veronica_rich (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
veronica_rich) wrote2008-08-20 09:46 pm
veronica_rich) wrote2008-08-20 09:46 pm
POTC Fic: "Walk the Line"
Title: "Walk the Line"
Rating: PG for language and a bit of religious hijacking
Disclaimer: I do not own this character. I make no profit off this story.
Summary: Gen fic. Jack finds himself in a strange land with no rum or ship. Hasn't stopped him before.
A/N: Thanks to beta from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mamazano, metalkatt, gryphons_lair, and yoiebear. If you spot any mistakes, it's not their fault.
Feedback: Go for it.
In hindsight, Jack conceded perhaps he should have learned more about local politics before trying to pilfer from the constabulary. He’d been on the lam for the better part of a fortnight, having picked the lock of that Spanish brig and swam to the shore of an unknown river, moving west ever since in a general maybe the Atlantic is this way? direction by his compass – he didn’t even know where he was, let alone that the military uniform was nearly indistinguishable from the castoff foppery worn by a proper gentleman in these parts.
To prove further it just wasn’t his day for the Sparrow luck, he managed to get a horse out of town, headed south, and even made it perhaps a mile or two before said beast decided he liked the wind on his back more than the esteemed Captain. Blowing out a huge breath, Jack shook his head and tried to rid his eyes of the constellations temporarily blinding him, as he sat up and watched the horse pound back the way they had come. “Bloody independent creatures,” he muttered, climbing to his feet and testing each joint to make sure it bent the way it should. “No sense o’ cooperation whatsoever.”
He was busy dusting his behind, as his coat had obligingly lifted when he was tossed off, cushioning his lower back but doing nothing to keep his arse clean, when he spotted them – a small troupe of green-coated soldiers, running at him and waving swords. Yanking his tricorn down onto his head, Jack turned and fled, at once grateful for the downhill slope that eased his escape and cursing that it didn’t spontaneously turn upward to slow the soldiers’ pace.
Fortunately, he didn’t have far to go before he heard shouts in a language he didn’t understand, from what sounded like far away. Chancing a look back over his shoulder as he ran, he saw the soldiers standing in a line, angrily waving their weapons – but otherwise unmoving. He slowed to a stop, unable to help leaning forward, hands on his thighs, heaving greatly as he tried to breathe. Running from the authorities was a young man’s sport.
When he finally caught his breath, he stood, adjusted his hat, and turned to face his would-be captors. With a curtsey and a grin, he saluted them, turning and happily jaunting off south once again. He didn’t waste much time wondering why they’d stopped; for whatever reason, he was temporarily free and he’d take the advantage.
Until he topped the rise and saw a contingent of red-coated English marines climbing toward it. He stopped, stock-still, wondering what God or Allah or even that bloody Buddha fellow had against Jack Sparrow’s continued mobility through the world, when they looked up and spotted him.
Reflecting a few minutes later, he might’ve wondered why they gave chase immediately; after all, he could’ve been an innocent traveler simply strolling the countryside. (Of course, on the heels of that thought came the reminder that he’d immediately turned and raced away. He winced whenever he considered this; after all, one did not wave raw meat before a hound and then give it a toss without expecting the dog to follow and pounce.) Seeing as he was about to run into his previous pursuers, Jack veered west and figured he’d try to ditch both groups that way.
They both charged after him, though he soon began to notice something odd – if he ran a bit north, the English would continue west, but not directly after him, though the Green Whatevers would. If he turned a bit south, the Lobsters came right for him, but the Greenies would only continue west. He began to formulate a sneaking suspicion based on his familiarity with colonial imperialism and good, old-fashioned nationalism.
Finding about a halfway spot between where each small group seemed willing to go, Jack slowed, nearly flopping down on the grass to pass out from the heat and exhaustion. The weather wasn’t overly warm, but running in a wool coat would take frostbite off an ambitious enough man. Instead, quickly, forcibly slowing his breathing, he composed himself and turned, watching both the soldiers and marines as they watched him – and also each other, to Jack’s interest and amusement – all in a tense triangle of short distances.
