Author's Notes: Many thanks to all my readers for the good wishes and understanding during my grueling first semester of law school. I'm quite exhausted, but I've taken advantage of the winter holidays in order to write, write, write! (Also slacked on all the catch-up studying I was supposed to be doing for next semester!) Anyway, as you probably know, fanfiction.net has in its bureaucratic wisdom banned author note chapters, so I fear I can no longer post reviewer responses after my updates. I considered putting them in this chapter, but that adds way too much length, and I don't think it's fair to make readers believe a chapter is longer than it is.
So a general and heartfelt thanks to all of you for your many wonderful comments! Please keep them coming and believe that I receive each and every one with squeals of delight and read them avidly when planning my next chapters. Apologies again for the long waits, and without further ado, here it is…
Chapter Five: News, Good and Ill
Tortuga, a few days later…
Elizabeth had never truly appreciated the meaning of the saying, "Talk is cheap," until she'd come to Tortuga. Since the first night she had arrived at the Smashed Pumpkin, she had decided that the most likely method of self-protection in the snake pit was to draw as little attention to herself as possible. So when Fudler and Dobson put her to work, she was silent, her eyes lowered, and while the patrons still leered and teased her, they dismissed her for their more flamboyant company as soon as she withdrew from their sight. Which was the way she wanted it.
It was amazing how quickly turning invisible came to a girl who had been raised by society to be ornamental. Then again, a bitter combination of self-preservation and shame soon swept away any remaining pretensions Elizabeth had about what it meant to be a governor's daughter. Her past position in life and society mattered not at all here, with three shillings to her name, the name which she guarded like the last vestiges of her honor. Fudler still called her "Nettle."
After all, it was not as if talking had availed her at all during her first day. She was certain that the citizens of Tortuga knew something of the Black Pearl, but asking questions, she quickly learned, was a surefire way to ensure that any useful information was instantly sealed behind tight lips.
So she had simply stopped talking. Dobson had nearly jumped out of his skin on her third night when she said that the table in the corner wanted another round. "Bloody 'ell, lass! I'd begun to think you really were mute!" She hadn't answered, so he had just responded to her silence the way he usually did: shaking his head and turning back to the drinks.
When she was not working or sleeping (a space of time that lasted perhaps two hours out of the day, if that) she continued searching. With questions clearly a worthless method of obtaining information, she resorted to wandering the docks at every opportunity—and eavesdropping. There her newfound skill at being inconspicuous proved useful.
One afternoon, she was making her usual demure quarter of the docks when a conversation between the quartermaster of a derelict-looking caravel and a seedy merchant caught her ear. "'Ow the devil am I gonna find space for thirty crates of rum?!" the merchant was demanding. "The runners just came through yesterday an' our ware'ouses is full up! Can't shift all that!"
The quartermaster jutted out his chest stubbornly. "Well, I can't very well run it back 'ome till yer fit to receive it!"
"An' I can't take a cargo an' leave it on the docks!"
"Easy, man! Yeh'll get it unloaded!" the quartermaster's face turned sly. "There's a fine wind blowin' into Tortuga, ain't ye noticed?"
The merchant paused. Elizabeth edged closer. "Whatcher mean?"
"I mean, it's been…what…nigh two months since the Black Pearl made port. 'Er Cap'n's gonna be gettin' mighty thirsty!"
The merchant narrowed his eyes while Elizabeth struggled to control the thumping of her heart. "Yer thinkin' she's due in soon?"
"Never can rightly tell, with the Pearl. But me lads aboard the Red Snapper seen 'er runnin' north out of the Antilles some weeks ago. We's figurin' she'll show up for some rest an' entertainment any day now." The quartermaster nudged his book toward the merchant. "An' ye know how fast the rum goes when the crew o' the Pearl comes ashore."
The merchant glared at the quartermaster, but took the book and signed. "If this stuff doesn't sell, ye scurvy silver-tongue, yeh'll never unload another shipment on my dock."
"Mighty fine doin' business with ye, my friend. An' don't fret. The Pearl's a-comin'."
They went about their business, and Elizabeth stood very still where she was behind some bales of silk, hardly able to breathe. The Black Pearl is coming. She'd been unable to find any trace of Will at the docks or in the town, and no one would reply if she asked questions, but Jack…Jack would know where to look.
She glanced absently at the sun and hissed; she was going to be late. Fudler docked her food if she did not work to his satisfaction. She pelted back to the Smashed Pumpkin.
It was Dobson she found sweeping outside, but to her relief he chose not to remark on her tardiness, instead simply nodded at the door. "'Urry it up." She scurried past him inside.
Five minutes later, Elizabeth was in the common room, her hair pinned tightly to her head. When she readied herself for each harrowing night at the inn, she had already discovered that the less flattering she dressed, the better. She would have worn Will's cloak over her dress if it were not always so hot in the press of drunken bodies.
"Expectin' a busy night tonight," was Fudler's only remark to her before vanishing into the kitchen. His attentions to her had worn off after her fourth day; smudging soot from the fireplace across her face had done the trick.
It was the busiest and worst night she'd faced yet. The men were rowdier, the women cattier, and the liquor flowed faster. She was constantly dodging through the common room at a dead run, delivering full mugs and clearing away empty ones, with Dobson hollering at her to get a move on and come get this next round.
Her most fearful experience came just before midnight when most of the patrons had become good and drunk. She was carrying four empty tankards back to the bar (having just learnt the trick of threading them onto her fingers) when a burly, red-bearded character jumped up from a booth and collided solidly with her, sending the mugs flying. "Whoops! Sorry there, love!"
Elizabeth just ducked her head and bent to pick them up, hoping he would forget about her. He didn't. As she was forced to kneel on the floor to reach one of the tankards, Redbeard's foot sent it skittering away. She bit her lip and stood up, finding herself face-to-beard with Redbeard. "Not too friendly, are we, love?"
As panic began to tighten her throat, racing outward through her body and squeezing her heart, she could not have spoken then if she'd wanted to. She tried impulsively to step around him, but he stepped back into her way, grinning maliciously. By now, they had the attention of several other men, and the foul odors of sweat and alcohol grew overwhelming as they closed in. "Not said a thing since she got 'ere, mates. Oughtta loosen that tongue!"
"Whatcher hidin' fer, pretty?"
"Is a pretty little thing under all that duckin' and shyin', ain't there?"
"Come out 'n see us!"
Flinching, Elizabeth backed up, but blundered into another man close behind who had not been there a moment before. She gasped, and an arm the size of a large tree branch wrapped around her waist. "Whatsa matta, pretty? Too good for us?" He pulled her back against him as two of the others leaned forward.
"No!" Elizabeth screamed, her arms instinctively jerking up to shield her face from their fetid breath. Their laughter was all around her, more hands tugged at her, and she was no longer conscious of any feeling except sheer, raw panic. Get away get away getawaygetaway…
She screamed again when another hand snagged her wrist, wrenching her away from the others. With her eyes squeezed shut, she did not realize for several moments that the groping hands were gone, and the heat had lessened. She opened them again slowly, cringing and revolted.
