Between Wind and Water

Chapter 9:
In which words cannot be unsaid

by

Rex Luscus

James put the spyglass down. "Three small batteries, but they're abandoned," he said. "For a while, it would appear."

"Can we be sure?" Captain Mayne of the Worcester sat beside him in the cutter.

"I am always sure," said James flatly. "Don Blas does not hesitate to abandon fortifications he doesn't have the troops to man. Now let us go see if that sluice and that derrick are operational."

Across the harbor, boats were towing the Galicia out of the channel. James watched them as the carpenter and his mates examined the old wooden sluice and the boatswain rigged tackles to the loading derrick at the end of the abandoned wharf. Soon water was pouring down the sluice, and by early afternoon, the Worcester had filled her water casks. It was blazing hot, and James and Mayne stripped to their waistcoats. James tried to ignore all the little aches—places where Sparrow had bit and sucked, or rubbed and chafed, or squeezed. He didn't have space in his head for a love affair now—especially one so completely beyond the pale.

"Ahoy!" A pinnace pulled round the bend in the creek. She was under sail and her men were heaving on their oars. As she drew closer, a curious craft came into view, towed behind. The lieutenant in the pinnace scurried up the ladder onto the wharf. "There's half a dozen more of 'em a mile up the river—a funny sort of dugout. They'll each hold twenty tons, easy."

"It appears they're ideal for watering the fleet," said James. "Captain Mayne, you shall have this task. Send boats to collect the empty casks from all the ships. Start with the transports."

"But won't the Admiral—"

"I'll handle the Admiral," said James with a tight smile.

A visit to his ship informed him that a lieutenant from the Admiral's flagship had already visited to request his presence, and ten minutes later, his barge nudged itself carefully up to the laboring Princess Caroline. From above floated the music of the fife and the rhythmic stamp of the men around the capstan, and underneath that, the grind and groan of the massive warps fixed to the shore inching her forward between the reefs. The easterly headwind through the channel made it impossible to enter under sail, so every vessel would have to drag herself through with warps and anchors.

Vernon sat in his stateroom. "Ah, Norrington." He shuffled his papers—intelligence reports, most likely, and letters brought in the last day from Port Royal. "How did Paso Caballos look?"

"Abandoned for quite some time. But we did find a water supply and several large dugout hulks that should allow us to water the fleet before it reaches the top of the harbor. I gave Mayne instructions to begin, and to relieve the troops first, as their supplies are dangerously—"

"No." Vernon pushed his papers away. "No no no, Norrington. How many times do I have to tell you? You are not to encourage Wentworth in any way, do you hear me?"

"I'm not concerned with the General," said James, "but with his men, a third of whom are desperately ill."

"That's not your problem. If the General wants to look after his men, he can start cooperating with me. Is that understood?" Vernon leaned forward and fixed James with a glare. "Is that understood, Norrington?"

James nodded.

"I'm beginning to wonder about you." Vernon returned to his correspondence. "You'd better start showing a little more loyalty to me or I'm going to stop giving you things to do. There are plenty of other excellent officers in this fleet who don't talk back to me, and I've just about had it with you."

Shaking with impotent anger, James snapped at his coxswain to steer northward to the center of the bay, where he'd have a good command of Tierra Bomba. He scanned the marshy shore for Sparrow's signal—a bolt of white cloth on a picket—but no bright scrap fluttered amid the shrubs. "Back to the ship," he said, sick in his heart, and tucked the glass in his coat.

He shut himself in his day cabin and paced to the windows and back. There were twenty more minutes before the drums beat for the wardroom's dinner and this was his day to join them. He paced again and paused, focusing on the handle of the door. He needed Vernon's ear if he was to do any good at all, and to keep it he would have to be silent—but silence was unconscionable. This wasn't just his career at stake, this was thousands of lives. Yet what could he do? For the first time in his life, thinking led to nothing, just an agonized repeating of the question over and over until he wanted to hold his ears.

"I take it you've been to see the Admiral," said a voice, and he spun around so hard he stumbled against the door. Sparrow stood up from where he'd been crouching behind a cannon, then sat and straddled it with a crooked smile. A stab of desire shot to James's groin.

He smoothed down his coat in the front. "Dammit! It's broad daylight, how did you even—"

Sparrow invaded his space, laying his fingers over James's mouth. They tasted dirty. "Trade secrets, mate," he said, and replaced his fingers with his lips.

James slid sideways out from under him. "Why didn't you signal? Do you have information? What the hell is going on, you—"

"Here's how this works." Sparrow drew close, snaking hands around James's waist, and this time, James's scattered wits couldn't help him. "You get what you want—" Sparrow patted his breast pocket, which crinkled, "—and I—" he nipped James's chin, and then his neck, "—get what I want."

"Is that what this is? An exchange?" James frowned, but his body was too exhausted to do anything but acquiesce.

Sparrow flashed him a smile. "We all need a reason to stay in the game, Gov'nor," he growled, and pushed him against the door.

There was a knock just behind James's ear. He broke out in a fresh sweat and waved Sparrow back behind the gun, then straightened his wig. He felt dizzy. "Enter," he said.

Forrest opened the door cautiously. "Captain Mayne's compliments, sir," he said. "He received your instructions to water the rated ships before attending to the transports."

"Good." James cleared his throat. "Mr. Forrest"—he hid his shaking hands behind his back—"I am out of sorts. Give my regrets to the wardroom that I shan't be joining them for dinner."

"Aye, sir." Forrest peered at him. "Should I pass the word for the surgeon?"

"No." James searched the young man's face for signs that his anxiety was showing. "Anyone who disturbs me will find himself facing a bleak future indeed. Is that clear?"

Forrest paled, confused. "Of course, sir." He shut the door.

