Ok, mates. I haven't forgotten ya'll. I've got a long list of these shorties that I'm going to be writing. I just happen to be doing ones I set for myself. But I have names and ideas written down, never fear! After seeing AWE, I thought it would be interesting to see Bree's reaction to Beckett taking control of the Dutchman. I have a slight feeling she wouldn't get along well with Mercer…as in she would go for his throat (and there was much rejoicing). Once again, story lines don't match up and I'm kinda changing the plot, but still…and I know Mercer wasn't on the Dutchman at this time, but I wanted to take out some bitterness on him. Yay for the freedom of fanfics! Oh, and it's a two parter…suspensethful.
"Sail ho!"
Bree turned at the call, looking off the starboard side. Sure enough, there was a sail. She trained her eyes on it. It was a seventy-four, formidable and strong. She could see the flag flying…a blue flag.
E…I…T…C. Bree couldn't read, but she had been told those symbols, and she recognized the logo.
Hellfire, what do they want now?
Jones wasn't out on deck. He was in his cabin, and Bree could hear the low sound of the organ and felt slight reverberations. He wasn't playing hard today…he was too exhausted. They had been attacking any pirate ship that was seen, and taking no survivors.
Bree watched the ship getting closer, feeling somewhat helpless. They couldn't fire on her…they couldn't do anything but sit and wait to be given orders.
Like a mongrel pup…
Bree stood in a line with the others as they were herded to the opposite end of the deck, the marines all pointing their muskets toward them, bayonets flashing in the mid morning sun.
Maccus looked to Bree, nodding. She returned the nod, breaking from the line and heading for the captain's cabin. A marine pointed his musket at her, barking out, "What're you doing?"
Bree turned, baring her teeth, "Calm down, twitchy trigger! I'm just goin' to alert th' Cap'n!"
Beckett viewed Bree with a look of disgust. He still couldn't get used to seeing a female so mutilated by service here. And she behaved like a common sailor. But he nodded to the marine, "Let her be."
Bree knocked at the door of the cabin, and when she received no answer, she pushed her way in. She peered in through the gloom of the long hall. She saw Jones sitting up straight, his face turned to the side. He was trembling.
Afraid but still needing to alert him, Bree called out, "Cap'n…a Company ship…"
Jones' eyes snapped to hers, and Bree fell silent. She watched him rise, his head bent down. He moved with a strangely animated pace, his broad shoulders shaking with rage. As he passed the girl, Bree only caught a brief glance of his face. She quailed. There was death in his eyes. And what was that? On his cheek, a strange line, like a stain.
No…
A tear stain?
Bree followed Jones out. He was spluttering with rage at the marines, addressing Beckett, saliva and bile spurting from his mouth, "Go! All of ye! An' take that…that…" he motioned with a jerky gesture at the chest that was held between two marines, "that infernal thing with ye! I will not have it on my ship!"
Bree ducked around him, seeing Beckett emerge with the other man, Mercer.
"I'm sorry to hear that," began Beckett, his voice like that of one trying to bring a disobedient child under control, "because I will. Because it seems to be the only way to ensure that this ship does as directed by the Company."
He came closer to Jones, staring him right in the eye, even though the great sea captain was a good two heads taller than Beckett, "We need prisoners to interrogate, which tends to work best when they're alive."
Bree winced. Jones had been ordering no quarter whenever they preyed on a ship. He delighted in killing…at least, more so than usual.
Jones had gotten most of his rage under control, but his voice still quivered slightly as his cold blue eyes cut into Beckett, "The Dutchman sails…as its captain commands."
Beckett didn't flinch at all, "And its captain is to sail it as commanded." He stepped closer, speaking with a type of cruel satisfaction and pleasure, "I thought you would have learned that when I ordered you to kill your pet."
Jones looked away, his eyes showing pain. Confusion and utter hopelessness was etched into his face, his mouth open as if searching for words, or just searching for breath, his tentacles curling and clenching. Bree felt pity tweak her stomach. She had been there when the Kraken had died at the hands of its master. She had assisted.
"This is no longer your world, Jones," spoke Beckett. "The immaterial has become…" he paused for effect, "…immaterial." He made a hand motion, "Admiral."
A man wearing the brocade of an admiral strode forward, two marines carrying the chest following him, also followed by five men carrying guns and another with swivel guns. They went into Jones' cabin.
Jones watched it all dumbly, as if he couldn't process it. The crew all looked bewildered. This wasn't the Jones they knew.
