A/N: I do not own POTC, but I do own my own reviews. Thank you to all my readers! Spread the word.
"My own ship, eh?"
"Yes, Mr. Sparrow. The Company has recognized your talents, and Lord Beckett will be here to personally congratulate you."
The words ran past Jack's ears while he and Mr. Cunningham ambled along the docks, inspecting one massive ship after the other, each one a water-damaged brown hull with a couple of sails. Even the waters rocked with a lazy pace.
"Mr. Sparrow? Are you listening?"
"Most carefully, Mr. Cunningham. I trust you are leading me to my ship?"
"That's where you're wrong," he said. "I was beginning to wonder why you hadn't taken your pick. You should be proud. Not many men as young as you receive this kind of opportunity."
Seagulls squawked, waddling next to them, taking off to the sluggish waters in search of fish. Moving past them, Jack inspected each ship, running his fingertips along the hull, contorting his head to see if the maidenheads stared back with any spirit, any fight in their faces. But their eyes, merely well-placed almond cutouts devoid of color or pupils or light, gazed past him. Well, no siren's call from any of them.
"The one next to you is a beauty, Mr. Sparrow. It's sailed from here to Madagascar at least nine times, faster then…"
The words, the flapping of the gulls—even the gruff commands of the nearby boatmen softened to the point of silence at the sight of her. A careworn black sail billowed about in the lazy wind. Following the wavy texture of the wood, he locked eyes with the bird about to take off from the maidenhead's slender hand. Wings spread, it peered into the horizon, as did the female about to send it on its way. She herself had wings, along with a triumphant archaic smile across her face. Her hair framed high cheekbones and a broad forehead.
"What's that one's name?" Jack asked, dreading the fact he would have to blink his eyes.
"That one there? That be The Wicked Wench, sir, one of our faster ships. Of course I couldn't tell you its origins. How she wound up here is something of a mystery."
"It's an unfortunate name."
"To each his own, Mr. Sparrow."
"You said she's fast?" He inhaled before stepping up to it, laying his hand flat on the hull, ingesting a heat only he seemed able to feel.
"As fast as she is beautiful."
"I'll take it."
"It's a deal then," Mr. Cunningham said, clapping his hands together.
"And which of our ships did Mr. Sparrow, I mean, Captain Sparrow, select?"
Jack and Mr. Cunningham turned. Walking down the dock, a man in a solid black coat came upon them, both hands behind his back. A young face, Jack raised an eyebrow at the pure white wig placed on his head.
"Ah. An unexpected pleasure. Captain Sparrow, Lord Cutler Beckett." Mr. Cunningham bowed his head at the man that stood no higher than Jack's chin.
"Captain Sparrow, we have heard so much about you," Beckett said. "Your exploits as a merchant sailor are quite well known."
"I can't imagine why." When Jack finally left Shipwreck Cove, he observed countless sailors playing this sort of game with those above them, self-important men who felt the need to make others look at him instead of the prized ships behind him. Taking one last look at The Wench, Jack realized he had failed to register what was said after he spoke, if anything.
"Come now. Every captain you've sailed under has mentioned you're a good man in a tight spot. Why, even I have heard of your ability to fight off the privateers and…the pirates. A fast ship like this is only too fitting for you."
Jack winced at the last sentence, not so much at the content as at the whisper of it. Beckett stood on tiptoe, extending his chin almost to the point of touching Jack. Stepping back, Jack masked his discomfort with a disarming smile.
"So glad you think so."
"Mr. Cunningham, your services are no longer required. Leave us." Beckett did not look at Mr. Cunningham, but gestured to a sharp-featured man at the end of the dock. As he approached, Jack memorized the craggy face and opaque eyes. It provided a diverting, if disturbing game, Jack thought, as to which one possessed the colder eyes.
"This is my counterpart, Mr. Mercer."
"Might I enquire as to why Mr. Cunningham had to depart but we may now…enjoy Mr. Mercer's company?"
"Never mind, Sparrow. I've said how even I have heard of your abilities. I have a special project for you."
Beckett edged over to Jack and slipped his arm around him, leading him down the rest of the dock. Jack tensed at the touch, but once more facing The Wicked Wench kept him from wiggling out of it.
"Your first voyage will be to Spain."
"Spain?" Jack repeated.
"Yes. There is a particular pirate there, one whom has been a source of irritation for our Company. You look like you are about to ask what separates him from the Spanish privateers. Don't act so surprised, Captain Sparrow. I can see it in your eyes. I will hand you all we have on him, but suffice it to say that this pirate is a true pirate. Don't tell me you're the type that sympathizes with these characters, one who is seduced into thinking they're a romantic example of the past?"
