The Turning Tide

  Copyright © 2009 Disney Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-3301-8

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Wild Waters

  PROLOGUE

  Crisp white sails snapped in the wind. The boards of the ship’s deck gleamed like polished bronze. Every rope was precisely coiled exactly where it needed to be; every inch of the ship was meticulously scrubbed, and every item on board had a place. Sailors whispered that this was the only ship on the seas with no rats or cockroaches or weevils. Vermin would not be tolerated, nor dirt or disorder.

  One might think this would make the HMS Peacock a desirable ship to sail upon…but there are worse things than rats and weevils.

  Aboard the Peacock, laziness was not tolerated. Neither was drinking—not a drop of rum could be found from stem to stern. The ship glided over the waves like a well-oiled machine, and to the captain each of his sailors was not a person, but rather a cog. Any cog out of place would be hammered back with brute force…or tossed overboard.

  No, any sailor worth his salt knew that a wise man would never sign on to the crew of the Peacock. Legends of the captain’s iron fist—and leather whip and pointed boots—had spread far and wide across the Seven Seas, not just in Hong Kong where the gleaming ship normally berthed.

  At present the captain was standing at the prow of his ship, wrapped in a pure white woolen cloak despite the glaring sun. His wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his skeletal cheekbones and pale blue eyes.

  His name was Benedict Huntington.

  Benedict glared out at the sparkling green expanse of the Indian Ocean. The color reminded him of his wife’s eyes, which were as deep and deadly as this ocean.

  “How is it,” he spat, “that a notorious pirate has been raiding and pillaging almost every ship that’s entered the port of Bombay for the last fifteen years, leeching off the profits of the East India Trading Company, filling his chests with our gold and jewels and spices…and yet no one—you’re telling me no one in all of India—has any idea where his stronghold is?”

  “Well,” said the man behind him, twisting his hat anxiously in his hands, “we’re, uh, we’re pretty sure it’s on one of the islands off the coast, south of Bombay.” Benedict had hauled this hapless representative of the Indian branch of the East India Trading Company off a ship in Singapore and commandeered him for the Peacock’s journey into the Indian Ocean. His intended purpose was to provide Benedict with useful information on the whereabouts of the Pirate Lord Sri Sumbhajee…and by extension, his latest visitor, the notorious pirate Jack Sparrow, captain of the Black Pearl.

  Benedict had clashed with Sparrow in Hong Kong. Jack and his pirates had thwarted a brilliant raid on a pirate gathering. Both of the Pirate Lords of East Asia had been present: Sao Feng and Mistress Ching, the ones who most tormented Huntington’s ships and trading routes.

  And thanks to Jack Sparrow, both of them had escaped.

  But of the three Pirate Lords that had convened, Jack was the only one to leave a clue as to where he was going. Benedict had overheard the captain of the Black Pearl telling his crewmates they were in search of a Pirate Lord named Sri Sumbhajee, in India.

  Everyone in the East India Trading Company knew of Sri Sumbhajee and the havoc he wreaked on their trade routes with India. Benedict had assumed that the agents working in India would be hot to find him.

  He hadn’t assumed his source would turn out to be quite so thoroughly useless.

  Huntington’s fingers twitched at the thought of stabbing his sword into Jack Sparrow’s gut. Wouldn’t the pirate look surprised then! That would wipe that silly smile off his face!

  “And how hard is it,” Benedict asked scathingly as he turned his attention once more toward the agent, “to search all those islands? Hmm? Our Company’s profits are at stake! What are you shiftless fools doing out there in India—counting your own toes?”

  “Well, um,” the hapless man pointed out, with a staggering lack of wisdom, “you know, sir, it’s not as if you’ve managed to capture a Pirate Lord in your waters, am I—umm-correct, Mr. Huntington? I mean no disrespect, I’m sure Mistress Ching is just as difficult to locate and execute as Sri SumbhaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

  The agent’s scream ended with a splash. Benedict peered over the railing, tugging his smooth white gloves up on his wrists. “What’s that?” he said to the water. “I didn’t quite catch that last bit.”

