with which he could move his arms. He had traded his stiff naval uniform for loose trousers and a plain cotton shirt, keeping only the boots (which had been quite expensive). In an effort to be bold, he had even let loose his thick, dark hair. This he regretted, however, as the wind again pushed it into his face. Brushing it out of his eyes, he gazed with wonder at the town of Tortuga.

The sun, red and bloated, set gracefully behind the island's rocky hills in a blaze of fiery light, casting irregular shadows over the town. Odd ships of various sizes were tied at the dock. Some sported flags with strange symbols, most of which involving a skull; others had mismatched sails that were tattered beyond repair. All of them looked well-worn and sturdy.

"Move along, boy!" Jonathan stumbled to the side as a sailor impatiently elbowed past him, swearing under his breath. Rubbing his forearm, the boy backed away from the ship, watching as most of his former crewmates hurried away from the Intrepid. Their crisp uniforms looked almost comical as they hurried into the town.

"They won't last long." Jonathan jumped and turned to see an old, weathered sailor leaning on what seemed to be a keg of rum. "That lot. No, they won't last long," he growled knowingly. Without warning, he turned and vomited into the water.

"Ugh!" Jonathan gagged, as brine and bile splattered his face. The sailor looked up, smacking his lips.

"Ye'll get used to it, boy," the man croaked, clearing his throat and taking a swig from his canteen. When he had finished, the sailor looked Jonathan over, raising an eyebrow at his new leather boots. "Say...ye ain't lookin' fer a crew, by any chance...?" The boy started.

"Oh...er...well, I..." Feeling quite helpless, he glanced toward the Intrepid. The man followed his gaze.

"Ah, ye're...hang on," the sailor interrupted himself, his graying sideburns quivering. His voice became low and tense. "That's not...please tell me that's not Elizabeth Swann." Jonathan looked over his shoulder to see Elizabeth striding purposefully down the gangplank. Turning back to the man, he nodded.

"I'm afraid so," he said uncertainly. "Er...why?" The sailor only groaned and dashed unsteadily towards the town. Dumbfounded, Jonathan turned around to find himself face to face with his captain.

"Hello, Mar- er, Jonathan," Elizabeth said brightly. "May I call you that? Good. I was wondering-"

"Captain!" As another sailor rushed up to her, anger flashed in her eyes, so quickly that Jonathan wondered if he had imagined it. "Captain, we're out of rum, we didn't have much-"

"I'll take care of it, Mr. Gillian. Er...be back here by noon tomorrow, yeah?" The man nodded and hurried away. With a swift grin, she turned back to Jonathan.

"Anyway," she continued, "I was wondering, um...your captain – your old captain – did he...oh, I dunno, give you any last instructions, or- or anything?" He blinked, and Elizabeth grimaced impatiently. "Anything at all?"

"Well...yes," he replied slowly. He had been instructed not to speak of what he had been told. But he's not my captain anymore, the boy thought smugly. "He- well, I don't know why, but..." He shrank back as his captain raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "He told us to- to do what you say, and," he closed his eyes, "and to watch you." He lowered his head apologetically.

"Do you mean to say," Elizabeth inquired in a low, deadly voice, "that Peralta's spies are now walking away from this ship, free to divulge anything and everything they've learned about me to anyone they want?" He nodded shamefacedly. "And you didn't tell me this?"

"Well, I wasn't going to tell!" Jonathan cried in self-defense. His captain sighed.

"I have enemies, Jonathan. People who want me dead. Dead. Does that mean anything to you?" He winced, feeling the intensity with which she was staring at him. Good job, he thought to himself. You haven't been part of the crew for a week and you've already gotten into trouble. He glanced up as Elizabeth looked towards the town.

"Captain?" he ventured meekly. "I...I'm sorry. I- I didn't..." He winced as his voice broke pitifully. She turned and studied him for a moment, looking deep into his forest-green eyes. He had always prided himself for his eyes – all of his family had dark eyes, and he had only ever met one other person with eyes the color of his own.

