PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: THE AFRICAN STAR

By ErinRua

CHAPTER 15

"We put them ashore, of course!" was Jack Sparrow's response, and his grin gleamed in the light of two lanterns now set on the sloop's tilting deck.

He pressed a hand to his breast and struck a pose as he gave his pronouncement with utmost, albeit slightly-slurred, magnanimity.  "After all, the sort of stupidity required to fire muskets on a pirate ship armed with twenty cannon has to be its own reward.  Far be it from me to deprive these fine fellows of enjoyin' every moment of it."

The sloop's crew looked blank.  One timidly raised a hand.

"Eh … Je comprends pas, m'sieu."

Jack's scowling translation was to the point.  "You'll live."

"Oh, merci!"  For a moment it seemed the man and all his mates might burst into tears.  "Merci beaucoup, capitaine!"

Sighing, Sparrow draped a wrist over the hilt of his sheathed cutlass and scanned his prisoners darkly.  One was dripping, nine were huddling, and all were cowering.

"What are you people, anyhow?  For the sake of all that's just in the world, I hope you're not pirates."

"Comment ça s'appelle?  We are contrebandiers, smugglers, capitaine," offered another captive.

"Ah."  Lantern light winked from the wee baubles swinging in Sparrow's hair, as he pinned the man with a keen stare.  "Smugglers of what?  Rum?"

The man lifted one shoulder in a bony shrug.  "Ça dépend de la chance.  But luck has no been kind."

Jack gave a snort.  "Meanin' no one but yourselves has run aground lately, so scavengin' 'as been thin.  Very well."

Facing the captives as a group, he announced, "We will leave you with your miserable lives, which is more than many would grant you.  But you will of course donate this lovely boat, and everything on her, to us.  Furthermore, you will not breathe a single word of our presence to anyone, or …."  Abruptly Sparrow pivoted into a long stride and halted not a hand-span from the sloop's cringing captain.

There he smiled and said gently, "Or I'll come back and find every man-jack of you, and put each of you on a spit over a slow flame.  Savvy?"

Black eyes reflected glints of fire that might have come from without or within, and the sloop's now-former master nodded hastily.  "Oui, m'sieu."

"Then GET OFF MY BOAT!"

At Sparrow's shout one of the captives spun and leaped over the side - and in a twinkling the cove resounded with nine more splashes.  Phosphorescence swirled in the shallow water as the smugglers floundered towards shore and the dark jungle waiting beyond.

Jack squared his shoulders and gave a contented sigh.  "Oh, that was splendid fun!"

Beside him Will looked at the slanting deck and up at the limp sails that lifted into shadow over their heads.  Farther above the first stars winked in a deepening sky.

"So now we have a boat," he said.  "What do we do with it?"

"We -."  Jack turned with the sort of glittering grin that seldom bode well for anyone.  "Are going to sail her, mate.  Or more rightly -" he tapped a finger in the air between them "- you are."

Shock immediately erased at least ten years from Will's face, and he stared like the ten year old boy he suddenly seemed to be.  "I -."

"Just took your first prize."  Jack beamed a bright smile and lightly patted his young comrade's chest.  "Savor the moment, mate.  It only comes once."

"But I don't -."  In sudden alarm Will glanced around as the other pirates began inspecting the sloop.  "You sent me here to stop them shooting at us.  You said nothing about stealing their boat!"

"Will …" Sparrow's smile collapsed into a look of weary patience, and he draped an arm over the other's shoulder, turning him aft.  "They're smugglers.  Look around you.  This is a sweet little craft and that lot could never afford the likes of her in their entire weaselly lives.  They stole her from someone else - we're simply returnin' the favor."

Panic and exasperation warred within as Will met Jack's hopeful expression with the darkest scowl he muster.  "Then let someone else have her.  I'm not a pirate, Jack, and any one of your crew would be a better captain than me."

