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Will rant about PoA later, right now I just wanna post chapter 3 of FoF. Again, if anyone's reading, I'd appreciate some feedback. Oh, and while I'm at it: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
firesignwriter started another PotC fic which promises to be excellent, in which Norrington and a back-from-the-dead Barbossa ally to go after Jack. I'm quite excited about where she will take it. And she's got Barbossa's voice down just as well as any of the other characters.
A Flight of Fancy
Chapter Three: Run out the guns
"Bloody ruddy blazin' bleedin' Navy," Jack grumbled for what seemed like the hundredth time. Probably was, too.
He sent a withering glare towards the Contester and the Dauntless. They had been gone from Port Royal for a few hours now and were on their way to Tortuga. Jack's return to Port Royal had been everything he could have hoped for, until thirty minutes from their departure. He had got his Act of Grace signed by that funny little man that happened to be governor and father to the lovely Elizabeth; he had paid his regards to Will's ass and had had his apologies accepted regarding that red hot metal rod accident, as far as he was able to make out what the animal was saying with those overly sad eyes of his; he had got himself a free new sword that belonged at his hip and was a proof of how much young Will belonged to this trade; he had rebuked lovely Elizabeth's desperate plea for him to take them on as a honeymoon, much to Will's relief; and finally, he had had Will pay him many a drink in gratitude.
Then there had been that dreadful business of being awoken by two red-coats in the tavern - the very same ones to whom he had told the cannibal tribe version of his escape from the island, he recalled with a fond grin, then suppressed it as he remembered why he was in a foul mood. Those brave two soldiers had awoken him from a well-deserved sleep and left him no time to rouse any of his crew. Most of them had already regained the Pearl, but not enough to set sail as the good commodore James wanted, or so he would have them think. Then Sin had to have the worst idea possible and caught Jack at his own game, suggesting they lent him men. Lent him men? He was a bloody pirate! He didn't take on Navy tars.
Except when he was passing as a privateer to get his hands on Low, of course. His reluctance had seemed to greatly amuse bloody Norrington, too.
Ah, well. At least they were heading for Tortuga. The commodore seemed to have enough sense to want to use Jack to find information about where the Fortune made berth. Jack had refrained from pointing out how unlikely it was that he would find anything. There was no point reminding the commodore that Jack turning privateer would profit no one but Jack himself, and there was always a slight chance that he could learn something in Tortuga. Still... bloody ruddy blazin' bleedin' Navy.
Whatever the blazes had possessed Jack into cooking up this plan? It had seemed brilliant at the time. Enlist the Navy's help. Make his task all the easier. Except Norrington was smarter than Jack had given him credit for; he was the sort of man Jack could have appreciated, if he had not been so very Navy. He was also the sort of man Jack should try to avoid, and not just because of his wish to see all pirates hanged, but because he was the sort of man that was perilous to play.
But then, Captain Jack Sparrow loved himself a good challenge.
There was a short scuffle on the main deck. Jack was thankful that Gibbs stepped in and put good order to it. Having Navy sailors on board was hard on all the crew. Bloody ruddy blazin' bleedin' Navy. Most of the men simply hated them for being Navy, the very same Navy that would see them all hanged. A few others, like Gibbs, did not so much hate them as resented the memories their presence aboard brought forth, memories of a path not taken. Jack understood this all too well. His quartermaster had seemed to be going through the motions ever since the sailors had stepped aboard, a constant frown on his worn features and a dull ache reflected in his eyes.
Bloody ruddy blazin' bleedin' Navy.
Jack glanced at his compass – the new one, that did point North – and slightly corrected the course. The brief respite in her discontent Pearl had offered him the previous day was well over, and had been ever since the first foreign Navy feet had treaded her planks. She was uneasy with them, and she characteristically tried to hide her uneasiness under a façade of anger.
"It's only momentary, love," he pleaded yet again, stroking her wheel.
Well. It was time to go pay a visit to the other fuming female he had to deal with. Jack would have likely passed up on that, but if Anamaria thought he forgot her, she was likely to disregard the bit of sense she did possess and stride up on deck to yell at him about it. Or, most likely, slap him soundly a few times.
"Bart, come take her over."
Leaving the shaggy-haired pirate to the wheel, Jack purposefully made his way down the stairs to the main deck. Right as he walked by, another scuffle erupted. Jack caught his own man's wrist before he could strike a second time with the dagger. He didn't know that one well, he had been picked up in Tortuga only a few days before. "I don't want any fights on my ship." And he pushed the man to the deck floor.
Not sparing a glance at his man, Jack turned to the Navy sailor that had been assaulted. Ah, William. The youth sported a shallow cut across his right cheekbone. With a bit of luck, it'd give him a slight scar to sport. William's usually indifferent mask had slipped, and there was a spark of something Jack could not quite name in those sharp blue eyes. The kid would take some watching after.
"Shiver me timbers!" Mr Cotton's parrot cried out, snapping Jack out of it.
"Take that one to the brig," he ordered with a casual nod to the man he had knocked to the floor. "And let that be a warning for all o' ye. I'll take no fights on my ship. Now back ter work!"
All hands rushed back to their tasks. Jack held William's gaze for one more second, then turned to head for Anamaria's cabin. Gibbs barked out a few orders then fell in stride with him.
"The men aren't happy with this, Jack."
Jack waited until they were in a deserted corridor to turn to his quartermaster. "Do you think I don't know that?" He leaned a hand on a wall of the Pearl, feeling uncharacteristically off his game. Things were bearing down on him all of a sudden. "We'll get Low. I sworn that to meself, and to Pearl. Any means to an end."
