The medallion hangs below Mary's unmoving form - and then Altamont is there. He wraps an arm around her and makes for the surface. He swims toward the dock, struggling. It is far more difficult than it should be. He stops his strokes, and they submerge.
Altamont realizes that it is Mary's heavy velvet dress that is weighing them down. He pulls at the buttons on the back, and they give way. He skins her out of the dress, and kicks away from it as they rise to the surface. The dress falls like a cloud into darkness.
"Ooh, there's a good girl," he gasps.
On the surface, Altamont swims with Mary, much more quickly. The sentries have reached the dock and they are there to help haul Mary out of the water. Altamont climbs up, exhausted with the effort. Mary is on her back; one of the sentries holds her arms above her head, pumping them. The latter one puts his cheek to her nose and mouth.
"Not breathing," he exclaims.
They look down and it seems hopeless as hell, Mary is dead and looks almost dead. But Altamont steps up, drawing a knife from its sheath.
"Move!" he cries out, shoving one of them away, he kneels over Mary, raises the knife and for one second it seems as if he is going to stab her - and both the soldiers are shocked and bemused - Altamont slits the corset down the middle, yanks it away. Mary remains still. And then, she coughs up water and gasps, choking on her first full breath. Altamont is relieved, and almost immediately, looks bored.
"I never would have thought of that," one of them quips.
He flips the knife and hands it hilt-first to one of them when he spots the medallion around her neck. Altamont catches it up in his hand, and frowns in recognition, the bored look gone from his face. Mary looks like a cat who has been caught stealing the goldfish out of the fish tank.
"Where did you get this?" He asks her, wondering how it ended up with a woman of all people, almost thinking if he knows her somehow, or if he owes her something
Before Mary can answer, the blade of a sword is at Altamont's throat - Sholto's new ceremonial sword, in fact, looking bright and sharp.
"On your feet," says Sholto, like a boss, and obviously, like a Commodore
It looks bad - Altamont standing over Mary with most of her clothes gone. He gets to his feet. The rest of Mary's erstwhile rescuers reach the scene, including Governor Morstan.
"Mary!" her father lunges forward to cover his daughter's modesty, "Are you all right?"
He strips off his jacket, drapes it around her.
"Yes - yes, I'm fine," she says, looking unmoved by her adventure and frankly irritated that her father is fussing over her, and then turns urgently to the newly appointed Commodore, "Commodore Sholto, do you really intend to kill my rescuer?"
Sholto looks at Altamont. He nods as best he can with a blade beneath his chin. Sholto sheathes his sword, and extends his hand.
I believe thanks are in order," says he, with a calculating expression.
Altamont takes Sholto's hand gingerly. They shake, and Sholto tightens his grip, yanks Altamont's arm toward him, then tears back the sleeve of Altamont's shirt, exposing a brand on Altamont's inner wrist: a large 'P.'
"Had a brush-up with the East India Company, did you... pirate?" He speaks triumphantly. Had he found a goldmine, greater joy couldn't have shined in his features. The others react in shock, but the sailors are well-trained, and in an instant, half a dozen pistols are aimed at Altamont. He stands there, still holding the corset. Governor Morstan's eyes widen with horror, and Altamont lowers it.
"Lynch the pirate," he exclaims as if a pirate is beneath to be called human, but Mary tries to override him, "Commodore I really must - "
"Keep your guns on him, men," he gives his orders, ignoring Mary, "Lieutenant, fetch some irons."
Sholto notices something else - below the 'P' brand is a tattoo: a small bird in flight across water.
"Well, well..." and his smile widens, but his expression is one of disgust, "Hector Altamont, isn't it?"
Mary stares at him, half in admiration, and half in disgust at the state if his clothes. Altamont winces at his name being taken with such bitterness, "Captain. Captain Altamont. If you please."
Sholto looks out at the bay, "I don't see your ship... 'Captain'."
"He said he'd come to commandeer one," said one of the sentries who had helped haul Mary up.
"I told you he was telling the truth!" supplied the other one, "These are his, sir."
