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Betwixt Hammer & Frizzen	By : GeorgieFain Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 2032 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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The Makings of a Pirate

Day Eight.

The Black Pearl and the Odysseus were sailing in the blue sea beyond the tip of Hispaniola. There stood a measure of two ships' length between the two vessels, but they did ride the waters prow to prow. The sky was clear with no sign of clouds and the winds were favorable. Currently, the new captain of the Odysseus was at her leisure in the small cabin of the corvette, reading an English translation on the controversial treatise written by Antoni van Leeuwenhoek concerning tiny beings called bacteria, which were claimed---by the Dutchman in question---to be the cause of most infections in open wounds.

It was a good text and very helpful, but her mind kept returning to the piles of text that her first mate had taken with him to his own small, private hold. Among them, she had spotted a book that, when it fell open, showed a few diagrams and some words concerning a type of explosion which could be used against boats in very narrow bodies of water, such as inlets and rivers. It regarded a bubble of water-proof canvas and wood which contained black powder and bits of sharp metal and in possession of a flint-lock trigger designed to be pulled from the shore by use of a line. The text, however, had been full of Chinese symbols which she could not read, running side by side with the familiar English. She knew that Norrington would let her see the text, if she did ask for its use, but she was loathe to give him reason to show any sense of superiority.

But, it did tell her that he possessed knowledge which would be wanted, as a pirate.

With coffee at her elbow, Henriette bent low over the book. The tiny spectacles she wore on the end of her nose did help with words, as her eyes would not work very well when looking at things that were close to her face. Her sight was better with far away objects. The tiny glass lenses, which did only help some little bit, had been set into bent and wrapped metal by Doctor Meyrick, who had determined that she had a problem akin to his own failing eyesight. Time spent at sea, with her eyes straining for the horizon under the hot sun, had destroyed the ability to read with any ease.

As Jack did teach her to read from books of fiction and history, the good Welshman had taken the time to give her education in natural science and some measure of medicine. But, the spectacles had become quickly necessary and he had fashioned them with his own hands, using a great deal of care and no small amount of money. They were not perfect, not like the ones he himself had worn---Doctor Meyrick�s own spectacles had been created for him by a Frenchman in a town far away from any port she had ever visited---but they did work and allow her to continuing reading.

The text on Leeuwenhoek's discoveries concerning bacteria were most enlightening, for her. It did explain a great deal which she had not quite understood, where cleanliness was involved. There, before her, was words that told of how disease was spread in water---she had known that it was just so, but had never understood the means. Bacteria. Strange.

With the windows open to the starboard side, she was able to hear what did occur on ship even as she went on, adding to her medicus knowledge. So, it was with half an ear piqued to the creaking of wood and sails and the shouting of men as they went about their general duties that she became aware of the change when it came. First, there was a new call from the main mast's topsail. Then, it was a call back from her first mate, Charles Norrington. Then, a long quiet that did make her skin prickle with sudden chill.

Something was happening and Norrington was being silent.

Henriette rose, spectacles on her nose, and with the text in one hand, she went to the cabin's door. Pushing the flat lever, she stepped out and into the midst of a softly murmured discussion. There, just a few steps up from the deck, was Charles and several of the crew---who were talking. Charles had the spyglass to one eye and he was frowning hard. He had stripped himself of his frock-coat and now stood in only his black waistcoat and white shirtsleeves, plain linen jabot swaying slightly to port. His long, lean frame stood motionless, but she had quickly learned that, in her first mate, such thrumming silence usually meant a great deal of internal activity. He was thinking and thinking very, very hard.

"What is it, men?" She reached up to scratch at her scarf-covered head.

"Ship, Captain." Robinson---Charles Norrington's sandy-haired rigger---said to her, glancing around. He stood there, scratching at his bearded jaw in consternation. He had taken to her command without any complaints and indeed no small part of amusement for the manner in which she did push Norrington about. "Straight on and headed against the lee. I did recognize her from uptop---that one be the Lucky Rose."

"Men, back to your stations---" She ordered, carrying her text to the quarterdeck once her command was obeyed. There, she stepped in close to Charles and spoke softer, not wanting to break his concentration but needing information. "How is it your men recognize this ship? Why do they stand about and talk of her in whispers?"

"Captain De la Hoya, do I have permission to take her?" It was not really a question, not the manner in which he asked. It was more of a demand, framed in softer language. She could hear him nearly gritting his teeth.

She put out her hand and he gave up the spyglass. She swapped it for the book she held and then pushed her spectacles up to the top of her head, snug on the red scarf. With the glass to her eye, she could see that another sloop was headed in their direction, sailing at a lee from the breeze that drove the Odysseus. Another breeze, then, but one not nearly as strong. At its distance, a few hours would see them crossing paths. The other sloop had a red foresail. Odd.

