White Admiral 5

Others

by

Manic Intent

"What?"

"Wot?"

Marines and James alike stared in disbelief at the scallywag lounging in the battered sloop, who had echoed James' answer to Gillette's call. He had a face that had likely been a heartbreaker in his youth, now weathered by the sun and exposure, hair in a wild tangle under a lopsided tricorne hat. Gray vest and white shirt were discolored and patched, and bucket boots had a deep slash over one hem. Pistols and cutlass had been surrendered. Said scallywag was in irons—and absolutely unperturbed—he grinned when Gillette came to a huffing stop next to the small ship. "Aye, still midshipman? What 'bout Theo?"

"Here, sir," Groves appeared at Gillette's shoulder, equally out of breath. "You know what the Admiral would do if he promoted us. We don't want to be reassigned."

"Explain," James said sharply. The stress of the past week and a half was taking its toll. Months of patrols and raids on pirate strongholds had passed with only minor hitches. Sparrow had even (if grudgingly) begun to vet plans with James beforehand—though usually, all that James could contribute was to polish up rough edges. Privateers had been pushed back to Havana and Saint Clemens, to the point that Sparrow was actually beginning to feel a little bored, cruising about the open sea with nothing to do. No mention had been made from either side of the intimate moment on the apple tree.

Then disaster had struck—a bad storm near Georgetown had separated Gillette's Assailant from the fleet, and it had been badly damaged. While attempting to find their bearings, a group of Spanish privateers had happened on the Navy ship. A very bloody ransom note had been delivered to Sparrow at Port Royal—James had watched dark eyes become icy with fury. His men, for himself. James had thought of seven men with broken necks in a pirate cell, and wondered if he'd ever see the midshipman alive again.

Sparrow had been too quiet through the day—James felt that he really should have suspected something. The next day found the Admiral—and a sloop—conspicuously missing, and the fort had instantly been thrown into disarray. They had arrived at the coordinates provided in the note too late—despite taking the Pearl and the Interceptor. No Sparrow, no privateers—only the damaged Assailant and its shackled, beaten crew feverish from exposure. James wasn't even sure how Sparrow had made it to the area before the two fastest ships in the fleet, despite his head start.

It had been a week and a half since then, and James' sleep was plagued with bad dreams of bloodied, barely-human heaps. Searches, a dragnet, and investigations in all possible ports of call had come up with nothing. He could tell that he wasn't the only one. Gillette and Groves looked exhausted—but they were all smiles at the sight of the lounging man in the small ship. Overwhelming relief. Groves took the keys to the shackles from James, and unlocked the man's wrists. "Sorry about that, sir."

"S'all right. An' since I've more or less already blown me cover, ye might as well introduce me."

Gillette turned to James. "Lieutenant Norrington, meet Lieutenant 'Bootstrap' Turner. One of the Caribbean's best kept secrets, and the source of much of the confidential information about piratical movements about these parts. Last seen as a pirate officer in Captain Barbossa's crew..."

"What?" James' voice rose. There were gasps from observing marines. Then he recalled Sparrow having mentioned, a while ago, something about having three lieutenants. A story for another day...

Sparrow always seemed to know, uncannily, what his opponents planned. Where they were, where they were based, how they could be supplying themselves, where they would strike next. It wasn't perfect, and he'd seen some misjudgments (though all quickly circumvented with quick wit), but otherwise, everybody seemed to have attributed it to luck. Divine providence. It did wonders for morale—sometimes James even found the effect on the men frightening. If ever ordered by the Admiral to steer their ships into gutting reefs, they would likely have done so without hesitation.

Outside lieutenants. Then this?

'Bootstrap' Turner. He knew a Turner...

"Oh, yer the Pirate Hunter, eh? Ye've been makin' a name for yerself around the pirates. Pleased t'meet ye," Turner said cheerfully. "I'd shake yer hand in a mo'."

"We're really glad to see you, sir, but..." Gillette's voice trailed off. "You just left? Like that?"

"Can't bloody stay put now, can I, when I heard wot happened?" Turner had climbed up onto the docks. "They be holding an auction for Jack in Tortuga in a month or so. Open for biddin', any corsair that cares t'get his hands on the Luck of God. Barbossa had sent me to go check for authenticity, but word 'bout these parts was that the Navy be in a right panic. So I didn't bother t'waste time. Jack would be right pissed wi' me when he finds out I've blown me cover, but I set Jim up t'take me place..." Turner blinked slowly, and staggered back, when he saw a wide-eyed Will step forward from behind James. "William?"