Dobson was standing between her and her tormentors, who were complaining piteously at having their "fun" interrupted. The barkeep growled, "Enough. Leave 'er alone." Over their protests, he snapped, "Yer to keep yer 'ands off my barmaid. There be plenty o' company 'ere without pestering my table 'elp. Now ye find yer entertainment from them that's workin' for it," he tugged one of the evening girls off her stool and propelled her toward them, "or I'll throw yer carcasses out." To Elizabeth, he said, "Behind the bar."
Numbly, she obeyed. The girls were too busy enjoying the renewed attention of the lusty patrons to jeer at her. Coming back around the bar, Dobson narrowed his eyes, "'Ow'd yer face get so dirty?" Her tears had cut tracks in the soot. When she gave no answer, he grunted and said, "Ye can pour drinks fer a bit. Nothin' too complicated, jes' rum an' ale mostly." As someone else shouted for another round, he beckoned to her. "'Ere, I'll show ye. Like so…" he arranged four tankards and deftly filled them with rum. "Yer ale's from the keg, wine from the barrel, rum in the bottle. Think ye can do it?"
Blinking, Elizabeth nodded, feeling a rush of emotion she had begun to think was dead: gratitude. "Right, then. Get to it," said Dobson, taking the drinks.
***
Early the next morning, after they'd cleaned up, Dobson put her supper on the bar. Wiping out washed tankards, he asked in a low voice, "What's a lady like you doin' in a place like this?"
She stared at him, startled. She'd grown so used to silence that her voice cracked at first when she tried to answer. She cleared her throat and dropped her eyes back to her food. "What makes you think I'm a lady?"
"Well, ye weren't born in this pigsty, that much is certain," Dobson replied matter-of-factly. She tried to keep her eyes down, but they lifted again of their own accord. The barkeep's face bore no obvious signs of calculation or malice, merely curiosity. "Ye also wear a lady's shoes and silk stockings. 'Ard to come by round 'ere. An' a man's cloak—a gentleman's cloak." He raised an eyebrow. "'O's the man? Yer 'usband? Lover?"
"Fiancé," Elizabeth heard herself murmur.
"Oh? Don't see a ring."
"He couldn't afford one!" she spat to hide the tears that stung her eyes.
"Aah, so the mystery lady's tale is told. 'E turned to piracy to win yer 'and, then?" Dobson's voice was playful, but he didn't seem amused at her expense.
"I don't know," she ground out before shoving a spoonful of stew into her mouth. Swallowing hard, she told him, "He boarded a ship supposedly bound for Pearl Point, but it may have truly been going to Tortuga. I followed him." She was forced to break off, wiping her eyes.
Dobson nodded. "What ship was it, love?"
"The Greymalkin. It's a pinnace." She balled her fists in frustration. "No one at the docks will tell me anything!"
"Not surprised, lass, yer not from these parts; anyone can see that," said Dobson. He suddenly reached across the bar and patted her hand. She did not pull away this time. "I'll ask round the docks, see if the Greymalkin ever made port in Tortuga."
Handing him back her dishes, Elizabeth smiled for the first time in what felt like years. "Thank you." She slid from her stool and headed for her room.
Watching her, Dobson demanded, "Dontcha got a name, lass?"
Elizabeth paused in the doorway and gave him another dry smile, "You may just call me Nettle."
***
A week later…
Elizabeth had half-expected Dobson to forget all about his promise to inquire at the docks about the Greymalkin. But to her surprise, she saw him there on several afternoons during her own wandering investigation. After nearly two weeks working at the Smashed Pumpkin, her life had fallen into a routine of sorts: wake in early afternoon, eat, quarter the docks, return to the inn, work from dusk until dawn, eat, go to bed around seven in the morning.
The first time she'd seen Dobson asking after Will at the docks, she had stared in surprise until he noticed her. Then he had simply winked, and she had slipped away, feeling a new burst of hope that she no longer searched unaided. Unfortunately, both their efforts went unrewarded by any news of Will or the seedy pinnace.
About a week after she had first confided her story to Dobson, they had their first news—if only it had not been so dreadful. The inn was rowdy that night, so Elizabeth was pouring drinks behind the bar. She'd become quite good at it, and had started to feel what might almost be called pride in her skill. A part of her still cringed with mortification at the squalidness of her situation, but a new feeling was slowly beginning to emerge: one of stubborn defiance toward anyone in her life, past or present, who would look down on her. She was surviving. She would do whatever was necessary, but she would continue to survive. And she would find Will.
She drummed her fingers impatiently as Dobson stopped at a table to chat with a group of customers. Him they tipped. But at the bar, the drinks were stacking up, and if the men started bellowing, she'd have to come out from behind and serve them herself—a task she avoided whenever possible, especially on rowdy nights like these.
"Where the devil's our rum?!" someone bellowed as if to answer her thoughts, and she groaned. No one heard her in the din. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, she grabbed four mugs and headed for the nearest table.
Dobson was still talking to the rowdy sailors at the other boot, though she tried to catch his eye. Better be interesting, she thought crossly, dodging another slap on the rear and trotting back to the bar.
The next table was a party of three men and two evening girls. "'Bout bloody time," one of them grunted as she set down the mugs.
"What say ye, pretty?" another leered. "No 'pology fer bein' so late?"
Elizabeth gritted her teeth, and one of the girls laughed. "No use, boys. She never talks. Boss calls 'er Nettle, cause she's so stingy."
The men chortled, mock-toasting Elizabeth. The third grinned. "Bet the right man could loose yer tongue, eh, Nettle?" As she moved to set down his tankard, he suddenly reached around her to solidly grab her backside.
Where she had developed such an instinct, she could not precisely say. All she knew was that one minute, she was leaning over the table delivering that last tankard, the next…there was an inarticulate shout of outrage, and the crude pirate recoiled with a yell of surprise as the tankard's contents hit him directly in the face with a slapping splash. Jerking back with equal surprise, Elizabeth suddenly realized that the cry of fury had been her own…and the tankard she had been holding was now empty.
Startled, she jumped back; the room had not gone silent. On the contrary, loud roars of boisterous laughter and shouts of indignation could be heard. The man she had soaked was leaping across the table, prepared to murder Elizabeth with his bare hands, when a beefy hand slapped onto her shoulder and jerked her back, sending her spinning away. Catching her balance, she found herself behind Dobson. "That bitch!" the customer was roaring. "I'll make 'er pay, I will--"
"Devil you will!" snapped Dobson, grabbing the man's collar with one hand and his arm in the other. "I've warned you lot about botherin' the barmaid!" He propelled the still ranting pirate to the door and threw him out, then glared at the others. "Anyone else care to join 'im?" When the rest of the patrons returned hastily to their merriment, his irate gaze settled on Elizabeth. She gulped. "You. In the kitchen."
Elizabeth had no choice but to follow. Her initial delight was quickly fleeing in the knowledge that her temper had cost him a paying customer. She'd probably go without dinner tonight. Or worse. When they arrived in the kitchen and Dobson turned around, Elizabeth drew breath to offer a flurry of apologies, but he held up a hand, his expression changing from anger to the usual mild kindness he normally gave her. She hesitated. Dobson took a deep breath. "Them sailors I was talkin' with 'ad some news for ye, lass."
