a/n: Well, I know I've been a very bad writer, by leaving this story hanging for so long. I had finished the story, but just wasn't happy with the ending and to make a long long story a bit shorter, I had to leave it alone for a while so I could go back and rework the ending till it worked better. So, I'm back on track and hopefully I won't have to shelf this one again. So, again, sorry for the extremely long wait, I hope you guys are still out there! And of course, I own nothing from PotC.
Chapter Thirty-Six: Cable Tier
Like an obedient puppy, Lieutenant Billings followed Jack Sparrow belowdecks. He could not believe that he was receiving disciplinary action on a ship full of criminals and miscreants. From the looks of most of Callaghan's crew, the good eggs were the ones that been to prison only once. Surrounded by paid killers and the former King's man was the one who was awaiting punishment. His Navy record would show eight years of exemplary service and now he was being berated by a pirate! Hauling down cables, no lieutenant did such menial tasks.
"Captain," Billings finally spoke up, not understanding why Sparrow was insistent on leading him to the orlop. "I know how to find the cable tier."
"So do I, Mr. Billings." The pirate descended another set of stairs to the gun deck and headed towards the foc'scle. The orlop, however, was located down yet another set of stairs. Billings sighed condescendingly. Even a pirate should know that. "Perhaps, Mr. Billings," Sparrow began, his voice a sing song whisper. "You should entertain the possibility that we are not, in fact, going to the orlop. That maybe there is nothing wrong with the cables."
"But – "
Sparrow stopped suddenly, wheeling around to face the lieutenant and firmly placing one outstretched finger in front of Billings' lips. "Not bein' a doctor I can't be absolutely certain, but I'm told tha' there exists, between your ears, a mass of tissue that should be consulted before you speak. So, if you would kindly stop sniveling and start using aforementioned mass." Billings kept quiet, and Jack turned and continued through the gun deck.
Not knowing exactly what Sparrow thought he should be pondering, Billings was content to marvel at the feline grace and agility with which the lunatic pirate moved. He was wearing knee high, leather boots, just like Billings, but for some reason each of the pirate's steps was smooth and silent. He was hardly watching where he was going. He just moved quickly and quietly through the gun deck as though he knew every inch of this ship as well as he knew the back of his own hand.
"Capt'n Tarret's sister is missing," the pirate finally spoke.
Instead of asking how a woman could possibly go missing on a ship, Billings decided to simply continue following Sparrow through the dark ship. They must be looking for Anamaria, but why the great need for secrecy? Last he'd heard, the woman had been barricaded in her cabin. Billings had no idea what would cause her to leave, but Sir Prescott's sister was never one to be called predictable. "If I may, Captain," Billings whispered. "Why would the woman wish to hide herself?"
Sparrow stopped his progression. He set his black gaze on the younger man. "She wouldn't."
The pirate had spoken in barely a whisper, but Billings heard his answer plain as day. His eyes widened. "You think something's happened?" he breathed almost afraid to say the words. "The Irishman?" he asked.
Sparrow shrugged. "Someone," he said, apparently not caring to take Billings any further into his confidence.
"If you suspect the mercenaries," Billings went on, though the pirate hadn't actually said as much. "Then, why leave their leader in charge of the quarterdeck?"
Billings thought he heard the pirate sigh. "I don't particularly trust one of those Paddies down here followin' behind me in the dark."
"But you trust me?"
"I don't not trust you."
Not elaborating, Sparrow left Billings wondering if he should be proud or insulted. At least he now understood the need for quiet secrecy. Sparrow expected to sneak up on someone and hopefully catch them unawares. Bringing his hand to the hilt of his sword, Billings prepared himself for the same.
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Anamaria put her hands to her hips and raised her chin. "You cannot threaten me, and you do not scare me, Mr. Callaghan." She paused, fighting back the scream that was still trying to force it's way out into the world. "You said there are worse things than death, and you're right. It's worse to watch filth like you kill my family." Channeling all of her hate and hurt into one action, the lady spat in the mercenary's face. Stepping away from the bars, Ana held her arms out from her sides. "Do your worst you son of a whore," she snarled. "You cannot hurt me anymore."
