"Well, boy?!" The captain growled at him, wrinkling his nose as if the very presence of the slave-child insulted him. "What's yer name, ye li'l yeller-belly'd whelp?"

The boy worked his mouth, but nothing came out. The captain grunted, backing off. The boy's relief was momentary, however, as he watched in horror as the captain began to draw his sabre.

"Really, Cap'n! Is that really necessary? Like you said, he's just a whelp."

The boy turned. Everyone did. It was a strange thing indeed for anyone to speak up against Captain Sam Carter. It was even rarer for a person to speak up to Captain Sam Carter on the behalf of someone else.

The bold intruder was a young man, not a day over twenty, with long wavy hair held back by a red headband and a set of deep brown eyes that would melt the ice off the artic. Despite his age, he was obviously a weathered sailor, his light skin darkened to a shade comparable to the young mulatto's by the unforgiving rays of the sun. He stood upon the deck of the rocking ship with the ease of long experience, and the confidence of a man used to climbing unsteady rigging in the heart of a typhoon.

"An' what's yer innerest in such a whelp, eh, Mr. Turner?" The captain leered, obviously not appreciating the interruption. "If yer wan'in to, I can be puttin' 'im on as yer share o' the spoils. Fin young spec'min he is had got ta be worth at least tha cab'n boy's share, eh, lads?"

The crew laughed nervously. Their captain was not known for his forgiving sense of humour.

Mr. Turner didn't yield. In fact, he looked not the least bit concerned.

"All right then. I'll take your offer."

The crew went silent.

"What o' that bonnie lass ye keep sayin' ye have back 'ome?" The captain looked at the young man suspiciously. "Ain't she gonna be a li'l jealous that ye'd bed a half-breed whelp?"

To the shock of all but the boy himself, who wasn't exactly sure what was going on but was pretty sure it involved him and thus did his best to keep up, Mr. Turner scoffed.

"Bed him? Why would I do that? I have no interest in that kind of beastly business. That's entirely your area of expertise, mon Capitan."

Turner bowed mockingly, his handsome face perfectly serious. If there had ever been any doubt about the state of his manhood, they were instantly dispelled.

Captain Carter turned a rather disturbing shade of purple, his face almost swelling with the sheer amount of blood pumping into it. His fist tightened around the hilt of his blade until his knuckles blanched, trembling with rage. His mouth worked open and closed, trying to find an answer to the courageous young man's blatant accusation. He finally just snapped his mouth shut, turned on his heel, and stomped off into his cabin.

For a long moment, there was absolute, total silence. No member of the pirate crew had ever seen their Captain rendered speechless. Ever.

And then they began to cheer.

The young man knelt down in front of the boy, smiling pleasantly. The boy looked at him, confused and nervous, but grateful none the less.

"Hello, lad. I'm Bill Turner." He held out his hand for the boy to shake.

The boy did, his tiny dark fingers tiny compared to the man's calloused hands.

"Hello, Bill." The boy whispered.

Bill smiled.

"And what should I call you, young sir?"

The boy blinked and paused. The other slaves usually avoided him, and he was old enough to know that none of the things his masters called him would qualify as names.

Bill sighed, looking sad.

"You don't have a name, do you?"

The boy shook his head.

"Well then, we'll just have to think of one for you, won't we?"

Bill grinned, brown eyes sparkling.

And, for the first time in his short, sorry life, the boy smiled too.

Yes, indeed. In this fanfiction, Bootstrap Bill is a random cabin boy who can speak french for no real reason other than that I think that he should. It's probably going to be really bad french, too. Full of errors. But please be tolerant with me. I don't speak french. My only weapons against the horrible mangling of a beautiful language is a french-english dictionary and one of my buddies who doesn't speak french either but knows more of it than I do.

Thank you very much. OH! And the second movie doesn't exist at all, so in this fanfiction, Bootstrap is hot and not some creepy old nose-man with a starfish on his face.

And sorry for not posting this on the day I'm supposed to be posting it. Although... it could very well be the day I'm supposed to be posting it. I really don't know. I'm not entirely sure. I think it's Monday, but you never know, the world could be lying to me. That's always a possibility.