The Keeper had opened his mouth, doubtless to say something scathing, but by the time Jack finished speaking, he shut it, then stood staring down at the body, obviously mulling over what he’d been told.
Finally Teague looked back up. “I’ve seen him before this. I spoke to all of Barbossa’s surviving crew. Tommy was drunk when he spoke to me. Barbossa said he’d been drunk ever since the Cobra sank. He was probably drunk, and he fell in. Or maybe he was passed out on the dock, and rolled in. Did you examine him?”
“No,” said Jack, then added the obvious, dryly. “It’s dark, Captain. But I will, if you’ll hold the lantern.”
Teague nodded brusquely, and held his lantern to illuminate the corpse. He gestured, and his men rejoined them. In the light of the three lanterns, Jack knelt back down on the dock, and, not allowing himself to think about what he was doing, began examining the body, rolling it back and forth along the dock to see all sides. His stomach lurched again at the spongy feel of the cold flesh, and the squishing sounds it made, but he persisted, determined to discover what had happened. He even opened old Tommy’s shirt to check his chest and back for bruises or stab wounds, though he drew the line at removing the ragged britches.
Finally, after ten minutes or so of close examination, Jack sat back on his heels. “As far as I can tell, he wasn’t struck, stabbed, or shot. No wounds on the body.”
Teague nodded, as if satisfied that his conclusion had been borne out. “No foul play,” he said.
“I’m not so sure,” Jack said. “There could still have been foul play, Captain. All it would have taken was for someone to get him so drunk that he passed out, then drop him into the cove. That would be murder.”
Teague sighed, but Jack’s point was so obvious, he didn’t say anything. Still, it was clear that the Pirate Lord had made up his mind about One Tooth Tommy’s demise. “How long do you think he’s been dead?” he asked. “More than a day, that’s clear.”
Jack stood up. He was soaking, and even in the warm Caribbean evening, a breeze had sprung up. Shivering a little, he walked over to retrieve his effects. “I think he was killed not long after he spoke to me,” he said, quietly, pulling on his waistcoat, then his coat. “I think someone else heard what he was saying, and felt threatened.”
Teague walked over to stand beside him, and also lowered his voice. “Who was in The Drunken Lady? Who might have heard what he was saying?”
Jack shrugged. “I heard him from half the taproom away, crowded as it was. Anyone might have heard him ranting.”
Captain Teague blew out his breath unhappily, but said no more. Instead he gestured to his men, and they picked up the body. Jack and Teague picked up lanterns to light their way, and the little party started back toward Troubadour in silence.
Jack walked along, holding his coat closed across his chest, remembering Tommy’s insistence that the man he’d seen was “the devil.” Every so often, he shivered.
Jack blinked, realizing that the sun had moved while he’d been lost in memories. His brief shore leave was over. He sighed, feeling loneliness wash over him like a wave. If only Esmeralda were here, to share this beautiful beach with him.…
He wondered what she was doing at the moment. So far, he hadn’t seen a single ship during their passage to the Bahamas, and, frankly, he hoped that would continue. But if a ship appeared in the circle of his spyglass, he hoped it would be Venganza. Jack smiled slightly. She’d have a lot more trouble catching the Wench than she did Fair Wind, he thought.
Rising to his feet, he executed another perfect dive, then began swimming back to shore, and his clothes.
The remainder of the Wicked Wench’s first voyage under Jack Sparrow’s command passed without incident. Jack learned every nuance of his ship’s rigging, how she moved, how best to take advantage of the wind. He drilled and pushed his crew to speed up the time they took responding to orders, and was rewarded with greater efficiency.
Chamba continued to perform well as a new hand. His English improved, as he listened to the English-speaking crewmembers and emulated them. Robby Greene told Jack one night, laughing, that the lad had said, “Savvy?” in a perfect imitation of the way his captain did. He also told Jack that Chamba had asked Robby to teach him to read, and that Robby had begun his lessons. “He’s quick, Jack,” the first mate said. “He could make an officer, if only…” he trailed off, and shrugged, knowing that Jack would follow his meaning.
“He could go on the account,” Jack said. “Pirates recognize a good man, and they’ll elect anyone captain that can bring them prizes. Pirates don’t care about the color of a man’s skin.”
