Fic: Crossing the Bar (22/?)
May. 27th, 2007 07:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
honoratAuthor: Honorat
Rating: PG-13 for violence and language
Characters: : Jack Sparrow,Anamaria, Gibbs, Pintel & Ragetti, the crew of the Defender
Pairing: Jack/Anamaria somewhat; Jack/Pearl definitely
Disclaimer: The characters of PotC! She’s taken them! Get after her, you feckless pack of ingrates!
Summary: On board the Defender and the Black Pearl the boarding parties prepare for their assaults. The Navy takes the Pearl, or do they? Every once in awhile, I have to write some raving sailing. Every once in awhile, I have to write some raving sailing. Norrington has finally got the Black Pearl trapped. Jack is bound to do something crazy, but will it be the last thing he does?
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
geek_mama_2 for the beta help.
1 Ambush
2 No Regrets
3 The Judgment of the Sea
4 The Sea Pays Homage
5 Risking All That Is Mortal and Unsure
6 Troubles Come Not Single Spies
7 To Dare Do All That May Become a Man
8 Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here
9 A Special Providence in the Fall
10 For Where We Are Is Hell
11 To Beat the Surges Under and Ride Upon Their Backs
12 One Equal Temper of Heroic Hearts
13 Though the Seas Threaten, They are Merciful
14 He Jests at Scars Who Never Felt a Wound
15 To Strive, To Seek, To Find, And Not To Yield
16 A Kind of Alacrity in Sinking
17 A Fine-Baited Delay
18 To Watch the Night in Storms
19a The Natural Shocks That Flesh is Heir To, Part 1
19b The Natural Shocks That Flesh is Heir To, Part 2
20 To Disguise Fair Nature with Hard-Favour'd Rage
21 Valour's Show and Valour's Worth
* * * * *
22 Between the Fell Incensed Points of Mighty Opposites
Mr. Gibbs met an uncharacteristically grim Captain Sparrow as the man emerged from under the companionway. Shed of his betraying sling and bloodstained clothing, bristling with useless pistols, and girded wrong-sided with his sword, the captain looked ripe for any desperate endeavor. Whether he was fit for anything other than a brace of days in bed was another question entirely.
Catching sight of his quartermaster, Jack Sparrow visibly rearranged his features into the semblance of enthusiasm and asked briskly, “Are the lads ready to turn tables on the bloody Royal Navy?”
Not to be outdone, Gibbs mustered a lugubrious cheer and informed him, “Aye, sir! Those what’ll be stayin’ are busy pumpin’ or riggin’ the tackle to raise her masts. Those what’ll be goin’ are waitin’ for the word.”
Gibbs himself would be staying behind. He’d let Jack talk him into more damn fool things during their acquaintance than he cared to remember, but mastering swimming was not one of them. “If the Good Lord had intended mankind to swim,” he’d informed his captain, “He’d have given us gills.” In the face of all blandishments, threats, and bribes Jack had waved in front of his nose, Gibbs had stuck to his guns. Jack Sparrow might be able to sweet talk the wind out of the sky, but he’d come up against an immoveable object when he’d tried to coax Joshamee Gibbs into water higher than his knees without a sturdy hull under his feet.
“Right,” Captain Sparrow nodded and swept past Gibbs along the heavily listing deck with a lilt in his step and a jaunty sway he surely must have borrowed from some other time and place.
As her masts settled even further into the silver-laced seas, the Black Pearl let out a whimpering groan. Gibbs saw Jack’s buoyant step falter for a moment and his shoulders flinch as though a lash had been laid across his back. But the captain was made of resilient steel, and Gibbs had not reached his side before the insouciant mask was back in place.
“I do hope the Defender is scurrying right along,” Jack observed. “Otherwise she’ll have nothing to capture of us but flotsam.”
Gibbs winced and followed the captain as he clattered down the stairway to the gun deck where the ragged boarding party awaited in the dim light of an open port.
Like a burning brand, Captain Sparrow moved among his weary men igniting their determination. They had scarcely slept in two days. Not a dry stitch of ragged clothing clung to any man’s limbs. Many had wounds still untended. Their stomachs were hollow and their hearts sickened with loss and fear. But somehow, with his own spirit, the captain stirred the dying embers of their courage and rekindled the flames of their hope. Jack Sparrow had a Plan, and as long as that was so, the universe would continue. Somehow he made this desperate and despairing last stand seem like the grandest adventure.
Against Anamaria’s advice, Jack had decided to put the securing of the Defender’s cannon in the charge of Pintel and Ragetti. Granted, they were tolerable gunners, but if those two chuckleheads could keep from making a mull of the entire business, Gibbs would eat his hat—if he could ever find it again. Nevertheless, the captain had insisted that these were the men he wanted.
Even now, as his crew slipped out the gun port and made their way along the fallen mast, Jack was hovering around those two clowns with last minute, highly repetitive instructions.
“As soon you’ve seized her swivel guns, aim them above the Pearl’s decks,” he reminded Pintel and Ragetti. “We won’t fire unless the Navy decides to get valiantly stupid and shoots first. Do not . . . I repeat . . . do not blow any more holes in my ship unless and until I give you the order!” The captain glared at them.
The Black Pearl gave a plaintive sigh and tipped a little further.
“Don’t you worry, ol’ girl.” Pintel patted the splintered timbers reassuringly. “Rags ‘n me is real good at this. What we shoots at, we hits. ‘An what we don’ shoot at, we don’ hit.”
“We won’t harm a hair on your head,” Ragetti added fondly.
“Ships don’t have hair!” Pintel scowled at his mate in exasperation.
“That don’t matter,” Ragetti maintained stoutly. “It’s what you call a metaphor. She knows what I mean.”
Gibbs reflected it was only at moments like these that he understood why Jack did not dump his former mutineers on the nearest deserted island. In their own way, they were nearly as foolish over this ship as he was.
However, as the two of them tried to scramble out the gun port at the same time then had to untangle themselves and try again, Gibbs admitted to a certain amount of misgiving.
“This were a whole heap easier when we was immortal,” Pintel groused to Ragetti from the dubious safety of the ship as the younger man finally crept out to a line over open water.
“You were getting fat as a flawn anyway there, Pintel,” Gibbs said, giving the man a hearty slap on the back that did double duty as a shove. “This’ll be good for you.”
As Pintel’s bald head disappeared, Gibbs dusted his hands together. “That’s the lot of ‘em,” he proclaimed, looking back at Jack and the stolid Tearlach.
But the captain had turned away from his men to his ship, his hand resting in farewell, unmoving on one blackened beam, his face hidden in shadow. Jack Sparrow was no longer a maelstrom of seething energy. If anything, the fire had consumed him from the heart outward until he was nearly transparent with its glow, an ember crumpling at its edges into papery ash.
