Disclaimer: It is unnecessary to say that Pirates of the Caribbean and any characters you may recognize belong to Disney. The plot of the story is based heavily on a novel by Christine Elliott.
Author's note: I tried to avoid using the canon characters too much, because I didn't want to be accused of character murder. I wasn't certain as to the exact year that PotC took place, but here I project it to be in the 1670s. This story begins two years after the end of the movie: Will and Elizabeth are married, Jack Sparrow is happily sailing the Caribbean, and Commodore Norrington has gotten over his broken heart.
Relations to canon: in case you were wondering, Gareth and Will are related, as will later be revealed. Also, Avery's sister Marian is Elizabeth Swann Turner's best friend and Commodore Norrington's wife. And obviously, without the Black Pearl and its crew, Gareth and Avery wouldn't have met. Jack Sparrow himself will appear later on in the story, as well.
Historical note: I recognize the many inaccuracies. Please forgive them, they were necessary for the sake of the plotline.
Chance the Winds of Fortune
Chapter 1
March 1679
"Fire!"
Captain Gareth Slade's battle cry pierced the heavy layer of acrid smoke enveloping the Lady of the Wind's sand-strewn decks. With a dogged efficiency belied by their sweaty, grease-stained appearance, the gunners ignited the two four-pound cannons on the larboard side, hurling a second deadly salvo across an expanse of gray Atlantic. The thunderous roar of guns gave way to echoes of heavy oak splintering as the foremast of the Spanish warship Delfin crashed to her deck. A wild, undisciplined cheer rang through the privateers, and the Lady of the Winds, cleanly tacking to starboard, swept out of range of the Spanish guns.
Captain Slade, standing tall and erect on the quarterdeck, lifted a slimly muscled arm, silencing his men. "She's not ours yet, boys," he yelled. "Shall we make another try?"
Again the crew voiced their enthusiasm for harassing the Spanish warship.
"Well then, men, prepare for another run by!"
The strong westerly wind sang in her canvas as the sloop veered to larboard, smoothly maneuvering into the turn that would take her back toward the huge enemy vessel still riding the broad swells.
"She'll be expecting us this time, Captain," Oliver Chappel prophesied, rubbing the only hair on his head, a shaggy, grizzled beard, as he moved beside the younger man.
"That she will, Oliver," Gareth Slade replied, giving his first mate a friendly slap on the back. He then wiped his once-white linen sleeve across his damp visage. He had a strong, handsome face, with slashing-straight brows of the same raven hue as his hair, a narrow, finely chiseled nose, and a wide sensual mouth that seemed to hold its present serious bent with some difficulty.
Gareth took a deep breath of the salt air. Relieved that most of the noxious fumes of saltpeter and brimstone had dissipated, he relaxed and his mouth extended in a broad grin.
"We have the advantage of the wind, though, and she's still not under full sail."
There was a hint of contempt in his voice. Not that he wasn't pleased with the lack of quickness in the response of the Spanish. From the moment the Lady of the Winds and the Delfin had emerged, almost simultaneously, from the heavy blanket of fog off Long Island Sound, each noticing the other with shock, he had counted on complacency in the Spanish. Of course, the Delfin, seemingly invincible, would never have expected an attack by an arrogant, outgunned sloop. But that was just what she had gotten.
Hardly allowing his surprise time to register, Gareth had ordered all practical sails hoisted and extra shot and bags of powder positioned by the cannon. It wasn't often he could pit the Lady of the Winds, and himself, against anything other than pigeon-plump merchantmen bound for Quebec, so he silently thanked whatever fates had drawn this prize across his bow. Somewhere beyond the murky veil of fog, the rest of the Spanish convoy floundered blindly, just as the Lady of the Winds had done for the past day and night, till that moment, not thirty minutes past, when the strong westerly wind had rolled back the blinding mist just enough to reveal some of its secrets.
"Think we can ram another volley into that Spanish bitch?" Oliver asked, motioning toward the square rigger.
"We're sure as hell going to try!" Gareth answered, not surprised by Oliver's enthusiasm. Gareth had grown up disliking the Spanish, due to the hostility they had frequently shown the colonies, and he had done his best to harass Spanish shipping, partly out of a sense of patriotism, partly because doing so made him rich, and just a little – well, maybe more than a little – because he enjoyed it.
