"Two goats," says Jack, "an' a dozen chickens. Can't say fairer 'n that."

The skinny Frenchman eyes the pile of coin on the ground. It's not a lot. But then, from the look of this village... well, value's relative, ain't it. Or so Jack tells himself. And all this lot seem to have to their names is some scrawny goats and chickens. Which, serendipitously, is just what Jack and his mates're after. Though they could've done with a bit less of the scrawny.

"Dix," says the Frenchman, holding up all his fingers. "Ten chickens."

"Twelve, he said: a fuckin' dozen, twelve, comprenny-voo?" snaps Hector Barbossa. He's sweating, reddened in the midday sun; the air shimmers with heat, unleavened by any breeze. It's clearly not doing much for his temper, never the most amenable of creatures in the first place.

The Frenchie looks at him sideways and wisely decides that he's done negotiating. He shrugs, and nods.

"Excellent!" says Jack happily, steepling his fingers and bowing over them to confirm their bargain. (Tobias frequently taunts him for the gesture, tells him it makes him look like a debauched cleric; Jack continues to do it anyway, at least partly because a debauched cleric sounds like an amusing thing to look like.)

"I get the goats," says big Jens, who can easily stick one under each arm. "West, Gill, you get the chickens."

West and Gill follow him in the direction of the tethered animals. Two Frenchies accompany them; the rest of the villagers, still wary, watch them go. Three little boys start chasing after chickens, laughter mingling with squawks, bare feet and claws kicking up clouds of dust.

"Eh bien," says the fellow who seems to be in charge, and he squats down, starts to pick up the coins, one by one; one by one till, to Jack's dismay, bloody Barbossa brings a booted foot down hard on the back of his hand.

"Ay! Qu'est-ce que—"

"You've got more bloody goats here than you know what to do with," says Hector conversationally. "You don't need our money. Doin' you a favour, we are, getting' rid of some of the damn'd things for you."

The man looks up at Jack, all confused and angry and in more than a little bit of pain. Jack imagines the graunch of his knuckles under Hector's wooden heel and winces.

"Barbossa, don't be an ass," he hisses. "We made a deal."

"You might've made a deal," retorts the Second Mate, "but I, Jack, am rescinding it. We're pirates, remember? Not fucking maids, off to market. We need the damn animals, we'll take the damn animals." And he kicks the Frenchman in the chest, stoops and scoops up the coin, stuffing it back in the purse. A woman cries out; Jens turns, a goat kicking in his grip; the Frenchman yells, "Ces cochons sont des voleurs!"

"Wait! Stop!" cries Jack, seeing everything start to spiral and speed, seeing Hector pull out a knife, seeing some of the Frenchmen go for weapons. But he's too late. One of them's come up behind Jens, and told him to put the goat down, and Jens—did he not hear, did he not understand?—scowls and pushes him away and then there's a deafening retort.

Followed by a second's shocked silence: and then a heavy dull thud as Jens falls, and the goat keens as it struggles free and darts away and there are shouts and pistols cocking and—

"Arrêtez! Ne tirez pas!" shouts Jack, in a fierce commanding tone; and they didn't know he spoke French, which confuses them for long enough for Hector (always reliable in situations of violence, and most especially in those of his own devising) to get their negotiator in a headlock, a knife at his throat.

"Ne tirez pas! Si vous tirez, il mourira!" Jack explains, possibly superfluously. "Ty—Ty, is Jens...?"

Ty West is already there, crouched at Jens' shoulder, and shaking his head.

Fuck. Fuck. Jack feels sick. "Take him to the boat," he says.

"And them chickens," says Hector, and Jack wants to kick him in his sneering face. He stares at him, hard, and one whirly thought shoves its way through all the others, dancing at the forefront of Jack's mind: Did you mean this to happen?

He couldn't've, surely. Couldn't've guessed that Jens would be shot. But Jack can see a light of excitement in the other man's eyes. A greedy light that can see some advantage in this horrible, horrible situation.

