Illustration: Jack in Singapore, by Justawench

Bollocks! thinks Jack. Big, bollocky, blubbery, rubbery bollocks!

Although for a walrus, Hector's not blubbery at all. Lean, really.

Muscular.

Stringy, more like.

Maggoty, even.

Jack allows himself to close his eyes for a moment and sigh. He'd rather hoped his supernumerary selves had remained in the world of the dead where they first took almost-solid form. Don't look at them, he tells himself. Maybe they'll go away. Go back to just being voices. Voices are good. I can live with voices.

But, whatever the merits or otherwise of Hector's physique...

And let's face it, they're mostly otherwise.

...it's becoming horribly obvious, after what's just happened...

After what you just did!

...that Jack's former first mate...

And all too probably last mate, mate.

...is going to be more damnably smug than ever.

In fact, in all probability, lecherous, treacherous, mutinous Hector Barbossa is behind the current debacle. Jack can just see him twinkling at Sao Feng across a steaming hot tub in Singapore...

"Just ye be leavin' Jack Sparrow to me," Barbossa'd say, leaning conspiratorially into the scented water. The outsized hat is still on. This, decides Jack, is improbable (if not altogether out of character) so he mentally removes it to reveal the green bandana, drenched dark with steam. Quite fetching really. Makes Hector look relaxed and—almost—vulnerable. However, the effect is spoiled as he continues. "I'll leave seizin' the ship to ye, Sao Feng. Ye'll have no trouble with the whelp, but keep yer eye on the missy—she be a sly one. I'll be keepin' Jack busy on shore."

Bugger!

Precisely.

Excellent word choice!

No wonder the old rake was so quick to get down on his knees.

Jack's own knees go trembly at the recollection, but he tells himself it's just indignation. That, and being squeezed into a longboat with so many of himself they have to sit on each others' laps. But the picture doesn't quite fit. Leaving aside Jack's strong (albeit patently untrustworthy) hunch that what just happened on the island was more (less?) than a ploy, Hector would never hand over the Pearl to Sao Feng, even temporarily.

Unless he had a foolproof way of getting her back...

Jack's still no closer to solving the mystery (or disposing of his additional selves) when the longboat bumps against the curve of the Pearl's hull. He allows Hector to clamber aboard first, and then scurries behind the taller man's shoulders. There's something comforting about that battered green coat, and anyway, there's just a chance—if Jack can keep a low profile—that Sao Feng won't spot him, or won't remember...

Right! Because it wasn't at all memorable.

Snide Jack chuckles nastily while a shuffling huddle of inarticulate Jacks snigger. The Incident in Singapore isn't easily forgotten, even for one whose life (lives?) has (have?) been as packed with memorable events as Jack's.

Even here—held prisoner at gunpoint in his own ship, buttocks cradling the burning reminder of just how bloody enormous Hector Barbossa is—Jack can feel a grin spreading across his face at the memory. He looked bloody good as a courtesan. Couldn't get away with it now of course—not even if he shaved the beard—but back then, he was blooming fantastic. And young Sao Feng all dashing and handsome and brutally masculine, panting compliments as his hands did devastating things to Jack's costume.

"How delicate you are, my Rosebud; how modest! Yet your skin burns hot as the sun, and your cheeks flush like ripening fruit."

By this point, Jack was more than half convinced Sao Feng had rumbled him and was playing along with the act: surely no-one could spout this nonsense for real. But, just in case, he made sure to keep several heavy folds of silk between the Chinese pirate and his own anatomy, difficult as this was becoming.

Please! He silently begged, give me a sign whether you've figured it out, because I swear we've not got long before I have to either come off right here or scarper and toss off somewhere else.

"Soft and fragile as peach blossom..." Sao Feng thrust a hand under about six fathoms of watered silk and ran curved fingernails over the inside of Jack's thigh. "...slender and upright as a lily..."

