Elizabeth felt her heart beat in her ears as she climbed hand over foot on the ladder leading to the deck of Blackbeard's ship. She bit back memories of one such time she'd descended a ladder, onto a waiting row boat to justify that Jack had 'elected to stay behind.' She swallowed. Was he still bitter after all this time? …Would she be if she were in his shoes?
She brought herself back to the present. Her eyes should be set on the future. Dwelling on the past wouldn't do. So, what was it she was feeling now? It wasn't quite fear, or maybe it was, but in that fear, she could feel anticipation, longing, and a sense of a void filling within her. Wherever she was, at least she was not alone on a cabin on a hill. Her sea legs were strong after so many years on the ocean with her father, and, not to mention, her adventures with the reluctant Will Turner. Returning to the open waters felt like home.
Ragetti did not look back, but Pintel gave her a casual glance, "Try not to let him hear that voice of yers. Do whatever he says and ye might come out of this alive."
Elizabeth gave a nod from under her tricorne hat. She kept her eyes down. Being the governor's daughter for so many years, she knew what it meant for a woman to be invisible: to be seen not heard. She should be able to pull this off. Even if the idea of being a lady at sea niggled her to no end. Was there a place she could be free?
"Gentlemen." She heard Blackbeard's rough yet eloquent voice as they stepped onto the ship. She dared not look up, staring at his well-shone boots to satisfy her curiosity. "Did you get the information I was looking for?"
"'Course Sir." Ragetti spoke nervously, handing over a worn piece of paper that looked something like a map.
"Get those traders drunk and they'll let anything slip through their mouths," Pintel spoke.
"Or pockets," Ragetti chuckled.
"Excellent." Elizabeth saw the captain's strong hands unfurl, admire, and curl the item before delicately depositing it in a waiting satchel. "Now tell me," Blackbeard exchanged his satchel for the sword at his hip, "who's this?"
Elizabeth felt the tip of cold steel through the cotton at her belly. Her hand itched to draw her weapon in defense, but she stood her ground.
"Cabin boy." Pintel stepped forward, but not in front of her. "Got him off the streets of town. They had nothin' fer him no more, so I figured, why not take him with us? The boy was itching to get a taste of the pirate life." The scraggly man nodded at Elizabeth with a grin, "He knows he's scrawny, but he's good with a sword."
"What's your name, boy?" Blackbeard brought the sword up to her chin, tilting her head backwards. His coal lined eyes searched hers, becoming wide for a moment with something like recognition. Could he have known? No- her chest was bound, her jawline squared. She hadn't spoken a word…
"He's, er, a bit of a mute, Cap'n." Ragetti shrugged.
Blackbeard's eyes narrowed once more. "I see," the captain marked. "It matters not to me if you speak, boy, only that your job is done. You'll help the cook in the kitchen and carry buckets to the forecastle when the crew is to eat." He looked Elizabeth up and down once more, "Are we clear?"
She gave a sturdy nod.
"Good," Blackbeard turned. "Off with you now, the deck needs a good scrubbing."
She could see the mocking smiles on the duo's faces.
"You two can show him the ropes," the captain's voice boomed in the distance.
At that their grins disappeared.
Ragetti exhaustedly tossed the rag in the bucket and collapsed against the mast. "I worked off all the food I never ate!" he sighed.
Pintel did the same and wiped his brow. "Yer hands ain't gonna be so soft now, Peter Poppet," he lulled his head at Elizabeth.
She gave him a lazy look back and stuck out her tongue. 'Great, now they've made it so I can't retort,' she observed to herself. She should be getting to where the cook was and serving up whatever slop they had. After such hard work, she would appreciate nearly anything. As she stood, she dusted her hindquarters and turned to look at the pair of eyes that leered at her. Only Ragetti looked guilty when caught. They were her allies, but they certainly weren't making this easy. She harrumphed her distaste and was on her way.
The cook was a large man, the front of his apron all covered in grease and stains of unknown origin. His nose was bulbous and his eyes were redder than his beard. "Cabin boy, eh? Always wanted me one of those," he chuckled. "I ain't much of a cook however, they chose me fer my fat, thinking I were good of eating." He scratched his head, "Which I were, but I weren't the one cooking it," he laughed, "Go figure." The man turned and spooned from a large pot. "We ain't got much in the way of food here either." The man dropped some unknown slop into her bucket for the crew. It made a pitiful sound as it hit the bottom that made her stomach lurch. "There're some potatoes in there," he commented, "they'll make due. They always have."
Elizabeth swallowed and began to turn when her bucket was full.
"Wait a minnut now," the cook reached out and took a hold of her shoulder. "You have to feed the captain before the crew, didn't ye know?" He bent over and took something from the cabinet before placing it on the table: a bottle of rum.
The sight of the amber liquid took her back, years ago, and suddenly she was drunkenly dancing on a marooned beach.
"…We're really bad eggs," she sang, "drink up me hearties yo ho!"
Together they sang in chorus, "Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a pirate's life for me!"
"I love this song!" Jack broke in as he wound his broad hand around Elizabeth's hip.
Bits and pieces were missing as they swirled, laughed, and fell to the sand. She was lost at the passion in his eyes in the firelight, but that passion was not for her, oh no. It was for another love altogether. "…What the Black Pearl really represents," his fingers spread wide, "is freedom."
"To freedom," she raised her bottle.
"To the Black Pearl," he gave hers a clink before downing his own.
And here they were, she marveled with bitter melancholy, still chasing both.
"Leave that bucket here and bring the captain 'is meal first." At that, the cook set out what appeared to be a small roast hen. "He don't like to share," the man scrunched his nose.