Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine.
Chapter XXII
Flame and Tinder
Drink to me only with thine eyes
and I will pledge with mine.
Or leave a kiss within the cup
and I'll not ask for wine.
-- "Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes"
Fire in the cabin, fire in the hold
fire in the strong room melting the gold
fire, fire, fire down below.
-- "Fire Down Below"
The approaching footsteps are slow, perhaps reluctant
At the wheel of the Black Pearl, Jack Sparrow does not look around. He's fairly certain he knows to whom they belong. In fact, Elizabeth Turner seems to be everywhere of late. Even in his few hours of sleep, she is there, a honey-maned succubus invading his dreams and waking him utterly unsatisfied. He thinks she's in his blood, too, like a fever. And the Pearl has somehow become a much smaller ship than he had thought, because he cannot seem to avoid her. Worse, he finds himself seeking her out when she is not beside him.
The footsteps pause several meters behind him. He turns, finally, to find her studying him, as if he's written in a language she doesn't quite know how to read.
"Yes, Mrs. Turner?" He uses her married name deliberately because he's noticed it seems to rattle her. Just trying to level the field a bit, gain back some lost advantage.
"Ana asked if I'd bring you up your supper," she says, and if she reacts to his subtle dig she hides it well, although she's perhaps helped by the fact that the sun has set and the light is fading quickly. She holds out a tray.
He raises an eyebrow. "Ana did, now?" If he didn't know better, he'd think that constituted meddling on the quartermaster's part. Taking the tray from her, he views it with little interest: bread, still soft as they're only two days out from port, and a hunk of cured meat. "Didn't happen to send up any grog, did she?"
The unexpected shadow of a grin crosses Elizabeth's face. "I'm under express orders to make sure you eat some solid food first, Captain."
"Bloody women," he growls. "Gangin' up on me now, are you? You make a fine pair. Don't you know I'm the one gives orders around this damn ship?"
With a toss of her head, she settles herself against the rail, folds her arms, and waits.
"I should learn to listen to Mr. Gibbs," he grumbles through a mouthful of bread.
"Aye, 'tis the worst sort of luck to 'ave two women aboard," she answers in a passable imitation of the first mate's gruff brogue.
He nearly chokes, and winces as his cough pulls at the wound on his ribs. "A wise man, is Mr. Gibbs," he says darkly, when he recovers.
"Jack, is that cut bothering you?" She's giving him that concerned look again.
Well, sod it all, if she wants to play nursemaid, he may as well play the damn injury for all it's worth. "Just a bit sore from earlier," he says mournfully, watching her out of the corner of his eye.
"I know," she says, contrite. "I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't mean to hurt you."
He snorts. "Now, that's a likely tale."
"Not that much, anyhow," she adds, with a small smile.
"It's all right. It really only hurts when I breathe." Then he winks at her. "If you're very good, I'll let you have a look at the damage later."
"Jack!" But she's laughing at him in the half-light.
"Said, I do believe, in the tones of one who protests too much by half." He frowns. "All things considered, you're very light-hearted tonight, Madame. I find it makes me decidedly uneasy."
Her cheeks darken; the blush is obvious even in the shadows. She holds up a small flask. "I had a sip or two before I came up the stairs," she confesses.
"I knew it!" He reaches for it; she tucks the rum behind her back and sidesteps easily out of the way.
"You haven't finished your supper."
"Wench! Very well then." He holds out the remaining half-loaf. "I could use some assistance."
She sighs, accepting a small piece. "I hope Ana's not watching."
"Aye, but perhaps she should be force-feeding you as well. You're looking a bit skinny these days, love."
She scowls a little at this, but nibbles on a corner of her bread obligingly. "Isn't it unusual for a ship's captain to eat the same rations as the crew?" she inquires.
"Aye, but you see, this is an unusual ship," he informs her, patting the railing of the Pearl, "and quite the unusual crew," he points toward Anamaria and Mr. Cotton, whose parrot appears to be giving the quartermaster what-for down on the main deck. "And I myself am a rather unusual captain. When we feast, we feast together; when we run low on provisions, I go hungry too, same as them. Good for morale, you know."
