Chapter 7

Elizabeth had never thought of death as the final rumble of timpani in a grand symphony, not a great culmination the masses anticipated. Rather, she thought of it as an undignified ending to a tedious journey, an arduous adventure which had been so perilously close to finishing Jack that seeing him alive after almost two hours of nerve-racking torment seemed inconclusive and out of place.

Billy hadn't just performed surgery; he had conducted an orchestra, his baton a collection of sharply pointed instruments with finely serrated teeth, his musical score a multitude of alien symbols written in stark crimson—the dissonant anguished screams his direction created were of such pain that the end of the unfinished symphony ought to have been a silent funeral march in an appropriately mournful key. And yet, by some miracle, Jack was breathing; shallow, rattling gasps from his chapped lips, bearing incontrovertible testimony that he had braved death once more.

Taciturn drops of water served as a reminder that this time, he hadn't fought with a sword or his wits, but with his very blood. Blood … blood everywhere, smeared over Jack's body, coating Billy's hands while they worked their merciless deed, and as she looked down, she realized that her hands were awash with the red stain of heavy guilt. Jack's blood … she almost laughed hysterically at the irony of it; until this moment the blood on her hands had been figurative, a filth chained to her as though she were a ship's mast.

Throughout the course of the surgery, she had knelt on the table, his head in her lap. Billy had not made one single incision when she realized that the image would forever be branded in her mind. His face, contorted with pain would forever haunt her nights, as would the inexplicable trust she found in his eyes, cutting her heart more deeply than any scalpel.

Jack Sparrow didn't trust anyone, and yet he trusted her to protect him, his look as accusing as a child's when Billy's ungentle fingers finally revealed she couldn't spare him the pain. He had struggled like a captured animal, unwilling to give up what little control consciousness offered him, but in the end, he had surrendered to the powers of suffering and passed out. He was still unconscious when Billy took up his despicable tools and wrapped them, sullied and unwashed into a shred of cloth. He jammed them into his bag, which looked to Elizabeth to be more similar to the Reaper's scythe than a surgeon's case; his thick lips were brimming with joy when he gave his final advice.

"Take care that you change the dressing. Every two hours or so, the new ones will be fouled. Best to be vigilant…" Billy grinned as Jack's head twisted and wrenched in fever. A fresh blot of crimson stained and marred the purity of the white strips Elizabeth had painstakingly shredded herself. With his macabre smile, he started toward the door, followed closely by Tai and his men whom Kate had beckoned to leave; they had done their duty, restraining Jack's flailing body, incision after incision, accepting his blows as they would the chides and blows of a superior officer. All any of the comrades, brothers bound by the honor of blood could do was to wait; wait for him to die, wait for him to live, only the long, crucial hours of the night would determine his fate.

The moment Billy's foot crossed the threshold of the front door; Kate released a sputtering shiver that she had suppressed the moment the surgery had begun.

"Despicable man; I think we ought to take advantage of his absence and air the room of his disagreeable stench. Throw the window open," she ordered, glancing sideward at a bunch of dirty linens which lay in a tidy, bloodied pile in the corner next to the door awaiting the opportunity to be burned.

Elizabeth rushed to do the mid wife's bidding, infused with new energy from Kate's orders. The kitchen window was thrown open and a burst of fresh afternoon sea air swept into the room like a sigh of relief. Elizabeth's tired features pulled upward into a smile. Jack would have loved an afternoon like this on the open water; if he'd been conscious he'd have approved heartily of leaving the window ajar. In that way, the tantalizing scent might keep fresh his undying love of the sea; perfume from an old flame.

"When he's more settled, I'd like to sweep the room and burn sage. To cleanse the bad spirits away…" Kate's grey eyes which had once been dour and downcast regained their luster as she tossed the dirty basin water into the bushes and refilled it with clean water from the pitcher.

"We'll need fresh cloth and scalding hot water…What on God's Earth…" Kate's voice trailed away, stolen from her by the growing din in Elizabeth's foray. Frowning, Elizabeth opened her mouth to question Kate, but they fell silent. The door to the entry hallway had slammed open, interspersed with the clipped footfalls of a person in a hurry. Had the Butcher returned to finish off his patient? Protectively, Elizabeth drew her pistol from her sullied apron pocket and drew back the hammer, her shoulders squared for a confrontation.

The kitchen door was thrown open, rattling on its hinges. Elizabeth spun out, her pistol drawn, aimed squarely at their company's chest.

"Where is he?" Teague growled his voice heavy and his shoulders heaving with fatigue.

"Who?" Elizabeth questioned stupidly, stunned by his distraught appearance. Teague, from her observation, had run from the heart of town, sans coat, hat and walking stick. He was exhausted from his exertion, but the burning madness in his eyes showed no symptoms of the infirmity of age.

"My boy…" His voice dropped in timbre as he brushed past Elizabeth and moved through the door frame. Teague's restless eyes fell on Jack's feverish state, the twist and turns of his head as he shivered with chills. As they drank in the sight of his son's face; Teague wobbled forward like a man who'd lost his sea legs and his strength.

