Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  He was completely relaxed now, all thoughts of the miserable cargo crammed into the bellies of the ships surrounding him gone, blotted out. Visions of the lad Chamba being whipped vanished like fog fleeing before strong sunlight.

  Ahhhh…he thought, in pure contentment, having another sip. Much better. This is more like it.

  “Cap’n Sparrow?”

  Jack thought he heard what sounded like a human voice, faint and quavering. It echoed eerily in the still night.

  Jack’s eyes flew open. He was completely alone in his cabin. There’s no one but me here, he reassured himself.

  “Cap’n Sparrow?” the disembodied voice said again, louder.

  Jack nearly fell over backward. Only good balance and quick reflexes, learned from dangerous years as a topman, kept him from crashing over, or, the sea gods forbid, spilling his high quality rum. The front legs of his chair slammed to the deck and the captain sat bolt upright, every nerve on edge. “Who’s there?” he demanded of the air.

  “Cap’n Sparrow…” the faint voice came again. “It’s me, Chamba. Help.”

  Jack groaned aloud. Not another bloody ghost! He glanced at the rum bottle, still in his hand, then carefully set it down and corked it. He’d definitely had enough for tonight. Maybe, he thought, hopefully, it was all a delusion, brought on by the rum. But he had a bad feeling that he hadn’t imagined that disembodied voice. Over the years, Jack Sparrow had seen his share—and more—of supernatural happenings. Just knowing Tia Dalma guaranteed that one would see things that were not of this earth.

  Damn that bastard, Blount, he thought. He really did whip the lad to death, but why is the poor bloke here now, haunting ME?

  “Chamba?” Jack said aloud. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, lad, I really am. But there’s nothing to be gained by haunting me. Go visit Blount, perhaps you can frighten him into an apoplexy—which the bastard bloody well deserves.”

  “Cap’n Sparrow?” There was strain in the voice, now, mixed with desperation. “Please, help! I ain’t no ghost, I’m me. I be hanging here, outside the window.”

  Jack turned to look at the open windows. He narrowed his eyes, peering into the dimness—and saw eight dark, cylindrical objects hooked over the bottom frame of the open window. Eight…fingers.

  With one bound, Jack was across the cabin, peering out and down. There, balanced precariously on one of the carvings supporting the quarter gallery, was Chamba, very much alive, desperately holding on to the bottom of the window. The youth was nearly naked, and even in the dimness Jack could see that his back was striped and pulpy. Jack swore under his breath. This is all I need!

  “How the devil did you get here, Chamba?”

  The lad looked up at him imploringly. His arms were shaking from the effort of holding himself in place against the side of the ship. If Jack didn’t haul him in soon, he’d lose his grip and fall back into the river.

  “Cap’n Sparrow, when Mr. Blount finished with the whippin’ he promised, I played dead. He kick me like a dead dog, then he left me there. When he done gone, I dragged me down to the river. Found me a log, hung on to it, and crawled into the water. I been in the water for a long time, kickin’, paddlin’, trying to find you. Cap’n…please?”

  “Why does this kind of thing always happen to me?” Jack demanded plaintively, under his breath. For a moment he was tempted to just turn away. This wasn’t his problem. He had enough troubles of his own, without adding this complication.

  But he discovered he couldn’t stand by and watch the lad fall, knowing he’d drown. Jack opened the window all the way, and the one beside it, too. “This is going to hurt, Chamba,” he warned the youth. “Don’t make a sound.”

  “Not me, Cap’n,” the boy promised.

  Chamba was as good as his word. Jack grabbed his forearms, braced himself, and hauled upward with all his might. The slave gasped, but made no other sound. Instead he pushed upward with his bare feet, climbing the hull, thrusting himself upward off his precarious support. Grunting with effort, Jack heaved until he saw stars, and between them they got the youth’s body pulled up until his arms, then his shoulders, were in the cabin. Then, holding him balanced with one hand, Jack managed to lean out the other window, and snag a fistful of Chamba’s only garment, a breechclout. He dragged him upward again, until the lad’s belly crossed the sill. With one more heave, he eased the runaway’s dark legs over the bottom of the casement.

  Chamba collapsed to the deck on his side and lay still. He’d fainted from the pain.

