Naked to Mine Enemies
Chapter 4
by
Full headers in Chapter 1
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
The next evening, as the northernmost tip of Great Abaco faded in the distance, a dark bank of clouds appeared on the western horizon. Jack, who had been recumbent in the crosstrees, hailed James when he emerged from belowdecks, where he had been taking inventory of the sails. Jack was pleased to see that he was wearing the tricorn he'd liberated specifically for him.
"Nasty bit of weather coming, I reckon," called Sparrow. "Probably best to turn back and ride it out on Abaco."
"Does this mean you're finally going to put on your trousers again?" came the acerbic reply.
"Jamey, mate, you've not lived until you've stood in the crosstrees with your vitals out in the bracing sea air. B'sides, the damn pulley's stuck."
There was a tap, tap, BANG from Norrington's mallet, followed by a squeal as the pulley unfroze, and Jack's trousers descended so quickly that he hadn't time to move out from under them. They flopped on top of his head.
"Put them on," came the order from below. "I'm hoping to reach the American coast by dawn."
"Have you forgotten the bally great storm heading our way?"
"Not at all," said Norrington, giving Jack a sympathetic glance. "But we're no longer in Calypso's realm, and this storm and I have unfinished business."
A low rumble of faraway thunder punctuated the end of his statement, and Jack felt a chill to his very bones that had nothing to do with his lack of trousers. He doused the topsail and tied it firmly to its yard. He did put on his trousers before descending, but he justified doing so by remembering how unpleasant hemp felt against one's bits and bobs.
Once on deck, he helped Norrington tie up the jib and spanker, leaving the boat with bare masts and yards. The boat looked even smaller than usual—downright minuscule against the clouds that crackled ominously with lightning as they drew nearer. Jack found himself more and more discomfited by their approach.
"I'll just take the rum belowdecks," said Jack. "P'raps I'll catch a bit of beauty sleep, if that's all right with you."
"By all means, Sparrow," said Norrington absently, unlooping the piece of rope that held the helm steady and standing by the weather rail, facing west, tense, but also anticipatory.
Fortunately, Jack was adept at seizing sleep whenever it was to be had, and was asleep before the first winds of the storm shrieked across the deck. Jack awoke in pitch darkness to the sound of a howling gale. Rain pounded on the deck nearly as loudly as the waves crashing into the side of the boat as it was tossed unresisting on the surface of the sea. Jack was grateful he'd slung a hammock, otherwise he'd likely be bruised by the sudden rising and falling of the floor. It also meant that he knew approximately where the hatch leading up to the deck was when he dared risking putting his feet on the floor. He contemplated going back to sleep, but if Jamey was out there getting soaked, Jack owed it to him to go up and mock him before returning to the snug, relatively dry belowdecks.
He slipped out of his hammock just as the Swan fell off the crest of the wave into a trough, which jarred him to his knees. However, kneeling turned out to be the best course of action, since it was a simple thing to feel his way to the ladder when he didn't have to worry about falling over. As he felt his way along the floor, he encountered something soft, which he quickly determined to be Jamey's coat and hat that had been hastily dropped down the hatch at some point while he slept. Grinning, Jack slipped on the green coat and was annoyed to find it a bit too long and too roomy in the shoulders. Still, at least it buttoned 'round the waist, even with his pistols in place, and Jack crawled the rest of the way to the ladder of the pitching boat, climbed up, and threw open the hatch.
The roaring forties might have been known for powerful storms, but this Atlantic one had it beat for violence. It was as if the wind, rain, and sea were all in disagreement which way to blow, drop, and swell, with their poor boat caught in the middle of it. Rather than the exaggerated pitch and roll that was second nature to Jack, the well-made little boat groaned and shuddered as wind and water lashed at it.
Jack managed to pull himself on deck and clapped onto the clews, lest he be blown away. He could just make out the flicker of a lantern aft, presumably by the helm, but couldn't make Jamey out. He waited for a split-second break in the rain, and when it came, his stomach clenched to realize that Norrington wasn't at the helm, which was spinning wildly. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen on the deck.
He swallowed, tamping down his feeling of dread. Norrington couldn't drown. He was going to be fine. When the boat fell into the trough of a large wave, Jack made a leap for the ratlines, and he threaded his arms through them just in time to be soaked to the skin by a sudden wall of water that decided to throw itself at him. He sneezed out the salt water that had gone up his nose and observed the fore through streaming eyes.
No Norrington.
