Swabbing, or so it seemed to Grace, ought to be in every pirate story ever told. Any young man would think twice about running away to become a pirate if he knew just what awaited him on deck. She'd been pushing this old splintering brush for over an hour now and the deck didn't seem to be getting much cleaner at all. She sat up on her knees to wipe perspiration from her eyes. This was almost as much of a workout as practicing with Will—but outside beneath the blazing sun her energy felt as though it was draining away with each drop of sweat. She felt a stream of the stuff rolling down her back and sighed before returning to work. Her sword thudded repeatedly against the wood as she worked, but she refused to take it off. She was on a ship full of pirates after all. Every time she moved the brush the delightful jingle of Elizabeth's gift reminded her of what she had left behind. She sighed.
At least the work was mindless enough to let her thoughts wander. Jack had told her that he would make sure Brody and her father never bothered her again. Just how was he going to do that? She had already determined that there had to be something in it for him—not just some old bottle of wine. Jack Sparrow didn't really seem the type to do things out of the kindness of his heart. She pondered the situation, not noticing the unexpected change in the ship's course until the force of the turn had her face on the deck.
She looked up to see Anamaria at the wheel and Jack at the rail of the ship, looking across the water through his scope. She followed his line of sight and saw nothing but the horizon. Men rushed around her, continuing to adjust the sails. There was a great rustle as the canvas filled with the wind once again. What was going on?
Jack turned back to Anamaria with a smile. He'd given the order and the ship had turned away from the Dauntless. This created only one slight problem. The ship was now going south—Tortuga was in the other direction. It wasn't the end of the world, however—they'd just be taking a little detour. He had two considerable options: Sail back around the island of Jamaica to avoid Norrington and his little boat, or follow their current course for a while before turning north again with the hope that the Dauntless had sailed on. He decided on the latter option—it would take far less time, after all. This certainly put an interesting twist in his little scheme. The Dauntless was no longer in Port Royale, leaving said city unguarded. They could slip back to Port Royale and pick up the ransom a wee bit early. He gave Anamaria a wicked grin.
"Cap'n Sparrow?" she asked, eyebrows raised. "Any orders?"
"We'll come about in an hour or so and sail back to Port Royale," he said, taking the wheel from her.
"Aye," she said, regarding him quietly and wondering just what he was up to this time.
As the hours passed, Grace found herself drowsing. She and Bailey had scrubbed just about the entire deck. They'd tried to make conversation to help pass the work, but that only led to several uncomfortable questions about what London was like and her supposed adventures as a thief. As she'd only been to London a handful of times, she didn't have much to go on and suggested that they sing, instead. Their only dilemma was that neither of them knew any sea shanties. The sun continued to let itself fall to the sea as they worked in silence.
The ship eventually came about, and they appeared to be going in the direction from whence they'd just come. Grace had given up any hope of figuring out what Jack had planned—she'd simply wait and watch.
She was relaxed mentally. The creak of the boards and the scratch of her brush's bristles against them had mixed with the rustle of the canvas and the waves crashing against the ship in such a way that it was nearly ready to put her to sleep. Someone trodding on her freshly scrubbed planks perked her up a bit. She glanced up to see Gibbs reviewing her work.
"Ye kin go below decks, lads. Ye've done enough fer t'day," he offered her a hand and she took it, grateful. She and Bailey had flipped a coin—Bailey's only valuable, a small bronze chit—to see who would scrub and who would mop. She'd lost and had spent the afternoon on her hands and knees. Her leg muscles ached in protest and she stretched them out as best as she could.
"Cookie may be wantin' some 'elp," he told her. "I'll show ye te' the galley, and yew," he nodded at Bailey. "Kin get some shut-eye." She followed the rotund man as her led her across the deck and down a set of stair through an open hatch. She did all right balancing as they made their way across the deck—but the stairs were a matter of trepidation. She took her time and was rather pleased with herself when she reached the landing feet-first instead of face-first. They went down another few steps and Gibbs led her left, toward the bow of the ship. She looked back to see Bailey, who'd been following her, give a little wave before starting in the other direction. They made their way across a room with tables scattered about it and into a small chamber. The moment she crossed the threshold she became very aware of two things—an increase in temperature and a smell that she wouldn't necessarily call tantalizing. A squat, grimy man who had a face full of wrinkles looked up at their entrance. The room was lantern-lit and the fire cast an eerie light on the man—Cookie, she assumed.
