#as far as I know it gives you insanely bad luck so that calamities keep happening to you????? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

qqueenofhades · 7 years ago

Text

The Rose and Thorn: Chapter XXIV

summary: Sequel to The Dark Horizon. The New World, 1740: Killian and Emma Jones have lived in peace with their family for many years, their pirate past long behind them. But with English wars, Spanish plots, rumors of a second Jacobite rising, and the secret of the lost treasure of Skeleton Island, they and their son and daughter are in for a dangerous new adventure. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 previous: chapter XXIII

The Rose and the Hispaniola sailed about a thousand yards apart, the former closely marking the course of the latter, thanks to the indefatigable efforts of the new helmsman they’d put on – some strapping County Kerry man named MacSweeney who, while Geneva was not one for stereotypes, very much did reek of grog, and was closely observed by Lieutenant Woodlawn as a result. Geneva in turn was closely observing him, as well as the fact that a thousand yards was under a mile, and thus the Hispaniola was theoretically in range of the Rose’s guns. Not that she could even get as far as opening fire, not that she would ever do so with Thomas and Madi (and, she supposed, Silver) trapped aboard as Gideon Murray’s prisoners, but it nonetheless remained a tempting option. If these fucking redcoats did not get off her fucking ship, and did not do it what the Italians called prontissimo, there was no way of telling what she might be capable of.

Whirling on her heel, she paced her five hundredth groove into the quarterdeck, squinting at the Hispaniola for any hint of her uncle – it was a stretch, but Jim had managed to signal them in the first place, so there might be the chance of a repeat. Not that they could set off anything that the rest of the bastards would not then see as well, but she had to think of something to save herself from complete gibbering insanity. Her ship, her ship, had been unlawfully appropriated first by a gaggle of mouth-breathing mutineers and now by a self-righteous Army lieutenant and a drunken Irishman, en route to Skeleton Island and whatever mischief Gideon had in store there, and they were forced to just… go along with it peaceably? Bloody hell, fuck that. If nothing else, there were a few important questions to be asked, and nobody else apparently about to do the asking. Geneva straightened her skirt, let a lock of hair fall becomingly in her face, and strolled toward Lieutenant Woodlawn. “So… what is Lord Murray’s concern with the island, exactly?”

Woodlawn regarded her suspiciously. It was plain he had not forgotten her attempted duping of him earlier. “King’s business, madam.”

“Oh?” Geneva leaned on the rail. If nothing else, she could distract him from keeping MacSweeney under his eagle eye, and then perhaps someone could – she didn’t know, hit MacSweeney over the head with a whiskey bottle (as this was surely something to which the gentleman had been subjected repeatedly in his life). “I was just rather curious. What exactly is a governor of the English Crown doing, sailing a ship with a name like Hispaniola? That’s not very Protestant, you know. Sounds, dare I say it, Spanish.”

Woodlawn’s jaw tightened. “I was not aware that the name of the governor’s ship was remotely your concern, Miss Jones. If you have nothing of value to contribute to the operation of the vessel, then I suggest you go below and – ”

“Actually.” Geneva took a step, feeling as if she had had a few drops of liquid courage herself, or was simply past giving a shit about anything whatsoever. She raised a finger and prodded him hard in the chest. “Actually, I do. I have plenty of value to contribute to the operation of the vessel, because you know why, Jeremy? Because I’m the fucking captain. I’m the captain. And what did you pricks do? That’s right, you stole it out from under my feet, expected me to be grateful, and called the other lot lawbreakers. You know what it is when you seize a ship without a warrant, Jeremy? Piracy. It’s piracy. I’m guessing you don’t happen to have any letters of marque, so you’re not a privateer. Straight up pirate. Gideon bloody Murray or otherwise.”

Woodlawn looked aghast that anyone would dare to address him without proper deference, especially a young woman in damask skirts. “I don’t know where you’ve taken your notion of protocol, Miss Jones, but given as you and your compatriots are already on very thin ice – ”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Geneva was so much enjoying finally tearing into someone who deserved it that she was prepared to push her luck, even knowing it was a bad idea. “I could give less than a well-formed shit about you or Lord Gideon’s opinion of me or my uncle or any of us. If you think I’m going to stand here and meekly listen to your pompous gasbagging like whatever docile little mouse you – ”

With that, she took another step, and must have looked genuinely alarming, because Woodlawn actually backed up. However, before she could pursue any one of a variety of follow-up maneuvers, someone caught her around the waist from behind. “Geneva. Hey.”

Geneva stamped down hard, but Jim was prepared for that, snatching his boot out of the way. “Hey,” he said again in her ear, low and urgently. “It can wait, eh? It can wait.”

“Let go of me, you interfering – ” Geneva made another abortive bid for freedom, which he likewise restrained. “Jim Hawkins, do you hear me, right this very – ”

Jim didn’t answer, but Woodlawn raised a judgmental eyebrow at them and strode off to correct MacSweeney from any imminent calamities. When he was gone, Jim accordingly let go, and Geneva spun on him in a fury. “How dare you act like I’m some – some beast that needs muzzling, in front of him, and everything they’re trying to – ”

Jim held up both hands. “Easy. Easy. Believe me, I am not protecting that arsehole, but I don’t want to see you getting hurt. Besides, you should shout at me, I’m the one who got us into this. If you did want to blame me for it – ”

“I… no.” Geneva laughed, without any mirth. “By the sound of things, Murray would have caught up to us one way or the other. And as I already said, you saved us by setting off that flare. It’s not your fault the other ship happened to contain this current gang of wastrels. But I swear, one more sneering look from Woodlawn, and I will cave in his bloody teeth so hard that he’ll bite himself when he shits for a week. We can’t just sit back and – ”

“Easy,” Jim said again, grabbing her hands as she appeared set to tear her own hair out in frustration. “Start by taking a breath. Now, if you can think of a way to punch Woodlawn in the face without Lord Murray retaliating it or worse on your uncle and the others, I’m all ears. But they split us up for a reason, you know that. Divide and conquer.”

“Yes, I know,” Geneva said, but without quite as much heat as before. “So what? Just sit back and do nothing until we get to Skeleton Island, and hope they’re distracted enough by the prospect of the treasure to make a break for it?”

“Maybe,” Jim said. “But I agree that’s not much of a plan, and that if we let them get us that far, it’s too easy to make sure we never come back. Besides, I… don’t think Mrs. Rogers is doing that well. I’ve been in the cabin to check on her, and she…” He hesitated. “We might just be able to save our own necks if it came to that, but for bloody sure, not hers.”

Despite her own lingering rancor over Eleanor, and the effort it had cost to keep her alive this far, Geneva was touched at the thought that Jim instinctively viewed an injured woman as someone to be protected and looked out for, not conveniently cut loose at the first opportunity. She looked down at her hands, which Jim had forgotten to let go of, and they both coughed and pulled back. There was a brief pause, and then she said quietly, “So what do you suggest?”

“Still working on it.” Jim smiled wryly. “We should wait for dark, at least. Any trouble will be more difficult to spot from the Hispaniola that way – if we are out-mutineering the ones who killed the last mutiny, we want to keep it contained to the Rose. There’s what, Woodlawn, half a dozen redcoats, and MacSweeney? That’s not much, but it’s still more than you and I alone are liable to handle easily. Your remaining men might help, but given what else has gone on aboard this ship recently, we can’t count on them assaulting king’s officers on our behalf.”

“And what?” Geneva tilted her chin back to look up at him. “You are willing to assault king’s officers on my behalf?”

Jim coughed, cheeks going slightly red. “Well,” he said after a moment. “If I ever make it back to Bristol, they can just add it to the list. I doubt anyone would be that surprised. And since our odds are bad enough as it is, you shouldn’t have to go it completely single-handed.”

Geneva shot a wary glance at Woodlawn, in case he had crept up unawares and was listening to this, but he was still engaged in a dispute of some sort with MacSweeney, who – like every Irishman in the history of the world – was not particularly overawed by a bag-of-dicks Englishman telling him what to do. The faintest glimmer of a possibility occurred to her, but would have to wait until sundown. Instead she turned back to Jim, wishing for any number of reasons that they did not have so much nonsense to deal with. “Stay close.”

He paused, then nodded, giving her another one of those looks that twisted her insides. Without another word, he strode past and vanished below.

