Between Wind and Water

Chapter 4:
In which a partnership is surprisingly successful

by

Rex Luscus

Waiting for Vernon to finish his business on deck, James sat and stared at the open reports spread over the Admiral's desk. After another minute, he stood and went around to the other side, where he read the top page. As soon as he saw what it was, he took it up and scanned it quickly: it was a report of a cruising frigate's recent visit to Havana.

Vernon's footsteps warned him and he put the papers down just in time.

"Ah, Norrington. Everything in Chagres is taken care of, I trust?"

"Yes, sir. I have also received some important intelligence that I thought to bring to you personally."

"Ah?"

"Eslava, the viceroy of New Grenada, has landed in Puerto Rico and will leave for Cartagena any day."

"Excellent!" Vernon's eyes glittered. "What a blow his capture would be. It would certainly keep the diplomats in Lisbon busy for a spell. Anything else?"

James cleared his throat. "A letter arrived for you in Chagres a day after you left. It's—from Don Blas de Lezo."

Vernon took the letter from James and broke the seal. Then he squinted. "Oh, blast it all. It's in Spanish. The whoreson bastard sent me a letter in Spanish. Who does he think I am?" He tossed the letter down. "Fetch someone who can read this thing, will you?"

"I speak Spanish, sir."

"You do?" Vernon frowned. "What the hell for? Oh, of course, your father. Well, here—what does that coward Lezo have to say for himself?"

James skimmed the letter. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

"Well?" Vernon snarled. "What's it say?"

James cleared his throat. "To his Excellency Admiral Edward Vernon of His Britannic Majesty's Royal Fleet—"

"Skip all that!"

James pursed his lips. "If I had been in Portobello," he read coldly, "your Excellency would not have assaulted the fortresses of my sovereign King with such impunity, because I would have supplied the valor the defenders lacked and silenced your boasting... "

James didn't bother looking at Vernon, whose silent fury he could feel across the room. Eventually, Vernon said, "I'll show that bloody Spaniard what boasting is." He was bright red. "We'll see how he's talking when twelve thousand British soldiers land on his town, eh? We'll see where his valor is then!"

"Sir," said James, knowing he was talking into the wind, "you must realize that Don Blas is being intentionally provocative."

"Yes." Vernon was breathing hard. "Yes, I'm sure he is. What kind of fool would provoke the greatest fighting force on Earth, Norrington? What kind of idiot is this Lezo that he thinks it to his advantage to provoke me?"

"I'm merely offering perspective, sir," sighed James. He read the letter again. Don Blas had called his own men cowards. Again, that willingness to cut away a part of him that did not help him. And Vernon was in a choleric fit that would produce any number of wasteful gestures. Don Blas knew what he was doing.

"Take Windsor and Greenwich with you," said Vernon softly. "The viceroy will land at Santa Marta before he goes to Cartagena, so you can catch him there."

"Sir, that is right on the old treasure galleon route. If he has any sense, he'll steer far to leeward of Santa Marta and then beat upwind to Cartagena without ever coming within a hundred miles—"

"Are you capable of just accepting an order and following it?" Vernon snapped. The chair groaned as he dropped into it and picked up a report. "I know where the treasure galleon route goes and I say he will land at Santa Marta, understood?"

James pressed his mouth shut and nodded.

The moon carved a yellow chip out of the deepening sky, and Venus shone like a polished jewel. James reached for her.

Thumbing through his lunar tables, he ran his calculations once, twice, and a third time. The noon and afternoon sights placed them on a steady latitude. Santa Marta, if they could have seen it, was southeast-half-east. They were exactly where they were supposed to be—if they were supposed to be in exactly the wrong place.

A mile away, the Greenwich darkened the gleaming trail of the setting sun. Captain Wyndham was probably taking his lunar sight too, and probably thinking the same thing—but Wyndham didn't have the freedom with Vernon that James had. He was tangled in the servile threads of patronage—not that James wasn't, but James had other interest at the Admiralty, and a reputation for cheek that Vernon indulged. And Vernon wasn't here. Right now, James was in command.

The wind was freshening and backing around to the east. He made a decision. "Mr. Groves," he said, "signal to the squadron. A new bearing of west-north-west."

Groves hesitated. "Sir?"

"Was I not clear?" James snapped. "Signal the squadron, if you please."

"Aye, sir."

The signal broke out overhead. After a minute, it appeared above the Greenwich, where it would be seen by the Windsor, running down the chain toward the western horizon. As night fell, three ships quietly turned their heads toward the wind.

A cluster of midshipmen hid Gillette's body, but not his piercing voice, which was remarkably free of his usual impatience. Everyone's sextants followed the sun, and shortly, ten logbooks were out as ten pencils scribbled down figures. Then Gillette herded the boys off the quarterdeck like a housewife with a flock of hens.

"We made less leeway in the night than we'd feared," said Gillette once he'd returned.

James already knew this, having taken his sight along with the young gentlemen. He was about to say as much when Groves cried out, "The Greenwich is signaling, sir!" The lieutenant squinted and shielded his eyes, "Sails to leeward!"

A thrill went through James. "Take in topsails!" he shouted. Greenwich had already done the same; there was always the chance their quarry hadn't seen their sails above the horizon yet. "Return her signal," he went on, containing himself: "Give chase."

The Greenwich replied with bearings, and the decks burst to life as Gillette set a new heading. Once they received the signal that their chase had spotted them and changed course, they set all their canvas. Royals and studdingsails broke out as James scurried up the mast as far as the topgallant cap, where he scanned the horizon with his glass. All he could make out was the Windsor, six miles off. He climbed further, knees shaking a little—the last time he'd been this high, he was six inches shorter and his feet rather smaller. It was worth a bit of nerves. He could now make out the white specks, still hull down on the horizon, sixteen miles away. "Everything you have, Captain Gillette!" he cried. He couldn't wait to see Vernon's face.

