Chapter Seven: Frère Jacques
Strolling along the eastern docks of Port Royale at a rather merry pace, Jack was finally finding comforts in his alter ego, Jacques. The sun hung languidly in the sky, approaching its noon apex. Dozens of time Jack had walked down these very docks, a wanted man. Now, behind nothing more than a trick of mere smoke and mirrors, Jack was once again a free man. If being Jacques didn't require wearing uncomfortably tight knickers and nearly a stone's worth of embroidered garish clothing, he would give some serious thought to keeping up the charade, if only to elevate his own sense of freedom.
A half smile crept across Jack's face as he shrewdly surveyed the port town's morning inhabitants. Men, who would have stepped on Jack's toes, stepped aside courteously for Jacques. Women, who would have cast their nose down at Jack, batted their eyes and simpered for his attention. Children, who would gawk and laugh at Jack, well... gawked and laughed at Jacques. Children were far harder to trick at such games, as they saw only what they wished to see, and not what was plainly presented to them. A trait Jack wished he possessed.
Jack scratched at his freshly shaven chin, still in awe of the magnitude of his transformation. Jacques was a clean-shaven man, and Jack was anything but. After a heated dispute with Montebello, Jack had lost not only his mustache and beard (both of which he'd maintained so long as he had hair willing to grow there), but a substantial chunk of his flowing locks as well. Jack surmised it would take the better part of a year to grow back to honed perfection. He only hoped his recently excavated baby face (Who knew?) wouldn't dissuade the ladies too much. But if the looks a fawn-haired doxy by the doorstep of a bakery kept sending his way, Jack didn't think that would be a problem.
Montebello had abandoned him shortly after breakfast in dogged pursuit of a dark-eyed, red-haired vixen he had spotted looking 'distinctly lost' on the docks earlier in the morning. Despite the old itch to offer advice to the man who was creeping up on his twenty-seventh year (and without a marriage prospect in sight), Jack refused to scratch it. Jack would have felt awfully two-faced dispensing sound advice to him, and then willfully and shamelessly abandoning such advice when it came to his own love life. Plus, the fact that Jack looked like a pastry puff, in all those flounces and ruffles, did not help further his cause in the slightest. Only a fool would take a man in purple (Montebello had laid claim it was 'lilac', not purple) tights seriously.
Tugging on the tails of his crimson waistcoat and pleading for it to behave whilst out in public, Jack trekked further into the town. His first instinct was to head to his favourite establishment, the Ox and Partridge, though he wasn't entirely sure they were serving at this hour. His presence would also not go unnoticed, and in such a tavern, he might as well just walk in with the bloody French flag wrapped about his shoulders, singing La Marseillaise* whilst hitting the patrons over the head with baguettes.
The image brought a faltering grin to his taut lips, but he quickly corrected it.
He must keep a low profile, he assured himself. Though decked out as he was, it seemed near impossible. Street urchins were drawn to his presence, and though their tiny grubby little hands tugged on his heartstrings, he could not risk answering them. Briault was not a charitable man by any stretch of the imagination, or was he a kind one. He was the kind of man, Jack supposed, that kicked puppies for sport and recreation.
Meandering deeper within the city, he came to stand outside an antiques store, which boasted mostly fakes and frauds, Jack determined on closer inspection. He had found a number of forgeries within Briault's own collection. A Ming Dynasty vase that was five years old, at most and shoddily crafted. 'First edition' novels that on further examination had been second, third or even fourth printings. Jack had quite the eye for spotting forgeries at one hundred paces or better, after what seemed a lifetime of piracy and swashbuckling. If by some dire consequence he were forced to turn -perish the thought- respectable, antiquities was something of a lucrative field. That is, if the devil doesn't cash in on his soul first.
Faintly, he heard a name called behind him, but ignored it as he scanned through the window display of the boutique. It wasn't until nearly a full minute after that Jack realized the name called had been his.
"I said, man, are you dumb as well as deaf?" A huffily irritated voice snapped from behind.
Coughing, Jack hoped the frog in his throat would see him through his ruse. You are Jacques, not Jack. Jacques, not Jack, he chanted silently as if to chase away the devils of his own loose forked tongue. "If you've come seeking charity, zen your pleas do indeed fall on deaf ears." Jack even amazed himself by the ease at which he slipped into an accent other than his own.
