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The Sacking of Port Royal
by TortugaBlack

CHAPTER 6: A Deal Struck

Using tongs to pull the glowing blade from the fire, Will Turner stepped to the anvil and picked up his hammer. With strong sure strokes he expertly folded and shaped the hot pliable steel. When it grew too cold to yield to the hammer strokes, he returned to the forge and once more thrust the cooling blade into the hottest coals. Turning it over and over, he watched the blade glow brighter and hotter as the steel softened for the seventh and last time under the heat. Again he pulled it from the fire and again he folded, shaped and hammered the steel.

His day’s assignments completed, Will had remained at the forge long past closing to wrap up a few pressing projects before trying the newly acquired method of folding steel on a normal flat. It was working well and he could already see that the end result would be a far better blade than he had forged in the past. It would not be a weapon to match either of the two he had secreted away, the inferior quality of the steel unable to withstand the numerous heating and folding as well as the finer Toledo steel, but it would still be a blade far superior to most found in the islands and would bring a far better price. Later, when in business for himself, the added income brought in from the standard, but better forged swords, would enable him to acquire more of the Toledo steel and craft weapons of the quality he had always dreamed of producing. Both blades, he knew, would be widely sought once their availability was known. He gave a weary shrug, pirate’s spawn or no, his weapons would sell…and sell well. But until his apprenticeship had been fulfilled and he could afford to open a forge of his own, he would wait, determined that none of the new weapons would bear the mark of the Brown forge.

At last satisfied with his labors, Will turned to the water barrel conveniently placed along side the anvil and submerged the smoldering blade, listening with pleasure at the sound of cool water hitting hot steel. Immediately the red glow of the heated metal turned to ash gray, then darker. Back at the anvil he reached for a wooden mallet, its striking surface carefully wrapped in leather and hammered out a few small imperfections before setting mallet and blade aside. Too weary to continue he loosened the ties and shrugged out of the leather apron of his trade, carefully folded it, wet side out and laid it to dry across the anvil. From his workbench he picked up the stained parchment and slipped it reverently into his shirt.

Returning to the forge he banked the roaring fire and damped the flame, watching with red-rimmed eyes as it responded to his care. As the fire died he turned wearily back to the cooling barrel, bent over and, with cupped hands filled with the tepid water, rinsed his face. Even warmed by the hot blade the water was soothing and refreshing after exposure to the forge’s suffocating heat.

The hard work of the evening, he found, had eased some of the pain and tempered his anger following another day of frustration and hurt from too many insensitive inquires revolving around the rumors of his parentage. While grateful for the short reprieve, Will now grimly realized he faced another night. Exhausted, the young blacksmith pulled his shirttail free of his breeches and dried his face. Working late to avoid sleep had become a habit and although fatigued, he was again fearful of going to his bed. Last night had been the worst yet. The nightmares had reached an unsettling conclusion, but still he had been unable to trust they would not return.

Uncomfortable in the unseasonable warmth of early morning and the heat from the forge he could no longer ignore with the passion of his work, the young blacksmith forced his water-splattered shirt over his head and dropped the discarded apparel across the anvil. Returning to the cooling barrel, he yanked the leather tie from his hair and dunked his head once, twice, while again rinsing his face and splashing water over his upper torso. Gasping he straightened. His eyes closed to the rivulets of water streaming from his hair into his face, he basked in its cooling trip down his shoulders and upper body.

“Careful, mate, a man’s been known to drown in far less water.”

With water dripping from his hair momentarily blinding him, the half-naked blacksmith whirled. Running urgent fingers through the water-heavy ringlets and blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Turner grabbed the discarded shirt and hurriedly dried his face, at last seeing the lean figure that had stepped from the darkest shadows. “Jack…”

“Captain,” the soft baritone corrected in irritation, “Captain Jack Sparrow.” Stepping into the pool of light thrown across the forge from the lanterns above the smithy’s work area, a man dressed in long-sleeved linen shirt, loose breeches and the boots of a seaman moved forward with the catlike grace of a man who could move quickly when necessary. “A warm night, Will Turner.”

“It is.” The young blacksmith slowly relaxed as the figure moved closer and into the light. A wide leather belt encircled the pirate’s waist over the top of a long, tattered sash, the ends of which hung past his knees. Tucked into the sash, the butt of a flintlock pistol protruded within easy reach.

