Fic: Metal and Words, 7/16
Friday, 23 November 2012 20:47![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aletheiafelineaTitle: Metal and Words, 7/16
Author: Aletheia Felinea
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
compassrose7577. Thank you so much!
Rating: PG-13 overall
Wordcount: 2000, this chapter
Characters: (this chapter) Jack Sparrow, OCs
Genre: Gen fic supposed to be a crime story.
Time: Months before CotBP.
Summary: The sweet air of Tortuga can be dangerous sometimes, even for the certain Captain. And curiosity can kill a sparrow. Or... save?
Disclaimer: Not my hunting territory, The Big Black Mouse prowls here.
Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Note: The fic was translated from Polish. Jeśli wolisz czytać w oryginale, zapraszam.
A tiny grey bird flitted through the cool air, perched on the jagged edge of the roof, and chirped briskly.
“Uhhh…” Jack lifted the blanket, shuddered, and immediately withdrew, curling into a tighter ball yet. Then he sneezed. The blanket was definitely horse’s. He peeked out again, squinting in sharp rays of sun, barely risen over the rocky walls of the hollow. With a sigh, he threw the blanket aside, sat up, and groaned when his bones protested. He winced and gloomily eyed the bird, still making a cheerful noise. Self-respecting captains in the certain age should wake in their own cabins. Or in some warm embrace…
No embrace. No rum. No breakfast. Plenty of fresh air and dry land, as far as the eye can see. Nothing but misfortune.
The lack of breakfast quickly took the lead, overpowering even the lack of rum, the dry land feeling rather damp and chilling at the moment.
The horse lifted his muzzle from the rivulet, pricked his curly ear at the sound of steps, and looked askew at the pirate. Dipping his hands into the water, Jack glanced at the beast’s hind hoof, rested casually on the sharp edge.
“If you see the one who dispatched ol’ Hans, you can treat him to this. I’ll be back… when I’ll be back.” He turned and walked toward the tunnel. Halfway he stopped. “If someone asks, you haven’ seen me, savvy?”
Some time later he peeked warily between the curtain of vines at the road. It was empty and quiet, aside from the ceaseless twitters and croaks in the thicket, so the pirate slipped from behind the rock and set course west.
***
Four miles and much sweat later, he cursed mosquitoes and land tracks in general, French ones in particular. The highland chill was less than a pale memory now. The sun beat down the earth like a hammer on an anvil, and the still, heavy air hovered in the forest glade. Jack left the hollow with a vision of eel in butter waiting a few miles away – old Jorge had the lucky hand with a net and knew what to do with a pan. What drove the pirate now was the thought of the spring which spurt from the rocks nearby the old cottage and grove of palm trees, heavy with milky coconuts.
The small marina on the ‘land’ side of the canal had abided there almost as long as, it seemed at times, the pirates ruled Tortuga across said canal. In fact, it was since a certain slave had at last grown fed up with the humble saying Oui, Messieur, and some night left le maison of that Messieur, not disturbing him with farewells. And ‘cause the colour of his own skin was of the sort excellent against the burning sun, but risky in encounters with white Messieurs, he had not stopped until the island, where strong hands, smart brain, and above all the jangling of gold weighed more than one’s skin tone. No wonder, considering to sort the good citizens of Tortuga by colour would require a thorough scrubbing first.
However, the merry Tortuga had seemed too merry to the proud owner of the freshly acquired freedom, so he had decided to settle in a more quiet place. Soon a small hut had arisen by an inlet on Hispaniola’s shore. As years passed, it had become a commodious and prosperous farm, which had gained the fame of the best – and only – inn within fifty miles up and down the shore. Habitués knew that for calling it ‘tavern’ one could get a cold look from the owner and, in the best case, cold porridge. “You’ve got taverns over there,” Jorge used to say, “on the other side of the canal, the lousy one.”
Besides, Jorge had become Jorge not before breaking off with the former lord and former name. Apparently the lord was a secretive anti-royalist, for everyone wearing breeches and black skin in his mansion had been called George or Louis. Being formerly one of those Georges, the fugitive re-named himself for Jorge, or rather he had been re-named upon the meeting with one Melania, a runaway from the other half of Hispaniola. Melania had distinguished herself with an unrivalled culinary talent and an absolute lack of linguistic talents. As a result, the inn always had been immersed in a cloud of enticing smells and, as it seemed, ceaseless stream of Spanish profanities, since Melania’s temperament was Spanish-like too. Alas, it hadn’t defeated some mysterious fever. It was almost two years since Melania had left the world, more quiet without her, and the more surly Jorge with their sons. Having lost some of its former glory, the inn persisted nevertheless, still tempting with a mug and bowl of fare. The hot heads of those tempted rather by the silver earned with that fare were cooled down by the sight of the sons, two lads strong as oxen.
