IX. GHOST STORIES
Thunder echoed through the bilge and the Revenge lurched again, nearly sending Jack back into the water that continued to rise. It was over the tops of his boots now. All in all, Jack was thoroughly miserable. He was soaking wet, with sore ribs and sore head. Besides which, he stank. Yes, he had definitely had better days. Dawn was close now – Jack could almost feel it, could sense the darkness beginning to give way to the day. He didn't have much time.
There was a scraping noise above him and Jack looked up, his heart tripping into high speed. Cautiously he splashed his way toward the ladder, reeling a little as the ship plunged and dipped beneath him. Then the hatch opened and a tanned face gazed down at him.
"So, Jack Sparrow." The voice was familiar, as was the cunning expression. "Never thought to see you again, even though old Harry's been searching for a while now. Ever since he got back on his feet, as it were." The pirate's unsympathetic chuckle sent a shiver down Jack's spine.
It was Bridges. One-time mate on Jack's own Victory - and among the first to attack Jack when the fighting had begun on board the Fearless…even though Bridges had supposedly owed him some sort of loyalty. Jack sighed wearily. What was it about him that kept making his crew betray him? Were there no loyal men left in the Caribbean? But then his momentary doubt faded. There were loyal people – and they were safe back on board the Pearl.
"That's Captain Jack Sparrow to you, Bridges," Jack said evenly.
Bridges rubbed his chin. "Strikes me 'Captain' is a bit of an overstatement. Bilge rat seems more apt right now."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "You and the others did well enough out of me at the time. Who found the Spaniard and her great fortune then?"
"Never got a chance to spend it, did we? Most of the boxes went up in flames. Had to be kicked overboard."
"Yeah, well Harry never was much of a pirate, was he? He should have stowed it safe." Jack said wearily.
Bridges contemplated Jack for a long moment, then spoke again, a sly note entering his voice: "So tell me, Captain – are the rumours true about the gold you found on Isla de Muerta?"
Jack heard the greed in the man's voice and felt a familiar tingle of anticipation shiver through his body. This was it. The chance he had been waiting for. Jack folded his arms, ignoring the water sloshing around his knees.
"Aye, it's true enough," he said slowly. "Barbossa has no need of it now, him being un-undead and all. That treasure is just sitting there." Jack dropped his voice, painting an image with his words. "Gold, silk, jewels. A whole cavern full, just lying there. Doubloons piled so high they're sliding into the water. Ten years worth of spoils – can you picture it?"
It was evident that Bridges could. The man was practically salivating at the thought.
Jack continued, allowing a note of sorrow to enter his voice. "Be a shame to let all that go to waste. That island – well, there's not many know where it is. Barbossa's dead and his crew's hanged by now. As for those with me on my last venture to Isla de Muerta…well, none knew the bearings but me." Actually, there was also the Navy Lieutenant – Gillette was his name – that Norrington had forced him to give the bearings to, but Jack carefully didn't mention that.
'Come on, little fish,' he thought, trying to reel the man in. One ally. One chance. That was all he needed. Well, that and a loaded pistol maybe…
Jack dropped his hands and sighed dramatically. "All that gold - a man could retire ten times over. Nothing you couldn't afford. Even buy your own island, if you wanted."
Bridges swallowed, then spoke slowly: "What say you – Captain - to an accord between us? Some of the lads are not so keen on old Harry's ways. There's no profit in it for us. Day in, day out, he's been scouring the seas, lookin' for you, Jack Sparrow. Passing up real beauties, and avoiding port for months on end. So what say you to this? You give me the bearings to the treasure, and I'll keep you out of Harry's noose."
Jack felt the start of a smile pulling at his lips. "Or how 'bout this instead – you get rid of Harry and then I pilot the Revenge to the treasure."
Bridges hesitated.
"It's the only way, mate," Jack said firmly. "Otherwise the secret dies with me. Savvy?"
"We take eighty percent, and drop you off wherever we want."
"Fifty, and you'll take me to Tortuga."
"Sixty-five and it'll be Shandling Bay."
"Done! Shake on it." Jack held up his hand, hoping the pirate would be stupid enough to take it. Not that Jack was quite sure what he'd do once he got out of the bilge, but it had to help his chances...especially if he could get his hands on Bridges gun.
"Not on your life. D'ye think I'm that stupid?"
Jack's silence was eloquent.
Another long moment passed, then Bridges nodded. "All right. I'll put it to the others. Stay there."
"And just where would I be going, mate?"
