AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is two tales in one - 1) Jack Sparrow aboard the
Interceptor recounting the story that leads up to the now famous line, "And
then they made me their chief." His recital is interspersed with 2) the
actual events, which took place a few months before the movie. I've used
********** to differentiate the shift between the two versions; please let
me know if its confusing or not.
I've also tackled the questions of 1) how Jack and AnaMaria met; and 2) who exactly were those rumrunners that rescued Jack ten years earlier after Barbossa marooned him. Again, its just my take on how things might have been.
I'm rating it PG-13 for references to adult and/or slash situations, though nothing actually happens in the story itself. This tale will be in three parts, so if you enjoy this first Chapter, please check back for Chapters Two and Three.
I had a great time writing two versions of the same story, trying to show how Jack, um, 'glorifies' his adventures. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it!
Also, my heartfelt thanks to all of you who have reviewed my other stories. You make the writing worthwhile, folks!!
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"... And Then They Made Me Their Chief ..."
Chapter ONE
by Saahira 09-29-03
On the deck of the HMS *Interceptor,* two soldiers listened with rapt attention, fascinated by the dirty and grizzled, bearded and beaded, nefarious-seeming stranger who sat facing them. Captain Jack Sparrow spun his tale in hypnotic tones, his words flowing with the ease of a born storyteller. Yet his mind was busy elsewhere, plotting and planning how best to liberate said *Interceptor* from her berth in Port Royal.
"Then it hit," Sparrow said, and he paused dramatically, his kohl-lined eyes narrowing. His hands moved gently, a small gesture outward acknowledging the sea. "The storm. The worst one to hit the Caribbean in a dozen years."
"I remember it," the thinner of the two soldiers said eagerly. He glanced at his comrade as if for confirmation. "You remember, Mullroy? Six months ago? The one that flooded Port Royal."
"It struck in the night," Sparrow purred, holding their gazes with the force of his own. "The *Fury* was a good ship, a sound ship, but she had no chance against it." He failed to mention that the *Fury* had already been badly damaged in a firefight with the HMS *Majestic.* The pirate schooner had managed to outrun the bigger British vessel, but they couldn't outrun the storm. It struck before repairs could be made. But no need telling these guileless soldiers that; no sense making them feel superior to old Jack.
"It came in with a vengeance," Sparrow murmured intently, "and the *Fury* was crushed like kindlin' beneath it ..."
********************
*The Fury was going down!*
The *Fury* was going down, and not all the prayers in heaven could save her. She was too badly damaged, too battered and broken. The ocean that once had loved the proud ship had on a whim sentenced her to die.
Captain Jack Sparrow clung to the wheel, fighting to keep the ship's bow turned into the raging wind. Waves lashed the deck, washing away any men still foolish enough to be caught there. Thunder crashed and lightning split the sky. The ocean roared, pummeling poor *Fury.* In one violent blow, it nearly capsized her. Only luck and the stubbornness of one man kept her afloat.
Jenkins, the First Mate, forced his way across the slanting deck. Fell when *Fury* pitched and bucked. He swam more than walked in Sparrow's direction.
"All hands are in the longboats, sir!" He shouted against the storm, yet his voice sounded thin and weak, inconsequential in the face of the ocean's wrath.
Jack squinted blindly ahead into rain and wind and darkness. His long hair, black as the night, whipped back from his face. He was soaked to the bone, the rain beating down with a force so great he could barely open his eyes. He had bound his wrist to the wheel; he'd be damned if he willingly lost a second ship, whether it was his to lose or not.
"Go on then!" he yelled.
"Not without you!" Jenkins cried. "Samuels is holdin' one of the boats for us!"
Damn dead Captain Arriaga's First Mate, Sparrow thought furiously. Damn him and his loyalty, damn Samuels, damn the damned *Majestic,* and damn the bloody storm.
"Go!" he yelled again. "I'll join you when I can!"
"There's not much time, sir! She's splittin' apart at the seams!"
"*Go!*" Sparrow bellowed.
Jenkins hesitated, searching the younger man's face. Then he turned and slid down the tilted deck. He did not look back.
*The Pirate's Code. If a man falls behind, he is left behind.* Simple enough. Harder when its you doing the falling behind.
A brutal wave rolled across the deck, smashing everything in its wake. It knocked Sparrow down, nearly snapping his bound wrist. Coughing out sea water, he struggled back to his feet. Tried to stand, but couldn't; the deck had not righted itself. There was no more time. The *Fury* was a corpse beneath him.
"G'bye, luv," he mumbled. His free hand fumbled with the rope's knot, but the fibers had swollen and tightened in the flood of rain and salt water. Sparrow jerked out his dagger and began cutting. Cutting.
Another wave, bigger and meaner than the last. It slammed the *Fury* on her side, submerging Sparrow briefly underwater; he surged to the surface, choking. Rigging groaned and collapsed. The main mast cracked and splintered, dropping without mercy on the man trapped at the helm.
Pain was the last thing Jack Sparrow knew before darkness claimed him.
********************
"So what did you do?" the thinner soldier asked impatiently.
"That's right," the chubby one, Mullroy, added. He eyed Jack Sparrow doubtfully. "No man could survive a wreck that bad. No *normal* man. How'd you get out of it?"
"Well," Sparrow said, leaning forward. His eyes narrowed, his hands clasped atop his knee, and he smiled seductively. "When I came to, I was surrounded in wreckage with not another livin' soul in sight. So's first thing I did was I used my sword to cut away the ropes lashin' me to the remains of the wheel. Most of the *Fury* was in little pieces, but I spied one bit of hull bigger than the rest. So's I swam to it and I climbed aboard it. Then I gathered up a couple of loose planks and I used them for paddles."
"Paddles?" Mullroy frowned. "You used broken planks as paddles?"
"Aye," Sparrow nodded. "For a week and more I paddled under a blisterin' hot sun. With no food, no water, and the salt burnin' my skin, I paddled. And at last," his hand arced slowly outward, and he smiled beatifically, "I came to an island."
"What island?" the thin soldier asked.
Sparrow pursed his lips, considering. "I only learnt the native's name for it. Pattatoui Maloui."
"Never heard of it," the heavy soldier said. "You heard of it, Murtogg?"
"Course not," Murtogg reprimanded, "he just said it was the native's name for it, didn't he? Go on, Mr. Smith, what happened then?"
