POTC gift exchange fic - "Monsieur! Monsieur!"
Title: “Monsieur! Monsieur!”
Rating: PG
Characters: Gov. Swann/Captain Chevalle (SLASH - I'm not warning you twice), Murtogg, Mullroy, others mentioned
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters nor turn a profit from their portrayal; just tricks.
Summary: Slight deviation of canon events during AWE. Written for the prompt: I would like an old-fashioned (gentleman) pirate kidnapping, with the Governor treated as a reluctant captive and guest aboard the fancy ship. Manlove happens. Do not want: Elizabeth/Jack, Will/Jack, Barbossa anything. Also Norrington/Beckett. I do like Jack/Norrington and Elizabeth/Norrington or Beckett. No harsh violence or SM situations. For lolitalockhart in the 2009 merrypirates challenge. (Happy holidays!)
A/N: Thanks to betas gryphons_lair and metalkatt for their corrections and suggestions. Any other errors are my own. This is something a bit different for me, so I hope you like it. :-)
Chick hated boats. Boats and ships. He ignored the goods they delivered and concentrated on the destruction they brought, instead, the upset to people’s lives.
Like his life. At the age of five, his beloved Aunt Bessie had been taken from him in a sinking ship. When Chick was nine, his older brother, Phineas, was killed by French sea robbers while trying to help the navymen guarding him defend their vessel. The following year, he’d barely escaped his own death when his father had had to keep the family behind from traveling abroad on the King’s important business because Chick’s sister, Penelope, was deathly ill - she survived, but the ship they would have been aboard, did not, thanks to Spanish buccaneers. The final straw was when he was seventeen, when his dear papa drowned while traveling - the official story was that he’d been swept over the side in a storm, while still out on deck, but since there’d been no storm the day in question in that ship’s part of the ocean (though this was never said aloud in the court, only in hushed circles and among sailors in their cups), it was far more probable that dear papa had been in his cups and fallen overboard while the navymen were busy at work and unable to monitor foolish citizens aboard their vessel. Chick neither disputed nor confirmed this thought, since he knew his father had loved his liquor, but would not say or hear a word against the mild, sweet old man; though it hardly mattered, since all he knew was that his father was gone because of a ship and the sea.
However, because he came into his majority and the family fortune only a few years later, Chick understood he would need to step aboard ships to be an effective representative of the Crown - and so, he made a conscious decision and heroic effort to bury his resentment of both ocean and the floating palaces and hovels upon it. It was made easier with the fripperies of his station; what with concentrating on the wigs and buckles and frocks, as well as the treaties and diplomacies and courtesies and political intrigues, he could forget Chick the apprehensive boy and settle eventually, instead, into the weightier Weatherby Swann, Representative of the Crown … and eventually, Governor of the Colony of Jamaica.
That is, until he too nearly died at sea.
****
The pair kept stealing glances at one another while pretending to keep an attentive ear to the Governor. For his part, Swann kept commenting on anything in his visual range as Murtogg rowed. He was not insensible to their wandering attention, but they were all playing the game of Obey Beckett, and in this case there was nothing to do but keep to his part for now.
Finally, Murtogg stopped rowing, just beyond what seemed a wall of fog. The Endeavor was still visible, but only as an indistinct shape in the distance, behind another wall of fog. Swann suspected the mid-morning mist covered everything, including them - it just seemed clear in this one spot because he could see the gray-blue sky well enough. He quieted, looking around, decidedly not thinking of the boy Chick, who would’ve likely been rightly terrified at the prospect of being on the ocean in only a longboat with his family luck. After a few minutes, when he figured the marine had taken a long enough rest, he asked, “I say, aren’t we supposed to be heading somewhere? Beckett did say there was something to which I needed to attend.”
The pair exchanged glances, looking no less miserable than they had during the rowing. Then, the fat one - Mullroy, Swann managed to remember - replied. “Sorry, Governor … this is as far as we’re to go.” He glanced at Murtogg at the “we’re,” then apologetically back to Swann for the last bit.
Swann looked to Murtogg as well, then between them as the skinny one took up the verbal bar. “What he’s saying is that … that is, Lord Beckett …” He fidgeted and steeled his jaw. “Begging your pardon, sir - but could you maybe turn around, like?”
“Turn-?” He realized what this was about, and sat up straighter. “I will not.” Truth told, he’d halfway expected this, though he had been proud enough to think it would take Beckett himself - or perhaps Norrington, now the most miserable admiral Swann had ever spied - to put his life at an end. Not two functionaries. “I won’t make this easier for your consciences … such as they are, if you pull that trigger.” He was eyeing the pistol Murtogg had drawn from inside his red coat, then squinting up at the both of them, setting his teeth together behind closed lips. Mullroy’s rifle was halfway down, as if he were undecided. Neither looked particularly eager to have done. “Gentlemen,” Swann appealed, modulating his voice, “Truly - is this what you feel is right and correct?”
Mullroy shook his head, lips pursed and eyes closed. “It’s not up to us what’s right. We’re marines, and we take orders.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“That’s right,” Murtogg nodded. “We carry out His Majesty’s orders. It’s not our place to know what ought and ought not to be executed.” He winced a little at the word.
“But did the order really come from the King?” Swann questioned, cocking an eyebrow. “How can you be certain? Was it one of your military superiors who gave the order?” He thought quickly. “Was it Admiral Norrington?” He put on his most disappointed, skeptical face, the one he used on Elizabeth when trying to convey deep disapproval. “Gentlemen, I find it difficult to believe the Admiral would have ordered such a thing, and more that His Majesty would countenance it. Why, under my governorship, pirates have been cut in half in the waters of Jamaica and her surrounds!”
“We were ordered by Lord Beckett,” Murtogg firmly replied.
Mullroy, though, looked doubtful. “Are his orders the King’s?” he asked his fellow marine. “I mean, why do we have both him and the Admiral charged with our command, then?”
“He had a proclamation,” Murtogg replied. “Signed and everything. I saw it,” he added, defensively.
“Ohhhh,” Mullroy intoned, and Murtogg sighed. “So no thing you saw could possibly be anything other than what it appears to be? Did you see the signature being signed? Do you know beyond doubt that the King himself did it? Were you there watching?”
“Well, of course not,” Murtogg answered. “Did you see me gone for three months to England? I saw the document, and the signet in wax.”
“So how do you know he made that mark?” The rifle was straight up again, held in check.
“Same way I know Mr. Shakespeare wrote all them plays,” Murtogg lobbed back, his pistol down. “It’s written down. Not just everybody can write, you know.”
Mullroy was warming to the argument. “Aye, but how do you know he didn’t just copy them off of another bloke who could write words?”
Swann understood the longer he didn’t draw attention, the longer he stayed alive, but he was fairly certain it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t - these two had to go back to Beckett, and if three returned instead of two, he was certain all three of them would end up swimming with fishes. He wondered if there was any way he could persuade them to swim back and leave him the longboat, when sloppy little waves began rocking the boat, nearly turning it on one side, then the other. Swann held to the plank of his seat; the redcoats grabbed the sides of the boat, their firearms and debate forgotten.
“Wot was that?” they stage-whispered in unison.
*****
“Captain!” the helmsman called across the ship’s deck, in French. (Ed.- Because you, dear reader, may not read fluent French, please allow me to humbly translate all correspondence into the more widely used English, brute as that Germanic tongue may be.) “Captain, there’s a boat! Just visible in the fog!”
Captain Chevalle frowned, covering the distance to the helm in short order. “A ship? How close are we?” he asked in mild alarm. The worst thing about thick fog is its cloak rendered even the most innocuous objects dangerous by imminent collision.
“No, Captain.” Louis shook his head. “A boat.” He leaned over the rail, pointing down.
Less than half a knot in the distance was a longboat with three figures. Chevalle gestured for a spyglass and focused it, finding two of the trio had guns trained - or close to - on the third. He saw them in profile, noting while all three were bewigged, only one wore a fine-looking tumble of dark silver curls. The older gentleman’s coat, coupled with his wig, suggested some wealth, while the other men’s coats and armaments seemed military. Though he scanned the horizon, he could see no parent ship for the sailors - yet, he knew it had to be there.
However, if he couldn’t see a Royal Navy ship through the fog, chances were they couldn’t see him. This, coupled with the prospect of a rich ransom to offset his unexpected, unprofitable summons to Shipwreck Cove, was irresistible to a penniless French pirate lord. The fact the two redcoats appeared ready to fire on his quarry meant little for Chevalle’s intentions - that someone wanted the man dead did not mean somebody else would not pay dearly for his comparatively safe return. He collapsed the spyglass and turned to his helmsman. “Louis, take us closer. I will investigate this intriguing prey.”
“Captain, apologies, but would we not be better off lowering a longboat and sending that instead?”
Chevalle shook his own bewigged head. “I wish to make a show of force such that my intent cannot be mistaken, nor my orders refused. Simply get us a bit closer; I’ll see to the trim of the sails.”
*****
The ship emerged from the fog, and Swann had a twinge of fear as the little longboat rocked even harder. When he spotted the expressions on his assassins’ faces, however, he took heart. They were even more distressed, which meant this wasn’t part of their plan.
On the other hand … even if they had effectively given up on murdering him, they were obviously clueless about how to protect him. Before he could decide how he felt about this impossible situation, a heavily accented voice cut into their silence, high from the ship: “Halt!” (Well, that was needless, Swann thought. There isn’t an oar in your sight, and that rifle won’t row.) “I am Captain Jean-Michel Chevalle! Who am I addressing?”
Nobody said anything for a few seconds. Then, inexplicably, Murtogg piped up, “Here, now! That’s no way to speak to the Gov- OOF!”
