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The Sacking of Port Royal
by TortugaBlack

CHAPTER 17: The Fight

The last longboat to be loaded rocked unsteadily behind the stern of the Pearl as the crew shifted to make room for the young blacksmith and on his heels their captain. Boarding completed, crewmen leaned to their oars and awaited their orders.

In the bow of the boat facing shore, Jack Sparrow balanced confidently, if not a bit precariously, with one foot on the bow plate, the other on the wooden seat next to Will Turner. With a glass replacing the one given to Elizabeth, the pirate watched the Jackal secure its lines to the dock’s bollards and lower a boarding ramp.

“A landing party’s off-loading,” Sparrow relayed to Turner without taking the glass from his eye. Another moment, then two, and a group of men strode down the ramp onto the dock, two lanterns boldly carried to light the way.

“Lanterns?” Will hissed softly in surprise. He leaned forward to better see past the standing pirate. “They’re sure to be seen from the house.”

“What would you do, mate, if you were to look out your window and see a pirate brig at your dock blocking any escape by sea and a score of armed scalawags heading your way?” Sparrow asked, the glass still on the activities at the plantation dock. “And you with a family to protect…”

Rejecting his first retort, Will realized how foolish…and hopeless…it would be for a man with a family to attempt to fight the band of pirates crossing the dock. “If possible…run.”

“Aye, ” Sparrow grunted in reply.

As they watched, one of the lanterns was placed at the end of the boarding ramp, the other carried by a crewman near the front of the group. At the head of the party and caught in the dim glow of lantern light sauntered a tall man in greatcoat, moving with the confidence of long leadership, the sword at his hip steadied with a sure and practiced hand.

Without turning, Sparrow handed the glass down to Turner. “The tall gent in the greatcoat.”

Turner shifted until he could see past Sparrow and put the glass to his eye. Finding the group of men assembled on the dock at the gangplank, Will singled out and settled on the man described. Lowering the glass, he nodded, confident they had found Ben Pease. He returned the glass to the pirate captain.

Reclaiming his seat beside Will, Sparrow handed the glass to the next man and signaled the oarsmen to move the boat to the end of its tether to allow each man in turn a look at the group they would soon confront. Using the distraction, Sparrow leaned close to Will, his words meant only for the young blacksmith.

“You’ve seen your man, mate, and you know what there is that needs doing.”

“I’m to fight this man to a standstill.” There was bitterness in the boy’s whispered words and grim sarcasm. “Humiliate him. Then stand by while he’s taken as spoils to be gutted and marooned.”

“Right,” Sparrow answered flippantly then grew serious. “Remember, mate, there’s what a man can do and what a man can’t do. You’re a good man, Will Turner, a fair man and a good swordsman. These are fine qualities to be sure.” He paused and his expression hardened. “Tonight you will have to weigh those fine qualities against staying alive. A good woman awaits your return; I’d think hard before disappointing her.” He pushed his face closer still to that of the younger man and grimaced. “She might forgive you the misfortune of dying, mate, but it will my hide she’ll be wanting. Savvy?”

A grin pulled at Will Turner’s mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind…

The glass was handed forward and the pirate captain returned to his stance at the bow. Keeping the longboats in the deeper shadows of the Pearl still tethered, the crews waited. From his position Sparrow counted those in the landing party; twice the number he would put ashore. From Bully Hayes’ information, he suspected half that many, or possibly more, would be left onboard. Even odds or better, the number his first mate would take aboard, but surprise – and luck – had a way of evening the odds and Jack Sparrow was a master of such plans. If Gibbs carried out his part, they would be faced with even odds against the landing party, which was already breaking up into two groups – as he had anticipated.

Both groups left the dock and stepped onto the beach where they held a brief meeting at the head of what looked to be two trails. The second lantern they left at the end of the dock to light their way. Those burdened with shackles and chains headed down a trail that Sparrow guessed would take them to the slave quarters; the others disappeared into the trees on a trail upward that would surely take them to the great plantation house.

With a backdrop of cold starlight and the flickering glow of the lanterns, the dark outline of the Jackal stood out boldly against the white sands of the beach. Her port guns faced the dock ready to cover the landing party’s retreat while her starboard guns guarded any attack from the open sea.