"Aye!" moaned Jack, opening his thighs and thankfully dropping a couple of octaves, all doubts now dispelled. Abandoning his fraying attempts at coyness, he pressed himself towards where Sao Feng's eager hands were ripping his silk skirts like so much tissue paper to expose a lily that was very upright indeed. (Surprising, really, after all the fun he'd had with those twins. Now, they hadn't suffered from horticultural hang-ups, and had known exactly how to make a visiting Rosebud welcome in the harem.)

Perhaps if Jack hadn't been so short of sleep he'd have realised his pulsing erection wasn't the kind of lily Sao Feng was talking about; or he might at least have had the presence of mind to get in a punch of his own before iron-hard Chinese knuckles slammed into his jaw.

As it was, he barely had time to knee Sao Feng in the lily bulbs, snatch up the charts (congratulating himself on having remembered in the nick of time that these were, after all, the main point of the exercise), and hurtle down the stairs and out of the compound before all hell broke lose behind him. He'd never have thought he could run that fast in a corset.

Ah, happy days!

Snap out of it. He's spotted us.

At least old Hector seems to be doing his best to pour oil over troubled waters.

Not the only thing he's poured oil over today.

Jack, crouching (not cowering, although he can see it might look that way) in a two-pirate cloud of attar of roses, tries not to wonder if anyone else has noticed the fragrance.

Old Sao really doesn't look happy. Jack does his best, but predictably ends up eating knuckle sandwich. (It's not as bad as he makes it look.) His efforts to establish that this constitutes sufficient retribution are interrupted by a double surprise. Firstly, the traitor is none other than Will—now Captain (hah! Jack doesn't give that long)—Turner. Secondly, Hector—against all probability—appears not to be in on the scheme. Who'd've thought? Good old Hector!

Distance, that's the thing. A bit of space to manoeuvre in. Jack and Hector together might be able to nab the Empress while Sao Feng and his people are busy over here. Worth a try, surely...

Feigning outrage, Jack steps back from Will and Elizabeth. One foot, two feet...

Not that he has to feign very hard; Captain Turner indeed! He glances across at Hector. Yep, Captain Barbossa's as sharp as ever and ready for action, though it looks like he's having trouble keeping those ripped britches from slipping down. Three feet... Mustn't think about Hector's britches. Yard and a half...

You can say that again.

Shut up!

"...just because they missed me?" He pauses theatrically for a reply and a pretext for more movement. Good old Marty! Even Hector's monkey raises a paw, bless her.

Two yards...

"I'm standing over there, with them!"

Two and a half, three...

Oh, sod it! Sao Feng has seized him in a grip of steel and is pressing his face (dead impressive scars those—wonder what did that) up against Jack's. Has the man no concept of personal space?

"I'm sorry, Jack." (No he bloody isn't.) "But there is an Old Friend who wants to see you first."

Who the fuck is the smug, lily-lusting, bald, tassel-faced git talking about? It's a bit late to maroon Jack with the dead Kraken, surely. Davy Jones? Nah. Sao Feng's too chickenshit to have dealings with Davy.

"Chickenshit" here having the meaning of level headed.

Jack slides his gaze to Barbossa, who shoots him a helpless look. (Good thing Hector can't hear the other Jacks because if he could he'd be siding with smug Commodore Sparrow there about the Jones business. Which, with hindsight, was perhaps not one of Jack's most inspired plans, but he'd like to see anyone do better under the circumstances.)

He flinches and cowers (Sao always seemed to enjoy that and Jack's not too proud to do whatever it takes), playing for time, sympathy, or anything else that might be available.

"I'm not certain I can survive any more visits from Old Friends," he mutters.

Rosebud! Think sweet, helpless, frightened little Rosebud. Rosebud in need of protection from manly Chinese pirate captain...

Sao looms still closer. Must be the rose oil. Jack attempts a nervous simper. (Wonderful the way Hector glowers at that!) Now, if Sao would just propose a spot of private interrogation aboard the Empress...

