Christophe’s eyes widened; his mouth dropped open. He gasped, but it was his last breath. Jack retreated one last time, pulling his cutlass free of the body, twisting it as he did so, increasing the odds that it would sever the big vein as it withdrew from the heart.
Christophe-Julien de Rapièr collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He was dead before he hit the deck.
Jack stepped back, light-headed with relief, and carefully laid his sword down on the deck beside him. “And that one, Christophe,” he said, knowing his enemy couldn’t hear him, but needing to say it anyway, “was for Esmeralda.”
Bending over, Jack braced his hands on his aching thighs, and just exulted in breathing and being the man standing. Standing, and alive.
He sensed movement on all sides and raised his head, realizing he was surrounded by his men. They were cheering, babbling congratulations, and a few even slapped him on the back. Robby, pistol still in his hand, was in the forefront, grinning at him. “Jack, I knew you could do it! I prayed for you to beat him, and you did!”
Jack nodded. Bending over, he picked up his sword, then wiped it clean on a patch of fabric just above the knee of Christophe’s elegant britches. He sheathed his faithful cutlass, mentally thanking it. It wasn’t fancy, it might be a bit battered and worn, but it was a good and true blade.
“Captain, what…what should we do…with it…him?” asked Roger Prescott, pointing down at the corpse. “I could fetch th’ Good Book…”
Jack looked at Robby, who had stuck the pistol in his belt. It gave him quite the piratical air. Robby looked back at Jack. Then, without a word, they both bent down and grabbed the corpse, Jack by the wrists, and Robby at the feet, and hoisted it up. Carrying it between them, they headed over to the port side rail, gave it one hard swing, and sent it sailing out into the moon-silvered water. A loud splash followed.
“Featherstone, de Ver, you two clean up that mess on me nice, clean deck,” Jack said, indicating the dark pool. “You, Mulligan, go round the weather deck and up to the quarterdeck, mopping up any other spilled blood you find. Someone cut that dinghy loose. Throw the hat and the coat in the slop chest. Maybe someone can use ’em.”
Hands scurried to obey, leaving him and Robby alone.
Jack bent and picked up the colichemarde. The blade was discolored faintly, just at the very tip.
“What are you going to do with it?” Robby asked. “Will you keep it? Fight with it?”
Jack examined the gold and silver tracings on the hilt. The moonlight glinted off them, turning them all to silver. “No. Next time I see Esmeralda, I’m going to give it to her, so she’ll know her granddad was avenged. She can hang it on the wall of her cabin, as a trophy.”
“It’s a beautiful sword.”
“It is. But this is a bloody gentleman’s weapon Robby, me lad. Not suitable for the likes of you and me, just humble—” He almost said pirates, but changed it at the last moment. “Er…mariners. I’m sticking with me cutlass.”
Robby’s mouth quirked at the pun. Jack laughed. “Come on, Robby, I’m going to sit down in my cabin, and have a quick swig of rum, then you’re going to stitch up this arm.”
“I’d be honored to, Jack,” Robby said.
Carrying the elegant sword, the captain opened the door to his cabin and went in. After hanging up his baldric, and putting away the colichemarde, Jack was finally free to sit down in his chair. He couldn’t repress a groan. He’d definitely abused himself during this long, long day—and he’d gotten little sleep the night before.
“Here you go, Jack,” Robby said, passing him a generous dollop of rum in a cup. Jack swigged it down, then pulled off his blood-streaked shirt. His first mate busied himself with the needle and thread Jack kept for mending—either clothing or skin.
“Don’t move.” Robby carefully eased the needle into the skin on his shoulder, and began to stitch. Jack hissed, but stayed still. “I swear I’ve never seen you fence better, Jack, but I’m still surprised you won.”
“I am, too,” Jack admitted. “Though Christophe wasn’t rational tonight, Robby. You heard him. That might have—ow!—affected his skill. He used to be a very canny fighter. But not tonight.”
“You were lucky.”
Jack nodded, not offended. “I was, mate—ow!” He grimaced.
“Sorry. That’s the last one, though.” Without asking permission, Robby sloshed a bit of rum over the five stitches, then, for good measure, over the nick between Jack’s collarbones.
