Between Wind and Water

Chapter 2:
In which the Caribbean grows a little smaller

by

Rex Luscus

But Norrington had to go and be obnoxious, and Jack had lost his head. In the short-term, it had been worth it. That stern face flushed with outrage, pale eyes wide with wounded pride—blimey, that looked good on him. Norrington was not used to hearing the word "no", and he was young enough to argue with it instead of simply ignoring it like a seasoned tyrant.

It took Jack most of the afternoon to make his way up the sandy Palisadoes to the mainland, then up the coast to the Hope River estuary where he'd tucked his ship. As he went, he could feel the trill of the river current over her bows as she strained at her cable, her anchor clutching the silty bottom, waiting. He sent a little wish to her, a promise to hurry.

When he turned up the beach at last, his crew were rolling the great water casks down to the water's edge, and shouts drifted across the river from the boats crowding the Pearl's beam where booms and tackles hoisted more casks aboard. Gibbs leaned over the rail, hollering orders, and on the beach, Anamaria was bossing around four burly men lifting a cask into a boat.

Gibbs waved when he saw Jack, but Anamaria scowled. "Of course you show up when the work's done," she snapped. "And by the way, you look like an idiot."

"It was necessary," said Jack, "if I was to deal with Norrington like to like." He bent over to scoop up a handful of sand and scrubbed his white-caked face with it. He didn't know what was in this makeup, but it itched like crazy.

"So what now? He gonna leave us alone? You make a deal with him?"

"He wanted to join up—practically begged me, actually—but I told 'im my pirates would never turn Navy."

Anamaria tore off her hat and stomped on it. "You fool! You could have bought us some protection from that maniac and you threw it away? You are the stupidest pirate in the history of pirates!"

"Darling," said Jack, wounded, "don't tell me you want to sail under that silly ponce!"

"We wouldn't have to! If you'd said yes, we could have sailed right up to Rock Fort for our water instead of getting devoured by mosquitoes in the jungle. We could've put into any English port we wanted. We could have had freedom for all the time it took Norrington to figure out he'd been tricked!"

Now was not the time to tell her that all of these things had occurred to him. It was necessary to maintain a façade of consistency. "An' make 'im that much more resolved to hang us? Nay, 'tis better this way. Better to be honest adversaries than bitterly sundered allies. Just ask me mum an' dad."

"I should hit you." She shoved her hat back on her head. "I should shoot you where you stand." She shrugged. "But the crew likes you."

Jack had kicked off his shoes and waded out into the water, where he was bent over and scrubbing his face. The damn stuff didn't seem to be water-soluble either. "Relax, darling," he said through his hands, leery of his arse's exposure to blows. "It will all be moot once we're very, very rich off those treasure galleons."

Anamaria folded her arms. "Mark my words," she said, "you'll never take those galleons if you're counting on that lazy, lying pack of drunkards to help."

"Oi." Jack stood up. "Deadwater Dan is a fine pirate. Was. We can get him back in top form if we hide the bottle for a week or two."

"If that's what you think, we're as good as dead."

"All right, all right." Jack scrubbed at his cheeks with his bare hands. "Forget Deadwater. There's still Captain Booth, and—"

"Captain? The only thing Benedict Booth is captain of is the rum barrel he goes to sleep in every night."

"Don't underestimate that rum barrel. Bend a few sails to it and—"

"Is that really all you got, Jack? Those cork-brained swill tubs who steal liquor to buy whores?"

"If you'd let me speak, madam," said Jack, "it jus' so happens that in an hour's time, we are expected at Maroon's Cave for a meeting of the Brethren."

"An hour?" Anamaria folded her arms. "If we're on pirate time, make it three hours. Or three days, more like."

"No faith, any of you." Jack shed his jacket, clawed at his face one last time, and climbed into the boat.

An hour later, as the light was dying, they marched up the muddy path into the lush Hope river canyon. Jack knew he was right about Norrington. The man lived in a world where a broken promise was an act of war, not just good business. If Jack had violated that letter, Norrington would have taken it very, very personally. Which was a shame, really. Deep down, Norrington was a selfish, dishonest man; if only he'd drop the farce and let it out, they might have something to say to each other. But instead, he made high-handed offers to pay Jack to be dishonest for him. How he expected to get anywhere by being such an arsehole, Jack had no idea.

"What happened at the fort, Cap'n?" asked Gibbs, catching up.

"Nothin'," Jack replied. "Nothin' happened. We remain completely, manifestly status quo."

"Ah." They marched on. Gibbs turned to Jack with worry. "You look terrible. You comin' down with somethin'?"

"Makeup," Jack grumbled. "Lead-based, I think."

"Blimey." Gibbs looked horrified. "I hear lead does things to a man's mind."

"Luckily I have little to fear on that front," said Jack. "Did we remember the rum? Nobody'll stay a moment at this little parley if we can't wet their whistles."

"All taken care of." Gibbs gestured back at two men carrying rundlets of rum on their shoulders. No doubt he included himself amongst those who needed this incentive. "How many men d'you reckon'll show up?"

