I Did But See Her Passing By

by Gloria Mundi

Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not true, because I made it up.
Archive: No thanks, Imagin'd Glories only. [Archived on Horizon with permission]
Originally Posted: 10/31/05
Beta: Thanks to tessabeth for beta and encouragement.
Note: Written for fabu's Ghost Stories Challenge.
Summary: A ghost story for All Hallows' Eve.

"Look as if you've seen a ghost, Commodore."

"Only you, Sparrow: and, despite my best efforts, you have persisted in staying very much alive."

"Doesn't stop me having a ghost, now does it?"

"A ghost is the remnant, the spirit, of a person who once lived and does so no longer."

"That's what you think... Rum, Commodore?"

"Thank you. I feel certain that you are attempting to create an atmosphere of suspense: for both our sakes, perhaps you would be so kind as to simply tell me what you mean, Mr Sparrow."

"It's Captain Sparrow, Commodore. After all, you are on my ship."

"Not through any fault of my own!"

"Never mind Anamaria: I can—that is, we have an understanding. To reiterate, Commodore—may I call you James?"

"You may not."

"Well, Commodore, you're a guest on the Black Pearl, the fine ship of which I am captain: I trust you can bring yourself to give me my proper title."

"Very well... Captain Sparrow."

"Lovely. Now, where were we?"

"I believe you were speaking of ghosts. I must warn you that I am a rational man. It takes more than nursery tales to frighten me."

"Frighten? Why on earth would I want to frighten you, Commodore?"

"I shudder to think."

"Well, Commodore, I'd call myself a rational man, too, though I know for a fact that a ghost needn't be dead, nor a dead man still: an' I swear that the tale I'm going to tell you—it being All Hallows' Eve, or thereabouts—is a true one, and witnessed by my own eyes."

"If you're about to tell me of Barbossa, and that cursed gold, save your breath: I was there."

"I remember that, Commodore Norrington. And I remember this, too..."

* * *

Canal Street curved gradually around the base of the hill, then ran south towards the quay. At its northern end the houses were tall and red, roofed with rain-slick slate and braced one against the other. Further along, there were wide-windowed shops built of the local stone, and then whitewashed cottages—their windows boarded or broken—and then hulking warehouses that reeked of mould and tar.

It was a clear night, though there had been rain earlier: the cobbles were shiny with it. From the maze of streets behind the quay came a fug of human noise: laughter, the clank of pottery mugs, men shouting, the shrill pipe of a recruiting sergeant's gang. At the quieter end of the street, a dog barked, and then was still. The silence seemed to hang like mist, muffling the distant noises as though they echoed from another world.

The young man who rented Mrs Griffiths' top room did his work on a table by the window. He had been at it since morning, making the most of the daylight and lighting a lamp, and a few stubby candles, at dusk. The window rattled and let in draughts—have to see to that, with winter coming— but he'd weighted his maps with an assortment of exotica: a huge horned seashell, white with age; a brightly-polished sextant, engraved with his former name; a stone-snake coiled in its black flint nest; a walrus tooth carved inexpertly to resemble a deformed whale; a huge tarnished silver coin, stamped with crude letters; an inkwell with a withered posy, shot through with black, drooping over the rim; a broken compass; a cheap enamelled paper-knife; a little model of a sailing-ship, done in stained wood.

The young man hardly looked at his paperweights any more. He pushed them aside and redeployed them as he leant over the map he was copying, tracing vague uncertain shorelines with a finger that, though blackened at the second joint with an ingrained smudge of ink, left no mark on the paper. He glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece again, as he had done every few minutes since the sun had set some six hours before.

It was almost time.

He stood and stretched; caught sight of his reflection in the rippled glass of the window—dark hair tied back neatly, eyes like a skull's empty sockets in the lamplight, grubby shirt, unsuccessful beard—and blew a kiss to it before snuffing the lamp, and the two candles, between finger and thumb.

He moved to the window, absently sucking the soot off his finger. Might as well open it, though the autumn night was chill and he'd a cough that wouldn't go.

Distantly, the cathedral bell began to chime midnight.

"Here she comes," said the young man to himself. He leant out precariously, one knee on the broad low sill, peering up the street in the hope of seeing her arrive: but already, out of the darkness where the street curved, she was coming, slow and stately and utterly silent.

