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Wi' A Wannion	By : GeorgieFain Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 2357 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter One:

Beginnings and An Accord

Nineteen Years Ago

His father had fostered him to a friend who was the captain of The Flaming Sword. He was to be the new cabin boy, taking the place of a sailor ready to become a rigger. It was understood that, for the first trip, he would be under the command of the previous cabin boy---to ensure that he learned the ropes. So, this morning, when he'd set out from Calcutta Town with a young Hindu boatswain's mate called Vikrant sent to retrieve him from his home, he had asked questions in the carriage and discovered a few pieces of valuable information.

He was replacing Barbossa, who was from England, and only a couple of years older than him. Captain Rob Bushby was a fair and unusual man who treated all his men the same, regardless of color, relying on skill and industry instead of prejudice. As a cabin boy, he had to sleep in a hammock nearest the berth steps, as to be constantly on-call and he would eat with the men in the galley, but he was to be responsible for the captain's cabin and affects and that would include making sure the captain got his tea quickly and just as the man liked it.

He wouldn't be whipped unless he broke a rule the second time, because rules were rules, but that he probably wouldn't be whipped in the same manner as the men, as he was just a boy. He might have access to the captain's books, barring the charts, and he was to keep his hands off the grog unless it was given to him and he couldn't expect more than a half-ration, because of his size and age. He was to keep his hands off the captain's wine and whiskey, too, or face serious punishments---Vikrant said this with a tone which suggested that the previous cabin boy had stepped over the line a few times and been subjected to that unsaid serious punishment.

It had been three years since his mother's death and he was finished with the formal education she'd insisted upon, for him. Now, it was, as his father said, time for him to be apprenticed, and he could imagine no other life than that of the sea. He could work his way up, in the same manner his father had, and become a merchant captain for the East India Trading Company. From this morning on, he was no longer at the whim of the servants and nanny and tutors his mother had hired for him; now, he was to be considered an apprentice of sorts. It was most definitely a step up in his estimation. He was moving up in the world.

His first sight of the ship was the same as the sight of any other ship; he'd seen many, at the Calcutta docks. His father had made sure he knew the ins and outs of ships, had pushed his tutors to teach him languages such as Portuguese and French, so that he would be ready for his trade. It was necessary, really, to learn how to speak other languages in Calcutta; as necessary as the King's own English. The water at the dock was unusual, though, and he studied it for a long moment before heading along the floating walk-way. Here and there, the water looked to be the same color as the sky---a blue brighter than the color of his dead mother's eyes. But, in the deeper places, right at the ships' hull, the water had taken on a gray-brown appearance. It was sand and dirt stirred up, of course, from the bay's bottom.

Vikrant led him along the walk-way and to The Flaming Sword. Over the side, he could see two sailors with knives, scraping at the hull and the prow, removing sharp-edged barnacles. Further up, on the port side, he could see a sailor with a bucket and brush, hanging by ropes, re-sealing a bare patch. The ship seemed more than sea-worthy and what little trepidation he'd felt was eased. Tomorrow morning, at dawn, the ship would leave port and he'd be on his way, a member of this ship's crew. The thought of not seeing his father for several months was not even a consideration; he'd lived most of his life without Captain Teague Sparrow for half the year at a time.

At the gangplank, he walked up, staying on the look-out for swinging bundles and ropes even as he straightened his clothes and adjusted the sack he carried. He was undersized for a boy his age and he'd spent his years being warned repeatedly to watch himself, to keep from being under the feet of men working. He'd been given an advance with which to outfit himself appropriately; he'd spent the money on new boots and a handful of books instead of the clothes his father had suggested he purchase.

So, he wore a fine, snowy linen shirt and brown trousers tucked into his new boots with his long, dark brown hair braided back into a queue and tied off with a blue ribbon that his nanny's daughter, Lauretta, had given him at his request as a token of her affections. He was freshly scrubbed and without a wrinkle. He felt out of place among the rugged, bronzed sailors, who wore weathered and patched trousers and rarely any shirts at all. Few of them wore a ribbon in their hair; instead, there was a slew of half-turbans, cloth wrapped once or twice around the head to hold back the long hair that appeared uncombed and roughly cut.

