Chapter Six: Stowaway

Anne was playing quietly with her box of shells in the front parlour, arranging them in beautiful patterns, or into pictures: birds… faces… houses. A ship. Her mother, who occasionally remarked on the excellence of her work, sat close at hand on the sofa, nursing Hal, while Little Jack, having finished his repast, lay wrapped in a light blanket, beside her, sound asleep. The westering sun shone pale through the windows, a few stray dust motes dancing in the rays. There were delicious scents wafting faintly from the kitchen, for they were expecting guests, and since the weather had been a little cooler, cook was making roast chicken, and a fruit tart for dinner: two of Anne's favorite dishes. All in all, Anne knew this should have been a moment of considerable contentment.

It should have been.

Anne gave a little frowning glance up at her mother occasionally. Once Mother had seen her do it, and looked an inquiry.

"Is everything all right, darling?"

Anne had forced a smile to her lips, and nodded, and then went back to arranging her shells, but felt Mother's concerned eye lingering on her.

And then, at last, there came the sound of merry voices, and footsteps coming up the walk.

"There they are, and just in time!" said Mother, tucking the now-sated Hal safely beside his brother on the sofa. Anne sat up, biting her lip, and watched Mother tidy her dress and rise to greet the new arrivals.

The parlour door opened after a moment. Betsy, the maid, announced, "Mr. and Mrs. Turner, ma'am."

"My dear!" said Mother, and embraced Elizabeth.

"How good it was of you to invite us, Maggie! I have been going over Will's accounts ever since the ship left this morning, and I am famished!"

"As am I," said Will. "It smells wonderful!"

"Roast Chicken glazed with a fruit syrup and herbs—a specialty of my cook's. But where is Tom? Did he go upstairs? Anne has been waiting to play with him, I think." But at these words, the young couple looked startled, and then concerned. "What?" demanded Maggie, her heart skipping a beat.

Will said, "But Tom was with you, was he not? We were to fetch him home, after dinner."

"No! Why… that can't be! Anne said he'd wanted to stay with you for the day. At least…" Maggie frowned, remembering that this had been her assumption, and that Anne had not really affirmed this, but had evaded the question. She looked down at her little daughter, who met her eye only briefly and then resumed a close scrutiny of Will's buckled shoes.

Elizabeth also turned her gaze on the fair-haired sprite, her fine eyes narrowing, and one brow lifting. She said to Maggie, slowly, "But no! He was to stay here to play with Anne for the afternoon, and then we were to bring Tom home after supper. Is that not correct, Anne?"

Anne glanced up then, and found that they were all three eyeing her, very seriously. She swallowed hard, and thought, Oh, Tom!

"Anne?" prompted her mother.

Anne, took a big breath, and managed to say, "I… he… he's gone!" before taking refuge in a storm of tears.

o-o-o

Jack Sparrow had taught his son many things.

Born in the Captain's Cabin of the Black Pearl, Tom had almost immediately shown signs of having the sea in his blood as his father did, and was never so contented as he was when sailing. He was born to be a sailor, and he meant, some day, to be a captain, too.

Tom had heard the story of his first voyage, from Barbados to Jamaica and thence to St. Claire, many times, and, in his early years, there had been a number of other shorter voyages: from St. Claire to Port Royal and back again, mostly, and once to Tortuga for a brief visit. Then, after his baby sister had died, there had come a much, much longer voyage, first to England where he'd had to wear heavy and uncomfortable clothes against the cold and rain, and had met a bewildering variety of relations who usually insisted on pinching his cheeks, or fixed him with disconcerting stares. And then they'd gone farther, south and then east, to Italy, where it was sunny and warm as home, and where his mother had at last learned to laugh again.

Tom had turned five years old during that voyage, no longer a baby, and his father had accordingly taken his education in hand: his real education, mind, not a mere shuffling of books, and papers and quills (though there had been some of that too, for, somewhat to his surprise, Tom had been brought to realize that his father had the same love of such things as his mother did). No, mostly it had been learning the sea, and the ship, his father's pride, the Black Pearl.

