This would make number thirteen Jack mused, conducting a mental tally. The thirteenth time he'd found himself facing death. Superstition had it that thirteen was lucky for some, but Jack was not so sure his luck would hold out. Harry was an unforgiving sort of bloke. And a terrible pirate. Jack laid the blame for his first incarceration for piracy squarely at Covenant's door.
Jack's gaze lingered on the puckered skin on his arm where the East India Company had branded him all those years ago. The pale P stood out against his sun-darkened skin. Yes, Harry had a lot to answer for. Still recovering from the aftermath of their fight, Jack had lost his focus for a while – and ended up in trouble. But he wouldn't think about his failures right now; piracy had been good to him on the whole.
Of course if the Mary Ellen hadn't gone down when and where she did, and if Captain Phillips hadn't been such a prat as to try to take on a well-armed pirate ship with his little trader, Jack might never have taken up the life. Not that he regretted it for one moment. He hadn't realised how restricted his life on the Mary Ellen had been until he'd known the freedom that the Bloody Cutlass provided. A tight run ship, true, but such rewards!
The Revenge lurched under him again as the rapidly increasing storm turned the sea into a maelstrom, reminding him again of the first time he'd almost died.
Nothing had gone right for the Mary Ellen since they'd lost Captain Penhallow. The fever that took his life had swept through the ship like wildfire, but the Captain had been the only one to succumb. Then there had been the rot found in the mainmast. Some nasty beetle that had snuck on board in Madagascar had taken a liking to the fine English wood. No one felt at ease anymore on the once-friendly ship. It was as if they carried the taint of a curse on board. And now the storm. They'd weathered storms before, but nothing like the one now threatening to break the Mary Ellen in two.
The bosun's voice bellowed from below, but Jack couldn't hear him over the pounding rain and gusting winds. He was perched precariously above the sail, working frantically to furl it, but the storm had other ideas, pulling the soaking canvas through his fingers and burning his work-hardened palms as it scored his flesh. Despair was foreign to Jack's nature but this battle with Mother Nature was dragging at his self-confidence until he felt almost crushed beneath it. Then, in a sudden lull, he heard the bosun's orders. Cut the lines! His knife was out in a flash and he sawed for all he was worth, feeling the tension in the rope snap under him, the sail tearing from the mast to be blown far astern. Even as he watched it disappear into the watery depths, the last of the long boats was torn from its moorings and sent flying into the raging sea. With no sails, no boats and no hope, Jack could almost feel the cold hand of death gripping his neck.
With the rain lashing against his face, Jack was virtually blinded as he made his way back down to the deck. The Mary Ellen bucked and tossed, fighting her own battle with the sea even as her crew held on for dear life. In the end, all their hard work was for nothing as the mainmast took a direct hit from a massive bolt of lightning, sending it crashing to the deck and scattering the crew in all directions. The ship heeled over, her side almost level with the sea, and Jack watched in horror as two of the crew were flung overboard. There was no way to save them, no way to turn the ship and go back. Another wave crashed over the deck and Jack tightened his grip on the rail, trying to ride out the tempest.
The storm lasted well into the night. One by one the crew of the Mary Ellen lost hope - and their lifelines - as the gale tore them from the deck until only a handful remained.
Jack's soaked body shivered in the night air, fear rather than the cold setting his flesh crawling. It wasn't meant to be this way. He was only nineteen. He had his entire life ahead of him. And yes, he might have seen something of the world, but there was so much more still to be experienced. He wanted to live well into his old age, with tales told about him that would amaze his friends. Admittedly there hadn't been much opportunity for that on the Mary Ellen, but they were close to the spice capitals now, and Jack had intended to transfer to another ship as soon as they docked. He swallowed. This wild night was bringing up way too many memories to let his mind rest for even a moment and he desperately wanted to drink himself into oblivion and blot out the terror that was attacking him from within and without. Storms always guaranteed him a sleepless night, for they fuelled his nightmares. Every rumble of thunder reminded him of that wild night on the Cornish coast and the beginning of his incredible journey. During the day he could ignore the feelings that tightened his gut and made his head ache, but at night he would find himself a dark corner and drink himself oblivious. He didn't enjoy being prey to his emotions.
