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***
"Look to the capstan, you cursed skulkers!" came the roar
from the front of the ship. "Make ready with the spring
line!"
"Oh, stint your clack already!" the helm bellowed in reply.
Then with slightly less volume, added, "Mister Gibbs,
kindly see to the first watch before you take leave."
"Aye, Cap'n," Gibbs replied from amidships. He shook his
head and grumbled, "It's about time," before choosing
seven of the crew to stay onboard for the evening. Two
captains was one again as many as a ship could tolerate, by
his thinking, and the Pearl shuddered in agreement.
"Haul out the plank. Step to!" he snapped at three sailors as
they swung off the larboard shroud netting. They required
motivation and clear direction, and he was just the mate to
dole it out. All the men were tired and confounded after
taking doubled commands, conflicting orders, and belays
upon belays in turn from their squabbling captains. It was
all Gibbs could do to keep the pirate crew from tossing the
both of them over the bulwarks.
"Oy, Mister Gibbs. A moment, if you please."
Gibbs made his way aft and climbed the steps to the
quarterdeck. Captain Jack Sparrow leaned against the helm,
one elbow propped on the wheel while the opposite hand
gently traced its dark curves. His head was tipped forward,
hooding a far-off, murderous glare. Gibbs followed the line
of the gaze; Captain Barbossa stood at the receiving end.
"Aye?" Gibbs inquired.
"Charge someone to see that dear Hector stays out of my
way and out of trouble," Jack said without turning, his
voice low and menacing. His mouth turned down with
distaste. "He's not to leave the ship. I don't care if you have
to lash him to the tiller shaft and use his bloody ridiculous
hat for a rudder."
"Aye, Cap'n. Already taken care of. I believe Marty can
handle him."
Jack's hard stare disappeared behind blackened eyelids. He
took a deep breath, his features arranging a mask of calm.
After a few moments, he opened his eyes again and set to
looping lines over a couple of the helm spars. Then one
eyebrow went aloft. He glanced over at Gibbs, aware of
his scrutiny.
"Something niggling at you, Joshamee? Out with it."
"Well, Sir, I ah..." Gibbs sidled closer to Jack, avoiding
direct eye contact. "I couldn't help noticing a particular
time of year is upon us, and seeing's how circumstances is
as they are, I wondered if you might be wanting a bit of
company."
Gibbs finally met Jack's gaze; it betrayed no emotion.
"I'm touched, mate." Jack bowed slightly, making a
sweeping flourish with one hand. "Truly. But each man
must make his own accord with life. Alone. Savvy?"
"Aye," Gibbs assented, although his mind was still working
at it. He clasped his hands behind his back, standing easy,
and surveyed the scenery.
Thick clutches of sandalwood clung to rocky coasts on the
southern shore of the Ile de la Tortue, insinuating green
tendrils through the fringes of the port town. Stevedores
shouted across the docks at each other; carousers flooded
the streets; small flames erupted from two separate
buildings. Chickens squawked from the rooftops and
cloven hooves clicked on the cobblestones. Gunshots
announced the changing of the hours. The bedlam was
superseded only by Barbossa's howls of protest at being
denied shore leave.
The tall man scowled down at Marty, baring yellow teeth
and eyes and cursing the name of Jack Sparrow by every
nautical pagan deity the rogue had ever crossed. And then
added some rumored unfortunate barnyard animals for
good measure.
Jack grunted, his right hand moving to grip his pistol.
"Ahem. So, what d'you have a mind to find in this
charming hole, Cap'n?" Gibbs inquired.
"Peace and quiet."
***
Gibbs huddled in the gloaming dark, pulling the upturned
collar of his coat around his muttonchops. He reached into
one of the pockets. The coins there weighed heavy. Being
the Pearl's first mate could have its rewards. But he also
had a certain responsibility to her captain. Well, one of
them. The other one could bloody well fluff off.
Gibbs peered through a blurry, soot-gray tavern window as
the man in question sidled up to the butcherboard table
inside. Jack spoke briefly with the owner then traded a few
pieces for a bottle of rum. He looked down, clutching the
bottle with one hand and stroking the twin tails of his beard
with the other. Finally, he shook his head and slouched in a
nearby chair, hastily sucking the lukewarm beverage down
his gullet.
