Fic: Metal and Words, 9/16
Title: Metal and Words, 9/16
Author: Aletheia Felinea
Beta: compassrose7577. Thank you so much!
Rating: PG-13 overall
Wordcount: 4300, this chapter
Characters: (this chapter) Jack Sparrow, OCs
Genre: Gen fic supposed to be a crime story.
Time: Months before CotBP.
Summary: The sweet air of Tortuga can be dangerous sometimes, even for the certain Captain. And curiosity can kill a sparrow. Or... save?
Disclaimer: Not my hunting territory, The Big Black Mouse prowls here.
Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Note: The fic was translated from Polish. Jeśli wolisz czytać w oryginale, zapraszam.
The afternoon sun immersed the bay’s surface and brig in its hot glare. The light glimmered on the skin of one not entirely clothed but entirely wet pirate, his teeth clenched in effort as he searched for irregularities on the stern. It was too scantily carved for his taste, especially at that moment.
Having reached a transverse parapet, he clung to the rough wood and tried to persuade himself that, to the casual observer, he surely looked like a decorative triton. There was one problem in this camouflage however, worse than his missing tail and trident: namely the absence of any other triton on the brig’s keel. To tell the truth, Jack Sparrow felt rather like a starfish on the rocks after the ebb.
He raised his head and saw a big Y with remains of white paint. He looked to the left, in search of the inscription’s beginning. M… E… R… CURY. Jack snorted under his breath. Well, invention was not popular in the Company, contrary to avarice. It looked as though they had begun to save names too.
He moved on. The casement was just above the letters, separated by another quite comfortable parapet. He listened, and then peeped through the corner pane. It seemed there was no one in the cabin. He followed the window’s frame with his eyes. There was no need to use his dagger, the farthest sash was ajar. He checked himself. Most of seawater on his skin was already gone, but he squeezed yet a good half pint from his hair.
Slipping down from the broad windowsill to the deck, its planks warm under his bare feet, he surveyed the cabin. It spanned the stern’s entire width, but was not very deep. A half-drawn curtain hid a small alcove and its built-in bunk. The opposite wall was occupied by a cupboard with a glass paneled front. A sturdy table with three chairs and chests wedged under the windowsill left barely enough room to walk to the door. Jack put his ear to it.
All sounds came from afar and were muffled; the captain’s cabin was probably separated from the main deck by another cabin or corridor. There was silence on the upper deck, and some distant knocking or occasional footsteps below, in the brig’s huge belly. The quarterdeck was apparently deserted, the work going on below. The only distinguishable voices came from the main deck. A sharp tone receded and returned.
“Recall… around the camp… reports in every…”
The second voice seemed to throw in only hasty affirmations. Another one, more distant, interrupted, and the first two faded as they went below.
Jack turned from the door to the table. It was covered with maps, weighted at the edges by a pewter candlestick, a couple of mugs, and… Jack’s own pistol. Not touching it, he walked around the table.
Hispaniola was on the very top of the pile. The sea to the north and east of the island was crossed with a maze of pencil lines and coordinates. Next to the map, a pile of paper scraps with scribbled notes covered a sheet showing the outline of the bay with groups of numbers inside. Had they tried to sound the reef and lagoon? Jack picked up the mug placed on the map’s cartouche. The Company’s sign, again. He lifted the corner and the next. Jamaica, then Mexico with the Gulf’s basin… At the very bottom was a big sheet depicting the eastern half of Cuba and western coast of Hispaniola. Mercury’s Captain had the hand of a drunken fly dipped in rum, Jack decided irritably, squinting at the vague pencil marks.
He stooped to look under where the maps hung over the table. The drawer there wasn’t locked, probably because there was nothing interesting inside. Jack moved aside a worn compass and brass sextant, rummaging through sheets of clean paper, a bunch of quills, and a few sticks of red wax. He slid the drawer closed and looked again around the cabin.
The cupboard’s casement door was secured only by a simple latch, same as the lids of the wooden boxes piled inside. He opened one to a shining rainbow of cut glass goblets nestled in padded compartments. Another box was filled with silver spoons. Jack cursed his temporary lack of pockets.
Atop the cupboard sat an inkwell, a sandbox, a quill knife… A door below was flanked by drawers. He crouched and tugged the door’s knob. Closed. The lock wasn’t very complicated, as Jack judged some minute later, tucking the dagger back into its sheath at his ankle.
The opened cabinet revealed a heap of pewter and silver plates. The back wall was unexpectedly near. Jack tilted his head thoughtfully, and knocked on the wood. It resounded with a hollow tone. He traced the corners with his fingers, though with little hope. The lever opening the cache was probably hidden elsewhere. The nearest drawer yielded easily, showing a bunch of spare candles. Just in case, he fingered the drawer’s bottom and back wall, and then closed it. The next held only a leather-bound volume. Jack snatched it, opened, and grinned. Finally, the brig’s logbook.
He leafed through it, searching the early entries. London, over a year ago. Gibraltar, Accra… Three men and the foremast lost in a storm off the Cape… Two weeks in Cape Town and another try to round the Cape… A Portuguese privateer east of Madagascar, gave up the chase after two hours… Jack turned pages faster and faster, catching fragments of notes. The brig’s Captain did not always have good ink at hand, but at least he scribbled here more carefully than the maps. Bombay, three weeks… The cargo collected and safe. Apart from that terse notation, there was no more than a course registration, back south, under a date a half a year since. Two months later, an undisturbed passing round the Cape, the cargo still in good shape, then again two days in Cape Town. They were in haste…
“Ahoy, Mercury!”