Geneva whiled away the hours until dark in an anxious haze. Finally, with Jim’s warnings from earlier in mind, she went to look in on Eleanor. She was drowsing and fitful, flushed with fever, and when Geneva gingerly unwrapped the bandages to look at the wound, she could see the edges of black necrosis that made her wince. Unless they got her to a proper physician and fast, someone who could cut out the corruption and hopefully forestall it from spreading, Eleanor was doomed to the sort of slow, suffering death from gangrene that Geneva would not wish on her worst enemy. Most men, faced with that prospect, elected to eat the business end of a pistol first, or otherwise have some help in hastening their demise. Official church teaching still disapproved of suicide, but soldiers had carried misericordias on battlefields for as long as there had been wars, and if the end was already coming, saw no sin in it. If such a choice came, their fellows were the ones whose counsel they sought, not that of a perfumed, hand-wringing priest.

Eleanor saw the expression on Geneva’s face. “It’s…” She stopped. “It’s bad, isn’t it.”

“Well, it’s not looking quite as I hoped.” Geneva tried to keep her tone light. “I suppose that doesn’t speak well of my amateur skills as a surgeon. I – I’m sorry, I – ”

“You stopped me from dying the first night.” Eleanor’s voice was quiet. “That’s more than – more than most people would have done. And more, I imagine, than I could have deservedly expected from you. Did I – earlier, under the opium. I think I remember you coming in, there were others, I’m not sure. Did I say anything? Anything… wrong?”

Geneva hesitated, then shook her head. “No, it was just a poppy haze, Woodlawn paid no attention to it. What they discovered about us didn’t have to do with you.”

Eleanor tried to absorb this with her usual curt, dispassionate expression, but her lips trembled. Abruptly, almost impulsively, pleadingly, she said, “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to make any more trouble for you. I just…” She trailed off. “I just wanted to see my son.”

Geneva felt an odd, heartbreaking stab of empathy despite herself, as that was all most of them had ever wanted: to find their families again, whatever shape or form that took, whatever painful memories or bad old habits came between them, however deep their own flaws and their own mistakes. Unwillingly, her thoughts strayed to Silver, captive aboard the Hispaniola and faced with the prospect of leading Gideon and the redcoats straight to Skeleton Island, and the threat of losing everyone he had ever loved, the reason he had embarked upon this desperate, backward crusade to save them – from Billy, from Lady Fiona, from Gold, and from him. Counting himself as much as the others among their enemies, and never saying a word. How much must that corrode a man over time, twist and distort him, and lead him to places no one else thought to go?

After a pause, Geneva managed a smile and tidied the bandages back into place. As she did, however, Eleanor caught her wrist; her fingers felt hot and papery. “There were two men in here earlier,” she whispered. “They were looking for valuables you hadn’t offered up, anything else they could find. They thought I was unconscious, they didn’t pay me any mind. They were talking about something to do with white roses, I heard them. Someone they were passing money to, and something about a ship called the Saint Peter.”

Geneva’s stomach lurched. “Are you sure they – are you sure they were real? And not another opium vision?”

“They were real, I swear. They were looking through the chest.” Eleanor used her chin to indicate Geneva’s sea trunk, which did indeed appear to be rifled through. “They were going to take whatever money they found. I’m not lying, I’m not making them up. I’m not.”

“All right. All right, I believe you.” Geneva added that to the strange or slightly off or somehow contradictory bits of information when it came to Lord Gideon Murray: his determination to intercept them well offshore, the name of his ship, the presence of several Irishmen – not just MacSweeney but at least two of the other redcoats had fairly noticeable brogues – Woodlawn’s evasion of her questions, and now this. She wasn’t certain, but the outlines of a distinct suspicion had begun to crystallize in her head, and she straightened up. “Thank you.”

It was close to dusk by the time she emerged, the western sky in front of them painted in great swathes and splashes of gold and rose and umber, like an artist had upset his palette of oils on a vast canvas. The sea was deep violet and the shadowed shape of the Hispaniola, still ahead of them, looked as if it had been cut from tracing paper. It wasn’t dark altogether, but it would be hard for any lookouts on the other ship to get a full sight of whatever they might be up to, and a little light to maneuver by was not a bad thing. Geneva caught sight of Jim, who was loitering with apparent casualness across the way, and they shared a moment of unspoken consideration, wagering if this damned-fool plan had any chance of success whatsoever. She still didn’t know, in fact, but she strolled up to Woodlawn. “So,” she said airily. “Were you planning to let on just which king you’re working for, exactly?”

Woodlawn grimaced deeply, as if hoping that if he closed his eyes and wished hard, she would be gone when he reopened them. “I have no interest in further palaver with you, Miss Jones.”

“Captain,” Geneva repeated. “It’s Captain Jones, I told you earlier. Try to keep up. And wouldn’t you know, I think I’m putting a few things together. A ship called Hispaniola, and another ship called Saint Peter, something to do with white roses and smuggled treasure, and good old Gideon making sure he got to us well out of sight or custody of any port. The rum bloody lot of you are Jacobites, you’re gathering money for James Stuart in Italy, and that means, by my lights, you’re just as much traitors as we are. Actually, more.”

Woodlawn looked at her with such genuine shock that even she didn’t think he was that good of an actor. Perhaps Gideon Murray had seen no need to burden all his underlings with the delicate knowledge of his political sensibilities – why would he, when one inopportune loyalist could inform on them and blow it all to hell? Just a few informed associates, who could ensure everything went to plan and the ship stayed on course. Informed associates such as the Irishmen, as King James II the elder, after his deposition by William and Mary in 1688, had fled to the friendly Catholic haven of Ireland, from whence he intended to muster support for his return to the throne. He had been comprehensively defeated in the Battle of the Boyne in 1690, where his speedy exit from the field earned him the deeply unflattering nickname of Seamus a chac, or ‘James the shit,’ but if so, it might not be only national intransigence that was making MacSweeney so disdainful of Woodlawn’s orders. If Woodlawn still thought they were serving the proper king, George II, and MacSweeney happened to know otherwise –

“You…” Woodlawn recovered at last, as Geneva saw Jim take another step closer. “How dare you level such serious accusations to Lord Murray and to myself, and – ”

“If I’m wrong, tell me how.” Geneva put her hands on her hips. “Or maybe you’re just too thick to see the evidence in front of your face, and just thought this was all proper protocol for the English government. Where did you take your notion of it, by the way, since you asked me earlier? Otherwise, you have some fast talking to do. Well? This must be fascinating.”

By the way Woodlawn’s eyes were bulging, she was of the interested opinion that he in fact did not know, and was now realizing that he was stuck aboard a ship with traitors to every side – even his own men, the redcoats Gideon had picked to stay on the Rose, must be in on it, and thus he could not be sure of commanding their loyalty. He fumbled for his army saber, as if thinking of drawing it on her. “Stay away from me. I will get to the bottom of who has been spreading such outrageous tales, and ensure that they are immediately – we are not Jacobites, and if I hear you repeat that accusation again –”

At that, MacSweeney, who had been listening to this with a progressively more exasperated expression, looped a knot over the wheel to hold it, stepped away, and regarded his whey-faced commanding officer appraisingly. While he certainly whiffed of spirits, he was also over six feet tall, hard muscles corded in his arms from a life spent wrestling large ships, and was nearly as head-to-toe ginger as Geneva’s grandfather must have been in his youth, giving him the look of a human-sized leprechaun. “Ah, ya daft cunt,” he said, drew back a fist, and decked Woodlawn without the further bat of an eyelash. “Of course we’re feckin’ Jacobites.”

Geneva had to jump backward as Woodlawn, looking extremely betrayed, hit the deck at her feet, completely – if momentarily – out cold. MacSweeney cracked his knuckles menacingly, saw her alarmed expression, and nodded in a friendly way instead. “I hate that feckin’ bastard,” he said conversationally, nudging Woodlawn with a steel-toed boot. “Been waitin’ a long time to do that. You’re right clever, little lady, fair play to ya.”

“I…” Whatever exactly she had expected to happen after that revelation, this was not it. “What… do you want, exactly?”

“Me?” MacSweeney cocked his head. “Me n’ the other lads are for King James, as ya said, and this one didn’t have a feckin’ clue. It happens, though, we’re not that fond of Lord Gideon. You think you and your man could get the useful one off the Hispaniola, one who knows the bearings to Skeleton Island? Leave Gideon to sail in bloody circles, and get the treasure ourselves?”

“He’s not – ” Geneva knew there were far more important things to focus on, but still. “He’s – Jim’s not my man, he’s just – ”

MacSweeney raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. “Nay mind, then. Any rate. I bring the Rose alongside the Hispaniola, one of you could swing across and grab ‘im. He’ll be on deck with the helmsman, shouldn’t be hard. Silver, eh? That’s the one.”

“I – yes, I want to rescue him, but his wife and my uncle are also on board. We can’t leave them behind, Gideon would kill them. Especially if he realizes that you’re trying to stop him from getting to Skeleton Island, we – ”

“Who cares about ‘em?” MacSweeney shrugged again. “Not when there’s money in the offing, for all of us. Make up your mind, lassie, this feckin’ daftie will be coming round any second.”

