Falling into Heaven, falling into Hell chapter 8. part one

[oneiriad]

Previous chapters can be found by way of here

 

  It is, of course, ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous.
 
  I am – no matter what word Sparrow chooses to apply – a captive aboard The Black Pearl. So why should I have any reason whatsoever to feel like I am being lazy? It makes no sense. And yet, as the days pass and it begins to once again feel like this sea and this ship is all the world there is and ever has been, I slowly begin to feel exactly that.
 
  Of course, it does not help that my days are spent lounging in the sun, trying to read some book or other from Jack´s sea chest. All too often my concentration fails me and I end up watching the crew at their work – as busy as any ship´s crew anywhere can be.
 
  Part of the problem is, of course, that since the first time I set foot on a Navy ship as little more than a boy I have not tried to be a mere passenger. And so, now that I have finally found myself in a position of having absolutely no work or responsibility, I feel terribly, sinfully slothful – and illogically guilty about it.
 
  The fact that the entire crew has somehow come to the decision that the best way of dealing with me is to quite simply ignore me altogether is not particularly uplifting either. I suppose that the lack of death threats and hostile glances ought to come as a relief, but the cold indifference only adds to my feeling of isolation and guilt.
 
  Sometimes the need for simply talking with another human being drives me to seek out Jack - who I sincerely doubt will ever as much as consider not talking to anybody – just to alleviate the need a bit. But often he is to be found at the helm, guiding his ship on her course, and as per our agreement I cannot approach him there.
 
  Not that anybody else is allowed near him at the helm either – in fact, I have the distinct impression that wherever we are headed is as great a mystery to the other pirates as it is to me. Sparrow handles any course change in splendid isolation, only letting Anamaria or Mr. Cotton take over at the helm when none such are needed – or that is, at least, my impression.
 
  Sometimes I try to figure out where we are – and more importantly where we are going. I will summon up a map of the region inside my mind and try to calculate where on it we must be. My best guess always puts us in the middle of nowhere, but then, my guesses are made more difficult by the fact that all I have to go on is a very rough estimate of the speed of the Pearl (since measuring it regularly does not seem to be considered part of the normal routine aboard), the number of days since we set sail from Tortuga and the fact that we, judging by the sun, are moving in a somewhat northerly direction, though I would need a compass to say with any certainty.
 
  But even with all of my reservations I still manage to conclude that we are in the middle of nothing but sea and sea and then some sea – an impression confirmed by what my eyes tell me, even from the crow´s nest. But then, Sparrow did claim that we are headed for yet another ‘island that cannot be found´ - I suppose it would be foolish to expect such a place to show up on any ordinary map. The Isle of the Dead was certainly not on any chart I have ever seen.
 
  And when I am not trying to read or musing over our mystery destination, I find myself thinking about Jack Sparrow.
 
  “How´s it going, Commodore James?” the object of speculation will occasionally interrupt me, pausing on his sashaying way to or fro. But a ship´s captain is ever busy and he rarely has time for more than a few brief remarks before being called away – to check on the course or oversee the adjustment of a sail or sort out some minor squabble between some of his men (and quite often his woman).
 
  Lonely my days may be, but never my evenings, never my nights. When time comes for dinner Jack will without fail join me in his cabin. Somehow we manage to settle into a kind of routine.
 
  Jack will arrive at the cabin shortly after darkness falls, bringing with him whatever the day´s evening meal consists of. At this point I will join him there – unless I have already retired to the cabin as is often the case – and the meal will be passed making polite conversation. He will tell his tall tales and in between, we will speak of other, hopefully neutral subjects – be it the weather or – as happens at least once – a surprisingly lively argument over the best way to arrange the sails of a ship or some similar subject of pure, mutual professional interest. Though one time I find that I have somehow managed to move from an exchange about what the most favourable route is for crossing the Atlantic to telling about the first time I met Eliza – Miss Swann, how lovely she already was back then, how you could see in her all the latent traits that would later be fully developed in the grown woman.
 