James turned, trembling, and then Sparrow was on him. He stumbled back into the bulkhead and struggled around the kiss, sweating, breathing hard through his nose, while Sparrow pulled roughly at his clothes. The pleasant flutter in his stomach as Sparrow nearly garroted him with his cravat scared him half to death; then his waistcoat was open and hands followed cool air inside, feeling around his sweaty shirt, thumbs rubbing his nipples. He broke the kiss and gasped, tingling and nauseous and hot.

"I'm losing my mind," he said hoarsely as Sparrow's breath and whiskers tickled under his ear.

"Shh," said Sparrow, and kissed his throat, and his chin, and his mouth. Either Sparrow understood these things better than he did, or he didn't care if James went mad or not.

"Sparrow—I think I'm going cr—Sparrow!" James pulled back. "Help me."

Sparrow leaned in. "What's the worst that can happen? Out there, men are dyin' in scores at the whim of a mad admiral. In here, the only danger is that you might enjoy yourself." He nibbled James's ear.

James gasped. "This is unthinkable, Sparrow, I"— Sparrow squeezed him through his breeches—"I haven't missed—dinner with the wardroom in—five years—"

"Welcome to life on the edge," Sparrow smiled into his neck. "Now, ease off on the mainsheet, eh, Gov'nor?"

James nodded, swallowing hard, and shut his eyes.

He was suddenly looking at the door, his face pressed against wood, and Sparrow was up close behind him. His coat and waistcoat came off of a piece, and James made to pull off his wig, but Sparrow stopped him. "Humor me," he said. "It's a fantasy of mine."

"I'm not sure I want to know about your fantasies," James murmured, suddenly self-conscious.

Sparrow laughed. "I have a whole heap of 'em. I have an indexed file. Norrington in uniform, Norrington out of it. Norrington bound hand an' foot, wearing nothin' but a little pink bonnet—"

"Oh, do shut up." James squeezed his eyes closed and leaned his forehead against the door.

Mercifully, Sparrow obliged. He fumbled with James's breeches. "A little help here," he growled, and James helped with shaking hands, letting Sparrow ruck his shirt up so that cool air struck his bare arse and hard prick and twitching belly. He felt ridiculous, and aroused, and relieved not to be in control.

Sparrow pulled away, and a metal hinge squeaked—he was dipping his hand in the oil of the signal lamp. James hadn't given much thought to the mechanics before, but the lamp oil in all its gross materiality suddenly made everything too real, especially once he realized what Sparrow was planning. When oiled fingers slid between his buttocks, he panicked. "Sparrow—I can't—"

"All right, then." Sparrow seemed untroubled. "Some other time." The fingers moved forward to press behind his bollocks, and he felt a pleasure so alien he jerked away. Immediately he regretted it, and pushed back, hardly believing what he was doing, forehead pressed so hard against the door it had begun to hurt. Sparrow massaged him in that most unspeakable of places. This was a sort of pleasure they'd never told him about, or else he'd have fallen into wickedness long ago.

Everything down below was slippery. "Don't fear, now, you'll like this," Sparrow said, and replaced his fingers with his cock in the slick crevice, pushing against that divine spot, and sighing with relief into James's shoulder. "Close your legs tighter," he muttered, and James obeyed the order, so filthy in its specificity. For a while they grunted and ground together, Sparrow's breath hot on his neck, Sparrow's palm wet and rough on his prick, the air full of the smell of sex and sweat and the sound of ragged breaths and groans. He willed his mind to stop, but a part of him kept observing himself, marveling at his depravity. The rest of him pressed back in search of more hot skin. At some point, he turned his head and found Sparrow's mouth in an awkward, incomplete kiss. Then he shuddered and a wordless joy welled in his chest before breaking into a fluid cry, and he was sobbing into his fist as Sparrow held his hips and thrust hard. Then, startling stillness, filled with stunned panting.

James cleaned himself up in a daze. Sparrow didn't bother, sucking their effluvia from his fingers with a satisfied smile. James watched him with disgust and desire.

He dropped into a chair with a great sigh, not knowing what to say, frustrated with Sparrow's smug silence. "So, Captain Sparrow," he said, "now that you've got what you wanted, might you show me what I want?"

"Don't play cool with me," Sparrow grinned, reaching into his coat. "I've already seen too much of you. Here." He handed over a packet of papers.

James flipped through them, focusing his eyes through his post-coital drowsiness. "Anything about el paisano?"

"Nope. Just look."

One piece of paper was large enough to have been folded several times. "What's this?"

"Soundings for the inner harbor. Water's too shallow to approach the city walls without 'em."

"Sparrow, my God." James looked up from the chart. "How—"

"There's good fishing in that harbor, I discovered. Nobody noticed a man in a boat with a lead line instead of a fishing rod."

James spread out the chart. The trapezoidal outlines of Cartagena's inner harbor looked back at him, sprinkled with numerals representing the depth of the water. There was a large shoal at the harbor mouth, and then past it to the northwest was a narrow channel of six fathoms into an inner lagoon that ran right up to the city walls. A ship that could squeeze through it would be in easy range to bombard the city and the great fort of San Lázaro that protected it.

After a moment, he squinted at a set of peculiar squiggles. "What on Earth are these?"

"Notes on the quality of the bottom, of course."

"In what language?"

"My own shorthand."

"Why couldn't you use the standard notation?"

"Too complicated."

James sighed. "You're going to have to explain what all these cabalistic little marks mean."

Jack grinned. "No problem, Gov'nor. You just sit there, an' I'll look over your shoulder, an' you point, an' I'll explain."

"Fine... what's this one mean?"

"That would be 'fine sand, some broken shell.'"

"Remarkable. And this?"

"'Very fine sand, a smidgeon of silt.'"

