Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  “Of course you thought that’s what I had been planning all along,” Jack said. He took a deep breath.

  “Esmeralda,” he said, softly, stepping close to her and reaching for her hand. She tensed again, but let him take it. He kissed her knuckles gently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen that way.” He reached down for her other hand, and she yielded it to him. Jack began kissing her hands, short-nailed and strong from work, but they were well-tended and feminine. He could never have mistaken them for a man’s hands.

  “After I left,” he muttered, between kisses, “I regretted I hadn’t said more when we parted, believe me. I cursed myself for a fool. I thought about you constantly, wondering what you were doing, whether I’d ever see you again.” Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken so honestly to another person. But he knew if there was ever a time for the truth, this was it. “Say you forgive me, love.”

  “I do,” she whispered. “Oh, Jack! I didn’t want to be angry with you. But tonight, I couldn’t stop remembering that day.” She gave a short breath of a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “By the time I went to The Drunken Lady, it was a good thing for you that you were gone, Jack. I took my sword and my pistol with me. You know I have a temper.”

  He ran his hands up her arms, then across her shoulders, and stepped closer. “I know you do,” he agreed. His arms tightened around her.

  This time, she came willingly, her body soft, yielding. Her arms came up to twine around his neck. “I was angry with myself, too,” she admitted.

  “Why, love?” he said, and smiled at her. “I assure you, you’re not the first person to think I might deserve shooting.”

  Esmeralda laughed a little, and relaxed against him. “Because, even though I was still angry, when I saw you today, I…I wanted you. I was afraid if I said anything, you would be angry with me, and leave me—and then we wouldn’t have even tonight—this one night!—together.”

  Jack let out a breath that was half rueful, half laughing. “No worries, love. We’ll have our night.” He bent to kiss her, and the taste of her mouth was every bit as intoxicating as the wine.…

  Later, much later, Jack lay on his back in the big bed, listening to Esmeralda’s breathing as she slept, curled against him. It was a pleasant sound, he decided, far superior to the masculine snores that permeated the cabins and crew sleeping areas of most ships.

  He was tired. It had been a long day. He was also sated…well, mostly. Jack found himself wishing that he could turn over, nestle against his bedmate and close his eyes, but he didn’t dare. Before dawn touched the eastern horizon he had to make sure he was back aboard Fair Wind, leaving Venganza while he still had the darkness to cloak his features.

  And at sunrise, he had to officiate at Captain Bainbridge’s obsequies. Jack sighed. Not a pleasant prospect, especially in comparison to where he was now.

  He turned over, propped himself on his left elbow, and, in the dim light of the lantern that they’d never gotten around to extinguishing, he regarded Esmeralda, noting the contrast between the pale curve of her shoulder and the inky tumble of her hair. He wanted to run his hand down her side, over the swell of her hip. But that would wake her.

  Let her sleep a little longer, he thought. There’s still some of our night left.

  She stirred slightly, and as she moved, he saw a dark mark on her skin, just above her right hipbone. A bruise? Jack hitched himself up higher and leaned over to peer at it. His movement woke her, and she murmured his name softly, then added, “What is it?”

  Jack couldn’t honestly say he was sorry she’d awakened. “I saw this,” he said, brushing a finger across the circular mark, “and thought at first it was a bruise. But it’s not.”

  “No,” she agreed. “It’s a tattoo.”

  “What is it?” he asked, looking more closely. It was the size of a doubloon, and it seemed to be outlined in black, and filled in with red ink. Jack narrowed his eyes. It was some kind of grinning, stylized skull, surrounded by geometric lines. “I never saw anything like that before. Did you have it when we…the first time?”

  She smiled, teasing him. “What, you didn’t notice?”

  “It was dark, love. Remember?”

  “I do,” she said. “It was good, that time. But I liked tonight better.”

  Jack laughed softly. “Danger did add a bit of a thrill on that notable occasion. But I agree. Tonight was—is—the best.” He leaned over and kissed her shoulder, then lifted her hair and kissed her neck, just below her ear. She shivered with pleasure, and he was tempted to just keep kissing her, and forget about the tattoo, but his curiosity was piqued. He pulled back and said, “So…the tattoo?”