Bree could see the pain in Jones' face. She suddenly found her voice, even if she didn't want it.
"It's our world as much as yours!"
Beckett, who had turned to go back to the Endeavor, looked at the girl, raising an eyebrow, "I beg your pardon, Miss?"
Bree pushed Maccus and Oglivey aside, even though the mate and gunner tried to stop her. She narrowed her eyes and set her mouth in a firm line. Then she spoke again, her inner self crying out wildly No, no, no! "I said this world is ours, too. An' this ship's command belongs to Davy Jones, an' Davy Jones alone."
The crew looked alarmed. Bree was setting herself up for the gallows! They all looked to Jones, but the captain simply stared at the girl, as if he couldn't hear her words.
Bootstrap hissed out, "Bree!" But Bree didn't turn, her eyes on fire. She knew she was too rebellious for her own good. But she had a belligerent spirit that couldn't sit back and take injustice or bullying. And it took hold of her until words spilled out like insubordinate streams in full flood.
"We serve the Sea 'imself!" Bree said, motioning to Jones, "An' the sea is a place of freedom! Ye can't control it! Men 'ave never been able to, an' they never will! It's free!"
"And you have too free a tongue, young lady," Beckett said, his voice perfectly calm, unfazed by her rebellious talk, "I would do something about it before you find it nailed to a post." He turned, motioning to Mercer, who stepped forward, grabbing Bree by the shoulders and thrusting her back into line.
"Mercer, I'm leaving you in charge here," Beckett said, crossing the gangplank. "Make sure orders are obeyed." Here he looked pointedly at Bree, who was glaring balefully back at him.
When the Company men who were not assigned to the Dutchman had left, Mercer turned to Jones, who was still standing to the side in a daze.
"My orders are the only ones you are to follow now, Jones."
Jones turned his cold blue eyes on the man, his lip twitching as if he were ready to show his teeth. But he turned, looking in the doorway of his cabin. At least three swivel guns were aimed at the open chest. His heart lay there…just open to anything.
Jones sighed brokenly in defeat. It was over. Beckett was right. This was no longer his world.
Bree, Bootstrap and the rest of the crew had all been forced down to the gun deck. They all huddled together dejectedly. Bree was between Bootstrap and Clanker, head resting on her knees. She was exhausted. They had worked nonstop, and the marines and Company men had given the girl endless trouble with plenty of hard kicks and blows.
Bootstrap put his arm around Bree as Clanker supported her slightly with his knee.
"Bree, they didn't hurt ye none, did they?"
Bree shook her head, accepting a bottle from Koleniko, who had scooted closer to them, "I'm all right…just a few bruises."
Clanker shook his head, "The buggers…they've no right to do that to ye. I thought they were civilized gents."
Bree chuckled humorlessly, "That's civilization for ye, mate."
Palifico was passing them, bent double. He stopped beside them, speaking in a low voice, "We can't let 'em do this, mates. The Cap'n…" he paused, looking around.
"Cap'n's not goin' to do anythin'," came the voice of Quittance. He flicked a barnacle away from his face and leaned back against one of the guns, sighing, "It's dull down 'ere…but at least we can rest."
He was right. Bree herself was falling asleep, and Clanker gave her his shoulder. Palifico looked to Bree. "How is she?"
Bootstrap shrugged, "Same. Those Company men didn't go easy, though. Rats. I saw one of 'em go at 'er with a sea-soaked rope's end!"
"All unner Mercer's orders," Koleniko growled vengefully, rubbing at his shoulder. The rest of the crew had gotten a hard time too…but Bree had been an easier target due to her smaller size and weaker physical condition.
Palifico nodded sympathetically, "Poor whelp…wish this hadn't happened."
"We all wish that, but it won't help, so put a bloody sock in it!" yelled Oglivey, trying to sleep nearby. Penrod was under the crook of his arm, and Oglivey wasn't in a good mood.
"I wanna go up on deck an' get outta here!" came the somewhat crazed shout of Wheelback, the slightly mad crewmember. He was sprawled out on his stomach, the wheel on his back quivering as he breathed. Ratlin snarled, kicking at the wheel, gaining a yelp from Wheelback, "Shut yer face, I'm tryin' to sleep."
Twins was carrying on a conversation with himself, but one head was falling asleep while the other continued talking. Maccus, who was sitting between Twins and Jimmylegs, found this too much and hit Twins with the handle of his boarding axe.
