Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  Jack looked questioningly at Esmeralda, and she returned the glance. After a moment they both shrugged.

  Teague regarded Don Rafael for a long moment. “There is precedent,” he allowed.

  Mistress Ching said, forcefully, “The first Brethren Court made the alliance with Captain Jones, and that right has been passed down through the ages, to the assembled Pirate Lords. I was present when Jones was summoned, many years ago. It is not something we should do lightly. Does this situation warrant a summoning?”

  “I believe it does,” Don Rafael said, stoutly. “These rogue pirates threaten our freedom, our way of life. They have brazenly defied the Code. We must act.”

  Jack glanced at Borya and saw that the little Pirate Lord was sitting there, still expressionless, but now he could see tension bunching the muscles in his jaw and the cords in his neck. He was pale, and his face shone greasily in the light of the lamps. He’s sweating, Jack realized.

  Teague regarded the other Pirate Lords. “Let the majority rule. Don Rafael votes aye. What say you, Mistress Ching? Villanueva?”

  Villanueva wiped his face on his sleeve. “He could give us the answer, there is no doubt,” he said. “But to call him here…” He trailed off, and shuddered.

  Don Rafael leaned over and said something to him privately. Villanueva looked unhappy, but then said, steadily enough, “Upon reflection, I vote aye.”

  Mistress Ching pursed her lips. “Perhaps it is because I have experienced his presence before, as Villanueva has not, or perhaps it is because I cannot see him…” She smiled grimly. “But I believe that if one of us has broken the Code, we must know. I vote aye.”

  Teague nodded. “I agree, and also vote aye. We will summon Davy Jones. But to do so, we must reconvene aboard Troubadour. He cannot set foot on dry land, save for once every ten years.” The captain turned to his guards. “Bring Captain Palachnik.” Then he addressed the assembly. “All witnesses, you are ordered to accompany us. The rest of you, remain behind.”

  Jack and Esmeralda fell in at the end of the procession that left the Great Chamber, behind Melinda and the one-eyed Ragetti. As they made their way through the corridors, Esmeralda grabbed Jack’s arm, and he could feel her nails even through the fabric of his shirtsleeve. Her voice was harsh, filled with apprehension, though she kept it low. “Dios mio! I can hardly believe what I just heard in there, Jack. Davy Jones? Have they all gone mad?”

  “They sounded sane to me,” Jack said, dryly. “But, then, I believe in Davy Jones.”

  “You do?” she was amazed. “Have you seen him? You are saying that there is a real Davy Jones, that he is not just a sailor’s legend? Not merely a…what is the English term…a figure of speech?”

  “I’ve never seen him, but he’s real,” Jack replied softly. “I’ve heard too many sailors talk about seeing his ship in bad storms. But I have no idea why they want him to testify, or why he’s in some kind of agreement with the Pirate Lords.”

  Esmeralda’s dark eyes were wide. “Davy Jones…is real?”

  Jack nodded. “He is. He sails on some kind of ghost ship. The Flying Dutchman.”

  She thought for a moment. “But Davy Jones…that is not a Dutch name.”

  Jack shrugged. “Maybe he stole the ship? Your guess is as good as mine.”

  As they stepped out of Shipwreck City, into the open air, Jack realized that his prediction of a storm rising was coming true. Cool wind gusted against him, and when he glanced at the water in the cove, it was white-capped.

  By the time the group reached Troubadour, rain was beginning to spatter. Teague led them up the gangplank, then down the ladder to the relative shelter of his gun deck. Even though the gun ports were open, the sky had grown so dark they could barely see to make their way down. Teague’s men quickly lit lanterns, hanging them on hooks. Even anchored, the ship was rocking back and forth. Outside, cold rain began pelting down, occasionally blowing in through the open gun ports. Jack and Esmeralda sat down on the barrel of one of the portside cannons, out of the way. In the center of the deck, Teague gestured for the Pirate Lords to form a circle. Jack repressed a shiver as he recalled some of the conjuring rites he’d seen Tia Dalma perform. What would this bit of magic be like? He listened intently.

  “Are we ready?” Teague said, and each Pirate Lord nodded assent. “Begin.” In the flickering lamplight of the swaying deck, the four Pirate Lords spoke quietly, in unison, “Davy Jones…we, the Pirate Lords of the Brethren Court, call you. By our alliance giving us power over the sea, binding the queen in her bones, we entreat you. Come to us, Davy Jones. We summon you. We summon you. We summon you.”