Because Jens was John Tobias's First. Jens was one of the two men standing between Hector Barbossa and the captaincy of the Black Pearl.

So it didn't matter, did it, who else was killed. As long as Jens Markken died, there was a point to't.

*

They take the head man with them in the boat, as hostage till they're out of range of the villagers' rifles. Then they toss him overboard.

Out in the bay, the Pearl's men are already making ready to sail. Jack knows that John Tobias will have been watching it all. He won't know how or why Jens died—the village was a few hundred yards back from the beach, hidden in scrubby jungle—but he will've seen the body, heaved into the boat.

The captain is waiting for them, at the top of the sealadder. The moment West's aboard, and the longboat's been hoisted clear of the waves, he orders anchors aweigh.

"What?" cries Barbossa, in a fine show of outrage. "Ain't we going to seek some revenge on those bastards? He's dead, John! They fuckin' shot him!"

Tobias kneels at Jens' side, and puts a hand to his friend's cheek. The flesh is pale and grey already, its lifeblood drained out into the dirt, into the seawater that sloshed in the bottom of the longboat. Jack's boots are stained with it.

The shore party stand around their fallen mate, their crouching captain; they make an awkward tableau, as the busy crew swerve and eddy around them, and the grunting chant of the capstan crew's replaced with Bootstrap's voice, bellowing commands, and the snap of dropping, filling canvas. Jack won't interrupt his Captain while he says his goodbyes. They'd sailed together a long while, those two. John Tobias has just lost the man he trusted more than any other in this rotten world.

At last the captain, with a finger and thumb, closes his First Mate's eyes. He stands up.

"They shot him!" says Hector again, gesturing back t'wards the beach, where a crowd of men stand, and some are swimming out, still, to meet their leader.

"I ain't arguing that," says John Tobias, his voice steely. "The question is, Mr Barbossa, why in the devil's name did they shoot him? And don't dare tell me he brought it on himself. Not Jens Markken."

Jack gives Barbossa a steely cold look, but keeps his mouth shut.

"There was a misunderstanding," says Barbossa smoothly. "Damn'd French. Language barrier."

"Really? What language was that, then, that your bloody boots were talking?" snaps Jack.

"That's an international language, that one," says Barbossa, and he grins.

Jack's torn. Torn. Dammit, he wants to blurt out the truth of what happened; but he doesn't want to be the sort of fellow who goes running to his Captain with every tale. There's enough aboard already who think he's Tobias's man, and not in a good loyal way neither, but rather in that way of total, unthinking, dangerous loyalty.

Which is close to the truth, in that, yes, Jack does do every damn thing that John Tobias asks of him. But it's never, ever, unthinking. John Tobias just always knows the right thing to ask, that's all. He asks a lot of Jack; a lot of work, a lot of odd requests. But he gives Jack so, so much more in return. Knowledge. Responsibility. Skills and strength. Stories and histories. A life of adventure and plenty and freedom. Why wouldn't Jack give him anything he asked?

But: he will have to ask, Jack thinks. I won't just tell him.

Tobias looks at him, and Jack looks back.

"Ty," Tobias says, though it takes him a moment to shift his eyes from Jack's. "What happened?"

Ty West shrugs, and wipes a grimy hand under his nostrils. "Thought it was all sorted," he says. "Jack an' Hector reached a price, we was off to get the animals, and then, bang."

"What price?" says Tobias, as though Oeconomics matter a damn right now.

"Um... sixteen pesos?" says Ty.

Tobias holds out his hand, beckoning with his fingertips. Barbossa gives him a blank look. "Purse," Tobias snaps.

Barbossa gives it to him. He pockets it.

"Jack: shroud him. We'll bury him at dusk."