"Well," Sparrow continued, eyeing first one man and then the other, "I dove off my sorry little raft and swam up to shore, where I was greeted by the most beautiful people ever to grace this good earth. Golden skin, they had, and hair black as jet. The men were all warriors and the women ... the women were all naked."
"Naked!" both soldiers exclaimed in unison.
"Aye," Sparrow grinned, "and a prettier sight was never seen by a poor lost mariner's eyes. Tall and slender they were. More beautiful and shapely than the finest ladies in Paris."
"And naked?"
"As the day they was born, mate." He leaned forward, and his gold-flecked smile became conspiratorial. "And they was very willin' to please a man, if ye know what I mean."
"You mean ...?"
"Aye, lad. That's *just* what I mean."
********************
The sun was an orange-red glare against shut eyelids. He swallowed dryly, his throat raw and parched. His stomach roiled, no doubt full of salt water wanting to come up. His body was strangely numb, yet not a single part of him didn't hurt.
The last thing Jack remembered was going down still lashed to the ship. He glanced. Saw rope burns circling his wrist, red and swollen welts, angry looking. Least he still had his hand. Experimentation proved he could move his fingers, a little. That was a good sign; a good start. Beneath twitching fingers, Sparrow felt the dampness of wet sand and knew himself saved.
Up. He needed to get up and see what bit of salvation the sea had spit him out on. He swallowed again. His head was splitting. He wanted only to lie there and sleep. But that wouldn't get him any food or fresh water, now would it?
Drawing a deep breath, Sparrow began the slow process of shifting onto one elbow; with a strangled cry he dropped back down again. He lay flat on his back, panting as agony lanced through his body. His leg was on fire. His side was slightly less painful; a cracked rib or two making themselves known. As for the leg ...
He gathered his courage, steeled himself against the pounding in his skull, and raised his head. It took a moment for his weary eyes to focus, to see the shattered splinter, two fingers thick and as long as his forearm, thrusting through the meaty part of his thigh. Bloody hell ...
His head dropped back on the sand. He'd have to move eventually. It was that or die here on this sorry bit of beach. Perhaps later would be soon enough though, when his head quit hurting so bad. Jack closed his eyes against the sun ...
He woke again to the low murmur of voices. Strange voices, for he couldn't put meaning to their words. Not English. Certainly not French, Spanish or Portuguese, or any other tongue he was familiar with. He was aware that the sun's glare was gone. Night then, or close to it. He creaked only one eye open.
And saw a broad face framed by frizzled black hair peering down at him. Chubby tattooed cheeks and a pierced nose. A round, wobbly body wrapped in a sarong not big enough to hold it all.
The fat face grinned, revealing one prominently missing tooth. The face jabbered at him, an incomprehensible string of noises. It hurt his head to hear it.
"No, no, no," Sparrow muttered blearily, and raised a weakly protesting hand. "English, lass. Do ye speak English?"
The head tilted. Sparrow became aware that he and the woman were not alone.
"Englees," the girl grinned. "Yes, yes, Englees. You Queenie?"
"Lass," he said tiredly, closing the eye, "you'll have to do better than that."
Someone else came to stand above the girl. An old man, his wizened features curious. "Tula say, you Englees man, yes? Queenie's man?"
"Oh," Sparrow squinted upward. His body had grown blissfully unaware of sensation, permitting such luxuries as conversation. "You mean a soldier? Or a sailor in the Royal Fleet? No," he answered on a sigh, not adding that Britain currently had a King and not a Queen; one did not correct one's possible saviors that way. "I am not."
"Good! We help then, yes!" The man's enthusiasm might have surprised Jack Sparrow had he been well enough to care. The elder pushed the girl aside and took her place. His hair was bushy and gray, his eyes were rheumy with age, and he had no more than a tooth or two in his whole head. But his manner was calm and confident, and just then those traits seemed more important to Jack than the others. The elder barked orders in his twisty native tongue, and the pirate found himself quickly surrounded by a group of very small, very skinny men. Only one of them was clothed, and that barely. The others seemed undaunted by having their manhoods dangling and swinging about for the world to see.
Even sick and dizzy with pain, Sparrow laughed. Imagine that, he thought. Captain Jack Sparrow rescued by a band of naked gnomes. When he at last told the tale, he'd have to ...
The thought was vanquished in a cry of pain when they lifted him.
********************
"Of course they offered me every hospitality," Sparrow said glibly.
"Including the women?"
"*Especially* the women." Captain Sparrow grinned cheekily. "They almost worshipped me, they did. They had feasts and parties every night in my honor."
"Every night?" the chubby soldier asked. "You said it was an island. Didn't they run out of food, feasting every night like that?"
"It ... was a really *big* island," Sparrow quickly temporized. He gestured grandly, emphasizing the island's immense proportions. "A big tropical *paradise* of an island, mate. Which is why the natives could live where they did and I could be there with 'em, and the rum runners could be hidden where they were with their cache hidden where it was, and the *Majestic* could be harbored where she was right there alongside said cache, and none of us the wiser of the other. Except for the natives, of course, who knew where everyone was."
"What'd he say?" the thin soldier asked, turning to his comrade.
"The *Majestic* was there?" Mullroy asked excitedly, fixing on only one point among the jumble. "I've heard of her. Biggest pirate-hunter in the ocean, that's what she is." He frowned. "What was *Majestic* doing harbored at *your* island?"
Jack winced slightly at his slip, but there was no help for it but to continue. "A ... special assignment. To catch the rum runners."
********************
Consciousness was fleeting at first, flirting coyly like a woman not yet willing to give herself, allowing Sparrow only fleeting glimpses of the world around him: the interior of a small thatch hut; a scrawny little medicine man, all painted up like a bloody savage; the fat girl, always grinning and touching him where she shouldn't have been touching. He remembered a sweet-tasting liquid being poured down his throat, and later a nutty gruel.
By the time he became fully aware, his ribs had been bound and the wood removed from his poor abused leg. Thigh and wrist were both bandaged up nice and neat, and there was a slimy paste smeared over all his cuts and abrasions. They had relieved him of his clothing and effects, a dilemma which Sparrow promptly corrected upon finding his belongings stacked neatly beside him.
Standing, moving ... hell, just sitting up ... he felt weak and hungover, like he was just coming off a week-long binge. The irony of it was appalling.
He stumbled out into filtered morning sunshine and it blinded him. He threw an arm up to shield his eyes from the assault and heard an unmistakable voice filled with unbridled enthusiasm.
