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Hardly two minutes later the door opens and closes once more, admitting Sparrow, who walks to where I stand without hesitation and leans forward, a hand planted on either side of me, to peak up at my face, half in the shadow of the bloody wig.
“Let me guess, Commodore James – you suddenly remembered you had forgotten to buff the buttons on your coat, eh?” Damn him for that slightly playful tone – this is not funny!
“Your – your crew seems to have increased, Captain Sparrow,” I manage, trying to sound offhanded – not easy when all you really want to do is to yell at the man in front of you.
“Aye,” and he has the cheek to grin. “Picked up some lads in Tortuga – part of my business there. Needed some more people to sail my Pearl properly, eh? ‘Sides, gonna need every one of ‘em when we start the repairs, savvy?”
“Indeed.”
For a bit neither of us speak – the silence giving me the time I so desperately need to calm down properly. But I know I cannot avoid this new issue for very long – so why not meet it head on?
“‘Honoured guest´, Captain Sparrow?” and I raise an eyebrow. He actually has the decency to let his answering grin be somewhat embarrassed.
“Aye, well – you can´t really blame them for laughing, Commodore James.”
“No?” and my brow rises higher.
“No,” and he shakes his head vehemently.
“And pray tell, why not?”
“Well, you see, my dear Commodore James, you in your pretty uniform are a pretty income… incompetent… incorporeal… inco… inconsiderate… inconsolable… incontinent…” and with eyes rolling in their sockets and his face all screwed up the usually so eloquent pirate goes through an admittedly vast and varied vocabulary in search of the word that has the audacity to escape him – and at the same time he manages to insult me more than once in such a way that I can hardly voice an objection. I wonder if it might not simply be an act to allow him to do that very thing.
“Incongruent?” I suggest, careful to make my voice sound somewhat weary, hoping to stop this little game of his.
“Aye, that´s the one, incongruent,” and without missing a beat he continues: “You -are- a pretty incongruent sight aboard a pirate ship, savvy, mate?”
“Well, I should certainly hope so!”
“But you see, Commodore James, ‘tis the incongruity that made ‘em laugh – such a finely uniformed officer all on his onesies, among all us scallywags,” and his smile is as golden as ever.
“I suppose,” I reply, somewhat mollified.
“Well, that and the fact that you look like one of those fancy desserts all the ladies in good ol´ London eat.”
I pull myself up in my full height and glare down at the blackguard. “I do not look like a dessert, Sparrow!”
“Oh, but you do, mate,” and if only I could reach out and wipe that smirk off his face! “It´s the hat, you see – without it the wig makes your head look just like whipped cream atop some fancy cake – a very fine cake, to be sure,” he adds after a moment, as if that will soothe my ruffled feathers.
“If that is the case I do not suppose you might have a hat I could borrow?” I think I manage to keep my voice reasonable level, all things considered.
“Sorry, Commodore James – don´t really have any that´d go with your pretty uniform. ‘Sides, there´d still be the whole incongruity issue, eh?”
“Yes,” and I feel myself leaning heavier – almost slumping – against the bulkhead. It would appear that Sparrow is going to play with me no matter what my alleged status aboard The Black Pearl is – and I suppose there is really nothing I can do about it. Nothing – except keeping a cool head and trying to not let my temper get the better of me again.
“Then what do you suggest, Captain Sparrow?” I think I do a passable imitation of a tired parent talking to a far too energetic child – not that he seems to notice.
“Are you asking me what I think, my dear Commodore James?” His eyes sparkle with glee.
“It would appear so.”
“Well then, Commodore James, I´d suggest we make a few – adjustments to your outfit.”
“Adjustments?”
“Aye, adjustments.”
“Such as?”
“Well, first of all,” and as he speaks he raises his dancing hands slowly, carefully towards my face – ever so slowly and ever so carefully, as if I am some angry beast that he wants to pet, but fears will snap at him – and then curls one finger around one of my wigs pristinely white curls, “the wig, mate, it really has to go.” And suiting word to deed he removes the offending item from my head and puts it down on one of the many sea chests in the cabin, then turns back to let his fingers run through my hair – and I suppose I ought to object to that, should pull my head away – should I not? “You see, mate, it really does look silly without a hat - ‘sides, why d´you want to hide your real hair, anyway? I´d understand if you were bald or something like that, but you have such nice hair.” I ought to object to those words too – too familiar by far – why do I not?
“It is part of the uniform,” I say, and only as I speak those words do I realize how very true that is – and how oddly naked and vulnerable I feel without it. Sufficiently so that I almost push Sparrow away and pick it back up, put it back on – but only almost, because I do realize how ridiculous that would look. And if there is one thing I do not need, then it is to appear even more ridiculous in Jack Sparrow´s eyes. It is bad enough that I can never seem to stay level-headed and calm around him.
Pirate fingers glide down through my hair, pausing for a moment to push a stray lock behind an ear, rests briefly on the epaulets on my shoulders, then glide even further down to undo the brass buttons on my coat!
“Sparrow!” I try to bat the impudent fingers away, but they avoid me and simply carry on.
“Ah, but Commodore James, we´re gonna have to get you out of this lovely coat too – far too Commodorish, savvy?” I sigh and resign myself to the fact that he is apparently not going to let me keep any of the obvious parts of my uniform. Hoping to get this over with a little faster I raise my hands again – and this time it is Sparrow who bats -my- hands away, so I let them drop to my sides and allow him to proceed with the unbuttoning. The thought that Sparrow might derive some peculiar amusement from removing my coat comes unbidden to my mind, perhaps partly due to the fact that it is the second time he does so – and is summarily rejected. The situation is embarrassing enough as it is.
