Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales Novelization

by Elizabeth Rudnick

  “Hand me your sword.”

  Henry shook his head. “I have no weapon.”

  “What kind of soldier has no sword?” Jack asked, surprised.

  “I’m currently wanted for treason.”

  There was a pause. “So not a very good kind,” the pirate observed.

  Henry shrugged. He couldn’t argue with that. Although, if he had had the time or inclination, he might have pointed out that while he might not be a good soldier, at least he wasn’t locked up. “I’ve come to see the pirate Jack Sparrow,” Henry said instead, hoping his words might put an end to the uncomfortable position he currently found himself in.

  That seemed to do the trick. The arm loosened around his neck. Quickly, Henry stepped back. As he caught his breath, he finally had the chance to look at the pirate he had heard so much about. “Where is your ship?” he asked. “Your crew? Your…pants?”

  Sure enough, Jack was without his pants. He shrugged. “A great pirate doesn’t require such intricacies.”

  Henry was horrified. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this moment?” he asked. “I’ve risked everything to be here! Are you sure you’re the Jack Sparrow?”

  “We both know who I am. The question remains”—the pirate took a step closer to the bars and stared Henry down with kohl-rimmed eyes—“who are you?”

  Henry hesitated. “My name is Henry Turner,” he finally said. “Son of Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann.”

  Jack frowned. He pulled back and then reached through the bars, turning Henry’s head one way, then the other, studying him. “Ecch!” he finally said, apparently seeing the resemblance. “So you are the evil spawn of them two?” Henry nodded, ripping his face free of the pirate’s long ringed fingers. “Does Mommy ever ask about me?”

  “Never,” Henry said, surprised by Jack’s question.

  “Did she call my name in her sleep?” Jack pressed.

  Henry shook his head. “She never spoke of you.”

  Letting out a sigh, Jack finally moved on—sort of. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same people? He’s a cursed eunuch, she’s golden-haired and stubborn, pouty lips, neck like a giraffe, and two of those wonderful—”

  “Yes, yes, it’s her!” Henry interrupted, his voice rising. He cringed. Had the pirate no sense of decency? That was Henry’s mother he was talking about. He lowered his voice and went on. “I need you to listen, Jack, because at the moment, you’re all I’ve got! I found a way to save my father. There is one thing that can break his curse and free him from the Dutchman—the Trident of Poseidon.”

  “A treasure to be found with a Map No Man Can Read?” Jack asked after a moment. He shrugged. “Never heard of it.”

  Henry frowned. Clearly the pirate had heard of it, or else he wouldn’t have known exactly how to find the treasure. A part of Henry wanted to walk away and leave the snarky pirate to rot in his cell. But while that might have brought him some sense of satisfaction, he knew he couldn’t.

  “There is a girl in this prison who holds the map,” he continued. “Look to that window, Jack—the moon has turned to blood. The Trident will be found….” He stopped as the sound of snoring filled the cell. Jack had pretended to fall asleep.

  Slowly, Jack turned from the window. “Sorry,” he said, feigning indifference. “Were you still talking? I believe I nodded off….” He watched Henry’s face fall before turning his back on the boy, the conversation over.

  Dejected, Henry spun on his heel to leave. But then he paused. He had one last card to play. “There’s one other thing,” he said over his shoulder. “A message from someone you know. A captain named…Salazar.”

  Henry’s words did the trick. Jack’s face grew pale, and he struggled to stop his hands from shaking. “I once knew a Spaniard named something in Spanish,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.

  “El Matador del Mar!” Henry said, exasperated by Jack’s inability to be serious. “The Butcher of the Sea!”

  Jack Sparrow shook his head. He knew that was impossible. Salazar was dead. Sunk to the bottom of the sea. There was no feasible or conceivable way that he could be coming for him.

  Apparently, however, it was quite feasible. “He’s coming for you, Jack, to seek revenge as the dead man’s tale is told.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Jack said, his tone not convincing either of them. He leaned a bit closer. “What did he say?” he whispered.

  “He said your compass was the key to his escape,” Henry replied.

  Jack reached for the compass only to remember that it was not there. It was, to his knowledge, still sitting behind the bar among a pile of trinkets and gold.

