Disclaimer: I have commandeered these characters for entertainment purposes only. No money has been made in this venture.


XIX.
Once More Asea

The sun was setting in the west
The birds were winging o'er the sea
All nature seemed inclined for to rest
But still there was no rest for me.

--"Farewell to Nova Scotia"


Anamaria lounges against the mainmast, arms crossed, watching her Captain talking with Will Turner's wife. The two stand close together near the Great Cabin, his dark head bent to her tawny one, their conversation inaudible above the shouts and bustle of the crew as they prepare the Pearl for departure. After a moment, Jack lifts a hand and tucks a stray curl back from the Swann girl's face, then touches her shoulder fleetingly before he takes the steps two at a time up to the poop deck.

Ana purses her lips, and reiterates to herself her earlier-stated opinion that taking the lass aboard will be nothing but trouble. And that was before she'd known the identity of said lass, as well.

Hope you know what game it is you're playing at, Jack Sparrow.

Hope she has enough sense to know it, too.

The girl hasn't moved; she glances from side to side at the mostly-organized chaos that surrounds her, clutching her battered rucksack tightly and looking more than a bit lost. Taking pity on her, Ana beckons her over.

"You come along with me, Mistress Turner, and we'll see about gettin' you settled," she says gruffly. "Oy! Cotton! Lay off coddling that blasted bird for a minute, if you please, and bring one of them spare hammocks up to my cabin for the lady."

The mute pirate nods at her with his customary grin of good nature, sending his beloved parrot up to perch in the rigging--from whence it regards Ana with one beady eye, ruffles its bedraggled feathers, and proclaims indignantly, "Really bad eggs! Grawk!"

"Speak for yourself, you sorry excuse for a feather-duster," she mutters in its general direction. She's ready to wager who decided to teach the bird that particular epithet.

A tiny half-smile flashes across Elizabeth Turner's features and vanishes before Ana can read it properly.

"Don't know why I put up with the damn creature," Ana grumbles. "C'mon, girl, let's go below. The crew, they're good lads all, but they'd be fair distracted by a lady bunkin' in with them." She leads her new charge toward the hatch. "Cap'n says you're to stay with me."

"That's very nice of you, Miss Ana, but I don't wish to trouble you..."

"It's no trouble," Ana says shortly. "'Less, of course," she adds, giving the lass a pointed look, "you'd rather sleep in his cabin, that is."

"No, no, that's quite all right." The girl's hasty disavowal sounds somewhat flustered as she follows Ana down to the crew deck. "Is that what he said?"

Ana chuckles. "No. Though if I know our Jack, you can be sure he wouldn't mind..." She pushes open the door to the small stern gallery. "Now, it's not much," she warns her guest. "But at least it's a place to hang a hammock and dress yourself away from prying eyes." Also a place to use a chamber pot in private, a true luxury--at least after Anamaria stuffed the knothole in the door with cloth and pitch, and started checking it regularly to make sure no one had pushed it out again. Still, Pintel and Ragetti would lurk about outside, until she threatened to put out Ragetti's other eye and feed it to his fat friend if she ever found them trying to play peeping Toms.

Mrs. Turner hesitates at the threshold, an odd expression on her pretty face.

"Bit smaller than you're used to, eh?"

"No...it's not that," Elizabeth says slowly. "It's lovely, really." She gives Ana a perfunctory smile, but her focus is distant, eyes clouded. "It's just--I remember this room. From before..."

"Before," Ana says, mystified.

The girl walks past her to stare out the slanted windows. "This is where...they kept me. On the way to Isla de Muerte."

Anamaria clears her throat. "Did Barbossa mistreat you greatly, then, lass?"

"Mistreat me?" Elizabeth glances up from tracing patterns on the glass, and laughs a little, though with little mirth. "No, he didn't ever touch me, if that's what you mean. I think he'd given up trying to satisfy his lust, by then. But he found my fear...gratifying." She straightens her shoulders, visibly shaking off her memories. "The Pearl is very different now, of course."