Her timbers must be painted black, or made of night air, for they were almost impossible to make out. Only when he saw the sweet, remote face of the gilded figurehead, holding something small in her outstretched hand, could he be sure that she was there. Here.

He leaned further, bracing himself against the warped window-frame, dislodging empty bottles and rolled maps. She was almost close enough to touch, now, and he reached out a hand, daringly. Felt nothing. Her yards (a nautical term: he'd spent some days down at the quay, talking to sailors and dockhands, trying to determine if anyone else had seen a black ship sailing by night) were heavy and broad: surely they should be smashing windows, grinding along the red brick walls, hitching on gutters? But the ship's passage was noiseless.

He looked down at her deck, thinking he'd seen a flurry of movement: but there was no one there. She was utterly alone.

The galleon processed down the street towards the sea, as she'd done—how many times? He'd seen her thrice, now: gliding over the cobbles as though they were little round painted waves, a theatre-sea. He'd seen her thrice: what was that song?

I did but see her passing by,
And yet I love her 'til I die.

He lost sight of her at last amid the warehouses. He coughed, and could not stop, even when he closed the window and staggered over to the couch: sat, and took a fiery swig of brandy, and tried to breathe steadily.

* * *

"Is there a point to all this, Sparrow?"

"Just setting the scene, Commodore. More rum?"

* * *

The next night he determined to follow her down to the harbour. He dressed warmly—the weather was dank and bone-rotting—and took his flask, for portable comfort while he waited in the doorway of the house: but midnight came and went, and she did not.

"Maybe she can only be seen from here," he mused to himself, stumbling up the stairs in the dark. (The flask was quite empty now.) "Maybe she only sails on certain nights.... Oh, good evening, Mrs Griffiths. Very well, thank you. Are there more stairs, perhaps, than usual? No?" Mrs Griffiths closed her door, and he heard the bolt go home. "Sails on certain nights," he repeated, gathering his thoughts, as he attained his own door, and shoved it closed behind him. "Though, matter of fact, she wasn't sailing. No sails." After some minutes, he managed to coax a light from the lamp. "A magic ship. A sorcerous ship." ('Sorcerous' gave him some trouble.) "Maybe there's some magic token, eh, in amid all this rubbish?"

Earlier, he'd furled the maps and put them carefully away—no use in spoiling merchandise, after all, and who knew when some rough sea-captain might come a-knocking, desperate to voyage to Malabar or Mindanao?—but the keepsakes and curios still littered the table. He sat down and glared at them. There seemed to be more of these than usual, too. Perhaps they'd bred, while he was out.

He knuckled his eyes, and the objects crept back into one another until there was only one of each.

Not the coin, surely, though 'twas almost certainly from a far place: he'd had it for years, never having found anyone who'd pay him half of what he thought it worth. Not the stone-snake—ammonite, the antiquarian'd called it—for he'd dug it from a muddy cliff himself. Not the sextant, though he held it for a moment, rubbing his fingers over the cool brass, wondering how the bright, eager boy he'd been had come to this. The papery primroses made him smile, and brought Sarah to mind: though she'd gone off with some sailor, lately, had she not? He crushed the dead flowers in his hand, and sniffed at what was left. It smelt of graves, and made him sneeze.

The knife had been a present from his aunt: it was a useful thing, to be sure, but he doubted it could make him see ghostly galleons, no matter how much brandy he'd consumed. And he'd bought the walrus-tooth last winter, from a one-armed man (actually, that might explain the crudeness of the execution) in the Hope.

The shell? The compass? The toy ship?

He'd made the ship himself, a long time ago, when they said he was to go to the Navy. Kept it to remind him that promises could be broken, and that other men sailed away from misfortune. The shell, held to his ear, brought him the sound of the sea, rushing and crashing and distant. The box-compass, which he'd had from a Frenchie as part-payment for a couple of old books, was broken: whichever way he pointed it, it would not show north. The workmanship was fine, but the lodestone—

A shadow drifted past the window.

He stood up, reeling: there were black spots in front of his eyes. He lunged forward across the table, fighting the window-latch. By the time he had it open, and a soberingly cold admixture of air and drizzle was pouring into the room, the street was empty. The window swung to and fro, like a sail in the wind.

