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The Sacking of Port Royal
by TortugaBlack

CHAPTER 10: The Practice Session

Down the companionway from the captain’s quarters, Ana Maria opened a door and stepped aside, allowing Elizabeth Swann to enter ahead of her. She followed, closing the door behind her.

Once inside Elizabeth whirled to confront the mulatto woman, taking in the quartermaster’s dusky beauty at a glance, her womanly attributes skillfully hidden under the wide brimmed hat and loosely fitted sailor’s clothing. For a moment the two women exchanged hard looks. It was not a first meeting and both remembered the last.

“What does Jack Sparrow want with Will?” Elizabeth demanded.

“That’s the captain’s business, lady, not yours, not mine,” Ana Maria snapped.

The governor’s daughter bristled, her eyes snapping with barely contained anger. “It’s mine when I’m taken from my bed in the dead of night and hustled aboard a pirate vessel.”

“Aye?” Ana Maria looked at once taken aback, then with open suspicion. “And who might have done such a deed, lady?”

“Captain Jack Sparrow,” Elizabeth replied with feeling.

“I was at the rail, lady, I saw no man’s pistol at your head that made you step aboard the Pearl.”

“The only member of this crew to ever put a pistol to my head was you,” Elizabeth accused.

“Aye,” the pretty pirate agreed. “And if it would have kept the captain from bein’ put on that tiny island again and left to die, I would be for doin’ it again.”

“Your memory is amiss if you’ve forgotten that I was marooned on that island, too.”

The dark head came up and full sensuous lips stretched to a thin line. “I do not forget, lady.” There were unsheathed daggers in her icy tone.

“Ahhh,” Elizabeth breathed with dawning understanding. “I see.”

“You see nothing!” Something dark flashed behind the eyes of the lovely pirate.

“Oh, I think I do.” Elizabeth turned her interest to the small cabin.

On the wall opposite the one shared by the cabin she had just left, heavy trunks were pushed under cabinets crafted from a heavy dark wood, reaching from bulkhead to bulkhead, their doors latched against the rocking of the ship. Sparrow had said she was to be taken to the quartermaster’s cabin, therefore, she reasoned, the cabinets would hold odd assortments of clothing and other day to day needs of the crew. The heavy trunks – all locked – were likely to hold weapons.

Under the stern windows of stained glass a small single bunk, neatly made, the blankets pulled taut, was anchored to the deck. The room was neat and orderly. Far different, she noted, than the one she had just left. On assorted hooks about the room were hung clothing Elizabeth assumed belonged to the cabin’s occupant. With the noted exception of a shirt – that looked strangely like the one Sparrow had been wearing – none looked large enough to fit any of the men aboard the Pearl.

“This is your cabin,” she stated, her suspicions heightened.

“Aye,” Ana Maria snapped. “I be the Pearl’s quartermaster.” She turned to the wall of cabinets, selected one and opened it. “The captain says you are to dress as a member of the crew.” She pulled a couple of items from the cabinet before turning back to the young woman who watched her from the center of the room. “Try these.” She stepped around Elizabeth and set the clothing on the bunk, then backed away. “I have no boots what will fit you.” She looked with scorn at the moccasins on Elizabeth’s feet. “Those things you wear were not made to walk a wet deck.”

“They’ll have to do…”

The Pearl dipped her bow, then breached a chop of rough water, the thump of it sounding against the galley’s great wooden sides to be quickly followed by another. Elizabeth’s stomach lurched with displeasure and she stumbled to the bunk. Regaining her balance, she hardened her resolve; she would not show any sign of weakness. She shook out the clothing. The breeches were much like the ones Ana Maria wore, loose and functional. She held them up to her body then looked up again to meet the dark eyes of the young pirate. “They’re too big...I’ll never keep them up.”

Ana Maria moved again to the cabinets, pulled something from one and tossed it to her.