"Aye." Gibbs' face was grave, serious eyes searching for something in Jack's face. The briefest wonder, would he find it?
Jack's voice dropped to a whisper, the admission of a wound that would never quite close. "They're not thinking o' mutinying, are they?"
Gibbs hurried to shake his head. "'Course not, Jack. Most men are fierce loyal ter ye. I'm only sayin', the sooner this be all done with, the better fer us all."
Jack straightened, resting his hand on the pommel of his new sword. "I don't need you to tell me that." Something on the tip of his tongue, words that would not yet catch form, the surge of some nameless sensation in his chest, all deftly quelled. "I'll be with me first mate, 'ey?"
"Ah. Good luck with that."
Jack nodded, trademark smirk tugging at his lips, then turned and left for the cabin Anamaria was confined to. He did not bother to knock and found her sharpening her cutlass. She hardly spared him a glance as he closed the door behind himself. Something with that picture was just right. Pearl was rolling beneath his feet, angry and yet so very his; a beam of sunlight fell on the cot of the small cabin; Anamaria was bent over her cutlass at the table, sharpening stone and blade regularly meeting in a hissing noise.
"How is the crew?"
Jack did not bother to lie. "Restless an' eager for a fight."
"At least they got more 'n eight feet to stretch their legs."
Jack leaned a hand on the table with a pensive frown. It had just been an illusion, there was nothing right about any of this. "Bein' up there's just as much of a prison, Anamaria."
She raised surprised eyes at him, dropping her usual mask of defiance. The mask she had to wear to live the life of a pirate; Jack was puzzled at the restrictions her life style brought upon her. But if he were honest, he had the same restrictions to contend with. The look of plain surprise on her face was because she was not used to hear sincerity from his lips. Things were bearing down on him.
"I'll make this as quick as I can."
She held his gaze for a moment, brown meeting brown in an unusually bare way. Then she nodded. Once. Sharply. "You do that, Jack."
"Aye, I do that." He slipped back into his usual persona and grinned at her. "If you're well and good here, I'll –"
"I could use some rum," she cut in imperiously, checking the sharpness of her blade.
Jack stopped mid-sentence, expressive hands hanging in the air. His shoulders sagged a little. "Aye. So could I."
***
The nervousness of the Navy tars had gone up a notch ever since the Dauntless and the Contester had fallen behind and the Navy ensign had been lowered. Thankfully, the fights had been less frequent since Jack had put the first man in the brig for that, a couple days before. They were now coming up on Tortuga, and Gibbs had been ordered to have the Navy sailors look like pirates. The making of it was easy enough, but some of the sailors had refused to comply. They'd been sent to the brig as well.
The closer they sailed to Tortuga, the further from the Navy ships, the more nervous the sailors... and the more laid back the pirates. Rum had been brought out on deck, a habit prevented the two previous nights by the shadows of the Dauntless and the Contester, a habit which now helped the crew forget about their discontent. Young Matthews had brought up his fiddle and merry songs and dances were aplenty. 'Twas a good night, and it would get better once they reached shore. They'd made good time, almost three days, and it would be another hour or so before they did.
Gibbs came up on the last one to inspect, the young lad Jack seemed to always be eyeing so closely. The youth was not altogether repulsive, and he was a fairly good sailor. Seemed at home on the Pearl, he did, as if he were born on it. Gibbs could only wonder what Jack's interest in the boy was, especially since said boy could hardly be said to carry Jack in his heart. He went about everything with nothing but duty in his gestures, but the occasional heated look the captain's way betrayed him.
As it was, the lad had kept his original breeches, but that was all that remained of his Navy attire, along with the blue ribbon that tied his hair back. He'd passed on a dirty white shirt that was much too big for him, whose sleeves he'd rolled up. He was barefoot. The last couple of days' travel had dirtied him up royally, and if his teeth weren't quite damaged enough, nor his eyes yellow as they ought to be, it could be blamed on his young age. The lad could pass for a pirate, especially with the not really fading scar he'd got on his first day aboard, and the way those eyes shone sometimes.
"There's only one thing missin'," Jack commented, appearing at the side of the boy and eyeing him speculatively. "What d'ye think that could be, Gibbs?"
Hearing in the background the sounds of merriment, Gibbs had no doubt what his friend meant. "I'd say the smell of rum, Cap'n."
Jack clapped him on the shoulder with one of those grins of his, then draped an arm over the lad's shoulders. "What say you, Will, to learnin' why we scallywags hold so dear to rum? I'll be takin' ye with me to Tortuga, so you may get a whiff of what other pleasures drove us to choose this life."
Gibbs was surprised to see the lad break into a grin. He'd never seen him smile in those three days' time. It looked almost... dangerous, but it might just have been the shadows dancing on the lad's face from the lanterns. Jack didn't seem to notice anything amiss as the lad spoke, so Gibbs dismissed it as a flight of fancy. "I'd like that, sir."
Jack waved that aside as he led the lad towards the merriment. "I told ye, that sir business doesn't sit right with me. Ye call me Jack."
"All right... Jack."
Jack undraped his arm from the lad's shoulders and clapped his hands loudly to get the crew's attention. The violin stopped playing. "Now, Matthews, ye know what I'm after."
Gibbs could not help a chuckle as Matthews started playing and the crew half-heartedly groaned. Jack thrust a bottle of rum in the lad's hands and took one for himself. Everybody, groaning or not, joined in for the song, and soon enough the kid knew it, too.
Gibbs sang it on top of his lungs. "We're rascals, scoundrels, villains and knaves, drink up me hearties yo-ho! We're devils, we're black sheep, and really bad eggs, drink up me hearties yo-ho! Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate's life for me!"
