Author's Apology: My dear readers, how can I begin other than with a deep, groveling apology for the wait you are enduring! I am so very very sorry! Allow me to issue this warning to any prospective lawyers among you: you know all those horror stories you hear about law school workloads? They are ALL true. Actually, school wouldn't be so bad (it's really interesting) if I didn't also have a full-time job to deal with. In fact, I'm seriously thinking about quitting and just piling on another loan. I'm so deep in debt already that another fifteen thousand bucks won't make that much difference. ;-) No kidding. It's THAT expensive. All I can do is beg you to please forgive me and bear with me while I struggle to keep from drowning in this sea of work and studying. I can't promise to update soon after this; it may be that you'll have to wait until the holidays, but I promise: this fic WILL be finished. Lawyer's honor. Er, no, how about…politician's honor? Hmm. Nah, that's not very reassuring either. Oh well. Just please be patient, and I'll do my very best to keep working on this when I can. And think of me on the second week of December: that's exam week.
Author's Note: I would like to thank the many readers who have reviewed and emailed with such wonderful compliments for my original characters, particularly Lucinda Hamilton. As I've told many of you, it's tough and a little scary to write a major original female character, even more so when I fully intended to pair her off with a major canon character. In response to one question in particular about how I avoided the dreaded Mary-Sue factor, allow me to explain: I started out with the intention of finding a chick for Norrington to marry. So what I did was contemplate what kind of man he is, and what kind of woman he likes. I see him as a rather paternal character toward women, judging by his behavior toward Elizabeth in the last movie (which is why, in truth, Elizabeth wasn't really right for him.) On the other hand, I don't see him falling for anyone totally obnoxious. Thus I created Lucy, a slightly younger, slightly ditzier, much more naïve gal who'll make a nice, biddable wife, but also possessing qualities Norrington seems to admire, such as a sense of right and wrong and a caring heart. And of course, beauty (that's the biggest risk in creating a non-Suvian OFC, but I just couldn't bear to give Norrington an unattractive chick. He deserves better.) And judging by your comments, it worked. My deepest thanks! You don't know how much your approval means to me!
Chapter Four: Down on Yer Luck
The next evening, aboard the Greymalkin…
The cabin that Will's outrageously overpriced passage had purchased was approximately the size of a supply closet, with barely room for the berth within it. In fact, he rather suspected that a supply closet was exactly what it had been before he had arrived at the ship. He had been forced to take the rather threadbare hammock down and nail it back up again to prevent himself from being pitched onto the floor with the rats during the night, and it rather unnerved him to see the single lantern swinging aggressively over his head. If the seas grew much rougher, there would be the risk of getting lamp oil spilled all over him.
By purchasing himself some extra food at a more reasonable price from one of the dock merchants, Will managed to save himself the three or four shillings it would have cost him to eat with the crew. And that was fine with him, for he had no real desire to interact with this disagreeable lot, not even when they dropped anchor to investigate a wreck on one of the reefs off Jamaica. On the other hand, having nothing but the same very close four walls to look at for hours on end did very little for his peace of mind. Quite the opposite; it freed up far too much time to think about Elizabeth.
The most intense of his emotions seemed to have worn off, leaving him with a sense of numbness, of being too tired to feel anymore. His grief had dulled to a persistent ache in his chest, bitter to feel but survivable, until one memory or another struck him with a new stab of pain, like being endlessly buffeted on an unpredictable sea, never knowing when the next wave would strike.
He found himself remembering most clearly the eight years before Jack Sparrow had arrived in Port Royal, especially those first few years when they'd both been children, not quite so strictly held to the social divides between their classes. Will had been one of the only children near Elizabeth's age being raised with civilized manners, and even an apprentice blacksmith was a preferable playmate in her father's eyes than the sailors' children.
"How is it that you do not know the pirate song?" Elizabeth demanded as they scampered along the road near the governor's mansion.
"I've never heard it!" Will panted, struggling to keep up with Governor Swann's energetic daughter. She had been sitting in lessons nearly all day, but had been allowed outside to play as a reward for her good behavior. Will, on the other hand, had been going back and forth to the docks all morning carrying charcoal for Mister Brown. But Elizabeth wanted to run, and she could usually get Will to do what she wanted when he had leave from the blacksmith to play.
"It goes like this," she said, at last coming to a stop outside the gate so Will could catch his breath. "'We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot! Drink up, me hearties, yo ho! We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot! Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!'"
"Should you be singing that?" Will exclaimed.
"Why not? I think it would be very exciting to meet a pirate!"
Will scowled. "I don't. If I met a pirate, I'd kill him!"
"Oh, really?" Elizabeth grinned at him and pulled open the gate. "Come on, then!"
"Into your yard?" Will asked hesitantly.
"Of course! Come on!"
She led him behind the mansion to the place where the servants did the washing and polishing of the household wares. Giggling in a way that made it quite clear to Will that they were not supposed to be there, Elizabeth procured from the various baskets a dirty green table napkin, what looked like part of a chandelier chain, several pieces of silver, and two dirty butter knives. She tied the napkin around her head and stuck the piece of chain over her ear. "There! I'm a pirate! Arrr!"
It was too much, the sight of her in her pink day dress with a dirty napkin around her curled hair and that silly link stuck to her ear. Will snatched up one of the butter knives. "All right then! I challenge you to a duel!"
"Avast!" Elizabeth shrieked, grabbing the other.
"A-what?"
"Avast, silly! That's what pirates say!"
"Stand and fight, you scurvy dog!" Will shouted through his laughter. "I'm a captain in His Majesty's navy, and I'm here to put an end to your plundering!"
"Haha! You can't catch a pirate! 'Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me! We extort, we pilfer, we filch and sack! Drink up, me hearties, yo ho! Maraud and embezzle and even hijack! Drink up, me hearties, yo ho! Yo ho! Yo ho! A pirate's life for me!'"
Will joined in, and soon they were both capering around the yard shrieking, "'Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me!'"
Will bit his lip. That escapade had ended in a severe scolding for both of them, but surprisingly Elizabeth's stern tutrix had believed her when she confessed to putting Will up to it. From what he remembered and what Elizabeth said, as a child she'd been quite the hellion. It made his lips curve and his eyes sting at the same time. There was no point in dwelling on it. Those days were gone—they'd been gone for a long time. Elizabeth had hoped at first that an end to her school lessons would give her more time to play, but with the end to grammar and arithmetic had come the beginning of different kinds of lessons, that had prevented her more and more from leaving the house to run and play with the blacksmith's apprentice.
