A New Life - Chapter 7
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The familiar sounds of the ship, her timbers groaning in time to her riding the waves of the still agitated Caribbean waters, flowed through Jack. He couldn't help but compare them to the sounds of his beloved Pearl. As he stared off into space, his thoughts flew to the Pearl, her crew, his friends. He wondered how she'd done in the battle and the subsequent storm. He could imagine her, the winds lashing her, her crew fighting to just keep her safe.
A sigh escaped his lips. He opened his eyes, not having realized he'd closed them, to see Commodore Norrington sitting where the Doctor had been - what? - half-an-hour ago.
Like cold water, memory of his very dangerous situation washed through him. Thomas Wells, he reminded himself. He saw concern on the Commodore's face, not distrust. Not anger. Not even suspicion. But there was something else.
"How may I be of service?" Jack asked in his Thomas voice, still a little rusty and dry.
The Commodore looked a little discomfited. His gaze went down to his knees, then back to Jack. "I am wondering how you feel, Mr. Wells," was what came out of his mouth, but Jack could see there was something else going on behind those green eyes.
There the man sat, holding Jack's life in the palm of his well-manicured hand, his powdered wig left behind somewhere, but all business, nonetheless. Jack couldn't help but wonder why the Commodore, who was after all the king of his ships, would come in person to ask how he was feeling. Something was up.
The trepidation that had clutched Jack's gut began to release its cruel hold. He wet his lips and smiled, just a quick small smile, up at the imposing officer. "I'm fine."
"No, you are not fine," Norrington countered. "Our ship's doctor tells me you are lucky to be alive."
Again the quick smile. "I've been told that before," Jack said quietly, his eyes studying the sheets covering him. He looked up, brown eyes meeting emerald ones. Time to come on strong as Thomas. "The Good Lord has saved me for a purpose, Commodore. I'm here to serve my King and country, don't you think?"
Norrington looked back thoughtfully. "When you are better, Mr. Wells. That's something I think we should talk about." He leaned forward, his voice lowering to the tones of a fellow conspirator. "I would like to accompany you, when you're better of course, to collect some information about these firearms sales in the colonies."
"It's not just the colonies," Jack assured him. "They're going in through New Orleans." This was true. Jack had attacked a French ship flying German colors six months ago and confiscated the cargo, much of which was firearms and ammunitions, all bound for New Orleans.
"Ah." Norrington nodded thoughtfully. "Where would we be able to obtain the most up-to-date information about these sales? Who is getting them? Who is supplying them?"
Jack bit his lip thoughtfully, remembering to keep his hands still, pressed against the top of his sheet. It was a most unnatural way for him to speak, his hands quiet, only his mouth doing the communicating. "Well, there's the Caribbean here. Jamaica. Tortuga. St. Vincent even. And, of course, New Orleans. But that would be dangerous for you."
The Commodore nodded, his gaze leaving Jack's face and rising up to the rafters close overhead. "Sailing is dangerous, Mr. Wells. It's all a matter of what a man's willing to do or not do."
"What a man can do or cannot do," Jack echoed a thought he'd voice with young Will not that long ago. Such thinking reminded him that the Commodore had lost Elizabeth to Will. He wondered if that wound was healing.
"Once the doctor says you are fit to proceed, we will go. Together," Norrington concluded. "I think New Orleans would be the best choice." He looked to Jack for conformation.
"By all means," Jack nodded. He loved the city with its numerous taverns, brothels, and merchants who treated a pirate like a king. Perhaps he would have a chance to slip away from his Royal Navy companion and get back to his ship. At least he should be able to send them word he was alive and well. Almost well. He knew he was still too weak to even walk the decks, but time would take care of that. He smiled, this time more sincerely up at the Commodore.
"New Orleans it is then," Norrington smiled back, but the warmth of the smile did not reach his eyes.
"Oh, Commodore," came the doctor's voice from the door. "I have Mr. Wells' soup. It's just the thing to cure him."
Jack looked past the Commodore as he stood to allow Dr. Pumpkinhead back into the diminutive cabin. The good if somewhat clumsy doctor held a tray filled with items, all looking highly dangerous in his hands.
"Here, let me," the Commodore offered, taking the tray and turning to set it down on the small table beside Jack's bed. His gaze met Jack's and for one brief moment the two shared the same thought: The Commodore somehow knew Jack was leery of having the doctor anywhere near him with hot liquids.
"Thank you," Jack spoke very softly. He made a mental note; Norrington was a thoughtful person, kind, considerate. Jack wondered how he could use that piece of information to his advantage.