Jack had taken great delight in teaching his son, showing him everything, even things one might assume were too much for such a young lad to learn. But Tom had taken to it like his sparrow namesake to the sweet, bright skies, showing what most considered a surprising aptitude for all things nautical, though it was no more than Jack had expected of him. Tom was sharp and quick, brave and reckless, and occasionally foolish ("And where's he get that from, eh, Jack?" asked Gibbs, a teasing twinkle in his eye), and before the voyage back from Italy was done he'd learned of every part of the great ship.

He was not allowed to go aloft, though he enjoyed nothing more than watching the men adjust the sails, great lines of them on the yards to reef for heavy weather, or putting on more canvas when the wind was at their backs. He dearly wished to work beside them, his friends one and all, weathered and gruff on the outside but so cheerful and kind, and even sentimental within. He and his father had exchanged words on the subject of this prohibition more than once, and Tom knew it was only a matter of time, his own if not his father's, before he would be scrambling up the ratlines among the ropes and canvas.

The rest of the ship was a different matter. Jack had taken him all over it, to every nook and cranny, and had told his son all about it as he'd done so. Tom had also explored much of the lower decks at other times, in the company of various crewmembers, or on his own when he managed to elude his keepers. Tom loved the Black Pearl, and he knew the body of the great ship like he knew the back of his hand.

He knew, for example, that there were numerous ways to get on and off the Black Pearl, whether by rope or gangplank, or the Jacob's Ladder. Or through the gun ports. Or, if one was quite small, and wanted to be very secretive, one could board by crawling into one of the openings through which the Pearl's sweeps were deployed.

And once aboard, he knew where the supplies were kept: where there was fresh water to be had and where the food was stowed. He knew when these storage places would not be watched, and he knew which stores would not be readily missed, even special ones like Anatole's supply of dried fruits that he used in making Mother's scones.

And finally, he knew that there were places in the hold, dimly lit, secret places, where a little boy might make a temporary home and hide, snug and comfortable, and quite out of the way of the crew and captain, with just the ship's marmalade cat and her three half-grown kittens for company, until, at last, one screwed up one's courage, and took the plunge, and chose to reveal one's presence as a stowaway.

o-o-o

Harry and James were on the second course when Jack was finally able to come down for dinner.

"What a day!" he groaned, slipping bonelessly into his seat at the table. "And tomorrow'll be worse." He took the bottle of rum that Anatole had thoughtfully set at his place and poured a splash into the mug.

"How restrained of you," remarked Norrington, watching Jack tossing the drink back. "I myself am on my second glass of this excellent wine."

"Aye, well you don't have to go back up, do you? Bloody hell, I thought this voyage was going to be a pleasure cruise, and instead it's been one thing after another."

Harry smiled sympathetically, and put a serving of fish on his plate. "At least the problems with the ship have not delayed us, much. And tomorrow won't be so very bad."

"Ha!" Jack laughed bitterly. "Easy for you to say. You don't have to sit there for hours with Alphonse pullin' at your hair."

"Well, no. I still maintain you should have tried a wig this time."

"You know I can't abide wearin' a wig," Jack snapped.

Harry's brows arched in surprise, and Norrington fixed his ill-tempered friend with a baleful eye.

Jack grimaced, disgusted with the numerous minor but annoying disasters that had cropped up that day, with the prospect of his painful and painstaking transformation to 'Gentleman' on the morrow, and now with himself, too. "Sorry love," he said to Harry. He picked up her hand and kissed it. "I'm an old villain."

She smiled forgiveness, but said, "Do you really have to go back up? I thought perhaps I could think of something pleasant to… ah… ease you a bit, after dinner."

"Ease me, eh?" Jack grinned at that.

She said, silkily, "A therapeutic manipulation of the tissues, for example, can be most efficacious."

James groaned and shook his head. "Harry, you might at least wait for me to take my leave before embarking on this seduction."

"I was going to rub his temples!" she protested, mischief in her eyes. "He has the headache!"

Jack sighed. "I do, that."

"Well, eat some supper, then, pirate," said James. "You're likely feeling peckish, is all. You've not eaten since breakfast."

"Too much to do," Jack grumbled. He said to Harry, "I will have to go back up, love, but I shouldn't be too long. And then you can… how'd you put it? Manipulate me tissues. All ye like."

Harry smirked, and spooned some braised vegetables onto his plate, and James firmly directed the conversation into more conventional lines.

They were nearly done, and Jack was beginning to grouse tiredly about having to go topside again, when there came a knock and, on Jack's barked permission, the door opened and Owens popped his head in, looking oddly wary.

"What?' Jack demanded, sharply. "Devil take it, what now?"

Owens frowned at this greeting, but opened the door and came in, drawing after him a small figure. "Seems we've got a stowaway, Captain."

Harry's heart gave a dreadful lurch at the sight of her son. "Oh, Jack!" she whispered, and turned to look at her husband, fearing what she would find in his face.

With reason.

For a long moment he didn't say anything, just stared in mounting fury at the sight of the miscreant.

Tom was seen to swallow hard, his hand gripping that of his friend. "Da?" he ventured, unsteadily. "You… you didn't order me not to come…"

It was the wrong thing to have said. An expression of pure rage crossed Jack's face, and he stood up and held out his arm, pointing stiffly at the door. "Owens, put him in the brig and leave him! Now!"

Owens blinked. "The brig? But…"

"NOW!"

Owens stiffened. "Aye, sir. Come on then, Tom."

o-o-o

Tom held Owens' hand tight as they retreated. The boy had never seen his father look quite that angry before, much less had that anger directed at himself, and it had made him feel so cold he hadn't been able to move for a moment. But then he'd glanced at his mother, and she had looked so unhappy that he really couldn't bear it. He'd quickly turned away and stumbled after Owens, who pulled him out the door. The muffled sounds of his father's and mother's raised voices followed them down the passageway.

Owens didn't speak to him as he was led topside, and across the wide expanse of deck where so many amused and pitying eyes watched. Then they were going down, down, down the many steps, into the bowels of the great ship, to a place Tom had seen only a couple of times: the brig.

Two great iron cages in a lightless space that smelt of tar and seawater and, faintly, of other, much less pleasant things. Not that the conditions prevalent during Barbossa's negligent rule had gone unremedied. The leaks had been repaired, and the space was kept as clean and dry as could be managed. But the misery and fear of past occupants had seeped into the wood, and there was no eliminating that stench, no matter how many times the rough planking underfoot was swabbed.

His father had brought him here the first time, on a calm day when they were in the middle of the Atlantic, on their way back home from Italy. Tom had by that time quite a thorough knowledge of the Black Pearl's other areas, but he'd heard about the brig in story and rumour, and had begged to see it.

"Too many memories here," his father had said, but finally assented, and while Tom looked about he'd told his boy in simple words of the two times he'd been locked up there, speaking in a flat, emotionless tone, that made Tom turn to stare at him, and to shiver at the haunted look in his eyes.

Finally Jack's voice had trailed off, and Tom had gone to him. "Let's go back up topside, Da," he'd said, taking his hand.

And Jack, coming back from the dark memories, had looked at him and smiled. "Aye, let's."

And now he was sending Tom to stay in that dark place. Alone.

"You'll be all right, Tom," said Owens, unlocking the door. He held a lantern, to light the way, else there'd be no seeing at all. Owens wrinkled his nose as they walked in, set the lantern on the floor, and took the keys from the wall. "Which one will it be, lad?" he said sadly, indicating the two cages.

Tom said nothing for a moment, just stared at them, and felt as though he was going to cry. Then Owens crouched beside him.

"You'll be all right!" he said, his voice light and reassuring. "He won't leave you here long."

Tom looked at Owens. "He… he's…"

"He's had a bad day, Tom. You picked a rotten time to show yourself, that's all. He'll come get you in a bit, no doubt of it."

"You think he'll thrash me?"

Owens laughed a little. "Maybe. I might do it myself, were you my son. But you must've known you were takin' that chance."

Tom bit his lip, and looked away, seeing the shadowy cells again. "That one," he said, finally, pointing. It was the one his father had been in. Both times.

"That one it is, then." Owens got up, face set, and went to unlock the door.

Tom went in of his own accord, and stood there in the middle of the space, looking around, feeling quite lost, trying to bring back the sound of his father's voice telling his story. And then Tom jumped as Owens laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Here's a couple of blankets for you. It's a bit cold an' damp here. And I'll leave the lantern, of course."

"K-keep the rats away, aye?" Tom managed, and succeeded in smiling a little as he took the blankets. "Thanks, Owens."

Owens mouth twisted. "He didn't say I wasn't to check on you. If he doesn't come soon enough, I'll be back."

Tom nodded, and looked away, a dreadful lump in his throat. He took a deep breath and went over to the corner of the cell, and began to make a little nest of the blankets, blinking against the stinging behind his eyes, at the sounds of the cell door being locked, of his friend's footsteps fading away.

o-o-o

Jack was at the helm, trying to calm himself, and not succeeding, his mind seething. Harry had been near to weeping when he'd left her, and he knew James, who'd shaken his head at Jack's display of temper, had stayed to speak with her and soothe her fears. As though the boy didn't deserve to be punished. As though Jack hadn't every right to be furious.

The cunning whelp! Playing it so sly: never giving the least sign he wasn't quite happy to stay in Port Royal while his parents arranged a bit of sleuthing and burglary to retrieve the padre's cup. And Jack had fallen for it, like a bleedin' idiot. When had the boy ever not made a fuss about being left behind? That easy acquiescence should have made it obvious what mischief was brewing in that little head.

Bloody hell.

He'd ranted at first that they'd turn the ship 'round straightaway, and take Tom back to Port Royal. But James had reminded him they would then be late for the beginning of the summit, instead of early, increasing the difficulty of investigating the ways and means of their true purpose. And Harry had begged him to reconsider, too, pointing out that in a few weeks they would likely be off across the Atlantic again, carrying Father Taddeo and, hopefully, the cup, home to Italy, a voyage on which Tom was to begin to learn the duties of a Cabin Boy: he would simply be starting a little sooner, now, that was all.

A Cabin Boy who thought he bloody owned his father's ship! Jack would be damned if he'd put up with the boy's pranks, not all the way to bloody Europe and back!

Jack ground his teeth.

He looked down at the main deck, where Owens was leaning on the rail in the moonlight, talking to Charles Norrington. The two were being careful not to glance too obviously in his direction, but he knew of what they were speaking. And of whom.

Bloody whelp. His bloody whelp. God knew he'd never wanted to be a father. Though he had to admit, most of the time it felt like one of the best things in his life. That wasn't really something he could tell anyone, or explain, even to himself. It was just that now he understood when one of his men sat bemused over a letter from home, understood the light in another man's eyes when he showed Jack what looked to be a rather poorly executed miniature of a wife and child.

He'd once thought the sea and the Black Pearl would be his only loves, that they'd always be enough. But Harry, and then Tom had come into his life, and he knew he'd just been fooling himself about that. And he also knew, now, that he'd lay down his life for any of them.

He thought of Tom, his boy, sitting in that cage below, scared and alone.

He should be scared. Jack had been stunned, and then immediately furious, seeing Tom standing there beside Owens. After a day of unexpected and highly annoying problems with his crew and his beloved ship, and now this: the prospect of constant niggling worry for the next three weeks! He supposed he'd have to assign one of the men to play nursemaid for the duration of this little holiday. After Jack got through with him, of course.

And that was another thing that made him furious. As much as the boy deserved it, Jack didn't want to thrash Tom. Such measures had done more harm than good with himself, God knew, inspiring resentment rather than contrition, and bringing to the fore a terrible itch for the unwise, and a sight more caution in going about it. And Tom was as like him as he could stare, and not only in appearance.

Or was he just fooling himself, shrinking from his duty as a father? He knew many of his crew would think so. Spare the rod, and all that.

Bloody hell.

A solemn tread coming up the steps brought Jack back to the moment. Norrington.

"How is she?" asked Jack as the Admiral came toward him, and he sounded testy, even to his own ears.

Norrington lifted a brow. "She wasn't weeping when I left her, if that's what you mean."

Jack swore.

James said to him, "Jack, use the sense God gave you and finish the business. We'll all be better for a night's rest."

"Finish it, eh?" Jack looked at James for a long moment. And then he said, "Take the wheel, would you? I'm goin' below."

o-o-o

It had been a long time, and still his father hadn't come. Owens hadn't come back, either. There was just the lantern's glow, and the sound of the waves' faint booming sibilance.

There were ghosts here, too. Tom might have been afraid, if it hadn't been the Pearl's brig. But it was, and the Black Pearl cared for him. Tom had known that, for a long time now, knew it even before his Da had told him so.

So, in spite of hunger and thirst, cold, and evil smells, his mother's dismay, and above all his father's terrible anger that held the probability of humiliating and painful retribution, Tom was, after a while, lulled to sleep, propped in a corner of the cell, and wrapped to the chin in the rough blankets that were kept for the brig's unfortunate occupants. It was not a deep, or very restful sleep, but it took him out of himself so that when awareness returned and he opened his eyes to find Jack there, outside the cell, it seemed as though his father had just appeared out of nowhere.

Tom gave an involuntary gasp at the sight of the grim countenance looking at him through the wide grate, and sat up with a jerk. His father said nothing, but just unlocked the door, and Tom struggled to his feet as it was done. He felt cold when he dropped the blankets, and cold on the inside too, and he bit his lip and told himself he must be brave, that his father would expect nothing less.

"Get out here, whelp," said Jack.

Tom obeyed, and flinched only a little as his father's hand closed on his arm.

There was no conversation as Tom was hauled topside and walked across the moonlit deck, aft, to the cabins. Owens and Charles were standing by the rail, and as they approached, Jack snapped, "Owens, I've need of your cabin for a bit."

"Aye, Captain," said Owens, sounding relieved. He cast Tom a look of sympathy and encouragement, which wasn't much comfort at all.

When they reached Owens' cabin, the cabin Tom had always shared with the older lad, Jack jerked the door open and gave his son a little peremptory shove.

"In ye go, whelp."

The cabin was small, and Tom scrambled onto the narrow cot where Owens usually slept, turning and scooting back, as close to the bulkhead as possible, as far from his father's reach as he could manage. He knew such a tactic would do more harm than good, but he could not seem to help this display of cowardice, now that Dire Fate was upon him.

Jack had closed the door, and was busy for a moment lighting the cabin's little lantern. The light flared up gold, casting familiar, friendly shadows, but making his father's unsmiling face look that much fiercer. Tom steeled himself as best he could, and managed to meet the dark gaze that seemed to see right into him.

Jack raised a brow. "So. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Remembering his father's reaction to the last exchange they'd had, Tom figured he'd already said enough. Still, Tom saw that he was expected to say something, so, in a very small voice, he asked what was foremost on his mind at present: "Are you going to thrash me, Da?"

Jack's face hardened further. "No, I'm not."

Tom stared, sudden relief making him feel almost lightheaded. "You're not?"

