Chapter 20 Having time
It was a weeks' sailing to the likely location of the fountain if they went by the shortest route, but the cluster of ships gathering around the fringes of the Caribbean and the presence of the navy in nearly every port they would have to pass prevented them taking a direct heading. Instead they slipped out of the Caribbean taking first a southerly and then a westerly line down towards the southern Americas and the North Atlantic, all the time avoiding the trade routes. Then they turned northeast and looped back into the Sargasso Sea and towards their target.
In the end they sailed for close on a month before they approached their objective. A week of blue seas and skies, of hot days and warm nights before the colder water of the ocean with its stronger winds and heavier swell, then back towards more gentle seas. Four weeks of wind and wave, of constant watching and impatient uncertainty. Twice they ducked into small coves to avoid being seen, their passing only noticed by a curious cliff walker or crab stalker. They did not make port, though Jack spoke wistfully on occasions of his visits to the coastlands they skimmed.
They spent the time in getting to know each other better and establishing a satisfactory working relationship, though not totally satisfactory. Elanor was aware of a continuing tension between herself and Jack, and an ongoing unease on Gibb's part, even after a month of sailing together.
The issues with Gibbs were straightforward enough, he was superstitious and women at sea were bad luck in his book. Women who were already ship's captains, and a fine ship's captain to boot, might have to be excluded from that he would admit, indeed they must be excluded, yet he still wasn't quite sure how to do it. But as he watched her work her ship he gradually came to accept her sailing and captain's skills and got used to that unseen ghost she spoke to, and he seemed to become resigned to the unusual situation and able to defer to her judgement as easily as he did to Jack's. He was learning some of the more basic of the Chaser's daily needs and showed no unwillingness to take her on trust, at least while his own captain remained aboard and accommodating.
Jack however was more of a problem. Though he never showed her anything other than respect, well Jack style respect anyway, she could feel a growing pressure in him. The occasional challenge of her authority was of no real concern to her, for both of them knew it was merely for forms sake, and in his position she would have felt the same way and probably done the same. Even so it was reassuring that, according to Gibbs, he was far less abrasive with her than he had been with Barbossa or Turner.
Mr Gibbs, once accustomed to being on a ship with a woman who he still thought of as angelic proved to be a most amusing source of information, not least about Jack. Some of it she discounted, but buried in the meandering tales was enough real information to keep her listening. On one of those evenings that Jack forswore company Gibbs told her about the journey from the Locker and to Shipwreck. Hearing it Elanor could only be grateful that that, other pressures or not, Jack was easier sailing with her command.
"Like a pair of chile they was," Gibbs smiled like an indulgent uncle, "You'd have taken them for squabbling brothers if ye didn't know about the one marooning the other and the other a'shootin' the one; if ye takes my meaning. That, or a pair of spring cocked lads jostling for the interests of a lass." He'd looked thoughtful for a moment, "Which in some ways I reckon they was. Jack knows the Pearl be his lady, but Barbossa be convinced that the ten years o' the curse makes her his ship."
He'd grinned at her,
"Got so bad at one point that Pintel turned on them, not clever of him, given what he did to Jack and his knowledge of Barbossa's past."
Elanor had smiled then frowned,
"But Barbossa sailed away with the Black Pearl at Tortuga didn't he?" she asked.
"Aye, and I'm shamed to say that was my doin' to some degree." Gibbs looked down into his rum with a sorrowful look. "Jack trusted me to keep an eye on Barbossa and I let him down. Should have known what the bastard might be up to, had heard all the stories after all. Aye and seen him in the days afore the curse. But he'd been a different man since 'She' brought him back, an easier, more careful, man. Certainly wasn't the man he'd been, even afore the curse. Still I dropped my guard and he stole the Pearl again and Jack'll not forgive and forget him doin' that."
He looked towards the prow, where Jack was sitting alone, a rum bottle cradled in his lap.
"He don't seem to blame me, but it must have hit him bad, losin' her again so soon." He looked back towards Elanor, "can't says how sorry I am but 'tis done and that all there is to it."
Elanor was puzzled by something, had been for a while, and took this chance to ask the one man who might know the answer.
"So why has he made no mention of chasing her? He's not asked me to do it. He talked about the Black Pearl but he's made no mention that we should go after her."
Gibbs looked sly and yet confused at the same time,
"Aye I guessed as much. Jack has a plan in that crazy head of his I'll be bound, and somehow havin' this fountain is a part of it. He'll go after the Pearl, I'm sure of it, but he'll wait for the opportune moment."
