Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  The screaming mob was running, and Jack perforce had to run with them, or risk being pounded into pulp by booted feet should he fall. There were stairs beneath his boots, but they didn’t slow the rogues in the least. They raced as fast as sharks converging on a sinking vessel.

  Jack couldn’t keep track of his surroundings. Everything seemed to be light and shadow, torches flickering in sconces on stone walls; then, suddenly, he burst out into fresh air, and there was wood beneath his feet, planks instead of stone, stars instead of a ceiling.

  The rabble of rogues headed for the docks. The din they made was earsplitting. Stumbling, swearing, Jack tried to break free of the howling throng, but every time he thought he’d managed to make progress, harsh hands seized him, or booted feet kicked him, propelling him forward, thrusting him onward.

  They were all slowing now, having reached the docks, and the available small boats. Shrieking rogues raced up ship gangplanks, cutting down or shooting anyone that resisted, then cutting the vessel’s boats free, letting them splash down into the cove.

  Directly ahead of the group Jack was perforce part of, a large group of pirates approached, heavily armed, carrying torches. Captain Teague was in the lead. The rogue beside Jack raised his musket, taking a bead on the Keeper of the Code. With a choked cry of protest, and a savage swing of his cutlass, Jack knocked the barrel of the musket aside. The shot went wide.

  The pirate holding the musket turned toward Jack, rage darkening his features. Jack prepared to square off with him before he could reload, but just as he fell into guard position, something large and unyielding struck him hard behind his right ear.

  Jack’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he went down like a scuttled vessel, down, down…into darkness.

  Captain Jack Sparrow blinked, feeling the fresh breeze marking the end of the gale flow through the window of the Wicked Wench. How long had he been standing here, lost in memory?

  It was still dark. No grayness marked the eastern horizon. Jack went back to his bunk and crawled in. He lay on his back, linking his hands behind his head, cautiously stretching sore muscles, and felt himself relax. It felt good. He was tired; he needed sleep. But his eyes remained open in the darkness.

  I’ve been doing that a lot, this past year, he thought. Remembering Shipwreck Cove and how I became an outcast, a Code-breaker, an exile, a condemned man who can never, ever go back. Because if Teague ever catches up with me, he’ll kill me.

  Jack frowned in the darkness at the thought of Teague’s vengeance. He’d seen the Keeper shoot Code-breakers in the head with no more emotion than he’d show when cracking a louse, or crushing a roach. To Teague, the Code was not only the Law, it was everything. To have someone with whom he had a personal connection—no matter how strained—turn traitor and Code-breaker must have been doubly infuriating.

  But it had been five years since those days in Shipwreck Cove, and Christophe’s betrayal. Jack’s eyes narrowed as he thought of the rogue pirate. The morning he’d awakened aboard La Vipère with a lump behind his ear the size of a hen’s egg, and sickly realized he was leagues from Shipwreck Island and Esmeralda, had been a very bad awakening indeed. One he preferred not to remember.

  Five years is a long time, especially for a pirate. “A short life but a merry one,” and all that rot. I’m a respectable merchant sailor now, a captain. I doubt many from Shipwreck Cove would even recognize me today.

  He smiled, remembering that night with Esmeralda aboard Venganza, and how she had nearly stripped him naked—well, actually, she had done that, but this was before they’d wound up in her big bed—and how she’d gone on about how he didn’t look like “her Jack” anymore. She was absolutely right. Jack Sparrow didn’t look like a pirate anymore, and that was intentional. If he stayed away from certain haunts in Port Royal, or any one of a number of pirate hangouts, and gave Tortuga a wide berth, the chances that anyone would recognize him and attempt to drag him back to Shipwreck Cove to face the Keeper of the Code were slim to none.

  So why are all these bloody memories plaguing me, then? It isn’t like me to moon around, summoning up the past. Jack scowled. Tia Dalma would probably say it was “destiny” coming full circle, or something of that sort. What’s that stuff the Hindoos go on about? Karma, that’s it.

  He snorted. Karma, destiny…despite his respect for the Obeah woman, he didn’t think he believed in either. He believed in Jack Sparrow, Captain Jack Sparrow, thank-you-very-much, and that was the sum total of it, make no mistake.

