Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  She felt, rather than saw the black powder spark, then flame.

  Power. It poured out of her, leaving her nothing, an empty vessel, drained of energy, drained of everything.

  Ayisha heard the boom of the explosion, but the sound was far away, dim and distant. She tasted blood, then felt herself falling, as blackness much darker than powder swept up, seized her, and dragged her down.…

  Tench, the carpenter, had just finished securing the last of the new breeching tackle to the deck in Jack’s cabin when Jack heard the voice of Parker calling. “Captain, we’re ready to shift this six-pounder!”

  Jack flung open the doors to his cabin. Despite the extremity of their situation, he didn’t think he could stand to watch them bash out his lovely stern windows. He slipped outside as Parker and his men moved the gun, on its wheeled carriage, into his cabin.

  Heading over to the port side, he saw Koldunya gliding slowly behind his ship. Two more minutes, three at the most, and she’d be in perfect position for a broadside, at close range. He balled his hands into fists, wishing that there were something he could do. If only he were Zeus, and could hurl a thunderbolt down from heaven, or Poseidon, able to suck a ship down into a maelstrom. If only.…

  In the dimming light, a spark of orange-yellow flashed within the square outlines of the sloop’s gun ports. Jack eyes had barely time to register it, when, with a flash and a boom that knocked him off his feet for the third time that day, Koldunya blew up.

  This time, Jack had to crawl over to the portside rail, on his knees and one hand, then claw his way up it to get to his feet. He hardly noticed the pain, though. Clinging to the rail, he stared at the orange-tinged smoke billowing up against the eastern sky, his mouth agape. It was real. He hadn’t imagined it. The sloop, and Borya with it, was gone, vanished.

  Jack was still standing there, staring, when Robby found him. “Dear heaven,” Robby whispered, then, “Thank you, Lord.”

  Jack swallowed, then found his voice, rough with smoke and strained from all the shouting he’d done today. “You really must have prayed hard, Robby.”

  “I did, Jack.”

  Jack laughed a little, then snorted. “Nothing divine about it, you know. One of our shots must have started a fire aboard. Somehow, nobody realized it, and it spread to the powder magazine. That’s got to be it.”

  “Jack,” Robby said, in tones of excessive patience, “how many times have you had our powder magazine checked today, to make sure none of those hits came anywhere near it?”

  “Nine,” Jack said, without hesitation.

  “Borya was a Pirate Lord. An experienced captain. You’ll have a hard time convincing me that he didn’t check his magazine.”

  “Still,” Jack insisted, “that has to be it. What else could it be?”

  Robby was saved from having to give a reply by the appearance of Frank Connery.

  The three officers spoke for a few minutes, deciding their strategy, then they hastened off to their duties. Jack verified that Tench and Newton were back at their repair duties. On his way back to the quarterdeck, he dared to peek inside his cabin, and was relieved to see that his beautiful windows were still intact. He made a mental note to have Parker and his lads haul the cannon out of there, as soon as they could spare the time and the energy.

  While he was in his cabin, Jack lit the lantern that hung there, then took a candle with him as he trudged up to the quarterdeck to light the binnacle light and the lantern that hung by the traverse log. The tide was waxing, and he knew that, soon, Frank and Robby would succeed in kedging the Wench off the shoal. Soon they’d need a helmsman to steer the vessel.

  As he finished lighting the lantern and hung it in its proper place, Jack heard a voice above his head. “Captain…”

  He was so startled he actually jumped and gasped. “Who’s there?”

  “I am up here, Captain,” said the voice, in accented, hesitant English. “Tarek.”

  Jack stepped back, looking up, and in a moment he could see the eunuch’s head, silhouetted against the stars. “Tarek! What the devil are you doing up there?”

  “Ayisha brought me with her, Captain. I need help. I cannot wake her.”

  “Just a moment. My arm is hurt. Let me get some hands,” Jack said, then, turning, he shouted for help. In moments he heard running feet, then Chamba appeared, with burly William Banks and one of the gunnery crew.

  Tarek lowered Ayisha, and Banks and Chamba caught her, easing her down into Banks’ arms. Jack saw that her gray shawl was tied firmly around her waist. The lee helmsman stood there as Tarek handed down a couple of items to Chamba, then slid down himself. The bodyguard held out his arms. “I will take her now,” he said to Banks.