  As soon as I realize what I am saying I stop talking – clam up, actually, and well enough to outdo any oyster. At least Sparrow does not try to make me say any more about the subject – he was probably bored by it anyway.
 
  Once our plates are empty or the conversation has grown uncomfortable, we will move to the bed and make ourselves comfortable in opposite ends of it, and then Jack will read to me. Shakespeare and Marlowe and others while away our evenings until sleep comes to claim us. Every night I find myself surprised anew at exactly how wide-ranging Jack´s selection of voices for the characters of the plays are. Whether it be doomed Faustus, brutish Caliban or fair Juliet, he always seem to have the perfect voice for the part.
 
  I cannot fathom why Sparrow bothers to read to me, cannot see what is in it for him, but for my own part I find myself enjoying this part of the day so much that I will occasionally catch myself looking forward to the moment when Jack will put down his mug of rum and go dig out the evening´s entertainment from his sea chest. I imagine it must mainly be because the whole situation reminds me of my childhood, long years before I grew used to breathing salty air, that I enjoy it so.
 
  Still, it is with some regret that I see it change nearly a week out from Tortuga. One day Sparrow selects a book in French – earlier in the day his usual greeting is on one occasion replaced with “Ça va, mon cher James?” to which I reply “Ça va bien, Capitaine Moineau, merci.” He just grins and leaves before I have a chance to realize what we both just said – I just shake my head and dismiss the whole thing as yet another one of his many eccentricities.
 
  But that evening I find myself listening to Jack´s fluid French – his skill with the language does not really surprise me. After all, he seems to possess so many other talents – why should a fairly ordinary language be considered remarkable?
 
  Alas, the actual choice of book is less fortunate than usual – out of all the intriguing possibilities Sparrow has settled for a story about a man who flies to the moon. It is at once quite ridiculous, somewhat thought-provoking and slightly improper, but I am simply not in the mood for that sort of tale. Perhaps Jack senses this, for he mixes the reading with brief anecdotes about the author – a Frenchman whose pen was as mighty as his sword, and the only thing mightier than either was, alas, his nose. These briefer tales he also interrupts regularly to make a number of short and not entirely polite remarks about the French in general (a number of which leaves me wondering whether he might imagine that French women have certain rare abilities usually only attributed to one particular biblical lady – or maybe he simply believes that the French men are as horned as Scottish highland cattle).
 
  But despite of all of Sparrow´s tale-spinning, I still find my mind wandering.
 
  The sound of a book being slammed shut makes me look up – straight into Jack´s eyes.
 
  “You´re bored.” More statement than accusation and not the least bit upset, strangely enough.
 
  “I must confess I find your choice for the evening less – riveting than usual.”
 
  “Is that so? Well, maybe I´m growing tired of reading to ye all the time? Maybe I´m not so good at picking a good book any longer?” and he cocks his head, regarding me calmly – I wonder if this is going to be the end of our pleasant evenings – “Or mayhaps ol´ Jack just thinks ‘tis your turn to read to him, eh?”
 
  Well, I suppose I should have expected that Sparrow would eventually grow bored with the monotony of it – and truth be told it is hardly an unreasonable demand. “Very well, then.”
 
  “Eh?”
 
  “Very well, then, I will read to you, if that is what you want – as long as you find another book.”
 
  I see Jack smiling in something that might be triumph, but I do not overtly mind – after all, I have my own tiny triumph to savour: it is – sadly – not every day that I have to clarify myself to him.
 
  “Still trust ol´ Jack´s taste, do ye?”
 
  “You are the only one who knows what might be buried in that chest of your´s – and I expect the change in circumstances will have a beneficial effect on your skill at literary selection.”
 
