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XIII.
Lost
My boat's by the tower, and my bark's on the bay,
and both must be gone at the dawn of the day.
The moon's in her shroud, and to light thee afar
On the deck of the daring's a lovelighted star.
So wake, lady wake, I am waiting for thee,
Oh, this night or never my bride thou shalt be...
--"The Pirate Song"
"Sail ho! Nor'west an' bearin' on us!"
The cry from the man on watch above is followed immediately by a stream of eloquent curses from the wheel, and Will winces. Some of Anamaria's most colorful epithets feature his name rather prominently, and reflect unfavorably on his mother's honor.
He springs onto the starboard bulwarks, shading his eyes against the lowering sun, and sees--still far off but quickly gaining on them--the familiar clean lines and proud masts of a British naval vessel.
And under the Union Jack flies a white anchor and stars on a blue field.
Why is Norrington's flagship ranging so far from Kingston Harbor?
"Take her hard to portside, lads!" Ana shouts; a quick check of wind speed and angles tells Will that she intends to pass the other ship at as far a distance as she can manage.
"Ana, wait!" He pounds up the steps to the poop deck, taking them two at a time. "Hail them. That's the Dauntless."
"I know full well what ship she be!" Ana glares. "I'll ask you to remember who's in command here. It ain't your call, Turner."
"Aye. But if you allow me to board her, you'll be well rid of me."
A measured, narrow-eyed glance, assessing risk versus reward. After a moment she says, ungraciously, "All right. I'll do it. But if you get us all killed, I'll kill you myself. Don't go thinkin' I won't."
"I don't doubt you for a second," Will assures her. "I'm not that stupid."
Perhaps the words betray some hint of amusement or challenge, for she scowls at him until he takes a hasty step back. "Well, looks like this here'll be your chance to prove it, then!"
"She's heading straight toward us, sir."
Commodore Norrington lowers his spyglass in blank disbelief. "I know that ship..."
"Commodore!" Hayes, one of the younger, greener officers, rushes up to him. "She's raising a white flag, sir."
"What?" Norrington squints at the approaching ship. Sure enough, the flag rippling on the topmast does not bear the skull and crossbones he'd anticipated, but a rather tattered piece of white cloth. "That can't be right."
"Why not?" Hayes frowns, puzzled.
The Commodore arches an eyebrow. "That, my man, is the Black Pearl. I know her Captain. And Jack Sparrow would never raise a flag of truce. It must be a trick."
"Captain Jack Sparrow?" the officer says, in an awed voice. "The pirate? I've heard of him. Thought he was more legendary than real."
"No, no. He's real enough, I fear."
"Really, sir?" Hayes gazes at the approaching vessel with something frightfully close to hero-worship. "I heard he's one of the best pirates in the Caribbean, you know."
"Now that," Norrington snaps, "is most certainly only legend, Hayes." He makes a mental note to speak to Groves at the next opportunity. The shameless hero-worship of pirates, he will remind the Lieutenant, should not be encouraged among members of the Royal Navy.
He trains his glass once more on the Pearl, but sees no sign of Sparrow. He does, however, recognize the colored woman at the helm as one of the pirate's officers; the first mate, perhaps. She appears to be engaged in vehement debate with someone. Not, Norrington decides, the Captain. This man ties his hair back into his sailor's queue too neatly; his gestures are too direct, his stance far too steady.
"Odd..."
Then the man turns to point toward the Dauntless, and the Commodore stiffens. Looks again.
"What the devil?" he mutters. "Turner, you bloody idiot, you better have a good explanation for this..." And he better have Mrs. Turner safe with him, as well.
He scans the Pearl's decks, and his lips tighten.
Elizabeth is nowhere to be seen upon them.
"Here's what we do," Anamaria announces, her tone implying that she is bestowing a tremendous favor. "You row on over there with Joshamee--go on up to your 'mates'--" the word is spoken with immense disdain-- "and we'll be off soon as he brings the boat back. I won't waste a skiff on you, and you better hope them 'Coats don't try nothin'...or you'll be the first to get a bullet to the head."
"Thank you, Ana." Will extends his hand, and she shakes it grudgingly.
"You owe me, Turner," she says. "Don't you forget now, you promised me compensation for this errand...because I haven't."