The lady did not really know if her words were true. She suspected that the Irishman could think of hundreds of horrible ways to treat a person. He was probably perfectly capable of hurting her. But, of one thing, Anamaria was sure. She did not care.
"Where is Sparrow taking us?" Black Charlie broke in before Callaghan could respond to the lady's dare.
"Tortuga," the Irishman's brogue answered, but his gray eyes remained fixed on Ana.
Boothe shrugged. "Good as any place, I s'pose," he said. He followed the Irishman's gaze to the lady and, as usual, totally misinterpreted the situation. "Well," he said. "Finish with her as quickly as ye can. I'm off to take care o' her crippled brother." Black Charlie laughed quietly. "My men will join yours on deck," he went on. "I imagine they'll take care o' Sparrow without too much trouble."
Ana's hands fell from where she held them out at her sides. Her shoulders slumped and she only barely contained the long, hopeless sigh that desperately wanted to rush from her lungs. She watched silently as the mercenary began strapping on his various pieces of weaponry. Two long slender daggers, first, one for each hip, then the bizarre curved sword that he called a "falchion." She allowed herself a quick smile as he looped the strap of throwing knives over his shoulder and across his chest, one was still missing. The lady had regretted stabbing Callaghan when she thought that he was on their side, but now seeing the bandage soaked red on his shoulder gave her grim satisfaction. Lastly, he tucked a pistol into the sword belt at his waist. Quickly doing the addition, Ana figured the Irishman could kill over fifteen men if he only used each weapon once. She suspected his own addition would set the number much higher.
Shaking her head pitifully, Ana realized that the mercenary did not have to kill fifteen men. He only had to kill three. Jack, Prescott and the unfortunate Lieutenant Billings were all that stood between Boothe and Callaghan taking control of the ship. She hoped he would kill her too, but she assumed Boothe would rather keep her alive. Shuddering at the thought, Ana tried one last time to reason with the paid killer. "So, where does an Irishman find a sword like that?" she asked, knowing full well that Callaghan would see through her flimsy attempt at nonchalance. Only moments ago she'd been physically shaking with rage and now she was making idle chit chat? Ana hardly believed it herself.
Slowly, the Irishman's attention shifted from the weapons to the woman. She was stalling. Ana knew it and so did he. She was hoping that the time spent with Black Charlie Boothe would shake the Navy prize crew's confidence. She was hoping that the Navy sailors would see what a thick, bumbling oaf Boothe truly was. Callaghan was the trump card. Next to him, Boothe looked like a caricature of a cunning pirate. The less time the former Navymen spent with Callaghan the better.
"Africa," he answered finally.
"Murdered the Sultan, wooed his beautiful daughter, and escaped with the spoils?"
The mercenary chuckled. "Something like that."
"How many do you suppose you'll have to kill?" Ana asked cryptically.
The Irishman stopped adjusting his weapons. His gray eyes rose to regard the lady. "To satisfy my bloodlust and melt my icy heart?" he said, somehow managing to catch her meaning exactly. She nodded, and he was silent for long moments. "I don't know," he said finally, and Anamaria's heart sank.
He didn't crack a joke. He didn't insult her or even threaten her. Those were the tactics he'd used before and the ones Ana knew how to combat. Instead, the Irishman had simply and honestly answered her question. And, to Ana's great disappointment, Callaghan honestly did not know when the killing would stop. He did lust after blood, and, apparently, there was no end in sight.
"That's it then," Ana said, more to herself than to the Irishman. She shook her head. "This isn't ending right."
"Never does," Callaghan agreed.
Ana sighed, deflated. The gnawing hopelessness taking firmly hold of her and threatening never to set her free. "What are you even doing here?" she said, quietly, not expecting any answer.
