Mastery

Rating: G
Disclaimer: Property of Disney, Bruckheimer, et al. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: Prologue - 8/19/2006. Mastery - 3/27/2005
Beta: My most sincere thanks to Mariah, a journeyman-level blacksmith/swordsmith, who provided invaluable technical assistance with this story. And, as always, to commodorified for encouragement, advice, and the sometimes necessary kick in the pants.
Note: Given that Mr. Brown has maybe 3 minutes total screen time, and one line, almost everything about him in this story is, of necessity, Totally Made Up. But I don't think it's completely unreasonable based on the little we see of him, and what we see of Will. 'Cause the man has to have had a fairly huge influence on Will, who lived under his roof for 8 years.
Summary: Mr Brown wasn't always the wreck of a man we see in CotBP. This is the story of how the master smith who taught Will to make beautiful swords became the drunk who was "right where Will left him". Begins 20 years before CotBP

Beginnings

Market Day was over. Lucas repacked his wares. Business had been good; with luck, he'd have enough to buy his own anvil by spring.

He couldn't offer for Molly until he'd a home to bring her to; her father would refuse his permission otherwise, and rightly so.

He skimmed the text below. Free passage for household and goods... Building lots... Jamaica

Mastery: Pages from a Blacksmith's Life

"Of course." The solicitor took the papers from his clerk and jerked his head; the man disappeared into the hallway.

"His father was a merchant sailor, but there's been no word of him in two years." The solicitor didn't look up from the documents in his hand. "The governor thought it best to see the boy started in a respectable trade."

The door opened and the clerk returned, one hand on the shoulder of a boy in an obviously-new brown suit.

Brown studied his would-be apprentice as they crossed the room. The boy looked healthy enough. He was all arms and legs, awkward as a new-dropped foal, but most boys were at that age. Give him a few years and plenty of Molly's good cooking and he'd likely fill out well enough.

The clerk placed the boy at arm's length and left the room again. The lad stood silent, eyes on the floor.

The boy's head came up and his eyes met the smith's squarely. "Will Turner, sir."

A clear voice and no meeching look about him; very good. "Show me your hands, Will."

The boy held them out, palms downward. Brown turned them over; no calluses to speak of, but he'd scarcely expected that. "Make a fist." He felt the childish muscles in the boy's wrists harden and nodded approval. The lad had strong hands and a willing manner; he'd do.

The solicitor looked up when his shadow fell across the page he was reading and raised an eyebrow. Brown nodded. The man placed Will's indentures before him, turning all but the last page to one side.

Brown wrote his signature carefully. As he was returning the quill to its stand, he heard the door open behind him and a gentleman's voice asking, "Well, and how are things progressing?"

He turned to see a stout gentleman in a long brown periwig and brocaded coat coming toward him. So this was the new governor, arrived from England two weeks ago. The girl with him must be his daughter, who rumour said he let run quite wild.

"The matter is well in hand, Governor Swann," the solicitor said. "This is Mr. Brown. He's agreed to take young Turner as his apprentice."

"Good day, sir." Brown's voice was respectful, but no more than that. A master smith need bend his knee to no man.

"Good day, Mr. Brown. I'm so glad you could assist us." The governor's tone was warm, surprisingly so from such a high-born gentleman. "I've heard nothing but good about you. I'm sure you'll be a fine master to young Will, here."

"Now my dear, you know that's quite impossible." The governor smiled indulgently and patted her shoulder. "Oh, this is my daughter, Elizabeth. Elizabeth, Mr. Brown."

"Miss Swann." Brown smiled politely at her. Spoiled she is, right enough, he thought. Catch my Cassie talking that way to me or her mum.

"If you would just sign here, governor, as the boy's guardian?" The solicitor interrupted her smoothly.

Governor Swann walked over to the desk. His daughter moved to stand by young Turner, speaking in a tone too low for Brown to make out the words.

Brown followed the governor to the desk and accepted his copy of the indentures and the bag the clerk passed him. If he were dealing with a fellow tradesman he'd have counted the coin then and there, but gentlemen were touchy about such things. The weight was about right; better to be shorted a shilling or two on the boy's apprenticeship fee than risk offending the governor.

"Is that everything?" the governor asked. The solicitor nodded. "Excellent. Well, Mr. Turner—" the governor actually held out his hand to the boy—"best of luck in your new profession. I'm sure you'll do splendidly."

"And thank you, Mr. Brown." The gentleman smiled at him. "I'm most grateful to you. You'll take good care of the boy, I'm sure." Then the governor offered him his hand, too.

Brown returned the clasp hesitantly. "I know my duty, sir." It wasn't what he'd meant to say, but it seemed to do well enough. "Good day to you, Governor, Miss Swann. Come, Will."

The boy followed him out of the room and down the stairs. It felt odd to be going out the front door, like gentry; he'd always come to the kitchen entrance before, when he had orders to pick up or goods to deliver.

Brown didn't speak on the walk back to the shop, and Will had the good sense not to ask questions. When they got to the forge, Brown went straight through to the living quarters behind.

