Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  “Watch where you going, boy!” Ayisha exclaimed, in pidgin.

  Babbling apologies, the young crewman began scrabbling around, snatching up fallen yams and replacing them in the basket. Ayisha stood there, staring at the split coconut. To add insult to injury, it had landed square in the middle of a fresh pile of horse manure.

  “Chamba? Chamba!” Right on cue, Jack came striding around the corner. “Blast that lad, didn’t I tell him not to—” Breaking off, he stared at his crewman, then at Ayisha. “Chamba, what happened here?” he demanded.

  The young sailor explained that he’d knocked the basket down, causing one of the coconuts to be ruined. Shamefacedly, Chamba pointed to the coconut, sitting there like some kind of large, cracked, hairy egg in the middle of a dung nest.

  Jack gave his crewman a severe dressing-down for his carelessness, culminating in a demand that Chamba walk back to the market before it closed and buy the woman he’d wronged a replacement coconut. With a hangdog look, Chamba confessed to his captain that he’d spent all his money in the tavern.

  Hearing this, Jack turned to Ayisha, who had been watching this byplay stolidly, and doffed his tricorne. “Excuse me, miss, do you speak English?”

  Ayisha did not reply, and her expression didn’t change. Jack glanced at his crewman. “Chamba, please translate.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  “Miss, I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, and I wish to apologize for my clumsy crewman. He should know better than to spend the afternoon drinking and spending all his money on rum. If you will please wait here, I shall give him some coins and send him back to the market, so I might make good on the damage he caused you and your coconut.”

  Chamba dutifully addressed Ayisha in pidgin. Jack, watching the lad, thought that it was regrettable the youth couldn’t aspire to a career on the stage. His acting ability was remarkable. He had exactly the right mix of chagrin, embarrassment, and truculence in his voice and demeanor.

  Ayisha nodded, once, in Jack’s direction, so he handed the youth a couple of coins, whereupon Chamba took to his heels and plunged back into the cheerful chaos that was the marketplace.

  Jack and Ayisha waited for his return in silence.

  Chamba returned, brandishing a coconut—a bigger, hairier one than the one he’d destroyed. He handed it to Jack, and Jack, with a half bow, held it out to Beckett’s slave woman. Hesitantly, she reached over and took it, putting it into her basket.

  Jack tried another smile. “Miss, perhaps you wouldn’t mind if we escorted you home? My crewman would be happy to carry that heavy basket for you. It’s really the least we can do, under the circumstances.”

  Chamba translated.

  After a long moment, the ugly woman glanced quickly at Jack—the first time she’d looked at him directly, or as directly as she could, given the casts in her eyes—and then said something briefly. “She say ‘very well’ Cap’n,” Chamba reported, as he relieved Ayisha of her basket.

  With the slave woman in the middle, they walked along the street that led to the hill where Cutler Beckett’s town house waited at the top. Jack ambled along in silence, but Chamba chattered away. Even though he didn’t speak pidgin, Jack knew the gist of what his crewman was saying, because he and Chamba had rehearsed all of this thoroughly, before Chamba had gone looking for Beckett’s sewing woman.

  First, he asked the woman her name, and finally, after a long pause, she replied.

  “Ayisha!” Chamba repeated. “That be a pretty name, miss. I be Chamba. I sails aboard the Wicked Wench, me. The Wench, she a fine ship tied up down at the docks. I be guessing that you be a slave, ma’am? Who be your master?”

  Ayisha did not answer for a long moment, then she replied shortly, her voice still soft, but her intonation brusque. Jack regarded her out of the corner of his eye, noticing that she habitually walked with her eyes down, as if afraid to look questioners in the eye. Jack remembered when Chamba had done much the same thing. He glanced at Chamba over her bent head inquiringly, and the lad replied, “She say, ‘No man my master. My owner be Mr. Beckett.’”

  Chamba began chattering again. Jack knew he was telling Ayisha that he, too, had once been a slave, but that he’d managed to escape, with Captain Sparrow’s help. Chamba would then add that all the slaves hereabouts knew his history, but they kept it from the whites, because they didn’t want the one decent white man, Captain Sparrow, to suffer because he’d helped a slave.

