Fathoms 9

Unwelcome Revelations

by

Manic Intent

At the moment, life dictated that he was clinging precariously to a crumbling rock face, too high above the rocky beach below for his personal comfort, via having jammed his toes into any available cranny, fingers gripping a creeper for dear life. And, to make things worse, he was also having to help a very frightened, almost hysterical, and pregnant, woman down with him.

"Easy there, luv. Easy there," he struggled to keep his voice calm, as he directed slippered feet onto ledges. "To yer left, there's a creeper. Use that."

"I can't believe ye got me t'agree t'this," the woman quavered for the tenth time. Dressed in a maid's blue and white uniform, down to the stupid fluffy bonnet, the slightly puffier brown face held a distinct resemblance to his first mate, but lacked the hardness, the fierce, unbridled courage that was his Anamaria.

And it had all seemed like such a good plan in the tavern. Jack cursed under his breath.

It had felt very strange to be able to dock openly in Kingston. As much as he hated the piece of paper, the Letter of Marque had been very useful, despite meaning that he had to pay docking fees (which he had done so, ungraciously). After having warned his remaining crew not to cause too much trouble, he'd set off to find Anamaria, leaving his Black Pearl to compare herself smugly to the other, vastly inferior ships in the harbor and preen in front of sightseers.

He'd only barely set foot in the sprawling trading town when a dark-skinned urchin ran up to him, and tugged at his trouser leg. "Cap'n Jack Sparrow," the boy said with a mutter, his eyes darting around at incurious passers-by. "Anamaria be waitin' fer ye at th'Crow's Nest tavern, a shillin' fer me trouble."

Jack paid up, careful to watch the urchin's hands in case the boy decided to try and pick his pocket, and strolled off in his swaggering walk to look for the tavern in question. He'd even nodded at some of the Navy patrols that marched by, but they hadn't bothered to give him a second glance. Navy in their pretty coats and white breeches. Jack wondered how Norrington was doing, and clamped down on the welling sense of frustration. Kingston was so close to Port Royal—no time at all, for his Pearl. It would be so easy to take a peek...

He asked directions from a street side merchant selling skewers of roast chicken over a crock of coals, and bought one for his trouble, wandering down the streets as told and looking at shops and houses with a practiced eye. Pillaging Kingston, however, was too difficult for the likes of one pirate ship crewed by non-undead crew, even if his Pearl, having been newly repaired, now made the Letter of Marque unnecessary. Fast growing into the trading center of Jamaica, Kingston kept a greater Navy presence—not to mention, of course, its proximity to Port Royal and the pretty Commodore there who struck fear into the hearts of pirates. Most pirates.

Kingston itself was much like many other towns he had seen—a large, poor colored majority, a small, richer white elite. Beggars sheltered from the balmy heat in alleys, asking in torn voices for alms. Jack stepped aside on the street as a gilded carriage rattled past, drawn by two spirited, matching dappled gray horses. Lace curtains fluttered briefly open, Jack glimpsing a lady out for a drive. It made him want to start stealing things, but then, he had a lady to meet, and she was known for her very bad temper.

The Crow's Nest was a sailor's tavern, relatively near the harbor and the harbormaster's office, filled even at this time of day with drinking men fresh from the sea, loudly exclaiming over the price of sails and the difference in prices in the trading ports. Jack cast his eye quickly over unfamiliar faces, then settled in a corner, ordering rum. Hard-faced waitresses served rough men and endured pinches with thin smiles. The burly barkeep bellowed with laughter at a raunchy joke from a regular. Sand strewn on the ground failed to hide stains, and his tankard was none too clean, either.

Sharp ears picked up conversation from a couple of tables to his right. Other privateers, discussing a subject close to any piratical heart. The Navy.

"... t'be sure, I was in Port Royal fer a wee bit, visiting me girl, an' I saw 'im at the fort."

"Who?"

"Him. The Pirate Hunter. 'e's back, an' God bless any pirate left on th'seas who ain't bought an' paid fer by the Crown."

"Thought 'e died on th'sea. Damnable luck."

"Naw, 'e's back. Been circulatin' in Port Royal—seems 'e went on some secret errand fer th'Navy, did somethin' right big. Beckett an' he, they're best mates now, they say. Been seen talkin', an' Beckett's been heard to say 'e's pushin' fer Norrington t'be promoted t'Admiral. Fer 'services rendered to th'Crown'."