An hour later, the sails were visible from the masthead. The air on deck was still as the ship ran dead downwind. They were driving the viceroy—and who else could it be?—away from Cartagena, and if he turned off his course at all, they would close the arc and catch him quickly. Still, the Dauntless was not a swift sailer. "Clew up the main course," he said, and climbed back up to the masthead for another look. "Get more out of that foresail."

Two hours later, the ships were hull down again. "What more can we do, sir?" asked Gillette, watching them forlornly.

"We can go to Cartagena," said James. "They shall have to alter their course for it sooner or later, and we can cut them off there."

As evening fell, Cartagena lay off their larboard bow, and there was no sign of the viceroy. They sailed down the coast, passing the low spit of land separating them from Cartagena's inner harbor, and from the masthead, Groves called down, "Twenty sail in the harbor, sir!"

Lezo's squadron accounted for seven, the treasure fleet for nine—the rest had to be the viceroy and his escort. All safely ensconced in the harbor.

He sighed. "Captain Gillette, take us home."

He was thoroughly winded by the time he reached the top of the bluff, his hands caked and his knees stained with red soil. As he pulled himself over the crest, he glanced down the road that ran by not twenty feet away, then crept into some bushes where he could reconnoiter the thing properly.

Just around a curve under a hibiscus bush was a little shrine. A mulatto woman knelt in front of it with a rosary, mumbling with head bent toward the plaster figure of the Virgin Mary leaning sympathetically to one side, as though listening. James waited, sweating in his dark wool coat as insects buzzed around his neck. Then the woman placed a bit of bread at the base of the lime-washed cross, got to her feet, and disappeared around the bend.

He waited another minute to be sure she was gone, then hurried over to the shrine. He drew a single piece of paper from his coat and read it over again. It said simply, I saw an interesting report recently. Try Havana. He folded it and tucked it behind the Virgin's patient form.

A thrill ran through him as his fingers met another piece of paper. Carefully, he pulled it out and observed the loopy hand, then withdrew into the bushes, where he crouched and read it. It said:

Dear Governor, a few letters crossed my desk recently—well, not proper to say "crossed" or even "desk"—but they reminded me of you. Mentioned a great deal of ships fitting out in Brest as well as Ferrol—quite more than you'd ordinarily expect this time of year, and the prose was liberally peppered with names like "le Marquis d'Antin" and "le Chevalier de Roche-Allard"—all gentlemen you know, I'd wager. Oh, and your friend Torres—or was it Lezo you were cozy with? Can't keep your Spanish admiral boyfriends straight, love. Sorry I won't be presenting you with these interesting letters, but I didn't have time to copy them, and anyway, res ipsa loquitur, I think you'll agree. Didn't see any dates amid the lexical profusion, but from the way they were carrying on, I'd venture that those fleets will be swimming by August. Oh, and by the way, there's a spy in your camp. No bloody idea who it is—the Spanish just call him "el paisano"—but I'm working on it. Lots of love, all the best, wish you were here, CJS.

Heart pounding, James tucked the letter into his coat. So the French had joined the game now. He wondered if Vernon already knew. Vernon told him nothing, which was why he needed Sparrow. Forgetting his failure with the viceroy, he prepared to skid and tumble his way back down to the harbor, where Gillette was undoubtedly waiting.

Jack had never missed his friends as much as now. They were scattered to the four winds, presumably—he'd heard nothing of them despite his inquiries. Hopefully they were scraping out livings somewhere on the Spanish Main, free of his dangerous presence. How he could have used their ingenuity now, their wit and loyalty and liveliness.

He wiped his brow and struggled with the fishing net, which had got itself looped around both his foot and his head so that whenever he took a step, he jerked himself backward like a horse on a bit. He had never fished a day in his life and he had no idea what to do with the thing, but a little humiliation was better than being recognized. Havana was crawling with acquaintances, bad ones, some of whom he'd seen recently. At times, it was a curse having such an unforgettable face. He unhooked his foot and sat down heavily on the gunwale of his little beached boat, his bare back cooking under the afternoon sun, and stared forlornly across a short stretch of water toward the careening wharf.

They'd struck her topmasts and taken out her ballast to heave her down. She was rolled over on her side in the shallow water like a beached whale, or perhaps an enormous cow giving birth, only far more graceful. At least they were taking care of her. How he longed to run over and touch her side.

He had to get closer. He slipped his boat back into the water and paddled slowly toward the wharf, acting casual, praying that his disguise was sound. He'd spotted Abaroa the day before, along with one or two Spanish Navy officers who would certainly remember him. For now, it looked to be just workmen on the wharf. They'd be too busy to wonder at the inept fishermen who wasn't catching any fish.

"You!" shouted the foreman of the gang. "Away from here!"

Jack paddled to a stop and quickly reversed. The man turned away and walked back up the wharf toward the capstan-house, and Jack waited till he was out of sight to paddle around the side of the ship where he'd be out of the work gang's sight. He slipped his boat between the pilings of the wharf, then grabbed onto the wooden supports and hoisted himself up.

For half an hour, he sat in the crook of a support and listened to the pounding of feet overhead. When there had been no footsteps for several minutes, he made his move. Slippery as a fish, he slithered up the side of the wharf and made for the overhang of the capstan-house, where he flattened himself against the wall.

There were voices nearby. Jack shrank as far into the wall as he could when two figures stopped not ten feet away. If they turned their heads, they'd see him. He held very still.

"The Navy shall buy her?" It was Abaroa.

"She's old, but in fine shape. His Majesty can always use one more thirty-six-gun frigate, pirate ship or not."

"How long till she's swimming again?"

"The dockyard can't say. Once her hull and timbers are seaworthy, there's still the new masts to step and any number of small matters, and the yard must attend to the squadron first. Three months at least, if they work quickly."