Elizabeth caught the item, an old belt, soft and pliable from long use. Studying the belt closer, she drew a hesitant finger lightly across the path of a stain absorbed deep into the leather. Shaking off a chill of recognition, she dropped it on the bunk. Turning away before Ana Maria could read the distress from her discovery, she swiftly dressed, settling her attention on the creaking deck under her and the mighty boom of the sea as the Pearl raced before the wind under full sails.

“Quick, lady,” Ana Maria pressed impatiently. “You keep me from my duties.”

Ignoring her Elizabeth shoved the tail of the shirt into the breeches and reached for the belt. Overhead the hollow scraping sound of footsteps caught her attention. She paused, listening. The steps were irregular, slow, then rushed. No, she corrected, there were two sets of feet. Pulling the belt tight about her waist, she frowned. Over the sounds of the ship, she recognized the clash of metal striking metal. The rasp and slide as they came together, then slid apart…the rushing of feet. Swords? Someone fighting? Jack? Will! She spun to face the woman who waited impatiently for her, but showing no signs of concern at the sounds over their heads.

“What’s above us?” Her stomach lurched again, not from the motion of the ship, but the threatened illness of fear.

“The main deck.”

“You must hear what I do. What’s going on up there?”

Ana Maria shrugged. “That, too, be the captain’s business.”

“We’ll see about that.” Elizabeth tightened the belt another notch and strode with single-minded purpose toward the door. Ana Maria stood firmly between her and her destination.

“The captain said you were to show me the quickest way from topside to this cabin,” Elizabeth reminded her curtly. “Then show me – now – from the main deck!”

v v v v v

Under the cloudless blue skies of the Caribbean the Black Pearl sailed on a sea bright with the morning’s light, her dark sails reaching for the wind and running before it. The first mate kept the crew busy at their duties while keeping a watchful eye on the helmsman who struggled to negotiate the various islets, sandbars, and cays around the big island. While activity on the main deck aft drew interested glances, a stern look and a harsh word from Gibbs sent the curious back to their duties with a gruff reminder to stay well clear of the area and the two men with drawn swords.

On the main deck Will Turner stepped slowly forward, his sword arm fully extended to meet and parry the next thrust of Sparrow’s blade. At the clash of steel, Turner did a swift pass, deflecting the pirate’s blade with lightning speed and perfect form. An excellently executed glissade, another thrust, another pass and he had Sparrow on the defensive.

Forced backward and running from Turner’s blade, Sparrow struggled to deflect the next thrust and waited for the boy to follow through. But instead of pressing the attack to disarm or put him on the deck as the pirate expected, Turner backed away and allowed him to regroup. Taking advantage of the break, Sparrow edged to the right; the boy moved to the left. Slowly, they circled, each man taking the measure of the other. A lot of Will’s skill was a natural ability that would serve him well, Sparrow was pleased to note, however, some of it…the part that worried him…had been learned and was being carefully executed in accordance with the rules of the ‘game’; in his world that would get the boy killed.

“You’ve a strong arm and a long reach, Will Turner,” Sparrow admitted. He allowed his blade to touch then brush the length of the other. “It gives your thrust power and allows you to keep ahead of your adversary’s blade.” He took a swift step forward and again engaged the younger man. The blades clashed and parted. The two men crossed leads and repositioned, each moved in a mirrored image of the other.

Amidst another trading of feints, thrusts and parries, Sparrow managed to hold his own, but with difficulty, Turner having no trouble matching his footwork step for step. “But there are always counter moves against strength and reach,” he panted, his blade again just able to deflect a sudden and swift attack.

“And a pirate knows them all,” Will countered easily, another pass kept him well clear of the pirate’s next lunge and thrust. A step forward, engage, pass, disengage and he expertly moved his blade from one line of attack where it was blocked by Sparrow’s blade, then swiftly into a line not protected. Always, he kept out of reach of the thrusting blade of his sparring partner. “You forget. I have crossed swords…against Barbossa’s crew.”

Blades flashed, steps quickened, but always the longer reach of the bigger man kept Sparrow from finding an opening in his defenses. Pushing the advantage, Will Turner stepped into the next thrust, allowing it to carry the strength of his weight behind it. “…I was unimpressed.”