  Through the open gun port to Jack’s left came an eye-searing flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by a huge clap of thunder. Esmeralda started. Jack blinked—

  —and when he opened his eyes again, Davy Jones was present, standing in a pool of shadow between gun ports. It was as though he’d always been there.

  Jack heard Esmeralda gasp, then felt her tremble. He put his arm around her, drawing her against him. The gesture was made in all innocence; seeking only to give, and receive, simple human comfort, in the presence of something monstrous.

  Davy Jones was monstrous.

  Jack had seen some pretty weird manifestations in his life, mythical beings, ghosts, and eldritch creatures that seemed to have come from realms no human had ever trod. But none of them had prepared him for Davy Jones.

  That face…it was a face out of some opium eater’s worst nightmare. It was as though a man had stretched the skin of a squid and thrust his face into it so deeply that the human features—eyes, nose, mouth—were molded through the sea-creature’s flesh. Tube-like tentacles writhed down from the lower half of his face, in a bizarre parody of a man’s beard. He wore a hat, and ragged, once elegant, clothing, but the garments could not disguise the fact that Jones’s limbs were as distorted as his face. His right leg and left arm terminated in claws, like those of a lobster. His right arm ended in, not a hand, but a writhing mass of tentacles. Only his booted left leg seemed human-shaped.

  There was no sound on the gun deck save for the crash and boom of the storm outside.

  Jones stepped forward, into the light of the lantern, his human foot thumping in its heavy boot, his claw landing with a click. Esmeralda pressed her hand to her mouth, but made no sound. Someone—Jack thought it must have been Villanueva—moaned softly. The tall, skinny Ragetti gibbered quietly. In a sudden rustle of skirts, Melinda fainted, collapsing onto the deck.

  The monster spoke. “I am here.” Jack listened to the voice with amazement. It was human. Jones spoke with a thick accent. Scots, Jack realized.

  Teague moved a step or two forward. “Thank you for honoring our summons, Captain Jones,” he said. “We Pirate Lords face possible treason in our numbers. You are lord of the sea, so we know you will be able to tell us”—the Keeper of the Code waved a hand at Borya, who was restrained from bolting by the guards’ hold—“whether this man, Borya Palachnik, has been committing wanton slaughter on the seas…sending you many souls.”

  Jones moved over to face Borya…thump, click…thump, click…thump, click. He halted, leaning forward, tentacles writhing, barely a foot away from Borya, who cringed backward. Pale-faced, the brawny guards held him fast.

  Several of Davy Jones’s facial tentacles stretched out toward the scrawny Pirate Lord, as if somehow they could scent him. Jones abruptly nodded. “Yes,” he said, turning back to Teague. “He is the one. He has sent me many dead for more than a year now. He commands others. There are seven captains under his command, and they all send me souls. Mercy is something they know not. Their ships bring only death.”

  Don Rafael stepped forward. “We thank you for your assistance, Captain Jones. Borya has broken the Code, and yet he dared to dock his ship in the cove. We will send him to join you, and soon.”

  “Good,” said Jones, biting off the word as though the thought was a tasty treat.

  Jack ha
d no idea that he’d even moved until he found himself on his feet, only a few feet away from Davy Jones’s back. In some ways, the back was as bad as the front, because the hood of the squid lay flopped over Jones’s collar, pulsing gruesomely. Jack cleared his throat. “Excuse me, um, Captain Jones. What about the brass bow chaser?” he heard himself saying. “What did Borya do with it?”

  Jones whirled around—he moved fast for such a huge, towering figure. His eyes focused on Jack in a burning glare. Jack forced himself to remain still, feeling as though his soul was laid bare for those eyes to examine—and sneer at. “Who are you?” Jones demanded.

  “I’m Jack Sparrow,” Jack replied, amazed that his voice emerged almost normally. “I was—am—a witness in this matter. Captain Jones, you know what happened to that cannon, I’m sure, because you know everything that happens in your domain.”

