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Chapter 10. - "I am not going to be your latest plaything"
by Oneiriad
Disclaimer: PotC still belonged to the Mouse last I checked. Shakespeare - isn't he world heritage by now?
Previous chapters can be found via my memories
I must have lost my mind. It is the only logical explanation. Completely and utterly insane.
I suppose they ought to take me away and lock me up in Bedlam. Then the keeper would come by my cell with his gaggle of well-paying gawkers and say: ”Look ’ere, look ’ere. Would you believe, that this ’ere fellow used to be a right proper Commodore. ’Ad it all, ’e bloody well nearly did – and then what do you think the silly bugger went and did? ’E fell in love! With a pirate!” and the ladies in the group would have trouble deciding whether to giggle or be properly scandalized, and any man of a clerical persuasion would make some comment about the wages of sin.
Absolutely and completely stark raving mad.
Sometimes it seems to me as if it is the world itself that has gone mad as of late. Everything has been turned upside down, nothing is in its right place anymore – not even death. It sometimes feels like I am living some fantastical tale, some particularly odd picaresque. Sometimes it most of all seems like some delirious fever-dream.
Oh, but could that be it? Has this – all of this – perhaps simply been a particularly vivid dream? Surely, surely it is so. I must be ill – most likely I suffered a sunstroke at my promotion ceremony (the sun was so very hot that day, not a friendly breeze to be found in the courtyard of the fort, and all these layers of uniform – not at all appropriate for these climes, but will the Admiralty listen?) and everything since then has taken place while I have been confined to my bed, some good nurse by my side – perhaps even Miss Swann. And everything since – the failed proposal, the attack, the unnatural pirates, Miss Swann’s humiliating rejection of me, even the very existence of the insufferable individual known as Captain Jack Sparrow – has simply been the product of my imagination.
Of course, that begs the question of why my imagination – fevered or otherwise – would ever conjure up a character such as Jack – but never mind.
Cheered immensely by this thought, I immediately reach out to do as many others have before me and attempt to ascertain whether it might be so. I pinch myself. Hard.
Nothing changes.
I am still sitting here, my back against the rough bark of a solid tree, my naked toes burrowed into the warm sand. Before me is still the same excellent view of the Black Pearl and her busy crew – and busiest of them all, their undeniably real captain.
Jack.
And when did he become Jack, anyway? When did I start to think of him by his given name? When did he cease to be Sparrow, the most infuriating pirate I had ever heard of, and begin to be Jack, the man I am falling in love with?
Except, of course, that I am most certainly not falling in love with him. After all, he is a man! And a pirate! A pirate who had me flogged! Annoying and infuriating, unbearably smug and insufferable, nothing I would lament being rid off. Clever and sneaky and cunning and smart, crazy and brilliant and cocky, brilliant and exotic and dazzling and fascinating and…
Very well, so I might very well be falling in love with Jack Sparrow, even if he is a man and a pirate to boot. Except that I cannot be. Because I am in love with Miss Swann. I mean I am in love with Elizabeth. But in that case, why has it been so very long since last I thought of her by her Christian name? And why is the thought of her no longer accompanied by that butterfly feeling in my chest, the feeling that would always make me stumble over my words in her presence? The feeling that flutters through me now at the thought of Jack…
So, perhaps I am in love with him. But surely, surely it is only a purely Platonic love. Surely.
I remember the feel of Jack’s lips against mine, the feel of a sleeping embrace. I imagine – though I am somewhat hazy as to the details of such encounters between men – myself touching, him touching me.
My heart beats somewhat faster and by various other signs my body leaves me no room for doubt. It is not purely Platonic.
But then, perchance, it is only physical? Perhaps it is simply the effect of not having had any intimate company for so long, something that the surgeon aboard the Hippolytos used to warn the midshipmen against again and again, hinting at consequences most dire and unnatural (this was the same surgeon, who like clockwork would complain to the captain two weeks out from every port, because the common sailors’ liberty ashore had practically emptied his fresh stores of medicine against such things as the great pox, but never mind). Perhaps these – these feelings are those dire consequences, are not real, are simply my body expressing its wants.
But if that is the case, why have my desires not directed themselves toward the woman aboard? Possibly simple self-preservation, but then it makes even less sense for them to be towards a man whom I have given every reason to desire my death.
I imagine never being touched by Jack and I feel a chill. I imagine never seeing his smile again or sharing a meal with him and I feel like the Arctic Sea.
Not purely physical then.