He stepped to the right a few paces; the Lobsters drew closer. When he skipped back to the left, they paused and the Greenies took a few steps. Jack went back to his stopping spot and watched both, gauging. Not knowing if the Greenies spoke a common language, he looked instead toward the marines, smiling crookedly. Perhaps Zeus had seen the other deities gambling against Jack Sparrow and had stepped in to take pity this day, after all.
“Border dispute, mates?” He gestured toward the soldiers.
One of the Lobsters scowled and spat in the general direction of the Greenies, but another – obviously the leader, or at least the least junior – frowned at the display by his fellow countryman. “It is of no consequence,” he replied, affecting nonchalance.
Jack nodded toward the still-scowling marine. “Looks consequential t’ me,” he pressed.
Once again, the leader looked to him, and this time, the young man cast his eyes down, trying to rid his face of the frown. “I would say you have bigger concerns – Jack Sparrow.”
The Greenies perked up at that, in a flurry of gasps and squinting at their quarry. “Jack Spar-row?” a couple managed to pronounce in an unrecognizable accent, and Jack wondered if his appellation was the only non-native language they knew.
He affected a bright response and pressed his hands together. “Ah, I see you have heard of me!” Bugger all, he cursed to himself – he’d seen how intimidated and uninterested the soldiers had started to look before Largemouth Lobsterface had spilled his identity. It would have been easier to escape from a dozen rather than a score.
Still, Jack hadn’t lived this long without learning to work a disadvantage around to his way of thinking. “So … you fellows can’t cross back an’ forth, is that about th’ size of it, then?” He addressed the marine, but looked between both groups, indicating with pointed finger, swinging back and forth over whatever imaginary line he had the luck to be straddling. “Le’ me see if I’ve figured this out: You’ve colonized whatever that there happens t’ be-” He waved in a general off-thataway direction past the English – “but you’ve not yet managed to invade this here side of things?” He reversed course with his beringed hands. “That’s very interestin’.”
The marine smiled indulgently. “Have your amusement, Mr. Sparrow. There’s no way to escape justice, and it seems even if they don’t speak the King’s English, these fine people know your name is synonymous with lawlessness.” He nodded toward the Greenies. “If we do not arrest you, they will.”
“Aye,” Jack agreed, rocking back on his booted heels. “But it’d be a rather embarrassin’ black mark against th’ King for his finest to lose such … noted, prey to non-subjects, would it not?” He glanced again at the soldiers, marking for the first time that their “uniforms” were more worn than he’d initially noticed. “And those with a far underfinanced military than His Majesty’s, in addition.” By the dark look on Leader Lobster’s face, Jack knew he’d struck home. He also knew that as long as he didn’t move off this imaginary line, he remained a free man.
He wondered if horses ever fell over while sleeping standing up.
*****
As it turned out much later that night – for neither contingent of military had made any move to go back to wherever they were supposed to be – Jack learned it was possible to keep from rolling over in one’s half-sleep by flinging one’s arms out to the side in crucifix-fashion. The pose made him wonder what he would’ve had to discuss with Christ if he’d been one of the two thieves on the cross that day. Fancy meeting you at last. No, too prosaic. I say, that Pilate’s an unpleasant sort, idn’t he? Too presumptuous. Don’t worry, mate – we may be carrion, but I wager you’ll get t’ rise up an’ have your revenge in a trice!
In the middle of the night, he climbed to his feet and turned away to piss. Cinching himself back up, he turned back to look at both groups, each of whom had a couple of industrious fellows on watch, with small fires going. Noticing a bottle in the hand of one of the soldiers, he pointed and mimed taking a drink, then pointed again. He pressed his hands together prayerfully, giving Greenie his best expression of pitiful thirst.
Nothing.
Jack sighed and studied his hands in the firelight, choosing. Finally, he selected his least favorite ring that had a bit of shine, and removed it, holding it up and pointing again at the bottle. The soldier shook his head, smiling slightly. Frowning, Jack dug into a coat pocket and withdrew one of the shillings he’d managed to get off with. He held up both objects and mimed drinking yet again.
With a smirk, the soldier got up and came over, reaching for the objects. Knowing better than to let the hands of people allowed to carry shackles that close to his body, Jack pointed at the ground and made to hunker. After a couple of tries, the soldier bent his knees, going as slowly as Jack. Jack made as if to drop the coin and ring; the soldier did nothing. He whistled quietly at Greenie and snapped his fingers, pointing at the ground. They both extended slowly … slowly … and just as his shinies hit the ground, Jack grabbed for the bottle and stood suddenly, backing away. He pinwheeled for a few seconds, nearly losing his balance, but managed to catch himself and save the bottle at the same time.