Sparrow lowered his glass, caught the attention of his first mate and, with finger and thumb, mimed the firing of a pistol in the direction of the lantern nearest the Jackal. Gibbs nodded understanding. Satisfied, Jack swung an arm to signal the watch at the aft rail to free their lines and together both longboats drifted slowly, cautiously away from the Black Pearl. Hiding them in her shadow for as long as possible, the ship shifted her sails, caught the wind and eased away, her extended wake setting each small skiff rocking violently as she picked up speed on her parallel course to the shoreline.

Returning to his seat in the bow, Sparrow motioned them forward. Given a head start under the shadow of the galley, the two longboats furtively backstroked out of her wake. Once clear, strong backs moved the boats toward shore, the oars cutting the water with sure and silent strokes. A hand signal from Sparrow and Gibbs’ boat moved ahead to take the lead.

Reaching her intended position, broadside of the Jackal but well out of cannon range, the pirate galley spilled the wind from her sails and hove to, majestically presenting her dark profile to the docked brig. With black sails aloft, cannon ports open, and no discernable movement on her decks the Black Pearl took on the mantle of pirate legend and dared any who saw her to look away.

Behind the breaking waves just short of their destination, Sparrow centered his glass on the Jackal and smiled. With the sudden appearance of the Black Pearl, the brig’s crew had swarmed to starboard rails like ants stirred to a frenzy by a man’s boot, arms gesturing and pointing seaward. Immediately, every starboard gun was manned and aligned on the Pearl, the port guns momentarily forgotten in the unexpected sighting of the black galley.

With Pease’s crew mesmerized at the sight of the infamous ghost of the Caribbean and surely wondering if those aboard her were friend or foe, Gibbs’ longboat eased quietly and unnoticed into the deepest shadows of the Jackal’s stern.

Aboard the second boat the captain of the Black Pearl watched with sly satisfaction. Next to him Will Turner grew increasingly uneasy at the unexpected brightness of the cold star shine, fearful at any moment of being seen by someone on the ship they were rapidly approaching. Glancing nervously at the moonless sky, he slowly shook his head. It had not seemed so bright from the deck of the Pearl. “They’ll see us for sure,” he hissed uncomfortably.

Sparrow lowered the glass and shot a quick glance at his nervous companion. “They’re blinded, mate, rest easy.” He pointed toward the dock, its length nicely illuminated by the light of the two ship’s lanterns. Sparrow put his head close to Will’s, his voice a harsh whisper. “By putting those lanterns on the dock, they’ve destroyed their night vision fore and aft. We’re safe enough if we’re quiet.” A touch of mischief pulled at the side of his mouth. “Look on it as an act of kindness, mate. You didn’t want to fight in the dark, did you?” He nodded to the end of the dock where the ship’s lantern illuminated half the dock and a part of the beach. Beyond the yellow light, the white sands were frosted with reflected starlight down to the water’s edge.

“I’d rather not be a target either,” Will grumbled, thinking how well he and his opponent would stand out against the starkness of the white sands.

“Welcome to piracy, mate,” Sparrow chuckled softly.

Sparrow’s crew reversed their oar strokes and the longboat slowed, coming momentarily into the light from the lantern above them. Every man hunkered down, then straightened as they drifted into the shadows under the dock. Hands reached out to hold the boat next to the pilings while the oarsmen quietly stowed their oars. As they pulled the boat from piling to piling by hand, the small boat drifted into shallow water and was tied off. An expectant silence fell over the crews of both gently bobbing skiffs, their attention riveted on the Black Pearl.

The darkly ominous and ghostly outline of the Black Pearl shimmered in the cold illumination of star shine, her sails dark wings opening to the night as she hove to, her gun ports black holes against her dark hull. In the space of a heartbeat, the Jolly Roger rose on her main mast, grabbed at the night breeze and fluttered open to display the skull and crossed cutlasses against a field of black. Riding the gentle swells, the dark lady waited, her decks eerily empty of life.

The crew aboard the Jackal became more agitated; uneasy gun crews moved restlessly at their stations and the swivel guns mounted on the deck swung threateningly upon the galley though it remained well out of distance. Not one crewman glanced aft where the first of the Pearl’s crew stood ready to board.

