A/N: This is an Elizabeth chapter, just so you know, and things get a bit dark, also so you know.  This story is shaping up to be an epic, and the ride will take us over some rough spots. I hope, however, to make it worth the trip.

PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: THE AFRICAN STAR

By ErinRua

CHAPTER 11

Night drew a warm veil of stars across the Caribbean, but it brought only deeper darkness to those clasped in the dank bowels of the Royal Venture.  They listened to the myriad creaks and sounds of the ship at anchor and listened as well for the footstep of chance outside their cell.  And it came as they knew it would, the dull grating sound of a panel being drawn aside and the door swung in to a whiff of cooler air and the light of a single lantern beyond.  A bent silhouette was the black man who brought their supper - which would of course be long cold, for prisoners were fed last and with little care.

Yet their breaths caught fast in their throats for the lantern was held by an unexpected other, a grim-faced crewman with a cold glint of steel at his waist and the stamp of a brute on his heavy features.  Now or never - now or cast all hope aside - Bess sprang with a puma's silent fury, her dark hand fisting and striking even as Róisín flung herself after and Elizabeth found herself with the bail of their noisome bucket in hand and swung it as hard as she'd ever struck in her life.  Didn't want to think of what exploded against bulkhead and floor with a reeking splash nor where she found the fury to wheel with her full weight and strike again, the lantern shattering into sudden darkness.  No sound but jagged gusts of breathing and a body was on the floor, the black man curling huddled with his hands flung over his head.  Over him leapt Bess even as Elizabeth struck the third and final time and the white crewman slumped to stillness.

"Go!" came a sharp Irish hiss and they burst from their cell like scattering birds.

But not upwards, no, not up to open decks where quick eyes would spy and the alarm would almost instantly sound.  Down they fled, feet skidding on damp planks and steep ladders towards shadowy decks below.

"Here!" Elizabeth seized a sleeve in darkness, for what she had hoped for was found.

A small hatchway appeared down on the orlop deck, opening to little more than a long wooden tunnel, but in it lay their only hope.  Metal clinked as they slipped inside, Róisín bearing the fallen sailor's sword, then Bess drew the hatch behind them and shut them into utter darkness.  Yet Elizabeth knew where they were; the carpenter's walk it was called, a narrow passageway designed by shipbuilders to allow a carpenter unobstructed access to all a ship's underpinnings, should she suffer damage below the waterline in battle or storm.  Without light of any sort they progressed as blind women, but there was only one way to go; forward.

Beyond timbers of heavy oak and pine the silence seemed enormous, for they knew it could not last.  As they crept along Sarah whimpered but was instantly silent, perhaps due to a hand clamped on her mouth.  Then Elizabeth bumped heavy softness, realized Róisín had stopped, and she sank to her heels, feeling Sarah and Bess behind her doing the same.

"What now?" hissed Sarah's whisper.

"We wait," Elizabeth whispered in reply.

So they did.  Naught did they hear but the thud of their own pulses and the soft gust of their own breathing.  In that dark corridor the clammy air seemed to thicken, the stench of the ship nearly a physical pall, and drumming hearts and heaving lungs soon warred for space within ribs that grew oddly too tight.  Every so often the ship groaned annoyance like a disgruntled old woman as it shifted and settled around them.  Yet there was nothing else.  Elizabeth found swallowing nigh impossible with a cotton-dry throat, and she wondered if they had somehow killed the black man and the sailor.  Minutes seemed like hours before at last they heard what they knew they must, the shout of alarm beyond their wooden walls.  Now they could only sit in breathless stillness, hearing the drumbeat of feet thudding as fast as the racing of their hearts, until the voice of rage clapped like thunder on the decks above.

"That's him," Elizabeth whispered through clenched teeth.  In fear and abhorrence she peered upwards in pitch blackness, as if to pierce the layers of wood and darkness between.

Róisín whispered, "That's who?"

"Sir John.  That vile, loathsome -."

"Who the devil is Sir John?"

"The master of the Royal Venture.  That's what ship we're on.  That's who has us."