The privateers, Jack included, took a deep swig of their rum, mulling this over.

"Beckett an' Norrington. 'Tis enough t'keep a man like us lot t'Spanish towns."

"Aye, truth t'that. Tortuga be right quiet these days."

Jack would have liked to hear more, but at that point, a slim figure dressed in a heavy coat and a wide-brimmed hat sat down at his table and ordered a tankard in a gruff voice. Jack had to fight a grin. Anamaria always said she preferred male garb and the relative freedom it came with, but it had needed a very heavy coat indeed to hide her curves. "Cap'n."

"Anamaria." And that was all that had to be said. He saw full lips slip into a wry, affectionate smile under the brim of the hat, and he was sure there was an answering one on his face. They still fought on the Pearl sometimes, fearsome shouting matches over direction, purpose, or even weather signals that would send all but Gibbs scurrying for cover, but they were fast friends, and Jack trusted her with his life—within reason.

She nodded curtly as a waitress brought her a tankard, and drank, practiced, before speaking. "I saw the Pearl in the harbor. She called t'me. She's lookin' good, Cap'n." Anamaria paused. "Though I didn't think ye'd ever accept one o' those Letters."

"Aye. Well. There were mitigatin' circumstances, an' th'like, t'will be explained onboard. We're here fer ye. An' Tia, she tell me ye need me help."

Anamaria looked up at Jack. A hard face that had kept a cool mask when they boarded merchant ships or fought back the Navy was visibly on the verge of exhausted collapse, emotional turmoil having etched a frown into handsome features. "It's m'sister."

And Jack had found himself listening, with a sinking heart (chasing Commodores would have to wait) to a rather lurid tale of how Anamaria's sister Ayla had, unlike her sibling, decided to get honest work. Which in the case of a poor, unattached woman of color meant maid work in the home of one of the white elite in Kingston. Unfortunately, she (presumably) shared her sister's striking good looks, and found herself in a very unwanted spot of trouble when she realized that she was pregnant, with the child of a young Lord who couldn't keep his hands to himself. Unfortunately (again), this young Lord was also already married, but to a (shrew of a woman, Anamaria supplied) lady who was barren. They were going to wait till the child was born, then kill Ayla, and hope it had enough resemblance to the young Lord to explain away its darker colour. In the meantime, they would keep Ayla at the mansion. This Ayla had found out, as she was a kitchen maid most times and Cook was fond of her, to the extent of paying for a missive to reach Anamaria. Who had then left the Pearl, but so far had been unable to come up with a way to extract Ayla from the mansion, which was well guarded.

"Why can't it be simple trouble?" Jack whined, when Anamaria finished.

The tars had done their job well, almost to the point where Jack wondered if they were paid to do this often, and he had gotten into the grounds without difficulty. The terribly English garden, what with its big trees and copious hedges, had provided good cover as he snuck over to the back door. The bored guard had been easily knocked unconscious and pulled behind a hedge, and he'd slipped in, only to be menaced by a huge woman with a cleaver. It was the kitchen, and its mistress had sharp ears and eyes.

"You've got a lot of guts, sneaking in like this, thief," the woman had growled, in a smooth working-class English accent, multiple chins wobbling with fury.

Jack knew that technically, he had a sword, and Norrington's pistol, but this was a sight to put the fear of God in any man. Ringed hands shot up in a placatory gesture as he took an involuntary step backwards. "Wait! Wait! M'here fer Miz Ayla. Her sister an' I, we be hearin' that she be in some sort o' trouble in th'family way, an' we're going t'get her out o' Kingston."

"You seem like a very unlikely rescuer," Cook said doubtfully, but the cleaver was lowered a little. "But I s'pose you don't look like much of the bad sort. Who might you be?"

"Did Ayla tell ye anythin' 'bout her sister?"

"Only that she be a sailor on the high seas, and a mighty fine one." Cook smiled indulgently. "Strange fancies, that girl has."

