Jack Sparrow, cartographer's apprentice on the Golden Venture, has a lot to learn. The actual cartography he absorbs like mother's milk: it's just a matter of finding tools for what he's been doing in his head as long as he can remember. As for navigation, the hardest parts are persuading the first mate to show him the basics and remembering to let the officers get there first.

Not everything comes so easy. The position of cartographer's apprentice (and indeed of cartographer) turns out not to command quite the admiration Jack had supposed: he quickly understands that he'd better make himself as useful and pleasant as possible if he's not to be ship's whipping boy for the duration of the voyage. Luckily, he's had plenty of practice charming clients and tradesmen at the Wench, and is happy to take on any task for the sheer thrill of getting acquainted with the ship and the sea. He swabs a lot of deck, patches a lot of canvas, and soon earns a reputation for hard work, fast learning, and good-natured cheeriness. (The exception is carpentry. Much as he wants to understand how the ship is put together, wood that he cuts never quite fits; pieces he joins have a habit of coming apart.)

By the time they put in at Recife (ostensibly to trade English wool for tobacco, but really for a final provisioning stop before entering Spanish territory), Jack knows not only his ropes, but how to ascertain latitude, calculate the ship's speed by means of the log, navigate by dead reckoning, and use a nocturnal to tell the time at night. He can spit his baccy to hit a swooping gull on one attempt in three, and even sleep in a hammock without injuring himself when he falls out. (Not falling out will take longer.) He's also learned the English names for his familiar stars and for the ones that appeared when they crossed the Line. (Of course, he marked the occasion with the traditional extra grog, tattoo, and earring, but it's the new stars that really impress him: at his insistence, the mermaid who now cavorts lewdly athwart his right buttock does so under the twinkling eyes of both the Great Bear and the Southern Cross.)

Perhaps it's the enormity of seeing the Pole Star vanish from the heavens that makes him take heed when Jeb, the long-suffering carpenter, warns him not to spend all his pay on whores and drink in the sweltering tropics until he's got himself a spare shirt, a good coat, and some mittens. (Also, the whores aren't quite the temptation they will be when he's older.)

"It's flaming draughty round Cape Horn," sings Jeb with a theatrical shudder as he taps a larch-wood fillet into the gap in the latest of Jack's wobbly dovetails, humming the rest of the shanty as he planes it down. Sixty days and thousands of miles later, most of it southwards, the deck turns slippery as spilled oil and Jack sees icicles for the first time in his life. Aloft the mizzen top, he snaps an especially perfect ice spear from what he now unhesitatingly recognises as a starboard futtock shroud, and turns it in the watery sun until his fingers melt holes in it. A few more days, and he'll be knocking icicles out of his hair by the dozen, never giving them a thought.

~

Jack's lessons with Mr. Askew continue through all but the harshest weather. They huddle over the table in the cartographer's tiny hutch of a cabin, annotating the Atlantic coast and studying what awaits them in the South Sea, Magellan's Mare Pacificum. Here, Mr. Askew has marked possible positions of Terra Australis Incognita, the elusive Southern Continent, and of the gold-rich Isles of Solomon, not seen since they were charted nigh on two centuries ago by a Spaniard called Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa. (Sarmiento de Gamboa was abandoned in New Spain and his charts dumped overboard to secure the claims of a rival navigator: "For which reason we shall endeavour to accord full credit to Captain Redruth and his officers, whether it be merited or no.")

Jack, who can now interpret the figures on his father's map as latitude and longitude, is first thrilled to find that the blank region suspected of concealing the Isles of Solomon lies in roughly the same area, then dismayed at the vastness of that blank, surrounded by more trackless, featureless blank. There is more ocean than Jack's hitherto omnipotent imagination can comprehend. But still he drinks it all in, and dreams of stars, horizons and distant landfalls.

Sometimes, for a change, Mr. Askew unrolls charts of lands close to his home: Britain, Holland, Spain, Germany, France; or, seized by cartographical wanderlust, presents Jack with Newfoundland, far Cathay, Singapore or India. Jack opens his eyes wide and memorises whatever appears before him.

