Commodore Norrington ran his finger along the edge of the bookshelf, his brow creasing in irritation. His fingertip left a trail in the dust, for the bookcase stood in his study, hence in "gentlemen's territory" never entered, much less dusted, by Mrs. Willis or Hettie. The cause of Norrington's irritation, however, was not the dust but the absence of the very volume he had come to consult, Cupids Helpmeet, or a Compendium of cunning Love Phyƒicke.

The commodore had received intelligence that the notorious pirate, Captain Jack Sparrow, was likely to pay a visit to Port Royal in the near future, and he wished to be fully prepared for this eagerly awaited event. Not that Norrington suffered from any deficiency in Cupid's domain—perish the thought—but when one's lover is quite possibly the most irresistibly depraved and seductive pirate in the Caribbean, and when one must endure weeks and months of enforced separation from him, one has to concentrate maximum pleasure into the brief interludes of togetherness. The interlude in prospect promised—blessedly—to extend over several days and nights. This might present problems of stamina but, armed with the wisdom contained in Cupids Helpmeet, the commodore would not be found wanting.

Except that the Helpmeet itself was now wanting and, what was worse, Norrington was forming an unpleasantly clear suspicion that it had, as it were, changed sides. If the volume had been borrowed by Lieutenants Groves and Gillette, or if Norrington himself had simply omitted to re-shelve it (less likely), there would be a space on the shelf to bear witness to its absence. In fact, the remaining volumes were ranged innocently side by side—not even the dust appeared to have moved—suggesting thievery and deceit, ergo the eternally light-fingered, thrice-damned Sparrow.

It really was too much. Norrington had been counting on Cupids Helpmeet to ensure he kept pace with Jack's appetites over several days: the prospect of Jack enhanced by the very same methods was frankly awe-inspiring. Drastic countermeasures were necessary.

*

Jack had greatly enjoyed his first perusal of Cupids Helpmeet with the exception of a long chapter on "The Diƒeases of Venus" and an initially promising section on "priapiƒme or continual ƒtanding of the Yard occaƒioned by indiƒcreet taking of Cantharides or the Spanish Flye."

(The former he simply ignored, but he'd been rather enjoying the latter until it suddenly turned out to involve "peeling of Skin, ƒtoppage of Urine, inƒertion of a ƒilver cannula or broad needle into the pipe or Urinary paƒƒage... ƒometimes the Chirugeon is forced to cut off the top of the Yard." Jack made a mental note to refrain from Spanish Flye.)

Now, however, Jack was consulting the Helpmeet with a specific purpose, viz. finding something to enhance and embellish his forthcoming rendezvous with Commodore James Norrington, probably the most desirable man in the Spanish Main (with the possible, but here irrelevant, exception of Jack himself). This presented a problem: how to improve on something that was already close to perfect.

He skipped over "Poƒitions for copulation both Eaƒtern and Weƒtern". (Charming woodcuts, but nothing they hadn't tried that you'd really need a book for).

Similarly, "Reciepts and Excerciƒes for increaƒing the bigneƒƒe of a mans Yard". (James was just perfect as he was, thank you, and anyway, having spent most of his life in close proximity to men who were not always well-endowed but would try just about anything, Jack was strongly inclined to question the veracity of such claims. Not to mention the desirability of the promised end.)

Then there was "Directions for increaƒing the Intenƒity and Duration of Pleaƒure ariƒing from carnal Congreƒƒ" (mostly sensible, nothing new), and "Receipts for Potions and Magicks for the Conjuration of Love and Deƒire in preternatural Meaƒure". Now this, felt Jack, was more like it!

*

Inquiries among the junior officers having confirmed that none of them was currently in possession of the book, James Norrington concluded—with both alarm and elation—that his suspicions were well founded. There was nothing for it but to gird his loins and pay a visit to Mama Juana, the mulatto wise woman, in her shack across the cove.

When the commodore emerged from the shack (having sent Mama's apprentice ahead to check the coast was clear), he was flushed with embarrassment, considerably poorer, and in possession of what appeared to be a large jar of sticks. This, Mama had assured him, would brew a love juice to keep any number of men—he'd noticed she'd specifically said "men"—in a state she described as "licky and lusty" for as long as they went on drinking it.

