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Whispers of Redemption	By : GeorgieFain Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 2243 -:- 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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Year Thirty-two

Elizabeth's Journal

A month and sixteen days from the Cape.

I dream of solid land as we cross the south Atlantic Ocean, even as I have come to think of the sea and this ship as home. We are under a strange pall, due to illness and some silent aggravation between our captains. The Captains do not disagree openly and seem quite able to share the duties without any discord, but some oddness is at work. Captain Barbossa is sullen and short-tempered and speaks little to anyone, even as Captain Sparrow has bloomed anew. He is every inch the bold pirate I did meet in Port Royal, three years in priori. He has a new swagger, a newly bold way of smiling which replaces the stern quietude which I had come to think of as being a seemingly permanent part of him, since his rescue from the Locker.

Four days ago, half of the men started becoming ill after eating a particular cut of meat which was taken from the coast of Mozambique; I myself have experienced the same signs of illness but with much less debilitation. However, there are among us who were put abed too ill to work. Ten of these men have quickly died, suffering from what our ship's physician has declared a severe form of the Gripes. She press-ganged the healthy remainder of the crew for the purposes of taking care of these men who have fallen ill. With the sanction of the Captains, she designated the forecastle as the sickbay, claiming that open air would do much good, as it would allow the men to purge themselves over the side. I am heartily sick of the sound and smell, in all honesty, of men vomiting. Today, we have stitched up the shroud for the tenth man to die from the illness.

As I do work closely with the physician, I became quite aware of her methods. She employs a unique purge which seems to work remarkably well. She has ordered that a cask of water be employed, mixed with a large measure of vinegar and a powdered herb which she has not named, but which, when ingested, does seem to relieve the fever and the vomiting. More to the point, it causes the flux, which did surprise me greatly. This flux has been the cause for death among nearly half of the men who died. They were, the physician said, too weakened to survive the cure. Those who have ingested the quantities of dosed water have quickly gotten the flux. Those who died from it did die quietly and in what seems to be very little pain and those who have regained their feet did seem to be cured within a day.

The flux, as the physician did tell me, forces the body to expel the poisons which sicken these men. The dosed water, when taken, goes straight to work on their innards and strips the illness from both their belly and bowels. This dosed water seems to be all that is needed, being taken as three mugsful over the course of a half-day. Three mugsful of the dosed water is enough to kill or cure, as our own physician has expressed, and claims she was taught this method by a well-trained physician of renown, the same physician who sailed with Jack Sparrow some years ago. So, in effect, she has cured the Gripes with a flux. I have never heard of such a thing, but as it does show some merit, I will remember what has happened here.

As we worked among the sick, our physician did diagnose several other illnesses among the crew and has declared that those who live will be visiting her for other cures. She has used this period of death as a wide-spread examination, it seems. Even I have been subjected to her scrutiny and found to be harboring a touch of the Itch on my arms and legs. She has already given me a salve for it, which I use faithfully as it does reduce the scratching. The salve she gave me seems to be comprised mostly of garlick and brimstone mixed into grease, which spreads nicely. It causes a great stench, but as it does work, I will suffer the smell.

She has also diagnosed many cases of the Foul Disease (the French Pox, here among us) and offered up a series of treatments which she has described to me as being particularly helpful if exceptionally pain-wracking to the man who sits for such a thing. Jack Sparrow has admitted to needing this cure himself on at least one occasion and found it to be, as he expressed to me in some measure of privacy, a sore embarrassment in application but very good at removing the pox in what seems to be a permanent manner. Again, the offered treatment has been promised to those who survive the illness which strikes us now.

In the course of treating the ill, our physician was forced to argue her case for dosing the men with Captain Barbossa and Mister Gibbs, who both seem to believe wholly in bleeding for what ails a body. When a fleem could not be found aboard, Captain Barbossa offered the use of his own knife. There was a loud and terrible row over it, in the cabin. Henriette De la Hoya did argue strenuously against bleeding, claiming that it was evil to weaken a body further in illness and very much against her 'ethic'. She strikes me as a singular individual, different from any other Creole or islander I have met.