Smiling in relief, he raised the bottle to Greenie and uncorked it, tilting it back for a deep draught while keeping his eyes on the young soldier. Halfway down his gullet, he wrenched the bottle from his lips and barely managed not to spit it out, making a face. Fucking WATER?
Pocketing his ring and shilling, the soldier grinned and saluted Jack before backing away toward his fire. Pirate.
*****
As sunlight struck, so did Jack’s inspiration. He hauled out his compass and faced east, jiggling it to get an accurate setting. I know what I want, I know what I want … It spun a bit, but not nearly as crazily as when he’d been trying to settle between death and mastery of the Flying Dutchman. Finally, it settled, pointing behind him at a slight angle. He followed it, turning, and watched as it evened out until it was pointing exactly away from his corpus. “The sea,” he murmured, unconsciously moving forward.
He heard scrambling and shouts behind him, but ignored the warnings. He’d already established these men’s parameters and what they were willing to do – and, more importantly, what they weren’t willing to risk. So long as his compass guided him true, he figured he had a better chance moving than he did rotting in one spot of grass, turning another brown with his piss and slowly going mad (and poor and naked) on just water.
Jack didn’t know how long he walked; he stopped a few times to relieve himself or rest and stretch and check the soldiers and marines following along, who were visibly equal parts bewildered and cross. His stomach rumbled a few times at midday, but he ignored it, only taking small sips of the suspiciously gritty water and scrupulously following the slight zigzags of his compass.
He guessed it was probably late afternoon when he heard a familiar sound in the distance; he didn’t dare to hope, so he kept walking, speeding his pace a little, his arms tired from holding the compass out before him for so long. He would not muck up stepping off the “line” at this point (still not understanding how the hell a couple of ragtag contingents of whelps half his age knew where the blessed thing even was) to be seized.
Coming to the crest of a hill, he finally saw it spread out before him – the shine of the ocean, limitless in horizon and only a mile or so ahead. He tried not to be obvious, keeping his gait measured, rather than tearing into a run and risk being shot at. Wonder if any of ‘em could hit the broad side of a ship? he pondered, not wanting to take the chance that someone was as good with a pistol as young William was with a sword.
When he finally came to the edge of the cliff, he peered over, seeing a narrow strip of rocks about fifty feet below abutting land, over which white caps of surf were smashing and dissolving. It would take a hell of a jump to clear those, and there was no certainty other rocks weren’t just below the water’s surface beyond.
Jack swallowed, closing his compass and letting it hang from his belt. He turned for the first time in hours and faced his feuding would-be captors, all eyeing him with what he guessed was a superior sort of pity. End of the line for you, old chap, he imagined they were thinking.
He took a few steps inland, pacing over the line of bent grass he’d created toward the cliff’s edge, pressing his hands together and pressing the edges of his forefingers against his lips. Both soldiers and marines watched him; he waited for them to follow as he moved further from the edge – twenty paces, thirty, fifty, more. Eventually, they did, as if pulled along by invisible rope; he could tell they didn’t really know what to do, though it seemed inevitable they had their notorious quarry at last. Unless he was willing to cross back the way he’d spent two weeks coming on no food or water.
Or rum, he thought mournfully.
Both groups approached, getting closer to their disabling boundary line – and to Jack. He spun, facing the ocean and them off to his sides, keeping his gaze flickering between the two groups rather than lingering on the world ahead. “I s’pose this is where I’m t’ give myself up,” he finally said, knowing only one side would understand – but figuring the others could likely guess well enough.
“You will receive a fair trial,” Head Lobster assured him.
Jack chuckled. “Son, I’m Captain Jack Sparrow. Th’ English an’ plenty of other nationalities haven’t a clue how ‘fair’ and me fit in th’ same gaol.” The boy said nothing. Swinging around to face the Greenies, Jack nodded toward the English, holding his hands toward them as if in shackles, then swung them toward the soldiers. “What will you offer me?” he asked, mostly rhetorically.