Swann had kicked one ankle and was gratified to see Mullroy had similarly damaged the man’s other foot. “What’s the-” Murtogg began to protest, but Swann cut him off, sotto voce. “Quiet! He’s after a prisoner for ransom,” he hissed.
The man looked to Mullroy for help, but the large man shrugged. “‘Fraid he’s right, mate.” He suddenly looked inspired, and raised his voice to address the French captain. “We’re in the King’s service - brothers, that is, stationed together! And this here’s our father, on a visit from home!” He grinned. “Old man finally saved up enough scratch after nearly twelve years, to pay his sons a proper visit!”
“Ahh,” the Frenchman said agreeably. “Tell me, is it custom in your family to take your elders out away from the rest, and threaten their lives?”
“Well …” Mullroy visibly thought that over.
“Allow me to make you a bargain, gentlemen!” the Frenchman called. “I’ll take your beloved … father, off your hands, and you row back to your superiors and tell them you were usurped by a fearsome pirate crew!”
Murtogg leaned over to Mullroy. “Well, I’m not doing that,” he muttered. For a moment, Swann thought they meant to shield him - fight to the death, as it were, and his heart swelled with pride in the two young men - until Mullroy nodded and replied, “Right enough. We’ll be strung up as it is for going weak at the last minute shooting him. Better to not say exactly how he’s dispatched.” The two looked to Swann.
For a moment, he couldn’t speak, out of shock. “Are you seriously urging me to consent to being abducted?” he sputtered, trying to remember to keep his voice low. He leaned forward to drop it. “I won’t allow it!”
“It’s either that, or we shoot or bayonet you, Guv,” Murtogg pointed out. He looked immediately ashamed. “Sir.”
“Aye, and dump your body in for the fish,” Mullroy added, nodding. His hound-like features seemed genuinely sad. “We don’t, and get you back to Beckett, he’ll like as not order all three of us killed.”
“And then what would be the point of escaping this pirate here?” Murtogg put in. “Least this way, you’ll get to stay alive.”
“For a while,” Mullroy agreed. Murtogg shot him a frown, and he dropped his eyes, abashed. “Apologies.”
Swann cleared his throat, trying to think practically. He adjusted his wig and sat up straight. “It is extremely likely he recognizes my accoutrements as having no small value, and wishes to try to ply my government or family for ransom.” He looked between the two hangdog redcoats and thought of lecturing them their cowardice - then sighed. Not everybody could be Elizabeth, after all, hanging good sense for strong feeling, no matter the recipient. “You have showed mercy in not carrying out your orders before now,” he credited, “despite having ample time to do so. I suppose I owe you some thanks for that much loyalty.” He sighed, thinking of all the death warrants he signed. “Especially when I may have not fared as well.”
Murtogg smiled a little. “Cheer up, sir - it looks like a right fancy ship.”
Mullroy was checking out the hull. “Aye,” he agreed. “No barnacles as I can see, or anything.”
Swann doubted this was the pleasure cruise he’d been imagining for his post-governorship. Still … “If we make this too easy, he won’t think anybody wishes to pay my ransom,” he hissed to the two, in the same low tone they’d all been using. “So you two had better make at least a show of putting up a defense or-”
He was interrupted by several clicks and some squeaking, and a great grating sound. They all looked up to see a few snipers at the rail, cocking pistols and rifles toward the longboat, and the swivel of a canon being pointed in their direction. A lone pirate was lowering the bo’sun’s chair, and the pesky French captain regarded his operation and those executing it with a fond smile as he looked around.
“Or not,” Swann finished, not even looking at the two marines with him.
“Please!” Chevalle was calling with great cheer and authority. “Be my guest, fine sir! I promise you top-quality accommodations during your sojourn on my quaint vessel, and you shall not be harmed!” He paused. “And then your ‘sons’ will be free to go, unmolested! I give my word as a gentleman - which is undoubtedly more than you can say for whomever has their command!”
*****
In protest, Swann said nothing once aboard the French ship, looking around instead and making a show of observing his environment. The captain caught on quickly, and rather than take offense or make a demonstration of authority for the benefit of his crew by punishing Swann, he commanded a couple of younger men to take the prisoner - “Guest,” was the term he used, or rather, the French equivalent (Ed.- Which Swann could understand, having been fluently schooled in three languages as a boy - but never fear, dear reader, will keep things in that dreadful English for you) - to his new quarters. He pretended he hadn’t understood what was said, and dawdled along, adopting his best “fumbly old man” act, though once he got going, he followed easily enough, not wanting to give these pirates any reason to abuse him - Jack Sparrow might be mostly harmless, but he couldn’t count on the majority of such scoundrels to be similarly inclined.
His cabin - most likely the First Mate’s, turned over as a cell for the duration - was quite comfortable for a floating flophouse. It was nothing compared to accommodations aboard a naval ship of the line, but the bunk was long enough to suit his legs and wide enough to turn his girth in slumber. Rather than scarred wood furniture softened by brine that he would’ve expected, the small table was sturdy enough and covered with a clean cream-colored cloth showing tiny stitching at the edges, which nearly brushed the planked floor into which the table base was secured. The chairs were a grayish wood, finely carved and set with lightly padded cushions for comfort; a small bookshelf of similar wood was set into one wall, with stylish latticework slats hammered across the lower part of each of the three recesses to secure their tomes during turbulence, painted in a gray-pink. A tall, very skinny wardrobe was jammed between one corner of the bunk’s simple headboard and the wall; when Swann opened it to peer around, he noted metal fastenings at the back panel which suggested it, like the table and bookshelf, was also secured.
For that evening and the next morning’s breakfast and luncheon, he was brought food and dined in the cabin. None of the pirates attending him offered him a turn up on deck; in fact, they barely spoke, sticking to few-word phrases of their language that they figured a child might understand. He was surprised by their politeness in not chatting to one another about him in front of him, but still endeavored to look as friendly and clueless as possible at their simplest communications. He took down a few books and paged through before finding one to occupy him near the sunlit porthole.
The second evening, he was escorted to the captain’s cabin. The ceiling was, by necessity, no higher than his own cabin’s, but it was the explosion of color and the sheer volume of stuff that made the place really seem cramped and close. Swann blinked his eyes, trying to adjust - and simultaneously keep his mouth from hanging open - at the glittering of gold and silver chains and jewelry ornaments hanging here and there reflecting candlelight. Sumptuous, slinky silks in white and gold and blue draped the walls and furniture, what looked like real feather pillows covered in all hues of bright fabrics piled the bunk, and a soft multicolored rug yielded beneath his buckled shoes - he could feel the plush even through the soles.
Unable to help himself, he was moved to speak. “I say …” he trailed off, then came to attention at a small, soft chuckle. Focusing his eyes among all the dazzle, he finally noticed Captain Chevalle standing near one of the two portholes, all trim neatness and buckled refinery even in clothes that looked perhaps a generation old - and worn. The man had powdered his wig and his face into a mild pallor, his hands behind his back, perhaps clasped as he regarded his guest.
“It is good to see that you are not mute, in fact,” he said with no small humor, in English. “I do not often get to enjoy conversation while at sea, with men of similar tastes and style, and I would so hate to forego it with one of the few I have met in a very long time.”
Swann said nothing, simply draped his own arms behind his back, waiting. He did, however, manage to observe the larger table Chevalle had, loaded as it was with small platters of sliced meat, others with tiny cakes and tarts, and an elaborate copper tea service. The chairs were outfitted with even plumper cushions. Since his host was not moving and he was not moving, and there was a good chance they’d still be standing here for the baby Christ’s birthday - and he really wanted to be ransomed back to his sister and her husband sooner rather than later - he finally spoke again. “That seems a fancy feast for a buccaneer craft and crew, is it not?”
“Please! Captain Chevalle has only the finest French chef in his galley. Francois could make a plate of cakes from old sharks and sail thread!” He beamed. “Of course, he could also prepare a magnifique shark’s fin chowder, as well … which, admittedly, would be far easier than little cakes.”
Despite himself, Swann smiled at the little joke. “Tell me, when will you be making your ransom demand? I wish to set down the name of those to petition so you may contact them quickly; their home is quite a distance from this part of the Atlantic.” And getting further away if the position of the sun to our movement has been anything to go by, he thought.
“What? Are you so tired of your sojourn aboard my fine vessel already?”
The Frenchman actually sounded offended, and for one rare instance, Swann’s diplomacy deserted him. “I- That is, I am not- Well,” he finally stammered to a stop, thinking. “I’m not at all certain how to answer that.”
Chevalle moved to the table and gestured at one of the plumped chairs. “Sit. Try the pastries and fish; see if they do not rival your King’s finest chefs.” As they both sat, he leaned forward and made as if to whisper. “It will be good to have a gentleman of refinement at my table for a change, one who obviously knows his fine cuisine.” He dropped a pointed glance to Swann’s midsection.
“Now, here! I say!” For the second time, Swann’s diplomacy deserted him, though it did nothing to leave him speechless again. “Most impertinent, sir! You call yourself a gentleman,” he lightly scoffed.
“A gentleman I am,” Chevalle nodded. “of Fortuna herself, truly the harshest mistress behind Calypso when she is in full flower. But,” he added, holding his hands out in conciliatory fashion, “should you take my intended compliment as an insult, I shall apologize terribly and refrain from engaging in further observation upon same.” While Swann tried to puzzle out if he’d been patronized or assuaged, Chevalle busied himself pouring tea, adding a dram of something from the bottle to each cup, and heaping an assortment of food on a plate for Swann.