And at the same time, Will had been growing into a lad who was good for more than fetching and carrying, and Jonathan Brown had begun actively training him in the smith's craft. With that training had come lessons about the society in which they lived, and the lines that could not be crossed, and Will even now was uncertain when exactly it had been that he had realized that Elizabeth was on the other side of one of those lines. He could not be sure, but he knew that it must have been around the same time he had instinctively begun calling her Miss Swann when his errands took him near her.
At the time, he had regretted the situation merely for the loss of a friend, and one to whom he felt he owed his life. It was not until he had happened by Admiral Kensington's house to repair a broken lock just as a ball was ending that his feelings for Elizabeth had changed.
It had been the lock to the servants' quarters separate from the house, and as the butler had been leading Will around back when the front door had opened, revealing a laughing crowd of elegantly-clothed guests. Will had paused, taking in the fine clothes and happy voices enviously, when a tall, graceful woman in a shimmering lavender gown had suddenly turned and looked directly at him. His heart had nearly stopped: it was Elizabeth Swann, the governor's daughter, his old playmate. He had stared, dumbfounded by her sparkling eyes, her flawless skin so slightly flushed and glowing in the setting sun, the way her curled hair bounced off her shoulders and neck.
And she had spoken to him! By now, having been educated in class behavior for a few years, he had fully expected a society woman, even one he had once called a friend, to completely ignore him. But Elizabeth had not. Her eyes—dear God, her eyes—had lit up at the sight of him, as if seeing him delighted her just as much as the dancing and good food and music she had just come from enjoying. And right there, right in front of her equally-elite companions, she had called to him. "Will? Will Turner?"
Will had wondered if his face would ever lose the blush that had risen to it right then. As the eyes of the rest of the uppercrust crowd fell on him, he had stammered, "G-good evening, Miss Swann."
"I haven't seen you in months! What on earth have you been doing?" she had asked, stopping on the front steps.
"My master expects me very often at the smithy, Miss Swann," he had murmured, feeling as though something so beautiful ought not to be speaking to a lowly character like him. Elizabeth had laughed, looking as if she might even say something else, but then her father had come out and ushered her away to the carriage. And Will had stared after them, his heart turning somersaults in his chest and wondering what had just happened.
He was jerked from his bitter thoughts by a sudden wild lurch from the ship that sent his berth swinging so violently that he was pitched onto the floor. But that was where fortune smiled on him, for the lantern fell from its hook a split-second later and set the material on fire. Cursing, Will yanked the thing down and beat it out, then threw open the cabin door, stuffing his money pouch into his shirt.
Shouts and wildly ringing bells from above let him know at once something was afoot. He joined the stampede of men rushing up on deck into rain and a rising wind, in time to hear the captain bellowing at the crew for more sail. "We gotta outrun 'em!"
The chaos made it difficult to tell exactly what the threat was. Will's first assumption was pirates, for a little pinnace like the Greymalkin would be vulnerable to an attack, or perhaps even a British naval vessel, for he wasn't entirely sure that these characters weren't engaged in a bit of piracy themselves. But the horror on the faces of the sailors who were not rushing about trying to speed the ship made him wonder, and turning to look behind them, he searched for what could possibly be cause for such terror.
Oh God…not again…
There was indeed a ship coming after them, but how the thing could sail at all was beyond Will. The sails hung in ragged tatters from the rigging, which also seemed to be hanging off the masts, and the hull rode low in the water. Far too low for any normal ship to be seaworthy, but this eerie vessel was nonetheless sailing directly toward them, and at no small speed either.
The Greymalkin lurched again as they were struck by a wave, and Will grabbed the side to keep his balance, his breath coming fast as the men babbled around them. "That bleedin' idiot! I told 'im lost ships is better left alone!"
"It ain't possible! It can't be! Ain't no such thing as a ghost ship!"
"What the devil do you call that?! No real ship could keep a-sail in that mess! Them that was lost aboard 'er is comin' after us!"
"Who took stuff offa that wreck?!" the captain shouted, coming down from the wheel. "Throw 'em overboard! Now, while we still got a chance! And get to the oars! You there! Boy!" Will looked at him. "Can ye row?" The man's eyes were wild with fright.
Will nodded, not liking the looks of their pursuer anymore than the other men did. He struggled to calm his racing heart as he took a place on one of the starboard oars. The remnants of the sails were white, not black. That was not the Black Pearl. Even in her worst condition under Captain Barbossa, the Black Pearl had never looked like that. "'Urry it up, men! Take yer oars! Now! And…pull! Pull!"
In time with the others, Will pulled his oar with all his might, even as the storm blew more rain into his face. "Bloody 'ell, we 'aven't gotta prayer!" the sailor in front of him wailed. "They's put the wind against us! The likes o' them 'as the sea on their side!"
"Shut up and row, you fool!" Will shouted back.
A wave slammed into the Greymalkin's side, sending a powerful blast of water through the oar space right into Will. Gasping and coughing, he fought to keep his oar under control, but it suddenly felt as if there was no water to stroke against. There was a sickening crack, and suddenly he was looking down the deck at the port side. "She's listing! We've 'it something!"
Will scrambled to his feet (there was no point in continuing trying to row against air) and staggered against a mast. Blinking through the rain, he could see the ghastly ship was very close, apparently not affected at all by the weather conditions. "What do they want?" he shouted frantically at one of the sailors.
"Want their relics back, is what they want!" the man yelled back. "Warned the cap'n, I did! The sea don't give up 'er spoils!"
"What?!" Will demanded, but the Greymalkin lurched again, this time forward. Hearing the cracking and grinding noise below told Will that the ship had been impacted on something in the water, a rock or a reef, no doubt, and was now being forced off in a fashion that would tear the hull wide open. We're lost.
Apparently, the captain knew it as well. "Abandon ship! Abandon ship!" went the cry, and the men scrambled to free the one small boat. Will ran to help them, freeing it from most of its moorings as the crew clambered aboard. He leapt aboard just as they were shoving the boat free from the doomed pinnace with their oars, but something caught. "Someone cut that line!" bellowed the captain, pointing at a single rope still securing the longboat to the Greymalkin.