When he faced them again, the enthusiasm had drained out of him, and he simply looked exhausted. “Let’s get this over with,” he ordered Tearlach.
As the silent giant and, for once, the equally silent pirate captain maneuvered Jack through the gun port and down into the supporting embrace of the sea, Gibbs couldn’t help wincing in sympathy. That could not be easy on Jack’s ribs, but the air remained astonishingly clear of any foul language. Apparently the situation had got beyond the point where cursing would be a relief. Gibbs own ribs hurt just thinking about it.
This entire caper was insanity. Gibbs knew it was. But if there was one skill at which Jack Sparrow excelled, it was the trussing up of a man’s wits until he no longer recognized his peril. For a few fatal moments, the madness would seem divine. Then, by the time a body came to his senses, he would be in trouble up to his armpits and sinking fast.
“It’s always neck or nothing for ol’ Jack,” Gibbs grumbled to Tearlach. “Never sailed under such a rope-ripe jinglebrain of a captain.”
Tearlach grinned and nodded agreeably. He turned to follow Jack, but Gibbs put a restraining hand on his arm. The big man looked back at him questioningly.
“I know it’s an impossible job, but . . . watch out for him, will you?” Gibbs asked gruffly. “Keep him from killin’ himself?”
Tearlach raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
“I know. I know,” the quartermaster sighed in resignation. “I’d not hazard a wooden tuppence ‘gainst him doin’ somethin’ bloody totty-headed, but give it your best shot, eh lad?”
With a sloppy salute, Tearlach ducked out the gun port and lowered himself into the wave-washed rigging.
Gibbs watched until first Jack’s dark head disappeared under the fallen sails and then Tearlach’s shiny pate. At last there was no longer any evidence on the restless water that men clung to the vestiges of their ship, waiting.
A shiver that had nothing to do with the wet or the cold rippled along Gibbs’ skin. It seemed a terrible wrong, somehow, that they should commit their living to the sea even before they had a chance to relinquish to her their dead.
* * * * *
With the long snouts of her guns bristling from her flanks and red clusters of armed marines glowering in her tops, the Defender drew cautiously up beside the Black Pearl. Her commanding officer, Captain Walton, paced the quarterdeck with nervous, staccato steps. He was sure of his ship, of his men’s abilities and determination, of the helplessness of their quarry. And yet, as the gaunt, blasted sides of the grim Black Pearl loomed above him, he could not repress a shudder. This ship was legend. Men surrendered to her at the first warning shot across their bows, but she had never struck her colours.
Even now, with her hull made skeletal by the pounding she had taken from her opponents, with her black masts gouging gouts of froth from the heaving surface of the grey sea, and her gun ports resolutely sealed, she seemed silently menacing.
Thus the sense of dislocation was extreme when a round face, framed with enthusiastic grey side-whiskers appeared over the rail of the Black Pearl, and a cheery, gravelly voice hailed Lieutenant Armstrong, whom Walton had placed in charge of the boarding party, “Ahoy there, mate!”
The lieutenant aimed his pistol at the pirate.
“Welcome aboard the Black Pearl!” the man continued jovially, flourishing an arm, although his eyes watched the pistol warily. “Sorry we’re so inhospitable-like, but you’ve caught us at a bad time. I can’t give you the grand tour, but if you’ll just step across, you’re free t’ show yourselves about, wherever you like.”
The captain signaled his confused lieutenant to continue the boarding action. Whatever they’d been expecting on the decks of this doom-haunted ship, this wasn’t it.
* * * * *
Lieutenant Armstrong found the boarding of the Black Pearl to be somewhat anticlimactic. The usual cacophony of shouts and thudding grapnels and planks was met not with violent repulse but with a one man welcoming party.
“M’ friends call me Gibbs,” the elderly pirate offered heartily, holding out his hand. “And who might you be, young whippersnapper?”
The lieutenant caught himself staring in bewilderment at the grimy, calloused hand outstretched to him. Not knowing what else to do, he shook it briefly. “Lieutenant Armstrong, of His Majesty’s Royal Navy,” he said tersely. This was not going as planned or even as feared. He made a valiant attempt to steer the encounter back on course. “It is my duty to claim this prize in the name of the king and arrest you and the crew of this ship for acts of piracy . . .”
The pirate did not allow him to continue. “Yes, yes, of course it is,” he said soothingly. “You’re doin’ just fine, lad. But you’ll have t’ excuse me. We’re a mite busy at the moment. This ship is sinkin’ an’ if we don’t move right snappy, the sea’ll claim your prize and execute your sentence without a by-your-leave. You can just start with arrestin’ the men what has nothin’ t’ do. But I’d advise leavin’ the ones on the pumps ’til the last, ‘cause the minute they stop workin’, she’s goin’ down. Savvy?”
Indeed, the pirates were obviously preoccupied with the attempt to keep their ship afloat. Sweating, grimy men drove the pumps as though they had long since forgotten what they were doing and why. A half-rounded spar had been lashed on top of the gunwale for the parbuckles to lead over when rove, and temporary sheers were already being erected for re-masting the badly tilting vessel. Their self-appointed guide seemed far more concerned with this labour than with the fact that he was in the hands of the British Navy.
Armstrong found himself with his bewildered men at his side staring at the retreating back of the pirate. Gathering his wits from wherever this hurricane of confusion had scattered them, he snapped, “Halt where you are, mister, or I’ll shoot.”
The elderly man—Gibbs he’d said—turned, brow raised. “You could use a little polishin’ o’ your manners, young cub. But I’ll let it pass. What is it you want?”
“I’d like to speak with your captain,” the lieutenant said firmly, trying to regain the illusion that he was in control of this conversation.
Gibbs gave a gusty sigh. “Wouldn’t we all, lad. Wouldn’t we all.” But he made no move, either to direct his captor, or to call for his commanding officer.
This was not going well.
“Jack Sparrow,” Armstrong snapped, striving to remember that he was the one giving the orders here. “Bring me to him.” He jammed the muzzle of his pistol into one of the tarnished silver buttons on the man’s vest.
“Alas,” the pirate lamented, pushing aside the pistol with one aggrieved finger. “It pains me t’ be the first t’ inform you, what with your bein’ so concerned for his welfare an’ all, that the bonny Captain Sparrow took a shot in the head and is no longer with us. He’ll be sorely missed—by yourself not the least, I imagine.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Best captain in the Caribbee, he were. Couldn’t no one catch him. Looks like he’s slipped your noose one last time, Lieutenant.” He leaned confidentially towards his captor and winked. “Best place t’ search for ol’ Captain Jack right about now would have t’ be in one o’ the lower circles o’ Hell, but I can’t recommend it. If you’re lookin’ for the man what’s in charge o’ the Pearl till we get a chance t’ vote on it, I guess that’d be my humble self.”
The lieutenant stared at him in consternation. “Are you drunk, man?”
