by Rob Kidd
“You know what you should do,” Jack said sagely. “You should stash that kid of yours in an orphanage. Or a monastery. Happens to boys all the time, and lots of them grow up to be terrific pirates. Then you and the missus can come on a little jaunt with me—liberate some treasure, get some fresh sea air, maybe even an excellent hat of your own. The kid’ll be there when you get back. Trust me, he won’t even notice you’ve gone.”
“No, Jack,” Bill said firmly.
“Freedom!” Jack cried, waving his arms madly. “The wind in your hair! Rum! Salty wenches! Sea air!” He paused, thinking for a minute. “Did I mention rum?”
“I’m going home,” Bill insisted, setting his jaw. “That’s all I want—to get back home.”
Jack eyed him shrewdly from head to toe. A plan was forming in his mind. A plan to keep Billy with him long enough to persuade him to join the Pearl. “Home, eh?” he said. “And where is home these days?”
“North Carolina,” Bill said, tipping his head to the north. “Not many boats going all that way, I’m afraid.”
Jack rubbed his chin thoughtfully, twisting the braids of his beard. “Hmmm,” he said. “Tell you what, Billy, my friend. Why don’t we give you a lift?”
Bill eyed him with deep suspicion. “All the way to North Carolina?”
“Why not?” Jack said, spreading his hands. “We’ve got nowhere else to be. We might as well venture up the coast and see how things are. Then we can drop you off and be on our merry way, eh?”
“And what do you get out of it?” Bill asked.
Jack looked injured. He pressed one hand to his heart and had the most innocent expression on his face. “Why, I get to spend some quality time with one of my very good friends,” he said.
Bill still looked dubious.
“And I hear there’s treasure in the Carolina islands,” Jack tried.
“Ah,” Bill said, relaxing. “Well, that makes more sense. If you’re sure you’d be going that way anyway.”
“Of course!” Jack said. “With the speed of my fine ship, we’ll have you home in no time at all.” He smiled, showing all his teeth. It had been a very long time since Bill had seen Jack. He’d forgotten what that smile meant—that Jack might not exactly be telling the whole truth.
“Thanks, Jack,” Bill said with a tight, forced grin. “I appreciate it.”
“We just have to stop by the tavern and pick up a few pirates before we go,” Jack said. “Barbossa!” he yelled. He turned and saw his first mate frozen halfway up the gangplank, as if he’d been sneaking back on board. “Come on, Hector, stop dawdling!” Jack called. “What’s taking you so long? We have pirates to recruit!”
Clapping Bill on the back, he steered his friend into the crowd. With a muttered curse, Barbossa trailed behind them up the hill to the Faithful Bride.
A pair of eyes watched, unseen, as the three pirates swaggered away from the Black Pearl. The watcher had heard every word Jack said. The fastest ship in the Caribbean? That was exactly what he needed.…
The hidden figure snuck closer to the ship, eyeing the scruffy pirates who’d been left to guard it. One was picking his nails with his sword. The other was leaning sleepily on a barrel, his eyes drooping. Neither paid any attention to the splash in the water behind them. Neither noticed the ship bob a little in the water as someone grabbed a rope on the other side and hauled himself up and over the railing.
Not a single pirate on the Black Pearl had any idea that someone had snuck onto their ship. Nobody saw him slip quietly belowdecks and disappear into the shadows of the hold.
CHAPTER TWO
Even in the middle of the day, the Faithful Bride was crowded with cutthroats, drunken louts, and scoundrels in search of a ship to join (or steal, or loot). The sounds of singing and bottles smashing drifted out to Jack and his partners as they approached the rundown shack. Soon they were hit by its familiar smell of seaweed and wet wood and ale and fish. Mostly ale. Pirates often joked that so many pints had been spilled at the Faithful Bride that the floorboards were now more ale than wood.
Inside the door, the three men paused to let their eyes adjust to the candlelight; only splinters of sunshine peeked through the cracks in the window shutters. Several unsavory characters eyed them in a rather unfriendly way, but Jack casually adjusted his coat so they could see the sword at his waist, and they turned back to their tankards, muttering unpleasantly.