"I wouldn't have taken you for a populist, Jack." The hand with the flask has fallen to her side as she regards him with interest.
"'M not. The word, m'dear, is--" He gestures extravagantly, distracting her, and grasps her slender wrist with his other hand, forcing her to relinquish the bottle. "Pirate."
She throws the rest of her bread at him; he ducks, and they both watch the crust go flying over the railing into the ocean. "Rank opportunist is more like it!"
"And you're a bad shot," he says agreeably, taking a swig of rum.
"Lend me your pistol, and I'll show you a bad shot."
"No thank you, darling. You've injured me quite enough today."
"You're going to keep bringing that up, aren't you?"
"Rank opportunist, remember?" He shrugs. "Anyway, you brought it up first."
She rolls her eyes. "In all seriousness, I do want to make sure there's no danger of that wound going septic."
"I know you do, love," he grins.
She makes an exasperated noise; but she does not flounce away, only favors him with what is most certainly intended to be a wilting glare, lips pressed together and indignant eyes all a-flash, a lovely sight indeed. Jack chuckles and swallows more rum, enjoying the slow burn. "So tell me, Elizabeth," he says after a moment. "Am I really so frightening that you had to get liquored up before you could speak to me?"
"I am not 'all liquored up,'" she retorts instantly. "I had a mouthful, that is all. And that was for patience, not courage."
"Too bad," he sighs. "I do have a reputation to uphold."
Her jaw tightens; she turns her head away from him, looking over the rail at the choppy waves below. "And I have all but destroyed my own." She says it low, and not without some bitterness.
"Aye, but it's not as bad as all that." Sensing the return of her anxiety, he casts about for some way to alleviate it, and comes up empty. "At least you're not bored," he offers.
"But I am still not free." Yes, there is the bitterness at full strength. Her chin is high, but he thinks he sees it tremble.
It always catches him off-guard how quickly she moves from laughter to fury, anger to distress, stubborn strength to frightening vulnerability. The vulnerability especially startles him; and it is the extent to which it moves him that is most disquieting.
"Come here," he says abruptly, putting aside the empty dinner tray.
She steps towards him, then hesitates.
"I promise I won't bite, love." He finds himself speaking quite softly, as if gentling a wild creature. "I just want to show you something."
And to his amazement, she comes to him, standing close by him at the Pearl's helm. He glances upwards at the canvas; the wind is stiff, but steady enough. She's staring at him quizzically, and his first goal seems to be attained: she's forgotten her troubled thoughts, at least for now.
"Would you like to sail her?"
Her eyes widen; she glances down at the wheel, then up at him again. "You mean--?"
"Aye. Go on, take it." He moves back to give her room as she lays her hands on the well-worn oak, and hears her exclamation as a particularly strong gust pulls the ship a quarter of a point north. "Steady, now..." Reaching around her, he places his hands on hers to steer them back on course, on his guard in case she decides to use her elbow on his ribs again.
But instead she turns to him with an expression he's never quite seen on those pretty features before. It sends an odd thrill through him.
Elizabeth Turner looks...happy.
"She's really something, ain't she?" He whispers the words, afraid to break the spell.
"It's as if she were a living thing..."
"Aye, that's right." He's pleased and surprised that she understands that. Even Ana treats the Pearl like a thing...a fine thing, but an object nonetheless, always a means to an end. "The Pearl's got a soul, same as any human woman."
"Now I know why you talk to her," she says. "She's not just a keel and a hull and a deck and some sails." The last is spoken in a sing-song fashion.
"That's what a ship needs," he answers, laughing. "But what the Black Pearl really is--"
"Freedom," she breathes, and then, eyes alight with mischief, adds, "I didn't think you remembered most of that night, Jack, let alone that particular conversation."
"How could I forget the first night we ever spent together?"
"You drank a lot of rum," she says tartly; once again, she doesn't take his bait. She's learning.
Her head, he notes, rests lightly against his cheek; she's leaning into him ever so slightly.
"At the encouragement of a certain wily lass," he says into her ear, and notes how she can't quite hide her shiver.
Her voice is almost steady. "You would have soused yourself stupid with or without me, and you know it."
