BENEATH; pt.3
(Jack And Bill aren't mine. The crew of the Northern Beacon is.)
The day spun itself out in the usual warp and weft of watches and tasks, and under Bill’s casually scrutinizing eye, Jack insinuated himself deftly into the pattern. He seemed to be everywhere at once, yet managed to never be in the way. He made none of the usual green mistakes one would expect from a new sailor, which left Bill suspecting that, his youth aside, Jack wasn’t a new sailor at all. He showed signs of an affinity for the elements that awed Bill as much as it unsettled some of his crewmates.
More than anything, Bill wanted to know how such a person had ended up a starving stowaway on a fishing boat, but he hadn’t asked. He already had the lad’s fears laid bare before him; to push to know Jack’s secrets, on top of that, seemed intrusive.
Besides which, there was a more pressing question at hand; one that Bill had decided needed raising sooner, rather than later. He and Yearwood could debate Jack’s suitability for the crew until judgment day, and it would still be a moot point if the boy had no wish to stay with them farther than Tortuga.
So while the two of them knelt on the fighting top, seeing to some maintenance of the swivel-guns, Bill sought a moment to usher the subject in.
“Which side are we takin’ these to, Bill?” Jack questioned as he cleaned.
“We’ll get to both, eventually. They’re not staying up; we’re just checking the mountings and the movement. You don’t want to be discovering a wobble or a hitch or a corroded bolt when you’re three minutes from boarding and close enough to count the teeth the other blokes are missin’. If time’s come to reach for your powder, it’s too late to fix a faulty weapon. A damaged gun is a gun you do without,” he continued, working his swab up and down the bore, “and the gun you do without could be the one that costs you the battle.”
Jack’s eyes flickered to the older man. “Used these a lot, have you?”
Bill looked up from his work, hearing something beyond simple curiosity in the question, but unsure what that something was. “Now and again,” he replied, resting an elbow atop the gun and scratching at his jaw with one thumb. “On a good day our colors do all the talking, and these need never speak up,” he went on, cupping a hand on the underside of the gun. He worried his bottom lip briefly. “But they can’t all be good days, aye?”
Jack pushed a windswept lock of damp hair out of his face, which harbored no dismay at this admission, and nodded.
“No need for me tell you that it isn’t for everyone,” Bill went on a breath later. “Hell,” he said with a dry laugh, “it wouldn’t be my first choice. If I had one.” He didn’t look up, even when he felt Jack’s eyes on him.
“You don’t like this life.”
There was a pause that didn’t include a denial.
“Why do it, then?”
Bill gave the gun one last buffing swipe with the cuff of his sleeve. “Because I’m good at it.”
Jack’s hair stubbornly found its way back into his face. “Isn’t there anything about it you enjoy?”
Bill half-grinned at him, any traces of discontent turned loose to be carried away in the wind. “Some of the company ain’t half bad,” he cracked with a wink, “’least when it’s not biting bits of m’arm off.”
Jack snorted at that, but then the humor waned a little. “Or keeping you awake at night.”
Bill’s grin faded. “Jack, are you still fretting over that?”
The younger man shook his head, but his silence gave Bill a different answer.
“You ought to know, lad, that I’ve passed many a sleepless night in that hammock for reasons worse than a few bad dreams,” Bill informed Jack gently, ignoring the fact that he was addressing the top of Jack’s head. When he failed to get any acknowledgement, Bill pressed on. “You think I wouldn’t have booted your hide out by now if you were that much of a tax on my nerves?”
A fleeting smile alighted briefly on Jack’s face at that, but when he spoke he was all seriousness, and defiance sparked in the darkness of his eyes. “I won’t be kept on because somebody feels sorry for me, either, William,” he said, a severity in his tone that took Bill by surprise.
“I understand that,” he replied. “And that isn’t why I’d want you to stay on.”
“I’m not broken.”
“No,” Bill agreed immediately, “no. You’re not. Truth be told, lad, I think you must be one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”
Jack almost glared at the older man for a moment or two, searching for any hint of a placation in that statement, but found only earnestness.
“The rest of them think I’m halfway ‘round the bend.”
“Hasn’t interfered with most of ‘em also thinking you’re one hell of a sailor.” That brought Jack’s head up abruptly. Bill half rose, clapping a hand on Jack’s shoulder as he did so. “Come on. Help me with this gun.”
………………………..
The bilious cloud cover that had hung overhead all day eventually made up its mind to turn storm-colored, bringing evening on early. The sea’s tossing grew more turbulent, and the mist-like rain discovered which way was down, proceeding in that direction with all haste.
Bill aborted his third attempt to get his pipe lit and stuck it back inside his coat with an irritated sigh. “Here,” he grunted, stepping up to take the tiller back from Jack, who relinquished it somewhat reluctantly.
“I was doing fine.”
“Yes, you were, but I’m the one the captain’ll bitch at if he sees. So we’ll wait until he thinks it’s his idea to give you a go.”
Jack grinned, and cast a glance through the deepening grey back towards Yearwood’s cabin, lit bright - very bright -- within. “Is he burning something down in there?”
Bill threw a quick look in that direction and shook his head. “Not yet, but I’m waiting for it. He’s either charting or bookkeeping, and it takes a bloody bonfire anymore for him to see to do it. He could shoot a man out of the crow’s nest at a hundred yards in Whitechapel fog, but put a written page in his hands and he’s blind as a vole.” He caught sight of the look on his young companion’s face then, and realized more than a storm was brewing. “Jack?” he prodded warily.
“Not quite sold on me, is he?” Jack commented, without the slightest trace of offense. Then sly dark eyes slid back to Bill, and even in the gloom, there was no missing the gleam of inspiration in them.
……………………….
Yearwood didn’t even bother to raise his eyes from his work as he barked a curt “Aye,” in response to the rapping at his door.