  In the lantern light, Jack looked at the princess as Tarek cradled her against his broad chest. The illusion held even when she slept, he saw. Blood smeared her disfigured upper lip, and she was as limp as a child’s cloth doll.

  “What happened?” Jack demanded.

  “Let me get her into her bunk, then I will tell you,” the bodyguard replied, in his slow, halting English.

  Jack dismissed Banks and the gunner, then he, Tarek, and Chamba went down to the main deck. As the eunuch stooped to enter the canvas “room,” Tarek reminded Jack about Shabako. Chagrined, the captain immediately dispatched Chamba to the cargo hold to retrieve the young pharaoh, and asked his messenger to convey his most sincere regrets to the Zerzuran ruler for forgetting him.

  When they were alone, and the princess was deposited on her makeshift bunk, Jack watched as Tarek gently wiped the blood off Ayisha’s face. “Tell me,” he said, quietly.

  “She did what you told her to do, Captain,” Tarek said, not looking up. Jack thought he saw the big man’s eyes glisten in the light of the lantern. “She wanted to help. And she did.”

  Jack stared at the bodyguard, completely bewildered. “What? What did I—” He stopped, abruptly. “You’re saying that she blew up the sloop’s powder magazine? Using magic?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Jack sat there in silence, for a long moment. “Do you think she’ll recover?” he asked, finally. “I want to thank her. Most humbly.”

  Tarek shrugged. “Her heart beats. She breathes. That is all I know.” Then, after a look at Jack’s expression, he added, “She used a very powerful spell. It saps the strength. Some who use such strong magic do not recover. But most do.”

  Jack nodded, then stood up. Tarek also stood up to follow him. “You’re going to leave her alone?” the captain said.

  “She appears to be asleep,” Tarek said. “I know you need help, Captain, to recover from the battle. I wish to help. It is what she would wish me to do.” Hearing footsteps outside, he nodded. “I believe the Hemef will wish to help, too, or he is not the man I believe him to be.”

  Jack headed back up to the weather deck, wondering how many wounded sailors in the history of the world—until tonight—would have been able to truthfully claim that they had been cared for by the eunuch bodyguard of a royal princess and the pharaoh of a lost kingdom. Not many, he decided.

  By the time he returned to the quarterdeck, he found Lee Trafford on duty as helmsman. And, as if by magic, when Trafford stepped before the big steering wheel, the Wicked Wench shuddered, shuddered again, and then…they were afloat.

  Jack ordered Trafford to sail them back down the little inlet, back to the Northwest Providence Channel. He called for sail handlers and men began to appear. Jack ordered them to put up the very minimum amount of sail on her foremast and mizzen. Her mainmast appeared to be mostly intact, but it was hard to be certain, because of the damaged rigging and sail masking most of its length.

  By the time the Wench began moving, Robby was there, his expression grave. “Jack, I’ve got bad news.”

  Jack braced himself, reminding himself that they were still alive and afloat, and that was what counted. “Go on,” he said, steadily.

  “The carpenters have patched every hole except two. One o
f them is in the lower counter.”

  Jack winced. The counter was the part of the ship that dropped down from the aft-most part of the stern. The lower counter lay below the waterline, many feet straight down from the taffrail. “Devilish hard to reach,” he muttered.

  “Yes,” Robby said.

  “And the other?”

  “We’ve got a temporary plug in that one, but it’s still letting in water. We were unlucky enough to have two six-pound balls hit us side-by-side,” Robby said, holding up his two fists, touching, to illustrate. “We’ll need a man in a sling with a plug on the outside of the hull, and a man with a plug on the inside of the hull, and they’ll need to drive their plugs in at the same time to get anything like a tight seal.”

  “Damn,” Jack said. “Tell them just to keep plugging it. We’ll have to wait for daylight to try to get to the hole in the lower counter. We just don’t have enough men to handle everything!”

  Robby nodded. “I know.”

  “I’ve been around the decks. Our lads are dropping where they stand. The main deck looks like the last act of a tragedy, bodies everywhere.”

  “At least they’re sleeping bodies,” Robby pointed out.

  “Yes,” Jack said. “At the moment, the count stands at three dead, seven wounded. But…” he added, “by morning it’s likely to be four.”