"I put out the word for a score, so if we apply the standard pirate reliability co-efficient, I'd say we can expect... oh, half a dozen."

"That many?" Gibbs shook his head. "I dunno, Jack... it's been a while since pirates organized. Why, I'd say it hasn't been since—"

"The first man to say 'Bartholomew Roberts' goes in the gorge," snapped Jack. He narrowed his eyes. "I've already been Black Barted once today, an' not even by a pirate."

Gibbs's eyes widened. "He didn't."

Jack grimaced. "He did."

"Well—well—" Gibbs waved a hand. "Norrington's no Chaloner Ogle, either!"

"Sir Chaloner Ogle." Jack scowled. "You get a knighthood for endin' big-name pirates these days." He grinned. "I'll bet Norrington's slaverin' for a knighthood."

"Ah, he's not so bad." Gibbs winced under Jack's murderous look. "All I'm sayin' is, I've served under some hard-horse officers, an' he weren't one of 'em."

"No one's serving under anybody." Jack stopped, throwing up his hands. "We're bloody pirates! We don't take letters of marque, we don't need permission to steal treasure ships, an' we'll fill our bloody water casks wherever we bloody please! Honestly, will you all be wantin' feather beds and a kiss goodnight next? Who here is actually still an honest-to-God pirate?"

Gibbs stopped and peered into the mouth of Maroon's Cave, where Jack's words were still echoing. "Fewer than you'd think, apparently."

Jack gaped at the empty hole in the hillside. Not a soul was there, pirate or otherwise. "I don't believe it," he said, and sat morosely down where he stood.

After a while, they built a fire. Jack nudged the burning sticks with his toe, sunk in thought. Norrington was a problem. A year ago, Jack would have laughed at the idea of him as competition, but he grew more complex each time they met. Jack had always figured him for the sort to go to bed with an engraving of King George under his arm, but he'd said that Spanish word like a Spaniard—a-zoag-way, not a-zog-yew. For someone so insufferably English, butchering the Spanish language was practically compulsory. Maybe he only looked like a dandy fool. Then again, maybe not.

The rum was nearly gone when they heard voices on the trail. "See, Cap'n?" said Gibbs brightly. "They were just on pirate time."

"Sometimes I hate pirates," Jack muttered. "Gentlemen!" He leapt to his feet. "Welcome to the Brethren's first council of war in nearly two decades. Drink?"

One of the pirates, a black-haired fellow in a straw hat called Benedict Booth, pulled out the bung and held his flask under the stream of rum. "What'sa matter with you, Sparrow?" he said, drinking till the liquor poured down his chin. "You look like you've had your face in the baker's wife's bosom."

"If only I had," Jack muttered. "As it happens, it was Norrington's bosom—metaphorically speaking." Everyone in the cave pondered that image. "Good God, he'd make a frightful woman," Jack concluded.

"What's this talk of treasure?" The other man came up to join the circle, a square, blond, sunburned pirate called Deadwater Dan. "Why, hello." He sat on a log beside Anamaria. With a glare at Jack, she planted her heel in the man's belly and shoved him off.

"Fleet," said Jack. "Treasure fleet."

"You're mad," gaped Booth. "No one's tried to take the treasure fleet in thirty years!"

"Hear, hear," said Deadwater, sitting up. "There's easier treasure to be had."

"No vision, any of you." Jack looked Deadwater up and down. "I don't see these alleged heaps o' treasure improvin' your lifestyle."

"Forget it," said Booth. "Find a bigger idiot for the job."

Jack looked from face to drunken face around the fire. "Don't you even wanna hear my plan?" When no one objected, he forged ahead. "We'll take the galleons off Cartagena, see, by dressin' up as guarda costas. Then we'll take 'em to Portobello an' load up with the King's treasure—I've got a few clever friends there who can help us. Then we'll split 'em up—one to Old Providence, one to Cozumel, et cetera, till we've scattered the loot all over the Spanish Main." He looked around. "Well?"

Booth shook his head. "It's not one of your best, Sparrow. There's no way to hide that much treasure."

"The Spanish an' the English are too busy fightin' to bother. While they fight, we'll slip quietly away. That's how Norrington can help us, savvy?"

"Norrington?" Deadwater looked around anxiously. "He nearby?"

"He's safely in his fort," said Jack with a wink, "right where I left 'im."

Deadwater regarded him with awe. "Saints! How'd ya do it?"

"Come on, now," said Booth with a wave. "You're afraid of that toy soldier?"

Jack frowned. No, he would not defend the man, not if he had to cut out his own tongue.

"He nearly had your head in a noose," said Deadwater to Booth, agog.

"So 'e did," Booth shrugged, "—nearly. But enough about bloody Norrington. Sparrow, how you gonna fence all that quicksilver?"

"Fence?" Jack tried not to tear his hair. "All that treasure is starin' you in the face an' you're worried about how you're gonna sell it?"

"You'll never do it with so few men," said Booth.

"I defy you to look up any of my former exploits," said Jack, "an' show me one where they didn't say the exact same thing."

No one had an answer for this.