Molly was stooping over the hearth, adding something to the pot simmering on the hob. "Well now." She replaced the lid on the pot and straightened. "Would this be the new 'prentice, Lucas?"

"Aye, my dear." He kissed her flushed cheek. "This is Will Turner. Will, say hello to your new mistress."

"Quite the little gentleman, aren't you?" She smiled at the blush that brought to the boy's cheek and wiped her hands on her apron as she turned to call, "Cassie! Cassie, come here, I want you!" up the stairs.

"Coming, mum!" Their daughter clattered down the stairs in a flurry of skirts, duster clutched in one hand. She pulled up at the bottom and stared at Will a moment, blue eyes wide under her brown curls. "Oh, hello!"

Cassie giggled. "Oh, call me Cassie, do! I've just been getting your room ready for you. May I show him, Father?"

"Of course, imp." He smiled down at her and ruffled her curls. "Why do you think your mum called you?"

"Come on, Will!" Cassie grabbed the lad's hand and pulled him towards the stairs. "How old are you? I'm ten, almost. Father's promised me a kitten for my birthday. I want a yellow one, with stripes. Do you like cats? I..."

Brown watched the children out of sight, then sat down to count the purse the solicitor had given him.

Molly lifted the flagstone that covered the cold pit and removed a dew-beaded flagon. "He seems a good lad." She filled a tankard and set it before him. "So, did you see the new governor?"

"I didn't just see him, I spoke to him." He drank down half the ale in a single cool draught and smiled at her over the rim. "That goes down a treat. I've always said my wife makes the best ale in Port Royal."

"Oh, nonsense," she sniffed, whisking a corner of her apron at him. But she was smiling as she turned to the cupboard. "So, what's he like, Governor Swann, seeing as you and he are such good friends and all?"

Brown finished tallying the boy's fee. It was all there, not a farthing short. "A good man," he said. "Fair dealing, easy in his ways. The town could do far worse."

The pipe organ began the last hymn, and the congregation stood to join in as the recessional formed and started down the aisle.

Brown bent his knee as the cross passed, and was pleased when his new apprentice echoed the gesture without prompting. And if Will craned his neck afterward for a glimpse of the gentry in the front pew, well, he wasn't alone in that. This was the first Sunday Governor Swann had seen fit to attend services since his arrival, three weeks ago.

They filed out when the hymn ended, and stopped as usual to talk to friends in the churchyard. The governor was the last to leave the church; he paused to have a word with the parson on the steps.

Miss Swann fidgeted at his side a moment, then stopped even pretending to listen to the adults' conversation and turned to search the crowd gathered below. She was clearly looking for someone; Brown could guess who, given her behaviour four days ago. Sure enough, when she spied Will her eyes lit up and she turned to tug on her father's sleeve, interrupting him mid-sentence.

That one needs a governess to teach her proper behavior, Brown thought. It was plain she had Governor Swann wrapped around her finger, young as she was, for he didn't reprimand her for interrupting her elders. No, he was nodding and patting the hand she'd laid on his sleeve, agreeing to whatever she was saying with a fond smile.

So it didn't surprise Brown at all when the governor didn't head straight for the carriage that waited by the lych-gate, but came toward them, the girl still hanging on his sleeve.

"Good morning, Mr. Brown." Governor Swann's manner was as easy as ever. "Is this your family?"

"Governor. Miss Swann." Brown nodded. "My wife, Molly, and my daughter Cassie." They both bobbed curtseys.

"A pleasure." The governor smiled and nodded. "And I see you've young Turner with you. Is he settling in all right?"

"I'm glad to hear it." Governor Swann nodded again and rubbed his hands together. "Well, as you know, we only arrived in Port Royal a few weeks ago, and my daughter's not yet had the opportunity to meet other children her own age. She and Mr. Turner naturally came to know each other on the voyage here," he smiled down at the girl, who smiled boldly back, "and she was hoping he—and your daughter, of course—might consider spending an hour or two in her company after church. If you've no objection, that is."

Brown did have objections. No good had ever come of mixing with your betters, in his experience. But he couldn't say so with Governor Swann standing there, smiling as if inviting an apprentice and a tradesman's daughter into his home was the most natural thing in the world. "That's very kind of the young lady, I'm sure," he said stiffly.

Will flushed and glanced up at his master. When Brown nodded permission, he took a step forward, then turned to smile at Cassie, who was half-hiding behind her mother's skirts. "Coming, Cassie?" He held out his hand.

She smiled shyly and let him draw her out to stand before Miss Swann, who promptly snatched their free hands and started dragging them towards the carriage.

The forge's door creaked open. Cassie and Will stepped inside, chatting and blinking at the change from the bright morning sunlight outside.

"Yes, sir." Will passed his slate and horn-book to Cassie and lifted the oil can from its hook on the wall.

Cassie stopped to pat the donkey that drove the bellows-wheel before going to help her mother with the noon meal.

As Brown cleared the main hearth for the day, he reflected that he'd been lucky in his new apprentice. Will was quick and willing, and it had taken the boy very little time to settle into the pattern of the household: tending the donkey, sweeping the forge, and running errands every morning before going off to dame school with Cassie.