For a moment there, Sao looks tempted and Jack almost believes it's going to work, but then he follows Sao's gaze to the open sea and an enormous, pristine, heavily armed East Indiaman. Jack's stomach does a sick little back flip. That old friend. Well, why not? All his other ill-judged liaisons seem to be coming back to haunt him.

Or sending their offspring to do it for them.

May as well go for the full set.

With any luck, he'll've brought that slimy, treacherous, delightfully deep-voiced commodore along...

Admiral now. Didn't you hear?

...and perhaps the lieutenant with the cheekbones and the wicked streak...

Maybe it's just the pretty ones. Not Beckett at all.

Noooooo! Not him! Please for the love of rum, not bloody Cutler bloody, bloody Beckett!

Save me, Hector!

Hector-beseeching Jack is quite properly punched to the deck and given a good kicking. Visible Jack clasps his hands in front of him to keep from clutching at the suddenly red-hot brand on his right forearm.

Hah! Hector's prob'ly the one as set this up, way back in Singapore.

Not in on the scheme, my arse! Bet you he's pissin' himself laughin' right now.

But a snatched glance over his shoulder discovers that Hector is not laughing. The old fool's lunging after Jack with a most gratifyingly anguished expression, all but getting himself shot by Sao Feng's henchmen in the process. He stops short of actual suicide, but still, it's a cheering sight.

Doesn't look like an act.

Good acts never do.

But Hector's a lousy actor, remember?

Oh yes, they all remember that. Keeps them quiet for a moment, remembering...

Hardly a thing of beauty though, is he?

This seems undeniable but several Jacks leap staunchly to Hector's defence.

Rugged!

Piratey!

Jack is assailed by vivid images of Hector and himself engaged in highly stimulating reciprocal plunder, only somewhat dimmed by subsequent memories of Hector forcing him at sword point along a juddering plank. Even at the time, he was struck by the odd mix of fury and fear on Hector's face.

Used to cut quite a dash in his younger days. Not his fault he's older. Happens to the best of us.

Or Hector's arm around Jack's waist and Hector's hand tenderly gathering back his hair as he spewed out his guts (along with a couple of pints of rum) over a white sandy beach.

Not just older. Dead.

Like I said, mate: happens to the best of us.

Arms under his knees and shoulders; a red stain spreading over his shirt; the hazy realisation that he's been shot in the chest; Hector carrying him back to the ship...

Not Hector's fault he got shot.

No, says one of the Jacks significantly, giving Jack a look he doesn't like one bit.

He smiles awkwardly and casts around for dim Jack. He can generally be relied upon to lighten things up.

These redcoats are a sorry looking bunch, eh? Not like Norrington's men back at Port Royal, now they were what I call...

Redcoats? Bloody hell, they've handed him over to Beckett's lot and he didn't even notice. He really must pull himselves together. Self.

But his captors are already shoving him through the double doors of the Endeavour's stateroom, closing them hastily behind him.

Even its own little lobsters don't want to be in the same room with it.

Jack busies himself inspecting the contents of the room, and the contents of said contents. Anything to keep his eyes and hands busy.

"Curious!" says a voice he never wanted to hear again. "Your friends appear to be quite desperate, Jack."

For an awful moment, Jack thinks Beckett can see the others. Then he realises "friends" means the rest of the pirates. Well, if Beckett thinks he has allies, there's no need to disillusion him just yet.

Beckett rambles on about betrayal and Davy Jones and other tiresome things best consigned to the oblivion of history. Jack answers automatically. He prefers to look forward rather than back.

Not much to look forward to now, love.

It was looking forward to a ship of our own as lured us into Becky's clutches in the first place.

Into his britches, more like.

Christ but that's a godawful portrait!

"Close your eyes and pretend it's all a bad dream. That's how I get by." This, as it happens, is perfectly true, though he's not fool enough to close his eyes with Beckett around. Not any more.