"News?" she repeated.
Dobson nodded. "'Bout yer lad's ship."
Will! "They've heard of the Greymalkin?" Elizabeth gasped.
Dobson's solemn face should have warned her. "Aye. She was due into Tortuga, it's for sure. But that was near three weeks ago…ain't been no sign of 'er. An' this lot that arrived saw bits of a wreck on a shoal off Jamaica." His expression was sad as Elizabeth felt an icy hand squeeze her heart. "Was the Greymalkin, love. Or what was left of 'er. Between Jamaica and 'Ispaniola. She went down."
Wiiiilllllll!!!
***
Aboard the Lady Laurel, a few days later…
Will climbed down from where he'd been setting the topsails. "Right good at this, ain't ye, lad?" said Sullivan. "Sure ye ain't ne'er been a sailor?"
Unable to help the faint smile that came to his face, Will replied, "I've sailed a few times before."
Krighton glanced up from swabbing the deck, sneering. "An' what, sailin' wasn' good enough for ye? I reckon not, what with yer earnins. Fancy types like 'im's always lookin' down their noses at the likes of us."
"Bug off," said Will casually. He knew that to hold his own among this rough crew, he'd better not give any impression of weakness. "I'm no such thing. Just a town blacksmith looking for a fresh start."
O'Malley gave a bark of laughter. "Looks ter me like ye were doin' jes' fine, if a 'town blacksmith' be earnin' that much." Will rolled his eyes and went to help coil long lines. His life savings were an annoyingly frequent topic of conversation among the Lady Laurel's crew. Then again, he shouldn't be surprised; he suspected no matter what his assets, being the newcomer would make him the focus of the other men's conversation.
"My earnings are none of your affair."
Krighton snorted and nudged one of the other men. "Too good for us." Will ignored him, and ducked swiftly out of the way of the bucketful of dirty water—so that it missed him and hit the first mate.
"Bloody barking hell, Krighton! What've I told you about horseplay on deck! Another stunt like that and yeh'll be serving a spell in the rigging!"
"Sorry, sor!"
Will finished his duties just in time to be relieved by one of the other men. After collecting his food from the galley, he went back on deck to his usual spot on the bow, looking out at the setting sun as the sea wind ruffled his hair. He often stayed there until it was time to retire and sleep, for he cared little for the noise and stink of the crew quarters below. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers.
"I'm afraid you'll have to forgive my men, Mr. Turner."
Will jumped. Captain Willem was uncanny in the way he could come up from behind without making a sound. The tall, dark man was leaning against the forward mast, watching Will idly before gazing out at the horizon with a faraway look in his eyes. "They seem to think me an intruder here," he said candidly. For some reason, Captain Willem also had a way of pushing Will into bluntness. It was not what he expected of…any sort of hardened sailor.
The captain glanced back at him briefly, then turned his eyes back to the sea. "You don't exactly make an effort to mix with them."
"I suppose not. I'm unused to the close quarters of a ship."
"So I see."
Silence fell. Will turned his own eyes to where the ocean met the sky. It was a comforting view, somehow, with the sun burning deep orange above a black ocean, sending streaks of peach, pink, and gold through the purple sky. Without looking back, he remarked, "I was taking inventory in the hold these past few days. I was surprised by the…variety of supplies you carry."
"I tend to think of variety as the spice of life."
"Oh." Will grimaced to himself; he'd only been aboard a week and already he'd learned Captain Willem's reputation for cryptic remarks. The man was nearly impossible to understand. He was not like any man, sailor or landlubber, that Will had ever met. "Variety or no, supplies are running low."
"So you told us. We'll have to make a run soon."
"A supply run?"
There was a long pause. "Yes. A…supply run."
Will swallowed. Since promising to return the favor of his own life by working aboard this seemingly innocuous flute, he had come to notice certain oddities about the vessel: an unusual variety of its supplies, food and other items, that the crew was rather well-paid (despite their gripings), and that they were better armed than any merchant ship ought to be. Captain Willem's odd tone was final confirmation of what Will had half-shamefully, half-nervously suspected all along.
"You're pirates, aren't you?"
Another long silence. "And what if we were?"
"I don't know. I had wondered."
"Good lad. Powers of observation will serve you and us well. Assuming you want to stay on, of course."
Will turned slowly to face the captain. "Are you saying I have a choice?"
Captain Willem shrugged. "'Course. If you want out, we'll put in at port somewhere and you can go ashore. Up to you."
Staring in surprise, Will asked, "Aren't you concerned I might reveal you? Surely I've seen more than you'd wish."
The captain laughed. "Seen what, lad? A bit of a variety in the goods we carry, but as I said, this captain's taste runs to variety. A few extra guns? Dangerous waters, these, boy, no sense being unprepared. And the crew? Not Britain's finest, by any means, but good, hardy sailors. And not a pirate brand among them." He smiled at Will. "I made sure of that. Although one of the poor lads has a rather nasty burn on his arm. Explosion in a merchant's warehouse, I imagine." He leaned back against the mast again and grinned more broadly.
Will couldn't help smiling back. "You do take great pains to cover your tracks."
"It's folly not to, lad, these days. The pirate's heyday is waning. The fine upstanding British Navy and the reformed governors of Jamaica have seen to that. If we're to survive, it's through stealth and good sense, not with guns and fear. We choose our targets with care, strike swift and fast, and we're away before any have time to raise the alarm or mark us. And thus we've survived for two years."
"Why?" Will couldn't restrain himself from asking. "Why piracy? Why not simply sail under a merchant flag, or some other…trade?"
Captain Willem laughed harder. "You were about to say, 'respectable trade,' weren't you, son?" Will didn't answer, but he blushed. "I don't expect a boy such as yourself to understand, lad. It's not just for plunder and riches. Fact is there aren't many real riches to be had for pirates anymore that don't carry the price of our heads along with them. No, my straight and narrow lad, it's more than simple greed and black-heartedness."
"What, then? Adventure?"
There was a snort in response. "I did warn you that you wouldn't understand. The sea is a demanding mistress, my boy. For men lucky enough—or unlucky enough—to fall completely under her spell, even a berth aboard a merchant's vessel isn't enough. Steady, scheduled, monotonous runs from Port Royal to Santiago or Port Au Prince? Nooo, son." Atticus walked up beside Will and waved his arm in a grand, sweeping gesture at the inky sea. "She doesn't intend us to use her like that, a mere…road, from here to there. She's meant to be a great open field, a vast world of visions and perils unknown, as wide as the sky itself. And those who truly love her are those who can't bear the thought of living without sailing down every last league of her." He patted the hull of the Lady Laurel affectionately, as though touching a beloved wife or an old friend. "That's what a pirate sees his ship as, lad: freedom. And the sea's our goddess. She gives us wings."
Will couldn't help smiling. "That reminds me of someone I know."
Atticus chuckled, then gave Will a clap on the shoulder. "As I said, son, I don't expect you to understand. The pirate's life never makes any sense to someone who's perfectly content with a simple living in the same shop or route every day of his life."