  Jack rolled over, and immediately fell asleep.

  For the next few days, Jack and his crew were busy dealing with problems caused by the gale. The Wicked Wench had come through relatively unscathed—they’d been lucky. Still, sails had to be mended, the decks fouled with spew and spray scrubbed, and all of the lines checked to make sure they hadn’t been frayed or weakened by the storm. Jack and his officers were busy each day, inspecting the vessel from bow to stern.

  As though exhausted following such a fracas, the winds were gentle, bringing fresher, cooler air. The Wench rounded the bulge of Africa and headed north, making good time, despite all the tacking back and forth.

  Jack had daily reports from Chamba about his passengers. Both of them, as predicted, had been very sick during the storm, but within a few days, Tarek began appearing on deck to take the air. The giant African had been fitted with mismatched clothes from the slop chest, so he no longer wore clothing that marked him as a former slave. Jack spoke to him a time or two, via Chamba. Tarek thanked the captain for his part in rescuing him from the Dalton farm, and reported that Ayisha was still quite ill, unable to keep anything down.

  Chamba appeared one morning to ask permission to have the cook brew up some special folk remedies for her, in hopes they’d prove to be something the Zerzuran woman could stomach. Concerned, Jack gave him all possible assistance, even trotting belowdecks with some English tea and actual sugar from his captain’s pantry, in the hopes it would help. “Oh, and tell cook to make some broth, or gruel, something like that,” he suggested, handing them to the lad. “Isn’t that what they give sick people?”

  Chamba stared at him. “Don’t you know?”

  Jack shook his head. “Actually, I don’t.”

  “You never been sick, Cap’n?” The youth seemed incredulous.

  Jack ruminated for a moment. “Certainly not seasick,” he said, finally. “And I can’t remember being any other kind of sick, either.” He paused, thinking. “Do hangovers count? I suppose not; they’re self-inflicted.”

  Seeing that Chamba was hanging on his every word, obviously fascinated, Jack ventured, “Had a hogshead roll over me legs once. It was a wonder I didn’t break them. Hobbled around for a week before they stopped hurting. Been wounded, too.”

  Chamba’s eyes widened. “Wounded? How?”

  Jack grimaced. “Whacked on the head more than once. Shot. Some sword cuts, but I’d take them any time over being shot. I was lucky the ball went clean through.”

  Chamba’s eyes were now the size of saucers. “Neptune’s nightgown, Cap’n, you led an exciting life! Was you attacked by pirates?”

  Jack thought fast and worded his response carefully. “Pirate attacks did figure into it, yes,” he said, careful not to be specific as to which side of the engagement he’d been on. He looked down at Chamba. “Are you still here? Run along and tend to your passengers, lad, or I’ll put you to work scrubbing the decks.”

  “Aye, Cap’n!”

  Two days later, Ayisha emerged from her exile below, accompanied solicitously by Tarek. She was obviously weak and shaky, and, as much as Jack wanted to talk to her, he merely smiled and nodded from a distance.

  He did notice that she made at least one trip to the railing to heave once again, and quickly found something to do elsewhere. Sick people gave him the collywobbles.

  For the next two days, Jack was conscious of her up on deck, shakily moving about, clutching Tarek’s or Chamba’s arm, her gray shawl
covering her head against the brilliant African sun. Her visits to the railing seemed to be lessening. Good; she was getting over her seasickness. He’d be able to talk to her about their course soon. They were still at least a week’s sail away from the southernmost of the Cape Verdes, so they had time.

  Two days later, he saw her on deck, alone. She was walking slowly about, clutching that ever-present shawl, staring off to the north. Feeling the tug of home, perhaps?

  Jack ambled over to her. “G’morning, Miss Ayisha,” he said, tipping his tricorne.

  She gave him a cool glance, but replied in English. “Good morning, Captain Sparrow.”

  “Good to see you feeling better,” Jack observed. “They tell me being seasick is dreadful. I’m sorry you were so badly affected.”

  She made a brushing-away motion with her hand. “I’d just as soon not think about that, thank you.”