  Seeing his back in the lamplight, Jack cursed Blount in three languages. Those stripes needed treatment, or they’d be sure to fester. Quickly he rolled the lad onto his stomach, then went in search of the bottle of ship’s rum he kept in his captain’s pantry.

  Luckily for Chamba, he didn’t regain consciousness as Jack poured rum into his wounds. The captain squatted on his heels beside the youth’s unconscious form, thinking. He knew that by rights he ought to take the kid straight back to Blount—but it just wasn’t in him to do that. What should he do? Take him to Mr. Beckett and tell him the whole story? Jack shook his head. Beckett might discipline or dismiss Blount from his post for tampering with the provisions, but he wouldn’t break the law. He’d hand the slave over to his owner.

  Maybe he could keep him here, hide him aboard ship for a couple of days, then drop him off somewhere, with no one the wiser. Jack nodded slightly. That could work. Maybe he could set his course for the Cape Verde Islands, and let Chamba go there.

  He knew as surely as the sun would rise in the east that Blount would start out searching for the lad. As soon as he realized his slave was still alive, he’d look everywhere for his property. He might well come by the Wicked Wench. Jack was fairly sure that Blount had realized that Jack had some sympathy for Chamba. If he was going to hide him for a few days, he needed to figure out how to do it.

  Rising, he went into the captain’s pantry, and returned with a pewter goblet full of watered wine, and some bread and cheese from his own private store. Setting them on the table, he went over to his sea chest and hunted up an old shirt that looked fairly clean, though it was stained. Tomorrow he’d check the slop chest that contained the crew’s castoff clothing, to see whether there was anything the lad could wear. Even though he had to be in his teens, the youth was small and thin for his age—doubtless Blount saw no reason to feed a slave well.

  After a few more minutes, Chamba began to stir, then he moaned and tried to sit up. Jack helped him, until the boy was able to sit cross-legged on the deck, still swaying weakly. “Thirsty?” Jack said, holding out the goblet.

  Despite his obvious eagerness, Chamba was careful not to spill any of the liquid. He drained the cup, then drew a long breath. “Thanks, Cap’n.”

  “You’re welcome. Here, have something to eat,” he said, holding out the bread and cheese. “Eat slowly. You don’t want to get sick.”

  The lad nibbled away at the bread, then swallowed a mouthful or two of the cheese. Jack put the leftovers on a plate. He sat down on the deck opposite Chamba, and said, “Why did you come to me? Why didn’t you run and hide in the woods, upriver?”

  The runaway lowered his eyes and shook his head. “I’d be caught by now if I done that, Cap’n. They got dogs. I knew I was bleedin’ and they smell that.”

  Jack nodded. “I see.”

  The youth gazed at him with those pleading dark eyes. “I’m sorry, Cap’n. I know it be dangerous for you. But I couldn’t think of nowhere else. That’s why I didn’t run before. Ain’t the first time he done this, though it be the worst.”

  Jack had no trouble believing that. He nodded grimly.

  “I just…let go. Went away in here,” Chamba touched his forehead. “Played dead. Give him what he wanted. Blount, he angry ’cause you caught him puttin’ the condemned stuff into those barrels. He done it before, but nobody catch him till you.”

  “It’s not your fault I caught him,” Jack pointed out.

 
The youth gave him a look that spoke volumes. “So? What difference that make, Cap’n? Blount, when he need someone to beat, he find someone, best believe.”

  “I know,” Jack said. “Listen, Chamba, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve decided to help you. I’ll be sailing within a day. I can take you and drop you off somewhere.”

  “Somewhere? Where can I go?” Chamba’s eyes were wide with fear.

  “That’s what we’ll have to figure out,” Jack said. “Where is—was—your home? Before you were captured?” He was wondering if there was some way to arrange for the lad to be taken back home. It didn’t seem likely.

  “My home, it be gone, Cap’n. The slavers take the whole village, they take everyone. Burn what left. They take my mother, my father, my sisters…they kill my old granddad, ’cause him not keepin’ up. No home left, Cap’n Sparrow.”

  “Oh,” Jack said. “I see.” How can men be so vile? he wondered. “That’s a predicament, then, Chamba. A problem,” he translated, seeing that the youth didn’t understand the long word. “I have to sail away,” he explained. “And when I do that, what’s to become of you?”

