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Wi' A Wannion	By : GeorgieFain Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 2357 -:- 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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A note: This is for BaronNomaw. I�ve taken a cue, an idea (and a line, maybe?) from one of this author�s delicious stories. Hector is, as we all know, always right.

Chapter Eleven:

Stow, Burn, Don't Look Back

Year Twenty-Four

Ten thousand loaf-shaped blocks of silver covered in tar...theirs to hide.

A problem had started, the same day they'd taken the galleon off the coast of Ambon---Hector wasn't speaking to him other than to give orders and receive reports. The silent treatment suggested he wasn't welcome in the Captain's cabin. So, for nearly a two-week, Jack had slept in the berth with the cabin boys and wondered if there was a way to fix the rift.

At the southern side of the island---which, on the charts, looked to be the largest island Jack had ever seen, the ships had anchored side by side, planks extended between the two. Bootstrap had led a expedition to find the ridge---they'd seen the mountainous horns and bowl from the bay---while he had pushed the men to load the silver and row out it in long boats to the shore.

He'd kept Andre at his side, as his personal helper, from sunrise to twilight. And he was becoming convinced that the lad was really a lass; but, short of stripping the cabin boy naked, he wouldn't have any final proof unless he asked.

Once Bootstrap and his men had returned, the long haul had started. Barbossa had used a group of men to create sledges from sail-cloth and felled trees, to drag the silver with. Days went by as the men pulled the sledges up the path Bootstrap had cut into the bush. He'd realized that their presence hadn't gone unnoticed; there were dark eyes watching them from the trees, every time he looked. It made him nervous; he hadn't felt such prickly worry since being confronted by a lion in the court of an Indian prince, as a child, when he went with his father to visit the aging potentate.

The pit was dug through black, coal-like sand and rocks. If not for the hard, hot work, Jack would've thought the island was a paradise---the trees were fruitful and the animals were small, non-threatening. They had yet to be confronted by the natives, which he considered a good sign---he'd heard stories about such places and the savage men one might find.

He was ready to get away from this strangely quiet place with its strangely silent natives.

Once the treasure was buried, Barbossa shot one of the Spanish sailors who'd helped dig the pit and then threatened the others into cowering on the beach at the end of a pistol. This part of the plan, he hadn't known about, in advance---but accepted.

"Get in the boat, lad."

He said it quietly to Andre, who stood with dropped jaw staring in surprise at their Captain, who held the shouting sailors off with sabre and fresh flintlock drawn from his belt. Barbossa's pale brown-blonde hair had a reddish gleam to it that seemed almost bloody in the hazy tree-dappled light. Even his beard looked a little cruel. Jack drew his own pistol and pointed it at the Spanish sailors who were starting to get the idea of what was really happening.

He repeated his order, nudging the skinny cabin boy with his shoulder. "Get in the boat, lad---if you haven't noticed, yet, we're leaving them here."

"The boy stays---he be one o' these dogs." Hector snarled, his voice gone flat and lethal. "Not th' first one signed me Articles with his own name----that be givin' me th' right to not trust th' first o' this lot."

It was an old by-law; one that few pirates kept as part of the Code. Few pirates wanted their real name known---fewer still could read and write well enough to do the job. He didn't know if it was true about their Spanish sailors, the ones on the beach---the ones that had traveled in from the Caribbean, but suspected it to be so. He'd seen and heard a few mutinous things from the Spanish sailors. Things that could, in longer sea conditions, be dangerous for a Captain's health.

Jack shook his head at Barbossa and nudged the cabin boy again, while backing up with his pistol on the screaming men. "No, Captain, the lad goes with us. Maroon this lot, if you like, but I take full responsibility for Andre. He's a good fighter and a good sailor. If he stays behind, we lose a valuable man."

Now, he was at the long boat---the last one on the beach---and he pushed Andre in clumsily with his free hand while covering the other sailors with his pistol. The one that Barbossa had shot was dying---he could tell from the lack of thrashing and the quietening moans and the amount of blood soaking into the kick-disturbed sand. Soon, Hector was right at his side, backing up, and they both clambered into the boat, still aiming their guns at the shouting sailors. Beyond them, in the treeline, he could see the natives watching. Here and there, he saw a spear. Not good news for the men they were marooning, he suspected.