“Mmmhhh! Dammit, Robby! You and Esmeralda, wasting good rum! That’s a sin!”
Robby ignored him as he peered at the tiny cut. “Lord in Heaven, Jack, you were so lucky! If that had gone an inch or two deeper, you’d have been lying there dead, right beside Christophe.”
Jack grinned. “But you’d have given me a nice service, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course. I’d have written the eulogy myself,” Robby said, gazing at the little wound, still shaking his head in wonder. His gaze moved lower. “What’s that you’re wearing?” he asked, as Jack got up and reached into his sea chest for Esmeralda’s red bandanna.
“Here, tie this around me upper arm, so I don’t rub those stitches out,” Jack said. He looked down at his midsection, and saw the striped sash Amenirdis had woven. “A present, from Amen—er, Ayisha, Robby. She told me it would—”
He broke off, staring down at the sash, as Robby tied the bandanna around his arm. “Wait a moment. Do you suppose…?” Jack muttered.
“Suppose what?” Robby asked, putting the needle and thread away.
Jack ran his thumb along the edge of the sash. “Uh…nothing…” he mumbled. Probably just coincidence, he thought.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to always wear it, Jack decided. He hoped he wouldn’t need protection when he reported to Cutler Beckett in a few weeks, but he’d take all the help he could get.…
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Exodus
CUTLER BECKETT SAT AT HIS EBONY DESK in his private office, regarding Jack Sparrow as though he’d crawled out from beneath a log in a swamp. His voice was flat, his eyes cold. “Stop right there, Captain Sparrow.”
“But, Mr. Beckett—”
Beckett raised a forefinger. “I said, stop. Not another word, Sparrow. Let me see if I have the essence of this so-called ‘report’ of yours straight.” He began ticking off items on his fingers as he spoke.
“Item one, you were unable to verify the exact location of Kerma. The bearings you have provided are actually the location of a large bank of fog? Is that correct?” Beckett didn’t pause for a response, but forged ahead. “Item two, you had, in your possession, at least two inhabitants of Kerma, but both of them are now gone, because someone cast a magical spell on you and your crew, and you fell asleep on the deck of your ship, only to awaken with your passengers gone and a longboat missing. You currently have no idea as to their whereabouts. Correct?”
Jack Sparrow didn’t meet his eyes, only shifted his weight uneasily, turning his tricorne in his fingers, “Uh, Mr. Beckett, I—”
“I wasn’t finished, Captain,” Beckett snapped.
“Sorry, sir,” Sparrow said quietly, and fell silent.
“Item three, you took on a cargo of muscovado sugar and molasses in Antigua, and, instead of delivering said cargo to its assigned destination in Liverpool, you have brought approximately half that cargo back here to Calabar. Your explanation for losing half your cargo is that it was damaged during an attack by pirates in the Bahamas, correct?”
By now Sparrow had learned his lesson. He didn’t try to speak, merely nodded.
“And, finally,” Beckett continued, “item four, during that attack my own vessel, the Wicked Wench nearly sank, necessitating numerous expensive repairs to said ship in Savannah. Repairs that you signed for, that will be charged to the EITC.”
Beckett eyed Sparrow with all the warmth of a glacier. “Is that a correct summary of the salient points of your decidedly rambling
account, Captain Sparrow?”
Sparrow stood there, turning his hat, silent.
“Answer me, Sparrow!” For the first time, Beckett raised his voice.
Sparrow jumped. His hat slipped out of his hands and fell. “Oh, yes, sir. Yes, you pretty much summarized it, yes, Mr. Beckett. Sir.” He bent over and retrieved the hat, then stood there looking down at it, as though he wished he could clap it on his head and make a hasty departure.
“And in addition to what I have already spoken of, I also noted, among other things, that you gave an account of your sailing to New Avalon and picking up yet another allegedly Kerman slave, one that the sewing woman claimed was her brother, is that correct? And that slave is also gone. Correct?”
Sparrow nodded. “Yes, Mr. Beckett.”
“How did you ‘pick up’ that slave, Sparrow? Did you purchase him? With your own money?”
Sparrow shook his head. “No, Mr. Beckett. I didn’t have enough.”