When it opened to admit Jack Sparrow, dripping wet and bearing a cloth-covered dish, however, he straightened, chart momentarily forgotten.
“Pardon the interruption, Captain, but Bill sent me with your supper.”
“Did he now?” Yearwood twirled his stylus thoughtfully. “Did he have you spit in it, as well, or did he do that himself?”
Jack blinked. “Actually he said that was reserved for breakfast.”
Yearwood stared at him for a moment, then a deep chuckle found its way out from beneath the heavy grey moustache. “The other side of the table there will be fine,” he said, pointing with the stylus.
No sooner had Jack set the plate down in the indicated spot then the Northern Beacon took it upon herself to present him with an opportunity. The ship danced with a particularly rough swell, and a candelabrum near Jack’s end of the table was dislodged. One swift hand moved to catch the ironwork piece before it could spill flame and tallow, then Jack stood frozen, lips parted in surprise, until the paralysis that accompanied a close call ebbed. Breath puffing out in relief, he set the candelabrum back down when the ship settled, but maintained his hold on it, and gave Yearwood a hesitant half-smile.
“Kicking up a bit out there,” he commented.
“Hell,” Yearwood muttered. “Put ‘em out, Sparrow. I’m ready for a rest, anyway.” He pushed back from the table, rubbing his eyes with one hand.
Jack obligingly pinched out two of the candles, and blew out the flame on the center one. He moved out of Yearwood’s way as the captain came around to Jack’s side of the table and took up the plate. Jack took the long way around the table as he made his way back towards the door, pausing behind the chair Yearwood had just vacated.
“If I may be so bold as to suggest it, sir,” he spoke up, “I’ve some experience with all this,” he waved a hand at Yearwood’s chart. “If there are any… little details you’d like finished up while you eat.”
……………………….
Nearly a full hour later, Yearwood’s supper dish sat abandoned, the meal only half-eaten, on the far edge of the table as he and Jack leaned over a chart that bore close to a dozen notes and corrections in a hand varied from and steadier than the older scrawlings.
“See, this ‘ere is completely inaccurate,” Jack was saying, stretched out with his left elbow and forearm holding his weight, tapping at a spot on the chart with one charcoal-smudged finger. “The current through here actually flows differently since the earthquake. You’d be doubling your travel time taking this course.” He pushed himself up, looking over the chart from edge to edge. “How old are your charts?” he questioned, a grimace on his face.
Yearwood’s knife-bright blue eyes pinned him with a scowl. “Older than you twice over, pup,” he replied in a growl. It did not have the desired effect.
“Well, that’s no good. Hard to outdo your brethren if your equipment’s out of date, innit?”
Yearwood stared at him, struck dumb, then straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ve got quite a pair on you, don’t you, boy?” He plucked the stylus out of Jack’s fingers and waved a hand in the direction of the door. “Get on with you, now. Go pester your keeper. I’ve other work to do.”
“Yessir.” Jack offered no argument, biting back a smile as he headed out. At the last second, Yearwood’s voice halted him.
“Sparrow.”
“Captain?”
“Assuming you haven’t been tossed overboard by tomorrow evening, come back at eight o’clock,” he ordered. “You can point out all the deficiencies in my map of the Gulf of Mexico, and we’ll see how long I can go without knocking you upside your head.”
Jack’s grin nearly split his face. “I look forward to it, sir.”
This darkened Yearwood’s demeanor instantly, because he suspected Jack meant it. “Are you even the least bit afraid of me, Sparrow?”
The grin was banished with no more effort than it took to snuff out a candle. “Of course I am, sir,” Jack lied somberly.
Yearwood glared. “Sparrow.”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Piss off.”
………………………..
The weather was considering a shift to a true squall when McLaughlin came to relieve Bill at the tiller, and once they’d traded off, Bill made his way to the men just descending from the windswept rigging, pulling Parks and Hennesee away from the group.
“When you’re done here, go below and make sure the cargo’s secure,” he instructed, pitching his voice to carry over the rising wind. “If this little cloudburst ‘ere decides to turn into a big mother like the one we ran into Sunday, we’re going to have problems with those bloody barrels again.”
“Aye, Bootstrap,” Hennesee abided. He gave Parks a swat on the arm. “C’mon, mate. S’drier work than bein’ up here.”
Bill turned from them to see Jack approaching from the direction of Yearwood’s cabin, and even through the rain there was no mistaking the smug expression the young man wore.
“Well if that isn’t the face of the cat who’s had the canary.” He tipped his hat back, shedding a bit of water off it. “What’ve you been up to, lad?”
“Just lending a hand where it’s needed,” Jack replied. “And a pair of eyes to go along with.”
Bill arched an eyebrow. “This sounds like a story that’ll go well with supper.”
……………………
A violent lurch knocked Parks into the bulkhead as the Northern Beacon dropped into a deep trough.
“Shit,” he muttered, righting himself and rubbing at the shoulder that had taken the impact. “This weather gets much worse and none of us are goin’ to catch a wink tonight.”
“Speak for yourself,” Hennesee replied, hauling open one side of the hatch to the hold. “I can sleep in anything.”
“Yeah, I heard that about you.”
“From who, your mother?” Hennesee started down, lantern hooked over his arm, bracing himself against the ship’s pitching. The lantern swung on his arm, sending moving shadows stretching first in one direction, then the other, sharp and black in the sudden glare of intrusive light. When the way was clear, Parks followed him down.
“God, it reeks in here,” Parks grumbled, moving to the nearest grouping of crates and giving them a firm shove, checking for movement. “Let’s get this over with.”
“What’s your hurry, mate?” Hennesee shot back, setting his lantern down beside him and kneeling to check the knots securing some of the netting to the cleats in the floor. “Ain’t nothin’ up there but wet and wind.”
“Yeah, well, it’d smell a sight better, anyway.” He kicked at the wedges around the base of the crates, making sure they stuck fast, throwing a disgusted grimace at the hold at large. “What the soddin’ hell is that?”