“One thing I don´t understand about you Navy lads,” Sparrow continues as he starts pushing my coat off. “Doesn´t it get bloody hot in all these coats and uniforms of yours? All those layers, mate – I´m surprised you don´t simply boil to death – like lobsters. Or maybe you do. Maybe that´s the real reason they call you lobsters, eh, Commodore James?”
Compliments from this pirate might confuse me, but insults I at least know how to deal with. I glare (despite the fact that glaring has proven quite ineffective as of late) and in as icy a tone of voice as possible I repeat my earlier words: “It is part of the uniform.” I follow Sparrow with my eyes as he steps away, folding my coat surprisingly neatly and putting it down on my own sea chest.
“Actually, far too hot for coats today,” and his own comes of as well, though it is simply draped over a chair, not folded.
Then he turns back to me, regarding me with an appraising look – and I prepare myself to fight off any further attempts on his part to remove items of my clothing. Fortunately, it does not come to that, as Sparrow nods – mostly to himself – and mumbles: “Better, much better.” Then, raising his voice a bit, he continues: “But you still look too tense, Commodore James. That won´t do, that won´t do at all. You need to be more relaxed, savvy? So, how about we roll up your sleeves – like this – and unbutton that shirt of yours a wee bit – like this?” I manage to bat away his fingers before he undoes more than a couple of buttons. They return immediately, but only to arrange my collar to his satisfaction.
“Satisfied yet?” and I try to fill my voice with as much impatience as I dare.
“Almost, Commodore James, almost. Still something missing, though…” and brown eyes focus on my throat. I swallow, realizing what Sparrow is referring to.
“Where did you put it, Commodore James?”
“In my sea chest,” I admit. “But Sparrow, listen,” but he does not, as he strolls over to get his hands on the emerald.
Walking back towards me, he opens the locking mechanism and begins lifting it – and I step aside to avoid him. Brief frown, then a step to follow me and a new attempt – and I avoid him again. Another attempt, another avoidance – it becomes almost like a dance. And in between the steps of this dance I try to start reasoning with him, again and again and again: “Sparrow, listen…” but I never get the impression that he does.
“Can´t you bloody well stand still for one bloody moment?!” he bursts out, finally loosing his patience after nearly a dozen rounds of the dance.
I lift my hands in front of me, as if to ward him off. “Sparrow, please. Surely you realize that whatever your reasons for giving me that trinket might be, then I simply cannot accept it – and surely as your -guest- I am allowed to do so?” The last bit was supposed to have been a statement – somehow, though, it turns into a slightly plaintive question.
Sparrow lowers his hands and cocks his head. “You can´t accept this pretty stone ‘cause you might get into trouble if someone thought I´d bribed you or some such, eh?”
“Yes.” Finally he sees reason.
“Commodore James, don´t you think I bloody well know that? I gave you this,” and he dangles the emerald before my face, “because I was feeling generous standing on top of all that swag and knowing it was all mine, and because I thought it suited you. Now, what you do with it once you leave this ship is your business – you can keep it locked in a desk drawer or hand it over to the proper authorities or spend the rest of your life trying and probably failing to find the original owner. It´s up to you, savvy? But ‘till then, don´t you think it might be wise to show a little respect for your host – who also just happens to be Captain of the ship you´re currently aboard, even though you seem to forget that bit all the time – and wear your bloody present?!”
For a long, long moment we stand staring at each other – then I admit defeat by reaching out for the piece of jewellery. It is slightly surprising that I manage to operate the locking mechanism without fumbling or dropping the whole thing – and perhaps not surprising at all that Sparrow reaches out to adjust it just so. I let my hands fall, defeated. Is he not going to leave me with any scrap of dignity?
“Satisfied now?”
“Almost. Except…” and once again he lowers his gaze – this time to my midsection. Where my hands currently are. Surely this little incident has not irritated him sufficiently to make him put the manacles back on me? Surely? But my hands – almost acting of their own volition – still try to hide behind the rest of me.
Sparrow lifts his eyes to meet mine and I see amusement in them. I almost snap at him – this is still not funny. But then he turns away, heading towards one of his countless sea chests, digging through its sundry contents.
“I knew it was here!”
Held up as if for my inspection or approval is large piece of fabric – silk, unless I am mistaken – of a deep green colour, a couple of shades darker than the emerald. The sparse light in the cabin makes it sparkle and shine when Sparrow moves it.
“Sparrow, which part of ‘I cannot accept any presents from you´ are you having a hard time understanding?”
“But I like giving presents, Commodore James. ‘Sides, nobody´s gonna think you´d let yourself be bribed with just a sash – now lift your arms and let me put it on you,” and I let him, feeling the fabric tighten around my waist – enough so that the sash will stay in place, but not so tight that my still tender back will suffer.
Then he steps back to survey his work.
“Nice, very nice – you look quite dashing, James.”
The corners of my mouth seem to curl a bit of their own volition. Dashing? I am an earring and a tattoo short of looking like a pirate – is that what he considers dashing? I wonder if he might let me have a sword or a pistol if he could be persuaded that they would make me look even more ‘dashing´.
I look up – and blink. When did he get so close?
And I really should see it coming, what happens next – should see it in the gleam of his eyes, should hear it in the purr of his voice. But I do not – do not associate this with another time that he used only my name and not my rank – even though I ought to.
Then he is even closer, so close that I can smell the rum and soap smell of him, so close that the word seems somehow insufficient – and he presses his lips against mine.
