Between Wind and Water

Chapter 8:
In which endings collide violently with beginnings

by

Rex Luscus

"Wentworth's an idiot," James agreed, "you'll hear no argument from me. But the Army is doing its best to raise that battery as quickly as they can—"

"They don't even need a battery!" cried Beauclerk, stabbing a bit of meat. "Just a few ladders and some courage, and they'd have taken the thing days ago."

James dropped his fork. "But to withhold our support, like a chastening parent, even though we have no hope of changing the General's mind? What good can it do?"

"If Vernon and Ogle humor the General, then the madness will only continue." Beauclerk pushed back his plate. "A few days will turn into weeks, and the next thing we know, it'll be '26 all over again and we'll all be dead from the fever."

"Honestly, Aubrey!" James tossed down his napkin. "We have a choice between days or months, and the Admirals are willfully choosing months!"

"Balderdash."

They glared at each other over their plates, and then Beauclerk sat back with a sigh. "Norry, you're right: there's no subject more tiresome than war, especially if it makes us argue. Pax?"

James smiled wearily. "Pax."

They sat in silence. Then, all at once, they began to laugh.

"I'm afraid there's not much else to talk about," Beauclerk chuckled, face flushed. "So why don't you tell me the whole Barradera action from beginning to end."

"Very well." James wiped his eyes. "I'll try not to be too tiresome..."

They talked well after their dinner was finished, and James relaxed in the pleasure of friendly company, but part of him had gone cold. Beauclerk would always be his friend—but he could not be a confidant. Nor could Moore, who politics kept him from being frank with. There was no one, except maybe Sparrow, who didn't count—not really.

The battery began firing on the castle the next day. James met Moore in the camp.

"What's next?" James asked as they strolled between the tents.

Moore sighed. "Now the General's on about clearing a road through the woods for a surprise attack." His eyes went wide. "Don't tell Vernon. Or if you do, don't tell him you heard it from me."

"You have my word." James looked down. "What do you think—shall the General finally attack the fort, once his battery makes a breach?"

"I see no reason why not. He's a brave enough fellow—as long as it's all done by the book."

They stood together a while longer, listening to the guns, contemplating bravery. Then James left Moore to discharge his newest asinine orders, and made his way back to his ship.

James stood at the rail with his officers, dizzy from the heat in full dress, straining to catch a tendril from the teasing breeze that occasionally wove its way down on deck. The Marines behind him held their muskets stiffly, silently sweating into their shirts. Half a mile to windward, five ships sailed down the coast in a line of battle.

"Present—arms!" brayed the Marine captain, and a hundred muskets rattled in the hands of their sweating soldiers. At the head of the line, the Boyne flew Lestock's broad commodore's pendant, and as soon as she was near enough, three cheers went up.

"Huzzah!"

James took out his handkerchief and mopped his face.

"Huzzah!"

He fought the urge to check his watch.

"Huzzah!"

The hot air rang with the silence. Behind the Boyne sailed that pretty new ship out of Deptford, with its apple-cheeked figurehead. James wondered what Beauclerk was thinking right now. Surely he knew just as well as everyone else that the shallow water inside the channel made this a fool's errand, that a ship bombarding a fort was helpless unless it could get within musket shot. But James had never known Beauclerk to question an order. Perhaps his loyalty was greater than James's, or perhaps he was braver. One thing was certain: James wished he were in that line right now, no matter how stupid the orders, because he hated nothing so much as watching a friend sail into battle without him.

The breeze brought the sound of singing. Within moments, the men on deck had taken it up.

"Britons, strike home!
Revenge, revenge your country's wrongs..."

The other ships in Lestock's devision were passing the Dauntless's beam now: Princess Amelia, Suffolk, then Tilbury. Their sailors were waving their hats, their officers returning salutes from their quarterdecks, flush with patriotic pleasure.

"Fight! Fight and record
Fight! Fight and record yourselves in Druids' Songs..."

James had loved this song once, but the now the words sounded silly to him. As a boy, he'd wanted to be recorded in song, but as a man he'd settled for the good opinion of his superiors and a comfortable living. The dream had died with Sparrow, as a matter of fact—Sparrow and Elizabeth, who'd convinced him he wasn't destined for song but for institutional approval, like those medallions he shared with Vernon. Now with his heart so set against his commanding officer, James didn't feel worthy even of that. England reserved its Druids' songs for men like Beauclerk, who threw themselves blindly into the fray no matter who led the charge.

