The Captain

Waves crashed against the side of the weathered ship, salt water lapping against the old, barnacle covered wood. The wind that drove the waves to beat upon The Black Pearl were the same winds that drove it, filling the patched sails and driving the ship to it's next destination. The black sails were more grey than black, noted the captain, which was pathetically sad. It wasn't The Grey Pearl, after all. When they reached port, he would have to ask if there happened to be hundreds of yards of cheap black cloth-- No, Barbossa reminded himself, he couldn't afford it or, rather, didn't want to afford it. The captain usually spared no expense to keep his ship running and looking as mysterious and forboding as possible but new sails were a purchase he never wanted to make.

The elegance of The Pearl was what Barbossa loved the most. The curve of the wood on the railings of the stairs, the delicant tridents the merpeople held in their carven hands, even the sparrow the woman at the bow of the boat held, released from her arms as her hair flew back and her eyes followed every movement the bird made. When he was Jack's first mate, how many times had he seen woman look at his captain like that decoration? How many arms enveloped that sparrow, only to watch him fly away the moment they released him? His captain had many different tastes for many different women, their hair and eyes colors he had never thought possible for a woman to have. He had never paid much attention to Jack's women and now, after all those years since his mutiny against Jack, Barbossa could hardly remember them. He did recall Jack had been busy the night of the mutiny with a salty sea wench; he had planned on taking over the ship and rallying the crew when Jack would be most unawares. Then again, Jack never really was aware of what happened on his ship. It was better that a beauty such as The Pearl was captained by someone more competant than Jack Sparrow. Jack could keep his human beauties as long as Barbossa had his ship.

Barbossa had been young once. He had felt his blood boil in the presence of a woman or a fight. He had spent more than one night on the floor of a tavern or an unfamiliar bed, but never more than twice. He had learned quickly that women and bad company were nothing more than interruptions in his life. His true purpose was not to pilage and plunder but to explore. The life of a pirate was the life for him, that was to be sure, but there was more to being a pirate than exploits in a bed or bar. He could not enjoy the cool sea breeze on his face, the bright sun setting as the pale moon rose, or the roar of the waves on a stormy day when he was dead drunk with a hired wench in his arms. No, that was not the life for him.

Now he was older, wiser, and had found his place in the world. His looks were deceiving, which didn't distress him in the slightest; after the curse had set, he almost seemed to have aged faster than normal, his skin sagging and eyes drooping. Once the curse was lifted, he seemed to have regained some of his youthful appearence, but it was nothing to waste time thinking about. He was still older than most of his crew, if only by a few years. Men who enjoyed the things he did and more, who left him to his thoughts and obeyed his commands, men he didn't worry about when it came to the carefully spoken subject of mutiny. He was a captain and forever would be. The waves were his drink, the ship his woman, and Barbossa's face was lit by the last rays of the sun as it set on the horizon, disappearing in a final spray of salt water as the waves spoke softly to him, teasing him with the prospect of a new adventure with the sunrise.