It was the move Sparrow had been waiting for. Without warning, he dropped to one knee, his blade, positioned over his head, blocked the thrust and took the full weight of the charge. Turner, expecting a pass and parry, was caught off balance. At the opportune moment, the two swords caught between the strength of the men who drove them, Sparrow bent his arm, threw himself to the deck and rolled, not away from Turner, but towards him. His forward momentum unchecked by the blade that had held the attack, Turner was forced to drop his sword arm to stop his fall.

In a lightning move – unexpected and unanticipated by the younger man - Jack Sparrow surged up, dealing Turner a crashing blow under the chin with the hilt of his sword, snapping the boy’s head back and sending him reeling.

Turner labored to bring his sword up, his eyes dazed, his expression one of confused hurt and betrayal. Before he could raise his blade, the pommel of Sparrow’s sword struck him a hard blow to the solar plexus; he went down. Fighting for breath, his head ringing from hard contact with the deck, Will fought to regain his feet, struggling against the roll of the ship; he froze at the touch of a blade at his throat.

“Aye,” Sparrow grinned down at him. “But Barbossa’s crew of miscreants could not die and had grown careless in their immortality.” The smile faded, replaced by a seriousness not to be ignored. “Ben Pease will not have that advantage, mate, nor will you. Savvy?”

“You’ve made your point.” Angered at being caught off guard and still gasping for breath, Will Turner made another attempt to rise, only to be forced again to the deck under the threat of Sparrow’s weapon.

“You can’t afford mistakes, mate. You’ll be keeping a man from his ship while it’s under attack. The fight will be swift and brutal – deadly if you offer him an opening.” The blade retreated and a strong hand reached out to the fallen man, grasped the hesitantly offered hand and hauled Will to his feet.

Swaying unsteadily on rubbery legs, Turner rubbed at his chin where a bruise was already forming, his jaw painfully sore. “Our fight. At the forge,” he questioned. “I’m not a simpleton, Jack, I had you beat until….” Already sensing a trap well laid, Turner made no attempt to finish the sentence.

“Aye. Until…” Sparrow grinned at Turner’s choice of words. “And against Pease, mate, I would be expecting a lot of those untils, were I you.” He grew imploringly serious. “And, please, forget those accursed rules of engagement! Against a pirate there are no rules.” He nodded toward the fallen sword. “Let’s try it again.”

The two men faced off and the pirate took Turner carefully through the fencing sequence that had taken the younger man down. As they advanced, parried, lunged and fought for the advantage, Sparrow rapidly picked up the rhythm of the boy’s moves and noted each pattern he stepped into prior to an attack; some were repetitious and easily anticipated, others were spontaneous and brilliantly executed. With the knowledge the pirate pressed the attack, the action becoming faster, the blades striking harder and with ever increasing danger, each man growing more confident in his ability to anticipate the moves of the other. Following the pirate’s lead, the sparring became more and more physical.

Again and again Sparrow and Turner charged forward, each probing for a weak spot in the other’s defenses; the clash of their swords rang throughout the ship. In the ritual of hand-to-hand combat, the men came together, swords locking, bodies pressing, testing the strength and reserve of the other, before disengaging, pushing off, passing and coming in again, the younger man using his extensive skill, his youth and his strength, the older his agility, his speed and his experience.

Suddenly, and again without forewarning, Sparrow turned into his opponent’s sword, ducked and came up under Turner’s extended arm and hard into his body, throwing him backward. Pressing the advantage, Sparrow stepped into the opening. A lightning flick of his sword hand, a flash of the blade and he sidestepped out of reach. Turner went to his knees, his sword dropping from his hand. Along his right side, above the belt line, a thin line of blood slowly stained his shirt.

His face contorted with pain, Will stumbled to his feet his left hand pressed tightly to his side. “You didn’t have to do that,” he gasped through tightly clenched teeth, glaring at Sparrow who stood apart, watching with hooded interest.

