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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

Speaking of Matelots

They sat side by side in the 'Captain's Stock', he and Elizabeth Turner; he wasn't sure as to how he'd managed to wriggle through the small hatch, but here he was with two bottles of rum and a lantern sitting in a rough-planked patch of overly warm hull. The newly married lass sat close, her back braced to the tarred wall of the small cabinet. Her knee, clad in dark brown wool breeches, brushed his as she settled in and lifted a squat, round bottle. Strong, white teeth tugged the cork with a pop. It seemed little Lizzie was developing a real taste for the grog.

She'd begged for a moment of his time, this evening, as he rested on deck with the other men. Bored with the lack of intelligent conversation---he would be damned if he sought out Hector Barbossa in the verbal doldrums under which he now suffered---he had followed the lithesome lass down into the holds and to the aft. He'd felt Hector's glare on him every step of the way across the deck, and knowing that Barbossa disapproved only made him more determined to give Elizabeth anything she liked...within limits. He had no intentions of bleeding for her tonight. Or dying. Or anything else that might endanger his life.

Jack picked up the remaining bottle of mixed grog and pulled the cork with a twist of his powder-stained fingers. He drank deeply, sighing with pleasure at the faint tang of lime; it was not so much as to take from the flavor of the spirits. He slipped his hat off and laid it down on his weapons, raking a dirty hand back over his scarf and hair, pinning the blonde lass with a gimlet eye. "Aye, and why do you want to parlay with ol' Jack? Have you decided it was a terrible mistake, marrying the whelp as what can't properly service you but once every ten years...or is that you've discovered Captain Turner is indeed a eunuch and want to have your vows annulled? Do be careful, sweetling. Play the turncoat with that one and he's very likely to do something terrible and rash and then what? We'll all be wishing it was me at the helm of the Flying Dutchman by the end of the day."

"Who says I..." Elizabeth stopped, bit her lip, and then scowled at him, her brown eyes sharp. "No, I haven't come to ask you to annul my marriage. I thought you might like to get away from the others for a bit, but I have my reasons. I've overheard you talking with Barbossa. I've heard." She carefully stressed the last words, staring at him from under the line of her arched brows. He didn't miss her meaning. "Do be a dear, Jack, and tell me a story about matelots."

Ah, so it came to that, did it? Jack closed his eyes and laid his head back on the wood behind him, suddenly very tired. He couldn't keep the bitterness from his tone. "I've no stories to tell, lass. Not about Barbossa. Barely know the man---other than the one time he sailed under me, which ended badly, as you know---and, as you're acquainted with the ol' beastie himself, you can understand why I've no interest in sailing with him any longer than I must."

"You're lying. Please don�t lie to me, not now and not about something which, in the larger world, seems so pointless." She said it, determination lacing the words. The flow of her lilting voice seemed, for the moment, to match the rocking of the Pearl beneath and around them. T�was something that had drawn him to this wee murderous daughter of Eve in the first place. Her voice was almost soothing. Almost. "I've heard you with him, Jack. You know Barbossa extremely well, if I'm not too far from the mark."

He peeked from under one eyelid and frowned, holding the bottle close to his chest. His sword and pistols were laying to the side, near the hatch. But, a threat of cruel violence wouldn't dissuade the lovely Mrs Turner. Which was not to say he couldn't disgust her, come to it. The multitude of voices in his head were a tumult; many of them were of the idea that he could share the truth with the lass and perhaps gain a leverage from the telling.

But, the majority vote came down to the thought that knowledge was power and he was never going to give Elizabeth any sort of power over him again. Even if she might make an excellent ally. After all, every time he trusted her in any measure, bad things happened. The rum and food were burnt while he was sleeping or he found himself chained to the mast, facing down giant sea monsters and certain death.

He made a choice based on the idea of leverage and how best to play a game of chance. No one said he must tell the whole truth, aye? With both eyes closed once more, Jack tugged his shirt open to the right side; the bottle fell to his bare skin, right at his heart, but he ignored that in favor of tapping at the two black scars that lay on his chest.

