“I don’t know. Marry her? Raise cute little brown-skinned children that can cast spells and swim like fish? Her brother would probably make you a duke or something. You’d have pots of money and servants. The Kermans could use a smart man, skilled in the arts of modern warfare, to teach them how to make guns and black powder. Some day they might need to fight off Cutler Beckett’s fleet.”
Jack shook his head. “Me, Captain Jack Sparrow, living on an island? In one place, year after bloody year? Hemmed in by a wall of illusion, Robby? With only three ruddy miles of ocean I can sail?”
Robby looked blank. “Three miles?”
“Oh, that’s right, you forgot,” Jack said. “I spent two days in Zerzura, Robby. It was a very nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.”
“You did what? How…when? I forgot? Forgot what?”
Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “I promise I’ll tell you all about it, first opportunity we get. Right now, we should be raising sail.”
Raise sail, they did. Jack collected the weapons, then stowed them back in the arms locker.
Then he called a conference composed of himself, Robby, and Cutler Beckett’s six slave handlers. Jack was blunt with the men, telling them frankly that the Wicked Wench wasn’t going back to Calabar…ever. “But that’s piracy!” blurted one of them.
“That’s right, mate,” Jack smiled at him. “And I’d just like to make things clear. When we get to Port Royal, you’ll be allowed to leave the ship in peace, along with any crew members who want to leave. But if you want to eat while on this voyage, you will work, and you can start with cleaning up the hold of my ship. I wouldn’t kennel a dog I liked there in its present condition, much less swag when we take our first prize. Savvy?”
Sullen muttering greeted his declaration. “Oh, and one more thing,” Jack said. “Any attempt on your part to exact retribution on my loyal crew will be dealt with swiftly and severely. As captain, my retaliation for any threats or assaults on my vessel or crew would probably include, but not be limited to, keelhauling. If you don’t know what keelhauling is, by all means, ask someone. Are we clear, gentlemen?”
Beckett’s men affirmed that they did, indeed, understand.
The next morning found them down in the hold, with buckets of seawater, mops, and rags, assiduously cleaning. Apparently they liked eating, and wanted to continue doing it.
Early that same afternoon, Jack went up on the quarterdeck. Matthews was once more on duty. “How is she handling now, Mr. Matthews?”
The helmsman smiled. “Try her for yourself, Cap’n.”
Jack stepped over and put his hands on the big wheel. Within a minute, he was smiling. “Ah,” he said. “She has her yar back. A smart lady, my Wench. She knows what she wants, and she likes her freedom.”
Jack set course for the Cape Verdes, figuring to use them as a landmark, before heading west. They reached Sal, the northernmost of the eastern group of islands, and passed it, four days later.
Jack was in his cabin the next morning, charts spread out before him, when Robby tapped at the door. “Come in,” Jack called.
Robby entered. His expression brought Jack up and out of his chair, heart hammering. “What is it?”
Robby shook his head. “Ships, Jack. They’ve spotted us, and are closing in. It’s my fault. I’d posted Jenkins as lookout this morning, but he got stomach cramp and had to come down. I intended to send someone up right away, but as I was on my way below, to wake up a man, I—”
“Stow it, Robby. Tell me later. Ships, you say? Plural?”
“Yes, four of them. Two to the west, one to the south, and one to the southeast. All flying the EITC flag. They’re closing in.”
Jack dropped his protractor. “Oh, no.”
“Beckett must have gotten word to his fleet somehow, to be on the lookout for the Wench, and if we were near the bearings you gave for Kerma—which we are—to come after us.”
Jack went out onto the weather deck, barefoot, in his shirt, his spyglass thrust into his sash. Grabbing the ratlines, he went up them in a rush. When he reached the yardarm, he took out the spyglass, and looked.
He’d been hoping that somehow Robby was mistaken, and yes, the first mate had indeed made an error. There weren’t four EITC ships closing in on the Wicked Wench. There were five.
The fifth ship was to the northeast. All routes of escape were blocked. Oh, they’d try to run for it. The Wicked Wench was fast, especially with no cargo. But the fleet Beckett had sent off to Kerma wasn’t laden with cargo, either.
