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Bittersweet Homecomings	By : JennyPugh Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 3442 -:- 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
- 7
- 8
- 9
Usual
disclaimers

Thanks to A Depp
Girl, Roxula’s Bride, Ally Eileen, SectorLutter, darigan-sparrow,
beatlechicksteph, RandomGal, SummerRain and opi666. Come on you affnet-er’s,
you’re letting the side down.

This chapter is
for Hilary – she knows why…

…

Chapter
eight: ‘Nah mate, I’m a pirate of the Caribbean.’

Jenny curled up,
hugging her broken body for comfort. Day after day, night after night he had
abused her and battered her, slowly breaking down her spirit and she was not
sure how much longer she could hold on. She crawled across the floor to the bed
and felt underneath for the leather lace, crying as she fingered the beads and
heart, aching for the warmth of Jack’s touch. But she would never feel him
again, she knew that now. Never see his face or make love or laugh with him.
Jenny scurried away from the bed as she heard voices approach and glared at the
maids who came to clean the room. As far as she was concerned, everyone in the
house was an enemy and she fantasised about killing them all one by one,
leaving Roger until last. She had a very nasty and slow death in mind for him.
But in reality, it was herself she was seriously considering killing for she
saw no way out of her situation, no escape from the torture. She had hoped one
of her brothers would visit and see what was happening to her and take her
away, but no one came.

… … … …

The Black
Pearl dropped anchor in the small bay at Kinsale, a short distance around
the coast from Cork some five weeks after leaving San Juan. Jack had been all
for going to the more neutral Holland or Belguim until Ben Watson approached
him, suggesting that it would be quicker to reach Worcestershire from Bristol
than London. The captain of The Pearl had been surprised to learn one of
his crew had worked as a coachman before turning to bad ways.
‘Cotton, my
cabin,’ he called, ducking as the man’s macaw swooped in a race to beat him
down the steps. ‘Bloody bird,’ he cursed, shaking a fist at it.
He sat in his
chair and looked pensively as Ned Cotton fetched a razor from a small trunk he
carried his tools in then fetch the pitcher of water from the side cabin
and damped down
Jack’s beard before leaning over, grinning at his captain’s discomfort.

…

The crew tried
hard not to gawp, but it was extremely difficult. Jack squirmed beneath their
scrutiny, feeling naked without his beard and with his hair chopped to barely
shoulder length, bereft of its ornaments. Joshamee Gibbs had dug out from the
hold a pair of buckled knee breeches with stockings underneath, a good quality
linen shirt and a knee length heavy coat. But Jack had insisted on wearing his
boots. He knew there would be a lot of walking once he got to England and he
wanted comfort. He took a lingering look around the deck of his ship, then
picked up his knapsack containing a change of clothes and pouches of coins,
grateful for the plentiful supply of guineas and crowns amongst the stash at
Isla de Muerta, then he climbed over the side of the ship and down the rope to
a waiting boat where John Williams and Pete Symmonds were waiting to row him
around the coast to Cork. The short
journey was made unpleasant by the cold January seas, swelling and lapping
against the boat, sometimes making it over the side and soon the bottom was
sloshing with a few inches of water, making all three men colder than they
could remember, even colder than when they had been in Argentina. Jack sighed, remembering back to happier
times with Jenny but pushed the thoughts from his mind, or at least tried to.
He wanted to focus on just getting to England and once there, on getting to
Droitwich.

…

Pete and John
had stayed with him whilst he found a tavern to stay at until he could get a
passage across the Irish Sea. They left with his orders still ringing in their
ears. ‘Stay out of trouble. Don’t
hit anything unless you think it’s going to hit you and come back to Kinsale
every Friday, savvy?’

Jack sat by the
bar, keeping a watchful eye on the patrons but no-one seemed to notice him and
he relaxed a little more as he drank a tot of whiskey, grimacing at the taste
but downing it nonetheless. He motioned to the bar-keep and held out his
beaker. ‘I don’t suppose you know if there is a ship going to Bristol do you?’
he enquired, nodding his thanks as the man brought him another drink over.

‘Aye Sir, there’s
always trade making fer Brissol. Some o’the navy ships will take ye to
Portsmouth too if that’s where yer be heading.’