"Tomorrow," said the young man muzzily to his swaying reflection. "Compass tomorrow."

* * *

"A drunkard's ravings, Sparrow."

"I'll thank you, Commodore, not to judge me 'til the tale's done—and the rum, too."

* * *

He woke late next morning, shivery and with an aching head. He knew a remedy for that: but there was a more important matter to be dealt with first, and that was the man standing by the window, his back towards the bed, rummaging through the mess on the table.

There was a pistol under the pillow, somewhere. He fumbled for it, blinking. Christ, his head hurt. The fellow didn't seem to've noticed that the room's legitimate occupant was awake. He was trying to be quiet, but he was clumsy and hasty, rustling paper and knocking something to the bare boards of the floor.

"Lost something, have you?"

The thief's head jerked round and he stared, wide-eyed, at the pistol. He was an ill-favoured individual, lank-haired and scrawny, his clothes tattered and filthy and his boots held together with twine. His mouth worked, but no words came out.

"Out with it!" snapped the man in the bed, wishing his hand would stop shaking. Brandy, or fever? He gripped the pistol more tightly. "What've you come for?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Perhaps we could come to some arrangement. Pushing your luck, aren't you, trying to rob a man when he's lying there asleep?"

"You was snorin'," said the thief indignantly. There was a livid bruise on his stubbled jaw. "Never moved a muscle when I come in."

"If you're lucky, I won't move one now." He raised the pistol a little, so the man could see his finger on the trigger. "Come on: tell me what you're after."

"They say the Black Pearl's been seen," said the man.

"The what?"

The thief scowled. "Don't give me that. You're Jack Sparrow, ain't you?"

"What if I am?" said Jack.

"You got the compass, eh? Old Bill told me he'd sold it you. An' I bet he wishes he hadn't."

"Compass?" said Jack, eyebrows raised. "What compass? And what's this black thing you say you've seen?"

"The Black Pearl. Old ship, ain't it?" said the thief. "Ghost ship, they say."

Jack grinned. "What's that to do with me, eh?"

"They said you'd got the compass," said the thief, rather sulkily.

"Even if I had any such thing—which you've no doubt discovered for yourself that I don't—what's that to do with this ghost ship?" Jack laughed. "And, for that matter, what makes you think you can wander in and borrow it?"

The thief's shoulders twitched, and his eyes slid towards the door. Jack raised the pistol again. "Answer me!" His headache was getting worse, and he did not bother to hide his temper.

"They say the man who brings the Black Pearl home'll be rich beyond your wildest dreams."

Jack smiled his sharpest smile. "You haven't seen my wildest dreams."

There was a small silence.

"Anyway," said Jack at last, wondering if he was going to be sick, "you can see for yourself that I don't have the compass, so—"

"What you done with it?"

"Traded it down the Hope," invented Jack, "for that very nice bit of ivory just down there by your left foot. Didn't work, did it? No use to me."

"Who'd you flog it to?"

"Fellow named Peake," said Jack without hesitation. "Tall bloke: hair red as Judas. You can't miss him: might still catch him down there, if he hasn't sailed yet."

"You're letting me go?" said the thief, slowly.

"I'm telling you to go," growled Jack. "Unless you'd rather leave by a different route?" And he hefted the heavy pistol again, and cast an appraising glance at the window, as though calculating whether the thief's undernourished form might fit through it.

His visitor edged across the room, keeping his eyes on Jack all the time. His flapping boot-sole hitched on the loose board, and he nearly fell: but caught himself in time, and lurched against the lintel, and fumbled at the latch.

"And shut the door behind you!" Jack called after him.

He listened to the quick footsteps on the stairs—shame Mrs Griffiths wasn't up and about yet, or she'd have given the fellow a piece of her mind for all the racket—and then the sound of the street door slamming. Only then did he let the empty pistol drop to the blankets, and brought his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes, willing the headache away.

Nonsense, all of it. Nonsense. And yet... and yet...

Jack reached down the side of the bed. The compass was where it'd fallen last night, where he'd let it drop after watching the slow aimless swing of the needle for what seemed like hours. He'd had some phant'sy, had he not, that the compass and that dark spectral galleon were linked? Well, here was proof of it.