They looked among each other, chattering a bit in their language, before they seemed to savvy what the foreigner could possibly mean. One held up a brown bottle, out toward Jack, with a shrug. “Oh, no, mate.” Jack clucked his tongue and shook his head. “I’m not dyin’ for water – not that kind, at any rate.”
With another glance between both, Jack swept off his hat and bowed deeply, then straightened and refitted his tricorn. “Me dear ol’ Nan used t’ say, if you’re gon’ be damned if you do or don’t, might as well get your trip in.” Gathering his fluttering sash in one hand and bunching it to keep from tripping, he flashed a gold grin at both. “Gentlemen, someday you’ll be able t’ tell your grandkids how you almost clapped Captain Jack Sparrow in irons.”
He didn’t wait for realization to cross the Englishmen’s faces. In a burst, he took off, pushing off the edge with a terrific leap and letting go his sash to flutter as he brought his hands together in the ultimate prayer – bowing his head and praying that the Dutchman’s new captain would at least be swift if it turned out he himself had not found sufficient wings.
Rating: PG for language and a bit of religious hijacking
Disclaimer: I do not own this character. I make no profit off this story.
Summary: Gen fic. Jack finds himself in a strange land with no rum or ship. Hasn't stopped him before.
A/N: Thanks to beta from
mamazano, metalkatt, gryphons_lair, and yoiebear. If you spot any mistakes, it's not their fault.Feedback: Go for it.
In hindsight, Jack conceded perhaps he should have learned more about local politics before trying to pilfer from the constabulary. He’d been on the lam for the better part of a fortnight, having picked the lock of that Spanish brig and swam to the shore of an unknown river, moving west ever since in a general maybe the Atlantic is this way? direction by his compass – he didn’t even know where he was, let alone that the military uniform was nearly indistinguishable from the castoff foppery worn by a proper gentleman in these parts.
To prove further it just wasn’t his day for the Sparrow luck, he managed to get a horse out of town, headed south, and even made it perhaps a mile or two before said beast decided he liked the wind on his back more than the esteemed Captain. Blowing out a huge breath, Jack shook his head and tried to rid his eyes of the constellations temporarily blinding him, as he sat up and watched the horse pound back the way they had come. “Bloody independent creatures,” he muttered, climbing to his feet and testing each joint to make sure it bent the way it should. “No sense o’ cooperation whatsoever.”
He was busy dusting his behind, as his coat had obligingly lifted when he was tossed off, cushioning his lower back but doing nothing to keep his arse clean, when he spotted them – a small troupe of green-coated soldiers, running at him and waving swords. Yanking his tricorn down onto his head, Jack turned and fled, at once grateful for the downhill slope that eased his escape and cursing that it didn’t spontaneously turn upward to slow the soldiers’ pace.
Fortunately, he didn’t have far to go before he heard shouts in a language he didn’t understand, from what sounded like far away. Chancing a look back over his shoulder as he ran, he saw the soldiers standing in a line, angrily waving their weapons – but otherwise unmoving. He slowed to a stop, unable to help leaning forward, hands on his thighs, heaving greatly as he tried to breathe. Running from the authorities was a young man’s sport.
When he finally caught his breath, he stood, adjusted his hat, and turned to face his would-be captors. With a curtsey and a grin, he saluted them, turning and happily jaunting off south once again. He didn’t waste much time wondering why they’d stopped; for whatever reason, he was temporarily free and he’d take the advantage.
Until he topped the rise and saw a contingent of red-coated English marines climbing toward it. He stopped, stock-still, wondering what God or Allah or even that bloody Buddha fellow had against Jack Sparrow’s continued mobility through the world, when they looked up and spotted him.
Reflecting a few minutes later, he might’ve wondered why they gave chase immediately; after all, he could’ve been an innocent traveler simply strolling the countryside. (Of course, on the heels of that thought came the reminder that he’d immediately turned and raced away. He winced whenever he considered this; after all, one did not wave raw meat before a hound and then give it a toss without expecting the dog to follow and pounce.) Seeing as he was about to run into his previous pursuers, Jack veered west and figured he’d try to ditch both groups that way.
