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“What the absolute bloody fuck is this!?” Flint growled, glancing through his spyglass across the water. The sea was mostly quiet, the wind was just enough to push them forward at a moderate pace, and everything had looked pretty damn good until he spotted sails on the horizon. Black sails. On a black ship.
Who even did that!?
Gates, true to form, turned his own spyglass in the same direction, then frowned so hard James could feel it without looking at him.
“Ugh… I don’t think that’s our merchantman, Captain,” he said slowly, glancing at Flint.
“No shit,” James spat back, glaring at the black dot on the horizon. The dot that was getting bigger and bigger, inexorably moving closer to them. “Ever seen that one before?”
“I haven’t been to hell yet,” Gates muttered, peeking at their own sails. “Maybe we can shift the stays and tack her. We could-”
“I’m not gonna run, Hal,” Flint seethed, glaring at his quartermaster. “I want that prize, even if I have to battle a goddamned ghost ship first.”
“I don’t think we need to worry about ghosts, Capt’n,” Silver muttered from behind his shoulder, looking through the glass he borrowed from Gates. “She looks pretty solid to me.”
“We’ll see.” James scowled, then marched down and onto the main deck, shouting orders for the vanguard and the gun crews to get ready.
-&-
A goddamn galleon.
Flint wasn’t sure what he had expected, but a goddamn East India galleon wasn’t it. And painted black from the waterline to the top of her mainmast, too, like a vision from some horrifying dream of the end of the world.
He fought the urge to growl again as they hailed her and tacked to bring the Walrus closer. Gun crews and the vanguard were at the waist of the weather deck, hidden behind the bulwark, quietly awaiting his sign to attack. Gates stood with him at the railing, squinting at the black monstrosity coming a-port. She hove to, reefed her sails and threw a plank across the water.
“Let’s talk,” James grumbled to Hal, prompting them both to step across the gap with one last look at Silver. The man’s face was hard, his jaw tense, and he looked every bit the pirate he had claimed vehemently not to be all those months ago. He gave Flint a tiny nod, his expression unreadable, but James knew that it wouldn’t take more than one word from him, shouted across the railings, and John would send the black beast to the bottom of the sea.
-&-
The galleon looked even weirder from her main deck. Everything there was black - James noticed with a hint of irritated amusement. Black sails, black helm, black lines… Only the crew wasn’t sooty, although a couple of them could use a bath.
“I’m Captain James Flint, this is Mr. Gates,” he introduced, and a lanky pirate rolled forward, his uneven gait making him sway with every step. He had a bizarre ensemble of colorful clothes and rags that somehow managed not to fall off him, their clashing hues enough to make him look like a bloody parrot.
“Ah, a pleasure,” he bowed deeply, his hair jingling with the assortment of beads, rings and god-knew-what-else braided into the dreadlocks he was wearing.
“And you are…?” Flint seethed, eyeing the man. He made a brilliant impression of a complete drunk, but his eyes were sharp enough to suggest it was mostly a play.
“Why, I’m Captain Jack Sparrow!” He announced with the air of someone who had to repeat the same words to halfwits for the tenth time in an hour.
Maybe he had, but James still frowned, unfamiliar with the name.
“My my, what a pretty ship ya have!” The parrot pronounced, prancing to the side and eyeing the Walrus critically. “She’s a heavy one, though, isn’t she? A big lady with a lot of firepower,” he concluded, twirling around like a damn ballerina. James squished the urge to rub his face in exasperation. This man was… beyond anything he had expected to find out there. “Well stoked on the guns, too, I’d reckon,” he narrowed his kohlled eyes at Flint, a grin spreading under the dark mustache, glimmering with gold. “Don’t’cha worry mate, ya ain’t gonna have t’ use ‘em,” he drawled. “Ol’ Jack just wants to discuss a few things, captain to captain.” And he bowed comically again, waving one hand in the direction of his cabin. James gritted his teeth, nodded at Gates and, with a glare, marched away to discuss a few things.
-&-
Half an hour later, James was no closer to settling his nerves, but he was definitely crawling towards madness. Jack Sparrow - Captain Jack Sparrow, as the glaringly colorful menace insisted on reminding him - was a complete lunatic. As soon as they had entered the cabin, the man had poured them some rum, then proceeded to drink and refill his own glass in quick order. After the third time, he had just abandoned the glass altogether, and sat there nursing the bottle instead.
“And so, here I am.” He spread his arms and smiled charmingly, and James fought back a headache.
