Here's Luck to You (3/6): Down on His Luck
By Honorat
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: Aye, Disney doesn't allow anyone else to make a profit, but we're not tryin' to make a profit, are we?
Summary: Jack is stuck on that Island for the first time. Angst and humour alert. Jack is well on his way to sunstroke which makes his POV weird and wonderful. Third in a series of significant events in the lives of Bootstrap Bill and Jack Sparrow with a cameo by Will. This was supposed to be a drabble for the "lucky charm" challenge at Black Pearl Sails. There will be six installments to this drabble sequence. None of them is a drabble.
Thanks to the peerless beta editing of geekmama2, this is much better than it was
3. Down on His Luck
Captain Jack Sparrow knew he was dying. He just didn't believe it. In spite of his injuries, he'd dragged himself over every grain of sand on this island. There was no water. Well, there was lots of water. The whole bloody island was surrounded by water. He just couldn't drink any of it.
How many days had he been here? He'd lost count. And he hadn't always been entirely conscious. He thought maybe it was two days, possibly three. Did it matter? He'd been collapsed in this spot for a long time now. His leg had finally given out, revolted, mutinied. Dumped its captain in the sand of a desert island. Refused to let him climb a coconut palm, although he knew there was liquid far above his head. Bloody stupid leg.
God, he needed water.
The sun glared off the sand, baking his skin. His shirt had long since been commandeered for bandages to keep his leg from traitorously bleeding him to death. His eye, which he still couldn't see out of, ached. His jaw ached. All his bruises ached. He thought he might have a broken rib. Lots of broken ribs, maybe. He hurt inside. And now his head was aching.
"This is not funny!" he yelled at the brassy, indifferent sky. It didn't answer. He flung hoarse curses in every language he knew, and a few he didn't, at Barbossa and his crew and fate and this island. It didn't help. And now his throat ached.
Whoever was in charge of the universe must really hate him.
Jack pulled out the pistol and contemplated it. A single shot. One would be more than enough. Jack had killed enough men with similar pistols to know exactly how to do the job right. He was perfectly capable of hurrying along his inevitable demise. Which was what Barbossa was counting on. Well, that bloody bastard could go straight to hell. Captain Jack Sparrow was not going to do his work for him, the lazy sod. He would live every moment of his life, however much there was left of it, and spit in Barbossa's eye. He shoved the pistol back into his sash.
For a time he amused himself putting dents in the muscles of his forearm, watching the dehydrated flesh rise back more and more slowly. That's interesting. He thought he might be losing his mind—what was left of it. He wished it would just hurry up and go. Then he wouldn't have to remember that his ship was gone. His Black Pearl. He would have wept for her if he'd had any water left for tears. Barbossa had better treat her like a lady or he'd murder the bastard. He curled his fist around the butt of his pistol. The thought of that vicious wretch with his filthy hands on Jack's beautiful ship made Jack's blood boil. Or perhaps it was the heat.
Suddenly he doubled over, cramping. Which served the purpose of taking his mind off Barbossa and his crimes, nicely. Jack couldn't think of anything for an unconscionably long time. When someone finally eased off on the grapnels dragging his guts out and ripping his limbs off, and he could think again, Jack noticed that he was not sweating and he should have been. Not good.
He lay in the sand, praying the cramps would not return, shivering in spite of the heat. The small ivory amulet bit into the side of his neck mockingly. If this is your idea of luck, Bill, you can keep it.
Thinking about Bill, stupid, honest, loyal Bill, in the hands of that bunch of mutineers was not a good thing. Surely Bill could manage to keep his nose clean and his mouth shut and wait for the opportune moment to come rescue his captain—surely. Somehow Jack didn't have a good feeling about that. Come to think of it, he didn't have one good feeling about anything to rub together with another one.
Even if it was impossible, he needed to move. Now. Pain would be an improvement over thought. In the temporary absence of cramps, Jack lurched off around the island again. Maybe something had been added to it while he was sitting. You never knew. He'd go back and forth across it this time.
If he could just stay upright, he emended, struggling to his feet again after his fifth fall. His joints ached like he was an old man. Someone was hitting him over the head with a topsail yard. And he was dizzy. Bloody stupid land.