One of the sticks was allegedly not a stick at all, but a sea-turtle's pizzle; then there was bois bandé to make a man as hard as its wood, yohimbe to "make your little soldier so hot you better watch out them nice white britches don't catch on fire," and a few whose names and descriptions had left only a vague impression.

There were other, more identifiable, ingredients such as ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves, whose properties, as described by Mama, ought to raise serious questions about handing round spiced fruit cake at Governor Swann's garden parties. Then again, perhaps it explained Elizabeth Swann.

*

Jack leafed through the book, humming happily, and inserting whatever came to hand—seashells, fragments of hard tack, navigational instruments, the ends of his own braids—to mark the most promising recipes.

He was currently considering "A Cataplaƒm or Poultice to conƒerve a mans Vigour one whole Night: take leaves of Mallow, Cammomile, Wolfbane, and Rue, of each one handful; cut them very ƒmall, ƒew them up in fine linnen bags; boil them in Goats milk, or equal parts of Plantane water and Wine, preƒs them well between two Trencheres and make application of one after the other hot to the ƒkin of the Cods, wherein lyeth the Stones. This will conƒerve the Seed in the Stones that it be not called forth into the carrying Veƒƒels nor ejected from the Nut of the Yard until a full ƒix Hours or more following application of ƒaid cataplaƒm." He stuck out his tongue and grimaced: it didn't sound much fun.

No, Jack's favourite so far was definitely "To ƒtir up Delight in the act of Venery and procure delighƒome pleaƒures ƒuch aƒ but few have known, and this moƒt acute and in Meaƒure beyond what can be felt by natural Means alone". Unfortunately, he probably couldn't get his hands on the fat from around the kidney of a Hiberian he-wolf in time for next week, but he left the page marker in place.

"A Potion to heat the Blood and give riƒe to lecherous Imaginings..." Shortage of lecherous imaginings was unlikely to be a problem: that marker came out.

"A Plaƒter, applied to the Nut of the Yard and to the womans privy Paƒƒage for increaƒe of tender Senƒations therein..." Jack wasn't sure about "tender" in this context, but he approved of sensations in yards, nuts, and privy passages generally, and felt the plaster—a paste of love apples with ground ginger—was a promising concept, especially as love apples, or tomatoes as some called them, had recently become abundant in Jamaican gardens.

However, he kept finding himself drawn back to an earlier page, perhaps because he had used his hair as a marker, and so was quite literally attached to it. There was nothing especially arresting about the ingredients or procedures, but intuition told him this was the one and, other things being equal, Jack liked to trust his intuitions. He shook the markers onto the table and carefully spread the book open at "A Potion to engender true and laƒting Affection and ƒecure the hearts Deƒire."

The potion called for an orange, cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, honey, brandy, and a full moon. The orange and spices Jack obtained easily from the Pearl's stores, congratulating himself for having liberated fresh fruit as well as treasure from the latest Spanish galleon to cross his path. Honey would have to be sugar syrup and rum would replace brandy. Both changes, he was sure, could only improve matters. There'd be a full moon the night he planned to arrive in Port Royal, so he could either delay going ashore until the potion was finished or, better still, take the ingredients with him and do a little moonlit brewing in James' kitchen.

He counted out nine each of cloves, cardamom pods and shards of cinnamon bark, and inserted them into the skin of the orange. This took some time, partly because cardamom is blunt and cinnamon is brittle, so he had to use the point of his knife to prepare little holes, but mostly because he had to take care to space them evenly and make three concentric circles without ever having two of the same spice next to each other. This required some swearing.

Eventually, it became apparent that the arrangement was impossible without a fourth spice to vary the pattern. Reasoning that the potion could do with a little more oomph, so to speak, Jack took a piece of yohimbe wood from a small chest (which it shared with scented oils, tattooing gear, and sarsaparilla against the pox) and shaved off nine splinters. After that, things went much better.

All he had to do now was keep the thing in his armpit for three days and three nights.

*

Norrington filled the jar of sticks with boiling water and left it to stand overnight. The resulting liquid, once strained off, was every bit as vile as Mama Juana had said it would be. Luckily, he only had to add it to his bath (telling Mrs Willis it was to ward of the ague.) Then he refilled the jar of sticks with rum and sugar, stood it in a window that caught the midday sun.