"I know you didn't mean anything by it, Jonathan," Elizabeth said slowly. "It's all right. I'm not angry." He noticed, however, that her shoulders had become extremely tense, as if she was standing at attention, and there was a hint of stiffness in her voice. She hid this with a bright smile, which he knew wasn't genuine. "Just...next time, think." With a wink, she turned and strode quickly back to the Intrepid.

"Noon tomorrow," he said out loud. "I'd better get a move on." Glancing up at the black-sailed ship which towered above him, he started off towards the many inns of Tortuga.

* * * *

Ragetti stood with his arms folded, inspecting the ship's supplies. There was very little water, he noticed, and even less rum. Must've been out a while, he thought knowingly, glancing at the gunpowder. There was plenty of it, and the pile of cannonballs next to it was quite voluminous as well. This struck him as odd, but before he could further investigate, he heard Elizabeth call his name.

"I'm down 'ere," he called in response. With a clatter, she practically threw herself down the stairs, skidding to a halt not five inches from the wall. "Wha's wrong?"

"We have problems," she replied urgently. He raised his eyebrows. "I just talked to Mardling," she continued rapidly. "He says that some of those men were spying on me. On us. And that they're reporting back to Peralta!"

"Why?" he asked, bewildered. "Wha' would they do tha' for?"

"I don't know, that's the problem!" Her eyes were wild, her hair flying haphazardly out of its braid.

"Okay, 'Lizabeth, calm down. We jus' need to-"

"I don't know what to do. I've done everything wrong!" While he watched, she burst into tears. Glancing at the wooden stairs that led to the deck, he walked over to her and placed both hands on her shoulders.

"It'll be all right, 'Lizabeth...you're doin' fine. Calm-" She pulled him into a tight hug, her tears subsiding slightly. He stiffened, again glancing at the staircase, then wrapped his arms loosely around her.

"It's been a year," she said quietly, her voice somewhat muffled. Ragetti remained quiet, unsure of what she was talking about. "A year since Will...since he..." Ah, he thought, so that's what's bothering her.

"Hey," he said, in his most soothing voice. "Hey. Look at me." She did so, her eyes slightly reddened from the tears. "Tha' means you only 'ave nine years t' go." Gently, he unwrapped her arms from around him. "You should go 'ave a drink or somethin'. The Faithful Bride's my favorite, if you need any ideas." With a slight smile, Elizabeth wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her well-worn red coat.

"That sounds good," she said quietly.

"I'll stay an' guard this lot," he continued, gesturing at the gunpowder. "An' see what we need more of." His friend looked at him with gratefully.

"I'll bring you a drink," she offered, grinning when he nodded. "Back in a few." She hurried up the wooden steps. Women, Ragetti thought to himself. I'll never understand them. He slowly lit a lantern and returned to his work, wondering why he suddenly felt so sad.

* * * *

Though night had fallen, the town of Tortuga was bustling with activity. Flickering candlelight poured from every window, illuminating the many people on the streets. Elizabeth strolled jauntily down the dirt road, trying to forget her worries – a task which, surprisingly enough, was not proving difficult. The comical shouts of drunken men and women alike would have been enough to lighten her mood at any time, and, having been away from civilization for months, it was music to her ears. She halted in front of the Faithful Bride, staring at the crude painting on the sign. It was of a lovely young woman in a wedding gown, looking rather forlorn with handcuffs on her wrists. Elizabeth started to laugh softly, then stopped, wondering what had come over her.

"Captain!" She looked away to see Mardling stumbling toward her, an empty mug in one hand. "Captain. I've made a friend. He's really nice. He wants to join the crew." He chuckled, a giddy grin on his face. "He's really nice...so nice..." With a hiccup, he dropped to the ground like a stone.

"Blimey, how much did he have?" Elizabeth asked the boy who had followed Mardling out. He had slight shoulders and a wry look on his face, which was shadowed by a large tricorn similar to Elizabeth's. His clothes were very loose on him; his feet were bare.

