Note: once more, The Inagua I use…is a fictional version of the actual Island.

---By what Bounds---

Part 1 -- These reflections of late.

"So, I yelled at 'im, 'e changed the lookouts, and they attacked that night…" he said bitterly "An' tha'a'bout cover how it bloody well happened."

He scoffed. Slurred, practically inaudible words, echoed around the darkness before finally being absorbed by the humid air and the sepulcher-like, decrepit stone walls. The floor was hard and wet, remains of countless- and definitely not recent- rainfalls were seeping through the cracked bits of the hollow blocks, seeking escape from the omnipresent darkness. The cell was made almost exclusively of them, the old shapeless cemented stones, confined against each other, fit to accommodate moss-- that is, if anything at all could survive in such a dark and cold place. Jack smiled sardonically, his bitter smile sliding off his features with fatigue, and, much like his shape in general, it was lost to the window-less room and the clammy, biting nothingness therein. He despondently sunk his scarcely clothed back into the stone wall, the only support he had been receiving as of late. The strings of beads nipped at his back, and the mass of dirtied hair offered no comfort for his head.

"thaut'a-be tha'worst -accoun'- of 'ill fortune, I've yet heard told!"

There was audible movement in the cell next to him, and Jack nodded silently, pulling his hat over his face to prevent damage from coming to it-- rather than to shelter his eyes from the absence of light. "you're telling me, mate" he mumbled sarcastically.

"wher' be the res' of ye crew?"

Jack hardly moved, his grim voice having crawled back into the depths of his being like a small tired creature, unwilling to come back out. His hat felt as if it would cave in, his senses the only thing alive, and his mind the only thing constantly assaulted by the nothing. Actually, by any honorable man's codes, the crew's fate would rest on his conscience, their deaths would have to eat at his soul slowly, insatiable and ever destroying-- But they didn't. They didn't--His men were better off than he. He felt no guilt for them. After a minute's time, he found the drive to answer, but his words were dipped in pity he wasn't even aware he had, a somber reply whispered into the sedentary bleakness, well past its intended time. Whether it was pity for himself, or pity for the crew, he wasn't really sure. Nor did he care to consider anything past that. He realized the reply probably hadn't reached the other man, and repeated it, tongue sharpened and cold.

"they be in other cells, mate, they be wait~ing for the gallows. like I await mines ~own~"

The other man said nothing, and Jack didn't care to wonder whether this time he was heard. The man soon spoke up again however, having found the incentive to blabber about some like-incident or other. Jack had heard the story once before, it was one of the many tales that were passed around from sailor to sailor, that had little to no basis on real life. Jack pondered listening to the trifle tale with bitterly despondent indifference-- He groaned, instead and caved further against his rough backing.

Unfortunately, the last two hours, had been laden with his last attempt to escape going awry. The man in the next cell, who he was surprised to know about, had not missed the ear-splitting noise, as Jack, in a moment of absolute desperation, attempted to fit himself between the bars. The man had promptly inquired thereafter, as to Jack's identity, his life-- his capture. Jack didn't care, he was desperate, and he needed contact with the outside world, a break from the nagging redundancy of every-day life in an inescapable black stone-and-iron box, so at first it seemed that telling the man about his misfortunes, would be like admitting defeat. He had thought it over, however, and he figured it would do no harm in the end. This, was just proved to be wrong. To the man, it was just another tale, drowned in lies. Jack certainly did not lie, avoid, maybe. He knew in the back of his mind, that would have been the outcome, since people seemed only to believe what they desired to be so. That didn't mean, however, that it wasn't worth trying, in order to preserve his sanity.

He burrowed his face into the hat, its dusty smell was reassuring-- days and nights of pleasure and travel were twisted unto every thread and stiff strand that made the old hat; however, it seemed a shame that he had no desire to embrace the suffocating effluvium-like familiarity of nostalgia any more than he just had. He feared he would die in the box, before ever reaching the gallows. He bordered on being taunted with his love for freedom, and all the good luck that had previously embraced his travels, was now pricking at him in the form of lecherous memories. At first he was not content to sit and wait for his death, reminiscing sadly about his life; however, it seemed the world wanted none of him, and reassured him of it with every continual failed escape. What more could he do now, that he was legitimately stuck there.

The man in the next cell continued the tale of ships sunk in the middle of the Ocean by mystical forces, and Jack found himself suddenly wishing that he had fallen victim to them-- rather than to the sordid torture they had devised for him, here. He could almost laugh at the idea, if it didn't pain him so much; Irony seemed to follow Jack with abandon, and this was it, this would be the end of it all.

He took off his hat and threw it to the side of the cell. His arms fell flaccid next to him. It physically hurt to admit he could not escape, that he was trapped-- there was not even a window, and scarcely even a door. This end should have been expected, he supposed, but this time he hadn't even the idea of hope, to lift his spirits. The difference between the previous captures, and this very unfortunate one, was that they captured him-- and managed to take his pearl. The burned her down, they destroyed his only reason for escape whilst he watched--they had taken his freedom, and set her ablaze upon shallow waters. And that was almost a week past.