They both charged after him, though he soon began to notice something odd – if he ran a bit north, the English would continue west, but not directly after him, though the Green Whatevers would. If he turned a bit south, the Lobsters came right for him, but the Greenies would only continue west. He began to formulate a sneaking suspicion based on his familiarity with colonial imperialism and good, old-fashioned nationalism.
Finding about a halfway spot between where each small group seemed willing to go, Jack slowed, nearly flopping down on the grass to pass out from the heat and exhaustion. The weather wasn’t overly warm, but running in a wool coat would take frostbite off an ambitious enough man. Instead, quickly, forcibly slowing his breathing, he composed himself and turned, watching both the soldiers and marines as they watched him – and also each other, to Jack’s interest and amusement – all in a tense triangle of short distances.
He stepped to the right a few paces; the Lobsters drew closer. When he skipped back to the left, they paused and the Greenies took a few steps. Jack went back to his stopping spot and watched both, gauging. Not knowing if the Greenies spoke a common language, he looked instead toward the marines, smiling crookedly. Perhaps Zeus had seen the other deities gambling against Jack Sparrow and had stepped in to take pity this day, after all.
“Border dispute, mates?” He gestured toward the soldiers.
One of the Lobsters scowled and spat in the general direction of the Greenies, but another – obviously the leader, or at least the least junior – frowned at the display by his fellow countryman. “It is of no consequence,” he replied, affecting nonchalance.
Jack nodded toward the still-scowling marine. “Looks consequential t’ me,” he pressed.
Once again, the leader looked to him, and this time, the young man cast his eyes down, trying to rid his face of the frown. “I would say you have bigger concerns – Jack Sparrow.”
The Greenies perked up at that, in a flurry of gasps and squinting at their quarry. “Jack Spar-row?” a couple managed to pronounce in an unrecognizable accent, and Jack wondered if his appellation was the only non-native language they knew.
He affected a bright response and pressed his hands together. “Ah, I see you have heard of me!” Bugger all, he cursed to himself – he’d seen how intimidated and uninterested the soldiers had started to look before Largemouth Lobsterface had spilled his identity. It would have been easier to escape from a dozen rather than a score.
Still, Jack hadn’t lived this long without learning to work a disadvantage around to his way of thinking. “So … you fellows can’t cross back an’ forth, is that about th’ size of it, then?” He addressed the marine, but looked between both groups, indicating with pointed finger, swinging back and forth over whatever imaginary line he had the luck to be straddling. “Le’ me see if I’ve figured this out: You’ve colonized whatever that there happens t’ be-” He waved in a general off-thataway direction past the English – “but you’ve not yet managed to invade this here side of things?” He reversed course with his beringed hands. “That’s very interestin’.”
The marine smiled indulgently. “Have your amusement, Mr. Sparrow. There’s no way to escape justice, and it seems even if they don’t speak the King’s English, these fine people know your name is synonymous with lawlessness.” He nodded toward the Greenies. “If we do not arrest you, they will.”
“Aye,” Jack agreed, rocking back on his booted heels. “But it’d be a rather embarrassin’ black mark against th’ King for his finest to lose such … noted, prey to non-subjects, would it not?” He glanced again at the soldiers, marking for the first time that their “uniforms” were more worn than he’d initially noticed. “And those with a far underfinanced military than His Majesty’s, in addition.” By the dark look on Leader Lobster’s face, Jack knew he’d struck home. He also knew that as long as he didn’t move off this imaginary line, he remained a free man.
He wondered if horses ever fell over while sleeping standing up.
*****
As it turned out much later that night – for neither contingent of military had made any move to go back to wherever they were supposed to be – Jack learned it was possible to keep from rolling over in one’s half-sleep by flinging one’s arms out to the side in crucifix-fashion. The pose made him wonder what he would’ve had to discuss with Christ if he’d been one of the two thieves on the cross that day. Fancy meeting you at last. No, too prosaic. I say, that Pilate’s an unpleasant sort, idn’t he? Too presumptuous. Don’t worry, mate – we may be carrion, but I wager you’ll get t’ rise up an’ have your revenge in a trice!
In the middle of the night, he climbed to his feet and turned away to piss. Cinching himself back up, he turned back to look at both groups, each of whom had a couple of industrious fellows on watch, with small fires going. Noticing a bottle in the hand of one of the soldiers, he pointed and mimed taking a drink, then pointed again. He pressed his hands together prayerfully, giving Greenie his best expression of pitiful thirst.