The familiar sounds of the ship, her timbers groaning in time to her riding the waves of the still agitated Caribbean waters, flowed through Jack. He couldn't help but compare them to the sounds of his beloved Pearl. As he stared off into space, his thoughts flew to the Pearl, her crew, his friends. He wondered how she'd done in the battle and the subsequent storm. He could imagine her, the winds lashing her, her crew fighting to just keep her safe.
A sigh escaped his lips. He opened his eyes, not having realized he'd closed them, to see Commodore Norrington sitting where the Doctor had been - what? - half-an-hour ago.
Like cold water, memory of his very dangerous situation washed through him. Thomas Wells, he reminded himself. He saw concern on the Commodore's face, not distrust. Not anger. Not even suspicion. But there was something else.
"How may I be of service?" Jack asked in his Thomas voice, still a little rusty and dry.
The Commodore looked a little discomfited. His gaze went down to his knees, then back to Jack. "I am wondering how you feel, Mr. Wells," was what came out of his mouth, but Jack could see there was something else going on behind those green eyes.
There the man sat, holding Jack's life in the palm of his well-manicured hand, his powdered wig left behind somewhere, but all business, nonetheless. Jack couldn't help but wonder why the Commodore, who was after all the king of his ships, would come in person to ask how he was feeling. Something was up.
The trepidation that had clutched Jack's gut began to release its cruel hold. He wet his lips and smiled, just a quick small smile, up at the imposing officer. "I'm fine."
"No, you are not fine," Norrington countered. "Our ship's doctor tells me you are lucky to be alive."
Again the quick smile. "I've been told that before," Jack said quietly, his eyes studying the sheets covering him. He looked up, brown eyes meeting emerald ones. Time to come on strong as Thomas. "The Good Lord has saved me for a purpose, Commodore. I'm here to serve my King and country, don't you think?"
Norrington looked back thoughtfully. "When you are better, Mr. Wells. That's something I think we should talk about." He leaned forward, his voice lowering to the tones of a fellow conspirator. "I would like to accompany you, when you're better of course, to collect some information about these firearms sales in the colonies."
"It's not just the colonies," Jack assured him. "They're going in through New Orleans." This was true. Jack had attacked a French ship flying German colors six months ago and confiscated the cargo, much of which was firearms and ammunitions, all bound for New Orleans.
"Ah." Norrington nodded thoughtfully. "Where would we be able to obtain the most up-to-date information about these sales? Who is getting them? Who is supplying them?"
Jack bit his lip thoughtfully, remembering to keep his hands still, pressed against the top of his sheet. It was a most unnatural way for him to speak, his hands quiet, only his mouth doing the communicating. "Well, there's the Caribbean here. Jamaica. Tortuga. St. Vincent even. And, of course, New Orleans. But that would be dangerous for you."
The Commodore nodded, his gaze leaving Jack's face and rising up to the rafters close overhead. "Sailing is dangerous, Mr. Wells. It's all a matter of what a man's willing to do or not do."
"What a man can do or cannot do," Jack echoed a thought he'd voice with young Will not that long ago. Such thinking reminded him that the Commodore had lost Elizabeth to Will. He wondered if that wound was healing.
"Once the doctor says you are fit to proceed, we will go. Together," Norrington concluded. "I think New Orleans would be the best choice." He looked to Jack for conformation.
"By all means," Jack nodded. He loved the city with its numerous taverns, brothels, and merchants who treated a pirate like a king. Perhaps he would have a chance to slip away from his Royal Navy companion and get back to his ship. At least he should be able to send them word he was alive and well. Almost well. He knew he was still too weak to even walk the decks, but time would take care of that. He smiled, this time more sincerely up at the Commodore.
"New Orleans it is then," Norrington smiled back, but the warmth of the smile did not reach his eyes.
"Oh, Commodore," came the doctor's voice from the door. "I have Mr. Wells' soup. It's just the thing to cure him."
Jack looked past the Commodore as he stood to allow Dr. Pumpkinhead back into the diminutive cabin. The good if somewhat clumsy doctor held a tray filled with items, all looking highly dangerous in his hands.
"Here, let me," the Commodore offered, taking the tray and turning to set it down on the small table beside Jack's bed. His gaze met Jack's and for one brief moment the two shared the same thought: The Commodore somehow knew Jack was leery of having the doctor anywhere near him with hot liquids.
"Thank you," Jack spoke very softly. He made a mental note; Norrington was a thoughtful person, kind, considerate. Jack wondered how he could use that piece of information to his advantage.