Revenge of the Fox
Chapter 15
Lieutenant Richard Markson sat in a dingy tavern in Port Antonio staring into a flagon of weak grog. He'd managed to find a small merchant ship in Port Royal whose Captain wasn't completely apoplectic at begin commandeered by the Navy. This wasn't to say that Captain Orford was happy about the idea, but he hadn't threatened Markson's life, health or manhood. Yet. Late yesterday afternoon they'd found a fishing boat matching the description of the one stolen from Port Royal. It had been grounded on the beach in a small cove. Someone had made an attempt to conceal it with shrubbery, but they hadn't done a particularly good job. Markson reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of white satin, which he'd found in the hold of the boat. There had also been several long, honey blond hairs. Elizabeth Turner, no doubt. They'd gone to nearby Port Antonio and questioned everyone they could find, but hadn't come up with much. Yes, there'd been a ship anchored in the cove. No, they didn't know which ship it was. No, they didn't know anything about it. Someone had to know SOMETHING, Markson was sure of it.
Then earlier today he'd received a note. It was short, unsigned and rather vague, but it had told him to be in this tavern at this hour wearing civilian attire. Accordingly, Markson had scrounged up a pair of brown breeches, a worn cotton shirt and a faded dark green coat. Since he disliked wearing a wig unless he had to, his own brown hair was tied neatly back in a ponytail.
Markson raised his eyes and scanned the room again. This time he caught the eye of a man sitting near the bar. He was a sailor by the look of him, mid-forties probably. The overwhelming impression of the man was brown; brown hair, leathery tanned skin, brown eyes, brown clothing. When Markson caught his eye, he rose and walked over, taking the chair opposite. He set his tankard down on the table and reached into his pocket, pulling out a strip of white satin and laying it on the table next to the scrap Markson had found on the fishing boat. With a quick indrawn breath, Markson scooped it up and examined it. It was the same. He looked up quickly. "Where did you find this?"
The man watched him, his face impassive. "In the hold of my boat." He raised his tankard and took a sip. "Shall I tell you the whole?"
"Please do," said Markson grimly.
"Very well," the brown man set down his tankard again. "About a week ago, I was approached by a man who offered me money to make a quick delivery for him. I was to pick up the cargo, which he said would be two men escorting a third person, several miles from Port Royal on a particular day. We were to sail to a small cove east of Port Antonio, where I was to deliver them to a larger ship, the Vixen. They asked if I had a brig or other secure area for the third person." The man shrugged. "I though perhaps they were transporting a slave or a prisoner, but I did not ask. When the men arrived, they told me they had two people to transport, and they paid an additional amount. Again I did not question it. Both these prisoners were women. I thought it odd, but one was black and the other looked Spanish. A slave and an indentured servant maybe? Or perhaps a hostage? Then I recognized the black woman as being a crewmember of the Black Pearl."
"Annamaria Simone," stated Markson flatly.
The brown man took a sip from his tankard. "Aye. I went down to the room in the hold where they were kept and asked her to explain to me what a crewmember of the Black Pearl would be doing aboard my boat as a prisoner. She told me that she, the other woman who she identified as Antonia Swann, and two others had been kidnapped. They told me that one of the others was Captain Sparrow's wife."
Markson nodded. "All true."
"They told me that there would be a reward if I helped them. I told them I could not betray the Reynard the Fox, who is captain of the Vixen, under his very nose, so they asked me to go to Port Royal and report where they are. But that is why you are here, is it not?"
"It is indeed," Markson confirmed. "I traced the women as far as this. Where is the Vixen now?"
The man answered. "She sailed yesterday morning."
"Do you know to where?"
"I do. After I spoke with the two women, I made it my business to find out from their captors where they were to go next."
Markson leaned forward intently. "Tell me."
The other man raised a brow. "So you can follow in your merchant ship with your disgruntled captain?"
Markson glared. "If need be. I must find those women."
"Because one is your commanding officer's betrothed?"
Markson's face became stony. "Because I know all four of them, and I count them as friends."
"The women or their men?"
"Both."
The brown man smiled. "Then I will help you."
Markson raised his own brow. "For a reward?"
