Jack listened numbly as Christophe shouted for “All hands!” He sagged in the grasp of the two burly rogues who held him, trying to figure out what to do.
He was Jack Sparrow, by Neptune’s ballocks, and surely he’d be able to come up with some brilliant escape plan. Jack Sparrow, who’d tricked, cheated, lied, finessed, and misdirected his way out of innumerable tight spots in his life.
But rack his brain as he would, Jack couldn’t come up with any way out his current predicament. His mind raced in circles, until he felt like throwing himself to the deck and howling with frustration, but no brilliant piece of tomfoolery that would save his arse surfaced.
He gave the guard on his left a hopeful smile. “You know, without me, you’d have been hanged,” he essayed.
The guard looked at Jack as though he’d crawled out of the ship’s bilges. “Shut up, maggot,” he said. Then he nodded to his compatriot, who suddenly released Jack, drew back his meaty hand, and delivered an open-handed blow that snapped their captive’s head back. Jack shook his head, trying to get rid of the stars that were arcing across his vision, and spat blood.
The first guard backhanded him this time. “That’s for fouling our clean deck, maggot,” he said.
Jack sagged in his captors’ hands, careful to swallow the next mouthful of blood. At this point it was all he could do to hang on to consciousness, much less intuit some brilliant plan to get himself out of this.
By now the crew was assembled. In loud, ringing tones, their captain announced Jack’s attempted perfidy. “By rights,” Christophe concluded, “I should order that his throat be cut and his body flung overboard to feed the sharks.”
A chorus of cheers at this suggestion filled the air. Jack felt less than popular.
“But I am minded to be merciful,” Christophe added. “Because Sparrow did render us a service in bringing the keys to the dungeon, so we could break free of Shipwreck Cove.”
There followed some muted grumbling noises at this, but no one dared to protest. “Since we have no convenient island for marooning, at the moment,” Christophe said, “I propose that we put Sparrow in a boat and let him fend for himself.” He thought for a moment. “I will let him have oars,” he decided. “And I’ll let him have this cutlass.” He held it up. “But I don’t believe he deserves the traditional pistol and one shot.”
Jack struggled to move his swollen lips. “Water? Food?” he mumbled, trying not to sound too abject.
Christophe looked at the assembled crew. “What about it, lads? Food and water? What say you?”
“NO!” The shout reverberated.
Christophe turned back to his prisoner. “They said no, Jacques. I am sorry.” He spread his hands in a “what can you do?” gesture.
Jack glared at him. You’re sorry, all right.
Christophe moved in closer, and dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “It does make me sad, Jacques, to know that I must now go after the treasure of Zerzura myself. I would have been happy to use that bracelet to open the labyrinth with you at my side, to share in the adventure.”
Hah, Jack thought. Good luck finding it. And you won’t be able to open it with just one bracelet, you overdressed lunatic. He had another mouthful of blood available, but sanity prevailed, and he did not spit it in Christophe’s face. In a boat, even far from land, he had a chance. With the captain’s sword sheathed in his guts, he had none. With an effort that made his throat raw, he swallowed again.
After that, things moved quickly. Christophe ordered his crew to make sail immediately. When La Vipère was picking up a bit of speed, the rogues placed Jack, the oars, and the cutlass in the smallest of their boats, then, with a speed that left him dizzy and gasping, they lowered the dinghy halfway down the side of the ship. Abruptly, they released the lines.
The boat fell, hitting the water with a tremendous splash. Luckily, it did not capsize. Jack grabbed for the oars, and began pulling away from the brigantine. He looked up to see Christophe and his crewmen, including young Robby, standing by the rail, looking down at him.
Jack’s control abruptly deserted him. “Ha! Esmeralda kissed me!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.
Christophe heard him, of that there was no doubt. Screaming curses in French, his erstwhile friend grabbed a musket from one of the men who had been standing guard, and aimed it at Jack, who redoubled his efforts at rowing away. The musket spat fire—but not at Jack. The lad, Robby, had knocked the barrel up, so the shot went up into the air.
Then, as twenty pairs of hands grabbed for him, in one motion Robby slung something around his neck, leaped up onto the rail, then dove overboard. He disappeared beneath the waves.