Sparrow signaled La Bouche at the back of their boat; the black pirate drew his pistol and slipped quietly overboard into the shallows and out from under the dock until he had a clear view of both the Jackal’s stern and the longboat nestled beneath. At another wave from Sparrow, Gibbs sent his first man up with a line. From the protection of the dock, La Bouche covered the climber until he had tied off the longboat and helped the next man aboard. With two aboard the brig to cover the rest, Sparrow waved the remainder of his own crew into the knee-deep shallows to join La Bouche. Motioned to silence, they reached the last set of pilings set deep in wet sand and drew around their captain in a tight huddle.

“You have your orders. You know what to do.” Sparrow held each man’s gaze for a brief moment before moving his attention to the next. “One change; the first shot fired, if by Mister Gibbs will put out the lantern near the ship. That’s our signal that the brig is ours. The deck guns will be turned to cover the dock, but are not to be fired unless by my command. Those in the first group of the Jackal’s landing party are likely to reach the dock first. Wait,” he emphasized with an uplifted finger. “Mister Gibbs will lure them into a fight to draw the second group onto the dock to help their shipmates. We close the trap behind them, catching them between Mister Gibbs’ party and ours. Savvy?” At the nods of those around him a grim smile touched the pirate’s lips. “Save for one man. Captain Ben Pease. Whatever happens, he is not to be allowed to get to his ship.” The ink-black eyes shifted to the young blacksmith. “Mister Turner, are you ready?”

“And if Mister Gibbs does not fire the first shot?” Will whispered, stepping forward, busily wrapping a strip of canvas around the palm of his sword hand.

“The Pearl will rush to our rescue and send the Jackal to Davy Jones’ locker right where she lies...and her crew of blackhearts with her.” There was no flippancy in the softly spoken statement, only deadly promise. “Into position, mates, and await Mister Gibbs’ signal.”

As if in response to his orders, the first volley of gunfire broke out above and behind them from aboard the Jackal.

Will Turner crept to the edge of the pilings and glanced hurriedly back toward their boat. At the end of the dock, he could still see the soft glow on the waters from the lantern topside. He ducked back. “The lantern still burns….”

Jack held up a hand, stopping his men from rushing forward. “Wait!”

Will cocked his head askance.

“He might have missed…” Jack offered, grimacing.

A look of disbelief crossed the younger man’s face at the pirate’s lame excuse.

A moment later another shot rang out. All heads turned to the end of the pilings where their boat bobbed in darkness, the soft glow from the lantern no longer shown on the waters behind it.

Sparrow grinned, seeing the disbelief turn to wonder on the boy’s face. “I’ll have to have a word with Mister Gibbs regarding his marksmanship.” He motioned his men into position, staying back to address the young swordsman at his side.

“You know what needs doing, mate, are you up to the task?” Sparrow eyed Turner intently.

“I’m ready,” Will assured him.

With nothing left to say, the two men drew weapons and stepped back to merge with the dark pilings. Others of the crew moved around them, restless and anxious to join the rout. Sparrow, left arm bent at the elbow with a cocked flintlock up beside his face and his sword in his right hand, kept his place at the head of his crew. Beyond the dock from the dark shore path, running footsteps neared. Sparrow’s urgent gesture scattered the crew to better cover the approaches to the dock, keeping well hidden. Every hand held a weapon drawn and ready.

Behind them came shouts followed by more gunfire from the Jackal. Anxiously, they tracked the charge of the Jackal’s first landing party onto and across the dock to their ship by the hollow thump of their footfalls on the planks overhead. Sparrow smiled at Gibbs’ ploy to hasten the crew’s return with more gunfire, leaving them little time to think on the possibility of a trap or that others might already be in control of the deck guns covering the dock.

Reaching the gangplank, the Jackal’s crew stumbled to a halt as several strange men with weapons drawn, surged from their ship and engaged them. Swords flashed, a pistol discharged and a body hit the water behind them.

“Jack?” Will glanced back in the direction of the Jackal, anxiously aware of the increased intensity of the confrontation with the arrival of the landing party. Sparrow silenced him with a headshake, directing Turner’s attention landward. The sound of more running feet approached their location, this time from further up the path. He stiffened, met Sparrow’s gaze and nodded his understanding. With a quick salute to Turner, the pirate captain moved away to join his men, leaving the young blacksmith to make his move.

Will Turner focused his attention on the trail coming down from the direction of the great house, which ended at the wooden walkway that crossed the white sand to the dock. Behind him he could hear Sparrow deploying his men. His sword hand tightened with anticipation, the weight of the new weapon already familiar and comfortable.

From under the shadows of the trees and tropical foliage, a man stalked with an arrogant and purposeful stride. Unlike the men in his party, Captain Ben Pease did not break into a run, but paused to watch the mayhem of flashing swords and discharging pistols on the dock at the foot of his gangplank, starting forward only when his men broke cover and charged toward the dock with weapons drawn.

Remaining concealed, Will Turner took quick measure of his opponent. Ben Pease was a tall man, long of limb, and graceful in movement. His eyes, dark holes in a long heavily pockmarked face, stood out boldly against a forehead devoid of eyebrows, the naked brow ridges giving the man’s face a sinister and deadly appearance. The nose, broad and splattered across the narrow face, spoke of past fights and numerous breaks, while around the edge of his jaw a black beard, plaited into a dozen braids, struggled for survival among the scars left by nature and the weapons of man. The captain of the Sea Jackal wore no hat or scarf to cover a bald and heavily tattooed skull. At his hip a long scabbard swung from a wide baldric, which crossed the man’s narrow chest over a greatcoat well fitted to his lean frame.

His attention drawn immediately to the sheathed sword on the man’s hip, Will frowned. Judging from the scabbard, the weapon was longer, thinner of blade than the cutlass he held, making the weapon lighter and the reach longer, both advantages he had not anticipated. If he was right, the sword would be the length of a French rapier, but wider, stronger – a custom weapon. He felt the hairs rise at the back of his neck. In a prolonged fight, his youth and strength would be equaled by the lighter weight of Pease’s weapon.

The second group of the Jackal’s landing party pounded onto the dock and down its length to join the fight in defense of their ship. With a shout from behind, Sparrow and his men stormed from their positions up the sides onto the dock, pressing the men ahead of them forward and closing the trap. Caught by the surprise and strength of the attack at their backs, the Jackal’s crew turned and raised weapons as Sparrow and his men charged. Pistols discharged, shot whistling past ­ – or thudded into – struggling bodies as the two groups collided, swords and knives flashing. At the head of the trail, Ben Pease drew his blade and charged for the dock.

Easing from the shadows of the pilings, Will Turner stepped onto the walkway between the advancing pirate and the dock. In his right hand, the new sword he had forged in memory of his father drew the starlight and reflected it down the polished length of the blade. His head high, his eyes locked on the advancing figure, the son of Bootstrap Bill stood calm and ready for the engagement. Ben Pease slid to a halt and the cold unemotional eyes settled on the young blacksmith.

“Out of my way, boy. You stand between me and my ship!” The voice was as cold and unemotional as the dead eyes.

Will raised his sword in warning. “You’ll not be joining the fight.”

A look of amusement flickered briefly across the pirate captain’s scarred features before he raised his own blade. “And who will it be what thinks he can stop me?” The naked brows rose in question. “Might that be you, boy?”

“Aye.”

“And what be your ship, lad?”

Will met the question with a tip of his head to one side, his attention riveted to the eyes of his opponent. “To find that answer, Captain, you’ll have to get past me.” The gauntlet thrown, he stepped forward, sword raised, just ahead of the sudden lunging thrust of the narrow blade in Pease’s hand. Will’s sword arm came up in defensive reflex to the attack. It seemed, he grunted in surprise, there would be no opening prima stance to start this fight. The blades met, slid their lengths and locked at the hilt. Will stood anchored against a hard body blow and pushed Pease off, freeing their swords.

Disengaged, the Jackal’s captain again pressed forward, brandishing a flurry of lightning feints, thrusts and parries; his longer blade, flashing with speed and grace, met and countered the shorter wider blade in the hands of a younger man, leaving Will no chance to do more than defend against the violence of the bigger man’s driving attack. Their feet shuffled along the boardwalk as first one and then the other of the swordsmen advanced then retreated ahead of each pass. Blades clashed as each tested the strengths and weaknesses in the other. Behind them, unheeded, the battle raged between the opposing crews on the dock.

Ben Pease pressed on, charging forward, falling back, pivoting gracefully, easily meeting, parrying each strike while Will Turner mirrored the older man’s every move, their breaths coming faster and more labored as the fight wore on. Twice Will had come close to allowing the thin deadly blade to get past his defenses, narrowly missing one fatal thrust by rolling away from the blade and blocking it with his own at the last moment. All the time he struggled to read the pirate’s next move while trying desperately to stay ahead of Pease’s lightning thrusts with the narrow blade, always on the defensive. He swore softly under his breath as reality hit hard. If he was to win the fight, he was going to have to take the offensive and soon.

Pease stepped back and disengaged, settling a look of venomous hatred on his opponent. “You’re good, boy, I’ll give you that,” he grudgingly admitted. “But you’re keeping me from my ship and those who seem intent on taking her.” With a swift move to the side and a full body thrust, Pease lunged forward. Reflexes alone saved Turner from the brutal and deadly attack. His blade caught the others’ and thrust it aside only a breath from his body. Forced backward by the viciousness of the attack, his right foot slipped off the boardwalk and sank into soft sand.

Off balance Will Turner threw himself into the fall and rolled. Above him he heard the whistle of the blade and felt the rushing air of the attack that just missed his face. He rolled again, seeing the booted feet of his opponent moving closer. In desperation, he kicked out taking the older man down. Seizing the small advantage offered by his quick action, Will struggled to his feet and backed away from Pease who swiftly gained his. For a moment both men stood facing each other, perspiration running into their eyes, their breaths labored. Behind them sounds of the fight continued across the dock. Neither took their eyes from the other to check the battle’s progress.

With a feint to the right, Pease bore in again. But this time before the swords met, he stooped and sent a handful of sand into the face of his opponent. Will turned his head in time to miss a full-face attack, but was again thrown off stride and given no time to recover before the pirate was again pressing the advantage.

Again and again the young blacksmith was driven back, his blade just ahead of the rapier as the brutal weapon constantly sought an opening in his defenses, always pressing the attack. Suddenly he felt hard wood at his back. Pease had maneuvered him off the boardwalk, across the sand just short of the tide line and hard against a piling; another thrust would impale him. Will read the intent in the deadly eyes as Pease made his move. His strength behind the driving attack and leaving no room for the boy to pass left or right, the bigger man charged forward, victory alight on the features of his scarred face. Will took the only option left, he ducked below the thrust and threw himself forward into the lean body of the charging man and took him down.

On the beach, along the water’s edge, they rolled as each struggled for the advantage; Pease wiry, quick, his body, lean and whip hard, Will Turner heavier, younger and strong from hours at the forge; the weakness of one quickly challenged by the strength of the other. Over and over they rolled, the hands of each locked to the wrist of the other, neither daring a break. On his back Pease saw his opening and brought up a booted foot between their bodies and kicked hard.

His hold broken, the breath driven from his body, Will Turner was thrown backwards. He hit hard, his head coming in hard contact with the packed sand. His senses reeling, he rolled away from what he knew would be another attack. Sensing movement but given no time to gain his feet, Will rolled again just avoiding the long blade that buried itself in the sand next to his head. His ears ringing, his head spinning sickly, Will stumbled to his feet and charged the pirate who was still freeing his weapon from the sand.

Wrenching his weapon free, Ben Pease leapt backward, carried by the strength and desperation of the younger man’s attack. The heavy, thicker-bladed cutlass bore down on him, caught the blade of his rapier and forced it back. In a futile attempt to free his blade, Pease threw his body into the driving force of the younger swordsman only to meet a wall of solid resistance. Will pressed on, the cutlass driving the attack, moving the taller man step by step backward towards the boardwalk and more solid footing. A sidestep by one was quickly met by the sidestep of the other, again and again the swords clashed in hard rhythm to the men’s heavy breathing, each man fighting as hard for breath as for advantage; both visibly tiring as the fight wore on.

