Author's Note: Hey all. Before you get one me about not updating my other stories, I have lots of writing finished, it just needs to be edited and revised before I post it. Anyway, I had an idea for a POTC story, and this is the result. This is the prologue. If I get enough feedback with people wanting more I'll finish writing the rest and post it. Enjoy and tell me what you think.

Disclaimer: I only own my characters and storyline, everything else belongs to its rightful owner

Abigail Fenwick, the young daughter of Lord and Lady Fenwick, formerly of Wallington Hall in Northumbria, was as prim and proper a lady as could be found. She had impeccable manners, a strict sense of propriety, would only wear the most fashionable and expensive gowns, was quite above chatting with sailors, and certainly did not know how to do such scullion and improper activities as swimming, climbing, running, or wrestling.

The lord and lady were quite pleased with their youngest offspring, a welcome relief and unexpected surprise after three successive boys, and had no qualms in showering her with gifts of fine silks, and jewels, and pearls, and a little white pony all of her own. Needless to say she was more than a little spoiled, not that a true lady is ever deserving of such a title.

They were currently onboard a large merchant ship, the Loveday, en route to the thriving port city of Port Royal in the Caribbean. Lord Fenwick had won some attention to himself and had been awarded a large estate on the island, and had promptly decided to move there with his wife and daughter, with an open invitation to his three grown sons who were all in the service of His Majesty's navy.

The vessel, which was by no means a small, insignificant ship, had left London harbor several weeks prior. They had enjoyed a fairly easy passage across the Atlantic, only one storm of any real notability, thus their journey had seen no true delays and they had passed into Caribbean waters before the sun had risen.

As there was no chance of arriving in Port Royal until at least the following day, and that given only if they had a fair wind and clear skies, Miss Fenwick had decided to dress in one of her less fancy gowns, an emerald silk with silver threaded embroidery and tiny freshwater pearls adorning it. Her silken stockings were secured by their garters on her legs, and her soft, matching green slippers padded softly as she made her way up to the deck after her maid, Anna, had finished brushing her long hair and tying it up with a satin ribbon.

Abigail walked at a ladylike pace as she ascended the stairs and came out onto the large open deck. She ignored the sailors in the rigging and about the space as she treaded lightly to the railing on looked out at the same scenery of endless waves that she had been privy to these last long weeks. She was quite sick of the smell of sea air, and only countless lessons of etiquette prevented her from scrunching up her face in distaste as she breathed in deeply, secretly glad to be out of the cramped space in the underbelly of the ship. Of course, she supposed, too salty or not, to be able to breathe deeply was a luxury she would soon not have at all, already she was drawing near an age when she would have to begin wearing a dreaded corset. Fashionable or not, she had seen her cousins and close relations faint and collapse because of the whalebone devices, and it was rather uncomfortable looking in her opinion.

Her musings on corsets and the dreariness of the sea were interrupted by Anna calling for her about coming to tea, and she dolefully returned to the shadowy underworld of the belowdeck area of the ship where a tasty meal of old tea leaves and stale tea cakes awaited. Yes, she would certainly be glad when this trip was over.

Several hours later, when the balmy air had grown cool enough that Anna had nearly smothered her in an attempt to wrap a shawl about her shoulders, Abigail found herself back on the deck of the Loveday, observing, with mild interest, dark clouds brewing on the horizon. At first she had thought it was nearly the approaching nightfall, as it was already well into the evening, however the clouds grew closer and looked almost as though they were boiling, brilliant flashes of lightning and rolling thunder making themselves apparent, though still a good ways off.

The sailors around her began to become uneasy, and orders were shouted for sails to be brought in and riggings secured, but of course, she was a proper lady and paid no attention to the chaos around her, preferring to stare, with mild interest, at the rather spectacular sight of the approaching storm.

It was not until the tempest was nigh upon them that Captain O'Malley, a weathered but kind sea captain, noticed the small girl bracing herself against the railing, her wide skirts blowing wildly and her tresses waving about her face.

"Lassie!" The captain hollered to her. "You'd best be a getting' back to your quarters, a storm's a blowin!"

Abigail, at hearing the captain's call, nodded stiffly to him and began making her way to the back of the ship, where the stairway to the belly of the ship was located, clutching the railing as she went since the winds had suddenly become much stronger and she was in danger of being knocked over.

She was nearly to her destination when she, for the first time, realized why so many men visiting her father and the sailors, who she had of course not been listening to, had spoken of the dangers and treachery of the sea. Almost in an instant the waves became rougher and higher, tossing the ship to and fro as they surged with and against it. She lost her balance more than once, and if not for her tight grip on the rail would have gone crashing to the deck. The men above her paid her no mind, or did not see her at all, for they were climbing up and down amongst the sails, tying and securing ropes, and trying to stay aloft with the turbulent movements of the ship. A great wave suddenly splashed over the deck, soaking her to the bone, the delicate silk of the dress allowing all of her warmth to escape. She coughed and spluttered as another wave came crashing over her, and it was this wave, even larger than the first, that sealed her fate.

In a single, terrifying moment she lost her grip on the rail, and the deck of the ship left her feet. She helplessly rolled under the rail as the water receded, having nothing to cling to and nothing to catch her, and was swept right off the ship. She landed in the water with a great splash, though against the noise of the storm and the crashing of the waves it seemed hardly a disturbance at all. Her momentum forced her far into the water, and the waves rolled her back up, breaking the surface and allowing her a brief gasp of air and seawater before pulling her back under, until she knew not which way was up or down. By chance she reached the surface again, the ship growing further away as she struggled in the water, but she knew not how to swim and was soon under again, sinking below the waves, the weight of her dress dragging her down. She reached upward with her arms, searching for anything, a rope, a hand, anything at all, and suddenly she felt something. Somehow a barrel had rolled off the ship when or soon after she did, and it bobbed up and down at the surface of the ocean, thick ropes binding it. She grasped it with freezing fingers, finding what little strength she had left to pull herself somewhat onto the barrel. She lay there gasping for a long while before finally looking up to see the ship. But she could not see it through the blinding rain and high waves. She was utterly alone in the water.

