Twenty-one Years Ago
Singapore
"Boy. Boy!" Lieutenant Henry Alberich bellowed, grunting at the effort. He placed his elbow on the counter while he waited, sighing into the hot, bustling area. The laughter and conversations of his friends in the dining area echoed back to him, reminding him every second these cheap, flea-bitten urchins kept him here, he was not there. England's kitchen boys knew their place. This group that sailed with them to Singapore for work left much to be desired. Tapping his nails on the counter, he snorted.
"What can I do you for?" the lad asked, ever amiable and calm, no matter the commotion behind him. Jack, this one, and the only reason he ever remembered was because this was the boy that, after every time he served him, would add some audacious, "tell your friends Jack Sparrow made that scrapple" or some similar remark.
"This tart is undercooked," Alberich said. "Did you make it?" He slid the blueberry tart across the counter where Jack picked it up and looked it over.
"Not my doing, mate." Always "mate" and never "sir," Alberich noted with a sneer. "I'll see what I can scrounge up, eh?"
"'Scrounge up'? You're going to make another one and bring it out to me without charging me."
"Oy! No charge, but foreman says we're to start on supper. There should be a fresh lot over on the rack over there..." Alberich gripped the edges of the counter to keep from climbing over it and strangling him.
"I don't care what your foreman says, Sparrow! I swear, the Navy's one mistake was hiring civilians to come out to Singapore and plague us with their incompetence. Your foreman may give you the day to day orders, but one word from me to the admiral and you and your mother are on the next ship back to whatever rat hole you crawled out of. Is that clear?"
"Yep! Fresh lot, just as I said." Jack scurried over to a rack, past some steam curling up from boiling pots. He disappeared from view and, like magic, popped out right behind the counter again. A tart on a new plate set between them.
"I'll just sample this one if you don't mind."
"You do that, mate. Tarts don't usually mind sampling out here and there."
After rolling the bitten-off piece in his mouth, he chewed it up and swallowed, his suspicious eyebrows and mouth loosening into smug contentment.
"A hundred times better than the last one."
"Glad it meets your criteria. Overhearing you and your esteemed colleagues, I'd wager you know everything there is to know about tarts."
"Everything about tarts?"
"Oh, yes. Ye see," Jack began, his hands coming up to gesture the way most Italian trash gestured. They'd come from Italy, he knew, but the boy was as English...lowbrow English, as the rest of them aside from his gestures. "Nothing's worse than a frigid tart, like the one you returned here." He tapped it against the counter. "Solid as a rock. No way to penetrate it. Now, maybe an undercooked tart's worse, but I doubt it. At least they seem to want to be eaten, if ye get my drift. The one you've got now, that's high quality tart, mate. Guaranteed to satisfy. I could put some more sugar on it if you're the sort that spares no expense, but you wanted this one for free, you said. Savor it, mate. They don't typically like giving something for nothing."
Alberich glared down at the tart and then back up at Jack. Shaking his head, he squared his shoulders, only able to mutter, "Guttersnipe." He turned with an about-face and began to march back to his table.
"Oh, Lieutenant, on a serious note." The pause was meant for him to turn back around. This should be rich, he thought.
"Ye might want to show a little more gratitude to those who prepare your food."
Alberich stomped back to the counter.
"Are you threatening me?" he growled.
"No, mate. It's just a shaky world in here." Jack's fingers fluttered up into the air for effect. "Who knows what may happen between the bowl and the oven, and from the oven to your mouth, hmm? Enjoy that tart, mate."
From the corner of his eye, Alberich saw no other officers close to the doorway. In a split second, his gripped the boy's shirt and hurled him into the racks. A short, shrill cry when his back collided right into the metal corners made him long to do it again. Jack scrambled to his feet, his boots spreading some flour around on the floor. The other boys came into view. Two bent down to help while the other two stood there, knowing immediately what had happened. Let them know, Alberich thought, his chin jutting out. Take heed, mutts. Take heed.
Weeks went by and Alberich enjoyed his breakfasts and suppers and the occasional banquet in peace, hobnobbing with the most praised of his peers, privileged young men who were the latest in a long string of military legacies. Commodores and even the Admiral often sat in and shared stories of their past, giving generic advice before indulging the young officers in some grisly pirate battle. Sure the enlisted heard stories like that all the time, Alberich listened all the more intently, usually leaning forward in his chair, the maiming and bloodshed bodily trophies, proof the Navy dominated the seas and knew better than any pirate scum how to claim a ship for one's own.
He'd hobnobbed so well Captain Sheldon delegated the Admiral's birthday banquet down to him. "Nothing frilly or pretentious, but a feast is the tradition. I'll give you a menu for the cooks to prepare. You organize a few speeches and toasts, maybe some entertainment from the locals...shouldn't be at all difficult."