"*Queenie!*" He squinted to see young Tula trotting, bouncing, jiggling, wobbling toward him with thick arms opened wide. Horrified, Sparrow braced himself for the impact, but the girl managed to halt her momentum mere inches away and stood there with the folds of her flesh swaying gently. She grinned her gap-toothed grin and beamed, "Queenie wake up."
"Sparrow, young miss," he corrected, wincing slightly. "*Captain* Jack Sparrow. Or just Jack, if you please."
"Jick," she repeated reverently.
The whole tribe was looking at him now, all those bony, naked little men. All those huge, blubbery women with their tattooed faces and fuzzy hair, half-clad in colorful sarongs. There were a half-dozen or so dirty children, and they stared too.
"Jick eat," Tula gushed, taking his hand in hers. "Jick eat with Tula and papa."
Limping, Sparrow allowed himself to be led to palm fronds scattered like picnic blankets across the ground. When Tula sat, the ground shook. Or so it seemed to the wounded, headsore pirate dragged down with her.
He was relieved to see his benefactor sitting across from him. Jack smiled gratefully, though he knew it probably looked as sickly as he himself felt.
The old man touched a hand to Sparrow's chest, repeating, "Jick." The hand touched his own chest, and he straightened proudly. "Syull. Chief of Cas'ambenga."
"Syull," Sparrow repeated, his Tortugan brogue forming the name clumsily. He glanced at the members of the tribe. They had started eating again, though most continued staring. Especially the women. And he wasn't quite sure he liked that lusty gleam in their eyes.
Then he frowned, noticing that some of them had red, swollen pustules marring their faces and the visible parts of their expansive flesh ... which was most of their bodies. "Are they diseased?" he asked in dismay, pointing.
"Besalaya berries," Syull grinned. "Taste good but make spots." He shrugged, dismissing the topic.
"Eat," Tula urged. She thrust a bowl into his hands, grinning encouragement. Demurely, she added, "Tula cooked."
Being half-starved, Jack Sparrow was more than happy to oblige. He reached eagerly inside the bowl, ready to gorge his grumbling belly on exotic island fare. Stopped. Slowly ... *slowly* ... withdrew his hand. Eyebrows quirked, climbing up underneath his beaded red scarf. Dark eyes slewed a sidelong question. "These are ... *worms?* Are they not?"
"Tula cooked," Tula giggled shyly, demurely tucking her chins.
"Yes." Sparrow tried to grin. Almost succeeded. "Well, um ..." He spotted some fruit lying unclaimed between them. He quickly traded worms for produce and bit into something sweet and tangy. "Delicious, innit?" he said around the mouthful, juice dripping down into the braids of his beard. He hoped he hadn't offended the girl. Slighting the natives when one was stranded alone among them was not always the wisest course to take.
If Tula was offended though, she hid it well. She grinned her gap-toothed grin and placed a possessive hand high on Jack's thigh.
But Syull, at least, was a savvy old goat. He grinned knowingly. "Queenies not like takisha worms either. Queenies eat all birds and pigs; hunt all time. Eat all sweet berries." He shook his shaggy gray head, his wrinkled visage growing bitter. "Queenies don't go, soon no more pigs, no more berries. Women get skinny and ugly."
It was a sign of how blurry he still was that it took several seconds before the significance of Syull's complaint actually registered in Sparrow's mind. Then his kohl-lined eyes narrowed and he peered into the old man's face. Carefully, he asked, "Are you sayin' there are soldiers ... Queenies ... on this island? Now?"
"Queenies *everywhere!*" old Syull exclaimed, throwing his hands skyward in exasperation.
"Now that's interesting," Jack Sparrow murmured, more to himself than to either of his hosts. "That's very interesting."
********************
"Chasing rum runners; that's strange," Mullroy said suspiciously. "Pittance of a mission for a captain like Remy to take when there are pirates like Roberts and Sparrow and the like roaming the Caribbean."
"Yes, well ... *this* captain of rum runners was different from the other more ordinary rum runner captains." Sparrow paused. His dark eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, dropping his voice low for the telling. "His name was Heinrich Schmidt. He was a big mean brute of a man. Vicious as the devil in hell, mate. He'd as soon kill a man as look at him. Once ran a man through for snorin' too loud."
"That's mean," Murtogg agreed.
"Oh, aye," Sparrow murmured. "There was none more frightenin' than the formidable Captain Schmidt. If there be monsters in this world, gents, then Schmidt is their lord and master."
********************
Captain Jack Sparrow leaned against the trunk of a convenient palm tree, his ribs and thigh aching atrociously. His own fault; he was the one that had demanded he be shown the 'Queenies.'
And see them he did, with a sinking heart.
The *Majestic* was anchored just off the island's western shore. Repairs were being made; apparently the storm had been only slightly kinder to the big British vessel. At least she had survived, unlike poor *Fury.*
Captain Remy had organized a small logging operation with sailors felling trees, cutting and forming planks which then went to patch a gaping wound in *Majestic's* starboard hull. Or at least, it *had* been gaping ... the difference in color between old wood and new made that obvious. Already, repairs were almost completed.
Industrious blighters. They had also built makeshift shelters on the beach against sun, wind and rain. That, and a good dozen pigs and half as many birds had been gutted and shoved on pikes to drain; five huge hogs currently decorated spits which were slowly being turned over open fire pits. Captain Remy sat beneath a lean-to, barking orders to his men. Nearby, in the shade of swaying palm trees, cushioned on sand, sat their prisoners.
Sparrow recognized the late Captain Arriaga's First Mate, Mr. Jenkins. Samuels, the bosun, was there as well. All told, about half of the *Fury's* thirty-man compliment had been captured; which meant two longboats at least had been swallowed by the sea. Damned shame, that. They were good men; good pirates. They hadn't deserved to die that way.
The survivors were chained like slaves at ankles and wrists, one man to the next. Sadly, Sparrow could expect no help from them.
"See," Syull whispered beside him, pointing to the spitted hogs. "Queenies here. Queenies there. Eat *all* our pigs!"
Jack slanted him a curious glance. Softly, he repeated, "Queenies here. Yes, I see them. But Queenies *there?*"
Syull jerked his chin across his shoulder in affirmation. "Queenies there too."
Sparrow's frown deepened. "Am I to take it there's a ship off the eastern shore then, as well?"
Syull nodded. "These Queenies stupid. Worry about making boat and eating pigs. Queenies there," he said, nodding east, "mean." He shrugged. "Mean and hungry."
