Disclaimer: see chapter 1
----
He woke suddenly, lurched into consciousness from a pleasant dream which had involved a hammock, rum, and a girl in very few clothes. The ship was tipping, and wind and rain were lashing at the stern windows.
Jack threw off his blanket, pulled on some clothes, and rushed out on deck.
The storm was raging fiercely. Deschamps had taken in sail, leaving just the mainsail with two reefs, but even so the Nictaux was rushing along, teetering on the brow of a wave before being tossed down into a trough.
"How long's it been going on?" Jack yelled, into his first mate's ear.
"Not long this bad," said Deschamps, hanging on to the helm for dear life with the help of another crewmember.
"You should've got me up earlier," Jack returned, dismissing the crewman and taking hold of the helm too. "What's the hour?"
"Five bells," said Deschamps. "You needed the sleep."
"Still." Jack looked about him. "How's she holding?"
Deschamps, his hair and beard streaming with water, shook his head. "She's not, capitaine. We are taking on water below, and above." Another wave crashed over the rail to prove his point. "I do not know how long she will stay afloat."
"Damn it." Jack blinked back rain and salt spray from his eyes. "And what's our position?"
"We had land sighted before the storm began," said Deschamps. "I don't know if that is still close."
"We'd better hope it is," Jack returned, and gave the piercing whistle that would alert the lookout up aloft that someone on deck had need of him. Shortly, the lookout came halfway down the mainmast and they could hold a shouted conversation.
"There might be an island," the lookout volunteered. "But I wouldn't swear to it."
He disappeared back up the mast. Jack looked at Deschamps, who shrugged eloquently and said nothing.
Jack held on to the helm and thought about the situation. The storm showed little sign of abating, and he could feel beneath his feet that the Nictaux was not coping well. She had always been a better fair-weather vessel than a storm rider, unlike the Black Pearl which seemed to positively relish a high wind. Sooner or later, they would lose their sail; the crack below would widen to become a hole, and the ship would go down. Jack was an optimist, but he was also a good sailor. He made his decision.
"Order the boats to be readied," he said to Deschamps. "Get the men up and on deck. They'll have t' travel light, no sentiment, but I'll bring some coin out. We might need it. Ration of biscuit for everyone, cask of fresh water for each boat, some blankets."
Deschamps met his eyes, and after a moment nodded. Soon the chain of command was at work: the mate passing on Jack's orders and the crew looking lively to carry them out. Summoning another man to stay at the helm with Deschamps, Jack went below to strap on his belt - sword, pistol, compass - and find a small chest or two of coins. He tucked a small bag of gold into a pocket for himself, along with a folded chart of Cuba, and took the rest up on deck.
The men were waiting, in coats and hats but with few other belongings. Their faces were set; nobody had any illusions as to their prospects over the next few hours. They were to set out in small boats against a sea that would take down the vessel that had been their home and their livelihood for many long months. It would be a battle against the elements, and the elements could well win.
Jack put down the chests. "Take what you can fit in your pockets," he said. "You've earned it, and more, but we cannot take everything. I'm sorry it's come to this, lads. You've been a good crew. Good luck to you."
Silently, the pirates filled their pockets with coins, and stood ready, waiting. Jack went back to the helm.
"We'll hold on as long as we can," he said to Deschamps. "Let's let her take us as far as she'll go."
"Oui, capitaine."
They held on. An hour or two passed, and though the rain lessened a little the wind got stronger. Finally, it happened. An extra powerful gust tore across the ship, ripping the mainsail from its shrouds and sending it spinning overboard. The Nictaux lost speed.
"Lower the boats," Jack said. "Abandon ship."
The men were ready, and obeyed quickly and without argument. As each boat was lowered into the water, the sweeps were unshipped and the pirates pulled quickly, to get away from the stricken Nictaux. She was listing badly now to starboard, too much of her hull below the waterline.
Jack sent Deschamps off in the penultimate boat, MacDougall having gone earlier, and waited himself until the last possible moment. He climbed down the rope and into the boat, and the crew pulled away, the small craft surfing the waves. The Nictaux, now bereft of her guiding hand, rocked. Waves crashed over her side. Jack sat in the stern of his boat and watched as slowly his ship disappeared below the surface.
They floated, paddling occasionally, for most of the afternoon and into dusk. The men took it in turns to pull and to bale water out of the boat. The other skiffs had gone, disappeared into the ever-changing landscape of water, and Jack just hoped that the rest of his men were all right.
As night fell, the storm finally began to blow itself out, and the waves subsided somewhat.
"D'you know where we are, cap'n?" young Cutlass Mick asked.