"You once asked me if there was any truth to the stories about me." He started, giving a crooked smile at the memory that came up in sharp relief behind his eyelids. "Aye, Lizzie, there's truth...and then, there's truth. But, when you were tucked up in your safe bed and reading of my exploits, did you ever come across any stories that spoke of Barbossa?"

She hummed her agreement.

He nodded at that, lifting the bottle as he continued. "Stories about me often speak of my luck and my daring, the ways in which I can do anything I desire with no plan to speak of. I do tend to fly by the seat of my breeches, aye? It�s part of the charm." Jack took a drink of the grog, swirled it around in his mouth, and then swallowed. "The stories about Barbossa give mention to his tactical genius and terrible barbarity...aye? What�s perhaps rarely mentioned in the stories, Lizzie, is that, until he led my crew into mutiny, Barbossa and I sailed together. We've known each other since I was but a sprog, a lad of twelve."

He fingered the scars, feeling the faint lumps under the darkened skin; the shot was still there, buried in the muscle of his upper chest. When Elizabeth didn't comment, he went on. "He was killed by Cutler Beckett in Singapore, once, when I was naught but twenty-four years old. Beckett was, I think, the same age. I gave my blood, to take Barbossa back from death's hands. What I didn't know then is...once you've dabbled in magics beyond the ken of men, you're marked. It was almost two years later, I was shot while we were on a commission with Captain Henry Morgan. I woke up to find that Barbossa had found a witch among the Carib as what could do all sorts of dark things. He only had to give her ten of our men as a sacrifice...a price worth paying, to his mind. He gave a good third of our crew to the man-eaters and called it an accord."

Now, he opened his eyes and stared at the young woman in the yellow gleam of the lantern's smoky light. She was paled, with surprise and horror.

"What was it like, being dead? Really dead?" Elizabeth whispered, lifting her own bottle.

"I don't remember." He lied, still rubbing at his scars. "I haven't thought much on it, these last sixteen years. I do know that I've not grown much older, since then, while Barbossa...he's naught but three years older than me, lass, did you know?"

She shook her head, long blonde hair tangled at throat and shoulder. She sounded shocked at the thought. "No, I didn't..."

"I did think it might be the curse, from the Aztec gold, but now I wonder." Jack swallowed more grog, tipping the bottle until he'd taken more than a finger's worth. "It was then, after that commission, when I was shot...Captain Morgan started calling us matelots. It's just an old boucanier word. Means we're partners for life." He could lie about that, too; the lass wouldn't know any better. "T�was nothing I did that settled it. Barbossa could've found himself a new first mate---Bill Turner was with us, then, would've made a fine first mate. But, instead, Barbossa withdrew from the campaign and went looking to the Carib. Not very pirate-like doings, eh?"

"You were his first mate." Elizabeth Turner mused, watching him with eyes that glowed like gold in the light. "I didn't know that. I can't imagine it, really."

"Oh, it was like that with us, then." He waved his bottle at her, expansively. "I had a ship, I was captain and he was my first mate. Then, my ship was...well, taken. Barbossa got a ship and he became captain, so I was his first mate. Then, I got the Black Pearl from Davy Jones, but Barbossa�s ship, The Victorious, was sunk�and he was my first mate, again."

"He led a mutiny." She was very serious and there was no mistaking the hidden ire; she didn't seem to be much of a fan for mutineers. Not that he could blame her. "Was it jealousy, then?"

Jack shrugged and took his hand away from the scars. His shirt still hung open, though. "I can't say if he was envious, but I did make a grave mistake on the way to Isla de Muerta, Lizzie. The day before the mutiny began, we spotted a fat merchant ship on the horizon, easily within our reach...and instead of allowing the vote, I insisted we wouldn't be chasing her down. My decision didn't sit well with the perfidious dogs. See, a captain�s only captain as long as his men will follow him...never forget that. If he fails to act as they believe a captain should act, in their best interests, he won't be captain for very long. The men voted and then approached Barbossa, declaring their intentions."

