Wi' A Wannion

I can still see her black sails on the horizon from where I sit on the beach of a miserable spit. From this angle, on the white sand and with one eye squeezed shut, the sea looks solid from shallows to depths. Solid and jewelesque, what with the sunlight dancing so.

I've turned my boots up on the ground, to drain, and my pistol's so logged as to guarantee that, if I did want to shoot something, my powder's gone. Washed away. With no dry powder---with no powder at all---I've been condemned to starve or die from exposure. Marooned, as it were. I grind my teeth at the sheer audacity of Fate, the ol' bitch herself. A friend, trusted no more, is sailing away on my ship. Coordinates and treasure aside, I'm hurt; gold can be found in almost any booty, but the knowing of a tried and true mate can't be pilfered from just any port.

Funny ol' world, idn'it? Hector Barbossa was the first pirate I felt a sense of Brotherhood with; he taught me to sail, he did, and kept me from being forced to kiss the gunner's daughter more than once, when I was only a lad. He was on the first ship I ever sailed out of India with, only a little older than myself. We sailed on many a ship together, before I was given my own command on the merchant vessel The Wicked Wench for the EITC, and we were together when I made the decision to go against my orders from Cutler Beckett and put those slaves to shore in Africa. We made that decision together, we did.

When I was relieved of my command, forced to watch my ship burn to the water line, then branded and imprisoned, it was Barbossa who carried out my rescue and convinced me to go on account---embrace the outlaw life, as I was suddenly a marked man and no longer likely to be welcomed for honest labor. We commandeered a ship there in the East and headed back to the open seas, our heading a life of profit and adventure. Had ourselves a merry time, we did. At least, until ol' Tia Dalma sent us after the mermaid's tongue as payment for a favor I desperately wanted. After getting back my old ship and renaming her The Black Pearl, Tia did me another one and gave up a compass that will show me the way to anything I truly want. With my ship and compass and a treasure to chase, I thought we were all getting along like a tar barrel on fire.

Now, I've a debt to Davy Jones and nothing to show for my troubles.

I can't, won't fathom betrayal from that side, yet Hector Barbossa isn't the man to be bullied by a restless crew. No, if there was any one manjack among them responsible for this bilge, it was my first mate...my friend. He wouldn't be bullied, but he certainly has the silver tongue of Ol' Hob Hisself. No, if a mutiny was countenanced, then Barbossa was the master.

Nor can I fathom Bootstrap Bill committing mutiny with all those other scallywags. Bill's always been a good man, a good pirate. He left his wife and wee son to sail on account with us from England to the Caribbean, and he's been a good friend...a good second mate. He sailed with me on The Wicked Wench for several jobs, and I knew I could trust him. Now, I wonder what will happen to him on The Black Pearl; he committed mutiny, but I saw his eyes, there at the end. He was going along with the crew to keep hisself from being marooned at my side. Can't ask a man to do no better than he has, in such straits.

Mutiny.

My ship has become an ever-smaller speck on the blue and white horizon and I'm beginning to dry out a bit. The island isn't large enough to be called an island, really, but perhaps I'll find some manner of shelter and something worth sinking my teeth into, for sustenance. If nothing else, I can fish in the shallows and build a fire. I'll need to find fresh water, if I can. I'm not so very far from the regular tide route; if I keep a weather eye open, a week or two, someone will see the smoke and then I barter a speck of work for passage. I can go back to Tortuga or even Port Royal. It's there, in the taverns, I'll find a way to get my bloody ship back.

For, what's a pirate without his ship, a man without his freedom?

Musing on it, I strip the sodden leather from my pigtail and fling the useless trifle away and then follow with the scrap of blue silk I've used for a bandana; the sea has made a tangle of my hair. At least, Barbossa isn't here to see the remainder of my fall from grace. He would doubtlessly be amused, what with the words we've shared on the state of my dress and the care I've shown for such matters. He was forever saying I was far too much the dandy to be a proper pirate.

Now, I must look like a doused rat from the ship's belly. Well, nothing for it, I suppose.

With a sigh, I pull the compass free of my baldric and open it, not really sure what I want or how I could possibly hope to reach out my hand for the goal, if I was sure of my aim. The arrow swings a moment and then straightens, going deathly still. Ahead, ahead to the horizon; as if the Pearl and Barbossa are true North, the star by which I must steer. I have my heading, I do.

Snapping the ornate lid shut, I let my hand droop over one knee, gripping the compass and, through long strands of dark brown hair gone lank with the breeze and salt, I stare out to sea and decide that, if I had anything left to sell---soul or life or manhood---I wouldn't hesitate to sign Articles with the Devil Hisself, if it would give me the means by which to catch up to Hector Barbossa. Revenging myself on that dog would be sweeter than rum.

I'd hang him by his toes from the yard arm and use him for target practice. I'd keel haul him. I'd cut out those pale eyes of his and then set him adrift strapped to a barrel with his guts staining red what remained of that fancy waistcoat he's so fond of...as if he isn't so bold with his vanity as he claims I am. I'd have the ship's cook bake that damn monkey of his and force him to eat the wee beastie.

I'd do it and I might even watch.