  Unaware that one of Jack’s most prized possessions was no longer with him, Henry went on, his words oddly prophetic. “An army of dead are coming straight for you, Jack. The Trident of Poseidon is your only hope. So…do we have an accord?” He held out his hand and waited.

  Jack looked at the young man staring at him hopefully. He saw so much of Will in the boy’s eyes. The hope, the trust, the drive. He had always found those qualities in Will Turner irksome. He found them equally irksome in Will’s son. Still, the boy had a point. Jack had lost his compass. The Black Pearl was a useless toy. His prospects were, well, dim. Finally, he gave a small nod. “Do you have any silver?” he asked, taking Henry’s hand. “Because we’re going to need a crew.” He looked down at his outfit—or lack thereof. “And pants.”

  Life aboard the Queen Anne’s Revenge was good. While Jack’s luck had taken a decided turn for the worse, Captain Hector Barbossa’s luck had taken a decided turn for the better—the much, much better. Since parting ways with Jack and his shenanigans, Barbossa had taken over the pirate world. He no longer had just one boat; he had a fleet. He no longer had just a crew; he had crews. His name was whispered with fear in ports across the Caribbean, and when his Jolly Roger was spotted at sea, pirates and soldiers alike knew it was only a matter of time before they were conquered.

  Barbossa had just concluded another successful round of pillaging and plundering and brought the Queen Anne’s Revenge into port. The ship looked less like a ship and more like the inside of an antique shop or museum. Countless statues, yards of silk, dozens of rugs, and furniture decorated with pure gold were stacked helter-skelter across the wooden decking. His men had already passed the majority of the day spending their spoils and had returned to the ship to continue their celebration. On deck, two men were fighting over a pair of gold candlesticks while another pirate watched, drinking his ale from a priceless Chinese vase.

  Inside his quarters, Barbossa stood among his own private treasure. While he had been generous with his crew, he always kept the best for himself. Gold and jewels spilled off shelves and onto the floor. A large priceless painting lay across a chaise, while in one corner were several more, heaped upon each other carelessly.

  Barbossa himself had become shinier, too. His beard, which had once been ratty and knotted, was brushed smooth and shined with expensive oil. He wore a wig of thick, luscious brown curls. His clothes were made of the finest materials stolen money could buy, and his wooden peg leg had been replaced with one made of solid gold. He looked every bit the king of pirates as he sat in his ornate chair, eating orange candies and listening to the dulcet tones of a string quartet.

  Suddenly, the door to his quarters burst open and Mullroy and Murtogg rushed in. The two former marines, who had turned their back on the navy and joined Barbossa’s crew, were, as usual, the picture of incompetence. They fumbled over each other as they tried to talk to their captain.

  “Sir,” Mullroy began, elbowing Murtogg, “we know you said never to disturb you—”

  “Or to come in without good cause—” Murtogg added.

  “Or to speak without first asking ourselves if our thoughts were absolutely necessary…” Mullroy hesitated as Barbossa finally raised his head from the ledgers in front of him. He shot the newer pirates a stern look. Mullroy gulped. Perhaps that was one
of those times when he should have thought a little bit harder….

  Barbossa seemed to agree. “Speak,” he commanded, raising his gun and aiming it at them. “Quickly.”

  Both men took a nervous step back. Then, in a rush, they informed Barbossa that three of his ships had been attacked. “All your silver at the bottom of the sea,” Mullroy explained. “A captain named Salazar left one man on each ship to tell the tale. Soon enough, he’ll sink your entire fleet.”

  As the two men rambled on, Barbossa’s eyes narrowed. So Salazar was back from the dead. That fact did not surprise him. Barbossa had outlived his own curse and learned that the seas had a way of bringing back that which had been thought lost. Nor did the fact that Salazar was going after pirate ships surprise him. In life, Salazar had been ruthless in his hatred of pirates. Then it had been he, not Barbossa, who had struck fear into the hearts of all those who sailed the seas under the Jolly Rogers of pirates big and small. No, nothing about the news surprised him. But it did anger—and worry—him. For if indeed it was Salazar out for revenge, it meant that Barbossa’s current run of good luck was about to come to an end. And he wasn’t particularly ready for that to happen.