She has been educated, it seems, by not only an Academy-trained physician, but also by vast amounts of reading any books of natural science she can pilfer or buy. She admitted to me as we took our turn boiling water and vinegar in the galley for to wash down the be-fouled forecastle, that, when she was captaining L'Sauvage, her own share of the booty was often nothing more than books taken from the ships they captured. To her mind, as she claims, knowledge is a much better treasure than gold, which can be squandered so quickly. But, while gold and silver can disappear from the hand and the pocket, knowledge gained to the mind is never lost, no matter how often it is traded for goods and services. Her words on this matter remind me of my father's own attitudes toward educating young women. He was a stern adherent to the ideal of female education, believing that a well-taught woman could only be a boon to the men in her life, as long as the educated woman did remember when silence would better serve.

Finding me educated in reading and some matter of critical thought, the physician has offered the loan of a book on natural science which details what has been discovered about mankind's musculature through dissection and post mortem examinations. She has promised that it is particularly graphic in its detailing and accompanying sketches, which I find an intrigue I do look forward to examining for myself. Jack, overhearing this conversation between us, shuddered and disclaimed at the thought of women who could learn by books of the better ways to torture men by knife. He has rightly guessed my interests, of course, as what could I possibly want to know of musculature except as a methodology for prolonged torture, when dealing with captives?

Of the men who have survived this sudden illness of the Gripes, more than half are back on their feet and working, albeit weakly. The physician has searched out the spoiled food through interviewing the ill. All such foodstuffs have been disposed of and a crate of hardtack has been used to catch fresh fish, with which a very tasty stew has been made. I find myself very glad to say that none of the Pearl's core crew, those who have sailed previously under our Captains, have succumbed.

***

Considerations and a Question

It was the fifth day of illness aboard the Black Pearl and the fifth night he'd slept alone in the surgery, drowsy on spirits and thinking on the wrong-headed accord he had come to, with Henriette. As he laid on the sail-cloth pallet and contemplated the darkness around him, hoping that Hen was right in claiming that the sickness wouldn't spread to any more of the crew, he considered the knowledge of where she was. Ship's loyal physiker, the young lass slept wrapped in a blanket among the ill on the forecastle deck.

He knew it was wrong, their accord. The whole plan twisted at his gut, thinking on what he did with the Creole lass and how it did not offer any help in warding off the dreams or the feelings he possessed. He knew of it and so did she. Of course, she was fully---and silently---aware of the truth, now. How could she not be? How often had he woken with Hector's name on his lips only to find Henriette watching him with a firm crease between her fine brows? She knew and said nothing, to her credit. Her only commentary on the matter was a light fingertip's tracing of the black tattoo that lay in the skin over his heart. Words in Latin, put there by her own mother. She never asked him what the words really meant---she could read, whereas Anamaria could not. But, with those words and with the name on his drowse-babbling lips, how could the lass not know of the one who haunted his sleep? She knew and said nothing. He did wonder how long it would take his protégé to find her wickedly sharp tongue for an onslaught of questions.

Five nights alone. T'was a bit more than he'd wanted, aye?

So, he lay awake and contemplated what must be done, to break the accord.

Oh, aye, it did help to ease the initial frustrations, but t'wasn't what he wanted. T'was like eating apples when beeve was what he hungered for. He suspected that Hen did what he asked for, even when she didn't ache to be touched. The thought of it only made his belly twist more in disgust.

He'd read over the charts before retiring to eat his supper alone here in the surgery. Another week, mayhaps two, and they would reach Salvador, on the coast of Brasil. With the winds holding up. And they had, aye? All the way, the winds had favored them. No doldrums, no hurricanes, no ships to avoid. Right boring, to be sure, but favorable nonetheless. He'd stood by Hector's side at the quarterdeck and looked over the charts, studying the sky with his sextant and compass to hand. They'd agreed that two weeks would be the outside figure for a time-frame. It did help that Hector was a dab hand sea artist, the expert navigator.