"I suppose this oval with a dot in the middle represents 'a smidgeon'?"

"Now you're catching on. A square with a dot means 'a tad.'"

"What's the damn difference?"

"Let's move on..."

After several minutes of squinting, pointing and explaining, Sparrow ran a finger down James's neck from ear to collar. After another minute, he laid his mouth against James's neck, then slipped a hand down his chest.

James twitched away. "Good heavens—you're insatiable."

"Mmm..." Sparrow's mouth returned to James's neck, and this time James let him stay. "The day I'm sated, sew me up in sailcloth with a few round shot and toss me overboard."

James smiled. When Sparrow kissed his way up to his ear, he leaned back and let his eyes slip closed.

"I love your ears." Sparrow nibbled. "They're so... pink... so English..."

"If you're not English," James asked, opening his eyes, "then what are you?"

"No idea." Sparrow swung himself into James's lap and draped his arms around James's neck. "I'm told I sound like a Dublin sailor screwed a Virginia tobacco heiress, but I guess we'll never know."

James dodged a kiss. "So who raised you?"

"Whores, mostly. I retain a fondness for them to this day."

"And? How did the—you know—the piracy come about?"

"Now that's a story." Sparrow forgot his kissing assault, delighted by the sound of his own voice. "Once upon a time, I was as law-abidin' a sailor as ever there was. I was chief mate aboard a pokey little merchantman, happy to do naught but sail back an' forth on the East India trade till the day I died. Then one day off Madagascar, we were attacked by pirates. The captain was a big intimidating chap, an' he gave us all a choice: join his crew, or go to the deep. We all elected to join, of course, bein' sensible fellows, an' so began my career in piracy."

James frowned. He had expected a tall tale, some improbable adventure full of mermaids, treasure maps and self-aggrandizement. Of course, Sparrow delighted in confounding expectations, even if he had to resort to the mundane to do so. "I don't believe a word of it," James smirked. "On principle."

Sparrow flashed a grin. "You're too quick for me." The grin faded and he stood up. "Well, better be gettin' on. Watch is about to change—best time to slip away."

"See what you can find out about that spy. And be careful." Impetuously, James grabbed his hand, spread the fingers, and kissed the dirt-seamed palm. Sparrow gave him a lickerish smile. "I await your signal," James said, struggling to steady his voice. He didn't know if it was desire or fear or happiness that was making it shake.

The fingers stroked his cheek as they withdrew. Only after Sparrow had climbed out the window did James think to wonder how he had got aboard without getting wet.

"Hm?" James remembered his lie to the wardroom just in time. "Ah, yes, thank you. Any developments?" He scanned the ships in the harbor. In the night, the Princess Caroline had crawled up the harbor as far as the eastern tip of Tierra Bomba, and Orford and Burford sat just inside the channel.

"Nothing, except for a rumor going round," said Forrest, lips tight and face blank.

"Oh?"

"That the General asked the Admiral for three supply-boats to fish for turtles for the sick, and the Admiral refused. But like I said, sir," he went on, answering James's incredulous look with an expressionless shrug, "it's just a rumor."

James put his forehead in his hand. What could he do? If he disobeyed orders, he lost the position from which to do anything useful at all. His opinion obviously held no weight with Vernon, so persuasion was out. He tried to think like Sparrow, but subterfuge didn't come naturally to him. He remembered Sparrow's hot hands on his hips, his hot breath on his neck, and felt ill. He and Sparrow had no right to be carrying on like this while men were dying, but if he stopped—his stomach lurched. He couldn't stop.

"Sir? Are you all right?"

"What? Oh. Apologies, Lieutenant." James rubbed his temple. "I haven't had my breakfast yet."

Breakfast was coffee, an egg, and maggoty biscuit. He tapped the biscuit automatically, sending the wriggling things scattering, and scanned the purser's accounts. All manner of dishonesty went on in a ship's provisioning and no one ever did anything about it—so what if a few things went missing? He was thinking like Sparrow now; it wasn't so hard after all. If someone borrowed a couple of those dugout hulks for a bit of turtle-fishing, no one would ever need to know James was behind it. Now that Moore was dead, his surest bet was Armstrong.

At three o'clock, James ordered out his barge. The scene on Tierra Bomba was even more depressing than he'd expected. Piles of supplies, carelessly stacked powder stores, crates of tools and cannon waiting to be re-embarked were jumbled up with sick and dying men, who all seemed to be lying where they'd fallen, shivering with fever and calling for water. The smell of human filth and blood was everywhere. James clapped his handkerchief to his mouth and hurried through in search of the engineers.

"Captain Armstrong," said James, jogging up behind the engineer where he was supervising the packing of a great deal of surveying equipment.

Armstrong looked up. "C-captain Norrington!" His eyes were wide. "Does the Admiral require something?"

"No, no." James took his shoulder and steered him away from the others. "I'm here on my own. I only wished to apprise you of the fleet's business these last two days."

"Oh, well—" Armstrong glanced at him uncertainly, "—that's very kind of you, sir."

"I've noticed," said James, "that the sickness is increasing in the troops."

"Oh yes, at a prodigious rate. If we're called upon to throw up a battery against the city, I don't reckon we'll manage."

"Indeed. I dare say you stand badly in need of fresh water and provisions."

"The surgeon says it's that pestilential serena that brings the sickness. Typical of the tropics, he says—"

"I'm aware of that theory of illness," said James. "I've lived here for a decade, so you may trust my unprofessional opinion that poor food and water go a lot farther toward making men ill than a bit of dew after dark."

"Still, with the men lying so many nights on their arms, with their tents still aboard the supply-tenders—"

"Yes, yes, I agree. Captain Armstrong, let me tell you something. Captain Mayne and I spent yesterday securing a source of fresh water at the creek of Paso Caballos. We also captured several large dugout boats, ideal for watering and turtling."

