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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.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
Year Thirty-two

Treasure?

Using a bit of powder from their own stores, the crew fired the wrecked ship.

Jack stood on the deck of the Pearl next to the homely young woman they'd rescued.

She held her pet cat---a scruffy black mouser with a permanently broken tail and sour nature named Madame Sullivan---and wore a strangely wistful look, watching the flames catch at the ruined sails and tar-painted wood of L'Sauvage.

At the quarterdeck, Barbossa was taciturn, giving orders to set sail and change course for the coast of Africa. They needed to resupply the Black Pearl. Elizabeth Turner was below-deck, scrounging a meal and a clean corner for their newest crew member.

Scratching at his jaw, Jack considered Henriette and found himself wondering at the truth behind the shipwreck and the lack of sailors on L'Sauvage. He watched the lass from the corner of his eye, pretending to be completely taken with the burning hulk. "You were the cabin boy?"

"I was the captain." Henriette frowned hard and clutched the scrawny, scabby black cat to her blood-stained, grime-encrusted shirt. "The captain we sailed out of Kingston with died during a mutiny before we reached Africa. I killed three of the mutineers and put a stop on it. The crew...they elected me as captain, after that, under threat of me killing them all."

He nodded and withheld any comments on her lack of experience and advanced sense of brutality. Instead, he glanced around at the Black Pearl's hale and strong men as they worked, his voice low and questioning. "How long were you wrecked here?"

Henriette's voice was low, almost a boy's. "A full twenty-day. We set out from Kingston just after me mum left with you, the last time. I hired on as a deckhand, lending out Madame Sullivan for the rats. Then, that first year, with the mutiny, I took over as captain and things went better."

He made a short hum in his throat, agreeing to keep her talking. Which she did. She'd always been a wee canty thing, yet willing to trust him. As far as she trusted anyone.

"We made a bit of profit up and down the coast of Africa before hitting the storm that did us in---we barely reached these deathtrap atolls, but then there was no more food or water to drink. We were lucky to catch a few fish every day. After a while, everyone left was...dead. They shot themselves or drank seawater and went mad so as I had to shoot them or they flat-out died of the rot." Her pale green eyes narrowed as the flames crackled, loud enough to be heard even from their distance. "I'm tired of burying bodies, uncle."

He tried to imagine this slip of a lass managing to hold the captaincy of a pirate ship for more than two years. Could a woman like Elizabeth Turner do it? He believed she might, given the right crew. Even this crew. But, what of Henriette? She would lie and kill, he knew---that was so often both a necessity and a talent for pirates, in life. He watched his young protégé in the lull of their conversation and then turned to look back over his shoulder at the quarterdeck, at Barbossa. His old matelot was at the helm, large hands easy on the wheel, but those blue-green eyes were on him. And on Henriette.

Had Hector known that Henriette was on L'Sauvage? Had Tia Dalma sent them here to rescue the scrawny, evil-tongued mulatto from a fate worse than death? She had told Barbossa of a treasure. But, was that the truth? What if the imprisoned goddess had told Barbossa of who would be waiting on the wreck of a French carrick in the Seychelles? Had his fellow captain lied, claiming it was a treasure? That was a dangerous thing, for Barbossa. To lie to the men about treasure and profit was treading the line of losing respect in the eyes of those men. They could wake up tomorrow to a mutiny of their own.

But, it could explain why Hector had cleaned himself up and dressed for the occasion of finding a wrecked ship. Jack shook that thought out of his mind as simple nonsense. But, it niggled. Was it nonsense?

Sliding sideways on the rail, he pretended he didn't know that Barbossa was watching them. He tapped his fingers on the painted wood beneath his hand as he studied the lass before him. He had to look up at Henriette just the tiniest bit now, which was disconcerting. She had grown, aye, in the last three years. She was watching the fiery ship as they sailed away from it, her pale green eyes somber, and her mouth a flat, emotionless line.

She'd slipped away from Tia Dalma when only seven years old, stowing herself among his kitbag and supplies until he had sailed down the Pasano and reached the coast once more. For years and years, as often as he could visit the Arawak and Tia Dalma, he'd regaled Anamaria's young daughter with stories of his adventures and promised that, soon, one day, she could sign Articles with him and sail as his first mate. Always, he had shared a private smile with Tia Dalma, after saying such ridiculous things to the wee lass.

