Disclaimer: I don't have permission to be writing this story. Or using these characters. Sadly. These get really repetitive, don't they?
Author's Note (4/27/07): Well…here's one of those extremely pivotal chapters that I've been thinking about practically since starting this story last July. I hope you enjoy it. It's recently been brought to my attention that I've a proclivity for leaning on the violent side…which is true. So, I'm sorry if violence offends any of you. I'm not really a fan of it. Except for in my writing, apparently. Can't buckle a good swash without sword fighting. And one can't be accurate to life without death occurring. So…yeah. Hope you enjoy this. And that you leave me a review.
Chapter Twenty: The Brand
To say that Jack was nervous was an understatement. The Wicked Wench was safely anchored near the docks in Liverpool. He could see the offices of the East India Company staring back at him, nestled amongst the various warehouses they used to store goods before being sold in the marketplaces of all England. Beckett was likely waiting there, busy going over some form or another. Jack really didn't want to go and face up to him. The only thing he could offer him of real value would be his complete loyalty, but he didn't see how he could get that onto the bargaining table as he'd been disloyal while taking those slaves back. Most of the crew had already disembarked from the vessel, anxious to get away from the stench that was still in the hold of the Wench—Jack planned on having it thoroughly cleaned after his meeting with Beckett. If Beckett wouldn't inevitably learn that the Wench was in Liverpool well before she should be, Jack would be tempted to wait a few days in taverns bolstering his courage with rum. However, Beckett would probably shortly be informed by the harbormaster that the merchant ship had returned. The longer he waited, the more cowardly he would appear.
Sighing, he looked away from the port, toward the stairs leading down below. He could take at least five minutes to go and visit his first mate. Tannar hadn't left bed since they'd left the coast of Africa several weeks previously. He'd been asleep more than he'd been awake for the entire voyage. Killian kept insisting that the illness would pass of its own accord, but Jack was starting to think that wasn't the case. He intended to consult a few other surgeons on the side, to see what they thought, as soon as his interview with Beckett was over. It was a legitimate excuse to put off the inevitable, so he almost immediately started down the stairs to say goodbye to his first mate.
He found Tannar sleeping. Normally, he would have just let the man sleep, but he wanted to reassure himself that what he was doing was the right thing, so he shook Tannar's shoulder. "Oi, Tannar," he said in the voice he usually used when discussing things of importance. It was harsher than his normal tone of voice, as he wanted his orders to be followed, but it wasn't anything alarming.
Tannar's eyes slowly fluttered open. The man frowned when he recognized Jack. "Wha'?" he asked sharply, curbing an impulse to hit the captain.
Jack paused for a moment. He'd never heard Tannar sound so irritated. Generally, the one-legged first mate was quite easy-going. "Er—do you need anything from town? We're in Liverpool."
"No." Tannar closed his eyes again, rolling over in bed. His hand brushed against something furry in bed with him. His eyes opened again. "Thatcher," he said angrily, brushing a gigantic rat off his bed with a flick of his wrist. "Ruddy rat." Apparently the Wench did have a rat problem. If he was still captain after this afternoon, Jack would buy a cat to help alleviate the problem. He hated cats, which was probably why there was such a bad rat problem in the first place. Most ships traveled around with several feral cats to keep the rat population low, but Jack never did replace the ones that had died after Odell's death.
"That's an enormous rat," Pearl remarked, pointing at the creature that had been sharing the bed with Tannar.
"That it is," Jack agreed, wrinkling his nose. Rodents weren't very high on his list of animals he liked. They ranked slightly higher than cats, below monkeys, and somewhere on par with rabbits. He looked to his former first mate and sighed. "Poor man. D' ye know what he was suffering from?"
Pearl nodded, kneeling down to get a better look at the rat. "He's really rather adorable up close."
Jack looked at her curiously. Of all the women in the world he'd met, he would have guessed she'd be just as afraid of rats as most the other ones. "How do you know he's a he?"
"Same way I know that Tannar was suffering from the Sleeping Death. Picked it up in Africa." She shrugged slightly, reaching out to touch the rat. Her hand went through it, of course. She looked up at Jack and frowned slightly. "Drat. I was hoping I could hold it."
Jack shook his head slightly. "I thought this was just a visual representation of my memories."
"It is," she replied with a dismissive air. "But I still think he's adorable. Besides…sometimes it's a good thing to test the boundaries of our perceived realities."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Good." She smiled slightly, standing up.