"He'll be back," said Jack to the empty room. He scowled at the door. There was no lock on it, no way to secure the place. Jack shivered at the thought of somebody, anybody, barging in here to claim—to steal—the compass from him.

It was time to leave.

The bells were ringing noon as Jack stepped out into Canal Street. The sunshine was horribly bright for the time of year, and the cool air did nothing to help his headache.

"Mr Sparrow?"

Jack flinched: then plastered his most innocent smile onto his face, and turned around. "Mrs Griffiths!" he said. "I hope I see you well?"

"Was that a friend of yours, this morning?" enquired his landlady, mouth more pinched than usual. "All that commotion! This is a reputable house, Mr Sparrow."

Jack shook his head. "What commotion's that, Mrs Griffiths? I heard nothing."

Mrs Griffiths sniffed. "I should have thought the whole street heard it!"

"Not a thing, not a thing," said Jack. "I was working late last night—a new chart for Captain Grimes—and I slept rather longer than is usually my habit."

Mrs Griffiths sniffed. Come to think of it, hadn't he met her on the stairs? Jack worked harder on the smile.

"And you're off to deliver this chart now, I suppose?" said Mrs Griffiths, peering at the heavy satchel over Jack's shoulder. "I hope he is prompt with his payment, Mr Sparrow: for I'm sure I don't need to remind you that—"

"Yes, yes," said Jack hastily. "Last month's rent, and this. I can't begin to tell you, Mrs Griffiths, how very much I appreciate your forbearance on this matter. You are a jewel amongst women, Mrs Griffiths: a veritable jewel."

Mrs Griffiths, fifty years old if she was a day, simpered and giggled. Jack's stomach roiled at the sight.

"I must be going, Mrs Griffiths," he said. "Time and tide, you know! Until later, then, my dear lady."

It was hard to keep his footsteps slow, but haste would only attract attention, and besides he ached all over, and could not quite catch his breath. Each draught of cold air burnt as he breathed it in. He needed a warm place to sit, a hot meal, a pint of ale: some time to think.

Shame he'd talked himself out of his usual bolthole, the snug at the Hope. But on the other hand, he was alive, and unpursued, and in the bottom of his satchel—underneath a motley collection of maps, and a clean shirt, and pistol and shot—was that compass, the compass they said (though come to think of it, who were 'they'?) would call the ghost ship.

"The Black Pearl," murmured Jack to himself. "The Black Pearl."

The Tiger's Head was a rough tavern, much frequented by common sailors and their trollops: Jack felt over-dressed, and over-clean, as he slipped in, glancing around at the other customers in case any of them should seem especially interested in him. No one was: indeed, it was only after several hard looks that he managed to attract the attention of one of the serving-girls.

The ale was sour, and the stew tepid and over-salted. Jack ate slowly, keeping his foot on his satchel, and eavesdropped on the conversations around him. Something about a girl who'd come in, marched up to some fellow and given him a good hiding. Something about a cargo of French wine: nasty stuff, thought Jack. Something about...

"... said she'd been seen again..."

"... hundred year, an' more..."

"... Spanish gold..."

Jack kept his eyes down, peering at his bowl as though he were trying to tell his fortune in the onion-skins and shreds of nameless meat.

"... the Black Pearl, aye: but she ain't a real ship, not a ship you can go on board an' sail away."

"Not 'less you've got..."

But someone nudged the speaker, and he subsided, grumbling. Jack sipped his unpleasant beer, and tried to think it through.

Item, a ghost ship. Seen at midnight. Only seen since he'd acquired that compass off the French captain. Seen by others, too. Sailing down the street—or, wait, Canal Street—as though it were open water.

Item, a broken compass. Boxed in ivory that was carved and stained: a broad needle that swung where it would, with no thought for north. Yet, to his morning visitor, it had seemed worth something.

Item, the thief. The thief, this morning, had said... well, thought Jack, he hadn't said much at all. And Jack'd sent him off to the Hope on a fool's errand, rather than getting the rest of the story out of him somehow. But he'd implied, at least, that the compass and the ship were somehow linked.

That fool's errand wouldn't occupy him for ever. He'd be back. Between that and the overdue rent, Jack was developing a powerful aversion to his lodgings in Canal Street.