Jack blanched
and nearly choked on his drink, shaking his head vigorously. ‘No, no, no.
Bristol will do me just fine,’ he assured, smiling a charming smile but
managing to keep his gold teeth under wraps.

‘I will find out
fer ye an’ let ye know later, how about that?’

‘That would be
most appreciated.’ Jack smiled once more and brought the man a drink, letting
his mind wander as he droned on and on, delighting in a patron that he could
chat to.

…

Jack sailed for
Bristol two days later aboard a large fishing boat, taking Conger eels, Dabs
and Whiting across to England. He had been grateful that there was only a small
naval presence at the English run town and he had managed to avoid trouble
easily with the pretence of being a well-educated gentleman of limited means.

…

‘Land ho!’

Jack looked up
wistfully at the call, missing his ship already. He made his way to the deck
and leaned on the rail, watching as the country of his birth grew ever closer.
Jack was no stranger to Bristol. It had been where Bill Turner settled down
with his wife, Kathrin, and where Will was born. A place in happier times he
had done good business. But business was the last thing on his mind. After
asking directions a few times, Jack found himself on the road to Worcester and
the start of his long trek.

…

Just after dawn
on the third day, and after stealing some food and milk from a farm, something
which made Jack laugh to himself for it had been that very accusation that had
led to him taking to the sea in the first place, he pricked his ears up and
inched his hand to the hilt of his short sword, slowly easing it from the
sheath. In a flash he spun on his heel and knocked away the dagger his
assailant had been holding and thrust his blade forward, pressing the tip
against the man’s throat.

‘It ain’t a good
idea ter cross me,’ he drawled, moving forward as his attacker moved back, his
hands raised above his head.

‘I’m sorry,’
came a broad Irish brogue. ‘Have a mercy on me, would ye please?’ He peered
closely at the strange looking man and then at his sword, noting that it looked
well used.

‘An’ why would I
want ter do that? Ya tried ter rob me.’ Jack narrowed his eyes and looked the
younger man up and down, taking in the dirty clothes and threadbare coat.

‘Aye, well by
th’look o’ye, yer know all abouts robbin’ folk.’

He quirked an
eyebrow at the young Irishman and frowned. ‘What makes ya think I rob people?’

‘It takes one
ter know one,’ came the reply, which had Jack stumped.

‘So ya think I’m
a footpad, eh? Well I’m not, I’m something much worse than that.’

‘Not a
magistrate?’ His eyes widened in horror which made Jack laugh in spite of
himself.

‘Nah mate, I’m a
pirate of the Caribbean.’

It was the young
man’s turn to laugh which was not the reaction Jack was expecting and he jabbed
the sword a little harder against his throat. ‘S-sorry,’ he gulped, raising his
hands a little higher into the air. ‘What are ye doin’ in the back of beyond?’

‘Matters of a
personal nature and you are wastin’ me time.’ He lowered the sword and picked
up the dagger which the Irishman had threatened him with, pushing it into his
belt, then went on his way, leaving the younger man standing by the wayside
staring after him before following him down the lane.

‘So where is it
ye be goin?’ He fell into step beside the so-called pirate and shoved his hands
in his pockets in the chill morning air.

‘None o’yer
business, now sod off.’

‘Well can I have
me blade back. It’s the best one I’ve had in a long time.’

Jack stopped and
looked at him before fishing the dagger from his belt. ‘Now will ya
leave me in peace?’

‘If ye tell me
where ye be goin’ I can perhaps tell ye a shortcut there.’

The older man
sighed with exasperation, rolling his eyes for good measure. ‘Worcester, well a
town just outside Worcester. There, ya happy now?’

‘Ah well, ye be
on the right track then. It’s been a while since I was around that way, they
may have forgotten me face by now. I think I’ll be joinin’ ye.’

‘I don’t bloody
think so,’ came the reply and Jack glared at him, wondering whether to draw his
sword once more.

‘But it’s safer
travelling in pairs, especially at night. An’ I promise not ter slit yer throat
while ye sleep.’

‘Son,’ Jack
drawled menecingly. ‘It’s you who wants ter worry about havin’ yer own throat
slit.’

‘Yes well,’ he
shrugged, nonechalantly. ‘Whichever way, we’d still be safer travelling
together.’

