Disclaimer: Vanessa owns Johnny, Disney owns Jack, Jack owns me, and I own my dreams. Savvy? Glad we're square on it.
Chapter 25
Jack watched the Lady as she made her way aft, noting that those of his rough and tumble crew who encountered her along her path gave way as smartly as any courtier - if not as floridly. Far from oblivious or merely accepting these gestures as something due her, Miranda acknowledged each and every man. Some with a nod, others with a word, or even a smile to judge from the bemused look of old Quartetto.
All well and good to his mind, as he returned his attention to the slave ship. The men had lost their initial misgivings about the noblewoman's presence shortly after she'd made a point of breaking bread with them at mealtimes. Her efforts on their Captain's behalf at Havana had only deepened their acceptance of her, as did her seeming inability to look down her nose at them.
No... that was an attitude the Lady Miranda reserved solely for himself, Jack thought ruefully, but even that was just another step in the dance that the two of them moved through - and he had to admit that he did so enjoy ruffling her feathers.
The Blackbirder turned away from them now, showing her stern as those aboard made to put some distance between them.
Also well and good. While it had been something of a temptation to pull along and liberate his fellow seamen of their coinage - and whatever other items of interest they may carry Jack knew all too well that given a reason for speed, a slave ship would sooner pitch its living cargo over the side to lighten the load rather than surrender. He could live with blood on his hands... just not that kind.
It looked to be clear sailing straight to Tortuga, with open sea-lanes, and fair weather. What sailor could ask for more?
Scarcely had this thought crossed his mind, when several things happened in rapid succession.
"Sail ho! Sail ho!" he heard a high voice cry. Looking up, Jack spotted an arm waving from the crow's nest atop the main mast.
"Where away?" he called up.
"Off the windward side, Cap'n," Mr. Gordon called, scrambling monkey-like down the ratlines. "They're coming up off our starboard, Cap'n. Right for us out of the passage!"
Jack quickly crossed to starboard, spyglass raised for a first good look at the newcomer. Spotting it, he swore under his breath. The other ship was heading right to them, sure enough: a smaller fore-and-aft rigged vessel with all sails set and running hard. The sound of panting beside him told Jack that young Mr. Gordon had joined him at the rail, and from the heavy footsteps that followed, others were lining up beside him.
"What were you doing up there, boy?" Jack barked, staring at the ship that was unmistakably bearing down on them. "They're almost on top of us!"
"Sorry, Cap'n," the boy stammered. "Had my eye on that merchantman. How come we let 'em go?"
"It's a slave ship, boy," Jack heard Gibbs inform. "An' I don' know about you lot, but I prefer my take o' a haul in silver 'n gold, not flesh."
Other voices muttered their agreement, and Gordon hung his head.
"I won't let you down again, Sir."
Jack turned a stern eye on the lad. "That being said, you'd best take your tailfeathers right back up there, boy. I need your eyes where they'll do the most good."
The youth straightened immediately. "Aye, Cap'n!" he shouted, and rushed away.
"So who're we lookin' at?" Gibbs demanded, squinting his blue eyes at the schooner. Jack peered through the glass.
"Not Navy," he announced, and several men released their breath in rushes. "A Spaniard by the make of her, but..." He broke off, staring harder at the battered, splintering figurehead of a bare-breasted woman at the prow. Her carved attributes jutted proudly, despite the paint that had long since chipped away to reveal the half rotted wood beneath.
"I know that strumpet," he said bitterly, letting his disgust show. "It's the 'Mautre de Nire' - De Garonne's ship." He might have found the groans that followed this announcement humorous, were he not so busy cursing the luck that had conspired to put Henri de Garonne in the same waters at the same time as himself.
"Inn' he the one tried putting a shot through you a few years back?" Gibbs asked with concern. "Thought he'd taken hisself off to Madagascar."
Jack grinned tightly. "He did put one in me. Got it into his head that I might make a go at taking his place, for some reason." He turned to the Quartermaster. " 'Nother day or so and I might've pulled it off, too. Not very popular with his men, Henri was. You think he wants to reminisce?"
Gibbs snorted. Then, "He's still a ways off, Jack. A bit more cloth'd make it hard for him to make up the distance."
