* * * * * *
Ana-Marie sat in her father's cabin, her head bowed in prayer. At eighteen, she was as tall and bold as she had been at twelve. Her whole life, she had been raised on a ship, taught by the large hands of the pirates how to tie sailors knots and how to cleanse a wound.
Her life that she remembered, anyway.
Her father had taught her how to sword fight at eight, and he would sit her on his shoulders, laughing as he steered the ship. When battle came, no one noticed the small black girl peeking through one of the portholes, or helping load the canon.
Ana-Marie's father, Gull, was as black as night and a hardened sailor. He went by no other name, and was the captain of the Portella, named after Ana- Maire's mother, who had died in slavery. Ana-Marie had lived happily with her mother, who was well off with the money her pirating husband sent her.
Little Ana remembered little of her mother, other then the fish wife hands that held her so tight and secure, and taught her to count the smooth rocks by the river. Then she turned three and her mother was captured and murdered by slavers.
With little other chose, Gull had taken his little girl aboard his ship, and raised her with pirates as a family.
And now he was dying of fever. Beads of sweat lay on his brow, and his room was stiflingly hot. His daughter, who knew little of god or prayers, simply bowed her head and repeated over and over again "Please do not take my father from me lord,"
It was thus that Barl found them, the beautiful and fierce new captain of their ship kneeling by her dying fathers bed. He coughed. She rose from the bedside, her face still covered with streaks of tears, but her eyes sharp and emotionless.
"What?" She snapped, her fingers reaching for her sword.
"Stow-away. He was in one of them wine-barrels we commandeered." Barl said gruffly, avoiding the black woman's eyes.
"He?"
"Yes. Carlos and Turner are. they are taunting the boy."
"Damnations," Ana-Marie swore, striding out of the cabin, with Barl a step behind her. "When those two have nothing to vent their frustrations on, they bloody well come up with something. Who is this boy?"
"I don't know." Barl replied, following Ana-Maire as she stormed her way to the hold.
The sight that they met was not a pretty one. Most of the sailors stood in a ring, watching the proceedings. Someone had supplied the boy with a sword, but Ana-Marie could tell his arm was hurt from the awkward angle he held the sword at. The boy bore scratches across his chest and was circling Carlos with a weary fierceness.
This was Ana-Marie's first sight of Captain Jack Sparrow.
* * * * * * * * * He stood half proud, his face pale and untouched by the sun. He contrasted strongly with the well-worn pirates that surrounded him, their hands and teeth yellowed by rum and nicotine, they faces scoured with daily battles.
The slurs and yelling came gradually to a hold, as the pirates saw the Captain's daughter on the stair well. She strode into the middle of the circle, whirling on Turner, the first mate of the ship.
"Explain yourself Turner. What the hell is this?" She gestured at the boy, who dropped on one knee, his breathing jagged.
"Just having some fun, Ana," He halted at her gaze. "Mam, its been a long voyage," He mumbled. Turner was privately cursing himself. Bloody Barl, that little snitch. First distraction they've had after six weeks of water, water and more bloody water.
"Yeah, we's just having some fun with da boy." Carlos slurred. He was a skinny mean looking Spanish pirate, two teeth capped with gold and part of his ear lobe missing. Carlos had an annoying habit to rub his fingers together. He jumped as he felt Ana-Marie's blade pressed to his neck.
"What did you say Carlos?" She said stonily.
"Uh, nothing."
"And what is our policy on stowaways?" She said, gazing at him along the metal of her blade.
Carlos gulped.
"Find out their name, age and pur.purpose. And then bring him to the captain unharmed until the captain decides we can carve him." Carlos gulped again as the blade was pushed further against his skin and rephrased his words. "Decides what's to be done with him. According to the code, mam."
The other pirates had begun to edge away, and up the stairs, the ones that knew what was good for them. Some, however, were transfixed by the scene.
"So who is this boy?" Ana-Marie asked sweetly.
"I don't. I dun know." Carlos stuttered.
"So you didn't find out who he was, didn't come and tell me and broke ship rules on stowaways, did ja Carlos?" He nodded as much as the blade pressed to his throat would allow. "I think that's two weeks scrubbing the decks. And you won't be leaving the ship when we arrive in Tortugua, Carlos. Does that sound fair to you?"
"Yes," He replied hastily. She returned her blade to its sheath, her fingers lingering there as she turned thoughtfully to the boy, who had dropped to his knees.
"I see you know how to handle a blade boy, and your footwork is good, very light. Who are you boy?" The boy looked up through a veil of brown hair and drew himself up to standing. He was taller then Ana-Marie, but was favouring his right shoulder.
"John Jackson." He said, and licked his lips. He glanced curiously around at the pirates watching him, and swooped into a slightly theatrical bow. "At your service." The pirates tittered (in a manly way of course).
