A bit of action in this one. The prisoners and their captors reach Tortuga.
The marine whose head had been laid open by the cutlass hilt had taken a fever and lay in a ball against the bars of the cell, alternately shivering and sweating. Donahue the carpenter's mate had taken to looking after the man, managing to acquire damp bits of cloth from the abandoned mopping bucket near the cell. The other prisoners tended their wounds as best as they could, using strips torn from Williams' overcoat. They had largely been ignored by their captors, except when their meagre ration of hardtack was brought. Colburn had managed to convince the pirate captain to allow them a tot of rum, which was used to clean the worst wounds.
Corporal Johnson's arm had been the first to endure a rum-soaked cloth, but the treatment appearing to be working. There was little that could be done for Slater's broken arm, however, except to bind it to his chest. This had been long since done and the midshipman did what he could with his left arm to help tend the other injured. His leg had also been dressed, with his own cravat. The feverish marine was the most ill of them all, and seemed to be going through a cold spell. Johnson and Donahue were kneeling beside the man, draping their coats over him and whispering assurances. Across from them, in the other cell, the smuggler crew sat sullenly, staying carefully separate from the two sailors and one marine locked up with them. Slater was sure they hated him for attempting to fight off the pirates, but he found that he didn't care.
The midshipman shifted fractionally, resting his head against the cold iron bars of the cell. He had little energy to move or speak and settled for silently observing the goings-on around him. Colburn checking the makeshift bandage on Robbins' hand, Johnson holding the feverish marine's head while Donahue dribbled a few drops of rum down the man's throat, Taylor and Byrne conversing quietly. He skimmed his gaze over them impassively, too weary to attempt to reach out to any of them. Almost two days had passed since they had been locked up and he had scarcely been able to sleep. If it wasn't for the constant, throbbing pain in his arm, he supposed it might be easier to close his eyes for longer than ten minutes.
"Mind yer foot, idiot," Johnson snarled at Byrne, when the ordinary seaman accidentally brushed against the corporal's injured arm. Byrne scowled darkly in reply but took care to step more carefully as he returned to his corner of the cell. For the length of a heartbeat, Slater considered clearing his throat in an attempt to speak, but that inclination passed before he had a chance to act upon it. His thin frame sagged back against the bars and he curled his left hand protectively around his broken arm. Colburn had done a surprisingly good job of binding the limb to the midshipman's chest. For that, Slater was grateful.
A strangled cry came from the other side of the cell, drawing startled gazes toward its source. The feverish marine was clawing at the gash on his head, rivers of perspiration streaming down his face. Johnson and Donahue sprang to the man's side, pulling his hands away from the bandage that he was trying to tear off. "Steady, Foley, easy mate easy!" Johnson soothed, kicking away the coats from the marine's body. "Hush now, me boyo, yer gonna be all right."
"Gimme some cloth from that bucket!" Donahue snapped at Byrne, who retrieved the desired item with the speed of a terrified child. The carpenter's mate wrung out the cloth over Foley's face before laying it over the marine's forehead, taking care to cover the cloth with his hand so it could not be knocked aside. Johnson had sunk to his knees and was gently brushing damp strands of hair back from Foley's pale cheeks, as a father might do for an unwell son. Tears of shame pooled in Slater's eyes and he had to look away. He had let these men down, led them so wrong that there was no atoning for it.
A boot scuffed over the deck outside the cell, announcing the arrival of one of the pirates, bearing the prisoners' daily ration of hardtack and rum. "Eat up, y'ungrateful bastards," the dark-skinned man sneered, flinging a handful of biscuit into each cell. The two tankards of rum he placed down more carefully. Even pirates knew the value of drink to sailing men, apparently. In the other cell, Dunne, Williams, and the marine scrambled to claim a whole biscuit each, before the smuggler crew could lay hands on the precious bits of food. A brief scuffle broke out between the men, ending only when Dunne surrendered his biscuit to the smuggler captain. Sullen, the ordinary seaman retreated to a corner of the cell, his stomach rumbling as he watched the smugglers devour their hardtack.
" 'Ere mate, stow that sulkin'," the marine chided, tossing over his biscuit. "I ain't 'ungry."
In the other cell, Colburn handled the distribution of the hardtack in a more equitable manner, making sure each man got half a biscuit. Whatever was left, Slater noted, was carefully wrapped in Foley's cravat and stowed in the marine's cartouche. Clever, the midshipman thought, shaking his head at the half-piece of hardtack that Colburn held out to him. "Save it for Foley," he said quietly.