Brown pulled the blade from the water, examining it for flaws and finding none; he'd finish it tomorrow. Setting it to one side, he scooped a shovelful of coals from the main hearth and carried them to the smaller one he'd used every afternoon since the boy's arrival.

Will had finished oiling the hinges and was unhitching the donkey from the bellows-wheel. As he led the beast to its stall behind the shop, the boy cast a resigned glance at the long bellows-sweep over the smaller hearth, and a longing one at the small anvil in front of it.

Brown turned away for another shovelful of coals, hiding a smile. For a month Will had spent his afternoons working the bellows on the side-hearth while Brown turned out the hinges, hasps, handles and horseshoes that made up much of the shop's standing stock.

Brown could have worked the bellows himself—any master smith could turn out such simple ironwork in his sleep—or used the main hearth for the task, but he held, as his father and grandfather had before him, that there was nothing like bellows-work for building muscle and teaching discipline to a green apprentice. Will had quickly mastered the slow, even rhythm needed to keep the smaller hearth at working-heat, and had been aching to try his hand at working the metal ever since.

A month was a long time for a lad of ten, but the boy hadn't once slacked off, nor begged a turn at the anvil. Brown pulled a small chest out from under the rack where the bar-stock was stored, brushing a thick layer of dust off the top. The boy'd shown he could be patient; time to give him the reward he'd earned.

Brown tossed the item he'd taken from the chest onto the tool-rack, then stacked a half-dozen pieces of bar-stock near the smaller hearth.

He'd no sooner set the last bar in place than Molly's voice echoed from the kitchen, calling them to their nooning.

When they returned from the meal Brown selected a length of iron and thrust it into the coals. Will had already taken his place and at a nod from Brown the boy set the bellows in motion.

Five minutes in the bellows-fed coals brought the iron to working temperature. Brown shaped the glowing length with deft strokes, grey slag flaking away with each blow, then flipped the hammer over and used the chisel on the back to cut the hot metal free. He thrust the bar into the small hearth to heat anew, and Will bent to the bellows again as Brown worked the cut length with tongs and hammer. By the time he tossed the finished hasp aside to cool the next section of bar was hot enough to shape.

Brown worked steadily until only one untouched bar remained. He thrust it into the coals and filled a bucket at the well in the yard while Will worked the bellows. Returning to the forge, he drank deep before gesturing for Will to stop and passing him the dipper.

Brown picked up the item he'd pulled from the box earlier as the boy set the dipper down. "Here, lad." He tossed it at Will, who caught it handily. "Fetch me that last bar."

The boy gaped at the heavy leather gauntlet in his hands a moment, then his eyes lit with understanding. "Yessir!" He pulled the glove over his hand and grasped the end of the bar firmly, biting his lip in concentration as he lifted it free of the coals.

Brown stood back, well out of the way, and let the boy pass. Will's arm shook a bit—three feet of iron stock was no light weight—but he braced his left wrist with his right and made it all the way to the anvil without dropping his burden.

Brown gauged the iron's color, and decided it was hot enough to shape. Pulling the smallest hammer from the rack, he flipped it end-over-end and presented the handle to his apprentice. "Square it for me."

Will licked his lips nervously as he took the hammer. He turned the rectangular bar-stock on its narrow edge and gripped the hammer so tightly his knuckles showed white.

Will reared back and brought the hammer 'round as though he intended to split the anvil in two—

—and his forearm smacked into Brown's horny palm with enough force to wring a startled "Ow!" from the boy.

The master smith pulled the hammer from his apprentice's loosened grip. "Now, is that how you've seen me working this last month?" he asked mildly.

"Pay attention, now," Brown said. "There's no need to go pounding the anvil like a navvy driving a piling." He rested the hammer next to the glowing iron. "The trick is to let the hammer do the work for you. You lift it up—" he suited action to word, raising it shoulder-high—"and let it come down of its own." The hammer struck the end of the bar squarely, bounced off, and fell again, flattening it into a perfect square. "Now," he flipped the hammer again, held it out, "let me see you do it."

The hammer missed the bar completely, striking a clear, ringing tone as it bounced off the anvil.

Brown folded his arms and met the horrified look the boy threw him with a bland neutrality.

Will managed to hit the edge of the bar next try, and the hot metal flattened obligingly. Looking no end pleased by this—as had every lad Brown had ever trained—the boy bent to the task with careful concentration, eventually achieving a rather uneven square shape.

Will maneuvered the rod into the coals, balancing its cold end on the waiting stand, and worked the bellows until his master said, "Enough."

Will's brow furrowed a moment, then he picked up the hammer and carefully rotated the squared iron until it rested on one corner. His first blow hit fair, and the two edges flattened obligingly. Grinning in triumph, the boy bent over the anvil. The iron slowly changed under his blows to a shape that, if not as smooth as Brown could have achieved, was certainly more round than not.

This proved more difficult, but Will stuck to it, reheating the metal twice before he caught the trick of the thing. By the time he'd achieved a passable taper he was breathing heavily, but he looked up at his master with triumph in his eyes.

Brown had quietly picked up hammer and tongs while the boy was absorbed in his work, and now he moved swiftly. Gripping the cooling metal in the tongs, he severed the end with a sharp, single blow, turned it deftly, and brought the blunt end of the hammer down, flattening the new-cut end over the anvil's edge.

He lifted the still-glowing spike, looking from it to his startled apprentice. "Your first piece of real smith-work, Will Turner." Brown pretended to study the spike, turning it this way and that while Will watched anxiously.

In truth, the boy'd done better than he'd expected. He'd have to knock a couple of farthings off the price to find a buyer for the poor lopsided thing, but it was salable, which was more than most 'prentices managed first go.

When Will started to fidget, Brown tossed it into the quenching-vat standing ready and said, "Make me another."

His apprentice's smile was beacon-bright as he thrust the bar into the waiting coals.

Brown turned into the alley. The flatbed wagon barely fit in the narrow passage, and the load of iron and coal it carried made it even more unwieldy than usual. He had to watch the donkey carefully to keep it from scraping the wagon against the houses on either side. He opened the wattle fence and led the beast into the smithy-yard, tethering it to the post there before stepping into the open entryway that linked kitchen and forge.

The kitchen door stood wide, showing Cassie at the table. Her usually good-natured face was set in a slight frown, and she was pummeling a batch of dough hard enough to bring a flush to her flour-dusted cheeks.

"What's amiss?" Even as Brown spoke, he realized the forge was silent. "Where's Will?" He'd left the lad starting on a score of horseshoes; he'd not had time to finish so many.

Cassie's mouth thinned. "He's in the forge." She snatched up a knife and hacked a piece of dough free with one sharp stroke. "A customer arrived just after you and Mum left." She bent over the smaller lump, kneading it into shape with a small, fierce scowl.

"A customer." He'd dropped Molly at the market over an hour ago; only one customer was likely to hang about so long, keeping the boy from his work. "Put the kettle on, and open the parlour."

"Yes, Father." Cassie tossed a clean cloth over the risen dough and turned toward the hearth.

Sure enough, there was Miss Swann, sitting on the steps leading to the street, and Will at her feet looking up at her.

Their heads turned at the sound of the door. Will jumped up as if scalded, his eyes moving from his master to the cold, half-finished shoe on the anvil, and back again. "Miss Swann's brought us an order, sir." His voice cracked on the last word.

"Has she? Well, I'm sure we're grateful for the business, Miss." Brown kept tone and expression neutral. "Though I don't know what I could be selling that a fine lady like yourself could make use of."

Miss Swann had risen, too, and a faint color showed in her cheeks. She raised her chin and tried the same smile on him she used to twist her father 'round her finger. "Oh, it's not for me. It's some things our coachman needs." She waved the square of paper she was holding in one hand. "I offered to fetch it, since I was going to be riding into town anyway."

"Very kind of you, I'm sure, Miss Swann." He held out his hand for the paper. As he unfolded it, Brown glanced sharply at his apprentice. "Unload the cart, boy."

"Well, Miss Swann," Brown said after he'd glanced over the list, "I'm that ashamed you've been made to wait all this time. These are all things we have in stock. My 'prentice could've put it together easy enough." With her standing on the second step they were of a height, and he met her eyes squarely. "I'll have a word with the boy later. Can't have him wasting a customer's time, and his own as well."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, no!" she blurted. "It wasn't Will's fault. I didn't show him the list. I—I thought you had to see it."

"I see." He gave her his blandest smile. "Well, you couldn't be expected to know what an apprentice can and can't do, Miss. Not something you'd ever have cause to learn, is it?"

She flushed and looked away, biting her lip, and at that moment Cassie entered, wearing a clean cap and apron. "Kettle's on the boil, Father."

"Well, that's fine." He gave her an approving nod, and Cassie's chin rose a fraction. "Now, Miss Swann, Cassie'll take you into the parlour while I put this order together for you."

"Oh, we can't have that, Miss," Brown said firmly. "A forge is no place for a fine young lady like yourself. What would your father think of me, if I sent you back to him with your pretty dress all over soot and smuts?" She opened her mouth, but he overrode her. "No, Miss Swann, I won't hear of you being treated so shabby. I'm only sorry Mrs. Brown ain't here to entertain you proper, but I dare say Cassie will do her best, won't you, daughter?"

"Of course, Father." Cassie's head was high, though she bobbed a curtsey, as was proper. "You just come with me, Miss Swann, and I'll give you a nice cup of tea."

"Please don't go to any trouble on my account," Miss Swann protested as she followed Cassie across the room.

"It's no trouble at all, I'm sure, Miss," Cassie said primly. "The kettle's on the boil, as I said, and Father won't mind dinner being a bit late, seeing as it's for the Governor and all."

"Right through here, Miss." Cassie swung the door open, and a very subdued Miss Swann preceded her through it.

"I don't believe it." Tom Merton set the knife on the table and shook his head. "You must've helped him, Lucas."