“Drunk?” the pirate said wistfully. “You wouldn’t happen t’ be totin’ a bit o’ rum with you? If I was drunk, I’d be perfectly sensible. It’s only bein’ sober has me head in a bit o’ a spin.”
Very well. Perhaps the pirate spoke the truth. It was certainly plausible that their bombardment had already accounted for their quarry. But the man could just as easily be lying. Sparrow had the reputation of never being where the Royal Navy wanted him. They would have to search the ship.
Deciding to ignore his unhelpful guide, Armstrong gave orders that rifles be trained on the pirates working to save the ship. The lieutenant could see no benefit in stopping the repairs. If these villains wanted to preserve this prize for the Royal Navy, far be it from him to hinder them.
As his men jogged to their various stations, not a pirate made a hostile move. A few glanced up at the Naval officers and marines, but most concentrated fiercely on the tasks beneath their hands.
The peacefulness of this conquest was entirely too eerie.
Those turned backs and averted eyes burned like molten lead. These men were neither beaten nor passive. Their resistance held a weight far heavier than the futile clash of steel.
Above the veneer of cheerful cooperation presented by the pirates, an almost palpable miasma of resentment and despair wafted along the bloodstained decks of the ship, as though the Black Pearl herself were incensed at what had been done to her.
The sense of uneasiness increased. Lieutenant Armstrong could see it in the staccato movements of his men, in the way they clustered together and started at the grind of wood on wood, the groan of stretching ropes, and the occasional shout as the pirates struggled to heave up the fallen masts.
He did not trust these criminals. The ship would have to be searched, but he would make sure his men were prepared for an ambush at every blind corner. The Black Pearl stank of treachery.
* * * * *
The chilling sounds of boarding action reverberated through the drenched and debris-scattered carpet under Requin’s feet. The thunk of grapnels and the hissing zing of rope pulling taut. The clatter of planks and the drumming of boots. Confused voices as the invaders discovered the lack of resistance on the weather decks. Crisp orders and the fanning out of search parties. But no shots, thank God.
He gripped the hilt of his cutlass tightly in his sweat-slicked palm. Fervently he prayed that he would not have to use it. He’d been a merchant seaman, pressed at age fifteen into serving before the mast, two of the worst years of hell he’d ever lived through in his short life, before Captain Sparrow, for whatever reason, had decided that he, the Louis Grimaud that once was, would make an ideal addition to a pirate crew and had kidnapped him during the plundering of their ship.
Which only went to show that the captain was truly quite, quite mad, because Requin had hated everything about the sea and ships and pirates and the food and the weather and particularly fighting. He still hated fighting, and he had never understood why this never seemed to bother a pirate captain like Sparrow.
But now, as one of the few able-bodied crewmen left on the Black Pearl, he had been given the job of protecting the disabled first mate. “Not that she’ll admit she needs help,” Captain Sparrow had shrugged. “But she can’t walk, and that limits a body in a tussle. Just tell her it’s captain’s orders and not for you to question.” He’d grinned. “She is, of course, bound to question my orders, but I am goin’ to be safely off the ship and out of range.”
When Requin had objected that he wasn’t any good in a fight, Captain Sparrow had reassured him, “I don’t want you to have to fight. Fightin’s a last resort, because we can’t win a fight. Just do nothin’ as much as possible. No surrender. No resistance. Confuses the hell out of ‘em.”
“Then why . . . ?” Requin had begun, confused.
“Why do I want you armed in my cabin, lad?” Sparrow had finished for him. “Because these are rough men, and she’s a woman, though she forgets it most times, and she may need backup if the wrong sort get their hands on her. She won’t likely be rousin’ any chivalric notions in any but the most unusual English sailor. Ain’t white enough nor delicate enough nor dressed fancy enough. Discipline ought t’ hold ‘em off, but it might not. War can make an ugly thing out of a man.”
“How will I know what to do?” Requin had worried.
“Anamaria will know,” the captain had assured him. “Ain’t nobody better at survivin’. So you just follow her orders. If she says fight, you fight. If she says stand and watch . . . well, she has that right, too. And I’m tellin’ you now, son, that’ll be the harder order to follow. But I’m not leavin’ her alone. Savvy?”
Requin had thought that the worst part would be informing Anamaria that he was going to be her watchdog, but she’d merely looked at him as he’d slunk in the door and said, “This was Jack’s bright idea, wasn’t it?” Which had allowed him to absolve himself of all responsibility with a single nervous nod. Anamaria had sighed. “Then you might as well sit down. Make yourself comfortable. I won’t bite.”
Requin wasn’t sure he believed that last part, but he’d done as he was told. However, as he listened to the rumble of the dreaded English marines approaching, he knew the worst was yet to come. These were men he’d been taught since childhood to hate and fear as enemies of his country. They were also representatives of the law that hanged pirates without appeal, never mind that he was a pirate entirely by accident. He’d only stayed because it was the first place he’d found where he hadn’t had to fear being beaten.
Anamaria tugged the blanket up under her chin and held it there with her hands, looking small and fragile. Requin felt every lack of inches he possessed as he heard voices and trampling outside the door.
“Put your cutlass on the table in front of you, just out of easy reach,” Anamaria hissed at him. “Then stay seated and don’t move.”
So it was to be watch and not fight. Requin didn’t know whether he was more relieved or terrified as he followed her instructions.
Then the door was kicked open and a burly, red-coated Englishman shouldered into the cabin, bayoneted rifle at the ready.
As his eyes adjusted to the lower light and he took in the tableaux in front of him, a huge snaggle-toothed grin spread across his homely features. “Well now, lookie what we have here!” he said jovially, winking at Requin. Catching sight of the abandoned cutlass, the intruder added it to his own baldric. “Hey Banks!” he bellowed back over his shoulder. “Come see what I found!”
“Cut your bloody yammerin’, Hargraves,” an irritated voice answered. “I’m not deaf! Now what is it’s got you in such a . . . Ah!” The owner of the voice was a much finer-featured, more slender man than the first intruder. His face was made attractive by rich blue eyes framed by thick dark lashes. But the smile he turned on Anamaria made Requin think of a shark.
Hargraves smirked. “Sparrow’s got hisself a little negra doxy tucked up all nice in his bed, don’t he?”
“If that don’t beat all!” the newcomer, Banks, exclaimed with a hungry note in his voice. “This here business is lookin’ more like a pleasure every minute!”
His blockish companion joined him in perusing Anamaria’s face and blanketed form as though they were customers at a market. The first mate stared back at them unflinchingly.
“Too bad she’s so dark,” the one named Hargraves decided. “Might almost be pretty with those dinner-plate eyes.”
Banks shrugged dismissively. “Whores are all alike when you close your eyes. An’ this one’s mighty shapely.”