They had made an agreement with the physiker and Gibbs that it was time to brew some beer from a measure of the over-ripe grain and a large cask of water which was going scummy in the heat of the hold. Henriette had suggested the idea, to give the men something safe to drink, since the water would need to be boiled first. Gibbs had seconded the motion, suggesting that Marty and he both had some knowledge of brewing stout and beer. The only disagreement had come when the physiker had insisted that half the beer needed to be brewed in only a day or two and made with a very heavy dose of ginger, for the sake of health among the men.

None of the men, it seemed, were very fond of ginger beer, but he and Barbossa both had agreed with Hen when she started to explain why it needed to be done. Most of the crew were suffering with some kind of intestinal worm which could be stripped out by ginger beer, but that if the men didn't get the problem dosed quickly, the sickness would only return and be much worse in mortality. Her description of the illness' attack on the belly was enough to force even Gibbs to agree with ginger beer.

The first batch would be ready by sunset, tomorrow.

By then, he would have decided what to do about the accord between himself and Hen.

He couldn't go on sleeping in her surgery if they weren't to share the bed, aye? He imagined she would tell him to stick to the accord, even as she did seem to have become unnerved after the first time. She might even suggest that they might still share the surgery's pallet, but only in shifts. He would, if it were his to offer. T'wasn't a bad idea, in theory; both would have a safe, quiet place to rest, but without a constant bedmate. He might be able to live with that. Mayhaps she could, too.

In the dark, Jack pushed to his elbows and lifted the bottle, uncorking it again.

After a long drink of the hoarded spirits, he sighed and pushed the cork back in, letting the small bottle fall to the sail-cloth between him and the hull. It thudded quietly in the blankets as he collapsed once again, forcing himself to give thought to the dreams that haunted his sleep.

He dreamed every night of Hector Barbossa.

As he contemplated it and wondered at the thought of how he could still want his old matelot, he heard the bootsteps approaching along the hold, coming toward the surgery. He knew the sound of those boots. Sliding sideways on the pallet of sail-cloth, he rummaged in the weapons he'd laid down on the deck and came up with a loaded pistol. Even in the dark, he knew he wouldn't miss, if it came to a fight. He sat, in naught but his breeches, and lifted the weapon to the point where he knew Barbossa's head would be, in only a moment or two.

There came the rustle of sail-cloth being pushed back---the 'wall' of the surgery.

He thumbed the hammer; it clicked loudly, ominously. He kept his voice steady, conversational. "'Ello, Hector. If you're seeking the physiker, you'll be needing to turn around and go to the forecastle deck. She's not holding regular 'office' hours in her surgery as of yet."

The bootsteps came closer and then he heard the creak of the surgery bench; his old matelot sat down, in the darkness, seemingly unbothered at the idea of a pistol being aimed at him. Jack adjusted his arm's trajectory for the difference in angle, but didn't lower the flintlock.

It was with a heavy, familiar sigh that Barbossa started. "Missy says those that be still yet livin' will be on th' duty in th' morn. Her purges an' herbs an' stew seem to have done th' thing, then."

Jack reached back behind him for the bottle he'd left on the pallet, near the hull. He fumbled it and then managed to bring it around. Using his teeth to uncork the thing, he took another swallow and answered, narrowing his eyes in the dark---hoping for a chance to better see his fellow captain. "T'is good, then. She'll know, if any do. She knows what she's about, our Hen."

"Is that so?" Hector asked with a strangely flat tone. "Earnin' her upkeep, is she?"

The bench creaked.

"She's mad for clean flesh, but I find as how I can forgive her anything. She cures illness."

"Aye." The other pirate lord went on, with that same odd tone. "Does seem to be, her knowin' o' th' physiker's ways an' sickness. Has she cured ye o' yers, then?"