Jack Sparrow tilted his head to one side and studied the betrayal he read in Turner’s expression. “I think I did, mate,” he disagreed, than backed away. Keeping his eyes on the young blacksmith, Sparrow edged the blade of his cutlass under the other’s fallen weapon. With a flick of his wrist, the sword flew from the deck toward the wounded man. Forcing himself erect against the pull of the shallow but painful cut, Turner caught it in a hand stained with his own blood.

“You fight well, mate, and you have the skills needed for the job at hand.” Sparrow stepped forward, his sword again at ready. “Pease will offer no quarter, boy, and will take every opening, every advantage offered. You show the same disrespect for his blade as you’ve shown for mine and he’ll take more than a few drops of your blood.” He paused for effect. “He’ll take your life.”

“This is sparring, Jack,” Turner snapped angrily. “You don’t bloody your partner to make a point!”

“Anger? Good!” Sparrow replied flippantly, saluting the younger man with the hilt of his sword. “Now we work on attitude.”

Will Turner stepped forward cautiously, carefully focused on every move and counter move of his wiry opponent. There was a determination in his expression and a care to his movements that had not been there before.

Again the two swords met, clashed, separated as each man pushed the other for advantage. Sparrow sprang forward, retreated; Turner followed, blocking each strike and countering with blows of his own. With the cunning of long practice, Jack Sparrow directed the action, using the younger man’s anger to draw him forward, playing to his ego by feigning distress to maneuver him to either side. Turner met each move quickly, expertly, and allowed no openings; but Sparrow was looking for none, only waiting for the opportune moment.

Falling back one last time, Sparrow maneuvered Turner until he had the younger man in position. Sunlight caught the flashing steel. A flash of gold in the swarthy face, a quick pass and Sparrow tipped his blade upward directing the sun’s blinding reflection off the highly polished steel into the eyes of his opponent.

Momentarily blinded Turner raised his blade in defense of an anticipated attack he could not see. Again Sparrow’s blade flashed…

“No!”

Surprised by the unexpected shout and still blinded by the sun, Turner whirled toward the familiar voice and into the path of Sparrow’s blade. Eyes wide to the danger, Sparrow pulled his thrust, but too late felt his blade again find flesh.

A rush of feet, a flash of color, and Elizabeth Swann threw herself between the two men, her face flushed with fear and anger. “What are you doing, trying to kill each other?” She turned her back to the pirate. “Will? Will? Oh, my God, you’re hurt!”

Lowering his blade and hurriedly sheathing it, Sparrow strode swiftly to the side of the young woman and, none too gently, shouldered her aside. Reaching to the bloodied shoulder of the young blacksmith, he brusquely but not without care, ripped the blood-soaked material away from the wound, exposing a long, ugly gash along the muscles of the shoulder. Already the bleeding had slowed, the wound painful, but not deep. Sparrow drew a slow breath and let it out along with most of his anger. He leaned closer, his words for Turner’s ears alone. “Look at it this way, mate, with a woman like Elizabeth at his side, a man need never fear growing old.” He drew back, allowing the young woman to rush to Turner’s side.

Will Turner still blinking from the blinding sunlight, grunted as Elizabeth bumped him in her eagerness to reach him. “Elizabeth…I’m…all right.”

“Miss Swann.”

Elizabeth whirled to face the livid features of a man no longer amused by her interference.

“Had my blade bitten a bit deeper, Mister Turner could be without that arm and the means to fulfill an accord struck between us.” His voice was cold with barely contained anger.

“Accord?” She turned back toward Turner, missing the quick exchange of glances between the two men. “Will? What…?” She looked again at Sparrow. “Agreement? Agreement? You mean Articles?” She again faced Turner. “You signed Articles with Jack Sparrow?”

“Elizabeth, please…” Will panted, trying to catch his breath from the sparring and the building pain of his wounds. “You don’t understand…”

“Quartermaster!”

Ana Maria, having remained wisely apart throughout the confrontation quickly sprang forward. “Aye, Captain!”