She took a swallow of brandy,
"I'd be happier if I understood him enough to guess what the opportune moment was likely to be."
Gibbs looked at her for a long moment, and then he smiled another sly smile,
"Well ma'am if anyone is like to fathom the mind of Jack Sparrow I'd bet a bottle of rum or two that it would be yoursel'."
When she thought about that remark later, and the look that went with it, Elanor couldn't decide whether that was a compliment or not.
"But he's made no move to take the Chaser either," she mused, almost without thinking, then shrugged, "maybe it's because he knows he couldn't. He seems to have a good grasp of practicalities for all his airy fairy posturing."
Gibbs looked almost shocked.
"He'd not do that captain, t'would be as bad as Barbossa stealin' the Pearl! This fine lady be yours, just as the Pearl be his. He'll bide his time," he shot her an appraising glance, "but I'd not say he wouldn't try and persuade you if he felt it the right time to try and retake the Pearl, and Jack can be mighty persuasive when he is of a mind to be."
"I bet." She shot Gibbs a sideway glance. "I'd guess that's how he's survived so long. Can't be because of his risk averse attitude to life. At least not from what he's told me."
Gibbs looked puzzled for a moment then gave her a small smile but said nothing.
Elanor looked up the deck towards the subject under discussion, Jack was staring out to sea the rum bottle held loosely between his hands, there was no sign that it had been touched since he'd sat down.
"Tell me Mr Gibbs, " she said without turning, "How much do you know about Jack? Really know I mean?"
***
Admiral Norrington stared around his new accommodation and wished that walls had tongues as well as ears. These had been his nephew's quarters and he felt that it might have been helpful, in the circumstances, if the boy had been less obsessively tidy and organised than he had been. James had left his affairs in perfect order, every document signed and filed neatly for those who would be charged with dispersing his estate. The Admiral found that sad in some way.
Reaching into his coat he pulled out a letter and laid it beside the ones already sitting on the desk. It would be some time before his sister knew that her son was dead, he had written to her and sent it with his first official report on a fast frigate back to England but it would still be many weeks before she read the dreadful news. He could only imagine her grief when she did, the news that he had resigned his commission had been painful but this would be devastating, for James had always been her favourite son.
As he smoothed the creases from her letter he was shaken by a wave of anger against his sister, unfair perhaps but real and bitter. From his earliest years she had filled James head with tales of bravery and chivalry, where good men were always good and bad men were invariably bad, where the right was always on the side of honour, and the hero or the honourable man always prevailed. Despite his years in the navy and his rapid preferment, in which the Admiral had played his part, James would have been totally unprepared for losing his ship to the sea in the manner that he had. Why else that stupid resignation? As if no naval captain had ever lost a ship or men before! No, James had not been prepared for a more ambiguous world where good and bad were not so accommodating as to wear such clearly written labels, where a good man could fail and where adversity was not a sign of sin. The Admiral was most certain that James would not have been well prepared for dealing with Jack Sparrow, and that he would have been completely unprepared for Cutler Beckett.
Norrington sat back in the chair and looked at his nephew's letters and wished that he had reached here sooner, or that Beckett had delayed longer. The admiral could have told James a few tales of both Beckett and Sparrow, and though the lad might have not wished to hear so unpalatable truths they might have kept him alive. But that was why Beckett had not delayed ofcourse, not once he had the heart, for he must have known that their lordships would despatch someone with knowledge of the matter.
He fingered the letter addressed to himself thoughtfully, if Groves were to be believed, and there was no reason not to, then James had started his road to enlightenment in the most painful of fashion, only to finish it on the Dutchman, along with his life. His uncle grieved for him in that, if he had to die then he wished that it would have been with his heroic illusions intact.
With a sigh he reached forward and picked up the letter bearing his name and reached for the paper knife; perhaps James had managed to leave him some clue of where to go from here.
***
As the first week passed they settled down into a routine, each taking one watch a day, though Ariadne needed no real help, and spending at least one other working on the ship and her needs, or checking and preparing the supplies they had purchased ashore. As the sun sank towards the west they would eat and then spend the last hour or two before night fall sitting on deck drinking, talking and watching the sea. Jack would sometimes spend the hours of evening seated at the rail staring out to sea only joining Gibbs and her when night finally turned the waters to purple and the lights glowed yellow on the masts.
