Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  Bainbridge took a deep, shaky breath. “No one could blame me for having to surrender to a pirate who captains a ship like that,” he said, staring mesmerized at Venganza’s gun ports. The frigate, her sails half furled, was drifting toward them at a leisurely, but inexorable, rate. The captain added, plainly trying to convince himself, “I’ve heard tales about them, you know? They’re animals. He’s likely a huge brute, with human thumbs strung on a chain around his neck. A black-hearted cutthroat. I must think of my men. I must consider their safety. You’re right, Sparrow.”

  “Indubitably, sir,” Jack said, pleased to hear that his advice had apparently sunk in. “No one could possibly fault you.’

  He’s in for a ruddy shock when he sees Esmeralda, Jack thought, studying the captain with a touch of concern. Perhaps she’s not aboard…perhaps she’s at Shipwreck Cove, and sent her ship out to capture a few prizes. Pirate Lords sometimes did send their ships out without them, rather than keep their crews idle too long.

  “Sir,” he said, “I’ll need to speak to our crew, make sure they know how to react. We’ll soon be boarded, and we don’t want anyone doing anything…” the word stupid almost emerged, but at the last moment, Jack changed it to “rash.”

  Bainbridge was staring at Jack as though he’d never seen him before. “How did you know which vessel was pursuing us, Mr. Sparrow? Miles away? How in the world did you know?”

  Jack thought fast. “Captain Bainbridge, I lied to you earlier, and I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t want to have to explain how I knew about the Blackwall frigate because it’s all a very bad memory for me. You see, I was kidnapped once by one of those cutthroats you mention, sir,” he said. “Forced on pain of death to sail with him aboard his ship. I barely escaped with me…my…life. While I was a prisoner, I heard them talk about their pirate brethren, and their ships. Including that Blackwall frigate.” He looked down at the deck and added softly, “It’s not something I like to talk about, Captain.” Yet another instance where telling the exact truth constitutes the best lie, he thought, smugly.

  “No need to, lad,” Bainbridge said, patting Jack’s shoulder roughly. “I understand.” He took another long gulp from his flask. By the sound of it, he finished the contents. After he’d stowed away the flask, he straightened a bit. “Very well, then, Mr. Sparrow. Strike our colors. And then talk to the men. I must go below to get…” he paused, then cleared his throat, “…err, something I forgot,” he finished, after a moment. “Be right back, Sparrow.”

  “Aye, sir,” Jack said. But before he could turn away, he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He pointed. “Look, Captain. She’s hoisting her true colors.”

  Bainbridge turned around and they stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Doña Pirata’s flag rapidly ascending. The new flag was black, but it was one Jack had never seen. He studied it, then smothered a grin. Well, that’s distinctive!

  The black flag snapped in the breeze, clearly visible, since Venganza was now no more than five hundred yards away. It showed a skeleton with both arms held out. In one bony hand, the skeleton clasped an hourglass, to tell the prey that their time was up, unless they cooperated. The other hand grasped a wicked looking cutlass. All of these elements were fairly standard ones in a pirate flag. What made this one unique was that the skeleton was wearing a skirt. Jack raised his spyglass to study the flag, then swept it across the deck again. He was rewarded with a glimpse of a short figure wearing a large hat with a sweeping plume. Studying that figure, he confirmed that it definitely wasn’t male, and felt his spirits rise. Esmeralda, my lovely…

  As Jack gazed at Venganza’s clean lines, he remembered what it had been like to sail beneath a black flag, and fought back a pang of nostalgia. Remembering the freedom, the wildness, the excitement—as heady as any draught of rum!—that came with capturing a prize and preparing to board her was like looking back on a fever dream. It seemed distant, unreal, and yet the memories were larger than life, more vivid than anything that had happened to him in the past five years.

  Jack’s mouth tightened. You left that life for good reason, Jacky-boy, a well-remembered voice whispered in his mind. You can’t go back, even if you wanted to, remember? You broke the Code. If I ever catch up with you, you’ll be soon be facing Davy Jones, Jacky-boy, and you know it.…

  Jack’s mouth tightened. It’s not like I want to go back, he reminded himself, sourly. Why the devil would I? I’m an honest merchant sailor, now, a ruddy officer, thanks to five sodding years of hard work and keeping my nose clean.