The boatswain's mate looked over at the feverish marine, lying against the bars across the cell with his head cradled in Johnson's lap. Feeling the weight of Colburn's gaze on him, Johnson glanced up and gave an abbreviated shake of his head. A sigh murmured past Colburn's lips. "You gotta eat too, sir."
"How is he?" Slater asked, ignoring the boatswain's mate's comment. His pale blue eyes drifted toward Foley's pale, sweating face and he didn't see the look that passed between Colburn and Johnson.
"He's sleepin' now, sar," was all the marine corporal said in reply.
"C'mon, sir, tuck in. Gotta eat or yer arm ain't gonna heal." Colburn urged, pressing the hardtack into Slater's palm. The boatswain's mate left him then, picking his way carefully to where Johnson sat. Settling himself down opposite the corporal, he accepted the offered strip of linen from Donahue and set about replacing the blood-crusted bandage on Foley's head.
Johnson curled his fingers around the injured marine's chin and crown, holding him steady in case he awoke and tried to resist them. It wasn't likely, given how weak the poor lad was. "He ain't gonna make it to Tortuga," the corporal murmured, wincing at the sight of the gash marring Foley's temple.
"S'the bloody fever," Colburn agreed, scraping the wound with a rum-soaked bit of cloth. Foley shuddered and came awake, flailing instinctively to ward off the source of the stinging pain. Donahue gripped the marine's hands and held them firmly down.
"Shh, mate, easy, take it easy," the able seaman whispered, squeezing Foley's hands reassuringly. Colburn rebound the marine's head as quickly as he could, tossing the soiled bandage through the bars when he was finished. Foley trembled and squeezed his eyes shut, curling up into a ball as much as he could. He was shivering again, another cold spell taking over. Donahue draped Williams' overcoat back over the marine and looked up at Colburn and Johnson, the worried lines creasing his face a mirror of theirs. "Poor lad."
Johnson nodded mutely and Colburn only looked away. Neither of them had the words to express their feelings so they didn't try. A shudder rippled through Slater as he watched the men, hearing their whispers but not understanding the words. Their expressions, however, told him everything. He looked down at the hardtack in his hand, then he flung it away and turned his face toward the bulkhead to weep.
Cutlasses and primed pistols guided them topside, preventing them from going anywhere but toward the gangplank. Sneering faces were everywhere as their captors revelled in their superiority. Corporal Johnson did his best to hold his temper and kept his gaze directed forward. The still-feverish Foley was cradled in his arms, blessedly unconscious. Johnson had resisted Colburn's attempt to take the injured marine from him, snarling a curse that rocked the boatswain's mate back on his heels. Foley was one of his lads, he was responsible for the fellow's well-being. He'd done everything he could for the marine, going as far as rocking the poor lad when he slipped into delusions. The paternal side of him had taken over, from the instant he'd seen that damned pirate smash his cutlass hilt into Foley's head. Those bastards would regret it heartily if the lad died.
"Move along, there!"
Ahead of him, Mister Slater stumbled and a pirate was quick to leap forward and deliver the boy a kick to get him moving again. Colburn returned the favour with a heartfelt curse, earning himself a whack to the ribs with a pistol butt. The brief scuffle almost boiled over into a full-out fight, for Williams was drawing back his fist to level the pistol-wielding pirate, but Johnson was in no mood to tolerate a delay. Foley needed to get someplace shaded, and soon. The corporal's injured arm was beginning to ache badly.
"Belay that, sailor! Help Mister Slater along an' let's git to where'er we're bound!"
"It's refreshing to hear a voice of reason amongst fools," the pirate captain remarked, ambling down the gangplank toward them. "Get them moving, Fordham, enough lolling about. How is that lad there, then?"
Johnson glowered at the swarthy pirate's smug face. "He needs a doctor, or he's done fer."
"Pity. There's no doctors on this island. More's the shame, eh?"