When the men had gone, Jack slid down into a squat. She was right there—he could run out on the wharf and touch her if he liked—and yet she couldn't have been farther away. Even if she were afloat in three months' time, she'd be a Spanish Navy ship by then, and Havana was the Navy's principle base. He might as well try and pluck a diamond from between Queen Isabella's royal teats.

It didn't seem so long ago that Jack had stolen that pretty gun-brig from under Norrington's nose. It had been so simple: two ships, two pirates, one arrogant Navy commander, one clever ruse. Havana was presently home to a squadron of nineteen ships and at least 10,000 sailors and officers. Jack was good, but he wasn't that good. He heard their voices again—Booth and Deadwater, Suah, even Norrington, all telling him that his time was over. There was no place for him in the world. Only Suah had offered anything constructive; he'd suggested that Jack turn English. Only the English had the freedom to take what they wanted anymore, boorish conquerers that they were.

Jack got to his feet and peered around the side of the capstan-house. The Pearl's mighty black bulk towered above the wharf. If the English were to attack Havana, they might create enough chaos to give Jack a chance to work his old magic. Norrington had even promised to help him do it, and Norrington was the kind of idiot who meant what he said on principle. Jack needed those silly principles now, because someone had to convince Admiral Vernon to attack this place.

As dusk fell, the men working on the Pearl's hull left one by one, and Jack ran out onto the wharf. He reached up to one of the massive cables reeved to her masts, as taut and solid as a tree trunk. She was so beautiful, even stripped and careened. He hated how the careening strained her knees and futtocks. She was just a ship to the Spanish, but he could feel her timbers complaining like the bones of his own body. Or maybe that was just him getting old. They'd both been through a lot, him and his Pearl. Perhaps they both needed to transform to survive. He gazed up at her ornate rails and ancient figurehead, the familiar shape of her fine bows and sturdy keel. Even unrigged and stripped to a hulk, she was the same Pearl. Maybe the same would be true for him.

He laid a hand on the cable. "I'll be back for you, darling," he said, and ran off into the night.

With two enemy fleets abroad, life in the squadron had changed. Jamaica had succumbed to hysteria over possible invasion, and Vernon had shut the squadron up in Port Royal for fear of the enemy's greater force. For weeks, talk had been of nothing but Admiral Torres joining Lezo at Cartagena and the Marquis d'Antin's arrival in the Caribbean announcing France's entry into the war. Then the panic had faded with no new disasters to sustain it, and boredom had forced everyone into other concerns.

Bearing a saddle bag full of papers, James marched to the edge of town where the Turner home lay. On the front step, he checked his watch. It was a full day's ride to Port Antonio by the coastal roads and he was already afraid he would need to stop for the night in Bath. But Elizabeth had a way of issuing imperious summonings that could not be argued with, and he feared her more than he feared the impatience of the Port Antonio Navy Office.

"Elizabeth—" James stepped into the garden, "—I really must protest. I must leave for Port Antonio before noon, and the tone of your note was really quite—"

"Oh, here he is." Elizabeth stood up and drew forward a plump, fair-haired girl in a straw bonnet. "This is Miss Alice Claringbold, Commodore. And her brother, Tom." She snagged an equally fair young man by the elbow.

Presented for inspection, Tom Claringbold made an apologetic bow, and his sister smiled awkwardly, round cheeks turning pink. She was really quite beautiful, just the sort of woman James's mother would have delighted to see him with. Her nose was freckled and her ears had flushed a deep salmon. Feeling responsible for their embarrassment, James attempted a reassuring smile. "I'm pleased to make your—"

"You will be escorting the Claringbolds to Port Antonio," said Elizabeth, sitting down again. "The coach leaves in an hour."

"But Mrs. Turner, I'm not taking a coach, I'm riding alone—I don't have time to—"

"Do you realize how many bandits infest the mountains? And with the war, could you in good conscience allow these people to travel without an escort trained in armed defense?"

"I hardly think the Spanish are going to waylay us in the middle of our own island," James grumbled.

"Commodore, you're acting like this is up for discussion. I've sent for the rest of your things to be put aboard the coach already."

"The rest of my—" James sat, knees drawn together. "Well—" He glanced at the Claringbolds, who looked equally overwhelmed.

"Lovely." Elizabeth folded her hands and smiled.

This was not the first time Elizabeth had thrown him together with a woman. She always picked attractive, intelligent girls, for which he was grateful—not so much for the girls themselves but for the proof that Elizabeth thought highly enough of him to bother. In this, he was willfully missing the point, but his friendships with these women never lasted anyway.

In the coach, the Claringbolds were shy and awed, which didn't help the conversation. They and Mrs. Turner had played together as children, they explained after James prodded. Their father had sold his land in Jamaica and bought more on Barbados, but once war was declared, he sent his children back where he thought they'd be safe. It had been lovely so far, they declared, and they were now on their way to visit a cousin on the north coast.

"Commodore, do you think the Spanish will invade Jamaica?" asked the girl, her pale eyes round.

"Oh, we shall meet the Spanish at sea long before that," James smiled. Like a physician asked to dispense free medical advice, James was forever being examined about the war.

"But surely there's also the French," put in Mr. Claringbold.

"Again," said James, wishing that people thought him capable of other topics, "we shall bring the war to them, if at all."

"Oh, dear." Miss Claringbold put a gloved hand to her mouth. "Is that why you're going to Port Antonio?"

"My trip to Port Antonio is administrative." James dug around in his saddle bag for his mail. "The naval base there is falling out of use, and we are moving a quantity of dockyard stores back to Port Royal."

"I see." It was hard to miss the moment her interest stopped being genuine.

James flipped through his letters and found one that made his heart skip a beat. He tore it open.

My dear Norry, it said. Can you believe it? We shall shortly be together again...