“All right, lads,” Jack announced. Some of the drinkers stopped singing to peer at him groggily. “Who here would like to join the finest pirate crew ever to sail the Caribbean?”
“Why, is Villanueva hiring?” one of them called, and a few others laughed.
Jack sniffed. Villanueva was a Pirate Lord—the Spanish one—and he was supposed to be on the other side of the Atlantic, bothering (and stealing from) Spaniards. Not here, competing with Jack for fame and attention.
“You would be joining the Black Pearl. You may have heard of it by its former name, the Wicked Wench,” he said, grinning at the whispers that ran around the room. People had heard of his ship, all right. Several of them stood up to approach him. “And you would be sailing under the command of the famous Pirate Lord of the Caribbean, Captain Jack Sparrow!”
Everybody sat down again, clearly deflated.
“Oh, come now,” Jack said. “It’s all slander and calumny! Don’t believe everything you hear! Well, maybe most things. But it’s going to be different this time, me hearties. Treasure and fortune await!”
All the drinkers stared fixedly into their mugs of ale.
“Well,” Jack said. “We are going to sit down right over here, and you can all line up to be interviewed.” He sat down with a flourish at one of the empty wooden tables and waited for a long moment. “No pushing,” he added. “Let’s be civilized.”
“This is embarrassing,” Barbossa hissed, pulling up a chair beside Jack. “Let’s just go somewhere else.”
“Nonsense,” Jack said, waving his hand. “Why, here comes a likely candidate now.”
The man weaving tipsily up to their table looked on the young side for a pirate. He wore pointed boots that slipped and slid on the sticky, ale-covered floorboards. His belt held a holster, but no pistols. The green bandanna around his neck sure looked as if it was covered in tiny daisies. And his too-big hat kept sliding down over his eyes.
Barbossa snorted. “ ‘Likely candidate’? Likely to fall overboard the moment the ship moves, if you ask me.”
“Oh, let’s give him a chance,” Bill said.
At the last minute, the ungainly stranger tripped, apparently on nothing, and half-fell, half-collapsed into the chair in front of them. All three of them leaned forward and examined him.
“And what makes you think you’re worthy to crew the Black Pearl ?” Jack asked him, signaling for a bottle of rum.
“Um,” the stranger stammered. “I like…boats? No, seagulls. No, boats. Wait—both!”
“Perfect,” Jack said. “Enthusiasm. I like it.”
Barbossa put his head in his hands and sighed deeply.
“You’ve made an excellent choice,” Jack said, beaming at the stranger. “There is no finer ship in the Caribbean—nay, the world.”
“Name?” Barbossa barked.
“Catastrophe Shane,” the man said awkwardly, tipping his hat at them, then pushing it back again as it fell over his eyes.
“Catastrophe Shane!” Jack cried with glee. “I’ve never heard a better fearsome pirate name! Other than Captain Jack Sparrow, of course.”
Barbossa rolled his eyes.
“I can see there’s no need to ask you any questions,” Jack sailed on. “With a name like Catastrophe Shane, you must be a truly ferocious, bloodthirsty, dangerous pirate.”
Billy noticed that Catastrophe Shane was turning a little green.
“I bet you don’t carry pistols because you can’t trust your merciless nature, is that it?” Jack guessed. “You know how fierce and hot-tempered you are, and you’re resisting temptation
by leaving them at home.”
“Um…” said Shane.
“Perfect!” Jack said. “You’ll fit right in on the Pearl. Make your mark here.” He slid a parchment across the table to Catastrophe Shane.
“Jack!” Barbossa protested.
“Captain Jack,” Jack reminded him. “And as the captain, what I say goes. Welcome aboard, Catastrophe Shane.”
Barbossa narrowed his eyes again. “Very well,” he said. “But you must get rid of that ridiculous hat.”
Jack nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid we can’t have any hats more dramatic than mine.”
“Oh—all right,” said Shane, taking it off and turning it in his hands with a bewildered expression.
Jack leaned forward and added in a loud whisper, “Barbossa thinks his hat outshines mine because of the ostrich feathers, but everyone knows that it just makes his head look like the ratty nest of a dead bird.”
Barbossa glared at him.
