Barbossa slips away from the Brethren Court as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, making sure his men do likewise. The assembled lords proved understandably reluctant to release Calypso, but their consent is of no matter so long as their tokens are freely surrendered. He has seven out of the nine in his pocket now and he really doesn't want to spoil that by giving anyone time to ask for them back.

Jack's piece of eight is promised, to Calypso as well as to Barbossa, so he'll not be cheating on that. Sao Feng's—no, Elizabeth Swann's now—he can surely get his hands on without... Hands. No, he will not look. That way lies madness—or, in any event, rumours that Cap'n Barbossa's lost his nerve and taken to checking for bloodstains. This is not what he needs on his first visit to Shipwreck Cove since the... since he justifiably commandeered the Pearl from that sorry excuse for a pirate lord. He can, however, permit himself to drum his fingers on his sword hilt as he walks; it's comforting to feel the rings staying in place, not clattering up and down, loose around the...

Bones are another thing Barbossa tries not to think about. Ten years cursed, then restored only to hang by a thread, by a goddess' whim. Will she truly let him live once he's served his purpose? He suspects not. But she'll strike him down for certain if he fails.

He wonders whether to visit the brig and show her the tokens, proof that he's been hard at work in her cause. But the sea goddess is no doubt sulking over her latest confinement. Truth be told, Barbossa has a feeling he'll regret that one. He can claim he was following Jack's advice to keep her from spooking the Brethren, but the truth is he acted on impulse—a foolish impulse that may cost him even this fragile semblance of life. Jack, no doubt, would have found more diplomatic means of persuading her to keep her own company; but Jack was always soft.

He wonders how long her hunger to be released will hold her wrath in check. For that's the measure of his life unless he performs the ritual. After that... Well, if the ritual fails, he's dead for certain sure, so there's no point thinking about it (except that he can't seem to stop). If it succeeds... He knows anger burns fierce and long, but he's yet to see gratitude do the same. At least he'll have known that moment of defiance when he dared to lock her away—and he'll know that she'll still resent him when he's gone.

Arr! He pulls his hat off and throws it on the cabin table, bolts the door, and drops into a chair. Fine gestures of defiance be damned: he bottled out. Just the sight of his own putrid knuckle bones—worse somehow by sunlight—was enough to drive out all save the urge to get both them and her out of his sight.

"Nay, I'll not be pretendin' as it were well played," he murmurs to little Jack, who's scampered across the desk and into the crook of his arm. "Best be facin' up to that now an' findin' a way to be makin' the best of it."

The goddess chose him, after all, less for his handsome looks and social graces than for his authority, grit and passion. He'll stick to his guns: play hard but fair by her. No parleying until he has possession of all nine tokens. Then he'll spring her freedom on her, fast and masterful. She'll be tossed from helpless fretting in the brig to fulfilment and release—surely a reversal of fortune to inspire admiration and gratitude for he who accomplished it. Even if his reward be but to escape with his life from the bloodbath of divine score-settling.

"Aye," he says aloud. "It might just do the trick, at that! An' d'ye know the best of it, lad? Tis that we be spared havin' to meet the witch again before the last roll o' the dice."

Little Jack chirrs and nods encouragingly. It seems that staying clear of Calypso has an appeal even a monkey can grasp.

In the meantime, Barbossa needs a means of acquiring the last two tokens, and he wants to think through the likely consequences of Jack's latest move (the pretty Jack, not the little one—the monkey wouldn't saddle the Brethren with a plummy-mouthed debutante of an English outlaw for their monarch). Elizabeth Swann as pirate king is something he'd never have anticipated, not in a million lifetimes, and he's confident none of his fellow lords saw it either. Even Jack probably had no idea what was coming until a moment before he opened his mouth: in fact, knowing Jack, it might have been a moment or two after.

"So," says pretty Jack's voice behind him, though he never heard the door open. "Working fast, I see, Hector. Seven down: two to go."

"One to go. Or were ye forgettin' our agreement so soon?"

He holds out his hand. Jack already knows what he's after, so there's nothing to lose by asking. But Jack smiles and shakes his head.

"Told you, mate. The longer Calypso stays bound, the more chances I get to make arrangements of me own before she gets down to the whole divine wrath and smiting thing."

Barbossa sighs. "Very well. If that be how ye be wantin' it, but I'll have Sao Feng's—I mean Captain Swann's—on the morrow, an' once I do, ye'd best make haste—unless ye be wantin' to explain to Calypso why ye be the one to keep her waitin'."

