Nineteen
Jack Sparrow stood on the quarterdeck of his ship, spyglass peering through the moonlit night at the squat fortress that hulked above them. At this range a good half of their shot missed the walls entirely, but now and then a satisfying shower of rock and mortar rained down from a direct hit.
"Steady firing, Mr. Gibbs – nice slow rhythm, just enough to keep their attention, eh? No point in doing all of Gallardo's work for him." Gibbs smirked and relayed the order.
Jack wasn't surprised that none of the ships in the bay had set sail to come after them; why should they, when they were protected from his shot by a narrow spit of land? He would pound the fortress till dawn, and then stand out to sea for a day and see what transpired. If Gallardo was the man he thought him, he'd take care of business and then come out to meet the Pearl.
The smell of burnt gunpowder lay in a haze over the deck, the guns pounding regularly every half-minute. No one at the swivel guns of course, they couldn't get any distance. Leisurely scanning the squat fortress and the granite promontory it sat on, Jack's vision picked out the moonlit shadow of something – an animal, or perhaps a man – scuttling across the rocks toward the water.
"Look there, Captain – his men are deserting their posts and runnin' like scared sheep!" Gibbs' lip curled; even pirates knew better than that.
"Hmm… I wonder. Keep a sharp eye on the shoreline, mate." Jack snapped his glass shut. His instincts were unfortunately accurate. An hour later Gibbs reported that a tiny skiff had set out from a cranny in the rocks, its passenger first rowing, and then raising the boat's small sail.
"Bloody hell, it's got to be O'Shea!" Jack snarled in frustration. Gibbs grimaced; there was no way they could catch up with a sailboat dodging amongst the shallows of innumerable islets, and they both knew it. The best they could hope for was an act of God; a sudden tsunami under the skiff perhaps, followed by a satisfying smash against nice sharp rocks.
Jack controlled himself visibly, his face registering anger, dismay, then resignation; he sighed gustily. "Still the guns, Mr. Gibbs. I think we've done enough. Now we must simply see what we can find out when Captain Gallardo comes to pay us a call."
-
Sir Robert O'Shea had always had the devil's own luck. It did not fail him now, for his skiff did not spring a significant leak until he had reached the shipping lanes northeast of the island of Jamaica. Then his luck would have been very bad indeed, if the Yorkshire had not seen his signal and come about to pick him up.
Sir Robert had never labored under the impression that his men either admired or respected him. He had thus had been prepared for exactly the situation in which he found himself, beginning with the construction of the passageway from his bedchamber to the caves beneath the cliff. He'd killed the man who designed it, of course, but that had been a trivial bump in the road of his malicious career.
He'd kept the skiff stocked with ship's biscuit and a cask of water, clothing and boots. His forethought extended no further, for O'Shea had come to rely far too much on his luck and his uncanny ability to weasel his way out of anything.
Elizabeth and Will stood by curiously with the other passengers, as this stranger climbed to the deck of the Yorkshire, then held out his hand to Captain McKay. "I can't thank you enough, sir, for your timely arrival! Sure an' it would have gone badly for me if you hadn't showed up." The stranger smiled broadly; there was something lizardlike about his smile, and Elizabeth took a half-step back.
"Captain Angus McKay, master of the HMS Yorkshire, sir," the Captain murmured, bowing formally. McKay had met all sorts of men in his long career, and he felt in his bones there was something not right about this one.
The stranger bowed obsequiously, still smiling. "Your servant, sir. Sir Robert Sullivan, of the Leitrim Sullivans."
"And how did you find yourself in the middle of the Jamaica Channel with a leaky boat, Sir Robert? 'Tis a strange place to be taking a pleasure-sail, and alone at that." McKay's bushy gray eyebrows expressed unwilling attention.
"Ah, and there's a sad tale indeed, sir, and a thirsty one as well. If I might impose?" Sir Robert pulled out a shabby handkerchief and mopped his red face dramatically.
McKay nodded. "Cook's been holding lunch for us, we may as well go below. Mrs. Turner?" He offered Elizabeth his arm, and they proceeded to the small cabin off the galley that served as the captain's dining room.
The cook had outdone himself, as they were so close to Port Royal and fresh supplies, and there was no longer a need to conserve what they had in stock. A beautifully poached snapper gleamed upon the board, with fresh rolls and a small dish of butter, and stewed apples with cinnamon.