As Sparrow moved closer the lantern light revealed his features, highlighting in bold relief the drooping mustache and the narrow beard that followed the line of his jaw to the two small braids at the end of his chin. Black pools of liquid darkness sparkled from under the faded bandana bound tightly around his forehead struggling to contain the mop of dark hair, twisted dreadlocks and braids with their display of exotic ornaments. As Will watched, Sparrow looked quickly around the forge, taking in everything at a glance.

“I would expect to find a hard-working individual such as yourself abed this time of the night, mate,” the pirate fenced lightly, studying the half-naked smithy with amusement. “Seems every time we cross paths you are either playing with your little swords or…” he allowed a teasing glance to roam the wet torso of the other, “…cooling the heat of your body.” He frowned in mock despair. “Boy, you really must find yourself a girl…”

“I have a girl.” Will gritted his teeth against the barbed remark.

“Do you now…” Sparrow glanced about. “Then, mate, you need to be bedding her, not wasting your fire at the forge…” He grinned. “So to speak.”

Will Turner shook out the damp shirt and slipped into it. “I had work I wanted to get done before morn…”

The pirate’s keen eyes found the cooling blade. He shifted his attention back to the young smithy. “Important work it is to be sure…” He took in again the dark circles around the other’s eyes. “…If it keeps you from your bed and the soft arms of said strumpet,” he teased.

Raking work-callused fingers through his wet hair before pulling it back and tying it at the nape of his neck, Will Turner grinned briefly at the pirate’s words, then sobered, Sparrow’s words bringing back the revelations of his nightmares. “The work hasn’t kept me from my bed…or – or from…” Dark eyes filled with pain settled on the older man. “Jack, I need to ask you something.”

The pirate tilted his head to one side. An inquiring eyebrow rose.

“My father…he…had a part of the curse, did he not?”

“Aye,” Sparrow agreed. “He took gold from the chest and…in the end sent it to you.”

“So when Barbossa sent him over the side anchored to a cannon, he didn’t die.” Something caught in Turner’s voice. He hesitated. When he spoke again it was but a whisper. “Because of the curse, he couldn’t die. So he lay at the bottom of the Caribbean, chained to a cannon until – until I – I dropped the coin soaked in my – our blood – into the chest. When he died…it was by the hand of his own son – my hand.”

Sparrow’s face remained impassive. “Waste no pity on Bootstrap Bill, mate. He knew the chances he faced as a pirate, a betrayer and mutineer. In the end he would have said he was deserving of what he got.”

“But, Jack, don’t you understand? I – I killed my own father.” The anguish was there in the younger man’s voice, the grief and the realization of the consequences of his actions.

The inky kohl-enhanced eyes settled without sympathy on the younger man. “Bootstrap Bill died because of the curse and his own greed, mate. When you dropped that coin, you released ol’ Bill from the curse.” Locking gazes with the younger man, Sparrow lowered his voice and put an edge to his words. “He would have thanked you for that, Will Turner.”

Will stared at the older man in silence, mulling over his words. What Sparrow said was true. He had released his father from the curse, but was there anything else he could have done? Had there been any chance of finding his father before lifting the curse? What if…? Sparrow’s voice broke through his morbid thoughts.

“Now you can rip your innards out over this, boy, but you can’t change it. Put it aside. We have business to attend to.”

With the harsh reality of the pirate’s words, Will Turner felt first anger then slowly a gradual easing of the pain he carried as truth pressed hard against his grief. He had done what was needed to put an end to Barbossa’s ten-year reign of terror. In so doing he had also, if unwittingly, ended his own father’s life. For a long moment he stood, lost in his thoughts, his grief. He frowned. Sparrow was right. It was too late. There was nothing else he could have done. In time maybe he would be better able to accept the possibility that his father had never expected more of him than to deprive those guilty of Jack’s betrayal an easy release…himself included. Drawing a slow cleansing breath, Will looked up to see the pirate studying the raw blade he had set aside.

“This isn’t Toledo steel.”