"I don't recall saying I preferred that."
"Ahhh, so you came out searching a bit of adventure yourself, then?"
Will was startled by the tone of the question; the man sounded positively eager to hear of Will's life before the Greymalkin had wrecked. He shrugged; the crew all said the captain was eccentric and overly interested in their well-being. "Not exactly. I simply wanted…a new life." Seeing the captain's raised eyebrows, he sighed and admitted, "A forgetful one."
"So our newcomer reveals his secret at last. And did this forgetfulness have anything to do with a beautiful woman by the name of Elizabeth?"
Will's head snapped toward the captain. "How did you--"
"You were fevered for three days, lad. There's a good deal of guessing on who this lady might be."
The conversation had suddenly gone from refreshingly honest to unpleasant, and Will felt his spine tighten. "It's a rather long story, and I have an early watch. With your permission, sir, I'll retire."
Atticus eyed him, but did not press the issue. He did ask, "So are we to enjoy the advantage of your youthful strength and wit on the Lady Laurel, or shall I instruct the crew that we're making a dropoff before the next…supply run."
Will hesitated, feeling his stomach clench. Could he join forces with a pirate ship, purely for…profit, whatever the adventure that came with it? He glanced at the crew, going about their duties on deck, coiling rope, making sail, and cleaning the guns. Could he join them in firing those guns at some hapless ship manned by inoffensive merchants who had the bad luck of straying into the Laurel's path? Slowly, he shook his head to himself, and turned back to Captain Willem. "I owe you my life, Captain. But I think perhaps…I shall take you up on your offer of disembarking." With a touch of regret, he reached into the money pouch he kept inside his shirt at all times. "For your trouble," he held out a sizeable handful of coins. It seemed only right.
Atticus stared at him for a moment. Was that disappointment on his face? What a strange man he was. Then he shook his head. "No need, son. You've done a fair share of work and earned your keep aboard. Save your money. We'll fly our merchant flag and drop you in Guantanamo when next we hit Cuba. Good harbor there. Speak any Spanish?"
Will shrugged. "A little. I'll manage. Thank you."
"My pleasure, son."
***
Tortuga, a few days later…
Three weeks and one day had passed since Elizabeth had landed in Tortuga, meaning three weeks and two days since she had read Will's letter and fled Port Royal in pursuit of him. Only twenty-one days that she'd been pouring drinks, waiting tables, scrubbing floors, and evading roving hands in a seedy tavern in the slum of the Caribbean, searching for news of him.
But by God, it felt so very much longer.
Elizabeth had stopped actually counting the days; she only knew tonight was the twenty-first because she'd heard Dobson remarking that it had been three weeks. She had also stopped talking again, except to relay orders for drinks to Dobson. She wandered through each long night in a daze, barely noticing the slaps and pinches and jeers anymore, she was so lost in her own thoughts.
The Greymalkin had sunk on a shoal far from land. All aboard her were dead.
Will! WILL!
What was she to do now? Where could she go? What was left for her in life without him? At times the horror and anguish grew so great it was all she could do not to scream in despair and tear from the inn to fling herself into the harbor. Other times it struck her with such dreadful fierceness, a conviction that this news was completely wrong—there was no way her beloved could have been lost at sea. It went against the very laws of the universe. Will could not be dead. It was a mistake! All a mistake! Those sailors had been wrong. It had not been the Greymalkin. Or if it had, Will had not been on board. Or he had escaped. He could not be dead.
She lived thus, swinging violently back and forth between soul-shattering despair and mind-numbing denial, and during the latter periods, thought of what she might do next. She still searched and listened for news of the Black Pearl, but had not mentioned this to Dobson. If he found her search for her fiancé convincing enough not to ask more questions, the Black Pearl and Jack Sparrow were far too well-known here. He would realize she was no ordinary person who would seek out that ship's captain, and if Jack had told any tales of his escapade with the governor of Jamaica's daughter, the connection might be made. She was not precisely sure why, but she did not want that to happen.
On the night of her third week, she was scrubbing vainly at the perpetually-dirty tables before opening when the usual gaggle of prostitutes came in to claim the best chairs and stools before the men arrived. "Anything to wet yer whistles, ladies?" called Dobson from the bar. (All the girls were entitled to one free drink as long as they brought in business.)
"Wine!"
"Rum!"
"Sherry!"
"Sorry, Giselle, we're out of sherry!"
"Bloody 'ell, Dobby, why the devil can't ye keep yer drinks stocked?!"
Laughing, Dobson plunked a rather out-of-place goblet of some sour wine in front of the irritated woman and sat on the edge of her table before replying, "Awww, lassie, ye know we ain't got that much clientele with tastes as…sophisticated as yours! Drink yer wine, and bring us in a nice lot of lonely boys with deep pockets, and I'll see if I can't get me a few bottles of sherry on the next boat."
Less disgruntled, Giselle grabbed the goblet and downed the wine in two gulps. Belching and wiping her mouth, she turned her usual contemptuous gaze toward Elizabeth. "All done 'ere, Missy."
Without answering, Elizabeth went to take the goblets and tankards, getting the usual tugs on her skirts and kicks at her shins. "Poor lil' Nettle, never says a word,"
"It's cause she's got a voice too nasty to be 'eard!" squealed another girl, delighted by her own cleverness.
"Aye, she minces about, always wearin' a frown…"
"Lookin' so sad it's a wonder she don' drown!" screeched Giselle, and the girls dissolved into laughter at their rhyming. The absurdity of the whole scene knocked Elizabeth from her morose thoughts, and she snorted and shook her head. "Oy! Did we just get her to smile?"
All the girls leaned forward in wonder. Another, a rather heavyset artificial blonde named Sadie with an absurdly tight yellow silk gown (it made her look like a canary with the mange) clapped her hands on her painted cheeks. "She did! World's comin' to an end!"
This time Elizabeth could not help it; she snickered. Gasps rang out, and she snickered harder. Hurrying back to take the last of the glasses, the strange humor manifested itself in a still more shocking way—when Giselle attempted her usual kick at Elizabeth's shin, Elizabeth responded by aiming her own foot at Giselle and giving her a solid kick in return.
"Yaaii! Watch out, girlies, Kitten's got 'erself some claws now!" yelled Sadie, whose view was obscured by Elizabeth's skirts.
Giselle, on the other hand, was gaping at Elizabeth's feet. "Where in 'ell did ye get those?!"
Elizabeth stifled a groan. How stupid of her. She'd let them see her shoes. Now all the other girls who'd seen were leaning forward, their eyes fixed on the hem of her dress. "Them's real lady's shoes! Fancy things! Where'd ye steal them from?!" demanded Suzanne, a buxom redhead in a green dress.
"I didn't steal them!" Elizabeth exclaimed before she thought the better of it.
The girls were too busy trying to get a look at her feet. Wide-eyed with excitement, a skinny brunette in a red dress exclaimed, "I'll give ye a shillin' for 'em!"
Before Elizabeth could recover from her own shock, Suzanne snapped, "Yer cheap, Betina! I'll give 'er two shillins for shoes such as those! An' I'll actually be able to fit into 'em!"