"Lovely.  Be sure to invite him to tea, then."

They fell into tense silence once more.  Footsteps and voices resounded hollowly, a heavy tread beating the boards just over their heads and then returning.  Then the voices receded, and a muffled clatter of blocks and rigging said that boats were being lowered to the water.  Once again that greater voice rang out, the words indistinct but the fury in it as sharp as a jagged blade.  Sarah pressed into Elizabeth's back, her breath coming fast as they tried to imagine what happened beyond their concealment, the harried rush of men driven to search a ship from which escape should have been impossible.

And marvelously, an electric sort of peace slowly settled upon the Royal Venture.  Now heavy feet clumped to and fro as men settled into a methodical search of the holds and bilges, and random voices rang out in query and reply.

"There!" whispered Elizabeth.  "Most of the men are searching below decks.  Now's our chance!"

Sarah's fear spun forth like thin wire: "What if - what if -."

"Shut yer gob, lest ye kill us all!"  Thus spat Róisín's reply, as the Irish girl moved ahead.

On and forward they went, bodies bent against the danger of cracking their skulls on unseen beams, skirts whispering against rough wood bulkheads.  Never had one-hundred feet seemed so long nor was it gained with such trepidation.  Cruel men searched this ship, searched every inch of her by the clumping, thudding sound of it, and it was sheer blessing that none had bethought themselves of the carpenter's walk yet.

Finally the faintest suggestion of light appeared ahead and a steep ladder.  Up they crept to the deck above, and found only empty, stinking stillness.  One more ladder stood before them, and steel glinted as Elizabeth climbed towards the hatch above.  Slowly, ever so slowly she pushed it open.

Silence.

"Come," she hissed, and swept as a bundle of skirts and petticoats upwards and gone.

Elizabeth burst into starlight and the rich perfume of sea and shore, gasping as if she had never breathed clean air before.  Yet there was no time to linger as she picked up her skirts and scooted into dubious shelter beside the capstan.  Róisín, Sarah and Bess swiftly followed to huddle next to them.  For a long minute none of them moved, the ship gently lifting and falling beneath them.  A lantern moved across the afterdeck then was still, other lanterns blazing amidships and aft, and in their wavering glare several sailors moved in steady caution.  However, for the moment none seemed inclined to come forward, and there was no sign of the ship's captain.

"We're here," Róisín whispered.  "Now what, yer ladyship?"

The Irish lass waited in her place and Elizabeth eased forward.  What now, indeed?  For though the sea was warm there was no knowing if any of her companions could swim, or if any of them could indeed survive the weight of sodden skirts and clothes long enough to reach the shore - if such a plunge was not instantly heard by all on board.

A hollow bump and sudden voices jolted her heart into her mouth and she flung herself into shadow against the rail.  A frantic glance back at the others proved they had also heard, and did their best to shrink into invisibility.

"Bloody goose chase, is what," grumbled a voice - a voice over the side!

"Aye," growled another.  "They 'ave to be still aboard."

Elizabeth held her breath as more thumps and thuds resounded until hands appeared at the rail, and a seaman heaved himself up the last of a rope boarding net and over the side.  His mate followed a moment later.

"Let's ask Mister Fry what he wants us to do next," he said.  "The others won't find nowt rowin' around out there."

"Aye," replied the other, and both men tramped away.

Relief so sharp it dizzied her swept Elizabeth and she feared they would hear the pounding of her heart.  Yet their bulky forms lurched off amongst rigging and hatch coamings, and she sternly called herself in hand.  With a final glance aft she seized the rail and peered over the side - and could have cheered for joy.  There on the water below bobbed one of the ship's smaller boats, its oars neatly shipped aboard.

She turned but her sharp gesture was unneeded, for Róisín already read her intent and led the others in a swift, silent rush.  Elizabeth went first over the side, silently cursing skirts and petticoats as she clambered down, and nearly pitched overboard as her feet struck the unsteady little boat.  With a gasp she caught at the net and regained her balance.  Sinking to a crouch she steadied the net in firm hands and looked up to give a nod.