Another stranger sidled up as Shane went to stand behind Billy. This one was older and quite a bit more rotund, with a long, drooping, fat brown moustache. He winked a lot as he talked and constantly fiddled with his hands, but he seemed friendly—a little too friendly for a pirate, but Jack and his nascent crew couldn’t exactly be picky.
“I’m Henry,” he said, introducing himself. “Are you really the great Captain Jack Sparrow?”
“I most certainly am,” Jack said, beaming again. “Unless he owes you money. In which case, no, never heard of him.”
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Henry said. “Aren’t you one of the youngest Pirate Lords the Brethren Court has ever had?”
Jack pretended to blush. “Well, I don’t like to brag,” he said. Then he steadied himself. Yes, I’m the youngest captain ever to become a Pirate Lord.”
“Even from the second court?” Henry asked. “What about Morgan and Bartholomew?
The ones who wrote the Code? I thought I heard…”
“Oh, that court,” Jack said dismissively. “Nobody remembers that court. What’s important is who’s a Pirate Lord now. For instance, me.”
“Well, I’d be honored to sail with you, Captain,” Henry said, “if you’ll have me.” He offered his hand to Jack, and Jack shook it, looking extremely pleased with himself.
“Certainly,” he said. “I always trust a man with a good firm handshake like that. We’d be deli—”
“PIRATES!” boomed a voice from the doorway. A surprisingly short, bearded man stood framed in the light from outside, decked out in a well-worn leather coat with fountains of Spanish lace at his throat and cuffs. His wide-brimmed hat was adorned with feathers, and his weathered brown skin indicated his age, as did the streaks of gray in his black beard and moustache. “VAGABONDS! MEN OF THE SEA!” he bellowed.
Jack scowled. He would recognize that lilting foreign accent anywhere. It was the Spanish Pirate Lord Villanueva. He dropped Henry’s hand and rose to his feet.
“Ahoy there, Captain Noisy,” he said, “some of us are trying to conduct business in here. Civilized business, with no shouting.”
Villanueva ignored him. “I am in need of a few strong men for my crew,” he said. Two very large, very burly pirates stepped up behind him and crossed their arms. Jack started examining his dirty nails with deep interest.
The Spanish Pirate Lord drew his sword. “You,” he said, pointing with it to a well-muscled sailor near the door. “And you. And you.” He selected a few more of the strongest, least smelly, most sober candidates. Then he paused and looked around. His gaze fell on Jack’s little gathering. He gave a small, sinister laugh. “And you,” he said, pointing his sword tip directly at Henry’s squidgy midsection.
“You can’t have him! He’s mine, I say!” Jack protested.
“I did agree to…” Henry began weakly. The Spaniard poked him lightly in the belly.
“I said YOU,” Villanueva declared with finality. “Out. The Centurion is leaving now.” The other pirates who had been chosen stood and began to file out of the bar without arguing.
Henry gave Jack a helpless look. Jack was debating whether to start a sword fight with Villanueva right there in the tavern when the Spaniard’s two burly companions stepped forward and loomed menacingly over him.
“Ah, well,” Jack said to Henry. “It was a terrific partnership while it lasted. And I hear the weather is lovely in Spain.”
One of the big pirates firmly took Henry’s arm and escorted him from the room. Villanueva tipped his hat to Jack with a sardonic smile and sauntered out, taking all the best pirates in the room with him.
“And that,” Barbossa said pointedly to Jack, “is how it’s done.” He took a swig from one of the tankards of ale that the barkeeper had brought them.
“Typical arrogant Spaniards,” Jack observed, sitting down again. “As if the East India Trading Company isn’t trouble enough, now we have to deal with the regular Spanish navy everywhere and Spanish pirates as well.” He shook his head mournfully. “Why can’t the Caribbean just be full of mermaids and vengeful ghosts and shape-shifting sorceresses? I ask you. Those I know how to deal with.” He reached for his glass and discovered that it was empty. “Hey, why is the rum gone?”
Billy carefully didn’t look at Catastrophe Shane, who hiccupped innocently. “You were right not to start a fight with them,” Billy said. “Villanueva would chase you all the way around the world if he thought you’d offended him or taken something he wanted.”
“He’d never catch the Pearl !” Jack said jauntily. “Well, it’s not all bad news.” He clapped Shane on the back. “At least we have Catastrophe Shane!”