Now, she seemed genuinely intrigued; Elizabeth Turner sat forward over her knees, drawing closer. When she spoke, he felt the edge of her rum-laced breath. She wasn't slurring yet, but it probably would not be much longer. "He must have incited the mutiny. If he was really your friend and partner, he should've put the mutiny down before it went any further. I refuse to believe that Barbossa, of all people, couldn't stop a mutiny."

He agreed, smiling bitterly, remembering what Hector had said to him on the Pearl, before the curse was broken. "Aye. You would think so, but he has claimed other intentions, which I'm not yet inclined to accept or believe. See, Lizzie, it was not just a betrayal from my crew and my first mate...it was my matelot, the one person I should've been able to trust at my back."

She shook her head, clearly not understanding.

So, he explained, burping quietly into his sleeve. "I�m not a man for tradition, but there is a tradition, concerning the betrayal of a matelot. It's death to the one who breaks that sacred trust. I killed Barbossa, at Isla de Muerta. Following tradition, that means he and I are now even. But, as you might imagine, being even doesn't mean we can forgive each other. Killing your matelot means you needn't worry about being betrayed from that quarter ever again. The problem with tradition is...it doesn't allow for people returning from the dead."

***

He stood at the wheel, his fingers lightly wrapped on the worn, painted wood. For the most part, everyone was asleep. He could imagine what Barbossa was doing, below him in the captain's cabin...likely sleeping the rest of the justly vindicated, damn his eyes.

Since coming back to the world of the living, he'd found himself unable to shake the unsavory knowledge that it was going to come to a nasty head, the nearly-silent animosity that stretched between himself and Hector. For the most of every day, he was able to avoid dealing with the other pirate, but the issue of captaincy and the ship's ownership remained unanswered. As of yet, neither of them were willing to put it to a vote among the men---unsure of their position, of course.

The crew had sailed with them both, individually. But, whereas Barbossa had taken them to World's End and to victory against the EITC's armada, he had caused distress and loss of limb and any other number of unsatisfactory events, not the least of which was...a lack of profit. They were, mayhap, the poorest lot of pirates sailing the seas. He'd have to change that before the men would take his side. But, he couldn't imagine a proper treasure they could reach with any ease, beyond the Fountain of Youth, which...it was a great treasure, but definitely lacking in shine for the average pirate. The only profit the Fountain of Youth offered was immortality and renewed youth; he was more than pleased to accept that, as was Hector. But, would the men?

Aye...they probably would. But, then what?

Might he trust Hector enough to attempt their lost cache of silver bullion on Guinea? He never had gotten the brass and men necessary to attempt that venture. For something that large, he had to admit he needed Barbossa, who was skilled at hiring crews and maintaining order---admitting he needed Barbossa for something of that nature was an invitation to being marooned again.

Jack kept his eyes on the horizon and listened to his ship. Her timbers creaked and whispered to him; they were bound, body and soul, and he couldn't imagine ever being parted from her again. He did understand the idea of eternal love, aye, the thought of an immortal marriage---not unlike what Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann had managed. He smiled to himself at the idea of the two erstwhile landlubbers now being true pirates.

Poseidon below, little Lizzie had succeeded to become a pirate lord and then the pirate king, that managed with his help. Something to be proud of, that. Was he to be congratulated on how effectively he'd made them both into pirates? He was content with the results, even having lost the command of the Flying Dutchman and its promise of immortality. It was regrettable, though, that William Turner had been taken and remade. He would always count Will as one of his true friends. Elizabeth, too.

Even if the lass did ask uncomfortable questions when he was in his cups.

She suspected the nature of his past relationship with Barbossa�that was plain enough to see.

He supposed she was within her rights, as pirate king, to demand time and answers of him. But, he'd never been one for following rules and traditions. He didn't think of her as royalty, even as he did accept her on the level of his father.

