POTC fic: "Near-Death Becomes Her" (part 3/3)
Title: "Near-Death Becomes Her" (part 3 of 3)
Rating: R for "rowdy" (language and humor, that is)
All other summaries and disclaimers may be found in Part 1. Part 2 can be found here.
In addition to her new duties helping Tom, the captain occasionally imposed on Prissy to take a turn with other small tasks - cooking her own food, polishing fixtures, and even helping rig repaired sails up on the lines. This last she did cautiously and more reluctantly than other jobs, since she didn’t like being too high up, but it did serve to get her out in the fresh air without stabbing her fingers on the head of a needle all the time.
Alas, washing and mending sails was an omnipresent chore - it seemed even if the wood and the fixtures of the ship were impervious to rot and destruction, the sails were still simple canvas - and as such she was still assigned a go at that at least once a week. The worn shreds of canvas that couldn’t be salvaged were cleaned and stored for bandaging of shipwreck survivors. All this work taxed Prissy heavily, but after two weeks, her arms and back hurt less, and she came to a grudging enjoyment of even the sewing.
One afternoon, she was washing small swaths of ripped canvas from the night before, when Turner and his undead crew had collected the souls and very few survivors of a sea battle. Privateers and Navy - not under the same flag, obviously - had come to blows on what they thought were mildly turbulent waters. It turned into a squall larger than either captain had expected, and nearly all those who hadn’t been killed by an enemy were finished off by Calypso.
Turner’s policy appeared to be letting the two Navymen and three Spanish buccaneers roam as freely as he did the two women. This made Prissy uneasy - not because she felt threatened, for she’d had plenty of hard experience planting her foot in some man’s knee or her ham-fist in his face, but because of the wary way they all kept eyeing each other. The tension mounted; she worked quickly, wanting to get below to the cannon, which seemed now less likely to go off than any of these five.
She didn’t know what happened; she only heard shouts in a strange language, English curses, and the physical THWAP of bodies slamming into each other. Clutching wet canvas, she straightened and looked back over her shoulder, seeing the tangle of fisticuffs - and beyond that, the captain releasing the wheel and coming around the helm, shaking his head. She intended to keep an eye on them until Turner broke up the fight, since they were only a few feet away.
And then she saw the nearest Spaniard pull a dagger from the inside of his boot, palming it for an upward stab. Without consciously planning it, and keeping an eye on the knife, Prissy pulled the ends of her canvas taut, twirled it out to shake off some water, and spun sideways, releasing one end and letting fly. The free end of the heavy, damp material snapped at the pirate’s wrist, causing him to drop the dagger.
Then he looked up, confusion in his eyes - which turned to murder when he spotted his assailant. He lunged.
Prissy had no time to duck or cower. On instinct, she gritted her teeth and lowered her head as he came within range, head-butting him in the chest. The skinny Spaniard staggered a bit, and she brought the strip up to catch him at the throat, throwing her body weight into it. He fell back, Prissy on top of him, pressing the ends of the canvas into the deck to pin him in a chokehold. His fingers clawed at her forearms, ragged, dirty nails leaving marks, but she held firm - at least until a boot planted lightly over the canvas on his neck. “Priscilla, get up!” a voice barked.
Startled, she sat back on her heels to protest. Captain Turner stood over them, flicking his head a couple of times to indicate she should rise. She clambered to her feet and stepped back, and he removed his boot from the cutthroat, leaning over to grab the front of his shirt and haul him up. He said something in rapid Spanish to the pirate, who blinked in apparent anger - at that, Turner tightened his one-handed grip and pulled the fellow closer, lowering his voice. Whatever he said made the man deflate - still defiant, but no longer carrying the tension of imminent attack.
After Turner had crew escort all five survivors to the brig, he leaned over and picked up the dagger, examining the handle. “Jade,” he remarked, flipping it to study the slender blade. “Not badly made.”
He looked to Prissy, who was still catching her breath. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone launch an offensive with laundry.” He paused, obviously thinking. “Except for that time Gibbs told me that Jack shoved his sweaty headscarf into the new Royal Navy commodore’s mouth. That was just beyond cruelty.” He shook his head. “Where did you come up with that?”
She looked down at her hands. “Right here, I s’pose. Was the only thing I had handy.”
“Ah.” He flipped the dagger again, presenting the jade grip. “We’ll have to remedy that.” At her surprise, he pressed it into her hand. “As my wife once observed, no woman should be without a defense at least equal to the minimum danger she is likely to face with the company she keeps.”