"T'aint a fancy, Miss," Jack said with a gold-toothed grin. "I be Miz Anamaria's Cap'n, an' no finer First Mate 'as any Cap'n ever 'ad th'pleasure o' employin'." Despite the situation, and the time limit, he found himself regaling Cook with a short, condensed extract of one of their more curious escapades with a Spanish merchant ship, though he was quick to proclaim himself a privateer (even if that had not been exactly true at the time). It worked, however—Cook seemed friendlier, charmed by his roguish smiles and fluttering hands.

"Ayla is likely dusting the parlor on the ground floor at this time of day. You go through that door and keep right, the servant's quarters are likely empty, but if you meet anyone say you're my new help. From there, there's a door marked with a small stitching, behind that the corridor leads to the parlor."

The next problem was that the mansion was far, far too big, and although the instructions had been explicit, the place was still downright confusing. He'd finally managed to locate Ayla in one of several parlors, but she hadn't been alone, and it had been fairly embarrassing, having to interrupt some sort of secret tryst between Ayla and what was likely the young Lord.

"Ayla, please. You have to believe me. Stop trying to escape. We won't harm you, and why, Sara and I, we'd make sure the child has the best of everything."

Ayla's fisted hands were shaking as she backed away from the man. "I don't trust ye, Jacob. I've seen and heard things, and I wasn't born yesterday. Ye just want the child, after dat m'just an inconvenience." She let out a squeal as, backing away, she stepped on Jack's foot, whirling in fright. "Who...?"

"Friend o' Anamaria's." Jack bit down an oath at the stab of pain in his foot, and smiled coolly at the man, who was frowning at him, mouth opening to shout for guards, and drew his pistol, cocking it. "No shoutin' now."

With Ayla's dazed help, they'd tied Jacob to a chair, and gagged him with his handkerchief. Jack looked at the fop in disgust, taking in the dissolute eyes, the slicked back hair and the extremely ornate coat and breeches. "Now, m'lived a long time, whelp, but there's not many things m'know that're more evil than havin' a woman carry yer child by seducin' her, an' then think o' killin' her for th'babe. Ayla be human, not just a warm belly t'be swelled with yer get. We be leavin', but if ye come after us, m'won't wait th'next time to put a bullet through th'bit that hurts most." A pointed gesture with the pistol at Jacob's crotch. The man whimpered into his gag.

Ayla was shaking under his arm as he pulled her quickly to the kitchen, where she wailed and flew into the chubby arms of Cook. Jack waited impatiently as they spoke together in low tones for a while, then shouts outside as guards discovered the body behind the hedge informed him that time had just run out. He grabbed Ayla by the arm and pulled her to the door, looking out, then jerking back as a shot was fired into the frame where his head had been.

Cursing, he blinked as he found himself pushed aside by Cook. "I'd handle this. You and Anamaria look after Ayla now. She's a sweet girl." A pause. "Ayla, you take him to the rose bushes. The wall is low there and you can climb down to the beach, no problems. I did that before when I was a gel, lots of times, no problems at all."

Admittedly, seeing Cook rush out, hysterical and loud, and run wailing towards a group of armed guards (all stock still in horror at the sight of the huge amount of womanly flesh bearing down on them), shrieking about how there were robbers in the house, evil, horrible robbers, who had menaced her and were likely now making away with the house silver, had nearly made everything worth it. Nearly. In all the confusion, they'd managed to leave for the rose bushes without being noticed. Hopefully, Cook could even get a message out to Anamaria, who was likely worried about all the commotion and the delay by now. However, they still had a long way to go down to level ground...

It seemed an eternity until they'd gotten down onto the beach, and Ayla sat on the ground for a while, stunned at what they had done, her breathing in short, frightened gasps. Definitely nothing like Anamaria, Jack decided, and wondered how his Pearl would take to the new passenger. Finally, impatient, he held out a hand, pulling her to her feet, and they set off down the beach back towards the harbor. Jack tried not to look too much at the somewhat noticeable swell in Ayla's belly. Yet another problem. As if he didn't already have enough to deal with.

They were met near the beginning of the port proper by a breathless Anamaria. The sisters embraced, and there was much weeping and feminine exclamations of joy. Jack looked at his boots, at his fingernails, toyed with his compass, adjusted his hat, pulled at his cuffs, and then finally coughed politely. "We best be getting' back t'me Pearl, ladies, 'least until we come up wi' what t'do next."