In her cabin below deck, hearing the melody only faintly, Anamaria found herself humming along despite her better judgment.
***
The lieutenants had finally left and the two of them had gone back to James' cabin. Groves could see something had been troubling the commodore all through supper, but he had refrained from enquiring. James would tell him when, and if he wanted to. For what other purpose than sharing his discomfort would he have invited him aboard the Dauntless for supper tonight?
Groves sat down at the table and waited patiently for his superior to come out of his dark thoughts. The commodore walked to the window instead and looked out at the rolling sea with his hands clasped in his back. It was calmer tonight than it had been since they had set sails from Port Royal. Groves could hear the faint noises of the tars' merriment upstairs, knew that it would be the same on his ship, tonight when the Pearl's shadow was no longer haunting them by her very presence. A part of him longed to be on his ship with his officers, to take a stroll among the men even. He sometimes did that, despite James' advice that it might make the men think him too weak a commander.
A part of him longed to be on his ship, but he had his own share of dark thoughts to contend with that would not leave him be, no matter where he was. He watched James' back, the way the lamp's shadows fell on his shoulders and played across the white cloth. Already when they had both attended the Royal Academy, and probably far before that too, there had been something about James that set him apart from other men, something about his deep voice and the intensity which his eyes sometimes acquired, but something that could not quite be defined. A sobriety, a nobility and yet a storm of emotions only hinted at, maybe.
"You have tried hard to appear carefree tonight, Ted," James suddenly remarked, snatching Groves out of his thoughts.
The use of the nickname said as plainly as James could have that they were now between friends. Groves studied James' profile for a few seconds, taken in once again by the gravity that he could read there. "And you have made no such effort."
A faint smile graced James' lips, accompanied by eyebrows raised briefly in acknowledgement. "Yes."
The commodore took his cravat off methodically, then his wig, and finally unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Groves followed his example, thankful as always to be rid of the wig. James then went to his cabinet and came back to the table with a carafe of brandy and two glasses. He poured them both a drink. Groves took his glass with a nod of thanks and watched the alcohol swirl about as he slightly shook it.
He looked up at James. "What shall we drink to?"
Green eyes acquired an even deeper look of gravity. "I'm coming up short."
A wry twist of his lips, then Groves raised his glass slightly. "To the upcoming, timely end of Edward Low?"
James raised his glass in acknowledgement. They both sipped the brandy in silence. It was a good one, by Groves' standards; he wouldn't expect any less from James, after all. The first sip burned slightly as it went down. A few sips later and the only feeling was a warm glow coming from where the brandy settled, in the pit of his stomach. It predictably did nothing to ease Groves' spirits, only perhaps rendered everything seemingly clearer. Clearer, and sharper. The weight of the decision he had not yet taken, abstention a decision in itself, was slightly lifted, but seemed much more painful. Tonight more than ever, he battled with his decision not to tell James. Tonight more than ever, he had trouble making himself believe that he had no choice.
"We haven't had a single chance to talk these last few days."
Groves looked up at James, wondering how long he had remained lost in his thoughts. His friend's face betrayed nothing, his eyes studying Groves closely. "We did not take the time, James. It's quite different."
Again, a wry smile. "Indeed." Another long silence, a few more sips of brandy. "How much do you trust Sparrow?"
"Not at all," was the direct answer. Groves could not but admire the sharpness of the pirate's mind, but he was not blinded by it. Jack was a pirate. "Or rather, I trust him to do what will turn to his advantage."
James nodded sagely. "Is it really in his advantage to help us bring Low down?"
"It does seem to be the only reason he joined us," Groves offered. "My guess is, Low took something from him."
"Do you trust him to keep your men safe?"
Groves frowned, sitting up straighter in the chair. He would not have sent any of his men, least of all young Hunt, if James had not approved. But for the Commodore to send some of his own men had to mean that he trusted them to be safe, or so Groves had assumed. "Don't you, sir?"
James tutted sharply. "It's just you and me, Ted. And what I think is not the question."
Groves checked himself. "As long as he needs us, I think he can be trusted to take care of them. When he doesn't need us anymore... He doesn't strike me as the blood-thirsty kind, but I wouldn't say the same of his crew."
"As I thought," James agreed quietly.
So that was what had troubled him. Nothing more than this. Having his men at the mercy of Jack. Groves wished he had only that to worry about, but the added weight of his other concern pulled heavily at his conscience. He ought to tell James, he knew it. But the implications were more complex than ever. The consequences could be disastrous, for him if not handled with care; his career and his very life were at stake. And, undoubtedly, that of...
He ought to tell James. It was a certainty now, only questioned by a few ineffective, cowardly tendrils of doubt. Why had he not told him sooner? There seemed to have been no valid reasons, and shame and guilt whirled in his chest. He would tell him. Now. "I should go back aboard the Contester," was all that he managed.
James looked up at him, obviously snatched from his thoughts. Groves could not read the emotion behind the gaze directed at him. "It gives you no trouble, reconciling a pirate with a good man, does it?"
Groves put some order in his appearance and stood up. "No, sir. I've never had any trouble with shades of grey." He paused, the urge to tell his friend sharper than ever before. It took him a second to master it. "Thanks for the drink, James."
James smiled faintly and Groves took this as his dismissal. He was frowning all the way back to his ship. The sailors were indeed drinking and singing on the forecastle. They stopped abruptly when they noticed him, but he waved for them to carry on and went to stand in the shadows of the upper gun deck. He did not know how long he stood there, listening to the tars and doing his best not to think, until Jeremy came to join him.
