PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: THE AFRICAN STAR

By ErinRua

CHAPTER 2

Port Royal stood out at the end of a narrow spit of land that curved protectively around the harbor which gave her life.  Along the quays a virtual forest of masts tilted and swayed, large craft and small making berth for whatever business their masters commanded.  Nor was it always wise to ask what that business may be, for though the Governor of the island made his home here, the hard men of the sea kept many secrets and there were narrow streets where a silver shilling could buy information, a woman's favors - or a man's life.

Other streets, however, were home to the craftsmen and tradesmen who made up the backbone of Port Royal, and here young blacksmith Will Turner plied his trade.  His black hair was queued back from chiseled features that gleamed with the fiery breath of the forge, as he carefully turned the new sword in his hands.  A dip of chin to sleeve wiped the thin sheen of sweat from his youthful smudge of moustache and goatee, but his eyes never left the glowing metal.

Many hours had already gone into the forming of the blade, heating and shaping it to patient perfection, keenly watching the play of heat on steel as the colors glowing within the metal told him when temperatures were correct.  Next he spent hours with a file coaxing the edge and tip he wanted, exact to the exclusion of anything, even meals, until now the blade wanted only a final temper.  Yet as with every other step he worked with unwearied intensity, playing heat upon steel and steel upon coals with a lover's careful touch.  His apprenticeship was complete and though he pursued his journeyman's work still in the shadow of his master's employ, he strove always to perfect his craft.

Suddenly sunlight spilled across the floor of the shop, the light of the outside world followed by a long shadow and footsteps.  "Master Brown?"

Will did not recognize the voice but he turned from the forge with a welcoming smile.  "He is not in, sir.  May I help you?"

The burly stranger looked as did many in this town, sun-bronzed with his hair pulled back in a sailor's queue and wearing a seaman's tarred cap.  However, his coat was a finer cut than most and he stood with his square jaw firmly set and his feet placed in the straight-backed stance of command.  He was also frowning, as if a lanky, sweet-faced, soft-spoken boy was not what he had expected to find manning a blacksmith shop.

"I would speak to Master Brown, if he can be found.  I need a blacksmith."

Something flickered in Will's eyes and was gone, the gentle smile remaining on his face.  "I am a blacksmith.  I am Will Turner.  What may I do for you?"

The man's brows lowered and he folded his arms across his muscular chest.  "All right.  Bring your tools, blacksmith.  We need work done on some shackles aboard ship."

"Of course, sir.  I shall be glad to oblige you.  Give me thirty minutes and I'll be through here."

With that Will gave a final smile and turned once more to his forge.  The stranger's voice abruptly barked in command.

"Belay thirty minutes; we need you now, boy!"

The young man paused an instant, his back to his would-be customer.  But then he straightened and turned with a carefully bland face.

In tones of greatest courtesy, he said, "Thirty minutes, sir.  I must finish the temper on this blade."

"And I say you'll come now!"

Will made no move nor did his expression notably change, but suddenly the stranger became aware of tiny points of firelight glinting in the boy's dark eyes.  And also the fact that a completed and battle-ready sword hung in a scabbard just on the far side of the forge.

Very gently and precisely the tall young smith said, "Thirty … minutes.  Sir.  If you will please tell me the name of your ship and where she is berthed?"

After the stranger left, Will sighed and shook his head.  "Ugly man," he murmured to the smooth length of heated steel awaiting his ministrations.  "Now, let's see about getting you a proper finish."

***

The Royal Venture stood at anchor not far offshore, a tall, somehow grim merchant vessel, at least in Will's eyes, who studied it curiously as he swayed in the stern of the ship's boat that had awaited him.  A pungent stench drifted on the breeze and was gone, but it was not the heady salt-and-tar aroma of the waterfront.  Yet even as he dismissed it from mind, the odor returned.  His grimace must have been seen by the ordinary seaman at the oars, for the man chuckled as he bent his shoulders to his labor.