Jack wasn’t yet out of musket range, but he stopped rowing, waiting to see where the boy would surface. He didn’t.
The rogues were firing at the water, a perfect fusillade of pistol and musket shots.
The air filled with smoke and the smell of burned powder from the barrage. Jack picked up his oars, feeling a bit regretful. Too bad the lad hadn’t made it.
La Vipère was out of musket range now. Just as Jack dipped his oars in the water again, a pair of sun-browned hands clamped over the gunwale of his boat. Robby surfaced like a whale, gasping for air. For a long moment the boy clung to the gunwale, panting, then he raised his head and smiled at Jack. “Permission to come aboard?” he asked.
“I dunno,” Jack said, dubiously. “Give me one good reason why I should let you climb into my boat.”
The boy smiled, tossing his hair back. His blue eyes were brilliant, and filled with laughter. Reaching down for the leather strap Jack could see slung around his neck, he gave it a tug. “Because I have two bottles of water, some biscuit, and a bit of salt beef ?” he asked.
Jack smiled and extended his hand. “Welcome aboard, lad,” he said. “Jack Sparrow.”
“Robby Greene.” They shook.
With some maneuvering, Jack managed to balance the boat so Robby could boost himself in. When the boy was safely on board, Jack, humming a jaunty pirate tune, fished Tia Dalma’s compass out of its place of concealment in his waistband.
“What’s that?” Robby asked, then he peered closer. “Oh,” he said, in tones of profound regret, “it’s broken.”
“No,” Jack said. “It’s not. This is our salvation, lad.” Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the idea of the closest land that had food and fresh water. He pictured clear springs, clusters of ripe bananas, and delicious tortoises sunning themselves.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the compass needle pointing due east. Jack pointed. “That way, lad.” He pointed behind Robby, and cheerfully handed him the oars.
Over the next few days, he learned a lot about Robby Greene. At the age of ten, the boy had been grabbed by a press gang in Bristol when he’d accompanied his father to market to sell some pigs. Forced to serve as a powder monkey in His Majesty’s Navy, Robby had sailed aboard a vessel bound for the Caribbean. When the naval vessel had docked in Port Royal, he’d deserted, then found a berth as cabin boy on a merchant ship bound for England, determined to go home to his family. But, in keeping with Robby’s run of bad luck, somewhere off Bermuda the merchant ship had fallen prey to La Vipère, and Robby had wound up with a choice that faced many crewmen and passengers of captured ships—turn pirate, or be killed. He’d chosen to join Christophe’s crew, and had spent several years passing himself off as a ruthless rogue pirate.
“I stabbed a lot of corpses,” he said, ruefully. “And, of course, sometimes when we boarded, I had to fight for real, so I did.” The youth hung his head. “I’ve killed men, Jack.”
“We all have, Robby,” Jack said. “That’s life on the account. But that’s over now.”
Robby looked at him. “Over?”
“Yes. We’re going to become honest merchant sailors, we are.”
It took the two of them, rowing in shifts, five days to reach a small island that did indeed have fresh water, bananas, and tortoises. The island proved t
o be a popular place for ships to be careened. Jack and Robby had only a few weeks to wait before a ship arrived for just that purpose. Luckily, it was a merchant vessel, not a pirate ship.
They’d signed on to serve as crew aboard that EITC ship, and they’d never looked back.…
* * *
Jack stopped talking, and drained his cup. “Excuse me. Talking is thirsty work,” he said to Ayisha, and went to the pantry to refill the goblet.
When he returned, the princess looked up at him. “Did poor Robby ever get home? Back to his family, and the farm?”
Jack nodded. “Yes,” he said, sadly. “A year or so after we began sailing together, we docked in Bristol. Robby went looking for his family, only to discover that some kind of pestilence had swept through his village, and both his parents had caught it and died. He had two sisters, and they survived, but they’d both gotten married, and no one knew what their names were, or where they’d gone. So…” He shrugged.
She nodded. “At least you were able to save each other.”
“That’s true,” Jack agreed. “He’s a good shipmate, Robby. And…” He hesitated, because he no longer used the term lightly. “…A friend.”
