Seventeen

As it happened, Governor Swann had been quite wrong about Will becoming bored after two weeks in the country. He didn't even last a week.

The incessant rain hadn't helped; Will strode the halls of the manor house like a caged tiger. "As far as I'm concerned, the sooner we leave for Port Royal, the better!" Will stopped in his pacing and turned to take Elizabeth in his arms. "I hope you haven't changed your mind, love."

"Not at all," she smiled back at him. "I'm already half packed. I can be ready to return to London tomorrow if you like."

"You're wonderful." He held her close, caressing her cheek with his palm before kissing her tenderly. "Once we've talked with your father about what he wants done with the plantation, we'll set sail at once. I can't wait to be busy again."

Elizabeth stifled a giggle. "Oh, I don't know, you've been pretty busy this week." She poked him playfully and he grinned, then kissed her again. "Now stop that, or we'll never get packed."

-

Cotton scowled eloquently as his captain pointed toward the dinghy. "Sorry to ask it of you, mate, but it's got to be done. Gibbs has got some lovely fish for you to market at O'Shea's little dock." Jack grinned at Cotton's expression. "Be sure and keep those sharp ears and eyes open. I want to know what you can find out about Gallardo's homecoming."

Cotton's parrot let out a screech. "Blow the man down!"

Jack nodded. "Very true, but if the worst should happen we'll give you a fine funeral, eh? Now off you go."

Thus it was that Cotton set the tiny boat's sail for Santiago Island. It was a fair day with a brisk wind, and since the Pearl had dropped anchor well offshore and to windward of Cotton's destination, the skiff soon reached the sturdy piers at the base of Sir Robert O'Shea's island fortress.

Santiago Island itself offered little in the way of fresh water, pasturage or croplands, so nearly all of the provisions for O'Shea's private army had to be brought in. Nearby islanders had long ago realized that there was ready money to be had for any fresh foods and liquor they might bring to the island, if they looked sharp and made sure to go armed.

Cotton had barely tied up his boat when a huge foul-mouthed stevedore strode to meet him, his aggressive stance blocking out the brilliant sun. Cotton squinted up at him, then gestured silently to the fish in their wicker basket.

The stevedore grunted. "Oi, look'ere, it's the deef-and-dumb feller again, back wif more fish." Two other evil-looking layabouts sauntered over, grinning. "Nah then, we'll give you a shilling a fish, and don't try to be talking us higher!" The huge man roared at his own pathetic joke, and the other two joined in raucously.

Cotton's expression never changed a whit. It was funny how, when you couldn't speak, people assumed you couldn't hear either. Funny, and a distinct advantage. He simply lifted the first basket of fish onto the dock, then the second, and climbed out of the boat himself, sitting on a barrel as the stevedore stomped off to fetch the coins.

Being a cautious sort of man, Cotton ostentatiously drew a long knife from his belt and speared a thick slice of meat from his provisions basket, then wedged the meat between two hunks of bread. He jammed the knife's point into the waterlogged side of the barrel he sat on; the blade gleamed dully in the sunshine. It never hurt to let it be known that you knew what was what.

One of the two docksmen leaned against the wall of a shack, and picked his teeth with his knife. The other, a malodorous fellow with one eye missing, lit a pipe. After several puffs of the evil-smelling smoke, he commented, "eh, Bert, we'll be needin' the extra food now that Toro's come back. Too many bleedin' mouths to feed."

"Aight, and I'm not goin' ter bust me hump fetching grub. The master keeps me in rum and women, 'at's all I need." Bert sheathed his knife and cracked his knuckles luxuriously.

"Aye, but it mightn't last forever. The master's been actin' pretty funny if yer ask me, and Gallardo's got blood in 'is eye or I'm a barnacle. I think it's more than just him losing the Magdalena, too." He didn't even bother to lower his voice. "And there's some in the fortress wot been whining about Himself cuttin' our wages."

Bert hacked, then spat a few inches from where Cotton sat. "T'ell wiv that, they dun know when they're well off. Plenty o' sods out there go raidin' and bring home nuffin." Cotton idly took a bite out of the huge sandwich, and looked out to sea as he chewed slowly.

One-Eye spat as well, going for distance; Bert grunted appreciatively. "That's as may be, mate, but you got ter admit, this last trip was buggered six ways to Wednesday. We ain't never 'ad a ship sink before. Maybe the master's lost 'is touch."

"Stow that talk; Gunny's comin' back," Bert hissed, as the stevedore returned with a small bag that jingled pleasantly. Cotton pretended to not hear him approach until the man slapped the bag into his hand. The unfinished sandwich fell into the water.

"Ere ya go, grandpa, we're obliged to ya. Now bugger off."

Cotton touched his brow in salute, and grasped the bag of silver tightly as he boarded his skiff. Setting the sail was the work of a few moments, and by dusk he had returned to the Pearl.