"An excellent idea, mate," Jack agreed, still eyeing the Mautre de Nire - the 'Laughing Murder'. Well, de Garonne never did have much by way of imagination. Save for overestimating his own importance, that is. "In fact, why don't you and the men see to that right -"
"Cap'n Sparrow Cap'n!" young Gordon cried from above. "The Blackbirder, Sir she's gone hard over, and she's not alone now!"
As a man, they moved to the larboard side.
As reported, the slaver had veered sharply over, presenting a gun-laden profile to yet another vessel. This ship - a fore-and-aft rigger same as Garonne's - looked to be readying to try its luck against the slaver's cannons.
But at the last moment, the smaller ship broke from its attack, spilling the wind from the triangular sails as the bow swung over and away from the merchantman.
Straight for the Pearl.
"Jack..?" Gibbs looked nervously from one approaching schooner to the other. Jack watched as the newcomer tacked swiftly their way, training his eyes on the pair of ensigns flying atop the main mast. The larger, topmost flag he recognized as the emblem of that posturing idiot, de Garonne: a red flag emblazoned with a white, leering death's head.
This ship was sailing under Garonne's colors. The surly Frenchman had managed to collect himself a cohort.
He focused on the smaller, darker ensign flying just below the first. This one was black, on which the white figure of a horned skeleton impaling a hapless seaman on an ancient three-tined spear leapt out at him.
"That's Annie Robert's ship," he announced with dismay. Gibbs turned, thunderstruck.
"Annie... Black Nan's ship - the Trident?"
Jack nodded, seeing in his mind the solid, swarthy form of the brash Scotswoman who commanded the oncoming vessel.
"You've no quarrels with Black Nan," Gibbs sputtered unhappily. "An' she bein' a privateer now, and all. Why's that woman raisin' her colors on us?"
"T'ain't her, Joshamee." Marty stepped up beside them, hauling his stunted body up onto the bulwark. "Heard about it from a friend in Havana. Nan took the fever a few months back while the Trident was holed up in the Caymans. Told me the First Mate clasped on to the chance t' take over, since no one in their right minds crosses Nan when she's whole. Got the men thinkin' it weren't right them takin' orders from a woman and all." He turned his grim face to them. "They smothered her. In her own bed, they did, the bloody cowards."
"And now they're keeping company with de Garonne," Jack finished flatly. A cold knife twisted in his guts. Nan may have had a face like a hatchet, skin like old boot leather, and a booming voice that could strike a gunner's mate with the tremors, but she had been a friend. That her crewmen had taken it upon themselves to treat her in such a fashion was something he took rather personally just then. "Well, if these fellows are thinking the Pearl's an easy mark for them, then - "
"The other ship, Cap'n!" Mr. Gordon hailed again from the crow's nest. Jack looked up to see the lad's arm gesturing frantically to starboard.
"Oh, bugger," Joshamee growled. He had reason to. The Mautre de Nire was announcing her Captain's intentions in the form of the large red flag now ascending the mast. The meaning was plain to every man of them: no quarter given. Surrender, or die.
"We don't prey on each other, you sodding French whoreson!" Gibbs bellowed in protest, shaking an upraised fist at the rapidly gaining ship. "Jack, what..?"
Jack scowled, mind racing as he weighed his options. Both ships were smaller, lighter than his own. And from the look of them, de Garonne had them running higher in the water than any self-respecting Captain should. Though as a result, it was entirely possible that the French pirate and his cohort could run him down. And there was the small matter of the winds, which were presently more in their favor than his own. A fore-and-aft rigger could sail much closer to the wind than his own square-rigged Pearl. Right now... his options weren't looking well at all!
"Answer them," he said finally. "Run up our colors. We still outgun him, let Garonne think on that for a while." Turning, he bellowed aft. "Helm, hard a-lee, and don't spare her." His call was echoed all the way down the length of the ship, and Jack started back as well. "Hands to braces, you dogs, we'll crowd on more sail."
He paused amidship, stomping his foot at the main hatchway. "Up," he called to the nightwatch asleep below. "All hands up, or we'll all be sleeping at the bottom tonight! Sam!"
