“Ah, Captain Sparrow!” Cutler Beckett said, in his upper-class accent. “How nice that you could join us for luncheon. Allow me to introduce my houseguest. This is Viscount, Lord Reginald Marmaduke Bracegirdle-Penwallow, the EITC’s Director of African Affairs.”
Jack wished that someone had warned him beforehand about that name. He kept his features pleasant, but it was a close thing for a moment. Promising himself a good laugh the moment he was alone, he bowed, rather more deeply than he had to Beckett, to Penwallow. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Penwallow.”
Lord Penwallow smiled affably. “Thank you, Captain Sparrow, and I must say the pleasure is all mine. It’s an honor to meet the captain who so nearly broke the record for sailing the Triangle—and on the vessel’s maiden voyage as an EITC ship, too! Well done, well done, Captain Sparrow!”
Jack found himself rather liking Lord Penwallow.
After Jack was seated, and while they were exchanging small talk about the Wicked Wench, chatting about her cargo capacity and her top logged speed, Mistress Goodwright tapped on the door, then entered, followed by a string of maids and footmen, all of them carrying platters, bowls, and bottles. Jack, who hadn’t eaten since dawn, heard his stomach growl, and devoutly hoped no one else had heard it. He stared at the excess of delicate wineglasses, bone china, and polished sterling with dismay, then, glancing sideways at Cutler Beckett, resolved to follow his host’s lead in navigating these unknown intricacies of table etiquette. It wouldn’t do to commit some manner of egregious faux pas and embarrass Mr. Beckett.
The meal began with a delicious consommé, and a glass of port. Jack copied Beckett’s use of his soup spoon, enjoying the flavor, but all the while wondering why such a flavorful broth had been allowed to get cold, and was lacking any actual meat, vegetables, beans, or rice. Jack noticed that Mr. Beckett didn’t clink his spoon against the china, and made not even a trace of a slurp, so he carefully followed his lead. The gentry don’t have much fun when they eat, do they? Maybe that’s why Mr. Beckett hardly ever smiles.…
The next course was a delicious white fish with a creamy sauce, accompanied by a delicate Chablis. Jack had eaten fish all his life, but never any so elegantly prepared and served. Now that he had to actually chew, he was careful to mimic Cutler Beckett and keep his lips together.
Jack sipped each wine carefully, politely refusing refills. He wanted to keep a clear head so he wouldn’t make some kind of mistake. He was relieved to discover that the main course was filet of beef, with potatoes. The captain relaxed a bit; he’d certainly had meat and potatoes before. But he’d never had beef this tender. He chewed appreciatively—but carefully. Again there was a different wine, this time a rich Beaujolais.
When the servants cleared away his plate this time, Jack figured they were finished. He was just about to push back from the table, when suddenly there was a plate of raw greens, onions, and slivers of carrot resting before him. After a glance at Cutler Beckett’s place setting for a cutlery check, he picked up the appropriate fork (he was down now to only two) and was soon crunching away manfully. How odd to eat vegetables that hadn’t been cooked! But he had to admit, they tasted better than he would have imagined, due mostly to the dollop of dressing the footman had added to them after placing Jack’s plate before him.
The last dish served was some kind of pudding, mixed up with cake, all of it topped with thick cream and a sweet liqueur. Jack had never eaten anything so sweet and rich in his life. He finished, then laid his fork down, wishing he dared lick the plate…but even pirates seldom did that—at least in public. The sweet sherry that had accompanied it wasn’t to his taste, so he didn’t finish his glass—another first. Using the damask serviette for the last time, Jack wiped his mouth, just as Beckett and Penwallow did. He found himself thinking that perhaps he’d invest in a few of these. They worked better than one’s sleeve, and would be far easier to keep clean.
Conversation during the meal had mostly been carried on between Beckett and Penwallow, with Jack only having to briefly answer a question or two about his recent voyage. As the last of the servants left with the dirty dishes, Beckett turned to him, saying warmly, “Jack, it was truly a fortunate coincidence that you arrived today, and could join us. I trust you enjoyed our modest repast?”
Jack nodded. “Oh, yes, Mr. Beckett. Thank you for the invitation.”