Geneva grabbed a mooring pin and hit the groaning Woodlawn over the head with it, at which the groans immediately ceased. “There. Few more minutes.”

MacSweeney whistled appreciatively. “You seein’ any gentlemen presently, that one there not being yours?”

“Watch it, Shamrock,” Jim said. “Are you going to help us rescue Mr. Silver or not?”

“Keep your shirt on, St. George, can’t blame a fella for tryin’. My bargain, lass, aye or nay?”

Geneva hesitated fractionally. They didn’t have any other real options, and this might be the only shot. “Fine. But I’ll take us alongside. This is my ship.”

MacSweeney tipped her a rakish salute. “I like hearin’ ya give orders already. I’ll look after this crotch lice here. Get us as close to the Hispaniola as ya can, the lads and I can manage.”

“Get Thomas and Madi,” Geneva said. If he found her bossing him around arousing, he was welcome to have all he cared for. “As well as Mr. Silver. Or there is no deal.”

MacSweeney gave her a slightly slanted smile, grabbed Woodlawn by the boots, and dragged him out of sight of the lanterns, with no care whatsoever as to whether he should knock the lieutenant’s head against something hard in the way. Geneva went to the wheel, unlooped the knot, and felt a fierce thrill at having it in her hands again, the way the Rose responded to her mistress’ touch, skimming hard forward and beginning to close the distance on the Hispaniola ahead. She and Jim glanced at each other, scared and exhilarated, hearts in their throats, until she couldn’t help but notice again the shimmering color his eyes took in this dark glow, not that that was anything more than an academic observation. Jesus, this was dangerous and stupid and they were trusting the drunken Irishman who had just clocked his superior officer, but still. Her heart was beating fast, and not only with terror. She felt wild and alive and half-drunk herself.

MacSweeney returned in a few more minutes, the other Irish redcoats at his back, as the men on the Hispaniola began to notice the Rose was cutting into their lead. “Hey!” someone yelled down from the other deck. “What’s going on, we didn’t signal you to catch up?”

“Spot of trouble,” MacSweeney bellowed back. “Woodlawn ran amiss of one of the sailors. Contained it, but thought best we make a report.”

The redcoat squinted suspiciously, but it seemed to be directed at the putative misdeeds of Geneva’s crew rather than MacSweeney himself. “What can you expect from a bunch of mutineers? Hold on, I’ll fetch Lord Gideon.”

“Oh, and there’s more.” MacSweeney jerked a thumb at Geneva. “This one here, says she’s the captain. What’s his face, the one Lord Gideon has, it’s not him.”

The redcoat scowled, but after a moment, turned to do as requested. The Rose and the Hispaniola were now running almost side by side, no more than fifty feet apart – almost close enough to drive them together if the wind suddenly changed, and more than close enough for a point-blank barrage, if they could possibly get the guns loaded in time. Geneva’s eyes flicked up to the deck, and caught sight of Silver, who was indeed stationed next to the helmsman. His gaze met hers, and she saw it take a visible effort of will for him not to react; he was unavoidably ignorant of the particulars, but a man as schooled in deception and misdirection as him knew at once that some kind of plot was afoot. Madi, she mouthed at him, not at all sure that he could see it, but determined to try. Madi and Thomas. Get them above. Get them above.

Her nerves were running raw by the time the redcoat reappeared, with Thomas in tow. It was the first time Geneva had seen him since he went over to negotiate with Gideon and then was prohibited from returning, and her heart did a somersault. Thomas did not appear to have been beaten, at least, and seemed somewhat baffled as to what was going on. Still no Madi, though. Perhaps Gideon had scented something suspicious about bringing all his hostages topside at once, but they couldn’t leave her behind by herself. Not when –

“You,” the redcoat said. “Barlow – or no, Hamilton, wasn’t it? Hamilton. Are you the captain of the Rose? MacSweeney down there says you’re not.”

Thomas was to be observed performing the same frantic internal scramble as to what answer he should give. He seemed to decide, however, that cover was blown. “No.”

“So you’re likewise a liar, then.”

“Lord Gideon is perfectly well aware of my true identity, so if you call that lying – ”

Losing patience, the redcoat hauled off and hit Thomas across the face, hard enough to make him stagger, as Geneva and Silver uttered twin hisses of outrage. Silver jerked away from the helm and limped forward with an intent, savage look, as he reached down a hand to Thomas, who was wiping the blood off his lip. “That, sir,” Silver said, “was a grave mistake.”

“Get back to the wheel, cripple.”

Silver smiled, showing his teeth. “Watch it.”

“Lord Gideon? Lord Gideon!”

A pause, and then the cabin door opened. Gideon emerged, holding Madi firmly by the arm with one hand, and a gun in the other, which caused an indrawn breath to travel both decks. “I would hope,” he called, raising his voice over the night wind and the brewing commotion alike, “that we were not so swiftly reneging on our arrangement, were we?” He pulled Madi in front of him, twisting the pistol into her temple. “Mr. Silver. Return immediately to your post, recall where you were supposed to guide us, or watch all of them suffer for your arrogance.”

Silver looked like a caged animal. His gaze flickered between Madi, held at gunpoint, to Thomas, still on his knees, to Geneva and Jim back on the Rose, the two ships still closing, so that a well-thrown rock from one deck could easily land on the other. The entire world seemed to spin to a halt around him, devolve onto his shoulders, some singular dark point of unbearable mass. Then he said, “My arrogance, Lord Murray? Are you quite sure of that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well.” Silver tilted his head at the Rose. “It could be that my cripple’s eyes are deceiving me, but I don’t spot the doughty Lieutenant Woodlawn at his post. Now, it could be, as they said earlier, that he ran afoul of a sailor who conveniently brained him in the darkness below decks, or something of the sort. But that would indeed be a brave sailor, given what you interrupted the Rose in the process of undergoing, and the fact that you and your men then shot or bayoneted the lot of them. Frankly, the mutiny-after-the-mutiny theory doesn’t quite make sense, and believe me, I am a veteran of several. Where exactly is Lieutenant Woodlawn? Convalescing below with a compress on his head?”

Gideon’s eyes flickered briefly, but he could not quite brush that off. “You, sailor,” he demanded of MacSweeney. “Where is he?”

MacSweeney shrugged. “Feck if I know.”

“I want to speak to him immediately, or – ”

And at that, Silver bellowed, “NOW!”

All at once, everyone moved. Madi grabbed the gun by the muzzle, ripping it out of Gideon’s hand, and Silver lunged for her and Thomas, as Geneva saw a blur fly off the Rose’s deck toward them. It was Jim, adventuring boldly forth on a rope, and he swung over the Hispaniola’s railing, straight toward the captives, where Silver shoved Madi into his arms. He himself remained covering Thomas as Jim got a better grip on Madi’s waist and pushed off hard, soaring among the shrouds and back onto the Rose elegantly as a bird. They landed and rolled, just as Gideon’s redcoats, unfortunately, recovered from the shock. As Jim prepared to make a second trip for Thomas, one of them pointed his musket upwards and shot out the rope, so that Jim remained suspended in midair for a long, elegant moment. Then it gave out, and he plunged.

“Jim!” Geneva abandoned the wheel, hoping MacSweeney would grab it, and sprinted to the side, looking frantically into the dark water. There was a spreading splash where he had gone down, and she hadn’t yet seen him surface. She could either snatch another rope while the ships were still close enough, and try to grab Thomas herself, or – she couldn’t jump overboard in full skirts, it would weigh her down like a rock, where was he, where was he –

At Gideon’s bellowed command, his redcoats crowded to the rail of the Hispaniola and began to fire into the water, bullets peppering the ocean like hailstones. Clearly, even if Jim did come up, it would be into the teeth of an iron rain, and Geneva’s panic closed her throat like a giant fist. The Rose was faster than the Hispaniola with the wind at her back, and they were starting to pull ahead. She couldn’t see what was happening on the deck of the other ship, apart from the redcoats shooting – no, this whole mad plan, she’d known it was a risk, she –

Just then, there was another whooshing shadow overhead, a bang and thump, and the next second, still bruised and bleeding, a windswept Thomas Hamilton careened into sight and hit the deck. He nearly landed on top of Madi, who rolled away just in the nick of time, as Geneva felt her lungs almost explode with relief – but wait –

There was another splash, which she caught out of the corner of her eye, and she realized that someone else had dived in after Jim. She couldn’t be sure who it was, and was still leaning almost far enough over to fall in herself, as the hammer of bullets momentarily stopped and then, two heads broke the surface. One was Jim’s; he appeared to have been knocked unconscious by the fall, and his eyes were closed, head lolling. Geneva prepared to throw the rope down to him and his rescuer, who – wait – wait –