Sir Robert could barely wait till grace had been said before he began. "Aye, and well you might ask how such a fate came to befall me, Captain," he nodded, helping himself to a huge portion of the fish. "In fact, I had only planned to be away from me farm for perhaps a few hours, do a bit of fishin' as it were, but unfortunately I have had a tendency to fallin' into a daze without warning, ever since I took a terrible blow to me head."
Here he gave an aggrieved sigh. "Any road. I must have become unconscious, for when I came to, I found I'd drifted far from me home." O'Shea chugged his wine; Elizabeth stifled a shudder.
"Where is your land precisely, Sir Robert?" McKay asked pointedly.
O'Shea reached for a handful of rolls, rooting in the basket as Elizabeth watched, appalled. "'Tis just a small holding, a hundred twenty acres of cane near the coast, a bit west of Chardonniere; Hispaniola, y'know," he added patronizingly, nodding to the lady. He smirked, judging her to be fascinated by his tale.
"Indeed. I am most surprised that you would even think to go out in an open boat all alone, considering your affliction." McKay observed dryly, pouring himself a modest glass of wine.
"Ah right, well it hasn't bothered me much of late, and I suppose I've gotten a tad careless. Heh."
"And what will you do when you reach Port Royal, Sir Robert?" Will added, after an anxious glance to his unusually quiet wife. "Have you family there, or friends?"
"As a matter of fact, I've got no family there; but I've a number of lads who owe me favors, if you know what I mean." He winked broadly. "And that'll get me whatever I need."
Elizabeth put her napkin to her mouth. "I'm so sorry… must go."
Will helped her up with a glance to McKay. "I'll return directly, as soon as I've got my wife settled." O'Shea waved a hand, his face reddened from the wine he'd drunk. McKay stood respectfully as Elizabeth rose and left the cabin.
Once on deck, Elizabeth's distress ceased abruptly; she felt badly when she got a good look at Will's worried face. "Sorry, love, I'm actually feeling fine," she smiled apologetically.
Will glanced about, then back to her face, confused. "Then why – "
"I just have this strange feeling that Robert Sullivan is lying through his teeth, Will. Don't you find it most unlikely that he drifted all the way from Hispaniola in an open boat without anyone noticing?"
Will nodded thoughtfully. "If they had noticed, they would have investigated. I'm going to have a quick look at his boat. Keep watch for me, would you?" She nodded, and he quickly shimmied down to the waterlogged skiff. He was back on deck in less than five minutes. "No sign of any fishing hooks, line or net. He's got a huge amount of ship's biscuit for one person, though."
Elizabeth chewed her lip for a moment. "Definitely odd. You'd best get back to dinner, I suppose. I'll be in our cabin, having a bit of a rest."
Will kissed her gently, smoothing her hair back. "No climbing out of windows to look for more clues, eh?"
"You're no fun at all, Will Turner," she retorted.
"That's not what you said last night!" he teased, and laughed as she turned an indignant look upon him before he went below.
Twenty
The Yorkshire docked in Port Royal the next morning, the brilliant sunlight providing a glow to the harbor that made it seem even more like home than Elizabeth had remembered. "It feels like we've been gone forever," she confided to Will, as preparations were made for passengers to disembark.
Will's admiring gaze traveled over her pretty summer gown and hat. "You look wonderful, love. I'm the luckiest man in Port Royal." He kissed her tenderly.
"Possibly in all the Caribbean," she answered him, then blushed as a clump of dockworkers began hooting and whistling. Will just grinned and gave them a jaunty wave.
-
"Mind your footing here, Miss O'Shea, it is quite wet," Norrington murmured, holding out his hand.
Caitlyn lifted the skirt of her sturdy cotton gown as she stepped onto the wharf's slick wooden pathway, then glanced around at the bustle of activity. "Does it ever get quiet here? It seems the entire town is engaged in some labor or other." Her bright gaze flicked from one ship to another. The dock was indeed unusually busy, even by Port Royal standards.
"Ah, the Yorkshire's back," Norrington noted. Caitlyn glanced at his expression, which was unchanged; but she could tell something was up from his voice and stance. She'd become familiar with that voice over the last few weeks, and it was obvious that her escort was agitated beneath his calm exterior.
"It's a lovely ship. Do you know her captain?"
"Haven't met him personally, but I'm told the current Governor's daughter and her new husband are aboard. Shall we play the welcoming party?" He glanced down at her upturned face, an ironic smile crossing his own.
"Of course, if you think I'm presentable."
"More than presentable, Miss O'Shea. Much more."
Caitlyn admired the strong line of his jaw for just an instant, then shook herself. Not the thing, really, to be carrying a torch for a man so much beyond you; not the thing at all.