"Aye. I recollect we had a right time of it, cleanin' away the filth and fixin' all her rottin' planks." Ana grins. "Always thought it was a good job we finished up most of the repairs before we went back for the Cap'n. As it was, took him a long time to get over the state Barbossa'd left her in."

"I can imagine," the girl says, softly. "He truly loves this ship, doesn't he?"

"Aye, that he does." Ana pauses. "Jack Sparrow's loved many a woman in his time...and left 'em, every one, for his heart and soul belong first to the Pearl, and to the the sea. Always have, always will. And I'd pity the lass who'd try to change that about him." She speaks casually, but she finds herself hoping that Mrs. Turner will take the words to heart.

"I certainly don't find that hard to believe," Elizabeth says, her tone caustic. "Jack's never quite struck me as the faithful sort." But she avoids Ana's eyes, returning her attention to the window and her fingers' restless movements.

"No, in his own way, Jack's a good man, and a true one," Ana corrects her. "He's never made no secret of where his loyalties lie, girl. Much more honest than he makes himself out to be, is Jack Sparrow."

Elizabeth looks to be about to respond, but is interrupted by a knock on the door. Ana opens it to admit Cotton with a rolled-up canvas hammock. "You can hang it right there in the corner," she tells him, and goes to assist him. In a few minutes the job is finished and the mute departs from the cabin, bobbing his grizzled head politely in Elizabeth's direction.

"You can use the pot in here, Mistress Turner, if you don't take offense at emptyin' it by turns," Ana informs her, when they are alone again. "We've got no servants on the Pearl, mind, so we all do our part."

To her surprise, the girl nods her assent; Ana would have expected her to be a bit more squeamish about accepting such a task, with her being born and bred a lady and likely unused to cleaning up after herself.

"Thank you, Ana," she says. "You are very kind to let me stay here."

Ana dismisses her gratitude with a wave of her hand. "No matter. I've got to get above, though. We'll soon be hoistin' anchor to set off on this damn fool rescue mission of yours."

Mrs. Turner has the grace to appear somewhat apologetic. "I know I'm causing you all a great deal of trouble," she says hesitantly. "And I know Jack's taking a great risk on my account, agreeing to do this for me. But...I can't just..." She trails off, swallows convulsively. "I have to fight for him, Anamaria. I can't just let him go..."

"If it makes you feel any better, I reckon the Cap'n would've gone to your Will's aid, regardless of whether you were here or no." She heads to the door. "Jack does what he does on his own account, and no one else's, lass, remember that."

But the other woman seems to not have heard her; she has resumed her post at the window, her head dropping forward to rest on the glass. Ana waits for a moment, and then moves to leave. As she does so, she catches the girl's faint whisper.

"I'm so sorry..."

The quartermaster turns back quickly, but it's plain that Elizabeth Turner's words of regret are no longer meant for Ana's ears.


Jack has just given the order to sail when his first mate joins him at the helm.

"Ah, good," he says. "Where's Miss Swann?"

"Mistress Turner stayed below."

Jack notices her use of Elizabeth's married name, and glances swiftly at her, but Anamaria's face betrays no hidden meaning. "She all right?"

"In a bit of a state about her man, she is. Best to leave her be," Ana adds, sharply, as Jack straightens from his lounging position at the wheel. "Lass needs time to get her head straight, and your company won't be doin' much to help her, I'd wager."

"You're saying I'm not a calming influence?"

Ana chuckles dryly. "I wouldn't say 'twere one of your strong points, Jack."

"Hmph." Despite his affronted snort, he knows Ana is probably right. Since they boarded the Pearl, Elizabeth has become quiet and distant every time he's spoken to her. Except for that brief moment a little while ago, when she stopped him on his way up to the foredeck.

"Jack--" she'd said, catching his sleeve. "I wanted to--"

Then she paused, biting her lip, and he said patiently, "What is it, then, love?"

But when she looked up at him, her expression had changed. She said, "It'll be all right, won't it, Jack?" and he got the idea, somehow, that was not what she had been about to say. "Tell me he'll be all right..."