"Not by so much as a word," Brown insisted, refilling the man's tankard. "The lad said he had an idea for a design, and wanted my permission to try his hand at it. I said he might, so long as he put his regular work first. He handed me that," he nodded at the knife, "one week ago."

MacArdry, the Dauntless's blacksmith, was examining the blade minutely. He flicked it with a fingernail and held it up to the light to study the faint, wavering pattern on the steel before handing it to the fourth man seated at the table.

He picked it up, gave it a cursory examination, and sent it spinning across to thud against the ale-pitcher. "Fifteen's too young, Lucas!"

"I'm not asking you the boy's age, Jeb Wilcox." Brown snatched the knife from the table and flourished it under the man's nose. "Is that journeyman-level work, or is it not?"

"Why ask me?" Jeb demanded. "He's your 'prentice. You want to declare his indenture over, it's no concern of mine."

Brown scowled and wetted his throat with a mouthful of ale. "The boy is young for it," he admitted. "I know that as well as any. But look you, this," he indicated the knife, "is equal to any journeyman's piece I've seen in all my days, and better than many. I've never in my life kept a 'prentice under 'denture one day longer than I thought needful, and I don't mean to start now. And," he scowled at Jeb, who glared sourly back, "I'll not have any saying the boy hasn't earned his rank by right. So, Masters all, I'm asking you, and smith's oath on it: is this blade journeyman level work, or is it not?"

MacArdry rubbed his chin, took a draught from his tankard, and brought it down on the table with a thud. "Aye, 'tis."

Jeb scowled and held out his hand for the knife. Brown slapped the hilt into his palm. Jeb examined the blade minutely, his scowl growing deeper with each passing second.

"Looks well enough," he grumbled at last, dropping it to the table with a clatter, "but like as not there's a flaw in the metal and 'twill snap when stressed."

Brown snatched the knife and slammed it into the table; the blade sank a full inch deep. As he pulled the hilt toward him the blade bent in a clean, smooth arc. He released it, and the knife swung to and fro, too fast to see, singing the clear tone of well-forged steel. "Well?" he demanded. "What say ye now, Master?"

Jeb scowled at the still-moving blade. "I say there's more to being a journeyman than skill in the craft, Lucas Brown. The boy may have a journeyman's skill, but his head's too full of foolishness. He acts before he's thought things through." He glared at Brown. "Fifteen's too young to be wandering the world on his own. Give him another year or two to steady down. You'd be doing the boy no favors, turning him loose while he's still grass-green."

Jeb's scowl shifted from Brown to Tom. "I'll not say otherwise." He drained his tankard, then brought the vessel down on the table with a thump. "Well, Masters, you may have all day to laze about here, but I've orders to fill." He left, still scowling.

Tom snorted. "Pig-headed old fool. Still," he met Brown's eyes, "I reckon he's right, Lucas. The boy's not ready to be on his own, not just yet."

"I hope you're right." Tom stood. "Well, I've my own work waiting. Best I be off."

"Myself as well." MacArdry reached out to touch the knife still buried in the table. "I could use a journeyman as has a knack for blades." He stood, meeting Brown's eyes squarely. "If the boy's a mind to go to sea, I could get him rated mate."

Brown nodded. "That's a right generous offer." Before he could say more, the door swung open behind him.

"Mr. Brown? I've finished the... oh." Will stood in the doorway, eyes widening as he took in the visiting master smiths and the knife—his knife—still stuck in the table.

"Come in, boy." Brown spoke in haste, and the words came out sharper than he's intended.

Merton and MacArdry left. Will moved out of their way, nodding deferentially as they passed.

When the door had closed behind them, Brown lifted the pitcher, pretending not to notice Will's growing unease. When only a trickle came out, he scowled at it. "Seems we're out of ale," he muttered, then looked up. "Work's done, you said?"

"Then we'll to the Three Angels for a drink." Brown turned away, then back to the table. Pulling the knife free, he inspected it again. He kept it up until Will began to shift from foot to foot, then looked up. "We'll not sell this one, I think." He never sold his 'prentices' journeyman pieces.

Will's face fell. "I can do better!" he blurted, then broke off to stare at the floor, face crimson.

"I dare say you can." Brown's voice was level as he thrust the blade through his belt. "Come along, then. My throat's that dry I can scarce talk."

Neither of them spoke as they made their way through the dusty late-afternoon heat to the tavern. Brown nodded to Mudge, the tavern's owner, and led Will to the table in the back, the one he used when he had business to conduct.

"Do you know," he said, drawing the knife from his belt, "why Merton and MacArdry, aye, and Wilcox, too, were in the shop today?"

Will's eyes were on his hands, which were clasped in front of him. "No, sir." He spoke so low Brown could barely hear him.

Brown turned the blade slowly. "We're all agreed." He looked up. "This bain't apprentice work, Will."

Will stared at him, brow furrowing. "Not...?" Then his eyes widened. "I did make it!" he protested. "I swear!"

