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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
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Year Fourteen

Death Over Captivity

He'd known, from the start, that the whole thought of banding pirates together for raids was a badly conceived notion---no matter how effective it might seem, in the planning stages. It took a particularly wily and strong man to call together and then lead such a force. But, he'd been told that Morgan wasn't like other men.

T'was true, it seemed, the stories they'd heard in the taverns of Port Royal and Tortuga after Morgan's return from Portobelo. The difference between Morgan and other ambitious pirate captains was the nature of Henry Morgan's previous employment---he was no sailor, but a soldier. A soldier with a head full of military tactics the like of which only Jack could imagine---Jack, who had spent most of his formative years reading stories of Caesar, Charlemagne, the Crusades, among others.

It was after one of their---his and Hector's and the Victorious'---first raids, done in Havana on the coast of Cuba, that Henry Morgan had sent for their help on a bigger venture. A venture that would put them all in the fat. He was amassing his fleet once more for a bigger prize than Portobelo---a prize that would be more difficult to take. Cartagena.

Pirates together, he believed, were a dangerous idea. Building a flotilla of ships to go after Cartagena was an idea that Jack had never considered worth entertaining. Until Hector answered Morgan's summons to Cow Island, just off Hispaniola. There, the new admiral---with his new frigate flagship, the Oxford---set forth the rules for engagement to his twelve captains---of which Hector was one---and, on the night before they should set sail for the coastline trading center made fortress, things went sour with the powder magazine explosion of said frigate flagship.

He and Hector had opted to leave the party on the Oxford after only a few hours of revelry for time alone in the cabin of the Victorious. Drunk and disorderly, they'd rowed back to the Victorious amidst the singing that came from every ship and had only just managed out of their clothes when the explosion had caused them both to stumble, naked, out onto the deck---ready to do battle, if it was indeed a Spanish raid on the fleet.

It was muttered among certain of the captains who survived the explosion on the Oxford, that perhaps Barbossa and Sparrow had something to do with the disaster, as they'd only just left the ship. But, Morgan wouldn't hear of it---the small man with the fierce and gentlemanly nature seemed to sincerely enjoy their company, claiming that they were the greatest wits he'd had the good fortune to meet as of yet in the Caribbean.

So much for the plan to take Cartagena.

A month later, they were still at Morgan's side, getting desirous of shine and something more than the company of nearly a hundred crewmen for whom they needed to provide food and rum everyday. Rendezvous at Saona Island, at the southeast end of Hispaniola, came only after a series of attacks from the Spanish, who were determined to stop them from gathering supplies on Hispaniola. After fighting the trade winds to get there, to the near-disaster of the Victorious many times, Barbossa's temper had shortened to a nub that even Jack was loathe to test. It was at Saona Island that Morgan, on his new flagship---the fourteen gun frigate Lilly---decided they would set out with the men and ships they could muster---only eight ships and five hundred men.

After a stop at the island of Ruba for supplies, the fleet started for the Gulf of Venezuela, sailing only at night. The gulf was dangerous, with its sandbars and featureless coastline. But, the goal was within sight, then, and Barbossa's moods lightened---made better by the flow of spirits among their men and the cooler sailing. They set anchor at the three islands that lay before the twelve-foot deep channel that led up and into the laguna.

The next morning, they realized several problems. The first being how difficult it was to navigate the shallows between two of the islands---San Carlos and Zapara. The second being the new fort that had been built on the eastern shore of San Carlos---built just since the last time a privateer or pirate took the city of Maracaibo. The fort had eleven guns trained on the channel.

Taking the fort proved to be a long, bloody shooting gallery. But, kicking open the gate, after managing the beach under heavy gunfire from the Spanish, the lot of them discovered that the gate was unlocked and the Spanish fled away to warn the town. It was only by Morgan's quick thinking and sharp nose---made only warier by Barbossa's warning about traps---that the fort's lit magazines were put out before they exploded. Only an inch and a few minutes later and they may have all been killed by a deserted fort.