All afternoon, James and his officers stood on the quarterdeck with their spyglasses, watching Lestock's little division move into position.

"What's he doing?" muttered Forrest, glass trained on the Boyne. "Why, he's slipped too far to leeward. He's drawing crossfire."

As the dusk deepened, the Boyne continued to hold, but as the second dog watch began, she suddenly slipped her cable and fell off. James came up on deck just in time to see her set her topsails and crawl back out toward the squadron.

Forrest stood grimly at the rail, and together they watched the muzzle flashes like sparks on the water in the settling dark. With the Boyne gone, the two nearest ships, Hampton Court and Prince Frederick, now absorbed the crossfire.

"The Admiral gave no orders to fall off," Forrest observed, and James nodded, but neither of them said a word more.

James tried to make out through his glass how things fared aboard the Prince Frederick, but there wasn't enough light. With each blast from the guns, he tried to make out how many of her spars had been knocked away, but all he could see was a cloud of smoke with flashes of light at the center. Still the ship lay where she was, firing without cease on the castle, too far out in the channel to do a lick of good.

This wasn't the first time in history that a man had waited anxiously for a friend to return from battle. Nothing he suffered was unique, he told himself, and this comforted him. Tomorrow, the sun would rise on an unchanged world, with him most likely still in it, and Beauclerk, who was perfectly able to take care of himself. He rubbed his eyes and went below, where he puzzled over another chess move and listened to the guns that shook the air around him.

In his bunk, he lay with eyes wide open and fixed on the gently turning tell-tale compass. Beauclerk was a sensible man. When they'd been youngsters, it had always been James who was in trouble for taking unnecessary risks, for acting without thinking, for chasing personal glory against better judgment. Beauclerk was heroic, but never stupid. James got up and paced round his cabin, then sat and took out the purser's accounts, letting his eyes wander over the meaningless marks.

Around three in the morning, he dozed off. It seemed like only minutes had passed before Lieutenant Forrest was shaking his arm.

"Sir? Sir, we have a report."

He wiped the saliva discreetly off his cheek. "What is it?"

"Prince Frederick has been ordered off. But—" Forrest cleared his throat. "Lord Aubrey has been wounded, sir." He bit his lip. "Mortally, it appears."

James's ears roared. "I see," he said, barely aware that he was speaking. "Prepare my barge, if you would, Mr. Forrest."

Forrest gave him a long look. "Aye, aye, sir."

Beauclerk's cabin was quiet and empty except for the surgeon's mate who sat beside his captain's bunk.

"The surgeon's in the cockpit seeing to the others," said the young man, springing guiltily to his feet. "He said there weren't much more we could do for the Captain."

James made himself look down at his comatose friend, and immediately shut his eyes. He opened them to pebbly vagueness, his throat hot and closed; he clung to his dignity and swallowed. Beauclerk's left leg was gone at the hip, and there was a deep black bruise covering his temple. The Dauntless's surgeon was already bending over him, lifting his eyelids, taking his pulse. James wanted to smack his hands aside, but he was too busy praying the man would give him a shred of hope.

"It don't look good, sir," said the surgeon softly, not meeting his eyes. "Pulse is weak. Bleeding in his skull, too, from the looks of it."

James nodded. He couldn't remember how to do anything else. "Thank you, Doctor. You and—"

"Smollett, sir."

"You and Mr. Smollett, leave me alone with the Captain, if you please."

The two men left without a word.

James sat on the stool Smollett had occupied. Beauclerk's bunk swung gently with the rolling of the ship, and James stared at a powder-blackened hand that hung over the side. He reached for it, hesitated, then took it, remembering that no one was around. Beauclerk stirred and tossed his head, moaning. "Aubrey?" He squeezed the hand. "Are you awake?" But Beauclerk didn't move again.

Hours passed, and it was far into the forenoon watch when there was a hesitant knock on the door. James opened it to find one of Beauclerk's midshipmen, who looked miserable. "Lieutenant Forrest's compliments, sir," he said, "but I'm to tell you he needs you back. He sends his regrets but he says Admiral Vernon is signaling for you to come ashore."

James looked over at Beauclerk, who hadn't even sighed in hours. It was as though a length of tarred line bound him there; he couldn't step away without causing an unbearable tugging pain in his breast. He turned back to the boy. "Find my surgeon," he said. "The Captain is not to be left alone, is that understood?"

"Aye, sir." The boy's eyes were full of tears.

James gazed down at Beauclerk, insides twisting into knots, before shutting his eyes and turning toward the door, as blind as when he'd rowed into empty darkness.