"You don't say," said Armstrong.

"Listen to me," said James. "Those boats shall be employed in watering the fleet until the end of the afternoon watch. After that, they shall be tied up at the wharf at Paso Caballos, unused."

"That's... very interesting," said Armstrong with a confused look.

"Do we understand one another?"

Armstrong's confusion turned to dismay. "I don't rightly know what you're talking about, sir."

"Oh, for God's sake." Why did Moore have to die? "Armstrong," James hissed, "I may not, under my current orders, offer assistance to the Army. But no one has ordered me not to show the Army how to assist themselves. Do I have your complete and total confidence?"

"Of course, Captain Norrington." Armstrong smiled. "You're one of the good ones, as we say around camp." He appeared to regret his words instantly, but James pressed on.

"Then do me a favor and pretend we've never spoken, but take this intelligence under consideration."

Armstrong nodded. James heaved a sigh of relief, and fled. The less time he spent at the camp, the less chance he'd be suspected if and when the Army took matters into their own hands. He picked his way over the rows of groaning men, hurrying with his head down until he could breathe again.

At five o'clock the next morning, James awoke to the sound of cannon fire. He hurried up on deck and trained his glass on the mouth of the inner harbor, where Burford and Orford were moored.

"They began about an hour ago," said the master's mate, who had the watch.

Two forts stood on either side of the narrow entrance of the inner harbor, but neither were returning fire. As James looked closer, he could see that the ships were scouring the shore, cutting off Spanish communication by water. Once the fleet was inside the inner harbor, Lezo would be besieged. All that would remain then was for them to reduce the fort on the hill of San Lázaro that defended the city.

He turned his glass on Paso Caballos, and saw with both relief and dread that the hulks were gone. But there was no one on the wharf; the sluice stood quiet.

At the turning of the forenoon watch, Princess Caroline signaled for James to come aboard.

In the stateroom, James found Vernon, Ogle and Lestock. The looks on their faces put him in mind of a court-martial. This was it, then. He let his mind go blank and hard.

"You are aware of what happened yesterday evening?" said Vernon softly.

"I am not, sir," said James.

"Oh, I think you are."

"Norrington," Ogle put in, "you will swear to us that you had nothing to do with General Wentworth's attempt to commandeer Navy property."

He made his best attempt at an expression of surprise. "I swear it," he said.

"Look me in the eye," said Vernon, "and vow to me you knew nothing of any attempt to use those hulks to water the Army."

James gazed at him. "I swear upon my life and that of the King that I had no knowledge of it," he said.

Lying was remarkably easy when you had the strength of your convictions. This must have been what it was like to be Elizabeth. He allowed himself a little smile. Both of them were students of Sparrow, after all.

So Armstrong and Wentworth had bungled their chance. James's days as liaison to the Army were undoubtedly over, along with any other useful position. He'd sacrificed it for no gain at all. He ought to have been relieved, now that there was nothing he could do. But the anxiety was worse. What dreary things consciences were.

He'd certainly blown his opportunity to present Sparrow's harbor soundings. Back on his ship, he signaled the Experiment for her captain to come aboard. Rentone still possessed favorable capital with the Admiral and James needed it.

He stepped into his day cabin and shut the door. Everywhere he looked reminded him of what he'd done the day before, and he leaned back against the door with a full-body shiver, shutting his eyes, fearing for his sanity for the tenth time in as many hours.

On his desk, he uncovered the soundings, and stared for a moment at the familiar handwriting, annotated beneath with his tight print. Then he noticed something else.

Right before he'd gone aboard the Worcester the day before, he'd left a letter from Swann on top of the pile of papers—a personal letter. It was no longer there. Flipping quickly through the papers, he found it near the bottom. He had no memory of moving it. He hadn't noticed in the morning when he'd grabbed the purser's accounts, but he noticed now, and his memory for such details was beyond question. Someone had gone through his things.

It was probably Sparrow—the man had no notion of personal boundaries at all. The top of James's desk contained no sensitive information—he kept the private signals and secret papers locked up—but he didn't like the idea of Sparrow rifling through them. On a whim, he knelt to examine the lock on the bottom drawer where the secret signals resided. And there it was: scoring around the keyhole, where someone had attempted to force it.

He sat down on the floor, sick to his stomach. Surely Sparrow hadn't betrayed him—but why not? He loved to think he'd domesticated the man, but it was absurd to believe that Sparrow might suddenly reverse the habit of a lifetime and confine his dishonesty to one political side. Men did not change their natures any more than wild beasts.

For ten minutes, he sat with his forehead on his knees. After the shock had passed, a bit of cold reason crept in. Sparrow would never submit to the risks of double-agency; he was too self-interested for that. Yet it was hard to ignore what a perfect double agent he would make—through James, he had access to a wealth of intelligence on the English fleet. True, the Spanish had never behaved as though they held privileged information, and there was the matter of the spy, el paisano—but what if he was Sparrow's invention, a decoy to cover Sparrow's own activities? James had only ever seen evidence of him in Sparrow's copied hand. His mind raced back and forth. He was still holding the harbor soundings, and he unfolded them again. Could they be trusted? Once Rentone arrived, would James be spreading poison through the fleet?

In all the bloody mess of this war, one thing had kept him going: that Sparrow was his friend. If that were gone—he wasn't certain his wits could weather it. However, the words on his commission were clear. He would do his duty, whether it destroyed him or not.

He stole a Spanish uniform and musket from the back of a cart—returned from burials, most likely, since it was full of personal effects—and made for the city gate. He'd learned Spanish in New Grenada so he wasn't worried about his accent this time, but he didn't cut a very spit-and-polish figure. He stuffed his hair into his cap and hoped for the best.