"Tannar—" he started, allowing some of his anxieties creep out in his voice. He was interrupted by the man's snores. He sighed and shook his head, looking at the ill man for a few moments before deciding there was no point in bothering him further. Hopefully he would be well, soon, for he didn't exactly want to find a replacement. He trusted Tannar with his life, and he wasn't afraid of sounding stupid by asking him questions. "Wake up."
The man's snores continued uninterrupted, even when Jack started shaking him on the shoulder again. Frustrated, he went so far as to steal the man's red and white sash from his grasp. The first mate generally slept with it like a small child did with a favorite toy. Jack thought the practice was ridiculous, but Tannar said it brought him good luck, and that it could serve as a blanket in cooler weather. The fabric was rough and already rather faded from the sun. "Fine. I'll jus' take this, then," he said, trying to rouse the man from his slumber. He tied it around his waist, feeling very much like a woman wearing a sari for the first time. It was a very long and narrow piece of fabric. "I'm wearing your sash," he said loudly, trying to tempt Tannar from the realm of dreams to take it back. Tannar didn't even move. Sighing, Jack decided he needed to face the inevitable. "Fine," he said exasperatedly. "But I'm keeping the sash until you wake up."
With that, he pivoted around and swaggered out of the cabin, climbing the stairs to reach the main deck like a man condemned to death—his shoulders were sloped downward and the fluid balance he'd acquired over the years after his mugging seemed to be missing. Instead, he merely looked as though he was having a hard time walking. Each step was slow and deliberate.
Even with the care he was taking in walking, it didn't take him long to reach the offices of the East India Company in Liverpool. They were housed in a fairly large building with a respectable front door. The offices were in good repair; the foliage nearby was well-tended and green. The inside of the building was tastefully decorated, though Jack wasn't entirely a fan of the large map painted on the far wall. There were too many blank spots in the world. Plus, the level of detail was far from minute and couldn't really be used as anything other than a general reference. Jack loved the detail his sailing charts offered as he traveled about. If he had discovered he had perpetual seasickness, he probably would have apprenticed with a cartographer.
Jack caught a whiff of tea and crumpets on the air as he stood, uncomfortably, in a place where he clearly did not belong. His eccentric hairstyle, kohl, and rather unique apparel were as incongruent to the office as Beckett would be covered in mud while wrestling a large swan. No one was in the front foyer, so Jack assumed they were all having a sit-down for tea. He could hear the faint noise of china on china in the next room as he slowly took a seat in a burgundy chair. The men in this building likely controlled most of the market in India. As they were able to bring highly-sought-after goods to England, they had quite the influence on the king. Jack hated to think what would happen once they'd tired of the Orient. He knew the Indian people weren't particularly fond of the Company's presence, even if they appeared to love the Company in public. The chance of England exerting power on that large nation indefinitely was minute.
As he sat, Jack tried to breathe in a calming way. The best way to end up dead in a situation such as this was to allow panic to set in. Beckett was a reasonable man, provided you had leverage, and generally followed his word. So, if Jack could find something as leverage, he would be fine. He hoped. As he waited, he drummed his finger along the soft velvet arm of the chair. The Company officials certainly lived in as much opulence as some of the pirates Jack had heard about. Personally, he thought there was a point where throwing money at expensive things became rather pointless. There was too much going on in the room to look at it for long.
The door to the adjacent room opened slowly, creaking ominously as it did so. Jack sat up a bit straighter in his chair, throwing out his chest simultaneously to appear more at ease than he really was. The first man out of the room was a rather morose-looking gentleman with a glint in his eyes that seemed to say he was as out of place as Jack, even if he was dressed to fit. His dark hair was pulled back, and he stood rather defensively as soon as he noticed Jack. Beckett followed. Had Jack not been in such a potentially deadly situation, he would have laughed at the look on the man's face upon spotting Jack sitting calmly in the chair. Beckett looked as though he were seeing a ghost. "Captain Sparrow," he said somewhat uneasily, though he quickly regained his normal expressionless demeanor, "You're back rather early."
"I am," Jack agreed. He was back about half a year too early, actually. He started to stand, but Beckett motioned for him to keep sitting as he stepped away from the door.
"Did you run into complications with the cargo?" Beckett asked anxiously as he walked toward the chair to face Jack as several other men came out of the room. Urgency filled his voice like a pail lowered into a well. The cargo was worth a lot of money. And the favor he was doing for the person who actually owned the cargo was worth a lot more.