"You think so?"  Jack abruptly dropped his arm and his face and voice smoothed to a rare solemnity.  "Will, many men are seamen, but not all are sailors.  Most of my lads couldn't navigate their way out of a corked jug, and a chart might as well be written in Greek for all the good it would do them.  And most of them couldn't lead another man to anything but 'is next drink."

"I still don't see what that has to do with me.  I've never sailed anything but a little fishing boat."

"Oh, really?"  Blink, Sparrow's expression shifted to acute and amused interest.  "Practicing since I saw you last, then.  Now why would that be, ay?"

Will scowled.  "I'm not a sailor, Jack."

"That's why you'll 'ave a crew."

"What about Gibbs?"

"He wasn't on your boardin' party."

"What about Anamaria?"

"You led them."

"So what?"  Desperation tightened Will's voice.  "I'll give her the boat, then.  If it's mine, I'll do as I like with it."

"Ah, but you can't."  The ends of Sparrow's moustache curled in a crafty smile.  "You sighed the articles, me boy, and I am your captain.  Therefore, you will do as I say and take command of this boat.  Unless of course you 'ave abandoned your honor."

That shot struck right at the waterline, for Will could never go back on his given word and Jack knew it.  A vague wobbling in the young blacksmith's legs could not be entirely blamed on the tide that tugged at the stranded hull beneath them.

"Jack, I can't -."

"Yes, you can."  Sparrow bent towards him, dark gaze gleaming eagerly.  "Besides, this is an omen."

"An omen."

"Aye.  Did you not see the name on 'er?"

"No."

"Will, you 'ave captured a handsome four-gun sloop named -."  Jack paused for a grin and dramatic affect - "the 'Lady Elizabeth.'"  Then he stepped back as if that somehow settled everything in one stroke, and called sharply, "Anamaria?"

"Aye, Jack?"  The dark woman appeared from the shadows.

"Anamaria, love, would you be so kind as to assist Mister Turner in his new command?"  The smile Sparrow wore would have shamed a cat with an entire mouthful of canary feathers.  "He'll 'ave need of a good first mate."

***

The sky was full of stars and there was a ring around the half-moon by the time the tide rose enough to float the Lady Elizabeth free of her sandy entrapment.  An inspection found no damage to the hull from grounding on the sandbar, and the holed topsail was replaced with a spare from her sail locker.  In all, she was as sea-worthy as anyone could wish.  That established, Jack sent men in one of the Pearl's launches to pull her bow around and tow the Lady Elizabeth to open water.

They found water and some food already aboard, but as a precaution Jack sent over extra munitions, including four-pound shot for the sloop's four deck guns.  At last she stood ready, drifting next to the pirate ship like a dove beside a hawk.  On her deck two captains, one dark and fierce and the other young and terrified, held a last conference.

"Remember," said Sparrow, his goateed face schooled to sternness.  "You're out there to look only.  That means no darin' rescues, no desperate heroics, and no exchangin' broadsides with a ship carryin' enough guns to blast you into kindling.  Savvy?"

"Aye," Will replied with a quick, anxious nod.

"Then you return to me with your report, nice and quiet and sneaky."  Jack bent close and aimed a finger under the young man's nose.  "Think like a pirate, Will."

"I shall."

Sparrow paused a moment, studying his nervous protégé by the light of a swaying lantern.  "Your father was a resourceful and clever man.  I expect no less of his son."

"I won't let you down, Jack."

"I know you won't."  A sudden grin lit Jack's face and eyes.  "After all, you 'ave pirate in your blood!"

With that Sparrow swung a leg over the rail.  "Ta!"

And he was gone.  The Lady Elizabeth rocked gently as the clunk of oarlocks sounded over the side.  Now, it was just Will Turner, a stolen sloop, ten scruffy pirates … and Elizabeth waiting somewhere across the moonlit channel.

"Well, captain?  What are your orders?"

Will heard the mocking smile in that feminine voice even before he turned to face its owner.  "Please, Anamaria, don't call me that."

A delicate brow lifted as she shrugged.  "You are captain, whether you like it or not."