Jack lowered his weapon, clicking the hammer back into its rest. He'd known it would come to a discussion, the situation at hand. He'd known that Hector, of all people, would recognize what was happening. But, somehow he had imagined the argument would come while they were ondeck, in front of the men. With another drink of the fermented fruit spirits, he knew what he must do. He had to play from a position of strength, just as Henriette had said all captains did...even if he'd already changed his mind about the accord between himself and the lass. What did it hurt to needle Hector? It might actually help his side. He didn't particularly want to come from a position of 'need'; if his old matelot wanted forgiveness, let Hector work harder for it.

"Aye." He smirked in the blackness, drawling with all the smarmy enjoyment of a man who was getting himself wet on a regular schedule. "I'll be cured, then. She's a rare physiker, our Hen. Missy may well have discovered the very secrets of resurrecting the dead without all that Arawak hoodoo. She certainly has aided me in my recent times of need."

In the dark, he heard Hector huff a snort.

Then, with another creak of the bench and bootsteps that faded, Barbossa left. Jack found himself staring into the dark after the other man in consternation, feeling a little hurt. Well, that wasn't very like Hector, to walk away from a fight.

Getting to his bare feet, he tucked the pistol in the front of his breeches and carried the nearly full bottle after him as he hurried after his fellow captain. He called out to Hector, hearing the man on the steps that led to the upper deck. "You know, Barbossa, you've not the right to make demands of a man you betrayed---and that's what it came to, to my mind. You were begging for something which I wasn�t inclined to give---and why should I? You ought to thank the lass, aye? She gave me what I needed to let you live through all the nights."

That stopped Barbossa's retreat. The other pirate stood in the hold, under the light of a carefully-hooded lantern hanging from a nail on a strut. The lantern sent out a gleam for only a circular meter. Now, his old matelot stomped back down the steps and came straight to him, stepping close into his personal breathing space. Hector's pale eyes were shadowed in the scant light, but there was no mistaking the ire in his voice as the other captain growled.

"What mean ye by that?"

He didn't back down as he lifted the spirits and bit at the cork, spitting it to the side. He gave a sour laugh, using the short neck of the glass bottle to point between them. "When I asked Hen for her favors, I had no other thought but that I must either have you or kill your miserable arse. As I wasn't inclined to crawl into bed at your side---that left only one choice, aye? I meant to do it, Hector, accord be damned, even as your dying would rip my heart to pieces again."

Then, he clamped his mouth shut in surprise at himself. Why had he admitted that?

His old matelot leaned in closer, hissing in anger. "Ye asked missy for her favors? Ye didn't force her to an accord?"

Recovering quickly, Jack offered the bottle he held, giving a lopsided smile in the half-dark. "Of course not, mate. I didn't need to, did I? She's the one person onship I can trust, not that I trust her in the least. She's too much of her blood from you. Proper little pirate, she is."

The bottle was accepted, tipped, and the fruit spirits glugged in the quiet between them. It didn't matter, to him, that they might have eavesdroppers---there was always someone listening, it did seem. When Hector lowered the bottle, his mouth was wet and a bit swollen and absolutely enticing in the yellow gleam of light. Especially right where his upper lip curled under, just the wee bit shy and puckish. But, his words were far from inviting. "Did our missy tell ye then that I asked her to not devil th' men an' that she did agree to mind who she be givin' that pretty smile o' hers?"

That did startle him. He took a step back, in surprise, jerking the bottle away from Barbossa's hand and swayed to the left, unable to stop the motion as the ship rolled under him. "You think she has a pretty smile, then? Not me, son---I think Henriette's absolutely the most vicious beastie as ever did sail the Seven Seas and I wouldn't trust that pretty smile, not for any coin of the realm. That smile of hers means she's a-plotting. She's worse than Elizabeth, when it comes to the wolf looking like an innocent lamb!"

Hector nodded, giving him a smile of condescending agreement---not so different from Hen's own smile. "Oh, aye? As bad as that, is she? Mayhap I'm only seein' meself in her, then, wi' those winsome ways an' that charmin' nature."