So, he'd nearly beshit himself, realizing Henriette had stowed away on his longboat and come along with him, back to his ship---but, despite her youth, she'd forced him to sit, at gunpoint, and listen to her terms. The lass had, even at that tender age, been possessed of some piratical demon which made her likely to do anything she damn well pleased. He had, naturally, been quite shamed to sit in his own longboat under the barrel of his own pistol and accept terms from a tiny lass like Henriette. But, she'd proven how serious she was, when he tried to take the pistol---he still carried the scars where she'd cut him in a few vital places with her eating dirk.

He'd cut the lass� hair off short and then written a letter to Tia Dalma, explaining the matter and promising that he would protect the wee, wild thing with the last drop of his blood. Then, reaching his ship with their new cabin 'boy', 'Henry', he had sent the letter and hair back up the Pasano in the grip of a particularly ugly crewman whom he'd meant to maroon or shoot or something---as long as said action ended in said crewman no longer being on his ship. He imagined that Tia Dalma had rectified the situation for him, lock stock and barrel.

He had often found it to be highly ironical---him taking on 'Henry' as a cabin boy, after having had 'Andre' in the same position. But, whereas 'Andre' had become his friend and confessor, 'Henry' was so young and impressionable as to become his protégé instead. He had never shared his real feelings---when he felt them---with the lass. He never would, likely enough.

Henriette had sailed with him from that day until she was thirteen and it started to become obvious to the crews that sailed with his ship, that the cabin boy---despite being so homely---was not a lad. So, he'd taken her home to Tia, begged for forgiveness---which she'd given after a full seven-day of her deliciously fun attempt at murdering him---and then accepted her words on how it was time to reach Port Royal, to finally get the ship fast enough to catch up to the Pearl.

Even then, knowing that she couldn't be sailing with him, Henriette hadn't stayed to home. It sounded as if she'd probably signed on with the first ship she could find, in Kingston, to get away from Jamaica. Three years under a French privateer's flag and six years under his flag. She'd spent more than half of her life aboard pirate ships.

No, he had no doubts that she'd killed three would-be mutineers, on L'Sauvage, and claimed the captaincy for herself by surprise and force. She had her blood to thank for that in the main, but he'd taught her well. He'd taught her on stories of adventures, mutinies, and treasures to be found. She had gotten the story from his drunken tongue, before her second year under his command, about why her mum didn't sail with him anymore. Oh, aye, she knew about Hector Barbossa. She knew. But, he doubted she knew the whole story, even now. Could Tia Dalma have told the lass?

They'd brought a murdering Creole snake on board his ship, one that might intend to do Barbossa up right. He could only hope that she wasn't inclined to be killing him, too. Who knew if she was feeling particularly disgruntled about being put to shore after six years at his side, on board a ship? Henriette wasn't very like other lasses, aye? She didn't prattle on about nothings. It was a surprise, that, having her so easily share some of her feelings about the loss of her crew and her ship.

The sun was slow to sink before them, but Henriette's gaze was still yet pinned to the dead, burning ship as it began to slip from sight. He felt slightly nauseous at the sight of ugly, black Madame Sullivan---who had been procured in a Portsmouth brothel and promptly named for the house's most famous harlot. Madame Sullivan was aging and crotchety and absolutely the spawn of Ol' Hobs Hisself, but she was right deadly to all manner of vermin. Even if she did look rather moth-eaten and mangy, with her patchy black fur and broken, crooked tail.

"Your mum, she'll be proud." He said it softly, leaning in close to the lass to keep their words private. "She gave me right proper hell, when she sailed with me to take back the Pearl. She said I was wrong to have filled your head with stories and then take you to sail for six years with nary a word or warning or permission asked."

Henriette never met his eye as she shrugged, clutching her evil-looking cat, her gaze still locked on the islands and the smoke-filled sky and the ship that burned in the distance. "Better you than any other, to my way of thinking. She has to see the sense of that. Better you than him. I'm right surprised to see you with the bastard, Jack---why's he still alive? Why's he on your ship?"