  Robby nodded. One of the topmen had a broken leg that was so bad, pieces of bone protruded through the skin. The Wench had no surgeon. The leg needed to be amputated. Frank Connery had volunteered to undertake the job, as soon as he had finished his duties as second mate, but Jack doubted the poor fellow could be saved.

  “How are we doing on the pump, Robby?”

  “So far we’re keeping the water level even, Jack. But that’s bound to change.”

  Jack nodded. Manning the bilge pump was hard work. His crew was already exhausted. At some point, it was inevitable that they’d fall behind. The Wicked Wench would take on more and more water…until she sank.

  “Thanks, Robby,” he said. “I’m going to take a look around, check things over. Why don’t you stretch out in my cabin for half an hour, get some sleep?”

  “What about you? Jack, you’re wounded.” Robby stared at the sleeve of Jack’s coat. The whole sleeve was wet, and if it hadn’t been dark, it would have shown red.

  “I’m too keyed up to sleep, Robby, and that’s the truth. Now go lie down. That’s an order. If you can’t sleep, pray some more. We could use it.”

  Robby shrugged. “Don’t think I’m not, Jack.”

  Jack took a lantern to light his way, and began walking the perimeter of the weather deck. He was careful not to step on any exhausted crewmen he encountered. It was a pleasure to see them whole, not wounded. He wasn’t sure what he was checking for. To see if any of them were actually wounded or dead, as opposed to sleeping, he supposed.

  He trudged along, his eyes burning from the smoke of the battle, feeling like Diogenes with his lantern. As he stepped over bodies, he wondered how long he should let these men sleep before he began waking some of them to take over on the pump.

  Jack paused, squinting blearily, raising his lantern high to shed its light on one of the men who was splashed with dried blood. Was it his own blood, or that of a wounded or dead shipmate? Was he still alive?

  After a moment, a deep, rumbling snore reassured him.

  “Ahoy!” shouted a voice to starboard.

  Jack whirled around so fast he nearly dropped his lantern. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  He blinked painfully as he made out running lights not far away, shining in the darkness, and heard the swish of water against a bow. The lights swam before him as he tried to focus his stinging eyes.

  Am I hallucinating?

  “Ahoy!” shouted the voice again, then continued in Spanish, “Anyone alive over there? Do you need help?”

  It was real. There really was a ship out there, hailing him!

  Jack hesitated. A Spanish vessel…just my bloody luck.

  But at least England and Spain weren’t currently at war…or they hadn’t been, last he’d heard.

  What if she’s another pirate vessel? Two in one bloody day? Should I keep silent, hope they’ll pass by?

  Jack told himself not to be ridiculous. Even having everything valuable on the Wicked Wench stolen, and himself and his crew sold as slaves, was better than sinking to the bottom. And most pirates he knew wouldn’t ask if another ship needed help.

  Jack put his lantern down on the deck, then cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ahoy!” he shouted, then continued, in Spanish, “Merchant vessel Wicked Wench here! Pirates attacked us today! Yes! We need help!”

  He heard the voice drift across the water, no longer shouting, but evidently addressing someone aboard. He only picked up the word “Capitan.”

  Clearing his throat, Jack spat over the side, wishing he had something to drink. He cupped his hands around his mouth again. “What ship are you?” he shouted, still in Spanish.

  There was a pause, then, “Venganza!” floated across the water.

  Jack’s eyes opened wide. He gasped, astonished, then, slowly, he began to grin. He wanted to dance a jig, but he was too tired, and his arm ached too much.

  Clutching the railing to steady himself, he yelled, this time in English, “Esmeralda? Are you there?”

  A different voice responded this time. “Dios mio…Jack?”

  Jack closed his burning eyes, heaving a long, profound sigh of relief. Robby will never let me hear the end of this.…

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Hard Bargains

  AN HOUR LATER, JACK SAT ON THE DECK of the hove-to Wicked Wench, leaning up against the gun carriage of his portside six-pounder, a blanket flung around his shoulders against the breeze and the dew of the Bahamian night. He took another sip of his second tankard of the hot, sweetened tea Esmeralda had brought with her, insisting he drink it, and decided that, all things considered, he quite loved bossy, competent women.