Their talk over the next hour was of inconsequentials - sailing, shipping, the weather, storms, shipbuilding, royal gossip, and the goodness of their feast. When it was time to depart and Swann was busying himself with brushing crumbs from his fingers, Chevalle finally asked, “My manners are atrocious, forgive me; I should have asked at the commencement of this delightful evening. What, sir, is your name?”
He’d figured out this answer early yesterday afternoon, grateful at the time he’d not been pressed on the matter to that point. “Charles Riverton,” he half-lied, being sure to look up and meet Chevalle’s eyes squarely, as the most basic of negotiation tenets demanded. “My brother is Malcolm Riverton, Duke of Stepfordshire.”
“Ahh,” Chevalle nodded casually, but Swann didn’t miss the gleam of avarice in his eye. “And what is your title, pray?”
Swann shrugged. “Merely a younger son who chose the diplomatic service to keep a modest home and family.”
“And your wife and children?” Chevalle’s lips twitched. “Your ‘sons?’”
Those poor, well-meaning fools, he thought of the two redcoats. “She passed on some years ago, God rest her soul. My daughter is Captured by pirates? Betrothed to a tradesman? In love with a cur-dog of a pirate? Turning tricks to survive? Turning pirate because she wants to? DEAD!? an adult, and under another man’s protection.” I wonder if she managed to find Turner. He’ll keep her well, if so. The thought comforted him, as he knew she could protect herself - but ability to physically fend of attackers was not the only trial of life, and certainly not the most demanding of a fit partner.
With no more questions and an elaborate kissing of cheeks - “I must grant you two on each side, as I neglected to greet you properly!” the captain insisted at parting - Swann was escorted back to his cabin. He surreptitiously swiped at his face every so often, trying to get the feel of powder and grease off; he was mostly successful. At removing the long-forgotten touch of lips upon his person, he was not.
*****
He counted another fortnight spent in this same basic fashion: in the cabin during the day, and meal with Chevalle at night. To this was added one or two daily constitutionals up on deck, as it quickly became clear Swann would not be taking over the ship with a stolen cutlass, or leaping to his noble death to escape imprisonment. He asked the proper questions about ship parts and jobs, still pretending bewilderment at any French, for he wished to keep that particular skill a secret. So far, he hadn’t heard much that helped him in that native tongue, but he’d learned early in his career that it sometimes took decades to figure out some motives - surely a matter of weeks wasn’t too much to try to ascertain why Chevalle was moving further south despite the lure of a handsome ransom in Britain.
Besides, that, coupled with figuring out once again how to attend his own toilet and dressing, gave him something to focus on instead of a possibly dead child.
Finally, after yet four more days, he broke down and asked, since he knew the sooner he was home, the sooner his sister, Penelope, and Malcolm could employ forces to find and recover Elizabeth. “Unfortunately, a higher duty summons me,” Chevalle explained. Swann didn’t miss the likely-deliberate roll of his eyes. “I cannot refuse nor be tardy. Rest assured you will reach your destination and I will have my … reward, for same.”
The journey was very much a “hurry up and wait” broken occasionally by storms, roiling waves, and two instances of barely escaping capture by a navy vessel - all of which required the prisoner ordered to his quarters, with or without his cooperation. Swann bit his tongue when Chevalle bragged later about outfoxing the authorities, smiling weakly and nodding, pretending to listen - but only attentive for details which might give him a clue to what was going on or even Elizabeth’s fate. (He knew it was a long-shot that any part of this experience would result in news of his daughter, but at his age he knew news and aid could sometimes come from the unlikeliest sources. It was how he’d begrudgingly viewed Jack Sparrow, after all, until the man literally issued Elizabeth’s death warrant.)
Swann didn’t lose track of time, but he did allow the days to blend together after a while, dimly aware at any given time how many weeks they’d been at sea. As he had with Sparrow at one time, he came to see Chevalle and his pirates were basically driven by simple greed and loathing of outside authority, not homicidal rage. He seemed offended when Swann asked after the safety of the people he and his crew had assaulted over the years. “We do not kill for sport,” he sniffed. “We do not devalue human life - but neither will we suffer others to deprive us of ours.”
“But don’t you think the fact you’re depriving people of the valuables they’ve worked to accrue, or their liberty by disabling their ship, or … or taking their women-” Here, Swann made a most distasteful countenance -“should arouse anger within, and a desire to protect?”
Chevalle rattled off a string of most ungentlemanly cursing in French, then shot down half a glass of the wine he’d been nursing after dinner. “Work? Those who hold the bulk of the wealth never did a day’s honest work in their lives, Charles! They are the generational rich, or fat from the labors of others - others who deserve a larger share of what they’re not getting!”
“So that means you don’t keep any of what you capture,” Swann dryly challenged. “You donate it to widows and orphans, is that correct?”
Chevalle’s scowl deepened. “Actually, much of it, the men do send to their families. One must take care of one’s own. Perhaps they then choose to share with their neighbors in need back at that home, if there is enough to go around.” He smirked. “We do not keep it all for liquor and whores, no. Also, it is quite rare that we destroy a ship or do not see to the eventual safety of our survivors. As for defiling anyone, my Articles clearly demand no conquest of ours shall be unwilling recipients of the attentions of any of us, from me down to the cabin boy. If they are, we respect their denial.” He inclined his head toward Swann. “I have not pressed myself upon you, after all.”
“Beg pardon?” He was confused.
Chevalle sipped his wine with a little cat smile, letting his eyes briefly rake his prisoner. There’s nothing confusing about that! Swann realized, face suddenly hot, stomach uncomfortable. “I am not bound by the laws of your society or your churches,” the pirate captain calmly pointed out. “There is very little use to exposing yourself to the censure and danger of piracy if you’re not going to enjoy the hard-won benefits from time to time in the … manner, of your desire.”
“I assure you, sir, the regard is not mutual,” Swann calmly replied, indignant.
“Is it not?” Chevalle made a small, regretful sound and crossed his legs. “A terrible pity. You know we French are naturally, extensively schooled in the art of amour.” The last word rolled off his tongue lengthily, accompanied by a salacious wink.
A schooled diplomat, Swann said nothing, concentrating instead of stirring more sugar into his tea. He was grateful when after a long silence, Chevalle moved on to another topic of discussion.
He was not so grateful later, alone in his tiny borrowed cabin, when the words and expressions refused to leave his mind. “Imagine!” he muttered to himself, pacing, stopping to scowl every so often. “Thinking I would be amenable to such things! How could he even presume so much?”
Swann wasn’t stupid; he knew these things went on between men, even in polite society, though they were buried beneath layers of masks such as societies, clubs, holidays, “hunts,” and the like. When he’d first accidentally learned of it as an older boy, he’d been properly disgusted and vowed never to think on it again. Unfortunately, as with most rigid beliefs, the sharp edges of disapproval and repulsion had been eroded by time and the realization that the world held a multitude of genuine evils demanding attention instead. While he hadn’t been a complete monk since his wife’s death a dozen years ago, he had been very discreet and kept such rare pleasures with the opposite sex. It had never occurred to him to seek the attentions of another man - though to say he had never been curious would be inaccurate.
He didn’t think long on any of this before his mind came back to the ever-present worry for Elizabeth. Possibly he was concerned over nothing - after all, she would have certainly been no safer in the Crown’s keeping, not under Beckett and his command of the navy and marines - but it angered him that he couldn’t protect his only child. Nor had he comported himself in a manner of which she would likely have approved, following her escape. The memory of the scores of death warrants he had signed nagged constantly at the back of his conscience - certainly there were some miscreants who had deserved the noose. But not all. Certainly not the child he’d witnessed the day he’d finally set aside the quill and angrily informed Beckett he would no longer be a party to such atrocities.
Which, he ruefully remembered, was right before they’d all set sail. Beckett had been far too accommodating and sympathetic of Swann’s resignation of ordering executions; he should have suspected the little knob had murder in mind.
Frustrated, Swann kicked out, the toe of his buckled shoe connecting with the post forming the doorway of his cabin. The shock reverberated through his body, and it left a scuff on the fine leather - but damn, it felt good. Gritting his teeth, he kicked again. And then several more times.
*****
He had been nearly five months at sea, living mostly in borrowed finery, when Chevalle informed him they would be anchoring at his destination. The weather had gotten colder, then warmer, but not as warm again as in the Caribbean. Swann had no idea of their location, even though he was allowed to still come up on deck. Greeting him was the sight of dozens and dozens of beached and wrecked watercraft piled upon one another, forming two messy, broad spires of spars and jibs and planking. Around this were anchored a few warships and several lighter, smaller ships, teeming with men - and he was sure he spotted a couple of women, though he couldn’t be certain.
Kept aboard and told nothing of the nature of this bizarre nautical salon, Swann reached for yet another book that afternoon. He’d gone through nearly all in his small cabin, hoping he’d be back with his sister before he had to start over. Chevalle wasn’t a bad host - quite the opposite, a charming and genteel enough fellow given his criminality - but Swann missed land, and there were too many uncomfortable moments when he felt a little too friendly toward his political enemy.
A merry Chevalle himself retrieved him for dinner that evening, leading him to his cabin. There was a veritable feast being laid out upon his table by jolly-looking crewmen; Swann surmised by how the quality of the food had dropped off in the last couple of months, compared to the richness of what he now saw, that it had been carried aboard from whatever passed for land around this “Shipwreck Cove.” Humming a tune, Chevalle twisted open a dark bottle and liberally filled two glasses, sliding one to Swann. “We shall celebrate!” he exclaimed. “For tomorrow we may die!”
“WHAT?” Swann cleared his throat, but didn’t apologize for his outburst. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, I was not always in favor of the idea,” Chevalle explained, beginning somewhere in the middle and forgetting the beginning, taking a long drink. “No freeman certainly wishes to die, after all. But consideration and cogitation brought me around to the necessity of the concept.”