  My reply simply makes his grin widen before he gets up and walks to the library sea chest. Barely a minute later he returns carrying an uncommonly thick book, which is promptly dropped in my lap, whereupon he makes himself comfortable once again.
 
  I take a brief moment to steel myself, to take a deep breath and send up a prayer to whatever friendly deity might be bothered to listen to the effect that I sincerely hope that Sparrow has not chosen some – improper book for the sheer, perverse pleasure of making me read it. The unmarked leather cover offers no clue as to the nature of the material found within.
 
  I open the book and turn to the first page – eventually. Then I blink and look again. Choosing a couple of pages at random I look at them too, then eventually up at my host.
 
  “Sparrow, this book is in Spanish.”
 
  “Aye, Commodore James – knew I couldn´t keep that from you, smart fellow that you are.” His smile is lazy and he still looks remarkably like a small boy about to have a story read to him.
 
  “Sparrow, I cannot read Spanish.” Confessing this to a man who probably can – why else would he have a book in the bloody language? – is highly embarrassing, especially since it is this particular man, and earlier – much earlier – I thought him a fool.
 
  “What d´you mean, you can´t read Spanish?” He has straightened and is now leaning in to peer at my face.
 
  “I mean that I cannot read Spanish, so I suggest you find another book,” and I hope that will be enough to divert Sparrow´s attention – alas, no such luck.
 
  “But you´re the Commodore! You´re the boss of half the British Navy in the Caribbean, mate!” I hear the incredulity in his voice.
 
  “Glad you noticed.”
 
  “But how can you manage without Spanish, Commodore James? I mean, there´s a reason why they call it the Spanish Main, you know?” Of course the embarrassing thing is that the scallywag has a point.
 
  “Interpreters, Sparrow, when the business is official. And usually some of my subordinates have a sufficient grasp of the language to allow me to make do if the need arises.”
 
  Sparrow is still looking at me as though he cannot believe his own ears – I am strongly tempted to shout at him, something to the effect that we cannot all be polyglot pirates. Besides, I know several tongues – French, Dutch, a little Latin – what does it matter that this particular one does not happen to be among them?
 
  “So, basically, you have to trust some bumbling fool to pick the right words for you when you have to handle the competition, eh?”
 
  “That is one way of putting it, yes. Now can we please stop talking about this?”
 
  For a moment he regards me, quietly, and I almost think my request has been granted, but then he moves. “Move over, Commodore James, and hand me that book.” I obey and find myself sitting thigh to thigh with the pirate, who is busily thumbing through the book, dismissing chapter after chapter with comments like “too dull, too long, too short…”
 
  “What are you doing, Sparrow?”
 
  “I´m picking a good chapter for you to read, mate.”
 
  “Sparrow, I just told you that I cannot read Spanish.”
 
  “Aye, I heard you, and that just won´t do – that´s why I´m gonna teach you, savvy?” Now it is my turn to disbelieve – Jack Sparrow? Teach me Spanish?
 
  “Ah, this is a good one,” and beringed fingers smoothen a slightly creased page. “Now, I´m gonna start reading this to you and tell you what the words mean, and then you try afterwards, savvy?”
 
  “Sparrow, this is ridiculous…”
 
  “I asked, do you savvy?”
 
  “Yes,” and I turn that yes into a long-suffering sigh.
 
  That night I lie awake in the darkness for an hour or more, listening to Sparrow´s steady breathing, while the Spanish words for knight and nag, giant and windmill whirl around inside my head.
 
  And so a new routine is formed, where the reading is replaced with lessons. Truth be told, I suspect that Jack is a fairly good teacher, but that does not prevent me from feeling less than enthusiastic about these evenings – apparently he simply cannot accept that it might take more than a single appearance of any given word before it sticks in my mind. He reminds me somewhat of my old school teachers in that regard, though thankfully Sparrow does not see the pedagogical value of the cane – that would make this whole thing too humiliating.
 
