Eight bells sound, and wake me, and I'm no more rested than I was at four bells. Barely slept at all, truth be told. Which, frankly, ain't in character. But right now, I'm troubled by a most vexing thing, being a thing which I don't understand, which, similarly, ain't in character.

Why, in the name of Beelzebub and all his hairy little minions, is he on my ship? Why? Why?

For a while there, I thought I knew. I thought he wanted to play pirate. Seemed simple, when he tracked the Pearl down in Deux Prtres, found me in a tavern (whatever made him think to look in such a place?) and made me an offer.

"Jack," said he, as though it were his prerogative to do so, "I'd like to join your crew for a while."

Just like that. Claimed his sweet young thing had told him that he had to leach some of that piracy from his blood before she'd attempt to settle with him. See? Seemed simple. And I was by no means averse, as it happens, what with him bein' no mean swordsman, and braver than—well, most all that stand before the mast, if I'm bein' honest with ye.

Besides which (and I may as well admit it, for the truth will out before the tale's told) I harboured a secret pleasure in his company. Oh, everyone knew us to be friends, that weren't no secret. The secret bit was mine alone... the pleasure of the sight of him, of his strong young limbs and the bounce in his step, and of the deep bright brown eyes that could be so wide and surprised, and yet almost disappeared when a laugh took him, as though to have them side by side with such a lovely smile would be too much for any one human face. The pleasure of his sweetly deep and sincere voice, with its ridiculous naivete of the true wickedness of the world. The pleasure of his warm sure touch when he threw a comradely arm around me...

Oh, Lord, just don't even get me started.

So, point being, that I presented this suggestion to my fo'c'sle council with a strong recommendation, and there was no dissension, although Mr Gibbs did make it plain that if any lie such as the one he told before ('bout my falling behind) should pass his pretty lips again, he was naught but berley for the sharks.

Actually, Mr Gibbs didn't say pretty lips, that was just me again.

And the second condition they put me under was that he was to pay his way in hard labour, for there weren't to be any free passages on the Pearl, and no favouritism neither. (Which, now I think on it, may imply that my secret bit weren't quite so secret.)

So all's well, and I thoughtfully offer to share my cabin with him, but no, he wants a hammock with the rest of the crew. So it's clearly piracy that's on his agenda. A bit of a blow to me, that that's all he's got in his sights, but can't be helped, and nothing more could be expected, eh?

Apparently so—until, that is, a chance for any actual piracy presents itself. Not four days out, after he's been happy as a sandboy, learning the ropes, standing his watches, even swabbing the damn deck, we're lucky enough to spy a fat merchantman, with no escort. Perfect! Quick as a wink I order the Bones down, and up with an ensign, and we sneak up on her, and I'm all about to order grapples, when up he comes, and starts argufying with me. In front of the crew! I ask you!

Jack, she's not worth it. Jack, you don't need anything. Jack, they've done you no harm. Jack, there are children aboard. On and on and unbelievably on!

D'you know what he brought me to? In the end, we had to pretend that we were flagging her down for a bonesaw, having a putrefying limb to attend to, and the best that I could do was to get a tiny visiting party aboard (including young Jim England, who's one of the slickest fingersmiths ever to accidentally bump into a fine lady) and get what we could from pockets and a sneaky wee reconnaissance below decks.

The result of which was some nice trinkets, to be sure, but not a patch on what that fat bird could have been plucked of. A waste! A waste, and an embarrassment. Which I can't have happen again, and hope to stay Captain.

So there you had it, he was happy to be a sailor, but not a pirate. I told him later, it's not as if I'm the unnecessarily murderous sort, if they were sensible they'd come to no harm. But still he insisted, it's wrong. Wrong! Piracy is wrong. Well, if that's his avowed view of the world, he'll hardly be in a minority, but in which case, why was he on board my ship? Eh?

Well, I put the question to my good first mate over a bottle or three the next evening, and he had another suggestion, and I'll admit that I wasn't averse to being persuaded of his accuracy, for he thought that perhaps—just perhaps—the boy had become enamoured of yours truly.

Aye, he did! Said the boy asked after me constantly. Said that he'd seen the boy's eyes following me, even that he saw a blush on his cheek when I clapped him on the shoulder and complimented his ropework. Sounded good to me, 'specially by the third bottle. At which point I must confess I was not particularly sensible, shall we say, and was li'ble to do something that some (alright, most) might class as foolish.

