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Rated: PG for language and situations
A New Life - Chapter 8
Three days in pitching rough seas passed before Jack was allowed up on deck by the good, if not overly clumsy, Dr. Calvin. Three days which Jack spent in the company of the delightful Lady Catherine, the somewhat dangerous Dr. Calvin, and most surprisingly Commodore Norrington. Apparently James, as he insisted Jack call him in private, found Thomas Wells a fascinating person. This turn of events may have been precipitated by Jack himself, who told tales of adventure to entertain his visitors. He wove in the threads of incidents that had actually happened to him with the colored fabric of pure invention based on half-truths and speculation. These stories, he realized only after he'd started, could be his downfall. If James had an opportunity to track them down to establish their truth or lack thereof, he would see through the sham and, most likely, turn on Jack. But for now, all three of Jack's guests found him tres amusant, if somewhat reluctant to go into details. As he relayed one of his more colorful exploits, Jack would get to a point in his story and wink, or say something like, "That's best left unsaid. You understand." And, of course, his visitor's didn't, but pretended they did. The Lady Catherine always came with her little white dog, Sugar, who continued to find Jack fascinating. He'd never owned a dog, though one did adopt him for a few months once when he was stranded in northern Africa. It had died defending him from some hoodlums who had decided he looked like easy prey. Something in Sugars deep brown eyes, perhaps their unqualified acceptance of Jack for himself, reminded him of that raggedy dog in Tunisia. As part of his recuperation, Jack forced himself to eat the soups and stews they brought him, though he longed silently for some rum. He slowly felt his strength return. On the third day of his confinement, after he had demonstrated to Dr. Calvin that he was perfectly capable of walking around in his cabin, the ship's physician gave him permission to go above decks for a few minutes. With a sigh of relief, and without thinking to grab his jacket, Jack bounded for the door of his cabin, thanking Dr. Calvin as he brushed past him. "Take it easy," the doctor's voice called after him. "You may find yourself out of breath easily." Yes. Whatever you say, Jack thought to himself, determined to enjoy some fresh salt-water scented air.
He made his way fore and up the steep steps. Half-way up he noticed he needed to hold onto the rope rail to keep himself upright. He looked up at the open hatch and the golden sunlight pooling in, splashing on the upper stairs and determination gripped him. Gritting his teeth, Jack forced himself upward one step at a time. By the time he reached the open hatch, he was exhausted. He climbed slowly out, holding on to a barrel to keep himself upright. It was still mid- morning. The wind was strong, blowing west from Africa with the scent of more storms to come. It was hurricane season, after all, Jack thought, turning to look toward the east. It was dotted with distant clouds, the front end of the approaching squall. Breathing deeply and enjoying the sensation, he made his way carefully to the rail and held on to its sun-warmed wood with both hands, oblivious for the moment of the people watching him. His focus was on the glint of silver and white off the wave tips, the way the ship's shadow danced across the surface of the sea, and the sensation of movement up and down. It reminded him deeply and almost painfully of his Black Pearl and for the hundredth time he wondered where she and her crew were and how they faired. Turning his dark head to look up at the plump, wind-filled sails, Jack's gaze crossed the poop deck and locked with the Commodore's. Norrington stood, his hands behind his back, looking for all the world like the epitome of a Royal Navy officer; proud, with his gold filigree, his powdered wig, every hair in place, and his tri-corner affixed firmly atop his head, James Norrington was the power on this ship. That power was focusing his attention on Jack.
Flashing a quick, tight-lipped smile, Jack continued his scan of the deck. Apparently he was the news. Everyone had paused in their chores and was simply staring at him. For a moment, Jack wondered if he'd forgotten to button up his breeches. Novelty, he told himself. They didn't see Jack Sparrow. They saw Thomas Wells, His Majesty Agent in affairs best left unsaid.
Turning back to the waters, Jack took in a long sigh. How on earth was he going to carry on this charade? He had to constantly remind himself to hold his hands still when he spoke. To speak with the affected accent he'd chosen for Thomas. And to walk stiffly, like a preacher with a broom up his bum. This was truly going to go down in the journal of Jack Sparrow as his most spectacular impersonation. Yet, if there was no Thomas Wells, was it an impersonation, he wondered. Or was it more of a creation? Yes, that sounded very good. A Jack Sparrow, a Captain Jack Sparrow creation.
