Esprit de Corps Chapter 19: Tall Tales

[stealmybike]

Title: Esprit de Corps
Author: stealmybike
Pairing: Jack, OC, OCC, Ragetti, Pintel, Gibbs, Marty
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own less than or equal to 0 of Pirates of the Caribbean.
Summary: The stakes are high in the game of Whist the night before the Black Pearl and the Hellride reach port at Tortuga.
A/N: Longest chapter so far in my fic :) I'm really very proud of it. Lots of Pintel and Ragetti, along with a great deal of character development for Isabella. If you read, please drop me a line letting me know what you think!

Previous chapters can be found here



Chapter 19 - Tall Tales

“So, really, what’s so special about this Tortuga?” Isabella inquired, slightly slurring her speech as she took another hearty swig of rum from the green glass bottle she gripped lazily in her hand.

The night had aged; she had been awake far too long and drunk far more rum than she had imagined she would in a single evening. Considering the great ordeal she had gone through in the previous nights, she felt that she owed it to herself to just let go of all the commotion for one evening.

She was merry, joyful, and playing cards for most of the evening with a large group of her men, which included Jordan, Brodie, and Murphy. Pintel, Ragetti, Gibbs, Cotton, Marty, Murtogg and Mullroy could not help but also join in. It was their last night aboard the Hellride before reaching the port of Tortuga with the morning tide. They were all very merry, indeed.

“I’ll wager ya, Miss Isabella,” Ragetti began, shuffling a deck of cards in his hands. “A story about Tortuga in exchange for a story ‘bout your life - what say you to that?”

“You’re on,” she declared, confidently.

They played the game of Whist - a trick-taking card game, gambling what they held dearly - the greatest stories of their lives. Ragetti sat at the head of the small, circular table, rocking it each time he rested his elbows upon its damp surface. He placed the stack in front of Isabella, watching her cut the cards with an unsteady hand.

He masterfully dealt thirteen cards to each player, starting with the player to his left, Gibbs, and continuing on clockwise to Pintel then finally dealt Isabella her hand. She had learned how to play the game of Ruff and Honours in England many years ago, they say it’s fairly similar, but then again, they are pirates. Two partnerships were formed. Pintel and Ragetti sat across the table from one another, indicating their solid partnership, leaving Gibbs and Isabella as partners.

The last card is turned face up to set the trump suit and then is placed into Ragetti’s hand as soon as the Gibbs leads to the first trick.

“Hearts are trump,” Ragetti confirmed, dealing himself the remaining thirteen cards.

Gibbs eyed Isabella’s expression, yet watched Ragetti’s partner Pintel out of the corner of his eye. When all thirteen tricks have been played, the side which won more tricks scored one point for each trick. Although, it was too hard to tell who the true victor was at times - playing with pirates and all.

She sat between Pintel and Ragetti, shielding her cards with her hands while holding the rum bottle tightly between her thighs as she sat. Her eyes were narrowed with concentration, even though she had a hard time seeing the blurred numbers with or without the dark shadows she cast upon them with her fingers. She shifted her eyes between the dark cards before her and then to Gibbs, finding his expressionless demeanor almost uncanny. His eye glistened, speckles of light told her each move to make, each trick to play.

Gibbs looked down at his hand, thirteen cards with a strong suit in clubs and hearts, graced with three kings, two queens and one joker. “Four, uptown, hearts,” Gibbs began, setting the tone of the game, biting his lip while he eagerly awaited Pintel’s wager.

Pintel smirked, fidgeting his grubby fingers on the ridges of his card. “Four, no trump,” he stated, smirking as he studied his one-eyed, co-conspirator, Ragetti.

“Five, uptown, no trump,” Isabella stated almost immediately, cutting off Pintel’s premature leer. Her hand was graced with a strong suit in clubs, carrying three aces, the other joker and some low cards. It was most certainly not the perfect hand for a five trick wager.

The bid had risen, forcing the dealer to place a bet of equal or greater value. Ragetti looked a bit nervous, biting his finger nail as he looked to his partner in doubt.

“I’ll pass,” Ragetti muttered.

“What? Pass? What do ya mean ‘you’ll pass’ ya half-brained idiot!” Pintel exclaimed, rising to his feet, spilling his cards on the table for all to see.