Sighing, Will looked at the expectant faces around him.  Among them stood gangly Matty Whitlock, tousle-headed Irish John, and of course the hulking form of Original John, who looked back at him with a remarkably placid expression.  His crew.  A crew of pirates.  Resignedly Will turned his attention out across the dark water.

"Get us out of here," he said.

White sails climbed up the single mast, glowing like great wings beneath the moon and stars.  Slowly the Lady Elizabeth took the wind, gliding out of the cove and turning her bow across the moon-washed channel.  The boom of her mainsail reached its wooden arm out over the water and she moved faster and then faster, until at last she heeled gently to the press of the wind and her bow lifted eagerly into the swells.  On the quarterdeck Anamaria held the tiller until their course steadied and the silhouette of the Isle of Gonave slid behind them.

Then she called, "Will, come here!"

With a questioning look the young blacksmith stepped to her side and she nodded towards the tiller in her hands.  "Take the helm, captain.  It's time to meet your boat."

His heart sprang up and began furiously beating on his tonsils as he closed his hands about the length of polished wood.  Instantly it seemed that a live thing tugged and pushed somewhere below.  As water pressed at the unseen rudder he felt the sloop shudder, and somewhere overhead canvas rippled.

"Steady," Anamaria cautioned.

Will lent more strength to counter the tiller's pull and felt balance returning, the weight of wind and sail smoothing their course once more.  Yet he feared his next mistake, feared the nameless disasters that seemed to leer just over his shoulder, and every muscle he owned drew fiddle-string tight until he hardly dared breathe.  Long moments passed as black water whispered along their hull and the moon hung atop their mast in a silver halo.

At last, however, a smile crept onto his face.  The Lady Elizabeth was aptly named.  He could feel the sea and the wind like fine shivers beneath his feet, and keeping the balance of tiller and sail was becoming a subtle dance, with the sloop answering to his hand like a lady in silk gloves.

Anamaria saw his smile and answered with one of her own.  "You'll be all right, Will Turner," she said.  "Maybe Jack was right.  Maybe the Lady Elizabeth is a sign."

She stepped past him and glanced over her shoulder, white teeth flashing.  "Maybe Erzulie sent her."

In the darkness the Lady Elizabeth was a ghost ship, as she sailed on towards St. Marc and Hispaniola's brooding shore.

***

Wood grated painfully and Elizabeth sat up with a gasp.  No one slept soundly in this dank, fetid hole and as the door to their cell swung open, all the captives blinked at the unexpected lantern light in anxious wakefulness.

"On your feet, ladies," growled First Mate Fry, the light casting his square face in macabre shadows.  "Cap'n wants a word with ye."

Beside Elizabeth Bess rose silently, and Sarah clung to Elizabeth's hand as they followed suit.  The hour was still dark, before dawn, and none could imagine the cause for such an early summons.

"Wh-what does he want?" Sarah quavered.

Fry's answer was a leering grin.  "Now that's what you're going to find out, ain't it?"

There was no toilet to accomplish in this place with neither bath nor brush, and so the women simply stood up.  By some unspoken agreement Elizabeth went first, or perhaps it was that no one else wanted to.  The slave ship had dropped anchor shortly after sundown, and occasionally the salty tang of the shore filtered through the stench that permeated the Royal Venture.  However, their location was a mystery and now frightened hearts beat fast, fearing that at last they had reached some dire destination.

Four of the slave ship's crewmen fell in as unwelcome escorts, and as the captives passed by dim lanterns on deck they could see each other, and see themselves.  In just a few days' time they had sunk to the look of mad women, barefoot, tousled, wrinkled and stained.  Elizabeth brushed at the brocade of her skirt and felt the roughness of frayed material that could never be salvaged.  Yet she realized that the simple linen and wool the other ladies wore were no less a loss.  For with cleanliness fled their dignity and the ability to command respect in either themselves or anyone else.

Thus it was with effort that Elizabeth squared her shoulders as they faced the door of the captain's cabin.  Fry rapped sharply before speaking.