  “Fine by me,” Jack agreed. “I’d like to talk to you about our course. In a few days, we’ll be reaching the area of the southernmost Cape Verdes. Are you feeling any of the ‘pull’ toward home you mentioned?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Hmmmm…too bad,” Jack said. “Well, perhaps when we’re north of them, it will set in.”

  “We won’t be going north,” she stated, calmly. “Our course lies west. To the New World.”

  Jack gaped at her. It took him a moment to find his voice, and when he did, he could only sputter, “Wh—wh—what?”

  “My English is quite good, Captain Sparrow. I’m sure you understood me. We go west.”

  “Why the devil would we head west?”

  “You have cargo bound for Antigua, do you not?”

  “Bugger that!” Jack was so incensed by her serene high-handedness that he felt himself reddening. This woman was as infuriating as she was ugly. “You know we had an agreement! If I helped you—and bloody Tarek—to escape, you’d take me to Zerzura.”

  “I am not breaking our agreement,” she said. She looked at him. A spasm of something crossed her face as the Wench rolled with a large swell. “I am just postponing it. Until I find my brother. He was taken to the New World aboard a slave ship, and sold there.”

  “No,” Jack said. “Madam…” He controlled himself with an effort, then cleared his throat and gentled his voice. “Miss Ayisha…I am very sorry to have to tell you this, but your brother is likely dead. A third—sometimes more—of the black gold cargoes don’t survive the voyage west. And countless slaves perish in the New World. Many owners feed them rations a dog wouldn’t touch, and they work them to death.”

  “My brother,” she said firmly, clutching her shawl, “is alive. I know this.”

  “No, you don’t. Besides, the New World is a big place. Finding one slave in all of it would be worse than finding a needle in a haystack. Much worse.”

  “He’s alive, and I will find him,” she said. Another spasm crossed her face as the Wench rolled again. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she bolted for the railing.

  Jack stood back and looked away as she heaved, grateful that she had the courtesy not to foul his nice, freshly scrubbed deck.

  But after a minute or two, when she was reduced to dry retching, spasms so intense that she was clinging weakly with both hands to the railing, her body bent so far over that it seemed she was in real danger of going overboard, Jack strode over to her.

  “Here now,” he said, gently. “We can’t have you going over the side, love. Come on, I’ll help you below.”

  She shook her head no, too weak to speak, clinging to the rail. Spitting a final time into the blue Atlantic, she wiped her mouth on her old shawl and tried to stand up. Her knees buckled.

  Jack took matters into his own hands, grabbing her, hoisting her over his shoulder, then heading for the ladder. Ayisha was too weak to struggle, though she did mumble a protest. Jack ignored her. He was surprised to find that she was considerably lighter than she appeared, but he supposed anyone would be, after a week of not keeping much down.

  He headed down the ladder, reached the main deck, then carried her through the looped-back flap of canvas that constituted the “door” to her “cabin.” Tarek was not there. Jack frowned. He’d get her back in her bunk, then send Chamba or the big man below to tend to her.

  Moving slowly, Jack maneuvered his way inside, careful not trip over the unused cannon mountings. The little cabin was gloomy, still smelling faintly of sickness, so, on his way, he stopped to open the gun port, letting sunlight and fresh air flood in. Ah, that’s better, he thought.

  Bending over, he lowered Ayisha onto her mattress. She was as limp as a tangle of seaweed. Her skirts were rucked up, so he carefully tugged them down, averting his eyes as he did so. He wasn’t even tempted to peek. No doubt her legs were as ugly as the rest of her. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?” he said, still resolutely not looking. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go fetch Tarek or Chamba to come below and, er, minister to you, eh?”

  Ayisha didn’t respond, whether from anger at his high-handed method of transport, or sickness, Jack didn’t know—or care.

  The captain stood up. “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to keep your shawl,” he said, pulling it off his shoulder, trying to sound cheerful and nurselike. “Wouldn’t flatter me at all, I fear. Here, let me spread it—”

  Jack broke off, the gray shawl in his hands, staring incredulously down at the woman in the bunk.

  As she saw his eyes widen, Ayisha made an inarticulate sound of protest, then she covered her face with her hands. Jack looked at her, then looked at the shawl. Rolling it into a ball, he tossed it across the cabin. “Ah,” he said. “Much becomes clear. Magic. A bloody powerful illusion, that. Even Tia Dalma might be impressed.”

