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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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Chapter Three:

Caught in the Storm

He had a limp from the baptism, but did not think it terribly obvious.

Nothing more was said between them about sailors cheating at dice for such odd winnings. Nothing more was said, but not because Jack didn't want explanations. He did want those explanations. He simply didn't dare ask his friend.

Instead, things went on as normal, once he was released from the surgeon's cabin and allowed to continue with his work as they neared the Cape. He did his job, Barbossa did his, and, when they could, they met for sword-practice and stories. He watched the rigger carefully, though, considering what he knew. It wasn't a surprise that Barbossa watched him just as intently. What did surprise him was his own reaction to the way his friend watched. He liked knowing that Hector was watching him with that quiet, thoughtful look in his pale eyes.

Jack was on his knees, swabbing the deck and watching Barbossa's lithe frame climb in the rigging at the mainmast, when the yell came from the crow's nest.

"Dark clouds! Dark clouds ahead!"

He knew that they had passed between Africa and Madagascar two days ago. He'd heard Captain Bushby talking with the Quartermaster and the Sailing Master about their chances of avoiding a typhoon at this time of year. Spring was prime for storms in the southern ocean.

Within moments, all hands were called to the deck with the ringing of the ship's bell. Captain Bushby gave orders. They were in the flag position for the flotilla; there was no way to avoid all contact with the storm that loomed on the horizon, but perhaps they could ride its edge and escape with little trouble. From the look of its formation, they would be caught in the winds by dark-fall, six or seven hours from now. They had time to send boats with a message to the other five ships.

Jack found himself being excused for the purposes of writing a note to his father.

He did it in the Captain's cabin, hurrying to put in words what needed to be said. Finished, he handed the rolled up parchment to the messenger and then went back to the deck, intending to help the riggers prepare for the storm.

When it finally came, he felt as if he'd been holding his breath. The Quartermaster had ordered that all hands must be accounted for, on deck, and while First Mate Bauer had suggested he should be excluded and kept safe in the berth, he'd insisted upon working at Barbossa's side as runner and deckhand. Bauer had relented, seeing the sense of it. He worked well and there was no call for pretending they might not be swamped for the lack of one pair of hands.

Barbossa had tied them off together at the foresail with strong rope. They both wore two shirts, over which the rope was looped at both shoulders and around the waist in sliding rigid double knots, creating a back-hugging harness of sorts. When the ship reached the first fierce winds, they were standing side by side with their faces turned up and out to the storm. He heard Barbossa's infectious laughter over the Sailing Master's shouts. The ship's rudder turned to port and the hulk of it shuddered under the gusseting. It felt as every wind in the world was centered on them, in this moment. Soon, though, as the ship responded to the helmsman's touch, they were being pushed along in a direction that would circle the storm's mass.

Jack chanted right along with the sailors, climbing the rigs at Hector's side with a small boot-knife in his teeth. The foresail was lowered only half, as was the mainsail and the mizzensail. The booms were tied off to keep the sails from whipping the ship around to the starboard side; it made the ship stay on course under the winds. The rain that came now stung and blinded him. He'd let Barbossa tie a half-turban on him, to keep the water and wind from slinging his hair across his face and eyes. It worked.

One of the outhaul lines on the foresail boom snapped and began to wrap itself around him and the mast. Barbossa shouted. "Jack---re-tie!"

He was small enough to slither along the boom and drag the line back up to the tip. He hung over the wildly jerky sea as the boom began to swing out of place, dragging more lines and sail with it. The ship moved under the pressure from the wind and he cursed, forcing his hands to pull the rope to the spar with every ounce of strength he owned. By now, the ship was changing directions.

It seemed to move slow, the time and the moment. His hands fumbled and then he slipped from the boom's sleek wooden surface, barely catching fast with his knees as he squinted through the wind and slinging water at the goal. He was hanging out over the sea itself and only barely heard the shouts. The hands were trying to pull the boom back around even as he fought the ropes to the cleat.

Tied down, he began inching back over the spar backward. Below him, the sea lurched and surged and he felt the slapping cold before he could take a breath. He fell, hitting the deck as it came back into view. Not giving time to wonder at injuries, Jack didn't even manage to catch his breath before he lunged to his feet and pushed in among the hands who worked to control the boom's spar. He was frightened, but it was exhilarating. He laughed aloud, his mouth hanging open to catch the bitter sea-rain as he heaved at the capstan winch and chanted with the men for whose lives he would gladly risk his own.

More than once, he felt his heart leap at the sound of Barbossa's roaring laughter.

He'd found his place.

***

The dawn was misty, the waters calm as they lapped at the hull. But, as daylight came, the sun began to streak the fog with blood and gold. And Jack smiled at it, knowing a rare peace. All was quiet on the sea. Behind him, on the forecastle deck with arms stretched out in mimic of wings, Barbossa lay sleeping flat as he dried, mostly naked and crusted in salt.

He closed his eyes on the sea that sparkled with a thousand diamonds.

They had fought through the night, managing at last to break free of the storm's hands as they sailed at the edge. The force of the winds had flung them a little off-course, but they'd gained a half-day's advantage by using those winds as an impetus. Like a stone flung from the catapult, they'd surged over the waters at great speed...and, now, all that remained was to discover how much damage had been sustained by the other five East Indiamen that sailed behind them.