Despite the fact that she and Jack were not rivals for a ship there was still that hint of something unsettled between them and it bothered her. His occasional tutting and the exagerated and despairing shakes of his head she ignored as play acting, as no doubt he expected them to be; nor was the more frequent swaggering flirtation of any greater concern, she rather though that it was a tactic so well practised, and often used, that he didn't always know he was doing it. It was the tension she could see in him when around her that bothered her, for she wasn't sure that she fully understood the reasons, and that was uncomfortable when she might depend upon the man for her survival. It made her wonder where he would stand if faced with difficult choices.
The source of some of his discomfort was obvious enough. She thought that Captain Sparrow was probably a rather tactile man, sensual even, and there were times when she could read the desire to touch her in his eyes, times when his fingers would stray towards her arm or even her waist, only to be pulled back suddenly. Watching him she got the feeling that he used those dancing fingers in much the same way that a cat used it's whiskers, another means of testing the world around him. Restraining them, particularly around one he was so unsure of, was an effort for him and he resented the need to do it.
Yet there was more to it than that. On occasions he would lean towards to her as they spoke, as if trying to draw warmth from the closeness of her, as if hungry for some crumb, maybe any crumb, of contact, and his smile would soften while his voice would take on a almost teasing note. But then he would seem to catch himself and pull away with a sudden coldness. Sometimes the reason for this sudden withdrawl was easily read, after all she was no teenage ninny, and she couldn't hold him to blame for it, not in the circumstances. Yet there were other times when the causes were less obvious or more complicated, when the forces driving him seemed to be more emotional than physical. His reaction was more severe then, his eyes would seem darker, his jaw tight and his shoulders stiff, and he'd bite off his words and find some excuse to stride away from her as if her presence was painful. These incidents bothered her most for she wasn't quite sure whether it was she that he was reacting to or something in his past.
On more than one occasion she wondered what he saw when he looked at her that way, and what legacy the loneliness of the locker had left to him.
Perhaps the fact that it bothered her was an even greater worry, for though she could reassure herself that their working relationship was the core of her concern she knew in her more honest moment that it wasn't totally true. She was truly alone, at risk on all sides, and, despite what some might think, she was indeed as human as he was. In the darkest watches of the night it grieved her to think that it might be this way forever, however long that might be. She needed a friend, she knew it, and the need would become greater with the danger; it only remained to be seen just how much she would be prepared to risk for that friendship.
There were times when she was tempted to forget caution. The times when Jack was at his most charming, his most endearing, and by all the heavens he could be endearing; times when he was fey and funny and gentle. Those were times when wariness seemed unfair, absurd even. Times when he sat at the rail, bare feet dipping into the spray, a glass in his hand, hair blowing the in the winds, his braid trinkets flashing in the sunlight, with his eyes on the horizon while he talked of the past, of cursed gold and banished goddesses, of the flying Dutchman and captains past and present. A past that she wanted to laugh at but somehow couldn't, not when she caught the look in his eyes. Times when his smile flashed gold and those same eyes were velvet soft. Times too when they sat around a table or a bottle and he laughed with Gibbs about the past, about places and people they had known, ships they had sailed and ladies they had dallied with; mocking the world and himself with caressing words and dancing hands.
Then there were the times, usually in the night watches, when he was almost sombre, when she felt a sorrow in him, and an emptiness that was more to do with loss, and a sense of being lost, than any absence of feeling or shallowness. Those were the most confusing times of all, when, for all her uncertainty about him, she felt a desire to put her hand upon his shoulder, to comfort this clown who was not a fool, to be a friend and let him feel the warmth of her.
Yet there were still other times that held her back from going closer. Times when there was nothing fey about him, when the velvet stripped away to show steel beneath and his eyes were as cold and hard as the storm clouds above the Horn. Those times all uncertainty and clowning fell away from him and the intelligence that lay behind the foolish meandering was unsheathed. These times his gaze was level and dominating and his presence all the threat he needed, at these times the captain in him was clear to see, the captain and the pirate.
Not that she feared him, for she did not believe it was concern for those unseen weapons she had told him of that held him back from acting against her. He would not harm her, she was sure of that for some reason she couldn't explain even to herself, other than that the man seemed to have his own code of twisted honour and unnecessary harm to incidental companions, even female ones, appeared to be a breach of it. Freedom was his watchword and instinct told her it would take severe and continuing personal danger, or great enmity, for him to deny to her that which he valued so highly for himself. But these times reminded her that he might be a formidable adversary and that, though his instinct might be to run away from trouble, when he couldn't run he might fight with both ruthlessness and ferocity. Not a bad man to have at your back in tight spot after all. These times also reassured her, as much as it was possible for her to be reassured.