Swallowing from the bottle twice, Jack gave a brutal laugh. "If I didn't know whose get she was, I'd still know whose get she was---she's all yours! I know she captained that ship we found, I can't doubt her claims---what else would she be doing there? Cruel mite, she is. She's a look about her when she's a-making plans of her own---she smiles like her mum and twinkles like you and a man'll fall for it, body and soul, he will. And she won't hesitate killing any sailor who doesn't---"

His old matelot now roared with laughter, sitting down on the bottom step of the hold, holding out his hand for the bottle. Which Jack gave up willingly. He himself fell to the deck, sitting sprawl-legged before the other captain. Hector took a small drink and then eyed him speculatively, his voice softer. "Did ye not feel safe in her bed, then?"

That brought him up short and he went softer, too, his voice dropping in volume as he breathed the words. "Oh. Oh, aye, I do. Like the old days between us, it was. When I did believe you'd protect me with your life. Hen's like that, she is. She'd kill or die for me, she would---and it matters not if I trust her or if I'm in her bed, Hector."

Silence fell between them and then the other pirate lord nodded, that same look of speculation on his weathered, handsome face. "I do wish I could have that same faith from ye, Jack."

"She knows about us." Jack whispered it, reaching for the bottle once more. Barbossa gave it up without comment. "She does, Hector. She knows and it bothers her, even as she says naught of it a't'all."

"I'll be watchin' me back, then." His graying matelot gave a sour smile, leaning over his knees. In affect, Barbossa was folded up, all arms and legs and long body, and watching the level of fruity brew in the bottle they were now sharing. The sour smile shifted, slid into heavy-browed annoyance. "T'would be a terrible thin', havin' to kill me own get, aye? T'is yours to tell missy she'd be wise to remember that."

After a long moment of silent thought, Jack stuttered a laugh and pulled himself up from the hold's deck. He didn't bother to take the bottle back from Barbossa, but instead trusted to the natural progression of matters to ensure this his fellow captain would follow him, bringing the bottle along. Back to the surgery he went, stumbling along badly, brushing through the darkness and the sail-cloth until he bumped into the galley table.

There, he fumbled with flint and iron, attempting to cold-fire the surgery's lantern without any light to guide himself by. It was a futile effort and quickly, his hands cramped. Then, Hector appeared, pushing his way through the sail-cloth, lantern and bottle in hand. The other pirate's weathered face was wearing a distinctly bemused expression at what seemed to be his attempts at drunken fire-making.

For, there was no doubt, he was drunk.

It hadn't really hit him until he crawled up from the hold's deck. Now, he was woozy and muzzy and Hector was moving in and out of focus. That made him give a small unmanly giggle---but, it was funny, to see his old matelot giving him that familiar half-smile of condescendingly smug amusement.

With the glowing lantern on the galley table and Hector planting himself on the sail-cloth pallet only an arm's length away, he sat down hard on the bench in the spot where Henriette usually opened her books to read and study and think. There, he accepted the bottle back with grace and a burped thanks.

After a long drink and a scratch at his naked chest and belly, Jack admitted to what had been on his mind concerning his accord with Hen. "I expected you to take it worse than you have, mate. By the promise you made Hen give, she should be locked up in the brig and with me dead. Not that I want to be dead." He burped again, blinking against the stink of it, and then muttered. "Ever again."

He held out his hand with the bottle and offered it to his old matelot.

Barbossa took it and tipped his head, his long graying hair lank and wavy as it slid away from his cheeks. When the bottle was lowered again, Hector was still smiling but his voice was decidedly chillier. "I've nay finished decidin' what to say to the lass yet, Jack. We need our missy on deck, aye? Wi' those as what took sick. An' if I kill ye, th' rest o' them, Mrs Turner included, will ha'e me hung from th' stern for a lark."

