Disclaimer: see chapter 1
Author's note: just to keep you up to date, this chapter takes place in 1661; a year after the events of chapters 11 and 12. Jack is now 18.
Jack was running. His braids flapped about his face and got in his eyes. Sweat streamed down his forehead, the soles of his new boots tapped on the hard earth under his feet. He risked a glance behind him, and caught a blurred glimpse of the shining tips of bayonets. Turning his eyes to the road ahead again, he set his teeth and sped up. They had come ashore in Port Royal to trade some loot for supplies, but had bargained without the town's sudden growth in the twelve months since the Black Pearl had put in there on her way back from England. The fort had been strengthened and improved, the garrison enlarged, and the port was now a bustling, prosperous place rather than the fledgling settlement it had still been only a year before.
In the middle of a deal exchanging a quantity of silver jewellery for casks of rum, the militia had burst in. The men in the tavern scattered; Jack had squeezed through a window and set off down a sidestreet. But the militia had picked up his trail, and he currently had four men armed with bayonets chasing him. Briefly, Jack had contemplated turning and facing them, but all he was armed with was his sword. As confident as he was with the weapon, he liked his life too much to throw it away in a needless burst of heroics.
And so, he ran. Behind him, he heard a cry: "Catch 'im, fellows!" From somewhere, Jack found new breath.
He rounded a corner and saw in front of him a large wooden building, a double door standing half-open. He darted inside, and tucked himself into a dark corner where he waited. Jack's heart was beating hard, and his breath was coming short, but his mind was perfectly clear. He had to stay away from the militiamen, at all cost, and get back to the Pearl.
In the dark he waited, fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. The footsteps hammered past the door, still open a crack, and faded.
Jack let out his breath and looked around him.
A few candles were lit, away in the darkness, flickering gently in the breeze from the door. The building smelt of new timber and candle smoke, with a hint of sweet blossom and something else that reminded Jack vaguely of India. Untwining his fingers from his sword, he set off towards the lights.
The building seemed to be mostly empty, though he managed to walk into a bench. He muffled his curse quickly, and paused to rub a banged knee. Moving again, he came to the lights and saw that they were placed on a large table at the end of the building, upon which stood a grand golden cross.
Jack let out a low whistle. The cross was magnificent, worth as much as all the loot they had been trading earlier in the even. It was engraved with a leafy design and in the centre of the four arms a red stone was set. He stepped closer, and reached out a hand to touch it.
Then, he paused. Candles, flowers, rows of benches, and a cross - all this meant something to the pirate, something hailing vaguely from his childhood. And suddenly it came back to him. Being made to go to church on Sundays, to say prayers that meant nothing to him, to express a belief in a God he did not believe in. He remembered too the gentle, well-meaning priest who had taught him to read, and who had been totally walked over by his charges.
Jack pulled his arm back, and turned aside, but not without a backward glance at the glorious cross on the altar.
He pushed his way through a pair of curtains concealing a doorway, and found himself in a small side room. Several long robes were hanging against the wall. Jack ran his hand over them, and had his idea.
A few minutes later, a slim dark figure emerged from the church, hands folded demurely before it. It set off back towards Port Royal.
The tumult that had followed the militiamen's invasion of the tavern had quietened somewhat, and Jack passed by several groups of townsfolk and two of militamen, exchanging polite nods with them. He turned towards the harbour, where he remarked that the Black Pearl's distinctive masts and black sails were no longer to be seen - evidently, some of the crew had reached the ship and had sailed her out to sea.
Considering his options, Jack turned and thoughtfully strolled back towards the town.
He had a little money in his pocket, and he fished some out and placed it in the belt pouch of his stolen robe. Next, he pulled the brim of the clergyman's hat down low over his face, and headed for one of the more respectable inns.
"Can I 'elp you, vicar?" the innkeeper asked, as Jack approached the bar. This tavern was quiet, and full only of merchant sailors and townspeople, drinking in small groups. No singing, and no cards. It seemed like another world entirely from the piratical one Jack had become used to.
"A room for the night, my good man," he said, keeping his voice gentle. He placed a coin on the counter, which the innkeeper took with a nod. He led Jack through the inn and up a flight of stairs, to a small, clean room. Water was brought, and the innkeeper enquired whether the vicar would like a meal.
Jack shook his head. "I thank you, but no." He placed his hands together and inclined his head. "God bless you," he added, for good measure. The innkeeper nodded, bade him a good night, and disappeared.
Throwing off the hat that went with the robe, and pulling out his own hat from where it was concealed, folded under his sash, Jack settled down to wait for dawn.
He left early, still dressed in his disguise. Few people were about, but as he neared the harbour there was a group of militiamen standing around.
