281 Days Before
Jack sat on an uneven barstool, next to Norrington, watching Cotton play cards with three disheveled men covered in soot and gunpowder. He studied the older man's face, no tongue rolling around on the other side of tightened lips, whiskers and wrinkles all around them. He kept his eyes on his cards, moving only to call or raise the current bet. Narrowing his eyebrows, Jack worked harder attempting to observe the man's tells.
None. He made a mental note to himself to never under any circumstances play cards with Cotton. Sighing, he tipped his barstool, the legs dancing to and fro in time with the music playing in the background.
"I say, this could be quite dicey, eh, Commodore? Might be apt to spill me rum on ye."
"Even you can't languish in Tortuga forever, Sparrow. Just what are your plans for me and my crew after this is all over?"
"It's a pirate's life! There is no 'over.' You'll be coming to the next port with us and the next and the next until you've swabbed the deck of me ship so many times you've memorized every grain," Jack said, taking a swig from his mug, being sure to smack his lips. "Ye didn't think I was keeping you around for fun, did ye?"
"There's no need to be so confident," Norrington said in so low a whisper Jack fought off chills. The glimmer in the man's eyes reminded him of the numbers that usually followed his name: twenty-seven pirate ships sunk, one hundred and forty-four pirates hanged, countless others dead from battles. "It was luck and no more that you captured me. It won't stay with you for much longer."
"That's still better than having no luck at all, though." Jack made sure his voice matched the hushed threats emanating out of Norrington's mouth. Pirate hunter or not, he would not be intimidated by this man, not when he had already led him through the Tortuga streets, the dirty occupants applauding and laughing at the brocaded, immaculate uniform.
"Care to put that to the test?" Norrington smirked. After a pause, he continued. "A duel. Outside. Pistol to pistol."
"You're willing to die to prove this point?"
"It would be better than being your deckhand, but if I were you, I would be thinking about what sounds better—a quick, honorable death at the hands of someone whose job it is to kill you…or a prolonged one?"
"That's implying you can escape," Jack said, quicker than he wanted.
"That doesn't matter if luck is with you and not with me, does it?"
Shoot him now and be done with it, Jack ordered himself, willing his hand to rake over his pistol. It would be well-deserved, nay, expected, as half the crew probably wondered why their captain hadn't already done it, including Jack himself.
"If you kill me, you could take my men out of your brig," Norrington said. "They'd be yours, as would the Dauntless, but I insist they would not be harmed."
"Already mine."
"And if I kill you," Norrington interrupted with gritted teeth, "your men aren't captured. They're executed, starting with your first mate down to that monkey. The Black Pearl comes back to Port Royal with me, repainted and given English colors to serve as a military ship. No one would recognize her. All the legends about her would be just that, legends, as no one would think there had ever been a real ship."
"What do you want me to do, Jamie-lad, fight for my lady's honor?" Jack scoffed, fighting the boiling sensation in his stomach. "I ain't so much the type for that sort of codswallop, but you do drive a hard bargain, I'll give ye that. Mr. Cotton!"
Cotton leaned to the side from the table, an eyebrow cocked.
"Round up the parrot. We're in need of a witness with the gift of speech."
Helping Cotton restrain Norrington until they reached the open field separating the harbor from the first row of taverns, Jack's fingers shook to the point his rings rattled. Did I ever tell ye you're a bloody idiot, mate? Shut it. Aye, not since the Trojans falling for a wooden horse… Shut it, I said. The only scrap of hope to cling to was the fact Norrington seemed to rely more on his sword in battle than his pistol, possibly indicating he was not such a quick draw as all that. Still time to reverse his bluff, he thought, scare him out of it.
"What's the standard, fifteen paces, turn, and shoot?" he asked, releasing Norrington. He crept over to Cotton and tapped on Norrington's pistol. "What a pretty relic. I think me old da' had something like this…"
"Fifteen paces, turn, and shoot," Norrington said, unflinching, his back straighter than a girder.
"Ah, well, one last hurrah for the antique before it's put out to pasture."
"Your man is armed," Norrington said, gesturing at Cotton's pistol. Cotton placed his vest over it and snarled at him.
"That's in case you turn a fraction of a second before I do. Now." Jack held up his pistol. "Let us commence this asinine venture, shall we? Commodore…James…I was rooting for you." Extending a hand, he let it fall to his thigh at Norrington's refusal to shake it. "We start back to back, right?"
"Back to back. If your man could talk, he would say 'go,' and we would do our paces." A second passed. "Perhaps the parrot could say it?"
"Blow me down!" Cotton's parrot cawed.