On the plus side, Beckett doesn't seem disposed to killing him, not without a good long gloat first, which means there's a glimmer of hope. Jack works mechanically through all the drearily predictable rehashing of his "betrayal": the promises, the ship, and the slaves. He's waiting for a hint, a smidgen of an opportunity to apply leverage.

Ah! There it is! Hunger, curiosity, greed. Jack pounces. Subtly of course: from the look on Beckett's face, you'd think it was the other way around.

"Were I in a divulgatory mood, what then might I divulge?"

And, as if to celebrate, out come the drinks—silly little things, sherry or some such sugar water—but every little helps. Captain Jack Sparrow is back on top. All he has to do now is escape from Beckett and get his ship back. With any luck, Hector's already at work on the latter, so best not to hang about.

"You can keep Barbossa. The belligerent homunculus and his friend with the wooden eye, both. And Turner—especially Turner. The rest go with me on the Pearl and I'll lead you to Shipwreck Cove where I will hand you the pirates and you will not hand me to Jones."

That should cover it.

"And what becomes of Miss Swann?"

Jack lets his amusement show. Cutler Beckett wants Elizabeth Swann? Surely, it's a bit late to blackmail her father once you've had him murdered.

He didn't say he wanted her...

Ah! The Swann inheritance!

Lummox! He thinks I—you—might want her.

Hasn't heard about the whole kissy beastie interlude then.

"Jack, I've just recalled, I've got this wonderful compass which points to whatever I want. So for what do I need you?"

Damn! Bastard planned that all along. Of course he's got the bloody compass. But when you're as greedy as Cutler Beckett, things are never that simple. Or so Jack can but hope. There must be a million things the slimy little turd wants more than the location of Shipwreck Cove: total world domination for a start; or a statue of himself on a column outside St James' Palace.

"Points to the thing you want most, which is not the Brethren Court, is it?"

"Then what is, Jack?"

A massive white marble bust of himself? A mansion with a secret torture dungeon? A decent shave? Everyone over five foot four to have to shuffle round on their knees? A cure for the pox?

Actually, that last is a damn good guess. Jack's torn between trying it out and fear of the homicidal tendencies (alright, specifically Sparrowcidal tendencies) it might awaken. But something about Beckett...

Us, love. As if you didn't know.

"Me," says Jack. It's got to be worth a try, and he can always make a joke of it if he's wrong.

Speak for yourself. He never liked me.

Bloody did an' all.

Well I never liked him.

He's not wrong. Just for a second the old—or rather the very young—Beckett is visible again. The Beckett Jack saw in India and mistook briefly for the real one. Bollocks! Beckett's Company persona was always far more solid than any tender feelings that might peek through the cracks. But there's something in there, and it's still drawn to Jack. Which is almost as scary as it's valuable.

"Dead," he completes, trying to sound disappointed, though really the idea that Beckett might prefer him alive is frightening the shit out of him. He bats his eyelashes a couple of times, testing. For a moment there, Beckett looks almost...unsure. It's a very brief moment.

"Damn! Although, if I kill you, then I can use the compass to find Shipwreck Cove—is it?—on my own. Cut out the middleman."

He does have a nice turn of phrase. You've got to give him that.

Don't start!

Plays it so cool. Not sure he recalls the name of the place he's been twenty years trying to find—ha!

I'm not startin' anythin'. Just sayin'.

Well you can stop sayin' right now and help get us out of here.

Come on, come on! Why shouldn't he kill me? There has to be a reason!

"With me killed, you'd arrive at the Cove, find it a stronghold nigh impregnable, able to withstand blockade for years. And then you'd be wishing, ‘Oh, if only there was someone I had not killed on the inside to ensure that the pirates then come outside.'

This, thinks Jack, is damn good stuff though he says it himself. Especially the way he does wistful, regretful Beckett's voice. Because dear Becky wouldn't really want there to be no more pretty Jack in the world now, would he?

Bloody would!

Bloody does.

Bloody will not if he doesn't bloody well know that I want his bloody bollocks on a bloody spike. With his bloody bank account and his family tree underneath them, doused with bloody rum—no, with finest bloody French brandy—and a slow-match in my bloody hand...