  What keeps me from succumbing completely to an intense dislike of the evenings in the light of these lessons is the fact that every few days Jack will revert to the previous pattern and find us a nice English book, although now we take turns reading from it. Well, that and the fact that after a week of Sparrow´s teaching I surprise myself by actually stringing together something very much resembling a proper sentence.
 
  So, the evenings remain, if not solely pleasant, at least tolerable. The mornings are a different matter altogether.
 
  First of all there are the dreams. What they are dreams of I cannot say, for they fade upon waking, leaving only feelings behind. Nonetheless I have the distinct impression that they ought to leave me feeling vaguely disgusted, perhaps even downright appalled at what my nighttime mind has to offer, that I ought to recoil from them and try as hard as possible to distance myself from them. But the problem is that they do not inspire those feelings in me – quite the contrary. I wake up feeling a vague regret that the dream is over. At least once I simply close my eyes and go right back to sleep (there is no set wake-up time for Jack´s guest, apparently, so I am left to sleep as late as I please in the morning – a most uncommon experience).
 
  In the mornings my mind is too muddled by sleep for me to actually worry about this state of affairs – during the day it is much clearer and find itself sufficiently unoccupied to do so.
 
  More immediately stressing in the mornings is something that occurs for the first time on the third day out from Tortuga. I open my eyes – and back away, hurriedly (and briefly grateful that Sparrow has not made a habit out of placing my sword in the middle of the bed) and accompanying the movement with a wordless exclamation. Then I glare at the offender, sitting on the bed with a smug expression on the face.
 
  Peals of laughter sound behind me accompanied by faint jingling. “You really shouldn´t growl at Gold, Commodore James – ‘tis but a token of love, savvy?”
 
  “What it is, Sparrow, is a rat. A dead rat. And not even a whole one,” I qualify my statement, directing one last glare at the small, grey-striped feline before turning it at Sparrow.
 
  “Aye, that´s what I said. After all, she -is- a cat, mate. What d´ye expect, flowers?” and he chuckles as he steps around the bed to pet the animal, which leans purringly into his touch. “He´s a difficult one, isn´t he, my little darling? You bring him breakfast in bed and do you get as much as a thank you? No,” and picking up the animal he exits the cabin, still informing it what an ungrateful wretch I am, leaving me to breakfast tray.
 
  Next morning the little scene repeats itself, apart from the fact that this time the cat is orange and answers to the name of Silver.
 
  Silver and Gold, now there is a pair of the finest rascals I ever did see, but an endearing pair at that. They manage to charm the entire crew in a matter of less than two days, making even hardened sailors offer them choice bites from their own plates. And everybody tries to name them – Kydd and Kitty, Miss and Missy, Bastet and Sekhmet, even Arrgh Scurvy and Arrgh Shiver. Who the first person is to actually call them Silver and Gold is a mystery to me, although it would not surprise me to learn that Sparrow is to blame – especially considering the paradox inherent in the names – but soon everybody follows suit, myself included, although there is some initial confusion, since the more logical thinkers amongst the crew naturally expects the name and the cat to actually match (fortunately the crew does not contain that many logical thinkers).
 
  A pair of feline scallywags they most certainly are, stealing from my plate at almost every meal and lying in wait to make a man trip over them, not to mention bringing gift vermin to me almost every morning (except for those mornings when I have finally grown to expect it – then, of course, I wake up to an empty pillow). Still, I forgive them – if only because they are the only living things aboard, apart from Jack, who are willing to offer me their company. Besides, I doubt any man would not be charmed by a purring, soft, warm body in his lap, even if it belongs to someone with mischievous brown – I mean green-gold eyes.
 
  But the scare the cats´ ‘tokens of love´ give me are nothing compared to the morning when I find that I have somehow managed to – to tangle with Jack during the night.
 