Isabella and Gibbs laughed at their victory, winning not only the bid of five tricks, but also the five additional points that came with it for each trick won.

“All right, Ragetti, a story now of your darling Tortuga,” Isabella’s voice heightened over Pintel’s yelling.

“Tell ‘em how ya lost yer eye, mate!” Marty interjected from atop a barrel of gunpowder.

“Me eye?” Ragetti placed a hand on his eye patch, running his fingers over the empty eye socket.

“You know, I’ve always wondered how you lost your eye.” Isabella smiled, leaning back on her chair, motioning for Ragetti to remove his patch.

Ragetti removed his patch, crossing his eye as if he were attempting to peer over at the empty socket. “Tortuga, fifteen years ago,” Ragetti began.

“I don’t want to hear about that!” Murtogg interjected, finding himself amidst a sea of hats and shushing. All eyes and ears were on Ragetti, and the small cavern in his face.

“Contrary to wha’ ya might think, Tortuga wasn’t always the bud of boisterous merriment,” Ragetti spat in Murtogg’s direction.

“With the eyes of a wee lad, Tortuga was dauntin’. Couldn’t put me finger on it, but somethin’ wasn’t quite right,” Ragetti explained.

“Tortuga was a small port, still lively with all sorts of sailors and merchants - not a pirate to be found. Infection had spread through the town - ya know from all those men goin’ to-and-fro from island to island. I blame it on the tarts, personally, for sleepin’ with the lot of ‘em,” Ragetti confirmed, crossing his arms in disapproval.

“You would have slept with ‘em too,” Marty stated, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Rawk, shiver me timbers,” stated Cotton’s parrot at the opportune moment.

“Who’s tellin’ the story ‘ere?” Ragetti argued, looking at the menacing parrot. “I’m getting to it,” he smiled.

“There was this one Jezebel, who had ‘er eye on me all night - can’t blame her,” he said, confidently, sticking his nose in the air as he adjusted his shirt collar.

“She must ‘ave been blind,” retorted Pintel, laughing.

“Or cross-eyed,” shouted Marty.

“Shush! I really want to hear this story, gents!” Isabella stated, lifting a finger to her lips at the two men. “Master Ragetti, please continue.”

“I had her and she was willin’,” he stated, hearing a few snickers in the background. “And I was as ready as I could be - bein’ inexperienced and all. Now, there comes a time in every man’s life where decisions have to be made…” Ragetti began.

“I supposing you made the wrong decision,” Isabella interjected.

“Aye, I sure did.”

“What happened?” Isabella inquired.

“Well, as we were about to … you know, get on with it - I saw these spots in her … area,” he explained, attempting to used a bit of digression in front of the lady.

“I thought she had one of those infectious diseases, you know. So, I did what came natural…”

“Ya ran like a sissy?” Pintel inquired, condescendingly.

“As fast as I could ta the other side of the room,” Ragetti stated, gesturing his arms in demonstration.

“Turns out it was jus’ a mole,” he shrugged. “Boy, did she let me have it - and not in a good way.”

“She threw a pot at me face and when it shattered a piece o’ it went through me eye,” he explained gravely.

“How the hell did you mistake a mole for an infection?” Isabella questioned.

“I’m tellin’ ya that was no ordinary mole! I was just a lad and with all those diseases goin’ ‘round, I couldn’t be too sure. But now, I have to go around an’ say that I lost me bloody eye to a damned potted plant.”

The room erupted with an uproar of laughter, their echoes emanated throughout the enter deck making it seem as though Ragetti had more of an audience there really was.

“I know that a bargain is a bargain and all but, would ya mind sheddin’ some light on yer existence, Miss?” Ragetti inquired sweetly.

She couldn’t resist the charm of a sweet pirate. “What is it what you want to know about me, gents?”

Ragetti thought for a moment, bringing a hand to his coarse beard. “How exactly did ya land yerself in jail?”

“Jail? Why would you want to hear about that?” Isabella smiled, remembering how she wasn’t herself so long ago; her motives driven not by the passion for her cause, but from the anger that dwelled within her.