Will froze for a moment, then fled, towards the fort. Gillette put a hand on Turner's shoulder to steady him, but the Lieutenant shrugged it off. "He's supposed t'be in London! Where's Selene? Don't tell me she's here!"

"Sorry, sir." Groves said quietly. Turner looked searchingly at their faces, then abruptly sat down, on the docks.

"Ah." A deep sigh, and long, measured breaths, his shoulders trembling, then his jaw firmed. Quiet now, all his previous sense of amusement at the situation leeched away. "Suppose I should sort that mess out later. Most importantly, we'd best all be getting t'Tortuga."

--

Cleaned up, shaved, and back in a Lieutenant's uniform, Turner looked like a totally different person—though he slouched, and he walked with the rolling gait of a common sailor, spoke with the same burr as Sparrow. None of the marines in Port Royal seemed to recall him other than Gillette and Groves—reassigned, apparently, so as to protect one of Sparrow's best kept secrets. Will was in hiding, but James had seen Turner entrust an envelope to Miss Swann, when told that she was the boy's best friend.

"I'd take the Pearl, if that's all right with ye," Turner told him, from where they were laying last minute plans at James' desk, over a large map.

"I'm more comfortable on the Interceptor," James nodded. Turner was scrupulously quick to vet every single decision with James, as if trying to gauge him—or not to offend him. He smiled, a little wryly. Even the issue of address had been tricky—eventually, both had simply agreed to call the other by surnames. "Technically, you outrank me, Turner. As First Lieutenant. You don't have to check everything with me."

"Aye, but I'd feel a right fool hearin' ye call me sir," Turner said dryly. "Seein' as I just spent the last decade or so of me life bein' a pirate."

"Only technically," James replied, prodding the marked pirate port. "Strange how the Admiral always let this place be."

"The last free port," Turner murmured. "Aye. He liked the idea. Besides, it makes it easier t'keep tabs on piracy in the Caribbees when there be a single preferred port of call. Settin' up and developin' connections be easier in a place closer t'Port Royal—otherwise, the port of call would likely have been North Carolina. Farther from here."

"We got men to look around Tortuga, quietly," James said, frowning. "It was the first place we looked."

"Aye, well, a marine could look a dozen years in Tortuga an' not find a hair of the Admiral. Place has more hidin' places than a rabbit warren."

"So we'd be taking a squadron?" James grimaced. "It'd be very visible. They may execute him."

"Then wot'd ye suggest?"

"Just the Pearl and the Interceptor. We'd hide here... and enter Tortuga disguised. How long before word gets out that you've... defected?"

"Probably not for a while. Barbossa wasn't that interested in the auction—he's plannin' another trip t'the Indies. So he won't be checkin' on me for a time, an' he don't keep spies in Port Royal. Other than me, that is."

"So you can take us around Tortuga as fresh recruits?"

"Sorry t'say this, Norrington, but yer face is a little well known 'bout here," Turner grinned. "An' ye really should'a said this 'fore I shaved. Though I suppose if yer amenable to a bit of paint and some spirit gum..."

"I'm aware that the chosen men would all need to be disguised appropriately," James said dryly.

"And ye'll all talk wrong, walk wrong. But I s'pose it could work."

"Very diplomatic," Turner muttered.

"I'm an impatient man," James admitted. "Gillette, Groves. Get the men to spread out. Search and secure the premises."

"Sir!" The midshipmen saluted.

"Navy!" some of the insufficiently clad girls squeaked. The madame wailed, and took a step towards them, her hands outstretched beseechingly.

"We knew there was somethin' funny goin' on! When Marshall said he'd be usin' the storage area an' no one was t'come down! T'wasn't our fault, we had nothin' t'do wi' it! An' then two days ago there were all those terrible sounds... gunshots an' screams..."

"Where is the storage area?" The lady quailed under the sudden look of icy fury that James directed at her, then scurried down the stairs and into one of the rooms. A large carpet was twitched aside to show a trapdoor. Pulled open, James could only see a flight of stairs heading into darkness. "A light."

A candleholder was lit and pushed into his hands by a marine. James descended, followed closely by Turner. The stench of blood and death assailed his senses, and did nothing to dispel the dread within him. Near the bottom, he tripped over the prone form of a man—Turner grabbed his arm to steady him. He took in bound long hair for a crystalline moment of horror, then let out a breath when Turner pushed the body over with a foot. Not Sparrow. A gunshot wound through the head. Turner whistled under his breath.