“No, it’s not.” Will cleared his throat and, shaking free of his despair, moved past the pirate to the place he had secreted the two weapons finished the night before. Removing the wrapped bundles, he retraced his steps to the workbench where he laid one aside and carefully unwrapped the other. “But this one is, the one you commissioned.” Lifting the sword by its hilt, Turner ran his free hand lightly under the blunt edge, allowing his fingers to trace the blood groove before balancing the weapon in the one hand. “The blade is the length you specified, the weight the same as the one you now carry, yet the special forging of the Toledo steel has increased the bluntness of the slash to a hardness I’ve not been able to craft into any other steel.” He reversed his hold and presented the weapon to its intended owner. “The blade has been heated and folded several times at different temperatures, affording an edge that, now sharpened, will cut through a belaying pin with one stroke.”

Jack Sparrow hesitated but a moment before taking the weapon into his own hand. The brass basket attached to the hilt to protect his fist shone like a newly minted medallion under the lantern light. He frowned, turned the basket until it caught more of the light, then smiled with pleasure. There, deeply engraved into the brass, was the image of a sparrow gracefully captured in flight, almost the exact replica of the one tattooed on his arm. He again gripped the hilt and tested the weight of the sword; a perfect fit. The gently curved blade reflected the light, the blood groove showing its depth in the shadow on the blade. “A fine weapon, mate. A fine weapon indeed.” Looking up, Sparrow reached into his shirt and pulled forth a rolled document. Watching the younger man closely, he dropped it unceremoniously on the workbench next to the second bundle. “Now are ye ready to sign with me, Will Turner?”

Disbelief quickly followed puzzlement and confusion across the young blacksmith’s features as Sparrow’s words sank home. “What!”

Sparrow’s gaze wandered down the beautifully crafted blade of the sword. “Did you not forge this fine sword using the ancient art of the Orient?”

“I did.”

“Good.” Sparrow shifted the sword again, testing its weight and balance before allowed a fondling hand to lightly caress the blade with loving strokes. “Then we have an accord.”

“What accord? ” Will hotly inquired. “You forwarded a request for a sword to be forged from Toledo steel and provided the instructions and, in payment, I accepted the extra flat of Toledo steel as offered.” He spoke clearly, precisely, wanting no misunderstanding between them, but suspecting he was about to learn the price to be paid for the knowledge that he had accepted as his future.

“Carefully wrapped in parchment, aye…” Sparrow agreed, his arms spread wide as if to encompass the subject. “…Which you accepted.”

“I did. As you intended,” Will admitted angrily.

The new blade was suddenly pointed in Will’s direction. “A man does well not to go back on a deal with me, boy.” His voice had grown cold. “You owe me, Will Turner, and I’m here to collect on the debt.”

Acutely aware of the change in Sparrow’s demeanor, Will Turner eased back a step, his voice edged with stubborn resolve. “I’ve never gone back on my word, Jack…to any man.” He locked gazes with Sparrow. “Even a pirate. And I pay my debts.”

“Oh, good, that’s settled.” Sparrow smiled, lowering the blade far enough to point at the parchment he’d dropped on the table. “Make your mark and we’ll be off.”

“You’re serious?”

“Aye.” The dark eyes had lost their amusement and settled with deadly earnest on the young blacksmith. “I need your eyes and ears, Will Turner…and your blade. We made an accord and I’m here to call in the mark.”

“I made no such agreement…” Will stopped as the tip of the blade edged just short of his throat.

“You accepted the wrapped flat of steel in payment for the sword you forged.”

“I did.” Standing in steely determination under the threat of the naked blade, his eyes stubbornly affixed to the man before him, Will Turner doggedly stood his ground. “But beyond that no bargain was struck between us.”

“And the second flat has been forged?”

“It has,” Will admitted tightly.

“And it, too, was crafted from the ancient art of the Orient…”

“Yes, from the directions you provided as was the blade cooling there on the bench…” Will’s expression darkened. “The sword has been paid for, don’t toy with me Jack, this is about the parchment…”

“Aye.” A slow grin pulled at the mouth of the pirate and a flicker of amusement touched the dark eyes. “The parchment.”

“The extra flat was wrapped in a worn and stained piece of parchment. I almost threw it out!”

“But you didn’t… did you, mate?”