No –

Israel Hands tightened his grip around Jim and began to kick toward the Hispaniola, teeth bared at Geneva in a leering smile. They likewise were throwing a rope down, prepared to reel in two such valuable replacement hostages, as Geneva screamed Jim’s name at the top of her lungs, hoping impossibly to wake him up in time. No good; his head still slumped, even as she could not comprehend how, how, Hands had gotten free. Not unless –

Panicking, Geneva whirled on MacSweeney. “Did you – ” she screamed. “When you took Woodlawn – did you take him to the brig, did you let that other one – ”

“Always have a hand to spare for another brother in arms against the feckin’ English.” MacSweeney looked puzzled. “Said he was, so I put Woodlawn in and told him to – ”

“No, no, you idiot, no!” Geneva felt as if she was about to throw up. Hands had hold of the Hispaniola’s rope, and they were pulling him and Jim up the side. She looked madly around for a gun, but there was no way to shoot Hands without hitting Jim, and if he fell back into the water, still unconscious, he would drown. Silver couldn’t grab a rope and run with one leg, and she caught a glimpse of him embroiled by redcoats, just as Hands and Jim somersaulted over the edge and into the middle of it. Geneva and Gideon locked eyes with each other from the decks of their respective vessels, and Geneva felt a wave of hatred so strong that it almost displaced her from her body. Yes, they had gotten Thomas and Madi back, but this – this –

Gideon strode across the boards, grabbed Jim by the hair, and slapped him on both cheeks until he stirred groggily. Then Gideon stood up. “Are you planning to leave him behind, Captain Jones?” he shouted. “You may be willing to abandon Mr. Silver to his fate, but Mr. Hawkins – ?”

Geneva’s knuckles went white on the railing. She couldn’t breathe, was only cursorily aware of someone saying something behind her. Thomas, it might have been Thomas, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. “I’m going to kill you,” she said. “I am going to kill you.”

Gideon stared flatly back at her. “First you have to catch me.”

“Jenny.” Only then did she belatedly become aware that it was indeed Thomas pulling on her arm. “I can try to make it back, we still have a few more moments before it’s too far to – ”

“No.” Geneva shook her head. “No, you can’t, you’d both die. We have to chase them. We have to bloody chase them the rest of the way, if that’s what it takes. We get to Skeleton Island, and then we’ll fucking settle this.”

“He’s the governor,” Thomas said, wiping more blood from his fat lip. His eye was already starting to blacken as well, but he didn’t appear to notice. “Still the Lord Governor of Charlestown, we can’t kill him. We will get Jim and Silver back, but we – ”

“I don’t care!” They were now trapped, Geneva knew, in a game of extended cat-and-mouse, Gideon trying to get himself and the Hispaniola the rest of the way to Skeleton Island, having lost his original two hostages but knowing that this one would work just as well at ensuring the Rose followed them to the bitter end. “How can you be such a pacifist all the time, how can you still think that we can solve things by talking them out, why can’t you – why can’t you just admit that law or no law, we have to – ”

“Why can’t I be more like James?” Thomas’ face was cast half in shadow by the deck lanterns, even as he fought to hold her by the shoulders, trying to steady her. “Is that what you meant?”

Geneva had indeed been going to say something like that, that she wanted her ferocious grandfather, the one for whom murder and havoc was always cheerily on the table, rather than her gentle, generally-opposed-to-violence, confoundedly reasonable great-uncle. She felt punched, breathless, knowing that it was a race to Skeleton Island and whatever confrontation now awaited, that it would take every drop of her skill and ingenuity to win it, and that there was no other choice than that she must. “Jim saved your life, you and Madi. So you’re just going to hope that we can save his by what – reading poetry at Gideon? Is that it?”

“No.” Thomas took this jab with equanimity, though his lips tightened. “Listen to me. I said we can’t kill him, yes. What I mean is, we can’t kill him in any way that would connect it to us.”

At that, something cold and sharp and clear cut through Geneva’s frenzied state, and she looked up at her uncle. “So… so we… when we get there, we…”

“Skeleton Island,” Thomas Hamilton said, “is a very dangerous place. If it claimed such as Captain Flint, well. Any mere mortal venturing there should fear for their very salvation.”

Nobody slept much that night, for reasons only incidental to the continued jouncing and sloshing of the Griffin. Nobody even really tried. Even Flint and Miranda stayed with the rest of the family in their small spot by the bulkhead, which had certainly not gotten any more spacious with the addition of another full-grown man. However, nobody cared. Jack and Charlotte themselves had retired around the corner to Charlotte’s hammock, gotten in together, and curled up like otters; no matter how unorthodox their relationship might be, it was clear that the Bells loved each other very much and were deeply relieved to be reunited. That left the rest of them with a thin curtain and a bit of wall – not much privacy, even if they kept their voices down, to try, remotely try, to wrap their heads around it.

“What happened to him?” Flint demanded. “Where has he been all this time? Who didn’t tell us, who left us to just – who left him to just – ”

“Mate, easy.” Killian put his hand on the older man’s shoulder, at which he felt the same faint, constant vibration that must be running through him, like a bell (ha) struck and held, long past conscious hearing, from the moment they had seen Jack on the rain-lashed deck. “Charlotte told me about – well, some of it, but I don’t think it’s my place to tell you. Especially, to be frank, with what you just did. You’re bloody lucky you weren’t shot, never mind flogged. It’s not going to do anyone any good, anyway.”

“He said his mother was one of Sam’s sisters.” Trust Flint to be as tenacious as a dog with a bone. “So who’s his father?”

“His father…” Killian shot a wary look at the curtain. Jack and Charlotte might be asleep, worn out from their adventures, or they could be awake, listening intently. “His father was in the Navy as well. It… wasn’t pleasant.”

Flint swore. “Of course it fucking wasn’t. What has the Navy ever given anyone but woe and wrath and violence? So what, he – ”

“Keep your voice down.” Killian tightened his grip on Flint’s shoulder. “We are on a Navy ship right now, as we have all and very unavoidably noticed. Liam’s still above, acting as lieutenant on night watch so we don’t have to. The last thing any of us can afford is another scene like today. Get Flint under control, back on his leash, or we’re all doomed.”

Flint breathed in fiercely through his nose, thought about contradicting this, and finally jerked his head in an exceedingly gruff nod. Then he glanced at Miranda, who had not yet spoken a word, remaining pale and drawn throughout the entire conversation. “Are you all right?”

“I’m…” Miranda seemed to be on the brink of saying fine, as she always did, putting aside her own pain to help him, to help the family. This time, however, she could not quite come up with the words. She simply shook her head, barely keeping her composure. “I have no idea.”

Emma, on her other side, reached out to take Miranda’s hand, and mother and daughter held tightly, trying to brace themselves. Regina, rather than sit as a fifth wheel on this particularly delicate family conversation, had gone to keep Liam company in the cold, blustery night, and the four of them – Emma, Killian, James, and Miranda, who had known Sam Bellamy the best and loved him the most, who still did, in fact, love him as if it had been yesterday – sat there in a thrall of silence. It seemed almost inappropriate for it to be funereal, because Jack was here, Jack was alive, it was not merely about the man they had lost. There was a certain desperate, hopeful joy, that perhaps they would be able to take him in and build the family with him that they should have had with Sam senior, that he could come home with them and stay as long as he wanted, with Charlotte or Cecilia or any others. He was not their second chance with Sam, but he was a chance, of a sort. If he wanted it. If he could understand. If anyone could.

When no one else moved to speak, Killian said, “I’ll talk to Jack tomorrow. Sam – Sam helped me out of some very dark and terrible places, after I became Hook, and the least I can do is try the same for his nephew. Emma, love, do you think you’d be willing to help Liam? Matthew seems to like you, or at least trust you. He could likely induce his men to take orders from you.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, as being a pirate captain was not the same as convincing a bunch of Navy sailors to listen to a woman, more than half of whom were already of the opinion that even one aboard was abominably bad luck to start with, and now had to contend with four. Still, it was true that she had unquestionably forged the best rapport with their grudging host, and Liam could not be left to work all hours by himself (though doubtless he would, and utter not a single complaint). “All right,” she said. “I’ll offer, at least. I just want to get to Sam, our Sam.”

“We all do.” Killian leaned over to kiss her hair. “Still the most important Sam to us, now or for the last twenty years. James, mate, you don’t bloody fuck this up again. Hear me?”

Flint grunted. Finally, when Killian kept glaring at him, he said curtly, “Aye.”

“Good.” Killian could feel the exhaustion rasping at him, fine and constant as sandpaper, and reckoned that no matter (and certainly because of) the emotional and physical tempests they had been through, they could stand with some sleep. “Let’s keep that in mind.”

