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Chapter 7. - Price of the word of a gentleman
Previous chapters can be found here
What eventually wakes me is not the sounds and movements of a ship at sea – I am quite accustomed to sleeping through them after having spent all of my adult life in the Navy. Neither is it the loud scraping, as if of something big and heavy being dragged across the floor, nor the repeated splashes and door-slams that follow it for a while (though I register these sounds – somewhere between being half awake and fully asleep).
Like a fish refusing to take the bait, I sleep – ignoring the nearly, but not quite, rhythmic plinks and plonks that follow, interspersed with the occasional muttered curse. I have no desire to wake, no desire to face the reality behind this plethora of sound.
In the end, not even the small splash followed by the loudest, most indignant feline yowl I ever did hear is sufficient to drag me out of Morpheus´ tight embrace. The same cannot be said of the shaking, soaking-wet ball of fur that curls up against my bare skin a heartbeat later.
My eyes fly open and I sit up straight (startling the kitten into seeking sanctuary elsewhere) and open my mouth to make my own indignant exclamation – but then the reality of a horrible headache and a terrible feeling of nausea catches up with me and makes me sink back down on the bed, curling up and moaning in my misery.
“And a very good morning to you too, my dear Commodore James.”
Damn that Sparrow. How dare he sound so cheerful when I am feeling so miserable?! Especially since it is all his fault – him and his damn port! As it is, all I can do is lie here and try to fight back the nausea, meanwhile ignoring both the pirate and the plinks and plonks still coming from the same direction as his voice.
“If you´d care to open your pretty eyes and look at that tray next to you, Commodore James, then you´d see a glass of something I think you´d better drink.”
The glass Sparrow is referring to is unmistakable – after all, it is the only glass on the tray. I look suspiciously at the unappetizing, greenish-brown liquid, then shrug and drain it. After all, if this is not something that will alleviate my discomfort, then it might be a poison to put me out of my misery – at present, either possibility sounds agreeable to me.
The liquid is cold and slimy going down, and it tastes similar to what I just narrowly avoided having come up – truth be told, I am not sure how I manage to keep it down. Somehow I do, and a few minutes later I am rewarded by a noticeable diminishment of my discomfort.
Rational thought returns and a part of me demands to know what witches´ brew I just drank – a slightly more cautious part prevents me from voicing the question, using the lingering taste as a very convincing argument as to why I really do not want to know the ingredients.
My second attempt to sit up this morning is met with considerably greater success than the first, whereupon I turn around and look at Sparrow – and blink.
It might possibly be my imagination – or maybe the concoction I just swallowed contained something hallucinogenic – but it would appear that Jack Sparrow is standing next to a bathtub filled with steaming water.
Plink – my eyes are dragged away from the tub by the sound – and I blink again as I realize it´s source.
Nimble fingers move through tangled hair and liberate a coin, old and tarnished, and drops it into a bowl before returning to their task of untangling and unbraiding, only occasionally having to make use of a small, sharp knife to liberate a particularly uncooperative trinket from the mane.
I find myself at a loss for words, unable to do anything but watch as Sparrow slowly and meticulously undoes each and every braid until his hair is completely free of oddments – even the spiky bone is gone – and cascading down his back, still in desperate need of a closer acquaintance with a brush, but nevertheless a most unexpected sight – who would have thought that Jack Sparrow could let go of his strange hairstyle with such ease?
Again the hands are raised and swiftly Sparrow divests himself of the beads in his forked beard, earrings that I had only been able to suspect were hiding behind all that hair and a number of fine rings – all of which are in their turn put in the bowl.
I wonder if Sparrow sees me staring at him in something that is not quite fascination – he gives no outward sign as to whether or not he even notices me. Not a single one of those dazzling, impudent smirks, not a glance, not a word – silence, not eerie, yet completely out of place fills the cabin. He does not act as if he is ignoring me, though – it is rather as if he really does not care one way or the other about my presence, although he is undoubtedly aware of it.
A couple of strange almost-hops and his boots are kicked away, then the attention shifts to the sash and waistcoat, both of which end up thrown on a chair.
Dancing fingers move purposefully towards Sparrow’s shirt, undoing the buttons with the ease of long practice. Still I cannot seem to find my voice, as cloth is peeled away to reveal a finely muscled chest, it´s skin like a map of a lifetime, covered as it is in scars (like the mad pattern of red stripes on his left arm and the two old marks from some musket´s bullets on his chest) and tattoos (like the ship – obviously the Pearl – on his right arm and the beautiful Asian dragon peering at me over his shoulder), yet there is still the occasional stretch of smooth, deeply tanned skin – and why is Sparrow not saying something? Surely my stare would be the perfect thing to mock?
