Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

CHAPTER NINE
Ayisha
THE WICKED WENCH SAILED into Calabar Harbor before noon on the
fifth of August. As Robby Greene had predicted, the morning was hot
—a steamy, airless heat. All morning Jack had stood on the weather
deck, envying his hands. All his men, except for the mates, were
stripped to the waist. As the ship coasted up to the dock, and the
sailors began tossing out the mooring lines, bringing her to a halt, the
last bit of breeze from her passage died. Jack felt as though some
giant sponge had sucked all of the air out of his lungs. Rebelling in the
face of the stifling heat, he pulled off his coat—and then, for good
measure, yanked off his neckcloth, too. He stood there, mopping
sweat from his forehead with the neckcloth, as his ship’s gangplank
thudded down onto the East India Trading Company’s dock.
Hearing quick steps mounting the gangplank, Jack turned to find
Cutler Beckett’s assistant, Ian Mercer, standing on his deck. This is
becoming a bloody habit, he thought, grumpily. What can he want this
time? Mercer hurried up to Jack, who nodded at him politely, forcing a
smile. “Ah, Mr. Mercer. Hot day, isn’t it? What brings you here?”
The operative jerked his head at the gangplank. “Captain
Sparrow, Mr. Beckett wants to see you immediately,” he said, keeping
his voice low. “There’s someone he wants you to meet.”
Why am I not surprised? Jack thought, barely managing not to roll
his eyes. “I have responsibilities here,” he pointed out. “Cargo
unloading to oversee, and shore leave rosters to—”
“Mr. Beckett sent me down here the moment he heard your sails
had been sighted, Captain,” Mercer said. “It’s urgent that you come
immediately.”
Jack sighed. “Very well. I suppose I should go change my clothes?