That fragility he'd noticed earlier was still lurking behind her eyes; he raised tentative fingers to brush aside a strand of wind-blown golden hair that had tangled itself in her lashes.

"He'll be all right," he said, trying his best to sound as if he meant it. And she smiled a little, as if she were trying her best to believe him.

The sound of the anchor clanking into the hawse brings him back to the present, and the Black Pearl shudders beneath him as her canvas unfurls and fills. He lays his hands upon the familiar smooth-worn curve of the wheel, anticipating the customary thrill of pleasure that always washes through him when the Pearl sets sail at his command. But today, curiously, that feeling of liberation, of completeness, the sense that the world is his for the taking--and that, therefore, all is right with said world--remains conspicuously absent. Thoughts of the waiting horizon and all its promise are replaced by the indelible image of Elizabeth Turner's fine-boned face turned up to his, her lovely, haunted eyes brimming with desperation and some other emotion that he cannot name for the life of him.

Damn the woman. He has no intention of letting on to anyone, least of all the lady herself, the extent to which she invaded his dreams last night, effectively scuttling any small chance he had of restful sleep on dry land. He'd finally risen and gone to knock on her door, for what purpose he cannot guess at even now, and found her gone. And it was the direction pointed him by a grizzled old sailor smoking his pipe outside the inn door, and a slurred affirmation that aye, the lass had headed thataway--rather than some occult foreknowledge of the Pearl's arrival, as he's fully prepared to allow her to continue believing--which led him down to the docks early this morning.

He looks up to find Ana observing him shrewdly.

"Everything all right with you, Cap'n?"

"Quite," he says, hastily assuming an attitude of studied nonchalance. "Just gettin' reacquainted with the Pearl, thinkin' on how good it is to be back asea again where I belong, savvy?"

"And 'tis good to have you back." She peers at him. "Still, you've been awfully quiet today. You're not ill, are you?"

"I am never ill," he informs her, irritated, and adds by way of distraction: "C'mon, Ana, I know you enjoy your little jaunts as Cap'n, now and again, so don't tell me you don't feel at least the barest smidgen of regret when you turn her over to me in the end." He raises an eyebrow at her. "Hasn't it occurred to you to finally take what I owe you, and sail off into the Caribbean sunset with what I'm sure you believe is rightfully yours?"

"Take the Pearl?" Ana appears startled. "No, Jack. I had me proper chance with the Interceptor years ago, and I steered her to her fiery end, and lost her." She shakes her head. "Besides, I'd be a right fool to try and steal her. You'd never rest 'til you caught up with me, had me keelhauled, and taken your darlin' back."

"Aye, and you'd best hope keelhauling would be the worst I'd do to you," he warns her; playfully, because they both know she means what she says. For all her invective and insubordination, Anamaria--odd creature that she is--possesses a deep-running and stubborn streak of loyalty that Jack hasn't had reason to question since she and Gibbs came to his rescue on the day of his almost-hanging in Port Royal.

"I'm shakin' in me boots, I am," she answers, grinning. Then she grows abruptly serious. "I hope you have a plan for how we're to get away with this venture, Cap'n."

"No plan, as such," he says cautiously. "Not as yet. But I'm sure to come upon something," he adds, as the quartermaster's countenance acquires a distinctly ominous cast. "Tell me, what d'you know of this scoundrel Morena?"

"Not an enemy as I'd like to cross, from what I hear, and not a nice man neither." Ana presses her lips into a thin line, her tone grim. "Got something of a taste for torture, or so the stories go. And he means business with Turner. I was talkin' to Gibbs earlier--seems young Will had a hand, or two, in the death of Morena's whelp, few months back."

"So this is a vengeance game." Jack frowns. "Can't say I see Will as the murdering type, though. What's that all about, d'you think?"

She shrugs. "Lad never mentioned it to me. You think his girl might know something?"