Pursing his lips, Sparrow considered this new and intriguing information. Had the other group belonged to the Royal Navy, they would have anchored here alongside *Majestic;* even an honest merchant would have moored nearby for the safety the huge warship offered. That they had not implied they chose not to give away their presence. That they were pirates was possible. More likely, the other Queenies were either rum runners or smugglers.
Crunching footfalls scattered those thoughts, making Sparrow turn as swiftly as his battered body allowed. Turned, expecting to find himself looking down the barrel of a naval officer's pistol, or perhaps the blade of a cutlass; he turned fully expecting to join his former shipmates in their ignoble captivity. He was not, however, prepared for what he found himself confronting. Flinching, Jack leaned back against the stalwart palm, letting it support his weight while he struggled for composure. Only two words escaped his lips, and those carried on a vastly unhappy sigh. "Captain Schmidt." Distantly, he noticed that Syull had deserted him.
The man grinned. He was older than Jack Sparrow by many years, slimmer and taller, his body more willowy than strong. Thinning blonde hair was tied back by a simple black ribbon; cunning gray eyes surveyed Sparrow from behind sun-glinted spectacles. Truthfully, someone not knowing him might have considered Schmidt better suited to a library than a smuggling vessel; a man no more ominous than a harmless, doddering and genteel old scholar should be. But Jack Sparrow knew better, knew there was none more frightful than his man and his ... unique idiosyncrasies. Beside Schmidt stood three burly sailors.
"Jack," Schmidt said in greeting, his voice heavy with Germanic tones. He smiled, "Imagine vinding you here. Stranded again?"
Jack winced, waving a hand. "In ... a manner of speaking, I suppose you *might* say that I was."
Schmidt nodded. A friendly nod. He waggled a knowing finger toward Sparrow's nose. "For *years* I have heard of your crimes. Everyvon has heard of Jack Sparrow now, ja?"
"*Captain* Jack Sparrow, if you please, sir."
"Captain? So you've commandeered another ship then?"
"No," Jack was quick to answer. "You know I have only one ship. The *Black Pearl."*
The German laughed. "Ah, yes. Alvay's dreaming, ja, Jack? It is von of your most ..." his eyes crinkled hungrily, longingly, lustfully, "... *endearing* traits."
Kohl-smudged eyes narrowed cautiously. "You flatter me, Captain Schmidt."
"Vonce you called me Rich. Have I changed so much?" Schmidt let his own bespeckled gaze rove Sparrow from the faded red scarf and the long matted hair tied with coins and beads, down the length of Jack's lean frame to his leather boots, and then back up again. His expression was appreciative as he cocked a wrist in midair and said, "You've matured nicely. Filled out more, ja?"
Jack Sparrow forced a friendly smile. He waved an aimless hand. "Well, it has been ... what? Nine years? Almost ten now?"
Schmidt laughed jovially. "Ja! Ten years since I vound you drinking up my store of rum! Those vas good times, vasn't they?"
"And how is ..." Sparrow's brow furrowed as he reached for the memory, "Vincent, wasn't it?"
"Ah, Vincent." Schmidt's expression grew nostalgic. "He vas a good boy."
Jack's frown deepened suspiciously. "Was?"
The German sighed regretfully and shrugged, as if that explained everything.
Actually, knowing Heinrich Schmidt, it did.
Seeking safer ground, Sparrow raised a hand to indicate the British encampment. "You know, of course ... *Rich* ... that we are sharin' our little paradise with Captain Remy and his heavily-armed entourage?"
Schmidt stared between concealing branches at the distant figures of Remy and his toiling men. His thin lips twisted in disgust. "Ja, dirty British! Ve can't load our cargo until they leave."
Jack's eyebrows climbed. "You have one of your caches on this island?"
Captain Schmidt was smug. "I have rum stored all over these islands, Jack. Perhaps," he said, stepping nearer, running a slow finger across the pirate's cheek, "I vill even share some vith you. Tonight, perhaps?"
Sparrow's answer was half pained wince, half placating smile. He stepped pointedly beyond the taller man's reach, looking back to the encampment. "See those men there," he said, deftly changing the subject yet again. "They are the remnants of the *Fury's* crew."
The rum runner turned his gaze back to the prisoners. For the first time, he lost his casual demeanor. "Francisco Arriaga's *Fury?*" he asked sharply.
"Damaged by our red-coated friends there," Sparrow replied grimly. "Then she went down in the storm."
"So Frank is dead?"
"Aye, Frank is dead. Killed during *Majestic's* attack."
Schmidt shook his head. "He vas a good friend. Ve did business together sometimes." He glanced at Jack. "You vere on the *Fury?*"
"Arriaga and I were working together, aye." He sighed at the thought of all the riches lost to Davy Jones' locker. "My scheme and his ship. We had just finished plundering San Lucia."
The older man's head tilted curiously. "Then vhy aren't you dead, Jack? Or vith them?" He jerked his chin toward Jenkins and the rest.
Jack briefly contemplated admitting the truth, but like all such impulses it was only a passing fancy and quickly squashed. Instead he stated with the absolute sincerity of a born liar, "I rowed here actually On a piece of *Fury's* hull. Usin' broken planks as oars." No sense in telling the less heroic facts, or that the sea had not left him in the best of shape. There was the legend of Captain Jack Sparrow to consider, after all. That, and there was no reason for giving Heinrich Schmidt the upper hand; the German would steal it soon enough.
But only if Jack Sparrow let him.
The pirate decided there was nothing for it but to plunge ahead. He said with more confidence than he felt, "I mean to get those men free, Rich."
Schmidt smiled benignly down at him, a patriarch indulging a child. "By yourself, Jack?"
"Well," Jack admitted guardedly, "I had rather hoped you might help me out some."
Captain Schmidt studied the smaller man for a long, cool moment. Then, "Come back to camp vith us, Jack. Ve vill discuss your plans there tonight."
"Tonight?" Going back to Captain Heinrich Schmidt's encampment was the last thing Jack Sparrow wanted. Especially at night. He said, "I um ... I would. But you see, I um ..." He grinned, hands waving. "I have other commitments."
"On a deserted island?" Schmidt grinned. "Nonsense. I vill see you tonight. Ve're anchored off the eastern beach. You von't have trouble vinding us. Oh, and Jack?" He paused. Shrugged. "If you don't come, I vill send my men to bring you."
