IX.
Wounds
Into the surgeon's cabin
They did convey him straight,
Where, first of all the wounded men,
The pretty surgeon's mate
Most tenderly did dress his wound,
Which bitterly did smart;
Then said he
'Oh! one like thee
Once was mistress of my heart!'
--"The Valiant Lady"
Will stands dripping at the port gunwale of the Pearl, only half-hearing the anchor strike the hawse as the crew pulls it home. From his vantage point he can see clearly to the deck of the Lady Swann, where a line of captured men faces a small group of Spanish officers. The line appears shorter than it should. Will prays that this means some of his crew has escaped or were still ashore when the assault began, and not merely that too many did not survive.
Damn you, Capitan Morena...
His gaze fixes on the tallest officer; even from this distance, he's fairly sure he recognizes the man's haughty bearing as he stalks the boards of the defeated Lady.
It has to be. No one else would go to all that trouble to find me.
His fists clench at his sides.
Not quite enough trouble, my friend...not quite enough.
A cry from the quarterdeck snaps him out of his dark musings. "Tha's done it! We been spotted, Miss Ana!"
"We can outrun 'em," she shouts back from the helm, swinging the wheel hard to starboard. "Look to the sails, lads, here we go!"
Will climbs up to stand beside her on the poop deck. "What's your plan?"
She grunts. "Lose 'em at sea. They can't catch us. Too many guns weightin' 'em too low in the draft..."
As if to emphasize her words, the night is split asunder by the roar and whistle of the war galleon's guns. The other ship has swung athwart them and opened fire. But the shots fall short. Will realizes that Ana has taken the precise angle that would prevent the corsair from following them apace and shooting all the way; now, she cannot both pursue the Pearl and fire upon her, except from her bowchasers, and the Pearl is already out of their range. He looks at Ana with new appreciation.
The second volley of cannonfire fades to echoes behind them. "And once we get away?" he asks her.
"We lay low for a few days, and wait for the situation to cool off." She meets his gaze evenly. "And then we come back and see if we can't find the Cap'n."
Will glances over his shoulder at Tortuga Harbor, rapidly shrinking in the distance, then back at the tiny woman beside him. "Anamaria," he begins, spurred by a sudden resolve. "I know it's far out of your way, but...could you find it in your heart to do me a favor first, and sail me back to Port Royal?"
She scowls. "Like I've not done you enough favors t'night, Will Turner? Nay, 'tis too risky. I've taken me chances with the Royal Navy in the past, and that was for far better reason. I've no wish to do so again."
"And you took that risk to rescue Jack," Will says softly. "Ana, that's my crew back there now, and I can't just leave them at the mercy of Captain Morena. He's not famous for being a kind man, you know. I have to go back for them...just as you have to go back for Jack Sparrow."
Her face remains stony. "Your crew's fate ain't no business of mine."
"I can compensate you well for your time and trouble..."
"Aye, and you'd best tell me why I ever did aid you in the first place, too," she grouses. But her expression turns calculating, and he knows he's got her.
"Governor Swann will help us both," he says. And hopes fervently that he's telling the truth.
"Drink this," Elizabeth says, sitting on the edge of the bed and handing Jack the flask of rum that Rhianna has brought her. "Don't finish it though. I'm going to need it."
He takes a long swig, then stiffens as she eases his coat off his shoulders. "Hold it right there, missy. It's scarcely fair play to take advantage of a man who's been rendered incapable of defending himself."
She smiles down at him sweetly. "Ah, but who ever told you I played fair? Now, do stop twitching. I want to have a look at that cut." The felt of the coat is soft with continuous wear, and stained with sweat and sea-salt. "You should really wash more, Jack," she says.
"I wash," he protests.
"What, once a year? Swimming in the ocean doesn't count. Have you or your clothes seen soap since you bought them?"
She makes him lift his left arm so she can strip the sleeve the rest of the way off his wrist, and catches him wincing at the movement before he turns his grimace into a frown of concentration. "I can't remember," he says. "Is that bad?"