"I told you," the mercenary said, his tone hardening slightly. "I owed your brother a favor and I don't much care for owing anyone anything."
The lady regarded Callaghan carefully. He wasn't watching her any longer. Perched on the edge of the table, for there were no chairs to accompany the only piece of furniture in the brig, he was tightening the straps on the dagger sheath on his thigh. The single lantern cast shadows across his face, calling attention to the deep, ugly scar on his face. The old wound started just below his eye, running the length of his angular face. It stopped just below his mouth, turning the right side of his visage into a sort of perpetual frown. The scar was glaring and cruel, not unlike the man who's face it marred. Ana wondered if he'd sustained the injury while cheating the African King out of his fortune. She wondered in what capacity her brother had met the paid fighter. "What did he do for you?" Ana asked, suddenly very curious about Prescott's past, even as his future was so uncertain.
"Doesn't matter," the Irishman said, quickly, seemingly engrossed in what he was doing.
However, the buckles on the dagger's sheath had been fastened and refastened several times now. Ana knew exactly what the mercenary was really intent on doing. He was avoiding this one particular question. Surprisingly, he had answered all the prior inquiries. He'd been brutally honest up until now. "Suddenly being quite cagey aren't we?" Ana managed a laugh. "Worst case scenario, Boothe wins this awful game he's playing and I spend the rest of my days as his cabin wench. Best case, you discover one long lost gentlemanly bone in your body and kill me before that can happen," she paused. "Would it really be so terrible to share your prized little secret?"
Callaghan finally stopped fiddling with the dagger and met the lady's gaze. His gray eyes were almost smiling. Approaching Ana's cell, he placed his hands around the bars and Ana once again noticed the wedding cross tattooed on the underside of his forearm. "He saved my life."
"And who's going t' save you now?" Jack Sparrow's voice asked from the darkness behind the mercenary.
Callaghan pursed his lips, his eyes never leaving Anamaria's. "You are a pirate, Miss Tarret," he said, indicating that he thought Ana had deliberately lured him into the vulnerable position he was now in, with his back to the door and the pirates that had just entered. Only too happy to take the credit for the Irishman's downfall, Ana simply crossed her arms and quirked an eyebrow. "Captain Sparrow," Callaghan began, his voice louder. He still made no move to turn and face his adversary, obviously thinking that Sparrow would sooner kill him than take any chances. "Aren't you supposed to be on deck supervising my traitorous crew?"
Staring over the mercenary's shoulder, Ana could see Jack holding a pistol, primed and aimed directly at Callaghan. Behind Jack, the unfortunate Mr. Billings stood with cutlass drawn. Two against one. Callaghan was good, but a pistol shot to the heart was better. "If there's one thing I've learned," Jack said, his voice deadly serious. "The best way to assure a crews' loyalty is t' visibly eject their current leader from the ship. I figure after watching your corpse permanently disappear into Davey Jones' Locker, your men will be willing t' accept new management."
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Black Charlie Boothe was almost shivering in anticipation as he approached the Captain's Quarters on His Majesty's former Ship, Loyalty. On the other side of those timber walls waited a man who was in desperate need of killing, a half finished job that Boothe was going to be only too happy to complete.
Captain Sir Prescott Tarret thought he had been so smart. He believed that sending Boothe to that wretched floating prison would mean and end to the vicious pirate. But, the foolish Navy man had been wrong. He had underestimated Boothe. The need to visit revenge on Tarret had been the fire that fueled Boothe's black heart, his reason for living and surviving that prison. The look on Tarret's face when he first discovered Boothe on the cliffs outside of Port Royal had almost been worth those long years of incarceration. Almost. What had been worth those hard years was binding Tarret in the hold and beating him senseless. Then, Boothe would rouse the former Navy Captain only to beat him again. What had been worth those years of waiting was finally hearing Tarret's refined, aristocratic voice ripped from his throat by the sheer brutality of the beatings.