  He turned his gaze out through the large windows at the back of his quarters. He was going to need help. And not just any kind of help. To fight the cursed, he was going to need to find someone who knew the ways of the dark arts—black magic. Luckily, he happened to know of someone with just that particular talent.

  Barbossa peered through the bars into the cell in front of him. From inside, he could hear someone chanting in a singsongy voice.

  He took a deep breath. He liked having the bars between him and the sea witch held prisoner by the royal guards. However, he could not conduct his business with her on one side and him on the other. So while he knew it was not wise to arrive at the cell of the notorious sea witch Shansa with warning and it was downright foolish to arrive completely unannounced, Barbossa just hoped that perhaps the witch had the skill to have sensed his arrival. And that if he screamed, a guard might hear and come to his aid….

  Pushing the cell door open, he stepped inside. The chanting was coming from a woman standing over a steaming pot. As he watched, a rat crawled up the woman’s arm and moved comfortably around her shoulders before settling in on one.

  “I’ve been expecting you, Captain. Perhaps you’d like some tea?”

  Slowly, the woman turned around. Barbossa saw that Shansa, backlit by the fire, had not lost any of her unique beauty in the time that had passed since he last saw her. She was striking, with piercing eyes and sharp cheekbones and intricate tattoos patterned across her bare head, arms, and legs. Long, powerful fingers gently stroked the rat that sat on her shoulder, and even from a distance, Barbossa could have sworn she glowed with magic.

  Catching sight of several more rats coming out of the pot she had just gestured to for “tea”—which looked to be a thick, bright green substance—Barbossa shook his head. “I’ll pass.” Her eyes narrowed and he hastily added a “thank you.” Looking past her into the shadows, Barbossa made out the skeletal remains of a man. It would do him no good to prolong the interaction. He needed to get to the reason for his visit. “You and I made our deal long ago,” he began. “I saved you from the gallows—”

  “And I, in turn, cursed your enemies,” the sea witch finished. “But now you come to me in fear, as the dead have taken command of the sea.”

  Barbossa nodded. That much he knew. “What be the dead wanting with me?” he asked, getting to what he didn’t know.

  Shansa turned back to her pot and looked into it. “Not you, Captain,” she finally said, correcting him, seeing something in the pot that Barbossa could not. “They’re searching for a Sparrow.”

  “Jack?” Barbossa clarified. Shansa nodded. Barbossa held back a groan. He should have known. Of course Jack would be involved in this. Somehow the wily pirate always ended up in some sort of magical misfortune. Bad luck followed him like a puppy followed bacon.

  Still staring into the pot, Shansa went on. “Jack will sail for the Trident with a girl—and a Pearl.”

  “The Trident will never be found!” Barbossa shouted, the noise startling the rat on Shansa’s shoulder. Ignoring the rodent’s hiss of disapproval, Barbossa pressed on. He didn’t care about Jack. He didn’t care about a mythical item he knew was just that—a myth.

  Shansa motioned to the pot. Barbossa moved closer. Through the steam, he watched as a scene unfolded. A large dark ship, its sails torn and its sides rotten, prowled after a helpless pirate ship. The Silent Mary fell upon the other ship. In moments, its dead crew had swarmed the other boat like ants over a picnic. He couldn’t hear them, but Barbossa could imagine the shrill screams as the living were overtaken by the dead. He pulled back, his face ashen beneath his beard.

  “The dead are conquering the sea,” Shansa said softly. “But they are unable to step on dry land. You must take to the hills.”

  “You mean grass?” Barbossa said, spitting out the word. “You expect me to start a farm…milk things…make cheese while they destroy all that is mine? While they sink my treasure?”

  The sea witch shrugged. “Ask yourself this, Captain: is it a treasure worth dying for?”

  Barbossa didn’t hesitate. “Aye,” he answered with a firm nod. “I’m a pirate. Always will be. How do I save what be mine?”

  Shansa reached into her pocket and pulled something out. She clutched it in her hand for a moment as if weighing whether to show Barbossa the item. Finally, she uncurled her fingers. Barbossa’s eyes grew wide with surprise. Shansa held Jack’s beloved compass. Dropping it, she let the item swing slowly from its chain. “Jack held a compass which points you to the thing you desire most. But betray that compass…and it releases your greatest fear.”