"And you can accomplish all this, can you?

Yet again, Jack has to drag his attention towards his current predicament. On the plus side, Beckett seems somewhat perplexed himself.

"You can kill me."

Was it tactically necessary to remind him of that?

"But you can never insult me!"

And what the fuck was that supposed to mean?

Of course he can bloody insult us—can't he?

"Who am I?"

Having now reached safe ground, Jack flings his arms wide and takes a moment to size up his opponent. Beckett really is looking extremely addled.

"I'm Captain Jack Sparrow!" Jack concludes, because Beckett seems genuinely unsure and, frankly, he's beginning to have doubts himself.

As if in reply, there's a deeply satisfying thumping, lurching and general smoking, clouding thing. Either someone is being really sloppy with the powder kegs (good), or Sao Feng's fallen out with his new allies and the Empress is firing on the Endeavour (better), or (best of all) good old Hector's got the Pearl back from Beckett's people. Whichever it is—and it does sound like the Pearl's guns—Jack wants out of here before anyone sails off with anything he wouldn't want them to.

Beckett is on the floor looking dazed. Jack seizes his hand, shakes it, and cries, "Done!" (He mouths the word clearly, in case the explosions have damaged Beckett's aristocratic hearing: it'd be a shame to let all that hard negotiation go to waste.) Then all his selves, moving for once as one, rush the door. No longer discordant and counteractive, but united by a single, overwhelming cause, the concerted Jacks are unstoppable.

All Jack has to do is take up position and watch the show, leaving as much as possible of himself free to spread out and deal with the business at hand: getting himself out of here.

In no time, his selves are scurrying all over the East India Company's nice clean deck, which is now distinctly dirty and chaotic. (Yes! Those are the Pearl's guns alright, and they're doing well.) Some of him knock out, trip up, or push overboard a number of startled British sailors; the rest swarm over the ship, climbing a rope here, untying one there, swivelling and loading a gun, eyeing the mainmast, blowing on the embers of a slow-match. One has borrowed a little tin officer and is placing him delicately in the gun's mouth.

With time to spare, Jack gazes towards the Pearl. Barbossa is fighting ever so manfully through a press of uniforms, slashing and swaggering his way to the quarterdeck. Jack reflects, not for the first time, that Hector Barbossa really is the pirateyest pirate he's ever laid eyes on. He long ago learned not to copy the style himself, but he can't help admiring it. Several of him cheer as they watch Hector kick Beckett's latest henchman hard in the cods, driving him overboard.

"You're mad!" exclaims a most unpiratey voice somewhat closer to hand, actually making it sound as if this were a new and surprising discovery.

Jack really hopes Becky's noticed that dumpy tin replica of himself about to be blasted to kingdom come. He wants to laugh, or to explain that he's happy to be mad in a scattered, creative kind of way if it allows him to outmanoeuvre people like Lord Fancypants Cutler Beckett, whose madness is merely narrow, obsessed, and destructive.

This, he wants to say, is why it would never have worked between them; why Beckett—though he seems to hold all the cards—isn't even in the game; why Jack—branded, captive (albeit not for much longer), shipless (but this too is temporary)—isn't even afraid of the man any more, much less attracted to him. But the other Jacks are ready and the moment won't wait.

"Thank goodness for that," is the best he can manage as he grips hard on his rope and gives slow-match Jack the signal to light the powder, "because if I wasn't, this'd probably never work." Then he's away. Jacks are hurtling through the air all round him, arcing gracefully over, around, and between the two ships. (A few, less gracefully, thud against the Pearl's hull and splash into the sea.) All he has to do is make sure he focuses on, hmm, that one, no that one there, the one who's about to make a perfect landing on the quarterdeck...

