Disclaimer: Pretty standard if you catch my drift. I, the author, am just borrowing these characters without permission, with all intentions of returning them. Nor do I own the lyrics to Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves. So get off my case and go sue somebody else. I hear the doughnut shop is a good place to start. Pirates of the Caribbean ® All rights reserved, Disney 2002-03.

Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

Chapter One- The Start of It All

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I was born in the wagon of a travelin' show, my mama used to dance for the money they'd throw.
Papa would do whatever he could; preach a little gospel, sell a couple bottles of Doctor Good….

When a new baby is born, they are born into a family; a collage of colorful backgrounds and heritage's, an extension of an existing generation that spans far longer than the life of the stars. When the baby is born unto wealthy nobles, they are born into high society complete with riches, money and servants who heed your every call. Borne with a silver spoon in their mouth, my mama called it. Everything is handed to them on a silver platter.

People say a baby is born into something the day they arrive; some are born doctors, lawyers or even military men. Most of the women are born to be wives and nothing else.

When the baby is born to a peasant family, they are looked down upon, shunned. And it's these children who are born as thieves, scoundrels and pirates. Mama used to tell me stories of such legends and I'd eagerly listen to her every word; but I can't help but to disagree with the ones who say a child is born into their every day occupation. A child is born as that- an innocent baby who needs guidance and a loving hand. They aren't born into what they become; they are made.

I hear the whispers of the town's people, the rumors that are spoken behind our backs. Gypsies some call us- perhaps because of our looks. A lot of the womenfolk call us tramps because we dance for our money. A better way to make a living than sleeping around, if you ask me. And almost everyone sees us as thieves. Not all of my people steal from the crowd while they watch the women dance; my family is honest and their honor is more sacred than the money they make.

I've learned to hate the names we have been given and loath people who dare call us such things. A wise man once told me that we could not change what we are, but that we could only better perfect who we were on the inside. But a chance meeting with a young man taught me better. I remember that meeting like it was yesterday; this is our story…

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Jack tripped over the gangplank and landed roughly on the dock, a sliver of wood digging under his skin as a nearby crate fell into the water with a splash. Brushing the slight pain away, he stood and dusted himself off. Turning, he waved nonchalantly to several men making up a mixed crew of a rumrunner's ship. One man spat in the water before turning his back and the others followed his actions as the ship slowly began to leave the dock.

Shrugging, Jack struck out along the familiar paths of his favorite haunting grounds: Tortuga. He breathed in the foul air, choking a bit before heading to the nearest tavern. He swaggered down the dock, his gaze watching the hustle about the port.

"'Old up there!" A rough voice called after him, but Jack kept walking, ignoring the shouts from behind. A hand finally grasped his arm and he turned to see a scraggly man standing there, "Ye owe me a new crate lad, ye knocked me other one into th' water."

Jack made a face and looked over the man's shoulder to see a few crates knocked over and broken. "I'm terribly sorry and if I see another crate around, I'll be sure to let you know," Jack quipped with a pat to the man's shoulder as he turned to leave.

"Ye ain't goin' 'till I get m' crate."

Jack pried the fingers of the man from his arm adding, "I'll be goin' when I want to, and oh look! That time would be now, so ta!" He stamped the heel of his boot down on the other man's toe before turning and running down the dock, the fisherman shouting and cursing after him.

He ran through the street knocking over a fruit stand in his process as he rounded a building and headed down an alleyway. Slowing to catch his breath, Jack straightened his hat and coat and re-entered the crowded streets of Tortuga, an innocent grin on his face. Relaxing a bit, he began to whistle as he continued his way toward the tavern, his eyes keeping a watch out for trouble.

From the corner of his eye he saw an older man approach him, a flask in his hand. The older man took a pace beside Jack, the two walking in silence. Finally the man broke the quiet. "I sees what ye did down at the pier. Ain't no one ev'r got th' best o' ole' John like ye did."

Jack stopped and quirked an eyebrow. He sized the man up, his lips turning into a frown at what he saw. The man was a good 10 years or more Jack's senior and obviously a drunk as he watched him down the contents in the flask. His oily hair was gray with time and his scraggly beard was close behind. His clothes were wrinkled and stained, as was his tanned face, the signs of being weathered aged written all over him.

The old man spit in the palm of his hand before wiping it on his breeches and holding it out to Jack. "The name's Gibbs, but ev'ryone just calls me Gibbs."

Jack couldn't help the small smile that came to his lips, but it quickly disappeared as he looked at Gibb's grimy hand. "I'm happy for you, now go away, you're bothering me," Jack stated as he started to walk away.

"I knows who ye are," Gibbs called after him. "Ye be that Sparrow fella that was 'ere last week askin' 'bout the Isle de Muerta."

Stopping in his tracks, Jack slowly turned on his heel and gazed at Gibb's, his dark eyes wandering the crowd to see if anyone was paying attention to them. Taking a couple steps over to Gibb's, Jack eyed him and asked, "You look familiar. Do I know you?"

Gibbs shook his head. "Ye was in me tavern th' last time ye made port. Started a fight ye did and broke one o' me favorite flasks."

Jack looked at him bewildered. "Oh yes," he nodded. "Now I remember. Terribly sorry about that mate, now back to the real point. You have a tavern?"

Gibb's scrunched his nose. "Aye that I do. C'mon, I'll buy ye a drink," he offered as he walked past Jack and headed across the street.

"Much obliged."

The two walked in silence before Jack asked, "So do you know anything of the dreaded Isle de Muerta, Gibbsy?"

"It's Gibbs," Gibbs corrected. "And other than it bein' cursed, no. 'Tis been only a week into your journey, why ye back so soon?"

There was no answer from Jack and Gibbs turned to see that he had lost the pirate captain. Squinting through the crowd, he picked out Jack's hat and made his way to him. Sidling up beside him, Gibbs stood on his toes to look over the heads of the people in front of him, a frown coming to his features.

"Those be gypsies, nothin' but trouble th' lot o' them," Gibbs muttered.

Jack raised a brow at this, but ignored the comment. He watched the small group of women in the middle of circle dance, a few of the closer men tossing some coins into a hat at one woman's feet. Lifting his gaze, he traveled the length of a pair of brown legs that hid underneath a white skirt to a matching shirt that was cut rather low until finally he ended his search at her face.

He was rather surprised to see how young she was, a girl barely the age of 18 if not younger. Jack watched her fervently, his vigil being startled as the girl suddenly tilted her head catching his gaze, the two sets of eyes locking on one another and a smile appearing on her face. Jack was hooked.

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A/N: Just a quick little something I've had rolling in my head for a while now. I'm sure this story has been done before, but this contains a little twist. It of course starts out right after Jack was marooned and picked up by the rumrunners and will gradually taper off over the ten years Jack is ship-less up until the point of the movie and then to it's end. Kinda hard to explain, but if you'll stick around, you'll see what I mean. Enjoy!

-J