Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  Everyone turned. Jack quickly strode forward, shading his eyes against the brilliant sun, squinting up at the topman. His heart quickened. He was back in the Caribbean—the Spanish Main. There were many pirates plying their trade in these waters. Even the infamous rogue pirates, who had been flying their red no-quarter flag for upward of six years now, tended to go after the rich pickings in the Caribbean. Jack glanced at Robby, who was standing beside him, and saw that he was thinking the same thing. Both he and Greene had history with the rogues—history they’d like to forget, but couldn’t. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Jack shouted, “Where away?”

  The topman, a lad of no more than sixteen, pointed and shouted, in a strong North Country accent, “Two points for’ard of the starboard beam. Almost in the wind’s eye.”

  Jack nodded, then turned and dashed up the ladder to the quarterdeck, heading for the binnacle. From the shelf behind it, he grabbed his spyglass in its leather carrying case, then headed back down the ladder to the foremast, the mast closest to the bow. Robby was already waiting for him, and reached out to take the spyglass case, but Jack shook his head. “I’m going aloft myself.”

  In preparation for the climb, Jack took off his neat, sober tricorne hat, then his long, snuff-colored coat. Beneath it he wore a loose-sleeved shirt and a waistcoat. Leaning over, one hand bracing himself against the roll of the ship, Jack pulled off his brown shoes with the big silver buckles, then he stripped off his knee stockings. The deck planks were warm against the soles of his feet, still calloused from his days as an able seaman. He’d been a topman, working high in the rigging, making sail high above the deck. Jack bundled up his clothes and handed them to Robby. “Watch my effects, please, Mr. Greene.”

  “Aye, Mr. Sparrow,” Robby said.

  Slinging the spyglass case on its leather strap over his shoulder, Jack walked over to the windward gunwale on the starboard side, hopped up on the railing, then started up the ladderlike ratlines. The wind pushed gently against his back, and the lines were harsh against his feet and hands. He climbed steadily, not looking down, ignoring the way the ratlines swayed with the roll of the ship, and gave slightly beneath his weight. He’d done this thousands of times before, in fair weather and foul. Furling sails in the teeth of a fierce squall was one of the most dangerous jobs aboard a ship.

  He paused halfway to his goal to breathe, after pulling himself over the side of the “top,” the small platform above the futtock shrouds. As he caught his breath, he looked out over the water. The color of the Caribbean Sea was unlike any other body of water he’d ever sailed—and he’d sailed a lot of them. The Gulf of Mexico, the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Mediterranean, the Adriatic, and Aegean seas, the Black Sea, the South China Sea, the Indian Ocean, even the Coral Sea lapping the shores of New Holland on the opposite side of the world.

  Jack had spent most of his life at sea, and he loved it. Automatically, he glanced at the eastern sky, smiling faintly to see that horizon clear of any threatening clouds. Squalls could come up with amazing speed. No matter what else they were doing, sailors kept an eye on the weather.

  Leaning back, he grabbed the foretopmast shrouds and began going up hand over hand, letting his legs dangle over thin air. He was winded again by the time he reached the crosstrees where the topman perched. Jack glanced over at him, searching his memory for the lad’s name. Barnes? That’s not it…Bates! Yes, Bates.

  “Good sighting, Mr. Bates,” Jack said, hooking a leg over the cross-trees to secure himself.

  Bates flushed with pleasure. He was a stocky lad, his chin still downy, who wore a scarf wrapped around his head to protect it from the sun. “Thankee, Mr. Sparrow,” he replied. “She be right over there.” He pointed.

  Jack took out his spyglass, focused it, and searched the sea to windward. He had to brace himself hard against the rolling of the ship and the movement of the sails in order to hold the brass cylinder steady, but that was second nature to him, and he wasn’t even conscious that he was doing so. After a minute of searching the waves, the ship swam into his view. He adjusted his focus and studied her. He was looking at her in profile. She was heading south, not toward them.

