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The plume of smoke on the horizon is only visible from Elizabeth’s perch on the Rook. Two thin pillars rise to pierce the sky, and with it, the sanctity of her haven. They bring the dreaded, if not surprising, news that the raiders have set their sights upon Tortuga.
Long has she anticipated this breach. Elizabeth had been foolish enough to hope that misfortune would turn a blind eye to her after so long as its primary victim. She collapses her spyglass and tucks it into the pocket of her skirts, then closes her eyes, indulging in a rare moment of self-pity.
She has spent ten years cultivating her life and livelihood on Tortuga. It balances carefully upon a knife-edge of intrigue, all within the shadow of the law, and it shall be unmade by unidentified villains. For she had learned nothing of these new assailants in the weeks of these attacks: their ship flies no flags, the men are indistinguishable from casual sailors. They have issued no demands, nor claimed any notoriety. They have simply attacked, moving north around the western lip of Haiti towards her harbor.
That, in the end, is the main flaw in her information network. Her business is its own web of security, a bulwark—only for creatures already caught within it. An outsider may dismantle it without knowing it exists.
If Elizabeth squints, she can see the smoke with her naked eye, which means it will be visible from the harbor once the mists from the afternoon rain fully fade. Her curfews and blackouts had not deterred the raiders from Tortuga’s shores, and now she must act swiftly. She hates this feeling, of waiting to react. If she simply knew what they wanted, they could both sidestep this agonizing anticipation. There is nothing for it now, no use for regret: she can only pray her preparations are enough.
Birds scatter from the trees lining the shore. Elizabeth follows their lead and descends the ladder, keeping her breathing steady to dispel the cold terror trawling through her veins.
Elizabeth steps into the familiar common room of the Rook & Shrike, her inn, the heart of her network. Even today, with the island as deserted as it is, it still murmurs with energetic conversation. Anywhere else it would be too early to drink—but this is Tortuga. Drinking sets tongues to wagging and puts pennies in Elizabeth’s pocket, so she issues no restrictions.
The dwindling patronage does not dampen the cheer. She lingers a moment in the hall, planning her next moves, and is torn from her thoughts as a voice calls, “Madame Rook!”
Automatically Elizabeth pastes on her hostess’ smile and steps from the shadows. Henri lifts his goblet—wine, his poison of choice—and beckons her to join him.
“Good morning,” she greets amiably, with an acknowledging nod to his company. They are all merchants from the harbor, and they return her nod or raise their glasses in greeting. To them she is merely Mrs. Rook, the wife and would-be widow of the inn’s imaginary, long-missing proprietor. She is no object of interest nor a threat. “I hate to interrupt, gentlemen, but there is business to attend. Henri, would you walk with me to the harbor?”
He blinks in bemusement, but says only, “Of course!”
Henri downs the rest of his wine in one gulp. It will hardly phase him—he is far too bulky to be affected by a glass of anything less than unwatered rum—so Elizabeth does not flinch. Everything he does is capped by the proverbial exclamation points so evident in his jovial speech, obvious in both English and French.
Henri takes her arm as they step out of the Rook into the afternoon sun. Elizabeth glances at the quarters attached to the inn. Through the light curtains she can see her father’s silhouette moving around in the sitting room, no doubt settling into his favorite chair to read. Good. His routine is unaltered, so he must not be worried. That is one less burden on her conscience.
As they walk down the hill towards the harbor, Henri chats enough to fill the silence Elizabeth leaves. The town is empty, and the few residents who remain gather at the harbor, murmuring to one another in grave undertones.
The enemy ship has swung nearer. This close to the water, the low boom of cannons is audible. Elizabeth feels each one in her chest, close to her heart, blocking her throat. She remains calm more from smothering anxiety than anything else, and advances past Henri in sudden swift strides, touching the arm of an agent lingering at the edges of the crowd to get his attention.
“What have you seen, Bosco?” she asks quietly. “Or, rather—what have you heard?”