"They're here, cap'n."

From within replied the same counterfeit, grating voice as before.  "Bring them."

Briefly Elizabeth wondered why on earth Biltmore's men did not lose themselves in hysterical laughter over such a charade, but then the door was open and that thought died.  The captain's cabin before her was a dim grotto illuminated only by a few flickering candles, whose light gleamed dully on polished wood furnishings - and the featureless crimson silk of the mask covering its master's face.

"Come, my dear," he rasped, in a falsely gentle tone that raised the hackles on her neck.  "You are holding up your little friends from our audience.  We don't want any obstructions, now do we?"

Silently they filed in and stood, keenly aware of First Mate Fry looming in the doorway behind them and the four crewmen lurking in the passage just beyond.  At a sideboard Biltmore's black servant pottered about a tray of several covered dishes, from which the savory aromas of an early breakfast rose.  Elizabeth realized she was not the only one to look about the cabin in unexpected yearning.  She had never realized until now how precious simple things like real food, pewter candlesticks or an upholstered chair could seem.  One of the girls crept a bare foot forward to test the plush of a thick rug.

If their captor noticed he gave no indication, but Elizabeth fancied she saw cold humor glinting through the holes in his mask.  He turned from his place at the dark windows with his hands clasped behind his back, and surveyed them from behind that hideously blank silk facade.

In that grating voice he said, "Within two days we will make Port Paix.  There we will meet some very important people.  I need you to look presentable and respectable and to that end, I have arranged baths and clothing for you all."

The ragged group before him shifted and whispered briefly, nervously, and Elizabeth found her mouth suddenly dry.  Somehow the idea of bathing failed to sound remotely inviting while on board this dreadful ship, and the unspoken question in all the women's wary eyes was where and how.

"There will be no watch above-decks," their captor's raspy tones went on, "and I have arranged for a canvas partition to be set up on the foredeck for privacy.  Fresh water has been brought aboard, although I'm afraid you'll have to bathe cold, and you will kindly assist each other where needed.  You will bathe again tomorrow night as well.  I expect you to be fresh as daisies.  That is all."

And just like that they were dismissed.  Fury smoldered in Elizabeth's belly like too much pepper sauce and she just barely bit back a fiery response.  Yet Biltmore's promise lingered in her mind like an odious caress: 'They will weep and suffer the pain that should rightfully be yours.'  Nor did she forget the crewman flogged for his carelessness.

Thus as Fry stepped into the room in silent but pointed command, she dared only shoot him a scathing glance before sweeping out the door.  Orders to bathe, indeed - as if they were children, or prize horses to be tidied up for visitors.  But as she emerged on deck a cool breeze swept over her along with a colder realization; they truly were being handled like livestock, for in Biltmore's eyes that is what they were, just like the cargo of unfortunate Africans before them.

Eight women there were who brushed aside the promised canvas screen and gazed with trepidation upon a copper tub set on the foredeck.  Beside the tub stood two large barrels of water, two wooden buckets, two bars of lye soap and several coarse towels.  There was no lantern nor any light but the uncaring stars.  None trusted Biltmore's word that no watch would be above, but scrutiny of the masts and the sails furled high against the pre-dawn showed that indeed the crows-nests were empty.

"Do we just …" Sarah's tremulous voice broke the silence, her arms wrapped around her ample waist.  "What do we do?"

A closer look revealed a heap of roughly-folded clothing to one side of the canvas enclosure, the topmost of which Bess bent and picked up.  She held a simple dress to herself, then eyed her comrades appraisingly and handed it to a more buxom girl.

With a sigh Elizabeth plucked another garment from the pile and said, "I think we can take turns in the tub, and help pour water for each other while the others keep watch.  And we can take turns washing our hair in the extra bucket."

But Sarah simply stood shivering in place and thin moonlight glinted on unshed tears.  Nor could Elizabeth blame her, for how in heaven's name did one discard the last shred of dignity beneath the eyes of seven witnesses?