"I'm not doubting you, lad." Brown leaned forward, placing the knife between them. "But a smith that can make a blade fine as that's no man's apprentice." When the boy just stared at him, looking lost, he added, "He's a journeyman, is what he is."

"A journeyman?" Will's voice cracked on the last syllable. When Brown nodded, his expression changed from disbelief to a broad, delighted smile. "Truly?"

"Aye." Brown let loose the smile he'd been holding back. "There's still the papers to be dealt with, but the thing's good as done."

"No need to thank me, Will," Brown said. "You've earned it. Even that stubborn fool Jeb Wilcox admitted it, in the end." He forced himself not to look away, choosing his words with care. "If you've a mind to see a bit of the world, MacArdry's looking for a blacksmith's mate, 'board the Dauntless."

"No, I don't," he said flatly, "but I've no right to keep you. You're your own man now, Will. You go where you choose."

A tension he'd not admitted feeling drained from Brown's shoulders. "Well, then," he began, but broke off when Mudge appeared, wiping his hands on his apron.

"My apologies for keeping you waiting, Mr. Brown. Good day, Will." He nodded at the lad, then turned back to Brown. "What'll you have, sir?"

"Two tankards of your best ale," Brown said, and smiled at Will. "My journeyman and I have business to discuss."

Mudge's eyebrows rose. "Journeyman, is it?" He turned to Will, offering his hand with a broad smile. "Congratulations, Mr. Turner."

Will sat straighter, his face glowing with pride. "Thank you." He took the publican's hand.

As Mudge walked away, Brown leaned forward, forearms crossed on the table. "Now, Mr. Turner," he said, "there's the matter of terms..."

Will's eyes were bright as he leaned forward, echoing the pose. "I'm sure we can come to an agreement, Mr. Brown."

"Yes." Will bent to pull the strongbox from its hiding place. "He didn't even argue the price."

"I thought he'd not." The blade was one of Will's, and the lad had priced it low, in Brown's opinion. "It'll be good for business, having the new swordmaster using one of our blades."

Will slid the panel back into place, hiding the box, but didn't rise. "It'd be even better if he had several, don't you think?"

Something in his journeyman's tone caught Brown's attention. "Aye, it would," he said slowly. "Did he give you another order, then?"

"He asked why the price was so low," Will said. "I told him it was because it was my work, and I'm only a journeyman. Then he asked me some questions, and we started talking, and," he turned to look at Brown, "he offered to trade lessons for blades."

"It wouldn't interfere with my work at the shop," Will blurted. "It'd mostly be in the evening, with an hour here and there during the day, when he didn't have a paying customer."

Brown turned away as he untied his leather work-apron. "You're your own man now, Will. It's your choice to make."

"But you don't approve." Brown could hear the disappointment in the lad's voice.

Brown faced his journeyman across the anvil. "You're a damn fine smith, Will Turner," he said. "You've a knack for blades like no one I've ever seen, and that's God's own truth. If you set your mind to it, you could be a master by the time you were twenty." He sighed, and shook his head. "I just hate to see you throwing that away, reaching for something you can't have."

"There's no law saying a blacksmith can't learn to wield the blades he makes!" Will insisted.

Brown leaned both hands on the cold iron. "No, there's not," he looked up into the boy's eyes, adding the hard truth he didn't want to hear. "But learning to fight like a gentleman won't make you one, Will. Nothing can do that."

Brown sighed. "You do what you think best, lad. I'll say naught, whatever you choose." A last glance around the forge showed all tidied away for the night. "Now come along and wash up. Supper'll be ready soon."

"Right, it's ready." Brown pulled the stacked bundle of steel out of the main hearth and placed it on the anvil. Will raised the long-handled sledgehammer and brought it down; the flux burst from between the layers as the sledge welded them together. Brown shifted the bundled metal as Will brought the sledge down again and again, insuring that the hammer always fell where it was needed. When the metal had changed from yellow-white to red-orange, Brown said, "Hold."

Will lowered the heavy sledge and leaned on the handle. Brown attacked the cooling metal with the chisel-end of a hammer, cutting it half-way through at the mid-point and folding the two halves together before thrusting it back into the coals to heat.

When it was hot enough, he brought the slab back to the anvil. Will picked up the sledge and they started again.

Three more times Brown folded the steel. Three times he returned the steel to the hearth to heat, and carried it to the anvil for Will to flatten again.

When Brown called a halt, the wavering damascene pattern showed clear on the cooling steel. He studied it closely, debating whether to fold it one more time—and set it aside to cool. "That'll do fine for Captain Franklin's new blade."

They'd both been working stripped to the waist, and were dripping with sweat from the heat of the forge. They took turns sluicing their head and shoulders with water from the quenching-tank. Brown dipped himself a drink from the water-bucket and passed Will the gourd as he reached for his shirt. He was rolling up the sleeves when the door to the street swung open.

Brown turned; the governor's daughter stood in the doorway. "Hello, Will!" She handed him a paper. "I've another order for you."

Will took the paper and glanced over it. "We've all this in stock," he said. "If you'd care to wait?"

