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Chapter Fifteen:

Suddenly, the laughter stopped. The door to the room had opened. "Captain Voller, Sir?"

"What is it?" the captain answered, irritated by the interruption.

"Wreckage, Sir, in the water. Looks like a ship sank."

"Don't touch him till I get back," Captain Voller warned Mr. Craft, before leaving the room.

No sooner had the portly captain left the room then the East India agent grabbed Prescott by the collar and pulled him to his feet. Holding the officer against the wall, Craft snarled, "thought you'd ge' away with makin' jokes at my expense, did ya?"

Prescott blinked a few times in a vain effort to focus his eyes, but the pain radiating up from his arm was making even the most menial task rather impossible. Clearly, making fun of the hulking Mr. Craft had not been the best idea Prescott ever had. It was for reasons like this current situation that Prescott had always warned Annie to mind her tongue. Perhaps he would have been wise to take his own advice.

"No' gonna answer me, cabin boy!" Craft shouted. The man apparently had a severely limited supply of patience. Prescott's inability to answer only cut at Craft's already short fuse. Deciding not to wait for an answer, the East India agent threw Prescott down to the ground. Prescott groaned as he took most of his weight with his injured arm. Before he had the chance to recover himself, Craft delivered a powerful kick to the officer's stomach.

From his current position, half under the table and half under Mr. Craft, Prescott was at a loss as to how he was going to escape a particularly brutal beating from a particularly angry agent. Craft kicked Prescott again, remarkably in almost the exact same spot. Prescott rolled onto his other side in hopes of avoiding another kick. Unfortunately, Craft only took this opportunity to kick him in the back. Prescott grunted as the jolt seemed to shake every bone in his body.

"Well, cabin boy, 'ad enough?"

Gathering his waning reserves of strength, Prescott reached up to the table top and somehow managed to pull himself to his feet. "It'll be a cold day in hell before I'm beaten by the likes of you," he said, his voice much weaker than he would have hoped.

Craft laughed off Prescott's comment. Pulling a knife from his belt, he smiled and winked at the officer, "I think yer a mite too cocky fer my likin'."

Mouth shut from now on. No more goading men who are seven feet tall and nearly as wide into a fight, Prescott mentally scolded himself for his brash words. "Coward," he said, completely ignoring his better judgment. "You with a knife and me with nothing. Too frightened to face me in a fair fight?" Spending time with pirates must have adversely affected his mind. What was he thinking saying these things to Craft? He was in no condition to fight this man, fairly or otherwise.

Craft's eyes darkened and he threw the knife into the wall directly behind Prescott. In spite of himself, the officer flinched at the thought of the knife missing it's mark and ending up between his own eyes.

"Alright, cabin boy," Craft challenged. "Let's see wot ya got."

Prescott rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell."

Craft growled and lunged at Prescott, catching the officer around the waist and taking him off of his feet. Landing square on his back, with Craft on top of him, all of the air rushed out of his lungs. Using all of his weight, Prescott managed to push Craft off of him. Coughing and desperately trying to breathe normally again, Prescott scrambled to his feet. This was indeed the dumbest idea he'd had in a long time.

"You was foolin' yerself to think you were a match fer me," Craft declared triumphantly.

Prescott shook his head in an effort to clear his vision. His eyes were beginning to play tricks on him because he could have sworn that he saw Sparrow move in his chains, behind Craft. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Craft," Prescott said, "but I'm just warming up." Balling his right hand into a fist, Prescott swung at Craft. That was his first mistake. Even though he hit the hulk of a man in the face, the force of the impact sent fresh waves of pain coursing up his aching right arm. Second mistake was leaving himself vulnerable for a counterattack from the now enraged East India agent. Craft brought his iron fist down against Prescott's already throbbing jaw. Hitting the floor with a thud, Prescott was starting to see spots in front of his eyes. Rolling onto his back, he stared into the face of his torment.

"Yer a fool, cabin boy," Craft said, kicking the fallen officer while he was down.

Prescott was just about to voice his agreement, when the clank of chains moving caught Craft's attention. Turning to see what was happening, Craft faced the "unconscious" pirate. Sparrow, thank God, was far from down for the count. Miraculously, he was ready for the East India agent. Using the shackles for support, Sparrow swung both his legs up and kicked the unsuspecting Craft in the chest. The force of Sparrow's attack sent the brute flailing across the room. Craft hit the opposite wall.

Using the brief window of time that Sparrow had opened, Prescott pulled himself up by sheer force of will. Stumbling across the room, the officer retrieved the burning branding iron from the stove. He could almost feel Craft approaching from behind. Spinning around, Prescott swung the heated metal and clubbed Craft in the face. Screaming, Craft brought his hands to his scalded face and fell to his knees.