“So the evil Christophe still has my father’s bracelet?” She frowned. “That is very bad. We need that talisman, if we can possibly retrieve it. For five years, no one has been able to get into the labyrinth! We have been unable to have access to our most important religious shrine, and the treasures of our people. The priests have spoken about trying to dig a tunnel underneath the door, but there are…traps…there, for the unwary, both physical and magical. Do you think this rogue pirate Christophe still has it?”
“It’s bloody likely,” Jack said, then reddened. “Excuse me language, Your Highness. What I meant was that Christophe knew enough about Zerzura that I don’t believe he’d put the talisman up as a marker in a game of chance.”
Unconsciously, her fingers traced the embroidered lion’s head on the scrap of fabric that was her own bracelet. “Do you think there is any chance that after we rescue my brother, we can locate Christophe and attempt to get the bracelet back?” She shook her head. “Buy it, perhaps, or steal it? It can be of no use to him, except as a bauble to wear.”
Jack smiled slightly. You bet I’m going to go looking for Christophe, love, as soon as I’m free to do it. That greedy rogue won’t be able to resist the chance at that treasure; he’ll cooperate. At least at first…
Aloud he said, “Let’s concentrate on finding your brother, first, then we can talk about that.”
Ayisha nodded, then sighed, putting a hand to her head somewhat dazedly. “So much to take in,” she murmured. “I feel almost dizzy with all I have learned today.”
“I know what you mean,” Jack said. “It’s enough to make your head spin like the needle of my compass.”
Her eyes sharpened. “About this compass, you mentioned…what, exactly, does it do?”
Jack stood up, turned his back, and extracted it. “I got it from an Obeah woman,” he said, “when I was just a lad, younger even than Chamba. Tia Dalma has powers I never heard of any other Obeah woman having. I believe this will help us find your brother, if he’s still alive.”
“Do not say ‘if,’ Jack.” Her voice was fierce.
“Very well,” Jack said. “Scratch the ‘if.’ This should show us where your brother is.” He looked at her. “Just a suggestion…you might want to remove your shawl. Just in case one kind of powerful magic might somehow affect another type. Cancel each other out, so to speak.”
She nodded, then slipped off her shawl and tossed it across the table.
Jack watched her, wondering if he’d ever become accustomed to that amazing transformation. She was so very lovely…
He sat back down on the table, reminding himself to stick to the matter at hand. “Now,” he instructed, “I want you to think about your brother. Concentrate on his face, and how much you want to find him. Don’t think about anything else, love…savvy?”
She closed her eyes and held out her hands. “Yes,” she said, “I understand. I have him in my mind.”
Jack leaned forward and gently placed Tia Dalma’s compass into her cupped hands. Ayisha jerked violently, nearly dropping it, and her eyes flew open. She cried out, in her own language, a sharp exclamation that might have been a curse.
“What happened?” Jack said, putting his cupped hands below hers, in case she dropped his compass.
Ayisha was staring down at the compass in awe. Reverently, she stroked one finger along its casing. “This is…an extraordinary thing of power,” she said.
“I know.”
After a few moments of staring down at the compass, gently stroking it, as though it were alive, she sighed. “I’m going to try again.”
Jack watched tensely as she closed her eyes. Her lips moved, soundlessly repeating one word—her brother’s name.
The needle of Tia Dalma’s compass swung, and then settled into place. Jack craned his neck to see its face. The needle was pointing almost due West.
“If this compass is any indication,” Jack said, quietly, “your brother is alive, Ayisha.”
Slowly she opened her eyes and looked down, then back up. Sudden tears flooded her eyes, but she didn’t give way, only leaned forward and handed the compass back to Jack.
Jack snapped the lid shut and looked up, into those amazing bronze-colored eyes. “I’m going to escort you back to your quarters now,” he told her. “You need to lie down and rest. You’ve been through a lot today. And after you’re settled, I am heading for the helm, to make a course change. We’ll follow the compass until we find him.”
Wordlessly, she nodded, and then quite suddenly, the expression Jack had been waiting to see flooded her features, making them almost glow with happiness.
Ayisha smiled, a real, genuine, joyful smile. Her teeth were lovely, white and perfect. Jack smiled with her.
