Drabble Challenge: Disaster
Ramblings Before the Mast
For the drabble challenge on blackpearlsails
Author: Compassrose7577
Pairing: Jack, himself and Angelica (if you close one eye and lean)
Rating:Have a care, considering Jack’s turn of the tongue, especially when he’s in a bit of a pique.
Word Count: Well beyond the 100, but you know what it is when Jack starts chattering.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can't, so I don't.
Having a thought here. Watching OST, I couldn’t help but contemplate what Jack would be going through as a pressed hand on the Queen Anne’s Revenge. It’s a bit rambly, but then no one thinks clearly when they aren’t at their best. That, and the barnacles need to be chipped off the ol’ brain to get it working again.
FYI: For the landlubbers, eight bells marked the end of a four-hour shift in the Watch System on a ship. The men got four hours rest, then back on deck, and so on round the clock. At dinner time, there were two 2-hour ones (the Dog Watches) which allowed for the shifts to…eh, shift.
Groaning, Jack collapsed into his hammock with the explosive exhale of one having feared never to do so again.
Eight bells! Four hours until that bo’sun bellows like a gutted cow, until a round of Hell anew.
Unless of course there’s another bloody, damned sail change!
Staring round-eyed at the beams overhead, he tried to think of two things on his body that didn’t hurt. Aching bones, blistered hands and burning arms; the body does indeed forget. He considered taking his boots off, but that would mean moving.
Not bloody likely.
How did these old codgers do it? he thought grumpily.
At five and twenty he could go watch upon watch, around the clock without so much as a blink, and still fancy a winsome whore.
Well, at least Ol’ Cock doesn’t hurt. There’s one… Now, one more…?
His hand reached for a bottle that wasn’t there. Old habits die hard. His belly heaved like a gale-ridden deck at the grog served on the f’c’stle. A vile concoction, an adulteration of the perfect drink. Nothing to soothe his sorrows. Nothing to allay his aches.
Before the mast, again!
It was like being caught up in some perverse, convoluted viscous circle of life: what goes up must come down? Is that it? Cabin boy, f’c’stleman, second mate and captain, only to wake up at the bottom again!
A curse then?
No… just… here.
Was this Hell or was he just dreaming? Or, had he finally woken up to reality from what had been a dream? Either or neither?
Swabber, to able hand, to topsman in five days. Not bad. Working in the tops wasn’t quite as friendly as it used to be; Mother Earth called more strongly than he recollected and the horses more elusive from his foot. He could still tie a flying bowlin with the best. Still, up there with the wind in his face was an elixir, a reason to race aloft at every call.
Still not captain.
In due time.
Suffering blazes! Another night of elbow-to-elbow semi-suffocation, listening to gamy, malodorous men snore and fart, and make love to women who aren’t there. What he wouldn’t give for just one minute of the sweetness of…
Belay that!
I was going to say me ol’ bunk on the Pearl.
Was not.
Was so.
Was not!
Was so!
Was!! Not!!
The feel of a ship under his feet once again was good, sustenance to a starving man, but it wasn’t the same.
The Pearl lost. That damned Barbossa would lose his arse if it wasn’t attached!
It brought an emptiness of heart what couldn’t be filled. It was too cruel to be aboard a ship and not as captain. Salt in the wounds, it was. To captain another ship, though, seemed adulterous, a violation of a sacred trust.
A might lofty, aren’t we?
Not lost… Gone. She still lives, somewhere. He could feel her calling with the strength of somewhere near. That blessed compass was broken again, pointing aft like a needle on north. Blackbeard’s evilness throwing it off, no doubt.
Nothing was forever, not even death. Learned that well enough. No reason why his beloved Pearl couldn’t rise once more. He’d given his soul before, so that she might live again. Plenty left… hopefully.
That wretched cleric was still in the crosstrees; having a word might be beneficial. The poor sod didn’t appear the talkative sort, but…
He rolled his eyes to follow her footsteps overhead. No mistaking hers from those other lumberfoots. Heard it in his sleep, he did. The harpy wouldn’t even allow him his well-earned rest. Lurking. Waiting.
Like the Horseman-Horsewoman of Doom.
Disaster in boots.
