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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Something about that voice sounds vaguely familiar, but James dismisses that notion. Surely, he doesn't know anybody who might find their way into a prison on some remote Caribbean island.
So he cocks his head over at the figure. 'Ah... merci. Je n'attends pas quelqu'un d'autre ici; c'est un soulagement, j'admettent. Qui sont ces personnes?'
His own French, in sharp contrast to the other man's, is crisp and precise. Like much of him, in fact.
((Translation: 'Ah... thank you. I was not expecting someone else here; it is a relief, I confess. Who are these people?'))
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Take out the captive rasp, and Jack almost recognises that voice. One way to tell.
"N'a pas pu dire avec certitude. Une tribe du Garifuna, échouée sur cette île," Jack says, stretching out the syllables like a well-worn shoe. Then he changes tactics, and languages.
His Spanish is rustier than his French, having had three days to refine his tongue once more. The Garifuna will speak in French if trade is involved, and white men aren't in the majority. Jack usually knows how warring tribes work. Mostly. Some of the time.
But he hasn't used Spanish since the last time he were on Hispanoila, and that was an experience. He never quite remembered the words correctly afterwards.
"A menos que eres, ermn, navegue debajo de colores Ingleses," he manages to get out, drawling slowly as he rests his jaw against his arm. "Y entonces no importa que son."
Translation: "Can't say for sure. An off-shoot on the Garifuna tribe, stuck on this island. Unless you sail under English colours, and then it don't matter who they are."
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He lifts an eyebrow, though he doubts the other man can see it. 'Francés, Español? ¿Tiene una problema para decidir, ¿estamos?' Taking his cue from the man, he switches back into French. 'Je parle tous les deux, s'il vous plait.'
And then finally, with a sharp look towards the other side of the hut, he switches into English. 'Is that so? Pity. Though I rather believe that was precisely the reason they captured me in the first place.'
There's a faint shift from the man in the corner, and a stray shaft of sunlight glances briefly off something round and shiny hanging from his hair; it creates a momentary flash of bright light that sends James blinking. But he knows now who the man is, much as he hates it, and he finishes his sentence with a grim little smile.
'...Sparrow.'
(Translation: 'French, Spanish? Having a problem deciding, are we? I speak both, you know.'))
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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.
Nothing he can do about that now. A few days shore leave never killed a man (until it did), and now with Norrington here to provide entertainment, Jack finds that he doesn't mind the prospect of captivity.
As long as he doesn't think about it.
Translation: Wouldn't dream of it, mate. I doubt I could ever get you in the mood.
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He says nothing as he scoots himself over into the darker shadows on the far side of the hut, heeding Sparrow's advice of earlier. He meets his eyes, still not glaring.
'You're quite right,' he says lightly, his voice tight with unspoken ire, 'the sun's much better over here.'
The other thing that's much better over here is his view of Sparrow. Now that James is no longer out of the shadows, with Sparrow obscured within them, James can see him almost clearly. And it very clearly is Sparrow, as if he'd had any doubts about it before, shoved up against the wall as if he was wanting for space. James regards him coolly.
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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 the look at Norrington's face. Not that Jack cares exactly. He just knows the things a man should respect and the things that are worth the risk to tamper with.
Translation: "Flattered that you believed me. Four hours away from your men and already you're betraying you're Naval breeding?"
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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.
So, that in mind, his Commodorial face does not waver a jot as he regards Sparrow. 'Hardly. I saved my crew's life by cooperating with our captors. Unlike some, Sparrow, I would never betray my own.
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Jack shrugs at Norrington's answer. So it was surrender. Good enough, then. Jack didn't think Norrington had it in him. "Always profitable to know when to wave the white flag, or, em, uh, wig in your case. No sense fighting when you can spend your days lying on a beach somewhere."
He gives a yawn, as if he's tired, which Jack is but he won't sleep now with Norrington watching him like a hawk. The man's distracting, interesting, and Jack doesn't want to miss a thing.
"As long as you're not thinking about what the Garifuna have done with your men after they scuttled you away, got nothing to worry about now, hm?" He twists his head so that a spotlight of sun hits his face. It's half a warning and half a ploy, if Norrington's quick enough to pick up on it.
Jack knows how these people work and he wants Norrington to know that as well.
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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 they'd nearly emptied their hold for the chief, there was nothing else he could have wanted from them. James had to trust that they'd kept up their end of the deal, such as it had been.
He clears his throat; an abrupt, angry sound in the heavy air of the hut. 'Thank you for the warning, Sparrow. You are most considerate.' He gives him a tight, obviously false smile, before his face melts back into cold disapproval. 'You are also an idiot if you think I hadn't considered that. One does not get to be Commodore without using one's brain from time to time.'
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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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