“So you stole him, is that what you’re saying? Meaning you are, in point of fact, responsible for two thefts of valuable property? The slave from Dalton’s farm, and now this slave from New Avalon?”
Sparrow cleared his throat. “I didn’t exactly say that I stole him, Mr. Beckett. The sewing woman, Ayisha, she told me if I wanted her to take me to the island, I’d have to let her bring her friend on board, in Calabar. I didn’t ask any questions about how he came to be with her, sir. Then, after we left Calabar, Ayisha demanded that I take her to the New World so she could get her brother. She knew where he’d been taken. I don’t know how she knew.”
“And?”
“When we located the brother, he was on a sugar plantation. So um, she, that is, Ayisha, she left the ship for an afternoon. She must have seen her brother and convinced him to run away. All I did was provide her with a boat, and a couple of sailors to row it, sir.”
“You thought I would approve of this…this…secondhand theft?”
“I didn’t know whether you would or not, Mr. Beckett. But it was clear to me that the woman wouldn’t talk unless she had her brother with her.”
“So after getting the brother, why did you then set off to follow the Triangle?” Beckett was getting a headache, from trying to keep the whole story straight in his mind—not to mention the fury simmering beneath his controlled exterior.
Sparrow took a deep breath. “At first I thought it might be better to take our cargo on to Liverpool, Mr. Beckett. But then, after the pirate attack, when much of it had been destroyed, I figured the best thing I could do was to head for Kerma. She promised to lead me there.” He shrugged. “So after the Wicked Wench was repaired, in Savannah, I headed back east. The wind worked out better that way, coming down from the north, sir.”
“Tell me more about this pirate attack. Why didn’t you simply surrender and turn over your cargo? Why did you resist, and thus cause my ship to be badly damaged?”
Sparrow shuffled slightly, not looking up. “Mr. Beckett, the pirate that attacked us was flying a red flag, sir.”
Beckett frowned. The more Sparrow talked, the more confusing this all became. “A red flag. And what, pray tell is the significance of that? Naval vessels do that to signify ‘no quarter’ don’t they?”
“Yes, Mr. Beckett. But there were—are—some pirates over on the Spanish Main that flew—fly—a red flag with a horned demon’s skull. We, that is, the merchant ships, sir, we call them rogues, sir. These ships have a nasty habit of taking a prize, then slaughtering everyone aboard. They do this so they can take the vessel itself, in addition to the cargo. Or sometimes, they don’t bother with the ship—they just burn it, with all aboard. When they began firing on us, I knew one thing for sure. Merchant ships that surrender to these rogues never make another voyage, Mr. Beckett.”
“So, believing you and everyone aboard would be killed, you elected to put up a fight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What happened to this ‘rogue pirate’?”
“His powder magazine blew, sir. One of our shots must have hit it.”
“I see.” Beckett considered what he’d been told. “And then, if the Wicked Wench was as badly damaged as you say, how did you manage to get all the way to Savannah for repairs?”
Sparrow looked up at him. “We were rescued by another ship, sir.”
“You neglected to mention that earlier. Which ship? An EITC ship?” Beckett took a sip of tea from a delicate porcelain cup.
“No, sir.” Sparrow bit his lip. “Sir, the ship that came to our rescue was the same one I encountered when I was first mate aboard the Fair Wind, last year. Ship called Venganza.”
Fortunately, Beckett had swallowed the mouthful of tea. His nostrils flared as he fumed, tapping his fingers on the desk for nearly a minute before he was sure he could speak in a controlled fashion. “I…see. And you expect me to believe that your friend, this attractive ‘Lady Pirate,’ just happened upon your sinking vessel in time to rescue it? Captain Sparrow, the more I hear of this story of yours, the more it sounds like something you dreamed up in a tavern, over a bottle! Are you drunk?”
“No, sir!” Sparrow said, indignantly.
Cutler Beckett shook his head and slapped his hand down on his desk, narrowly missing his teacup. He managed to catch the cup before it fell. “Tell me the truth! Is that how you actually lost the sugar? Or did you give this pirate the muscovado, and then lie about what happened when you reached Savannah?”
“No, Mr. Beckett! The EITC did an inventory and they removed the bad barrels, sir! They noted what they’d done on my bill of lading! I have that for you, along with my logbook.”
