I'd usually keep something like this until next chapter, but given the subject at hand I thought it was best that you went into reading this with this bit of info in mind.

One issue recently discussed between my friend Rachel and me was Jack's ethnicity. Based on the information available to us we weren't able to agree whether he was just very deeply tanned or there was another explanation for his complexion. It seemed to me that he wasn't even close in skin color to any other pirates in the story saving Anamaria-- and there, for obvious reasons. So being tanned seemed like a very unlikely explanation. Conversely, it seemed very likely that he has an interesting heritage, since it seemed to me that Jack Sparrow is the sort to have as illustrious a backstory as possible. My idea was that he's part-West Indian. My friend Rachel suggested that, if he was indeed not caucasian, he was Hispanic.

In the end, though, we were unable to conclude anything. There's just not enough evidence in the movie to prove one way or another, unless Jack chooses to take off his bandana at some point. For the sake of this story, though, I've elected to believe Jack Sparrow isn't simply tanned. You can choose to believe what you want; I mean, his race isn't so crucial to the storyline that it'll matter beyond this chapter anyway.

-----
Ocean Soul

Chapter VI - To Far-Off Shores and Whatever's Inbetween
 
 

    Elizabeth was the first to run toward the fallen Norrington, but others were soon to follow after, and soon there was an entire crowd around the governor's body.
    A strong hand gripped Jack's arm.
    "How could you do it?" Mr. Turner demanded, forcing the pirate to look him in the eyes. "How in God's name could you do something like that?"
    "Leave the Almighty outta it, if y'please," Jack said curtly, twisting his arm out of Turner's grip. "Use your common sense, Will. He was in our way."
    "That's not good enough!"
    "Nothing's good enough for you!" Captain Sparrow snapped, voice harsh like a whip that it caused those that heard it, aside from Mr. Turner, to jump. "Sooner or later you'll just have to accept that not everything can be just and right all the time. Your bloody Prince Norrington was going to be the end of us unless I took measures against him. That's the fact of it and you know it."
    "Don't try to justify murder," Turner said contemptuously.
    "You seemed pretty happy when I sent Barbossa on his merry way to the hereafter."
    "But he was... he was evil!"
    "I'm sure he didn't think so."
    "He was after our lives. What has Norrington ever--"
    In an instant, the pistol had been thrown to the floor and Jack had grabbed Mr. Turner's shirt with both hands. Their faces were centimeters apart. "That man has sent a thousand good men to the gallows completely on the belief that piracy is the essence of every sin in Sodom. That man is the murderer of a hundred good friends and five hundred good enemies. He's widowed wives and orphaned children and ruined the livelihoods of thousands because of his goddamned ideology, so don't you talk to me about what that man's done."
    In the silence between the two men that followed Jack's words, they heard the murmurs of the crowd surrounding Governor Norrington's body.
    "...still breathing..."
    "...don't see a wound anywhere, not even a scrape..."
    "...not bleeding..."
    Turner broke eye contact with Jack for the first time to glance toward the huddle. His lips parted.
    "You missed," he said to his old friend after a moment's pause. "You damn well missed!"
    "Nope," Jack said immediately. "Hit 'im dead on. Middle of the forehead. Trust me."
    "He fainted from the shock, is all!" Mr. Turner was turning from relief into outright joy. "He only fainted!"
    Jack rolled his eyes. "Will, you saw how he jerked back, didn't you?"
    Pause. "Well, yes, but..."
    The pirate bent down and retrieved the pistol he had cast aside earlier. He offered it to Mr. Turner, who took it gently and examined it with a margin of curiosity. It was strangely shaped, more streamline than most pistols, with a sort of purple hue to the metal.
    "It's a spirit pistol," Jack told him. "Don't ask how I came upon it, because you won't believe me anyway."
    "You're going to tell me you shot his soul with this."
    "It was tempting, but no. Anyway, there's different shots for different things and I've run out of soul ones, so even if I wanted to, I couldn't. What I did have was a memory shot. It's hollow, see, with a hinge... You write these words on some paper, stuff it inside the shot, load the gun, shoot the bastard, an' their memory's altered."