"Don't worry. Fortunately for both of us, I'm not fool enough to hold things up in any way she's liable to notice: you can have my trinket in a jiffy—just not until it's the only thing you're lacking. Good one, by the way—Ragetti's eye, I mean. Always thought it was the snake thingy you hang round your neck, or maybe the doggie tooth in your ear."

"Wolf tooth," corrects Barbossa because he'd rather squabble about that than admit he gave up trying to guess Jack's token years ago. Never crossed his mind that the bloody thing was right under his nose. "But we all make mistakes. I confess I ne'er had ye pegged for a monarchist."

Jack winces fleetingly. There's a strange comfort in that.

"Don't blame me, mate. You were the one as decided to drag the Code into it—and bloody Teague."

"Keep yer hair on, Jackie. I was merely trying to keep us out of a fight we'll not be a-winnin'. Ye ought to be thankin' me for not tellin' 'em the reason we'll not win. That bein' how ye be so afeared of dyin' again that you've hatched some half-arsed scheme to make yerself captain of the Flying Dutchman, for which you've not only brought Jones to our very door but betrayed the location of our stronghold to the thrice-blasted East India Company."

"Now you're just bein' defeatist. Jones ain't invincible, and I doubt Beckett's had time to assemble more'n a smattering of ships. He was too busy following my—or rather, young William's—barrels to maintain contact with the rest of the fleet.

"P'rhaps we should go back and explain that to the King an' the Keeper. 'Twould no doubt set their minds at rest to hear ye say it."

"Yer a fool if you don't think Lizzie's figured it out," says Jack. Then, softening slightly, "but it's prob'ly just as well you din't mention my little scheme back in the Chamber."

"Couldn't see as it'd help aught to have ye shot down," says Barbossa truthfully.

"Approximately half as unhelpful as if I'd told 'em the real reason you want to free Calypso, eh? You'd never countenance such a flagrantly suicidal scheme if bound Calypso didn't have her claws round your precariously resurrected bollocks. You'll've noticed how I confined meself to pointing out the suicidality of your proposal without elaborating on its motivation."

"Aye," Barbossa agrees, somewhat breathlessly. "We've been sworn enemies long enough, you and I, to know the value of actin' friendly now an' again." He stops, realising this may be true in more—or different—ways than he meant it.

Jack, evidently thinking along similar lines, lets his coat drop to the floor, tugs off his boots, and comes to sprawl on the desk. "If it's acting friendly you're after," he says, "now might be a good time. Busy day tomorrow. I could use an amusing little diversion."

"Or perhaps a large one?" asks Barbossa, because if you've got it (and he has) you might as well flaunt it. If he has one quality Jack can be relied on to appreciate, that quality is the forty-two pounder in his breeches.

"The bigger the better!" Jack slips onto his lap, shedding garments as he does so, nimble hands insinuating themselves under Barbossa's clothing. "Run it out and let me have it!"

Barbossa pulls him close, devouring the soft glittery mouth until it bites back, bristles scratching at his lips, breath harsh and ragged. Both naked now, but for trinkets and scraps, they writhe for a while in the chair, clasping, stroking, pinching, biting...

"It ain't workin'," mutters Jack. "P'raps we should move to the bunk."

Barbossa scoops him up and carries him there, then takes up where they left off. The bunk is wide and easy after the knobbly oak chair. Jack is warm and salty, soft, sharp, dangerous, and sweet as all the other times. But Barbossa can't shake off the notion that the glittery mouth drips with mockery and marine ink, or that his own flesh is detaching itself from his bones in tattered shreds. The effect on these fancies on the forty-two pounder is dampening to say the least, and Jack's not faring much better. In the end, they both fling themselves back onto the pillows and admit defeat with a groan.

"Sorry," mumbles Jack indistinctly. "I looked in at Jolly Molly's on my way back. Seem to've overspent meself, as one might say. What's your excuse?"

"Ye spent fast, then."

Ten doubloons to a shilling Jack's incapacity stems from a dread akin to his own, but the bugger of it is he can no more disprove Jack's tale than he can devise one for himself...

Jack shrugs. "You know how 'tis at Molly's."

"Aye," Barbossa concedes, brightening, for he's spied a chance to rake Jack across the stern. "I do indeed, for when I called on the girls at the Eel and Crabpot they told me as Molly'd moved to new premises on the North Quay. Ye must've run e'en faster than ye spent to've got there an' back so soon. It be small wonder ye be... debilitated."