Three days later, all he needed was a pirate. Unfortunately, he was forgetting Jack's regrettable inability to do anything according to plan. He hadn't really expected him to risk showing up on the beach, or at their tavern (although he'd been to both just in case), but it was really most vexing when midnight came and went without a stealthy intruder slipping the latch on his chamber window (and not on account of said window standing wide open to welcome said intruder). Sleep was impossible, so he was sitting up in bed trying to read a novel—and telling himself he was not in the least worried—when his heart skipped a beat at the sound of military boots on the stairs and the pounding of fists on his bedroom door.

"Commodore Norrington, sir!" gasped the least tongue-tied of the two redcoats on finding the door flung open by Port Royal's most senior naval officer clad in absolutely nothing. "Lieutenant Gillette sent us to report that his men have captured the pirate Sparrow."

*

Jack lay on the driest patch of floor his chains would allow, cursing himself for a fool, and inviting any heathen gods in mind-reading range to step forward and shoulder the blame.

Why had he risked showing up in Port Royal in broad daylight on a bloody shopping trip, of all things? For some honey, that was why. When any fool knew no-one in the Caribbean bothered with the stuff: sugar was cheaper, more plentiful, better tasting, and didn't try to sting you, provided you weren't a slave, of course.

With a rattle of chains, Jack shook himself out of that line of thought. He'd had several occasions to observe that reflections on slavery tended to lead to time in jail, and he saw no profit in reversing the sequence. Better to stick to the main point, which, in this case, was the fact that not many people in the Caribbean had a spell written by an English witch that might not work if you messed it about with foreign ingredients. Otherwise, the bloody grocer might have thought to stock some bloody honey for them.

Hadn't he been telling Gibbs only the other day that buying goods with money was a fool's game? He really wished he'd listened to himself, because he'd been proved right yet again. Judging from a certain sogginess, he had a nasty feeling he'd squashed his orange as well.

*

For the benefit of the redcoats, Norrington tried for an expression of exultation rather than dismay as he struggled into his uniform. Their faces suggested he was achieving something closer to lunacy, which, he supposed, might very well be appropriate.

How in Heaven's name was he going to get Jack out of this one? His first impulse was to run straight to the cells, have the prisoner released into his custody, and sail away with him to places no British Court Martial would ever catch up with them. He retained just enough sanity to know this was unthinkable. No, Jack would have to be seen to arrange his own escape in a way that left Norrington, while not exactly covered in glory, at least not up to his armpits in something rather messier.

"Who is guarding the prisoner at present?" he asked the redcoats.

"Lieutenant Gillette and Lieutenant Groves are standing guard themselves, sir," the less tongue-tied one informed him. "Lieutenant Gillette said that, after the latest balls up—er, sorry, sir: debuckle was the word he used..."

"The actual word was débâcle," put in his hitherto silent companion. "French," he added, helpfully.

"Right. Anyway, he said it demon... um... demonstar... proved that the presence of an officer was indispensable." He visibly congratulated himself on that last word. "And then Lieutenant Groves, he said he'd stand guard too...

"On account of he wouldn't want to leave even a man of Lieutenant Gillette's eminence all alone with a degenerate like Sparrow."

"Thank you, gentlemen." Norrington suppressed a smile. It seemed Jack might yet extricate himself without help. Still, he preferred not to tempt fate, or indeed Jack: a little additional distraction couldn't do any harm. He dismissed the redcoats and went to fetch his jar of sticks.

*

Jack had picked the lock on his manacles and was working unsuccessfully on the cell door when he heard footsteps. Hastily replacing his chains, he threw himself to the floor, squashing the orange yet again.

"Jack Sparrow, you perfect fool!" said the visitor in a dark, velvety voice that made Jack's knees wobble.

Better still, the visitor's tone made it clear no-one was listening, so Jack cried, "Jamie, love!" in reply and threw himself—wobbly knees notwithstanding—against the door, reaching through the bars to pull his commodore close. He'd meant to take issue with the word fool, but what with James' passionate kiss and the press of that tall, muscular body against his, it quite slipped his mind.