"The Admiral wants you acquainted with the new chief engineer," said Forrest, not looking at him.

"New engin—" James blinked. "What?"

"Captain Moore was killed on the battery early this morning," said Forrest softly. "A fellow named Armstrong is in charge now. The Admiral wants you to—make it clear who's in charge."

James dropped his head into his hands. Forrest turned to him, alarmed, but didn't say anything, and eventually James collected himself. "As before," he said, "we shall do our duty."

He leapt into the water as soon as the boat's keel brushed the bottom, eager to get this over with. The longer he spent here, the longer he was away from Beauclerk.

"Mr. Armstrong," he said, meeting the man on the battery. "I've been asked to make your acquaintance."

Armstrong was older than Moore, but less confident. "I've nothing to report," he said warily, "except we expect to make a breach in the castle any minute, and once that's done, it's up to the General when we'll storm it."

"I understand. Has he abandoned this plan of a road?"

"I believe so, sir."

"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"Can I confess something to you, Captain Norrington?" Armstrong touched his shoulder, and James nodded. "In confidence?" Raising an eyebrow, James nodded again. "I've served in the Royal Corps of Engineers for sixteen years, but I've never been in battle. Only two of the sub-engineers have. With Captain Moore gone, we've precious little experience under fire."

"First of all," said James, "you are not to bring this fact to anyone else's attention. Is that clear?"

The man nodded.

"It's for your own good, trust me. Second of all, working under fire merely requires courage. Do you possess courage, Captain Armstrong?"

"I can if I must, sir."

"Well, then, you shouldn't have a problem. Carry on."

It wasn't Shakespeare, but it was as inspirational as he was capable of being at the moment, and he had no patience for cowardice.

He spent the afternoon helping Vernon draft a letter to Wentworth urging him to attack the castle. James wasn't sure what could possibly be said that hadn't been said already, and it was growing obvious that abuse got them nowhere with the good General, but James was frantic to be done so he could return to his friend. Finally he left with orders to return in the morning for a council of war.

The surgeon met him on deck of the Prince Frederick. One look at his face, and James didn't need to be told.

"May I see him?" he asked the surgeon.

"If you like, sir, except—" The surgeon bit his lip. "We had orders not to bury him at sea, but to convey his body home so he could be buried with his family in Hanworth."

James paled in horror. "And how, precisely, are you planning to do that?"

"Er, you see"—the surgeon looked around—"we've put him in a barrel of brandy." He swallowed. "Mixed with tincture of myrrh and camphor."

James couldn't stop a vision of Beauclerk's dead face, pickled and white, rippling through mirrored amber. He clutched his mouth and spun away, breathing hard through his nose. Eyes spilling with grief and nausea, he took his hand from his mouth and gasped, holding his stomach, leaning heavily on the rail, before wiping his eyes and straightening.

"Never mind," he said to the man, who had wandered off to give him his privacy. "Did you read over him?"

"Of course, sir." The surgeon gave a tight smile. "He was much loved."

James had hoped to hear the prayers, at least. He shut his eyes against the sting. "Very well. Thank you." He stumbled back to his boat.

The news had spread through the fleet, and the deck of the Dauntless was silent when he came back on board. James looked at the sober faces tight with pity, and for one serene moment, he was comforted, until he remembered that none of those faces could be the one he wanted, and he hated them. Breathless, he passed his officers and flew to his day cabin, where he hoped that any emotional discharge could at least occur in private.

Nothing happened. He stood in the center of his cabin, ears ringing, feeling nothing. Somewhere between the main deck and this cabin, everything had rushed out of him like a flux and left him a dry, aching shell. Was that better? He sat down at his desk. It wasn't better; it looked at first like relief, but he could feel the beginnings of madness in it, the pulling away from the shores of his senses into empty black.

A splash of red startled him—his shirt cuff and the heel of his hand were bloody, and he lifted his hand and stared, wondering where on that slaughterhouse of a ship he'd laid it down. Past his hand, he saw the lantern on the desk, dark and inert now, waiting for his will to bring it to life.

Fumbling the flint and nearly spilling the oil, James lit it, and stumbled out onto the quarter gallery to hang it up.

For three hours, Jack crouched in the flank of a bastion, his teeth rattling with each shot that smashed into the outer curtain. Some were coming from a ship, judging by direction, but most were coming from the English battery. He had a joyless laugh over the possibility that the ship might be Norrington's, and crouched as low as he could behind the strongest part of the wall. Nothing was worth this, not all the gold in the world—and especially not Norrington.

