"Jesu, he weighs a bloody 'undred stones," Jack grunted, gripping the man's ankles at his sides, nearly staggering along the narrow passageway below decks.
"At least you don't have to smell the liquor on his breath," Will answered, hefting his load from behind, as bearer of Gibbs's shoulders and torso.
"If you're complainin, lad, I can switch places."
"You drink enough without inhaling more fumes."
"Now see, this is what we're talkin' 'bout earlier -- ne'er presume t' tell your captain what he can and cannot do. A man's gotta know that sort o' thing for 'imself."
Will only answered in a noncommittal grunt, helping Jack trundle poor old Gibbs into his hammock a few minutes later. Jack paused to lift his lids and check his eyes, then straightened, nodding in satisfaction. He gestured at the door and pushed Will toward it, then pulled it shut behind him and released a breath. "He'll be out for awhile … an' not a moment too soon," the pirate frowned.
They made a short detour by Jack's cabin, and Will followed inside slowly, looking around; it was only his second time being in here, and it was nearly as unfettered as Jack's person was layered in paraphernalia. A long sideboard was just inside the door, to the left along the wall, and a narrow, tall bureau with different grain was pushed against the next wall. A porthole glass was tipped open diagonal from the door's placement, and a long bed made up the bunk. It was mahogany and fairly new, and though he'd never seen Barbossa's version of this room, Will suspected Jack had replaced the bed first thing, to rid himself of the memory and stench of the mutinous first mate. Another porthole was directly across from the door, over the bunk, and two small mismatched, battered tables framed the head of the bed. The obligatory foot locker at the foot of the bed was placed very close to a small round table on the other side of the bureau, near the porthole, at which Jack was currently standing. Each piece was bolted or otherwise fitted into its spot, to account for the swaying and heaving of the ship.
Presently, his captain had a bureau drawer open, withdrawing pistols and giving each the once-over, inspecting the hammers and triggers. "How many of those you planning to take along?" Will couldn't help asking.
"Three. Lucky number," he answered absently, putting one aside in favor of an earlier one he'd been caressing.
"Shouldn't we be doing something to keep you from getting shot?"
"Lad, that's up t' Lady Luck an' th' Almighty," he answered in a slurred drawl. "Let's hope they're back on speakin' terms this evenin'."
"But I mean, we could put something under your shirt, maybe -- just in case." Will stepped in a little further, looking around, trying to find something.
"It'd be noticed."
"Something less noticeable, then. Smaller." He spotted a book on the locker chest, which he figured probably contained a good number more. "Do you have any more of these?" he crossed and picked it up, waving it a foot or so from Jack's face. "Smaller one, maybe?"
Jack did look up at the book, then amusedly at Will himself. "You'd tuck it into the inside of your coat," the younger man explained, demonstrating by pressing it over his own heart. "Protects the vital organ, at least, the main one."
"An' what if I get shot in me 'ead?"
Will's eyebrows crept up in horror. "They'd do that?"
Jack rolled his eyes. "*Pirates,*" he pointed out yet again, much to Will's annoyance.
"Nevertheless, it could work."
The captain eyed the object specutively. "Nay. Book wouldn' stop a bullet." He shook his head. "'Sides, that'd be noticeable, too."
"What do you mean? It'd be rather small." Will held the book up and examined it, frowning.
"Ye'll see." Jack tucked a second pistol into his sash, and handed another to Will. "Here, check that 'un out. See what ye think."
The blacksmith regarded the gun dumbly. He'd not held many in his life, learning only upon coming aboard how to properly load and shoot one. "I have to use a pistol?"
"Blame Gibbs," Jack shrugged.
"But if I'm the second, don't I get to choose something different?" *Like blades,* he mentally prayed.
"Will, if 'e can knock *me* off wit' a pistol, I guarantee he won' be wantin' t' settle 'is differences with ye wit' letter openers."
The idea of Jack laid out on the beach, a hole in his forehead or his belly, shifted something loose in Will's stomach. He found he didn't care much for the idea; not that he figured he would've, but he also hadn't figured he'd have such a reaction to it. Pirates lived infamously and pirates usually died notoriously. Maybe it was because Jack seemed so alive, so invincible, it was difficult to picture a day when he'd be stone cold and a bit of that color and flutter would be gone from the mortal world. "Then we'll just have to do something to make it hard for him to knock you off," Will murmured, his mind trying to find a way to work like Jack's, to come up with an off-the-wall idea that would work like a charm. Even the captain's bad luck usually ended up working in his favor sooner or later.
"Lad." Jack was facing him, holding out another pistol with one hand, the other resting lightly on Will's elbow. His expression was as serious as Will had ever seen, save the moment when Jack saw Barbossa realize his own demise was upon him. "Life is. I 'cept it as it comes. Death's kind of th' same way, but I assure ye, today is not th' day I go to meet Lucifer. It'll take a better man 'n Negre t' put me un'er th' waves."
"You know his name?" Will didn't remember the large black man ever giving it.
"Few characters in th' Carib I don't know, mate." With that, Jack gave his elbow a hearty pat and adjusted the three pistols in his sash. "Now, we jus' 'ave one final bit o' business, an' it'll put us gettin' there jus' 'bout on time t' see Negre pushin' up clams."
Will tried to think what it might be. "Making sure your affairs are in order with the Pearl?" he guessed, though Jack had just said he had nothing to worry about.