Groves simply nodded at the tar, then went away to his cabin. Jeremy slipped in a few minutes later. He was a tall, burly sailor with a scar running down his neck to the middle of his heavily-muscled torso, expressive blue eyes set deeply in the middle of his suntanned, stony face. He was also fiercely loyal to his current captain. Loyal enough that Groves would trust him with his life.
And tonight, he would trust him to make him forget, if only temporarily, what he had not told James.
***
Jack had his arm draped across the lad's shoulders in a companionable fashion. Young William was laughing at something the pirate had just said – something about the commodore, wasn't it? Jack could hardly be expected to keep track of everything he said. Especially when William laughed that entirely distracting laugh of his, a shrill, joyful sound that was everything but manly.
Jack changed course, deciding that they could go and visit Marty for information later in the night. He was going to enjoy Will's surprising mood while he could. He made them head for Old Joe's Tavern instead and kept talking on the way, a rush of words that seemed to keep the lad entertained despite their probable lack of sense. Jack had had enough rum to trust his tongue to do a right business on its own, without the aid of his brain. William seemed to have had enough rum to be satisfied with this, twinkling blue eyes and constant quirk to his thin lips. There was something in those eyes...
They soon found themselves at a shadowed table in a corner of Old Joe's, a tankard of rum in each of their hands. From hands to lips, then back down on the table, the movement was natural, made whenever Jack paused in the story with a dry throat. Those eyes never left him, giving him the feeling he was depended upon.
"And this day will always be remembered as the day that they almost... hanged... Captain Jack Sparrow."
"Do I remind you of him?" And before Jack could ask: "Will Turner?"
There had been a thought almost formed, but it evaporated as Jack reflected on the answer. "Maybe... As it is, you show much more promise than old Will, you do. You drink rum, for one. And you get it." He raised his tankard. "Take what you can..."
Will knocked his own against it. "Give nothing back." The smirk on his lips almost awakened something else in Jack's muddled brain. He drank some more and the shadow of acknowledgement disappeared.
Jack leaned back against the wooden bench, running his fingers along the edge of the table. "You get the pirate thing, you do. He had a bit of a problem with that." He pricked one of his fingers on a shard and grimaced, then licked at the pooling blood. When he looked up at Will, the lad was staring at him with an odd expression on his face and Jack suppressed the rising smirk just in time. He drummed his fingers on the table in a rolling rhythm, surge and tide, surge and tide. "Tell me, Will, d'you plan on going back to Commodore James once we're done here?" He tilted his head to the side, watching the youth invitingly. "Or would you be rather willing to engage yourself in the underrated career choice that's piracy?"
William licked his lips as his eyes snapped back up to meet Jack's. "I wasn't serving the commodore."
"Right. Will you be going back to Sin then?"
"Why do you call him that?"
A secretive smile passed furtively across Jack's lips, dancing for one more second in his eyes. "Theodore Sinclair Groves. Sin... It suits him... don't you think?"
"It does."
The words rang harshly, condemningly. Jack frowned, then leaned forward on the table, as earnest a look as he could manage plastered on his face, in his eyes. "Did he try anything on you then?"
Will seemed to force himself to relax, eyes flickering to his drink for a split second. He gulped down some rum before answering, more softly. "He might have."
"And you..."
"He wasn't my type."
It rang almost like a challenge, defiance clear in the pale glinting eyes. The flicker of a nearby candle reflected in them, making them burn singularly. It was almost arrogance... something else yet again escaped Jack's mind only barely. He leaned back and enclosed the whole of the tavern with a sweeping arm. "Which one of those fine ladies would be your type, then, William? Tonight's on me."
Will studied one whore after the other and Jack wondered how badly he'd miscalculated, and whether he would indeed find himself paying for Will to have some good time. The blue eyes came to settle back on Jack. "None. None of them's my type."
Jack could not help it. "You're not a eunuch, are ye?" He dismissed it immediately with a wave of his hand. "No, that was the other Will." He finished his tankard and rose, if a bit precariously. He missed the roll of Pearl beneath him. "Time to go information a-seeking. Will you care to grace me old self with your good company?"
The eyes did not waver as he answered, "Aye."
***
Groves could feel Jeremy's befuddled gaze on him as he got dressed. Poor Jerry. Groves had no doubt as to the tar's loyalty, but they were not in the habit of talking. About anything. Sometimes the mood was so that streams of profane words tumbled from their lips, but tonight there had not even been that. Tonight's silence had been filled with grunts and moans, with the sound of the sailors' merry-making in the background. Jeremy was there when Groves needed him, and usually he was more than enough to sate the officer. Tonight, however, was quite different.
"Sir?"
Groves turned around as he buttoned up his overcoat. Jeremy had sat up on the edge of the cot and was looking at him questioningly. The captain smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, Jerry. There's some business I need to attend to with the commodore."
Something flashed across Jeremy's features, a hint of something Groves could not quite fathom, or simply did not have the energy to try. The jack-tar picked up his clothes and got dressed quickly as Groves busied himself with fixing the hated wig on his head. He then snatched his hat. Jeremy was by the door, fingers curled around the handle. Throat tight, Groves could do nothing but nod at him with another faint smile that felt fake to the core of his being.
Jeremy held his gaze a moment longer, then opened the door and strode out. There was an underlying current of pain coursing through Groves' chest, but he took no heed of it as he headed for the cockboat. The swain was not yet asleep and the small boat was quickly put to the water.
His decision taken, Groves felt surprisingly light-headed, despite the prospect of facing James' wrath. Yes, he had deferred too long. James ought to know about young William Hunt.
