Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  Jack took a deep breath, schooling his expression to one of bland neutrality, before he turned to face Christophe. He inclined his head, acknowledging the man who stood before him. “Orders, Captain?”

  Christophe’s mouth quirked. “Ah, Jacques, that is not the way to be. We rogues saved your life, remember? If we had left you behind, you would have been the one that Captain Teague hanged at dawn.”

  Jack nodded, forcing a smile. “And I saved yours. I figure we’re square, mate.”

  “That is better, mon ami! There is no sense in old friends quarreling over trifles, is there?”

  Christophe was toying with him. Jack could see the mockery in his betrayer’s eyes, in his smile. He forced himself not to react. He’s baiting me, trying to get me to do something stupid, so he’ll have some excuse to kill me, he realized. I can’t give him what he wants. “Of course not,” he said, aloud.

  Christophe stroked his freshly shaven chin thoughtfully. He was dressed in his turquoise coat on this bright morning. “Jacques, I have been thinking. Now that most of Borya’s fleet is gone, perhaps I shall become the new commander of our little venture. Have my own fleet, eh? And in that case, I’ll need captains for my vessels. Would you like to be one of them, Jacques?”

  Jack tried to decide what answer would be best. He didn’t believe Christophe was serious for a moment. If he answered wrong, how long would he live?

  The captain smiled engagingly. “Think of it! Instead of sending that flute we’ll be boarding today to the sea bottom, I could merely capture her, and give her to you, mon ami, to captain for me. Admittedly, she’s a bit unwieldy and slow, but one must start somewhere. What say you, Jacques?”

  I say that I want nothing to do with you ever again, except perhaps to spit you on my sword and watch you die in agony, you vicious waste of air, Jack thought. This exchange was making his blood boil, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his expression neutral.

  He managed an unconcerned shrug. “You know, I think I need a bit more experience before I’m ready for my first command, mate. Perhaps the next ship will be a better match for me, eh?”

  Christophe eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out whether Jack was being sarcastic. Jack maintained his bland expression. He was only too aware that antagonizing Christophe would be beyond stupid.

  Finally, after a long pause, Christophe blinked, and shrugged. “Very well, mon ami,” he said. “I will keep it in mind.”

  “Merci beaucoup,” Jack said.

  The rogue captain turned to leave, then paused, looking back at Jack over his shoulder. “I want you in the boarding party, Jacques. You may have a cutlass, but no pistol.” He smiled. “Alas, I fear I don’t quite trust you, Jacques.”

  Jack did his best to look suitably wounded by this barb. He couldn’t tell how well he’d carried it off. Christophe hurried away to oversee the boarding party and Jack, mindful of orders, strode over to join the cutthroats who were standing poised by the portside railing, grappling hooks awaiting them. The mate handed him a sheathed cutlass and a baldric without comment. Jack slipped the baldric over his head, adjusted the hang of the weapon, then stepped away from the other crewmen. Gripping the hilt, he drew the blade, then swung it experimentally a few times, testing the weight and balance of it.

  The rogues hoisted their true colors. Jack saw the red flag of no quarter, with its demon skull, flapping in the breeze.

  The Dutch ship fired a round. It fell short.

  Jack crouched behind the amidships windlass and stared at the deck, not wanting to watch. The ship lurched beneath his boots as La Vipère fired back, then the two ships traded shots for the next few minutes. Black smoke stung his eyes, and the smell of burned powder filled his nostrils. La Vipère sustained minor damage to her rigging, and a cannonball smashed one of the ship’s railings, but that was the brigantine’s only damage. From the shouts of the excited rogues, Jack knew when the flute’s mainmast fell. One of the next rounds was a lucky shot that took out her rudder.

  The flute hoisted a white flag.

  An ordinary pirate ship would have stopped there, boarded, taken the cargo and valuables, and then sailed away, possibly with prisoners to ransom, leaving the Dutch crew with a vessel that could be repaired and made seaworthy again.

  Not La Vipère. The deck beneath Jack’s feet heaved with the force of an earthquake as La Vipère fired a broadside.