Will yanked a knife from his boot and scrambled to cut the line, only to discover that it was not a line, but a chain. "What idiot thought of this?!" he shouted into the wind, panic attempting to catch him in its claws.
"God, we're dead!" someone wailed as the Greymalkin began pitching further over. In another few minutes the pinnace would go down and drag the longboat with her.
"No! Rope's up there, see?" another sailor yelled, pointing, and sure enough, the higher part of the line holding the boat fast was rope.
"Brilliant," Will muttered, and, holding the knife in his teeth, pulled himself up the line, swinging wildly in the wind and waves. He reached the side of the ship and pulled himself onto the hull. He didn't dare lose his grip and fall into the rough seas. Clutching one of the oar ports as tightly as he could, he sawed desperately at the rope.
"Come on!" he could hear the sailors yelling.
"You try doing this with one hand," he grunted, clinging to the ship as he cut frantically. The rope seemed to take forever to fray, then all at once, it gave way, snapping sharply as the waves yanked the boat free. "Hey!" he turned frantically, fearing the boat would row out of his reach, and froze in horror. The dead ship was directly alongside them now; it was huge, a Spanish galleon…or it had been. And the sailors in the boat were being pushed by the waves directly in front of it. "Look out!"
The crew of the Greymalkin were so intent on rowing through the waves away from their own doomed craft that they failed to see the ghastly wreck looming over them until it was too late. Screams rang out and a few men managed to leap overboard before the giant ship slammed into the longboat, shattering it as though it were made of toothpicks. Will pulled himself back over the side of the Greymalkin, watching in horror, as a few men swam desperately for safety but were pulled under the pounding waves. Not that he himself was in much better straits, trapped on the sinking pinnace. The Greymalkin lurched forward again, and Will could feel the nose going down. Then movement aboard the galleon caught his eye, and he looked again.
His heart nearly stopped. There were men on board.
He remembered the cursed pirates aboard the Black Pearl, but this was something else. Something very different. The stinging wind and pounding rain blurred his view, but he could see men, wearing the tattered, half-rotted uniforms of Spanish sailors, standing along the port side of the galleon, watching the Greymalkin sink. Their skin was white and ashen, their eyes blank and staring, and seaweed hung from their hair and bodies. They did not seem as alive as the Black Pearl's crew had. If they were living in any fashion at all, they did not seem to find Will or even the dying pinnace especially interesting. They simply watched. Will stared back, open-mouthed in horror.
The Greymalkin shuddered, and he looked forward in time to see that the wind and waves were driving her directly into a jutting chunk of rock. Cursing, tore himself from the side and staggered across the slanting deck, searching for anything that he might be able to float on in the surging sea. Coming up empty-handed, he began to curse furiously in panic, and grabbed onto the mast to brace himself as the pinnace sailed to her death.
The Greymalkin slammed into the rocks with a force that sent Will tumbling down the deck like so much helpless flotsam, and the impact broke the ship up immediately. Will clawed for some purchase as the deck splintered into fragments around him, then he was in the water, buffeted by waves and debris. Struggling to keep his head up, he shouted instinctively, even though he knew it to be in vain, for there was no one to hear and even in his terror, he did not especially want to find himself aboard that ghostly Spaniard.
As the debris of the Greymalkin was scattered over the waves, Will desperately swam after a large floating chunk of deck, his arms aching and lungs burning, recognizing it as his one chance for survival in these seas. Waves broke over his head more and more often, and his legs seemed to grow heavier, dragging him down…oh God.
And then…salvation! Another wave pushed the piece of deck back toward him, hitting him right in the face, but he managed to grab it. The seas tried to pull it from his grasp, but he growled furiously, his fingers stubbornly refusing to let go. He held on, buffeted and battered, tasting blood in his mouth from where the chunk of hull had split his lip, coughing as waves still broke over his head, but afloat. He pushed himself gradually further up on the makeshift raft as the waves at last began to calm. Heavens, I may actually survive this!
He was finally able to crawl all the way up onto the chunk of deck, so exhausted and shaken that the irony of the situation did not even occur to him. Getting himself reasonably balanced across the raft, he blinked through the rain back at the galleon. The ship was still there, close to where the Greymalkin had broken up. Then even as Will watched, the galleon's already-unseaworthy hull began to settle slowly, and water bubbled up around as the ship sank slowly back into the waves. The pale figures of the Spaniards on board were still there, and Will stared in fascinated horror, for not a one of them moved even as the sea rushed over the deck. The masts slid below the water, and then the sea was wide and empty around him, save the debris of the Greymalkin and a few rocks piercing the surface.
God. What had he just seen?
His raft rocked over the waves, and Will wondered how long the dubious protection would last. And even if it does, how long will I last with no food or water? You have some luck, Will Turner. There was no sign of land or life as far as his eyes could see, only the waves. Alone, trapped, and exhausted, he laid his head against the wet wood and let his mind wander away. Elizabeth…
***
Tortuga, late that night…
Elizabeth was quite tired. Despite having been given her own cabin, she had not slept well at all. Every creak or footstep had had her jerking upright in the rickety berth, her heart pounding as she clutched at her pistol. There was not a doubt in her mind that Captain Porter and his men were going to make another attempt on her belongings before they docked at Tortuga. She was very apprehensive about going back on deck again.
A knock on the cabin door made her jump. "Yes?!" she blurted, disgusted at the way her voice shook. The almost-sleepless night and day aboard the Mad Molly had given her mind plenty of time to mull about all the things that could befall her on this mad escapade, and she was now suffering from an acute crisis of nerves.
The door opened to reveal one of the other pirates, looking just as speculatively at her as Captain Porter had. "Cap'n says ter tell ye we've arrived, Missy. Yeh'll be wantin' ter disembark." Nodding wearily, Elizabeth picked up her things in Will's bundled cloak, keeping the pistol in plain view of her escort, and waited for him to precede her.
Up on deck, she found, as she had feared, Captain Porter and the entire crew waiting by the gangplank. The captain gestured grandly beyond the ship. "There ye are, Miss Turner! Tortuga! Delivered safe and sound, as promised."
Elizabeth looked at the activity beyond the docks and found the view anything but inspiring. It was nothing like the bustling business of Kingston Harbor and Port Royal. Total chaos reigned supreme here, the kind of drunken debauchery that was confined only to the absolute worst districts of Port Royal. What sort of lion's den had she walked into? Forcing the apprehension from her voice, she said, "Very well, Captain. I'll be getting off, then."