For the briefest instant, Jack's eyes widen in panic. Barbossa catches the admission before it's snatched away.

"That's odd." Jack cocks his head on one side and frowns in feigned bemusement. "Because I could've sworn Jolly Molly's was still on the South Quay when the girls told me as how the Crabpot had to close. Something about an especially virulent type of pox making the customers' bollocks drop off. Repeat business pretty much dried up after that, as you can imagine. If you've been dippin' in the Crabpot, mate, I'm sadly afraid your current predicament is merely the opening prelude."

Barbossa prays for patience. "Now that I come to think on it more careful-like, it were the Lobster Pot I stopped at, an' Fat Molly's they told me had moved."

"Ah..." says Jack slowly, cogs clicking into place behind his sidelong glance. "Well, I s'ppose that would account for it, then. Funny ol' world, eh? All those years betrayin' and killin' each other and here we both are, shagging ourselves limp an' incapable jus' a couple of doors apart."

"Aye."

"Good thing we sorted that one out, then."

"That it be."

"Aye. Although, if I were you, mate, I'd be a tad concerned about losin' me memory."

Barbossa sighs (again) and lets it pass. His forbearance is swiftly rewarded as Jack snuggles closer and crushes his face against his chest.

"I s'ppose we may as well stay here while we recuperate from our manly exertions."

"Aye, that we may." Barbossa wraps his arms tight around Jack, nuzzles into his wild, pungent mane, and breathes long and deep. It's just possible they'll both get some sleep tonight.

"Aye," whispers a muffled voice in the region of his ribcage. "And, in the morning, if you've any difficulty recalling where you are, I can give you a tour of my ship."

*

Barbossa manages to doze off for a short while—less than a watch, but better than nothing. He knows deep down that he owes this blessing not to his own self-control, but to the improbable comfort of sharing this possibly final night with Jack Sparrow.

Jack, in Barbossa's embrace, sleeps through three watches like a baby (if babies were hairy and snored in bass register). Watching Jack's steady breathing, those heavy lashes still for once on cheeks smudged with lampblack and tar, Barbossa can almost believe the Sparrow magic will prevail once more. Perhaps Jack can wriggle free of his bargain with Jones. If anyone can find a way to steal the Dutchman out from under his slimy tentacles, it's surely Captain Jack Sparrow, the man who defeated the mighty Kraken, survived marooning and multiple executions, sacked Nassau Port without firing a shot, turned up at Shipwreck Cove as a small child, having crossed the Great Southern Ocean all alone in a canoe...

Of course, Barbossa knows it was the mighty Kraken that defeated Jack, just as he knows Nassau was sacked without a shot only because the powder was wet and the governor a depraved simpleton who liked a pretty pirate chained to his four-poster. (The legend of the Pacific crossing is surely nonsense, though Barbossa can never entirely quell the image of a very small Jack bobbing obliviously past tempests and sea monsters, amusing himself with marbles or cat's cradle, until a wave gently deposits his cockleshell craft on the quayside at Shipwreck.) But whatever the minute kernel of truth under the embellishments, there's no denying the lad's come a long way by his dubious feats. And if Jack can put Jones out of action, then surely the Brethren can take care of a few Company ships...

His head is still spinning with possibilities when the day dawns, and with it the awful truth: Jack's luck has failed. The fleet they face could annihilate them in minutes, then turn Shipwreck into a company factory—if pirates produced anything tradable. Their only glimmer of a chance would be a restored Calypso fighting on their side. Parley's a distraction: the only thing that matters now is getting the last two items and performing the ritual. He mustn't let Jack and Elizabeth out of his sight until he has their tokens.

*

"How in blazes did he gather so many?" whispers Hector as the longboat pulls away—the very question Jack's been asking himself since Beckett's bloody armada appeared out of the fog. It's a bloody disaster is what it is. But at least he's figured out how it had to work.

"Must be the heart, mate. Bastard Beckett's had Davy scampering around the oceans like a bloody sheepdog."

Typical bloody Beckett! There's Jack trading his immortal soul to Jones because it's the only way to defeat him (and no-one else was desperate, clever, and just plain nuts enough to get involved with Calypso's eldritch ferryman), only to find that the smarmy British powderpuff has restructured death's ferry into his own personal troop transport service. It's enough to make a pirate lose the will to live. Unless, of course, said pirate is Captain Jack Sparrow, master of the undiscovered silver lining.

"Which is good, really, when you think about it."