"Nay." Jack scratched his chin. "Seein' who on board 'as th' biggest grudge 'gainst me."
"At least you don't have to smell the liquor on his breath," Will answered, hefting his load from behind, as bearer of Gibbs's shoulders and torso.
"If you're complainin, lad, I can switch places."
"You drink enough without inhaling more fumes."
"Now see, this is what we're talkin' 'bout earlier -- ne'er presume t' tell your captain what he can and cannot do. A man's gotta know that sort o' thing for 'imself."
Will only answered in a noncommittal grunt, helping Jack trundle poor old Gibbs into his hammock a few minutes later. Jack paused to lift his lids and check his eyes, then straightened, nodding in satisfaction. He gestured at the door and pushed Will toward it, then pulled it shut behind him and released a breath. "He'll be out for awhile … an' not a moment too soon," the pirate frowned.
They made a short detour by Jack's cabin, and Will followed inside slowly, looking around; it was only his second time being in here, and it was nearly as unfettered as Jack's person was layered in paraphernalia. A long sideboard was just inside the door, to the left along the wall, and a narrow, tall bureau with different grain was pushed against the next wall. A porthole glass was tipped open diagonal from the door's placement, and a long bed made up the bunk. It was mahogany and fairly new, and though he'd never seen Barbossa's version of this room, Will suspected Jack had replaced the bed first thing, to rid himself of the memory and stench of the mutinous first mate. Another porthole was directly across from the door, over the bunk, and two small mismatched, battered tables framed the head of the bed. The obligatory foot locker at the foot of the bed was placed very close to a small round table on the other side of the bureau, near the porthole, at which Jack was currently standing. Each piece was bolted or otherwise fitted into its spot, to account for the swaying and heaving of the ship.
Presently, his captain had a bureau drawer open, withdrawing pistols and giving each the once-over, inspecting the hammers and triggers. "How many of those you planning to take along?" Will couldn't help asking.
"Three. Lucky number," he answered absently, putting one aside in favor of an earlier one he'd been caressing.
"Shouldn't we be doing something to keep you from getting shot?"
"Lad, that's up t' Lady Luck an' th' Almighty," he answered in a slurred drawl. "Let's hope they're back on speakin' terms this evenin'."
"But I mean, we could put something under your shirt, maybe -- just in case." Will stepped in a little further, looking around, trying to find something.
"It'd be noticed."
"Something less noticeable, then. Smaller." He spotted a book on the locker chest, which he figured probably contained a good number more. "Do you have any more of these?" he crossed and picked it up, waving it a foot or so from Jack's face. "Smaller one, maybe?"
Jack did look up at the book, then amusedly at Will himself. "You'd tuck it into the inside of your coat," the younger man explained, demonstrating by pressing it over his own heart. "Protects the vital organ, at least, the main one."
"An' what if I get shot in me 'ead?"
Will's eyebrows crept up in horror. "They'd do that?"
Jack rolled his eyes. "*Pirates,*" he pointed out yet again, much to Will's annoyance.
"Nevertheless, it could work."
The captain eyed the object specutively. "Nay. Book wouldn' stop a bullet." He shook his head. "'Sides, that'd be noticeable, too."
"What do you mean? It'd be rather small." Will held the book up and examined it, frowning.
"Ye'll see." Jack tucked a second pistol into his sash, and handed another to Will. "Here, check that 'un out. See what ye think."
The blacksmith regarded the gun dumbly. He'd not held many in his life, learning only upon coming aboard how to properly load and shoot one. "I have to use a pistol?"
"Blame Gibbs," Jack shrugged.
"But if I'm the second, don't I get to choose something different?" *Like blades,* he mentally prayed.
"Will, if 'e can knock *me* off wit' a pistol, I guarantee he won' be wantin' t' settle 'is differences with ye wit' letter openers."
The idea of Jack laid out on the beach, a hole in his forehead or his belly, shifted something loose in Will's stomach. He found he didn't care much for the idea; not that he figured he would've, but he also hadn't figured he'd have such a reaction to it. Pirates lived infamously and pirates usually died notoriously. Maybe it was because Jack seemed so alive, so invincible, it was difficult to picture a day when he'd be stone cold and a bit of that color and flutter would be gone from the mortal world. "Then we'll just have to do something to make it hard for him to knock you off," Will murmured, his mind trying to find a way to work like Jack's, to come up with an off-the-wall idea that would work like a charm. Even the captain's bad luck usually ended up working in his favor sooner or later.
"Lad." Jack was facing him, holding out another pistol with one hand, the other resting lightly on Will's elbow. His expression was as serious as Will had ever seen, save the moment when Jack saw Barbossa realize his own demise was upon him. "Life is. I 'cept it as it comes. Death's kind of th' same way, but I assure ye, today is not th' day I go to meet Lucifer. It'll take a better man 'n Negre t' put me un'er th' waves."
"You know his name?" Will didn't remember the large black man ever giving it.
"Few characters in th' Carib I don't know, mate." With that, Jack gave his elbow a hearty pat and adjusted the three pistols in his sash. "Now, we jus' 'ave one final bit o' business, an' it'll put us gettin' there jus' 'bout on time t' see Negre pushin' up clams."
Will tried to think what it might be. "Making sure your affairs are in order with the Pearl?" he guessed, though Jack had just said he had nothing to worry about.
"Nay." Jack scratched his chin. "Seein' who on board 'as th' biggest grudge 'gainst me."