His parrot settled itself on his shoulder just as Jack hailed him. "Ah, Cotton, well done! I see all my worries were for nothing. Is Gallardo still alive and well then?"

"Wind in yer sails!" the parrot yodeled.

"Wonderful! I thought the man had talent. And did you find out if O'Shea is dead yet?"

"Dead man's chest!" the bird screeched.

Jack's lip curled at the negative. "Well then, we've got a job to finish. Do you know if our lad still has his freedom?"

"Wind in –" Jack reached up and clapped his hand over the parrot's beak. "Just nod, man, my nerves are a bit on edge right now." Cotton nodded yes.

At length the full story was related. Jack was particularly pleased that a mutiny of sorts was brewing on Santiago. He assembled the crew on deck as night began to fall.

"You've all heard the stories. O'Shea's been amassing a pile of gold for years, the likes of which is rarely found these days. His men are ready to riot, and Gallardo has no doubt been planting the seeds of mutiny and watering them with his own need for revenge."

Jack climbed onto the quarterdeck and took a stance, the evening breeze whipping his hair and sash; his eyes gleamed with the new adventure at hand. "We can tip the balance if we choose! Now, it's bound to be more dangerous than plucking the feathers of some hapless merchant ship, and I won't force any of you. But know you all that I will be going to Santiago Island tomorrow, come hell or high water!"

His crew's roar of approval left Jack in no doubt that they were behind him all the way; to the death if need be. He smiled just a little. "Then let's get some sleep, mates, we've got a busy day ahead of us."

Eighteen

Governor Swann had wisely asked Captain McKay to delay his return voyage, anticipating that "the children" would be very happy to sail once again on the Yorkshire, under a commander known to them. The voyage was unremarkable in nearly every way, a brisk fair wind carrying them to Jamaica in goodly time and with cargo unscathed by raiders.

The Governor's former cabin was now Elizabeth and Will's, and they spent many happy hours in it discussing the Swann plantation at the western end of Jamaica, and what they would do with it to make it productive and pleasant. "No slaves, Will, I hate the very thought of that," Elizabeth insisted, and Will agreed to set an example for the other landowners by using paid laborers. But sooner or later one of them would catch the other's eye, and smile; then thoughts of serious discussion would vanish.

It surprised only Will when Elizabeth began being very ill indeed halfway through the voyage. Captain McKay turned his gaze respectfully away one fine morning as she rushed to the rail and leaned over. Will grimaced.

"I don't understand it, Captain. The sea is as smooth as glass and she's always been a good sailor."

McKay stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Good God, lad, has no one told you anything about women?" He slapped Will on the shoulder. "Promise me that if it's a boy, you'll name it after me, eh?"

Will's eyes went wide, and he hurried to Elizabeth's side to help her back to the cabin.

-

Geoffrey Bainbridge set his napkin down and smiled politely across the table. "An excellent meal, as usual, Miss Norrington. Please compliment the cook."

"Thank you, I shall." The ghost of a polite smile crossed her face, then faded. She absently smoothed the fabric of her gown as she had done at least fifty times that evening.

Geoffrey turned his glance to Caitlyn. "Forgive me if I seem forward, Miss O'Shea, but I must say I'm curious to know what your plans are for the immediate future. Am I to understand you have no family in Port Royal?" He was surprised to see a slow blush wash across her cheeks.

"I have very little family anywhere, sir. My nearest female relation is a cousin in London. I'm quite indebted to Sarah for taking in such a stray," she added lightly. "I've tried to make myself useful."

Norrington shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "It's quite all right, Miss O'Shea, I assure you. Your presence has been most reassuring to my sister, is that not right, Sarah? You are welcome amongst us for as long as you choose to stay." Sarah nodded, her gaze traveling around to each of the faces at the table.

After dessert, Sarah and Caitlyn retired to the tiny front parlor, while the men poured themselves a glass of port. "I don't like it, Geoffrey. Sarah seems to have taken Gillette's death very hard indeed. I can't remember the last time I saw her really smile." Norrington frowned, his port untouched.

Bainbridge had no hesitation in downing his glass and pouring a second. "Not too surprising, is it James? It must have been horrifying for her, a wounded man dying in her arms like that. Especially if she cared for him." He gave James a questioning glance.

"But that's just it, Geoff! I believe, I mean she told me, she didn't care for him at all." And I can't tell the full truth even to you, my friend. "But I suppose you're right. She never struck me as particularly sensitive, but obviously it has affected her. It's the main reason I've asked Miss O'Shea to remain with us. Sarah clings to her as if she were the last hope of a drowning man."

Bainbridge raised a brow and smirked. "You sure that's the only reason?"

Norrington had the good grace to redden. "We know nothing about her, Geoff."