Hector goggles briefly, but recovers his sneer. "Do pray elaborate. Simple sea-captain that I be, I'd been a-thinkin' as more enemies meant more fighting."

"A large fleet is harder to manoeuvre and easier to hit," says Elizabeth, showing a promising piratical knack for commandeering a conversation. (Hector mutters something about clutching at straws in a maelstrom.) "But if you're suggesting, Captain Sparrow, that we can exploit this to keep them from blasting us all to splinters, you're a greater optimist and a lesser sailor than I thought."

Hector's giving him that I-told-you-so look again. How the fuck is a man supposed to turn hope into legend with such a pair of doubters sneering down their sunburnt, colonial noses at him? (He'd bet anything Beckett's nose is still immaculate white under its protective layer of powder.)

"A large fleet is good, my liege," he explains, polite and patient because he's still working on it and deference will buy him time, "because a large fleet could not be here unless the Dutchman had been zipping sideways and widdershins to gather 'em all, shortcutting through weird and uncanny realms. In point of fact, this fleet—which, as we've all perspicaciously observed, is not so much large as grotesquely fucking enormous..." (He can't resist casting a sultry glance towards Hector here, because the poor sod needs a crumb of comfort amidst the gloom, but the old goat only coughs and pretends he hasn't noticed.) "... must've had Davy buzzing hither and yon like a very pissed off bluebottle in a doll's house."

Hector snarls (sending a secret shiver through Jack's innards). "Will ye just get on an' be tellin' us?

"Hence the conclusion that my simple, sea-captainly colleague has failed to draw." (He can hear Hector spluttering behind him, which is always nice.) "Imagine for a moment that you need a quick way for Davy to rendezvous with each and every one of your widely scattered fleet: would you not need a method for the captains of said scattered fleet to summon him to their current location? How would you suggest they do that?"

Elizabeth, who blanched rather charmingly somewhere around 'method', visibly recomposes herself to exclaim, "They've been killing crew!"

"Death at sea, Lizzie: good as a doggie whistle to Davy and the Dutchman. Less than wonderful for morale, however. I should imagine, if we can only get rid of bloody Beckett, his ships'll find they're urgently needed somewhere else. That or turn on each other. Either way, our problems are solved." He smiles broadly as if this happy state were already achieved. No-one challenges him, so he presses his advantage. "What's more, it proves the heart really is aboard the Dutchman, because Beckett couldn't let Davy flit around like that unless he had someone in position to hold a metaphorical knife to the old squid's windpipe... or possibly gills."

"That's it?" asks Elizabeth, sounding, in Jack's opinion, most unreasonably dubious. "All we have to do is kill Lord Cutler Beckett. Oh, and stab the heart of Davy Jones."

"Precisely."

"Well, I'm glad I didn't appoint you my official advisor."

"We could shoot them both right here."

"Under the protection of parley?"

It's not a bad plan, as such, thinks Jack. It's only that they're a little close to Shipwreck for playing fast and loose with the Code. But this is a minor detail; he can work with it.

"Suppose Beckett gave you information—false, of course, but you wouldn't find out 'til later, at which point you'd hand me a full pardon and shower me with gifts—and said false information caused you to dismiss me from your service, banish me from your court? I wouldn't be party to the parley after that. So I could do the shooting and you could do the expressions of diplomatic regret."

"We're here to get Will. No shooting."

The bow nudges up onto the sand and they scramble out.

"Fair enough," says Jack. "I'll keep me hand on me gun, then."

They walk the rest of the way to the rendezvous in silence, except for the sighing that now comes as much from Elizabeth as from Hector. Honestly, some people wouldn't know an opportune moment if it came up and bit them on the bum. Jack adjusts his hat and hums a jaunty tune under his breath as he saunters towards his chance at immortality.

*

Negotiations are tricky, what with too many players and not enough leverage. Jack'll need to perform heroic feats of explanation if word ever gets out about that compass.

Explanation, however, is not the real problem. The real problem is that Bloody Cutler (yep, neat and white and silky as ever, but Jack's not falling for that again) appears, for once, to have done something incredibly stupid. He's only gone and left Jones' bloody heart on the ship! How's he intending to keep Jones in line if he has to signal the Dutchman every time he needs to get heavy? More to the point, how the fuck is Jack supposed to jump them both and grab the thing?

Then Jones chimes in, holding Jack to his debt, stubbornly indifferent to such trifles as death and resurrection. Miserable bastard! Jack's gut turns slushy every time he wiggles those tentacles. But Jones is bound by the rules of parley and can't seize him by force, not here. Not unless someone offers something monumentally stupid.