Caught by surprise I make no attempt to pull away as pirate lips slip and slide over my own, his surprisingly soft moustache tickling my smooth upper lip. Then his lips part ever so slightly to let his impudent tongue out to play – probing the corner of my mouth as if seeking entrance and, when denied, he drags it slowly – oh so slowly – along the entire length of my lower lip – and any moment now I am going to push Sparrow away with all my strength and the consequences be damned, going to ball my fist and strike him down, going to stare at him with a mixture of shock and outrage and sheer disgust, going to angrily demand an explanation, how dare you, what do you think you are doing?
Any moment now.
Any moment – now…?
And then the kiss ends as Sparrow backs away from me and I open my eyes (when did I close them?) to see an expression akin to that of a cat that has gotten into the cream on his face. I am just about to yell at him, but the expression changes before my eyes, converts into the slightly less infuriating smug one that I have come to think of as one of his customary expressions. But it only stays smug for the briefest of moments before turning into the very epitome of expectation, and he raises an arm as if offering it to me.
“Coming, Commodore James?”
I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but to my surprise I find that no words are forthcoming. I close it and make another try, with much the same result, and I am left uncomfortably aware of the fact that I have just made a passable imitation of a stranded fish.
Sparrow cocks his head and smirks slightly. “Well, my dear Commodore James?”
How can he be so calm? Especially after what he just did – how can he be so calm?
This time, at least, I manage to actually make a sound – although it is only a confused “what?”, and as I say it I grow painfully aware that I have just given up my only chance to righteously rage at Sparrow for his impudence – after this it will only make me look foolish if I do.
Sparrow´s smirk is growing. “Ah, but Commodore James, it occurred to me that I´ve been most remiss in my duties as your host.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, aye – seems I haven´t even given you a proper tour of my lovely Pearl yet. So, I thought I´d remedy that, savvy?” And not a word about the kiss, no indication whatsoever that it just happened. Does he even remember it? Or might this be Sparrow´s true madness – a habit of doing outrageous things and promptly forgetting about it afterwards? Or is he simply pretending – and laughing at me on the inside?
“Commodore James?”
“What? Oh – yes,” and determined to show him that two can play this game I take his arm – though I must confess that I halfway regret it as he immediately leads me towards the door – I have no desire to return to the deck anytime soon, but I will be damned if I am going to tell Sparrow that.
Maybe it is simply my imagination, but it seems to me that the deck is even more crowded this time than previously, although not a single soul is staring directly at us. Instead each and every one seems to be busy with something – mending sails, splicing rope, sharpening a sword – but their attention is less than fully devoted to their tasks. Out of the corners of their eyes they watch – it makes the hairs at the back of my neck rise.
“Think we´ll start over here abouts, eh?” and without the slightest hesitation Sparrow drags me into the mass of people – I try to walk alongside him as dignified as possible and ignore the covert glances. I am not wholly successful at either.
And then someone behind us pierces the silence with an insult.
Personally, I would prefer to simply ignore it – after all, ‘lily-livered lobster´ is by no means the worst I have been called today. In fact, as far as insults go it is quite lacking in both originality and venomousness. But Sparrow seems to be somewhat less willing to the let the matter rest – the words make him stop and then turn around, slowly – and since he has a good grip on my arm I am forced to do the same.
Slowly his gaze travels from person to person in the tense silence, until something – which might simply be that he recognized the voice or might be some for me unnoticeable sign – makes him stop at one of the new crewmen, a youth barely older than young Mr. Turner, tall and lanky to the point of gaunt and with a face full of freckles.
“Young Mr. Hawkins, isn´t it?” Sparrow asks, his tone of voice making it seem more of a challenge than a question.
“Aye, cap´n,” and he raises his head to look Sparrow in the eye.
“Care to repeat what you just called the good Commodore here?”
“I called ‘im a lily-livered lobster, cap´n.” His gaze does not even waver.
“Ah yes, I thought that´s what I heard you call him. Tell me, Mr. Hawkins, what makes you think you can just go around and insult my very own guest like that?”
“‘Cause he´s one of the bloody Navy dogs, cap´n!”
“Aye, he´s Navy – and so? I´m still pretty damn sure I had the word spread that he was to be treated politely.” For a moment Sparrow´s eyes glide over the assembled pirates before returning to the youth.
“Aye, cap´n, that ye did.”
“Ah – well, then, perhaps ‘lily-livered´ and ‘lobster´ got turned into compliments while I was looking elsewhere? Is that the case, Mr. Hawkins?”
“No, cap´n,” and credit where credit is due: the youth is still looking straight into Sparrow´s eyes, never wavering or blinking under the baleful glare.
“Well then, if you weren´t under the impression that you were giving the Commodore a compliment – then why the bloody Hell did you defy my order like that?” Many men would have cringed – the youth does not. Instead he stands up even straighter.
“Well, ye see, cap´n – me and some of the lads figured that ye didn´t really mean that,” and he gestures briefly to the men standing around him, each of them older and burlier than himself – the lads, I suppose.
“Oh – and how come you figured that?” Sparrow´s voice is almost mild – deceptively so.
“Well – that´s Norrington,” and the youth points an accusing finger at me – as though my very name is some unspeakable sin. Sparrow lets his eyes follow the finger and – when they find me at his side – feigns surprise: “By the powers, you´re right – and here I was thinking I was having the Pope himself for my guest. Of course it is Norrington, you daft fool – didn´t you think I knew that?” he explodes, and the youth takes a step backwards. But this whole situation is beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable.
“But, cap´n – he´s a pirate hunter. -The- pirate hunter. They say he´s hung more than a thousand pirates and sunk more than a hundred pirate ships and – and –“ the youth trails off. From his tone of voice I was half expecting him to accuse me of eating babies for breakfast on Sundays next. Under different circumstances this little speech might have flattered me – in an odd sort of way – now it simply sends a chill down my spine.