It was there, as he reached the guide-ropes and the rail of the East Indiaman ship, that he spotted his predecessor. It could be no other, for the man seemed to be the youngest sailor he'd seen on ship as of yet. The sailor was sitting in only a pair of patched trousers on a tar barrel, his naked feet swinging back and forth to thump a rhythm that might have been the counterpoint for dancing, if set to music. There was a half-healed cut on his knobbly left shoulder and a shiny rope-burn on the same wrist, bruises on cheek and jaw, and a few scrapes on his knuckles. The young sailor was the same bronzed color as the other men he'd seen, but with a pie-bald appearance brought on by freckles.

Jack felt it odd to see one man, among so many, who seemed to not be working on this, the last day before leaving port. People moved back and forth, stowing goods and passengers for the journey to England, and no one thing seemed stationary...except this sailor, who appeared the very picture of laxity.

If this was Barbossa, the last cabin boy, then he had large shoes to fill. The young rigger was tall and raw, with blondish hair that hung to his naked shoulders free of any cloth or ribbons and possessed of knobby parts at both knee and elbow, and seemed fiercely intent on the small, half-ripe apple he was gnawing. He had bright green-blue, slanted eyes that seemed to be taking in everything. He'd already been told that Barbossa was fifteen and more than ready for man's work; if this was the man, then he could see the reason for such talk.

Growing up in Calcutta, he'd seen boys of all colors who dressed in very little clothes and seemed to have all the freedom in the world. He had suffered envy, of course. Now, right in front of him, was one of those odd creatures looking like a fallen angel from one of his nanny's stories about the Bible...complete with crooked smile.

"Hello, Barbossa, brought you this boy. Try to teach him to do better than the misfortune you have endured." Vikrant moved away quickly, going to work in the hold without a look back in their direction. The Hindu seemed thoroughly amused at the idea of Jack receiving any education worth of note from the older 'boy'. "Be careful with him, yes? He's the son of a captain, not one of us."

"Landlubber or not, he's Captain Sparrow's sprog. That makes him sea-worthy." Barbossa's voice was a strong, deep tenor with an accent that could only be West Country, England. Not quite seaport brogue, but not quite farmer cant. The curved lips offered him a smirk. "And now, boy, you're my sprog." The half-eaten apple was tossed overboard without a glance and the lanky form unfolded from the barrel. "On, then. I've a few hours to show you a thing or two before I'm to check the rope that's come aboard today."

After stowing his bag in his hammock, Jack listened to everything Barbossa had to say, showing him around. It wasn't as if he needed to be reminded of all the ship's accoutrements; his father was a captain who had taken special pride in educating his son on what a ship had to offer. But, he was far from prepared to tell his escort this; he could barely take it all in, for listening to Barbossa's voice...for watching the older boy. There was something coarsely glorious about the rigger, something he hungered to own for himself.

He let the rigger do the honors, in the need to give something to Barbossa. His mother had instilled in him the idea that, in friendships, it was never a matter of leverage but of give and receive. Here, he would make the first overtures.

"Met your father, lad, back when I was nothing but a sprog myself."

"How did you meet him?"

"He was my captain, first time I sailed out. Was in Christchurch, in Merry Ol'. I was a bit younger than you and he hired me as cabin boy without needing to know any more than if I was running away from the King's Law. Gave me a chance, he did."

"Ah...um. Yes."

"Remember the stories he told about you, son. Right proud, he is. Imagine he'd prefer to keep you on his own ship. What the blazes are you doing here and not sailing on The Mattie Barrett?"

"So as he won't favor me...savvy? He's my father and on the same ship, he would favor me and that's not what a captain does." Feeling defensive, he then realized he was only parroting back almost word for word at the rigger what his father had said many times, while preparing for this eventuality.

