Am I Not
Of all the places to be dead, thought Captain Jack Sparrow, Port Royal would be his own, boring, personal purgatory. How brilliantly ironic, that he, who had sailed in the wake of adventure for decades, should be marooned as a ghost in this goody-goody, Navy-infested, irritatingly pedestrian little seaport…maybe—no, he still wasn't keen on the idea of crewing that soggy shipwreck of Davy Jones's. Having seen what had happened to poor old Bootstrap, he could only imagine what uncomfortable places Jones would have had Jack sporting barnacles. He winced at the thought and scooted back further on the crate he had commandeered, casting a disinterested eye over the daily to-do on the docks. Fishing boats, fishing boats—not even a single fat merchant vessel today for him to imagine plundering. Taking a swig from his precious rum bottle, Jack leaned back against the stack of empty crates.
Thank God for the rum. He wouldn't have thought a disembodied spirit capable of enjoying a good drink, but, as always, he'd been willing to give it a try. The taverns were of limited use to Jack, as the proprietors seemed unable to see him and he hadn't any money, anyway. The best he could do was to grab a bottle and run while their attentions where elsewhere, just as he had done many a time while he was alive. He got a small chuckle from the expressions on their faces, when they noticed what must appear to be a floating bottle making its way inexplicably towards the door.
Fortunately, all that work wasn't often necessary. He'd good old William and…Elizabeth…to thank. Jack had no idea why the young lovebirds had decided to return to this humdrum locale after experiencing the freedom of shipboard life and the rush of all-out sea battle, but his existence here would have been even less bearable without them. He supposed it was the least Lizzie could do, setting out a bottle of rum every day in memory of an old mate—after getting his "hopes" up, and then sending him to his death in the maw of a reeking, tentacled sea leviathan with big, nasty teeth. Jack rarely brought it up around her anymore; why bother when the object of his righteous ire couldn't hear him? It wouldn't do any good trying to warn young Will about her treacherous streak either, as the pair had already gone off and gotten married. The naïve blacksmith would just have to find out for his own self, if it came to that. Besides, who was an old dead pirate to tell them how they should be living their lives (especially if the way in which they were living their lives at the moment meant that they were keeping said old dead pirate company—and drunk)?
Jack spent his abundant time haunting the smithy, the streets, the docks…but never the fort. Ah, memories. It hadn't been the first time Captain Jack Sparrow had faced death, nor the last (the last had involved lots of pointy teeth), but that gallows party had been the sort of experience a pirate appreciates more for only having been through once. Not only had he suffered a partial neck stretching, but he had been whacked in the face repeatedly with a big, gaudy feather and plunged off a very tall cliff. There were no pleasant associations to be found there, and even less good drink, so the ghost of Captain Jack Sparrow left the fort to the King's forces, in their tight little coats and ridiculous wigs.
The docks were quiet, and the heat of the Caribbean afternoon droned across Jack's rum-blunted perception. "Bloody brilliant, this irony," he thought, downing the last of his liquor. "It's like I'm still dying, very, very slowly…like the damned Kraken weren't enough." He levered himself up off the crate and began plodding, unsteadily, up the earthen street toward the smithy.
A pair of red-coated soldiers, unnoticed, watched the disheveled figure with interest from the naval docks. One, not yet twenty, and clad in a spotless new uniform, turned to continue the discussion. "But, he is a pirate?"
"Yes…well, 'e was," answered his senior, who had been stationed here for some time already. "'E was sort o' famous; name's Jack Sparrow."
"Why has he not been hung, if he's a known pirate? He's not even locked up!"
"That's on account of the commodore, thinks it isn't honorable to execute an 'armless idiot, 'specially after wot 'e managed to live through."
The younger man could tell that his partner wanted to be pressed to continue. "So, what happened to him?" The other man looked gratified.
"'E was about to be executed, up at the fort, and 'e tried to escape. Went right over the wall an' off the cliff, 'e did. When they fished 'im out, 'is 'ead was all banged up, an' we thought 'e would die right off. The guv'nor's daughter—tender-'earted lass—she 'ad 'im looked after, an' 'e pulled through."
"But he wasn't right in his head after that?"
"Some's say 'e weren't ever right in 'is 'ead," the narrator said, with a grin, "but since 'is fall, 'e's been plumb out of it. 'E thinks 'e's dead!"
"Dead? Surely not."
"No lie! 'E thinks 'e's a ghost, an' we can't see 'im!"
The youth was somewhat incredulous. "How can such a madman possibly live, much less be allowed to roam the streets? Do none protest?"
"Well, the Turners take care of 'im—that's the blacksmith an' 'is wife. She's the guv'nor's daughter wot I mentioned before. They feed 'im and give 'im 'is rum, an' 'e mostly keeps out o' trouble. Maybe 'e wanders into a shop or an 'ouse 'ere or there, but people are willin' to overlook it, so long's they get their goods back."
By now, the lad was thoroughly intrigued. What more made up this surreal character? "Why do these people look after 'im—I mean, him? Did they know him when he was a pirate? How does a blacksmith marry a governor's daughter, anyway?"
"That's a lot o' questions, boy'oh. Maybe I better start with wot I've 'eard about Jack Sparrow, before 'e first came to Port Royal."
As the marines whiled their watch away with a story, the cries of gulls accompanied the fishing boats that rode the sea breeze home into the harbor.