Harry & the Pirate IV: The Chalice of St. Francis
Chapter Two: Another Rescue
The faint light of early morning seeped thin gold between the drapes over the windows of the Great Cabin. Harry sighed sleepily, thinking there was nothing quite as lovely as waking to the dawn glow of clement weather and the faint motions and sounds of the Black Pearl in a safe anchorage, bedclothes and Jack warm about her. He was curled against her back, his arm about her middle, a possessive hand on her breast. She stirred, putting her hand over his, and squirming against him, a hint of a suggestion. Jack was gratifyingly quick on the uptake, however, and a hint was all that was needed. Pressing his face against her hair and neck, he breathed deep and his arm tightened around her bare middle, pulling her even closer. “G’morning, lady wife,” he murmured, then brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck, lingering deliciously. She purred contentment as his hands began to drift, gentle and very sure. More sleep could wait a while.
She started to turn over, to face him, but he moved over her for a long kiss, pressing her into the bed with his weight, rubbing against her, catlike, and insinuating a knee between her legs. Then he said against her lips, “’Twas your turn last night. Mine, now.”
“All right,” she said, soft and breathless, unwontedly submissive.
He smiled, rather devilishly.
Long minutes passed in near silence, save for slow, moist sounds, approving murmurs, uneven breathing, and the occasional soft groan or whimper as he slowly worked his way down. She parted her legs to afford him access, but he paused to look up at her. She was flushed and trembling, watching him. “Relax,” he said, and placed a kiss just under her navel.
“Yes,” she whispered, but was only partially successful as he moved lower, disappearing beneath the bedclothes. Jack’s outrageous impersonation of the previous morning was presently demonstrated to be uncannily accurate.
And then, the patter of little feet in the passage and the cabin door was heard to open. “Mama! Da’!”
Jack left off hastily, and Harry grabbed at the covers, pulling them up to their chins as he slipped up beside her again.
Tom trotted over, saying brightly, “It’s morning, Da! Can we go see the island?”
As his little son climbed onto the bed, Jack summoned Infinite Patience and said, “Tom, did we not speak about knocking before coming in?”
“Oh, aye! But Da there’s dolphins in the cove, an’ the sun’s coming up. Owens said I should ask you if we can go over!”
“I didn’t mean now!” said Owens from the doorway. “Get over here, Imp!” Looking embarrassed, he nodded to Jack and Harry. “Good morrow, Captain, M’lady.”
“Good morning, Owens!” Harry called, then smiled at her son’s enthusiasm. “Have you had breakfast already?” She held out one arm.
Tom submitted to a hug, saying, “No, don’t want any.” But then he struggled up and reiterated, “I want to go over to the island! May we? Please?”
“No, you can’t!” Jack said, a little testily. “Not now, at least. Maybe later, if you mind!” A familiar look of mulish displeasure crossed his son’s countenance, and Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Or would you like a repetition of yesterday’s little encounter?”
The mulish look faded to a reminiscent and unabashed wince. “No, sir,” Tom admitted, beginning to recall a little of The Discussion.
“That’s better. Now you go with Owens and get some breakfast and watch the dolphins and I’ll be up in a bit. Some of us like to lay abed past the crack of dawn, savvy?”
“But why?” Tom complained, but then, noting his father’s expression, made a precipitate retreat off the bed. “All right, I’m goin’!”
A small snort of laughter was heard from the distaff side, but Jack preserved his gravity, though his voice was just a little unsteady as he said, “See that you do. Owens, don’t let him out o’ your sight. Your reward in Heaven will be great!”
“And not just in Heaven!” Harry added, grinning.
Owens smiled, and, as Tom hopped past him, closed the cabin door.
Jack flopped back against the pillow, with a sound of exasperation.
Harry chuckled, and said, “He’s your son!”
Her husband turned to her, first his head, then the rest of him. “He’s your son. Good God, what were we thinking?”
