Disclaimer: I do not own anything or anyone from PotC.
Chapter Twenty: "The Devil's Bargain"
By the time Anamaria finally hauled her dripping wet body onto Loyalty, she was quite certain that half of the night had been spent struggling up the ropes that hung off the ship's stern. She expected Jack would have tired of waiting for her, as he offered her no assistance because a woman in breeches should have no trouble negotiating a few simple ropes. The man was insufferable. She figured the pirate Captain would be inside the cabin wearing his customary smirk and having already found everything they required, specifically weapons of some sort, so that when Boothe returned they could be ready for him. However, instead, of setting their trap and procuring a few swords or pistols, the pirate was still standing outside of Loyalty's Captain's quarters. His hand was on the doorknob, but he seemed to have frozen mid action. Jack's posture was rigid, tense, and his eyes were fixed somewhere inside of the ship.
Seeing his stance, Ana instantly stilled her own body suspecting the pirate had seen someone or something dangerous in the cabin. However, peering into the ship, Ana could see that wasn't the case. The Captain's quarters were dark and quiet. Boothe was ashore and the few men he'd managed to rally to his cause were up on deck supposedly keeping watch. Nothing was wrong, so why in the hell hadn't Jack gone inside?
"Jack?" she whispered, placing her hand on his forearm. To Ana's surprise, the pirate started at her touch, as though he hadn't known she were there until now. "Is something wrong?" she asked, noting that Jack even now didn't turn to face her.
He did not answer right away. He simply remained still, as still as she'd ever seen him. His breathing was irregular, long and drawn out, like a man engaged in his last few deep breaths before taking some sort of frightening plunge. Ana squeezed Jack's arm. Something was happening, something she clearly did not understand. "She seems … dead," Jack said, at last.
He was referring to the ship, that much Ana could discern without asking for clarification. But, she had no idea how he could deduce the liveliness of a craft built of pitch and timber, though, Prescott too had always spoke of his vessels as though they were living, breathing beings. "I thought you'd be relieved," Ana whispered, not quite knowing how to respond to Jack's declaration, and it was obvious he had no intention of elaborating. "To be back on your ship?"
"She isn't mine," he said wistfully. "She's Scotty's. Always has been." Sighing, Jack opened the cabin door and stepped inside, almost remorsefully.
Ana followed him into Captain's quarters that seemed inexplicably small. She'd been on board Loyalty a number of times before this night, when the ship was still a prominent member of His Majesty's Navy. Before her brother was set to embark, Ana would bring fresh flowers, or some small gift she'd found for him in one of Kingston's shops. Prescott's cabin had never been as cluttered as some, but he was a wealthy man even before he turned pirate and his quarters plainly spoke to his good fortune. Luxuries, some as small as curtains some as extravagant as the deerskin rug that covered the floor even now, set Prescott apart from the more modest Captain's serving King and Country. Her brother had gone after prizes. Enemy ships, used by the French, the Spanish or any number of buccaneers brought a tidy sum to the men able to capture them. Warmth spread through Ana's wet limbs at the familiarity of the room. She remembered the ebon wood desk on which Prescott had spent nearly half a year's wage, and the large painting on the wall that he'd purchased from a starving artist back in England. Despite the fond memories, something was off about this room. "Perhaps it's a silly question," Ana whispered, "But is this cabin smaller than it used to be?"
Jack smiled. He looked as though he'd been reliving his own memories of this cabin. Moving to stand beside one of the side walls, he laid his hand on the ivory painted surface. "Your brother built a wall down the middle of the cabin, split it right in two, so I wouldn't have t' sleep with the men." Ana waited silently, and this time, Jack did elaborate. "I told ye," he said softly. "Loyalty's Scotty's. She sings for 'im," he paused, lowering his head. "E's her Captain, not me."
"But, the men are loyal to you, not my brother," Ana said.
"The men are dead," Jack spat. "So it doesn't much matter who they're loyal to."
Ana fell silent, not so much because she wanted to give Jack space, but because she had no idea what to say. The pirate Captain was upset about something. Granted, considering the events of the past few days, he had much to be upset about. His entire crew had been killed by Black Charlie Boothe, Prescott had been on the verge of death, and, if this fool plan didn't work, he was facing the noose, yet again. In spite of all these things, Ana couldn't help but think that Jack was troubled by something entirely different. He had gone to the far corner of the room and opened an ornate wooden case. Inside were two swords, dueling blades. The twin sabers sat atop green velvet and gleamed brilliantly in the starlight. Jack picked up one and stuck it through a loop in his belt. Turning he handed the other to Ana. Taking it, the lady was pleasantly surprised with how light and almost natural it felt in her hand. "These are beautiful," she said reverently. "They're Prescott's?"