Boothe had difficulty suppressing a gleeful laugh as he put both hands to the door and slowly, quietly stole into Tarret's cabin. All the lights had been extinguished, no doubt so the poor, pitiful Captain could rest and lick his wounds. Sleeping peacefully in his hammock, poor pathetic Prescott Tarret had no idea what was creeping up behind him. Boothe smiled into the darkness. He could smell victory. He could taste vengeance.
Quietly as he could manage, Black Charlie unsheathed his cutlass. He desperately wanted to toy with the former Navy Captain. How delicious it would be to hear those tortured screams again, to hear Tarret beg for mercy and receive none. Boothe shook his head, sadly. The wily Tarret had wriggled his way out of the noose too many times already, and Boothe would have to content himself with watching his enemy drown in a pool of his own blood.
Drawing his cutlass, Black Charlie Boothe swung the blade with all his might and plunged the blade through the canvas hammock and … thin air.
Tarret wasn't there.
Boothe took a step back from the dead hammock and felt, at the back of his neck, the cool tip of a steel blade.
"I can only imagine what horrible thoughts must be running through your insignificant brain," Tarret's voice was cold as his sword. "Let me address the first and, hopefully, obvious question. How did I know you were on my ship?" The blade slid around the side of Charlie's neck as Tarret walked around to face him. Pain followed the tip of the sword, and Boothe knew Tarret had drawn blood. Whether this was intentional or not, Booth was not certain. "I shall answer that question with a question … Did you really think I was so stupid that you could outsmart me?"
Even in the dark cabin, Boothe could see Tarret's smile. Slowly and malevolently the grin overtook the Navy man's face, transforming a handsome visage into a mask of pure, deadly evil. Boothe let his eyes travel to the place where Tarret's right arm used to be. He recognized the expression on Tarret's face, for it had been on his own only moments earlier. Tarret had won. He had achieved victory and in that victory had found his own vengeance.
Tarret cocked his head to one side and peered almost thoughtfully at his adversary. "My only quandary at this point is," Tarret began, his voice quiet and even, as though Black Charlie might really be interested in what he was saying. "If I should simply end your life as quickly and gracelessly as I can, or if I should draw out the event and force you to suffer for days to suffer, oh you know, how I suffered." The former Navy man's eyes narrowed, and Boothe saw no trace of duty or honor in those cold blue orbs. The man in front of him was a pirate, black hearted and blood thirsty as Boothe had thought himself to be. Tarret was going to kill Boothe, certain sure.
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The strike of the lash itself did not actually draw the pain. It was after the cat had been dragged across his flesh that the agony set in. The musty air of Black Charlie's hold mingling with the fresh cuts set his back ablaze with a pain wholly unlike anything he'd ever felt before. He struggled against the ropes binding his wrists, trying hopelessly to escape this torment. He knees shook and threatened to cease supporting his ragged body. The fibers from the rope stuck in the wounds only to be wretched out with the next whip of the lash. The tears he refused to cry scorched his eyes. The blood running from his mouth where he bit down on his tongue seared his cheeks and throat, but he had managed to stay silent. The occasional grunt, and groan, were the only satisfaction he intended to give the sadistic bastard who stood calmly ordering another dozen. Each time the rope sliced into his back, he swore would be the last time he could manage to keep his voice in check, but somehow, his resolve held fast.
