Chapter Five: What Do You Do With An Angry Frenchman?


The persistent question that plagued mankind since its inception had been answered a number of times by many a scholar and seaman. Will had a handful of viable options at his disposal when it came to what to do with a drunken sailor. But now, Will desperately wished the song had been called "What Do You Do With An Angry Frenchman?"

As he and his newly appointed first mate circled about the wriggling bag as they stood on the main deck of the Black Pearl, Will gave a faltering voice to his thoughts. "W-what do we do?"

Mister Gibbs, the all-knowing and skilled seaman that he was, gave an apathetic shrug. "He's been left in yer care, Captain. I'm naught but yer humble servant."

Good lot of help he was.

Will paced around the moving bag a while longer, shoving a hand through his hair as he ran down the suggestions the aforementioned song provided. As absurd as it was, he began to hum the familiar tune.

Shave his belly with a rusty razor? Gads, no! Put him in the hold with the Captain's daughter? No, he didn't have a daughter... yet. Throw him in the lock-up 'til he's sober? That's it!

"Throw him in the lock-up!" Will blurted aloud, silently blessing Jack's habit of singing in his sleep and while drunk, or while participating in any combination of the aforementioned activities. "Gibbs, secure Captain Briault in the lock-up."

"Aye, aye, Sir." Gibbs hoisted the Frenchman back onto his shoulder and carried him one deck down.

Will followed a few steps behind Gibbs, realizing he didn't know where the lock-up was, or even if the Pearl had one. He vaguely remembered freeing Jack from down there once upon a time, but for the life of him couldn't remember for what purpose.

By the time he found himself at Mister Gibbs' side, the Frenchman was already locked away, debagged and untied. His uncapped hair brown hair stuck up in every direction and his clothes were successfully rumpled. As soon as Gibbs had untied his hands, Briault began pacing around the small hay-lined cell, prowling like caged tiger. Will made sure to keep his hands away from the cell, lest the Frenchman would bite them off.

"Well, damnations." Briault paused, balling his fists at his side as he looked irately up at Gibbs. "How much?"

Gibbs froze, and gulped as if he swallowed a mouth full of seawater. "Beg yer pardon?"

"How much? Surely you ask a kingly ransom, which I shall have promptly arranged, upon my release." Briault rubbed his wrists where the rope had bound them and then tried to smooth his hair. "Inform your Captain, without delay."

Gibbs huffed, and then grabbed the bewildered Will, pulling him into a manly clasp. "Why don't ye ask him yerself?" Will winced, noting his first mate smelled not much better now than he did when he first met him. "Captain Turner here will be more than gracious to answer yer every inquiry."

Briault scanned over the boy presented before him, his thin lips twisting into a condescending sneer. "You don't mean to say this... whelp is captain?"

"Aye, I do mean ta say it!" Gibbs retorted, slapping Will on the back. He felt very much like a blue-medal prized hog being presented before Parliament, as the newly appointed Prime Minister. Laughable, at best. He didn't know whether to deck Jack or hug him for this grave opportunity when they next laid eyes upon one another. He was relatively sure, with a little foresight, he could find someway to combine the two.

Briault looked dubious, and with just reason. "Why, he's far too pale and wet behind the ears! I'd leave naught but a rowboat in his charge." He embellished it with a superfluous snort.

Gibbs crossed his arms over his chest. "Cap'n Turner, here... he's caught a fever." He said, and then added, "Yellow fever, which more than accounts fer his pallor."

"Yellow... fever?" The French privateer lifted a brow as he drew back. Will too expressed his curiosity. He hadn't been sick a day in his life.

"Aye, mighty contagious case of it." Gibbs gave Will an apologetic look -apologetic? he wondered- before stealthy elbowing the boy in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. Briault didn't seem to notice.

Staggering back against a beam, Will clutched at his throat, now thrown into a violent coughing fit. He feebly swung his arm at the first mate, only landing a pitiful blow on the man's forearm before another fit racked his body. Briault shrank further into the hold.

"Mighty contagious." Gibbs reiterated, a faint hint of a smile on his sullied lips. "Methinks any day now, the yellow devil'll be knockin' down me door as well." Gibbs embellished his statement with a cough. "And might I note, you're lookin' a might bit peaked yourself there, Captain."

Briault's eyes widened, notably ill at ease. Will unleashed another fit of coughs, his doe-eyes watering as he leaned against the iron bars of the cell.

"Aye, perhaps it's best ye keep to yer cell." Gibbs admonished. "It's but the one true safe place aboard this godforsaken boat."

Briault lifted the lapel of his jacket, covering half his face. "I... I'll keep that in mind."

"On that note," Gibbs straightened, his demeanor remarkably lighter. "The cookie's whipping up some kidney pies. Are ye hungry, Captain? I'd imagine after such a traumatic afternoon, you'd be right famished."

"No, no!" Briault lifted a hand, stopping the man in his tracks. "No, I'll be fine. I'm... not hungry."

"Suit yourself." Gibbs smiled inwardly, snagging Will by the shirtsleeve. "More fer Captain Turner, then. He does need his strength, y'know."