  As a merchant seaman, he might lose his cargo, but, unless he was unlucky enough to run afoul of one of the rogue pirates, he’d still have his life. As long as he stayed within the letter of the law, and didn’t bend the rules too much, he’d never again have to fear mounting a scaffold to the sound of a drumbeat, then feeling the noose tighten around his neck.

  Staring up at Doña Pirata’s flag, Jack told himself it was worth it. Someday he’d have his own ship, and be captain of it. Captain Jack Sparrow. It had a good ring to it.

  He glanced over at Bainbridge, to find him still staring up at the flag, eyes wide, jaw slack. Bainbridge was expecting some huge, ugly brute of a pirate captain, a tattooed, hairy-faced buccaneer straight out of bogey stories. How many shocks could the old man absorb in one day, Jack wondered uneasily. He cleared his throat. “Captain Bainbridge? Sir?”

  Bainbridge seemed to shake himself. He turned to Jack. “Mr. Sparrow,” he said. “Hurry and speak to the crew. The men will require reassurance.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Jack said, touching the brim of his tricorne, in a gesture enough like a naval salute that, as he’d intended, it reassured the older man. Bainbridge preceded him down the ladder and headed below—no doubt to replenish the contents of the flask, Jack thought. For a moment he wished he had the leisure to nip down to his berth and have a swig or two—or three—of rum.

  Cupping his hands around his mouth, he bellowed, “All hands!”

  The crew seemed to have been waiting for his order, because they assembled in record time. Third Mate Tomlin led the pack. Jack made his way through the throng, then stepped up onto the base of the gun carriage that held the nearest starboard cannon, so they could see him. He could also see them, and they had clearly figured out what was happening. They were terrified.

  Tomlin’s eyes reminded Jack of a spooked dray horse he’d seen one time in London. White rims showed all around the iris. “Mr. Sparrow! P…pirates! Rogue pirates! Pirates, sir! They’ll board us! W…we must fight f…for our lives!” Jack realized Tomlin was wearing a worn baldric and standard-issue cutlass. The third mate started to draw it.

  “Mr. Tomlin, belay that,” Jack ordered. Reluctantly, Tomlin obeyed. The men muttered resentfully. Jack saw that most of them were armed; clearly, they’d broken into the arms locker. Damn, I’d better talk fast, he realized, or they’re likely to panic and run riot.

  “Mr. Sparrow, it’s kill or be killed!” Bates said. He held a belaying pin in his hand.

  “Aye,” said one of the younger sailors, a lad named Bartholomew Weaver. “I knew this was to be happenin’ today! Last night I dreamed of the moon, wi’ blood on it. Rogue pirates they be! They’ll kill every man jack of us.” Even though his voice hadn’t broken yet, it was a lot steadier than Tomlin’s panicked bleating.

  Jack pursed his lips and shook his head. “No,” he said, quietly. “Not true. No one will be harmed. Take it easy, lads.”

  An excited babble broke out as the men gave their opinions on the type of pirates they were about to face. Hearing at least ten of them avow that they were all going to be slaughtered by rogue pirates, it was all Jack could do not to clutch his hair and let out an anguished moan. Idiots. I have to calm them down, or someone is apt to get to one of the long guns and do something really stupid!

  “Listen up, mates!” he barked. Grabbing the barrel of the cannon beside him, Jack scrambled up its carriage and slung a leg over, so he was stan
ding astride the long iron barrel and looking down at the crew. “Gentlemen! Your attention, please!” he said, raising both hands for quiet.

  They looked up at him, their faces filled with fear, but they obeyed, and in moments the deck was silent save for the sounds of the ship and the sea.

  Making his voice as low, soothing, and reasonable as he could, Jack continued. “Lads,” he said, “we’re men of the sea, not silly farm boys, right?” A few nodded uncertainly. “We sail the ocean, we don’t chase around like chickens. We think.” He tapped his forehead portentously, and saw Robby quickly smother a grin. Luckily, he was at the back of the crowd. “Men, just think for a moment. We don’t want to fight these pirates.”

  Tomlin stared at Jack as though he had risen from the sea like Venus on a scallop shell. The man was so relieved to hear a superior tell him he wouldn’t have to fight, Jack thought for a second he might weep with joy. “W…we don’t, Mr. Sp…parrow?” he quavered.

