The knock on the door is an interruption: John Tobias is deep in thought, battling with a frustrating combination of a badly stained map, the handwriting of his first mate—which, while not strictly speaking indecipherable, could certainly be deciphered in a multitude of different ways—and the arcane rigours of Mathematicks in general, and dead reckoning in particular, which never put him in a notably good mood. So, while the knock is an interruption, that is not necessarily a bad thing. But John attempts nevertheless to sound extremely busy as he calls, brusquely, "Come!". It never hurts to put one's visitors on the back foot.

It's young William Turner, Bootstrap as the crew calls him for no reason that John has ever discovered. All that brusqueness was a waste of effort. It's not possible to put Turner on the back foot, because he is invariably certain that whatever course of action he's following is the correct one. Otherwise, being Bill Turner, he would not have chosen it.

"That was quick: is there a problem?" enquires John, who not half an hour since sent Turner down to check the aft bilge-pump. And Turner's clearly been down there: his trowsers, though rolled to the knee, are nonetheless wet, and he brings a damp and rotting odour with him into the cabin.

Turner's grinning. "I found another one, Cap'n. Another uninvited passenger."

"Another...? God's teeth, is there no end to 'em?" cries John, particularly frustrated to've made the discovery this far out from Nassau Port. Rare, for one to remain undetected for—what, four days? Five?

Turner shrugs. "'Tis our ship's fine name, that brings 'em to us."

"Ain't it obvious to these fools that with a name as fine as this ship's, we're able to choose our own bloody crew as we please," grumbles John, "and ain't so desp'rate for bodies that we'd take any half-pint half-wit who can scale the stern in the dark?" He pushes himself back from his table and reaches for his hat. "What's this one like, then? Prepare me, Bill, for God's sake: how old is he, twelve?"

"No, no, more'n that."

"What's wrong with 'im, then? Babbling idiot? Missing some vital part?" John's idly picturing some freakish monstrosity. 'Twould be an entertainment, at least.

But: "Nope. Nothing wrong with 'im that I can tell."

And all the rest of John's questions meet with shrugs, and grins, and nothing useful at all. Which is interesting. Seems that this stowaway's somehow endeared itself to his normally stolid crewman. And Bootstrap Bill never likes stowaways. For a pirate, he's deucedly law-abiding—so much so that John's been half expecting for Bill to regain his sense and jump ship, ever since they acquired him and a couple of others from a doomed merchantman north of Anguilla—and he don't usually take kindly to lads who break the rules of this little floating world by secreting themselves upon it.

As they emerge onto the deck there's a ruckus starting up a-stern, laughter and cat-calling and scuffling. "Oi!" shouts Bill, finding his tongue again, and running up to the knot of men that's gathered about his find. "Leave 'im be, you dogs! He's Captain's!"

The men part as John Tobias approaches, and finally he sees the wretched creature that's caused all this bother. John stops short, and stands there, feet wide-braced and hands on his hips. He looks down upon it, where it's kneeling on the deck, lip bloodied already from someone's idea of a welcome.

"Get up," he says, not unkindly, and the stowaway does. Looks at John, with a black-eyed mixture of defiance and excitement.

For a long, close-lipped minute they regard one another, interrupted only by the swell and crash of the waves and the thrum and creak of this great ship. Sounds that John barely hears any more, unless they break their 'ccustomed patterns.

The stowaway's a stripling, no more. An average height, but thin. He's wet and he's reeking, after at least four days down in the pitch-black bilges. His skin's wrinkled with it, palely cold despite the bright day. His hair is dark as John's own, but tangled and dirty where John's curls gleam; his cheeks and chin are all but smooth, where John's moustache curves rakishly.

Two things strike John, strike him hard and fast and will bury themselves in his memory for the rest of his life: the first is that fierce, intelligent stare. The stare of an equal, even though they're anything but.

The second is the sure and certain knowledge that if you cleaned this lad up, he'd be one of the most beautiful human beings you'd ever seen in your life. Painfully, perfectly, obscenely beautiful.