About half way though his fine-combing of the island, Jack's mind packed its trunks and set sail for parts unknown. He kept seeing mirages of water and friendly natives and sea turtles. But nothing was ever there when he walked through it. He tried to hold a conversation with the natives anyway. Told them all about the Black Pearl. Prettiest ship in the Caribbean—in the world. And the fastest. But the natives disappeared. He tried to catch the sea turtles, a process frustrated mainly by their non-existence. He staggered along calling, "Here turtle. Nice turtle." They disappeared too.
He wondered, if he talked to himself, whether he would disappear.
He thought he saw the Black Pearl brought to on the calm sea, so he wandered into the water. But, to his confusion, she disappeared as well. Although the salt stung his wounds, it was blessedly cool. Since his mind had skipped ship, as it were, Jack dipped his hands into the shimmering, tantalizing, deadly liquid. At first he was only aware of its coolness in his mouth, its wetness on his tongue. He buried his face in its lapping embrace and took great gulps.
Inspired by the momentary decrease of thirst, his mind returned. Jack was horrified to discover what he was doing. He spun about and staggered back to shore. He hadn't got far from the sea before he began to feel as though he'd swallowed a live eel—several eels, and they weren't getting along. By the time he reached the palm trees, he was vomiting. When he'd finished retching up the last of his forbidden drink, he reeled to his feet, took three steps, felt the land swoop under him, and collapsed again, exhausted, to the gritty earth.
Swoop? Jack no longer trusted his physical sensations, but land just didn't do that, did it? It stayed right where it was all the time—in the absence of earthquakes. That was one of the things he hated about land. Jack only trusted things that moved. You could negotiate with things that moved. Land was too unequivocal, too final. But this land had definitely done something. Experimentally, Jack wobbled to his feet. Someone set off a twenty-four pounder in between his ears, but he ignored it for the moment.
He took an unsteady step. Nothing happened. He brought the foot back. His bad leg threatened to pitch him to the ground again. He took another step in a different direction. This time his leg made good its threat. Down he went. And something moved. That was very interesting. Since standing up had ceased to be an option, Jack stayed on all fours and began to burrow. Sand flew and frustratingly slid back, but eventually his broken nails scrabbled on something that was not sand. Wood. And not rough, irregular driftwood. This was shaped, planed wood. Splintery. Jack sucked on one grimy finger that now sported proof of the splinters.
Under the stimulation of the mystery, his mind ran up a white flag and agreed to parley with him. What would planks be doing in the ground? A cache of some sort? Jack began searching until he found the edge of the wood. He followed it around until his fingers grasped an iron ring. Excitedly, he yanked on the latch, ignoring the protests submitted by his shoulders. With a dusty groan, a door lifted, exposing a dark, square hole into which a rough stairway descended.
Time to go exploring. Jack made a move to get up, received notice that his legs were not going to cooperate, and scooted down the stairs on his backside. Reaching the bottom, he peered into the gloom. Crates. Barrels. Bottles? Bottles! Forgetting about his injuries, Jack made a dash for the bottles, fetching up on his nose in the sandy floor, but well within reach of them. His nose had begun to bleed again, but he dismissed the minor inconvenience. With bated breath, he lifted one of the glass containers. Liquid sloshed.
Jack thought he might pray. He was definitely feeling religious. Trembling, he gathered himself into some semblance of sitting up. With fumbling fingers he pried out the cork. His sense of smell was temporarily out of commission, so he tilted the bottle to his lips. The cool liquid slid over his tongue and down his throat, burning pleasantly.
Rum! Rumrumrumrumrum! Rum!
Hallelujah! Glorious rum! Now Jack really did pray. He thanked God, and then he thanked every other deity he could think of so that no one felt left out.
A rumrunner's cache! How lucky could he get? There was enough rum here that he could bathe in it if he wanted. No, he did not want. He would drink it. All of it. He would pickle himself in rum.
A sudden thought crossed his mind. He lifted the charm from around his neck and stared at it in wonder. Then he looked up in the direction of Isla de Muerta. Thank you Bill.
Raising his bottle, he saluted his friend. "Here's luck to you, William Turner."
TBC
Thanks again for the reviews Captain Tish. What would I do without you! I did hear about Bootstrap. I imagine all the stories will have to change after the movie comes out. But they're good fun to write anyway. Here is your wished for Jack POV. I have three of Bootstraps POV and three of Jacks. I'm almost ready to post on Worthy of His Steel. Then one more installment on Chapter three and it will be done and ready to post. Then on to Jack. I'm rather fond of him myself. You should check out my homepage for the latest picture I've drawn of daft Jack. Thanks again for the comments.