“So you would have me believe that this Lady Pirate saved my ship from sinking, helped make temporary repairs, then escorted you to Savannah? Without taking any cargo? Just out of the goodness of her heart?”
“Well, sir, she did seem to have a good heart, now that you mention it,” Sparrow said, nodding at him. “Especially considering her line of work.”
“Oh, come now, Sparrow! You expect me to believe a pirate rescued you and your ship for nothing?” He narrowed his eyes at Sparrow. “She helped you just because she remembered you from last year, and she liked you? The lady must have liked you rather a lot, eh, Sparrow, to make such an effort on her part worthwhile. What exactly did you do to earn such regard, eh?”
Beckett watched as Sparrow’s cheeks darkened, visible despite the weathering. He’s blushing. But…that must mean that he and this woman actually…
Cutler Beckett’s tight control on his temper suddenly snapped, like frayed, rotted rope. He surged up out of his chair, hands curling into fists. “Damn it, Sparrow!” he shouted. “Lady Pirates and ghost-haunted fogbanks and the whole ship falling asleep—it’s like something out of a bloody fairy tale! Why didn’t you sleep for a hundred years, while you were at it?”
Beckett’s eyes narrowed as he locked gazes with the merchant captain. “Captain Sparrow, do you believe that I am gullible? Or stupid, even?”
Sparrow shook his head, his dark eyes widening. “Oh, no, Mr. Beckett. No, sir. No.”
Beckett studied the man who stood before him. Sparrow’s dark eyes were steady and frank, his stance one of respect, with a healthy touch of real fear mixed in. He appeared both humble and anxious, which was just as it should be. And yet…
“Jack,” Beckett said, with an edge in his voice that could have sliced paper, “you’re lying to me. I don’t know precisely what you’re lying about, but I assure you, I will find out. And when I do…” He shook his head, gravely, and looked back down at the papers on his desk. “You might want to think about that, Captain.”
Sparrow clearly was at a loss regarding how to reply to this last, so he remained still and silent. Beckett made an irritable shooing-away motion. “You are dismissed, Captain Sparrow.”
Sparrow placed both hands together and gave that abbreviated Oriental bow Beckett had seen him use before, murmured, “Yes, Mr. Beckett,” and left.
Cut
ler Beckett sat there at his desk for a moment, breathing deeply, feeling the blood pounding in his temples. He was furious, frustrated, and bitterly disappointed at seeing his dreams of Zerzuran riches crumbling before his eyes.
And that wasn’t the worst part of it. The EITC director shook his head with a sigh. He hated to admit it, and was extremely annoyed with himself for having such a human failing, but there was no denying the truth. He, Cutler Beckett, felt personally betrayed.
He’d dispatched Jack Sparrow on this mission with such hopes, and he’d really trusted that he’d chosen the right man for the job. In the past two months since Sparrow had left, just after he blew out his candle and fell asleep at night, Cutler Beckett had pictured himself in a rosy future. Having risen to the very top echelons of the EITC, perhaps he could aspire to the Privy Council. He’d be fabulously wealthy, a Peer of the Realm, respected, feared…and all the while, Jack would be there, at his side, serving as his smart, capable, trustworthy and oh-so-charming aide, his personal assistant.
And now this.
Cutler Beckett rubbed his temples beneath his wig, and sighed.
After a moment to indulge his disappointment, he straightened, made sure his wig was properly aligned, and then raised his voice. “You may come in, now, Mr. Mercer.”
The door that led into Ayisha’s former sewing room opened, and Ian Mercer entered. He doffed his hat to his employer, then hung it up, stripping off his black gloves. At a gesture from Beckett, the operative took the seat beside Beckett’s desk. “I suppose you heard,” Beckett said.
“I did, Mr. Beckett,” Mercer said. “And I have to point out, that before Sparrow left, I said that—”
Mercer broke off at Beckett’s warning gesture. “Mr. Mercer,” Beckett said, his voice very soft and even, “I believe it’s possible you were on the verge of saying something along the lines of ‘I told you so.’ I should be derelict in my responsibility to a valued subordinate if I did not warn you that such impertinence would be cause for immediate dismissal. Have I made myself clear, Mr. Mercer?”
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom Page 67