Robby shook his head. “Don’t you dare suggest that to him, Jack,” he said. “If he works hard, he can become a quartermaster, or a mate, perhaps. That’s better than swinging from a gallows.”
“You’re right,” Jack agreed, with a sigh.
The Wench sailed north, along the coast of the American colonies, gliding on the Gulf Stream. As before, Jack brought her across the Atlantic, navigating with admirable precision. She unloaded her cargo in Liverpool, then picked up another cargo, and departed, bound for Calabar. Jack was glad that the EITC dockworkers had wasted no time loading his new cargo. He’d checked the days their voyage had taken, and realized he was actually running close to the record for sailing the Triangle. His Wench was indeed fast!
Then they were on the move again, sailing south, past France, past Spain, past Portugal. They took on fresh water in Gibraltar, and then they were hastening south, down the coast of Africa, curving around the bulge, then turning almost due east.
They reached Calabar on a Thursday, not long before the rainy season was due to begin, and tied up at the EITC dock. Jack checked the date, and sighed. Missed equaling the record by two bloody days! If we hadn’t diverted to St. Jago, we’d likely have beaten it. Still, not too shabby for a first voyage as a new captain. Not too shabby at all.…
Jack had scarcely checked the moorings on the Wench before crowds were gathering on the dock. Voices were calling out to the ship, shouting that he’d almost beaten the Triangle record. Hearing them, Jack went to the railing, and waved modestly. The dockworkers cheered.
After they dropped the gangplank, a short, ginger-haired man came scurrying up, introducing himself as Eugene Parker, the new EITC portmaster. Portmaster Parker told Jack that his predecessor, Benjamin Blount, had fled Calabar in the middle of the night after a captain had discovered that the provisions he’d sent had been infested and the meat rotten. Hearing this, Jack shook his head in wonder and made appropriately shocked comments.
He was still standing on the weather deck, talking to the portmaster, when a slightly built, dark-haired man called out from the bottom of the gangplank, “Permission to come aboard, Captain Sparrow?”
Jack looked down at the man, and nodded. “Who’s the Scotsman?” he asked the portmaster.
Mr. Parker’s broad, good-humored countenance tightened, but he said, evenly, “That’s Mr. Beckett’s assistant, Ian Mercer.”
By that time, the new arrival had joined them. Jack nodded cordially to him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mercer.”
Mercer gave him a curt nod back. “Good afternoon, Captain Sparrow.”
Jack noticed Mercer didn’t extend his hand. Looking into the man’s eyes, Jack was just as glad. Mercer’s eyes were flat and cold…the eyes of a man who could kill without a thought, without even a reason, and never think twice about it. Jack had met a few pirates who were killers; most were madmen, dangerous to their crews, and to everyone they encountered. But even worse than the madmen, Jack had found, were the killers who had eyes like Mercer.
And this man works for Mr. Beckett? he thought, dismayed, but careful not to let it show. Why would he need a man like this working for him? What’s Beckett up to, that he has a killer as his assistant?
Jack cleared his throat. “So how is Mr. Beckett keeping, Mr. Mercer? Well, I hope?”
“He’s fine, Captain Sparrow,”
Mercer said, shortly, obviously not interested in exchanging pleasantries. “Mr. Beckett sent me down here to ask you to come to his office right away. There’s someone he wants you to meet.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lost and Found
JACK BLINKED AT CUTLER BECKETT’S new “assistant,” then glanced around at the Wicked Wench, visually checking her status. The ship was safely secured, but there were things he needed to do, such as arrange for his cargo to be unloaded, and inform the crew about shore leave. But this sounded urgent.…
“I’ll come directly,” he said. “Just let me speak to my first mate to let him know about this.”
Mercer’s face never changed. He nodded, grudgingly.
Jack was back in moments, and the two men set off on foot, down the gangplank, along the docks, then to the rutted mud of the streets, heading up the hill toward the better section of town. Brushing uselessly at a spot on his coat, Jack cleared his throat. “I hope Mr. Beckett will understand that I haven’t had a chance to…freshen up.”
