PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: THE AFRICAN STAR
By ErinRua
CHAPTER 7
Never had the road to Fort Charles seemed so long, as Will ran towards the stone ramparts. Though built overlooking the town the distance seemed endless and the breath burned in his lungs by the time he reached the main gate. Past startled guards he flew, who nonetheless recognized the young blacksmith and let him pass.
In moments he stood panting in a cool, shadowed corridor, waiting as an excruciatingly correct sentry announced him to the man within.
"Let him in," drifted the reply, and even as the sentry reappeared Will was brushing past him.
"Good afternoon, Mister Turner." Within a spacious and strictly tidy room Commodore Norrington stood sorting various documents, which were spread on a table before a tall window. "I trust there is an explanation for this dramatic entrance?"
"Yes, sir. I found - beg pardon, sir -."
"Do take time to breathe, Mister Turner."
Gasping, Will nodded as he leaned both hands on the far end of the table and gulped two deep breaths. "Commodore, I spoke to - to some people. Sir, someone saw men rowing a woman out to the Royal Venture last night."
He nodded as Norrington's attention suddenly focused wholly on him. "An attractive woman in a light-colored dress who protested against going. And word on the docks is that the captain of the Royal Venture is not very choosy about his cargo. They say he deals in slaves both black and white. And he has been known to traffic in female slaves."
"Indeed." Very precisely Norrington set down his papers and turned to face Will, one hip against the table. "Do continue."
"Yes, sir. There are rumors - only rumors, mind you, but they bear hearing - that sometimes servants and shop girls and other women of - of the lower classes go missing, and that they are taken away to be sold in Cuba or other Spanish possessions."
Frowning thoughtfully, Norrington crossed his arms on his chest. "And such a choice of victims would make a certain hideous sense. Those women would have no family, or no one of prominence to excite a large-scale hunt. But Elizabeth Swann is hardly a serving girl."
"Of course not." Will quickly shook his head and swallowed against the queasiness now twisting in his stomach. "But Commodore … she and I did rather attract Sir John's attention. Unfavorably. You heard his insinuations."
Norrington pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Dropping his hand, he said, "I find it incredible to imagine that a man of his stature would risk so much over a personal disagreement. Governor Swann would ruin the man for such a thing, if not order his immediate execution."
"I agree, sir. It makes no sense. But Commodore, do we dare ignore the chance my informants were right?"
Norrington met Will's beseeching gaze with a brooding look. "Your informants, if I were to venture a guess, undoubtedly are not of the most stellar reputations, and possibly not entirely sober."
"Bother sobriety!" Ink wells and papers jumped as Will slammed his fist on the table. "Commodore, I will beg if I must, but please take some men and search that ship before she sails! If there is half a chance, we would be fools to miss it!"
Being nearly labeled a fool could not sit well with the commander of the local fleet. However, Norrington's calm remained unruffled.
"Under what pretext, Mister Turner? One does not frivolously board a ship owned by the son of a man who sits in the House of Lords. Oh yes, Sir John Biltmore is the son of Lord James Biltmore the Third, primary share-holder of the Bristol Trading Company."
Giving his head a frustrated shake, Will blurted, "Tell him you're hunting stowaways. Tell him someone broke out of your brig. Tell him a savage murderous pirate is trying to escape Port Royal and you believe he is seeking sea-passage!"
For a beat Norrington simply studied him, as if he was something that had just flown in the window and landed upon his paperwork. Then he said, "You possess a most curious wit." Straightening, he added, "It is fortunate for your impudence that there are enough peculiar rumors attached to Sir John's name to warrant attention. Indeed, Mister Turner. Let us discover how terribly I can humiliate myself."
Will opened his mouth to protest, but the commodore brushed past him towards the door. As he stepped out his voice drifted back.
"We shall pray your informant did not simply see a doxy rowing out for an assignation with the first mate."
As the commodore strode away, Will found himself abruptly very much a spare part, left behind as Norrington went forth to gather his marines. It was, however, far better results than he had feared to get, and for once he was grateful that Norrington retained his affection and loyalty for Elizabeth Swann. From upon the wide ramparts he could see almost the entire harbor, and he turned his attention towards the shipyards. There, even as he watched, unfurling canvas began to blossom whitely upon the slave ship's yards. The Royal Venture was making ready to sail.
***
Darkness and dampness and a fetid cloying stink that did not entirely come from the sweating figure pressed against her; that was what Elizabeth Swann found herself enduring now.
"Not a whisper, missy," the man rasped in her ear, and she stood rigid against the heat of his breath, the ghastly intimacy of him against her and cold steel at her throat. "Not a sound or I'll slit your pretty throat so the last thing you'll hear is your own blood drippin'."
