Between Wind and Water

Chapter 3:
In which England prevails

by

Rex Luscus

"By the mark, five!"

The voice of the midshipman heaving the lead in the forechains bore a warning. Drake's Islet crept by to larboard, her little yellow beach disturbingly close; James could make out the leaves on the trees. He glanced at Mr. Rentone's freckled face but found it blank.

"A quarter less five!" The voice calling the depth this time was shrill. A man standing on the ocean floor could have reached up and touched the Dauntless as she glided overhead. James cast another nervous glance at the islet.

Rentone met his eyes. "Not to worry, sir."

"If the wind were to back just a point, Lieutenant..." James growled. The anchor was already cock-billed so that it could drop the moment they threatened to run aground.

Rentone nodded, swallowing. "Helmsman, board it up a point." The ship's bow drew a gentle line from a cedar copse at the head of the harbor to the red cut of a mule-trail, which undoubtedly led into the town still hidden by the headland. Rentone aligned the circumferentor in his hand with the cedars. "Handsomely, now."

"By the deep, six!" The midshipman broadcasted his relief.

"Steady," said Rentone.

"South-southeast, sir," barked the quartermaster.

"Keep her so." Rentone gave James a flustered smile.

James glanced over the taffrail at the boats trailing in their wake and the Worcester farther back, making her turns in the swirling eddies of Rentone's. Across the water came the calls of their own worried midshipman. From behind the Worcester's masts peeked the yards of the Norwich, tracing the wakes of the ships before her in a line of battle. Apart from the singsong calls of two young men, all was silent. After a minute, the southwest end of Drake's Islet fell away to open up the harbor mouth, revealing the low fort crouching over it at the base of the tall green hills.

"Remember, we shall merely fire as we pass," said James to Gillette. "The forts at the head of the harbor are what we're interested in."

Topsails bellied out, taut and silent as the ship sailed large, wrapped in the indrawn breath before the shriek of war. Half a mile away, the Spaniards were loading their guns, hunkering down beside their pieces with their slow-matches lit, saying their prayers. James's men stood beside their own guns, watching the low gray parapet and imagining the faces that were not yet visible, as white and determined as their own.

"We'll have maybe three broadsides," said James. "Let us not waste them."

The first guns from the fort spoke, a jagged volley that barely seemed real until the first splashes erupted off the bow.

"Hold fire," said James. The fort had thirty-two-pounders, and so they would have to endure a few shots without reply. Another volley boomed, and the balls cut the air with horrible screeches. Still too far away to return fire, James's gun crews stood quietly, stony and grim. The acrid mineral scent of powder and slow-match laced the air.

The fort drew closer. James watched it through his spyglass for a moment, then checked it with his naked eye, judging the distance. Another round of shot screamed overhead, cutting away the weather foretopgallant shrouds and sending the mast folding down on deck. Gillette shouted orders and men scurried about, while the gun crews stood like ghosts, tuning out the activity.

Finally, James said, "You may begin."

The orders raced down the deck like a touched fuse and then the ship was rolling under her mighty broadside. The air was suddenly thick with shouts and smoke and the rumble of gun carriages. Fingers gripping the quarterdeck rail, James looked from his pocket watch to the string of gray puffs on the fort's rampart where his shots had gone home, then watched as each crenel on the parapet disappeared in a white cloud. A chorus of cries to get down were followed a split-second later by a ball tearing through the rail at the waist, sending splinters across the deck and leaving a gouge in the opposite gunwale. There was a shocked, heavy lull as men picked themselves up, then a chorus of thin hollers throughout the ship and the deck lurched as each larboard battery went off again.

They were nearly abreast of the fort. Shouts of "Fire!" filled the air and the third broadside went off, rolling the ship. James held onto the rail, watching the fort through his glass. He could see faces in the crenels now, powder-blackened and sweaty. They were within musket shot. "Lieutenant," he called to the Marine officer, "your small-arms fire, if you please."

Muskets went off like firecrackers in the tops, and some of the blackened faces disappeared. They were fully abreast of the fort now.

"Commodore!" shouted Rentone. "The wind is veering!"

It happened almost instantly—the sails shivered and dowsed, and then the topsails flew back to the masts. The ship drifted to a stop.

"Take in topsails!" James cried. The wind was now strong in the east, blowing directly on their bow; the ship was gaining sternway. "Let go the anchor!"

A shot tore overhead and the mizzen gaff sent a rain of splinters down on the after decks. James covered his head, then straightened and took stock. The anchor splashed into the water. For a tense few seconds, the ship slid to leeward, then the anchor bit in and the cable snapped taut. They were trapped abreast of the fort with a strong headwind; there was no way forward.

Gillette joined James on the quarterdeck. "We'll have to warp up the harbor to attack the other forts, sir!"

"We won't attack them. We'll reduce this one and worry about the others later."

"But the Admiral's instructions—"

"Are not practicable at the moment. Now, we need to get closer if we're to do much damage with our small arms—Mr. Rentone? How are the soundings?"

"Very deep right up to the fort, sir," said Rentone. He was picking splinters out of his wig.

"Good. Bring our full broadside to bear."