Shuffling, several pairs of feet had taken a bold step closer. "Your charity is not necessary, nor expected. However, your cooperation is."
This was neither the time nor the place to allow some neighborhood hoodlums to rough him up for pocket change, nor to exchange blows with the early morning drunks. Lifting his nose as high as possible, without obstructing his sight, Jack pivoted on his heals, prepared to dig in.
The crowd behind him was far closer, far larger and far more militant than he had expected. A knot twisted at the center of his stomach as he focused on the man just past the very tip of his nose. Commodore James Norrington.
Jack gulped.
Norrington stood nearly a full foot over Jack, his stern face twitching with impatience as he looked down at the man. In his wake, no less than half a dozen sailors armed with muskets and equally as intimidating frowns. The recognizable mug of Norrington's second in command, a man he knew only as Gillette, bobbed just over Norrington's right shoulder.
"While you are unreceptive to my previous requests, I'm glad to see you are not a fool as to take my demands as lightly." Norrington's patience was noticeably thin in the way he spoke and moved. Had it not been for his stature, uniform and presence, he would have looked like one very irate child tugging on the skirts of a preoccupied wet nurse.
Jack handled this situation much as he did most others, with charm, arrogance and feigned innocence. "I heard no requests nor any valid demands."
"Then, Sir, take the wax out of your ears and listen." Gillette chided, standing well behind the shield of Norrington's shoulder.
Jack tossed a callous snort towards his men, including the junior officer. "Call off your English bulldogs, Commodore. Unless, you wish me to leash them myself." Despite the explosive mixture of adrenaline, caffeine and rum, Jack was astonished at the outward calm he was able to exude.
"How very bold of you, Captain, particularly as you are the very one in need of such a leashing. I am under direct orders to detain you, by any means necessary," Norrington motioned with tilt of his wigged head to a lively sailor to his rear, with iron cuffs shaking in his anxious hands, "and escort you to Fort Charles."
Gulping inaudibly once more, Jack had a valid and gross aversion to Fort Charles, particularly the brig portion of it. "Tell your superior I will not play fox in his hunt. Nor will I be struck down by his pack of hounds." He kept up the false accent, despite the tiny voices in his head telling him it was all for naught.
The Commodore let out an exasperated sigh, rather noticeably distraught. With the slight nod of his head, his sailors advanced on Jack. "We have no time to play such games, I assure you. You haven't been present at any of your foregoing appointments."
"Appointments?" Jack winced. Norrington's kind of appointments were the ones he sorely wished to avoid. "S-surely you misunderstand, Commodore."
"Perhaps it is you who misunderstand my tenacity, Monsieur." The last word seeped with disdain. Something flickered in Norrington's unnerving gaze. Contempt? Recognition? Whatever it was, it disturbed Jack immeasurably. Norrington possessed the sort of eyes that could bore deep inside a man's soul, and leave him bereft of wit and breath, without so much as an apology.
He knew. Norrington knew.
Jack was as good as a dead man.
Dumbfounded at the accusations and discovery of his secret, Jack stumbled backwards. A doughy pale-faced sailor gave him a push in the other direction, deterring his hasty retreat. The dread that had only earlier been trickling into his heart now rushed forward as if the dam of his confidence had been punctured. Worst yet, demolished.
A trace of a smile on his thin lips, Norrington served his orders with smug, expedient satisfaction. "Clap him in irons, men. I'm sure the Governor will see him set with a punishment fitting of a man of his... character."
Oh, merde.
It had been not even a day since Will found solace in Port Royale. The Black Pearl had launched him a quarterboat while nearly ten leagues off from Kingston Harbour, as not to alert the Royal Navy to its presence. While it was easy to get caught up in the lively afternoon bustle, his thoughts floated to and fro. Naturally, he should have been concerned about Jack, the rum, and Jack whilst in the presence of said rum, but he wasn't. He thought only of Elizabeth. Though he'd not been at sea more than a month's time (which Elizabeth had agreed to and even encouraged), his wife's stomach had grown even larger, which he had thought impossible. He'd been mindful not to squeeze her too hard, even though the aching deep in his heart begged her closeness. She glowed and beamed like he'd only once seen her before, whilst on a daring albeit brief adventure on the high seas. Next time, he promised, he would not leave port without her and their child. He was bitterly determined not to become to his child what his father had been to him: a ghost of a memory.