The men were attentive, gazing at her with quizzical eyes. Jordan and Moore, who had both heard this particular story hundreds of times, sat with their backs against two barrels, looking as if they were in need of a nap.

“All right, fine. I don’t know why you want to know about it - it really was stupid, if you ask me,” she warned, raising her brow, looking for any objections in the hopes that her two lieutenants might chime in a word or two.

“Many, many years ago, I was living in a small town in England, several miles outside of London, taking refuge in a room above an old tavern, working as a glass painter…”

“Glass painter?” Pintel inquired with a tone of bewilderment.

“Aye, a bloody glass painter - do you have a problem with that?” she eyed Pintel as he nodded feverishly.

“Now, as you can imagine, there’s not much in patronage for glass painting in England unless you were Roman Catholic, in which you would have been hung or burned for continuing to practice the old faith. Oh, and I wasn’t very good at it,” she went on taking another swig of rum from her bottle. “I made enough to pay my keep and sparsely buy some food here and there.”

“One bleak afternoon, a large crowd had gathered outside our tavern, they seemed to have been surrounding several horse drawn carriages. It was out of the ordinary, seeing our small little town to be in such an uproar over a couple of carriages. The barkeep informed me when I came down from my room that, Henry de Montfort, son of Simon de Montfort - the sixth Earl of Leicester, might I add - was, in fact, passing through to seek counsel with the King in London.”

“Finally the earl has come to save our people from the king’s tyranny!” exclaimed the elderly barkeep, Nigel. He slowly wiped the countertops with a yellowish rag. “They’re planning a revolt against London - one that will restore the good faith and the old ways of England before this blasphemous reform,” he went on.

She sat before him, parting her legs as she drummed her fingers on the slick wood of the bar stool. She knew nothing of England, the King’s royal court or the ‘good faith.’ England had always been a battleground of countless religious beliefs from Roman Catholics to Papists and even Protestants - to each his own battle.

She remembered Henry extremely well; his light blond hair glistening as his dark silhouette entered the darkly lit barroom. Henry wore a white bliaut along with an outer tunic of emerald green that reached down to his knees, fastened at the waist with a large, brown belt. He was adorned with a dark brown surcoat which bore his family’s coat of arms, identifying him as a man of high status, a man of the Montfort lineage. A regular barroom hero; he was, in her eyes.

“He was a rich man of many estates, son of a princess and quite a handsome man as well,” she smirked. “I caught a short glimpse of him as he sat down at our bar - he was stoic and poised; radiating wealth and taste like no other. Don’t know what he was doing in that dump in the first place. He looked out of place amongst broken bar stools and unworthy common folk.”

“Said he was looking for a hand to haul supplies he needed to purchase for the King. Willing to pay them for their services, he said. So, I eagerly volunteered, seeing that I wasn’t getting paid in the ways of a glass painter.”

“He looked at me for a moment, studying my stature in a very condescending manner - just like all those other bloody English royals do whenever they see a woman willing to do a man’s dirty work.”

“He asked me for my name …” she delayed. “I didn’t know what to tell him, my god-given name was unconventional, cursed and cause for suspicion.”

“My name …” she paused for a moment, looking around the room for inspiration. Her eyes darted along the bare tavern walls, finally arriving at a small window, locking onto a small girl playing outside. Her arms were held out and her hands fluttering in the wind. She thought of how beautiful she was. “My name is Bella - Isabella … I’m of … Spanish decent,” she corrected herself, slightly bowing to show respect.

He raised a hand to her face, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. “You are not a delicate pearl imprisoned in a coarse and unforgiving shell. What is a youthful pearl such as yourself doing in the dirt and not upon a plinth?” he inquired gently, taking heed in furthering his actions.

“He was a proper man by taking me in, feeding me, and letting me bathe. He also gave me a set of presentable clothing seeing that I was now his property.” She laughed at the thought.

“Several months had passed; London had come and gone and the winter months approached with such a fury that it was imperative that we return to Henry’s estate in Leicester. His estate was extraordinary but I kept to myself most of the time, doing the work that was given to me in order to survive and continue my stay. I took to the library each evening, sometimes reading but most of the time just playing with the beautifully made swords that hung above his desk.”