"Name and battalion?" shouted a guard from the gate.

"Er... Joaquín Gorrión." He checked his uniform. "Aragón battalion." At least he thought those were the fellows in green.

"Where have you been?"

"Out scouting."

"The major didn't tell us anything about returning scouts."

"It must have slipped his mind. Look, can you let me in? I'm feeling a bit exposed out here."

The men laughed and opened the gate. Nothing warmed people up to a fellow like cowardice.

The streets were empty of anyone other than soldiers. Most of the townspeople had fled into the countryside, and the ones who were left apparently thought locking their doors would help. Either that, or they didn't like soldiers. A few men looked at him strangely—he obviously wouldn't have passed any sane muster—but no one stopped him. He tried to bear himself in fine military fashion, and followed the trail of soldiers back to their hive.

At headquarters, he was disappointed to find only one harried lieutenant-colonel and no Lezo or Eslava. After twenty minutes of eavesdropping, he concluded that the Admiral and the Viceroy had removed to San Lázaro once they had lost their quarters on the Galicia. Jack chuckled. He may not have been the pirate he once was, but he had his moments.

Chewing over the problem of how he was going to get into the fort, he crept along side streets, attaching himself to the back of a marching column every so often, which led him across the bridge from the suburb of Getsemaní into the city center. At once the buildings became grander, full of soaring white arches and plazas with fountains. The Spanish couldn't be blamed for not wanting to give the place up.

As he walked along a palm-lined avenue, a low building with a flat red roof caught his eye—mostly because it was surrounded by soldiers. He knew that the more guns, the more shiny stuff was inside, but there was no way he could get past all those soldiers to investigate. He cast around, looking for something to use as a distraction. Then he remembered his uniform.

"What do you want?" asked the guard.

"Need to have a word with the store-keeper," said Jack, straightening his back and speaking with what he hoped was a military snap. "Lieutenant-Colonel's orders."

The guard shrugged and stepped aside.

Jack skipped down the rows of barrels stacked ceiling-high. So here was where they'd put everything off those lovely treasure galleons. Some of it had probably already been traded, but there was still enough to burst King George's coffers. Drawing a knife out of his boot, he pried loose the lid of a nearby hogshead, and gasped at what he found inside.

Jesuit's bark. He pried open half a dozen more barrels nearby. All of them contained the spongey red chips that the Indians had been using to treat tropical fevers for centuries. If the English Army had a few barrels of this—

"Thanks, gentlemen," he chirped to the guards as he left. All thoughts of infiltrating the fort forgotten, he hurried out of the city, eager to make his signal to Norrington before the light died.

Rentone traced the mouth of the harbor with his finger. "I can't say, sir. I know that these shoals in the channel are right, and the width of the channel certainly looks right, but the rest—I simply can't say."

James sighed. "I received this chart from an intelligence source I cannot name. I have since come to suspect that this source is not entirely trustworthy."

"Well, if we try to sound the water anywhere near the city walls, we risk running aground or getting shot, so the only thing for it is—well, is to reckon whether you trust your source."

"Dammit, Rentone—" James sat. "I don't know what to do."

With orders to copy the chart, Rentone returned to his ship. On deck, James scanned the coast of Tierra Bomba with a heavy heart. His breath caught on a spot of white.

After the sun set, he went ashore under the pretext of meeting with Armstrong. Lantern in one hand and compass in the other, he picked his way inland, over patches of marsh, through dense copses, around scummy pools of standing water. Sparrow's instructions were clear, at least—west by north from his landing place, five hundred paces. James counted off the paces as best he could on the terrain, and the five hundredth landed him in a clearing. It was empty.

Weary and desolate, James lifted his eyes—and there was the moon, huge and yellow just above the trees, as abruptly present as a face. The dead hum of insects filled his mind, in the hot still air that seemed to have no knowledge of human voices. Sparrow had been such a lambent thought once, a bright thing far above the horror, but now he was one more part of this muddy nightmare. Yet what if James was wrong about him? He didn't trust himself. All was dark.

Norrington turned toward him, his tall figure uncoiling, his lips pressing into a line.

"Ah-ah!" Jack held up a finger. "Just... come here."

He led Norrington by the hand into the undergrowth. "I assumed you had longer strides," he said.

"I assumed you meant to get me lost in the woods."

Jack grinned. "Show a little trust, mate." He squeezed Norrington's hand. "I've got interesting news for you. An' you for me, I'd imagine, related to whatever had your breeches in a bunch yesterday. That admiral of yours requires pirate tactics."

"I tried. It was—somewhat less than a success."

Norrington's voice was strange—flat, somehow, and reluctant. He didn't return Jack's grasp, merely letting Jack tug him along. They stepped out into another clearing. "See?" said Jack. "The ground's drier here."

Norrington looked around, dazed. Jack pushed him down onto an army blanket he'd spread under a tree. "Now, before we talk..." He covered Norrington's mouth with his.

Norrington didn't kiss back. Lamenting that he couldn't have got involved with someone normal, Jack kissed more insistently, following Norrington as he pulled away.

"Dammit, Sparrow." A gentle push. "Can we talk and not fuck for just a moment?"

"Where I'm from, we call this kissing," said Jack.

"For God's sake!"

This was not Norrington's usual coy distress. He was hugging himself like he was cold. Jack let him go.

"Tell me your information." Norrington appeared to get hold of himself. "The reason you raised the signal."

"Ah." Jack stretched out on his side. "I had a peek into the customs-house today. The sick men in your Army would be very interested in what I found: Jesuit's bark."

Norrington blinked. "Oh."

Jack grinned. "Just gotta figure out how to steal it."

"That—does pose a problem."

