Black
Pearl Tales
is the official archive of
Black Pearl Sails
and Black Pearl Library.
Pirates of the Caribbean
is the property of the
Disney Corporation.
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a Reasons
to Believe by Hereswith |
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The
tale thus far... |
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Chapter Three Once, when she’d been Barbossa’s most unwilling captive, the Black Pearl itself had not mattered to her. Cannons could have splintered it, the sea could have swallowed it, and she would not have mourned for its loss. It had been a ship, nothing more. Granted, a legendary ship, haunted and cursed, with sails as black as the hearts of its crew. But it had not been Jack’s ship. Standing now, in the Captain’s quarters, Jack was in all she could see, as if his spirit had somehow seeped into the woodwork. And she felt the lack of him more keenly, surrounded by his possessions, than she had in Port Royal, or aboard the Aurora. Without realising it, Elizabeth bit down on her lower lip. She flinched, but the pain was a momentary distraction, and as such she almost welcomed it. “Anchors aweigh!” The parrot, not approving of her sudden motion, abandoned her, settling on the armrest of a chair. It started to preen itself with great vigour. “Does the bird have a name, Mr. Gibbs? I don’t think I’ve ever heard it.” “Damned if I know, lass. ‘Tis always been ‘Mr. Cotton’s parrot’, but that’ll have to change, I suppose.” Gibbs gulped hard. “I need somethin’ to drink.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “There should be wine, if ye’d care for that?” When she nodded, he walked over to the cupboard and rummaged through it, emerging with a bottle filled with amber liquid. “Rum?” he asked, slightly apologetic, as if he expected her to decline. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, but she was oddly cold, oddly hollow and she knew the rum might remedy that, vile though it was. “I think I’ll have some, Mr. Gibbs, but just a drop, if you please.” He seemed surprised, but quickly regained his composure. “A drop ye shall have!” She removed her cloak, as well as her coif, and sat down, avoiding the chair the parrot had claimed. A strand of hair had worked itself loose from her braid and she tucked it behind her ear, turning her attention to the chart that was spread out on the tabletop. She pulled it towards her, further into the circle of light that the lantern cast. “Here you are, Mrs. Turner.” “Thank you.” Elizabeth took the glass Gibbs offered her. It was engraved and, in all likelihood, part of the booty plundered from some merchant ship. Her lip stung, when she drank, and the rum burned, trailing a fiery path down her throat, but it warmed her, from the inside out. Gibbs went round the table, fetched a mug from the cupboard and then took a seat opposite her. He poured liquor into the mug and downed a sizeable amount of it. The parrot, suddenly alert, marched to the end of the armrest and clicked its beak, several times. With a long-suffering sigh, Gibbs held out his mug and the bird craned its neck to get a taste. “Shiver me timbers!” Elizabeth coughed, hiding a smile. “Mr. Gibbs?” “Aye?” She indicated the chart. “Could you show me where it was?” Gibbs withdrew the mug, to the parrot’s dismay, and leaned across the table, taking a look. “’Twas Jack, who plotted the course, but—about there, I’d say.” He pointed at a spot some distance from Tortuga. “They chased us a good while, the devils,” he continued, as harshly as if the memory haunted him. “If not for the dark, they’d sent us all to Davy Jones’ Locker. Even that blasted bird.” Elizabeth’s brow furrowed in concentration. She put her glass down and tapped her finger next to the faint markings to the side of where he had pointed. “Islands, Mr. Gibbs?” “There are no larger islands in those parts,” Gibbs replied. He mulled it over, lips pursed. “Jack mentioned some specks of land, as I recall. He’d nearly run aground on them in a storm, years past. It might be those.” “Specks of land?” she repeated, her mind in a whirl, her heart in her mouth. “Like the speck of land Barbossa marooned us on?” A month, she thought. They could have survived a month, or more, on that godforsaken isle. His eyes narrowed. “Could be naught but rocks, lass. I’ve not set foot on them and Jack never said as much.” Elizabeth swallowed, finding it inordinately difficult to speak, quite as if she’d had a whole glass of rum. “What if—“ “Now, whatever yer thinkin’, ye’d best forget it,” Gibbs interrupted. “Seein’ as how high the waves were, and with him bein’ shot—“ He paused and lifted the mug, taking another swig. “It’d be a miracle, no less.” “He could have been washed ashore, could he not?” she questioned, grasping at straws, though they crumbled and cut her when she touched them. “For all I could tell, he might’ve been dead when he hit the water.” Gibbs shook his head. “I know ye cared for him, lass, but ‘tis not possible.” Elizabeth got up hastily. She wanted to run out and make ready the sails, but, of course, she could not. And she didn’t know how. “Not probable,” she countered, refusing to yield, “and you cared for him too, Mr. Gibbs. Have you not considered it? Not for one single moment?” He blinked, and