Jack squeezed water out of the end of his braid. "Close to Cuba," he said, confidently. "We've food and water, and when we've light there'll be some land." He gave the boat a reassuring smile. "We'll be fine."
"Weren't it round hereabouts you were marooned, cap'n?" someone else said.
"Further south," Jack said vaguely. "Tiny island, that was, tiny. Room just to walk around, get some exercise, not much else."
"What would you have done if you hadn't escaped?" asked Mick, curious.
"I'd never not have escaped," Jack returned. "I wouldn't have shot meself, that's for sure."
One of the other pirates leaned forward. "Josh Gibbs said as how it were some sort o' animal you 'scaped on."
"Did he?" Jack racked his brains to work out where that story had come from, and managed to recall a drunken night in Tortuga. "Aye, he told it aright."
"Turtles, weren't they?"
"That's right, Mick, turtles." Jack grinned at the men, who seemed to be impressed by the tale, and wondered how it had ever taken anyone in. Not that he minded, and at a time like this it was useful to have something to keep the men's spirits up with.
The talk fell on to reminiscing about the Nictaux, the men reminding each other about the little ship's peculiarities and characteristics; and the night passed.
When dawn came, the sea was calm and the sky was blue. On the horizon there was a long stretch of dark green, close enough to reach with a day's strong pulling. Jack roused the men, and they set to, swapping in and out of the crew as the day went on so that each man got some rest and some food. The land got closer, and as night fell they were pulling the boat up on to a sandy beach, and safety.
There was general celebration when Jack produced the Cuban chart he had tucked away before leaving the Nictaux, and they slept that night around a fire of driftwood and palm leaves. In the morning, after a breakfast of ship's biscuit and coconut milk, Jack led his men along the coast towards the nearest small coastal village marked on the chart. At least some of the Nictaux's crew were safe, and the coins in their pockets would buy them passage to one of the larger ports friendly to buccaneers. Maybe there, they would meet the rest of the men, if they too had made safe landfall.
They split up once they had arrived at the village. Four of the twelve men who had been in Jack's boat announced their intention to head for Nuevitas, the nearest big town, by foot, overland. The rest joined Jack in bartering a journey to Tortuga on a small fishing boat. Jack wanted to return to the port he thought of as the nearest thing he had to home on land as quickly as he could - he felt, somehow, that he owed it to Captain André to inform him of the Nictaux's wreck. It had been many years since the French pirate had gone to sea, but Jack knew how he would feel if the Black Pearl had been lost and nobody told him.
The night the fishing boat arrived at Tortuga, he found André in the 'Faithful Bride', playing cards as usual. But another man was by his side with a mug of ale.
"Jean!"
"Capitaine." Deschamps stood up. "Je suis content de vous voir."
"Not as happy as I am to see you!" Jack said, shaking his mate's hand. "Didn't know what had become of any of you." He turned to André. "Captain. S'pose Mr Deschamps here has let you have the bad news?"
"Yes." André shuffled the cards together, and looked up at Jack. "I'm sorry for it. But storms happen, and good ships are lost in them. She'd had a long run."
Jack glanced at Deschamps, who offered a smile and pulled out a chair for him.
"She was a lovely ship," Jack said, sitting down and accepting a tankard of grog. "I'll miss her." He raised his mug. "To the Nictaux, gentlemen."
"To the Nictaux," André said. "Care to join our game, Captain Sparrow?"
Nodding, Jack felt in his pocket and pulled out his bag of coins. "Deal me in."
At the end of the night, André left with most of the winnings, and Deschamps and Jack wandered out into the street, rather the worse for wear.
"You didn't tell 'im 'bout the attack," Jack said, his hand sketching irrelevant circles in the air. "You let old André think it was all a storm, not me makin' a mistake with t' frigate."
Deschamps attempted to straighten his hat. "Ouais."
"Why?" asked Jack, determined to get to the bottom of this question.
"Parce-que …" Deschamps stopped walking, and faced Jack, making a visible effort to speak English despite his drunkenness. "Because everyone, tout le monde, 'e makes mistakes. Even you. You paint a picture, une peinture, le célèbre Jack Sparrow, someone who can do nothing wrong." He focused on Jack, laying a hand on his shoulder. "And so, men find it 'ard to believe you too, you are a man also." He smiled. "A good man. Un bon capitaine. I 'ave enjoyed being your first mate."
"I've enjoyed having you on board," said Jack. "Merci, Jean."
"Pas de quoi, Jacques," Deschamps replied. He nodded, drunkenly. "G'night."
"Night, mate." Jack watched as Deschamps meandered off down the street, and turned himself to go in the other direction.