"And the other 'alf of the fee ye promised?" Captain Porter asked.
Walking past him to the gangplank, she turned and poured the remaining pearls from the string into his hand. Hearing a mutter from the crew and sensing them shifting forward, she whirled and raced down the plank onto the dock as fast as her legs could carry her, hearing a roar of laughter from behind. "Warned ye it weren't good to be flashin' around valuables, Missy!" Captain Porter's voice echoed after her. "Ye won't be getting' far!"
He was right. She had no idea where she was running, but she had not even reached the first row of buildings when no less than six burly men stepped out of the shadows to surround her. She shrieked, bringing her gun to bear, but she knew even the pistol would not save her from all of them, and no one came to her aid. "We 'ear you got some pretties on ye, pretty," growled one of them. "We're just poor souls down on our luck. Mighty generous of ye to share. Share nicely an' maybe we'll letcha go."
Elizabeth swallowed hard, the gun shaking in her hand. It was too dark to see their faces; she could only tell that they were all large, well-muscled, and smelt of rum. They reminded her of Barbossa's men. She would not cry. "Stay back," she warned in a trembling voice.
"I'll reckon ye ain't so great a shot that ye can kill all six of us, pretty."
"Perhaps not, but I can kill a few of you, and I doubt if any of you wish to volunteer," she shot back, her mind racing as she tried to edge away from them.
"Ain't no sense gettin' roughed up over a few pretties, pretty. Jes hand 'em over an' we'll let ye on yer way."
Furiously, Elizabeth fumbled with one hand into her pouch. If she could just get enough room to run. "Then stand aside. I won't give you anything unless my path is clear."
The leader of the group chuckled, and she caught a flash of white teeth in the darkness. "Step aside, then, lads. Make a lil' room fer the lady." He gave her an extravagant bow, and she edged toward the space. "Mark me, pretty. Don' think to run; ye won't get far. But drop them jewels an' we won't 'ave much cause ter chase ye."
Reaching into her pouch, Elizabeth grabbed the handful of jewelry. "Fine!" She hurled it at them, the coins and gemstones sparkling in the torchlight, and heard their grunts of laughter as they pounced on the loot. But as they surged toward her, she grabbed the spare dress Mary had given her and threw it up in the air as well, hoping to stall them for just a few seconds, then turned and fled. Choking back sobs, she ran through three streets until she realized there truly was no one chasing her. Then she stumbled to a halt and fumbled for her pouch, looking inside. "Oh, damn!" she nearly began crying again. She'd lost not only the jewelry, but most of the coins and bank notes, not that paper money was likely to be any good here. She had perhaps four shillings left, and she was lost in a lawless town without the faintest idea of where to start searching for news of Will or Jack Sparrow.
Catching her breath and running a fist across her face, she forced herself to calm down and think. It was only then that she bothered to get her bearings. Directly in front of her was what at first glance appeared to be an inn…and she supposed in the barest sense of the word it was. But there were more drunks stumbling out of the place than the seediest tavern she had ever seen in Port Royal, barely waiting until they got outside the door to launch into brawls. Stepping reflexively backward, Elizabeth looked over her shoulder to the establishment across the street…where an array of underdressed and over-made-up women were gathered outside the entrance like a shopkeeper's wares, a few of them eyeing the strange female on the street with combined curiosity and contempt. From what she could tell, the rest of the street, and the streets beyond this one, boasted essentially the same sorts of places.
Elizabeth gulped. Welcome to Tortuga.
***
At sea, between Jamaica and Hispaniola, the following night…
The crew of the Lady Laurel was just changing to the night watch when the lookout spotted a splash of light upon the dark sea. "Oy! What's that?"
"See something, O'Malley?" yelled the first mate from the helm.
"There's somethin' out there! 'Bout twenty degrees starboard!" O'Malley pointed.
The crew went curiously over to the side, peering into the inky darkness. "Could just be a bit o' driftwood," said one of the men in the rigging, peering down at the sea.
"Don' think so. Me instincts are sayin' debris," O'Malley replied.
"You an' yer bloody instincts. Ye always think we've found somethin'--"
"There! It's a raft! Look sharp, there's a man aboard!" O'Malley yelled, seeing the floating form come into clear view. They had sailed right past it.
"Come about!" bellowed the mate. "Bring us alongside! Krighton! Get the cap'n!"
"Aye!"
O'Malley watched from the crow's nest as the captain came on deck. The crew awaited his order. "Bring him aboard."
One of the men tethered himself to a line, disappeared over the side, and then climbed back up a moment later with the shipwrecked man slung over his shoulder. "'E's alive."
"Lay him down here and fetch the surgeon," ordered the captain.
The limp form was laid out on the deck. "Not much more than a lad, is 'e?" someone said.
"'Ow long you reckon 'e's been adrift?"
"Dunno, but I hear tales that men left afloat too long go mad with sun and thirst. Wonder if this one's still got 'is wits left."
In the light of the lanterns, the sailors could see the heavy sunburn reddening the boy's face. The ship's surgeon pushed his way through the curious men to examine him. "Pulse is strong. Been out there maybe a day or so, but not much longer. Better get 'im below. 'E'll take sick out on deck."
"And get him out of those clothes," added the captain, gesturing for two of the men to carry the lad below decks.
As the crew obeyed, Krighton found a pouch beneath the boy's shirt. "Aha! What 'ave we 'ere?" He shook it and was rewarded with a telltale jingle. "Well, well! Provided for, ain't we?"
A hand caught his wrist. "I'll take that, Krighton, if you don't mind."
"Awww, Cap'n! It's salvage!"
"A man's not, as you well know. We're short on hands and this lad looks able, if we can get him back on his feet. You know the rules." Krighton grumbled, but relinquished the money bag. The captain stowed it in his own pocket. "Bring the boy to the sick berth."
***
The first thing Will was aware of was the sensation of both floating and sinking. He had never truly appreciated the stability of a ship until spending a full day bobbing helplessly over the waves atop a chunk of wrecked hull. He had always thought he had good sea legs, and had never disgraced himself, but by the time the sun had come up the morning after the Greymalkin went down, he'd been ill.