    "That's complete, utter nonsense."
    "Sounds like it, doesn't it?" Jack said cheerfully. "I'm just not explaining it well, I 'spose."
    Mr. Turner handed him back the pistol, smiling at his friend condescendingly. "I'd sooner believe you bluffed the shot than some outrageous tale about a magical gun."
    "Zombie monkeys."
    "...All right, fine."

    The world of literature lets us know that there are certain conventions against which we are helpless to resist. Among these are lightning and/or thunder following a dramatic statement, a single wheel rolling away from the scene of a wrecked, burning carriage, and a villian who will explain his entire motive to you shortly before killing you because Nothing Can Possibly Go Wrong Now.
    These, however, are simply the major literary conventions. There are other, smaller, sneaker contrivances of storytelling that don't get half as much attention but are nevertheless prevalent in the medium. A surprising number of these deal with explosions.
    So by all accounts, the departure of the Black Pearl should have been some emotional farewell on a clear morning, not the hasty, furtive sidling-along that actually took place at midnight with a half-moon and no ominous fog. The one agent of tearful goodbyes, Elizabeth Turner, was at home with the newly-christened Sarah (the mother had decided against naming the child Anamaria after spending so much time with the baby's would-be namesake), although the rest of the Turners' offspring had come out to help.
    Mostly what the Turner children ended up doing was running around being a nuisance, which only served to provide Mr. Turner with some entertainment derived from watching the expression on Jack Sparrow's face. Children, apparently, always uneased him. So to further enhance the moment, Mr. Turner pointed out to Jack his 12-year-old namesake. The pirate subsequently dropped a crate on his own foot.
    When at last they had all the supplies and equipment aboard and they were on their last load, Will Turner, Jr. took his two eldest children aside.
    "Jack isn't to babysit you," he told them. "Even if he wants to, and you know he will. You're to take care of yourselves. You're responsible for your own and each other, all right?" His son nodded fervently. Delphine shrugged. "And for goodness's sake, don't get yourselves killed. Jack's crusade isn't worth your lives."
    "I think it is," said Will. "I mean, it might be pirates today and common thieves tomorrow and good, honest people the next. You can't trust a lot of men with swords hanging around with nothing to do."
    "Isn't that sweet," Delphine said, to no one in particular. "He thinks he's being pragmatic and philisophical."
    "Mind your own, Del," her brother said in a huff, looking away to hide his reddening face. "Why'd you have to go along anyway?"
    "'Cos I don't trust you on your own," she answered immediately, jutting out her chin. "Would've gone with you to London just to keep you from trouble, but I couldn't get Mummy and Daddy to foot the bill like you--"
    "Delphine!" Mr. Turner said sharply.
    "Sorry, Father," said the girl, actually sounding ever-so-slightly apologetic. "Was there anything else? We should be casting off."
    "Oh, er, no, I suppose that was it." His children nodded and turned to walk away. Will started off for the boats, but Delphine stopped, for her father had placed a hand on her shoulder. "Just one other thing, Delphine..."
    "Yes?"
    "Jack Sparrow is... well... whatever he may be he still acts like a young man, Delphine, and I would like that you watch he doesn't get... er..."
    "Get in my knickers, y'mean?"
    Her father visibly twitched. "I-I-I was actually leaning towards 'doesn't get too attached', actually..."
    Delphine arched an eyebrow. "I see no reason for concern, Father. As far as I'm aware, Mister Sparrow has other things meriting his attention."
    Mr. Turner considered this. "Well, yes, he's rather enthused about this quest thing of his, but--"
    His daughter gave him one of those cruel sardonic smiles. "It's not a what, Father, it's a whom."
    Before he could reply, she had walked to the end of the docks, and was climbing down into the last of the boats. Inigo offered his hand for support, which Delphine pointedly refused. Which was why she stumbled and nearly fell out of the boat if not for the Spaniard grabbing her by the neck of her shirt at the last second.
    "Let me give you some advice," he told her, as she steadied herself. "No one is going to call you female just for being sensible once in a while."
    "I'll keep that in mind," she muttered.