  My first instinct is to cry out and back away – same as when faced with my feline friends´ presents – but I manage to suppress the instinct before actually doing so. Then I notice that Jack is apparently still fast asleep – breathing slowly and regularly, his face more relaxed than I have ever seen it – and I have never really looked at it before – not like this, barely an inch or two apart, his soft breath tickling my lips, and without his eyes looking back at me. Not like this, relaxed, unguarded, oddly naked. I notice that there are lines in his face, at the eyes, hidden under layers of kohl – why have I not seen that before?
 
  What finally makes me move is the thought of Sparrow waking up and finding us lying like this – his arm slung around my shoulders, mine around his waist, our legs tangled together, one of his beaded braids resting cool and firm on my cheek. Slowly, slowly, and oh so very carefully I disentangle us – inch by inch by careful inch, freezing every time Sparrow makes the slightest noise, and also careful not to put myself in a position where my back will cause me any discomfort. And then, when we are almost fully parted, Jack rolls over in such a way that we are basically back where we started.
 
  Eventually I manage to separate us and I curl up, trying to get a bit more sleep – for though it is morning it is also very early. Yet I find that I cannot take my eyes off of my bedfellow and that I feel the loss of physical proximity surprisingly sharply – I tell myself firmly that it is simply due to the fact that I have not slept with anybody like that for years and years and I probably miss it…
 
  I lie awake, silently cursing Sparrow – why could he not have continued to place the sword between us? Then this would never have happened. When morning comes in full and his eyes open I squeeze mine shut and pretend to be asleep until I hear him leave the cabin – I am not sure whether I could bear to face him just then, though why exactly that is so I do not know.
 
  All that day I find myself constantly expecting Sparrow to make some reference to the bygone night – some half-veiled remark, or, possibly, just a knowing glance – but nothing of the sort ever happens. Which does not stop me from worrying – what if Sparrow was not really asleep after all? What if he was simply pretending? What if he knows? And what would make such knowledge on his part beyond embarrassing is the fact that it was not on my side of the bed that we lay.
 
  But as much as I worry and as much as I watch him for the slightest sign, I never see a single one. So, perhaps he truly was asleep?
 
  If my evenings and mornings can be said to be eventful, then my days form the perfect contrast, for they are as endlessly repeated as the sea surrounding us. I find myself missing the simple task of keeping the log book, of putting down in short, precise words the details that separate any given day from every other. At the moment I am no longer sure what date it is, let alone what day of the week – and aboard the Pearl there are no Sunday sermons to put me back on track. And I refuse to ask, refuse to admit to myself as well as to anyone else – and especially not to Sparrow – that I am beginning to feel lost outside of time.
 
  From the endless repetition of days – sometimes it feels like it really is the same day being repeated again and again, as if God has need of extra time elsewhere and decided to take it from us – a few rise up, marked by events to be memorable, for better or for worse.
 
  Worse – worse is the day that a sudden gust of wind catches a crewman by surprises, causing him to lose his grip on the riggings. The inhuman scream he makes upon descending is cut short by a sick, crunching noise that seems to reach every corner of the ship in the sudden silence. I watch, later, as he is sewn into his own hammock and given a burial at sea, an unusually solemn Jack Sparrow overseeing the proceedings (and quelling the mumbling about bad luck as well as the angry glances in my direction (for my presence at this ceremony does not seem to be appreciated by all the men, though Sparrow insisted on it) with a single look).
 
  That night Jack reads to me from Hamlet – the part about the undiscovered country – but instead of getting into bed afterwards he leaves the cabin to join the drunken revelry up on deck – a wake, I suppose – shouting and stamping and singing and the faintest hint of – drums?
 
  I lie alone in the dark, wondering at the look in Jack´s eyes as he read – is he grieving for this man? And if so, then why? After all, death is a sailor´s lot in life – if not by accident, then in battle against either some human foe or the weather and the sea herself. If a captain were to grieve for every life lost on his vessel, then surely he would soon break. And besides, it is not like he was anyone special, this man – not even a member of Jack´s original crew, just one of those he picked up in Tortuga. So why?
 
