The next morning I awoke while the light was still dim and grey to the
sound of a faint scratching. In shadows of the next cell I saw a figure
crouched over the doors, hands moving furiously.
"Captain Sparrow?" I asked hesitantly, for he had been unnoticed for a while now, tending his wounds best he could in the corners of the cell. Face pale, hair lank but eyes glinting over his work he looked like some evil imp. I crept towards him, picking my way over the sleeping crew.
"Nearly done." His voice had its usual swagger, but was low and cracked from disuse. I looked over to see what he was about. I saw the fine pile of metal shavings on the floor before I realised – a file!
"That bastard Cannonball 'ad one all along. Don't know when he were figurin' on usin' it, but I got bored o' waitin'." He spoke without looking up, and continued the filing. In the faint light I could see the metal of the bars curling away from Sparrow's file. With a sickening sense of dramatic timing, the first ray of sun shot through our tiny porthole just in time for the faint clunk and clang of the bar falling away to wake the crew.
Jacks hand, pale from lack of sun and thin as a girls, bent the lock mechanism away from the door with surprising strength. The door opened with a creak and Sparrow stepped smartly out – already regaining his arrogant swagger.
"You first, me lady." He held his hand out to me, bowing low and I was reminded of the gentleman he briefly became on our short stay in Africa. I took his hand and fairly staggered from the cell, the relief was unbelievable.
The crew were now wide awake, but it was clear many still thought they were dreaming and there was a brief scuffle over who was to get out of the cell first. The other cell was quickly opened and soon Sparrow had his crew standing before him. With his sword, luckily found hanging nearby he was now much like his own self again. His speech was short, but powerful.
"To arms, my men! We 'ave wallowed 'ere long enuff, lets take back our ship!" All at once these men, who had grown weak as kittens on the fare of prisoners, were roaring lions once again. They grabbed anything they could find; grappling hooks, marlinespikes and gully knives and fighting their way up the steep staircase that lead to the hatch.
I was dragged along with them, though the crew had regained their strength quickly enough, I was still weak from my ordeal and had to will to fight against that ocean of strong arms and sturdy chests.
The sun hung heavy and red in the morning sky, and many had to shade their eyes at the first glimpse of sunlight after so long. Even I could tell we were way off course, the air was tainted with frost and the wind was harsh. Most of the slaves were gathered round the wheel, several held navigation implements in their hands and all looked confused.
"Attack men!" Came the cry from Sparrow, but the crew didn't need telling they were upon the group at the wheel in seconds, their makeshift weapons raised menacingly.
The battle was brief but harsh, and I will not dwell on it. Though the slaves had the advantage of better diet and better weapons the crew were angry as baited bears and fought fiercely. Ten or twelve slaves had fallen and Cannonball Jeff had another hanging by the scruff of his neck overboard before one slave clambered heavily onto the rigging and shot his pistol twice. The scene on deck fell silent so quickly, I heard the shot fall, though I was half-hidden in the hatch still.
"We surrender." The words were spoken with difficulty, formed by a mouth used to guttural, African words. Sparrow cleaned the blood from his knife, folded it and slipped it into his pocket in one smooth movement. I never even saw who he killed.
"I'm listenin', mate." The man who had spoken looked like the leader of the slaves, he was tall and broad and a cutlass was lashed about his waist with a length of rope. At the sound of Sparrow's rough accent he looked at a loss, a stream of African poured from him as he carefully climbed down from the rigging.
"He says..." Ana cut in, then stopped when she noticed the eye's of the whole crew hungrily apon her. Sparrow noticed also and quickly guided the slave and Ana past their eager audience and into his quarters.
The rest of the day was not as pleasant as I had dreamed for my first hours of freedom. The dead bodies of the eleven slaves and three crewmembers who died in battle were cast overboard (not before any valuables had been removed from the bodies, I was sickened to see). Among the dead men was Butler, a rather stuffy old man who always wore a wig – he had been the ships surgeon and in the hours that followed he was sorely missed. There were many wounds to tend to. All that could be done was to clean out the blood and bind them with linen, which soon ran short and was replaced with the cleanest strips of material that could be found. My dress was deeply plundered for the purpose till it was more tattered and threadbare than ever. The only doctoring any of us could do then was with the remains of the rum stock. Sparrow, Anamaria and the slave remained below deck all day, and none of us dared disturb them.
The deck grew quiet as evening drew in, however and I stood alone, not knowing where I belonged or what I should do. The air was clean and fresh after the dank brig, and as I watched the sunset, crisp and red in the cold sky I wondered for the first time in many long weeks what the future held for me.
