That was two ships now that Harry Covenant had cost him – the Victory and the Black Pearl. As Jack made his way around the bilge, looking futilely for loose planks, or something he might use as a weapon, an uncharacteristic rage began to build inside him. He didn't hate many people. He could count their number on one hand, with fingers to spare. But right now, knowing how unlikely it was that he'd ever see the Black Pearl again – or anything else for that matter, come the dawn – well, Jack hated Covenant… with a passion.
Finally, after he had tripped over a hidden timber and crashed to his knees in the filthy bilge water for the third time, Jack gave up and went back to his perch on the crate. Once there he settled back down to staring bleakly at the shadows before him.
The Pearl. Why did he keep losing her? Were the fates having a go at him? If so, he wished they'd bleeding well leave him alone. Still, at least this time she was in good hands.
Unlike that night ten years ago…
It was the sound of the cannonball rolling across the deck that awoke Jack. It was the one sound every seaman knew, and every Captain feared – the signal for mutiny.
Or maybe someone had just dropped a cannon ball.
Nevertheless, Jack was on his feet, pulling on his breeches and shirt with one hand and reaching for his weapons with the other, before he was fully awake. He didn't bother with his boots. Instead, he buckled on his sword belt, fingers checking automatically that the compass was safely attached. Then, sword in one hand, pistol in the other, with shirt unbuttoned and still barefooted, he flung open the door of his cabin and raced up toward the deck, where the shouts and the clash of cutlasses could be heard.
Well, nobody had dropped a cannonball, that was certain. It took only a moment for Jack's eyes to adjust to the moonlight. When they did, he almost wished they hadn't. It looked like a full-fledged war had broken out. Pirates were fighting pirates, some already dead or dying, their blood staining the Pearl's decks. The fighting seemed to cover the entire length of the ship.
'Wait', something inside told him, quelling his urgent need to get out there now and save his ship. Wait, until he knew who was fighting for him - and who was against. While it was clear that this was a mutiny, it was equally clear that the crew was not united. At least not entirely. Here and there were small pockets of resistance. Rapidly Jack began to sort out the men into two groups. For him – and against. There, near the mizzenmast were O'Dell and Ferrault, fighting Pintel and Koehler, the newcomers. His eyes went further afield, until he spotted Bootstrap, being backed into a corner near the fo'c'sle by…
Barbossa. In that instant, everything came together. The surviving crew of the Bloody Cutlass, including Bootstrap, were still loyal to Jack. But the new crew – the one gathered on Tortuga, and led by Barbossa – they were the mutineers. Fury, mixed with a healthy dose of self-loathing, surged through Jack, even as he flung himself into the fray. How could he have been so stupid? Bootstrap had warned him about Barbossa, had told Jack not to take the pirate on, but Jack hadn't listened. They had been through a lot together on the Bloody Cutlass, before Barbossa had left to make his own way, Jack had argued. They were friends.
"He's ambitious," Bootstrap had replied, staring broodingly at Barbossa from across the crowded tavern. "And…he's changed, since the Cutlass. Something happened to him out there. Mark my works, Jack my lad, he's not the same man we knew. Don't trust him."
Jack had simply laughed and tossed back another tankard of ale, despite the frisson of unease that had shot through him. "Me, I don't trust anyone, mate." Nevertheless, when Barbossa had appeared on the dock with the rest of the men to sign the articles before sailing, Jack had agreed to take him on. For old times' sake.
Well, old times' sake was going to get him killed. He should have trusted Bootstrap's instincts, should have trusted his own. He would next time.
If there were a next time.
'Stupid,' Jack snarled to himself as his sword met that of a new crewman whose name he didn't know. 'Brainless, bloody Sparrow. You're going to lose your ship because you trusted your friend.'
Even as he fought, Jack's mind continued to race, weighing the odds and looking desperately for some way out of this. The crew from the Cutlass – his crew – were outnumbered by at least four to one. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ferrault go down, his throat cut by Pintel. O'Dell fell next. The odds were worsening all the time. He was going to lose his ship, and probably his life. Barbossa's men were too well-prepared, too damned many. Unless some sort of a miracle came along…and Jack had stopped believing in miracles long ago.
