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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.

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Let's watch me fool with piratical history!

Chapter Thirteen:

Death and his Man

Year Twelve

It was night, when they reached Singapore and Jack felt a tremor of something cold ticking in his backbone. Dropping anchor in the dark and shadow-infested waters, The Victorious came to a slow crawl at the harbor's sketchy docks. All around them, galleons and carracks and junks pushed together in no particular order and he took a deep breath, watching the men tie off the plank.

The air tasted just the same---death waited here, for him. This port had never failed to unnerve something primal in his blood, despite the good times he'd enjoyed among its taverns and dens. Everywhere he looked, he saw furtive faces and heard jingling metal---coins and weapons. Below the docks lurked a second world at the waterline; walkways and boats and even warehouses could be found there. It wasn't this second world they'd come to find. They were here to meet with Beckett, whose offices were farther inland and posed an even deadlier risk. At least, once they had...for him.

Their provisional Letters of Marque were due. It was time to hand over profit and sign the contract for their next Letters. Good for only another six months, those, if the Letters were held to the usual standards for privateering. It might happen that every six months, they'd be making another trip to receive a new contract---profit due once a year. It was a short leash and one that he wished he'd never asked for.

Was this freedom?

Along the pylon and docks, lanterns swayed with the rise and fall of the tide. Jack turned to eye Barbossa by the light of their own deck lanterns; Hector did not appear troubled in the least. Moored, it was time.

"Sutherland." Barbossa spoke to one of the pirates. "Ye will remember where to find Beckett. Go. Tell him Th� Victorious has made dock. Rossio, ye be with him. Th� both o� ye, keep a weather eye out."

The two sailors left the ship and quickly disappeared in the darkness of the docks, headed for the East India Trading Company offices. Jack stood at the rail, hand on his pistol where it lay in his sash. At his side, Bill Turner was silent and watchful.

The last day, riding through the storms at the south of the island, had taken a great deal from the men. Everyone was tired and in need of a few days on land, enjoying their shine and the pleasures that swag could buy. Even he felt the pressures of needing an escape from the ship for a day or two. Personally, he was considering more where they might go once they left Singapore.

He'd suggested both the Caspian and the Caribbean to Hector, who hadn't answered yet. Not getting a response, he had cornered Bill earlier in the day, while they both worked in the main hold to sort the swag for distribution. He'd wanted more stories---better details---of what Barbossa had done in the Caspian while he lay in prison.

It seemed that his lover and friend had first sailed a commandeered ship to England, to find a better crew. Among them was Bill. From there, they'd sailed to Istanbul and into the Black Sea, where at the farthest edge, their captain had docked the ship, sold it, and then suggested they all cross the Caucasus Mountains by wagon, to see a Russo-Turkish pirate lord named Yasar Basak.

He remembered meeting Yasar Basak---four years ago, they'd sailed with a merchant captain who could be counted a friend of the pirate lord of the Caspian Sea. For a time, the pirate lord had left the Caspian and made the journey through new waters, escorting the lesser-armed merchant vessel through dangerous pirate territories; he also remembered how well large, burly Yasar Basak had taken to Barbossa, actively attempting to convince Hector to turn pirate, join his crew.

His lover had warmed up to that kind of attention and he'd watched as Hector enjoyed a friendship that was beyond their own, something Hector didn't usually dare to chance. He'd felt a twinge of jealousy, at the time, but...when Yasar Basak left them, sailing away on his own ship Sword of Faith, Barbossa had stayed with the crew on The Titan, and his jealousy had abated.

Since then, he wondered if Barbossa had considered the crusty old Turk as something of an itinerant father-figure. So, he'd not been terribly surprised to find out that Hector had taken his crew---as many of them as would go---across the Caucasus Mountains and to the Caspian Sea.

Seated on a barrel of black powder, twisting a rope into new knots, Bill Turner had talked of sailing as first mate on one of Yasar Basak's ships, with Barbossa as the captain. He'd talked of how terrifyingly vicious Barbossa had become, earning a name for ruthless and truly diabolical strategies that would've put even a pirate like Henry Morgan to shame.