Requin could understand enough of what they were saying to have to resist the urge to run Banks through on the spot. Suddenly, he could see a very good use for swordplay. But Anamaria gave no word, and he sat as though pinned. These two hulking Englishmen would easily make mincemeat of him, anyway.
Hargraves frowned. “Suppose we got t’ tell the lieutenant, eh?”
“What?” Banks seemed absorbed in his own sordid imagination. “Oh. Yes. I suppose so.” He turned and called out the door, “Lieutenant Armstrong!”
A shorter, stocky young man in a naval officer’s uniform appeared in the doorway. “What is it?”
“Found us the pirate’s game pullet, sir,” Hargraves responded. “Thought she might be useful.”
The lieutenant glanced at Requin, then turned to regard Anamaria. “I see,” he said dispassionately. “Good work, men.”
Requin was relieved to see only calculation in his face, as though the lieutenant was factoring Anamaria into his plans, but had no other interest in her.
“Young woman,” he addressed the first mate. “Where is Sparrow hiding out?”
“He was hit early on in the battle, sir,” Anamaria said evenly. “Lot of men went down back there.”
It was not even a lie.
Armstrong held her eyes for a long moment. Then he turned to the marines. “She may be telling the truth. It certainly matches with what the acting shipmaster told me. But I’m not taking that chance. Hargraves, you’ll remain here and keep these two under guard. Tie the boy up so he won’t cause trouble. The woman may prove useful as leverage if we do find Sparrow. Banks, continue searching the ship. There may be more pirates tucked away in corners hoping to escape our notice. I want them all rounded up. This could be an ambush, so be careful.”
And then the lieutenant was gone in a dignified flurry. Requin felt abandoned and helpless without even the hope of grabbing a weapon. However, he was grateful that if one of these cochons had to remain, it was Hargraves. Banks was the one who gave him shivers. .
However, Banks did not leave immediately. Instead he advanced on Anamaria. “You puzzle me, little draggle-tail,” he said in a silk-smooth voice. He reached out and gripped her jaw in the vise of long, elegant fingers, turning her head to study her features. “Whatever could have possessed Sparrow to break the code and turn a pirate ship into a hen-frigate, eh? I’ll wager you’re somethin’ out o’ the ordinary. Know any number of very fine tricks, hmmm?” His teeth glinted in that cold-blooded smile again. “I foresee you and me gettin’ much better acquainted when I’m done flushin’ out the rest o’ these cockroaches.” With a cruel twist of his wrist he released her face so that her head thudded back against the bedding.
Requin could see the marks of his fingers lingering on Anamaria’s jaw. He was surprised the bastard hadn’t burnt his hand; the fire in the first mate’s eyes could have slagged a cannon. But still she said nothing.
Giving his compatriot a brisk nod, as though they were two perfectly ordinary human beings and not absolute monsters, Banks strode out of the room.
As Requin allowed the burly marine to bind his wrists, he contemplated the irony that these men considered Anamaria the less dangerous of the two of them.
* * * * *
TBC
23 Mark'd for Hot Vengeance
Rating: PG-13 for violence and language
Characters: : Jack Sparrow,Anamaria, Gibbs, Pintel & Ragetti, the crew of the Defender
Pairing: Jack/Anamaria somewhat; Jack/Pearl definitely
Disclaimer: The characters of PotC! She’s taken them! Get after her, you feckless pack of ingrates!
Summary: On board the Defender and the Black Pearl the boarding parties prepare for their assaults. The Navy takes the Pearl, or do they? Every once in awhile, I have to write some raving sailing. Every once in awhile, I have to write some raving sailing. Norrington has finally got the Black Pearl trapped. Jack is bound to do something crazy, but will it be the last thing he does?
Thanks to
geek_mama_2 for the beta help.1 Ambush
2 No Regrets
3 The Judgment of the Sea
4 The Sea Pays Homage
5 Risking All That Is Mortal and Unsure
6 Troubles Come Not Single Spies
7 To Dare Do All That May Become a Man
8 Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here
9 A Special Providence in the Fall
10 For Where We Are Is Hell
11 To Beat the Surges Under and Ride Upon Their Backs
12 One Equal Temper of Heroic Hearts
13 Though the Seas Threaten, They are Merciful
14 He Jests at Scars Who Never Felt a Wound
15 To Strive, To Seek, To Find, And Not To Yield
16 A Kind of Alacrity in Sinking
17 A Fine-Baited Delay
18 To Watch the Night in Storms
19a The Natural Shocks That Flesh is Heir To, Part 1
19b The Natural Shocks That Flesh is Heir To, Part 2
20 To Disguise Fair Nature with Hard-Favour'd Rage
21 Valour's Show and Valour's Worth
* * * * *
22 Between the Fell Incensed Points of Mighty Opposites
Mr. Gibbs met an uncharacteristically grim Captain Sparrow as the man emerged from under the companionway. Shed of his betraying sling and bloodstained clothing, bristling with useless pistols, and girded wrong-sided with his sword, the captain looked ripe for any desperate endeavor. Whether he was fit for anything other than a brace of days in bed was another question entirely.
Catching sight of his quartermaster, Jack Sparrow visibly rearranged his features into the semblance of enthusiasm and asked briskly, “Are the lads ready to turn tables on the bloody Royal Navy?”
Not to be outdone, Gibbs mustered a lugubrious cheer and informed him, “Aye, sir! Those what’ll be stayin’ are busy pumpin’ or riggin’ the tackle to raise her masts. Those what’ll be goin’ are waitin’ for the word.”
Gibbs himself would be staying behind. He’d let Jack talk him into more damn fool things during their acquaintance than he cared to remember, but mastering swimming was not one of them. “If the Good Lord had intended mankind to swim,” he’d informed his captain, “He’d have given us gills.” In the face of all blandishments, threats, and bribes Jack had waved in front of his nose, Gibbs had stuck to his guns. Jack Sparrow might be able to sweet talk the wind out of the sky, but he’d come up against an immoveable object when he’d tried to coax Joshamee Gibbs into water higher than his knees without a sturdy hull under his feet.
“Right,” Captain Sparrow nodded and swept past Gibbs along the heavily listing deck with a lilt in his step and a jaunty sway he surely must have borrowed from some other time and place.
As her masts settled even further into the silver-laced seas, the Black Pearl let out a whimpering groan. Gibbs saw Jack’s buoyant step falter for a moment and his shoulders flinch as though a lash had been laid across his back. But the captain was made of resilient steel, and Gibbs had not reached his side before the insouciant mask was back in place.
“I do hope the Defender is scurrying right along,” Jack observed. “Otherwise she’ll have nothing to capture of us but flotsam.”
Gibbs winced and followed the captain as he clattered down the stairway to the gun deck where the ragged boarding party awaited in the dim light of an open port.