Speaking of silver… Jack stopped half-step and fumbled in a pocket. Two, four, seven… Scarlett recently valued herself more, since she had moved from the street into the tavern. Nine, ten… Jorge didn’t value his pan so high, but there was no hope he could forget about the six shillings of more than a month. And one could get a credit from Jorge but the once.
***
Jack leaned against a tree and fanned himself with his hat, staring at the road stretching before him. Worse, rising. The hill was annoyingly steep. But on the other side was the last part of the way.
As he was walking up, the shore emerged slowly. The gently curved strip of white sand divided the forest-fringed group of buildings from the glimmering expanse of water. A turquoise shadow lied under the two cliffs framing the bay. And under the keel of a brig.
Jack came to a dead stop as if the brick-hard clay of the road spilt again and bound his boots. He cast a glance at the mastheads. No flag.
No matter, she shouldn’t be there at all, with or without the flag! No one except pirates ventured into pirate waters, and no pirate would anchor in this bay, or even attempt to enter it. The basin was actually a little lagoon; its sapphire hue paled beyond the cliffs, and the tawny shade stretched almost to the horizon, warning of the reefs. Even at the high tide, nothing bigger than flat-bottomed fishing boats moored at the inn’s pier. If the brig had passed in one piece, she had to have been blessed by a particularly good humoured Calypso. Indeed, the tight ring of rocks just beyond the safe lagoon looked very typical for her idea of joke…
“T’ will be to your health, Fred.”
Within a moment Jack managed to curse noisy insects and birds drowning any sounds out, regret that he lacks sparrow’s wings, and turn back.
A tall thin man, leaned on the barrel of a musket braced on the ground, examined the pirate from head to foot and back. “You’ll see, you’ll come to like milk yet,” he added.
Fred, burlier and more sweaty than the first man, rolled his eyes. “There’s no milk, and won’t be anymore, or have you forgotten? And you couldn’t drag yourself here in the afternoon, eh?” he yelled to Jack. “I’ve just lost my day’s ration of rum, by you!”
Jack blinked and made the most sympathetic expression he could. It wasn’t very difficult in the face of such tragedy.
“Tomorrow’s,” the skinny one corrected phlegmatically. “The today’s one you owe me cos’ the first spotted parrot was blue.”
Fred glanced at him suspiciously. “That wasn’ the yesterday’s?”
“Yesterday’s was for catchin’ no one day before.”
“Dammit, I’m not bettin’ with you anymore.” Fred waved his hand, and suddenly remembered he had a musket too. “And what are you staring at, move on!”
Jack, startled by the muzzle pointing at him, hastily withdrew his hand from his own pistol. He spread his arms, presenting his most innocent grin. “Heavens sent you, gentlemen, amid this heathen wilderness! I’m immensely grateful that you might show the way to a lost man.”
Both sentries’ brows moved up in unison. The skinny one chuckled. Fred lifted the musket to his shoulder. “That way,” he told slowly and clearly. The lock clicked.
Jack stepped back. He hesitated, then turned and walked down the hill, casting tentative glances at the sentries following.
The skinny one grimaced and spat. “Cap’n will be so happy,” he muttered
***
The Captain was on the far side of the brig’s camp. He sat in the shadow of a tree, at a table covered in maps, staring at them with a face as if he had lost all rum rations for the rest of his life. At the sound of footsteps, he raised his eyes.
“Sir, we caught this one as he was stealin’ to the camp,” Fred said, nudging Jack with his musket’s muzzle and casting him a casual glance. Then he blinked, looked again and reached a hand. Jack, craning his neck to see the map, was snatched by the collar. He fell back, and gave Fred a look of offended dignity.
The Captain looked at Fred, then the other sentry clutching the pirate’s cutlass and pistol under his arm. He put out his hand in a silent demand. The sentry handed him the weapons. The Captain ignored the tarnished cutlass and inspected the pistol’s workmanship. At last he eyed Jack up and down.