  When Chamba fell silent, Ayisha did not respond. Jack glanced down at her, thinking this was going to be more difficult than he’d envisioned. This woman certainly wasn’t half-witted; her remark differentiating “masters” from “owners” proved that. But it was possible that she was so set against those who had enslaved her that she wouldn’t believe anything anyone told her, even if they were offering her what had to be her most cherished desire.

  Just as Jack reached this point in his musings, Ayisha spoke to Chamba, the longest speech he’d heard her make. As before, she spoke softly, but her tone was cynical, dismissive. “What did she say?” he asked Chamba.

  “She say that you only help me escape because you set out to spite Portmaster Blount because he tried to give you bad supplies. She tell me no white man would help a slave unless there be something in it for him.”

  Jack was stung. “She’s wrong. I helped you because I wanted to help you. I admit that I enjoyed foxing Blount, but that’s not why I pulled you through that window.”

  “I be knowing that, Cap’n, you think I don’t? Only reason I jump in that river with that log was to get to you, because I be knowing in me heart you wouldn’t be taking me to spite Blount, then selling me to fatten your purse.”

  Surprised, Jack glanced quickly at his crewman. “The idea of selling you never crossed my mind, Chamba,” he said, truthfully, then added, “though I admit that I did think about just closing the window and walking away.” After a moment, Jack flashed a grin at his crewman. “It’s a bloody good thing I didn’t know just how much trouble you’d cause me.”

  “I did cause you a fair bit of trouble, eh?” Chamba returned the grin.

  “Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d attempt to make the truth clear to Miss Ayisha,” Jack said. He looked up, then halted, because he could see the roof of Beckett’s town house. “I’m going to stop here, Chamba,” he said. “You carry the basket a bit farther. I don’t want to risk being seen with Ayisha. Can you please explain that to her, with my apologies for not escorting her all the way up?”

  Chamba responded with a rapid spate of pidgin. Ayisha glanced over in Jack’s direction, then nodded silent acknowledgment.

  Jack smiled at her, and then touched the brim of his tricorne. “Farewell, Miss Ayisha. Perhaps we’ll meet again,” he said. Turning, he headed back down the hill. He walked slowly, and before he’d reached the docks, Chamba caught up with him.

  They fell into step, heading for the Wicked Wench’s berth. “How did it go?” Jack asked.

  “I be explaining to—”

  Jack waggled a finger at the young man. “It’s a good time to practice your ‘gentleman’s English,’ don’t you think, lad?”

  Chamba nodded. “Very well, Captain,” he said, his voice changing, growing a bit deeper, his rapid speech slowing, becoming deliberate. He enunciated carefully. “I explained to Miss Ayisha that you been acting—” he broke off, then amended, “that you acted as you did because you wanted to help me, not because you wanted to spite Portmaster Blount.”

  “Good,” Jack said. “Nicely phrased. Pray continue.”

  “I believe by the time I left, Miss Ayisha believed me. I asked her whether she had ever thought of escaping, and she said, ‘What slave doesn’t?’”

  “Very good,” Jack said, approvingly. “Anything else?”

  “After I mentioned escaping, just before she took her basket and went around the back door to the kitchen area, she said, ‘Will I see you again? Perhaps we could talk about this more.’”

  �
�Aha!” Jack said, “Clearly, we have implanted the seed of an idea. Now we need to let it grow and bear fruit.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Very good diction, Chamba.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Chamba hesitated, then said, “Do you really intend to help Ayisha escape?”

  “If she’ll agree to it, yes, I do.”

  Chamba looked at Jack intently for a long moment, and when he spoke again, he’d dropped back into his customary speech pattern. “Why only her, Cap’n? Why she be the onliest one? Ever think we could take more? Free a passel of slaves, ’stead of just one?”

  Jack sighed. “I wish I could, but I can’t. Until the law is changed, and the filthy practice is declared illegal, rescuing slaves usually means they just end up getting recaptured and owned by someone else.” They’d reached the dock where the Wicked Wench was moored. Jack stopped at the end of it, so they could conclude their conversation in private.