-- End Chapter Three
firesignwriter started another PotC fic which promises to be excellent, in which Norrington and a back-from-the-dead Barbossa ally to go after Jack. I'm quite excited about where she will take it. And she's got Barbossa's voice down just as well as any of the other characters. A Flight of Fancy
Chapter Three: Run out the guns
"Bloody ruddy blazin' bleedin' Navy," Jack grumbled for what seemed like the hundredth time. Probably was, too.
He sent a withering glare towards the Contester and the Dauntless. They had been gone from Port Royal for a few hours now and were on their way to Tortuga. Jack's return to Port Royal had been everything he could have hoped for, until thirty minutes from their departure. He had got his Act of Grace signed by that funny little man that happened to be governor and father to the lovely Elizabeth; he had paid his regards to Will's ass and had had his apologies accepted regarding that red hot metal rod accident, as far as he was able to make out what the animal was saying with those overly sad eyes of his; he had got himself a free new sword that belonged at his hip and was a proof of how much young Will belonged to this trade; he had rebuked lovely Elizabeth's desperate plea for him to take them on as a honeymoon, much to Will's relief; and finally, he had had Will pay him many a drink in gratitude.
Then there had been that dreadful business of being awoken by two red-coats in the tavern - the very same ones to whom he had told the cannibal tribe version of his escape from the island, he recalled with a fond grin, then suppressed it as he remembered why he was in a foul mood. Those brave two soldiers had awoken him from a well-deserved sleep and left him no time to rouse any of his crew. Most of them had already regained the Pearl, but not enough to set sail as the good commodore James wanted, or so he would have them think. Then Sin had to have the worst idea possible and caught Jack at his own game, suggesting they lent him men. Lent him men? He was a bloody pirate! He didn't take on Navy tars.
Except when he was passing as a privateer to get his hands on Low, of course. His reluctance had seemed to greatly amuse bloody Norrington, too.
Ah, well. At least they were heading for Tortuga. The commodore seemed to have enough sense to want to use Jack to find information about where the Fortune made berth. Jack had refrained from pointing out how unlikely it was that he would find anything. There was no point reminding the commodore that Jack turning privateer would profit no one but Jack himself, and there was always a slight chance that he could learn something in Tortuga. Still... bloody ruddy blazin' bleedin' Navy.
Whatever the blazes had possessed Jack into cooking up this plan? It had seemed brilliant at the time. Enlist the Navy's help. Make his task all the easier. Except Norrington was smarter than Jack had given him credit for; he was the sort of man Jack could have appreciated, if he had not been so very Navy. He was also the sort of man Jack should try to avoid, and not just because of his wish to see all pirates hanged, but because he was the sort of man that was perilous to play.
But then, Captain Jack Sparrow loved himself a good challenge.
There was a short scuffle on the main deck. Jack was thankful that Gibbs stepped in and put good order to it. Having Navy sailors on board was hard on all the crew. Bloody ruddy blazin' bleedin' Navy. Most of the men simply hated them for being Navy, the very same Navy that would see them all hanged. A few others, like Gibbs, did not so much hate them as resented the memories their presence aboard brought forth, memories of a path not taken. Jack understood this all too well. His quartermaster had seemed to be going through the motions ever since the sailors had stepped aboard, a constant frown on his worn features and a dull ache reflected in his eyes.
Bloody ruddy blazin' bleedin' Navy.
Jack glanced at his compass – the new one, that did point North – and slightly corrected the course. The brief respite in her discontent Pearl had offered him the previous day was well over, and had been ever since the first foreign Navy feet had treaded her planks. She was uneasy with them, and she characteristically tried to hide her uneasiness under a façade of anger.
"It's only momentary, love," he pleaded yet again, stroking her wheel.
Well. It was time to go pay a visit to the other fuming female he had to deal with. Jack would have likely passed up on that, but if Anamaria thought he forgot her, she was likely to disregard the bit of sense she did possess and stride up on deck to yell at him about it. Or, most likely, slap him soundly a few times.
"Bart, come take her over."
Leaving the shaggy-haired pirate to the wheel, Jack purposefully made his way down the stairs to the main deck. Right as he walked by, another scuffle erupted. Jack caught his own man's wrist before he could strike a second time with the dagger. He didn't know that one well, he had been picked up in Tortuga only a few days before. "I don't want any fights on my ship." And he pushed the man to the deck floor.
Not sparing a glance at his man, Jack turned to the Navy sailor that had been assaulted. Ah, William. The youth sported a shallow cut across his right cheekbone. With a bit of luck, it'd give him a slight scar to sport. William's usually indifferent mask had slipped, and there was a spark of something Jack could not quite name in those sharp blue eyes. The kid would take some watching after.
"Shiver me timbers!" Mr Cotton's parrot cried out, snapping Jack out of it.
"Take that one to the brig," he ordered with a casual nod to the man he had knocked to the floor. "And let that be a warning for all o' ye. I'll take no fights on my ship. Now back ter work!"
All hands rushed back to their tasks. Jack held William's gaze for one more second, then turned to head for Anamaria's cabin. Gibbs barked out a few orders then fell in stride with him.
"The men aren't happy with this, Jack."
Jack waited until they were in a deserted corridor to turn to his quartermaster. "Do you think I don't know that?" He leaned a hand on a wall of the Pearl, feeling uncharacteristically off his game. Things were bearing down on him all of a sudden. "We'll get Low. I sworn that to meself, and to Pearl. Any means to an end."
"Aye." Gibbs' face was grave, serious eyes searching for something in Jack's face. The briefest wonder, would he find it?
