The day had been beautiful, although Jack always remembered India that way. Mangalore had been especially lovely, with tall palm tree and lush public gardens, well maintained from the strict rule of the British government.
Jack always remembered the way the harsh sunlight of the strong Indian sun had been diluted by the leaves overhead and fell, splattering on the rough track which led from the field by the school rooms to the top of the hill above Mangalore. He had preferred to walk home from school that way when he had been about eight because it was quieter, a place where he could think and watch small, colourful birds flit among the slender tree trunks. After that age, the excitement that drew other well-off boys to the slum end of town drew him too and he abandoned his secret route home.
It had been on this idyllic path that he had first seen her, crouched in the earth and peering intently at the ground, wicker basket laying abandoned beside her. As he approached, she had looked up, alarmed, but had then relaxed as she saw that Jack was only child, like her.
Jack stopped in front of her, curious as to why she was crouched. "What are you looking at?" he asked in English, although you could never be too sure what language people in a busy EITC port like Mangalore spoke.
"A mouse," she answered quietly.
Jack crouched down too, to look closer at a mouse which still on the ground between them. "Is it alive," he whispered, not wanting to disturb the girls' peace.
"I don't think so," she whispered back, " it keeps twitching so I think it's just scared. I told it not to be though."
"It can't understand English, I don't think," said Jack, bending closer to the mouse, close enough to see its chest moving quickly as it breathed. "It can only speak mouse- and it is alive. I can see it's breathing."
He stood up, bored of the mouse now. "I'm Jonathon," he said smartly, the way he'd been taught to introduce himself by his mother. "But you can call me Jack," he added, something which his mother had not taught him to say.
The girl stood up too, shaking her skirt straight and picking up her basket. "I'm Josephine, but everyone still calls me Josephine. It was my grandmother's name. She was French," she added proudly.
"Really?" asked Jack as they both started walking together the way Jack had been walking, towards the town. "My mother is French!" he smiled, excited to find someone a bit like him on his walk home, "And she taught me how to speak it."
"Oh, my grandmother died a long time ago so she could never teach it to me."
"What about you're parents?" asked Jack.
"My father died a long time ago too, when I was a baby," said Josephine although she didn't look sad.
Jack had been to young to realise that he should have apologised for bringing the topic up but he ploughed on. "My parents are still alive."
"That must be nice," said Josephine, swinging her basket along beside her.
Jack picked up a long thin stick and poked it at things as they passed. "Mother is quite sick though. She doesn't talk to me very much any more because she gets too tired. It gets quite boring at home." He paused as a brilliant idea came to him. "You should come to my house to play after school!" he cried, wanting to play more with his new friend.
Josephine smiled at the thought too and agreed that that would be a fine idea.
They walked together, talking of school and their houses (Josephine was taught at their house by her mother, who had been a governess in England before she married a wealthy ship builder and had moved to India) and of adventures they could have. Although Jack had lots of school friends, it excited him that he could have one to himself, that no one else knew at all.
So that was how they met; on a beautiful summer day in Mangalore over a scared mouse when they were eight.
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It pained Jack to think of this part of his life now, locked, aching and bruised in a cell on the HMS Endeavour. Beckett's secret ran through his head, "you had Josephine…you had Josephine… you had Josephine," to a point where he was glad when he heard the jangling of Mercer's keys signalling some sort of punishment that was to come. Any physical pain was nothing compared to the mental anguish and guilt that came when he thought of Josephine.
Mercer unlocked the cell door and beckoned Jack through it. As Jack heaved himself up onto weak legs and made his way to Mercer, he was swiftly twisted round and his hands were cuffed behind his back. He followed Mercer quietly, trying to ignore his stomach, aching with hunger and the sharp pains as his freshly healed back moved. He hoped food would follow whatever was to come.
Mercer didn't lead him up to the deck this time but took him to a small room along from the crew's quarters. Here, he knocked briskly on the worn wood and waited for a reply.
A short, balding man answered the door and looked Jack up and down, eyebrows raised. "So this is the infamous Jack Sparrow, is it?" he asked in a Middle-class English accent. "He's shorter than I imagined."
Jack ignored the remark. He had worse things to worry about, he thought as he looked over the man's shoulder into the room behind him and realised that he must be the ship's surgeon. The room contained a chest of drawers with a tray of polished medical equipment on it, a clean and polished wooden table for operating and on this stood a shallow basin of water. Before it sat a chair.
"This is the man," said Mercer, a faint smirk gracing his lips before he added menacingly, "He's all yours."
The short man nodded for Jack to follow him into the room, which Jack did, a sense of foreboding creeping up on him with every step. The door shut and was locked behind him. He turned in time to see the short man tuck the key into his trouser pocket.
"I'm Mr Collins," the man said as he crossed to open the cabin window slightly, allowing a fresh breath of air into the slightly claustrophobic space. "The ship's surgeon, as you may have guessed."
"I worked it out," Jack replied dryly. "Although I can't see why I'm here."
Mr Collins nodded to the chair, indicating for Jack to sit. "You're here for a little hair cut."
