Title: Of the SeaRating: PG-13
Chapter Title: 28. Captivity
Summary: Port Royal and polite society.
Timeline: September 13, 1675
Author: Cicatrix (Marin K.)

She remembered well the words she had written. I regret nothing, except one thing... I regret the end: the moment I'll plant my feet on solid ground with my life as a pirate behind me and my life as an old maid with an illegitimate child before me. I regret the moment when you'll let me walk away. Her life since that moment had been nothing but regret, nothing but sorrow for the passing of dreams that would now never come true.

They said many things about Miriam Sharp in Port Royal. Some believed she was Jack Sparrow's lover, the child in her womb his get. Others claimed he'd raped her, while others claimed he'd kidnapped her and they hated each other. Some said she was a pirate born and bred, while most preferred to believe that she was wellborn and raised by good folk somewhere in England. There were many half-truths and even more full-out fabrications. Jack would have loved to hear all the stories if he'd been there, but he was oceans away.

They said she pined for the sea. They said that if one were to look at the third window from the right facing the sea, on the second floor of the Turner's house, you would see a pregnant figure in a gown with a tri-corn hat in her hands, staring out to watch the tides rise and recede. It was a rumour, but one of the few that was true.

There was only one other true tale that she had heard circulated, and it was told mostly by the crew of the Queen's Mercy. A storm had struck while the ship was headed for Port Royal, the greatest storm in the decade. The captain was ready to give up, when Miriam appeared on deck, wearing nothing but a soaked shift, a pair of sea-boots and a tri-corn hat. She had ordered the captain to stand aside, and in pitch darkness of the stormy night she had steered the ship clear of the rocky cliffs of Jamaica, laughing maniacally in the face of the flashing lightning. Miriam had shared a good many laughs over tea with Elizabeth and Will over the subject of that little escapade.

It was too bad that she had arrived in Port Royal two days later burning up with fever. She was lucky, the doctor told her, that her stupidity had not cost her the life of her child. Unlucky, she thought, very unlucky. But that had been a month ago, and she no longer called out for Jack in her fever-dreams amidst cries of terror. More than once they had pinned her down trying to calm her delusions, but they only made it worse. She would struggle, screaming as if in agony, until she would suddenly say, very gently, "I can't breathe," and lapse into a death-like sleep until the cycle would repeat itself. It had been a month ago, and she now pretended that there had been no sickness. She pretended that she never woke up screaming in terror in the middle of the night, never whispered Jack's name to the darkness in a plea for help.

She could not pretend that she did not step out onto the balcony on nights when the moon shone on the water like a splash of silver. Elizabeth had seen her there, standing in the warm night wearing nothing but her shift and holding Jack's beaten old hat in her hand. It sat on her bedside table when it did not accompany her while she breathed in the sweet air that rolled on the ocean. She called it a war-trophy, but in truth it was the only thing that kept her sane. She felt like a caged bird, despite the Turners' best efforts. It was not their fault that Commodore Norrington would let her nowhere near any vessel that floated on the waves, never mind onboard. Although, to her relief, he did not stop her from taking her morning trips to the docks, where she would mingle politely with the sailors asking for any sort of news of the outside world. He would have, she supposed, if he knew. She made sure that he did not.

She asked for news because it kept her from feeling too trapped in the seclusion of Port Royal, and because there was the chance she might hear news of the Black Pearl. She had not heard much, only that they had raided a ship shortly after Miriam's release, and to everyone's surprise, had taken nothing but food and a large quantity of rum. When she had heard that, it had taken all her to frown at the mention of Jack's name when she would liked to have smiled at the stories of his antics.

Port Royal was tedious and dull, the town a prison or a birdcage. She was tired of constantly being fitted for dresses as her stomach grew, tired of being hemmed in by layers of fine cotton, linen or silk. She wanted nothing more than a shirt and a pair of breeches, but instead she had nothing but gowns and more gowns after that. She had succeeded only in keeping her sea-boots, insisting that normal shoes caused her intense pain. Elizabeth had tried to insist, saying people would think she was insane if she wore boots everywhere she went. The young woman had given in when Miriam swore she would rather cut her feet off than wear the ridiculous shoes others.