The gale finally blew itself out shortly before dawn and Jack waited for the first rays of the sun to lighten the darkness. Exhausted and amazed to find themselves still alive, the remaining crew of the Mary Ellen surveyed the damage in the light of a new day. Jack had been sent below decks to see what damage had occurred below the water line, for the ship was listing badly and every man on board could feel her struggles.
Water was seeping in rapidly from broken seams to both port and starboard: it was more than they could cope with, more than running repairs would even touch.
The Mary Ellen had fought so hard during the night, being swept further and further away from land and any help that might have come their way. But it seemed that she had given up at last, and nothing her crew could do was going to save her.
While he was below Jack had grabbed the last of the rum, bringing the bottles on deck for all to share. If he were going to die, then he was damned if he'd face it sober. He ransacked the crew quarters to find his lucky hat. It was still there, waterlogged but intact, and he placed it carefully on his head. If he ever lost this… Stupid thought, there was no way they would come out of this, even with his good luck charm.
Three bottles later.
"Sails! Lads, look, sails!" a hoarse voice croaked.
Everyone's head came up at the cry. Rushing to the rail, Jack felt his head pounding with a sudden rush of exhilaration… or it might have been the rum. Coming straight at them was the welcome sight of white sails and the British ensign flying at the mast.
Not a big ship by any means - a cutter of some sort, probably carrying spices as the Mary Ellen would have done, but a welcome sight none the less. A cheer went up among the crew, Jack giving voice to his relief with a whoop of joy…and then he toppled over the side. Thankfully the Mary Ellen was at a dead stop in the water now and it took only a moment for the laughing crewmen to drag a soggy Jack - and his hat - from the water. But he didn't care about their laughter - he was alive!
From the rail of the Gallant, Jack, hat in hand, along with his crewmates watched the Mary Ellen go down beneath the waves, their previous joy lost in the sombre mood that now suffused them all. She had been a joy to sail on, a real lady. No temper. No quirks. She'd seen them halfway across the world and back again with no problems but even she couldn't defy the storm that had taken her life. As her stern disappeared under the waves, leaving just a ripple on the ocean's surface, Jack replaced his hat and wondered what his life would be like now. In some respects this calamity could be setting his feet on a path more to his liking – or not. Whatever happened, he was going to miss the Mary Ellen.
Jack was not so sure about the ship now under his feet - or her Captain for that matter. Phillips was a youngish man, maybe only in his late twenties, and Jack had a fairly good idea as to how he'd obtained his post. It certainly wasn't for his seamanship; the man didn't know his topsail from his anchor, and the crew eyed him with barely concealed derision at every order he gave, taking their cue instead from the bosun, a grizzled man who seemed to hold all their respect.
Jack and the other survivors were put to work helping to repair the Gallant, for she too had encountered the storm, but had fared considerably better. Her holds were packed with rich silks and boxes of spices that suffused the air and clogged the lungs every time he had to go below. For a ship in these waters the Gallant was barely armed; just ten cannon to protect a cargo that was worth… well Jack didn't know exactly how much, but it would be enough to make his life considerably easier if it belonged to him. There were days when he wondered if the sailor's life was all it was cracked up to be. The pay was…well…not enough, the hours were too long, and if he had to put up with the snotty-nosed tyke who ran this ship for very long, he thought he just might deck him. Of course then he would be…disciplined. He had already felt Penhallow's displeasure on more than one occasion. Mind you, the man had always given him fair warning.
It was only three days later that they encountered another ship, and it was on that day that Jack's life altered irrevocably.
It was early morning and a mist, thick and grey, hung over the sea, dulling his senses and making Jack feel as though he had been cut off from the rest of the world. Barely a breath of wind filled the sails of the Gallant; they were, to all intents and purposes, dead in the water.
From out of the mist Jack thought he saw the outline of a ship sailing parallel to their course. "Bosun. Sails," he said softly. You never knew who might be sailing these waters, and sound travelled like the very devil over water.
The captain joined them at the rail, spyglass to his eye, trying to see what colours she flew. He snapped it closed with a satisfied smirk. "It's the Bloody Cutlass, no less. Salter, ready the cannon. We'll take her prisoner."
The bosun's reply was not fit for tender ears to hear. The captain was aggrieved, to put it mildly.
"The cannon, bosun. Now!" His voice blasted out across the waves.
