Captain Jack Sparrow first heard of the treasure of Cortéz in Tortuga.
It seemed that all his adventures began there, somehow. He had, of course,
been skeptical. After all, it was a ghost story. But it was also treasure,
and, well- no self-respecting pirate could resist the lure of gold. The
Black Pearl set sail for Isle de Muerta immediately.
The Captain stood in the crow's nest, surveying his ship. He noticed his first mate, Barbossa, looking back at him. Sparrow raised one eyebrow inquiringly, and Barbossa turned away, scowling. Then Sparrow's gaze fell on Bootstrap Bill. A fine lad he was, strong and dependable. Not bad- looking, either. He didn't have any missing eyes, limbs, or brain cells like most other crew members. Sparrow made a mental note to have an intimate conversation with him later. The captain made sure he always knew the exact qualities of his crew, in detail. Particularly the pretty ones.
"Captain, we're almost out of supplies," called Jacoby from below. Jack grabbed a rope and swung down, narrowly missing Ragetti's head.
"Sorry there, mate. We don't want that eye of yours to land in the evenin' stew again, now do we?" Jack turned to Jacoby. "Almost out, ye say? We just stocked up in Tortuga. Even this crew couldn't down that many vittles in three days."
Jacoby shrugged innocently. "Why don't ye go down and look for yerself, if you don't trust me word?" He gestured toward the galley.
Captain Jack Sparrow had not been born yesterday. Or the day before that. He was thirty-six years old. He knew when he was about to walk into a trap. And walk he did, with a jaunty swagger to his step and a hand on his sword hilt. He did not, however, get very far.
Jack's view of the galley was obstructed by the barrel of a gun and Katracho, in that order.
"That's not loaded, is it?" asked Jack, examining what he could see of the pistol. "It's rather difficult to tell from this angle. Would you mind moving it over a bit?"
Katracho bared his brownish-yellow teeth menacingly. Jack decided that meant "no." It seemed as if checking the supplies was no longer an option.
Barbossa appeared next to Katracho. "We've made a decision, mate."
"It's Captain."
Barbossa laughed derisively. "No, mate. You ain't captain no longer. That's the decision we've made. I'm captain now."
"That wasn't part of the decision!" Bootstrap exclaimed. A few other members of the crew muttered among themselves, but no one else spoke up. Bootstrap jumped from the upper deck. Barbossa gave him a measuring look.
"Who did you think was going to take charge of the Pearl, Bill?" asked Barbossa, advancing on the young man slowly. "Going to apply for the job, were you? Think you could handle it?"
"No, but-"
"But what?" Barbossa's eye gleamed dangerously. "Are you arguing with me?"
Bootstrap backed away. It was clear who would prevail if it came to steel, and he had no one to back him up. "No. Captain."
Barbossa turned away, satisfied. "Now what should we do with this mangy cur, men?"
Suggestions rang out from the assembled group.
"Feed 'im to the sharks!"
"String 'im up in the rigging!"
"Cook 'im up for dinner!"
Barbossa shook his head. "That's too quick for the scum. Let's promote him to guv'nor of his own land. That land!" He pointed to an island on the horizon and smiled wickedly.
"Now wait just a moment, gents," cut in Jack. "I don't remember giving up nor surrendering."
"You're going to take on the lot of us?" asked Barbossa smoothly.
"Well, if you'll compare it to the alternative," Jack pointed out. "Not much of a choice now, is it?" And with that, he drew his cutlass and proceeded to combat the worst odds he had ever faced.
The battle did not last long. Jack was a good swordsman, but he wasn't good enough to defeat an entire crew, even though he had taught most of them all they knew. Or so he liked to think.
Jack stood on the plank, examining the gun he had just been handed. It had one shot, just as he had known it would. He already knew what he would use it for.
"You going to jump, or just stand there all day?" asked a voice from the throng. Jack gave the general area a cold glare. If he was going to be deprived of his position, his weapons and his ship, they could stand to be deprived of a little time for his dramatic departure.