"Gibbs, what's 'is, eh?" he asked in a gruff voice. "This the lad?"
"Aye, this be 'im," Gibbs replied, slapping her on the back and pushing her forward. Cookie gave her a measuring look—I seem to be getting a lot of those today, she mused.
"'E's a little late fer t'night, but 'e'll do," Cookie said, then Gibbs was gone and she was alone with the squinting man. "'Ow long ye on board?" he asked.
"Until we reach Tortuga," she said, in as much of a "Grey" voice as her tired, parched throat could muster. The man gave a little 'hmph' before turning to the stove and pulling out a couple of racks covered in freshly cooked meat. By the feathers scatter on the floor, she judged it was chicken.
"Give me an 'and 'ere, eh boy?" the cook beckoned her to a washtub where she scrubbed her hands. Then she made her way over and helped him move the smoldering pieces of meat into a large metal tub, a process that woke her up quite a bit. She helped him move it to one of the tables along with a mixed assortment of mugs and silverware. There was already a barrel of apples in the corner of the dining room, alongside barrels of fresh water and rum. He let her help herself to a mug of the lukewarm water before sending her up to the captain's cabin with a plate of meat and a large mug of rum.
When she reached the deck with her load, she was surprised to see that the sun was nearly set. The water had gone from brilliant blue to dark and foreboding. Where the sun still touched it, in the distance on the port side of the ship, the sea was still bright—full of reds, oranges and whites. The sky was darkening quickly overhead, though, and stars were already appearing. The fiery cast of the diminishing sun kissed the distant clouds before slipping away as she knocked on the doors near the stern of the boat. Anamaria watched her from the helm. Most of the crew was on the deck—until a bell began to sound from below. All but a few of the men and Anamaria filtered down the hatch, presumably for dinner.
The door in front of her opened to reveal a slightly drowsy looking Jack. He gestured for her to come in, so she slipped past him carefully. She set the plate and mug on a table in the center of the room, then turned to leave, but Jack had already closed the door.
"'Ow are ye, love?" he asked, taking a seat at the end of the table and pointing to an empty chair on the side of the table.
"I'm fine," she said, not bothering to lower her voice any as she pulled the chair out to face him before sitting.
"That's good," he reached for the mug. "There's been a slight change in plans. Instead of reaching Tortuga in the two days I'd planned for, we had to make a little detour," his voice was jovial, bouncing. She wasn't sure if it was an act or not. "So we're going to make a brief stop back in Port Royale sometime tomorrow morning before we set our sails to Tortuga again." Grace wasn't sure whether she was happy about this development or not. Her muscles still ached a little from scrubbing the deck and her arms were burned where she'd rolled her sleeves up. Could she honestly take day after day of this? If it hadn't been for all of her "unwomanly" activities, she probably would have collapsed.
"Now as the men are bound to notice a few things," his gaze dipped to her chest for a moment. "Ye can sleep in there," he gestured to a doorway on the ship starboard side. "Until you scurry off at Tortuga, you'll be my assistant and the cook's helper. I'll have ye takin' notes an' figures an' helpin' with inventory from our last run. Cookie'll have ye doin' whatever he wants. Ye can take yer meals here or with the crew, drink whatever ye like. Just don't get yerself too hung over, savvy?"
"I don't think I'll ever do that again…" she muttered, studying the slightly crispy chicken. He chuckled.
"As you've been in my presence for the vast majority of the past twenty-four hours, I'm fairly certain you haven't gotten more than four hours of shut-eye. So ye're to eat, help Cookie clean up and then go to bed, aye?" She wanted to protest, but her weary body convinced her otherwise. Relief, unbidden, rushed over her and she nodded with a weak smile.