"…an'a unlucky basta'ds jus' fell to 'da depths of Davy Jones' locka'. Mo'bid beast she was, takin' men and ships alike! Wait a second-- how's it they even faun' ya? Seems a'tad bit unlikely by me figurin' "

Jack densely nodded out of his reverie, and after a few seconds, he mumbled a random prevaricate. He did not want to think anymore about it-- and all his accounts would go wasted on the man beside him. "They were just lucky, says I, no man could'a taken me pearl with'out the devil's luck on 'is back" he almost-lied.

This seemed to silence the man, and Jack tried not to groan as the memories came to despoil the last of his resistance. His mind reverted to the week prior once more, recounting torturously the last days of his freedom, the last hours before capture. Capture, what a horrible word.

---

Jack stood in idle watch, facing the Pearl as her crew continued the torturous task of scraping small iron latches against the exposed, shallow imperfections of each individual stave. Dusk was taking prisoner the second day-- the red and orange fragments of light were fading quickly, pulled back against the falling horizon, as the men attempted to finish. They were groping for an end, they had only a few feet left of scraping, before they could climb down from their suspended locations, and enjoy a full night's rest. Unfortunately, two days with little-to-no-rest was weakening them, and the very little food they had consumed was doing nothing to ease their spirits of such work. The only thought keeping them going, was the promise of departure.

They sat on uncomfortable boards of aging wood, suspended from the top of the tilted hull by worn ropes, graying and split. Scraping and scraping at the hull, until all had been removed, and all it's surface holes and cracks were exposed to the biting, salty air that cradled them with ease. They would hopefully rest tonight, and the holes and scrapes would be covered by a fresh coat of paint in the morning--only to keep other creatures from digging into the supple insides of the wood, and becoming an undetected problem later on. It was all routine, but the fact that the Pearl hadn't been cleaned in almost a full two years' time, had caused a weighty number of barnacles to attach themselves like parasites, swallowing the Pearl's underbelly-- hardened clumps slowing and braking through her mercilessly.

Jack walked back to shore, the sun lay floating just atop the horizon like a red disk that threatened to fall under the waters of the distance; It was held by that thin strip of divide- no longer suspended by time nor the will of men, and truth be told, he would rather be examining maps than taunting his crew with his less physically-demanding job. Once the night fell, he would loose his chance to do anything of use, and he was hoping this would be the last night spent on the sandy folds of Inagua's forgotten coast. He grew impatient with the hours, careening had always served to be a bother. It made both him and his ship gullible to anyone passing, and tired his men; truth be told, the only reason why it was to be done, was because it was definitely favorable to the alternative. It was better to careen, he'd been taught, than be lost to the sea later on. And so he believed, then.

Jack sat on the warm sand, ruffled white shirt moving in rhythm with the idle wind. He had a few of his supplies brought to land, just in case he found some idle time. He sat with his back against a tall palm, wherein several maps were tied with rope, as to prevent them from flying off. He gently felt for one, nimble fingers adorned with a myriad of rings, delicately untying the knots with obviously flamboyant gestures. He unrolled it over the sand, and reached back for a piece of dark lead standing buried in the sand-- seeming like nothing less than a twig protruding unnaturally where little else would grow.

He glanced at the map, and circled his new destination. Several markings adorned the map's surface, harsh black messages and "x"s raping the beautiful printing, creating a harsh, unnatural contrast on it's surface. He straightened his bothersome mustache out of compulsion rather than need. Their new destination, he had decided in a brief inspiration, was to be nearer to the gulf. He was growing tired of ships fresh from England, crossing their paths-- quite frankly, he thought it was unwise not to avoid them. They were doing a fine impersonation of crowding ants, overbearing and unpredictable in their numbers, and he did not want to shorten his career as a Scourge and a Pirate.

He could spend a total of two months in the gulf, he had previously estimated, before having to return-- enough time to secure a minimum of two ships-- granted, they might not be carrying more than food and supplies, but that would be enough . More time in deep water, meant more potential for riches. Jack made a note to himself on the map-- a random scribbling in regards to trade routes to New Orleans, and smiled subtly, closing the map again, and delicately tying it back to the Palm's bark. Only three prominent routes, he figured he had a good bet. He would plan a trip back to Isle de la Morte after that, to check the little remains of the treasure-- granted, only if their winnings would supply the trip. He could finish the renovations on his Pearl with that gold, and make 'er as brilliant as she had been before. He noted a few of the sails needed mending, and she had been collecting more water than was necessary.

After recording the changes in a new piece of paper, folded in with the map itself, he stuck the charcoal on the ground, and stood up; stiff, immobile arches in the sand forcing him to loose his balance temporarily, as he set forth to continue monitoring the advances his men were making. He wobbled a bit, unaccustomed to being without the constant rocking of the floor beneath him, his arms flailing for a few seconds before his balance was regained. He put a hand to his waist band, and walked until he faced the full side of the ship once more, and the numerous men dangling from her, wishing they would finish already;

They were costing him valuable time.