"Three shillins!" retorted Betina, sticking her tongue out at Suzanne.
"Ye ain't got three shillins, ye little liar," snapped another girl. She swirled her blue skirts and turned to Elizabeth. "I do, an' I'll pay ye three for 'em."
"Show me you got three shillins, Otillie," challenged Betina, and Otillie stuck her hand down her bosom and produced three coins. Elizabeth just stared at them.
"Now look what ye done, gone and set her mute again," sighed Giselle, rolling her eyes. "Too bad 'er feet's so damned small, or I'd pay 'er four shillins for 'em. These ruddy clogs spoil the 'fect of a nice gown."
"What about it, Nettle," demanded Otillie. "Three shillins, an' I'll throw in me own shoes if ye be needin' some. We're a size. Whadda ye say?"
Dobson and Fudler were watching the haggling with interest. Elizabeth pondered the whole situation, then thought of how Otillie had rummaged in the pouch in her dress. She allowed herself a sly smile, then turned her back to the men and hiked up her skirt. "Make it five shillings and you can have the silk stockings as well."
Now every girl in the room gasped, crowding around to gape, and some actually attempted to reach out and touch Elizabeth's silken ankle as if to prove the stockings were real. Bids for the stockings alone were shouted out, but none could match Otillie's offer of five. She fished out two more shillings and dropped them into Elizabeth's waiting hand, then doffed her own shoes, two rather worn and dirty but sturdy clogs, and plain cotton stockings. Elizabeth pocketed the money, then balanced on one foot to remove her shoes and stockings, and placed them in the all-too-eager prostitute's hands. "You've gone an' beggared yerself for a pair of ruddy shoes and stockings," said Betina enviously.
Otillie, already wriggling into them, merely laughed. "An' I'll bring in twice the business that you do, Bet! Ain't a man in Tortuga who could resist a silken leg. Thankee kindly, Nettle!"
"Not at all," said Elizabeth, and returned to her room to secret the shillings away under a loose brick. She put on the clogs—they truly were so much more comfortable than her other shoes—but set the stockings aside. She couldn't bear the thought of putting those on without washing them first. Heaven only knew how long Otillie had been wearing them.
She returned to the common room as the first customers began bumbling in, and the inn returned to its usual manner of raucous shouts and laughter, flowing liquor, and sweaty, pressing bodies. But Elizabeth noticed fewer catty remarks of the girls, and found that she no longer cringed away from them as shameful, fallen creatures. Even when she brought mugs of rum to the table where Otillie currently had a bidding contest underway for the man who'd be lucky enough to touch her legs in the silk stockings, she felt no contempt. After all, Otillie was only trying to replace the five shillings she'd spent.
Elizabeth leaned against the bar, resting her chin on her hand, and pondered this. Why did she feel this way about the girls now? Or rather, why had she felt so contaminated by their mere presence before? After all…what other choice did they have? Not every woman alone in Tortuga—especially those brought here by ill fortune or birth even—could hope to survive as Elizabeth had. Rather, Elizabeth had come to realize some time ago, she was quite the glaring exception, judging by the way the men and women of Tortuga responded to her. Men waited tables in the other bars, or if women did, it was to earn extra coin along with their work as ladies of the evening.
Come to think of it, Elizabeth had wandered the streets and docks and inns of Tortuga for three weeks now, and had yet to see a single woman who looked as if she had managed to survive alone with any semblance of dignity. And yet…the girls here carried on, surviving conditions worse than Elizabeth could imagine even now, in her current impoverished state. And standing here, watching them luring men to their sides for drinks, company, and food—and ultimately survival—she was overwhelmed by a rush of admiration.
She could not imagine being so strong.
***
Aboard the Lady Laurel, three days later…
"We're three days out of Guantanamo, lad," said Captain Willem by way of greeting as he met Will coming on deck.
"Don' suppose ye'd be lettin' us go ashore fer some entertainment while we're there, eh, Cap'n?" asked Krighton.
The captain shrugged. "Perhaps."
O'Malley made a crude noise. "Been a long time away from them Spanish lasses. Watch yer head, boy! They'll take ye fer a fool in no time, them señoritas of Cuba!"
Will chuckled. "I'll be on my guard then."
"Aye, an' the best wine, them Spaniards make! Once off Santiago, we took a merchant that 'ad a hold full of it. Barrels of aged stuff! Aye, we drank fine fer three months, that time!" declared Krighton, slapping O'Malley on the back in reminiscence.
Will thought to himself that perhaps since Captain Willem refused to accept any payment for Will's rescue, he would buy a few bottles of Spanish wine and have them sent to the ship before she sailed. That might be a friendly farewell, and ease the men's grumblings about pointless ventures.
"So where're ye off to, lad?" demanded O'Malley. "Off to find that Elizabeth of yourn?"
Their banter had ceased to be amusing. "No."
Unfortunately, Will's muttered reply only roused their interest. "Aaaayyy, an' why not, me lad?" demanded Krighton, leaning forward eagerly. "Ye raved about 'er so much, we reckoned she must've been the best lookin' woman this side o' the Atlantic!"
Feeling something hot begin to burn his insides, Will glared at the older man. "She was. And I'm not the only one who thought so."
"Ay--" they would have questioned him further, but Will walked away.
He was cleaning the forward guns when Captain Willem came up beside him. He sighed. "Yes, sir?"
"You should never let any hint out that your life has a story, son. Even pirates love a good tale."
"I have no tale."
"Bilge."
Will paused and shut his eyes. "I have no tale I wish to tell."
"I can't deny being curious as to the fate of the ship you were on," said Atticus, as if he hadn't heard Will's protests.
"She sank."
"And healthy men die. That's not much to go on. Is that why you left home? Your lady chose another man?"
Will's fists clenched the barrel of the small deck gun, the cool iron strangely comforting. "Yes. She was a…well-bred man's daughter."
"And she never saw you, I suppose. It's only heartache to fall in love with uppercrust girls, lad--"
Will shook his head. "She loved me once. We were going to marry. Her father was not…well, he was not pleased, but I had thought he approved."
"Strange. Most gentlemen would sooner hang than see their daughter marry a tradesman."
"I saved her life. She saved mine. The circumstances were…unusual."
"So what happened?"
"Another man. A nobleman. Far more fit for the daughter of a…dignitary. When he came her father was only too happy to go back on his word that Elizabeth and I could marry. Society thought no less of him because of what I was." Why he was telling the captain this, Will didn't know. It hurt to tell, grinding out between his teeth, but he could not find the strength to refuse the quiet questions. There was a strange concern in the old pirate's voice. Perhaps the idea that someone actually cared to hear—and not just for amusement—allowed the words out.
"The world can be a bitter place for those not born to privilege, son. I loved a woman once myself, but the sea and poverty forced me away from her."
Will stared at him, "Why would you tell me that?"
"You've told me your tale, why shouldn't I tell you mine?"
"You are a strange sort of captain, sir."
Atticus laughed. "Captains are as different as men can be, lad. I tend to think a captain does best who keeps his men happy as well as working. Especially a pirate. We're brethren, lad, as we were in the days of Morgan and Bartholomew and Drake. We've all got our stories, and we all answer the call of the sea."