"My apologies for not arriving sooner with the manacle key," James murmured when he had caught his breath, flicking those adorable green eyes towards Jack's discarded chains. "However, I have taken the liberty of leaving some drink in the guardroom to ensure my lieutenants won't hinder your departure. Do not drink any yourself!" His tone suggested a lack of faith in Jack's powers of self control.

"I can restrain myself when absolutely necessary, you know. If it's laced with laudanum or whatever, I'll save it to drink somewhere safe." He grinned. "Like your bed."

Norrington exuded scorn for a moment, then something else... hope? That was interesting.

"Yes, well, should there be any left," he said, scorn definitely slipping there, "you might try to bring it with you. I'll be waiting under the dock." With that, he unlocked the door, bestowed a last, lingering kiss on one thoroughly enchanted pirate, and strode away.

Jack glanced for the umpteenth time at the rectangle of sky visible through the barred window. He supposed that whatever Norrington had put in the guards' drink would need time to take effect, but the moon was getting low: time was running out.

He was too far from the guardroom to make out what they were talking about in there, but their voices had been sounding increasingly urgent, not at all like men succumbing to laudanum. Now the only sounds were gasps and groans. Surely James wouldn't poison his own men...

Jack crept cautiously towards the half-open door of the guardroom. Peering through the hinge-crack, he could just see, lying in disarray on the floor, a sword, a white wig, an officer's coat, and two pairs of boots. The panting and moaning were louder than ever, and really didn't sound like men who'd been poisoned.

Jack put his head round the door to see Norrington's two lieutenants writhing naked on the floor. They were both facing down, so even the one on top (the lean, attractive one, not that Jack was paying attention) wouldn't see a prisoner escaping unless he turned his head. Reasoning that the man probably wouldn't try that while also gyrating and pumping his hips, Jack paused to savour the moment.

If this was connected to Norrington's drink, then taking some of it with him was clearly a wonderful idea. He spotted two glasses and a jar half-hidden behind a naval hat, and tiptoed towards them, keeping close to the wall and behind the lieutenants. (He didn't think they'd notice if he brought a fife and drum along, but there was no sense being sloppy.) Sadly, the jar contained nothing but sticks, spices and a lingering smell of rum, but he closed the lid and tucked it under one arm.

*

It was dark and cool under the dock. Norrington forced himself to stop pacing and sit casually on a timber. Finally, Jack came into view, silhouetted against the light from Joe's Tavern.

"I'm glad to see you're finally at liberty to keep our rendezvous," Norrington said, fighting back the impulse to run up the beach and sweep Jack into his arms. "There is a fishing boat tied up to the piling there. I suggest we use it to get you back to the Pearl and away from Port Royal before my lieutenants come to their senses and raise the alarm."

But Jack had an arm around his shoulders and was pushing him towards the town. "No, no, won't do at all, James," he was saying. "We'd never reach her before the moon goes down, so I'm afraid it'll have to be your place."

"What on earth does the moon have to do with it, other than being a prime cause of lunacy, that is?" Norrington demanded with as much dignity as he could muster with a pirate's hands slapping his buttocks to hurry him over the sea wall.

"Got a potion to make," Jack explained, scrambling up after him. "Has to be done by the light of the full moon or it won't work. I've got the ingredients. Just need some brandy or rum—I brought some, but I drank it—and some sugar. I don't suppose you've got any honey..."

"You really are mad, aren't you?"

"Have I ever denied it?"

It wasn't fair, the way Jack widened those eyes. A man couldn't think.

"Listen, I came here to see you and I'm not about to bugger off after only a kiss in a bloody jail cell, savvy? I could do with a spot of what your lieutenants are getting." He pressed himself indecently close. "Preferably with a lot less of this prickly gold braid in the way."

"Exactly what we'd be doing now if you'd shown up on the beach, or at least managed not to get yourself arrested somewhere between your ship and my bedroom." Norrington took the empty jar from him. "However, it takes three days to brew and that jar was all I had."

"Suppose I'll have to stay for three days then. What's in there anyway?" Jack peered into the jar. "Looks like something you'd use to get a fire going."

"Indeed."