As they reached their goal she decided that caution still remained the sensible option, for no better reason than she was no closer to resolving the puzzle that was Captain Jack Sparrow than when they had started.
***
'My dear Uncle Charles', the letter began. 'I trust you will excuse the informality but I would prefer this not be an official matter. I have caused my family enough embarrassment as it is.'
James writing showed signs of his inner turmoil even if the words were calm enough.
'I will lodge this letter with my lawyer and if my fears prove groundless, as I pray that they do for all our sakes, then you need never see it. If you are reading it then you will already know the worst.'
Admiral Norrington sighed and wondered what was still to be discovered.
'It is my most fervent hope that things are as they appear to be, that Lord Beckett constructs this armada at the kings behest to free the seas of piracy, and that the safe passage of civilians and the freedom of trade will be what results from this business. Yet I must confess I become afraid that all is not as it seems. For I have served in these waters for nearly ten years and in that time I have had no small success is driving out piracy, the last real pirate threat in the Caribbean was Barbossa and the Black Pearl and that cursed pairing was ended before my disastrous search for the ship and her returned captain Jack Sparrow. Why then, I must ask myself, does Lord Beckett come to the Caribbean to launch his assault against piracy? Why then does he seek the heart of Davy Jones and control of the sea? But most of all why does the king send Beckett, for if the king wishes Sparrow's assistance in this matter then why did he not send the letters of marque to the Governor?'
The writing was becoming more sprawled and hurried, James must have written this in the last hours before they sailed.
'Sparrow sought the heart to save himself from Davy Jones, and he found it. I took it from him and gave it to Lord Beckett in the hope of finding some redemption from my failures and the accompanying fall from grace. I felt that I owed my family that, and, if I am honest, that I owed it to myself also. Yet in seeking a way back to honour I have put at risk those I cared for, I understand that now, but there can be no undoing it however much I would wish that I might.
Lord Beckett has repaid me handsomely, for I wear the uniform of an Admiral. Yet that is another reason for disquiet, for mine is not the uniform that you wear Uncle Charles. We sail on this quest to end piracy not in the uniform of the king's navy but in the garb of the East India Company. I can see no reason why the king would wish this to be the case and I begin to fear in whose name it is that Lord Beckett wishes the control of the seas. Jones is a monster but I am no longer convinced that Beckett, and his creature Mercer, may not yet prove to be greater fiends. All I have to cling to is that hope that I am mistaken and the belief that the scourge of free men that is called piracy will indeed be ended by this action.
But beware, there are so many ships involved that it becomes my fear too that others will learn of it and seek the heart for themselves. Yet even worse is the possibility that Jones will regain control of the heart, for Beckett humiliates him at every turn and Jones will not forget or forgive this. I fear for everyone who sails if Jones were to regain control of his destiny.
Beckett informs me that it is Governor Swann's intention to return to England once his duties here are finished, that statement gives me some comfort for if my fears were justified I do not think that Weatherby Swann would leave his post. I ask that you pass him my kindest regards and assure him that I will do all in my power to protect Elizabeth, and her chosen husband, should our paths cross. I beg that you impress upon him how grateful I have been for his support in these last few years.
One final thing Uncle, though it surprises me to be writing it. Should the fate of the heart fall to you then I would advise that you seek the help of Jack Sparrow in its disposal, if he still lives. He is a clever man, more so than I once knew, and devious, he will know how to hide it in safety, and it must be put beyond the reach of men, of that I am more convinced with each day that passes. If it remains in the world then it can only be a matter of time before it puts all that we care for in jeopardy.
May I take this opportunity to thank you for all your affectionate interest and assistance in the past and assure that I will always remain your most grateful nephew James."
Admiral Norrington set the letter down and rubbed his eyes,
"Ah James my boy," he sighed, "perhaps your death was for the best after all. I do not think you could have lived with the truth."
***
The month long voyage was more difficult that Jack had expected, though not because of the sea. The storms that made that voyage memorable were contained within the ship not scattered across the ocean. More of them than he cared for were confined to himself.
He had not given much thought to how he would survive the hours with so little to do, but inactivity proved to be much harder than he had bargained on. Many of the tasks required by the Dawn Chaser neither he nor Gibbs could do, and dependence upon someone else did not come easy. As captain he was used to giving orders and letting the men get on with it, but watching someone do something with no way of knowing how well they were doing it was a different matter it seemed.
