Depredation

Jack lifted his hat to peer through the leaves, up at the sun.

Another bit longer.

Pulling the leather brim back down over his face, he folded his hands on his stomach and settled into his soft bit of shady fern; twenty-odd years at sea had taught him how to sleep anytime, anywhere.

It had been fortuitous—one might even call it luck—that he had come out of the alehouse, just in time to see the carriage pass down the street of Cockburn Town. Not that a carriage was particularly remarkable; this one was significant on several counts. Its overall grandeur, including the matched team and brass-appointed harness, would have caught anyone's eye. What had piqued his interest most was its cargo: two elegantly attired women, their silly, lace parasols bobbing in the sun, and one even more pompous, over-dressed fop, if ever he had seen one.

As the carriage drove down the street, the sunlight glinted on the brilliant jewelry sported by all three, three lambs ready for the shearing, no doubt out on their afternoon drive—After all, what else did the monied have to do?—and were headed up the shoreline road.

That, most particularly and significantly, was the fortuitous part. He was quit familiar with that stretch of road; it wandered along the undulating perimeter of the island, one series of tight curves after another, gradually working its way out to a grand point of land, exactly opposite of town. By road, to the point, would be a couple hour ride, across the bay, rowing, a fraction of that. It was all in the timing.

Idly waggling a foot, he cracked one eye, to watch a gaily-striped beetle make its purposeful, determined path up the toe of his boot. There were no worries, no need to expend energies unnecessarily. It was an offshore breeze; the sound of horses would be alert enough, and in plenty of time.

Ordinarily, a snake would have been his first choice, secured with a bit of grass or vine in the middle of the road. But after casting about with no luck, he opted for Method Two: a nice bit of vine, strategically placed just past the apex of the curve, amidst the moving shadows of the leaves.

Turning his head slightly, he cocked an ear, and shook his head. What he had failed to take into account was how well the shrill cackle of women laughing carried. Slowly rising and dusting his coat off, he heard the squeal of spooked horses and the alarmed shouts of a driver.

Works every time.

Jack strolled to the edge of the wood, gratified to see the driver sawing at the reins, trying to calm the plunging beasts. On closer inspection, he was barely past boyhood, dressed in a livery suit that was almost comically too large. The three passengers squealed louder than the horses at the sight of him, white-knuckled grips on the carriage and each other.

In almost a single motion, Jack drew his sword and cut the traces. Now free, the team bounded away down the road. Round-eyed, his thin chest heaving, the boy met his responsibilities, jumping down to meet Jack, pistol already brought to bear, face on, with naught but a very antiquated blunderbuss, whose barrel was more curve that the backs of the horses, which were disappearing that very moment around the next curve at full gallop.

"Halt… sir!" The boy's voice cracked with both fear and youth.

Jack gave the boy a steady stare down the bridge of his nose; his experience was these moments usually required only time… time for the novice to realize his folly.

"Do you really want to die… today… at such a young age… with so many young lasses yet to be kissed… all so that they…" Jack gestured at the three that perched in the carriage like a covey of owls…"might live, only to hire someone else?"

The boy's eyes shifted frantically, between Jack, his pistol and his sword. He swayed, his mouth moving wordlessly with indecision. Slipping his sword back in his baldric, Jack gently pulled the gun from the boy's hands, his only resistance being that he couldn't get his fingers to move sufficiently to let go.

"Shoo." It was said in a whisper, with no more vigor than one would dismiss a kitten, and a flutter of Jack's fingers. Anything further wasn't necessary, the boy raced down the road through the settling dust of the horses.

"Stand down, you blackguard! Stand down, I say!"

Jack turned, not surprised to find the lone man had alit from the carriage, his sword drawn. He had one rule—guideline, truth be told—in life, a hard-earned one to be sure: never underestimate your opponent. The sword of a fool kills just as quickly as the sword of a mastermind, but it was still a struggle not to laugh.

Powdered, puffed, silken and pampered, and smelling better than the women, delicate hands, whose greatest labor was probably lifting the teacup, gripped his sword, a silken cord and tassel swinging from the hilt. Now there's a bit of impracticality. The blade shone in near-mirror brilliance, no nicks, no scratches, never used, living in the same lap of luxury as it owner.

Come with me, Fancy. I'll show you what you were made for.

Gilded, brocaded, laced and embroidered, he wore silver-buckled pumps, and breeches just a bit too tight, not enough to be thought indecent, but enough to advertise his wares. An arse bandit, to be sure.

He raised his head to look down his nose, shocked that someone would deign not to cow at his every word. "Let us take this away from the ladies, and settle this as two gentlemen might."

It was a tempting thought, if for no other reason than the satisfaction of besting the piece of puff. Jack chuckled, instead. "Are you sure you want to be crossing blades with a pirate?"

The puff's confidence faltered; he glanced toward the women, knowing he had an image to protect, but didn't want to do it at the risk of his own welfare. Jack took one step toward the carriage, and the fop fell back. In that instant, Jack knew he had the advantage. The wretch's hand had been tipped, his bluff called. It was just a matter of time now.

Regaining his resolve, the man straightened. "I shall defend these ladies and their honor with my life."

"Really?" Jack only bothered to glean a small amount of his skepticism then eyed the women with interested speculation. "And what might these fine examples of femininity have to offer, that would prompt just a valiant defense?"

Jack feigned another step, the women squealing at his advance. That was all he needed to distract the man; a lunge, with a quick flick of the wrist, and the virginal weapon was lying in the grass several feet away.

"Now, this is much more better," Jack mockingly sighed, his blade tip hovering at the top of the lace-laden jabot. Bearing a steady eye on the man, he hooked a beckoning finger. "Step down, ladies, if you please."