His only warning was a whistle close by, and then everything exploded in a funnel of shattered stone. When he could move again, he was thirty feet from where he'd started, draped over a crumbling tower of broken wall. There was something sticky on his forehead.

"Man the breach!" a voice shouted, and dozens of feet crunched past in the gravel. Gasping with pain, Jack dragged himself up from his sore heap, cursing as the stones bruised his hands and knees. Someone stopped to help him up before running on, and he limped slowly to the end of the curtain wall and looked around the corner.

Men were hauling the larger broken stones back into the breached flank, and workmen were driving pickets and passing out shovels to dig a coupure. The rest of the men were helping to haul around the great guns that had been unseated by the blast. No one was looking at Jack.

As he got his breath against the wall, he tested his body, and nothing screamed at him with the anguish of a major injury. Then again, a mortally wounded man could walk around for hours before dropping dead. His ankle was swollen, but it would bear weight. Carefully he crept out onto the now-empty parade, where any man who happened to turn around might see him.

For the first ten paces, it went miraculously well. He'd nearly got back to believing in his freakish good luck when he spotted two soldiers starting across the yard. All that was nearby was the powder magazine, and he darted for its covered entrance. The soldiers were coming closer now, and Jack stumbled back, panicking. His heel caught a stone, and he tumbled backward through the door.

It was dark and cool inside the magazine, built to withstand enemy fire. The whole place smelled acrid and mineral, and Jack coughed, sending up little grey clouds. It was hard to breathe. Between his sword, pistol, and other miscellaneous bits of metal on him, he had no business being there. Brushing himself off, he poked his head back out the door to be sure the coast was clear, then made a hobbling dash for the gate.

At last, he reached the edge of the woods and climbed to his lookout. With his glass, he scanned the anchored squadron. Sure enough, a lantern hung from the Dauntless's quarter gallery. Norrington wanted something from him again—something unreasonable, with nothing in it for him, and immediately, if you please. That was it. He was finished with the English, and spying, and Norrington, and he'd get his bloody ship back without anybody's help like he should have done from the start. He had scorch marks on his arse, and he'd go off like a rocket if somebody lit a pipe two miles away. Enough was enough. Norrington wouldn't even get a chance to speak.

As night fell, he drew back into the trees and hobbled inland. At the top of the wooded hill just north of the deserted Chamba battery, in the little ring of yopo trees, he made out a slender figure and hurried on, angry words crowding his breast. "Norrington—" He staggered to the top of the hill. "I've had enough, savvy? I'm—"

His voice died. Norrington looked a dozen years older, his eyes ringed with purple, his skin the color of his shirt. He stared at Jack with bewildered misery. "Sparrow... good heavens, are you well? Your head—good God, you smell positively flammable—"

"'S nothin', mate," he shrugged with a weak smile. His complaints fought to get out but they seemed to lodge in his throat.

"I've done a terrible thing," said Norrington hoarsely, "keeping you here. Go, before things get worse—I've no right—"

"I'll do as I like, thanks," Jack said gently. What was he saying? Norrington was giving him a way out; why wasn't he taking it? "You, er... you look awful, Gov'nor."

"My friend is dead." Norrington was too shattered to do anything but hand Jack the words.

Jack bowed his head. "Sorry to hear it."

"If only that damned Lestock hadn't fallen so far to leeward! It's his fault, the coward." Norrington dropped his head into his hand. "You must get out of here, Sparrow, I can't be responsible for you anymore. Not with these—these madmen in charge."

"Now, look," said Jack, "Captain Jack Sparrow never goes where he's told unless he was already headed there to begin with."

Norrington's laugh was shrill, and his sudden smile was ghastly beyond measure. "You have no idea how glad I am for that."

Before Jack quite knew what was happening, they had stumbled into a tangle of arms that stopped short of an embrace. It was like coming face to face with a jungle cat. Trapped by Norrington's big, clutching hands, the sudden scent of his skin suddenly close, Jack shuddered under a bolt of undifferentiated feeling, and when it receded and Norrington's wide, glassy eyes were all he could see, he could think of nothing but rightness, inevitability, yes, yes, yes. He shifted carefully, lest he startle this shy creature, and brought their bodies closer.

"Christ." Norrington jerked back, but Jack held on. Norrington tugged futilely. "I'm—this is—I'm not in my right mind—surely you—"

Jack couldn't figure out why Norrington wanted to stop this. Then he remembered the blue-eyed man. "Seemed like a rum chap, your friend," he heard himself say.