The next few hours passed in a blur. The Wench was surrounded, and forced to heave-to. Longboats carrying contingents of armed men rowed over. With little courtesy, they searched the ship—including the cargo hold.
Cutler Beckett’s slave handlers accompanied the EITC officers. Jack saw the looks they gave him, and wondered whether he might be able to make it to Sal, if he went overboard. He wasn’t given the opportunity to decide, though. Brutal hands seized him.
Jack was taken into custody and locked in the brig aboard the Sentinel, the EITC’s patrol and defensive vessel for West Africa. The Sentinel headed south, back to Calabar. Corporal Andrews, the marine who dragged Jack down to the orlop deck and locked him in the cell, said, good-naturedly, “There you go, Captain Sparrow. It’s not too uncomfortable.”
Jack stood in the cell, and looked around with a sigh. “You’re right. I’ve been in worse.”
“The Sentinel’s got a good cook. I’ll bring you some chow, after the crew’s mess.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. “Most kind of you.”
Corporal Andrews chuckled. “Well, you’re the politest prisoner I’ve ever locked up, I must say.”
Jack managed a feeble smile. “I’ve had a bit of practice, mate.”
Andrews left, still chuckling. Sitting down on the edge of the straw pallet, Jack leaned his head in his hands and sighed. We were close. We were so bloody close.…
Looking around the brig, he sighed again, and muttered, “Where’s that scurvy dog when you need him?” Then, lying back on the pallet, Jack closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Freedom’s Price
WHEN THE SENTINEL REACHED CALABAR, Jack was escorted off the ship with his hands in manacles. The East India Trading Company maintained its own small but sturdily built jail for employees who were caught stealing, or committing other illegal acts. Miscreants were incarcerated there until they could be sent back to England for trial. Four burly marines from the Sentinel escorted him to the jail and saw him placed behind bars.
There were no other prisoners currently in residence. Jack’s jailer was an old sailor who’d lost an eye and an ear. His name, Jack eventually discovered, was Joseph. He slept in the office of the little building, and his daughter, Kate, provided meals for the prisoners. Kate worked as a washerwoman at Cutler Beckett’s house. After sampling his first meal as an EITC detainee, Jack decided that Kate must be a better laundress than she was a cook.
Joe the Jailer proved to be a fascinating source of sea tales and gossip—but he knew nothing of Jack’s misadventures, and he didn’t want to know. Cutler Beckett did not appear. Nor did Mercer. Jack began to wonder whether he’d be conveniently “forgotten” and left to languish here until he died of old age or hung himself with Amenirdis’s sash. He reminded himself of all the other times he’d been incarcerated, and how something had always managed to turn up just when things looked their bleakest. That thought cheered him.
One of the worst things about being imprisoned was the lack of rum—or, indeed, any type of spirits. Jack was thankful that he’d been living a “cleaner” life since he became a merchant captain than he ever had as a pirate. Otherwise he might have been in real trouble. He’d seen some sailors who, when deprived of drink, had gotten the shakes, hallucinating and sweating. The main thing Jack experienced, when suddenly he’d had to switch to plain water, was the inability to sleep. He had managed to g
o nearly a week in the Sentinel’s brig, unable to sleep more than a few minutes at a time. That was one of the main reasons he’d begun exercising.
After counting off the paces around the perimeter of his new cell, Jack made himself walk five miles every day. He figured out a way to chin himself on the top of the cell door. It became a challenge to figure out how to stay as fit as possible in the little cell. If his moment ever came—and surely, at some point, Joe the Jailer would grow careless, or someone would come to take him out of there for some reason—Jack wanted to be ready to run.
In time-honored prisoner tradition, he found a small shard of stone on the floor of his cell, and used it to mark off the days as they passed. He’d done the same thing while in the brig, so Jack kept a running tally.
It had been thirty-five days since his capture when they brought Robby Greene into the jail, and locked him up in the cell next to Jack’s.
Jack and Robby gripped hands through their common bars, then stood there grinning at each other. “I’m glad to see you, mate,” Jack confessed, “though it’s a terrible thing to admit. I’d hoped they let you go.”