“Eh?” It was more the gift of such an obviously expensive item than the words confusing her.
“You keep company with pirates, you had better be prepared to fight like one.” He smiled. “It’s a lot larger than a mending needle, but I’m sure with Gunner Spar’s help you’ll figure out how to use it soon enough.”
*****
It was a week to the day later, mid-morning, that the lookout sighted a ship. Normally, the Dutchman would have descended out of sight, but the lookout called “BLACK SAILS!” and Turner made no move to hide his vessel. Prissy, who had been sitting on a barrel carefully sharpening the dagger with a little whetstone just as Tom had instructed, looked up every so often to squint at the horizon. The ships moved closer together, and it wasn’t long before she saw same ship she’d spotted on sketched handbills when she was still in Tortuga. “It’s the Black Pearl,” she murmured in recognition, sliding off the barrel and sliding her stone and dagger inside her stays.
When it drew alongside the Dutchman, its crew hauled out two long planks and extended them, side-by-side to the other ship. Nobody came forth for a while, and then a press of pirates who’d been lollygagging to stare at the Ship of Death and its captain began parting. “Shoo!” she heard faintly. “Step aside, you bunch of yellow mama’s boys. Before I shoot you in the backs!”
That parted the rest of the group quickly enough, and a familiar figure appeared at the rail of the Pearl, doffing his hat. “Why, William, it’s been a while!” he declared, tugging the tricorn back over his mass of headscarf and tumbling black hair. “Lose your heading and need me expert help, yet again?”
Captain Turner snorted in a manner she hadn’t heard from him before, arms crossed as he stood at his own rail. “The only place that bloody compass of yours could lead me would be a distillery or a brothel.”
Jack Sparrow grinned. “Or maybe a particular huge-ish vessel of some marginal magnificence.”
“Some?”
Sparrow showed teeth in obvious delight at that. “Might I come aboard your vessel of some marginal magnificence, Captain?”
Turner rolled his eyes and laughed. “Try not to fall off the plank, Jack.”
With the grace of a longtime sailor, Sparrow hopped up on the boards and strolled across with a noticeable sway, stepping smoothly off onto the Dutchman’s deck near Turner. The two men regarded each other for a few seconds, then greeted with a two-handed handshake and a sturdy embrace. When they broke apart, Sparrow gave Turner’s shoulder one last hearty slap and looked around. “Still a regular dancehall around here,” he remarked, eyes roving until they settled in Prissy’s direction. “Ah, but I see you’ve stocked th’ lake since I was last aboard, eh?”
The captain followed as Sparrow drew closer. She recognized the masculine gleam in his eye, but didn’t quite follow why it was directed at her. Didn’t his face still hurt from when they’d last met? “Jack, this is Priscilla,” Turner was saying, gesturing toward her.
“Charmed, I assure you.” The pirate captain took her hand and kissed the top, lingering to let his moustache tickle the skin in an obvious seduction, while Prissy tamped down the urge to raise her eyebrows. Obviously he’d forgotten their earlier encounter - then again, it had been quite a number of years. “Where did you find this agreeable creature, William?”
“Shipwreck. She’s part of the survivors I have bound for land this time.”
“Ah.” Sparrow gestured with his free hand, in a roll out in front of him. “Neither dead nor dying, eh?” He leered then, and she belatedly realized her dresses and stays had apparently been fitting somewhat looser for a reason since she’d first been hauled aboard; perhaps she cut a more pleasing figure now. That, and … well, she knew to a sailor who’s been long at sea, most any breathing female seems agreeable.
The look made her uncomfortable. Not only was she not of a mood, she’d seen this one chase too many a fine backside just in Tortuga, in addition to his reputation elsewhere. “Can I have my hand back?” she asked, trying to offer a friendly smile.
He clucked his tongue. “Now, Cilla, you’re not that eager t’ cast off Captain Jack Sparrow, are you?”
She set her teeth but tried not to lose the smile, in an effort to be more ladylike. She hated that name. Still, Griselde had been trying to help her see the importance of being more feminine, to ease her way through the world a bit better. “I … just have some work to do, Captain, Sir,” she lied, trying to pull her hand away.
He winked, but didn’t let go. “Not even a tumble, then?”
Upon reflection as she nursed her sore hand a few minutes later, wrapped in a wet strip of threadbare canvas, she realized Sparrow had posed no real threat. He’d had an audience, she was a woman, and he’d been preening his cock’s feathers for all and sundry. Unfortunately for him, she was no hen, and had a bad habit of hitting first and not asking any questions.