Will wheezed in reply, leaning quite deliberately towards Briault.

"Fine, fine." The Frenchman recoiled further into his cell, burying his head inside his magenta waistcoat. He gave a muffled plea. "Just go!"

They were more than happy to oblige him.


Jack had decided long ago as a lad that the French language had but two valid purposes: to romance and to impress. As he little trouble with the former, and no desire for the latter, he had foregone his independent studies of the language. Spanish and its brother Portuguese had seemed far more imperative at the time, and he knew enough Italian to provoke even the most besotted Sicilian girls to slap him.

Conveniently for him, Montebello was something of a scholar and not only spoke English, French, Italian and Portuguese, but as a slew of other useless dead languages as well. He had taken great care in equipping Jack with a slew of handy French phrases. Practical ones, such as merci, s'il vous plaît and la viande est froide, accompanied every last curse, swear and dirty joke Montebello could recall from his schoolyard days. Jack had taken particular delight in one amusing rhyme about a pious young girl from Bitche.

It wasn't his intellect that made Monty such an invaluable companion, but his sly wit. Most poor fools to end up on the wrong side of his tongue hadn't even known they'd been insulted until Montebello was walking off with the last laugh and their coin purse. His light fingers and flexible morals were likely entirely Jack's doing, but he hardly regretted it. Though he wasn't much to look at, Antoine Montebello was one of his most prosperous pupil.

"Good God, Jack!" The man's clearly aggravated voice wafted across from the room. "It cannot take the better part of half an hour to dress yourself, can it?"

Jack looked down at his exposed torso and realized he'd let his mind wander far longer than he'd intended. He shot the canary yellow shirt still hung neatly on the edge of the changing curtain a harsh grimace. "A little hesitance is to be expected, Monty."

"No doubt. Are you at least decent?" Montebello's laugh was distinctly closer. His dark-capped head popped around the corner before Jack could tell him otherwise. The man scanned over Jack's half dressed form and shook his head as he took a nibble from a biscuit in hand. "This won't do. This won't do at all."

Jack winced. "I'm not the only one who fears this won't work?"

"No, no." Montebello grunted around the biscuit as he pointed to Jack's pants. "You've got them on backwards."

Jack examined his stocking-clad legs and brushed his hands across the pleats of his short-legged trousers. Spinning about to get a better look at his own backside, Jack grumbled in exasperation. "These trousers are to me what that bloody Minotaur's labyrinth was to Theseus! I can make neither head nor tails of it."

Montebello opened his mouth to correct his associate's inaccuracy -that Theseus not only navigated the labyrinth with ease, but also beat the Minotaur to death with his bare fists- but thought better of it. Jack seemed to have no such luck in navigating anything other than the ocean, and try as he may, beating his trousers into submission would serve no greater purpose. Montebello sighed as he retreated back into the sitting area, collapsing in a chair. "Don't bother. It doesn't matter."

Jack assumed, his friend too was lamenting his current arrangement. Turning a pirate into a nobleman overnight was a Herculean feat, requiring nothing less than a miracle. As Jack figured, the heavens held him in no favorable standing, so he didn't bother looking up for a clap of lightning and thunder. Hell too had little reason to open its fiery chasm and offer its assistance. Why, the underworld had likely been waiting for this very opportunity to lay claim to their charming prince. Perhaps his hopes should lean towards the... fictional sort. Though if the lack of wings and pixie dust was evidence, Montebello certainly was no fairy godmother.

One article at a time, Jack slid into his clothing praying the transformation would prove convincing enough to see him through the next few days. Port Royale was the very head of the beast of the Royal Navy's forces in these parts, and one he had no intention to turn. Stepping out from behind the curtain, Jack straightened his back, pushed his shoulder back and puffed out his chest.

Montebello looked up sleepily from his cup of tea, taking one last sip. His bored look quickly perked, approvingly. "Impressive, Sparrow! For hope of his ears burning, you fill out Briault's clothes better than he does!"

"I wouldn't hope so. I've been wearin' em naught but two minutes and I'm already itchin' to get free." Jack squirmed a bit to further prove his point. "I feel like a ripe fruit in this outfit."

"You do look remarkably like a banana. Fortunate for you, no one but I will be subjected to this eyesore this evening." Montebello rose from his seat, circling around Jack, humming with approval.

"What do you mean?" The pirate's mouth fell open in dismay. "All this for naught?"

"Not for naught." Montebello shook his head. "Surely you need a while to grow accustomed to another man's britches. Though, I do believe I've turned a gentleman of fortune into a prince."

Thoroughly pleased to have obtained the esteemed Montebello Seal of Excellency, Jack beamed. The man's praise wasn't idly given.

Montebello shrank as Jack's smile widened and then damn near leapt behind the fainting couch. "Gads, man... your teeth!" He pointed with an accusing finger.

Launching to the nearest mirror, Jack began the manhunt for an errant piece of broccoli or foreign object that could mar his otherwise winning smile."What? Where is it?"