“No.” Will spoke through gritted teeth. “I used the information on it to forge the swords as you knew I would…”

The grin widened until gold teeth shone in the pale lantern light. “Aye. But, did I request that those instructions be used?”

“No.” Will’s eyes snapped with the anger of his denial.

“Well, then it’s settled. I’ve come for payment of my generous contribution to your craft and skill as a master swordsman.”

“I could give you back the parchment…” Will offered, watching the older man closely.

The smile disappeared and the blade touched the hollow at blacksmith’s throat. “Can you give back the knowledge that you obtained from the parchment?”

Afraid to move under the blade, but standing boldly before it, Will stared into the black depths of the other’s eyes in helpless frustration. “No, of course not!”

“Then we have an accord.” The blade eased back a bit. “You sign with me in exchange for the knowledge…”

“You tricked me!” Will fumed. “You took unfair….” His voice trailed off before he could finish the accusation, already reading the answer in Sparrow’s dark amused expression behind the threatening blade. They’d had a similar conversation before and both remembered it.

“What am I agreeing to?” Will pressed in weary disappointment.

“To pillage and plunder your weaselly young guts out…” Sparrow teased, easing back a step to allow the younger man to reach the side of the table and the curled document. “And a chance to cross blades with a pirate said to have the skills of a master swordsman.”

Turner stiffened and again stared in disbelief at the slighter man with the threatening blade. “You want to make a pirate of me?!”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

The blade again edged upward. “We don’t have time to waste, boy!” The tone of his voice left no room for rejection. “I ask that you sail under my colors, fight at my side, and provide the skills of a swordsman when needed.”

“If I sign on with you, I could lose everything I have here!”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Sparrow teased, then sobered. “You do my bidding, Will Turner, and I’ll see you back at your forge and no one in this fair town need be any the wiser…and you can continue denying your blood’s true calling.”

“There’s more here to lose than my craft!” Turner spat. His gaze softened. “Elizabeth…”

“Ah, the fair Miss Swann,” Sparrow purred thoughtfully. “ And how is that going, mate? A wedding date set? Commodore Norrington has, no doubt, agreed to stand at your side during this most auspicious occasion.”

Turner remained stubbornly silent, refusing to be drawn into Sparrow’s teasing barbs that rankled with their underlying truth.

Sparrow, reading the answer to his questions in the silence, lowered his blade. “Seems to me, mate, you don’t have much of anything left to lose from this venture,” he commented gently.

“It’s not like that, Jack.” Will struck out in defiance to the sympathy he heard in the other’s voice.

“Or is it possible that the governor of this fine town has had second thoughts about the propriety of having a blacksmith and the son of a pirate in his household?”

Too tired to argue the truth he feared or to be baited any longer by the all too observant pirate, Will Turner straightened with stubborn decision. “You tricked me…” he repeated, quickly raising a hand to still the word ‘pirate’ he could already see forming on Sparrow’s teasing lips. “While I expected something of this nature from…a pirate, I had hoped for better from a friend…you could have asked.” He met the liquid, black orbs that had suddenly become strangely unreadable. “I will sign your articles, Jack. I will fight at your side and put my sword at your command, but the debt aside, I do it for reasons of my own and I will not go against my conscience.”

“Oh, good, back to business,” Sparrow quipped lightly, then sobered. “And what might those reasons be, mate?”

“A chance to better know the life that took my father from his family…from me…and what drew him to the life of a pirate…a life with you and the Pearl.” Locking gazes with the older man, Will pressed on. “I will not fight civilians, the British, or be part of any raid against them. I’m not a pirate, Jack, nor will I allow you to make me one.”

Sparrow studied the young man with what appeared to be renewed interest. “I agree to your amended terms, Will Turner, and I swear on pain of death not to ask anything of your conscience or yours skills beyond what is needed to keep us alive. Do we have an accord?” Shifting the blade to his left hand, Sparrow offered his right.

Will eyed the other suspiciously, but took the offered hand. “Agreed.”

“Now, mate, here’s what we face. In two days time, actually, two nights time – if one wanted to be totally accurate – a fleet of ships will sail into this fair harbor and blow the be-jesus out of both Port Royal and Norrington’s pretty fort. And while the fine citizens of Port Royal and Norrington’s Marines are hunkered down attempting to save their equally fine asses, two other members of the Brethren will be sailing from one plantation to another, taking two-legged stock and plundering what stash can be found, leaving death and destruction in their wake…”

A look of disbelief crossed Will Turner’s face as he listened to the older man’s amused recitation of the horror soon to be visited upon Port Royal. “You expected me to be apart of a – a…massacre?!”