Like a burning brand, Captain Sparrow moved among his weary men igniting their determination. They had scarcely slept in two days. Not a dry stitch of ragged clothing clung to any man’s limbs. Many had wounds still untended. Their stomachs were hollow and their hearts sickened with loss and fear. But somehow, with his own spirit, the captain stirred the dying embers of their courage and rekindled the flames of their hope. Jack Sparrow had a Plan, and as long as that was so, the universe would continue. Somehow he made this desperate and despairing last stand seem like the grandest adventure.
Against Anamaria’s advice, Jack had decided to put the securing of the Defender’s cannon in the charge of Pintel and Ragetti. Granted, they were tolerable gunners, but if those two chuckleheads could keep from making a mull of the entire business, Gibbs would eat his hat—if he could ever find it again. Nevertheless, the captain had insisted that these were the men he wanted.
Even now, as his crew slipped out the gun port and made their way along the fallen mast, Jack was hovering around those two clowns with last minute, highly repetitive instructions.
“As soon you’ve seized her swivel guns, aim them above the Pearl’s decks,” he reminded Pintel and Ragetti. “We won’t fire unless the Navy decides to get valiantly stupid and shoots first. Do not . . . I repeat . . . do not blow any more holes in my ship unless and until I give you the order!” The captain glared at them.
The Black Pearl gave a plaintive sigh and tipped a little further.
“Don’t you worry, ol’ girl.” Pintel patted the splintered timbers reassuringly. “Rags ‘n me is real good at this. What we shoots at, we hits. ‘An what we don’ shoot at, we don’ hit.”
“We won’t harm a hair on your head,” Ragetti added fondly.
“Ships don’t have hair!” Pintel scowled at his mate in exasperation.
“That don’t matter,” Ragetti maintained stoutly. “It’s what you call a metaphor. She knows what I mean.”
Gibbs reflected it was only at moments like these that he understood why Jack did not dump his former mutineers on the nearest deserted island. In their own way, they were nearly as foolish over this ship as he was.
However, as the two of them tried to scramble out the gun port at the same time then had to untangle themselves and try again, Gibbs admitted to a certain amount of misgiving.
“This were a whole heap easier when we was immortal,” Pintel groused to Ragetti from the dubious safety of the ship as the younger man finally crept out to a line over open water.
“You were getting fat as a flawn anyway there, Pintel,” Gibbs said, giving the man a hearty slap on the back that did double duty as a shove. “This’ll be good for you.”
As Pintel’s bald head disappeared, Gibbs dusted his hands together. “That’s the lot of ‘em,” he proclaimed, looking back at Jack and the stolid Tearlach.
But the captain had turned away from his men to his ship, his hand resting in farewell, unmoving on one blackened beam, his face hidden in shadow. Jack Sparrow was no longer a maelstrom of seething energy. If anything, the fire had consumed him from the heart outward until he was nearly transparent with its glow, an ember crumpling at its edges into papery ash.
When he faced them again, the enthusiasm had drained out of him, and he simply looked exhausted. “Let’s get this over with,” he ordered Tearlach.
As the silent giant and, for once, the equally silent pirate captain maneuvered Jack through the gun port and down into the supporting embrace of the sea, Gibbs couldn’t help wincing in sympathy. That could not be easy on Jack’s ribs, but the air remained astonishingly clear of any foul language. Apparently the situation had got beyond the point where cursing would be a relief. Gibbs own ribs hurt just thinking about it.
This entire caper was insanity. Gibbs knew it was. But if there was one skill at which Jack Sparrow excelled, it was the trussing up of a man’s wits until he no longer recognized his peril. For a few fatal moments, the madness would seem divine. Then, by the time a body came to his senses, he would be in trouble up to his armpits and sinking fast.
“It’s always neck or nothing for ol’ Jack,” Gibbs grumbled to Tearlach. “Never sailed under such a rope-ripe jinglebrain of a captain.”
Tearlach grinned and nodded agreeably. He turned to follow Jack, but Gibbs put a restraining hand on his arm. The big man looked back at him questioningly.
“I know it’s an impossible job, but . . . watch out for him, will you?” Gibbs asked gruffly. “Keep him from killin’ himself?”
Tearlach raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
“I know. I know,” the quartermaster sighed in resignation. “I’d not hazard a wooden tuppence ‘gainst him doin’ somethin’ bloody totty-headed, but give it your best shot, eh lad?”
With a sloppy salute, Tearlach ducked out the gun port and lowered himself into the wave-washed rigging.
Gibbs watched until first Jack’s dark head disappeared under the fallen sails and then Tearlach’s shiny pate. At last there was no longer any evidence on the restless water that men clung to the vestiges of their ship, waiting.
A shiver that had nothing to do with the wet or the cold rippled along Gibbs’ skin. It seemed a terrible wrong, somehow, that they should commit their living to the sea even before they had a chance to relinquish to her their dead.
* * * * *
With the long snouts of her guns bristling from her flanks and red clusters of armed marines glowering in her tops, the Defender drew cautiously up beside the Black Pearl. Her commanding officer, Captain Walton, paced the quarterdeck with nervous, staccato steps. He was sure of his ship, of his men’s abilities and determination, of the helplessness of their quarry. And yet, as the gaunt, blasted sides of the grim Black Pearl loomed above him, he could not repress a shudder. This ship was legend. Men surrendered to her at the first warning shot across their bows, but she had never struck her colours.
Even now, with her hull made skeletal by the pounding she had taken from her opponents, with her black masts gouging gouts of froth from the heaving surface of the grey sea, and her gun ports resolutely sealed, she seemed silently menacing.
Thus the sense of dislocation was extreme when a round face, framed with enthusiastic grey side-whiskers appeared over the rail of the Black Pearl, and a cheery, gravelly voice hailed Lieutenant Armstrong, whom Walton had placed in charge of the boarding party, “Ahoy there, mate!”
The lieutenant aimed his pistol at the pirate.
“Welcome aboard the Black Pearl!” the man continued jovially, flourishing an arm, although his eyes watched the pistol warily. “Sorry we’re so inhospitable-like, but you’ve caught us at a bad time. I can’t give you the grand tour, but if you’ll just step across, you’re free t’ show yourselves about, wherever you like.”
The captain signaled his confused lieutenant to continue the boarding action. Whatever they’d been expecting on the decks of this doom-haunted ship, this wasn’t it.
* * * * *
Lieutenant Armstrong found the boarding of the Black Pearl to be somewhat anticlimactic. The usual cacophony of shouts and thudding grapnels and planks was met not with violent repulse but with a one man welcoming party.
“M’ friends call me Gibbs,” the elderly pirate offered heartily, holding out his hand. “And who might you be, young whippersnapper?”