"Honestly, mates," Jack pleaded, "what else have you got to do these days?"

Booth and Deadwater looked at each other and shrugged.

With two more pirate captains thus recruited, Jack left the drunker members of his party to sleep it off around the fire and hiked back down the canyon to his ship.

"If it's just them, we're buggered," said Anamaria as they walked.

"Don't worry, I told 'em to spread the word."

"That's what I'm afraid of." She spat in the dust. "What if it turns around and too many guests show up to this party?"

"If we got all the buccaneers from Panama to Barbados in on this, we'll still be able to retire."

"That's what you said about Isla de Muerta."

"That's why I've set a new policy against supernatural loot. Too unpredictable."

Anamaria cackled. "There was a time when you weren't interested unless it was unpredictable. You gettin' old, Captain Sparrow? Should I call you Old Man Sparrow now? Maybe find you a walking stick?"

"That's enough." Jack waved angrily. "I jus' wanna live to enjoy what I steal, that's all."

Anamaria was still laughing. "You're gettin' old. Old old old. Old—"

"You'll be swimming off this island in a moment!" Jack snapped.

She stopped, her grin dying. "Sometimes I think you ain't the same Jack Sparrow I used to know," she said, and walked on ahead.

"Maybe I ain't," Jack called after her. "The world ain't the same place either." Crossing his arms and lowering his head, he marched on, trying not to wonder if maybe Norrington was right. One thing could be said for the man: he was always on time.

Lying in his bunk, he tried to make plans, but Norrington interposed himself again. The man was insufferable—with that nasal sneer and that little smirk like butter wouldn't melt up his arse. Jack would love to throw him over his expensive cherrywood desk and find out just how hot it was in there. His prick stirred. Oh, yes, his prick certainly liked Norrington, even if the rest of him didn't.

Twirling the little pistol on his finger, he thought about those long legs in their white silk stockings, curving with luscious precision like ivory tusks. He thought about tearing that uniform open down the front, sending brass Tudor roses flying, stripping away the wool and lace down to the skin, fragrant and warm. Norrington was terrified of that, no doubt—of being pried open like a clam. If only Jack could do it and escape with his life.

The moon behind the window crawled from one mullion to the next. They wanted the same thing, which meant they'd come to blows unless Jack could trick him somehow. He pictured Norrington on the deck of that monstrous ship of his, mind busy at work behind that frozen face, a motionless portent of doom. One thing was certain: Jack had to decide whether he wanted to fleece Norrington or fuck him, because trying both would be dangerous.

Anamaria wouldn't call him old if he contrived to wind the Commodore's clock a turn or two. It would do the man good. Norrington so loved pushing people around—being held down and done to for a change might wipe that smirk off his pretty face. And the world only had to force a choice on Jack to set him scheming about how he might have it both ways.

In the fuzzy circle of James's spyglass, the barge crept toward them on the gray waves, the Spanish Navy's red and blue like brilliant blossoms scattered on the surf. In the distance, the yellow walls of Cartagena sloped into the sea, their feet vanishing under crashing breakers. The sun pressed on James's neck like a weight. In England, fires were banked high and heavy coats were coming out; here in the Spanish Main, the blazing summer went on and on. His scalp itched; the glass slipped on his wet palm. Behind him, the company of HMS Sheerness stood as still as a pine grove. Sweating Marines presented arms. In their silence, the cry of gulls pierced the hot afternoon and James felt the surf pounding on the city walls deep in his body.

As ships of war went, theirs could not have looked more harmless—a lone frigate in enemy waters, gun ports shut, flag of truce flying at the masthead. James had left the Dauntless in Port Royal because she couldn't help looking bellicose. This was a mission of peace—on the surface, at least.

Captain Stapleton and his first lieutenant hovered beside him.

"Lieutenant," said James, still watching the barge, "lower your boat once we have taken the Admiral below. They'll see you from the city, but they shouldn't fire on you." He shifted the glass over to the mouth of the harbor, and the masts of hulks that had been sunk there to block it. "A glimpse is all you need; but make sure you're certain."

"Aye, sir." Stapleton's first lieutenant wasn't much younger than James, but his voice was high with nerves.

"How is our friend faring?" asked James, tucking the glass inside his coat.

"As unpleasant as always," said Stapleton.

"Lovely," said James. "This ought to be a meal of rare enjoyment."

The barge disappeared under the Sheerness's gunwale, and then the Spaniards were piped aboard. Three of them sprang over the side and drove back the men nearby, then reached down to help a fourth. Everyone held their breath at the awkward spectacle. Admiral Don Blas de Lezo y Olavarrieta swayed in the grasp of his struggling men, veins standing out as he hauled on his men's arms until he cast himself with a stumble onto the deck. He stooped there for a moment, collecting his dignity, before unfolding to his regal height.

James tried not to stare. The Admiral was as grand and ruined as a statue in a Roman plaza. Sculptural cheek bones held up an empty eye socket, his right sleeve hung empty, and his wooden leg was loud on the planks. El Medio Hombre, he was called with affection by his grateful countrymen. During the siege of Barcelona, he'd captured twelve British ships, including the rich privateer Stanhope. James felt very young.