  Jack made out three masts. A full-rigged ship… He focused the spyglass again. “Probably eight miles away,” he muttered. A frigate. Not a cargo vessel like the heavily laden Fair Wind. She was good-sized, probably four to five hundred tons burthen—which made her twice as large as Fair Wind. Frigates were built for speed, and war. This was probably a Royal Navy vessel. Black hull…that wasn’t unusual. But her rigging…there was something familiar about her rig. Bloody hell! It can’t be…

  He lowered the spyglass. His heart was pounding, and not because of this climb up the rigging. He tried to reassure himself. I must be imagining it. He rubbed his eyes hard on the sleeve of his shirt, then raised the spyglass again. The stranger swam in his vision for a second, then he could see her, more clearly than ever. Her white sails gleamed in the sun. Her masts were strongly raked, to lend her speed. Her bowsprit was steeved almost level, giving her larger headsails.

  Jack sucked in his breath. A Blackwall frigate…Oh, no…He looked again at the ship, trying to see if she had a red stripe just above her waterline, above and below her gunports, and red gunwales. But she was still too far away to make out those details. She wasn’t flying any flag, but that wasn’t unusual. Fair Wind wasn’t flying her ensign either. Flags were expensive, and wore out quickly when exposed to the elements. Ships usually hoisted their colors only when they expected to come alongside for a visit, to exchange news, or perhaps supplies.

  Or when they’re in pursuit, because they’re pirates.…

  Pirate ships were usually much smaller than this vessel. He’d only ever known of one pirate who had “acquired” a frigate. But the more he saw her, the more certain he became. He’d seen this ship before and she was no naval vessel.

  Jack Sparrow lowered his spyglass as memory rushed back, to the day he’d first seen this particular ship.…

  Shipwreck Island was a legend on the Spanish Main. The stories held that it had been an impregnable pirate stronghold and sanctuary for hundreds, nay, thousands of years. Most seafarers who heard of it regarded it as nothing more than the rum-soaked invention of tale-spinning pirates. A chimera…a myth.

  The island was, however, quite real. Real, that is, in the sense that pirates who knew of it could usually find it…though not always. The island’s position was difficult, if not impossible, to pinpoint on a map. Some said that it had no fixed location, but that it…moved. Others laughed at this contention, but, on pain of torture unto death, refused to point out its coordinates.

  One of the few pirate maps that bore correct (at least at some times) coordinates for Shipwreck Island showed it as lying a day’s sail off the northeast coast of South America. Any ship chancing upon it could sail all the way around it, and unless the captain knew where to look, it would seem like nothing but a gigantic solid stone mountain rising out of the sea—a stubby, flattened mountain without a peak.

  This mountain, however, was not solid. Long, long ago it had been a volcanic hell spewing lava up out of the sea. But the lava was long gone, and now the volcano lay dormant, its interior hollow. That hollow interior contained a quiet, sheltered freshwater cove that could be reached only by a narrow river that twisted and turned its way through the southern rock wall. The opening to the outside lay beneath a shadowed overhang of rock—difficult to spot even when a navigator knew to look for it. Many ships had passed it by, never realizing there was a way in. A small band of defenders could hold off an attack on the entrance, and there were cannons mounted on outcrops of the exterior cliffs. Even the most determined attacker learned quickly that Shipwreck Cove was basically impregnable.

  Sometimes the winds would sweep along the tunnel in such a way that a ship could sail into, or out of, Shipwreck Cove. When there was no wind, captains dispatched crews in longboats to tow their vessels to the docks surrounding Shipwrec
k City.

  Shipwreck City—the pirate sanctum—had been built on a small island in the center of the cove. No one knew precisely how old the city was, though legend had it that its foundations, now hidden, consisted of Greek triremes, Roman galleys, and dragon-prowed longships. The city was constructed of ship hulks; dozens, perhaps as many as a hundred of them, piled atop one another, rising into a ramshackle tower of both new and ancient wood. At night the lights from the ships made the unwieldy structure resemble a jagged glass tube crammed full of fireflies. Bows and sterns and ancient spars protruded, giving the city an eerie quality, as snippets of pirate chanteys rose into the still night air of the caldera. Each ship that had been chosen to become part of Shipwreck City had its own story—though in most cases those stories were long lost to the dust of history or myth.

  Shipwreck City did not live by clocks, or even by day and night. At any time, one could find taverns, brothels, pubs, gaming houses, or combinations of all three open and doing a lively business.