"Here," the gunner returned, pressing his way through the rush of crewmen racing for the masts. Jack hooked his toe into the grate, kicking it open.
"Get us ready, lad."
Sam didn't answer, but practically threw himself down the companionway. Jack could hear the gunner calling for his mates over the scrambling of the newly awakened men just emerging up on deck. He swayed as the Black Pearl heeled sharply over, and pointed up to the spars
"Studding sails," he barked. " Top gallants, sprits - every spare inch of canvas we've got."
"You heard 'im," Marty roared from halfway up the ratlines. The little man brandished his marlingspike over his head, face set in an awful grimace. "Move yer tails, you sorry gobs, or it's your hides I'll be usin' for sailcloth!" Behind the Bo'sun a length of black silk unfurled in the wind, revealing the white skull and crossed swords as the Black Pearl's flag rose high into the gusting air.
Jack ran aft, taking the steps to the quarterdeck two at a time. AnaMaria stepped aside, surrendering the helm to him.
"What's going on," she asked worriedly. "Who are they?"
"We're in trouble," he evenly returned. "An old acquaintance of yours - Henri de Garonne."
AnaMaria blanched, but recovered quickly, eyes flashing and face stony. "Then maybe I'll just finish what I started, and carve his eyes out," she pronounced with a voice like steel drawn from a scabbard.
Jack grinned his approval. It was quite the tale in Tortuga of the day when the drunken Frenchman had encountered a younger AnaMaria. Thinking her to be a helpless lad, de Garonne had cornered her with every intent of imposing himself upon her person. He'd quickly discovered that AnaMaria was neither a lad, nor helpless. The scar that bisected his face from left eye to right ear gave testimony to this.
Jack cocked his head, testing the pull of the wind, and swung the wheel in a desperate attempt to fill his sails. They might end up far off course, but they'd reach Tortuga intact if the winds held.
It wasn't enough. The Mautre de Nire, quartering up from astern, drew steadily nearer. Off their larboard, the Trident did the same, and worse in an effort to get the wind at their stern, and remove themselves from the perceived threat of three ships all flying pirate colors, the slave ship would soon be in danger of colliding with the Pearl!
"Wave them off," Jack shouted. "Wave 'em off, Joshamee! God's Wounds, can't they see no one's chasing them?"
Down on the gun deck, Gibbs released his line and ran forward, waving his arms and bellowing at the merchantman. Others joined him, but the slaver stayed to its course, and Jack found himself faced with two choices: give way and lose speed, or risk fouling his sprit in the other ship's rigging, hopelessly entangling them both.
No choice at all. He threw his weight at the wheel, bringing the Black Pearl hard to starboard. AnaMaria threw in with him, and the Pearl turned, heeling over with her sails fluttering as the wind struck them head on.
"All in the wind!" Mr. Cotton's Parrot shrieked, leaving the mute's shoulder to wing overhead. "All in the wind!"
"I know that, you daft bird!" Jack snapped. "Tearlach?"
"All ready here, Cap'n," the brawny man called. He and the other gunners stood ready at the upper cannons, while Marty and Cotton left the masts to man the small swivel guns at the stern. "And Sam's all primed below."
But they'd run out of time. The Mautre de Nire coursed easily along to one side, while the Trident mirrored de Garonne on the other. Both ships' gunports yawned wide as the two schooners moved in wide, lazy arcs around the Pearl, and the jeering of the men aboard filled the air.
On the deck of the Frenchman's ship, a florid, foppishly attired figure stepped to the railing, a speaking trumpet raised to half-cover the face.
"Strike your colors, Sparrow," de Garonne's amplified voice advised with barely concealed glee. "Surrender now, and I won't have to blast that fine ship to the bottom."
"What are you after, de Garonne?" Jack shouted, and saw his opponent scowl that he felt no need for artificial enhancements to make his voice heard. "You know the Code - no haven of ours'll have you after this!"
De Garonne's sneer was obvious even from t his distance. "After today, Sparrow, I'll have no need of these filthy English outposts ever again. As to what I'm after... well, I had thought of claiming that fine, fast ship of Barbossa's. It would make a delightful flag ship, vous pensez?"
