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The Devil All Over
Jack Sparrow stretched out his booted feet and tipped his hat over his eyes, making himself as comfortable as possible on the hard stone bench. By the time the guard arrived at his cell, Jack was lost in rum-soaked dreams. He had to clang his huge iron ring of keys against the bars several times before the young man yawned and squinted blearily from under his filthy hat at the representative of justice.
"On your feet, Sparrow," grunted the guard.
After stretching ostentatiously, Jack lifted his hat, set it carefully on the bench, and deliberately took his time combing through his dark hair with his fingers and securing it in a rough tail with a strip of leather. The guard, one John Read, looked on in amusement as the rag-a-muffin boy inspected his rough linen shirt for bits of straw and dusted his breeches and the shoulders of his coat, before turning to sweep him a graceful bow, waving his hat ludicrously about his knees.
"To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Read grinned. "We ain't got room for you. Pay your shot and get on out, and mind you mend your ways. Drunkenness will take you to the devil, boy."
"Ah. Then perhaps you would join me for a drink? The more I spend on you, the less I have for myself, and you'll be doing me a service."
Chuckling, Read glanced at the early morning sun coming through the small open window, then said, "I suppose it's my clear duty to help keep you sober, harsh as the task may be." He swung the door open and Jack stepped out with an air. Linking arms, they went to find a seaside tavern that would be amenable to serving alcohol at this hour.
There were a few, to be sure, even in Boston, to cater to the sailors. Jack found himself stranded in this Puritan town much against his will. Captain Hyatt had ordered that his ship, The Black Pearl, be careened and while she was pulled up along the coast he'd sent Jack to town to purchase what provisions the pirates had been unable to steal. The crew had unanimously approved, for Jack's silver tongue was well-respected among them since he'd talked the Nonesuch into surrendering its cargo without a fight. Besides, the lad was young, looked even younger and harmless, and had a talent for wheedling the best deals from shopkeepers—especially the women.
Ned and Shivvy had packed the barrels and bundles back to the Pearl two days ago, but Jack was stuck here watching the Adamant and waiting for it to set sail. Once the forty-gunner set sail he would get to the Pearl and they could slip unnoticed out of these waters, maybe waylaying another merchant vessel before heading south. But day after day the winds blew contrary and the Adamant remained in port while the weather worsened. Jack was getting jumpier all the time. Much longer, and winter would be setting in. If he was with the Pearl he'd talk the captain into sailing now, risk be damned. The idea that someone else might talk the captain into leaving—without young Jack—haunted him, but the drink helped.
"You know, that jail wouldn't hold a determined cat," Jack said sometime later as he and John staggered out from under a sign depicting a one-eyed sailor in nauseating detail.
"Oh, well, we've chains t'hold the dangerous ones, murderers and witches and the like," John said. He squinted blearily into the sun to get his bearings, and pulled Jack toward Red Biddy's house, where the company was friendly, if none too clean.
"Witches?" Jack raised a skeptical eyebrow, an expression that made him almost look his age.
"Have you not heard? Rare trouble with witches we've had about these parts. Wasn't a year back the jails were filled with them, and there's trouble yet. Why, little Maggie Rule's being tortured by witches and spirits even now. Seen it myself."
"Seen it? What happens then?"
"Come on, I'll show you." John changed direction with the sudden enthusiasm of the truly drunk, pulling Jack along by the arm. They reached the streets of Lynn, charmingly bordered with trees decked in red and gold, and John came to an abrupt stop in front of a modest clapboard house. They were far from being the first visitors. A milling crowd chattered around the door, and no one stopped the pair as they pushed their way inside and upstairs to a girl's bedchamber. Jack's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair, but the carnival atmosphere made it obvious that this was an accepted diversion for the town. John bulled and shoved his way through, his smaller friend following until he could see the girl lying in bed.
Margaret Rule was about his age, he reckoned, within a year or two. Her brown hair was tumbled wildly around her shoulders and her noticeably developed figure was hardly disguised by the thin nightshirt she wore. She was rocking and twisting her body from side to side, moaning for them to leave her be. Suddenly she sat straight up, face contorted by terror, and pointed, screaming, "Get thee back! Avoid!" Most of the spectators turned nervously about without spotting anything, but one white-capped matron hissed, "I saw it! I swear, I saw something!" This bid for attention fell flat, however, as most of the thirty or forty people crammed into the room were watching Maggie as she pulled her gown down to show the marks on her chest where she swore the witches were burning her.
Jack, thoroughly amused, noted that there were certainly red marks on display, along with Maggie's considerable charms. The men-folk were all duly impressed, while the women tittered in delighted horror. A shout from below cut through the commotion, as someone announced, "The Reverend is here!"