"Give me a bit of time an' opportunity, an' there's nothing I can't steal."

"Except your ship."

Jack glared at him. "Oi, no need to rub it in!"

Norrington was staring into the darkness. Their encounters were always lubricated by this silly banter, but this time he was barely paying attention. Jack pushed him flat. "Enough business."

Norrington gazed up at him strangely. "You used to hate me," he murmured.

"A little." Jack kissed his jaw. "Still wanted to fuck you, though."

Norrington gave a startled laugh. Jack got up on his elbows. "Want to hear what I thought about doing to you?"

"No." Norrington shut his eyes. "I want you to do it."

"W-what?" Through a surge of arousal, Jack heard the strange flatness of Norrington's voice.

Norrington tightened his hold on Jack's waist. "Just rummage around in that indexed file of yours," he said, "find something from those days when you loathed the sight of me, and do... it... to... me."

Jack blinked into Norrington's unfocused gaze. The Commodore had surprised him so far with his willingness to let Jack run the show, but this was something new, this request for—what? Abuse? Punishment?

He didn't need to be told twice. "Just remember you asked for it," he muttered, seizing Norrington's wrists and pinning them. "Just remember that."

Of all the ideas he could have pulled from his file, he chose the simplest, the one right on top. He had to imagine that Norrington was lying across his big cherrywood desk in Fort Charles, but otherwise, it was just as he'd pictured—the brushed and polished Commodore beneath him, lips parted, eyes half-closed, watching Jack tear open the fine tailored uniform. To his disappointment, buttons didn't go flying—what a terrible time for good craftsmanship. Still, the fabric tore a bit. He seized the collar of the ruffled shirt and split it down to the hem. Norrington hissed and arched, but kept still, watching him.

In the light, he really was as beautiful as Jack had feared. Jack didn't want to hurt him or teach him some kind of lesson, not really. He wasn't deeply imaginative about these things—mostly he just liked a warm, willing person who'd let him put his prick where he wanted. He slipped his thumb into Norrington's mouth and growled at the instant suction. Should he...? Well, he had two places in mind for his prick to go and he had a feeling he would only get away with one of them. There was no telling how long this mood of Norrington's would last.

Shoes, stockings and breeches went by the board. Norrington held oddly still, but he was breathing hard, his skin was flushed and damp, his cock was rigid against his belly, and he made a pleased sound every time Jack bit him or kissed him somewhere sensitive. Jack pulled his hips forward so he could kneel between his thighs. Good Lord, what a sight. Half nude in the ruins of a brand new uniform and a thirty-guinea wig nearly out of its tie—God had never made anything so beautiful. He fought his sash and belt off, eased his breeches down, and lowered himself on top of his squirming victim.

"This is what you wanted to do to me?" Norrington sounded bewildered.

"What, not cruel enough for you?" Jack sat back up and reached for the unlit lantern at the edge of the blanket. "No complaints, now. You did say whatever I wanted."

Norrington tensed when Jack's slippery hand went between his legs, and his prick lost some of its ardor for the few moments it took Jack to reach that spot that made all men question everything they thought they knew. After that, there seemed no reason to wait. The pain in Norrington's cry was an echo of that first terrible night when they'd kissed and clung together, hiding from death. Jack gripped the sweaty backs of Norrington's knees and closed his eyes, falling into the blissful trance of fucking, listening with a smile to Norrington's panting breaths, his little groans, his occasional mournful cry. "Sweet lad," Jack murmured. "Sweet, sweet lad..."

He hadn't meant to be so gentle, but he felt too at peace to drudge up old rancors. His hand found its way to Norrington's prick and Norrington tightened around him with a grateful sob, and they came together that way, hot and slippery and saying each other's names into the warm night that had gone silent around them.

As Jack put his clothes to rights, Norrington stirred, then sat up and ran a hand over his tousled wig, muzzy and confused. Jack passed him his breeches. They dressed in what Jack thought was companionable silence, until he leaned in for a kiss and was firmly put off.

He sighed. "All right. Now what?"

"Sparrow." Norrington rubbed his temples. "I—I must ask you something."

Jack rolled his eyes. The Commodore was incapable of simply enjoying himself without thinking, and somehow it had become Jack's job to humor his crisis of morality or masculinity or whatever it was that was eating him.

"Did you go through my papers?" Norrington asked.

Jack frowned. "Say what?"

"On the Dauntless. My desk, my papers—the drawer containing the secret signals. Sparrow—" Norrington sucked in a deep breath. "I fear you've been playing me for a fool."

"Prove me wrong!" James cried, his confidence disappearing. "Show me some evidence that you have been honest with me. Help me understand—show me your real agenda in this—"

"I've been quite frank about what I want," said Sparrow coldly: "my ship."

"And for all I know, the Spanish promised it to you as well!"

"The Spanish tried to hang me!"

"So did I! And yet somehow we got past it." James was for Sparrow to understand the logic of his doubt. "How can I be sure you don't have the same deal with them?"

"Listen, you bloody halfwit." Sparrow got to his feet. "I wouldn't even be here if I weren't—if I—" He threw up his hands. "I've put my arse in harm's way a dozen times this week, for you—not for bonny old England, not for Admiral soddin' Vernon, but for you. And now you think I've choused you? You—you colossal—you ungrateful—grah!" He grabbed his head.

James tried to detach himself. It could all be nothing but a display. His heart wanted to believe Sparrow—needed to, desperately—but his heart was so rarely his friend.

There was only one thing to do. "I release you from your obligation," James said softly. "Go home. Or wherever it is you go."

Sparrow stared at him, dumb and stunned, before his eyes hardened with fury. "Just like that? After I nearly got meself shot just so you—"

"We were enemies, Sparrow!" James pleaded. "It would only make sense for you to deceive me. I could hardly even blame you for it. Rationally, why should I not suspect you? How can I be certain of you?"