  I try to remember what little I knew of the dead man – he was black, like a large part of the crew, but unlike most of them he had no brands or scars to mark him as a runaway slave – at least as far as I could tell. Rather I dimly recall noting a lazy pride in his eyes when I was introduced to him, akin to the pride that I have always imagined the great jungle cats must feel. I try to remember a name to go with the face, but in vain – there were far too many names that day. They all seem to glide into each other. Something exotic, perhaps?
 
  The next day at noon Sparrow handles the auctioning off of Tom the Gunner´s property before the mast – and then the ship returns to her routine. Not once does anybody mention the deceased – it feels as if he was never even here. Perhaps he was not – perhaps it was the heat of the sun playing tricks on my mind. Perhaps…
 
  Better to remember is the day when suddenly a haphazard symphony of clicks and squeals and splashes announces that we have been graced with the company of a dolphin pod. The crew cluster by the railings, chattering excitedly amongst themselves while admiring the sleek animals. I hear Mr. Gibbs informing some young man that dolphins are the very best of luck a ship can have, and I see Anamaria throw down a glittering fish – a particularly magnificent leap is used by the very smallest dolphin to assure itself the easy meal. And even I find that the corners of my lips – as if of their volition – seem to be curving slightly upwards.
 
  I hear the solid splash moments before realizing that the golden-brown blur out of the corner of my eye is in fact one stark naked Jack Sparrow, and by then the dolphins are already gathering to get a closer look at their guest. Apparently he is acceptable to them, because they quickly resume their playing – with Jack as a participant.
 
  “Oy, ye lazy mutts, come down ‘ere!” he shouts to the crew on the deck during a lull, but the only answer he gets is laughter, scattered and somewhat nervous. It would appear that there is a limit to what Sparrow´s men are willing to do for him.
 
  “Commodore James, why don´t you come down ‘ere? The water´s great!” Is it my imagination or can I actually see the sunlight´s gleaming in his gold teeth even from this distance?
 
  “I am afraid I must decline, Captain Sparrow,” I call back, barely containing my laughter – something the people around me make absolutely no attempt to do – now that it is no longer them being invited. Sparrow offers no more invitations, but shrugs and turns back to his playmates. For the next hour or so we are treated to the sight of a pirate tumbling and diving among the friendly animals, occasionally even being pulled along by one. The sunlight causes the drops of water on all of them to sparkle, making it seem like they are covered in liquid diamonds. It is a strangely beautiful sight.
 
  “You should´ve jumped in, Commodore James,” Jack comments later, standing dripping and nude next to me, fresh out of the water. “You haven´t lived properly before you´ve swum with dolphins, savvy?”
 
  “Indeed.” I keep my eyes firmly focused on the swiftly receding animals until Sparrow has the decency to remove himself – hopefully intending to get dressed.
 
  I wonder why I am so adverse to seeing Sparrow naked. It is not that I have never seen a man naked before – that would be a hard claim to make when one has lived aboard a ship where there is simply not enough room to afford any but the highest-ranking officers even a modicum of privacy. Nor am I a prude – at least, not usually. So why is it that I have such reactions every time it seems like it is going to be unavoidable for me to see him so? I shake my head – what good are such speculations?
 
  Most of the days, however, glide by, unmarked and unremembered – one by one by dreary one.
 
  And then comes the day when the wind stops blowing.
 
  There is nothing predictable about this – since morning there has been a strong and steady wind blowing in what is apparently just the right direction, and the sails have been bulging. And then – all of the sudden – they are not. We all look up at the unusual sound it makes to find the sails hanging limp, as does the pirate flag above them.
 
  As if it was not only the ship, but also the sailors themselves who are dependent upon the wind for strength, the crew starts to stop performing whatever tasks they have. Sparrow manages to get some of them up in the riggings to furl the sails, but apart from that even he seems to be caught in the spreading lethargy.
 