But the hatch had already clanged shut and Jack was alone in the gloom once again. Nevertheless, he found his spirits lifting for the first time since his capture. He turned, and his fingers brushed the compass still hanging on his belt. Idly Jack flipped it open. There was just enough lantern light remaining for him to make out its needle, still spinning around wildly. He stared at it for a long moment then shut the compass with a snap. It would be ironic if it saved his life now - given that it had nearly got him killed, all those years ago.
It was a beautiful evening, Jack decided. The day had been extremely hot, even by Caribbean standards, but as the sun was lowering in the sky the temperature had dropped to bearable levels. He raised his face to the gentle breeze that plucked at his open shirt, and took a moment to relish its caress against his skin.
The crew of the Bloody Cutlass had gathered on the main deck to eat their meal and now sat around alternately talking and listening to Griffin's guitar, singing along with the more boisterous ditties. Captain Telford joined them, garnering a cheer as he broke out the rum rations.
"Tell us a story, young Jack," he said. "Tell us a story from home. You're always full of wild tales."
Telford's words set the crew laughing, and Jack had grinned at his compatriots, not minding their mirth. At twenty-two he'd become the unofficial story-teller onboard the ship: his imagination just that much livelier than his fellow crew men.
It was not the sort of night for horror stories, though he knew many thanks to his Dad's love of scaring his son with his bedtime tales. Perhaps a tale about a ghostly ship would be more in keeping with his light-hearted mood.
"Listen up then, while I tell you what could happen to your sorry souls." Jack leaned forward slightly, drawing his audience in.
"Fairfield village always kept itself to itself," he began. "A haven for the ghosts of their ancestors. Friendly they were - both living and the dead. Never any trouble on either side…until the night a terrible storm brought a pirate ship to Fairfield."
Jack's eyes swept around his crewmates, noting their attention was firmly fixed on him, and revelling just a little at being the centre of attention.
"Fifty miles inland it came. Landed right in the landlord of the Fox and Grapes' field – just sat there with its black hull crushing his turnips."
The image Jack had conjured set the crew to chuckling once again.
"Seemingly, the ship was not quite ghost, yet not quite real either, if you get my meaning. Somewhere betwixt and between, as it were. You could touch it, but you knew it wasn't real. So, the Captain of this ship seemed a well-to-do kind of man, didn't give any trouble to the landlord and paid handsomely for the damage his ship had caused, but..." Jack paused for a moment, his eyes darting once to Bootstrap, and catching the barely suppressed grin. The boys had grown up hearing this tale.
"But what? Get on with it lad," came Telford's voice from the now gathering gloom.
"…but that was when the trouble started. Ghosts started to come home the worse for wear, causing all sorts of ruckus in their old haunts. Old ghosts, who'd ever been quiet, were now carousing in the village square. Young ghostly lads abandoned their ghostly ladies for the rum being offered by the pirate captain."
There was more hilarity and Telford threatened to cut off their supplies. It took a moment for Jack to regain their attention.
"Ah, but you should be warned lads - the rum, it wasn't given for free, for come the next big storm the pirate ship was blown back to wherever she had come from, and took most of the Fairfield ghosts with it. Seemingly the captain had needed a new crew and he took what he wanted…"
"… and gave nothing back?" Bootstrap interrupted.
"Aye. A true pirate," Jack said smugly.
Barbossa's gritty voice cut through the laughter, catching everyone's attention. "I have a tale for you. Not as light-hearted as Jack's, but a cautionary tale if it is to be believed."
A round of, 'tell us', give us your story', 'does it involve gold?' rang around the deck.
"Aye, it involves gold. And a curse, if the tale is true." Barbossa had their attention now and he wove for them the tale of Cortez' gold, of the curse put on it by the Aztecs, and brought to life the image of the damned men who had taken the pieces and suffered for all their lives.
Suddenly Barbossa laughed. "A tale to frighten dread pirates with!"
"Where be the gold now then?" O'Dell asked. A question that had been on every man's mind, for Barbossa had told them just how much gold there had been.
The older man's eyes lifted to the horizon. "Somewhere out there. It's said only those 'as has been to the Isla de Muerta can find it again…."
He chuckled at his rapt faces all around him.
"No-one's found the treasure, lads. It's just a tale. I doubt it even exists, nor the curse."
The story had fired Jack's imagination to great heights. In his mind he could almost see the piles of gold and jewels. The huge box filled to overflowing with Aztec gold. Was it possible that such a treasure really existed and no one was brave enough to take it?
There had been many tales told about the area they now sailed in. Jack gave little credence to them. After all, who had heard of ships vanishing without trace for no reason? Someone had sunk them, or a storm had taken them to the depths. He'd been close enough to drowning on the Mary Ellen for it to ring true.