The disaster from Seville.
For the drabble challenge on blackpearlsails
Author: Compassrose7577
Pairing: Jack, himself and Angelica (if you close one eye and lean)
Rating:Have a care, considering Jack’s turn of the tongue, especially when he’s in a bit of a pique.
Word Count: Well beyond the 100, but you know what it is when Jack starts chattering.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can't, so I don't.
Having a thought here. Watching OST, I couldn’t help but contemplate what Jack would be going through as a pressed hand on the Queen Anne’s Revenge. It’s a bit rambly, but then no one thinks clearly when they aren’t at their best. That, and the barnacles need to be chipped off the ol’ brain to get it working again.
FYI: For the landlubbers, eight bells marked the end of a four-hour shift in the Watch System on a ship. The men got four hours rest, then back on deck, and so on round the clock. At dinner time, there were two 2-hour ones (the Dog Watches) which allowed for the shifts to…eh, shift.
Groaning, Jack collapsed into his hammock with the explosive exhale of one having feared never to do so again.
Eight bells! Four hours until that bo’sun bellows like a gutted cow, until a round of Hell anew.
Unless of course there’s another bloody, damned sail change!
Staring round-eyed at the beams overhead, he tried to think of two things on his body that didn’t hurt. Aching bones, blistered hands and burning arms; the body does indeed forget. He considered taking his boots off, but that would mean moving.
Not bloody likely.
How did these old codgers do it? he thought grumpily.
At five and twenty he could go watch upon watch, around the clock without so much as a blink, and still fancy a winsome whore.
Well, at least Ol’ Cock doesn’t hurt. There’s one… Now, one more…?
His hand reached for a bottle that wasn’t there. Old habits die hard. His belly heaved like a gale-ridden deck at the grog served on the f’c’stle. A vile concoction, an adulteration of the perfect drink. Nothing to soothe his sorrows. Nothing to allay his aches.
Before the mast, again!
It was like being caught up in some perverse, convoluted viscous circle of life: what goes up must come down? Is that it? Cabin boy, f’c’stleman, second mate and captain, only to wake up at the bottom again!
A curse then?
No… just… here.
Was this Hell or was he just dreaming? Or, had he finally woken up to reality from what had been a dream? Either or neither?
Swabber, to able hand, to topsman in five days. Not bad. Working in the tops wasn’t quite as friendly as it used to be; Mother Earth called more strongly than he recollected and the horses more elusive from his foot. He could still tie a flying bowlin with the best. Still, up there with the wind in his face was an elixir, a reason to race aloft at every call.
Still not captain.
In due time.
Suffering blazes! Another night of elbow-to-elbow semi-suffocation, listening to gamy, malodorous men snore and fart, and make love to women who aren’t there. What he wouldn’t give for just one minute of the sweetness of…
Belay that!
I was going to say me ol’ bunk on the Pearl.
Was not.
Was so.
Was not!
Was so!
Was!! Not!!
The feel of a ship under his feet once again was good, sustenance to a starving man, but it wasn’t the same.
The Pearl lost. That damned Barbossa would lose his arse if it wasn’t attached!
It brought an emptiness of heart what couldn’t be filled. It was too cruel to be aboard a ship and not as captain. Salt in the wounds, it was. To captain another ship, though, seemed adulterous, a violation of a sacred trust.
A might lofty, aren’t we?
Not lost… Gone. She still lives, somewhere. He could feel her calling with the strength of somewhere near. That blessed compass was broken again, pointing aft like a needle on north. Blackbeard’s evilness throwing it off, no doubt.
Nothing was forever, not even death. Learned that well enough. No reason why his beloved Pearl couldn’t rise once more. He’d given his soul before, so that she might live again. Plenty left… hopefully.
That wretched cleric was still in the crosstrees; having a word might be beneficial. The poor sod didn’t appear the talkative sort, but…
He rolled his eyes to follow her footsteps overhead. No mistaking hers from those other lumberfoots. Heard it in his sleep, he did. The harpy wouldn’t even allow him his well-earned rest. Lurking. Waiting.
Like the Horseman-Horsewoman of Doom.
Disaster in boots.
The disaster from Seville.