“Because your compass told you to come here,” he summed up, and Jack folded his hands back to the table.
“Aye, didn’t ya listen when I’ve explained it just now?”
James had, but it had been… a lot to take in while mostly sober - the one and a half glass of rum wouldn’t have been enough to prepare him for even a quarter of the man’s ramblings. And he thought Rackham was bad when drunk off his ass.
“So, let me get this straight,” he said, leaning forward, determined to make some sense out of this nutty situation. “You came here because you have a magical compass,” he said, nodding at the object dangling at the captain’s waist. “That compass. And it showed you that what you wanted most would be… here,” he swiped his hand at the broad expanse of the sea that could be seen behind the ornate windows. “And you suspect it may be a painting-”
“Drawing”
“A drawing of a key…” James frowned, mentally putting the bits of the convoluted story into something coherent.
He failed.
“A key that opens a chest with a treasure… which is important to Davy Jones.”
“Nail on the head, luv!” Sparrow praised, tipping the bottle at him in salute. James’ eyelid twitched.
“You know, of course, that Davy Jones is completely fictional and couldn’t, therefore, have a treasure.”
“Of course he ain’t fictional!” The irritating magpie bristled, wriggling his beringed fingers in the air and making them glint. Flint counted twelve silver bands on him.
His twitch turned more twitchy.
“I’ve met him, ya know?” The glaring clash of colors leaned forward conspiratorially. “Between ya an’ me, right after Beckett sank me girl some ten years ago.”
“Drowned.”
“Sank.” He insisted, and it took James an embarrassingly long time to understand that he meant his ship. “She was called the Wicked Wench an’ that bastard burned ‘er right in front of me eyes.” He said it so sadly, Flint was almost sure the bedlamer was going to cry right then and there. “But!” He raised one imploring, silver-bedecked finger in the air. “I managed to make a deal with Tentacles, got ‘er back from t’ bottom of t’ sea, an’ here we are.” He grinned again, like a cat with a gallon of cream. James pinched the bridge of his nose.
He wasn’t really sure what to make of the man, other than he was a complete and utter drunken nutcase, so he figured playing along would be his best choice.
“Mr. Sparrow,” he started, ignoring the grumbled correction to Captain. “Let’s make a deal. When the prize I’ve been hunting arrives, we work side by side and split the loot. A piece for our men, two pieces for the officers and us,” he proposed carefully, and the pirating parrot in front of him turned his calculating gaze to the bottle he was holding.
“Three pieces,” he answered after a moment. “Three pieces for us, two for the officers and one for the crew. And I want the drawing!”
Flint raised an eyebrow at him, tilting his head back. The amendment wasn’t unreasonable, and he could always put the additional piece into the ship’s maintenance budget after they parted, keeping in with his no special treatment rule. Their mainsail needed to be changed, after all.
“Deal,” he agreed, squeezing the proffered hand when it appeared in front of his nose.
“What about the goods?” Sparrow asked, smiling charmingly, his eyes glittering. Flint shrugged.
“We’re good on food and we have no use for crockery and wood. We could take in some fabrics, though.”
“Great!” Jack clapped his hands merrily. “I have a port that will buy wood and porcelain, so we can take it,” he relayed happily. “And rum. We want half of whatever the ship’s carrying.”
Flint snorted, leaning back and downing the rest of his drink.
“Agreed.”
-&-
Sparrow’s crew turned out to be more competent than the state of their captain had let on. Their ship - the Black Pearl - had been quick to catch their prize when it appeared, giving the Walrus a run for her money. They had also worked beside Flint’s men efficiently and cleanly - except for the ridiculous monkey, which had somehow appeared in the middle of the battle and kept on being a nuisance throughout. James could have sworn he had seen it being shot on occasion, too, but as the annoying furball kept on leaping around like the demon rat it was, he figured his eyes must have been misleading him.
He swept his gaze across the deck one more time, making sure none of the merchantmen that were onboard and still breathing would cause any trouble - held at gunpoint as they were - then directed his steps back to the ghostly-looking ship. He had entertained playing the host in his own cabin, just to even out the field with Captain Sparrow, but after another brief talk with the colorful menace he had swiftly decided that he didn’t want that anywhere near his Walrus.
Gates didn’t harbor any such qualms, however, and walked over to the Pearl’s quartermaster when Sparrow and Flint disappeared inside the captain’s cabin. They would be waiting for the loot to be checked with the ship’s manifest before they could load their share into their own hold, so Hal reckoned they had some time.