“Good! Jack, Lord Penwallow has an important delivery to be made to the plantation he recently purchased in New Avalon. I told him you were the very chap to transport it there for him.”
Jack nodded. “Certainly, Mr. Beckett. I’ll do my best to get it there in good time.” A sudden thought struck him. He’s not talking about slaves, is he? I don’t transport slaves.
Penwallow, too, was smiling and nodding. “I’m building a new plantation house, Captain Sparrow. I had everything shipped to me here in Calabar, so I could inspect it all personally before I had it sent on to its destination. I was worried that the imported window glass might have broken, but it was packed exceedingly well—just as I instructed.”
Jack relaxed and smiled. “Building materials? I’ll be happy to head right back out as soon as they’re loaded, and we’ve restocked. It’s almost time for the rainy season here in Africa, and I’ll be glad to get away before that begins.”
Penwallow nodded again. “Capital, Captain Sparrow!” He rubbed his beringed hands together, obviously in an excellent mood. “This load will need your personal supervision, Captain. Some of the objects I’ve acquired are one-of-a-kind pieces of art, and all of them would be difficult to replace. For example, there will be two types of brick, the regular brick for the sides and rear of the house, and the ornamental brick for the front. Wait until you see the rose color of it. It’s splendid! And of course the rare woods for the floors.”
“Don’t forget the more prosaic stuff, my lord,” Cutler Beckett said, still smiling. “Nails, and hinges, and fittings for the doors. Lath and plaster and mortar. And boards, of course, both finished and rough-planed. Not to mention the tools for the workers.”
“Cutler, my boy, you’re forgetting my Italian marble tiles for the pavement, plus the fountain I purchased in Venice!” the EITC director said, beaming. “It’s going to be a showplace, I declare!”
“You’ll be moving there, Lord Penwallow?” Jack asked. “To New Avalon? You and your family?”
“We’ll certainly be visiting there,” the portly man said. “Whether m’wife Hortense will agree to make it her year-round home remains to be seen. As for m’self, I spend most of my time traveling for the EITC.”
“New Avalon is lovely, much of the year,” Jack said. “Summers are much hotter than in England, of course.”
“I’ve been there, but Lady Hortense hasn’t,” Penwallow said. “Still, the climate will be good for her joints, methinks. She suffers terrible with rheumatics every winter.”
Jack nodded. “If the cold bothers her, then living in New Avalon should definitely help. Do you have children, Lord Penwallow? It sounds as though you’re building a large plantation house.”
“Yes, two,” Penwallow said. “But our daughter Anna is married, and no doubt she’ll stay in England, though I hope she might visit and bring the children. Our son Frederick will probably prefer to remain in Surrey. He wouldn’t want to miss the season at court.”
“Ah,” Jack said, nodding sagely, as though he met people who had relatives at court every day.
“I have their miniatures; would you care to see?”
“I’d like that very much, my lord.”
“Here we go…I always carry them…” Lord Penwallow brought out the painted ivory miniatures in their little gold frames and handed them over.
Jack studied them, listening as the old man rambled on about his family, particularly his son. Frederick Penwallow, it seemed, was the best rider to hounds in all of Surrey, could dance every dance at every fancy ball, hold his liquor with the best of them, and had never lost a game of chance. It
was clear that the young man was the apple of his father’s eye, and something of a rake, Jack concluded, studying the pictured face. The miniature showed a young man of about Jack’s age, with dark, curled hair, and dark eyes with a hint of mischief in them, presuming that the artist had rendered a good likeness.
“A handsome young gentleman,” Jack said, handing back the picture. “Though for a young man of such high birth, I’m surprised he doesn’t favor powdered wigs.”
Lord Penwallow laughed, delighted. “That’s Frederick’s own hair!” he said. “Thick and curly as any fine wig, it is. Just between you and me, Captain Sparrow, he’s a bit vain about it.”
Jack widened his eyes appropriately. “A fine head of hair indeed,” he said. “I’ll take odds Frederick is considered quite a catch, eh? All the young ladies setting their caps for him.”
Penwallow gave Jack and Cutler Beckett a triumphant glance, then lowered his voice. “I was told by a reliable source in the Privy Council that Frederick has been referred to as England’s most eligible bachelor!”
