The whole of Jack's crew knew better than to rouse him from his cabin while the commodore was aboard. Jack had in fact written it into the articles: barring an imminent attack, fire, or any appearance of curst gold, the captain is not to be disturbed on those infrequent occasions when one James L. Norrington submits his person to said captain's possession (James had argued strongly against the wording, but unfortunately was not eligible for a vote).

"What the devil is he going on about at this hour?" James muttered, peering at the door upon which Joshamee Gibbs was rattling.

Jack squirmed in reluctant wakefulness beside him, then sat abruptly upright. James frowned, puzzled by the look on his face. If he had been a dog, every hackle would have been raised.

"'Pologies, Cap'n, but we thought ye'd best see this..."

Jack shook his head slightly, rolling off the bunk and fumbling in the pile of clothing below. "Yes, I believe I'd better," he said quietly, more to himself than to his first mate. He threw a shirt at James, crossed to the door, and tossed over his shoulder, "Coming, then?"

Stifling a yawn, curious despite his irritation, James stumbled into breeches and shirt and followed him out on deck. The dog watch was gathered about, staring silent off to port.

He breathed in sharply and put a hand to Jack's elbow. There was a monstrous dark ship not ten yards away, sails billowing, timbers creaking, and gunports open.

"Easy, mate," Jack murmured, taking Gibbs' spyglass and handing it to James. "Take a closer look at 'er."

The panicked thudding of James' heart began to slow as suddenly as it had started. He could see through the glass that the ship was deserted, not a soul to be seen on any of her decks, nor aloft—his pulse quickened again as he caught a flash of movement near the helm, but when he lifted the glass to his eye once more, he saw nothing.

"What's happened to her?" he wondered aloud, his voice as hushed as the rest of the men.

"Doubt anyone's alive t' recall," said Gibbs. He took his hat off, bowing his head, before he backed away.

James turned to Jack, who stood regarding the abandoned vessel with somber interest. "You must send over to search for survivors, or—or anything of value," he added, appealing to Jack's better nature.

One corner of his mouth twisting up, Jack plucked the glass from his hands and tucked it into a pocket. "They've nothing of value left, Jamie. I saw a sight much like this one, near twenty years ago. She's a ghost ship."

"Preposterous," James snapped without thinking. Specifically without thinking of the eerie grayish tint, making the ship look filmy and insubstantial in the moonlight, or how her sails luffed under a breeze he could not feel against his skin. Strangest of all, that—he felt a chill, but he could not feel the wind.

Jack merely cocked an eyebrow at him and slipped a bare arm around his waist. James understood without asking that he intended to watch until the apparition—it was the result of spending too much time with a certain mad captain that led him to accept it so easily—passed the Black Pearl by. He considered returning to bed, but there was a distance in the dark eyes that disturbed him, and he felt with some unease that Jack should not be left alone to bear witness to the phantom ship. There was another shimmer as she passed them, this time at the stern, as if the unseen presence had moved aft to keep them in sight.

Before long the vision vanished into a swirl of mist, and like the cold James had no idea where the fog had come from. Jack shivered, leaning his head on James's shoulder. James wrapped both arms around him. He was hesitant to break the not-quite-reverent air of silence, but at length he spoke, trying to keep his voice light and jovial. "Do you think that will be us some day? Sailing our respective ships into the netherworld?"

"'Course not," said Jack with a snort, his warm fingertips brushing across James's cheek. "You'll be here on the Pearl, with me."