Disclaimer: Not mine... sob.
Author's Note: For those who are history-oriented or even history-curious, the Spanish did indeed lauch several attacks on Tortuga during the 1600's to try and gain control of the port, and stop the privateers who used the island as a base for their raids on Spanish settlements in Hispaniola and Cuba. (Unfortunately for them, it never discouraged the buccaneers for long.) Oh...and the Cross of Burgundy, a red cross on a white background, was the Spanish Colonial flag from the 1500's to the 1700's.
VIII.
Those Who Fall Behind
"Before you step on board, sir,
Your name I'd like to know."
She smiled all in her countenance,
"They call me Jackaroe."
Oh, they call me Jackaroe.
"Your waist is light and slender,
Your fingers are neat and small
Your cheeks too red and rosy
To face the cannonball."
Oh, to face the cannon-ball.
"I know my waist is slender,
My fingers neat and small
But it would not make me tremble
To see ten thousand fall."
Oh, to see ten thousand fall.
--"Jackaroe"
Will falters at the edge of the town, staring out to sea with a leaden heart. The moon has risen, and by its light he can see the pale uniforms of the men swarming the deck of the Lady Swann. He starts as the crack of a pistol echoes from across the water, followed by another, and another. Out-manned and probably out-gunned, his crew is nonetheless fighting for the ship.
As he stands there, berating himself for putting these good men in the way of such danger, a small cloaked figure grabs his arm and pulls him into the shadows. He shouts, shaking off his assailant and breaking into a run again, but the person leaps into his path, parrying a wild blow from his sword with an oath.
"Not that way, Will Turner!"
The voice sounds familiar; Will turns his next lunge into a feint, drawing back the blade just in time. "Who--?"
The hood is thrown back, revealing Anamaria's high cheekbones and fierce eyes. "Where's Jack?" she demands urgently.
He can hear the shouts and footsteps of his pursuers growing louder now. "He fell behind."
"Not again..." She follows his gaze, conflicting emotions flickering across her face in the half-light. "There's no time--Come. We must get to the Pearl."
"But my ship--"
"They've taken 'er already. Hurry!"
She yanks him with her into the trees; he has no choice but to follow her, crouching to avoid low-hanging branches and hoping he won't step on a snake--or anything else poisonous--in the dark.
"Try and be quiet, you great oaf," she hisses at him, after he trips over a long creeper and nearly goes sprawling.
"I'm trying!"
She looks disgusted. "I've known blind men to walk more stealthy drunk." Her arm darts out to block his path. "Wait--" Padding forward, she sweeps aside a curtain of leaves; beyond them lies the bay once more, shimmering silver in the moonlight.
"I knew it," she says. "See 'em, by the eastern spit?"
Will peers over her shoulder.Sure enough, he can make out the white glimmer of tall sails: a ship, on fast approach to the harbor.
"Now I'm just guessin', Will Turner, but I reckon they be no friends of yours on that vessel."
The wind picks up, and Will's heart sinks as he watches the red-on-white Cross of Burgundy unfurl from the topmast of the advancing warship. "It's a good guess," he admits.
"We'll have to swim for it," she says suddenly. "Pearl's not too far for that. Best we haul anchor and take to sea...I warned the boys to head back when I saw what was goin' on. They'll be raisin' sail right now, I daresay."
Will hesitates.
"Forget your blasted ship! I swear you're as bad as Jack Sparrow, moonin' after a thing of wood and canvas like she were a woman! I got no obligation to be helpin' you, Turner, and I'll be damned if I get meself stranded for it on account of you standin' there wastin' my precious time, you bloody fool--!"
"Jack!"
He lies crumpled sideways on the dirty stone of the kitchen floor, one hand thrown out toward her, the fingers half-uncurled. His kohl-smeared eyes are closed. Elizabeth sinks to her knees beside his unconscious body, a thousand and one fractured thoughts racing through her mind.