    Over at the opposite end of the dock, Jack made a tentative approach in the direction of Mr. Turner, which was made difficult by the presence of Matthew, Virginia and The Other Jack.
    "So, er..." he said awkwardly, looking at his boots.
    Mr. Turner turned to the three children huddled around his legs. "Wait for me over by the road, all right?" They nodded up at him like good little automatrons, scurrying off into the very unintimidating darkness. When they were gone, he looked back to his old friend. "So..."
    Jack rubbed the back of his neck. "I expect this has all been rather strange for you."
    "Yes," Turner conceded. "But it was like returning to old times. All very exciting."
    "You could come along."
    "No," said Mr. Turner, shaking his head quickly. "I'd be more of a burden than young Will, I have no doubt."
    "Oh, come now, mate..."
    "I'm too old, Jack."
    Jack Sparrow cursed and kicked at the cobbles with a boot. "Do you know what, Will? I hear that far too often."

    The Black Pearl and the two commandeered navy ships sailed out from Port Royal under cover of darkness. Because after two days of fevered heroism the inhabitants of the colony were finding it difficult to stay up so late after the sun had set, this endeavour was met with little difficulty, although soon after the ships had fled the governor awoke and announced he had singlehandedly killed all of the pirates as they slept, and that the three missing ships had simply floated off in a night wind. The Port Royans were a little skeptical of this until the Turners came to the governor's aid confirming the story. After that the matter was decidedly settled, although some people wondered what had compelled the governor to randomly slip into Spanish while telling the story.

    Once out of Jamaican waters, Will discovered that, as before, the glamour of working on a pirate ship was not all that it seemed. There was little danger above the normal sort that followed the Black Pearl's reputation, which meant no more than a bit of inconvenience when they needed to go resupply at ports. Try as he might, Will could find no adrenaline rush or life-endangering risk in swabbing the decks and lugging around huge coils of rope. And being made Dread Pirate Roberts's valet didn't seem to improve matters, especially for all that he and the other co-captain still bickered. Their arguments were getting stranger as time went on, too.
    ("And just where am I meant to be sleeping, then?"
    "We'll rig up a spare bunk for you in the crew cabin, if it'll make ye feel any better--"
    "I am the co-captain of this ship and I will not be reduced to sleeping with the common crew!"
    "Sleep in the hold or somelike, then!"
    "I will do no such thing! I am the co-captain and I deserve the captain's quarters."
    "And where would you like us to build the spare room, mate? I'm sure as hell not giving up me cabin.")
    Delphine was certainly no bright ray of sunshine, either. After leaving sight of her homeland she had cast off the last of her contemptuously-held femininity, let her clothes go ragged and hair turn into an incorrigible mess, although no amount of sun seemed to affect her ghostly white skin. It wasn't a pretty sight, in all honesty. And after a week of this it seemed all she needed was a well to climb out of.
    In addition to that she seemed to have been conned into taking fighting lessons with Jack, which always seemed to end badly because all Jack had to do was wait until she'd run out of weapons. His latest tactic was to put a single dagger in her hand and tell her --in a slow, patient voice, using small words-- that that was all she was allowed to use. That usually meant she became frustrated and gave up after a few minutes. And that said nothing of what happened when he tried giving her a sword.
    ("No, don't throw the bloody thing! Who throws a sword? Honestly?!")
    Will's own fencing lessons with Inigo were not going well. The Spaniard had apparently been under the impression that some of Will Turner, Jr.'s talent still lurked in his son, and the revelation that this was not the case was slow to dawn on him. At the same time, Will was discovering he was quite possibly the most untalented swordsman in the world, and was getting more cuts and scrapes by the day in order to prove it.
    Try as he might he couldn't manage to catch the cook, John, plotting a mutiny, either.
    Being a pirate was so boring.

    Sometime during the second week the Black Pearl came across her first bit of prey. Or rather, the first bit of prey she allowed herself. It was a merchant vessel, low on the water line from her full cargo bound for somewhere North. Upon being spotted through Jack's spyglass, the order was given to hoist Jolly Roger and load the cannons.
    "You're not actually going to attack them?" Will implored, trailing after Jack Sparrow as the pirate went to the bow of the ship to get a better look.