Turner had given Sparrow a hand up off his ass. “I think you deserved that one,” he observed mildly, steadying the pirate’s elbow as he rubbed his reddened cheek and moved his jaw around to test its motion.
Sparrow had stared at her in hurt shock, then brief anger - and finally, wide-eyed recognition. ”You! he exclaimed. “Woman, do you have to try to knock teeth loose ever’ time we meet?”
“Jack-” Captain Turner tried to say.
“I didn’t do anything this time; I sure as hell didn’ do anything last time!”
“You might’ve done something this time,” Turner argued. Sparrow pouted, still rubbing his jaw. “Come on, Jack.” The younger captain tugged at the pirate’s sleeve. “Let’s go look at that, put something cool on it before it swells.”
*****
“You socked a notorious pirate captain in the jaw again, and he just walked off?”
Prissy considered Griselde’s whispered question as they sat off to the side watching the two crews talk, sing, drink, and laugh later that evening. “There’s the small matter of him sort of deservin’ it,” she pointed out.
Griselde laughed. “Bill said he used to sail with Jack Sparrow, and that scoundrel was getting slapped in all the finer ports the world over before he even had a beard. By women and men - if you take his meaning.” She waggled her slender eyebrows.
“They were all tired of him tryin’ to lure away their bedmates?” she archly replied.
Before Griselde could answer, the two women were interrupted by the older man who’d accompanied Jack aboard earlier. His salty hair and thick muttonchops put Prissy in mind of an avuncular badger, and the set of his jaw helped further. “Ask your pardon, ladies,” he began, “but young Turner mentioned th’ two of you might be needing a lift to land?”
“Your captain doesn’t mind t’ do that?”
“Well …” The fellow smiled, and his eyes rolled away a couple of times as he obviously reached for a diplomatic response. “Let’s just say Captain Sparrow understands the value of stayin’ on the good side of the master of the Flying Dutchman.”
Prissy nodded; practicality, she understood. “So he’s after Captain Turner’s boons.”
The man coughed and whacked himself in the chest. “Aye,” he managed. “We’ll be leaving the Dutchman in two days, and just a short voyage to the nearest port, where you’ll be safe and able to find passage further on a more … respectable, vessel. One what’ll carry women regularly.” He inclined his head, murmured, “Ladies,” and seemed happy to be off.
They sat in silence for a while, until finally, Griselde spoke up. “Time to be leaving, I suppose.”
“I guess so,” Prissy answered without enthusiasm. Here in the company of death, life had been about the best she’d ever experienced it.
Despite the celebrations, her somber mood held through the next two days. She had a small bundle of old clothes Captain Turner had provided, as well as the knife and a small sheath he’d crafted for it, that she stood holding, next to Griselde the morning Quartermaster Gibbs had advised they would set sail. Neither spoke, though Griselde sniffled intermittently into a scarf pressed to her nose. Prissy guessed she was fonder of Bill than she’d let on, but said nothing.
Men from Sparrow’s crew moved between the two ships, carrying supplies - barrels of water and crates of produce for the Dutchman’s hold and its occasional survivors, and a large chest up and across the planks to the Black Pearl, its clinking, shifting contents easy enough to guess. The two captains stood off to the side talking; she knew when they were discussing her, for Sparrow’s expression contracted as if sucked in by lemon juice, glaring at her. Turner tapped his arm and must’ve said something conciliatory, for Sparrow stopped just short of making the sign of the cross in her direction and gave his attention back to the other man.
“I suppose we’d best be gettin’,” Prissy finally said. Griselde, who she absently noticed had no bundle to carry, nodded.
As they moved toward the planks, Captain Turner met them. “So eager to be off, then?” he asked, the small wrinkles around his eyes giving lightness to the words.
Prissy looked around at the people … spirits? … she’d come to know over the past few weeks. “Can’t stay here forever, can I?”
“I don’t believe you’d want to.” He transferred his attention to Griselde, a weight settling into that dark-eyed gaze. Prissy didn’t understand, but something obviously passed between them - and Griselde’s eyes widened. She put a hand to her mouth and took a step back.
As if summoned, Bill appeared from the edge of Prissy’s vision, an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “There,” he said, patting her shoulder. “You know this place, aye? Not so bad as all that, m’ girl.”