“I’m sure I can’t recall,” Harry murmured, taking him in her arms again. “My lamentable memory, you know.”
“Perhaps I can…er…jog it for you. ” Jack suggested, eyelids drooping again. He kissed her. “Now where were we?”
* * *
There were dolphins at play in the wide cove, just as Tom had said, and a white sand beach with rocky outcroppings that promised tide pools and splendid places to climb, and palm trees and other greenery, the whole of it freshly rain washed and waiting to be explored.
“Oh, I want to go over, too!” said Harry. “Have you been here before?”
“Aye,” said Jack, looking through his spyglass. “Had to take shelter here one other time. This is the narrow bit, an isthmus. There’s a little spring on the other side, and fruit trees on the way. There were wild pigs, on the north end, where the jungle’s deeper-ugly customers, that lot, but they make good eatin’. You’ll have to be careful about wandering about inland. I’ll send Anatole with you: he can get some fruit for us. But watch that Tom doesn’t stray.”
“No, indeed! Is it safe to go into the foliage at all? Will the pigs attack?”
“Sometimes. Pigs‘r pigs, the world ‘round. You can walk along the shore to the south and see a good deal, and get ‘round to the backside that way, if you like.”
“Let’s go, Da!” said Tom, bouncing up and onto the railing again, next to his parents.
Jack plucked him off it and gave him a little shake. “No! And your mother needs her breakfast now.”
But Harry declared, “I shall have breakfast on the way over. Anatole can bring along some scones.”
It was done, according to her will, and presently, after (what Harry considered) a precarious descent to the waiting boat, they shoved off across the cove, Owens manning the oars. The young man, now nineteen, raw-boned and darkly handsome, and a couple of inches taller than his captain, had been “rewarded” with a morning off to go with the touring party to see the island, and to lend them the protection of his wits and sword, should they have need.
Owens had progressed beyond Cabin Boy some years back, for, refusing Jack’s offer to send him to school gently but adamantly, he had instead set himself to learning the skills of a seafarer and warrior with diligence. He could not be said to have learnt pirating, particularly, for he’d been raised by loving and God-fearing parents for the first dozen years of his life, and so had not the necessary moral relativity that seemed to come so naturally to some of his compatriots. That being said, he willingly carried out the orders of Privateer Captain Jack Sparrow, trusting in the man’s intelligence, wisdom, and kindness, all of which he’d seen demonstrated countless times over the last seven years, and none of which would save Owens from being branded or hung for a pirate should he fall into enemy hands. But he’d made his bed, and would lie in it, and he wouldn’t have it any other way, for Jack Sparrow was a man worth following.
Owens wore a smile as he rowed, watching Lady Harry and Tom exclaim over the beauty of the day, and the prospect of exploring The Unknown.
‘Twas little wonder his Captain loved his lady, for she still retained the beauty and liveliness of youth, now tempered with a pretty gravity, gleaned from her triple role of seafarer’s wife, mother, and patroness of St. Claire Island. Still, you never knew what to expect from Lady Harry, which occasionally made life rather interesting for those she loved.
And the same might be said of her offspring, and was the direct cause of incidents like the one that had landed them all on this island.
At first glance, there was no mistaking Tom for anyone but Jack Sparrow’s son, pretty imp that he was. Jack had managed all his life to not only repeatedly land on his feet but to actually thrive on trouble, like some cat with unlimited lives, and Owens had little doubt Tom Sparrow would do the same. Then, too, Jack's son might be troublesome, but he was lovable and loving as well. He and Owens had been the best of friends nearly from the day of his birth, which had taken place six years before in the Great Cabin of the Black Pearl as she lay at anchor at Bridgetown, Barbados. The Black Pearl and the sea were a part of Tom, just as they were a part of Jack, but the boy’s looks, intelligence, and zest for life came from both sides of the family tree.