Jack was about to return belowdecks to ride out the storm, since there no point in both of them being waterlogged when only one strictly had to be, when he heard something above the roar of the wind. He immediately recognised it as the strange voice that had sung to him before destroying the Dirty Bottom and sending him to the ocean of the dead, and he very nearly stuck his fingers in his ears. However, this was Norrington's god, so it was manners to at least listen. Upon reflection, he supposed he could tell it was a male voice, but the god had to be a eunuch. It was no proper sound for a man past puberty to make, all fey and soaring. A man ought to sound more like—well, the second voice that joined the first. Deep and resonant, in a song without words that made his heart swell painfully.
However, the errant emotion submerged as soon as it had surfaced, and Jack realized that both voices were coming from directly overhead. In a flash of lightning, Jack saw Norrington, who had lashed himself to the mast atop the crosstrees in his shirtsleeves and breeches, looking like nothing so much as a flat-bosomed ship's figurehead, all dark hair and alabaster skin. Jack couldn't tear his eyes away, even between flashes of lightning, since the after-image of James's face lit his retinas, looking both tender and terrible, raising his beautiful voice in offering to his god.
At that moment, Jack felt very small, and more than a bit tawdry. It wasn't that he minded having had some thoroughly delightful canoodling with a deity, but that's all it had been—canoodling. Legendary canoodling, but canoodling all the same. But Jamey, he had something somehow more intimate and complicated. Hardly noticing the rain and wind, Jack grabbed a length of cable and tethered himself to the capstan, which gave him a nearly uninterrupted view of Norrington when the lightning flashed. And when it did, he fancied he saw a figure of mist floating near him, occasionally caressing James's arm or head with a foggy filament, its form never holding the same shape for more than an instant.
Well, no wonder it sounded like a girl. It had no corporeal body. Jack snickered. He regretted it almost instantly.
Within the space of a half-second, Jack's head had been thrown back against the capstan, his abused head throbbing in protest, a cold hand like iron at his neck. To his surprise, he could see the glowing outline of the god in front of him, shining like St. Elmo's fire. The god's face was clean-shaven, and in his hair, dolphins leaped and played. It was a beautiful, terrible face, and its fury was awful to behold. Jack cleared his throat as well as he could under the circumstances.
"Wasn't laughing at you mate," Jack lied, attempting a winning grin and failing. "Just something funny I—" Jack's words cut off, along with his airflow, as the god's hand tightened. Lightning flashed in his eyes, and Jack was prepared for the worst when he heard Norrington's voice floating over the angry roar of the wind.
He couldn't make out the words—they were in Italian, which was mushy under the best of circumstances since there weren't many hard consonants to cut through the storm's din, but the tone of the piece was unmistakable—calming and sweet, rather like a lullaby. Jack felt the hand on his windpipe ease, and breathed a sigh of relief even as Norrington's mellifluous voice filled his ears and brain with what felt like treacle, and he found himself yawning.
The capstan was cold against his back, but Jack felt warm and comfortable, secure in Norrington's voice. When the other voice joined him in duet it was beautiful. So very beautiful.
Jack awoke in his hammock the next day and groaned. He reminded himself for the seven-hundred fifty-three thousandth time not to sup only on rum in the evenings. His head hurt nearly as much as it had the day he had first injured it, and he found himself unable to look directly at the beam of bright sunshine that cut through the gloom from the open hatch.
Huh. He must have slept through the storm entirely. Or not. His memory felt fuzzy—perhaps a side effect of sleeping in a hammock? Still, he complimented himself on his foresight in sleeping in the hammock and hopped to the ground with more vigour than he actually felt, and climbed the ladder. He found Norrington sailing north northwest, and on the very edge of the horizon he could just make out an enormous land mass that he concluded was the American coast.
"Well, that's a fine good morning," he commented. "We're practically there."
"We still have a distance to go up the coast, but yes, the storm blew us rather fortuitously westward. There are some advantages to being dead."
"Aye, not having to relieve yourself over the side every morning," sad Jack, moving to do as he had described.
Norrington politely turned his back.
Jack pulled out his equipment and began to muse aloud. "Jamey, what do you reckon happened between Mr. and Mrs. Turner after we left him so lacking in upstanding timber?"
James was obviously ignoring him, so Jack went on. "I mean the rules are that he can only go ashore once every ten years, and he has to crew his ship with the dead, but you saw Jones with old Beckett. He can go ship to ship. So what's stopping Mr. Turner from going aboard the Halcyon and having a bit of a belated honeymoon with Mrs. Turner?"