  She took a deep breath, and rolled over onto her right side, facing him. “I’ve never told anyone about it. The only people who knew I had it done are dead. My nurse and my grandfather.”

  Jack realized this was something very private, and wondered whether she would continue. He didn’t speak, only waited. Finally, she said, “I had it done when I was fourteen. My nurse told me the story, and she had a drawing of this symbol on a scrap of ancient parchment. She was almost full-blooded Aztec. Her name was Azcalxochitzin.”

  Jack stared at her in surprise. “You speak the Aztec language?”

  One shoulder moved slightly, in a shrug. “Yes, she taught me. I wrote down the words, so I could remember them, because I don’t have anyone to practice speaking with.”

  Jack studied her features in the lamplight. The dark eyes, swooping brows, high cheekbones—she seemed to have features that reflected her Castillian heritage. But her nose—it was high-bridged, and there was something exotic in the flare of the nostrils. “You have Aztec blood, too?” he asked, after a moment.

  She nodded. “My mother was nearly pure-blood, like my nurse. She and my father were killed when I was five. I don’t really remember them. My nurse saved me. She plucked me from my truckle bed and hid me from the raiders, by crawling beneath my mother’s bed and holding me with one hand over my mouth.”

  “Raiders?” Jack asked.

  She bit her lower lip. “They told my grandfather it was a ‘native’ uprising. But my nurse had seen them. She told him that it was some of the neighboring dons, with their men, dressed up as natives. My grandfather was good to the native population. He didn’t enslave them, he allowed them to work his fields for fair wages. And he let his son marry a native girl when they fell in love. The dons were angry. My grandfather’s holding was rich. They coveted it.”

  Esmeralda rolled onto her back, and clasped her hands behind her head. The new position caused such interesting changes in her anatomy that Jack almost forgot what she’d been saying. After a long moment she added, softly, “When the raid was over, he was left with almost nothing, save a ship, a few loyal servants, and me. That’s why he became a pirate, and that’s why he preyed on Spanish ships instead of sparing them. All his ships were named for his vengeance on the murdering nobles who took his kin from him. I was the only family he had left—a part Aztec child.”

  “Do you have an Aztec name, too?” Jack asked.

  She smiled, rather shyly. “Yes. I was named for my mother. Quiauhxochitl. It means Rain Flower.”

  Jack smiled. “That’s beautiful.” He touched her hip again. “This…it’s some kind of sacred symbol?”

  She nodded. “It’s an ancient design. The legends say it was imprinted on the blood money demanded by Cortés.”

  Jack’s eyes opened wide. “Are you talking about the lost treasure? The one they say is on an island of the dead somewhere?”

  She gazed at him, her eyes impenetrable. Jack could not read her expression, but he knew, by her sudden stillness, that she had said as much as she was going to say. Esmeralda had shared her most closely held secret with him—or part of it, anyway. The thought of treasure was enough to make Jack’s pulse quicken, but he would respect her silence, at least for now.

  After a moment, Jack got up, went over to the por
t, and looked out. He was reassured to see that the east was still dark. He could see dots of light, close by, that marked Fair Wind’s location. Her voice reached him, and there was a note of apprehension in it. “Is it dawn?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet, love. We have time.”

  Jack returned to the big bed. “Do you remember,” he said, “the day your grandfather sailed into Shipwreck Cove? You stood on the gangplank and looked at me…and I knew I had to meet you.”

  She laughed softly. “But first you had to clean your boots.”

  “Took me a bloody long time to do it, darling,” Jack agreed, lightly. “But one doesn’t meet the granddaughter of pirate nobility with used rum splashed on his boots.”

  “The whole time we were eating dinner,” she said, “I was wondering whether I should talk to you. I thought you might hold our earlier meeting against me.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow and caressed her gently with one fingertip. She closed her eyes, breathing faster. Seeing her reaction, he touched her again, same place, moving his finger very slowly. “The only thing I wanted to hold against you, love, was myself.” He smiled reminiscently. “Do you remember what happened after dinner? Hector Barbossa came in. I was glad to see his less-than-lovely countenance, because it meant we could stay together longer.”