* * *
In spite of possible porcine perils, the little group had elected to cross through the trees and brush to the other side of the isthmus, rather than staying on the beach as Jack had suggested. This was due not only to Tom’s immediately running into the vegetation to investigate, but to Anatole’s assertion that they were more likely to find fruit and other edibles away from the beach.
“Including pigs?” suggested Harry, a little tartly.
“Oh, oui, Madame,” said Anatole, “But the brush is not so heavy in this area, I think? And if we do meet with le cochon, Owens can very well kill him with his little sword, hein? The resulting feast will be très magnifique, je vous assure.”
Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on one’s opinion of the prospect) they met no fauna other than birds as they made their way through the forest. Anatole gathered fruit into his basket as they went, and Tom, having previously eschewed breakfast, munched a juicy mango, and then a scone, and was, as a result, covered in sticky crumbs by the time they neared the other side and were in sight of the sea again.
“Come and let’s clean you up,” said Tom’s mother, shaking her head in fond exasperation. Harry took his hand and they walked down the beach together, toward the freshwater stream that could be seen emptying into the bay spread out before them. The breeze, fresh and cool, was blowing sibilantly, and seabirds wheeled and cried. This side of the island was far rockier, and there were extensive tide pools, and waves breaking on the shore. Anatole enlisted Owens’ aid in searching for potential seafood, since pigs seemed to be thin on the ground, and, as a result, Harry and Tom were the first persons to discover that the island was not quite as uninhabited, as Jack had thought.
Achieving the stream bank, Harry soaked her handkerchief in fresh water and began wiping Tom’s face, which screwed up in displeasure as she worked. They were in the midst of this project when the breeze died away, briefly, and it was suddenly quiet enough to allow other sounds to come to their ears: the slap of waves, animal calls, and a thin singing. This latter was a wavering sound, not unmelodious but quite startling and eerie in this lonely spot. Harry felt her hair stand on end, and she and Tom looked at each other with wide, startled eyes.
“Mama!”
“Hush!” whispered Harry, catching him by the arm. She looked up, in the direction from which the sound came, upstream and on the opposite bank, closer to the forest, and apparently from behind an outcropping of rocks.
Harry and Tom stood slowly. The singing continued, and Harry looked back to where Anatole and Owens were digging for crustaceans, the little waves lapping at their boots. The men were not too far away: she thought her voice would carry to them, if the need arose. Even so…
“Tom,” Harry said, low but sharp, “Run and get Owens! Quickly now!”
“But…”
“Go!” she snapped, and to her relief he obeyed, running back down the beach as fast as his little legs would carry him.
Harry straightened, and, pulling her long skirts to the side, quietly walked along the bank, upstream, toward the singing. As she cautiously drew abreast of the rocks on the opposite bank and passed them, the singer came into view and she stopped, staring at him.
He was rocking in time to his music, and wore the garb of a priest-a Papist, by the look of him, for there was a rosary tucked in the rope belt about the waist of his robe, which was of coarse brown cloth, and hooded. The robe was loose, but even so his gaunt face and the bony hands that lay serenely atop his knees, proclaimed him to be very thin. He had an olive complexion, rather like that of a Spaniard, but as she stood listening to his song she realized he was not Spanish but Italian. This was quite in keeping with her thought that she had seen this man, or someone very similar, before: his face was like many she had seen in Italy, to which fair country Jack had taken her after their little daughter had died, two years before. This man had the same high cheekbones, aquiline nose, full lips, and heavy-lidded eyes, though the latter were closed just at the moment.
She cleared her throat, and called, rather uncertainly, “Hello!” and the singer paused as he listened suddenly, but he did not open his eyes.
“Is someone there? Una signora?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Harry, and went down the bank and crossed the little stream, soaking her shoes. “Are you alone?”
Still the eyes remained closed as he replied, “But no, signora. May I ask the same of you?”