"It's certainly not surprising," she says, amused.
But aside from all the blood, the thin white shirt beneath the coat seems remarkably clean in the fickle lamplight, and she can't help noticing that he doesn't stink much worse than Will used to when she'd slip in to visit him at the smithy: sweaty, but not rank, and distinctly, distractingly male. Except Will's scent always had a hint of the smoke and cinders of the forge, while Jack smells like the sea, and spiced rum.
He submits almost meekly to her ministrations, and she is uncomfortably aware of his eyes on her as she unbuttons his shirt; her hands stumble a little when they accidentally brush his skin, which is smoother than she expected and brown from hours in the sun. The sensation lingers on her fingertips for awhile as if his warmth has actually burned her.
Careful, Mrs. Turner...careful.
What in heaven's name is wrong with me, anyway?
Squelching all such speculations before they can lead her into treacherous waters--here there be dragons--she drops her gaze from his face, forces herself to focus on peeling the blood-soaked fabric away from his torso. It sticks to the congealing edges of the wound, and he grunts softly in pain.
"Sorry." She lets him take another swallow of rum. "The worst is yet to come, I'm afraid."
He smiles tightly. "'S not so bad." But his pupils have gone wide, drowning his eyes in black. She hesitates, dismayed; he sketches an impatient gesture with his good hand. "Let's get on with it, shall we? Do as you must, oh merciless one..."
"Hardly merciless. I did give you the rum." Resolutely, she dips a clean rag in the steaming water, wrings it out.
"Aye, that's true," he says, and then jerks sideways at the touch of the hot cloth. "Bloody hell, woman! Are you trying to kill me?"
"Hold still, for God's sake! I'm trying to be as gentle as I can." With most of the excess blood wiped away, she can see that the gash doesn't run too deep, though long: from the left of his navel to the second rib. Nonetheless, it has begun to look rather angry. "Give me that bottle," she says sharply.
He looks at it, then back at her, dramatic suspicion writ large. Sighing, she grabs him by the wrist and peels his fingers off the flask; he relinquishes it with the utmost reluctance, finally falling back onto the pillow with an expression that can only be described as a pout.
"You're not going to enjoy this," she informs him, and before he can respond, she pours half the remaining liquid over the cut.
The muscles of his abdomen contract spasmodically; he bites off a cry, his upper body rising halfway off the mattress before he regains control and subsides, eyes closed, his breaths coming shallow and uneven.
"Why--" he grates at last, eyes still shut, "why, love, why in the name of all that is good and holy, why did you have to do that?"
She sits back, taking a swig of rum herself now that he's not looking; it lends her words a flippant steadiness she doesn't feel. "Calm down, Jack. Did you really want to get blood poisoning?"
He opens one eye and regards her balefully. "What does that have to do with anything? You squandered half a bottle of good rum. Couldn't you have come up with a decent method of torture? Dribbled more hot water on me, perhaps?"
"The rum's not that good. You're welcome to the rest of it." Rising from the bed, she hands the flask back to him and goes to the basin to clean her hands. "Alcohol poured over a wound is the best way to keep the poison out. My native nanny taught me that when I was a young girl." She laughs a little, remembering that day. "I was never the most cautious of children, and I'd caught my bare foot on a nail in the stables. Sarah was so angry...not with me, but with the servant who'd left the nail there." Then she stops short; it has suddenly occurred to her that she is sharing memories of her childhood with Jack Sparrow. The rum must be more potent than she'd thought...She steals a quick glance at him, but he appears to have fallen asleep, and she experiences a moment of profound relief; until he speaks.
"Well, go on, love...what's the end of the story?" His voice is lazy, and more than a little slurred.
"Nothing," she says hastily. "I mean, that's all of it." She picks up the rest of the dry rags. "I still need to wrap that up, Jack."
"Ah." He stirs. "Should've known you weren't yet finished tormenting me, I suppose."