"It was a pirate what killed me mum," was all he said.
"Then I do hope for my sake this is that same pirate. Have you heard the name Hector Barbossa?" He waited for Jack to shake his head. "Not much is known of him, just his current whereabouts. Find him, lock him in your brig, and bring him back to me. You're ready to take on such a mission?"
"I trust that you have something in regards to compensation for completing such a task?" Jack asked. Already counting the men on the crew he'd be given, he imagined the pirate Barbossa—dry skin and bad hair if his father was any example of a pirate. His father. He wondered if it would be worth his time and his general well-being to return to Shipwreck Cove to see if Teague knew anything about this plague on the East India Trading Company. Better do it on your own, he decided. Teague might tell you everything about Barbossa…and then shoot you right between the eyes.
"A vast reward," Beckett whispered, still inches away from Jack. "Of course, you will have your crew and all the necessary provisions before you depart."
XXX
Bill Turner finished tying off the longboat, the rest of the men staying on the anchored Wench. His pale, calloused hands dusted a few drops of seawater on his trousers before running to catch up with Jack, clad now in a thick, cuffed coat—one of Beckett's many ideas of what "provisions" were. With bandanas wrapped around their foreheads, their eyes adjusted without a problem to the warm Spanish sun, a cheerful change from dreary England.
"Makes one wish said individual still lived in the New World," Jack mumbled to Bill, knocking his boot against a post to shake off the salt. "Fairer sun and fairer water out in the Caribbean."
"I believe that," Bill said. "Just what is the crime of Hector Barbossa?"
"Pissing off Lord Beckett one too many times, apparently. I didn't want to talk to the man any longer than I needed to."
"Something of a…" Bill trailed off, wobbling his hand from side to side. "Can't say it'd surprise me any."
"There's something bitter inside short men."
"I'm in firm agreement. Where do we start, Captain?"
"In town," Jack said. "You know the type. He'll be in one of the cantinas, probably a Spanish wench on each arm. Put that away, man." He crossed in front of Bill to block anyone from seeing the pistol encased in Bill's strong grip. "The name of this game is inconspicuousness."
Out in the plaza of the seaport village, several ladies paced themselves around the stone fountain. With their thick parasols and lacy skirts, they resembled a multi-colored row of pansies spaced evenly in a flowerbox.
"Two hundred pounds, at least five hundred pounds…" Jack muttered.
"What are you doing?"
"Appraisals, Mr. Turner. Surely as a fellow merchant you know the price of all the fashions." Jack made sure to sound extra pompous. No, he didn't fancy women's clothing and he would gladly whap Bill on the head with the butt of his pistol if such an accusation surfaced, but it did seem unfair that society assumed all bright and expensive clothes should belong to the ladies while this coat was the nicest thing he'd had in his life. "We'll check this one."
Castanets and the tinkling strums of guitars greeted them after they pulled the heavy oak doors open into the cantina. Only a few rays of sunshine seeped into the dim room, circular tables filling up the space. Women in far less garb than the ones outside sashayed past them, their eyelids showing off an unnatural sky blue color.
"And I suppose we don't just shout out 'Barbossa,' do we?" Bill asked with a half-smile on his face.
"We mingle. Come. What do ye want to drink?" Jack said, gesturing for them to walk up to the bar. "Dos sangrias, por favor."
"Wise choice, my friend," the bartender said with a smile, pouring the sticky, scarlet liquid into clay goblets. "You will enjoy immensely."
"There is no lack of hospitality, I see," Jack said. "And no lack of villains, I'd wager."
"Well, senor," the bartender coughed, "I serve those who pay. Beggar or baron means little if the man has the coins."
"Well said. But I'm sure there are some that give you trouble."
"Only that one over there."
Jack and Bill followed the pointing finger to a dark corner of the cantina. An oily-haired man with the most enormous hat Jack had ever seen bumped his goblet up to the one belonging to another member in his party. A hearty chuckle emitted from his mouth.
"Is that…" Bill then clamped his mouth shut. "So he gives ye trouble, that one?"
"Si, amigo. He pays, but in English money. My suspicion is he is a privateer."
"That it?" Jack asked.
"No, no, no. He's robbed me before, taken a complete day and night's earnings and no one will help me be rid of him." The bartender shuttered, grimacing at the man, now biting into a crunchy green apple, its juices dripping out from the corners of his mouth down into his frizzy beard. "That Barbossa, my friends…it is my bad luck he comes here."