The Worcester had come up to add her fire; she was dropping her anchor, following James's lead. Captain Mayne stood on the high side of the quarterdeck, making a loud point to a lieutenant, which appeared to James in pantomime. Farther back, the Norwich had luffed up and was attempting to ride what was left of her headway as close to the fort as she could.

Men trampled past to bring around one of the boats. James watched with mounting nerves as the longboat rowed out with the kedge-anchor; then the ship was moving under his feet as she was towed in. More shots tore up the water. "Double your musket fire, Lieutenant!" James cried.

Once the ship had crawled into her new position, the full weight of their broadside was level with the fort. "Fire!" cried lieutenants and midshipmen all over the decks, and the fastest broadside in the fleet roared again. Above them, muskets crackled and spat. Through his spyglass, James watched the fort's lower battery, which had grown quieter; bodies crammed some of the embrasures.

"Silence that upper battery!" James shouted. "We're nearly there!"

The guns of a fourth ship roared, and Vernon's flagship Burford luffed up into the wind behind Norwich. James watched her setting her anchor, and was just beginning to relax when the Dauntless lurched astern. He grabbed the rail as the bow swung dizzily off the wind, sending them in a great circle to leeward. A shot had cut one of their cables.

"Slip the aft cable!" he cried. "Set topsails!" Pivoting around the kedge-anchor, the stern would shortly be exposed to the fort's fire and that would be the end of them. The next few minutes were full of frantic activity as men laid aloft and the stern chasers fired. Soon, the fort was shrinking behind them.

"All hands wear ship!" James shouted, and the stern passed through the eye of the wind and then the fort was growing larger off their bow again.

"Sir! The Admiral's signaling!" A midshipman was flipping through the signal book. "Anchor and prepare the boats!"

"Very well." Once the anchor had been set, the men brought the rest of the boats alongside and Marines and seamen poured into them.

"Sir, we've got a problem," said Gillette, hurrying up the stairs.

James lowered his spyglass. "Good heavens, now what?"

"Groves has taken a splinter."

"Then I shall go with the boats," said James, tucking the spyglass back into his coat.

Boats from the other ships were rowing under the Burford's stern, and James ordered his to follow.

"Norrington!" cried Vernon from the quarterdeck. "A fine day for it, eh? You've no breach and no scaling ladders so you'll have to make do. Well? On with it, then!"

They set out for the shore. The guns from the fort were intermittent as the boats cut through the water. There was no beach to speak of, so they lashed the boats to driftwood and bushes as best they could and struggled up the rocks, muskets and pistols slung over shoulders and tucked in belts, bloodying their hands on the shale. A volley of musketry took down two men as they approached the lower battery, but shortly they reached the wall.

James looked up at the cannon embrasures ten feet over their heads. "You'll have to climb on each other's shoulders!" he called to the men. "Come on, then, light along!" A Marine sergeant pulled him up past a cannon and he righted himself just in time to fell a Spaniard with his pistol. A precarious calm followed as they waited to see whether the area was clear.

"Up the stairs!" James said, drawing his sword. "Let's see who's left alive to meet us."

"That would be the crews from the two gun-ships left in the harbor," said Gillette. "Those shots we fired at them seem to have sent them running for the hills."

"But their own town..."

"Really, Commodore." Gillette cocked his head. "Could you swear that our seamen would not do the same in a panic?"

"I should hope not," said James. If there was one thing that kept England master of the seas, it was discipline, though it often seemed to hang upon the barest thread.

"Flag!" came the cry from a boat below, and the boatswain's pipes ushered Vernon over the side.

"Mr. Rentone!" Vernon accosted the lieutenant and threw an arm around his shoulder. "Brilliant work, young fellow!" He jostled Rentone. "You got our ships close enough for us to spit in their eye, didn't you?"

"Er—it was nothing, sir."

"I figured you'd say that. Tell you what: I'm going to give you one of those ships over there—" Vernon pointed toward the abandoned Spanish gun-ships, "—and you'll sail it back to England and give them the news of our victory. What do you say to that?"

Rentone knew exactly what that meant—he'd be celebrated, made post and given a rated ship to command, carried on shoulders through the crowd, and generally fussed over by a city of bloodthirsty patriots. He looked ill.

"I—er—thank you, sir."

"Which of them would you prefer?" asked Vernon.

Rentone blinked. "Which...?"

"The ships, Lieutenant, the ships! Which one do you want?"

"Er... the one on the right?"

"A fine choice! The Triunfo, I think they call her. We'll rename her HMS Triumph, of course, so she'll be good and English by the time you set foot aboard." Vernon laughed. "Commodore Norrington, Captain Gillette," he said, remembering they were there, "capital work."

"Sir," said James, attempting to detach a flustered Rentone from the Admiral, "we must discuss warping the ships up the harbor in the morning. If the wind stays from the east—"

"Yes, yes. Let's go below. Don't you ever relax? Come, come—"

"Boat ahoy!" cried the lookout. "Flag of truce!"

Three unarmed Spaniards came over the side and struggled their way to the quarterdeck in a knot of Marines. "The Governor sends his compliments to the Commodore," said one, and held out a sword on his palms.

James cleared his throat. "The Governor's capitulation should be directed to the Admiral."