  As the smoke cleared, Jack couldn’t stop himself from peering past the windlass. The broadside, delivered at close range, had brought down their quarry’s remaining sails. The flute was listing a bit—she must have been holed below her waterline. The Dutch vessel had been given a mortal wound that would, most likely, send her to the bottom. But she’d remain afloat long enough for the rogues to strip her and her passengers of everything of value.

  Jack gritted his teeth, feeling his breakfast lurch in his belly at the realization that the worst was yet to come for the passengers and crew of the hapless flute.

  Automatically, he obeyed orders, standing by the splintered rail with a grappling hook, ready to swing it with the others.

  Christophe barked commands, and Jack swung his hook with the other men. Swiftly, they drew the two vessels together. Jack could hear the screams and moans of the wounded, and see the passengers and crew milling around amid the splintered remains of wood and canvas that had, half an hour before, been a ship sailing under full canvas.

  “Board!” shouted Christophe. Jack drew his cutlass and leaped up onto the brigantine’s rail; then it was an easy jump to land aboard the flute.

  The captain of the flute came forward, speaking to Christophe, but the rogue captain brushed by him, ignoring him. Jack knew, as the portly Dutchman did not, that there would be no terms—and no quarter. Quickly, the rogues assembled the passengers and crew, making sure they were disarmed.

  After securing the crew and passengers, Jack spent the next hour hustling back and forth between the flute’s hold and La Vipère’s deck, moving cargo. The Dutch vessel carried a load of tobacco, and the smell of it made his head swim as he and the other rogues, plus some of the flute’s surviving crew that had been pressed into service, worked at transferring it.

  Finally, when the cargo hold was emptied of everything of value, and Jack was gasping for breath, Christophe ordered all hands to “stand by to mop up.”

  Jack watched Christophe as the rogue captain casually turned to the portly Dutch captain, and, with a hard thrust, ran the unarmed man through. The Dutchman’s eyes widened in disbelief, then he collapsed like a man cut down from the gallows.

  That was the signal for the butchery. Moving mostly in silence, the rogues began slaughtering the disarmed passengers and crew as though they were cattle.

  Some of the rogues were moving out, along the deck, evidently searching for anyone who had managed to hide. Jack joined them, moving aft, poking through the wreckage of the masts, spars, and sails, occasionally thrusting with the cutlass as though he’d found some hidden survivor. He saw Robby doing the same thing, and his eyes widened as he watched the lad grimly stab a man who lay with arms and legs at ugly angles, obviously already dead. The boy looked up, saw Jack watching him, then scurried away.

  Jack continued aft, toward the poop, making a good show of searching for survivors. He found a body, and, looking away, ran it through the belly, to get blood on the blade of his cutlass. The feel of the dead, unresisting flesh made his breakfast rebel in earnest, and it was nearly a minute before he could fight back the nausea and continue on.

  He’d nearly reached the taffrail, at the very end of the stern, when he heard the low plea. “Sir. Please…”

  His heart slamming, Jack ducked beneath a flap of fallen canvas and saw the black man. He was a middle-aged passenger, judging by his clothing, and he’d obviously been badly injured by flying debris and falling wreckage. Blood stained his coat and britches, and smeared his mouth. Jack stared at him, wondering what a free black was doing here, in the Caribbe
an, as a passenger aboard a lumbering Dutch trader. Meeting a free black outside of the pirate community was most unusual.

  The man was looking up at him, one hand raised in mute appeal. As Jack watched, his dark gaze focused on the bloody cutlass in Jack’s hand.

  Jack hastily laid the blade on the deck, then dropped down and crawled until he could kneel next to him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I could help.”

  The man’s breathing was labored, his English accented, but Jack had no trouble understanding him. “Have you…water, sir?”

  “Sorry, mate, no,” Jack said.

  “No matter,” the wounded man said. “Soon enough…I will no longer feel thirst.”

  Jack gave the amount of blood on his clothes and the strange angle at which his left leg rested an assessing glance, and figured the poor chap was right. “Just rest,” he said, as soothingly as he could. He wished there was something he could do. But there was nothing.

  “I will rest…later,” the man said. “Please, sir. You must…listen. When the mast came down…I knew that I would die. As I lay here, I prayed to my god…Apedemak. In answer…to my prayer…he granted me a vision. He promised me…he would send…” He gasped for breath, then continued, “send me…a good man. And then…I saw…your face…in my vision.”