    "That's the plan, mate."
    "But that's terrible! They're just innocent sailors, they haven't a chance against us!"
    "Is that so," Jack said dully, fixing on the ship with his spyglass. "Sounds even better if y'ask me."
    "You can't honestly intend to--"
    "Young Master Turner," Captain Sparrow interrupted, "you seem to be once more holding a romanticized misconception viz a viz the practices of those in a life of piracy." He looked over at the boy. "What did you think pirates do?"
    Will studied the older man's expression. "You're not going to kill them," he said eventually. "That's right, isn't it? You don't like killing people if you can help it. You didn't kill Norrington--"
    "If I'd had half a chance to get the clear, I would have."
    "But you won't kill them... will you?"
    "Depends on how it pans out, lad."
    "But you'll try, won't you?"
    "See here," said Jack, a lot more seriously than before. "You try too hard to spare others and you'll wind up dead yourself, savvy? Your own comes first, you worry 'bout others after that." He looked up toward the main mast and shouted to Anamaria, who stood in the crow's nest there. "Have they hoisted a white flag?"
    "No, captain," she yelled down. "They're going for the guns. Should we hoist red?"
    "Nay, stay the Roger. Let 'em know they've got some options open to 'em."
    "Aye, captain."
    "What does the red mean?" Will asked Jack.
    "To the other ship? A very short and painful death."
    "We'll be in hearing range in fifteen minutes, Jack," Anamaria shouted to her captain.
    "Right." Jack glanced over at Will again. "Have ye seen Roberts?"
    The younger man shook his head. "I meant to ask you."
    Jack suppressed a sigh, and started to walk off, muttering, "Probably prettying himself up in our cabin again..."
    "'Our cabin'?" Will repeated to himself as the pirate departed. He was spared from pondering too much on the subject at catching sight of Delphine on the opposite railing, helping to secure the foremast's main sail.
    His older sister was growing less approachable as time went on. In addition to her uncomely appearance, her already unpleasant personality had worsened to almost an Anamaria level. Her language was changing too, slowly but surely; she would probably be in full habit of saying "mate" and "savvy" by the time they reached African shores at this rate. Will just hoped she didn't pick up Jack's swagger too.
    "Are you going to fight with them?" he asked her tentatively, as she jumped down from the ropes onto the deck, landing loudly. Unlike most of the crew, she was not yet in the habit of taking her boots off on the ship.
    "If it comes to that. Aren't y'meant to be doing something, Will?"
    "Must you always ask that?"
    "Just trying to keep you in line," she said, tapping the side of her head. She wore gloves as well as boots, and a high-necked shirt she refused to button down despite the heat. This may have been strange if not for the fact that Inigo was much in the habit of doing the same thing, and at least her garments weren't all black. "If there's a way for ye to avoid work, y'always take it. I still can't get it through me head what compelled ye to go to London to make yer fortunes in the first."
    The ill-fated trip to England seemed like a dim and distant memory to Will now. He could barely remember what his reasons were either, and they made as much sense to him as to his sister.
    Not that he wanted to let on to her something like that.
    "You just wouldn't understand a man's ambition in life," he said stiffly.
    "What man? Y'mean you?" Delphine gave a short, barklike laugh. "Seems to me I'm in a far better position to speak of 'man's ambition in life' than you are. Try workin' a tavern sometime. There's man's ambition at 'is finest."
    Sternside, the door to the captain's quarter's burst open and a seething Jack Sparrow emerged dragging Inigo Montoya along by the ear.
    "If I see you touchin' my stash again, I swear to the Almighty hisself I'll gut you like a fish and dance in your entrails."
    "I was just thinking maybe the kohl would add a nice effect-- aaaack!-- Do you even know how to dance?"
    "One more trespass like that and mark me, I'm throwing you overboard. Should've done it that night you got drunk--"
    "Look, I thought it was my bunk--"
    "Oh did you now."
    "And it's not like you minded--"
    "Shut your damned mouth before I do it for you."
    "You're simply in denial--"
    "Shut up!"