Entertainment in Singapore and speeches in ambitious young men came easy, Alberich had found, but he found himself gulping and sick to his stomach at the fact he would be depending on the kitchen boys.
"Look lively," he said for the thousandth time to one of the smaller ones. "Ducks don't roast themselves."
"Be bloody funny if they did," one of them said, the one slicing vegetables. Perhaps Jack had riled them up, he thought, his eyes widening. No less than a dozen sharp knives were in easy reach of just this one boy. He raised his hand when the boy moved, only to lower it when he saw the boy reaching for butter.
"How's these rolls look, sir?" another one asked him, waving a large basket under his nose.
"Quite adequate..."
"John."
"John. Go on out and start on the tablecloths now." He watched the boy place the basket down and mumble, "John! It's the simplest name there is! How do you forget it?" as he went. Everything was running with ship-like precision, Alberich thought, suddenly pacing the kitchen in search of Jack. He found him hunched over at the fireplace, stirring a cauldron.
"What have we here?" Alberich asked him with a detached professionalism, his hands behind his back.
"Soup."
"And is it about ready?"
"Almost."
"Sparrow," Alberich coughed. "This is an important night for everyone here. You have the chance to show the Admiral the extent of your abilities, as do I. So if any thoughts crossed your mind about sabotaging it in order to make me look bad..."
"It had crossed my mind."
The unreadable expression plastered on Jack's face gave Alberich a shiver. Not once did he look up from the stirring, nor did he display any of the gall he most likely called charm.
"Good."
"Don't you want to know why I changed my mind?" Jack asked, setting the wooden spoon aside and collecting the bowls on the counter next to him. "I realized the Admiral has a lot on his plate. Now, don't get too addled, Alberich. These are bowls I'm holding, not plates, and I'm not meaning literally."
"I'd guessed that," Alberich snapped.
"Just wanting to make sure all this kitchen business isn't flying over your head. As I was saying, the Admiral has his own affairs to see to and he's never done any wrong by me. In fact, the officers in general, while loud, lewd, and as a whole ungrateful, have never done me any personal offense...or threatened my mum and me."
"A sensible conclusion. These are good men, Sparrow."
"They are, they are," he uttered, scooping some soup into the ladle. "You can test this if you like." He loomed over Alberich as he sampled the soup. "My back's feeling better, by the way."
"Is it? Grand."
"You should be going to your seat now," Jack said, setting the ready bowls of soup on a tray. "Don't want to keep good men waiting."
The night had just began, but Alberich still breathed a sigh of relief at just how, how splendidly it all was going. Everyone had found their places, the furls and flourishes all executed without fail, and even the local dancers had arrived early. Allowing himself to relax, he started up conversation with the lieutenant next to him while drinks and rolls were passed around the table. Topics varied as they always did, but roast duck kept cropping up again and again, the Admiral's favorite. When Jack appeared with two trays full of soup bowls, the officers groaned.
"No offense, just eager for the duck," the Admiral apologized, giving Jack a smile. No need to be so sheepish, Alberich thought. After serving the Admiral, Jack made his way down the table and placed a bowl of soup down in front of him. Making sure the Admiral had already dipped in his spoon, Alberich followed suit, inhaling so as to take in more of the beef broth aroma and something else he couldn't quite place. The rolls had only tantalized his appetite and he couldn't wait for more. The soup reached his lips...
"Good Lord, this tastes like piss!" he screamed, standing up in his chair, his napkin flying up to his face. Spitting and gagging, he made the mistake of looking down into the bowl. An unrelenting urge to retch came over him as he knelt over his chair. Waiting for the inevitable, his eyes darted around the room. Everyone else was still in their chairs, mouths opened in shock. Had they not tasted it? Couldn't they detect piss when they were near it? Meeting the Admiral's eyes last, he swallowed the spittal and phlegm that almost seeped out of him.
"Henry, are you all right?"
"The soup, sir! The soup!" he hissed, his voice already hoarse.
"It's delicious. Yours..." the Admiral trailed off, looking around the table for guidance. "I take it yours isn't."
"No, sir! Jack, the kitchen boy, sir, he's pissed in my soup!"
A few lieutenants and captains laughed, the Admiral unsure if he should. He sat there with a shocked expression, shifting his weight and interlocking his fingers in thought. Dabbing a few blotches on his uniform, Alberich scanned the room for Jack. Nowhere in sight, he noticed, turning redder by the second and trying not to lick his lips.
"I suppose, er, Henry, you oughtn't anger the people who make the food around here," the Admiral said, slowly, but with enough amusement to redden Alberich's face further. The officers' laughter increased and then immediately died down, dinner conversation erasing the incident from the evening.
It had taken a month, but it was going to be well worth it. Alberich stood against the wall next to the watchman, listening to the domestic, hurried sounds coming from the kitchen.
"Where are the garlic cloves?"
"Coming through here! Watch yourself!"
"These crackers shouldn't be stale already."