  Chamba nodded sadly. “I understand. But that bring me back to the first question, Cap’n. Why Ayisha?”

  Jack hesitated for a long moment. Finally he said, “I want to help her escape so I can take her home, Chamba.”

  Chamba took a deep breath, eyeing his captain. It was plain that he realized that Jack was holding something major back. “Ain’t no chance you mean her harm, right, Cap’n?”

  “I mean her no harm,” Jack said, with perfect truth, though an image flashed into his mind of Cutler Beckett, and the greed that had flared in the EITC director’s normally cool eyes when he’d talked about a hundred years of selling “black gold.”

  The young crewman waited, obviously hoping for a more complete explanation, but Jack volunteered nothing more. “Cap’n, you want I should go by there tomorrow? Talk to her again?”

  “Give her one day to think it over,” Jack said. “You can go back on Wednesday. Just do what you were doing today…tell her that escape is possible, that you’re living proof, and that she can be the next escapee.”

  “And what then, Cap’n?”

  “Unless I miss my guess, she’ll soon ask you how she can gain her freedom. And that’s when you’ll bring me back with you, so I may talk to her. I’ll explain my terms, and we’ll talk about how she can get away.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  For the next few days, Jack, conscious of possibly having to slip away without notice, drove his crew to off-load, then reload, the Wicked Wench as quickly as possible. After the new cargo, bound for Antigua, was secured in the hold, it was time to replenish their stores. Jack was pleased that Cutler Beckett remembered his promise, and that two extra casks of powder plus extra ammunition were delivered.

  He was also pleased that Robby Greene managed to hire another able seaman, plus another ordinary seaman. The ordinary seaman was a well-muscled man named Samuel Newton. A brief interview revealed that although he had little shipboard experience, he had been working as a carpenter’s apprentice. Jack promptly assigned him to assist the ship’s carpenter.

  Every day Chamba disappeared into the marketplace for a couple of hours.

  The Wicked Wench had been in port for a week and a day when Chamba sought out his captain to tell him that Ayisha wanted to meet with him. “In the marketplace?” Jack said.

  “No, Cap’n. She told me she gonna sneak out tonight, meet us where the road end and docks begin, beside the EITC warehouse. She will come as soon as Mr. Beckett’s household asleep.”

  “She’s ready to go tonight?” Jack was surprised and pleased.

  “No, Cap’n. She said she want to talk to you about somethin’ first. She have questions. And you gonna have to promise her somethin’, before she come aboard and we set sail.”

  Jack nodded. “She’s going to have to promise me something, too,” he said. “Very well, we’ll meet tonight. She thinks she can get out of the house?”

  “She say she think so. She say she try tonight, see how it go.”

  “A dress rehearsal,” Jack said. Chamba looked at him inquiringly, and he explained the term.

  That night, Chamba and Jack left the Wench after five bells of the evening watch, and walked over to the EITC warehouse. They sat down on a couple of bales of coir and waited. Jack had brought his flask containing his good rum, and sipped a bit while they talked quietly, just passing the time. The sliver of a moon had already set, so the stars provided the only illumination. Out on the river, they could see the ship lanterns, and their glowing reflections glimmering as crooked yellow streaks on the black river.

  Jack was just about to suggest that they walk up the road a bit, when Chamba suddenly turned his head, listening. Moments later, he saw movement. Wearing a dark dress, her head covered by a shawl, the woman coalesced out of the dark. Soundless on bare feet, she drifted toward them like a wraith.

  They stood up, watching her approach. When Ayisha reached them, Jack gestured her to a seat, and asked, “Did you have any trouble getting away?”

  Chamba translated. She shook her head no.

  “Good.” Jack sat down beside her, and regarded her for a long moment. “Miss Ayisha, it’s time for us to speak frankly and straightforwardly. Enough tacking back and forth, savvy? I’m going to run straight before the wind, and I want you to do the same.” He waited while Chamba translated, knowing the lad was smart enough to put the nautical phrases into terms a landlubber would understand. Ayisha nodded agreement, sitting poised, her hands folded in her lap.