“I dunno, but if you’d quit bein’ such a bloody girl’s skirt and get this done, you wouldn’t have to be down here smellin’ it as long, now, would you?” Hennesee turned his attention to the barrels Bill had been concerned with; fresh water, rum, and brining salt taken from the Charybdis. He tugged experimentally at the lines lashing them in place. They’d been double bound after one had ended up split following some rough treatment in the last storm. “These ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
“Yeah, well, let’s give ‘em one more line anyway. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want Bootstrap barkin’ in my face if anything works loose.”
“You know he actually told me ‘good morning’ the other day? Gave me the goddamned spooks.” Hennesee said, reaching down to grab a length of coiled rope. He lifted the lot of it, gripping one end and making to toss the rest over to Parks, when something fell from it to land with a wet, weighty thud on the planking between his feet. He toed it into the lantern’s light, and grimaced. It was a dead rat.
Then Hennesee frowned, and leaned closer, disgust twisting his lip up.
It was half of a dead rat.
“Bloody little cannibals,” he muttered under his breath. He tossed the rope to Parks. “C’mon, mate, let’s get to it.” Hennesee glanced down, and kicked the carcass into the shadows. “Least you bastards could do is clean up after yourselves,” he called after it.
……………………………………
Bill’s broad shoulders quaked so much with the force of his laughter he let his hardtack drop back onto his plate, abandoned until he could chew without fear of choking.
Downey was seated across from him, beside Jack, who had paused in his telling of the evening’s events to pick at his own meal. “You corrected his charts?” Downey clarified.
Jack nodded.
“And he didn’t knock any of your teeth out?”
From behind his cup, Jack shook his head.
“And he told you to come back?”
Another nod, and a grin.
Downey’s mouth hung open, and he turned to look at Bill, in a silent request for enlightenment to whatever he was missing.
Bill’s laughter bent him double.
“That must’ve been one fortunate star you were born under, Sparrow,” Downey marveled, shaking his head.
“I think those fisher-fellas we come across might disagree with that, Harry.” It sent the grin on Jack’s face skittering for parts unknown, and stopped Bill’s deep laughter at the source. “Or should I say they might, iff’n they wasn’t all dead.” A tall, auburn-haired man with twisting black tattoos up both his bare arms planted his hands on the end of their table and leaned over, glaring brazenly at Jack less than an arm’s length from the younger man’s face. “All of ‘em ‘cept you, boy. How’s that happen, I wonder?”
Jack kept his face forward, turning only his eyes up to meet the other man’s, which gleamed with something decidedly unfriendly. “Guess I must not have been worth bothering with, Rudy. Kind of insulting when I really stop to think about it. Do us a favor and don’t let that get around, yeah?”
Ned Rudolphs’ bushy red brows plummeted into a deep scowl. “You think you’re pretty godammned funny, don’t you, boy?”
“Is there a problem, Rudy?” Bill asked quietly from his seat.
“Yeah, I’d say there’s a big problem.” Rudy jerked his chin belligerently in Jack’s direction. “This one’s ill luck.”
“Ah, now. That’s just silly.” Bill pushed his plate back and folded his hands neatly on the table in front of him.
Pale hazel eyes swung in Bill’s direction, and had a bit of trouble focusing. “It ain’t either. What about this weather we’re in?”
“What about it?” Bill countered. “It’s wet. If that’s posing difficulties for you, Rudolphs, I’d say it’s time for a career change.”
“These bloody storms didn’t start ‘til after we picked him up. We hadn’t a seen a drop o’ rain in weeks before that.” Rudy turned back to Jack, his glare ripening. “And he din’t pay ‘em any mind, not any mind at all. Out there laughin’ like a lunatic, while the rest of us near drowned.”
Downey’s eyes flickered back and forth between Rudolphs and Bill, and made mental note of the position of the sparks on the fuse that was burning down in the middle of the table. “Rudy. Sit down. Have something to eat. Put something in your mouth.”
“Rudy, you’re drunk,” Bill observed coolly. “If memory serves, you were drunk during that first storm, too. You might keep your footing a little better if you’d dry out.”
“We don’t even know where this one’s from,” Rudy went on, as if Bill hadn’t spoken and Jack wasn’t in the room, right under his nose. “Don’t know where he’s from or what he was doin’ on that tub. But they all died bloody, and here he sits. Creepin’ into the captain’s good graces now, he is, and all of you cacklin’ like hens about it.” Rudolphs spit on the floor, casting a burning scowl on each of them in turn. “Well, I call him ill luck.”
“Won’t be joining us for supper then, I reckon?” Jack couldn’t quite resist, and Downey snickered.
Rudy slammed a hand down on the table, hard enough to rattle all their dishes, but not, apparently, hard enough to rattle Jack, whose smile spread out just a little farther in both directions.
“Laugh about it then, you bastards,” Rudy growled, swaying slightly with the kinetic retribution of the blow to the table, which had been a little more than his inebriated system could manage. “But you mark me, we’re all goin’ to end up just like those other poor fools.” He narrowed his glare’s sights to Bill alone. “All ‘cause you had to go pickin’ up strays. And if that ain’t proof the little bastard’s witchin’ the lot of you, I don’t know what is.”
“Christ, Rudy, just shut up,” Downey tried again.
“Well you tell me, Harry,” Rudolphs went on, ignoring the warning in Downey’s tone. “Since when does Bootstrap the Butcher give a tinker’s damn about anybody?” He stared down at Jack. “Either you’re screwin’ with his head, boy,” Rudolphs sneered, “or he’s just screwin’--”
“Harry,” Bill interrupted coldly. “Help Rudy see to his bloody nose.”
“What bloody--”
Bill’s elbow landed with a wet crack in the center of Rudy’s face, and the redhead toppled like a tree, howling from behind his hands all the way down.