"What?" From anything Jack had expected, this was the furthest from it. "Why? I was expecting some sort of torture."
Mr Collins looked faintly annoyed and he steered Jack to the chair and draped a large cloth over his shoulders, pulling his hair to lie on top of it. "We're company men, Mr Sparrow," he said, "Not pirates. We don't do that sort of torture here."
Jack snorted, thinking of the whipping he had received for no reason before. But he didn't say anything. If I do he might shave me.
Mr Collins pushed Jack's head forward so his chin was on his chest and fumbled to undo the bandana knot. Once it was off, he set to work untying and cutting off the various beads and trinkets adorning Jack's hair. He set to work silently, placing the beads in a small bowl on the chest of drawers. Then he pulled out a sharp knife and Jack felt large locks of hair fall to his shoulders. Collins chose to cut Jack's dreadlocks short first and when he had worked round his head, he lay the knife down and pulled Jack's head back so it was doused in the bowl of water.
Jack closed his eyes as Collins kneaded his scalp to loosen his hair further. He then rubbed soap in and rinsed. This was something Jack hadn't done properly since becoming a pirate before. Then he took out a pair of barber's scissors and cut Jack's looser locks much shorter. "Nearly done," Mr Collins said, reviving Jack who had been enjoying the massage.
Now he turned to Jack's face and took out a razor. "Chin up," he said.
Jack didn't bother to argue and although he had been wary at first, he now was half looking forward to seeing his new face.
Mr Collins lathered up Jack's cheeks and chin and proceeded to shave him with an expert hand. Once he had finished and had cleaned Jack's face, he stood back to admire his work. "I would never recognise you," he said, before turning away to the door. "I'm getting Mercer now," he said before leaving and locking the door behind him.
After Jack had heard his footsteps retreating down the corridor, he stood up uneasily and crossed to the mirror on the wall behind him. He could barely recognise the face staring back at him. He hated it.
It was the face he had had when it happened.
The face he had changed so much to try and leave his guilt behind.
But the guilt and sadness was back now and it was all Beckett's fault. Jack wondered whether Beckett knew what this 'hair cut' meant to Jack, and he hated him even more for it.
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Feeling very odd without the weight of his hair and the feel of it over his shoulders, Jack had been led back out onto the deck by Mercer. He expected to be taken straight back down to the brig so he was surprised when Mercer let him go, leaving him standing freely.
Jack took the opportunity to quickly look around at the horizon for land, but noticed members of the crew approaching him and was worried by the varying looks of hatred in their eyes. He swallowed down the growing fear he felt spreading from his stomach and plastered on a false look of confidence and carelessness which he had mastered over the years.
He looked to Mercer, who smiled grimly, then turned and disappeared through the doors leading to Beckett's quarters.
Jack clenched jaw and watched him secret panic as the fine, French doors shut behind him. His attention was immediately caught by a huge brutish sailor lumbering across the deck towards him and it was while his gaze was glued to this animal that the first blow was struck. Someone behind him threw so much force into the punch which smashed into Jack's cheek, that his head whipped round and he stumbled to the side. He tried to bring up his shackled hands to numbly touch his face, but the sailor in front of him pushed him violently back. Jack only just managed to keep his balance. His head racing and his cheek smarting, he tried to turn away but found himself face to face with the huge man he had noticed before. Midday sweat poured down the man's face and neck into his uniform, which was stretched over his chunky torso.
Jack couldn't hide the fear in his eyes but managed to keep his head up to stare the man in the eye. His chest lurched with uneasy breathing. He could hear his pulse beating in his ear and the heavy breathing of the man in front of him. Suddenly with no warning, the man seized the front of his shirt and slammed him into the mast behind him. Jack cried out as something metal dug painfully into his back. The man slammed him back again.
He shoved his face into Jack's, almost nose to nose and spat out, "Jack fucking Sparrow, I knew it was you. You fucked my sister, you whorish bastard!"
Shit, was all Jack had time to think before he was thrown sideways, barely able to break his fall and landed heavily. With no time to move, Jack felt a booted foot smash strongly into his stomach and again into his face as he failed to curl up into a ball. He felt more and more crewmembers join in the fight, kicking and punching him. Hot blood poured heavily from his nose and onto his arms as he managed to get them up to cover his face. He was dimly aware of someone stamping down on his head and body.
And suddenly there was less shouting, and strong arms pulling him up. He couldn't see. The blood was stinging his eyes and in his mouth. He felt someone drag him away and below deck.
That had been several hours before. Now, Jack was alone, slumped in the brig. He had wiped much of the blood of his face but it was pointless as although his nose had stopped bleeding, every time he moved his mouth, his lip would split open again. And his head throbbed even when still. He tried not to think about what they had done to him but lamented instead on who this man's sister was. If she looked anything like him, then I must have been very drunk.
