And Sappho Smiled
Part The Third: In Which Father Dickinson Is Conspicuous Only By His Absence
Jack found that he was unable to sleep that night, which was why the captain could be seen wondering aimlessly about the Black Pearl, barefoot and half naked. The sleeplessness did not, however, explain how the man had wondered down several flights of stairs and onto a particular deck, the level of which held a particular cabin which in itself contained a particular occupant. (Reciprocated, unrepentant lust, preventable sexual frustration, and an unhappy marriage, however, did a fair job as far as justifications were concerned.)
Before he could take even one certain step towards a certain cabin containing a certain inhabitant, he spotted another creature moving slowly, hesitantly, yet somehow determinedly towards the very same destination. A small creature with black hair and pale skin, a mere three—or four—feet or so in height; he wasn't actually certain. He really ought to measure her at some point.
"Pearl?" he called out, and his daughter jumped with a barely repressed squeak at being addressed before turning to look at him in surprise.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, unknowingly clutching her bundled clothing tighter even as her inquisitive blue eyes scanned his half-dressed form accusingly. "I thought you stopped your night-time visits to Sierra weeks ago."
Jack cleared his throat, shifted a little, and proceeded to feel very uncomfortable at being accused of licentious intentions by a mere child of eight. That very same child who was now shaking her head and sighing in knowing exasperation as she instinctively tottered towards him, reaching up a small hand to rest patronisingly on his.
"Oh Papa, you lovesick old fool…" she said pityingly. The adjective, so carelessly thrown in, jolted him back to reality, and he suddenly remembered why he was standing there, half-dressed and sleepless, and it certainly had nothing to do with neither sickness nor love, despite his precocious daughter's tragically premature and therefore inaccurate postulations.
Really.
"Pearl," the captain began sullenly, determined to defend his innocence, or what was left of it, "just because I'm sneaking down to Sierra's cabin in the middle of the night—" Even if I am already mostly undressed, he thought suddenly, and stopped at the beginning of his lecturing tirade as this smug thought entered his mind. Well, he could hardly be blamed for wanting female company; it was his wedding night after all. Didn't he have a right to such activities?
Fortunately for Jack (even though that particular fortune was not viewed as such by the pirate in question), the door to a certain woman's cabin flew open without warning, and a pale gentlemen in pastel clothing was all but thrown out.
"For God's sake, Flavio!" a perfectly modulated voice cried in exasperation. "How many times must I say it? I do not want to sleep with you! Now go!"
"But—Sierra—" the blond stuttered even as the brunette slammed the door in his face, and Jack realised that, if he wished to endure this night unmolested, he had best be on his way, which was why he picked up the child and fled to his cabin, where he distracted himself from all thoughts concerning wanton scenarios by watching his daughter fall asleep.
But even then, he still couldn't stop thinking…
If only Cate was here, he thought irritably as he tucked the covers around his daughter's sleeping form. But she wasn't; she was so determined to avoid her love rat of a 'husband,' with his lax views and trivial beliefs concerning matrimony, not to mention the fact that he was at this very instant married to several other women, that she had opted to spend the night in the crow's nest. Night air helped clear her head, she'd said; helped to calm her. And it'll help her to form a plan that will rid Dickinson of this preposterous idea of marriage.
Readers might wonder why both Jack Sparrow and Catriona Woodcraft (now Sparrow) were so determined to annul their unofficial union. Well, the explanations are relatively simple and rather straightforward: A lesser reason was that divorce at that time was uncommon, principally because an act of parliament was required to validate such matters; the true incentive, of course, was far more selfish and subject-specific than that.
The crew had somehow discovered (due in no small part to Father Dickinson and that blasted parrot, he suspected) their captain and fellow crewmember's happy news, and throughout the entire course of the evening, had meandered up to the captain's cabin in order to offer their heartfelt congratulations and bestow upon the newlyweds cheap but meaningful gifts (which, as Jack and Cate would happily tell you, were the worst kind of gifts to receive). But to get to the point, Jack's motley band of sea rovers actually believed that their marital status was valid—and one does not require an overly-active imagination to realise how this 'fact,' spread all over the Caribbean by his entire crew (who apparently were all witnesses to such an unholy mésalliance), will affect the carefully cultivated reputation of Jack Sparrow. If not for this aggravating minor detail, both pirate and wife would have simply forgotten the entire affair, recalling it only during a rather late drinking session with mocking laughter. But no: out of all of the rum-swigging, mop-wielding, piratical clerics in all of the Caribbean, Jack had to go and hire a fanatic, and a fanatic with remarkable influence over his crew, at that. Personally, Jack was uncertain of how tremendously unhinged a man must be if he allowed himself to be guided by a mind-addled, rum-soaked, and somewhat disillusioned knave, particularly upon the high seas, but he didn't have time to question the sanity of his crew.
But to return to the present situation: Jack was certain that he had a vague idea of how to ward Dickinson, and therefore the crew, off of the idea of any sort of nuptial arrangement involving their captain.
I suppose I've no choice but to bed Sierra, Jack thought to himself, trying and failing to feel some sort of commiseration. An inkling. A drip—a bloody dewdrop's worth of sorrow will do.
But what of Cate? After all, did Dickinson not specifically say that he had to witness the both of them committing a most lewd and indecent act with Sierra? (Technically, the priest had said that it was either one or both of the married couple, but Jack's mind had, most curiously enough, omitted this particular element of the 'agreement.')