James knew the hand as well as his own. Eighteen years ago, he'd climbed aboard a frigate at Spithead with a sea-chest and an attitude, and two master's mates had promptly stuffed him face-first into the chicken coop. The Captain's younger brother had hauled him out and picked the straw and chicken mess out of his hair, then brushed down his coat in the midshipmen's berth. For the rest of the commission, James and Lord Aubrey Beauclerk had barely left each other's sides.

You've no doubt heard that Ogle has been advanced to rear-admiral and is returning to the West Indies to reinforce Vernon. I'll be along too, and wait till you see the beauty they gave me out of Deptford this year: a slim seventy with a high cutwater and the fastest lines you've ever seen. She's the Prince Frederick, but her figurehead looks more like my grandmother than it does the Prince of Wales...

Since Beauclerk's grandmother was Nell Gwynne, this was in fact a compliment. James smiled. Beauclerk was a remarkable creature—he carried romance and excitement around with him, and even more remarkably, he carried around the ability to make James like romance and excitement.

Picturing the ship and her captain's face, James forgot all about the Claringbolds, who had fallen into their own low conversation. When he returned to the present, he found himself outside their quiet sibling confidence, and turned to watching the sugar plantations crawl by.

The coach wound along the coast. Around two o'clock, rapid hoofbeats came up behind them, and a grey horse galloped past. James looked out just in time to see the horse's Army livery and the rider's blue coat. An hour later, the coach came upon the grey horse again, and this time her rider was on the ground.

"Thrown a shoe, I'm afraid," they heard the man say to the coach driver. "Mind terribly if I hitch her to the back?"

Shortly, the rider was climbing into the coach.

"Gillette!" James exclaimed. "What on Earth are you doing here?"

"The Admiral had some additional papers for the Naval Officer," said Gillette, settling himself across from the Claringbolds with a quick smile. "I said I'd catch up to you—thought you'd be on horseback. Of course, now I'm stuck going all the way to Port Antonio unless I can get a horse at Bath—but I don't suppose it will be a chore." He sent a shy smile toward Miss Claringbold.

James sighed. Elizabeth was going to kill him.

"...so there we were with swells the size of mountains all round us, tossed up on wave after wave, and then we hear a great twang! like the snap of a fiddle string only fifty times as loud, and suddenly the helm is spinning like a pinwheel and the ship is rounding up into the wind with her rudder flapping like a loose shingle. Now, I know it doesn't sound terrifying to a non-sailor, but if a ship rounds up in seas like that, she's in deadly danger from the huge waves pounding on her broadside—the seaman's term is that she has broached to, and she'll shortly founder if you don't act quick..."

James settled his head into a corner. If he had been telling this story, it would have sagged under long explanations, understatement, self-reproach and nautical jargon. He had lived an exciting life, but he'd never learned the art of making it exciting for others.

The Claringbolds were chewing their lips, slaves to Gillette's narrative. It wasn't fair. Dull men had been known to marry; maybe Elizabeth knew a girl who preferred dullards—but then, such a girl would bore him. If only like could simply be attracted to like in this world. Irritated with all three of his companions, he snugged his head further into the corner and shut his eyes.

At the inn, James freshened up, then ran into the Gillette in the corridor. In addition to changing out of his riding clothes, Gillette had shaved and polished his shoes, and put on a lacy cravat.

"Forgive me for being so forward, sir," he said in a loud whisper, "but where did she come from?"

"It was Mrs. Turner's idea," James muttered.

"Oh." Gillette frowned. Elizabeth's pity on James's unmarried state was legendary. "Then of course we'll have to make sure she knows what a hero you are!"

The dining table was crammed with dishes: cottage pie, fresh mountain mullet, bread and cheese, and leg of mutton. Gillette gallantly carved the meat, then shrank back into his seat with an apologetic glance at James.

"Did you know," said Gillette, "that the Commodore is the Navy's youngest commander-in-chief at Jamaica since we took it from the Spanish?"

"Oh!" the Claringbolds exclaimed politely. "Do you know the story of how we captured Jamaica?" asked Miss Claringbold.

Gillette glanced at James again. "Perhaps the Commodore could tell you."

Three heads turned to James. "Of course," he said, and cleared his throat. "Around ninety years ago," he began, "we suffered an embarrassing defeat at Santo Domingo, and so turned to Jamaica to salvage our dignity..."

He was lucky he wasn't Scheherazade, telling stories for his life. There was no way to make this story heroic, and he refused to spew nonsense. He might as well be Jack Sparrow then. The Claringbolds turned to their cottage pie with great interest.

Gillette wouldn't give up. "The Commodore's a modest man," he said, wrangling their attention again, "and so I'll have to tell his stories for him. His attack on Portobello was so magnificent, so thunderous—" he caught James's withering look and smiled, "—that the Spanish Governor insisted on surrendering to him instead of the Admiral. We lost our wind and sat bobbing like a boat on a pond while the Spaniards fired on us, but the Commodore is the finest of seamen, and knew exactly what to do..."

Miss Claringbold lit up. "You were there too, were you not, Captain Gillette?"

James tried to convey to Gillette that all hope was lost, and apparently Gillette understood, because he smiled and said, "As a matter of fact, I was."

The pudding came and went. Gillette regaled the Claringbolds with some of James's navigational feats—he seemed to think that ladies loved nothing so much as a man skilled in mathematics—while James let his attention wander. He longed to see Beauclerk, but Sparrow's face drifted through his postprandial consciousness as well, superimposing itself, replacing some features with others. They weren't entirely unalike, those two men. Both were birds of bright plumage, too large for life. So was Elizabeth, come to think of it. He had managed to surround himself with such people, despite how opposite from his own nature they were.

Lying in bed that night, he tugged up the hem of his shirt and pictured Miss Claringbold's round face. Dutifully he progressed to her bosom and peeled away her bodice, feeling a little empty. Still, creamy white breasts had a power over him that even his sad duty to Elizabeth couldn't suppress. He dropped off to sleep with a sated body and a restless mind.

