Whew! What a day! Sorry, everyone. I meant to have this chapter up much earlier today but the day's hectic schedule wouldn't allow it.
Thanks very, very much to reviewers, Smithy, master of time, Nicole Kazan, Princesa Moana, WillsElizabeth23, AKA Parfait, Telcontar Rulz, Lauren, and lynxlan!! Yummy hot cocoa to you all!
Anonymous Review Responses:
Smithy: Oh, I'm so sorry!! What a relief that your nephew is doing well!! You have every right to be concerned if you've been through that. Babies are so special. :)
master of time: I'm not really sure where Hawthorne came from exactly...he's just there. Poor Jack. I couldn't resist pulling out the infamous 'm' word. ;) It's been great to have you onboard.
WillsElizabeth23: Will and Elizabeth have a few things to work out for sure. As for Elizabeth, she's stressed, emotional, and pregnant. Coherent logical thought isn't really that prevalent right now. Will is pretty much the only person who can calm her down at this point and he's not doing all that well himself...I'm really excited to introduce Alabanza Vacia to you. It might be harder than originally thought to get free of that place. I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter!!
AKA Parfait: Jack is under quite a bit of pressure but with a bottle of rum and the Black Pearl he should recover shortly. ;) I'm glad you are enjoying it!
Lauren: Oh, I'm so glad! :) This story has been a real pleasure to write.
Chapter 18: Cruel Realities
"Captain, sir?"
Hawthorne's eyes flitted up from the glass of wine he was trying to bury his headache in. "What?!"
"A ship's come along side us, sir, bearing the King's colors. She's asked for the captain."
"Her name?"
"The Sea Farer."
Hawthorne's upper lip curled. Rufus Powell…stuck-up and pompous with his powered wig and stupid little dog, the worst of English lords.
How he hated that man…
"What does the fool want?" Hawthorne demanded, hoping against all odds that it was merely a request for tea and that he wouldn't have to actually speak with Lord Powell.
"A meeting with you…captain." The younger aide stammered. After all, this kind of news could get him killed with an employer's temper similar Hawthorne's explosive disposition.
"Can he not just send a messenger?"
"No, sir, he specifically requested an appointment with you."
"Are you sure he wants the captain of this ship? Perhaps he has me confused with another arrogant idiot in England."
"He asked for you by name sir…"
"Fine." Hawthorne sulked, slamming down his glass and shoving his jacket into place. "Get him in here now. I want this over with."
The aide muttered an affirmative response and darted out.
Hawthorne had only a moment to wait before a chubby man with an enormous white wig and painted face entered.
"Hawthorne! My ostentatious fellow!" Powell held out a hand while his equally tubby dog, with its smashed nose, pattered in. "I hope this day finds you in good health. Well, that's good to hear. Now, let's get down to business, shall we?" He never once paused, leaving Hawthorne angry before the conversation really began.
"I bring a letter from our mutual friend, Edwards. Officers of espionage have discovered the long lost location of Alabanza Vacía. I'm sure you've heard of it, very good. To be quite clear, he has decided that you shall desert your quest for Sparrow to clean out this dirty spot on the map before the scoundrels catch drift of our plans."
Hawthorne lifted his glass of wine. There were other officers in the room. They could pay attention. Not he. Powell had only been in the room for possibly a minute and already the place reeked of stuffy cologne.
"Since we have that cleared away, I shall present my own proposition. I have heard rumors that you have three French women on board…"
Hawthorne's eyes lifted, attention fully peaked. Was this old windbag trying to steal his prisoners?
"So, the rumors are correct, then? Smashing." The puffy man grinned. "and I also hear you have a skilled blacksmith?"
"What of it?" Hawthorne ground out.
"I should like to take them off your hands when this business is through for a fair price."
"What for?"
"My good man, don't tell me you've never been to Spain before. The markets there are marvelous. I've been trying to get a good stock but it seems they are difficult to pick up these days."
Hawthorne hated the men, true. But it was also true that this man was one of the most wealthy he knew. Besides, he could clear out Alabanza Vacía, catch Sparrow, and then sell the lot of them, setting himself up for a few years. "How much?"
Ships were erratic and inconsistent beings, Will decided grimly as he pounded another thin nail into the curved wood. They had a mind of their own and at that moment it seemed as though every fiber of wood fought against him.