"Well, we'll just have to brew my one instead, eh?" They had arrived at Norrington's residence, and the damned pirate was suddenly all businesslike and efficient. "You take the door; I'll take the window. Or did you get rid of Mrs. Willis again?"

"I encouraged her to visit her sister in Spanish Town." Norrington opened the door and bowed. "Pray step inside, Captain Sparrow, if you would be so kind."

By the time Norrington straightened up, Jack was through the house, out the back, and in the outhouse where food was prepared. "Sugar, sugar..." he was muttering. "If I was a commodore's housekeeper, where would I keep the sugar?"

Norrington sighed. "On the left at the back, shelf at about waist height. I presume you know where to find the rum."

Jack thrust the sugar loaf and nippers towards him. "Break a few chunks off that and pop them in a pot, would you? I need to get the fire going." He poked and blew the cooling embers back into life, fed them with sticks. He did indeed know exactly where Mrs. Willis kept the rum; about half the bottle went into the pot along with the fragments of sugar. Then he took off his belt and sash, rummaged around in his breeches, and pulled out something quite unexpected.

"Do you make a habit of keeping squashed fruit next to your skin?" Norrington asked, when he had ascertained the object's identity. "I'm told most people find pressed flowers make a perfectly adequate keepsake."

Jack sshhed him impatiently. "It's for the potion, silly!"

"Ah! The potion. Well that explains everything."

Jack tried—unsuccessfully—to coax the orange back into shape.

Feeling rather overlooked, Norrington spoke again. "But why was it in your breeches?"

"Couldn't get it to stay in me armpit." Jack gave the soggy mess a half-hearted prod, and dropped it into the pot.

Norrington tried not to rise to the bait, really he did. He fetched more rum and sugar, and refilled the jar of sticks. But Jack had now hung the pot dangerously low over the fire and was encouraging it to boil by swishing his arms at it and blowing, his face inches from the flames, counterbalanced by tight, smooth buttocks jutting out into the room. The disconcerting stain between those buttocks could now be identified as orange juice. It was all too much.

"Jack, why did you want to keep an orange in your armpit?"

"Didn't I just tell you? For the potion!" Jack glanced anxiously at the darkening night sky. "The recipe said to keep the orange in my armpit for three days to imbue it with me vital essence. Only it kept falling out. Nearly lost it overboard one time. So I figured there'd be as much vital essence in me britches—more, probably."

Norrington raised an eyebrow and waited, trying to look like a man with plenty of witty replies, who chooses to say nothing.

Jack's potion began to boil. "Quick! Moonlight! We need moonlight! And a spoon." He snatched the pot off the fire, wrapping the end of his sash around his hand, and ran into the garden. "Got to stir it nine times each way, by moonlight." He settled down to work, whispering inaudibly over the pot as he stirred with one hand and counted rotations on the fingers of the other.

Norrington crouched on the damp ground and considered the gulf between his expectations for tonight and how it had turned out. His open window, fresh sheets, Mama Juana's jar... the dank jail cell, the jar emptied by Groves and Gillette, and now this. He'd hardly touched Jack all night and here he was, in his own, distinctly chilly garden, fully clothed, shivering, and yawning, while the pirate ignored him in favour of some dubious concoction of putrid fruit and pilfered rum.

And yet, as he watched Jack's face all taut and single-minded, lips moving in silent incantation, he was happy simply to be there, with him. If Jack did nothing all night but mutter crazed spells and drink his rum, he'd still be sorry when the time came to part.

Oddly, this realisation moved him to action better than all his earlier frustration. As Jack finished his stirring and looked up, James knelt in the mud beside him (quite ruining those nice white breeches) and pulled him into a bear hug just as the moon slipped below the horizon.

"Oh!" Jack exclaimed, his delight unmistakeable for all that his voice was muffled by a chestful of naval braid. "You haven't even drunk it and it's working already!"

The End




Quotations from Cupids Helpmeet are inspired, cobbled together, or just plain stolen from The Midwives Book, by Jane Sharp, originally published in 1671. Apologies to Jane for turning her enlightening, practical book into something dodgy.

If you want to brew your own mamajuana, there's no shortage of online recipes. But please leave the sea-turtle's pizzle on the sea turtle: he needs it.