PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: THE AFRICAN STAR
By ErinRua
CHAPTER 8
"Confound it, Turner, I LOOKED!"
Norrington's sudden shout shocked everyone to silence, and Will closed his mouth. Taking a sharp breath, Norrington groped for his strained composure with what almost appeared a physical effort.
"I walked every inch of that ship myself. I walked every deck, searched every hold, for heaven's sake, I even looked in the bilges and the captain's cabin! She is not there. She is not …"
The commodore made a helpless fist and let it drop as he looked away, the setting sun painting the tight muscles of his jaw. Beside them the cutter bobbed gently at its moorings, as sailors secured her sails and rigging. The marines nearby kept carefully disinterested faces, standing motionless amidst their long, spilling shadows as Will and their commander faced each other.
"I'm sorry, Commodore," Will said stiffly. "I know you used all diligence. May I ask what Sir John's reaction was?"
"Polite," Norrington replied dryly. "Exquisitely polite, and frigid as the North Sea. I was reminded precisely who his family and connections were, and what an affront to the professionalism of his crew and the Royal Navy such a search was." With a wry glance he added, "I assured him our escaped pirate was a truly desperate and cunning individual."
Will grimaced at mention of the subterfuge he had suggested. "I'm sorry, sir. Although I suppose we could not expect him to be more obliging."
A moment passed while the sailors worked on the boat and the marines waited on the dock. Finally Norrington spoke once more.
"Mister Turner, it is even more ill than you know." His expression became bleak as he looked at Will. "From the intelligence I have been able to gather thus far, there is no such faction as The Black Hand. No one has heard of any group of militant maroons using that name anywhere on the island. So if they exist, either they are newly-sprung … or it is a false misnomer for an unknown group of villains."
For a moment Will could not speak, words fleeing his grasp as his wits grappled vainly for understanding. Elizabeth … He turned a blind stare out towards the harbor. Now the Royal Venture was moving, white sails gleaming rose-gold in the sinking sun. Suddenly Will was adrift and helpless, and with his only clue proven futile he had no course to set. He knew without question that Norrington had searched just as he had said, and if he did not find Elizabeth on that ship, it was because she was not to be found. But where was she? Who had her?
"Why would someone just … take her?"
He turned a frankly pleading gaze to the older man, and Norrington slowly shook his head. "She is the governor's daughter, Mister Turner. It is an unfortunate cruel fact that unscrupulous men use innocents such as she as tools against men of power, leverage for their own gain."
"But what could they want? Why send a ransom note in the name of a faction that does not exist?"
The shadow deepened on the commodore's brow. "A very troubling question, Mister Turner. Very troubling indeed. Gillette!"
At his hail the young lieutenant straightened, and Norrington gestured the boarding party forward, back towards the fort. As their footsteps crunched in unison onto the road, Will straggled miserably to one side. He had hoped. He had so desperately hoped.
"Mister Turner."
He looked up as Commodore Norrington stepped aside and let the detachment march on past.
"Though your efforts proved in vain I do not find them without merit." Norrington met Will's doubtful expression with a level glance. "I do not expect you to like me, Mister Turner. But I am not a stupid man, and I will not dismiss any plausible clue which may lead to Miss Swann's safe return. Pray continue your … unorthodox methods. If fortune favors, between us we will soon see her home."
"Thank you, sir."
"Good evening, Mister Turner."
Ramrod straight, as ever, Commodore Norrington turned and strode away in the wake of his marines. Behind him, Will looked to the golden sea and fiery Caribbean sky, and fought down the urge to howl in desperation.
***
Darkness wrapped warmly about Port Royal as Will Turner made his slow way home. He had spent the last three hours working in the smithy, simply hammering out hinges and hardware for doors, hoping a bit of honest work would loosen the knot of anxiety clenched under his heart. However, he feared there was no labor on earth hard enough to deaden the legions of his fears. Elizabeth was out there, somewhere, and he despaired to think of her alone and afraid and praying vainly for rescue. He dared not think who had her or to what purpose, or he would surely go mad.
Lamplight spilled across the cobbles ahead, voices tumbling from an open door in a familiar tangle of well-lubricated bonhomie. Every night Will walked home past this tavern, and knew its patrons to be boisterous but basically decent men, some of the sea and some laborers in the town. A shadow moved in the doorway and a voice called out.
"Hullo, Will. Earned another sixpence today, eh?"
Glancing up, Will recognized one of the regulars and offered a wan smile. "One hopes, Sam. One hopes."
The man chuckled and withdrew, and fragments of other conversations rumbled forth as Will trudged past.
"She were a redhead, she were, an' ye know how they be -."
"Cost me five shillin's. Five shillin's! An' damme if the cursed thing was worth two."
"He were a clever lad, ol' Mac. Had a false hold built behind his galley, hatch looked like part of the wall. Man could put a dozen casks of rum in there, and nobody the wiser."
Three steps later Will stopped. The tavern lay behind him now, warm shadows filling the street as stars glittered above. A false hold. Smugglers often had secret hiding places built aboard their vessels, so as to avoid discovery whilst trafficking things such as rum between the islands.