"No," Jack says slowly. "No, I wager Mrs. Turner has very little knowledge of what her dear husband's been up to of late." He rounds on his first mate. "Do me a favor, Ana, darling. Don't you go telling the lass that bit about the killin', and certainly nothing about 'torture', savvy?"

"Aye, as you say, Cap'n," she assures him.

But the look with which she favors him is a searching one, and Jack is hard put not to shift uneasily under her gaze. Sometimes, Ana shows a disturbing tendency towards being far too savvy.

"Gel's had enough of a shock already this morning, is all," he says to the look, and busies himself in steering the Black Pearl around a nonexistent shoal. Ridiculous, that, as there are no shoals, reefs, sand bars or otherwise, this far out in Tortuga harbor, but there's always a chance that Ana won't remember that fact.

Blast. No dice. Of course she knows there's nothing there...she was probably born sailing this particular bay.

"Well, go on." He waves her away. "Don't you have work to do? Ol' Gibbs is probably gettin' into the rum supply again...you should consider puttin' a stop to such shameful behavior. And at the odd chance he's not, I'm sure there's some scurvy dog or other on this ship who's sorely in need of a right scolding, and there's no doubt in me mind you're the woman for the job."

She regards him steadily, arms folded.

"By the devil...what is it, woman? Speak, or be off with you."

"You're a right fool, Jack Sparrow," she announces, in a calm voice.

"Sticks an' stones, love," he answers easily. "Though I must say I haven't the faintest idea what you're on about."

"I think you're a liar," she says. "You may be fool enough, but I'm not, nor blind neither." She meets his puzzled gaze accusingly, though he suspects that subtle flicker in her dark eyes betrays something like amusement. "Lord, it's easy enough to see, even if I were."

"Ana--" he growls, frustration on the rise. "Desist with the blasted riddles already. No point or purpose in bein' cryptic with a right fool like me, is there? Now, out with it, if you please."

"You care for the lass," Ana says softly. "Don't you."

He stares at her, shocked. "Care for--?" The Pearl jerks to starboard suddenly as his hands slacken on the wheel, and he hauls her back hard aport with an oath, ignoring the startled exclamations from the men on the main deck. "Bloody hell. She's ol' Bill's daughter-in-law, y'know--'tis only natural I should be concerned for her welfare." He pauses to yell irritably down to the crew that no, they haven't bloody run aground, for Christ's sake, and then continues, "Besides, I don't fancy the prospect of hearing her fall into hysterics over the thought of dear Will on the rack."

Not that Elizabeth has ever been the hysterical type. Much more likely that she'd rage, pace, and throw things...probably at him...than scream and cry. He winces at the thought.

"Oh. Aye," Anamaria says, sarcastically. "And it's on Bootstrap Bill's account that you just let the rudder swing near six points to starboard. My mistake, I grant you."

She turns on her heel and walks away, out of earshot of anything but a shout before he has the time to formulate an appropriately insouciant retort.

Cursing under his breath, he faces the bowsprit grimly; his fingers tighten into a stranglehold around the wheel in a futile effort to sublimate his exasperation, and to suppress an odd rush that resembles nothing so much as...panic.

He understands what Ana was getting at, aye. It's his own response to her words that he finds inexplicable.

"Women," he mutters, for what seems like the umpteenth time in the past few days alone.


Elizabeth awakes to a gently swaying darkness.

After Ana left her alone in the cabin, she had stood for a long time at the window, watching her breath fog the imperfect glass, mind blank and immobilized under the heavy ache of guilt and fear. When she roused herself at last, it was only to curl up in her borrowed hammock, where the rocking motion of the Black Pearl immediately lulled her into the blessedly deep sleep of utter emotional exhaustion.

There's no way of telling how many hours she's been asleep, though she guesses the night is well-advanced. She stretches experimentally, feeling the unfamiliar alternation of give and tautness in the canvas supporting her, and then stiffens as the knowledge of where she is and why she is here comes racing back into her now fully-conscious mind.

Her body contracts in something that is not quite a sob; she wraps her arms around herself, a feeble defense against the onslaught of memory.