‘I don’t need
protecting. Now I really have ter get ter me destination in a hurry an’ you are
holdin’ me up and startin’ ter annoy th’hell out of me.’

‘Shay Connelly,’
he held out his grimy hand, shrugging once more when Jack pointedly ignored it.
‘An’ ye’d be?’

Jack stopped for
a third time, his eyes glinting dangerously and his fingers itching to grab his
sword.

‘Look me friend,
I’ll walk behind if ye prefer, but being as I’m headin’ this way meself…’ he
grinned, trying to find a way of getting the stranger to open up to him.

‘Jack Sparrow,’
he sighed resignedly. ‘Captain Jack Sparrow.’ He started on his way once
more, trying to block out Shay’s continual stream of chatter but not really
suceeding. ‘How come yer in England?’
he asked during a short pause for breath.

‘I was in servatude
in Ireland to an Englishman. He moved back over here, takin’ most o’his servant
wi’him,’ he explained.

‘And…?’

‘Well… I was
caught in the Miss’s bedchamber, even though she had been all ‘Oh Shay, do
come and visit me tonight,’ he mimicked in a falsetto voice. The poor
bastard didn’t know his daughter was the biggest whore in th’whole of
Herefordshire.’ Shay grinned at the memory. ‘I managed ter escape and have been
workin’ the roads ever since.’

‘How far ter
Droitwich?’ Jack enquired, hoping to shake his unwanted, talkative companion
off before he reached it.

‘Droitwich? Ah,
I know a quicker route ter Droitwich.’ The Irishman quickened his pace without
looking to see if he was being followed then cut across a field, finally
looking over his shoulder as he was halfway across. ‘C’mon, we should be there
by nightfall,’ he called to Jack who was trying to catch up.

They went across
many fields and through small hamlets until they came a well used road which
Shay assured would take them straight to the town. Jack hoped he was telling
the truth, but, for all his chatter, he did not appear a liar.

‘There ye go,’
he beamed , spreading his arms wide as a small town appeared in the valley
below them, glowing golden as the setting sun’s rays illuminated the buildings
made from local buff coloured stone.

Jack’s grin
echoed his companion’s and he clasped his hands together and bowed his head.
‘Much obliged ter ya.’

‘What is it ye
be wantin’? Maybe I can help.’

Jack regarded
the young man for long moments as they walked down the hill towards the
village, trying to decide whether to trust a man he had only known a few hours,
although with Shay’s incessant chatter he felt he had known him forever. ‘But,’
he told himself, ‘It never hurts ter have back-up.’ ‘Aye, all right lad,
I’ve come ter get me woman back after her father kidnapped her. He frowned as
Shay snorted and tried not to laugh.

‘An’ there was
me thinkin’ ye really were an fearsome pirate of the Spanish Main,’ he
chortled, his merriment being somewhat tempered by the look in Jack’s eyes.

‘All right,
where d’they live?’

‘I have no
idea,’ Jack frowned, before spying a clergyman tending the small graveyard of
his church on the outskirts of the village. ‘But I know a man who will…’ He
strode over with a charming smile plastered on his face and grasped the hapless
man by the hand, shaking it vigorously. ‘Good evening to you, Sir. I was
wondering if you could give me the directions to Henry Marston’s house. I have
business with him.’

‘I-I… erm,’ the
vicar hesitated before reluctantly pointing out the way, watching as the two
strange men carried on their way, hoping he had done the right thing.

The men climbed
over the waist high wall and hid in some bushes, looking at the large house and
watching the various signs of life moving about inside. One of the maids came
from the back of the house and started walking towards them, much to Jack’s
delight. She gasped and tried to scream as a hand grabbed her into some bushes,
while another hand clamped over her mouth.

‘Don’t worry
young missy, I won’t hurt ya. I just want ter know where Mistress Samuels is?
Now if I take me hand off, ya ain’t goin’ ter scream are ya?’ Jack released his
grip on the girls mouth at her vigorous nod and turned her round to face him,
taking in the wide terror filled eyes and pinched look on her face.

‘S-s-she’s
dead,’ she whispered, giving a small shriek as Jack gripped her arms forceably.

‘Dead?’

…

Come on, you
know you love cliffhangers really…!

…
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Bittersweet Homecomings