Like that.

Jack's sure his outrage looks convincing, because even he doesn't know whether he's faking. Bloody Lizzie'd better be doing this out of faith in Jack's Jones-outwitting, heart-stabbing abilities, not just to get dear sweet Will back in her murderous embraces as soon as possible. It's just that, if she's worked out how he's supposed to get within stabbing distance of the thumpy thing, he wishes she'd give him a hint; Davy's eyeing him up in a way that suggests irons, locks and guards will to feature heavily in his stay aboard the Dutchman.

"Jack be one of the nine pirate lords! Ye have no right!"

Nice bit of bluster there from old Hector. 'Course, what he really means is that Jack's still got one of the nine pieces of eight, which he needs to free Calypso, but just now Jack's just glad there's someone upset enough to protest his precipitate—and quite possibly permanent—departure. On top of which, he's feeling a distinct sympathy for Hector's hopeless, doomed, and desperate scheme. Next to his own carefully thought-out plans it's starting to look... rather promising actually.

"King!" Elizabeth smirks unanswerably. Charming girl, that one, when she's not trying to get him killed. (Is she trying to get him killed? Could she have failed to follow his account of how he always acted with dear William's best interests at heart?)

He moves in close—and slightly to the side so Hector'll have a better angle—sweeps off his hat with a flourish and bows low so the token dangles enticingly from his bandana. Hector can generally be relied on to spot an opportune moment, especially one that involves pretty Jack and a bit of shine.

Sure enough, there's an oath, a flash of cutlass—there's not many men Jack'll allow to wave edged weapons so near his head. Then the shine's on the sand with not a scratch to Jack. Even his bandana seems intact, though he resists putting a hand up to check in case it sets anyone thinking. Instead, he does his best to scowl at Hector in a way that will make Beckett, Jones and the rest think he's a very fierce pirate who's extremely angry with another, equally fierce, pirate (but said second pirate just happens to have a knack of beating him in sword fights, so he's not actually going to draw). He's also trying to make it clear (but only to Hector and any heathen gods who may be glancing their way) that the token is, in fact, freely given, thus ensuring its effectiveness for Hector's little ritual. It's a lot of information for one scowl to convey.

"If ye have somethin' to say," says Hector. "I might be sayin' somethin' as well."

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

Jack's face is saying, Come on, Hector! Take the bloody trinket, give me a chance to sort things out on the Dutchman, and then free Calypso. On second thoughts, just try to free Calypso before Jones does anything irreversible, alright? What he says aloud is "First to the finish, then?"

He hopes Hector's nod means yes.

Jones leans close, with a flutter of tentacles and a stench like the world's oldest fishmarket. "D'ye fear death?" he whispers.

Hector, Lizzie and the boy are walking away. Not even the monkey turns to give old Jack a second glance.

"You have no idea," he says, making himself meet Jones' gaze. It's lucky for all of them he has one of his miraculous plans up his sleeve to turn disaster into triumph: he just wishes he knew what it was.

*

Barbossa takes the token from little Jack and tries not to think about the likely fate of the other Jack at the hands of Davy Jones. He's so close now! Eight tokens in his grasp, freely given, or close enough—or so he can but hope. The ninth lies so near that his hand itches with the strain of not reaching out to snatch it from the chit's throat.

Back at sea, she starts issuing orders, claiming the Pearl for her flagship, for all the world as though Beckett's fleet won't slaughter them to a man, fight or flee, flagship or bumboat. Barbossa just gets on with what he has to do. All the manoeuvring, hoping, and dreading ends here: nothing else matters. Ignoring young Turner's objections, he gives the orders he's run through in his head on many sleepless nights: Tia Dalma, strong rope, rum, fire, tokens...

"We have to give Jack a chance!" pleads the girl, the ninth token glowing green and enticing, and so very near...

Barbossa watched Jack's chance vanish on the sandbank. Nothing in this world can help Jack now; next to Davy Jones, he's naught but a daft lad yet. But there's still a chance for Barbossa.

"Apologies, your majesty. Too long me fate ain't been in me own hands. No longer."

The final token's in his clutches. He listens for some objection from the girl, but none comes. She knows she can't afford to delay her battle plans by quarrelling with him now.

He fumbles with rum and slow match, dreading at any moment to hear his rightful possession of the pieces challenged. Calypso seems to vibrate with the same tension, though he can read neither anger nor favour in her face as he silently rehearses the words one last time.