And then the hands move downwards, towards his breeches, and somehow my tongue once again obeys my will.
“Captain Sparrow, what do you think that you are doing?”
Cinnamon eyes focus on me.
“I would´ve thought that an astute gentleman such as yourself would´ve guessed, Commodore James – I´m taking myself a bath.”
“A bath?” and I am not sure whether it is the thought of this grimy pirate voluntarily engaging in such an activity that causes the disbelief in my voice, or simply the thought of anyone wasting valuable water in such quantities on such a luxury while at sea.
“Aye, a bath – I´m sure you´re familiar with the concept. Cleanliness and godliness and all that, eh?” and once again those hands begin to move, only to stop and hover midair at my next exclamation.
“Mr. Sparrow, have you no modesty?”
For a moment he actually seems to ponder, then shakes his head vigorously – “No” – and nimble fingers begin working on the first button…
“Sparrow!”
At first it seems as though Sparrow is simply going to continue despite my protests, but then the half-naked pirate stalks towards me. Momentarily I worry that he might have somehow taken umbrage, but he stops just short of the bed. A grin, a wink – “Your loss, mate,” – and the draperies that can be used to separate the bed from the rest of the cabin are pulled back in place, shielding me from Sparrow´s – presence.
For a few moments it is nearly silent on the other side of the draperies, then comes a splashing noise. Seconds pass, whereupon a new sound starts to reach me – half-muttered lines mixed with occasional humming, regularly interrupted by a loud and very enthusiastic “Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate´s life for me.” My heart has time to beat a few times before my still somewhat sleep-addled and hung-over self realizes the awful truth: apparently Sparrow is one of those people who sing in the bath – and out of all the songs in the world he would of course have to pick this one…
I groan – though my headache has weakened, it is most definitely still present, and I would appreciate a little quiet. Nevertheless, I resist the temptation to ask for it – with my present luck Sparrow would probably begin to sing even louder. Instead I choose to take advantage of my similarly weakened nausea to have some breakfast and pick up the bowl left on the tray. Immediately I find myself graced with the presence of the two kittens – the red one still bearing faint traces of its earlier encounter with Sparrow´s bathwater. After briefly investigating my breakfast (and finding it not to their liking) they make themselves comfortable on my person and leave me to my porridge.
Time measured in sound: Sparrow singing – at some point changing the tune to a sea shanty that he actually sings rather well (possibly because he actually seems to know the lyrics to this one), but dear God, could he not have chosen any other than the one about the drunken sailor? Yet again I barely resist the urge to yell at him to stop. Mercifully he soon does so of his own volition. Then follows the sounds of a person getting out of water – accompanied by liberal dripping – and moving around, of a door opening and – shortly thereafter – closing. Then the draperies are pulled aside to admit a man carrying an armload of things.
It is hard to say what the first thing I notice about him is. Perhaps it is his garb – tight black breeches and a white shirt hanging open to reveal a finely muscled chest. Perhaps it is his hair – long and black and cascading down his back, looking like it would feel like silk to the touch. Perhaps it is his face – the face of some youthful nobleman, I would say, if not for the beard that frames it – more than a goatee, but less than a full beard, and as silky looking as the hair – proving without a doubt that this man has seen many a year come and go. Perhaps it is his catlike grace – swaying slightly, just enough to match the movements of the ship, seemingly not even conscious of doing so. Perhaps it is the colour of his skin – a deep dark colour like a man might have after spending a lifetime in the sun, or perhaps simply the skin you would expect a Spaniard to have. Perhaps it is all of these combined. Perhaps it is none of the above – perhaps it is something intangible, something for which I do not know the word.
I try to gather my wits sufficiently to ask this stranger who he is – is he perhaps some Spanish nobleman? And in that case what is he doing here, aboard this particular ship? Is he, too, a prisoner of Sparrow´s? If so, might we be able to help each other make good our escape?
But then the man sits down in front of me, his lips parting in an ivory and gold grin, and I realize who it is I have been staring at – who would have thought that Jack was hiding -this- underneath all that filth and grime?
The pirate´s eyes gleam mischievously and a few days ago I would have fully expected some mocking comment – but the last many times Sparrow has refrained from behaving as I would expect and consequently my expectations have changed – and surprisingly enough they turn out to be correct this time.
The pirate rummages through the small pile of items he just put down and eventually picks up the gold-framed mirror I saw yesterday. Without a word he places it in my hands (incidentally scaring the felines into leaving their comfortable perches to peek at us from behind a pillow), then proceeds to move it and them until he seems satisfied with the position (and repeatedly preventing me from turning it around to get a glance at my own sorry state or simply putting it down – it takes a few interrupted attempts at both before I give up). I glare at him over the frame – have a been degraded to a piece of furniture, then?