  Three quarters of the way up the tower of ships, what had once been the Spanish treasure galleon Our Lady of Divine Inspiration (some witty pirate had modified this to “Our Lady of Divine Inebriation”) had been converted into a tavern that was publicly known as The Drunken Lady.

  One hot afternoon in midsummer, with all of The Drunken Lady’s ports opened wide to catch any possible breezes, Jack Sparrow and his companion, Christophe-Julien de Rapièr, captain of the pirate vessel La Vipère, sat drinking rum and playing Hazard.

  Jack had long ago removed his coat and battered tricorne. He blotted sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, then blew on his dice, shook them vigorously in the little cup, blew on them again and tossed them onto the table. They bounced, spun, and rolled to a stop. Jack winced. His companion laughed gleefully, while scooping up the pieces of eight. “I win again, Jacques! It is my day, not yours!”

  “He who wins the day must buy the drinks,” Jack said, holding out his tankard to show it was empty. “It’s traditional.”

  His companion laughed. “Another Jack Sparrow tradition. Why is it they always involve rum?” He waved to the barkeep. “Etienne! More rum!”

  The barkeep, an enormous, hulking figure of an Englishman, rolled his eyes as he poured. “Don’t give me any of yer furrin’ jabber, Christophe,” he cautioned, moving toward his customers with the halting stride caused by his injured left leg and hip. “It’s Steve. ’Tis a good English name, good enough for me dad, and sure as the devil, good enough for me. I’ll thank ye to remember it.” He plunked the tankards down on the scarred tabletop.

  Christophe chortled as he raised his drink. “But Etienne rolls so beautifully off the tongue, mon ami!”

  Young Sparrow had first met de Rapièr when Jack was a mere stripling. The captain was the youngest man to command a pirate ship Jack had ever met. He was in his early thirties, Jack’s senior by more than a decade, and he was a dashing figure of a pirate. He was taller than Jack, with curling black hair, flashing dark eyes, and a rakish moustache and beard. He was always meticulously groomed, and a good portion of his share of La Vipère’s spoils went toward his wardrobe. At the moment, despite the heat, he was tricked out in a crimson coat with silver and blue embroidery, a blue waistcoat beneath it. His breeches were also blue, and his tall boots, with their folded-over tops, were custom-made from the finest Spanish leather.

  Lace-trimmed ruffles frothed from his sleeves and throat like the whitest of seafoam. At the moment he was relaxing, so his black leather baldric with its silver buckle was slung over the back of his chair. His sword was Toledo steel, the guard and pommel chased with gold and silver.

  At the moment, Christophe’s handsome features were slackened slightly by the amount of rum he’d consumed, but Jack knew he could probably still defeat most of the denizens of Shipwreck City in a swordfight.

  Jack envied his friend’s skill with a sword. Two months ago Christophe had volunteered to give him lessons, and the younger man had been quick to accept. The older pirate proved to be a good, if exacting, instructor, and Jack could already tell his own technique was better.

  Christophe drained his tankard, and plunked it down. “Steve!” he shouted. “More rum! And don’t serve me yourself, you big lout of an Englishman, send your sweet little French wife!”

  Scowling, Steve Seymour collected their tankards and refilled them. For a moment Jack thought the barkeep might refuse the pirate captain’s order, but Christophe was well known for being generous to an attractive serving wench. Gruffly, he called, “Marie!”

  Moments later, Steve’s wife appeared. Marie Seymour was as petite as Steve was large, with soft brown hair, pretty features, and a pleasant voice. In sharp contrast to the other women of Shipwreck City, she wore a gray-blue dress with a modest neckline and long sleeves. A long white apron tied at her waist accented her slender figure. Carrying the tankards over, she placed them before Jack and Christophe with a smile. “Your drinks, messieurs. Will there be anything else?”

  For a moment Jack thought that Christophe would make a vulgar suggestion, but instead the captain smiled and took out a coin. “There you go, m’amie,” he said. “Something for your trouble.”

  The early afternoon sunlight, shining through the stern windows, picked up the gleam of gold. Marie’s eyes widened, then she took the doubloon and bobbed a curtsy. Flustered, she murmured. “Merci beaucoup, m’sieur,” and curtsied again. Clutching the coin, she backed away. “Merci, merci…”

  Jack gave his companion an incredulous glance. “A doubloon for a barmaid?”