His knees felt more than a little wobbly, but he was reluctant to leave his post by the rail. He pressed them up against the ship's side and imagined himself, hair back to its usual length and fashion, dressed in an outstanding new and brilliantly piratical outfit, telling his tale to his crew as they took shore leave at some port town filled with the scents of spices and cedar, rum and ale.
Waves of trepidation fluttered against Jack's spine before he was aware that the Commodore had come up behind him. Gads, but for his height, James moved very quietly. It was the second time he'd done that to Jack, whose already racing heart seemed to skip a beat. He turned, leaning back against the rail for support, wondering if James had seen through his disguise at last.
But, no. James had a concerned look in his eyes as he studied Jack. "Mr. Wells, you do not look well," he said, his lips pursed. "Perhaps I should have Mr. Cartwright help you back to your room." He snapped his hand toward a nearby sailor, who had been listening to his Commodore's every word.
Jack opened his mouth to protest, remembered who he was, and simply nodded as he said, "I'm very grateful, sir."
Mr. Cartwright, a man who could not have been even five feet in height, came to take Jack's left arm.
"Not there," Jack quickly jerked it away, which amplified the constant pain there, causing himself to wince.
"The other arm," Commodore Norrington told the sailor.
The wind decided at that particular moment, as Jack leaned back against the rail for support, to flap at his only half-buttoned shirt. Jack's eyes were closed, but when he opened them, James was staring at his chest with a peculiar look on his face. By the time Jack looked down, he could see no reason for such close scrutiny. His gaze rose back to meet James'.
The helpful Mr. Cartwright was oblivious to this silent exchange. He had walked around the Commodore to Jack's right side, and gently took his good arm.
"Thank you," Jack said, and he could hear the strain in his own voice. He leaned rather heavily on Mr. Cartwright, who guided him back to the hatch and helped him as he slowly descended back into the darkness of below- decks.
It did not go unnoticed to Jack that James was following him. He bit his lip in consternation, wondering what was going on.
He was helped back into his cabin and onto the bed, where he sat, cradling his left arm, as James entered and shut the door behind himself.
"Tell me, Mr. Wells," James said, his tone all business, "is it customary for His Majesties servants, those in your particular line of work, to get tattoos?"
Now Jack understood. He reached to pull open his shirt and reveal the tattoo the Commodore must have seen. "This one?" he asked. "I have more, actually. Part of what I had to endure in order to pass myself off as a pirate."
"Oh. I see." James' face relaxed slightly. He studied Jack. "I imagine you had to do more to disguise yourself than tattoos."
"Yes." They were treading on dangerous ground here, Jack realized. If James tried to imagine him with a beard or longer hair, he might see a picture of Jack Sparrow in his mind's eye. "I wore a patch over one eye," Jack added. "It was a good place to hide a gold coin, too, just in case I was ever in need of money. For a while I had tied some coins in my hair, but some brute decided he needed money and chopped my hair with a boarding axe."
"Goodness gracious," James responded, lulling Jack's fears somewhat. "It sounds like you risked your life quite often for King and country."
That stumped Jack, he momentarily could think of nothing to say as he stared down at his knees. When he looked back up at James, he saw a look of simpatico in his eyes. James must have taken his silence as confirmation, Jack decided. Great, another detail to add to his Thomas Wells character: stoicism.
"Sir, did you need me for something?" Jack asked, hoping he sounded like a brave and willing if somewhat suffering civil servant.
"Ah, no," James backed toward the door. "You rest, Thomas. I'm sure your little trip upstairs was taxing. Do you think you'll be up to dining in my cabin tonight?"
Jack opened his mouth. Closed it. Then said, "Yes," very clearly. "That is very kind of you, sir."
"James, please."
"James," Jack repeated, flashing a quick, closed-mouth smile. He watched James open the door, incline his head in lieu of a good-bye, and exit. It was only when the cabin door was once again closed and Jack realized how very well his charade was working that he allowed himself to relax back onto the bed. Bringing his feet up, and staring at the wooden rafters above him, a thousand thoughts flooded his brain, uppermost of which was that he could not have imagined Commodore James Norrington inviting him to diner in a thousand years. Yet that was exactly, well, almost exactly what had happened. James had in fact invited Thomas, after all, not Jack; but since they were one and the same, Jack reasoned, the Commodore had invited the pirate Captain.
His thoughts grew a little confused as his eyes fluttered shut. Tonight would be interesting, he imagined. Very interesting.