She asked the question. "Why do you want her, Charlie?"

"In my line of business, that is the competition." He sounded positively livid, but so calm. "I have a very healthy disdain for the man who captains the Lucky Rose. The filthy dog undersells me, but his goods are nowhere near the quality. In fact, there are stories of his swill blinding the men who drink it."

"And...you care about that?" She studied the competition's sloop. The Lucky Rose was coming up from the direction of Porto Rico. Which meant a return from a possible delivery. Possibly.

"Of course, I do care about such matters." Charles Norrington said with the same tone of seething hate. "That man is robbing me of business, but he is also lessening the number of tavern owners and sutlers who will take the risk of buying whiskey from a merchant such as myself. The lack of tariff means that the whiskey is uncontrolled, suggesting it might not be up to the standards, and if the purchase of untaxed whiskey is too risky for a sutler for whatever reason, then my profit falls considerably. Does that explain it for you, madame?" His tone had become clipped and sharp and the addition of that 'madame' at the end was enough to set her teeth on edge.

A thought came, then. She had been having trouble explaining to her first mate and their crew why a good and honest man, engaging in less than honest business, might want to go pirate. But, here sailed a dubious reason for a good man to commit murder. And yet Charles Norrington, noble and good, was most definitely wanting to commit murder on his business rival.

But, she had to be careful. He had to want it without feeling as if she was pushing him to the act. Her approval, once he came to his senses, would be the mark that stained his satisfaction. She was a pirate and a particularly bloodthirsty one, at that. He was not. Not yet. But...give the man enough leeway and a free hand and no sense of her approval or disapproval and he might make a pirate of himself before the end of this very day.

It was entirely about treasure and what constituted treasure to each pirate.

She handed him back the spyglass and shrugged, raising her hand to rub at the bandaged wound on her upper left chest. He exchanged the glass for her text, never even glancing at it. "Let's see what you can do then, Charlie."

She saw the faint glimmer of respect in his green eyes as he met her gaze.

At his side, she watched with thumping heart as he went back to watching the horizon and the approaching ship with tightened lips and furrowed brow. Under the line of his tricorn, Norrington's face was shaded but handsome with its tight angles and dark expression. The men were awaiting orders and there was the Black Pearl to consider, but she was going to stand aside and let her first mate scope out the coming battle for himself. Only after it was finished would he really understand her world.

Looking around, she found the chair and chart table that sat near the back of the quarterdeck. Resigning herself to wait for some ideas concerning a plan of action, Henriette sat down and re-opened her book, flipping thick pages to find the place where she had stopped. With her spectacles back in place on the tip of her nose, she began to read and lose herself in the text once more. But, she did not get a chance to read for very long.

Charles Norrington interrupted her thoughts, shifting around to ask. "Can any aboard the Black Pearl understand flags when they are used in patterns to direct a ship's movements?"

She mused on it, peering up once to note that the sun was nearing the mid-sky position. All shadows were disappearing. With a creamy brown finger---scarred and callused---on the middle line of a paragraph dealing with the movements of bacteria when seen under a magnifying lens, Henriette thought on the use of flags and signal fires. She had seen a few things of that nature in Port Royal, coordinated between Fort Charles and Fort Morgan. She had also witnessed pirates doing something similar, but usually not in patterns.

"Patterned flag movement." She murmured, gnawing at her lower lip. "That's a naval bit and not something most of me men would understand much of. But, Murtaugh and Mullroy well might."

Charles was facing her, looking down from his great height. He smiled and it was a bit on the ferocious side, that smile. "Let's find out. If so, we have a way to coordinate an attack." He shifted away, lifting the glass to his eye for a look across the distance to the Pearl's black hull and sails. Her first mate called out in his strong, crisp tone. "Mister Robinson! Get the flags---we shall be sending a message to the Black Pearl."

When sandy-blonde Robinson returned with the flags, a gun was fired to catch the attention of the Pearl's crew and then the message was sent. Ship to South-South-West. It needed repeating several times before the right person realized what was being done and could get together two red pieces of cloth to begin reciprocating from the starboard side.

Robinson translated. "Ship seen. Orders?"

Her first mate turned with a smug expression. He drawled. "Upon my word. Captain, I do believe we have our coordinated attack."

She grinned broadly in return and stretched her legs out under the small chart table. Tapping her hand on the open book, she responded in kind. "Charlie boy, just two days as me first mate and already earning your keep. Take that ship and you can have me share of whatever profit may be found."

His own smile grew as he nodded, turning to speak to Robinson. He sounded positively piratical, his voice full of fire. "Send this message. Tack sails to intercept ship, South-South-West. Hoist the colors."