"Don't mind the smell, lad.  You'll be aboard and gone again, unlike us poor wretches that sail 'er."

Again the rancid stink washed over them and Will fought the urge to cough.  "What is your cargo?  Bad cheese?"

"Slaves, boy.  Gold on two legs."

No more was said as the boat came alongside, and Will slung his tools over his shoulder to climb aboard.  The teak decks looked clean enough, the smooth wood scrubbed nearly white by frequent holy-stoning and the scuppers washed clean.  But the smell - sweet heaven, it clung like an invisible fog, cloying and sticking to the back of his throat so that he took only shallow breaths.  How anyone could sail, let alone keep down a meal aboard this ship was beyond Will's comprehension.

Standing amidships like a brooding tree stump stood the man who had summoned him, now with a sword belted at his waist.  Square-jawed and imposing, here in daylight he fairly oozed a queer predatory alertness.  As Will drew near their eyes met and the short hairs on the back of his neck sprang straight up.  The thought flashed that he should have come armed with more than just blacksmith's tools.  Nonetheless, with a lift of his chin Will came to a halt before him.

"I am here as requested."

"So I see," the man grumbled.  Then he tilted his head indicating a rearward direction and said, "Follow me."

As they walked aft two seamen fell in behind, both armed with boarding pistols and short swords.  Will frowned but reckoned the business of trafficking in slaves required such measures.  However, he made sure to keep his guide in front of him.

"First Mate Thomas Fry," the stocky man said over his shoulder, apparently intending that as an introduction.  "The captain o' this ship is Sir John Biltmore."

"Ah.  I see," said Will.

He kept his thoughts silent however, for it would be imprudent to voice his opinions of men who tossed titles about as a way to impress lesser men.  If he had learned anything in his young life, it was that titles and labels meant little, for the mettle of a man was in his deeds, not words.

A hatch appeared before them and the two armed seamen went down first.  As Will stepped onto the ladder at Fry's heels, the reek wafting from the ship's bowels nearly bludgeoned him to his knees.  It clogged his lungs and burned his eyes like a ghastly fume and for an instant he wondered if the air was poisoned enough to kill him.

"Blessed be," he whispered, for his throat had constricted so as to prevent further sound.


First Mate Fry heard him, however, and cast a hard grin over his shoulder as he disappeared into the murk below.  Since holding his breath was not going to be an indefinite option, Will tried to restrict air intake to his mouth and dropped the last steps down.


Darkness.  Heated, humid, putrid shadows that only after a moment proved to be dimly illuminated by a carried lantern: that was the world where Will moved now.  The below-decks he realized was oddly divided to include a shallow 'tween-decks, which was further sectioned by long shelves.  As they made their way forward the gloom deepened, and then Will nearly ceased breathing altogether.


The darkness had eyes.  The darkness was alive.

There were people down here, scores of living people crammed like cotton bales onto those shelves, sitting hunched with up-thrust knees, or laying cheek-by-thigh amongst their fellows.  All were nude or nearly so, and yet so dark-skinned that only their eyes and the dull sheen of sweat gleamed in the dimness.  Most chilling of all, however, was the utter lack of sound.  No voice spoke, no murmur sounded.

As Will followed his guides and their lantern onward he felt those eyes following him, and fancied a whisper paced after him just under the edge of hearing.  He lengthened his stride - and almost collided with First Mate Fry.

"Here," Fry said.  "Need to get these shackles off."

Turning, Will focused on the wretches towards whom Fry was pointing.  Four black men sat there, dull-eyed and gaunt and motionless as graven stone.  About their ankles were clasped heavy iron shackles after the fashion of ox-bows, locked by a great heavy pin driven through the open ends.  The contrivance seemed simple enough and he could not see why they needed a blacksmith to remove them, especially when it seemed over half the human cargo had already been taken ashore.  But as Fry beckoned him closer to the lamplight he realized the shackles were heavily rusted and could not be removed.  Thus they needed tools not kept aboard ship.