“How are we supposed to die, precisely?” He didn’t try to keep the edge of anger from his voice.
“It is the command of our King, that we might do so in the event of battle upon the morrow.” Chevalle took another long sip. “Teague advised we should finish with the Company as quickly as possible, to send a message of strength.”
“You obey a king?” Swann asked, incredulously. “His name is Teague?” Even when worried, he tried to amass information.
“The Pirate King is duly elected by majority rule,” Chevalle informed him archly. “It’s all very democratic, like the Greeks. Like my ship!” He drank deeply. “And not Teague. Her name’s Swann. A slip of a thing, and barely out of diapers, I’d wager. Still, furious and with a vengeful gleam of the eye that most foolish Frenchman could not help falling in love with.” He winked. “Drink up!”
Stunned first by monarchy among outlaws, then gender and name, Swann reached for his glass and obeyed, barely tasting the strong brandy that flowed down. When he set it down, it was nearly empty. Chevalle’s eyes widened appreciatively, and he leaned forward, lifting the bottle to refill it. “I say, man, that’s impressive, given your previous fondness for tea.” He glanced up at Swann, then did a double-take. “Good God, Charles, you’re paler than me! What is it?”
He cleared his dry throat. “What- What is this King’s first name? Did she give it?”
“And easy enough to recall, too - Elizabeth, like your country’s long-departed Virgin Queen.”
“Describe her! Was she short? Tall? Fair-haired?”
“I would … except I have the distinct impression I have no need to,” Chevalle slowly answered, watching his prisoner drain half a glass more. “Why don’t you describe her to me?” Swann did so, quickly sketching a verbal portrait. Chevalle nodded, a speculative gleam in his dark eyes. “Yes, yes … I believe that’s the lady.”
“Oh!” He couldn’t help clapping a hand to his mouth - in joy or horror, he didn’t know. How in the world did my girl get to be head of the Brethren? “Did she seem well? Is she injured in any way?”
Chevalle calmly took up the bottle, refilled both their glasses to the top, set it down, picked up his glass, and leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “Before I share that information, I would like some from you. What is your real name?”
“We have been over this long ago, Captain,” Swann countered. His head was beginning to fuzz, from a combination of liquor, indignation, massive relief, and still a touch of worry in his unanswered questions. “I wish to be returned to my home; why would I lie about my family name?”
“I do not doubt for a moment that the Duke of Stepfordshire would pay a great deal to recover you, as family,” Chevalle shook his head. “But I have a very deep feeling that someone else, in a position of authority more relevant to my interests, might be even more inclined to secure your release.”
For once, Swann lost his temper, slamming his fist on the table. “You will not use me against my daughter!”
Chevalle laughed. “I might well do just that - Governor,” he added, slyly. “Or not. It would seem Sparrow has both aided me, and put me on the horns of a great dilemma. Not for the first time,” he added, sounded rueful.
“Jack Sparrow?” Chevalle nodded. “What has he to do with this?”
“It was his deciding vote that made Captain Swann our leader.” He proceeded to explain about the Chinese pirate Sao Feng, and how Elizabeth had inherited the ship, and briefly about the election process.
Now that he knew she was alive, Swann could be worried about other things. “Did he - did Sparrow vote her king because he …” He couldn’t finish.
To his surprise, Chevalle looked most sympathetic. “While it I would find it difficult for any man not to be in love with Mademoiselle, at least a little, my suspicion is that like his father, Sparrow is really more interested in being the hand behind the throne, than in sitting on it. He collects political favors as you might wigs or shoes.” He thought a moment. “Although, being a governor, you might well also collect such favors.”
Swann took a drink to steady his suddenly relieved nerves. “I understand the principle of reciprocity,” he murmured, hating to admit that he had anything in common with that reprobate.
“It would seem the acorn does not fall far from the magnificent tree in this case,” Chevalle explained. “She was very angry over the news that had reached her of your untimely, unfair demise at the hands of the East India Company. Of course, we only learned her motives after she stopped yelling at Sparrow about sending her young man off to the same Company bastard who oversaw your murder … I didn’t quite understand all of it.” He waved a hand, airily. “I do not involve myself in others’ domestic disputes.”
Will. Though not nearly as great a concern as Elizabeth, the boy had been on Swann’s mind once in a while. The fact she was upbraiding the pirate on Turner’s behalf hopefully meant she hadn’t fallen into the scoundrel’s bed - or been forced into it. He admitted he had questions about her time alone on a tiny island with Sparrow nearly two years ago, but he’d never been able to bring himself to ask her about it, and she’d seemed far too in love with the blacksmith to be dreaming of running off with real pirates again. Swann drank yet more, now vastly relieved compared to his mental state for the past half-year, ignoring the pleasant numbness inching into his limbs. “I need to see her,” he told Chevalle. “I should let her know as soon as possible that I am very much alive.”
“Well, not right away,” the captain refused, holding up one finger, then two, enumerating. “For one, my payment is not secured; for two, I have no wish to get in the way of a woman’s vengeance, and besides, if we are going to have to face this Beckett and the Company sooner or later, I’d rather it be sooner when Calypso is still freshly indebted to us for her release.”
This reminded Swann of what Chevalle had said earlier about dying tomorrow. “What do you mean by that? What are you talking about?”
“In the morning, we go to war - the Brethren against the East India Company and its naval forces.” Swann blanched again, and Chevalle noticed. “I realize you are on their side in this, and believe me when I say I am so very sorry. But what they want is no less than total domination of the world’s waterways. The world’s navies are bad enough, but at least separately, they’re tolerable.”
He couldn’t help remembering yet again the child hanging from the rope, his small, scrawny body twisting slightly as it dangled - and the death warrant making it all legal and above-board, bearing Weatherby Swann’s own signature. He didn’t regret stepping over certain lines to keep Elizabeth safe, but he imagined what her reaction might be to the dead child, and once again he felt very small and ineffective. Still, he spoke. “You are willing to use my daughter to achieve your own political ends,” he carefully pronounced. “And in the process, she may end up killed.”
“No, it is she who is willing to use us and our crews for her personal revenge,” Chevalle smoothly countered. “And from what I understand, she has a mark on her head if she does not even try to dispatch her enemy. With or without your death.”
“Did she tell you that?” Swann was surprised Elizabeth would offer such information; he would’ve thought her savvy enough to know the pirates might just try turn her over to Beckett for a reward.
“Hardly necessary. When in port, I do try to catch up on news - it is impossible to forget the name of one of the very few women Britain has ordered for death for anything other than refusing a royal divorce, or witchcraft.” He grinned, then offered more brandy and shrugged. “So, why not let her fight for her life? It is more considerate than making her remain a powerless fugitive for no reason, is it not?” Swann might’ve argued, if he’d been able to marshal a good one; as it was, he was just inebriated enough that what Chevalle was saying sounded like logic. “But she’s young … she needs incentive to solidify her command. Perhaps you can be reunited with her following our battle, no? There is every reason to believe the Brethren may prevail.”
The pirate must have noticed Swann swaying, for he pushed some food in his direction. “Here now - have some victuals. We have not eaten this well in some weeks, have we?” He picked up a slivered chunk of fowl and nibbled at it, then rolled his eyes back. “Heaven, that’s what it is! No more sublime preparation, have I tasted.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Of course, we cannot tell Francois this; he would refuse his services for a fortnight if so slighted.”
The more he ate and drank, the better Swann felt about Chevalle’s logic regarding Elizabeth. And, she was alive! That banished many of his worries. He tried to ignore the fact she might not be this time tomorrow - then again, since Chevalle’s ship was at her service, possibly neither of them would survive. He felt a strange comfort that he and she would at least be in the same place if they were to cross over, perhaps together, to the Elysian Fields.
When Swann stood to leave late in the evening, Chevalle - who had long ago stopped the farewell cheek-kisses at his prisoner’s reasonable request - took his hand and bowed over it, then stood straight again. “I now understand the reason for the surname - but what is this ‘Charles’ business?”
Swann sighed. “That’s my middle name - after my uncle. I far prefer it to the one my mother thought fit for me.” He made a face.
“Ahh.” Chevalle still held his hand. “Well, so do I.” He stepped in closer. “Is that what you went by as a child, then? Except for with your mother, of course, who I imagine called you as she pleased.”
The proximity of the pirate captain was heady and annoying; Swann couldn’t figure which was dominant. “It is. Captain, why are you-”
“Shh.” He smiled winningly. “I have a name. You should use it more often.”
Swann raised an eyebrow. “Is this not forcing your charms upon the resistant, in violation of your Articles?”
“So it may be.” Chevalle cocked his head. “Except you do not appear terribly resistant. Seeing as you are a solid enough fellow, I would imagine if you wanted to resist …” He lifted the hand and brushed his lips over the knuckles, “that you would be doing so, right around now.”
“Hmm. So I should,” Swann observed, still doing no such thing. “Perhaps I have inhaled too much pomade or powder in the course of my time aboard, and it is addling my senses.”
“Oh, dear,” Chevalle murmured, leaning in. “I shall have to use more.”
*****
While he stood at the ship’s rail the following twilight, awaiting the arrival of his newly married daughter as she rowed toward them at Chevalle’s earlier mysterious request, Swann quietly told Jean-Michel his childhood nickname.
“Chick?” the Frenchman repeated. “However did that come from Charles?”
The former governor watched the slim figure approaching, pulling at her oars, thinking of all the things he’d told Elizabeth over the years of her departed mother - but almost nothing of her father. “That is something you will have to wait to hear,” he replied, with a sidelong look - then switching to perfect French. “There is somebody else in more need of that particular story, first.”
