Disclaimer: See previous disclaimers. I'm tired of writing these.
A/N: If you're reading, please review. Please. I want to know if you're enjoying this or if you're not, give some constructive criticism. I know there might be a few plot holes here and there that I'm missing so if you want to help and drop me a line to tell me what I'm missing, I'd be grateful.
Chapter 12
"Jonathan, what the hell is going on?" Morgan cried angrily as she barged into the kitchen of the Cicatriz.
"Just a little torture, White. I supposed you wouldn't mind if I did some when you were away," Jonathan replied as he let up on the knife that was pushing into Jack Sparrow's wrist and the pirate snatched it back in pain.
"With my butcher knife?" Philip growled furiously at him as he barged past Morgan.
"Damn it, Jonathan. He has to cook with that thing." Morgan said in annoyance as Philip pulled the knife away from Jonathan. "Next time you want to torture someone, use your own knife."
"Apologize, Morgan. I thought you enjoy torture," Meade said innocently as Jack gasped for breath.
"I enjoy torture when British officers aren't trying to kill me and I have to bring my crew back aboard ship because of it! I also enjoy it when the torturer isn't stupid enough to use a butcher's knife that's used to make food for me and me crew!" she growled angrily at him.
"The British troops are here?" Jonathan asked innocently. "How would they know you were here?"
Jack looked up at the two arguing pirates with curiosity as he held his wrist. What was Jonathan trying to do exactly? Obviously, Jack mused, he needed Morgan for it.
"Bloody British," Morgan growled in annoyance.
"Well, I for one am glad to see that you were unharmed," Jonathan replied as she slung an arm around her shoulder and lead her out of the room, his pirate, Lefty, following along. "Now, tomorrow when the Pearl arrives..," he trailed off as they headed towards the Captain's quarters.
Philip watched them go before retrieving a bucket of water from next to the counter. Kneeling down next to Jack, he began undoing the handkerchief around his neck . "Here now, Sparrow," he said, removing Jack's grasp on his blood covered wrist. "I've seen worse cuts than that," Philip told him, his paw like hands gently cleaning Jack's wound. "You're lucky Jonathan didn't go much further. Could have meant a slow death for you, mate."
Jack stared up at him gratefully. There was something familiar about him but he just couldn't place it.
"Don't recon you remember me, do ye Capt'n Sparrow? My hair was a bit darker then and my beard was a bit more trimmed," Philip said as he went to retrieve a bottle of liquor from his shelf and another basin for water.
Faces and various names sped through is memory as she tried to place the older pirate. "Moore," Jack replied finally. "Philip Moore. I didn't know you were on this ship."
Philip half-smiled beneath his beard. "That's right, Capt'n. Must have been that gin I'd sneak in your supper every night," he said with a wink as he pulled up a stool next the pirate.
"How did you end up working for Morgan? Jack said, concentration on the man in front of him to keep himself awake. He was already weak from lack of food and his loss of blood was not helping the situation.
"You remember Henry White, don't ye? The one who gave you that compass?" Philip asked as he poured some of the liquor onto Jack's wound.
Jack hissed at the pain before responding. "Aye," he replied, fighting back the pain that was exploding inside him.
"Before he died, he promised me to take care of Morgan for him. God knows I haven't' done a very good job of it. She went mad when he died. Still keeps his skull in her quarters, I suppose you've seen it," he shook his head. "She might have been a fine lass had he left her with his sister in England when she was a girl. It's too late for that now," Philip said sadly as he cleaned Jack's wound as well as he could.
"What of this Meade fellow? When did she meet up with him?" Jack asked as Philip bandaged his wrist with his handkerchief.
"Don't rightly remember. Must have been a year or two before or after her father's death. Always been a good source of information for her, he has," Philip said as he finished tying his handkerchief to Jack's wrist.
"I need to talk to her about him. As an old friend, do you think you could allow me to see Morgan tonight?" Jack asked him hopefully.
Moore thought it over for a moment. "Don't know if I can do that, Jack. She hate you and I wouldn't want to push your luck with the lass," he said, standing up. "I'll tell you what I will do. I'll let you stay here for a bit though. I'll be making stew tonight and I know that'd ye'll be wanted a change from stale bread that Lars bring ye. I'll see what I can do about the rest.
Jack nodded gratefully. He wouldn't mind having a change of scenery either. Maybe things would finally go his way for a while. At least he'd get something good to eat in the deal. Perhaps having an old friend aboard could work to his advantage. Philip might be able to change Morgan's mind but he wasn't too sure of that. If what he remembered of her went, she was still stubborn as a mule.
In the Captain's quarters, Jonathan chuckled. "Those poor English men. I'll wager they never knew what happened," he said after Morgan had relayed to him what had happened to the British officers who had tried to arrest her.
"It is a rather unfortunate demise," Morgan replied nonchalantly. "I for one would like to know how I was killed, unlike our poor Lieutenant. Death is a weapon, Jonathan. Either you use the blunted end or the point."
"I would prefer the blunt end," he said as he examined a book in her quarters.
"Not I. I'd take the sharp."
"Less pain?" Jonathan asked with raised eyebrows as he read the book's title. He didn't know Morgan liked Shakespeare.
"Perhaps," she replied, leaving it open for discussion.
"Do you remember a family called Meade that your father visited here?" Jonathan asked, changing the topic.
"Aye. I never went with him, of course but I do remember the name," Morgan replied as she glanced down at the skull on her desk.
"You do know my last name is Meade, do ye not?" Jonathan asked as he turned to watch her carefully, feeling inside his shirt pocket for a cigar.
"Is it now? After all these years you finally let me in on that, eh?" Morgan asked teasingly. "No relation to the Meades in Allenport or is that what you'll be telling me next?"
"Aye and the reason why I insisted ye never touch me, Morgan. The Meade's are kin to ya," Jonathan told her, placing the cigar in his mouth and moved closer to where she sat.
"That so?" Morgan asked as she pushed the lantern closer to him to use as a light. "Well I see now why we never shared a bed."
Jonathan took a moment to get the small cigar to light over the lantern before resonding. "If I had been anyone else, Morgan, it might have been different," he said finally. "I'm your brother."
"Oh," she said casually. "That all?"
Jonathan studied her carefully. "You knew?"
White snorted. "I knew long ago. Henry never took me with him to the Meade's and for obvious reasons. A child would have ruined the fun he was having with the wench," she gave him a pointed look. "Yer mother," Morgan added before glancing down at the skull on her desk. "I knew. I had heard of wench Meade many years before and the child she had. I hadn't known it was you until you refused me years ago. Then I knew it was you, Jonathan Meade, my younger brother," she replied quietly.
"Then what I have to tell you next won't come as much of a surprise," Jonathan began as he took a seat on her desk.