And daylight had brought a whole new array of torments. Will had thought the desert would seem hospitable in comparison. The blazing sun had struck him from two directions, above below. It had been as though he was floating helplessly across a giant mirror There had been no escaping it, and not long after noon he had gone completely blind from searching the horizon for any signs of hope for rescue. Then he had simply closed his eyes and hidden his face, trying to protect his exposed skin from the sun.
Thirst had tortured him as well, a cruel, rending thirst that had been made worse by the sounds of lapping water all around him. What a vicious taunt it seemed. But every man knew that it was folly to drink from the sea.
Even so, by the time the glare had begun to recede as the sun finally set, Will had been so ill and thirsty that he nearly succumbed to the temptation to drink the salty water. The seductive lapping of the waves would probably have gotten the better of him—if his body had not chosen that moment to drop into unconsciousness.
When he slowly began creeping back toward awareness, he had no reason to believe he was not still on the raft. His world still pitched and rocked, and glare still burned its way through his eyelids. His skin felt scorched, but he himself felt desperately cold. Will moaned, miserable. Then something very odd happened. A hand touched his forehead. He flinched; it felt as if the touch might tear his skin right from his limbs, he was so badly sunburnt. Then a voice floated out of the haze. "Think 'e's comin' around, Cap'n."
Was someone now with him on the raft? Will was too weak and disoriented to make his mind and senses work properly. He was unaware that his soaked clothes were gone, replaced by a dry blanket. He groaned again, and someone asked, "Wakin' up there, lad?"
God, he was so thirsty! "Water," he tried to plead, but his tongue was too thick in his mouth.
"Patience, boy. Here." Something hard poked at his blistered, cracked lips, but the next sensation would stay with him until his dying day: the sweet caress of cool liquid across his mouth.
Oh God! Will's hand snatched at the metal cup desperately, and he opened his mouth, letting the water, clear, sweet water, flow down his parched throat. He gulped furiously for several seconds until the same hand that had bestowed the gift now tried to take it away. "Easy, lad! You'll choke yourself!"
No! Give it back! Will tried to protest but did not succeed in making more than another raspy moan. After a moment, the cup did return, but his mysterious benefactor held it, and Will was vaguely aware of being admonished not to drink so quickly. He did slow down, but clutched at it like a rudder for his sanity.
***
Gareth Sullivan, surgeon aboard the Lady Laurel, managed to keep the boy from gulping the water too fast, in spite of his near-delirium. In fact, the lad's condition told Sullivan that he'd not been lost at sea for more than forty-eight hours, or he'd be in a far worse state. Sullivan had always thought personally that he would rather drown. At least that was a quick death, and this boy was in a fair mess after only a day or two on the open water. At last, he was completely sated, and mumbled what might have been gratitude. "Can ye wake up now, boy?" he asked again.
The lad visibly tried, but then squeezed his eyes shut tighter. "Bright," he hissed as his eyes stung.
"What ails him?" demanded the captain
"I don't know, 'e—oh, o'course," Sullivan slapped his forehead. "Been in the open sea all day, we 'ad a clear sky. 'E's 'alf-blind. Easy, boy, we'll dim the light." He dimmed the lantern and moved it away so that he and the captain could barely see in the low light, but it wouldn't pain the boy's injured eyes. "There. 'E'll be able to see now."
Forcing still-leaden eyelids open, the boy blinked weakly at the two men standing over him. He looked confused, as though wondering how he was no longer on the raft. Sullivan wasn't surprised; in his experience men stranded at sea felt for days afterwards like they were still bobbing up and down. The boy shivered even under two blankets, the places where his skin had been uncovered beneath the sun's rays were vividly burned. The captain stepped forward. "What's your name, lad?"
Moistening his swollen lips, the boy whispered something, too faintly for them to hear it. "Speak up," said Sullivan, as he and the captain both leaned closer.
Drawing a shaky breath, the boy rasped out, "Turner. Will Turner." But even that taxed his weak body too much, and his eyes closed again, his head sagging limp in the berth.
"'Fraid that's all we're gonna get out of 'im now, Cap'n," Sullivan said apologetically. "'E's still too weak. Give 'im another day an' 'e'll be able to give ye yer answers." The captain did not seem to be listening. "Sor?"
"Aye, Sullivan. I'll come talk to him again later, then. Keep an eye on him." The captain cast one more long look at the boy, then slowly walked out.
Sullivan shook his head to himself. Captain Atticus Willem had always been a rather odd character, but he was a good man, and a smart sailor, and his men were fiercely loyal to him. It wouldn't surprise Sullivan in the least if the boy they'd rescued wound up staying on the ship; they'd picked up three other crewmen that way. Captain Willem had a bit more compassion than one might suspect of a man in his position.
Sullivan chuckled to himself; "compassion" wasn't a term one often heard in this trade. But Captain Willem had kept the Lady Laurel afloat and profitable for nearly two years, despite the difficulties men in their profession had faced in recent years. And for that, the crew accepted his eccentricities—especially since they usually worked to the men's advantage.
'E doesn't even mind when 'e 'ears 'em sayin' 'e's slightly daft. A good cap'n none can deny, even if 'e's a bit of a strange duck.
For a pirate.
***
Tortuga, that same night…
Night had fallen on the disreputable port once again, and Elizabeth was growing more desperate with every passing minute. Hoarding her last few shillings, wearing a maid's dress, a man's cloak, and a lady's fine (but highly uncomfortable) shoes, she had wandered the streets all day without rest, seeking any word about Jack Sparrow or Will. Her search had ended as empty as her stomach, for all she'd had to eat was some bread that she'd bought this morning after walking all night. Dread gripped her heart for every penny she parted with.
Anxiety over Will and the robbery last night had kept her moving all night and all day, but tonight she would need to find shelter, for she didn't think she could remain on her feet much longer. But that of course would mean interacting with the slightly less-than-hospitable denizens of Tortuga, and what contact she'd had with them thus far had not been encouraging. Heaving a resigned sigh, she sought out the least seedy-looking inn she could find. (The proprietor threw the drunks out all the way across the street.)
As the large, heavyset man with straggling, graying black hair returned from depositing another unconscious customer in the opposite gutter, she stepped toward him. He scowled at her, "Whadda ye want?"
"To inquire about the price of a room," she said steadily, though she felt very small.
