Finally, I'm done with chapter 3; it's a little shorter than the others but I hope you'll like it anyway. Many thanks to everyone who cared to write a review. I've been rather busy lately but I promise I'll go back to answering all of your comments :-)
Chapter 3 - - Incoherency
Title:
"Life Without A Compass"
Author:
ladyofthesilent
Rating:
hard R, maybe NC-17 (for later chapters)
Pairings:
Jack/Elizabeth, some Will/Elizabeth and Elizabeth/others (implied)
Genre:
Humour/Romance/Angst/General
(probably a little bit of everything)
Warnings:
Spoilers for CotBP and DMC
Disclaimer:
The mouse? But I honestly believe Jack and Elizabeth are owned by no
one but themselves ...
Summary:
Elizabeth hears a story about pirates
Charlotte watched Elizabeth from the corner of her eye, surprised how absorbed the elder woman had become by her own story. Her looks had always betrayed her true age but now, in the dim light of the evening sun, cheeks reddened and eyes filled with life, Charlotte couldn't help but think that Lady Elizabeth Wentworth had indeed turned into the rebellious girl from her story that had just been taught a song about pirates.
"Who was the gentleman that came to your rescue at the market? Was he really a friend of your father's?", she asked, indignant to press her companion but unable to suppress her curiosity.
Elizabeth turned her head to look at her, very slowly, almost as if she was unwilling to let go of some unknown image that seemed to have manifested itself inside her mind. She needed a few moments to realize what Charlotte's question had been, then answered with a smile: "The gentleman introduced himself as Mr. Robertson and as it turned out, he was indeed some kind of acquaintance of my father's."
"And is it true he actually met a pirate?"
"Yes, it is. He probably met quite a few of them, but I think there was one he remembered in particular. However, I didn't get to hear his story for I just couldn't stop singing until we had arrived at the doorstep of our London home. And once we got in, there was no way for us to continue our pleasant little chat. I was sent to my room immediately where I had to endure three exhausting lectures on what happened to little girls who were walking around London while the whole house-hold was dying from sorrow – one from my father, one from Miss Melchett and one from the cook who had returned from the market, all in tears.
To be honest, I can't remember what my reaction was but I don't think I behaved as remorsefully as I was expected to. In the end, I was sentenced with three weeks of house arrest which, in my eyes, was quite definitely worth it to have met a man like Mr. Robertson, heard the song, and the fact that now I knew what a pineapple looked like."
"But you did meet him again – I mean, Mr. Robertson?"
"Well, yes. Only a few days after my infamous adventure at the market, on a Saturday evening after dinner – I was already wearing my nightdress – our maid came to my room and made me dress again. I was then brought downstairs by Miss Melchett who finally left me in the library. There, my father was sitting with my rescuer, both of them absorbed in some lively conversation when my arrival was announced.
"Good evening, Elizabeth", my father said formally as it was his way.
"Good evening, father", I replied casually, "Good evening, Mr. Robertson."
I was overjoyed to meet the man again, especially since I couldn't wait to hear his story about the pirate. Actually, I had thought of little else during the past few days which I had entirely spent in my room, drawing ships and reading a novel about a princess and a pirate which I had pinched from one of the maids.
Standing up from his armchair, Mr. Robertson bowed slightly and smiled at me astutely: "Good evening, Miss Swann. I am glad to see you've recovered from your somewhat unusual trip to the market."
"We cannot thank you enough for your courageous intervention, can we? Elizabeth?"
My father obviously expected an expression of thanks from my side as well, but at this particular moment, I wasn't able to speak at all. My eyes were fixed on Mr. Robertson, whose body – without being hidden by a cloak – was clearly lacking of an important part. The longer I stared at him, the more I became convinced that his left arm was missing. I knew my father was shooting angry glances at me but I just couldn't help asking wondrously: "What has happened to your arm?" And after a few seconds, remembering my upbringing: "Sir?"
"Elizabeth, what …", my father began but was interrupted by our one-armed guest.
"No, please don't scold her for a question I would consider as completely natural. Truth be told, I prefer a honest question to fifty people staring at me for the whole evening but feeling too polite to ask what strange act of destiny made me lose my arm. Which, I have to admit, is quite an entertaining story I actually enjoy retelling..."
He made another bow, then sat down again and looked questioningly at my father. He still seemed to be less than contented with the behaviour I had shown towards Mr. Robertson but reluctant to start another dispute. So he told me to sit down in one of the remaining armchairs from where I could listen comfortably to Mr. Robertson's story.
"As it is", he began, "your father asked me to tell you a little bit about Jamaica and the Caribbean as a whole for a reason we'll come to in no time. The story of my arm or rather the way I lost it is, in my opinion, a rather interesting tale to start with." From the way my father looked at him I could detect he thought otherwise but did not dare to interrupt his guest. Mr. Robertson, however, was not in the slightest put off by this. He smiled at me and continued:
"I came to the Caribbean as a Lieutenant serving in the Royal Navy. Later on, I was promoted a Commodore and it was in this position I got into trouble with some merchant sailors who turned out to be nothing than a pack of vile criminals."
