Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  Cutler Beckett was aware that Lord Penwallow was even more pleased with his own work, and, especially Beckett’s assistance in the matter of his new plantation. It was only a matter of time, he figured, before the older man expressed his gratitude by sponsoring Beckett in his quest for a title.

  And when he does, Beckett thought, I’ll owe some of it to Jack Sparrow, who practically charmed the old buffoon’s wig off. He chuckled, softly. Mercer had reported that Sparrow had not only captivated Lord Penwallow, but also his own matronly housekeeper. A young man of undeniable talents…

  Mercer had also told him that Sparrow had sailed out of Calabar harbor with a runaway slave aboard his ship, one that he’d knowingly helped to escape. When Beckett had demanded to know how Mercer had discovered this, his enforcer had explained that the slaves in Calabar chattered among themselves, sharing their histories, experiences, and gossip. Ian Mercer apparently had sources planted among the slaves and those close to them. The runaway’s name was Chamba, and he’d been the property of the former portmaster, Benjamin Blount, the one whose accounts had been doctored, the man who’d escaped Calabar just hours ahead of Mercer and his men. He’d gone upriver, into the interior, and hadn’t been heard from since.

  Mercer had reported that the news of Chamba’s escape to freedom had spread like fever amongst the local slave population, and that now they seemed to regard Captain Jack Sparrow as some kind of heroic rescuer…a white knight, so to speak. Beckett’s faint smile turned ironic.

  From what Mercer reported, Sparrow’s stealing that lad right out from under Blount’s nose required both wit and audacity. I really do need to gain his allegiance. Adaptable as Sparrow is, he would make an exemplary operative for me, serving as my eyes and ears in some exotic foreign port…

  Beckett heard a small scraping sound from the little room to his right, and turned his head, listening intently. She was in there…in the room he’d had set up to be her sleeping quarters and workplace. She was his key to Zerzura, and he wanted her close to him.

  Ayisha, they said her name was…what was she doing now?

  The ugly creature rarely spoke, and then only a few words of the pidgin used by the slave traders and slaves. Mercer had learned it, which Beckett found very useful. There was no denying it, Ian Mercer was proving to be the best operative Beckett had ever hired. And yet, neither Beckett nor Mercer had so far been able to get the sewing woman to speak beyond murmured “yes sirs” and “no sirs” plus a few other monosyllables.

  In the room next door, he heard the muffled clack of the big loom. The creature was weaving again.

  Ugly and seemingly half-witted as she was, Ayisha had talent in her hands, he had to concede that much. Mistress Goodwright had waxed positively rhapsodic over the textiles and fabrics she wove, the garments she sewed, and her other skills involving thread, yarn, and so forth.

  Beckett relaxed again as the loom continued its muffled sounds, and broke the sealing wax on yet another piece of correspondence. Perhaps, he thought idly, she was nothing more than what she seemed to be…a half-witted sewing and weaving woman who had one extraordinary skill. He’d heard of people like that before, though they were rare.

  But the slave trader Mercer had tracked down, the one who styled himself “Duke” Ancona Wren-John, the man who had captured the people whose jewelry proclaimed them to be from Zerzura, had, when Beckett had taken him to look at Ayisha, sworn that yes, this woman had indeed been one of the slaves he’d captured that day out on the savannah of Ethiopia. “Oh, yes, the ugly one! Who could forget that face?” had been Ancona’s exact words.

  The slave trader had proven his claim by showing Cutler Beckett more of that incredible jewelry, all of which now resided in Beckett’s most secure strongbox. All of it had come from the same group as the old priest and Ayisha—all of it except the royal pectoral.

  Cutler Beckett’s lips tightened in annoyance. He’d questioned “Duke” Wren-John extensively about that pectoral. The slave trader could only recall that he’d taken it off a half-starved, half-grown youth his raiding party had found wandering alone on the edge of the desert. The lad had been too weak to walk for the first half of the journey, but had proved tougher than he’d looked at first. After a few weeks of regular feedings, he’d been able to march into Calabar as part of the coffle. Duke had sold the entire coffle in Calabar, and every one of them had been immediately loaded onto a ship. A ship bound where? Beckett had asked. Duke Wren-John had shrugged. He had no idea, except it had been bound for the New World, like almost all slave ships.