“No, there are four of us!” Harry looked about uncertainly as she came up the bank and stopped a few feet from him, but she could see no one else about. She returned her attention to the priest, staring down at him. There was something wrong with his eyes, she could see now: there was…dried blood where the lids came together. “Father, what has happened to you?” she said, her voice trembling a little. “Why are you here?”
“Why am I here? Ah, signora! To say the truth, I had thought, until now, that I was here to die.”
* * *
“Da! Da!” shrieked Tom, bursting from the trees and out onto the beach of the cove, closely followed by Owens, who stopped, bent, and put his hands to his knees, trying to catch his breath for a moment. Then, as he saw Tom start into the water, apparently meaning to swim out to the Pearl, he roared, “Tom Sparrow, stop!”
Tom did, and came rushing back to him. “But Owens! I want to tell…”
Owens, still panting, pointed silently, and Tom, following the finger, saw a group of men several hundred yards up the beach, his father among their number. He lit out, shrieking again. “Da!”
Jack looked up to see his son pelting toward him at high speed, followed more slowly by Michael Owens, and his dark brows twitched together in sudden alarm.
“Da! There’s a man and he’s hurt and Mama needs you!”
“A man! What sort of man? Owens, where’s her la’ship?”
“She an’ Anatole are with ‘im. He’s a priest-Italian-an’ he’s hurt, bad, Captain. He…he can’t walk-told us they broke his ankle. And he’s blind, Captain. He’s had his eyes put out.”
Jack paled slightly. “Put out? Who by?”
“The Spanish, from what he says. They left ‘im here to die. Had to swim ashore. He’s bad hurt, and had nothin’ to eat for nigh on a week. Had water though: we found ‘im next the stream.”
“God’s Teeth!” Jack muttered, then snapped, “Owens! Go back to the Pearl an’ bring blankets and some food, and bring Gibbs and Bowers, too. Tom, laddie, can you show us the way back?”
“Aye, Da!” Tom declared with great enthusiasm, thrilled to be appointed leader of the rescue expedition. “This way, men!”
On to Chapter Three
The faint light of early morning seeped thin gold between the drapes over the windows of the Great Cabin. Harry sighed sleepily, thinking there was nothing quite as lovely as waking to the dawn glow of clement weather and the faint motions and sounds of the Black Pearl in a safe anchorage, bedclothes and Jack warm about her. He was curled against her back, his arm about her middle, a possessive hand on her breast. She stirred, putting her hand over his, and squirming against him, a hint of a suggestion. Jack was gratifyingly quick on the uptake, however, and a hint was all that was needed. Pressing his face against her hair and neck, he breathed deep and his arm tightened around her bare middle, pulling her even closer. “G’morning, lady wife,” he murmured, then brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck, lingering deliciously. She purred contentment as his hands began to drift, gentle and very sure. More sleep could wait a while.
She started to turn over, to face him, but he moved over her for a long kiss, pressing her into the bed with his weight, rubbing against her, catlike, and insinuating a knee between her legs. Then he said against her lips, “’Twas your turn last night. Mine, now.”
“All right,” she said, soft and breathless, unwontedly submissive.
He smiled, rather devilishly.
Long minutes passed in near silence, save for slow, moist sounds, approving murmurs, uneven breathing, and the occasional soft groan or whimper as he slowly worked his way down. She parted her legs to afford him access, but he paused to look up at her. She was flushed and trembling, watching him. “Relax,” he said, and placed a kiss just under her navel.
“Yes,” she whispered, but was only partially successful as he moved lower, disappearing beneath the bedclothes. Jack’s outrageous impersonation of the previous morning was presently demonstrated to be uncannily accurate.
And then, the patter of little feet in the passage and the cabin door was heard to open. “Mama! Da’!”
Jack left off hastily, and Harry grabbed at the covers, pulling them up to their chins as he slipped up beside her again.
Tom trotted over, saying brightly, “It’s morning, Da! Can we go see the island?”