So, apparently, despite the fact that it is madness of the very worst sort in every conceivable way, I am well on my way to being in love with Jack Sparrow, Captain of the Black Pearl.
And of course he must never ever know.
Imagine the kind of power he would have, this pirate, if he knew himself to be loved by a Commodore of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Imagine how he might exploit it. If Miss Swann – a proper young lady of good family – was willing to make me sacrifice the lives of my men (though I cannot truly make myself believe that she intended for them to die, but, nevertheless, they did) for the sake of the boy she cared for – and then reject me in a manner that could hardly have been more public, more embarrassing, more scandalous – she might as well have left me at the altar! If she was willing to do all that when I offered her my heart…
I shudder to imagine what a pirate might be willing to do with it.
So no, under no circumstances can I entrust Jack Sparrow with this. It must be a secret. Besides, it is not like he would return my affections, so what would be the point? Oh, I have not been blind – I could hardly have missed Jack’s habit of touching and kissing me at every turn or the innuendoes he seems to be fond of – I suspect that he would not hesitate to indulge in the physical acts with me, or so I flatter myself, at least. He would play with me and then tire of me and discard me. No. Better to have a secret heart than a broken one.
Oh damn it all to Hell!
I glare in the direction of the cause of all my miseries, but he is absorbed in a busily gesticulating discussion with Mr. Gibbs and Anamaria, not even looking occasionally in my direction. Which is as it has been for the last few days – ever since we came ashore. Now all of Jack’s attention is focused on the beginning repairs of his precious ship. Me? He told me to ”go wherever ye please, just don’t get in the way.” So I keep my distance, mostly.
Since the landing I have had one – one! – conversation with him. I was looking at the materials for the repairs that had been laid out on the beach, ready to be used. He was inspecting a pile of copper plates intending for use as sheathing. He held up one for me to look at.
”What d’ye think, Commodore James?”
”I think that I would have expected you to use gold for your precious ship, not something as common as copper.”
”Ah, but my Pearl’s a lady, not some Roman trollop. ’Sides, the point is to make her a faster hunter, not an appetizing piece of game, savvy?” and he grinned at me before returning his full and undivided attention to the metal.
Oh, but I am pathetic. I know that it is good thing that Jack has kept his distance. As long as he continues to do so, the chances that I might accidentally reveal my feelings are slim indeed, and perhaps I can even manage to suppress them – something that I doubt I could accomplish in the glare of his immediate presence. But despite all of my common sense, I cannot help but miss Jack’s company. I miss his prattle and oddness, I miss his close presence – I even miss the Spanish lessons that were left behind aboard. I know perfectly well that Jack’s whole purpose on this island is to repair the Pearl, but that does not prevent me from missing him – and resenting the whole situation.
My situation has made me think of a dazzling toy given to a child, while the trusty old favourite is away at Grandmother’s for repairs. For a while the new toy is played with, but then the old favourite is returned and the new is left in a corner to gather dust and for spiders to hide behind.
It is not enough that I am in love with a pirate, I have to be jealous of his ship. Oh, but I am a sorry creature, am I not?
Not that that would be anything new. Ah, but I have a rare gift for choosing the absolutely wrong people to fall in love with.
The first time I fell in love (not the first time I indulged in the physical act – something which occurred at the country house of an uncle during a three week long leave during my time as a young midshipman, and which involved a stack of sweet-smelling hay and a very friendly milkmaid a few years my senior) – the first time I fell in love it was with an Admiral’s wife.
I was still a midshipman then, though not a year away from my examination for lieutenant. The ship I served on, the Hippolytos, was laid up for repairs in Boston, and during this time we were all expected to attend various social events such as balls, as it would be beneficial to our character. My full dress uniform saw more use during those few weeks than in the three full years preceding them.
Her name was Sophie.
She was the jewel of the dance, only my elder by a few years, dazzling and with a smile for everybody, dancing and laughing. I think all the men present must have loved her at least a little.
It was only later that I realized how scandalous her behaviour actually was. I should have realized it when discreet inquiries produced the information that she was a married woman, but that her husband, Admiral von Schneider, an older gentleman, mostly left her in town while he was away at sea, leaving her practically a widow in all but name for long stretches of time. Not that she spent her time pining. No, quite the contrary, hardly a night went by without her going out, attending every dance and ball and recital in town.
I should have seen the way the old ladies present frowned at her, but at one point she favoured me with a brief smile and it outshone all else. In retrospect I wonder if the smile might not as easily have been intended for someone else who happened to be standing next to me at that moment, but at the time there was not a doubt in my heart.