"No. And you know why, whelp? Because this too serious for that, innit? And you're not getting' off that easy."

Tom frowned in confusion. But his father went on.

"Though maybe I should start with that. Think that'd help you remember you're expected to do the right thing whether the order's given or not?" Jack's voice, beginning with a growl, ended on a very sharp note, and his son's eyes widened.

"N-no! I'll remember," Tom stammered quickly.

The corner of Jack's mouth twitched, and he narrowed his eyes. "You'd better, whelp, for I've your measure now, see? You want orders? I'll give you orders. What do you think we're going to do with that Chalice when we get it?" Tom blinked at this non-sequitur, and Jack snapped, "Think!"

"I don't…give it to Father Taddeo?"

"Aye. And where does the good Father live, eh?"

"Italy." Tom gasped, and exclaimed joyfully, "We're going back to Italy?"

"Well, your mother and I are going. Whether you come along is a point that's yet to be determined."

Tom stared, and then blurted, "Da! You wouldn't leave me behind!"

Jack's face was set like stone. "Oh, but I would, whelp. An ye don't follow my orders to the letter for the rest of this voyage, you're going to get to know your Uncle Weatherby a great deal better in the very near future."

Tom was horrified. "Uncle Weatherby?"

"Aye," said Jack. "We spoke of this a few days ago, and he offered to take charge of you when we go. Thought it'd be better you start your schooling, and get a bit more discipline. God knows you'd get little enough on St. Claire: you've got 'em all wrapped 'round that grubby finger of yours, haven't you?"

Tom looked guilty, but did not reply.

Jack said, "I told your Uncle no thanks, I'd be takin' you along. You're near old enough to work as a Cabin Boy: seven years in a couple of months. You're smart as a whip, and I've no doubt you'll learn to be a fine sailor, and maybe more than that. But lad, I'll tell ye true, if you can't use your head, as well as obey an order, you'll not be learning on the Black Pearl!"

Tom gasped, "But, Da…"

"But, Da nothin'!" Jack snapped. "I'll not have anyone workin' aboard this ship that I can't rely on, an' that includes you, whelp. Especially you."

Tom's lip quivered. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Jack stared down at him for a tense moment, and then suddenly his anger seemed to dissipate. He came and sat on the edge of the cot, and Tom shuffled forward to sit beside him, and closed his eyes against tears as his father's arm went about his shoulders. "I don't want to leave you behind, Tom. But I will. Since you're here, you can consider this voyage a test: you'll think, an' you'll follow orders, and if by the time we pull into the docks at Port Royal you've not done a satisfactory job of it, it's a year in the Governor's mansion for ye, 'cause that's how long your mother an' I'll be gone."

Tom looked up, and saw his father's unsmiling face, more serious than he'd ever seen it.

Jack said, "Savvy, Tom?"

Tom nodded. And then, fighting back a sob, hugged his father as tight as he could. The strong arm tightened about his shoulders.

After a bit, Jack said, "So, did you leave word, or do they think you've drowned?"

Tom sat up and wiped his eyes, and sniffed. He looked up at his father uncertainly, suddenly aware he wouldn't like this part, either. "Annie told 'em," he ventured. And saw that he'd been right.

"Annie!" Jack gave his son a look of disgust. "You owe her, lad."

Tom grimaced. "I know."

"All right," said Jack. He got up, and pulled Tom to his feet as he did so. "Go see your mother, now. She maybe thinks I've murdered you."

He opened the door and they went down the passageway together. Jack let him in the Great Cabin, and Tom went in, hesitantly.

Harry was sitting by the windows, where she had been looking out at the sea, but she had turned with a start and now stood up, looking first at Tom, and then, with relief, at Jack. And then she smiled, rather mistily, and opened her arms for her little boy.

Tom ran to her, saying, "It's all right. I'm all right!" and she laughed through her tears, and gathered him against her.

And Jack, seeing them together, could not help smiling just a bit, too.