Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  His body was straight, his weight balanced. He didn’t bend his knees yet, or raise his sword fully, but when he did, he’d be in the en garde stance.

  Christophe wagged his left forefinger at Jack. Jack could see his eyes—the moon was very bright—and they looked wild, with a strange glitter. “Jacques, it was really your fault, so you owe me, comprenez? If you hadn’t switched the stones on me, none of this would have happened!”

  “What happened?” Jack demanded. “Make sense, Christophe! Where is your ship?”

  Christophe shrugged. “Gone, she is gone. My beautiful La Vipère. When I took out that—that rock—you gave me, I fear I…well, I confess I had a temper fit; I was provoked, you cannot deny it! First I ordered them to sail back through the fog so we could sack the island. They refused, those cowardly vermin! Then I told them that when you came through the fog, we would attack your wretched vessel, so I could take the gem of power that is rightfully mine. And they refused to do that, too! My first mate, he told me, no! That cowardly boche!”

  “And?” prompted Jack.

  “So I shot him.” Christophe turned his hands palm up, shaking his head. “Zut! What a fuss they all made! It’s not as though he was even a particularly good officer, Jacques.”

  He murdered his first mate in cold blood, right in front of his crew? Now things were falling into place. “I see,” Jack said. “So they deposed you as captain, eh? There was no island close enough to maroon you on, so they put you in a little boat, and they set you adrift. Did they give you food or water? Five years ago you didn’t give me any, remember?”

  “No, Jacques, they didn’t give me any food or water,” Christophe sounded sullen. “As for what happened five years ago, that was a mistake on my part. I admit it! I was sorry for it, too. I regretted it, but you had made me angry, mon ami. All these years, I thought you were dead, and I was very sorry. I was overjoyed to discover you were alive, Jacques!”

  “I’m sure you were,” Jack said, sarcastically.

  “I was! Truly!”

  “It doesn’t matter, now. Christophe, listen carefully. You climb back down that ladder, and I might consider tossing down a canteen and some biscuit,” Jack said. “But only if you immediately do as I say. If you refuse…”

  “What, Jacques?”

  “I’ll kill you.”

  Christophe laughed. As he did, he swept his elegantly plumed hat from his head, and in a trice he had shrugged out of his embroidered satin coat. He wasn’t wearing a waistcoat. Jack remembered the muffled oars, and figured that was where the waistcoat had gone.

  Clad now only in his fine shirt, with the cascades of Belgian lace at the throat and wrists, Christophe assumed fighting stance, too, though he didn’t raise his blade all the way, either. “Jacques, just welcome me aboard your ship, mon ami, and all will be well. Drop me off at the first civilized port you come to, and then you can live. We fenced many times, mon ami. Remember who always won?”

  Jack raised his sword and bent his knees, so he was crouching a bit, ready to spring. “You did,” he said. “But it will be different this time.”

  Christophe raised his colichemarde. “Jacques, you cannot win. I will be forced to kill you, then take command of this very nice ship of yours. What did you call her? The Wicked Wench, non? Good name for a pirate ship.”

  Jack began to circle, cautiously, studying Christophe. Watching him in action in the labyrinth had reminded him of just how fast his erstwhile friend was. He’d been trained by top French fencing masters. He was also four or five inches taller than Jack, and his weapon was longer, giving far superior reach—a tremendous advantage.

  But he’s almost forty, and he’s let himself go, a bit, hasn’t he? Jack thought, coldly, analytically. I’ve been practicing nearly every day for the past two months. Has he? From the way he was panting after we fought that cobra thing, doesn’t seem like it. That fancy shirt of his is straining at the buttons. He probably weighs two stone more than he did five years ago—and a lot of it is sitting right there around his waist. I’ll bet he’s been overindulging for years, on all that fancy French food and lots of French wine…

  As he neared the portside railing, Jack saw Robby standing by the mainmast, a pistol in his hand. Other crewmen stood behind the first mate—nearly a dozen of them, all armed. Jack realized he didn’t have to fight—all he had to do was give the word, and Robby would shoot Christophe. Or order someone to crack him over the head with a belaying pin.