  The first mate came running up the deck, pointing at the sea. “Captain, sir, I think we have a man overboard!”

  The first mate skidded to a stop when he saw Benedict’s face.

  “Oh, really?” Benedict said. “Do we?”

  First mate Roland McTavish had not risen to his position by being an idiot. He snapped his heels together and saluted his captain. “No, sir. My mistake, sir.”

  “Yes,” Benedict said, turning his back on McTavish. A pair of sailors climbing the ratlines gave each other worried looks and climbed faster. Captain Huntington was in an even worse mood than usual. He had been glowering around the deck ever since they left Hong Kong, especially once he realized Jack Sparrow had left no trail to follow and no one knew where he would go once he reached India. The Company agent had not been the first man on this trip to vanish off the deck.

  Benedict narrowed his eyes at the distant horizon. A dolphin leaped out of the water below him, disappearing under the sea again in a glittery spray.

  “Where are you, Jack Sparrow?” Huntington murmured.

  He felt a spark of warmth against his chest; a tiny flame that he knew would grow hotter if he ignored it. Reaching into his vest pocket, he drew out a small silver mirror. The slim rectangle fitted in the palm of his hand. Delicate silver filigree, shaped like interlocking vines, formed a tight frame around the pale surface. As he cupped it in his hands, he felt a warm glow emanating from somewhere inside it.

  Benedict glanced around. His first mate had scurried away, and everyone else on the ship was staying well clear of their captain. He was alone on the forecastle.

  The captain lowered his head and breathed on the smooth surface. As the condensation lifted, it revealed a face in the mirror…and it was not the face of Benedict Huntington. Instead of his pale eyes, a dazzling green pair sparkled back at him from its depths.

  “Hello, darling,” Benedict said softly. “I was wondering when you would contact me. I am sorry I had to leave so abruptly.…I would have liked to have said good-bye, but there was no time.”

  His beautiful wife’s laugh tinkled out of the mirror. “How amusing. That’s just what I was going to say to you.”

  “You—what?” Benedict blinked. In the mirror, Barbara Huntington batted her long eyelashes at him. Her dazzling red hair was not as carefully coiffed as it usually was; her dramatic peacock feather was missing, and st
ray locks were escaping from her up-do. Moreover, the space behind her was not the sweeping garden of their Hong Kong estate which Benedict had expected to see. Wherever she was, it was very dimly lit. It almost looked as if she had nothing but a lone candle to light up her beautiful face.

  “Where are you?” he growled.

  “Oh, this?” Barbara said, waving her hand behind her. “I thought I’d make myself useful. Can’t you guess where I am?”

  Benedict narrowed his eyes. He could see boxes stacked behind Barbara, with webs of rigging holding them haphazardly in place. “It looks like you’re in a ship’s hold, but not my ship’s. That one looks as if it was loaded and organized by those dreadful monkeys that live outside our window in Hong Kong.”

  “Just about,” Barbara said with a sly smile. “Darling, you’re on your way to India, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” he said. How did she always know what he was going to do before he did it? “But I don’t know what I’m going to do once we arrive. The local agents are the most useless bunch of louts I’ve ever encountered. They have no idea where Sri Sumbhajee is, or how to get to him. Their worst enemy! I tell you, it’s a disgrace, Barbara.”

  “Shhh,” she said suddenly, lifting her head. If she were a tiger her ears would have pricked up. After a moment, she whispered, “All right, it was nothing.”

  “Where are you?” Benedict asked again, squinting.

  Barbara leaned forward and planted a kiss on the other side of the mirror, leaving a spot of red lipstick blurring the image.

  “You sound like you’re having a rough journey,” she said slyly. “I think I have some news that might cheer you up.”