"You know what?" Sparrow bent over and picked up his hat. "You can't. You're right, Commodore—our association ought to end. Farewell, then." He turned toward the edge of the clearing.

A lump rose in James's throat. "Sparrow!"

Sparrow stopped and looked over his shoulder, his eyes cold.

"Take care of yourself," said James.

"Oh, I will. 'Bout bloody time I did." And he vanished into the shadows.

Just like that—it was all over. With the veil lifted, he thought back on the last few weeks with horror. Some alien impulse had possessed him, one opposed to everything he was, and now just as he had decided to surrender to it, all was swept away. Only his stupidity remained, and his bewilderment, as though he'd woken up to find he'd sleepwalked into a busy street.

So, what now? He tried to remember what his life had been like before Norrington. He had to go on to Havana, like he should have done before. That meant he would have to find a way out of Cartagena, which was a problem. His only option was to walk sixty miles to Santa Marta, which didn't sound like much fun. One night wasn't going to make much difference, and what he wanted more than anything was to be drunk. His uniform made a good passport into a tavern. Or a brothel. Now, there was an idea. Nothing banished the memory of lost love like new love.

In the Getsemaní district, he found a promising establishment. The air was heavy with smoke, perfume, liquor, sex—perfect. He sank down at a gummy table and waved over a well-built girl. Damn, but he'd missed women. "Rum, darling. Keep it coming."

In due time, he had a lapful of solicitous whore. "Hand me my drink, would you, darling? There's a good girl." He took a deep gulp. The girl looked impressed when he surfaced again. "You know," he said to her bosom, "women are so much kinder than men. You have no idea."

She cackled. "I have no idea? I know exactly what cruel bastards men are." She kissed his cheek. "Present company excluded, of course."

"Of course." Jack sighed. They were so soft and round... he laid his head on top of them. "Wish the world was full of women," he said, closing his eyes. The rum was working. "No men at all..."

"Well, this world's full of women," said the whore, shaking him a little. "If you get my meaning."

"Oh, I get it. But, er, not just yet. The liquor's made me a bit—you know."

"Maybe you just need more company." The whore waved over one of her sisters. "Maria! This young gentleman wants to get rid of all the men in the world."

The new whore sat on Jack's other thigh. "Oh, they aren't so bad, some of them," she said, stroking his beard.

"I'll tell you what I hate about them," said Jack, straightening himself. "The way they lead you on and make you crawl through coals for it, then act like it was all your idea."

The whores looked at each, confused.

"And—and they act like they've done you a favor by screwing you!"

The girls were catching on.

"And they get you to do all sorts of terrible things for them—and then they tell you how terrible you are!"

"Here's to that!" said one of the whores. "Bloody bastards," said the other. "Always up on their high horses."

"High horse. Exactly. I know a fellow whose horse is so high—" he paused for a deep gulp, "—whose horse is so high he could look up the moon's skirt."

The girls roared with laughter.

Ten minutes later, a small crowd of them were perched on and around him. "All sorts of pretty things come out of their mouths!" said one. "But damned if they've forgotten every word of it by morning!"

"Hear, hear!" Jack called. "Don't ever believe a word a man says."

"We know you're nothing like that, love," said the whore on Jack's left knee.

"What? Oh, of course not. Never had any complaints, myself. But men in general—a useless lot." He planted his face firmly between the bosoms of the girl on the right. After a moment, he snored.

He woke in the morning on the street. Sitting up, he held his head and considered the walk to Santa Marta. His ship was out there, waiting for him, but it was so terribly far. He picked himself up and went in search of a bottle.

He wandered through the streets, and eventually plopped down against a wall. Only later did he realize it was the back of the battalion's headquarters. Half-drunk, he listened to two soldiers talking a few yards away around a corner.

"...Admiral ordered the fort abandoned, but he left a little present behind for the English..."

Jack's eyes snapped open.

Conquestador and Dragón sat in the channel with their broadsides turned out. Over the last three hours, James had watched boats run back and forth as seven galleons were sunk on either side of the shoal. If Don Blas decided to sink those last two ships, the channel would be blocked. Still, James received no orders. So he watched.

With nothing to do, he thought of Sparrow.

He could barely believe what he had let Sparrow do to him. Still, his introduction to sodomy seemed like a minor concern compared to the blunder he'd made afterward. As much as he imagined there to be some great distance between them, the truth was that by now he knew Sparrow, and if he'd listened to his intuition for once instead of falling back into his habitual paranoia, he'd have trusted the man. He knew by now that Sparrow was dishonest, but not cold-blooded. For all his disguises, he was never truly anything but Sparrow. Something in James was simply suspicious of happiness in any form, it seemed. That would explain a lot.

Through his spyglass, he watched the Spanish boats come and go. In the afternoon, a number of launches crowded around the rocky base of Castillo Grande on the western side of the channel—they were loading stores into the boats, and men. They were evacuating.

James dispatched this news to the Admiral, and resumed his vigil.

The bell tolled away the afternoon watch. Aboard the Princess Caroline, the admirals and generals were meeting to discuss the assault on the city. James had been exiled from these meetings after the incident with the dugout hulks. Although no one had formally accused him of anything, he was now out of favor, with no more power to influence events. He'd managed to make a mess of everything, apparently. The pain of his failures settled in his stomach and lay there like undigested meat. He thought of Sparrow again and cursed himself, then cursed Sparrow, then cursed everything. Each time, it happened this way. Each time, he ruined what fortune gave him.