Rating: PG
Characters: Gov. Swann/Captain Chevalle (SLASH - I'm not warning you twice), Murtogg, Mullroy, others mentioned
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters nor turn a profit from their portrayal; just tricks.
Summary: Slight deviation of canon events during AWE. Written for the prompt: I would like an old-fashioned (gentleman) pirate kidnapping, with the Governor treated as a reluctant captive and guest aboard the fancy ship. Manlove happens. Do not want: Elizabeth/Jack, Will/Jack, Barbossa anything. Also Norrington/Beckett. I do like Jack/Norrington and Elizabeth/Norrington or Beckett. No harsh violence or SM situations. For lolitalockhart in the 2009 merrypirates challenge. (Happy holidays!)
A/N: Thanks to betas gryphons_lair and metalkatt for their corrections and suggestions. Any other errors are my own. This is something a bit different for me, so I hope you like it. :-)
Chick hated boats. Boats and ships. He ignored the goods they delivered and concentrated on the destruction they brought, instead, the upset to people’s lives.
Like his life. At the age of five, his beloved Aunt Bessie had been taken from him in a sinking ship. When Chick was nine, his older brother, Phineas, was killed by French sea robbers while trying to help the navymen guarding him defend their vessel. The following year, he’d barely escaped his own death when his father had had to keep the family behind from traveling abroad on the King’s important business because Chick’s sister, Penelope, was deathly ill - she survived, but the ship they would have been aboard, did not, thanks to Spanish buccaneers. The final straw was when he was seventeen, when his dear papa drowned while traveling - the official story was that he’d been swept over the side in a storm, while still out on deck, but since there’d been no storm the day in question in that ship’s part of the ocean (though this was never said aloud in the court, only in hushed circles and among sailors in their cups), it was far more probable that dear papa had been in his cups and fallen overboard while the navymen were busy at work and unable to monitor foolish citizens aboard their vessel. Chick neither disputed nor confirmed this thought, since he knew his father had loved his liquor, but would not say or hear a word against the mild, sweet old man; though it hardly mattered, since all he knew was that his father was gone because of a ship and the sea.
However, because he came into his majority and the family fortune only a few years later, Chick understood he would need to step aboard ships to be an effective representative of the Crown - and so, he made a conscious decision and heroic effort to bury his resentment of both ocean and the floating palaces and hovels upon it. It was made easier with the fripperies of his station; what with concentrating on the wigs and buckles and frocks, as well as the treaties and diplomacies and courtesies and political intrigues, he could forget Chick the apprehensive boy and settle eventually, instead, into the weightier Weatherby Swann, Representative of the Crown … and eventually, Governor of the Colony of Jamaica.
That is, until he too nearly died at sea.
****
The pair kept stealing glances at one another while pretending to keep an attentive ear to the Governor. For his part, Swann kept commenting on anything in his visual range as Murtogg rowed. He was not insensible to their wandering attention, but they were all playing the game of Obey Beckett, and in this case there was nothing to do but keep to his part for now.
Finally, Murtogg stopped rowing, just beyond what seemed a wall of fog. The Endeavor was still visible, but only as an indistinct shape in the distance, behind another wall of fog. Swann suspected the mid-morning mist covered everything, including them - it just seemed clear in this one spot because he could see the gray-blue sky well enough. He quieted, looking around, decidedly not thinking of the boy Chick, who would’ve likely been rightly terrified at the prospect of being on the ocean in only a longboat with his family luck. After a few minutes, when he figured the marine had taken a long enough rest, he asked, “I say, aren’t we supposed to be heading somewhere? Beckett did say there was something to which I needed to attend.”
The pair exchanged glances, looking no less miserable than they had during the rowing. Then, the fat one - Mullroy, Swann managed to remember - replied. “Sorry, Governor … this is as far as we’re to go.” He glanced at Murtogg at the “we’re,” then apologetically back to Swann for the last bit.
Swann looked to Murtogg as well, then between them as the skinny one took up the verbal bar. “What he’s saying is that … that is, Lord Beckett …” He fidgeted and steeled his jaw. “Begging your pardon, sir - but could you maybe turn around, like?”
“Turn-?” He realized what this was about, and sat up straighter. “I will not.” Truth told, he’d halfway expected this, though he had been proud enough to think it would take Beckett himself - or perhaps Norrington, now the most miserable admiral Swann had ever spied - to put his life at an end. Not two functionaries. “I won’t make this easier for your consciences … such as they are, if you pull that trigger.” He was eyeing the pistol Murtogg had drawn from inside his red coat, then squinting up at the both of them, setting his teeth together behind closed lips. Mullroy’s rifle was halfway down, as if he were undecided. Neither looked particularly eager to have done. “Gentlemen,” Swann appealed, modulating his voice, “Truly - is this what you feel is right and correct?”
Mullroy shook his head, lips pursed and eyes closed. “It’s not up to us what’s right. We’re marines, and we take orders.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“That’s right,” Murtogg nodded. “We carry out His Majesty’s orders. It’s not our place to know what ought and ought not to be executed.” He winced a little at the word.
“But did the order really come from the King?” Swann questioned, cocking an eyebrow. “How can you be certain? Was it one of your military superiors who gave the order?” He thought quickly. “Was it Admiral Norrington?” He put on his most disappointed, skeptical face, the one he used on Elizabeth when trying to convey deep disapproval. “Gentlemen, I find it difficult to believe the Admiral would have ordered such a thing, and more that His Majesty would countenance it. Why, under my governorship, pirates have been cut in half in the waters of Jamaica and her surrounds!”
“We were ordered by Lord Beckett,” Murtogg firmly replied.
Mullroy, though, looked doubtful. “Are his orders the King’s?” he asked his fellow marine. “I mean, why do we have both him and the Admiral charged with our command, then?”
“He had a proclamation,” Murtogg replied. “Signed and everything. I saw it,” he added, defensively.
“Ohhhh,” Mullroy intoned, and Murtogg sighed. “So no thing you saw could possibly be anything other than what it appears to be? Did you see the signature being signed? Do you know beyond doubt that the King himself did it? Were you there watching?”
“Well, of course not,” Murtogg answered. “Did you see me gone for three months to England? I saw the document, and the signet in wax.”
“So how do you know he made that mark?” The rifle was straight up again, held in check.
“Same way I know Mr. Shakespeare wrote all them plays,” Murtogg lobbed back, his pistol down. “It’s written down. Not just everybody can write, you know.”
Mullroy was warming to the argument. “Aye, but how do you know he didn’t just copy them off of another bloke who could write words?”
Swann understood the longer he didn’t draw attention, the longer he stayed alive, but he was fairly certain it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t - these two had to go back to Beckett, and if three returned instead of two, he was certain all three of them would end up swimming with fishes. He wondered if there was any way he could persuade them to swim back and leave him the longboat, when sloppy little waves began rocking the boat, nearly turning it on one side, then the other. Swann held to the plank of his seat; the redcoats grabbed the sides of the boat, their firearms and debate forgotten.
“Wot was that?” they stage-whispered in unison.
*****
“Captain!” the helmsman called across the ship’s deck, in French. (Ed.- Because you, dear reader, may not read fluent French, please allow me to humbly translate all correspondence into the more widely used English, brute as that Germanic tongue may be.) “Captain, there’s a boat! Just visible in the fog!”
Captain Chevalle frowned, covering the distance to the helm in short order. “A ship? How close are we?” he asked in mild alarm. The worst thing about thick fog is its cloak rendered even the most innocuous objects dangerous by imminent collision.
“No, Captain.” Louis shook his head. “A boat.” He leaned over the rail, pointing down.
Less than half a knot in the distance was a longboat with three figures. Chevalle gestured for a spyglass and focused it, finding two of the trio had guns trained - or close to - on the third. He saw them in profile, noting while all three were bewigged, only one wore a fine-looking tumble of dark silver curls. The older gentleman’s coat, coupled with his wig, suggested some wealth, while the other men’s coats and armaments seemed military. Though he scanned the horizon, he could see no parent ship for the sailors - yet, he knew it had to be there.
However, if he couldn’t see a Royal Navy ship through the fog, chances were they couldn’t see him. This, coupled with the prospect of a rich ransom to offset his unexpected, unprofitable summons to Shipwreck Cove, was irresistible to a penniless French pirate lord. The fact the two redcoats appeared ready to fire on his quarry meant little for Chevalle’s intentions - that someone wanted the man dead did not mean somebody else would not pay dearly for his comparatively safe return. He collapsed the spyglass and turned to his helmsman. “Louis, take us closer. I will investigate this intriguing prey.”
“Captain, apologies, but would we not be better off lowering a longboat and sending that instead?”
Chevalle shook his own bewigged head. “I wish to make a show of force such that my intent cannot be mistaken, nor my orders refused. Simply get us a bit closer; I’ll see to the trim of the sails.”
*****
The ship emerged from the fog, and Swann had a twinge of fear as the little longboat rocked even harder. When he spotted the expressions on his assassins’ faces, however, he took heart. They were even more distressed, which meant this wasn’t part of their plan.
On the other hand … even if they had effectively given up on murdering him, they were obviously clueless about how to protect him. Before he could decide how he felt about this impossible situation, a heavily accented voice cut into their silence, high from the ship: “Halt!” (Well, that was needless, Swann thought. There isn’t an oar in your sight, and that rifle won’t row.) “I am Captain Jean-Michel Chevalle! Who am I addressing?”
Nobody said anything for a few seconds. Then, inexplicably, Murtogg piped up, “Here, now! That’s no way to speak to the Gov- OOF!”