"No. Because I owe a debt to Jack Sparrow. Send your troop back to Fort Charles with your merchant ship. You will sail with me."
Markson regarded him speculatively. "What sort of ship do you have?"
"A small sloop, the Sandpiper, two masted. I have a ten man crew."
"Smuggler?"
"Please!" An amused look came into the man's eyes. "I run a cargo business."
"Of course," Markson said. "A fine and noble calling." He held out his hand. "Richard Markson."
The brown man extended his as well. "Daniel Hale."
--
Gwen was shaking slightly as she re-emerged on the main deck. Walking over to the rail, she gripped it tightly and took a deep breath. That was probably one of the hardest conversations she'd ever had. Trying to remember everything Cotton's parrot meant when he said those things, working them into a conversation is some sort of natural sounding way, and all the time acting as if she didn't care what happened to Jack, Will, Joseph or Norrington. Thank God Annamaria hadn't let Antonia interrupt. If she'd had to actually look into Tonia's hurt and bewildered eyes she might not have been able to pull it off. Anna and Elizabeth were no doubt enlightening Tonia even now. Gwen smiled slightly in amusement. It was a good thing that this Stevens fellow didn't know her very well. Gwen didn't think she'd ever uttered the phrase 'Shiver me timbers' before in her entire life. If Jack had heard her, he'd have been laughing so hard he would have given them all away. It was just as well that Annamaria didn't have the same sense of humor.
Gwen glanced idly at the ship. It was a barque. The first two masts were square rigged and the last rigged fore and aft. She hadn't been down to the gun deck, of course, but from the length of the ship she thought it probably had ten or twelve cannon. The Black Pearl was larger, had more guns and was probably faster. Reynard probably wasn't thinking about taking her on in battle. Chances were good that in a battle with the Pearl the Vixen would be mauled fairly badly. With two ships attacking at once, it could be done, but the Vixen could still take heavy damage. No, Reynard was planning something else. "If I were trying to kill Jack," Gwen mused to herself, "I'd need to lure him away from his ship. How would I do that?" Obviously the four women were the bait. What sort of trap would do it? Especially since Jack would be well aware that there was a trap set for him.
Sighing, Gwen turned her face into the wind. It was a fairly stiff breeze, molding her skirt against her legs and snapping the excess fabric out behind her. She closed her eyes and breathed in the salty air. Loose tendrils of her hair teased her face and neck as the wind caressed her skin. With her eyes closed she could almost imagine herself on the deck of the Black Pearl. Any moment now Jack would come up behind her, wrap his arms around her waist and nuzzle the back of her neck. If he was in a particularly playful mood he might steal her hairpins; his nimble fingers working so quickly and carefully that she wouldn't be aware of it until her hair fell down her back. She smiled at the memories. Annoying man! Then he'd coax her down to their cabin to redo her hair, and by the time he left to come back on deck, she'd have more than just her hair to fix. Ah, Jack, she thought. Keep yourself safe. Just keep yourself safe.
--
Also heading northeast, Captain Jack Sparrow mounted the stairs to the quarterdeck to take his watch. He'd managed a few hours of sleep. Still bleary eyed, but functioning. Cotton was at the helm. When Jack came up to him, the blue parrot on his shoulder flapped his wings and sang out "A pirate's life for me!"
"Ain't that the truth," muttered Jack, taking the helm. Cotton nodded courteously and went down to the main deck. The wind was stiff - they were making good time. They should make Crooked Island before nightfall. He took out the letter and studied the coordinates again; adjusted the ship's direction slightly and called out some orders to adjust the sails. Best to anchor short of the island and go ashore in daylight. Jack doubted that the trap meant to kill them was on Crooked Island, but it was best to be careful and not stumble into it at night.
Standing at the helm, Jack wasn't able to turn his face into the wind, but by tilting his head a bit he could feel it flowing over his shoulder and around his neck, where a woman's hands would flow as he kissed her. Jack had known the caress of the wind long before he'd ever known the touch of a lover. The indifferent caresses of a prostitute didn't come close. Gwen's hands felt like the wind; curling smoothly around his neck, sliding sensuously down his back. "Ah, Gwen," he murmured to himself. "Keep yourself safe and I'll find you. I swear I will."