A New Life - Chapter 8
Three days in pitching rough seas passed before Jack was allowed up on deck by the good, if not overly clumsy, Dr. Calvin. Three days which Jack spent in the company of the delightful Lady Catherine, the somewhat dangerous Dr. Calvin, and most surprisingly Commodore Norrington. Apparently James, as he insisted Jack call him in private, found Thomas Wells a fascinating person. This turn of events may have been precipitated by Jack himself, who told tales of adventure to entertain his visitors. He wove in the threads of incidents that had actually happened to him with the colored fabric of pure invention based on half-truths and speculation. These stories, he realized only after he'd started, could be his downfall. If James had an opportunity to track them down to establish their truth or lack thereof, he would see through the sham and, most likely, turn on Jack. But for now, all three of Jack's guests found him tres amusant, if somewhat reluctant to go into details. As he relayed one of his more colorful exploits, Jack would get to a point in his story and wink, or say something like, "That's best left unsaid. You understand." And, of course, his visitor's didn't, but pretended they did. The Lady Catherine always came with her little white dog, Sugar, who continued to find Jack fascinating. He'd never owned a dog, though one did adopt him for a few months once when he was stranded in northern Africa. It had died defending him from some hoodlums who had decided he looked like easy prey. Something in Sugars deep brown eyes, perhaps their unqualified acceptance of Jack for himself, reminded him of that raggedy dog in Tunisia. As part of his recuperation, Jack forced himself to eat the soups and stews they brought him, though he longed silently for some rum. He slowly felt his strength return. On the third day of his confinement, after he had demonstrated to Dr. Calvin that he was perfectly capable of walking around in his cabin, the ship's physician gave him permission to go above decks for a few minutes. With a sigh of relief, and without thinking to grab his jacket, Jack bounded for the door of his cabin, thanking Dr. Calvin as he brushed past him. "Take it easy," the doctor's voice called after him. "You may find yourself out of breath easily." Yes. Whatever you say, Jack thought to himself, determined to enjoy some fresh salt-water scented air.
He made his way fore and up the steep steps. Half-way up he noticed he needed to hold onto the rope rail to keep himself upright. He looked up at the open hatch and the golden sunlight pooling in, splashing on the upper stairs and determination gripped him. Gritting his teeth, Jack forced himself upward one step at a time. By the time he reached the open hatch, he was exhausted. He climbed slowly out, holding on to a barrel to keep himself upright. It was still mid- morning. The wind was strong, blowing west from Africa with the scent of more storms to come. It was hurricane season, after all, Jack thought, turning to look toward the east. It was dotted with distant clouds, the front end of the approaching squall. Breathing deeply and enjoying the sensation, he made his way carefully to the rail and held on to its sun-warmed wood with both hands, oblivious for the moment of the people watching him. His focus was on the glint of silver and white off the wave tips, the way the ship's shadow danced across the surface of the sea, and the sensation of movement up and down. It reminded him deeply and almost painfully of his Black Pearl and for the hundredth time he wondered where she and her crew were and how they faired. Turning his dark head to look up at the plump, wind-filled sails, Jack's gaze crossed the poop deck and locked with the Commodore's. Norrington stood, his hands behind his back, looking for all the world like the epitome of a Royal Navy officer; proud, with his gold filigree, his powdered wig, every hair in place, and his tri-corner affixed firmly atop his head, James Norrington was the power on this ship. That power was focusing his attention on Jack.
Flashing a quick, tight-lipped smile, Jack continued his scan of the deck. Apparently he was the news. Everyone had paused in their chores and was simply staring at him. For a moment, Jack wondered if he'd forgotten to button up his breeches. Novelty, he told himself. They didn't see Jack Sparrow. They saw Thomas Wells, His Majesty Agent in affairs best left unsaid.
Turning back to the waters, Jack took in a long sigh. How on earth was he going to carry on this charade? He had to constantly remind himself to hold his hands still when he spoke. To speak with the affected accent he'd chosen for Thomas. And to walk stiffly, like a preacher with a broom up his bum. This was truly going to go down in the journal of Jack Sparrow as his most spectacular impersonation. Yet, if there was no Thomas Wells, was it an impersonation, he wondered. Or was it more of a creation? Yes, that sounded very good. A Jack Sparrow, a Captain Jack Sparrow creation.