"Besides the aforementioned lack of up upright timber?" asked Norrington in so dry a voice that Jack knew he meant the mast that Lizzie had so accurately shot off the Dutchman, rather than the obvious joke. "He won't want to reward her for it."
"Aye, but reward her he shall, if against his better judgement. All men, even silly young ones like Turner, are drawn to dangerous mistresses, especially when they act the part. I seem to recall a certain Commodore admired her spirit, even."
"I still do," said James, and Jack was surprised that his voice was even, betraying no regret or wistfulness. "But that ship has sailed."
"Never fear," said Jack re-fastening his trousers. "When one ship sails out, mate, another ship sails in. You just have to keep an eye on the tide and wind, that's all."
It was then that Jack noticed that Norrington had hung his green jacket on the capstan. "Got a bit wet last night, did you?" he asked.
"I was navigating in, quite literally, a godawful storm. What did you expect?"
"I thought you'd at least take your coat off. It's not exactly new, you know. Material could crumble any minute when exposed to the damp."
"Well, perhaps you ought to have though of that before you decided to wear it up on deck. Honestly, Sparrow, I know you hit your head at some point, but I didn't think it would addle your brains to this extent. Or do I have your all-rum repast to thank?"
Jack covered his mild surprise that his dream wasn't actually a dream with a grin. "Fooling. 'Course I remember you warbling up a second storm with your soprano-singing, touchy-feely ball of smoke."
Norrington scowled at him. "I'll thank you to speak civilly when you discuss him. It's his doing that our journey has gone so quickly."
"No offence meant to your greatness," apostrophized Jack. "Or the missus here," he added, jerking his head at James."So, he's a tempestuous sea god, is he?"
"Among other things. And my word, look at that shoreline. We'd best wear and head due north."
"If you like, but while we do it, let's sing. You know he likes it. I like it, too, you know."
"Don't push your luck, Sparrow."
"Give over, Jamey. Don't be a stick. How about we give him 'A Health to the Nut Brown Lass?'"
"I don't think that'd be to his taste."
"'Once, Twice, Thrice I Julia Tried?'"
"Definitely not."
"'An Acre of Land,'" suggested Jack. "He'd love the novelty of a song about farming. 'Ivy sing i-ver-y!'"
"And a bunch of sweet holly and i-ver-y." chimed in James, almost reluctantly.
"Come on, then!" exclaimed Jack. "You take the wheel, I'll set the sheets." He took a deep breath and started to sing. "My father left me an acre of land! Ivy sing i-ver-y!"
To his satisfaction, Norrington's voice joined his. "My father left me an acre of land! And a bunch of green holly and i-ver-y!"
Jack loosed the braces and hauled them. "I ploughed it with a ram's horn! Ivy, sing i-ver-y!"
James spun the wheel, and they turned due north. "I sowed it with a thimble!"
They both joined in on the refrain. "And a bunch of green holly and i-ver-y!"
***
They continued through the verses, and Jack felt his heart lift with the pleasure of combining work with music, and by the time they got to the part about the team of great rats, a twinkle could be seen even in Norrington's stern eye. Even when there was no more work to busy their hands, they stood companionably by the helm and finished the song as lustily as Jack had started it. As if to punctuate the final note, a large flatfish flew out of the water and landed at Jack's feet. He picked up the wriggling fish by the tail and glanced at James. "That's a good sign, innit?"
James looked longingly at the fish that he wouldn't be able to enjoy eating. "So it would seem."
They sang their way up the Atlantic coast, passing numerous fishing and shipping vessels, occasionally encountering rain that would sing along with them, and sometimes receiving sudden swells to protect their ship's bottom from hidden rocks. James was in all-out sailing master mode, frequently consulting the charts and comparing them to Jack's map, taking measurements with his sextant, and occasionally barking orders at Jack.
For his part, Jack was so relieved to be enjoying the tangible benefits of a new god that he hardly minded. Norrington was doing most of the work anyway, what with navigating, always remaining on watch while Jack slept, and never complaining, though of course the curse had to be wearing on him. As a courtesy, Jack made a special effort to indulge in his vices belowdecks where Norrington wouldn't see or hear.