--
Chapter 15
Lieutenant Richard Markson sat in a dingy tavern in Port Antonio staring into a flagon of weak grog. He'd managed to find a small merchant ship in Port Royal whose Captain wasn't completely apoplectic at begin commandeered by the Navy. This wasn't to say that Captain Orford was happy about the idea, but he hadn't threatened Markson's life, health or manhood. Yet. Late yesterday afternoon they'd found a fishing boat matching the description of the one stolen from Port Royal. It had been grounded on the beach in a small cove. Someone had made an attempt to conceal it with shrubbery, but they hadn't done a particularly good job. Markson reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of white satin, which he'd found in the hold of the boat. There had also been several long, honey blond hairs. Elizabeth Turner, no doubt. They'd gone to nearby Port Antonio and questioned everyone they could find, but hadn't come up with much. Yes, there'd been a ship anchored in the cove. No, they didn't know which ship it was. No, they didn't know anything about it. Someone had to know SOMETHING, Markson was sure of it.
Then earlier today he'd received a note. It was short, unsigned and rather vague, but it had told him to be in this tavern at this hour wearing civilian attire. Accordingly, Markson had scrounged up a pair of brown breeches, a worn cotton shirt and a faded dark green coat. Since he disliked wearing a wig unless he had to, his own brown hair was tied neatly back in a ponytail.
Markson raised his eyes and scanned the room again. This time he caught the eye of a man sitting near the bar. He was a sailor by the look of him, mid-forties probably. The overwhelming impression of the man was brown; brown hair, leathery tanned skin, brown eyes, brown clothing. When Markson caught his eye, he rose and walked over, taking the chair opposite. He set his tankard down on the table and reached into his pocket, pulling out a strip of white satin and laying it on the table next to the scrap Markson had found on the fishing boat. With a quick indrawn breath, Markson scooped it up and examined it. It was the same. He looked up quickly. "Where did you find this?"
The man watched him, his face impassive. "In the hold of my boat." He raised his tankard and took a sip. "Shall I tell you the whole?"
"Please do," said Markson grimly.
"Very well," the brown man set down his tankard again. "About a week ago, I was approached by a man who offered me money to make a quick delivery for him. I was to pick up the cargo, which he said would be two men escorting a third person, several miles from Port Royal on a particular day. We were to sail to a small cove east of Port Antonio, where I was to deliver them to a larger ship, the Vixen. They asked if I had a brig or other secure area for the third person." The man shrugged. "I though perhaps they were transporting a slave or a prisoner, but I did not ask. When the men arrived, they told me they had two people to transport, and they paid an additional amount. Again I did not question it. Both these prisoners were women. I thought it odd, but one was black and the other looked Spanish. A slave and an indentured servant maybe? Or perhaps a hostage? Then I recognized the black woman as being a crewmember of the Black Pearl."
"Annamaria Simone," stated Markson flatly.
The brown man took a sip from his tankard. "Aye. I went down to the room in the hold where they were kept and asked her to explain to me what a crewmember of the Black Pearl would be doing aboard my boat as a prisoner. She told me that she, the other woman who she identified as Antonia Swann, and two others had been kidnapped. They told me that one of the others was Captain Sparrow's wife."
Markson nodded. "All true."
"They told me that there would be a reward if I helped them. I told them I could not betray the Reynard the Fox, who is captain of the Vixen, under his very nose, so they asked me to go to Port Royal and report where they are. But that is why you are here, is it not?"
"It is indeed," Markson confirmed. "I traced the women as far as this. Where is the Vixen now?"
The man answered. "She sailed yesterday morning."
"Do you know to where?"
"I do. After I spoke with the two women, I made it my business to find out from their captors where they were to go next."
Markson leaned forward intently. "Tell me."
The other man raised a brow. "So you can follow in your merchant ship with your disgruntled captain?"
Markson glared. "If need be. I must find those women."
"Because one is your commanding officer's betrothed?"
Markson's face became stony. "Because I know all four of them, and I count them as friends."
"The women or their men?"
"Both."
The brown man smiled. "Then I will help you."
Markson raised his own brow. "For a reward?"