    "Captain," Anamaria called from above their heads. Both men looked up. "We're coming up on the other ship."
    "Splendid," said Jack. He turned back to the Dread Pirate Roberts. "Let me do the talking."
    Inigo gave him an appraising look. "You'll only mess up, or lose your momentum halfway through, or trail on so long people get bored."
    "Aye, but I'm not Spanish."
    "What's that got to do with anything?"
    "You'll find out one day."
    They began walking toward the bow of the ship now. They did this an unofficial way, that seemed to come about on its own regard.
    "You know, all right. Fine. You do the talking. It is your ship. When do you mean to secure me a new one, anyway? It was on your errand that the Revenge sank..."
    "As soon as y'find one y'like, promise."
    "I think I know better than to trust you on promises, Jack."
    "You'll tell me that's my fault."
    Inigo shook his head. "Jack, a determined man could find a way to prove original sin was your fault."
    "You know, you're not the first person to say so... Ah!" Jack Sparrow saw that the Pearl had come within close range of the merchant vessel, so he left his friend where he stood and jumped up onto the starboard main chains, facing the sailors of the other ship. He tipped his hat to them. They clutched at their rifles. "Good morning, gentlemen! We saw your ship in passing and thought perhaps we might extend our salutations. I am the great Captain Jack Sparrow, you no doubt have heard of--"
    "And Dread Pirate Roberts. And Dread Pirate Roberts!"
    "--And Dread Pirate Roberts is here too," Jack added quickly. A shiver went through the crowd aboard the other deck. Jack frowned; they never shivered in terror of him. Not until afterwards, at least. Still, had to keep up the momentum, otherwise Inigo would have been proven right. "You may have noticed from our ship's flag that we are, what you might say, in the business for the picking-up of unconsidered and sometimes quite often considered trifles. To meet these ends we have a full array of cannons, fully loaded, and a crew of able-bodied, blood-thirsty killers feared across the world and in the depths of Hell--"
    "I'm not evil or mean like dat," Fezzik protested, sounding hurt.
    "who are, thankfully for yourselves, under my complete and utter control--"
    "And mine," said Inigo.
    "--And Dread Pirate Roberts's, so if you would be so kind as to do what I, er, we say, you will be very well-off indeed in the area of continued existence. Most regretfully, we cannot promise the same if you do not happen to, say, appease us, so it would be in your present best interests to consider that factor during the two minutes you will have at your disposal before we give the command to open fire. So what'll it be, mates? Tell us whenever you're ready."
    The sailors looked at each other. A couple shook their heads.
    One of them, possibly the captain, said, "Que você disse?"
    Slowly, some small, cold wave of realization crashed over Jack Sparrow. He glanced around over his shoulder, caught sight of Inigo, and beckoned the man over. Then he said in his ear, "Er... How's your Portuguese?"
    "This is ridiculous..." Will muttered to himself, as he watched the co-captain of the ship climb up next to Jack and begin to communicate in bad half-Spanish Portuguese. It was an embarrassing sight, watching the Spaniard struggle with the language, when it would have done just as well to rush the merchant ship then and there. Will almost wished Jack and Inigo would hurry up and give the command to fire the cannons.
    Finally, however, Inigo seemed to be at an almost complete understanding with the other crew, and the aledged captain seemed ready to back down and let the pirates do what they would. It was at that point that one of the younger sailors, who had been clutching at his rifle a bit too enthusiastically from the beginning, accidentally fired his gun. It struck the railing next to Goethe, who, also being very keen with his pistol, jumped and immediately shot back.
    And that's how it started.
    Seconds later, a hundred men were dashing forward. Grapnels were thrown, ropes were swung, gangplanks secured, swords swung, pistols fired, bodies fell.
    Will, suddenly on his own amid the warzone, looked around in a daze. Whatever happened to the official charges, the trumpet wails and snare drum rolls, the famous words and the warcries? This wasn't a battle, this was a scuffle. This was what happened in Delphine's tavern when someone drank out of the wrong glass. What was romantic in that?
    "Oh well," he said, and drew his sword.
    Jack Sparrow and Inigo Montoya were likewise having difficulty with the situation, as they fought off their opponents back-to-back.