"No, Jack." Montebello placed a hand on his shoulder, coercing him back around. "Last I saw you, you had naught but two gold capped teeth. Not..." He began counting with his fingers. "One, two, three, four, five! How is anyone going to believe you as refined French gentry with half the crown jewels in your mouth?"

Jack waggled his head a bit. "Let us not forget that two of these jewels I wear because of your own shoddy advice."

"You lay the blame on me? I did warn you about my sister's right hook, did I not?" Montebello's mouth curved at the fond memory of his sister Eva decking the belligerent English captain on Christmas Eve beneath the mistletoe. It had taken the man nearly two pints of eggnog to realize what had hit him.

Jack tossed his hands in the air. "How could I have known you spoke the truth? I based the merit of your advise on the strength of your punch!"

Though Montebello's lips were tight and unyielding, his eyes were alight with laughter. "My punch is considerably stronger now than when I was stripling. I'd grace you with a demonstration, but I fear I may cause you to soil your costly britches."

His body racked with laughter, Jack found his way to the fainting couch he had first found Briault on. He missed Monty's shrewd sense of humour. It had been years since he'd last seen, let alone heard from him. Jack was pleasantly surprised when he received a letter from him nearly four months past. "You know, you tactfully left out some details of this operation in your letters. Feared I'd leave you out?"

Montebello's eyes shot back up, his mouth widening in a pleased grin. "Exactly my reason for not divulging everything to you at once. You can be quite an impatient man, unless you've outgrown that habit?"

Jack fussed with his tights as they bunched at his knee. "If anything, I've grown more impatient with time. Out with it, man!"

"Within this week, Briault is scheduled to drop off the bulk of his shipment in Jamaica. There are three large containers in the hold, mislabeled as 'barley'. Two of those containers are to be purchased by a Mr. Marcus Pullman in Kingston at his small plantation, which no doubt is a cover for Briault's regional operations."

"What about the third?" Jack pried.

Montebello straightened with a cough as he leafed through his journal. "The last shipment is to be sold to a..." He found the page, and tapped the name. "Mr. G.C. LeBeau, in Tobago."

Jack withdrew and the smile on his face fell abruptly at the last word. Come hell or high water, he was not going to Tobago. He had skillfully avoided any business there for nearly five years now, and now was no time to start.

"Something wrong?" Montebello asked as he noticed the changed expression on Jack's face.

"No, no." The pirate shrugged meekly, hesitant to divulge his concerns. "I merely left some unwanted business in Tobago. Or, was that... Trinidad?"

"Tobago." Montebello confirmed, and then leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. "That is, if you're alluding to the summer of '31?"

After a guilty pause, Jack nodded in response. "A little misunderstanding, if you recall."

"That I do, and I recall it was not little nor a misunderstanding. You assaulted the Governor of Tobago's wife!"

"A kiss is not an assault!" Jack defended, crossing his arms across his chest as best his restricting waistcoat would allow, which proved only to incense him further.

"Yours are!" Montebello's face skin reddened as he shook with laughter. "Any fool could see you virtually suffocated the poor woman to death with your tongue! And at her husbands' bloody coronation ceremony, nevertheless!"

Jack raised a finger in point. "A sound argument why we should not go to Tobago."

The Atropos shifted slightly, and the tea in Jack's untouched cup rippled at the movement. Montebello peered out the broken door leading to the terrace. "We're leaving port." He glanced at his gilded pocket watch. "And in record time, undoubted." He rose to his feet, brushing biscuit crumbs of his trousers.

"No Tobago?" Jack clasped his hands together against his chest, batting his eyes with all the grace of a sea cow.

With a belated sigh, Montebello agreed. "No Tobago. I suppose we'll split that last shipment between us coconspirators."

Jack eased back into his chair, a pleased grin on his face. "A fetching proposal, Monty. How long 'til we make berth in Port Royale? If this ship is as fast as she looks, I fear my Pearl won't be able to give chase!" He joked, or at least, he hoped it was a joke. There was something gratifying in maintaining the fastest ship in the Caribbean. It was a title he wouldn't hand over to any ship, particularly one flying French colors.

"With the wind in our favor as it is, the better part of a day. We ought to anchor in at Kingston Harbour by first bell of the forenoon."

"Splendid." Jack relaxed. The Pearl could make it in half a day. His title was secure, for now. "See to it that the crew receives an extra ration, no, two of rum. I want the every last man aboard slobbering drunk by sun down!"

Montebello, or now he supposed he ought to now play Belmont, let out a cheerful "Aye, aye, Sir!"

Author's Note: XtineSparrowDepp (author of Coconut Letters) asked "What does pear-shaped mean?" Admittedly, it's not a term that existed in the 18th century, and though its origin is unknown, it possibly refers to aviation. Instead looping one's plane in a perfect circle (which is damned hard, I've heard), a pilot would end up pulling pear-shaped circle. Simply put, something going 'pear-shaped' means it's all gone wrong and failed rather miserably. It's a chiefly British phrase that I was bombarded while hanging out with some of the local RAF guys. It has bored a special little place in my heart.

Again, if you've got the time to spare, drop me a review. They make me retarded with happiness! And if you've got a POTC story you want to recommend, please do.