“That one,” Bill said.
Downey rolled his eyes. “Right. Fine.” He pushed up from the table and made his way to the man rolling on the floor. “Oh, just stop with the caterwauling already. I told you to shut the hell up, didn’t I? Get your hands out of the way. Jesus, and I didn’t think you could get any uglier.”
Bill looked to Jack, who was ignoring completely the chaos beside their table, staring down at his plate as if trying to burn holes through it. “I can see how taken with my seamanship they are.” he said tightly.
“Jack--”
Abruptly the younger man shoved away from the table, knocking his empty mug over in the process. Jack stepped cleanly over the writhing Rudolphs and stalked towards the hatchway without a backwards glance.
Bill reached over and stilled the rolling mug, righting it, a heavy sigh hissing out of him. “Damn it.” He sagged in his seat, glancing over when the moans from the floor crescendoed to a scream.
Downey stood up, wiping his hand off on his trousers. “Fixed it.”
……………………………………..
“Right, that’s got it.” Parks tied off his last knot and straightened. Opposite him, Hennesee did likewise, then took up his lantern from where he’d set it on one of the barrels while he worked. “Come on, mate, let’s get topside.”
Hennesee threw an amused look at his crewmate as they turned to go. As he pivoted, the lantern’s light spilled over more of the dark hold, and Hennesee stopped short when, against the far wall, a shadow that was neither his nor Parks’ was thrown up.
“Hey!”
Before his cry had even faded, the silhouette was gone, leaving only the barren glare of light on flat planes and sharp corners.
“Now what?” Parks demanded, already at the foot of the ladder.
“There’s someone else down here!” Hennesee said sharply. “Over that way!”
Parks followed his pointing finger, frowning. “There ain’t nobody there.”
“Like hell there isn’t! I saw ‘em! There was a shadow right there on the wall, plain as day!” Hennesee raised his lantern higher, stepping around cargo in a meandering path towards the middle of the hold.
Parks looked once more, leaning forward, squinting into the gloom, then withdrew, glaring disgustedly at Hennesee. “You’re fuckin’ with me, aren’t you?”
“What? No! Parks, I saw--”
“Oh, pull the other one, mate, I ain’t in the mood.” Waving a dismissive hand in Hennesee’s direction, Parks started up the ladder.
“Parks!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Parks grumbled, his legs disappearing up through the hatch.
Hennesee scowled up after him a moment more, then turned back to the labyrinth of cargo. “Who’s in here?” he barked.
There was no reply, and Hennesee moved forward. Around him, the sea breathed, drumming against the hull, and the ship groaned in response. The storm was still building. He really didn’t want to be in the hold when it peaked, but neither did he want to leave unhindered someone who might be pocketing part of the whole crew’s would-be profits.
“You got no leave to be pokin’ about in here, so just come on out!” The ship pitched violently, and he braced himself a little too late, swearing when he stumbled and his knee struck a crate-edge. Rubbing at the smarting spot, he peered fiercely into the valleys and alleyways between the towers of swag. “All right now, I’m about through with this game. Get out here!”
Hennesee stood where he was, listening, and watching, but nothing moved within the bubble of illumination his lantern provided. There came a sudden thundering of water against the hull, far louder than anything that the storm had tossed at them so far, and it roared in the close air of the hold.
Air that now reeked a great deal more than Hennesee had noticed when they’d first descended. “God,” he breathed, pressing his forearm briefly across his nose and mouth. Parks had been right about the stink, and Hennesee couldn’t imagine how it hadn’t hit him until now. He wondered if something they’d taken was leaking, and fervently hoped that whatever it was, it wouldn’t damage any other cargo before they could tend to it.
But enough was enough. “The hell with it,” he muttered, backing up. “Rudy, if that’s you nippin’ into the rum, Captain’s goin’ to have your arse for it, me lad. Just so’s you--”
He broke off abruptly as the heel of his boot connected with something small and hard that rang metallically as it clattered across the floor. Frowning, Hennesee turned and swung his lantern low, searching until he caught the gleam of what he’d kicked.
He picked up the broken buckle and held it near the light. “Aw, damn it, what broke loose?”
The movement registered only as a dark streak in his peripheral vision, snaking out from between two crates towards his right foot, and then the hot, slick pain of his severed Achilles’ tendon tore a cry out of Hennesee’s throat. That foot gave way beneath him, and he collapsed, the lantern rolling away, nearly pulling a crate down on top of himself in his desperate grab to stop the fall. Gasping between clenched teeth, he twisted, straining to clutch at his ankle.
The sound reminded Hennesee of nothing so much as the throaty call of a night frog, and it came from right behind him. He rolled towards it, reaching up and groping for his lantern with one hand.
He had time enough to see the milky green-white gleam of eyes, time enough to draw the breath a scream would have required, and then that dark, razor-tipped hand was lashing out again, this time coming for his throat.
…………………………………….
Parks took a swig from his flask as he sat waiting impatiently just beyond the hatch from the hold.
“Two minutes, Hen,” he grumbled. “Two minutes and then I’m goin’ without you.”
The sharp cry from the depths of the hold snapped his head around, and then Parks leaped to his feet, shaking his head. “That ain’t any kind of funny, mate,” he called, coming to stand at the hatch’s edge. “And I ain’t coming down, so just get your silly arse up here.”
Aggravated, he glared down into the hold a moment longer, then sat and leaned close to the lamp he’d lit, tilting the mouth of his flask towards it and attempting to gage the waterline of its contents.
Weight creaked on the ladder. Parks snorted, capping his flask as he turned. “Took your sweet soddin’ time, didn’t y--”
His flask slipped from his fingers, and a whine rose in his throat as he scrambled backwards, away from the teeth, the face, the body that was rising up from the hatch, slithering towards him. Parks’ back hit the bulkhead and he remembered to reach for his pistol, and then a slick, stinking weight hit him, teeth first.
