Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

fingers.
The door to his cabin swung open with barely a sound, and then
he was walking forward, out from under the overhang. He made his
way along the weather deck until he was standing forward of the
mainmast, and then looked up, checking the Wench’s mains’ls. They
were set as he’d ordered, to run before the wind, and were properly
taut, he noted with satisfaction. He glanced forward to the bow, then
back all the way to the taffrail, seeing that the ship’s running lanterns
were lit, casting small pools of light on the decks, like spatters of
molten gold.
Turning, he headed aft, and when he reached the ladder leading
up to the quarterdeck, mounted the steps quickly, his bare feet
knowing every dip and groove. As he set foot on the deck, he spoke
softly, so as not to startle Roger Prescott, the helmsman on watch.
“Ahoy, mate,” he said. “I see we’re making good speed.”
The helmsman swung his head quickly toward him, then nodded.
“Aye, we’re running nicely before the wind, Cap’n. Is everything all
right?”
“Let’s just check,” Jack said, walking over to peer at the binnacle,
with its lantern illuminating the face of the big compass, to check their
heading, then glancing at the traverse board with its movable pegs
showing the progress of their course during the watch.
“Everything’s fine,” Jack reassured Prescott.
“Surprise inspection, Cap’n?” Prescott asked, with a touch of
humor.
Jack chuckled softly. “Do I look like I’m here for an inspection?” he
asked, dryly.
“Frankly, no, Cap’n.”
“Just couldn’t sleep, so I decided to nip up here and enjoy a bit of
fresh air.” He walked over to stand beside Roger for a moment, feeling
the light wind of the Wench’s passage on his face and half-bared torso
like a benediction. “Ahhhhhhh…” he sighed. “That feels very good
indeed. It’s like a midday swamp in my cabin.”
“That draft does feel good, Cap’n,” Prescott agreed. “Still, when I
finish me watch, I know I’ll sleep like a babe.”
Jack had a thought, and smiled. “Tell you what, Mr. Prescott, why