Jack's voice dropped to a whisper, the admission of a wound that would never quite close. "They're not thinking o' mutinying, are they?"
Gibbs hurried to shake his head. "'Course not, Jack. Most men are fierce loyal ter ye. I'm only sayin', the sooner this be all done with, the better fer us all."
Jack straightened, resting his hand on the pommel of his new sword. "I don't need you to tell me that." Something on the tip of his tongue, words that would not yet catch form, the surge of some nameless sensation in his chest, all deftly quelled. "I'll be with me first mate, 'ey?"
"Ah. Good luck with that."
Jack nodded, trademark smirk tugging at his lips, then turned and left for the cabin Anamaria was confined to. He did not bother to knock and found her sharpening her cutlass. She hardly spared him a glance as he closed the door behind himself. Something with that picture was just right. Pearl was rolling beneath his feet, angry and yet so very his; a beam of sunlight fell on the cot of the small cabin; Anamaria was bent over her cutlass at the table, sharpening stone and blade regularly meeting in a hissing noise.
"How is the crew?"
Jack did not bother to lie. "Restless an' eager for a fight."
"At least they got more 'n eight feet to stretch their legs."
Jack leaned a hand on the table with a pensive frown. It had just been an illusion, there was nothing right about any of this. "Bein' up there's just as much of a prison, Anamaria."
She raised surprised eyes at him, dropping her usual mask of defiance. The mask she had to wear to live the life of a pirate; Jack was puzzled at the restrictions her life style brought upon her. But if he were honest, he had the same restrictions to contend with. The look of plain surprise on her face was because she was not used to hear sincerity from his lips. Things were bearing down on him.
"I'll make this as quick as I can."
She held his gaze for a moment, brown meeting brown in an unusually bare way. Then she nodded. Once. Sharply. "You do that, Jack."
"Aye, I do that." He slipped back into his usual persona and grinned at her. "If you're well and good here, I'll –"
"I could use some rum," she cut in imperiously, checking the sharpness of her blade.
Jack stopped mid-sentence, expressive hands hanging in the air. His shoulders sagged a little. "Aye. So could I."
***
The nervousness of the Navy tars had gone up a notch ever since the Dauntless and the Contester had fallen behind and the Navy ensign had been lowered. Thankfully, the fights had been less frequent since Jack had put the first man in the brig for that, a couple days before. They were now coming up on Tortuga, and Gibbs had been ordered to have the Navy sailors look like pirates. The making of it was easy enough, but some of the sailors had refused to comply. They'd been sent to the brig as well.
The closer they sailed to Tortuga, the further from the Navy ships, the more nervous the sailors... and the more laid back the pirates. Rum had been brought out on deck, a habit prevented the two previous nights by the shadows of the Dauntless and the Contester, a habit which now helped the crew forget about their discontent. Young Matthews had brought up his fiddle and merry songs and dances were aplenty. 'Twas a good night, and it would get better once they reached shore. They'd made good time, almost three days, and it would be another hour or so before they did.
Gibbs came up on the last one to inspect, the young lad Jack seemed to always be eyeing so closely. The youth was not altogether repulsive, and he was a fairly good sailor. Seemed at home on the Pearl, he did, as if he were born on it. Gibbs could only wonder what Jack's interest in the boy was, especially since said boy could hardly be said to carry Jack in his heart. He went about everything with nothing but duty in his gestures, but the occasional heated look the captain's way betrayed him.
As it was, the lad had kept his original breeches, but that was all that remained of his Navy attire, along with the blue ribbon that tied his hair back. He'd passed on a dirty white shirt that was much too big for him, whose sleeves he'd rolled up. He was barefoot. The last couple of days' travel had dirtied him up royally, and if his teeth weren't quite damaged enough, nor his eyes yellow as they ought to be, it could be blamed on his young age. The lad could pass for a pirate, especially with the not really fading scar he'd got on his first day aboard, and the way those eyes shone sometimes.
"There's only one thing missin'," Jack commented, appearing at the side of the boy and eyeing him speculatively. "What d'ye think that could be, Gibbs?"
Hearing in the background the sounds of merriment, Gibbs had no doubt what his friend meant. "I'd say the smell of rum, Cap'n."
Jack clapped him on the shoulder with one of those grins of his, then draped an arm over the lad's shoulders. "What say you, Will, to learnin' why we scallywags hold so dear to rum? I'll be takin' ye with me to Tortuga, so you may get a whiff of what other pleasures drove us to choose this life."
Gibbs was surprised to see the lad break into a grin. He'd never seen him smile in those three days' time. It looked almost... dangerous, but it might just have been the shadows dancing on the lad's face from the lanterns. Jack didn't seem to notice anything amiss as the lad spoke, so Gibbs dismissed it as a flight of fancy. "I'd like that, sir."
Jack waved that aside as he led the lad towards the merriment. "I told ye, that sir business doesn't sit right with me. Ye call me Jack."
"All right... Jack."
Jack undraped his arm from the lad's shoulders and clapped his hands loudly to get the crew's attention. The violin stopped playing. "Now, Matthews, ye know what I'm after."
Gibbs could not help a chuckle as Matthews started playing and the crew half-heartedly groaned. Jack thrust a bottle of rum in the lad's hands and took one for himself. Everybody, groaning or not, joined in for the song, and soon enough the kid knew it, too.
Gibbs sang it on top of his lungs. "We're rascals, scoundrels, villains and knaves, drink up me hearties yo-ho! We're devils, we're black sheep, and really bad eggs, drink up me hearties yo-ho! Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate's life for me!"