  “Of course not!” Jack said, in a hearty voice. “Oh, I know you’re all stout-hearted lads, each man jack of you worth ten bloody pirates. But there’s no reason to fight these pirates, because they aren’t rogue pirates!”

  “They ain’t?” little Bart squeaked. “How do you know, Mr. Sparrow?”

  “Have I ever steered you wrong, mates?” Jack summoned all his persuasive power. “You know me. I steer a straight wake, and I’ve sailed all seven seas. I know ships. And I swear to you, on me honor, that that frigate over there is no rogue. You can tell because that ship has a black flag!”

  As one man, they all turned and stared across the short stretch of water that now separated Venganza and Fair Wind. “He’s right,” someone muttered. “’Tis black, that flag.”

  They still weren’t convinced, Jack could tell. “And, men, when faced with overwhelming odds, and a bloody frigate with fourteen very large guns, pointed directly at us, broadside-wise, well, men who think realize that fighting would be as…as senseless as raising full canvas in a typhoon.” Jack took a deep breath. “So, lads, I’m ordering you to just sit down here on the deck, and let these pirates board us. They’ll take the EITC’s rum, and then they’ll sail away, while you sit here, safe as houses, obeying old Jack Sparrow’s orders. Resisting that pirate ship would gain us nothing but a swift passage to Davy Jones’s locker. Savvy?”

  Tomlin frowned. “But Morty, he told me them were rogue pirates,” he insisted, stubbornly. “I heard ’im meself.” At the back of the crowd, Morty Phillips gulped, his enormous Adam’s apple bobbing along the skinny column of his neck like a cork float on a fishing line.

  “Morty,” Jack said, reprovingly. He shook his head. “Tell us the truth. Have you ever seen a pirate before?”

  Morty gulped again, “No, Mr. Sparrow.”

  “Well, there you have it,” Jack said, airily. “Where I come from, even lads too young to drink rum know that rogue pirates fly a red flag.”

  “That’s right,” Robby Greene chimed in, loyally. “A red flag with a demon on it.”

  “I heard it were a demon wi’ horns,” Tomlin admitted, scratching his head as he pondered this weighty conundrum.

  “Exactly!” Jack pointed to Tomlin, beaming approvingly. “Most astute of you, Mr. Tomlin! And anyone can see that ship over there has a black flag.”

  Tomlin turned, glanced over at the frigate, then turned back. He cogitated. “It be a black flag, sure enough,” he admitted, finally.

  Jack relaxed, sensing he was winning. He grinned at the crew, and waved his hands in a sweeping “there you have it!” gesture. “Indubitably, it is a flag of the noir nature,” he agreed. “And we would all be wise to remember that. And so, lads, I’ll be very pleased if you’ll just obey orders, and not, as it were, attempt to shoot holes in that lovely frigate over there. Or poke holes in her crew. Matter of fact, I’d like those of you who have armed yourselves to lay your weapons right here.” He pointed.

  Quickly, they obeyed, and in a minute or so a hodgepodge pile of battered cutlasses, pistols, daggers, dirks, and belaying pins lay at Jack’s feet.

  “That’s right,” said Jack as he encouraged the last fellow to surrender his cutlass. He gestured. “Now that everyone is sanguine, that is to say, calm as cream cakes, we all know just what to do. Right, lads?”

  “But Mr. Sparrow,” Tomlin said, doubtfully, his brow furrowed, “they’ll take our cargo.”

  Jack resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The man’s a bloody genius. He didn’t dare glance at Robby. Later, in private, they could laugh at Tomlin’s idiocy.

  “Yes, they will doubtless carry off our cargo of rum,” Jack said. He sighed with genuine regret. “As upsetting as that prospect naturally is, it is infinitely more desirable than engaging said pirates in a fight that we would only lose, while paying dearly for our folly. Look at it this way. By not resisting, we’ll be doing the East India Trading Company the enormous service of not depriving them of a very seaworthy vessel and an experienced crew of able-bodied seamen. Savvy?”

  “Yes, sir.” Tomlin’s eyes shone as he finally got it. As far as he was concerned, Jack was a god.