The man shook his head. "Don Francisco insists we present it to the Commodore, whose attack upon our fort was so strong."

"Then," said James, waving his hand at the sword, "the Commodore insists it be presented to the Admiral."

Vernon chuckled darkly as he took the sword from the Spaniard. "Tell Don Francisco you executed his orders to the letter," he said, and passed the sword to James.

In the stateroom of the Dauntless, Vernon cast the letter of capitulation skittering in the direction of the terrified Spaniard, his face scarlet. "Does he think I'm an idiot? Of course he can't keep his damn ships! What does he think we came here for, tea? Clerk!" A long-faced young man appeared in the doorway. "Start taking this down. You there, wait. You'll have my terms in an hour. Now, clerk: number one, the garrison may march out as desired, but only on condition that our troops take possession by nine o'clock this evening. Number two..."

Newton met James on the stairs. "Commodore, we've found something you'd better come and see."

"Oh dear," James sighed. "What now?"

They picked their way down littered staircases, one after another until they reached the subterranean dungeon. "He was here when we arrived," Newton said, gesturing to the cell at the end. "The Spaniards just left him here."

James stepped up to the bars and looked down at the man lying flat on his back in the straw. "I don't believe it," he muttered.

Sparrow smiled weakly up at him. "Awful coincidence, eh?"

James blinked. "Wouldn't it be proper to return him to Port Royal and—"

"Dammit, we don't have time for that. He's already been tried; just get rid of him so we have one less thing on our minds."

James swallowed. "Aye, sir."

Sparrow was draped over the bars when James came down the steps. "Is she still out there?" he asked.

James frowned. "Who?"

"My ship!"

"The only ships in the harbor are a couple of leaky gun-boats and fishing scows."

"Damn." Sparrow struck his head against the iron. "They must've taken her somewhere else, the bastards. An' painted her some hideous color, no doubt." He sighed, raising his head. "I'm scuppered, ain't I?"

James passed him a bottle. "It would seem so."

Sparrow tore out the cork and took a slug. Then spat. "God God, man, what is this unholy stuff?"

James gaped. "That's three-year-old Haut Brion. A pipe of it costs more than I make in a month. I practically sold my soul to get it."

"Don't you have any rum?"

"Well, of course I do. My men drink two gills of it a day. Are you telling me you prefer that piss to something princes would happily drink?"

"What can I say, mate—à chacun son goût—oops, I guess French is treason nowadays."

"Treason is the least of your problems." James sighed. "Sparrow, you stole a ship out from under my nose and survived your own execution. Why is a criminal of your ingenuity unable to stay out of prison? How hard can it be?"

"It's a common malady amongst criminals, I'm afraid," said Sparrow sadly after guzzling from the bottle. "The inability to let a bit o' loot lie."

"Which loot?" James frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Which loot? Your loot, Commodore." There was no amusement in his voice. "The treasure you wanted to join forces over. I nearly had my hands on it, but those bloody guarda costas turned up an' rained on me parade."

James chuckled. "Did you steal one of their ships, too?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," said Sparrow, drawing himself up.

"We should form a society," said James. "Men who have lost ships to Jack Sparrow. It will cross lines of nationality. It will be a force for peace."

Sparrow gave him an impatient smile. "So I s'pose there'd be no point in importunin' you..."

"No." James folded his hands behind his back. "You're done this time, Sparrow. As I said. You had your chance."

"So I did..." Sparrow drank deeply. "An' now you'll have your revenge."

"This has nothing whatsoever to do with revenge," said James.

"Aye, so you say. Just 'duty'. I recall your fine speech aboard the Dauntless after I saved you an' your men, not to mention your lady-love and her—oh, maybe that was the problem—"

"Sparrow!"

"W-huh?"

"Look—" James pitched his voice down. "I gave you a chance to avoid this and you threw it back at me. I owe you nothing. If you wish to write any letters or speak to a chaplain, I can arrange it. Otherwise, you'd best square your accounts with God because you will hang as soon as the sun is up."

"Whatever, Commodore." Sparrow dropped to the ground with his legs crossed. As James turned to leave, Sparrow said, "So glad it was you. Wouldn't've been right otherwise."

"Finish your bottle," James said, and made for the stairs.

But this was not about fair play. They were not gentlemen settling a debt of honor; one of them deserved to die. The offer of the letter had been cowardly and desperate, born of his fear of Vernon more than anything, a self-serving, face-saving measure. He was lucky he had this chance to rectify his mistake.

He did not hate Sparrow—but then, he'd have been a very different man if he killed out of hatred. Even so, it would have been easier if Sparrow were a brute.

He found Vernon in the commandant's quarters, sipping brandy over a plan of the harbor. "Ah, Norrington. You've laid mines before, haven't you?"

"I—yes, sir, but it was a very minor—"

"Splendid. The rock these castles are built on will make them the devil to blow up, so don't waste time. I want every fortification in this harbor a bed of rubble by the time we leave, understood? Get to work on them first thing in the morning—once you've hanged your pirate, that is." Vernon filled another glass and handed it to James. "Here's to the end of that grubby little rascal, eh?"

James lifted his glass weakly, and set it down.