Council dismissed, Flint and Miranda went off to their berth, Emma and Killian got into the two hammocks they had managed to string up more or less as one, and she tucked herself against his chest. Killian lay there, comforted by her solidness and presence as always, reminded of how good it was after their separation and his abduction, his long journey home. He might have stayed awake to enjoy it, in fact, but he was too bloody tired. He fell asleep like a stone being dropped down a well, and did not even stir until the clamor of the morning bells.

The day had broken wet and grey but less in active upheaval, once more as if to reflect the uneasy truce patched into place aboard the Griffin. Flint had been ordered not to display himself to or mingle with the crew, and if Mr. Sherwood did not recover from the ringing blow Miranda had dealt him with the boat hook, that animosity could extend to her as well. Thus the family ate breakfast below, all eyes fixed on the curtain, until it fluttered and Jack and Charlotte appeared. “Good morning,” Charlotte said graciously. “I hope we’ve all – ah – recovered?”

Emma and Killian nodded, and even so did Flint, after a pause. Miranda had gone white again at the sight of Jack, the confirmation that it was not a dream, that this ghost of her lost love was standing so near before her. As Jack dipped up his bowl of porridge from the small kettle that had been left for them, she reached out an impulsive hand. “Come – come sit next to me.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder at her, startled and wary. “No.”

He had spoken quite shortly, and even though it was a small thing, Miranda’s eyes filled with silent tears before she could stop them. She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and tried to brush them away, and Flint glared at Jack. “Kill you to sit next to a proper lady, would it? Or is it nobody’s asked you politely before?”

“Was there a reason I was supposed to?” Jack sat on the sideboard instead, almost casual, but leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as if ready to spring up again in an instant. Killian, who had lived his life between the ages of eight and eighteen in this same way, always on the lookout for the next blow, the next attack, would have known Jack’s childhood under Captain Howe exactly, even if Charlotte had not told him. “I don’t have time for all your bloody unresolved issues over my uncle. When are we getting to Skeleton Island?”

“Real charmer, aren’t you?” Flint said cuttingly. “Clearly your uncle did get all the tact in the family, so don’t worry. We’re not about to confuse you for him again.”

“I never knew him, so you can be the judge of that.” Jack’s eyes, Killian noted, were overall brown, but rimmed in a hazel-gold like crystallized amber, giving him the look of a watchful and less than friendly great cat. Charlotte had unobtrusively put one hand on his arm, as if to restrain him from pouncing. “In fact, I’d rather we didn’t talk about him at all. The only Sam I care about is your son, and when we’re going to catch up to him. I assume one of you gave the bearings of the bloody place to Matthew fucking Rogers and his crew of imbeciles and miscreants? Well?”

Killian blinked. “Yes,” he said after a pause. “James gave the coordinates of Skeleton Island to Captain Rogers when we embarked. Theoretically, and as that’s still where we think Lady Fiona and Billy are headed, that’s where we’re following them.”

Something flickered in Jack’s eyes at the mention of Billy, something that Killian didn’t entirely like. However, it was gone the next instant, and Jack smiled, not at all warmly. “Good to know he’s already made his useful contribution for the voyage, then. I was wondering.”

There was a very awkward pause at that, as this first day of proto-familial relations did not appear to be off to a felicitous start. Then Charlotte, clearly casting about for a neutral topic, said, “Well, the weather’s better today, isn’t it? Hopefully we can catch up some time.”

Everyone nodded politely and agreed that it was, yes, which got them through the next thirty seconds before the silence returned. Then Miranda put down her mostly-full bowl and excused herself. Killian thought he heard her muffle a sob as she disappeared around the corner, which was so alarming for his calm, resolute, steadfast, kind mother-in-law that he almost wanted to get up and go after her. They all loved Sam senior – indeed, Killian still had the sort of feelings for him that he would have if, God forbid, he ever lost Emma, a love that no time or space could ever take away – but Miranda Barlow and Sam Bellamy had been true soulmates, and lost it so soon and so cruelly, and she had been reminded of that at every turn throughout this whole adventure. Being stonewalled by Jack must be the last straw in even her unbreakable composure and strength, the pillars of Samson’s temple breaking and crumbling. Or is she Atlas? Carried the world on her shoulders, like Liam, and never said a word.

Breakfast broke up very uncomfortably after that. Flint, still under orders to self-sequester, went after Miranda, which was probably (and hopefully) the place he could do the most good, and Emma started above to ask about relieving Liam. Before she did, however, she caught Killian’s sleeve, a slight frown linking her brows. “I don’t quite like the way Jack’s looking at Flint.”

“Oh?” Killian had noticed that animosity as well, of course, but put it down to Flint being a heel, as usual, and nobody ever liking him on first encounter. Still, he knew his wife had a deeper intuition about these things, and it reminded him of that beast he’d seen in Jack’s face at the mention of Billy – who, after all, meant Flint no good whatsoever, and who must have spoken to Jack at some point during their time on the Titania. “Your father, God love him, doesn’t exactly make it easy for others to do the same. Are you sure it’s not just that?”

“I don’t know.” Emma looked anxious. “I just… yesterday all of us were too stunned to think it through, but Jack’s right. He’s not his uncle, and we can’t overlook everything we don’t know about him just because he happens to be related to someone dear to us. Just… keep an eye on him, would you?”

“Aye. I was going to talk to him anyway.” Killian looked down into her face and smoothed a tangled lock of grey-blonde hair out of her eyes. “Go get my stubborn brother off duty before he becomes encrusted to the deck, I’ll mind Bellamy junior.”

Emma paused, bit her lip, then nodded, still looking worried, as Killian leaned down to kiss her quickly before sending her on her way. Then he strode across the floor and caught up with Jack, offering him a friendly smile. “Scuse me. Come above, lad, and we can have a chat?”

Jack and Charlotte exchanged a look, but Charlotte let go her proprietary grip on her husband’s hand, albeit with one more brief warning glance at Killian. “Yes, Jack. Go make some friends, why don’t you? Be a good experience.”

Jack looked somewhat betrayed as Charlotte headed off, as if he could have gone his entire life without ever trying such an ill-advised endeavor. He was several inches taller than Killian, as his uncle had been, and had to duck more than Killian as they made their way to the ladder. It was still windy when they climbed out onto the deck, but at least it was somewhat warmer, and by the looks of things, Emma had managed to convince Liam to go below to eat and sleep. The Jones brothers nodded at each other as they passed, and Killian felt slightly heartened for – well, whatever he was about to try, he still had no blooming idea. They found a spot on the forecastle out of the way of the crew, who were giving Jack dark looks – whatever other matters he and Flint might be experiencing friction on, it seemed that they shared a talent to aggravate the entirety of HMS Griffin, from the captain on down. Finally, Killian said, “I’d like to thank you for what you did for my son.”

Jack shot him one of those startled sidelong glances that Killian again, with an ache, recognized as one of his own: the conviction that kindness always came with a catch. “Oh?”

“Aye. I don’t know the full story, but I know you’ve stuck with him and protected him, without much to gain from it and at considerable risk to yourself, and I just wanted you to know that I see that, I admire it. It matters that you did that, you, beyond anything else that we might think about meeting you and your – your surname. So aye. Thank you.”

Jack considered that, with neither an openly friendly nor openly hostile expression. Jesus, the boy had so many walls. It reminded Killian a bit of Emma, when they’d first met, but possibly even she had not been this closed off. He was also thinking of Nemo, how the man had spent so much time patiently talking sense into him aboard the Nautilus, and if any of that fatherly advice had stuck in the least degree, he likewise had to pass it on. He waited, trying not to jump into the silence. If Jack was going to open up at all, it would not come with pushing.

“You’re welcome,” Jack said at last, noncommittally. “I suppose. Nobody else was going to do it, and the feckless fool would have died half a dozen times if I didn’t take a hand. So.” He shrugged. “How close to Skeleton Island are we?”

“I don’t know. The storm could have carried us ahead of schedule, or behind it. If it’s true what you said, that the Titania was damaged, we could overtake her, but she’ll be sailing hell for leather to avoid that possibility. I’d be surprised if we intercepted them before.”

“Of course it’s true what I said.” Jack’s tone bristled with the implication of challenge. “What, you think I’d just make up a bloody great hole in the side that blasted me into the sea?”

“No,” Killian said, “not necessarily. But we… well, as you said, you’re not your uncle. We don’t know you, and we’d like to.”

“Because I look like him?” Jack’s eyes had turned more golden and feral than ever, in the weird silver light shimmering on the underside of the clouds. “Don’t try to deceive me. That’s all you see when you look at me, the lot of you. You see him.”