Norrington gazed at him in dumb confusion, then tried again to pull away again. It was a weak effort.

"I could help," said Jack. He was capable of saying a great many things to get someone into bed, but this was new territory for him; this resembled sincerity.

"What?" More shrill horror. "I—Christ, no, no. I—" He was looking everywhere but at Jack.

"There's no shame in it."

Norrington went still, as though he'd decided something. His eyes swam with grief. "Have you ever had a feeling as though you've forgotten something?" He gagged on the last word, like it was too big to get out. "As though you're a moment too late, and just on the verge of realizing it?"

Jack ran his knuckles down Norrington's cheek, felt Norrington's startled exhale on his hand. Was this cruelty or mercy? He was used to taking what he wanted, but Norrington's funny rules had rubbed off on him. The man was shivering like he was freezing, and Jack couldn't look away, transfixed by his own power. He opened his mouth—there was a moment when they breathed each other's breath—and then they were kissing. Quickly he reached up to hold Norrington's head in place to keep him from flinching away.

The kiss ended and Norrington gave a hiccuping gasp like a sob. This was more than taking what he wanted, this was taking advantage—but Jack wanted, and he was tired of denying himself. He cupped Norrington's face and kissed his open mouth without waiting to be kissed back. Awe stole over him; he was the only person who had ever seen this. As rare and secret as the sight of a mermaid: Commodore Norrington falling apart in his arms.

"Captain! Sir, are you here?"

Norrington jerked back like he'd been shot, eyes wild. "Get out of here!" he mouthed, and Jack nodded. But before they could separate completely, Jack seized his wrist. "I'll find you," he whispered, and they stood temple to temple, cheeks brushing, wrapped together in something huge and dark. Jack kissed an ear, darting his tongue out to trace it, and then ran, away from the approaching voices. After a hundred paces, he heard Norrington's faint voice say, "Over here, Mr. Forrest. I'm afraid I got turned round in the dark..."

He ran on, heart pounding. What a mighty fool he was. He needed to leave this place and never return—but he already knew he would not.

James sat listening, his face cloudless and serene.

"The General is finally getting down to business," Vernon was saying, "but as usual, he's asked for our help. A landing of men on Isla Baru near the Barradera, as a distraction—unnecessary, of course, but we'll show him we can be obliging when he starts talking sense..."

James felt as though he were floating in a chilly bath, his skin numb, his limbs weightless, his ears full of roaring nothingness.

"...since you were so successful the last time and you know the terrain, Norrington, I'm giving it to you. Maybe that'll snap you out of this melancholia."

James looked up, blinking.

"Are you sure that's wise?" asked Lestock, glancing at Ogle. James sat up straighter. He suddenly had the sense of being regarded as an invalid or a lunatic.

"Perhaps Captain Norrington should remain on Tierra Bomba to deal with the engineers," Lestock went on, with another beady look at James.

"We're finished with the engineers," said Vernon cheerfully. "At least until we move against the inner harbor. And we can thank heaven that that idiot Moore isn't in charge anymore. With our luck, Armstrong is an even bigger idiot, but at least we're free of Moore's hemming and hawing—"

All heads turned toward the screech of chair legs as James stood up. "You must excuse me, Admiral," he said, voice shaking. He fled the cabin before anyone could react.

Ten minutes later on deck, Ogle came up beside him. They watched the gulls hover and dip for a while before Ogle said, "Everyone knows he was a friend of your father's, which is why you were excused. But you're on thin ice, Norrington."

James let out a breath. "I understand, sir."

"I dare say I know you well by now," Ogle went on. "I know you're a man of strong convictions, who through all shocks and opposition always believes in his own righteousness." He paused. "This is precisely what makes you dangerous. I have a fleet to look after, and I cannot afford a dangerous man in its midst. Pull yourself together and get back in line. I shan't make excuses for you anymore."

James nodded. "Aye, aye, sir."

Ogle squeezed his shoulder. "It's a damn shame about Lord Aubrey." Then he was gone.

Late in the afternoon the next day, a multitude of boats crowded around the side of the Dauntless.

"We are intended to be a distraction," said James to Watson, Cotes and Forrest, who were leaning over the gunwales of their barges. "That means there is no reason for any loss of life. Stay visible, or the ruse shan't work, but no heroics unless I say otherwise."