"No. Because I owe a debt to Jack Sparrow. Send your troop back to Fort Charles with your merchant ship. You will sail with me."
Markson regarded him speculatively. "What sort of ship do you have?"
"A small sloop, the Sandpiper, two masted. I have a ten man crew."
"Smuggler?"
"Please!" An amused look came into the man's eyes. "I run a cargo business."
"Of course," Markson said. "A fine and noble calling." He held out his hand. "Richard Markson."
The brown man extended his as well. "Daniel Hale."
--
Gwen was shaking slightly as she re-emerged on the main deck. Walking over to the rail, she gripped it tightly and took a deep breath. That was probably one of the hardest conversations she'd ever had. Trying to remember everything Cotton's parrot meant when he said those things, working them into a conversation is some sort of natural sounding way, and all the time acting as if she didn't care what happened to Jack, Will, Joseph or Norrington. Thank God Annamaria hadn't let Antonia interrupt. If she'd had to actually look into Tonia's hurt and bewildered eyes she might not have been able to pull it off. Anna and Elizabeth were no doubt enlightening Tonia even now. Gwen smiled slightly in amusement. It was a good thing that this Stevens fellow didn't know her very well. Gwen didn't think she'd ever uttered the phrase 'Shiver me timbers' before in her entire life. If Jack had heard her, he'd have been laughing so hard he would have given them all away. It was just as well that Annamaria didn't have the same sense of humor.
Gwen glanced idly at the ship. It was a barque. The first two masts were square rigged and the last rigged fore and aft. She hadn't been down to the gun deck, of course, but from the length of the ship she thought it probably had ten or twelve cannon. The Black Pearl was larger, had more guns and was probably faster. Reynard probably wasn't thinking about taking her on in battle. Chances were good that in a battle with the Pearl the Vixen would be mauled fairly badly. With two ships attacking at once, it could be done, but the Vixen could still take heavy damage. No, Reynard was planning something else. "If I were trying to kill Jack," Gwen mused to herself, "I'd need to lure him away from his ship. How would I do that?" Obviously the four women were the bait. What sort of trap would do it? Especially since Jack would be well aware that there was a trap set for him.
Sighing, Gwen turned her face into the wind. It was a fairly stiff breeze, molding her skirt against her legs and snapping the excess fabric out behind her. She closed her eyes and breathed in the salty air. Loose tendrils of her hair teased her face and neck as the wind caressed her skin. With her eyes closed she could almost imagine herself on the deck of the Black Pearl. Any moment now Jack would come up behind her, wrap his arms around her waist and nuzzle the back of her neck. If he was in a particularly playful mood he might steal her hairpins; his nimble fingers working so quickly and carefully that she wouldn't be aware of it until her hair fell down her back. She smiled at the memories. Annoying man! Then he'd coax her down to their cabin to redo her hair, and by the time he left to come back on deck, she'd have more than just her hair to fix. Ah, Jack, she thought. Keep yourself safe. Just keep yourself safe.
--
Also heading northeast, Captain Jack Sparrow mounted the stairs to the quarterdeck to take his watch. He'd managed a few hours of sleep. Still bleary eyed, but functioning. Cotton was at the helm. When Jack came up to him, the blue parrot on his shoulder flapped his wings and sang out "A pirate's life for me!"
"Ain't that the truth," muttered Jack, taking the helm. Cotton nodded courteously and went down to the main deck. The wind was stiff - they were making good time. They should make Crooked Island before nightfall. He took out the letter and studied the coordinates again; adjusted the ship's direction slightly and called out some orders to adjust the sails. Best to anchor short of the island and go ashore in daylight. Jack doubted that the trap meant to kill them was on Crooked Island, but it was best to be careful and not stumble into it at night.
Standing at the helm, Jack wasn't able to turn his face into the wind, but by tilting his head a bit he could feel it flowing over his shoulder and around his neck, where a woman's hands would flow as he kissed her. Jack had known the caress of the wind long before he'd ever known the touch of a lover. The indifferent caresses of a prostitute didn't come close. Gwen's hands felt like the wind; curling smoothly around his neck, sliding sensuously down his back. "Ah, Gwen," he murmured to himself. "Keep yourself safe and I'll find you. I swear I will."
--