“I can’t lie, you do look very much like him.” Killian was conscious of the need to be exquisitely careful, as if one false step would blow this as sky-high as Flint’s little disaster yesterday. He also knew that Jack was pushing back instinctively against anyone trying to get close, out of fear for what they might do if they did, especially against this family that could take even more from him if they cared to. Worry over Sam junior must also be part of it, no matter how hard Jack wanted to deny it; Killian, after all, likewise had some experience in this department. “It startled us, and if we took you aback by anything we did, we’re sorry. Truly. Even Flint.”

Jack’s mouth twisted. He turned to look at the prow of the Griffin, still plunging dauntlessly through the waves. After a long pause, in a seemingly casual tone, he said, “So you still call him that? Flint. What sort of man is he? Has he ever let that war go?”

“None of us can really ever let something like that go. We’ve all tried, and we’ve all put the past in a locked trunk and tried to keep it there for many years. But you can’t live through something like that, and not have it change you forever. And yet for all his flaws, Flint – James – has been a good husband to Miranda and Thomas, a good father to Emma, a good friend to me, and a loving grandfather to my children, ever since we all found each other again in 1724. He has that anger, he always does, it will never go away or leave him altogether. But he’s fighting for us now, to build something and to protect it, and not merely to burn everything in his path. It may not seem to make such a difference to you, or admittedly to others who cross him. But it is. It does.”

Jack took that in with the same inscrutable expression. “So,” he said, after another pause. “You were Captain Hook.”

“I was, aye. And still am, in ways I might not want, but cannot justly overlook or wish away.”

That was the first thing Killian had said that made him think he might have gotten through to Jack in any capacity. Jack’s look was still guarded, but longer and more curious, as if he had never heard a man admit honestly to wrongdoing and not contort himself to all angles to avoid it. “It can’t have been that bad,” he said abruptly. “If you can say that.”

“It was bad,” Killian said. “I had reasons, I had been betrayed and overthrown by Robert Gold, I had lost my hand and my belief in my brother and everything I thought I knew – but I went far beyond that. I sacked Antigua, burned the Navy ships there, and killed who knows how many sailors, and did the same on Jamaica. I killed men who had served under me for trifling offenses, and I killed men who were just in my way. I ill-dealt Ursula, the daughter of a Maroon chief, and I killed my oldest friend and the man who had been mine and Liam’s mentor in the Navy, James Hawkins, our purser. I had reasons, as I said. I had reasons, in my mind, for everything. I cannot yet say if they were good or bad, for either way, they’ve led me here. But Captain Hook was a monster, and I am the last man who should say differently. I could not have been him forever, and lived, or had a future with Emma and our child, then children. And whether or not you want to hear this, your uncle helped me. Helped me see that, and sort out some way that I might be able to stop. I have never forgotten that, or him.”

Jack looked down at the railing, gripped between his hands. “So you wanted to kill Gold,” he said. “Robert Gold, the same one. Is that so?”

“Aye. I… still do, in a way. Especially since he’s recently revived the business of threatening my family, including Sam. Would I be wrong?”

“No. He…” Jack hesitated. “His friend, Nathaniel Hunt. He was shot as he and Sam were trying to escape from Gold’s house. Sam wants – wanted – wants to kill Gold for it.”

“Nathaniel? That was the boy Matthew told us about, the one who had died in the woods?” Killian felt a pang of grief for his son’s best friend, Sam’s faithful shadow and sidekick from the age of six, the many days Nathaniel had passed at the Swan-Jones house and Sam’s desperate crush on his sister Isabelle. “Jesus. Nathaniel. Jesus Christ. Sam must be furious.”

“He is,” Jack said, very quietly. “Not just at Gold, and I can’t blame him.”

Killian didn’t know what to say, grappling with the heartache, the almost unbearable thought that his son had also had something, someone precious to him taken away by Robert Gold, and fallen into the same black snare of vengeance as a result. He himself would kill Gold a hundred times, a thousand, rather than wanting Sam to do it, to come anywhere close to Hook, his sweet bold adventurous innocent lad, whose pure soul was so unspeakably more precious to Killian than his own worn and grimy one. “I’ll remember that,” he said at last, unsure what he meant by it, but he certainly would. “Christ. We need to find Sam soon. Was he hurt?”

“I…. he…” Jack seemed to weigh his words. “Lady Fiona was trying some mad alchemical ritual on him, so far as I heard. She knocked me out with some poison, I didn’t see for myself. He was hurt a bit, I think, but Billy said he – ”

At that, on the spot, he clammed up, as Killian felt a cold chill slither down his back. “I’m sorry, Billy said what? So you did speak to him? Billy Bones, aye? On the Titania.”

“Briefly.” Jack glanced at the horizon. “I don’t recall it amounted to much.”

Killian did not have the same sense with liars as Emma, but he had certainly been around the block enough to recognize when someone was, if not fibbing outright, certainly withholding large amounts of the truth. “What did you and Billy say to each other?”

“I said. Not much. And even if otherwise – ” Jack paused, then shrugged angrily. “None of your damn business, is it? We both want to get to Sam. Leave it at that.”

Sensing that whatever fragile progress he had made might already be on the rocks, Killian reached out. “Hey. Jack. Jack, easy, all right? I believe you when you say that, I believe you. I just… Billy’s a…. he’s dangerous, and if you did remember anything that – ”

“I said I don’t.” Jack sharply shrugged off his hand. “Thank you for the conversation, Mr. Jones. I think I’ll be off now.”

With that, he left the forecastle rather quickly, moving with long, sharp strides. He was the recipient of more dirty looks from the crew as he passed, which surely did nothing to improve his mood, and Killian stood there with a leaden sensation in his stomach, catching Emma’s worried glance from where she had taken over to assist the helmsman. He smiled reassuringly, which was not altogether how he felt, and went down the steps, once more feeling as if there was a large and angry bear pulling at its chain, and about to, at any moment, potentially break free.

The day passed slowly, at least in terms of time. Matthew was still pushing his crew hard, and the Griffin was making the best speed Killian could imagine possible. Doubtless it was because they had confirmed information of Robert Gold’s whereabouts as a prisoner, even if it did come from a man Matthew clearly hated (and vice versa), as well as a desire to get the pirate family off his ship before this turned into yet another disaster. Killian himself was not quite sure what he thought about the young captain, even as he admired his skill and determination. It was plain that the men did not fear Matthew Rogers merely because his father had been a governor and he had a famous surname; he had earned it on his own merits despite his tender age, and while Killian was aware that he and Flint could not justly censure other men for violence, Matthew had that same unflinchingly cold-blooded streak as his sire. Emma seemed to like him, or at least treat him with something of a soft spot, because she was a good-hearted person and a mother with children about Matthew’s age and had had the best relationship with Eleanor Guthrie, but Killian didn’t think he did. It wasn’t just because of Woodes Rogers, either, the same way that it was more than Sam Bellamy when it came to Jack. Matthew lived in a world where he was praised for the breaking and beating of other men, could exercise that power without check or restraint, and even if violence was not his first choice, he was absolutely remorseless when decided upon it. If I was ever in danger of forgetting what the Navy really was, even if there were a few good men in it, I’m not any more.

It was close to nightfall when Matthew – shirtsleeves rolled up, cravat undone, and sweaty hair straggling out of its queue to stick to the back of his neck – beckoned to Killian, who had taken over for Emma about halfway through the afternoon. “Go get your father-in-law. I want him to double-check the bearings. We had to swing rather dangerously close to Cuba, but there’s a northerly current that should have taken us through the Windward Passage at more than the usual speed. It can’t be more than another few days to Skeleton Island.”

Killian paused, then nodded once, moving off. It occurred to him, rather forebodingly, that the only reason Matthew had not in fact shot Flint earlier could be because they were flying blind without him, and he might have cleverly given not quite the precise coordinates, as it would be entirely in character for Flint to do. He knew full well what sort of reputation he had and still did have with the Navy, and would not have played his valuable hand without leaving a trump card in reserve up his sleeve, in case the mood should turn against him. Flint’s evasiveness on the subject of Skeleton Island overall, and the shadow of what had befallen them – and him – last time, meant that he might do as Matthew asked, or he just as easily might not. And given that this ship was already enough of a tapped powder keg, well…

Killian located Flint (whom Emma had clearly been keeping a casual eye on), brought him up to the deck, and informed him in an undertone what Matthew had asked. Flint strode to the charts spread out by the helm, picked up the quill and did a brief calculation, and set it back down. Then, sensing Matthew watching him, he said only, “We’re getting close, aye.”

“Do you possibly mind elucidating how close, Mr. Flint?” Matthew’s tone was more or less cordial, but danger lurked at the edges. “Do you think, for example, we should reach it tonight, or tomorrow?”