It took a moment, but Prissy finally understood. She nearly whirled on Turner. “She’s dead? How- when?”
“Shortly after you two came aboard.” His voice was quiet, punctuated by Griselde’s somewhat louder sniffling now. “She-” He shifted his glance to the woman he was talking about and changed his address. “You, had a badly infected arm. It spread throughout your body; nothing could be done for it by the time you made it here.”
Prissy touched her throat. “Am I dead, too?”
He shook his head. “You are quite healthy and likely to stay so for a long number of years …” Turner trailed off, leaning closer. “Possibly unless you hit Jack a third time,” he finished, sotto voce.
The gravel-voiced devil himself interrupted. “William, my crew’s about t’ mutiny if we don’t shove off,” Sparrow warned, coming up beside Turner. “If you’re done with your ladies’ tea, might I gather up th’ last of your perfidious cargo and be on me way?” He gestured flippantly at Prissy without looking at her.
“Jack, I’m sure if you keep both your hands and your remarks to yourself, you’ll have no further troubles with Miss Priscilla.” Turner eyed her slyly as he added, “And if you don’t, just be sure to stay out of range of any wet canvas.”
“Eh?” Sparrow furrowed his brow almost as deep as Turner’s.
Prissy paid no attention, turning to Griselde. She didn’t know what to say - her closest friend before now had been in childhood, and had died of the consumption at age fifteen. “I wish you were coming along,” she told her. “Not sure how I’ll pass the time by myself.”
Griselde, who had mostly stopped crying, shook her head. “You were doing all right in Tortuga; you’ll do just fine now, too.”
She remembered - and shook her head. “I was getting along,” she conceded, “but your prodding me t’ leave was maybe th’ best thing’s happened in a long while.” Since I met Cletus, she thought. Bet he’d be surprised to have heard that.
The two women stood awkwardly facing one another, until Griselde threw her arms around her friend. Prissy patted her back a couple of times, and swallowed around the lump in her throat when the shorter woman pulled away. “Anyway,” she finally said, nodding toward Bill, “looks like you’ve got someone else t’ keep you company now.”
Captain Turner’s expression shifted from compassionate to confused. He blinked. “Father?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
Bill cleared his throat. “Well, what of it?” he countered, eyeing his son. “Your mother’s long gone, and I’ve not had a woman’s company for nigh on two decades.”
“Bill, you old seadog.” Sparrow cackled somewhere behind them. “You always did have a thing for redheads. Remember those French twins, when we’d visit …” He trailed off as both Turners looked back at him, one’s expression murderous, the other’s shifting into the hurt of a betrayed little boy. “Uh-oh … ah, that is … well, shit.” The pirate clammed up and backed away.
Turner turned back toward his father. “Redheads?”
Bill held up a hand. “Now, son …”
“Time to leave!” Sparrow bellowed, raising his voice for any crew lingering on board the Dutchman. “All aboard who’s going aboard th’ Pearl!”
Prissy moved to obey, but Griselde grabbed her free hand again. “Good fortune to you,” she said, squeezing.
“You too.” She nodded toward the two Turners engaged in a predictable argument off to the side. “And good luck with that.”
“Oh, them.” Griselde waved a hand toward them. “They’re just men. They’ll get past it soon enough.”
“I mean, havin’ the captain maybe as your stepson. Or somethin’ close to.”
Griselde’s jaw dropped a bit; obviously she hadn’t considered that. “Oh, Lord,” she said. “I suppose I’ll have to stop staring so much, won’t I?”
A whistle behind her got Prissy’s attention, and she turned to find Sparrow jerking his thumb toward the planks. “Hike your skirts and climb on up there, woman,” he ordered. “This isn’t a pleasure ship at Your Highness’s leisure.”
The two women bid one another a final goodbye. Prissy approached the planks; Sparrow held up both hands as if to ward her off, leaning back a bit, but then he took her elbow and gave her a boost up. She hesitated, feeling the uncertain sway of the narrow planks. “Well, toddle along,” he instructed after she’d stood there a moment, unmoving, walking his jeweled fingers in mid-air. “We’ll have you back on land sewin’ and washin’ soon enough, I promise.”
Prissy remembered what Captain Turner had said about her suitability for that life. “Maybe I’ll stay at sea, instead,” she snapped. “I’ve heard tell ‘bout women pirates, right?”
The look of horror that crossed Sparrow’s face was worth enough to keep her grinning as she summoned up the pluck to finally cross the unsteady boards. “God ‘imself help the Brethren,” she heard him muttering.
