A Marooned Sparrow
The dripping figure of a bedraggled Captain Jack Sparrow stood on the beach and watched the black sails vanish over the horizon. Trying unsuccessfully to push away the feelings of betrayal and despair that were threatening to overwhelm him, he turned and, flicking back a lock of short, black hair, he began to walk around the tiny island that seemed fated to be his grave.
It didn't take long. Less than five minutes later, he was back where he had started. Sighing, he plopped down onto the glistening white sand and eyed his pistol, courtesy of Barbossa. He took out the single ball and examined it before cocking and firing the empty weapon a few times, checking that all was in correct order. Satisfied, he replaced the bullet and tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers.
For lack of anything else to do, his gaze was inextricably drawn back to the spot on the horizon, where he had last seen his beloved ship.
Desolation and hopelessness were lurking ominously at the edge of his consciousness. How had this happened? Just yesterday he had been on top of the world. His feet had been firmly planted at the helm of his only love, a loyal-or so he had thought-crew behind him and the promise of unimaginable wealth just over the horizon. Now here he was, left to die on some tiny spit of land in the middle of nowhere and the Pearl was in the hands of the very man who had betrayed him.
Snapping out of his musings, he noticed that the sun was beginning to set and though it would be a warm night he wished he had his soft black coat to lie on. But that was back in his cabin. The very cabin in which Barbossa was likely resting right now.
To halt this train of thought he stood abruptly and, finding sticks, started trying to make a fire. It took a long time. He let out a small whoop as he finally managed to kindle a small orange flame. Blowing on it gently, he fed it dry twigs he managed to scavenge from the surrounding area. Sitting back on his heels he gently massaged the cramp from his hands.
It was now full dark and the only light he had to see by was the waning moon and his own steadily growing bonfire. He judged it to be about nine 'o clock. He hadn't gone to bed this early since he was a child but there was nothing left to do but sleep.
Moving a safer distance from the flames, he lay back and wriggled his bare feet until they were buried in the sand. As the day's trials caught up with him, his disjointed brain noted that his boots were left back on the Pearl, too.
Gradually his eyes drooped closed and the bleak thoughts about the day gave way to oblivion.
* * * Three days later * * *
(*** Flashback dream ***) Barbossa threw his arm around Jack's shoulders. "Jack, Jack. 'Tis nothin' personal, ye know. We just think that maybe ye not a suitable captain for this ship." He cast a mockingly appraising glance at Jack's clothes. "And we don't much agree with ye're fashion sense, is all."
The surrounding crew members snickered at him past their brandished swords as he looked down at himself. What was wrong with his clothing? True he didn't look much like a pirate in his clean and tidy black clothes, but they were comfortable and warm. Everything was in pristine condition. Even his face was clean, his chin smooth. He liked it that way. Obviously his crew didn't agree with his sentiments regarding the matter.
"How's about a trade, eh? I take this here." The gravely voice cut into his thoughts as Barbossa leaned over and transferred Jack's wide-brimmed and feathered hat to his own head. "And in turn I give you this." Stepping back, Barbossa waved a pistol in front of his face.
"In case you were wonderin' this here be your pistol with the required one shot. I'm sure ye'll put it to good use." He leered. "Now off you go." The pistol was casually tossed over the side.
As he was herded towards the end of the plank, Jack turned and locked gazes with his one-time good friend and old second mate, William Turner. Why? he tried to ask. But William quickly averted his gaze and turning, Jack executed a sketchy dive into the water below. As the cold water immediately enveloped him, Jack had to stifle his reflexive gasp…
Reflexively gasping and spluttering, Jack sat bolt upright, cursing profusely in several different languages. Looking about himself, he could see approximately eleven men surrounding him with swords and one carrying an empty bucket. Three guesses as to where the contents of that bucket were.
Standing, Jack shook himself, sending droplet of water everywhere. His hopes soared. He couldn't believe it! His salvation had come. He would be saved! That didn't mean they had to soak him, though. Holding back both the beginnings of hope and a glare - it was never a good idea to get snippy with one's possible saviors - he instead grinned and thrust a hand forward.
"Captain Jack Sparrow. What can I do for you?"
The Bucket-man eyed him warily before accepting his hand and giving it a firm shake. "Captain Mortinez of the Lady Marietta." Although he spoke English well his speech still carried a trademark Spanish lilt. "What brings ye here?"
"Me?" Jack's expression darkened. "Marooned, mate. Betrayed and marooned. Yourself?"
Mortinez narrowed his gaze, giving Jack a once-over. Nodding decisively to himself, he relaxed and signaled to his men who sheathed their swords and began dispersing.
"Yourself apparently being a pirate, I'll tell ye. I suppose ye could say we're in the same line of business. Rumrunners we are and this island here, this be our cache."
Jack's mood brightened immediately. He had never tried rum himself, but apparently it was a very piratey drink. Now that it looked like he would get off this island, he would show that crew of his that he was a much better pirate than them. He would grow his hair, get new clothes and alter his general manner. They would live to rue the day they dared call Captain Jack Sparrow too much of a pretty boy to be a pirate. "You have rum?"
"We do but that's not to say ye'll be getting any."
"Ah well. Never mind then. But you've a ship?"
"Aye. And if its passage ye be wanting I'm sure we can work something out. We've room for another pair of hands, or if ye've something else in mind I'm sure we can work something out."
Jack grinned in relief. "Hand sounds fine. But first I'd be much obliged if I could have something to eat and drink. I'm fairly starving."
* * * * * *
Later that night, in his post as lookout in the crows nest, he took out his pistol. He twirled in around on his wrist, catching it again deftly in hi hand. So he wasn't to die at his own hand after all. Now the small ball had a different destination. Jack would live to see it implanted in Barbossa's chest if that was the last thing he did.
Well thanks for reading. This was just an edited version of what it was formerly. Sorry about the confusing Barbossa part. The italics and bold didn't upload. It was meant to be a flashback dream. I think I know how to upload them now. Not that much difference but I tried to use the advice from my reviewers. Thanks so much to Chem, Lunatic, Moonshiner, RMT, love2rite and Geheimnis (Chem: I think you may be right about the powder, but I'm not sure if all the powder is used in one shot, so I just left how it was. Thanks anyway though-it gave me something to think about in the future).
I'm also writing another PotC One-Shot and it should be posted in the next couple of days.
Let me know what you thought of this version. Reviews are all devotedly cherished. Love you all…