Of course, it wasn't the sea-boots that made the residents of Port Royal think there was something wrong with Miriam Sharp. She duelled with William Turner, the blacksmith, in the garden of the Turner residence. She ran long the beach in bare feet, splashing in the shallow water with her skirts hiked up above her knees. She stood on the balcony in the middle of the night in only a shift with Jack Sparrow's tri-corn hat in her hands.

It was one such night, and the moon was but the thinnest sliver in the starless sky. She stood with tri-corn hat in hand, a candle flickering on a small table at her side, scanning the horizon. The streets of Port Royal glowed dimly, lit by flickering oil lamps. The brightest part of the town was the docks, the end of each pier having a lantern at its end. Miriam would did not stare at the docks; there were ships tied to land, tethered. No, she looked out to the open ocean, at the black depths of the sea at night, and wondered where the Pearl was and which fortunes it sought.

The doorbell rang. She heard it, as if it were a great many leagues away, not merely downstairs. Turning away from the view, she rushed inside, leaving the doors to her balcony to swing open behind her as she ran from her bedroom. She trampled down the stairs, arriving at the door before mister or missus or servant could rise from sleep to see who called upon the Turners at such an hour of the night. She flung the double doors open, and looked out at the front garden. There was nothing, only an empty gravel road leading to the main street. It was then that Miriam heard a small, plaintive meow. It came from a wicker basket that sat on the doorstep with a red silk bow tied around its handle with a paper tag. The basket contained two objects: a pillow of red silk to match the bow, and a small black cat with eyes the colour of newly minted coins.

Miriam bent, lifting the animal with one hand. The other, after all, still held a worn leather tri-corn. A thin strip of leather with a silver clasp was attached about the kitten's neck, with a silver tag attached to it. The tag read in an elegant, but not overtly ornate script: "Morgan". Miriam grinned, clutching the purring animal to her chest before putting Jack's hat in the basket with Morgan and closing the doors. She went upstairs, not caring if the servants came and found only an abandoned doorstep and the silent night.

Upon returning to her room, Miriam sat down at her desk. She did not bother to close the French doors that lead to her balcony. She removed hat and kitten from the basket, and then examined the wicker creation. The paper tag attached to the silk bow had her name written in a neat but plain script. She knew the sender, but wondered if there might be a message of some sort besides just her dear pet. Upon removing the cushion, she found it: a folded piece of parchment and a sealed envelope.

She unfolded the parchment and read the not-quite-illegible script she recognised from another, less important piece of paper that had been handed to her by her captain on her last visit to Port Royal:

Dear Miriam,

I'm sitting not too far from the Tuner household, writing this. I can only hope it is legible, it is very difficult to write in the dark. I'm watching you standing on what I'm guessing is your room's balcony in the darkness by a candle. You look out to sea like your heart is lost to it. That wouldn't surprise me. I would imagine the ocean, like piracy, is in your blood, as it is in mine, as it was in Bootstrap's.

I was going to let you go, but then I read that blasted letter of yours, and I couldn't. So I did the only thing I could do. I came here, with this cat of yours, and I'm writing this letter in response. I should warn you that I'm sober, and when I'm sober I act in strange ways, as other men do when they're drunk. Although, this time, it isn't for lack of alcohol. Drink just doesn't seem to help me make sense of things the way it used to. Some things are too complicated for rum to fix them. I never thought I'd say that. In any case, as I said, I'm sober, so don't take anything I write too seriously, I barely know what I'm saying myself.

We're no longer starving, we raided a ship and got food. The crew is all well, although I daresay in shock. They do little but talk about Matthew's sudden transformation into Miriam. I pretend I knew nothing of it, but the smarter ones (Anamaria, mainly) look at me like they know better. Anamaria probably does, and I'm surprised she didn't find out for herself. Surprisingly, Gibbs hasn't once said anything about women being bad luck aboard ships.