Jack's blood turned to ice in his veins. Convulsively, his hands gripped tight to the wheel.
"But as I've just outpaced you, I think it's proved who's ship is the better, yes?"
Jack bristled inwardly at the slur. Had that twice-bedamned Blackbirder not gotten in the way, they'd not be having this conversation.
The Frenchman made a show of tapping the mouthpiece of his silvery trumpet thoughtfully against his chin. "Instead, I make a bargain with you. An accord, as we say." De Garonne paused for effect, buffing his cuff over a bit of gold embroidery on his sleeve. His ship crossed the Pearl's bow, and turned slowly down her larboard.
"I'm listening," Jack intoned, struggling to keep the edge from his voice. The Frenchman hadn't lost his posturing ways in the years since their last encounter.
De Garonne smiled, which had the unfortunate result of causing the scar across his face to pucker horribly. "I let you live if you give me two things... just two simple things: I want that little compass of yours that I hear so much about. They tell me it shows you the way to Barbossa's hoard, yes?"
As soon as he possibly could, Jack vowed silently, he would find a way, come hell or high water, to slip past the British line, collect every last ha-penny from the Isla de Muerta, and allow himself and his mates a wild time of carousing to spend every last bit of it, thus eradicating all rumors of a secret hoard. Though it was almost a temptation to give the Frenchman the bearings - the thought of Henri de Garonne whiling away a few years under the Aztec curse was a warming one.
But no. Jack reasoned that even he wasn't mad enough to release another Hector Barbossa onto an unsuspecting world.
"And the other?" he pressed finally. De Garonne's face grew alight with savage intent. Raising a hand, he pointed to the tense figure at Jack's side.
"I want that chienne - that little hellcat there," he said smugly. "You think I forget you, mon petit?" De Garonne traced a finger over his scar, and leered. "You owe me for this. Now, I collect."
AnaMaria stepped forward, her hands balled into fists. "Did your catamite finally decide to slit his own throat rather than let you touch him again?" she called derisively. Across the water, the Frenchman's face grew dark with rage.
"Decide, Sparrow. Your compass and that slut - or your lives. I give you..." He paused again, and pulled a fancy little pocket watch from his brocade coat. Jack wondered how much blood had been shed to get that expensive little bit of shine into the Frenchman's hands.
"Five minutes," de Garonne finished brightly. "On the sixth, my ships rake your sides, and send you straight to your Davey Jones. Decide," he repeated, then spun with a flourish and left the rail.
Jack heard a steady stream of muttered curses at his side. AnaMaria turned slowly in place, following the path of de Garonne's ship with murder in her eyes.
"Let me know when you run out," Jack told her. "I've got a few more you can use. Won't even charge you for 'em."
She smiled weakly, beads of perspiration standing out on her face. Wiping her cheek with her sleeve, she tried without success to hide the shaking of her hand. "Maybe Joshamee was right about having a woman on board."
"Now don't go giving up on us yet, darlin'," he admonished. "We've still got a few minutes, after all."
Gibbs bounded up the steps, weathered face like a thundercloud. "Jack, we'll not be handin' her over to those animals!" he exclaimed. AnaMaria blinked in surprise at the vehemence in the Quartermaster's voice.
"Now don't be gettin' soft on me, girl," he chuffed. "A right pain in the arse, you are, but you're our pain in the arse."
"Thanks," she returned dryly. "Heard you say something once about a 'Devil's Dowry'. Any ideas?"
"All out," Gibbs admitted. "An' we sure as shine could use one right now."
"No," Jack shook his head. "What we could really use is a tempest in a bottle."
The moment the words left his mouth, Jack stiffened. AnaMaria gasped, and he raised his eyes to hers, mutual understanding flashing between them.
"You are mad!" she whispered, her expression torn between horror and wonderment. He reached out, one hand gripping her shoulder.
"Sorry, darlin', but there's just nothin' to be done about it." He pitched his voice to carry, and lowered his head, feigning regret. "Nothin' personal, luv. That's just how it is." Then he pulled her closer, aware of the many eyes trained on them from the circling ships.