Ana-Marie watched him coldly. What passed through her mind was unperceivable.
"How old are you Jackson?" She asked.
"Sixteen." He paused before saying it, drawing in a ragged breath. Turner shifted awkwardly at the gaze he received from Ana-Maire.
"Only sixteen."
"I was only sixteen when I got it the fight that left this scar on my face." Turner said lowly, fingering his jaw line. Ana-Maire's gaze flicked to his arm, when Turner was holding a blood soddened strip of fabric over a wound.
"He cut you Turner? What an achievement. You'd better get that seen too."
"Yes mam." Turner said, avoided her eye.
"All of you get to work you scurvy dogs. Barl, acquaint Carlos with his new duties, and Crow, get the cook to prepare diner. Tell him there will be no rum for Carlos or Turner tonight. Vincent, you stay." The other pirates departed quickly, and Jackson wondered blearily through the pain why they were taking orders from this slip of a girl.
He was surprised when she passed him a flask. He sipped it cautiously, and felt an unknown fiery liquid burning his throat.
"Its rum." Ana-Marie muttered.
She hoisted herself up on a crate, and gestured for him to do the same. He did, through rather less gracefully. Ana-Marie assessed his wounds with a quick glace. They were just scratches, none deep. Her boys had just been playing with him.
"So, Jackson, what are you doing on my ship?" She asked.
"Your ship?" The boy echoed disbelievingly. Vincent made a movement as though to hit him for his insolence, but Ana-Marie shook her head, stilling him.
"My ship, or it very soon will be." She confirmed passively, though inwardly she wanted to weep as she acknowledged her fathers passing.
"I.I." The boy paused, lost for words.
"Wanted to become extremely well acquainted with the insides of a wine barrel?" Ana-Marie asked quite pleasantly. The boy shuddered, and swayed slightly on his perch on the crate.
"Vincent, this boy is half dead with exhaustion. No matter how good his footwork is, he's not going to do anymore dancing tonight. Feed him, and find him a bunk to sleep in, and I'll get answers out of him in the morning."
"Aye," The big pirate shouted, and Ana-Marie smiled.
"Oh, and on second thoughts, tell Turner that our little Sparrow here is his charge, Savvy?" Vincent pulled the wine soddened boy up, hoisted him over his shoulder, and left.
* * * * * * * * * *
Ana-Marie sat in her father's cabin, her head bowed in prayer. At eighteen, she was as tall and bold as she had been at twelve. Her whole life, she had been raised on a ship, taught by the large hands of the pirates how to tie sailors knots and how to cleanse a wound.
Her life that she remembered, anyway.
Her father had taught her how to sword fight at eight, and he would sit her on his shoulders, laughing as he steered the ship. When battle came, no one noticed the small black girl peeking through one of the portholes, or helping load the canon.
Ana-Marie's father, Gull, was as black as night and a hardened sailor. He went by no other name, and was the captain of the Portella, named after Ana- Maire's mother, who had died in slavery. Ana-Marie had lived happily with her mother, who was well off with the money her pirating husband sent her.
Little Ana remembered little of her mother, other then the fish wife hands that held her so tight and secure, and taught her to count the smooth rocks by the river. Then she turned three and her mother was captured and murdered by slavers.
With little other chose, Gull had taken his little girl aboard his ship, and raised her with pirates as a family.
And now he was dying of fever. Beads of sweat lay on his brow, and his room was stiflingly hot. His daughter, who knew little of god or prayers, simply bowed her head and repeated over and over again "Please do not take my father from me lord,"
It was thus that Barl found them, the beautiful and fierce new captain of their ship kneeling by her dying fathers bed. He coughed. She rose from the bedside, her face still covered with streaks of tears, but her eyes sharp and emotionless.
"What?" She snapped, her fingers reaching for her sword.
"Stow-away. He was in one of them wine-barrels we commandeered." Barl said gruffly, avoiding the black woman's eyes.
"He?"
"Yes. Carlos and Turner are. they are taunting the boy."
"Damnations," Ana-Marie swore, striding out of the cabin, with Barl a step behind her. "When those two have nothing to vent their frustrations on, they bloody well come up with something. Who is this boy?"
"I don't know." Barl replied, following Ana-Maire as she stormed her way to the hold.
The sight that they met was not a pretty one. Most of the sailors stood in a ring, watching the proceedings. Someone had supplied the boy with a sword, but Ana-Marie could tell his arm was hurt from the awkward angle he held the sword at. The boy bore scratches across his chest and was circling Carlos with a weary fierceness.
This was Ana-Marie's first sight of Captain Jack Sparrow.