In her cabin below deck, hearing the melody only faintly, Anamaria found herself humming along despite her better judgment.
***
The lieutenants had finally left and the two of them had gone back to James' cabin. Groves could see something had been troubling the commodore all through supper, but he had refrained from enquiring. James would tell him when, and if he wanted to. For what other purpose than sharing his discomfort would he have invited him aboard the Dauntless for supper tonight?
Groves sat down at the table and waited patiently for his superior to come out of his dark thoughts. The commodore walked to the window instead and looked out at the rolling sea with his hands clasped in his back. It was calmer tonight than it had been since they had set sails from Port Royal. Groves could hear the faint noises of the tars' merriment upstairs, knew that it would be the same on his ship, tonight when the Pearl's shadow was no longer haunting them by her very presence. A part of him longed to be on his ship with his officers, to take a stroll among the men even. He sometimes did that, despite James' advice that it might make the men think him too weak a commander.
A part of him longed to be on his ship, but he had his own share of dark thoughts to contend with that would not leave him be, no matter where he was. He watched James' back, the way the lamp's shadows fell on his shoulders and played across the white cloth. Already when they had both attended the Royal Academy, and probably far before that too, there had been something about James that set him apart from other men, something about his deep voice and the intensity which his eyes sometimes acquired, but something that could not quite be defined. A sobriety, a nobility and yet a storm of emotions only hinted at, maybe.
"You have tried hard to appear carefree tonight, Ted," James suddenly remarked, snatching Groves out of his thoughts.
The use of the nickname said as plainly as James could have that they were now between friends. Groves studied James' profile for a few seconds, taken in once again by the gravity that he could read there. "And you have made no such effort."
A faint smile graced James' lips, accompanied by eyebrows raised briefly in acknowledgement. "Yes."
The commodore took his cravat off methodically, then his wig, and finally unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Groves followed his example, thankful as always to be rid of the wig. James then went to his cabinet and came back to the table with a carafe of brandy and two glasses. He poured them both a drink. Groves took his glass with a nod of thanks and watched the alcohol swirl about as he slightly shook it.
He looked up at James. "What shall we drink to?"
Green eyes acquired an even deeper look of gravity. "I'm coming up short."
A wry twist of his lips, then Groves raised his glass slightly. "To the upcoming, timely end of Edward Low?"
James raised his glass in acknowledgement. They both sipped the brandy in silence. It was a good one, by Groves' standards; he wouldn't expect any less from James, after all. The first sip burned slightly as it went down. A few sips later and the only feeling was a warm glow coming from where the brandy settled, in the pit of his stomach. It predictably did nothing to ease Groves' spirits, only perhaps rendered everything seemingly clearer. Clearer, and sharper. The weight of the decision he had not yet taken, abstention a decision in itself, was slightly lifted, but seemed much more painful. Tonight more than ever, he battled with his decision not to tell James. Tonight more than ever, he had trouble making himself believe that he had no choice.
"We haven't had a single chance to talk these last few days."
Groves looked up at James, wondering how long he had remained lost in his thoughts. His friend's face betrayed nothing, his eyes studying Groves closely. "We did not take the time, James. It's quite different."
Again, a wry smile. "Indeed." Another long silence, a few more sips of brandy. "How much do you trust Sparrow?"
"Not at all," was the direct answer. Groves could not but admire the sharpness of the pirate's mind, but he was not blinded by it. Jack was a pirate. "Or rather, I trust him to do what will turn to his advantage."
James nodded sagely. "Is it really in his advantage to help us bring Low down?"
"It does seem to be the only reason he joined us," Groves offered. "My guess is, Low took something from him."
"Do you trust him to keep your men safe?"
Groves frowned, sitting up straighter in the chair. He would not have sent any of his men, least of all young Hunt, if James had not approved. But for the Commodore to send some of his own men had to mean that he trusted them to be safe, or so Groves had assumed. "Don't you, sir?"
James tutted sharply. "It's just you and me, Ted. And what I think is not the question."
Groves checked himself. "As long as he needs us, I think he can be trusted to take care of them. When he doesn't need us anymore... He doesn't strike me as the blood-thirsty kind, but I wouldn't say the same of his crew."
"As I thought," James agreed quietly.
So that was what had troubled him. Nothing more than this. Having his men at the mercy of Jack. Groves wished he had only that to worry about, but the added weight of his other concern pulled heavily at his conscience. He ought to tell James, he knew it. But the implications were more complex than ever. The consequences could be disastrous, for him if not handled with care; his career and his very life were at stake. And, undoubtedly, that of...
He ought to tell James. It was a certainty now, only questioned by a few ineffective, cowardly tendrils of doubt. Why had he not told him sooner? There seemed to have been no valid reasons, and shame and guilt whirled in his chest. He would tell him. Now. "I should go back aboard the Contester," was all that he managed.
James looked up at him, obviously snatched from his thoughts. Groves could not read the emotion behind the gaze directed at him. "It gives you no trouble, reconciling a pirate with a good man, does it?"
Groves put some order in his appearance and stood up. "No, sir. I've never had any trouble with shades of grey." He paused, the urge to tell his friend sharper than ever before. It took him a second to master it. "Thanks for the drink, James."
James smiled faintly and Groves took this as his dismissal. He was frowning all the way back to his ship. The sailors were indeed drinking and singing on the forecastle. They stopped abruptly when they noticed him, but he waved for them to carry on and went to stand in the shadows of the upper gun deck. He did not know how long he stood there, listening to the tars and doing his best not to think, until Jeremy came to join him.
Groves simply nodded at the tar, then went away to his cabin. Jeremy slipped in a few minutes later. He was a tall, burly sailor with a scar running down his neck to the middle of his heavily-muscled torso, expressive blue eyes set deeply in the middle of his suntanned, stony face. He was also fiercely loyal to his current captain. Loyal enough that Groves would trust him with his life.
And tonight, he would trust him to make him forget, if only temporarily, what he had not told James.
***
Jack had his arm draped across the lad's shoulders in a companionable fashion. Young William was laughing at something the pirate had just said – something about the commodore, wasn't it? Jack could hardly be expected to keep track of everything he said. Especially when William laughed that entirely distracting laugh of his, a shrill, joyful sound that was everything but manly.
Jack changed course, deciding that they could go and visit Marty for information later in the night. He was going to enjoy Will's surprising mood while he could. He made them head for Old Joe's Tavern instead and kept talking on the way, a rush of words that seemed to keep the lad entertained despite their probable lack of sense. Jack had had enough rum to trust his tongue to do a right business on its own, without the aid of his brain. William seemed to have had enough rum to be satisfied with this, twinkling blue eyes and constant quirk to his thin lips. There was something in those eyes...
They soon found themselves at a shadowed table in a corner of Old Joe's, a tankard of rum in each of their hands. From hands to lips, then back down on the table, the movement was natural, made whenever Jack paused in the story with a dry throat. Those eyes never left him, giving him the feeling he was depended upon.
"And this day will always be remembered as the day that they almost... hanged... Captain Jack Sparrow."
"Do I remind you of him?" And before Jack could ask: "Will Turner?"
There had been a thought almost formed, but it evaporated as Jack reflected on the answer. "Maybe... As it is, you show much more promise than old Will, you do. You drink rum, for one. And you get it." He raised his tankard. "Take what you can..."
Will knocked his own against it. "Give nothing back." The smirk on his lips almost awakened something else in Jack's muddled brain. He drank some more and the shadow of acknowledgement disappeared.
Jack leaned back against the wooden bench, running his fingers along the edge of the table. "You get the pirate thing, you do. He had a bit of a problem with that." He pricked one of his fingers on a shard and grimaced, then licked at the pooling blood. When he looked up at Will, the lad was staring at him with an odd expression on his face and Jack suppressed the rising smirk just in time. He drummed his fingers on the table in a rolling rhythm, surge and tide, surge and tide. "Tell me, Will, d'you plan on going back to Commodore James once we're done here?" He tilted his head to the side, watching the youth invitingly. "Or would you be rather willing to engage yourself in the underrated career choice that's piracy?"
William licked his lips as his eyes snapped back up to meet Jack's. "I wasn't serving the commodore."
"Right. Will you be going back to Sin then?"
"Why do you call him that?"
A secretive smile passed furtively across Jack's lips, dancing for one more second in his eyes. "Theodore Sinclair Groves. Sin... It suits him... don't you think?"
"It does."
The words rang harshly, condemningly. Jack frowned, then leaned forward on the table, as earnest a look as he could manage plastered on his face, in his eyes. "Did he try anything on you then?"
Will seemed to force himself to relax, eyes flickering to his drink for a split second. He gulped down some rum before answering, more softly. "He might have."
"And you..."
"He wasn't my type."
It rang almost like a challenge, defiance clear in the pale glinting eyes. The flicker of a nearby candle reflected in them, making them burn singularly. It was almost arrogance... something else yet again escaped Jack's mind only barely. He leaned back and enclosed the whole of the tavern with a sweeping arm. "Which one of those fine ladies would be your type, then, William? Tonight's on me."
Will studied one whore after the other and Jack wondered how badly he'd miscalculated, and whether he would indeed find himself paying for Will to have some good time. The blue eyes came to settle back on Jack. "None. None of them's my type."
Jack could not help it. "You're not a eunuch, are ye?" He dismissed it immediately with a wave of his hand. "No, that was the other Will." He finished his tankard and rose, if a bit precariously. He missed the roll of Pearl beneath him. "Time to go information a-seeking. Will you care to grace me old self with your good company?"
The eyes did not waver as he answered, "Aye."
***
Groves could feel Jeremy's befuddled gaze on him as he got dressed. Poor Jerry. Groves had no doubt as to the tar's loyalty, but they were not in the habit of talking. About anything. Sometimes the mood was so that streams of profane words tumbled from their lips, but tonight there had not even been that. Tonight's silence had been filled with grunts and moans, with the sound of the sailors' merry-making in the background. Jeremy was there when Groves needed him, and usually he was more than enough to sate the officer. Tonight, however, was quite different.
"Sir?"
Groves turned around as he buttoned up his overcoat. Jeremy had sat up on the edge of the cot and was looking at him questioningly. The captain smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, Jerry. There's some business I need to attend to with the commodore."
Something flashed across Jeremy's features, a hint of something Groves could not quite fathom, or simply did not have the energy to try. The jack-tar picked up his clothes and got dressed quickly as Groves busied himself with fixing the hated wig on his head. He then snatched his hat. Jeremy was by the door, fingers curled around the handle. Throat tight, Groves could do nothing but nod at him with another faint smile that felt fake to the core of his being.
Jeremy held his gaze a moment longer, then opened the door and strode out. There was an underlying current of pain coursing through Groves' chest, but he took no heed of it as he headed for the cockboat. The swain was not yet asleep and the small boat was quickly put to the water.
His decision taken, Groves felt surprisingly light-headed, despite the prospect of facing James' wrath. Yes, he had deferred too long. James ought to know about young William Hunt.
-- End Chapter Three