"Captain Sparrow?" I asked hesitantly, for he had been unnoticed for a while now, tending his wounds best he could in the corners of the cell. Face pale, hair lank but eyes glinting over his work he looked like some evil imp. I crept towards him, picking my way over the sleeping crew.
"Nearly done." His voice had its usual swagger, but was low and cracked from disuse. I looked over to see what he was about. I saw the fine pile of metal shavings on the floor before I realised – a file!
"That bastard Cannonball 'ad one all along. Don't know when he were figurin' on usin' it, but I got bored o' waitin'." He spoke without looking up, and continued the filing. In the faint light I could see the metal of the bars curling away from Sparrow's file. With a sickening sense of dramatic timing, the first ray of sun shot through our tiny porthole just in time for the faint clunk and clang of the bar falling away to wake the crew.
Jacks hand, pale from lack of sun and thin as a girls, bent the lock mechanism away from the door with surprising strength. The door opened with a creak and Sparrow stepped smartly out – already regaining his arrogant swagger.
"You first, me lady." He held his hand out to me, bowing low and I was reminded of the gentleman he briefly became on our short stay in Africa. I took his hand and fairly staggered from the cell, the relief was unbelievable.
The crew were now wide awake, but it was clear many still thought they were dreaming and there was a brief scuffle over who was to get out of the cell first. The other cell was quickly opened and soon Sparrow had his crew standing before him. With his sword, luckily found hanging nearby he was now much like his own self again. His speech was short, but powerful.
"To arms, my men! We 'ave wallowed 'ere long enuff, lets take back our ship!" All at once these men, who had grown weak as kittens on the fare of prisoners, were roaring lions once again. They grabbed anything they could find; grappling hooks, marlinespikes and gully knives and fighting their way up the steep staircase that lead to the hatch.
I was dragged along with them, though the crew had regained their strength quickly enough, I was still weak from my ordeal and had to will to fight against that ocean of strong arms and sturdy chests.
The sun hung heavy and red in the morning sky, and many had to shade their eyes at the first glimpse of sunlight after so long. Even I could tell we were way off course, the air was tainted with frost and the wind was harsh. Most of the slaves were gathered round the wheel, several held navigation implements in their hands and all looked confused.
"Attack men!" Came the cry from Sparrow, but the crew didn't need telling they were upon the group at the wheel in seconds, their makeshift weapons raised menacingly.
The battle was brief but harsh, and I will not dwell on it. Though the slaves had the advantage of better diet and better weapons the crew were angry as baited bears and fought fiercely. Ten or twelve slaves had fallen and Cannonball Jeff had another hanging by the scruff of his neck overboard before one slave clambered heavily onto the rigging and shot his pistol twice. The scene on deck fell silent so quickly, I heard the shot fall, though I was half-hidden in the hatch still.
"We surrender." The words were spoken with difficulty, formed by a mouth used to guttural, African words. Sparrow cleaned the blood from his knife, folded it and slipped it into his pocket in one smooth movement. I never even saw who he killed.
"I'm listenin', mate." The man who had spoken looked like the leader of the slaves, he was tall and broad and a cutlass was lashed about his waist with a length of rope. At the sound of Sparrow's rough accent he looked at a loss, a stream of African poured from him as he carefully climbed down from the rigging.
"He says..." Ana cut in, then stopped when she noticed the eye's of the whole crew hungrily apon her. Sparrow noticed also and quickly guided the slave and Ana past their eager audience and into his quarters.
The rest of the day was not as pleasant as I had dreamed for my first hours of freedom. The dead bodies of the eleven slaves and three crewmembers who died in battle were cast overboard (not before any valuables had been removed from the bodies, I was sickened to see). Among the dead men was Butler, a rather stuffy old man who always wore a wig – he had been the ships surgeon and in the hours that followed he was sorely missed. There were many wounds to tend to. All that could be done was to clean out the blood and bind them with linen, which soon ran short and was replaced with the cleanest strips of material that could be found. My dress was deeply plundered for the purpose till it was more tattered and threadbare than ever. The only doctoring any of us could do then was with the remains of the rum stock. Sparrow, Anamaria and the slave remained below deck all day, and none of us dared disturb them.
The deck grew quiet as evening drew in, however and I stood alone, not knowing where I belonged or what I should do. The air was clean and fresh after the dank brig, and as I watched the sunset, crisp and red in the cold sky I wondered for the first time in many long weeks what the future held for me.