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Driftwood by Hereswith [Reviews - 0] [216
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by Hereswith
Chapter 4
The men were strung tightly enough to break, and Elizabeth could not blame them: her disposition was much the same. During the hours they had been becalmed, eight more had become mysteriously ill, and a section of the crew’s quarters had been set aside for their care. None could tell who would be next, or when, and that constant doubt, together with the lack of the faintest gust of wind, took its toll, even on the most seasoned of sailors.
When Jack had summoned a meeting, emotions had run high and heated and, had the captain been anyone else, Elizabeth was certain that chaos would already have reigned on the Black Pearl. Jack’s powers of persuasion were considerable, and though he could not completely placate his men, he held them at bay, behaving as if he was both tireless and invulnerable, showing no hint of nerves. She wondered how long he would be able to keep it up, and what would happen, should he falter.
Forcibly stopping her thoughts from going further down that path, Elizabeth buried her face in her palms, the patterned darkness preferable to the view of the uncannily tranquil and changeless ocean. If only there was something that could be done. If the enemy had been tangible, they might have fought back, with weapons or wits. But the girl, the spirit, was out of sight and hearing, and they had no defence against her, except prayer. And that, too, had been of little use, thus far.
“What the hell’re ye lookin’ at?”
Elizabeth lifted her head, just as someone careened backwards and into her, another crewmember charging after him. She fell hard, gracelessly, to the deck, the air knocked out of her, but she had the self-preservation to get out of the way and to her feet, before the two brawlers went down.
The people around hurried to intervene, but none of them, not even Jack, was in time to prevent disaster. One of the quarrelling pirates, Fitch, whipped out a dagger and stabbed the other repeatedly through the chest.
Elizabeth clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, God.”
Although Fitch was hauled off, and the wounded man, whose name eluded Elizabeth, was attended to, it was too late. They could not staunch the bleeding. He coughed wetly and moaned, and died where he lay.
Elizabeth, numbed by the suddenness of it, jumped when Jack took her arm. His clothes were stained a crimson red, and she cleared her throat, saying, with a nod at the body, “What was he called?”
“Tully,” was Jack’s curt answer. “Are you hurt?”
She was slightly sore, but it was a trifling matter, in comparison. “No.”
“Good. Come, then.”
Without further ado he ushered her to the captain’s cabin, and once they were inside, turned towards her, so serious she had the distinct feeling that whatever this was about, she was not going to like it.
“Stay here,” he demanded. “Lock those doors and don’t open a crack till I return. Savvy?”
She stared at him, surprised. “The doors could be beaten down, if it comes to that. I’m not much safer here. And what if—I’d rather be with you.”
He gave an odd jerk of the head. “I’ll not have you ripped to pieces before me eyes.”
“But—“
Jack cut her off with a peremptory gesture of silence and a harsh, “Damnation! For once, Elizabeth Turner, will you do as I say?”
He looked every bit the pirate: fierce and bloodied, his gaze blazing and his brows knitted, and it sparked a flare of fright in her. Because she could not, at that moment, rule out the possibility that this anger was a sign he was losing his mind, like the others had. She glanced, almost involuntarily, at the sword that was propped against the chest to the right of them, and when he noticed it, he swiftly moved to fetch that sword, and then up close to her, intruding on her space and her senses alike.
“Aye,” he said, curling her fingers around the sheath, so firmly his rings pinched her. “You’d best not trust me, darling. ‘Tis near I don’t trust myself.” His face was inches from her own, and she swallowed, parting her lips to speak, but Jack leaned forward that scant distance and captured them with his, his teeth raking her lower lip. When she raised her other hand, the one he had not trapped, to touch him, to gain purchase, he drew sharply away from her. “Have the sword at the ready, Lizzie, and wait for me knock. Once and then thrice.”
He swirled, without another word, and strode out.
Elizabeth inhaled on a shudder, intending to go after him, but she halted at the doors, torn by a dull, sick fear. In the end, she locked them and stepped back, shoulders set. She would not, would not cry.
*
There were shouts from outside, and, on one occasion, a heavy crash, which made her startle and grasp, white-knuckled, at the hilt of the sword, but no one burst through the doors. She was reminded of the night when she had huddled by the stern windows, in this very cabin, after learning the truth about the curse and its ghastly effects on Barbossa and his crew. And like she had then, she thought of her father, with a similar sadness, but a more acute regret. She should have written to him, while she could.
Sunset soon arrived, which, she reflected, made it a full day since they had discovered the shipwreck. A full day. No more than that had been needed, to bring about such destruction.