"Aye, Cap'n," she told him quietly, then stood. Feeling his intense gaze on her, she paused to push in the chair. Not quite sure what to do, she nodded to him, suddenly afraid—or too nervous—to meet eyes. Her feet made a pleasant thumping noise as she crossed the room—she was growing to like that sound. In fact, aside from the aches and pains, everything about life on the ship seemed pleasant (though she'd probably change her mind if she had to swab the deck again). She was even getting her sea legs. Her mind drifted again to why Jack was helping her. Maybe, she thought. Maybe he really is a decent guy.
Jack watched the girl leave before starting in on his meal. The chicken was good—even if it was a little burnt. He was very pleased that the seas had been calm enough to light the stoves. He was also pleased that Grace seemed to be getting along just fine. She looked the part of a pirate completely now. Her hands were somewhat clean—she'd been helping with the food, after all—but her face and arms were dirty (if a little burned), her hair sagging, matted curls. She'd worked her arse into exhaustion cleaning the deck, though, the foolish thing. He took a swig of rum, savoring the familiar taste. She was good help; it was almost a shame to leave her in Tortuga. Almost, he reminded himself.
He finished quickly, then grabbed an apple from the dish at the center of the table. It was one of the few things of Barbosa's he'd kept. He'd thrown most of the mutinous scurve's possessions to the dark embrace of Davy Jones'. Jack gave a shudder as he remembered that he'd actually had to touch the man's sheets. Then again, he wasn't entirely sure that the undead ever slept.
He shined the apple on his shirt as he stood, admiring the bright red gleam of it. It was time to let Anamaria in on his little scheme. He planned to leave her on the ship with the girl. He, Cotton and a few of the others would lift the ransom. Remembering the other new addition to his crew, he decided to leave Bailey on the ship as well. If he was running away, it was best if he didn't show his face in Port Royale for a while. The boy could probably help Cookie with something. He had a feeling the youngster would make a good pirate. He'd worked as hard as Grace—though he got to stand instead of scrub. He remembered with amusement their little coin toss as he made his way out the doors and up the stairs to where Anamaria stood at the helm. She stepped away as he neared, allowing him to take the wheel.
"Storm's brewin', Cap'n," she said, nodding toward the building clouds.
"Do ye reckon we could make it to the coast before she lets us 'ave it?" he inquired, the hint of a smile on his lips. She pursed her lips before nodding.
"Very good," his voice was low. Anamaria knew just what that tone meant. It meant another of Jack's wild ideas was about to come to fruit. She stayed silent, knowing that he'd probably let her in on it in his own time.
"We're about to make a good deal of money, Ana…" he began.
Brody Fenton was not a happy man. That stinking wench had somehow gotten away clean—and he had no doubt that wretched blacksmith and his girl had helped her. There was that cock-and-bull story about a pirate kidnapping her, but he didn't believe it. Not really. It certainly seemed as though Edward bought it, however. The old man had gotten together the gold demanded as her ransom as soon as he got the note. The instructions were to leave it on a deserted beach not far from the outskirts of the city that very night. Brody had no doubt it was just someone's scheme to make a quick buck. He'd been expecting to find something at the smithy with those two miscreants, but he hadn't.
He had gone to Norrington afterward, however. He'd tried to, anyway. By the time he'd gotten to the fort, the Dauntless had already set sail with the Commodore on board. It was no matter. He'd find the bloody girl and she'd pay for this humiliation. He had half a notion that she was ransoming herself and planned to keep a watch on the chests once he helped Edward haul them to the beach. He was nearly to the man's house now—they would take a horse and cart as far as they could, then carry them the rest of the way. A loud peal of thunder reminded him of the coming storm. The stars were already hidden behind a thick blanket of ominous clouds; they'd be traveling by lantern light this night. At least the weather was in step with his mood. The door to Edward Allister's home burst open as he reached it. Brody was almost amused to find the man in a rage.
"That damned maid servant skipped out on me!" he spat the words out. Brody wondered what exactly had made the man think she'd stick around.
"Are the trunks loaded?" he asked, ignoring the other man's state. Edward glared at him for a moment before nodding.
"Yes, shall we depart?" the older man gestured to a horse and cart, which were illuminated suddenly by lightning. Edward must have gotten a good look at him in the flash. "What are those for?" he was peering through the darkness at his young associate.