"Too much," the boy replied in a soft French accent. His voice was fairly high-pitched; he couldn't have been over fourteen.

"And, er, what's your name?" The boy blinked. "I'll need to know your name if you want to join my crew," Elizabeth added patiently.

"Oh- I'm...Laurent."

"Laurent," she repeated suspiciously. The boy nodded.

"Laurent Phillipe, sir," Laurent replied. Elizabeth sighed, glancing again at the wooden sign. It swung in the warm, tropical breeze.

"Don't call me that. Captain, if you want. But not 'sir'." The boy had a strange look of satisfaction in his dark brown eyes, but did not pursue the topic. Elizabeth glanced at Mardling, "We'd better get him out of the middle of the road, he'll be trampled." Or murdered, she added to herself. Together, she and Laurent dragged him around the Faithful Bride to the pigsty. Elizabeth noticed that the boy looked somewhat disgusted as they dropped him into the mud.

"This is probably the safest place for him," she said, pulling a muddy cloth over his boots so they wouldn't be stolen, "and he's close by. Come on." She wiped her hands on her already dirty trousers and walked quickly back to the inn's door. Laurent scampered after her, bare feet padding softly in the dirt.

"If you don't mind my asking, Captain, what are we doing?" the boy asked as they entered the inn. A fiddler stood in the corner, playing a jaunty duet with a pudgy accordionist, both stomping wildly to the music. Men of all ages and races laughed and drank together, doggedly trying to gain the attention of the barmaids. Elizabeth laughed loudly as one, a thick man with a long, greying beard, snatched at one of the ladies. A moment later, he ran out, swearing and clutching his bleeding nose. She turned to Laurent.

"I need a crew," she called over the music. "And here's where I'm going to get it." Glancing around, she pushed through the crowd to an unoccupied table next to the wall. She sat carefully in the decrepit wooden chair next to it, pulling a piece of parchment and a quill out of her jacket. Digging through her pockets, she retrieved the bottle of ink she had brought from the Intrepid and opened it, placing it next to the parchment. "Ah...Laurent?" The boy, who had been watching the musicians zealously, jumped and stuttered,

"Yes, Captain?"

"Get me some recruits," Elizabeth ordered firmly, "and a drink." The boy grinned and scuffled off towards the bar. She leaned back and closed her eyes, listening to the musicians, who had started an even faster tune.

"S'cuse me,"she heard over the noise. Reluctantly opening one eye, she studied the man who had appeared in front of her. He had the appearance of a normal, law abiding person, Elizabeth noted, until one noticed the deadly-looking rapier hanging from his belt. "I'm a carpenter, and I'm a devil with the blade." Elizabeth blinked.

"Welcome aboard," she said brightly, pushing the parchment toward him. Without taking his eyes off of her, the man signed his name.

"When do we sail?" he asked gruffly, replacing the quill and crossing his arms.

"Ah...report to me at noon," she replied. "My ship is the Intrepid; it's docked at the very end. Can't miss it." With a curt nod, the man left her. She watched him disappear into the crowd, then glanced at the name scribbled on the parchment: Henry Cavendish.

"Well," she muttered, "there's one more, at least."

Several others signed up, some eager, others cautious. Elizabeth found it quite fascinating that there were so many men lacking a crew in one inn, particularly considering that it was rather small compared to some. An hour passed; the crowd started to dwindle. Yawning, Elizabeth shut her eyes, placing her almost-full bottle of rum on the table. Rum had never really appealed to her; she considered it a vile drink, though she had indulged on certain occasions. It was not its taste that bothered her, but its tendency to muddle one's senses beyond convenience.

Somebody cleared their throat loudly, and she looked up with a start. In front of her stood a short, potbellied man. His greasy halo of shoulder-length brown hair framed his sunburnt face; rows of brown, rotten teeth peeked out from beneath his chapped lips.

"'Ello, poppet."

End of Chapter Eleven