No, no, no. Not real. Not Will...

But beneath her frantic litany of denial, she knows the thing she dreads is all too real. Somewhere out on the black sea beyond the window, her husband is preparing to give up his freedom.--his life--for hers.

What if we're too late--?

No. We can't be. Don't even think it.

Elizabeth can hear Anamaria's slow, even breathing from the hammock across from her own, and shifts restlessly, envying the quartermaster her undisturbed slumber. As for herself, she knows she will sleep no more tonight. Nonetheless, she squeezes her eyes shut and tries to relax, drawing out her breaths to match Ana's measured rhythm.

As she expected, it's no use. Her inhalations catch and stutter in her throat; her lungs seem disinclined to fill properly.

She rolls to the side, tipping the hammock so that she can reach her feet to the boards of the floor, and stands, hesitating briefly before she eases the door open and slips out of the cabin. A single low-burning lantern lights her path past the snoring men of the crew; she moves stealthily across the mid-deck to climb the stairs that lead above.

At the top of the hatchway she pauses again, tipping her head back, welcoming the freshness of the sea air after the stale atmosphere of belowdecks. The arching sky is thick with stars, and the waning half-moon sinks towards the sea off the Black Pearl's starboard rail. Most of the men on night watch have gathered near the stern, arguing in low voices over a dice game. A lone youth industriously swabbing down the main deck touches his cap and murmurs something indistinct in her direction.

It's strange to think that she knows so few members of the Pearl's crew. There had been no time for formal introductions during the 'Interceptor's headlong flight away from Isla de Muerta, three years ago; later, when she liberated the men from the brig of the 'Pearl', she had learned some of their names, though she's since forgotten to which faces most of those names belonged. And Jack has likely picked up a good number of other faithful scoundrels since that day. Elizabeth gives the cabin boy as much of a smile as she can muster, heading aft towards the poop deck and the unmistakable figure silhouetted there against the stars.

The Captain seems unaware of her approach; one lax hand keeps time on the wheel as he hums softly to himself. Topping the stairs, she catches the strains of a familiar tune and almost laughs out loud, temporarily forgetting the anxiety weighting her heart.

"Yo ho, yo ho--"

Impulsively, she adds her voice to his on the refrain, and sees him go quite still.

"Didn't know you were up and about, Mrs. Turner," he says; his back remains to her, his words just barely distinguishable. "Couldn't sleep?"

She can't remember him ever calling her by her married name; it surprises her. After a moment, she answers, "On the contrary, it seems I slept the day away. Someone should have woken me."

"Ah. Miss Ana gave strict orders that you were not to be disturbed." He stirs, turns half-towards her. "You feelin' more yourself, then?"

She doesn't reply, unwilling to express her state of mind aloud, even to him. Or would that be especially to him? She can't decide.

"Ah." He nods sagely, just as if she's revealed her innermost secrets rather than just stood before him in silence.

He is curiously laconic tonight, she thinks. It is only on hearing the subtle clink of glass meeting wood that she notices the glint of the bottle clutched idly in his left hand. He offers it to her, executing a sardonic little half-bow. "Rum, m'lady? Might help."

"Oh, Jack." She comes to his side, managing to keep most of the tremor out of her light laugh. "Tell me, are you ever sober?"

"Not if I can help it." He sounds absolutely serious, but she cannot read much of his expression in the darkness. He tips the bottle her way invitingly. "From me own private supply," he announces. "Very high-quality stuff."

She accepts the decanter, swallows a sip's worth. It numbs her lips, burns all the way to the pit of her stomach and pools warmly there. "By all that's holy," she says on a half-gasp, and hands it back to him. "It's good to be the Captain, it would seem."

"Title mos' def'nitely has its perks," he slurs.

"Jack? Just how drunk are you?"

"Enough."

She shakes her head at him. "Should you even be steering the Pearl when you're like this?"

"Never been a problem in the past," he says, with a touch of belligerence. "'Sides, she's runnin' before a lovely steady crosswind. Not much work required to keep her on her proper course."