He learns of the race to claim the New World, a race already won by Spain, leaving other nations to bicker over the scraps and pilfer what they can from her glutted treasure fleets. He hears of the mighty Inca Empire, savage and illiterate but so rich their children's toys are cast from solid gold, now subjugated to the Spanish Viceroyalty of Peru. The same Viceroyalty where dwell a heathen tribe the Spaniards call los Jivaros, a people so savage not even Pizarro could conquer them. Los Jivaros practice what Askew calls cranial extraction: they take out their enemies' skulls and display the tanned and shrunken heads as trophies. Furthermore, they slaughtered tens of thousands of colonists and forced molten gold down the throat of a greedy governor until his bowels burst, spewing crimson steam. Jack shudders and gasps, but the horror on his face masks equal parts of admiration and scepticism.

At other times, Mr. Askew pulls out a book from his trunk and attempts to teach Jack Latin (with pleasing results) or Greek (with almost no discernible results), or he lies back on the bunk and asks Jack to read to him in English or French. Jack is often frustrated, occasionally disheartened, but invariably fascinated by the intellectual profusion lavished on him. It's as though the cartographer has thrown open a locked treasure chest and is heaping gold coins in his lap faster than he can count them.

So when Mr. Askew rests a trembling hand on Jack's thigh and quavers, "Are you aware that you bear a most striking resemblance to your pretty sister?" Jack's main response is relief that he can begin to square accounts. He's always viewed bodily pleasure as an effective—and sometimes enjoyable—form of currency; he'll never understand why Askew's infrequent and diffident fumblings are the only times the transaction sickens him.

~

The voyage from Plymouth has taken longer than hoped and the weather is worsening fast. Mr. Askew wants to avoid Cape Horn and seek the passage through the Strait of Magellan, north of Terra del Fuego, accidentally taken by the Frenchman, Marcand in the Sainte Barbe. Jack has just enough sense to keep his mouth shut and ears open when the first mate, Mr. Collier, points out frostily that the Golden Venture is a three-masted bark. This apparently makes trying to follow the Sainte Barbe (a single-masted tartane) not unlike a bull trying to fuck a chicken.

Captain Redruth, on the other hand, contends that she's shallow on the draught and anything that promises shelter from the approaching southern winter has to be worth a try. "When you've been at sea as long as I have, Mr. Collier, you'll find chickens can be more accommodating than you think."

Authority and cartography carry the day. They locate the passage and sail through, south of New Spain, but north of Cape Horn. On their port side, Terra del Fuego lives up to its name: it sparkles with fires lit by the local Savages. "To show they mean to cook and eat us if we come to shore," says Mr. Collier.

Jack privately thinks that if he lived in this frozen hellhole he'd probably light all the fires he could build.

On the fifth day of May, the Venture comes through the Strait—Jack helping to update charts whenever he can be spared from the cold, dangerous work aloft—to enter the South Sea off the discouragingly—but fittingly—named Port Famine. The total damage suffered is minor under the circumstances: two men lost overboard and a third to a broken leg; a splintered yardarm, considerable damage to rope and canvas, and a number of fingers and toes claimed by frostbite. (None of the latter belong to Jack, for which he thanks Jeb by making sure the old carpenter's hammock stays warm as often as possible.)

They spend a week refitting and replenishing their stocks of food, water, and firewood at an uninhabited island, then head off into the unknown. The cartographer is convinced the elusive Southern Continent lies to their west but is overruled: everyone (even Jack, though he never says so) wants to head north, away from winter's strengthening grip.

This turns out not to be a good decision.

~

Crossing the Pacific will, of course, feature in the subsequent legend of Captain Jack Sparrow, but never in detail. Jack will tell himself that a passing mention carries more weight than wild-eyed tales, implying as it does that Jack and horror are on nodding terms. The truth is he'll never willingly dwell on memories of that voyage. He'll show his scars from sea monsters and cannibal spears, point out teeth lost to scurvy, or the time he watched waterspouts pass the ship to both sides at once, but he'll move quickly on to exploits involving Spanish gold or admirals' daughters.

It's not that he couldn't sail across the Pacific again—of course he could. It's just that he's never met anything he wanted to run away from that badly.

~

After weeks on the open ocean, the islands where they'd hoped to make landfall fail to appear. They have enough confidence in their position to spend days quartering the area before concluding that the charts are at fault. Endless weeks later, storm-blown, becalmed, frozen and baked by turns, all they know for certain is their latitude (when they can see enough of the sky), and which ocean they are in.