He bowed. "Almirante, welcome aboard His Majesty's ship Sheerness. This is Captain Miles Stapleton."

"Commodore. Captain." Don Blas made a stiff bow, fingers white around the handle of his walking stick. His gray wig fell to his shoulders, and over his coat, he wore a steel cuirass, which brought war abruptly into their midst. He glanced around, lips curled with skeptical humor. "This is the very ship that took mine, is it not? Tell me, how answers my Fuerte?"

"She is a marvelous sailer," James replied smoothly. "As stiff and weatherly as any ship from our yards."

"Oh, many thanks." Don Blas's smile was thin. "I do hope you haven't insulted her by turning her into a transport or the like."

"Oh, no," said James, "you may expect to see her flying British colors in the line of battle if ever we meet under more belligerent circumstances."

"I would hope so," Don Blas grimaced.

"Shall we go below?" said James. "You must be eager to see Don Pedro."

The Admiral gave another dry smile. "Oh, yes. Most definitely."

"I have witnessed your Navy make fools of themselves on a number of occasions," said Don Blas cheerfully, "but I grant that many of you are fine sailors. Captain Stapleton, I am eager to hear the tale of how you took my ship—especially since Don Pedro is here to correct you in the particulars."

Stapleton glanced at James in a panic. James nodded. "Well," said Stapleton, "it's no great tale of seamanship, if that's what you're wanting. She was hove to off Portobello when we come upon her. We run up French colors for our own protection, since we was so mightily outgunned, but when we drew closer, we saw nary a ready man aboard, so we resolved to come near, then run out our guns afore she could sense our intent. And so we did, and carried away her foretopmast afore she could answer fire. The captain—" Stapleton nodded at Don Pedro, who had been reddening as the tale went on, "—he weren't even out of his bunk until the first shots were fired, I reckon."

"That is not true!" Don Pedro snarled, throwing down his knife.

"You would rather be considered incompetent than unprepared?" asked Don Blas with amusement.

Don Pedro trembled. "We were deceived by an honorless trick!"

"One must occasionally choose between honor and victory," said Don Blas, nodding contemplatively. "Still, Captain Stapleton, he has a point. It was a clever maneuver, but one more worthy of a pirate, don't you think?"

It was Stapleton's turn to redden. "I am at war, sir," he replied, and pressed his mouth into a white line. The table waited, but he did not speak again.

"The truth remains," said Don Blas, ending the awkward pause, "if I had been aboard the Fuerte that day, you would not have taken her."

The silence that followed gave the various men at the table a chance to reflect on how they'd each been insulted.

James cleared his throat. "Well, then. Let's proceed to business, shall we? Admiral, as much as we have enjoyed entertaining Don Pedro as our guest, we thought you would want to negotiate for his release."

Don Blas's good eye shifted. "And what terms do you propose?"

"Merely the release of two factors of the South Sea Company you have been detaining these last months."

"Ah, yes, well—" Don Blas pursed his lips. "I'm afraid this I cannot do. Lo siento, Don Pedro."

James needed back those South Sea agents about as much as Don Blas would miss them. Still, he made a show. "But whyever not? I am proposing an equal exchange that would leave both of our balances clear."

"I see your point," said Don Blas stiffly. "However, it is not my decision to make. Once the viceroy has arrived, perhaps we can talk again."

Whether or not the Admiral had noticed his slip, James quickly buried the interesting news about the viceroy. "Not even for your own flag-captain?" He waved his hand passionately. "If Captain Stapleton were captured, I would happily part with a few civilian prisoners whose only crime was to be on foreign soil when war was declared across the ocean."

"I apologize, Commodore," said Don Blas in a hard voice, "but I must refuse your offer."

James had a sudden desire to beg Don Blas to tell him how he had taken those twelve ships. He shored up his confidence, sipped his wine, and said, "I must remark that you've shown more concern for your ship than you have for your captain."

Don Blas reddened. "It is simply that I trust Don Pedro to remember that he is Spanish—unlike my poor Fuerte, who has no choice but to fly her enemy's colors."

The silence deepened. Everyone ate quickly and noisily. Only Don Blas took his time, heedless of the tension. At his side, a young captain reached over to cut his meat. If anyone found the spectacle unmanning, they didn't show it.

"So," he said, as though he'd never paused, "your government has chosen Admiral Vernon to try to drive us from the Caribbean."

No reply seemed appropriate, so James took another bite and waited for the Admiral to make his point.

"Having fought against him when we were both younger men," Don Blas went on with a smirk, "I must say I'm a little insulted."

It seemed better to keep his mouth shut. Don Blas looked up at the stony English faces around him and smiled. "I'm not interested in talking about the Admiral," he said, spearing a piece of meat once it had been cut for him. "I'd much rather talk about you, Commodore."

This made James pause with his fork in the air.

"You distinguished yourself splendidly before you even needed a razor, if I'm not mistaken. How about telling us the tale, say, of your action in the Garland against three Turkish pirate ships?"

