To one who knows what to look for, there's a few places set up for just such an approach -- a table here, a lounging first mate there with a scrap of paper at his side, and of course milling crowds all around.
This is Tortuga, after all.
Therefore, there's no reason to take any particular notice of the man who walks in the door, neatly sidestepping a boisterous brawl.
He settles his hat on his head and looks around the room -- and then black eyes brighten with a sudden pleased light.
Bootstrap's smile goes a little wistful at that -- no other ship ever built could match the Wench for speed. And that's not mere hyperbole on his part; his father was a shipbuilder, and he knows.
Jack grins at him, then turns and saunters across the room to the door. He moves as though he's on the water, swaying back and forth, and somehow manages to neatly step 'round anyone who might be in his path.
The street outside is foul with mud and filled with stench, and Jack doesn't seem to notice it at all as he picks his way down to the port and the pier there, at the end of which rests a tall black ship with black sails.
"Here we are."
There's pride in his voice, and fondness in the look he directs at the vessel.
This is Tortuga, after all.
Therefore, there's no reason to take any particular notice of the man who walks in the door, neatly sidestepping a boisterous brawl.
He settles his hat on his head and looks around the room -- and then black eyes brighten with a sudden pleased light.
"If it isn't William Turner."
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"Jack Sparrow, as I live and breathe!"
Bill rises to his feet and reaches across the table for the other man's hand.
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"Good to see you, mate."
He drops into a chair across from him and casts a wry glance around the room.
"Come a ways off course, we have."
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Bill offers his tankard.
"Though I didn't look to see you here. Jack, you're not signing on as crew somewhere, are you?"
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"'Course not," he says, sounding affronted. "Come to find me a crew, savvy?"
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"Find a crew? But ..."
And rise, startled.
"You've gotten a new ship?"
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After a moment and an exchange of pleasantries, she's on her way again, and Jack picks up the rum -- evidently unruffled, if not un-mussed.
"I've got me own ship," he says flatly, and black eyes are glittering with something nearly feral.
"The Black Pearl."
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Much like the last ship the two of them had sailed on together, actually-- the Wicked Wench.
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"I'd like to see her."
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"She's not far, mate."
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"Lead on, then."
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The street outside is foul with mud and filled with stench, and Jack doesn't seem to notice it at all as he picks his way down to the port and the pier there, at the end of which rests a tall black ship with black sails.
"Here we are."
There's pride in his voice, and fondness in the look he directs at the vessel.
"The Black Pearl.
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... stares.
It's the Wench. He would swear it's her, but for the color. No other ship ever built --
"Jack," he breathes, in awe and disbelief and delight. "Saints' blood, how did you ..."
He turns that look on Jack. "It's her, isn't it?"
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"Now, William-- I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."
A beat.
"'Course it's her. It's me Pearl, me treasure from the sea. I'd never leave her all on her lone."
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"Captain Sparrow," he says, "I'd be proud to sign on with yer crew, if you'll have me."
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