his gaze slid away. “’Tis a fool’s errand,” he insisted, “and a fool’s hope.” “Perhaps, but I have to see it for myself. I have to be certain.” He hadn’t answered her question. She drew a ragged breath, putting all her faith in that. “If you can tell me that you don’t, honestly tell me that you don’t, you can take me home, Mr. Gibbs. And I promise I won’t make a fuss.” “Mother’s love!” Gibbs exclaimed. He pushed a hand through his hair and that hand shook, very slightly. “Ye cannot believe he’s alive!” “No,” Elizabeth admitted, “but neither can I believe he’s dead. He’s Captain Jack Sparrow.” Her voice broke upon the last word and she balled her fists, stifling the sob that would have escaped. Gibbs fell silent and he stayed silent, for the longest time, the crease between his brows growing deep. “Aye,” he finally said, “he is, at that.” He squared his shoulders, as if coming to some sort of decision. “Less than a week’s worth of voyage, if we catch the right wind.” Elizabeth felt faint. She sank into the chair again, her legs too weak and too numb to hold her up. “Daft,” Gibbs accused, reading the expression on her face, but there was a fierce glint in his eyes. And she grinned, remembering. “Daft like Jack.” * Gibbs called together the rest of the crew and Elizabeth dreaded that meeting, her stomach churned with anxiety, because she knew Gibbs would do nothing, if the others voted against it, regardless of what he had said. And that would leave her adrift. But though some of men were reluctant at first, they all agreed, in the end, and most of them seemed strangely eager to take off, almost as if they, like her, longed for that final confirmation. The final nail, with which to seal the coffin shut. The Black Pearl left Tortuga, carried along by a strong, steady breeze. Elizabeth spent much of the first day up on deck, the white sails billowing above her. She counted the exact number of steps required to get from starboard to larboard rail and she watched the crew, as they busied themselves with all the numerous chores that needed to be done. Her patience wore thin. It frayed and unravelled. Before the afternoon had waned, she went to find Gibbs, cornering him at the wheel. “Give me something to do, Mr. Gibbs, or I shall go mad.” “I don’t doubt it,” he replied, in a tone that
betrayed her pacing had grated on his nerves as much as it had
on hers. He eyed her, appraisingly, and she clasped her hands
behind her back, raising her chin. She didn’t know what he
saw, the Governor’s daughter, or the blacksmith’s widow,
but he nodded. “Ye could ask Cook if he needs help. And Marty’s
below deck, mendin’ Come nightfall, she was weary and her body was aching. She had always thought she knew about life on a ship, but all that she had read, all the tales she had devoured could only serve to keep her head above the water and, even that, just barely. Elizabeth fell asleep, almost before she lay down. She didn’t dream. And that was a blessing. * She stood at the bow of the ship, like she had as a young girl, waiting for her life to begin. “Yo ho,” she whispered, eyes on the deep blue, the unbroken surface. “Yo ho, a pirate’s life for me.” “Black sheep,” the parrot said, taking the cue. It was sitting on the rail, its brightly coloured feathers ruffled by the wind. “Devils and black sheep and really bad eggs!” “Yes,” she answered. “You’re quite right. Really bad eggs.” “Mrs. Turner?” Gibbs came up to join her and the parrot sidled towards him, butting its head against his hand. He absently began to pet it. “You know, Mr. Gibbs,” Elizabeth mused, “I’ve yet to hear you say it’s bad luck, having a woman aboard.” He grimaced and scratched his whiskered cheek. “We’ve had no luck for weeks, lass. The way I figure it, yer bein’ here’s not likely to make it worse.” Her lips quirked, minutely, but they quirked. “Land dead ahead, Captain!” The lookout’s cry rang out from above them and Elizabeth startled, exchanging a single glance with Gibbs. “Do you think—“ she began, but she could not continue. Gibbs shrugged, a muscle working in his jaw. “We’ll know, soon enough.” Elizabeth squinted against the glare of the sun, straining to see something on the horizon. It seemed to take forever, before she did. There were three islands, strung out like pearls on a lady’s necklace, or beads in a pirate’s hair. The largest of them was smaller than Elizabeth had prayed it would be, but it wasn’t bare rock, at least, it had trees and she noticed a stretch of golden sand. Viewed from the deck of the Pearl, it was beautiful. But she was well aware of how treacherous such beauty might be, if food and water was scarce and every road led to this: a pistol, a bullet and a cleaner death. As they drew nearer their goal, Gibbs left to take the helm, parrot in tow, but a few of the other crewmembers approached. “Coconut palms,” Marty observed, taking stock of the vegetation. “I’ll not believe it, till we find ‘im,” the sandy-haired youth next to Marty replied. Jamie, his name was, and he was about the age Elizabeth had been, at the time of her grand adventure. “An’ prob’ly not even then.” Fool’s hope, she thought, gripping the rail so hard her
knuckles whitened. False hope, perhaps. But it was better than
no hope at all.
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