"Awlright, Cap'n," Anamaria agreed easily, the sisters holding hands, all but clinging to each other as they went to the Pearl, unchallenged despite the relatively odd trio they made—a brightly dressed buccaneer with an almost drunken swagger, a slim 'boy' in a heavy coat and a wide hat, and a woman in a maid's costume.

Back aboard the Pearl, Jack was quick to put a hand on the rail, and listen to her mood. She seemed curious about the newcomer, but also willing to at least give her the benefit of the doubt due to her blood relation to one of the Pearl's favorites. Jack let out a sigh of relief, and nodded to Anamaria—her shoulders relaxed slightly. She, at least, understood the dynamic between Jack and his ship, something that Barbossa never bothered to and never believed in. "What ye be doin' now, Cap'n?"

"Me Pearl still needs somethin' in th'ways o' furnishin' an' supplies, so m'thinkin' I go do a wee bit o' shoppin', while ye introduce yer sister t'this fine ship." An affectionate pat on the rail. "She'd 'ave t'share yer cabin, though. An' ye better watch yerselves wi' th'new crew."

"What happened t'Gibbs? An' Marty, an' Cotton?" Anamaria blinked, realizing belatedly that she saw no familiar faces.

"Long story. M'tell ye later," Jack said, turning to disembark again. Now that he had saved the damsel, he had some more mundane ship maintenance issues to deal with. Not to mention the second part of the Plan.

On the third day, even hard-bitten old sea tars were buying Jack drinks in the taverns, in exchange for fantastical stories about far-off lands.

On the fourth day, Anamaria told Jack, earnestly, when Jack was charting a course in his cabin, that until they found some solution to her current unemployment and homelessness, Ayla wanted to stay, and that she would make herself useful by cooking. Jack had been skeptical, but all doubts dissolved when he and his crew tasted Ayla's cooking at dinner. If not for the problem of the pregnancy, it was very likely that Jack would have begun plans to find a way to keep the new cook. There was no sign of pursuit from the young Lord.

On the fifth day, Jack reacted to Ayla's very shy question as to whether he and Anamaria were 'together' by laughing uproariously, as he thought of green eyes as changeable as the sea.

On the sixth day, Anamaria had caught him daydreaming, for the fourth time, at the crow's nest, and slyly asked him who his new conquest was. He had reacted with no words, only a startled, slightly crooked smile—and she snorted. "Lovesick fool," was her opinion.

On the seventh day, a package arrived for him—a heavy, brown paper wrapped rectangle that was pushed into his hands. The stocky man who delivered it left quickly before Jack could question him.

Jack walked into his cabin as fast as he could, and unwrapped his present. A beautiful wooden box of dark mahogany, with silver hinges and clasps. He whistled, and then opened it to see what was unmistakably a Turner sword, and a custom made one. The tempered steel swept into an ornate hilt with black enamel, silver and gold wreathing the centerpiece—a black pearl, on which a sparrow perched, cunningly wrought in bronze, its tiny wings outstretched as if to fly. The sheath was expensive leather, with florid calligraphy stitched near the hilt: 'C. J. S.'

Turning the sword around, he noted a card tied to it in bright red string. It was addressed to him, in young Will's careful writing.

Jack lifted the sword, and noticed a small cylinder of paper beneath it, held by a white gold ring in the shape of a curling surf that cradled an emerald of the same flashing green hue as Norrington's eyes. He drew out the note, and chuckled as he read it—curt, imperious, and so very James.

'What are you doing? Leave. Now.'

The pirate slipped the ring onto a finger, and sat down in the plush chair at the desk, crossing his boots on the heavy wood and playing with the hilt of the sword absently, and the heavy maroon tassel at the tip. So, young Will had likely forged the sword before the wedding, and had meant to get married and somehow send it to him, before all the business with the arrest and Beckett. And Norrington had somehow acquired the sword, no doubt upon his recent return to Port Royal, heard that Jack was close by in Kingston, and sent it to him, along with the curt missive and the other present.

The big problem was, if Norrington knew he was here, then so did Beckett. On the other hand, he was now a privateer, assuming everything had gone 'well', and assuming that Beckett was content with the heart. He might have caused Beckett and the East India Trading Company problems in the past, but he knew (and was careful to ensure) that they saw him as small fish only, beneath their notice.