Prescott stepped away from the East India agent. Craft's face was hideously disfigured, and smoking, and once again Prescott's senses were assaulted by the stink of charred flesh. Setting the iron back in the stove, Prescott covered his nose with his uninjured arm. Unfortunately, Craft's belt held the only keys to Sparrow's shackles, so Prescott tentatively leaned forward to retrieve them.

"You son of a –" Craft roared, as he sprung up from the ground and pushed Prescott's tired body up against the wall. Completely without warning, Craft brought his fist crashing up against Prescott's right eye. Prescott's head snapped to the side, and the officer fell to the floor, belatedly realizing that Craft had been wearing a ring.

"And you . . . " Craft had turned on Sparrow.

Prescott could feel the warmth of his own blood running down the side of his face. The darkness at the edge of his vision was threatening to consume him.

"I'll make you wish you never did that," Craft was threatening the pirate. He punched Sparrow twice in the abdomen. Unable to dodge the blows, the pirate's feet gave way beneath him. A loud snap reverberated through the room, Sparrow's shoulder had dislocated as all of his weight was once again supported by his bloodied wrists.

Even through his clouded eyes, Prescott could see the pain in Sparrow's face. Craft was furious. He would kill Sparrow without a second thought. Prescott lifted his battered body off of the ground, slowly as not to draw the East India man's attention.

Craft drew back his arm and slugged Sparrow in the stomach a third time. "Beg me, an' I'll make this quick."

Somehow, the pirate pulled himself up so that his face was level with Craft's. Sparrow's eyes threw daggers at his attacker. Instead of pleading for Craft's mercy, he spit in the hulk's face.

Quick as lightening, Craft backhanded the pirate. Sparrow again fell, blood dripping from his mouth. This time he was not able to contain a pain-filled cry.

"That was yer one chance, pirate," Craft declared.

Steadying himself, Prescott pried Craft's knife from the wall.

"Craft!" Prescott yelled the East India agent's name. He turned his mangled face to the officer. "Go to the devil," Prescott snarled as he plunged the blade into Craft's chest. The man's eyes went wide with shock before he finally collapsed in a heap at Prescott's feet.

Standing of his own volition, again, the pirate was eyeing Prescott with something that almost looked like respect. "Ye know," Sparrow said, his voice gravely and his eyes tired. "Watchin' ye jus' now, Scotty. I'd almost think ye been a pirate your 'ole life."

Prescott rolled his eyes. "Something tells me, I'd be dead if you hadn't intervened –" he stopped short, and furrowed his brow. "What did you call me?"

"Said I didn't have to call ye Capt'n Tarret anymore."

Arching an eyebrow, Prescott pulled the ring of keys from Craft's belt. Jingling them in the air, he stood eye to eye with Sparrow. "Well, then . . . Jackie. What say you show me how to take over a ship?"

88888

"Captain Laffley?" Ana repeated. "You look far to young to be a Captain. You wouldn't lie to a lady, would you, sir?"

The man in front of her laughed at her question, his light brown eyes sparkling. "Never, Miss," he answered, "but I would say almost anything if it would mean a dance with you."

Ana smiled broadly. When Prescott had asked if she wanted to go to the Governor's ball, she had almost said "no." Usually, the event meant dancing with old men and talking about battles and ships that Ana knew nothing about. A young captain with soft brown hair, a beguiling smile, and no wife was definitely not the norm. Ana curtsied and extended her hand to the officer. Planting a kiss on the top of her hand, the officer led her to the dance floor.

"So, my dear Captain Laffley. My brother is the youngest captain I've ever known. He had to successfully fight off three French ships at once to earn his commission so early in his career. What did you do?"

"Nothing so daring, I'm sure," the captain said. "My ship was attacked by pirates. The monsters killed my Captain and the other lieutenants. They needed to be brought to justice. I did what any man would have done."

"You attacked the pirates . . . alone?"

"Not alone. I had the help of a very able crew . . . and the 2nd lieutenant, Jackson," something changed in the captain's voice. "Jackson didn't make it."

"I'm so sorry," Ana said quickly, hoping the memories had not caused Captain Laffley too much pain.

He shook his head. "No one could sail like that man. His loss was regrettable."

Ana awoke from her dream suddenly as she rolled from one side of the cot to the other and fell gracelessly to the floor. Shaking her head, she rose to her feet. As far as she could remember, she had never fallen from bed in the midst of a dream. Blinking she tried to remember what she had seen in her sleep . . . Chris. They had been dancing.

Walking towards the door, Ana stumbled again. The dream had not caused her to fall out of bed.

The ship was turning.

TBC

Don't forget to review on your way out. Also, I've posted a little J/A one shot called "Scars." So, have a look if you need another J/A fix!