The reason for Barbossa's return to open waters and to Singapore in particular had come with a fight between Hector and his mentor, Yasar Basak. Bill had said that he had no way of knowing the details, but that his name had come up repeatedly---Jack Sparrow had put a hitch in Basak's piratical plans for Barbossa, even without being present. Somehow. But, Bill Turner had been able to tell him that, the last time Yasar Basak and Hector Barbossa had spoken, blows were struck, Basak had been mortally wounded---and Basak had given the younger pirate something special that Barbossa kept hidden. A trinket of some sort.

The outcome of the argument and fight had been that, until Barbossa avenged himself upon Beckett for the death of his captain and friend, Jack Sparrow, he was unworthy of his place as Basak's heir---for Basak would never have allowed such an act to go unpunished. Yet, it did seem, to Jack, that Yasar Basak had, in fact, made Hector his heir. Even before the call for revenge.

Well, now, there was no need for revenging on anyone.

Even if it did sound as if Basak had passed on the mantle of Pirate Lord to Hector...

Who hadn't said a bleeding thing to him about it, yet.

So, where would they go, after finishing with Beckett here, in Singapore? He supposed, once the swag had been handed over and the Letters of Marque had been signed and properly sealed, he would go looking for a sweet-faced wench and a bottle of something to drink.

Somewhere in the harbor, a bell rang dolorously, once, and it dragged his attention for but a second. A buoy, most likely. His mind still on the odd story Bill had told him, while in the hold, Jack turned to silently and surreptitiously watch Barbossa from the corner of his eye.

His lover had trimmed his beard so that now the outline of his jaw could be seen through the gingery curls. Even by lamplight, the scar under his right eye was clearly visible. Hector's brows were drawn tight, as if in deep thought---quite possible. In fact, it seemed that Barbossa never stopped thinking---and this expression was silent proof. The knotted brows, the narrowed eyes, the thinned mouth, the pensive frown.

The tiger's tooth earring simply added to his lover's ferocious appearance.

Hector's shirt was so clean and white as to draw attention. He wore it under a brown woolen coat and ornately embroidered silk waistcoat. His breeches were also brown and woolen, but darker than the coat. At his hip was the broad leather belt and sash---the pistol was one that he found fascinating with its silver chasing. Over it all, Hector wore the baldric and cutlass that showed how serious he was; if there was trouble, Captain Barbossa would make sure it ended to his advantage. Jack knew...there were other weapons. Another pistol, at least, loaded and ready. A knife, as well.

The green scarf was back on his lover's hair, where it belonged, even as he remembered with a lingering smile how terribly wonderful it had felt to use the calico cloth to tie Hector's hands together. As he remembered it, he felt a phantom sensation of leather rubbing against his throat, and he shivered involuntarily. Hector's blackened leather hand-guard, on left wrist and palm---a protection against the burn of a hot pistol. He had found himself being 'abused' by its caress many times.

He himself had recently started wearing one, on his right hand.

He could forgive the hat...he really could. It was obscenely funny, at times, to lay on deck and watch Hector give orders from the quarterdeck while wearing that hat.

Bill hissed a warning, catching his attention. "Jack---we've company."

He focused on the dock and felt his blood turn to ice in the veins. The men approaching were not pirates from The Victorious. Instead, coming along the dock at a fast clip, were maybe two dozen East India Trading Company agents and...Cutler Beckett. All of them were armed and prepared, it seemed.

Beckett's face, as the merchant master passed under a pylon lantern, held nothing but determination. Something in him knew, then. Betrayal. There wouldn't be enough time to release the mooring lines and get under way. They would have to stand and fight, gain the upper hand before fleeing.

Backing up from the rail, he yelled at Barbossa. "We've been had, mate!"

"All men to arms!" Hector roared and the pirates came up from their seated positions. "Fight, ye worthless spawn o' the De�il hisself! Fight or die!"