Still, there was something vaguely unsettling in the air, in the way the Bloody Cutlass moved under his feet, as though the ship herself were uncomfortable in these waters.
From the quarterdeck the helmsman swore and shook the ship's compass hard. "Bloody thing won't stay true. Look at it - first this way and then that. How's a man supposed to keep us steady with this!"
On his belt, Jack had hung his latest good luck charm - a compass taken from the little Spanish ship they had raided just a week before. It didn't work, but that hadn't mattered. He'd liked the design…and besides, there had been…well, he'd never admit it to a living soul, but there was something vaguely otherworldly about it. A…feeling, had gone through him when he'd picked it up, a faint tingle that had caused the palm of his hand to itch. And so he had kept it, not really questioning why, and cheerfully enduring the occasional joke about it from the crew. It was important. Jack wasn't sure how or why he knew that, but he did. He glanced down at it now, flipping it open with one hand. The needle was steady as a rock, but he knew from experience it wouldn't be pointing north. Somewhere in its history the compass had been too badly damaged to ever function properly.
"Sails!" The lookout pointed to the starboard side, and there, sailing all unaware towards them, was another dainty Spanish ship for the taking. The wind was in the Cutlass' favour, edging her closer to the Spaniard minute by minute. Jack took his place at the rail, waiting for the fight to begin, excitement coursing through him.
Perhaps she hadn't been quite so unaware for from the Spaniard came the boom of cannon fire, plumes of smoke drifting into the sunlit sky. Her shot fell short of the Cutlass, and the men lining her rail jeered at the pitiful attempt.
The gap was closing quickly. Jack could make out her name now – the Fuego.
O'Dell and his team were up in the rigging, tending the sails, giving the pirate ship as much advantage as they could. Another cannon shot missed the Cutlass, though by a smaller margin now and Jack could feel the tension building within him.
From the Cutlass' starboard guns came a volley of fire, the pirate ship sending death across the waves and taking the Spaniard almost at the water line, her reach greater than that of her prey. Another volley, then another, and the Spaniard began to list heavily, trying to tack away from her pursuers. Telford was not one to let a prize slip his grasp and it was only minutes more before the Cutlass was within boarding distance. Jack grabbed a line and prepared to swing aboard, pistol tucked securely through his belt, a dagger between his teeth, and his sword ready for use at his side. Barbossa had spent hour upon hour teaching him how to use the sword, until the men were on par with each other, but Jack had yet to use the weapon in a real fight.
Jack landed heavily, dropping from the rope to the Fuego's deck. Smoke from the cannon drifted across Jack's face, obscuring his vision. He ducked low, keeping his body out of reach of any stray sword sweep.
All around him the cries of friend and foe alike as the battle was joined. Taking the pistol from his belt, Jack edged forward, his dagger in his other hand.
From out of the mist a figure loomed over him. Jack stood quickly and struck out with the dagger, catching his man across his sword arm, slicing through ligaments, and the weapon fell with a clatter to the deck. Reversing his pistol, Jack laid a solid blow to the man's head and watched him fall. "Sorry, mate," he murmured, stepping over the fallen man.
From his left, another Spaniard came hurling by, sword flashing brightly as he fought with Bootstrap. Jack jumped back nimbly until they had passed and then plunged onward. Another of the Spanish crew had cornered O'Dell, and Jack once again brought his pistol into play, slamming the butt against the vulnerable head. Across the fallen man, O'Dell and Jack grinned briefly at one another, then O'Dell's eyes shifted behind Jack.
"Behind you, lad!" the pirate shouted.
Spinning about, Jack found himself at the wrong end of a gleaming sword and a stream of Spanish curses.
"Now, you really don't want to do that," Jack said carefully, freezing in place.
The Spaniard merely growled and lunged at Jack, who threw himself backward, narrowly avoiding a fallen body behind him. The Spaniard, a tall burly man gave him no breathing space, however. He was on Jack almost immediately, his sword flashing toward the pirate's throat. Jack continued to retreat across the heaving deck, dodging fighting men and downed bodies, while trying desperately to draw his sword. He lost his pistol in the process – it was knocked out of his hand when another Spaniard crashed into him, temporarily separating Jack from his pursuer. Jack shook himself free, finally managed to free his sword…and he turned.
The two weapons met in a shower of sparks. The impact sent a shudder up Jack's arm and for an instant, doubt flickered through him. The Spaniard was good. Too good? And then the moment was past and there was only the play and counterplay of the two blades.
Barbossa had once told Jack he was a natural - his athletic build and quick reflexes were ideally suited to swordplay. He was agile and had an almost uncanny ability to anticipate his opponent's next move.
