Disclaimer: Gilbert Norton and Adrian Mason are mine. Jack Sparrow is not.
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Chapter Four - "Out of Luck"
Jack Sparrow did not fully appreciate his luck until its formerly steady flow appeared to have dried up completely.
He had escaped the hell he'd produced that night with his life and an exhilarating sense of triumph as he basked in the heat of the dying ship. The length of the night seemed measured by the hight of the flames licking ash into the heavens; when their fuel had disappeared into the depths, the violent glow had been replaced by the softer warmth of the sun. At this point, the waves and gentle sunlight had rocked him into a blissful slumber.
As it turned out, Jack had not been the sole survivor. They overtook the tiny lifeboat in the late hours of the morning as its burden slept.
"We'll cut his throat now," a voice growled. Gilbert Norton stood, scorched and obviously the worse for wear, straddling the boats. His fingers clenched and unclenched convulsively as he glared spitefully down into the smaller of the two crafts. The others, huddled into a miserably close proximity, remained silent; all but the bloody whore.
"Shouldn't we turn him over to the proper authorities, sir?" Norton scowled, and Mary withered before him, muttering dejectedly. The woman had every right to harbor low spirits; they all did. The white-whiskered first mate drew an ill-looking knife from his belt, turning it over in his nervous fingers before kneeling over the boy. As the blade dropped its shadow over the soft, dark skin, she winced.
"Please, sir," she whimpered, "you wouldn't spill blood in front of a lady now, would you?" Grinding his teeth, Norton swung around. Unfortunately, the desperate words had already roused the lad.
The view was enough to yank him forcefully back into reality. Jack Sparrow's fathomlessly dark eyes fixed upon the rust-spattered blade, narrowing fearfully as realization dawned. He did not move, but rather he concentrated his entire being on drawing in the salt-sweetened air in a slow and deliberate breath. Rolling back his eyes, he stared hollowly into a cloudless sky. A lone gull passed overhead; the corners of his lips twitched perceptively.
"Good morning, Norton." The blade was withdrawn, and Jack marked the scrape of steel against its scabbard. Inwardly, he sighed relief and, swallowing hard, sat up. He was promptly hauled to his feet by the back of the collar. Turning him around, the first mate of the late Seabird relieved him of his knife and spent pistol(both of which he tossed into the sea) before hoisting him roughly into the larger boat. Dusting his sleeves, Jack grunted,
"A little hospitality wouldn't hurt, ma-" The kick came fast, and Jack nearly plunged head over heels off the opposite side of the boat. Instead, the momentum only crushed his nose into it with a sickening crunch, and dark blood ran thickly down his face. He stifled a cry, attempting to wrench himself painfully around to his back. He achieved only a glimpse of the solemn faces looming over him before another blow drilled his abdomen. This time, he did cry out. A roar of glee erupted from behind him, and all hell broke loose. Soon, Jack could only cough raggedly, choking out sweet flecks of the crimson fluid erupting from his gut. Then, for a good change of pace, Norton's meaty fist instead cracked his jaw. At least four teeth were shattered on impact. Before a great darkness could claim him, the boy retained sense enough to burn with the humiliation.
It had required the strength of the three other men of the surviving party to restrain Norton. Though he fumed and cursed, the first mate had finally agreed to leave the maggot be. For the time being. The rat will get what's coming to him when we reach port. With much shuffling about, they managed to drape the youth's limp form over a bench. No one dared to tend to him. Jack had still not regained consciousness when, in the early evening, the sails of a second East India ship billowed over the horizon on that common trade route. Wakefulness eluded Jack until the next afternoon, when he awoke to the sight of bars. Oy.
Because of the stiff, sickening pain tormenting his body, he resisted movement. Perhaps for the same reason, it took some time before Jack realized that the scent and rhythm of the ocean were conspicuously absent. Land ho. We couldn't have been more than twelve hours out from the nearest military port.. What was it? It doesn't matter. I can't have been out for more than a day, then. Right? He glowered into the straw mattress, spitting blood indignantly. Grimacing at the severe shock of discomfort twisting along his jaw with this action, the boy lay still.
