Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. The original plots and characters are owned by me.
A/N: Many thanks to Freedom of the Seas, beta extraordinaire!
The Borrower and the Lender
"Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Amidst the bustle of Market Day, Jack Sparrow stood outside a shop on Lemon Street in Truro. The young girl at his side nearly danced on her toes as she gazed at the shop window.
"Isn't it lovely? It's the loveliest thing ever!" she exclaimed. "Father says now I'm ten, I'm old enough – I couldn't wait to show you!"
He rolled his eyes. "Ten is not old enough, and I shall have a word with Captain Harry at once. You've put one over on him, you have!" Hopefully, her father's judgment would prevail, and Jack could avoid a crisis he had dreaded for weeks.
"I want it," declared the girl. Her dark blue eyes flashed at him with steely determination.
Perhaps it was time for a different tactic. "Tell you what: let's go in and have a word with the proprietor. You need to be sure it's worth the price, and I'm just the one to tell you if it is; I know everything there is to know about scimitars. This is a dealer in antiquities, not a proper armourer, and it's likely to be some rubbish brought back as a memento – or even a stage sword." His face wrinkled with disgust.
She considered this for a moment, but then challenged him. "Then let's go in now. I've already waited six months."
Jack sighed. Stubborn lass, young Nina. "Right, Brat, we'll have a look."
He ushered her into the shop. There was still a chance; he had only to find some fatal flaw in the scimitar that would knock the proposed purchase on its head. That would forestall embarrassing questions about certain monies he owed her.
As the antique weapon was brought out for inspection, the Brat's face glowed with delight. Jack frowned and concentrated on the scimitar. But despite his most critical eye, it was clearly of superior workmanship; well-balanced, strong yet light, and in exceptional condition.
"An excellent value at five guineas," said the proprietor to the pair of unlikely-looking purchasers.
"We'll let you know." Jack took the Brat's arm and steered her quickly out of the shop.
"Why are we leaving?" she demanded, twisting around in his grip.
He snorted. "Five guineas? It's outrageous – you haven't got that sort of coin."
"Of course I do," she argued. "Don't you remember? I lent you everything I had saved the last time you and your father visited. You said you only needed it for a bit because you couldn't tell him about –"
"Right you are; I do recall our arrangement." Jack hastily interrupted her, cringing inwardly at the reminder. "But since then, complications have arisen, and . . . the truth is, I'm well and truly skint, love. I haven't a farthing."
He exhaled a sigh of relief. This long-avoided confession would finally clear the air. Once she calmed down, the Brat would have to accept that he couldn't repay what he hadn't got.
He waited for an angry outburst, but none came. Instead, her shoulders drooped and she looked back longingly towards the shop, saying nothing. Jack could read the intensity of her disappointment. He turned his eyes skyward, fervently hoping there would be no tears.
After a pause, she lifted her chin and said, "You couldn't help it; it's all right." Her tone was subdued and a little forced.
By this time they had walked as far as the inn where they were to hire a horse for their journey to Penzance. They spoke with a stable boy, who disappeared in search of a suitable mount.
As they waited, Jack felt unaccustomed promptings of conscience. He glanced down at the Brat. "Look here, mouse, I'll make good on it. Promise."
She nodded, and forced something resembling a smile, but did not turn to look at him, as the boy returned with a chestnut mare.
"Anyway," he added in darkly conspiratorial tones, "You're not going home yet. We've to deal with the P's first, and then we'll sort out the rest of it."
Drawing himself up with a bold air, he turned to the stable boy. "That would be P for pirates, lad." Then he turned a sharp eye upon the mare. At least sixteen years old by the look of her, and shifting her weight off her right foreleg.
He turned to the stable boy. "That horse won't do, mate. We need one that won't be going lame in half a mile. Let me find the innkeeper." With a flourish of his wrist, he swaggered into the inn.
In Jack's absence, the stable boy stole curious looks at the girl. A boy in his brother's clothes? he wondered. Looks like a lass if ye goes by 'ur face an' hair, but why is she in boy's fligs? At least we won't need no side-saddle.
He had just decided that she was indeed a girl, and that he quite fancied the trancelike way she sat staring absently into the distance, when suddenly the Brat spoke in a small, polite voice.