(Maybe that's why Bill likes him? But no. John's never seen that in Bill. Never shown that to Bill, neither.)

"What's your name?" John says, without preamble.

"John," says the lad. It's the chin-up, challenging answer of someone who's got no intention of answering that question truthfully. But John's happy enough to take it at face value. There ain't one man in a dozen on this ship who's given his real name. Who cares what your name once was, who you once were? On this ship, you're something else.

"Well, I'm the only John we're having on the Black Pearl," he says. "Not that you'll call me any such damn thing, boy. So you can be Jack."

The young man doesn't take this amiss, but merely nods, one anonym much the same as any other.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty."

John sighs, and shakes his head. "The key to a good lie, Jack, is credibility."

Jack looks shamefaced. "Sorry. Nineteen."

"Try again, and one more lie and you're overboard. I've no time for liars."

"Eighteen! Really."

John looks at him, and starts to bare his teeth.

"Eighteen!" cries Jack, hands spread in honest protest, and then, "Well. Nearly."

"Sailor?"

"I've sailed," says Jack, which ain't the same thing at all, and both of 'em know it.

"So what the fuck did you think you were doing, hiding away on board my ship?" snaps John, rather suddenly and with a most fearsome scowl. He fails in his intention of discombobulating this Jack, who appears to've been rehearsing the answer to this very question for most, if not all, of those long hours down in the bowels of the ship.

He pulls himself very upright, emulating John's own stance, and declares, "It's my intention, Captain, to offer myself as a member of your crew; and though you mightn't think it now, the day'll come when you'll thank me for choosing you as my captain, and this ship as my home: for I'll make you my master, and her my mistress, and give you all I have to give."

John suppresses a smile, but suspects it's all too visible in his eyes. "And what have you to give me?"

"A quick head, sir, and a loyal heart. And a promise you that you'll never regret the day you met John—that is, Jack—Sparrow. The day that you took me on as a member of your company. The day our partnership began."

It's entirely ridiculous, in every way: this drenched and foul-smelling lad, making such a passionate speech to a man he's never met before. Partners indeed! John should laugh, he knows he should. Laugh, and tell him to grow into a man and then try again. But...

...but there's something about that gaze. That expression that's determined and sure and yet deeply, ruefully aware of how foolish those words seem: that expression that's saying, I know, I know, I'm nothing; but oh, one day I'll be something; one day, you won't laugh at me.

The men haven't dared laugh, neither, not with the way John's gone all solemn.

"If that was your intention all along, then why'd you see fit to stow away?" John asks, honestly curious. "Why, Mr Sparrow, did you not come to me straight and open and state your business?"

Jack Sparrow shifts from foot to foot, and the beginning of a smile quirks up one corner of his mouth. Kissable, whispers something in John's head. He quashes it firmly.

"It's been my observation that your average gentleman of fortune is inclined to rely on surface impressions," says Jack. "And I don't know if you've noticed it, but I'm not particularly terrifying. Mightn't be the most obviously martial specimen to've offered his services to you recently. I lack a certain quality of fearsomeness."

"True enough. But that's something one can develop, with the right tutelage. And besides, I'm not your 'average' gentleman of fortune. And this is not your 'average' ship," says John, giving the fellow a hard stare as he sharpens the points of his moustache.

"I know," says Sparrow, softly. He looks away from John, then, and reaches out, touches the dark gleaming wood of the taffrail. "I heard tell. An' that, Captain... why, that's why I had to do as I did, to stow away. Had to be sure that we'd have time to talk. That you'd have time to know me."

The arrogance is... well, it's rather charming, actually. But still. "And what makes you think I won't simply throw you in the brig till next we make land? Or throw you overboard, for that matter?"

"Half-witted optimism?" says Sparrow, and grins. John has to fight not to grin back at him.

