The first time James has sex after his life falls apart it's with a whore, in a stinking tavern in Tortuga. It's a waste of money that could be spent on drink, and he knows he will probably regret that in the morning, but he wants some occupation to pass what seems like an endless night, some comfort besides rum and oblivion. He rocks steadily atop her, his eyes closed to shut out the shadows thrown by the guttering lamp.

He does not think about Elizabeth. There have been times when he's wondered what it would be like to bed a woman he loves, but this time he finds that being more thoroughly drunk than usual does wonders for preventing such lines of thought. Afterwards he leaves in search of a bottle and a place to sleep, achievements which he expects are still within his grasp.

He dreams of black sails and wakes up with his face in the dirt. He wants a drink and he wants a better meal than he'll get in a tavern and he wants his revenge. The thought of the last makes the lack of the former bearable. It's a warm heat in the pit of his belly, something like lust but (he tells himself) better.

*****

The first time James has sex with a whore he's fourteen and a junior midshipman, his head swimming from his first experiment with neat rum and his clothes reeking of smoke and sour ale. He's already sure they'll all be in trouble, but at the moment he cares less about that than about not embarrassing himself in front of the rest of the midshipmen, so he lets himself be led away by a plump girl in her underclothes.

It's over before he's quite sure what they've begun, his hips jerking under her and his whole body trembling against the sheets. He doesn't much like having her see him that way, awkward and out of control and graceless, even if it does relieve the frustration caused by sleeping in a small space where he cannot quite bring himself to do anything that calls for privacy. He tells himself he'll save his money next time and resist temptation.

The next time they make port, he's in a whore's bed by the end of his first night ashore; it's the first time that he understands that there are resolutions he can make that he will not keep.

*****

The first time James resolves to win Elizabeth is the first time he walks with her by the ocean, under her father's distant and benevolent gaze from the cliff above. He is aware that he is privileged, and that there is a great deal to be gained here; there's only so far that talent goes without money and influence. He's thinking of the best way to prepare the ground for suggesting the advantages of such a match when he realizes Elizabeth is not looking at him.

She's gazing out to sea at the green swells that catch the morning sunlight, and there's some gleam in her eyes that he thinks for a moment that he recognizes. He thinks at that moment that he could say to her It's beautiful and have her understand what he means. He's never been very good at talking to women, who he generally thinks of as mysterious creatures beyond understanding. Much like the sea. He likes the idea that she, too, longs for something she will never entirely understand.

"It's a lovely view," he says, an awkward catch in his voice that he hates, and he sees her stiffen, torn from some private place where he is an intruder.

"Oh, yes," she says. "Lovely."

He will marry her, he tells himself, and if he spends the rest of his life wondering what she hides in the depths behind her polite, wide eyes, at least he knows they're there. She smiles at him politely, and it makes him flush and turn away before his face can show too much; he supposes that's love.

*****

The first time James spends the night with someone he loves he's a lieutenant and they're sharing a cheap room above a tavern for the length of a three-day leave; the linens are threadbare and the lamp smokes and the noise outside the window makes it difficult to sleep at any hour of the day or night. They spend most of the time talking, with Peter sprawled across the foot of the bed and James stretched out with his stocking feet in Peter's lap, telling each other stories about their successes as midshipmen and, later at night, more halting and truer ones about home.

There's time, too, to close the shutters and bar the door and touch each other hungrily; they can never touch on shipboard as much as James wants. He's careful now about that, careful not to let a hand linger too long on Peter's shoulder or to throw an arm around him in the wild exaltation that follows battle. That's not guilt but necessity. This is not worth risking everything he's worked so hard to earn.

For a while, though, on the edge of sleep, sated and sweaty and feeling Peter's warmth against his back, he thinks it might be, at that.

*****

The last time James hears of Peter, it's at a stuffy dinner party hosted by an elderly admiral to whom James is carefully and a little desperately polite. He wants a command badly, and he's aware that getting one depends as much on the games of politics played in drawing rooms as on his performance at sea. He has the unfortunate sense that he is terrible at politics, and hopes at least not to embarrass himself.