All in all, everyone was in a bad mood. And bad moods in confined spaces never turn out well. Koleniko was accidentally pricking Crash, who was already angry with Old Haddy for snoring. Greenbeard and Angler were sitting together, trying to sleep in a huddle, but Jimmylegs' whip seemed to 'accidentally' flick out to lick at them. Hadras was just getting on everyone's nerves, and Bree was cranky because she was sore and needed sleep. Clanker stayed indifferent, and Bootstrap just took it all in silence, occasionally looking upwards as if for help. It would have been quite comical had there not been the feeling of impending doom and the sound of men of the government running things up on deck.
Bree at last fell asleep along with Bootstrap, and Clanker, Koleniko and Maccus soon followed. After a few minutes, everyone was either sleeping or sitting in silence. All seemed lost.
There was nothing to be done.
Time passed slowly for the crew of the Flying Dutchman. They worked all throughout the day, endlessly abused by the Company men and the sadistic Mercer, and then herded into the gun deck every evening. They were given very little to drink and nothing to eat. They were viewed as animals, and life like this was turning them into animals.
Bree felt as if she would lose control. She hated the long nights crammed in between the guns. They were always so tired they fell asleep packed together. The only optimistic thing about the whole dreadful business was a deeper bond formed between them all, even if brawls did break out.
Jones was still allowed to reside in his cabin, but he refused. He never left the deck, and he never slept. His eyes had a hopeless look in them, his blue depths becoming paler by the day. He was giving up, and fast. The presence of his heart on the ship caused him to have more outbursts of emotion, no longer reserved and hidden. He had moments of frightening rage, and then seemed as if he were ready to burst into tears, though he never did.
But Bree found much of his anger directed at her, and she knew why. A woman had caused all of this…and a woman would be the one to suffer for it. She was the scapegoat for all his pain, even if none of it was her fault. She found herself hating this woman, however. She had caused nothing but trouble for all seafaring men, because she had betrayed Davy Jones.
Bree was exhausted from all this emotional strain. Jones was working away at the very core of her sanity, like an urchin on a strand of kelp. Her endurance was running low, and she felt far more tired than usual. It wasn't helped by the fact that Mercer was looking for chances to cause her grief. He was similar to Jones in that he liked to break hard spirits, and Bree was a hard spirit. It called for some complicated tactics.
Trouble really started the second week of the Company occupation. Bree was working alongside Bootstrap and Greenbeard, swabbing the deck. One of the marines maliciously kicked the bucket full of dirty liquid into their faces, drenching them.
Furious, Bree swept her hand out, scoring five long claw marks on the man's legs. Bootstrap grabbed her arm, "Stop it, Bree!"
It was too late. The marine, howling in agony as he fell to the deck, clutching his bleeding legs, was noticed by Mercer and the admiral. They both approached, and it was easy to read the situation. Bree had a proud, defiant look in her cold eyes, though her arms were tensing uneasily.
Mercer hauled the marine up, shaking him by the shoulders, "Stop that bawling! Now get back to your post!"
The man saluted shakily, limping off to the side.
Mercer bent down, level with Bree, "Missy, that was close to a mutinous gesture."
Bree bared her teeth, "Was it now? Lemme redo it so it was a mutinous gesture!"
Mercer shook his head, a cruel smile spreading over his tight mouth, "Young woman, I would expect more wisdom in you. But, you are a pirate…so I can't expect much."
Bree smirked, "I am wise…now you wise up an' get outta my face."
Greenbeard looked to Bootstrap, opening his beak-like mouth slightly as if to relay a thought. Bootstrap shrugged. It was useless. When Bree got going…there was no stopping her. It was like an ancient Nordic wolf skin, totally bereft of any sense.
Mercer grasped Bree by the front of her jerkin, hauling her up. She winced, but kept her eyes cold. The man glared at her, that same cruel smile on his mouth, "The cat's your new best friend, young lady."
Bree turned, growling, "Not new at all…"
After becoming reacquainted with the cat, Bree was confined to the gun deck for the rest of the day. She lay in a puddle of seawater, wincing every once in a while as the salty liquid cleaned her wounds with the usual sting. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. Jones hadn't let up, and neither had Mercer.
Bree was drifting off into a semi sleep when the crew was all herded into the gun deck, grumbling and snarling in protest. She tried to raise her head, but felt pain lancing through her temples and simply let it fall back on the deck.