"Or white slaves," Will whispered.
But what were his odds of convincing Commodore Norrington to conduct a second search simply upon the hunch of a blacksmith, especially after having already suffered Biltmore's scorn and threats? Not bloody likely. However, there was one other option. His face set in sudden determination, and his footsteps quickened into a run.
***
Commodore Norrington arrived at his office door punctually at 6 am, just as he did every morning. What was not usual was the folded paper wedged in his door. Frowning, he plucked the page free and opened it to see the scrawl of a visibly hurried hand.
Commodore Norrington,
Greetings &
salutations,
Presumptuous though it may be, I am herewith leaving word that I have gone seeking the aid of someone who is known to both of us, though perhaps not known to both favorably. However, he may be able to advise me in those unorthodox methods. I have perfect faith that you will expend every effort available to you, but if other measures may prove of use I dare not leave them untried.
Yours in haste,
Respectfully,
Wm. Turner
Post Script: One might consider the possibility of a false hold in a certain ship.
Norrington reread the note in puzzlement as he opened the door and stepped into the hollow silence beyond. He could almost hear Turner's earnest voice, carefully framing cryptic words into the assertion that he was off to do what he bloody well pleased. Who on earth could he be so obliquely referring to, and why was the boy not here to deliver the message in person? The commodore halted and stepped back into the corridor.
"Guard!" he called.
Brisk footsteps tapped in response to his hail, and a Marine appeared with a smart salute. "Sir?"
"This was in my door. Did you see when or by whom it was left?"
"Oh, it was late last night, sir, that young blacksmith, Turner. He was in a bit of a hurry, the first watch said. So we thought it best to leave it where you would find it first thing."
"Very well. Carry on."
Quietly Norrington closed the door behind him and scanned the hasty lines once more. Only then did he realize a scrawl of ink in one corner was actually in the rough shape of a bird. A small bird with wings stretched in flight, over an uneven line that could have been waves. A crude but recognizable rendering of Jack Sparrow's trademark tattoo.
"Good lord," he breathed. "Turner, I only pray you live long enough to learn prudence."
Norrington carefully refolded the sheet and laid it on his table. Then he turned his face to the light of morning beyond the window, and tried very hard to think what went on in the minds of slave ship captains and pirates. He had a sinking feeling that he was about to find himself sailing in the turbulent wake of both.
***
Jack Sparrow considered himself a man not easily surprised. In his years at sea he had encountered everything from waterspouts and giant squid, to unholy blue fire that crackled upon his masts until the very hair on his head stood up. Of course there was the little matter of cursed gold and undead pirates - for that matter, being undead himself - which he likewise counted among the unusual.
But somehow he had never expected to see young Will Turner some forty miles over the mountains from Port Royal, standing - or rather leaping vigorously about - amidst what was after all a secret pirate hideaway, matching blades with a formidably large pirate. Sparrow was so astonished he stopped in the tavern doorway to stare in amazement, since that was what the other twenty-odd shouting men in the room were doing.
The duo made a marvelous spectacle to behold, certainly more entertaining than the usual boisterous fisticuffs. For one they were both sober and for another they were both very good at what they were doing. Steel rang against steel as Will drove to the attack, but the big man was first-rate, there was no denying that. Will's sword wrenched in his hand as the pirate brutally parried his thrust, and he just beat an answering strike aside.
"Pretty boy, I'll 'ave you on a spit fer supper," the pirate sneered, his sword tip weaving like a cobra's head.
He struck - and Will leaped from a slashing blow onto a table. "I think not!"
There he kicked out and shoe leather smashed skull bone with a satisfying thud. The big pirate staggered but recovered, lunging forward as Will sprang to the floor once more. Theirs was a dazzling dance of steel and skill, the pirate now pressing Will back along the room with a furious series of cuts and thrusts. Yet the young blacksmith fended him off with powerful grace and gave way only in defense, his blade suddenly darting to draw blood to the pirate's dirty sleeve.
"Got you!" Will exulted, and it was his turn to press the attack.
Blades on blade wove a flashing net of lethal beauty, and the watching crowd parted in waves from each advance and retreat, shouting to their favorite with every near-miss. And it was swiftly evident to Jack Sparrow's study that young Turner was gathering his own following. A roar went up as the combatants' blades locked and the big pirate surged in, face contorted with hideous glee. His hot, fetid breath blasted Will's face as he pressed the youth back and back until he thudded into a large keg.
"Got you, boy," he leered.
Will's face crumpled in disgust. "What died in your mouth?"
Then his left hand flashed and wood whacked bone and the pirate staggered back glassy-eyed. Again cheers went up and Will side-stepped into the open. Now his youthful face was alight with a fierce grin, his sword in one hand and a bung-starter in the other.
"Take that!" he cried.
"Attaboy!" shouted bystanders. "Give 'im 'oly Hobb!"
Stunned but not beaten, the pirate shook himself like a bear, a trickle of blood dribbling down his brow. With a bellow he charged - but Will was not there, and fire slashed the big man's ribs. Yet the pirate merely growled and lunged with astonishing speed. His blade sung with more grace than his size would suggest, countering Will's attacks at every turn. Nonetheless, the blacksmith's blood flowed hot in his veins and the joy of contest blazed gleefully in his dark eyes.