Jack nodded.
Ana smiled slightly. "Did he steal them?" she asked, teasing.
"Not exactly," the pirate answered cryptically. "Earlier this year, Scotty snuck into Port Royal. Some blacksmith's apprentice made the swords at Scotty's, eh, suggestion."
The lady's smile widened at the thought of her brother suggesting a blacksmith make him a pair of sabers. His methods of persuasion could be quite convincing. Her smile, however, quickly vanished. Changing the subject had done nothing to improve Jack's mood. He was oddly quiet, sullen, and Ana had no idea why. He had every right to mourn his crew, hate Boothe, and fear hanging, but his present demeanor didn't seem to have anything to do with those things. He had sounded so strange when he'd said that Loyalty seemed "dead," and even stranger when he'd admitted that she was Prescott's ship. He couldn't possibly be worried that, without a crew to back him, Prescott would be able to take Loyalty away, could he?
Ana found herself thinking about all the stories she'd heard about Captain Jack Sparrow. The tale of his mutinous best friend instantly came to mind. A man named Barbossa had turned the crew against Jack, leaving him broken, and betrayed on some lonely island in the middle of the sea. Did Jack fear history repeating itself? Did he fear Prescott?
"Jack," Ana started, hoping she had guessed correctly and wasn't about to completely embarrass herself. "So what if Loyalty is my brother's ship? You can't think he's going to take her from you."
"What's stopping him," Jack retorted, his voice barely audible.
"He loves you. He wouldn't do that," Ana said.
A dark, black shadow seemed to descend over Jack's eyes. He steely glare could have cut Ana to the bone. "It's been known to happen."
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Leaning with his back against a palm and his arms crossed dourly in front of his chest, James Norrington had never looked more unlike a proper Royal Navy Captain. In his belt, he carried his cutlass and not one but two loaded pistols. He also carried every intention of using one of those weapons to put an end to his friend, Prescott Tarret. As he watched the marines from Dauntless disembark to the beach, he tried to make sense of what had happened. He tried to fathom what could turn a British hero into a pirate.
He watched Admiral Delaney doling out orders in a harsh whisper. Delaney was not an officer of extraordinary ability. He'd seen his share of victory as well as defeat. Duty to King and Country probably was not foremost in his mind as he made each decision in his life. He was certainly no pillar of morality, but James could look at Delaney and know that the Admiral was a Navy man. Duty might not be Delaney's whole life, but it was essential enough that he could never throw it away. James used to look at Prescott and see the same philosophy. He knew there were aspects of Prescott's life that would always be more important than his career, namely Annie, but he never thought something would be so important that Prescott would just walk away from everything he'd ever known.
James stopped mid-thought and shook his head. Had he known? Was that what was truly bothering him, that he'd known all along that Prescott would someday leave?
"Well, Captain Norrington," Williams walked up to the tree line. "Do you think one hundred men will be enough to secure Sparrow and Tarret?"
Sir George was making a joke, but, just beneath the humor, Norrington knew the man was seeking his opinion in earnest. "I hope so," he answered truthfully.
"You have reservations?"
James' brow rose. "Let us just say that stranger things have happened than a man escaping the notice of a hundred marines," he said, recalling a time when Prescott had presumably walked Jack Sparrow out of Fort Arthur with a garrison of 260 and sentries posted. Of course, the official report insisted that Admiral Tarret's disappearance and Sparrow's escape were not related, but, after this night, James knew better. "Did you ever know Prescott?" James asked.
"The man who saved Admiral Fornin's life? Everyone knows Captain Tarret," Williams said. James rolled his eyes, rousing a smile from the older officer. "I've been Captain of the flagship a long time," Sir George went on. "I was set to serve under Tarret, and, I don't mind saying, I was looking forward to the opportunity. He is a man of some reputation, but, personally, no. I never knew him. You did though, if I'm not mistaken."
"I thought so," James said moodily.
"You did," Williams said, his voice decisive. "But, knowing isn't always understanding."
Sir George's words struck a chord somewhere deep inside of James. He had known. He could still remember the last time he'd seen Prescott. He'd still been Admiral Tarret then, but he had not proud of his accomplishment. He'd looked resolute, determined, a little said. He had not been a man facing the pinnacle of his career. James had known that very night that Prescott Tarret was saying "goodbye." He'd known and he'd done nothing to stop it.
