PotC -- Speed Bonnie Boat
Pirates! I can't get them to leave! Not even Very Loud Beethoven is getting Elza and crew back instead of the Pirates! So I bring you this story, sequel to A Means and An End from earlier this week -- what happens the second night out from Tortuga. It brings up one of the things I think is an interesting direction for Jack's backstory.
The second night they have a truce. They do not talk about anything personal, eat on deck with everyone else. As soon as dinner ends, Elizabeth goes back to the cabin alone. She takes off her waistcoat and her neckcloth this time, and does not prime the pistols under the bed. She trusts him that far. She trusts him to steer clear of dangerous waters.
It's two hours or more before Jack comes in. The candle has burned down to a guttering pool in the lamp, a blue flame that illuminates little. She is almost asleep.
Elizabeth opens one eye halfway, enough to peep through her lashes, keeping her breathing even and deep.
Jack glances at her, a long hard glance, unreadable in the shadows. He must conclude she's asleep, as he turns away and starts undressing. Quietly. Which, she thinks with a sense of irony, is very considerate. Or perhaps he just doesn't want to talk to her.
He takes his boots and stockings off, walks around to where she can't see him without moving. She hears the clink as his baldric hits the floor, a soft sigh of cloth behind it. He comes back into her field of vision. He sniffs expectantly at his sweat stained white shirt, nose wrinkled. It's damp from his body, and it reeks.
Jack shrugs. He pulls it up and over his head with one motion, his back to her, and drops it on the floor.
She almost draws a sharp breath, but stops herself in time. His back is a mass of scars. Once, maybe more than once, he's been flogged to the bone. The scars cross and cover one another, masses of ugly raised tissue, white and shiny with age against darker skin.
He half-turns, gives her a quick look. She slides her eyes shut. Closing them quickly would be a dead give away, but a gradual flutter will be unnoticed. Elizabeth keeps them closed. She has only a glimpse of smooth, almost hairless chest, ancient powder burns vivid where the grains have yet to work themselves to the surface. She breathes. Sleep. Sleep.
Jack must believe her, because she hears his feet quiet on the floor, the rustle of cloth again.
The mattress gives on the other side of the bed. Sleep. Even breathing.
"I know yer awake."
Her eyes pop open. He's lying on the other side of the bed, wearing a clean shirt, a blue shirt so old that the indigo has faded to a soft, worn purple. It comes halfway down his thighs, open at the neck. His expression is unreadable, chin lifted a little, the tiny gold beads on the forked tails of his beard glittering. "Yer wonderin' if I hide me stripes."
She looks away. "I didn't. I wasn't looking." There is something so intimate, and yet so horrible, something wrong with her that she should look on such terrible scars and feel anything besides pity and revulsion.
Jack grins, every gold tooth visible. "Sure ye were, sweeting. Nothin' wrong with checking out the goods. Plenty 'f maids want a look at old Jack."
"I don't. I mean..." She makes herself meet his eyes squarely. "Was it...justice?" It is as close as she will ask to why.
He tilts his head to the side, a mocking note in his voice that doesn't reach his eyes. "Justice, love? Surely ye know the King's justice is only fer subjects of the Crown."
"You're not English, then?" The words pour out before she can stop them. Elizabeth can't imagine why she thought he was. An English name, surely, but just as surely an alias.
Jack's grin widens. "You and yer assumptions, darlin'."
"What are you then?" she asks, and knows he won't answer.
Jack leans back on one elbow, his legs stretched out on top of the blanket. The movement shifts the hem of his shirt an inch higher, exposing an inch more bare thigh. "Maybe I'm an escaped Jacobite, a desperate outlaw wi' a price on his head for defendin' his rightful prince."
"No," Elizabeth smiles back, incredulous. "I can't believe it for a moment, Jack."
"I'm hurt!" He puts a hand to his chest, eyes dancing. "Can ye not believe that I was a young lad, wooed by visions of glory and fightin' for me own king? Why Charlie himself owes his life to me. You're not believin' me, but it's true. It was Jack Sparrow himself that rowed the Bonnie Prince over to the Isle of Skye when everyone was hunting him."
"Jack...." she can't help but smile.
He leans back against the pillow, and the hem rides up again. "There we was, in the boat, what with Charlie dressed as a girl and all, and me as the ladies' maid, rowin' for all we were worth. And Charlie, he says to me, 'Jack,' and I says to him, 'What, Charlie?' and he says to me, 'Jack, you don't look nothing like a ladies' maid.'"
"I should think not," Elizabeth says.
"So we rowed over to Skye and Charlie says, 'Jack, I think if anybody sees you they won't think you're a girl,' and I says, 'Charlie, yer right.' So I left old Charlie on Skye, and I just kept on rowin' and rowin' until I got to Nova Scotia."
She laughs. She does admire the courage of the man, taking something of tender pride and turning it into a grand joke. The least she can do is laugh.
Jack reaches for the blanket and pulls it up, rolling on his side away from her. She wonders if he usually sleeps in his shirt, or in the nothing at all. It's a thought she'd not care to pursue, Jack naked in this bed. She has seen more of him than she should.