  Cutler Beckett grimaced slightly. If only they could have gotten the boy, too. From what Duke had said, the lad at least had been able to talk, and seemed of normal wit—for a slave. Unlike Ayisha, Cutler Beckett thought.

  But at least he had Ayisha. She had to have come from Zerzura—hadn’t she? And if she came from there, Beckett thought, she must know where it is.…

  Beckett’s fingers tightened on the page he was holding. He had to figure out how to get the truth from her. Too bad he couldn’t just turn her over to Mercer, and let him wring it from her by whatever means his enforcer chose, but there were…complications…connected with that idea.

  If only I could gain her trust. Her dull-wittedness might well be a ruse, but how to unmask her?

  Beckett pursed his lips. He’d tried having her spend time with his house slaves, but Ayisha didn’t talk to them, either, any more than was necessary to do her job. She followed orders given to her in pidgin, if stated simply. So she couldn’t be completely lacking in intelligence. He allowed himself a faint sigh of frustration.

  His gaze sharpened as he came to the next letter. He recognized the handwriting on the envelope as that of his cousin, Susan. Why would she be writing to him? The paper bore no telltale black border…and it wasn’t as if there was anyone left in his family he cared about…

  Beckett broke the wax seal, and opened the letter.

  My dear cousin,

  I write to you today to ask your help. My son, John, is now twelve years of age, which means he must soon be apprenticed. John fancies that he would like to see the World, and I know you have done splendidly, cousin Cutler, earning for yourself a high place ina Company that is Known to all and Respected.

  I ask you to recommend John to your superiors in one of the English offices of the East India Trading Company. If he were apprenticed here in England, I could see my boy perhaps during Christmastide, and if I traveled to the city. It is hard on a Mother’s heart to lose her son, and I would bless you for helping me keep him here in England until he is a bit more grown.

  I must note that I asked your father to take John on as an apprentice and he refused me, saying that it was his perception that my son has “no head for business.”

  I believe Jonathan is incorrect in his judgment, dismissing John so unfeelingly. John is a likely boy, eager to learn. He has done well with his schooling, though I must concede his Latin tutor despaired of him. But he can read and cipher, and he writes a good, clear hand, so Jonathan’s refusal made no sense to me, Except it helped me to see why you and our dear departed Jane could not Feel the familial affection normally due a father by his offspring.

  I hope this letter finds you well, Cutler, and that you will find it in your heart to help us. Your cousin Matthew sends his best Regards, as do we all, as well as our Prayers, thinking of you in those distant lands filled with Heathens and who knows what else.

  Please let me hear from you soonest, Cutler. And if you are able to help, please accept our grateful Appreciation.

  Yr. Affect. Cousin,

  Susan Beckett

  Cutler Beckett read the letter impatiently. He barely remembered his second cousin as a plump and placid baby, then as a little pest that tagged around after him on the few occasions he’d visited his cousin Matthew and his wife, Susan. Still, he was minded to do as Susan requested, if only for the reason that it would annoy his father to have yet another Beckett working for a rival tradi
ng company.

  Beckett reread the latter, and his eyes stopped on the phrase “no head for business.” He knew exactly how Jonathan Beckett had sounded when he’d said that, because he’d heard that very phrase one late April day. Beckett closed his eyes, remembering. For a moment it seemed he was back in Father’s office in Springhaven, feeling the warm caress of a Somersetshire spring.…

  “Come in, come in, Cutler, and sit down.” Jonathan Beckett regarded his youngest with a perfunctory smile, gesturing the eighteen-year-old to a seat. “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you to come here today.”

  Cutler nodded warily, sitting poised on the edge of the elegant leather chair. The office was a big room, smelling of pipe tobacco and whiskey, with framed hunting prints on the wall, and copies of ledgers, instead of books, lining the shelves. Even though it was spring, a small fire burned in the grate. Mornings were still chilly. His father was usually up before dawn, working…or sometimes he simply began work when he came in from London, after a long night…out.

  “Cutler, have you ever thought about what you would like to do with your life?” Jonathan Beckett asked, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers.

