**Author's note: My sincerest apologies if anything in the last chapter seemed amiss. Much thanks to Braveheart, who pointed out the discrepancies in Amelia's speech; they have been corrected as best I could. It's hard to write sex scenes and write them tastefully, so I definitely got a little wrapped up in that. Besides… who among us is focused enough to write about a naked and willing Jack Sparrow without getting the tiniest bit sidetracked? ;-) Thanks to the faithful readers and reviewers!!!**
It wasn't enough, and it would never be enough.
In the past that existed in memory alone, a thirteen-year-old boy stood on the warped wooden boards of the dock, hands in empty pockets, eyes on the skyline. In the three years following his father's death, the boy who had once been Johnny Sparrow had done many things.
Every fisherman and merchant knew him, knew he was a dependable deckhand, knew of his quick hands and quiet demeanor. He'd made many trips, traveled to many places. But it wasn't enough, for the ships always stopped sailing, and they always came back to port.
He wanted to sail and never look back.
"Psst, boy." The whisper, snaky and sibilant, nearly blended into the sounds of the water, but he heard it and looked to find its owner.
A scraggly man, short and stooped like a monkey, his face a map of wrinkles and scars, sat in a small boat bobbing gently between two docked ships. His graying hair fell in his eyes, and when he swiped it away, the boy could see he was missing several fingers.
"Aye, boy, 'tis ye I'm talkin' at. Now, if ye'd just come a mite closer rather'n starin' at me with them black eyes o'yourn, we could do a bit o'business." The whisper leveled off to a gravelly rasp, and the man beckoned. As the boy stepped closer, the simian man rubbed his hands together and leaned forward. "Quick now, what're ye called?"
The boy thrust his hands into his pockets, his mind working to decide whether or not to hear the man out.
"Jack," he said quietly. "I'm called Jack."
~~~
The monkey-like man was Haversham, and he was in need of someone with fast hands and watchful eyes. More than anything, however, he was in need of someone who could keep a secret.
"Isn't for me, though, it's for me cap'n. Ye'll like him, I'd swear to it." Rowing the small boat farther into the harbor, Haversham kept throwing glances over his shoulder at the town behind them. "Have ye family up there, boy?"
Jack didn't look back, only sat his arms on his updrawn knees and shook his head. "No. No, sir."
Haversham's eyes widened, stretching out some wrinkles and creating new ones. "Sir, is it? Nay, boy, save yer 'sirs' for Cap'n Cameron." He pointed up as he stopped rowing, and Jack's eyes followed the pointing finger up, up, and up, to the enormous sails and unimaginable bulk of a ship.
"Did ye find me a boy-o, then, Haversham? Best be a good'n, now, as the last one ye found was too pretty to be smart and too sissy to be of any service." The voice boomed down to them, making Jack wince, and an enormous head covered in shaggy red hair soon followed, poking out over the side of the ship and looking down with curiosity.
Haversham grinned, showing gaps where several teeth had surely once been. "Jack, meet Cap'n Cameron."
It seemed as though everything went into a whirl of motion, with Haversham pushing and prodding him onto the ship, leading him past hoards of staring, filthy men.
"I'm not quite certain this is the place for me," he said to Haversham, trying to keep his voice down. But he could feel the wind blowing the hair that had grown overlong, and from the condition of the men on the ship, he knew it didn't stop often.
This was a ship that never stopped moving.
He found his hand engulfed by one roughly the size of his head and pumped up and down vigorously.
"Welcome, boy-o, to the ship." The captain was a giant of a man, large in body, in speech, and in spirit. "Ye like her, then? I likes to call her the Blarney Stern." He laughed then, releasing Jack and crossing to the bow of the boat where a bust was tied as a makeshift masthead.
To Jack's amazement, the captain grasped the bust between both of his hands, leaned down, and gave it a rousing kiss on the lips.
"St. Patrick, it is. Lovely man. Patron saint of thieves and liars." He hunkered down and raised his eyes heavenward, sketching a quick sign of the cross.
"That's actually untrue," Jack said, unable to help himself. Once the words had left his mouth, he flinched as though expecting a blow.
The captain laid a hand on his shoulder, a large grin displaying large teeth. "Why, no 'tisn't. The patron saint of Ireland, he is, and by that, it makes him the patron saint of liars, to be sure."
Jack's grin was quick, and gone as quickly as it came. "Aye," he said simply, trying to be braver than he was. "What purpose did you have for me?"
As Ian Cameron began laying out his plans, Jack felt his heart rate double, then treble. He was aboard a pirate ship, a thing he'd held in the back of his mind as more legend than truth.