A brief moment of concentration, a dizzying readjustment, and there he is, the others splashing, splatting, swimming, and swarming up ropes as they converge upon him. Alright, so it's not precisely the quarterdeck, but at least he's on the right ship. What's more, he manages to unhook himself from a particularly spiky piece of ornamental woodwork (without damaging either himself or his Pearl) and strike a gallant pose before anyone works out where to look for him.

"And that," he announces proudly, "was without even a single drop of rum."

No need to mention the two drops of sherry. Anyway, though he's not entirely sure of the mechanisms involved, it's entirely possible that—if he was inhabiting a different Jack at the time—he didn't, technically, drink Beckett's lousy sherry.

Not that Jack cares either way about sherry—or even rum—right at this moment. He's single-handedly (hands of supernumerary selves can be disregarded) escaped the East India Company's flagship, disabling said flagship in the process. He's regained his Pearl; impressed (not to mention possibly foiled) Hector; told Cutler bloody Beckett where to get off; not even slightly succumbed to the dubious charms of said Cutler bloody Beckett—oh, and put Bootstrap's uppity progeny in his proper place (to whit, the brig).

Jack feels more at ease with the world than at any time since he returned to it. With each item added to his list of achievements, several selves wink out of existence until the only one left is the one basking in the admiration of a once-again loyal crew. The hitherto unsuspected usefulness of multiple selves notwithstanding, it's a joy to be singular again—for the present at least.

He just needs a way to nudge the Endeavour (and hence the Dutchman, and hence the heart) to an opportune location. It's a pity none of him thought to give Beckett the compass before parting company, but he'll think of something. Meanwhile, canvas crackles overhead, spray lovingly slaps his cheeks; Hector stalks about not even trying to give orders; Will no doubt contemplates half-pin barrel hinges; and his lovely Black Pearl dances over the waves towards a destiny at least partly of his own shaping. Things, thinks Jack, are definitely looking up.

Or, in the case of Pintel and Ragetti, who've been clearing the deck by the simple expedient of slinging the corpses overboard, looking down. And pointing.

"Reckon we should give the next'un to Sammy there, Pint, or leastways keep 'im away from Rex. Rex guzzled almost that whole marine an' Sammy's only 'ad an arm or two at most."

"That is Sammy, ya great pillock. Rex is over there to the lee of Spot."

"Nah! The one to the lee of Spot ain't Rex. Rex is more bluish. That'd be Daisy."

"You can't name a shark Daisy!"

"Why not? Some of 'em has to be girls or how'd they, you know... procreate?"

This, thinks Jack, will never do.

"No no no no no no!" He flaps his hands to demonstrate the extent of his disapproval. "Stow the bodies somewhere on deck where we won't keep tripping over 'em, then leave things alone."

Pintel and Ragetti look blank. Unusually blank.

"But, Cap'n," says Pintel, cautiously, "we don't need no more stores. Them Chinese-Navy-East-India people stowed a load o' stuff on board before Cap'n Barbossa mut'nied on 'em."

Ragetti coughs loudly.

"Er..." says Pintel. "Wot I meant was..."

"Cap'n Barbossa din't mut'ny as such," explains Ragetti, "not this time. It were Cap'n Turner as mut'nied first, then Cap'n Sao Feng, 'e mut'nied on Cap'n Turner, then the East India agent double-crossed everyone, an' then we all of us mut'nied together 'gainst 'im. Only it weren't so much a mut'ny as an uprisin' on account of we never voted any of 'em cap'n so they was more in the nature of usurpers an'..."

"An' we weren't tryin' to set up a new cap'n, Cap'n, jus' to get us our old, er, our proper one back."

"'Im bein' you," finishes Ragetti to stamp out any lingering confusion.

Jack can see why Hector does all that sighing and eye-rolling. "And, as your captain, I'm ordering you to leave the rest of the, er... casualties on deck."

"Aye-aye, sir!" They grovel in unison. It doesn't last, of course.

"I don't s'pose we could use 'em as bait..." Ragetti muses.

Pintel cheers up noticeably. "There's good eatin' on a shark."

"Not Sammy or Daisy!"