Perhaps it was the distraction of the bawdy music or the
knife-throwing contest, or the tense, hackled posture Jack
assumed as he stared at his own boots, but none of the other
patron-miscreants saw fit to bother him. Gibbs sighed with
relief. The captain of the Black Pearl carried an air of
mystique everywhere he went. Add to that his distinctive
appearance and mannerisms, and it was nigh impossible for
him to darken the door of a Tortugan establishment without
some witless blighter challenging for a bit of his legend.
Most times, Gibbs would be quite content to let Jack bait
for trouble. After all, he could bleed a man with his tongue
alone. But this night was different. And old Gibbs was the
closest thing to a good mate Jack ever had, as best he could
reckon.
Gibbs stamped the pins and needles out of his feet and
waited. Jack took his time with bottle two and drained the
third one in earnest. The pirate stood then and swayed,
buffeted by winds that touched only him. He waved the
owner over, saying something into his ear. The burly
Irishman disappeared into another room for a moment,
returning with a small ivory-colored envelope and a flask
of rum. Jack pressed a felt bag into the man's meaty palm.
He pocketed the rum and accepted the envelope. He held it
gently, almost reverentially, running one thumb along the
fringed edge of the flap. Then he turned toward the
window, his face pale and his hands suddenly trembling.
Gibbs slipped around the corner. He heard a telltale slam of
the door, several erratic footfalls, and the rhythmic gasps of
Jack's retching. And he knew this time it had nothing to do
with rum.
"What's a matter, Sparrow? O'Malley water down your
grog again?"
"Oh, watch your step. I think he got landsick over here..."
The voices both laughed, echoing through the cobblestone
streets.
"Aye, I spilled me guts, mate," Jack's slurred baritone
answered. "Flog off or I'll spill yours as well."
Gibbs crept closer to the corner's edge, his hand reaching
for his scabbard. But the two hecklers moved on, smart
enough not to provoke the captain any further. Then Gibbs
heard Jack coughing and shuffling straight toward the lane
he was hiding in.
"Bugger," he muttered, stumbling backward in the
shadows. He felt around blindly for something to dive
behind, a brave venture in a Tortugan back alley. Gibbs
bumped into a heavy, solid object. A rainbarrel! He swung
himself behind it and crouched, quietly peering over the
wooden lip.
Faint blue-yellow moonlight skirted the edges of Jack's
form. His silhouette touched one wall. There was a rustling
of fabric and the scrape of sulfur on brick. A match
flickered, playing sallow, demonic angles over the pirate's
face. Then he lit the stump of a candle and held up the
envelope. The corner of it hovered near the tongue of
flame.
Gibbs saw Jack bare his teeth then, seeming to change his
mind. He lifted the flap carefully, keeping the red drop of
wax intact. Jack grasped the letter inside and turned toward
Gibbs, still propped against the alley wall. The paper hid
his features as the fire painted it orange and gold.
The older man ducked down and waited, knowing Jack
would take his time. Captain Sparrow sailed into Tortuga
every year about now to pick up a letter. Gibbs was the
only one who'd noticed the pilgrimage, and that by
happenstance. Not even the Navy was aware of the pattern.
Sometimes the report would be months old, sometimes
only weeks. But this message for Jack would be the last
one.
Jack's breathing grew heavy, desperate. The air gushed in
audible bursts from his lungs, finally hitching in his chest.
Then he stilled for a moment. Gibbs dared to look again.
The pirate's head was bowed.
Jack spoke a few words lighter than a whisper and pressed
his lips against the parchment. He reached down to his belt,
gently cradling the skull attached there. Then he blew the
candle out, leaving both men in darkness.
***
"Well hello, darling. Haven't seen you in the longest time."
Gibb's greeting was met with a snort.
"And looking right delicious you are, too," he said with a
grin, slapping the sow's rough hide. The animal squealed,
stomping its hooves in the mud. Gibbs had spent many a
night in the pen. Waking up with some bloody pig's wet
nose snuffling your face would sober up any man. At least
for a day.