Rating: R for "rowdy" (language and humor, that is)
All other summaries and disclaimers may be found in Part 1. Part 2 can be found here.
In addition to her new duties helping Tom, the captain occasionally imposed on Prissy to take a turn with other small tasks - cooking her own food, polishing fixtures, and even helping rig repaired sails up on the lines. This last she did cautiously and more reluctantly than other jobs, since she didn’t like being too high up, but it did serve to get her out in the fresh air without stabbing her fingers on the head of a needle all the time.
Alas, washing and mending sails was an omnipresent chore - it seemed even if the wood and the fixtures of the ship were impervious to rot and destruction, the sails were still simple canvas - and as such she was still assigned a go at that at least once a week. The worn shreds of canvas that couldn’t be salvaged were cleaned and stored for bandaging of shipwreck survivors. All this work taxed Prissy heavily, but after two weeks, her arms and back hurt less, and she came to a grudging enjoyment of even the sewing.
One afternoon, she was washing small swaths of ripped canvas from the night before, when Turner and his undead crew had collected the souls and very few survivors of a sea battle. Privateers and Navy - not under the same flag, obviously - had come to blows on what they thought were mildly turbulent waters. It turned into a squall larger than either captain had expected, and nearly all those who hadn’t been killed by an enemy were finished off by Calypso.
Turner’s policy appeared to be letting the two Navymen and three Spanish buccaneers roam as freely as he did the two women. This made Prissy uneasy - not because she felt threatened, for she’d had plenty of hard experience planting her foot in some man’s knee or her ham-fist in his face, but because of the wary way they all kept eyeing each other. The tension mounted; she worked quickly, wanting to get below to the cannon, which seemed now less likely to go off than any of these five.
She didn’t know what happened; she only heard shouts in a strange language, English curses, and the physical THWAP of bodies slamming into each other. Clutching wet canvas, she straightened and looked back over her shoulder, seeing the tangle of fisticuffs - and beyond that, the captain releasing the wheel and coming around the helm, shaking his head. She intended to keep an eye on them until Turner broke up the fight, since they were only a few feet away.
And then she saw the nearest Spaniard pull a dagger from the inside of his boot, palming it for an upward stab. Without consciously planning it, and keeping an eye on the knife, Prissy pulled the ends of her canvas taut, twirled it out to shake off some water, and spun sideways, releasing one end and letting fly. The free end of the heavy, damp material snapped at the pirate’s wrist, causing him to drop the dagger.
Then he looked up, confusion in his eyes - which turned to murder when he spotted his assailant. He lunged.
Prissy had no time to duck or cower. On instinct, she gritted her teeth and lowered her head as he came within range, head-butting him in the chest. The skinny Spaniard staggered a bit, and she brought the strip up to catch him at the throat, throwing her body weight into it. He fell back, Prissy on top of him, pressing the ends of the canvas into the deck to pin him in a chokehold. His fingers clawed at her forearms, ragged, dirty nails leaving marks, but she held firm - at least until a boot planted lightly over the canvas on his neck. “Priscilla, get up!” a voice barked.
Startled, she sat back on her heels to protest. Captain Turner stood over them, flicking his head a couple of times to indicate she should rise. She clambered to her feet and stepped back, and he removed his boot from the cutthroat, leaning over to grab the front of his shirt and haul him up. He said something in rapid Spanish to the pirate, who blinked in apparent anger - at that, Turner tightened his one-handed grip and pulled the fellow closer, lowering his voice. Whatever he said made the man deflate - still defiant, but no longer carrying the tension of imminent attack.
After Turner had crew escort all five survivors to the brig, he leaned over and picked up the dagger, examining the handle. “Jade,” he remarked, flipping it to study the slender blade. “Not badly made.”
He looked to Prissy, who was still catching her breath. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone launch an offensive with laundry.” He paused, obviously thinking. “Except for that time Gibbs told me that Jack shoved his sweaty headscarf into the new Royal Navy commodore’s mouth. That was just beyond cruelty.” He shook his head. “Where did you come up with that?”
She looked down at her hands. “Right here, I s’pose. Was the only thing I had handy.”
“Ah.” He flipped the dagger again, presenting the jade grip. “We’ll have to remedy that.” At her surprise, he pressed it into her hand. “As my wife once observed, no woman should be without a defense at least equal to the minimum danger she is likely to face with the company she keeps.”