He raised his hand to touch her shoulder and then thought better of it. Instead of offering comfort, he flipped his fingers over and gave a grin meant to reassure. "You never knew the whole of that story, lass, and the years since I saw you last have brought adventures the like of which you can't imagine. Later, we'll have time to talk of it, aye? Why not go down below and find Mrs Turner? I'm sure she's eager to make your acquaintance."

"Aye." Henriette raised one of her delicate brows at him in consternation, her creamy brown cheeks flushed with withheld emotion. "As eager as I am to meet her, to be sure."

"Don't underestimate that one, lass. She's a pirate lord and the pirate king...queen...whatever you wish to call it." He warned, still smiling cockily as he turned to walk away from the rail, taking the lass with him by the arm. "She's a right terror and a murderess, at that, when the mood strikes her. Reminds me of you, she does."

It was as he moved to find a mug of grog for himself, he looked up and found Hector watching him with a poisonous expression on his weathered face. He didn't let it cut the wind from his sails; instead, he waved genially and mockingly saluted the ol' beast.

Time for that confrontation, but later.

***

He was examining the goods salvaged from L'Sauvage, in the hold.

He'd escorted Henriette belowdeck and straight into Elizabeth Turner's care and then started getting a better idea of what they'd taken in salvage. No powder or shot of any kind, of course, but dozens of cutlasses and pistols. They now had several casks of wine, crates of woven linen cloth, a barrel filled with odd beads and trinkets---the type used for bartering---and everything else they could strip from the wrecked ship. This consisted of odds and ends, such as a few small casks of spices and semi-precious stones. Not too bad a haul, if not as rich as he�d promised the men.

Because of his proximity, on the other end of the main hold, he was able to hear Her Nibs talking with Anamaria's daughter. The two women stood among the hammocks, but to the back, near the 'Captain's Stock' cabinet. Elizabeth was hanging a sailcloth hammock as what had been recently repaired and was explaining that perhaps Henriette might like a wash-up, some clean water to drink, food to eat, and some time to sleep.

Henriette was having none of it. "Is there any rum?"

He smiled offhandedly to himself at the sound of Elizabeth dithering at the idea. "I'm sure, but you are much too young to---"

"Listen carefully, lady." Snick, a bladed weapon was drawn. "I need rum and a corner of the deck. That's all. Tell Captain Barbossa I'll be wanting a word with him about compensation for the loss of me ship, as soon as he can find breath enough to step down from the quarterdeck. Aye?"

"Put that away." Her Nibs said in a tone of pure ice. "Your ship was wrecked, we had no choice but to scuttle it and bring you along. The polite---no, the intelligent---thing would be to accept our hospitality and ask if there's something you might do, to help on deck. After you've had a wash and some food."

"Hang your wash and choke on your food." The mulatto lass growled in a less than friendly way. The blade hadn't been stowed, yet. "I want some grog, if it's to be found, and the answer to a very easy question, if you've the mind to answer at all. Where does Jack Sparrow sleep?"

He perked up at that, almost giving away his position behind the casks and crates. What could she possibly want to know of his sleeping spot? Did she mean to slit his throat while he was resting? He was beginning to suspect she might be avidly capable of it.

"He sleeps on the forecastle or the prow's galley. What a...lovely cat. What's his name?" Elizabeth Turner had melted only enough to suggest that she might turn truly spiteful with a blink of her brown eyes.

"Her name---not as it's your business, lady, but I've been asked to be civil to you---is Madame Sullivan. She'll mouse here now." Henriette went back to her original question. "Can I have me grog, now? I'll do me wash-up and eat once I've seen the back of you." Not exactly the most genteel request for privacy he'd ever heard.

Elizabeth made the excuse that she had to get the rum locker key from Gibbs and fled.

Jack stifled a snicker. The bladed weapon made a short, susurrating noise; a knife, he imagined, from the sound of it. He decided to go ondeck and join his fellow captain in discussing the matter with Mrs Turner, for he knew that she wasn�t really going to speak with Gibbs---and having made the choice---went up the other set of stairs, out of Henriette's sight.