  Jones nodded, almost grudgingly, still studying Jack, seeming surprised that the young man had the nerve to stand there and ask him a question. “You are correct, young Sparrow,” Jones said, after a second. “Captain Palachnik’s brass bow chaser now lies at the bottom of Shipwreck Cove.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jack said, finally allowing himself to back away. He almost stepped on Melinda, who was beginning to stir, so he crouched down, helping her to sit up. She took one look at Jones, then buried her face in her hands and didn’t move.

  Don Rafael spoke up again. “We all thank you, Captain Jones, for coming to us today, to help us find the Code-breaker and traitor among us. We will deal with him, and seek out the others who operate under his command.”

  “They are to be found on many seas, dealing death,” Jones said. “Except for the other one who is currently present here, in Shipwreck Cove.”

  “Another Code-breaker? In Shipwreck Cove?” Even Teague betrayed emotion—surprise and dismay.

  “Aye,” Jones said. “That one sent me the one you call Tommy, two nights ago.”

  “What is his name, Captain Jones?” Don Rafael asked.

  “He is not present,” Jones said. “If he were, I could tell you his name. I know only the ship he sails, when he sends me dead. A fine brigantine.”

  Jack looked up at Davy Jones, his breath catching in his throat. A brigantine? La Vipère was a brigantine, and a fine ship she was. But she was just one of perhaps half a dozen such vessels currently moored or anchored in Shipwreck Cove. Jones can’t mean Christophe, he reassured himself, and glanced over at Esmeralda, seeing his own thoughts reflected in her expression.

  Jack looked back at Davy Jones, just as the monstrous figure turned away from the humans. It took one stride. Thump, click.

  Then, between one moment and the next, Jones was, simply…not there anymore. Vanished. Gone.

  Teague turned to face Borya. “Boris Palachnik,” he said. “This Court of Inquiry finds that you and your crew have broken the Code of the Brethren. The Code is the law. The penalty for all of you is death.” The Keeper of the Code paused for a second, then said, “This Court of Inquiry is concluded.”

  Jack stood up, then motioned to the trembling Ragetti to assist Melinda to her feet. Walking back over to Esmeralda, he stood beside her. Neither of them spoke. He looked out the open gun port, seeing that the sky was growing lighter. The rumble of thunder was now muted by distance. The storm was in retreat.…

  A gust of cool wind caressed Jack’s face. He blinked, realizing he’d been standing there, steering the Wicked Wench, lost in memory. Looking to his left, he saw a faint lightening in the eastern horizon, and was reminded again of that time on Troubadour’s gun deck.

  For a moment he could almost feel the way Esmeralda had openly clutched his hand, still so shaken that she hadn’t cared who saw her doing it. Don Rafael had seemed to understand, because he’d stopped and spoken to his granddaughter. “I am sorry you had to see this, corazón.”

  “I am all right,” Esmeralda had replied, her voice, steady. “I am glad we now know the truth.”

  Don Rafael had then turned to Jack. “Señor Sparrow…Teague dismisses you as a mere boy,” he’d said, gazing at him thoughtfully. “But I disagree. Only a man could have stood his ground and heard Davy Jones speak his name.” He’d inclined his head to Jack in a gesture of genuine respect, and then walked away.

  Jack sighed. So many memories…some good, some bad, and so many that were bittersweet. He glanced east again. Dawn was on its way.

  The remainder of the trip back to Calabar was uneventful. Jack continued to train his crew, so they’d be prepared in case of a pirate attack. The constant drilling of the gun crews was paying off in faster loading and better aim. And the entire crew practiced several times a week with hand weapons, so they could load and fire pistols, as well as handle a cutlass. They still fought like merchant sailors, not trained soldiers, but they were improving. Lucius Featherstone and Etienne de Ver, who had both seen action while in their respective armies, proved very useful to Jack’s efforts, once he enlisted them as instructors—as long as he was careful to keep them far enough apart that they didn’t wind up dueling with each other over some fancied slur, something that happened more than once.

  The unrelenting heat continued as the ship rounded the bulge of Africa and turned east. Several times, Jack wound up hanging a hammock on deck and sleeping in it. On the afternoon of their last full day of sailing, as they came within spyglass view of the coastline, Jack suddenly decided there was no need to rush into Calabar Harbor after dark. He gave the order to reef sails and drop anchor.