"Actually, it's P for parents," she told the boy, smiling apologetically. "Only he doesn't like anyone knowing." The boy grinned back at her.
Jack's negotiations with the innkeeper produced a strong, roan gelding that jogged along the rugged path comfortably with the two travelers upon his broad back. For some time they rode in silence, Jack wondering how to find the five guineas to repay his debt. Asking his father was out of the question, and the work he was starting to do for the East India Trading Company brought less than three pounds each month. That left piracy or a substantial run of luck at cards. As he mulled over these options, the Brat began to enquire about their current venture.
"Do you think the P's have bought the cutter yet?" she asked him. "Perhaps they'll let us name it."
He sighed. At eighteen years of age, the purchase of a ship was hardly that exciting to him any longer. "I expect they've got the cutter well in hand by now. And it's 'perhaps they'll let us name her', not 'it'."
"Do you know why they want it – her?"
He chuckled. "No idea, love. My dad got a message from your dad, and told me were needed in Penzance. Then I find your dad's got his eye on a cutter and we're to help sail her back to Pencarren. Then I'd to collect you, Miss Trouble. For all I know, the P's suddenly fancy a change and are now planning to follow the old trade."
"Smuggling?" The surprise in her voice made him grin. She was too young to know when he was joking. "They can't! Father has too many messenger commissions – there's no time for anything else lately."
Not to mention that the last thing Jack could imagine was Captain Harry Bitter taking to the smuggler's trade. Oh, he had the necessary boldness and sense of adventure. But smuggling would be dull indeed compared to his work as a King's Messenger.
It was well after dark by the time they reached Penzance. They dismounted at the Turk's Head Inn, and handed over the weary horse, with instructions and payment for returning their mount to Truro. Then they made their way into the dimly lit, low-ceilinged taproom and looked about for Teague and Bitter.
There were all manner of customers to be seen that night, from farmers to bailiffs to seafaring men in rough clothes. Jack and the Brat scanned the noisy, smoky room several times before they saw a tall, lean figure beckoning them over the heads of the other customers.
Jack grabbed the Brat's hand, speaking loudly enough for her to hear over the noise. "I see your dad!" Pushing their way through the crowd, they crossed the room to the table occupied by Teague and Bitter at one of the private curtained booths that lined a wall of the taproom.
Captain Harry welcomed his daughter at once. "Ah. . . here's my Nina, at last!" he exclaimed, with a brilliant smile and a kiss for his only child. Jack thought the Brat's widowed father looked well, though older. His chiseled, angular face still managed to show traces of humour and kindliness about his mouth and in the fine crow's feet at the corners of his slate-grey eyes. His thick hair was the ashy blonde colour that seemed to run in the Bitter family, but now a silver hair or two marked the advance of the years. Still, he carried himself with a combination of grace and purposeful energy that belied his age.
"Delighted to see you safe," he continued. "I wasn't easy about the two of you travelling such rough country so late, though I know better than to doubt Jack's resourcefulness." He beckoned to one of the barmaids for more food and drink; then turned to Jack, extending his hand.
"Jack, glad to see you – good man," he said, and his voice had the ring and authority of a man long accustomed to leading others. "We've some work ahead of us tonight, so make sure you have a proper supper. The potato and sorrel pie is excellent with either the mutton or beef. How are you, lad?"
"Never better," answered Jack with a smile. Taking his seat, he nodded to his father. "Dad."
"Jacky," Teague returned the nod.
The long ride had given the two travelers hearty appetites, and once their supper arrived they lost no time devouring it. "Not so quick," cautioned Captain Harry. "We won't be setting out until a bit later, so take your time. The cutter is riding at anchor nearby, and we'll be leaving the inn through a passage near our table, to avoid attracting attention. Once we've weighed, Edward has worked out the watches."
Teague grunted and began to explain. "It'll take all of us to set the sails and take her out," he told them. "We'll have the pilot an' his boy with us. After that, we'll take four-hour watches in pairs. I'll take the first watch with you, Jacky; Harry and Nina can take the second. Four on, four off, right? When we near Pencarren, we'll need everyone handin' the sails and bringin' her in." He tapped his finger on his cheek. "Keep a weather eye. Any problems and it's all hands on deck."
