Many thanks to my reviewers, AKA Parfait, lady angst, and Telcontar Rulz! You make my day!!
A/N: This chapter introduces a few linguistical challenges...so, to try and make those as insignificant as possible I've placed translations in '/'. Like this: Bonjour. /Hello./ Hopefully, I didn't lose any of those.
Chapter 11: Spiteful Rum
Blurry images gradually permeated Will's vision and a thatched roof came into focus. Soft, heavily accented, musical voices chattered above him.
Fending off a headache, he lifted a hand to shade out the bright sunlight. He felt as though someone had taken one of his many hammers back at home and went at his head like it was pliable metal.
His sight cleared and the image that faced him was almost frightening. This wasn't the military compound… Three female faces were leaning over him, none of them were actually watching him. Instead, they were talking rather animatedly in a flowing language. They were all very similar and refreshingly attractive.
"W-who?" Will frowned at the raspy, uneven edge to his voice. With a tongue that felt remarkably like a block of wood, he wet his lips and made to try again.
But the girls beat him to it. One hissed at the others in her lilting tones, "Il est éveillé." /he is awake/
"Who are you?"
"Parlez-vous le français ?" /do you speak French/ A younger girl asked.
Was it just his brain or were their words foreign? He thought they spoke English over here. "I'm sorry, what?" he ground the words out from a parched throat.
"Il ne doit pas savoir le français." /I don't think he knows French/ A girl holding a small jar seemed to chide gently.
"Please, could I have some water?" If they hadn't killed him yet they probably had a good reason. And if they had a good reason not to kill him they wouldn't let him die of thirst.
"Celia, allez chercher de l'eau. /go fetch some water/"
The smallest of the girls scampered off and the one who had just spoken continued. "I am Elaine Woods. My sister, Mariel, she found you this morning. I am sorry we cannot better accommodate you but you must understand. Our house is very small and our mother very ill." Her words blended slightly with the next.
Will tried to smile at their thoughtfulness. "Thank you."
"Monsieur, if you don't mind, I need to ask why you are you here? Shouldn't you be with your regiment?"
Will paled. How could he tell them that he was a fugitive? Surely they would turn him in…it would be more than foolish to do otherwise. "I…was separated from them."
"Is there any way we can help you find them?" Mariel asked, an apprehensive expression etched on her features.
"Ah, no, no." Will stammered quickly, maybe too quickly. The sisters exchanged a look. "Thank you for your concern but I will be able to track them on my own." His voice cracked at the last word.
Elaine turned to her sister. "Où est Celia? Elle devrait être revenue à ce moment-là. /Where is Celia? She should have returned by now./"
The other girl shrugged in response.
There was a loud creak and then the smallest lady re-entered the barn. "Je suis désolé. La mère s'est réveillée. Elle a eu besoin de plus de médecine. Je suis venu aussi vite que je pourrais, cependant. /I'm sorry. Mother woke. She needed more medicine. I came as quickly as I could, though./"
"Peu importe. Vous êtes ici maintenant. /No matter. You are here now./" Elaine waved a hand, took the glass of water, and offered it to the redcoat. Will, in turn, gratefully accepted it. "This is Celia." She pointed to the girl who had brought the water.
"Monsieur, do not drink the water so quickly. Your stomach will not handle it well." Mariel pointed out softly.
Will nodded his appreciation for the thought and with greater self-control sipped at the cool water. "I am William…" could he tell them his last name? No, surely the English would come after him. They had gone through too much to lose him now. But what name could he offer as a substitute?
The answer came by the trio's approving nod. Apparently they did not need a surname. "We are pleased to make your acquaintance."
"And the same to you."
Elaine watched as the last drops of liquid slid into Will's dry mouth. "Mariel, recevez un autre verre d'eau s'il vous plait. /Get another glass of water please./"
"D'accord. /alright/"
"What is that?"
"What, monsieur?"
"That language you all speak?"
"It is French, the tongue of my mother's people."
Mariel returned at that moment with another glass.
"Merci." Will felt the strange word fall poorly from his mouth. Elizabeth had been well versed in French and had tried to teach him a few of the words. He had never caught on well to it. There were just too many extraneous letters and sounds.
Though poorly enunciated, the three young women beamed at his effort. "You are welcome, monsieur."
Jack Sparrow fiddled with the trinkets dangling at his waist and peered at the mercantile across the street. Where in the bloody Caribbean was Elizabeth hiding herself? He knew she had been missing from his ship for around twelve days.
He had been waiting for nigh unto three hours, strolling down alleys, keeping hidden, and watching. He wasn't particularly worried about Elizabeth, as she seemed capable of handling herself, but if Will ever found out that he had left her behind…well, let's just say Jack wasn't too eager to get into a sword fight with the fiery blacksmith any time soon.
He reached down and snagged his compass, flipping the lid and staring down at the needle. It pointed straight into the heart of the city. But if there was one drawback to his compass it was that when you got in the close proximity of the item you searched for…the particulars became muddled, to say the least.