At last, having been shown the ship from prow to stern and rudder, from main deck to bilges, the newest rigger had brought him back to the galley and told him to prepare tea for the captain---Bushby would be aboard in less than an hour, and he liked his tea very strong and very hot. Then, if the captain didn't have anything else for him to do, he could come out on deck and find Barbossa...who would assign him a duty or two, to help pass the time and make sure he learned 'the proper way of it'.

Before Barbossa could leave him at the door of the empty galley, he reached out and touched the cut on the rigger's shoulder, stumbling over his words at the sharp look his action garnered. "What did this?"

The tall, surly rigger started to pull away, but held it down to a flinch. "A knife."

For one brief moment, Jack imagined the older boy fighting with pirates; it lit up his stomach with fluttering excitement. Then, he daringly reached to touch the left, bony wrist with its shiny rope burn. "And this?"

Barbossa shrugged, the length of his driftwood blondish hair swaying with the motion. "We was in a storm, on the way back over from England, and lost four hands overboard. I went out to help with the sails. One of the swabs, smarter than most, tied me to the mast by my wrist, to keep me from going over, too. The ropes can cut as surely as steel, son."

Then, the older boy walked away with what might be termed a swagger, a frown playing on his handsome face. Jack watched him go, pleased to have made a friend...if he could call the rigger such. It came to him, then; Barbossa was no longer a boy. At fifteen, old enough for man's work and newly given one of the ship's most dangerous jobs, Barbossa had crossed the line and left boyhood. If he'd ever been there in the first place.

It was after, as Jack searched the galley shelves for what he needed, that it occurred: he had forgotten to ask about the bruises and scrapes on Barbossa's face and knuckles.

***

The Flaming Sword, riding the gridiron under a red and white striped flag of the East India Trading Company, was heavily loaded with goods and passengers when it left Calcutta and the Bay of Bengal. They were one of a half-dozen ships traveling together in formation. Somewhere, out there among the other ships, was his father. From what Jack could tell, all the ships were newly fitted from the shipyard in Bombay and made from teak. The Sword was carrying a load of indigo and porcelain, silk and calico and cotton, as well as crates of tea and spice from the islands.

They would travel down the coast of India's eastern side and around the tip and, then, up the coast on the western side and out into the open waters of the Arabian Sea and from there, down along Africa's eastern side. The general consensus among the seasoned crew was that there would be no trouble at all until they approached the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Town in Table Bay, at the tip of Africa. Having heard some of the stories from his father, Jack was made a little nervous at the idea of wild hurricanes and typhoons that could rip a ship in half. It was said, after all, that the cape was the berth of The Flying Dutchman, Davy Jones' ghost ship of condemned and damned sailors.

So, over the first weeks, as they traveled along the coasts and the tip of India, Jack learned his duties and, when not busy, he read books and watched Barbossa learning how to rig sails. Sometimes, he listened to stories and learned shanties from the other sailors or ran errands for the passengers, who gifted him with small bits of money for his own pocket.

Then, sometimes, he let the men wind him up with teasing and, then, when he outwitted them with words, he'd have to strategically retreat and find places to hide. He learned that, to wind up any of the sailors, he had only to impugn their mother or their manhood. It was a sort of amusement and he found new and bolder ways with each new dawn that broke red and gold over the sea behind them. After a lifetime of being constantly reminded to be 'good', given his own head for hours at a time on ship was a treasured experience.

Captain Bushby was a fair man who didn't demand much of him, being a simple sort who preferred to teach him, with the help of the crew, the workings of the ship; it was, Bushby believed, just as important as clean boots and shiny buckles. It was Captain Bushby who handed him his first sword---a hanger---and showed him how to use it without cutting off any of his own limbs, but had time for only the most rudimentary lessons.

Little by little, Jack began to forget home and the well-meaning females, both native and English-born, who'd called him by his given name of Jonathan Barclay Sparrow. He was Jack to everyone, now. At the same time, watching the sailors, he began to see the way of it. Given or Christian names were rarely used. Instead, the men were given to monikers such as would describe them in one or two words, usually with their family name tacked on. Barbossa, for example, was not Barbossa's given family name. None of the crew seemed to know it and if they did, none used the name. Having seen the ship's Articles, in a moment of mindless curiosity, Jack knew what Barbossa's given name was, both Christian and family. He was also aware of what most of the sailors was not; he knew that Barbossa could read and write.