First Mate Thomas Fry had made it his special duty to assure the compliance of their captives. The warmth of his heavy body against her back, sticky even through layers of clothing, raised her stomach into her throat and she knew not whether to weep or rage. Somewhere on the dirty floor the Irish girl lay in a crumpled heap, her silence assured by a smashing blow to the face.
"You're contemptible!" Elizabeth hissed, and muffled a yelp as a fist twisted in her hair.
"And you're a prisoner," he whispered back, the heat of his breath coiling damply against her cheek. "Or to make everything crystal clear, you're about to become a slave. SHH!"
Thumping sounds drifted through the stout walls, along with the rapid thud of feet descending ladders into the ship. Muffled voices spoke in rapid bursts, almost certainly the snap of orders being given. Her heart sprang in gladness as she recognized one clear voice, but the knife gouged more sharply and she sucked a quick breath.
"Not a peep," Fry breathed, and threat rasped in his whisper like an adder's scales.
Thus she could only stand frozen to the press of a knife against her jugular, feeling her pulse thud against the steel, while the tread of the Royal Navy echoed throughout the ship. In her small dank prison Elizabeth listened in growing despair, and wished she could hurl her desperate thoughts right through the heavy walls. 'I'm here,' she cried in the silence of her heart, 'please find me.' Yet though hard feet marched right past her hidden cell, they did not slow or stop. Nor did the stricken Irish lass make a sound that might reveal the captives' presence. Ever and anon the voices rang out again, but at long last they faded away. A few moments more, then the knife point fell away from her neck.
"There, missy," her guardian purred, and she gasped as she was released. Fry stepped away, nothing more than a hulking shadow among shadows. "Now you're all ours."
With a moist-sounding chuckle he stepped away, relieving her at least of his odious closeness. A rectangle of pale daylight appeared in the wall, but was closed with a jarring thud. Elizabeth was abandoned. Commodore Norrington's men had not found her. She did not sob nor did she weep, but neither could she stop the frightened tears that burned in her eyes. The Irish girl moved at last, sitting up in a dry rasp of cloth, but she cupped her fingers beneath her nose and blood ran darkly.
"Father …" Elizabeth whispered, raising her fingers to rough board walls. "Will …"
But then she stepped back and glared at the offending walls, her small fists clenched at her sides. Slave was it?
"You'll not hold me," she vowed, though the darkness swallowed her voice. "You don't know me, and you certainly don't know my friends."
***
Will stood poised on the end of the old dock, watching the trim little Navy cutter skimming its way across the harbor, not knowing his tall frame leaned as if he could fly after it. The long rays of the setting sun painted the water in gleaming gold and blue and ignited the sails of the flying boat. The bustle of readying to get underway never ceased aboard the Royal Venture, but he was relieved that the ship remained stationary while the cutter's white sails glided into her shadow. Moments later tiny specks of red swarmed up ladders and over the rail, and he silently prayed.
"You tink dey find 'er, eh?"
Will looked down at the old black man still sitting with his fishing pole. "I don't know. But if there's a chance … if she's there … Commodore Norrington and his men will find her."
Ol' Jack's grey fuzzy head wagged slowly. "De debbil own dat boat, young 'un. He don' gib up what his."
A long time the two craft stood together, the little Navy boat and the merchant vessel. Across the water Will could, when the breeze shifted just so, distantly hear the rhythmic chanteys of sailors working on board. The sails continued to unfurl, though not set to the wind, and tiny figures moved about the decks and in the rigging. Twenty minutes, half an hour, more, Will could not have said how much time actually passed, as the blue shadows of the waning day grew longer. Finally, however, small figures clambered back down to the Navy boat, and her single sail took wing.
As the cutter slid back into sunlight Will blinked and realized he was not breathing. Had they found Elizabeth? Suddenly he wished fiercely for a spy glass to see across the glittering waves. The cutter's sail bellied full and white and he strained to see the occupants as it scudded back towards its berth. The tack it took brought it close enough for him to see people, almost their faces … but with a cold thud to the heart he realized that among the masculine forms of Royal Marines there was no lithe, womanly shape, no golden brown hair shining in sunlight. Nor had he seen them lower a sick or injured body into the boat.
"No …"
As his footsteps drummed away up the dock and deadened onto dry land, the old colored man sighed deeply. Shaking his head he clasped his fishing pole once more.
"You fishin' shadows, boy," he mumbled. "An' you sailin' in de dark."
***
TBC …
Author's Note: To all of you who email or review to offer your commentary, critique and encouragement, Thank You! I value your honesty and your enthusiasm, and I hope you'll tell me if I sail off-course. With my imaginary tot of rum - 'ere's lookin' at you, mates! :-)
Author's Note #2: Before anyone hollers, yes, there was indeed a small, single-masted sailing vessel called a "cutter," long before the U.S. Coast Guard started making theirs out of iron with diesel engines. :-)