The crowd parted with difficulty and a wigged gentleman with wide, earnest eyes stepped forward. John leaned over, meaning to whisper in Jack's ear, and bellowed drunkenly, "That's the Reverend Mather, that is. Expert on witches."
A man standing behind Jack snorted, "Expert gull, you mean. Believes anything, like there hasn't been enough blood spilt." Jack craned up at him curiously, but turned back to watch as the Reverend started his show.
"Has this poor child eaten?" he called out.
"No sir, not for nine days straight," answered one of the women. Jack thought Maggie looked awfully good for someone who'd gone through a nine-day fast.
"We must give her some nourishment," the Reverend intoned, and a scramble ensued to bring up broth and bread, all in vain. Maggie clenched her teeth and thrashed about, sending crockery flying, and a satisfied sigh echoed through the audience. In the end, the Reverend proposed a 'strengthening spirit' and someone fetched a bottle of rum. Maggie calmed slightly and a spoonful or two of the liquid was forced into her mouth.
"God be praised, the devil has permitted her a taste of rum," Reverend Mather said solemnly.
"That's the devil all over," Jack couldn't help but comment. Mather glared at him but chose to ignore the joke.
"Aaaahhhhh!" Maggie screamed, apparently feeling that she was losing her audience. Her body thrashed again on the bed.
"Try laying on of hands, sir," the woman standing beside the bed begged. Jack thought she might be the girl's mother, but in this circus it was hard to tell. Mather nodded seriously and to Jack's shock pulled Maggie's nightshirt up over her head. Only partially concealed by her coverlet, Maggie fell back as if spent. John elbowed him in the ribs, grinning.
"This go on all the time?" Jack whispered.
"A week or more, this one," John said, this time managing to keep his voice down. Mather was running his hands along Maggie's face, chest, and belly. She was perfectly still for this, humming and smiling slightly. Jack covered his mouth to contain his giggles at the sight of the handsome preacher who was so patently sincere and godly in his administrations and the young lady who was enjoying herself thoroughly. There you had it—it took a Puritan town to provide entertainment like this. He'd never seen the like.
After a time, Mather and a few of the women wrestled Maggie back into her clothes. Figuring the best was over for today, Jack and John gave up their spots to newcomers and wandered back into the street. Jack felt the beginnings of a headache coming on.
"Sometimes she screams out that she can't stand none but the company of men," John sniggered as they walked along the street, "and then all the women are thrown out."
Jack shook his head and then gripped it with both hands. "Mate, what we need now is another drink."
Whole-heartedly agreeing, John set off. Jack watched him, wavering for a moment, then ducked into the nearest secluded spot and got very sick indeed. Feeling better, he emerged from the alley, and trotted to catch up with the guard. Three paces later, he ran into something solid.
"What's this, then?" Jack looked up—and up some more, into a swarthy face. The man was smiling around a number of missing teeth, and a huge hand had landed on Jack's shoulder. "Mates? I think we've got one."
Press gang. The thought set Jack's feet instantly in motion, but it was too late to escape. His captor lifted him as easily as he would a child and threw him over one shoulder. Jack's writhing and cursing did him no good.
Later that night, he sat meekly on board the Adamant, listening to the sergeant's lecture. He was, apparently, to join the majestic ranks of the Royal Navy. He was, apparently, honored by the opportunity. He was also, apparently, to be chained below until the ship was well away from land and any chance to escape, but this would not prevent him from performing his share of hard work.
Unlike most of the other boys the press gang had kidnapped, Jack was already accustomed to life on board. For the next couple of days, he did his work—numbingly hard as it was—sharply and well, distancing himself from the misery and wailing of the other captives. The officers noted this, and Jack was sure to reinforce the impression with careful obedience. On the third evening, he was rewarded with a trip above, to help haul and mend heavy canvass sails. Standing on deck, he turned his head thankfully up to the open sky and the first bright stars. Then he felt the wind pulling through his matted hair. It was turning—turning to allow the Adamant to set sail for England at last.
Instantly, the decks were filled with excited bustle. The captain in his spotless blue uniform crisply called out orders and seamen jumped to the rigging to loose the sails. The ship rocked and livened beneath Jack's feet, but for once the sensation brought him no joy. If he was to escape, it was now or never. Clumsily but quickly, he reached the rail and hoisted himself over. With a loud splash, the water closed over his head.
The salt water burned around his bare ankles where the irons had rubbed them raw. Jack kept his head under water and swam as swiftly as he knew how toward the shore. He well knew that few Navy men could swim, and that if he could just get enough distance between himself and the ship before surfacing they were more likely to assume him dead than to chase him down. The wind that called them out to sea would be his ally, convincing them to cut their losses rather than worry over one boy's escape.