Nothing.
Jack sighed and studied his hands in the firelight, choosing. Finally, he selected his least favorite ring that had a bit of shine, and removed it, holding it up and pointing again at the bottle. The soldier shook his head, smiling slightly. Frowning, Jack dug into a coat pocket and withdrew one of the shillings he’d managed to get off with. He held up both objects and mimed drinking yet again.
With a smirk, the soldier got up and came over, reaching for the objects. Knowing better than to let the hands of people allowed to carry shackles that close to his body, Jack pointed at the ground and made to hunker. After a couple of tries, the soldier bent his knees, going as slowly as Jack. Jack made as if to drop the coin and ring; the soldier did nothing. He whistled quietly at Greenie and snapped his fingers, pointing at the ground. They both extended slowly … slowly … and just as his shinies hit the ground, Jack grabbed for the bottle and stood suddenly, backing away. He pinwheeled for a few seconds, nearly losing his balance, but managed to catch himself and save the bottle at the same time.
Smiling in relief, he raised the bottle to Greenie and uncorked it, tilting it back for a deep draught while keeping his eyes on the young soldier. Halfway down his gullet, he wrenched the bottle from his lips and barely managed not to spit it out, making a face. Fucking WATER?
Pocketing his ring and shilling, the soldier grinned and saluted Jack before backing away toward his fire. Pirate.
*****
As sunlight struck, so did Jack’s inspiration. He hauled out his compass and faced east, jiggling it to get an accurate setting. I know what I want, I know what I want … It spun a bit, but not nearly as crazily as when he’d been trying to settle between death and mastery of the Flying Dutchman. Finally, it settled, pointing behind him at a slight angle. He followed it, turning, and watched as it evened out until it was pointing exactly away from his corpus. “The sea,” he murmured, unconsciously moving forward.
He heard scrambling and shouts behind him, but ignored the warnings. He’d already established these men’s parameters and what they were willing to do – and, more importantly, what they weren’t willing to risk. So long as his compass guided him true, he figured he had a better chance moving than he did rotting in one spot of grass, turning another brown with his piss and slowly going mad (and poor and naked) on just water.
Jack didn’t know how long he walked; he stopped a few times to relieve himself or rest and stretch and check the soldiers and marines following along, who were visibly equal parts bewildered and cross. His stomach rumbled a few times at midday, but he ignored it, only taking small sips of the suspiciously gritty water and scrupulously following the slight zigzags of his compass.
He guessed it was probably late afternoon when he heard a familiar sound in the distance; he didn’t dare to hope, so he kept walking, speeding his pace a little, his arms tired from holding the compass out before him for so long. He would not muck up stepping off the “line” at this point (still not understanding how the hell a couple of ragtag contingents of whelps half his age knew where the blessed thing even was) to be seized.
Coming to the crest of a hill, he finally saw it spread out before him – the shine of the ocean, limitless in horizon and only a mile or so ahead. He tried not to be obvious, keeping his gait measured, rather than tearing into a run and risk being shot at. Wonder if any of ‘em could hit the broad side of a ship? he pondered, not wanting to take the chance that someone was as good with a pistol as young William was with a sword.
When he finally came to the edge of the cliff, he peered over, seeing a narrow strip of rocks about fifty feet below abutting land, over which white caps of surf were smashing and dissolving. It would take a hell of a jump to clear those, and there was no certainty other rocks weren’t just below the water’s surface beyond.
Jack swallowed, closing his compass and letting it hang from his belt. He turned for the first time in hours and faced his feuding would-be captors, all eyeing him with what he guessed was a superior sort of pity. End of the line for you, old chap, he imagined they were thinking.
He took a few steps inland, pacing over the line of bent grass he’d created toward the cliff’s edge, pressing his hands together and pressing the edges of his forefingers against his lips. Both soldiers and marines watched him; he waited for them to follow as he moved further from the edge – twenty paces, thirty, fifty, more. Eventually, they did, as if pulled along by invisible rope; he could tell they didn’t really know what to do, though it seemed inevitable they had their notorious quarry at last. Unless he was willing to cross back the way he’d spent two weeks coming on no food or water.
