Ship in a Bottle
Written for Peter.
"My good mate Jack, you're an idiot." Bootstrap Bill was calmly sitting in a tavern, drinking something which smelled distinctly dreadful and alcoholic. He was a tall man, with light brown hair and brown eyes, and rather good-looking. For all one might have known looking at him, he was just a middle-classman, dressed all right but not fine, with his hair carelessly tied back; but the distinctly ugly tattoos on his arms belied this. No man of good standing, after all, would have the poor taste to wear things so unsightly where they were clearly visible.
Across from him, Jack Sparrow was indulging in an equally unpleasantly-scented drink. He hadn't yet taken up the fashion of wearing his hair dreadlocked, but neither had he tied it back. It was simply falling about the shoulders of his greatcoat, in a very elegant manner which he was no doubt very pleased about. He smiled. "It was there, and it was good for the taking, savvy?"
"Aye, and that 'savvy' thing." Bootstrap grimaced. "That's getting damn' irritating. Is it really necessary?"
"I think it necessary. I say it, you know, with a very charming air, and the ladies love it."
"You're an idiot."
"But one very popular with all of Tortuga's whores. So I'll keep on doing it, thank you."
Bootstrap rolled his eyes.
This Jack caught, and instantly prodded Bootstrap. "I think you're jealous. You've got this strange bloody standard," he gestured, "just one bloody standard, understand--that you've got to stay faithful to that funny little girl back somewhere who you refer to very often by a very unpleasant word."
"She's my wife, Jack."
"That's it! That's the word!" Jack winced and spread his arms wide. "Don't say it around me. I don't like it at all."
"That's why I'm married and you aren't. Hellfire, Jack."
"That's more like it," said Jack enthusiastically. "An entirely better word. Use that one, would you, from now on."
Bootstrap rested his head on his fingertips. "Madman--"
"You should know that being mad is, um, a mark of honour. This is a very stupid conversation. Come with me, and I'll show you something interesting." Jack danced to his feet, with a beautiful and remarkable unsteadiness that was quite wonderful to watch. He never lost his balance as he cheerfully led Bootstrap outside, kissing a barmaid's cheek on the way and telling her they'd pay in a week or so.
Bootstrap didn't doubt that whatever Jack wanted him to see, it would be interesting. Anything Jack thought interesting was. It could be considered common knowledge, really.
And this was no exception.
"What in hell?"
"I asked myself the very same when I first I laid eyes upon the strange sight you see before you."
"That man is too well-dressed to be here. Devil's eyes, I think he's wearing perfume. "
"I think he's some sort of aristocrat. Perhaps they breed anywhere, under the right conditions. Let's go and accost him; come along, Bootstrap."
Jack's ideas were generally good ones, or at the very least, amusing ones, so Bootstrap came along.
"You, young man," Jack smiled at the man. "What do they call you?"
The young man stared at Jack, a reaction Bootstrap couldn't help but agree with. "I? I'm Reginald. Reginald Beckinsile." He had lovely earnest eyes, and looked at Jack as at a madman.
"That is one of the most disgusting names I have ever heard in my life. From now on, you'll be Barbossa. That's an excellent pirating name, as it stinks of the exotic, savvy?"
"I--what?" stammered the young man.
"Do you know anything about ships?"
"I don't think so... I had a ship in a bottle once, but it fell off the mantle and smashed."
"You're perfect! I'll teach you everything you need to know." Jack beamed, and clapped the boy hard on the shoulder. "I'll warrant you, it'll be delightful. And very, very interesting. Of course, you'll need new clothes. Don't you think, Bootstrap?"
"Certainly. You'll need a hat, boy. You'll need to grow a beard."
The young man touched his smooth chin self-consciously.
"Come now, Barbossa. A beard will fill up your face nicely. Can you drink?"
"I--"
Bootstrap shook his head. "Jack, you're being a bit quick, aren't you? You don't even know how he got here. What if he turns out terribly to what you'd like?"
"We can maroon him somewhere." Jack waved a vague hand. "It'll be all very convenient. Don't worry. I never do anything without thinking it out first. Remember that business with the strange little French girl? What was her name, Maria-Suzanne or something? I handled that splendidly, I thought."
"You did not!" said Bootstrap indignantly. "I had to--"
"You're still trying to take the credit, even after all this time. Now, Barbossa, you shall be my first mate. We need a first mate." He continued talking over Bootstrap, who was saying with further indignation that he was first mate. "And you shall sail on my lovely ship with me. How does that sound?"
"I really would rather be called Reginald..."
Jack threw his arm about the young man's shoulders and gestured widely with his free hand. "Reginald has no value. I tell you, you're going to make a lovely Barbossa. Perhaps we'll get you a monkey."
"A monkey?" asked the boy shyly.
"Yes, that's what we'll do. You can be Barbossa, and everyone will recognise you with your swagger and your monkey. I'm terribly pleased. Now come with me."
Bootstrap fell back behind them a few steps, following docilely. Jack was a madman, of course. Still, the boy was pretty, and impressionable, and Jack might just be able to make his ideal pirate out of him. Bootstrap tried to imagine a monkey on the boy's shoulder.
This proved impossible.
But really, he'd better start thinking of him as Barbossa, and not the boy. Evidently, the--Barbossa was going to be around for a while. Jack wouldn't tire of him as easily as he had of the French girl.
Bootstrap smiled. A ship in a bottle. No ship should ever be in a bottle. Barbossa had a lot to learn.
But Jack would teach him.
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