“No such luck,” Robby said. “They just locked me in the brig on a different ship, and I got to go with the Larkspur when they went searching for Kerma. Of course I couldn’t see much, from the brig, but I saw enough to be sure they’ve changed the illusion, Jack.”
“I told Amenirdis to,” Jack said. “Did you feel anything?”
“No. All I could find out from the cabin boy, who had the responsibility of looking after me, was that they tried for five days to sail east from your bearings, and they never saw a thing. They came back to the basic bearings several times, then headed out again in overlapping directions, but found nothing. There were three ships, all crossing and recrossing each other’s wakes, sailing in circles.”
“A hopeful sign, then,” Jack said. “Maybe nobody will ever find Kerma. Do you know what happened to the Wench?”
“They put one of the mates from another ship aboard her and sailed her back to Calabar, Jack,” Robby said. “She’s tied up at the dock. I saw her when they brought me off the Larkspur.”
“Any hints as to what Beckett has in store for us?”
“None.”
“Well, all we can do is make the best of it, mate,” Jack said. “Stay in the best shape we can, in case we get a chance to make a break for it. I suppose we’ll have to steal some money. I haven’t even a ha’penny on me.”
“I have lots of money, Jack,” Robby whispered.
“You do?” Jack whispered back.
“Yes. I buried my share of the pharaoh’s reward here in Calabar. I’ll tell you exactly where, in case I don’t make it out, Jack.”
“We’ll both make it out, Robby.”
Jack’s spirits improved, now that he had someone to talk to. He and Robby talked for hours, over meals, while they walked their five miles, and when they were just sitting there, waiting for something to happen.
“Have you thought about what we should do if we get out of here, Jack?” Robby asked, one day, just after Jack had scratched off day fifty-three on the wall of his cell.
Jack shrugged. He dropped his voice, even though Joe the Jailer was at least twenty feet away, and appeared to be sound asleep, rocked back in his chair. The snores were convincing, at any rate. “Presuming we can dig up your largesse, mate, we should probably split up. Make us harder to find.”
“But Africa, Jack,” Robby said. “Where can we go?”
“Hard question, mate,” Jack cogitated. “We might try working our way up the Western Coast, possibly catching a ship out of the nearest port north of Calabar. I’d need to look at a map.” He thought for a moment. “Assuming we do make good on our escape, where would you like to go, more than anywhere else?”
Robby’s blue eyes grew dreamy. He rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. “I guess…I guess I’d want to be back on a farm,” he said. “There is enough money for me to buy a little farmstead of my own. I’d get some geese, and ducks, maybe some turkeys…chickens, of course. Couple of pigs. I love bacon and ham. And a mule for plowing, and some milk cows.”
Robby smiled as he built his vision. “I’d grow apples and peaches. I wouldn’t eat anything but fresh fruit, fresh vegetables, and fresh bread, grown from my own wheat, Jack. No more biscuit you have to soak before you can get it down, lest it break your teeth!”
“And who would bake that bread, mate?”
“I’d find a wife. A nice girl, country born, country bred. She’d have cheeks as pink as the blush on a ripe peach, and all her teeth. She’d be the kind of girl that didn’t nag, or complain, but was a cheerful sort. With a nice shape,” Robby’s hands described curves in the air before him. “Not skinny, and not fat, either. Just a little plump, maybe, in the right places.”
“Stop it, mate, you’re torturing me,” Jack moaned, covering his eyes with his hands. “I’ve been cursing myself for a thousand kinds of a fool that the last time I saw Amenirdis, we didn’t—” He broke off, and cleared his throat. “Never you mind.”
Robby laughed. “Sorry, Jack. I’ll talk about religion, that’s sure to cool your blood. I’ll be a deacon, maybe. M’wife would sing in the choir. We’d take the little ones to services every Sabbath.” Robby stretched, then sighed. “If only we could get out of these wretched cells!”
Jack sat down beside him, on the other side of the bars, cross-legged. “You know, Robby, you might think about taking orders. You’d make a very good vicar.”