"But I'm leaving because I'm not a pirate," Will protested.
He got a broader smile in response. "But you were here for a time, son. And I see it in your eyes; you hear the sea's call. She knows you. Maybe you can fight it, but I see it. The pirate's in your blood."
Will eyed him for a moment and slowly smiled back. "You're not the first person who's told me that."
Then they both laughed, and Will felt a pang of regret that he would be leaving this ship. On the other hand, perhaps it was better that he'd remember Atticus Willem and his men this way, as mere sailors, rather than pillaging pirates.
It was certainly odd that any sailor, pirate or other, should be as curious as Captain Willem. "So what became of your Elizabeth? Did she marry the man?"
Will shrugged. "I have no idea. I left the morning after I saw them together." His fists clenched in angry memory. "It's possible they're married by now. I had proposed to her six months ago and couldn't even afford a ring. This man…he had his titles, his wealth, his ships, and his white sword--"
A hand seized his wrist in a bruising grip, causing him to drop the cleaning rag with a start. "His what?!"
Will stared at the captain. The older man's face was white under his tan, his eyes wild with many emotions, including outrage, fury, and even perhaps a flicker of fear. Shaken, he stammered, "He…the man…Sir Reginald Hamilton…he owns a sword. It's white."
"Describe it!" the captain barked, and Will obeyed as automatically as if he'd been ordered to swab the deck or mend the sails.
"It…it has a folded steel blade, with a filigreed silver handle set with white mother-of-pearl, and the entire scabbard is inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It's white. It's been in his family for generations, he said."
"Did he indeed?" Stepping back and visibly pulling himself under control, Captain Willem smiled. This smile was frightening, as though he were about to gently impart a death sentence. "Oh, he lied, my boy, he lied."
"What do you mean?" Will asked sharply, forgetting himself.
"Where's the sword now? Where's this Hamilton character?"
"As far as I know he's still in Port Royal courting Elizabeth. She's the daughter of the governor of Jamaica," Will told him, still confused and alarmed.
"Port Royal…my God. The fool, the bloody fool. Even a pirate knows better."
"Better than what?!" Will demanded. "What is the white sword, then? Where did he get it?"
"A place no living man has any business setting foot, lad, if he's a mind to live," said Captain Willem. He stepped back and turned slowly toward the wheel. "Jenkins! Alter course! Turn us southwest, full sail!"
"Aye-aye, sir!"
"What are you doing?!" Will demanded, running after the captain as he headed up the deck. "Where are we--"
"All hands on deck!" bellowed the captain, and the crew swiftly complied. Ignoring Will, he announced, "Men, we've made a change of plans. We have a raid to conduct! A swift and secret raid! And a fine prize!"
The men leaned forward eagerly, and now Will was reminded of the Black Pearl's crew. "What's our target, Cap'n?"
"Port Royal!" The men gaped. "No, not an all-out assault, but we'll take care of our supplies, among other things. And there are many prizes to be had in Port Royal."
"Ambitious," someone muttered.
"Aye, ain't never been so ambitious before."
"What are you doing?" Will shot out, ignoring the startled looks of the others. "Port Royal hosts one of the largest forts in the Caribbean, with some of the fastest ships in the British Navy docked there! You'd never escape!"
Captain Willem whirled back toward him, so swiftly that Will took a step back. "Answer me truthfully, Turner. Do you hate this Elizabeth now that she's betrayed you? Do you wish her in hell?"
"No!" Will gasped. He would love Elizabeth with his last breath.
"Then am I correct in assuming that when push came to shove, you'd want her to live to see the next New Year?"
Will froze. "What in God's name do you mean?"
"We're going to Port Royal, Turner. And if you want the girl to survive, you'd best aid us." Captain Willem stepped away from the men and lowered his voice. "The men think we're conducting a raid, and it's partly true. We're going for the white sword."
***
Tortuga, four days later…
Elizabeth trudged back into the Smashed Pumpkin to Dobson's cheerful welcome, greeting the evening girls with an absent wave, and went automatically to wiping the tables. "Yer late, Nettle!" said Otillie.
"I don't know what's going on out there, but there's a mad crowd out by the docks. I didn't even try to go see what it was about," Elizabeth told Dobson.
"Must be a ship's made port. If she's big enough the rum runners an' street girls'll be down at the docks waitin' to welcome 'er crew home."
"Oh." Last night had been long, and if yet another ship had made port, tonight would be even worse. It was a testament to how tired she was that it didn't occur to her to ask what ship it was.
As she feared, the tavern was crowded, and the night dragged on. One drunk managed to spill an entire tankard of ale onto her left shoulder and down the side of her dress at half past midnight, and she slogged on, furious, wet, and stinking of alcohol, wishing for the chance to either be sick or get drunk herself. God, what a wretch she was!
She was weaving her way back through the mob with no less than eight empty tankards strung onto her fingers when yet another boisterous, already-nearly-drunk mob came crowding their way in. It was all she could do not to groan.
"A table, my good men, a table for our honored guest! Stand aside there!" she heard Fudler bellowing. "Come in, come in, welcome!"
"Nettle!" bellowed Dobson. "Eight rums, and be quick about it. Got us a right 'ero in 'ere tonight!"
"Coming," she sighed, though he didn't hear her of course. There was an incredible press of people around the table of newcomers, and she shouted at their backs to let her through. Fudler shoved them aside, took the mugs from her, and demanded another round at once, so she turned and jogged back toward the bar, and then…
"'Allo, 'allo, 'allo! What have we here, Fudler! Gotcherself another lady?"
Elizabeth stopped dead in her tracks, her back still to the table.
That voice!
"What? Nah, sorry Cap'n. Just me new barmaid, 'ad 'er about a month. Funny little thing, won't tell nobody 'er name. An' Dobson's gone soft on me, all protective. Won't let the men bother 'er, cause she don't like Scarlett an' Giselle's line of work--"
"Hah! Her loss!"
"Aye, an' that's why we call 'er Nettle. Cause she's so prickly, right, see? OY! NETTLE! I don' feed ye to be standin' in the common room! Put a boot in it!"
There was a loud roar of laughter from the table, and the clink of tankards. Elizabeth turned slowly around, her breath coming in ragged gasps, so that she couldn't force her voice to do more than whisper…
"Jack?"
PFFTOO! No less than three of the inn's distinguished guests emptied their mouths of rum. Abruptly. And loudly. The whole room went silent. Elizabeth stared as every pair of eyes in the room focused on her, some in confusion, some in irritation, some in outrage—but three in complete shock. Her own eyes flicked to the jowly man on the right, the one with the parrot on his shoulder ("Shiver me timbers!" it said) on the left, but focused in desperation, meeting the eyes in the middle, lined in that peculiar kohl, black as night, and at the moment, quite flabbergasted.