Best not to tease the tiger. Or provoke him. "I'll be there," Sparrow promised unhappily. He watched as the four men were swallowed by the jungle. Then, spotting Syull's lurking shape slowly emerging from the underbrush nearby, he added derisively, "Some bloody brave chief you are."
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I've also tackled the questions of 1) how Jack and AnaMaria met; and 2) who exactly were those rumrunners that rescued Jack ten years earlier after Barbossa marooned him. Again, its just my take on how things might have been.
I'm rating it PG-13 for references to adult and/or slash situations, though nothing actually happens in the story itself. This tale will be in three parts, so if you enjoy this first Chapter, please check back for Chapters Two and Three.
I had a great time writing two versions of the same story, trying to show how Jack, um, 'glorifies' his adventures. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it!
Also, my heartfelt thanks to all of you who have reviewed my other stories. You make the writing worthwhile, folks!!
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"... And Then They Made Me Their Chief ..."
Chapter ONE
by Saahira 09-29-03
On the deck of the HMS *Interceptor,* two soldiers listened with rapt attention, fascinated by the dirty and grizzled, bearded and beaded, nefarious-seeming stranger who sat facing them. Captain Jack Sparrow spun his tale in hypnotic tones, his words flowing with the ease of a born storyteller. Yet his mind was busy elsewhere, plotting and planning how best to liberate said *Interceptor* from her berth in Port Royal.
"Then it hit," Sparrow said, and he paused dramatically, his kohl-lined eyes narrowing. His hands moved gently, a small gesture outward acknowledging the sea. "The storm. The worst one to hit the Caribbean in a dozen years."
"I remember it," the thinner of the two soldiers said eagerly. He glanced at his comrade as if for confirmation. "You remember, Mullroy? Six months ago? The one that flooded Port Royal."
"It struck in the night," Sparrow purred, holding their gazes with the force of his own. "The *Fury* was a good ship, a sound ship, but she had no chance against it." He failed to mention that the *Fury* had already been badly damaged in a firefight with the HMS *Majestic.* The pirate schooner had managed to outrun the bigger British vessel, but they couldn't outrun the storm. It struck before repairs could be made. But no need telling these guileless soldiers that; no sense making them feel superior to old Jack.
"It came in with a vengeance," Sparrow murmured intently, "and the *Fury* was crushed like kindlin' beneath it ..."
********************
*The Fury was going down!*
The *Fury* was going down, and not all the prayers in heaven could save her. She was too badly damaged, too battered and broken. The ocean that once had loved the proud ship had on a whim sentenced her to die.
Captain Jack Sparrow clung to the wheel, fighting to keep the ship's bow turned into the raging wind. Waves lashed the deck, washing away any men still foolish enough to be caught there. Thunder crashed and lightning split the sky. The ocean roared, pummeling poor *Fury.* In one violent blow, it nearly capsized her. Only luck and the stubbornness of one man kept her afloat.
Jenkins, the First Mate, forced his way across the slanting deck. Fell when *Fury* pitched and bucked. He swam more than walked in Sparrow's direction.
"All hands are in the longboats, sir!" He shouted against the storm, yet his voice sounded thin and weak, inconsequential in the face of the ocean's wrath.
Jack squinted blindly ahead into rain and wind and darkness. His long hair, black as the night, whipped back from his face. He was soaked to the bone, the rain beating down with a force so great he could barely open his eyes. He had bound his wrist to the wheel; he'd be damned if he willingly lost a second ship, whether it was his to lose or not.
"Go on then!" he yelled.
"Not without you!" Jenkins cried. "Samuels is holdin' one of the boats for us!"
Damn dead Captain Arriaga's First Mate, Sparrow thought furiously. Damn him and his loyalty, damn Samuels, damn the damned *Majestic,* and damn the bloody storm.
"Go!" he yelled again. "I'll join you when I can!"
"There's not much time, sir! She's splittin' apart at the seams!"
"*Go!*" Sparrow bellowed.
Jenkins hesitated, searching the younger man's face. Then he turned and slid down the tilted deck. He did not look back.
*The Pirate's Code. If a man falls behind, he is left behind.* Simple enough. Harder when its you doing the falling behind.
A brutal wave rolled across the deck, smashing everything in its wake. It knocked Sparrow down, nearly snapping his bound wrist. Coughing out sea water, he struggled back to his feet. Tried to stand, but couldn't; the deck had not righted itself. There was no more time. The *Fury* was a corpse beneath him.
"G'bye, luv," he mumbled. His free hand fumbled with the rope's knot, but the fibers had swollen and tightened in the flood of rain and salt water. Sparrow jerked out his dagger and began cutting. Cutting.
Another wave, bigger and meaner than the last. It slammed the *Fury* on her side, submerging Sparrow briefly underwater; he surged to the surface, choking. Rigging groaned and collapsed. The main mast cracked and splintered, dropping without mercy on the man trapped at the helm.
Pain was the last thing Jack Sparrow knew before darkness claimed him.
********************
"So what did you do?" the thinner soldier asked impatiently.
"That's right," the chubby one, Mullroy, added. He eyed Jack Sparrow doubtfully. "No man could survive a wreck that bad. No *normal* man. How'd you get out of it?"
"Well," Sparrow said, leaning forward. His eyes narrowed, his hands clasped atop his knee, and he smiled seductively. "When I came to, I was surrounded in wreckage with not another livin' soul in sight. So's first thing I did was I used my sword to cut away the ropes lashin' me to the remains of the wheel. Most of the *Fury* was in little pieces, but I spied one bit of hull bigger than the rest. So's I swam to it and I climbed aboard it. Then I gathered up a couple of loose planks and I used them for paddles."
"Paddles?" Mullroy frowned. "You used broken planks as paddles?"
"Aye," Sparrow nodded. "For a week and more I paddled under a blisterin' hot sun. With no food, no water, and the salt burnin' my skin, I paddled. And at last," his hand arced slowly outward, and he smiled beatifically, "I came to an island."
"What island?" the thin soldier asked.
Sparrow pursed his lips, considering. "I only learnt the native's name for it. Pattatoui Maloui."
"Never heard of it," the heavy soldier said. "You heard of it, Murtogg?"
"Course not," Murtogg reprimanded, "he just said it was the native's name for it, didn't he? Go on, Mr. Smith, what happened then?"
"Well," Sparrow continued, eyeing first one man and then the other, "I dove off my sorry little raft and swam up to shore, where I was greeted by the most beautiful people ever to grace this good earth. Golden skin, they had, and hair black as jet. The men were all warriors and the women ... the women were all naked."
