Hope

Men talked about him behind his back, he knew that. Men whispered and pointed – there goes, they said, the famous Captain Jack Sparrow, the captain of the Black Pearl, though the ship’s gone. Happen he’s trying to get ‘er back. Not like he ever will.

He ignored them. What did they know about his Pearl? She’d come back to him, one day.

But time drew on. At times he wondered whether to throw himself into the depths with a bellyful of rum. Then he remembered what had got him through the years. Hope that she’d return. More than hope. Certainty.

Anger

Jack had always prided himself on being a cool, collected sort. He faced any situation with equanimity, dealt with it calmly and got himself out of it.

He didn’t get angry. Anger was for those weaker than him, less savvy than him. Like Barbossa …

At the thought of his mutinous mate, Jack felt another rush of red rage drive through him. Not only was the Black Pearl in the blackguard’s hands, she was also in very bad state.

He kicked his toes in the puddle on the brig’s floor, and thought grimly of what he would do to Barbossa.

Fortitude

As a little girl, she had been made to walk the long corridors of her London home with a book on her head; made to lie on a backboard until her posture was ramrod-straight. She’d complained at first, but it got her nothing except the slap of a birch rod on her palms and a disapproving look from her father.

So she’d stopped complaining, bearing the discomfort in silence.

Now, she reflected, as the pirates (such filthy hands!) put the chain around her neck and took her into the boat, the early discomfort had taught her more than she knew.

Greed

Her father always had a problem in keeping her under control. When she was small, she would be found in the garden chasing birds, her skirts all over mud. As she got older, her rebellious streak manifested itself in the stories she read. Not for her edifying tales of virtuous girls, giving their lives for the greater good – no, Elizabeth liked stories about pirates, highwaymen and thieves, common scoundrels. Even when he tried rationing the tales, she would sneak more into her room, devouring them by candlelight. Greed drove her, greed for the glamour of the illegal.

Greed for freedom.

Temperance

“Good work, young Will,” said Brown the blacksmith, patting his apprentice on the shoulder. “I’ll be in the tavern ‘f anyone wants me.”

“Aye, sir,” Will said, wiping his brow with his sleeve and watching his master go out. “Of course you will be,” he added, under his breath.

He had been in the blacksmith’s service for a year now. He thought there must have been at most three days, maybe four, when Brown had not been drunk.

As he returned to beating the scythe with his hammer, Will Turner resolved that for him, temperance would be the route forward.

Lust

She was beautiful. He had always known that. But up until this moment, with her jaw clenched in fury and her figure revealed in breeches and shirt, he hadn’t realised quite how beautiful.

A few minutes later the fight was over, and she came close, her cheeks flushed. Will gazed at her, replied to her with the words he thought he should say. Not what he wanted to say – not what he wanted.

He watched her turn and leave the cave, and he wanted her; wanted her with a rush of blood to his stomach.

But the moment had gone.

Justice

This was his job. He was the King’s Navy; he was posted to Jamaica to mete out justice when required. The rules were strict. Pirates, those who flaunted the rules of the ocean, had to be punished. Jack Sparrow, this sea-gypsy with beads in his hair, was indubitably a pirate. There was evidence against him. Therefore, justice had to be done.

“Hang him,” he said, to Gillette. “Take this warrant to Governor Swann to be signed. And prepare the gallows.”

Gillette took the parchment and left. Norrington leaned back in his chair. Justice. The right course – but not the easiest.

Envy

God damn him! First he had caused havoc in Port Royal, before breaking out of gaol and taking the Interceptor. Now he was undermining discipline aboard the Dauntless. Earlier on, Gillette had caught two of the Marines hanging around near the brig, the better to listen to the pirate’s tales; and here he was walking the deck as if he owned the ship.

Norrington scowled at Jack Sparrow’s back, at the jaunty jangle of beads and the carefree flick of wrists. Then he wiped the bitter scowl from his face, straightened his shoulders, and followed the pirate to the boats.

Prudence

Barbossa had considered beating the coordinates out of Jack Sparrow as soon as they’d left Tortuga. He wasn’t entirely sure that the captain would give them up voluntarily – actually, he wasn’t entirely sure that the coordinates, or indeed the island, existed, but if there was the slightest chance of that treasure, Barbossa wanted it.

But he’d restrained himself, held back and plotted with Twigg and Kohler and the rest, and made his move at the opportune moment. He’d even, much to his surprise, persuaded Sparrow’s mate Turner to join them. Sometimes a little prudence paid off.

Sometimes, it did not.

Gluttony

“Fresh apples,” Barbossa had said. “As many as you can find.”

“But cap’n …” stammered his cook.

“Apples,” Barbossa repeated. “Lots of apples.”

“Aye aye sir!” The cook had rushed out, on an apple-buying mission.

He gazed now at the bowl before him, stacked high with fruit. Reached out a beringed hand to take one. Drew it back. Gave into the temptation, seized an apple, bit.

It went flying out of the cabin window like all the rest before it.

Yet somehow he could not stop tasting. One day, he’d be able to eat all the apples he wanted to.

Charity

Elizabeth hung on his coat sleeve.

“What will happen to Will, Father?” she asked, her little face turned up to his, imploring. “He won’t be sent back to England?”

“No, Lizzy, no.” Governor Swann smiled down at his daughter, fondly. “No, we won’t let him be sent back to England.”

Smiling, she let go of his sleeve and skipped over to where the boy was sitting on a pile of rope. She settled down and began to talk, animation lighting up her features.

Weatherby Swann watched them, indulgently. He would do right by the boy – for Elizabeth’s sake, at least.

Pride

She looked even more ravishing today than usual, with her hair swept up and the colour of the new dress complementing her skin. Truly like her mother. Governor Weatherby Swann felt a rush of pride through him at the sight. This was his daughter, the beautiful, clever, lively woman who would certainly become the toast of the island when she married Commodore Norrington. For it was the perfect match, and he was a fine man.

He glanced at young Will Turner, gazing with adoration at Elizabeth. A good boy, but not right for his girl – she deserved only the best.

Faith

At times, through that awful storm, Gibbs wondered if they’d make it. He hauled on lines and yelled at the crew; pushed Will Turner from place to place; swept water from his eyes. Now and then he looked up at the helm, where Captain Jack Sparrow’s face was framed by soaking rats-tails of hair, his dark eyes fixed on some invisible goal.

The wind roared and the rain pelted down, the elements throwing everything they had at the Interceptor. But that figure on the quarterdeck somehow kept Joshamee Gibbs going. So long as Jack Sparrow had faith, so would he.

Sloth

People often asked Gibbs what made him leave the Royal Navy. Was it that he disliked taking orders? No, it wasn’t, he said; given the right captain orders were fine.

So was it the uniform? Given that six years after absconding, Gibbs still wore his good navy coat, this too was unlikely.

Those who knew him best eventually got to the bottom of it. Life in the Royal Navy was just too hard. At heart, Gibbs was a simple soul, with few wants and desires. Mainly what he wanted was leisure – the life of a pirate offered plenty of that.

© Joanne Harris 2004