James hid his alarm. "Forgive me if I don't wish to reveal my habits in battle to you, Admiral."

"Oh, come," said Don Blas, "your gazette has already made it a matter of public record. You won't be telling me anything I don't know. I would simply like to hear it from you."

The Admiral's strategy was growing clear. "Only if you will answer my tale with one of your own," James replied.

"Of course," Don Blas laughed. "Perhaps you would like to hear about the capture of the Stanhope?"

Every Englishman at the table bristled.

"Your tale first," said Don Blas with a smile.

"Very well." James cleared his throat. He was not at ease telling stories, especially in front of his own men. "I was first lieutenant under Captain Lord Aubrey Beauclerk aboard his first posted command. The Dey of Algiers had just refused our offer of a treaty, taking offense that such a young man had been sent to negotiate with him..."

And so James gave a dry, unembellished account of one of the pivotal moments of his life, an engagement in which he'd been more terrified, and more jubilant, than he'd ever been before or since.

"...and so we crossed the wake of the remaining Turkish ship and gained the weather-gage, and she struck her colors soon after."

"The weather-gage." Don Blas tutted. "You English are so obsessed with the weather-gage. You have no idea what you're missing, not learning to fight from the leeward position."

James blinked. "It's a matter of advantage, I should think. Why choose the defensive position if you can gain an offensive one?"

"You'd be surprised. Men on the defensive are much harder to predict." He shrugged. "But it is an English failing, I think, that lack of imagination."

A frisson of anger straightened James's spine. "In the Royal Navy, we prize discipline over imagination, and it has yet to fail us."

Don Blas laughed. "It certainly failed the Stanhope."

James knew he was being wound up. "Perhaps you could tell us that story now."

"Later, later." Don Blas was still laughing. The rest of the table was silent. "Relax, Commodore. I say these things from an older commander to a younger, as a bit of friendly advice. You are an interesting man, and it is too bad your government saw fit to replace a superior officer with an inferior one. For myself, I regret that I shall not have the pleasure of playing the game with you."

James nodded coldly. "The loss is all mine."

"Vernon has been making a nuisance of himself in Parliament, hasn't he?" Don Blas's good eye glittered. "It must irk you to have to step down simply because the Prime Minister wanted to get rid of the man."

"I do not question what my country asks of me," said James smoothly, "and I take joy in it, as I am sure you do."

There was approval in Don Blas's smile. "May it serve you well."

Silverware squeaked on plates, glasses drained, and the noisy sound of snuff being taken broke the silence—and then dinner was over. The master-at-arms led Don Pedro back to his cabin, and James went topside with the Admiral.

On the gangway, Don Blas stopped James. "Do give my regards to your Admiral Vernon," he said, and then in Spanish, he added, "That man is not your equal. I wish you luck."

James nodded, flattered in spite of himself. Only after the Admiral's barge had disappeared under the city walls did he realize Don Blas had extracted all of their stories without telling his own.

Jack had no use for it—the place smelled like a swamp, there was no money, and no one had a sense of humor. From the harbor, what there was of it, he turned inland up the wide dirt road—the old Camino Real, somewhat overgrown but still navigable. As night fell, coast became forest, where he was less at home, but he'd followed this path a hundred times. Soon he caught the smell of cooking. Pulling his boots up snugly, he left the road and struck out into the jungle, following his nose. He fought through vines and lianas and finally tumbled out into a well tended clearing, where palm-thatched huts breathed steady trails of smoke.

Four muskets pointed at him, in the hands of four dark men.

Jack smiled graciously. "You must be new here," he said, making a little bow. "It's just old Captain Jack Sparrow."

The man furthest to the left sighed and lowered his gun. "It's dark, you idiot," he said in a dialect that was as far from Castilian as they were from Spain. "Where have you been, Jack? It's been a year."

"My dear fellow"—Jack swung an arm over the man's bare shoulders—"I have been busy."

"I'll bet you have." The man jerked his head toward the center of the village. "Come. You'll want to see Suah."

Suah Vidaurri's house was the largest in the village, but it was small enough to be warm and gloomy like a ship's cabin. The table wasn't as bountiful as Don Francisco's, but Suah's generosity relative to his means was far greater, which made Jack feel generous himself. After wolfing down two fish he hadn't been hungry for until he'd smelled them cooking, he took a bag out of his waistband. "Brought you a present," he grinned at Suah, who sat half-reclining by the fire, and tossed the bag onto the low table. It fell between them with a heavy crunch. "I helped myself to the Governor's pocket change a few weeks ago."

Suah opened it and looked inside. "Pieces of eight? What am I going to do with these?"

Jack's face fell. "Hadn't thought of that."

"Not everyone loves silver as much as you," Suah smirked, shaking his head. "But come now—" He waved at Jack's dejected look. "Eat."

Jack devoured another fish.

"You don't look like you've been starving," said Suah. "Your lean period is over, I take it?"

"Oh, most definitely. But I'm always thinking ahead." Jack downed a bowl of chicha. Much better than wine; closer to rum. "Never know when you'll hit another dry spell."