He gravitates toward the younger officers, who are mostly telling each other the news of friends on distant stations and leaving any more consequential topics for those who have more stake in them. When he hears Captain Peter Bradley has gotten married in India, apparently an excellent match, it's the first time he's heard the name in years.

Friendships in the service do not last long, James has learned, or at least if they do they lose their heat; it's hard for any real intimacy to survive long separations, and while James meant to write after they were first apart, he found the blank page defeating him most of the time. He's never had a talent for finding the right words, if there were any that could be safely committed to ink.

That evening he considers sending a wedding present, some token at least, but he thinks it might be taken as a reproach, and he doesn't intend one. He hardly blames anyone for time or the tide.

Still, he finds himself awake and restless late at night, more troubled than he had expected himself to be, pacing before the windows of his cabin, his own reflection in the glass between him and the sea. He tells himself it's only the awareness of how much he has not yet achieved.

*****

The last time James sees Elizabeth before Tortuga she comes in without knocking.

"Is it true you plan to resign your commission?"

"No," James says. "I have already resigned."

"You can't," Elizabeth says. "It's not your fault."

He stands and looks down at her, her eyes lit with indignant heat. It is apparently an expression reserved solely for those who do not deserve it.

"It was my fault," James says. He's not actually sure whether he blames himself or blames Sparrow for refusing to surrender, refusing to turn and fight, refusing to do anything but run his ship madly into the howling blackness of the storm that he sees now every time he closes his eyes. "Please go away."

"You are still my friend ..." Elizabeth begins.

"We were never friends."

"I don't believe that," she says, and he wonders if she assumes everyone is as good as she is at telling lies.

*****

The first time James goes to a molly-house he is too startled at being asked his name not to tell his real one; "James" is common enough, at least, and he realizes quickly that it's assumed to be a lie. He realizes quickly too that not much talk is required before he's being sucked off in a room full of men similarly occupied, his breeches undone and his hands in a stranger's hair.

He hasn't had this since he and Peter parted ways, and he had rather assumed that he was past being shaken to the core by a boyhood vice. Instead he comes with a groan faster than he has since he was a midshipman and does up his clothes with shaking hands. He means to leave, he intends only to have a drink before he does, but before he's finished the pint he's hard again and a man has his hand on his thigh.

He resolves that night, safely back aboard ship and shaking now at the thought of the risk to his life and career, to shun such places in future. This is easy only in ports where no such places exist. There's always talk, if only of places a respectable lieutenant ought to shun; under the docks or in the back room of a tavern with its shutters kept closed. He's grown used to the taste of fear as he fucks someone hard, not asking their name.

James thinks maybe he'll be able to give up such vices when he finds a woman he loves.

*****

The first time James realizes Elizabeth means to bed Sparrow is on the way out from Tortuga, watching him make up to her like she's a tavern wench and her smile up at him when she thinks he's looking the other way. It's impossible for him to understand. At least Turner has the benefit of being a decent man, if not worthy of Elizabeth by virtue of his birth.

He's not surprised when she follows Sparrow into his cabin, and while he can only imagine what they're doing there, he thinks has a fairly good idea. There was a time when he would have tried to stop himself from thinking about Elizabeth's breasts and thighs and cunt, but he thinks they're both past it mattering if he dishonors her in his own mind.

He would rather not think about any part of Sparrow, although he can't help imagining that, too, his knotted hair falling into her face, his tanned hands moving on her pale breasts, his hard prick thrusting into her. He doesn't know why she lets him, but he doesn't imagine he's having to force her. He's seen her looking at Sparrow the way she used to look at the sea.

The cabin door opens, and once he would have looked away, but now he doesn't see the point. Elizabeth glances up at him as she passes, her eyes impossible to read. He wonders what's actually happened between her and Sparrow, how far they've taken their perverse little dance.

She stops at the rail, gazing out into the darkness. "It's a lovely view," she says.

"There's nothing there to see," James says, and he turns away from the dark water.