All a glorious overture, Alberich chuckled to himself. He spent the last month passing fellow officers who snickered and nicknamed him Pisser. It all died down, of course, but the stigma would remain. Even if he made it to admiral, there would scarcely be a banquet or party to attend where someone wouldn't bring it up. The Navy was smaller than people presumed. But now he'd have his revenge. A little suggestion here and there, growing friendly with some of the locals and having them recommend native dishes- it wrote itself, really. Right now, some fishermen were unloading their catch and imagining everything on which they could spend their newly acquired gold it had taken Alberich this long to save.
"Make way, make way," he heard a sarcastic voice from the kitchen.
"Bloody hell! What are those?"
"Eels. Ugly buggers, aren't they?"
"What we gonna make with eels?"
"Recipe's here," one of them said. Sounds of searching reached Alberich's ears. "Here it is. We saute it with the garlic and add white wine. Sounds simple."
Simple it may be, Alberich smirked. But entertaining as well.
"Jack, can you get that?"
Alberich grinned, folding his arms across his chest. He longed to stroll up to the counter and look in on the action, but was content to simply listen. He wouldn't have to see Jack go up to the fishermen. Somewhere he'd heard that only Jack had picked up enough of the language to deal with the locals, as if it were some magic skill that granted him equal standing with an officer. The same rotten blood that had coursed through his family's veins for generations that kept them insolent, for he'd heard the mother had quite the sharp tongue too, would keep them poor, keep Sparrow the same guttersnipe he was now.
A deep guttural scream followed by crashes and speedy footsteps echoed out to where Alberich stood.
"Son of a bitch!" he heard Jack wail.
"Kill it!"
"How'd they get a live one in here?"
"Never mind that. Kill it!"
Unable to hold it in any longer, Alberich unleashed a hearty laugh. He still held onto his sides when Jack burst through the door, clutching his limp upper arm. His white shirt sported splashes of blood, speckles of it on his hands. Teeth gritted, eyes cold and hard, he stomped up to him, wincing every other second from the wound.
"I'm sorry, did I anger the people who make my food again?" Alberich stuck out his arm to pinch the bite, only for Jack to rebuff him.
"Draw your sword," he coughed.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Draw your sword, you stupid, sycophantic whelp of a whore."
Alberich gazed down. Sure enough, the boy had a sword at his side.
"Where did you of all people get a sword?"
"I bought it," Jack said, giving him a dumbfounded expression. "Now draw. I trained with an expert, the best swordsman Sicily had to offer, before I came here and I know a dozen ways to make you look like a sliced sausage, so let's have at it."
Scoffing, Alberich found his hand unsheathing his sword and bringing it up to the clangy, shiny stick of a sword. He took the offensive first, driving Jack backwards towards the kitchen, his lunges long and practiced. But the boy could parry, he noted, feeling a few drops of sweat on his eyebrows. Short, curt movements, but effective. The most rational part of him knew his lips were dry and his heart in a whirl, but it went beyond showing an insolent kitchen boy his place. Good blood versus bad blood, master versus servant- his eyes widened at the prospect of running him through.
He was close to driving him back again, could drive him into that corner and come so close he would guard his face and not his middle. He hoisted his sword above him and swung it down right over Jack's head. The boy could block, pushing him back off of him at the same time. Alberich scrambled to angle his sword and shot it up over his head.
A searing pain entered the right side of his face and he slumped to the ground, cupping his ear with his hand. By this time, a few officers ran into the room, the kitchen boys standing around agape. With a trembling hand, Alberich took his wet hand away from his ear. Wet? Blood covered his fingers, along with...
"You cut off my ear!"
"You dumb blighter. You cut your own ear off," Jack argued before noticing the crowd gathered around them. "Not that I couldn't have done it myself."
"What were you trying to do, Henry?" Lieutenant Mullens asked, helping Alberich up and pressing a cloth to where his ear had been. "He's just a boy."
"A boy I'll see hanged for this!"
The officers nodded in a collective, patronizing way, and led him out through the dining area, one of them glancing back at Jack. "Don't you worry, lad. Scuffles happen."
"A scuffle?" Alberich roared. "A scuffle! Is that all you think a blatant attack on my life was? A scuffle?" They drowned him out with soothing talk of accidents and provocation, but he craned his neck to find Jack. He just stood there, steely-eyed and resolute, not even bothering to throw him an arrogant grin or brag to the other boys about his fight. It apparently wasn't worth his time.
And that was the final straw that urged Henry Alberich to swear the ultimate vengeance on Jack Sparrow, no matter how long it took.
A/N: I'm pretty sure the word "hobnob" wasn't around back then, but it was the best word I could think of and it's older than "networking," so allow me a small anachronism. More of the characters you know and love will be reuniting in the next chapter...and some of them aren't quite sure how they feel about that. Thanks for reading! Be sure to leave a review, please.