“Eh?” It was more the gift of such an obviously expensive item than the words confusing her.
“You keep company with pirates, you had better be prepared to fight like one.” He smiled. “It’s a lot larger than a mending needle, but I’m sure with Gunner Spar’s help you’ll figure out how to use it soon enough.”
*****
It was a week to the day later, mid-morning, that the lookout sighted a ship. Normally, the Dutchman would have descended out of sight, but the lookout called “BLACK SAILS!” and Turner made no move to hide his vessel. Prissy, who had been sitting on a barrel carefully sharpening the dagger with a little whetstone just as Tom had instructed, looked up every so often to squint at the horizon. The ships moved closer together, and it wasn’t long before she saw same ship she’d spotted on sketched handbills when she was still in Tortuga. “It’s the Black Pearl,” she murmured in recognition, sliding off the barrel and sliding her stone and dagger inside her stays.
When it drew alongside the Dutchman, its crew hauled out two long planks and extended them, side-by-side to the other ship. Nobody came forth for a while, and then a press of pirates who’d been lollygagging to stare at the Ship of Death and its captain began parting. “Shoo!” she heard faintly. “Step aside, you bunch of yellow mama’s boys. Before I shoot you in the backs!”
That parted the rest of the group quickly enough, and a familiar figure appeared at the rail of the Pearl, doffing his hat. “Why, William, it’s been a while!” he declared, tugging the tricorn back over his mass of headscarf and tumbling black hair. “Lose your heading and need me expert help, yet again?”
Captain Turner snorted in a manner she hadn’t heard from him before, arms crossed as he stood at his own rail. “The only place that bloody compass of yours could lead me would be a distillery or a brothel.”
Jack Sparrow grinned. “Or maybe a particular huge-ish vessel of some marginal magnificence.”
“Some?”
Sparrow showed teeth in obvious delight at that. “Might I come aboard your vessel of some marginal magnificence, Captain?”
Turner rolled his eyes and laughed. “Try not to fall off the plank, Jack.”
With the grace of a longtime sailor, Sparrow hopped up on the boards and strolled across with a noticeable sway, stepping smoothly off onto the Dutchman’s deck near Turner. The two men regarded each other for a few seconds, then greeted with a two-handed handshake and a sturdy embrace. When they broke apart, Sparrow gave Turner’s shoulder one last hearty slap and looked around. “Still a regular dancehall around here,” he remarked, eyes roving until they settled in Prissy’s direction. “Ah, but I see you’ve stocked th’ lake since I was last aboard, eh?”
The captain followed as Sparrow drew closer. She recognized the masculine gleam in his eye, but didn’t quite follow why it was directed at her. Didn’t his face still hurt from when they’d last met? “Jack, this is Priscilla,” Turner was saying, gesturing toward her.
“Charmed, I assure you.” The pirate captain took her hand and kissed the top, lingering to let his moustache tickle the skin in an obvious seduction, while Prissy tamped down the urge to raise her eyebrows. Obviously he’d forgotten their earlier encounter - then again, it had been quite a number of years. “Where did you find this agreeable creature, William?”
“Shipwreck. She’s part of the survivors I have bound for land this time.”
“Ah.” Sparrow gestured with his free hand, in a roll out in front of him. “Neither dead nor dying, eh?” He leered then, and she belatedly realized her dresses and stays had apparently been fitting somewhat looser for a reason since she’d first been hauled aboard; perhaps she cut a more pleasing figure now. That, and … well, she knew to a sailor who’s been long at sea, most any breathing female seems agreeable.
The look made her uncomfortable. Not only was she not of a mood, she’d seen this one chase too many a fine backside just in Tortuga, in addition to his reputation elsewhere. “Can I have my hand back?” she asked, trying to offer a friendly smile.
He clucked his tongue. “Now, Cilla, you’re not that eager t’ cast off Captain Jack Sparrow, are you?”
She set her teeth but tried not to lose the smile, in an effort to be more ladylike. She hated that name. Still, Griselde had been trying to help her see the importance of being more feminine, to ease her way through the world a bit better. “I … just have some work to do, Captain, Sir,” she lied, trying to pull her hand away.
He winked, but didn’t let go. “Not even a tumble, then?”
Upon reflection as she nursed her sore hand a few minutes later, wrapped in a wet strip of threadbare canvas, she realized Sparrow had posed no real threat. He’d had an audience, she was a woman, and he’d been preening his cock’s feathers for all and sundry. Unfortunately for him, she was no hen, and had a bad habit of hitting first and not asking any questions.