It was late afternoon, hot, hazy and still. The smoke from the city, garrison and two fleets lay like a chalky film over everything in sight. From the boats rowing toward Isla Baru half a mile out, the Barradera was a rippling grey smudge on the water, until white puffs announced three shots off their bows, too far ahead to hit them but close enough to startle.

"It seems we've diverted their attention," said James.

They landed five hundred yards to leeward. Carrying the boats with them, they crept up the coast along the beach in full view of all the forts around the channel. Periodically, the guns from the Barradera spoke.

"How many would you say are remounted?" James asked Forrest. "Six?"

"Aye." Forrest marched with his head down, mopping his dark upper lip. He had the sort of Scottish coloring that kept his razor from ever shaving close enough. "From the intervals between guns, it can't be more than that."

"This ought to go smoothly, then." James hid his nerves. The real fighting and dying would happen across the channel on Tierra Bomba, where Brigadier Blakeny was preparing his companies for an assault on the castle an hour before sundown. They still had twenty minutes to go. If James was too quick in his success, he might not divert the enemy long enough. "Slow your march," he called ahead to Cotes and Watson.

Out in the channel, the Spanish ships were silent, unable to risk firing on their own battery. Don Blas's flag flew at the mainmast of the Galicia; he was onboard and not in the fort. Interesting. So Blakeny would not capture Don Blas, but if he moved quickly enough, James might. The thought excited and unnerved him. How glorious it would be—and yet how glorious could it be if his captive was ten times the man his own commander was?

Ahead, Watson stopped and crouched, making the signal for the men to set down the boats. James crept up and took his place, and then the whole party melted into the brush, all two hundred men pushing their way through the undergrowth until the rear of the battery came into view. Then James gave the signal, and the men rushed forward with cries and cheers, pistols and cutlasses out, all their eager energy pouring into the garrison's arms.

A great deal of shouting, one or two shots, and then it was over. Thirty surly Spaniards were disarmed and herded together while seamen spiked the remounted guns and set fire to the hastily built new platforms. Soon the battery was smoking, going off with cheerful blasts when the flames found a cask of powder, while James's party secured the prisoners a few yards down the path.

Across the channel came three mortar blasts—the signal for the attack. James took out his spyglass just in time to see the first round of grapeshot from the English battery pour into the castle's breach. A still followed in which the echo of the blasts rolled across the water, and then through the smoke he could make out the first party of soldiers climbing through the breach. The so-called forlorn hope, all volunteers ready and willing to die. After a few minutes, James made out Lieutenant-Colonel Macleod and his party of grenadiers. The smoke was mostly gone, but the small arms fire had begun, though nothing was stemming the flow of British soldiers. The companies under Daniels and Cochrane were now in view, and the Spaniards manning the breach had fallen back.

"Captain Watson, secure these prisoners," said James, putting away his glass. "Captain Cotes, Mr. Forrest, we shall return to the boats—now is our chance to take Fort San Josef."

James did not mention that he intended to make a target of them as one hundred fifty men pulled in boats toward the island fort. But that was their task. It was gloomy dusk when they dragged the boats up on the rocky beach below the fort walls. But inside, they found it abandoned, apart from one drunk Spaniard dozing by the guard house.

"Captain Norrington!" called a seaman. "Look!"

James ran out onto the parapet and followed where the seaman was pointing to a fire that had blazed up just inside the channel. It was the San Felipe. His heart leapt into his throat as he saw that the masts of the Africa and San Carlos too were listing heavily to one side.

"Everyone to the boats!" James shouted. "Now!" Don Blas was sinking his ships in the channel, just as Sparrow said he would.

They left Cotes at the fort and threaded the boats carefully through the shoals and past the boom. Only the Galicia was still upright. James could see boats on the opposite shore, full of Spaniards fleeing their scuttled ships, and wondered if Don Blas was among them.

Ahead, the dark mass of the Galicia loomed. The wind had picked up and backed round to the north so that her stern swung wide, opening her mighty broadside. If anyone was left aboard her, they could blow James and his men from the water.

There was a bone-rattling explosion on the lee shore as the San Felipe's powder magazine went up in a geyser of smoke and timber. Flaming, blackened bits of her rained down on the water amid the swirling smoke. All of the men stared for a moment, jaws slack, before pulling on their oars with redoubled effort toward the Galicia, who at any moment might slip her plug and sink as well.

Where was everyone? Perhaps the Spaniards had set a long charge that would send the Galicia up like the San Felipe once James's men were aboard. He needed more information, but that was impossible in the dark. The Admiral's flag slapped against the mast in the light land breeze. Don Blas might still be aboard. "Harder!" he cried. "Pull harder!"