"Cost ye two shillins a night. Food's extra," he grunted.
She could have cried. "Is there no inn in this area that costs less?" At that rate, she'd be penniless by sunset tomorrow, and something told her that for better or for worse, her stay in Tortuga would be much longer.
The innkeeper sneered at her, not at all moved by her despair. "Aye, lass, there's cheaper places, if ye don' mind sharin' space with the likes o' them," he jerked his head at the drunks he'd just thrown out. "'Course if ye ain't got the cash fer a room, reckon yeh'll be sharin' their space anyway." Summarily dismissing her as a potential patron, he turned back to the inn.
"Wait!" Elizabeth blurted frantically. She could think of no other solution except… "What if I could work?" The question nearly ended in a sob, and she cursed herself.
The innkeeper paused, then looked her up and down . He jerked his head down the street at one of the brothels. "Them's where there's work for the likes o' ye."
"I don't want that kind of work," she said tightly, feeling her stomach turn. It hardly helped that she hadn't slept in nearly two days.
The innkeeper wrinkled his nose. "S'pose we could use some 'elp waitin' tables. But yeh'll sleep in the back room, then. Good rooms're fer payin' customers."
She swallowed hard. "And how will I eat?"
Grinning slyly, like a cat over a trapped mouse, the innkeeper replied cheerfully, "Gimme good work an' yeh'll get food an' a sleepin' place, Missy. What d'ye say?"
Elizabeth shivered. She knew better than to hope that the food and shelter he offered would resemble anything she had once considered adequate, but things had changed. Dramatically. For a moment, the memory of her own soft bed in Port Royal struck like a violent wave, seductively vivid, but then she fell back to reality. She did not have the money to buy herself a passage back to Jamaica…even if she had wanted to give up. When it came to it, she could not bear to think of turning back after only a day of searching.
It was this thought that allowed her to steel herself for what was likely coming. She looked up at the innkeeper again. "Agreed."
The big man laughed uproariously. "Well, come on in, then! Welcome to my 'umble establishment!" He grabbed her around the shoulders, making her flinch, and propelled her through the doors.
A barrage of noise—laughter, babbling, raucous voices, and clattering dishes—assaulted her ears the moment they entered. Before her eyes was a dizzying scene of men and women whirling between wooden tables, downing mugs of liquor and mouthfuls of food, hanging over the furniture—and each other—and overall presenting a clear scene of the sorts of places Elizabeth would never have dared venture near back in Port Royal. As it was, the only thing that prevented her from fleeing back out was the hard, bitter knowledge that she had nowhere else to go.
Over the din, the innkeeper yelled, "Yer to assist Dobson, over there!" He pointed to an even beefier man behind the bar, pouring drinks from huge kegs and bottles. "An' me, if I call ye. Jes' do what 'e tells ye." He gave her a shove forward. "Oy! Dobson! Got an extra pair of 'ands fer ye!"
With his jowly face, huge, bushy grey hair—and eyebrows—Dobson looked even less inviting than his employer. His eyebrows were like hairy gray caterpillars which seemed to crawl toward his nose as he furrowed his brow at the slender figure creeping toward him through the mob. All he said was, "Ain't no point in mincing, love. Yeh'll never get through that lot without usin' yer elbows." He plunked two mugs onto the bar in front of her. "Take these to that there corner table. Step lively and don' spill."
Wide-eyed, Elizabeth stared at him for a few moments before silently reaching for the mug handles. They were heavier than she had expected, and she tightened her grip before weaving nervously through the mob. Failing to take Dobson's advice to shove her way through, for she desired to be as inconspicuous as possible, she ducked and edged her way over to the table where two men sat dickering over something she didn't care to hear, and set down the mugs. Then she turned and scurried back to the dubious safety of the bar, trying to ignore the leers and lewd noises the men made on noticing their new server.
Dobson waggled his extraordinary eyebrows at her as she returned. "Not so 'ard, is it?" At her half-horrified look as yet another men deliberately brushed past her, he smiled dryly. "Get used to it, love. Ain't no avoidin' it. These four go to that table there."
And so it went. Elizabeth tried to make her vision tunnel to nothing but the mugs she was bidden to carry and the tables they were bound for, and to hear only Dobson or the innkeeper, whose name she learned was Fudler. She walked as fast as she could, trying in vain to avoid slaps in the posterior from amorous drunks, but by flatly ignoring them (and occasionally flat-out running back to the bar) she was able to escape the worst of their attentions. Actually, it was rather fortunate for her that the whole situation elicited such combined apprehension and disgust; if her heart had not been pounding so hard with all her senses in full "fight or flight," she might have noticed how exhausted she was. It had now been two days since she'd had a night's sleep.
Dobson kept a rather curious eye on her as she worked. "New to Tortuga, ain't ye, love?"
She had not said a single word since Fudler had brought her into this hideous place, mostly out of sheer shock, and now she simply stared at the barkeep, not quite comprehending the question. He shook his head at her wide, confused eyes, and handed her another pair of mugs. A little while later, Fudler came back from whatever he'd been doing in the crowd, and asked Dobson loudly, "'Ow's the girl workin'?"
"Aye, she's pullin' 'er weight, if ye don' mind that she's skittish as a spring filly," Dobson said. At that moment, Elizabeth jerked away from a man attempting to pinch her arm, and they both laughed. "Shies like one too! Oy, girl! 'Urry it up!" She trotted the last few steps like an obedient pony, and Dobson shoved two more mugs at her. "Ye got a name?"
She blinked at him. She had told her name—or rather, the name she intended to have—to Captain Porter, and he had sent men to rob her. Here and now, feeling like a lamb inside a den of hungry wolves, she found that her voice was one of the few things left that she hadn't sold. She might not be in one of those brothels, but enduring the jeers and roving hands of an unwashed mob in exchange for bread and shelter, she almost felt that it did not matter. And as she was not being paid in any way save with bread and shelter, she had no way of raising the money that would let her escape this place.
Fudler and Dobson were still staring at her. "I swear she wasn't mute when I met 'er outside," said Fudler, but shoved two more mugs at her. "Said she wouldn' go to them 'ore'ouses. 'Ave it yer way, Prickly. Jes' don' shirk yer duties and yeh'll fit in nice." With a leer similar to the patrons' that made Elizabeth shudder, Fudler walked away.