Vernon peered at him. "I suppose you're reluctant because he helped you—and fished your fiancée out of the harbor. Don't worry, the whole fleet heard that story. But I know you, Norrington." He laughed. "You're as cold-blooded as they come. You can do it."

"Would you, sir?" asked James softly. "If the man had personally aided you, might you show a little mercy?"

"The Navy doesn't pay me to show mercy," said Vernon, throwing back his drink. "Duty requires a hard heart—just think of all the men you've sent to their deaths over the years. You think their wives understand? We're butchers, because our country asks us to be. Don't get squeamish now—it makes you less of a man."

"Aye, sir."

James climbed up to the battlement and watched the town, whose tranquil lights from a distance were flames and chaos up close. He was responsible for it. War was ugly, and Sparrow was at war with him, a ragged little nation of one. The Admiral was right: conscience was a civilian luxury. Still, Vernon's bloodthirst appalled him. Had he sounded like that once?

The flames on shore were dying. James shut his eyes, and asked God to tell him what to do.

When Abaroa had spared him an immediate execution, Jack had begun planning again—spend a night or two in prison, then slip out somehow and grab the Pearl as he went. He hadn't counted on the English sailing in, or on the Spanish moving his ship. For the first time since washing up on a desert island a decade ago, all was black. He heaved a dramatic sigh. If you didn't cry over your own fate, no one would do it for you.

He sat up, curious, as someone came down the stairs. Alas, it was a pimply sergeant with a bundle of papers and a book. The book, actually. "Commodore Norrington said you might be needin' these, then," the sergeant said in a thick Northern accent.

Jack accepted the Bible and the stack of foolscap with puzzlement. Maybe Norrington had been serious about that chaplain thing. Did he honestly think Jack gave a whore's tit for his immortal soul? And how was he supposed to write with no pen? He set the Bible down and flipped through the papers, frowning.

The sergeant had gone. The rustling of paper was loud in the bare room. Looking at the pages' blank white faces, like Norrington's blank words and blank eyes that demanded but never gave, Jack felt something close to despair. The little gilt cross on the cover of the Bible winked at him. He picked up the book and hurled it against the wall.

There was the distinct sound of metal clanging on stone.

He got up and went over to where the Bible lay in a jumble. Peeking out from under the crushed pages was a key.

For a long moment, Jack stared. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

His effects were in an adjoining room. Restored to full personhood, he crept up the stairs and along the passage, prepared to defend himself or flee, but he met no one and didn't expect to. The Commodore did things right when he decided to do them. That was one thing they had in common, at least. Probably the only thing, apart from a lust for treasure, an interest in ships and a healthy appreciation for Elizabeth Swann.

Jack reached the limits of the Commodore's diversion and slipped inside a doorway as two Marines passed. Then he crept down the corridor and climbed through a slit in the firing gallery that had been unexpectedly enlarged earlier that day. He stumbled down the rock as quietly as he could, making for the path that he knew led away from town and toward the mainland. As his feet scrabbled in the shale, his eyes fell on something interesting.

Standing on the ruins of an out-work was a tall figure. Straight, slender, as still as time. Jack first made out the brim of his hat against the water; then the neat profile, with its straight nose as dainty as a lass's; then he was close enough to see lips part, as though sighing. Like the head on a coin—pretty and pompous. The darkness held its breath as Jack crept forward, reaching out with his naked blade.

The only sound Norrington made as the metal bit into his throat was a drawn breath. He tensed, but didn't move. Jack placed his chin atop one stiff shoulder.

"So I haven't given you enough that you couldn't think of something else to take," said Norrington softly.

"O ye of little faith," Jack smiled. He let his whiskers tickle Norrington's ear. "I'm not here to take, but to give."

"Really."

"Listen, now." He tucked his face into the crook of Norrington's neck. "We both want the treasure on those galleons, but in light of your recent kindness, I might be prevailed upon to share. I know you want a way around that booby of an admiral, and I can help. We could collaborate if you're willin' to do it off the books, as it were." Norrington tried to turn, but Jack checked him with a friendly dig of the knife. "Ah-ah. Just one word's all I require: yes or no."

A long moment passed. Norrington swallowed against the knife, once, twice. "Yes," he said.

"Good. In the next few months, I shall send you a gift, and then we may discuss the price of our... continued association. My ship, for instance. I've a lot to offer you in the way of intelligence, and you might have occasion to help me recover the Pearl. Are we in accord?"

Norrington nodded, as much as he could with steel under his chin. Jack smiled. He eased away the blade and placed a kiss on the side of Norrington's neck, just below his ear.

Norrington jerked away and hissed. Without the knife to stop him, he turned, but Jack was already running, laughing silently, free and light in his heart under cover of dark.

"Your little pirate escaped," the Admiral snarled. "What is it with you? Does iron magically crumble when you're near?"

"I'll pursue him immediately," said James, doing his best to appear indignant.

"Sod that! I need you here, demolishing these forts. But if you ever catch him again, don't wait till morning—shoot him on sight." And with that, Vernon stabbed an angry finger toward the harbor.