  Normally, Jack avoided danger whenever possible. If he’d picked up his pistol on his the way out of his cabin, this fight would already be over. But, by chance, he’d grabbed his cutlass instead. Or was it merely random chance? For some reason this encounter felt inevitable…and it also felt like something that needed to be resolved with cold steel.

  This is why I’ve been practicing, Jack realized, suddenly. Ever since the Wicked Wench had sailed west, across the Atlantic, he’d been driven to fence, to practice swordplay with anyone that would give him a match, but he hadn’t known why until just now. The moment he’d resolved to find Christophe and get the pharaoh’s bracelet back, something inside him had known that this fight would happen.

  Jack made his decision. For good or ill, this would end now, tonight. After tonight, Christophe would never bother him again—one way or another.

  Tia Dalma would call it destiny…

  “Mr. Greene!” Jack shouted. “Don’t interfere unless he kills or disables me. Savvy?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Robby said, grimly.

  Neither opponent saluted the other. This was not a match. This was a duel—to the death.

  Jack attacked. He moved forward, stamping his bare foot on the deck, a movement called an appel designed to startle an opponent, cause his guard to falter. It didn’t work. Christophe thrust at him, and Jack parried. Christophe pressed his attack, thrusting, parrying Jack’s thrusts, all with lightning speed. It was all Jack could do to parry the rogue’s attacks. Jack retreated, parrying, defending himself. For the moment it was all he could manage, to track Christophe’s blade in the moonlight, and defend, defend…

  Jack was being pushed back, back, across the deck. The blades rang against each other, a song of metal. Jack could see and smell sparks as they struck, steel sliding against steel.

  Jack knew every inch of the Wench’s deck. He could have found his way around it blindfolded. He let Christophe back him down the narrow strip of deck between the main hatch grating and the amidships ladder, thankful he didn’t take a misstep. Christophe managed to catch him, once, high on his left arm, when he was just a bit too late in his parry. Though it was barely more than a nick, it stung.

  “You’re…bleeding now…Jacques,” Christophe gasped.

  Jack knew when he’d passed the opening to the amidships ladder without looking. He’d soon be up against the starboard railing if he continued to retreat.

  “Strategy! A swordsman must think as well as react! If you cannot strategize, you are no better than a wild beast, defending itself with claws or teeth! Are you a beast, Sparrow? A bird, perhaps? No! You are a man! Strategize!” The words rang in Jack’s mind. They were the words of his first fencing coach, a master Jack had paid with his share of a prize Troubadour had captured off Portugal.

  Very well. What was his strategy? Long term, it was to wear Christophe down, tire him enough to slow him. Jack wasn’t even breathing hard…yet. As for strategy at this very moment…

  Jack quickly jumped sideways, to his right, turning as he did, so his back was no longer to the starboard rail. Now he had room to maneuver, to retreat toward the ladder leading up to the quarterdeck.

  Aha! As he’d hoped, Christophe had cut the corner as he advanced. The rogue pirate caught the edge of his left foot on the raised timbers bordering the ladder opening. He faltered for just a moment. Jack aimed a cut, and caught him, just above his left elbow. Christophe’s attempt to parry, then riposte, came too late—Jack had already jumped back, out of range. “That on
e’s for Amenirdis,” Jack told the Frenchman.

  “Jacques…mon ami …you are…such a child.” Christophe paid no attention to his own wound. “Lust for revenge…like all…emotion…has no place…in good fencing.” For the first time in the engagement, he lunged, his extension as fluid and flawless as a drawing in a fencing manual.

  Jack retreated, moving back to basic en garde again, but he made sure that as he did it, that he also moved slightly to his left. Strategy…

  Christophe executed a perfect forward recovery from his lunge, designed to gain him more ground without being obvious about it.

  Out of the corner of his left eye, Jack saw a dark shape. One of his six-pounders, the one he’d leaned against the night following the battle with Borya. And behind him and to his right, was the capstan, with its protruding spokes. He’d have to be careful not to brush one of them.

  Christophe lunged again, the blade of the colichemarde flowing like quicksilver in the moonlight. Jack parried it, even as he retreated, making sure that he again stepped slightly to his left.

