Pirates of the Carribean
Not My Son
E.L. Weil

Pairing: Unspoken Bootstrap/Jack

~~~

People always told me, 'Be careful of what you do,
And don't go around breaking young girl's hearts.'
And mother always told me, 'Be careful of who you love,
And be careful of what you do, 'else the lie becomes the truth.'

-Billie Jean, by Michael Jackson

The letters came on a regular basis, the clerk told them. One every Thursday, and sometimes one on Mondays as well. More than once he told the clerk to simply burn them; but every time they came back to port and to their favorite tavern, the old man would reach under his counter and present the ragged bundle to the man they were addressed to.

Sometimes he read them. Most times he didn't. They were all the same, he said, dozens of papers that never seemed to deviate in form or structure. On the nights when they came back empty-handed, he would get ridiculously drunk and stumbled upstairs with a whore in hand, and once she stumbled back down, he'd shred the letters into tiny pieces and scatter them around the room. Later he'd get into an argument with the clerk over the price of the whore or the price of the drinks, get in a brawl, and end up tossed into the gutter for the night. More often than not, his friend would get tossed out with him.

When they came back to port after a long month of successful raids, he would get ridiculously drunk and stumble upstairs with his friend, and together they would pour over the elegant script contained in the letters. He would become sober as they read the last one, and often would solemnly light that one afire with the bed-side candle.

And then his friend would ask, Pence for your thoughts? And he would reply, My thoughts are worth more than a whore, and he would promptly kick his friend off the bed. Those nights spent on land blurred into each other until they all seemed the same in memory.

It was six months after they left Portsmouth when the cavalry came down on them. They had expected it to occur eventually, since they were pirates, but to find the members of the Yard waiting for them at their nameless pub, instead of the Navy waiting at the docks, was a surprise indeed.

His nameless admirer had sent the law in place of her letters.

After they had gotten away, using the devious tricks pirates were known for, and well on their way past the Mediterranean, he was asked, Why?

The hell should I know? had been his irritated reply. But his friend gave him that sideways, knowing look, and he knew he was more transparent than he thought.

~

Because I didn't know who she was, he said three years later, in a dank cell that smelled of piss and unwashed bodies.

Ah, his friend had said, as though he didn't notice the large gap in their conversation. Who was she, then?

A merchant's daughter.

Rich merchant?

Rich enough. And that was all he said, because then was when the guard came to brand them for their crimes.

~

Two years after that, he said, I thought she was a whore, and slammed his empty mug on a tavern table in Singapore.

Did you now? his friend said, refilling the mug without spilling a drop.

She was dressed for it, he replied. No merchant's daughter should have been alone like that in a pub of that nature.

Maybe she wanted a change of pace.

I told her my name, he said, and would have said more if not for the man who was flung onto their table. There was a distinct need to gain revenge for their spilt drink at that point.

~

Four years after that, when they slipped between Madagascar and Africa, he said, I wonder if he has my eyes.

That's a question we all ask, his friend said.

I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed.

You would have gotten bored.

He looked at his friend then, watched his nimble fingers direct their home across the seas, and knew that was the truth. But he pressed on anyways, saying, Would you have stayed? If you were in my shoes?

I don't know, his friend replied, and this time their conversation ended because silence was better than words.

~

Three years after that, when the breeze did little to relieve the sweltering heat, he said, I'm sorry.

Not your fault, his friend replied, picking at his bonds.

Maybe. If we'd stayed in England -

Ah, but we couldn't. Not with the Yard after us. That I'll blame you for.

That's what I'm apologizing for.

Oh.

Silence broke their conversation, but he wouldn't wait any longer - he knew after the morning came, he'd never have the chance again.

She said he was mine.

Was he?

I didn't want to think so. Not when I had the sea and the Pearl. After all... she was just a girl.

Cradle-robber.

Pirate.

A good one at that. His friend cocked his head, and speared him with that sidelong glance he hated. Would you have stayed, if you knew then what you know now?

He paused. No.

Bastards don't bother you?

Not this one.

Oh, so you've more than one? A pirate indeed!

Shut up, Jack. I'm sure you've more than one yourself.

Probably. But none were named after me. Your boy is only half bastard - she gave him your name, even if you never married her or met him.

He knew that was truth, from the letters she had written, and wondered if he should have read more and destroyed less.

I still have one in my cabin, his friend said, and then said nothing more, because the first mate decided he didn't want to wait until morning.

~

One year later he searched through that cabin while the crew was on shore, squandering their ill-gotten gold, and wondered how his dead friend had known was he was thinking all that time back, and why he had pocketed that letter. A twelve year old letter, faded with time and salt, but still legible enough for him to read the print.

Dearest William, it started. I miss you terribly. So much time has passed, and even now I wonder if you will return. If you do, I am certain my brother will give you a job on one of our ships. Father died last week, and all ready we have to pinch and squeeze every shilling for what it's worth. Brother thinks we may have to sell the Poseidon's Touch; I'm sure it will fetch a good price, as it is a fine ship. You would not be paid well for your work, but at least then we could be together. Like you promised.

And if you don't return? I'm not sure what I'll do. I suppose I'll tell our child that you are a merchant sailor, unable to return home as you wish to. I'll never say why you do not write. I'll never say why our family name is not the same.

The doctor thinks I shall give birth in April. If it is a boy, I shall name him after you. If it is a girl... I am not certain what I shall name her. Perhaps Mary, after my unborn sister. Perhaps Elizabeth, after my late mother. Regardless, the surname shall be Turner - that way I shall always have you with me, one way or another. Like you promised.

He ignored the rest of the letter, turning it over to search for the address she had always included, in case he wanted to write back. This was one he thought he had destroyed months before they had run from England, long before he learned she had given birth to a boy. Why Jack had kept it, he'd never know - but his friend had always been one to plan for contingencies. Too bad he hadn't planned for the one that left him marooned on an island to die.

By the time the rest of his crew mates returned to their stolen ship, he had written a short letter and sealed it along with a gold piece into an envelope, and addressed it to a twelve year old location. He didn't know if she lived there anymore. He didn't care. This was just a step to insure Jack's revenge against his murderers. He already knew there was just one way to lift the curse, and Barbossa would be furious once he learned what steps he had taken to ensure it never was. He sent the envelope to England at the next port they reached.

Why are you sending it to your boy? he thought he heard his friend ask, in the silent corners of his mind. Do you care if he is killed?

I don't know, he answered back honestly. He didn't care for the boy; in years past he had been angry, incensed at the birth of a child that struggled to take him away from the sea. After that, he felt mild regret, for running away from a responsibility - but then he decided that no, the child was not his responsibility. It was hers - and he honestly doubted the boy was his to begin with.

That's what he hoped when Barbossa used a length of rope as thick as his wrist to tie him to the cannon. He left the letter in the cabin; eventually the false captain would find it and run to England, desperate to find the last of the Turner blood and the last piece of the treasure in order to lift the curse.

He only wished he would be able to see the look on Barbossa's face once he realized the brat he killed was Turner in name only. Perhaps the boy would be of use after all - just a tool in a game of deceit and lies. After all, he had learned from the best.

In the darkness of a liquid night, for years after he had found the ocean floor, he prayed.

He prayed that the boy was not his son.

~end

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