Hat askew, Hector fired a shot into the crowd of sailors and they scattered, still screaming insults. Then, as he stuck his pistol in his sash and began to row, Jack backed up his argument about Andre, deciding it was the opportune moment to explain part of his reasoning.

"Besides, mate...I'm not partial to marooning anyone, but a lass least of all."

Their captain took his fierce, pale eyes off the beach long enough to sweep them both with a stare that could've burned stone. Barbossa's voice was pure venom. "What d'ye mean, Jack? Lass or not, this one doesn't belong among us. We have two more cabin boys to spare."

Ah, so Hector had noticed Andre after all.

Andre, on the other hand, was all denial. "No, sir, I'm not a lass---"

He smirked, putting his back into the oar-pull. The �lad� sat behind him, just out of his sight. He couldn't resist. "Don't worry your pretty head, Andre. Mum's the word, it is. Only Captain and I need know you've no tassel under those breeches. We've sailed with your kind before, it's not unheard of. You'll continue to be safe with us."

"As safe as any manjack o' th� crew." Hector agreed, taking a drink of clean water from the bottle they'd secured on the longboat. "But, ye'll be leaving us at Singapore, aye?"

"Aye." Andre agreed with a nasty frown.

All three of them were tacitly ignoring the men on the beach they'd just left.

As he pulled on the oars, Jack smiled over his shoulder. "So, lass...what's the name yer mum gave ye?"

"Why?" Their sullen cabin boy demanded. "It's best if you don't know, aye? Andre I've been, Andre I'll be."

"For how long?" Barbossa mused, putting away his own pistol. "Once yer grown, no ship's captain will be takin' ye for crew---what will ye do then but whore yerself?"

Andre's chin lifted and he admired the strength he saw in the lass' dark eyes as they flashed with fire and anger. "No, sir. I'll never be a whore what does with sailors for coin. I'll be a captain myself, someday. I'll have my own ship, go home to Hispanola with more gold than I can spend in a hundred years. I've heard of it, women being captains. It can be done."

Jack exchanged bemused glances with Hector. He was surprised his lover hadn't already taken the lass to task for being so saucy to her ship's Captain and the Quartermaster.

Then, Hector rolled his eyes and grunted, leaving it alone.

He couldn't help tease. "Aye, lass...it can be done. When you become the captain of your own brave ship, come find me. Things aren't always steady, being a pirate. I might be looking to hire on as your first mate."

Andre snorted. "I will, sir. I'll be so good a captain, you'll both beg to hire on with me."

They pulled toward the ships in silence for long minutes and then Barbossa spoke, almost teasing but not quite. "I think I like ye, lass...ye be a match for Jack, ye are. Not enough arse to hold yer breeches up, but ballocks big enough to compensate. I'll let ye live."

***

Back at the ship, they prepared the galleon for its fiery death. By the time they'd finished, the sun was sinking. Having removed most of the powder from its magazine along with every other weapon that could be safely taken to The Victorious, the crew drew lots to see which of them would swim to the galleon, set fire to its holds, and then swim back. None really wanted the duty, since there was always a good chance of an explosion which might kill the man involved. It was understood, two men were needed for so large a job---one for each end of the massive Man o' War.

Every manjack on board took part in the lottery.

Bootstrap and Andre lost. So, it would be their Sailing Master and the cabin boy.

As the two were preparing to go---Bill Turner receiving a reminder about their orders from Barbossa---he tugged the cabin boy to a semi-private spot near the rail. "Your name wasn't supposed to be in the lottery, lad." He emphasized the last word. "Cabin boys weren't included, you know."

Andre jerked free of his hand, still insolent and now growing angry. "We have enough cabin boys, sir. I want to ask for a change in duty---I want to be a rigger. I do this, maybe Captain will take me seriously."

More dangerous work, rigging. He said so.