"You're welcome here. But it worries me, that look you're wearing: a look of cunning."

Jack grinned. "Suah," he said, leaning forward, "I'm this close to laying my hands on the King's treasure for this year."

Suah sat up with alarm. "You're going to hold up the recuas?"

"Nah, not my style. Too messy—armed guard, all those mules running this way and that. I'll let them reach Portobello before I take the cash off their hands."

"Don't be stupid. That would be impossible."

"Never tell Captain Jack Sparrow a thing's impossible, mate. You'll just encourage him. Besides, that's why I'm here—I need your help."

"What?" Suah set down the silver. "Are you mad?"

"Here's the thing." Jack's eyes glittered. "A few of the Brethren and I will capture the treasure galleons when they're off Cartagena. We'll sail them to Portobello before anyone's the wiser, and load up with the treasure from Panama there. But we can't do it alone."

Suah sighed. "You must understand something. If you rob the King's treasure at Portobello, the Spanish will suspect us. No—they will accuse us whether they believe we did it or not. They will burn our crops, make a nuisance of themselves—they might even want to go to war, though not without thinking twice after what happened the last time. Still, it is a headache we could do without."

Jack blinked. "Oh."

"We have been good friends to you, and we're always happy to help if it means misery for the Spanish. But we have to live here."

Jack leaned back, watching the smoke, listening to the part of him argue that refused to make a choice. At last, he said, "Who would I have to be to steal that treasure without getting you in hot water?"

"Who?" Suah frowned. "I doubt they'd be suspicious of us if the English sacked Portobello. Even so, they haven't forgotten our alliance with Drake and the others, although it's a hundred years dead."

"So if I found a way to be English..."

"Jack, no more of this." Suah crossed his arms. "Come back when you want to talk peace, not war."

Jack made the biggest eyes he could. "Are you kicking me out?"

Suah sighed, but his face was hard. "Think of others for once. Find other Spaniards to rob—or try holding onto your silver for a change. We sustain ourselves on the barest means, while you could starve with a king's ransom in your pockets. How do you manage it? Do your pockets have holes? If that's it, my wife could solve your troubles right now—and ours."

Suah was not the only Cimarrón chief of Jack's acquaintance, but he was the only one who would tolerate being woken in the middle of the night. Jack knew when to give in.

Struggling through the jungle and then trotting back along the Camino Real, he watched the dark spaces between the trees and remembered when they had teemed with buccaneers, one behind every boulder waiting for a Spaniard to come along. Suah's people had been in the thick of it. Like everyone else, they'd turned domestic, and now the king's treasure made it from Panama to Portobello every year without so much as a silver ingot lost. There was something wrong with a world in which that happened.

The Sheerness opened up Port Royal Harbor to show a depressing sight: a battle squadron that hadn't been there when they'd left. Among the ships at anchor was a gorgeous monstrosity James recognized as the Burford, flying a blue flag at her foretopmast. Admiral Vernon.

James clasped his hands behind his back. "Captain Stapleton," he said, "fifteen guns to windward, if you please."

He'd wanted so much to capture those treasure galleons before the Admiral arrived—not simply because he didn't want to share the prize, but because they were his right. This was his squadron, his station—he had built it from nothing over the ten years he'd been here, and if anyone caught that treasure fleet, they would owe it to him. But now with the Admiral here, James would be forgotten.

James had no intention of being forgotten. He had a plan to catch those galleons and he would make sure Vernon did not take credit for it. The galleons were shut up in Cartagena now, but soon they would strike out for Portobello, and if the English could capture Portobello first, the galleons would sail right into their net. The key to surviving Vernon would be to force his opinion early, so that the man would never have the opportunity to shunt him aside. He could do this; he had plans for himself.

The last of the fifteen guns went off, and the clear air rang in the silence. A minute later, the Burford began her reply. James watched the smoke drift across the water, creeping between the frigates and bomb-ketches as the guns boomed with lazy regularity, eleven... twelve... thirteen. The smoke dispersed in the quiet.

James looked up at his broad pendant flying at the masthead. Tradition was strict: eleven guns for a captain, thirteen for a flag officer. Vernon was telling him he could stay a commodore, for now.

It was dusk by the time the master-attendant had piloted them to their mooring place in the crowded anchorage. The Burford had signaled not long ago, and James could no longer delay.

"Boat ahoy!" came the cry from the Burford.

"Flag!" replied James's coxswain, throwing over the tiller to slide the barge along the Burford's massive side. Above them, shadowed faces moved in the lantern light. On deck, James traded salutes with Watson, Vernon's flag-captain, a man notorious throughout the service for his inability to hold his drink. There was a strained note in the man's cordiality and James wondered if Watson saw him as a threat. Forgetting him for the moment, James followed the officer of the watch below.

As he stepped into the stateroom, his eyes fell on the Admiral's large face in a giltwood mirror before the man turned to him, squinting, not quite smiling. "You'd be Norrington," he said, brow scrunching into rolls. "What with all that noise."