"Gents," he announced loudly, removing his hat and placing it to his chest, "I sincerely hope that you find a good place to hide. Because if you don't, I mourn for you." And with that, he turned and dove, cleanly cutting into the water's surface.
Twenty minutes later, Jack Sparrow waded through the shallow water onto the island. It only took another twenty minutes to explore his entire domain. There were a few trees littered about, and he headed toward a cluster with the vague idea of looking for food. His attention was abruptly diverted from food, however, by a sharp pain in his toe. After uttering several of the more interesting bits of his vocabulary, he bent down to investigate the source of the injury. It was a trapdoor.
"That's interesting," he murmured and swung it open.
Ah, heaven. Rum.
Three days later, Captain Sack Jarrow noticed a large pink bubble just on the edge of his vision. He considered turning his head, but it was too heavy. That was strange. It had been extremely light just a few minutes before. Oh, well. He took another swig.
"He's dead."
"No he's not, just unconscious."
"And he should be! Look at all these empty bottles!"
"Should we leave him here?"
"No, he'll wake up and finish off our supply. Bloody pirate."
Captain Jack Sparrow, thought Jack. He tried to say it, but his tongue refused to cooperate.
"Ah well, load him aboard. Maybe we can get a reward for the bloke in Port Royal."
"Wait till he wakes up and make him pay for this. You realize how much rum he drank? I found another cache of empty bottles across the island."
Jack's tongue finally flopped into place. He said the only thing that made sense at the moment. "More rum!"
"He's awake."
Jack blinked his eyes open. "More rum!" he repeated insistently.
"Oh no, you don't," said a swarthy man, removing the half-drunk bottle from Jack's hand. "You've singlehandedly drunk nearly a quarter of our stash already, you greedy scallywag!"
Jack groaned. His head hurt, and in his experience, that meant he wasn't drunk enough. Several pairs of arms lifted him onto a boat. After a quick examination of his immediate surroundings, and finding no alcoholic beverages in the vicinity, Jack groaned and slumped back down.
Something was digging into his thigh. It was the pistol. The last thing Barbossa would ever see. Jack would make sure of that. But there were other, more pressing matters to consider. Such as the whereabouts of the rum.
The Captain stood in the crow's nest, surveying his ship. He noticed his first mate, Barbossa, looking back at him. Sparrow raised one eyebrow inquiringly, and Barbossa turned away, scowling. Then Sparrow's gaze fell on Bootstrap Bill. A fine lad he was, strong and dependable. Not bad- looking, either. He didn't have any missing eyes, limbs, or brain cells like most other crew members. Sparrow made a mental note to have an intimate conversation with him later. The captain made sure he always knew the exact qualities of his crew, in detail. Particularly the pretty ones.
"Captain, we're almost out of supplies," called Jacoby from below. Jack grabbed a rope and swung down, narrowly missing Ragetti's head.
"Sorry there, mate. We don't want that eye of yours to land in the evenin' stew again, now do we?" Jack turned to Jacoby. "Almost out, ye say? We just stocked up in Tortuga. Even this crew couldn't down that many vittles in three days."
Jacoby shrugged innocently. "Why don't ye go down and look for yerself, if you don't trust me word?" He gestured toward the galley.
Captain Jack Sparrow had not been born yesterday. Or the day before that. He was thirty-six years old. He knew when he was about to walk into a trap. And walk he did, with a jaunty swagger to his step and a hand on his sword hilt. He did not, however, get very far.
Jack's view of the galley was obstructed by the barrel of a gun and Katracho, in that order.
"That's not loaded, is it?" asked Jack, examining what he could see of the pistol. "It's rather difficult to tell from this angle. Would you mind moving it over a bit?"
Katracho bared his brownish-yellow teeth menacingly. Jack decided that meant "no." It seemed as if checking the supplies was no longer an option.
Barbossa appeared next to Katracho. "We've made a decision, mate."
"It's Captain."
Barbossa laughed derisively. "No, mate. You ain't captain no longer. That's the decision we've made. I'm captain now."