The idea of it was rather amusing---he imagined Hector arguing with Lizzie about the whole thing and how she ought to agree that Jack needed killing---so he laughed, rubbing a sweaty hand on the knee of his breeches. "Do you think they'd be right to do it, over me and the physiker?"

Hector looked at him as if he was cracked. "Of course not, ye mad gommerel! But, I might welcome a quick hangin' to what t'would happen when our missy leaves th' brig an' finds ye dead. D'ye know she favors skinnin' a man alive?" His old matelot could barely suppress a flinching shudder, frowning in disgust. "Not natural, a woman as what can do such things."

"Oh, aye?" He mused, smiling at the sight of Barbossa unnerved.

"She's told me a tale or two, she has. T'was how she took that ship o' hers---she killed most o' th' mutineers an' good riddance, catchin' 'em drunk or asleep. But, to make that crew follow her, lassie did make an example o' their leader."

Jack found himself fascinated and accepted the bottle as it was offered back. "Aye? Did she tell you of this over dinner, then? She's bloody-minded that way---puts you right off your feed."

Barbossa went on with a little burp of his own. "Lass says---she nailed th' man by his arms to th' mast so as he faced out. Then, she went to work wi' a fid an' a filletin' knife. She cut skin, usin' that fid to peel th' man like I might do an apple. Lass claims it went on for a day, this man a-screamin' an' beggin'. She did wash his wounds, thinkin' to keep him alive a bit, but he died near to dawn---he died a-screamin', sensible o' what she was at." With a lick at his chapped lower lip, his matelot finished with another wee burp. "Crew made her cap'n out o' fear."

The other pirate looked defiant, but pale in the lantern's light. Jack sipped at the bottle, enjoying the flavor. Then, he answered. "Mate, she's your get. If she decided to skin you alive for doing something so ignoble as killing me, then you'd best be knowing it won't be my death alone as what condemns you. She's a powerful hate on for you, Hector. One you might be a bit deserving of, aye?"

"How did she come by that hate, Jack?" Hector was folded up again, hands dangling between bent knees where he perched on the pallet side. "That lass was yer cabin boy an' physiker's mate, aye? Ye don't harbor th' same hatful o' animosity---d'ye? If ye do, I'll nay ha'e seen it."

He thinks on it and then hands the bottle back, in trade. "Mate, mayhap I've grown a bit philosophical in my old age. I'm no where as ideological as our miss Hen. She's a young thing as does think the world is naught but blacks and whites, straight lines of right and wrong. She's a pirate, aye, but she's a pirate the likes of young Will Turner. All fire and ice and naught in-between."

Barbossa rolled his green-blue eyes with a growl. "I thought she acted a mite odd, for a lass as what went pirate so young. Somethin' like that, all morality and ideals, t'ain't good on a ship, Jack. No wi' th' lass able to make this crew follow her orders."

He had started digging through the pile of his clothes and come up with a few pieces of dried meat. Offering one to Hector, he declared. "We'll not be throwing our physiker off---she's a good piece of luck from Calypso. You did say so yourself."

Hector sighed heavily, taking the palm-sized piece of hard, salted meat. "No, we won't. But, I must ask ye to stop beddin' th' lass."

He looked up from where he'd been gnawing at the boucan. It only brought him back to remember the decision he'd already made for himself; but, he had a need to argue and, so, he ignored the niggling reminder of that decision. "And why is that, Hector? As I see it, t'is my business and hers and none of yours."

His old matelot had started gnawing on his own piece of boucan, but stopped long enough to frown hard at it and then answer him. "She's sussin' th' crew, Jack, an� has been doin� so since just after we left Mozambique. I�ve heard her do it, when she thinks nay-body�s listenin�. Isaiah Ragetti comes to tell me o� it, as well. She means to mutiny an' she's found herself a way. In yer bed, she acts like she's th' right o' it an' now, wi' this sickness, th' men will trust her more than e'er. Mayhap more'n how they do trust either o' us."

