That be one pissed pirate. First words that popped into Joshamee Gibbs' head when he saw Jack Sparrow.

That he was a pirate was not even a question. An insane creature, decked out to the nines, black hair dangling in lovelocks and beads that caught the tavern light and threw it back into a thousand shards of rainbow colours, like a grease-slicked puddle in an alley. The frock coat swirled round, glimmering buttons tarnished by time and worse. He was enchanting, long fingers weaving through currents of air; dark eyes sparkling above cheekbones so high his slight body hung from them like a quiver of arrows lashed to razors.

At least he'd been that and more earlier. Josh was so pissed himself he didn't know he was pissed. Took a lot of rum to get old Joshamee truly soused. Sparrow's stories had stopped, his grand gestures stilled. His mane of mad hair spilled over the table like an inkblot and he was silent but for an occasional hiccup which he quelled with another draught.

Young, too, he was, for all his swagger and babble. He was too drunk to even raise his head, and Joshamee saw the villainous tavern-keeper approach him, staring at the big pockets of that coat with snake's eyes. Poor little bugger, he thought as he lurched over to sit beside the insensible lad, yes, a lad to anyone salted as old Gibbsy.

"Whoa now, me bucko, wot's got ye so low that ya'd let yer guard down in a place such as this?"

The crazy mop of hair lifted slowly, and Joshamee was looking into a pair of tear-drenched eyes, dark as a raven's wing and ringed round with smudges that streaked over those bones like soot in a London fog.

"She's gone. Me Pearl." His voice was low and slurred.

Gibbs put an arm round him. He'd seen maudlin all too much from the bottom of that bottle. Many's the time he'd found himself sobbing his heart out on some pig's arse. He knew how it were.

"Now, now, me boy. There always be another jade t'take 'er place."

"Don't unnerstand." The beads and dangles dashed together as Sparrow shook his head. "Not some trull. Me 'eart. My soul. Done lost 'er. An' Bill."

Ahhhh. Honesty was it? The face before him was dark gold, all hollows and shadows in the lamplight. By God, he was beautiful, under the grime and tar and dirt of too many voyages. His small hands were calloused in all the right places. A sailor for many a year, prob'ly raised before the mast.

Joshamee was feeling magnanimous. He had enough to buy another bottle and stashed it in one of those pockets, feeling around for anything like a purse.

Sparrow's hand clenched around his wrist like a vice. "Don't make me do it, man," he growled low in his throat.

Smarter than he looked. Especially now, soaked in rum; lost in memory. A street brat, pressed into service? Maybe so, but then Sparrow's eyes bored into his, bleary with drink and sharp as knives. "I loved 'er so. An' I lost 'er. Ain't never gonna be right again."

The eyes were diamond-hard and coal-black, but his voice was the soft song of a mourning dove.

Joshamee swallowed, tried to remember. What did he know of Jack Sparrow?

Not much. A whisper here, a calumny there. A scant handful of stories.

He slung an arm around the limp shoulders and found himself face to face with a pistol.

"Wot ye want?"

Gibbs knew better than to brave eyes that looked like twin bores added to the one pointed at his face.

"Jus' tryin' t'be o'service."

Then he remembered something. Captain. Captain of some ship. The rum had jumbled things up in Josh's head and all he could really see was Sparrow's eyes.

"Mummmph." Sparrow's head hit the table with a soft thud, the pistol still clutched in his tar-stained fingers.

Joshamee disentangled it gently and set it aside. Couldn't leave the poor bastard like this. 'Twouldn't be fittin' at all. There was still some Navy left in Joshamee Gibbs, undimmed by the months of inactivity since he'd deserted and fled to drink himself silly in Tortuga. Some as wot served a lifetime didn't take well to overblown whelps bein' set up like Gods, while honest men toiled. An' what, pray tell, was wrong with a bit o'rum t'help a man through a hard day?

Sparrow stirred, grabbed for his mug and his face was mournful when not a drop emerged to burn on his tongue. Joshamee watched his lips, quadrupled over the beard, pink tongue darting out to seek out more of the fiery sugar that was fueling his brain.

Somewhere in Gibbs' sloshing head, admiration stirred. He remembered enough now. Something about the Black Pearl, the treasure of Isla des Muertas, two years gone. There'd been a mutiny. Foul thought. And a marooning. This was the crazy bugger who'd dared to try for it.

"Captain Sparrow." He went to make his obeisance and almost punched himself in the eye.

Sparrow's eyes cleared a little. and he smiled. "I'd offer ye'a drink but i'ss all gone."

"Why no it ain't, Cap'n. Right 'ere, in yer pocket." Gibbs reached down, wavering.

"What luck! An' c'mpny too." Sparrow's smile grew sweeter, then he slumped forward again.

Gibbs helped himself to the rum—well, 'twas his own, after all—and sat, watching everything swirl and double as a legend snored his way through the night, his head pillowed on one arm.

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Read the sequel, A Sail of Silver.