Miss Swann glanced over at Brown, who gave her a grim nod. "That won't be necessary." She smiled at Will, tilting her head. "I'm just off for my afternoon ride, but perhaps you could deliver it later?"

Too clever for her own good, that one, Brown thought. No doubt she enjoyed having the boy on a string; never a thought to what it did to him, of course. The gentry were all alike. He scowled at her, but held silent.

The door to the house swung open, and Cassie entered, a dew-beaded tankard in each hand. She handed one to her father, who smiled his gratitude, and carried the other over to Will, who was staring after the lady like a moonstruck calf.

"What?" He glanced down at the bright eyed, pretty face turned eagerly up to his, "Oh, thank you, Cassie," and turned back to follow Miss Swann's progress almost before his hand closed about the tankard.

Cassie's smile vanished. She bit her lip and turned away, hurrying back to the kitchen with her head bowed.

Brown's jaw clenched. He drank the cider down in one long draught, and turned to follow his daughter.

Molly and Cassie were standing together when he entered the kitchen. Molly took one look at his face and said, "Cassie, go to the market."

Cassie looked surprised, but only said, "Yes, mum," and snatched the market-basket from its hook before hurrying out the door.

Instead of answering, Molly picked up her knife and began slicing the carrots on the table. "We agreed Cassie was to go with me when I visit Martha in Boston Bay next week," she said. "Plenty of young men there would fancy a pretty girl like our Cassie, even if she wasn't heir to the shop. It may be one of them will catch her eye." She pushed the carrots aside and started on a cabbage. "If not, I mean to talk to her about Will, 'fore we come back. If she's sure he's the one she wants, well, she can wait."

Molly put down her knife and looked up at him. "For Miss Swann to marry, Lucas. When that happens, Will will need someone to turn to. If what she feels for him is strong enough to last till then, she'll likely have him in the end. And if it isn't," she shrugged, and transferred the vegetables to a pot, "there's a good many lads in Port Royal have noticed what a fine young woman our Cassie's grown into."

Will was unwrapping the pasties he'd fetched from the Three Angels. "Problems in Boston Bay?" He put the food on plates and carried them to the table. "Probably it'll be here tomorrow."

Brown murmured a quick grace over the food, and they set to. The Angels' cook knew her business, but he'd be glad when Molly and Cassie were home again. The house was always too quiet when they were gone.

The plates were bare save for a scattering of crumbs and Will was cutting slices of cheese when there was a knock on the parlour door.

None of their friends ever used that door; it must be a gentleman, come to place an order. Brown brushed the crumbs from his waistcoat and pulled on his coat as he left the kitchen.

He gave a last tug to his lapels and opened the door. "How can I..." The vicar stood on the step, a Navy officer just behind him. No.

"Mr. Brown," the vicar said, "I'm sorry to have to disturb you at this hour. Might we come in?"

As Brown stepped back to let them pass, Will entered from the kitchen. He grew pale as he glanced from the priest to the tall officer. "Vicar. Captain Norrington."

The captain removed his hat and nodded. "Mr. Turner." His mouth was a grim line.

The vicar had removed his hat also. "I fear, Mr. Brown," his tone was all quiet sympathy, "that we have some... rather dreadful news for you." He glanced at the officer.

Captain Norrington cleared his throat. "The Sunrise Maid was attacked by a corsair yesterday. Our lookout saw the cannon-fire and we moved to intercept, but," he looked down at his hat, then up, "when the pirates realized they would be taken, they... put their prisoners to the sword." He met Brown's eyes, his voice full of regret as he said, "It is my duty to inform you, Mr. Brown, that your wife and daughter were among their victims."

Brown stared at him, wanting to call the man a liar, but stopped by the regret in those green eyes.

"No!" Will was at his side, glaring at the captain. "It can't be! Why didn't you stop them?"

"I fear it is all too true," the vicar said. "Captain Norrington asked me to identify those I could. I recognized Mrs. Brown and Cassandra at once." He moved forward and placed a hand on Brown's arm. "You will want them buried in the churchyard, I'm sure. My wife and daughter can..."

Brown shook the man free and turned to face the tall, silent officer. "Where are they?" he demanded. "I want to see them!"

"We have placed the victims in a warehouse near the docks." The captain met Brown's eyes again. "I would not advise..."

Captain Norrington bowed his head. "Very well. If you'll come with me, I'll arrange it."

"No," Brown said, "you stay here, talk to vicar about... what needs doing. I'll be back soon enough."

Neither man spoke on the journey. When they reached a low stone building with two marines guarding the door, the captain spoke with one of the men a moment. The soldier nodded and disappeared inside. Captain Norrington glanced at Brown, looked away, then back again. "It is no consolation, I know, but," his voice hardened to steel, "the men who did this will most assuredly hang, Mr. Brown. You have my word on it."

When the soldier returned, they went inside. The warehouse held rows of canvas-wrapped shapes, but instead of taking him to any of those, the captain led Brown to a small room built into one corner. The room was windowless, but a lantern hung from the ceiling. Two low trestles stood in the center of the room, a still, white-draped form on each.