Will Turner was helping his own lady down the loading ramp as Norrington and Caitlyn appeared. "Be careful, Mrs. Turner, you're carrying precious cargo there," he teased gently, "not to mention your own estimable self."
"You're getting pretty quick with your words, Mr. Turner, I didn't even have a chance to scold you for not valuing me highly enough," Elizabeth laughed. As she reached firm footing, she glanced around. "James! How wonderful to see you!" She held her hand out to the Commodore, and gave a friendly smile to his companion.
Norrington took her hand, and bowed. "Mrs. Turner, I presume? The sea voyage seems to have agreed with you. And Mr. Turner as well. Please allow me to introduce Miss Caitlyn O'Shea." And let them wonder about her a bit, why not?
"Miss O'Shea, a pleasure." Will took her hand in turn, and she blushed slightly.
"I hope you will not stand on ceremony, Miss O'Shea; I much prefer to be called Elizabeth. Have you been in Port Royal long?"
They were interrupted by the shouts of longshoremen. "Get out a the way, bloody 'ell, how we going to get this lot unloaded – blinkin' loafers, think they can – "
Norrington quelled the offender with a glance before his profanity became any worse, then turned back. "I would be honored to have you to dine with us this evening, if you are not too fatigued. I should very much like you to meet my sister as well."
"That would be lovely, James. I can't tell you how much I have been looking forward to being on solid ground," Elizabeth replied enthusiastically. Will nodded.
"Then I'll tell Kidder to expect six of us; I know Bainbridge will want to meet you both. He's done an excellent job in the Governor's absence. I do hope your father is feeling better, Mrs. – er, Elizabeth."
"Yes, quite a bit; my aunt has him well in hand. We are all very relieved."
Dockhand cursing broke out in full force as a squat, portly man shoved his way down the loading plank. "Bugger off yerself! Don't be gettin' in the way of yer betters," the man bellowed, his face reddened with drink even at this early hour.
The loud man tried to squeeze by the little group, but stumbled and nearly fell over Norrington's feet. Norrington's hand shot out quickly and steadied him. "I beg your pardon," he murmured, his eyes on the man's crimson face.
The man glanced briefly at the Commodore's colorful uniform, then tilted his hat over his eyes. "No 'arm done, m'lord," he muttered, and sidled past them, making his way towards the town.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Norrington gave Will a questioning look.
"His name's Sir Robert Sullivan, or so he says. We picked him up from a leaky skiff yesterday. Unpleasant fellow."
"Indeed. He certainly seems to have a knack for giving offense. Strange that he did not greet you properly, since you met on board." Norrington frowned, watching the retreating figure. "I shall have my men keep an eye out for Sir Robert, or whoever he is. Well, I expect you will wish to go home and rest, so I shall not keep you standing here." He bowed, his smile unrestrained now. "Miss O'Shea?" He offered his arm, and she took it with a last smile to Elizabeth; then they moved off.
Elizabeth turned to Will. "What fantastic luck! He seems to be quite smitten with Miss O'Shea." She gave him a happy grin.
Will's eyes opened wide and he turned to look after the retreating pair. "What? I must have missed something; I didn't notice…"
"Men never do. But I can assure you that she feels the same for him, which is a great relief indeed. I wonder how they met. Well, no matter. Let's go home, love."
-
Robert O'Shea actually scurried, so great was his haste to get away from the docks. He could not risk being recognized; he had far too many enemies on both sides of the law. Down an odorous alleyway he reached a small, scarred oaken door, and beat on it with his fist until someone opened the small hatch and peered out.
"Who the 'ell are you and what yer doin' here so early?" O'Shea could see one bleary eye squinting at him.
"Open the bloody door, Grimsby, or I'll mash your bones to pulp."
"Gah! I'd know yer rummy breath anywheres, O'Shea," Grimsby retorted, and opened the door just far enough to allow Sir Robert's portly figure to squeeze through. A spirited conversation ensued within doors; the upshot was that Sir Robert was given room in a tiny, miserable shed in back of the Pig's Eye tavern. "I'm not ejectin' a paying guest for you, ya freeloader," Grimsby growled. "Teach ya not to pay yer debts."
"Shut yer gob, Grim. I could land you and everyone 'ere in prison, with what I know." O'Shea leaned back on the dirty mattress and closed his eyes. "While I'm here, my name is Robert Sullivan, got that? I'll want a bottle of brandy in an hour. Now bugger off. I need to think."