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Jack glares at them. "Would one of you gentlemen kindly snap out of it and inform me whether we've sufficient food and water to take us to Shipwreck Cove without resorting to the consumption of named pets—or indeed named crew members?"

"Oh, aye, Cap'n, no more worries on that score. We got barrels an' barrels o' water now."

Barrels. Food. Bait.

"Bait! That's the ticket!"

"Beg pardon?" asks Ragetti politely. Pintel just grunts.

"Rope!" Jack clarifies, but they still don't get it. "Rope the corpses to casks of water so they bob just above the surface. In two shakes of a gull's tail, you can catch all the fat, greedy, little sharks you could wish for."

Ragetti looks at Pintel. Pintel looks at Jack, then back at Ragetti.

"Well, jump to it lads!" Gibbs appears as if from nowhere, bristling with efficiency. "Cap'n called for rope an' casks o' water—not the drinkin' water mind, use seawater." When they scurry to obey, he turns to Jack and mutters, "We do have plenty o' stores now, Cap'n. No call to be fishin' for more. P'raps we'd best be spreadin' canvas and makin' the best speed we can away from here."

"By all means, spread away, Mister Gibbs!" Jack concedes gracefully. "Let us hasten to the delights of the Brethren Court! But, before we arrive at Shipwreck, let us not forget to ensure that Shipwreck is indeed the place at which we wish to arrive, by additionally ensuring the synchronous and almost entirely coincidental arrival at Shipwreck of that which we are, in fact, going there to encounter." He raises an eyebrow and pauses to let Gibbs have a fair crack at it.

"Aha!" rumbles Gibbs at last. "So would this desecration o' the lately departed Sasanachs (may the good Lord forgive us and the Devil vomit on their souls) be part o' some arcane ritual for summonin' the Brethren Court? Or summonin' unearthly powers to aid us there?"

"If you like," says Jack, possibly truthfully. "Call it a sacrifice—a gambit."

Gibbs taps his nose and winks. "Smartly now, ye lubberly slugs!" he bellows as Pintel and Ragetti approach warily, festooned with coils of rope and rolling a full cask. "Get them dead'uns roped up good an' tight now, like the cap'n ordered." He hurries off to see to ropes, canvas, and other things more wholesome than human sacrifice.

"It works! Look, Pint! They're all crowdin' round the cask 'cos they can't make off wiv a good mouthful."

"See?" says Jack. "Enough to feed a frigate. All you got to do is shoot the buggers, then lean over the rail and haul 'em in." As the words leave his mouth, Gibbs' canvas-spreading takes effect: the Pearl leaps towards Shipwreck Cove. Sharks, gulls, corpse, and barrel bob distantly in her wake.

Pintel heaves a mournful sigh. "I reckon we should rope the next'un to the rail or sumfin'."

"Oh, aye," says Jack. "Rope it to the rail. Sounds like a good idea but actually not one for reasons too complicated to explain at the present juncture. Still..." He attempts a motivational smile. "Job done, eh? Point proven. We'll leave the sharks in peace for a bit and, um, go splice some cable or something. Oh, and stack a few more casks and a coil of rope next to the corpses, eh? Ready for next time."

"I thought Sammy and Daisy might've followed the ship. They was just gettin' to know me." Ragetti broods for a moment, then smiles suddenly. "At least we won't 'ave to eat 'em. I ain't seen this much food since we was cursed and couldn't eat none of it." His good eye goes misty at the thought. "There's even cheese. An' plum duff."

"Salt pork," puts in Pintel, "biscuit, pease, sugar..." Jack stares, fascinated, as Pintel's expression shifts, through a series of creaks and jolts, from dreamy to cunning. "An' there's rum, Cap'n."

Jack knows Sparrow bait when he sees it. He also knows when to seize distraction with both hands and hug it tight.

"How very kind of Lord Beckett. We must think of a way to repay him. In the meantime, I think I'll go below for a little refreshment." Pausing on the companionway to let out the sigh he's been holding in, he can hear them debating the relative dietary merits (ethical, gastronomic and excretory) of pigs, sharks, dried pulses, dairy produce, plums, and duff.