They try following flocks of fishing birds and even pods of whales, but neither leads them to land. Their supplies dwindle or rot. Fish and rainwater offer some relief, and there's hardtack if you can get it moist enough to chew, but Jack is alarmed how often the talk turns to eating of boots, hempen rope, and in particular tender young cabin boys.

At last, the lookout spies floating twigs—real ones, not seaweed. Exhaustion gives way to excitement as the trail leads to more debris, smaller, landlubberly birds, and the glorious sight of cloud-covered mountain peaks rising about the waves. They are saved!

Everyone who can still walk volunteers for the landing party. Jack, despite his entreaties, is left on the ship with Mr. Askew and Captain Redruth. From this vantage, they watch the yawl pull up on a sandy beach and the lucky sods aboard split into three groups to hunt, look for water, and pull greens for the sick. Jack and Askew divert themselves from the rumbling in their stomachs by charting what they can see of the coast. Jack is viewing the hills through his spyglass, trying to come up with something more specific than "trees" to mark on the map, when he hears a commotion behind him and Redruth ordering anyone who can still crew a gun to get below.

Down on the gundeck, there's no knowing what's afoot, although it's obvious the landing party has come under attack. Jack helps ready a gun and fire it at the closest of the still unspecified trees, possibly because the attackers are lurking there, or perhaps just for the sake of damaging something that's not too close to the landing party. No more orders being forthcoming, he opens a spare gunport and takes a look.

The greens-pulling party and a few of the water-seekers are struggling to get the yawl out to sea. Quite a few of them seem to be wounded. The hunting party are trapped at the top of the beach by a large group of distinctly unfriendly savages with spears and bows. (Which explains the sticks and feathers poking out of the wounded.) Things must have been looking pretty good for the savages until the gun blew a hole in the forest. This has clearly made an impression, although not enough to allow the hunting party to make a break for it.

"Make ready to fire!"

Jack scurries back to his post. This time, the shots hit closer to where the hunting party is held at bay. The savages point excitedly at the shattered greenery and the smoke gusting from the side of the Venture. Very sensibly, in Jack's opinion, most of them decide to bugger off, legging it towards the undamaged end of the beach in a less than dignified fashion.

The hunters fight their way through a few stauncher (or stupider) savages. The yawl picks up all those who make it to the water. It's a discouraging tally. Only the fittest and most experienced sailors got a place in the landing party; now four of them are dead and six more wounded, including Mr. Collier, who took an arrow to the shoulder. All they have to show for this are a few bundles of dubious-looking greenery, optimistically termed "wild celery". (As it turns out, the chewy green stuff does seem to help with the symptoms of scurvy, but there's not much of it and no-one fancies going back for more.)

~

It's several weeks and too many deaths before they next sight land. (Their longitude, as estimated in each officer's log, varies by over 20 degrees; their latitude is about 26 degrees south of the equator.) It's another small island, this time ringed by a reef that holds the ship out of firing distance of the shore. Hungrier, but warier than last time, they circle round, looking always for signs of habitation or a safe harbour.

Jack can still stand watch, although there's less actual standing than sitting or lying, which is easier on joints swollen with scurvy. He held out well at first—perhaps thanks to sharing Askew's store of sweet biscuits and marmalade—but now the disease has him in its grip. His limbs ache, his skin's peeling off, and his gums are like wet flannel: he's lost two of his front teeth and doesn't even have the energy to mind. For all that, he's the first to spy the canoe.

"Canoe" is what everyone immediately calls it. But Jack knows canoes, and this isn't one: it's big, with curving, carved bow and stern posts, and not one but two proper hulls, one supporting a hut-like cabin, the other apparently some kind of counterweight or stabiliser. And it has masts and sails. Beautiful sails, woven out of leaves, with big bellies and a strange, claw-like point at the top that gives them the look of seashells, or lilies grown to catch the wind. It carries almost a dozen natives, and there are three more coming round the promontory.

A sailor waves a white cloth, which they've heard is a sign of peace throughout the South Sea. The muscular, well-fed, healthy-looking men in the canoe keep their bows drawn but lower them ever so slightly so the arrowheads point at the water. The wasted and shambling men of the Venture throw empty bottles, strings of beads, and a length of calico towards the canoe. These are picked up with apparent approval.

Captain Redruth conveys, by sign language and shouting, that they need water, food, and a place to come ashore, for which they are willing to trade more cloth and trinkets. A particularly impressive islander flaps his arms and shouts in a way that could be welcoming or could mean, "Depart our sovereign waters instantly, or prepare to die." But the arrows still point down. Everyone aboard the Venture cheers, hoping a bargain has been struck.