But much of his unease lat at Elanor's door. For the woman seemed to have eyes that saw through walls and flesh, eyes that seemed to strip his soul bare far too often for comfort. Angelic as she might appear he could not assume her to be an innocent, and while she was honourable enough, or so he he surmised, she was knowing too, and worldly. There was expereince in her eyes and he would swear that she knew each and every time his body played him false, and that was more often than he liked to think of. Yet she said nothing, no protest or disparaging comment passed her lips, nor did she smile her knowledge or smirk her triumph, and never once did she raise her hand to slap him. Instead she took it with the simple acceptance that any man he had ever sailed with might have shown. Which was most confusing. Disappointing too, for it seemed that her sangfroid extended to those times when he was closest to her and his .....difficulty..... would have been most apparent. If he couldn't shock her, or suprise or unsettle her, then how was he to deal with her?
He wished he could dismiss her as some chit cosseted and protected by her ghost, but he couldn't do that either. It was clear that she was a good sailor, more than good, with or without her ghost. She could read the seas and the winds, decipher the message of sea bird and fish shoal and trace a course in the stars. He could find no lack in her seamanship at all, not allowing for the peculiarities of her ship. Captain Cavendish was indeed just that, a fine captain, and that demanded his respect however uneasy the situation might be. So he gave it to her, and she, damn her, accepted it as nothing more than her due. Just as he would have done.
When the opportunity presented he would watch her about her duties, noting the calm confidence with which she strode her deck, the ease with which she climbed the rigging, muscle rippling under the white velvet of that flawless skin, and the unconcern as she sat high above them her hair pulled back from her face and streaming like a comet tail behind her. He'd remember her in that back alley scramble, untutored with a sword maybe but showing a calm and restrained ruthlessness and a cool reading of her opponent that was worth more than swordplay in such a situation. No, he would have no hesitation in trusting to her instinct in a tight spot.
Gibbs liked her too, for all his superstition he had come to trust her, just as he had once trusted Ana Maria, and for similar reasons. There were evenings when the two of them would sit companionably and Gibbs would tell his stories of piracy and the Spanish main. How much she believed was hard to say, but Jack was coming to the conclusion that she was uncommonly good at separating the wheat from the chaff. Most times he would join them, and it would be wrong to say he didn't enjoy it, for she was good company for all her self contained air. Often forget who and what she was, and for the space of an evening she would be just another mate to tell tall tales to and laugh at the absurdity of the world with. Though he couldn't help but notice that the tales were all theirs and she said little of herself and her world. Sensible enough with Gibbs around, he thought, but less encouraging when he reflected upon just how little he knew of her. Yet he couldn't risk spending too much time in close proximity to her, not alone, not just .....them.
Sometimes he would find that he needed to be truly alone, a worrying development, for he had rarely avoided company in such circumstances the past. But the sea was his only reassurance and sometimes he needed to immerse himself in the sight and sound of it now, to listen to it and the winds it spawned to keep a hold of himself. Even rum was not enough on those evenings. He rather thought that Gibbs used those times to tell her tales of Jack Sparrow, but whatever Gibbs said she showed no sign of holding it against him. For which he would have reasons to be thankful.
By the second week out it was clear that the scratch across his ribs was going to be more of a problem than he had anticipated. The burning had got steadily worse and the muscles had started to ache. Each morning he inspected it in that wonderful glass of hers, seeing with some concern the puffiness in the flesh and the halo of red deepen and spread, and he knew he was going to have to take some drastic action if it wasn't to claim him. He'd wiped the wound with rum when they first arrived at Polly's, but only quickly for he had not wanted to draw attention to the injury, but it was now clear that that had not been enough. Jack knew that he could go to Elanor and ask her to tend it, for she had dealt with Gibbs wound with little enough fuss and there was now barely a mark to show for it. But though she'd stripped him once he was unprepared for her to do it again while he was awake. He decided he would not rely on her but would deal with it for himself, as he would have done on the Pearl. So he waited until he had seen her enter her cabin, then he grabbed a bottle of rum and headed to the waterfall room.