He's barely started on his breakfast-lunch-dinner of hardtack softened with rum when Hector turns up and starts asking carefully polite questions about their intended course, leering all the while like a bull walrus who's blundered into a school of mermaids.

"Later!" says Jack briskly, shooing him away. "Go wallow in the cabin a while and I'll join you later. Right now, I need to eat, do some thinking, an' get back on deck before the whelp escapes from the brig." He really is on a winning streak today because Hector meekly nods his head and retreats (one hand holding his ripped britches) presumably to lurk and preen his bristles in the cabin.

Jack takes a swig of rum to wash down his food, and savours a moment of quiet. By the time he goes topside it's grown dark and the deck is deserted, aside from Cotton and his avian accessory at the helm.

Just as Jack is leaving the aft companionway, a grating in the waist begins to rise, slowly and stealthily. Jack turns to Cotton and covers his eyes: see no evil. Cotton nods once and turns to gaze at the darkening horizon; his parrot squawks, "Storm ahoy!" and flaps down the companionway Jack has just left.

Will heads straight for the bow. So much for getting there first. Luckily, a ship is a jungle and Will Turner is a creature of the forest floor while Jack, for once, is happy to resemble Hector's unfortunately named pet. He scrambles into the high rigging, swings his way forward, and slides fast and silent down the fore topmast stay to perch elegantly on the bowsprit.

Either Will is hungry enough to eat shark (though not enough for cannibalism), or he's up to something. Wonderful how the lad's learned to scheme. If only he'd looked in on Hector, Jack could've made good money betting on that. However, if the boy expects Beckett to keep his side of a bargain, he—and, more to the point, Jack—is about to be sorely disappointed. Time for a spot of piratical mentoring.

Think like Jack, indeed! Cheeky little bugger! As if Jack would stoop to... Well, alright, he might stoop, but he wouldn't personally soil his own hands if other hands were available, and he certainly wouldn't trust Beckett to further any foul purpose he hadn't been persuaded to confuse with his own.

A few deft flicks of Jack's dialectical machete later, there's a neat track leading to Blissful Turners Island via Immortal Jack Cove. He wishes the whelp hadn't brought up the tentacle thing, which he really prefers not to think about. But surely, once he's immortal he'll have plenty of time to find a loophole. (Not to mention that if Hector's planning what Jack thinks he's planning, there'll be a lot to be said for having a job Calypso needs someone to do. A job other than being a Pirate Lord.)

"If you happen to see Davy Jones, don't forget to mention that Calypso's with me," he calls into the darkness, though he has a feeling that Will, barrel, gull-bait, and compass are already out of earshot. Then he ropes one more corpse to a barrel for good measure and shoves the rest over the side as they are. His hands smell a bit funny afterwards, but it's good to get the last of the debris off the Pearl. If only he'd had the sense to do something similar with Will's father all those years ago, his life could have been so much less complicated.

With a last glance towards the horizon (beyond which Beckett will soon be concluding that Jack Sparrow is a weak, trusting fool, and Davy Jones totting up at least three good reasons to sail for Shipwreck Cove) Jack heads below.

He's Captain Jack Sparrow; his opportune moment is brewing nicely. It's time for some straightish talk and flexible negotiation with Hector Barbossa

______________________________________________
Nuts Out series:
First Nut out of the Locker
Second Nut Out of the Locker: Like Nuts for Bananas
Third Nut Out of the Locker: Intense, with a hint of Kraken
Fourth Nut Out of the Locker: Two's Company
Fifth Nut Out of the Locker: Small Island Paradise
Sixth Nut Out of the Locker: Madness and Brilliance
Seventh Nut Out of the Locker: Goats and Monkeys (Almost) Eighth Nut Out of the Locker:Sibling Rivalry
Ninth Nut out of the Locker: Last Men Standing