Jack stared at the bars with a sick feeling gathering in his gut. This was all too damned familiar and he couldn't help but compare the state of his poor Pearl to what it had been a decade earlier. His fingers stroked the bulkhead, his brow furrowed.

Two Turners. Two turncoats. What in all the bleedin' heavens made 'em like that? Was betrayal built into them or was it some cosmic feud with ole Jack? That's what he would have liked to know!

He felt dizzy. Up in the Great Cabin, he'd hidden it well, but that clout with the oar had definitely knocked him loopy. Well, he wasn't about to admit any such thing to Barbossa but damn the whelp for having such strong arms! He had a big old goose egg on his noggin and was feeling a mite ill.

The water sloshed as he paced about the small space and finally, he sank into the muck, not caring if he got soaked to the skin. He fought back another bout of nausea, the dank smell of bilge and tar mingling with the bitter taste of apple skin.

Damn it all, this was ridiculous, even for him, a man to whom ridiculous was a way of life.

Ten years, he'd plotted and planned and scrounged; begged, cajoled and fought for every scrap of information, every tiny clue as to where his Pearl was going. Well, yes, there had been a few hitches in those plans. The three years of incessant drink. The two spent far across the Atlantic in the east Indies. The strain of keeping body and soul together long enough to get himself right. And it hadn't all been terrible. Some of it had been damned good fun!

Jack grinned.

But here he was in the blasted brig of his own ship again and, once again, it had been a Turner who put him there.

Bloody family! 'Twould serve 'em right if he skewered the brat himself, curse or no curse.

He sighed and stared at the light streaming in from one hole in the hull. He knew he would never do it. He might have killed young William back in that forge so easily. He knew better than most that there was a lot more to killing than a bit of fancy swordplay. It wouldn't have taken but a moment.

Jack never killed indiscriminately. Oh, he could well remember damned near every man he had killed, but they had been trying to kill him, so he figured they were square. There had been a time when he'd felt bloodlust singing through his veins like the screech of a hawk, talons extended, red-visioned and mad for the copper smell of it. His stomach lurched. That had been a long while back and he wasn't so keen on killing anymore. He swallowed bile and felt his head.

Damn, that lump was biggern' a cannon ball. Stupid whelp.

He sighed again and wished to God he had a bit of rum. Might have been nice of Barbossa to have offered at least that, the bleedin' prick.

For a moment, he drifted on dreams of what it was going to look like watching the life fade from those hated blue eyes. That one shot would be almost as much satisfaction as knowing that the Pearl was his once more.

He remembered other eyes; Bill's eyes, and sniffed.

Like father, like son.

He'd done his best for years not to think about Bill Turner. It hurt too damned much. He knew that he'd caved to the mutineers before too many people got themselves killed in what had become a battle of wills between himself and Barbossa.

A battle of Wills. That made Jack laugh a little.

The Pearl shuddered beneath him, her movements odd and strained, her speed unnatural. He could hear her voice; muffled, weak beneath the weight of the curse. She was still his, of that he was sure. Lost and insubstantial, like a ghost reaching out with frozen fingers, he could feel her in his heart.

Oh well, there had to be way around all this. There always was some unforeseen circumstance that played into his hands.

After all, he was Captain Jack Sparrow.

He heard creaking, the groan of wood against metal. They'd run out the sweeps. Damnation! He peered through the small hole and saw the flotsam of the Interceptor's stores float by and knew that there was no way that Barbossa would let that pretty ship survive, much less any of her crew.

Bleedin' hell. This was not good. If Barbossa killed young William it would be his own bloody fault to remain cursed, but that wasn't likely to get him back his Pearl.

He rubbed at the lump on his head and tried to think of a way around it when the shooting and yelling started.

Ahh, young Mr. Turner. Hope you know what yer doin' out there.

Then the unforeseen circumstance opened his cage. Well, it gave him Gibbsy's flask first, but it was empty. He'd nearly been ready to pout at Dame Fortune. And he wasn't at all happy about that big hole in his Pearl.

The door swung open and he was topside in a heartbeat.

Time enough to ponder the turning of Turners later.