He suspected what she might do, if given a chance. She'd held a grudge most of her life against her mum and against Barbossa---her mum for abandoning her to Tia Dalma from the day of her birth, Hector for crimes against him. With the lass on board his ship again, he imagined he might need to find her a proper job---to keep her from trouble. She was a hard one and would expect to work for her food and grog. Working, she might belay any traitorous ideas festering in that brain of hers. What was the old saying? Idle hands and all...?

He'd need to have her sign Articles. Before too long.

But, to do that, he'd probably have to argue with Hector.

On the quarterdeck, he clapped both hands to the aft rail, on the stern, and watched the disappearing atolls and the black smoke that rose from the now-unseen wreck. Directly behind him, at the helm, Barbossa and Elizabeth talked. His old matelot seemed still surly and hostile.

Hector's voice was brusque. "How be our missy, then?"

"Suffering from shock and exhaustion, I believe. I gave her fresh water to drink, but she's demanding rum or grog. She's upset that we burned her ship---I did try explaining to the poor thing that her ship was sinking on its own. She's declared that she'll be expecting compensation from you for the loss." Her Nibs sounded honestly bewildered.

Jack looked over his shoulder at them, speculatively, considering the day's events and what it might mean to the ship and the crew. Barbossa was practically dandified; he hadn't seen anything like it in fourteen years. Elizabeth looked tired and worn---the circles under her eyes were almost as deep as the ones under Henriette's. He knew she was still grieving; she didn't need to be working among the crew, but he suspected she did it to keep her mind off the matter of Captain Will Turner. Who was probably ferrying the seabound dead today. He privately wondered if it was an easier duty than the one which seemed to have fallen on him in only the last few hours.

"Aye, well, she's welcome to demand all she likes." Barbossa quirked a sour smile, visible as the other pirate shifted to look down at Elizabeth. "Doesn't mean she'll be gettin' anythin' from me."

Elizabeth put both hands on her hips, a sign that she was might loose a blistering commentary on Barbossa's none-too-sensitive ears. But, all that came was a complaint which sounded almost maternal. "She'll survive, if I can get her to drink water and leave the grog alone."

"Why deny her th' grog?" Hector sounded mystified, turning away to look out over the ship and the sea once again. "She's a sailor an' a pirate, th' same as any other man aboard me ship."

Her Nibs tucked a loose strand of golden blonde hair, lank with dried sweat, up behind one ear as she protested against it. "You don't give a child grog, Captain."

Jack rolled his eyes, tapping his fingers on the railing, and silently answered 'My ship, you thieving scallywag. Children don't try to kill you for boarding their ship or call themselves Captain De la Hoya.'

Outloud, however, Barbossa answered for him. "Missy's not a sprog, Mrs Turner. She's been sailing since she was naught but a tadpole, if Jack's to be believed---not that I would. Give our young miss her grog an' let her be."

Elizabeth left the quarterdeck, most likely to find Gibbs and obey the order. He suspected she'd water down the grog even more than it was, already. At the very least, though, Henriette would get the water and lime she needed to go with her hunk of bread and whatever other foodstuffs could be found.

He took his moment. Eyes on the sea behind the ship, he spoke up. "I wouldn't call her missy, Hector. Lass was captain of that ship for nigh on three years. She stopped a mutiny by killing the mutineers after they murdered the captain she signed on with, then forced the crew to follow her command. Quite impressive, to my mind, but no more than I'd expect from the likes of her."

It hung, unspoken, in the air behind him---between them.

They both knew why he thought so.

"Not much o' a crew, then." Barbossa laughed outright. "If they were worth their salt, miss wouldn't be th' only survivor."

Jack considered it and then turned fully around, swaggering to the helm. He laid a hand on the wheel, ignoring the evil glance it earned him from his matelot. "I do believe we should be having a private word about it, mate. Shall we retire with a bottle and discuss it to our merry hearts' content?"

With a flickering discontent that slid away as quickly as it had shown itself on the surface, Barbossa silently studied him with thinned mouth and narrowed eyes. Then, the other pirate gave a short nod and called for Master Cotton to take the helm and keep them on course. Jack took his time, following Hector down from the quarterdeck and to the captain's cabin.