In the morning, the four of them climbed into the coach and started toward the coastal road. The sugar fields grew monotonous, and for long stretches, they rode in silence. At half past noon, they stopped in Manchioneal to collect a new passenger. They were nearly at capacity, so James and Gillette pressed to the sides of the coach as best they could to make space for the stranger.

"Goede-n-morgen, mijn vrienden!" A man in a floppy black hat climbed in, and James's blood froze. Sparrow plopped down on the seat nearly in their laps.

"Kindly remove your walking stick from my foot, sir," hissed James. He had no choice but to play along, but no one said he had to be gracious about it.

"Vergeef me, Kapitein," said Sparrow, pitching forward in a bow. His wig was brown this time, teased into a tall toupet with puffs as big as puddings on the side. James wondered where he'd stolen it from. He'd waxed his mustache and beard into little curlicues. Hopefully everyone in the coach was too busy finding him repulsive to see through the disguise. His scent filled James's nostrils—wet hair and tobacco, and something sweeter, opium perhaps. James tried to breathe through his mouth.

Rather than keep silent, as James hoped he would, Sparrow introduced himself to the Claringbolds as Heer Bonifaas van Schoonhoven (the name had undoubtedly been robbed from the same man who had donated the wig) and was shortly convincing Mr. Claringbold on the merits of sunflower futures. He was in high form, and James felt a horrified admiration, not unlike watching the work of a skilled butcher.

"Off course, jou are veery lucky to be travelink vit such brafe soldiers," Sparrow declared to Miss Claringbold, who had been listening to him with appalled attention.

"Oh?" Mr. Claringbold laughed. "We're in no danger from Spaniards here, certainly."

"I speak not off Spanish," said Sparrow, eyes gone wide like an uncle telling a ghost story, "but off pirates!"

"Oh!" Miss Claringbold cried. "Pirates!"

James dropped his face into his hands.

Things went downhill from there. Sparrow wove an epic narrative of what must have been every adventure he'd ever lived or made up. The Claringbolds followed raptly; Miss Claringbold had even forgotten Gillette for the moment. James listened with increasing ire.

Eventually, he could stand it no longer. "Mister van Schoonhoven," he snapped, "I would venture to say you have never met a real pirate, because if you had, you would not be filling these children's heads with just the kind of romantic nonsense that has ruined so many naïve and misguided lives!"

With pity, Miss Claringbold said, "But they're only stories, Commodore. We know we shouldn't want to come anywhere near a real pirate."

"Good." He folded his arms and looked sternly at her. "I grow tired of protecting people who refuse to see danger when it is staring them in the face!"

Everyone in the carriage fell silent after this outburst. The Claringbolds looked gloomily at their hands—they probably hadn't appreciated being called "children"—and Gillette tried to stifle a smile while staring out the window. Sparrow was grinning openly.

Port Antonio had very little to recommend it; there was nothing there but a half-deserted naval base. Sparrow disappeared immediately, and James helped the Claringbolds find their cousin, then went to keep his own appointment. If he'd been dreading it before, he was positively tempted to skip it now. In the attic of a public house near the edge of town, he knocked on a door and Sparrow opened it, still dressed in his ridiculous wig and hat.

"That's an improvement." Jack took his bottle back. "This time a year ago an' it would've been me neck." They stood on either side of the window, shielding their eyes from the platinum glare on the bay. "Come now, no harm done," said Jack, wincing. He was regretting his decision to bait the man he now had to ask a favor of. "Would some interesting news make it better?"

"It had better be damned interesting."

"In a month's time," said Jack, "a convoy will sail from Puerto Rico—not from any of the ports you're watching, but from a little nothing town in the Mona Passage. You'd do well to be there."

Norrington's scowl softened. "Very well."

"With that prize, you could buy a house for whatever future Mrs. Commodore you choose." Jack winced again; that hadn't been the best thing to bring up either. "Anyway," he hurried on, "you'll be set up, which means you might consider doin' something for me."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Havana. More specifically, my ship."

Norrington shook his head. "Impossible."

"Imp—" Jack gaped. "Norrington, I have been bloody good to you—"

"I'm not refusing," said Norrington with a scowl, "I'm being realistic. How exactly were you imagining we'd do it?"

Jack shrugged, exasperated. "Everyone knows Vernon's goin' to attack Havana as soon as his reinforcements arrive."

"That is by no means a foregone conclusion. Cartagena is just as likely—since that's where the wealth is, and where the treasure fleet is shut up for the year. Actually, I would say Havana rates a distant second."

"Then perhaps you could urge the Admiral in one direction."

Norrington laughed. "You have the wrong idea if you think I have that kind of influence."

"Well"—Jack threw his hands up—"do somethin', mate. They could be paintin' her like an Easter egg as we speak!" He fought the urge to clutch his head. "You owe me, Norrington—"

"Calm down." Norrington rolled his eyes. "If we go to Havana—a decision I will have no part in, I'm afraid—then, fine, as much as I'm able, I will help you get her back. As long as you keep helping me."

"You have my word, Gov'nor."

Norrington had shed his coat and hat and leaned now on the window sill, mopping his brow. Dressed all in white from snowy wig to bleached stockings, he resembled an officious angel—the sort Jack pictured flying around heaven fussing over lists and putting souls in their proper places. Place was a very big thing for Norrington.

"If you want to help us toward Havana," said Norrington, "you could bring me some word on the movements and strength of the French. We must deal with them before we can even think about Havana or Cartagena."

"Consider it done," Jack said, and blinked. He'd come here to demand help, not offer it. They were going to take away his pirate card. Was it merely Norrington's pretty face that kept him from thinking clearly? He'd never had that problem before. He was susceptible to handsome people of both sexes, but historically, it took a face much prettier than Norrington's to distract him from his own interests.