Any further self-reproach was interrupted by the Sergeant of the marines signaling down the beach. "Must have found Tarret, convinced him to come back to the Dauntless, and turn in Jack Sparrow. Don't you think?" Williams said quietly.
"If only it would be that easy," Norrington answered, as he and Sir George made their way towards the marine. As they drew closer, James could see another man sitting in the sand, his hand to his head. "Billings?" he said. The lieutenant leapt to his feet and saluted his Captain, and Norrington saw the beginnings of a bruise forming around his right eye. He also noticed that the officer's sword was missing from around his waist. "Mr. Billings, who did this? Was it Capt – Mr. Tarret?" he demanded, angrily scolding himself for still referring to Prescott as a Captain. "And where is Sparrow?"
Billings face knit in confusion. "Jack Sparrow?" he said. "I don't understand … Are you quite well, Sir?"
"Yes, Mr. Billings, I'm fine," James replied, exasperated. "Answer the question. Where is everyone?"
The lieutenant brought his hand to his forehead, appearing unsure of how to reply. "I don't quite remember, Sir," he started. "We were all here, myself, Captain Tarret, his cousin, and his sister. Then, Boothe was here, and … next thing I know, Sergeant White is standing over me."
"Boothe?" Delaney said, as he came to stand beside Williams and Norrington. "Are you saying Boothe may have Miss Tarret?"
James heard the panic in the Admiral's voice. No matter what he thought of Delaney, it was clear that he did care for Annie. That, at least, was admirable. "We must commence a search without delay," he suggested.
"Indeed, Captain," Delaney was already headed back to the rest of the marines. Neither man realizing that Billings hadn't actually said one way or the other if Anamaria had been taken by Black Charlie.
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Prescott scowled as he rose to his feet. Easily a quarter of an hour had passed from the time he'd laid down on the ground in a ridiculous effort to buckle Billings' sword belt around his waist until he could finally call his task accomplished. He'd half expected Boothe to come blundering in upon him as he was squirming and struggling in the dirt trying to bind the blasted belt without the benefit of his right hand. He had been humiliated enough with only God watching. He had lost his arm, and now he couldn't even say that he, at least, still had his dignity. Brushing the dirt off of his clothes he scoffed at himself and wondered if Billings would still think him heroic if he'd witnessed how pathetic Prescott had really become.
His frown deepened as he moved towards the mouth of the small cave he'd taken refuge within. He drew the stolen sword with his left hand. The cutlass was not far removed from the one Prescott had lived his life by, but, for the first time, the weapon was heavy and awkward in his grasp. He'd won dozens of sword battles, cut down hundreds of men, and now the simple act of holding a blade was difficult. A snotty nosed midshipman could probably best him in a fight. Angrily, Prescott thrust the blade back in the sheath. It took him three tries to hit the small hole in the top of the scabbard, which only left him angrier. He knew, with absolute certainty, that if his plan should falter and he was forced to cross blades with Boothe, or anyone else, he would lose. He would die on this forgotten pile of rock.
Grunting a laugh, he shook his head. As most English boys, he'd learned to fence when he was quite young. He'd joined the Royal Navy and seen his first battle when he twelve. Men had died, and he had killed them. He had been frightened beyond reason, but the fear had acted like some kind of fuel. He'd fought with strength he did not know he possessed, but what was to help him now Clenching his hand into a fist, he doubted any amount of fear-fueled frenzy would make up for his missing appendage.
Taking a deep breath, the former officer ran his hand over his face. He traced the line of stitches that ran down his left cheek. Charles Boothe had drawn the edge of a dull knife along the line of Prescott's jaw, threatening to peel the skin away from his body starting at his neck. Prescott's mind had been so clouded by pain that he'd believed in the intimidation. He almost would have welcomed it. If the sadistic monster really had taken the flesh from Prescott's body, he never would have lived. He would have died that day, and never had to face Boothe again, as a cripple.
Footsteps outside, drawing closer to the cave in which Prescott was concealed, banished the melancholy thoughts from the former officer's mind. The possibility of his death was very real. So, it had been his entire life since he had first entered the King's Navy. This night need be no different than a thousand others. Again, he drew his borrowed sword, disappointed but not surprised to find that the weapon felt every bit as unwieldy as it had moments earlier. "No different," he mouthed the words silently, as he attempted to banish his fear and his doubt. He squared his shoulders and glared towards the opening of the cave. He could not hope to hold his own in a sword fight, but he was the only person with knowledge of that fact. For once, his reputation as the indomitable and inhumanly brave Captain Tarret could work in his favor. More people than not, had told him that he was an uncommonly crafty liar, a statement that was sometimes complimentary and sometimes not. He would simply fool his adversary into believing he was every bit as proficient with a blade as he'd ever been.