“You have a name?”
“Smith.” Jack grinned charmingly.
The Captain pulled a wry face. “The ninth one this week, how nice,” he grunted.
Jack opened his eyes wide. “My! Vile cheats they were, all of th—“
A musket’s stock tripped his legs.
“Anyone let you talk?” Fred’s voice came from somewhere above. Apparently it didn’t apply to him, for he added: “String him up, sir?”
Jack got up on all four, vaguely registering the pain of his raw hand. He stared at a corner of map hanging from the table squarely before him. He looked at the ship. Her faded paint revealed a long journey, and she listed heavily to starboard… Suddenly it sunk in him what he had heard. He perked his head up, opening his eyes wide at the sentry, then at the Captain, who remained silent, his unseeing gaze fixed somewhere over the table.
“Any messages from Anderson?” the Captain asked. “Nah, never mind…” he muttered. He produced a big crumpled handkerchief and wiped his face. Jack narrowed his eyes, catching a glitter on the hand holding the cloth.
“Join him to the rest…” The Captain broke off, looked at one sentry, then at the other, and rolled his eyes. “That living rest!” he explained. “If there happens another one, don’t shoot. First bring him to me, understand?”
Another jerk at the collar pulled the pirate up on his feet, to the sound of a double “Yessir!” Pushed toward the buildings, Jack looked behind yet, at the table and the Captain, again in gloomy contemplation of the maps, the pistol serving now as a paperweight.
On the corner hanging beyond the edge, a decorative cartouche framed a triad of crosses with three letters.
Was the map swag? The East India Trading Company didn’t let its maps free. The captain of an Indiaman, at the first grappling hooks on the railing, first set fire to the archive and then attended the ship’s defence. In spite of all, it could be a coincidence if not the same triple sign on a broad ring on the Captain’s finger.
Jack had once worn a similar one. Not long. He had quickly decided the crude lump of silver was weighty more than worthy, like everything coming from the Company.
The sentry at his heels nudged him, and pointed at the corner of a hut. Rounding it, Jack caught a glance of the shore in time to see the other sentry pitch the pirate’s cutlass into the water.
The next part
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Your thoughts welcomed, as always. :)
Author: Aletheia Felinea
Beta:
compassrose7577. Thank you so much!Rating: PG-13 overall
Wordcount: 2000, this chapter
Characters: (this chapter) Jack Sparrow, OCs
Genre: Gen fic supposed to be a crime story.
Time: Months before CotBP.
Summary: The sweet air of Tortuga can be dangerous sometimes, even for the certain Captain. And curiosity can kill a sparrow. Or... save?
Disclaimer: Not my hunting territory, The Big Black Mouse prowls here.
Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Note: The fic was translated from Polish. Jeśli wolisz czytać w oryginale, zapraszam.
A tiny grey bird flitted through the cool air, perched on the jagged edge of the roof, and chirped briskly.
“Uhhh…” Jack lifted the blanket, shuddered, and immediately withdrew, curling into a tighter ball yet. Then he sneezed. The blanket was definitely horse’s. He peeked out again, squinting in sharp rays of sun, barely risen over the rocky walls of the hollow. With a sigh, he threw the blanket aside, sat up, and groaned when his bones protested. He winced and gloomily eyed the bird, still making a cheerful noise. Self-respecting captains in the certain age should wake in their own cabins. Or in some warm embrace…
No embrace. No rum. No breakfast. Plenty of fresh air and dry land, as far as the eye can see. Nothing but misfortune.
The lack of breakfast quickly took the lead, overpowering even the lack of rum, the dry land feeling rather damp and chilling at the moment.
The horse lifted his muzzle from the rivulet, pricked his curly ear at the sound of steps, and looked askew at the pirate. Dipping his hands into the water, Jack glanced at the beast’s hind hoof, rested casually on the sharp edge.
“If you see the one who dispatched ol’ Hans, you can treat him to this. I’ll be back… when I’ll be back.” He turned and walked toward the tunnel. Halfway he stopped. “If someone asks, you haven’ seen me, savvy?”
Some time later he peeked warily between the curtain of vines at the road. It was empty and quiet, aside from the ceaseless twitters and croaks in the thicket, so the pirate slipped from behind the rock and set course west.