Apparently Barbossa had been right.
In a strange way Jack was almost beginning to enjoy himself. Exhilaration and excitement combined with the sudden certainty that he couldn't be beaten, sent his emotions soaring and lending wings to his sword hand. He dodged a sideways slice from the Spaniard, then in one smooth move Jack pivoted beneath the man's guard…and sank his blade deep into his chest.
Everything seemed to come to a halt, sounds fading around Jack as the Spaniard's eyes opened wider in surprise. He stood, unmoving on the end of Jack's sword for what seemed like an eternity, and then he slowly began to fall backwards. There was a tug on Jack's sword as it caught on something – a rib perhaps? – and it was only the habit of long hours of practice that kept Jack's fingers tight around the hilt. And then it was sliding free, and the Spaniard crashed to the deck, a dark red stain growing on the front of his uniform.
There was so much blood.
And suddenly Jack wasn't enjoying himself anymore.
Ignoring the battle that continued around him, Jack sank to his knees beside the dying man. He reached his hand out towards the Spaniard, who was futilely trying to staunch the flow of blood, then Jack pulled back. There was nothing he could do. The man was dying. And Jack had killed him. Shaken, he leaned forward a little…and on his belt, the compass swung forward, its catch giving way. It fell open, the movement catching the gaze of the Spaniard. His eyes, already beginning to lose their focus, looked down at the compass – and an expression of blind terror came over him. He looked back up at Jack, agitated words tumbling raggedly from his mouth. Jack knew little Spanish, but he thought he caught a feeble plea to God for protection, and then those three pivotal words – 'Isla de Muerta'.
Isla de Muerta.
Jack shifted his weight as he stood at the wheel of the Cutlass, standing the late watch. At some point during the night he had made his peace with what he had done. He had killed a man. But it could just as easily be him lying dead back there on the Spanish ship. He had chosen this lifestyle. It hadn't been forced upon him. He had to accept that he might…no, would…be forced to kill again. Tomorrow, or the day after, or the one after that… At some point he would find himself in a similar situation, where it would come down to his life or another's. And, in those long hours of darkness as the Cutlass had cut through the waters of the Caribbean, Jack had come to a decision. If he had to kill, he would – but he would also look for alternatives and keep his options open whenever he could. The other men on the Bloody Cutlass might be able to kill without a qualm…but Jack wasn't like them. And, he had realised, he didn't have to be. He would be his own sort of pirate, and if anyone didn't like it…well, it was a big ocean. There was room for all sorts out here.
His mind settled now, or as settled as it could be, Jack's thoughts returned to the second matter that had been bothering him - the Spaniard, and his expression of complete and utter terror when the compass had fallen open.
Isla de Muerta.
It was just a legend. Nothing but a ghost story. It couldn't be true…could it? Unconsciously Jack fingered the compass at his belt, tracing the pattern on it lightly. What if it were true? And what if this compass were somehow linked to the legend? The ship Jack had lifted it from had been sailing from Veracruz, according to the papers in the Captain's cabin. A tenuous link to the Aztecs, but a link nonetheless.
So how to find out more? Jack stared blindly into the darkness, his mind sifting through the possibilities. He could ask Barbossa what else he knew about the legend – but carefully, mind you. Jack had already decided he would not tell anyone else about the compass. If he were wrong about it, his fellow pirates' ribbing would be merciless, and it would be nigh impossible to live it down. If he were right though… Once more the tantalizing image of a vast and endless treasure glinted before his eyes. No, he would tell no one.
And Barbossa's tale of a curse? Jack let out a snort. There was no such thing as curses.
Jack sighed and leaned his head back against the bilge wall. He knew better now, of course. His hand tightened around the compass. If it hadn't been for this thing, he thought bitterly, he never would have gone after the Aztec gold, never would have been marooned, never would have lost the Pearl…
Except…he probably still would have taken on Barbossa and the other mutineers, that day in Tortuga. Barbossa would still have betrayed him and stolen his ship. Nothing would have changed. Or maybe everything would have – who could tell?
It had taken Jack a long time to find out if his suspicions about the compass were correct – nearly two years of asking cautious questions at various ports, of tracing the history of the Fuego and her crew - until finally he had been… not sure, but certain enough to try for the treasure. All he had needed was a good ship and crew.
Well, one out of two wasn't bad.
And now – now he was quite possibly the only man who still knew the location of the treasure – he doubted Lieutenant Gillette would remember the way - and he couldn't do a bloody thing about it. Harry Covenant certainly had a lot to answer for.
At that moment, the lantern went out.