"Follow my lead," Jack whispered to Bill. They both stood at the same time and swaggered over to the table where Barbossa sat, examining the five cards he held in his dirty hands. Five men and three women on the younger one's arms sat around the table, guffawing with all the tact and sincerity of a hyena. Not bothering to wait for any cue, Jack burst into his own laughter.
"Well said! Well said!" Jack laughed. "Barkeep, another round for everyone here! What do we have here, a game of poque?"
"If ye be wantin' to join in, we best be seein' some contribution on the table," Barbossa said through a tight grin.
Bill loosened the strings on his purse and set down a stack of solid gold coins. He let out a small snicker at the stunned reaction of the players and their lovers, watching the events through drunken, half-lidded eyes. "Ye need more or have we proved our worth?"
"Proved it indeed," Barbossa answered, gesturing for them to sit. "Take a seat, gentlemen."
Jack and Bill grabbed wooden chairs from the empty table next to the busy one and picked up the cards dealt to them. They exchanged a glance before making eye contact with Barbossa's jagged fingernails tapping the remainder of the card deck. Each of them deposited their ante, either failing to hear the other men speak or one hundred percent correct in their thoughts that perhaps all of Barbossa's associates adopted the deaf and dumb persona.
"What kind of work are ye in, sir?" Bill asked, reorganizing his cards.
"Imports."
"Fascinating," Jack said, calling the last man's amount. "Do you wage war against the exporters?"
"Heh heh," Barbossa snorted. "And you two gentlemen, seein' as I'm but a local and not a traveler, am at a loss as to who ye are and what the two of ye do."
"Merchants," Bill said.
"Merchants then?"
"Yes," Jack answered. "Our captain gave us a few days of shore leave. Why, with all those diamonds we're lugging around, I'd say we've earned it, wouldn't you, William?"
"Absolutely, we do."
"Diamonds?" Barbossa repeated. "Am I hearin' ye right?"
"Oh, I had no idea what I was thinking," Jack said once his turn came up again. "I really have no knack for this game. I fold."
"Yer transporting diamonds?"
"Yes, quite boring. Mr. Turner, it's your turn."
"Fold too, I guess. Jack, let's go on back to the ship. I don't like the idea of leaving all those gems alone. Captain's a right stupid fool, drinkin' himself to sleep and sending anyone with a scrap of brain off to do, well, this, I suppose."
Jack tightened his lips and forced an enthusiastic nod to keep from laughing. Not since he'd accepted Mr. Turner as a first mate had he heard him say so much at one time. He knew the man had a bit of pirate in him to lie with such ease. It was a downright shame this wasn't all happening back in England so Alice Turner and the little one…what was his name? Bill talked about his son all the time and yet…
"Well, we lost," Jack said, blinking his eyes to force himself into the here and now. "Gentlemen, if we're ever in Spain again, it'd be a pleasure to lose to you once more." He and Bill stood at the same time, bowing to the men, none of whom returned the courtesy.
They squinted at the brilliant sunshine poking at their eyes upon coming outside. Each one glanced behind them with every couple of paces, prepared to catch a glimpse of that hat with that plume stalking them. The Wench waited for them, the sun pouring onto her ebony sails, some already with gray patches sewn into them. The corners of Jack's mouth could not resist turning up at the sight of her.
"Slow down. I'm sure he's behind us."
"Captain," Bill said, "Once he's aboard, how will we keep him from shooting anyone?"
"Dear Mr. Turner, our pirate will do precisely this: he will walk down into the hull and proceed to open every empty crate we have down there. We shut him in, wait until he spends his bullets, and then can waltz in, numerous in number, and restrain him further by tossing him into the brig."
"Nothin' like throwing them in the brig until he's sober," Bill chuckled, humming a few more bars of song about a drunken sailor and what should be done about him. "Captain."
Jack shifted to the side and let his peripheral vision take over. In the distance, Barbossa crept behind them, a stocky hand tight on his pistol. Jack grinned.
He and Bill waited, whistling and making small talk. Barbossa scanned the horizon, keeping close to the foliage beside the dock. When he failed to take his eyes off The Wench, Jack grimaced. All those stories about defending one's lady by slapping the blackguard's cheek with a white glove suddenly heightened his heartbeat.
"O teach me how I should forget to think," he whispered.
"Jack?"
"Shakespeare, Bill. Looks like our friend may be after more than just the diamonds."
Bill turned. Barbossa took his eyes off the ship just in time to see the action. Cocking his pistol, he fired a shot that passed right between them.
A/N: Jack quotes Shakespeare here, a line from Romeo and Juliet. It's a cliffhanger, so stay tuned! Please leave reviews.