  Gently, he bent over, and pulled her hands away from her face. “By Neptune’s trident,” he breathed. “You are one pretty girl.” Gently, he pushed a coil of black hair off her forehead. “Lovely, as a matter of fact.”

  “Captain Sparrow,” she said, sounding, for the first time since he’d met her, frightened to the point of panic, “please, I beg of you. Don’t tell.”

  Ayisha struggled to sit up. It was plain she didn’t want help, so he didn’t offer any. Sitting up, she brushed her hair back from her face, then sat cross-legged on her crackling straw tick, modestly pulling her skirts down, covering even her feet.

  Jack, in his turn, sat down cross-legged, facing her. He couldn’t stop looking. Lovely features. A high-bridged, proud nose, full, sensuous lips, large, long-lashed eyes, beautifully carved cheekbones, and a delicate but strong chin. Her hair was black, the length and color of a raven’s wing; it curled against those sculpted cheekbones. Her skin color was a rich, warm-toned brown with a hint of red. Cinnamon, Jack thought. He’d hauled cargoes of it, had inhaled the heady scent of it. They used it in Hindoo curries, and it was delicious.

  He didn’t want to stare at the rest of her, but even a quick glance as she’d sat up had assured him that the rest of her was a good match for that face. A slender body, small, elegant breasts. Was the beautiful Ayisha the same height as the ugly Ayisha? He had no idea.

  “Please,” she repeated. “Promise you won’t tell anyone.”

  Jack came back to the moment with a start. “Oh. I’m sorry. Fear not, love. I won’t tell. Mum’s the word. Besides,” he smiled at her, his most charming smile. “I’d be mad to tell on you. Much better to keep such beauty all to meself.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t start that kind of talk, Captain Sparrow. Tarek, my eunuch bodyguard, is very protective. And I cast that spell with the shawl. If you tried anything, I assure you, you would regret it.”

  Jack’s eyes widened. “A real eunuch? He doesn’t look it, big strong-looking chap like that. Good heavens! Never thought I’d actually encounter one.” He shuddered slightly, putting his hands protectively in his lap. “Did you do that to him?”

  For the first time that day, she smiled. It wasn’t a particularly nice smile, and he could te
ll she had noted his defensive posture. “No. It was his choice to become one.”

  It was on the tip of Jack’s tongue to ask why any man would choose to do that voluntarily, but he kept his mouth shut.

  Silence fell between them. Jack regarded Ayisha, considering all the things about her that simply didn’t add up—and, he suddenly realized, there were a lot of them. “There’s something I’d like to know,” he said, finally.

  “What is it, Captain?”

  “How does a ‘sewing woman’ wind up having a bodyguard?”

  The Zerzuran woman hesitated for a moment, then replied, smoothly, “I fear I misspoke, Captain. Tarek was part of the Royal Guard. It was his duty to protect both the princess and her household. After she was gone, he continued to do his duty toward the members of her household…and I am the only one left. So he will protect me, I know this.”

  Jack cocked his head at her. “Very well done,” he said. “Almost glib. But the ‘bodyguard’ thing isn’t the only problem. The way you speak, and carry yourself…it’s very posh. Cutler Beckett could have you over to tea and not worry about you disgracing him. And for someone who was a slave only days ago, you’re very accustomed to giving orders. And, furthermore, you expect them to be obeyed.”

  Ayisha opened her mouth, then shut it without speaking. Jack studied her, really studied her, and this time he wasn’t focused on the way she looked without her illusion—he was concentrating on the entire person, and remembering everything that had been in the J. Ward book about Kerma, and the Heart of Zerzura, and the labyrinth.

  Once again, an old memory surged up in his mind—yet another memory from five years ago. Jack’s eyes narrowed as his gaze focused on Ayisha’s right wrist. She wore something there…some kind of wristlet. It was nothing more than a scrap of woven stuff, but on the back of it he could see a sort of design picked out by a few stitches of pale green thread. Jack studied the design, turning his head first one way, then the other, trying to make it out.