Item, rich beyond your wildest dreams...

Jack blinked, and realised he'd been three-quarters asleep: dreaming of sunlit seas, and warmth, and far distant shores that he'd charted but never seen. Dreaming of counting out gold coins, and losing count, and not caring.

Outside, it had begun to rain. Dusk came early at this time of year: he'd dreamt the afternoon away. But after all, where else was there to go?

He called for more ale, and sipped it as slowly as he could. The sailors on the next table were recounting lewd tales, the aim apparently to tell a story that would reduce the rest of the table to silence. Jack wished they'd get on with that bit. His head hurt. He couldn't think. Only, round and round, midnight and ship and away.

He had no pocket-watch, having sold it last winter, and the cathedral bell would not penetrate the din. Reluctantly—rain was still rattling against the dirty windows—Jack paid his shot, and heaved the satchel onto his shoulder, and went out into the evening gloom.

It was vile weather, and Jack's lungs ached with breathing in the cold, wet, stenchful air. Sobering weather. Jack huddled in the reeking doorway of a warehouse, pulling his coat about him: thought of a ship made of night air, and a broken compass that maybe called her out of nowhere, and wondered if he'd run mad at last.

* * *

"Surely a familiar sensation, Captain Sparrow? It seems to me that a rational man would treat such tales with more caution. A ghost ship?"

Jack reached back and rapped his knuckles against the black wood of the bulkhead.

* * *

Midnight was a long time coming. A pair of whores, heads covered with tawdry scarves against the rain, showed up and began to harangue Jack for taking their pitch.

"Ladies, I had no idea—"

But they would not be persuaded. "A shilling apiece, mate, or find somewhere else to doss down for the night!" The dark girl leered, gap-toothed, at him: the blonde slipped her hand into his pocket, though there was nothing there to steal.

Not liking their looks (and not having two shillings) Jack elected to follow the path of virtue: he fled into the rain, pursued by the girls' raucous laughter.

Nowhere to go, and indeterminate hours to wait. The quayside wasn't a place to linger, after dark. And 'twas a mad phant'sy, anyway, to think he might catch that silent, spectral ship. Reluctantly, Jack began to walk back along Canal Street, back towards Mrs Griffiths' house. He could spend another—

"There he is!" cried a man's voice from somewhere up ahead.

Jack's heart missed a beat. He looked around wildly. On the next corner a small green light swayed in the gusty rain, advertising the Hope. In the alleyway beyond, there was movement. Someone coming out, coming past the light: the sound of booted feet on slick cobbles, and a different voice swearing as someone slipped. That thief from this morning? Or someone else?

Jack did not wait to see. He turned and ran, trying to remember which of the alleyways were dead ends. If he could get off the street: if he could find a way inside one of the warehouses, or through the Tiger's Head and into the stews beyond...

Every breath hurt, and his stomach ached, and the heavy satchel banged against his hip as he ran. And they were gaining on him, surely, though he wasn't daft enough to risk a glance behind him.

"Oi, Sparrow!" cried one of them: and another, "Goin' to catch you, mate! Save us the trouble, eh?"

Jack headed left into an alleyway, and left again almost immediately into the yard behind what'd once been the butcher's. He pressed himself against the wall, trying not to gasp for air, head down so they wouldn't see the pale blur of his face through the rain. Heard them go past: one, two, three, four of them.

The compass was worth something, then.

He waited 'til their footsteps died away, 'til they'd turned the corner at the other end of the alleyway: then, careful to make no noise, he slipped out of the yard and turned back towards Canal Street. If he could reach the house—no, first place they'd look—or, or, there must be somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere...

He was looking up the street, towards Mrs Griffiths' house, and so he saw the darker shape looming through the night. Saw the glimmer of that green lanthorn against black wood, and the high reach of her masts disappearing into the murk. Saw her glide down, all stately and slow and silent, towards him.

Jack held his ground, though some primal portion of his brain urged flight. He stepped out into the middle of the street and stood ready, waiting.

Jack stood waiting, heart hammering, as the black ship came towards him. His neck ached with craning to see the tops of her masts. For a moment, as the ship, the Black Pearl, loomed above him, he could have sworn that the gilded figurehead looked him in the eye, saw him and knew him and welcomed him. He braced himself for the grinding impact, wondering if he could leap and catch hold of—

She passed through him, around him, icy-cold as midwinter fog.