Doubts began to assail him. Maybe it wasn't Nassau she would have shown up in…perhaps she was as far down as New Providence…perhaps he hadn't really thought of Elizabeth and only Elizabeth…
He frowned and lurched towards the bay.
Elizabeth checked the thin hat, much like the ones she had worn as the Governor's daughter, on her sun bleached hair and ensured that it was in place. It was.
Dainty lace on a bit of woven straw provided little shade from the warm sun but Emma assured her it was necessary. In Port Royal she had been able to stretch the rules ever so slightly but here it could not be done.
The carriage beneath her rocked and shook as it continued on its journey to the docks. Charles had declared that it was gratuitous for her to accompany him. Yet she had insisted and he had relented, seeing no harm in the venture.
And now while she was jostled by the inadequately attended path Elizabeth began to reassess her emphatic request on being part of the vessel inquiries.
Her stomach reacted rather poorly to the movement and she was feeling considerably nauseous. Clutching her belly, she clenched her jaw and determined to keep her breakfast in place.
Charles had gone ahead and that was a mercy for she would not like anyone to see her struggles to keep from retching.
"Oh, heavens", she murmured to herself as a large bump threw her up into the air a few inches. She pressed her back into the carriage seat, eyes tightly shut and wishing to melt into the cushions.
She was just about to call to the driver to halt when the coach, mercifully, came to rest. Not waiting for the large driver to extricate himself from the front seat she yanked open the door and tumbled out, barely landing on her feet.
"Ma'am?" He looked slightly shocked.
Knowing how she must appear she plastered on a cool, calm exterior and serenely said, "I shall not need your further assistance, good sir, but I thank you for your pains." Furtively, she smoothed her skirts, tidied her hair, and rechecked the superfluous hat.
"Twas no pain, ma'am." He tipped his hat.
"I assure you, it was." Elizabeth clamped her sweaty palms on the bodice of her gown and took several deep breaths. When her stomach ceased its violent rocking, she looked back up at the bewildered driver, gathered the shredded remains of her dignity and asked, "Where might I find Mr. Blanchard?"
"He'd be over there." The man jutted a fleshy finger towards a neat building a few yards away.
"Thank you." She nodded vaguely, afraid to send her stomach plummeting into more convulsions.
"Good day, ma'am." He tipped his hat again, clicked to his horses, and disappeared in a cloud of thick dust.
Jack squinted as the sun beam's hit him squarely in his dark eyes but did not let that impede his sauntering gait towards his Pearl. She was hidden behind a vast cluster of palm trees and a sloping hill near the docks.
He wasn't all that afraid of anyone recognizing him because after all, he was Cap'n Jack Sparrow. He'd taken this port before and he could take it again. He wasn't exactly sure how but he believed in not planning on something until it popped up in front of one's nose.
Most of his brilliant ideas came from the spontaneous energy of the moment. True, some of his contrived strategies did not turn out so wonderfully but they made excellent stories to boast of in the taverns.
Jack Sparrow was known for being egregious and many a drink he had wheedled from some rum-soaked lump of pitiable life by telling his latest and greatest adventure. And while he may have tampered with the facts just a tad, they were needed to amplify the grand account.
He moved down a particularly well lit passageway behind what appeared to be a storehouse of some type and had to cross into full sunlight to get to the wooden planks over the seabed and then the Pearl.
Grinning about what a narrative this would make, he crossed out into the open and steered himself directly towards a ship he recalled belonging to Captain Blanchard.
He'd just take a quick peep on how his ole lordship was doing in the merchant bid'ness…
One thing, however, halted his steps, one thing in a light blue dress, frilly hat, and up-done hair. Ducking behind a cart full of barrels he let loose a low string of curses.
What was Elizabeth doing with them? His ranting died off seeing a deep amber droplet of liquid hanging from a spout on one of the barrels. Could it be?
He sniffed it. It was! Ahh, the sweet scent of rum! Elizabeth could wait a moment. Obviously, she wasn't in a life threatening dilemma, unusual for one with her luck.
Cupping his hands together, he managed to collect a little of the golden alcohol and slurp it up greedily. Yes, the quality of Mr. Blanchard's rum had not decreased at all. He'd know this superb beverage anywhere.
He pivoted so he could better loosen the spigot on the barrel and began tugging. Two or three hard jerks later, he changed positions as the spout hadn't moved. Again he pulled and twisted.
An odd noise caught his attention and he peered around the cart edge to see one barrel teetering on the lip of the wagon bed.
As if talking to the barrel would still it, he began, "No, no, no, no, no, no." He pressed his hands together and waited as the barrel's wobbles increased in volume and force. There was no possible way for him to reach it in time and it would not do for the barrels to tumble into the middle of the docks.
Yet the barrel seemed to have a mind of its own and (Jack could have sworn it was out of spite) the round object wavered one last time and then tumbled free, a host of barrels right behind.
"Oh bugger."
TBC...