Bainbridge laughed at that. "And when has that ever kept a man from falling for a girl, eh? Confess it, you've got a yen for the lass. No one could blame you, she's quite fetching really; all those auburn curls. Unclench your fist, man, I've no designs on her myself, upon my honor."

Norrington rose, his glass untouched on the table. "Perhaps we'd better join the ladies."

His friend just snorted and finished off his port. "After you, then."

-

Juan Gallardo turned restlessly in his bunk aboard the Toro. His crew had dossed down for the night, and two men were on watch; but he knew that here in the relative safety of Santiago Bay, the other crews and landsmen didn't keep a very sharp eye out. They expected the fortress to protect them from attack.

That was the key to his plan; for he did have one, and was waiting for the opportune moment to put it into action. He smirked a little in the darkness. Ignorance, cruelty and degeneracy had dug a very deep grave for Sir Robert over the years; all that remained was to shove him into it.

Gallardo thought that another day or two of covert rumor-mongering should ripen the situation sufficiently; then a word to his crew, and a prearranged signal to a compadre in the fortress, and the grand rebellion would begin. When it was over, he intended to be the new master of Santiago Island, and Sir Robert O'Shea would be hanged in chains from the dockyard gallows as a warning to his sympathizers. It was a pleasantly satisfying thought, and Gallardo had nearly drifted off when he heard a distant booming.

Rodriguez came pounding on his door instantly. "Capitan, the island's under attack!"

Gallardo was dressed and shod in two minutes, and flung open the door. "Any idea who the enemy is?"

"Flores spotted sails to the east several hours ago – black ones! No one's sighted any others, so this must be the same ship. But there were no colors. They're targeting the fortress itself."

"Black sails, eh?" A wide grin spread across Gallardo's face. "I've got a good idea who's come to pay us a visit. And it's good news for us, compadre. Tonight we take the island!" He buckled on his sword as he spoke, his eyes flashing fire.

"Es verdad? I will roust the crew then. You know we are all behind you, Señor. I look forward to killing that murderous traitor O'Shea!" Rodriguez dashed off to the crew's quarters, yelling enthusiastically. Within minutes the entire crew had swarmed the deck, ready for their captain's command.

Gallardo strode the quarterdeck, looking down at his men. "You all know of our plans; there are no changes. Tonight we get rid of Robert O'Shea once and for all. But it requires your courage and your loyalty; are you still all agreed?" The crew let out a bloodthirsty yell as with a single voice.

Gallardo nodded. "Excellente. Then to the fortress!" He leaped to the main deck and was the first to set foot on the dock, his crew right behind him as they pounded through narrow alleyways to the gate of the fortress. Rodriguez sent up a signal flare, before rushing after them.

The gate-guard dimly supposed they had arrived to defend the fortress, and opened for them without even being asked. He was stuffed headfirst into an empty ale-barrel for his trouble, and the men continued their headlong rush unchecked until they reached the main hall.

Nearly all of O'Shea's private guards were manning the guns on the battlements. Attempting to hit a relatively small target at a very great distance was proving difficult. The gunfire and their curses of frustration provided cover for Gallardo's men, who worked their way through the remaining guards still loyal to O'Shea with deadly stealth.

Gallardo looked neither right nor left, but plowed his way straight through the hall and up the stairs of the North Tower. He knew where O'Shea's quarters were, and that the cowardly dog was probably shivering beneath his sheets at the mere thought of cannon fire. Just as well he didn't know that his own personal Angel of Death was upon him, nor that his valet stood ready to let that nemesis through the oaken chamber door.

The valet's hand shook as he fumbled the huge keyring. Gallardo shoved the door open and stepped inside, smirking as he viewed the huddled form of O'Shea on the bed, sheets drawn up under his chin. "Well now, what have we here? Got ourselves a nice fat rat in a trap, I'm thinking."

It wasn't easy being forceful in your nightshirt, but O'Shea gave it a shot. "What do y'think yer doin', ya bloody bastard?" The effect was ruined when his voice quavered.

Gallardo's lip curled. "Quite simple; even you should be able to understand. I am now master of this fortress; and you are going to die." He smiled pleasantly.

O'Shea slid out of bed, his face white. Standing there barefooted and barelegged in his nightshirt, he was a pathetic sight. "Can I at least get dressed? Leave me that much, for the love of God."

Gallardo nodded, and leaned against the doorframe, staring coldly. "Hurry it up." O'Shea stumbled to the fine mahogany wardrobe and pulled the door open, revealing a single pair of breeches and a frock coat, dangling in isolated splendor from hooks. He stretched out his hand for the breeches; then stepped into the wardrobe, and pulled the door shut after him.

"Bastardo! Come out of there, you can't think that will protect you for an instant!" Furious, Gallardo heaved the door open again.

The wardrobe was empty.