"People aren't cargo, mate." Seeing Beckett's puzzled look, Jack clarified, "I liberated the cargo off the coast o' Africa three days after picking it up."
"You what?" he asked sharply, his voice as sharp as a scorpion's sting and as loud as a drunkard's. The other officials looked at Beckett disapprovingly as he desperately tried to gain control of his flaring emotions and nostrils. The sedate and sneering look on Beckett's face gradually returned. "Captain Sparrow, would you kindly accompany me to my office?" Though phrased as a question, Jack knew it was really an order. He had an overwhelming desire to just bolt out of the office, get aboard his ship, and never return. It was a compliment to his courage that he stood and followed Beckett to the relative quiet of his office. They were accompanied by the man who'd stepped out of the other room first.
Pearl glanced over at Jack and smiled, taking his hand in hers. Apparently she'd forgotten how upset she'd been with him for killing the Frenchmen aboard the Wench. Either that, or she just felt compelled to reach out to him. He had a very curious look on his face, as though he were watching something he really didn't want to watch but couldn't help but watch. "You were quite brave."
The corners of Jack's mouth folded into a frown as he glanced back at the vivacious and lovely Pearl. "Not really."
"Most people with an easy choice of not taking responsibility for the consequences of actions choose the easy route. You chose the correct one by coming back. Just like you did when choosing to return to your crew before your death."
Jack laughed somewhat bitterly. "Odd for a pirate t' have an honest streak."
"A bit, yes. But that's what makes you such a good man."
Jack was silent for a moment. "Pearl…do you mind if we jus' watch the rest of this without saying anything?" he asked softly.
"Alright." She smiled, stepping nearer to him. The scales appeared briefly and the balance changed slightly, but they disappeared before Jack could tell whether it was in his favor or not.
Inside the office was garishly decorated. There was another map of the world on one of Beckett's walls. Bits of parchment were tacked onto various locations on the map, probably as a reminder as to favors and blackmail he had to carry out. Beckett's desk was polished enough that Jack could see a reflection of the ceiling in it. The chair behind it was large and domineering. Jack personally thought that Beckett had a chair that large in order to compensate for his height. It was a large office, showing how important Beckett had become to the Company since traveling from India six years previously. The walls were adorned with various mementoes of that country, in addition to some of the treasures men under his command had found in their travels. Everything in the office screamed that Beckett had power, influence, and fairly bad taste in decorating. Even the flames from the fire in the large fireplace on the wall next to the one with the map seemed gaudy.
"Shut the door, Mercer," Beckett snapped. The thug immediately did as he was ordered, taking care to close the door quietly as the other key officials in the Company walked past to go to their own offices. Beckett stepped very near to Jack, somehow appearing quite intimidating despite his small stature. "That cargo was of infinite importance. Did I not make my instructions implicitly clear? The cargo was to have reached my contact in Portobello within the next month or…" He trailed off for a moment. "Do you even have any ability to comprehend what you've done?" His voice was aghast as it hit him as to what this all meant. He paled and then became a color similar to the red in Tannar's sash. He was in such a fury that droplets of spit escaped from his mouth with every syllable. "You've ruined me." He looked very much like he wanted to hit Jack.
The captain put up his index finger. "Not true," he protested quickly, keeping his own voice as even and convincing as he possibly could. This wasn't going according to plan. "I've got enough to—"
"This isn't about the profit," Beckett said icily. "Captain Bledsoe is a very influential man in the Company, and that cargo was a gift to him." He glared at Jack for a moment. This setback could cost him years of hobnobbing, lobbying, and subversive tactics. Beckett still needed to gain the favor of some of the more influential men in the Company, and this was supposed to have helped with that. He'd reached a point where he couldn't add to his power without siphoning it from others.
"Maybe he doesn't even like slaves," Jack said, hopefully, as Beckett very obviously started to plan how he was going to get revenge on Jack. He didn't like the look in the man's eyes, nor the fact that he actually saw the man's eyebrow quiver for the first time in his acquaintance with the fellow.
Beckett just scowled at that comment. "Mercer, we have a pirate in our midst," the rather upset man announced, stepping away from Jack. Beckett had never been a fan of getting his own hands dirty. "I suggest you arrest him." It seemed a plan to salvage some of this day had just cemented in his mind.