Before retiring to his cabin for some much-deserved sleep, Captain Bushby had asked for the status of his ship. Everyone had rushed to check and report. The last order his captain had given was for him; he was to remain on deck, if he liked, or he might retreat to his berth and hammock to sleep with the other men.

The breeze was a hard one, forcing them forward still yet. He stood with his face to the wind, at the prow. He felt no exhaustion, only a thrill. He'd weathered his first typhoon, so soon after initiation at the Equator. He was, at last, a sailor. Soon, when they made Cape Town, he would be promoted to head cabin boy and given more chances to work ondeck. It excited him, the thought of what he could tell his father when they were reunited.

Jack yawned, swallowing a gulp of sea-spray and air. His body was giving out, now, even as his mind refused to relax. They were through the storm and yet his mind still swirled. But, if he was going to be ready for duty before the mid-day bells, he needed rest. Giving up his watch, he turned and plopped down on the deck beside the blonde rigger, who was snoring lightly.

He glanced at Barbossa sleeping with such ease, sourly bemused.

"Fall out anywhere, won't you? Lazy git."

***

The Flaming Sword sat in Cape Town, taking on fresh water, supplies, and new crew for nearly a week. As of yet, there was no sign of The Mattie Barrett or his father. First Mate Bauer told him, privately, to not fear---it was common for ships to lose the course during a storm and go missing a week, perhaps two. They needed to press on for London with the ships that had survived---out of the six, there were only four docked and anchored at Table Bay. The sailors of one, The Alice Boothe, told of watching in horror as a ship came apart under the storm's brunt.

None, though, could tell him if it was The Mattie Barrett or Hunter's Horn.

It was with a cold lump in his gut that Jack did his duties.

Once the reduced flotilla was again under way, he found himself withdrawing from the easy banter with which he'd previously entertained and frustrated the deckhands. He did his work in the cabins and on deck, but he had no stomach for sword-practice or telling stories, so he avoided Barbossa's pale, sharp gaze whenever possible.

It worked for many days, in theory and practice, until the evening when the First Mate and the Sailing Master announced that they were crossing the Equator once more. Caught in repairing fishnets---several of the hands had been fishing the waters they traveled through, to get fresh meat---Jack had glanced up at the freckled rigger who sat across from him on a stack of coiled rope, needle and cord in hand. Hector, with no amusement twisting his lips, watched him with a cool, regardful stare that would've done the legendary Sphinx proud.

Something in his silent friend's blank expression landed a hit where, until this moment, he'd stayed numb. Then, it came. The knowledge that his father was probably dead and he'd never gotten a chance to talk with Captain Teague Sparrow about his initiation and re-baptism. He wouldn't be re-joining his father in London; now, just as he'd become a real sailor, he was made an orphan.

Without even a whispered word, he excused himself and dropped net, cord, and needle. Fleeing, he thumped down the steps into the berth on naked feet and, finding men sleeping in their hammocks, determined it too public a place for his liking. He went through the quarters quickly, ducking and dodging the gentle swing of rope beds. What he was seeking was beyond the berth, behind the bulkhead that separated quarters from rudder---a small, private storage place that Barbossa had explained as 'Captain's Stock'. He hadn't even questioned the idea that every captain might smuggle a little extra, for his own profit. He hadn't even bothered to open the small hatch until now, uncurious about what might lay behind its solid wood.

Not bothering to check behind him, Jack pried the hatch up and slithered through, letting it fall shut behind him. The tears that had been brimming before, on deck, where everyone could see, were now free to flow and they did, even as he wiped them away with impatient, dirty fingers. The tears were cold on his cheeks---his face felt overly hot---and there seemed to be a great deal of them to wipe. His fingers became quickly wet and he resorted to using his wrists and the fleshy part of each palm. He trembled, biting at his lower lip to keep from groaning in anguish.

He could imagine his father drowning. He could imagine it only too easily.

The hatch creaked as it opened and a hand reached in, fumbling something at him. The voice was familiar, even whispering. "Here, take it."

Barbossa had known where to find him, without thought. It was a piece of cloth, smelling of brine, and in the darkness, he couldn't see the material at all, but he suspected that it was the scarf that Hector used to keep his driftwood blonde hair tied up and out of the way. There was an added scent to the stiff cotton that was neither sea nor wind nor tar nor rum. Something he hadn't recognized until now as being purely the smell of his friend's body.

Somehow, it was a comfort.

The hatch was lowered once again, the hand retreating once he'd accepted the cloth. He heard no sound, but suspected that Barbossa hadn't moved away. A small part of his brain, still thinking, wondered why the rigger didn't just crawl through the hatch himself...and an even smaller part, much quieter and very still, knew why. Hector Barbossa was his friend and, even without needing to know all the reasons, the older boy wouldn't intrude on what was obviously a private grief.

No thanks was necessary, between them.

Jack sat in the hold and wept, snuffling his regrets into the sweat-stiffened scarf.

Barbossa kept watch for and over him.
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Wi' A Wannion