Thoughts of his family, past and present, haunted his thoughts the entire journey from northern tip of Cuba to southern scoop of Jamaica, and even now that he was waiting nervously in the parlor room of his father-in-law's mansion.
The Governor so rarely called upon him, which was to be expected. Short of the joint fascination in Elizabeth's welfare, they had little in common and even littler to speak of. His wife's father was certainly not a terse man, quite the contrary. He was a warm, forgiving and embracing soul, but unfortunately was cursed with a brain the size of a peanut. Elizabeth must have inherited more than just her comely looks from her mother.
As he twiddled with the feather of his favourite hat, Will startled as the door to the parlor opened abruptly, without so much as a warning creak. He rose and straightened with the stiffness of a soldier, readying himself for an inspection. Though Governor Swann was no military strategist, Will could not over look the fact that the man commanded a significant appropriation of the Royal Navy.
Governor Weatherby Swann gave a slight bow as he slipped into the parlor, his face aglow with delight. "My dear boy, you look near unrecognizable with that rugged tan of yours!"
Will's nose crinkled as he tilted his head in question. Had his skin really bronzed that badly? Elizabeth had mentioned it, but only when she had less tanned and more censored parts to compare it to. "T-Thank you, Sir." Will decided to take it as a gracious compliment.
"I do apologize for my haste in calling on you," said the governor with a genuine smile, "particularly with you only just arriving from a recent expedition."
"Assuredly, I do not mind." Will accepted the apology with a capricious bow.
Governor Swann's face brightened, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "But, as you see, an old companion of mine, arrived on the near same day as you. It seems both of you hold a great fondness for chess, am I correct?"
Will nodded impulsively, trying to keep his eyes attentive on the doting father-in-law. He was infectiously charming in his sincerity, almost like a child at times. A child, Will reminded himself, with two thousand armed sailors at his beck and call. "Yes, Sir. I took up the sport as a child, and have dabbled in it for years."
"Splendid!" His father-in-law clasped his hands together. "As much of a military man as I am," Will sincerely tried not to roll his eyes, but failed. "I'm rather ill schooled on the gamut of such sports. If you would indulge me, I'd very much like to watch a master at work."
"Sir, I assure you, I'm no master-"
Swann shook his head. "I'll hear nothing of the sort." He stepped forward, placing a slight hand on the boy's shoulder. "Surely you'll fare better against my dear foe than I ever could."
After a hesitant breath, he consented. "As you wish, Governor Swann."
Corralling the boy through the parlor doors and into a lavish games room, Governor Swann nearly bubbled over with (what Will thought to be) girlish glee. Most of the furniture and decoration centered on a large whist table, which looked costly but well used. Will never would have guessed the Governor for a gambling man. Then again, the man's pocket money was rather equivalent to the national debt of a small country, he surmised.
Suddenly, Will became alerted to another presence in the room. Tucked in the corner of the room, a dark figure sat relaxed on an overstuffed chair, a brandy snifter tucked in his finely manicured hand. The figure gave the new company little deliberation as he crossed and uncrossed his legs. Though Will couldn't make out the man's face, his firmly-set jaw spoke of unquestioned authority. His upturned nose hinted at generations of nobility and wealth. The sprigs of purple silk in his attire boldly alluded to him as royalty, even if the words themselves were never spoken.
Whether sensing Will's hesitation, or simply being unable to contain himself any further, Governor Swann cleared his through. "This is Master William Turner, my beloved son-in-law."
The man gave an aloof nod in greeting. A tinge of familiarity flashed in his dark eyes, laden with irritation. Will winced.
"William," said the governor, "May I present to you one of my dearest adversaries and dare I say, friends, Captain Jacques Henri Briault."
It took all the restraint Will had left in him not to leap out the nearest bay window.
Oh, shit.
Author's Note: As always, stay tuned for hilarity to ensue! These next few chapters are coming with far less ease than the last, so I may not be so prompt to update the story. I will, assuredly, try my best though. Leave a review if you've got time. They are the best (non-alcoholic) kind of inspiration!
*La Marseillaise, the French national anthem, wasn't written until 1792 and didn't exist during the timeline of this story (c. 1734) but nevertheless, I had to give a nod to it. While writing this chapter, my winamp player repeated that song for nearly half an hour before I realized what was going on. It haunted my dreams until I finally snuck it into the fic. La Marseillaise, here's to you! *toast*