Held, that is, until Black Charlie decided to dip the cat in seawater. This time, as the soaking rope bit into swollen, bleeding flesh, his voice was ripped from somewhere deep inside of himself. Saltwater seeped into every cut and scrap, igniting a pain that welled up from the very core of his being. Again and again the cat clawed at already torn skin. He cried out until his throat was parched and raw. When he was finally freed from the bindings holding his wrists, he fell, trembling to the floor. His whole body shook, violently as his blood poured out from three dozen lacerations. Rough hands and boots forced him to lie on his brutalized back. Black Charlie loomed overhead, "Looks like yer grand plan got a bit off track, don't it?" he snarled
"On your knees," Prescott ordered, stalling for time, memory clouding his vision so that he was seeing only red rage. His anger, righteous anger, burned inside of his chest. Consuming every thought and immolating every other emotion in his heart. Boothe had made the former Navy Captain feel a sort of pain and humiliation wholly unlike anything he had ever felt in his life. Black Charlie Boothe had made Prescott afraid. Boothe had made him not fear the death that would eventually come. Instead, he had feared the days leading up to his own demise. He had actually wished that his abused body would give up and give in so that his torment would cease. Prescott had, in fact, been so afraid that he had cut off his own arm to escape. Facing life as a cripple was preferable to facing anymore time as a victim of Boothe's torture.
Still, at this juncture, with his enemy prone and helpless at his feet, Prescott found himself oddly uncertain. Would he really kill Boothe? He'd done it before, but that had been in battle, in the name of kill or be killed. The action of a man saving his own skin to live to fight another day could hardly be compared to what Prescott now faced. This was crossing a line that once crossed he would never be able to uncross. Even if he never again committed such a crime, he would be a man changed. A man changed into a murderer. A man not unlike Black Charlie Boothe.
Prescott barely had the strength to breathe, much less speak, but, with his last ounces of defiance, he refused to give in. He called Boothe a scoundrel and a miserable failure. He used every curse he'd ever learned, and years at sea had taught him many. He damned the evil pirate to the darkest corners of hell. Boothe kicked him hard, square in the chest. Prescott's body convulsed, vainly he attempted to protect himself from further onslaught. Sneering, Boothe placed one foot on his chest, grinding Prescott's open wounds down onto the floorboards.
Were he to trade places with Boothe, there would be no pause, of that Prescott was sure. Boothe had come into his cabin, sneaking in the dark, to finish what he'd started. No doubt, he'd been disappointed that he couldn't return to his torture chamber and finish Prescott off in the most cruel and barbaric fashion he could devise. Boothe had been more than willing to take Prescott unaware, stab him literally in the back if need be. He cared not for honor or fairness.
His enemy had laid down his sword and fallen to his knees in front of Prescott. Boothe was watching, awaiting his death like a fattened hen who knew she was destined to be Christmas dinner. Righteous vengeance or not, this was murder. Not a battle. Not self-defense. Murder. Regarding Boothe, kneeling submissively at his feet, Prescott wondered if he could live with that stain upon his soul. After all, he'd already won. He had defeated his enemy. Charles Boothe was doubtless only moments away from begging Prescott to be merciful and spare his good for nothing, bottom feeding carcass. He deserved nothing better than a bloody death aboard a pirate ship, but how would Prescott's soul be judged if he passed judgment on this wretched excuse for a man?
All of a sudden, Prescott laughed, struck by the absurdity of a pirate worrying about his eternal soul.
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Every man above decks ceased their action upon seeing the Irish mercenary escorted up the stairs at gunpoint by Jack, Mr. Billings and Anamaria. She almost chuckled at the ridiculous picture they must have made. A pirate Captain who was still wearing his gentleman's disguise, a former Navy Lieutenant who was halfway in between his old life and the new, and of course the woman who was wearing a man's breeches. She could hardly guess which one of the three the crew would think was most preposterous.
"All hands," Jack bellowed, his voice easily slicing through the quiet sounds of a Caribbean breeze. He really hadn't needed to shout, since his appearance on deck had already drawn everyone's attention. The familiar command had the Navy prize crew standing at attention below the quarterdeck, and, curiosity piqued, the mercenary crew fell into place alongside. "As ye can see gentlemen," Jack began, his pirate accent thickening somewhat. "Mr. Callaghan has decided t' relegate control of this ship, your wonderful persons included, t' me an me mates." He gestured to Billings and Ana, who was trying to look as though she'd done something like this before. "So, if ye'd be so kind as t' return t' yer duties and not interfere as I heave aforementioned mercenary over the side. He's an appointment with Davy Jones an' I'd hate for 'im t' miss it."