Jack sought for means to avoid a long wait under his father's watchful gaze."I could just go have a look at her provisions – make sure she's shipshape."
"Belay that," growled Teague. "She's been fitted out, rigged, provisioned and inspected. Ready to go out of harbour. Patience, boy; we'll be off soon enough."
After perhaps half an hour, the innkeeper approached their table and began to wipe it clean with a rag. As he did so, he nodded once to Teague and handed him an unused taper. Lighting this from the candle on the table, Teague rose from his chair and moved quietly to a nearby door, followed by Bitter, Jack and Nina. On the other side of the door, they entered a windowless passage lit only by the flame of their taper.
They walked in silence for some time, as the passage seemed to gradually descend. At last, the faint sounds of lapping water, the creak of wooden hulls and the salty, damp smell of the air indicated that they were about to emerge at the harbour. Teague led them from the tunnel to a small boat on the shingle, where the pilot and his boy waited to take them out to the ship.
Jack watched the pilot approach the Brat's father, who deposited a few coins in his palm. "No questions," Bitter said firmly. The pilot nodded; he and the boy climbed into their boat and rowed the small group out to the cutter.
Once on board, the pilot took the helm as Teague directed Jack and the others in hoisting and setting the sails. The cutter slipped her cable and made for the harbour entrance. As the ship cleared the harbour, the pilot and his boy boarded their small boat again, and were soon rowing back to shore.
Jack sauntered over to Captain Harry, who was making sure the lines were properly stowed. "Did Nina show you the scimitar she wants in Truro?" inquired Bitter.
"Aye," replied Jack, with hesitation in his voice, "but – I'm havin' a thought here – perhaps she's a bit young for it yet." He tried a concerned look.
"Nonsense, the sooner the better," Bitter responded, adding "Do you know, every year I've given her a half-guinea on her birthday to do with as she pleases. She's put all of them by so that she can purchase her own sword. Rather fine of her, I thought." He smiled with fatherly pride.
Jack winced, but quickly adjusted his features to seem pleased.
"You know," Bitter continued, "She's already learned to clean, load and fire a pistol. She's demonstrated the maturity to begin learning more skills. Why," he added with some exasperation, "If she were a lad, we wouldn't even be having this discussion."
Jack managed a tight smile. If I had the bloody five guineas we wouldn't be havin' it either, he thought.
Finished with his task, Captain Harry made his way to the hatchway and went below, leaving Jack with his problem unsolved. Avoiding Teague, who would have the helm for another hour or so, Jack made his way towards the bowsprit, and sat on the lee side of the deck, his back against the hull.
It was just past midsummer, and they were sailing under a full moon. In spite of the late hour, the night sky was suffused with a soft, deep shade of ultramarine that made the moon appear slightly golden, with traces of rose marking its round countenance. The weather was fine and the night clear. Jack sighed. What a shame to waste a night like this! It was made for romance. Romance and rum. Yet he was in the company of the P's and a vexing ten-year old to whom he owed money. Unhappily, this last reflection brought him round to his original problem. How was he to get the five guineas he had promised the Brat?
The journey to Pencarren took all of the following day and, late that afternoon, Teague announced that he expected to make port during the First Watch that evening. Jack made a mental calculation to assure himself that the rum supply, if not the wine, would easily last until their arrival.
Just at that moment, Captain Harry emerged from below deck with an unopened bottle which he handed to Jack. "That's the last of the Madeira," he said. "If you fancy a drink of wine, you'll have to deal with the cork. Looks like they pushed the stopper down too far, and now the neck's sealed with a bit too much cement. Fortunately, we're almost home."
Although he vastly preferred rum to wine, Jack took the bottle and saw at once that it would take some time to get it open. He had almost handed it back when inspiration struck. "I'll see to it," he remarked casually.
As soon as Captain Harry turned away and started towards the stern, Jack hurried forward to see if Fate had provided a way out of his debt. He found the Brat where she had crawled out on the bowsprit in order to stare down at the waves breaking across the cutter's bow.
"Oi! Brat!" he called out cheerfully. "I've something new to teach you; it's called wagering. You'll love it!" He quickly explained the principles of this intriguing pursuit, then got down to its precise exercise.