His knees felt more than a little wobbly, but he was reluctant to leave his post by the rail. He pressed them up against the ship's side and imagined himself, hair back to its usual length and fashion, dressed in an outstanding new and brilliantly piratical outfit, telling his tale to his crew as they took shore leave at some port town filled with the scents of spices and cedar, rum and ale.
Waves of trepidation fluttered against Jack's spine before he was aware that the Commodore had come up behind him. Gads, but for his height, James moved very quietly. It was the second time he'd done that to Jack, whose already racing heart seemed to skip a beat. He turned, leaning back against the rail for support, wondering if James had seen through his disguise at last.
But, no. James had a concerned look in his eyes as he studied Jack. "Mr. Wells, you do not look well," he said, his lips pursed. "Perhaps I should have Mr. Cartwright help you back to your room." He snapped his hand toward a nearby sailor, who had been listening to his Commodore's every word.
Jack opened his mouth to protest, remembered who he was, and simply nodded as he said, "I'm very grateful, sir."
Mr. Cartwright, a man who could not have been even five feet in height, came to take Jack's left arm.
"Not there," Jack quickly jerked it away, which amplified the constant pain there, causing himself to wince.
"The other arm," Commodore Norrington told the sailor.
The wind decided at that particular moment, as Jack leaned back against the rail for support, to flap at his only half-buttoned shirt. Jack's eyes were closed, but when he opened them, James was staring at his chest with a peculiar look on his face. By the time Jack looked down, he could see no reason for such close scrutiny. His gaze rose back to meet James'.
The helpful Mr. Cartwright was oblivious to this silent exchange. He had walked around the Commodore to Jack's right side, and gently took his good arm.
"Thank you," Jack said, and he could hear the strain in his own voice. He leaned rather heavily on Mr. Cartwright, who guided him back to the hatch and helped him as he slowly descended back into the darkness of below- decks.
It did not go unnoticed to Jack that James was following him. He bit his lip in consternation, wondering what was going on.
He was helped back into his cabin and onto the bed, where he sat, cradling his left arm, as James entered and shut the door behind himself.
"Tell me, Mr. Wells," James said, his tone all business, "is it customary for His Majesties servants, those in your particular line of work, to get tattoos?"
Now Jack understood. He reached to pull open his shirt and reveal the tattoo the Commodore must have seen. "This one?" he asked. "I have more, actually. Part of what I had to endure in order to pass myself off as a pirate."
"Oh. I see." James' face relaxed slightly. He studied Jack. "I imagine you had to do more to disguise yourself than tattoos."
"Yes." They were treading on dangerous ground here, Jack realized. If James tried to imagine him with a beard or longer hair, he might see a picture of Jack Sparrow in his mind's eye. "I wore a patch over one eye," Jack added. "It was a good place to hide a gold coin, too, just in case I was ever in need of money. For a while I had tied some coins in my hair, but some brute decided he needed money and chopped my hair with a boarding axe."
"Goodness gracious," James responded, lulling Jack's fears somewhat. "It sounds like you risked your life quite often for King and country."
That stumped Jack, he momentarily could think of nothing to say as he stared down at his knees. When he looked back up at James, he saw a look of simpatico in his eyes. James must have taken his silence as confirmation, Jack decided. Great, another detail to add to his Thomas Wells character: stoicism.
"Sir, did you need me for something?" Jack asked, hoping he sounded like a brave and willing if somewhat suffering civil servant.
"Ah, no," James backed toward the door. "You rest, Thomas. I'm sure your little trip upstairs was taxing. Do you think you'll be up to dining in my cabin tonight?"
Jack opened his mouth. Closed it. Then said, "Yes," very clearly. "That is very kind of you, sir."
"James, please."
"James," Jack repeated, flashing a quick, closed-mouth smile. He watched James open the door, incline his head in lieu of a good-bye, and exit. It was only when the cabin door was once again closed and Jack realized how very well his charade was working that he allowed himself to relax back onto the bed. Bringing his feet up, and staring at the wooden rafters above him, a thousand thoughts flooded his brain, uppermost of which was that he could not have imagined Commodore James Norrington inviting him to diner in a thousand years. Yet that was exactly, well, almost exactly what had happened. James had in fact invited Thomas, after all, not Jack; but since they were one and the same, Jack reasoned, the Commodore had invited the pirate Captain.
His thoughts grew a little confused as his eyes fluttered shut. Tonight would be interesting, he imagined. Very interesting.