----
He woke suddenly, lurched into consciousness from a pleasant dream which had involved a hammock, rum, and a girl in very few clothes. The ship was tipping, and wind and rain were lashing at the stern windows.
Jack threw off his blanket, pulled on some clothes, and rushed out on deck.
The storm was raging fiercely. Deschamps had taken in sail, leaving just the mainsail with two reefs, but even so the Nictaux was rushing along, teetering on the brow of a wave before being tossed down into a trough.
"How long's it been going on?" Jack yelled, into his first mate's ear.
"Not long this bad," said Deschamps, hanging on to the helm for dear life with the help of another crewmember.
"You should've got me up earlier," Jack returned, dismissing the crewman and taking hold of the helm too. "What's the hour?"
"Five bells," said Deschamps. "You needed the sleep."
"Still." Jack looked about him. "How's she holding?"
Deschamps, his hair and beard streaming with water, shook his head. "She's not, capitaine. We are taking on water below, and above." Another wave crashed over the rail to prove his point. "I do not know how long she will stay afloat."
"Damn it." Jack blinked back rain and salt spray from his eyes. "And what's our position?"
"We had land sighted before the storm began," said Deschamps. "I don't know if that is still close."
"We'd better hope it is," Jack returned, and gave the piercing whistle that would alert the lookout up aloft that someone on deck had need of him. Shortly, the lookout came halfway down the mainmast and they could hold a shouted conversation.
"There might be an island," the lookout volunteered. "But I wouldn't swear to it."
He disappeared back up the mast. Jack looked at Deschamps, who shrugged eloquently and said nothing.
Jack held on to the helm and thought about the situation. The storm showed little sign of abating, and he could feel beneath his feet that the Nictaux was not coping well. She had always been a better fair-weather vessel than a storm rider, unlike the Black Pearl which seemed to positively relish a high wind. Sooner or later, they would lose their sail; the crack below would widen to become a hole, and the ship would go down. Jack was an optimist, but he was also a good sailor. He made his decision.
"Order the boats to be readied," he said to Deschamps. "Get the men up and on deck. They'll have t' travel light, no sentiment, but I'll bring some coin out. We might need it. Ration of biscuit for everyone, cask of fresh water for each boat, some blankets."
Deschamps met his eyes, and after a moment nodded. Soon the chain of command was at work: the mate passing on Jack's orders and the crew looking lively to carry them out. Summoning another man to stay at the helm with Deschamps, Jack went below to strap on his belt - sword, pistol, compass - and find a small chest or two of coins. He tucked a small bag of gold into a pocket for himself, along with a folded chart of Cuba, and took the rest up on deck.
The men were waiting, in coats and hats but with few other belongings. Their faces were set; nobody had any illusions as to their prospects over the next few hours. They were to set out in small boats against a sea that would take down the vessel that had been their home and their livelihood for many long months. It would be a battle against the elements, and the elements could well win.
Jack put down the chests. "Take what you can fit in your pockets," he said. "You've earned it, and more, but we cannot take everything. I'm sorry it's come to this, lads. You've been a good crew. Good luck to you."
Silently, the pirates filled their pockets with coins, and stood ready, waiting. Jack went back to the helm.
"We'll hold on as long as we can," he said to Deschamps. "Let's let her take us as far as she'll go."
"Oui, capitaine."
They held on. An hour or two passed, and though the rain lessened a little the wind got stronger. Finally, it happened. An extra powerful gust tore across the ship, ripping the mainsail from its shrouds and sending it spinning overboard. The Nictaux lost speed.
"Lower the boats," Jack said. "Abandon ship."
The men were ready, and obeyed quickly and without argument. As each boat was lowered into the water, the sweeps were unshipped and the pirates pulled quickly, to get away from the stricken Nictaux. She was listing badly now to starboard, too much of her hull below the waterline.
Jack sent Deschamps off in the penultimate boat, MacDougall having gone earlier, and waited himself until the last possible moment. He climbed down the rope and into the boat, and the crew pulled away, the small craft surfing the waves. The Nictaux, now bereft of her guiding hand, rocked. Waves crashed over her side. Jack sat in the stern of his boat and watched as slowly his ship disappeared below the surface.
They floated, paddling occasionally, for most of the afternoon and into dusk. The men took it in turns to pull and to bale water out of the boat. The other skiffs had gone, disappeared into the ever-changing landscape of water, and Jack just hoped that the rest of his men were all right.
As night fell, the storm finally began to blow itself out, and the waves subsided somewhat.
"D'you know where we are, cap'n?" young Cutlass Mick asked.