“Good fight,” he started, smiling when the grizzled man turned to him with a smile.
“Aye! T’ boys were gettin’ a bit restless lately,” he confirmed, nodding, then reached into his vest and produced a flask. He weighed it, frowned, then opened it just to upturn it with a sorrowful expression etched deeply on his face. Not a single drop fell out of it. Gates barked out a laugh.
“Well, there isn’t gonna be any celebrating with that.” He looked pointedly at the sad, empty bottle, then nodded to the Walrus. “Come, Mr…?”
“Gibbs,” the man answered, straightening proudly. “Joshamee Gibbs.”
“Hal Gates,” he answered, shaking the man’s hand.
-&-
Flint couldn’t really believe his eyes… Again. It was quickly becoming a theme for him.
The glaring clash of colors known as Captain Sparrow had managed to stay mostly immobile for the grand total of fifteen minutes, before he was up and prancing around like a demented goat, waving his hands in the air as if it would help his convoluted narrative. It went on and on. He had poured James a generous glass of rum - surprisingly not watered down - and kept on blabbering about some kind of a fountain forest lost in youth. Or possibly a youth fountain lost in a forest, Flint really wasn’t quite certain. All he wanted to do at that point was to get the fuck out of there and take the Walrus with him.
And never meet the beringed headache ever again.
The happy announcement about the ship’s manifest being true and the cargo being accounted for couldn’t have come sooner. As soon as the almost literal music reached James’ ears, he was up and walking out of the cabin, directing his steps hurriedly to the plank thrown across the water.
Being back on the deck of his own vessel had never been sweeter.
“Mr. Gates!” He snapped, glaring around while trying to locate his quartermaster. His men wisely avoided him and his gaze, slinking away and moving to the side as soon as his eyes fell on them. It led him to find Gates sitting on the stairs, sharing a bottle of rum with a man who could only be Pearl's own quartermaster.
“Captain?” Hal stood up, tilting his head inquiringly.
“Load our share into the hold. I’ll be in my cabin,” he seethed out, stomping off. He didn’t even wait for the acknowledgment of the order he’d given, so he half-suspected someone to come knocking in short order.
Thankfully, when the door opened an hour later, it was just John, walking inside carefully. Flint wasn’t sure whether it was on account of his leg or his captain’s mood, but he decided he didn’t much care. Instead, he took a bottle he had stashed in his desk, pulled out two mugs, and poured them both a measure of rum.
John eyed him carefully.
“I take it the captain of the Black Pearl was a lot to digest…” he observed, and Flint rolled his eyes tiredly.
“You could say that,” he replied, frowning into his mug. There was some rhythmic thumping carrying across the ship, along with a loud chorus of heave-ho, which clearly indicated his crew deep in the loading process.
“He gave up our part of the loot without any protests,” Silver went on, and his face was curiously neutral. Flint frowned harder.
“That was the deal.”
“Was a goat a part of the deal as well?”
A goat?
They had two goats already, getting another one was not something he had taken into consideration.
“What goat?” He asked, feeling his irritation rise. Silver shrugged.
“A black one,” he explained, then tilted his head to the door. “It arrived with a leash and a bow tied to one of its horns.” Before James could as much as start questioning him further, another noise reached him from the deck.
Bleating.
Loud bleating.
He got up and walked to the entrance to his cabin, abandoning his drink at the desk, lest he threw it the moment the door opened. Silver stayed a step behind it, his own drink joining Flint’s between maps and logs.
The moment he set his foot on the main deck, chaos greeted him - the crew had left their cargo half-stowed away, too focused on what seemed to be a wild pursuit of the goat in question. The animal must have broken loose from the leash and started prancing around, hopping from one place to another, side-stepping anyone trying to grab it. True to John’s words, Flint could spot a red bow tied to one of its horns, now dangling from it, half-undone and looking like a rivulet of blood.
His eyes narrowing, James moved to the railing, spotting the Black Pearl with her sails already unfurled and ready to depart. Her captain - a colorful spot at the helm - bowed deeply and saluted him with his hat.
“Au revoir, mate!” Sparrow shouted over the wind, then turned back to the wheel. Flint seethed.
“Mr Gates!” He growled, glancing to the side. “Tell the men to hurry up with the loot. And get someone to catch that bloody goat!”
“Yes, Captain,” Hal answered, relaying the order down the deck. If he was smirking, James tried not to see it, purposefully stomping back to his cabin way louder than necessary. Before the doors closed behind him, he heard a very displeased bleat.