The lieutenant caught himself staring in bewilderment at the grimy, calloused hand outstretched to him. Not knowing what else to do, he shook it briefly. “Lieutenant Armstrong, of His Majesty’s Royal Navy,” he said tersely. This was not going as planned or even as feared. He made a valiant attempt to steer the encounter back on course. “It is my duty to claim this prize in the name of the king and arrest you and the crew of this ship for acts of piracy . . .”
The pirate did not allow him to continue. “Yes, yes, of course it is,” he said soothingly. “You’re doin’ just fine, lad. But you’ll have t’ excuse me. We’re a mite busy at the moment. This ship is sinkin’ an’ if we don’t move right snappy, the sea’ll claim your prize and execute your sentence without a by-your-leave. You can just start with arrestin’ the men what has nothin’ t’ do. But I’d advise leavin’ the ones on the pumps ’til the last, ‘cause the minute they stop workin’, she’s goin’ down. Savvy?”
Indeed, the pirates were obviously preoccupied with the attempt to keep their ship afloat. Sweating, grimy men drove the pumps as though they had long since forgotten what they were doing and why. A half-rounded spar had been lashed on top of the gunwale for the parbuckles to lead over when rove, and temporary sheers were already being erected for re-masting the badly tilting vessel. Their self-appointed guide seemed far more concerned with this labour than with the fact that he was in the hands of the British Navy.
Armstrong found himself with his bewildered men at his side staring at the retreating back of the pirate. Gathering his wits from wherever this hurricane of confusion had scattered them, he snapped, “Halt where you are, mister, or I’ll shoot.”
The elderly man—Gibbs he’d said—turned, brow raised. “You could use a little polishin’ o’ your manners, young cub. But I’ll let it pass. What is it you want?”
“I’d like to speak with your captain,” the lieutenant said firmly, trying to regain the illusion that he was in control of this conversation.
Gibbs gave a gusty sigh. “Wouldn’t we all, lad. Wouldn’t we all.” But he made no move, either to direct his captor, or to call for his commanding officer.
This was not going well.
“Jack Sparrow,” Armstrong snapped, striving to remember that he was the one giving the orders here. “Bring me to him.” He jammed the muzzle of his pistol into one of the tarnished silver buttons on the man’s vest.
“Alas,” the pirate lamented, pushing aside the pistol with one aggrieved finger. “It pains me t’ be the first t’ inform you, what with your bein’ so concerned for his welfare an’ all, that the bonny Captain Sparrow took a shot in the head and is no longer with us. He’ll be sorely missed—by yourself not the least, I imagine.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Best captain in the Caribbee, he were. Couldn’t no one catch him. Looks like he’s slipped your noose one last time, Lieutenant.” He leaned confidentially towards his captor and winked. “Best place t’ search for ol’ Captain Jack right about now would have t’ be in one o’ the lower circles o’ Hell, but I can’t recommend it. If you’re lookin’ for the man what’s in charge o’ the Pearl till we get a chance t’ vote on it, I guess that’d be my humble self.”
The lieutenant stared at him in consternation. “Are you drunk, man?”
“Drunk?” the pirate said wistfully. “You wouldn’t happen t’ be totin’ a bit o’ rum with you? If I was drunk, I’d be perfectly sensible. It’s only bein’ sober has me head in a bit o’ a spin.”
Very well. Perhaps the pirate spoke the truth. It was certainly plausible that their bombardment had already accounted for their quarry. But the man could just as easily be lying. Sparrow had the reputation of never being where the Royal Navy wanted him. They would have to search the ship.
Deciding to ignore his unhelpful guide, Armstrong gave orders that rifles be trained on the pirates working to save the ship. The lieutenant could see no benefit in stopping the repairs. If these villains wanted to preserve this prize for the Royal Navy, far be it from him to hinder them.
As his men jogged to their various stations, not a pirate made a hostile move. A few glanced up at the Naval officers and marines, but most concentrated fiercely on the tasks beneath their hands.
The peacefulness of this conquest was entirely too eerie.
Those turned backs and averted eyes burned like molten lead. These men were neither beaten nor passive. Their resistance held a weight far heavier than the futile clash of steel.
Above the veneer of cheerful cooperation presented by the pirates, an almost palpable miasma of resentment and despair wafted along the bloodstained decks of the ship, as though the Black Pearl herself were incensed at what had been done to her.
The sense of uneasiness increased. Lieutenant Armstrong could see it in the staccato movements of his men, in the way they clustered together and started at the grind of wood on wood, the groan of stretching ropes, and the occasional shout as the pirates struggled to heave up the fallen masts.
He did not trust these criminals. The ship would have to be searched, but he would make sure his men were prepared for an ambush at every blind corner. The Black Pearl stank of treachery.
* * * * *
The chilling sounds of boarding action reverberated through the drenched and debris-scattered carpet under Requin’s feet. The thunk of grapnels and the hissing zing of rope pulling taut. The clatter of planks and the drumming of boots. Confused voices as the invaders discovered the lack of resistance on the weather decks. Crisp orders and the fanning out of search parties. But no shots, thank God.
He gripped the hilt of his cutlass tightly in his sweat-slicked palm. Fervently he prayed that he would not have to use it. He’d been a merchant seaman, pressed at age fifteen into serving before the mast, two of the worst years of hell he’d ever lived through in his short life, before Captain Sparrow, for whatever reason, had decided that he, the Louis Grimaud that once was, would make an ideal addition to a pirate crew and had kidnapped him during the plundering of their ship.
Which only went to show that the captain was truly quite, quite mad, because Requin had hated everything about the sea and ships and pirates and the food and the weather and particularly fighting. He still hated fighting, and he had never understood why this never seemed to bother a pirate captain like Sparrow.
But now, as one of the few able-bodied crewmen left on the Black Pearl, he had been given the job of protecting the disabled first mate. “Not that she’ll admit she needs help,” Captain Sparrow had shrugged. “But she can’t walk, and that limits a body in a tussle. Just tell her it’s captain’s orders and not for you to question.” He’d grinned. “She is, of course, bound to question my orders, but I am goin’ to be safely off the ship and out of range.”
When Requin had objected that he wasn’t any good in a fight, Captain Sparrow had reassured him, “I don’t want you to have to fight. Fightin’s a last resort, because we can’t win a fight. Just do nothin’ as much as possible. No surrender. No resistance. Confuses the hell out of ‘em.”
“Then why . . . ?” Requin had begun, confused.
“Why do I want you armed in my cabin, lad?” Sparrow had finished for him. “Because these are rough men, and she’s a woman, though she forgets it most times, and she may need backup if the wrong sort get their hands on her. She won’t likely be rousin’ any chivalric notions in any but the most unusual English sailor. Ain’t white enough nor delicate enough nor dressed fancy enough. Discipline ought t’ hold ‘em off, but it might not. War can make an ugly thing out of a man.”
“How will I know what to do?” Requin had worried.