“Have I asked you to be a part of that, mate?” Sparrow pointed to the parchment again with the tip of his blade. “We have settled on terms, Mister Turner, make your mark and I’ll tell you my plans.”

Will Turner looked down at the boldly written document then glanced up again in surprised confusion. “This says that my skills are required ‘to fulfill the plans of one, Captain Jack Sparrow and the crew of the Black Pearl, in obtaining the spoils of conquest from a Ben Pease and Diego Reyes’.” A look of relief flooded his face. “Then the Pearl won’t be involved in the attack against Port Royal.”

“Don’t get me wrong, mate,” Sparrow cautioned. “Under different circumstances and had other spoils not been promised my crew, the Pearl would likely have been among those soon to sail into this harbor.”

Detecting an edge to the words and a deepening in the pirate’s voice, Will Turner looked up. The expression on Sparrow’s face was one of serious intent. “What spoils?” he asked, with a shiver of dread.

Rolling his eyes skyward, the pirate breathed a sign of exasperation. “Just sign…please.”

Will Turner reached into the dying coals of the forge and drew forth a firebrand, blew the flame from the end and turned back to the document. “The spoils?” Turner pressed, suspicious of the all too innocent look on the swarthy features of the older man.

Sparrow smiled the cunning smile of a fox seeing his way clear to the hen house as he watched the young blacksmith scratch his name across the bottom of the document with the sooty end of the brand. “The plunder from one and a ship from the other.”

Will looked up in surprise then with sudden understanding, he smiled. “Ana Maria.”

“Aye.” The grin broadened until the gold teeth again shone in the dim light. “Ana Maria.”

Will Turner watched the parchment disappear into the sash of the other, as with a flourish, Jack Sparrow slid the new sword into the empty scabbard at his side.” Quick now, time to be off!”

His shirt still wet and clinging stubbornly to his damp skin, Will shoved the tail of it hurriedly into his breeches. From a nail on a forge beam bathed in semi-darkness he grabbed up a belted scabbard and buckled it about his waist. From the same beam, its blade buried in the dark wood, he pulled free a boarding axe and jammed the handle into his belt on the opposite side from the scabbard. He turned back to see Sparrow fingering the wrapped bundle on the workbench.

“Would this be the sword you fashioned for yourself, mate, from the Toledo steel?”

“Yes.” Seeing the question in the other’s eyes, he nodded. “Open it.”

Sparrow carefully unwrapped the sword, allowing it to rest on the soft wrapping under the gentle light above the forge. A soft exclamation escaped the pirate’s lips as experienced fingers lightly traced the blade of a sword much like the one that rode in his own scabbard. “You know your craft, I give you that, mate,” he whispered in appreciation. Looking up, he studied the younger man with interest. “But single bladed?”

Something inside Turner turned and twisted as he faced the truth that lay before him on the workbench. “Yes,” he breathed softly.

The kohl-enhanced eyes probed deeper. “You craft many blades, mate, here at your forge.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the rack where numerous examples of Turner’s workmanship stood. “Rapiers, military sabers and long knives…” His gaze returned to the weapon on the bench. A smile pulled at the edge of his mouth, again showing a hint of gold. “This blade, Will Turner, is not the sword of a gentleman nor the weapon of a soldier…”

“No.” Turner stepped forward and claimed the sword. The overlapping crescent moons drew the soft light then reflected it as they welcomed the fist for which they had been molded. “It’s like yours.” He smiled. “A cutlass. The weapon of a pirate.” The expressive brown eyes wandered the length of the blade and his expression sobered. “The weapon I would have crafted for my father.”

A flicker of compassion touched the depths of the pirate’s eyes. “Then come, Mister Turner, we have weapons that must be christened and the Pearl waits!”

Shoving the new blade into its scabbard, Will Turner grabbed his jerkin from its hook above the bench, killed the flame in the lanterns and, without a backward glance, hurried after the departing figure of Jack Sparrow.