She studied the sword closely; it’s use of nonlinear distal taper and a deep and well defined fuller. She held it confidently in her hand, listening to the sound of the sharp blade cutting through dense English air. She smiled; it was like music to her ears. “Hmph, not so bad,” she confirmed.

“He caught me one night, as Lieutenant Jordan might tell you - I have no stealth at all.” She looked over at her lieutenant, smiling playfully.

“Without a doubt,” he replied, nudging Moore with his elbow, causing him to smile as well.

“She’s absolutely hopeless,” Moore elaborated, grazing his amber beard.

“He didn’t believe that I knew how to use a sword, so I had to prove him wrong, didn’t I?” she giggled, licking the rim of her bottle gingerly.

“Of course, because you know - that’s not suspicious at all,” Jordan replied.

“Anyway,” she emphasized, getting back on track with her tale. “I fought him, vigorously, for what seemed like hours. I was a bit sloppy due to the fact that I had put down my sword many years prior to that day. I gave him many opportunities to take the advantage. If it were a real fight I probably would have been done for.”

“He nicked me a bit on my cheek with the tip of his sword, not a deep cut but one that would have bleed pretty heavily for a normal person,” she stated, brushing her cheek lightly with her finger tips.

“He saw my wound heal before his eyes and as you might imagine he didn’t take it well,” she said seriously.

“You’re a witch - a demon,” he spoke softly, his voice stuttering at the word ‘demon.’ His blue eyes pierced her skin as he drew back from her.

“He was spooked - called his guards on me and threw me in the furthest prison he could call to mind. He really didn’t know what else to do with me,” she sighed, shrugging her shoulders.

“I ‘ave a question,” Ragetti began, raising his hand.

“What is it?”

“Well … did ya bed him?”

“Hey, that was my question!” Jordan interjected, rising to his feet.

The men broke out in laughter. Even Moore, in his stern demeanor, found a few snickers dancing upon his lip. Isabella couldn’t help but join in her inebriated state.

“Men…” she spoke softly, placing a hand on her forehead while she shook her head. “Is that all you lot think about?”

“Oi, ya didn’t answer my question,” Ragetti asserted.

“Well, if it helps you sleep better at night, gentlemen - I did not,” she affirmed, crossing her arms. “Henry was a noble man, one that did not act on selfish impulse. He was a loyal man, set on marrying one of his own kin to ensure his fortune remained within his family. It was a smart move at the time.”

The all of the men cringed, recoiling at the thought of marrying one of their own relatives. Pintel looked over at Ragetti and shuddered.

Ragetti let out a disgusted tongue. “That’s bloody awful,” Pintel asserted.

“Aye, couldn’t agree with you more, but that’s how business was done,” she confirmed.

“Miss, what ever happened to the lad after this was all said and done?” inquired Gibbs, placing his elbows on the table, anxious to hear her answer.

“I saw him, one last time, several months after he threw me to those Scottish dogs. He came to visit me, which caught me by surprise. He asked me to place a spell on the king - a blatant act of treason. He was a desperate man,” she nodded in disapproval. “He did not want to die and lose his lands for his actions in the great revolt against the King that he, himself, and the barons planned against the king.”

“Set me free and I shall kill the King,” she whispered, gripping her hands upon the cold steel bars. “I have no qualms with killing a man who intends on killing hundreds.”

“Hush, woman.”

“Do not call me that, do not let them hear that I am a woman,” she urged, scanning the room of sleeping prisoners.

“You must not let them hear your words of treason.”

“Your words of treason are equal to mine. You plan revolts, yet fear the blood that stains your ‘elegant’ hands. What else can they do to me that I have not already suffered?”

He bit his lip, unable to answer.

“Free me,” she hissed, feeling a part of her longing to be released.

“I cannot free you; I have simply come in need of your witchcraft,” he stated, regaining his composure.

“I am no witch, so, I cannot help you,” she whispered, relinquishing her grip on the bars, turning away from him to return to her cold bunk. He lingered for a moment before letting out a disgruntled noise from deep within his throat, making a quick exit in defeat.

“That’s all there was to it - I told you it was stupid. I really shouldn’t have fought him; it probably would have saved me a lot of trouble in the long run.”

“Probably would ‘ave neva met us, if ya hadn’t,” Ragetti observed.