The boats drew closer to the ship, and still the gun ports stayed shut, the deck stayed empty, and James's dread grew. In his mind, he saw the long fuse in the depths of the ship. "Stop!" he shouted all at once, and the men held water with their oars. For a moment, all was silent except for the roaring of the fire behind them.

A flame leapt up on the deck of the Galicia. "Back!" shouted James. "Get clear of her!"

"Avast, Commodore!" came a voice, and James saw now that the flame was a torch in the hand of a peculiar black-clad figure. It wove its way to the rail. "Approach, and behold! I've brought you a present!"

James stared, and under his breath, he whispered, "Sparrow?"

The figure laughed as though he'd heard. The robes were a cassock—Dominican, if James wasn't mistaken. "Dominus vobiscum!" the mad priest shouted. "A natalis beatus to you, Commodore! I'd have tied 'er up with a bow if there'd been one about! Vale!" Arms wheeling, the figure sprang off the rail and struck the water with the splashless gulp of a sinking stone, while the torch went out with a hiss.

James waited for the sound of Sparrow surfacing, but there was no time. The boats hooked on to the Galicia's side, and it was time to worry about surviving again. They climbed aboard with lines and grapnels, and James made straight for the great cabin, sensitized to any movement from the darkened quarters of the ship, sniffing the air for burning powder, listening for any activity. Forrest's steady, competent presence at his side reassured him.

As they made their way down the companionway, they heard a strange sound: a rhythmic pounding. When they reached the door to the great cabin, they discovered what it was. The door was barricaded from the outside with what looked like every spare object in the ship—empty barrels, oars, boat hooks, studdingsail booms, rammers and sponges and handspikes. "Clear this away," James ordered, and smiled a little at the frantic pounding coming from inside the cabin. When the door finally opened, they found a party of Spaniards who instantly lifted their hands. Among them, James recognized the young captain who had cut Don Blas's meat aboard the Sheerness two years ago.

"¿Dónde está el Almirante?" barked James.

The captain thrust out his sword on the flats of his hands. "It is just us, Capitán," he said. "Por favor, may we just get this over with?"

James shook his head. "Now I have two of Don Blas's flag-captains. I hope for your sake he values you more than the last one."

On shore, parties of escaping Spaniards were fleeing toward the city. The English jubilation at the fort was muted by exhaustion, but on the ships, it was raucous. Aboard the Dauntless, James shouted for the hands to get ahold of themselves, and made for his cabin with orders not to be disturbed for anything less than an emergency. He'd barely slept two hours since hearing of Beauclerk, and in his exhaustion, the vertiginous joy of victory was colliding violently with his grief. He felt close to madness.

In his cabin, he spotted the chess board under the window. The pieces were just as he and Forrest had left them, which meant that Beauclerk had been alive the last time they'd moved.

His hand twitched, and then he swept the pieces onto the deck. Off the board, they were just dumb matter, bodies without spirits. James knelt and pushed at one with his finger. Beauclerk was still dead, and James's poor soul didn't know what to make of it. He couldn't mourn, he couldn't weep, he couldn't feel. The wind of his feelings blew across the tide. He tried putting his hand to his mouth and moaning, then squeezed his eyes shut. The chaos of the battle returned and he saw Jack Sparrow leaping from the deck of the Galicia like an underworld spirit. Sparrow, oh, Sparrow. His stomach clenched with pleasure, and then the seas crossed inside him and he moaned again, digging his fingers into his cheeks. "Help me," he said in a voice too soft for what he meant. "Help me," he said again, but he couldn't make himself louder. "Help me," he breathed, willing the words to come out in a shout, but they would not.

Joints creaking, he picked himself up and staggered to a side cabinet where he kept the brandy, but when he looked at the inch of amber liquid in his glass, his stomach heaved. He poured it carefully back into the bottle. He longed to throw the thing against the bulkhead, to shred his hands on the broken glass, to bleed and cry—but he didn't know how to do those things. All he knew how to do was pickle in his grief, like Beauclerk in his barrel. Sparrow might help him—but the thought of Sparrow was too hot to touch, too bright to look at, and finally James wound up in a corner with his forehead on his knees, seeing nothing, thinking nothing, willing away the world.

Sometime after midnight, his body got up of its own accord and undressed itself. Without the support of a stiff uniform, he sagged, and crawled into his bunk empty of spirit and strength.

He woke a little after the end of the graveyard watch. Beyond the open stern window, the sky was bright with moonlight. It took James a moment to notice there was a man in the window.