“I knew it,” Jack exclaimed. “Didn’t I say it? All the young ladies!”
By the time the three men parted company later that afternoon, Jack knew a great deal about his lordship’s family, and Lord Penwallow was convinced that Captain Jack Sparrow was not only a notable ship captain, but a young man of great taste and discernment.
He positively beamed at Jack as they bade each other farewell.
Jack headed back down the street, carrying his old clothes in the sack Mistress Goodwright had handed to him at the door, wondering what it would be like to live in Mr. Beckett’s world—or even Lord Penwallow’s world. I suppose you get used to wearing fancy clothes all the time, and eating fancy food, food that sure beats burgoo, he admitted, recalling that memorable luncheon.
But…everything’s so bloody complicated for the gentry, it seems! You’d have to be planning and figuring and doing every moment of every day. When would you have time to enjoy yourself? No, I’ll take a good ship and a following wind any day, he concluded.
But…wouldn’t it be great if the good ship were his own ship?
Jack’s strides slowed, and his expression grew thoughtful. How could I ever buy a ship of my own? he wondered. He’d never been one to save money. But perhaps it was time to change that. If he had a ship of his own…perhaps even the Wicked Wench, say, he would be the one in charge. He’d give the orders on land, as well as at sea. And he wouldn’t have to worry about pleasing a supervisor, or a company. He’d only have to please himself.
He’d wanted for so long to be captain of his own vessel. What if the ship he commanded actually belonged to him?
Jack walked on down toward the docks, deep in thought.
By dint of pushing himself and his crew, Jack managed to get the Wicked Wench loaded and away from Calabar before the rainy season set in. With Lord Penwallow’s precious cargo safely stored and padded and fastened in place, he set sail on the first leg of the Triangle, glad to be back at sea. He’d found a new cabin boy in Calabar, and promoted Chamba to ordinary seaman, studying for able seaman. The lad was likely to make it before Etienne de Ver and Lucius Featherstone, because he was quick with his hands, intelligent, and focused—unlike the quarrelsome Frenchman and Englishman, who tended to get into one of their endless arguments and wind up not paying attention to what they were doing.
It didn’t help that Chamba, now that his English was better, proved to have a mischievous gift for getting the two bickering crewmen going. With studied innocence, he’d ask a simple question, and then they’d be off—sometimes for an hour, or until someone ordered them to pipe down.
Jack had heard about the former slave’s mischief from Robby, but one sunny spring morning, he had the opportunity to observe it for himself. The Wicked Wench was forging along at better than seven knots, making good time, all plain sail set. The ordinary seamen were practicing their knot tying on the weather deck. The captain was relaxing after a brisk bout of fencing with Robby, leaning against the rail, one foot up on the carriage of one of his two six-pounders.
“Mr. de Ver?” Chamba held up a perfect bowline triumphantly, and then began unknotting it for his next effort. “May I ask you a question?”
Etienne de Ver glanced up. “But of course, Chamba. What is it?”
Chamba widened his eyes with studied innocence. “Mr. Greene, he been tellin’ me ’bout some history that happened, oh, ’bout three hundred years ago. He said you French folk had a lady warrior, and she rode a white horse. She dressed up in armor and fought battles. I said that hard to believe. He said it be true. Is it?”
The Frenchman nodded. “Oh, yes, it is true. He was speaking of Jeanne d’Arc, you would say Joan of Arc, the holy martyr. She was a peasant maid who heard the divine voices of the angels telling her to lead the armies of the King.”
“And she fought in battles?”
“Yes, she fought in battles—” de Ver glanced at Featherstone, assiduously tying knots not a dozen feet away, and pretending he wasn’t listening, “against the British invaders. She defeated them! The British army defeated by a peasant girl! But then she was betrayed and sold to the British. They were angry that she had made them look so bad on the field of honor, so they tried her in a…what do you call it…a sham trial, then they tied to her a stake and they burned her. They burned a holy maiden. Only the British, eh?”
Featherstone growled audibly. “She was a damned Popish heretic, Chamba, make no mistake. Only the French would allow a slip of a girl to lead them into battle. Hah! But I’ll give her this, at least she had courage!” He leaned forward confidingly. “Chamba, did you know that the French army is the only one that ever got their armpits sunburnt?” Lucius burst into loud guffaws at his wit, slapping his knees.