“Aye, Ragetti. That’s the truth of it,” she smiled, pointing her finger in his direction. “Life has a funny way of working sometimes.”

“I reckon I’m in need of a good ol’ speck of rum,” Gibbs confirmed.

“Amen to that!” Ragetti agreed. “I’ll go peak about the hold, see if we’ve got any left - if all ya mongrels haven’t drunk it up already.”

He stood from the table, allowing Cotton to take his place as Pintel’s partner for the next hand of Whist. Isabella stood as well, just moments after Ragetti’s leave in the effort to accompany the young pirate in his quest for rum. Gibbs stood as well, placing a hand on Isabella’s shoulder before she could disappear.

“Miss Isabella, the essence of Tortuga is er … addicting. All the men are aware of that, especially Jack and Barbossa. Hell, some even spend the rest of their days on that spit of land, floating in a sea of vices till the day they pass on. With that bein’ said I can’t help but worry of your safety there … being a woman an’ all.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me,” she assured him instantly, not understanding his full intent.

“Aye, I’m aware of yer ability to fight back. But what I’m saying is it’s been known that the women who reside on that particular island are er … promiscuous by nature, causin’ themselves a bit o’ trouble and lettin’ that trouble pass on to those even not in that sort of profession.”

“How do you know I’m not promiscuous by nature?” she inquired, rhetorically, in a playful manner.

“Miss, I don’t believe that yer promiscuous in that sort of way,” Gibbs explained, raising his brow in hope that she would understand.

“Ah, I see,” Isabella stated, placing a hand on her chin. “What say you to this, I shall not go to Tortuga.”

Gibbs’ eyes grew puzzled.

“Henry de Montfort will go to Tortuga in light of my absence …” she furthered.

Gibbs smiled, nodding his head at her plan. “Aye, I believe Henry might like Tortuga, Miss.”

“I think he might enjoy Tortuga a little too much,” she thought out loud. “I’m eager to see what he thinks in the morn. But now, if you excuse me, I must go catch that one-eyed scoundrel.”

“Master Ragetti,” she yelled, making her way past Gibbs to the stairway in attempts to pull Ragetti aside before he could make his way down.

“Aye, Miss?” He answered, his voice echoing throughout the stairway.

“The truth is a fine thing, is it not?” she inquired.

“Aye, Miss, it is,” he nodded, rather nervously.

“Is your tale entirely true? Is that really how you lost your eye?” she whispered, looking back up the stairs.

Ragetti looked as well, to find anyone who might be eavesdropping on their conversation. He simply shook his head ‘no’ after a moment.

“I had an inkling that, that might be the case,” she spoke softly. “What really happened, if you don’t mind me asking? I can’t really imagine a woman with that great of aim to hit your eye and not leave another scar in sight, especially from a ceramic pot, no less. No more tall tales,” she warned.

Ragetti paused for a moment, unsure of how to phrase his next statement. He mustered out what he could, to the best of his ability. “Me mum was a good mum and all. Did ‘er best to provide fo’ me and me siblings,” he confirmed. “She was a woman of promiscuity…” he continued, quietly. “She owed some men a large sum of money. I guess they thought I would be a good way of getting’ ta her.”

Isabella nodded her head, licking her teeth behind her lip. She needed no further explanation. “You’ve suffered greatly in light of your mum’s attempt to help you. I’m sorry my friend,” she stated, placing a head on his shoulder.

Ragetti beamed. “Oh no, it’s alright Miss. I think I look quite dashing without it. Besides, the patch makes me look more piratey,” he reassured.

“Aye, so it does,” she smiled. For the first time she wished she could be more like him, even with all his faults. “Your secret’s safe with me. Now, I’ll get the rum; you go back and win a game in my honor.”

“All righ’! Another game, gents?” Ragetti yelled as he ran back up the stairs. “I’ll wager another tale if yer willin’ ta match it,” he announced, smacking his hand down on the table several times, calling the men to order. Marty took his spot in front of Gibbs, indicating his partnership and the game continued on without her.

-----------

Jack sat in humble silence within the confines of his cabin, hovering with calipers above a large map, analyzing their journey’s trajectory. He looks over at the hourglass beside him, flipping it over with two fingers as he leaned back to watch the small granules of sand pour out onto the other side.