As always, Captain Jack Sparrow rallied his forces admirably. While Mr. Cotton and Mr. Gibbs were still flat-out gaping, he broke into a broad grin and sprang to his feet—right on top of the table. "Weelll, Mr. Fudler, I have to say, that if this is an example of the new barmaids in Tortuga, I ought to get one for the Black Pearl!" Now it was Elizabeth's turn to gape, as he gave her that same awful leer that she'd received time and time again from every filthy ruffian with roving hands and dreadful intentions who'd come into this horrid place. Her blood began to boil as Jack jumped down and went on. "Prettiest little barmaid I ever did see, yes sir! I may have to steal her from you!"
She was so angry she started to shake. By now Gibbs was slowly rising to his feet, his mouth still wide open, and Jack broke off, in surprise that was only half-feigned, at the utter fury in her eyes. She advanced on him in a way that made every man in the place step aside. Her voice was a hiss. "Don't…you…laugh at me. Don't…you…dare laugh at me, Jack Sparrow."
There was a chorus of gasps from around the room. "She didn' even call 'im Cap'n!" somebody whispered in shock. "How's she know 'im?!"
She didn't even register that it was Dobson who murmured as she passed, "I knew there was somethin' 'bout this one. Knew it!"
Brushing past Fudler, who's jaw was brushing the floor, Elizabeth stood nose to nose with Jack, seething like she had never seethed before at his inscrutable expression, and abruptly, all the fear, uncertainty, loneliness, and bitterness of the past month exploded outward, and she launched herself at him, both hands latching onto his throat and shaking him with all her might. "Damn you, Jack! Damn you and your jokes!"
Shouts erupted and the other men in the room tried to pull her off. Of course, she didn't actually choke him, but she hoped to at least startle him. To her further outrage, he got her hands away all too easily, and held her back at arms length by the wrists, his face still that infuriating half-puzzled, half-imperturbable expression, while she made a concerted effort to scratch those damn kohl-lined eyes right out. Gibbs and Cotton were now running interference to keep the other men from dragging Elizabeth away, "Now, now, just one of, er, just one o' Jack's ol' lady friends, hehe. Jack, what do we do?! She's mad!" Gibbs hissed.
"I seen 'im get slapped all the time, but by 'eaven, I ain't never seen a girl do that!" exclaimed someone.
Jack took control. "Come on, come on, back to the Pearl. Sorry, Fudler, old friend, but I'm going to have to commandeer your barmaid. She's so bloody pretty and talented I just have to have her for me own ship. Only the best for the Pearl, you know. Let's go…Nettle!"
"You bloody bastard!" Elizabeth screamed as he dragged her out.
"Language, love, language!" Amid her shrieks of fury and her curses, Jack manhandled Elizabeth out the door and down the street, until they were well away from the Smashed Pumpkin and any curious onlookers. They wound up in an alley between the town and the docks, where Jack finally released her, and she immediately rounded on him and slapped him full in the face. "Oy! Now I know I didn't deserve that, lass!" Jack exclaimed, affecting a shocked and wounded pose. "Unless I'm very much mistaken, I just rescued you!"
Shaking with anger and barely-suppressed hysteria, Elizabeth said, "You…have…no idea what I have been through! So don't you laugh at me!"
"Miss Elizabeth, what on earth are you doing here?!" exclaimed Gibbs.
She ignored him, grabbed Jack's shoulders, and began shaking him, "Why did it have to take you so bloody long?!" Jack was batting at her hands—teasing her, she was quite sure, even though he looked surprised rather than playful. "I've been trapped in this godforsaken place for a whole bloody month waiting for you to turn up in your bloody ship! I need you, damn it! It's Will, I need you, and no one in this thrice-damned place would tell me--"
"Ahoy there, lass!" Jack exclaimed, finally getting her to stop out of brute force by grabbing her shoulders in return. "Slow down! I'm sure you've got a fascinating tale to tell that'd spellbind the most skeptical pirate, but we ain't got time. Now tell me what you're doing here, and what's happened to that lovesick lad o' yours that he'd let you wander into this nasty place all by yourself."
A lump rose in Elizabeth's throat. "I don't know where he is. He boarded…a ship…for Tortuga…only he didn't…Dobson said it sank…I can't find-and-followed--" Her words grew more garbled until she simply burst into tears and collapsed in Jack's arms. "I have to find him," she sobbed into his smelly garments. "I can't—I don't know where—have to find him."
If Jack was startled by her hysterics, he rallied himself again, and began patting her back. "All right, lass, all right. There, there. We'll find the lad. I don't know what, but I reckon he's gone and done something foolish again. Boy always was a fool for love."
"Don't say that!"
"Why'd he run away to Tortuga, then? Trying to win you a fortune?"
She shook her head into his shoulders, still sobbing. "He thought-I-didn't-love-him--"
"What? Bloody hell, the boy really is a fool. Come on, love. Hush now. Everything'll turn out just fine. Your Captain Jack's here to save the day; we'll hunt your wayward lad down and give him a good hiding, then see to it he marries you or walks the plank. How's that?" He pulled her back to arm's length and gave her a rakish grin.
Staring at that absurd, sly smile, hearing him promising to work near-miracles, Elizabeth couldn't help it. Dashing a fist across her puffy face, the tears still falling, she began to laugh.
***
Port Royal, that same night…
"I've sent our fastest ship after the Cardinal," said Governor Swann, staring out the parlor window at the darkening harbor. "Commodore Norrington will know how to find her."
Gillette shook his head. "Sir, we've searched every square inch of the town, scoured the beaches and docks. We've netted more than a dozen minor piracy operations, and the prison is full to capacity. Miss Swann is no longer in Port Royal."
"By God, she has to be!" cried Swann, rounding on him. "Where else could she have gone?"
"As her father, if you'd brought her up properly, you would know where she had gone," said a voice from the doorway. "Of course, if you were a competent father or governor, you would know a great deal more about the goings-on in Port Royal, and your daughter would not be missing in the first place."
"Sir Reginald?" Gillette shifted uncomfortably.
Hamilton ignored Gillette, staring coldly at Swann. "I sent a letter with that recently-departed ship, which will be transferred to the Cardinal for dispatch to the crown, detailing the ineptitude I've witnessed since arriving in Port Royal. I hope they will respond with due speed to this situation before you manage to completely compromise British interests in the Caribbean."
Gillette cleared his throat and quietly departed the room. Swann gazed at Hamilton until the parlor door closed, then said, "You must do what you must do, Sir Reginald." It afforded him some satisfaction to see the puzzled look on the man's face, and the way Hamilton hesitated to respond. He went on, "Of course, if any of my actions have particularly offended you, you are certainly free to take up lodgings in another location in Port Royal until your return to England. I am certain Admiral Kensington could provide you with accommodation."
Hamilton drew himself up stiffly. "Thank you, Governor. That will not be necessary."
Swann inclined his head to Hamilton—and turned back to the window. It afforded him a little more satisfaction to hear the clicking thump of the door being pulled shut. He sighed, watching reflected moonlight over the harbor fading as clouds covered the sky. He found that he simply could not bring himself to be concerned with Hamilton's vengeful attacks, even though he didn't doubt it posed a real threat to his position as governor of Jamaica. Or perhaps it simply didn't matter anymore. Nothing seemed to matter.
