Noble Bay
Wickedry docked not far from the ruins of a once-grand ship.
Will had limped up to the main deck as she put into port, and gazing over the starboard bow caught sight of the bones jutting up from the sand. She had been trim, he reasoned; trim and lovely with her three masts and all sail set. The lower parts of the masts still stood as proudly as the day she sailed, shredded canvas and twists of rope swinging in the breeze that buffeted the bay. By the way she rested on the beach, someone had clearly tried to beach her before she went under, and had succeeded to some extent.
His blacksmith's eye already searched for a way to repair her, to make her as she had once been. Her rakish profile remained largely intact, marred only by a gaping tear in her port side - a death wound for any ship. Had her crew not even tried to bring her back to life? Had they intended such destruction of a once-lovely thing?
What is she, merchantman or man o'war? She looks rather like a larger Interceptor, doesn't she? I wonder if I could repair her... Will shook the thought off and made to look toward the footsteps approaching him, then abruptly found himself staring once again at the derelict.
You know me, William Turner... don't you.
In those dried old bones, there lay something vaguely familiar. Something almost...
Or perhaps it is that I know you...
The wind moved, and the flash was gone.
He shivered, running his hands up his opposite arms. The sight of a wreck would chill anyone. Particularly a wreck that still looked... well, like she could ghost under the wind again.
"Pretty ol' thing once, so I'm told," Gerrarrd remarked from behind him. "She's been here so long as any of the locals can recall. Stubborn... though once a fine ship." Perhaps he took note of Will's reaction, or perhaps the pirate had his own reservations about such a vision. "'Tis always worse when they're still blatantly recognizable. She is indeed still a ship, though a dead one. I'd rather the tide washed her out one day, rid us of such an eyesore."
"What happened to her?" He pointed at the hole.
"Near as can be figured, she hit something. Her captain was probably making for the bay as it was and didn't realize 'twere reefs involved. At least he had the good sense to run her ashore." The pirate took his arm, acting as a crutch. "Come ashore, Mr. Turner, there's much for us to be doing."
Will allowed the captain to lead him to the dock, where he was left leaning against a barrel as Gerrarrd exchanged words with a man dressed entirely in black. Staring at them yielded little information, so he opted to take in the sights - what there were of them - of his new surroundings.
Noble Bay could never be compared to Tortuga, but as far as he could see, it reached for much the same goal: a haven for pirates. The men - and more than a few women - who stomped and straggled by him were all bronzed from the sun, toting weapons of dubious quality and wore expressions that would probably make even the great Commodore Norrington think twice about engaging them. Their flyaway hair and careless swagger sent brief echoes of Sparrow jogging through his mind, though it did make him wonder about Gerrarrd's appearance - polished by comparison.
Wickedry enjoyed solitary glamour as the largest ship in the bay, flanked by a quartet of sloops and schooners that would probably go belly-up as soon as they ventured beyond island trading. When he squinted, he thought he could make out the bow of another large ship docked just beyond the harbor - she had the look of a slow-going merchantman about her.
Goodness, all this boat-watching with Elizabeth has certainly paid off.
A pistol clicked, and he tore his attention from the bay to Gerrarrd, who had seen fit to point his gun at the man's head and scowl at him. "...is that so...?"
"Captain?" Will called.
Gerrarrd looked at him, his mouth tightening. The gun was shoved back into his belt, and a finger replaced its presence in the man's face. "Ye've got but a week, Errol, and should ye be messin' this one op, there'll be none o'me mercy."
"Aye, sir." Nonplussed, Errol ambled away to one of the sloops. Gerrarrd returned his full attention to Will with a rueful smile.
"Sometimes... things o'gotta be done by force if they're to be done at all, wouldn't you agree?"
"Are you going to kill him if he fails in - whatever he's supposed to be doing?"
Gerrarrd chuckled. "Nay, lad, it'll be no good to kill him. He's entirely too useful. Scare him a bit, perhaps. Don't let that get out, though... merciful reputations never get anyone anywhere. The Caribbean's very own Commodore Norrington, for example. Ever since he let Sparrow fly, there's been talk amongst his own ranks." Gerrarrd began steering him down what passed for the road, but Will put a hand up and refused to budge.
"Where is Elizabeth?"
"Delayed. Errol relayed that, among other things." The captain had become almost amiable in the last week and a half of Wickedry's cruise; probably with anticipation of returning to his so-called home - or possibly, Will hoped, because his newest prisoner was proving to be quite obedient and curious as to the life of piracy.
Ah, piracy. Fortunately, Gerrarrd had spared him a full-fledged example, citing the all-too-recent Relentless as lesson enough for the young man. Nonetheless, the idea of it proved a welcome respite from his worry for Elizabeth... and thoughts of his father.
Father. I'm going to meet my father.
"...but we'll bring her in, have no fear."
They slowly made their way to a building set further back from the rest, but Gerrarrd had scarcely pushed open the door when a young woman came running out, blubbering about madness and sharks. The captain had to grab her chin and stare into her eyes to get any kind of reaction. "What's this, now?"