Bootstrap joined Bree, leaning over her, "Ye all right, darlin'?"
Bree nodded, giving a short noise in answer. Clanker scooted closer, "Gaw, I've about had it wi' them up there!"
Koleniko joined them, his right cheek expanding, the spikes separating, "I have had it with 'em!" He reached over, helping Bree to sit up as she began to pull her bloodied jerkin back onto her shredded back.
"Well, we can't do anythin' if the Cap'n's just goin' to sit tight," commented Crash, overhearing their words.
Clanker looked toward the entrance to the gun deck, craning his head around and asking, "Where is the Cap'n anyhow?"
Bree shrugged, adjusting the collar of her threadbare sailcloth shirt, "Off feelin' sorry for 'isself, most likely."
"Wrong, Miss Bree."
The entire crew whirled around to see Jones himself standing on the stairs. His arms were crossed, his eyes dark and dangerous.
Bree paled as he began sweeping them all with his cold stare. When he reached her, he lingered just a bit longer, as if to prove to her he planned on carrying out punishment for her loose tongue.
"Boys…we have to admit defeat eventually. It's what life is about…holdin' out as long as possible. It's no longer possible."
A murmur of protest was quelled by another sharp bark from Jones, "Silence!"
Bree stood up as straight as was possible in the gundeck, "Cap'n, sir, ye can't mean it! We haven't lost yet!"
Agreement was heard throughout the crew as they turned to look at their captain. Jones shook his head mournfully, "Listen to me…I've no choice. No choice at all."
Bree sat back down, but still spoke out, "But sir! What's to stop us from surroundin' the bloody dogs an' murderin' 'em?"
Shouts of concurrence were again heard, and even some admiring glances were cast at the girl. What a bloody little mind she had! It was something needed in a crewmember of the Flying Dutchman.
Jones growled at Bree, "Silence, Miss Bree. Hold yer tongue afore I cut it out an' feed it to ye!"
Bree bit her tongue to hold back a retort. She was too tired to risk getting into more trouble.
Jones turned his gaze from her, "I can't risk that…they've got me heart in my cabin. One wrong move, an' they blast away at it."
"Can't we create a diversion, sir?" suggested Koleniko, raising a hand. More voices agreed with this idea.
Jones shook his head, "No, lads, there ain't nothin' we can do about this."
"Beggin' yer pardon, sir…but we can't just sit 'ere!" called out Palifico. Palifico had long been feeling somewhat useless. He was Jones' appointed guard, and felt it was his duty to help the Captain in such a situation as this.
Jones turned his flat gaze on the speaker, and Palifico quailed as his Captain answered him, "I'm sorry, Master Palifico…but we have t' sit here an' do nothin'. Those are our orders."
On that annoying impulse, Bree spoke again, even though Bootstrap tried to restrain her, "Cap'n Jones, ye dunno what kind of embarrassment this is! Cap'n o' the Flying Dutchman takin' orders from some powdered wig wearin' fool who don't know the hull from the mizzenmast? Downright humiliatin'!"
Jones narrowed his eyes, a slight emotion flaring up in the ice depths.
"Miss Bree…I warned ye, didn't I? Dinnae interrupt me again."
Bree shook her head, "Cap'n, how'll ye keep yer name as the dreaded Davy Jones, captor o' souls an' all that? It's almost as embarrassin' as the fact ye found yerself bested by some strumpet that led to all this heart business!" This last statement was spoken with vehement sincerity and anger. All the restrained anger at this one woman, whom Bree had never even met, was coming out. That woman had caused all this misery because she had betrayed the wrong man. But it was Jones' fault too…wasn't it?
No, it ain't…but I don't care!
Everything went dead silent when those words left Bree's mouth. Horror was stamped on every crewmember's face…including Bree's own. She wasn't stupid. Rash and passionate, yes, but stupid, no. She was much like Jones in that respect.
Jones' face went through a gamut of expression, from shock and disbelief, to pain and sorrow of the memories, then to deadly anger.
"Ye'll wish the Kraken 'ad got t' ye by th' time I'm finished with ye fer that one, whelp," he snarled, and with that, he turned and stormed back up the stairs and onto the deck.
Bree stood still, her back rigid. She finally forced herself to sit, her face afire with fear and embarrassment as the entire crew looked at her in shock. A voice hissed close to her ear, "Ye bloody fool!"