"Blackguard," the corporal grumbled as the pirate captain sauntered away, laughing at his words. The procession moved forward again, reaching the street after a minute, where a jeering crowd was beginning to gather. Bunch of lawless sods, the lot of 'em, Johnson thought in disgust, as bits of rubbish and stones came sailing through the air at them. It was their uniforms that brought on the derisive shouts and rotten pieces of God-only-knew-what. A soggy hunk of bread splattered against his shoulder and he saw a rock bounce off Williams' temple. He stumbled and would have fallen, if Colburn hadn't grabbed him. Johnson drew up a wad of mucus from the back of his throat and spat at the rock-thrower, grinning when the unpleasant missile struck the bastard square on the nose. He received a hail of rubbish and insults in return, but he endured it with a smirk. It was enough to know he'd gotten them back.
"Keep together, lads," Donahue called out, as the single-file line of prisoners carried on down the street. A quick laugh rang over the jeers, coming from the end of the procession and Johnson heard the thick Scottish accent of Byrne.
"A song, mates, a song! Wot's a walk ter anyplace widout a tune!" The ordinary seaman laughed again, the sound booming and cheerful. Johnson couldn't help thinking the man had gone utterly mad. "Sp'nish Ladies, eh?"
To the corporal's surprise, the sailors gave a cheer and bellowed out the song that the Scotsman had named. Madness, the whole lot of them had fallen into madness. Shaking his head, Johnson held his silence, listening to the lusty voices of the seamen rising ahead of and behind him. No doubt they'd pay for their boldness with blood, but if it helped to buoy their spirits, perhaps it was worth it.
His prediction was proven correct when the pirate captain came rolling through the crowd, his sword drawn. He strode purposefully past Johnson and the others, his sun-beaten face set into an angry mask. There was a crack of metal against bone and abruptly the singing stopped. Johnson sighed. That was another man they'd have to look after. Foolish bastard.
"Shoot the next man who speaks!" The pirate captain roared.
Shite. The marine corporal sucked on his lower lip, a distressed expression floating across his round face. Just let them get to wherever they were bound. His arm was beginning to tremble from Foley's weight. He would drop the poor lad before too much longer.
Thankfully they appeared at the end of their journey. A barn lay before them, its doors guarded by a pair of musket-bearing pirates. Johnson realised with dismay that the muskets had been theirs, for they still bore the familiar white slings and the wooden stocks were well-polished. The prisoners were herded into the dark recesses of the barn, hurried along with curses and pistol butts if they moved a step too slowly. Johnson dropped to his knees as soon as he spied an empty stall with enough straw piled within it, carefully laying Foley down with a grimace of relief.
The pirate captain appeared in the barn's entrance, a sneer on his ugly face. "Make yourselves at home, you'll be here for awhile. Some of you will be, anyway!" Cackling, the man spun on his heel and was gone. Johnson looked about for something to throw after him, but there was nothing. It wouldn't have done any good, for the doors were heaved shut and the barn was cast into darkness. Somebody cursed and there was a clang of something metal against wood.
Johnson sank down into the straw and closed his eyes, listening to the shallow scrape of Foley's breathing. He was glad the man had clung stubbornly to life, but he held no illusions that the Irishman could last the week. His fever had been burning for days and he had scarcely eaten anything of substance. A whimper escaped from the other marine and Johnson felt the tremor as Foley began to stir. Reaching out, he pressed his palm against the man's forehead and sighed. Another cold spell. He shucked off his coatee and tucked it around Foley's torso, then he lay back into the straw. There was nothing more he could do without having light to see by. Hopefully Foley could fight off the fever before it claimed him.
He sighed wearily. It wasn't likely.
Bare feet slapped over the planks of the dock and up the gangplank and a breathless voice blurted out, "The Navy's 'ere!"
The declaration spawned a storm of movement as the ship's crew materialised on deck in a near-panic. The Navy was as welcome on Tortuga as the Plague and every man aboard scrambled to get their ship ready to sail. A calmer voice rang out over the deck and stilled the activity, however, and for a moment the ship was silent.
"The.. Navy, you say?"
The pirate sucked in a breath and nodded vigorously. "Aye, Cap'n. Northerup jes' come inter port wid a sloop an' a hull gang o' Navy sailors. They's 'arf done in, some o' 'em." A grin came onto the pirate's face. "Musta bin a rough sail fer 'em, stoopit bastards!"
"That's interesting..." the ship's captain looked toward a ship moored nearby. A thoughtful expression came onto his face and he said nothing more, until the messenger prompted him.
"Wot'll we do 'bout it, Cap'n?"
"You'll stay aboard and guard the ship."