    "This is all your fault," Jack yelled.
    "Oh yes, always my fault. Nevermind that if you had tried speaking in Portuguese--" he ducked out of the way of an oncoming sword "--you would have gotten four words before they slew you for insulting them."
    "You must've said--" ducked a sword, slashed blindly and caught the enemy across the belly "--something wrong to set 'em off like this. If they do any harm to me ship, it'll be--" blocked, countered and sliced across the neck "--on your head, mate!"
    "It's all in a day's work, friend," Inigo retorted, switching to his left hand because the enemies were going down too quickly. "You must be willing to risk ship and crew for the sake of the greater prize."
    "Your valet is going to give me hell for this."
    "He's a child. Deal with it."
    "Oh, aye, easy for you to say..."
    The remains of another sailor fell to Inigo's feet. "This is pointless. Let us go find the captain and end this quickly."
    Jack withdrew his blade from between a man's ribs and wiped the blood from his blade onto his sleeve. "Orright."
    Meanwhile, wet with perspiration and hopefully other people's blood, sword raised above his head, Will ran screaming once again into the fray. A large hand landed on his shoulder so heavily he slipped and fell, and was only spared from hitting the deck by that same hand grasping the back of his waistcoat.
    "Yoo all right, Will?" said Fezzik, pulling the boy up.
    "I'm fine, now let me go, I need to--"
    "Eet real dangerous," the giant warned. "And yoo too small. Here," he said, picking Will up with ease and placing him on one meaty shoulder. "I keep yoo safe up here, yes?"
    "But I'm fine!"
    "Yes, for now. But eet real dangerous, so you stay wit me, yes?"
    Will tried a different tactic. "But I'll just slow you down."
    "No yoo won't," said Fezzik, catching two Portuguese sailors by their heads and running them into each other.
    Will harmphed, ruefully crossing his arms over his chest as the giant continued to slowly wander across the merchant ship's deck, randomly knocking sailors on the head to send them unconscious. He scowled, eyes locked on his feet, until a sudden, shrill sound made him glance up. Swinging down from above on a length of rope was a sailor, wailing an unintelligble warcry. Wasting no time, Will struck out with his sword, aiming at random, and pierced the man's throat. His warcry stopped a few seconds before he lost his grip on the rope and fell to the deck.
    "Wow," said Will, impressed, staring at his bloodied rapier.
    "What?" Fezzik asked, still distracted.
    "Oh, nothing."
    Back on the Pearl, Delphine could have been faring a lot better. She was down to her last dagger, and Jack's attempts at single-weapon programming were running through her brain, which were causing her a good bit of distraction. Even as she cornered another opponent on the port railing near the stern, and every instinct in her barmaid's mind told her to throw the dagger and get the other fighter in the throat or, even better, the middle of the forehead (it was, she liked to think, a talent of hers) and be done with it, Jack's voice kept bouncing off the walls inside her head: "What'll you do after that, hey?" But what was she supposed to do, threaten the sailor over the side?
    She edged a little closer, hoping possibly that the man would lose his nerve, and wasn't at all surprised when this didn't happen. He was just standing there, a medium level of terrified (one of the things Jack had taught her was to judge fear in degrees), making no attempt to either escape or sentence himself to death.
    "Look," she said eventually. "Are ye just going to wait around until I kill you?"
    "Que?"
    "Only I'm not good at this close combat stuff, but the captain tends to get mad if I waste me dagger, 'specially if I'm on the last one. I can't jus' go and resupply whenever I fancy, y'know?"
    "Que este velhaco está falando?"
    "I knew you'd understand," said Delphine, grinning. She shifted her grip on the dagger to hold it like a dart, pulling back into a swinging position. As she did so, however, she saw her opponent look up at something behind her, shocked. She turned around in time for a pair of boots to connect with her face, as the sailor on the rope came swinging by. Delphine was knocked back, ran into her prey, and together the two fell over the side.
    Over on the merchant ship, a frantic captain who had tried to escape to his cabin but had discovered the door locked and barred by the half-dozen crewmen already in there, spun around to a pair of blades pressed to his throat.