Startled, Jack snapped the log shut. The hail came from somewhere at the stern. He crept up to the casement, hiding behind the frame. Almost out of his eyeshot, a narrow stern and a tiller bobbed on the water. The rest of the boat was hidden by the brig’s bulk, but the shadow on water was a single mast. He squinted and frowned. Over there, above the larboard side, did he see what he thought he saw? Could it be…?
“Ahoy, pinnace…” The Captain’s voice hesitated, as if in surprise, and then added: “In my cabin, now! Only you, Mr. Anderson, if you please.”
Jack was to the cupboard before the ‘now’ sounded. He shut the door and drawer with the log, and looked around frantically. The cramped cabin allowed few possibilities… The bunk? He jerked the curtain aside and raised his brows in surprise at finding not only a tousled bedding, but also a dark emptiness underneath. More than five inches left unused? That was unexpected, but well, all the better.
He squeezed in as far as possible, and drew the curtain. Then he lay flat to the planks, peeked under the fabric’s edge, and… his eyes widened at seeing why the niche had been empty. Under the table sat a wooden box the same length as the bunk; rolls of maps stuck out from its half-opened lid. Jack felt suddenly too warm in his hideout, probably due to his fervent hope the brig’s Captain wouldn’t bother to tidy up just then. Judging on the amount of dust he lay in, the hope was quite justified. His eyes watered as he tried to hold an impending sneeze, hearing quick steps and a clang of the door knob.
Some shuffling and knocking announced the maps and paperweights being moved. Then glass clinked. Jack clutched the noisiest parts of his hair, and carefully moved to where the gap under the curtain widened.
Hair tousled, breeches wrinkled and shirt disheveled, the brig’s Captain stood by the cupboard, filling a mug from a glass decanter with something appealingly amber-coloured. Apparently he had been sleeping through the hottest hours, and had been wakened with the news of captives’ escape. At the sound of more steps he turned toward the door.
“You had better have a bloody good reason,” he said in a sharp tone. He raised the mug to his mouth, while setting the decanter onto the table with a loud thump.
The incomer shut the doors behind him.
“It’s nice to see you as well,” he replied. The undisturbed calm in his voice was quite convincing, so long as one didn’t look at his fingers, tapping against guard of a small side sword. The hat in his other hand, soiled stockings, and dusty boots called to mind José’s mention of something about a dandy.
„The guests were impressed with the welcome, no doubt,” added the owner of worn splendor.
“It’s not me who’s a diplomat here.” The Captain waved his mug, annoyed.
“As we both know,” agreed the other in a tone that could be sold in place of silk.
The Captain seemed to ease a little. He slumped into a chair and eyed the mug he turned in his hands.
“Anderson,” he said wearily. “You getting lost for over four days - and I can assure you a day counts doubly in this damned wilderness - coming back bringing what we already have more than enough, in place of what you went for, and you expect fanfares? Who are they and what are they doing here?”
The light reflected in Anderson’s gray eyes, emphasizing his bony face, as he gazed toward the window. He seemed scraggy indeed, as José suggested. “Tools,” he said after a time. “They don’t need fanfares.” He looked at the Captain again. “So you have more than enough of those?” A fine thread of sarcasm now intertwined the silk.
“Witnesses,” the Captain snarled. “We don’t need more witnesses. We’ve barely enough men to patrol the forest. I can only hope they won’t overlook any random idler, including those on water. We took one boat only with an eighteen-pounder, three days ago. Have you any idea how far the retort carries?"
“Not as far as to Tortuga, I assure.”
“To the nearest unseen ears would be enough. Pray assure me rather that you know what you are doing. So far, I can see only two additional problems needing attention. Give me a reason why I should not get rid of them straightaway.”
“Because you can always do it later. For now, the tools can be useful.”
The Captain cursed under his breath and snatched up the decanter. This time, when he put it back, it thumped even louder. “No more than two hours ago I thought the same,” he hissed. “And now I have five men below, because the rest are running to and fro in the forest, bumping into trees and shooting at each other. Cause I begrudged rope for four nooses.”
Anderson lifted a brow. “Four?”
“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t return, and the only hope would be examining new captives. One straggler arrived today, so I left him for a more convenient time...”
Under the bunk, Jack managed to squeeze two inches deeper and tried to turn into a dust ball.
Anderson sighed and drew another chair. “The thief is dead,” he said, sitting down.
The Captain looked at him askew. “And the bad news?”
“That is the bad news.” Anderson dropped his hat onto the nearest sea chest.” The corpse was found in Tortuga, before I managed to find him alive, that is.”
For a long moment the Captain stared at the mug he held, frowning. “Speaking of Tortuga, isn’t there any-?”
“There is one horse trader. The thief didn’t contact him, at least recently. And yes, I’m sure,” Anderson added, seeing the Captain was about to speak. “For God’s sake, Walter, yes, I do know what I’m doing. I’m on this ship for some reason.”
He leaned back and crossed his arms. “However, it seems he contacted nearly half of Tortuga.”
The Captain looked around distractedly, maybe in search of his handkerchief, for having found nothing, he wiped his face with a slightly trembling hand. “Great…” he muttered. “Surely you’ll explain why said half of Tortuga isn’t dropping anchor beyond the reef and smashing us into splinters?”
“Oddly enough, it seems the thief didn’t mention us. Reportedly, he was searching for someone himself.”
“Searching?”
“Those two promise they know and are able to find this someone.” Anderson hesitated almost imperceptibly. “Anyway, now it’s the only clue.”
The Captain was silent for some time. Then he stood, went to the window, and opened it wide. He rubbed his face again. “Keep an eye on them,” he said, staring into the distance. “But every additional day is a risk. Dammit, Jonathan, every additional hour!” He glanced back at the cabin. “And that, um, horse trader…”
Anderson rolled his eyes. “Yes, I began to think about that, too. Forget it. The best horse on Tortuga is three guineas, and worth no more than one. It’s a gelding, roughly ten years old, and waxed with shoe blacking. After the first rain it’ll be a dun, and molted at that.” He sighed and turned toward the table. He took the nearest mug, looked into it dubiously, and reached for the decanter.
“I know De Villiers,” he said, pouring. “Maniac he is, but not a fool, not to such an extent. He had enough time to recover and realise that it won’t end with a gift and one or two, hmm, favours. They anticipated it, of course, so combined with the gift, he’ll get a polite message explaining there are ways for different views on him could begin to circulate in Versailles, lest he changed his mind. A threat of suspicion of high treason is supposed to work as a catalyst for real high treason. To quote what I was told when receiving orders in London, which I bloody hope to see again: Isn’t it artistic, Mr. Anderson?”
He drank, grimaced, and added: “This voyage is not as much diplomacy, as a demonstration of power.”
The Captain snorted and sat back on his chair. “So it seems London overestimated this power,” he huffed angrily. “The only thing we can demonstrate now is a keel leaking like a sieve, and an empty hold, less than a hundred miles from the goal!”
Anderson shrugged. “We could have lost the horse during any of the previous fifteen thousand.”
“If I had a choice, that would be easier to explain,” the Captain muttered. “How many times have I said one is too few?”
“Forgive me, I didn’t count. And it was not my decision.” Anderson took the decanter again. “This way or that, it boils down to we have no other choice. The governor will get his purebred kathiawari, hooves polished, tail braided, silver tack included, so he can nestle his French arse on mahogany and maroquin. That way he cannot find the least gap to wriggle out from the deal, a gap for which he’s currently seeking harder than anything in his life, I can assure you, Walter. He’ll get the kathiawari, brisk and bucking, or we can save London the effort, and deliver our heads on a tray straight off.”
He tossed his drink down, coughed, and added hoarsely: “Providing we’ll manage to get them out of here.”
The Captain snorted even louder. “Jonathan, talking rubbish after a couple sips sets new record for you. Do you remember where we are? Even in these parts, an alive horse is worth more than a dead one, but a saddle…? There has to be more fake shillings for two hundred miles, or livres, all the same. De Villiers may eventually get his saddle in taxes.”
Anderson fidgeted on his chair and mumbled, losing some of his ostensible stoicism for the first time. “That would be, uh, rather unfortunate turn of…”
The Captain scrutinized him suspiciously.
Anderson caught himself tapping his fingers on the tabletop and pressed his palm flat. “The saddle was an additional, um, precaution, in case I died en route and could not deliver London’s message in person.”
The Captain stared at him a long while. “Instead, unfortunately, you turned more proof than the beast,” he drawled finally. “At least against kidnappings.”
Anderson send him a sullen look. “There was a hidden compartment with a letter in the saddle’s front bow. It could be unlocked as long as one knows Latin.”
“How about unlocking as long as one knows saddles?”
“Uh, well, that cannot be counted out…”
The Captain was gradually taking an interesting shade of crimson. “Is there anything else I don’t know about?” he asked in a stony calm tone.
Anderson already looked as if his chair sprouted thorns. “Everyone has their orders!” he exploded. “And the Company’s arms are long!”
At last, the Captain moved his gaze away, and fixed it unseeingly at a bulkhead. “Here and now, we are the Company’s arms,” he said. “Let’s get the horse back, and I’ll haul anchor within the hour, with or without the saddle.”
The silence was broken by knock at the door.
“Sir?” a voice asked and the hinges creaked. Jack risked moving closer to the gap, but the door was still out of eyesight.
The Captain raised his head. “Ah, right. Put it over there.” He waved his hand.
“Yes, sir.” Something clinked, and the same voice added: “The cook begs to say that dinner for Mr. Anderson will be in-“
He was interrupted by a rapid thud of approaching steps.
“Captain!” A man shoved the steward off his way, then checked himself and stepped back onto the threshold. “Er, permissiontospeak, sir!” he threw out, nodding hastily. At the Captain's impatient grunt and a wave of hand, he continued, breathless. “Pumps... This time two... at once, sir! One has broken, the other... is clogged.”
The Captain cursed and frowned. “So what are you doing here, Mr. Sanders? Don't you all know your work?”
Sanders, wet to his thighs and smelling definitely bilge-like, shuffled his feet and coughed nervously. “The men, sir... They're sayin' that once we've one pump fixed, right away the other breaks, and, uh...”
“So fix the other too, dammit! You need a written order on a silver tray every time, or are you expecting commendations?” The Captain stared at him in astonishment.
Sanders backed a step. “Well, the men are sayin' that tools, uh, keep getting' lost. Uh, in water, I mean. They're sayin' the bay is cursed, with those, uh, dead uns down there. Ashee is sayin' that sooner or later the leaks will gush blood, and then we'll all be dead buggers as well. And he's swearin' he found... Yesterday, I mean... Swearin' that he found, uh, long hair in the slime...” His voice subsided little by little.
The Captain was silent a while, and then cursed fiercely. “Just what we needed...” he muttered. “Get below,” he ordered. “I'll be there directly.”
Jack, along whose calf something multipede had been crawling for some time, almost supported him aloud.
“And you're to warn them that if I find one empty-handed and idle, any curse will be the least of his worries!” The Captain growled, rising. “Carry on!”
“Yessir!” Sanders rushed out of the cabin, shoving the steward aside once more, judging by an outraged “Oi!”, leaving only a cloud of eau de bilgé in the air.
“Ashee? Ashvapal?” Anderson seemed surprised. He reached for his hat and rose from his chair, too. “You're keeping him still down there?”
“A groom without a horse is a useless ballast,” the Captain snapped. “Ah yes, my hat...” He turned back from the door.
Jack silently gave a rightful share of damnation both to him and the 'something' that just stopped on his knee and was considering its further course.
“And if not those ideas of his- how did it go? That the horse needs something familiar on back? -the saddle would be still in the cache!” The Captain gestured toward the cupboard.
“Nevertheless, the beast did calm down,” Anderson pointed out.
“Aye, just enough to allow a stranger! Where have I left my coat?”
The boots thudded past the bunk. Jack held his breath, shut his eyes tight, and tried to recall some gods which he possibly had yet to vex.
“Until we regain the horse, this damned heathen won't poke his nose above the gun deck, even if he has to seal leaks with his own rags, including that bloody turban of his.” The voice went away. Jack dared to open one eye.
“It's you who's supposed to know about Indians,” the Captain hissed, struggling into a heavily gilded coat. “Stop him from telling the men bullshit, or I can decide I also have one temporarily useless diplomat onboard.”
It was visible that Anderson clenched his teeth. He straightened and donned his hat. “And an agent of the East India Trading Company,” he said icily. “Do not forget it, Captain.”
The door slammed after them. The following silence lasted a whole minute. Then one very dusty pirate shot out from under the bunk, tangling in the curtain. He managed to get free, leapt to his feet, and surveyed his skin frantically. After the third attempt to see his own back, he surrendered and glanced anxiously to the door. Suddenly he stood still and grinned at the sight of a tray on a chair.
A golden roasted carcass, probably once a duck. Next to it was a small basket with bread and an opened bottle of wine. Jack glanced at the door again.
Some time later, he set it ajar to make the mysterious vanishing dinner apparently less mysterious. Two ship cats were already waiting at the threshold, eager to offer a helpful paw to the crime. Jack told them “Bon appétit”, gaining aggrieved glares from over the bare bones, took his pistol and climbed onto the windowsill.
***
Last wafts of a light breeze had died some time ago; the close air hovered over the sea’s surface. Lazy waves licked the sand a few yards from the pirate’s feet.
Sitting on a miniature beach, Jack stared at clouds rising from the horizon and absentmindedly wiped the flash pan of his pistol. Its other parts, along with a small powder box, laid on his sash, spread on the ground next to the recovered cutlass. The dagger was not the only thing Fred had overlooked. Jack had already checked to see the box was full and the powder dry.
The rock niche in which he harbored was framed by high cliffs; some two hundred yards of stone and deep water dividing it from the nearest land, he had made sure of that. It meant the weapon would need drying again in the near future, but he needed an occupation for his hands while his eyes wandered the horizon.
The obsession of Guillaume de Villiers, the ten-year governor of Port-au-Prince, was famous across the Caribbean. Rusty Hans had needed only a mug of rum to tell tales about the governor’s stables, his face as blissful, as if Heaven’s gate appeared. “Mangers of polished stone!” he said dreamily. “Pastures broader than the whole port!” “And bloody well guarded,” he added, in an expert tone, with a trace of regret. De Villiers’ ambition was to collect the bloodstock of every breed, equine aristocracy and elite of steeds. If all of a sudden he saw the prospect of… What did they say? Kahee… no, kathiawari. Maybe from the Mughal emperor’s stables, beyond the French reach? If a tenth of what one heard about De Villiers was true, he would drool first, and only then think about the price. The price? Oh, Your Excellency, it was just a little gift between gentlemen!
Few things are more costly than free gifts.
What could they demand? Oh, monsieur, we wouldn’t dare bothering you with anything important. You could perhaps discreetly point out to your brave corsairs that the Company’s ships are not rewarding targets with so many more Spanish ones around. Your Excellency could also turn a blind eye to one or another bay where we’ll moor a bit longer… and perhaps set a warehouse or three.
And a year later - four… forty warehouses, docks… more and more ships, more and more precise maps with the triple sign. Years would pass, and Versailles and Madrid would begin to talk about a war, the war that London planned from the beginning.
“It’s just good business,” a voice from the depth of his memory whispered. Jack lowered his eyes to the barrel gripped in his hand. He lifted it and checked its clearance.
That Ashee was right, he thought. The bay already ran with blood, and there would be more. Eighteen-pounders… From the beach he had counted ten gun ports on the larboard. The guns to starboard, toward the reef, he had seen as he climbed the stern, their lids open. They were terrified enough to keep the guns at the ready all the time.
Anamaria often supplied Jorge with fish, he recalled.
Metal and wood clinked softly as he reassembled the pistol. Then he gathered his clothes from where he had spread them on boulders. He threw them against the rock-walled niche’s farthest side, and lay down on the makeshift bedding, covering himself with his coat. He guessed the brig’s crew would give up the chase by night, but there was at least an hour yet to twilight.
He stared gloomily at the sea, listening to the first heavy drops of rain. His every hair raised and blood boiled at the thought of what he was going to do. Why it was every encounter with the East India Trading Company made him do things unthinkable for a self-respecting pirate?
He shut his eyes.
----------------------------------------------------------
Footnote
This handsome one’s name is Chetak, inherited after a historical Indian warhorse, and he was the winner of the Best Kathiawari Stallion in 2004, 2005, and 2006. As you can see, he did me also the honour of posing as the Horse’s portrait here. Of course, I say it only for Jack’s enlightenment, cause you knew already who the Horse is, reading about his curly ears. ;)
The next part
Your thoughts most welcomed, as always. :)
Author: Aletheia Felinea
Beta: compassrose7577. Thank you so much!
Rating: PG-13 overall
Wordcount: 4300, this chapter
Characters: (this chapter) Jack Sparrow, OCs
Genre: Gen fic supposed to be a crime story.
Time: Months before CotBP.
Summary: The sweet air of Tortuga can be dangerous sometimes, even for the certain Captain. And curiosity can kill a sparrow. Or... save?
Disclaimer: Not my hunting territory, The Big Black Mouse prowls here.
Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Note: The fic was translated from Polish. Jeśli wolisz czytać w oryginale, zapraszam.
The afternoon sun immersed the bay’s surface and brig in its hot glare. The light glimmered on the skin of one not entirely clothed but entirely wet pirate, his teeth clenched in effort as he searched for irregularities on the stern. It was too scantily carved for his taste, especially at that moment.
Having reached a transverse parapet, he clung to the rough wood and tried to persuade himself that, to the casual observer, he surely looked like a decorative triton. There was one problem in this camouflage however, worse than his missing tail and trident: namely the absence of any other triton on the brig’s keel. To tell the truth, Jack Sparrow felt rather like a starfish on the rocks after the ebb.
He raised his head and saw a big Y with remains of white paint. He looked to the left, in search of the inscription’s beginning. M… E… R… CURY. Jack snorted under his breath. Well, invention was not popular in the Company, contrary to avarice. It looked as though they had begun to save names too.
He moved on. The casement was just above the letters, separated by another quite comfortable parapet. He listened, and then peeped through the corner pane. It seemed there was no one in the cabin. He followed the window’s frame with his eyes. There was no need to use his dagger, the farthest sash was ajar. He checked himself. Most of seawater on his skin was already gone, but he squeezed yet a good half pint from his hair.
Slipping down from the broad windowsill to the deck, its planks warm under his bare feet, he surveyed the cabin. It spanned the stern’s entire width, but was not very deep. A half-drawn curtain hid a small alcove and its built-in bunk. The opposite wall was occupied by a cupboard with a glass paneled front. A sturdy table with three chairs and chests wedged under the windowsill left barely enough room to walk to the door. Jack put his ear to it.
All sounds came from afar and were muffled; the captain’s cabin was probably separated from the main deck by another cabin or corridor. There was silence on the upper deck, and some distant knocking or occasional footsteps below, in the brig’s huge belly. The quarterdeck was apparently deserted, the work going on below. The only distinguishable voices came from the main deck. A sharp tone receded and returned.
“Recall… around the camp… reports in every…”
The second voice seemed to throw in only hasty affirmations. Another one, more distant, interrupted, and the first two faded as they went below.
Jack turned from the door to the table. It was covered with maps, weighted at the edges by a pewter candlestick, a couple of mugs, and… Jack’s own pistol. Not touching it, he walked around the table.
Hispaniola was on the very top of the pile. The sea to the north and east of the island was crossed with a maze of pencil lines and coordinates. Next to the map, a pile of paper scraps with scribbled notes covered a sheet showing the outline of the bay with groups of numbers inside. Had they tried to sound the reef and lagoon? Jack picked up the mug placed on the map’s cartouche. The Company’s sign, again. He lifted the corner and the next. Jamaica, then Mexico with the Gulf’s basin… At the very bottom was a big sheet depicting the eastern half of Cuba and western coast of Hispaniola. Mercury’s Captain had the hand of a drunken fly dipped in rum, Jack decided irritably, squinting at the vague pencil marks.
He stooped to look under where the maps hung over the table. The drawer there wasn’t locked, probably because there was nothing interesting inside. Jack moved aside a worn compass and brass sextant, rummaging through sheets of clean paper, a bunch of quills, and a few sticks of red wax. He slid the drawer closed and looked again around the cabin.
The cupboard’s casement door was secured only by a simple latch, same as the lids of the wooden boxes piled inside. He opened one to a shining rainbow of cut glass goblets nestled in padded compartments. Another box was filled with silver spoons. Jack cursed his temporary lack of pockets.
Atop the cupboard sat an inkwell, a sandbox, a quill knife… A door below was flanked by drawers. He crouched and tugged the door’s knob. Closed. The lock wasn’t very complicated, as Jack judged some minute later, tucking the dagger back into its sheath at his ankle.
The opened cabinet revealed a heap of pewter and silver plates. The back wall was unexpectedly near. Jack tilted his head thoughtfully, and knocked on the wood. It resounded with a hollow tone. He traced the corners with his fingers, though with little hope. The lever opening the cache was probably hidden elsewhere. The nearest drawer yielded easily, showing a bunch of spare candles. Just in case, he fingered the drawer’s bottom and back wall, and then closed it. The next held only a leather-bound volume. Jack snatched it, opened, and grinned. Finally, the brig’s logbook.
He leafed through it, searching the early entries. London, over a year ago. Gibraltar, Accra… Three men and the foremast lost in a storm off the Cape… Two weeks in Cape Town and another try to round the Cape… A Portuguese privateer east of Madagascar, gave up the chase after two hours… Jack turned pages faster and faster, catching fragments of notes. The brig’s Captain did not always have good ink at hand, but at least he scribbled here more carefully than the maps. Bombay, three weeks… The cargo collected and safe. Apart from that terse notation, there was no more than a course registration, back south, under a date a half a year since. Two months later, an undisturbed passing round the Cape, the cargo still in good shape, then again two days in Cape Town. They were in haste…
“Ahoy, Mercury!”
Startled, Jack snapped the log shut. The hail came from somewhere at the stern. He crept up to the casement, hiding behind the frame. Almost out of his eyeshot, a narrow stern and a tiller bobbed on the water. The rest of the boat was hidden by the brig’s bulk, but the shadow on water was a single mast. He squinted and frowned. Over there, above the larboard side, did he see what he thought he saw? Could it be…?
“Ahoy, pinnace…” The Captain’s voice hesitated, as if in surprise, and then added: “In my cabin, now! Only you, Mr. Anderson, if you please.”
Jack was to the cupboard before the ‘now’ sounded. He shut the door and drawer with the log, and looked around frantically. The cramped cabin allowed few possibilities… The bunk? He jerked the curtain aside and raised his brows in surprise at finding not only a tousled bedding, but also a dark emptiness underneath. More than five inches left unused? That was unexpected, but well, all the better.
He squeezed in as far as possible, and drew the curtain. Then he lay flat to the planks, peeked under the fabric’s edge, and… his eyes widened at seeing why the niche had been empty. Under the table sat a wooden box the same length as the bunk; rolls of maps stuck out from its half-opened lid. Jack felt suddenly too warm in his hideout, probably due to his fervent hope the brig’s Captain wouldn’t bother to tidy up just then. Judging on the amount of dust he lay in, the hope was quite justified. His eyes watered as he tried to hold an impending sneeze, hearing quick steps and a clang of the door knob.
Some shuffling and knocking announced the maps and paperweights being moved. Then glass clinked. Jack clutched the noisiest parts of his hair, and carefully moved to where the gap under the curtain widened.
Hair tousled, breeches wrinkled and shirt disheveled, the brig’s Captain stood by the cupboard, filling a mug from a glass decanter with something appealingly amber-coloured. Apparently he had been sleeping through the hottest hours, and had been wakened with the news of captives’ escape. At the sound of more steps he turned toward the door.
“You had better have a bloody good reason,” he said in a sharp tone. He raised the mug to his mouth, while setting the decanter onto the table with a loud thump.
The incomer shut the doors behind him.
“It’s nice to see you as well,” he replied. The undisturbed calm in his voice was quite convincing, so long as one didn’t look at his fingers, tapping against guard of a small side sword. The hat in his other hand, soiled stockings, and dusty boots called to mind José’s mention of something about a dandy.
„The guests were impressed with the welcome, no doubt,” added the owner of worn splendor.
“It’s not me who’s a diplomat here.” The Captain waved his mug, annoyed.
“As we both know,” agreed the other in a tone that could be sold in place of silk.
The Captain seemed to ease a little. He slumped into a chair and eyed the mug he turned in his hands.
“Anderson,” he said wearily. “You getting lost for over four days - and I can assure you a day counts doubly in this damned wilderness - coming back bringing what we already have more than enough, in place of what you went for, and you expect fanfares? Who are they and what are they doing here?”
The light reflected in Anderson’s gray eyes, emphasizing his bony face, as he gazed toward the window. He seemed scraggy indeed, as José suggested. “Tools,” he said after a time. “They don’t need fanfares.” He looked at the Captain again. “So you have more than enough of those?” A fine thread of sarcasm now intertwined the silk.
“Witnesses,” the Captain snarled. “We don’t need more witnesses. We’ve barely enough men to patrol the forest. I can only hope they won’t overlook any random idler, including those on water. We took one boat only with an eighteen-pounder, three days ago. Have you any idea how far the retort carries?"
“Not as far as to Tortuga, I assure.”
“To the nearest unseen ears would be enough. Pray assure me rather that you know what you are doing. So far, I can see only two additional problems needing attention. Give me a reason why I should not get rid of them straightaway.”
“Because you can always do it later. For now, the tools can be useful.”
The Captain cursed under his breath and snatched up the decanter. This time, when he put it back, it thumped even louder. “No more than two hours ago I thought the same,” he hissed. “And now I have five men below, because the rest are running to and fro in the forest, bumping into trees and shooting at each other. Cause I begrudged rope for four nooses.”
Anderson lifted a brow. “Four?”
“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t return, and the only hope would be examining new captives. One straggler arrived today, so I left him for a more convenient time...”
Under the bunk, Jack managed to squeeze two inches deeper and tried to turn into a dust ball.
Anderson sighed and drew another chair. “The thief is dead,” he said, sitting down.
The Captain looked at him askew. “And the bad news?”
“That is the bad news.” Anderson dropped his hat onto the nearest sea chest.” The corpse was found in Tortuga, before I managed to find him alive, that is.”
For a long moment the Captain stared at the mug he held, frowning. “Speaking of Tortuga, isn’t there any-?”
“There is one horse trader. The thief didn’t contact him, at least recently. And yes, I’m sure,” Anderson added, seeing the Captain was about to speak. “For God’s sake, Walter, yes, I do know what I’m doing. I’m on this ship for some reason.”
He leaned back and crossed his arms. “However, it seems he contacted nearly half of Tortuga.”
The Captain looked around distractedly, maybe in search of his handkerchief, for having found nothing, he wiped his face with a slightly trembling hand. “Great…” he muttered. “Surely you’ll explain why said half of Tortuga isn’t dropping anchor beyond the reef and smashing us into splinters?”
“Oddly enough, it seems the thief didn’t mention us. Reportedly, he was searching for someone himself.”
“Searching?”
“Those two promise they know and are able to find this someone.” Anderson hesitated almost imperceptibly. “Anyway, now it’s the only clue.”
The Captain was silent for some time. Then he stood, went to the window, and opened it wide. He rubbed his face again. “Keep an eye on them,” he said, staring into the distance. “But every additional day is a risk. Dammit, Jonathan, every additional hour!” He glanced back at the cabin. “And that, um, horse trader…”
Anderson rolled his eyes. “Yes, I began to think about that, too. Forget it. The best horse on Tortuga is three guineas, and worth no more than one. It’s a gelding, roughly ten years old, and waxed with shoe blacking. After the first rain it’ll be a dun, and molted at that.” He sighed and turned toward the table. He took the nearest mug, looked into it dubiously, and reached for the decanter.
“I know De Villiers,” he said, pouring. “Maniac he is, but not a fool, not to such an extent. He had enough time to recover and realise that it won’t end with a gift and one or two, hmm, favours. They anticipated it, of course, so combined with the gift, he’ll get a polite message explaining there are ways for different views on him could begin to circulate in Versailles, lest he changed his mind. A threat of suspicion of high treason is supposed to work as a catalyst for real high treason. To quote what I was told when receiving orders in London, which I bloody hope to see again: Isn’t it artistic, Mr. Anderson?”
He drank, grimaced, and added: “This voyage is not as much diplomacy, as a demonstration of power.”
The Captain snorted and sat back on his chair. “So it seems London overestimated this power,” he huffed angrily. “The only thing we can demonstrate now is a keel leaking like a sieve, and an empty hold, less than a hundred miles from the goal!”
Anderson shrugged. “We could have lost the horse during any of the previous fifteen thousand.”
“If I had a choice, that would be easier to explain,” the Captain muttered. “How many times have I said one is too few?”
“Forgive me, I didn’t count. And it was not my decision.” Anderson took the decanter again. “This way or that, it boils down to we have no other choice. The governor will get his purebred kathiawari, hooves polished, tail braided, silver tack included, so he can nestle his French arse on mahogany and maroquin. That way he cannot find the least gap to wriggle out from the deal, a gap for which he’s currently seeking harder than anything in his life, I can assure you, Walter. He’ll get the kathiawari, brisk and bucking, or we can save London the effort, and deliver our heads on a tray straight off.”
He tossed his drink down, coughed, and added hoarsely: “Providing we’ll manage to get them out of here.”
The Captain snorted even louder. “Jonathan, talking rubbish after a couple sips sets new record for you. Do you remember where we are? Even in these parts, an alive horse is worth more than a dead one, but a saddle…? There has to be more fake shillings for two hundred miles, or livres, all the same. De Villiers may eventually get his saddle in taxes.”
Anderson fidgeted on his chair and mumbled, losing some of his ostensible stoicism for the first time. “That would be, uh, rather unfortunate turn of…”
The Captain scrutinized him suspiciously.
Anderson caught himself tapping his fingers on the tabletop and pressed his palm flat. “The saddle was an additional, um, precaution, in case I died en route and could not deliver London’s message in person.”
The Captain stared at him a long while. “Instead, unfortunately, you turned more proof than the beast,” he drawled finally. “At least against kidnappings.”
Anderson send him a sullen look. “There was a hidden compartment with a letter in the saddle’s front bow. It could be unlocked as long as one knows Latin.”
“How about unlocking as long as one knows saddles?”
“Uh, well, that cannot be counted out…”
The Captain was gradually taking an interesting shade of crimson. “Is there anything else I don’t know about?” he asked in a stony calm tone.
Anderson already looked as if his chair sprouted thorns. “Everyone has their orders!” he exploded. “And the Company’s arms are long!”
At last, the Captain moved his gaze away, and fixed it unseeingly at a bulkhead. “Here and now, we are the Company’s arms,” he said. “Let’s get the horse back, and I’ll haul anchor within the hour, with or without the saddle.”
The silence was broken by knock at the door.
“Sir?” a voice asked and the hinges creaked. Jack risked moving closer to the gap, but the door was still out of eyesight.
The Captain raised his head. “Ah, right. Put it over there.” He waved his hand.
“Yes, sir.” Something clinked, and the same voice added: “The cook begs to say that dinner for Mr. Anderson will be in-“
He was interrupted by a rapid thud of approaching steps.
“Captain!” A man shoved the steward off his way, then checked himself and stepped back onto the threshold. “Er, permissiontospeak, sir!” he threw out, nodding hastily. At the Captain's impatient grunt and a wave of hand, he continued, breathless. “Pumps... This time two... at once, sir! One has broken, the other... is clogged.”
The Captain cursed and frowned. “So what are you doing here, Mr. Sanders? Don't you all know your work?”
Sanders, wet to his thighs and smelling definitely bilge-like, shuffled his feet and coughed nervously. “The men, sir... They're sayin' that once we've one pump fixed, right away the other breaks, and, uh...”
“So fix the other too, dammit! You need a written order on a silver tray every time, or are you expecting commendations?” The Captain stared at him in astonishment.
Sanders backed a step. “Well, the men are sayin' that tools, uh, keep getting' lost. Uh, in water, I mean. They're sayin' the bay is cursed, with those, uh, dead uns down there. Ashee is sayin' that sooner or later the leaks will gush blood, and then we'll all be dead buggers as well. And he's swearin' he found... Yesterday, I mean... Swearin' that he found, uh, long hair in the slime...” His voice subsided little by little.
The Captain was silent a while, and then cursed fiercely. “Just what we needed...” he muttered. “Get below,” he ordered. “I'll be there directly.”
Jack, along whose calf something multipede had been crawling for some time, almost supported him aloud.
“And you're to warn them that if I find one empty-handed and idle, any curse will be the least of his worries!” The Captain growled, rising. “Carry on!”
“Yessir!” Sanders rushed out of the cabin, shoving the steward aside once more, judging by an outraged “Oi!”, leaving only a cloud of eau de bilgé in the air.