Gasping, he broke into the air at last. The lights of Boston dotted the shore in the distance, but close behind were the Adamant's lanterns. Moving his arms in a silent breaststroke, Jack headed for the docks, swimming cautiously. It was a long way, but not so long that he despaired of reaching land before exhaustion claimed him.
As it turned out, it was even easier than that. A fishing boat heading out for the night's catch came upon him. Its kindly crew hollered and came about, throwing him a rope and bringing him on deck. His wet clothes were covered with a dry blanket and his empty stomach filled with a good swig of rum and a hard piece of bread. After the military nightmare of the past few days, it felt like heaven to Jack. They were back on shore soon, the fishermen loudly calling that they'd saved a young lad from drowning.
Shivering on shore, Jack watched a little crowd gather, some charitably calling for dry clothes and others urging flasks on him. In the midst of the bustle, he spotted a familiar face.
"John!"
"Praise be, Jack, is that you?" John ran up and shook his hand warmly. "I saw them haul you off, son, but there's nothing to be done against the Navy. How'd you escape then?" Jack launched into his story, and had just reached the bit where he'd knocked three midshipmen senseless and was about to grab a line and swing gracefully out over the water when he was interrupted by a newcomer.
"I heard her!" the newcomer shouted, pointing at Jack, who was understandably confused. "I heard her myself, she prophesied!"
John and Jack exchanged puzzled looks. "What are you blathering on about, man?" one of the fishermen asked.
"Margaret Rule, her that has the spirits bedeviling her. She says there is a boy who was to drown tonight, chased by the devils into the sea."
Privately, Jack thought 'devils' was as good a description of the Navy as any, but felt that he had to point out a flaw in the prophesy. "'M still alive, aren't I? I didn't drown."
"Ah, but you would've, if we hadn't saved you, right?" The fisherman looked a little awed at his part in a supernatural event.
"And she spoke tonight, only a few hours ago. Why, she must've seen the vision just as you were drowning!"
"I didn't drown," Jack repeated. And come to think of it, he hadn't been in the water for hours, either. However, the fishermen were repeating the news with excitement and John was nattering on about it too, looking a bit smug with his position as Jack's friend. Jack didn't bother to try and correct them. Tired as he was, it was time to head for home. The Pearl could be away with the morning tide—always given that she was still there, waiting for him—and he could be out of this insane town. Catch him ever coming to Boston again.
"Here dear," said a woman, wide in the keel and red-faced, thrusting a set of dry clothes at him. Jack thanked her sincerely and she giggled like a girl. Encouraged, he leaned forward and muttered, "Is there a place where I can change with some modesty, Goody?" Jerking his head toward a nearby structure he added, "Maybe that boathouse?"
"Certainly, young man." She nodded approvingly. "Good to see you've a sense of decency, unlike these ruffians," and she swatted the rear of one of the fishermen. Jack smiled and slipped off down the wharfs.
As he rowed the dingy he'd stolen into the dark, he thought that the townspeople would most likely assume he'd been snatched away by the devil. In a way he supposed it was true—the ship he searched for was the devil of the seas, but home and mother to him. He rowed hard up the shore, praying he wouldn't hit submerged rocks or sandbars in the dark. As he came up to the sheltered cove where the Pearl had been hauled out of the water for repairs, he kept his chin on his shoulder, praying for the first sight of that black bulk against the dawn light.
He gave a long sigh of relief as he spotted her, relaxing his neck and putting his back into his oars. A soft whistle sounded from the deck, and the grizzled, scarred faces of pirates leaned over to greet him.
"Thought we'd lost ye, Jacky boy!"
"Welcome back, mate. Did ye fall into a bottle?"
"What word of the Adamant?"
The cheerful babble seemed like a return to sanity. Jack cheerily answered all, yawning and demanding food as they hauled the stolen dingy on board. Soon he'd settled in as though he'd never gone.
As the Pearl skirted Boston harbor, Jack napped in his hammock. The more he thought about it, the odder the people of Massachusetts seemed to him. Sailors are a superstitious lot, true enough, but sailor or no Jack was a hard-headed realist. It'd take more than a silly girl to convince him of supernatural goings-on.
Actually, it took undead pirates and cursed treasure to change his mind—but that's another story.
finis
Disclaimer and Author's Note: Jack Sparrow and the Black Pearl are the property of Disney. The rat owns all. Rev. Mather, Margaret Rule, the sailor who made the joke about the rum, and the boy who didn't drown were all real people, and therefore have less legal protection than the copyrighted Captain Sparrow. Funny old world, innit?
The story takes place on September 19, 1693. I figure Jack to be about 15.