  Last month it had been Ayisha, mastering that demon-horse, Caesar, ordering him to relax his spine so he wouldn’t bounce when they trotted, and calmly telling him that he must go to the New World to find her brother.

  Now it was Esmeralda, striding around his ship, clad in her boarding clothes: men’s britches tucked into tall, folded-over boots, loose-sleeved front-laced ivory shirt, and her metal-reinforced leather corselet. A long satin waistcoat, embroidered in red and gold, and one of her wide-brimmed hats—red, adorned with gold braid and two sweeping plumes—made her look every inch the pirate queen. A gaggle of her far more sartorially challenged (and in some cases downright villainous-looking) mates dogged her every footstep as they awaited her next order.

  With Venganza hove-to only a hundred feet away, Jack had overheard the speech she’d made to her crew regarding her decision to rescue the Wicked Wench. “My friends, we have encountered a merchant ship in dire need of our help. I hereby pledge to Captain Jack my assistance, and the assistance of my crew. My reason for doing so is simple: Captain Jack was a friend of my grandfather’s. Don Rafael liked and respected him. If Don Rafael were only alive today, may all the saints and the Virgin bless him, he would do as I am doing. So, may I count on your help, my friends?”

  And, of course, her crew had enthusiastically pledged their support. What red-blooded pirate could deny a woman like that, after all?

  After Jack had ordered the Wench to heave-to, he’d gone into his own cabin and found Robby, fast asleep. When he’d awakened him, saying rescue had arrived, a slow, triumphant smile had crept across the first mate’s face. Jack had braced himself, but, to his everlasting credit, Robby had not actually said “I told you so” regarding the power of prayer.

  As the Spaniards had climbed aboard, Jack, with Robby at his side, had greeted them courteously, shaking hands with the mates, and thanking everyone for their help in his fluent, if not rapid, Spanish. If one of them recognized him as a former pirate, and reported him to T
eague, he’d deal with that later, Jack had decided.

  It was a mercy Robby and Frank were still on their feet, Jack thought, because he had reached his limit. The first order Esmeralda had given when she’d climbed aboard had been, “Jack, you go over there and sit down, and don’t move until I give you permission.” Meekly, he’d obeyed, and he had to admit, she was right. He could tell he was just about finished. His shoulder throbbed even when he didn’t move it, and his head throbbed in concert with it. Not to mention his back and backside, from being flung to the deck repeatedly.

  At least Robby and Frank had kept him apprised as to the ship’s condition, as their pirate rescuers set to work. Spanish pirates now worked the bilge pump. Esmeralda’s carpenters had tackled and plugged the side-by-side six-pounder holes. The lower counter hole would have to wait for daylight, as there simply wasn’t any way to bring enough light for a repair crew to work.

  But the rest of his ship had plenty of light as the repair work continued; the Spaniards had brought extra lanterns with them. Best of all, Venganza had an actual ship’s surgeon as part of her crew. Minutes after Esmeralda’s arrival, Frank Connery had escorted Doctor Martinez below to the orlop deck, to tend to Jack’s wounded.

  Mindful of Esmeralda’s last order to him, Jack finished the last of the food Venganza’s cook had sent over for him and his officers. It hadn’t been fancy fare, but the bread, smoked meat, olives, and cheese tasted like ambrosia. He washed the last swallow of his repast down with more of the tea—plain bloody tea; she hadn’t allowed him to put so much as a drop of rum in it! Bossy woman. Beautiful, competent, bossy woman.…

  Jack pulled the blanket more closely around his shoulders, trying to settle himself more comfortably against the carriage of the six-pounder. His eyelids grew heavy, and he eyed the recumbent forms of his snoring crewmen enviously. When had he last slept? Oh, yes, he’d gone to his cabin to nap for a few hours, after the little party he’d hosted to celebrate Shabako’s rescue. That nap seemed half a lifetime ago, now.

  As he recalled that little interlude, Jack’s lip curled. He’d been so smug, so bloody pleased with himself while they’d all been sitting in his cabin, laughing and sharing their experiences. He remembered Tia Dalma, and her talk of destiny, fate, and how everything was connected. What was that word for the heroes of stories who, through their arrogance, pride, and self-confidence, made incredibly stupid decisions, or unknowingly violated the laws of the gods, man, or nature? Hubris, that was the term. All that stuff about “pride goeth before a fall.”