***
Despite her initial hope that she would be able to sleep upon finding shelter, Elizabeth soon realized that because the busiest hours of the inn were from afternoon on, she would be expected to work through most of the night. By around three in the morning the initial shock of finding herself in this situation had worn off, replaced by a grinding exhaustion that left the tankards of ale shaking in her hands. She was also desperately hungry, and the smells of the food being bought by the men soon overcame her revulsion at the stink of rum, sweat, and other unspeakable odors.
Fudler and Dobson had given up trying to taunt or coax a word out of her, and Fudler proudly bestowed the name "Nettle" upon her, because it sounded better than prickly, so he said. Another day she might have found such a thing rather amusing, but not when she reflected on the fact that she, daughter of the governor of Jamaica, fiancé to a respectable man (despite what the gentry said of Will) was working as a barmaid in Tortuga, the slum of the Caribbean, being grabbed, slapped, and jeered at by pirates and scarlet women. It made her wince to think what Will would do if he ever found out. What she have enough dignity remaining for him?
She didn't think about it too much that night, because for the most part, she was too weary or too tense to let anything else occupy her mind. Dodging roving hands without spilling drinks and answering impatient yells was rather taxing on one's ability to think, she quickly learned. But…in a small way…for that she was grateful.
Around five o'clock, many of the drunks began drifting off to bed or home or ship, and she was put to wiping down tables and sweeping floors. The wiping she could manage well enough; sweeping proved to be far more difficult than it looked, and she had raised a choking cloud of dust and dirt into the air before Dobson responded to Fudler's irritated yell and demonstrated the proper way. Elizabeth had taken the broomstick back with a silent nod, concentrating on not kicking up more than she swept away—and not getting within arms reach of any of the remaining customers.
Shortly after six in the morning, she was half-leaning on the broomstick, rubbing at her eyes furiously, when Dobson remarked, "'Bout at the end of yer rope, ain't ya, lass?" Elizabeth glanced back at him, startled because his voice sounded different spoken instead of shouted, then realized the common room was practically empty. Glancing about, she took his remark as a rebuke for lapsing from her work and returned to it. Then Dobson startled her again—she took a flying leap sideways, in fact—when he suddenly appeared at her side and put a hand on the broom. "Enough, love. Yer done for the night." He nodded at a table in the corner, where a bowl of stew, some bread, and a mug were now sitting. "'Ave some supper an' then I'll show ya where yeh'll be sleepin'."
At the very sight of the food, a lump of some unnamed emotion rose in her throat, and she stared at him in disbelief, unable to convince herself that it was not a trick. Puzzled, Dobson said, "Better go, lass, yer food'll get cold." She slowly walked over to the table and sat down, keeping wary eyes on him. Seeing him watching her reminded Elizabeth painfully of Captain Barbossa, and despite the seductive smells, she could not bring herself to touch it. She didn't want to feel like a captive again. Dobson eyed her for a few more moments, then shook his head and walked away. Once his back was turned, she ate.
The ale was bitter and watery, stew thin and salty, the meat was tough, the dumplings soggy, and the bread slightly stale. It was ambrosia. She ate all of it with shaking hands, then automatically picked up bowl and mug and brought them back. Dobson had been drying tankards behind the bar and looked over at her when she returned. "Done, then? Come on. Ye look dead on yer feet."
He was right, but she had no intention of admitting it. As Dobson led her to another door in the inn, Fudler came out. "Takin' the lady to 'er chamber, eh, Dobson?" With a smug smile, he joined them. "Follow me, then!"
Elizabeth wished he had not, and slowed down to keep Dobson between herself and Fudler. The barman frowned at her. Shooting her a rakish grin, Fudler opened the door to another room in the very back of the inn, holding out a lantern. 'Ere we are, Miss Nettle! Accommodations o' choice fer ladies down on their luck!"
Elizabeth walked slowly past him into the room. Large sacks of wheat and barley and flour were stacked through half of the space, leaving an area barely the size of a closet with a small window near the ceiling. There was a rather worn rug tossed upon the bare floor. Fudler set the lantern down next to the door, still grinning. "Said good work'll getcha food an' a place to sleep. 'Ere's what I promised!" Laughing, he closed the door.
The tiny space was engulfed in silence. Elizabeth glanced at the rug, idly wondering if there were fleas in it. There didn't seem to be, but she might not have cared if there had been, she was so tired. As Will used to say, beggars can't be choosers.
The memory brought an absurd smile to her face, and all at once, she laughed. Pulling from her bodice her tiny, precious collection of coins, she counted them: three shillings and sixpence. It struck her as funny to realize she was now far poorer than Will Turner had ever been, and she began to giggle hysterically, despite the tears coursing their way down her face. Wrapping Will's cloak around her, she sank onto the rug and curled up, tucking one arm under her head. She'd seen slaves sleeping in kitchens this way. Was she a slave? No, she supposed not. If she were, she'd be forbidden from leaving. This place she could leave any time, for the gutter or the docks…or even the brothels, and it was doubtful Fudler or Dobson would try to stop her. So why did she feel like a slave? She had never imagined what a hopeless captor one's pocketbook could be.
As exhaustion claimed her on the coarse rug upon the hard floor, she thought bitterly, You would not be so convinced that I was too good for you, Will Turner, if you could see me now.
***
Aboard the Lady Laurel, the next day…
Captain Atticus Willem went below deck after standing his usual morning watch and made his way to the sick berth. Sullivan had told him the boy had taken a turn for the worse during the night; Willem had reason to be concerned, not wanting a potential addition to the crew to be lost. This was the sort of concern for his fellow men that the crew were used to seeing, so they thought nothing of it.
The boy was indeed worse, tossing fitfully in the sick berth, mumbling in his sleep. Feeling a twinge of alarm inside, Willem put a hand to the boy's forehead and found that it reminded him of a steamed fish. Heat positively flowed from him. The captain had already demanded to know if Sullivan could do anything to help, but the man had replied, "Sorry, Cap'n. Done all I can. 'E'll likely pull through; probably just thirst and sun stroke. Give 'im a few more days."
It was always said of Atticus Willem that he was a patient man…most of the time.