Swallowing his gorge Will stepped forward, bag of tools heavy in his hand.

"I'll need that light here," he said.

Slavery was a fact of life in the islands, though it pleased Will not, but those Africans he had seen were at least clothed and fed and gainfully employed.  Nothing prepared him for the sight of people packed in conditions a hog farmer would abhor.  He knelt down on planking damp with things he did not care to think about and tried not to look at those alien, pitiable faces just arms-reach away.  He tried not to see dark skin chafed ghastly raw and livid, and tried not to think why these four people had evidently worn their irons for so long that the flesh was nearly worn from their bony shins.  And he tried not to let his sweating hands shake or slip as he struck the cruel bonds away.  If his blows fell heavier than was warranted there was none but he to say.

As the last crashing clangor of iron on iron died away, a heavy hand smote Will on the shoulder.


"Well done, boy," said First Mate Fry and tucked his thumbs in his belt.  "These four were nothin' but trouble the whole way.  Reckon we cured them of their mischief, though."  And he chuckled, a deep, wet sound.

Tight-jawed but silent, Will collected his tools and stood.  A thousand things that did not bear saying crowded behind his teeth, and so he simply held Fry's gaze for single seething heartbeat, then named his price.  Silver coins dropped into his outstretched palm, whereupon he turned and strode away, out of that noisome wooden cavern, out of darkness and stench and a vision of living nightmare to which he dearly wished he had never been privy.

As the ship's boat creaked its way towards shore, Will turned to stare outwards past the harbor's mouth.  Breathing great, belly-deep gulps of clean air he found himself leaning over the side, towards sunlight and blue-green water and a sky that bent away into perfect freedom.  For that long moment he wished he had wings.

***

The sailor put Will ashore beside a longboat from the Royal Venture, this larger craft awash with more black slaves overseen by armed sailors.  The young blacksmith averted his eyes self-consciously and made his way onto the road above.  He was surprised to recognize a fine carriage parked not far up the street, just outside a walled yard he knew even before seeing the sign: Wm. S. Devon and Sons, Publick Sellers of Slaves, Horses, Cattle, and Hoggs.  Whatever was Governor Swann doing here?

"Sir, I will not be thwarted by this - this pig of a man upon his claims that some fishing smack has precedence over my custom!"  Sonorous tones rang even into the street as Will walked.  "I will pay amply for his precious time, and I would thank you to instruct him to commence forthwith!"

A familiar mild voice replied.  "I quite understand your frustrations, given the damage storms have done to your ship and your schedule.  But I'm afraid my jurisdiction really does not extend to the shipyards."

As Will approached the open gates a sharper voice broke in.  "Guv'nor, I got men workin' on four other vessels right now, with two more put back in the water just today.  My riggers barely 'ave time to stand on solid ground before they're back up again!  All I'm askin' this - this gentleman is that he waits until day after tomorrow!  I'll have a berth for 'is ship then."

Cautiously Will peered within, and there saw Governor Swann's bewigged and elegant figure facing another equally elegant but notably larger man.  Towering over six feet tall yet bearing his mass lightly, the stranger stood squarely in a green, heavily gold-embroidered knee-length coat, silk waistcoat and pristine white stockings, all that finery punctuated by a jeweled sword which clearly bespoke money.

He was also clearly furious.  "I am already three days behind my schedule for Hispaniola, and on the word of a shipwright I am to make it five?"

The master shipwright's bearded face showed no less frustration.  "If ye want yer bloody tub fixed, you will!"

"How dare -!"  The stranger might have been thought a handsome man by some, were it not for the habitual lines of temper marring his rugged features.  "Were you on board my ship, I would have you flayed for your insolence!"

The master shipwright's response was to spit sideways and glare.  Governor Swann moved between the two men, hands raised in supplication, and Will was further surprised to see Elizabeth standing to one side.  Cool and beautiful as a lily she was, in an ivory dress that somehow warmed her liquid brown eyes.  Spotting Will by the gate she offered him a brief, wan smile, and stepped away from the continuing argument.