He holds out Altamont's pistol and belt. Altamont leans forward, not wanting his effects to be touched. Sholto takes the pistol, examines it, notes the powder horn on his belt.
"Extra powder, but no additional shot," says he mockingly.
Altamont shrugs. Sholto unhooks the compass from the belt, opens it. He frowns at the reading. Moves the compass this way and that, keeping it parallel to the ground. It always points at the Union Jack atop Fort Charles. Sholto looks at it and chuckles silently.
"It doesn't bear true," says he, with a condescending smirk, "Your patriotism is overwhelming."
Altamont looks away, a bit embarrassed. Not a very good hero to start with, he thinks. Sholto returns the compass to the belt and draws the sword half from the scabbard.
"And I half-expected it to be made of wood," he gives him a humourless smile, sliding it back into the scabbard, and hands it to one of his men. Governor Morstan smirks too, "To be precise, you've got a pistol with only one shot, a compass that doesn't point north... and no ship," he sneers and then his expression adopts a one of utter disgust, "You are without a doubt the worst pirate I have ever heard of."
"Ah," Altamont begins smugly, "but you have heard of me."
Sholto grits his teeth, and then drags him by the cleanest fibres of his buccaneer rags. The Lieutenant returns with shackles, and approaches Altamont.
"Carefully with those hands, Lieutenant. Don't want to muck up the brand, do we?"
Mary steps forward, marching forward angrily. Governor Morstan's jacket slips off her. She is unconcerned, but he is intent on putting it back on her.
"Commodore, I must protest!" She cries out, "Pirate or not, this man saved my life!"
"One good deed is not enough to redeem a man of a lifetime of wickedness, Mary."
Lieutenant snaps the manacles closed on Altamont's wrists while he is still holding the corset. Now that Altamont is safely chained, Sholto nods to his men. All but one stow their weapons, and two step forward. Altamont smirks, "Finally.
Lightning-quick, he snaps the corset around the hand and wrist of the man holding the pistol and yanks it. Before anyone can react to that, Altamont has the manacle chain wrapped around Mary's throat. She flails for her throat, and tries to elbow him in the gut, but he is too quick for that.
"Don't want to do that, do we?"
Pistols are drawn again, but now Mary serves as a shield. Sholto raises a cautioning hand to his men.
"Commodore Sholto..." he begins victoriously, "my pistol and belt. Now."
Sholto hesitates and balls his fists in frustration, looking from Mary to Altamont.
"Commodore!" He warns, pointing his newly gained pistol at her forehead. The sentry hands the pistol and belt to Sholto. He holds them out to Altamont.
"Mary - it is Mary?" he asks her smugly. Mary is more angry than frightened.
"Miss Morstan." She grits her teeth, trying to fight him.
"Miss Morstan, come now, we don't have all day."
She takes the belt and pistol from Sholto - Altamont's quicker than she is, and takes the pistol from her. He jerks her around so she is facing him, belly to belly.
"Now, if you'll be very kind?"
She figures out what he wants: put the belt on him, "You are despicable," she mutters as she works.
"It's remarkable how many people have called me that," he speaks, and Mary's earlier fascination with him is gone as her father's and Sholto's words turn out to be quite true, "and in the end they've been nothing but grateful, love."
"Oh really?"
He smiles smugly at Sholto, who decides that he cannot watch the scene, "Well, if you don't count the ones who I owe money or... my kidneys."
Done. He turns her again, and then backs up until he bumps against the cargo gantry, "Gentlemen... m'lady. .. you will always remember this as the day you almost caught Captain Hector Altamont."
He shoves Mary away, grabs a rope and pulls free a belaying pin - a counterweight, which is a cannon, drops and Altamont is lifted up to the middle of the gantry, where he grabs a second rope. Pistols fire, and miss obviously because we can't kill the hero, can we? Altamont swings out, out, out, away and around from the gantry.
Sholto has held his shot. With careful aim, he tracks Altamont's trajectory.
Altamont drops from the rope even as Sholto fires. His shot tears the rope as Altamont plummets past one of the gantry's guy lines, he snaps the length of manacle chain over the line and grabs hold of the far loop and slides down the line and drops to the deck of a ship. He runs, leaping to another ship, then out of sight.