The sudden glimpse of a familiar hawkish face and bead-festooned black hair, however, nearly cost Will a slash to the head.
Warding the cut he called, "A little help here, Jack?"
Eyeing the contest critically, Sparrow lifted a finger. "Your elbow's a bit high."
"Thanks -." A stunning blow nearly shocked the sword from his hand, but he riposted and slashed a gratifying tear in the big pirate's shirt. "But I'd rather have -." Parry, thrust, parry. "- This big lummox off me."
"Oh, but you're doing splendidly just as you are." Cocking his head Sparrow asked, "Might one inquire what this is about?"
"He made rude comments -." Metal rang as Will's sword twisted inside his opponent's blade and swept free to narrowly miss the big pirate's belly. "About my hat! Take that, you varlet!"
"Your hat?" As steel clashed steel Sparrow noticed a familiar wide-brimmed, magnificently-plumed and thoroughly out of place cavalier's hat now cradled in a bystander's hands. "Ah. What about it?"
"It's a sissy hat," the huge pirate rumbled.
"It is not!" Lunge, retreat. "It's all the fashion in France."
"So what?" Parry, riposte, retreat. "This ain't France."
"Yes, but it's what gentlemen wear -." Lunge and one of the pirate's sleeves fell dangling. "And ladies admire them."
"They do?" The big pirate paused with sword en guarde and looked thoughtful. Then he shrugged massive shoulders. "I still think it's a sissy hat."
Will's lip curled in a silent snarl as he lunged inside the big man's guard, where he cracked his sword hilt across that ugly mouth. In the next instant he was flung bodily to collide with the watching crowd - who helpfully hoisted him to his feet and propelled him forward.
"Yield!" Will cried, as he resumed a ready stance. "Yield and I won't kill you."
The reply was an inarticulate roar, and suddenly the young blacksmith faced a veritable blizzard of hacking steel. The length of the room they fought and slashed, and back the length again. They were atop a long table where crockery scattered underfoot, down again with a leap over a fallen bench, and engaged a quick, clashing exchange over the top of an ale keg. Tankards flew, the windows rattled and one man found himself holding only half an ale mug - the top half. The resident cat fled yowling up the chimney, spectators swayed from reach like sheaves of wheat, and the innkeeper forgot to breathe so that he passed out cold, though perhaps copious sampling of his own ale had something to do with that.
Will evaded a sweeping cut and sprang outside the pirate's reach, again and again warding off the other's offense. But soon his every move became a retreat, for the man was his equal in reach and skill and fueled by a towering rage. Sneering to reveal a whole mouthful of broken teeth, the big pirate loomed like a giant in that smoky room. His immense shoulders seem to swell with power as he faced a brave but weary boy with tangled hair falling in his face, who was beginning to realize he could not win.
"I'll 'ave yer liver first," the pirate jeered. "An' then I'll use yer 'ead for a drinkin' cup."
Panting now, Will's hot glare never wavered. "That's where you're mistaken."
Will struck aside the pirate's attack, retreating from his advance pace and parry and pace again - and Sparrow felt a sharp tug at his sash. Then everything skidded to a halt, for in Will Turner's rock-steady left hand was Jack's pistol, cocked and aimed square at the huge man's face.
"Drop your sword," ordered Will.
The crowd held still in murmuring hush. The big pirate's brutish face fell in dismay.
"That's not fair!"
"Really?" One dark eyebrow tilted ironically. "Ah, but you're a pirate - so fair doesn't actually apply to you." Will's expression hardened. "Now drop it."
Steel clattered on the floor, and by that sound the tongues of bystanders were loosened once more. With a chorus of cheers they crowded around victor and vanquished alike, and despite the morning hour tankards were raised in salute - and the loser cheered along with the rest.
Amongst them Jack Sparrow stood preening in delight like an absurd and somewhat tattered peacock. Was this not the son of his old mate Bootstrap Bill, and his own comrade in the return of the Black Pearl, who had just bested one of the fiercest brutes in the Caribbean?
"Taught 'im all he knows," he announced to anyone who would listen.
He turned to find himself nearly nose-to-nose with a plumed hat and a seething glare.
Sarcasm fairly dripped in Will's greeting. "Thanks, Jack."
With both hands raised in entreaty, Sparrow mustered an obsequious smile. "Now, boy, how would it have looked if I'd interrupted meself into your fight? It would 'ave ruined your reputation."
"My reputation?" The youngster's expressive features registered frank disbelief.
"Absolutely!" Jack leaned closer, his voice dropping to a confiding tone. "Think of it, mate. Handsome lad like yourself walks into a pirate stronghold, 'e's got to be able to fend for himself or they'll be on 'im like wolves. What would they think if I jumped in like your nanny, eh? Besides, it all came right now, didn't it?"
"No thanks to you."
With rather more force than was strictly necessary Will jammed the pistol back through Jack's sash and stalked away. Sparrow made a face and gingerly adjusted the pistol before following his young companion through the cheerful throng.
***
TBC …