"That wasn't part of the decision!" Bootstrap exclaimed. A few other members of the crew muttered among themselves, but no one else spoke up. Bootstrap jumped from the upper deck. Barbossa gave him a measuring look.
"Who did you think was going to take charge of the Pearl, Bill?" asked Barbossa, advancing on the young man slowly. "Going to apply for the job, were you? Think you could handle it?"
"No, but-"
"But what?" Barbossa's eye gleamed dangerously. "Are you arguing with me?"
Bootstrap backed away. It was clear who would prevail if it came to steel, and he had no one to back him up. "No. Captain."
Barbossa turned away, satisfied. "Now what should we do with this mangy cur, men?"
Suggestions rang out from the assembled group.
"Feed 'im to the sharks!"
"String 'im up in the rigging!"
"Cook 'im up for dinner!"
Barbossa shook his head. "That's too quick for the scum. Let's promote him to guv'nor of his own land. That land!" He pointed to an island on the horizon and smiled wickedly.
"Now wait just a moment, gents," cut in Jack. "I don't remember giving up nor surrendering."
"You're going to take on the lot of us?" asked Barbossa smoothly.
"Well, if you'll compare it to the alternative," Jack pointed out. "Not much of a choice now, is it?" And with that, he drew his cutlass and proceeded to combat the worst odds he had ever faced.
The battle did not last long. Jack was a good swordsman, but he wasn't good enough to defeat an entire crew, even though he had taught most of them all they knew. Or so he liked to think.
Jack stood on the plank, examining the gun he had just been handed. It had one shot, just as he had known it would. He already knew what he would use it for.
"You going to jump, or just stand there all day?" asked a voice from the throng. Jack gave the general area a cold glare. If he was going to be deprived of his position, his weapons and his ship, they could stand to be deprived of a little time for his dramatic departure.
"Gents," he announced loudly, removing his hat and placing it to his chest, "I sincerely hope that you find a good place to hide. Because if you don't, I mourn for you." And with that, he turned and dove, cleanly cutting into the water's surface.
Twenty minutes later, Jack Sparrow waded through the shallow water onto the island. It only took another twenty minutes to explore his entire domain. There were a few trees littered about, and he headed toward a cluster with the vague idea of looking for food. His attention was abruptly diverted from food, however, by a sharp pain in his toe. After uttering several of the more interesting bits of his vocabulary, he bent down to investigate the source of the injury. It was a trapdoor.
"That's interesting," he murmured and swung it open.
Ah, heaven. Rum.
Three days later, Captain Sack Jarrow noticed a large pink bubble just on the edge of his vision. He considered turning his head, but it was too heavy. That was strange. It had been extremely light just a few minutes before. Oh, well. He took another swig.
"He's dead."
"No he's not, just unconscious."
"And he should be! Look at all these empty bottles!"
"Should we leave him here?"
"No, he'll wake up and finish off our supply. Bloody pirate."
Captain Jack Sparrow, thought Jack. He tried to say it, but his tongue refused to cooperate.
"Ah well, load him aboard. Maybe we can get a reward for the bloke in Port Royal."
"Wait till he wakes up and make him pay for this. You realize how much rum he drank? I found another cache of empty bottles across the island."
Jack's tongue finally flopped into place. He said the only thing that made sense at the moment. "More rum!"
"He's awake."
Jack blinked his eyes open. "More rum!" he repeated insistently.
"Oh no, you don't," said a swarthy man, removing the half-drunk bottle from Jack's hand. "You've singlehandedly drunk nearly a quarter of our stash already, you greedy scallywag!"
Jack groaned. His head hurt, and in his experience, that meant he wasn't drunk enough. Several pairs of arms lifted him onto a boat. After a quick examination of his immediate surroundings, and finding no alcoholic beverages in the vicinity, Jack groaned and slumped back down.
Something was digging into his thigh. It was the pistol. The last thing Barbossa would ever see. Jack would make sure of that. But there were other, more pressing matters to consider. Such as the whereabouts of the rum.