"On his heels! Lieutenant, bring a squad down from the fort!" Then he turns tenderly to Mary, "Mary, are you -
"Yes, I'm alright, I'm fine!" She assures him, completing his sentence, "Go capture him!"
Sholto's taken aback by her ire, and wisely hurries away. Governor Morstan drapes his coat around Mary.
"Here, dear... you should wear this."
Mary shivers, finding after the excitement that she is suddenly cold. She glances out at the bay, where a thick fog moves across the top of the water. She takes the jacket, a welcome relief from the cold and the restrictive bonds of her velvet dress.
"Thank you, Father... and let that be the last of your fashion advice, please."
But she accepts his comforting embrace nonetheless.
In the town alley, the fog creeps through, casting an eerie twilight pall. An armed search party moves along the street. They glance down an alley, on the far side is another search party. The men nod to each other and continue on.
A moment, and then Altamont drops from his hiding place beneath the eaves of a building. He is still wears the manacles, realising that he needs to get rid of them. Across the street is a shop with barn doors, a pass-through door set in the middle. Above is a sign with a black anvil.
He slips in through the door into the blacksmith's forge, and takes a look around.
No windows. The forge is dark, lit by lanterns. Work-in-progress is scattered about: wagon, wheels, wrought iron gates, pipes - even a cannon with a crack in it. But every tool is in place; the workbench is tidy and neat. The entire room is filled with bladed weapons: swords, knives, boarding axes in various stages of completion.
He is startled by a noise: Harry Watson, in a blacksmith's apron, snores in the corner, cradling a bottle. He gives him a hard poke. Another. Harry snorts and he turns away.
Satisfied, he takes the bottle from his lap and sips from it only to find that it is almost empty.
"Why is the rum always gone?" he mutters to himself. Grumpily, he sheathes his sword, takes his hat off and takes a short-handled sledge from its place on the wall. He moves to the glowing coke furnace in the middle of the room. Slowly, he holds his right hand over the furnace, the chain down in the embers. The chain begins to glow. He sweats, grimaces at the pain -
Moving quickly, he wraps the chain around the nose of an anvil, brings the sledge down with a fast, hard stroke on the glowing links. One of them shatters under the blow. He drops the sledge, plunges his manacled hand in a bucket of water, and watches the steam billow.
He pulls his hand out, flexes it. There are blisters form beneath the manacle, but his hands are free.
There is a sound of the latch on the door and he dives for cover. John enters the forge, limping on his walking stick, and shuts the door behind him. Altamont's eyes go wide and his mouth opens unconsciously when he spots the handsome doctor with his pristine clothes and milk-white doctor's coat and all starched collar and creases. Almost immediately, he wants to throw him into the mud and dirty him in every way he could, just to assure himself that such individuals with so much purity don't exist in the world after all.
"I'm home," says he, "My practice was pretty useless today, thank you very much for asking."
He spots his drunken brother in the corner and shakes his head. Altamont watches him rattle on about what a vile drink rum is. He begs to differ, and almost immediately, he wants to drown him in rum and mud and dirty him, sabotage him however he could. Take him apart.
John moves casually toward the sledge upon spotting Altamont's hat sitting near it. Then he grabs for it - but the flat of a sword blade slaps his hand. John jumps back, with a muffled cry of surprise.
"Not my hat, dearie."
Altamont stands there, sword levelled at John. He backs John up, toward the door. John glares at him.
You're the one they're hunting," says he, in a low and tight voice, and Altamont cannot help but notice the walking stick which he was leaning on heavily fall to the ground with a distinct clatter, "The pirate."
Altamont acknowledges it with a tip of his head... then frowns, regards John, scrutinizes him.
"Captain Hector Altamont. But I prefer Sherlock, please."
"I prefer none," says John, and Sherlock can see his pink tongue dart out and lick his lower lip. He records that sight in his brain.
"Interesting..." he exclaims, and then catches himself, "You look familiar..."