If he could just get to Barbossa, maybe he could turn the tide... But there was no way he could reach the man, short of flying. Too many stood between him and Barbossa. Jack skirted a fallen sailor, aimed his pistol at one mutineer and fired, then flipped it over and clubbed another over the head, even as he risked a quick glance upwards. Maybe the rigging? He could swing across the ship and…
A cutlass tip caught him across the chest, not deep enough to cause lasting damage, but enough to leave a long bloody furrow in the skin. Jack turned his attention back to his assailant, his anger giving him both speed and strength. He shoved his blade into the man's stomach then stepped back and wrenched it free, spinning around to meet yet another attack from behind. As he did, he caught a quick glimpse of Barbossa, barely visible in the darkness, further off now, swept away by the tide of battle. Damn. Even if Jack could make it to the rigging now without being shot, he would never reach Barbossa in time. Around him, his men continued to fall as they fought to the death…for him.
For a single moment, Jack considered doing the same thing. Fighting to the death. After all, giving up the Pearl would be worse than dying, he knew in a brief, cold moment. Just the thought of losing the ship he had so recently won, and the freedom she represented - no, dying would be better.
But there was his crew to think about. They were good men, and true. And the longer he delayed, the more of his people died. Maybe he could still salvage this, still find a way out. As long as he was alive there was always a chance. Right? 'I will get you back,' Jack promised his ship silently, 'even if it takes me the rest of my life.' And then he stepped back and shouted, loud enough to be heard over the melee:
"Parley!"
Jack was disarmed quickly then dragged before Barbossa as those loyal to him dropped their swords, clattering to the deck in the moonlight. There were only a few of them left, Jack noted. 'We never had a chance,' he thought bitterly. Anger rose again within him but he fought it back down. If he were to save his men – and himself – he would need all his wits about him. Not that it would be easy with Barbossa standing there with a smile on his face that Jack ached to remove. Permanently. Nevertheless, Jack swallowed once then managed to say, calmly enough:
"Good plan, mate."
Barbossa's grin widened. "You like it?"
"Not quite the word I'd use."
"No, I s'ppose not. Still, can't argue with success, can you?"
Jack's fists clenched. "You planned this from the beginning?"
Barbossa nodded. "Ever since you sailed into Tortuga, lad. Not that it wasn't a clever manoeuvre you pulled, wresting this ship from the Navy, I'll give you that. But we both know who should be Captain here."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "Aye, we do."
Barbossa laughed and clapped a hand on Jack's shoulder. "We're both pirates, Jack. I'm just following the code. It's nothing personal."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"You won't have the chance." Barbossa turned to the mutineers, raising his voice so they could all hear him clearly. "Captain Sparrow has proved himself no sort of Captain, men. He released all those fine officers of the British Navy so they can hunt us down at their leisure. He's brought us no gold, and he's leading us on a fool's errand. What shall we do with him? What say you?"
There were assorted shouts of: "Kill him! Cut 'is throat. Keel-haul the bastard!"
Jack cleared his throat and Barbossa looked back at him. "There's still the matter of parley," Jack said, politely enough
Barbossa laughed, his teeth glinting gold and silver in the moonlight. "True enough. All right then, Jack. What is it you want?"
Jack hesitated. Barbossa was as slippery as he was treacherous. He had only one shot at this. If he didn't phrase it exactly right…
"The men who fought for me are not to be punished. They get the chance to join your crew on an equal footing, same as anyone else. If they choose not, you let them off – unharmed, mind you – at the first friendly port you reach. Savvy?" The words tasted like ash in his mouth. Your crew. And by implication, your ship. May Barbossa and his black soul rot in hell for all eternity. With an effort, Jack managed to keep what he was feeling from his face, maintaining his mask of casual collectedness.
Barbossa nodded slowly. "Fair enough. And what of you?"
Jack paused again…but this time on purpose. This next bit was going to be difficult. Barbossa was a contrary soul, but a clever one. If he realised Jack was manipulating him…
"Well, you could always drop off me at the nearest port," Jack suggested.
