Any Port In a Storm
Chapter VII : A Sword Not Yet Wrought
[ colloquial title : through the bars ]
***
Curse the bars that parted us.
I couldn't really hold him. I couldn't keep him warm. The dungeons had a chill to them, a chill that came from the damp walls and lack of sunlight. Even I was cold, and Jack had not even the thin, fundamental shield of clothing between his skin and the cool, damp air. More than anything I wanted to hold him; to pull him close to me and let him soak up my body heat, but I could not. I could only hold his hand through the bars, and stroke his hair, and soothe him as best I could when he struggled in vain to press closer to me.
The sun was rising; the faint glow around the rim of the high, slitted window told me as much. The guards would come back, soon -- and what they would make of the scene that would meet them, I didn't know and didn't care. I only knew that if anyone laid so much as a hand on him, I would find a way to kill them.
Jack had not said a word past "I'm so sorry," to me. Slipping in and out of consciousness in the darkness, he had remained with his face pressed against my chest, and only his breathing told me when he was awake and when he was not. I talked to him, when I knew that he could hear me. It didn't matter if he didn't talk back -- his hand relaxed ever-so-slightly in mine when I spoke, and his breath came a bit easier. There was no telling whether he would have the strength to fight when the time came; indeed, I began to worry, as dawn rose, about whether he would have the strength to eat, when someone finally decided to feed us. There was no way for me to make a true assessment of the damage that had been done to him, what with the cursed bars that parted us.
Footsteps. Jack tensed before I even heard them -- but now they were getting closer, slowing to a halt just outside the doors of the dungeon. A key turned in the lock. Jack's knuckles went white around my hand.
"Easy, love," I whispered softly against his hair, my eyes trained on the door as it opened.
Two guards that I'd never seen before -- one very tall and almost handsome, the other very short and squat. At first, they paid us not the slightest bit of notice -- one of them carried two trays of food, the other a pistol and a set of keys. One of them was telling the other about some lass that he'd picked up at the tavern the night before, and the other one was warning him of her scandalous reputation.
"I'm tellin' you, mate," said the taller guard, turning to slide the first tray beneath Jacks cell door, "she's nothing but a-- what in the...?"
What a sight we must have been; Captain Jack Sparrow, the infamous living legend, stripped and bleeding and huddled against the bars of the cell, his face pressed to my chest ... and William Turner, the silly young blacksmith who ran off to play pirate and came back with his tail between his legs, staring them down as though daring them to come any closer.
"What in blazes 'appened 'ere?" asked the small, squat soldier, still standing aghast against the far wall of the dungeon.
They were both staring at us, wide eyed and slack jawed in a combination of confusion and horror -- but nothing in their stance or expressions hinted at hostility. Jack remained frozen against me, his jaw set as though ready to receive a blow. The moments that passed in silence stretched thin and tense between us in the damp air. But what was I supposed to say?
"Do you know a David Spencer?" I finally asked them.
"Dave, yeah..." said the shorter of the two, his eyebrows furrowing even deeper in confusion. His companion remained crouched at the door of Jack's cell, watching us with grave, anxious eyes.
"He did this. He came here last night, with a pack of others. He's got a personal grudge against Jack, because he used to be a pirate, too. He's been lying to all of you. He did this."
Jack tensed more and more with every word that I spoke, and I could tell that he wanted nothing more than for me to simply shut my mouth. I didn't care. Stroking his hair protectively, I met the taller guard's eyes, now. "I didn't think that the British Royal Navy would ever stoop so low."
"Neither did I," said the man, his eyes darkening as he rose to his feet. "Daniels... go, and locate Commodore Norrington. Tell him that I shall be there within the hour with matters of the utmost importance to discuss. Then see if you can find Spencer - I daresay you'll find him in one tavern or another."
"Aye, Captain."
The short, squat soldier departed, now, as the remaining drew closer to us. He was, indeed, one of the tallest men that I had ever seen; he had to stoop under some of the lower slung beams.
"First, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Steven Fairweather - captain in the Royal British Fleet. Second, please allow me to extend my deepest regrets and apologies on behalf of the British Royal Navy. Actions such as Private Spencer's are neither condoned or tolerated under our code of conduct. Rest assured that all the proper inquiries shall be made. I would assume that Commodore Norrington will want to speak with the both of you himself. Until that time, however, I shall see to it that you both receive nothing but fair and humane treatment."