Swann had kicked one ankle and was gratified to see Mullroy had similarly damaged the man’s other foot. “What’s the-” Murtogg began to protest, but Swann cut him off, sotto voce. “Quiet! He’s after a prisoner for ransom,” he hissed.
The man looked to Mullroy for help, but the large man shrugged. “‘Fraid he’s right, mate.” He suddenly looked inspired, and raised his voice to address the French captain. “We’re in the King’s service - brothers, that is, stationed together! And this here’s our father, on a visit from home!” He grinned. “Old man finally saved up enough scratch after nearly twelve years, to pay his sons a proper visit!”
“Ahh,” the Frenchman said agreeably. “Tell me, is it custom in your family to take your elders out away from the rest, and threaten their lives?”
“Well …” Mullroy visibly thought that over.
“Allow me to make you a bargain, gentlemen!” the Frenchman called. “I’ll take your beloved … father, off your hands, and you row back to your superiors and tell them you were usurped by a fearsome pirate crew!”
Murtogg leaned over to Mullroy. “Well, I’m not doing that,” he muttered. For a moment, Swann thought they meant to shield him - fight to the death, as it were, and his heart swelled with pride in the two young men - until Mullroy nodded and replied, “Right enough. We’ll be strung up as it is for going weak at the last minute shooting him. Better to not say exactly how he’s dispatched.” The two looked to Swann.
For a moment, he couldn’t speak, out of shock. “Are you seriously urging me to consent to being abducted?” he sputtered, trying to remember to keep his voice low. He leaned forward to drop it. “I won’t allow it!”
“It’s either that, or we shoot or bayonet you, Guv,” Murtogg pointed out. He looked immediately ashamed. “Sir.”
“Aye, and dump your body in for the fish,” Mullroy added, nodding. His hound-like features seemed genuinely sad. “We don’t, and get you back to Beckett, he’ll like as not order all three of us killed.”
“And then what would be the point of escaping this pirate here?” Murtogg put in. “Least this way, you’ll get to stay alive.”
“For a while,” Mullroy agreed. Murtogg shot him a frown, and he dropped his eyes, abashed. “Apologies.”
Swann cleared his throat, trying to think practically. He adjusted his wig and sat up straight. “It is extremely likely he recognizes my accoutrements as having no small value, and wishes to try to ply my government or family for ransom.” He looked between the two hangdog redcoats and thought of lecturing them their cowardice - then sighed. Not everybody could be Elizabeth, after all, hanging good sense for strong feeling, no matter the recipient. “You have showed mercy in not carrying out your orders before now,” he credited, “despite having ample time to do so. I suppose I owe you some thanks for that much loyalty.” He sighed, thinking of all the death warrants he signed. “Especially when I may have not fared as well.”
Murtogg smiled a little. “Cheer up, sir - it looks like a right fancy ship.”
Mullroy was checking out the hull. “Aye,” he agreed. “No barnacles as I can see, or anything.”
Swann doubted this was the pleasure cruise he’d been imagining for his post-governorship. Still … “If we make this too easy, he won’t think anybody wishes to pay my ransom,” he hissed to the two, in the same low tone they’d all been using. “So you two had better make at least a show of putting up a defense or-”
He was interrupted by several clicks and some squeaking, and a great grating sound. They all looked up to see a few snipers at the rail, cocking pistols and rifles toward the longboat, and the swivel of a canon being pointed in their direction. A lone pirate was lowering the bo’sun’s chair, and the pesky French captain regarded his operation and those executing it with a fond smile as he looked around.
“Or not,” Swann finished, not even looking at the two marines with him.
“Please!” Chevalle was calling with great cheer and authority. “Be my guest, fine sir! I promise you top-quality accommodations during your sojourn on my quaint vessel, and you shall not be harmed!” He paused. “And then your ‘sons’ will be free to go, unmolested! I give my word as a gentleman - which is undoubtedly more than you can say for whomever has their command!”
*****
In protest, Swann said nothing once aboard the French ship, looking around instead and making a show of observing his environment. The captain caught on quickly, and rather than take offense or make a demonstration of authority for the benefit of his crew by punishing Swann, he commanded a couple of younger men to take the prisoner - “Guest,” was the term he used, or rather, the French equivalent (Ed.- Which Swann could understand, having been fluently schooled in three languages as a boy - but never fear, dear reader, will keep things in that dreadful English for you) - to his new quarters. He pretended he hadn’t understood what was said, and dawdled along, adopting his best “fumbly old man” act, though once he got going, he followed easily enough, not wanting to give these pirates any reason to abuse him - Jack Sparrow might be mostly harmless, but he couldn’t count on the majority of such scoundrels to be similarly inclined.
His cabin - most likely the First Mate’s, turned over as a cell for the duration - was quite comfortable for a floating flophouse. It was nothing compared to accommodations aboard a naval ship of the line, but the bunk was long enough to suit his legs and wide enough to turn his girth in slumber. Rather than scarred wood furniture softened by brine that he would’ve expected, the small table was sturdy enough and covered with a clean cream-colored cloth showing tiny stitching at the edges, which nearly brushed the planked floor into which the table base was secured. The chairs were a grayish wood, finely carved and set with lightly padded cushions for comfort; a small bookshelf of similar wood was set into one wall, with stylish latticework slats hammered across the lower part of each of the three recesses to secure their tomes during turbulence, painted in a gray-pink. A tall, very skinny wardrobe was jammed between one corner of the bunk’s simple headboard and the wall; when Swann opened it to peer around, he noted metal fastenings at the back panel which suggested it, like the table and bookshelf, was also secured.
For that evening and the next morning’s breakfast and luncheon, he was brought food and dined in the cabin. None of the pirates attending him offered him a turn up on deck; in fact, they barely spoke, sticking to few-word phrases of their language that they figured a child might understand. He was surprised by their politeness in not chatting to one another about him in front of him, but still endeavored to look as friendly and clueless as possible at their simplest communications. He took down a few books and paged through before finding one to occupy him near the sunlit porthole.
The second evening, he was escorted to the captain’s cabin. The ceiling was, by necessity, no higher than his own cabin’s, but it was the explosion of color and the sheer volume of stuff that made the place really seem cramped and close. Swann blinked his eyes, trying to adjust - and simultaneously keep his mouth from hanging open - at the glittering of gold and silver chains and jewelry ornaments hanging here and there reflecting candlelight. Sumptuous, slinky silks in white and gold and blue draped the walls and furniture, what looked like real feather pillows covered in all hues of bright fabrics piled the bunk, and a soft multicolored rug yielded beneath his buckled shoes - he could feel the plush even through the soles.
Unable to help himself, he was moved to speak. “I say …” he trailed off, then came to attention at a small, soft chuckle. Focusing his eyes among all the dazzle, he finally noticed Captain Chevalle standing near one of the two portholes, all trim neatness and buckled refinery even in clothes that looked perhaps a generation old - and worn. The man had powdered his wig and his face into a mild pallor, his hands behind his back, perhaps clasped as he regarded his guest.
“It is good to see that you are not mute, in fact,” he said with no small humor, in English. “I do not often get to enjoy conversation while at sea, with men of similar tastes and style, and I would so hate to forego it with one of the few I have met in a very long time.”
Swann said nothing, simply draped his own arms behind his back, waiting. He did, however, manage to observe the larger table Chevalle had, loaded as it was with small platters of sliced meat, others with tiny cakes and tarts, and an elaborate copper tea service. The chairs were outfitted with even plumper cushions. Since his host was not moving and he was not moving, and there was a good chance they’d still be standing here for the baby Christ’s birthday - and he really wanted to be ransomed back to his sister and her husband sooner rather than later - he finally spoke again. “That seems a fancy feast for a buccaneer craft and crew, is it not?”
“Please! Captain Chevalle has only the finest French chef in his galley. Francois could make a plate of cakes from old sharks and sail thread!” He beamed. “Of course, he could also prepare a magnifique shark’s fin chowder, as well … which, admittedly, would be far easier than little cakes.”
Despite himself, Swann smiled at the little joke. “Tell me, when will you be making your ransom demand? I wish to set down the name of those to petition so you may contact them quickly; their home is quite a distance from this part of the Atlantic.” And getting further away if the position of the sun to our movement has been anything to go by, he thought.
“What? Are you so tired of your sojourn aboard my fine vessel already?”
The Frenchman actually sounded offended, and for one rare instance, Swann’s diplomacy deserted him. “I- That is, I am not- Well,” he finally stammered to a stop, thinking. “I’m not at all certain how to answer that.”
Chevalle moved to the table and gestured at one of the plumped chairs. “Sit. Try the pastries and fish; see if they do not rival your King’s finest chefs.” As they both sat, he leaned forward and made as if to whisper. “It will be good to have a gentleman of refinement at my table for a change, one who obviously knows his fine cuisine.” He dropped a pointed glance to Swann’s midsection.
“Now, here! I say!” For the second time, Swann’s diplomacy deserted him, though it did nothing to leave him speechless again. “Most impertinent, sir! You call yourself a gentleman,” he lightly scoffed.
“A gentleman I am,” Chevalle nodded. “of Fortuna herself, truly the harshest mistress behind Calypso when she is in full flower. But,” he added, holding his hands out in conciliatory fashion, “should you take my intended compliment as an insult, I shall apologize terribly and refrain from engaging in further observation upon same.” While Swann tried to puzzle out if he’d been patronized or assuaged, Chevalle busied himself pouring tea, adding a dram of something from the bottle to each cup, and heaping an assortment of food on a plate for Swann.
