Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

“He does, Cap’n,” Robby agreed.
“I don’t know why our passenger refused to climb into a
hammock,” Jack mused, grumpily. “The woman may have a face that
could stop the clock on Saint Stephen’s Tower, but she’s spry for her
age. She climbed aboard that infernal excuse for a bloody equine
handily enough.”
“Where be Saint Stephen’s Tower, Cap’n?” Chamba wanted to
know.
Jack and Robby had grown used to this over the past few months.
The lad had more curiosity about the world than any ten cats. “It’s in
London, Chamba.”
“There be a big clock there?”
“Yes, on the tower of Saint Stephen’s.”
“That be a church, Cap’n?”
Jack shook his head. “It used to be. But now the House of
Commons meets there. It’s all part of the Palace of Westminster.”
“Never seen a palace,” Chamba said. “I’d like to see one, me. The
English king, he live there too? When we going to London next?”
Jack had just started to explain about how Westminster Palace
was no longer the royal residence, when a cool breath of air brushed
his ear, trailing along his cheek. Breaking off, he licked his finger and
held it up. “Wind’s freshening from the west, mates.”
Robby and Chamba were staring over Jack’s shoulders, their
eyes widening. “Jack,” Robby said. “We’ve got weather coming.”
Jack turned to see a mass of clouds the color of a livid bruise
boiling up from the west. From the looks of the storm, he judged they
had between twenty and thirty minutes to prepare the Wicked Wench.
“Looks like a good fresh gale,” Jack observed, cheerfully. “Should blow
some of this heat away, if we’re fortunate.” He glanced at Chamba.
“We’ll need all topmen aloft, lad.”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
The Wicked Wench had all sails set, except for her very topmost
canvas—the royals. “We’ll need to take the t’gallants off, Captain, or
we might lose them,” Robby said, glancing upward at their spread of
canvas. “If we have time,” he added, uneasily.
Jack smiled at him. Not only was he not nervous, he felt