James took out his spyglass. He looked, blinked—no, it wasn't possible. Five seamen hung over the side of the Burford with buckets of paint, and while they had made good progress, the words Captain Jack Sparrow Wuz Here were still distinctly visible.

"There's to be a party next week," said Elizabeth, jabbing her needle through the linen. "In honor of the taking of Portobello, of course."

"Mm." James gazed around at the tree canopy, at the birds flashing across gaps of sunlight. Portobello had capitulated nearly two months ago, but the fortifications had taken weeks to demolish, and a storm had scattered the fleet as it returned to Jamaica. James had come straight to Elizabeth after reaching home, starved for civilized company.

"The Widow Daintree will be there," said Elizabeth.

James looked back at her. "Are you implying what I think you're implying? Because if you are, I would remind you that the Widow Daintree is nearly twice my age."

She smiled. "I'm told men like a woman with a bit of experience."

"Mrs. Turner!" James blushed from collar to scalp. "For heaven's sake."

Elizabeth held up the embroidery hoop. "What do you think?"

A row of red flowers meandered drunkenly across a plain field. "It's beautiful," said James.

"You are such an awful liar." Elizabeth grinned and returned to her needle.

"It's never been my strong suit." James leaned on his hand and watched Elizabeth's delicate fingers stab and pull at her work.

"Speaking of which—" She looked up and pursed her lips with suppressed amusement. "I hear Jack Sparrow escaped again."

James groaned. "You would choose my one failure in the midst of a great success. Did you even listen to the rest, or were the words 'Jack Sparrow' the only ones you heard?"

Elizabeth merely stitched on. After another few minutes, she held up the hoop again. Little green leaves now adorned the flowers.

"Exquisite," said James.

"Oh—" Elizabeth set the embroidery aside. "I nearly forgot. I have something for you."

She went into the house and came back with a book. James accepted it. "What's this?"

"A friend sent me a crate of books. I didn't have any use for this one, but it seemed the sort of thing you'd like."

James opened the cover. It was Vegetius's De Re Militari. He laughed. "This is the sort of thing you imagine I have on my bedside table?"

"I might have kept it for myself, but I don't read Latin."

"I suppose the other books in the box were exciting tales of pirates and brigands."

"Well—yes." She shrugged. "There were a few novels, too."

"About pirates and brigands."

"Castaways, actually."

James leafed through the book. He probably wouldn't read it—his Latin wasn't good enough for him to read with much pleasure—but it would look nice on his shelf. He flipped through the pages to see if Vegetius had written anything about navies. As he turned the pages, the signatures parted to a section entitled Praecepta Belli Navalis. He read the first paragraph, then skipped down. At the bottom, someone had made a note in pencil.

In misspelled Latin, it said, For the King's treasure from Panama, try the customs-house at Chagres.

He looked quickly up at Elizabeth. She had returned to her work and her face was quite free of any secret knowledge. When Sparrow had given her this message to convey, she must have done it in ignorance. It was clever, actually—to whom else of her acquaintance would she give a Latin text on military tactics? There she sat, still believing him and Sparrow to be mortal enemies, when she'd just helped them conspire.

For a moment, he longed to tell her. How he would be congratulated, how stroked and made over—how his stock with her would soar. For this reason alone, he could not bear to do it. While it hurt to be rejected for being the man he was, it would hurt even more to be praised for betraying himself. What he'd done for Sparrow, and now this conspiracy—it was abominable. But he wanted the help Sparrow could give him more than he wanted virtue. All in all, he was one thin rationalization from becoming a pirate himself.

"Thank you," James smiled, clutching the book on his lap. "And do thank your friend for me, as well."

"Oh, I will." This time, her eyes were full of schemes, and for once, he didn't feel excluded by them. Indeed, he felt several steps ahead.

The town of Chagres, huddled on a marshy flat at the mouth of the Chagres river fifty miles to windward of Portobello, was a cluster of rotting houses, a grand and dilapidated governor's mansion, a few aging fortifications, and one very fat customs-house.

Between the rows of stuffed barrels, the clerk rustles his papers with a flourish of self-importance. "Of cocoa: 2,892 ceroons, 2 butts and 5 hogsheads. Of Jesuit's bark: 1,240 ceroons, 4 butts, 4 hogsheads and 12 puncheons. Of wool: 327 bales. Total plate and specie valued at 20,000 pounds." He looked up expectantly, hoping to be congratulated for this bounty.

Vernon nodded. "Norrington, I want all of that aboard the Norwich and the Falmouth. I'll leave you a few of the frigates; the rest of us will put to sea tomorrow. We'll have a look into Cartagena, to see if we can discover whether they really plan to keep the treasure fleet shut up there all year. Meanwhile, you're to demolish the fortifications as quickly as you can, then join us back at Jamaica. Hopefully you'll do a quicker job of it than you did at Portobello. Understood?"

"Aye, sir," sighed James.

"Good." Vernon smiled unctuously. "Congratulations, Governor Norrington."

Vernon had a remarkable ability to make an honorific sound like an insult.

"Admiral!" cried a reedy voice from behind them, and they turned. James wrinkled his nose. A ragged man with a messy blond queue and dark red rings under his eyes approached them, bowing. "They jus' told me. Much obliged, sir, much obliged."