Turning to my father, he added: "You should really look out for those fellows of the East India Trading Company. They may enjoy the protection of the crown but the king has no knowledge at all of their dealings down there. Especially Beckett – I'm sure you remember what I've told you about poor Feversham's son."
My father nodded, obviously not feeling inclined to follow this subject any further as long as I was sitting with them. As you may already suspect, I was dying to learn what had happened to 'poor Feversham's son' but was wise enough not to ask as I wanted to hear Mr. Robertson finish his story. So, fighting my curiosity, I bit my tongue and looked at him expectantly. Having secured my attention, he continued: "Anyway, the story which led me to fight that watery-eyed scoundrel would take me far too long to tell, and I don't think it would be of any interest to you at all. I am not a bad swordsman and I still believe I'd won if he'd not been joined by a companion of his, sporting two exceptionally sharp daggers of a kind I'd never seen before. It's not easy to keep an eye on everything that's happening around you while absorbed in a complicated fight and so I failed to recognize the man approaching me from behind with a weapon that resembled a shamshir, those famous Persian sabres that are said to cut a man in half with only one stroke. He brought it down on my left arm, leaving it a bloody mess only loosely attached to the body. Screaming, I fell to my knees, clutching my shoulder and expecting the inevitable end. Which, surprisingly, didn't come.
Instead, a mocking voice shouted from above: "Seems like you boys from the Royal Navy have improved considerably since we last met. But thinking about it, it is rather more likely Beckett's staff has gone even worse. The result of employing a whole bunch of psychotics?"
And then, a strange creature jumped down from its place in the rigging of the three-master we were fighting on , right onto the giant sporting the sabre which had mangled my arm. My attacker was pulled down and probably fell unconscious for he remained completely unmoved by everything that went on around him in the minutes that followed.
My rescuer stepped over him as if he was nothing but a piece of cloth left on deck and planted himself in front of the two remaining scoundrels. Through my pain-blurred vision I now could see a man of indefinite age with long black hair, braided in a way common among the African slaves you can find throughout the Caribbean. He was wearing an abundance of colourful rags and had a belt fastened around his shoulder which probably contained his cutlass and sword.
"Hey", he shouted when one of my attackers lifted his dagger to stab me in the back. "I hadn't thought you as dull as to waste your time on killing a man who will die anyway while you have the priceless opportunity to get your hands on your employer's greatest nemesis."
The last thing I saw before the pain in my arm made me black out was him running towards the mainsail, Beckett's men right after him. I don't know how he did it, but I am almost convinced he didn't fire one single shot. I somehow remember him shouting something about a three-headed monkey but this might have been nothing more than my feverish imagination. Whatever had happened, I came back to consciousness and found myself facing the man who had just saved my life. He called me 'Lieutenant Robertson', but although there was something strangely familiar in his features, I didn't recognize him. He looked around as if to make sure no one was watching, then he untied one of the rags he had wrapped around the wrist of his right hand, tying it around my injured arm to stanch the flow of blood. While he was doing so, I couldn't help but recognize the 'P' that had been branded deeply into his skin. So there was no way escaping the fact that the man who had just come to my rescue so boldly was indeed – a pirate!
I must have blacked out again for when I woke again, I was back in Port Royal where I was told I had been unconscious for a mere week. I pulled it through despite some nasty blood-poisoning, but they couldn't save my arm, though. So, as soon as I was fit enough to travel, I returned to England where I was made advisor to the king. But still", Mr Robertson concluded his tale, "I will never forget about that man whom, without a doubt, I owe my life to."
Now, as you can very well imagine, this story excited and bewildered me at the same time. In the books I'd read, pirates were the villains who threatened and killed people, not the ones who risked their own lives to save them.
"But he was a pirate…" I said, confused.
"Pirate or not, he was a good man and I wholeheartedly regret I never got the chance to thank him properly," Mr. Robertson said and I could tell from the force in his voice that he really meant it.
"Samuel," my father interrupted him vigorously, calling him by his first name, "that man may have done one good deed but this is surely not enough to excuse a lifetime spent in vileness and dishonesty."
"Weatherby," Mr. Robertson replied with as much vigour, "if I learned one thing out there, it's that there's other than only black and white in this world. I have seen many things I hadn't thought possible – so why not accept that you can be a pirate AND a good man?"
"Really", my father – who didn't like to be addressed by his first name which he despised – said, shaking his head, "I can accept that Jamaica is not England. You cannot expect to civilize a place like that within a few years; but the more I hear about it, the more I think that a variety of things started to go wrong when Feversham fell into madness. Don't get me wrong, I pity the man, having lost his wife and son, but this doesn't keep me from seeing things as they really are. There are changes to be made, even you can't deny that!"
I sat on the edge of my armchair, eyes roaming excitedly from one man to the other. Of course, I didn't really understand what they were talking about, but the sound of places like "Jamaica" and the mentioning of pirates, ships and a man gone mad were sufficiently enough to keep up my attention.
"No", Mr. Robertson replied truthfully, "nevertheless, certain things can't be changed. But you'll learn about that soon, I expect."
And then, both men were suddenly looking in my direction, Mr. Robertson smiling, my father with a sorrowful expression on his face.
"Elizabeth," the latter began, "could you imagine leaving England and living elsewhere? Let's say…" he paused, "in the Caribbean?"