"Aye. Or I could always stick me sword in you. Of the two…"
"Or how about the next island then?" Jack replied hurriedly, allowing just a tinge of fear to colour his voice, hoping that his face wasn't giving too much away. If he had read his charts right last night, and if the rumours he had heard in Tortuga about rum-runners were true, then there was still a chance. Not much of one, it was true, but it was all he had. He no longer had any illusions about what Barbossa was capable of, and Jack certainly didn't fancy a long, slow dip under the keel of the Black Pearl, especially after what he had just gone through to steal her. 'Come on, you bastard,' he thought silently. 'Take the bait.'
The mutineer rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. "I was really looking forward to killing you, Jack. Still, the idea does have merit. You watching me sail away with the Black Pearl, followed by a long, slow death…I like it. I like it a lot."
"Do we have an accord?" Jack asked hopefully.
"Aye. That we do." Barbossa turned to his men. "You heard the man. Anyone who wants to join us is free to do so. Koehler – get Mr Sparrow a pistol. Single shot only."
"And my hat."
Barbossa rolled his eyes. "And his hat."
It was all done surprisingly quickly. The men who had fought for Jack, had eyed each other briefly, then shrugged and threw their lot in with Barbossa. Bootstrap was the only one who had hesitated, his eyes meeting those of his old friend, but a quick shake of Jack's head had convinced him to follow the others. Jack didn't hold it against him. There was nothing Bootstrap could do, nothing any of them could do but make the best of a bad situation.
The island itself lay less than a quarter-hour ahead of them. Jack had watched glumly, his hands tied before him, as the mutineers, now joined by their former enemies, struck the sails, and the Black Pearl came about, her sails glimmering faintly in the starlight. Then, at sword-point, Jack was forced onto a plank. He eyed the waves beneath him unhappily, then looked back at Barbossa.
"Don't suppose I can have my boots back?" His bare feet were getting cold.
"Sorry, lad. That wasn't part of the agreement."
"Didn't think so." For a moment Jack just stood there, feeling the Pearl's movements beneath him, listening to the creak of her hull, and a feeling of absolute desolation swept over him. But Barbossa was watching, and he wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing how much this hurt. Besides, he would get her back someday. He had a promise to keep, after all.
"Where will you go now?" Jack asked conversationally, as if he weren't standing on the end of a plank and about to lose everything that mattered to him.
Barbossa smiled. "Where else? Isla de Muerta. My thanks for the bearings, by the way. We couldn't have found it without you."
It was only the practice of long years that kept Jack from touching the compass, still hanging at his belt. That was one mistake Barbossa had made, letting him keep it. Marooning Jack on this island was another. There would be others. And someday…
His musings were interrupted by a splash. Jack looked down to see a pistol sinking beneath the waves.
"Goodbye, Jack," Barbossa said, raising his hat with a flourish. Jack didn't hear him – he was already diving headfirst off the plank and into the ocean.
By the time Jack had retrieved the pistol and fought his way back up to the surface, the Black Pearl was already several dozen yards away, and gathering speed with every moment. For what seemed like forever, Jack bobbed there in the ocean, treading water and watching the Pearl's stern as she sailed away, cutting through the dark waves like a dagger. And then, when he couldn't see even her lanterns any longer, Jack turned and began to swim to shore, with aching arms and heavier heart.
Jack shifted, trying to find a position that wasn't quite as soggy and uncomfortable. He had even considered manning the bilge pumps for a while, just to try to dry things out a bit, but had decided against it. Let the leaky scow sink and take her captain with her. It would serve them both right. Of course, if the ship sank, he'd be the first to drown, locked in as he was - but it was still a nice thought. Almost as nice as what he would do to Harry Covenant if he ever got out of here.
That was twice now. Twice he had given up the Black Pearl in order to save his crew. Once, when Barbossa had stolen the ship ten years ago, and now. For a moment he didn't know who he hated more – Barbossa or Covenant.
Upon reflection, it was Covenant. Barbossa was dead after all, and hopefully rotting in some lower level of hell. Harry Covenant was very much alive and planning…
Well. Best not to think about what he was planning. Pleasant thoughts. That's the ticket. Pleasant thoughts - like escaping and roasting Covenant's heart over a slow fire.