"Only more so without you, darling. No one to set fire to my supply, you see."
"And without me, you would not have lived to tell the tale," she says, smug. "I only did what was necessary."
"Aye, necessary to further your own ends," he mutters, and catches her elbow deftly as it darts for his ribs. He's learning, too.
"Ungrateful wretch." But she says it without rancor.
"Peas in a pod, love," he reminds her, and lets his fingers slide casually down her arm to cover her small white hand with his brown, weathered one, guiding both back to the helm. He means the light touch for a caress, and she knows it; he can feel her go very still against him, hear her quick inhalation.
"I'm afraid we've drifted somewhat off course," she says, breathless.
"A bit too far westwards again, I believe," he murmurs, and then wonders if she was referring to the Black Pearl, after all. "Steer her portside a little. Aye, that's more like it."
An almost companionable silence falls between them as they negotiate wind and wave; the Pearl noses amiably back towards the southwest, steady under their joined hands.
Finally Elizabeth stirs. "Jack?"
"Hmm?"
"Can I ask you a question?"
He blows at an errant strand of honey-colored hair that has escaped from her braid to tickle his nose. "Ask away."
"Who were you, before?"
"Before...?" It takes him a second or two to realize what she's talking about. He glances at her quickly. "What manner of question is that? Before what?"
"Before you were Captain of the Black Pearl," she insists."Before you became a pirate."
Mouth grazing her jaw, he says, "Foolish lass. I've always been a pirate."
A half-breath, held; and she moves her head away. "C'mon, Jack. You weren't born on the high seas, surely."
The moment has been lost. He drops his arms, breaking their half-embrace. "And what makes you so sure?" Then he sighs as she skewers him with a stern look. "Nobody, lass, I was nobody, really. Merely a callow lad with the sea in my blood, a compass that didn't point north, and a bee in my bonnet over a hidden treasure should have never been found at all."
"The treasure of Isle de Muerta," she says, tone faintly triumphant; pleased, perhaps, by his grudging capitulation. "And the compass that guided you there...Wherever did you find such a thing?"
"Family heirloom," he says shortly.
The full lips part a little at this; he sees her absorb the implications of the statement. But all she says is, "To hear Mr. Gibbs tell it, you won it off the Devil himself in a dice game."
She's tucking the obvious questions away for later, most likely. Wonderful.
"Sorry to disappoint," he growls. "Although I must say, I much prefer old Gibbs' version."
"Why?" Her fingers have gone lax on the wheel, he notes disapprovingly; she's watching him closely, too much so for comfort. "I daresay I'd find the truth more interesting."
"Hm." He fixes his attention on the business of steering that she is neglecting so thoroughly. "Why, pray tell, the sudden preoccupation with my personal history?"
"No reason," she answers, shrugging. "It's just that none of the stories report anything about the earlier days of your career. Anything credible, that is..." She drops him a mocking curtsy, retrieves his abandoned dinner-tray. "But as it appears to be quite the grand secret, Captain, and likely a disreputable one at that, I believe I'll leave you to it."
His curiosity bests him, two out of three. "What do the stories say, then? I don't believe I've heard the latest versions."
Elizabeth smiles. "Goodnight, Jack Sparrow."And she trips smartly away from him and down the steps to the main deck, for all the world as if she's certain she's won this round.
In fact, he rather thinks she has. His first, alarming instinct in response to her interrogation was to answer truthfully about a past known by almost no one now alive. A past he himself barely thinks of anymore; when he does, it is the past of another man's memories, another life under a different name. A life long over.
Truth be told, there had been no Jack Sparrow, before the Black Pearl.
Nobody, indeed.
He glances back, and catches sight of Elizabeth Turner in a pool of lantern-light, chatting with Anamaria. They're conspiring against him again, he's sure. He wonders if it is only the gleam of her hair, golden even in the fickle illumination of the oil lamps, that makes her stand out so plainly among the rest despite her boyish figure and man's clothing. But no, it's much more than that, he decides; it's in the proud angle of her head, in how she carries herself, with an unconscious and stately grace, with the unmistakable posture of a well-trained lady. Her stride has lengthened as she grows more used to walking freely, unfettered by petticoats, but her gait still carries the measured precision of breeding, the surety of entitlement.
She doesn't belong here.
Maybe Nichole had the right of it, after all. But she could belong, he thinks, imagining Elizabeth cutlass in hand, eyes flashing, charging headlong into battle like an Amazon. Followed instantly by a nightmare image of her slim body in his arms, his hands slick with her blood, her eyes dulled by pain, their fire flickering, fading...dying.
He shakes his head, shaking off the awful vision and the deep panic it stirs in him, and faces forward, resolute. Of course she must go back to Will.
Some treasure is too valuable to be reckoned or risked.
The dark, hulking shape of La Venganza lies quietly in the waters of the harbor, patiently awaiting its Captain's return.
Too dark; too quiet. Morena curses virulently, steps quickening as his boots hit the gangplank. He's been in a good mood tonight, thanks to the success of the day's events. Until now.
"Light," he snaps, and one of his personal guard hurries up behind him with a lantern. A cursory survey of the deck confirms his suspicions. The men he left on watch sprawl, snoring one and all, near the forecastle.
"And with a prisoner aboard, no less. Idiots." He jerks his head in their direction. "Alferez Bernal, wake those worthless bastards for me, if you please."
Bernal strides across to the sleeping cabos, aims a swift kick to the ribs of the nearest man. "On your feet, perros!"
The soldier rolls over, grunts, then snores again. The lieutenant bends to pick up an empty liquor flask. "Dead drunk, Capitan," he says with disgust.
"Let them lie, then." Morena smiles grimly. "We can deal with them later." They've proved little use as servicemen, but they'll make a fine example for the rest of the men in the morning. Morena will shoot them himself. No reason to waste time on a court-martial.
The two junior officers who have followed Morena and Bernal aboard ship exchange glances that are half smug disdain for the offending cabos, half consternation at their approaching fate. Morena knows they're privately thanking God that they are not in their fellow soldiers' shoes. It's exactly the mix of emotion the Captain strives to elicit in his troops. Shock and awe. Fear equals respect.
"You gentlemen keep watch," he orders them. "I'll tend to the prisoner myself."Another flash of comprehension; they murmur nervous assent. They know the real meaning of those words. Vasquez, the youngest officer, busies himself lighting the lamps that have burnt out, while Morena relieves Bernal of the lantern and heads below without further delay.
He licks his lips in anticipation. He's been waiting for this moment for hours, through a dull formal supper at Don Castilano's plantation and a duller officer's meeting at the garrison.
Opening the lower hatch, he descends to the brig, a clean handkerchief over mouth and nose to combat the smell. The stench of human filth, and fear. He'll become accustomed to it in a second. He always does.
His prisoner is lying very still in the second cell from the stairs, facing away, apparently unconscious. The straw is soiled; the cell's inhabitant has obviously been quite sick, quite recently. Morena considers the motionless form for a minute before hanging up the lantern and lifting the heavy bar to unlock the door.
At the creak of iron on iron, the prisoner stirs.
"Buenas tardes, mi amigo."
The man jerks violently at the sound of Morena's voice, attempts to lunge to his feet. The shackles at his hands and ankles stop him halfway. On his knees, he strains toward the captain, a vicious dog on a short chain.
"Morena." His eyes glitter wildly; his hair is matted with blood and straw. Bernal must have hit him harder than Morena had thought. "You scum." He spits at Morena's feet, narrowly missing his boot. "You filthy bastard--"
But he's cut off by the fist that smashes into his jaw, knocking his head back. "My dear Senor Turner," Morena purrs. "Where are your manners?"
Turner's features are contorted with fury and pain. "With your honor," he snarls. "What have you done with my wife?"
"Ah. Still whining for your bitch, I see..." May as well let the whelp believe this puta of his is dead. "She is beyond your reach, mi amigo. Forever."
He watches the import of this sink in, slowly draining the color from the youth's tan face. Turner spits blood this time. "Goddamn you," he whispers.
"I find that when a bitch outlives her usefulness, it is best to have her put down." Morena smiles, fingering the hilt of his knife. "A mercy, truly."
