Disclaimer – Disney owns the entire franchise of Pirates of the Caribbean.
This piece is dedicated to a fellow writer and Captain of the Black Pearl forum- Nytd. Smooth sailing and clear skies, Captain.
Return of the Prodigal Son
"He was old, no man lives forever…"
"We thot de Code Keeper might…"
"My father," the woman's voice caught a little here. "My father, Edward Teague, lived a full life."
The ancient dog cocked an ear and lifted his snout to allow the woman to pat his head. The other men murmured softly, a change from their usual boisterous racket. He yawned lazily and opened a rheumy eye. He had awoken one morning to find the woman crying and shouting for the others. His master did not move a muscle as he lay there on his bunk despite the din. The dog had staggered up to lick his face. Sniffing at his master's beard, he knew the man was gone.
Teague had complained more about the damp of his quarters getting to his bones over the past year. There was a pain in his side which kept him in bed for days. His ship sat idle in the Cove for months. Most of the original crew had passed on by then, including his first mate Honest Tom. The younger and more able-bodied signed on with other captains. His daughter and granddaughter kept him and the handful of loyal shipmates who stayed with him supplied.
"On land or at sea, Miz Wilhelmina?"
"At sea. In the old way, canvas and cannon shot at his feet. My daughters have the shroud ready…"
"Shouldn't we wait a bit for Jack? He does know, doesn't he?"
Willy Raven shrugged. She did encounter her older brother in Tortuga three months back, soon after she learnt from Doc Sawyer how grim their father's condition was. He was drunk as usual and she wasn't too sure how much of her words got through that rum-induced coma he was in. Three months, enough time for his Black Pearl to make Shipwreck and back to his usual haunts. Then again, things have always been strained between the two. It was rumoured to be a result of her brother's 'honest' phase and a slaver. Neither Jack nor Teague ever spoke to her of it.
If he were in better health, Teague would never have allowed his ship to fall victim to such shocking neglect. The bilges were waist-deep in saltwater and the rigging was rotten in places. The sails bore gaping holes and hung listlessly in rags.
They had waited a fortnight to repair the worst of the neglect on Teague's Troubadour, letting him pickle in a bath of the ship's rum, much to the dismay of the hoary old salts. Willy threatened to shoot anyone caught pinching rum from the bath. Still, the body would not keep any longer and they were running low on the rum. They would bury him at sea off the deck of his vessel, assuming it would stay afloat that long. The ship would have to be stripped down for valuable furnishings and scuttled to become part of Shipwreck. It was the way Teague would have wanted it.
"Weigh anchor!" Teague's daughter shouted the command. Her crew hastened to obey. With a dull groan, the patched sails caught the wind. The vessel inched her way through the dangerous reefs with Willy's steady hand on the helm. Her own ship, the Bloody Sunday, waited at the entrance to the Cove, under the command of her oldest daughter. A minister would say the service- Teague's eldest grandson, who had been ordained a minister during his own brief foray into the honest world.
Her children did not disappoint. The Bloody Sunday escorted the limping Troubadour some distance away from the island. Jean Baptiste's voice was clear as a bell as he worked his way through the words of the service. The remaining children broke into an angelic chorus of Amazing Grace. When the last notes died away on the breeze, the shrouded body, his wife's shrunken head on his breast, was slid over the side to his eternal rest.
Blinking away tears, his daughter watched as the pale canvas enshrouding her parents' remains vanished into the green gloom beneath them.
"Sail ho! A ship. Black sails!" her youngest son and most nimble of her brood, who had been assigned lookout duty on the Sunday, cried out. A murmur ran through both crews.
It was the Black Pearl with Captain Jack Sparrow at the helm. The anchor was dropped and the jollyboat lowered. Captain Jack Sparrow climbed up the rope ladder and set foot upon the deck of the Troubadour with his usual swagger.
"Well, am I still in time for the funeral?"
The slap his sister greeted him with sent the seabirds on Shipwreck reeling into the clouds. Jack Sparrow rubbed his reddened cheek. "Too late, huh?"
Instead of replying, Willy Raven drew herself up as tall as her diminutive stature would allow and barked the orders for their return to the Cove. She left her brother staring at the green waters which had swallowed up the body of their father earlier. Daylight was dying and they had to be safely in the Cove before long. It was well into the evening when Captain Jack sought out his sister again on the beach. A hearty stew of salted beef, vegetables and potatoes was simmering on the fire for the pirates' dinner. Freshly-caught fish were set on skewers to be grilled on the embers. Brandy, rum and strong tea were passed round the fire.
"Willy, I'm sorry. I had no idea it was that bad… Had a spot of problem with a naval ship out of Gibraltar and a hurricane off Tripoli…."
Willy Raven spat into the sand and thrust a mug of brandy-laced tea into his hands. "My crew could help with the scuttling…" Jack offered. "Did da leave any words for me before…"
"He was out of it in the last week, brother. He did ask when his Jackie boy was coming in. He also asked if you were going to settle down with that Spanish senorita you met in a convent and give him some more grandchildren to dandle on his knee." She spun round on her heel and stalked off to a nearby tent.
Jack stared at his tea in silence. Despite all those years, and all those times they chanced upon each other, he had never…
His sister or her daughters had stayed in the Cove to attend to Teague during the last months of his final illness, while Jack Sparrow prodigal son… A wet nose nuzzled his boot. A pair of brown doggy eyes stared up at him hopefully.
"Hi there, dog…" the dog wagged his tail at the captain's words and offered his chin to be scratched. Jack obliged. I'm sorry I was too late, da. I've so many things I wanted to say to you. Guess it is too late, huh?
"Brother Jack, Father wanted you to have this…" With a swish of her shawl, Wilhelmina Raven emerged from the tent with a small wooden box. She handed it to Jack. With trembling hands, Jack undid the clasp.
"Da's pistol…" Jack ran his fingers over the intricate metalwork design of the weapon he had recalled from his earliest childhood at his father's belt, ready to be drawn in defence of his ship and son. A couple of years ago, it had been drawn to save his life in a London street. The tears came unbidden. Jack noticed with appreciation that Willy had drawn back into the tent to allow him some privacy to indulge his grief.
Shipwreck was a lot more desolate than anyone could recall when they finally scuttled the Troubadour and went their separate ways.
A few months later…
In the moonless night, Captain Jack Sparrow sensed the danger behind him and spun round. The firearm in his hand spat fire. There was a muffled cry as his would-be killer fell down and over the parapet into the churning waves below. "Thanks, da." Jack stuck the pistol into his sash and checked to make sure the letters he came to steal were still safe in his vest.
Cotton's bird squawked overhead. That was the signal they had distracted the sentries. He ran for the now-unguarded gate and freedom.