Incredulous, James watched as Vernon smiled and shook the man's hand. James had seen him briefly earlier; his name was Lowther. "A capital thing you did for us, young fellow," Vernon was saying. He was never happier than when he was flattering someone too stupid or naïve to defend himself. "All of England thanks you. A pardon was the least we could do."

"I reckon I can return there now," said the man, glowing, "but seein' as I'm a man of the sea, I've half a mind to join the service meself."

"An excellent idea!" said Vernon. "An outstanding seaman such as yourself deserves a place of honor. Let me see about getting you a lieutenant's commission."

James gaped.

"Oh, sir!" The red-rimmed eyes expanded. "Much, much obliged, sir!"

Vernon seemed genuinely flattered. "Think nothing of it, young man. Go find my secretary; he'll see to it."

When Lowther had left, James turned to Vernon, incredulous. "Sir, do you really think that providing us with soundings for the mouth of the river justifies a royal commission in his Majesty's service? The man is a pirate, for heaven's sake."

"Not anymore he isn't," said Vernon. "We'd never have been able to take this place without those soundings. It's high time you learned: if you don't reward merit, you'll never have your men's respect."

"It wasn't the reward I was questioning, it was the merit," James muttered, but Vernon had walked ahead, stopping to tap his shoe against a barrel like a woman squeezing fruits at a market. "There must be plenty more on the way," he said as though James were right beside him. "Where's the cochineal? The leather? The indigo? Where's the damn silver from Peru? It must be loaded on mules on the far side of the isthmus, waiting for us to go away. I'd press in, but I don't trust Newton to do the job..."

"Sir," said James sternly, "I'm concerned about that report on Admiral Torres's fleet. Perhaps you should call a council of war."

Vernon turned, surprise on his lumpy face. "And what? Listen to Newton's useless squawks about supplies and reinforcements? Perhaps we could include Swann so he could fill us in on the diplomatic gossip in Lisbon. Norrington, the squadron will be cruising off Cartagena for the next month. If anything is to be learned about the Spanish fleet, we'll learn it. Do your job here and leave the bigger picture to me, am I clear?"

James nodded. "Inimitably, sir."

He spent the rest of the afternoon surveying the forts for the laying of the mines. As the light died, he left the sub-engineers to demolish all the wooden buildings, then hiked up the hill to the Governor's house, where he meant to spend the evening eating cold meat and drinking Spanish wine as he drew up plans for the shafts and galleries and calculated the quantities of the charges. It was easier than the work at Portobello, where the forts had been built on solid rock, but it was not work he was used to, and he preferred to do it away from critical eyes. None of the officers had opted to come ashore, so James would be alone in his governorship, the lord of an empty house.

James stepped into the great hall, with its high windows and long oak dining table. That would suit fine for his drawings and his supper. As he unrolled his plans on the table, he heard sounds down the corridor, like mice in the walls—his steward, adjusting to the new environment. A charge went off in the distance, rattling the window panes, and James stood and listened to the silence that followed. He was ruler of this empty, swampy place. How proud his father would be.

At the end of the hall was a cedar sacristy chest, its dark polished front undulating like a sea swell. That would certainly go well in his office—if he were an archbishop. He strode to it and ran his hand over its finish, wondering what arbitrary value someone in England might assign it when calculating the total prize. He knelt and pulled out a drawer.

So this was where they kept the good silver. He picked up a knife with an intricately scalloped handle and decided Sparrow was right about him—he was just a pirate after all. He shouldn't have been so shocked; what were wars but state-sponsored piracy? He lifted the cloth under the silver to see if there was more underneath.

That was odd. The cloth rested on wood, yet from the outside, the drawer was clearly deeper. He felt around the edges inside and pulled up a thin panel. The silver clattered into the compartment beneath.

He stared. If he was a pirate, at least he was a very good one. Gold and rich inlaid jewels glinted in the bottom of the drawer. It couldn't be anything else—the crown and scepter of a Spanish viceroyalty. Apart from their value as symbols, the metal and stones were worth a fortune. Never mind that they shouldn't be there; there was no viceroy at muddy little Chagres. Did the Spanish keep spare sets? He lifted them out and turned them over in his hands. His salary for a decade wouldn't buy these objects. But they were just more metal to load onto the ships for condemnation, to wind up as prize-money dispersed among hundreds of men. Unless Vernon did something special with them—for himself, of course.

Well, Vernon wasn't there. With a glance around the hall, James took off his hat and fitted the crown atop his head. He waited for a moment. Nothing, except for a feeling of an approaching neck ache. Gold was a poor choice for something one would be wearing on one's head. He gazed at the scepter. Perhaps he wasn't a pirate; this gaudy thing didn't move him at all.

"You're even more ambitious than I thought."

He spun toward the voice, dislodging the crown so that it slid to one side of his head. Blushing, he snatched it off. In the open window, Sparrow crouched, grinning broadly.

"Get down," James snapped. "There are soldiers everywhere."

"And yet you are alone." Sparrow leapt off the sill. "I was hoping to get you alone, Commodore."

"I'm afraid you'll have to call me 'Governor' now." James twirled the scepter and smiled humorlessly.