Jack remained almost entirely immobile in his cell for the subsequent three days, balking at the idea of food but willing himself to take in water, albeit in minute quantities. A completely uncharacteristic depression swept over the youth within those seventy-two hours before the "trial." It's not even the injuries, is it? He did not pretend to be ignorant of the real cause for his unrest. It was the inaction; the waiting helplessly for the inevitable. As it turned out, his uneasy vigil was not to be a long one. When the soldier came, Jack only opened his eyes in acknowledgement. The red-coated chap had surprisingly little difficulty in achieving the young pirate's complete cooperation. They emerged from the jailhouse and into a bloody sea of uniforms. Squinting against the glare of the mid-afternoon sun, he saw a figure detach itself from the crowd. The man was obviously an officer, but of what rank Jack could not begin to guess. He motioned to the prisoner's escort,
"Release him, Lieutenant." When he had complied, the subordinate stepped away. Looking at Jack Sparrow now, one would not begin to guess that the man before them harbored such turmoil beneath the rock-hard set of his high-boned(and terribly bruised) features and the frosty intensity of his gaze. Though his eyes watered and stung with sweat in the direct sunlight, he did not blink once. If this silent defiance discomfited the officer, he did not show it; much. Stiff and utterly devoid of emotion, he spoke clearly and audibly to all present,
"Jack Sparrow.. You have been found guilty of an act of piracy against the East India Company, including the destruction of goods, a ship, and the murder of a its crew. For this, you should face the maximum penalty. However, due to certain.. Complications," he flicked a
(nervous)
glance over his shoulder, "You will instead serve no less than a ten-year imprisonment on this very island. Consider yourself very fortunate; Lord knows why a wretch such as yourself should be spared while nearly an entire crew of good men met an unjust end at your filthy hands." With a scowl of disgust, he turned and swept away. Another figure emerged from the jailhouse then, brandishing a thin rod glowing with heat at one end; a branding iron; the kind one used to indicate the ownership of livestock. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead at the sight. However, even as they took up his wrist and the scent of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils, Jack Sparrow did not cry out. His thoughts were far away at that moment, and they roared with triumph: he would live. Perhaps a small trickle of luck still ran for the pirate after all.
As promised, Jack was incarcerated that very day; the first of the nigh four thousand he was to serve. He immediately found the living conditions of the dungeon-like little block terrible and the food worse(when he finally managed to devise a way of chewing around the empty sockets in his gums). He dwelled little on the reason he had not been doomed to swing that day.
The company, however, eventually proved to be quite instructive; as far as Jack was concerned, school was in. Petty criminals came and went in the first few months, and it wasn't until a full three quarters of a year had passed before he met with any long-term companions; most were pirates, some greater than others. However, not one soul spent a night in that prison without contributing to the boy's "education." One fellow, who would occupy the cell adjacent to Jack's own for the greater part of his last three years, introduced himself as Adrian Mason. He was a young fellow himself, no more than a decade Jack's senior, and seemed to nearly radiate with the aura of tidiness he kept about his person. This trait amused his young companion to no end. The bond shared between the two pirates grew deep. Mason's company broke up the monotony of an existence that, sooner or later, would likely have driven Jack Sparrow to an early death. Escape often crossed his mind, but it was not until his piratic ambitions outgrew his fear of the hangman that he was impelled to take action.
A tropical storm had moved in during the summer of his fifth and final year residing on that cursed island. A vicious one, it was to be certain. Rain pounded at the building mercilessly, creating a din which made sleep all but impossible; whips of lightning cracked the atmosphere at semi-regular intervals. This was one of the rare occasions that, excluding the single guard(who was snoring contentedly despite the racket outside), he and Mason had the cell block to themselves. As far as he could recall, Jack had not been dwelling on anything in particular when his thoughts were suddenly intruded by and overcome with the vision of an entire island of heathen gold. The story hadn't crossed his mind in half a decade. Surprised, he tugged thoughtfully at his plaited beard before turning to regard his companion through their shared bars.
"What do ya' say, Ade?" He grinned widely, "I'm not going to fly the coop all by me onesies." Mason, who had been gazing drowsily into the shadows of his own cell, sat bolt upright. A flash from the barred window served to reveal the smooth moon of the pirate's face interrupted by thick bands of darkness; it was positively glowing. He shot the dozing soldier a cautious glance before his eyes flicked back to voice his reply to the hunched silhouette of his friend,
"Ye won't have to, mate. What did ye have in mind?" To be continued..
I'm not sure about this chapter. I would've dedicated more detail to Jack's time in prison, but I was afraid it might become tedious. Also, it's hard to say when the fifth chapter will be ready for publication. Please review; it gives me a reason to write. Thanks, everyone.
~CS
P.S. - Sorry about Jack getting beat up. =/