TBC
The day spun itself out in the usual warp and weft of watches and tasks, and under Bill’s casually scrutinizing eye, Jack insinuated himself deftly into the pattern. He seemed to be everywhere at once, yet managed to never be in the way. He made none of the usual green mistakes one would expect from a new sailor, which left Bill suspecting that, his youth aside, Jack wasn’t a new sailor at all. He showed signs of an affinity for the elements that awed Bill as much as it unsettled some of his crewmates.
More than anything, Bill wanted to know how such a person had ended up a starving stowaway on a fishing boat, but he hadn’t asked. He already had the lad’s fears laid bare before him; to push to know Jack’s secrets, on top of that, seemed intrusive.
Besides which, there was a more pressing question at hand; one that Bill had decided needed raising sooner, rather than later. He and Yearwood could debate Jack’s suitability for the crew until judgment day, and it would still be a moot point if the boy had no wish to stay with them farther than Tortuga.
So while the two of them knelt on the fighting top, seeing to some maintenance of the swivel-guns, Bill sought a moment to usher the subject in.
“Which side are we takin’ these to, Bill?” Jack questioned as he cleaned.
“We’ll get to both, eventually. They’re not staying up; we’re just checking the mountings and the movement. You don’t want to be discovering a wobble or a hitch or a corroded bolt when you’re three minutes from boarding and close enough to count the teeth the other blokes are missin’. If time’s come to reach for your powder, it’s too late to fix a faulty weapon. A damaged gun is a gun you do without,” he continued, working his swab up and down the bore, “and the gun you do without could be the one that costs you the battle.”
Jack’s eyes flickered to the older man. “Used these a lot, have you?”
Bill looked up from his work, hearing something beyond simple curiosity in the question, but unsure what that something was. “Now and again,” he replied, resting an elbow atop the gun and scratching at his jaw with one thumb. “On a good day our colors do all the talking, and these need never speak up,” he went on, cupping a hand on the underside of the gun. He worried his bottom lip briefly. “But they can’t all be good days, aye?”
Jack pushed a windswept lock of damp hair out of his face, which harbored no dismay at this admission, and nodded.
“No need for me tell you that it isn’t for everyone,” Bill went on a breath later. “Hell,” he said with a dry laugh, “it wouldn’t be my first choice. If I had one.” He didn’t look up, even when he felt Jack’s eyes on him.
“You don’t like this life.”
There was a pause that didn’t include a denial.
“Why do it, then?”
Bill gave the gun one last buffing swipe with the cuff of his sleeve. “Because I’m good at it.”
Jack’s hair stubbornly found its way back into his face. “Isn’t there anything about it you enjoy?”
Bill half-grinned at him, any traces of discontent turned loose to be carried away in the wind. “Some of the company ain’t half bad,” he cracked with a wink, “’least when it’s not biting bits of m’arm off.”
Jack snorted at that, but then the humor waned a little. “Or keeping you awake at night.”
Bill’s grin faded. “Jack, are you still fretting over that?”
The younger man shook his head, but his silence gave Bill a different answer.
“You ought to know, lad, that I’ve passed many a sleepless night in that hammock for reasons worse than a few bad dreams,” Bill informed Jack gently, ignoring the fact that he was addressing the top of Jack’s head. When he failed to get any acknowledgement, Bill pressed on. “You think I wouldn’t have booted your hide out by now if you were that much of a tax on my nerves?”
A fleeting smile alighted briefly on Jack’s face at that, but when he spoke he was all seriousness, and defiance sparked in the darkness of his eyes. “I won’t be kept on because somebody feels sorry for me, either, William,” he said, a severity in his tone that took Bill by surprise.
“I understand that,” he replied. “And that isn’t why I’d want you to stay on.”
“I’m not broken.”
“No,” Bill agreed immediately, “no. You’re not. Truth be told, lad, I think you must be one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”
Jack almost glared at the older man for a moment or two, searching for any hint of a placation in that statement, but found only earnestness.
“The rest of them think I’m halfway ‘round the bend.”
“Hasn’t interfered with most of ‘em also thinking you’re one hell of a sailor.” That brought Jack’s head up abruptly. Bill half rose, clapping a hand on Jack’s shoulder as he did so. “Come on. Help me with this gun.”
………………………..
The bilious cloud cover that had hung overhead all day eventually made up its mind to turn storm-colored, bringing evening on early. The sea’s tossing grew more turbulent, and the mist-like rain discovered which way was down, proceeding in that direction with all haste.
Bill aborted his third attempt to get his pipe lit and stuck it back inside his coat with an irritated sigh. “Here,” he grunted, stepping up to take the tiller back from Jack, who relinquished it somewhat reluctantly.
“I was doing fine.”
“Yes, you were, but I’m the one the captain’ll bitch at if he sees. So we’ll wait until he thinks it’s his idea to give you a go.”
Jack grinned, and cast a glance through the deepening grey back towards Yearwood’s cabin, lit bright - very bright -- within. “Is he burning something down in there?”
Bill threw a quick look in that direction and shook his head. “Not yet, but I’m waiting for it. He’s either charting or bookkeeping, and it takes a bloody bonfire anymore for him to see to do it. He could shoot a man out of the crow’s nest at a hundred yards in Whitechapel fog, but put a written page in his hands and he’s blind as a vole.” He caught sight of the look on his young companion’s face then, and realized more than a storm was brewing. “Jack?” he prodded warily.
“Not quite sold on me, is he?” Jack commented, without the slightest trace of offense. Then sly dark eyes slid back to Bill, and even in the gloom, there was no missing the gleam of inspiration in them.
……………………….
Yearwood didn’t even bother to raise his eyes from his work as he barked a curt “Aye,” in response to the rapping at his door.
When it opened to admit Jack Sparrow, dripping wet and bearing a cloth-covered dish, however, he straightened, chart momentarily forgotten.