***

He had been climbing hills and falling down most of the other side for nigh on a whole day, now. If his calculations were correct on the position of the sun. Which he hadn't seen much of, as it were. When they had stopped chopping at the undergrowth at sun-down the evening before, they had gathered wood and built a fire and eaten a bit, but neither of them had been in much of a mind for talking. Which was a sad statement, in and of itself, as Hector was a great one for philosophizing when the mood did strike. Instead of conversing last night, they had stared at the fire and wished for rum and then curled up in their drying blankets, side by side, and fallen asleep. The jungle was a terrible berth. Noise from sun-down to sun-up and then a whole new set of noises, sun-up to sun-down.

The compass still pointed ahead, somewhat to their left. But, getting to the left was proving a bit of a task for them. For one thing, every time they made a course adjustment for the left...they ended up swerving right again, after only a few hundred whacks of their cutlasses. The jungle's dense brush was something to be wary of, full of thorns and vines and wee animals that hissed and then chittered, scarpering off through big leaves and thick tree trunks. And that did put him in mind of the undead monkey, but he wasn't going to mention it to Hector Barbossa, who was a mite tetchy about that creature.

After a day of cutting at the bushes, Jack was becoming convinced they were in fact...lost.

And going in a big circle. Which did mean the same thing, really.

He'd taken off his hat and stuffed it into the sail-cloth sack he carried, strapped to his back. In the heavy warmth of the jungle-forest, he mopped at his brow and cheeks with the ragged sleeve of his stained shirt. And complained. "Bloody hell."

Hector took that as a sign that it might be time for a sit-down. His lover was drenched in sweat, chest showing in the open gap of the shirt he wore. Which didn't quite fit. Which, any other time, he would have found quite intriguing and may have decided to explore. But, not today.

Flopping to the cut leaves, they began to pass a bottle of water back and forth. It wasn't very good water. The water they had gotten from the storm. It was bitter and almost salty, leaving their mouths slick and sour. Jack could feel how badly chapped his mouth was becoming. There was something to be said for scummy water from a barrel onship. At least it didn't often taste so very like tears.

The only good thing to have happened, in this little venture, was the discovery of food. They had found fruit that he recognized as being edible. And meat, too. For someone fast enough to kill birds with a sword. Like Hector. Someday, he'd have to see about getting his matelot to teach him that little trick. Quite useful, that. Now, if only they could find fresh water. They'd have to find it soon or things were going to be very bad.

Hector was staring at the green and brown path they'd cut into the hill they had just climbed up. The expression on his matelot's scarred, weathered face was one of deep, hard thought and furrowed concern. Had been a long time since he'd seen that, too. And he found that he had missed it, knowing when the other captain was doing some of his infamous ruminating. Fourteen years and he still hadn't forgotten how fond it made him feel.

"What be on your mind, man?" He leaned back onto his elbows, pleased to be free of his pack for a moment or two. "T'is awful early in the day to be thinking so hard, to my mind."

"As if ye use yer head for anythin' other than a place to hang yer hat." Hector said, quietly, but not with any rancor. Ah, so the thoughts were that deep. When his lover couldn't come up with a real scorcher of an insult, he was too far gone into his thinking. Before he could respond, Hector reached up and scratched first at his graying hair and then tugged at the straggle of his beard. And gave a grunt. "I'll be thinkin' on Mrs Turner an' this mess o' hers, as it were."

Then he lay flat, one arm under his head as he argued his side. "To my thinking, Her Nibs might deserve it. Properly married in the conventional way, she'd only drive poor William into an early grave. No need to be worrying on that, now. Pirates don't marry, Hector-love. And for good reason, aye? Look at what happened to poor ol' Bootstrap. A wife and a son and a need to go piratin' after long years of being the honest sailor. Family costs money---and look at the longterm troubles. Lad came looking for his father and after many misadventures, he's now unhappily immortal and separated from his bonny lass."

His sunburnt matelot shifted about on the ground to look at him with a look of intense consideration, narrowed eyes and thinned mouth. "T'is a high price she's a-payin', Jack, in somethin' she didna choose for herself."

Jack closed his eyes and gave a heavy sigh, wriggling his arse against the greenery and the ground. "Life's ugly, mate. If she didn't go about getting herself mixed up with pirates in the first place, it wouldn't happen, aye?"

"An' ye'll have had naught to do wi' any o' that, a-course." Hector pursued the topic with an edge in his voice. "T'is a lonely life she's earned. One day o' ev'ry ten years. Lass doesna deserve such a fate, e'en if she does rankle th' nerve. If'n any can know, t'would be me."

"Feeling sorry for yourself there, then?" He couldn't help but smile with his eyes closed.