  “The only thing that would cheer me up,” Benedict said, “is if you told me you were on—” He broke off and stared at her with wide pale eyes.

  “I see you’ve finally figured it out,” Barbara said with another tinkling laugh.

  “You can’t be.”

  “Surprise, darling.” She blew him another kiss. “I’m on Jack Sparrow’s ship.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  The giant blue feathers on Barbossa’s ridiculous plumed hat tickled Captain Jack Sparrow’s nose as he leaned over his first mate’s shoulder. Shoving the feathers aside, Jack peered down at the charts Barbossa had spread across the table in Jack’s cabin. Sunlight spilled through the shutters, leaving bars of shadow and light across the crackling parchment map of the Indian Ocean.

  “Charts.” Jack sniffed. “Knowing where you’re going is overrated, if you ask me.”

  “Yes, well,” Barbossa said through gritted teeth, “I had a feeling you might try to take us to India via Sweden, so I thought per’aps looking at a map might be warranted. Just this once.”

  “I never thought I’d get to go to India!” Carolina said from the other side of the table. She traced the shape of the Indian peninsula with her finger. “Where does this Pirate Lord live?”

  “Around, er, these parts,” Jack said, waving his hand over the entire country.

  Barbossa rolled his eyes. “What our dear captain means,” he said, “is near Bombay.” He tapped a city halfway up the west coast of India. “Sri Sumbhajee has been tormenting the ships going in and out of this port for years. Rumor has it he has a base on each of these islands; the trick is to find the one where his personal stronghold is located.”

  “Oh, that’s the easy bit,” Jack said. He flung himself into his captain’s chair and propped his boots on the table beside the chart. Rather nice boots they were, too, if he did say so himself.

  “The easy bit. Aye, I see. Perhaps you would care to enlighten the rest of us?” Barbossa suggested.

  Jack plucked a piece of fruit from a bowl on the table and examined it. It was one of the odd-looking fuzzy, brown, round ones they’d picked up from a port along the coast of Asia. He wasn’t quite sure how to eat it. He’d tried biting one of them earlier and ended up with bitter brown prickles all over his tongue.

  He settled for wagging the fruit at Barbossa instead. “My dear Barbossa, I assure you, Sri Sumbhajee will find us.”

  “They do say he knows everything,” Billy Turner said gloomily from his post by the door. “They say he has supernatural powers. Just what we need—a pirate nemesis with supernatural powers.”

  “Nobody knows everything,” Marcella Magliore said. “Least of all a smelly pirate.” She stretched, lounging across Jack’s couch. He frowned at her. Jean Magliore’s disagreeable cousin had an uncanny way of taking up more space than it seemed like her bony frame should allow her to. Of course, if you asked Jack, any amount of space was too much for Marcella to be occupying, especially on his ship.

  He also suspected her of stealing a few of his pillows after they had left Hong Kong, although he couldn’t find them when he’d searched her hammock. Knowing Marcella, it was entirely possible she’d tossed them overboard in a fit of rage over something Jack wouldn’t even remember saying.

  “If we can find Sri Sumbhajee’s base before he knows we’re there, then we can attack with the element of surprise,” Barbossa insisted. “I say we go in with guns a-blazing and swords held high and demand that he hand over his vial of Shadow Gold.” He slammed his fist down on the charts.

  “That is just the kind of original thinking I expect from you, Barbossa,” Jack said. Barbossa gave him a suspicious look. “But I’m afraid dealing with Sri Sumbhajee will require a little more finesse. A kind of clever cunning that is best left to captains.”

  Barbossa gritted his teeth. Before he could respond, there was a resounding crash from outside the door, followed by a series of thumps and thuds.

  “Ah,” Jack said. “Billy, open the door for Catastrophe Shane. Carolina, hide the weapons.”

  Billy swung the door open just in time for the Pearl’s most incompetent pirate (and that was saying something) to come tumbling to a stop at his feet. Catastrophe Shane lay in the doorway for a moment, catching his breath.

