Here's Luck to You (5/6): No Luck at All
By Honorat
Rating: PG-13
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 Sparrow is on the hunt and vengeful. Fifth 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 one more installment to this non-drabble sequence.
Thanks to the peerless beta editing of geekmama2, this is much better than it was
5. No Luck At All
The dingy, seedy little tavern, identical to any number of equally disreputable dives in Tortuga, was packed tonight thanks to the deluge going on outside. The drum of rain lent an unreal air to the snatches of conversations and rumbles of rum-induced brawling that rose over its incessant noise. Occasionally the door would blow open, and a drenched specimen of humanity would stagger in, shedding gallons of water and curses, while the other customers would protest the rain driving in until the door closed. The fug of tobacco smoke, candles, grease on the stove, and dozens of steaming bodies had nearly forced out all breathable air.
In one far corner a customer, who had been there long enough that he was actually dry, nursed a single mug of rum that must surely have gone stale he'd had it so long. No one had dared join a man with such a glower, and the barmaid was eying him askance for taking up space a higher-paying, more generously-tipping customer might have occupied. Just now, he was contemplating with dreary fascination the small goat that was daintily picking its way along the bar counter, nipping at the remains of meals and drinking the dregs out of flagons.
Jack Sparrow, formerly Captain of the Black Pearl, newly deserted from the rumrunner's ship where he'd bartered his services as navigator and expert on naval patterns and secret harbours in the Western Caribbean for passage off a small desert island, now captain of nothing in particular, was listening for information, just as he had in dozens of bars on dozens of nights. Tonight listening was heavy going, what with the downpour and the fact that there was a leak right over his table. Indeed, the barmaid hadn't twigged to the fact that the reason his flagon was staying so full was that he was catching drops as they plinked down over his head. He wasn't drinking anymore, just pretending. He didn't even want to think what was up in that thatched roof.
Jack wasn't really expecting to learn anything new. Rumours of the Black Pearl and her new captain had informed him that his ship had survived and was out there somewhere, and her crew was spending the Treasure of Cortez like it was water, though he'd heard nothing definite about where she might be. Nor had he heard any whisper of the fate of one Bootstrap Bill Turner. No one seemed to have seen or heard of Bill since before the mutiny. So the casual mention of his ship's name did not set his heart to beating faster, as it had done when he'd first begun his hunt. Nevertheless, he did strain his ears to catch any useful information that might be forthcoming. He recognized the speakers as pirates, so they might be expected to know about another member of the Brethren.
And this time, indeed, the story was changed. Barbossa had apparently gone mad they agreed. First he'd spent the fabled gold; now he was trying to get it back. He'd begun to sack towns like he was the Scourge of God—or the Devil, they laughed. No, one little man opined seriously, even the devil would have nothing to do with a man as evil as Hector Barbossa. Give hell a bad name, he would. Any town the Black Pearl had made port at in the last year could expect to find that ship, black as sin and spitting hellfire, razing it to the ground sooner or later. Nothing could stop her it seemed. Perhaps she had gone down on that impossible journey, and she was a ghost ship now. Captained by something worse than the devil himself. Why, had they heard how Barbossa treated even his own men?
They had heard, they agreed solemnly. They were all plenty glad they hadn't been on that ill-starred voyage, no matter how much Aztec gold had been at the end of it. Poor old Bootstrap. Everybody who'd known him had liked him. A good man. A good pirate.
Jack sat frozen to his table. This was the news he had come to hear. This was news he had never wanted to hear.
Several of the pirates had not heard the story, so Jack was treated to all the horrifying details, unable to escape from what was surely a nightmare. How Bootstrap had objected to the marooning of Jack Sparrow. How he'd stolen something of Barbossa's, no one was sure just what it had been, and had refused to give it back or reveal its location. How, in a fit of temper, Barbossa had chained his legs to a cannon and dropped him off the Black Pearl straight to Davy Jones' Locker. And how even that hadn't been enough for Barbossa who was now searching for Bootstrap's child, presumably to continue his vengeance. The pirates shook their heads sagely. Starkers he was, mad as a Bedlamite. A good man to avoid.
They wandered off to other topics, leaving Jack, his bronzed face gone gray, calling for the barmaid. She finally showed up, not particularly enthused, only to discover that her worst customer had become her best. He'd even drunk the rainwater, oblivious, before she began the constant refilling.
Jack did not remember anything more about that night. How he'd gotten out of that tavern. Where he'd spent the night. It was all a darkness. When he came to himself, he was wandering the shore north of the town. All his gold was gone, he'd apparently been in a fight, judging by the state of his body and his clothes, and he had a headache that rivaled the one on that never-to-be-sufficiently-despised island. And then he remembered. Bill was dead.
The morning was dawning pearl-gray and rose blush, setting the emerald foliage alight with diamond fire after the night's rain. The wash of sand stretched like white silk before him. Gulls wheeled in the sky catching the light of the rising sun on their glittering wings like sparks. Veils of mist thinned and drew up into the air like curtains lifting, revealing the silver-turquoise sea and amethyst headlands in gradual stages. But Jack saw none of the beauty. He heard only the sob of the waves against the sand that whimpered under his feet as he ran, the wail of the sea birds, and the keening lament of the rising breeze. He saw only Bill's face as they'd said goodbye in the Pearl's brig that day nearly a year ago.
Falling to his knees in the sand, Jack ripped off the amulet he'd worn since that day. Bill's good luck charm. He'd given it to Jack, who'd survived when surely he should have died, and then Bill had gone to his death himself, when surely he should have lived. Hands shaking with rage and grief, Jack stripped the bit of ivory from its chain and threaded it onto one of the cords tied into his ratted locks. For an absent friend. Then he threw the abandoned chain as far as he could into the sea.
He drew his pistol and aimed it at the surf. A single pistol and a single shot. It would be enough. Hector Barbossa would pay—in blood.
TBC
Thanks for the review Badr. Yes dehydration and heat exhaustion can take down even a healthy person, let alone one as messed up as Jack. I'm glad you liked the natives and turtles--I liked the idea of having Jack's loopy stories have their basis in his hallucinations. Poor Bill, indeed. He gave away his luck there.