She rose, and paced back and forth. The fear that had hindered her earlier had not lessened, but a stubborn determination warred with it. It was quiet, much too quiet, and Jack had not returned. Regardless of what befell her, she could not bear not knowing anymore.
She did not strap on the sword. She unsheathed it, instead, mustering what spare courage she could, then went to open the doors.
Even without the sun, it was stifling. The fair skies had prevailed and the moon cast a pale light over the quiescent ship: the planks, the rigging and the lines, making of them a strangely ominous landscape. She could not spot anyone, at first, but when she walked forward, she realised what had caused the crashing noise. The longboat was at an angle, partly hanging and partly on deck, as if they had unsuccessfully tried to launch it.
She had expected a great many things, all of them terrible, before emerging from the cabin, but not the hum of singing. Of Jack, singing. The sound drifted from the helm, and she bounded up the steps in twos. He was at the wheel, as if the Pearl was leaping over the waves, as if her sails swelled and billowed above them.
“Jack?” At her voice, he trailed off, in the middle of the jaunty ditty, and cocked his head, the rattle of beads unnaturally loud. She was not sure he recognised her, he gave no evidence of it. “Are you—all right?”
“Splendiferous,” he said, and smiled.
It was Jack’s smile, flashing gold, but with something lurking beneath it, that set her on edge, and she asked, warily, “Where are the men?”
“Well,” he replied. “I couldn’t have them running about, scheming and making mutinous plans, now, could I?”
Elizabeth tensed. “Are they dead?”
“Not yet,” he said, and that was a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. He pointed at the sword. “What’s that for?”
“Protection,” she hedged, hating the tremble in her tone. “Nothing more.”
His expression shifted. She had never seen it so hostile, or dreamed she would. “On their side, are you?” he accused. “You’re plotting to steal the Pearl out from under me, like they did.”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “I wasn’t—“
“Did you think to trick me?” he continued, as though she had not spoken. “Or kill me? By the looks of it, I’d lay ‘twas the former.”
He released the wheel and came towards her, as if putting his theory to the test. Elizabeth brandished the blade, but she hesitated when she could have plunged it into him, when she could have slashed him, and Jack did not waste the opportunity he was provided. Seizing her arm, he twisted it painfully, wresting the sword from her, in a perverse reversal of his previous actions, and it clattered to the deck.
“Ah,” he said. “Seems I was right. Stupid, foolish wench. Should’ve struck me down, when you had the chance.”
The fact that it was Jack chilled her deeper than did the implied threat. Though she winced to do it, Elizabeth rammed her elbow into his stomach. Jack doubled over, grappling for her with a savage growl, but she managed to slip away, retreating to the railing on the other side, her heart in her mouth. He was blocking the way to the steps, so she could not escape by that route, even to seek temporary shelter in the cabin.
“Jack,” she entreated, though reasoning had not made a difference with Gibbs, or any of the others. “Please. This is madness, you know it is.”
“Is it?” He placed a finger on his chin, as if he was honestly considering it, and her hopes must have been plain on her face, for his grin spread wide. “Tricked the trickster, eh?”
He advanced on her again, and Elizabeth made a wild attempt to bolt past him, but he caught her. She struggled, hampered by her reluctance to harm him, but Jack had no such compunction: he wrapped her braid around his hand, pulling her back by it so roughly her eyes teared.
“Got you,” he whispered, his breath tickling her neck.
Bleak misery would have overwhelmed her, at that, but a shriek pierced the sky, as if in defiant answer, and a brightly coloured bird swooped down from above. Parrot aimed straight for Jack, and in order to fend off the hacking beak, the rending claws and flapping wings, he had to let Elizabeth go.
She stumbled forward, retrieving her sword even as she hastened towards the steps. But at the last, before descending, she gazed at Jack, who cursed and gesticulated, cowering under Parrot’s frenzied assault.
“Damn you!” she said, and it was not Jack she meant, not Jack she was talking to. “I want him back, do you hear? Give him back to me.”
She had barely finished the sentence when Jack went rigid and collapsed, his entire frame racked and thrown about by spasms. Parrot ceased his attack and Elizabeth, against all sense, rushed to Jack’s side. She dropped the sword and clutched at him, but could not hold him. His eyes rolled, and he groaned as another cramp coursed through him, then grew still.
“No!” Elizabeth blurted. “Don’t you dare die on me, Jack Sparrow. I won’t let you.”
She fumbled for his pulse, and, finding it, half sobbed. But something swished behind her, and she stiffened, instantly, her flesh creeping.
“He’s mine. You cannot save him.”
Elizabeth turned around, ever so slowly. On the deck, beneath the moon, as if she had never been gone, stood Leah.
Author's Note: