Pirates of the Caribbean Oneshots

A Good Man

"You are to take the Wicked Wench from here to the Bahamas, offload the cargo and return. Payment on arrival back here. Do you understand?"

Cutler Beckett, head of the East India Trading Company, surveyed the young man standing in front of his desk, awaiting an answer.

The white of his shirt collar contrasted nicely with his tanned skin as he stood with his thumbs tucked into the sword belt around his narrow hips. Light glinted on the belts buckle and the emerald ring on the man's right forefinger.

Dark eyes fixed on Beckett for a moment. "Understood. I presume the course to the location is already plotted on my charts?"

"Of course, Sparrow. Cargo and provisions also already aboard. Crew waiting. Everything ready for you."

Jack smiled like a shark, no humour in sight. "I'll be off then, sir. No point delaying while there's cargo in the hold."

"No," Beckett murmured to himself as his employee exited, "no point at all."

Jack guided the ship out of the harbour and into open sea silently, the salty breeze tugging a strand of hair free from his ponytail. He had been with the Company five years now, finally had a ship of his own to captain and was being well-paid for his service.

He shared a house with nine other EITC employees in London, the reputation attached to his last name meaning they all treated him with respect as well as friendship. When not at work, he was free to sample all the delights London had to offer, which he relished in doing.

Turning his gaze on the crew, he gave his orders and stepped away from the wheel, going to his cabin. Closing the door before pouring himself a drink of whiskey from a glass decanter. Sitting down, he sipped the alcohol in silence while looking through the papers on his desk, searching for a cargo list, which he didn't find.

Jack forgot all about his cargo for two days, until he overhead one of the crew talking about some kind of trouble in the hold.

"What kind of trouble can you possibly have with crates of tea and spices and cloths?" he asked with a frown, assuming, as he hadn't found an inventory, the cargo was nothing out of the ordinary from his usual transportation.

One of the crew, a short, muscular man with grey streaks through his dark hair, ran his gaze over Jack in disdain. "The cargo isn't in crates. It's in chains. And some of it doesn't want to stay in the chains."

His frown deepening, Jack turned on his heel and strode swiftly down to the Wench's hold. He eventually found a key for the door and unlocked it, standing in the doorway as he lit a lantern.

Even before he could see, he could smell and hear. The stink of human waste and sweat and death was strong enough to taste, making him gag. Chains rattling mingled with coughing and quiet, terrified murmuring.

When the lantern was lit and he could see what was in the brig with him, Jack did throw up.

People. There were people in the brig. Some sitting, some lying, all in shackles and heavy chains. Barely clothed, filthy and emaciated, huge eyes in thin faces turning towards the light in fear.

A quick headcount totalled one hundred. One hundred slaves, now on route to a life of hard labour and abuse in the Bahamas. Jack's gaze was drawn to a young woman, her hair just recognisable as blonde in the lanterns light.

His mind flashed straight to another blonde woman, who had once been in the same situation and his stomach threatened to rebel again at the thought. Pushing the image of his godmother in shackles firmly out of his head, he fished a short length of strong wire out of his pocket.