“That’s been taken care of,” Mercer said, flatly. The only distinctive thing about his voice was his Scottish accent. Otherwise, his voice was toneless, lacking any emotion.
Jack glanced at Mercer out of the corner of his eye. He was fairly sure the man was carrying a brace of pistols beneath his coat. The garment itself was cut so as to conceal them, but Jack knew where to look. He’d carried pistols slung beneath his arms himself, a few times.
Who is this man that doesn’t even take a mile walk in broad daylight on a public street without going out armed? What kind of trouble can he be expecting? And WHY does Mr. Beckett need a man like this to handle things for him?
Mercer strode along quickly, forcing Jack to lengthen his stride. Even though Mercer was shorter than Jack, Jack’s gait was perforce unsteady, since it had been many weeks since he’d been on dry land. By the time they’d climbed the hill to Beckett’s home (Jack was surprised by their destination; he’d been expecting to be taken to the EITC office) his “land legs” were working again.
Mercer led him inside the beautifully appointed town house, stopping in the foyer. “Mistress Goodwright?” he called out.
A plumpish middle-aged woman appeared, wearing a white fichu crossed over the bosom, and the matching cap worn by married ladies in England. “Yes, Mr. Mercer?” She glanced at Jack. “Is this the young man we’re expecting to lunch with Mr. Beckett and His Lordship?”
“Yes, Mistress Goodwright,” Mercer replied. “Please attend to him.”
The housekeeper gave Jack an appraising glance, from his sun-faded old tricorne, to his battered buckled shoes. She then made a little “tch” with her tongue against her teeth, but didn’t…quite…shake her head. “Very well, please come with me, Mister…er, Sparrow, is it?
Jack swept off his battered tricorne, bowed slightly, and smiled. “Captain Jack Sparrow, madam.”
As she took in his smile, Mistress Goodwright’s plump cheeks turned even redder; smiling back, she actually dropped a little curtsy. “La, and aren’t you the one,” she said, to no one in particular. “Come with me, please, Captain Sparrow.”
Jack followed her down the hallway, through the family living quarters, to the back of the house that seemed to be part of the laundry area. A portion of it had been cleared of sheets and clothes, and there stood a cast-iron tub full of water, a big ewer that was likewise filled, a cake of soap, a razor, and several large towels. A comb and brush waited on the washstand. Hanging from a clothes tree was a bright blue coat, a canary colored waistcoat, an ivory lawn shirt, and a pair of fawn-colored britches. Creamy white stockings were draped alongside the britches. All of the clothes appeared to be new. “We didn’t do the shoes,” Mistress Goodwright said, regretfully, eyeing Jack’s battered shoes. “But you can brush ’em off, a bit, maybe.”
Jack stopped in the doorway. “What’s all this?” he asked, surprised. “New clothes? For me?”
“You’re to meet His Lordship, Viscount Penwallow,” Mistress Goodwright said, bustling around. “Methinks we’ve got a hat that will fit…one of footman’s old ones, perhaps. I’ll see about it, while you’re having your bath. Hurry up, it’s almost time to serve luncheon.”
Jack was mesmerized by the water in the iron tub. Reaching out, he touched it, finding it tepid. “What’s this for?” he asked.
“La, lad!” Mistress Goodwright giggled, “’Tis for you! Very particular, Mr. Beckett is, ’bout his hygiene. That is his own tub! He ordered us to haul it down here and fill it for you, Captain.”
Jack frowned, confused. “What does Mr. Beckett want me to do with it?”
She giggled harder. “I know, I know…outlandish idea, isn’t it? But ’tis becoming the fashion among some of the gentry, they say. At least once a month, they takes off all their clothes, and they SITS in those ‘bathtubs’ and they washes themselves. All over. Mr. Beckett says the Romans did it all the time.”
“No wonder their empire fell,” Jack muttered. Turning back to Mistress Goodwright, he drew himself up and fixed her with a reproving glare. “Madam, I am clean.” Catching sight of his hands, he tucked them behind him and amended, “Well, mostly.”
Silently, the goodwife shook her head, pursing her lips.
“I’ll have you know I went for a nice long swim on a lovely beach, not much more than three months ago,” Jack said, indignantly.