Bree turned to see the speaker. Bootstrap! She felt hurt by his words. He had never spoken to her so harshly!
But as he continued, she saw that his hard words were coming from his concern for her, like that of a father watching out for his only daughter, "Ye've made 'im livid! He'll flog ye with a sea krait if ye continue wi' this! Ye hit a nerve…a big one!"
Bree slumped back, speaking in a mutinous tone that still shook with a fear she wished she could hide, "Let 'im hurt…I don't care. It's his own bloody fault we're in this mess."
"Ain't no excuse fer behavior like that," Bootstrap said firmly. He knew Bree was rebellious when it came to Jones…but she was getting to be a real danger to herself.
Bree turned her pale blue eyes on Bootstrap, "Mate…there's an excuse fer anythin' done on this ship…it's hell."
Bootstrap opened his mouth to object, but Bree signaled that she was through arguing. She curled up, her head tucked into the curve of her body. She had said everything she wanted to say.
And she stayed silent for the rest of the night.
The morning dawned gray and smothered with fog, fitting to the mood of the disgruntled crew that emerged from the gun deck. Bree was among the last group, her head lowered, eyes staring out from two sunken hollows of weariness and slight hopelessness.
Mercer watched the young girl with a satisfied smirk. She was lagging in her work, looking despondent and tired. It was a somewhat sudden change, considering how the day before she had been full of fire. But she was spent today.
In truth, while Bree wasn't entirely subdued, she was fading fast. She had grown tired and was losing her energy for rebellion…the emotional strain was proving to be too much for her.
Of course, Mercer felt no pity and showed no leniency toward the girl. He set one of his crew to keep an eye on her, and ordered him not to spare the rope's end. Bree had not paid fully for her rebellion.
Jones watched Bree working from under hooded eyes. Hatred was still hot in his blood, but he couldn't help feeling a pang of pity for her. The hollow look of her face…it was like seeing a small but wild horse, magnificent in its spirit, being broken with the use of a cruel, spiked bit, or by being ridden into the ground.
Her insolence still had to be punished. But somehow, Jones felt closer to his crew now. He was as helpless as they were, taking orders from someone else. He had a cruel taste of the hopelessness they felt every day.
He and Bree were very similar in the fact that they both felt trapped. Neither had a way out of their predicament. True, the rest of the crew had to deal with the East India Trading Company as well, but Bree was bearing the brunt of the hardship due to her lowly position and the fact that Mercer hated her with a passion.
But Bree was willing to rebel and do something about it, as were many of the crew…while Jones had no choice but to let things be as they were.
He reasoned with himself. Bree wasn't the one whose heart was open to bayonets and swivel guns! Of course…she was having to deal with him and Mercer at the same time.
Brave lass…he thought reluctantly. Then he forced another thought that was true as well.
Stupid lass.
Once again, the crew found themselves confined in the cramped gundeck, eyes watering from the gunpowder still lingering in the air after the brutal attack on a small sloop. They hadn't left anything.
Bree was seething with rage. No, she hadn't been flogged today, as amazing as it seemed…but she was livid with hatred for Mercer.
He had flogged Bootstrap!
Bree was busy laying strips of cloth soaked in seawater over Bootstrap's back. She ground her teeth at the memory of seeing him tied to the gratings, back bared to the cruel whip. But he had been strong. He didn't cry out and he didn't even wince as the whip struck him. Nothing but cold acceptance in his eyes. But Bree had shot poison at Mercer.
Bootstrap lay with his cheek pressed up against the slime-coated deck, not making any movements as Bree worked. He thought it slightly humorous. Normally it was he doing this for Bree. Now here he was, lying limp, allowing Bree to work. He noted with approval that she was soaking the strips just the right amount and was laying them across the bleeding areas with particular attention to the deeper cuts. She had learned from him. He had never thought she would have to use these skills on him.
"Ye all right, mate?" came Bree's voice, breaking through the fog that had started to roll in on Bootstrap's mind. He raised his head slightly, but felt Bree place her hand on his cheek, pressing his head down gently, "Don't ye dare move, Bill!"
He couldn't help a weak smirk. She only called him Bill when she was hiding her concern with testy reprimands.
"Pardonnez-moi, mon Capitaine," he answered, giving her leg a slight nudge with his elbow. She gave a little growl of annoyance, but he could tell she was hiding a nervous laugh. He spoke encouragingly, "Ye're doin' it right, beauty. 'Sides…I ain't such an' ol' fogey I can't take a floggin' now an' then."