One, two…you could roll down this little hill and hide in one of the ships down there, he thought, provided Norrington temporarily loses his sense of hearing. He glanced over at Cotton at the thirteenth step and then gulped. Idiot. Did I tell ye you were an idiot?
It was time to turn.
They snapped around at the same time, pistols drawn. A look of deep horror dominated Norrington's face. About to grin, Jack frowned at the fact it wasn't at him, but behind him. Fall for that old trick and ye really will be an idiot.
In an instant, Norrington took off running, right past Jack and down the hill towards the harbor.
"That was my idea," Jack mumbled.
"Wait! Elizabeth, wait!"
Snapping around again to face the harbor, Jack scanned it until he saw a small ship just casting off. Frozen, he tried to process Norrington's breathless shouts.
"Turner! Wait! You, there!"
A man standing on the pier where the ship just left broke into a run at the sight of a uniformed man darting straight for him.
Cotton approached Jack and tapped him, his arms up, asking silently to know what was happening. They peered out to the ship.
It was her, sporting trousers and a man's coat, but it was her, Lizzie Swann herself steering that ship out of Tortuga waters. They were too far away to hear anything, but not far enough to cause Jack to doubt his own eyes. She stood at that helm, knowing exactly what she was doing, and even though it left him staring right in the direction of the sun, he couldn't move, could barely breathe.
He caught his breath at the sensation of Cotton tugging on his arm, pointing down the hill. Down the hill, Norrington was shortening the distance between him and the tall, dark figure that had departed from the ship.
"Go back and find Mr. Gibbs," Jack finally said, one eye still out on the water. "Report back here, the two of you. I'll handle this." Ambling down the hill, he aimed his pistol and fired.
Norrington skidded to a stop, plopping to the ground and clutching his right heel. Relax, it ain't fatal, he wished he was close enough to say as Norrington pulled off his boot and fingered the blood dripping from his foot. The tall, dark running man turned back, close enough for Jack to see a turban, and then ran back up the hill and into town.
"What's happened?" he heard. Gibbs and Cotton ran down to him, the latter's parrot fluttering above them.
"Go back to the Dauntless and tell the men minding the ship to leave it. Ready the Pearl for casting off in the next hour," he said to Cotton's parrot before turning to Gibbs. "As for you, much to your delight, we will be making one last trip around the pubs, but not before we return the Commodore his keys."
"Why would we be returning his keys?" Gibbs asked, already starting the climb back up the hill, watching Jack fling them down to a few feet from where Norrington sat, still struggling to stand on his wounded foot.
"So he can let his men out of the brig."
"I still ain't following. It sounds like we're letting them go."
"Indeed, we are letting them go, abandoning them, leaving them here in this corrupt, dark place with all its dank-ish-ness. Think of it as marooning, Mr. Gibbs, only this is the proper upper-class gentleman's hell instead of a god-forsaken spit of land."
"Then why are we going back into town?"
"That's what I want to find out."
A small island, it took no time to spot the man, contrasting with the stockier, red-faced regulars. Outside, near a well full of vomit and forgotten coins, he stood, positioned to pickpocket a man's purse.
"Oy! Careful doing that, mate. That sot doesn't look like he has a shilling to his name," he yelled, making sure everyone could hear. The turbaned man, sharp-featured, glared at him. Jack edged over to him, Gibbs following. "I do hope the Commodore didn't dirty you up much." He dusted off the man's coat. "I would say he's more fun once you get to know him, but that would taste a lie. Might we go inside so you can partake in some of Tortuga's affability?"
"You are offering me a drink?"
"Aye. Drinks all around!" He put an arm around Gibbs and another over the man and led them inside. "Perhaps you've heard of me. Captain Jack Sparrow?"
The man's eyes widened. Jack smiled.
"You?"
"The stories were too fantastic to be believed, I see!" He motioned the barkeep for three drinks. "Don't be too dismayed. I'm sure most people would display the same reaction."
"No, no, it is not that."
Jack's face fell at the same times Gibbs stifled a chuckle.
"It is…it is too great a coincidence. She only thought you might be here…I have something for you."
"Jack, this is all starting to feel a little bit bizarre…" Gibbs started, but Jack hushed him, palming the paper the man pushed across the table to him. Reading the notice silently, Jack smirked at the list of his crimes, all of which he'd been found guilty, and the fact that dried apples were sold to the crowd of witnesses at his hanging. "'They should take care how they brought money into the Caribbean to be hanged for it'? I never said that. Good line, though." He slowed his speech, glancing up from the report, heart racing. "This a gift?"
"Not from me. From the woman who freed me."
