The perfectly peaceful game of dice on a lazy afternoon on the high seas had been rudely interrupted by a dull booming sound, and the following creak and crashing of the mizzenmast that shook the whole ship to her core. By the time the monitor had rushed down screaming, all he was doing was blocking the way of the pirates raising to the call, armed to the teeth.
The melee was a confusing disarray of shouts, punches, cuts and the impossibility of seeing absolutely anything, since the wafts of gunpowder smoke made their nostrils burn, shortening their already hard breathing, their eyes tearing up, so that they fought relying on luck, and luck alone, praying the flesh meeting their swords was foe's instead of friend's.
One good hit in the right spot, and Jack dropped his cutlass, grabbing his elbow in disabling agony, bending over to cradle the abused nerve endings that sent the blinding pain through his arm, bringing him to his knees.
The man who jabbed Jack, fell with a gargling sound as a fortuitous blade of a ship mate, no one knows who's, slashed his throat, his blood spilling over Jack, marking it clearly that it was all over for the poor bastard.
The next one wasn't far away.
"Sparrow!"
Jack glanced to the direction of the sound, just in time to instinctively reach out and catch the smoke-blurred object flying through the air, fumbled with the thing while raising to one knee, turning, breathing, blinking, being alive, in one smooth, gut-regulated move. He didn't even try to aim before pulling the trigger, but the man charging forward plunged down into a limp heap the second the bullet punctured his brain.
The rest of the battle was over just a moment later, once the voice hollering their captain's death finally made it through the haze of the sound of blood pounding in the men's ears.
There was glorious, clean, clear air, the wind blowing the acrid smell of powder and piss to an agreeable distance, the men chopping and cutting the ropes rigged to the fallen mast, to prevent the ship from capsizing from its pull.
Jack noticed the man who'd tossed him the pistol sitting against a wall close by, leaning his arm and head to his knee. Wanting to thank the man for saving his life, or at least giving Jack the means to save his own, he strolled over, holding the pistol by the now-cooled muzzle, and nudged the gun to the man's shoulder. "Ta, mate, I'd be fish food if it weren't for --"
The man's arm fell from his knee and the form listed to right, revealing a face crushed, half torn off by an end of a strung-out rope whipping through the air, and not stopping because a mere man stood in its way.
Jack winced at the sight, then knelt in silence to close the lid over the remaining open eye.
Standing up, Jack pushed his newly acquired pistol under his belt. "I guess you won't be needing this any longer."
----------------------------------
Wrists bound, Jack stood defiantly at the end of a plank aboard his own ship, his own crew gathered around the scene, brandishing swords at, and waiting to maroon their Captain. Or, rather, his former crew, and their former Captain…
Jack couldn't resist taking one last, feeble shot at Barbossa.
"Seeing that you've lost all respect for the Code, I don't suppose ye will be giving me me pistol, and me shot, eh?"
"Jaaack. As greedy a man as I may be, I be not cold enough to deny a man of his last wish."
Barbossa threw a gun at Jack's feet, the same one he had been relieved of a few hours before.
Jack ducked to grab his pistol from the plank and gave it a suspicious look.
"And the shot?"
Barbossa drew a small pouch from his pocket.
"Closer." Barbossa sneered, narrowing his eyes, beckoning Jack with a grimy finger. "Closer."
After fishing out a bullet from the pouch and securely depositing it back in his pocket, Barbossa grabbed Jack's jaw into his hand and forced his mouth open.
"Here." Barbossa popped the bullet into Jack's mouth, then pinched his nose so Jack had no choice but to swallow. "Ye happy now?"
Bursting into delighted, twisted, laughter at his own wits, Barbossa pushed Jack away, making him lose his footing and flop off the plank and into the sea.
Jack took one good look at his ship once he emerged, spluttering, from the brine, and saw Barbossa peering over the railing, smirking, hand raised in mock salute.
Already working the fastenings around his wrists with nimble fingers, Jack had only one more thing to say to his former First Mate; "That shot is not meant for me."