The harbor was black except for a few flickering dock torches. Port Royal seemed unnaturally quiet and cold.
Oh Elizabeth…
The lights at the harbor grew; a ship must have landed late, he supposed idly. A flickering ball spread into a cluster of little flames, which separated and moved swiftly up the docks until they were lost in the town, appearing every now and then between the buildings. Swann leaned against the cool glass and let his mind wander, until he noticed another cluster of lights coming up the road into the hills toward the house. Swann frowned; who could be on their way here in such a hurry—there was a muffled bang! from down below, and orange light flared somewhere in the town. Swann recoiled, then threw open the window. Shouts reached his ears from the city as more lights appeared, and the glow spread.
Closer noises drew his attention back to the lights coming up the road, now very near to the house. Wild yells and rough growls of the most unsavory kind—voices of men up to no good. From the window, Swann suddenly realized the torches were close enough to see the bearers' faces—but he could not. The men were masked. And they were already coming through the gate.
Pirates! Swann dashed out of the parlor, emerging with his typical luck into the foyer just as the front door lock was blown off by the shot of a pistol, and the door burst open to admit half a dozen ruffians who instantly brought their guns to bear at the hapless governor. "No!" he blurted, raising his hands and certain his death was imminent. What will happen to Elizabeth—
"Not one move, Governor!" said the lead pirate, in a strong, sharp voice that reminded Swann of someone he couldn't place.
"Fancy place, this," muttered another, staring appreciatively around the house. "Good pickins."
"You have your orders. The house is not to be touched," retorted the leader, waving his free hand sharply at the others.
"Aye, mate, cap'n says we're 'ere fer somethin' special!" growled a third pirate. "What now, lad?" he asked the leader.
"Keep this gentleman guarded, the same for the servants. No heroics while I get what we came for," ordered the tall pirate, and darted up the stairs.
"Ye 'eard our leftenan'," sneered one of the remaining pirates, keeping his pistol steadily pointed at Swann's face while the others surrounded the governor. "Keep still an' ye'll come outta this wif yer life." Swann said nothing, but kept his hands in their view and bit his lip. Why, oh, why had Norrington had to choose now to be on his honeymoon?
There was a shriek upstairs, and a maid came tearing onto the landing with the lead pirate close behind, waving his pistol. "Down there with your master," the pirate ordered. He didn't wait to see that she did as she was told—the girl was too terrified not to obey—before opening the doors of several of the bedrooms, clearly searching for something.
Swann instinctively beckoned to Mary, nervously watching the pirates as the maid came to stand behind him. "Just do as they say," he whispered to her. He noticed one pirate's eyes resting appreciatively on her through the holes in his mask, and said shakily, "Just take what you came for and go." There was a wild shout from one of the guest rooms. "Sir Reginald!" Swann shouted, fearing the man would be fool enough to try and challenge the pirates.
"Shaddap!" A fist connected with Swann's face, sending him crashing against the wall.
"Master!" shrieked Mary, scrambling to his side as Swann tried in vain to crawl away from the pirate looming over them.
"That's enough!" shouted the lead pirate's voice, and the other drew back. "I told you these people were not to be harmed!"
"Sorry."
Swann blinked up at the tall pirate leader. The masked man carried neither Swann's strongbox nor any family valuables. Clasped almost reverently in his hands was Sir Reginald Hamilton's white sword. He stared at Swann for a moment, his eyes dark and frightening to the governor. Then he turned sharply and said, "Let's go," and the pirates were gone before Swann and Mary had time to do more than let out their breath.
There were gunshots and cries in the distance as Swann dashed up the stairs, shouting for his guest. "Sir Reginald! Where are you?" He burst into the guest room to find that it had been rifled, with Hamilton sprawled upon the floor, his face a bloody, bruised mess. The nobleman had not let his prized possession go without a fight. "Mary, fetch hot water immediately, and send Simpson for help!"
***
Lieutenant Gillette feared Commodore Norrington would have his head for failing to repel even a small pirate raid. But in the end, it was the size of the attack that had proved the most difficult to deal with. The pirates had been clever enough to strike on a cloudy night, in a small ship that some of the harbor guards had caught only vague glimpses of before she melted back into the blackness, and—worst of all—with a well-executed plan. Oh yes, Gillette had know doubt these creatures had known precisely what they wanted, where to get it, and how long it would take. They had struck shore in three groups: one to strike the wealthiest part of town, one to raid the governor's house, and another to lead the soldiers at the fort on a wild goose chase away from the harbor and the other raiders.
I'll never get that promotion now.
To Gillette's relief, there had been few injuries; the pirates had seemed more interested in stealth and speed than violence. And all in all, the town's losses in damage and booty had been negligible. So once that had been established, Gillette answered the governor's summons quickly.
He found the house undamaged, but a physician had already arrived and was blotting blood from Sir Reginald Hamilton's face as Governor Swann looked on, wringing his hands. "The pirates robbed Sir Reginald, Lieutenant. They took an heirloom of great value--"
"Priceless, damn it, it was priceless!" snapped Sir Reginald, batting at the doctor's hands as the man tried to begin stitching his torn cheek.
"Sir, you must hold still--"
"I hold you responsible for this, Swann--"
"Sir Reginald, Governor, can you describe the pirates?" Gillette interrupted.
"They wore masks," Swann told him with a sigh. "There was one in the lead of the men who came here; he was taller than the others, with dark eyes. He is the one who went upstairs and assaulted Sir Reginald."
"And where, Governor, were you when I was so foully robbed?" demanded Sir Reginald.
"Being held downstairs at the point of a gun," Swann retorted, sounding cross with Hamilton for the first time.
"Sir Reginald," Gillette said urgently, "is there anything else you noticed about the man who attacked you?"
Hamilton made a noise like a growling dog, and answered, "He knew about the white sword. I did not have it in my hands, but he demanded it. When I attempted to stop him, he struck me. He seemed mad, beating me with his fists."
"Odd," muttered Swann.
Hamilton went on, "After he had done brutalizing me, he tore the room apart until he found the case, and took the sword. He struck me once more before he left."
"And there was nothing unusual you could notice about him? That we might use to identify him?" Gillette pressed.
Hamilton frowned, pondering it. "He had a scar. On the palm of his left hand, long and thin. It caught the candlelight. And his hands were rough, workman's hands."
"Hmm. That's something, I suppose. Doctor, see that Sir Reginald is given the very best of care. Gentlemen, I'll be at the fort, organizing our pursuit. Please send word to me there if you remember anything else. Good evening." As Gillette started for the door, he paused. "What was odd, Governor?"
Swann shook his head, looking baffled. "Sir Reginald mentioned that the lead pirate seemed wild. It was odd to me because when they trapped me downstairs, he seemed strangely calm for a pirate. He ordered that I myself not be harmed, and the house not touched."
Gillette was quite startled. "That is very odd. Very odd indeed."
To be continued…
Coming Up Next: Elizabeth gets promoted from Tortuga barmaid to member of the Black Pearl's crew, Commodore Norrington and Captain Jack Sparrow find themselves almost allies, and we finally learn the real origins of the white sword.
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