"I suppose we could call them insurance," he replied, fingering first the hilt of his sword, then the casing of his pistol before walking up to the horse. He gave the beast a pat before climbing in. Edward was beside him in no time. The old man still had a little spunk in him, it seemed. Brody picked up the worn leather reins and slapped the horse's rump with them. "Get up!" he said in a rough voice. They road in silence for a while, until Edward cut through it with a hushed question.
"So, how's business?" he asked.
"You were at my office today, I daresay you know just as well as I how business is," Brody replied in a no-nonsense tone, knowing perfectly well that wasn't what he meant.
"You know what I mean, my boy," the man glanced around at the deserted street. The impending storm had most inside. "Our little side investment." Brody let out an almost silent chuckle.
"I've found an island for storage. We'll be able to smuggle whatever we want to them. They'll pay well, too, since we're taking the supplies from their enemy in these waters," he directed the nag down a side street—they were nearing the end of actual road.
"Aren't their enemies the pirates?" Edward pointed out.
"The pirates that the English allow to flourish—at least within reason," Brody reminded him.
"Of course," Edward, he saw when he glanced to the side, was giving his little smirk. Brody felt his own features echo those of his partner-in-crime. They were going to make a killing.
Grace was ready for sleep. It hadn't taken long to help Cookie with the clean up, after she'd attacked her helping of chicken (with an apple thrown in for good measure). She'd nearly fallen asleep in the galley, listening to Cookie complain about the rats. She made her way carefully up the stairs and onto the deck. She barely noticed the clouds that had blacked out the stars and moon, or the slight pick-up in the wind, so intent was she on getting to bed. Jack, she saw, was speaking to Anamaria—Gibbs was climbing the stairs to join them. She opened the door and closed it behind her with care—it looked like a serious discussion, something she didn't want to interrupt. She ducked into the second room, grateful to find that there was a door to separate it from the main part of the cabin.
It seemed to be a very lived-in little space. There was a small desk built into the wall—papers were scattered about on it and a chair was set askew before it. The bed was small as well, tucked in the corner below the stern windows. The sheets looked rumpled and slept in—she found herself not minding one bit. A large shirt had been laid out on the bed, presumably for use as a nightgown. She changed quickly, to find that the shirt nearly reached her knees. She climbed into bed, pulling the light sheets up to her chin. She was asleep within mere moments.
Grace awakened with a loud thud. She blinked her eyes open to find that she was on the floor. Will I never get a good night's sleep again? She pushed herself into a sitting position, to find that the chair had fallen over and the papers were scatter about the small room. The sheets were tangled all around her. Beneath her she felt the ship rolling and bucking in the waves. She remembered this sensation—it was a storm. She extricated herself from the cloth and got to her feet, only to fall backwards onto the lumpy mattress. Growling, she sought out her pants and pulled them on from her position on the bed—it took a lot of squirming, but she managed. Next came the boots, which she pulled on in great haste. She stood once more, taking care to keep herself balanced on the tilting surface of the floorboards. She grabbed her sword as she yanked the door open, praying to God that her pants would stay up without the sash.
The cabin was occupied, but a quick flash of lightning assured her that it was Anamaria instead of Jack who sat at the table. The woman was still fully clothed, one booted foot resting on the tabletop, the other on the floor, helping the woman brace herself as the ship rolled about.
"Where's Jack?" The words spilled out of Grace's mouth before she could think.
"He's takin' care of some business, lassie," the woman replied. While she couldn't see Anamaria's expression, the tone of her voice belied her amusement. Grace realized several things at that moment—the first, and possibly most important, was that Anamaria knew she wasn't a boy. The second was that the woman was hiding something. The third—that she was actually worried about the Captain. Her own common sense smacked her for that—Jack was a pirate and supposedly knew what he was doing. He'd be fine. Why should she even be worried about him in the first place?
She made her way to the table, shifting her weight from side to side and holding her arms out to keep her balance, and picked up one of the fallen chairs (with only a little difficulty). A crackling peel of thunder kept her silent for a few moments.