"Naked!" both soldiers exclaimed in unison.
"Aye," Sparrow grinned, "and a prettier sight was never seen by a poor lost mariner's eyes. Tall and slender they were. More beautiful and shapely than the finest ladies in Paris."
"And naked?"
"As the day they was born, mate." He leaned forward, and his gold-flecked smile became conspiratorial. "And they was very willin' to please a man, if ye know what I mean."
"You mean ...?"
"Aye, lad. That's *just* what I mean."
********************
The sun was an orange-red glare against shut eyelids. He swallowed dryly, his throat raw and parched. His stomach roiled, no doubt full of salt water wanting to come up. His body was strangely numb, yet not a single part of him didn't hurt.
The last thing Jack remembered was going down still lashed to the ship. He glanced. Saw rope burns circling his wrist, red and swollen welts, angry looking. Least he still had his hand. Experimentation proved he could move his fingers, a little. That was a good sign; a good start. Beneath twitching fingers, Sparrow felt the dampness of wet sand and knew himself saved.
Up. He needed to get up and see what bit of salvation the sea had spit him out on. He swallowed again. His head was splitting. He wanted only to lie there and sleep. But that wouldn't get him any food or fresh water, now would it?
Drawing a deep breath, Sparrow began the slow process of shifting onto one elbow; with a strangled cry he dropped back down again. He lay flat on his back, panting as agony lanced through his body. His leg was on fire. His side was slightly less painful; a cracked rib or two making themselves known. As for the leg ...
He gathered his courage, steeled himself against the pounding in his skull, and raised his head. It took a moment for his weary eyes to focus, to see the shattered splinter, two fingers thick and as long as his forearm, thrusting through the meaty part of his thigh. Bloody hell ...
His head dropped back on the sand. He'd have to move eventually. It was that or die here on this sorry bit of beach. Perhaps later would be soon enough though, when his head quit hurting so bad. Jack closed his eyes against the sun ...
He woke again to the low murmur of voices. Strange voices, for he couldn't put meaning to their words. Not English. Certainly not French, Spanish or Portuguese, or any other tongue he was familiar with. He was aware that the sun's glare was gone. Night then, or close to it. He creaked only one eye open.
And saw a broad face framed by frizzled black hair peering down at him. Chubby tattooed cheeks and a pierced nose. A round, wobbly body wrapped in a sarong not big enough to hold it all.
The fat face grinned, revealing one prominently missing tooth. The face jabbered at him, an incomprehensible string of noises. It hurt his head to hear it.
"No, no, no," Sparrow muttered blearily, and raised a weakly protesting hand. "English, lass. Do ye speak English?"
The head tilted. Sparrow became aware that he and the woman were not alone.
"Englees," the girl grinned. "Yes, yes, Englees. You Queenie?"
"Lass," he said tiredly, closing the eye, "you'll have to do better than that."
Someone else came to stand above the girl. An old man, his wizened features curious. "Tula say, you Englees man, yes? Queenie's man?"
"Oh," Sparrow squinted upward. His body had grown blissfully unaware of sensation, permitting such luxuries as conversation. "You mean a soldier? Or a sailor in the Royal Fleet? No," he answered on a sigh, not adding that Britain currently had a King and not a Queen; one did not correct one's possible saviors that way. "I am not."
"Good! We help then, yes!" The man's enthusiasm might have surprised Jack Sparrow had he been well enough to care. The elder pushed the girl aside and took her place. His hair was bushy and gray, his eyes were rheumy with age, and he had no more than a tooth or two in his whole head. But his manner was calm and confident, and just then those traits seemed more important to Jack than the others. The elder barked orders in his twisty native tongue, and the pirate found himself quickly surrounded by a group of very small, very skinny men. Only one of them was clothed, and that barely. The others seemed undaunted by having their manhoods dangling and swinging about for the world to see.
Even sick and dizzy with pain, Sparrow laughed. Imagine that, he thought. Captain Jack Sparrow rescued by a band of naked gnomes. When he at last told the tale, he'd have to ...
The thought was vanquished in a cry of pain when they lifted him.
********************
"Of course they offered me every hospitality," Sparrow said glibly.
"Including the women?"
"*Especially* the women." Captain Sparrow grinned cheekily. "They almost worshipped me, they did. They had feasts and parties every night in my honor."
"Every night?" the chubby soldier asked. "You said it was an island. Didn't they run out of food, feasting every night like that?"
"It ... was a really *big* island," Sparrow quickly temporized. He gestured grandly, emphasizing the island's immense proportions. "A big tropical *paradise* of an island, mate. Which is why the natives could live where they did and I could be there with 'em, and the rum runners could be hidden where they were with their cache hidden where it was, and the *Majestic* could be harbored where she was right there alongside said cache, and none of us the wiser of the other. Except for the natives, of course, who knew where everyone was."
"What'd he say?" the thin soldier asked, turning to his comrade.
"The *Majestic* was there?" Mullroy asked excitedly, fixing on only one point among the jumble. "I've heard of her. Biggest pirate-hunter in the ocean, that's what she is." He frowned. "What was *Majestic* doing harbored at *your* island?"
Jack winced slightly at his slip, but there was no help for it but to continue. "A ... special assignment. To catch the rum runners."
********************
Consciousness was fleeting at first, flirting coyly like a woman not yet willing to give herself, allowing Sparrow only fleeting glimpses of the world around him: the interior of a small thatch hut; a scrawny little medicine man, all painted up like a bloody savage; the fat girl, always grinning and touching him where she shouldn't have been touching. He remembered a sweet-tasting liquid being poured down his throat, and later a nutty gruel.
By the time he became fully aware, his ribs had been bound and the wood removed from his poor abused leg. Thigh and wrist were both bandaged up nice and neat, and there was a slimy paste smeared over all his cuts and abrasions. They had relieved him of his clothing and effects, a dilemma which Sparrow promptly corrected upon finding his belongings stacked neatly beside him.
Standing, moving ... hell, just sitting up ... he felt weak and hungover, like he was just coming off a week-long binge. The irony of it was appalling.
He stumbled out into filtered morning sunshine and it blinded him. He threw an arm up to shield his eyes from the assault and heard an unmistakable voice filled with unbridled enthusiasm.
"*Queenie!*" He squinted to see young Tula trotting, bouncing, jiggling, wobbling toward him with thick arms opened wide. Horrified, Sparrow braced himself for the impact, but the girl managed to halt her momentum mere inches away and stood there with the folds of her flesh swaying gently. She grinned her gap-toothed grin and beamed, "Queenie wake up."