There, on opposite sides of the table, with a bottle and two cups between them, they sat down to talk. Barbossa removed his hat, laying it aside. He followed suit. Long silence fell as they drank two claps of thunder apiece---it was companionable enough and that unnerved him. It was almost as if no time at all had passed and they were still partners and friends---even lovers---coming to the cabin to discuss matters out of the hearing of their crew. Their crew. And as he swallowed rum---undiluted and strongly spiced---he worked to ignore the direction his thoughts diverged as he watched Hector's mouth at the cup's lip.

It was difficult. He found himself remembering it, too well. He couldn't quite shake the phantoms of sensation---the remembered feel of Hector's hands on him, that touch like clothing the only raiment he'd dreamed of. Swinging his booted feet up onto the table's edge, Jack bit his lower lip hard until he tasted salty blood. His mouth stung now with the burn of the rum.

At last, Hector broke the silence. "What is it ye be wantin' to say, Jack?"

He examined his hands for a moment and then nonchalantly answered. "What do you think we should do with her? I'm of a mind to offer her terms on Articles and put the lass to work. I'm not thinking of Jamaica, Hector. T'would be cruel to make a landlubber of her, even if she might be convinced to stay on dry land...and she'll have naught to do with Anamaria." He refilled his cup and lifted it to his mouth, continuing as Hector watched him from under hooded eyes. "I took her to sail, t�is true, and she's a brave one. She won't work as cabin boy, but mayhaps bo'sun's mate? She's a rare hand with the weapons."

At the mention of weapons, Barbossa's mouth lifted in a nasty smile. His voice was rough. "Aye, I saw. Articles, ye say? I was thinkin' o' th' same."

He found himself stunned at the idea. Was the mutinous bastard agreeing with him without an argument? The world felt unusual and off-balance, as if he'd suddenly stepped onto dry land after being at sea for a straight six-month. It brought him back to his original thoughts and questions.

Holding the cup close to his cheek, he asked it softly. "Why did Tia Dalma send you after that ship? Was Henriette the treasure you were supposed to look for, Barbossa? What's she got to do with you, besides the obvious?"

Hector went on smiling nastily at him over the rim of his own cup. His words were maddeningly smug. "Patience, Jack...she's th' key to keepin' Calypso's good will. If'n she sails on me ship, I'll ne'r lack for good fortune. Young missy's th' only livin' thin' Calypso e'er loved. Closest thin' the goddess of the sea e�er had to family, as I understan' it."

Nearly losing his grip on the cup of rum he held, Jack gulped at it and shook his head, understanding only too well. "You always did know which side your bread was buttered on, mate. What I don't understand is---you didn't want to sail for the treasure Tia told you about. I insisted and then made the men believe in it. The crew's going to talk, Hector---another mouth to feed and no treasure to speak of. Bad luck, some might say."

Across the table, his old matelot offered to refill his cup again. He held it out, never taking his eyes off the man who had started haunting his dreams in the old ways, again. Hector was still smiling, but now the expression had become one of solemn bemusement. "Aye, Jack...I had to make ye think I wouldn't go for th' treasure. Ye've a way o' convincin' these dogs to do anythin'. Wi' ye insistin', ye convinced yerself, an' wi' ye talkin' th' matter up all around, I knew ye'd make the men agree. Now, it'll be yer job to keep them believin'. Unless ye want another mutiny...?"

Oh, it was like that, eh?

Jack grumbled under his breath, settling deeper into the chair as he sipped at the warm, spiced rum. "Bloody buggerin' blackheart, you are. Don't talk mutiny to me---your bleeding treasure's a lass vicious enough to do us the favor of cutting both our throats as we sleep. But, she hates you and not me. One sweet word from ol' Jack---her loving uncle---and you'll be dead before you know you've been gutted."

It was slow to spread, the smile on Hector's face...but, as it did, he realized that the other pirate was looking him over like a prime cut of fine Hispaniola beef or a chest full of gold bullion.

"Cozzen our young missy, Jack. We'll be wantin' her to stay on. While yer at it, cozzen th' crew. Ye don't want another mutiny, aye?" Barbossa drained his cup and stood, picking up his large, feathered hat. "She can sign Articles on th' morrow as rigger. Master Pintel is bo'sun, Mister Ragetti's bo'sun's mate. But, I'm sure wee Marty'll be glad to have her for th' riggin'. Just like her mother, aye?"

Alone, Jack cursed under his breath.

He was still sitting there, in the cabin, an hour later.