Breathless with indecision, the women balked at abandoning their roost.

"C'mon. C'mon," Jack coaxed, as if they were recalcitrant children. "Down here, next to me. That's the way."

Amid the bustle of silks, a few brief flashes of petticoat, a helping hand from their male escort, and a wall of perfume, their slippered feet finally touched earth.

One of the women immediately stepped forward. Older than anyone present by a considerable sight, she imposed herself between Jack and her young companion. A square woman, she was nearly as wide as she was tall, with a countenance that would well serve a bosun. She possessed a bosom that dwarfed the stays that strained to hold it in place, with a vast cleavage that she wielded like a weapon, which she appeared to be under the impression that it was of great interest to Jack.

The vast cleavage wasn't his target—God knew he'd seen enough of that, and could get more with a few shillings—it was what lay above it: a necklace of emeralds and mother of pearl, set in a filigree of gold.

"I am the Dowager, Lady Regina Newcastle. My husband was the late Lord Benjamin Newcastle; my brother is Weatherby Swann, Governor of Port Royal." She mad the announcement, as if she expected him to fall over in awe; much to her chagrin, he didn't.

"Captain Jack Sparrow." He exhibited one of his best smiles, and sketched a mocking bow. "Your servant, mum."

The dowager was quick for her age and size, and did manage to surprise Jack when she came toward him.

"Take me." She lifted her chin—both of them—swelling her chest, either in fear or allure, it was difficult to tell. "If you must, ravage me." She actually batted her eyes, and then fell against him. "Spare my niece of your beastly appetites," she said with a breathiness that must have been considered seductive sometime in her life… by someone. Then she made a very skilled thrust of her hips.

Cowering behind her aunt, the niece was considerably younger, pallid of face and so slight as to be almost frail.

Never did fancy the skinny ones, anyway.

Jack's eyes did light up with interest at the necklace that encircled the fragile neck, gold with blossoms made of sapphires and pearls.

"Unhand her!" The fop's voice quavered slightly. "Take me, in exchange for them both."

Lady Newcastle's hand flew up to her mouth. "Edmund, no!"

Jack snorted at the Edmund's suggestion. "And turn you loose on a ship full of men? I rather doubt it; I'd been keel-hauled within the week."

The finer point was that he didn't have a ship, but that was of no consequence.

"Fortunately, I have already kidnapped someone, once before." Jack touched a finger to his cheek, thoughtfully rolling his eyes. "I always fancied how 'kidnapping' would read on me charge sheet. Pilfering seems so petty, and depravity could imply a skewed impression of me character. I'm a pirate," he announced, spreading his arms, "not just some drunken sod, with a fetish.

"That being the case," Jack continued, zeroing his attention on the women, with as much menace as he could muster, "the necklaces, if you please. C'mon, c'mon, haven't got all day."

The truth of it was that they probably had much more in the way of valuables, but he needn't be greedy. Travel light and travel fast; that was his motto.

With trembling hands, the dowager and her niece fumbled with the catches, finally resorting to helping each other, Edmund worriedly looking on, shifting uneasily, and wringing his hands. Just Lady Newcastle went to drop the necklaces in Jack's waiting palm; Edmund lunged and snatched them away. He jerked his waistband, and dropped them down his breeches, adding several more bulges to those already there. He propped his hands on his hips, in victorious defiance, but sweat was beginning to creep from under his powdered wig, rivulets cutting through his face powder.

"Ahh, now you shouldn't have done that." Jack clucked his tongue, wagging a scolding finger.

A number of options flickered through Jack's mind, but the time clock in his head was telling him that he was running out of time; the longer he stayed, the more likely something would go wrong. He wondered if Edmund would ever know how lucky—or unlucky, as the case might be—he was that afternoon. There was, however, time for one last ploy.

Pressing his pistol under Edmund's jaw, Jack made a deft, downward cut with his sword, the sound of fabric giving way, and his breeches billowed to the ground.

Goggled in shock, the dowager quickly averted the curious stare of her niece, covering her eyes at the sight of Edmund standing with his breeches at his ankles, his silk shirttails billowing at his knees, glowing with rage and embarrassment.

"If you please, sir." Jack gestured with his pistol for Edmund the Red to retrieve the jewels, stashing them in a pocket. "Fine silk dresses, I see." Jack couldn't hold back the smirk, as he eyed the women.

"Of course!" huffed Lady Newcastle huffed, affronted by the suggestion that she would have anything less.

"Uh-huh." He worked his jaw sideways, as if in thought. Truth be told, he already knew his plan. "One can usually get a good price for such finery." The dowager's eyes rounded as Jack leered. "Your dresses… please."

Eyes bulging, shocked gasps came from his quarry. Jack had no intention of standing about, waiting for a proper undressing; the dowager let out a startled yelp when he took her by the arm, a few precise flicks and her skirts fell free, her petticoats blazing white amid the greenery. In another few economic moves, the niece's skirts dropped to the grass as well.

Draping the fabric over his arm, Jack doffed his hat and bowed again, this one no less mocking than the first.

"Thank you, one and all; your cooperation has been greatly appreciated. And now, you can all tell your friends that you've been at the not uncharitable mercies of Captain Jack Sparrow."

He turned, and stepped off into the wood, well aware that the underbrush would hide his whereabouts within seconds, laughing at the mental picture of those Moroccan leather slippers trudging all the way back to town. He looked up at the sun; it would be well after dark before they arrived, short of a miracle.

He tossed the silk skirts off to the side, dismissing them as too much trouble, he'd gotten his rewards already.

Now, let's see. The next thing I will be needing is a boat.