The best the fort had to offer was more weapons and powder for them. They took it and gladly. The next morning, they set up the channel for Maracaibo...but, twenty miles from the city, they were blocked by a shallow bank of deadly quicksand. The natural defenses were more dangerous than the human ones. Canoes were employed; they rowed into a stiff wind and soon came to the next fort, de la Barra. It was empty. Previous encounters with pirates had made the locals very nervous of more visits from bloody-thirsty raiders the like of L'Ollonais. The Spanish here were inclined to run away in panic before the barbarians, if possible. During all this, Jack spent time learning the local landscape while Hector played the role of an advisor to their admiral, Henry Morgan.

The city of Maracaibo was empty, when they reached it. Disheartening and enough to enrage anyone of a piratical nature. Jack took it in stride. He led a group out into the countryside to look for citizens who might be lurking nearby---and came back with thirty prisoners, who were then questioned with all the ceremonies for information on the missing valuables. Nothing.

Marching to Gibraltar, the same thing was found. No shine, no swag...and no people.

The townspeople were escaping ahead of them, taking everything of worth. Only a few prisoners were found to be questioned---and most died without offering a ransom for their lives. Jack never participated in the torturing---and he saw that Hector only participated in the lesser matters of such---but he did not protest the unnatural, flesh-devastating proclivities of his fellow pirates. Henry Morgan hisself did not sully his hands, being of a kind not naturally vicious or depraved. It was at this time that Jack found himself spending time with the admiral, talking of battles and strategies.

Jack did, however, learn quickly among these rougher men of the Caribbean, that he could not question the ways of the Brethren. No matter how brutal or cruel or unnecessary. To do so was to risk his own death as a weakling or a traitor to the cause.

They spent weeks in Gibraltar, trying to rake together something worth anything, including a number of ships which were capable of slipping down the shallow channel. They did manage to leave the town with some booty---their canoes groaned under the weight of silks, slaves, and loot. No silver or gold in any quantity, however. But, Jack---like Morgan---suspected they'd wasted time in Gibraltar as Spanish riders---those who had escaped Maracaibo and Gibraltar ahead of the buccaneers' entrance---rode out to the centers of power for help against the Brethren.

Things were worse than any of them could imagine. An armada waited for the men of Port Royal. Thanks to gossip in the taverns of Port Royal and Tortuga, the Spanish commander Don Alonzo de Campos y Espinosa had led his last three warships to find Morgan and his Brethren. Even the smallest of these three outclassed the pirates in guns and tonnage.

At Maracaibo, the fort was restored and manned by the Spanish---to act as a fourth ship, firing on the pirates as they tried to row down the channel and back to sea. Getting there, back to their ships hidden close to the city, the pirates found themselves stuck---the channel was so heavily protected by ships and men. The Spanish ships were lined across the channel like a cork in a bottle. Three ships, ninety-four guns. The lagoon itself was large---eighty-six miles long and sixty miles wide at some points. But, the point of entry and exit was only eight hundred yards wide and completely blocked by Spanish ships.

Jack, skilled in letters and with a natural talent for the turn of phrases, assisted Morgan in writing a letter to Don Alonzo, demanding a ransom for having not put the city of Maracaibo to flame. They agreed that it would be best to bargain from a position of strength, even when that position was imaginary. Don Alonzo fired back a reply the likes of which made several of the pirate captains fearful---they weren't dealing with a soldier-sailor who was simply doing a low-pay job and didn't want trouble. Don Alonzo was a dyed-in-the-wool tyrant who believed in his duty. It was an ultimatum.

Morgan's only question to the Brethren was to ask if they would rather surrender all in order to gain their liberty or would they rather fight? Jack, himself, at the moment, was of the mind that they should take the offer of conditional surrender and escape, without swag, with their lives intact. For which Barbossa called him a coward. But, he followed Hector's example and agreed to fight. Death over captivity, it was to be.

So, with the knowledge that death was probably the only result of anything they attempted, Henry Morgan called his captains together and put a new question to them: what should they do? The best idea would be what the whole Brethren did. After a night of discussing a plan between them in secrecy, he and Hector had suggested something new and unusual---something that they'd succeeded at in Indochin a time or two. With Bootstrap to back them on it, the idea was presented to Morgan. Paired with a thought or two from the other captains, the plan was put into motion.

A week later---after massive carpentry work and a number of quiet, night-time raids on Maracaibo for certain supplies to aid them in the nefarious plan---the stalemate ended. It was only mid-spring, but the air felt humid and heavy and Jack found it difficult to keep his mind focused. He imagined it might have something to do with the spirits the men had taken to making on their own, from fruits found in the jungle near the channel. The spirits were sweet with sugar and thick with fruit pulping, but after only a dozen drinks, the world seemed to bend around one's ears. It was an odd sensation. But, at this time, it was all they had to drink, diluted with what fresh water they could manage to carry under the possible threat of quick raids from the waiting Spanish.

It was just before dark and Morgan had given them the signal.

Over the last weeks, since taking Gibraltar and finding themselves in dire straits under a stalemate, they'd captured every ship they could find in the laguna. Now thirteen ships and a multitude of canoes sailed down the laguna to take a place within sight of the Spanish armada---within sight, but out of firing range.

For the last week, the men of the Victorious had worked hard on a massive Cuban trader they'd taken hostage, preparing the behemoth for its finest hour. It now sailed under Morgan's flag, a target and a trap. They'd were going to aim at the Magdalena---Don Alonzo's flagship. The wind was in their favor and they were in the lead, picking up knots even within the shallows that might have foundered them, before. Head-on, they moved under the cannonfire from the Magdalena's forty-eight guns. They fired back, but let the main of their protection come from the ships that sailed behind and around them. At the helm, Hector laughed like a madman and Jack went below to make sure everything was ready. They were sailing with a skeleton crew---Bootstrap Turner was in a canoe with Anamaria and a few other of their own core group of men and their share of the swag, several ships back in the formation.

It was a frontal assault they'd planned and with a special, devious touch.

The two pirate ships to either side of them were being picked apart by Spanish cannonfire, but no one left off from the battle. The powder monkey carried down the message to Jack as the other men of the skeleton crew crept over the stern and down to the canoes that trailed them, tethered. Jack lit the fuses and then raced to join his matelot just as the Cuban trader crashed headlong into the Magdalena. The last sight he saw of the ship's deck was of grappling hooks coming down into the rails, the prow, and the sails. The Spanish were moving quick, to board.

Only moments later, as they were rowing for their lives to the other ships, Jack had to duck to avoid being brained by a piece of flying cordage when the trader with Morgan's flag blew up. They'd made a fireship of the Cuban trader, disguising it as their flagship. With tar and powder and palm leaves, they had created a weapon of massive potential---not only could they take out the men who boarded, but with the ship crashed into the armada's flagship, it was nearly a sure thing that the Magdalena would go up, too. And she did.

***

Within minutes, both ships were aflame.

Jack and Hector and their skeleton crew swarmed one of the other Spanish ships, climbing up the sides from their canoes. There, they began to fight for their lives against the few men of the Soledad who didn't jump into the channel's blue waters. The rigging was tangled and it floated, dead in the water.

Jack, with a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, fought back to back with Barbossa. None of the Spanish sailors could get close enough to use a cutlass on either of them, but the pistol and musket fire belched clouds of heavy smoke in the air, making it damn impossible to see anything more than a few feet away.

Wearing only breeches and a scarf on their wildly tangled hair as they cut down every Spaniard who dared to attempt arm's length proximity, the two of them worked like a well-oiled bit of machinery. The raids and captured ships in the last year had cemented Jack as a pirate---he couldn't imagine going back to a life of merchantry. Not that he would be allowed it---with the P on his arm marking him as a pirate conditionally pardoned for his crimes, but no longer a member of honest society. And Hector had become so ferociously unpredictable, as a pirate, as to frighten other buccaneers on the various occasions that they were forced to work with the Brethren. It was part of what drew the admiral to their company, he knew.