“Aye, sounds like we´re talking ‘bout the same Norrington.” A Norrington who is beginning to feel more and more nervous. A Norrington who is beginning to wish that Sparrow had not changed his status from simple captive to guest. A Norrington who wishes fervently that he had stayed in the cabin.
“But cap´n – ye can´t seriously be a-wanting us to treat -him- like a guest!”
“Those were my orders, Mr. Hawkins, and those are still my orders, savvy?”
“Then, begging your pardon, cap´n – we – me and the lads – we think your orders are wrong,” and as he speaks he very obviously places his hand on the cutlass in his belt. His cronies are also drawing attention to their various pieces of weaponry.
“Oh, you do, do you?” Odd, how calm Sparrow sounds. Personally I am terribly close to panicking – only his firm grasp on my arm keeps me from retreating with alacrity to the cabin. As it is, all I can do is stand still and pretend to stay aloof, falling back on years and years of naval discipline.
“Aye, cap´n.”
“And what exactly are you lot planning to do about it?” He sounds almost pleasant, like this is no more than a friendly discussion about whether to have pork or beef for dinner, not a crewman openly suggesting mutiny – but then, I suppose discipline is a different matter amongst pirates than in the Navy.
“Well, cap´n, we was thinking we´d just throw ‘im nice and quiet-like overboard.” How certain of himself the youth sounds – but I will be damned if I am going to allow him to see my anxiety.
“So that´s what you want,” and from the sound of it, it would seem that Sparrow is going to give in to the crewmembers demand and hand me over. I suppose it is the smartest thing – from his perspective. If he does not, he risks a full-scale mutiny, something I would think he would not care to experience twice. Besides, he is a self-styled dishonest man – promises of hospitality cannot weigh terribly heavily on his shoulders. He might lament the loss of whatever ransom I could have brought, but considering that the Navy ships are going to keep their distance to ensure my safety, then I could be killed without them being the wiser – so I suppose my value as a hostage has greatly diminished.
“Aye, cap´n, that´s what we want.” How triumphant the youth sounds.
“Oh well,” and I steel myself, gathering every scrap of dignity that I have managed to retain aboard this thrice-damned ship – if I am going to die today, then surely I can at least ensure that I do not disgrace myself in the process.
“You lot do realize that you´re going to have to go through me to get to him, right?” Jack´s words, delivered in the same pleasant tone of voice as most of the rest of his part of the conversation and accompanied by his right hand´s fingers gliding in a near-caress over the handle of the sword by his side, leave me close to thunderstruck. He cannot mean that! Surely he does not mean that – does he?
“Well, cap´n – that´s a shame, that is,” and the youth´s fingers wrap themselves around the cutlass´ handle and he begins to draw it as he takes a step forward.
The ringing sound of a sword being drawn comes from behind us.
I twist my head to see, not wanting to die from a stab in the back never knowing who slew me – but the person who has drawn her blade is Anamaria and her menacing gaze is directed at he would-be mutineers, not Sparrow and me. Turning my head back I realize that the youth has halted – apparently he too has noted her gaze.
Slowly I look around and notice that not a single pirate on deck is not fondling his weapon, ready to draw it, if he has not already done so – and each and every one of them, both the original crew and the majority of the new arrivals, are clearly siding with their captain against the youth and his cronies. Suddenly I realize that the would-be mutineers does not even number an even dozen.
I look sideways at Sparrow, who has yet to stop staring into the eyes of the youth. Did he know that his crew would side with him? Surely he did – how else could he have remained so calm and collected during the whole thing? This man of all men would surely have displayed the nervousness I remember seeing in Port Royal if he had not known all along that he had the upper hand – or would he?
“Aye, ‘tis a mighty big shame when a captain can´t give one of his men what he wants. Still, can´t be helped, eh?” Sparrow smiles, a golden set of shark´s teeth.
“As you say, cap´n. ‘Tis a shame, but there´s nothing for it.” The youth is nodding eagerly, his cronies mumbling their assent. His hand is far from his weapon and he looks like he would rather be anywhere else – but Sparrow is still staring into his eyes and it seems to me as if he is keeping the youth right there through the power of his gaze alone.
“Aye, a shame. Do you know what else is a shame, Mr. Hawkins?” and the youth is shaking his head, the self-certainty gone so completely that you would think it had never been there, telling his captain that no, he does not know what else is a shame.
“Mr. Hawkins, surely you can see that it is a terrible shame for a member of the crew to insult his own captain´s very fine guest, eh?” A brief pat on my shoulder seems most of all to be to add weight to this statement.
“Y-yes, cap´n – mighty shame.” The youth is now standing alone, his compatriots having managed to fade into the crowd and truth be told he looks like he would dearly love to follow – but Sparrow´s gaze never wavers, never gives him the smallest chance.
“In fact, seems to me like the good Commodore deserves an apology, don´t you think, Mr. Hawkins?” and the youth agrees that yes, yes of course, as the captain said. Then he falls silent – and the silence stretches for a bit until Sparrow looses his patience and shouts: “Get on with it then, man!”
The youth turns to me, then, his eyes fixing on my face – eyes that are saying that this is all my fault, that he is going to get even, just I wait and see – but his mouth is shaping other, humbler words: “Mr. Commodore, sir – uhm, I´m sorry for calling ye a ‘lily-livered lobster´” and then his eyes leave my face to stare straight down at the deck.
A discreet, but still painful kick on my shin from Sparrow draws my attention to the fact that I am expected to make some form of reply, so I manage to make the words “Apology accepted” come out of my mouth, using the same tone that I usually take with my subordinates.