As his little son climbed onto the bed, Jack summoned Infinite Patience and said, “Tom, did we not speak about knocking before coming in?”
“Oh, aye! But Da there’s dolphins in the cove, an’ the sun’s coming up. Owens said I should ask you if we can go over!”
“I didn’t mean now!” said Owens from the doorway. “Get over here, Imp!” Looking embarrassed, he nodded to Jack and Harry. “Good morrow, Captain, M’lady.”
“Good morning, Owens!” Harry called, then smiled at her son’s enthusiasm. “Have you had breakfast already?” She held out one arm.
Tom submitted to a hug, saying, “No, don’t want any.” But then he struggled up and reiterated, “I want to go over to the island! May we? Please?”
“No, you can’t!” Jack said, a little testily. “Not now, at least. Maybe later, if you mind!” A familiar look of mulish displeasure crossed his son’s countenance, and Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Or would you like a repetition of yesterday’s little encounter?”
The mulish look faded to a reminiscent and unabashed wince. “No, sir,” Tom admitted, beginning to recall a little of The Discussion.
“That’s better. Now you go with Owens and get some breakfast and watch the dolphins and I’ll be up in a bit. Some of us like to lay abed past the crack of dawn, savvy?”
“But why?” Tom complained, but then, noting his father’s expression, made a precipitate retreat off the bed. “All right, I’m goin’!”
A small snort of laughter was heard from the distaff side, but Jack preserved his gravity, though his voice was just a little unsteady as he said, “See that you do. Owens, don’t let him out o’ your sight. Your reward in Heaven will be great!”
“And not just in Heaven!” Harry added, grinning.
Owens smiled, and, as Tom hopped past him, closed the cabin door.
Jack flopped back against the pillow, with a sound of exasperation.
Harry chuckled, and said, “He’s your son!”
Her husband turned to her, first his head, then the rest of him. “He’s your son. Good God, what were we thinking?”
“I’m sure I can’t recall,” Harry murmured, taking him in her arms again. “My lamentable memory, you know.”
“Perhaps I can…er…jog it for you. ” Jack suggested, eyelids drooping again. He kissed her. “Now where were we?”
* * *
There were dolphins at play in the wide cove, just as Tom had said, and a white sand beach with rocky outcroppings that promised tide pools and splendid places to climb, and palm trees and other greenery, the whole of it freshly rain washed and waiting to be explored.
“Oh, I want to go over, too!” said Harry. “Have you been here before?”
“Aye,” said Jack, looking through his spyglass. “Had to take shelter here one other time. This is the narrow bit, an isthmus. There’s a little spring on the other side, and fruit trees on the way. There were wild pigs, on the north end, where the jungle’s deeper-ugly customers, that lot, but they make good eatin’. You’ll have to be careful about wandering about inland. I’ll send Anatole with you: he can get some fruit for us. But watch that Tom doesn’t stray.”
“No, indeed! Is it safe to go into the foliage at all? Will the pigs attack?”
“Sometimes. Pigs‘r pigs, the world ‘round. You can walk along the shore to the south and see a good deal, and get ‘round to the backside that way, if you like.”
“Let’s go, Da!” said Tom, bouncing up and onto the railing again, next to his parents.
Jack plucked him off it and gave him a little shake. “No! And your mother needs her breakfast now.”
But Harry declared, “I shall have breakfast on the way over. Anatole can bring along some scones.”
It was done, according to her will, and presently, after (what Harry considered) a precarious descent to the waiting boat, they shoved off across the cove, Owens manning the oars. The young man, now nineteen, raw-boned and darkly handsome, and a couple of inches taller than his captain, had been “rewarded” with a morning off to go with the touring party to see the island, and to lend them the protection of his wits and sword, should they have need.