Four miles and much sweat later, he cursed mosquitoes and land tracks in general, French ones in particular. The highland chill was less than a pale memory now. The sun beat down the earth like a hammer on an anvil, and the still, heavy air hovered in the forest glade. Jack left the hollow with a vision of eel in butter waiting a few miles away – old Jorge had the lucky hand with a net and knew what to do with a pan. What drove the pirate now was the thought of the spring which spurt from the rocks nearby the old cottage and grove of palm trees, heavy with milky coconuts.
The small marina on the ‘land’ side of the canal had abided there almost as long as, it seemed at times, the pirates ruled Tortuga across said canal. In fact, it was since a certain slave had at last grown fed up with the humble saying Oui, Messieur, and some night left le maison of that Messieur, not disturbing him with farewells. And ‘cause the colour of his own skin was of the sort excellent against the burning sun, but risky in encounters with white Messieurs, he had not stopped until the island, where strong hands, smart brain, and above all the jangling of gold weighed more than one’s skin tone. No wonder, considering to sort the good citizens of Tortuga by colour would require a thorough scrubbing first.
However, the merry Tortuga had seemed too merry to the proud owner of the freshly acquired freedom, so he had decided to settle in a more quiet place. Soon a small hut had arisen by an inlet on Hispaniola’s shore. As years passed, it had become a commodious and prosperous farm, which had gained the fame of the best – and only – inn within fifty miles up and down the shore. Habitués knew that for calling it ‘tavern’ one could get a cold look from the owner and, in the best case, cold porridge. “You’ve got taverns over there,” Jorge used to say, “on the other side of the canal, the lousy one.”
Besides, Jorge had become Jorge not before breaking off with the former lord and former name. Apparently the lord was a secretive anti-royalist, for everyone wearing breeches and black skin in his mansion had been called George or Louis. Being formerly one of those Georges, the fugitive re-named himself for Jorge, or rather he had been re-named upon the meeting with one Melania, a runaway from the other half of Hispaniola. Melania had distinguished herself with an unrivalled culinary talent and an absolute lack of linguistic talents. As a result, the inn always had been immersed in a cloud of enticing smells and, as it seemed, ceaseless stream of Spanish profanities, since Melania’s temperament was Spanish-like too. Alas, it hadn’t defeated some mysterious fever. It was almost two years since Melania had left the world, more quiet without her, and the more surly Jorge with their sons. Having lost some of its former glory, the inn persisted nevertheless, still tempting with a mug and bowl of fare. The hot heads of those tempted rather by the silver earned with that fare were cooled down by the sight of the sons, two lads strong as oxen.
Speaking of silver… Jack stopped half-step and fumbled in a pocket. Two, four, seven… Scarlett recently valued herself more, since she had moved from the street into the tavern. Nine, ten… Jorge didn’t value his pan so high, but there was no hope he could forget about the six shillings of more than a month. And one could get a credit from Jorge but the once.
Jack leaned against a tree and fanned himself with his hat, staring at the road stretching before him. Worse, rising. The hill was annoyingly steep. But on the other side was the last part of the way.
As he was walking up, the shore emerged slowly. The gently curved strip of white sand divided the forest-fringed group of buildings from the glimmering expanse of water. A turquoise shadow lied under the two cliffs framing the bay. And under the keel of a brig.
Jack came to a dead stop as if the brick-hard clay of the road spilt again and bound his boots. He cast a glance at the mastheads. No flag.
No matter, she shouldn’t be there at all, with or without the flag! No one except pirates ventured into pirate waters, and no pirate would anchor in this bay, or even attempt to enter it. The basin was actually a little lagoon; its sapphire hue paled beyond the cliffs, and the tawny shade stretched almost to the horizon, warning of the reefs. Even at the high tide, nothing bigger than flat-bottomed fishing boats moored at the inn’s pier. If the brig had passed in one piece, she had to have been blessed by a particularly good humoured Calypso. Indeed, the tight ring of rocks just beyond the safe lagoon looked very typical for her idea of joke…
“T’ will be to your health, Fred.”
Within a moment Jack managed to curse noisy insects and birds drowning any sounds out, regret that he lacks sparrow’s wings, and turn back.
A tall thin man, leaned on the barrel of a musket braced on the ground, examined the pirate from head to foot and back. “You’ll see, you’ll come to like milk yet,” he added.