"Gov'nor!" Sparrow laughed. "Now then, well done!"

"Well done indeed." James scowled. "So, what has cursed me with your malodorous company?"

Sparrow looked sour. "I see you're the same as ever. I'd hoped what with our no longer bein' in competition for the treasure fleet—"

"Your fault, incidentally."

"—that you might be a bit less of a bastard."

James tried not to smile. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Believe it or not," Sparrow huffed, "I'm here to help. Though I'm havin' second thoughts now."

"Help?" James's eyes gleamed. "How?"

"Oh"—Sparrow examined his nails—"just a bit of information that'll get you back where the action is instead of faffin' about blowin' up forts."

James narrowed his eyes. "What do you know?"

"Ah-ah. First..." Sparrow held out his hand.

James glared at it. "Yes?"

Sparrow snapped his fingers. "The regalia, if you please."

"What?!" James clutched the objects close. This was uncomfortable, since they were pointy. "These are worth a fortune! If anyone found out I'd—" He glanced around and sighed, then passed them to Sparrow, who took off his hat and made a show of balancing the crown carefully on his matted mop. "I can't imagine how you're going to sell them. Now what have you heard?"

"Only that Don Sebastián de Eslava, the recently appointed viceroy, has landed at Puerto Rico and is fitting out for the final leg of his voyage to Cartagena."

"You're certain of this?" James asked. Sparrow nodded. "You have seen the ships with your own eyes?" Sparrow nodded again, and James paced away. "I must tell the Admiral immediately."

"And you must bear the news yourself, naturally." Sparrow winked. "How did my soundings answer, by the way?"

"Your soundings? Vernon told me he got them from a pirate called Lowther."

"Aye, that's the fellow. He was desperate for a pardon, poor bugger. Saved me the trouble of a more unreliable means o' conveyance."

"Why, that lying..." James clenched his fists. "Vernon made him a lieutenant just now, can you believe it? A pirate! He'll be commanding the fleet before the week is up."

"There, there, jealousy does not become you, Commodore." Sparrow fumbled the scepter and bowed. "I mean, Gov'nor."

There were footsteps out in the corridor. Without apparent worry, Sparrow ducked beneath the table a moment before James's steward entered the room, bearing a cold capon and two kidneys. "Found this in the cellar, sir," he said, holding up a bottle.

James watched the man lay out the spread amid the scattered mess of drawings. When the steward had gone, Sparrow slithered up into a chair. "Say, Gov'nor, I've been sleepin' rough in the jungle... been positively days since I've eaten..."

James sat down. "Just keep your filthy fingers off the bits I'm going to eat."

Sparrow pulled a leg off the capon. He was still wearing the crown. "So." He tore off a messy bite. "How're the Turners?"

James took the other chicken leg. "Fine. Jolly splendid." He glared. "Why don't you just ask them yourself?"

Sparrow chuckled merrily, watching him. "Still resentful of fair Elizabeth's choice, eh?"

"We are not discussing this, you reprobate."

Sparrow clucked and shook his head. "She has no idea how you felt about her, does she?"

James narrowed his eyes.

"I'll take that as a no. And is that past or present tense?"

James glared. "What part of 'we are not discussing this' wasn't clear?"

"I was doin' pretty well for a minute there, though, wasn't I?" Sparrow's eyes glittered. "You know, Norrington, I get the feeling you want to talk, but you're just so... bottled up."

"I am simply capable of controlling myself. Not that I'd expect you to—"

"You consider runnin' out in the middle of a wedding to be controllin' yerself?"

James dropped his chicken leg. "How did you hear about that?"

"Not many folks missed the man in uniform stumblin' over them to get out of the pew with a hand clapped over his mouth."

"I was ill. I'd been out of sorts all week." James scowled. "Everyone seems to think I was overcome by emotion, but that's nonsense."

"Oh, certainly." Sparrow grinned. "You've been most cruelly misrepresented."

They chewed a few more bites in silence.

"I have to admit," said Sparrow, "I was surprised when I heard what happened on that parapet after I left."

James rolled his eyes. "'Left'—you make it sound so deliberate. And why were you surprised?"

"Let's just say I thought you were piratical enough to take what you wanted when you had the chance."

"Maybe I am." James pushed away the chicken and drew over the kidneys. "But I wanted something that could not be taken, as it happened."

"What, a woman's love? You'd be surprised."

"Just try," James sighed, "in your depraved mind, to understand the concept of honor for a single moment, Sparrow."

Sparrow shrugged as though admitting a point, but he added quietly, "It's honor what brought me here today, don't forget."

"Hardly." James sniffed. "You have an agenda, as always."

"Honor and agendas are not mutually exclusive." Sparrow sucked a fingertip and smirked like he'd uttered a great truth. "You think you have this whole honor thing cornered, Gov'nor. Just wait a bit. Maybe you'll learn something."

James didn't bother responding. Sometimes that was the only way. He had no idea why he was talking to Sparrow at all, except that he hadn't had a real conversation in weeks. Not that this one qualified either.

Sparrow resumed his campaign on neutral ground. "So," he said through a mouthful, "the Admiral's awfully proud of himself."