Chamba looked confused, until Featherstone, who was bare to the waist, as were most of the crew that warm day, raised his arms in a posture of surrender, then pointed to his darkly thatched underarm, and then straight up, illustrating how the sun illuminated that usually covered spot. The lad’s eyes grew wider, and then his teeth flashed on a grin. “Oooh, Mr. Featherstone, you funny!”
Etienne de Ver bristled. “At least in my country the roads are not paved with your pitiful excuses for puddings! We can cook!”
“Cook? Don’t make me laugh! Frogs legs, snails, and offal we wouldn’t feed to pigs!”
Jack, who by then had heard enough, stood up. “Belay that,” he snapped, then ordered both of them aloft to check for any sign of the Caribbees. He knew the islands wouldn’t be visible, but his ears needed a rest.
Jack then beckoned Chamba over and fixed him with a stern look. “You’ve gotten really good at that, haven’t you, lad?”
Chamba was the picture of innocence. “Oh, yes, Cap’n, I’m getting the hang of these knots, you bet! Yessir!”
Jack sighed. “I wasn’t talking about the knots, Chamba, and you bloody well know it. I was talking about Etienne and Lucius. You did that on purpose.”
Chamba gave him a “what, little old me?” look, but in the face of Jack’s irritation, he dropped his eyes, and his shoulders slumped. “I was just havin’ a bit of fun, Cap’n.”
Jack nodded. “So I saw. Tell you what, lad. Next time you feel like that, you go find that scurvy looking tomcat you and Robby sneaked aboard, and pull its tail till it yowls.”
Chamba looked genuinely startled. “Cap’n Sparrow! I like Henry Morgan!”
“Don’t you like Etienne and Lucius? They’re your shipmates, right?”
“Well, sure, Cap’n. I was just…” Chamba trailed off, looking thoughtful.
“Ah,” Jack said, with satisfaction. “The light has dawned, has it?”
Chamba looked down at his bare feet. “Yes, sir,” he said, softly.
Jack nodded, and sent him back to his knots.
When they reached New Avalon, Jack supervised the unloading of Penwallow’s cargo personally, especially the treasured window glass. He even hopped
aboard one of the wagons and rode out to the site of Penwallow’s future plantation house, to make sure that the glass and other materials were delivered in good shape. With the overseer Penwallow had hired, he went over the entire shipment and got the man to sign a receipt that it had all been received intact and unharmed. The overseer took him over the entire site that had been cleared, and showed him the blueprints.
Jack made polite noises, then begged off an invitation to dinner, saying, truthfully, that he had to get back to his ship.
It was a long walk back to the docks, but Jack managed to catch a ride on another wagon that was heading into town.
He arrived back at his ship, receipt in hand, knowing that he’d safely carried out the job Mr. Beckett had entrusted to him. He figured he’d earned those new clothes—as well as his wages. And that was good, because now he had something to save for. Jack Sparrow was determined to buy the Wicked Wench.
Cutler Beckett sat in his office one Sabbath afternoon, listening to the sound of the rain as he caught up on his correspondence. This afternoon, it was a positive deluge; water ran down the windows in clear sheets, and the office grew even dimmer. Beckett frowned and shook his head as he lit a candle. The rainy season in Calabar ran from approximately April until July, and here it was, late June. As far as Beckett was concerned, this bloody weather could stop any day now.
As the candle flame flickered, it briefly illuminated a picture hung on the wall, a portrait of one of the EITC’s finest vessels, and Beckett found himself wondering where Jack Sparrow was, and how he was doing. When would the Wicked Wench come sailing back into the harbor of Calabar?
Sparrow had been gone for months now, and yet, Beckett found himself thinking of him rather often—something he found surprising. Out of sight, out of mind, as the old saying went. And yet…Beckett smiled faintly, remembering that notable luncheon with Penwallow. It had been obvious that Sparrow had never dined in that style before, but he’d pulled it off. Quick, observant, and adaptable, that was Sparrow. Beckett hadn’t missed the way the captain had copied his own impeccable table manners. Frankly, he’d looked more the gentleman than Lord Penwallow.
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom Page 24