Will...
Will's gone.
What just happened?
She shakes off her confusion, praying her husband has made it to the safety of his ship. She cannot understand why the Spaniards have retreated so quickly, without bothering to capitalize on the nigh-undefeatable advantage of twenty soldiers against one. It's as if they consider the arrest of Captain Jack Sparrow--who has surely been a wanted man in sovereign waters for years now--to be somehow inconsequential to their purpose.
Inconsequential compared to their urgent, not-even-close-to-friendly business with Will Turner, at least.
Sliding her left arm under the pirate's torso, she struggles to turn him over. The dead weight of him surprises her as she rolls him onto his back, and her fingers come away coated with a warm, slippery wetness.
Blood. Her hand is covered in Jack's blood.
"Oh, God...Jack..."
The cut runs diagonally down his left side, and the dark stain on his white shirt spreads steadily, shreds of sliced fabric sticking in the wound where he must have been pressing his own hand to staunch the flow. She cannot tell at first glance how deep it goes.
But if he's still bleeding, that means he's still alive.
She slips her other arm beneath his shoulders, the crook of her elbow supporting his lolling head, and gives him a little shake. "Damn you, Jack." She can't move him by herself, and no one seems inclined to help her. "For God's sake, wake up!"
He doesn't respond, although she sees or imagines she sees his brows draw slightly together in the shadow of a sulky frown.
Frustrated and--truth be told--feeling more than a little panicky, she leans down, her mouth a few centimeters from his ear. "You black-hearted, unwashed, obstinate bastard, you need to wake your wretched self up immediately and tell me exactly what is going on here."
His eyelids flutter the barest fraction before the long lashes sink back down resolutely.
"I have absolutely no qualms about slapping you awake, Jack Sparrow, so help me--"
She raises her hand, and finds her wrist caught and held, viselike.
His eyes remain shut. "Easy, love. What was that you just called me?"
"Black-hearted, obstinate bastard?" she says sweetly, attempting to claim back her hand. His grip tightens, effectively thwarting her efforts.
"Language, my dear! And it was after that part."
Oh, Lord. "This is no time to stand on ceremony, Captain," she hisses at him. "The Spanish Navy could be back any minute to haul you off to the gallows, and you're rather badly wounded, in case that fact had somehow escaped your notice. I can't get you to safety all by myself, so you have to cooperate. Get up."
His eyes open halfway, and he regards her petulantly. His lashes really are ridiculously long. "Do I have to?"
"You don't have to," she snaps. "You can lie here and slowly bleed to death on the floor, if you wish. It's your choice. But if you want me to help you, you must do what I tell you. Try and stand up, please."
He sighs, as if much put-upon, but he leans heavily on her shoulder as they rise, and the sigh turns to a swift indrawn breath that betrays him; he must be hurting much more than he's attempting to let on.She feels a stab of contrition for her sharp words.
"Can you walk?" she asks him more gently.
"Aye. Pray don't look so alarmed, Mrs. Turner, it's naught but a scratch, I assure you." He tries to grin at her. "I've suffered far worse blows in me time, y'know. Ow," he adds, wincing,as she pulls him unceremoniously across the kitchen to the stairwell. "Not that I don't appreciate your kind concern... Did Will escape?"
"I wish I knew," she says, grim. "Jack, what have you two been up to that the Spanish want Will's head, and don't give a damn about yours?"
"I really think you'd best ask him that one," grunts Jack. Their navigation of the narrow stairs is proving tricky and laborious.
"Don't try and say you're not involved in this."
"'M not. Your William got himself into this one all on his very own, with no assistance, sponsorship, or other encouragement from me...obviously, seeing as his little project was so easily discovered." He stumbles a little on an uneven step; she bears him up, keeping them both from falling. "Do tell me we are very nearly quit of these stairs, love..."
"Very nearly," she assures him.