"Mr. Boothe," he greeted as soon as a figure appeared inside of the cave. "Took you rather long enough to get here," he said, careful to keep his voice light and genial and not convey the slightest hint of fear or hatred. Prescott smiled thinly, even though he doubted that Boothe could see the expression as he was groping his way into the pitch black opening in the rock. Charles continued to inch forward until the exposed flesh of his neck came into close contact with the tip of Prescott's sword. "That's close enough for now."
"Tarret?" Boothe's voice was unguarded, surprised. "How did ye know I'd come 'ere?"
"Charles, do you mind if I call you Charles?" Prescott paused, but not long enough for Boothe to state his preference. "Charles, you've been out of the game for quite a long time. Islands with no apparent resources that are far out of the way of patrols and known trade routes are in short supply. You didn't truly think you were the only one who'd ever used this one?" He began walking around Boothe's vulnerable body, trailing the tip of the sword around his neck, as he spoke. His voice became more sing-song as he went on, and he found himself sounding very much like Jack Sparrow. He stopped when he had come full circle, leaving the blade resting atop of Boothe's shoulder hoping that the added support would keep his arm from shaking. The pain had not subsided much at all since James found him aboard Charlie's ship, and Prescott was having a hard time not running Boothe through right here and now.
"Ye've been usin' me island?"
"You're island?" Prescott repeated, doing his best to sound shocked. He was lying, of course. He'd never set foot on this worthless rock before tonight, but he'd been on the run from the English Navy long enough to know what sort of a hideout would protect a criminal from the not so all seeing eyes of sailors and marines. The basic fact of the matter was that, while men like Norrington and Delaney would be more than happy to scour an island like this one day and night until every inch was covered, the marines and seamen that would actually be doing the scouring would not be so thorough. Simple disguising techniques like branches in front of a cave opening would either go completely unnoticed, or the men who noticed them would be too lazy to investigate. Prescott didn't know who first said "If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself," but he suspected it was an officer in the British Navy. "I was unaware, though, Boothe's Island does have a certain ring, doesn't it?" He grinned, only barely refraining himself from calling Black Charlie "mate." He really did sound like Sparrow.
"What do ye want?" Boothe questioned impatiently.
"What do I want? Let's see," Prescott wished he had another hand with which to gesture, then he could place his finger on his chin and look like Jack's double. "My right arm would be a nice start, but seeing as I don't think you'll be able to accommodate me – "
"Seem t' be doin' fine wit'out it," Charlie commented.
"Oh, this?" Prescott slid the sword up a bit, causing a thin trickle of Black Charlie's blood to stain the blade. "Well, the odds were in your favor Charles. I understand most people are right-handed. A betting man would have chosen the same."
"Yer left-handed?" Black Charlie was unable to hide his shock. He suddenly appeared much more concerned about the present situation.
Once again, Prescott was lying through his teeth. "I am. Bad luck, Charles," he said, in the same tone he'd have used if a man just lost at a hand of cards. "Be that as it may, my right hand did have its uses, and I was rather attached to it." He almost cringed at the horrible pun. "And, to tell the truth, the manner in which you acquired it was a bit painful." A slight understatement, considering Prescott had wanted to die.
"No less than ye deserved."
Prescott rolled his eyes and lapsed back into Jack's sing song way of speaking. "Right, losing my arm was no less than I deserved for leaving you to rot in prison, which was no less than you deserved for threatening my sister, which was no less than she deserved for being so callous towards you, and we've all gotten no less than we deserved. Which leaves you and I on fairly even ground, I should think." Prescott paused gauging Black Charlie's reaction. If the bastard believed that Prescott considered them even, then he'd believe anything.
The pirate looked as though he were still trying to figure out exactly what Prescott had been saying. "Even?" he said at last. "So, it does."
Prescott smiled a serpent's smile. "So, it does," he hissed. "And since we're one even terms now, Charles. I have a proposition for you."
"What sort o' proposition?" Black Charlie asked, a lewd grin on his face.
Grinning back, Prescott said, "Don't flatter yourself. I merely wish to enter into a mutually beneficial agreement."
