There wasn't much of a tide here, and the island was scarcely larger at low tide than at high.

"Tell 'er to find me an acre of land," sang Jack to himself. The sea was coming in again, washing away the marks of his bare feet on the shore. Not that there was anyone here to see them.

"Between the salt water and the sea sand ..."

The single shot in his pistol was a coward's way out, a defeatist's escape. Captain Jack Sparrow—temporarily without his command; but he'd win his Pearl back from that treacherous bastard—was no defeatist, and he would not give up.

The sun was so very bright, though, like molten metal in the pale sky. The waves were so beguiling. He might drown, sleeping on the beach one night, drawn down into the lovely green depths by a great wave. By sea-turtles. By mermaids.

Something glimmered, out there on the water. Jack lurched to a halt and shaded his eyes. Another damned mermaid, for sure. They sat out there, singing to him—obviously to him, since there was no one else on this godforsaken, nameless speck of land—but they never came to shore.

It was a shame, because the place would be perfect if he had some company. Especially company of the soft, yielding, feminine persuasion. It'd be a change, after ...

"Then she'll be a true love of mine," Jack sang back to the mermaids. His mouth was dry, and he lifted the bottle to his lips; but it was already almost empty. He'd have to go back.

The compass needle swung wildly, still trying to show him where that fabled treasure—his treasure—lay. Out there. Out there past the reef and the water and the shimmering horizon.

Maybe the mermaids would take him back to Tortuga. He'd find a ship somehow. Beg or borrow or beguile one. And a crew. "A better crew," Jack exclaimed aloud, and scowled.

"Must be tipsy," he muttered to himself, glaring at the empty bottle. "'S good stuff."

If he'd pen and paper, he might write a letter, stuff it in the bottle, set it free for the ocean to carry away. To someone who cared. To someone who'd come for him; who'd rescue Jack Sparrow from the quiet, unnoticed fate of the castaway.

Maybe the mermaids would like some rum ...

Out there, out on the water, something was glittering, moving between Jack and the sun. More mermaids? Flying fish? Gold from the end of—

Polished brass and white, white canvas.

A ship.

Jack took off, running hard, for the place where he'd made his camp. The rum bottle bobbed, abandoned, in the surf.

It wasn't far—'far' didn't happen on this island—but his empty stomach protested the effort. He collapsed bonelessly under the big palm tree, swearing at the burn and ache of his abused body. The bruises were fading now, but the mutineers hadn't troubled to treat him gently. And Barbossa—

Well. Jack retrieved another bottle of rum and took a fortifying, anaesthetic draught. He narrowed his eyes against the sunlight. The ship was still sailing towards the island. Towards him.

He took a quick inventory. One pistol, with a single shot. (Pity to waste it, but he'd defend himself if he had to). One compass, inscribed in antique Spanish. A handful of coloured shells and fragments of coral. A sea-polished curve of turtle-shell. A mermaid's comb. Most of a coconut. (He was getting tired of coconut). Three and a half bottles of rum, a representative sample of the riches in the dusty, spider-infested cellar hidden under the sand.

And his own sweet self, of course. Captain Jack Sparrow. Not much the worse for three days' marooning and the theft of his beloved Black Pearl by Barbossa and his pack of mutinous dogs. Muscles aching, mouth dry (he swigged more rum), skin itchy with salt: but very much alive.

He could hear voices now. The ship had anchored beyond the reef, and they'd lowered a gig. There were a couple of men rowing, and another in the stern.

Jack stood up, straightened his bandana, and sauntered down to meet them.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded one of the men. "What you doin' on our island?"

Jack bit back the impulse to tell them they were welcome to it. That was the rum.

"I'm very sorry, gentlemen," he said instead, beaming. "I didn't intend to find myself stranded here, and had I known it was your own island, why then of course I'd have chosen another."

"Stranded?" said one of the rowers, a younger man with a long plait of yellow hair. "How came ye here?"

Mutiny was such an ugly word.

"I was swept overboard," said Jack, hand circling vaguely. "By a great wave. And I felt myself sinking down, down, through the ocean, far from m' ship. I thought for sure I'd drown. But then there were hands taking ahold of me, pulling me back up towards the light, and there were these mermaids carrying me through the water. Lovely girls," he said, winking. "Lovely."

"And they brought you here?" said the first man, eyebrows raised. His entire left arm was a colourful tapestry of tattoos.

"Eh?" said Jack, who had lost the thread of the story. "Yes, they brought me to this fair isle, and they gave me food and—"

"'E's been at the rum!" cried the third man. He had set off towards the stand of palm trees when they'd first come ashore, and now he was running back. "'E's drunk the rum!"

"Not all of it!" Jack protested. "There's plenty left!"

"How did you find the cache?" demanded the first man, eyes narrowing.

Jack shrugged and smiled, trying not to back away. "Smelt the rum, mate."

"And you helped yourself?" said Yellow-hair.

Jack shrugged again. "I was alone. And this island, gentlemen, lacks a spring. I thought the rum had been left for shipwrecked sailors. A kindly gesture. Save 'em from dying of thirst."

"We're not in the business of charity," said the third man, with a sneer. Jack took a dislike to him.

"Well, gentlemen, I'll happily repay you for the rum—delightful stuff it was!—that I've drunk," Jack assured them, bowing slightly. His lips were beginning to crack from the constant smile.

"The mermaids left you with a full purse?" enquired the tattooed man. "Funny sort of woman!"

The other two laughed, and Jack forced a laugh too.

"I've funds aplenty," he said. "As soon as—"

"Not on you at this moment, though," said the second man. He wasn't smiling any more.

"Just get me to Tortuga, friend," said Jack with a reproachful look, sighing theatrically, "and I'll make sure you're rewarded for your trouble. And for your most excellent rum, naturally."

"How do we know we can trust you?" said the first man. There was a note of doubt in his voice, but he was coming round. Jack could have kissed him.

"My word as a gentleman," he said earnestly, hands spread wide.

"Why shouldn't we just leave you here?" said the third man.

"Because I'd drink more of your rum?"

"Not if we tied you to that tree," said the second man.

"We could shoot 'im," suggested the third man, gesturing at Jack's pistol. Jack shoved it further under his sash, and scowled at the man. "'E wouldn't be drinking anything then!"

"And who knows how he came—no, I don't want to hear about the mermaids again," said the first man, holding up a hand to stem Jack's flow of reminiscence. "Maybe there's somebody in Tortuga who'd be sorry to see him alive and kicking. Don't want to upset anyone, do we?"

Jack fixed his gaze on the second man, the young one with the yellow plait. Speak up, he implored silently. Don't leave me here.

"He's a pretty one," said Yellow-hair, looking Jack up and down appraisingly. His eyes lingered on Jack's mouth.

Oh, for heaven's sake, thought Jack with exasperation, feeling every ache in his body afresh: but then he remembered the Black Pearl, and smiled. Whatever it took.

"I knew you'd warm to me," he said.

* * *

In Tortuga, he headed straight for the Faithful Bride, insisting that the yellow-haired man—Matthias, his name was, and he came from Bristol –came with him. "My credit's good there," Jack explained earnestly, lowering his voice so that no one heard him make such an outrageous claim. Credit at a Tortuga inn! Better than mermaids, that.

He made sure to lift Matthias' purse before he slipped away and left him there.

He'd paid his passage, after all.

-end-