She reached for her shawl, then paused. “There is one more thing, Jack.”
“What’s that?”
“How do you plan to explain Tarek’s and my presence aboard your vessel to your crew?”
Jack shrugged. “I’m the captain. I don’t need to explain anything.” He regarded her for a moment, then added, “What is there that needs explaining?”
She gave him an ironic look. “Jack,” she said. “You really don’t see it, do you?”
“See what?”
For answer, she stretched out her fingers, until they almost—but not quite—touched his hand as it rested on the table. “Look,” she instructed. “What do you see?”
I see a lovely woman I want to kiss, then swoop up and carry over to my bunk, Jack thought, honestly, then he gave himself a mental shake and focused, looking down. “I see our hands,” he said. “Mine is pretty dirty, specially me fingernails,” he admitted, after a moment. “Yours is clean, smaller but much shapelier, and softer. A pretty hand.”
She drew in a breath that sounded half amused, half exasperated. “What color are they, Jack?”
“Oh,” he said. “That.”
“Yes, that.” Jack sat back and regarded her as she continued. “Jack, you bring two slaves aboard, and you expect your men to treat us as though we are white? Just ordinary passengers?” Ayisha laughed, but it was not a happy sound. “And, because of my disguise, I’ve seen some of your crew make the sign against the evil eye these last two days, when I’ve come up on deck. Chamba has told me some crewmen are saying I’m bad luck, maybe even a witch, and that my presence aboard caused that storm. ‘Women aboard a ship are supposed to bring bad luck,’ he said. The crew who believe that wouldn’t welcome a white woman, much less me.”
Jack nodded slowly. “I take your point. I’ll talk to them, spin some tale that will let them know how important you are to Mr. Beckett, and to the success of this voyage—and to me. The crew accepted Chamba. They can learn to accept you. As for Tarek, I seriously doubt any of my men would have the stones to risk ange
ring him.”
She nodded tiredly, then gave Jack a faint, wan smile. “He is…large.”
“Too right, love.”
After he’d escorted her back to her “cabin” and left her to Tarek’s ministrations, Jack stood for a moment at the bottom of the ladder on the gun deck. Opening his compass, he closed his eyes, concentrating on Christophe…
Memories swept him. Christophe…the rogue butcher who had murdered dozens, maybe hundreds, of innocents. He’d killed one of the few men Jack had ever respected, the Pirate Lord Don Rafael, two years after Jack had left Shipwreck Island. Shot him in the back, the craven toss-bag. Christophe…that misbegotten scoundrel pawed Esmeralda and terrorized Marie.
Christophe…the sodding wanker who betrayed, kidnapped, and tried to kill me.
Jack focused his mind, remembering Christophe’s handsome, sneering face as he’d seen it last, looking down at him as he sat in that little dinghy, without a scrap of food or a drop of water.
Jack opened his eyes, saw the compass needle spin once, then it came to rest pointing a couple of degrees northward of due west.
Grinning cheerfully, he snapped it shut, then ran lightly up the ladder to the weather deck. Slowing down, as befitted the dignity of a captain, he ascended the final step. But under his breath, he was humming a jolly pirate tune—the same one he’d hummed that day Christophe had set him afloat. I’m on my way, de Rapièr. And this time, there will be a reckoning.
The Wicked Wench was heading west.
Cutler Beckett sat behind his oak desk in the East India Trading Company’s Calabar office, reading his just-delivered post. The Fair Wind had docked that morning, bringing packets of mail. Beckett had just finished reading his cousin Susan’s letter, thanking him for the recommendation he’d made for her son, and saying that the boy had indeed become apprenticed to the EITC office. Beckett hadn’t troubled to conceal his yawns as he read.
But the next missive made him sit upright in his chair, fully alert. It was from Lord Penwallow.
My Dear Cutler,
I write this in the hopes that it shall find you in the best of Health, notwithstanding the dreadful Climate of your current posting. I am currently enjoying the lovely summer Weather at my Surrey Estate, “Mayfaire,” where I am supervising the packing of some of our furnishings to be transported to the new house currently under construction in New Avalon.
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom Page 43