Never a man to let a good opportunity sit and fester, even when it should, I wander off to the bow, where he's on bowsprit watch. All on his onesies, in the moonlight, and hugging himself against a chill wind that's come up.

"'Lo there mate," says I, throwing an arm around his shoulders, friendly-like. "How's the Pearl treating you then?"

He smiles, and doesn't shrug me off, which has to be interpreted as a good sign, don't it? "Well, Jack, well, she's a beautiful ship, she does you proud."

"That she does, that she does... and her crew, they do me proud too. Even when they're given orders to leave a sweet prize alone, they do me proud." Probably shouldn't have said that, but by Christ, he deserved it. No idea why I let him stop me doing it in the first place.

"You still stole from those people, lied and stole!" he retorts, and a cloud of dark humour crosses his lovely face.

"Alright, alright, we'll speak no more of it," I say. Which is a nonsense, ain't it, but I've other fish to fry.

"Crisp out here, ain't it? No coat?"

"It was warm when I came on watch," he says vaguely. My arm's still over his shoulders, and I slowly spread my hand, letting the heat of it warm his chilled flesh. No complaints, no movement. So far, so good.

"Got long left? I confess I've rather lost track of the time, seem to have misplaced it in a bottle somewhen this evening."

"No, I think the bells'll sound soon. I'll be fine, Jack, don't fuss."

"I'm sure you would be fine," I says, and I put up a hand to his cold cheek, and turn him to me, so that we're close, close. I hear a catch in his breath, and give him my most winsome smile, and think, why thank you Mr Gibbs, you observant devil. "But why not come down to my cabin at watch end," I says, "and I'll make you even finer."

And even though I see, out of the corner of my eye, that there's a flash of consternation over his face, and even though I really do know this is not going to work, I lean in and kiss him.

The skin of his face is cold, but his lips are not. They're soft and smooth and perfectly warm and in spite of what any fool could now recognise as incipient disaster—the stiffening in his body, the arms struggling against me—I'm blissfully happy for one brief and shining moment, before he gives me an almighty shove and that's the end of that.

"Jack," he cries, "Don't be so—oh, please don't—" and he turns tail and runs.

Mr Gibbs has a lot to answer for.

And more importantly, why is he on my ship?

It ain't for piracy. It ain't for me. It certainly ain't for the food.

So the eight bells have rung, but I'm still in my lazy bed, and pondering this vexing question, when it comes to me. He didn't just run to me, did he? He ran away from her.

That's interesting.

So, I daresay it would have been a reasonable course of action to leave well enough alone, but that's a dull prospect, wouldn't you say? If I was a man to leave well enough alone, would I be out here in a well armed pirate vessel, prowling the trade-routes? Exactly.

*

I'm down in the galley with the cook when Shadwell finds me, sharpening the knives. Cook has one eye, and one and a half legs, and a fine talent for using a whetstone not so much to sharpen a knife as to simply file it down. So this is something useful I can do, and there aren't that many things on board that I can say that about... yet.

Shadwell's bulk looms out of the below-decks gloom, sending the skittish Cook further into the dark corners. "Oi, Turner," he grunts, and I look up in some surprise, wondering what he could want with me. "Captain wants ye," he says, jerking his great slab of a head towards the captain's cabin.

"What for?" I make the mistake of asking. There's a long and pointed silence.

"I am fucked if I know," says the giant, enunciating clearly to make sure that I get the full message of my base uselessness. Titters from the corner. Cook chooses his friends in a very fluid manner.

I tell the ungrateful wretch that I'll be back shortly, and make my way to Jack's cabin, to collect, I assume, an apology for his behaviour last night.

He's my captain now, so I knock politely on his door and await his "Come!" before entering. He's sitting at his table, a battered map before him, crisscrossed with pencilled lines and held down by brass weights at its corners; but he's not looking at it, in fact he's staring at the ceiling. He doesn't cease his examination of the panels when I enter.

"Jack? You wanted to see me?"

"Aye," he mumbles, but his brow is furrowed and his eyes are still unfocussed. Sometimes he is so much madder than I remembered after our first sojourn together. I pull up a chair and wait with more patience than comes naturally to me.

At last, he heaves a great sigh, pushes his chair back, and swings his boots up on the table. "William, William, William... three matters present themselves for our attention this fine morning, by my reckoning."