But, the young Creole bared her teeth as she spit. "We're all men here, sir."

With that, he had to let her go.

Once the job was done and the galleon was burning merrily in the bay, the crew pulled Bootstrap and Andre back up on deck and it was time to weigh anchor. Barbossa gave orders for food and grog to be dispersed to the men and then disappeared behind the door of his cabin.

Jack obeyed the order, totting out the grog into the crews' tin cups while their cabin boys ran around, getting bread and fruit and meat. Finished, he got himself a bottle of Spanish wine from a locked chest in the hold and withdrew to the forecastle and watched the sea; the sun was setting in the waters ahead. In breeches and shirt, he shivered at the chill that wasn't caused by the wind. Things were going bad. He was growing weary of the silence between him and Hector, tired of sleeping in the berth with the lads.

He knew he'd done wrong, going against his lover's orders, where the attack on the galleon was concerned. He'd known the plan would work, but...he'd shamed Hector in front of the crew. It wasn't a good thing, to make a crew doubt their captain's orders.

One hand wrapped on the bowline, he lifted the bottle of dark red Navarra to his mouth and gave it a pull, going over inventory in his head. They'd found casks of coffee in the galleon's galley. Foodstuffs that would carry them far, in fact. But, the luxury items were something that he'd locked up, in the Captain's cabin, to prevent theft. In the morning, perhaps, he could teach Andre how to brew coffee for the men...

"You'll have to apologize, Jack." Bill Turner was standing behind him.

He'd lost himself in his thoughts so thoroughly as to not hear the other man's approach. He didn't turn now, only let Bill step to his side. Running his tongue along the inside of his cheek, he took another drink of wine before he muttered. "I was right. He's seen me be right before. Captain needs to get it through his thick head that I'm not nearly so mad as I play."

"Careful, Jack." Bill touched his arm, looking around behind them. "The men might take that as reason to mutiny. If they think they can choose one of you over the other, they�ll see you as the weaker man...you're not the one to slaughter half of them to keep things floating under your control. Barbossa is and he would do it, to keep order. But, if these animals mutiny on him, the meaner bastards among them won't stop at just once."

He shrugged and lifted his bottle again, words nearly lost against the glass lip of it. "I'm starting to wish we hadn't burnt that Spanish lady. Maybe what I need is my own ship, again."

He'd throw himself overboard before confessing at just how upset and hurt he felt, being shut out of Hector's confidences. He did miss being a captain, being the one to make the decisions. He'd never have marooned nine sailors, killing the tenth one just as a scare tactic. The affections he felt for Barbossa aside, he resented being downplayed as a mad bastard who could and would get himself killed if not kept on a leash. And that was what it felt like, oftener than not...a leash.

His affections only conflicted the problem, in his mind.

He had to admit, though, that playing mad often disarmed his opponents and gave him the opportune moments he needed. It had worked for his father, too. Barbossa had commented on it, a number of times---how very like his father he was becoming.

"You'll have to apologize, Jack." Bill repeated, looking particularly solemn and concerned, his blue eyes dark pools in the twilight. The taller sailor's long dark curls made a frame for his face that only accented how narrow and lean he was. "If you don't he can't forgive you and that sort of tension, we don't have a need for. We have to make Singapore before we shake these dogs."

He could say nothing to that. It was only too true.

Instead, he drank more wine and watched the darkening horizon.

"You didn't see him before we knew you were alive, with Beckett." Bill Turner's deep voice rasped on the name. "Captain Barbossa became one of those who might kill any man and does it smiling. I never thought I'd see the day for that, when you left me in Portsmouth, and him only your first mate then. Losing you finished it, for him. He's not afraid of death or the devil anymore."

Jack mused on that; it was true, Hector had changed. He could live with the change, but it still rankled that, as first mate or Quartermaster, he could get killed through simple bullheaded stubbornness on the part of a man he felt truly able to trust his life to.