Bree shook her tousled mop of tow-colored hair, "It ain't that, mate…they shouldn't've done it. All ye did was warn that marine 'bout the loose cable…" She blinked back tears of indignation, "He had no right t' snap at ye like that! Ye were tryin' to help 'im an' he blames ye for insubordination!"
Bootstrap attempted to shake his head, only to feel Bree's hand again, "It's past, Bree…ain't nothin' we can do t' fix it."
"There is, too…" came Bree's rebellious growl. Bootstrap raised his head fully this time, despite Bree's indignant protests, "Bree, get any ideas outta yer head. This ain't the first floggin' that's ever happened, an' it ain't the last."
Bree's eyes narrowed to icy chips, "Bootstrap, I won't let 'em get away wi' this."
"Bree!" Bootstrap grabbed hold of Bree's hand, forcing her to meet his eyes, "Can't ye see this is Mercer's way o' baitin' ye? Ye're playin' right into his hands!"
"Aye, Miss Bree, Bootstrap's right," came Clanker's voice. He knelt, removing his hat for a moment to wipe soot from his brow. He looked back up at them, "Best thing we can do is…nothin'."
Bree scoffed, "Ye're just lazy an' afraid. A pair o' old ladies!"
Clanker leaned his head back, "I feel 'bout as weak as an old lady right now."
Bree stole his hat momentarily, holding it in front of her face tauntingly, "Soggy bottom…"
Clanker rolled his eye, "C'mon, Bree, name-callin' won't get ye anywhere."
Bree flapped his hat as he tried to get it back, "Soggy bottom! Soggy bottom!"
Hadras, sitting nearby, began laughing dully, "Huhuhuh! Clankie's bottom is soggy! Everybody's bottom is soggy! We're all sittin' in-"
"Shuddup, Hadras," came Maccus' snarl. He had raised a marlinspike threateningly. Hadras was smart enough to take a hint.
Bree blew a heavy sigh, leaning her chin on her knees. Then she looked up, craning her neck over the heads of her companions.
"Jones ain't in 'ere, is he?"
"No, don't think so," said Koleniko, who was lying on his stomach nearby.
Bree nodded, scraping a few limpets from her cheek with a claw. Then she cleared her throat, looking thoughtful. Then…
"Ain't we all tired o' this tyranny?"
Silence. Then Penrod's little voice, "Aye…how'd ye debuce that?"
"It's deduce, nincompoop."
Penrod shot a glare at Twins.
Bree spoke over the sniggers, "Seriously, mates…cain't we do somethin' 'bout it all?"
"I really don't think we can, mate," Koleniko said wanly.
Bree's shaggy head drooped. She heaved another sigh, staying silent. Then she stood slightly, "Mates…this is stupid."
"Aye, so sit down!"
Bree ignored Quittance, continuing in a voice that grew stronger, "We're warriors of the sea! We're the feared crew of the Flying Dutchman! Sailors shiver in their boots when they hear our names! We're Davy Jones' fighters!"
She glared at them all, "An' here we are…sittin' cowerin' in the gundeck."
Her eyes swept them all, "I know, I'm only a slip of a girl. I ain't in charge of ye all. I ain't the captain, an' I know that I'm th' weakest one of us all." She noted that a few of the crewmembers looked at Penrod, as if trying to make a point, but she ignored it, "But why am I th' only one who wants to try to get free? Why am I the only one willin' to fight for my place?"
The crew had begun to look down, as if shamed by her speech.
"Well, mates, I've taken enough abuse from Mercer an' his boys. I'm askin'…does anyone really think those boys are any better'n us?"
More silence, though she noticed some of the crew looking around somewhat uncomfortably. Then, Jimmylegs, "It ain't worth it, girlie. Give it up."
"It is worth it!" Bree argued, "I know I can't make ye all do it…so I'm askin' ye. Why give in? Who's afraid of a bunch of red-coated idjits?"
Once more, no answer. Bree narrowed her eyes, straightening.
"Well sirs…I ain't aimin' to give up anytime soon. I'm goin' to get rid o' these ruddy tyrants."
"How?"
Uncertainty flashed in her eyes, and she faltered, "I…I dunno…but I will!"
"Yeh, you an' what army?" came a jeer from Old Haddy. Penrod sniggered, but someone cuffed him roughly.