"Alright, then, Mr Sparrow," he says sternly. "I'll give you your chance. We're en route for Cat Island. By the time we get there, I'll have made a decision. I'll know whether I like you, and whether the ship likes you."

"The ship?" says Jack Sparrow, his head on one side like his namesake, a sharp inquisitive look on his face. "D'you mean the crew? Is that what you call the men?"

"No," says John, with a crooked smile. "It is not."

*

The one who found him—Bootstrap, they call him—has appointed himself Jack's mate. Or boss, or gaoler, or something. He hauls up a bucket of seawater and tells Jack to clean himself off, and that he'll be back in a minute with something cleaner for him to put on. Jack's more interested in comestibles than in matters hygienic or sartorial, as it happens, but now's not the time to argue. Now's the time to be agreeable. Now's the time to revel in the glory of his good fortune.

He's going to be part of the company of the infamous Black Pearl. John Tobias let him aboard. John Tobias is going to be his Captain.

Jack watches the Captain as he strolls up to the quarterdeck, his long-legged gait rolling with the gentle motion of the decks. He's everything Jack'd ever heard he was. Lavish and handsome and tall and well-knit, his bright red coat catching the eye from a mile off, loud and wild against the red and green pattern of his long weskit and the faded rose silk of his sash. Those boots are glorious. Jack wonders if he'll ever manage to get himself a pair o' those. He's been barefoot too long.

He pulls his damp and filthy shirt over his head and dunks it in the bucket, using it to scrub his body roughly, and then his face more carefully, where he was hit before.

"No hard feelings, eh?"

He looks round, and there's the rusty-headed fellow who'd started that little fracas. Not the one that'd hit him: but the one that'd incited it, with some sly comment, with some question as to whether Jack'd looked askance at his mate.

"'Course not," lies Jack, smooth as butter.

"Hector," says the fellow. He holds out a hand and smiles all toothy.

"Jack."

"So we hear. Nice speech you made, back there."

"I meant it," says Jack staunchly. He thinks his lip is bleeding again; he can taste iron.

"We'll find that out soon enough. See you later, then... Jack."

"Aye," says Jack, liking the Nautickal sound of the word, and also liking the sight of Hector's retreating back. There's one to watch. But all his new companions will bear watching. They are, after all, pirates.

So'm I. Jack grins to himself.

"Feels good, eh, to be cleaner?" says Bootstrap, appearing with an armful of only slightly grubby linen.

"Aye," says Jack again, and Bootstrap grins at him as if he's said something funny. Jack tries the clothes he's been brought. Shirt's too big, but it'll do if he rolls the sleeves. Trowsers ain't bad, an' less patched than his own.

"My thanks," he says, and gives Bootstrap a wide grin.

There's a sudden high whistle from the quarterdeck. "Mr Turner!" cries John Tobias. "What say you take our new friend up above? Show him the sights? Relieve young Mr Malone, up there?"

Up there? Bootstrap's squinting upwards, up and up and up, to where a tiny arm waves down from a miniature perch, high up above the world.

"He'll be fine!" shouts the Captain. "He's sailed, don't you know!"

Bootstrap looks at Jack, cocks one eyebrow.

"Lead on," says Jack. "By all means, Mr Bootstrap, lead on."

"Just do as I do, eh?"

It may well be the worst ten minutes of Jack's entire life to date, and the unfortunate fact of the matter is that he's had more unpleasant minutes than he cares to dwell upon. But he's never felt quite so very certain that he's about to die, and never felt quite so very certain that he absolutely will not do so in front of the present audience, whose tinny voices and laughter are borne up by the wind, and just as quickly snatched away again.

The first bit isn't so bad. Climbing up close behind Bootstrap's dirty soles, just like a ladder. He doesn't like it quite so much when he has to go out and round that first platform; likes it less when the ladder turns narrower still, and they climb closer and closer to the swinging end of this great wooden pendulum, and the wind picks up, and his poor bilgewater-soaked hands and feet are being scraped raw and sore. But when he glances down (oh fuck shouldn't do that) he can see John Tobias's face turned up to the sky. To the sun. To Jack.

And Jack swears that all that John Tobias is going to see is his courage and his capability and his determination.

They pause at the next cross-tree, as a thin young man climbs down past them; and then it's the last haul, the last clamber into the sky. Jack's fear is merging with his determination, turning seamlessly into a sweet fierce exhilaration; and when he hauls himself that final yard, up onto the maintop, he leaps to his feet with a whoop, punching the air with one hand and holding on for dear life with the other.

"You like that, then?" says Bootstrap, wiping the sweat from his top lip with the back of his hand, grinning wide and handsome.

Jack can't find the words to answer him. Only the smile.

*

"Might I have a word, Mr Sparrow?"

Jack Sparrow squints up against the lowering sun, and as soon as he sees it's John he leaps to his feet and his plate and knife are on the deck with a clatter. Empty: John'd seen the ravenous speed with which he'd been eating, and waited till he'd finished.

"Sir?"

"Join me at the helm?"

"Sir!"

"I'll take her, Mr Barbossa," says John as they approach the wheel, and his second nods briefly and gives Jack Sparrow a sly smile. Sparrow grins back, wide and innocent, though John suspects that grin of a certain disingenuousness.

"You did well today," John says when Barbossa's gone. "Bill set a hard pace."

"Good; I don't need anyone to go gentle on me."

"Then you can expect a hard three days," says John, "barring any unexpected change in the weather; three days, and we'll be at Cat Island, and I'll let you know my decision."

"And how will you know whether you like me?"

"I'll watch you, Mr Sparrow. Watch you closely." That won't exactly be a hardship, John thinks to himself with a wry internal grin.

"And how will you know whether the ship likes me?"

"That's for me to know, and you to find out," says John; because either the ship will show herself to this lad, or she won't, and if she don't, why then Sparrow'll probably think John's a madman, or worse. But he's curious, very curious, to see what his lady will think of Jack Sparrow. Whether she'll react to him the same way as John has, with a deep instinctive trust and attraction... or feel him as a prickling threat, the way Hector Barbossa clearly does. So, driven by this curiosity, he says nonchalantly, "D'you want to take the wheel?"

Sparrow's hand darts forward, and then he visibly stops himself. Instead of wrapping his fingers around the smooth polished wood, he just touches one fingertip to't, one gentle stroke.

"Is that... is that an order?" he says, head tilted in query. John shakes his head.

"Then no, Captain, I don't want to. Not yet," he says. "Not till I know her better. Not till I know what I'm doing, an' can be trusted. Not for a game."

John shivers, and as quickly as that, he knows his ship's answer. He swallows.

"Then you've got three days," he says gruffly, "to learn the name of every man on this ship, an' what he can do; and the name of every sail and stay, if you don't know it already. You're part of a machine while you're on this ship, and no use to me until you know how it functions."

"Consider it done," says Jack Sparrow, all cocky, and clearly not having any bloody idea just how many nautickal terms he's going to have to commit to memory. 'I've sailed', my arse, thinks John, though not without some small measure of affection already.

"I shall; for I consider any order, once given, to be as good as completed," he tells Sparrow. "And you, Jack Sparrow, are going to get a lot of orders from me."

"Then you may consider them all done," says Sparrow, grinning widely enough to show a blackening tooth in his jaw. It spoils the beauty of him. Gold, thinks John. He needs gold, and I sh'll give it to him.

"That tooth," he says, curling his lip. "I want it gone, Sparrow. It offends me."

Jack Sparrow's eyes widen just a little, his smile stiffens; but it takes only a second, a fraction of a second, no more. He inclines his head.


John sees him only once more that day, as the sun's setting. He's following Bootstrap and his mates up the mizzen. But he pauses for a second, when he sees John: pauses, and grins a gap-toothed grin.

Read Part Two: In The Second Year Of Their Acquaintance.