The sun was sinking; he lit the lanterns and continued to drink. He pondered Henriette. He pondered Anamaria. He pondered Tia Dalma. And then muttered prevarications against all three women. He pondered on Elizabeth Turner. Then, he turned his mind to Barbossa's words. He would have to make the men believe that Henriette was their good luck piece, somehow. How could he play that to his advantage?

At last, he let his mind turn to Barbossa, entirely.

What was the other man up to? The look he'd received, there at the last, had made his blood run hot and cold at the same time. If only he could understand the reasons behind it. What was Barbossa playing at? It was likely a ploy for control...

There came a knock on the door. He ignored it.

The door opened a crack and Elizabeth slipped through, entering the cabin.

He was drinking straight from the bottle, by this time.

She came to stand before him, laying her hands on the chair that Hector had been sitting in. Her brown eyes were on his face and he knew it; he chose to pretend he didn't want to see her. She was a sight, in her breeches and loose shirt with her hair braided back and tucked from sight under the scarf she'd taken to wearing. He felt a desire to tell her she needed to sleep more, but he knew that the grief she felt wouldn't be easily assuaged. No point to telling the young woman anything, now. She'd lost all the menfolk in her life. She would square it in her mind, some day.

It was irritating to know that she held so much power. She did inspire a bit of awe, though.

After she said nothing for a good long while, Jack heaved a sigh, setting the bottle on the table once more. "If'n you're going to talk, Lizzie, you'd best sit. If not, I'm sure there's something somewhere as what needs doing. Ondeck. Where I'm not forced to see."

She took it as a proper invitation and sat, pulling the bottle to herself. After a deep swallow, she began. "Jack...if I knew how to talk with Henriette, I could help her get through the shock of being lost at sea alone. But, she and I...well, we're not the same sort of woman at all."

Jack chuckled sourly and rubbed at his kohl-lined eyes. "True enough, love. She's a pirate, born and bred. You, on the other hand, are a madwoman as what pretends to be a pirate."

"I'm a pirate. You've said so yourself." Elizabeth's chin lifted with some defiance.

"Aye." He admitted. "And a real pirate would know that if another pirate prefers to keep his or her own council, that would be a good time to be finding other matters to meddle in. Henriette is like her mum, you'll not make a bosom friend of her, I wager."

The half-angry expression in her brown eyes faded as she stared at him with something like surprise. She whispered, as if it must be kept a secret. "You knew her mother. Who is she, Jack? Is she yours?"

It startled him, the thought of that. He'd wondered the same thing, for a few years.

"Tell me the truth, Jack---is she your daughter? Who's her mother?"

Jack let his head roll on his shoulders, against the chair's hard wooden back. Searching the ceiling for inspiration, he decided Elizabeth might benefit from knowing the truth. At the very least, she'd likely use it to his good purposes at an opportune moment, with Hector. "That's the child of Anamaria De la Hoya. Tia Dalma raised her, love, and, no, she's not my get. The ol' monster hisself is responsible for that grand example of blossoming womanhood."

Above his head, on the quarterdeck, he could hear Barbossa shout out to one of the men.

Elizabeth's voice went up and became a little shrill with horror and dismay. "Do you mean to tell me that Davy Jones was her father?!"

Jack didn't look away from the rough wooden beams above him. He gave a weak, soft smile as he confessed. "No, Lizzie---not that ol' monster, the other. The other ol' monster." He pointed up, as if aiming at the quarterdeck.

The newly wed Mrs Turner followed the line of his finger and she jumped when Barbossa roared another order, this time at Pintel. She looked absolutely horrified. "You can't be serious, Jack!"

He felt weary and in need of rest. But, it seemed as if Barbossa intended to take his watch. He would need to get up and go to the wheel soon or fall asleep where he sat---it was his cabin, but in desiring a measure of peace on his vessel, he hadn't made a strong habit of arguing that point with Hector too often. His chance would come, soon enough. He just had to wait for it.

Rubbing a dirty hand down over his face, tipsily, Jack answered the incredulous charge. "Aye, Lizzie, as serious as death. As serious as the grave. Once, the ol' monster wasn't a monster at all. He was just a pirate...and a good man."
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Whispers of Redemption