Disclaimer – Disney owns the entire franchise of Pirates of the Caribbean.
The seafaring kitty is a source of many superstitions for our salty friends. Why should the pirates be any exception?
The Incident of the Ship's Cat
Bloody hurts… Dark… Wet, cold… Can't breathe…
He had given up trying to wriggle free. He was stuck here for eternity, tied to a cannon by his bootstraps at the bottom of the sea. William Turner, better known to his shipmates as Bootstrap Bill, was probably the unluckiest man on board an unlucky ship. How long has it been? Nine years? Funny how it all started with that cat.
Bootstrap Bill was scrubbing a stubborn stain on the deck by the cannon, possibly blood from last night's overindulgences, when he saw the cat. Sleek-coated, tail held proudly aloft as he paced the deck, adopting a swagger much like his master's.
"Hullo, Mischief…" he greeted the black cat with a smile. After all, a ship's cat was good luck. So Jack claimed when he brought a half-starved black kitten on board in his vest. After a few weeks, the young tomcat had grown sleek and fat, helped along with scraps from the captain's own plate and titbits from the crew. Mischief, Jack named him.
How often had he glimpsed Jack Sparrow stroking the cat under his chin, or reading his maps with one hand busy stroking Mischief's belly and the cat sprawled in his lap? Maybe he should get a cat for his missus and his little boy. Little William would like the company. Or perhaps a dog would be more appropriate for a rambunctious lad.
The cat paced towards him and stopped suddenly. They say it was good luck for a cat to approach a sailor on deck, and bad luck if it stops halfway.
"Come on, Mischief…" Bill coaxed. The cat stared at him through emerald-green eyes and lifted a dainty paw as if to continue. Then he sat down on his haunches and started licking his shoulder. Bill shrugged. The cat was so much like Jack Sparrow. How often had his old friend got that look in his eyes, of feigned disinterest, while a secretive smile danced on his lips? Teasing the crew with outlandish tales of adventure and treasure, before setting them to the tasks of mending torn sails or scraping barnacles off the Pearl?
"Argh! I'll kill that damned cat!" A roar from below decks rent the air. Chief Mate Barbossa emerged with the remnants of his hat gripped in his hand. The felt had been clawed to shreds. The ostrich feather hung limply off the corner. Whiskers twitching, the cat glared at the livid chief mate, who returned the glare with murderous malice. Mischief had a rather unfortunate perchance for ruining the rich fabrics and quality clothes Barbossa favoured.
A chuckle from the rigging above announced the presence of their captain. It was like Jack to take his turn at lookout duty, just to feel the sea wind on his face. He had gotten a treasure map recently and spent his free time working on decoding ancient script on it. Having him out of his cabin and out on deck meant he must have broken the code. Untold riches beckoned all, except maybe the cat, who had set himself on a collision course with the chief mate and was likely to have used up all nine of his lives.
"Turner! Ready the cannon! This cat is going for a ride," Barbossa ordered menacingly. The cat's ears twitched warily as if sensing an approaching tempest.
"Sir, Mister Pintel's the gunner… he wouldn't like me messin' wi' his cannon," Bootstrap Bill started. Pintel and Ragetti were safely below decks sleeping after their partying last night and would take some time getting out of their hammocks, assuming Rags did not trip up on the stairs on their way up and land on Pintel, which would buy them more time.
"I know that, ya scurvy dog! But I am ordering ya to…" Barbossa was beside himself with fury.
"Hold a moment there!" There was a scramble up in the crow's nest. Jack sensed that the ship's cat had overstepped his bounds this time where Barbossa was concerned. "The kitten meant no harm…"
"No harm? 'Tis the last straw!" Barbossa flung his destroyed hat onto the Pearl's deck. "Little devil claws my coats, gets fur all over my shirts and coughs up hairballs in my hammock! Now this! Do you have any idea how much a good hat costs these days?"
Jack was almost sliding down the rigging now. Suddenly he let loose a blistering curse. His boot has gotten caught on a rope and he was trying to tug his foot free. He was still a long way off the deck. The chief mate approached the cat menacingly. The cat pointedly ignored Barbossa and returned his attention to cleaning his belly, oblivious to impending doom.
"Bill! Get Mischief!" the captain shouted. Bootstrap Bill tried to grab the cat but he was too late. With a well-aimed kick from Barbossa, the hapless cat was sent sailing over the side of the ship and into the salty blue.
"Me cat!" Jack choked. "Damn ye, Barbossa! Ye jump in and fish him out! This is an order!"
"I say good riddance!" Barbossa spat.
Bootstrap Bill leaned over the side, peering into the waves. There was a black speck bobbing among the green. It was bad luck, nine years of it, if he recalled the sailors' lore correctly. Nine years of ill luck if the ship cat falls overboard or is thrown into the sea. The cat paddled and meowed piteously. Bootstrap Bill was all ready for jumping in and hauling him out, if only he could swim. Wait, there was something wrong. A dark ominous shadow lurked below the waves. There were sounds of a scuffle behind him. Jack had gotten free of the rigging.
"Ew boke me dose!" Barbossa hollered. Pintel, Rags and the rest of crew had emerged from their posts below decks by now and were staring at the spectacle of the normally immaculate Barbossa bleeding copiously over his new shirt. The stakes have been upped. Despite their constant bickering, this was the first time any of the crew could recall their captain actually coming to blows with the chief mate.
All the while, the cat yowled for rescue. Having dealt out punishment, Jack ran for the side. But the cat was done for.
It was over in a flash, before Jack could reach him.
"Mischief!" Jack stared in disbelief at the fading red pool on the emerald waves. His hands were white-knuckled from gripping the wood so hard. Having your ship's cat become lunch for a hungry shark must be worse luck. Bootstrap Bill did what he could, patting his stunned captain on the shoulder and murmuring half-heartedly. "There, there, Captain… We'll pick up a nice cat at the next port…"
Instead, Jack shrugged off his shipmate's hand and glared at his surly chief mate. Barbossa was nursing a bleeding nose but mustered up enough dignity, bloodied nose and all, to return the glare. The silence was deadly ominous, the calm before a hurricane. Something had shifted irreparably in their partnership.
The Pearl never did get another cat.
Within two weeks, Barbossa and the crew mutinied. They last saw Jack glowering at them from that tiny islet they marooned him on. Jack was probably dead… if not by his own hand, by starvation or thirst. No, Jack Sparrow was made of sterner stuff than that. Still, he couldn't help but wonder about his friend's well-being.
Fate dealt them a harsh hand. Thanks to the curse, there was not even the relief of death for old Bootstrap Bill Turner. Perhaps someone would pass by and haul him out.
A ghostly green light, a paler shade of green in the murky deep. A ship? At the bottom of the sea?
"Do ye fear death?" an icy voice enquired.
Death, release from this torment… No, he couldn't possibly die now. His wife and his son back home. They needed him. How bad could it possibly get?
"Yes…" Bootstrap Bill forced the word out from his throat. He did not see the knowing smirk on the inhuman face of his rescuer. The Flying Dutchman had found herself another soul.
Author's Notes:
No felines were harmed in the writing of this ficlet. If any were, may my sweet little kitty, Tam-Tam, cough up hairballs on my laptop and shred my knickers.