Tension seems to lift and the youth starts to back away – until Sparrow stops him with a “And where do you think you´re off to?”
“Sorry, cap´n, I thought…” the youth nearly stammers.
“Aye, exactly, you -thought-,” Sparrow interrupts. “Seems to me that you´ve been doing an awful lot of that lately – too much, perhaps? Can´t have been doing much work either, busy with all your big thoughts. So, perhaps you simply weren´t given enough work?”
“Cap´n?”
“Tell me, Mr. Hawkins, can you see all the sparkling brightwork on my fair ship?”
“N-no, cap´n,” and I must agree with him – the Pearl is a dark, almost gloomy ship. Sparkling is not an attribute I would ascribe to any part of her.
“Well, best get to work then, eh?”
“Aye, cap´n,” and the youth finally slinks away, but not without first sending me a look that makes me wish that Sparrow had been satisfied with the apology or, better yet, had let the matter rest altogether. Except that no captain can tolerate insubordination, apparently not even a pirate captain – and if young Mr. Hawkins had tried something similar in the Navy his punishment would have been a lot more final. Hard work – and the task Sparrow has assigned him is undoubtedly that – is nothing in comparison. Still, I fear I have acquired an enemy today – but then, I suppose he was my enemy long before I first set eyes on him. An unsettling thought.
“And the rest of you lazy mongrels can start swabbing the deck, savvy?” Sparrow shouts, obviously aimed at the men who backed up the youth. Then, without wasting any further time on that lot, he starts across the deck, tugging at my arm to get me moving.
“Come along, Commodore James – I think we´re going to start the tour below deck, eh?”
Thus begins perhaps the most remarkable guided tour of a ship I have ever experienced – not that I have experienced so very great a number, but still. As it turns out, Sparrow is an excellent guide – intimately familiar with his ship he knows every nook and cranny and is able to point out every small carving, every piece of workmanship that might be of interest to someone with a professional interest – and this is mixed with an interesting and mildly amusing collection of anecdotes. The only slightly unsettling thing is the way he will – from time to time – reach out and let his hand run over the dark wood in a caress that leaves me feeling like a voyeur for having witnessed it – though that is, of course, ridiculous.
As the tour progresses, I learn quite a bit about The Black Pearl. For instance, I learn that the hold is apparently fit to burst – not with swag or plunder or booty, but with wood and copper and hempen rope, sail cloth and tar and every other material one could possibly need when one is going to give a ship a long-overdue round of repairs, up to and including a spare mast or two. In one corner is an improvised pigsty – “Gibbs got homesick” – and a small collection of furniture which Sparrow admits to being the owner of is stored in another corner.
I also learn that the brig of the Pearl actually contains two cages for captives, but only the one that I have been occupying is any good – the door of the other seems to have been broken open in some violent manner in the recent past and only barely repaired. I learn that the Pearl has a small collection of cabins – each of them barely large enough to contain a bunk and a sea chest or two, and each one clearly claimed. I do my best to ignore the depraved possibilities that occur to me when I realize that at least two of the cabins have been claimed by two people, yet they show no sign of having arranged for extra sleeping accommodations. I learn that The Black Pearl´s complement of cannons are not the ragtag collection that most pirate and even some Navy ships are equipped with – rather they all share a number of traits that leave me guessing that they might very well have been mass-produced for a newly built ship – perhaps this very one. And I learn that although the ship is clearly the work of a master among shipbuilders, then she truly is badly in need of repairs – it is almost painfully obvious that Barbossa and his ilk did nothing more than what was absolutely necessary to keep her afloat. The state of the sweeps is a perfect example – some of them have broken and have simply been patched up, not replaced as they should have, and all are worn dangerously thin. And the seats – I am somehow convinced that even cursed pirates who could feel no pain must have been using several cushions each when the sweeps were employed.
Now, a ship is not really such a large space, and you would suppose that a tour of one would hardly be a matter of more than a few hours. But, as it turns out, the tour, though always remaining a such, also seems to serve as some form of inspection for Sparrow, some thorough cataloguing of every tiny flaw that needs to be repaired. He dwells on every damage, touching and thinking out loud and inviting me to share my professional opinion as a fellow man of the sea – and sometimes I forget myself and do so, despite how very inappropriate it is for a Commodore to offer a pirate such advice.
And then of course there are the introductions.
The first time Sparrow stops me in front of one of his crewmembers it catches me by surprise, but it very quickly becomes an odd sort of routine interrupting the guided tour every five or six minutes. Sparrow will offer a surprisingly proper introduction – “Commodore James, allow me to introduce you to the good Mr. Matelot. Mr. Matelot, I want you to meet Commodore Norrington of His Majesty´s Royal Navy” – whereupon we will exchange some small and reasonably polite greeting – varying from “Hello Mr. Commodore” to “Avast! Shiver me timbers! Arrgh!” Then we will shake hands – I and whoever I am being introduced to – and each and every one of them seems to be of the opinion that the best way to show a man of the Navy their lack of respect and fear is to have a firm handshake. A very firm handshake. I swear, once or twice I can literally -hear- the small bones in my hand grinding together.
After about seven introductions two things have happened: one, I am already nursing my hand, halfway dreading the next handshake and the next and the next… and two, I have realized Sparrow´s reason for changing my status – it came to me while a giant of a man with several metal rings in his ears, eyebrows, lips and nose was busily trying to turn my hand to dust, his eyes dark with hostility.
The reason is surprisingly simple, but at the same time slightly brilliant: he is using me to gauge his new crew, to see which of them will be willing to obey even an unpopular order – and which will not. And if he can get to amuse himself by messing with my mind whilst doing it – well, why should he refrain?
I cannot say the realization does anything for my sense of self-esteem, but at least it solves the mystery of Sparrow´s decision.
And so I follow the pirate through the bowels of the ship, pausing quite often for various reasons, until finally, after a time span roughly twice as long as I would have expected a tour of the entire ship to take, we emerge unto the deck, where more of the same awaits us – but at least in fresh air. Sparrow proceeds with touching everything, one time even hanging in front of the figure head, his legs wrapped tightly around the lady´s waist, his hands moving over voluptuous wood in a manner that would have earned him at the very least a slap if the lady in question had been of flesh and blood. Then we proceed to the masts and rigging, which I am greatly relieved to discover are in a somewhat less poor state of repair than most of the rest of the ship – relieved due to the fact that Sparrow insists that we climb them.
And so we end up sitting on the yardarm of the mainmast, me to the right and Sparrow to the left of it with a basket full of food somehow suspended between us, the setting sun turning the sea to blood as far as the eye can see.
“So, Commodore James, now that you´ve had a chance to get a proper look-see at my ship, tell me, what do you think of her?” The question is posed in a manner that would seem indifferent – between two bites of roast chicken – except that the way he glances at me reveals it to actually be of some importance to him.
“Well,” I start, taking some time to figure out what my answer is going to be (and whether I want to opt for honesty or flattery – that is, until I realize that my answer in both cases will be the same), “she is – as you yourself have said – badly in need of repairs, but underneath that… She is a very fine ship, Captain Sparrow, very fine indeed. I am not sure when last I saw another quite as fine,” and that is the truth, much as I hate to admit it. Oh, the Dauntless, the Interceptor, the Hippolytos and all the other ships I have served on in the course of my career – and there have been a few – were certainly fine ships, but still, there is something about the Pearl, something indefinable but undeniable – something that in some way reminds me of the swords young Mr. Turner keeps turning out in his master´s name…
“Aye, she´s a lovely lass, isn´t she?” and Sparrow pats the mast affectionately, smiling – and what a smile it is. Not a grin or a leer or a smirk, no – this is a smile of sheer delight and as stupid as any such smile will ever be. I am stunned to see it grace Jack´s features, but only for a moment – then I begin to wonder if he really is so delighted by such a small thing – an honest compliment paid not to him, but to his vessel. It seems as though he makes even less sense to me now than at the beginning of this ‘grand adventure´.
When we first met on the docks of Port Royal he was easy to classify: a buffoon, a swaying clown – and a pirate. All of which made it easy for me to mock him and dismiss him – even though I had heard of him.
And yes, of course I had heard him – anyone with any sort of interest in pirates have heard of the nearly legendary Captain Jack Sparrow. I had – out of purely professional interest – heard all of the tales that Miss Swann had so eagerly devoured and then some, and if not for a few official reports verifying his existence I would have presumed that the man portrayed in those stories (one half of which contradicts the other and a third of them are just plain impossible, though which third might have to be reconsidered in light of recent events) was the figment of some sailor´s ripe imagination, could not possibly be a real man.
I will never admit to actually having been somewhat disappointed at the reality I saw lying on the filthy floor of Mr. Brown´s smithy.
Of course he then proceeded to escape and exhibit remarkable cunning and skill as the world seemed to turn into one of the more fanciful and easily dismissed of his adventures, filled with daring and swashbuckling battles, young love and ancient curses. But when all was said and done he was once more my captive and set to be hanged.
Whereupon the bloody rascal immediately escaped – again – even managing to take me captive in the process, turning the tables. And since then he has managed to keep me constantly uncertain about what he will do next, because one moment he will act the genial host and the next moment he will have me flogged and the next… but that is neither here nor there.
It occurs to me that I have absolutely no idea who this Jack Sparrow truly is. I wonder if anyone does?
“Guinea for your thoughts?”
“Beg pardon?” I say, turning to look at Sparrow, trying as best I can to hide the confusion that comes from having your thoughts suddenly and rudely interrupted.
“Well, they seemed like some mighty heavy thoughts, Commodore James – thought it only proper to up the price a bit, savvy?” A gold coin rolls between his fingers and his usual smirk-like grin is back in its proper place. “So, guinea for your thoughts?” and his hand extends, offering me the coin.
I find myself in a bit of a quandary (and hurriedly drink a mouthful of the contents of the hip flask that Sparrow handed me before we climbed up here to cover it – thankfully it turns out to contain water with only a hint of the flask´s usual contents and not the pure rum I had feared) – because there is certainly no way that I am going to tell him what I was really thinking, but on the other hand I cannot claim I was thinking of nothing and I suppose it would be rude – as well as ill-advised – to simply deny his request. So, I will need something else to mention, but what, what… oh. Yes, that will do just nicely.
“My thoughts were hardly worth a guinea, Sparrow – I was simply wondering about your flag.”
“My flag? Well, what about it?” and I can tell that he can tell that I am being less than honest – hopefully he will be gracious about it.
“Yes, your flag. I was just wondering whether there might be some reason why you sail under Rackham´s flag – or did your name use to be Calico in another life?” Not what I was truly wondering, but it is one of the many little mysteries surrounding Sparrow – and perhaps even one that he will be willing to explain?
“Nay, I´m not Calico Jack – for one thing I only have one woman pirate aboard, eh? But the why of it – now thereby hangs a tale,” and while he speaks he first places the coin in my hand, closing my fingers around it, then leans back to look up at the object in question, flapping over our heads.
“That never seems to stop you,” I prod, hoping to distract him completely from the matter of my thoughts.
“No, it doesn´t, does it? Well, you see, Commodore James, back the first time I was captain of the Pearl I used to fly the Jolly Roger – you know, the good ol´ skull and crossbones. Nothing fancy, but it got the job done, eh? Always meant to get a flag of my very own, same as all those other pirates you always hear about, but somehow I never got ‘round to it.
Anyway, one time we joined up with three other pirate ships to take us a lovely Spaniard – a treasure ship, savvy? – and as it happened, one of those ships was captained by ol´ Rackham. Bit confusing, really – having two Captain Jacks and all.
So, we find ourselves the Spaniard – and she was quite the appetizing little morsel, let me tell ye – and a feisty one too, as it turned out. Pretty soon the cannon balls were a-flying. When all was said and done my Pearl had had a pretty rough time of it – you see, she was the biggest of the four ships and therefore the easiest to hit. Lots of holes in my poor girl. There was even some stray cannon ball that ruined my last Jolly Roger.
Ah, but the booty, Commodore James – the booty was fine indeed, even split four ways. And since the Pearl had gotten the most holes, ol´ Jack here got all the swag in her captain´s cabin: crystal chandelier and such things. All in all, a fine raid.
So, we said our goodbyes and farewells to each other, me and the other captains, and we sailed of, each in our own direction – but before we did, ol´ Rackham, who really was what a fine upstanding gentleman such as yourself would call a ‘capital fellow´, he gave me one of his own flags to replace the one I´d lost. After all, ‘tis not proper for a pirate ship to sail without a pirate flag – feels as wrong as if one of your admirals were to walk around on deck in the buff, eh?
Now, I think I mentioned my Pearl having had a rough time of it, eh, so I elected to have her sailed to a proper shipyard for some proper repairs, since we had the money and all. As it turned out that would take a month or two, so most of the crew took their shares of the loot and went off to find themselves other things to do – I´m pretty sure one of them opened the fanciest inn in all of Tortuga.
Anyway, ol´ Jack was left with just a handful of men – one of which happened to be my good mate Bootstrap Bill Turner, whom I´m sure you´ve heard about – and a lot of time and gold on my hands.
Now, drinking and swiving is all well and fine for a bit, but soon you start to long for the sea again – and since my Pearl was dry-docked, I had to find something to do to pass the time, and so I started to go through the Spanish captain´s things. Most of it was what you´d expect – valuables and charts and suchlike. There was two things that caught my interest, though – a compass that simply refused to point north and an old book in Spanish, which turned out to be the journal of one Padre Amaro, all about why and how and where he´d gone with a certain Hernando Cortez… savvy?
As it turned out, the plunder didn´t last me so very long, so when my Pearl was all shipshape I was pretty eager to set sail for La Isla de Muerta to see if the good Padre´s stories held any truth. Alas, my crew was hardly big enough to handle the ship in rough weather, so first stop was Tortuga, to pick up some men. Didn´t even stop to get myself a new flag, just kept flying ol´ Calico´s, that´s how much of a hurry I was in.
Now, in Tortuga I met this friendly fellow who bought me a drink and told me that he and a bunch of his mates were looking for a ship that´d have ‘em – and like the fool I was I took them onboard and let them sign the articles. And aye, before you ask, his name was Barbossa.
Won´t bore you with all the details – suffice is to say that when next I saw my lovely Pearl, nearly a decade later, she was still flying the same flag. I guess ‘Captain´ Barbossa hadn´t had the time to get himself another.
You already know how I got her back and all, so I´ll skip that part too. And now I´m back aboard and I really should have gotten myself a new Jolly Roger in Tortuga, but as it turns out I was in a bit of a hurry to get out of there before your Navy boys decided to give it another go at freeing you, so I plain forgot.
But ‘tis nice of you to remind me, Commodore James, mighty nice of you indeed,” Sparrow finishes with that curious little bow of his which looks somewhat hazardous at this height. Then he takes the basket (now only containing a couple of empty hip flasks) and climbs down to the deck. I follow his movements until he vanishes in the darkness that has somehow managed to arrive unnoticed while Sparrow told his tale.
I cannot help but feel that there is something odd about this story of Sparrow´s. It is not that it is any more or less believable than most of his other stories, because it is not – nor is it the weaving in of verifiable fact, because that too has so far been his custom. It is not the delivery, either – this tale was told with the usual flourishes and gestures, rolls of eyes and smirks, nods and involvement of props, just like every other story he has taken the time to tell me so far. And yet there is something about this particular story that is different, but I cannot seem to put my finger on what.
Might it simply have been the truth?
The yawn that interrupts my musings are not exactly a surprise – I have been feeling the tiredness gradually spreading through me while Sparrow spoke. Still, it is the yawn that manages to convince me that it might be wise to head down and find out about what sleeping arrangements Sparrow has in mind for me – before I fall asleep and fall…
As I enter the cabin I am greeted by an obviously similarly weary Sparrow, who somehow manages to find the energy to grin at me: “Ah, there you are, Commodore James. Was beginning to think you were planning to roost for the night.”
“No, Captain Sparrow, no roosting for me, though I must confess to being tired. If I could trouble you to tell me where I am supposed to sleep?”
“Why, in the bed, Commodore James,” and he gestures grandly towards it.
“I see. And where are you planning to spend the night, Captain Sparrow?” I ask, already quite certain what the answer will be.
“Why, in my bed, Commodore James.”
“That – that is simply not acceptable.”
“Why not? ‘Tis the nicest bed aboard – truth be told the only bed, but still. And I did promise you a comfortable place to sleep, eh?” Be that as it may, I have no desire to share a bed with Sparrow again.
“That you did, but I was hoping you might be referring to one of the cabins.”