"Beats me," one of them said. "Dunno where she could have hid."
"Big ship like that 'un, can't have gone far," another said. "I wager we should go after 'er."
"Have to wait for captain's orders, though, don't us?" a third man pointed out. "Morning, vicar."
Jack smiled at them. "Good morning!" He kept walking past them, down to his quarry - a light skiff tied up to the pier. The sweeps were in the boat, and he jumped lightly down into it, untied it, and slipped them into the rowlocks.
"Oy! Vicar, where you going?" One of the militiamen had evidently spied him.
Jack waved a hand, and threw off the black hat. "Back to me ship, gentlemen."
"That be no vicar," a man said, his voice panicky. "That be a pirate! One of them what got away last night!"
"Not just any pirate!" Jack shouted back, pulling away smartly. "You'll remember this as the day the Black Pearl and Jack Sparrow got away. So long, gentlemen!" He grinned, and increased his stroke rate, and the skiff began to slip neatly over the water.
He rowed as hard as he can, but after a few minutes he saw with some panic and a little surprise that the militiamen had pushed a dory into the water, and were hastening after him.
They were not rowing perfectly in time, but they were four and he was one, and they were four big men. Jack thought quickly, glanced over his shoulder, and pulled hard on his starboard oar.
The two little boats exited the harbour and hit the swell of deeper waters. In his skiff, Jack gritted his teeth, tried not to think about blisters, and kept going. For a moment, the dory seemed to be losing ground, but then the militiamen regained their rhythm and were gaining again. The bowman looked round, the dory adjusted its course, and the race was on.
Jack turned in towards a small sandy cove and began pulling for shore. The militiamen followed him, and he speeded up his stroke rate. A few minutes later, he was pulling the skiff up on to the beach and hurrying round to hide himself behind a group of large rocks.
The militiamen landed shortly after him and jumped out of their dory, drawing their swords.
"'Ere, footprints!" The men gathered around the marks of Jack's boots on the sand. Above them, Jack crouched quietly on the top of a rock, sword drawn. The militiamen looked around, searching for him; one of them raised a bayonet. Jack took a deep breath, and jumped down.
"Aha!" said the man with the bayonet, and swung round to meet Jack. Jack gripped his sword hilt, parried the bayonet blade and with all his force drove his sword into the man's belly.
Time stood still. The militiaman looked down at the darker red blossoming on his tunic, looked up with frightened eyes at Jack. Jack pulled his arm back, and the sword came out with a slick, fleshy noise. His opponent's bayonet fell to the ground, and then the man followed, his body hitting the sand with a thud.
Nobody moved. The other three redcoats stared at the body of their comrade. Jack took a step back, and then another, and he turned. Two boats were before him, the dory and the skiff, and suddenly he realised what he should have done all along. He picked up a rock and dropped it square in the centre of the dory, splintering the wooden boards, before pushing his skiff out, leaping into it, and starting to row as fast as he could.
At some point, well out from shore and with not a sail in sight, Jack shipped his sweeps and let the skiff drift. He pulled off the black clergyman's robe and threw it overboard, watching the material float away. It felt like part of him was floating with it.
Exhaustion swept over him, and Jack threw the light sea-anchor over the side of the skiff before curling up on the single seat, and falling into a restless sleep.
He woke with the heat of noon beating down on his face, and the creaking of a large ship close at hand. Voices seemed to be hailing him, and bleary-eyed Jack sat up and looked around.
The skiff had drifted only a little further offshore, thanks to the anchor. The ship looming over him was huge, tall and dark, but the faces peering down from the side were friendly.
"Grab a line, Jack!" Anamaria called down, her face alight with happiness at seeing him. One of the crew threw a rope, and Jack caught it and was hauled aboard the Pearl.
"God, lad, you look dreadful," Thornton said, catching his arm as he came over the rail. "What happened? We'd given up hope on ye ..."
"... encore une fois," muttered Joffo.
"Last place we expected you was floating adrift out of harbour."
"Not adrift," Jack said. "Sea-anchor."
"Nonetheless," Captain Flint put in, "we didn't expect to see you again. What happened?"
Jack looked up at their concerned faces, and knew that of all men, these would sympathise with him, help him. He grinned.
"I pinched a priest's robes, stole a skiff, and outran a bunch of redcoats," he said glibly. "All in a day's work, you know."
The crew laughed, and O'Connell helped Jack to his feet. "This lad's got more lives than a cat," he said.
Anamaria beamed. "Of course he does," she said. "He's Jack Sparrow."
Jack joined in the merriment, and followed Elias Carpenter up the mainmast to unfurl the main topsail. But later he retrieved his hat and his swordbelt from the deck, and disappeared down below decks to clean the blade of dried blood in a quiet corner.