  Jack feinted, then when Christophe fell for it and parried, he lunged for the first time in the fight. He deliberately went wide to the left, and Christophe’s attempted parry missed. If Jack’s form in the intagliata had been better, he’d have had enough extension to run Christophe through the belly, but he only managed to nick him above his belt with the tip of his cutlass. Still, Jack forgave himself when he then managed to be fast enough to negate his opponent’s riposte by striking the pommel of the cutlass against the colichemarde’s blade, deflecting it—even as he leaped back, out of harm’s way.

  “That one’s for…Marie,” Jack yelled, seeing blood spreading across the middle of the rogue’s shirt, black in the moonlight. His own breath was coming fast now, but he wasn’t gasping like a blown horse, and he realized with satisfaction that Christophe was.

  “Who…is…Marie?” Christophe gasped, with, Jack realized, genuine puzzlement.

  The rogue drove himself, thrusting repeatedly, those lightning, deadly moves. Jack was forced back, back, having to retreat so quickly he barely avoided the spokes of the capstan at the last moment. He zigged left, then continued retreating, still angling left, aiming for the ladder leading to the quarterdeck. If Christophe was out of breath now, imagine how winded he’d be after having to fight his way up the ladder.

  Christophe pressed his attack, thrusting, lunging, parrying Jack’s thrusts and usually following each parry with a riposte. Jack was now breathing hard himself, but he could hear Christophe almost sobbing for air.

  The next time Christophe lunged, and Jack retreated, as before, back and slightly to his left, Jack had the satisfaction of seeing that his opponent was now lunging with the anticipation that Jack would go left. The angle of his blade had changed, to compensate. Good, Jack thought. Strategy…

  Jack thrust, and Christophe parried, then the rogue jumped back, panting loudly. He waved his left hand, and blood droplets spattered. “Stop…a moment, Jacques…just need a moment…to rest…catch my breath…”

  “Hah!” Jack exclaimed. “Think I’ll fall for that old trick? I didn’t climb my first ratline yesterday, Christophe!” Jack knew damned well what would have happened if he’d heeded the French pirate’s plea. The moment Jack relaxed, he’d have been skewered.

  Jack tried another lunge, hoping that Christophe’s avowed weariness and winded state would slow him, only to have the rogue pirate parry, then riposte with such skill that the point of the colichemarde barely touched Jack’s skin, just above his collarbone. If Jack hadn’t had excellent reflexes, it would have gone through his throat. As he leaped back, his heart hammering with the narrowness of his escape, he felt a small, hot trickle sliding down his chest.

  I have to finish this soon, or I’ll make a serious mistake, and then I’m dead.

  Jack retreated yet again. He had almost, he knew, reached the starboard ladder leading up to the quarterdeck. “You know, Christophe,” he said, “if you surrender now…I guarantee…you’ll not be harmed. I’ll give you…provisions…for your boat…”

  “No…” Christophe said, following him, and thrusting, thrusting, always on the attack, even though his breathing was painful to hear.

  “If you kill me…” Jack stepped back and up, the first step on the ladder. “…you won’t live…a bloody…minute. Robby will shoot you…or order…you shot. Think, Christophe!”

  “Robby Greene…doesn’t…have…the…stones…to…shoot…me, Jacques…” Christophe wheezed, advancing and raising the line of his attack, so as to compensate for Jack’s elevated position. “I’ll…command…your…Wench…”

  I wouldn’t count on that, Christophe, Jack thought, grimly. He was bloody well certain that Robby would immediately shoot Christophe if Jack went down. His first mate hated the rogue captain possibly even more than Jack did. And Robby, notwithstanding his religious beliefs, was a pragmatist. He’d have no compunction about shooting the Frenchman in the back to save his crew, none at all.

  Jack leaped up and back, taking two steps at once, and as he did so, he slashed down at his opponent, using gravity and elevation to help him. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have risked a slash at an opponent of Christophe’s caliber—it was such a blatant move, basically a cut done large and sweeping. Fine for use in battling monsters, but it left a duelist too open to a lunge or even a thrust. But Christophe couldn’t lunge on the ladder. The most he could do was thrust.

  Jack’s downward slash took off a chunk of flesh and muscle on the bulge of the Captain’s upper arm. Christophe screamed in agony.