__ __ __ __

_*__*__*_

After the men ended, only an hour after nightfall, they had sat around a huge fire, drinking to their hearts content, celebrating their two straight days of work with the fresh water they knew would spoil. A few drunk rum, and all laughed and told of stories, moving lips and dirtied, unkempt beards illuminated by the glow of the fire, their golden and iron-clad jewelry sparkling in the shallow twilight. Tired laughter and low shouts were carried by the wind, hanging above their heads, barrels lay scattered around the white sand. A few had passed out from exhaustion, and slowly, one by one, they were falling prey to sleep. The scouts had been changed and now, three older and more fragile crewmembers stood at the perimeters, watching at full attention, one dubbed over with sleep, pistol cocked at his side as he rested half sitting in the dark.

That's when it happened.

Shots deafened the night, and the woken men looked at each other in absolute confusion, before realization hit them, and they sundered to the cannons sinking in the sand. Alien shouts bombarded them, carrying across the silent beach, and they hectically struggled to align the cannons against a fusillade of oncoming cries and shots. What seemed like a sea of shadows, one fluid oncoming of not-men, ran between the palm-bound outgrowth with alacrity, their muskets striking dead the lookouts--who were quickly drowned under their numbers.

Jack ran to the front, pistol unsheathed., and firing all those that would come near the cannons, they fired at the masses, deterred them, as swords and muskets reflected through the night, reflected the unforgiving cries. They fought mercilessly, Jack shouted and ordered, as the blur of men ran towards them, dropping dead as they descended past the declivity, and being replaced by yet more obscure bands of figures. Always oncoming.

It was then, that he sensed a new light, an onslaught of light in the distance, his eyes widened and he turned his head, pistol still pointed-- what he saw left him immobile. The Pearl. Flames were seeping through the staves, consuming her hull and climbing up the mast. Waving through the sails in the wind. It hit him.

He forgot about all, and ran frantically towards the Pearl, as if that could prevent her from burning in the nothingness. The battle raged around him, and he yelled and cursed. The Mast fell, and Jack felt as he did as well. His knees almost gave way, and al he could do was stare at her shape in the distance, eyes wide as he looked at her from his place amidst the slaughter.

--

Jack sighed, as the memories faded. He could scarcely remember what happened after that, all he could unearth in his memory, were fragments of the blank faces that he himself slaughtered afterwards. Still, it had not been enough-- many of his crew lay dead; More importantly, he was alive, while his Pearl was consumed by unforgiving flames. Wasn't a captain ideally supposed to go down with the ship?

He had begun by lashing out against the enemy, then. His pistol and powder dropped to the sand, and calculated thrusts of his shimmering sword led an ill attempt to slaughter his way to the hidden leader of the mercenaries. It was after the adrenaline began to fade and the fight raged on-- that he realized his crew would inevitably loose. It suddenly became a desperate attempt to fall under. He slaughtered only to be slaughtered himself and perhaps afterwards, under the pretense of death, he could attempt to re-conquer his life, even if his Pearl was sucked halfway under the rigid sands. His honor held no opposition to such a method of survival, he was already accustomed to being deemed a great escapist. When the oncoming enemy began to torch the fallen bodies, Jack could not come up with a thing to save his skin, and he could think of no escape. Though fortunately they needed examples for the village.

"so are'ye gon'tell me how they foun' ye ship?"

Jack momentarily wondered what the man was talking about, and finally remembering, the urge to try and fit himself between the iron bars, resurfaced.

"unfortunately, they're not gifted with stupidity" he slurred, instead.

The peeling Iron bars smiled back at him, and Jack began to take off his rings, one by one. He groaned. What on earth had he done to deserve this of all things. Now, he really wished he had sunk in the sea-- at least if he had, he would not have to face the helplessness that came with being caged. It would kill him, he was sure of it. He looked at his hands, the blackish designs still aligning his tanned skin, the few tattoos and the torn and dirtied camise on his back. He was the Scourge of the Spanish Main-- He was. He'd been telling himself that for the last week, it was starting to sound more and more foreign as time went on. He started to throw the rings in the general direction of the hat, one by one they all missed.

"but I tell ye, mate, I sure wish I was"

He sighed. he wanted desperately to get out.

The man began his idle talk once more, and Jack's thoughts turned to the crew.

Who knew how many of them had met the embracing, all-too-willing affection of the gallows, and who knew how long before his own lifeless body would be sentenced to hang from a cliff, celebrated by the mediocre masses. The punishment no longer carried the fictitious pretense to warn pirates, seeing as there were scarcely pirates left to warn, and the re-located corpses would be at best viewed from resident-laden areas of the port and half the village. Never from the sea, nor by incoming merchant ships. It was the morbid pastime of the law-abiding and land-bound, it seemed, and it made him cringe to know, that at one point those hanging corpses had all the immortality of freedom, glimmering at them from beyond the British Naval ships, and the suffocating, simplistic village-life.

He reached for his rings again, and once more began tossing them towards the hat.

He was positive that his own capture had gained a certain amount of temporal publicity for whom ever locked his iron door, however, and hopefully the news would travel. He was not opposed to being saved, if he lived to see the day.

TBC