Gibbs whistled to himself and nodded at passersby,
generally bored out of his skull. He brought out his favorite
pipe, stuffed the bowl with coarse cut tobacco from a
leather pouch, and took a long, leisurely smoke. As the
final puff had dissipated into the night, he decided he'd
waited long enough that his appearance would be
interpreted as a happy coincidence and entered the tavern.
Bawdy guitar and piano music assaulted him, and the
peculiar mixed odor of sweat, ale, and boiled meats was
overwhelming. A dozen sailors from the Socorro had
engaged each other, and everyone else who happened to be
near the bar, in free-for-all wrestling. A toothless old
bugger was swinging from the chandelier and throwing
banana peels at random patrons. And he seemed to be
having a good time of it. Gibbs walked inside, giving a
wide berth to a table full of sea dogs who were
concentrating on a game of Lanterloo.
"You blackguard! You was hiding that spade!"
"Cinch up, you sniveler!"
As is often the case, the game was interrupted by the
crunch of knuckles against a jaw. Soon each of the five
players had drawn knives and were going about the
business of carving their initials into their opponents. This
was exactly why Gibbs never played Lanterloo. He
continued on, hunting for Jack.
The place was crawling with drunken pirates, in some cases
quite literally. Gibbs stepped over a floundered buccaneer
and made his way to a nice, dark corner to sit and watch
and empty a tankard or two. He didn't see any of the
Pearl's company there, except for her captain, who stood
perched atop a swaying table like the wild ass of a man he
was.
Jack held his bottle aloft, his deep voice braying out a
familiar chanty:
Oh, you pinks and posies
Go down, you blood red roses, Go down
My dear old mother wrote to me
Go down, you blood red roses, Go down
Oh, son, dear son come home from sea
Go down, you blood red roses, Go down
He paused to take a swig after every "Go down". Except
the last one. That's when he fell off the table.
But the throng of sots around him cushioned the blow, and
he was soon back to blissful carousing.
Gibbs allowed his eyes to wander. He grinned and waved at
Scarlet and Giselle, the only people in the building wearing
more face paint than Jack, who was next to them and doing
an uncanny imitation of the deceased Cutler Beckett. A
wink at both of the wenches earned Gibbs a couple of
mischievous giggles. He made his way toward the busty
women, and he felt as if his grin might permanently split
his head open.
Until the crash of a table and the steel ring of a sword drew
his attention. The immediate area became instantly quiet.
"Care to repeat that?"
Jack slipped his flask into a pocket. He tipped his head
back, squinting and suddenly sober. His right arm was
extended, the gesture ending in a steel tip pressed against a
very pale and nervous man's throat.
"I-I said you're a son of a double-eyed whore."
"You may want to reconsider your choice of words, before
I consider splitting you open from bow to stern, savvy?"
Jack advised.
"Who the hell do you think you are?'" The sailor gulped.
Two drops of blood beaded down his neck.
"I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, mate," he snarled through
clenched teeth. "I came from hell, and I'll take you there
presently if you wish."
The young sailor noticed he was fast becoming the center
of attention. His ego thusly kicked in at the worst moment
possible.
"You're demon spawn, and your mum's the Devil's own
strumpet."
Jack lunged forward, growling. His blade was still lit
against the man's sweaty throat.
"Convinced me mum's a whore? Known many a crusty
bitch in your day, boy? Well, perhaps you do know her..."
Jack glanced down as if in thought, his left hand reaching
for his belt.
Gibbs moved quietly. He took a position three steps behind
Jack, his fingers wrapping around the nearest solid object
he could find.
"But you don't seem so sure," Jack pointed out, his eyes
gleaming mad, "what with wetting your britches and all.
Why don't you ask her yourself!"
The sailor found himself face-to-face with a shriveled,
brown shrunken head. Its hideous grin and sutured eyes
swung against his cheek. He screamed in a most unmanly
manner.
"Better yet, just go meet her in h-"
There was a loud crash. Jack paused mid-sentence, his
mouth hanging open.
"...ell."
His eyes rolled up in his head, and he keeled over
backwards, hitting the floor with a boneless *thud*.