Author's note: just to keep you up to date, this chapter takes place in 1661; a year after the events of chapters 11 and 12. Jack is now 18.
Jack was running. His braids flapped about his face and got in his eyes. Sweat streamed down his forehead, the soles of his new boots tapped on the hard earth under his feet. He risked a glance behind him, and caught a blurred glimpse of the shining tips of bayonets. Turning his eyes to the road ahead again, he set his teeth and sped up. They had come ashore in Port Royal to trade some loot for supplies, but had bargained without the town's sudden growth in the twelve months since the Black Pearl had put in there on her way back from England. The fort had been strengthened and improved, the garrison enlarged, and the port was now a bustling, prosperous place rather than the fledgling settlement it had still been only a year before.
In the middle of a deal exchanging a quantity of silver jewellery for casks of rum, the militia had burst in. The men in the tavern scattered; Jack had squeezed through a window and set off down a sidestreet. But the militia had picked up his trail, and he currently had four men armed with bayonets chasing him. Briefly, Jack had contemplated turning and facing them, but all he was armed with was his sword. As confident as he was with the weapon, he liked his life too much to throw it away in a needless burst of heroics.
And so, he ran. Behind him, he heard a cry: "Catch 'im, fellows!" From somewhere, Jack found new breath.
He rounded a corner and saw in front of him a large wooden building, a double door standing half-open. He darted inside, and tucked himself into a dark corner where he waited. Jack's heart was beating hard, and his breath was coming short, but his mind was perfectly clear. He had to stay away from the militiamen, at all cost, and get back to the Pearl.
In the dark he waited, fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. The footsteps hammered past the door, still open a crack, and faded.
Jack let out his breath and looked around him.
A few candles were lit, away in the darkness, flickering gently in the breeze from the door. The building smelt of new timber and candle smoke, with a hint of sweet blossom and something else that reminded Jack vaguely of India. Untwining his fingers from his sword, he set off towards the lights.
The building seemed to be mostly empty, though he managed to walk into a bench. He muffled his curse quickly, and paused to rub a banged knee. Moving again, he came to the lights and saw that they were placed on a large table at the end of the building, upon which stood a grand golden cross.
Jack let out a low whistle. The cross was magnificent, worth as much as all the loot they had been trading earlier in the even. It was engraved with a leafy design and in the centre of the four arms a red stone was set. He stepped closer, and reached out a hand to touch it.
Then, he paused. Candles, flowers, rows of benches, and a cross - all this meant something to the pirate, something hailing vaguely from his childhood. And suddenly it came back to him. Being made to go to church on Sundays, to say prayers that meant nothing to him, to express a belief in a God he did not believe in. He remembered too the gentle, well-meaning priest who had taught him to read, and who had been totally walked over by his charges.
Jack pulled his arm back, and turned aside, but not without a backward glance at the glorious cross on the altar.
He pushed his way through a pair of curtains concealing a doorway, and found himself in a small side room. Several long robes were hanging against the wall. Jack ran his hand over them, and had his idea.
A few minutes later, a slim dark figure emerged from the church, hands folded demurely before it. It set off back towards Port Royal.
The tumult that had followed the militiamen's invasion of the tavern had quietened somewhat, and Jack passed by several groups of townsfolk and two of militamen, exchanging polite nods with them. He turned towards the harbour, where he remarked that the Black Pearl's distinctive masts and black sails were no longer to be seen - evidently, some of the crew had reached the ship and had sailed her out to sea.
Considering his options, Jack turned and thoughtfully strolled back towards the town.
He had a little money in his pocket, and he fished some out and placed it in the belt pouch of his stolen robe. Next, he pulled the brim of the clergyman's hat down low over his face, and headed for one of the more respectable inns.
"Can I 'elp you, vicar?" the innkeeper asked, as Jack approached the bar. This tavern was quiet, and full only of merchant sailors and townspeople, drinking in small groups. No singing, and no cards. It seemed like another world entirely from the piratical one Jack had become used to.
"A room for the night, my good man," he said, keeping his voice gentle. He placed a coin on the counter, which the innkeeper took with a nod. He led Jack through the inn and up a flight of stairs, to a small, clean room. Water was brought, and the innkeeper enquired whether the vicar would like a meal.
Jack shook his head. "I thank you, but no." He placed his hands together and inclined his head. "God bless you," he added, for good measure. The innkeeper nodded, bade him a good night, and disappeared.
Throwing off the hat that went with the robe, and pulling out his own hat from where it was concealed, folded under his sash, Jack settled down to wait for dawn.
He left early, still dressed in his disguise. Few people were about, but as he neared the harbour there was a group of militiamen standing around.
"Beats me," one of them said. "Dunno where she could have hid."
