Language barriers
James is not well-versed in whatever particular language it is the Garifuna speak, but it is not at all difficult to determine what it is they want. The Commodore as a prisoner, and whatever supplies the Dauntless was carrying. Sooner rather than later, or the Commodore- as illustrated by a particularly eloquent gesture- would not be a prisoner
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The hut is stifling hot. Really just -- it's warm. Sweaty. Beads of sweat pool around Jack's nose beneath his hat and he shuts his eye before any unpleasant stinging can occur.
So he has company, it seems. Another poor blighter trapped in the ways of a very angry chief. He has a nice daughter, though. At least Jack thinks that's his daughter. It could be one of his wives. That could be why Jack's in here instead of out there, with the wind.
Oh. Oh, right.
Company, though! Company is new and interesting. Jack rolls on his stomach to get a better look at the man but all he can see is the curve of a spine, some shoulders, and head. Off to a good start, then.
"Le soleil est plus mauvais de ce côté. Ces types ne sont pas gentils au sujet de nous maintenir frais dans l'eau,*" he says, deepening his voice to ( ... )
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At least Norrington's long arm of the gallows can't touch Jack here. Norrington has no power with these people, and Jack has -- well, Jack has almost no power either except his good name to barter with. Good, strong, solid, wife-stealing name.
Bugger. Bugger bugger.
Jack inches further into the shadows until his elbow presses tight between his body and the straw wall. Norrington is in the worse of the two of them, and Jack knows how to cling to the upperhand when he has it.
"Je ne sais pas de qui te parle." His voice stays low and rumbling, one half-octave lower than normal far down in his throat. "Ne m'insulte pas. Je suis un homme, pas un oiseau," he says, and tries not to laugh. He releases the pressure of the laughter in his chest by ending on a sly, "Commodore."
Translation: "I don't know of who you speak. Don't insult me. I'm not some bird."
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James bristles. 'Do not play games with me, Sparrow, I am not in the mood.'
All the gladness he'd felt at realising he would have a companion whom he could speak with during his imprisonment here has evaporated. It's replaced instead by an unpleasant gnawing sensation somewhere in the back of his head, and a faint wondering at how it would feel to just punch Sparrow in the nose. Not James's style at all, but God, if the bastard doesn't deserve it.
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It'd be easier to converse in English, let the cat completely out of the bag, but Jack likes keeping his tail hidden, just until he knows exactly what can be got from Norrington. How the man wound up here for one. Where the rest of his ship and crew are for another.
The Pearl isn't far, still docked in a cove Jack knows on the far side of the island. His crew have off until Jack returns, which should have been today at the latest, if his memory serves him right. Stranded in a hut, only let out once a day when the stars are out, Jack isn't exactly positive how many days his crew have been waiting for him. Or if they're still waiting at all ( ... )
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From this vantage point, Norrington doesn't look all that much worse for wear. Little roughed-up and sweaty and smelling too much like shelack and salt water for Jack's liking, but not injured. So there wasn't a fight. Norrington came along peacefully. Or surrendered.
"Flatte que tu m'as fait l'honneur de me croire. Moins de quatre heures à partir de vos hommes, et déjà de tu trahissent toi élevage naval?"
It's dangerous to go that path but Jack thinks he should get credit for trying to keep up conversation and doing it in French. It's not like Norrington is known for his great conversational skills. Apart from giving orders and sneering, Jack has limited experience watching Norrington do anything else with his mouth.
Unless he thinks of Elizabeth and his time about the Dauntless and ( ... )
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His hackles rise at the jab about betraying the Navy. He would never betray his men, nor his king and country. That goes against everything James is, everything he believes in. Sparrow knows this, he's sure- the man's clever, he knows which sore spots to worry at- but James doesn't react, save perhaps a faint, uncontrollable curling of his lip. To allow Sparrow to rile him that easily would mean that the rest of his... stay here, already hellish, would only be made worse. He needs to show Sparrow now that he can't be riled so easily. Hell, perhaps the pirate might get bored if James simply refuses to play his daft games ( ... )
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He follows the motion of Sparrow's head with his eyes, processing his words with more than a little discomfort. There is always the possibility, of course, that the tribe has done something terrible to his men. They're primitives; no code of honour to speak of, and certainly no knowledge of English- words from James or his crew would have meant nothing to them. But with a spear-tip a mere hairsbreadth away from his carotid, and his men covered by spears and bowmen as well... well, it wasn't as if they had much choice.
Choosing the way he had does not make James selfish or foolish. It does not. The Dauntless is most likely halfway back to Port Royal by now; certainly after ( ... )
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He knows he's playing it a little rough with Norrington. That a wiser man would shut his mouth around this moment and try to settle into some sort of silence, companionable or otherwise. But Jack's never been one for decorum and it could be that a little bit of him is spoiling for a fight, a chance to stretch his tongue after days of being silent.
Norrington's not the best sort of subject for such an occupation but he's all Jack has at the moment.
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A touch juvenile, perhaps, but James's mind is still on the subject of what precisely might have happened- might be happening at this very moment- to his men, had the Garifuna not let them on their way. It's not his way to dwell on such things, but it is perhaps unsurprising that being locked in a filthy hut with only Jack Sparrow for company should inspire despairing thoughts.
After a moment, he pins Sparrow with a shrewd look.
'Dare I ask what you did to get yourself landed here?'
Last he'd heard of the Black Pearl, she'd been spotted off the coast of the Turks, and they're a damned long way away from this particular tiny island. Indeed, it had been complete chance that James had ended up here; a storm and an ill wind that had blown them off course. Though, he supposes now, there may be ways to turn this to his advantage. It's just a matter of, well, thinking of them.
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