"I won't forget," Will tells her.
"You'd best not. Now go. And make it quick."
Gibbs claps Will on the shoulder. "Come, lad, let's get this over with. An' don't ye worry about Ana...she'll try to blame ye for all this trouble, but we all know 'tis bad luck to have a woman at the helm." He chuckles.
Anamaria, stalking away, turns 'round at this. "I heard that, Joshamee Gibbs, you worthless son of a dog's arse..."
"My apologies, ma'am," Gibbs answers, unperturbed. "Just my little joke, y'know."
"You're lucky you're Jack's man," Ana growls. "And lucky again you're the sailor you are, Joshamee. Even so, I've a mind to leave you with the whelp if you don't stow that lip o' yours."
Gibbs chuckles, but he touches his cap and sets to work in silence.
"I don't think she likes me much," says Will, as they unlash the boat.
Gibbs grunts. "She likes ye as much as she likes any man. Granted, that's not sayin' much; but she's tetchier now than usual. I wager she's mostly just anxious to go back for the Cap'n."
"Never would've guessed she liked him that much, either."
"Aye. An odd 'un, be old Ana. And," the sailor adds, as the skiff is lowered into the water, "a good enough Cap'n herself, when all be said an' done--woman or no."
"I certainly never thought I'd hear you say that, Gibbs," laughs Will. "So you've changed your opinion of the fair sex, have you?"
"Now, I ain't sayin' that, young Will. Them women ought to stay off the seas and keep to their own proper business, like the good Lord intended. I just said Miss Ana makes a passable sailor. Don't mean it's right."
"Perhaps not all women are equally fitted to the life of house and hearth," Will suggests cautiously.
Gibbs snorts, derisive, but Elizabeth's passionate plea of a few days ago echoes suddenly in Will's mind. "I have naught to do but sit and sew lace on petticoats and embroider cushions...I'm sick to death of this place..." and he finds himself thanking Providence that he wasn't born female.
He's likewise grateful that he didn't give way under the influence of his beloved's imploring eyes and fervent words. He shudders at the thought of his wife in the hands of Captain Morena. From all he knows and has heard of the man, Morena's obsession with exacting revenge on his enemies is matched only by his cruelty toward women, indeed toward anyone weaker than him, and by his twisted enjoyment of such brutality.
If I had lost her to him...my God... He cannot even put that horror to words. But Elizabeth is safe and sound in Port Royal, he reminds himself, and he will see her soon if all goes well. He imagines the surprise and pleasure with which she will greet him at the door, the way she'll throw her arms around his neck and kiss him before the eyes of the entire household in the kind of indecorous display of conjugal affection that was her habit during their first year or so of marriage, and which he did not know how much he'd missed until now. Perhaps she'll still be sulking, but when he tells her about his near-scrape with death--the edited version, of course--she'll be so relieved that he escaped unharmed, and that she did not after all chance such danger herself, that she'll forgive him instantly.
This gratifying fantasy serves to mitigate his dread at the prospect of explaining the loss of the Lady Swann to the Governor and his patrons; until he is jarred out of it rudely by a sudden joint uproar that has arisen from the decks of both ships.
"Hmm," says Gibbs. "What d'ye reckon all that noise is about, lad?"
Will cranes his neck, trying to see past the stern of the Pearl and out to the open ocean indicated by the shouts and pointing fingers. They have almost reached the Dauntless when he finally catches sight of another ship, riding from the south at full sail in their direction.
"Damn it," he mutters. "Those bastards don't give up easily, do they..."
Climbing from the skiff a few minutes later onto the Dauntless's main deck, Will finds himself immediately faced with a restlessly pacing Commodore Norrington.
"Would you like to tell me what in God's green earth is going on here, Turner?" he demands harshly. "And," he points at the fast-approaching vessel, "would you know, by any chance, what ship that is?"
"That, I am guessing, is La Venganza, sir," Will says, grim-voiced. "The pride and joy of Captain Francisco Morena, Officer of the Spanish Crown."
"The Spanish Crown?" Will watches as the full import of this registers on Norrington's face. "Morena's after you? Where is your ship, man?"
