[A/N- I update as fast as I do for fear of losing my grip of Jack's character, as I am no longer in possession of my movie. Thank you all for actually thinking I'm good at it. I have Jack down to a T? This story couldn't get any better? I'm almost afraid to update for fear someone won't like it! I wish I could do a sequel…]
Jack checked his compass for the umpteenth time, praying for the strong wind behind him to go just a little faster. He had to make it to Singapore- to a healer, a shaman, a doctor, anyone who could heal Alinnya without sawing her bloody arm off. He'd made the stitches as deep as he could, backstitching for strength, and losing two jugs of rum over that wrist- not that it had helped any. The stitches had snapped from the swelling, her arm was turning greenish grey, and he'd been forced to wrap bandages around it, tourniquet style, at least twice a day. She'd long since stopped screaming. She'd merely lean into his shoulder, whimpering, tears streaming down her cheeks. It was pathetic. And he hated to see her that way.
"Land ho!' the breeze carried the call from the rigging, and Jack could have almost cried in relief.
***
"Is there anything else ya be needin', good sir?" the elderly man was a con artist in the greatest right, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing in this world that Jack enjoyed so much as scamming a good con artist.
"Yes, I'll be needin' directions to the finest doctor you have in this here harbor," he smiled down at the wizened old man, his eyes glinting wickedly.
"Really, why sir, I am quite experienced-"
"I said directions, man, not the doctor himself."
The old man stopped, looking up at the pistol in his face. "It'd cost ya a shilling, sir."
"I'm sorry," Jack smiled slightly, cocking the pistol. "I'm afraid this is the only currency I have."
"It'll do, it'll do," the old man squeaked, his voice rising to eunuch- like levels. "What would ya be needin?"
"Josh, see to it this man grows roots on the deck while I go fetch our… indisposed," he grinned, handing the pistol to his second mate. "Careful. Shoot him if he breathes too loudly."
"But, captain…"
"Peas in a pot, son," Jack replied, nodding to the wide- eyed old man. "There're always more. You needn't even bother to look."
He headed down the stairs, stopping in the doorway to look at her, she was asleep- somewhat peacefully, for once- and he was hesitant to wake her. Ever since that first morning, he had relished her in her sleep, the way her body relaxed and she could sometimes, almost smile. She looked so much younger, and so much more beautiful to him, despite the high color in her cheeks and sweat on her face from the fever. Something inside him jerked involuntarily at the thought of returning to this ship without her, and he knew the he would never sail a ship without her again, if only in spirit. He sighed, walking over to the bunk, and began to scoop her in his arms. She groaned in protest and pain, trying to pull away.
"Love, love," he rolled her over to look at him. "We're in port, and I need to get you to a doctor."
"No," it was a half-squeal of sickness and fear.
"I swear on my honor you'll keep that arm, and your life," he kissed her gently. "Come on, love. Do this for me, and I swear to you I'll buy you the finest string of pearls in port before we go."
"What would I do with pearls?" she laughed weakly.
"I understand most women wear them," he smiled, carrying her wedding style onto the ship, and she dozed off again in his arms. He grinned at the hyperventilating old man on the deck, taking the gun from Josh and hiding it well under Alinnya's knees.
"Now," he smiled. "Take us to that healer. And no tricks. I promise I won't miss. Well, maybe your head. But I certainly couldn't miss your belly."
The man squeaked again, gripping his pudgy middle, and led Jack off the gangplank, off the dock, and into town. Josh followed, uneasily.
***
It was a run-down part of the town, but he understood the French above the door well enough to know he had been led to a 'house of ancient remedies.' It sounded like a sham, but he had to take a chance. He nodded to the old man, walking up to the door, to knock, but then he heard the shot. He stiffened, waiting for the feeling of cold metal ripping through his still-sore shoulder, but it never came. He turned slowly, to see Josh with the still smoking pistol aimed at the man, a knife still clenched in his fist. No one on the street had stopped to make comment.
"You have done us a great service," Jack turned to see the Filipino in the doorway, dark skinned and grey- haired, with a ring through the center of his nose and hair plated in messy dreadlocks.
"Now kindly return the favor," Jack replied, looking up at the man.
"Come in," he replied, pushing the door farther open to permit both men. The shop smelled faintly of something herbal, spicy and even reassuring. Maybe it was the curry rice on the wood stove. It certainly smelled like food. There was a single cot, a long table, and a few comfortable armchairs that must have once been the height of style, then been stained, ripped, restuffed, and resewed to fit their owner's tastes. The walls were surprisingly bare, save for drying herbs hanging from the ceiling rafters. Uncertain, he set his charge on the table, standing next to her the entire time. The man shut the door behind him, walking over to the girl, and, looking at Jack for permission, took the bandaged arm in his own, unraveling the shredded linen a piece at a time, and cringing at the dried blood and gunk that stuck the pieces together. Jack frowned. He'd just changed that damn thing. It got to the point where the shaman poured a bowl of water, and began washing the rags off as gently as he could, though she still squirmed on occasion.
"How long ago did this happen?" the man asked, peeling another wrapping off the practically mummified arm.
"Six days," Jack replied. "The best I understand, she got caught on the sharp side of a bayonet." He rubbed his shoulder absently.
"Not a good place for a pirate," the man smiled lightly. "But you already knew that. How's the shoulder."
"I need to take out the stitches," Jack raised an eyebrow in concern, but let it go. "A little infected, but she does far better stitches than I ever have."
The healer looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Let's see."
Jack sighed," pulling over the neck of the shirt to expose the itchy wounds. The healer nodded, pulling the last bandage off her wrist, an eyebrow rising. He looked back at Jack. "You did the first set of stitches?"
"I did, sir," Josh spoke up from the doorway.
"She was awake, wasn't she?"
"Aye. I didn't know how. She told me."
"Dear girl," he brushed her hair back from her forehead. "So you did the second set, Captain?"
"I did," Jack replied.
"They were well done. Just too late." He stood, grabbing a slip of paper and scrawling, in a very neat cursive, a list. He handed it to Jack, folded. "Go get these from the market. As much as you can, and as quickly as you can. Luck's against you. But you have me. And she has you."
A shudder went through Jack as he looked into the man's eyes. It seemed almost like he knew more about Jack than Jack himself did.