Jack whirled round. The ship's carved taffrail was fading into the night, already almost invisible in the gloom. From somewhere a street or two away, he could hear shouting. Further down the street, a woman screamed.

Jack howled. He wanted to swear and rave, but had no breath for it: he knew he must catch her tonight, tonight. Tonight.

The whores were gone from their doorway as he ran past. No one to warn his pursuers, though if they were any closer they'd hear his breath rasping and whining in his throat. He could hear them coming after him, but he no longer ran from them: instead, he ran towards, after, that vague tall shape, the phant'sied gleam of stern lanthorns against painted wood, the brief mirroring glare of glass as the galleon passed the window of a lighted room.

Jack sobbed, and gulped breath, and ran faster. He could hear them behind him, calling and baying like dogs, their boots loud on the cobbles. A miracle he hadn't fallen yet: sheer bloody bad luck that they hadn't. And here, between the buildings, was the deeper blackness of the sea.

People were shouting and crying out all along the quay. Jack did not listen to any of them. He had the compass. The Black Pearl was his.

He could hear the waves, flattened by the rain, small and gentle against the quayside. And further out, on the water: was that the rippling rush of water 'gainst a black hull?

There were dinghies and rowing-boats moored all along the quay, heaped with nets and lobster-pots. Jack did not have time to pick the best, and anyway there was little to choose between them: he dropped down into the nearest, almost capsizing it as he worked at the painter with cold wet hands. He kept his head down, whispering curses and exhortations, wishing he'd a knife to cut the line.

"There!" cried someone, and the wet stone sparkled with lanthorn-light: but the line came free then, and Jack fell back against the bench as the little boat lurched away from the quay.

They'd spotted him, all right. There was the crack of a gun-shot, and Jack flinched: he could not tell how close the ball had come. His own pistol was in his satchel, still slung over his shoulder, but he did not bother to retrieve it. Oars in the bottom of the boat, down amongst the filthy nets. Head bowed to give 'em less target. Keep that light steady astern, so's not to turn circles. Out here in the dark, in the sea, in the night: out here she is waiting.

Jack did not dare to look behind him. His heart felt cold, still, from when the Black Pearl had sailed straight through him. As though he were the ghost. Would the same not happen now? Would he row, and row, 'til morning found him out of sight of land, and doomed to drown?

Funny, really, to've chased a phantom, a haunt, as eagerly as he'd've chased treasure. Funny—though he could not spare breath to laugh very much —to've left his whole life behind, to court a watery death, here among the rising waves, salt splashing his face like tears, that light almost lost now in the blustery night. Funny to've given up so—

The dinghy's blunt bow thudded against wood, and Jack looked up at the Pearl's solid black hull. There was a lanthorn on the gunwale to light his way, and a rope laid ready for his hand.

* * *

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Isn't there more to your tale?"

"That's the end of the story, Commodore. Or the beginning, if you like."

"You expect me to believe that... that... "

"I don't expect anything, Commodore."

"But this is obviously no ghost ship! An old-fashioned design, by all means: but her timbers are as sound as any vessel I've sailed on."

"Just keep telling yourself that, Commodore. I'm sure you're right."

"I—"

"Sleep well, Commodore," said Jack, rising to his feet. In the flickering light of the lanthorn, the corners of the cabin seemed very dark, and the pirate's face as wicked and inhuman as any devil's mask. "I'll leave you a light, eh?"

"Sp—Captain Sparrow, who was that woman?"

"Which woman would that be, Commodore? Not," Jack added, "that's there's any aboard, save for the lovely Anamaria."

"On deck, just... well, before I came below."

Jack paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder. "Not Anamaria?"

"A lady," said Norrington. "A lady wearing black." He rubbed his eyes. "A trick of the light, no doubt."

"No doubt," said Jack, and his smile gleamed in the dim light. "'Til morning, Commodore. Pleasant dreams!"

The passageway beyond the door was black as pitch, but Jack Sparrow did not seem perturbed by the darkness. Norrington could hear him whistling, some old familiar tune, as his footsteps receded.

In the cabin, the shadows flickered into shapes.

-end-