"Sparrow, young miss," he corrected, wincing slightly. "*Captain* Jack Sparrow. Or just Jack, if you please."
"Jick," she repeated reverently.
The whole tribe was looking at him now, all those bony, naked little men. All those huge, blubbery women with their tattooed faces and fuzzy hair, half-clad in colorful sarongs. There were a half-dozen or so dirty children, and they stared too.
"Jick eat," Tula gushed, taking his hand in hers. "Jick eat with Tula and papa."
Limping, Sparrow allowed himself to be led to palm fronds scattered like picnic blankets across the ground. When Tula sat, the ground shook. Or so it seemed to the wounded, headsore pirate dragged down with her.
He was relieved to see his benefactor sitting across from him. Jack smiled gratefully, though he knew it probably looked as sickly as he himself felt.
The old man touched a hand to Sparrow's chest, repeating, "Jick." The hand touched his own chest, and he straightened proudly. "Syull. Chief of Cas'ambenga."
"Syull," Sparrow repeated, his Tortugan brogue forming the name clumsily. He glanced at the members of the tribe. They had started eating again, though most continued staring. Especially the women. And he wasn't quite sure he liked that lusty gleam in their eyes.
Then he frowned, noticing that some of them had red, swollen pustules marring their faces and the visible parts of their expansive flesh ... which was most of their bodies. "Are they diseased?" he asked in dismay, pointing.
"Besalaya berries," Syull grinned. "Taste good but make spots." He shrugged, dismissing the topic.
"Eat," Tula urged. She thrust a bowl into his hands, grinning encouragement. Demurely, she added, "Tula cooked."
Being half-starved, Jack Sparrow was more than happy to oblige. He reached eagerly inside the bowl, ready to gorge his grumbling belly on exotic island fare. Stopped. Slowly ... *slowly* ... withdrew his hand. Eyebrows quirked, climbing up underneath his beaded red scarf. Dark eyes slewed a sidelong question. "These are ... *worms?* Are they not?"
"Tula cooked," Tula giggled shyly, demurely tucking her chins.
"Yes." Sparrow tried to grin. Almost succeeded. "Well, um ..." He spotted some fruit lying unclaimed between them. He quickly traded worms for produce and bit into something sweet and tangy. "Delicious, innit?" he said around the mouthful, juice dripping down into the braids of his beard. He hoped he hadn't offended the girl. Slighting the natives when one was stranded alone among them was not always the wisest course to take.
If Tula was offended though, she hid it well. She grinned her gap-toothed grin and placed a possessive hand high on Jack's thigh.
But Syull, at least, was a savvy old goat. He grinned knowingly. "Queenies not like takisha worms either. Queenies eat all birds and pigs; hunt all time. Eat all sweet berries." He shook his shaggy gray head, his wrinkled visage growing bitter. "Queenies don't go, soon no more pigs, no more berries. Women get skinny and ugly."
It was a sign of how blurry he still was that it took several seconds before the significance of Syull's complaint actually registered in Sparrow's mind. Then his kohl-lined eyes narrowed and he peered into the old man's face. Carefully, he asked, "Are you sayin' there are soldiers ... Queenies ... on this island? Now?"
"Queenies *everywhere!*" old Syull exclaimed, throwing his hands skyward in exasperation.
"Now that's interesting," Jack Sparrow murmured, more to himself than to either of his hosts. "That's very interesting."
********************
"Chasing rum runners; that's strange," Mullroy said suspiciously. "Pittance of a mission for a captain like Remy to take when there are pirates like Roberts and Sparrow and the like roaming the Caribbean."
"Yes, well ... *this* captain of rum runners was different from the other more ordinary rum runner captains." Sparrow paused. His dark eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, dropping his voice low for the telling. "His name was Heinrich Schmidt. He was a big mean brute of a man. Vicious as the devil in hell, mate. He'd as soon kill a man as look at him. Once ran a man through for snorin' too loud."
"That's mean," Murtogg agreed.
"Oh, aye," Sparrow murmured. "There was none more frightenin' than the formidable Captain Schmidt. If there be monsters in this world, gents, then Schmidt is their lord and master."
********************
Captain Jack Sparrow leaned against the trunk of a convenient palm tree, his ribs and thigh aching atrociously. His own fault; he was the one that had demanded he be shown the 'Queenies.'
And see them he did, with a sinking heart.
The *Majestic* was anchored just off the island's western shore. Repairs were being made; apparently the storm had been only slightly kinder to the big British vessel. At least she had survived, unlike poor *Fury.*
Captain Remy had organized a small logging operation with sailors felling trees, cutting and forming planks which then went to patch a gaping wound in *Majestic's* starboard hull. Or at least, it *had* been gaping ... the difference in color between old wood and new made that obvious. Already, repairs were almost completed.
Industrious blighters. They had also built makeshift shelters on the beach against sun, wind and rain. That, and a good dozen pigs and half as many birds had been gutted and shoved on pikes to drain; five huge hogs currently decorated spits which were slowly being turned over open fire pits. Captain Remy sat beneath a lean-to, barking orders to his men. Nearby, in the shade of swaying palm trees, cushioned on sand, sat their prisoners.
Sparrow recognized the late Captain Arriaga's First Mate, Mr. Jenkins. Samuels, the bosun, was there as well. All told, about half of the *Fury's* thirty-man compliment had been captured; which meant two longboats at least had been swallowed by the sea. Damned shame, that. They were good men; good pirates. They hadn't deserved to die that way.
The survivors were chained like slaves at ankles and wrists, one man to the next. Sadly, Sparrow could expect no help from them.
"See," Syull whispered beside him, pointing to the spitted hogs. "Queenies here. Queenies there. Eat *all* our pigs!"
Jack slanted him a curious glance. Softly, he repeated, "Queenies here. Yes, I see them. But Queenies *there?*"
Syull jerked his chin across his shoulder in affirmation. "Queenies there too."
Sparrow's frown deepened. "Am I to take it there's a ship off the eastern shore then, as well?"
Syull nodded. "These Queenies stupid. Worry about making boat and eating pigs. Queenies there," he said, nodding east, "mean." He shrugged. "Mean and hungry."
Pursing his lips, Sparrow considered this new and intriguing information. Had the other group belonged to the Royal Navy, they would have anchored here alongside *Majestic;* even an honest merchant would have moored nearby for the safety the huge warship offered. That they had not implied they chose not to give away their presence. That they were pirates was possible. More likely, the other Queenies were either rum runners or smugglers.