"Say," he went on, unable to resist the temptation to needle Norrington a little more, "who was that fetching tow-headed piece in the coach?"

"I'll thank you not to refer to the lady as a 'piece', you savage." Norrington paused before relenting. "Her name is Miss Claringbold, and Mrs. Turner thinks I should marry her."

"Marry! Oh"—Jack clasped his hands beneath his chin—"resist, dear Commodore. I know of no man who did not become a shadow of his former self when he married."

"Marriage makes a man responsible for more than just his own well-being," said Norrington, folding his arms, "and while most consider that a joy, I'm sure you'd see it as nothing but a limit upon your indulgences." He narrowed his eyes. "It never occurred to me before, Sparrow, but I'd venture to say that you are a lonely man."

"You're the one who's thrown in with a pretty girl and can't think of aught to do but lecture her on pirates. Then straight away you trade her company for mine!" Jack grinned. "Maybe we deserve each other."

"I know in my heart," said Norrington, "that no matter what wickedness I have committed on this Earth, none of it was so vile as to make me deserve you."

Jack raised his bottle. "The feeling is mutual, Commodore."

In the dark of early morning, a faint gray horizon was just coming into being. Around them, the creaking lines and spars and the sloosh of water along wooden sides gave up the presence of nearby ships.

"Do they know we're here?" Gillette wondered. Everyone whispered, as though they'd sailed into the midst of a pod of whales.

"If they do, they don't know what we are," James replied.

The sky grew lighter; the horizon took on a bit of pink. Morning revealed their companions: merchantmen, one on each of their quarters, and another two off their bows, then five ahead.

"In another few minutes, they'll know," said Gillette.

"The ship ahoy!" came a cry in Spanish from the merchantman on their larboard quarter.

"Bring us alongside," said James. When they were within comfortable conversation range, James climbed the rail and said, in cordial Spanish, "Strike your colors, or we shall send you to the bottom. And do it quietly, if you please."

The ship's master turned white and nodded. James sent across a lieutenant with a division of seamen to man her. Half an hour later, he had collected two more ships in this fashion.

"Sir!" cried Gillette. "She's running!" The ship off their larboard bow had set all plain sail and was bearing away.

"It's obvious at this point that we're not Dutch," said James. "Run up our own colors. And see if we can't reach her with the long nines."

Once the first ship had given up the game, the others scattered like hens from a fox. The convoy blossomed with sail and their closely formed line unraveled as each of them made for open sea. In the distance, their escort had worn ship and was running to their aid. The blast of the Dauntless's bow chasers split the morning as James climbed to the foretop, where he watched his shots dash the merchantman's spars away. To windward, his captured prizes were giving chase too. It didn't take long for the fleeing ships to realize their former friends had changed nationalities.

Once they'd crippled their chase's mizzenmast, they left her behind. "She shan't go anywhere," said James. "Crack on, Captain Gillette—get us more out of these sails."

Sun was spilling over the dark hills of Puerto Rico, touching first the streaming pendants of the fleeing ships, then creeping down their masts. James shielded his eyes against the glare. Gillette was adjusting his sail trim with bellowed orders, and the Dauntless surged forward while the seven ships ahead split into two ragged columns.

"We shall take the windward ones," said James. "Signal to our captured prizes: chase to leeward."

Then a peculiar thing happened. The convoy's escort fired a gun, not at James, but upon the lead ship in the leeward column. Within a minute her fore topmast was gone and the other ships had changed course, bearing away in a panic as the frigate herded them back the way they'd come.

The ships to windward were still escaping up the coast. "More speed," James murmured, and a shot from their bow chaser took down her main topmast. Shortly she slowed and struck her colors. Only one ship remained.

It was a slow chase in light air. The Dauntless crawled along, driving the ship toward the point at the top of the bay, keeping her from standing out to sea.

"Sail!" cried the lookout, and James looked—a ship to the southwest, still too far away to identify. He would deal with it later. For now—the gap was closing with the point. The Spaniard turned from the shore and into the Dauntless's fire, but it was too late—there was a grinding crunch. The ship was aground.

The frigate was chasing the final merchantman into the southwest, toward the stranger. As this new ship grew larger in James's spyglass, he made out her narrow prow and high cutwater, and her blonde figurehead with a cupid's-bow mouth. The Spaniard was only interested in her blue ensign—when he saw it, he struck his colors, and the battle was over.

The treacherous frigate was, of course, no longer Spanish. They'd captured her in the dark the night before, and her hold was full of surly Spaniards. Lieutenant Groves waved from the deck as the Dauntless sailed past to come to her moorings.

Now began the tedious process of manning and jury-rigging the prizes. As Gillette and his lieutenants worked, James paced the quarterdeck and watched the Prince Frederick approach, his heart swelling. Shortly, she saluted, and twenty minutes later, she was hove to and her captain's barge was pulling toward them.

James was already smiling when Captain Lord Aubrey Beauclerk sprang over the rail. "A tidy piece of work, Norry!" he cried, pulling James into his arms.

"Aubrey, my God." James held him by the shoulders, grinning. "What are you doing out here? You can't have just stumbled on us."

"Ogle landed at Basse-Terre three days ago. He's on his way to Port Royal now, but I was detached to chase a few Frenchmen. I lost them, but I found you, didn't I? Yet you hardly needed me."

"I could use some of your crew." James said. "Come, let's go below. My God, how are you?"

Once Beauclerk had sent his orders back to his lieutenants, James poured the brandy. "So Ogle and Cathcart have come to rescue us at last," he said, handing his friend a glass.

"Yes and no." Beauclerk winced. "The good news is that Ogle has brought twenty-five line-of-battle ships and eight thousand troops. The bad news is that Lord Cathcart died last Thursday."

"Oh, my." James blinked. "Who has assumed his command?"