Down they came, first Sarah - who dropped the last three feet to land half atop Elizabeth with a resounding hollow thud that seemed to echo across the entire harbor.  Yet no one on deck heard.  Bess flowed down the side next, neatly gathering her dress to crouch at the boat's bow.  And last came Róisín, climbing precariously with her sword in hand, and Elizabeth wondered if the girl had the least idea how to use the thing or if desperation had impelled her.

"I hope ye can row, girl," Róisín whispered.

"I can row, shoot a musket and swim like a fish," Elizabeth replied tartly.  "You just cast off the line."

The little boat bumped against the ship's towering side like a duckling against its mother as Elizabeth steadied the oars in their locks.  Bess and Róisín both shoved as hard as they could and the boat drifted free.  Forward under the long jutting finger of the bowsprit they crept, Elizabeth firming her hands about the oars' polished shafts as she readied for strong pulling.  Do not splash, do not splash - and wood bit water in a long, clean sweep.

And they were away.  Lurching and swaying with unsteady quickness as the larger ship never did, but each pull of the oars was a stride towards freedom.  Overhead the stars gleamed above a dark, unfamiliar shore but the Southern Cross glittered like a promise on the southern horizon and the black outline of the Royal Venture began to shrink behind them.

The shoreline beyond the distant white froth of breaking waves loomed black and unfamiliar, the only lights a handful of dim lanterns amongst what seemed to be a small town.  Knowing not whether the town would be friend or foe, however, Elizabeth set their course for blank dark trees.  They could hear the surf above the muffled bump of the oars, see phosphorescence gleaming with each rush of water on pale sand.  The Royal Venture stood under bare poles and though lanterns still winked on her deck they heard neither cry nor shout.

"We're going to make it," Róisín said, and for the first time a smile ignited the prettiness of her face.  "Blessed Mary, we're going to make it."

Ah, but the Fates are fickle creatures who too often taunt and tease, and Sarah's thin squeak was the first alarm.

"Oh, mercy," the girl gasped, her round face a pallid orb of horror.  "They've seen us."

And Elizabeth looked up to the complete despair of her life.  There across the water other oars flashed phosphorescence and a lantern was lifted high.  A shout rang out to be answered on deck, and the lifting splash of the oars doubled in speed.

"No …" Róisín breathed, and stars glinted on the blade in her hand.  "Pull, girl, blast you!"

"I am pulling!"

Elizabeth clenched her white teeth and yanked with everything she had, her heels braced on the boat's ribs and her slender shoulders straining as she tried to sweep half an ocean under every stroke.  Black water surged and gurgled as she shoved it behind wooden blades, heaving so hard she nearly lifted herself from her seat - but it was not enough.  The greater brawn and four swift oars of the enemy closed the distance with horrifying swiftness.

"What do we do?" Sarah wept and a sob caught jaggedly in her throat.  "What do we do?"

"We keep -."  Again Elizabeth pulled.  "- Trying!"

"But they'll catch us!  They're coming!"

Róisín's reply was explosive but fortunately in Gaelic so none understood.  A body suddenly crowded into Elizabeth's back, long arms reaching around and hard hands seizing the oars next her own and it was silent Bess, now adding her own strength to their one desperate chance.  An instant of fumbling and the two women found a rhythm, pull and sweep, pull and sweep and for a breathless moment hope blazed anew.  Against the dark heaving sea Róisín was a silhouette gripping a cold blade.

On they came, lantern spilling its reflection in broken smears of light.  Briefly Elizabeth recalled a fragment of reading, a boatman and the River Styx - pull, damn you!

"Give it up, ladies!" came a harsh, jeering cry.  "It'll go easier if ye just surrender!"

"Not -."  Elizabeth bit back a curse as one oar skipped and missed its purchase in a weak spray of water.  "- bloody likely!"

If they could just reach the shore, black jungle would swallow them and no creature in all Jamaica's wilds held a threat equal to that which followed.

