Featherstone called time, and turned the hourglass over, seating it carefully so it wouldn’t roll off. Jack called out the course, and the ordinary seaman marked the traverse board with a peg.
Time passed. The storm worsened. The spray was nearly constant, lightning ripped the blackness, and blasts of thunder seemed to rattle human bones. Matthews and Banks wrestled with the wheel like a living opponent, grunting with the effort of keeping the ship on course. Gale winds could be capricious. If the Wicked Wench were blown north, the bulge of Africa lay in that direction. And if she went off course to the south, there was an island down there—Fernando Pó, named for the Portuguese explorer who had discovered it two hundred years ago. Islands meant shoal water. Being blown around in a gale was a sailor’s nightmare.
Jack kept an eye on their course, while trying to tuck his chin at just the right angle so his hat would keep the rain out of his mouth and nose, but still protect the back of his neck—but a few minutes of experimentation proved this feat to be impossible. Deciding it was better to breathe than drown, Jack gritted his teeth and endured the cold flood running down his back.
Every time the rain slacked off for a moment, he quickly glanced from port to starboard, to see if he could make out any sign of land. But there was nothing visible.
Jack could see that Matthews was tiring, so he tapped the helmsman on the shoulder. “I’ll take her until your watch ends,” he shouted.
Jack kept the wheel steady, trying to be as smooth as possible about it. If it hadn’t been for the lee helmsman, Banks, he’d never have been strong enough to keep the Wench steady.
Just as Lucius turned the hourglass over again, Jack saw moving light below them, coming up the ladder from the weather deck. Robby Greene came up, escorting the two fresh helmsmen. Prescott took the helm from Jack, and a big, well-muscled crewman whose name escaped Jack took Banks’s place as lee helmsman. Matthews, Banks, and Featherstone gratefully headed below.
“I’ll keep an eye on things up here, Jack,” Robby shouted. “You go below, get some rest.”
Jack shook his head. “I’d rather be up here, Robby,” he yelled. “You know me.”
Robby’s teeth flashed in the light of the lantern as he grinned, then he nodded, ruefully, and headed back down the ladder.
Jack had never been seasick for an instant. Not all crewmen were so lucky, though. In a bad gale, even experienced sailors could experience mal de mer, and Jack just didn’t want to be anywhere near puking seamen. Not to mention his passengers, who were undoubtedly sick as poisoned pups. As far as Jack was concerned, the lashing rain, howling wind, slashing lightning, and blasts of thunder were infinitely preferable to the sound and smell of human retching. He could have gone to his cabin, but it was too rough to try to lie down, and he knew he’d just sit there, wondering what was happening on deck.
The night and the gale wore on. Men came and went as the watches changed. Jack stayed up on the quarterdeck.
Finally, after what seemed like days, the storm seemed to be lessening. Lightning was no longer striking directly overhead in long jagged tears, but had moved off to leeward. The moments between the lightning flashes and the booming of the thunder were increasing. The rain still fell in curtains, but it was falling straight most of the time now, rather than being driven nearly sideways by the wind.
Jack realized he was tiring. His empty stomach grumbled; he hadn’t eaten since before noon, and his times spelling helmsmen at the wheel had sapped his energy. He checked their course again, and called it out so the ordinary seaman could mark it on the traverse board. Then he moved aft so he was leaning against the back of the quarterdeck, holding on with one hand. He was tempted to sit down, but he wasn’t sure his aching legs would allow him to stand up again, so he stayed on his feet.
The rain was definitely slacking up, and so was the wind. Jack could now look up at the topmasts without nearly drowning. He still couldn’t see much, but he thought all of them seemed intact.
The light of a lantern suddenly shone, as the relief watch arrived. It was two bells of the morning watch…the long night was nearly over. Jack squinted through the still-pelting rain, and saw Second Mate Connery, accompanied by Trafford and the stolid Banks. The helmsman currently on watch, Matthews again, headed down the ladder like a man who was looking forward to donning comparatively dry clothes and crawling into his hammock for a well-earned rest.
“Captain, by the time the rest of these clouds blow off, it’ll be dawn,” Connery said. “Why don’t you get some rest? I can take it from here.”