With movements less fluid, the attacks and counterattacks weakening, they fought on. Both blades had drawn blood, both men weakened further by wounds that bled freely, but none serious enough to give one an open advantage over the other. Neither realized that they now fought in silence nor that several members of the winning force watched from the end of the dock. Two men stood apart from the others, the gentle night breeze blowing the dreadlocks and beads away from the face of one, the tails of his greatcoat away from his sheathed sword; beside him, the other, shorter, stockier, turned a battle-worn face.

“Jack, how long ye be lettin’ this go on?” Gibbs asked anxiously.

“Till it’s over,” Sparrow replied tensely, his face grim with the knowledge he could not interfere in the fight that raged on before him.

“The boy’s fought a good fight, but he’s about done in.”

“Aye,” Sparrow snapped.

“We can stop it–” the first mate hesitantly suggested.

Just then Will Turner slipped, went down on one knee, but managed to hold off the attack and again drove into the bigger man. The two men had never made it back to the solid footing offered by the boardwalk, but continued their combat in the beach’s loose sand.

“No,” Sparrow refused, unconsciously raising his fists and grimacing anxiously as Pease attempted to claw at Will’s face with his free hand while blocking the boy’s sword with his own. “This is young Will’s fight and there’s more here to be met than just the conditions of an accord.”

Gibbs shot a quick glance at Jack Sparrow. “You’re sayin’ this has something to do with ol’ Bootstrap?”

“This has everything to do with Bootstrap!” Sparrow momentarily relaxed as Turner turned his head away from the clawing hand, pivoted and sent a fist flying into the other’s face. The pirate stumbled back and had to scramble to meet the next flurry of attacks by the younger man.

Perplexed, Gibbs shrugged and turned back to watch the two men struggling in the loose sand, their attacks more staggers than drives, their thrusts lacking the strength and speed they had shown earlier. But as he watched, he noticed that for the weariness of both, it was Pease who was falling back more often under the continued tenacity of the younger swordsman. Slowly but surely, Will Turner was carrying the fight.

For the second time in as many minutes, Pease was down, forced off his feet by the strength of the stronger man and again Turner had backed off to allow the man to gain his feet. Behind him, Jack Sparrow cringed and shook his head in disagreement of the boy’s fair play. This time Sparrow had reason to worry, instead of pushing to his feet, Pease reached to his boot.

“Knife!” Sparrow shouted, knowing even as he mouthed the word, it would not be in time.

Will saw the flash of the long-bladed dagger hurling toward him, heard Sparrow shout, and was just able to strike the knife aside with the blunt edge of his blade, deflecting its aim. While it had not found its intended mark, it had distracted its target, throwing the young swordsman off stride and giving Pease time to regain his feet and drive a desperate attack toward his unprepared foe.

His eyes wide to the danger, Will spun in the heavy sand to meet the unexpected attack, his sword coming up a fraction of a second too late as the smaller blade slid under the larger. Deflected from its intended target by Will’s pivot away from the strike, the rapier’s blade bounced off a rib without finding an opening to the vital organs beneath, cutting a long, shallow gash under the young swordsman’s right arm. Blood stained Will’s shirt and ran freely into the waistband of his breeches.

Unaware of the damage done but feeling his strength waning, Will steeled himself against the pain and feinted a move away from the pirate, drawing Pease forward as he had every time he had fallen back. In the pirate’s eyes he read the anticipation of victory. But this time Will did not take the anticipated step back, but sidestepped at the opportune moment. Pease, already in motion could not stop his forward thrust; steel flashed in the hand of the younger man as the thick heavy blade of the cutlass came down across the thinner one of the rapier. The strong Toledo steel, folded and heated by the ancient ways of the Orient and backed by the strength of a blacksmith’s arm, cut smoothly through the rapier’s blade just in front of the hit and continued its drive between the pirate’s ribs.

Disarmed with his sword arm dropping, Pease came up short, brought to a standstill and forced to his knees by the excruciating pain as the broad blade of the cutlass was pulled from his body. Before he could rise, Will Turner kicked the hilt from his hand and forced the man onto his back, the cutlass point at his throat. “You are bested, Captain Pease.”