  The lad looked at him. “Going with you, Cap’n, please. Stay here, on the ship. The ship, she be free. Your sailor men, they free. Me, I want become like them. A sailor man. Learn the sailor trade. Sail far away from here.” The disgust in the word “here” spoke volumes.

  Jack blinked. “Oh.” It hadn’t occurred to him that Chamba had fled to him with a plan, but he should have realized. The lad was smart—and cunning. Good qualities in a sailor. And there was no denying his courage. He thought it over, taking his time, while Chamba sat there, tense with mingled hope and fear.

  Their voyage would take at least four or five months. At Chamba’s age, that could make a big difference in a boy’s appearance. Five months of enough food would put some muscle on that skinny frame. He might get a bit taller. His beard was just starting to come in, which was a good sign. They could shave his head, perhaps. By the time they came back to Calabar, he might well be unrecognizable as that runaway skinny runt of a slave. And just to make sure, he’d order the kid to stay hidden while they were in port.

  Jack sighed. I hope I won’t regret this.…

  “All right,” he agreed. “You can start in as cabin boy, and cook’s assistant, while you learn how to rig the sails, and all the rest of what it takes to be a sailor.”

  For the first time, a light sparked in Chamba’s eyes, and he smiled. The expression transformed his face. “Aye, Cap’n! I be a good sailor man, the best! You will see!”

  Jack held out the shirt. “Here. Put this on. Keep the dirt out of those wounds.”

  With a hiss of pain, Chamba eased the shirt over his head. It was so long it fell past his hips. Jack handed him a blanket. “You can make yourself a bed in my pantry. There’s enough room in there for you to stretch out. The doors close.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Gamely, Chamba climbed to his feet and limped after him to arrange his sleeping place.

  “And over here is the head,” Jack said, and took him to the other side of the cabin to show him the other enclosure overhanging the quarter gallery. While he was standing there, looking at the head, something occurred to him, and he looked at the youth. “If Mr. Blount comes to the ship tomorrow, looking for you, you’ll need to hide, understand? I’ll give you some warning. If you hear me rap on the door to my cabin, one rap, hide.” He demonstrated.

  Chamba nodded. “Where, Cap’n?”

  “I think you can fit in here. I’ll move the rum out…temporarily.” Jack opened the hidden compartment, leaned over, and pulled out the bottles. He stowed them away in the pantry. When he came back, Chamba was staring down into the box-like hiding area.

  Jack looked at it, then at the lad. “Can you can fit in there?” he asked, dubiously.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Chamba said. “If fitting mean Mr. Blount don’t catch me, I fit.”

  “All right, then. Make sure you don’t leave any sign that you’ve been here in the cabin, savvy? Er…understand? If Blount comes here, I’ll make sure this is the last place he comes in. That should give you time to hide.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. Hide good, that’s me.”

  After he’d settled the youth in the pantry, Jack stripped down to his drawers, then blew out the lantern. He’d wondered if he’d lie awake, but the long day, coupled with the effort of hauling the runaway through the window, had tired him. It wasn’t long before he slept.

  The next day he was up at dawn, making sure the cargo hold and other stowage areas were ready for use. Blount was as good as his word.

  The remainder of Jack’s provisions arrived on the dock and were loaded aboard—after Jack and Robby had checked every container.

  Scarcely had they finished stowing the provisions before the cargo itself made its appearance. Both Jack and Robby were busy for hours, making sure everything was stowed securely, and, when necessary, fastened down so it wouldn’t shift during rough weather.

  Barely half the cargo had been loaded when Blount showed up, with three slave hunters.

  Jack, summoned to the gangplank leading from the dock to the deck, leaned over the railing and looked down at the portmaster with a big grin. He waved cheerfully. “’Morning, Portmaster Blount! Here to check on your provision delivery? They arrived in fine shape, thanks very much! I adore smoked ham!”

  Blount shook his head slowly, scowling. “No, Captain Sparrow. We’re here about my slave, Chamba. He ran away last night. The dogs tracked him to the river. I think he must’ve been planning to stow away on a ship. We’ve checked all the others. Yours is the last. We’d like your permission to search the Wicked Wench.”

