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A/N: Written for the "Gibbs" drabble challenge at the Yahoo group, Black Pearl Sails. Length wasn't a big issue, so this is more of a vignette, I suppose.
Pilot Wanted
Well, it was like this, y'see. I was sittin' in the Faithful Bride, havin' a pint an' lookin' fer two things: a pilot fer Captain Reynolds, and a lass to warm the wee hours, if ye get me drift. The former are a bit thin on the ground, so to speak—a pilot's got to know these waters like the back of 'is hand, an' be a dab at navigatin' as well, an' both take brains an' years o' practice, neither o' which is a mark o' most o' the lads ye'll find in Tortuga. I weren't hopeful o' the latter, either: this foppish, swayin' fella, had 'em all to 'imself, tellin' 'em some wild tale of escapin' the gaol in Havana disguised as a padre—fair curled me liver, hearin' 'im tell it: I was raised a Papist, an' still take me hat off to priests, even the Spanish ones. Fella looked no account to me, which is why I wondered at the lasses makin' up to 'im like they did.
Then Mulligan sits down an' we get to talkin', an' 'e says to me, "Well there's yer pilot," an' nods at said ladie's man, who's leerin' down at the…er…assets of one o' the lasses.
"That fribble, y'mean?" says I.
But Mulligan laughs an' says, "That fribble's Jack Sparrow—learned to read maps before 'e could walk, an' can find 'is way to a speck 'o land in the middle of a hurricane!"
I gave 'im a dubious look as Mulligan's been known to stretch the truth some and I tell 'im,"Thanks, but I'll keep lookin'."
He shrugs an' says, "Suit yerself, Josh," an' takes 'imself off.
Well, I did too, after a bit, seein' as how there was nothin' to be had at the Bride, save indifferent liquor. It was a dark night, with a lot o' swirlin' fog. I was a bit 'well to live', as the sayin' is, but I was makin' good headway back to the ship all the same. An' then this bastard steps out o' the shadows, takes hold an' puts a knife against the side o' me neck.
He says, "Yer purse now, nice an' slow."
Mary an' Joseph, he'd the rottenest grin I've seen in many a day. I weren't about to argue, with 'is knife right there an' all, an' I was reachin' nice an slow, like 'e said, when out o' the fog sways Sparrow, lookin' six sheets to the wind, an' bumps into the bastard, hard.
"A thousand pardons," Jack slurs, but when the bastard turns to 'im suddenly 'e's dead sober. Poked two fingers hard into bastard's eyes, an' then favored 'im with a neat clip to the jaw that floored 'im. An' then Jack's sword's out an' at the fella's throat. He says to 'im, "Not nice to accost a man like that, laddie. Execrable manners. I'd take me leave if I were you. I've had a few tonight, an' you never know: me sword might slip."
Bastard took 'im at 'is word an' was gone just like that. Jack shakes 'is head, sad-like, then turns to me an' grins an' bows an' says, "The 'fribble', at your service."
Well, it were an awkward moment, an' no mistake. Don't think me face has been that red before or since.
I started to thank 'im, but 'e waved me off, sayin', "My pleasure, Gibbs. Don't mention it. But what's this Mulligan tells me, about you needin' a pilot, eh?"