On the fourth morning, nearly mid-day, Norrington ordered a larboard tack that told Jack they'd reached their destination. They were approaching a narrow, shallow harbour, and smoke rising in the east indicated that civilization, or as close as it got in the colonies, would be found past the harbour mouth. On Norrington's command, Jack doused the topsail and slid down the ratlines to deck.
He was about to man the halyards when the sound of Norrington clearing his throat made him turn around.
"Sparrow, before we make landfall, I might suggest that you make yourself a bit more presentable."
Jack tossed his bauble-bedecked hair. "I might say, my uncombed Commodore, that I'm more presentable than you are at present."
"We are about to be among Puritans, Sparrow. They hang people like you as witches for looking at them crosseyed."
"Far be it for me to tell you how to look as dull as possible," said Jack, bowing insouciantly, "Incidentally, I did prepare for this eventuality, so you needn't worry about me appearing too piratical. I'll just go freshen meself up."
"By all means."
As the boat sailed into the mouth of the harbour, James sang a snippet of a farewell song in thanks to Njord, and a breeze caressed his face as it passed, then was gone. He glanced down at the cold, seemingly opaque water and was grateful for the boat's shallow draft that would keep them from running aground. The mud flats shown on the map would be tricky to navigate in a larger vessel. He consulted the map for what felt like the thousandth time and tried not to think about the last time he'd been in this cold, unforgiving place as a young man, keen to prove himself. Self-consciously, he removed his hat, unbound his queue, and ran his fingers through his hair to remove the worst of the tangles. His stockings and breeches would never be white again, and his shoes were battered and salt-stained, but the jacket and hat would lend him some air of respectability. He hoped that the time spent in Sparrow's company hadn't ruined him permanently for polite company.
The clunk of a pair of unfamiliar shoes drew him from his introspection, and he watched in amazement as an outlandishly-dressed dandy tottered up from belowdecks on a pair of French heeled shoes that rivalled Purple Percy's for height. James belatedly realized that the entire ensemble had probably been liberated from Percy's wardrobe when he was overseeing Norrington's carpentry and began to laugh.
"I say," said Jack, adopting an aristocratic whine. "That's hardly manners."
"They'll have you drawn and quartered," said James, admiring Jack's audacity and skill with the disguise.
"La," said Jack dismissively. "As long as they don't do anything that would disappoint my future lady, if you take my meaning."
James walked around him, but he could find no fault with Jack's disguise. The brocade jacket and braid-trimmed breeches fit him perfectly, as did the silk hose and elaborate black wig, atop which he had perched a feather-trimmed monstrosity of a hat. Jack had also wiped off his kohl and shaved his chin, leaving only the narrow moustache on his upper lip, and his face was heavily powdered to mask its swarthy colour. Seeing him in gentleman's dress for the first time made James realize that Sparrow's build wasn't as stocky as the numerous layers of clothing he habitually wore had led him to believe. Perhaps that was part of his preternatural skill with a blade—to appear slow and languorous until the moment to strike.
"Perhaps, they'll mistake you for King Charles and behead you," mused James. "I must admit, Sparrow, I am deeply impressed."
"It's nothing, really," said Jack, swishing his handkerchief at James and preening. "Now, my dear Captain Boggs, if you would be so good as to anchor this thing and row us ashore, I should love to speak with a proper American savage."
James didn't bother trying to hide his smirk as he bowed. "If your Lordship would like to wait belowdecks, I should be happy to call you when we are anchored."
"Do, do," said Jack, strutting absently about the deck for a moment before doing as James bade and tottering below.
They were now in sight of the wharf, which was surrounded by small fishing boats and a single schooner being loaded with cargo. Below, he could see the fishwives laying out armloads of sea moss to dry on the docks. To the northeast lay the town of Scituate, home to several thousand souls, though perhaps more now, since the town was noticeably larger than he recalled, though no cheerier, all grey and brown wooden houses with the occasional whitewashed edifice. To the south lay a vast salt marsh, its yellow reeds concealing thousands of strange birds, and to the north, deep forest. The new mill was still there, though looking slightly less new now, situated on the town's namesake brook that flowed into the harbour and would serve as their guide into the woods. That insignificant waterway was the landmark that would lead them to the fountain, if the map was to be believed.
James manoeuvred the boat just north of the wharf and lowered the anchor. He doused the remaining sails, a job that would have been faster with two, but it would have looked suspicious for Jack, dressed as he was, to help. James felt a sudden pang, realizing how much he'd come to depend on Sparrow, and thanked his lucky stars that for better or for worse, he would soon be on his own once again. When the last sail had been tied up, he lifted the hatch.
