I'd fancy you return the way you said (but I grew old and forgot your name)
Everything has died. No -- scratch that word. Not died. Nothing to do with dead. Nothing and no one is dying if Jack has anything to say about it, and he will if they just could pick up a bloody breeze.
Sometime around late afternoon, the wind gave out. The sea rolled to a slow crawl of gentle waves and the Pearl, for all her might, guttered and stilled. Now, well on past sunset, Jack thinks it might be officially time to call this the doldrums.
They haven't budged an inch for hours. He left Gibbs at the helm under vague orders to keep a look-out. Look-out for the men sagging at their posts with nothing to do but also a look-out for other things coming their way. The Pearl can only out-run with the Dutchmen with the wind on their side. Without, they're sitting ducks.
Jack's not having any of that. He's never done well as a patient man.
The map in front of him says the island's another two to three days' journey. Or something like that. The properties keep shifting on him anytime he goes to read a measurement. That could be his frusteration blurring out the details. It might also be the rum. Hard to tell, really. Besides his elbow, the needle of the compass twirls and twirls in a most unhelpful way. Jack gives it a sturdy glare every few seconds but it never does him any good.
He still can't quite figure what he wants.
The night is eerily silent. All the men are tired or disheartened or confused. Jack won't tell them the places they're going and now they're not going anywhere. He'd put an ear to the ground -- well, deck -- for mutterings of mutiny except he hasn't really the time for it. There's too much else to concentrate on, with Davy Jones and Beckett and James. The three people from his past Jack most wishes he never had to see again.
Beckett's a mere curiousity, a bitter after-taste that lingers long after Jack forgot the night of drinking. Davy Jones is more pressing, with his Kraken and his threats. James is -- something else.
Something close.
Something barging through his cabin door.
Jack lifts his head just in time to see the good ex-Commodore stumble violently into the room. He keeps his fingers splayed over his map like they were and lifts the bottle of rum. James has his own (really, one from Jack's stash, and one day they're going to have a talk about taking things what don't belong to you) so it's only fair that Jack should join him in a drink.
"I hear mud holes are popular if you're to be looking for a place to collapse."
Sometime around late afternoon, the wind gave out. The sea rolled to a slow crawl of gentle waves and the Pearl, for all her might, guttered and stilled. Now, well on past sunset, Jack thinks it might be officially time to call this the doldrums.
They haven't budged an inch for hours. He left Gibbs at the helm under vague orders to keep a look-out. Look-out for the men sagging at their posts with nothing to do but also a look-out for other things coming their way. The Pearl can only out-run with the Dutchmen with the wind on their side. Without, they're sitting ducks.
Jack's not having any of that. He's never done well as a patient man.
The map in front of him says the island's another two to three days' journey. Or something like that. The properties keep shifting on him anytime he goes to read a measurement. That could be his frusteration blurring out the details. It might also be the rum. Hard to tell, really. Besides his elbow, the needle of the compass twirls and twirls in a most unhelpful way. Jack gives it a sturdy glare every few seconds but it never does him any good.
He still can't quite figure what he wants.
The night is eerily silent. All the men are tired or disheartened or confused. Jack won't tell them the places they're going and now they're not going anywhere. He'd put an ear to the ground -- well, deck -- for mutterings of mutiny except he hasn't really the time for it. There's too much else to concentrate on, with Davy Jones and Beckett and James. The three people from his past Jack most wishes he never had to see again.
Beckett's a mere curiousity, a bitter after-taste that lingers long after Jack forgot the night of drinking. Davy Jones is more pressing, with his Kraken and his threats. James is -- something else.
Something close.
Something barging through his cabin door.
Jack lifts his head just in time to see the good ex-Commodore stumble violently into the room. He keeps his fingers splayed over his map like they were and lifts the bottle of rum. James has his own (really, one from Jack's stash, and one day they're going to have a talk about taking things what don't belong to you) so it's only fair that Jack should join him in a drink.
"I hear mud holes are popular if you're to be looking for a place to collapse."