Jack sat up straight as a thought occurred to him.

What if Beckett wasn't after the heart? What if he was after, indeed, just the compass? For some other end?

His fingers clutched the compass tightly, possessively, as he thought this out. Yes, why had everybody assumed Beckett had wanted the heart? Because Jack wanted the heart, and Jack had a way of warping the attention of everything in the area towards himself, ego aside. But that would mean Beckett had the same motives as Jack, which he likely didn't, not having to Jack's knowledge asked Davy Jones to raise him a ship from the depths.

No, no. 'Lizabeth had mentioned something about that. Beckett had wanted the compass, not for Aztec gold, but he'd mentioned that there was 'more than one chest of treasure in the sea'. Which had helped the assumption that Beckett wanted the chest that contained the heart wot was now in his possession. And since he seemed such good chums with Jamie now, it was definitely a good argument that he was, in fact, after the heart.

But it wouldn't explain the obviously worried tone of the note, nor Norrington's repeated entreaties for Jack not to follow him to Port Royal, if the pirate captain had indeed been pardoned by the Letter of Marque. Evidently, his Jamie had reached a conclusion regarding Beckett's motives weeks before him. So. It wasn't the heart, after all, though evidently Beckett knew a good thing when he saw it. It was still the compass. And this close to Port Royal, he was definitely in potential danger.

Buckling the sword at his belt and discarding the old one on the table, he ran out to deck, shouting orders for the crew to round up the others from the tavern. Anamaria shot him a startled look. If he hadn't been so worried about his thoughts, he'd have been amused at how weatherbeaten sea dogs were keeping a respectful distance from her and her sister. It had been barely a week, and his First Mate had already cowed them with her fearsome temper and quick skill with a blade. "What's wi' ye, Jack?"

"Trouble, Anamaria," Jack said shortly. "East India Tradin' Company. Beckett."

She'd gasped, and then quickly began to direct the crew to prepare the Pearl to sail. Jack went up to the helm, and felt his beautiful ship's anticipation in the hum below his fingers.

Soon they were arrowing over the waves, towards open sea. Anamaria approached him, her face drawn with worry and annoyance. "Ye be keepin' somethin' from me, Cap'n?"

"Beckett. 'e wants th'compass, an' I don't know why."

"Who told yer dat?" Anamaria demanded, then her eyes fell to the new sword at his belt. "The boy?"

"No. A friend," Jack said shortly. Anamaria's eyes narrowed.

"Jack, what 'ave ye gotten us into dis time?" Jack attempted to look hurt, but Anamaria folded her arms, determined. "And ye 'aven't given me an explanation o' what ye've been up to."

Jack caved with a sigh, and gave her what had been intended to be a short version of everything that had happened since she had left the Pearl. However, somewhere along the tale his ego had gotten away with his mouth, and it turned out to be far longer, and somewhat more incredible, than what had actually happened. He did, however, leave out all the... goings on, with Norrington, though Anamaria looked as though she suspected something, what with that little frown on her brow.

"So, what're we be doin' now? Chase Gibbs an' the rest to dis 'World's End' place?"

"Actually, m'thinkin' I should pay Port Royal a visit. To thank me... friend. After all, nobody's goin' t'expect us t'run off from Kingston, an' circle back so close. T'will be safe, even."

"Yer crazy, Jack," Anamaria screeched, losing her grip on her temper, "We're already in the opposite direction, an' if ye be forgettin', Beckett is in Port Royal! As is yer bloody friend Norrington!"

Brown eyes widened suddenly, in revelation. "Cap'n. Don't tell me. Yer 'friend', wot sent ye the sword... is... the Pirate Hunter."

He tried to smirk, but something wrong happened to his facial control, and it came out as a soft smile at the memory of aristocratic fingers caressing his cheek, loosely tied tresses and a fine-boned face. Tanning skin and a voice that could hold both steely command, or speak with heart-wrenching tenderness.

Anamaria took in the expression on his face with a classic look of pure horror, connecting it with her previous question to Jack a day ago, at the crow's nest.

"Jack. Ye didn't. Oh. Lord. Ye did."

Leave a Comment
(If you're commenting about a specific chapter, please mention that.)