  Young Beckett hesitated. “I have, yes, sir,” he said, finally.

  “And what profession have you chosen?”

  “I’ve thought of several things, sir,” Cutler said, hesitantly. “Careers that I would enjoy, that I seem to have an aptitude for…” He trailed off, wondering if he’d confided too much.

  “Such as?” prompted his father.

  “I could be a scholar,” Beckett said. “My tutors have told me I have the necessary skills, and they’ve been…complimentary…about my studies.”

  His father nodded. There was an expression in his eyes Cutler couldn’t read. “What does a scholar do, Cutler? Would you become a dominie, start your own school?”

  “I don’t think so, sir, that’s not what I’d envisioned. I know I would be accepted at Cambridge or Oxford. I could become a professor there.”

  “Does it pay well?”

  “I…don’t know, sir. But that needn’t be a major concern.” Cutler knew when his father died, he would inherit enough to keep him comfortable for his entire life. He’d had visions of a charming cottage, with a little rose garden, where he and his sister, Jane, could live, near a great university. She could keep house for him, and neither of them would have to feel like an unwanted mouth to feed ever again.

  “Hmmmmmm…do they give scholars titles?”

  “Sometimes, Father, if they have contributed to the sum of human knowledge. I’ve studied the work of one man that may well achieve it. His name is Isaac Newton.”

  “Never heard of him,” his father said. “So is that what you’re set on?”

  Cutler didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he clasped them tightly in his lap, “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps someday. But I would like to see the world, sir, before settling down at a university. So I thought…I thought…” He stammered to a halt.

  “Out with it, lad!” his father said, his dark eyes glinting. He didn’t actually seem angry, so Cutler took a deep breath.

  “I’ve enjoyed the times I’ve gone with you to the city, and worked in the shipping company’s office,” he said, “Going over the records, reconciling costs and expenditures, checking cargo manifests and ports of destination and bills of lading…” Cutler looked up at his father. “Sir, I know you plan to retire soon, and turn over the management of the Beckett Trading Company to my brothers. Perhaps I could join them in working there?”

  Jonathan Beckett began to laugh, shaking his head. “Cutler, m’boy…won’t do. I know you write a good hand and can cipher with the best of them, but you’ve no head for business, lad,” he said.

  Cutler felt his cheeks flush, and damned himself for this betraying sign. He’s wrong. I do have a head for business.

  “So you’d like to see the world, eh?” Jonathan Beckett said. Languidly he polished his small, square-lensed reading spectacles. “Well, Cutler, if you were Jonathan Junior, or Bartholomew, strong, tall, strapping lads, I could purchase you a good commission in the service of the king.” His gaze traveled up and down his youngest son’s short, slight frame. “But I think you’ll agree that that’s not a practical idea, Cutler.”

  The young man’s flush deepened. His father had never forgiven him for not being tall and strong. It didn’t matter how smart he was—and he knew for a fact he could reason rings around either of his brothers—all this wretched man sitting before him could see was his size and lack of brute muscle. He can go to Hades, Cutler thought, setting his jaw.

  “You show no kinship to the land…never could induce you to ride to hounds with us, could I? No, you stayed home with your sister, Jane. For all I know, you both played with her dollies.” He chuckled aloud. “Don’t look so affronted, boy. I’m just having a little joke. You have no sense of humor, I swan.” The elder Beckett laid down his spectacles on the desk, and huffed an exasperated sigh. “So it’s not as though I could have you managing my tenant farms or the gristmills, either, is it?”

  Cutler couldn’t manage a civil reply, so he merely shook his head.

  “At any rate, I was prepared for this,” Jonathan continued. “I knew bloody well you wouldn’t be able to think of something suitable and practical, so I’ve figured it out for you, son.” He took a paper out of his desk. “I’ve made an…investment…”

  He means a bribe, Cutler thought.

  “An investment in a nice little vicarage for you, Cutler. You’ll be a parson, and I can’t think of any life more suitable for you. I mean, you won’t come into London with us, to have a little fun, tumble a few wenches, drink and gamble a bit, you prefer to bury yourself in your books, your Latin and Greek. You live like a parson now, boy. You might as well be one, eh?” He guffawed at his own wit.