Only then did Turner look up in surprise at the shouts and cheers of the men lined along the dock, the crew of the Black Pearl – many as bloodied and battered as he. A tired smile touched his lips as he stumbled back from the downed man. Behind him, a gentle, but strong hand reached out to steady him.

“Well fought, Mister Turner.” Jack Sparrow turned to his crew. “No time to stand around, ye seadogs, we have a rendezvous to keep! One of you clap Mister Pease in a set of his own irons and put him in the Jackal’s brig with his crew.” He motioned to La Bouche. “Is the Jackal ready to sail?”

“Aye, Captain! Mister Gibbs has secured the ship and awaits your orders.”

“Give him the word to set sail, the rest of you dogs to the boats and prepare to return to the Pearl!”

Will Turner swayed under the strong support of Sparrow’s arm, but managed to stay on his feet as the crew hurried to their tasks. Sheathing his sword, he watched with little emotion, too tired to think on the man’s lack of a future, as Pease was pulled to his feet and dragged, semiconscious toward the dock. The right side of his greatcoat soaked in blood and too weary to stand on his own, the pirate captain of the Sea Jackal offered no resistance.

A wet-ripping sound, followed by a painful touch to his side and the young swordsman looked around to find Sparrow examining the wound under his arm. “A scratch, lad, but deep enough to scar.” He looked up grinning, then sobered. “Something your bonnie lass is not likely to hold in the same regard as a fighting man.”

Getting no respond but a weary smile, Sparrow moved closer to peer into the eyes of the young swordsman; what he saw there pleased him. “Squared with that pirate blood, have you, mate?” Turner nodded too weary to answer. “Bill couldn’t have fought better, Will. You did him proud.”

A flash of pride, followed quickly by gratitude, then concern crossed the young man’s features. “What will happen to Pease? He’s badly hurt. Surely you weren’t serious about his fate.”

“His fate and the fate of his ship and crew rest in the hands of Bully Hayes, ” Sparrow spoke honestly. Seeing the distress in the lad’s eyes, he sighed, and lowered his voice. “But if truth be told, I think the man might be a bit of a braggart and a teller of tall tales to hide another good man beneath the mask of a pirate.” He eased back. “In the hands of Bully Hayes, I expect Pease’s judgment to be fair and timely.”

Easing his hand from under the younger man’s arm, Jack Sparrow stooped and retrieved the severed pieces of the rapier. Cocking his head to one side, he looked first at the hilt of the weapon, then to the severed blade stamped with the seal of the Toledo Steel Works before rolling his eyes upward to the swaying man at his side. “That was a very good trick, Will Turner, and one I shall have to remember.” He met the younger man’s gaze speculatively. “However, had it failed, it would have been you impaled on the end of his blade and not he on yours.” He paused then asked, “Did you stop to think that this blade, too, might have been crafted from Toledo steel?”

“I did not,” Will Turner admitted weakly.

“It was…” Dropping the broken pieces of the sword, Sparrow’s darkly enhanced gaze settled on the younger man. “I figure that should have squared you with ol’ Bill.”

Will frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You released him from a cursed life, he saved yours.” Seeing only puzzlement on the face of the other, Sparrow sighed. “The parchment, boy. I figure it was the fashioning of that blade in the ways of the Orient as much as the Toledo steel that made that gamble of yours pay off.”

“Aye.”

Sparrow’s eyebrows lifted and he smiled. “Ol’ Bill pilfered that parchment off a man in a Tortuga sword fight years ago and gave it to me for safekeeping.”

Regret, forgiveness, and finally peace reflected in the eyes and features of Will Turner and when they passed, the countenance left in their passing was no longer that of a boy, but a man. “Thank you, Jack.”

Sparrow again took Turner’s arm and gently guided him toward the boat waiting for them at the water’s edge. “Oh, and, uh, Will, regarding that bit about the Toledo steel and the risk you took. If I were you, mate, I’d be keeping that part of the fight from the fair Miss Swann, if you be wanting loving sympathy and not the sharp edge of her tongue.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve some experience along those lines.”

Remembering the exotic beauty of the Pearl’s only female crewmember, her flashing dark eyes and fiery personality, Will smiled. “I’ll do that, Jack.”