Adult-FanFiction.org : Movies

Betwixt Hammer & Frizzen	By : GeorgieFain Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 2032 -:- 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
Any Port in a Storm

Day Six.

"And then I said 'Now, take off that bloody awful wig before it starts humpin' me crew'." The winds were already blowing hard and the rain was lashing at the boats, but things were not so fierce yet as to stop him from telling the story of what happened when he took the ex-Commodore Norrington on as a deckhand. "You shoulda seen 'em, mate. Lizzie, got up like a swab, looking all solemn and fierce, telling me as how she's come to find Will Turner and what's she got at her back but ol' Norry hisself, looking like the south end of a north-bound pig who had gotten quite a bit to drink---the man could hold his rum, I'll give him that. I found it all quite humorous, honestly. But, to look at them, youa thought they were the absolute bestest of friends. Even after she's dropped him for Will, aye? Even after he's lost everything and turned to slopping about in Tortuga. Bestest of friends." Jack cocked his head to the side and grinned broadly at the other pirate, his own matelot. "Much like us, aye?"

"Jack---" His lover muttered, barely audible over the returning storm. "Shut yer howler!"

Hector's bearded face was bowed low against the winds that kept sweeping up around them from behind---slapping into the sail on both sides. The water that slammed up over the edge of the two long-boats was fair to sink them, if something wasn't done. And his fellow captain was surely doing something. With a wooden bucket---from his own boat---Hector was bailing steadily, back and forth, up and down, never stopping to comment or complain. With teeth set against the cold wind and rain and holding up remarkably, mostly naked as he was.

He, himself, was holding down the rudder and controlling the sail, in the hopes that the wind would keep driving them in a steady direction. A direction that matched his compass readings, anyway.

A sudden noise made him whip his head about to look at the other long-boat. Crack! Crack-crack-snap! Pop! He had to squint harder to find the source of that terrible sound. But, there it was---the ropes holding the two boats together were coming loose---snapping and unraveling under the strain. Letting go of the rudder and the sail, Jack dropped to his knees in the boat's bottom---no need to worry about getting wet, he was already in that state---and began checking the damage. The wood and the mooring hooks were breaking free. It wasn't just the ropes. And the way it looked, his long-boat was going to be taking the brunt of that breakage.

Well, that left only one option.

Hustling, he began tossing his own things into the other boat. He shouted, as he went. "Bunch over, mate! Untie the mast and sail---we've just the one, now! This one's going down!"

Hector went to work quickly, dropping the wee bucket.

Soon, everything that was in his boat was in Hector's boat, including blankets and sails and oars. Just before the last ropes snapped loose, Jack slithered over the side and bumped into the bottom of the second long-boat, barely catching his hat before it went whipping away into the wind. With one hand firmly clamped to his head, he huddled at Hector's feet and took stock of what they'd salvaged. Everything was there---

Stashing his hat in one of the crates, Jack picked up the bucket and began bailing, taking a turn. As he did, he watched with trepidation and regret as the other long-boat began to break up, cracking right along the mooring ring's screw. The wind was howling louder than before, shifting them about crazily on the waves---up and down ferociously they were driven onward in the dark. And when he did manage to glance around at his matelot, Hector's face was pale under the crack of lightening---revealed to be a study in anger and determination with set jaw and slitted eyes and long, wet hair that flagged in every which direction.

It seemed like an eternity that he bailed, shifting things about in the bottom of the boat. At last, he gave up and crawled along the length of the boat, dragging his oil-cloth blanket with him. Hector was no longer sitting on one of the benches and he took that as an advantage---fighting with the wind, Jack slung the blanket about their bodies and dared to get closer under its sheltering cloth. It wasn't dry---not in this storm, it couldn't be---but, it was enough. After a while, Hector's body began to warm---nearly naked and wearing naught but the long purplish-red silk sash---and Jack felt himself beginning to calm, despite the wild storm that raged and threatened to drown them both.

There was only one bottle of rum left, to his knowledge. Reaching a hand out, he dug through the sacks and crates and loose sail-cloth for it. Snagging the bottle, he brought it in under the oil-cloth. His be-ringed fingers didn't want to work and he had to struggle to get the cork out. After a drink, he handed it to Hector, who melted a bit toward him. They stayed quiet, sharing the bottle back and forth, almost snuggling under the blanket's faint warmth---not much, but enough.