Mistress Goodwright stepped forward, biting her lip. She swallowed. “Mr. Beckett told me that if you said no, I was to tell him and he’d instruct Mr. Mercer to see that you did it,” she whispered.
Jack moved forward and stared down at the nervous little housekeeper. His voice, when finally spoke, was very soft and cold. “Did he now? That’s…interesting.”
The thought of having Mercer and some footman ripping his clothes off and throwing him into that tub was not only unappealing, it was terrifying. For a moment, Jack was tempted to say to hell with the whole bloody thing and go back to his ship. Still…he worked for Beckett…and Beckett had made him a captain…and there was the Wicked Wench....
He hesitated.
Mistress Goodwright nodded fearfully. “Oh, please, Captain Sparrow. Mr. Beckett ordered me to see that you bathed. He’ll be powerful angry with me if you don’t. He’s always so particular about things when Lord Penwallow comes to visit.”
The goodwife’s eyes were suspiciously bright, and her plea was obviously heartfelt. Looking down at the clear water, Jack shrugged. How bad can it be? “Oh, very well,” he grumped. “But I’m sure it’s unhealthy. I’ll probably catch me death.”
“Thank you, Captain Sparrow!” Mistress Goodwright hesitated in the doorway as Jack placed his tricorne on a row of hooks, then stepped out of his shoes. He took off his coat, then looked back up at her, wondering why she was still there. “Um…” she cast her eyes down modestly as she blushed, “Captain Sparrow, would you like me to…scrub your back?”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Madam,” he said, patiently, “I thought time was of the essence?”
“Yes, yes, you’re right, of course,” she moved backward.
“And close that door, if you please,” Jack ordered, shrugging out of his waistcoat.
The door swung closed…but he didn’t hear it click. Jack began unbuttoning his shirt. “All the way, Mistress Goodwright,” he said.
The door clicked shut.
The bath wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d thought it might be. He’d never washed with anything other than a chip of laundry soap, but this soap smelled like herbs and flowers. Jack even washed his hair, dunking his head to rinse. When he climbed out, he was surprised to see how dark the water had turned.
Maybe I should try to swim more often, he thought, toweling off.
After he’d shaved, and tied his hair back, he turned his attention to the new clothes. They fit perfectly. Jack wiped the dust off his shoes with one of the towels, buffed the buckles for a moment, then pulled them on. He opened the door to the other room to find
Mercer and Mistress Goodwright waiting. She handed him a plain black tricorne. “Here, Captain Sparrow. You look very…distinguished.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. The new clothes were stiff against his skin, but he had to admit they felt good. He wished he had a mirror. “About my old clothes—”
“We’ll take care of burning them for you,” Mercer said. “Come along now.”
Jack halted. “I don’t think so, mate. I’m rather partial to my clothes. I spent good coin on them, money I earned by the sweat of my brow. I want them returned to my ship, or put in a parcel so I can carry them back myself.”
Mercer’s look clearly expressed his irritation, but Jack stood firm.
“Very well,” Mercer said, and even through the man’s flat tones, Jack could tell this small concession cost him. This was a man people did not say “no” to with impunity. “Mistress Goodwright will see that your clothes are waiting for you.”
Jack glanced at the housekeeper and she nodded reassuringly at him.
He headed for Mercer. “Let’s go, then.”
Luncheon, it turned out, was to be served upstairs, in Beckett’s library. Jack stood with Mercer outside the door while the assistant knocked on it. “Mr. Beckett, Captain Sparrow is here.”
“Please send him in,” responded a familiar voice.
Jack entered the library, and thought that he had never seen so many books in one place before. He would have loved to look around, but instead went straight over to the long table in the center of the room, where Cutler Beckett was seated with a heavy-bellied man who smelled strongly of expensive perfume. No doubt this was the Lord Penwallow that had been mentioned. The older man wore an elaborate powdered wig and elegant brocaded coat in marked contrast to Cutler Beckett’s subdued business attire. His Lordship’s clothing, Jack realized, probably cost more than an EITC captain made in half a year.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Beckett,” Jack said, wondering whether he should bow or offer to shake hands. Deciding to play it safe, he gave a respectful bow.
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom Page 23