"If your Lordship pleases, we are free to go ashore."
"Oh!" came a sleepy yawn from below. "Is it that time already? Very well, I shall be along presently."
James readied the dinghy, including a canvas bag that contained extra clothes and food for their inland trek, and waited for Jack to make his appearance. He rose from below like an actor on a platform, his face twisted in a supercilious grimace as he looked down his nose at his surroundings. James was strongly reminded of Cutler Beckett and suppressed a smile.
"I say, it's not much to look at, is it? And it's so terribly small."
"We're some miles south of Boston, my lord," said James, gesturing for Jack to sit in the bow of the dinghy, which he did with much tottering and arranging of the tails of his coat.
James lowered them into the water and rowed them to the wharf, where he secured the dinghy to the sea wall near a paved stile. They made quite a production of getting Jack, who played the useless toff to the hilt, out of the dinghy and up the stairs.
"Captain Boggs, pray let me rest a while," he said, leaning against a post and puffing in exertion. "I am quite done in. Pray, where is the nearest public house? I require something strong for my nerves."
Several fishwives and dock workers stopped working to gape at the extraordinarily dressed man in their midst.
"I'm afraid this is a land of temperance, my lord," said James apologetically. "You'll find no spirits here."
"You must be joking," replied Jack, sounding scandalized. "My good man!" he called, strutting over to a gentleman in black who was standing on a box at the intersection of two streets. "Can you—oh, heavens, is that a newspaper?"
"It is not, sir, but my most recent pamphlet."
"How jolly!" exclaimed Jack. "What's it called?"
"The Bloody Stain of Bloody Persecution Made Even Bloodier Through Bloody-Mindedness."
"Come again?"
"I'm afraid it won't make much sense to one such as you," sniffed the man, looking Jack up and down scornfully.
James fixed the man with his coldest glare. "I should be careful with how you address his Lordship, if I were you," said Norrington icily. "Men such as he write the charters allowing men such as you to live here. They can also amend them."
The man looked as if he wished to argue, but spread his hands obsequiously. "Begging your Lordship's pardon for any offence," he said. "I meant only that this pamphlet is in response to a foul heresy, and if one hasn't read that, it will be difficult to follow."
"It would be difficult to follow regardless, Smith! You've the rhetorical skills of a poxed baboon!" shouted another man in black who stood on a wooden box across the street. He also carried a sheaf of pamphlets.
Smith ignored the man. "If you wish, I can provide a copy of my first pamphlet, The Bloody Cross of Blood. It was the opening salvo in my battle to save the souls of all for Jesus Christ." He scowled at the man across the way. "No matter how stiff-necked the people."
"Dashed good of you," said Jack, taking the creased pamphlet.
"Here now, you're missing what's important!" exclaimed the other man, waving his arms in the air so violently that he nearly toppled off his box. "The Bloody Cross of Blood assumes a boneheaded literalist interpretation of the fundamental relationship between Jesus Christ and his holy church. I outline this in my response, The Bloody Cross of Blood Washed Clean in the Blood of the Lamb." He waved a pamphlet at them, and Norrington crossed the street to take it.
"If you read that, you must have my response to Mr. Johnson, The Bloody Cross of Blood Yet More Bloody!" exclaimed Smith, handing Jack another pamphlet.
Johnson handed Norrington another pamphlet. "Here. Take this copy of Blood! Blood! How Sweet the Blood. That settles Smith's hash, undeniably."
"Lies, all of it!" cried Smith. "As I outline in this pamphlet, Blood, Sweat, and Tears. Let These Rule Among You, Yet the Greatest of These is Blood!"
"Lies, eh?" retorted Johnson. "He has yet to refute the claims made in The Bloodiest Tenet of Bloody Tenets."
"Clearly you have not read my latest," declared Smith, waving a pamphlet. "My lord, be so good as to deliver a copy to that rude fellow who stands opposite."
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" exclaimed Jack. "All this pamphlet-distribution strikes me as a poor way to settle differences. Why not simply settle things mano a mano with swords?"
Both men looked scandalized. "I would not spill the blood of a brother Christian," said Smith.
"I wouldn't spill the blood of a fellow man of God," said Johnson.
"I wouldn't spill the blood of any man, for all men were created in God's image," snapped Smith.
"I wouldn't spill the blood of the least of God's creatures, for He made them all!" shouted Johnson, waving his armful of pamphlets.