“Take Miss Swann below and show her where the medical supplies are kept.”

“Aye, Captain.” Ana Maria shot Elizabeth a pitying glance.

Sparrow nodding toward the bloody wound, “You caused it, missy, you fix it…and fix it good. Mister Turner will be needing the use of that arm to help him keep his head.” He shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”

The brown eyes of the governor’s daughter snapped with anger at the pirate’s flippancy before turning a quick apologetic glance toward the young blacksmith. Will Turner answered it in kind with a forgiving smile and a brief shake of his head cautioned her against any further altercation. Another hesitant glance at the two men and Elizabeth turned to follow the silent but amused quartermaster who was already moving back the way they had come.

“Miss Swann.”

At the undeniable authority in the pirate’s voice, Elizabeth Swann reluctantly turned back.

“I won’t confine you to your cabin for this, but we will have an accord, you and I.” His voice hardened. “Any further attempt to interfere with any actions aboard this ship and you will be escorted to the brig.” A hard glance directed at Turner silenced him before the boy could come to her defense. He directed his gaze back to Elizabeth. “Savvy?” His eyebrows rose at the question.

Elizabeth drew a shallow breath and nodded. Only then did she realize she was trembling. She turned and followed Ana Marie below.

“Land ho!”

At the shout from a crewman stationed at the bow, Sparrow turned away from Turner to meet his first mate rushing toward them from the helm. “Mister Gibbs.”

“Lime Cay, sir, coming hard to port. What be your orders, Cap’n?”

“Take the helm, Mister Gibbs, and empty the sails. There’s a small cove up hard against the beach. That’s where we’ll make anchorage.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Sparrow glanced over his shoulder. “See to your wounds, Mister Turner. Once we’ve dropped anchor, you and I will continue.” He motioned Gibbs off and followed in his wake.

Gibbs hurried to the wheel and took control of the ship, calling out the captain’s orders as he did. Crewmen scrambled to their duties as the Black Pearl turned her stern to deep water and tacked gracefully landward. Her sails emptied and she slowed to a crawl.

Jack Sparrow strolled along the port railing, watching their approach to the cay with avid attention. “Mister La Bouche, take the lead and line, go forward and sound a bit.”

“Aye, Cap’n, aye!” A tall black crewman grabbed up the lead and line and hurried to the port bow where he quickly and expertly dropped the line into the water, reading each knot in the line as it played through his fingers. “Less than a fathom of water here, Cap’n,” he sang out.

“Jack, the water be too shallow to venture any further…” Gibbs cautioned, holding the ship on course.

“Hold steady, Mister Gibbs. There’s a hole of deep water just past the shoals…”

There was a soft jar and a jerk as the Pearl hit the shoal, shuddered and slowed.

“Run out the sweeps!” Jack shouted. “Push her off to the lee! Let go your sheets!”

The ship’s crew scrambled to follow the rapid fire of their captain’s orders.

With the sails still hoisted, but empty of wind, the great oars dug into the sandy shoal and pushed the Black Pearl slowly forward; she hung up then slid into deep water. A shout rang out from the crew as the galley floated free. Jack Sparrow smiled. Giving the order to bank the sweeps and with the Pearl under half sail, he turned back to his first mate. “Take us into the cove, Mister Gibbs, but stay to the deep waters below the cliffs and drop anchor.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Gibbs looked back at their wake. “What about the Rona? Hayes won’t be knowing these waters.”

“The Rona’s shallower in the draft than the Pearl, mate. She’ll have no trouble making her way over the shoals,” Jack assured him. He pointed to the towering cliffs above them. “We should go unnoticed here and as day lengthens, their shadows will deepen. Few ships sail this side of the cay, but put a man in the nest with a glass. He’s to be ordered to signal any sail sighted.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Gibbs acknowledged. “You be wanting both watches while we’re here?”

“Aye, port and starboard,” Sparrow agreed. “Keep them lively, Mister Gibbs. I’ll be aft with Mister Turner.”