The whelp makes an anguished noise; Morena reaches out swiftly and grabs him by the hair, pushing the blade of the knife against his enemy's jugular vein. "An interesting decision," he murmurs. "I must choose the greater of two pleasures, as it were. Shall I cut your throat tonight, and have the satisfaction of killing you myself, or send you to hang tomorrow, for all to see?"
Turner gives him a look that mingles pure hatred and despair. "Go ahead," he grates out. "Do it now. And take what honor there is from the murder of a defenseless man."
Morena sighs, straightening. "You are right, of course. What a pity--" But as he sheaths the knife, he sees Turner's eyes widen, his glance darting to a point behind him and to his right. Morena turns, drawing his knife again, to see a dark-clad figure emerging from the shadows behind the stairs--
"We meet again, Captain," says the figure, coolly. She pushes the hood of her cloak back to reveal flaming red hair and a very dangerous smile. The face of a ghost...
He opens his mouth to call the guards, but finds his voice is frozen in his throat. He stares at her in shock.
"I do hope you remember me," says Nichole D'Bouvoire.
"Nought but a few men guardin' her," says Gabriel McBride. He shuts the spyglass with a decisive snap. "Bain't expectin' trouble, it seems. Shouldna be dreadful hard tae overcome them, Master Commodore."
"Perhaps not." Norrington, crouching with a small group of the Lady Swann's healthiest crewmembers on the shrub-lined ridge above the village of Navidad, frowns slightly. Beneath them at the moonlit docks floats La Venganza, deceptively peaceful for some minutes now since its Captain vanished below deck. The Dauntless is moored a few miles down the shore on the other side of the ridge, out of sight of town and garrison. No need to endanger the King's property, or the King's men, on a harebrained rescue mission such as this.
"The trick is to do it without anyone raising the alarm," the Commodore says. "The rest of Morena's men will be in the village, or at the farthest, in the garrison," and he nods across the harbor at the small fortress. "You must remember, it's a long march back to the Dauntless, and there is no telling in what condition we might find Mr. Turner."
"'Tis true." The Scotsman scratches his beard thoughtfully. "Unless..." He chuckles softly. "What say ye we sail her out of the harbor, sir? Be faster than walkin' home."
Norrington rocks back a little on his heels, looking McBride over with new respect. "An escape by sea," he says slowly. "I believe that could work. Are we enough to man her?"
"Aye. She ain't but th' size o' th' Lady." He casts a longing glance to where the other ship lies at anchor, lashed and ragged. "Tho' if I had me druthers, I'd take her instead...a finer mistress than yon black hull."
"Yes, well, I'm afraid that can't be helped," Norrington says. "Though she is a fine ship, to be sure--"
"Sir," says one of the men behind them, urgently. Johnny Castle, Norrington thinks his name is. "'Scuse the interruption, but--what be that, yonder?"
The Commodore glances back at La Venganza. "Damn and blast," he mutters. Dark smoke is pouring out of the ship's portside windows. "McBride, the glass, if you wouldn't mind--"
The other man hands it over, startled."What in the blazes..."
Norrington can see the Spanish guards on the main deck shouting to each other in pantomime, waving their hands frantically. The portholes emit an ominous, fitful glow. And he notices something else, something extremely odd.
Someone has cut the Venganza's moorings, and the vessel is sliding gently away from the docks on the tide.
The Commodore lowers the glass, dread battling with hope.
"Holy Mother of God," breathes Johnny Castle.
And as they watch, gaping, La Venganza blooms into flame, a great fireball tearing the ship apart from the inside. A second later, the noise of the explosion echoes across the still water, followed by shouts in the village. The ruin of the hull burns, sinking slowly in a glowing fume of smoke and steam.
McBride removes his cap. His expression is one of stunned dismay. "Lads," he says quietly, "one way or t'other--I think it be a bit late tae rescue our Master Will."
In case anyone was wondering:
alferez: lieutenant
cabos: soldiers, privates
perros: dogs
To all or any of you who are still reading, cheers! Consider this chapter my Mithras/Christmas/Kwanzaa/Hannukah present to you. Thanks to those who read, and especially to those who review.
Happy Solstice to all, and to all a good night ;-)