James accepted the offer of peace. "I would say he had a right to be," he replied, "had the two towns we've taken not been defended by a ragged handful of men in tumbling-down forts and a leaky ship or two." James reached over to the capon and acquired a wing, relieved to be done with Sparrow's prying. "I fear what Vernon's overconfidence will do to us when we encounter their real strength."

"You refer, of course, to the supposed battle squadron on its way from Spain."

"And to Don Blas. Vernon thinks the Spanish are idiots, but Don Blas must not be underestimated."

"You've met el Medio Hombre, I take it."

"I have. He's dangerous, and Vernon doesn't see it. He's so impressed with himself—Portobello, Chagres, Cartagena next! Then on to Havana! He doesn't see that the Spanish have not even bothered to put up a fight. Don Blas understands one thing very well: when to cut his losses."

"He must, considering how much of himself he's lost."

"And he's still alive, isn't he? He'll burn down his city if that keeps us from taking it."

"I've been wonderin'," said Sparrow. "You're cleverer than Vernon—any fool can see that. So why are you still takin' orders from him?"

James blinked. "He's my commanding officer. I have no choice."

"Isn't it your duty to make sure the most intelligent people are makin' the decisions?"

"My duty is to maintain and respect the chain of command."

"And if people die because of it?"

"Mutiny will not save anybody's life."

"And what if Vernon were to, say, meet with an accident?"

"Bite your tongue, Sparrow!" James pushed away his food. "I would sooner slit my own throat than stoop to such a crime. It's treasonous even to think it. Even more treasonous than allowing you to escape!"

Sparrow laughed. "I've seen a lot of things, but you're the first man I ever met who put the screws to himself for lettin' a man live."

There were more footsteps in the corridor, and Sparrow dove back under the table just as the steward returned.

"Forgot the plum duff, sir," he said, putting it down on top of a plan.

As soon as the man had left, Sparrow's head appeared over the edge of the table, eyes fixed on the pudding. James pulled it out of reach, but Sparrow continued to rest his chin on his arms, eyes big and pleading. With his matted hair gathered at odd angles from his head, he looked like nothing so much as a begging spaniel.

James sighed. "Fine. But can you at least use silverware?" He pointed toward the sacristy chest. "Honestly, one would think you were starving."

Sparrow retrieved a filigreed fork and devoured the better part of the pudding, then leaned back with his feet up, rubbing his belly and watching James eat the rest.

"You're disgusting," said James.

"Yet I'm happy," said Sparrow, and belched. "Let that be a lesson."

"Out of curiosity," said James once he'd swallowed the last of the pudding, "what was originally in that customs-house that will not appear on our books?"

Sparrow grinned. "You don't want to know."

"I shouldn't have given you that regalia," James sighed.

"We both need a reason to stay in the game," Sparrow smiled, picking his teeth with his fork, "but we can always cash out if the rules don't suit our fancy."

"So," said James, "what secret will you sell me next?"

"What sort do you want?"

James narrowed his eyes. "Anything that will prevent Vernon from keeping me in the dark."

"Well, Mr. Second-In-Command—I'm sorry, Gov'nor Second-In-Command—the question is, what do I get in return?"

James shrugged. "That's for you to work out."

"How 'bout my ship?"

"Again, Sparrow, that's—"

"Can't you call me 'Captain'?" Sparrow jerked his feet down from the table. "I've been very good about callin' you 'Gov'nor'."

James rolled his eyes. "I don't even call Gillette 'Captain' in private."

"Ah," said Sparrow, lifting his brow, "does this then mean we have achieved the rarefied heights of friendship?"

"Oh, please." James pursed his lips. "Captain Sparrow."

Sparrow blinked. "I do think I've just been rejected. How ironic." He shook his head. "Your loss, though. Captain Jack Sparrow is a good friend to have. He'll even let you win at cards occasionally."

"I'd know better than to play cards with you."

"Just promise you'll look for my ship as much as the requirements of your bloody stupid service allow, an' I'll keep my ears open. If I find I'm puttin' in more than I'm gettin' back, we'll have a little talk. This spyin' business is a two-way street, you know. If you wanna stay a step ahead of that fat fool Vernon—"

"All right, all right!" James pushed away the dish and pulled a drawing into its place. "We have an agreement, which regardless of my personal opinion of you, I intend to honor."

"Jus' makin' sure." Sparrow grinned and stood. "I'll leave you to your doodles, Gov'nor."

"They're plans," James snapped.

"Whatever—just little bits of paper that men get inordinately excited about. Speakin' of which, here's one more." He handed James a scrap with a scribble on the back. "The means for how we'll next communicate. Now, farewell. Keep an eye out for my ship."

James scowled. "Do not doubt my word. Captain Sparrow."

As quietly as a shadow, Sparrow vanished through the open window. James glanced at the latitude and longitude on the scrap of paper, then slipped it into his coat. For a while, he sat in the hall with his drawings and the remains of his supper and listened to the silence, which seemed louder in the wake of Sparrow's chatter. A good friend to have, indeed. But one thing could be said for him: he was never dull.

Prev

Next

Leave a Comment
(If you're commenting about a specific chapter, please mention that.)

Read Comments
(Warning: May contain spoilers!)