That's it? That's bloody it? Jack's seriously reconsidering his decision to keep his mouth shut. But Tobias has turned on his heel and gone; and the last thing Jack wants to see now is Barbossa's gloating face. Better to hunch over a seeping corpse, pricking your fingers, than watch that.

*

John's not much of a one for God, but Jens, in his way, clung to some warped remnant of a faith. Christ knows how he squared it with the life he led; but then, he wasn't what you'd call a deep thinker. So, when they're all gathered in the waist, as the sun slips down below the horizon and Jens' body, all wrapped and stiffening, slips down the plank and plashes into the dark waves, he says a prayer. An' more of his crew than he'd've thought it of join him in that final Amen.

Jack Sparrow does, with a pious (laughably pious, to any man as knows him) note in his voice. Not Hector Barbossa, though. Asked, he'd say it was because he wasn't a man to indulge in hypocrisy; John, all his worst suspicions confirmed, is damn sure it's because he's simply not sorry to see Jens' pale shadow fade as he sinks. Down, down, down; down to where they're all headed, one of these days. It makes John melancholy, this business of sending a man down to the depths, and sailing on.

Still, it's a funeral, ain't it; which requires drink, and plenty of it. As the lanthorns are lit on the yardarms, the great lamps on the transom, John orders up a hogshead of beer and cases of thick honeyed rum. They drink to their fallen mate; drink hard and fast, hungry to make the best of the time between now and their own private descent beneath the water.

Mustn't let them go too far, though, get too jug-bit; not till he's done what needs doing.

He stands up, and calls for silence.

"We've said goodbye to Jens Markken," he says, raising his mug, and there's a dull rumble of toasting and drinking in return. "But now we've a decision to make, ain't we? And that is, who's goin' to be our new First."

Barbossa, who's made sure he's not far from John's side all evening, drops his gaze deckward and gives a small sigh, as though that's a hard, hard thing to think of at a time like this.

"An' frequently," John continues, "it'll happen that the fellow who's been taking the role of Second'll simply step into those shoes, an' we'll find ourselves a new Second."

"Bootstrap!" shouts someone, and there's a chorus of agreement. John holds up a hand.

"Frequently," he says. "But that ain't the same as always."

Barbossa's head snaps up.

*

"Christ," says Bill.

"Eh?" says Jack, who's feeling maudlin, and leaning over the gunwale, watching the blackness that swallowed their mate's corpse not half an hour since. He's not in the mood for funereal speechifying.

"Pay attention, will you? Tobias just as good as said he din't want Barbossa as First."

That gets Jack's attention, alright. He twists round; can't see too well, so he hoists himself up onto the railing, twining an elbow and a knee around a stay. It's hard to hold back a grin. Oh, John Tobias, you wily bugger you. You know the truth of what happened today, don't you? You could see it.

Tobias pulls the purse out of his pocket. "Jack Sparrow!" he shouts. "How much did I send you ashore with?"

Everyone turns to stare at Jack. He stretches himself a bit taller, and attempts to look somewhat less like a man who is clutching a rope to ensure he doesn't fall overboard, and more like one who just happens to be comfortable up here. "Twenty pieces," he says.

Tobias tosses the purse to Andrew Gill. "Count it," he says. Gill crouches over the deck, spreading the coins so that everyone can see: and aye, it's twenty.

"Odd, that. Should be four," says Tobias. "Considerin' you agreed on sixteen. 'Less I'm amiss in my Mathematicks."

Barbossa shrugs. He grins at the crew, and doesn't attempt to hide it any more, what he did. "Pirates, ain't we?" he says. "Take what you can; give nothin' back, eh lads?" There's general laughter. They've all said that before, an' done it besides.

"And I ain't averse to't, neither," says Tobias, "as well you all know." His voice drops low, and Jack has to lean forward to hear him as he says, with a bitter and dangerous edge: "But nor'm I so fucking stupid as to walk into a half-starved village, offer them money in exchange for a goodly portion of their livestock—as my captain's instructed me to do—an' then tell 'em I'm not paying."

Barbossa bridles. "Who're you calling—"

"You, you greedy cretin: you've played that bloody game before, and you played it again today, and Jens Markken died for it!" shouts Tobias, and he takes a step towards Barbossa, his hand on his hilt; then halts, and sucks in a deep and noisy breath.

The comp'ny stand frozen. Poised. Waiting. Barbossa no less than the rest of 'em.

"Aye, I'm angry wi' you," says Tobias, calmer, though no less dangerous. "But I ain't about to make this more than it is. Enough blood's been spilled today. You're a good fighter, Hector, and a useful man. But don't expect me to take you as my First when the last one died from your actions."

"It ain't up to you." Defiance is blatant in the tilt of Barbossa's jaw, the tone of his voice, the light in his eye. "It's up to them." And he lifts his chin at the company. He knows the men trust his strength, his fearlessness; knows they're cowed by him, too, and if he doesn't get their votes, there'll be suffering to follow.

"True enough; it is up to them," says John Tobias, silky and cold. "So there'll be a vote. Who else is in this fight, gents?"

"Bootstrap!" says the someone, again, and Jack grins at his mate, and whistles his agreement, high and sharp. He ain't the only one. But Bootstrap, after smiling wide, shakes his head.

"No, boys," he says. "That ain't for me. I thank you for't, but... no."

There's a murmur of confusion. Jack hunkers down on the railing, leans close to his friend's ear. He whispers, "What the fuck, Bill? Don't be an arse! Take it! 'Tis yours!"

"You think I want to be stuck 'tween those two, a Captain and a Second whose trust's gone? Damned if I'm taking that on," says Bill, and Jack's got to admit, looking over at Barbossa and Tobias, he's got a point.

"No, Bootstrap?" says Tobias, and Bill shakes his head again. "So be it. Then I'll tell you who I want."

All eyes swivel back to the captain. Who'll it be, the chosen heir? For whatever name it is that drops from those lips, whether he say yea or nay, whether he should win or lose, he's going to have to be watching his back for Hector Barbossa's knife, the rest of his days. There's a stillness aboard, as if every man is holding himself quiet and invisible, so's not to be the one thus marked.

Jack's watching the Captain as intently and silently as all the rest. And Tobias's gaze sweeps the company; comes to rest on Jack's own face.

Everyone turns, looks at him even before Tobias says: "Jack Sparrow, will you stand as my First?"

He should smile, shake his head. He should refuse it, if he knows what's good for him.

But of course, he doesn't.

"I'll stand," he says, and swings himself down onto the warm black deck. "I'll stand; but on one condition."

*

Hector Barbossa's sharp enough to be enraged by Jack Sparrow's demand. John Tobias is sharp enough to be delighted by it. He was right, to choose Sparrow; he knows it, and this proves it.

Barbossa's fists are clenched. "What the fuck d'you want that for? What're you afraid of, Sparrow?"

"It ain't about what I'm afraid of," says Jack, smiling with too many teeth. "'Tis the comp'ny's fears I'm aiming to allay."

"It's a fair idea," says John. "A man'll show the truth of his heart more readily where there's none to see him do't, nor hold it against him after."

"What's wrong wi' a show of hands? We never needed any secret vote before," says Barbossa.

"No," says Jack, looking him straight in the eye. "We didn't."

John bites back laughter. "Listen up!" he cries. "You'll each make a sign on a paper: a circle for Jack Sparrow, a cross for Hector Barbossa, and you'll give that paper to... to..." He casts around for a neutral party, and spies Isaiah Staines, who—far from favouring either party—detests 'em both, and indeed most of the rest of the crew, with an impartial vehemence. "To Mr Staines, who'll tally. Mr Turner, to my cabin, for paper and ink; Mr Sparrow, Mr Barbossa, with me, please."