"It's people like this who make state suppression of the press look like a good idea," whispered Jack under his breath to Norrington as he delivered Smith's pamphlet to Johnson.
Johnson squinted and began to read. "I had anticipated this," he announced, looking up from the parchment. "That's why I had the foresight to write The Universally Bloody Crown of Bloody Thorns, Which Cannot By Definition be More Bloody, if you would do me the honour of giving it to the hypocrite across the street."
"Much obliged to you," said Smith when they handed him Johnson's rebuttal.
"Certainly," said Norrington. "Now if you would be so good as to direct us to somewhere his Lordship can get a meal."
"Will you be needing a place to stay?" asked Johnson, who had unnaturally good hearing.
"Thank you, no" said James. "We follow the stream this afternoon."
"Why would you want to do a thing like that?" asked Smith.
"His Lordship is a natural philosopher interested in the shapes of rocks," lied Norrington glibly. "He has heard of fascinating caves nearby."
"Bah, you'd be wise to abandon that errand!" said Johnson. "A foul witch lives in the wood."
"She lures weary travelers to her house where she attempts to seduce them with her copious charms," added Smith.
"So this witch," said Jack stroking his chin where the beard had been, "is she foul or fair?"
"She is neither foul nor fair," said Johnson.
"She is both foul and fair," corrected Smith. "And those unprepared souls who enter her house are never seen again!"
"We have no business with a witch," said Norrington testily. "We simply wish for a hot meal."
"You'll want Goody Hardwicke's," said Johnson. "It's not far down the road there."
"You'll know it from the heavenly odour," added Smith.
"I'm much obliged to you gentlemen," said Jack, inclining his head slightly.
"Not at all," said Smith. "I do hope you will read the pamphlets."
"I'm sure they will prove invaluable," said Norrington, imagining how much easier it would be to light fires in the forest with such fine kindling.
Both men beamed at them as they took their leave, and Jack and James managed to hold back their snickers until they were out of earshot. Goody Hardwicke's was close at hand, judging from the odour of cooking fish that hung heavily in the air. The smell emanated from a small house, made from the same weather-greyed boards as most of the rest of the town. James knocked on the door, and a tall, imposing woman answered. The sleeves of her plain homespun dress were rolled up, her apron damp and wrinkled, and individual hairs were beginning to escape from her carefully plaited hair. But it was her face that made James's heart beat faster. Goody Hardwicke possessed a pair of strikingly blue eyes that were rimmed by lashes so pale they were nearly white. They were eyes that once seen, one would never forget. James certainly hadn't.
After being tartly informed that the fruits of her kitchen were intended for the poor, Jack and James were able to parley their way into bowls of seafood stew in exchange for the latest news from England, which Jack manufactured with great relish. James was glad he was not expected to contribute, especially since he hadn't set foot on English soil for several years, and he doubted Jack had been there more recently. Goody Hardwicke had a surprising penchant for violent goings-on, and tutted in shocked disapproval, all the while asking for more news. When Jack launched into a fiction about the Earl of Doncaster that could only end indelicately, Norrington cleared his throat.
"I beg your pardon, Goodwife Hardwicke," said Jack, "the details of the story seem to have gone right out of my head."
"Perhaps some more stew would restore your Lordship's memory?" she asked hopefully.
"I regret that we must be on our way," said James. "We have a long road ahead of us."
"Will you not be staying in town?"
"His Lordship wishes to see your great forests," said James.
At the goodwife's horrified look, Jack held up a hand to forestall her. "You needn't worry about our souls, my dear. They are well-fortified with the words of your local scribes."
"Those vainglorious scoundrels!" exclaimed Goody Hardwicke, scowling at Jack's armful of pamphlets. "They'll argue for hours over Constantine's contributions to our faith and the necessity of keeping the body politic separate from the holy church, but ask them something as simple as the character of the relationship between the individual spirit and the divine Father and they gape like landed cod. They know their Bible, I'll grant them, but who in this day and age can't quote the Good Book? Those old troublemakers will be following Roger Williams and his ilk out into the wilderness one day, mark my words."
"Pardon my ignorance, goodwife, but is Roger Williams the witch we were told to be wary of?" asked Jack.
"The Lord love you, no, he was a minister and scholar from Massachusetts Bay Colony, later banished for seditious preaching." Her stern face grew kind. "You have nothing to fear from any witch if you keep the teachings of our Lord in your hearts."
"What about savages?" asked Jack hopefully.