Turner had given Sparrow a hand up off his ass. “I think you deserved that one,” he observed mildly, steadying the pirate’s elbow as he rubbed his reddened cheek and moved his jaw around to test its motion.
Sparrow had stared at her in hurt shock, then brief anger - and finally, wide-eyed recognition. ”You! he exclaimed. “Woman, do you have to try to knock teeth loose ever’ time we meet?”
“Jack-” Captain Turner tried to say.
“I didn’t do anything this time; I sure as hell didn’ do anything last time!”
“You might’ve done something this time,” Turner argued. Sparrow pouted, still rubbing his jaw. “Come on, Jack.” The younger captain tugged at the pirate’s sleeve. “Let’s go look at that, put something cool on it before it swells.”
*****
“You socked a notorious pirate captain in the jaw again, and he just walked off?”
Prissy considered Griselde’s whispered question as they sat off to the side watching the two crews talk, sing, drink, and laugh later that evening. “There’s the small matter of him sort of deservin’ it,” she pointed out.
Griselde laughed. “Bill said he used to sail with Jack Sparrow, and that scoundrel was getting slapped in all the finer ports the world over before he even had a beard. By women and men - if you take his meaning.” She waggled her slender eyebrows.
“They were all tired of him tryin’ to lure away their bedmates?” she archly replied.
Before Griselde could answer, the two women were interrupted by the older man who’d accompanied Jack aboard earlier. His salty hair and thick muttonchops put Prissy in mind of an avuncular badger, and the set of his jaw helped further. “Ask your pardon, ladies,” he began, “but young Turner mentioned th’ two of you might be needing a lift to land?”
“Your captain doesn’t mind t’ do that?”
“Well …” The fellow smiled, and his eyes rolled away a couple of times as he obviously reached for a diplomatic response. “Let’s just say Captain Sparrow understands the value of stayin’ on the good side of the master of the Flying Dutchman.”
Prissy nodded; practicality, she understood. “So he’s after Captain Turner’s boons.”
The man coughed and whacked himself in the chest. “Aye,” he managed. “We’ll be leaving the Dutchman in two days, and just a short voyage to the nearest port, where you’ll be safe and able to find passage further on a more … respectable, vessel. One what’ll carry women regularly.” He inclined his head, murmured, “Ladies,” and seemed happy to be off.
They sat in silence for a while, until finally, Griselde spoke up. “Time to be leaving, I suppose.”
“I guess so,” Prissy answered without enthusiasm. Here in the company of death, life had been about the best she’d ever experienced it.
Despite the celebrations, her somber mood held through the next two days. She had a small bundle of old clothes Captain Turner had provided, as well as the knife and a small sheath he’d crafted for it, that she stood holding, next to Griselde the morning Quartermaster Gibbs had advised they would set sail. Neither spoke, though Griselde sniffled intermittently into a scarf pressed to her nose. Prissy guessed she was fonder of Bill than she’d let on, but said nothing.
Men from Sparrow’s crew moved between the two ships, carrying supplies - barrels of water and crates of produce for the Dutchman’s hold and its occasional survivors, and a large chest up and across the planks to the Black Pearl, its clinking, shifting contents easy enough to guess. The two captains stood off to the side talking; she knew when they were discussing her, for Sparrow’s expression contracted as if sucked in by lemon juice, glaring at her. Turner tapped his arm and must’ve said something conciliatory, for Sparrow stopped just short of making the sign of the cross in her direction and gave his attention back to the other man.
“I suppose we’d best be gettin’,” Prissy finally said. Griselde, who she absently noticed had no bundle to carry, nodded.
As they moved toward the planks, Captain Turner met them. “So eager to be off, then?” he asked, the small wrinkles around his eyes giving lightness to the words.
Prissy looked around at the people … spirits? … she’d come to know over the past few weeks. “Can’t stay here forever, can I?”
“I don’t believe you’d want to.” He transferred his attention to Griselde, a weight settling into that dark-eyed gaze. Prissy didn’t understand, but something obviously passed between them - and Griselde’s eyes widened. She put a hand to her mouth and took a step back.
As if summoned, Bill appeared from the edge of Prissy’s vision, an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “There,” he said, patting her shoulder. “You know this place, aye? Not so bad as all that, m’ girl.”
It took a moment, but Prissy finally understood. She nearly whirled on Turner. “She’s dead? How- when?”