Sparrow seems oblivious to my anger. Turning his head slightly to allow him to see a portion of his hair in the mirror, he reaches up and starts braiding it, adding vividly coloured wooden and metal beads from his pile and then an old, worn button.
“I want you to give me your word as an officer and as a gentleman that you won´t try to escape.”
“What?”
“I. Want. You. To. Give. Me. Your. Word. As. An. Officer. And. As. A. Gentleman. That. You. Won´t. Try. To. Escape,” he repeats, slowly, pronouncing each word carefully as you would when faced with a small child or a foreigner.
“I heard you the first time, Sparrow,” I growl.
“Oh, good,” he smiles, seemingly more interested in getting the second braid just right than in our conversation. In the silence I can hear the sound of the cabin door opening and someone moving on the other side of the draperies. Sparrow seems to pay it no heed.
“So, will you?”
“Will I what?” The cabin door slams.
“Give me your word.” Long, slender fingers put the finishing touches to the second braid.
“Sparrow, how on Earth could you possibly imagine that I would agree to make -you- such a promise?” The cabin door opens again.
For a moment Sparrow abandons his braids, cocks his head and looks at me, his expression inscrutable. Then, my question going unanswered, his attention returns to the third braid.
“You asked about where we´re going yesterday, Commodore James?”
“Yes?” The word is a sigh – so the bloody scallywag wants to play this game again? Does he expect to drive me mad with these games of words that only seems to hold half of his attention, and all the time the door keeps on getting opened and slammed and people move about in the part of the cabin that I cannot see.
“Still interested?”
“Yes.”
“Oh good,” and then long minutes drag by as Sparrow works on his fourth – or is it fifth? – braid. It does not take long before I realize that the infuriating scallywag is trying to force me into posing the question anew and I resolve not to do so – let us see how long he can last. Several minutes and three braids later I suddenly realize how very childish this must look. So, he wants me to bite? Very well, then, I will.
The words “Pray tell, Captain Sparrow, what is our current destination?” cause a smile to flash in my direction.
“Well, see, my dear Commodore James, we just happen to be on our way to this lovely little island of my acquaintance – pretty little spot, with a nice little freshwater spring and a beach that looks like God had careening in mind when he made it. Lovely place, really – and the best thing about it is that this is an island that cannot be found –except- by those who already know where it is.”
“I do not seem to recall the Isle of the Dead having any beaches – fit for careening or otherwise.”
“No, no, no – not Isla de Muerta. Another island.”
“Another island that cannot be found except by those who already know where it is?” I feel my eyebrow rising.
“Aye.”
“And exactly how many such islands are you familiar with, Sparrow?”
“Oh, eight or nine – not counting these two sunken islands that only come up to the surface once every century or thereabouts.” I find it hard to decide whether Sparrow is serious or simply trying to make fun of me – knowing him, probably a little bit of both.
“Well, that is all very well and fine, but I still fail to see how this should in any way make me willing to promise you anything!”
“Ah, well, see here, Commodore James – first we go to this little island and we careen and repair my girl,” and as he speaks he affectionately pats the ship. “Not much chance of escape there, eh? Once we´re all nicely done and shipshape, we set sail for some nice, neutral port where all your little Navy ships won´t come barging in to spoil our little party, and from there we will send a letter to your friends in Port Royal to the effect that we would very much like to start the negotiations regarding your ransom.”
“Negotiations, Captain Sparrow? It was my understanding that such matters customarily are handled with a straightforward demand.”
“Aye, traditionally,” he smiles – now why do I not like that smile? “And ‘tis also traditional to add a little something to show that you´ve really got your hostage.” Sparrow´s fingers stop working on the umpteenth braid to reach out and ghost over my fingers, my ears, the tip of my nose. I shiver – I cannot help myself. Even though I am beginning to get used to Sparrow´s mostly-veiled and hardly ever realized threats, even though I know that he has no need to prove possession and has already proven willingness to hurt – even so I shiver. For I have seen men who were missing fingers, missing ears (and not due to an accident), and not too long ago I read a report about a captain who had been forced to eat his own ears by a pirate.
“Good for you that I´m not exactly what you might call traditional, eh?” Sparrow´s voice is low and oddly – gentle?
No, Jack Sparrow is far from a traditional pirate – what traditional pirate would have tried to spoon-feed an ill Commodore? Turner called him a good man. Personally I would not go that far – no one who has voluntarily chosen to make a career out of robbery and theft can be called good (and I have no doubt that the choice was Sparrow´s – if the sheer and obvious pleasure he takes from his craft was not enough to convince me of this, then the random bursts of brilliance (surely enough to have allowed him to succeed at less criminal endeavours) would).