  “Me?” The poor devil must be off his head with pain, Jack thought. Look at the angle of his leg…it’s no wonder he’s raving. And if he’s not, then his god has a cruel sense of humor. The poor devil prays for “a good man” and he gets me?

  “Yes,” The dying man panted for breath. “Apedemak has sent you…to me. He has chosen…you. Please, sir. You must…listen.”

  Where have I heard the name “Apedemak” before? Jack wondered. “I’m listening,” he said, reassuringly.

  “I traveled here…from the island of Kerma,” the man gasped. “I left…the Shining City, seeking a cure…for my little son, Aniba.”

  Jack’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened. He couldn’t possibly have heard him right—could he? “Zerzura?” he blurted. “You came here from Zerzura?”

  The man’s teeth flashed white stained with red, as he tried to smile. “You know of my island. Good. This proves…the god…sent you to me. I am Pharaoh Taharka…ruler of Kerma. I wanted…to find…” he broke off, gasping.

  “The cure for Prince Aniba,” Jack said. “Yes. I understand, Your, uh…Majesty.”

  “I knew…when I heard your footsteps…that you were the one. Apedemak led you…to me,” the pharaoh said. “I prayed so hard…and I saw the lion god. He promised me…a good man, one who will…go to Kerma, and tell…tell my queen. I have been gone…many months. But my talisman guided me. I found the…cure.”

  Jack nodded. “That’s good,” he said. “You traveled a long way for it.”

  “I did,” Taharka agreed. “The woman of power…I found her in a strange house on the Pantano River…swamp…so many candles…” He had to stop to catch his breath. “She said I must trade for…cure…” he gasped in pain, then moaned.

  “Easy,” Jack said. “You shouldn’t talk. Rest.” He’s talking about Tia Dalma, he realized. Her cures are famous, but she demands a trade. His mind was still reeling at the notion that he was talking to someone from the legendary island.

  Taharka’s right hand lifted. He gripped Jack’s wrist, his fingers unexpectedly strong. “I must speak…you need to know.”

  “All right,” Jack said, gently. “All right. Tell me, then.”

  “I had cure…but now, it is lost,” Taharka’s voice was filled with sadness. “Tell them…I fulfilled…”

  “You fulfilled your promise,” Jack said. “You did. I will tell them.” He took a deep breath, and realized he could smell smoke. The flute was on fire. It was a good thing the rogues had emptied the powder magazine.

  “Tell my wife, Queen Tiyy. Tell my daughter, Princess…Amenirdis. And my son, who will be pharaoh, Prince Shabako. Tell them all…of my fate. Please.”

  “I swear, on pain of death, that if I can find them, I will tell them,” Jack said. As if I could find Zerzura! But what harm could it do, to make a promise to ease a dying man’s passing?

  Hearing this, the pharaoh relaxed slightly. He tried to draw a deep breath, but coughed instead. At length he whispered, “Good. Good. My thanks, sir.” His fingers loosened slightly on Jack’s wrist. His eyes closed for a moment, then flew open, and his grip tightened. “One more thing…you must…return my talisman…to Zerzura.”

  “Talisman?”

  “My bracelet.” The pharaoh painfully raised his left hand, to touch a slender strip of woven grass that circled his right wrist. A small, flat gray pebble was centered on it, with a few lines scratched into the stone. Jack squinted down at the pebble, realizing that from the proper angle, the lines resembled a crude representation of a lion’s head. “Watch,” Taharka gasped. He closed his fingers on the strip of woven grass.

  In the gloom beneath the canvas, Jack saw a greenish glow surround the wristlet for a moment. When Taharka moved his hand away, Jack gasped, seeing that the bracelet had transformed. It was now a golden marvel, with a pale green stone, and the image of a lion’s head, beautifully formed by the hand of a master goldsmith.

  “Take it…” Taharka commanded, pulling it free with what was evidently the last of his strength. Jack raised his hand uncertainly, and the pharaoh pushed the bracelet into his fingers. Then his hand dropped limply to his chest. He gasped, and gasped again, unable to draw breath.