Robby turned to him, his eyes widening. “Me? A vicar? Ministering to the souls of a flock? Oh, no, Jack. You have to have an education for that. Go to a seminary, or something. The idea appeals to me, but I couldn’t do that. I’m not…fit.”
“I’ve never met anyone more fit, Robby,” Jack said. “Look at what a good influence you’ve had over me, these past five years.”
“Good influence!” Robby shook his head. “Jack, you still drink like a fish, gamble, and I long ago lost track of the wenches. Or, in the case of Esmeralda and Ayisha, ladies.”
“Ah, but think of how wicked I would have been if I hadn’t had you to slow me down, mate.”
Robby threw up his hands.
“You really should think about it, mate,” Jack urged. “You can get a country, what do they call ’em…parish. You could still have the cow, and the chickens, and”—he waved a hand—“all that. Who knows? You might be giving your sermon one Sabbath, and look out over your congregation, and there I’d be, sitting in the front pew, listening intently.” Jack grinned impishly. “And when the service is over, you can bring me home with you, and Mrs. Greene can serve me a splendid Sunday dinner. I’ll get to meet your offspring. Your stalwart sons, and your lovely daughter…”
“Jack, I would wall the poor girl up in the cellar before I’d let you within fifty feet of a daughter of mine. Or my wife, either,” Robby stated, with an edge in his voice.
Jack realized that if they weren’t sitting in their cells, and they were still pirates, Robby would have placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. He raised both hands in a placating gesture. “Hold hard, come about! Robby old lad, I was joking.”
Slowly, Robby relaxed. Jack sat back. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Five years of living in each other’s pockets, and all the scrapes I’ve gotten us into, and you, Robby Greene, finally lose your temper over trying to protect the virtue of a daughter you don’t even have!”
Robby stared at him in complete bewilderment. “I don’t know what came over me, Jack.”
The friends regarded each other for a long moment, then, simultaneously, they both began to laugh. Robby whooped until his ribs obviously protested, and he fell limply over onto his back. He lay there, gasping and laughing, his legs waving feebly like an overturned beetle’s.
Jack laughed too, so hard that he had to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. He didn’t dare look at Robby, or he knew he’d go off again. Instead he sat there, wiping his e
yes, still sputtering occasionally.
It was at that moment that Cutler Beckett’s men came for them.
* * *
After so long inside, Jack stared in wonderment at the Calabar River, and the vegetation on either side of it, as the Sentinel glided toward the Atlantic. Their hands were bound in front of them, but otherwise, they had not been ill-treated, merely locked into this small cabin on the gun deck. At least it had a porthole.
He wondered where he was being taken—and why. Had Cutler Beckett decided to simply drop them into the water, thus ridding himself of two problems?
Jack pushed his hair back from his face. It had gotten quite long while he was in the cell, and he now had a respectable beard. Robby was in like case, but he was so fair, it didn’t show as much.
He could tell when they reached the Atlantic by the change in the color of the water. The ship glided to a halt, and hove-to—or perhaps she dropped anchor. The water was fairly shallow here, within a mile of shore.
Mercer opened the door and beckoned the two of them to come along. Six EITC marines accompanied him.
Jack walked up onto the weather deck. It was good to smell the ocean breeze, he decided, after so many days of breathing the air of the jail.
His nostrils caught a whiff of smoke—something very strange for the deck of a ship. As Jack looked around, searching for the source, he saw Cutler Beckett standing over by the ladder leading to the quarterdeck. He also located the source of the smoke. There, on the port side deck, resting on a pile of stones mixed with sand, was a small charcoal brazier. A long rod was thrust into the center of the handful of glowing coals.
Jack’s mouth went dry, and he glanced at Robby, who shared his reaction. This did not look good. Not at all. He swallowed, and looked off to starboard—and froze.
The Wicked Wench was anchored not far way—perhaps three or four hundred feet. Her chestnut-colored sides with the pale gold trim gleamed in the light of the afternoon sun, and her ivory sails were neatly furled. Jack’s heart began to pound, and he was suddenly as frightened as he had ever been in his life.
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom Page 71