Chapter 7: The Woman Scorned
The morning sun hit Tortuga like a hammer.
I'd spent a restless night on the tavern floor, surrounded by snoring pirates and the lingering tension from Anamaria's arrival. She'd stayed, occupying a table like a fortress, refusing drink or food, just waiting. Watching the door with eyes that promised violence.
Jack hadn't shown.
Now we gathered at the docks—fifteen crew members, bleary-eyed and hungover, preparing a vessel I hadn't seen before. A sloop, decent-sized, clearly borrowed or stolen. Gibbs directed the loading with practiced efficiency while I hauled crates and tried to look useful.
The pull in my chest pointed toward the harbor's far end. Jack was close. Getting closer.
"He's coming," someone muttered.
I looked up. Captain Jack Sparrow approached with that distinctive swagger, completely unconcerned by the woman standing directly in his path. Anamaria had positioned herself between him and the gangplank like a wall of barely contained fury.
Jack's steps slowed. His expression shifted from theatrical cheerfulness to resigned acceptance.
"Anamaria. Lovely to see you. You're looking particularly—"
The slap echoed across the harbor.
A few gulls scattered. The loading stopped. Every eye turned to watch.
Jack's head had snapped sideways from the force of it. When he turned back, there was a red handprint blooming on his cheek, but his expression held no surprise. Just weary acknowledgment.
"I suppose I deserved that."
"You stole my boat." Her voice could have cut rope. "The Jolly Mon. My father's boat. My inheritance. My only way out of this godforsaken island."
"Stole is such a strong word—"
"What word would you prefer?"
"Borrowed. Commandeered. Temporarily requisitioned for purposes of maritime adventure." Jack's hands moved in elaborate patterns, as if sculpting excuses from the air. "And if you'll recall, I did leave a note."
"The note said 'Sorry about the boat. — J.'"
"Which was more than most pirates would offer, I feel compelled to point out."
Anamaria's hand rose again. Jack flinched but didn't step back.
"I want my boat."
"Ah." Jack held up one finger. "Well, you see, the thing about your boat—and it pains me greatly to inform you of this—is that it's currently at the bottom of a harbor. Somewhere. Possibly the Atlantic. Hard to say, really, given the circumstances of its... sinking."
The murder in her eyes intensified.
"However," Jack continued quickly, "I am in a position to offer you something significantly better. A ship, in fact. A proper vessel. The finest in the Caribbean, once we acquire it."
"Acquire."
"Steal." Jack's grin was unrepentant. "From the Royal Navy. Interested?"
I watched the calculation happen in Anamaria's eyes. Anger warring with opportunity. Pride against practicality.
"What ship?"
"The Interceptor. Fastest vessel in His Majesty's fleet." Jack leaned in conspiratorially. "And she'll be yours. Captain of your own ship. Assuming, of course, you help with the acquiring."
A long moment passed.
"If you're lying to me, Sparrow, I'll kill you myself."
"Wouldn't dream of it." Jack gestured toward the sloop. "Shall we? Port Royal awaits."
Anamaria turned and strode toward the gangplank. The crew parted before her like the Red Sea, nobody willing to stand in her path. As she passed me, she paused.
Caught me staring.
I'd been watching her—the controlled power in her movements, the competence radiating from every gesture. She was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with weapons.
She raised an eyebrow. A challenge.
I nodded respect. No words needed.
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe—before she moved on.
[ANAMARIA]
The new one watched her. Not the way most men watched—not with hunger or dismissal. With something like assessment. Like he was reading her the way she read the wind.
Strange eyes, that one had. Too old for his face. Too knowing.
She filed him away for later consideration and focused on not killing Jack Sparrow before they reached Port Royal.
We set sail within the hour.
The sloop cut through Caribbean waters while I worked the lines alongside the crew. My hands remembered some of this from research—from books about sailing ships, from documentaries about the Age of Sail. But theory wasn't practice.
Anamaria noticed immediately.
"Not like that." She appeared beside me, grabbing the rope from my hands. "You sail like a merchant, not a pirate. Watch."
Her fingers moved with practiced ease, showing a knot that would hold under strain but release with a single pull.
"Merchants tie for port. Pirates tie for escape. Learn the difference or you'll die stupid."
"Yes, ma'am."
She snorted. "Don't 'ma'am' me. Just don't be useless."
She moved on to correct someone else's work, leaving me with a properly tied line and a reluctant flicker of admiration.
Hours later, my stomach reminded me I hadn't eaten since the previous evening. I found hardtack in the provisions—a brick of something that might generously be called food—and bit into it.
Pain shot through my jaw.
"You'll break your teeth like that."
Anamaria again. She held out a cup of rum.
"Soak it first. Just a few minutes." She demonstrated, dropping a piece of hardtack into her own cup. "Softens enough to chew. Otherwise it's like eating barnacles."
I followed her example. The rum-softened hardtack was still awful, but at least it was edible.
"Thank you."
She shrugged. "Can't work rigging with a broken jaw."
But there was something almost kind in her efficiency. A crack in the fierce exterior.
We sailed for three days.
Port Royal grew on the horizon like a threat—white buildings, stone fortifications, British flags snapping in the wind. The heart of naval power in the Caribbean.
And we were going to steal one of their ships.
Jack gathered the crew at dawn.
"Right then. The plan." He produced a stained map of the harbor, spreading it across a barrel. "The Interceptor is moored here. The Dauntless—bigger, slower, bristling with guns—is moored here. Our objective is the Interceptor. Our method is... creative."
He explained a scheme so convoluted I almost admired it. Distraction teams. False signals. A commandeering of the Dauntless followed by a theatrical swing to the Interceptor. Classic misdirection.
And I recognized it.
The movie. This is from the movie.
The scenes were fuzzy—fragments and impressions rather than clear memory—but I knew this sequence. Jack would steal the Interceptor with Will Turner's help. The crew would provide the chaos.
I positioned myself accordingly. Near the loading dock, where I could support without being central.
"You." Jack's voice cut through my planning. "New man. Micke, was it?"
My pull toward him pulsed. "Yes, Captain."
"Stay close to the crew. You look like you might be useful in a crisis." Those sharp eyes studied me. "Or terrible. Hard to tell. Either way, should be entertaining."
He sauntered off to finalize details.
As I watched Port Royal grow closer, I felt the weight of foreknowledge settling on my shoulders.
I know how this goes. I know what happens next.
The question was whether that knowledge would help or doom me.
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