"Is that it?" asks one of the idiots.

"Tis said it must be spoken as if to a lover!"

That sets the fools cackling and gibbering, of course—a fine distraction from questions of magical property rights, and a fine moment to show them what Cap'n Barbossa's made of. Tis only a pity Jack's not here to see. He strikes a pose and declaims, masterful and heroic as a lover should be, once again the newly-restored, bold pirate captain Tia Dalma had a fancy for 'til she set her sights on young Turner.

"Calypso! I release you from your human bonds!"

Nothing. Did he need more consent for taking Elizabeth's token? Or did he misread that moment on the sand spit with Jack?

"Is that it?" asks another idiot, or the same one again. Pintel. Barbossa tightens his grip on the linstock to fell the fool where he stands.

"No!" It's that stammering runt, Ragetti, come to assist his lummox of a mate.

"You din't say it right!" He looks into Barbossa's eyes for all the world as if this mattered to him; as if he could possibly have anything to contribute. "You... have to say it right!"

Wordlessly, Barbossa hands him the linstock. At this point, he can't summon the energy to speak. Why won't the damn thing work? Was tricking the Brethren into surrendering their tokens not good enough? Then again, perhaps Jack tricked him into taking the wrong trinket. Come to that, any of those treacherous swabs might have slipped a dud into the bowl...

Ragetti's stammering and stuttering, spraying slobber on Calypso's face. Her nostrils flare, her eyes close... Damnation, it's bloody Jack and Bootstrap over again. What the devil do people see in all that fawning gentleness? Barbossa can't imagine anything he'd want less from a lover.

But it's working! The fool's done it! The scent of smoke and the crackle of magic fill the air. And now Bootstrap's whelp is butting in, pestering Calypso with some question about who betrayed her. Barbossa'd push him away if he weren't frozen to the spot.

The thing that's about to break free stares out through Tia's eyes one last time, fixes on the boy, and commands, "Name him!"

"Davy Jones."

This is news to Barbossa, and evidently to Calypso. Seems the boy's good for something after all, for whatever the goddess was intending on doing to the Brethren in general—and Barbossa in particular—has just become less urgent than the fury of love betrayed. But there's no time to gloat over the prospect; Calypso is growing before their eyes, timbers straining fit to tear the ship apart, the crew running and gibbering like the pack of cretins they mostly are.

This is the moment he's prepared for: his only chance to sway an unleashed deity to his own ends. Even if she forbears to slay him, he's as good as dead if he can't persuade her to intervene in the battle. Hoping rebirth has left her as disoriented and overcome as it did him, he falls to his knees.

"Calypso!" he implores. "I come before you as a servant, humble and contrite." So much for flattery. Now the proposal: "I have fulfilled me oath, and now ask your favour. Spare meself, me ship, me crew..." And the sting: "...but unleash yer fury upon those who dare pretend themselves your masters. Or mine."

She's shouting something he can't hear in a voice that makes his ears hurt. For sure, she's angry, but who'll be feeling her wrath? Then a cataract of crabs, more screaming and antics from the crew—pity she didn't smite a few of them—and she's... gone.

He's performed it—all of it—great feats of cunning and magic: he's fooled the Brethren out of their tokens, performed the ritual correctly, released the goddess. And he lives! She's not struck him down in fury or turned him into a hermit crab, or... anything at all.

The pirate fleet bobs on the waters of the cove exactly as it did before; the armada still awaits; the Dutchman trails mist and menace. The only change Calypso's release has wrought is a few cracked timbers and torn ropes. He's freed her, blast it, and she's abandoned him. All these months he's fretted and slaved, fearing success almost as much as failure, and all for naught. He wished her anger on his enemies, dreaded it for himself, but he never considered her indifference. He's neither smitten nor spared, but merely forgotten, of no consequence to a released goddess.

He could almost envy Jack the burn of Jones' hatred and Beckett's spite. Jack's no doubt already despatched to some watery torment, but the bonds of love and loathing that attached so easily to him will tug at heartstrings for years to come. Who'll remember Hector Barbossa when the sun rises tomorrow?

"Nothing," he tells the dull grey waves. "Our final hope has failed us."

Somewhere far behind him, the lass and lad are trying to fire the men up for a last stand. Barbossa feels distantly irritated. Can't they see that no amount of hope, courage, or even moral indignation can reverse overwhelming force of numbers?