Or rum, he thought mournfully.
Both groups approached, getting closer to their disabling boundary line – and to Jack. He spun, facing the ocean and them off to his sides, keeping his gaze flickering between the two groups rather than lingering on the world ahead. “I s’pose this is where I’m t’ give myself up,” he finally said, knowing only one side would understand – but figuring the others could likely guess well enough.
“You will receive a fair trial,” Head Lobster assured him.
Jack chuckled. “Son, I’m Captain Jack Sparrow. Th’ English an’ plenty of other nationalities haven’t a clue how ‘fair’ and me fit in th’ same gaol.” The boy said nothing. Swinging around to face the Greenies, Jack nodded toward the English, holding his hands toward them as if in shackles, then swung them toward the soldiers. “What will you offer me?” he asked, mostly rhetorically.
They looked among each other, chattering a bit in their language, before they seemed to savvy what the foreigner could possibly mean. One held up a brown bottle, out toward Jack, with a shrug. “Oh, no, mate.” Jack clucked his tongue and shook his head. “I’m not dyin’ for water – not that kind, at any rate.”
With another glance between both, Jack swept off his hat and bowed deeply, then straightened and refitted his tricorn. “Me dear ol’ Nan used t’ say, if you’re gon’ be damned if you do or don’t, might as well get your trip in.” Gathering his fluttering sash in one hand and bunching it to keep from tripping, he flashed a gold grin at both. “Gentlemen, someday you’ll be able t’ tell your grandkids how you almost clapped Captain Jack Sparrow in irons.”
He didn’t wait for realization to cross the Englishmen’s faces. In a burst, he took off, pushing off the edge with a terrific leap and letting go his sash to flutter as he brought his hands together in the ultimate prayer – bowing his head and praying that the Dutchman’s new captain would at least be swift if it turned out he himself had not found sufficient wings.
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Brava!
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I keep hearing Johnny Cash for some reason, "I walk the line..."
Perfect Jack logic, and manipulation. Fun piece (love to know the backstory to this)
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love to know the backstory to this
What a coincidence, so would I. Feel free to write it if the mood strikes you. ;-)
Glad you liked it and thanks for the beta!
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And of course the ending is completely in-character- I certainly hope he made a happy landing (or at least a non-fatal one.)
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Thanks!
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Jack spoke to me on this one. He doesn't often, but I'm glad he does it every once in a while. :-)
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I'm happy you liked reading it. Sometimes Jack comes easily, sometimes it's a lot trickier.
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"Getting one's trip in" is actually my mother's. There's a story behind it involving Grandma and punishment and I think maybe a puppy, but it's pretty much as it sounds. LOL
Glad you liked it!
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Oh, and poor out-tricked pirate, exchanging his shine for goddamned WATER! I also loved his imagined conversation with Jesus. Bloody hell, what a hoot that would have been!
*loves the idea of Jack turning up unexpectedly in the Bible*
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Jack and Jesus ... now there's an idea. Jesus coming to Jack standing on the gallows and nobody can see him but Jack. "Bleedin' hell - you're not gon' force me t' give up me ways and wear a robe an' stop swivin' and give away everything I own, are ye?"
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Glad, I be.
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he might’ve wondered why they gave chase immediately; after all, he could’ve been an innocent traveler simply strolling the countryside. (Of course, on the heels of that thought came the reminder that he’d immediately turned and raced away.
I could just see Jack's flailing run zig-zagging along until he had the inspiration and began to test his theory.
Fucking WATER? - Poor Jack, as if he doesn't have enough torments. ;)
I like the open ending, too.
Thanks for sharing this!
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Glad you liked it.
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Thanks for bringing back my faith in the human kind.
I, too, loved the conversation with Jesus and all the religious references :)
Good show!
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Thanks dear :-)
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I think Jack overestimates the value of his 'charm' and daring-do at times.
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This is just great! Jack is so very Jack, and getting caught between two armies is exactly the kind of mess he'd get into with his mix of bad luck (being there at all) and outrageously good luck (border dispute!) I sniggered all the way through. A wonderfully Sparrow escape too. I hope he finds some rum soon to celebrate.
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I just hope he doesn't find those rocks at the bottom!
Thanks for reading!