I'd be lying if I said the Pearl has changed since your departure. It hasn't, or at least, the ship hasn't and the crew hasn't, but the atmosphere is different. I guess I just got used to having you around, a dangerous thing. I thought about kidnapping you, again, according to popular myth, but I decided that would be a bad idea. Although I like bad ideas, being a pirate, I suppose thing one will have to wait.

I've included a small trinket along with this letter. Not Morgan. If you've found this piece of paper, I'm assuming you found the envelope too. You're still a part of my crew as far as I'm concerned, which means you get a share of whatever we take. I'm sure you've heard rumours that we took nothing but food, but as with most tales, that's not entirely true.

I see you still have my hat. I miss that hat... I brought you Morgan, because I think she misses you, too.

Your captain,

Jack Sparrow.

She put the parchment down on the desk and picked up the envelope. Turning it over, she examined the wax seal, which bore a stamp in the shape of a ship. She tore the envelope open along the top, leaving the seal in tact. Turning it upside down, she let its contents fall onto the desk's wooden surface. One was a necklace or a choker of some sort, a round faceted stone of dark red hues set in silver. She recognised the large stone as garnet, and it was attached to a thick black ribbon with a silver clasp. The other object that fell from the envelope was a piece of coarse fabric. It was the canvas sails were made of, and it was dyed deep red. Miriam smiled, fastening the garnet about her throat. It fit perfectly.

She stood then, and ran to the balcony, the piece of canvas clutched in her hand. Looking down into the shadows she saw a figure that stood not so far off, a lantern in his hand. He grinned at her, putting his hand to the bandana that was tied around his head. It was a sort of salute, and she returned the gesture.

He turned then, and walked away into the night. She recognised his stagger, the permanent case of sea-legs that made her captain look so awkward on solid land. He was, after all, still her captain. She stood there a while, looking at the empty side-street for once instead of the ocean, until a small kitten brushed up against her bare feet, meowing quietly. Then she picked up the kitten and went inside, closing the balcony's doors behind her, and went to bed. That night, for once, she slept peacefully, and did not wake screaming.

Author's note: Poor, poor Miriam. Port Royal sounds pretty dull for a pirate forced to live in polite society. I do hope she'll survive. Nice of someone to pay a visit, even from a distance.

Review responses:

ChocolateEclar: A review! I was starting to get worried with four new chapters and not a single review, I thought I'd lost my entire following, however small. There is, at least, one left. On waiting for something to happen between Miriam and Jack, nope, there's nothing yet... although... (and as much as I hate to point stuff out, I thought this was so terribly clever), Jack says in his letter "Morgan misses you too" as opposed to just "Morgan misses you." Wonder what THAT could mean? Okay, I've spelled most of it out, I trust you to put two and two together. And yes, polite society is an awful thing for a pirate to withstand. I feel sorry for her kid, being born into that. Ick! The bulk of this chapter (and I'll put the timeline date stuff in later) takes place in mid-September while Miriam is 19 weeks pregnant, i.e. almost five months pregnant. So there's like four months left 'till the baby shows up, but I plan to have that span for the most part go by fairly quickly since Port Royal would be really boring to talk about. I covered over a month in this chapter alone, as you noticed. The next chapter should focus more on the Black Pearl and if doesn't, whine at me. As for the gender of the child, I'll tell you this: it's one of two things... male or female. I need to introduce some more male characters. Even the cat is a girl, but what can I say? Boys are gross! I mean, there's the Cain but they're not very nice, are they? Expect a new chapter in the near future and WOW THIS IS A LONG REVIEW RESPONSE. I'm just starved for attention.

dagzer: Gasp! Another review! Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!!! And stuck on land forever? Yeah, that'd suck. I guess it depends on what kind of person I am. Do you think I'm the sort of person who likes a happy ending, or the sort of person who's going to do something horribly mean, like kill Jack off and leave you with a horrible depressing ending?