"Nay---there's no call for ye to be thinkin' I'll be mournin'. But, willna be an easy life, e'en wi' a life immortal. A broken heart be worse than death itself. Livin' such---make ye do what ye won't any other time. By th' time yer finished, ye�ve become somethin' terrible an' no longer yerself at-tall."

Now, he opened one eye and sat up, leaning close to say it in very clear terms. "And you'd know all about it, aye? You had only ten years of feeling nothing. Her Nibs has ten years for one day's wedded bliss, going on ad infinitum and ad nauseum, but does get that one day of wedded bliss for her continuing faithful return. Rubbish, says I."

Hector sounded dangerously close to anger. "Rubbish?"

He got up and slung his pack into place on his shoulders. Hoisting his cutlass, he went back to whacking at the undergrowth. But, he talked as he worked, feeling himself growing angrier with each thing he finally gave vent to. "You've said I was in the Locker for nigh on a six-month, mate---so you say. That's not what I know of it. Truth is, Hector, I was in that barren wasteland for hundreds and hundreds of years!"

Whack-whack, whack. A very little palmetto fell before his blade.

"Each day worse than the last and I began to lose sight of myself---even as I did know I was losing! No wind!" Whack. "No sea!" Whack. "No food!" Whack. "No rum!" Whack-whack-chack-whack. "No bloody rum and not even one other living soul to alleviate even a smidgeon of it---less'n you count your own gracious self---" Whack-chack-whack. "And Elizabeth bloody Swann!"

Whack. Whack. Whack-chack-whack.

He didn't know for certain, but he felt as if Hector was behind him, not cutting. Only moving slowly and listening carefully to every single thing he said. He didn't care. For now, as he sliced away at the foliage, he felt it bubbling up and out of him in rancor---all those parts of his experience in the Locker which he had never breathed a word of to anyone, not even Lizzie, who had put him there. He was no where near to being ready to forgive it, even as he had settled some small aspects of his torturous damnation...such as its necessity, in the moment of Lizzie's choice to damn him.

"T'was all I knew---my two favorite mutineers! Like bloody Prometheus, aye?" Whack-whack. He laughed bitterly as he went, but the sound was more snarl than chuckle. Chack-whack, whack. "Every bloody day, if there were days---I'd come around and find myself there, shackled to the mast of my own ship and---to---to see the things I saw, the things I knew!" Whack-shack-whack, whack. "You'd come to me and it would be like before, when we weren�t enemies, and you�d offer apples and rum and---and---you." Without losing a step, Jack swiped the back of his hand over his brow as the sweat began to run too fast for his soaked scarf. His dreadlocks were swinging to and fro, damply. "Only---then, you'd bloody take it back or you became something else, dead or elseways."

Again, he laughed, throwing himself wholly into the work of cutting the path. His cutlass was slick with green sap. Whack-whack. "Ten years, Hector, I imagine---must seem a terrible and bad and wrong punishment---" Chack-whack-whack. "To a man as did mutiny against his own lover---own matelot!" Cut leaves and branches flew up around him in a whirling dervish as he growled it. "But, I did not a thing wrong and I was sent to the Locker---to Hell! For bloody eternities---multiply what you had by a thousand, mate, and you still wouldn't understand the devilish torments of being land-locked and without a drink or a breeze in the Locker with your rotting, teasing corpse for my only comfort!"

Before he could continue, a strong hand clamped down on his arm and stopped his downward swing. The cutlass was wrestled free of his grasp as he turned. Hector was absolutely the fiercest thing he had ever seen, now. His sword was thrust, tip-first, into the cut leaves and dirt near their booted feet. His matelot held him by one arm, staring down into his face with a tight, enraged look. Long graying hair clung sweaty to either side of Hector's weathered, bearded face.

And the words that came did come with a gentle hand that raised a bit of wet cloth to wipe at his hot, sweat-runny face. "D'ye mean to tell me, Jack, that I was th' instrument o' yer torments?" It was softly murmured and despite his dark look, Hector was loverly and careful of him. "Aye, t'is wrong that ye were sent to th' Locker for bein' a good man, a good pirate. I find meself sorry as how t'was a phantom o' me as did torture ye. D'ye know why I do pity th' lass, then? Missy doesna deserve it, no more'n ye did. I'll be sorry that ye suffered on me account, Jack---sorrier than ye can know."

Now, he had caught his breath and he stared up at the face that had slacked off in its anger and now looked only infinitely patient and truly pained. It fell away, his own rage, and he closed his eyes against the knowledge of how long he had waited to hear just such an apology. He had never thought to hear any such thing.

Jack lowered his head, sliding back from the hands that were so easy and soft on him.

It came as a ragged whisper in the quiet jungle. "Death does do somethin' terrible to us, aye?"
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Betwixt Hammer & Frizzen