He also tried to work out where he was. He knew they were in some sort of port due to the sounds, which drifted to him in the hold of the ship. Even though he was under the water line, the odd loud sound reached him. At first, he had thought the ship was under attack when he heard shouting, but as he felt the ship bump gently into something hard, he realised they must be moored to a pier. He couldn't even make an educated guess where they were because he wasn't really sure how long he had been a captive or what direction they had sailed in. he decided that for whatever reason they had docked, it wasn't anything to do with him
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He was, unfortunately wrong.
They had indeed docked in Port Royal, residence of Lord Wilson, director of the East India Trading Company in the Caribbean. Beckett knew that being in the possession of the notorious Jack Sparrow could easily sway any decision for a promotion in his rank towards him. So he was smug in the knowledge that he was about to become the favourite.
He hired a horse and carriage and drove up to Lord Wilson's residence alone, leaving the Endeavour docked in the charge or Mercer. Lord Wilson lived in an imposing mansion with splendid views over the harbour, and Beckett was received warmly when he knocked.
"Cutler Beckett, isn't it?" asked Lord Wilson, shaking Beckett warmly by the hand. "Come into the study. Sherry? Brandy?"
"Port, if you have it Lord," said Beckett, glancing round at the finely furnished room uninterested. He had much greater things on his mind.
Lord Wilson poured out two glasses of port and motioned for Beckett to take a seat by the French Windows overlooking the manicured garden. He sat himself and asked, "So, for what reason do I owe this pleasure? I matter of importance, I gather?"
"A matter of great importance, my Lord," said Beckett smugly.
"Good news, I hope?"
"Oh yes, good news indeed." Beckett took a sip of his port before continuing. "I was stopping off for supplies in Port Colona only two nights ago, when I heard curious tale of an infamous ship in port, my Lord. A ship of great importance to the Company and to my especially. It was the Black Pearl."
He noted happily the Lord Wilson sat up straighter at this, suddenly all business.
"Naturally, I investigated and it was true. And guess who was Captain?"
"Jack Sparrow," Lord Wilson murmured.
"Well, naturally I knew that I could not let this opportunity slip through my fingers so I caught him, unarmed. It was too easy."
"And you still have him?"
"He is in the brig on the Endeavour as we speak."
Lord Wilson stood and looked out of the window to the distant harbour thoughtfully. "I trust you, Cutler," he said. "This man caused me great irritation in the past as he did to you. He will rot in prison for the rest of his days. But not this prison." He turned back to Beckett, businesslike once more. "We simply haven't the room but you're in luck. There is a Navy ship destined for New Portsmouth and I have placed some prisoners in the brig of that ship already, to be relocated. Sparrow can go with them and hopefully, we will never have to deal with him again."
"That sounds perfect," nodded Beckett in agreement. He would be rid of Sparrow for good, one last blow that he would never be able to recover from.
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"I'm sorry, she's gone to rest with the Father," the doctor had said, leading Teague away from the darkened bedroom.
Jack was left standing alone on the landing, staring at the delicate shape of his mother on the bed, covered by a plain white sheet.
He suddenly screamed, more of a howl, letting his grief and anger at his mother's death pour from him in. His face was screwed up in agony as he slumped to his knees on the carpet, only to find himself pulled into his father's embrace. They sat together, sobbing in the moonlight.
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Beckett decided to walk back to the HMS Endeavour to enjoy the weather and bask in his good fortune. Jack Sparrow would be free to endure living hell in the New Portsmouth jail, leaving him free to enjoy his promotion and extend the reaches of the East India Trading Company.
He strode purposefully down the steep hill to the harbour, listening to the sounds of the port floating up to him on the light breeze. He walked quickly through the town, eager to pass Jack on to the new captain on his way to New Portsmouth. He paused to peer through the window of a tailor to admire a finely woven shirt, noting that he could go back to buy it if he hurried and got rid of Jack first.
On the Endeavour, he called for Mercer in his quarters and relayed the news of his talk with Lord Wilson and the plan to pass Jack on.
"Lord Wilson has arranged for a crewmember on this other ship to collect Sparrow any minute now. We can leave port after that, but in the meantime I'll leave it to you to make sure the ship is sufficiently stocked. I saw a shirt that took my fancy in the town and might purchase it," said Beckett, retrieving his purse from a desk drawer. "I'll be back within the hour. Sparrow should be gone by then."
Mercer nodded and left just ahead of Beckett, who returned to shore and marched up the jetty and into town. He found the tailors quickly, not wanting to bump into any familiar faces and be held up with polite talk. As he went to open the door of the shop, it opened from the inside and a woman came out, almost bumping into him.
"I'm so sorry," she said, fumbling with the paper bound package in her hands and trying to edge round Beckett, who suddenly seized her arm and pulled her round to face him.
Their eyes both widened, hers in horror and his in shock, as they recognised each other.
"Oh my God," she whispered.
"Josephine!" Becket cried, his shock turning swiftly to anger. He pulled her away from the shop. "But you're dead…don't struggle," he added in an undertone. "Come with me, or it will be worse for you."
She dropped the package to the floor, fear and loathing in her eyes and tried look decent as she was dragged towards the docks.
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I hope that explained things more. Reviews desperately needed though so I know how it sounds.