"The Lady Swann was captured, along with the rest of the crew," Will answers, surprised by the man's reaction. Norrington, while always civil in conversation, has never bothered to pretend to like him, even before Will made good his claim upon the affections of Norrington's intended bride. Now, however, the Commodore's characteristic icy cool has slipped, more than a little, and he appears implausibly concerned by Will's misfortune.
But Will is even more astonished when Norrington grips him roughly by the shoulders. "Good God, man! Tell me she's safe. Where is she?"
"I told you. The Spanish took her."
"Not the ship, fool!"
"Not the--" Will shakes his head, completely baffled now. "What in the blazes are you talking about, Commodore?"
"Your wife, Turner," Norrington grates. "Where is Elizabeth?"
Unable to comprehend Norrington's meaning, Will stares at him; the Commodore stares back, agitation and worry clear in his pale eyes.
"Dear God," Norrington says, setting his jaw. "You didn't know."
"Elizabeth...?" Will says slowly. "I don't understand. Elizabeth is at home, in Port Royal--"
But Norrington interrupts him. "No. Elizabeth Turner left Port Royal five days ago. On your ship, without your knowledge."
It takes a second for the words to sink in to Will's reeling brain. If she was stowed away on my ship, then...
"You lost her, didn't you," Norrington says, flat-voiced.
And in that moment, as the sun sinks beneath a brilliant orange horizon, the world, as Will Turner thought he knew it, falls all to pieces.
Jack Sparrow tastes, not unexpectedly, of rum.
Elizabeth loses herself in him, in the intoxicating sensation of his lips and tongue on hers, fitting herself to his lean frame; the urgency of their kiss robs her of breath, and she moans into his plundering mouth. When Jack pulls away a little, she gasps; but before she can gather her wits, he has turned the tables on her, pinning her between his body and the door in one quick motion.
"Thought you had me there, didn't you, darling."
"You--" But his lips close over hers again, hungrily, and she abandons speech without contest, letting him take it as well as her. His knee insinuates itself between her trousered legs; his hands tighten on her hips, lifting her until she recognizes, with a shock of lust, the hard length of him against her thigh. Instinctively, she presses even closer, eliciting a small desperate noise from deep in his throat.
She feels him move, one hand fumbling for the latch on the door. When he finally manages to wrench it open, she nearly falls, unbalanced by the alcohol she's drunk and a swirling, limb-weakening fire in her blood that she finds utterly unfamiliar, but not at all unpleasant. Only Jack's arm at her back keeps her upright; she leans her head on his chest, listening to their hearts race in tandem.
Stop now, Elizabeth Turner...while it's not too late...
"You all right, love?" he says in her ear, and his fingers slip beneath her thin blouse to trace their way up her spine. She shudders at the feather-light touch, and his simultaneous response is unmistakable.
She inhales. "Jack--"
He looks down at her; his eyes glitter in the dim light, black as she's ever seen them, with desire. "What is it, Elizabeth?"
She has opened her mouth to say, I can't. But those eyes are her undoing, those dark eyes and his parted lips and the way he speaks her name; and she knows then that if she tells him no, he will not force her.
Under her shirt, his hands splay across the small of her back and draw her towards him, gently but inexorably. At the contact, her breath trembles out of her.
Too late. It's already happening. "Nothing," she murmurs, and shifts against him, pulling his mouth down to hers again in a kiss that quickly becomes anything but gentle. She surrenders to the consuming heat of it; he grips her waist, pushing her step by slow step towards the bed.
He breaks off the kiss and she sucks air into her lungs gratefully, then forgets how to breathe again when his teeth close lightly on her neck. One judicious yank, and the cloth binding her breasts falls to the floor. His lips are traveling down her collarbone now; she whimpers as his hands begin a thorough exploration of their own. She's lucky that he's backed her up to the bed by this time, because at his practiced touch her knees give way completely.
He bends over her, a self-satisfied smile playing over his face, and she thinks inconsequentially, before she ceases to think altogether, that in all the time she's ever spent with Jack Sparrow, she's never heard him go quite so long without saying a single word.
A little later, she says, somewhat shakily, "...Jack?"
"Aye?"
"Just where did you learn how to do that?"
"Apparently you've never been to India..."