The weapons cache was opened, cutlasses and knives and axes were tossed from man to man. He saw Andre pushing the two younger cabin boys out of the way, behind the steps that led up to the quarterdeck, to keep the lads safe. Then, the lass came along at a run, sword coming out of her belt---she was a fiery wench and a terrible one to fight. He tugged her to the side and then pulled his own weapons---pistol and cutlass.

"Stand at my back, then." He told her. "You cover me, I'll cover you."

But, as Beckett cleared the plank and stepped down onto the ship's deck, the odds changed. The EITC agents spread out, engaging to fight with the pirates, but the petite scoundrel in white periwig and tricorn simply smiled around at the screaming carnage and then drew a pistol from his own elaborately tooled belt.

"Captain Barbossa!" Beckett shouted, barely being heard over the battle that raged. "I do apologize for not meeting you here when you first docked. We've expected your arrival for several days, but if I had been a little better forewarned, I might have saved you the effort."

"Effort, Beckett?" Hector was coming down off the quarterdeck, armed and with a flatly lethal frown creasing his handsome, angular face. "Tell me...is there some problem, sir, that ye bring these billy-boys to fight with me men?"

"Ah, yes. A problem, indeed." The calm merchant master smiled, cocking the pistol with his thumb. "I'm afraid, Captain Barbossa, that your services are no longer needed or wanted. Consider our association at an end."

He saw what was coming, but he wasn't fast enough to stop it.

The gun went off just as Barbossa was raising his own pistol, growling fiercely in annoyance. Beckett had shot the ship's captain---his Hector.

Jack saw himself react and move before he was fully aware of what he did. With a murderous scream, he leaped over a pair of struggling bodies and launched himself straight at the smiling Beckett. The two of them went down in a pile---he lost his pistol and Beckett lost his wig---and he came up first, drawing back his fist. He didn't feel the impact of bone against bone. He beat the man's head against the deck once for good measure and then, straddling the merchant master, he drew his knife.

The shouts and screams of fighting men receded, disappeared behind the roar of the sea in his head. He leaned over and spoke to the man he held down, the man who'd branded him a pirate and burned his ship, and had now done the unthinkable; Beckett was stunned from the violence of having been nearly brained and couldn't fight him. His voice was hollow and broken even to his ears in his shock. "You've crossed my line, Cutler...time to pay up what I should've taken the last time. Savvy?"

With the flat of his knife and a few flicks of the wrist, he cut away the six silver buttons of Beckett's breeches. Exposed, the merchant master began to struggle, his pleas now coming in high, breathy cries. Jack could hear none of it. He reached for and caught the man's furry ballocks in his left hand and squeezed them, pulling the skin taut. It only made Beckett's cries go higher, shriller.

Jack nodded to himself, bringing the knife down in a decisive cut. Once, twice. Blood spurted, went all over him and all over the open placket of Beckett's indigo-black breeches. Within a brief moment that felt like eternity, Jack held the merchant master's tackle---cock and scrote and all---in his right fist. His heart sang at the sound of Beckett's high, ugly shriek. He didn't turn loose of the severed meat as he stumbled back and crawled to his feet, knife falling to the deck.

A hand tugged at him and when he turned, he dizzily swayed in his boots. Something warm and wet was on his face---blood, maybe. He became only vaguely aware that the men had bested the EITC agents and were casting off, without orders. Or perhaps someone had given orders? Hector, maybe? He wasn't entirely sure. The agents were being tossed overboard and into the harbor. The screaming at his feet went away, carried off by two pairs of hands and a grunt of effort from the pirates who did the job. With a splash, Beckett was gone.

He stood, swaying; he felt drunk. Jack looked at the thing he held in his fist and flinched. He held bloodied meat---a man's genitals. It was not merely blood on his hands...it was bright, undeniable blood. The blood that would kill a man.