"Help!" She screamed, her throat sore from having salt water rush into her lungs. Her faint cry reached out to no one, but still she tried. "Help me! I've fallen into the water! Please come back!"

But there was no answer, and she could see naught of the ship. .

When morning came she was still clinging to the barrel, looking more like a drowned rat than a prosperous young lady. By chance a passing ship happened upon the makeshift life raft and its unfortunate cargo, and thus it was that she came to be aboard the Green Dragon, captained by James S. Pearson and crewed by his fearsome band of pirates.

As Abigail woke to the sun beaming down warmly onto her skin and heating her comfortably dry clothes, she thought for a moment that she had merely dreamed the storm and its unfortunate occurrences, perhaps the affect of being out in the sun for too long. However as the wind brushed past her face, it carried upon it the most un-Godly scent she had ever had the misfortune to smell; that would be men who had gone a great many days without so much as dipping a finger or toe into water or a decent scrub with soap. And when she opened her eyes she knew for certain it had not been a deranged figment of her imagination, for around her stood the oddest and most frightening men she had ever laid eyes on.

They wore weathered and ripped clothing of a whole assortment of faded colors: beaten leather vests, striped trousers with jagged edges, stained cotton shirts that hung open too far, or at least the few who had the decency to wear a shirt that is, some went barefoot, others wore mismatched boots and buckle shoes, some had hats, bandanas, eye patches, missing limbs, one of the men even had a brightly colored parrot. They all had an absolutely wicked assortment of cutlasses, pistols, knives, and other weapons that would do more than a little harm.

As for the men themselves, they were tanned from spending endless hours on the sea. Most had beards or stubble, though a few were neatly trimmed or shaved entirely. They leered at her with beady eyes, studying her as intently as she was observing them. And finally one of them spoke.

"Captain!" The largest man, a great rugged giant with a thick red beard, suddenly roared in a booming voice. "The little lassie's awake!"

Abigail jumped at his voice, but pretended that she had not. It would be best to appear as though they did not frighten her.

Moments later the light slapping of leather boots on wood could be heard, as well as the jingle of a cutlass on a belt. A middle-aged man came into view, his clothes better cared for then most of his men's, and he did not smell quite so badly, though she couldn't be sure as their scents were overpowering her delicate sense of smell. A large hat rested on his head, curly brown hair peeking out from under it, and a well-made sword rested at his side.

"Well, I see yer awake." He said, a slight sailor's accent coming into his speech. "What be yer name, little missy?"

She lifted her chin and peered down, or rather up, her nose at him. "I am Abigail Fenwick, daughter of Lord and Lady Fenwick, and it is Miss Fenwick to you, sir." She held her head high and attempted to look superior, well aware that her dress was quite ruined, her hair, which Anna had put up so beautifully, was hanging limply around her face, and she had lost her slippers somewhere while in the ocean.

As she finished the sailors, pirates she corrected herself, began to laugh uproariously.

The captain chuckled along with them and bowed to her mockingly, sweeping his hat off his head. "Well, Miss Fenwick. Captain James Pearson at your service. Welcome aboard the Green Dragon. And now I believe we have some things we need to discuss."

When Abigail caught a glance of herself in the broken piece of mirror that was stuck to the wall in the tiny cabin she had been given, she almost didn't recognize herself.

The ruined green dress had been discarded of and replaced by a fairly clean boys blouse and trousers, as well as a soft leather vest and a belt. Had she still had her shoes they might have let her keep them, but as it was she would have to go barefoot, as there were no spares, and certainly none to fit her small feet. She had willingly changed her clothes when the captain had thrust the small pile into her arms and directed her to his cabin. The dress was beyond hopes of repair, and though the boys clothes were strange and improper, she felt safer in them than the dress around all the men. She had been informed that she would not be returned to her parents or her previous life, instead she would remain on the ship, taking the position of a cabin boy to earn her keep. She had not said a word. The few possessions she had had on her, a bracelet, a jeweled hair clip, some rings, had been claimed, though Captain Pearson had been kind enough to allow her to keep the simple, pewter necklace and pendant that was engraved with her family's crest. It wouldn't sell for much, and was too easily recognized as stolen, that was what he had said. And then, worst of all, was her hair. As she had turned to storm off to her room, a scathing remark leaving her mouth, he had grasped her by the hair and brought his sword down by her head. For a moment she had thought he would strike her down, but when she opened her eyes she was still standing, though her head felt strangely light. It was only when she looked to the floor, where dark brown tresses littered the boards, that she realized what he had done. He had cut off her long hair. She had finally cried then, tears leaking from her eyes before she could stop them. Now that she could see her reflection she saw the damage he had done. Her hair had been chopped off unevenly, only the very back coming down to barely brush her shoulders. The rest hung about her face, long enough to get in her eyes, but too short to tie back. She looked like a boy, but then, perhaps that had been his intent.

All that remained of the spoiled daughter of Lord and Lady Fenwick was her grey eyes, red tinted from crying. She threw herself into the ragged hammock that served as her bed, and for the first time in her life cried herself to sleep.

So began the misadventures of Abigail Fenwick.