“Sorry, mate – all of them are spoken for and I´m not going to throw anybody out of bed at this hour. Though if you want to try and persuade Anamaria to share her bunk with you, then be my guest.” The thought of sharing accommodations with that particular member of the crew sends a shiver down my spine – personally I would vastly prefer to wake up in one piece, let alone alive.
“In that case, surely you have a hammock somewhere that I might be allowed to make use of?” I try to reason.
“Sorry, Commodore James, we´re fresh out of hammocks,” he smiles and we both know that it is a lie – no ship with respect for itself does not have several spare hammocks. But it would seem that Sparrow is determined that our sleeping arrangements must be as he wants them.
“Why are you so very much against sharing a bed with ol´ Jack? I don´t remember you making such a fuss yester eve…”
“Last night you got me drunk, Sparrow, or have you forgotten that?”
“Oh well, if that´s all there is too it I have a lovely bottle of Madeira over here – but I must say, if we have to go through this every night you´re going to end up a worse tosspot than me come the end of our voyage.”
He is already busily digging out the promised beverage when I raise my hands as if to ward him off and tell him no, I do not want him to get me drunk again. I simply do not want to share the bed with him.
“But why not?” he practically whines. “‘Tis not like I´m a bad bedfellow – don´t trash around or anything. I don´t even snore – unlike some people.” The last bit is said with a pointed look in my direction which makes me send him a look.
“Sparrow, I do not snore!”
“‘Course you don´t, Commodore James,” he agrees so serenely that I half suspect him of having told the truth – and unfortunately it is not like it is impossible. I fail to remember when last I was in a position when somebody might have been able to tell me – apart from this man, that is, this man who is presently making himself comfortable in the bed.
“Or perhaps you´re worried that ol´ Jack won´t be able to keep his fingers to himself, eh?”
I nearly demand an explanation for that statement, then, realizing what he is implying, I actually take a step backwards.
“That´s it, isn´t it?” and he nearly jumps out of bed as though he has made a great discovery and is thrilled by it – though truth be told, the thought of having something to fear from Sparrow in such a manner had not occurred to me. Somehow, despite – or perhaps due to – his odd behaviour, I have at no point been intimidated by that particular aspect of it – the thought has simply been too incredible.
As it still is, I realize, as I watch Sparrow pick up my sword and head back for bed.
“Tell you what, Commodore James – I´m going to put this here pretty sword in the middle of the bed, so you can be sure I´ll stay on my side, savvy?” and he places the gleaming blade on top of the covers. “See – everything´s fine, eh?”
I shake my head – no, it is not ‘fine´. “Come now, Commodore - ‘tis traditional. All those tragic lads and lasses who end bedding their own siblings and running around like wolves and such did it like this.”
Yet despite of Sparrow´s words I still shake my head – whatever dislike of the idea that I felt when he first proposed it has hardened into stubbornness. I watch him pat the pillow that I am expected to put my head on, telling me how very nice and soft it is, but I still shake my head.
“Come to bed, James.” Voice low and – alluring? – but still I refuse.
“Sparrow, if – if there are no other possible available accommodations, then surely I can go down to the brig and sleep in the hammock there?”
For a long moment Sparrow just stares at me.
“So, let me see if I´ve understood you correctly, Commodore James. You´d turn down the nicest, softest, most comfortable place to sleep on the whole ship in favour of a hammock in a cold and damp brig? And people call me crazy,” and with that parting shot he pulls the blanket tight around himself, turning his back to me and going to sleep – or at least a passable imitation thereof.
I wait for a little bit, fully expecting him to sit back up and resume his attempt to sway me. But he does not.
With a sigh I resign myself to retire to the brig, but after having taken a couple of steps towards the door I suddenly hear a most unexpected sound that makes me look back. Apparently Sparrow was less than honest about his nighttime noisiness.
He does look awfully comfortable in that bed, sprawling across the half of it he has claimed. Is it any wonder that I am less than enthusiastic about the hammock – has been all along on account of my back – and the sight of Jack like this does nothing to remedy it.
I turn, considering – what is really so terrible about sharing Sparrow´s bed? It is quite big enough for two, so that is not an issue. Is it Sparrow himself, then, my strange ‘host´? And if so, what is it about him? Certainly not his personal hygiene – he is as clean as I am today.
Nor is it what he himself suggested. After all, he might be amused by toying with me, but I have no impression of him being in any way serious about it. And even if he was, well – out of all the crimes I have heard of being attributed to Sparrow, ravishing has not been mentioned even once.
Which is not to say that I believe Sparrow to be a monk. I have heard the stories of Captain Jack Sparrow – even the tales told at the dock inns late at night, tales that would never reach the ears of a young lady like Miss Swann. Stories about a couple of grooms whose blushing virgin brides were less virginal after having enjoyed his hospitality, not to mention the tale of a blushing virgin bride who had a similar complaint about her comely young groom. Still, those stories never as much as hinted that there had been any kind of force involved.
Of course, all such thoughts are ridiculous – the lightly snoring Sparrow seems quite content to ignore such games at the moment, and besides, even if he was not, then I somehow doubt that he would display any interest in playing them with me.
Why should he, when nobody else ever does?
So it all boils down to the fact that it is not proper for a Commodore to share a pirate´s bed – but then, neither is it proper for a Commodore to be a pirate´s guest.
And that bed really looks quite comfortable.
Sparrow´s snoring ceases as I lie down. I have no doubt that a self-satisfied smirk has appeared to grace his features, but I do not turn to look.
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Can't wait to see where you're taking this. More, please!
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And I am working on the next chapter, I swear, but as you might be able to figure out based on the intervals between posted chapters then I am a slooooooooooow writer, so patience, please.