Henry Morgan liked intelligent captains who could be trusted---Jack was fully aware that Hector was wily, intelligent, and thoroughly a rogue, while he himself was a match for it. It was their intelligence that made Morgan call on them, for advice, on numerous occasions during the entire time they'd been sailing along with the flotilla. But, there was something in Hector Barbossa which worried the admiral---Jack knew it, as did all the other captains involved. Barbossa could easily become a loose cannon, if provoked the wrong way. Without Jack to steady him.

Back to back, they swung around left and right, crossing the deck under the tangled rigging---Hector called up to the hands who'd boarded with them. "Get th' sails fixed an' down leeways, ye crack-brained gomerels!"

A Spaniard came running at them and Jack didn't swing around fast enough, distracted by a screaming, dark-eyed maniac who decided to come at him just then, with a fiery belaying pin. He'd been out of kohl for more than a week---he was blinded by a flash of sunlight off the steel. Pushing at his back, Barbossa stepped sideways to stop the coming onslaught---but, it wasn't a sword that came down on them.

Splash---and suddenly, the acrid taste of oil filled his nose and mouth. The Spaniard had thrown a cask of thick, yellow lantern oil at them. It struck his left arm and soaked him, but he didn't have time to stop---he struck out at the crazed man who thrust the flaming wood at him. It was only when he heard Barbossa roar in angry pain that he became aware of the true danger they were both in. The oil had been set on fire---the deck they stood on was scorching, but the immediate trouble came with the breeches they wore. Using his gore-covered cutlass, he killed the two Spaniards who had doused and set them to flame while Barbossa hastily beat at the fire even while working to strip off.

The noise from all the ships was deafening---screams, cannons---but, Jack's mind went beyond all that as he thrust his own cutlass into the deck before him and used his hands to beat at the fire that was trying to consume his breeches and boots. He managed better than Barbossa---whose breeches were fully engulfed.

But, Hector was fast to rid himself of the fire and soon raised his cutlass to go on fighting in nothing but the scarf on his long driftwood, sun-bleached hair. Jack felt overawed, his heart nearly bursting from the rush of battle as he watched his matelot leap into the fray once more, freckle-bronzed skin and long, flying limbs. He stepped back and under the stairs that led up to the quarterdeck, stumbling over a dead Spaniard in his shock as Hector gave a wild laugh and, ripping a second sword from the hand of an enemy, went to war like a naked heathen.

Under the stairs, by the mizzenmast, he regrouped and breathed deep gulps of smoky air, studying the scene before him with a mind almost lost to panic---they were going to take the ship, that was obvious to his eye. But, he hadn't envisioned anything quite so fierce from their enemy, whom they�d taken by surprise. He hurriedly reloaded all three his pistols---two hung on a silk cord around his neck---as he considered an idea of what to do to end the battle quickly.

Someone had to get the bedamned thing into the wind and soon.

Hector, on the other hand, didn't seem to be thinking anything of strategy now, except to slaughter as many of the Spanish as could be had. Blood ran in wide swaths and splatters over his matelot's naked, lean body, painting him red. It was almost demonic, to watch, and made him think of the paint he'd once used---in those first raids on merchant ships in Indochin. It was almost as if his lover was impervious to pain or injury---for no one could get close enough to do any damage, now.

His breath caught again and his pistols reloaded, Jack rushed out and around the mizzenmast, raising a pistol and his cutlass. He knew what needed to be done---the sails were almost righted, again, and that meant the helm would need a pirate's hand to the wheel to bring the ship to heel under their control. Up the stairs, he thundered. At the top, he shot the Spaniard who was ineffectively trying to force the wheel to respond. Sticking his spent pistol into the waist of his breeches, he used one hand to test the wheel as he studied the riggers who were cutting and mending ropes, cleaning up the malfunction which had frozen the sails only half-dropped. At last, the sails unrolled with a whishing thump and the wind caught in them---he felt the strange lurching thrust of the ship from his toes to his testicles.

But, even as he began to turn the wheel to bring the ship around and into the leeward, his eyes were drawn to Hector once more. His matelot was still slaughtering the enemy---naked and ferally lethal under the morning sun's light, his skin and hair like burnished gold even under the red of blood that streamed off his hands and chest and thighs and sword in rivulets. Barbossa swept around left and cut off an arm and then came back to the right, swinging almost completely around to thrust a blade straight into the chest of an on-coming attacker.