Owens had progressed beyond Cabin Boy some years back, for, refusing Jack’s offer to send him to school gently but adamantly, he had instead set himself to learning the skills of a seafarer and warrior with diligence. He could not be said to have learnt pirating, particularly, for he’d been raised by loving and God-fearing parents for the first dozen years of his life, and so had not the necessary moral relativity that seemed to come so naturally to some of his compatriots. That being said, he willingly carried out the orders of Privateer Captain Jack Sparrow, trusting in the man’s intelligence, wisdom, and kindness, all of which he’d seen demonstrated countless times over the last seven years, and none of which would save Owens from being branded or hung for a pirate should he fall into enemy hands. But he’d made his bed, and would lie in it, and he wouldn’t have it any other way, for Jack Sparrow was a man worth following.
Owens wore a smile as he rowed, watching Lady Harry and Tom exclaim over the beauty of the day, and the prospect of exploring The Unknown.
‘Twas little wonder his Captain loved his lady, for she still retained the beauty and liveliness of youth, now tempered with a pretty gravity, gleaned from her triple role of seafarer’s wife, mother, and patroness of St. Claire Island. Still, you never knew what to expect from Lady Harry, which occasionally made life rather interesting for those she loved.
And the same might be said of her offspring, and was the direct cause of incidents like the one that had landed them all on this island.
At first glance, there was no mistaking Tom for anyone but Jack Sparrow’s son, pretty imp that he was. Jack had managed all his life to not only repeatedly land on his feet but to actually thrive on trouble, like some cat with unlimited lives, and Owens had little doubt Tom Sparrow would do the same. Then, too, Jack's son might be troublesome, but he was lovable and loving as well. He and Owens had been the best of friends nearly from the day of his birth, which had taken place six years before in the Great Cabin of the Black Pearl as she lay at anchor at Bridgetown, Barbados. The Black Pearl and the sea were a part of Tom, just as they were a part of Jack, but the boy’s looks, intelligence, and zest for life came from both sides of the family tree.
* * *
In spite of possible porcine perils, the little group had elected to cross through the trees and brush to the other side of the isthmus, rather than staying on the beach as Jack had suggested. This was due not only to Tom’s immediately running into the vegetation to investigate, but to Anatole’s assertion that they were more likely to find fruit and other edibles away from the beach.
“Including pigs?” suggested Harry, a little tartly.
“Oh, oui, Madame,” said Anatole, “But the brush is not so heavy in this area, I think? And if we do meet with le cochon, Owens can very well kill him with his little sword, hein? The resulting feast will be très magnifique, je vous assure.”
Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on one’s opinion of the prospect) they met no fauna other than birds as they made their way through the forest. Anatole gathered fruit into his basket as they went, and Tom, having previously eschewed breakfast, munched a juicy mango, and then a scone, and was, as a result, covered in sticky crumbs by the time they neared the other side and were in sight of the sea again.
“Come and let’s clean you up,” said Tom’s mother, shaking her head in fond exasperation. Harry took his hand and they walked down the beach together, toward the freshwater stream that could be seen emptying into the bay spread out before them. The breeze, fresh and cool, was blowing sibilantly, and seabirds wheeled and cried. This side of the island was far rockier, and there were extensive tide pools, and waves breaking on the shore. Anatole enlisted Owens’ aid in searching for potential seafood, since pigs seemed to be thin on the ground, and, as a result, Harry and Tom were the first persons to discover that the island was not quite as uninhabited, as Jack had thought.
Achieving the stream bank, Harry soaked her handkerchief in fresh water and began wiping Tom’s face, which screwed up in displeasure as she worked. They were in the midst of this project when the breeze died away, briefly, and it was suddenly quiet enough to allow other sounds to come to their ears: the slap of waves, animal calls, and a thin singing. This latter was a wavering sound, not unmelodious but quite startling and eerie in this lonely spot. Harry felt her hair stand on end, and she and Tom looked at each other with wide, startled eyes.
“Mama!”