* * * * * * * * * He stood half proud, his face pale and untouched by the sun. He contrasted strongly with the well-worn pirates that surrounded him, their hands and teeth yellowed by rum and nicotine, they faces scoured with daily battles.
The slurs and yelling came gradually to a hold, as the pirates saw the Captain's daughter on the stair well. She strode into the middle of the circle, whirling on Turner, the first mate of the ship.
"Explain yourself Turner. What the hell is this?" She gestured at the boy, who dropped on one knee, his breathing jagged.
"Just having some fun, Ana," He halted at her gaze. "Mam, its been a long voyage," He mumbled. Turner was privately cursing himself. Bloody Barl, that little snitch. First distraction they've had after six weeks of water, water and more bloody water.
"Yeah, we's just having some fun with da boy." Carlos slurred. He was a skinny mean looking Spanish pirate, two teeth capped with gold and part of his ear lobe missing. Carlos had an annoying habit to rub his fingers together. He jumped as he felt Ana-Marie's blade pressed to his neck.
"What did you say Carlos?" She said stonily.
"Uh, nothing."
"And what is our policy on stowaways?" She said, gazing at him along the metal of her blade.
Carlos gulped.
"Find out their name, age and pur.purpose. And then bring him to the captain unharmed until the captain decides we can carve him." Carlos gulped again as the blade was pushed further against his skin and rephrased his words. "Decides what's to be done with him. According to the code, mam."
The other pirates had begun to edge away, and up the stairs, the ones that knew what was good for them. Some, however, were transfixed by the scene.
"So who is this boy?" Ana-Marie asked sweetly.
"I don't. I dun know." Carlos stuttered.
"So you didn't find out who he was, didn't come and tell me and broke ship rules on stowaways, did ja Carlos?" He nodded as much as the blade pressed to his throat would allow. "I think that's two weeks scrubbing the decks. And you won't be leaving the ship when we arrive in Tortugua, Carlos. Does that sound fair to you?"
"Yes," He replied hastily. She returned her blade to its sheath, her fingers lingering there as she turned thoughtfully to the boy, who had dropped to his knees.
"I see you know how to handle a blade boy, and your footwork is good, very light. Who are you boy?" The boy looked up through a veil of brown hair and drew himself up to standing. He was taller then Ana-Marie, but was favouring his right shoulder.
"John Jackson." He said, and licked his lips. He glanced curiously around at the pirates watching him, and swooped into a slightly theatrical bow. "At your service." The pirates tittered (in a manly way of course).
Ana-Marie watched him coldly. What passed through her mind was unperceivable.
"How old are you Jackson?" She asked.
"Sixteen." He paused before saying it, drawing in a ragged breath. Turner shifted awkwardly at the gaze he received from Ana-Maire.
"Only sixteen."
"I was only sixteen when I got it the fight that left this scar on my face." Turner said lowly, fingering his jaw line. Ana-Maire's gaze flicked to his arm, when Turner was holding a blood soddened strip of fabric over a wound.
"He cut you Turner? What an achievement. You'd better get that seen too."
"Yes mam." Turner said, avoided her eye.
"All of you get to work you scurvy dogs. Barl, acquaint Carlos with his new duties, and Crow, get the cook to prepare diner. Tell him there will be no rum for Carlos or Turner tonight. Vincent, you stay." The other pirates departed quickly, and Jackson wondered blearily through the pain why they were taking orders from this slip of a girl.
He was surprised when she passed him a flask. He sipped it cautiously, and felt an unknown fiery liquid burning his throat.
"Its rum." Ana-Marie muttered.
She hoisted herself up on a crate, and gestured for him to do the same. He did, through rather less gracefully. Ana-Marie assessed his wounds with a quick glace. They were just scratches, none deep. Her boys had just been playing with him.
"So, Jackson, what are you doing on my ship?" She asked.
"Your ship?" The boy echoed disbelievingly. Vincent made a movement as though to hit him for his insolence, but Ana-Marie shook her head, stilling him.
"My ship, or it very soon will be." She confirmed passively, though inwardly she wanted to weep as she acknowledged her fathers passing.
"I.I." The boy paused, lost for words.
"Wanted to become extremely well acquainted with the insides of a wine barrel?" Ana-Marie asked quite pleasantly. The boy shuddered, and swayed slightly on his perch on the crate.
"Vincent, this boy is half dead with exhaustion. No matter how good his footwork is, he's not going to do anymore dancing tonight. Feed him, and find him a bunk to sleep in, and I'll get answers out of him in the morning."
"Aye," The big pirate shouted, and Ana-Marie smiled.
"Oh, and on second thoughts, tell Turner that our little Sparrow here is his charge, Savvy?" Vincent pulled the wine soddened boy up, hoisted him over his shoulder, and left.
* * * * * * * * * *