Jack Rackham

a sea-change

Into something rich and strange

The crew tosses smoke shells over into Rogers' ship as they climb up the side, and Jack has a moment to see Anne standing on the railing before she steps down into the growing cloud. His hands twitch at his side and he finds himself moving his jaw for want of something to say—for want of something to do that isn't standing a ship away watching this happen. The success or failure of the attack will be because he told Edward Teach what to do, and he listened.

Something about it don’t feel right, but there ain’t enough to say why. Anne drops down from the gunwale and moves slow and careful among Teach’s vanguard, inching aft and considering the remains. Bodies everywhere: all’s blood and red coats and splintered wood. Teach roams toward the bow, cutting bodies to see who’s breathing. Ain’t right to be this tidy, she thinks; quiet like there’s not a single soul left alive. It don’t feel right, but it ain’t enough to see what’s coming.

He can feel his own heartbeat reverberating against his chest. Rogers cant have been beaten so easily. He's an uninspired man, but he wouldn't have left every man on deck to be slaughtered by canonfire. Rogers would wait for the vanguard. He would want the glory of cutting down the notorious Edward Teach himself to bolster both his ego and his unsteady position back in Nassau.

The ambush floods out quick, men pouring from the forecastle and the hold to swarm the deck. Anne spins around, slashes a marine across the chest and at the back of the leg, bringing him down to his knees.

There are too many men in the ambush. He can see Anne, catches a glint of metal, her hair showing copper through the fading smoke. She's fighting well, but in these odds one well placed blade could end that quickly. Jack takes in a shaky breath. He can't think about that right now. Anne can handle herself. She can.

She has no sense of the scale of what’s unfolding around her; can’t afford to. It’s all what’s right in front of her, what counts for survival of the moment.

His eyes scan the length of the ship and finds Teach, stalking towards Rogers. They're both taking large swings, reckless.

The clash of shouts and metal, the occasional gunshot stinging the air, the sense of seething and turmoil, that’s all background until she needs it, and right now she’s busy driving her blade deep into the marine’s gut, over and over again ‘til he’s not her problem anymore. Next.

Rogers' men seem to be winning out, but things could turn at any moment. His brows furrow as he watches Teach touch his side and then look down at his hand. Was he injured? Jack looks up to the flag, then at the men beneath it. He's ready to surrender, if they need to. Only if they need to. His jaw feels tight. He keeps watching as closely as he can.

She reels around again and jabs at a man reaching for her, but he reaches past and she misses him cleanly, leaving space for him to grab her shoulder. He hoists her up, flips her over, and she’s already reaching for her flintlock as she comes down, ready to plant the shot soon as her back hits the deck.

Jack looks back to find Anne, but he can't see her anymore. A spike of panic pierces his chest like a dagger.

Her back hits water and sand.

“Hunh!” The grunt bursts out of her along with all her breath, and salt-spray hits her tongue as the shock of cold hits the rest of her. Her hand lets go the pistol and reaches up to fend off the man who isn’t there anymore, gone, the man, the noise, the ship, all of it gone.

Between the space of a breath, the vista changes and Jack stumbles as his boots find purchase in soft sand and shallow water. There aren't any boards beneath his feet, and it doesn't make sense. His hat is there, slowly sinking, and he bends slowly to pick it up, shaking the water off as he stands. Dread soaks into his chest, crystallizing his panic rather than quelching it. It is bewilderingly cold and the wind cuts through his jacket like it's not there. The water is the wrong color.

Don’t make sense, can’t be happening. Can’t have gone overboard and couldn’t be on the shore even if she did. The sun is in a different fucking spot in the sky. The air smells wrong, like ocean but wrong.

He lifts his head and looks out at the ocean. What ocean, he doesn't know. He can't spot anything familiar. No ships in sight, no clue what just happened.

"Wh-" He starts, then stops, speechless. He feels frozen to the spot. There's too much here—too much not here to process.

She scrambles up to her feet, casting about for the lost reality of the ambush and the battle, just finds her hat sitting on the sand. Must have fallen. She reaches out for it, fingers trembling almost too bad to pick it up and put it back on her head. Sand stretches out before her, and trees beyond that, and beyond that—

Can’t be happening, can’t, can’t, can’t, and all the impossibility and incomprehension boils up in her gut like sick and her lungs like a scream that won’t quite come out.

As the tide pulls away, the sand beneath his boots shifts with it towards the sea. Jack takes a hasty step back from the sensation of being pulled in, and looks down the length of the beach.

There. A figure, standing in the surf.
Anne. It must be. It has to be.

"Anne!" he yells, already moving towards her, cutting the distance until he can be sure. Her coat, her hat, the color of her hair.

She turns to him and his breath hitches in his throat.

"Anne!" His voice cracks and he stumbles over the sand towards her. He drops his hat onto the sand. He's running.