I nod agreeably, and continue to wait.

"Firstly," he says, and his gaze is all around the room, anywhere but meeting mine. Could he actually be... remorseful? Embarrassed by his behaviour? What a thought.

"Firstly, I owe you, if not an apology, then at least a promise that my advances of last evening won't be repeated."

A short bark of a laugh escapes me before I can intercept it. That is the poorest excuse for an apology I've ever been presented with, and Lord knows my life has not been blessed by many good ones. This makes him look at me, if nothing else.

"Don't you believe me, William? I assure you, I've neither intention nor need of forcing my person on an unwilling recipient." There, now I've somehow managed to hurt his feelings. That's the problem with Jack—you can never assess just where his feelings are going to lie. There is no discernible pattern to the man. Which sometimes makes him interesting, but sometimes merely infuriates me.

"I believe you, Jack. Let's talk no more of it."

Oh, see? Now he looks disappointed. Impossible.

"Alright then, secondly. This, darling, is a ship of free men. Gentlemen of fortune. Pirates, savvy?"

"I hardly think it's necessary to remind me of that, Jack."

"Then why, for the love of... of... whatever you love," and the feet swing down, and Jack's leaning half way across the table, and a long narrow finger is pointing in my face, "can you not accept that, from time to time, we will in fact carry out piratical acts? I've no wish to disturb your happy view of the world, but this, like it or not, is our life and living. And next time, you will either join the work of this crew, or you will keep out of my damned way, understood?"

I've never seen him annoyed before—not with me, at any rate. He's always been impossible to discombobulate. He's rather intimidating like this—his eyes are hard and flat, his face taut, his body an arrow readied for angry flight.

"I'll keep out of your way then," I say, hating the stiffness of my voice.

"Aye, well, good then. That's that sorted." And the flash goes out of his dark eyes, and his frame relaxes back into insouciance, pours itself back into his chair. And he's my friend Jack again. I'm completely thrown. And he's not finished yet.

"And the third thing, dear heart, is the most important, and is the thing that is driving me quite mad."

I bite back a retort—really, he does leave himself open to torment sometimes.

"Why, William, why, have you come—"

But even as he begins to speak, I can hear a shout spreading through the ship, and the scramble of running men. And the shout is, "Sail!"

Jack stops short, and leaps to his feet, jamming his hat on his head, checking his flintlock and sword. At the door he turns, and stares hard at me, and says, "Keep. Out. Of . My. Way."

I can only nod mutely, but he's already gone, leaping up the narrow stairs. My heart is hammering. Partly because I am on board an armed vessel that is about to confront another.

And partly because it feels like a narrow escape from Jack's question. Which it has not taken him long to come to, and which I'm loath to try and answer.

*

"Oh, lady and gentlemen, we are on a fine roll of luck, are we not?" I crow, having determined that not only is this a fine fat merchantman on the horizon, it is in fact the same fine fat merchantman; which ship is either not afraid of us (if they have not ascertained their missing goods) or not afraid of us and also rather annoyed with us (if they have ascertained their missing goods and determined that we are a cowardly crew who'll do no more than sneak thievery). Whichever way the wind blows, I sense a bird ripe for plucking this time.

The ensign's still in place, and they show no sign of fear as we heave to. Their captain is on the foredeck, and we watch each other through glasses until we are close enough to hail.

"Captain Freeman!" (That's me, ain't it. Lord, you'd think they'd see through that one, but if there's one thing I've learnt in life, it's that the more barefaced you are, sometimes the better.) "How is your patient?"

"Not so well, I fear, Captain Fitzroy, he died this morning."

"My condolences."

"I shall pass them on to those as cared for him," I say sincerely, full of pity for this imaginary tar and his distant loved ones, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see great Mick Shadwell scaling their stern, a knife in his teeth, unnoticed as they all look towards the Pearl, and there's Jonas Pike, and Joe Cotton, and ten other strong swimmers following him.

I continue to talk with the Captain, warn him of rumours of pirates in these parts. He smirks a little and calls that he has little fear of such rogues, and that his men can keep his passengers and cargo quite safe. This with a nod towards the little knot of finely dressed ladies down toward the stern.

Damn, I wish I had my glass to my eye when he did, for I'm sure his face was a picture when he saw the line of ladies, each with a knife to her pretty white throat, and a hairy pirate arm around her tiny corseted waist!