"Big ship like that 'un, can't have gone far," another said. "I wager we should go after 'er."
"Have to wait for captain's orders, though, don't us?" a third man pointed out. "Morning, vicar."
Jack smiled at them. "Good morning!" He kept walking past them, down to his quarry - a light skiff tied up to the pier. The sweeps were in the boat, and he jumped lightly down into it, untied it, and slipped them into the rowlocks.
"Oy! Vicar, where you going?" One of the militiamen had evidently spied him.
Jack waved a hand, and threw off the black hat. "Back to me ship, gentlemen."
"That be no vicar," a man said, his voice panicky. "That be a pirate! One of them what got away last night!"
"Not just any pirate!" Jack shouted back, pulling away smartly. "You'll remember this as the day the Black Pearl and Jack Sparrow got away. So long, gentlemen!" He grinned, and increased his stroke rate, and the skiff began to slip neatly over the water.
He rowed as hard as he can, but after a few minutes he saw with some panic and a little surprise that the militiamen had pushed a dory into the water, and were hastening after him.
They were not rowing perfectly in time, but they were four and he was one, and they were four big men. Jack thought quickly, glanced over his shoulder, and pulled hard on his starboard oar.
The two little boats exited the harbour and hit the swell of deeper waters. In his skiff, Jack gritted his teeth, tried not to think about blisters, and kept going. For a moment, the dory seemed to be losing ground, but then the militiamen regained their rhythm and were gaining again. The bowman looked round, the dory adjusted its course, and the race was on.
Jack turned in towards a small sandy cove and began pulling for shore. The militiamen followed him, and he speeded up his stroke rate. A few minutes later, he was pulling the skiff up on to the beach and hurrying round to hide himself behind a group of large rocks.
The militiamen landed shortly after him and jumped out of their dory, drawing their swords.
"'Ere, footprints!" The men gathered around the marks of Jack's boots on the sand. Above them, Jack crouched quietly on the top of a rock, sword drawn. The militiamen looked around, searching for him; one of them raised a bayonet. Jack took a deep breath, and jumped down.
"Aha!" said the man with the bayonet, and swung round to meet Jack. Jack gripped his sword hilt, parried the bayonet blade and with all his force drove his sword into the man's belly.
Time stood still. The militiaman looked down at the darker red blossoming on his tunic, looked up with frightened eyes at Jack. Jack pulled his arm back, and the sword came out with a slick, fleshy noise. His opponent's bayonet fell to the ground, and then the man followed, his body hitting the sand with a thud.
Nobody moved. The other three redcoats stared at the body of their comrade. Jack took a step back, and then another, and he turned. Two boats were before him, the dory and the skiff, and suddenly he realised what he should have done all along. He picked up a rock and dropped it square in the centre of the dory, splintering the wooden boards, before pushing his skiff out, leaping into it, and starting to row as fast as he could.
At some point, well out from shore and with not a sail in sight, Jack shipped his sweeps and let the skiff drift. He pulled off the black clergyman's robe and threw it overboard, watching the material float away. It felt like part of him was floating with it.
Exhaustion swept over him, and Jack threw the light sea-anchor over the side of the skiff before curling up on the single seat, and falling into a restless sleep.
He woke with the heat of noon beating down on his face, and the creaking of a large ship close at hand. Voices seemed to be hailing him, and bleary-eyed Jack sat up and looked around.
The skiff had drifted only a little further offshore, thanks to the anchor. The ship looming over him was huge, tall and dark, but the faces peering down from the side were friendly.
"Grab a line, Jack!" Anamaria called down, her face alight with happiness at seeing him. One of the crew threw a rope, and Jack caught it and was hauled aboard the Pearl.
"God, lad, you look dreadful," Thornton said, catching his arm as he came over the rail. "What happened? We'd given up hope on ye ..."
"... encore une fois," muttered Joffo.
"Last place we expected you was floating adrift out of harbour."
"Not adrift," Jack said. "Sea-anchor."
"Nonetheless," Captain Flint put in, "we didn't expect to see you again. What happened?"
Jack looked up at their concerned faces, and knew that of all men, these would sympathise with him, help him. He grinned.
"I pinched a priest's robes, stole a skiff, and outran a bunch of redcoats," he said glibly. "All in a day's work, you know."
The crew laughed, and O'Connell helped Jack to his feet. "This lad's got more lives than a cat," he said.
Anamaria beamed. "Of course he does," she said. "He's Jack Sparrow."
Jack joined in the merriment, and followed Elias Carpenter up the mainmast to unfurl the main topsail. But later he retrieved his hat and his swordbelt from the deck, and disappeared down below decks to clean the blade of dried blood in a quiet corner.