But, then, in passing him the bottle one time, Hector brushed against his hip and drew back in hissing surprise. Jack said nothing, only took a drink of the rum and rearranging his spine and shoulders at the bench they leaned on. After a few moments of staring at him through the dark and blinding rain, his matelot leaned close and spoke, almost a shout in the screaming wind.

"Lad, d'ye not think it a wee bit odd that yer sportin' a cockstand right this moment?"

He quirked a smile and shrugged, tipping the bottle once more. "Any port, aye?"

That caused Hector to laugh.

But, then, his lover scooted a bit closer and wrapped the oil-cloth against their bodies in a new way that allowed for some movement. A cool, slick hand descended and unbuttoned his breeches under the blanket and he gave in to lay his soaked face and hair against Hector's naked shoulder, turning enough to allow their closeness to form a hollow of warmth. He closed his eyes and all he could smell was Hector's musky flesh, salt-water, and rum and he could ignore the terrible moaning, shrieking winds and bitter, stinging rain. His matelot's beard prickled, tickling at him, but he could only whimper when those strong, deft fingers found his hardness and lifted it free of his placket.

When he came, he bit off a shout and shook hard and felt as if he might fly apart at the seams. Hector pushed through the long strands of his dreadlocks and kissed his cheekbone and then his ear, whispering. "That's right, Jack me lad..."

After, when they were quiet in the storm for a long while, he came back to himself and realized that Barbossa's hand was still on him, slick with spunk. He managed to speak, almost choking as he struggled to be heard. "D'ye know, I get one at every storm?"

***

Day Seven, Sunrise.

Betwixt them, they had split the crews for the Odysseus and the Black Pearl. Half the Pearl's crew was with her on the Odysseus and half of the Odysseus' crew was aboard the Pearl, serving momentarily under the bo'sun, Pintel. She had left Pintel and Ragetti manning the helm with Cotton on the Black Pearl while she had chosen to move into the much-smaller cabin of her new corvette. She had, of course, brought a large part of her surgery along and installed it in the smallest hold under the prow of the sloop's narrow hull without so much as an explanation to Charles Norrington. As of yet, he only knew it was a surgery, but had not been introduced to its physiker.

In doing so, she had moved Charles Norrington's affects to the hold directly beneath the cabin. It was a move of generosity on her part, to not make him bunk among the crew in the berths next to her surgery, and she did not intrude on his private space. He did not, of course, seem to see it as a generosity and she wondered if perhaps he was unaware of how terrible it really could be.

At the helm in the hour before dawn as the two ships sailed side by side down the last stretch of hilly coastline, Henriette gave it much thought as she smoked a cigarillo and watched the horizon. Perhaps what she ought to do is have the Pearl's 'borrowed' men tell a few stories of how badly it might go, if she were anyone else. Hector Barbossa, for example.

Her chest and shoulder was slowly feeling better with just liberal applications of willow and vinegar, both imbibed and as a paste. She could now wear her shirt and coat properly and had washed well, if a bit sorely, before taking the wheel from its helmsman this morn. There would be a nasty scar, of course, but that was acceptable in exchange for having survived something which by rights should have killed her dead. And that was something she hadn't stopped long enough to consider, rightly. She had shot Charles Norrington in the chest---at apparently very near the same spot. Neither of them were dead.

Both crews had sustained damage; from what she had figured, counting heads, she'd lost a third of the Pearl's crew and Charles had lost a full forth. Considering the damage to the crews and the ships, she could still think of it as a success. Especially with a ship, a business, and a partner in her favor.

Jack would be proud, she knew, when he did find out the extent of her pillaging.

As she stood at the helm, her booted feet spread to experience every swell as the waters of the sea rose up and fell back under the onslaught of her bonny wee sloop, there came a movement directly ahead on the forecastle that dragged her attention from the horizon. Up from the forecastle holds came her first mate, ready to face the dawn. The golden sun was peaking the silvery knife's edge of the blue sea, off to their port side, just beyond the Pearl's black hull. She timed her adjustment for the appearance of Charles Norrington and now pulled the wheel over-handed two pegs, knowing that the Pearl's helmsman would make his own adjustments. Now, they would leave the coast of Hispaniola and go directly south for Porto Rico and the first stop for whiskey-running.