  It is a hot day – the sun beats down from a clear sky and is reflected back by an ocean as blank as a tailor´s mirror. Pirates lounge where there is the smallest shade, for once filling their hip flasks from the water barrel rather than the rum stores. The air is full of the smell of sweat and hot tar. I feel my shirt sticking to my skin, and decide to seek shelter in the cabin.
 
  Inside it is also hot, but at least it is shaded and the open windows prevent me from suffocating in the heat. I curl up on the bed with a book, but I find my head nodding and my eyelids starting to feel unbearably heavy. Soon I dose, dreaming of fire and the coolness of a great cave filled with treasure.
 
  I wake up towards evening, the sun just touching the horizon. The heat has abated somewhat, though there is still no wind. I treat myself to a few of the oranges from the fruit bowl on the table, squeezing them to let their sweet, refreshing juices fill my dry mouth.
 
  Sounds are coming from the deck – shouts and arguments and loud applause among them – and I decide to go investigate, my curiosity aroused. I cannot say exactly what it is that makes these sounds different from the usual drunken revelry, but somehow they are.
 
  It seems as though every man – and woman – aboard are up on deck. Some of them seem to be simply lazing in the twilight, others are engaged in the endless tasks of splicing rope and mending sails. Everybody, whether sitting on a coil of rope or a barrel or leaning against the railings or hanging effortlessly from the riggings, are arrayed in a crude semicircle.
 
  And in the small open area in the middle of this semicircle? Who but Jack Sparrow, bending over a barrel while concurrently trying to keep up what appears to be seven or eight separate conversations.
 
  He looks up at me and, breaking into a smile, he leaves what he was doing behind to rush over to me.
 
  “Commodore James, just the man I wanted to see!” and he grasps my arm to tug me along back with him into the open space.
 
  “Oh?” I manage, the heat having not left my brain quite yet – and besides, I am not entirely comfortable with being dragged into the middle of the crew.
 
  “Aye. You see, Commodore James, I need your help, savvy?”
 
  “My help?” I choke out, staring at the brilliant smile that the rascal has seen fit to offer me.
 
  “Aye, your help,” and he tugs until I find myself standing next to the aforementioned barrel – I note that there are a few sheets of paper - the topmost one partly covered in writing – and a pen lying on it. “You see, Commodore James, we are working on the ship´s articles, savvy?”
 
  “Articles?”
 
  “Aye, you know – rules of behaviour aboard and suchlike, eh?”
 
  “I thought you had your precious Code?” I raise an eyebrow.
 
  “Aye, but you see, the Code is awfully general – and besides, it´s really more like guidelines, savvy?” For some reason he looks pointedly at me for a brief moment before continuing. “But anyway, my dear Commodore James, we´re working on a set – seeing as how I´ve only just gotten my lovely Pearl back, and so she hasn´t got any, ‘cause I´m not having the same as that bastard Barbossa, and that´ll never do, now will it?”
 
  “Which does little to explain what sort of help it is you are expecting me to provide – surely you do not want a naval officer to help shape your rules?”
 
  “Nay, that´d never do. But see, we´re all discussing it over a friendly bottle of rum, savvy, and since memories are what memories are, we need to write down the points we agree on – and that´s were you come in. You see, most of these sods don´t know a from b, let alone how to cross their t´s and dot their i´s, so none of ‘em can do it – and I´m busy trying to convince these curs that – well, that a lot of things really, so…”
 
  “So you need me to take notes.” Ah, the ironies of Fate – one day a Commodore in command of a great number of men and ships, the next degraded to a lowly scribe for a bunch of illiterate scallywags.
 
  “Aye, and how good of you to volunteer, Commodore James.” He smiles somewhat hopefully at me, adding imploring eyes – to improve the effect, no doubt. I wonder if anybody will ever believe me if I tell them that the feared pirate Jack Sparrow is capable of looking exactly like a begging puppy? I feel everybody else looking at me, too, but none of them do so in any sort of imploring or puppy-like manner.
 