"Not quite yet." Tearing the rags into strips, she packs them into the length of the wound, which is still oozing blood, although not nearly as much as it was. He stares straight ahead, face set. "Hold these in place and sit up, please."
He obeys, pushing himself upright, and this time he cannot hide his wince. She gathers up his shirt and jacket from behind him and sits, unfolding the long roll of cloth she intends to use as a bandage. His naked back is narrow but well-muscled, the tangled hair falling forward and off the nape of his neck--which, she observes ruefully, does indeed want washing, rather badly. When she replaces his hand with her own in order to bind his ribs, the shoulders bent to her tense nervously, and his head drops forward a fraction.
She shakes her head, glad he cannot see the tiny smile that tugs at her mouth despite herself and the gravity of their circumstances. She's never known a grown man who fidgets even nearly as much as this one does. He's as touchy as a thoroughbred stallion, one of the half-wild animals that the Spanish traders used to ship into Port Royal and sell to unsuspecting young Navy officers.
Not to mention just as dangerous...
Bending close to him, Elizabeth wraps the cloth tightly around Jack's torso, her breath warm against his exposed skin. It's been far too long since he's shared a room with a woman, he thinks distractedly, trying to concentrate on his own rather uneven breathing; he wishes she'd be a little less efficient as well as--ow--a bit less energetic about the task at hand.
She finishes and moves away from him all too soon...or perhaps not soon enough, he really can't decide. He lies watching her from behind half-closed lids as she bends to pick up his discarded shirt and jacket; she doesn't look at him, folding the garments neatly and methodically, and he smiles to himself, unable to imagine why anyone would believe for a second that she was a lad. Even in the loose-fitting breeches, cap, and ragged waistcoat, her shape seems unmistakably feminine to him, unmistakably Elizabeth.
He shifts, restive, against the bandage on his ribs, hoping she'll notice his discomfort and come over to loosen it, but she has busied herself at the washbasin again, scrubbing away at her fingernails. Apparently the girl is completely obsessed with cleanliness. He glances down at his own hands, the nails soiled and black with his own blood in addition to the usual soot and grime they gather over weeks of work on the Pearl. Maybe he can convince her to help him clean up, too. She'd probably be overjoyed, considering the dedication and passion with which she is now laving her face and forearms.
Now when it's put that way, bathing might not be such a bad thing. He opens his mouth to suggest the idea to her. But the words fade unspoken from his lips.
She sits with her back to him; she has shrugged her coat to the floor in a stained heap, and he can easily make out the ridge of her ramrod-straight spine under the near-transparent fabric of her blouse. He frowns; odd, that. He doesn't remember her being quite so thin. He wonders absently, as he has frequently throughout the course of the evening, what has brought her here, why she should appear in such an unlikely place at such an unlikely juncture, just in time, in fact, to (possibly) save his life; but something about that rigid spine indicates that she won't take kindly to any more personal questions. And while he would normally ignore that warning just for the entertainment of seeing her angry, indignant, or thrown off-balance, his mind has perhaps been dulled by blood loss and the fair quantity of rum he's consumed, for he finds with a mild sense of surprise that he is content to merely observe her.
In a single swift movement, she reaches up and pulls off her cap, her hair spilling down over her shoulders in a unruly mass of dark-honey curls. Comb in hand, she stares almost dreamily at her blurred reflection in the cracked glass above the washbasin.
Then her steadfast poise evaporates, and she hurls the comb to the floor with alarming force. She propels herself from the rickety stool so violently that it wobbles on two legs, barely escaping being thrown to the ground as well. Pacing to the tiny window, she gazes out into the darkness; after a moment, her shoulders slump, and she leans her forehead against the filthy glass.
Meditating on the actions and inactions of dear William, no doubt.
She proves him right; the words are spoken as if only to herself.
"He didn't recognize me..."
She turns and looks at him, probably expecting an answer. But this time Captain Jack Sparrow is pretending diligently to be fast asleep.