"Do I now?" John pants during a short interval as he pins Sherlock with his narrowed eyes. Sherlock looks him up and down with a slightly disgusted expression and his gaze flits to John's waist and travels lower, "You're not that eunuch, are you? I certainly hope not."
Before John can understand the meaning of it, Sherlock continues merrily, "Have I ever threatened you before? Or do I owe you my fingers?"
"I've made a point of avoiding familiarity with pirates," his breathing is steady, almost precise to be regarded with a beat. Sherlock eyes him from top to bottom, and bites his lip. It would be certainly interesting to get to know this man and he makes it a point to see him again, but for now, he needs to run.
"Ah. Then it would be a shame to put a black mark on your record, wouldn't it? So if you'll excuse me..."
Beside the door is a grindstone, a sword resting in the honing guide. Before Sherlock can react, John has it in hand. He chuckles shortly.
"Do you think this is wise, my dear fellow? Crossing blades with a pirate?"
"You threatened Mar - Miss Morstan," he hastily corrects himself. Sherlock smiles, and John coughs in mortification.
"Only a little," says he with a faux-guilty smirk. In response, John assumes an en-garde position. Sherlock appraises him, unhappy to see John knows what he's doing. He attacks first. The two men stand in one place, trading feints, thrusts and parries with lightning speed, almost impossible to follow. John has no trouble matching Sherlock, not even with his limp, which lies neglected and forgotten in his knee.
"You know what you're doing," he says, "I'll give you that... Excellent form... But how's your footwork? If I step here..."
He takes a step around an imaginary circle. John steps the other way, maintaining his relationship to Sherlock.
Very good! And if I step again, you step again..." he continues to step around the circle as he speaks, "And so we circle, circle, like dogs we circle. . ."
He can see the beginnings of an amused smile in the corner of John's lips. No fear of danger. An unusual doctor, a doctor who can fight, someone who has served in, Sherlock sees his wrist, tan line stopping there, Indian provinces, or Sumatran, or Singapore, perhaps. Doctor gone to war, returns with a non-existent limp in the leg and is a good fighter in spite of a stiff shoulder. He confesses to himself that he is impressed, and oh, it will be certainly interesting to get to know this man. They are now exactly opposite their initial positions.
"Good day to you, my dear sir!"
Sherlock turns and heads for the door, now directly behind him. John registers angry surprise, and then with a vicious overhand motion, he throws his sword. The sword buries itself into the door, just above the latch, just missing him. He registers it, then pulls on the latch, but it won't move up, since the sword is in the way.
Sherlock rattles the latch. Tugs on the sword a few times; it is really stuck in there. He mouths a curse, but when he turns back to John, he's smiling.
"That's a good trick. Except, once again, you are between me and the way out," he points his sword at the back door triumphantly, "And now you have no weapon."
Eyes on Sherlock, John simply picks up a new sword from an anvil. Sherlock slumps in dismay - but then leaps forward. John and he duel. Their blades flash and ring, and for no reason, it feels extremely erotic to him. Suddenly, he swings the chain still manacled to his left hand at John's head. John ducks it, comes up wide-eyed.
Then Sherlock's chain smashes across John's sword, disarming him.
John quickly picks up another sword, and he groans at the free availability of swords. He tries to distract him.
"Interesting, that," he eyes his knees, and smashes a direct hit at John's sword, "Your limp was quite bad when you entered, and now you're on like the wind, eh? Served in India, I see. Pride of the British Army."
John glances down at his non-existent limp, a little startled. A direct hit, and he coils even more tightly with anger. He explodes, kicking a rack and causing a sword to fall into his hand; he uses his foot to bring his dropped sword into the air, catches it, and attacks Sherlock, both blades flashing.
Sherlock parries with sword and chain. His chain wraps around John's sword; John twists the handle of his guard through a link, and stabs the sword up into the ceiling. He groans in dismay. So Sherlock's manacled left arm is now suspended from the ceiling. Bit not good. He parries using one hand, twisting and dodging around the furnace. Sherlock compresses the bellows, blowing a shower of sparks into John's face. Sherlock grabs the chain and hoists himself up, kicking with his feet, knocking John back.