Sees sense in no time, and within ten minutes the lot of 'em are trussed up like chickens, angry sailors up one end, terrified passengers at the other, and we begin to collect our toll.

As I go over, I see young Will come up on deck and take the helm from AnaMaria, who's itching to join us. I'm a little taken aback—thought he'd hide through the whole thing, after our little tte--tte. Nicely surprised, really.

Off I go to pay my respects to the Captain, and by the Devil, he's an angry little man. "Damn your thieving soul, Freeman!" he spits at me, when I loosen his gag. "What was the game you were playing two days ago?"

"Good, weren't it," I smirk—unjustifiably, I know. "But that's what you get when you're dealing with Captain Jack Sparrow, mate. Let your friends know, eh?" And I stopper his mouth again.

The boys are ferrying the booty up from below and over to the Pearl, Mr Gibbs overseeing the process. Some interesting stuff, by the look of it.

"Hurry it along, lads," I cry. "These fine people are getting a little uncomfortable in the sun. Cotton, check for powder, and case shot, while you're at it! Pike, what's in that barrel?"

"Porter, by the smell of it, cap'n!"

"Fabulous, Pike, you've such an eye for these things! No water, eh? Let's leave it for those as knows no better. And make sure there's still food for a few days, for the little ones."

"Aye, Jack."

I make my way over to the passengers, bound hand and foot and to the taffrail. "Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies for the inconvenience. I do hope this won't sully your view of the delights of the Caribbean."

There's a little boy there, looks about eight years old, and his big brown eyes aren't afeard. "Come with me," I says to him. A woman screams horridly, must be his mama. I ignore her and roll my eyes at the child.

"Bet she doesn't let you out much, eh?"

He giggles. Good kid. I pick him up and swing him up onto the hatch.

"What's your name, boy?"

"James," he says, and his voice is clear as a bell.

"James, I've an important task for you, you hear? Now, you know we're pirates, don't you? And very dangerous men?"

He nods, deadlights big as saucers.

"So, my crew are about finished here. But it's important, ain't it, that we leave without harming anyone?"

"Yes, sir."

"And it's your job to be sure that won't happen, understand me? I'm going to give you two things." I pull down the watch hourglass. "This is the first, and you must wait for all the sand to run through here before you do anything. The second is this."

I pull a cheap and frankly fairly nasty knife from the side of my boot. The woman screams again, but young James just looks at me and blushes for his mother's stupidity. How is it that a child can understand you so much better than a grown woman? I'll never fathom it.

I lay the knife down on the deck, a yard from James.

"When the sand is run through," I tell him, "you're to take this knife, and cut your bonds, and those of the rest of these fine people. And you'll all be free, and we'll be gone. That's my promise. But, James?"

"Sir?"

"If you don't wait for the hourglass, I've another promise for you, in which there are many dead men, and not a few dead ladies also. So it's up to you, mate. You can save them. Savvy? Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good lad. And since I'm relying on you, here's a reward." And I give him a bit of the old slippery fingers, and pull a heavy gold doubloon from behind his ear, pressing it between his bound palms. He grins fit to split his face in two. Got 'im. Safe as a nun's knickers.

"Take care, ladies and gentlemen!" I cry, as we prepare to take the cutter back to the Pearl. "Great care! There are pirates in these parts, I hear!"

*

You should have heard the cheers and huzzahs when the cutter bearing Jack and the last of the booty returned to the ship. You'd have thought they'd actually achieved something good, and brave, and true—not robbed and terrified innocent women and children. It was incomprehensible to me.

But I understood what Jack had said. This was a pirate vessel, and I was willingly aboard, which meant that I'd no right in the world to berate them for being what they were. So I was silent, and got out of the way of the flurry of activity that greeted their return. For a crew of ne'er-do-wells and scoundrels, they were fast when they needed to be—there were sails sprouting from every mast and yardarm, and we caught the wind hard and fast, and left the poor Rose of Hastings lolling in our wake, her rudder chain broken, her sails flapping uselessly as a final farewell gift. Dead in the water.

Which is the right phrase to use, and yet an odd one, because I was watching it all, and I know that not one hair on their heads was harmed, which caused me great relief. And somehow confirmed one small piece of my view of what manner of man Jack Sparrow is.

But still, such a small piece.

The deck is a flurry of activity, booty being stowed in barrels and chests for the journey, and all haste being made away from the scene of the crime. Jack and the others have determined that we will make berth tonight, in some cove of their acquaintance, to share the booty and celebrate. A real pirate celebration... Elizabeth would be very jealous.

Thinking of her puts a heavy ball of lead in my chest, and I leave the happy shouts above decks, and go below, back to the galley, where I promised Cook I'd finish my task. He's not there—it really is all hands on deck—so I have blessed solitude (a thing I'm starting to miss). And I need it. Need time to reflect and think, and determine what I'm to tell Jack, when his question re-presents itself. Which I'm sure it will... he doesn't let anything go easily. And I'm sure his question was going to be, Why have you come on board?

It's a good question, although he didn't ask it in the beginning, but appeared comfortable with my assertion that Elizabeth had suggested that I take the time to get the sea out of my system while she prepared for our wedding; this, supposedly, under the guise of a stay in Jamestown to finish my apprenticeship away from the prying eyes and gossip of tiny Port Royal, the inhabitants of which had been so scandalised by my behaviour in enabling Jack's escape.

It's not that unlikely a story, is it? Why does he no longer believe it?

My hands on the knife and whetstone slow almost to a stop, and I am lost in reverie. I cannot tell him the true reason. Not now, after my contrary rejection of him. It just doesn't make sense, even to me.

When we returned to Port Royal, with Jack Sparrow in the brig and a hanging on the horizon, I reasoned that there were two things on which my happiness depended; one, saving Jack from swinging, and two, winning Elizabeth's love. Wasn't that what had begun it all in the first place?

So on that one bright day, I achieved them both. And was happy beyond measure for... oh, three days at least. Until I realised that my growing habit of looking out for sails on the horizon was not a temporary one; that Jack's being alive, in and of itself, was a necessary, but not sufficient, condition of my happiness; that winning Elizabeth's hand was less of a joy to me that its reverse, being, the fine Commodore's loss of his prize.

Still, it was what I had chosen for myself, and had made to happen, so I tried to adapt myself to my new future. Tried to play the part of the dutiful fianc; which was no great hardship, for Elizabeth is beautiful and clever and true, and a good friend, and delightful companion. But she was not... not...

...not him. Not Jack.

There, I've said it. It took a long time for those words to form, even in the privacy of my own mind. I know they are the wrong words to say, in every way. I cannot possibly desire his company over hers.

But I do.

Elizabeth is dear to me, and known, and understood. And don't mistake me, I love and admire all that I know about her. But it is, well, just that—known. There is no newness to be had of her. Except... well, those things that had to wait till after our vows. But even those things...

This took even longer to form in my head. But even in those things, though it pains and shames me to admit it to myself, some part of me thinks, not of clean bright soft Elizabeth, but of strange quick fiery-dark Jack.

Elizabeth and I never spoke of it, not in such clear terms. But she knew that my heart was split. And she is far too strong in herself, and certain of her own worth, to accept such a half-measure in her love. So, she concocted this story; but there was another story beneath it, that we both knew full well, but never told. I believe that she does not really expect me to return.

So here I am, having left her, and turned pirate, and now, any sensible person would ask, what on earth was I doing when, presented with my theoretical heart's desire, I pushed it from me, and ran from it?

Those four days, before we first encountered the Rose... there was so much to learn, and I was happy just to be in his vicinity. But I must be truthful; it seemed then that I meant so little to him. Oh, he was cordial, more than cordial, he was friendly, and happy, and Jack; but he treated me with no more affection than any other man on board. He was as likely to wrap his slender self around Gibbs, or Cotton, or Muswell, or Pike; as likely to laugh with AnaMaria or Great Jake. He did not seek me out. He did not show any special regard for me to match mine for him.

And then! Out of nowhere, as I'm on watch, to come up and suddenly, with no indication that it means any more to him than an invitation to sup with him on his damnable rum, to invite me to... oh, I know full well what he meant. And though it sounds a terrible weakness, it was hard to keep the tears away.

Does he not know that something so strange and momentous is happening to me that I have given up my whole known life just to be closer to him? That this means so very much more to me than an hour of pointless depravity?

Well, that's a foolish question, isn't it. Of course he doesn't know. And I don't want to tell him. So here I am, in the galley.

*

Sailor's Grave, they call this cove, for there aren't so many as know how to pilot their way through in one piece. But I'm one of 'em. So, by day's end, here we are, the Pearl lolling in well-earned rest, and two cutters ferrying the crew and all our sweet booty to the shore, where we'll have ourselves a fine old hooley tonight!

There are palm trees and scrub right down to the sand's edge, and it's an easy matter for three or four to build a great fire. Mick Shadwell goes stumbling off into the bushes, musket in hand, an' re-emerges an hour later with a triumphant roar and two goats tucked limply under his great meaty arms. Gibbs lovingly improvises a table under the palms and loads it with bottles of rum and barrels of porter, which seem to be disappearing as fast as he can put them up. Great Jake has his fiddle, Farley his accordion, and the sun sets in a burst of crimson fabulousness, colouring us all happy, except for poor old AnaMaria, who's on board, not trusting her partners in crime to respect her virtue when they're all rummied up. Silly girl, as if Jack'd let ought bad befall her. I'd be far too scared of her retribution.

The goats' bellies have been split, and with uncharacteristic care Shadwell has sharpened two long sticks and shoved them up their arses and out their mouths, and they now hiss and spit into the cooking fire in a fine-smelling barbe-au-cul. Should be done by nightfall, and none too soon at that, for at the rate the rum's disappearing we'll never get through the division of our spoils before one or two are snoring! Best get them underway.

"Gentlemen!" I cry, and get their attention by throwing a rum bottle into the bonfire, where it explodes mightily, to cheers and shouts of laughter. Mr Gibbs throws me another, which I catch with aplomb and take a happy swig from.

"Gentlemen, today was a fine day for the crew of the sweet Pearl, weren't it? And you've done your villainous duty with impressive attention to detail, and now it's time for us to divvy!"

Cheers and shouts and more missiles into the fire, really, someone's going to get hurt one of these days. Hahaha.

"So it's five guineas per man, and Mr Duval's decision is final on the worth of your choice, savvy?" (Duval's pater, in his long ago life, ran a pawn shop in New Orlans. He knows what's what.)

We draw straws for pickings, and one by one, each goes to make his choice. Coin, jewels, instruments—each to his own fancy. Most of 'em can't see past the money, but some surprise me. Shadwell takes a good brass sextant, which tells me more than he seems to realise about his plans for the future. Mr Gibbs takes a fine lady's brooch and blushes mightily as he does so, bet he's got a plan for that one. Takes a good hour, and by then those goats are smelling mighty fine.

"Are we all done, gentlemen?" I enquire.

"What about AnaMaria?"

"Gave her first pickings, before we unloaded."

There's a grumble at that, which ain't fair. "Oi," I chide them, "who's sitting cold and lonely on the ship, taking care of it for you, and out of fear of your villainous hides at that? Not a word, an' it please you."

"What about Turner?" This from Gibbs.

Aye, what about him? I've not seen him this evening, at all. "Where is he?"

"Hidin' under a fuckin' tree," sneers Pike, and I give him a glare. What lad wouldn't be wary of this lot, I ask you? Pack of drunken monkeys. I turn my back on the fire and squint into the treeline, and there he is, watching.

"Nothing for me, Jack," he says quietly. "They're not my earnings."

I'm tempted to argue with him, for didn't he take the wheel? But I've a distinct feeling that it's beyond pointless. On the other hand, I want to reward him, or at least to make amends for what even I know has been devilish inconstant behaviour.

How's he to know that I harbour these yearnings for him? That I've tried to cover those with disinterest, and then tried to acknowledge them (and been slapped down for it) and then become angry at him over his obstinacy, but in a degree that can only be accounted for by the depth of my desperation for him. Poor Will, poor beautiful Will being tormented by maddening Jack! But damn my eyes if he don't at least have the mercy of being openly tormented, when my torment must remain tucked away.

In the end, I merely nod, and determine to tell Gibbs later to put five guineas aside for him.

"And what about you, Captain?" cries another, and I turn back to the fire in mock amazement.

"Why, gentlemen, how kind of you to think of me, though really, 'twas you as did all the hard work."

Great Jake stands, with some difficulty, and I'm glad he ain't got far to fall, for fall he's going to and no mistake. But he manages to shout "Three cheers for our Captain Jack!" before he goes, face down in the sand, and there are loud hurrays, buoyed by laughter, and I bow and scrape before them.

"I've something special for you, Captain," says Duval, with a glint in his eye. "Something that'll have value to you, though it mightn't to any of us." And he pulls out, from the back of the diminished booty pile, a black lacquered box, and brings it to me.

There ain't nothing like being given a present, is there! And it weren't even my birthday. I don't think.

"Not too close to the fire when you open it, Cap'n," he advises, and I back off a little, sit down in the moonlight. The boys weren't so int'rested once they heard his opinion of its value, and Shadwell pulls the goats from their stakes, and lays them down on great palm leaves, and my crew is entirely distracted from me.

Save one, and I know he's watching me from up under the trees as I open the box.

Oh, Duval, you lovely little frog. I slam it shut again. Save it for later.

*

Whatever's in that odd box, it's lit up Jack like a firebrand. He was in a good mood beforehand, but now? Now he's... well, like three Jacks rolled into one.

He shut it as soon as opened it, and crept round and tucked it away under a bush. Now he turns and sees me watching him, and his smile lights up his face, gold flashing red in the firelight. My poor heart clutches itself hopelessly and I smile back as he comes over, extending a hand.

"Up, Mr Turner, up! Or there'll be none of this fine meat left for us!"

I reach up and take his hot dry hand and he grips me hard, pulling me to my feet and throwing an arm around me. He's said no more about last night's fiasco, and I'd rather ignore it myself, even though his arm brings it right back to me.

"What was in the box?" I blurt, even though I don't like the chances that he's going to tell me. But he looks at me consideringly, and then says, "I may just show you later, laddie."

Which doesn't seem like a bad option to me.

The goat meat is wonderful, hot and crisply fat. It seems an age since I had fresh meat, and I eat like I haven't been fed for days, grinning at Jack beside me, feeling my skin heating from the fire, and almost missing the forge. It's a strong fire they've made, but it's nothing like my furnace, and I can sit closer than most and bear it happily.

Jack is even more devilish, lit by flickering orange. It picks out the gold woven into his hair and beard, and the shadows and planes of his face are so sharp and clean. An odd word to use about Jack! But if I look beyond the kohl, the grime of a life at sea, I can see what I have always seen; a lovely face, with great bright eyes and a wickedly expressive mouth. His outside is so captivating... why can I not tell anything about the man inside? I see only contradictions and mysteries. His heart is closed to me. Perhaps I should admit to myself that it may always be so, before I lose the chance to undo what I have done. Before I lose the chance to return to Elizabeth.

Jack tears the final strip of flesh from the rib he holds, then snaps it in half and sucks out the marrow, eyes closed and cheeks hollowing. He really is a savage. Into the fire go the bones, and suddenly he's on his feet and bellowing at all and sundry, "Lads! What say you—feels to me like a night worthy of rumfustian!"

There's actually a moment of silence, and I catch a couple of the pirates giving each other a look which I swear might actually be one of consternation, but then there's a roar of laughter and approval, a chorus of "Aye!"s, and Mr Gibbs rolls on over, presenting Jack with a fine silver mug from the booty pile.

"Perfect!" cries Jack. "Bring me the doings—although perhaps I'll move a little back from the flames, eh boys?"

He backs away, and I follow him, calling through the din of caterwauling and singing pirates, "What's that, Jack? What's rumfustian?"

Jack throws back his head and laughs fit to burst. "Oh, William Turner, how sweet you are. Lads, Mr Turner's question is, what's rumfustian? So, don't you think he should be the first to share the brew, bein' the newest member of our brotherhood, and all that? Should we not invite him into the fold with this little ceremony?"

I'm sure if they weren't so drunk they'd probably not have thought it such a fine idea, since I knew what most of them thought of me, but as it was they thought it a capital plan. As did I, briefly.

Here's Mr Gibbs, back with a large bottle of the darkest, thickest rum I've seen in a while—no watered down grog, this one. And a little barrel under his other arm, and a small pewter ladle. He sets these down in front of Jack, and the company gathers round him, like a nest of gargoyles. If Jack is more lovely than ever in the firelight, I certainly cannot say the same for the rest of them.

Jack raises the empty mug, and silence falls.

"To our brotherhood," he says, solemnly. "To free men, sailing a free sea."

"Free men, sailing a free sea!" they roar, and I'm grinning, this really is the fun bit about being a pirate, isn't it?