"Get below and tell her. She won't like it, but make her understand. I'll send some men down when we're ready. Go!" he hissed. "And make it look good, darlin', or we're all finished."
AnaMaria nodded once, then wrenched her shoulder free of his grasp. One arm drew back.
"You backstabbing bastard!"
Jack was sure that the sound of her palm as it impacted off his cheek could be heard halfway to Bristol. He staggered against the helm, and shook his spinning head.
Quick as lightning, AnaMaria's pistols were drawn and swinging to cover himself and Gibbs.
"First one of you tries putting hands on me'll be meeting Old Scratch when he wakes up next!" she shrieked, backing down the steps.
"Now, lassie," Joshamee began, playing along for all he was worth. "Don't make this any harder on yerself." He took an aborted step toward her, and the First Mate sent a single shot buzzing over his head. Turning, she bolted for the aft hatch, and vanished through it.
Gibbs returned to his Captain's side, scowling darkly at the raucous laughter from de Garonne's men. "Think that looked good enough?" he growled under his breath.
Jack rubbed at his stinging cheek. "Too good, I'd say. The girl's not lost her touch." Then he raised his voice again. "Can't be rid of the wench soon enough. Nothin' but trouble, havin' a woman aboard. May as well shorten our sails, lads. We'll not be going anywhere for a while." Gibbs started, but forced himself to speak quietly.
"Hope ye know what yer doin', Jack. That last time almost rolled us." Then the grizzled seaman left him, shaking his fists at the startled crewmen staring up at them. "Are you deaf?" he thundered. "Cap'n says reef in, so get yer scurvy rumps aloft an' do it!"
"Three minutes, Sparrow," de Garonne announced through his trumpet. Jack scanned the deck of the Mautre de Nire, finally spotting the Frenchman amidship. "Not much time left," the scarfaced pirate reminded cheerfully.
Jack pulled the compass from his belt, holding it up by its long black loop. "This, and my First Mate, and my ship goes free, yes?"
'My word on it, Capitaine Sparrow."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "The word of a gentleman who's already broken with the 'Code of the Brethren'?" he asked lightly, but with an edge now. "Seems to me that's not much reason to be trusting you, is it?"
De Garonne's veneer of civility threatened to crack. He crimsoned again. "Two minutes, Sparrow, and from where my good friends and I are standing, there doesn't seem to be much choice for you, no?"
Ah... no," Jack agreed, bending his lips into an ingratiating little smile. "No, I suppose there isn't, at that." Lifting the battered lacquered box to eye level, he sighed gustily. "Well, old friend... guess this is where you and I part company at last. Mr. Cotton." He glanced over his shoulder, and motioned with his head for the tall man to relieve him at the helm. The mute left his gun, lined face hard, and with a questioning look in his eyes.
"Avast, ye scurvy swab," his parrot said quietly.
"Be ready," he told them both. "We only get one chance at this."
Cotton brightened then, and winked once, taking the wheel in his gnarled hands.
Jack moved down the steps, glancing covertly to the masts, where his men were hurriedly furling and shortening the Pearl's clothes. He saw with relief that the studding sails were already in. If what he hoped - nay, prayed - would happen went as expected, they'd do his ship more harm than good. He called for the Bo'sun, staring mournfully down at the compass in his cupped hands as if this were the foremost thing on his mind. Marty approached warily, not having been privy to the rapid exchange between Jack and the others.
Jack didn't have time to fill him in. "AnaMaria will tell it. Have everyone below ready to get up and on those braces." Then, much louder, "Take a couple of men down and bring that harpy up here. Play it for all you can, mate, they're watching us." He added the last in a murmur. Marty nodded smartly, and strutted across the gun deck as though his order was the finest thing he'd ever heard.
The little man tapped Kursar and Tearlach, two of the brawnier mates, and led them below as the last of the sails were reefed in, fluttering loosely in the headwind. The men aloft left the footropes and started down.
"You're time is up, Sparrow," de Garonne's voice called out once more. "What is it to be?"
Jack went to the railing, compass held aloft. "Here's the first part of it now. The second..."