Callaghan glared at Jack, but, to Ana's surprise, remained quiet. Perhaps he realized that challenging a volatile and seemingly deranged pirate, while he was holding a pistol, was an idea that was deranged in and of itself. Perhaps he was admitting defeat. More likely, he was buying himself some time and exchanging covert glances with his men, conveying some secret plan to overtake Jack. Ana bit her lip. She didn't really like being a pirate. Scanning the deck, the lady stared into each of the sailor's faces. They didn't seem to care one way or the other if the Irishman was killed by the pirate. Either way, they were merely pawns in someone else's power play. The mercenaries also appeared to have only a passing interest in the proceedings up on the quarterdeck, but their nonchalance was feigned. Jack wouldn't be able to simply kill Callaghan and assume command. Some bargain would have to be struck with the Irish crew before they would lift a finger for or against the pirate. It was that instant that Ana noticed what was missing . . . Boothe.
"Jack," she whispered, as she followed the pirate Captain to the side of the deck. "Where's Boothe?"
The pirate's black eyes flashed as he regarded Ana. Callaghan smiled. "She's a great deal smarter than you are Sparrow," he said.
Jack jabbed the barrel of the pistol up under the mercenary's chin. "We can find 'im without you," he snarled.
At the mention of Black Charlie Boothe's name, the Navy prize crew perked up. They had made a deal with Boothe, and he was the leader to whom they were loyal. Several of the Navymen exchanged glances and drew their cutlasses. The eldest among them, Lindsay who'd taken charge below, began to ascend the quarterdeck stairs. Boothe had promised to help him and the other British sailors. Belowdecks Callaghan had been on Boothe's side, and that made Jack their enemy. Great.
Ana sought Jack's black eyes. He was not showing any indication of fear, but how could he not be frightened. Again, he was out manned and outgunned.
"Unhand him, pirate," Lindsay said, his gruff voice giving courage to the other Navy sailors. "Unhand him or it's you we're sending to the Devil."
Ana closed her eyes. She'd been momentarily hopeful, but her situation was every bit as dire as when she was locked up in the brig.
"Belay that sailor!" Prescott's commanding voice rang out from somewhere behind Lindsay. Ana's eyes shot open. Her big brother, clad in the uniform of a Navy Admiral, strode up the stairs to the quarterdeck. No weapon drawn, he simply walked by the half dozen members of the prize crew who were spread out on the quarterdeck. Coming to stand between Lindsay and Jack, Prescott glared down at the Navy sailor. "What in the name of heaven to you think you're doing, threatening one of my officers on my own quarterdeck? Good God man, do you wish to kiss the gunner's daughter?"
Lindsay took a step back, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. Quite obviously, he knew who he was facing.
Prescott did not wait for a response. "Lower your weapon," he said, his voice quiet and deadly. "Or by God I'll have you flogged."
The Navy man instantly sheathed his sword. Ana had never witnessed her brother dole out punishment before, but she had no doubt that Lindsay would not be the first man Prescott had ordered beaten. Prescott had always said how distastefully cruel a flogging could be, but sometimes it could not be avoided. Evidently, Lindsay was just as sure as Ana that Prescott's words were no hollow threat. The other Navy men also lowered their weapons taking their cues from Lindsay. Even the mercenary crew seemed somewhat unsure of how to respond to Prescott's appearance on deck, especially since he seemed unaffected by the injuries everyone aboard could plainly see.