His thoughts turned darker, considering his own sense of acceptance where the other pirate lords were considered. Was he always going to be the pup, to them? Among their Gathering, he was barely tolerated---Hector had told him, more than once, that he wasn't a real pirate; that he was not, by nature, a born terror. Captain Teague Sparrow had only reminded him of it, on Shipwreck Island. Barbossa had reinforced the inadequacy over and over. But, he could admit to himself, privately, that perhaps he wasn't the pirate that either of them was. He had some idea of fair play and morality, even as he'd been accused on multiple occasions---by Lizzie and Will, most often---of lacking the nobler emotions.

He had told the lass, when drinking in the 'Captain's Stock' cabinet, of where he'd learned to be a pirate. His father had taught him to love the sea and ships and freedom, but it was Hector who had given him the larger part of his education in piracy and other deviant, piratical behaviors.

Perhaps his father was right, after all. It wasn't about survival. It was about surviving with oneself. As it stood, he liked himself well enough. But, it was only when he allowed his heart to dictate his choices that he could say 'well done' to his actions.

If he had taken Davy Jones' place on the Flying Dutchman, allowing Will Turner to simply die, he would never have been able to look Elizabeth in the eye again. Of course, they would probably all be dead, now...so, mayhap he'd made the right choice, even for a pirate. But, he'd not made the choice of a pirate, while holding Jones� heart in his fist. He'd made the choice of a friend, a show of nobler emotions.

The part he hadn't yet faced was how Barbossa hadn't laughed him down for it, yet. Hector had said naught about his decision---and he knew better than to think the old scallywag didn't know. He also hadn't faced the insufferable fact of sailing on a ship with Hector, either. Here he was, sailing with his matelot---a man who was meant to be dead. His own death, notwithstanding, naturally. Barbossa was alive once more; under his feet and under his skin. Already, he felt inadequate. As a pirate and as a man.

It was absolutely maddening, which was an irony which had not eluded him.

'Maroon him or kill him. Tis the only way you'll be able to escape.' At his elbow, he stood. With hands folded behind his back, he was stern-faced and staring out over the night-darkened sea. Hat and all. 'He can't be trusted, Captain Sparrow. He doesn't care to think on you, so why should you care to think on him? A man who can betray his own matelot is no man's friend...and what need do you have for a friend like Barbossa?'

He agreed, silently, nodding as he sucked at the corner of his lower lip. The salt of his sweat there was a taste that only reminded him more of the ocean. With a searching sniff in through his nose, he shivered with pleasure at the scent of his natural world---the sea and tar and wood and canvas and hemp rope. There was even a tang of rum somewhere close by, probably from his clothes.

It was true. He couldn't trust Hector. Not now. Even if they had made some sort of peace, the peace was a tentative one. At first chance, the other man would betray him again. It was what he would do. And what had he done, during his exile of ten years, but work at becoming a real pirate, like Captain Teague---the kind as what could stop conversation and cause fearful glances when he walked into a tavern?

But, Hector...Hector Barbossa, like Captain Teague, didn't even need to try. He was a true pirate, with no loyalties to anyone but himself. With a difference that worried at him: whereas most pirates would keep to a peaceful accord and work with other pirates when the goal was similar or complimentary, Barbossa seemed to have become, in his ten years of captaining the Pearl, even more of a wild cannon who would betray friend and foe alike, no matter what the accord. Starting with the betrayal of his own matelot.

Yet, Barbossa had kept to an accord with him and with the other pirate lords, while bringing together the Brethren. Had dying a second time done something untoward to Hector? It certainly hadn't softened the man any. He was still a fearsome beast, when given his head in a battle. That was something to remember.