The storage area was a corridor with five adjoining rooms. At the end, it branched into two more routes. A bloody maze, ventilated badly by shafts up to the surface. Sparrow might be running out of time, even if he was still alive. "We'd better get some more men down here, and split up."

Turner opened his mouth to say that he was going with him, then seemed to perceive something in James' expression. He nodded, turned, and started calling for men to bring down more lights. James stalked off down the corridor, occasionally stepping over still bodies. It seemed like a fight had broken out between differing pirate crews. Even with a sleeve from stolen buccaneer clothing pressed to his nose, the stench was nearly overpowering. Behind him, he could hear Turner efficiently deploying the men to search the rooms. He picked one branch of the corridor, and stalked down it, listening carefully, glancing at the ground. A blood trail, and footprints of an appropriate size, occasionally, that smudged crimson pools.

Groans behind some doors, which he ignored—wrong pitch, wrong tone. The candle illuminated dried blood, rust-hued.

Following that took him up an incline, and finally to a room with an open door, where the air seemed fresher. A room with a larger shaft for ventilation, then. A rasping, familiar voice warned, "I have a gun."

"Admiral." The relief was so great that James had to lean briefly against a grimy wall, and exhale. His eyes stung.

"James?" Uncomprehending. Disbelieving. Odd. First names.

James steeled himself for horror as he stepped into the room. Sparrow was backed into a corner, under the airshaft, thinner, his brocade coat in tatters, clothes liberally splashed crimson. One leg was a bloody mess, despite what looked like rudimentary attempts at first aid, and he seemed to be favoring a side. Broken ribs, perhaps. Hands were white-knuckled over the pistol handle, the finger with the black pearl ring bent at an unnatural angle. A candle was lit beside him, the wax solidifying beneath it. Four stubs beside it. An open rectangular box, packets of what looked like rations, a bottle of water, ammunition. An open-mouthed expression of relief-astonishment-exhaustion was quickly smoothed away into an impish smirk, ruined by the split lip and the bruised cheek. "What took ye so long? By the way, that beard an' moustache is terribly fake. An' that paint don't go well wi' yer eyes."

"They..." James saw red for a moment, then closed his eyes, controlling his fury.

"It's not as bad as it looks, an' it could'a been worse," Sparrow said quietly, then cocked his head at the distant, approaching sound of measured footsteps used to a parade ground. His voice raised a little, and changed pitch. "Other people's blood, Lieutenant. An' ye don't need t'help me up, I'm just fine." Dark eyes spoke a silent command.

James ignored it, putting the pistol in his belt, and knelt down on the ground, placing the candleholder to a side, whispering, "I'm carrying you."

"Do that and I shoot," Sparrow said in a low tone, and pressed the cold muzzle of the gun against James' forehead. His eyes were startlingly clear, although flushed cheeks hinted at the onset of fever. "Help me up. But don't make it look like it's because I can't walk."

"Why?" James growled. "You'll only hurt yourself further."

"Ever been a talisman, Lieutenant?" Sparrow smiled faintly, with no humor.

James bowed his head. He understood.

"We'd take turns," the First Lieutenant had said, watching with twitching fingers as the doctor cut away filthy breeches to inspect the leg. James nodded. "Unless you want t'go back t'the Interceptor."

"I'll have Gillette and Groves draw straws to see who captains her," James said, aware that his voice had a distinct tremor. His fingers curled and uncurled, when he wasn't paying attention.

"I'll go speak t'the men." Turner patted him on the arm. "And take the next watch. Doubt you'd be able to lie to them and say wot he'd want us t'say."

"Insanity," James muttered, watching the doctor begin to painstakingly clean the wound on the leg. Two wounds. Gunshot, and a stab.

"Aye. But the Luck of God isn't s'posed t'seem human. Supposed t'be fey, untouchable. Somethin' transcendin' mortality." Turner said quietly. "The morale of the men in the Caribbean depends on that, as well as a lot of other issues—the extent of piracy, relations with the Crown an' the East India Company, the merchant economy 'round these parts... an' he knows it. He's been in scrapes like this before—though perhaps none so grave—an' each time he's injured, he never shows it. I've seen him walk in his funny way wi' injuries that should'a left any other man temporarily crippled."

James could only begin to comprehend the weight of responsibility shaped by a moniker that sat on shoulders that seemed, in the staining sheets, too frail for it. "You speak to the men." He pulled out Sparrow's chair at the cluttered desk, and slumped in it, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

A nod. "I'd get some tea when I'm done."

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