Bosco gestures to her schooner Wayfarer, anchored at her pier; every seaman is in the tops, squinting towards the smoke. “A British merchant went down just past the reefs,” Bosco says, low. “Raiders caught them unawares, and pick over the cargo now. It must’ve been a wealthy one, else they would have scarpered long ago.”
Elizabeth hums as she glances towards the smoke, fiddling with the lace of her sleeve; she can imagine the carnage even though she cannot see it. “Survivors?”
“Plenty; some of the folk aboard can swim, poor souls. Won’t last long.”
“Then we must go out there.”
Bosco says nothing, tugging his hood over his face, but he does not need to voice his uncertainty. Elizabeth turns from him decisively and marches down the pier; the residents of Tortuga part before her, and Henri trots after her.
“Madame Rook,” he says, when they are down the pier and in further privacy.
“Henri?”
“Perhaps it is best if we go out, and you—"
Elizabeth turns on him, and Henri stops short, holding his hands palm up.
“And you,” he says, smiling wryly, “may command us from the front of battle.”
“I believe I will,” she says, and approaches the Wayfarer.
She climbs up the side and accepts her helmsman’s hand over the last rung onto the deck. Anamaria is the last person on deck; all other sailors are still watching the situation from the yards, calling updates down.
“You took your time, Lady,” Anamaria says by way of greeting.
Elizabeth snorts. “We can’t hear the cannons up at the Rook. Are all your men aboard?”
“Aye.”
Elizabeth nods and considers; the Wayfarer has only four guns, but they are four guns more than the merchant vessel has now. If the raiders are as flighty as she assumes, her handful of deckhands will be more than enough to scare them off.
“Beat to quarters, then,” she says, in a tone prompt and businesslike and void of the passion such an order entails.
“Beat to quarters!” Anamaria roars more appropriately, and the sailors scuttle down the yards to the deck with the embarrassed alacrity of children caught out past curfew.
Elizabeth steps down into her quarters as the crew stampedes across the deck in their preparations for departure and battle. Her hands hesitate over her sword, and she opts instead for a dirk hidden among her skirts. She undoes her cap and unpins the braid coiled at the crown of her head, releasing that pressure with a sigh; she will need to be thinking clearly.
The ship groans beneath her, then gives a lurch as the sails catch the wind. The Wayfarer cuts smoothly through shallow waters of all kinds, but always struggles leaving the harbor. Elizabeth quietly urges her on as she returns to the flurry of the deck.
The Wayfarer descends upon the black raider ship, trapping it between the wreckage of the merchant and the fury of her guns. The merchant must have been heavy, and incredibly unfortunate, for the raiders had managed to knock two of the masts down. The weight of the rigging drags the ship to the depths, her hull torn open by subsequent broadsides.
Elizabeth watches from the helm beside Anamaria, her face grim, even as the Wayfarer’s crew cheers with every successful hit. Shortly, the pirates begin to beat a hasty retreat, clearly having expected no serious opposition. Their sails unfurl, sun-stained black cloth catching the agreeable wind with eagerness.
The battle is—to Elizabeth’s relief—just as short as she predicted, and deeply anticlimactic. She has half a mind to send the Wayfarer in pursuit, to chase the raiders away once and for all, but she would stand no chance in an earnest gunfight against a fully-armed pirate ship. Best to pepper them from afar.
“Cowards,” Anamaria mutters. She taps the wheel with impatience.
It takes Elizabeth a beat to understand at whom the insult is directed. “Cowards,” she agrees. “Do you need me here? I will go out with the rescuers.”
Anamaria waves a hand, and nigh immediately forgets Elizabeth is even there, for she calls abruptly to the man at the swivel, “Don’t you dare let them get away clean!”
Elizabeth trots down to the deck. One longboat has already launched; she climbs in the second one with Henri at the other set of oars, and the crew lowers them down into the tumultuous waters with playful salutes.