  He and Robby stood there, watching the crew busy themselves with the anchor and the sails. The Wicked Wench came to a halt, and the crew climbed down from the rigging.

  “We’ll anchor out tonight,” Jack said. “Give the men a chance to rest up, then sail into Calabar tomorrow morning, when everyone’s fresh and it’s not so bloody hot.”

  “Don’t count on it being any better tomorrow,” Robby said, loosening his neckcloth. Removing his tricorne, he fanned himself vigorously with it. “I hope we can get loaded and back out to sea quickly. Calabar town is going to feel like a stewpot, with us as the solid bits.”

  Jack laughed. “I fear you’re right, Robby. But for now…captain’s privilege. I’m declaring myself on leave, and I’m going to cool off.” He walked purposefully over to the railing, where he began shucking his clothes.

  Robby followed him. “You’re going in?”

  “Yes. Lower a ladder and post an armed watch, in case anyone spots any bloody sharks. I haven’t had a good swim in two months, and I’m spoiling for it.” Unbuttoning his sweat-damp shirt, he pulled it off and dropped it onto the growing pile of clothes, as Robby gave the order.

  Jack waited until the ladder was dropped and the crewman posted with a musket, before he stripped off the rest of his clothes and climbed up onto the railing. “Besides,” he added, over his shoulder, “maybe this will save me from having to take another bloody bath, if Mr. Beckett takes it into his head to invite me to lunch again.”

  With a swift, graceful motion, he dived off the rail.

  Jack hit the blessed coolness of the water and it was a benediction. Tossing his hair out of his eyes, he waved up at his crew. “It’s great!” he shouted. “Come on!”

  Few of his crew could swim, but several of the men, including Robby, did climb down the ladder. Jack was pleased to see Chamba paddling around, with Robby and Second Mate Connery coaching him on how to move his arms and avoid getting water up his nose.

  Jack swam a little distance away, his strokes strong and powerful. Following an impulse he hardly questioned, he surface-dived, stroking down into the water, feeling it grow colder the farther he swam from the sun. It was a different world, he thought, opening his eyes, and peering down. Down there, it was cold, and the pressure could pop a man’s eardrums—or even his lungs, if he were foolish enough to dive too deep.

  This was Davy Jones’s realm. Jack remembered that face, and those words the Pirate Lords had spoken. The legends said that if a man
were dying out here, on the water, that Captain Jones would come to him, and speak his name…just before death.

  Jack shuddered suddenly, realizing the blood was pounding in his ears, and that the sunlit surface seemed far away.

  Quickly, he reversed direction, and began stroking back for the surface. His head broke the water, and he inhaled a huge gulp of air, feeling his lungs move, his heart pound. He’d never felt more alive than he did in the water—except perhaps when he was with a woman.

  “Captain! Jack!” a voice shouted, sounding a bit frantic. He whipped his head around, to see Robby waving at him. He’d managed to swim farther away than he’d thought, and clearly, Robby was getting nervous.

  Jack turned around, waved back, then began swimming back to the Wicked Wench.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ayisha

  THE WICKED WENCH SAILED into Calabar Harbor before noon on the fifth of August. As Robby Greene had predicted, the morning was hot—a steamy, airless heat. All morning Jack had stood on the weather deck, envying his hands. All his men, except for the mates, were stripped to the waist. As the ship coasted up to the dock, and the sailors began tossing out the mooring lines, bringing her to a halt, the last bit of breeze from her passage died. Jack felt as though some giant sponge had sucked all of the air out of his lungs. Rebelling in the face of the stifling heat, he pulled off his coat—and then, for good measure, yanked off his neckcloth, too. He stood there, mopping sweat from his forehead with the neckcloth, as his ship’s gangplank thudded down onto the East India Trading Company’s dock.

  Hearing quick steps mounting the gangplank, Jack turned to find Cutler Beckett’s assistant, Ian Mercer, standing on his deck. This is becoming a bloody habit, he thought, grumpily. What can he want this time?

  Mercer hurried up to Jack, who nodded at him politely, forcing a smile. “Ah, Mr. Mercer. Hot day, isn’t it? What brings you here?”

  The operative jerked his head at the gangplank. “Captain Sparrow, Mr. Beckett wants to see you immediately,” he said, keeping his voice low. “There’s someone he wants you to meet.”