"You heard him, lad. Get yourself below, help the gunners… and pray. There's no way short of a miracle we'll best that bloody ship."
Insatiable curiosity filled Jack's eyes as he looked out to where the mists were parting, giving him a glimpse of a large sloop that appeared to be changing course and heading their way.
"The Bloody Cutlass has been terrorising these waters these last three year now," Salter continued. "Forty cannon she's got to our ten, and a crew of as bloodthirsty pirates as you wouldn't want to miss. They say they drowns every last one of their victims." The older man crossed himself before taking off to see to his captain's orders.
'If they drown every last one, then who was it told the tale?' Jack mused, sparing another glance at the vessel, which it seemed had now definitely spotted them, and had turned to fight. From all along her side, gun ports opened to reveal the gaping maws of her cannon.
Jack gulped then ran down to the gunner's stations. They'd not had to use the Mary Ellen's guns on the runs they had made so far, something for which he had been inordinately grateful. Now here he was, facing imminent death for the second time in a week … it seemed someone up there didn't like him.
Chaos ruled below the hatches. Jack, making his way to the chief gunner, heard voices cursing and praying in the same breath. Every man knew their captain was making a fatal mistake, especially when they realised who it was off their port side.
"Bloody fool that Phillips!" O'Dell cursed, spitting his disgust onto the planks under his feet. "See us all dead he will. Taking on pirates like he thinks he's in the damn British Navy. Bounty on Telford's head, that's what it is. Man thinks he can cash in and we'll not see a penny of it, mind. Not that we stand a chance lad," he said, turning his attention to Jack.
For a brief moment patriotism raised its ugly head in Jack's young breast, then common sense took over. He had ever been practical.
"Don't have to fight, now do we?" Jack said slowly, eyeing the older man. "I mean, there's only one captain, who I think we all agree is an idiot of the first water?"
Aware that O'Dell was not the only man listening to him, Jack turned to include the other seamen in his discourse. "How much does Phillips pay you men? Is it worth what will happen when that pirate ship takes the Gallant?"
Grumbling came from every throat and Jack guessed the answer was no. He'd always had an eye to the main chance - not that he thought he could profit from this encounter but if he could come out of it alive he would have done well. "Why not close the gun ports; show the Bloody Cutlass we won't fight?"
A voice from the back grumbled. "She'll blow us out of the water!"
"What profit would that have for her? They're pirates, savvy? Do you really think they'll pass up on this cargo? We could maybe come to some accord with them. We can't be any worse off than firing on that." He pointed out the open port to where the pirate ship had now crept up to just a ship's length away.
From above them, the gunners could hear Captain Phillips screaming for cannon and being answered by a shot from the Bloody Cutlass that tore through the mainsail.
"What say you then?" Jack eyed them one by one.
It was O'Dell who answered. "The lad be right. Close the ports. Phillips can come down here himself if'n he wants to fire these little toys."
O'Dell headed quickly up the stairs. Jack and the others hesitated a moment then followed the gunner up to the main deck where their erstwhile captain was standing toe to toe with O'Dell. From his empurpled face, Jack guessed he didn't like the sudden mutiny that was occurring. Jack didn't see himself as a mutineer - after all Phillips wasn't 'his' captain, he'd signed no articles and he was just working his way back to the nearest port. So no, it was the Gallant's crew that were mutinying, Jack was only the catalyst. Besides, the crew of the Gallant was just doing the sensible thing.
The pirate ship was close enough now that they could send over the grappling hooks. Some among the trader's crew had taken fright and pulled out pistols and knives – battle was inevitable.
The air was full of sounds, pirates yelling curses as they swung across from the Bloody Cutlass, the returning cries of the Gallant's crew. Jack had no weapons, no knife or pistol and no sword – not that he would know how to use a sword in any event. He looked around for anything that might do to defend himself with; a piece of wood would be heaven-sent right now. Nothing. And then he heard the heavy sounds of booted feet coming right at him…and looked up into the grinning face of one of the ugliest men he'd ever come across.
Jack danced out of the way of the first knife thrust sent slashing toward him, stepping quickly backwards, hands outstretched in an appeasing gesture. "No need for that mate. I'm not armed, look!" He waved his hands in the air showing the pirate that he held no weapon.