His face drained of color as he caught sight of the bandaged wound; the bleeding hole covered with white so treacherously close to Jack's heart.

Teague unleashed a muffled cry and in an instant, Elizabeth had a firm grasp around his arm, bodily pulling him away from the sight that had broken them all. It was unfitting for a man such as Jack to be seen in such a base, human condition. Worse; Teague's distress at the sight of his only son prostrate on what might be his death bed was like a shot to her heart.

"I always said that one day; the life he led would get him killed. But not like this…," Teague murmured, his great power stolen from his body. Elizabeth struggled to lead him into the parlor room. He dropped wearily into the arm chair, his head in his hands. Elizabeth labored in vain to find the words to console him.

"He's quite weak…," she began, but one glare from Teague silenced that avenue of discussion. He didn't want to hear a grim prognosis, not from her lips.

"If there is any hope in our current situation …" Her voice lingered heavily on the word 'our'. It was their shared fate, and when she saw the older man's distress she realized it resonated so heavily in her heart because his grief and anguish was all she was not allowed to emote.

"Death terrifies him. He will fight for life, as he ever has. The man who braved the Kraken and lived is one who will not bow his head to a simple shot wound." Elizabeth reached for Teague's hand, and after it had rested above his soothingly, he took her smaller, delicate hand into his larger, time worn fingers.

"You know about the Kraken?" Teague quizzed with a hint of a smile in his voice. Elizabeth felt a slow blush climb to her cheeks; an episode of her life she'd sooner have forgotten.

"Jack spun the story into gold. Of course I know of the Kraken," she lied, patting his hand with a soothing air. If Teague knew the truth of how it was Jack had met the Kraken, she didn't doubt that she'd be facing the explosive end of his temper and his pistol.

"I owe you an apology, lass. You've done a good deed, what with taking him in and all. You're very kind…I'll pay you for your troubles…" Teague's masterful voice was as soft as wool and his eyes could not meet hers. The voice that had rattled brave sailors into submission had humbled, weakened by the threat of loss. It was the cracks in the foundation of his strength that summoned tears to her eyes, not Jack's condition. On his account, she felt strangely numb.

"Your son would have done as much for me, were our situations reversed. You owe me nothing." Teague's lips parted in protest and affectionately, in a gesture that was meant to baffle him into silence, she pressed her lips to his forehead, an act reminiscent of a doting grandchild.

He blinked, his mouth pressed into silence in bewilderment. They had always been fond of each other, but they were never the type of souls to express their regard. They'd looked after each other with the impression that their friendship was implied by never outwardly declared. Of all the strangers in Shipwreck City, he was the first to take her in and treat her with kindness, offering her shelter from a storm that had seemed unbearably bleak to face alone. To look after his son in this, Teague's greatest hour of need was hardly a burden.

"What you can do is to take your rest and save your strength. We shall all keep watch at his bedside to tend to his bandages. For that we'll need a pair of well rested eyes." Teague nodded slowly; he had never in his life submitted to the persistent badgering of a woman, but Elizabeth was so empathically kind in her entreaties that he had no choice but to surrender.

Kate's firm steps interrupted their dialogue; she stood on the threshold of the parlor, her arms folded sternly across her chest, a stark frown twisting her features. The patient was becoming unruly in his delirium and was starting to spout phrases in mad tongues. If she were a superstitious lout, she'd have thought him possessed by the devil. Having a good head on her shoulders was one of her better endowed traits, though that did not make her any less squeamish when it came to remaining in the room alone with him.

"Elizabeth, I have him undressed and I think its best we bathe him," Kate interrupted pointedly; there was no time for heart touching scenes when work was left undone. If he died; they might all gather together in the parlor and weep the loss of an indistinct life. The scenario was much easier to imagine than the thought of his surviving his surgery. If he lived, he'd make a very unruly invalid given the nature of his incoherent ramblings.

"I beg your pardon?" Elizabeth went very still, her body and face rigid with tension. Kate sighed impatiently; she loathed having to repeat herself, particularly when she knew the person she'd spoken to had heard perfectly well the first time she had spoken. A flush raged through Elizabeth's cheeks and she felt the heat of embarrassment singe her body down to her toes. Bathe him? It was preposterous and positively out of the question! Why it was undignified for her to do it. Not to mention, what if Jack were to come out of his delirium? Oh the horrible insinuations and badly worded puns that would exit his mouth would be excruciating. Absolutely not!

"This is no time for modesty Mrs. Turner," Kate invoked Elizabeth's married name to remind her that their efforts wouldn't be anything to corrupt her maiden eyes.

"The man stinks like a pig, no offense your lordship," Teague waved off the insult with a flutter of his hand as though he'd thought as much on numerous occasions.

"With all the dirt and Lord knows what else that's on him, the wound will fester and may become infected again. You want to give him the chance at life? Find the thickest bar of lye soap you have and follow me."