Goody Hardwicke's striking eyes softened. "We see few of them since the war," she said. "It's just as well for all of us, but I do hate to see any person denied the grace of God and the company of good Christians."
"Your sentiments do you much honour, Goody Hardwicke," said James softly.
She looked at him curiously. "Were you ever in our town before, captain? Your face is familiar to me."
James's face didn't betray the bolt of panic that shot through his stomach. "Mine is a face that reminds people of others," he said. "I hope it brings with it pleasant associations."
If Goody Hardwicke noticed the evasion, she said nothing.
Jack cleared his throat. "I fear we must take our leave. Thank you, Goody Hardwicke, for your kindness and hospitality."
"The Lord telleth us to feed the hungry," she said piously, rising with them and seeing them to the door. "May He be with you on your journey."
When they were out of earshot, Jack cuffed Norrington on the arm. "You scabrous dog," he said enviously. "That wench was interested in you."
"That 'wench,'" said James with heavy irony, "could have me executed a spy if she recalls the circumstances under which she saw me before. She was Miss Anne Baxter then, a paragon of Christian charity who took in a stranger, cleaned his wounds, and asked no questions of him. He disappeared the next day on a ship bound for Jamestown, before his pursuers caught up with him."
Jack swore. "Then why on earth couldn't you summon a better lie? Or any lie at all?"
James opened his mouth, then shut it. He didn't know why he couldn't lie to her, and he certainly couldn't explain it to Jack, who lied habitually for fun. He risked a glance over his shoulder and was dismayed to see Goody Hardwicke watching them thoughtfully from her open door.
"When we return, if we return," he said seriously, "we arrive and depart under cover of darkness."
"What if you're still, you know, on the bony side?" asked Jack, wriggling his fingers.
James pursed his lips. "Then we pray for rain, or clouds, at least."
Fortunately, the brook was easy to find, albeit challenging to follow. Where James recalled smooth trails from when the natives roamed the woods freely there were now thickets and bushes, dense with thorns. After having his wig pulled from his head by low branches several times, Jack abandoned wearing it altogether and rolled it up with his hat. The heavy brocade jacket soon followed, and the silk hose, which were in danger of being ripped to shreds by brambles, and the heeled shoes were soon traded for his sensible boots. James was grateful, at least, that the underbrush discouraged Jack from going trouserless.
Deeper and deeper into the woods they went, following the stream up hills and meandering through meadows. By the time the sun was low on the horizon, James estimated they had covered at least five miles, and they made camp a short way from the stream in the lee of a clump of thorn bushes. James recalled hearing stories of wild creatures in the forests, and he hoped to make their camp site as difficult to access as possible, even if Jack complained about potential damage to his tender bits if he had to pass water in the night.
It was a warm evening, even for New England, and given James's concerns, they agreed not to light a fire and Jack supped on dried beef and hardtack softened in river water. When the sun was down, Jack laid out his bedroll and lay down. Within five minutes he was snoring, his head propped on his bag.
The night was clear, hang it all, and before long the moon rose. James looked in dismay at his skeleton hands and sighed, despite knowing he actually had no lungs with which to do so. He sat still, staring at the bushes directly in front of him, trying not to turn every sound in the forest into an approaching search party, and focused on the sound of Sparrow breathing.
He was fast asleep, and his chest rose and fell rhythmically. In the moonlight, without his trademark kohl or chin braids, Sparrow looked surprisingly young. It was then that James wondered what Sparrow's age was. He was certainly older than himself, but how much older James couldn't guess. He leaned closer at Jack's sleeping face, and even in the dim light from the waning moon he could make out deep creases around Jack's eyes and on his forehead that spoke of many years in the brutal Caribbean sun and astringent sea air.
Jack's mouth had fallen open, revealing his unnaturally shiny metal teeth, which ruined the illusion of the dim aristocrat. James was all the more surprised that he hadn't noticed at the time, but Jack, when he was dressed as a lord, had pinched his mouth when he spoke so as to hide his exotic teeth as much as to convey a sense of noblesse oblige. Clever. But what about the man wasn't?
James's perusal was cut short by what was unmistakably the murmur of voices nearby, and it wasn't merely his fancy. He shook Jack sharply, and his eyes flew open. His hand shot to his hip where his sword would have been when he froze, clearly remembering who he was with and where he was. He took a breath to speak, and James put his finger to his lips.