Stripping off his clothes was painful but he took a swig of rum and gritted his teeth as the movement pulled on the inflamed skin, shrugging his shirt over his head and letting it fall to the deck. He stood for a moment preparing himself, then he pulled the knife from his belt and tipped a large slug of rum across the blade, and drawing a deep breath put the tip of it against the weeping welt. Another swig of rum and he pushed the point of the knife in on the furthest edge of the wound at the base of his rib cage, biting down hard on his lip to stay the cry that rose in his throat. Watching carefully he began to slide the knife up, opening the puckered edges of the wound, the blade biting deeper than the sword point had. Once the pain drove him to wait, the knife still in the wound, while he swallowed more rum before dragging the knife slowly upwards again watching the blood splash across his ribs and belly as it moved. So focussed was he on his pain and the slow movement of the knife that he didn't hear the door slide open.
"What the bloody hell are you doing Jack!"
He looked up to see Elanor standing open mouthed in the doorway.
"I thought something was up with you but never this." She waived a disbelieving hand at the knife and the blood that was now liberally splashed down him and over the shirt at his feet.
She stepped forward and grasped his wrist preventing any further movement of the knife, staring into his face with something close to fear in her eyes,
"I ask you again what are you doing?"
He dropped his head, his hair falling forward to hide his face and with his free hand he indicated the welt running up his ribs.
"That sword slash, I got. I wasn't quite straight with you about it. Seemed a trifle but its not healin'" he admitted wearily, "not as it should. I wiped it with rum at the time but it wasn't enough it seems, I need to open it up to have a chance. I could have asked you I know, but I'd turned you down once, seemed best that I deal with it myself. " he raised his head an smiled at her,
"Done it before, plenty of times, no worries."
She watched him for a moment longer then lowered her eyes to the wound, the untouched portion of it obviously red and swollen. She sighed and came forward, standing close then prodding the slash with gentle fingers.
"I'm not surprised," she said calmly, "the sword that made this had probably spent some time in the mud of that alley. God alone knows what it was carrying."
Her fingers probed further and he had to clench his jaw to stay silent,
"It scraped the rib here, it possibly deposited some muck on the bone itself. No wipe with a cloth would fix that." She looked up at him again but there was no anger in her face, "you should have told me. But I suppose you are not used to passing your burdens on to someone else, and it was hardly your first fight."
He grimaced at her,
"Hardly," he agreed, "but this is not good, I know that."
She grunted and went on probing the wound,
"Would have been easier if you had told me straight away, but it's not fatal. Still, it's better dealt with by a scalpel than a knife." She looked at the rum bottle still clutched in his other hand and shook her head silently, " Wait here, I won't be long."
With that she took the knife from his hand, laid it on the shelf and then left. He watched the door and cursed her half heartedly, unwilling to accept the relief that was starting to grow within him.
She had returned with another knife, small and delicate, its blade just a sliver of steel, a couple of cloths and a small gadget hidden in the palm of her hand. That she had pressed to the wound, an action that froze his skin and the pain with it. Then she had sliced the length of the wound pulling the lips of flesh apart to wipe the inside of the wound.
"I don't have an endless supply of these Jack. Though in my world medicines, ones that are sure not to be fakes, are the best negotiable currency that there is and so I have more onboard than I would have done just for myself, but when they are gone that's it."
She looked up at him,
"Next time just tell me will you please. Even my simple medical skills could have dealt with this with little more than alcohol and salt water, so let's save the heavy duty stuff for times when it can't be avoided." Her eyes roamed over his torso, "though you don't carry as many scars as I might have expected."
"That's because it has always been my aim to dodge the blade luv, not impale myself upon it." He said acidly only too aware of her eyes taking an inventory of him, which given that she was wearing a very loose shirt, something she had done more of recently, did not seem entirely fair to him.
She grinned,
"A very sensible point of view."
Finally she stood back,
"Right, that's enough for now. Keep an eye on it tonight and I'll look at it again tomorrow. Oh and you'd best take these, " she held out two small white pills, "that's going to hurt like the fires of hell when the local wears off." She bent and picked up the shirt, "I'll put this to wash but clean the floor before you come back on deck will you." Then she turned and left.
Jack sighed, it seemed he was going to spend a fair bit of his time in her company minus his shirt after all, but not for any reason he would have chosen. Still he couldn't complain. She'd been reasonable enough about it, no shouts or screams, no wailing or bemoaning, and not even the threat of a slap.
As they came closer to their target he thought more and more about that. She was reasonable, straight looking and talking, strong, apparently loyal to her own and willing and able to do what it took. All he could ask for in a ship mate now he came to think about it
If only the woman wasn't such a ....woman. If only he could forget that she was.