"What're you thinkin', Jack?" It was Gibbs, frowning quizzically at him. Jack Sparrow smiled and started toward the gangplank.
"What any man would be thinking, in this situation."
Gibbs started to nod, then a confused expression come onto his face. "I don't - " he began but Sparrow was already halfway toward the street and out of earshot. The pirate made his way along the winding street in his peculiar gait, pausing here and there to listen to bits of conversation that seemed interesting. What he heard only heightened his curiosity. It seemed that the gossip was centred around the newly-arrived Navy prisoners. Sparrow's mind began forming a plot, as he continued toward the dock where he suspected Northerup's ship to be moored.
"Hold hard, there, you. Where d'you think you're goin'?"
Sparrow waved a hand at the ship, appearing bored. "Just havin' a look round, as it were. Is your captain aboard?"
"Who wants t'know?" The guard eyed Sparrow suspiciously, taking note of the other pirate's sword and pistol, both in plain view.
"Jack Sparrow! Well, if ever there's a surprise visitor a body doesn't care to see, it'd be you." The man he'd come to see was ambling down the dock toward him, his battered hat tipped back on his head to reveal a receding hairline. Sparrow cracked a smile and accepted the pirate captain's out-thrust hand.
"Feeling's mutual."
Northerup barked a laugh. "Always was a wit. What brings you down here, to my humble ship, then?"
"A proposal." Sparrow gestured blithely at the ship. "Could we discuss it aboard? I'm not in the habit of talking business around the lackeys."
"Naturally. Have some drink brought up, Scutten," Northerup instructed, leading the way up the ship's gangplank and aft, to his cabin. Sparrow followed, taking care to look around at the deck. It was well-kept enough and there were men working near the foc's'le. "So, this proposal. Do tell."
Sparrow bobbed his head and pulled out a chair without waiting for an invitation. "Word has come to my ear that there's some Navy sailors on the island."
"And?" Northerup asked, fishing out a long-stemmed pipe from a pocket on his greatcoat. This he filled with pinch of tobacco and lit with a piece of flint. "If you've come to plead their case, you're clearly not the pirate that all the rumours say. A bit soft in old age, Sparrow?"
"Far from it. Word has it they're bad injured, some of them. What's to say they don't find their way back to Port Royal somehow? Some of them, anyway. Enough to let the Commodore himself know where their mates are."
He was given a suspicious look in reply and Northerup puffed on his pipe for a long moment before speaking. "Setting Tortuga up for a raid? Not with my prisoners. Not all of us are susceptible to smooth-talking. That all you came to say, then?"
"Hardly. We're all wanted men here, mostly. Your prisoners are handy proof. Perhaps, a wise man might use them to wrest a pardon or two from the Navy?"
To his surprise, the other pirate laughed. "We are not all fools or scraping for some way to save our necks, Jack Sparrow. Word has come to me that your Black Pearl has been idle of late. To what end? Not that I'm complaining you see, the less you hunt the better the prey is for me, but let's us be honest, shall we? Seems to me that you're spinning another of your famous schemes, that can only end in somebody going to the noose. Oh shut up, the whole bleedin' island's heard of your "miraculous" escape from the Navy's gallows. All well and good, that. Bravo. No pirate crew worth their tar is going to sit idle just 'cause the "great" Jack Sparrow thinks he's got a plan to save us all."
"Ah, but I do. Have a plan, that is. Now see, it does require a certain bit of... cooperation. I'd need one or two of your prisoners for it, as well."
"No. Perhaps you might've convinced that fool Barbossa to play along, but your reputation contradicts your word. No, Sparrow, I think I may do as I please with my prisoners, and you may go to hell."
The conversation was over, apparently. Sparrow rose and pressed his palms together, making a half bow. Without a word he departed the cabin and went directly off the ship, to all appearances retreating in defeat. His mind, however, was forming a plot to obtain some of the Navy prisoners in another manner. Northerup's refusal of his proposal had been hardly surprising, the man was no fool. There was always a way to get what one wanted, however, and Sparrow was particularly adept at finding such a way.
And he'd start by finding out where the prisoners were being kept.