"Oh?" She lounges against the portside rail, raises her eyebrows. "So where precisely are we, by your calculations, Captain Sparrow?"

"Bearing two points sou'east, speed between eight and nine knots, sailing roughly parallel to the coast of Hispaniola at an approximate distance of twelve kilometers," he recites glibly. "Which, before you ask, likely indicates we'll be gaining our objective by tomorrow afternoon." He takes a long swallow of rum. "Barring any unforeseen difficulties, that is."

She shivers a little; the bottle is instantly re-extended.

"Cold, love?"

"No. It's not that." She waves the alcohol away impatiently.

"Ah," he says; it seems to be his word of the evening. He straightens, looking directly at her for the first time since the conversation began. "You're worried over your William, is that it?"

She drops her head, examining the worn, stained boards of the deck. "Of course I am worried," she begins, carefully. And then blurts out before she can stop herself, "He would die for me--and I..."

He sets his decanter down with exaggerated precision and steps toward her, wobbling only slightly despite his supposed intoxication. "And...you, Elizabeth?"

She glances up at him; most of his face is lost in shadow, though she can just make out the piercing gleam of his deep-set eyes.

"And I, I..." She falters momentarily under the intensity of his regard. "I can't help but think--if he'd only known I was safe--"

"He couldn't have known, love." His words are quiet, almost gentle.

"But he could have!" she cries out. Then, struggling to modulate the harsh desperation vibrating in her voice, she adds more softly, "He looked right at me, Jack, and I could have said something! I should have said something--he would have known--I should have--"

Jack cuts her off, gripping her shoulders lightly and giving her a quick shake. "Aye, and if you had, he would have stopped, wanting to know what in the devil you were doing in the kitchen of Tortuga's most notorious dive, at which point his enemy would have caught him, and me as well, right then and there while you were trying to explain yourself properly."

"Then I shouldn't have been there," she persists dully. "I should have stayed home in the first place...he wouldn't have let them take him if it weren't for me." She can feel herself trembling; Jack's fingers tighten on her shoulders, steadying her. "It's still my fault, Jack."

"Elizabeth. Darling. Look at me."

Instead, she averts her gaze, afraid that he might see the tears that sting her eyes; but he drags her chin upwards, his other hand still resting on her upper arm.

"We've been over this one, love," he says. "There's no use blaming yourself for what is. It's past now."

"I know. Over and done, and can't be altered...I know that. All too well." Her throat constricts, and she swallows against the rising ache of it. "But you--you don't know what the worst part is, do you, Jack?" She doesn't wait for him to respond. "Of course you don't. You haven't thought about it...probably wouldn't understand it, what it means, if you did--"

He frowns. "What wouldn't I understand?"

"Two nights ago, when he was offering himself up for my sake--that was the night that I was--that we--"

She cannot go on, and his arms drop to his sides; she tries to ignore the sense that the sudden withdrawal of his touch has left her inexplicably adrift and at a loss.

"Terrible, aye," he says, and she thinks she detects an undercurrent of bitterness in his tone. "Be that as it may, Elizabeth--you would have done the same for him, were your positions reversed, would you not? I've seen you do as much. You were set to marry the Commodore to save him. Giving up your life doesn't always mean dying."

"Yes," she says. "And I would have. Still would. But there is also a much more difficult question that follows that one, Jack."

"And what might that be, lass?"

She draws in a long, uneven breath. "The question," she whispers, "of whether I could sacrifice your life, to save Will's."

There is a brief, startled silence on both their parts, before he says, voice oddly rough, "Would it truly be so hard for you, love, to give me up?"

She meets his eyes, then, and once again she cannot speak. He stares at her for a long moment, a peculiar little smile playing about his lips.

"In that case, my dear," he murmurs finally, "let us by all means hope that circumstances do not come to such a pretty pass."

And adds, thoughtfully, "For all our sakes..."


Heartfelt thanks to all who have read and especially to those who have taken the time to review. You guys are the best.