  Jack did a well-feigned double take. “Your slave? The one so stupid he couldn’t come in out of the rain? In the river?” Jack surveyed the huge, muddy river, deep and filled with currents. “Could he swim?”

  “Not that I know of,” replied Blount, with exaggerated patience.

  “Well, then, he’s likely drowned, eh?” Jack said, with hearty good cheer. “Or eaten by a crocodile. Bit of a nuisance, I suppose, but at least you won’t be put to the trouble of burying him.”

  “Perhaps. May we search your ship?”

  Jack rolled his eyes theatrically. “Oh, very well. If you must. Come aboard.”

  Blount and his companions trudged up the gangway and stepped onto the weather deck. “Mr. Greene!” Jack called, waving the first mate over.

  Robby arrived a moment later. “Yes, Captain Sparrow?”

  Jack gestured at Blount and his henchmen. “Portmaster Blount here thinks we might have a stowaway. I want you to take him down to the bilges, and let them look for him, working your way up through the ship. But don’t disarrange the stowed cargo.” He gave the portmaster a meaningful glance. “The holds were nearly empty until this morning, when your supplies arrived, and then our cargo. My men have worked hard, stowing it. Any stowaway would have been visible, Mr. Blount.”

  “Very well,” the portmaster said, grudgingly.

  Robby shot Jack a suspicious glance as he led the party away. Jack smiled blandly, waving him on.

  The captain was down on the cargo deck, overseeing the stowage, when he heard Blount and his party climbing up from the orlop and the bilges. Quickly Jack instructed his second mate, a grizzled old Irishman named Frank Connery, to keep an eye on everything, then climbed back up to the weather deck. Sauntering across it, keeping a sharp eye on the cargo still coming up the gangplank, he headed aft, toward his cabin, which was actually an enclosed extension of the weather deck.

  When he reached it, he didn’t pause, but rapped sharply on the locked cabin door in passing, then continued on his round.

  Perhaps ten minutes later, Robby appeared with the sweating and disheveled portmaster and the slave hunters. Jack waved to them cheerfully. “Isn’t she a beautiful vessel, Mr. Blount? She’s fast, I can tell. She’ll do the EITC proud.”

  The portmaster waved a
ll this aside with a glare. “We’ve searched everywhere except your cabin, Captain.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “My cabin? Why, it’s always kept locked, Portmaster. No runaway could have gotten in there.”

  “Nevertheless, I need to see it. Please take me in there.” The port-master paused for a beat. “Unless you have something to hide, Captain Sparrow.”

  Jack made a moue of annoyance, then shrugged exaggeratedly. “Oh, very well.” He was being his most fey, mincing self, an act that he’d found caused most men to underestimate him…often to their regret.

  Turning, he led them to the cabin. When they reached it, he took out his keys, but glared at the portmaster. “You may come in, Mr. Blount, and search to your wizened little heart’s content, but I’m not having these hulking louts tramping around in my cabin, stealing my private stock of rum, and goodness knows what else.”

  The portmaster gestured at his men. “Wait here.”

  Jack nodded and opened the door, then stepped in, waving the portmaster after him.

  After a first, anxious moment, he was reassured to see that the cabin looked almost as it should—somewhat tidier, to be honest, for Chamba seemed to have made the bunk up neatly. Starting his job as cabin boy, Jack realized. No sign that the slave had ever been there was visible.

  Quickly, Jack glanced at the head—and froze. There was a half-inch crack showing where the secret hatch beside the hole hadn’t closed all the way. He cleared his throat. “You’ll excuse me, Portmaster,” he chirped, “if I just take this opportunity to pump the bilges.”

  He stepped into the head, closing the door behind him, and then, to make it look good, actually undid his britches, shuffling his feet and whistling between his teeth as he reached over and quietly eased the hatch all the way closed. The secret storage area hadn’t been designed to be closed from the inside—no wonder the lad hadn’t been able to pull it all the way down after him.

  After a minute or so, Jack hitched up his britches, then, still fussing with the top buttons, he stepped out of the head. Portmaster Blount was lying on his stomach, peering under the bunk. “Is he there?” cried Jack, jovially.