"Yes, sir," Mercer replied. The man had been silent until now, but he'd already grabbed a pair of irons, anticipating Beckett's final decision. Jack started to draw his sword. He had no intention of being arrested for something he didn't do. Mercer was far too quick, however. He whipped out a knife and pressed it against Jack's chest. "I'm going t' cut you up if ye do tha'," he hissed. He sounded very honest with that threat. Jack wisely stopped, placing his hands in front of him in a gesture of surrender. Mercer then shackled the man's wrists, pressing them together as close as he could. There was no way to slip out of them.
"Thank you, Mercer," Beckett said, recovered from his battle with anger. He looked at Jack coldly for a moment. "Let's go for a walk, shall we?" With that, he stepped out the door. Mercer pointed his knife into Jack's back, forcing him to follow. They reached the main foyer. It was now full of various agents of the Company getting back to work after their brief break for tea. "I need several of you to accompany me on a mission of extreme importance," Beckett announced. Seven men leapt up at once, grabbing a few weapons. They were all anxious to climb further in the Company as well, and everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before Beckett had what he wanted. It would be wise for them to all get into his graces now. Two of the seven grabbed Jack roughly by the arms after Beckett motioned toward him. The other five followed Beckett and Mercer out the door.
Beckett led the group toward the docks, stopping near the Wicked Wench. "She's a finely crafted ship," he remarked, shaking his head slightly. "Pity she is of no further use." With that, he looked toward the group of men. "Torch it." It would be incredibly easy for them to do such a task, and several men stepped forward with glee. The Wench carried powder, of course, and ships were just tinderboxes waiting for the smallest spark to ignite them as it was.
"No!" Jack yelled, lunging forward. It was too late. Four agents of the Company loyal to Beckett were already climbing the gangplank. "Beckett, stop!" He could scarcely think. Life seemed to be moving both incredibly fast and slow. "There's—"
Beckett, who was standing nearby, whirled around and punched Jack in the stomach. He looked extremely pleased with himself when he saw the look of pain on Jack's face. "I suggest you say nothing further, Captain. Now is not the time to try to gain my favor."
Jack mutely stared at the man, surprised he'd resorted to physical violence. The punch hadn't hurt that much, but it had been unexpected enough to hurt more than it should have. He struggled, trying to free himself from his captors again. He couldn't just watch the Wench burn without a fight. She meant far more to him than even he realized, not to mention the fact that Tannar was still on board. The more he struggled, the tighter his captors held onto him. Mercer stepped back behind him, pressing his knife at the nape of Jack's neck. If Beckett hadn't wanted Jack to watch this, he probably would have killed the man.
Aboard the Wench, two of the men had lowered a sail and cut the anchor line. Once the Wench started burning, they didn't want the flames to jump to the city. Not only would it be reminiscent of the Great Fire of London, but it would likely lead to punishment from Beckett if the offices of the Company were torched. The other two were below deck, laying out a fuse of powder toward all the stores of ammunition and powder, as well as toward the rum locker. Once they were finished with that, one lit it with his flintlock pistol. They ran up above deck, and all four agents jumped out overboard, into the water, swimming toward the docks. An unfortunate gust of wind filled the sails. The Wench was floating serenely out to sea.
As they climbed up onto the docks, Jack started to struggle with more vigor, ignoring the stab of pain from Mercer's blade. He had to do something. If he could get into the water, he could swim to the Wench and extinguish the fuse before it made it to the stores of powder and ammunition. The blade of the knife was digging into his skin. His shackled hands made it difficult to have any leverage to try and get away. "This is madness!" he spat angrily, along with several cusswords.
"This is brilliance," Beckett countered. The Wench was nearly to the entrance of the harbor. Right then, the kegs of powder in the hold exploded. Starving flames leapt up, engulfing the Wench. One of the sails caught fire. It disintegrated, sending bits of charred sail out to sea on the wind. Some of the burning embers hit the other sails, lighting them on fire. Then the fire moved to the main mast. Another explosion rocked the ship as the rum locker exploded. A large fireball lit the darkening sky as the other masts caught on fire. The sails were gone in a matter of minutes. Jack stopped struggling. He was staring at the scene before him, dumbfounded. The fire quickly spread to engulf the entire ship as she continued to float, now a funeral pyre.
Jack couldn't look away from the grisly scene. He'd just lost everything for doing the right thing. The Wench had deserved better than this. Tannar had deserved better. His crew had deserved better. Jack hadn't been good enough. He'd let his morals get in the way, and he'd stood up for his actions, and now he had nothing. There was hardly a reason to keep living any longer. His eyes burned as much as the Wench was as a few unnoticed tears spilled from his eyes. She was hardly more than a log for a fireplace. As the Wench started to sink, far from waterproof any longer as the fire consumed more of the hull, Jack's head fell forward. His neck was too tired to hold it up. He was too tired to do anything. He felt as though he'd been watching her burn for eternity and he couldn't bear to watch another moment of it.