Focusing with a precise eye the smithy had ingrained into him, he held the next nail with the thumb and index fingers of his left hand while his right clutched a clumsy hammer. A quick blow later and the nail vanished halfway. He hefted the weight and struck again.
Only to hit his fingers.
A violent curse sprang to mind as he went for his throbbing digits, dropping the hammer. Unfortunately, luck seemed entirely far spent that day and it landed, full force behind it, on his booted toes.
Vehemently muttering the choice curse, he tried to pick up the hammer while soothing his inflamed hand and toes and merely succeeded in knocking over his short pail of nails.
More foul words tumbled past his lips.
He scurried forward, trying not to think about his bashed toes, and scooped up as many of the nails merrily rolling across the deck as he could, all the while pricking his palms on the sharp ends.
The irons encircling his ankles seemed to clatter louder than ever, as if mocking his ungainly and gawky attempts to recover the tools.
"You! Turner! Shut it!" A soldier working a few yards away snapped.
A smart remark was easily within reach but Will swallowed bitterly. A confrontation was the last thing he wanted right now.
He had been laboring over the ship with the crew for three days now, working both night and day. Hawthorne had realized in the first hour that it would take years for Will to repair the ship entirely by himself and so he had ordered his crew to aid the prisoner. This, of course, did not sit well at all with the crew, having only been told a short time before that they had a short vacation. Therefore everyone's temper was especially brittle and short.
If it was his well-being was on the line he would have acted and spoken as he liked yet that was not the case as he was reminded daily by Hawthorne. The Wood's girls were visibly fading under the sun's harsh glower, the weather's cruel pleasures, and no nourishment.
This day though he was infuriatingly close to being finished and that fact alone cause everything to be particularly trying.
Finally, collecting the last of the nails he dumped them back in their little pail irritably and lifted his hammer. However, he was increasingly reminded of his lumbering attempts previously with the smarting of both his feet and hands. A sigh pressed against his lips and, having not the willpower or strength to tamp it down, fell free.
This was going to be one long day…
Elaine sagged against her restraints, letting the unforgiving metal cut farther into the supple skin of her wrists. She was almost beyond the point of caring.
It hurt too much to care. It hurt too much to think, to breathe, to live.
The death of her mother and the responsibility that, consequently, was thrust upon her shoulders was definitely a weight she did not need right now.
Beside her Celia had fallen into a light slumber and Mariel was unusually silent, her face turned away and body deathly still.
"Mariel? Sont vous bien? /are you well?/"
No reply traveled upon the salty breeze.
"Mariel, sil vous plait. Répondez-moi. /answer me/"
"Pourquoi devrait je? /why should I?/"
"Mariel," Elaine tried to gather the remains of her own tattered morale to offer at least a shred of comfort to her sister but even as she opened her mouth to speak Hawthorne began to approach them, a large cluster of the crew behind him.
Though she tried to hide it, her heart beat faster and her palms grew slick in trepidation. This man was not right in the head and she was petrified of what might happen next.
But Hawthorne barely spared them a second glance for following him was Will. His wrists had once more been curtailed by a bulky set of shackles and his shoulders drooped, whether it was from weariness or disheartenment she had no way of knowing.
"At last, Turner, the Waking Power is whole. At this time I shall complete the rest of my promise." Hawthorne stopped for a beat and grinned madly. "Boys, our 'friend' hasn't kissed the gunner's lady!"
The crew hooted and howled in pleasure at this proclamation. Their hands tightening around Will's shoulder's and arms.
One particularly tubby man who never got along well with Will leaned over and whispered, his hot breath covering Will's ear, "You are gonna get it now, boy."
"Shall we give him the honor?"
A chorus of emphatic 'ayes' and more whistling was his answer.
Will's mind was whirling as they shoved him across the deck. Why did they want him to kiss the gunner's lady? Who was gunner anyway? And why on earth would they want him to kiss some lady? Though he did not have answers something twisted in his gut and he instinctively knew that this would not be an agreeable experience for him.
The crew now acted alone, Hawthorne standing to the side. They dragged him towards a large black cannon and pressed him over the gun's barrel, stretching his stomach across the wide girth.
Then, securing his shackled hands with a length of rope through a loop on the gun's underbelly, they moved back, allowing Hawthorne to step through.