The Wayfarer continues to harry the raiders while the longboats circle the wreckage, heading for the ripples in the foam that indicate the splashing of survivors. Elizabeth tosses a rope to haul a mother and her daughter aboard. They are strong swimmers and manage to stay above the surface even with the weight of their waterlogged dresses. Henri hoists them the difficult last stretch into the boat, setting them down gently.
“Thank you, sir, miss,” the daughter manages to say through chattering teeth.
“Please, save your strength,” Elizabeth says kindly. “We’ll have you on our ship shortly; you’ll be along for the rest of our fishing trip, I fear.”
The daughter’s eyes widen, and she leans back against her mother. Elizabeth withholds a sigh; for all the pains she had taken to live an inconspicuous life since her exile, she never managed to change her accent, which still marks her as one of London’s upper crust.
“Forgive my rudeness. I am Mrs. Rook; it is a pleasure,” Elizabeth says, and bows from the shoulders in lieu of a full curtsy. She picks up the oars again and rows with Henri as further introductions are made.
They are Mrs. Kendall and her daughter, Miss Anne. Anne has recovered more wits about her than her mother, and answers Elizabeth’s gentle questions with clearness of mind even as her voice trembles. The merchant was bound for Kingston. The captain was killed by a remarkably precise cannonball in the first attack, and the ship descended into chaos afterward.
Mrs. Kendall perches at the edge of her bench and wrings out her skirts over the side of the boat, too scattered to care about how it may look—Tortuga tends to cause such lapses in propriety. She watches the water with great anxiety, barely listening to Anne’s tale, and turns only when she hears the conversation lull. “Please, we were traveling with my husband,” she says urgently. Her hands wring her skirts particularly tight. “Have you seen him? He was below decks when the captain died, he could be anywhere here.”
“We’ll do all we can to find him,” Elizabeth says as gently as she can. “Tell me, did you see anything the raiders—"
Her oar strikes something hard. She glances over—and sees the head of the man she struck sinking into the water. She releases her oar with a gasp and immediately lurches over the wale, grabbing onto his collar with both hands before he can sink entirely.
“Henri,” she cries, “please!”
The Kendalls shift back to keep the boat balanced as Henri leaps over. He sinks his arms into the water almost to the shoulders to get a good grip on the man, but he manages to haul him aboard before the boat can rock too erratically. He deposits his catch in the bottom of the boat along with a fresh deluge of water.
The man gives a rattling cough and pulls his silly long limbs in tight, but he must lie between conscious states, for he does not rouse further. Elizabeth leans over him, checking the top of his head for blood. There is a bump, but he is not bleeding, thank God. With a sigh, she leans back to catch her breath, and sees his face properly.
In profile, the square angle of his jaw, the sharp line of his nose, belie the delicate features of the face in portrait. His dark hair is lined with gray now, yet he looks remarkably young and unburdened with his eyes closed and brow relaxed, undone as he never had the luxury to be in their acquaintance.
Elizabeth knows him instantly. There is no mistaking him. Yet her internal sense of logic rejects it, unable to rationalize his identity with one important question.
What on Earth has brought James Norrington back to the Caribbean?
“That’s not Georgie,” Mrs. Kendall says. She looks fretfully to Elizabeth. “Oh, Lord, where could he be?”
“Our other rescue boat may have found him,” Elizabeth says quickly. “We shall see shortly. Do you know who this man is? Another woman’s husband, perhaps?”
Mrs. Kendall blinks away her tears and examines James with fleeting concern. “Rather quiet fellow, wasn’t he? Always polite at supper,” she says.
“We spoke a few times. He was very agreeable, a gentleman of some sort,” Anne offers. She examines him with a frown. “He was traveling alone. I don’t recall his name, I fear.”
No matter, Elizabeth thinks dully. She glances James over. Sodden as he is, no weapons are evident on his person, and his hands are barren of any rings. She sits back on her bench at last, perturbed, and looks up to find Henri watching her with a frown.
“We should move,” she says swiftly. “We must get you all warm before you take ill.”
Elizabeth retrieves her oars with some embarrassment, and they row for the Wayfarer. She keeps her eyes anywhere but James.