"Good night, me darlin,'" he says, his back to her, a yawn in his voice.
"Good night, Jack," she says, more tenderly than she intended.
Feedback is greatly appreciated!
The second night they have a truce. They do not talk about anything personal, eat on deck with everyone else. As soon as dinner ends, Elizabeth goes back to the cabin alone. She takes off her waistcoat and her neckcloth this time, and does not prime the pistols under the bed. She trusts him that far. She trusts him to steer clear of dangerous waters.
It's two hours or more before Jack comes in. The candle has burned down to a guttering pool in the lamp, a blue flame that illuminates little. She is almost asleep.
Elizabeth opens one eye halfway, enough to peep through her lashes, keeping her breathing even and deep.
Jack glances at her, a long hard glance, unreadable in the shadows. He must conclude she's asleep, as he turns away and starts undressing. Quietly. Which, she thinks with a sense of irony, is very considerate. Or perhaps he just doesn't want to talk to her.
He takes his boots and stockings off, walks around to where she can't see him without moving. She hears the clink as his baldric hits the floor, a soft sigh of cloth behind it. He comes back into her field of vision. He sniffs expectantly at his sweat stained white shirt, nose wrinkled. It's damp from his body, and it reeks.
Jack shrugs. He pulls it up and over his head with one motion, his back to her, and drops it on the floor.
She almost draws a sharp breath, but stops herself in time. His back is a mass of scars. Once, maybe more than once, he's been flogged to the bone. The scars cross and cover one another, masses of ugly raised tissue, white and shiny with age against darker skin.
He half-turns, gives her a quick look. She slides her eyes shut. Closing them quickly would be a dead give away, but a gradual flutter will be unnoticed. Elizabeth keeps them closed. She has only a glimpse of smooth, almost hairless chest, ancient powder burns vivid where the grains have yet to work themselves to the surface. She breathes. Sleep. Sleep.
Jack must believe her, because she hears his feet quiet on the floor, the rustle of cloth again.
The mattress gives on the other side of the bed. Sleep. Even breathing.
"I know yer awake."
Her eyes pop open. He's lying on the other side of the bed, wearing a clean shirt, a blue shirt so old that the indigo has faded to a soft, worn purple. It comes halfway down his thighs, open at the neck. His expression is unreadable, chin lifted a little, the tiny gold beads on the forked tails of his beard glittering. "Yer wonderin' if I hide me stripes."
She looks away. "I didn't. I wasn't looking." There is something so intimate, and yet so horrible, something wrong with her that she should look on such terrible scars and feel anything besides pity and revulsion.
Jack grins, every gold tooth visible. "Sure ye were, sweeting. Nothin' wrong with checking out the goods. Plenty 'f maids want a look at old Jack."
"I don't. I mean..." She makes herself meet his eyes squarely. "Was it...justice?" It is as close as she will ask to why.
He tilts his head to the side, a mocking note in his voice that doesn't reach his eyes. "Justice, love? Surely ye know the King's justice is only fer subjects of the Crown."
"You're not English, then?" The words pour out before she can stop them. Elizabeth can't imagine why she thought he was. An English name, surely, but just as surely an alias.
Jack's grin widens. "You and yer assumptions, darlin'."
"What are you then?" she asks, and knows he won't answer.
Jack leans back on one elbow, his legs stretched out on top of the blanket. The movement shifts the hem of his shirt an inch higher, exposing an inch more bare thigh. "Maybe I'm an escaped Jacobite, a desperate outlaw wi' a price on his head for defendin' his rightful prince."
"No," Elizabeth smiles back, incredulous. "I can't believe it for a moment, Jack."
"I'm hurt!" He puts a hand to his chest, eyes dancing. "Can ye not believe that I was a young lad, wooed by visions of glory and fightin' for me own king? Why Charlie himself owes his life to me. You're not believin' me, but it's true. It was Jack Sparrow himself that rowed the Bonnie Prince over to the Isle of Skye when everyone was hunting him."
"Jack...." she can't help but smile.
He leans back against the pillow, and the hem rides up again. "There we was, in the boat, what with Charlie dressed as a girl and all, and me as the ladies' maid, rowin' for all we were worth. And Charlie, he says to me, 'Jack,' and I says to him, 'What, Charlie?' and he says to me, 'Jack, you don't look nothing like a ladies' maid.'"
"I should think not," Elizabeth says.
"So we rowed over to Skye and Charlie says, 'Jack, I think if anybody sees you they won't think you're a girl,' and I says, 'Charlie, yer right.' So I left old Charlie on Skye, and I just kept on rowin' and rowin' until I got to Nova Scotia."
She laughs. She does admire the courage of the man, taking something of tender pride and turning it into a grand joke. The least she can do is laugh.
Jack reaches for the blanket and pulls it up, rolling on his side away from her. She wonders if he usually sleeps in his shirt, or in the nothing at all. It's a thought she'd not care to pursue, Jack naked in this bed. She has seen more of him than she should.
"Good night, me darlin,'" he says, his back to her, a yawn in his voice.
"Good night, Jack," she says, more tenderly than she intended.
Feedback is greatly appreciated!