Jack unstoppers the bottle, and pours a very (very) generous measure into the mug. Then he takes the barrel, sets it carefully down, and takes the cork from its lid; lowers in the tiny ladle, and brings it out, heaped high with greyish powder.

For a moment, I don't understand. I thought it would be sugar, or some exotic spice. Then I realise, as the granules slide into the black rum with a tiny susurrus, what it is.

That's gunpowder.

I look at Jack in confusion, and not a little dismay, but get nothing back but his worst and wickedest grin.

"Cheers, mate, chug-a-lug," he says, and hands me the mug.

Well, they were all staring at me, and I couldn't but drink, could I? Really? I brought it to my lips, and a low chant started—rumbo, rumbo, rumbo!—and I decided the best thing to do was just to drink it fast.

*

Oh, I shouldn't have done it, I know I shouldn't have, but it was really too much fun to resist. He was so agreeable, so obliging to take part. I know I should have warned him, but that wouldn't have been half so amusing now, would it? He chucked it back like it was naught but porter, and his face froze for just a moment before he began to cough and choke, and tears began to stream from his eyes. A roar of laughter greeted this, and he looked up, and I couldn't but be laughing too. I tried to show him that it was all in great jest, and smiled through my chortles, and slapped him on the shoulder, and do you know what that wonderful boy did? Well, once he stopped choking and could take a breath again.

He laughed too. Like a drain. And when I cried "Who's next?" he called, with all the others, "Me!", and simply fell about laughing again. Who'd have thought it?

So, the festivities having eventually abated as more and more of my sated colleagues have fallen asleep where they sat, the only one still really awake is young Farley, playing a gentle lilt on his accordion. The bright moon is high over the Pearl where she rides at anchor, and it lights up the beach even though the fire is reducing to sparking embers. Will has fallen asleep, back up under his palm tree. Time to have another peek at my pickings.

It's a lovely box, it is, shining black lacquer with brass hinges and catches. I've set a torch beside me in the sand, and it, and the moon, give me enough light to see.

There's a tray in the box, and it's full of the most special and beautiful ingredients. Things that I've not seen for an age and more. How did Duval know?

There's lead white, so beautiful, so poisonous. A great lump of ultramarine. Red madder, sienna burnt and raw; these brown lumps are true cochineal. Persian yellow, verdigris, a dozen more. And that's just the paints. There's powdered gesso, and bottles of binder, blackest indian ink, and fine willow charcoal, and plumbago in narrow rods. Inside the lid, in sweet leather pockets, there's every brush and knife, palette and sharp, a man could wish for.

And under the tray, the real prize. In the deep body of the box, paper. Beautiful paper. From thickish parchment, down to the finest Chinee rice paper. Maybe five hundred sheets.

Christ, my hands are almost shaking as I touch it. It calls to me, calls. Is it still in me, I wonder? Or has it faded and gone, with the rest of that life? If it's gone, then this gift is no more than a taunt, and it should never see the light of day. But if it's still here...

The first three go to the embers, my eye is gone. But the fourth? I think I have the lines of my beautiful Pearl right on the fourth. The charcoal is dark and soft, forgiving of my clumsiness and mistakes. The plumbago puts in the sharp lines of her rigging and the sweet detail of her hull, lit up by the moon. It's a joy that I haven't indulged in a long time (and there ain't many of those).

Finally I close the box, go back up to its hidey-hole. It ain't destined for the fire. I'm meaning to get me some sweet sleep, the sun'll be up soon.

But up at the treeline, I see him, and I see him with my old eyes, the eyes that'll take a lovely shape and remake it on paper. And oh, those eyes see something more again in him, more than... more than should be possible in a body. I have to take it, capture it.

I take one of the heavier papers, and sit a few feet back from him. He's sprawled on his back, but his knees are drawn up to the side, feet crossed. One arm lies across his body, t'other hand tucked between his legs. But it's the lines and shadows of his face in the clean moonlight that I must have, must keep.

The perfect model, he don't move an inch. I draw him till the moon and sky are paling. Three, four, five of my precious sheets. I don't throw none in the fire.

And as the drawings are done, and done, and done, my wicked heart is more and more undone. I can see all his strength, and sweetness, and warmth in my lines, no word of a lie. All his bravery and determination, all his quickness and loyalty, and it pulls hard at my heart.

The only thing I can't see, is, why is he on board my ship?

Read Part 2