It was a fine mess they'd gotten into, Colburn decided. He was sprawled in a pile of straw, staring at the gloom and doing his best not to think of the intermittent whimpers coming from the stall across the barn. The increasingly-ill Foley had taken up residence there, tended to by his corporal and the third marine, Smith. None of the other prisoners dared venture near that stall, for fear of being chased away by sharp words and blows. The smuggler crew had separated themselves, laying claim to a pair of stalls at the far end of the barn, which was perfectly fine with Colburn. He was more concerned with the well-being of his sailors. That Scottish idiot Byrne had suffered a good thump on the head for daring to sing on the walk from Swift, but he was doing far better than poor Foley. Probably because he was such a thick-headed bastard.
None of the sailors worried him as much as did Midshipman Slater, however. The lad had withdrawn from the men since they had been thrown into the barn, choosing to slouch in the deeper shadows by the front of the barn, well away from the men he was supposed to be looking after. It was a bad sign but Colburn was at a loss as to how to bring the lad to his senses. He'd been the wrong choice for command of that prize, he was too inexperienced by half. Midshipman Quinn would have been better suited to the task, the boatswain's mate thought. Or even the mouthy Midshipman Evans, little as Colburn cared for that particular young gentleman. As sympathetic as he felt toward Mister Slater, he was still an officer. The men needed to have their spirits rallied by something, needed an officer to look to for guidance. Colburn, for all his seniority and position, couldn't give that to them.
" 'Ey, Colburn." The outline of a man crept out of the darkness to settle onto the straw near him. He recognised the voice as the marine Smith's, and a chill rippled through him. "Corp'ral wants a word."
Colburn didn't ask the reason. He was afraid that he already knew. Heaving himself up, he followed Smith carefully back to the stall where the three marines had claimed. The uneven rasp of Foley's breathing was still present and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks. His fear was unfounded, for the time being, anyway. Corporal Johnson was barely visible across the stall, but Colburn didn't need to see the man to know he was desperate.
"He's slippin' off, quicker'n I can wipe off the sweat from his face. Don't give it more'n another day, at the most," the corporal told him quietly, his voice heavy with weariness and frustration. "He needs a doctor. Bloody hell, mate, I've no soddin' idea what t'do fer him no more. Put yer nose to that gash on his head, it's reekin'. Took an infection, an' bad. An' he's burnin' up hotter'n ever."
There was nothing he could say to that, so he held his silence, gazing instead down at the faint outline of the blessedly unconscious Foley, laying between the three men in a fevered sleep. Johnson heaved a sigh and a crunch of straw signalled that he had slumped down to rest. "Is Mister Slater...?"
Here, Colburn shook his head, exaggerating the motion so the two marines could see it in the darkness. "Not a word from him. This was his first command, y'know." A bitter smile came onto the boatswain's mate's face. "Who'd've figgered that it'd turn out so poorly?"
"S'pure bad luck," Smith agreed. The young marine reached toward Foley and touched his palm to the other marine's forehead. "Sweatin' agin, 'e is. Much's l like the lad, I jes' want 'im to give up."
The other two nodded silently, their own thoughts similar to Smith's. Colburn eased into a sitting position and tried not to sigh. "We gotta git outta here, somehow, mates."
"An' how d'ya propose we manage that?" Johnson asked bitterly. "Wit' a middie who's got a busted arm, a sailor wit' a stove-up head, me wit' me arm, an' no weapons t'speak of? Yer mad."
"Better'n stayin' round here and waitin' fer them pirates to figger how to have us all killed off," Colburn countered. "I got a job aboard Dauntless I'd like to git back to, an' mates too."
"Ain't no different fer us three. God, Colburn, d'ya figger yer the on'y one wantin' outta here? I got lads to look after, same's you. I'd lay down a month's pay that e'ery lad here wants to git home too. We ain't been here a day an' yer already planning escape."
"What better time?" His temper was beginning to rise, stoked by Johnson's apparent lack of interest in finding a way out of their predicament. "Foley ain't gonna make it outta here with us, Johnson. Ain't no sense in plannin' like he will."
The marine made no reply but Colburn hadn't expected him to. It had been something of a low-blow. He needed the corporal's support, however, if he intended to formulate a workable plan of escape. He needed both marines. Nobody else in the barn knew how to manage muskets and pistols half as well as they, or had the skill to use either weapon with any sort of quickness. Shaking his head, the boatswain's mate pushed himself to his feet and returned to his own stall. He'd approach the corporal with his plan again, when there was more daylight filtering through the cracks in the barn walls. For now, he would force himself to sleep.