"Revenge won't bring your father back, Miss Swann," he tells the chit. "And it's not somethin' I'm intendin' to die for."

"Then what shall we die for?" she asks.

He's bleakly surprised by her acknowledgement of certain death, but he finds no answer to the question. He wants to live, at any price. Death is the end, and dying can serve no purpose he cares about. He'll run while he can—in a rowboat if he can't have the Pearl—and when that fails, he'll stand, clear-eyed, and watch death claim him, not squawk and thrash like a stupid hen that doesn't know there's no way to dodge the blade.

Though he has to admit the hen's doing a fine job of rallying the rest of her miserable barnyard. It's stirring stuff—swords, cannons, freedom—she has some of the dimmer ones almost believing they can win. Poised against the horizon, she puts him in mind of the young Jack Sparrow in his finer moments. It's a pleasant enough show, though something about it troubles him.

"They will hear the ring of our swords," she declaims. "And they will know what we can do! By the sweat of our brows, and the strength of our backs, and the courage of our hearts..."

The lass has plundered his speech! She's stolen his proposal to the Brethren Court! She'd seen the power of those empty words to make a bunch of lazy, puny, cowardly pirates fancy themselves storybook heroes. And now she has the nerve to parrot them back again—at the one who taught her. The sheer... piracy takes his breath away.

"Gentlemen," she finishes, "hoist the colours!"

The barnyard chorus takes up her cry with a fervour he's not seen since the old days. As the lass balances on the rail, slender and fearless, her hair tossed into her face by the rising wind, he can almost believe the Jack Sparrow he once knew has returned in female form.

The wind is rising fast, and it's turning to give them the weather gauge. Gibbs notices it ahead of the rest.

"Wind's on our side, boys! That's all we need!"

Barbossa stands at the rail with Elizabeth and watches assorted pirate colours rise and unfurl in the freshening breeze. If the girl had truly taken on the spirit of Jack Sparrow, he could almost begin to let himself hope.

But then she gathers her hair back, and her face shows pale, scrubbed, unscarred. She's no Jack. Jack's dead or worse, and the lass is doomed for all her pluck. They're all of 'em doomed: the lovestruck whelp, canny old Gibbs, simpletons and rogues alike—and Barbossa amongst them. He can best each and every one of this riff-raff at seamanship, fighting, bluster, bravado, cunning, and sheer bloody ruthlessness, but this is the end of his rope. His brief fancy for the girl's talk has cost him his chance to seize the ship, or even get away in a boat. There's skin and flesh on him still, but when he looks at his hand, he might as well be seeing through to the bones...

"Captain Barbossa! We need you at the helm."

The call shakes him back to reality. There's a storm brewing the like of which he's never seen. The Dutchman slices across the seething swell, thinking to slip in and rake them across the stern while they try to limp away. He's the best captain they have—the best there is. He can make his mark on this battle even though none of them will live to tell. This must be how Jack felt when the Kraken came for him at last.

"Aye!" He's scanning the rigging, calculating how much canvas he can risk in this weather. "That be true!

He pushes Cotton out of the way, and spins the helm, fizzing over with the thrill of battle joined. Soon, there's no time for anything but the slice of steel through unclean slime and cold fishy blood. Barbossa spins and dances through the slaughter, unslowed by decades of scars and piracy. When the whelps call on him to perform a confounded marriage ceremony in mid-battle, it makes sense in the same way a dream does. Step, slash, speak, spurt, turn, stab, kiss, kill... The pattern of life and death purified to the bare bones of a timeless moment.

As the fighting eases, it's clear to see all's not well aboard the ghost ship. The helmsman's looking round for orders that never come; damage to mastwork and sails is tackled haphazardly or not at all; someone's fighting in the rigging.

Like a receding tide, the intensity of peril fades, leaving Barbossa high and dry, and still alive. He's not sure if what he feels is amazement or disappointment, but there's captain's work yet to be done and none but himself to do it.

He takes stock: the enemy are slain or falling back; the fight has shifted to the Dutchman; young Will and Elizabeth are there already, with the rest of the crew either with them, preparing to follow, or simply hanging over the rail to gawp as both ships are pulled deeper into the maelstrom.

"Avast boarding!" he bellows. "Shake a leg you pox-ridden bilge rats! Break out the booms! Brace up the bowline! Keep her trim an' don't let her broach to! Jones be goin' down an' I ain't a-plannin' on followin' if I've a ship as can answer her helm. So lay for'ard an' clench me them split timbers! Man that rollin' tackle!"