“Pardon the interruption, Captain, but Bill sent me with your supper.”
“Did he now?” Yearwood twirled his stylus thoughtfully. “Did he have you spit in it, as well, or did he do that himself?”
Jack blinked. “Actually he said that was reserved for breakfast.”
Yearwood stared at him for a moment, then a deep chuckle found its way out from beneath the heavy grey moustache. “The other side of the table there will be fine,” he said, pointing with the stylus.
No sooner had Jack set the plate down in the indicated spot then the Northern Beacon took it upon herself to present him with an opportunity. The ship danced with a particularly rough swell, and a candelabrum near Jack’s end of the table was dislodged. One swift hand moved to catch the ironwork piece before it could spill flame and tallow, then Jack stood frozen, lips parted in surprise, until the paralysis that accompanied a close call ebbed. Breath puffing out in relief, he set the candelabrum back down when the ship settled, but maintained his hold on it, and gave Yearwood a hesitant half-smile.
“Kicking up a bit out there,” he commented.
“Hell,” Yearwood muttered. “Put ‘em out, Sparrow. I’m ready for a rest, anyway.” He pushed back from the table, rubbing his eyes with one hand.
Jack obligingly pinched out two of the candles, and blew out the flame on the center one. He moved out of Yearwood’s way as the captain came around to Jack’s side of the table and took up the plate. Jack took the long way around the table as he made his way back towards the door, pausing behind the chair Yearwood had just vacated.
“If I may be so bold as to suggest it, sir,” he spoke up, “I’ve some experience with all this,” he waved a hand at Yearwood’s chart. “If there are any… little details you’d like finished up while you eat.”
……………………….
Nearly a full hour later, Yearwood’s supper dish sat abandoned, the meal only half-eaten, on the far edge of the table as he and Jack leaned over a chart that bore close to a dozen notes and corrections in a hand varied from and steadier than the older scrawlings.
“See, this ‘ere is completely inaccurate,” Jack was saying, stretched out with his left elbow and forearm holding his weight, tapping at a spot on the chart with one charcoal-smudged finger. “The current through here actually flows differently since the earthquake. You’d be doubling your travel time taking this course.” He pushed himself up, looking over the chart from edge to edge. “How old are your charts?” he questioned, a grimace on his face.
Yearwood’s knife-bright blue eyes pinned him with a scowl. “Older than you twice over, pup,” he replied in a growl. It did not have the desired effect.
“Well, that’s no good. Hard to outdo your brethren if your equipment’s out of date, innit?”
Yearwood stared at him, struck dumb, then straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ve got quite a pair on you, don’t you, boy?” He plucked the stylus out of Jack’s fingers and waved a hand in the direction of the door. “Get on with you, now. Go pester your keeper. I’ve other work to do.”
“Yessir.” Jack offered no argument, biting back a smile as he headed out. At the last second, Yearwood’s voice halted him.
“Sparrow.”
“Captain?”
“Assuming you haven’t been tossed overboard by tomorrow evening, come back at eight o’clock,” he ordered. “You can point out all the deficiencies in my map of the Gulf of Mexico, and we’ll see how long I can go without knocking you upside your head.”
Jack’s grin nearly split his face. “I look forward to it, sir.”
This darkened Yearwood’s demeanor instantly, because he suspected Jack meant it. “Are you even the least bit afraid of me, Sparrow?”
The grin was banished with no more effort than it took to snuff out a candle. “Of course I am, sir,” Jack lied somberly.
Yearwood glared. “Sparrow.”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Piss off.”
………………………..
The weather was considering a shift to a true squall when McLaughlin came to relieve Bill at the tiller, and once they’d traded off, Bill made his way to the men just descending from the windswept rigging, pulling Parks and Hennesee away from the group.
“When you’re done here, go below and make sure the cargo’s secure,” he instructed, pitching his voice to carry over the rising wind. “If this little cloudburst ‘ere decides to turn into a big mother like the one we ran into Sunday, we’re going to have problems with those bloody barrels again.”
“Aye, Bootstrap,” Hennesee abided. He gave Parks a swat on the arm. “C’mon, mate. S’drier work than bein’ up here.”
Bill turned from them to see Jack approaching from the direction of Yearwood’s cabin, and even through the rain there was no mistaking the smug expression the young man wore.
“Well if that isn’t the face of the cat who’s had the canary.” He tipped his hat back, shedding a bit of water off it. “What’ve you been up to, lad?”
“Just lending a hand where it’s needed,” Jack replied. “And a pair of eyes to go along with.”
Bill arched an eyebrow. “This sounds like a story that’ll go well with supper.”
……………………
A violent lurch knocked Parks into the bulkhead as the Northern Beacon dropped into a deep trough.
“Shit,” he muttered, righting himself and rubbing at the shoulder that had taken the impact. “This weather gets much worse and none of us are goin’ to catch a wink tonight.”
“Speak for yourself,” Hennesee replied, hauling open one side of the hatch to the hold. “I can sleep in anything.”
“Yeah, I heard that about you.”
“From who, your mother?” Hennesee started down, lantern hooked over his arm, bracing himself against the ship’s pitching. The lantern swung on his arm, sending moving shadows stretching first in one direction, then the other, sharp and black in the sudden glare of intrusive light. When the way was clear, Parks followed him down.
“God, it reeks in here,” Parks grumbled, moving to the nearest grouping of crates and giving them a firm shove, checking for movement. “Let’s get this over with.”
“What’s your hurry, mate?” Hennesee shot back, setting his lantern down beside him and kneeling to check the knots securing some of the netting to the cleats in the floor. “Ain’t nothin’ up there but wet and wind.”
“Yeah, well, it’d smell a sight better, anyway.” He kicked at the wedges around the base of the crates, making sure they stuck fast, throwing a disgusted grimace at the hold at large. “What the soddin’ hell is that?”