He could see the sense of it; ship politics was a sticky mess and he'd heard stories of mutinies as what happened simply because the captain insisted on a particular watch doing a turn in the bilge. With the sickness onship, the men were singing Hen's praises for the skills she used---ignoring the fact that a number of them hadn't survived the cure. The fact that she could issue orders during a time of illness only strengthened her position and meant that she held a similar rank to that of Gibbs. The men saw these things.

But, he wouldn't believe it of Henriette De la Hoya. Not where he was concerned.

Jack shook his head, taking a drink of the fruit brew. "Nay...I won't believe that. Hen wouldn't lead the men to mutiny against us. Leastways, not me. Besides, Lizzie will know ahead of time and that one's a rare gem for making things go whatever way she wants. Elizabeth Turner likes us, but she doesn't seem very fond of our physiker. She'll keep the men in line, her and Gibbs."

The other man, half-dressed in breeches and shirt and scarf, thoughtfully listening as he chewed a tiny shred he'd managed to get from the boucan, was now speculative. "D'ye think so, Jack? D'ye dare to trust any o' these pirates?"

"I trust Gibbs and Lizzie---and maybe a few of the others."

"Master Gibbs an' Mrs Turner, aye." Hector mused, pale eyes narrowed in the lantern's light as they studied each other and the problem. "But, th' rest o' these dogs would turn on either o' us if they had but th' right gang-leader. Yer Hen has th' makin's o' greatness, aye? Lassie means to mutiny."

He scoffed, tipping the bottle once more for a larger swallow. "Oh, now it's 'Yer Hen'. As if that lass didn't get her blood from a mutineering dog as what would betray and try to kill his own matelot. Why should I be worried? If she mutinies against anyone, it'll be you, Hector---and, to my mind, that might be a favor to me."

But, his old matelot's narrowed eyes went thoughtful again and the growly voice went softer, evening out into a golden-brown drawl. "How d'ye think I came to think it o' her, Jack? She's had dinner at me own table an' told those stories o' murder an' mayhem th' likes o' which even I would hesitate to contemplate---an' I know missy didna learn these nefarious tricks under yer command. She talks o' it wi' that wee smile o' hers---she might be loyal to ye, Jack, but she's a pirate. How far does loyalty go, wi' any o' us? Three years be a long stretch an' tis enough for a lass as what did think herself abandoned by ye to start plottin' revenge."

A chill ran up his backbone as he thought about it.

Hector might be right about this, after all.

He knew only too well about pirates and how far their loyalty could be trusted.

But, there was more to this than just concern from his old matelot. Obviously.

"You want to protect me, is that it?" Jack snorted, putting the bottle down on the deck between them with a thump. He lifted his dark eyes to watch the other pirate, disdainful. "Think she'll do me in my sleep, aye? No jealousies on your part at all? That'll be a lark, aye, you being so selfless as to worry for my safety when you could wait and turn a mutiny to your advantage. If Henriette's sussin' out the men for a mutiny, you could back her---and then take over, trumping the lass when she's got her mind turned."

His disdain didn't seem to bother Barbossa in the least, who bent and picked up the brew he'd set down. The meat was laid to the side on the gray-white pallet as the bottle was turned back and forth between long hands. His co-captain's tone was still yet that quiet, painfully gentle drawl. "I suspect ye've been givin' it a great deal o' thought, yerself. Only, ye mean to back her, against th' accord we set between us."

Hector wasn't looking at him but at the bottle.

Jack slumped onto the table before him, elbows planted with hands cupping either side of his face, meat forgotten in his fingers for the moment. "If I have given the matter any thought, you'll deserve it. Just as you deserved it when I said you didn't have the right to go thinking you could lay claim to my company, in bed. It's as I said before, Hector---forgiving is a difficult thing. I can mayhap someday forgive what you did to me, but there'll be no forgetting, not even if I let it lay dead and buried. Ten years is a long time. A lot longer than three. Savvy?"