Prescott ceased glaring at Lindsay and regarded the rest of the prize crew. "I am not in a habit of explaining my actions to my crew, but apparently you are in danger of obtusely blundering about without one." Ana smiled, knowing that her brother was purposely using a superior tone of voice and lots of big words to disarm the men listening to him. "My name is Admiral Sir Prescott Tarret," he announced, pausing as recognition dawned on the faces of the Navy men, for their were very few in the King's Service who didn't know of Sir Prescott's exploits. Ana did not know what game her brother was playing, but he was counting on that recognition for otherwise he never referred to himself as Sir Prescott. "I don't know what you men think you are doing here, aboard Loyalty, but we are endeavoring to capture one Charles Boothe and turn him over to Captain's Norrington and Williams. A task which will be more time consuming and difficult if I have to stop you from attacking my own officers."
"But, Sir," Lindsay said, finally recovering himself enough to speak. "You're dead."
Prescott sighed a superior and aristocratic sigh. "Am I indeed."
"I 'eard ye turned pirate," a second Navy man spoke up.
Managing a very convincing incredulous look, Prescott glared daggers at the man. Reaching inside his coat, he produced papers. Holding them high, he said, "Not a pirate, sailor. Privateer in the service of Britain, commissioned by His Majesty the King of England. Letters of Marque, gentlemen. Surely you've heard of them?"
"Privateer?" Lindsay breathed the word as though it were some mixture of the sacred and the obscene.
"Privateer," Prescott repeated the word in the definitive, this-subject-is-now-closed tone that he so often had used with his baby sister. Shaking his head, he put the Letters of Marque back in his jacket pocket. "Honestly, Man, what did you think? That after twenty years of faithful service to King and Country I would just all of a sudden turn pirate?" The sailor who'd voiced just that sentiment bowed his head sheepishly. The other members of the prize crew began to shake their heads and chuckle. The idea did sound preposterous, despite the fact that it was exactly what had happened. Ana smiled too, marveling at her brother. Prescott scowled quietly and pursed his lips, as though he was infinitely annoyed with his crew. "Mr …?"
"Lindsay, Sir," the older sailor answered, quickly straightening his body and knuckling his forehead in an automatic salute. Sir Prescott Tarret had won this round.
"Yes, well, Mr. Lindsay, having been in command for some time now, I may have forgotten a thing or two, but I believe a ship of war will not sail herself, will she?"
Lindsay smiled. "No, Sir, she won't. Come on you lads," he said as he turned to his comrades, beginning to issue the orders needed to keep Loyalty sailing. Even Callaghan's mercenaries seemed to be taken in by Prescott's act, as they were hurrying about the maindeck, lending the British sailors a hand wherever they could.
"Mr. Billings," Prescott acknowledged the former Lieutenant. "Do keep an eye on our newest allies, will you?"
"Aye, aye, Sir."
For the first time since Prescott appeared on deck, Jack spoke up. "Privateers, now are we?" he said, not lowering the pistol from it's perch beneath Callaghan's chin. "Do you keep track of all these stories ye tell or will they all start to run together after a while?"
"You tell me, Chief Sparrow," Prescott answered wryly referring to one of the many tales Jack told about his being marooned.
"Privateers," Callaghan's sneered. "How long do you think this latest scheme will hold up?" he asked, his thick brogue somewhat stifled as Jack shoved the gun barrel up into his throat.
Prescott quirked an eyebrow. "How long do you think it takes a man to drown in the Caribbean Sea, Mr. Callaghan?" he said, totally ignoring the mercenary's comment. "It's a good deal longer than in the Atlantic. At least there the water's cold. A man will likely freeze before he drowns." Prescott drew nearer to the Irishman, lowering his voice to a menacing whisper. "It's different here where it's warm. A man can struggle for hours or days in a vain attempt to keep his head above the water. He fails though. Exhaustion and disorientation set in, and he tries to swim, but he doesn't know what direction to go. His arms and legs get tired and heavy and eventually he simply sinks down into the water, too drained to live."
Callaghan straightened.
"I've half a mind to let Captain Sparrow send you over the side and seal your fate, but … your men will be more agreeable with you still among the living."
Jack produced a gruff, disappointed scowl.
"You cannot beat me, Callaghan," Prescott went on. "You may join me or join Davy Jones."
TBC (Soon, I promise)