Jack blinked and then rubbed at his eyes, wondering if he was seeing things, when he realized that his matelot had a massive cockstand. He tilted his head to the side, clutching the wheel a little tighter in disbelief as he watched in surprise, and then glanced to make sure he was righting the ship's course alongside the other ships as they began to sail down the channel and toward freedom. But, his eye came almost immediately back to the sight of Hector---who had lost his scarf somehow and was now fighting with his long hair swaying and flying in tandem with his---

It felt as if he'd run headlong into a wall and been knocked backward.

He hit the deck behind the wheel on his arse before he knew what had happened to him. There was no pain, not at first. His breath faltered and he gasped, pushing to sit up once more. But, then, the burning started---and he realized he'd been shot. With his empty hand, he touched the bloody wound---it was so small, really, and almost numb, only aching a little---and realized that the hole was in his upper chest. It didn't hurt to breathe, so he did that. Only as he was working to get back on his feet did he see that the sailor who'd shot him was right at the top of the quarterdeck stairs.

A dark-haired Spaniard covered in blood and nursing his own wound, carrying two flintlocks. One was smoking at the barrel. But, the other was rising now, and aimed at him. An order was barked in Spanish and he shook his head, dizzy with the burning ache as he reached his knees and tried to raise his cutlass. Blood slicked his arm and his hand now and he found that the sword seemed to be twice as heavy. His fingers didn't want to close around its hilt properly.

He looked up at the angry Spaniard in bewilderment.

Jack shook his head at the demands that were shouted at him. He used his other hand to lift one of the pistols he wore at his bare chest---its silken cord had kept him from losing them. But, as he pulled the trigger, his hand dropped and he missed---cursing, he fought to steady himself, to use the other one. He heard the sound before he felt the breath leave his lights in a rush, before he felt the deck shudder under him---before he fell, again.

The sound was---like nothing he'd ever heard.

Despite the shouts and the clash of swords, the cannonfire, he heard the hammer drop.

The pain was sudden, immediate. He coughed against the blood and found he couldn't breathe. On his back, he stared at the sky, weakly trying to keep a grip on his cutlass. It was all he could do. Little by little, he realized his body was freezing cold---had he ever been this cold, before? He didn't remember a time. The blood in his mouth tasted like lightening. He could smell nothing but blood.

He woke a little later to find Hector bending over him. His matelot was still naked and drenched in gore, but wore an expression of horror---and fear. Jack blinked, trying to draw a breath to ask Barbossa about the improbable fear he could see. It was new, unexpected---that fear. But, the fear was being replaced, then, by anger. Pale green-blue eyes grew closer and he felt himself being lifted up from the deck. He shivered---he could feel that, too. The pain of being lifted was startling.

Somewhere, in the distance, someone---a prisoner, maybe?---screamed in agony.

"Shh, now, Jack---t'is fine. Ye cry like a wench, aye." Hector said to him. His matelot's eyes were wide. But, his mouth was thinned, tightened. Hector's voice was almost a whisper---and he could hear it beyond the screaming. There was no more battle to be heard---no more cannons, no more swords clanging together. Beyond Hector's head, he could see the mizzensail; it was blown full. They had captured the ship and it was under way. But, then, Hector was talking again and he made himself look at his lover. "Ye did well, Jack me lad---"

The sun seemed to be setting fast; the world was darkening as if twilight and dusk were upon them. He blinked at it and fought to breathe, but he could hear a strange bubbling---was that him?---like the noise of a potful of cooking oats. It felt as if someone was strangling him. Was Hector strangling him? No, there were Hector's hands---one on his face and one on his chest, right where he'd been shot. Twice. He coughed, trying to clear his mouth, and began to fight when the air seemed to stop right in his throat.

"Jack? Can ye hear me, Jack?" Hector asked, shaking him. "Jack? Jack Sparrow---"

"You're naked---did you know that?" He husked, using the last of his air in a bubble of blood.

Then, sucking at another breath, he drowned.
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Whispers of Redemption