“I dunno, but if you’d quit bein’ such a bloody girl’s skirt and get this done, you wouldn’t have to be down here smellin’ it as long, now, would you?” Hennesee turned his attention to the barrels Bill had been concerned with; fresh water, rum, and brining salt taken from the Charybdis. He tugged experimentally at the lines lashing them in place. They’d been double bound after one had ended up split following some rough treatment in the last storm. “These ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
“Yeah, well, let’s give ‘em one more line anyway. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want Bootstrap barkin’ in my face if anything works loose.”
“You know he actually told me ‘good morning’ the other day? Gave me the goddamned spooks.” Hennesee said, reaching down to grab a length of coiled rope. He lifted the lot of it, gripping one end and making to toss the rest over to Parks, when something fell from it to land with a wet, weighty thud on the planking between his feet. He toed it into the lantern’s light, and grimaced. It was a dead rat.
Then Hennesee frowned, and leaned closer, disgust twisting his lip up.
It was half of a dead rat.
“Bloody little cannibals,” he muttered under his breath. He tossed the rope to Parks. “C’mon, mate, let’s get to it.” Hennesee glanced down, and kicked the carcass into the shadows. “Least you bastards could do is clean up after yourselves,” he called after it.
……………………………………
Bill’s broad shoulders quaked so much with the force of his laughter he let his hardtack drop back onto his plate, abandoned until he could chew without fear of choking.
Downey was seated across from him, beside Jack, who had paused in his telling of the evening’s events to pick at his own meal. “You corrected his charts?” Downey clarified.
Jack nodded.
“And he didn’t knock any of your teeth out?”
From behind his cup, Jack shook his head.
“And he told you to come back?”
Another nod, and a grin.
Downey’s mouth hung open, and he turned to look at Bill, in a silent request for enlightenment to whatever he was missing.
Bill’s laughter bent him double.
“That must’ve been one fortunate star you were born under, Sparrow,” Downey marveled, shaking his head.
“I think those fisher-fellas we come across might disagree with that, Harry.” It sent the grin on Jack’s face skittering for parts unknown, and stopped Bill’s deep laughter at the source. “Or should I say they might, iff’n they wasn’t all dead.” A tall, auburn-haired man with twisting black tattoos up both his bare arms planted his hands on the end of their table and leaned over, glaring brazenly at Jack less than an arm’s length from the younger man’s face. “All of ‘em ‘cept you, boy. How’s that happen, I wonder?”
Jack kept his face forward, turning only his eyes up to meet the other man’s, which gleamed with something decidedly unfriendly. “Guess I must not have been worth bothering with, Rudy. Kind of insulting when I really stop to think about it. Do us a favor and don’t let that get around, yeah?”
Ned Rudolphs’ bushy red brows plummeted into a deep scowl. “You think you’re pretty godammned funny, don’t you, boy?”
“Is there a problem, Rudy?” Bill asked quietly from his seat.
“Yeah, I’d say there’s a big problem.” Rudy jerked his chin belligerently in Jack’s direction. “This one’s ill luck.”
“Ah, now. That’s just silly.” Bill pushed his plate back and folded his hands neatly on the table in front of him.
Pale hazel eyes swung in Bill’s direction, and had a bit of trouble focusing. “It ain’t either. What about this weather we’re in?”
“What about it?” Bill countered. “It’s wet. If that’s posing difficulties for you, Rudolphs, I’d say it’s time for a career change.”
“These bloody storms didn’t start ‘til after we picked him up. We hadn’t a seen a drop o’ rain in weeks before that.” Rudy turned back to Jack, his glare ripening. “And he din’t pay ‘em any mind, not any mind at all. Out there laughin’ like a lunatic, while the rest of us near drowned.”
Downey’s eyes flickered back and forth between Rudolphs and Bill, and made mental note of the position of the sparks on the fuse that was burning down in the middle of the table. “Rudy. Sit down. Have something to eat. Put something in your mouth.”
“Rudy, you’re drunk,” Bill observed coolly. “If memory serves, you were drunk during that first storm, too. You might keep your footing a little better if you’d dry out.”
“We don’t even know where this one’s from,” Rudy went on, as if Bill hadn’t spoken and Jack wasn’t in the room, right under his nose. “Don’t know where he’s from or what he was doin’ on that tub. But they all died bloody, and here he sits. Creepin’ into the captain’s good graces now, he is, and all of you cacklin’ like hens about it.” Rudolphs spit on the floor, casting a burning scowl on each of them in turn. “Well, I call him ill luck.”
“Won’t be joining us for supper then, I reckon?” Jack couldn’t quite resist, and Downey snickered.
Rudy slammed a hand down on the table, hard enough to rattle all their dishes, but not, apparently, hard enough to rattle Jack, whose smile spread out just a little farther in both directions.
“Laugh about it then, you bastards,” Rudy growled, swaying slightly with the kinetic retribution of the blow to the table, which had been a little more than his inebriated system could manage. “But you mark me, we’re all goin’ to end up just like those other poor fools.” He narrowed his glare’s sights to Bill alone. “All ‘cause you had to go pickin’ up strays. And if that ain’t proof the little bastard’s witchin’ the lot of you, I don’t know what is.”
“Christ, Rudy, just shut up,” Downey tried again.
“Well you tell me, Harry,” Rudolphs went on, ignoring the warning in Downey’s tone. “Since when does Bootstrap the Butcher give a tinker’s damn about anybody?” He stared down at Jack. “Either you’re screwin’ with his head, boy,” Rudolphs sneered, “or he’s just screwin’--”
“Harry,” Bill interrupted coldly. “Help Rudy see to his bloody nose.”
“What bloody--”
Bill’s elbow landed with a wet crack in the center of Rudy’s face, and the redhead toppled like a tree, howling from behind his hands all the way down.
“That one,” Bill said.