Late that night, the officer of the watch called him on deck. By the light of the moon, he could make out what was happening: Conquestador and Dragón were sinking in the channel. He watched them list over and slide under the water with a great churning rush of sea. It was over in a few moments, and then the black water was empty again. Two mighty ships lost. He should have felt something, but all was still and blank inside him. He went back to his bunk.

In the morning, he received his orders. "All hands to unmoor," he bellowed on deck. "Stand in for Castillo Grande."

They drew close enough to draw the fort's fire, if there was anyone left—but the guns were silent. They dropped anchor, and went ashore.

James entered the fort with fifty seamen and a hundred soldiers at his back. "Well," he said, gazing around the deserted parade ground, "we are masters of another empty house, it would seem." He sent men to scour the place from top to bottom to be sure it was empty, and went to set up his command center, for all that he would need it.

By afternoon, most of the guns had been rendered serviceable again—they were still mounted and they had been poorly spiked. Don Blas had left James a cistern full of soggy gunpowder, but James had his own powder stores. Should they need to fight from the fort, they were ready. But there would be no need. Vernon had put James ashore here to keep him busy and out of the way.

"Sir," said Forrest, running up. "There's something you must see.

On the door of the Commandant's quarters was a note. In Sparrow's flamboyant hand, it read, Don't open this door.

"Get the scaling ladders," James said to the Marine captain. "Look in through the windows of that room and report what you see. Carefully, if you please."

Twenty minutes later, the men returned with news that the room was stacked high with powder kegs, and to the door handle was rigged a length of yarn tied to a mechanism that appeared to be a flintlock.

"Good God," James breathed. He'd never have expected such savagery from Don Blas. Then it occurred to him that Don Blas might have expected the new tenant of those quarters to be the Admiral.

And Sparrow—Sparrow had warned him, perhaps risking his own life to do so. A little flame of joy leapt in the blackness of his breast. It proved nothing—meant nothing—could even have been staged—but across the distance, he could feel Sparrow's will, and he knew, despite the cold verdict of his mind, what a fool he'd been.

But one note of warning did not mean Sparrow was coming back. It simply meant James could tear himself apart with regret while he lay sleepless in his new bed. Even more than usual, anyway.

That night, Gillette came ashore. He'd been promoted into the Prince Frederick, and Beauclerk hung between them like an ugly secret, unacknowledged but acutely felt. They dined in James's bare quarters, both struggling to fill the silences, both mourning their former ease.

"It's getting worse," said Gillette, chewing his cold meat. "This business between Vernon and Wentworth. They're at it like schoolboys."

James nodded. "No good will come of it," he said. There was nothing further to say that was permissible, so they finished their supper without another word.

He lay in bed, eyes open, listening to the silence. It wouldn't last; soon the fleet would pass into the inner harbor and the bomb-ketches would begin firing on the shore. He longed for the sound of cannonfire to drown out his thoughts.

There was a rustle outside the window, and a familiar form hoisted itself inside. James sat up, heart swelling. But Sparrow just crouched there, watching him.

After a moment, Sparrow said, "I assume, since you are not in a thousand little pieces, that you got my note."

James bowed his head. "I'm afraid I've been a little—unfair."

"Ha! Unfair, he says." Sparrow hopped down from the window. "You know, Commodore, it occurs to me that I've made this all rather easy for you."

"What do you mean?"

"I take the risks an' bring you the spoils, which you accept or reject. I climb in your window, not unlike I'm doin' now, an' you let me screw you or you don't. But you, my dear friend, rarely lift a finger."

James frowned. "What would you have me do?"

"Anything! Just—take a bit of bloody responsibility, since you're always on about it!"

"Responsibility?" James gaped. "Sparrow, I am absolutely weighted to the ground with responsibility."

"A certain kind, perhaps. But when it comes to this—" he gestured between them, "—you're a bloody coward."

"I didn't hear you complaining the other night," James muttered.

"Oh no, I'll grant it was lovely—right up to when you made me out for Judas."

"Sparrow, I was a fool, I concede, please—"

Sparrow waved his hand. "I don't mean to put the bloody screws to you. I just think someone ought to share a bit of the burden." He glared. "Someone bein' you." He lifted his chin, and the moonlight washed over his brow and cheeks, sinking his eyes into deep shadow. "Why don't you show me some evidence that you've been—honest with me?"

"I swear it, Sparrow, I—" He stopped, sensing that something other than words were necessary, but not knowing what. Terror filled him—the same terror he'd felt on the parapet with Elizabeth, when he'd given her that prepared speech instead of telling her how totally he adored her. But he'd been afraid she would pull away. He got up and advanced on Sparrow, his heart in his throat. Sparrow didn't pull away, but neither was he particularly warm. He didn't move at all.

After a moment of hesitation, James leaned in to kiss him carefully. Sparrow endured it. James kissed his cheeks, his brow. Sparrow didn't move. Frustrated, James sank to his knees and wrapped his arms around Sparrow's waist, and a hand came to rest on his head. It wasn't a caress so much as an acknowledgement.

"I think it's time I went back to lookin' after me own interests," sighed Sparrow, not unkindly. "Havana calls."

James swallowed. "You have every right to leave."

Sparrow shook his head. "Try again."

"Sparrow, please stay."

"Wasn't so hard, was it?" Sparrow grinned joylessly. "Nope, I've had enough. Not much more I can do for you here, anyway. It's been nice, but it's also been bloody stupid, an' there's no way I can keep callin' meself a pirate if I stay a moment longer." He gently detached James's arms from his waist and climbed to the window sill. "I'll think fondly of ya," he said, and hopped out of sight.

James knelt on the stone floor and bent so that his brow touched his knees. That was it, then—one more dream ended. It had been like something out of another life, and now he was back in his own. He knew his duty; he knew why he must get up in the morning. One foot in front of the other. It had always worked before.

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