"Does our accord stand?" With pursed lips, Barbossa asked, still not looking up at him. The angle at which the other man held his head showed off the hoary scar on his right cheek and Jack was sharply reminded of where the scar had come from. Hector had gotten that wound trying to save and protect him. Many of the scars on his old matelot's body had come from similar. "Will ye not bed th' lass anymore an' give me a chance to prove I be serious to right things between us?"

He knew what it was, to come begging with proverbial hat in hand. And that was what Barbossa was doing---asking him to go a bit softer. It was not an asking for forgiveness, only a chance. He found himself pondering how he could use it to his advantage in the situation. A terrible thought came, then. Rubbing at his beard, Jack sighed.

"You realize our little Hen's going to take offense? I've an accord with her, too, aye? It's to our mutual benefit, sharing a bunk. If I don't give her what she wants as she asks, the lass will declare it a default and that may lead to mutiny, if you're right about her intentions."

Hector winced visibly at the mention of Henriette actually asking him to be bedded. But, then, his old matelot, graying and weathered beyond his years, straightened on the pallet and raised his head to look directly at him in the scant yellow light. The black scarf he wore glittered, its black beads catching tiny points of gleam and throwing it out in sparkle. Barbossa's expression was flat and inscrutable. "Tell our missy th' truth, then? If she knows th' truth o' us, as ye say, she'll nay doubt understand. At th� least, she�ll keep her hole shut an� it bein� her captain."

That made him laugh with sarcasm. "You don't know her well enough, aye?"

Then, Barbossa gave him a wicked smile, a return to the man he'd once adored. "I've a plan as just might work, Jack, to flush our missy out an' put a stop to her mischief. If ye'll be trustin' me."

"Am I not?" He asked, genuinely surprised at the thought of trust. "I trust you enough. But, any plan of yours---I've not enough trust for that."

"We've a history betwixt us, Jack---good an' bad." Now, Hector leaned forward to lay a be-ringed hand on the galley table's scarred surface. It was an offer of truce. And the other pirate was earnest. "To me way o' thinkin', we've trust enough betwixt us for what I've in mind. But, I'll be tellin' ye somethin', Jack Sparrow---I'll nay be willin' to give yer life up, whether ye sail as me friend or as me matelot. I'm nay interested in betrayin' ye a second time. It did bring me nothin' but sufferin', aye?"

He blinked at the confession. "Pretty words, mate. What's your plan?"

After he heard it, Jack drained the bottle, glugging the last two finger's-worth of fruit spirits. His brain was buzzing like a beehive at the idea of what Hector Barbossa had concocted. And it was a dangerous thing, this plan. Did he want to trust his co-captain enough for such a venture? It could work, if everyone involved played out their parts accordingly, but how often did something that special happen?

"We'll need to be tellin' Mrs Turner and Master Gibbs." Hector finished, his voice softer than before, as if it was mutiny they were plotting between themselves. "I've just th' thin', to lure Mrs Turner's part, but I'll be leavin' it to ye, convincin' Joshamee Gibbs---he's yer first mate an' ye'll know best what works wi� him."

He saw the potential of the plan, what he might do with it---if he did go through with what Hector offered. It could be turned to his advantage, later, when things had panned out. He'd just have to make sure that Hen was aware of what might be happening, to cover the accord he had with the lass---to cover his own back, where Barbossa was concerned. And if Hector betrayed him---always a chance!---then, it would be his prize alone, after he'd arranged a horrible death for his co-captain. In that event, he'd just have to live with the pain of the loss. With immortality, he might survive the emptiness. If it came to death for Barbossa, Henriette could always do him that favor and happily, if it came to betrayal. And, if by some horrible 'accident', he was dead---she'd do it, anyway, to avenge him. It wasn't much of a consolation, but one couldn't have everything.

"What say you, Jack me lad?"

Jack cocked his head, giving a toothy smile. "Aye. T'will work, to my way of thinking."

He'd just sold himself, body and soul. He hoped it was worth the effort.

Well, at least, he'd get properly bedded---and that was something to look forward to.
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Whispers of Redemption