A good man – no. But not a bloodthirsty one, either. If anything I would call Sparrow a trickster, a man with no regard for any laws but those of his own making – and maybe not even those. Which might possibly be an admirable trait in a king (although I rather doubt it), but certainly not in a common man.
Then again, if there is one thing that Sparrow is not, then it is common.
I suddenly realize that neither of us has spoken in five braids´ time (Sparrow is well on his way to restoring his hair to its former ‘glory´).
“I still do not see the relevance of all this.”
“Well, Commodore James, as you´ve no doubt noted, you won´t really get much of a chance to escape before we reach that port anyway – and it would save ol´ Jack a bit of a bother if you´d just make that promise, savvy?” I suspect his smile is meant to be endearing, although it falls somewhat short of the mark.
“And why would I possibly want to save you – of all people - ‘a bit of a bother´, Sparrow?”
“Ah, because I´d promise you something in return, my dear Commodore James?”
“Oh?”
“Aye – swear you won´t try to leave ol´ Jack prematurely, as it were, and in turn I promise to treat you as my honoured guest for the remainder of your stay, savvy?”
“Honoured guest?”
“Aye, on my honour as a bloody scallywag.” That grin again, wide and mischievous, almost impish.
“Pirates have no honour,” and I turn my head away, leaning back against the headboard of the bed to prevent him from seeing how tempting his offer is to me.
Sparrow finishes what would appear to be his last braid and reaches out to toy with my chain. “Ah, but you see, my dear Commodore James, ‘tis not such a bad thing to be ol´ Jack´s guest. For instance, my guest wouldn´t have to wear manacles. In fact, my guest would be free to go anywhere on my Pearl – well, except for those cabins that´s been taken by the crew and the helm when I´m at it – but except for those places he would be free to go anywhere he´d like.” And the hand removes itself to aid its partner in somehow fixing the bony spike in Sparrow´s hair.
“Sparrow, I cannot make such a promise.” And truly I cannot. After all, it is one thing to make such vows when captured by representatives of a lawful enemy nation – in fact, I have already done so once in the past – but to a pirate? To a member of the brotherhood that has been called ‘hostes humani generis´, the common enemy of all mankind? My career must already be greatly endangered by the events of the last few weeks – surely this would finish it off completely.
“Are you sure, Commodore James? You see, my guest just might also be allowed to call me by my first-name – which might come right in handy for you, seeing as how you still keep forgetting to call ol´ Jack ‘Captain´ half the time even though you´re bloody well aboard my bloody ship.” What a silly promise – hardly a temptation. Why should I have any desire to call him Jack? My reply is a snort.
“Not enough to convince you, my dear Commodore James?”
“I cannot under any circumstances make that promise.” Though the thought of moving around freely, swinging my arms around, unimpeded by manacles – I will admit it is a rather tempting proposition.
“Don´t be so rash, Commodore James,” and he stops trying to restore his goatee to its former forked liking and cocks his head. “Hear that?” At first I do not know what he is talking about, but then I realize that the constant comings and goings on the other side of the draperies are now accompanied by splashing noises.
“They´re filling up that bathtub again, Commodore James, with nice, hot, steaming water. Now, my guest, he´d get to have himself a lovely bath, savvy?” A hand reaches around to touch my bandaged back. “Would probably do your poor back a world of good, eh?”
Temptation, thy name is Jack Sparrow! How did he know? How did he guess? My skin, grimy and unwashed as it is, practically begins itching at the very thought of being clean again. Sparrow could hardly have chosen anything more likely to convince me – but still, I am an officer. There is simply no way…
“My guest could have himself a shave, too,” and before I manage to pull my head away calloused fingertips glide over my stubbled chin, “a change of clothes, a better place to sleep than a hammock in the brig.” Of course, only a fool would fail to notice the way he constantly mentions that all of these luxuries are intended for his ‘guest´ - would fail to notice how he never once mentions how a prisoner will be treated. Not that it is all that hard to figure out – the only mystery is whether it would simply be a return to the way it has been, or if I will find myself locked in the brig for the remainder of my stay. Not that it really matters – surely, personal discomfort cannot in any way compare to the disgrace of making such an oath as the one Sparrow has demanded. If he was some French or Spanish naval captain making a similar demand – but he is not, he is a pirate, and it is a waste of time to even go there.
“Captain Sparrow, I am an officer of His Majesty´s Royal Navy. There is no conceivable way that I can give you my word to that effect,” I tell the pirate, who has just added the final, vividly coloured bead to his forked beard.
“‘Cause it´d be bad for your career if anyone ever found out, eh?”
“Indeed,” I answer, relieved that he understands. Surely he will stop his attempts to persuade me now.