'Just as you can remember what he tastes like.' At his other side, he stood. Now, he had two of himself keeping pace with the conversation. He glanced briefly at the other Sparrow, and scowled at the suggestion of memories long-past. Not that it stopped himself. 'He's aged, but he is still awe-inspiring...aye? You need not trust Hector. Fucking a man doesn't necessitate trust. You know he still wants you. It's as plain as the nose on his face. All that soft talk of eternity and running away, when no one else is around to hear. It's tormenting him, the wanting. That's power in itself, mate. You could use it to your advantage.'

Aye, he could. If he believed he wouldn't get knifed for his troubles. It was a terrible thing, to wake up dead. He wasn't in the mood to take the risk of seducing Barbossa only to be killed in a moment when his defenses were down and they would have to fall, his defenses. It had been far too long since he'd taken anyone to his bed.

"Nope." He answered with a shake of his head that caused his dread-locks to click and swish against his salt-weathered shirt's collar. "I'm not playing a gambit for power with him, not like that. I don't want Hector. Not anymore. I stand by my decision. I won't fuck a man who has betrayed me so grievously. Living or undead."

The other Sparrow tried again, leaning in close to whisper it in his ear. 'Did you not hear him, mate, on the beach, when you went to parlay with Beckett and Jones? He didn't want to give you up to Jones. Playing the card of you being a pirate lord, as if he ever cared about such a thing where you was concerned. He said...and I repeat...'

'Aye, we all heard him.' The other Sparrow, at his other side, growled in disagreement. 'As if Barbossa would give a tinker's damn for anything but himself and this ship. He's a snake. A big, unkempt one.'

The other one, on his left, gave a sigh of exasperation at the interruption and tried again to make the point. 'He said...and I repeat...if you have something to say, I might be saying something as well. What do you suppose he might've said, Jack, if you had spoke your mind then and there? You saw his face, when he turned away. Heartbreak, it was, not a dismay at the breaking of tradition. He didn't want to let Her Nibs send you away to certain slavery or death. For a man who wants your ship, he seemed awfully worried for your health. What say you to that?'

He couldn't say anything to that. He'd seen the look on Hector Barbossa's face.

What he did know of what he might've said there, before being led away to the brig on the Flying Dutchman, was lost to time and tide. But, he did remember Barbossa's hand on his arm tight and grasping and the challenging look in his matelot's pale blue-green eyes. Hector had been daring him to go without a fight, daring him to keep silent in what would surely have seemed a final parting.

He'd come terribly close to kissing Hector, in that moment. He had stared into Barbossa's weathered, snarling face and the only thing he'd wanted was to kiss the cranky beast and thank him for rescuing him from the Locker. Even if those reasons were less than altruistic or loverly for such a rescue. A rescue was still a rescue, aye?

'But, his reasons weren't those of a friend who missed you, sir.' The other Sparrow said, hands still tucked away behind his back. 'If he hadn't needed you for the Gathering, he wouldn't have bothered. If you think about it, he's never considered you his equal, Captain Sparrow. You were his bed-mate and his pet, but never his equal. He doesn't seem to need or want a bed-mate, now, and he has that damnable monkey for a pet. He even named it for you, the evil sod. If you trust him, you've learned nothing from being in the Locker.'

With a deep sigh, Jack stared out over the sea, his sight taking in the black sails that billowed with the breeze that drove his lady forward. He did have an itch to be touched---the hunger to be held and fucked, to fuck. Unfortunately, the only two viable options were Hector Barbossa and a woman he wouldn't dare to touch---even if she wasn't married to the captain of the Flying Dutchman---because she was every bit as potentially lethal as Barbossa. She certainly was just as ruthless.

The thought of that made him want to laugh. Elizabeth Turner nee Swann was a match for Barbossa for sheer bloody-mindedness and Will Turner was, to not put too fine a point on it, remarkably like him---as he'd been, before the mutiny. Perhaps he'd done them a favor, after all, giving up the captaincy of the Flying Dutchman to the younger Turner. He could easily imagine the wicked little lass committing mutiny on her husband. If left to their own devices, conventionally married, Lizzie might have driven sweet William to despair.

Much the way Hector had driven him to madness and despair.
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Whispers of Redemption