"Admiral." James bowed. "It's an honor to have you in Port Royal, sir."

"Like hell it is." Vernon laughed savagely. "You hate that I'm here, taking your command. There's no shame in it. I don't trust a man who isn't ambitious. Now sit down and have a drink while we discuss what we're going to do before that foolish governor and the local Army idiot get involved."

Vernon's face was squashed flat at the bottom, like an onion bottle or a pear that had sat too long. His eyes drooped at the corners and a collar of pink flesh strained against his cravat. He splashed brandy into a glass at a mahogany sideboard and pressed it at James, who nearly dropped it. "I'm in the Caribbean for one reason," the Admiral said, pouring his own drink: "to destroy Spanish commerce. That means Cartagena or Portobello. We haven't got enough ships for Cartagena so Portobello it must be. But we haven't a moment to lose—the rainy season's on its way and disease will fix us as quick as any fleet. Now—I understand you've just come from Cartagena. Wish you could've been here when I arrived, but if you have some intelligence to show for it, I'll let it slide. So?"

"The azogue galleons are there," said James, "and I have it on good authority that the money from Panama has reached Portobello. If we were to—"

"Excellent. I suppose you can stay. And Don Blas de Lezo—how did you find the old cripple?"

"Capable and confident, sir. He is not to be treated lightly. But Portobello, sir—"

"Confident?" Vernon snorted. "Not for much longer. The galleons will leave Cartagena soon, so if we move quickly, we can snatch up the cash at Portobello and be there to seize the galleons when they come sailing into our net."

James sighed. "Precisely what I was going to suggest, sir."

"Excellent." Vernon tossed his drink down his throat. "Call a council of war. Swann will want to be there, I suppose. We sail for Portobello as soon as possible."

"Aye, sir."

Vernon laughed, rubbing his hands together. "I told Parliament I could take Portobello with six ships. How they'll crow about us at home, eh?"

"I'm sure they will, sir."

"Pull everything together: estimates for stores and victuals, all our current intelligence and coastal surveys, pilots—do we have pilots?"

"Aye, sir."

Vernon squinted malignantly at him. "You're not thinking of using Spaniards, are you? I will not have any Spaniards at the helms of my ships, do you understand?"

"Not Spaniards, sir. There are many Englishman—"

"Smugglers, you mean. Pirates. I'll touch them, but only with a ten-foot pole. Still, better than Spaniards."

James pursed his lips. "I was referring to my own men."

"Damned smugglers." Vernon harrumphed. "Criminals or not, you could have protected them better. If you'd put more of your frigates off the Spanish coasts to watch those guarda costa bastards instead of—whatever the hell you had them doing—then that fool Jenkins might still have his ear attached to his head instead of in a jar where he can wave it around in front of any poor sod who'll listen. Including me. Do you realize what magnitude of pest that man is?"

"I do." James revisited an unpleasant memory. "He made the rounds with it out here long before he brought it to Parliament."

Vernon laughed. "I say he was lucky it was only an ear that Spaniard cut off. If he'd seen what those Sallee rovers in the Mediterranean do—well, I digress. Point is, you should have been looking out."

"I acknowledge my responsibility, sir."

"Yes, well. You're young and probably shouldn't have had such an important command so early in your career. In a way, it's lucky for you I'm stepping in before you did any serious damage."

Since anything James might have said in reply would have resulted in his not having a career any longer, he kept quiet.

"Still," Vernon went on, looking out the stern windows toward the lights on shore, "you've done some good with the place. The new careening wharf—your work?"

"It is." James swallowed past his anger, and thought of his duty. "I've spent the last few years working on the facilities in Port Antonio—"

"Ah," Vernon laughed, "you're that Norrington! You argued with the Navy Board for a year about which side of the harbor to put a storehouse on."

James straightened. "With respect, sir, I am trained as an engineer. The gentlemen in London were misled by their experts and motivated entirely by cost-saving in the short-term—"

"Relax," Vernon chuckled. "I like a young man who isn't afraid to tell the world he knows better than they do. Hiding your light under a bushel is treason, as far as I'm concerned."

"Er, thank you, sir."

"But you've been lucky so far. That might have been career suicide if the wrong men had been in charge."

"I considered it worth the risk, sir."

"Good. Just be careful." Vernon scrutinized him. "You're arrogant and independent, and I plan to exploit that, but if it stings me, you'll wish you'd never been born, understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"James Norrington..." Vernon sat back down. "You're the son of an Army man, are you not?"

"I am, sir," James replied hesitantly. He knew Vernon's opinion of the Army.

"So tell me," said Vernon, delighted to put James on the spot, "why didn't you join up yourself?"

"Because," said James, "I preferred to render my services to an institution that rewards merit."

This was evidently the right answer.

James spent his evening squinting at vouchers, stretching store totals, and drafting memoranda. At two bells in the forenoon the next morning, he signaled to the Sheerness for her first lieutenant to come aboard.