Alas, no such luck.
“Tell me, Commodore James, do you think ol´ Jack´s stupid?” he asks, while seemingly more intent on putting on a fine pair of gold earrings.
“No.” Oh, no, never stupid – that is one mistake I will not be making again.
“Then how come you seem to think that I´d waste my time by making you an offer that you can´t accept?”
“I am quite sure that I have no idea what you are talking about.” Except I think perhaps I do – and I wish that he would stop this.
“Well, let me put it this way – if you just make the promise, then nobody need ever know, savvy?” I wonder if he realizes exactly how tempting his offer is to me – and how weary I am of manacles and filth and the brig. The splashing from the other side of the draperies seem to be forming a broken chant of “surrender, surrender.” But it does not matter – just because my superiors would not learn of such misconduct, then it is still an unacceptable thing for an officer to even contemplate.
“I would know,” I say, stubbornly ignoring the part of me that desperately wants to say yes.
Sparrow cocks his head, looking intently at me for a bit – then his gaze shifts to the exquisite porcelain jar he has just picked up.
“My dear Commodore James, I´ve already told you that you won´t even get a chance to escape ‘till we reach the neutral port – and if you don´t give me your word you won´t get one there either. So´s all just really a matter of how comfortable your stay with ol´ Jack´ll be, savvy?” He pauses in his speech to open the jar and dip a finger into its black contents, then proceeds to drag it over first one, then the other eye while keeping it closed – a process that leaves him looking vaguely like a racoon. As far as I can see out of the corner of my eye, anyway, for I have turned my face away – again.
“There ain´t no dishonour in not fighting when you can´t win, Commodore James.” His voice is low, intent.
“What do you know about honour, pirate?” I expect anger or perhaps yet another clever and witty reply – I expect anything and everything other than Sparrow simply ignoring my remark, his attention focused on slipping gaudy, flashy rings on his fingers.
“Sparrow, I – I cannot…” but my words are cut short by a finger pressed against my lips, the cool metal of a ring somehow managing to send a shiver down my spine.
“‘Course you can, Commodore James, it´s easy. It´s not a question of what you can or can´t do, it´s a question of what you will do, savvy?” I blink, staring at him, wanting to be able to offer some intelligent and decisive and most of all profound reply to that – but I do not. I just watch as he picks up a bright red bandanna covered in gold thread embroidery – obviously far more precious than the grubby rag he used to gag me with – and ties it around his forehead.
“Come on, Commodore James, give in – you know you want to.” His breath is hot against my ear as those words are practically whispered into it.
“No,” but even in my own ears my voice sounds weak and unconvincing, and I cannot seem to take my eyes off of his right hand (he is currently winding a piece of cloth around his wrist) and the angry red mark on the palm, no longer a wound, but not quite yet a scar. Sparrow does not seem to bother about my objection.
“Bath, clothes, no manacles – and ol´ Jack´ll never breathe a word, promise.” There is something hypnotizing about his voice, his dark eyes no longer moving from me, his dancing, weaving hands. I am somewhat surprised when I hear my own voice asking: “No manacles?” And I nearly hate that voice, that question, the fact that even the asking of it is unacceptable for a proper Commodore – and yet I have just asked it.
“Aye, no manacles. Now why would my very honoured guest have to wear manacles?” Is it my imagination, or do I trace a hint of triumph in his voice? And if I do, is it then wrong of him to feel it?
“All you have to do is say the word, savvy?”
Silently I watch as Sparrow rises to finish his dressing – buttoning his shirt only half the whole way up, tying a yellow silken sash around his waist, putting on a fine blue waistcoat, somehow getting his feet into those ridiculously high boots of his. Coat, hat, belt, sword, pistol – and the man before me straightens, looking for all the world like a wealthier, more successful, but no less colourful version of the pirate I saw at the docks of Port Royal that day – which I suppose he is.
“So, Commodore James L. Norrington, do we have an accord?”
For one seemingly endless moment I just stare at his offered hand, thoughts of duty and warm water and the brig, resigning yourself to the inevitable and how the weight of a pair of manacles feels around your wrists running through my head – then I sell my pride for the promise of a bath.
Sparrow´s idea of what constitutes a handshake seems to involve warm fingertips gliding over the back of my hand and the thumb over my palm as if trying to map the skin by touch rather than your basic firm handshake – I tolerate this eccentricity on his part, nervous that an objection will make him go back on our deal before I have had a chance to avail myself of the things promised me in it.
Eventually he lets go and moves behind the draperies, only to return with a gleaming key in his fingers, twirling it and making is disappear and reappear as though he was some common street-corner conjurer.