Noticing that Jack's spirit had just broken, Beckett smiled. He'd decided how to fix the blunder. Jack would be blamed for stealing and selling all the slaves himself as a pirate. Beckett would watch him hang and would then send condolences to Bledsoe. He wasn't ruined—but Jack Sparrow most certainly would be. "Take him to my office," he ordered, though he stepped forward and started to lead the way.
Jack didn't even bother moving his legs as he was dragged back to the office. He scarcely even noticed when they reached it. Five of the seven agents that had helped torch the Wench were waiting outside the office. Mercer and the other two were inside the office. Mercer was standing very near a large fireplace. The fire was cackling, laughing at Jack, much like the fire aboard the Wench. Jack's mind was numb. 'The Wench is gone,' kept repeating in his mind. As well as the fact that he was going to hang because he'd helped human beings retain freedom. This wasn't fair.
"Have you been informed what it is we at the East India Trading Company do to pirates? With the king's sanction, of course." Beckett opened his desk drawer, retrieving a curious apparatus. It appeared to be a cane that narrowed at the tip and then opened up into some sort of letter. It took Jack a few moments to realize that it was a branding iron. He said nothing, swallowing at the thought of where that might be put. "We've been given permission to brand pirates with a 'P' before their execution, in the very small chance they escape." He pointed toward the center of his forehead. "Right there." He smiled slightly. "Since you're such a fantastic pirate…masquerading as a cleric of the Church of England and all, I do believe that we should mark you as one in five places." He pointed to his wrists, legs, and forehead. "Just to be sure that there's no mistake when they bury your body parts separately as to what you are—after you're drawn and quartered, of course."
Beckett casually walked over to the fireplace, sticking the tip of the brand into the flames, near a large log. "It's a pity, really," he said flatly. "You were such a promising young captain, always careful to do as I asked and nothing more. It takes quite a lot of talent to do precisely what is required without wasted effort. I had such high hopes for you. I was even planning on using you as my personal captain. Now I suppose I'll just have to fill that position myself."
Jack finally raised his head again, glaring at Beckett. If only he had more power! If he had something to offer Beckett, this wouldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening. He wanted to live. He wanted to live so desperately, it hurt. He was infused with emotion and feeling again, and he felt as though he could break the manacles binding his hands together. But he had to keep Beckett from seeing that. So, he said nothing, hanging his head in a good imitation of submission.
"I do believe I'll start with your right arm," Beckett said, sounding oddly gleeful after a few very quiet minutes. The P on the branding iron was a glowing cherry red. He took it and stepped toward Jack as the agents gripped him even tighter. Their fingers were digging into his flesh. Mercer stepped forward, ripping Jack's shirtsleeve. He then grabbed Jack's arm, holding it still and fairly level. Beckett stepped forward, pressing the tip into Jack's skin. It hissed angrily for a second as Jack winced, refusing to cry out. He was more alert now than he'd ever been in his life. After what felt like an eternity, Beckett pulled it back. The letter P was clearly visible on Jack's skin in an angry red and black pattern as blisters appeared. The smell of charred flesh filled the air.
The sound of footsteps outside the office distracted them all. Beckett grinned and made one of the biggest mistakes of his life. He looked away from Jack as he started switching the branding iron between his hands. Jack, sensing that this was the only moment he had to do anything about his own fate, pushed his guards back a step or two and kicked Mercer. He staggered forward and hit Beckett, dropping his knife in the process. Beckett tossed him forward, swinging the brand away from the man as Jack hurried forward. He grabbed the hot brand in his right hand fairly near to the end. The pain hardly bothered him. He quickly maneuvered it to hold it by the handle, and jabbed at Beckett, hitting him between the legs. Beckett screeched in pain.
Jack dropped the branding iron, somersaulting onto the floor to grab the knife before either of the agents or Mercer was able to. He purposefully bumped into Mercer again, sending him to the side. Once he grabbed the handle of the knife, he looked up at the other two men trying to grab him. He merely rolled at them, forcing them to move, before standing and kicking one of the men in the side into the other.