She flicked ashes from her cigarillo in the general direction of the rail and stuck the rolled tobacco back between her teeth, humming deep in her throat as Charles came up the deck to her, fixing his cuffs as he did. He was clean-shaven and pin-neat and smelled of some spicy oil---mayhap bayberry---and she did see as how he had managed to put his left arm through both shirt and coat sleeve, just the same. It did remind her of his injury and how it might need checking. But, she wasn�t feeling generous enough to be the one doing that duty for him. She would instruct another crewmember to it.

When he reached the helm, he shifted around to stand at parade rest, nearly shoulder to shoulder with her. Except that his shoulder was much higher than hers, it would have been a compliment. As it was, she knew he was privately insulting her with the difference in their heights; a reminder that he was male, taller and stronger.

With her pale eyes back on the horizon and the sea, she took the cigarillo from her teeth and spoke in a conversational tone. "D'ye know, Charlie, how me mum's people---very beloved of Calypso Herself---did become so adept at sailing long before the Spanish came to our shores?"

A flicking glance sideways showed that his gaze was also on the horizon, but that he had tensed up at the mention of her mother's blood. He straightened his shoulders and answered, his strong voice a little hoarse with the early morning air. "No, Captain, I believe I've never been told any such folk stories of these islands."

Keeping her face perfectly solemn as she took a dragging puff off the fragrant, rum-soaked cigarillo, she explained. "Me people once spent so much time at sea, listening to her ways, that a sailor could feel oncoming storms, the tides, and even the sea's depths as the shift came up through the feet and legs and into the loins. Our men navigate by their ballocks."

She saw the way his whole body went motionless, as if he was listening to something beyond her ken. Except that she knew what he was doing. He was trying to see if he, too, could feel something with that particular organ. She wanted to fall out laughing on the deck. She tipped her head around to look up at her first mate as he flushed---noticing her attention was on him, now. With the cigarillo between two fingers on the wheel, she teased. "Feel anything there yet, Charlie?"

He forcibly lifted his chin and went back to watching the sea, adjusting his stance once again. He was now on edge, practically vibrating with irritation. It showed in his rough-edged voice as he responded. "No, Captain De la Hoya, I do not. I find it unnecessary to use such primitive methods of navigation. A proper sailor is well trained to the sextant and the staff and charts."

She just grinned to herself, preparing to turn the helm over to him for a bit. Putting the cigarillo between her teeth, she nodded at the wheel. "Hold her, Charlie boy. I'll be in the head. Then, I'll see about some coffee for us both."

As she started for the steps that headed down under the quarterdeck and into the stern of the corvette, her first mate spoke again. "Captain?"

Henriette turned on her heels, coat tails swishing. "Aye?"

With a few strands of pin-neat dark brown hair falling out of place at his brow, his green eyes were full of some sly danger as he quirked a strange smile. His large hands were quite steady on the wheel. "If that's how the men of your people do feel the shift in the winds and the sea...what of the women? How do you recognize the changing of weather and tides?"

With a last puff at the cigarillo, she took it from her mouth and licked at the curve of her lower lip before rolling her shoulders, pulling off the hat she wore. The move of her chest muscles hurt---hurt like the devil hisself---but she made the most of that pain by letting her whole body roll from shoulders to booted feet. As if she was part of the ship. "Charlie, love...I'm part of the sea herself, as all women be. The tides run in me veins and the winds, too. T'is the only real mum I ever knew, the sea. Don't be needing ballocks to know me own heart. I've got other bits that do tell me the right of it."

Her first mate's expression went broad and surprised; his face did redden.

Laughing, Henriette retreated down into the darkened hold.

***

Landfall.

They came to landfall just after the sun rose like some Chinese mandarin's golden toy. To the port side of the long-boat was a village---if the small boats and nets were any indication, its main life came from fishing---and to the starboard side was a broad swathe of jungle-like forest. After they had properly packed their possessions into sail-cloth, to be carried on their backs, they were forced into battle by four men who came at them from the fishing village, rusty swords and scythes swinging.