They return after the first longboat; the deck is strewn with soggy survivors, huddled miserably in small groups for warmth. Elizabeth sends the longboats out for another sweep of the wreckage and gathers Henri and Anamaria to her.
“Get them into the sun, and make for Tortuga,” she tells her lieutenants. “I have extra blankets in my cabin, though I’m not sure it will be enough. There were many passengers.”
And they all look equally wretched, sprawled in various states of agitation across the deck. They begin to congregate—Elizabeth is relieved to see the Kendalls being hugged tightly by a sodden man who must be the missing Georgie—and urge their fellow victims into sunny patches to dry.
“We have extra sailcloth. That might work,” Anamaria notes, practical as ever.
“Send someone for those, too. Henri—get the survivors comfortable, and see if you can’t find out anything more about our assailants?”
“Of course, madame.”
They set off to their duties. The deck of the Wayfarer is not long, but Elizabeth uses the brief walk to her cabin to sort her thoughts.
She checks the Navy List when she can escape to the mainland, and knows that James still holds the rank of commodore. He must not be here on assignment, else he would not have risked the journey alone, let alone aboard a civilian vessel. No, Elizabeth can all but guarantee the military is not involved. James would never agree to such a clandestine, dangerous, volatile scheme: if he was here on a mission to root out wrongdoing in Tortuga, he would come as himself, with all the firepower to his title. There is no reason not to.
But then—
Ten years ago, on Isla Cruces, James returned to his place in society through guile. He outwitted Jack Sparrow. He outwitted them all, and left her to her fate. Elizabeth pauses over her cedar chest, staring out at the water from the windows of her cabin. She could not afford to forget that.
She allows herself a moment of vanity: is it possible he is here for her? Had word of her deeds in exile reached him all the way in London? Could Providence really be so cruel as to put them on the same path for any other reason?
She grunts as she hauls up a stack of blankets, gathering them in her arms. Paranoia is just as blinding as incaution to a rational mind. She tucks these thoughts aside for later consideration. James was an old friend, a scarce commodity in these waters; she owes him a conversation, at the least.
Henri takes her burden as she emerges back on deck. Together they distribute the blankets as the Wayfarer circles back to Tortuga. Elizabeth does not purposefully avoid her most peculiar passenger, of course not—but still she circles around to address him last.
On the forecastle, James is coughing up water, balancing on trembling forearms. Elizabeth hesitates, then crouches to drape a blanket over his shoulders. He attempts to turn over and she aids him with a hand on his forearm, another on his back. She is reminded distinctly of when she pulled him from the pigpen, not three miles from where they float now, only now he trembles not from drink and desperation, but from exhaustion and cold.
Elizabeth holds her breath as his eyes find hers. Of every feeling, she is baffled to find that it is indignation dominating her heart at this moment. Who is he, one who fled so long ago, to tread upon her peace?
Her father would urge trust, forgiveness, but it was not trust and forgiveness that had saved her—it was not trust and forgiveness that kept her fed and sheltered—it was not trust and forgiveness that built her safeguards, so she might build a new life, and not simply survive to have one.
But James squints at the sun behind her, and says in a hoarse, soft voice, “Elizabeth?”
She expected him to be cold and formal, as he so often was when uncertain in the past—but to hear her Christian name, as only her father has called her for her decade of exile, disarms her utterly. The heat ebbs from her chest and leaves in its wake an ache she hesitates to name.
She retreats from the feeling like a startled animal and steadies herself in the familiar, the present: she is the hostess, the innkeeper, the intelligencer, and she greets him as such.
“James Norrington,” she says lightly. “Why is it that I always find you in the worst places?” Her smile is to put him at ease, but it provides more relief to herself than she intends.
James’ brow slackens, his confusion ceding to his familiar wry humor. “Bad luck. God knows I bear misfortune like a curse.”
He attempts to turn onto his back again, and coughs in the effort. She pats him between the shoulder blades.
“Come,” she bids him, and offers her hand. “I’ve brandy in the back.”