The voices were getting closer, and both men by unspoken agreement quietly rose to their knees to peer over the tops of the thorn bushes. To James's dismay, four lanterns were clearly visible making their way up the river, following their trail, which was obvious from all the branches they'd broken or displaced. For all their care in selecting a camp site, their trail would lead their pursuers to them in minutes.
James thought very quickly. When he'd been pursued similarly, he had taken care to lay a false trail, but it was too late for that. The other option was to cause a distraction, which could prove detrimental at such close range. Sparrow looked to be thinking as quickly as he could.
"We've got to hide you, you bag of bones," whispered Jack.
Suddenly an idea burst into full bloom in James's mind. "And where better to hide than in plain sight?" he returned. "Stay here, Sparrow. I'll lead them away."
Jack looked scandalized, but there was a light of curiosity in his eye. James smiled, for all that the expression likely appeared ghastly rather than reassuring on his face, and he picked silently around the bushes to the trail they'd cut to their camp. He immediately began to run in the direction the river ran, taking care to make as much noise as possible.
The voices immediately broke into excited words, which became shouts, but James was running too quickly to hear them clearly. What he sought lay between a quarter and an eighth of a mile back, and so he ran, weaving through the trees and leaping bushes in the dim moonlight. Low branches tore at his clothes and the shreds of skin that hung to his arms and face, but he felt nothing apart from the need to lead the men away from Jack's hiding place.
After what seemed like an interminable amount of running, James came to the place he'd spotted earlier, a broad meadow filled with grass and wild flowers that had been nibbled short by numerous deer. A glance heavenward made a knot of uncertainty in his stomach loosen; the night was completely clear. James could see his pursuers' lanterns growing steadily closer, and he trampled the grass off to one side as best he could, then concealed his coat beneath a bush, loosened his neck tie, and unbuttoned his shirt. He lay on the ground, limbs partially splayed, closed his eyes and waited for them to come.
The night insects that had silenced at his arrival began to sing again as he waited. Some minutes later, the garbled voices became clear.
"—back to England in a burlap sack," one was saying angrily. His voice was commanding and sure.
All were out of breath, James was pleased to hear, once again thanking his god for letting him be preserved in this way.
The men paused in their progress. "The trail goes this way," said another man gruffly. James imagined a barrel-chested man as the speaker, the town blacksmith or a stevedore.
"I don't think it was our men at all," said another, whose reedy voice suggested someone aged and choleric. "I think we let a deer distract us from our pursuit."
"A deer doesn't make that much noise," said the last, whose voice was deep and mournful. "Nor does a deer make this sort of trail. Maybe a panther chasing a deer."
A tracker. James swallowed in spite of his resolution to lie perfectly still. Such a man could see through the ruse if he chose to look. James's only hope was to distract him from looking.
James ceased breathing, something that he found surprisingly easy to do, and lay still. He could see their lanterns beneath the fringe of his eyelashes.
"Look over there!" called the leader, taking several quick steps towards James and stopping suddenly when he saw what lay before him.
"Christ have mercy!" said the old man in horrified tones.
There was silence as the men surrounded him, holding their lanterns up to view the grim spectacle beneath them.
"Which one of them was it, do you think?" asked the blacksmith.
"The captain," said the leader confidently. "Look at his breeches. Once Naval whites, I should think."
"What happened to him?" asked the old man.
"Panther, probably," said the tracker. "Then the myriad scavengers."
"To have so little of him left," began the old man. "God rest his soul."
"He was a traitor and a spy," said the leader flatly, "and he got what he deserved."
"What about the dandy he was with?" asked the blacksmith.
"From how my wife described him, he's probably fallen off a cliff by now," said the leader. James nearly smiled. So this was the estimable Mr. Hardwicke.
"Unless it was a ruse," said the tracker thoughtfully.
"Come now, gentlemen," said Hardwicke. "It really doesn't matter. Our spy has been dealt with. The other man is incidental and none of our concern. We have no evidence of wrongdoing, apart from having the bad luck to sail with a known spy for the crown."
"Should we, say a few words?" asked the blacksmith.
"It would be the Christian thing to do," said the old man.
"It's impractical to bring him to town," said the blacksmith. "He'd probably fall apart if we tried to pick him up, the poor devil."
"Then let us say a few words for his departed soul," said Hardwicke impressively, "as he returns to the bosom of our Lord."
The men proceeded to give James a solemn funeral, even going so far as to toss a few clods of earth on him. The Puritans were quite decent folk, all things considered.
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