Jack smiled at the second mate, heartened by the realization that the Wicked Wench had indeed ridden out the storm, and that he’d soon be able to follow Matthews’ example and head off to his cabin for dry clothes. Not to mention a few belts of rum, which would warm him up better than anything else. “Just a good fresh gale, Frank,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Nothing to be concerned about.”
Connery gave a bark of laughter. “If there was nothing to be concerned about, why are you wearing a safety line, Cap’n?”
Jack chuckled wearily as he struggled to undo the water-swollen half-hitches. “Have to set a good example for the crew, Mr. Connery!”
The rain continued to slacken. Together they checked the compass heading. The Wench was still on course—more or less.
After ordering Connery to have the crew check for storm damage as soon as the sun rose, Jack cautiously made his way down the portside ladder, then turned right to open his cabin door.
Inside his cabin, he found his flint and steel and struck a light, then lit his lantern. He was pleased to discover that not much water had come in through the windows. He opened one of them a bit, to get some fresh air, then shivered in the breeze as he peeled off his sopping clothes. There was no place to hang them, so he spread them on the deck, then rummaged in his sea chest until he found drawers and an old shirt and pulled them on. His stomach growled again, so he took out a chunk of cheese and some bread, then uncorked a bottle of rum—ordinary EITC-issued rum. There was no point in bringing out the good stuff just to warm him up.
After he’d eaten a bit, and had several pulls from the bottle, Jack felt much better. Recorking the bottle, he crawled into his bunk, pulling the bedclothes up. He was still chilled from being wet through all night. Good thing we’re off Africa, he thought, woozily, instead of Greenland or Cape Horn.…
Realizing he’d left his lantern burning, Jack cursed softly, then crawled wearily out of the bunk and crossed the cabin to blow out the flame. As he did so, he heard a distant rumble of thunder, low and menacing like the far-off growling of some ancient monster. Thoughts of monsters brought back memories of Davy Jones, when he’d seen him summoned to appear on Troubadour’s main deck. Distant thunder had been growling there, too, as he and Esmeralda had walked back down the gangplank, still hand-in-hand.…
Thunder rumbled, off to the north, grumbling like a hungry, caged beast. “I need a drink,” Jack said, as he and Esmeralda picked their way along the uneven planks of the dock.
“I could use one also,” Esmeralda admitted. “I know I shall have nightmares, Jack. That face…” she shuddered.
“I know. I thought Davy Jones was a man,” Jack said. “Not some kind of…creature. The legends don’t mention the way he looks.”
She shivered again, and Jack tightened his hold on her hand. The wind had picked up, and Jack realized the sun was setting outside the caldera. The storm had blown cooler, dryer air into Shipwreck Cove. “Let’s go back to Venganza,” Esmeralda said. “I want to change my clothes, and get a shawl. Then, perhaps you’d take me up to The Drunken Lady?”
“It would be my pleasure, love,” Jack said. “But…I find myself just a bit out of pocket, as they say.”
“What does that mean?” she asked. “You English have such strange expressions.”
Jack looked down at his feet, scowling. “Means I haven’t a peso to me name, darlin’,” he admitted.
She laughed, then hastily put her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t laughing at you.”
“Yes, you were, and I don’t blame you a bit,” Jack said. “I’m perpetually impoverished, love. Can’t hang on to money to save me life.”
She smiled at him. “I’ll buy the drinks,” she said.
“That wouldn’t be proper,” Jack protested, not very forcefully.
“Why not? Pirates are always buying each other drinks.”
Jack waited at the foot of Venganza’s gangplank while Esmeralda went aboard. She reappeared eventually, wearing the rose-colored gown she’d worn the first time he’d seen her, with an ivory shawl flung over her shoulders. She came down the gangplank cautiously, and he put out a hand to help her step off. “That’s the dress you were wearing the day you arrived at Shipwreck Cove,” Jack said.
“It is.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Do you like it?”
“I do,” he said. “That dress is nearly as beautiful as what’s inside it.”
Esmeralda’s eyes widened. “Oh, Jack,” she said. “You’ll spoil me. That pretty speech was worthy of Christophe.”
“The difference is that I said it because it happens to be true.” His tone was wry as he offered her his arm.
