Part IV: 128
The crew of the Black Pearl gathered in a grim semi-circle around the mainmast. There was none of the usual rowdy cheering; a strange, heavy tension hung in the air. Even for pirates, the sheer scale of the debt Jack was demanding felt monumental.
Norrington was led to the mast. His hands were bound with rough hemp rope and hoisted above his head, forcing him to stand on his tiptoes. Two pirates stepped forward and stripped him of his salt-stained tunic, leaving his torso bare to the biting spray and the judgmental eyes of the crew.
He looked small against the massive timber of the mast, but he refused to bow his head. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, his jaw locked in a grimace of absolute defiance.
Jack sauntered into the center of the ring, trailing a heavy, knotted whip behind him. He didn’t look like the bumbling rogue now. He looked like a man about to perform a cold, necessary calculation.
“One hundred and forty,” Jack announced to the crew, his voice carrying over the wind. “The price for a hundred and forty lives. Let it not be said that Captain Jack Sparrow isn’t a man of business.”
He stepped behind Norrington. The Commodore felt the heat of Jack’s presence, heard the soft thwack of the leather being readied.
“The first dozen, James,” Jack whispered, so low only Norrington could hear. “Try not to scream. It spoils the rhythm.”
The first strike was a sudden, white-hot explosion of pain across his shoulder blades. Norrington’s breath left him in a sharp, silent hiss. He slammed his forehead against the wood of the mast, his eyes snapping shut as the leather bit into his skin.
One.
The second strike followed almost immediately, crossing the first. The pain was more intense this time, a searing line of fire that seemed to sink deep into his muscle.
Two.
By the fifth strike, the skin was broken. Norrington’s world narrowed down to the rough texture of the mast’s bark against his forehead and the rhythmic, agonizing heat blooming across his back. He felt the warm trickle of blood beginning to run down his ribs, a sensation that felt sickeningly intimate in the cold air.
He didn’t scream. He ground his teeth together until he feared they would shatter, his muscles jumping and spasming with every blow. Each strike was a testament to a life saved—Gillette, Murtogg, the cabin boy—and that thought was the only thing that kept his knees from buckling.
“Twelve,” Jack finally called out, his voice flat.
He stepped back, the whip dripping crimson onto the deck. Norrington hung from his bonds, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat and blood. His head slumped forward, his hair matted to his forehead.
Jack walked around to face him, lifting Norrington’s chin with the tip of the whip’s handle. The Commodore’s eyes were glassy, unfocused, but the fire of his will was still burning deep within the pupils.
“A good start, James,” Jack murmured, his expression unreadable. “Only a hundred and twenty-eight to go. But as I promised… we have all the time in the world.”
He turned to the Bo’sun. “Take him to the brig. Not the main hold—the small cell near the stern. Keep him separate. Give him water. We wouldn’t want our currency to expire before the debt is collected, would we?”
As the pirates cut him down, Norrington collapsed into their arms, his legs unable to support him. He was dimly aware of being dragged away, his back a screaming map of agony, but as the darkness of the lower decks swallowed him, he held onto one thought:
Twelve men are safe. Only a hundred and twenty-eight left to buy.