Pretending to wipe his mouth, he used his hand to cover the burgeoning grin on his face. To think that had events been altered just slightly, he might have run into her, talked to her, had her give it to him herself.
"Freed, you say? What from?"
"Slavery. I think she only freed me because someone in the crowd mentioned my pirate brand."
"I'm inclined to concur with that." Jack nodded. "Let's see it."
The man pushed back the sleeve of his coat to show off a pink, worm-like "P" singed into his dark flesh.
"May I be so bold as to inquire if ye speak and read Turkish?" Lizzie, love, you may have just initiated a business arrangement for me.
Dhananjay had omitted certain truths from Lizzie, Jack discovered after failing to recognize the name. After the Hammerhead's Eye had been demolished by the slave ship, Dhananjay suffered a broken leg, so broken the surgeon debated whether or not amputation was necessary. But, as fate would have it, it was nothing a few leeches couldn't mend. More than a few, Jack had commented, hearing about how the surgeon had placed twenty leeches all over Dhananjay's lanky body, underneath his tongue, under his arms, his navel, the tips of his toes… The surgeon and crew of the slave ship named him Leech, applauding the surgeon for such sadistic torture.
"And ye like that name?" Jack had asked, cringing.
"It is easier for the English to pronounce." Dha...Leech had shrugged.
Now in his cabin, free from Norrington, at least for the time being, and the encumbrance of hauling the Dauntless everywhere, he could work. They would scale up the colonies and then head east to Europe, winding around Spain and Italy until Constantinople, where the key to the key laid waiting for him.
Rolling out the chart, he placed his ink bottle and a few books on the corners to pin it. He pulled out his compass from his pocket, flipped up the lid, and set it down near his left for later. Suppose he could have just asked Tia Dalma where the key was, he thought, but dismissed the thought. The price would have been too high. Well, at least ye got a crewman out of the ordeal. It triggered the image of Lizzie at the helm, that glorious image that could only be improved upon by changing the ship to make it worthy of her. For a moment, he entertained the thought of her on the Pearl, her creamy hands grasping the ebony spokes of the helm, firm but gentle, knowing just how much to move with the ship and how much friction to allow.
Back to work, he decided. Taking a quill, he leaned over to check his compass. The arrow pointed due south, the six o'clock position. South? He tapped it. North, for once in your life you really do need to point north. He watched it tilt, but linger back in the due south position. Odd.
"Jack, it must be really terrible for you to be trapped on this island."
Not this time. He remembers. He's done exactly what she's done, feigning a swig here and there, easy to do when staying sober means your vision won't blur and your vision is occupied with her.
"Oh, yes. But the company is infinitely better than last time, I think. The scenery has definitely improved." His arm is all the way around her, the warmth of her head on his chest.
"Mister Sparrow!"
Mister? That had better be coyness.
"I'm not sure I've had enough rum to allow that kind of talk."
No, I bloody well know you haven't. She either hasn't realized or doesn't care that his hand is loitering on the back of her neck, sifting through her wavy hair, the pads of his fingers growing addicted to her soft skin. He backed off last time, paved the way for her Yang to rain down on him—active, creative, forceful, masculine…pirate. There was something about that, had its charms. Why else would he have wanted this second chance with her? But tonight he wanted the Yin, her femininity, her receptiveness, her willingness to receive…because he would give. He would give her the night of her life. Swooping down, he cupped her cheeks and kissed her, feeling her hair spill over his hands.
Her arms engulf him and clasp around the back of his neck, her nails applying just the right amount of pressure on him. Growing braver, he cradles her head with one hand and the small of her back with the other, preparing to lay her down on the sand.
On top of her, the grains of sand speckling her shift scrape against his legs, her arms dropping down to perch on his shoulders. Still luxuriating in her lips, he almost lets a moan escape when she breaks away from them to kiss his neck, his collarbone. Her shift leaves little to the imagination, but he wants to feel everything underneath it. He starts with a breast, massaging it, ready to cut her out of her shift so he can slither down and mark each new place with his lips. And that's only the beginning.
A/N: A couple of things to address here. I am totally making up Leech's story. There isn't much on him in the Pirates Wiki page. "They should take care how they brought Money into New England to be Hanged for it" was actually spoken by a Captain Jack Quelch, who addressed this to the crowd right before he hanged in Boston in 1704. I thought it was a pretty snarky thing to say, especially since Quelch also bowed to them. This is technically the end of Part 1, ending on 4 July (I'm a patriot, what can I say?). Part 2 will start with the next chapter, which will take place on 3 October. As far as the real world goes, I'll still update on an average of once a week. I'm just giving you a baseline to show how much time has passed.