Their talk over the next hour was of inconsequentials - sailing, shipping, the weather, storms, shipbuilding, royal gossip, and the goodness of their feast. When it was time to depart and Swann was busying himself with brushing crumbs from his fingers, Chevalle finally asked, “My manners are atrocious, forgive me; I should have asked at the commencement of this delightful evening. What, sir, is your name?”
He’d figured out this answer early yesterday afternoon, grateful at the time he’d not been pressed on the matter to that point. “Charles Riverton,” he half-lied, being sure to look up and meet Chevalle’s eyes squarely, as the most basic of negotiation tenets demanded. “My brother is Malcolm Riverton, Duke of Stepfordshire.”
“Ahh,” Chevalle nodded casually, but Swann didn’t miss the gleam of avarice in his eye. “And what is your title, pray?”
Swann shrugged. “Merely a younger son who chose the diplomatic service to keep a modest home and family.”
“And your wife and children?” Chevalle’s lips twitched. “Your ‘sons?’”
Those poor, well-meaning fools, he thought of the two redcoats. “She passed on some years ago, God rest her soul. My daughter is Captured by pirates? Betrothed to a tradesman? In love with a cur-dog of a pirate? Turning tricks to survive? Turning pirate because she wants to? DEAD!? an adult, and under another man’s protection.” I wonder if she managed to find Turner. He’ll keep her well, if so. The thought comforted him, as he knew she could protect herself - but ability to physically fend of attackers was not the only trial of life, and certainly not the most demanding of a fit partner.
With no more questions and an elaborate kissing of cheeks - “I must grant you two on each side, as I neglected to greet you properly!” the captain insisted at parting - Swann was escorted back to his cabin. He surreptitiously swiped at his face every so often, trying to get the feel of powder and grease off; he was mostly successful. At removing the long-forgotten touch of lips upon his person, he was not.
*****
He counted another fortnight spent in this same basic fashion: in the cabin during the day, and meal with Chevalle at night. To this was added one or two daily constitutionals up on deck, as it quickly became clear Swann would not be taking over the ship with a stolen cutlass, or leaping to his noble death to escape imprisonment. He asked the proper questions about ship parts and jobs, still pretending bewilderment at any French, for he wished to keep that particular skill a secret. So far, he hadn’t heard much that helped him in that native tongue, but he’d learned early in his career that it sometimes took decades to figure out some motives - surely a matter of weeks wasn’t too much to try to ascertain why Chevalle was moving further south despite the lure of a handsome ransom in Britain.
Besides, that, coupled with figuring out once again how to attend his own toilet and dressing, gave him something to focus on instead of a possibly dead child.
Finally, after yet four more days, he broke down and asked, since he knew the sooner he was home, the sooner his sister, Penelope, and Malcolm could employ forces to find and recover Elizabeth. “Unfortunately, a higher duty summons me,” Chevalle explained. Swann didn’t miss the likely-deliberate roll of his eyes. “I cannot refuse nor be tardy. Rest assured you will reach your destination and I will have my … reward, for same.”
The journey was very much a “hurry up and wait” broken occasionally by storms, roiling waves, and two instances of barely escaping capture by a navy vessel - all of which required the prisoner ordered to his quarters, with or without his cooperation. Swann bit his tongue when Chevalle bragged later about outfoxing the authorities, smiling weakly and nodding, pretending to listen - but only attentive for details which might give him a clue to what was going on or even Elizabeth’s fate. (He knew it was a long-shot that any part of this experience would result in news of his daughter, but at his age he knew news and aid could sometimes come from the unlikeliest sources. It was how he’d begrudgingly viewed Jack Sparrow, after all, until the man literally issued Elizabeth’s death warrant.)
Swann didn’t lose track of time, but he did allow the days to blend together after a while, dimly aware at any given time how many weeks they’d been at sea. As he had with Sparrow at one time, he came to see Chevalle and his pirates were basically driven by simple greed and loathing of outside authority, not homicidal rage. He seemed offended when Swann asked after the safety of the people he and his crew had assaulted over the years. “We do not kill for sport,” he sniffed. “We do not devalue human life - but neither will we suffer others to deprive us of ours.”
“But don’t you think the fact you’re depriving people of the valuables they’ve worked to accrue, or their liberty by disabling their ship, or … or taking their women-” Here, Swann made a most distasteful countenance -“should arouse anger within, and a desire to protect?”
Chevalle rattled off a string of most ungentlemanly cursing in French, then shot down half a glass of the wine he’d been nursing after dinner. “Work? Those who hold the bulk of the wealth never did a day’s honest work in their lives, Charles! They are the generational rich, or fat from the labors of others - others who deserve a larger share of what they’re not getting!”
“So that means you don’t keep any of what you capture,” Swann dryly challenged. “You donate it to widows and orphans, is that correct?”
Chevalle’s scowl deepened. “Actually, much of it, the men do send to their families. One must take care of one’s own. Perhaps they then choose to share with their neighbors in need back at that home, if there is enough to go around.” He smirked. “We do not keep it all for liquor and whores, no. Also, it is quite rare that we destroy a ship or do not see to the eventual safety of our survivors. As for defiling anyone, my Articles clearly demand no conquest of ours shall be unwilling recipients of the attentions of any of us, from me down to the cabin boy. If they are, we respect their denial.” He inclined his head toward Swann. “I have not pressed myself upon you, after all.”
“Beg pardon?” He was confused.
Chevalle sipped his wine with a little cat smile, letting his eyes briefly rake his prisoner. There’s nothing confusing about that! Swann realized, face suddenly hot, stomach uncomfortable. “I am not bound by the laws of your society or your churches,” the pirate captain calmly pointed out. “There is very little use to exposing yourself to the censure and danger of piracy if you’re not going to enjoy the hard-won benefits from time to time in the … manner, of your desire.”
“I assure you, sir, the regard is not mutual,” Swann calmly replied, indignant.
“Is it not?” Chevalle made a small, regretful sound and crossed his legs. “A terrible pity. You know we French are naturally, extensively schooled in the art of amour.” The last word rolled off his tongue lengthily, accompanied by a salacious wink.
A schooled diplomat, Swann said nothing, concentrating instead of stirring more sugar into his tea. He was grateful when after a long silence, Chevalle moved on to another topic of discussion.
He was not so grateful later, alone in his tiny borrowed cabin, when the words and expressions refused to leave his mind. “Imagine!” he muttered to himself, pacing, stopping to scowl every so often. “Thinking I would be amenable to such things! How could he even presume so much?”
Swann wasn’t stupid; he knew these things went on between men, even in polite society, though they were buried beneath layers of masks such as societies, clubs, holidays, “hunts,” and the like. When he’d first accidentally learned of it as an older boy, he’d been properly disgusted and vowed never to think on it again. Unfortunately, as with most rigid beliefs, the sharp edges of disapproval and repulsion had been eroded by time and the realization that the world held a multitude of genuine evils demanding attention instead. While he hadn’t been a complete monk since his wife’s death a dozen years ago, he had been very discreet and kept such rare pleasures with the opposite sex. It had never occurred to him to seek the attentions of another man - though to say he had never been curious would be inaccurate.
He didn’t think long on any of this before his mind came back to the ever-present worry for Elizabeth. Possibly he was concerned over nothing - after all, she would have certainly been no safer in the Crown’s keeping, not under Beckett and his command of the navy and marines - but it angered him that he couldn’t protect his only child. Nor had he comported himself in a manner of which she would likely have approved, following her escape. The memory of the scores of death warrants he had signed nagged constantly at the back of his conscience - certainly there were some miscreants who had deserved the noose. But not all. Certainly not the child he’d witnessed the day he’d finally set aside the quill and angrily informed Beckett he would no longer be a party to such atrocities.
Which, he ruefully remembered, was right before they’d all set sail. Beckett had been far too accommodating and sympathetic of Swann’s resignation of ordering executions; he should have suspected the little knob had murder in mind.
Frustrated, Swann kicked out, the toe of his buckled shoe connecting with the post forming the doorway of his cabin. The shock reverberated through his body, and it left a scuff on the fine leather - but damn, it felt good. Gritting his teeth, he kicked again. And then several more times.
*****
He had been nearly five months at sea, living mostly in borrowed finery, when Chevalle informed him they would be anchoring at his destination. The weather had gotten colder, then warmer, but not as warm again as in the Caribbean. Swann had no idea of their location, even though he was allowed to still come up on deck. Greeting him was the sight of dozens and dozens of beached and wrecked watercraft piled upon one another, forming two messy, broad spires of spars and jibs and planking. Around this were anchored a few warships and several lighter, smaller ships, teeming with men - and he was sure he spotted a couple of women, though he couldn’t be certain.
Kept aboard and told nothing of the nature of this bizarre nautical salon, Swann reached for yet another book that afternoon. He’d gone through nearly all in his small cabin, hoping he’d be back with his sister before he had to start over. Chevalle wasn’t a bad host - quite the opposite, a charming and genteel enough fellow given his criminality - but Swann missed land, and there were too many uncomfortable moments when he felt a little too friendly toward his political enemy.
A merry Chevalle himself retrieved him for dinner that evening, leading him to his cabin. There was a veritable feast being laid out upon his table by jolly-looking crewmen; Swann surmised by how the quality of the food had dropped off in the last couple of months, compared to the richness of what he now saw, that it had been carried aboard from whatever passed for land around this “Shipwreck Cove.” Humming a tune, Chevalle twisted open a dark bottle and liberally filled two glasses, sliding one to Swann. “We shall celebrate!” he exclaimed. “For tomorrow we may die!”
“WHAT?” Swann cleared his throat, but didn’t apologize for his outburst. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, I was not always in favor of the idea,” Chevalle explained, beginning somewhere in the middle and forgetting the beginning, taking a long drink. “No freeman certainly wishes to die, after all. But consideration and cogitation brought me around to the necessity of the concept.”