  “Very well, then – I suppose you have a pen?” I sigh. Jack´s smile is like a sunrise, and in no time at all not only a pen, but also ink, more paper and a small barrel for me to sit on has been provided, and I can nod in answer to his question of “all set?” – I suppose this is going to be interesting.
 
  “Now, Commodore James, first we´re going tell you the stuff we´ve already agreed on, so as you can put that down, savvy?” – I nod again – “First of all, and most importantly: the pirate ship known as The Black Pearl belongs to me, that is, to Captain Jack Sparrow, and that´s not going to change. Anybody not happy with that are more than welcome to take his or her share of the loot and leave at any time. And anybody who´s not happy to do that should bear in mind that mutiny or attempt thereof is punished at the captain´s – that´d still be me, so, at my discretion, with anything up to and including dangling from the yardarm. Got all that?”
 
  “Is this supposed to be a draft or the finished document?”
 
  “Oh, just a draft for now – though if you´d be so kind as to make it into a proper document with all the trimmings on the morrow…”
 
  “I shall consider it, Captain Sparrow – and yes, I have it. What else?”
 
  To my surprise it is not Sparrow himself who proceeds, but Mr. Gibbs.
 
  “Aye, so, we got the matter of officers, then. First, there´s the captain,” and the somewhat theatrical gesture used to indicate said individual is answered by that queer little bow with folded hands of his. “Then we be in need of a quartermaster, chosen by the crew – and someone thought that might be me. D´ye agree with that?” There is little doubt that the answering roar from the crew is in the affirmative, so I put Mr. Joshamee Gibbs down as quartermaster of the Black Pearl.
 
  “And then there be the first mate and that be Anamaria – and if ye don´t like it, ye´ll have to take it up with her!” From the looks of the crew I somehow doubt that anybody will – will dare, that is. “And those be all the officers we freemen be a-needing!”
 
  “Aye, but get to the good part already!” someone shouts – Mr. Marty, I do believe.
 
  “And what exactly is ‘the good part´, Mr. Marty?” Jack calls back, but in such a way as to leave no doubt that he is quite aware of what is referred to.
 
  “Shares, ye daft fool, shares of the loot!” Hearing someone call – or, more precisely, yell – Sparrow a fool to his face aboard his own ship is a surprise – to bestow such a title on an officer of the Navy would earn the offender quite a lengthy and unpleasant encounter with the cat. All Sparrow does is raise an eyebrow and yell back, grinning: “Impatient, aren´t we?”
 
  “Get on with it!” and variations thereof are heard from the – considering the way he is clearly playing them, I suppose I should call them the audience.
 
  “All right, all right, you greedy lot, as you will – shares. A full share of the loot for every man and woman on the crew, be they sailor, cook or cabin boy, ‘cept for the quartermaster and the first mate, who´ll get a share and a half, savvy?”
 
  “And ‘cept for the cap´n,” Anamaria adds, “who gets ‘imself two shares.”
 
  Apparently this distribution of any possible profit is acceptable to the crew – I wonder idly if my hearing will survive this debate.
 
  Fortunately the following points of order are apparently less enthusiastically embraced – a rule regarding open fire and the advisability of its immediate proximity to the ship´s stores of powder and shot, enforced by the threat of the lash wielded by Anamaria (after having experienced the – uhm, the lady´s enthusiastic approach to the task, I fully believe that such a threat would be more than sufficient to keep me from breaking the rule). Another pair of rules, enforced by the same means, are agreed on – one requiring of the crew that they keep their weapons in good condition and ready to be used at all times, the other demanding that no matter what grievances two or more crewmen may have with each other, then they have to wait until next time they are ashore with the settling of the matter.

 

Continued in the next post