CHAPTER THREE
“This is a disaster,” Barbossa said.
“I wouldn’t say disaster,” said Jack, wrinkling his forehead expressively.
“Oh, really?” Barbossa said. “Would you say…catastrophe?”
Another crash came from the bow of the ship, where Catastrophe Shane was trying to rig a sail but kept falling over his boots. They’d given him a pistol earlier so he could take target practice, and then they’d taken it right back after he shot a barrel of ale, the ocean, and the air above a very startled seagull. “Maybe you should practice later,” Jack had suggested warily.
Now, as the Pearl sailed out of Tortuga’s harbor, the captain and first mate watched Catastrophe Shane stagger from one side of the boat to the other, getting tangled in the rope. The other pirates were staring at him in open-mouthed disbelief.
“He’s just getting his sea legs,” Jack said. “Nothing to worry about.”
Barbossa shook his head. “I am pleased to point out, as I so often do,” he said, “that I told you so.”
Jack put his hand on his chest, frowning. It felt like something heavy had suddenly sat on his heart—as if an enormous weight was now slowly pressing down on his chest.
“Did it just get colder?” he asked, glancing up at the fiercely burning sun. But despite the sun’s heat, to Jack it felt as if freezing darkness was creeping over him.
“No,” Barbossa said, peering at him curiously. “Why? Are you feeling poorly? How poorly? Deathly poorly, perhaps?”
“No, no,” Jack said. “Just a bit of a chill. Thank you for your concern.”
Barbossa looked disappointed.
Billy came striding along the deck toward them. “There’s something odd about this ship, Jack,” he said. “I could have sworn someone was watching me while I inspected the hold.”
“Piffle,” Jack said. “All our fine pirates are up here, sailing the ship.”
“Also our less fine pirates,” Barbossa muttered.
Jack blinked, putting his hand on his chest again. This was really quite odd. “I’ll be in my cabin,” he said, taking a step toward the hatch.
“Oh, Cap-tain,” Barbossa said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Am I?” Jack said. He was having trouble concentrating. It seemed as if there were darkness at the edges of his sight, like fog rolling in from ei
ther side—but when he turned his head, the sun shone as brightly and the sea sparkled as merrily in every direction, just as they had before.
“Where are we going?” Barbossa asked. “Our bearing? Care to give an order, Captain?”
“Oh,” Jack said, taking another step. “North Carolina, I suppose. Make sail and all that. You know the drill.”
Billy looked delighted. It hadn’t been a trick after all! He took the wheel from Barbossa as Jack walked slowly to the captain’s cabin.
“Is he all right?” Billy asked the first mate.
Barbossa smiled sinisterly, watching Jack’s slow, weaving steps. “We shall see.”
Jack was not all right. After a moment at his desk, he stood up and went to lie down on the couch, closing his eyes. How unpleasant it was to be sick. Unpleasant and unusual. Jack Sparrow never felt ill a day in his life.
“Snap out of it, man,” he told himself briskly. He sat up, got to his feet, wobbled unsteadily, and sat down again. His whole chest felt as if it had been filled with anchors—dark, mossy anchors that had dragged among the shadows of the deepest ocean. It was hard to breathe with this weight on his heart.
Something darted across the corner of the room and he leaped to his feet, drawing his sword.
“Who’s there?” he challenged loudly. “Show yourself!”
No one emerged. All he could see now were shadows. He strode over to the corner and poked all the shadows vigorously with his sword, but there was nothing there. He spun around again.
“You don’t want to annoy Captain Jack Sparrow!” he shouted, charging to the other side of the room and stabbing the wall with his sword.
Not a sound, but as he turned again, he thought he caught a glimpse of something winding between his feet. With a gasp, he jumped back and stabbed the floor…but there was nothing there.
“Am I seeing shadow cats now?” he muttered. “Or perhaps I’m still haunted by that mangy furball, Constance.” On his earlier adventures, Jack had traveled with a boy named Jean Magliore, who claimed his sister Constance had been turned into a cat by the mystic, Tia Dalma. Although she was the most irritating, ugly feline Jack had ever seen, Jean doted on her with a ridiculous amount of affection.