Mercer recovered from his fall, glaring at Jack with a murderous gleam in his eyes. Beckett was on the ground, rolling. His trousers had caught fire from the intense heat. "Mercer!" he cried. That distracted Mercer enough that Jack was able to run to the door. He burst out of the office, barreling through the remaining five agents of the Company, slashing with the knife. Once he'd made it past them, he ran with his hands out in front of him to keep from falling. He made it out the door without further complications.
Once outside, he glanced wildly around for a second before running to the left, toward where more of the taverns were. He didn't have very long with which to hide. Moments after he started running down the street, Mercer burst out of the door, an enraged expression on his face and a loaded double-barrel pistol in his hand. Jack noticed him, quickly turning to run between two buildings. His hands were still out in front of him. He was afraid that if he lowered them at all, he would end up tripping. Such a mistake would undoubtedly cost him his life. Beckett would now probably rip him apart with his bare hands, provided he could ever stand again. The palm of his right hand was now singed as well, though he'd grabbed the branding iron in a cooler place than the tip.
The marked man quickly found himself in the midst of an outdoor marketplace full of vendors putting their wares away for the night. Most of the customers had gone home to prepare for rest before another day of work and toil. Somewhat pleased, Jack quickly started looking for somewhere or some way to hide. There didn't seem to be any likely candidates amongst the stalls full of jewelry, food, or pottery. He was about to just continue running when he noticed a wrinkled old woman, nearly blind, putting bolts of cloth away in a corner stall next to a church. His salvation was at hand. He quickly hurried over to where she was. She'd been sitting on a piece of coarse cloth. He quickly picked that up and threw it up over his shoulders as a sort of hooded cape, bending over to resemble an old woman stricken with years. The cloth reeked of dog urine, but he didn't notice.
The woman, who was also nearly deaf, seemed infinitely surprised when she turned and saw someone else standing in her stall with her. Anger filled her expression quickly. "What are you—"
Jack whirled around and looked at her in the eye, pleading. "Sorry," he said quickly. "I won't be 'ere long." He smiled slightly.
"Are you in trouble, young man?" the matron asked, disapprovingly, though Jack could see that her face wasn't quite as stern as it had been. She obviously thought he was attractive. It was remarkable how often good looks could get him into and out of trouble.
"You could say that," Jack admitted. "I din' actually do anything wrong. The Company's lookin' for a scapegoat."
At the mention of the Company, the old woman frowned. She was having a hard time getting by because a certain Cutler Beckett had ordered she no longer be supplied with fabrics from them. She didn't charge enough of a tax, they claimed. "You can hide, son," she said simply, turning away from him.
Seconds later, Jack heard someone running in the marketplace through the stalls. He didn't turn around, but imagined it was Mercer along with some of the seven agents loyal unto death to Beckett. Jack pulled the cowl closer to his face as he pretended to be another old woman helping out his new-found friend. He blended in fairly well, and the bolts of cloth on the ground hid his boots superbly. They ran past. Jack's heart seemed to be pounding in his chest. As the din of the agents lessened, he hunched next to a bolt of cloth, trying to just breathe.
"I think they're gone," the woman said kindly, glancing over at Jack. He looked terribly uncomfortable hunched over the way he was. Of course, she had no idea that most of the pain was coming from his brand and his burned palm. "You can leave."
Jack looked at her appreciatively. "Thank you," he said, surprised he even had the ability to still speak. He was suddenly exhausted, but he couldn't do anything about it. His hands were still bound together. He had no money. And he had no idea where his crew was, or if any of them would be even remotely sympathetic toward him. He now saw that it had been a mistake to set those people free, even if it had been the right thing to do.
The woman seemed to sense his sudden emotional turmoil now that his life wasn't in immediate danger. "Do you have anywhere to go?" she asked. Jack was about the age of her youngest son. She wanted to help him in the hope that her son would be helped by someone else on his own journey.
"Not particularly," Jack responded, his voice metallic. He slowly stood up, letting the smelly cloth fall to the ground as he did so. When she saw his manacled hand and fresh brand, she gasped slightly. "I can't take advantage of your generosity longer, ma'am," he said respectfully, bowing. "Thank you."
She looked at him, halfway tempted to offer him somewhere to at least stay the night…but she knew that it would be too much of a risk for both of them. "Good luck, son," she said softly. He nodded to her, dashing in the opposite direction of where the agents had gone. If he could just find Killian, he'd probably be able to get these manacles off his hands. Killian likely had some sort of surgical instrument that would work as a good lock-picking tool.