I didn't know whether to trust him or not. The fact that he believed me, alone, was suspect. We were criminals, implicating one of their own. Whispering a few soft words to Jack, I said, "Fair and humane? Then at least give him a blanket, for gods sake."
Something in Fairweather's pale, gray eyes softened. "He'll need more than blankets. I'll fetch a doctor."
He was halfway to the door, when Jack said.
"You're a Captain, too, then..."
His voice was very hoarse, and barely more than a whisper, but Fairweather heard him nonetheless. He turned 'round, seeming startled yet hiding it fairly well when he found Jack's eyes on him. And then he said;
"Yes. Yes... I'm a Captain, too."
"Have your own ship?"
"I do..." Fairweather said quietly.
"What's her name?" asked Jack. His chest was heaving, as though speaking required a great deal of effort.
"The Redeemer." The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Fairweather's mouth, and mirrored itself on Jack's bruised face a moment later.
"The Redeemer. You love her, then - I can see it."
"She's a fine ship..."
"I've no doubt she is. Listen... Captain to Captain..." said Jack. "No doctors, all right?"
"Jack," I said in a hushed tone, "you need to--"
"I've never seen a doctor in me life - and I don't want to start like this, savvy? All I want is that blanket."
"Understood, Captain Sparrow..."
Something passed between their eyes, then, in the moment before Fairweather ducked out the door -- and then Jack leaned against me again, closing his eyes as though worn out from the conversation and sliding his hand into mine once more. It didn't take him long to return. Jack jumped and flinched as the door opened, again. Fairweather stopped where he was for a second, and looked at both of us for a very long time, with an unreadable expression. Finally he turned, very decisively, and opened the door of my cell.
"If I take off the shackles, Mr. Turner, can you see to him? I must meet with the Commodore."
It took me a minute to realize that he was giving me the one and only thing that I wanted. He was taking away the bars between us.
"Leave him to me," I said.
I could tell that Jack would have rather chewed off his own hand than let go of me -- he shivered as I released his hand, and watched me with anxious eyes as Fairweather lead me politely by the elbow 'round to the door of his cell. Once inside, he took the shackles off of my wrists, then turned to do the same for Jack - who extended his wrists almost desperately, and brought one protectively to his chest with the opposite hand as soon as he'd been released. "Do the best you can, for now," said Fairweather. "I assure you that I shall return by nightfall."
When the dungeon door shut behind him, Jack said, "You should have run."
He was huddled against the wall, now, with his arms wrapped around his waist. I could barely see his face in the shadows; only his eyes were clear, dark and tired and still filled with pain. "When he opened your door ... you should have run."
"Shut up, Jack," I whispered. "Just shut up..." -- and then I gathered him in my arms as I had longed to do all night long, wrapped the blanket around him and held him close to me, with no bars to part us. "I'm with you. I'm staying with you. What kind of man do you think I am, that I could leave you here? I love you. I love you, and nothing will ever change that. Jack ... look at me."
It took a fair amount of coaxing to get him to lift his face -- but when he finally did, I kissed him very, very, very gently.
"I love you, all right? I wish it had been me, and not you."
"Don't say that," he whispered, reaching up to curl his fingers through my hair. "I'll be all right, luv. These wounds will heal. But had it been you..."
It was he who kissed me, then -- drawing me down to meet his lips and wrapping one arm around my neck; and now his face was blurring, as my own eyes slowly filled with tears.
"Oh come now, luv, don't cry on account of me...."
"But what they did to you--"
"--Was something that I brought upon myself. I told you, Will - my life is made of chances. I have enemies aplenty. Most of the time I'm ungodly lucky -- but everyone's luck falters, here and there. And if a man cannot face all of the possible repercussions of his actions, that man should not take those chances at all. Don't cry for what can't be changed."
They had hurt him, yes; and it was doubtful that he would ever fully forget the pain of that horrible, horrible night -- but it took much more than the cruelty of nine drunken, spiteful men to break the will of Captain Jack Sparrow. Beneath the layers of blood and pain and exhaustion, the flame of strength and dignity still burned bright as ever in the depths of those dark eyes. He was already healing, body and soul. Once again, I had underestimated him; for now that I could see his eyes, there was no doubt in my mind that, when the proper chance presented itself, Jack would be perfectly capable of fighting his way to freedom. To break a will like his would take a sword of horror not yet wrought by even the darkest, cruelest recesses of the human mind.