“How are we supposed to die, precisely?” He didn’t try to keep the edge of anger from his voice.
“It is the command of our King, that we might do so in the event of battle upon the morrow.” Chevalle took another long sip. “Teague advised we should finish with the Company as quickly as possible, to send a message of strength.”
“You obey a king?” Swann asked, incredulously. “His name is Teague?” Even when worried, he tried to amass information.
“The Pirate King is duly elected by majority rule,” Chevalle informed him archly. “It’s all very democratic, like the Greeks. Like my ship!” He drank deeply. “And not Teague. Her name’s Swann. A slip of a thing, and barely out of diapers, I’d wager. Still, furious and with a vengeful gleam of the eye that most foolish Frenchman could not help falling in love with.” He winked. “Drink up!”
Stunned first by monarchy among outlaws, then gender and name, Swann reached for his glass and obeyed, barely tasting the strong brandy that flowed down. When he set it down, it was nearly empty. Chevalle’s eyes widened appreciatively, and he leaned forward, lifting the bottle to refill it. “I say, man, that’s impressive, given your previous fondness for tea.” He glanced up at Swann, then did a double-take. “Good God, Charles, you’re paler than me! What is it?”
He cleared his dry throat. “What- What is this King’s first name? Did she give it?”
“And easy enough to recall, too - Elizabeth, like your country’s long-departed Virgin Queen.”
“Describe her! Was she short? Tall? Fair-haired?”
“I would … except I have the distinct impression I have no need to,” Chevalle slowly answered, watching his prisoner drain half a glass more. “Why don’t you describe her to me?” Swann did so, quickly sketching a verbal portrait. Chevalle nodded, a speculative gleam in his dark eyes. “Yes, yes … I believe that’s the lady.”
“Oh!” He couldn’t help clapping a hand to his mouth - in joy or horror, he didn’t know. How in the world did my girl get to be head of the Brethren? “Did she seem well? Is she injured in any way?”
Chevalle calmly took up the bottle, refilled both their glasses to the top, set it down, picked up his glass, and leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “Before I share that information, I would like some from you. What is your real name?”
“We have been over this long ago, Captain,” Swann countered. His head was beginning to fuzz, from a combination of liquor, indignation, massive relief, and still a touch of worry in his unanswered questions. “I wish to be returned to my home; why would I lie about my family name?”
“I do not doubt for a moment that the Duke of Stepfordshire would pay a great deal to recover you, as family,” Chevalle shook his head. “But I have a very deep feeling that someone else, in a position of authority more relevant to my interests, might be even more inclined to secure your release.”
For once, Swann lost his temper, slamming his fist on the table. “You will not use me against my daughter!”
Chevalle laughed. “I might well do just that - Governor,” he added, slyly. “Or not. It would seem Sparrow has both aided me, and put me on the horns of a great dilemma. Not for the first time,” he added, sounded rueful.
“Jack Sparrow?” Chevalle nodded. “What has he to do with this?”
“It was his deciding vote that made Captain Swann our leader.” He proceeded to explain about the Chinese pirate Sao Feng, and how Elizabeth had inherited the ship, and briefly about the election process.
Now that he knew she was alive, Swann could be worried about other things. “Did he - did Sparrow vote her king because he …” He couldn’t finish.
To his surprise, Chevalle looked most sympathetic. “While it I would find it difficult for any man not to be in love with Mademoiselle, at least a little, my suspicion is that like his father, Sparrow is really more interested in being the hand behind the throne, than in sitting on it. He collects political favors as you might wigs or shoes.” He thought a moment. “Although, being a governor, you might well also collect such favors.”
Swann took a drink to steady his suddenly relieved nerves. “I understand the principle of reciprocity,” he murmured, hating to admit that he had anything in common with that reprobate.
“It would seem the acorn does not fall far from the magnificent tree in this case,” Chevalle explained. “She was very angry over the news that had reached her of your untimely, unfair demise at the hands of the East India Company. Of course, we only learned her motives after she stopped yelling at Sparrow about sending her young man off to the same Company bastard who oversaw your murder … I didn’t quite understand all of it.” He waved a hand, airily. “I do not involve myself in others’ domestic disputes.”
Will. Though not nearly as great a concern as Elizabeth, the boy had been on Swann’s mind once in a while. The fact she was upbraiding the pirate on Turner’s behalf hopefully meant she hadn’t fallen into the scoundrel’s bed - or been forced into it. He admitted he had questions about her time alone on a tiny island with Sparrow nearly two years ago, but he’d never been able to bring himself to ask her about it, and she’d seemed far too in love with the blacksmith to be dreaming of running off with real pirates again. Swann drank yet more, now vastly relieved compared to his mental state for the past half-year, ignoring the pleasant numbness inching into his limbs. “I need to see her,” he told Chevalle. “I should let her know as soon as possible that I am very much alive.”
“Well, not right away,” the captain refused, holding up one finger, then two, enumerating. “For one, my payment is not secured; for two, I have no wish to get in the way of a woman’s vengeance, and besides, if we are going to have to face this Beckett and the Company sooner or later, I’d rather it be sooner when Calypso is still freshly indebted to us for her release.”
This reminded Swann of what Chevalle had said earlier about dying tomorrow. “What do you mean by that? What are you talking about?”
“In the morning, we go to war - the Brethren against the East India Company and its naval forces.” Swann blanched again, and Chevalle noticed. “I realize you are on their side in this, and believe me when I say I am so very sorry. But what they want is no less than total domination of the world’s waterways. The world’s navies are bad enough, but at least separately, they’re tolerable.”
He couldn’t help remembering yet again the child hanging from the rope, his small, scrawny body twisting slightly as it dangled - and the death warrant making it all legal and above-board, bearing Weatherby Swann’s own signature. He didn’t regret stepping over certain lines to keep Elizabeth safe, but he imagined what her reaction might be to the dead child, and once again he felt very small and ineffective. Still, he spoke. “You are willing to use my daughter to achieve your own political ends,” he carefully pronounced. “And in the process, she may end up killed.”
“No, it is she who is willing to use us and our crews for her personal revenge,” Chevalle smoothly countered. “And from what I understand, she has a mark on her head if she does not even try to dispatch her enemy. With or without your death.”
“Did she tell you that?” Swann was surprised Elizabeth would offer such information; he would’ve thought her savvy enough to know the pirates might just try turn her over to Beckett for a reward.
“Hardly necessary. When in port, I do try to catch up on news - it is impossible to forget the name of one of the very few women Britain has ordered for death for anything other than refusing a royal divorce, or witchcraft.” He grinned, then offered more brandy and shrugged. “So, why not let her fight for her life? It is more considerate than making her remain a powerless fugitive for no reason, is it not?” Swann might’ve argued, if he’d been able to marshal a good one; as it was, he was just inebriated enough that what Chevalle was saying sounded like logic. “But she’s young … she needs incentive to solidify her command. Perhaps you can be reunited with her following our battle, no? There is every reason to believe the Brethren may prevail.”
The pirate must have noticed Swann swaying, for he pushed some food in his direction. “Here now - have some victuals. We have not eaten this well in some weeks, have we?” He picked up a slivered chunk of fowl and nibbled at it, then rolled his eyes back. “Heaven, that’s what it is! No more sublime preparation, have I tasted.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Of course, we cannot tell Francois this; he would refuse his services for a fortnight if so slighted.”
The more he ate and drank, the better Swann felt about Chevalle’s logic regarding Elizabeth. And, she was alive! That banished many of his worries. He tried to ignore the fact she might not be this time tomorrow - then again, since Chevalle’s ship was at her service, possibly neither of them would survive. He felt a strange comfort that he and she would at least be in the same place if they were to cross over, perhaps together, to the Elysian Fields.
When Swann stood to leave late in the evening, Chevalle - who had long ago stopped the farewell cheek-kisses at his prisoner’s reasonable request - took his hand and bowed over it, then stood straight again. “I now understand the reason for the surname - but what is this ‘Charles’ business?”
Swann sighed. “That’s my middle name - after my uncle. I far prefer it to the one my mother thought fit for me.” He made a face.
“Ahh.” Chevalle still held his hand. “Well, so do I.” He stepped in closer. “Is that what you went by as a child, then? Except for with your mother, of course, who I imagine called you as she pleased.”
The proximity of the pirate captain was heady and annoying; Swann couldn’t figure which was dominant. “It is. Captain, why are you-”
“Shh.” He smiled winningly. “I have a name. You should use it more often.”
Swann raised an eyebrow. “Is this not forcing your charms upon the resistant, in violation of your Articles?”
“So it may be.” Chevalle cocked his head. “Except you do not appear terribly resistant. Seeing as you are a solid enough fellow, I would imagine if you wanted to resist …” He lifted the hand and brushed his lips over the knuckles, “that you would be doing so, right around now.”
“Hmm. So I should,” Swann observed, still doing no such thing. “Perhaps I have inhaled too much pomade or powder in the course of my time aboard, and it is addling my senses.”
“Oh, dear,” Chevalle murmured, leaning in. “I shall have to use more.”
*****
While he stood at the ship’s rail the following twilight, awaiting the arrival of his newly married daughter as she rowed toward them at Chevalle’s earlier mysterious request, Swann quietly told Jean-Michel his childhood nickname.
“Chick?” the Frenchman repeated. “However did that come from Charles?”
The former governor watched the slim figure approaching, pulling at her oars, thinking of all the things he’d told Elizabeth over the years of her departed mother - but almost nothing of her father. “That is something you will have to wait to hear,” he replied, with a sidelong look - then switching to perfect French. “There is somebody else in more need of that particular story, first.”