  Jack slid his arm beneath the dying man’s head and shoulders, raising him, hoping that would help him catch his breath. Taharka coughed, and more blood stained his dark skin, but the support helped; he was able to draw breath. “Thank you,” he whispered. “May I know…your name?”

  “Jack Sparrow.”

  “Jack…Sparrow.” Taharka was making a last, valiant effort to speak, and it cost him dearly. “Never forget…Jack Sparrow. Apedemak has…chosen you…to protect the Heart. My son…my daughter…they have…the other two…talismans. Only all three…may open the labyrinth.”

  “I understand,” Jack said, softly.

  “You will sail to…Kerma. You will enter…the labyrinth. And…when the proper time comes, you will…remember…my words. You will…understand…the peril…to my people. Please…protect Zerzura…as I would.”

  “But…” Jack began,

  “You…must go…Zerzura. Save…” His voice stopped.

  “Sir?” Jack stared from the bracelet in his hand to the man’s still face. “Pharaoh Taharka? Can you hear me?”

  The body that he held suddenly felt heavier. Jack eased the pharaoh back down, and touched his throat. No pulse. He can’t hear me anymore. He’ll never hear anything again in this world.

  He pulled his hand away, seeing that his fingers were slick with blood. Jack wiped them clean on the man’s coat, then closed Taharka’s eyes. Scooting away from the body a bit, Jack raised the transformed bracelet, eyeing it with wonder. The gold gleamed, even in the shadowed shelter of the ruined sail.

  “That,” came a voice from behind him, “was truly touching, Jacques.”

  Jack whirled, startled, his heart trying to leap out of his chest. Christophe was standing behind him. How long had the captain been there? How much had he heard?

  The rogue smiled coldly, as he bent over and plucked the golden talisman out of Jack’s hand. “I’ll just relieve you of that, merci, Jacques.”

  Christophe turned the bracelet, admiring it as the sun flashed off the gold and the pale green gems. “It wasn’t so long ago that we spoke of looking for Zerzura, was it, mon ami? Small world, as you English say.”

  Jack remained silent, turning over alternatives in his mind. There didn’t seem to be many, and none of them looked promising from where he knelt.

  The captain’s smile abruptly vanished, and he drew his sword with a lightning motion. “Jacques, you silly fool. I fear you have made a grave error. Don’t you know any better than to try an
d conceal booty from your comrades? That’s an offense punishable by death, under La Vipère’s Ship’s Articles.”

  “But I didn’t—” Jack began, then he shut his mouth. It didn’t matter what he’d done, or what he said now. Inadvertently, he’d given Christophe the excuse he’d been looking for to kill him. Unable to think of an alternative, Jack crawled out of the wreckage. As he began climbing to his feet, he casually dropped his hand down toward the hilt of the cutlass. If I can just—

  Christophe’s booted foot came down on the blade. “No, Jacques,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

  Defeated, Jack stood up and regarded the captain. “He gave it to me,” he said, “I didn’t take it. And I wasn’t trying to conceal it.”

  Though you would have, Jacky boy, if Christophe hadn’t come along when he did, the little voice of the man who’d undoubtedly condemned him to death back in Shipwreck Cove sneered in his mind. You’d have hidden it very well.…

  Christophe shook his head sadly. Holding Jack at bay with his sword, he bent down and nimbly picked up the cutlass. There was no sign of the Zerzuran bracelet. “You had better come along, Jacques,” he said. “This ship will not remain afloat much longer. We need to ungrapple La Vipère. I cannot risk having the fire spread.”

  Motioning Jack to walk ahead of him, Christophe marched him back to where the two vessels were grappled together. The flute was low in the water, straining the grappling ropes, changing the angle a boarder had to cross, making the jump much more difficult.

  “Move, Jacques,” the captain ordered Jack, touching him lightly on the buttock with the point of his sword. “Across.”

  Raising his voice, he shouted, “Take Sparrow into custody!”

  Jack had no choice but to jump the gap. He sprang up and across, and he made it, teetering on La Vipère’s rail. Hard hands grabbed him, hauling him down. Christophe made the leap as gracefully as a gazelle. “Ungrapple!”

  Quickly, the crew freed the tension on the grappling ropes, then pulled them aboard. La Vipère bobbed upward, then began drifting away from the ship of the dead.