The hand on his sleeve tugged again and he blinked, looking around for the sailor who needed his attention. No one there. Then, a voice at his elbow spoke up. Now that the screaming was gone and the only sound was that of men calling back and forth as they dropped sail and weighed anchor, pushing the capstan's bars, he could hear the little piping Scottish voice.

"Mister Jack? It's bad, sir---" Wee Tam had blood and tears on his face.

The blood was in the shape of fingers---right at the lad's cheek.

"Aye?" He murmured, looking around.

"We need you here, Mister Jack." Wee Tam was tugging him.

Unconsciously, Jack slipped the meat he held into his coat pocket and let the lad drag him along. He staggered a little, feeling as if he'd been given more of the opium that Barbossa had dosed him with when he was ill, six months ago. But, he stopped moving when he saw what Wee Tam was trying to show him.

There, on the deck, at the bottom of the steps that led up to quarterdeck, lay Hector. Jack looked at everything and anything but his lover---he saw the others, first. At the ship's captain's left side was Bill Turner, who was trying to comfort Freddie, the cabin boy they'd taken from a merchant ship bound for Bombay. But, there was Andre, too...Andre, whom he left standing exposed and ready to fight with cutlass and pistol. Andre sat with her creamy brown legs sprawled, all skinny limbs and knobby joints. The lass was holding Hector's head on one lean thigh, her bony hands clenched in the Captain's coat at the chest as if she might hold the power to stop the unstoppable. Andre's tears streaked through dirt and blood and she turned to stare up at him with a defiant grimace.

When he finally did dare to look at Hector Barbossa, he knew...he was too late. There was no spark of that vital elan left; his lover had died. From the seeping blood that could be seen, it was a fair guess that the ball had taken the Captain low in the chest. Probably in the lights. There was a lot of bright blood on Hector's mouth. But, no one had closed his pale eyes, yet. More green than blue now, they stared up at him without any recognition, with no dark flicker of bemused affection. There was nothing.

Jack weaved, took a step back, and then ran for the rail. He sobbed, vomiting into the dark bay that was illuminated only by the lights from their ship, The Victorious. His stomach clenched and wracked and he ended up on his knees, hanging onto a swivel gun as he threw up from the gunwale.

The blood on his hands stank of metal and smoke and fire and he rubbed them on his coat and trousers as he sat back against the swivel gun, wrapping both arms around his knees. Slowly, bracing himself, he turned to look again.

Bill and Freddie were helping Andre lift Hector onto a piece of sail-cloth. They folded the pieces over, together, making it into a shroud. He rocked himself against the cold iron at his back as he wiped repeatedly at his face, removing tears and blood and vomit. He couldn't think, didn't really grasp anything at the moment beyond the death of his lover---the friend and mate he'd spent most of his life with.

As he watched, Hector's face was covered at last and Bill Turner called another sailor to help him---the two men carried their dead captain to the cabin. Andre followed, carrying Barbossa's ridiculous hat. In moments, the two men returned and the door was closed behind them. Andre had stayed behind.

The one sailor went back to work, hauling sail to put them under way. But, Bill Turner came and helped him up by his arms. The man's blue eyes were like stone and he only vaguely understood that his friend was being deliberately strong for his sake. "There's things to be seen to, Captain."

Captain. He was now the captain.

He let Bill push him along to the cabin. There, he turned and tried to stop the walk. He scrabbled at Bootstrap's coat-sleeves. "No, I can't---not yet."

"You must." Bill refused to let him go. With a somber face, the man opened the door and urged him onward. "You knew him the longest, Jack, and he has no family to speak of---not that we know about. And you're the captain. That makes it your job. Send the boy if you need anything."

Boy. Ah, that meant Andre.

Inside the darkened cabin, he stood against the door and tried to not sink to his knees with weak trembling. He�d seen plenty of dead men in his time, but this was no mere man. There was a candle lit by the bed, where the white-shrouded form lay. In the golden gleam, Andre's face looked strange and alien to him now. She was sitting on a stool by the bed, her bony hands now twisted in the blankets.