I left the party with a faint flutter in my heart. Pleasant romantic fancies played out behind my eyes – saving the lady fair from wicked pirates and being awarded with a kiss was one. I was still young and still quite innocent as far as matters of the heart was concerned – besides, she was a married woman, and even if she had not been, then she was far too fine for the likes of a mere midshipman like me.
Still, at the next dance I was to attend, I did my best to look more than merely respectable – I even received a few pointed comments from my messmates. I ignored them.
I had been worried that she might not be there, that there might not be any chance of her catching even the faintest glimpse of me in my fine uniform with its gleaming buttons (those buttons alone had cost me hours of work before I was satisfied). But of course she was there, unmistakable and magnificent.
I am to this day not certain how I managed to work up the courage to ask her for a dance, but I did. It was scandalous, really – me, a mere midshipman and not even from a particularly wealthy or influential family, having the nerve to ask an admiral’s wife for a dance. Even more scandalous was the fact that she accepted.
I had never danced so well, or so I felt. In retrospect I suppose it was her doing, her and her smiles. Her skill kept me from blunders and her conversation made me feel wiser than ever before, as if I was a far more experienced man of the world than I truly was. The way she smiled and the way she lowered her eyelashes made me feel - something more.
There was a lull in the music and the large room where the dancing was done was momentarily cast into confusion as people started to look around for friends and refreshments. My beautiful dance partner tugged at my sleeve, pulling me into a dark corner. Before I knew what was happening she had pushed aside a heavy tapestry – some hunting scene, a unicorn hunt I think it was – and pulled me through a narrow opening into a small room devoid of people.
Apart from her and I.
In the room was a luxurious sofa, all tassels and green velvet. She pushed me down into it, crawled onto my lap, her fingers not so much unbuttoning my shirt as tearing it open, her lips crushing against mine.
I was a young man and my blood could run as hot as that of any young man ever. Still, I am ashamed to say that I was – most enthusiastic.
We returned to the party somewhat later, slipping into the crowd undetected. Moments before she had been adjusting my collar, sneaking a kiss. Once we were out she left me with a wink and a smile.
The time until the next dance passed in something like a haze for me. I was reprimanded several times for inattention to my duties (such as they were), but I found myself unable to stop the daydreams. She was in many of them, of course. Well, to be honest, she was in all of them. I conjured up an image of her husband also – an old man, pox-marked no doubt, bald under his wig, ugly as sin – quite unworthy of such a lovely woman. In my mind he became the worst of all naval officers, his every command a veritable floating hell, not a sailor under him who had not tasted the lash often for perceived offences of the pettiest sort. I imagined that he treated his wife in a similar way. In my dreams I would confront this monster, deal with him. I would elope with her, afterwards, go somewhere far away and never come back.
Was I ever so young? It seems unreal sometimes.
When I was off duty I spent a lot of time writing bad poetry comparing her various charms to those of assorted pagan goddesses. Even now the memory of some of those lines can make me blush.
And every night, in my dreams, I found myself back on that sofa, her milk-pale skin smooth beneath my hands.
Finally – finally! – came the day of the next dance I was to attend, my next chance at meeting her. We had made no arrangements, but I imagined that she must be pining for her young lover, searching eagerly for him at every dance she attended.
I suppose, in a way, I was correct.
The officers attending the dance arrived together and it was some time before I could leave their company, but eventually I managed to begin my search. It was swiftly met with success, for there she was, dancing with a dashing young lieutenant. I smiled. Now all I had to do was catch her eye and she would be mine for the next dance and the rest of the evening – and maybe forever?
Or so I thought.
She saw me. She never acknowledged me. No wink, no smile, no elegant movement with her fan. I, on the other hand, could not tear my gaze away from her – as she danced, as she conversed with her lieutenant, as he brought her punch and preened like a peacock.
I could not tear my gaze away as she led him into the dark corner – for the dance was held as the same house as the last – and then away from sight.
I stood alone, frozen, cold, watching that very spot where they had last been. I waited, a drink in my hand quite forgotten. Over the noise of the music and the chatting people I could hear the ticking of an old clock, each tick a thundering roar with an abyss of silence stretching forever between them.
About half an hour later the pair reappeared, looking flushed. A lock of his hair had somehow escaped the confines of his wig. She tucked it back in its proper place and kissed him teasingly on the very tip of his nose – they must have thought themselves still unobserved. Then they parted.