Jack shook his dark head, pulling himself out of his thoughts, and cautiously moved away from the sleeping Pearl. It wouldn't do to have such passions in the presence of his mostly innocent daughter. And she clearly was quite unwilling to relinquish his pillow or even an inch of the bedclothes; it was something of a miracle that her little hands allowed him to escape. There was really only one solution to this problem; only one other place, beside the communal crew's quarters, where he could go. And it really wouldn't hurt to go through certain phases of the annulment now, would it?
He had to be cautious as he picked up the iron ring of keys, clinging tightly to the long strips of metal so as to ensure that their jangling wouldn't disturb Pearl's rest. And he had to be careful, of course, that the floorboards didn't creak nor the door squeak as he exited. And, of most significant importance, he had to ensure that none of the crew saw him sneak down to the young whore so subtly yet unforgettably ensconced in the cabin below. Visiting her like this was actually putting her at risk, he knew; a fundamental aspect of the piratical democracy was an equal share of everything that the crew captured. And he'd heard the gruesome stories of how Blackbeard himself had watched whilst his numerous wives were raped by his crewmen… A possible exaggeration of the truth, perhaps, but many men, including pirates, took it as fact.
The door was locked when he'd gently tried to push it open, as he'd suspected it would be; after Doyle's attempt to ravish her, Sierra had certainly become more cautious of his crew, even if she wasn't willing to admit it.
The captain paused, looking warily about him, as though to reassure himself that he was not being watched; then, with a quiet (but ever so slightly impish) movement, he jammed one of the keys into the lock, and turned—
Only to reluctantly pull it out at again, glaring at the wrought metal in irritation. The problem with Jack's set of keys, you see, was that they weren't marked; each and every one of them were at first, second, and thirtieth glance, completely identical. And there were a lot of keys.
Making a mental note of the offending item, he tucked the key away from its brothers, and tried its almost-identical twin. It took him seven attempts before the door finally clicked and swung easily open under his touch. Grinning smugly, he slipped inside, holding the covered lantern high above his head so that he might better examine the room.
The first thing he noticed was how empty it appeared; the desk was utterly clear but for one lonely lantern, and a key resting beside it; the chair, seated before it—and Jack had to suppress a gulp as his dark eyes fell upon the sight—had a bundled skirt upon the seat, a hastily folded blouse on top of this, and a pair of innocent white stockings draped over the back. It was the stockings that made him feel so uncomfortable; he recognised those stockings. She'd worn them when they'd first…
Jack tore his gaze away from the intimate articles, and glanced towards the bed, closing the door quietly behind him as he did so. He could make out her form, a pale, slender shape, beneath the covers, her dark hair providing a stark contrast to all the white. Skulking closer, the captain couldn't help but frown at the sight that greeted him as he stared pensively down at her, taking in her pallid skin—she'd never been so colourless before! That, coupled with her emaciated appearance—for she had lost a worrying amount of weight, despite the fact she was supposedly with child—made him feel as though he was looking into the face of death.
If Jack had been the sort of man who looked towards fashion, he'd have been pleased with the changes that had occurred to her in the six weeks she'd been on his ship; dark hair, a pale complexion, and a fragile countenance—as though one was ready to faint at any given moment—were what many considered the ideal beauty. Personally, Jack preferred her as she was in the brothel; lively, passably voluptuous, with a hint of gold in her skin and sapphires in her eyes. He was certain that her eyes hadn't lost that spark he'd found so attractive—but, with the girl asleep, and her eyes closed as a result, Captain Sparrow did find it a bit difficult to judge this particular feature of hers.
Carefully seating himself on the edge of the mattress, Jack gently set his lantern down on the floorboards beside them, and leant down to softly whisper her name in her ear.
She didn't stir; her breathing remained as it was, deep, steady and naturally unchanging. Frowning, he lightly pressed his nose, then his lips, against her cheek, his hand snaking around her waist and toying with the buttons of her shift before pulling her closer.
She reacted then, even if it was in the broadest sense of the word; he felt her back pressing against him of its own accord, and heard her sigh. Pleased with his progress, he pulled her hair away from her neck, and nipped lightly on the silky skin. Even in sleep, she gasped, and her shoulders seemed to jerk in tension.
This didn't put Jack off in the slightest.
"Sierra?" he said again, his gruff voice low as he turned her so that he could look into her face.
Her dark eyebrows seemed to knit together, lips pursing into a frown. "Steve?" she asked, her voice sleepy and childlike—the voice of one who was only half aware.
Jack, quite understandably, froze at this literally unconscious revelation, gaping down at the aesthetic beauty as she unwittingly burrowed further into his arms.
"Steve," she murmured again, her lips only inches from his own as she unknowingly uttered another man's name.
Looking down at her in—well, disgust was the last thing he felt towards her; disappointment seemed slightly more appropriate—the captain carefully returned her sleeping form back to the mattress, and drew away, quietly picking up the lantern and loudly knocking over the chair.
He cursed as the furnishing teetered teasingly on its legs before falling back, and he could have sworn that he heard Sierra cry out—but when he looked back, all he could see was her sleeping face.
Clumsily, he hastily righted the chair, and tossed the clothing that had rested upon it haphazardly back onto the seat, making certain to drape the stockings on its back.
Then, with one last mournful glance (If she says my name, I'll stay), Captain Jack Sparrow slowly sauntered out, and when Sierra awoke in the morning, she was utterly ignorant of the perplexingly intimate actions that had transpired the night before.
TO BE CONTINUED
AN: This was originally the smaller part of a much longer chapter, but I thought that in order to have people notice/remember this little sequence (which in itself has relatively little to do with this story) I had to post it separately. Besides, it makes the scene change that little bit less "sudden," considering how this chapter is somewhat "serious" whereas the others… aren't…