She wore a look of fervent pain and that startled him out of his shock. He hurt all over, but here was a lass who had barely known Hector...a lass who, for her ship's dead captain, cried tears and felt pain. But, then, this lass had become something of a Confessor for him. She knew some of the bare truth of what had lain between him and Hector Barbossa.

"He need not be dead---" Her voice husked at him. The candlelight played a strange game with her eyes; they seemed to hold oceans of gold and silver, now. "We need not lose him, sir."

Jack gathered his wits and stiffened his resolve. Moving, he went to the bookcase that sat to the left of the door. He pulled out the bottle of brandy and uncorked it. Without reserve, he drank from it, nearly downing three fingers before he came up for air. He couldn't afford to mourn too long; the ship needed him, the men relied on him, and Hector would be sorely disappointed if he failed to be Captain.

Taking a deep breath, he burped up brandy fumes, and crossed the cabin's deck. He came to a stop at the foot of the bed and stood there, refusing to look at the lass who watched him. Instead, he kept his gaze on the dead body of his lover...whose face was hidden from sight behind the sail-cloth.

"Aye? What did you say?" He mumbled, fishing for understanding of what she'd suggested.

"Captain Barbossa, he need not be dead." Andre insisted, vehemently.

"Oh, well." Jack sighed and tried to come to grips with the thought of how life would feel, now, without his best and truest friend. Would he ever enjoy the world, again, or would he be damned to endure this strange and bland numbness for the rest of his life? "Andre, love, it's done. He's dead. T'was only two men I can think of who ever came back from death and I could tell you days of stories what could prove that Hec---" He stopped, swallowed hard, and then tried again. "Captain Barbossa was neither of those fine gents."

The little Creole lass began to argue, her voice passionate and hard. "There's a man in Manila, sir---I've heard stories of his witchery, from the men I've sailed with. They say he can bring back the dead. All you need is a gift for him and if he likes the gift, he will bring back your dead one."

"Fairy tales, love." He lifted the bottle to his mouth again and spoke against its lip. "There's no witch powerful enough to stop death. That's why we've religion, aye? To give us hope for something better."

He'd killed Beckett. There was little chance that the man could've survived.

Andre shook her head, ferocious and demanding in her female way. Under the blue scarf she wore, her candle-lit face took on the appearance of a woman much older---much wiser. Much more dangerous. She used his name, now, and her voice became a womanly plea. "Jack...where's the man who's forever plotting a new path to what he wants? Where's the witty and good man who made Captain Barbossa let me stay on-board when I could've been marooned?"

"I'm a pirate, love." He whispered it, closing his eyes against the sight of her face and the sight of Hector's motionless body. The blood had started to seep through the sail-cloth. "No mercy."

Andre continued to talk, to plead. She told him the story she'd heard. She said that there were other men, on deck, who could say the same things. She was earnest and forthright. She wanted Captain Barbossa to live---if only for his sake.

At last, he sank down onto the side of the bed, he began to listen more carefully.

When she had run out of wind, Jack opened his eyes and looked at the lass who'd served as cabin boy and his Confessor, since the day they'd burned the galleon at Guinea. He reached out and touched her naked wrist, where it lay exposed on the bedding.

"What's your real name, love? You've never told me."

"Anamaria." She breathed it, as if afraid they'd be overheard. "You can't tell any---"

Jack nodded, steeling himself to take the chance. "Fair enough, Anamaria. No telling of your name. It's safe with me, love. So. Tell me again...Manila. Where exactly does this witch live, in that fair port?"

"Up the Pasig River. Near a bend, halfway to Laguna de Bay."

Again, he nodded and considered it. He was empty and cold inside and not nearly drunk enough. He licked at his lips and whispered. "Good, love. That's good. Go out and make sure the men have food to eat and grog for when they want it. Comfort the boys---and, Anamaria?"

She was already moving, getting to her feet in the ragged lad's clothes she wore. She stopped and tipped her head to acknowledge him. "Aye, Captain?"

"Send Bootstrap to me."
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Wi' A Wannion