“Hush!” whispered Harry, catching him by the arm. She looked up, in the direction from which the sound came, upstream and on the opposite bank, closer to the forest, and apparently from behind an outcropping of rocks.
Harry and Tom stood slowly. The singing continued, and Harry looked back to where Anatole and Owens were digging for crustaceans, the little waves lapping at their boots. The men were not too far away: she thought her voice would carry to them, if the need arose. Even so…
“Tom,” Harry said, low but sharp, “Run and get Owens! Quickly now!”
“But…”
“Go!” she snapped, and to her relief he obeyed, running back down the beach as fast as his little legs would carry him.
Harry straightened, and, pulling her long skirts to the side, quietly walked along the bank, upstream, toward the singing. As she cautiously drew abreast of the rocks on the opposite bank and passed them, the singer came into view and she stopped, staring at him.
He was rocking in time to his music, and wore the garb of a priest-a Papist, by the look of him, for there was a rosary tucked in the rope belt about the waist of his robe, which was of coarse brown cloth, and hooded. The robe was loose, but even so his gaunt face and the bony hands that lay serenely atop his knees, proclaimed him to be very thin. He had an olive complexion, rather like that of a Spaniard, but as she stood listening to his song she realized he was not Spanish but Italian. This was quite in keeping with her thought that she had seen this man, or someone very similar, before: his face was like many she had seen in Italy, to which fair country Jack had taken her after their little daughter had died, two years before. This man had the same high cheekbones, aquiline nose, full lips, and heavy-lidded eyes, though the latter were closed just at the moment.
She cleared her throat, and called, rather uncertainly, “Hello!” and the singer paused as he listened suddenly, but he did not open his eyes.
“Is someone there? Una signora?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Harry, and went down the bank and crossed the little stream, soaking her shoes. “Are you alone?”
Still the eyes remained closed as he replied, “But no, signora. May I ask the same of you?”
“No, there are four of us!” Harry looked about uncertainly as she came up the bank and stopped a few feet from him, but she could see no one else about. She returned her attention to the priest, staring down at him. There was something wrong with his eyes, she could see now: there was…dried blood where the lids came together. “Father, what has happened to you?” she said, her voice trembling a little. “Why are you here?”
“Why am I here? Ah, signora! To say the truth, I had thought, until now, that I was here to die.”
* * *
“Da! Da!” shrieked Tom, bursting from the trees and out onto the beach of the cove, closely followed by Owens, who stopped, bent, and put his hands to his knees, trying to catch his breath for a moment. Then, as he saw Tom start into the water, apparently meaning to swim out to the Pearl, he roared, “Tom Sparrow, stop!”
Tom did, and came rushing back to him. “But Owens! I want to tell…”
Owens, still panting, pointed silently, and Tom, following the finger, saw a group of men several hundred yards up the beach, his father among their number. He lit out, shrieking again. “Da!”
Jack looked up to see his son pelting toward him at high speed, followed more slowly by Michael Owens, and his dark brows twitched together in sudden alarm.
“Da! There’s a man and he’s hurt and Mama needs you!”
“A man! What sort of man? Owens, where’s her la’ship?”
“She an’ Anatole are with ‘im. He’s a priest-Italian-an’ he’s hurt, bad, Captain. He…he can’t walk-told us they broke his ankle. And he’s blind, Captain. He’s had his eyes put out.”
Jack paled slightly. “Put out? Who by?”
“The Spanish, from what he says. They left ‘im here to die. Had to swim ashore. He’s bad hurt, and had nothin’ to eat for nigh on a week. Had water though: we found ‘im next the stream.”
“God’s Teeth!” Jack muttered, then snapped, “Owens! Go back to the Pearl an’ bring blankets and some food, and bring Gibbs and Bowers, too. Tom, laddie, can you show us the way back?”
“Aye, Da!” Tom declared with great enthusiasm, thrilled to be appointed leader of the rescue expedition. “This way, men!”
On to Chapter Three