"We've been tryin', sir, with everything we got we done been trying, and he just- 'e bit another man--"
Gerrarrd's normally-unflappable demeanor abruptly gave way to fury. "Rickon said he was progressing--"
"He is! Jost last night, he asked fer rum."
"'E asked the dog for rum, you bloody wench, an' then he bit off Kerbin's ear." A much larger man elbowed the woman - girl, really - aside and looked Will over before bowing his head to Gerrarrd. "This the boy?"
"My name is Will Turner," he said, getting quite sick of being referred to as boy and whelp by every pirate he came across. The fact that this disturbing large individual had apparently been anticipating his presence did not slip his mind, but he didn't have time to think about it. The girl gave him a shy smile before darting back into the building, and Gerrarrd ground his teeth as the trio of them followed.
"As you can see, he is. What's this about getting worse?" Gerrarrd loosed his sword and tossed it on a table once indoors, sending a glance to another door at the back of the room. The girl sat on a bench nearby, stirring something in a bowl.
"Not getting worse, Captain. Not necessarily getting better, but I'd not be sayin' he's any worse fer wear. We's figurin' he'da been down there what, six years? It'll take time."
Gerrarrd bared his teeth in something that might have been intended as a cold smile. "We haven't any time."
"It might do 'im good to see his boy, maybe," Rickon said guardedly. "But I ain't certain how good it'll be for the lad."
Do I really look so young? He was nearly twenty-one, by God! Will stood up as straight as he could manage on his leg and looked Rickon in the eye. "I believe I should see him."
Rickon looked at Gerrarrd. Gerrarrd looked at Will. "He's in a bad way, Mr. Turner. A very bad way. When we found him, he was stumbling about the Rudder Bay outpost chewing on a man's hand. Seems he came crawling out in the moonlight while Barbossa still had the crew cursed. Must've been a glorious sight."
Will swallowed hard but nodded firmly. He had to do this. He'd come this far. "I will see him, if the captain will permit it."
After a moment's thought, Gerrarrd held open the other door.
The room had been kept dark.
Dark, and uncleaned. "God's blood," he growled as the scent of urine and blood and things far worse wafted out and over him. "Has no one seen to his accommodation?"
"Tried." Rickon didn't sound terribly distressed. "'E's vicious. Not a one o'us is willin' te risk our hides fer it."
"Find someone," Gerrarrd commanded. "Or I'll have you doing it yourself." Even he sounded disgusted.
Will stepped further into the room, ignoring the captain's request to watch your step, laddie. Wet hay squished beneath his boots, and he steeled himself against the odor and the darkness.
He could see the eyes watching him from the other side of the room - watching him from the moment the sliver of light came from the opened door. He could hear breathing... just breathing, and the own rapidness of his heartbeat. Father, Father I'm here now... Father had left twelve years ago, hadn't he? Twelve years ago... eleven years ago... would he be recognizable? Would he be looking into his own face? Or would Bootstrap Bill Turner be nothing more than a maddened monster, still-sodden from his years on the seabed?
Will lifted the lantern Gerrarrd had given to him so that he might see better - and likewise illuminate his face. Across the room, something whined. He could make out the shining eyes, the ragged locks of hair that trailed down a thin body clad only in a shirt. Summoning up what memories he had of his father, he forced a smile and pretended the shattered creature in front of him was only another of the games they had once played in the attic of their tiny house. "Father," he said aloud, pleased that his voice did not crack from the emotion. "Father... it's me. William."
Did the man's breath pause for just an instant?
He knew Gerrarrd and the others would be listening on the other side of the door. Hoping for a miracle. Hoping the bloody lad they'd gone through such trouble to find would prove to be worth it after all.
Will smiled in spite of himself. Oh yes, Ephraim Gerrarrd, I know when I'm being used. Jack Sparrow taught me that.
"England."
The voice came out as a raspy growl, but its tenor was not entirely unfamiliar. Will squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "I left England eight years ago, Father. Going on nine. I still called you 'Papa' then... remember?" He searched his memories for one that would stick. "You and mother took me to a lake once, and--"
He skittered backward as the figure lurched out of the darkness at him, and for a horrifying instant he saw bared teeth set against a nearly-skeletal face - a face that otherwise might resemble his. And William Turner knew in that moment that this was indeed Bootstrap Bill Turner - and that Rickon's optimism was horribly misplaced.
The creature stopped short at attacking him entirely, settling for staring at him with watering eyes. "Son," he rasped. "England. Now?"
"The Caribbean. All will be well." Will took another step into the room, seeing in those eyes the vaguest hint of the man he remembered. It gave him heart. "Father," he whispered. "I've missed you."
The man that had once been - and yet might once again be - Bootstrap Bill regarded him thoughtfully.
Then he lunged.
I really can't win, can I?
(Hello my lovelies!
I've another one nearly ready to go after this; we're due to visit Jack and Elizabeth on Sparrowisle to see how they're getting along.
My thoughts on Bootstrap's state of mind (or lack thereof): if he was down there for six years as Gerrarrd and his buddies claim, on top of wandering for another four - he's going to have... issues.)