"Check all for readiness. We are going to have to make this count," Gareth commanded, casting a calculating glance at the Spanish vessel before following the wiry first mate to the main deck."
"God's blood, Cap'n," Oliver exclaimed as the younger man descended behind him, "I never thought we'd be goin' up against a damn man-of-war. Excitin', ain't it?"
Gareth grinned. "Aye, it's exciting, but let's just hope and pray that she doesn't blow us out of the sea."
Oliver gave him a look, clearly showing how unlikely he thought that possibility. Then he strode over to where those of the crew not busy with other chores stood checking their muskets.
His mate's eagerness notwithstanding, Gareth was, indeed, cognizant of the risks involved. The first run at the unprepared ship had been daring; he hoped this second and final sweep was not foolhardy. If he were a cautious man, he would steer clear of the Delfin and hightail it for New York harbor. After all, the Lady of the Wind's hold was full to bursting with Spanish cargo they'd seized. But no one had ever accused him of prudence – or of timidity.
The thunderous guns of the Delfin split the silence of the early spring afternoon, the Lady of the Winds racing toward her. Firepower, ominous and deadly, the Spanish craft had; maneuverability was what she lacked.
"Fire!" Gareth's command rang out. The sudden lurch caused by recoil was felt by all aboard as the Lady of the Winds unloaded a sally prior to dancing away on the waves.
Before the smoke had cleared enough to ascertain the damage inflicted on the Delfin, the look out's excited yell made Gareth look to the west, where the turgid bank of mist formed an eerie backdrop for five Spanish men-of-war.
Let's get the hell out of here, he thought. Not even he liked these odds.
"We're headin' straight for 'em!" Oliver wailed, as Gareth grabbed the helm, setting the Lady of the Winds sharp lines on a course due west.
"They've yet to surmise what we're about." The calmness of Gareth's statement masked the wild beating of his heart. But a quick perusal of the hulking ships revealed the leisurely manner with which their tars worked the ropes.
Still, Oliver's voice was shrill with anxiety at his captain's madness. "Their guns!"
"Will be useless against us," Gareth finished. "We'll slip between the ships, and they won't dare fire for fear of blowing each other from the water. Then all we need to do is hide in the fog."
"And what if we run into more of the convoy in the mist?" Oliver asked. For all his pessimism, relief was now evident on his face.
"I didn't say it was foolproof." Gareth laughed as he concentrated on steering the sloop through the narrow channel between two of the ships.
***
The plan proved to be foolproof indeed, and this time when the crew cheered its success, the Lady of the Wind's captain deemed it unnecessary to quell their enthusiasm. Indeed, his voice could be heard among that of his men's.
***
Within the week, the Lady of the Winds was unloading ornate porcelain, gold embroidered cloth, and Spanish lace onto the wagons and carts of New York's merchants, while Joshua delivered his letters of marques to Lieutenant Governor DeLancey.
Once he'd been assured that all was in order, he succumbed to the lure of the common room of the waterfront inn where he was staying while in port. Some of his men were already in the cramped, smoke-filled room, their raucous laughter testimony to the copious amounts of rum they had consumed.
"Guvnor happy with our haul?" Oliver called across the room before leaving his seat by the brightly blazing hearth to join his captain.
"Have you ever known Lieutenant Governor DeLancey to be anything but pleased with a hefty profit?"
Oliver laughed deep in his throat. "Ya sure got it right there, Cap'n." He pointed toward the narrow wooden stairs leading toward the second floor. 'Your sea chest is in your room, 'long with a hot bath. Oh, and there was a packet o' letters for ya. I stashed 'em in the table by your bed."
It was nearly an hour later when Oliver pounded on his door. "Ya all right, Cap'n? Wouldn't do for ya to drown in that little bitty tub o' water, ya bein' the terror o' the seas an' all." Oliver chuckled at his own joke, but when no answer was forthcoming, he opened the door, filling the tiny room with the bawdy clamor of the crew below.
"Cap'n?"
"What?" Abruptly drawn from his musings, Gareth tensed, and as his head swung around, years of living by his instincts sent his hand to the sword resting peacefully on a nearby table. "Oh, it's you, Oliver."
Gareth slumped back into the chair he had occupied moments earlier.