Jack squeezed water out of the end of his braid. "Close to Cuba," he said, confidently. "We've food and water, and when we've light there'll be some land." He gave the boat a reassuring smile. "We'll be fine."
"Weren't it round hereabouts you were marooned, cap'n?" someone else said.
"Further south," Jack said vaguely. "Tiny island, that was, tiny. Room just to walk around, get some exercise, not much else."
"What would you have done if you hadn't escaped?" asked Mick, curious.
"I'd never not have escaped," Jack returned. "I wouldn't have shot meself, that's for sure."
One of the other pirates leaned forward. "Josh Gibbs said as how it were some sort o' animal you 'scaped on."
"Did he?" Jack racked his brains to work out where that story had come from, and managed to recall a drunken night in Tortuga. "Aye, he told it aright."
"Turtles, weren't they?"
"That's right, Mick, turtles." Jack grinned at the men, who seemed to be impressed by the tale, and wondered how it had ever taken anyone in. Not that he minded, and at a time like this it was useful to have something to keep the men's spirits up with.
The talk fell on to reminiscing about the Nictaux, the men reminding each other about the little ship's peculiarities and characteristics; and the night passed.
When dawn came, the sea was calm and the sky was blue. On the horizon there was a long stretch of dark green, close enough to reach with a day's strong pulling. Jack roused the men, and they set to, swapping in and out of the crew as the day went on so that each man got some rest and some food. The land got closer, and as night fell they were pulling the boat up on to a sandy beach, and safety.
There was general celebration when Jack produced the Cuban chart he had tucked away before leaving the Nictaux, and they slept that night around a fire of driftwood and palm leaves. In the morning, after a breakfast of ship's biscuit and coconut milk, Jack led his men along the coast towards the nearest small coastal village marked on the chart. At least some of the Nictaux's crew were safe, and the coins in their pockets would buy them passage to one of the larger ports friendly to buccaneers. Maybe there, they would meet the rest of the men, if they too had made safe landfall.
They split up once they had arrived at the village. Four of the twelve men who had been in Jack's boat announced their intention to head for Nuevitas, the nearest big town, by foot, overland. The rest joined Jack in bartering a journey to Tortuga on a small fishing boat. Jack wanted to return to the port he thought of as the nearest thing he had to home on land as quickly as he could - he felt, somehow, that he owed it to Captain André to inform him of the Nictaux's wreck. It had been many years since the French pirate had gone to sea, but Jack knew how he would feel if the Black Pearl had been lost and nobody told him.
The night the fishing boat arrived at Tortuga, he found André in the 'Faithful Bride', playing cards as usual. But another man was by his side with a mug of ale.
"Jean!"
"Capitaine." Deschamps stood up. "Je suis content de vous voir."
"Not as happy as I am to see you!" Jack said, shaking his mate's hand. "Didn't know what had become of any of you." He turned to André. "Captain. S'pose Mr Deschamps here has let you have the bad news?"
"Yes." André shuffled the cards together, and looked up at Jack. "I'm sorry for it. But storms happen, and good ships are lost in them. She'd had a long run."
Jack glanced at Deschamps, who offered a smile and pulled out a chair for him.
"She was a lovely ship," Jack said, sitting down and accepting a tankard of grog. "I'll miss her." He raised his mug. "To the Nictaux, gentlemen."
"To the Nictaux," André said. "Care to join our game, Captain Sparrow?"
Nodding, Jack felt in his pocket and pulled out his bag of coins. "Deal me in."
At the end of the night, André left with most of the winnings, and Deschamps and Jack wandered out into the street, rather the worse for wear.
"You didn't tell 'im 'bout the attack," Jack said, his hand sketching irrelevant circles in the air. "You let old André think it was all a storm, not me makin' a mistake with t' frigate."
Deschamps attempted to straighten his hat. "Ouais."
"Why?" asked Jack, determined to get to the bottom of this question.
"Parce-que …" Deschamps stopped walking, and faced Jack, making a visible effort to speak English despite his drunkenness. "Because everyone, tout le monde, 'e makes mistakes. Even you. You paint a picture, une peinture, le célèbre Jack Sparrow, someone who can do nothing wrong." He focused on Jack, laying a hand on his shoulder. "And so, men find it 'ard to believe you too, you are a man also." He smiled. "A good man. Un bon capitaine. I 'ave enjoyed being your first mate."
"I've enjoyed having you on board," said Jack. "Merci, Jean."
"Pas de quoi, Jacques," Deschamps replied. He nodded, drunkenly. "G'night."
"Night, mate." Jack watched as Deschamps meandered off down the street, and turned himself to go in the other direction.