Fred, burlier and more sweaty than the first man, rolled his eyes. “There’s no milk, and won’t be anymore, or have you forgotten? And you couldn’t drag yourself here in the afternoon, eh?” he yelled to Jack. “I’ve just lost my day’s ration of rum, by you!”
Jack blinked and made the most sympathetic expression he could. It wasn’t very difficult in the face of such tragedy.
“Tomorrow’s,” the skinny one corrected phlegmatically. “The today’s one you owe me cos’ the first spotted parrot was blue.”
Fred glanced at him suspiciously. “That wasn’ the yesterday’s?”
“Yesterday’s was for catchin’ no one day before.”
“Dammit, I’m not bettin’ with you anymore.” Fred waved his hand, and suddenly remembered he had a musket too. “And what are you staring at, move on!”
Jack, startled by the muzzle pointing at him, hastily withdrew his hand from his own pistol. He spread his arms, presenting his most innocent grin. “Heavens sent you, gentlemen, amid this heathen wilderness! I’m immensely grateful that you might show the way to a lost man.”
Both sentries’ brows moved up in unison. The skinny one chuckled. Fred lifted the musket to his shoulder. “That way,” he told slowly and clearly. The lock clicked.
Jack stepped back. He hesitated, then turned and walked down the hill, casting tentative glances at the sentries following.
The skinny one grimaced and spat. “Cap’n will be so happy,” he muttered
The Captain was on the far side of the brig’s camp. He sat in the shadow of a tree, at a table covered in maps, staring at them with a face as if he had lost all rum rations for the rest of his life. At the sound of footsteps, he raised his eyes.
“Sir, we caught this one as he was stealin’ to the camp,” Fred said, nudging Jack with his musket’s muzzle and casting him a casual glance. Then he blinked, looked again and reached a hand. Jack, craning his neck to see the map, was snatched by the collar. He fell back, and gave Fred a look of offended dignity.
The Captain looked at Fred, then the other sentry clutching the pirate’s cutlass and pistol under his arm. He put out his hand in a silent demand. The sentry handed him the weapons. The Captain ignored the tarnished cutlass and inspected the pistol’s workmanship. At last he eyed Jack up and down.
“You have a name?”
“Smith.” Jack grinned charmingly.
The Captain pulled a wry face. “The ninth one this week, how nice,” he grunted.
Jack opened his eyes wide. “My! Vile cheats they were, all of th—“
A musket’s stock tripped his legs.
“Anyone let you talk?” Fred’s voice came from somewhere above. Apparently it didn’t apply to him, for he added: “String him up, sir?”
Jack got up on all four, vaguely registering the pain of his raw hand. He stared at a corner of map hanging from the table squarely before him. He looked at the ship. Her faded paint revealed a long journey, and she listed heavily to starboard… Suddenly it sunk in him what he had heard. He perked his head up, opening his eyes wide at the sentry, then at the Captain, who remained silent, his unseeing gaze fixed somewhere over the table.
“Any messages from Anderson?” the Captain asked. “Nah, never mind…” he muttered. He produced a big crumpled handkerchief and wiped his face. Jack narrowed his eyes, catching a glitter on the hand holding the cloth.
“Join him to the rest…” The Captain broke off, looked at one sentry, then at the other, and rolled his eyes. “That living rest!” he explained. “If there happens another one, don’t shoot. First bring him to me, understand?”
Another jerk at the collar pulled the pirate up on his feet, to the sound of a double “Yessir!” Pushed toward the buildings, Jack looked behind yet, at the table and the Captain, again in gloomy contemplation of the maps, the pistol serving now as a paperweight.
On the corner hanging beyond the edge, a decorative cartouche framed a triad of crosses with three letters.
Was the map swag? The East India Trading Company didn’t let its maps free. The captain of an Indiaman, at the first grappling hooks on the railing, first set fire to the archive and then attended the ship’s defence. In spite of all, it could be a coincidence if not the same triple sign on a broad ring on the Captain’s finger.
Jack had once worn a similar one. Not long. He had quickly decided the crude lump of silver was weighty more than worthy, like everything coming from the Company.
The sentry at his heels nudged him, and pointed at the corner of a hut. Rounding it, Jack caught a glance of the shore in time to see the other sentry pitch the pirate’s cutlass into the water.
The next part
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Your thoughts welcomed, as always. :)