Time - an entity that seemed so out of reach, so incomprehensible. Time always seemed to be running out as the days progressed. The term was unfathomable, out of reach out and out of touch. Yet, time could easily reach out and touch him without hesitation. Each day his bones grew tired and his eyes weary, accented with dark and defined lines between his heavy lids. He let his thoughts wander as if he were mesmerized by the sand’s representation. Setting down the calipers, Jack made himself comfortable in his seat, pulling his hat over his eyes for a moment of rest.

A small disturbance at his cabin door startled him from his sleepy state. He opened his heavy lids, parting his lips slightly as the knocking progressed.

“Jack?” a small voice called out, opening the door before he could answer.

“Jack, where is your kohl?” Isabella inquired, staggering into his cabin.

“I might be inclined to tell you of its location if you’d be so kind to inform me of what you’ll be needing it for,” Jack retorted, disturbed by her intrusion. He leaned back into his chair as he lifted his boots upon the tabletop.

“Well, some of the men - one in particular, have expressed their concern in seeing me waltz about the streets of Tortuga without any discretionary caution for my livelihood.”

“That is very fine piece of advice, tart - one that shouldn’t be taken so lightly. But now, how do you plan on asserting said ‘caution?’” Jack inquired further.

“I am to become someone I’m not,” she stated, beginning to shift through the drawers of Jack’s desk. “A man named Henry.”

“Ah! A disguise - how clever, come up with that all by your lonesome?”

“Why, yes I did, Captain Sparrow. I come up with brilliant ideas all the time,” she argued.

“I’m certain that you do, so I will let you devise with a way in which you’ll be retrieving my kohl without my assistance.”

“Jack!”

“Oi, you asked for it!”

She calmed herself for a moment, beginning to smile as she remembered Jack’s greatest weakness. “Jack, please,” she spoke softly, batting her lashes and wetting her lips in an act of persuasion.

“Oh, bloody hell woman, you don’t have to look at me like that,” he spat, reaching into one of his pockets to retrieve the small, black cylindrical object, gently tossing it to her.

“Thank you,” she smiled, sitting down in the chair beside him, taking the kohl between her fingers, beginning to draw the mustache above her lip.

Jack watched in amused bewilderment, bringing an elegant hand to his chin, looking on as she struggled to draw her lines straight. She quickly became frustrated, licking her left palm and wetting her cheeks forcefully to erase the crooked lines she had created.

“In need of some assistance?” he mused.

“No, I don’t need your help!”

“Oh, shut it. Give me that. You don’t know when to give up, do you?” he declared, grabbing the kohl from her fingers. He motioned for her to come closer, placing the kohl between his fingers. He smiled, realizing the distance between them and began drawing a curled, French mustache mimicking the one of his fellow pirate lord, Capitaine Chevalle.

She felt the kohl curl upon her cheek. “What the hell am I - A bloody Frenchmen? Jack, are you taking this seriously?” She nudged his chest, letting her palm linger for just a moment.

“Love, you’re asking me to draw on your face, you know you can’t bloody well see and with the way you’ve been treating me - I thought it was only fair,” Jack countered, chuckling to himself as he dipped a small rag in his rum, wiping away the long, French mustache.

“Such a damn waste of good rum,” he confirmed, smiling mischievously. “You know, that’s the last bottle in our stocks.”

“I’m surprised you’re not savoring every last drop,” she retorted, softly.

“Aye, you’ve got a point there, darling,” he whispered, lifting a hand to her face, guiding her close to him. He let his nose wander above the supple, spicy skin on her cheeks, breathing in the tantalizing aroma. He licked his lips gingerly, letting his tongue explore her cheek’s savory surface, retrieving each drop of ‘wasted’ rum. He leaned back letting her body loiter in a mist of drunken passion and ill hidden emotions.

“You know, I’ve never kissed a woman named Henry before, let alone one with half a mustache,” Jack teased, going back to his work, lightly adding a little more detail, eying her satin lips intently.

“I’m guessing that you wouldn’t start now,” she reasoned.

“I’m in the market for non-Henrys, as it were,” he replied, darkening the lines above her lip.