The next thing I remember is standing outside, vomiting into the gutter. When finally all the twisting of my stomach could not bring forth any more I left. I walked and walked, no set destination in mind. I just walked.
I passed a bathhouse and then doubled back, not looking at the coins I handed the man when I demanded a fresh tub. The water was steaming, scalding hot, but I did not care. I got in and I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until every part of me was red and raw, even the most intimate parts. I sat in that tub, scrubbing, until the water grew so cold that an employee at the place grew concerned that I might catch a cold from the chill of it. Then I got out, feeling as filthy as when I got in.
When I came back to the ship some time before dawn I found my poems and – suddenly filled with a violent rage – I tore the pages into so many tiny pieces that there was barely room for a single letter on each. Then I threw them overboard and stood there, watching as the currents and small waves parted them, mixed them, and – finally – carried them away. Then I was sick again.
I suppose it was a mercy that the ship left Boston three days later, headed for the Mediterranean with orders to save some Christian slaves from the Barbary corsairs. I shudder to imagine how it would have been, if we were to have joined Admiral von Schneider’s squadron. As a youth I might well have imagined that he could have seen in my face that I had given him horns – ridiculous as that thought is. But my luck held with the husband, as it had not done with the wife.
Later I heard more or the Admiral, always forcing myself to listen well when he was the subject of conversation. An elderly gentlemen, somewhat cantankerous, but well-loved. Alas, he suffered from severe seasickness and so had always preferred to stay at sea to preserve his easily lost sea legs. He died a couple of years ago. I never knew if he knew about his wife’s promiscuity. I never met him.
I left Boston behind and threw myself into my work, putting all my energy into performing my duties well and studying for my upcoming examination, which in time I passed with flying colours. I buried the memory of that sordid tryst under hours spent studying the stars, the skill of measuring when the sun was at its zenith, the art of knowing how to lead men. I spared few thoughts for women and, well, life at sea is not exactly ripe with opportunities for more than thoughts. Oh, I was a young man with a young man’s needs, but I taught myself discipline and only broke my sailor’s celibacy on the rare shore leaves with discreet ladies of negotiable affection (having no particular inclination for breaking Article XXIX or the possible consequences of so doing.)
I did not seek love among women. I had been burned and had little desire for a repetition. In my heart I had friendship for some of my messmates – and I told myself it was enough.
And so some years passed and one day the ship I served aboard then – the Icarus – took a prize and – having already taken so many others that we were running out of able midshipmen – I was instructed to take a small prize crew and bring her into a friendly port. Alas, we met an enemy vessel and were forced to surrender. I was sent home to England by the usual route, having given my word as an officer and a gentleman that I would not return to active duty until a prisoner had been exchanged for me.
As it turned out, they need not have demanded my word. The news that the Icarus had been caught in a fatal argument between a stormy sea and a rocky coast awaited me in England. Since the Navy always has more officers than ships to put them in, I found myself in London on half pay.
I had the great good fortune to find lodgings at the house a kind, old woman by the name of Mrs. Walker – a naval widow whose husband had had more luck with prizes than promotions and had left her somewhat more than comfortable. She ran her boarding house more like a charity than a business, once confiding in me that she enjoyed the company of all the polite young naval men. She was a kind old soul.
Across the street lived Mrs. Walker’s somewhat younger sister, Mrs. Davenport, with their brother and their sister-in-law, Mr. And Mrs. Goodyear, as well as what at the time seemed like an entire regiment of young women, the in-laws having five daughters as well as a number of nieces and cousins staying with them, some permanently, some merely visiting.
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From: (Anonymous)
no subject
From:
All right
But having it to read makes me very happy.
From:
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Ive been waiting for this for so long...please please keep going.
Im going to read now!
From: (Anonymous)
:D
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And in other news, I love your icon, take that bitches! yee haw!
*runs away*
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It's an excellent story; it holds my attention and it's just such a fascinating look into James's mind. Although I freely admit I love my PWP, I actually much prefer the slow build-up so this is done really well. There are a few anachronisms now and then -- mostly in the figures of speech James uses -- but holy shit I'd not have guessed easily that English wasn't your native tongue. (Although from what I gathered spending a week in Scandinavia, most people speak fairly decent English down your way. And for some reasons my friends and I loved watching this stupid soap opera called Hotel Cæsar which was primarily in Norwegian, but for some reason had extended scenes in English and in what we think was Swedish...I don't believe we heard any Danish, but we're not exactly experts. :D)
But er, rambling aside -- I hope it's not years before you update again, because I <3 the direction this is taking. :)