“Anamaria will know,” the captain had assured him. “Ain’t nobody better at survivin’. So you just follow her orders. If she says fight, you fight. If she says stand and watch . . . well, she has that right, too. And I’m tellin’ you now, son, that’ll be the harder order to follow. But I’m not leavin’ her alone. Savvy?”
Requin had thought that the worst part would be informing Anamaria that he was going to be her watchdog, but she’d merely looked at him as he’d slunk in the door and said, “This was Jack’s bright idea, wasn’t it?” Which had allowed him to absolve himself of all responsibility with a single nervous nod. Anamaria had sighed. “Then you might as well sit down. Make yourself comfortable. I won’t bite.”
Requin wasn’t sure he believed that last part, but he’d done as he was told. However, as he listened to the rumble of the dreaded English marines approaching, he knew the worst was yet to come. These were men he’d been taught since childhood to hate and fear as enemies of his country. They were also representatives of the law that hanged pirates without appeal, never mind that he was a pirate entirely by accident. He’d only stayed because it was the first place he’d found where he hadn’t had to fear being beaten.
Anamaria tugged the blanket up under her chin and held it there with her hands, looking small and fragile. Requin felt every lack of inches he possessed as he heard voices and trampling outside the door.
“Put your cutlass on the table in front of you, just out of easy reach,” Anamaria hissed at him. “Then stay seated and don’t move.”
So it was to be watch and not fight. Requin didn’t know whether he was more relieved or terrified as he followed her instructions.
Then the door was kicked open and a burly, red-coated Englishman shouldered into the cabin, bayoneted rifle at the ready.
As his eyes adjusted to the lower light and he took in the tableaux in front of him, a huge snaggle-toothed grin spread across his homely features. “Well now, lookie what we have here!” he said jovially, winking at Requin. Catching sight of the abandoned cutlass, the intruder added it to his own baldric. “Hey Banks!” he bellowed back over his shoulder. “Come see what I found!”
“Cut your bloody yammerin’, Hargraves,” an irritated voice answered. “I’m not deaf! Now what is it’s got you in such a . . . Ah!” The owner of the voice was a much finer-featured, more slender man than the first intruder. His face was made attractive by rich blue eyes framed by thick dark lashes. But the smile he turned on Anamaria made Requin think of a shark.
Hargraves smirked. “Sparrow’s got hisself a little negra doxy tucked up all nice in his bed, don’t he?”
“If that don’t beat all!” the newcomer, Banks, exclaimed with a hungry note in his voice. “This here business is lookin’ more like a pleasure every minute!”
His blockish companion joined him in perusing Anamaria’s face and blanketed form as though they were customers at a market. The first mate stared back at them unflinchingly.
“Too bad she’s so dark,” the one named Hargraves decided. “Might almost be pretty with those dinner-plate eyes.”
Banks shrugged dismissively. “Whores are all alike when you close your eyes. An’ this one’s mighty shapely.”
Requin could understand enough of what they were saying to have to resist the urge to run Banks through on the spot. Suddenly, he could see a very good use for swordplay. But Anamaria gave no word, and he sat as though pinned. These two hulking Englishmen would easily make mincemeat of him, anyway.
Hargraves frowned. “Suppose we got t’ tell the lieutenant, eh?”
“What?” Banks seemed absorbed in his own sordid imagination. “Oh. Yes. I suppose so.” He turned and called out the door, “Lieutenant Armstrong!”
A shorter, stocky young man in a naval officer’s uniform appeared in the doorway. “What is it?”
“Found us the pirate’s game pullet, sir,” Hargraves responded. “Thought she might be useful.”
The lieutenant glanced at Requin, then turned to regard Anamaria. “I see,” he said dispassionately. “Good work, men.”
Requin was relieved to see only calculation in his face, as though the lieutenant was factoring Anamaria into his plans, but had no other interest in her.
“Young woman,” he addressed the first mate. “Where is Sparrow hiding out?”
“He was hit early on in the battle, sir,” Anamaria said evenly. “Lot of men went down back there.”
It was not even a lie.
Armstrong held her eyes for a long moment. Then he turned to the marines. “She may be telling the truth. It certainly matches with what the acting shipmaster told me. But I’m not taking that chance. Hargraves, you’ll remain here and keep these two under guard. Tie the boy up so he won’t cause trouble. The woman may prove useful as leverage if we do find Sparrow. Banks, continue searching the ship. There may be more pirates tucked away in corners hoping to escape our notice. I want them all rounded up. This could be an ambush, so be careful.”
And then the lieutenant was gone in a dignified flurry. Requin felt abandoned and helpless without even the hope of grabbing a weapon. However, he was grateful that if one of these cochons had to remain, it was Hargraves. Banks was the one who gave him shivers. .
However, Banks did not leave immediately. Instead he advanced on Anamaria. “You puzzle me, little draggle-tail,” he said in a silk-smooth voice. He reached out and gripped her jaw in the vise of long, elegant fingers, turning her head to study her features. “Whatever could have possessed Sparrow to break the code and turn a pirate ship into a hen-frigate, eh? I’ll wager you’re somethin’ out o’ the ordinary. Know any number of very fine tricks, hmmm?” His teeth glinted in that cold-blooded smile again. “I foresee you and me gettin’ much better acquainted when I’m done flushin’ out the rest o’ these cockroaches.” With a cruel twist of his wrist he released her face so that her head thudded back against the bedding.
Requin could see the marks of his fingers lingering on Anamaria’s jaw. He was surprised the bastard hadn’t burnt his hand; the fire in the first mate’s eyes could have slagged a cannon. But still she said nothing.
Giving his compatriot a brisk nod, as though they were two perfectly ordinary human beings and not absolute monsters, Banks strode out of the room.
As Requin allowed the burly marine to bind his wrists, he contemplated the irony that these men considered Anamaria the less dangerous of the two of them.
* * * * *
TBC
23 Mark'd for Hot Vengeance
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-05-27 04:04 pm (UTC)Now, of course, the tension's even worse . . . I might have been better off left hanging after ch. 21 . . .
no subject
Date: 2007-05-27 04:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-27 04:58 pm (UTC)I don't think I've commented before. Your story is fantastic (all of them are, really), and I'm delighted to see you're still going. :)
no subject
Date: 2007-05-27 08:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-28 03:12 pm (UTC)I am seriously in love with your Gibbs - he is getting almost as good at confusing the navy as Jack! I am almost sorry for the Lieutenant. Hargraves and Banks however should be gutted and fed to the sharks - I hope Anamaria will still be able to see to it.
no subject
Date: 2007-05-28 10:36 pm (UTC)Yay!
no subject
Date: 2007-05-31 03:53 am (UTC)Anywho, Gibbs was hillarious, you can't help but snicker at how he's throwing the Navy for a loop. So jovial and relaxed while the whole thing seems to be headed for Hell in a handbasket. Requin is such a loveable character and I can't wait to see what Ana's gonna do next.