  “You obviously want to escape slavery, Miss Ayisha. I can help you escape. If I could do it, I’d free every slave here in Calabar,” Jack said, then added, in a burst of honesty, “I’d bloody free them all, everywhere.” Hearing the anger in his own voice surprised him, and he turned his head to stare out at the black river, seeing the yellow trails marking the anchorages of the slave vessels. He heard Chamba translating, very quietly. After a moment he took a deep breath. Tend to business, Jacky boy, the voice in his head reminded him. Or are you going soft? Slaves aren’t your business. Finding treasure is.

  Jack turned back to his two listeners. “So, Miss Ayisha, I can take you with me when I sail away from here, if we come to an agreement. I’ll be leaving port soon.”

  He waited while Chamba translated. Ayisha spoke a few words. Chamba turned back to Jack. “She say, what agreement? Why would you do this for her? You must want somethin’—so what that somethin’ be?”

  “She’s right,” Jack said. “I want to find the lost island of Kerma. There’s treasure there. I read about it in a book when I was younger than you are now, Chamba. At first I thought the whole tale of a lost island where there’s a lot of gold and treasure must be just a legend. But some time ago…” he hesitated. “I had an…encounter…with someone who claimed to be from Zerzura.”

  Jack heard Ayisha gasp in the darkness, even before Chamba finished translating. Her voice was low and hoarse with emotion as she clutched Chamba’s arm, speaking urgently to the youth. Chamba sounded surprised when he translated. “Cap’n, she be all upset. Ask me if you seen a young man, ’bout my age, actually looks a bit like me? And that young man, he claimed to be from Zerzura?”

  “No,” Jack said. “Tell her I’m sorry, it was nothing like that.”

  As Chamba began to speak, Ayisha slumped forward, burying her face in her hands. Even in the darkness, Jack could see her shoulders moving. Chamba leaned over, spoke softly to her, his voice filled with concern. “Is she crying?” Jack asked, apprehensively. Weeping women were unnerving. Fumbling inside his waistcoat, he took out his little flask of rum and shook it. There were a few swallows remaining. “Here, give her a nip of this, Chamba. Rum helps everything.”

  Chamba spoke softly to the woman, pressing the flask into her hand. She sat up shakily, then raised the flask, threw her head back and swigged a mouthful. She gulped, then gagged. For a moment Jack worried she might cough up his expensive rum, but she managed to swallow it. Reaching over, Jack relieved her of the flask, lest she drop it. “There you go, love,” he said, hearti
ly. “That should fix you right up. Works wonders for me.”

  To Chamba, he said, “When she can talk again, ask her what she was talking about.”

  After Ayisha stopped coughing, Chamba asked her. The slave woman hesitated for a long moment, then finally replied, her voice calm and steady.

  “She say she thought you might have seen somebody she know, somebody that was traveling with her,” Chamba translated. “In the caravan she was part of, when that Duke Wren-John, he come along and capture all of them.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows. Whomever she was asking about before she broke down, that person was very important to her. And yet now, she’s completely composed. Something’s not adding up here. For a moment he was tempted to pursue the subject, but really, what did it matter? She’d just given him the opening to bring up the caravan, and he needed to pursue that.

  He nodded. “I see. Please tell her I heard Mr. Beckett talking about this Duke fellow, and claiming that Duke had captured a caravan of people who had come from Zerzura. Mr. Beckett told me that he believes Ayisha is one of them, and he showed me these.”

  As Chamba obediently translated, Jack reached into the pocket fastened beneath the waistband of his britches, and took out the gold earrings. He held them up. In the starlight, the gold gleamed with a faint, silvery glow. “When Mr. Beckett showed me some pieces of jewelry, including these earrings, I knew he wasn’t imagining that they’d come from Zerzura. They’re exactly like the designs I saw in that book, so long ago. Have you seen them before, Miss Ayisha? Were you part of that caravan? Was there someone in the caravan who wore them? Someone royal? Were you her servant?”

  Jack waited while Chamba translated. Ayisha made a low-voiced reply. Her hands, he noticed, no longer lay quietly in her lap. Instead they were twisted in the fabric of her dress.

  Chamba nodded. “She say yes, Cap’n. She say those earrings belonged to her royal mistress, the princess of Zerzura.”