Once Turner's dispatched with the necessaries, and with strict instructions on control of the voting process, John lights a lanthorn and bids the contenders sit down at his table. Barbossa is seething and tense; Sparrow bubbling with poorly-hidden smiles.

"Listen to me," says John, and he fingers his beard into a point. "I want you both to know that whatever the outcome here, I'll abide by it, and be content. Hector, you overstepped the mark today, but I'll not hold it against you; you're too valuable to me, to this ship. Jack, you're green an' young, but I'll not hold that against you neither. And whichever one of you's not the First, will be the Second; and we three will steer this ship and her company as one, wi' no anger between us. Agreed?"

"Agreed," says Jack Sparrow. He holds a hand out to Barbossa. "May the best man, and all that," he says.

Barbossa lifts his lip a little; but John's glare seems to animate his hand, and he shakes Sparrow's. "Agreed," he says.

"Then drink with me," says John. "Drink to our new fo'c'sle council, and good days ahead."

They drink readily enough, and soon Sparrow's got them laughing with a salacious story about Jens Markken's last visit to Tortuga. John's quiet; he refills mugs, smiles, and listens for approaching footsteps, heralding the shape of their future.

Damn, he hopes Sparrow wins. His lady wants it too; he can feel her anxious hope in the air, in the creak of her timbers. The Jack Sparrow that sits before him now, legs stretched out in front of himself, loose-limbed and gold-grinned, is a long way from the soggy, stenchful creature that Bootstrap pulled from the bilge a year and more ago. This Jack Sparrow's used every bright day in that interim; used it to learn his way around this ship, treating her sweet as any new lover, and around her men, charming them, surprising them, confusing them, delighting them. He's changing, slowly and oddly, into a creature of his own devising; he's learned from John the value of a striking appearance, but he's not following any rules as to the nature of it. His hair's grown long, and he won't tie it back, save for a single thick plait that keeps his face clear; the rest is wild and tangled, and he's taken to knotting bright scraps and ribbons into it. His sparse beard is growing in, and he's a habit (which, consciously or not, mimics John's own) of twisting what there is of it into a point; there's gold in his mouth, thanks to John and that strange fellow in Tequry Port. His narrow body's grown itself some fine and wiry muscle, and burned to a warm burnished copper in the sun.

He's lovely; and though John's never overstepped the mark with him, never made him the offer that he wants to make, he can't help but wonder: Have I done this for the wrong reasons?

John's honest enough to ask himself the question; not honest enough to answer it true.

A rap on the door; Sparrow bounces to his feet. Barbossa sculls his jack, fast, before standing.

"Either way," says John again, at the door, firm and fierce. "Either way, gentlemen: we three will work together."

*

Staines scowls, and spits over the side. "Sparrer," is all he says.

Jack's heart leaps in victory, in relief, in fear. Tobias claps him on the back, and then the men are all around him, congratulating him. Bootstrap hugs him, laughs, tells him he's a damn'd fool, and Jack tells him that as his first act of command he's goin' to have him keel-hauled for such gross insubordination. Someone passes him another bottle, and he drinks deep. The night is young, and this is the greatest victory of his life.

Later, he goes looking for Hector Barbossa, to ensure there's peace between 'em, on the surface at least; can't find him anywhere.

Later still, John Tobias comes up to him, and Jack hugs him, as rum and happiness tell him things that Jack's usually smart enough to keep to himself. Tobias laughs, and tells him he's drunk; then puts an arm around Jack's shoulders, and smacks him gently on the cheek.

"Listen to me," he says. "If you don't remember any other words that're said to you tonight, remember these: Find a way to make your peace with him. Find a way to make him love you, Jack; or he'll hate you till the day he kills you."

"Love me?" says Jack.

"Aye. Love you," says Tobias, with a wry grin; and then he pushes gently against Jack's chest, and Jack crumples to the deck in a drunken heap.

Read Part 3: In The Third Year Of Their Acquaintance