Sparrow had ducked under the casement to crouch on the sill like a monkey, knees drawn up to his chest, dripping sea water onto the deck. He was nude, and the light from the close, heavy moon drew silver edges on his wet body. James couldn't see his face, but he could feel the press of Sparrow's eyes.

Holding his breath, he waited for Sparrow to move, but Sparrow never moved. With a deep start, he realized that Sparrow was waiting for him. What happened next was his responsibility, then; the next few minutes, which might very well throw his life into even greater disarray, would be of his own creation. Strangely, it was not a difficult decision. In the dreamlike thickness of the dark, all of the protestations of his more civilized self seemed like so much air—a senseless waste of time. People he loved were dead, and for all he knew he would soon be too, and at least in Sparrow's presence he felt something—confusion, embarrassment, a disturbing loss of control—painful sensations like the blood returning to a sleeping limb—but they were the feelings of a living man. With shaking fingers, he found the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. The cool air on his flushed skin set every hair on end, and he lay back with his heart in his mouth, shivering with nerves, dropping the shirt to the deck.

The silhouette in the window didn't move. His face grew hot; perhaps he had misunderstood. Sparrow's gaze, hidden in velvety shadows, laid on him like a physical touch, and James eased into the shock of it, of being seen. His prick was hard, and he was doing nothing to hide it, and he had never done anything like this before, simply allowed someone to look at him this way. All sound had gone out of the world except for his breath and his heart. He held still.

At last, Sparrow dropped down from the window. James let out a shuddering breath, then gasped it in again; Sparrow stood beside him, his body radiating heat through the canvas of the bunk. A rough, jeweled hand tickled the inside of his knee and trailed up his thigh.

He jerked when Sparrow's mouth touched his prick. For one last time, he resisted the outlandishness of what he was doing; then his resistance faded in a rush of pleasure that was so much more real than his mind's weak objections. The pleasure halted for a moment, and then Sparrow was clambering on top of him into the bunk, covering him in warmth. The knittles suspending them from the beams groaned as they wrestled, tangling their limbs together, and then Sparrow sat up, the shadows on his face shifting as he smiled.

"I've never done this," blurted James.

"With a fellow, you mean." Sparrow's voice was low and amused. "The beauty of it is that you need only recall how you do yourself. Like so—" He drew James's hand between his legs. "It won't take much, I promise..."

They grasped each other's pricks and thrust against each other, and Sparrow uttered a breathy laugh as the bunk swayed. James shut his eyes, then opened them again, missing the sight. When Sparrow sat up to draw his dense, ropey hair into a queue, he pulled the flesh of his belly and ribs taut and exposed his pale underarms, and James took the chance to run his hands curiously over sharp hips and smooth sides, across inked skin and tiny dark nipples. Such a different body from his own.

They returned their hands to each other's pricks. For a moment, everything was too intense, moving too quickly. "Sparrow," James choked, suddenly and inexplicably terrified, "I don't—I need—"

"Hush." In the dark face, a gold tooth glinted. "We'll get you sorted." Without any further warning than that, Sparrow bent and swallowed James's prick, and in a surge that dimmed the world for a moment he came, hot and sweet and pulsing into Sparrow's mouth. Afterward, Sparrow rubbed himself against James's belly, and once he'd regained some command over his limbs James worked a hand between their bodies to help—as though he had any idea what he was doing—until Sparrow buried his face in James's neck and came with a sharp, voiceless gasp.

They clung together, panting hard. When Sparrow kissed him again, he breathed Sparrow's breath and tasted his own come, which was thrilling and strange. His blood pounded in his head. He wanted to stay there, away from the real, but Sparrow's presence pulled him back—like the spectral guide in Dante's poem, drawing him first down and then back up, out into the world again, where he could see the stars.

In the ensuing silence, his mind, which had gone blissfully still, began to work again. What a mess Sparrow must think him, what a complicated muddle. But for whatever reason, through all the perplexing contradictions of their association, Sparrow wanted him. He shut his eyes at the wonder of it. Then he opened them, and wondered how he was going to get through the coming day without losing his mind.

Somewhere above their heads, five bells struck. "Another few minutes and it's going to be hard for you to get out of here," he said to Sparrow, who had begun to snore.

Sparrow roused and blinked. "I have ways," he said, but he climbed out of the bunk. "Wait for my signal." He gave James a kiss, quick but deep, then slipped out the window. James listened for a splash, but none came.

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