Insert key and turn – and I find myself free at last, at least from the manacles. Rising, I rub my wrist, grown tender from the long manacling, and eye Sparrow with a mixture of suspicion and irritation – oh, but the latter is hard to maintain, as I feel the sheer pleasure of simply being able to stand properly for the first time in days. Nobody who has not been chained in such a way as to not be able to manage more than an awkward near-crouch will ever know how pleasurable standing in and of itself can be.
Sparrow walks a few steps backwards and somehow manages to twist and poke his head out through the draperies. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he then proceeds to pull them back, revealing the slightly cluttered cabin that has grown far too familiar over the last few days – not that I pay it much attention. My eyes are focused on the full bathtub standing in the middle of it. Steam is rising lazily from the water.
It is surprisingly hard to turn my eyes back to Sparrow. “I believe you mentioned a change of clothes?” I have a feeling that once I remove the breeches I am currently wearing they will prove to be well and truly beyond salvage.
“I might have.”
“Well?”
“Well what, Commodore James?”
“Are you going to be providing me with it any time soon?”
“Ah, well, see – I was sort of thinking you could fish something out of that sea chest of yours, mate.”
“I suppose I could,” I reply, raising an eyebrow, “if not for the fact that I customarily keep it locked. And the last I saw of the key was in my office back in Port Royal.”
“Not a problem, my dear Commodore James,” and the light is reflected in gold teeth and the cold, hard steel of his knife before he kneels down in front of my sea chest and gets down to business.
There is something inherently wrong with a world where a man has to stand by and watch while a pirate picks the lock on his private sea chest – and not feel much need to protest. But it is true that there are clothes in it, and Sparrow´s method of getting to them is the most practical under the circumstances – any moral concerns aside.
A click as the lock surrenders and before I have a chance to prevent it Sparrow pushes the lid open.
“Now she´s a real beauty.” There is something bordering on awe in his voice as his fingers glide along the curves of the ship painted on the inside of the lid. “Care to make the introductions, Commodore James?”
“That is the HMS Hippolytos – the first ship I ever served on.” I find myself split between a desire to get Sparrow away from my things – not that there is really anything interesting in the chest, mainly clothes and a few well-thumbed books – and the odd appeal of the sight of him looking with a mixture of respect and genuine appreciation at the image of a ship that I heard sank beneath the waves two years ago.
“Hippolytos? Captain have some trouble with his stepmother, eh?” To the best of my knowledge old Captain Rutherford was an orphan, but I hold my tongue, faintly realizing that Sparrow is not really looking for an answer.
Eventually, with a “Very pretty”, he drags his attention away from the painting – only to turn it towards the chest´s contents! Before I have a chance to stop them his pirate hands are going through -my- clothes. I take a step forward, filling my lungs with a deep breath to allow me to voice my protest suitably loudly – and am presently cut short by a pair of shoes being placed in my hands.
“Let´s see, you´ll need those. And a pair of breeches that´ll leave at least a little to the imagination – and a nice shirt – and a belt, ah, here´s one – and stockings. Oh, silk stockings – you navy fellows do have such fine things – might just have to commandeer some of these.” And with each garment mentioned it is added to a somewhat haphazard pile in my arms which I am forced to focus on in order not to drop my clothes down in one of the puddles left behind by Sparrow´s bathing.
“Sparrow, you are not going to steal my stockings,” I protest somewhat exasperatedly, but he ignores me in favour of his newest find.
“Oh, look – you´ve even got yourself a wig in here!” he exclaims, as if the contents of my own sea chest ought to come as a great surprise to me.
Eventually the chest manages to yield a complete set of clothes – except a hat – and Sparrow adds my razor and a towel to the pile in my arms for good measure before letting the lid close.
“There you are, Commodore James, all set for your bath, eh?”
“Indeed.”
And then the infuriating scallywag sits down on the table as though he is planning to watch!
“Captain Sparrow?”
“Yes, Commodore James?”
“Am I going to be allowed some privacy for this?”
“Why, are you embarrassed, Commodore James?” His smile is lewd, almost – but not quite – a leer.
“Sparrow.”
“You shouldn´t be, you know – I´m sure you don´t have anything ol´ Jack hasn´t seen before.”
“-Sparrow-.”
“Which is not to say that I´ve ever seen you naked, my dear Commodore James.” As if there was any doubt about that.
“Sparrow!”
“Although, as a matter of fact, I -am- actually sure that you don´t have all the bits I´ve seen in my day.”
“Sparrow!!!”
“Not meaning that you don´t have all your bits – s´ not like I think you´re a eunuch or something, savvy?” (What is this obsession of his with eunuchs, I wonder?)
“SPARROW.”
“Did once meet a fellow with a tail, though.”