Flint grunted, rather purposefully unhelpfully. After a moment he said, “We’re just west of the Turks. It should be straight north from here. If you sail hard all night and all day, you may have a chance of sighting it late tomorrow.”

“Sail hard.” Matthew glanced around at his exhausted crew. “And do you intend to help us in accomplishing that, or not?”

“What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing?”

“I imagine we would all prefer for me not to answer that question honestly, so I will refrain. You were useful during the battle and with the bearings, I will give you that. But – ”

“You’re the bloody taskmaster, aren’t you? Since when do you care if your men are tired or not? Whip them some more, like mules. That always seems to work for the Navy, doesn’t it?”

As this was on the verge of going downhill, Killian took a step. “Mate.”

Flint and Matthew were still too busy staring at each other to pay any attention to him. After a moment, however, Matthew looked away, breaking the standoff. “Very well. Sailing hard it is. Lieutenant Jones, could you please arrange for the men to have proper rotations of work and sleep for the next twenty-four hours? It will be a labor of Hercules, but we cannot avoid that.”

Hearing his old title spoken aloud, for what must be the first time since he’d abandoned it, gave Killian the strangest sense of unreality yet. Still, he nodded. “Aye, I can manage that.”

Matthew nodded to him in return and departed, sandy-brown hair blowing in his face. Killian watched him go, then turned back to Flint. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Be careful around Jack, all right? I don’t know exactly what, but Emma and I both have a feeling that he has a particular bone to pick with you. He let slip that he spoke to Billy, on the Titania, and he wouldn’t say what.”

Flint looked back at him coolly. “Is this not the part where you note that most men have a particular bone to pick with me? Jack’s perfectly bloody welcome to keep himself to himself, I couldn’t care less. He looks like – like Sam, but that’s as far as it goes.”

Killian heard the pain in Flint’s attempted flippancy, the hurt and the loss he still would not fully allow himself to feel, that it was easier to be dismissive rather than hope for anything and be disappointed. Knowing that Flint wanted his next question about as much as he wanted to dive headfirst into a thicket of brambles, especially after this, he nonetheless could not be sure that he would get another chance to ask it. “What happened on Skeleton Island? You don’t need to tell me all the details, since I don’t imagine you will. But I wasn’t there last time, I’ve never been. It was you and Emma. Woodes Rogers pursued you there and killed Blackbeard, there was a battle, the Walrus was destroyed and the treasure lost, something happened with Silver, you were marooned there for about a year, and finally rescued by Nemo and taken to Philadelphia. I can understand not wanting to return to some godforsaken remote island where you were stranded in the wilderness for months, but I think it’s more than that. Our entire family’s safety is riding on this, James. You need to tell me anything that can help us save them.”

Flint considered him for a long, fraught moment. “You seem to know the broad strokes,” he said. “Is that not enough?”

“I don’t know. You tell me. Do you think if we return there now, with the possibility of coming across Billy Bones and John Silver, there’s nothing else that matters?”

Flint flinched, almost imperceptibly, and turned away, rubbing a hand over his ginger-white beard. “I died there,” he said, when Killian thought he wasn’t going to answer. “In all ways that mattered, all ways but one. And as Silver said, I did not go there caring who, if anyone, died with me. He and Emma were saved because he found a way to bring the Rose over to our side, one of his clever tricks, as ever. His escape hatch, his contingency plan, not mine. When I made my way off that island, when I went out to sea, I had no way of knowing if I’d be picked up by a ship or not, or if I wanted to return to the world even if I was. I was only Odysseus setting off to an Ithaca burned to the ground long ago, and doubting he had any strength to rebuild it.”

“But you were,” Killian said. “You did. Nemo found you, you made your way back to Miranda and Thomas, the great loves of your life, and in time, to us as well. You rebuilt everything from the ashes. Skeleton Island was not the end.”

“No,” Flint agreed, after another slight pause. “No, I suppose it was as much a beginning as an end, a birth as much as a death. But I cannot be comfortable with returning.”

“I don’t blame you for that, mate. It’s never an easy thing to stare one’s own mortality in the face like that. I even know why you’ve been pushing Matthew as hard as you have – because you recognize that small bit of Lieutenant McGraw in him, and you are determined that he learn, as you did, how wrong he is about the world. But keep… everything in mind, eh?”

Flint hesitated one more time, then nodded, as if not quite trusting himself to speak. He clapped Killian on the shoulder, with real and deep affection, and headed below.

It was another mostly sleepless night. Flint, Liam, Killian, and Emma all worked shifts with the crew, so it would not seem as if they were sitting pretty and expecting the Griffin to do all the backbreaking work for them, and even Jack was to be observed pulling tackles and climbing shrouds. A few times, some of the men thought they had spotted another ship, somewhere in the dark distant horizon behind them, but it was still foggy and uncertain, and no matter how much they searched with the spyglass, they couldn’t pick out anything that wasn’t just floating cloud. Nonetheless, this phantom sense of a pursuer goaded at their heels still harder, spurring them on to more speed. Killian was not sure he had ever been more tired in his fifty-three years of life, but they couldn’t stop. Not when they were finally so close, so close.

Dawn broke still sullen, though with hot red streaks in the east like an infected wound. On Flint’s terse instructions, they veered slightly in that direction, and sailed until almost midday, by which time almost the entire ship was on the point of collapse, rest shifts or no rest shifts. They simply had to slow down, allow the crew to sleep at longer intervals, and Killian found himself thinking more fondly of Matthew than he had done yet, as the captain efficiently divided the men into the few who could manage a shorthanded run and allowed the rest to go below. Then he leaned against the mainmast, eyes closed, looking as if he would very much like to slide down it in a heap, but not letting himself. No matter his true motives, it had been a yeoman’s effort, and Killian awkwardly cleared his throat. “Hey. You should sleep too. I can look after her.”

Matthew cracked one eye to regard him wryly, as just a week or so ago, it would have been quite unthinkable that he retire and leave his ship in the hands (or rather, hand) of a pirate. “And you can go so long without sleep yourself, Mr. Jones?”

“It’s my son out there,” Killian said. “And it might be my daughter as well. I think I’d likely discover that I could do anything.”

Matthew tried to muffle a jaw-cracking yawn. “I daresay you would. You and the rest of your confounded family. Samuel is – is lucky. To have a father like you.”

That caught Killian oddly in the heart, even (or perhaps especially) coming from the son of a man who had been their mortal enemy the last time they were coming this way, not their confused and uncertain ally. He almost wanted to come up with some good memory of Woodes Rogers, perhaps some conversation they had had at a supper party in Bristol, though in truth he couldn’t remember if they had spoken personally at all, or what they would have said. Something mundane, no doubt, about taxes and port tariffs and shipping concerns, or wherever the Imperator was destined next. Lieutenant Jones’ life, through a glass darkly.

“Thank you,” Killian said instead, simply. “If it matters, I think yours would be proud of you.”

Matthew opened his mouth, then shut it. Perhaps it was just the sheer, bone-bending exhaustion, but the not-quite-twenty-four-year-old man looked very much like a boy who had hungered his whole life to hear that, and he knuckled his hand roughly across his eyes, quickly discovering that he had to cough, as Killian considerately looked away. Then he pulled himself together enough to nod. “I think I will lie down a bit, yes. Good day, sir.”

Killian nodded, and then since the captain had retired and there was no other ranking officer left, sat down in the coils of rope by the mast, where he could be awoken quickly in an emergency. He was so tired that he was seeing double, and thus he could have been lying on a bed of nails or stinging nettles and still gone to sleep, which he did. He dropped under swiftly and completely dreamlessly, and felt like he’d been clubbed when he stirred, some unknown interval of time later, to someone shaking his shoulder. “Whazit?” he said muzzily. “Someone attackin’ us?”

“No. Mr. – Lieutenant Jones, we – is that it?”

Killian peeled his gritty eyes open and pushed himself unsteadily upright, trying to look more compos mentis than he felt in the least degree. The shadows were getting long, and somewhere in the low-lying clouds ahead, he could see something that might just be the pyramid of a mountainous island. A jolt of shock went through him. “I can’t say for sure, I’ve never been there, but if we’re on course – hold steady. I’ll go wake the others.”