"We'll have a proper wager," Jack said grandly, waving the bottle at her. "If I can climb to the top of the mast and back down before you can open this bottle, I win and I no longer owe you five guineas. If you open the bottle before I reach the deck, then you win – and I still owe you the five guineas, savvy?"
She narrowed her eyes at this proposition. "That's not fair. It's only what you owe me now. If I win, you should owe me five more guineas. Double."
Jack cleared his throat. "Of course! That was me testin' you. Now I know you've got it sorted and you're ready to have a go." He smiled with an effort, and spread his hands. "Make your conditions, love."
She gave him a suspicious look, but then put her active mind to work. "You'll climb the mast? Just the mast? You won't touch the ratlines? Footropes? Yards? Any lines or ropes at all? You'll climb all the way up and all the way down? No jumping down to the deck?"
"Naturally!" Jack laid his hand over his heart. "I'm deeply wounded you think I'd cheat you, darlin'. Quite dreadful what's become of the innocence of youth these days!"
She thought a bit more, adding, "You're to climb where I can see you."
"Agreed! And you're to open the bottle on deck. Without help from the P's."
"Do you care if any of the drink is spilt? I can use anything I like as long as I open it myself?" she asked, making sure of the terms of their wager.
"Use any way you like, and spill what you must; I only require that it be open," he told her. "Are you ready?"
"Wait a bit," she said, trotting off quickly and disappearing below deck. In a few moments, he saw her emerge from the hatchway and approach him, the pockets of her breeches looking somewhat lumpy. "I'm ready," she announced.
They stood at the foot of the mast, and on her count of three, Jack began rapidly climbing. As he ascended, he glanced down to check her progress with the bottle. She was kneeling on the deck and he could see her pull a thin rope and something like a small block pulley from her pockets. She threaded the rope through the pulley, as if putting a bit of tackle together. "Unusual," thought Jack, frowning as he continued on his way up.
The next time he looked down, she was holding the block in the cone-like hollow in the base of the bottle. Looping one end of the rope about the neck, she made a sort of harness for the bottle, leaving about six feet of rope unused. Jack knitted his brows, trying to guess what she was up to.
When he reached the top of the mast, he looked down once more, and this time he watched as the Brat rose to her feet and, holding the loose end of the rope, began swinging the bottle in a great circle. Jack's eyes flashed with the sudden realisation that he was about to lose the wager, as she smashed the bottle against the mast and shards of green glass flew everywhere. She jumped backwards with a high-pitched scream, holding up her arms for protection, and then looked straight up the mast at him. "It's open! I've won!" she cried out, exulting.
Jack sighed dejectedly, and turned his gaze to the horizon. At first, the oddness of the sight before him failed to register. From the top of the mast, he could just see over the small point of land that concealed an inlet near Highcliffe House. He found himself staring at a very large, unfamiliar snow-brig, anchored stealthily in the inlet, where Jack had never before seen a vessel moored. Making a mental note to learn more about it once ashore in Pencarren, he descended the mast to find the Brat exuberantly celebrating her victory.
"I've won! I've won!" she shrieked, dancing about the deck. "I love wagering!"
Jack crossed his arms. "I can see I've trained you up too well," he called out, over the noise of her laughter.
"Right! That'll do!" roared Captain Harry, striding towards them. "Why is my deck covered with dangerous broken glass, and who replaced my daughter with this wild, dancing monkey?" he said to the Brat.
She subsided at once. "I'm sorry, father. I . . . I lost my head," she assumed her most sweetly contrite look, to Jack's utter annoyance. "Please don't be angry. I'll clean it up myself, and I promise not to be so wayward again."
"Indeed you shall clean it up. I thought you were past these sorts of antics. And as for you," Captain Harry said as he turned to Jack, "Perhaps you could try to repay my trust in you by providing a modicum of mature guidance?"
"Aye, sir," Jack mumbled apologetically, relieved that Captain Harry did not seem inclined to enquire too closely into the situation. As Jack watched him make his way back to the helm, he heard a quiet voice at his side.
"Ten guineas," the Brat said, under her breath.
Next: Jack learns more of the snow-brig, and an opportunity presents itself.