Sherlock uses his full weight, yanks the sword from the ceiling. Hurls a wooden mallet at John, then a second, hitting John on the wrist. John drops his sword, falls down, gets up to face Sherlock's pistol aimed directly between his eyes. John steps back, directly in front of the back exit. Glaring, he rubs his wrist gingerly.
John almost pouts, and Sherlock wants to cough at that. Doctor gone to war, and he pouts like a child. Well, he too is a child anyway.
"You cheated," says he, feeling betrayed.
Sherlock smiles, as if saying nonverbally 'what do you expect?', "Pirate."
Sherlock steps forward and John steps back, fully blocking the door. Sherlock rolls his eyes. Queen and country. How quaint! But nonetheless, he should've expected that.
"Move away."
John shakes his head, "No."
"I'm not in a mood to deal with half-wits like yourself. Move!"
"No. I cannot just step aside and let you escape."
Sherlock cocks the pistol. John stares back. The stand-off lasts for a long moment as there's banging on the main door.
"You're lucky, dearie," says he, "This shot's not meant for you." Sherlock uncocks the pistol. John is surprised and he reassesses Sherlock's words, wondering if he is misconstruing the meaning of them.
Suddenly, Harry Watson slams his bottle against Sherlock's skull. Sherlock crumples to the ground. The front and back doors smash open, and sailors fill the room. Sholto pushes forward, sees Sherlock on the ground. And then he surveys the sword lying beside John.
"Excellent work, Dr. Watson. You've aided in the capture of a dangerous fugitive."
Harry quips, "Just doing my civic duty, captain." John smiles humourlessly. Sholto turns to Harry in bewilderment.
"It's Commodore now actually," one of the sentries interrupt. Sherlock groans. Sholto stands over him, smiling smugly and with true loathing in his words.
"I believe you will always remember this as the day Captain Hector Altamont almost escaped... Take him away, gents."
Sholto's men haul Sherlock away. John watches them go. Harry looks at his bottle, broken. With a curse, he shrugs, "That ratter took my rum bottle. What else do you expect?"
At night, the thick fog blankets the entire bay now, and the town. The only structure visible is Fort Charles, high on the bluff, like a tall ship sailing a sea of grey. Above the Fort is a clear black sky sprinkled with stars. A waxing moon shines, giving both Fort and fog an eerie glow.
Just below the stone parapets of the fort, visible briefly deep in the fog, like a shark fin slicing through the water: the topmast of a ship, with doomed black sails billowing. Flying from the mast is a flag with white Aztec skull.
In the Governor's mansion, a maid removes a bed warmer from the fireplace, slides it between the sheets at the end of Mary's bed. The maid is chattering away about the wedding ceremony of Mary and Commodore Sholto, if Mary accepted it, and she is nodding vaguely, absently thinking about a certain handsome doctor.
"Nice and toasty. Thank you, Lucy."
The maid curtseys and exits. Mary opens a book, begins reading, toying absently with the medallion chain around her neck.
The lamp flame begins to diminish. Mary tries to turn it up. No good. The flame goes out, and the room is black.
A noose hangs from a gallows in the courtyard. Sholto and Governor Morstan walk along the far wall.
"Has my daughter given you an answer yet?"
Sholto shakes his head dejectedly, :No. She hasn't."
Governor Morstan sighs and tries to find an excuse, "Well, she had a taxing day..." then he decides that talking about the weather is better, "Ghastly weather tonight."
"Bleak," Sholto exhales, "Very bleak."
From the distance, there is a boom. Sholto looks around for the source of the sound.
"What was that?" says he, his ears perking up. The Governor has heard nothing.
And then comes the whistle of an incoming ball. "Cannon fire!" He screams, tackling Governor Morstan as the wall of the parapet explodes.
Sherlock sits up in his prison cell. He has heard something too, as there are more booms.
"I know those guns!"
He peers out through the bars of the window. The other prisoners crowd around their window as well.
"It's the Black Pearl."