The ship began to rouse from its communal stupor, filtering on deck with a tense, abstracted air like the calm before a storm. Killian was deeply relieved to see that Jack and Flint had managed not to kill each other yet, their respective wives holding firmly to their arms nonetheless. They were still at least an hour out, but Flint said that they were in the right place, and from here on, should proceed very carefully. Any one or several of their enemies could have beaten them here and set up a fortress in the eye of the skull, the one where the Walrus had been taken by surprise (Flint avoided, for once, reminding everyone who had surprised it) and the battle fought. The eye was reached via a long channel between steep headlands: one way in, and one way out. If they were sailing in with someone else already established at the end, they would be in range as long as they were in sight, and couldn’t return fire except with the long nines, as their opponent would be directly in front of them and could have come about in order to bombard them broadside. It could turn into a deathtrap in an instant.

Nobody could doubt Flint’s extensive knowledge of the place, not even Matthew, and he ordered the lamps doused and the colors struck, to remove as many visible signs of their approach or allegiance as he could. The long nines were loaded, just in case, with several backup stores of powder and shot brought up and stashed for safekeeping, and Killian found himself standing next to Jack, both of them staring at the distant green-black shadow of Skeleton Island as if their lives depended on it. “Hey,” he said. “We’re here. If Sam is anywhere nearby, we’ll find him.”

Jack grunted, though for once, he did not have something sharp to say. He tried to look away, as if this was a matter of only mild concern for him, but did not quite pull it off. “Probably in all the bloody trouble he can possibly manage. Must be a complete headache actually living with him.”

“In some ways, yes, but we get by.” Killian paused. “You know, if you and Charlotte and Cecilia want to, you’re welcome to come home to Savannah with us. If you want to stay in Philadelphia, of course we’d understand, but… the offer’s on the table.”

Jack glanced briefly at him, then away, with almost the exact same reticence as Flint: refusing to snatch for something too badly wanted to ever believe in. “We’re not friends, none of us. Is this some other pitying offer because you want to make up what happened to my – ”

“This isn’t about your uncle, lad, all right? It’s for you, and whatever future you and your family would like to have. If I don’t much miss my guess, you might not mind seeing my son again, either. It’s all right. I never believed in my chance either. But it was there, and I had it, and… I just don’t want to see you miss yours.”

“I can’t,” Jack said, half strangled. “I can’t do that. I – not before I kill my… not before…”

“Vengeance, you mean? You can’t live until you have it?” Killian turned imploringly to him. “Lad, trust me, I know exactly how you feel. Exactly. But the question comes down to whether it will be your vengeance or your life, and I think…” He hesitated. “You know, nobody liked Jonathan Howe very much, did they? Could be he’s dead anyway.”

Jack turned very sharply. “How the fuck did you know who my – who he is?”

“I knew him in my Navy days,” Killian said, which was, after all, not a lie – it was where he had first met Howe, though it didn’t explain how he knew that he was Jack’s father. “And Charlotte and I had a conversation, she – she confirmed your father’s name, so – ”

“What else do you know about Howe? Do you know where to find him?”

“He could be – look, as I said, it’s been a while, anything could have – ”

“What, you think I’ll be content just assuming that monster could have tripped on a paving stone and broken his neck one day?” Jack let out a scathingly bitter laugh. “Here I was thinking you did understand, Hook! I can’t, I can’t stop, not until he’s – ”

“He’s dead.” God have mercy on his soul, but Killian could not look into those eyes – the boy’s eyes, the angry, wounded ghost of his younger self in bondage and Sam Bellamy alike – and lie to him one more instant. “Jonathan Howe is dead, Jack. He’s been dead for a few years. You aren’t going to be able to kill him, because he’s dead. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Jack went completely still, so much that Killian could almost see the air moving around him, as if in the void, the darkness on the face of the deep before the moment of Creation. For the first time, he was almost afraid of the younger man, or rather what might be going on inside him, as he knew that surrender to utmost and drowning darkness all too well. “Jack, listen, it’s not – ”

Jack’s head came up with a snap. “How do you know that?” His voice was ice and fire alike, withering as a winter dragon. “How do you know?”

“I – look, someone killed him, it’s complicated, you have to – ”

“HOW DO YOU KNOW?”

Jack’s roar turned heads, cutting off low murmurs of conversation, and a ghastly silence fell. He stood there, fists clenched, eyes almost completely black, as a palpable chill swept the deck. Killian reached out for him, but Jack recoiled, slapping his hand away. “WHAT HAPPENED TO HOWE?”

Over Jack’s shoulder, Killian saw Charlotte go dead white. She looked at him frantically, and he could think of nothing to defend himself, not when he had done the exact thing she had asked him not to. Charlotte could have shouted at him then, or tried to blame him for breaking his promise, but instead she took half a step, then another, toward her incandescently furious husband. “I…” Her voice, by comparison, was a breathy, terrified squeak. “Jack, I… Jack, I was going to tell you, I swear I was going to tell you, I just…”

“What did you do? What did you do?”

“I…” Charlotte shrank visibly in her skin, as it seemed to take all her effort and strength of will to meet those demonic eyes. “Jack, I killed him. Before we left London. I didn’t want – I didn’t dare risk him following us. I – I didn’t tell you, I know it wasn’t fair, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I thought that if I had done your vengeance, you could… I just needed – I was afraid that then you might not… with Alix…”

Jack stared back at her, motionless as a statue. The crew had hastily retreated to every side, leaving them facing each other, some of the men averting their eyes and others with gazes fixed – the Bells’ most private betrayal played out before a public court of their enemies. It would take a heart of stone not to feel terrible for them, and Killian was sick at the part he himself had played in it – and yet, was utterly unable to do any differently. The silence felt as if a single spark would ignite the explosion. Then Jack said, barely above a whisper, “I trusted you.”

“Jack – ” Charlotte’s eyes were flooding with tears. “Jack, I – ”

“I trusted you!” It was a raw shout this time, ringing with agonized fury. “I trusted you, you were the first person who was truly my family, who I thought cared about me, wanted the best for me – but you just wanted my rage, didn’t you? Just saw me as the only useful soldier you had to hand! Thought I wouldn’t keep my promises, that I wouldn’t – I promised! What did you think vows were, what they meant, when it was the two of us now and it had only ever been one? I meant it with every bit of me! I would have helped you, I would have walked through hell for you, I would have done anything for you! Jesus Christ, Charlotte! Jesus – Christ!”

“Please,” Charlotte begged, voice breaking in earnest. “Please. Let me help you, let me make it up. Jack, please. What can I do – please, tell me what to do. Please.”

Jack didn’t answer, every inch of him strung too tightly to hold. Everything seemed to teeter on the edge of an impossible abyss. And then, just then, was when James Flint stepped forward. “Jack,” he said. “Jack, don’t – ”

Whether this was, Jack, don’t listen to her, or Jack, don’t do this, or Jack, don’t – something else entirely, they didn’t find out. That, somehow, was what snapped Jack out of his frozen state, and he whirled around and punched Flint in the face, hard enough to hear bones crack, blood flashing dark in the only deck lantern left alight. Flint had taken enough punches in his time not to go down on first hit, and swung out reflexively, but while he was a very accomplished brawler for his age, this was different from surprising Lieutenant Warwick with his back turned. Jack took Flint’s blow full-on, in the chest, but he barely even seemed to feel it, much less for it to make any difference. He punched Flint again, perhaps sheerly for the need to have someone to hit, and then lunged for the pistol that the still-infirm Mr. Sherwood’s superior, the gunner, was wearing at his waist. He got hold of it, yanked it free, and there was a scramble for cover as Jack pointed it wildly in every direction. “You all stay away from me!”

Miranda screamed, a terrible sound, as if thinking she was about to witness her husband being shot by the ghost of her dead love, but Jack didn’t pull the trigger. He grabbed Flint ferociously around the neck instead, Flint struggled, and Jack punched him a third time, even harder, as Flint staggered and grunted in pain. With the gun still in his free hand, he dragged Flint bodily across the deck – no mean feat – and toward the Griffin’s longboat, where he flung them both in. “Anyone takes a step,” Jack said, “one step, or tries anything else, I swear to fucking Jesus I will shoot him right here. Now lower it.”

Nobody moved.

“LOWER IT!”

The men exchanged half an intimidated glance, and after the briefest abbreviation of a nod from Matthew, did as ordered, hauling on the hoist. The longboat swung out over the dark water, Jack still with one arm around Flint’s neck and the gun at his temple, until they splashed down. Then he pulled the ropes free, forced Flint to sit across from him with a brusque jab of the gun, and slid the oars into the locks. Seeing the faces still gaping down at him in blanched, numb silence, Jack shouted, “We’re going to Skeleton Island. We have a little errand to run. I don’t advise interfering.”

With that, he pointed the gun back at Flint – who, after a terrible pause, picked up the oars and with no other choice, started to row. The longboat sculled swiftly away from the Griffin, and before much longer, vanished without a trace into the falling night.

#captain swan #cs ff #cs au #cs next gen #the rose and thorn #treasure island #black sails

10 notes · View notes