“Shortly after you two came aboard.” His voice was quiet, punctuated by Griselde’s somewhat louder sniffling now. “She-” He shifted his glance to the woman he was talking about and changed his address. “You, had a badly infected arm. It spread throughout your body; nothing could be done for it by the time you made it here.”
Prissy touched her throat. “Am I dead, too?”
He shook his head. “You are quite healthy and likely to stay so for a long number of years …” Turner trailed off, leaning closer. “Possibly unless you hit Jack a third time,” he finished, sotto voce.
The gravel-voiced devil himself interrupted. “William, my crew’s about t’ mutiny if we don’t shove off,” Sparrow warned, coming up beside Turner. “If you’re done with your ladies’ tea, might I gather up th’ last of your perfidious cargo and be on me way?” He gestured flippantly at Prissy without looking at her.
“Jack, I’m sure if you keep both your hands and your remarks to yourself, you’ll have no further troubles with Miss Priscilla.” Turner eyed her slyly as he added, “And if you don’t, just be sure to stay out of range of any wet canvas.”
“Eh?” Sparrow furrowed his brow almost as deep as Turner’s.
Prissy paid no attention, turning to Griselde. She didn’t know what to say - her closest friend before now had been in childhood, and had died of the consumption at age fifteen. “I wish you were coming along,” she told her. “Not sure how I’ll pass the time by myself.”
Griselde, who had mostly stopped crying, shook her head. “You were doing all right in Tortuga; you’ll do just fine now, too.”
She remembered - and shook her head. “I was getting along,” she conceded, “but your prodding me t’ leave was maybe th’ best thing’s happened in a long while.” Since I met Cletus, she thought. Bet he’d be surprised to have heard that.
The two women stood awkwardly facing one another, until Griselde threw her arms around her friend. Prissy patted her back a couple of times, and swallowed around the lump in her throat when the shorter woman pulled away. “Anyway,” she finally said, nodding toward Bill, “looks like you’ve got someone else t’ keep you company now.”
Captain Turner’s expression shifted from compassionate to confused. He blinked. “Father?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
Bill cleared his throat. “Well, what of it?” he countered, eyeing his son. “Your mother’s long gone, and I’ve not had a woman’s company for nigh on two decades.”
“Bill, you old seadog.” Sparrow cackled somewhere behind them. “You always did have a thing for redheads. Remember those French twins, when we’d visit …” He trailed off as both Turners looked back at him, one’s expression murderous, the other’s shifting into the hurt of a betrayed little boy. “Uh-oh … ah, that is … well, shit.” The pirate clammed up and backed away.
Turner turned back toward his father. “Redheads?”
Bill held up a hand. “Now, son …”
“Time to leave!” Sparrow bellowed, raising his voice for any crew lingering on board the Dutchman. “All aboard who’s going aboard th’ Pearl!”
Prissy moved to obey, but Griselde grabbed her free hand again. “Good fortune to you,” she said, squeezing.
“You too.” She nodded toward the two Turners engaged in a predictable argument off to the side. “And good luck with that.”
“Oh, them.” Griselde waved a hand toward them. “They’re just men. They’ll get past it soon enough.”
“I mean, havin’ the captain maybe as your stepson. Or somethin’ close to.”
Griselde’s jaw dropped a bit; obviously she hadn’t considered that. “Oh, Lord,” she said. “I suppose I’ll have to stop staring so much, won’t I?”
A whistle behind her got Prissy’s attention, and she turned to find Sparrow jerking his thumb toward the planks. “Hike your skirts and climb on up there, woman,” he ordered. “This isn’t a pleasure ship at Your Highness’s leisure.”
The two women bid one another a final goodbye. Prissy approached the planks; Sparrow held up both hands as if to ward her off, leaning back a bit, but then he took her elbow and gave her a boost up. She hesitated, feeling the uncertain sway of the narrow planks. “Well, toddle along,” he instructed after she’d stood there a moment, unmoving, walking his jeweled fingers in mid-air. “We’ll have you back on land sewin’ and washin’ soon enough, I promise.”
Prissy remembered what Captain Turner had said about her suitability for that life. “Maybe I’ll stay at sea, instead,” she snapped. “I’ve heard tell ‘bout women pirates, right?”
The look of horror that crossed Sparrow’s face was worth enough to keep her grinning as she summoned up the pluck to finally cross the unsteady boards. “God ‘imself help the Brethren,” she heard him muttering.