He had vowed to keep all such information a secret. It was enough that he was teased for being a Captain's son and one given refinement and education, at that. It was enough that his father was on one of the ships that traveled in formation with The Flaming Sword; he didn't need to stir up trouble with the men who would prefer to mask themselves under a moniker. Barbossa was one of the men and may not bear the teasing with stoic goodwill. So, Barbossa it was. Except when they were alone with no curious ears and he never questioned why the rigger allowed the familiarity of calling him by Hector, when it seemed to be an unspoken taboo.

Not that he had many chances to approach Hector when they were both otherwise unengaged.

***

One evening, two hours after twilight's bell, he lay in his hammock reading one of the books he'd purchased before leaving Calcutta. As he read, he hummed unconsciously and swung one bare leg back and forth over the steps. Each swing, his naked foot thumped wood.

The book was about the corsairs of Barbary; a tale of excitement. He could picture the maneuvers---they made him think of the lessons he'd had on Julius Caesar's conquest of Germania and Britain. In his head, the two mingled and he could see how the corsairs could've won this way or that way, employing and modifying Roman Legion tactics.

Suddenly, on the other end of the berth, someone jumped for the floor with an explosion of curses. "Ye mindless li�l beast---clap yer gob shut or I'll---"

He never got to find out what the sailor---sounded like Ricer, the gunner's mate---would do to him. In the hammock next to his, a tired voice rose over the exclamation. "Never mind, mate, I'll take him."

Then, Barbossa's tanned, freckled face loomed in close under the lantern and the rigger hoisted him by the shirt he wore, book and all, with that oddly appealing West Country drawl. "Jack---up top. We needs to be having a conversation and I think this be the opportune moment."

Up top, on deck, the evening sky was ever-darkening to black night, but there were a few lanterns lit and he could see, even as he was hauled along by Barbossa, that the master's mate at the wheel on quarterdeck paid them no mind. In the distance, in the gloom, he could see lights from the other ships. He was worried that he might be due a beating---he'd been beaten once already for dawdling when he was meant to be swabbing the steps from Captain's cabin to up top. But, Hector didn't seem to have any intentions of meting out a punishment.

Instead, the lanky rigger, in only his stained and fade-patched trousers, dropped to the forecastle deck under a lantern and gave a deep sigh that smelled of grog. "So, Jack Sparrow, tell me the story of what you're reading in that book of yours."

Sitting down, book under his arm, he cocked his head and his braided queue tickled at the loose collar of his shirt. "You'd rather have a story than sleep?"

"Damn your eyes, Jack, do you not realize? Not a one of the men can rest when you're in the berth. That blathering noise you make could scare off the Kraken itself."

The stars overhead twinkled, trouble-free, but he didn't notice for watching Barbossa in the swaying lantern light. It had never occurred to him that he was being a nuisance. He said so.

The blonde rigger gave another one of his deep sighs and settled back against a crate, wrapping both arms around his long, skinny legs. "Well, now, let's hear a story."

"Why?"

"You tell me a story and give the men a chance to drop off. That way, you live to see home again and I don't have to be bored out of my head. We both win, see?"

He saw an opportunity. "Can I have some grog? Stories always go better with something to drink."

Barbossa laughed. "I don't see why not, but if you're caught with it on your breath, you take the punishment and not me. I'll not have the Bo'sun strip the meat from my back for your wee bit of rum on water. From now until we reach England, this be the way of it. I give you a cup of grog and you tell me a story while the men are bunking down. Then, in the light, when you're not otherwise engaged, you can help me with repairing sails and I'll teach you how to use that hanger of yours. Do we have an accord?"

Jack reached out his hand, clutching his book to the hollow of his chest. "Aye, Hector."

The rigger's callused fingers gripped his, warm and dry and strong. Barbossa's answering grin was the first honest smile he'd seen from the young English sailor. All white teeth and pleasure. "Then, Jack, we are agreed."
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Wi' A Wannion