“How would you know? You might enjoy it,” she shrugged, raising her brow.

“I’m quite all right, darling,” he teased.

“I was always under the impression that you’ve kissed much worse,” she retorted after a moment, attempting to regain her composure. “Now, what does a simple man like me have to do in order to grow a beard like this?” she inquired, using her finest English accent as she tugged on Jack’s braided beard tenderly.

“You’ll be needing to grow a lot more than that,” he spoke, softly with a slight smirk, his words smooth as silk and as sly as a feline.

“I’m sure I won’t be needing to do much growing,” she replied, playfully, mimicking his speech.

“Sticks ‘n’ stones, love,” he smiled, wiping a small, misplaced line from her cheek with his thumb.

She scanned his lean forearms as he gently worked his artistry on her face. She sighed softly, feeling his breath on her skin; trying so hard not to move in her inebriated state as her artiste began to add in small specs of detail. She let her eyes linger upon his body, probing and discovering the small details of Jack’s life as they were depicted on his skin, like one of his many charts. Her eyes landed on the image of a free-spirited sparrow flying high above a tumultuous sea, the sun beaming in the distant horizon. Such a beautiful image captured upon the sun-kissed skin of a maverick.

“I’d like to get another tattoo once we make port,” Isabella announced, suddenly.

“Is that so?” he inquired, motioning for her to stretch her top lip over her teeth so he could finish off the rest of her mustache.

“I’d like to have a beautiful, red phoenix on my back,” she explained.

“A phoenix? Are you certain?”

“Aye, a really big one.” She held out her arms to express the phoenix’s grandiose.

“A phoenix is a strong symbol, a depiction of not only life but rebirth and renewal, redefining oneself, so to speak. Do you intend on starting anew, darling?” Jack inquired, curiously.

“It is said that when a phoenix anticipates the end of its life, Jack, it builds a nest of cinnamon twigs. Once it has finished, it then ignites the nest and itself along with it,” she explained. “It is only after being burned down into ashes that a new, young Phoenix can rise.”

“A wise choice,” Jack smiled, admiring her knowledge of the noble beast, along with the ability to articulate her own self realizations. “I know a place where you can acquire such a piece. It might take all day and cost a pretty penny, but it’s worth it,” he stated, hooking a finger beneath her jaw, commencing the work on ‘Henry’s beard.’

“We’ll be arriving at Tortuga within a few hours. I can have Captain Barbossa escort you - er, Henry,” he corrected.

“Why can’t you take me, Jack?” she asked, pouting her lips.

“I’ve got some business to attend to; Captain’s duties and what have you.” He waved off her question.

Jack began to patch up the last piece of her beard, leaning back to inspect his work, nodding in approval. “Mhm, I believe that’ll do it.”

“Is it convincing?”

“As convincing as drawn-on facial hair can get,” he commented, studying her for appearance for a moment. “You need something,” he confirmed, taking his hat off his head and placing it upon hers.

“Your hat?” she curled her lip in perplexity.

“Aye, takes away from that.” He gestured to her face. “Give it back when you’re done with your little … charade,” he quickly warned.

“If I’m feeling generous,” she retorted, stretching as she yawned.

“Don’t fall to the temptations of sleep just yet, dearie. Dawn is approaching fast, might as well be ready for it when it comes,” he advised, rising from his chair to straighten his frock coat.

She rubbed the fatigue from her eyes roughly with her knuckles, paying mind to where her fingers landed upon her face. Yawning once more, she opened her weary lids to find Jack standing before her, holding out a gracious hand for her to take.

She took it without hesitation, letting him pull her up to her feet. “Help me pull her into port. It’ll be your first duty as a helmsman,” he stated gently, taking the tone of a subtle request rather than an order.

She nodded her acceptance, letting him lead her out of the cabin and onto the Hellride’s glistening quarterdeck. The sun had finally peaked over the horizon, leaving a trail of pink and purple contrasting hues in its passage. The bright, cloudless morning revealed a dark land mass before them. She could finally see why Jack took such pleasure in the morning watch.

“Tortuga,” she spoke, feeling the morning breeze trickle through her hair.

“Aye, lass. Tortuga,” he smiled.