"The day he first thought you dead, Captain went pirate. There won't be no coming back for Barbossa. Whatever trust he once had in Providence was lost when he got the news you were hung, Jack. He came for me and I signed on, thinking how I might be a help, with you gone. A rock for him to put his back against, as it were. We was in Singapore to get revenge on Beckett. After a year, Captain decided it was the right time. Finding you alive was the hand of God's mercy."

He knew from the way Bill said it, this was the truth.

He closed his eyes against the wind. "I can't promise him I won't do it again."

Bill Turner squeezed his forearm and then let go. "Then, you apologize for that and let him punish you as he must. It'll help. Ain't right, ship's Captain and his Quartermaster at odds."

Jack nodded, preparing himself to face the anger he'd earned.

***

"Why me?" Andre asked him, creamy brown face angular and half-lost in the golden light of the smudged lantern. The lass' short, choppy dark hair was caught up under a scrap of blue calico. Preparations were underway and the cabin boy's features were tilted away and down. Andre was studying the tiny ragged parchment, memorizing the carefully-drawn forms. "Sailing Master could do this. He's your friend, I'm---"

"You're what, love?" Jack swayed back and forth on the three-legged stool, tilting his head back once again for another long drink of the Navarra he'd been putting away like watery-sweet grog. His third bottle and he was seeing nothing straight anymore, his voice slurring. "You're becoming a friend, Andre. I wouldn't have kept him from shooting you or...or marooning you, if I didn't think you could be a friend. This is how friends are made. Savvy? Do me this favor and I'll kiss your feet."

Andre's brows rose as the lass looked up from the parchment at him with something akin to horror in her dark eyes. Horror that was quickly turning to anger. "You said I wasn't going to be a whore---not even yours. Leave that crazy talk for your wenches."

"Wenches." He rolled his eyes and nearly toppled off the stool. He'd never felt so mellow or fuzzy in his life, not even after that one time he and Hector had staggered through Morocco looking for a particularly unique casbah. They'd had kif wine that night. Enough to kill other---lesser---men, maybe even. "Yessss...likely I will. Are you ready, love?"

"I think." Andre lifted the sharpened dagger in her lithe fingers and gave him a sour frown. "I don't know what this paper says, but I'll cut it just as you drew it."

Jack sucked a breath in and braced himself, knowing that it was now or never.

When the cutting started and the blood flowed, he was so drunk he barely felt it.

He'd left Bill on-deck and come looking for the ship's only lass. A cabin boy who had a rare and special talent, it was said among the men, for carving in both wood and flesh. In the berth, he'd cornered Andre and asked her to do the honors of putting a particular mark on his chest, right over his heart. It was time he'd added another to his collection and he had finally decided on the right one---the only one, as far as he was concerned.

So, giving the lass a bottle of wine---to be hidden from the men, of course---he'd helped Andre gather the needed items and joined her in a private corner of the hold.

In several places he'd sailed to, he'd seen markings on the skin of natives. The islanders of both the East and West Indies seemed to use them as identification markers; Andre had, she claimed, marked many sailors since she'd left Hispanola. So, he'd watched as she sharpened her little knife. He had provided a small tin cup of black powder and the rum they'd use to clean the blood away.

As she cut, Andre talked, telling him stories of her childhood in Hispanola. She was the daughter of a Spanish sailor and an Arawak woman he'd brought with him from the Antilles. She had learned the art of cutting from an old woman who claimed to have learned it from her own ancestors, who had lived on Hispanola since before the arrival of white sailors. Andre claimed to have never carved words before---she didn't even know how to read.

Jack listened and drank and plotted.

The knife flicked back and forth slowly, digging out small and intricate letters in Latin. Rum was poured over the cuts, to clean the blood. Slowly, the shape took form with packed-in black powder that would seal itself under the skin, as the cuts healed. He knew...he might never be entirely proud of the carving, but some things were necessary to prove. Even if he didn't quite always believe those things.

Hector est semper vox.

***

It was eight bells, night.

His chest hurt like he'd been shot, but it was a clean mark. With careful watching, he wouldn't get a fever. He'd sent Andre off to her rest and now, he stood before the cabin door, weaving back and forth on his feet. He had imbibed four bottles of the bottles of Navarra they'd taken from the galleon---but, he didn't worry. There was more wine, more rum. In his hand, there was a half-full bottle, the remains of the fourth, and he was determined to finish it before he went to sleep.