Bree continued speaking, "It's worth a try. Anyone with me? We could end all of this…" She felt very weak and small, standing amid a crowd of hardened men, trying to rouse them with feeble words. But she had had enough.
Silence…and then…
Bootstrap looked up at her, then smiled, "I'm with ye. We'll think o' somethin'." He glanced around, "Anyone?"
After a lull, Clanker, Koleniko and Palifico stood. Between them, they helped Bootstrap to his knees, supporting him. Hadras stood up as well, but he ruined the solemnity of the moment by standing up too quickly and banging his head on the wooden planking. A ripple of laughter was heard, and in a surge of camaraderie, more members stood up. Soon they were all standing together. Yes, even Jimmylegs.
Bree grinned, calling out to the men, "Right, mates! We're goin' to make those company men wish they'd never left their harbor!"
A soft cheer went up, and Bree had her hair ruffled a little too much.
Above, on deck, Jones crouched by the entrance to the gun deck, hidden from sight. But he could hear every word that was spoken. And he couldn't help but smile. Bree…she had a skill for that sort of thing…bringing everyone together. While he didn't think she could achieve what she was hoping…he admired her for trying.
"Jones!"
Jones bristled, his hackles rising. He turned his head slowly, narrowing his eyes as he looked up at Mercer. Mercer was glaring down at Jones, "On your feet, Jones."
Jones rose, coming to his full height. He was a full head taller than Mercer, and his tentacle beard squirmed as he spoke in a dangerously low voice, "On my ship, ye will address me as Captain."
Mercer didn't back down, "This ship is under my command."
Jones met Mercer's eyes with his own icy stare, the pale blue depths murderous as he spoke in a perfectly calm voice, but it still carried authority and danger.
"For now."
Down below in the gun deck, Jimmylegs, who was sitting near the stairs, had called everyone to be silent, motioning upwards.
Bree strained her ears to listen, catching the last bit. She rose slightly, still bent double. She began weaving her way to the stairs, stepping in between the crew. They tried to make room for her, some even lifting her up over their heads in an almost friendly gesture.
Bree reached the stairs, and began walking up them, stamping her feet loudly to announce her presence. She appeared on deck, seeing Jones and Mercer turned toward her.
Bree raised an eyebrow, "Am I interruptin' somethin', chaps?"
Jones looked at her as if seeing her anew. After hearing her down below, he couldn't help but feel a bit of respect for her. And the calmness she was displaying…it was admirable.
Mercer crossed his arms, "Ah, Miss Bree…our little rebel has learned her lesson?"
Bree flashed him a dangerous grin, her fangs bared pointedly, "Aye, chum…I learned that you Company men dunno how to wield the cat properly. Felt like string being flung by a baby."
Jones bit his lip to suppress a smile of wicked pleasure. Seeing Bree stand up to Mercer was like a breath of fresh air. The girl knew that Mercer could do anything he liked with her…but that didn't stop her from saying what she thought. And she was fired with her triumph. She had brought the crew together…as strange and impossible as it seemed. And she knew it was not because she had leadership skills or any sort of presence…it was because there were souls like her who simply needed urging.
Mercer gave Bree another cold stare, "Ah, still playing at that, are we? I was hoping you would learn."
Bree met his eyes levelly, "Shouldn't ye be off tendin' to yer little frog of a master?"
Bree gave a yelp of pain as Mercer slammed the handle of a dagger into her temple. She snarled out something, rubbing at the side of her head as she regained her footing.
"Mister Mercer," came a voice from behind. They all turned. The admiral was waiting, bowing his head slightly, "Mister Mercer, a word, please."
They stepped away. Jones watched the admiral closely. He tilted his head. The man didn't seem a bad sort…he looked like a stiff, rigid man of discipline, committed to following orders despite his own personal feelings. What was his name? Norring…Norrington. James Norrington, that was it.
Bree sat down slightly on the step, nursing the bruised tracing down her face. She was blinking rapidly as her eyes watered with the sudden pain. Jones went to her, kneeling down and roughly grabbing her by a lock of her hair, pulling her face up to meet his. He spoke in a noncommittal tone, "That tongue'll be the death of us all, Miss Bree."
Bree made a silent sound of pain as he tugged at her hair. She wrenched her head free, speaking defiantly, "Huh, I think we'd all rather be dead."
Jones remembered the fire that had been in her voice in the hold. He shook his head, "No, Miss Bree. I don't think anyone…or anything…could kill ye. Or even shut ye up for that matter."