  Cutler shook his head again. He was so angry he was trembling, but he had to try and make his father understand. “No, sir,” he managed to force the words out. “That would not be an appropriate profession for me. I’m not suited to it at all.”

  “Of course you are!” his father insisted. “Look at yourself! You’d make a perfect clergyman! You can write, your tutors told me, with proper grammar and even a bit of elegance when the situation demands. You’ll dash off those sermons in no time at all! And aside from that, well…it’s just a round of garden parties, and balls, afternoon teas and socials. There are always girls from good but poor families dangling after the village vicar, you know that. You might even have your pick!” Folding his hands on his desk, he regarded his son with a smile and a satisfied nod, obviously very pleased with himself.

  Cutler stared at him in complete silence for a long moment, struggling to control himself. Finally, when he could keep his voice even, he said, “Father, I realize you meant well.” Do I? he wondered, but he plunged on. “But I fear I cannot accept this. I have no calling, sir.”

  The elder Beckett waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, tosh, boy. When you arrive at your parish, and read some tracts, a bit of holy writ, it will come to you. I’m sure that’s how they all start out.”

  I have to make him understand, Cutler thought, desperation creeping up on him like an enveloping shadow. Taking a deep breath, he made himself tell the truth. “Father, I am not even a believer.”

  “Ha ha!” His father’s chuckle was genuinely amused. “Not sure I am either, Cutler my boy, for all that I sing hymns with the best of them on the Sabbath. What does that matter?”

  “It matters because it’s not what I want to do,” Cutler said. Folding his arms across his chest, he sat there in mutinous silence.

  “You’ll come around, Cutler,” Jonathan Beckett said. “I’ve already told your mother, and you should have seen how happy she was to hear of it. She wept with happiness. You know she’s devout.” He cleared his throat. “You also can’t have missed the fact that she isn’t…robust…these days.” He cleared his throat again. “Not
robust at all, I would say she’s…well…let’s just say I believe time is of the essence, my boy. She wants to know that you’re settled, and I agree. It wouldn’t do at this time to deprive her of any bit of happiness, right? We understand each other, don’t we?”

  As Cutler sat there, trying to regain enough control to speak, Jonathan Beckett looked back down at the desk. He pulled some papers over to him, then settled his reading spectacles on his nose. “I’m glad that’s settled, boy, and all for the best, I say. You run along now, I’ve work to do.”

  Cutler managed to say, “Mother wants me to be happy, Father. She will understand if I choose to do something else.”

  Jonathan Beckett looked up at his son over the tops of his spectacles. “Cutler, you didn’t understand me, I see. I shall have to be clearer, even though I don’t like saying such a thing aloud. Cutler, your mother has a wasting disease. Some kind of unknown ailment the doctors can’t diagnose or cure. She’s dying, boy. Seeing you settled as a clergyman is her last wish.”

  Cutler Beckett felt himself fill up with rage, as though there was a hole in the top of his head, and vitriol was being poured in. How dare he? How DARE he?

  He sucked in air as though he hadn’t breathed in an hour, and found himself on his feet, leaning forward across his father’s desk. For once that assured, slightly mocking glint was gone from Jonathan Beckett’s expression. He leaned away from his son, clearly taken aback.

  “How dare you try to use my mother to manipulate me, you devil?” Cutler said, his voice low and so full of menace that Jonathan Beckett actually looked frightened. “A ‘wasting disease’ is it? An ‘unknown ailment?’ You lying, filthy hypocrite! I know what’s wrong with my mother, and so do you! She has the damned pox, and you gave it to her!”

  Cutler leaned farther forward. His father pushed back in his chair, his eyes wide and frightened. Guilt marked his features like a brand. Cutler raged on. “Why it hasn’t brought you down yet, I don’t know, but if I believed, I’d pray every day that it would! To claim you don’t know what’s wrong with her, after what you have done to her, after…cavorting…with your strumpets and trulls and legions of mistresses. My mother is a pure and chaste woman; you know that to be true. And yet she lies upstairs, dying by inches, because you brought the fruit of your whoring home to your own marriage bed, and infected her. I despise you.”