His attacker grinned at him, revealing a mouth full of rotten teeth. "Good!" he barked, taking another step forward, knife aimed for Jack's unprotected body.
Jack took a hasty step back, tripped on the coil of rope behind him, and fell hard, the pirate stepping in for another swing at him. 'Done for,' Jack thought as he eyed the man. Then his hand brushed against the rope that tied off the main topgallant and a glimmer of an idea rushed through his brain. He scuttled back, rope in hand, then launched himself upward, climbing as quickly as he could. From below him, the pirate threw his knife, missing Jack by inches, the blade embedding itself in the mast, inches from his face. Jack made the mistake of looking back, only to see the pirate grab the end of the rope and pull with all his might, dislodging Jack from his precarious position - to plummet to the deck below.
A booted foot pushed at Jack's thigh, dragging him back to awareness. His head thumped worse than after a two-day binge and he opened his eyes to find the business end of a musket hovering over his face. He put his hand out and gently eased it to one side. "No need for that mate," he said, squinting up into the sun's glare. Above him all he could make out was the shape of a large man looming over him - then he heard the voice.
"Young Jack? By all that's… it is you lad, isn't it? I'd know that scar anywhere!"
Jack recognised the voice in an instant. It flashed him back all those years ago, on a gale-torn beach on the Cornish coast. "William?"
"Bootstrap to you lad, if you please. On your feet now." A large hand waved in front of his face and Jack took it with relief, letting his childhood friend heave him from the deck.
"Young Jack. Well, who'd have thought it."
"That's just Jack to you, Bootstrap. I'm not so young, you know."
"Aye, you must be all of fifteen by now!"
Jack cursed his youthful looks yet again. "Nineteen, Bootstrap, nineteen and well you know it."
His friend grinned back at him with all the youthful devilry that had defined him so many years ago, and laughed.
The Cutlass' crew made quick work of taking the Gallant. Phillips, after much blustering and cursing his crew, finally surrendered his ship and its contents to Captain Telford with bad grace and some loss of life. The survivors were lined up along the rail, backs to the sea, facing Telford and his crew.
"You have a choice men," Telford began, locking his gaze with each man one by one. "The Gallant is now mine, and everything aboard her. You can join my crew and help sail her into port, and have a fair share of the booty, or you can take your chances in a long boat. You're maybe three days off the coast if you row hard."
A chuckle went through the Cutlass' crew, a sound intended to set teeth on edge and nerves to fraying.
"They'll take the long boat with me!" Captain Phillips announced. There was a grumble among the men ranged alongside him.
Telford ran an experienced eye down the line. "Speak for you all does he?"
"Not me, he don't." Jack stepped forward, disassociating himself from the Gallant's captain.
"Nor I," O'Dell stepped up beside him.
In a matter of moments, Phillips stood alone, facing the pirate captain. His pride had brought him to this, had seen good men die needlessly.
"Launch the long boat," Telford ordered then ushered the fuming Phillips to the side. "Your ship awaits you, Captain."
Bootstraps hand grasped his. "Welcome to the Bloody Cutlass, lad."
Jack raised his brow. "Bloody Cutlass?"
"The captain's a literal sort of man," William replied, grinning.
From that moment on, Jack's life changed irrevocably. Having Bootstrap's guidance was a boon, and Jack soon proved himself ideally suited to the life of a pirate. His scruples were few, though he had his own moral code. Bootstrap once explained the essence of a pirate's life as 'take what you can!'
Jack thought for a moment before replying. "And give nothing back?"
"Aye, Jack. Got it in one."
Jack watched as the bilge lantern's flame guttered briefly before it steadied again.
Thirteen was not going to be lucky for him it seemed; even the lantern wanted to add to his discomfort. Jack removed his hat and let his fingers caress the battered brim - the charm that had seen him through fire and flood, blood and tears, was quite probably going to see the last of John White in the early morning. Jack hoped they'd toss the hat over the side with his body. He didn't relish the thought of anyone taking it as a trophy. They had seen too much together.
Jack shook his head sharply. Was he really going to let Harry Covenant - of all people - get the better of Captain Jack Sparrow?
Something inside him rebelled. He would find a way out of this and finally end this feud with Covenant.
After all, he still had his hat.