"Where are we, anyway?" she asked as she took a seat and set the blade from Will on her lap. Unlike Ana, Grace chose to keep both her feet on the floor—she wasn't that good at balancing on a ship yet.
"We be at anchor outside Port Royale. The Cap'n thought it best ye didn't go ashore," a flash of lightning revealed a quiet smile on the other woman's face, and Grace noticed, for the first time, the sheathed blade on her lap. It was the same one she'd been wearing earlier—too short to be a sword, too long to be a dagger. Anamaria must have caught her eyeing it during the flash.
"'Ave ye never seen a cutlass a'fore, lass?" she asked—the amusement had returned to the woman's voice. Grace felt like a bit of a fool—indeed, she'd never seen or heard of a cutlass before. She considered answering the woman's question incorrectly, but she had a feeling Anamaria would see right through her bluff.
"No, I suppose I haven't," Grace was eyeing the shadowed blade with interest. "Would you mind if I had a look at it?" Ana didn't reply, just dropped her foot off the table and leaned forward to hand Grace the weapon. The younger woman drew it carefully, marveling at it. Short, but heavy and cheaply made, she fingered the thing. Only the outer side of the curved blade was sharpened, she found. The hilt was interesting, with a guard that cupped around the hand, protecting it.
"It's better for battles on a ship, easier to maneuver," Anamaria spoke as a flash of lightning illuminated the metal in Grace's hands. "Ye don't thrust it like a sword, it's made for slashin', hackin' away at bits o' yer opponent. Lot more useful ta' a pirate than that hunk o' steel ye've got." This bit at Grace's pride more than a little, something that had the unfortunate effect of taking her common sense down a notch. She handed the cutlass back to Anamaria.
"I think that all depends on who's wielding the blade, I'll thank you very much," Grace's eyes narrowed at the shadow across the table that was Anamaria and she reached for the hilt of her sword.
"Don' do anythin' stupid, lass," the older woman's voice held plenty of warning. Grace bit her lip. Perhaps a little bout wasn't the best idea, but she was stinging from the remark Ana had made about Will's gift, and the pain of leaving her friends was still fresh in her mind.
"What do you say to a little duel? We could leave our weapons sheathed," Grace was fingering the grip on her lap. Ana gave a low-pitched chuckle. "It'd be interesting, after all," she added as the ship gave a buck that caused both of their chairs—and the table—to screech in protest as gravity carried them across the wooden floor.
"It certainly would be interestin', I'll give ye that," the woman told her, then grew silent for several moments. "I s'pose if we left the sheathes on no real 'arm would come of it…" A flash of lightning revealed grins on both of the women's faces. Each of them stood, weapon in hand. The ship rolled beneath them and a roar came from above as the downpour finally erupted, drops of rain hitting the deck above them and drowning out most other sounds. Ana moved first, trying to catch the younger woman in a downswing. Grace had already moved to the side. This was idiocy, she realized as logic dropped into her brain. Another part of her, the part that loved swordplay, thought it was fun. Chances were she'd never have an opportunity to test her skills in such conditions ever again, and she was eager to see how well she did. The windows at the back and port sides of the room provided some illumination, enough that she could make out the shadow that was Anamaria. She thrust the sheathed blade toward Anamaria's side, but a roll of the ship sent her staggering toward the back of the room. Ana, more accustomed to moving on a ship, was on her in moments. Grace was saved by a last-minute duck on her part.
For several moments after she regained her balance, the two of them simply circled each other. This time it was Grace who moved first, feinting to Ana's left side before swinging around to stab at her right. Ana twisted out of the way moments before another buck of the ship sent Grace staggering backwards, only to trip over one of the fallen chairs. A sudden flare of lightning lit up Ana's expression as she stood over her opponent—she wore a good-natured grin. Grace rolled to the right, off of the chair and kicked it at her opponent. Ana hadn't been expecting that, and it combined with another bucking roll of the ship to help her to the floor. Grace climbed to her feet. Is it just me, or are those waves getting bigger? The ship slanted sideways yet again, sending Grace into the counter that ran along the walls beneath the windows. The edge of the surface hit her squarely in the right side, just below her ribcage. Grace was immediately certain that she'd have a large bruise in a tapestry of colors in the spot and groaned inwardly as Ana staggered to her feet. Another wave sent them both off-balance again. Ana went back to the floor; Grace grabbed the counter to keep herself upright. Seconds after the wave Grace had the tip of the sheath at the other woman's throat.