  “Yes?” Jack said, peering over the top of the desk at him.

  “Steward sent me,” Shane said, panting. “Wants permission to bring up another barrel of salt pork from the hold.”

  Marcella sat up.

  “Yes, all right,” Jack said, waving his hand airily. “Get some more bottles of rum while you’re at it. It seems like the rum is always gone before it gets to my cabin.”

  “I’ll get it!” Marcella cried, jumping to her feet. She hurried out the door, shoving Catastrophe Shane aside just as he began to stand up. He stumbled over his boots and wound up in a heap on the floor again. Billy politely scooted the prostrate pirate out the door with his foot and closed it behind him.

  Jack twirled one of the thin, black braids of his beard between his fingers. “That was odd,” he observed.

  “Actually, it was pretty normal for Catastrophe Shane,” Billy pointed out.

  “I’m talking about Jean’s charming cousin,” Jack said sardonically. “Can you recall her ever offering to do anything? And yet she positively leaped at the chance to bring us a barrel of salt pork.” He tapped his fingers on the table.

  “I think we have more pressing matters than Mademoiselle Marcella to discuss,” Barbossa said, leaning over the map again and studying his compass. “I propose we chart a course—”

  Meanwhile, out in the bright sun, Marcella shaded her eyes and stared around the deck. She spotted Jean at the starboard railing, adjusting one of the fishing lines that trailed over the side.

  “Jean!” she barked, marching up to him. He jumped, then gave her a weak smile.

  “Hello, Marcella,” he said. “You’re looking lovely today.”

  “Of course I am,” she said tossing her dry, split hair. “Come with me,” she ordered. Jean sighed as his cousin turned and flounced off to the hatch. Jean was a peaceful, friendly sort. It was hard to believe sometimes that the cheerful, chestnut-haired sailor was related to the scowling, yellow-eyed girl. But for whatever reason, he felt responsible for her. He followed her down the hatch, along t
he narrow passageway, and over to the entrance to the hold. The opening yawned under their feet, smelling damp and murky.

  The floor swayed steadily underneath them and lanterns swung from hooks along the hallway. Marcella stepped onto the ladder and looked up at him. “Wait here.”

  She disappeared into the dark hold.

  “Don’t you want a lantern?” Jean called after her. There was no reply. Well, that was Marcella: always acting odd. But it was risky to try and find out why. With a shrug, he sat down on the floor to wait, leaning his back against the curving wooden wall of the ship.

  After a moment, he tilted his head. Was he hearing things?

  A soft giggle came from the darkness below him. Could that be Marcella? For one thing, he hadn’t heard her laugh since…well, he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her laugh, actually. And what on earth was she giggling about down in the hold by herself?

  Then he heard something else—the murmur of voices.

  She wasn’t alone down there!

  He sprang to his feet, but before he could rush down the ladder, Marcella appeared at the bottom of it. “All right, you can come down,” she called, her face lifted toward him.

  Jean groaned. “Marcella, what have you done now?”

  “Nothing,” she said innocently. “I need you to bring up a barrel of salt pork for the steward. I’m certainly not touching one of these dirty things. They’ve had dirty pirate hands all over them.”

  Jean lifted a lantern from the wall and climbed down the ladder. Marcella was standing between the stacks of barrels and boxes, blocking the way to the far corner of the hold.

  “There you go,” she said, pointing to one of the barrels with a sweet smile. “I’ll bring Jack’s disgusting rum.”

  “Marcella,” Jean said in a quiet voice, “are you hiding someone down here?”

  Marcella’s yellow-brown eyes went wide, reflecting the flicker of the lantern light. “Would I do something like that?”

  “Yes,” Jean retorted. “Who is it?”

  “No one,” Marcella said. “Stop being so ennuyer, Jean. Take the barrel and go.”