  For a moment Jack thought that was the end of the fight—that the Frenchman would fall backward, down the ladder, and wind up sprawled on the deck, able to be dispatched with a last, quick thrust.

  But Christophe gathered himself and came on. He even managed an upward thrust at Jack.

  “That one was…for Don…Rafael,” Jack gasped. He stepped back onto his quarterdeck. He knew he couldn’t last much longer. He was gasping, too, and his cutlass felt much heavier than usual. Sweat trickled into his eyes, stinging them.

  Jack swiped at his forehead, blotting sweat as he retreated quickly, trying to give himself enough distance to be able to catch his breath. Christophe came after him, though he staggered a little when he reached the top step, catching his toe on it, nearly pitching forward. His left arm now swung limp, as though he had no strength in it.

  Jack silently cursed his own weariness. If he’d been quicker, he could have taken advantage of that stumble.

  Jack retreated past the steering wheel and the binnacle on his left, and the fife rail and little storage cabinet on his right, moving as fast as he could. He didn’t want to engage in such close quarters, and he damned well didn’t want to risk having his wheel or his binnacle damaged if someone’s sword missed.

  In moments, Jack would be at the portside ladder, and then he’d have to back down, defending himself. Not a good position to be in, even facing a wounded opponent. He felt the descending railing of the ladder beneath his fingers, and began backing down, just as Christophe, having caught his breath somewhat, crossed the quarterdeck in a rush.

  For a moment Jack considered turning his back and racing down the steps two at a time, but he didn’t think he could do it fast enough. And if he tried it, it was possible that Christophe might risk all and dart his sword at him—throw it, to hit him in the back as he ran.

  Instead he raised his line to defend, concentrating on following the movement of the sword blade so he could parry. The yellow glow from the ship’s lanterns hanging up on the quarterdeck, and the reddish glow from the two hanging on either side of Jack’s cabin, warred with the silver moonlight, making focusing on the blade more difficult. Jack continued to parry, knowing that was all he could do at the moment. He needed a level field to execute his plan—assuming he could accomplish it successfully.

  He’d been counting steps—ten, including the top step—so he knew when he was down.
Jack retreated, but not too far, because he wanted Christophe to come after him. One more of those beautifully executed lunges…just one more…

  Christophe came down the last step of the ladder. To Jack’s disappointment, he seemed steadier on his feet, and his breathing was better. Still, he looked exhausted. He’d lost a lot of blood, and, judging by the look on his face, he was in considerable pain. Jack, on the other hand, felt exhilarated, full of energy, as though he’d had a quick shot of rum and found treasure. He knew the feeling wouldn’t last. But for the moment, he felt just fine.

  Jack raised his blade slightly, focusing on his target. Come on, come on…

  Christophe hung back a little, seeming loath to engage. “Jacques…give up. If you sail…back to the Caribbean…Borya will find you…and he’ll kill you.…”

  “I took care of Borya weeks ago,” Jack said, dismissively.

  For the first time, he saw fear on his opponent’s face. “You lie,” Christophe said.

  Jack shook his head, beckoning left-handed. “No. It’s true. Come on, Christophe.”

  Christophe kept his guard up, but did not advance. Jack decided to start a conversation—in other words, get the blades ringing against each other again. Attacking, he thrust, had his thrust parried, then, when Christophe thrust, Jack parried and riposted. He was careful not to seem too energetic, or to let the crazy grin he felt inside show on his face. Come on, Christophe, it’s been a long, hard fight, and your opponent is tired, maybe you can run him right through this time, if you just lunge. Come on, lunge. Lunge, damn you, you devil!

  Christophe lunged, his line of action turned slightly to his own right, as he anticipated Jack retreating, back and slightly to Jack’s left—as Jack had been doing since the beginning of the duel. Only this time, Jack didn’t retreat. Instead he stepped forward, grabbing the gold and silver hilt of the colichemarde hard with his left hand, clamping his grip on it and forcing it even farther to the left. At the same moment he thrust hard with his cutlass. The point slid in slightly to the left of Christophe’s midsection, just below the sternum, and Jack angled the thrust up by pushing his wrist down on the hilt.