Downey rolled his eyes. “Right. Fine.” He pushed up from the table and made his way to the man rolling on the floor. “Oh, just stop with the caterwauling already. I told you to shut the hell up, didn’t I? Get your hands out of the way. Jesus, and I didn’t think you could get any uglier.”
Bill looked to Jack, who was ignoring completely the chaos beside their table, staring down at his plate as if trying to burn holes through it. “I can see how taken with my seamanship they are.” he said tightly.
“Jack--”
Abruptly the younger man shoved away from the table, knocking his empty mug over in the process. Jack stepped cleanly over the writhing Rudolphs and stalked towards the hatchway without a backwards glance.
Bill reached over and stilled the rolling mug, righting it, a heavy sigh hissing out of him. “Damn it.” He sagged in his seat, glancing over when the moans from the floor crescendoed to a scream.
Downey stood up, wiping his hand off on his trousers. “Fixed it.”
……………………………………..
“Right, that’s got it.” Parks tied off his last knot and straightened. Opposite him, Hennesee did likewise, then took up his lantern from where he’d set it on one of the barrels while he worked. “Come on, mate, let’s get topside.”
Hennesee threw an amused look at his crewmate as they turned to go. As he pivoted, the lantern’s light spilled over more of the dark hold, and Hennesee stopped short when, against the far wall, a shadow that was neither his nor Parks’ was thrown up.
“Hey!”
Before his cry had even faded, the silhouette was gone, leaving only the barren glare of light on flat planes and sharp corners.
“Now what?” Parks demanded, already at the foot of the ladder.
“There’s someone else down here!” Hennesee said sharply. “Over that way!”
Parks followed his pointing finger, frowning. “There ain’t nobody there.”
“Like hell there isn’t! I saw ‘em! There was a shadow right there on the wall, plain as day!” Hennesee raised his lantern higher, stepping around cargo in a meandering path towards the middle of the hold.
Parks looked once more, leaning forward, squinting into the gloom, then withdrew, glaring disgustedly at Hennesee. “You’re fuckin’ with me, aren’t you?”
“What? No! Parks, I saw--”
“Oh, pull the other one, mate, I ain’t in the mood.” Waving a dismissive hand in Hennesee’s direction, Parks started up the ladder.
“Parks!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Parks grumbled, his legs disappearing up through the hatch.
Hennesee scowled up after him a moment more, then turned back to the labyrinth of cargo. “Who’s in here?” he barked.
There was no reply, and Hennesee moved forward. Around him, the sea breathed, drumming against the hull, and the ship groaned in response. The storm was still building. He really didn’t want to be in the hold when it peaked, but neither did he want to leave unhindered someone who might be pocketing part of the whole crew’s would-be profits.
“You got no leave to be pokin’ about in here, so just come on out!” The ship pitched violently, and he braced himself a little too late, swearing when he stumbled and his knee struck a crate-edge. Rubbing at the smarting spot, he peered fiercely into the valleys and alleyways between the towers of swag. “All right now, I’m about through with this game. Get out here!”
Hennesee stood where he was, listening, and watching, but nothing moved within the bubble of illumination his lantern provided. There came a sudden thundering of water against the hull, far louder than anything that the storm had tossed at them so far, and it roared in the close air of the hold.
Air that now reeked a great deal more than Hennesee had noticed when they’d first descended. “God,” he breathed, pressing his forearm briefly across his nose and mouth. Parks had been right about the stink, and Hennesee couldn’t imagine how it hadn’t hit him until now. He wondered if something they’d taken was leaking, and fervently hoped that whatever it was, it wouldn’t damage any other cargo before they could tend to it.
But enough was enough. “The hell with it,” he muttered, backing up. “Rudy, if that’s you nippin’ into the rum, Captain’s goin’ to have your arse for it, me lad. Just so’s you--”
He broke off abruptly as the heel of his boot connected with something small and hard that rang metallically as it clattered across the floor. Frowning, Hennesee turned and swung his lantern low, searching until he caught the gleam of what he’d kicked.
He picked up the broken buckle and held it near the light. “Aw, damn it, what broke loose?”
The movement registered only as a dark streak in his peripheral vision, snaking out from between two crates towards his right foot, and then the hot, slick pain of his severed Achilles’ tendon tore a cry out of Hennesee’s throat. That foot gave way beneath him, and he collapsed, the lantern rolling away, nearly pulling a crate down on top of himself in his desperate grab to stop the fall. Gasping between clenched teeth, he twisted, straining to clutch at his ankle.
The sound reminded Hennesee of nothing so much as the throaty call of a night frog, and it came from right behind him. He rolled towards it, reaching up and groping for his lantern with one hand.
He had time enough to see the milky green-white gleam of eyes, time enough to draw the breath a scream would have required, and then that dark, razor-tipped hand was lashing out again, this time coming for his throat.
…………………………………….
Parks took a swig from his flask as he sat waiting impatiently just beyond the hatch from the hold.
“Two minutes, Hen,” he grumbled. “Two minutes and then I’m goin’ without you.”
The sharp cry from the depths of the hold snapped his head around, and then Parks leaped to his feet, shaking his head. “That ain’t any kind of funny, mate,” he called, coming to stand at the hatch’s edge. “And I ain’t coming down, so just get your silly arse up here.”
Aggravated, he glared down into the hold a moment longer, then sat and leaned close to the lamp he’d lit, tilting the mouth of his flask towards it and attempting to gage the waterline of its contents.
Weight creaked on the ladder. Parks snorted, capping his flask as he turned. “Took your sweet soddin’ time, didn’t y--”
His flask slipped from his fingers, and a whine rose in his throat as he scrambled backwards, away from the teeth, the face, the body that was rising up from the hatch, slithering towards him. Parks’ back hit the bulkhead and he remembered to reach for his pistol, and then a slick, stinking weight hit him, teeth first.
TBC