Brown stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His hand shook as he reached for the sheet, but he forced his fingers to close on the rough cloth, his arm to pull it back.

Her hair was loose, and there was a bruise on one cheek, but it was his Molly. Someone had closed her eyes; she might be asleep, almost. Dear God, let her just be asleep.

Lucas dropped to his knees. "Wake up, Molly," he whispered, cupping her cheek with one hand. "Please, love, wake up?" Her skin was chill beneath his fingers, unyielding, with none of the softness he remembered. Lucas bowed his head and muffled his sobs on her breast.

When he ran out of tears, Lucas Brown made himself walk to the second trestle. He knelt beside it, and drew the cloth gently back.

Cassie's head was tilted a bit toward him, lips parted, eyes closed. There were red-brown splashes on her neck, her cheek, dulling her shining hair. "Oh, my Cassie." His voice was hoarse, scarcely a whisper, and fresh tears spilled down his cheeks as Brown smoothed the tangled hair away from his daughter's face.

He never knew how long he knelt there, stroking the well-beloved head, but there came a time when he became aware of the cold stone beneath his knees, the tears drying on his face.

He straightened, and looked one last time on the two women he loved more than all the world. Then he kissed them gently on the forehead and walked away.

Mrs. Merton had taken charge of the funeral breakfast, and the house was crowded by the time Brown arrived. He accepted a plate of food and a tankard of ale, and sat in the parlour. People spoke to him, and he nodded and said the things you were supposed to say and silently wished they'd leave him be.

The last guest left. Brown sat in the parlour while Mrs. Merton and her helpers cleaned and tidied, hands lying lax on his thighs. The women departed just as dusk was falling. Will brought a candle, setting it on the mantlepiece. He stood beside the empty hearth, waiting, until it was full dark.

He listened to Will climb the two flights to his room, and the muffled noises that followed.

He should try to sleep, he knew that. There were orders waiting, work to be done in the morning. But he'd spent two sleepless nights staring at the ceiling in the room he and Molly had shared, good times and bad, for almost twenty years. He couldn't face that again. Not tonight.

Brown collected the candle and passed through the kitchen into the shop. Both hearths were two days cold, scraped clean of ash. All the tools were in their racks, the supplies stored away tidy-like. For a moment he considered stoking the small forge, seeing to some of the smaller work that needed doing... but it wouldn't be seemly, the very day he'd buried his wife and daughter.

He returned to the kitchen and sat at the table. The evening rain started, and the air grew chill. Brown shivered, and suddenly remembered the rum they'd bought last Christmas, to make punch. A tot of that should chase the chill away, right enough.

He found the bottle in the back of the cupboard, still three-quarters full, and poured himself out a stiff dose. The rum tasted of molasses. A warm glow started in his belly, and some of the tension knotting his neck and shoulders unraveled. Brown poured himself another. Perhaps, if he drank enough of the stuff, he'd be able to sleep.

Will stood looking down at his master for a long time. Then he draped a blanket over Brown's shoulders, threw the empty bottle on the rubbish-heap, and got to work.

Brown joined him a few hours later, looking much the worse for wear and more than a little sheepish. Neither of them mentioned the incident.

Two weeks after the funeral, Brown hired a widow to come in thrice a week, to cook and clean and keep the house in order. He kept to the shop when she was there, not wanting to see her filling even that small share of his wife's place.

A month after the funeral, Will began to leave the house of an evening again. Brown didn't ask where he went, but on the nights Will was gone, he found himself listening in the silence: for Molly's voice in the kitchen, Cassie's step on the stair. On those nights rum numbed the pain and blurred the memories, and made the silence easier to endure.

Brown took to sleeping late the mornings after Will was out. Will took over more of the work, but Brown still spent most of the day at the anvil, even on his worst days.

After a time, Brown started taking rum after supper even when Will was there. Will had been growing steadily more worried about his master's drinking, but something in Brown's manner kept him from speaking of it. He started spending even more evenings at Mr. Lambdin's salon, practicing his swordwork.

That winter, Brown discovered that a drink in the morning would ease his aching head and steady his hand. His work was as good as ever—or nearly so—and if Will did more of the fine work than before, what was the harm in that?

Brown's evening drinking crept earlier. To his morning tot was added a nip at mid-morning, then a glass at noon. The change was so gradual that neither man realized how bad it had become...

...until Will returned from an errand and found his master in the forge, snoring drunk at mid-day, on the anniversary of Molly and Cassie's death.

Brown was rarely sober after that, though he still did good work on the days he was fit to hold a hammer. Will took over management of the shop. When their customers assumed the swords and other fine goods being sold were Brown's work and not his, Will kept silent, out of loyalty to the master who'd taken an orphaned boy into his family and treated him kindly.

And so things went, until the day Lucas Brown woke from a drunken stupor and saw a wild-haired ruffian pointing a pistol at the one person in the world he still cared about, and brought his rum bottle down on the bastard's head.

Men Must Work

The Blacksmith's Story

Beginnings

Mastery: Pages from a Blacksmith's Life