"Comfortable?"
Will's eyes flashed in spite but he never said a word.
"Ah, I see we shall have to loosen that tongue of yours for you." Hawthorne held out his hand and a crewmember laid a long leather instrument in his open palm.
"You see this, Turner?" Hawthorne bent in Will's line of vision, letting him see all nine braided strips of cord. Tiny twists of metal adorned the brown leather and caused the sun to glint on the cruel device. "This is my favorite toy." He patted as one would a favorite dog or cat. "It is called the cat of nine tails."
He waved it before Will's nose. "Rather pretty, isn't she?"
Will's anger had cooled a bit, leaving behind ice cold revulsion. "So, this is how you repay service on board this vessel? By beating your men like curs?"
Hawthorne's face turned purple. "Prepare him!"
Elaine could not believe what she was about to witness. She had heard of floggings before but never once did she ever think that she would be present for one, especially when Will Turner was the recipient of such barbaric cruelty.
There was a loud tearing sound and she forced her eyes to open. As the crew returned to their original positions for watching the 'sport', she saw Will's back bared to the sun and in moments the whip's caress.
The sight was one that sent shivers up her spine. Elaine shut her eyes as quickly as she had opened them and kept them clenched shut, hoping against all odds that somehow she would wake up and this would all have been a nightmare.
A quick snap of leather striking flesh followed by a soft and half muffled grunt was her answer.
This was no dream.
This was reality.
And reality was cruel.
The world was consumed with blackness. It swallowed everything and left in dripping in frigid hate.
Suddenly a gust of cold wind blew over the dark surface, rippling the obsidian waters and stirring up its glassy top, and carrying with it a myriad of noises and feelings, a sharp hiss of one in pain, a quick crack, and the breathless sob of a woman.
It swallowed up the world and twisted it in horrible burning pain. Waves of sticky warmth spilled over and the air reeked of fresh blood.
Elizabeth leapt from her pallet, dripping with icy sweat and heaving for oxygen. For a full minute all she could do was lean against the dark wood.
Nightmares had filled all her sleeping hours since the confrontation with Will on the Waking Power. But never had they been this horrific. They had always involved someone in pain, terrible, extreme pain, one that drove out all thought or feeling except misery.
Near tears, she lifted herself up and stumbled to the deck. Not caring who saw her as long as the stench of blood left her nostrils.
The door's handle was pried free and she careened out into the night air. Sobs shook her body and she collapsed near the rail. She thrust out her hand, hoping to catch something solid to keep her mind from trapping her in another ghastly dream. Her fingers brushed something smooth and glassy.
A bottle of rum.
Not realizing what exactly she was doing she wrapped her hand around the bottle's neck, loosed the plug and downed a large gulp. The liquid burned all the way down her throat, settling like acid in her stomach, and bringing more tears to her flooded amber eyes.
It was Will causing these dreams. It had to be.
"I hate you." She chocked out, knowing he couldn't hear her but feeling better all the same. "I hate you, Will."
Another swig of alcohol and she sobbed harder. This was not the life she had imagined with Will. This was everything but what she had wanted.
And it was all Will's fault.
Will crumpled to the floor like a dry leaf. His back was a mess of intercepting stripes, each bleeding with a vengeance and blazing in fervent pain. Sweat coated his forehead and hands.
He was so out of tune with the world around him he barely noticed that two sailors had pulled him to his feet and were yanking him somewhere.
There was a sharp gasp and he managed somehow to look up. The three Wood girls started in horror back at him.
"A closer look ladies?" Hawthorne laughed, a crazed light in his eyes.
Will was pushed forward one last time. Yet this time his weary and pain fuzzed brain seemed to register what they intended to do. "No," the word was not spoken as forcefully as he would have liked but at least it was said. He pressed his heels into the wood and tried to jerk back against the men's firm grip but it was a battle that was destined to be lost.
A quick cuff to his tortured back later and he was facing them only a few feet away. He was spun around, lending the sisters a full view of his shredded flesh.
"Perfect." Hawthorne marveled over his handiwork, enjoying with each passing moment their mounting nausea and horror.
Will was pivoted again, except this time to his drained mind the room did not cease spinning and everything twirled to a peaceful black as he slumped forward.
TBC...