As Will slipped inside the compound, Governor Swann's persistent calm remained a marked contrast to the stranger's ire. "Sir John, Master Baylor does his utmost to satisfy all customers in the most expedient manner possible. I'm sure we can reach a compromise here."

Sir John's glower tightened.  "Governor, my cargo, my slaves are the foundation of the wealth in these islands, as any sugar grower could tell you, and that is a fact you would do well to remember.  A governor who allows a mere shipwright to abuse his betters - I should think that London might be interested to learn how you manage your affairs here."

Governor Swann's brow lifted.  "Do you threaten me … sir?"

Will's eyes widened as he and Elizabeth stopped together.  When he leaned to speak to her he breathed a clean scent of lavender.


"Who is that?" he whispered.

"The master of the slave ship Royal Venture, Sir John Biltmore."  Her dark gaze narrowed.  "And an absolute boor."

"I demand what is my due!" Sir John sputtered angrily.  "I will pay handsomely - does no one hear me in this place?  But I must have my ship refitted and repaired as soon as possible, or I shall lose custom.  The cargo I am to pick up from the sale of my slaves will not wait forever, nor shall my buyers in Port Paix!"

Further debate was interrupted by a rumble of iron wagon wheels on cobblestones, and Will and Elizabeth moved back from the entrance of a heavily-laden wagon.  In its open bed were crammed perhaps two dozen gleaming dark figures, the latest contingent of slaves off-loaded from the Royal Venture.

"We will continue this presently," the big man growled, then strode to meet the wagon.  "Get this lot unloaded immediately.  Mister Stone, make it smartly."

The spacious grounds of the auction yard were bare dirt surrounded by warehouses, stacks of boxes and barrels and frowning brick walls.  What caught Will's eye, however, was the wooden stockade that filled one corner.  Roughly shingled roofing rested on beams to form partial shade for whatever might be kept within, and the armed men standing about the walls and grounds indicated what and who the inmates were.  This was where the slaves - and at other times probably livestock - were held prior to sale.

A sigh captured his attention and he turned to realize Governor Swann stood beside them.

"Good day, sir," he said with a brief bow.

Elizabeth spoke first, and tartly.  "It would be a better day if Father had not stopped at this hideous place."

"Now, my dear."  Swann smiled at her appealingly.  "Master Baylor practically threw himself under our wheels begging my help.  Of course I had to stop.  And Sir John Biltmore is a prominent guest in our city."

Elizabeth's glance fairly smoldered as she watched Biltmore strut around the wagon.  He carried his ill humor with him like a smell, ordering both his men and the dismounting slaves about with sharp gestures and sharper words.

"All the titles in the world can't make a gentleman of the likes of him."

Again Swann smiled, though the effort appeared forced.  "Elizabeth, let us do remember our manners in public."


His glance flicked towards the still-fuming master shipwright, who presently stood with his arms folded and a decidedly mutinous look on his face.  Catching the governor's eye the shipwright sighed and stumped off to wait in the shade.

Will's attention remained on Sir John as he said, "Well, at least we know the master sets the example for his men."  Upon seeing Swann's look of inquiry, he flushed to realize he had probably spoken more frankly than was proper. "He sent his first mate to fetch me to strike off some rusted shackles.  The first mate was … rather abrupt."

"Oh!"

Both men started at Elizabeth's gasp and turned to face the grim, stoic line of slaves being herded off the wagon and into a ragged group.  One of the black men lay on the ground, his gaunt shoulders knotting painfully as he struggled to push himself to his knees.

***

TBC …….

Author's Note:  I may update slowly but I *will* update, my goal being to post at least once every 5 days.  This is the first time I've ever posted a work-in-progress so please be patient!  I know where I want to go with this, but I'm a bit of a perfectionist so it takes a little work to get there.  ;-)