"I need ye to be a pair of eyes for me, Jack. Stay close to my lovey here—" he paused to stroke the deck reverently—"And make sure no one tries to board her or take her while we… make some acquaintances in town."
Thinking of a pompous man with a fat, pompous son, thinking of his father lying dead at the hands of a rich redcoat, Jack nodded slowly.
"I'll be your eyes, sir," he agreed, already thinking ahead.
It seemed to Jack that even someone so insignificant as a boy would get some reward for his pains.
~~~
No one tried to board the Blarney Stern or take her when she came to the shore that night. In fact, the town seemed quiet as the minutes and hours ticked by. Only when Jack saw the bulk of Captain Cameron barreling down the street toward him did the noise begin, gunshots and shouts, breaking glass and cries like those of a warrior, all seeming to flow out from behind the man.
"Back on the ship, Jack me boy, fine job ye did." And so saying, the captain climbed the gangplanks without so much as a glance back at the mayhem rising behind him, catching an awestricken Jack by the collar and dragging him along.
As the crew began to reassemble, some sporting bruises and scrapes they hadn't previously had, Jack noted with wide eyes and sweaty palms the sacks of things being dumped on deck, the jewels and gold and bottles being thrown in by each man as he arrived.
"Out," the captain commanded tersely, verbosity suddenly gone. "Pull up anchor and go." He stepped over the piles of things on the deck as though they were just debris and oversaw the progress of his deckhands, the escape of his ship. With bright eyes, he glanced at Jack. "Well, then, if it's leavin' ye're wantin', now's the time to do it. In the snap of yer fingers we'll be gone from this place and it's out to sea ye'll be, stuck with us rogues."
"It's staying I'm wanting, sir, if that's agreeable to you." It was hard for Jack to pull his eyes away from the piles on the ground. It looked, to his mind, much like an offering to a god must have looked.
Haversham scampered to the captain's side, his eyes gleaming. With his mangled hand, he tapped on Jack's head roughly and laughed. "Sounds like a learn-ed man, don't he, cap'n?" The captain nodded, a strange smile on his face, and Haversham cackled again. "Our very own lil' So-crates."
"Socrates," Jack corrected the man's pronunciation, but no one seemed to hear.
"Haversham's clinker for the night, boys, gather 'round." Captain Cameron looked down at the newest and youngest member of his crew and nodded. "You too, boy-o."
Haversham doled out gold and jewels evenly among the men, passing over Jack as he did so. Only toward the end did he give attention to Jack, his hand hovering over the last pile on the floor. "Got the perfect thing for ye, So-crates." So saying, he grabbed a cloth-bound book and tossed it to Jack, who immediately looked at the title.
The Gods and Goddesses of Ancient Rome.
~~~
Pausing in his story, in the memory of the first raid he'd taken part in, Jack looked at the book now laying open on his stomach. "And thus began the education of Jack Sparrow. The first lesson I learned was you could find out a great deal simply by pretending you knew nothing. And by pretending to know nothing—something I'm very good at, by the way—I heard many things."
Amelia had dressed before he'd started to speak. Sitting on the edge of her cot, hands clasped in her lap, she felt the distance of years between them, the distance of experiences and circumstances, and not for the first time, felt she'd made a terrible mistake.
He sat up then, slapping the book shut. "When what I heard was that they'd killed both Wallaces, elder and younger, all I felt was glee, savage and true." He rolled his eyes so he was looking askew at her. "So you see, love, 'twas a pirate's life for me from the very beginning. When I told you I was born as I am, I was telling you the honest truth."
She said nothing, thinking about his words and thinking about what had passed between them earlier. He'd protested—something she'd never have expected from him—and she'd insisted anyway, selfishly, and what was worse, commonly. He'd shown himself as more than a pirate, and she'd refused to accept it.
Because she said nothing, he let himself think the worst, letting his guilt steep in her rare silence. He'd known the consequences of his actions, but he was becoming increasingly certain she hadn't fully thought out her end of the situation, and his guilt made him increasingly certain that she condemned him with every silent moment that passed. If she wanted to hate him for it, then she'd not be the first. If she slapped him for it, then he'd be back on a road he'd traveled endlessly. At least he knew the curves of that road, where it was easy to stay ahead.
"Perhaps," he said languorously, standing and snatching his pants from the floor, "You were correct in the first place when you called me the devil." Sliding into his clothes easily, he looked over his shoulder at her as he walked out the door. "Mayhap now ye've worked up enough of an appetite to eat something today, then, love."