    "Alo," said Inigo. "Vamos discutir um tratado agora."
    Very, very slowly, the captain nodded.

    Half an hour later, the last of the recently-pillaged goods were being taken over to the Black Pearl, and Jack was roting off a list of items while Inigo checked them off on a list. The harried Portuguese captain stood opposite them, looking ready to commit the Portuguese version of seppuku the minute the pirates were out of sight.
    "...and a half-ton of fruits and vegetables," Jack finished, to which Inigo added "Check." Captain Sparrow gave the merchant sailor a bright smile. "That seems like about it. Pleasure doin' business wit ya, sir. We'll just be on our way, then..."
    "Er," said Inigo.
    "Something the matter?" Jack asked.
    "There's a slight problem, friend. You know the story, the Dread Pirate Roberts never leaves captives alive... Have to keep up my reputation, you know..."
    Jack sighed and shrugged. "Have it your way. I'll be off getting the ship ready; you've got twenty minutes."
    Inigo Montoya bowed respectfully. "That will be plenty. Thank you."
    Without another word, Jack left Inigo to his own devices and started back for his own ship. All in all it had fared pretty well, but then again, that was to be expected: it was used to battles. The younger crewmen had set to work repairing the damaged sails, Stede led a group in fixing the rigging, and Fezzik singlehandedly held up the damaged foremast while a team of others worked to bind it to its base again. Their number of wounded was pretty small, and the serious injuries were provided for with rumfustian prepared by, to everyone's surprise except possibly Will's, the little Ashton Trinity. A little later she would be forced to revert back to her real name, Ashley, to her own incredible embarrassment.
    Jack made his way casually toward the helm, keeping to the portside railing. All over, he reflected, it was a good fight. Next one would be better...
    A strange, recurring splashing over the side of the ship caught his attention. Captain Sparrow peered over the railing, to see, far below, a young woman with a seaweed-like tangle of black hair struggling against the waves. He shrugged, found a suitable length of rope, and a few minutes later the sopping-wet Delphine Turner had been dragged on deck.
    "I still have the dagger," she gasped, holding it out to him. "See?"
    But Jack wasn't looking at the dagger. He was looking at her face. Her sickly white complexion had become reddish and blotchy, and in places struck through with long dark lines, as if brown paint had been splashed on her.
    When she realized what he was staring at, she reached up with her free hand and touched her cheek, leaving behind a smudge of brown on her flesh and a smudge of white on her gloved fingers. She stared at this in horror. And then, very slowly, like a wave taking its time to build up its size, she began to cry. Thick, muted sobs, with fat tears that ran down from eye to chin and leaving broad streaks of brown flesh in their path.
    Furiously, she dropped the dagger to the deck, reaching up with both hands and wiping away the white make-up with trembling fists. The face that lay beneath the disguise was a deep brown tan, something Hispanic or West Indian or mulatto. Definitely not the product of two fine caucasian Britons. "You see?" she yelled at him through her sobs. "You see why my parents hate me so? You see why they speak of me in shame? You see?! Go ahead and look!"
    Trying to shield himself from this unprompted wave of emotion, Jack Sparrow was doing some very, very quick math.
    "Well?" she demanded, not crying so much now as just being bloody furious. "Go ahead and laugh if you will! Go ahead and laugh at my mother's infidelity, go ahead, why don't you! You've every right! Make me a spectacle, make me the laughing stock of the crew, cast me off at the next port and laugh at me as you disappear into the sunset. Go on! What do you say to that?"
    Jack held up his hands bracingly, which did little good to calm the girl. He stammered a few times unintelligibly, as if unsure of how to word what he meant to say, and finally said, in a voice so terrified it didn't even register on the scale, "I would just like to say... that I assure you, I no longer consider you a romantic prospect at all."
    He was expecting a slap. He was always expecting to get slapped, it was just something that happened. It would have been better if he'd gotten slapped.
    A few moments later, as he lay on the deck with an aching jaw that felt not only broken but very much shattered, Jack muttered into the floorboards, "Damned if y'do, damned if y'don't, I 'spose..."
    Not much else happened that day.
 

End Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter V