In a dimly lit pub, on an island in the heart of the Carribean, Jack sat before the fire with a bottle of rum in one hand, and the smooth fingers of his companion in the other. She was a good deal younger than him, but not new to his type, and she merely smiled and giggled as he began his drunken rambling just an hour before midnight.
"Tell me Captain Sparrow," She cooed. "Tell me of your childhood, and your adventures. Tell me how you came to be Captain of the dreaded Black Pearl."
"My dear," He pat her hand and took another swig from the bottle. "I've lived the life of a bad man, straight through. And the things I've done, the things I've seen, the things I've said–probably ill suited for such delicate ears as yours. What are you, girlie, seventeen?"
"Twenty-one, Captain," More giggling. "And I'm sure I know of worse things."
Glancing around the pub where he'd met the young lass, Jack nodded. "I'm sure you do, Miss, no disrespect, but I'm sure you do. You seem the type after all...who would know...none the less! It's a long tale, for I've been far. Are you sure you're feeling up to it?"
"Yes, dear Captain. Go on and tell me."
"Right, well!" He slammed the bottle of rum down on the table next to him and laughed. "We shall be up till the crack of dawn with this yarn ahead of us. We shall see the stars, my dear, the stars!" And then he began.
"I was actually born in Liverpool, back in England. Nasty place, England. More often than not it's gray and cold, and miserably damp! And my poor mother was a servant in the house of a truly despicable man, truly evil and despicable, and she worked all her life there and that's where I was until I was nine you see.
"He was an awful master to have, love, and what I remember most of my life there, is the house itself. It was brick, you see, and tall and sturdy, and not at all hospitable or relenting. You cannot find comfort in a brick home, I have always felt. Only discomfort, coldness, and sometimes pain. The house reflected the man who owned it, I say, for he was a bloody bastard and I shan't say otherwise.
"He treated my mother devilishly, and if I knew his whereabouts, or if he even lived still today, I might murder him in his sleep for all the grief he caused the poor woman who birthed me. What you must know about my mother, dear, is that she was a soft woman, very quiet, very giving, without the spirit or the will to fight. I'm not of her nature at all, and never would I have tolerated such atrocities from that man! Damn him. Her life beneath his rule was hell, and she was too afraid to leave."
"But I didn't realize just how cruel–how terrible her life was until I realized my own part in her torture. I was eight when I was told by one of the kitchen maids that my father–of whom my mother had never told me–was none other than the master himself. That he'd forced my mother to come to him in his chambers, by threatening to relieve her of her job. Twice she was commanded to do so, and I, apparently, am the result of that second visit, and I did not recover from this sickening news until I was eleven at least. It's quite awful, dear, knowing you are a burden to your own mother.
"Why it must have pained her just to look at me! She loved me, to some extent I am sure, but I must have been a dreadful reminder of the treatment she suffered as a very young woman. And that, love, is the beginning of the life of an evil man."
"How awful!" The young woman fanned her bosom, a look of misery strung across her face as she listened to his tale of woe.
"It gets worse, love. Are you sure I should continue?"
The girl nodded furiously, setting loose two red curls. Jack reached up and gave one curl a tug, brushing across her painted face with his long, thin fingers.
"Also when I was eight, the master married. It was only to increase his wealth, because the woman he chose was ugly and of a disagreeable temper, worse, even, than the master himself. I know for a fact that this woman lies six feet below now," Jack nodded, smiling. "Or else I should wring her neck this night. It was she, you understand, who drove my mother to her death.
"She must have realized the master's previous involvement with my mother, or perhaps some wretched servant told her–either way, she became mad with jealousy. She ran my mother ragged, sending her out on the coldest winter days, and cutting her salary nearly in half. I was working at this time too, or else we would have starved on the little wages mother earned every month. Mother was beaten, teased, and yelled at all day long, and it took only a few months of this before she became gravely ill.
"No one was surprised when she died. She went quietly–as she did everything–one evening in March. She took my hand, smiled, and said only, 'My love, Jack', before she left me.
"We had been allowed a tiny room near the back of the house for living quarters, and I was allowed to stay here for three days after my mother's death, before I was sent to the streets. My father would have nothing to do with me, and only stared coldly from the parlor window as I made my way on to a new life."
"Tell me Captain Sparrow," She cooed. "Tell me of your childhood, and your adventures. Tell me how you came to be Captain of the dreaded Black Pearl."
"My dear," He pat her hand and took another swig from the bottle. "I've lived the life of a bad man, straight through. And the things I've done, the things I've seen, the things I've said–probably ill suited for such delicate ears as yours. What are you, girlie, seventeen?"
"Twenty-one, Captain," More giggling. "And I'm sure I know of worse things."
Glancing around the pub where he'd met the young lass, Jack nodded. "I'm sure you do, Miss, no disrespect, but I'm sure you do. You seem the type after all...who would know...none the less! It's a long tale, for I've been far. Are you sure you're feeling up to it?"
"Yes, dear Captain. Go on and tell me."
"Right, well!" He slammed the bottle of rum down on the table next to him and laughed. "We shall be up till the crack of dawn with this yarn ahead of us. We shall see the stars, my dear, the stars!" And then he began.
"I was actually born in Liverpool, back in England. Nasty place, England. More often than not it's gray and cold, and miserably damp! And my poor mother was a servant in the house of a truly despicable man, truly evil and despicable, and she worked all her life there and that's where I was until I was nine you see.
"He was an awful master to have, love, and what I remember most of my life there, is the house itself. It was brick, you see, and tall and sturdy, and not at all hospitable or relenting. You cannot find comfort in a brick home, I have always felt. Only discomfort, coldness, and sometimes pain. The house reflected the man who owned it, I say, for he was a bloody bastard and I shan't say otherwise.
"He treated my mother devilishly, and if I knew his whereabouts, or if he even lived still today, I might murder him in his sleep for all the grief he caused the poor woman who birthed me. What you must know about my mother, dear, is that she was a soft woman, very quiet, very giving, without the spirit or the will to fight. I'm not of her nature at all, and never would I have tolerated such atrocities from that man! Damn him. Her life beneath his rule was hell, and she was too afraid to leave."
"But I didn't realize just how cruel–how terrible her life was until I realized my own part in her torture. I was eight when I was told by one of the kitchen maids that my father–of whom my mother had never told me–was none other than the master himself. That he'd forced my mother to come to him in his chambers, by threatening to relieve her of her job. Twice she was commanded to do so, and I, apparently, am the result of that second visit, and I did not recover from this sickening news until I was eleven at least. It's quite awful, dear, knowing you are a burden to your own mother.
"Why it must have pained her just to look at me! She loved me, to some extent I am sure, but I must have been a dreadful reminder of the treatment she suffered as a very young woman. And that, love, is the beginning of the life of an evil man."
"How awful!" The young woman fanned her bosom, a look of misery strung across her face as she listened to his tale of woe.
"It gets worse, love. Are you sure I should continue?"
The girl nodded furiously, setting loose two red curls. Jack reached up and gave one curl a tug, brushing across her painted face with his long, thin fingers.
"Also when I was eight, the master married. It was only to increase his wealth, because the woman he chose was ugly and of a disagreeable temper, worse, even, than the master himself. I know for a fact that this woman lies six feet below now," Jack nodded, smiling. "Or else I should wring her neck this night. It was she, you understand, who drove my mother to her death.
"She must have realized the master's previous involvement with my mother, or perhaps some wretched servant told her–either way, she became mad with jealousy. She ran my mother ragged, sending her out on the coldest winter days, and cutting her salary nearly in half. I was working at this time too, or else we would have starved on the little wages mother earned every month. Mother was beaten, teased, and yelled at all day long, and it took only a few months of this before she became gravely ill.
"No one was surprised when she died. She went quietly–as she did everything–one evening in March. She took my hand, smiled, and said only, 'My love, Jack', before she left me.
"We had been allowed a tiny room near the back of the house for living quarters, and I was allowed to stay here for three days after my mother's death, before I was sent to the streets. My father would have nothing to do with me, and only stared coldly from the parlor window as I made my way on to a new life."