A shriek of outrage came from the open main hatchway, followed by the unmistakable sound of shattering glass. Jack winced dramatically.
"The second is being wrapped up for you even as we speak."
There was a mighty sound of struggling, and Kursar backed his way up, striving to hang onto a pair of flailing legs. A moment later, the rest of Jack's writhing First Mate came into view, carried by Tearlach. Her arms bound and a dirty rag stuffed into her mouth, AnaMaria's eyes blazed with single minded fury. He wondered whose idea it had been for the gag. Hers, no doubt. Who else would dare?
Marty appeared next, bawling at the woman to keep still.
Jack shifted his eyes to Gibbs, who stood looking expectantly at him. He raised his brows at the Quartermaster, and the man moved quickly through the crew. Everyone he passed took firm hold of the bracing lines, bodies tensed in readiness.
Almost unnoticed in all of this, Sam Bottoms slipped up through the aft hatch, turning to offer his big hand to Miranda, who haltingly stepped up behind him. The gunner remained protectively close to the noblewoman, shielding her behind his tall body, but his worried gaze was fixed on AnaMaria's continued struggles.
Pale as he'd ever seen her, Miranda stared at Jack, her head moving slowly back and forth in a negative shake. Her great eyes pleaded with him.
He was only able to spare her an apologetic glance before de Garonne commanded his attention, and the Mautre de Nire at last pulled slowly to a halt alongside the Pearl.
"I must admit to disappointment," the Frenchman said thoughtfully, looking from AnaMaria's panting form to Jack. "One would have thought the man to finally best Barbossa would have a bit more of... how you say the fight in him?"
Another forced dissembling smile. "Ah, but what's the profit in fighting a losing battle, eh?" Jack wrapped the leather thong tightly around his compass, and in a grand show of nonchalance, tossed the little box to Marty. The Bo'sun caught it deftly, then stood with crossed arms, glaring at the now quiescent First Mate.
"After all," Jack went on, strolling casually up to the quarterdeck, hands waving intricately about. "I didn't best Barbossa by playing the fool, savvy? A man's got to know when to choose his battles." He rested one hand on the wheel, and Cotton stepped back. Jack met the Frenchman's suspicious eyes squarely.
"Your friendly lesson taught me that. Would be a shame to waste it by doing something stupid, now, wouldn't it?"
De Garonne was silent for a time, mulling over his words, while the Trident continued her lazy circle around both ships.
Let it be soon, Jack thought. While we're clear on our starboard. Let it be soon...
"You learn well, petit Oiseau. Indeed, you learn well." De Garonne's scarred face split in a wide, satisfied smile. "Now, we run out our gangplank, you hand over our prizes, and we go our separate ways, yes?"
"Oh, yes." Jack smiled back, then addressed his crew. "You heard the good Capitaine, men." Affecting an air of regret, he turned to AnaMaria while de Garonne's men hauled out the long boarding planks. "Sorry it had to end like this, luv," he told her with another loud sigh. "I'm sure I'll find meself missing your sweet presence in our lives... though not your shrill screechin'."
He felt he at least owed her that for the steady throb on his cheek. Rendered mute by the gag, she nevertheless fixed him with such a glare that he was glad for the knowledge that this was only an act.
The Trident passed behind their stern. It had to be now.
His eyes swept the deck, noting the readiness of the men at the lines. Seeing at the open hatchway shadowy glimpses of those below preparing to leap topside. Unable to refrain from lifting his brows at the sight of Joshamee Gibbs furtively raising his little flask to his lips for a last quick pull.
And finally...
"Alright, mates," he boomed jovially. "Make our guests welcome." Jack dropped his eyes to look at last into Miranda's resigned ones. All trace of buffoonery gone, he nodded slowly to the frightened noblewoman.
"You know what to do."
o-o-o-o-o-
A/N: Thanks very much for all your reviews... I can't tell you how much they help me. And a very special thanks to Scarlett Burns and GeekMama for making this chapter a bit more fitting for human consumtion. Withough them, this would look a heck of a lot scarier.
Please feed the starving writer by making a donation in the R&R box down at your left. No, your OTHER left! Yeah, I'm a wee bit squirrely tonight.