"I don't know how you do it, Jack. Any other man that I know would have broken, last night."
Jack leaned his head back against my shoulder, smiled up at me through the bruises and the dried blood with that signature smile that was still the most wickedly beautiful thing I had ever seen, and said,
"You're forgetting one thing, mate. I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."
I almost laughed through my fast receding tears. Jack shifted a bit in my arms, his smile tightening into a cringe as he did so.
"You're Captain Jack Sparrow who still needs to rest, and to eat."
Indeed; only now did the rations that Fairweather and Daniels had brought us hold any interest whatsoever. Stretching one arm as far as it would go without having to shift Jack, I managed to snag the edges of the tin plates with the tips of my fingers and drag them towards us. "You should eat all of this," I told him.
"I've recovered from far worse, under far worse conditions, luv."
"Because you've had to. You've got me, now," I said.
It seemed once again as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders as he sighed and closed his eyes a moment.
"And you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
I kissed him softly. "And the second best will be this food."
"I'm not so sure about that," said Jack, casting a dubious glance sideways at the plate of bread and boiled meat -- both of which looked decidedly less than fresh. "I mean ... that right there could very well be our punishment, mate. What if they don't hang us at all, and just feed us that lot until we die?"
Now I laughed outright; laughed because Jack could always make me laugh, no matter what -- and with that, we both took up our plates. Jack stayed curled up against me, picking off of both my plate and his -- his appetite seeming to creep back with each bite of the food that was not nearly as bad as it looked and smelled.
He was going to be all right. We were going to be all right, and we would get out of here yet, one way or another.
Only now did I realize that there had been a question nagging at the back of my mind all along; drown out by horror and worry, it surfaced slowly in the silence relative silence as we ate. Finally, when the plates had been put aside and Jack was resting in relative comfort against my shoulder, I put it into words.
"Can I ask you something, Jack? You don't have to answer..."
"You've just asked me something, right there -- but you can ask me something else, if you like."
"Who was Grace...?"
***
- to be continued -
Chapter VII : A Sword Not Yet Wrought
[ colloquial title : through the bars ]
***
Curse the bars that parted us.
I couldn't really hold him. I couldn't keep him warm. The dungeons had a chill to them, a chill that came from the damp walls and lack of sunlight. Even I was cold, and Jack had not even the thin, fundamental shield of clothing between his skin and the cool, damp air. More than anything I wanted to hold him; to pull him close to me and let him soak up my body heat, but I could not. I could only hold his hand through the bars, and stroke his hair, and soothe him as best I could when he struggled in vain to press closer to me.
The sun was rising; the faint glow around the rim of the high, slitted window told me as much. The guards would come back, soon -- and what they would make of the scene that would meet them, I didn't know and didn't care. I only knew that if anyone laid so much as a hand on him, I would find a way to kill them.
Jack had not said a word past "I'm so sorry," to me. Slipping in and out of consciousness in the darkness, he had remained with his face pressed against my chest, and only his breathing told me when he was awake and when he was not. I talked to him, when I knew that he could hear me. It didn't matter if he didn't talk back -- his hand relaxed ever-so-slightly in mine when I spoke, and his breath came a bit easier. There was no telling whether he would have the strength to fight when the time came; indeed, I began to worry, as dawn rose, about whether he would have the strength to eat, when someone finally decided to feed us. There was no way for me to make a true assessment of the damage that had been done to him, what with the cursed bars that parted us.
Footsteps. Jack tensed before I even heard them -- but now they were getting closer, slowing to a halt just outside the doors of the dungeon. A key turned in the lock. Jack's knuckles went white around my hand.
"Easy, love," I whispered softly against his hair, my eyes trained on the door as it opened.
Two guards that I'd never seen before -- one very tall and almost handsome, the other very short and squat. At first, they paid us not the slightest bit of notice -- one of them carried two trays of food, the other a pistol and a set of keys. One of them was telling the other about some lass that he'd picked up at the tavern the night before, and the other one was warning him of her scandalous reputation.
"I'm tellin' you, mate," said the taller guard, turning to slide the first tray beneath Jacks cell door, "she's nothing but a-- what in the...?"