“S-P-A-R-R-O-W.”
“Ugliest thing you ever did see – though it had its uses, if you get my drift.” And I do not even want to try to understand what he is hinting at.
“Captain Jack Sparrow!”
And finally he seems to notice me. “Aye, mate?”
“Please.”
For a moment it seems as though Sparrow will remain exactly where he is, his legs dangling from the edge of the table, the tub well within his field of vision. For one long moment it seems as though my first experience as Sparrow´s ‘honoured guest´ is going to be being forced to undress in front of him.
Then he gets to his feet and takes a few steps towards me until he can lean forward, his eyes focused on mine, our faces barely an inch apart. “Spoilsport,” and surely the fondness I imagine hearing in his voice is exactly that – a figment of my far too vivid imagination. “Come find me on deck when you´re all done, eh?” and at long last he starts towards the cabin door and for alone I breathe a small sigh of relief.
Halfway to the door he stops and turns around. “Going to need some help with that bandage, Commodore James?”
“No,” I reply and then add “thank you,” because it is really a thoughtful offer, and I suppose it is best to be polite. Sparrow nods and resumes his walk, then – with a hand on the handle – he turns halfway round.
“Going to need someone to scrub your back, James?” And now -that- smile is a leer, of that there is little doubt – the very epitome of lewdness.
“No!”, but he is already out of the door, having somehow managed to not stumble over the kittens choosing to leave the cabin alongside him in favour of the deck. The door closes with something not quite a slam, leaving me feeling somewhat silly, standing there with my arms full of clothes and an awareness that if it was not so I would probably have hurled something – a hairbrush? – after him – and it would most likely have hit the closing door (although I am quite sure it would have made a most satisfying sound).
Oh well, alone at last.
The first thing I do is to take a deep, calming breath. The second thing I do is to deposit the pile of clothes on the table. The third thing I do is to cross the cabin in a few strides. The fourth thing I do is to turn the elaborate brass door key until I hear the satisfying sound of the door locking. The fifth thing I do is to slump against the door.
From outside – from somewhere just a little bit too close to the door – comes a short burst of laughter.
I just lean against the door for a bit – just to calm down completely – before heading back to the bed, sitting down and getting on with trying to get the fairly tight bandage off my chest. Eventually I manage, but not before regretting not taking Sparrow up on his offer.
I suppose I should simply strip completely and get into the tub before the water cools, but instead I pick up the mirror once more (when did I put it down? I distinctly remember it in my hands when Sparrow applied his kohl, but after that?) and look into it: a scruffy green-eyed man with filthy, unkempt hair and many days worth of stubble looks back at me. As bad as expected, I suppose.
I sigh, then proceed to spend a bit of time twisting and turning in an attempt to position the mirror so that I can get a proper look at my back – and then study the half-healed, but at least not bleeding lash-marks for what feels like a very long time. Beneath them I see the very old scars from my previous lashing half a lifetime in the past, so faded as to be nearly invisible if you do not know where to look – and no matter what Sparrow claims then these new ones will probably add to the latticework of pale stripes.
The thought of warm water manages to penetrate my heavier thoughts and I turn from the mirror, remove my breeches (which are coming apart in the seems in a most inappropriate manner) and the emerald that has become an almost familiar weight around my neck, and lower myself into the steaming water, tensing in anticipation of the sting of saltwater in my wounds. It never comes. Who on Earth would use such an exorbitant amount of fresh water – drinking water! – for a bath aboard a ship?! I shake my head – ascribing it to Sparrow´s customary oddness – and, picking up a bar of soap lying on the edge of the tub, I set about the business of turning back into a human being.
A while later a much refreshed, much cleaner and much more human looking Commodore is halfway dressed and going through his sea chest in the hope of finding some hairpins to make his wig stay in place – a vain hope, as it turns out. Oh well, my other wig managed to fall off perfectly fine despite a multitude of hairpins supposed to prevent such an occurrence – surely this one will stay on my head despite the lack?
Stray locks tucked in under the old but still presentable wig, feet in stockings in shoes, the last button on my shirt buttoned, the old coat – not as fine as the one lost to the sea thanks to Sparrow´s abduction of me, but at least it has all the proper insignia – on top of the shirt – and I find myself looking at the emerald, pondering whether to put it back on. On one hand I suppose it would be unwise to upset Sparrow by not wearing his gift, but on the other hand, I am feeling quite strengthened by simply having had a chance to clean myself and besides, an emerald necklace has no place being worn with a uniform. Determined to not bend any further, I put the stone away – and now I suppose the time has come for me to go forth and locate the crazy captain of this ship.
I take a step outside the cabin, stopping to blink at the sunlight, so very bright after the gloom inside – and then I blink some more.