Again, thanks so much for posting an update. <3
WHOOT!
Date: 2007-06-07 05:39 am (UTC)I've missed this story so, dear rat, I have indeed. And I know you've every good reason for lacking time to write, but is it okay if I'm selfishly delighted that now you've found time? *G* This story continues to tower in my mind as one of the true epics of magnificence in PoTC fan fiction. I dispair for our heroes, but the fight ain't over yet.
But ooh, Anamaria, oh poor little brave Requin - and can I just peel the hide off that nasty Banks one strip at a time? With a potato peeler, perhaps? LOL!
So glad to see a new chapter. I'll keep fingers crossed for more. *HUGS!*
~ Erin
no subject
Date: 2007-06-11 05:08 am (UTC)Nothin' but love!
Date: 2007-06-11 09:33 pm (UTC)and I want to bear your children! CxThe characterization is flawless, the interaction between characters impeccable, and your ability to weave this story with such palpable bravado is breathtaking. I got lost within, between, and throughout the chapters, only because I wasn't reading a 'fic' (as it seems to rough a word for this) but an actual novel. When I braked for dinner I half wondered where the book had gone, only to realize that 'Damn it! It's at the computer!' and thusly had to bolt my food to carry on. I also deliberately made everything as quiet as possible so I could concentrate as much as I could on this story and this story alone. Obsessed? That's not even half of it!
I don't even know if I have a favorite part! This entire thing is my favorite part! xD
However, I nearly cried when it went into the personal account of Pearl going under - there was such a finality that I forgot I had a billion wonderful chapters to go through before I finished. I also love how, though Norrington frustrates the bejeesus out of me, I'm disinclined to dislike him. He's just 'doing his duty', even though it seems like he's putting his morality at stake and I want nothing more than to shake him!
And on this chapter, you probably had no intention to do so, but I almost cried. Why? Because of the brutal realism with Anamaria's treatment - not because she's a woman, but because she's also of color (I can imagine she's Dominican, as is the woman who played her role). It just hit home, being a Latina myself. I really, really hope she runs one of those two through...'cause honestly, my crazy-knife-wavin'-PR blood craves it! >;D *So politically incorrect with herself.*
Oh God, there's so much more I could say, but I'm having trouble finding the right words! There are so many things I want to quote for the sake of basking in their gloriousness, from tête-à-tête between comrades, or descriptions that are utterly soulful...but I figure if I did that, I'd be quoting the entire story, now wouldn't I?
Alas~ I should hit the ol' hay, because my eyes are popping out of my head. I severely hope my dreams are run amuck with pirates and red coats, 'cause what fun capering around with the crew would be!
Keep on dishin' these out! I can take 'em all!
- Mikayla
P.S. >o> By the way, 'scupper' is quite possibly my favorite word...ever. scupperscupper, whee~
no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 04:06 am (UTC)The pictures you paint inside my imagination are beyond words. I actually read Chapter 22 first (sort've testing the waters,) and was thus compelled to engross myself in all 21 prior segments in one sitting-- one beautiful, near-giddy sitting..
You inspire me to actually upload some of my own writings. Tis the least I could do in return.. ::hugs the fic::
Gratzi squared.
-Crumpit
no subject
Date: 2007-06-18 06:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-02 12:51 am (UTC)You already know my deep adoration for your words. Might you honour me requited "befriendal"? (New word. Give it a week, everybody'll be using it.)
Happy Sunday, m'lady.
-Crumpit
(Postscript: I was shelving magazines at Barnes & Noble when I stumbled across *you* in Cinema Fantasy-something magazine and proceeded to squeak quite loudly and show the pages off to my fellow booksellers. So happy for your being feautured!)
no subject
Date: 2007-07-03 03:16 pm (UTC)You write so atmospherically - I can almost smell the blood and the sea. I *love* how you write Jack, it's wonderful to see him being a good and involved captain! Really like his "chivalric notions" towards the reluctant Anamaria, too. Hope we're getting more soon!
no subject
Date: 2007-08-16 06:34 am (UTC)The details are vivid, the characters true, the situations excitings, and the writing compelling. It all feels very inspired.
I'm hoping for more, but happy to have this much.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-09 07:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-28 01:58 am (UTC)More of this is always good
no subject
Date: 2008-07-18 03:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-18 03:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-18 03:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-18 03:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-18 03:36 pm (UTC)I hope Anamaria will still be able to see to it
Anamaria hopes so too!
Thank you for commenting, and I apologize for taking so long to respond.
no subject
Date: 2008-07-18 03:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-18 03:39 pm (UTC)Re: WHOOT!
Date: 2008-07-18 03:43 pm (UTC)I am sooooo baaaaddd at responding lately! I am writing this while the MiniRat has an MRI, so you can see my life hasn't got any less complicated. I do write as I can, so this story will be updated some day.
I'm glad you have enjoyed the "epic" so far.
can I just peel the hide off that nasty Banks one strip at a time? With a potato peeler, perhaps
Will the story fit within the ratings limit then? Can I do something as bad?
Thank you so much for your response.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-06 03:50 am (UTC)Thank you so much. I'm always glad to know others like my OCs. I'm glad Jip is still alive, too. He had a close call with the Muse. And Jack/Ana snark is some of my favourite dialogue to write.
The next chapter will be up this week.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-06 03:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-06 03:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-06 04:05 am (UTC)It is I who should be forgiven for neglecting to respond.
I'm so glad you've enjoyed this story. Another chapter is on the way. Finally.
Good for you, uploading your fics. When I was more active here, I had such fun.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-06 04:05 am (UTC)Thank you for your kind words. More is one the way!
no subject
Date: 2008-08-06 04:07 am (UTC)Thank you for your kind words. I'm glad you're enjoying my version of Jack. It's the CotBP Jack, of course. It's not soon, but more is arriving this week.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-06 04:08 am (UTC)Thank you for commenting on this. I'm glad you're enjoying it. The writing certainly compels me! Although slowly.
More is on the way.
Re: Nothin' but love!
Date: 2008-08-06 04:17 am (UTC)Wow! You did complete a marathon of reading! I'm extremely flattered and the muse is indecently puffed up.
I'm so glad you liked my version of the characters. I'm trying to write this with very few villains, although Banks is pretty much irredeemable scum, I'll admit. But most of the Navy are people I like, even though they are trying to shoot the pirates to pieces.
I'm glad you've appreciated Anamaria's predicament. I studied the portrayal of people of colour in Western art during this era, and the blindness of European art critics was astounding. I tried to capture that ignorance and cruelty in those two marines, and it seems that it's working. I hope you'll enjoy Anamaria's vengeance!
Thank you again for such a stellar review. You inspire me to write more! A new chapter is on the way.
And it's nice to meet someone else who just likes the sound of words!