What a sight we must have been; Captain Jack Sparrow, the infamous living legend, stripped and bleeding and huddled against the bars of the cell, his face pressed to my chest ... and William Turner, the silly young blacksmith who ran off to play pirate and came back with his tail between his legs, staring them down as though daring them to come any closer.
"What in blazes 'appened 'ere?" asked the small, squat soldier, still standing aghast against the far wall of the dungeon.
They were both staring at us, wide eyed and slack jawed in a combination of confusion and horror -- but nothing in their stance or expressions hinted at hostility. Jack remained frozen against me, his jaw set as though ready to receive a blow. The moments that passed in silence stretched thin and tense between us in the damp air. But what was I supposed to say?
"Do you know a David Spencer?" I finally asked them.
"Dave, yeah..." said the shorter of the two, his eyebrows furrowing even deeper in confusion. His companion remained crouched at the door of Jack's cell, watching us with grave, anxious eyes.
"He did this. He came here last night, with a pack of others. He's got a personal grudge against Jack, because he used to be a pirate, too. He's been lying to all of you. He did this."
Jack tensed more and more with every word that I spoke, and I could tell that he wanted nothing more than for me to simply shut my mouth. I didn't care. Stroking his hair protectively, I met the taller guard's eyes, now. "I didn't think that the British Royal Navy would ever stoop so low."
"Neither did I," said the man, his eyes darkening as he rose to his feet. "Daniels... go, and locate Commodore Norrington. Tell him that I shall be there within the hour with matters of the utmost importance to discuss. Then see if you can find Spencer - I daresay you'll find him in one tavern or another."
"Aye, Captain."
The short, squat soldier departed, now, as the remaining drew closer to us. He was, indeed, one of the tallest men that I had ever seen; he had to stoop under some of the lower slung beams.
"First, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Steven Fairweather - captain in the Royal British Fleet. Second, please allow me to extend my deepest regrets and apologies on behalf of the British Royal Navy. Actions such as Private Spencer's are neither condoned or tolerated under our code of conduct. Rest assured that all the proper inquiries shall be made. I would assume that Commodore Norrington will want to speak with the both of you himself. Until that time, however, I shall see to it that you both receive nothing but fair and humane treatment."
I didn't know whether to trust him or not. The fact that he believed me, alone, was suspect. We were criminals, implicating one of their own. Whispering a few soft words to Jack, I said, "Fair and humane? Then at least give him a blanket, for gods sake."
Something in Fairweather's pale, gray eyes softened. "He'll need more than blankets. I'll fetch a doctor."
He was halfway to the door, when Jack said.
"You're a Captain, too, then..."
His voice was very hoarse, and barely more than a whisper, but Fairweather heard him nonetheless. He turned 'round, seeming startled yet hiding it fairly well when he found Jack's eyes on him. And then he said;
"Yes. Yes... I'm a Captain, too."
"Have your own ship?"
"I do..." Fairweather said quietly.
"What's her name?" asked Jack. His chest was heaving, as though speaking required a great deal of effort.
"The Redeemer." The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Fairweather's mouth, and mirrored itself on Jack's bruised face a moment later.
"The Redeemer. You love her, then - I can see it."
"She's a fine ship..."
"I've no doubt she is. Listen... Captain to Captain..." said Jack. "No doctors, all right?"
"Jack," I said in a hushed tone, "you need to--"
"I've never seen a doctor in me life - and I don't want to start like this, savvy? All I want is that blanket."
"Understood, Captain Sparrow..."
Something passed between their eyes, then, in the moment before Fairweather ducked out the door -- and then Jack leaned against me again, closing his eyes as though worn out from the conversation and sliding his hand into mine once more. It didn't take him long to return. Jack jumped and flinched as the door opened, again. Fairweather stopped where he was for a second, and looked at both of us for a very long time, with an unreadable expression. Finally he turned, very decisively, and opened the door of my cell.
"If I take off the shackles, Mr. Turner, can you see to him? I must meet with the Commodore."
It took me a minute to realize that he was giving me the one and only thing that I wanted. He was taking away the bars between us.
"Leave him to me," I said.