But the crew might find him rather ornery today, for he had not slept well last night. And on watch this morning he'd been quiet and consumed by his own thoughts, rather than his usual manner of boisterous cheer and keen concentration on their course and targets. His men were probably wondering if the Black Pearl was in the vicinity, for that was one of the only things that could make their captain nervous. Not without reason, of course, as even a sturdy flute like the Lady Laurel wouldn't stand much of a chance if the Pearl decided she didn't like the fellow pirate's looks. Even among pirates, it was a general consensus that a wise sailor stayed out of the Pearl's way.
However, although that was not what bothered Captain Willem today, there was no need for his crew to know. It would only complicate things, and pirates by nature rather disliked a complicated life. Unfortunately, Atticus Willem had been cursed with the kind of complications in life that tended to follow one at sea and turn up again.
"Turner. Will Turner…"
Will Turner.
William Turner.
Will…
Atticus frowned as the boy began to moan again. "Easy, lad," he muttered, patting Will's shoulder awkwardly.
"Elizabeth," Will mumbled. "Elizabeth."
Hm. So the boy's story began to tell. Atticus wondered who Elizabeth was, but figured there were perhaps three possibilities. Wife, fiancée, unrequited passion. He's just at that age.
There was the part of the captain who wanted this boy off his ship and safely back in whatever port he'd come from just as soon as he was recovered. Despite the sunburn, stubble, and roughened hands, Will Turner was a clean-cut youth, Atticus could tell. From the sensible clothes to the worn-but-sturdy shoes, this was no pirate, but a working lad. Probably not a sailor, or at least not regularly. That sort of life was repellant to Atticus himself; slaving away at some two-bit trade all one's life, the same routine, over and over with no change, no adventure. Atticus, like so many others, had that restlessness in his blood that demanded more than to simply work one's life away. Like so many pirates, Atticus Willem had wanted to live.
Then again, he mused as he heard the boy call for Elizabeth again, perhaps the mundane drag of life wouldn't seem so bad if one had something else to look forward to. Atticus had been a bit of a romantic himself in his youth, but even his own one love hadn't been able to hold him against the call of the sea. Maybe the blood wasn't so restless in this boy, and he could be happy with the adventures that came from having the right woman by one's side.
More easily this time, Atticus patted Will's shoulder, brushing damp locks of dark hair from his sunburnt face. "Be the lucky one, son."
***
Though he had ordered his crew to keep an eye on their guest, the men noticed Captain Willem dropping by the sick berth quite frequently. "How is he?"
"'Ain't woken up yet, but still ravin'," Krighton said. He grinned slyly, "A woman's name, over an' over. Got ourselves a lovelorn youth 'ere!"
The other men mooning about laughed, elbowing each other. Captain Willem did not, but that was nothing new; Captain Willem had never had much of a sense of humor. His crew had long since gotten used to his habits.
"Thinkin' 'e'll stay on, Cap'n?" asked O'Malley.
"That's up to him," replied the captain.
Krighton snorted. "It'd be right proper after we went to the trouble to pull 'is carcass outta the drink." Several of the men muttered in agreement. "Or at least 'e can part wif a bit o' that gold!"
The remarks might have continued but for the captain's warning look. Though quiet for a pirate, Atticus Willem was not a man to be trifled with. At that moment, the object of their conversation began tossing again, and murmured, "Elizabeth."
"Bugger, she must be the best-lookin' lass in the Caribbean," muttered O'Malley. "'Alf-drowned an' 'e's still lustin!" The others chuckled a bit more quietly, glancing at the captain.
***
Later…
Gareth Sullivan dutifully sent for Captain Willem when the boy appeared near to coming around again. The captain responded surprisingly quickly, coming below to the sick berth and watching intently as the lad slowly stirred himself awake. "How soon?"
"Whenever 'e's ready," said Sullivan with a shrug. "Won't be long, I reckon." The captain frowned slightly, but fell back to waiting, and Sullivan was startled to see him fidgeting. Atticus Willem was not the type to fidget.
After tossing and moaning for some time, the lad's dreams subsided at last. Hazy brown eyes slowly opened, and the captain leaned over the berth. "Welcome back, lad. You've been fevered for days."
The boy blinked, then licked dry lips and whispered in a raspy voice, "Where am I?"
"Aboard my vessel, the Lady Laurel. We made our introductions during one of your lucid moments, but you likely forgot. I am Captain Atticus Willem."
"Will Turner," replied the lad with a hesitant nod. Sullivan was curious to note that Captain Willem's fist was clenched. Turner went on, "I presume…I'm in your debt, if it was you who rescued me."
"A sharp-eyed lookout and capable seamen bear more credit than I, Mr. Turner. And this is our ship's surgeon, Gareth Sullivan."
Sullivan gave Will Turner a brief nod, weighing the boy's reactions. A shade too honest for Sullivan's general ease—the boy wore his thoughts and questions too bare upon his face. It was a mix of gratitude, curiosity, and caution the surgeon saw, rather than the cheerful greed and self-preservation most pirates tended to exude. A moralist aboard could be bad for morale; he hoped Atticus knew that.
But for some reason, Atticus seemed to have taken a liking to Turner. Reaching into his jacket, the captain pulled out a leather pouch. "I believe this belongs to you."
Color fled the boy's face, and his mouth dropped open. Slowly taking the money bag, he looked at Atticus with wide eyes. "I…never expected to see this again."
Atticus smiled. "You're welcome."
"Captain Willem…is there no way I can repay you for your trouble?" Turner asked hesitantly. "If you require any additional hands, I am a capable sailor."
Atticus's vindicated expression told Sullivan that acquiring such an offer had been the man's intent all along, though why the captain was so intent on adding this rather upright boy to the crew was beyond him. Still, he and the other men had long since learned it was better not to question Captain Willem's decisions, since he hadn't led them wrong so far.
With another smile, Captain Willem folded his arms. "Sounds like a fair deal, Mr. Turner, if you're in earnest. Welcome aboard."
To Be Continued…
Coming Up Next: We learn more about the crew of the Lady Laurel and the mysterious Captain Willem (go ahead and guess!) and the marooned Elizabeth has no choice but to go on learning how the other half lives. Will Turner has information that leads him…willingly…on his first pirate raid, and…it's LAND HO for Captain Jack Sparrow! Our favorite pirate makes his grand entrance at last! But who will he meet? The Governor of Jamaica's daughter-turned-Tortuga-barmaid or the blacksmith-turned-pirate?
Don't forget to review! Reviewer responses and thanks in the next chapter, as usual!