Gibbs stood there with guilt on his face and a broken bottle
in his hand. He forced a smile, slapping the young sailor on
the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "You'll
have to excuse the lad. He just found out his favorite goat's
been given grace."
The man merely nodded, and the tavern went back to its
usual level of riotousness. Gibbs turned to his fallen
comrade, picking an errant banana peel from Jack's face
before sheathing his sword and grabbing him under the
shoulders. He then looked up, scanning the circle of
onlookers for anyone liable to help. Scarlett and Giselle
stood at the edge of the pressing bodies, managing to be
flustered and flirt with the crowd at the same time.
"Er...ladies?" he beckoned. "Mind giving me a hand?"
"What are you going to do, turn him out in the mud?"
Giselle asked.
"Serve him right," Scarlett added as she fanned herself.
Gibbs entertained the thought for a moment, a sly half-grin
growing on his face. But he shook his head, wrestling with
Jack's dead weight while digging around for his own
money.
"O'Malley!" he said, tossing a pouch over the bar. "Going
upstairs."
The ox-like man nodded and returned to pouring ale.
"I got some gold for you girls, too. Now come over here
and grab a boot."
The wenches looked at each other, shrugged, and
reluctantly moved closer to help. They made a production
of gripping Jack's boots, pouting and raising their pinkies.
The trio gradually man-handled the floppy pirate up the
stairs. Gibbs dropped him a couple of times, and Scarlett
and Giselle nearly split him like a wishbone. But they made
it to the landing at the top with Jack more or less intact. The
girls let his feet drop, and Gibbs was forced to drag him the
rest of the way into the room.
He grunted, shoving Jack onto the ratty, straw-stuffed
mattress. The captain lay on his back, limbs dangling over
the edges of the bunk, with a strangely angelic innocence
on his face as he began to snore. Gibbs sighed and rolled
his eyes. He turned to the two ladies.
"Look. Old Jack here's had a long day. He needs to forget
for a while. Show him a good time, won't you?" He
dropped several coins into their greedy palms.
"Aye. But what use is he now?" Scarlett asked.
"You jugged him clear out of his loaf!" Giselle griped.
"He'll wake up, eventually, with a headache and a
hangover and be none the wiser. Just use your feminine
wiles, or whatever it is you use." Gibbs paused and raised
one eyebrow, realizing the wenches would not be likely to
stick around until Jack woke up without some extra
incentive. "I have to get back to the Pearl. If you girls come
down with the captain in the morning, I'll pay you once
again what I just gave you. But don't let him on to it, eh?
Who knows. Maybe he'll even give you a ride." Gibbs
frowned, thinking. "On his ship."
They giggled again. "All right," Scarlett said. "We'll do hi-
...it."
"Aye," Giselle assented. "Us and the captain, we'll have a
roaring time." A crooked, evil grin spread across her
powdered face such that Gibbs felt himself blushing.
"See to it. And thank you kindly." He bent at the waist,
kissing the back of each lady's hand. "Just a moment, and
he's all yours."
Gibbs leaned over his inebriated friend, nearly blown over
by Jack's rancid breath. He checked Jack's coat, ensuring
that the letter was safely tucked away. He pulled out the
rum bottle and situated it in the crook of Jack's arm. The
pirate reflexively grabbed onto it, pulling it close and
mumbling "S'good" between snores. Gibbs chuckled,
giving Jack a pat on the chest before turning to leave.
He reached for the door and didn't look back, already
hearing the rustling of clothes. Jack was mumbling
incoherent nothings to the wenches, his charm kicking in
before he was even awake.
"Ah, darling, I love you... Mnn. Dress makes you look so,
so...thin. Ever been to Brussels? Fantastic place. Just
fantast-ast-icular..."
Gibbs closed his eyes and smiled. "Happy birthday, Jack,"
he said quietly, pulling the door shut behind him.
End
***
A/N: Several references were used in the writing of this fic,
including The Pirate Primer by George Choundras, The Sea
Rover's Practice by Benerson Little, and various online
resources. The chanty quotation is from "Blood Red Roses"
(traditional--author unknown). The title is from the song of
the same name by Flogging Molly.
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