I could tell that Jack would have rather chewed off his own hand than let go of me -- he shivered as I released his hand, and watched me with anxious eyes as Fairweather lead me politely by the elbow 'round to the door of his cell. Once inside, he took the shackles off of my wrists, then turned to do the same for Jack - who extended his wrists almost desperately, and brought one protectively to his chest with the opposite hand as soon as he'd been released. "Do the best you can, for now," said Fairweather. "I assure you that I shall return by nightfall."
When the dungeon door shut behind him, Jack said, "You should have run."
He was huddled against the wall, now, with his arms wrapped around his waist. I could barely see his face in the shadows; only his eyes were clear, dark and tired and still filled with pain. "When he opened your door ... you should have run."
"Shut up, Jack," I whispered. "Just shut up..." -- and then I gathered him in my arms as I had longed to do all night long, wrapped the blanket around him and held him close to me, with no bars to part us. "I'm with you. I'm staying with you. What kind of man do you think I am, that I could leave you here? I love you. I love you, and nothing will ever change that. Jack ... look at me."
It took a fair amount of coaxing to get him to lift his face -- but when he finally did, I kissed him very, very, very gently.
"I love you, all right? I wish it had been me, and not you."
"Don't say that," he whispered, reaching up to curl his fingers through my hair. "I'll be all right, luv. These wounds will heal. But had it been you..."
It was he who kissed me, then -- drawing me down to meet his lips and wrapping one arm around my neck; and now his face was blurring, as my own eyes slowly filled with tears.
"Oh come now, luv, don't cry on account of me...."
"But what they did to you--"
"--Was something that I brought upon myself. I told you, Will - my life is made of chances. I have enemies aplenty. Most of the time I'm ungodly lucky -- but everyone's luck falters, here and there. And if a man cannot face all of the possible repercussions of his actions, that man should not take those chances at all. Don't cry for what can't be changed."
They had hurt him, yes; and it was doubtful that he would ever fully forget the pain of that horrible, horrible night -- but it took much more than the cruelty of nine drunken, spiteful men to break the will of Captain Jack Sparrow. Beneath the layers of blood and pain and exhaustion, the flame of strength and dignity still burned bright as ever in the depths of those dark eyes. He was already healing, body and soul. Once again, I had underestimated him; for now that I could see his eyes, there was no doubt in my mind that, when the proper chance presented itself, Jack would be perfectly capable of fighting his way to freedom. To break a will like his would take a sword of horror not yet wrought by even the darkest, cruelest recesses of the human mind.
"I don't know how you do it, Jack. Any other man that I know would have broken, last night."
Jack leaned his head back against my shoulder, smiled up at me through the bruises and the dried blood with that signature smile that was still the most wickedly beautiful thing I had ever seen, and said,
"You're forgetting one thing, mate. I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."
I almost laughed through my fast receding tears. Jack shifted a bit in my arms, his smile tightening into a cringe as he did so.
"You're Captain Jack Sparrow who still needs to rest, and to eat."
Indeed; only now did the rations that Fairweather and Daniels had brought us hold any interest whatsoever. Stretching one arm as far as it would go without having to shift Jack, I managed to snag the edges of the tin plates with the tips of my fingers and drag them towards us. "You should eat all of this," I told him.
"I've recovered from far worse, under far worse conditions, luv."
"Because you've had to. You've got me, now," I said.
It seemed once again as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders as he sighed and closed his eyes a moment.
"And you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
I kissed him softly. "And the second best will be this food."
"I'm not so sure about that," said Jack, casting a dubious glance sideways at the plate of bread and boiled meat -- both of which looked decidedly less than fresh. "I mean ... that right there could very well be our punishment, mate. What if they don't hang us at all, and just feed us that lot until we die?"
Now I laughed outright; laughed because Jack could always make me laugh, no matter what -- and with that, we both took up our plates. Jack stayed curled up against me, picking off of both my plate and his -- his appetite seeming to creep back with each bite of the food that was not nearly as bad as it looked and smelled.
He was going to be all right. We were going to be all right, and we would get out of here yet, one way or another.
Only now did I realize that there had been a question nagging at the back of my mind all along; drown out by horror and worry, it surfaced slowly in the silence relative silence as we ate. Finally, when the plates had been put aside and Jack was resting in relative comfort against my shoulder, I put it into words.
"Can I ask you something, Jack? You don't have to answer..."
"You've just asked me something, right there -- but you can ask me something else, if you like."
"Who was Grace...?"
***
- to be continued -