  “And every pirate’s greatest fear is Salazar!” Barbossa exclaimed. He reached out, his fingers aching to close around the compass. “How did you get this?”

  “I have my ways,” the sea witch replied mysteriously. “Lead them to Jack before he finds the Trident and all your treasure will come back to you.”

  Slowly, Barbossa reached out and took the compass from Shansa. In exchange, he gave her a small black bag. Emptying some golden coins into her hand, Shansa nodded. Their deal was done.

  But he still had another deal to make. A deal with the dead.

  “The sun is up! Time to die, pirate!”

  The door to Jack’s cell was thrown open. Two soldiers stalked over, grabbed Jack by the arms, and dragged him out into the hall. Jack hung limply, oddly calm despite the fact that, according to one of the two men, he was about to die.

  As they made their way closer to the prison’s exit, Jack heard someone singing. The tune was familiar, as was the voice singing it. “Dad?” Jack asked, hopeful. The last time he had seen Teague, the man had been warning him about searching for the Fountain of Youth. As Keeper of the Pirate Code, a title the usually unserious pirate took very seriously, Teague knew more than anyone about the ins and outs of the sea. It would have been a lucky twist of fate in a very unlucky moment for Jack to run into him. But as Jack passed the cell from which the singing emanated, he saw it was not his father. “Uncle Jack?” Jack cried in recognition.

  “Jackie boy!” the man in the cell replied happily. He stepped forward. In the dim light of the prison, Jack saw his uncle. The man’s hair was dreadlocked like Jack’s own and his eyes were the same brown, although they were cloudy with age and the skin around them was wrinkled. “How’s it going?” the older pirate asked his nephew.

  “Can’t complain, really,” Jack replied, as though they were having the conversation in the pub, not a prison. “You?”

  “Never better,” Uncle Jack replied. “Been waiting all morning to be beaten.” He paused, then leaned forward and whispered, “They have terrible service here.”

  “Shameful,” Jack replied.

  Looking around, Uncle Jack hesitated and then gestured for Jack to g
et closer. Jack leaned in as far as he could under the grip of the guards. “The oceans have turned to blood, Jack. Best to stay on dry land, where it’s safe.”

  Jack Sparrow frowned. “I’m about to be executed on dry land….”

  “Good point,” Uncle Jack acknowledged. Then he shrugged. “Have I ever told you the one about the skeleton?”

  Jack sighed. His uncle had told him the joke, many times. It wasn’t even that funny. “Well, it was lovely to see you…” He paused, struggling for the right thing to say to a relative in a prison cell. “Anyway, I hope you have a wonderful execution.”

  “And you as well,” Uncle Jack replied. “If you’re getting disemboweled, ask for Victor. He has the softest hands.”

  The British soldiers gave Jack’s arms a yank. While he would have enjoyed nothing more than to stay and chat with his uncle—and avoid the inevitable—it seemed the soldiers felt otherwise. They continued to drag him down the hall, out of the prison, and into the main square of Saint Martin.

  A rather large crowd had gathered for the “entertainment.” Men, women, and children filled the square to near bursting. They shouted and jeered at the line of prisoners awaiting their deaths. Jack glanced around and saw the girl from the map shop in a cage along with several other “witches.” He gave her a brief nod.

  “How would you like to die, pirate?”

  Jack looked up. A large guard was standing in front of him. How would he like to die? What a novel question. He had never given it much thought. There were just so many options….

  “Hanging, firing squad, or a new invention—the guillotine?” the guard asked, pressing him.

  Jack hesitated. “Guillotine,” he finally said. “Sounds French. I love the French. They invented mayonnaise. How bad can it be?”

  The guard turned Jack around so that he was facing the guillotine. Jack gulped. Apparently, he did not like all things French. The contraption in front of him was something out of his worst nightmares. A large blade hung suspended between two wooden arms. Below it was a block with a human-neck-sized notch taken out of it. Jack gulped again. He had changed his mind. The firing squad would be lovely. Especially if he could have a blindfold…