"Everyone's waiting for ya downstairs. Is somethin' wrong?" Oliver scanned the room, taking in the captain's disheveled appearance, his discarded waistcoat and rumpled hair, before fixing on the open packet of letters beside the sword. "Bad news?"
Gareth raised eyes that seemed bright despite the gathering dusk. "They're from Nat," he said, gesturing toward the letters.
"Nat, huh? And how is young Nathaniel? Still playin' the peacemaker?"
"I supposed you could say that." Gareth straightened his frame into a more conventional sitting position. "He wants me to come home."
"How long's it been, Cap'n?"
Taking a deep breath, Gareth reached over to pick up the letters. He smoothed the edges and systematically refolded the parchments before answering. "Nearly four years now – three years when the first of these letters was written."
"We was out to sea long time, Cap'n."
"Aye, a long time. Nat says they're having problems."
"What kinda problems?"
Gareth rose to light the candles by the bed. "Lost cargo mostly, but Nat says they lost one of their ships, too."
"Those damn Spanish?" Oliver spat out the words.
Shaking his head, Gareth slumped back into the chair. "Nat doesn't think so. He says they stay well clear of any Spanish holdings. He's inclined to think it's the work of pirates. Even thinks it might be the same group every time."
"What do ya think?" Oliver threw the words over his shoulder as he knelt to light the wood already laid in the fireplace.
"Seems unlikely to me. I can't imagine that many unlucky coincidences."
"Aye. Hey, Cap'n," Oliver straightened and turned, placing his fists on his hips. "Ya ain't thinkin' like any o' this is your fault, is ya? 'Cause ya know, ya didn't exactly walk out on that pa o' yours."
A weak imitation of his usual grin flickered across Gareth's face. "If you're trying subtly to remind me of the night my father ordered me from his house, needn't worry. I haven't forgotten."
Of course, it had been much more complicated than his words indicated. To Gareth, that winter night four years ago had seen the culmination of a long, emotionally taxing war – a war that had been raging for as long as he could remember. It had been based on differences in ideas and beliefs and actions, but the undercurrent had been the clash of two strong, divergent personalities.
"Good. Well, see that ya don't." Oliver's words brought him back to the present. "What's he want? Money? Your pa hear tell o' your exploits and wish he'd backed ya 'stead o' tryin' to wrestle that sloop from ya?"
"Nay, these letters aren't from Father, and you know Nat wouldn't ask for anything. Hell, Father wouldn't either, for that matter!"
Oliver grunted in agreement as Gareth slowly unfolded himself from the chair and walked to the window. "He's dying."
"Your pa?" Oliver's tone was incredulous.
"Yes. That's why Nat wants me home – to make my peace with him." Gareth straightened. "I know I promised the men some time, but . . ."
"I reckon they'd be just as happy in Baltimore as here. That is where we're headin', ain't it?"
***
May 1679
The Caribbean
Avery Garland gripped the sea-slicked hemp of the ladder that led from the deck of the Mount Olympus to the small boat below. At least she assumed the boat was below, for the night was black as pitch, too dark for seeing. But then, though it frightened her to have to feel her way down the side of the hull, this moonless night was part of the plan.
"It will be too dark for the Pearl to see a small boat full of women leaving the schooner," Captain Evans of the Mount Olympus had assured her. It was his idea that she leave the vessel that was taking her home to her father and her sugar plantation in Jamaica. Earlier that day, sails had been sighted, and try as she might the Mount Olympus had been unable to pull away from the Black Pearl.
"Pirates," Captain Evans had told her gloomily after advising Avery to retire to her cabin. "We could surrender, because I hear the folk on board the Pearl are decent for pirates, except . . ."
"Except for what?" she'd asked, fearing she knew the answer.
His reply had been succinct. "You."
Actually, it had been more than just her. Avery had found out there were several other women aboard – women of questionable character. But Avery herself was the child of Charles Garland, a wealthy shipping merchant, and Lady Katherine Bennett, daughter of an English earl. And though Lord Bennett had disowned Katherine upon her marriage to a nameless Irishman, he would still be most displeased if his eldest granddaughter fell into the hands of pirates – especially the notorious Jack Sparrow, who was known for having a way with the ladies.
The lapping of the swells against the hull was louder now, and when Jake Roger's hands grabbed her about the waist, Avery knew she was almost to the boat.