  Esmeralda smiled. “How strange. We were sitting there, still almost strangers, thinking almost the same thing. I had already heard Barbossa’s account. But I was content to sit there and listen to him again, because I was sitting with you.”

  Jack remembered that moment, remembered Barbossa’s scarred features beneath his huge, ragged black hat. That dreadful scraggly beard…He smiled, a slight, wry, smile. Barbossa was a character, he was. He’d never met anyone quite like him, either pirate or honest seaman.

  Jack closed his eyes as the memories drifted through his mind, and, despite his resolve, he felt himself sliding into sleep. He sighed, thinking that he’d allow himself to doze for just a few seconds…perhaps just a few minutes.…

  Esmeralda snuggled against him, laying her head on his shoulder. Her motion woke him, and Jack roused. He didn’t dare let himself fall asleep. Besides, the touch of her skin against his own reminded him that there were better things for a man and a woman to do in bed than sleep. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close, and began kissing her again.…

  A little later, a final check at the open casement betrayed the slightest lightening of the eastern sky. Jack turned away from the port. “I’m afraid dawn’s not far off, love,” he said, quietly. “Time for me to be getting back.”

  She nodded, and forced a wan smile as he began gathering his scattered clothing. “Stay there,” he said, as she sat up. “No need for you to get up, darlin’. We won’t be getting under way until after sunrise.”

  “I take first watch,” she said. “I like seeing the sun rise.”

  They dressed together in companionable silence. Jack finished just as she was tugging on her boots. “I should leave first,” he said.

  “Yes, you should.” She glanced down, then back up, and managed a smile. “I’ll wave to you when I sight the coast of Florida,” she promised.

  “I’ll wave back,” he replied.

  Leaning over, he gave her a quick last kiss. “Take care of yourself, darlin’.”

  “I will,” she said. “And you…you do the same.”

  “I will.”

  Minutes later, Jack was rowing through the predawn grayness, bound for Fair Wind. When he reached the brig, Robby was there to give him a hand up, and help him raise the boat. “How did you find the Lady Esmeralda, Jack?” Robby asked quietly.

  Jack merely smiled enigmatically.

  “Oho,” Robby said softly, and said no more.

  As the Caribbean sun edged up over the horizon, Jack, Robby, Tomlin, and the crew assembled on the weather deck. Captain Bainbridge’s body, sewn into its canvas shroud, was balanced on a wide plank that rested on the gunwale, held there by two sturdy sailors.

  Jack looked around to see that the assembly was complete, then opened his mouth to begin the memorial service, only to hesitate in confusion, realizing that he wasn’t on a pirate vessel. He would have to speak the traditional words expected by honest seamen—and he didn’t know what they were. He’d never actually been inside a church during a religious service.

  Every crewman’s head was bared; every eye was on him. Jack cleared his throat. Just then, a memory of standing outside a church once and hearing a service that was going on inside filled his memory. He recalled the words he’d heard the clergyman say. Clearing his throat, he announced, “Dearly beloved. We are gathered here, in the—”

  Robby’s elbow jabbed him sharply. Jack broke off, glancing sideways at his friend. “That’s for a wedding,” Robby hissed.

  “Oh…” Jack swallowed. “What do I say?” he demanded, sotto voce. Robby had been press-ganged aboard a merchant ship at the age of ten. Before that he’d been raised in the Church of England, attending services every week. Jack realized the second mate was grasping his well-thumbed Bible.

  “Listen and repeat what I say,” Robby whispered back, and, closing his eyes, he began quoting.

  Jack did as bade, and as the sun lifted into the sky, his words filled the dawn air. “I am the resurrection and the life…whosoever believeth in me…even though he shall die…yet shall he have life everlasting…”

  Robby led him through the first part of the litany, then trailed off, and muttered, “That’s all I remember by heart, Jack. Want me to look up the rest?”

  Jack nodded. “No, thanks. I’ll take it from here.”