  Christophe laughed, his dark eyes holding a glint of mockery. “Why not?” he asked. “It pleased me to share my treasure.”

  If Jack had been a fox, his ears would have pricked up. “Treasure?” He knew Christophe was baiting him, but he couldn’t sit still and let the remark pass. No decent pirate could.

  The captain laughed and waggled a finger at Jack. “Do you think I will give away all my secrets? I came upon this little…hoard…of Spanish gold last month. They were old coins. Probably came from some mission along the coast where some Padre concealed them against attack, and died before he could reveal their whereabouts. Not a large chest, no.” He made a smallish shape with his hands. “But it was worth our trouble to acquire it, mon ami.”

  “You got it from a Spanish vessel?”

  “Oui. Along with a respectable take of silver ingots and some very fine tobacco.” Christophe smiled. “They put up a good fight, those Spaniards. One must respect them for it.”

  Jack nodded. He didn’t much care for fighting. It was much safer, not to mention more challenging, to gain a prize by outwitting an opponent. The idea of treasure hunting had always appealed to him, and he’d had some experience at it, in his younger days. “For a moment there, I thought you’d stumbled onto the lost treasure of the Incas,” he joked. “You know, the one that Pizarro, in his arrogance, lost.”

  Christophe didn’t have Jack’s knowledge of history. “Pizarro? Those Spaniards! Always losing their treasure,” he said, with an impatient wave. “What I’d like to lay my hands on would be the Treasure of Cortés.”

  Jack managed not to roll his eyes. “You and every other buccaneer for the last hundred and fifty years,” he said. “Nobody knows what happened to it. Even Captain Ward didn’t record any legends concerning it.”

  “Who is this Captain Ward?” Christophe asked. “And what treasures did he record?”

  “I’m surprised no one has translated the book,” Jack said. “It was published in England about fifteen years ago. Sold very well, I gather. My Lyfe Amonge the Pyrates, by Capt. J. Ward. Teague gave me his copy to read when I was just a lad. In one of the chapters Captain Ward regales the reader with tales of treasures from all the pirates he encountered. Some of the legends go way back, hundreds, even a thousand or more years.”

  “Sacre Dieu! I must find myself a copy of this book!” said Christophe. “Which is your favorite legend, mon ami?”

&
nbsp; “Oh, I don’t know.” Jack mused for a moment, then brightened. “There’s the one about the island that sank beneath the waves because the streets were paved with gold. Or, wait? Am I mixing them up?” He ruminated for a moment. “Actually, it’s rather a nuisance when everything turns into all one thing. One time in New Orleans, I—” Jack stopped himself just in time. It didn’t pay to babble about magical adventures.

  Christophe blinked at him a bit owlishly. “I heard about that one,” he said. “They said it sank beneath the waves because it was cursed.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Of course it did. There’s always a bloody curse, isn’t there? Why do so many treasures have bloody curses associated with them, anyway?” He swirled the last of his rum in his cup and then drank, feeling the sweet fire course down his gullet.

  Christophe grimaced. “Surely there are some without curses, mon ami?”

  “Oh, sure,” Jack agreed. “Lessee…there was a big haul of Viking gold they say is buried up there on the coast of some land of ice.” He shivered. “Don’t much like cold, me. I’d rather stay down here in the Caribbean. And there are tales of treasures on magical isles in England and Ireland. Glastonbury, Camelot, Avalon, that sort of thing.”

  “But England is a long sail away, Jacques. By the time we reached it, the leaves would have fallen, and the weather would be miserable,” Christophe pointed out. “Rain, rain, nothing but cold, wet rain. Something closer to hand would suit us. Ah, I have it! They say Henri Morgan robbed a Spanish monastery of a gold cross and chalice.” Christophe traced a pattern in spilled rum on the tabletop. “The monastery was located somewhere on the coast of Panama. We could go after that, Jacques.”

  Jack waved his empty cup; Marie hurried forward to fill it again. “I dunno, mate. Robbing churches—that’d be tempting fate. Might as well mess with a curse, eh? No, I’d rather stick to digging up buried treasure or finding some ancient tomb or something. They say the pharaohs were all buried with heaps of gold and gems. Picture us finding some old pharaoh’s final resting place.”