"Yew win!" the woman yelled over the pounding of the rain. Another wave sent Grace to the floor to join the pirate.
"Now will you tell me where Jack is?" she yelled back, propping herself up on her elbows. She heard Anamaria laugh beside her, long and loud.
"If I tell ye, ye prolly aren't goin' to like it," the woman called back. Grace let herself fall back to the floor, watching the storm play outside the windows as rain streamed down the glass in rivers.
"I still want to know," she said, just loud enough for the other woman to hear (which in other circumstances would have carried through most of the ship). Ana was silent for several minutes as the ship moved beneath them. Grace's stomach wasn't reacting well to the weather—every big wave tickled her innards. It was annoying, she found as she was finally given a chance to concentrate on it. Things could be worse, she reminded herself. I could be getting sea sick, but I'm not. The fresh bruise on her side was throbbing—not a terribly good sign.
"Fine," Anamaria's voice drew her attention away from her discomforts. "Jack sent a ransom note to yer da. We were goin' to wait 'till after we'd left ye in Tortuga to pick it up, but what with the Dauntless leaving port, we decided to pick it up a bit early. Jack took seven of the crew an' Mistah Gibbs, I don' think they'll run into much trouble though. The Cap'n thinks yer da'll keep the ransom quiet fer appearance's sake." Grace blinked, anger suddenly filling her.
"So what? He was going to take me back? Or just tell them where I was?"
"No, no, no, lass! 'E 'ad Cookie stain that dress o' yourn with chicken blood. 'E's goin' ta' leave that fer yer da to find, so 'e'll think ye've been killed. Don' mention to Jack that I told ye, though, aye?" she ended that on a down note—she was apparently done explaining.
So, that was why he'd wanted the dress. Jack was making a quick buck off of her departure. Grace suddenly felt both very used and very angry. Jack had been planning to wait until she was gone to get the ransom—he obviously wasn't intending to give her a share in his little get-rich-quick scheme. It also occurred to her that the only reason she was on this ship was that Jack had had this in the works from the very beginning. Within her anger battled with the disappointment that she'd been wrong about the man. In the end, anger won out and she let out a loud growl—or something that sounded like one for any matter.
"That bloody pirate!" she roared, climbing hastily to her feet. She wanted to throw something, but enough sense had a hold of her that she didn't. She was mad. Mad at the stinking weather, mad at Anamaria for telling her, mad at Jack for using her, and, most of all, mad at herself for being so damned stupid. Jack had never been trying to help her; he was in it for himself. On some level, she knew she wasn't quite thinking straight, that her mind was clouded with anger and lack of sleep, but she was past the point of caring. She tried to stalk across the room, only to be knocked off her feet by another buck of the ship. Her anger seemed to fall with her, until she was suddenly aware of an irrational, bitter disappointment that turned her easily tickled stomach into a hollow cavity.
Whew! That took me a little longer than anticipated. I had most of it finished by Sunday night, but I haven't gotten much of a chance to work on it since then (I find myself quite suddenly employed). Anyway, I hope this chapter's enjoyable. Several of you said you enjoyed longer chapters, so I've complied with this one.^_- I'm not sure if the rest of the chapters will be this long, but I'll never have one as short as Chapter the Third again.
For the layout on the ship I used references from the movie, a diagram of Queen Anne's Revenge and my imagination. I hope it's halfway accurate as ships go, but I doubt I'll go back and change things if I find out otherwise. Quick note if you're not sure (and I couldn't keep them straight until a few days ago): Port is left, starboard is right (Port and left have the same number of letters! ^_-).
Thanks again to everyone who's reviewed. I like hearing what people think, love it or hate it.^_^
And I think that's just about enough for this author's note.
Disclaimer: Check out the first chapter. That applies here, too.
Thanks for reading!^_^
PS – I'm not quite sure what's up with the formatting (indentations, specifically). I'll work on them when I get a chance, though.