  He let his gaze travel over the assembled crew. “With these very traditional, very proper words, we, uh, consign our superior officer’s body to the water. The seawater. Salt water.” He groped for words, then brightened as inspiration struck. “Actually we do more than consign! We consecrate, most sacredly, the body of our captain to the waves. The peaceful, calm, blue waves. Captain Bainbridge will, uh, rest here. In the…the bosom, yes, the bosom of the waves. Of the blue seawater waves, here in the Caribbean Sea.”

  Some of the men looked up during his speech, quizzically. Jack, perspiring, thought hard, and inspiration struck again. “Mr. Tomlin,” he said, “in recognition of your, um, profound feelings for our captain, I’d like you to offer the traditional…” he trailed off, searching for the word.

  “Prayer,” whispered Robby.

  “Exactly! The traditional prayer! If you will, Mr. Tomlin.”

  Edward Tomlin’s narrow shoulders squared, and his voice, though trembling with emotion, was clearly heard as he began the Pater noster. Jack glanced sideways at Robby, who nodded fractionally, then jerked his chin at the canvas-wrapped form to indicate what should happen next.

  When Tomlin finished, Jack nodded to the two sailors holding the plank. Together, they tipped it, and the body slid off the plank, and splashed into the sea. Jack took a deep breath. Blimey, glad that’s over!

  Jack gave the helmsman their heading, then ordered the anchor raised, and all plain sail set. Then he dismissed the crew to their duties.

  As his men scattered, and the ship filled with the bustle of getting under way, Jack stood there, alone, gazing off across the sea, his mind crowded with all the things he had to do. He was in charge, now.

  It was his first command. He was captain, in fact if not in name. He had to plot a course that would take them north, past Florida, along the coast of the colonies; then, when they reached northern waters, they would turn east, heading for England. His course had to be plotted accurately, so it would bring Fair Wind across the Atlantic, so they could deliver what was left of their cargo to the EITC warehouse in London that was waiting to receive it.

  In London, they’d pick up another cargo, and then head south, back to the Fair Wind’s home port of Calabar. Calabar was located on the Bight of Benin, midway down the western coast of Africa.

  As soon as they were safely docked in Calab
ar, Jack would have to report to the EITC office there. He’d be required to provide a full report of all that had happened during the voyage to the manager of the EITC office. He would have to justify every decision, and submit his logbook for review.

  The manager of the Calabar office of the East India Trading Company was actually the head of the entire midwestern EITC African division—one of the top three EITC men assigned to the continent. Jack had never met the man. When he’d been posted to Fair Wind, he’d waited outside the office while Captain Bainbridge received his instructions and the paperwork for the cargo.

  The breeze freshened a bit, and Jack quickly reviewed the set of the brig’s sails. Once he was satisfied with them, he went below, where his navigational charts awaited him.

  As he spread out his charts, he found himself wondering whether the as-yet-unknown EITC manager would approve of the way he’d handled things aboard the brig. If he did, there might be a promotion in the offing.

  Jack bent over the charts. Captain Jack Sparrow.

  He liked the sound of it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Cutler Beckett

  THE NEW DIRECTOR of West African Imports and Exports for the East India Trading Company sweated as he worked, busily unpacking his new home office. Even though it was after sunset, the spacious room was still stiflingly hot and humid. The glass casements stood open, guarded by shutters that could be adjusted to regulate the amount of fresh air (and flying insects) flowing into the room from the quiet street outside. Every so often a draft of cooler air wafted through, as ocean breezes made their way up the hill from the harbor.

  A young boy dressed in a miniature version of a male house slave’s livery stood in a corner of the big room, steadily turning the crank that made the ceiling fan spin, but the temperature was still so warm that Cutler Beckett had, against his usual custom, removed his elegantly tailored coat. Even so, he was in danger of sweating through his embroidered silk waistcoat, so, before long, he reluctantly removed that, too. After doing so, Beckett took a few sips of cool spring water from the carafe on the sideboard, then mopped his face with his monogrammed handkerchief. He busied himself for a few minutes setting out his collection of miniature oriental jade netsuke carvings on the shelf behind the onyx- and mother-of-pearl-topped gaming table. Even this small exertion forced him to mop his face with his handkerchief again. Impatiently, he gestured at the slave, and the boy dutifully cranked the fan faster.