In fact, they have just reached the landing when they hear the unmistakable thunder of cannon fire. They both stand still; Jack is breathing over-hard after the climb.
"It's the Armada," he mutters. "They're bloody quick, those devils."
"Will," she whispers. Another blast shakes the walls.
"Aye. Not to worry," he adds, seeing her face. "From the looks of things, he's been playing at this game for quite some time now. He'll get out...if he doesn't do anything stupid." He shrugs. "And if he does...which possibility, now that I think on it, is highly likely...there's not much you can do about it."
Elizabeth chooses to ignore this last bit. "Come on," she urges him, and they set off again, hastening down the corridor toward her room. At the door, they are forced to pause once more while Elizabeth rifles through her pockets for her key, one-handed, Jack's arm heavy on her shoulders, though he's leaning much of his weight against the doorjamb. "I don't understand why Will wouldn't tell me," she mutters, finding the key at last and fumbling with the lock.
Jack gives her a knowing look. "For many of the same reasons that he has no idea of your presence here, I expect."
"You didn't seem at all surprised to see me," she says suspiciously.
A dry chuckle. "I recognized you, love, the moment you sidled through that door."
She stares at him, dismayed.
"I've always been rather good with faces, m'dear. But you looked remarkably furtive, and dear Will remarkably unaware, so I assumed you wouldn't have taken too kindly to being pointed out, and kept my observations to meself. Besides, the situation struck me as vastly entertaining, and it would have been, had it not been for the interference of half the Spanish Main." He cocks his head, listening. "Ah...they've stopped."
"What does that mean?" They're in the room now; Elizabeth shuts the door behind them.
"Well, it could mean the Lady Swann is well away and safe."
She lets out a breath, relieved, not only because of the silence of the cannons but because he hasn't yet demanded to know why she's here in the first place.
She can't think what she would tell him; she hardly knows the answer herself.
"Or, it might just mean they've got what they came for..." He grimaces, and sways dangerously on his feet.
She curses, half-leading, half-carrying him to the bed, trying not to think about that second possibility. "Lie down, Captain Sparrow. I know you think you're invincible, but you've lost quite a lot of blood."
His smile goes crooked with pain as he eases onto the mattress. "Aye, and a good portion of it appears to have got all over you, love. My apologies, by the way. Especially if, as I suspect is the case, your ship has sailed without you."
She looks at him blankly; then realization dawns. Of course. If Will has gotten away, the Lady Swann is gone.
What now, indeed, Mrs. Turner?
The timid knock on the door startles her, but she turns toward it thankfully, saved from wrestling with this new dilemma for the time being.
"Who is it?" she says, pitching her voice boy-low.
"Only Rhianna, sir. Were you wantin' any more water tonight?"
She opens the door a crack. "Actually, Rhianna, I'll be needing a bit more than that."
When she's sent the girl on a mission to acquire cloth, an extra blanket, and a large flask of rum, as well as another basin of water, she turns back to Jack.
"And what of your ship, Jack? Has the Black Pearl fled Tortuga as well, do you think?"
His eyes have begun to look a bit glazed, but his reply is clear enough. "Ana's no fool. They'd have hauled anchor soon as those Spanish galleons sailed into sight."
"Will they come back for you?" she asks softly.
"Don't know, lass. They mostly do, these days. Can't come back til the coast is clear, though..."
He stirs restlessly; she places a firm hand on his shoulder. "Hold still. You'll open that wound more if you thrash about like that."
"I am not thrashing," he says with dignity. Her touch seems to calm him somewhat, though he makes an uncertain, protesting noise in his throat.
"What?"
He glances up at her, the strange, fleeting hesitation in his dark eyes replaced by a familiar cocky glint. "Just thinkin' I should get meself cut up more often, love, if it'll get me the likes of you as nursemaid."
She rolls her eyes, resigned.
He can't be too badly hurt, then...
And she's startled by the degree of comfort she obtains from that thought.