Her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and she could make out the shadowy shapes of the other women and of Jake, the seaman assigned to row them to a nearby island.
"You can make it easily in a day," Captain Evans had said. "And, as soon as the Pearl is finished with us, we'll set sail and come for you."
Jake pushed the muffled oars against the Mount Olympus, setting them adrift on an adventure that not even Avery could relish.
***
Bright sunshine sent her hands searching for the comforter to cover her eyes. With a start, Avery realized there were no soft, fluffy blankets, and remembered where she was.
"The pirates." She sat up quickly, brushed errant dark locks of hair from her face, and looked out over the water. She was certain she must look awful. Her frizzy black curls, unbound and unbrushed, were standing up like stalks of dry grass.
"Well, her ladyship's finally decided to rise. Probably wants her tea and biscuits, too," squawked a woman whose unnaturally red hair hung over her ample bosoms.
Avery purposely ignored the sullen whore. Instead, she gazed toward the horizon. "Are they gone? The pirates, I mean."
"Well now, little lady," he said, leveling his blue eyes on her, "I'd say, more'n likely it's us that's gone. Imagine them pirates are still pretty much where we left 'em."
"You have encountered pirates before, haven't you, Mr. Rogers?"
Jake Rogers smiled, wiping the back of a sunburned hand across his sweating brow before answering. "Aye, little lady, that I have."
"Are they as awful as I've heard?"
Jake leaned over his oars thoughtfully. "Well now, little lady, the Pearl has a pretty decent crew, for pirates. Olympus will be all right."
"I'm starvin'," whined Missy, the youngest of them all. Her hair was limp and greasy, but Avery imagined it would be pale blond if clean. As she handed her a sea biscuit, Avery was struck by the girl's youth. Missy couldn't be a day over fifteen. Avery, though unwed at twenty-six, was not totally naïve. She knew that there were women who sold themselves to men, but that this girl, hardly more than a child, did so, seemed beyond belief.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a monotonous blur. Since everyone had been silenced by the dearth of water, Avery had plenty of time to think. And the thoughts that filled her mind, as she pulled the cloying fabric of her gown away from her skin, were of her father.
She should never have left him. It did not help to remind herself that she had had no choice; her Aunt Libby had come from Williamsburg of taking her back. And Charles Garland, after many arguments with his sister, had agreed to let her go.
"Jamaica!" her aunt had exclaimed contemptuously. "No Society a' tall. Marian was lucky to snare such a fine match, but there can't be many eligible men. You must come to Williamsburg with me."
But with her younger sister, newly wed to Commodore Norrington, gadding off in Kingsport, her father had been left all alone on the plantation. She should have known her father would be lost without her; and it didn't make her feel less guilty to admit that she had enjoyed the trip – and the society. Aunt Libby had been right; she had been very lonely at Hopewell.
Papa lived comfortably in a world of ideas, a world he shared with both of his daughters, but the other world, the outside world, he had sought to blot out since the death of his wife Katherine. Had the real world proven too much for him? Was that what had caused the melancholy in the last letter she had received, or was he sick and trying to hide his illness? Whichever, she wished this nightmare were over and she were safely back at Hopewell.
But her wish was not to be granted that day, or even the next. As the long hours passed under the baking sun and the fresh water in the barrel diminished alarmingly, Avery began to doubt that they would reach the island in time.
By nightfall the third day she fell into an exhausted sleep, wondering if she would ever wake.
***
"Are any of 'em alive?" The words drifted through to her consciousness an instant before she felt a callused hand gently touch her neck.
"Aye, this one is. Looks like the others are, too." The voice was strong and nearly as comforting as the thumb tracing the pulse under her chin.
"What do you reckon they was doing floatin' around here?" The voice was more distant.
"I'll tell you what we was doing'." Avery thought it was Missy's voice she heard, but she was so tired, too tired to open her eyes or listen, and when strong arms scooped her up, she felt safe, secure. With a contented sigh she nestled against the clean-smelling chest and let oblivion take over her.
***
One last note: ah, yes, Avery. Is she a Mary Sue? Obviously, I hope not, but hey, it's fine if you think so. At least, I can say safely she is not a self-insertion. I wrote this story because I thought it would make a good story, and not to fulfill any personal fantasy.