He swayed and pondered how to say the words.

'I'm humbly asking for your forgiveness, I stepped over the line. I do solemnly apologize, mate. I can't promise I won't do things like this again, but I can try to remember that I need to be asking you first.'

Well, he'd never been a man for too deep a thought. Reaching out, he turned the handle of the door and pushed in, staggering a little as it moved freely under his weight. He was nearly naked, wearing naught but breeches now, and the night air was chilly. He was feeling light-headed and buzzy and that was probably a wonderful and good and fabulous thing.

The Captain's cabin was darkened; he could hear his lover's breathing, though. He closed the door behind himself and started off in the direction of the bed, hoping that his legs would carry him there. On the way, he worked the string of his breeches and let them fall to the deck, nearly tripping as he went. Stumbling a little, he caught his balance and sloshed wine all over the rug and himself.

"Bugger." He whispered to the bottle as he crawled to his feet once more.

Snap.

Jack froze, his fuzzy brain slowing to a halt at not quite the same speed.

He knew that sound. It involved flash-bang and pain and loud noises. A pistol.

"There not be enough screamin' for th' ship to be under attack, yet----" Barbossa's voice was thick, heavy, gravelly. Sleepy but very much alert, now. "I honestly doubt yer comin' to tell me I be already dead."

It made no sense as he mouthed that to himself, trying to suss it out. Jack laughed when the words tangled in his mind. He said the first thing that came. "I'm sorry, mate."

He didn't hear the pistol's hammer lower, slow or fast. On his feet again, he lifted the bottle and drained it, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand as he repeated himself. "I'm sorry."

"Jack." Hector breathed it; there seemed to be a hint of relief in his lover's tone.

"I'm sorry." He said, dropping the empty bottle to the deck as he staggered the last two yards and fell, face first, into the rumpled bed. Not that he particularly cared that it was rumpled. It was bed and it was good and wonderful and fabulous. He was definitely making berth here tonight and no amount of arguing would change that. The cuts in his chest, right at his heart, flared with a reminder. He sobbed at the pain, gritting his teeth against the blankets as he breathed the words now. "I'm sorry."

Now, he understood the larger reason for why he'd wanted the cuts, the marking. It wasn't so that Hector would see and realize how serious he was about apologizing. No, he'd needed the cuts for his own self---just for this moment, this sense of surrender to the pain.

"Move." Hector said it, sounding serious. "Yer on me legs. Neither o' us'll sleep, if ye stay there."

"I'm sorry." He whispered to the blankets, slowly forcing his arms to haul him up the bed. His face dragged on the wool and he knew that his friend and lover couldn't see the pain-water in his eyes and that was as it was meant to be.

Once he made the pillows, he collapsed and whimpered as the pain flared again.

"Jack?" Hector shifted and then he heard the crack-flash of a sulphur. He couldn't see the light of the lantern as it was lit and the glass closed over its flame. "Budge o'er." By force, Barbossa flipped him. "Are ye wounded?"

Jack rubbed his head back and forth on the pillows, lost in the feel of his long hair tickling the sides of his throat and the back of his neck. Was there anything more wonderful and good and fabulous than a bed? He slapped a hand to his bare chest, grinning through the pain as he agreed. "Aye. Tis a wound, but I'll bear."

"Why, ye wee mad cockerel..." Exasperation.

His wrist was lifted and he chuckled, woozy and pleased with the way Hector sounded giving a low, ugly curse. The mark had been seen and was currently under inspection. He couldn't quite resist, though. "I'm sorry. There for all the world to see, mate. All the world. Hector's always right."

He needed sleep and his body couldn't care less what happened next. He laughed again, amused at himself and the man whose face he was able to see in the red-black void behind his eyelids. He didn't need to see Hector, in the light, when he could see Hector in the dark. But, as he went, he slurred, reiterating. "Hector's always right...except for when he's wrong."
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Wi' A Wannion