~

A few days later, nobody having shot anybody as yet, Jack is sprawled on the sand beside a smouldering fire, picking stewed fish and wild celery strings out of his teeth and—despite the unpleasant new gaps in his mouth—generally feeling good about life.

"Sparrow! Get yer arse out of the sand! Cap'n wants you."

Captain Redruth has had the actually quite sensible idea of sending a delegation to the nearest village to improve the current arrangements for food, water, and shelter. The only volunteer is a crewman called Ben Scroope who, for some reason, has picked Jack to accompany him.

"Why d'you have to go an' pick me?" Jack demands as soon as they are out of earshot. "What've I ever done to you?"

"Nuffin," says Ben affably, adding on further reflection, "Nuffin I din't like. But don' you see? You should be thankin' me fer this, 'stead of bellyachin'."

"How's that then?"

Ben glances nervously over his shoulder—the vegetation hides them completely from view—and whispers, "I ain't a-goin' back on that ship. Not never."

To his own surprise, Jack understands exactly what Ben means. He keeps his mouth shut for fear of agreeing.

"I dunno what these blackamoors live on, but I reckon they do alright—tall an' plump, an' all, an' I ain't never seen 'em do more work than fishin' or paddlin' them canoes. An' the girls, Jackie! Runnin' round wiv no more'n a scrap o' stuff t' cover 'em. An' more'n willin' to show what's under it if you so much as give 'em the ol' once over."

Jack nods, happily, remembering how the crew were greeted by near-naked, gyrating girls who jiggled their bare titties under your chin (well, roughly level with Jack's, but under everyone else's) and flipped their skimpy loincloths out of the way to let you view the goods. They'd pulled a few startled (but definitely unresisting) men towards the bushes...

"Remember it well, Ben. Pity the officers had to chase 'em away." He's struck by a sudden thought. "D'you reckon we might run into 'em again at the village?"

"Now yer getting' it, lad! Still sorry I brought you along?"

"All depends," says Jack, "on whether they decide to gobble us up figuratively or literally." This goes right past Ben Scroope, so—rather than embark on one of Mr. Askew's educational excursions—Jack changes tack. "Why me though? Thought you'd've picked Bob Platt..."

"Bob's a good mate, but he'll wallop anyone 'e thinks is givin' him lip. What we need's a way to make these savages unnerstand wot we're after, someone wot talks their language."

"Which I don't."

"C'mon mate! I know yer not Spanish. You got a lick of the tar brush—no mistakin' that. I don't hold it agin you, mind—not me—an' I won't go blabbin' to them as would. If anyone can cosy up to the locals, it's you. Anyhow, you'd charm the pants off Davy Jones hisself, you would."

"Oh would I?" says Jack, who'd been about to object vigorously, but finds himself distracted by possibilities. The likes of Bob Platt, Mr. Collier, Captain Redruth, and even Mr. Askew probably expect the villagers will be honoured to trade their entire food stocks for some sea-spoiled cloth. And they're liable to counter reluctance with gunpowder...

"Get us 'nough food an' timber to keep the cap'n quiet, then tell 'em a few of us wants to stay 'ere."

"Not so fast, Ben. S'pose a couple of these savages showed up on yer auntie's doorstep in Plymouth an' asked to move in, eh? What we gotta do is to bide our time an' make 'em take a shine to us 'fore we start askin' for favours."

"Aye," concedes Ben after a pause for unaccustomed thought, during which Jack's opinion of him rises several notches. "We oughter've brung gifts or sumfin'."

"We have!" Jack holds out his hands to display an earring, a knife, a flask, assorted coins, some battered playing cards, a thimble, a comb, a whistle...

"Where'd you... Oh." Ben pats his now empty pockets, but grins gamely. "Fair 'nuff, I s'pose, as trade fer a whole new life. Go on then, Jackie—do yer worst!"

Jack doesn't answer. He's already at work on his legend.

~

Well, you see now, there were hundreds'n'hundreds of these Savages—with spears an' poisoned arrows an' such—an' I could see the Cap'n was goin' to shoot his musket and get us all killed, so I borrowed some goods from the hold and went to trade with 'em meself, on the quiet like. Was best friends with the chief in no time. Asked me to marry all four of his daughters. But that's another story...