"What've ye got in mind?"
This was it. No turning back once he'd closed the devil's deal. "I want my ship and your word that you'll never come near my sister again," he said simply. "In return, I give you safe passage to Tortuga, Trinidad, wherever you wish." Boothe's eyebrows rose, he was interested, but not sold. "I will also deliver into your hands the revenge you seek." The pirate's brow lifted another notch, almost sold. "I'll give you Jack Sparrow, complete with your ruby, and Captain James Norrington."
"Ow are ye gonna do tha?" Charles asked.
"That is precisely what I would like to know," James Norrington's unmistakable voice echoed Boothe's question.
Fast enough to disguise the clumsiness of the maneuver, Prescott spun around taking the sword from Black Charlie's shoulder to a position pretty close to Norrington's heart. Silently, he prayed that James and Boothe would be too distracted to notice the error of his aim. "Right on cue," he said. "You've an actor's timing, James. You can go for your gun … guns," he corrected after seeing the pair of pistols James had brought, "But I'll have you before you can bring them to bear." Norrington fixed his iciest glare on Prescott. He didn't like using James, despite the number of times he had done so. He regretted the rift this night would undoubtedly cause, but Annie's safety was paramount to his relationship with James. "So, Charles, what say you? Shall we go back to the ship and discuss our terms?"
The grin that had vanished from Boothe's upon Norrington's arrival returned at this apparent show of good faith from Prescott. "Aye," he said. "Back to your ship, tha' is."
Prescott felt a twinge in his chest, pretty near to where his heart was supposed to be. It was done. The devil's deal was sealed. "God, forgive me," he whispered.
TBC
Well, I took kind of a long time ... again, getting this posted. So sorry. I did put it up w/o a decent proofread, so please excuse any stupid errors, I just didn't want you all to have to wait any longer.
An-Angel-In-Hell: Well, some secrets are out in the open, but ol' Scotty may have one or two he isn't sharing yet.
SylviaD: I'm glad I have managed to stay unpredictable, that's my plan. At this point all of the characters are definitely operating according to their own plans and so far I've left you in the dark as to what those plans are. I think Norry's motivations became a lot clearer, and you got a tiny little bit of insight into Scotty's, but I've kept him cryptically mysterious as always (I hope that doesn't annoy you too much) Much will be revealed next chappy, so I hope you'll stay tuned!
Rose of England: Delaney has certainly revealed a bit of his own devious, but I gotta say Pres still takes the cake! And just to correct one tiny thing, Jack and Ana are on Loyalty not Interceptor. You probably figured that out from this chappy, sorry if there was confusion in the last one.
Freak87: You raise a good point (a few of them actually)but the one I'm talking about in particular is that Delaney doesn't know that Ana's involved yet. Not knowing what the lady with the heart of a pirate is up to may prove to be very dangerous indeed! As far as Prescott's plan being so mucked up, well, yeah, it is, but Pres is the kind of guy who can really roll with the punches. He'll come up with something!
Yuna-Flowering: I also always wondered why Norrington seemed to instantly know Jack in the movie and Jack seemed to already know him. Well, this explains it. As for doing a story thatcovers the movie, I'm thinking that could be what's next for me once I finish up with this. So, I hope that's good news!
Cal: Alright, onto your novel length author's note, I hope I don't make you cry this time! First of all, I have to address Scotty's prowess as a liar anda lie detector. You noted what he would fail to see between Jack and Ana in the future. Well, he doesn't really fail to see what's going on between them, I think he just doesn't look. Prescott, even though he's turned pirate, is a military man. His sister's personal life is enemy territory that he probably has no desire to venture into! As for Pres' discussion with Billings, well he was being a bit cranky. But, he debates his heroics every time they are brought up mostly because he didn't do anything in hopes of receiving praise. He did what he did because that was his job, and a few personal reasons. I may get more in depth into Pres' motivations in some story down the road, but mostly I think he's driven by guilt. He couldn't save his brother, so he's going to be damned if anyone else is hurt when he could have done something about it. Another thing I'm glad you noticed is that Ana could swim. You're right, most upper class women of the time wouldn't be interested in ever learning how to do something like that. I didn't really decide who would've taught her. Pres certainly could have, then again, her mother was a native Jamaican, so propriety wasn't something she'd be overly concerned about either. Just another skill that will someday make her quite a pirate.
Alright, now I'm done. Thanks so much for all of the feedback. I love hearing from all of you!