"A fellow named Wentworth. He's not a bad sort, but Ogle walks all over him without even trying. He has no confidence, no experience, no vigor."

James sighed. "Vernon will eat him alive."

"How about you?" smiled Beauclerk. "Holding your own against Old Grog?"

James rolled his eyes. "If he had his way, I'd demolish forts all day long. You were present for my first good sea fight in months."

"And what a fight it was. That prize will set you up for life, old man. Speaking of which—" He grinned. "Any change in the, er, marital state of affairs?"

James's smile faded. "Nothing you haven't already heard."

"I was sorry to hear about it," said Beauclerk. "A very bad business."

"Yes, well—" James got up and refilled his glass. "What's done is done. There are no other sails on the horizon."

"Oh, no." Beauclerk gazed at him. "You're still in love with her. After all that?"

"Of course not." James gave a weak shrug. "Love doesn't work that way, does it? Once you've accepted that it will never be returned—and I'd have to be deeply out of touch with reality not to have accepted that by now—then it just sort of goes away. Like a dammed creek soaking into the ground."

"If you say so." Beauclerk chewed his lip, then flung his arms over the back of his chair. "You know what your problem is, Norry? You bottle it up. Try getting angry for a change. You'll feel better immediately."

"Angry!" James laughed. "I've no shortage of anger, believe me. It brings me no solace."

"That's because you feel guilty about it. Take something you want for once. Don't tell yourself a story about how it's all for King and country. Have you thought about what you'll do with this prize-money? I thought not. Or have an affair, for Christ's sake. Port Royal has widows, doesn't it?"

"Port Royal has barely any women, period. The ones whose husbands die take the opportunity to get out."

"Well, one way or the other, you need companionship. Tell me you're not depriving yourself."

"I've been a bit busy for that sort of thing."

"Oh, please. How much time does it take? Don't answer that. You need a woman, James, and I won't hear any more excuses..."

Beauclerk was of a rare, irritating species: he and his wife were in glorious carnal and congenial love, and he didn't understand why everybody else wasn't.

At the turn of the first dog watch, they made their way back up to the quarterdeck, passing seamen and officers who stopped to salute. The Dauntless was a crack, cheerful ship, and James felt approval radiating from his friend.

"I'll help you man your prizes," said Beauclerk, swinging over the side, "and I expect you at eight bells, so that I may show you my pride and joy."

James smiled as he watched Beauclerk's barge row away. It was only when he noticed Gillette staring at him that he realized he hadn't smiled that particular smile in years.

Beauclerk's face made him forget everything else.

"It's damn good to see you, James," he said, passing him a glass of port. "Perhaps I didn't make that clear."

"I've been secretly hoping for years that they'd order you out here." James grimaced. "Not that I'd wish the West Indies on anybody."

"But the West Indies have been very good to you! Out here with nobody interfering, you've had a chance to shine, and they've trusted you with the place! They think very highly of you in London."

"They've a funny way of showing it." James took a long drink. "I'm just so weary of this place. I want to return to England—or the Mediterranean, or the East Indies for all I care. I've spent nine years baking on this purgatorial sandbar—surely London could take some pity on me."

"Haven't you written anybody?"

"Yes—well, not yet."

"No wonder you're still here!"

"I—it's embarrassing. I had a few loose ends to tie up."

"Ah. Sparrow."

James stared. "It horrifies me how quickly you said that." He dropped into his chair. "Do they all talk about me? Am I a laughingstock, Aubrey?"

"You're attaching far too much importance to yourself. The business with Sparrow comes up every now and then as an amusing accident vaguely associated with you, but nobody cares enough to go further than that."

"Thank God." James shut his eyes. "I genuinely feared for my career over that fiasco."

"It all seems to have been papered over now. Lovely what a bit of war can do."

"Hear, hear." James raised his glass weakly.

"Besides, she was only a gun-brig."

"What? Oh, the Interceptor. I'd been thinking more of the botched execution as the damning exhibit."

"No one cares about one little pirate. In the old days, there was always a handful of them from each batch who never made it to the scaffold. Just ask Ogle."

"It was his recriminations I feared most."

"Ogle thinks you're a bright, promising lad. He'd be happy to compare pirate-hunting notes with you, I'm sure."

"Thanks, but I'll pass." He blinked, put on a smile. "I trust your family is well? And Catherine?"

"Catherine is marvelous. Mother is as well as can be expected at her age, and still the terror of St. James's. Brother Charles is busy being a duke. Brother Vere is finding the Board of Admiralty a chilly place—he never was much good at politics, for all the help he had. If Wager goes, I'll doubt he'll stay. My other brothers continue on with their venal little lives. All is cracking well, I'd say..."

James nodded, soothed. No one could interrogate him about his family, as he had none living. Lord Vere Beauclerk had been the first captain he'd served under, and was behind most of his success in the service. The Beauclerks, sons of the first Duke of St. Albans, lived in the strange world of court intrigue and the moral freedom of the nobility. James had no desire to be a part of it, but it was fascinating, like a play. Beauclerk himself was both at home in it and apart from it, moving easily between worlds, liked by everyone he met. If James envied anything, it was that.

Once the jolly tales of the English peerage were over, the conversation steered back to James and his unmarried condition, something Beauclerk seemed determined to fix.

"Now that I think about it, you always were single-minded about these things," said Beauclerk. "Every now and then, you'd fix your sights on one girl and think of none other."

James shook his head. "Those were just infatuations."

"So this Elizabeth Swann, she was different?"

"Do you know," said James, gazing at his lap, "when you're boarding a ship, how there's always a moment once you've cleared a deck when you fear you've missed a man, one who's right behind you about to blow your head off—do you know that feeling? Like an itch on the back of your skull?" James drained his glass. "That's what it was like."

"Like you missed something?"

James gazed at his friend. "I've spent my life pursuing one thing, and suddenly there was something else—and the moment I realized it, I lost it."

Beauclerk smiled. "Trust me, James, as someone with slightly more experience in love, that there will be others. The first one always feels like the only one, but it'll pass."

James nodded. "I'm sure you're right."

James nodded. "Very well. Take off her cargo in the boats and scuttle her. We'll add her timbers to the shoal, where other travelers may beware of her."

She was a fat prize, stuffed with tobacco and wool, and an ungentle tour through the great cabin turned up a chest of silver. The hot work stretched into the afternoon, with all the ships in their little fleet lending their boats. At about half past one, when nearly everything had been taken out of her, the chest was lowered from a boom. As the men eased the line through the block, there was a groan and then a crack, and the chest plunged. The men in the boat below pushed off from the ship's side just in time and the chest struck the water, barely making a splash as the sea sucked it down.

"If we wait for low tide, we might be able to salvage it," Gillette offered. "There won't be more than two fathoms of water over it then."

"Leave it," said James. "We've no time for this. Signal the fleet; we'll weigh as soon as we've scuttled the ship. Hurry, now."

As the Dauntless turned into the southwest, James stood at the taffrail and watched the wrecked merchantman settling slowly onto the shoal, joining the chest that lay on the rocky bottom. Sparrow would have to work for it, but he ought to count himself well paid. All told, they'd both profited handsomely, as had England. Maybe there was some hope for this misbegotten partnership after all.

"The devil take that poxy blackguard!" bellowed a familiar voice from the deck. "He's bilked us out of half our cordage, blast his top-lights!" The hollering boatswain paused with a foot on the gangplank and looked down at the quay. "Jack!" he cried, turning white and crossing himself, then turning pink again and thundering down the plank to seize Jack by the hand. "We thought you were dead!" His eyes widened. "You're not, are you? Sorry, gotta ask."

"The blood my black heart pumps is as warm and red as ever, I promise," said Jack, jostling Gibbs's meaty arm. "Come along with me—I'm parched."

Gibbs fell into step beside Jack as they headed toward the row of taverns at the center of town. "But how? We all saw the Pearl taken. What sort of mad trick did you pull this time?"

"An easy one," said Jack. "Not even one for the top ten. I have acquired meself a pet Navy man."

"Nnn—" Try as he might, Gibbs could not force the name out of his mouth, so instead he whispered, "The Commodore?"

"Who else?" Jack grinned. "He is putty in my hands. My ship's in Havana—I've seen her—an' my new friend is arranging as we speak for his comrades to invade that fair city so that I might carry her off in the commotion."

Gibbs looked uneasy. "Everyone else has signed onto other ships, you know—you were dead, what were they supposed to do? Marty and Cotton have joined up with Booth, and Anamaria's got her own boat now. As for me—we don't do much more'n snap up local traders, but it's a living, an' you can't blame us for wantin' to live—"

"Enough." Jack waved an ornamented hand. "I begrudge you nothing. You are absolved, all of you. I never expected anyone to wait for me or do aught but look after themselves. However"—his eyes brightened—"when it comes time to take back the Pearl, I hoped I might count on a few of you."

"That's just the problem," sighed Gibbs. "We've signed the articles. None of us can jump ship. Especially if there's a chance we'll land in the Commodore's lap."

"Don't worry about him." Jack winked. "He's a tame Commodore now. Wanna see the evidence?" He took a tattered letter from his coat and unfolded it, cloth-soft, on Gibbs's palm.

Gibbs's lips moved as he scanned the letter. "This is gibberish, Jack."

"It's a cipher." Jack snatched it back. "It says there's a chest of Spanish silver with our name on it sittin' two fathoms down on a shoal off the Punta de San Francisco."

"But—" Gibbs wrinkled his brow. "I give up. Why's the Commodore givin' you Spanish silver, now?"

"Because," said Jack, "I am his newest and most valuable information-monger." He flinched from Gibbs's sudden suspicious look. "Not that kind. It's spyin', not snitchin'."

Gibbs was still wary. "He never asked you to give up any of your old mates?"

"Norrington's got bigger problems than pirates these days," Jack replied. "I tell him where to find Spaniards, an' he promises to help me get back my ship."

Gibbs crossed himself again. "You've made a deal with the devil, Jack."

Jack laughed. "You're the one who said he's 'not so bad.' No, Norrington's no devil—he's not nearly clever enough, for one thing. I've got him danglin' on the line, an' I've only to reel him in."

They had reached the fragrant alley behind the Faithful Bride, which was paved with sleeping drunks. Gibbs stepped over a snoring body and paused, looking back over his shoulder. "I dunno, Jack—I expect all manner of crackbrained schemes from you, but never a thing like this."

"Gibbs." Jack blinked. "It's Captain Jack Sparrow, remember? I have the situation entirely in hand. He's wrapped around my little finger, I promise. What do you think—that I've turned Navy? That I give a damn whether the English win or lose? The Commodore is my my instrument, my trump card, my puppet on a string—"

"All right, all right." Gibbs sighed. "I'm sure you know what yer doin'. But, er"—he looked embarrassed—"you're not doin' this 'cause you want to..." he made a twirling motion with his hand, "...with the Commodore, are you?" He shrugged, reddening. "I know you've lost your head over a pretty face before."

Jack laughed out loud. "My dear Gibbs, if I wanted to..." he twirled his hand, "...with the Commodore, I'd have done it already, many times over." He narrowed his eyes. "Why? Is there somethin' I should know?"

"Not as such..." Gibbs looked as though he regretted ever bringing the subject up. "I just don't think you're his type, is all."

"Nonsense," Jack sniffed. "If I wanted to, I could—which isn't to say I—oh, never mind. It's a business arrangement, nothing more."

Gibbs shook his head, gazing at Jack with profound dubiousness. "I really hope you know what yer about."

"I have never been more certain," said Jack. "Trust me—things are goin' exactly according to plan."

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