When they reached The Drunken Lady, Jack was surprised to find Steve Seymour cooking and tending bar, and the pimply-faced youth waiting tables. There was no sign of Marie. Jack headed up to the bar. “Good evening, mate,” he said. “Two rum punches, please.”
As Steve placed the filled tankards before them, Esmeralda laid some coins on the bar. “Where is Marie?” she asked, glancing around. Seeing the expression that crossed Steve’s broad, good-natured features, she added, “I hope she’s well?”
The tall, burly tavern keeper hesitated, then replied, gruffly, “Thank you for your concern, Lady Esmeralda. I’m sorry to tell you, the missus ain’t feeling well tonight.”
“Where is she? What ails her? Can I be of help?” Esmeralda asked.
Steve mopped up spilled drink from the bar with a filthy rag. “I’d rather not say, miss,” he said, finally.
Jack stared at the barman in some alarm. He’d never seen Steve like this before; he was usually a cheerful soul. Now he appeared strained, almost haunted.
“Could I please see her?” Esmeralda insisted. “Perhaps she might wish to have another woman attend to her?”
Steve hesitated again, and Jack realized he was trying to think of a polite way to decline. Before he could speak, however, Marie herself opened the door that led to the Seymour living quarters. The Frenchwoman’s face was bruised, her eyes were red and swollen, her hair lay loose on her shoulders instead of confined in a cap, and she clutched a shawl around her as though she were cold. Marie beckoned to Esmeralda, trying to smile, but the effort failed. With a murmur of distress, Esmeralda hastened toward her.
Jack wasn’t sure whether the invitation to visit the living quarters included him, but he decided to act as though it did. Picking up both tankards, he followed in the wake of Esmeralda’s rustling satin skirts.
Jack had never been in the Seymour living quarters before. The room they entered appeared to be set up as a parlor. It was small and plainly furnished, but there were some colorful rugs on the wooden deck, a couple of paintings on the wall, and several chairs. Marie sat down in a rocking chair, and waved at the other seats. “Please, sit,” she said. “Thank you for your concern.”
Jack sat down on a low hassock at the foot of the chair Esmeralda chose. He passed Esmeralda her apparently forgotten tankard, then took a sip from his own. The liquor burned pleasantly down his gullet into his stomach, and he felt himself start to relax.
Esmeralda took a tiny, ladylike sip, then put the tankard down. “Marie, my dear,” she said, “you look so upset. What is wrong?” Leaning forward, she extended both hands.
Marie took her hands and squeezed them, choking back a sob. Her voice was tight with anger when she said, “I shouldn’t be so upset, Esmeralda, nothing really happened. My face hurts, that is all.” She put a hand to the mark on her cheek. Jack eyed it, guessing she would probably have a shiner by tomorrow. “Mais…zut alors! He frightened me half to death! I don’t know what would have happened if Steve hadn’t come back from running errands!”
Jack frowned. “Who are you speaking of, Marie?” he asked, taking another draught of the punch.
“Oh! I thought Etienne told you…it was Christophe. He came by a few hours ago, while Steve was gone. He’d been drinking. A lot. He…he…” Marie’s face twisted, and she controlled her voice with an effort. “He told me it was time to earn that doubloon he gave me. You remember, Jacques?”
Jack nodded.
“Then he…he grabbed me.” She shook her head. “I tried to get away. I demanded that he let me go, and leave, but he just…laughed.”
Esmeralda’s eyes were wide with shock. She traded glances with Jack, who shrugged, making it clear he’d known nothing of Christophe’s intentions. “Dios mio, Marie,” she whispered. “I am so sorry! Did he…did he ...”
Marie shook her head. “No. I slapped him when he wouldn’t let me go, and he laughed more, and then he…he slapped me back.” She touched her cheek, gingerly. “While I was stunned from the blow, he grabbed my dress. He put his hand…” She broke off, biting her lip. “I pulled away, and the shoulder of my dress, it tore. Then I was free.”
Marie took a deep breath. “I was going to scream. But then we both heard Steve returning. Christophe, he bowed to me, le pou, and then he ran out the other way. Thank le bon Dieu my husband came back. I really think if he hadn’t, Christophe, he would have violated me.”