“Ashee? Ashvapal?” Anderson seemed surprised. He reached for his hat and rose from his chair, too. “You're keeping him still down there?”
“A groom without a horse is a useless ballast,” the Captain snapped. “Ah yes, my hat...” He turned back from the door.
Jack silently gave a rightful share of damnation both to him and the 'something' that just stopped on his knee and was considering its further course.
“And if not those ideas of his- how did it go? That the horse needs something familiar on back? -the saddle would be still in the cache!” The Captain gestured toward the cupboard.
“Nevertheless, the beast did calm down,” Anderson pointed out.
“Aye, just enough to allow a stranger! Where have I left my coat?”
The boots thudded past the bunk. Jack held his breath, shut his eyes tight, and tried to recall some gods which he possibly had yet to vex.
“Until we regain the horse, this damned heathen won't poke his nose above the gun deck, even if he has to seal leaks with his own rags, including that bloody turban of his.” The voice went away. Jack dared to open one eye.
“It's you who's supposed to know about Indians,” the Captain hissed, struggling into a heavily gilded coat. “Stop him from telling the men bullshit, or I can decide I also have one temporarily useless diplomat onboard.”
It was visible that Anderson clenched his teeth. He straightened and donned his hat. “And an agent of the East India Trading Company,” he said icily. “Do not forget it, Captain.”
The door slammed after them. The following silence lasted a whole minute. Then one very dusty pirate shot out from under the bunk, tangling in the curtain. He managed to get free, leapt to his feet, and surveyed his skin frantically. After the third attempt to see his own back, he surrendered and glanced anxiously to the door. Suddenly he stood still and grinned at the sight of a tray on a chair.
A golden roasted carcass, probably once a duck. Next to it was a small basket with bread and an opened bottle of wine. Jack glanced at the door again.
Some time later, he set it ajar to make the mysterious vanishing dinner apparently less mysterious. Two ship cats were already waiting at the threshold, eager to offer a helpful paw to the crime. Jack told them “Bon appétit”, gaining aggrieved glares from over the bare bones, took his pistol and climbed onto the windowsill.
***
Last wafts of a light breeze had died some time ago; the close air hovered over the sea’s surface. Lazy waves licked the sand a few yards from the pirate’s feet.
Sitting on a miniature beach, Jack stared at clouds rising from the horizon and absentmindedly wiped the flash pan of his pistol. Its other parts, along with a small powder box, laid on his sash, spread on the ground next to the recovered cutlass. The dagger was not the only thing Fred had overlooked. Jack had already checked to see the box was full and the powder dry.
The rock niche in which he harbored was framed by high cliffs; some two hundred yards of stone and deep water dividing it from the nearest land, he had made sure of that. It meant the weapon would need drying again in the near future, but he needed an occupation for his hands while his eyes wandered the horizon.
The obsession of Guillaume de Villiers, the ten-year governor of Port-au-Prince, was famous across the Caribbean. Rusty Hans had needed only a mug of rum to tell tales about the governor’s stables, his face as blissful, as if Heaven’s gate appeared. “Mangers of polished stone!” he said dreamily. “Pastures broader than the whole port!” “And bloody well guarded,” he added, in an expert tone, with a trace of regret. De Villiers’ ambition was to collect the bloodstock of every breed, equine aristocracy and elite of steeds. If all of a sudden he saw the prospect of… What did they say? Kahee… no, kathiawari. Maybe from the Mughal emperor’s stables, beyond the French reach? If a tenth of what one heard about De Villiers was true, he would drool first, and only then think about the price. The price? Oh, Your Excellency, it was just a little gift between gentlemen!
Few things are more costly than free gifts.
What could they demand? Oh, monsieur, we wouldn’t dare bothering you with anything important. You could perhaps discreetly point out to your brave corsairs that the Company’s ships are not rewarding targets with so many more Spanish ones around. Your Excellency could also turn a blind eye to one or another bay where we’ll moor a bit longer… and perhaps set a warehouse or three.
And a year later - four… forty warehouses, docks… more and more ships, more and more precise maps with the triple sign. Years would pass, and Versailles and Madrid would begin to talk about a war, the war that London planned from the beginning.
“It’s just good business,” a voice from the depth of his memory whispered. Jack lowered his eyes to the barrel gripped in his hand. He lifted it and checked its clearance.
That Ashee was right, he thought. The bay already ran with blood, and there would be more. Eighteen-pounders… From the beach he had counted ten gun ports on the larboard. The guns to starboard, toward the reef, he had seen as he climbed the stern, their lids open. They were terrified enough to keep the guns at the ready all the time.
Anamaria often supplied Jorge with fish, he recalled.
Metal and wood clinked softly as he reassembled the pistol. Then he gathered his clothes from where he had spread them on boulders. He threw them against the rock-walled niche’s farthest side, and lay down on the makeshift bedding, covering himself with his coat. He guessed the brig’s crew would give up the chase by night, but there was at least an hour yet to twilight.
He stared gloomily at the sea, listening to the first heavy drops of rain. His every hair raised and blood boiled at the thought of what he was going to do. Why it was every encounter with the East India Trading Company made him do things unthinkable for a self-respecting pirate?
He shut his eyes.
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Footnote
This handsome one’s name is Chetak, inherited after a historical Indian warhorse, and he was the winner of the Best Kathiawari Stallion in 2004, 2005, and 2006. As you can see, he did me also the honour of posing as the Horse’s portrait here. Of course, I say it only for Jack’s enlightenment, cause you knew already who the Horse is, reading about his curly ears. ;)
The next part
Your thoughts most welcomed, as always. :)