It would appear that my appearance has caused every head on deck to turn to regard me. It would furthermore appear that the crew of The Black Pearl – which used to be little more than a skeleton crew – has multiplied during my lengthy stay in the captain´s cabin, or so I must assume, since I cannot think of another explanation to account for the many completely new faces on deck. Finally, it would appear that not a single one among them likes what he (or she) sees.
Sparrow is fairly easy to spot – standing as far out on the bowsprit as he safely can and then some, the wind toying with his braids, looking for all the world as though he is some sort of extra figurehead. No, spotting him is no challenge – the challenge will be getting to him, something that will require of me that I walk through the throng of hostile pirates. The thought tempts me to go back into the cabin and lock the door behind me – but no. I refuse to let them scare me into hiding. I am a Commodore of His Majesty´s Royal Navy as well as supposed to be their captain´s ‘honoured guest´ - they will not cow me.
As I start walking I take note of the fact that the deck seems more cluttered than usual – not only are there a higher number of unwashed bodies than before, but all the clutter of a sailing ship – ropes, half-mended sails and so forth – seems to have increased proportionally – and then of course there is the makeshift henhouse that someone has constructed at one end of the deck. Yet I ignore it all as best I can, taking care only of not accidentally walking into anybody, and focus on Sparrow, who seems to be the only one aboard still oblivious to the fact that I have emerged from his cabin.
There can be no doubt that the crew has noted my person, however – I have hardly taken two steps before the first hissing insult reaches my ears. “Navy dog” does not get to stand alone for very long – soon it is joined by a mixture of comments impugning my personal honour, questioning my courage and statements about various relatives of mine´s involvement with a number of more or less exotic animals. The insults form a sibilant susurrus, none of them spoken loud enough for the captain of the ship to hear. I ignore them, let them roll over me like waves – in the course of my career I have been called worse things as well as more original ones. Criminals awaiting the gallows are not exactly famed for their courtesy towards the men who captured them – and besides, they are just words. “Sticks and stones,” as Sparrow told Eli- Miss Swann upon their first meeting.
Then the tone of the susurrus changes, hardens, sharpens – though not once does the words sound louder. Now there are words of cutting, stabbing, knives in the night, of fists and pistols and all the countless fatal accidents that can happen on a ship. I walk a gauntlet of threats among men who are acting like animals, growling at their prey – and I walk with a stiff spine, looking neither left nor right, ignoring them for fear of the possibility that if I show any fear they will attack – no matter what their captain wants. After all, are pirates not notorious for turning against their captains if they are unhappy with their decisions?
Beads of sweat form against my skin. I tell myself it is simply the layers of clothes I am wearing and I keep walking towards Sparrow standing on the bowsprit.
And then my ankle hits something hard and unyielding and suddenly both the deck and its occupants are tumbling by as the planks of the deck approach me at an alarming speed.
I suppose one should be grateful for small mercies – like the fact that I somehow manage to land on a coil of rope instead of on the deck itself, a pirate or – worse – a pirate´s sword or knife, or the fact that the whole tumble did not end with me landing on my back. But I hope I can be forgiven for not being in a particularly grateful state of mind as I lie there, glaring up at the peg-legged pirate who tripped me – after all, the deck is hardly a place for an ‘honoured guest´ to lie. And as if the fall itself was not bad enough, then I can feel – I do not even have to look – that my wig is now, probably due to an absence of hairpins, sitting at what would be termed a ‘jaunty´ angle if a hat was involved.
Anyway, I glare up at the one who put me in this unfortunate position – and it is a proper glare, a glare that has cowed many a pirate and made many a subordinate fall silent and hope to be dismissed, a glare worthy of a proper Commodore. I glare at him in the complete silence that is suddenly filling the deck.
And then he begins to chuckle.
And then he begins to laugh.
And then the rest follows suit.
Insults and threats, they do not bother me all that much – there is nothing new to them. Once they had bite – back when I was younger and more hot-headed, back when I thought things spoken by doomed men mattered. It is different with laughter, I realize, as is crashes over me like a tidal wave, coming at me from what feels like every corner of the ship. Against laughter I have no defences – and so it hurts.
I struggle to my feet, unhindered and unhelped, and try glaring at the offenders again – which simply makes them laugh so much harder. And that is when I decide that I will not take it any longer. ‘Honoured guest´, indeed! I turn – out of the corner of my eye catching a glimpse of Sparrow moving towards me – and without wasting any time on trying to salvage my ruined appearance I stride back to the cabin, gales of laughter and a forest of pointed fingers following in my wake. At least nobody tries to stop me. At last I make it into the cabin, where I can slam the door and lean against the bulkhead without further incident. At least I manage that much.