It's touch and go for a while, both ships on their beam ends, Cotton gesturing to show him the danger as their mastheads clash, threatening to pull them both down. He gives the signal to Pintel and Ragetti. That pair of gunners haven't often let him down when there was a prize to dismast: this time'll pay for all.

Only when he's sure they're free, does he pull out his spyglass and survey the scene, not sure if he's more afraid that Jack'll have failed or succeeded. The Dutchman toboggans heedlessly on and down, but something flaps free—a bent sail bellying upwards on a stray updraft, trailing ropes and the weight of living bodies.

There's only one man who could conjure impossible escape by such unlikely means. The sight of the fragile contraption tossed on the dying storm awakens something Barbossa's scarcely known in over a decade: hope... If the breeze holds true, they should fetch up just over there.

"Eight points to larboard, luff up to cast 'em a line! Easy now, keep her full an' by or I'll throw ye o'er the side to fetch 'em yerselves."

Then Jack—both his Jacks—and the lass emerge dripping and shaky onto the Pearl's deck and into the clutching arms of their astounded rescuers.

"Thank goodness, Jack!" Old mother Gibbs scuttles over, abandoning the crew to manage the sails as they will—Barbossa'll be having words with him about that, just as soon as his throat's working again. "The armada's still out there. The Endeavor's coming up hard to starboard, and I think it's time we embraced that oldest and noblest of pirate traditions."

There's an unexpected pause before Jack replies.

"Never actually been one for tradition," he says softly, narrowing his eyes to survey the vast, undamaged fleet that still faces them. Whatever happened aboard the Dutchman has changed him. He's older, grimmer, a far cry from the pretty young Jack of Barbossa's memories. "Close haul her! Luff the sails and lay her in irons!"

The towering lunacy of those orders restores Barbossa's powers of speech—and of shouting.

"Belay that! Or we'll be a sittin' duck."

"Belay that 'belay that'!" snaps Jack, whirling.

Gibbs blanches, blusters, and urges common sense, only to be repeatedly flapped at, belayed, and shushed.

But Barbossa holds his peace now, having recognised something he's seen before—not often, but enough to have learned the power of it: Jack Sparrow, cornered and resolute, ain't seamanly nor dignified, but he's a force of nature. He can snatch a ship from certain death by notions a better sea-captain wouldn't entertain for so much as an instant. These are the moments for better sea captains to stand back and let mad Jack do what he does best.

The Endeavour, commanded and crewed by men highly trained in the arts of naval warfare, doesn't stand a chance. Barbossa quells a somewhat hysterical urge to wave and hail them. If only there was a simple signal for 'Run away! You ain't mad enough for what we've got!'

Sure enough, the Company flagship glides forward to meet them, serenely alone in the utter certainty of her strength. Not even the resurfacing Dutchman gives her pause.

"Full canvas!" cries Jack as if he'd only been waiting to have two invincible enemies instead of one. Or an invincible ally...

"Aye! Full canvas!"

With both captains, for once, in accord, the crew jump to with a will. Barbossa lunges towards the helm—for what he thinks Jack has in mind requires a sudden change of course. He feels a certain pride in being first to catch up with Jack's... the words reasoning and logic come to mind, but are discarded for obvious reasons. The point is that he alone (and possibly the Swann girl, but with the state she's in it's anyone's guess) has caught the gist of Jack's... insight: evidently, death has a new ferryman, one not compelled to fight alongside the East India Company.

From the bleak, bereaved look on Jack's face, Barbossa's betting it's Bill Turner—who'd have thought? Whoever it is, the Endeavour is advancing blithely towards her doom. He only hopes both gun crews have the sense not to aim high or long.

The subsequent hurricano of noise, gunsmoke, splinters, and screams reaches the Pearl without even the slightest part of it spilling onto their own decks. It's music to the ears of a man who's spent the last several hours anticipating his own grisly demise under exactly such conditions.

What was it Jack said on the way to the parley? If we can only get rid of bloody Beckett, his ships'll find they're urgently needed somewhere else. The prediction seems suddenly, almost... sensible. Barbossa throws back his head and laughs. Through the clearing smoke, he can already see the enemy topmen scampering aloft. The fleet that used to be Beckett's has discovered a pressing need to be far from Shipwreck Cove.

Barbossa shoulders his way through the press on the quarterdeck, seizes Jack around the waist and lifts him off his feet. Today is for celebration.

Tomorrow, he can start thinking about how to reclaim his ship.

______________________________________________
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