Apparently, their appearance was enough to warrant attack.

Jack dropped his own sail-cloth pack and pulled his pistol---and then remembered that the powder was probably still wet. He turned it around and used the butt-end of the flintlock to hit one of their attackers---a ragged man who had less teeth than most pirates he had known. It gave him the advantage long enough to wrestle his sword free of its sheath and use it to drive back another, screaming man. A glance to the side made him turn almost completely around as he found that his matelot was completely naked---the sash had fallen off---and using both their good oars to beat a man to death while growling like a man possessed by demons.

He lost track of what he was doing as he watched.

Hector cleaned up the last of the four with a cutlass he took from the fallen.

"What are ye doing, Jack?" Hector snarled at him, pushing up close---stepping over a dead man to reach his side. "Ye great lummox---they meant to kill us! Ye don't stand about an' wait for it!"

Jack blinked a bit and then sighed, smiling as he pointed downward with his pistol. "Ye might want to be putting that away, mate. T'is a bit of a distraction."

His lover only snarled again and went about, searching their dead attackers for clothing that were fairly decent and clean enough. It was hard-going, as all four of the men were filthy and disgusting. As it was, Hector jerked a pair of breeches and a shirt free of one man and a pair of boots as seemed to mayhap fit from another. Carrying the bundle of them under one arm and his pack under another, cutlass in one great fist, Hector took off down the beach toward the jungle-like growth. Slowly putting his hat on, Jack stared after him in surprise, admiring the sight---his matelot's long hair was completely loose now and hanging down that strong, broad back like the mane of a wild animal.

"Are ye comin' or not?" Hector shouted back.

Sheathing his sword and checking his pistol, Jack tucked in the key at the front of his shirt, picked up his sail-cloth bundle and followed, smiling to himself at the idea that he was with his matelot, in possession of both his compass and charts, was wearing a key that would open anything at all, and that they were very likely in the very location they'd been seeking---the place to find the Fountain of Youth.

As he walked along, he pulled out his compass and checked it. Aye. The needle swung to the north and west and stopped dead. The prize was closer than he'd supposed. But, a glance told him that the path lay into the jungle forest.

And he was nowhere close to the tip of Cuba.

Into the jungle he followed Hector. But, only a dozen steps in, his lover stopped and dropped everything. Going to the water's edge, sliding into the sandy mud that sloughed off into the foamy drift, the other pirate began scrubbing at the nasty clothes he'd stolen from the dead body back by the boat. Without soap, it was hard going, but the briny water did take most of the nasty smell out. Jack stood motionless, watching. Hector's red, furry ballocks danced between his haunches with each scrubbing movement.

Already, the sun was starting to dry his clothes out and he scratched at himself, keeping silent as his fellow captain struggled into the wet breeches and shirt. Finished, Hector tore a bitty strip off the bottommost edge of the shirt he now wore and used it to braid back and tie his long graying, gingery hair. A moment or two more, the boots were on and Hector stomped about in them, to make sure they fit properly.

"Ready?" He nodded off at the jungle where they stood.

"For what?" Hector scowled at him, beard even more scraggly than usual from being rubbed at with salt-water. "Where d'ye mean to go, then? We've nay idea o' where we are, Jack Sparrow."

"I do." Jack said, half-defensively and half-teasing. "The charts shows that the Fountain of Youth is either on the coast of Florida or on Nassau. From my best guess, we're on Nassau and...my compass says that what we're seeking is thataway. Savvy?" He lifted his hand and pointed to the left, into the densest undergrowth. "Since we're here and not on the tip of Cuba, as I did mean to be, we might as well go get our prize and then look for a ship to get us the hell off this island."

His lover looked hard at him and then at the green thickets. Then, rolled his eyes. "Me head hurts an' ye want to go seekin' treasure. Be that yer plan?"

"Come on, mate." He grinned cockily, shifting from one foot to the other. "We're here already. Why waste the chance, eh?"

Hector gave a heavy sigh of his own and nodded, defeated. "Aye."
- 7
- 8
- 9
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Betwixt Hammer & Frizzen