Ah, but Luck turned her face and the reaching thud of oarlocks swept the pursuer upon long before they reached the lift of the waves near the beach.  A brutal crash of wood on wood wrenched the port oar from Elizabeth's grip, and strong hands seized the side of their boat as the lantern cast ghastly shadows upon their faces.  With a shout Róisín sprang to her feet, sword slashing a wild but deadly arc.

"Fág an bealach!" she cried, the defiance of her Irish forefathers ringing in watery darkness. "Fág an bealach!"

But heavy bodies surged forward and even as Elizabeth wrenched the remaining oar from its lock and into a desperate swing, it was too late.  She felt the crunch of impact and heard a cry and shouts of outrage from the men in the other boat - and then Róisín screamed in a raw, raking cry of rage and despair.  First Mate Thomas Fry watched as she collapsed like laundry cut from a line and toppled over the side with a splash.

"Róisín!"  Sarah shrieked and scrambled to grab something, anything to pull the girl from the black water.  "Help us!  Please, help us!"

To whom she pleaded none could guess, for they had neither hope nor friend this night.  Her flailing hands found an arm, a sleeve and Róisín's head broke water with a splattering gasp.  Elizabeth scrambled across the swaying boat, dropping her oar and nearly falling as she seized hold of the stricken woman.  Stronger hands reached past her and heaved the Irish woman up and over the gunwales - but there was no mercy in the hard eyes beyond.  A body slammed into Elizabeth and it was Bess dropping from a meaty smack to the face.  Desperately Bess rolled and grabbed for their only weapon but the oar was ripped from her grasp.

And in the grim flicker of lamplight stood Mister Fry, a trollish dark figure with a grin twisting his square-jawed face as he stood in the bow of the larger boat.

"Nice try, ladies.  But I reckon that's the last chance you'll ever have."

Her pretty mouth curled into a snarl as Elizabeth replied, "Don't bet on it."

"Oh, but I am, missy."  Fry leaned towards her and bared square yellow teeth.  "See, there's a special penance for the likes of you.  Anything you do … and one of your little friends here dies.  Oh yes, we picked up some extras, you might say, whilst you were havin' your bit of fun.  They'll be waitin' when you get aboard - waitin' to live or die.  Just like this one is dyin' already."

In horror she looked down, and the truth lay grey and sodden beside her.  Róisín did not move as she lay with her head in Sarah's lap, and blood slowly painted a black apron across her belly.  Only the slow blink of her lovely blue eyes told that she lived at all, reflecting the cold and pitiless glitter of the stars.

That and the stumbling movement of her lips; "Hail Mary, full of grace … the Lord is with thee …"

"All right!" bawled Fry.  "Let's get these back to the ship!"

Heavy bodies moved and the boats dipped and bumped as men changed places and Bess and Sarah were hoisted bodily into the larger craft.  As Elizabeth sank numbly into the wet bottom of the boat she had eyes only for the Irish girl's pretty, ashen face.

"Róisín …" she whispered, as enemy strength manned the oars.  "I'm sorry."

"Don't!"  Róisín's eyes glittered as her clawed fingers seized Elizabeth's arm.  "Better … this way.  I'll not live - a slave!"  Her gaze caught Elizabeth's as her fingers slipped and her voice faded; "Go méadaí Dia thú."

Then the stricken girl's breath hitched on a tight gasp as her features contorted fearfully.  She caught a shallow breath again and as the boats began to move back towards the ship, Elizabeth clasped her hand while Róisín whispered for peace.

"Hail Mary, full of grace … the Lord is with thee … Blessed art thou among women … and blessed is … the fruit of thy womb, Jesus …  Holy Mary, Mother of God … pray for us sinners … now and at the hour of our death …"

Dark water gurgled and slapped against the hull as the black, stinking bulk of the slave ship Royal Venture loomed and shut out the stars.

***

TBC …

*Translation of Gaelic:

Fág an bealach! - Clear the way!  (An ancient Irish battle cry.)
Go méadaí Dia thú. - May God prosper you, God bless you.