“Oh, Marie!” When Esmeralda moved over and hugged the other woman, Marie put her head on her friend’s shoulder and broke down.
Jack stared at the weeping Frenchwoman in consternation. It was difficult to reconcile Marie’s account of Christophe’s behavior with the man he knew—the man he still, despite their rivalry for Esmeralda’s affections, thought of as his closest friend. Of course, Marie did say Christophe was drunk when he accosted her. Drunken men often acted stupidly, as Jack had good reason to know. He shook his head, mystified. There were so many willing women here in Shipwreck City…why would Christophe try to force his attentions on the one woman that wasn’t available—or willing? But…drunken men were known to act irrationally, as well as stupidly.
After a few minutes of crying, Marie sat up, dabbing at her eyes and nose with a handkerchief. “Look at me, a fountain of tears,” she said, and laughed, albeit shakily. “I do not know why I am so silly…” Then she smiled, and fresh tears flowed. “Unless it is because…” Blushing, she leaned over and whispered softly in Esmeralda’s ear.
“Really?” Esmeralda gasped. “Oh, Marie! How wonderful!” They hugged again. “Have you told him?”
The older woman shook her head, no, then wiped away fresh tears. But this time, she didn’t seem upset, she seemed happy. Jack stared at the Frenchwoman, baffled. Why would Marie want to tell Christophe anything after such an unpleasant encounter?
After hearing the ladies whisper, their exchanges marked by giggles and tears on both sides, Jack mentally shrugged and gave up, concentrating instead on his rum. Drinking was something he understood. When he finished his tankard, he nudged Esmeralda and said, “You’ve forgotten your drink, love. Best finish it up. We’ll need to be getting you back to Venganza.”
“Oh, yes,” she said absently, and, picking it up, she took a few more sips, then handed it to Jack. “You finish it for me, Jack. It’s making my head spin.”
Jack was happy to oblige.
Minutes later, Marie escorted them to the door of the living quarters, hugged Esmeralda farewell, and smiled shyly at Jack. They left the living quarters and Jack plunked the empty tankards down on the bar as they passed.
The place had grown crowded while they’d been talking to Marie. Jack and Esmeralda began making their way through the crowd of unwashed,
scruffy pirate bodies.
“Jack…Jack! Hallo, Jack!” came a gravelly voice with a West Country accent from behind them.
Jack turned to see Captain Barbossa standing there, grinning broadly. The older pirate politely doffed his hat to Esmeralda. “Hallo, missy.”
“Hallo, Hector,” Jack said, smiling back. “Why so happy?”
“Didn’t ye hear the news, Jack?”
“News?”
“Ah! Let me be the first t’tell ye, then. Seems that when Cap’n Teague’s men took our condemned friend Borya down t’ the dungeons to question him, the little coward sang like a songbird—before they could even heat up the irons or ready the rack! Gave up his confederates and disclosed where and when they’re supposed t’gather to divide up their swag. ’Tis some little island, east nor’east of Cuba.”
“So Teague knows the identities of the other rogues?” Jack was stunned.
“He does. Cap’n Teague told me he plans on taking a fleet out to their rendezvous. They’ll hide and wait for them all to come sailing in and anchor. Then Teague’s fleet will swoop in and capture the lot of the Code-breaking blackguards.” Barbossa smiled again, but this expression was anything but pleasant. “I’m goin’ with him. Some of those misbegotten scurvy knaves will no doubt put up a fight, and I’d like nothin’ better than to skewer a few. And best believe I intend to help with puttin’ nooses around the necks of the survivors!”
Esmeralda took a breath. “I can hardly believe he just…gave them up. Why would he do that?”
Barbossa snorted derisively. “Methinks the Russian figured he had naught to lose, and hadn’t the backbone to face being questioned. Perhaps he wanted to face Davy Jones with an intact skin.”
“I confess I’m surprised,” Jack said. “He seemed…defiant…during the proceedings today.”
“I figure seein’ Davy Jones face to face had much t’ do with it, Jack,” Barbossa said. “’Twould take the defiance out of most buccaneers, eh?”
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom Page 36