  “Very well, then, look sharp now, lads,” Jack said. “You’re all going to find yourselves a good spot to sit down here on the weather deck, and take a nice rest. The pirates are only interested in our cargo. So offer no resistance. Just take a load off, mates. Dismissed.”

  “Aye, Mr. Sparrow!” the crew chorused, and scurried to obey—all but Edward Tomlin, who remained there, gazing up at Jack with worshipful brown eyes, reminding the first mate of a spaniel he’d once encountered. Jack resisted the urge to pat him on the head as he addressed Robby. “Mr. Greene, please strike our colors. Lively, now! And hoist a white flag, if we have one.” He beckoned the second mate closer. “And then we need to get rid of these damned things,” he muttered, glancing down at the pile of discarded blunt and sharp instruments of mayhem. “I’ll take the first load down and lock them in the lazaretto. You and Tomlin get the rest.”

  “Aye, Jack,” Robby said with a nod, then raced off.

  Jack slung as many baldrics as he could around himself, stuck pistols in his belt until he could scarcely breathe, and picked up unsheathed cutlasses. Arms loaded, he headed below to the lazaretto, a smallish partitioned room in the fore part of the ’tween decks. Provisions and other somewhat valuable items were stored there, since it had a lock. Jack stashed the arms there, and used his key to lock them in.

  When he returned to the weather deck, he was just in time to see Bainbridge ascending the ladder to the quarterdeck. After passing Robby the key to the lazaretto, he followed the captain.

  When he reached Bainbridge, he found the old man standing on the port side, staring out at the open sea. The flask was in his hand. “Captain,” Jack said, “I’ve spoken to the men and reassured them. The pirates will be boarding in a few minutes. We have a white flag up. But they’ll want the two of us down on the weather deck, too, so they can keep an eye on us.”

  Bainbridge sighed, then turned around to face his first mate. Jack felt a stir of pity when he saw how aged and beaten the old man appeared. He was still wearing his ceremonial sword, and, Jack saw, now had a pistol belt slung over his other shoulder, and his personal weapon in it. Can’t let him run around armed, he thought. He’ll get himself killed.

  “Captain, just come below,” he said, and dared to lay a hand on the old man’s sleeve. “Let me lock your sword and that pistol up, with the other weapons, and perhaps they won’t take them. I can handle this, if you’ll just give the order. I can talk to their captain. I know how they think. I may be able to…negotiate.”

  Over Bainbridge’s shoulder, he saw that in a few minutes, the frigate would be in range of the grappling hooks. Pirates lined up along the gunwales, ready to fling the lines with their hooks attached. Once the two ships were grappled together, Venganza’s crew would be able to cross freely back and forth between the two vessels.

  “Negotiate?” Bainbridge said, dully. />
  “You know…parlay with her. I may be able to convince her to take only a percentage of the cargo, instead of all of it.”

  “Her?” Bainbridge blinked small, reddened eyes, then stared at Jack owlishly. “You’ll talk to the ship?”

  Jack could have kicked himself for that slip. “Um,” he said, trying to feel his way. Maybe I should cushion the blow a bit…“Captain, it’s possible that the commander of this pirate frigate is female,” he said. “While I was a prisoner that time, my captor spoke of female pirates.”

  Bainbridge blinked, surprised out of his stupor. “What?” He gaped at Jack. “Balderdash!” he finally managed. “Impossible! No woman could captain a vessel. That would be unnatural, a violation of the laws of God and man. The…the Almighty would never permit it.” He leaned closer to Jack, peering at him, and sniffed loudly. “Have you been drinking, Sparrow?”

  The captain’s breath was enough to knock over a cart horse. Jack stepped back, away from the blast. “No, but I wish I had been,” he mumbled, wearily. His comment was drowned out by a series of loud thumps. The deck beneath his feet rose and fell. Jack looked away from Bainbridge to see that the grappling hooks were in place, drawing the two ships together. Standing ready to board first was the figure he’d glimpsed through the spyglass.

  She was still petite, but this time, instead of a dress, she wore her working garb: a loose-sleeved pale homespun shirt that laced up the front, and a metal reinforced corselet made of black leather. Her shapely legs were clad in dark trousers, with high, folded-over black boots. On her head was a broad-brimmed black hat. One side was rolled up, and a jaunty black-and-white plume waved in the breeze.