Lieutenant Rentone had peered into Cartagena's harbor while James and Stapleton were dining with Don Blas. He was a talented seaman, and James could stand to be around him for more than five minutes, which already put him ahead. He had a small flat nose, a bony chin, and an extraordinary number of freckles. It was not a beautiful but an amiable and honest face, and not as young as it looked.

James put down his pen. "Good morning, Lieutenant. Have a seat."

"Thank you, sir." Rentone folded his tall figure into a chair.

"I understand that your cruises in the Sheerness have given you the opportunity for coastal surveys."

Pale cheeks colored. "Sir—it took no time away from our regular orders—"

"Relax, Lieutenant, you're not under censure. Quite the reverse. Would you say your knowledge of the coastline around Portobello is sufficient for you to navigate close to shore?"

Rentone's head bobbed. "It is, sir."

"Good. Then you shall attend a council of war this afternoon between myself, Admiral Vernon, Governor Swann, and Captain Newton of the Infantry. You are to pilot the squadron into Portobello Harbor for our assault on the town."

Rentone looked like he'd been offered the key to London. "Sir—I don't know what to say—"

"Say, 'Aye, sir, I will attend.'"

"Aye, sir, I will attend."

"Excellent. Three-thirty in the afternoon at the Governor's mansion. Be late at your peril."

Rentone leapt to his feet. "Thank you, sir."

"It is I who must thank you. That will be all."

The young man fled.

There wasn't much one could do to disguise a ship like the Black Pearl. Jack had bent white canvas and rigged her according to the Spanish privateer custom, then hoisted the proper colors and called it a day. His crew had been trickier. They were filthy and ragged, not even up to privateer standards. Everyone had strict instructions not to talk. Jack had put on a rich new coat and waistcoat and a wide-brimmed hat, all courtesy of the gentleman who had donated the colors, signals and letter of marque. Jack would have borrowed his ship too, but you had to leave a man something.

Ship and captain thus displaying the proper plumage, they lay three miles from the greatest concentration of wealth Jack had seen since Isla de Muerta: nine Spanish galleons, all leaning together in fat-bellied grace toward Portobello.

"Run up the private signal, Mr. Gibbs," said Jack, petting the silk of his waistcoat. "Tell them to heave to."

At the helm, Mr. Cotton hauled their wind and stood in toward the closest galleon. The Pearl cut through the water with silence on deck. Most of the crew were below to hide their numbers, waiting for the order to board. A half mile to the east, Booth's battered old Dutch galiot labored, and beyond him, Deadwater's flat-bottomed pink, the least convincing of them all.

Jack had no doubt they would succeed. It was an old buccaneer trick, but the treasure fleets had grown complacent due to a lack of buccaneers. They had bought the lie so far, heaving to as requested, trusting in the good will of the approaching strangers.

"On deck!" cried the lookout, startling everyone. "Sail ho!"

Jack's stomach froze. Not good. He scrambled up to the masthead with his spyglass. "Oh, bugger," he moaned.

The sail, not four miles off, was a real guarda costa.

"On deck, Mr. Gibbs!" Jack called. "Get more out of these sails! We're in a hurry now!"

The ship had filled with murmurs. "Quiet down there!" muttered Jack. "This'll all go tits-up if we give the game up now!"

Even as he said this, the galleon closest to them braced her yards around in a billow of white sail. "Oh, no," said Jack, and a moment later, her gun ports opened and she fired.

"Down!" Jack shouted as the first volley raked them from bow to stern. When he staggered to his feet, his masts were still upright and his crew still living, at least, which was good. Men were running out the guns, and Mr. Cotton had turned their head off the wind to bring the Pearl's broadside to bear. But the other galleons had begun firing too.

"That Spaniard must have signaled to 'em!" cried Gibbs over the din. "But how could he have known?"

"He must have recognized the Pearl," said Jack morosely. "In fact—" He took out his spyglass again. The ship was close enough now for Jack to recognize her: the Tiburón. Don Francisco de Abaroa's ship—or, rather, his new ship, since Jack had relieved him of the old one.

"The jig is up!" Jack shouted down to the deck. "Gibbs, get us out of here!"

To the east, Booth and Deadwater hadn't waited for Jack to make their own retreat. Jack swiveled around in his perch on the masthead. There was still a chance he could slip away to the south-west by setting every scrap of canvas, manning the sweeps with every mother's son and throwing the guns overboard. It would be a close shave, but he'd seen worse.

"Captain!" cried the lookout. "Sail to the south-west!"

Hardly able to believe his eyes, Jack lifted his spyglass to spot a second guarda costa bearing toward them. Numbly, he considered their position. It was no good—the Pearl could out-sail anything on the Seven Seas, but even she could do nothing against basic geometry.

Wearily, he climbed back down to the deck, where he looked around at his crew. "You're welcome to stay and fight," he said, "but if you value your hides—well, the boats make twelve knots under sail."

Everyone was silent.

"What about you, Captain?" said Anamaria.

"It took me ten years to get her back," he sighed.

In the end, his friends were sensible. He didn't begrudge them; on the contrary, he was glad they were safe. With no crew to tend the sails, he turned the ship's head downwind, uncorked a bottle of rum, and waited for the end.

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