Chapter 12 - The Spanish English French Woman

Days passed. Before we knew it, it had been four months. We docked one afternoon in Port Milagro. We went into the first inn we saw and found the manager. The sign above the door read Sleeping Bear Inn and the name really seemed to fit the place. It was quiet and dark and there was no one to be seen. Nick found Mr. Daniels in a back room at a desk, counting coins.

"What can I help you fine people with?" he asked with a false politeness. Father explained that we wanted a room fit for four: three men and a woman. Mr. Daniels took a swing from a large mug that held a dark drink with foam near the rim. "I think I've got something..." Several minutes later we were sitting in a dusty old room with two small beds, a table, a chair and no window. Faint light filtered through the grimy air through the cracks and hole in the ceiling of the dank establishment.

"I'm going for a walk," Father said. I offered to accompany him, but he turned me down. "I need to be alone for a while," he said. With that, he left the room again. It was only later that we found out what he did during his walk. I turned to Nick and Jack.

"I'm worried about him," I told them. Nick wrapped his arms around me as Jack responded.

"I know. Me too, love. Me too."

Will walked slowly down the filthy cobblestone street. Port Milagro is much different than its name lets on, he thought. It wasn't until he had been walking aimlessly for near to an hour that he noticed the smoke rising up into the sky from not too far away. In fact, he had been walking toward it for that entire time without being conscious of it. He began to pick up the pace in his steps until he was running at top speed toward the billow of black soot. The screams for help rang in his ears and pressed him on. When he got close enough to realize what was happening, he stopped in his tracks, in shock.

The huge cathedral in the center of Port Milagro was aflame. Even the courtyard just beyond the cast iron gate was being devoured. The flames at the top of the steeple threatened to lick the buildings that surrounded the giant church. Will began slowly toward the black gate. It was difficult to see much and impossible to tell if there was anyone inside the burning building. Just as Will decided in his mind that there was no way to help anyone who may be trapped behind the black cloud, he saw a figure dart past, just behind the entryway.

Elizabeth, he thought. The image of the woman played back again in his head. To his mind's eye, he had just seen his wife, dressed as a nun, run past him, imprisoned in the fire. I'm not going to lose you again. He quickly examined the gate and, although it was securely locked, he immediately recognized the same double pin barrel hinges that held the doors of the prison cells back in Port Royale. A wave of déjà vu hit him hard as he seized one of the two matching benches that sat on either side of the gate and pried the gate door from the wall. He ran deep into the black haze. Just then, he saw the figure again.

"Elizabeth!" he shouted, grabbing her by the waist and flinging her over his shoulder.

"Get your bloody hands off me! I swear I didn't start that fire!" she screeched in a thick English accent. Coughing severely through the dense smog, Will continued to run, struggling to keep the thrashing woman in his arms. Once they reached the town square, a safe distance from the flames, he let her go.

"Elizabeth?" he asked.

"Why the hell do you keep calling me that? I'm not called Elizabeth!" With that, the woman with Elizabeth's face pulled the top of her nun's habit off, revealing a thick head of wavy, raven black hair.

"You're not Elizabeth!" he exclaimed, nearly falling back from shock.

"I'd noticed..." she said, beginning to walk away.

"Wait!" Will shouted. "Who are you?" The woman turned around, having already shed the remainder of her nun's costume, revealing a slightly more suggestive outfit beneath. She was dressed in a short black skirt over tall leather boots complete with a line of silver buckles. Her chest was coved with nothing more than what looked like a black shirt that had seen a bit of fighting. It was torn in half just below her breasts. One sleeve was missing. The ensemble was made complete with a black leather belt and red bandana tied around her head, containing the thick hair.

"Jacquelyn Detoe, mate. Parents were Spanish, born in France, grew up in London. That was before I came out here. Me friends call me Jack," she introduced herself, sticking out her hand and shaking his briskly. "And you are..."

"Will Turner." She took a step back.

"Hey! I know you! You're from the Black Pearl! I heard all about you last summer in Tortuga from some old bloke called Gibbs! You're legen'dry 'round these parts!" All the while she was shaking his hand harder and harder until it felt as though it might fall off.

"Thanks," he muttered, very confused at this point. He looked down at the nun's costume, still in her hands, and the gold and silver chains dangling from the costume's pocket. "What were you doing in there?" he asked. She blushed, embarrassed.

"I swear on me ship, wherever my brother's got it at the moment, that I did not start that fire! I heard something, and I tripped, and the table fell over and I think there were candlesticks on it. But I didn't do it on purpose, I swear! Hey, you don't mind if I meet the rest of the crew, do you? See the Pearl and all that?" Her eyes were sparkling with desire.

"It's just me, my daughter, her fiancé, and Jack. But, sure, you can meet them if you like."

"Great! Lead the way, Mister Turner! Guess you won't be callin' me Jack, now will you? Call me Lyn. My family calls me Lyn." With that, Will, still dazed and bewildered, began the trip back to the Sleeping Bear Inn, with Lyn close at his heels.