Crunching footfalls scattered those thoughts, making Sparrow turn as swiftly as his battered body allowed. Turned, expecting to find himself looking down the barrel of a naval officer's pistol, or perhaps the blade of a cutlass; he turned fully expecting to join his former shipmates in their ignoble captivity. He was not, however, prepared for what he found himself confronting. Flinching, Jack leaned back against the stalwart palm, letting it support his weight while he struggled for composure. Only two words escaped his lips, and those carried on a vastly unhappy sigh. "Captain Schmidt." Distantly, he noticed that Syull had deserted him.
The man grinned. He was older than Jack Sparrow by many years, slimmer and taller, his body more willowy than strong. Thinning blonde hair was tied back by a simple black ribbon; cunning gray eyes surveyed Sparrow from behind sun-glinted spectacles. Truthfully, someone not knowing him might have considered Schmidt better suited to a library than a smuggling vessel; a man no more ominous than a harmless, doddering and genteel old scholar should be. But Jack Sparrow knew better, knew there was none more frightful than his man and his ... unique idiosyncrasies. Beside Schmidt stood three burly sailors.
"Jack," Schmidt said in greeting, his voice heavy with Germanic tones. He smiled, "Imagine vinding you here. Stranded again?"
Jack winced, waving a hand. "In ... a manner of speaking, I suppose you *might* say that I was."
Schmidt nodded. A friendly nod. He waggled a knowing finger toward Sparrow's nose. "For *years* I have heard of your crimes. Everyvon has heard of Jack Sparrow now, ja?"
"*Captain* Jack Sparrow, if you please, sir."
"Captain? So you've commandeered another ship then?"
"No," Jack was quick to answer. "You know I have only one ship. The *Black Pearl."*
The German laughed. "Ah, yes. Alvay's dreaming, ja, Jack? It is von of your most ..." his eyes crinkled hungrily, longingly, lustfully, "... *endearing* traits."
Kohl-smudged eyes narrowed cautiously. "You flatter me, Captain Schmidt."
"Vonce you called me Rich. Have I changed so much?" Schmidt let his own bespeckled gaze rove Sparrow from the faded red scarf and the long matted hair tied with coins and beads, down the length of Jack's lean frame to his leather boots, and then back up again. His expression was appreciative as he cocked a wrist in midair and said, "You've matured nicely. Filled out more, ja?"
Jack Sparrow forced a friendly smile. He waved an aimless hand. "Well, it has been ... what? Nine years? Almost ten now?"
Schmidt laughed jovially. "Ja! Ten years since I vound you drinking up my store of rum! Those vas good times, vasn't they?"
"And how is ..." Sparrow's brow furrowed as he reached for the memory, "Vincent, wasn't it?"
"Ah, Vincent." Schmidt's expression grew nostalgic. "He vas a good boy."
Jack's frown deepened suspiciously. "Was?"
The German sighed regretfully and shrugged, as if that explained everything.
Actually, knowing Heinrich Schmidt, it did.
Seeking safer ground, Sparrow raised a hand to indicate the British encampment. "You know, of course ... *Rich* ... that we are sharin' our little paradise with Captain Remy and his heavily-armed entourage?"
Schmidt stared between concealing branches at the distant figures of Remy and his toiling men. His thin lips twisted in disgust. "Ja, dirty British! Ve can't load our cargo until they leave."
Jack's eyebrows climbed. "You have one of your caches on this island?"
Captain Schmidt was smug. "I have rum stored all over these islands, Jack. Perhaps," he said, stepping nearer, running a slow finger across the pirate's cheek, "I vill even share some vith you. Tonight, perhaps?"
Sparrow's answer was half pained wince, half placating smile. He stepped pointedly beyond the taller man's reach, looking back to the encampment. "See those men there," he said, deftly changing the subject yet again. "They are the remnants of the *Fury's* crew."
The rum runner turned his gaze back to the prisoners. For the first time, he lost his casual demeanor. "Francisco Arriaga's *Fury?*" he asked sharply.
"Damaged by our red-coated friends there," Sparrow replied grimly. "Then she went down in the storm."
"So Frank is dead?"
"Aye, Frank is dead. Killed during *Majestic's* attack."
Schmidt shook his head. "He vas a good friend. Ve did business together sometimes." He glanced at Jack. "You vere on the *Fury?*"
"Arriaga and I were working together, aye." He sighed at the thought of all the riches lost to Davy Jones' locker. "My scheme and his ship. We had just finished plundering San Lucia."
The older man's head tilted curiously. "Then vhy aren't you dead, Jack? Or vith them?" He jerked his chin toward Jenkins and the rest.
Jack briefly contemplated admitting the truth, but like all such impulses it was only a passing fancy and quickly squashed. Instead he stated with the absolute sincerity of a born liar, "I rowed here actually On a piece of *Fury's* hull. Usin' broken planks as oars." No sense in telling the less heroic facts, or that the sea had not left him in the best of shape. There was the legend of Captain Jack Sparrow to consider, after all. That, and there was no reason for giving Heinrich Schmidt the upper hand; the German would steal it soon enough.
But only if Jack Sparrow let him.
The pirate decided there was nothing for it but to plunge ahead. He said with more confidence than he felt, "I mean to get those men free, Rich."
Schmidt smiled benignly down at him, a patriarch indulging a child. "By yourself, Jack?"
"Well," Jack admitted guardedly, "I had rather hoped you might help me out some."
Captain Schmidt studied the smaller man for a long, cool moment. Then, "Come back to camp vith us, Jack. Ve vill discuss your plans there tonight."
"Tonight?" Going back to Captain Heinrich Schmidt's encampment was the last thing Jack Sparrow wanted. Especially at night. He said, "I um ... I would. But you see, I um ..." He grinned, hands waving. "I have other commitments."
"On a deserted island?" Schmidt grinned. "Nonsense. I vill see you tonight. Ve're anchored off the eastern beach. You von't have trouble vinding us. Oh, and Jack?" He paused. Shrugged. "If you don't come, I vill send my men to bring you."
Best not to tease the tiger. Or provoke him. "I'll be there," Sparrow promised unhappily. He watched as the four men were swallowed by the jungle. Then, spotting Syull's lurking shape slowly emerging from the underbrush nearby, he added derisively, "Some bloody brave chief you are."
********************