"But why now?" Sarah whimpered.  "Why are we out here in the dark?"

"What do you think?" one of the other girls spat.  "There's a town over there on the shore, and he doesn't want anyone to see us."

The truth of that drove the bleakness of their circumstances home even more strongly, if that were possible.  One of the women then moved forward and seized a wad of dress material with an impatient hand.

"Might as well go first," she said.  "I'm about to crawl out of my skin, I'm that famished for clean clothes."

That broke the ice somewhat and gradually the miserable little company found a system of scooping bucketfuls of water for whomever crouched in the tub and either wetting them down or rinsing them off.  Meanwhile the remaining bucket could be used to scour hair grown sticky and matted, the women taking turns scrubbing each other's hair vigorously, and soon the scuppers ran with soapy water.

Despite the indignity of the situation, cleanliness no matter how imperfect was a blessing beyond compare.  Clad at last in simple cotton and linen, Elizabeth regretfully wadded up the pretty summer dress she had arrived in.  It had been a favorite of hers, both in color and comfort, but if ever she had looked like a governor's daughter, now she appeared no different from the daughters of fishermen and laborers around her.

She flinched to a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Bess offering the extra bucket, gleaming full of fresh water.  Mustering a wan smile, she said, "Thank you, Bess."

The dark girl's lips twitched in what might have passed for a smile and she set the bucket at Elizabeth's feet.  Collecting her skirts, Elizabeth knelt on the hard deck and gathered her tangled hair before plunging her head gratefully into the water.  When she reached for the soap, again a black hand was there, and Elizabeth paused to study the other's handsome, shadowed face.

"I think you are a good woman, Bess," she said.

Once more the ghost of a smile flickered and Bess dipped a hand into the bucket and splashed water onto the soap.  A quick gesture conveyed that she would help soap Elizabeth's hair and Elizabeth leaned forward obligingly.  She could have wept for the simple comfort of a friendly human touch, as strong, brisk fingers scrubbed the grime of misery away.

***

"I help my mama so."

The towel Elizabeth vigorously applied to her hair obscured that low voice and it took a moment for her to realize Bess had spoken.  Startled, she stared at the colored woman now sitting on the deck beside her.

"Mama got sick," Bess explained, and Elizabeth found herself drawn to the deep yet gentle tones of her voice.  "I help her wash."

Uncertain how to reply, Elizabeth fumbled, "That … was very good of you."

For the first time white teeth glimmered in a bashful smile.  "Mama was good to me.  She care for people.  Like you try to care for people."

Wet locks slid forward about Elizabeth's face as she bowed her head, struggling with the sudden burning lump in her throat.  "I didn't do very well at that, Bess.  Róisín is - is gone, because -."

"Because dat man kill her."  Bess' smooth alto voice softened to a darker note.  "Don' you forget, miss.  He do de work of evil.  You do de work of good."

"No."  Elizabeth shook her head, hands clenched in the damp wad of her towel.  "I was simply afraid."

"So are all of us."  Brown fingers reached to lay warmly over pale ones, and Elizabeth looked up as that soft, rich voice spoke on.  "You an' me, we find a way.  We watch an' be clever, more clever dan dese fools who keep us.  We find a way."

Brown eyes met brown for several heartbeats, and then Elizabeth placed her free hand over their clasped fingers.  No words were spoken because none were needed.

"Come," said Elizabeth, and rose to her feet.  "Let's keep watch for the others."

***

TBC …

Translations:

"Je ne comprends, m'sieu."  - (I don't understand, sir.)

"Comment ça s'appelle?  - (What is it called?)

"Ça dépend de la chance."  - (It all depends on luck.)

A/N:  Only a couple things, this time.  First, a hearty Thank you, mate! to Eledhwen for proof-reading and correcting my French. Rogueangel, thank you for your kind comments and notation on Dante.  Perhaps I should go back and fix it to the proper circle of hell: we don't actually know what Jack knows, after all …   ;-)  Again, thank you so much to everyone for reading and encouragement.