Between Wind and Water

Chapter 10:
In which the battle tries to claim another casualty

by

Rex Luscus

Drinking enough to forget his own name hadn't made it stop hurting. What a laugh—he had real things to worry about, and all he could think of was Norrington's pale skin under his rumpled uniform, his soft sounds of surprise at his own pleasure, his half-open mouth wet from kissing. Jack hoped it would get better.

He counted the paces from one tree to another, shaking his head to disgorge from his pickled brain where he'd put his clothes. Then a voice behind him said, "You there!"

Slowly he turned. A Spanish sergeant of the volunteer regiment stood with pistol drawn. "What are you doing? If you're deserting, this bullet has your name on it."

"No, not deserting!" Jack saluted. "I was—well, it's embarrassing." The sergeant made an impatient motion with his hand. "You see," said Jack, "I was meeting a girl."

The man rolled his eyes. "Just get back to the fort. What's your company?"

"Er—" Jack consulted his memory of the conversations he'd overheard in the last few days. "D?"

The sergeant sneered. "You're drunk. Well, never mind, report back. I won't say a word if you hurry." He brandished his gun. "Well? Go!"

Jack had no desire to go to the fort. That was the last place he wanted to be. But the ill-tempered sergeant followed him until they reached the entrance, and once he was inside, there was no getting out.

It seemed absurd, with all these other uniforms around to blend in with, that he shouldn't be able to slip away. But as soon as he'd joined his company—the sergeant made sure he did—his captain seemed to be watching at every moment. Whenever he looked idle, he was given something new to do, usually something that demanded his whole attention and didn't allow him time to plan his escape.

At last he managed to break away and creep along the north-facing galleries where there was little activity, looking for a way out. Then the sound of raised voices drew him to a door near the northeast bastion.

"You foolish little brat!" came a cultured roar from inside the room. Jack crept up to it and peered through the barred window. In a cushioned seat with his wooden leg on the floor and his good leg bandaged on a stool slouched Don Blas de Lezo. His face was gray and his forehead glistened with sweat. "You'll sink us," he snarled at someone out of sight, twisting his sculpted lips. "You lost us the outer harbor defenses and you're going to lose everything else."

"Don't speak to me that way, old man!" came Eslava's higher voice, sharp and reedy. "I represent the King here, and I've decided and that's final."

"Yes, forget that it is a dangerous waste of time and it won't work!"

Jack had a sixth sense for opportunity, and there was something he could use here, he knew it, despite having no idea what they were talking about.

"Everything from Spain for the whole year is in that customs-house." Don Blas leaned forward with obvious pain. "And you want to leave it unguarded?"

"Skillfully hidden is as good as guarded, can't you understand that? Then we can post those soldiers in the forts where we need them!"

Just like that, it came together. Jack forgot all about the danger he was in, the approaching battle that was about to sweep him up, and put his mind to planning. For five more minutes, he crouched behind the door, listening to the argument and forming ideas. Then the door opened, knocking him back into the corridor, and the gravity of his circumstances returned.

"You, soldier," said Eslava, holding out a letter. "Take this to the lieutenant-colonel, to be conveyed to the English camp at once. Hurry!"

He held the letter up to the light, but all he could make out was that it was addressed to Vernon and Wentworth. An idea occurred to him. Norrington might be with the Admiral—unlikely, but he had to try. In the guard-house, he found a lamp and rolled the wick into a makeshift pencil, then scrawled a short message on the back of the letter. He didn't dare to hope, but this situation was nothing if not funny, and Jack was counting on fate to give Norrington another reason to laugh at him.

"How can I possibly rely on these?" said Vernon, staring at the chart as though it were a spider that had crawled onto his plate. James had to admit that it was a valid question.

"My source is reliable," James protested, feeling helpless. "You may trust these soundings as though I took them myself."

Vernon glared at him. "I'm getting tired of this secret spy of yours," he muttered. "I don't want to hear another word about it." James followed the Admiral topside, where he climbed down to his waiting barge. "And by the way, if you mention this to Wentworth, your career is over." He glared up at James. "Well? Are you coming?"

They rowed across the choppy harbor in silence while James's mind churned. He was back in favor now that there was talk of raising a battery agains the city, but he was on probation, and nobody was interested in his opinion these days. Otherwise, he would have told the Admiral and the General that batteries were useless—the Army needed the support of the fleet, and ships couldn't get close enough to bombard the city or the fort without accurate soundings of the inner harbor. By refusing James's chart, Vernon was deliberately withholding his aid, and people were going to die for it.

In the camp, Wentworth's headquarters were crowded with staff officers. James heard his high, quavering voice inside: "Can someone tell me what the devil they're saying?"

James and Vernon ducked under the flap. Three civilians stood around the General's desk, gesturing and talking in Spanish all at once.

"He says they can lead the columns up to the accessible sides of the fort," said James. The men looked at him gratefully. "He says you'll need guides if you're going to attack in the dark."

The General sniffed. "Who's he to say when I'll be attacking?" There was a pause; everyone knew the attack had to come before dawn to avoid the crushing noonday heat. "Norrington," he said at last, "debrief these men, if you please."

"You are deserting, then?" James asked the three men in Spanish once they'd retired to the back of the tent. "Why have you joined us?"

"We know a lost cause when we see it," said one. "We want to be on the winning side. Maybe we'll get to keep our homes."

James didn't disabuse him of this notion. "Can you give any proof that you're being honest?"

They shrugged. "You'll just have to trust that we're dishonest blackguards who value our skins more than our country," said another.

One could always trust a dishonest man to be dishonest; James had learned and then unlearned that. But something told him these men were nothing like Sparrow.

There were shouts outside, and a man burst into the tent surrounded by soldiers. The three deserters quickly turned away; the man was a Spaniard. "From the Admiral and the Viceroy," he said, handing a letter to Wentworth.

The General took it and read it, then handed it mutely to Vernon, who read it and tossed it down. "Mere empty taunts," he said to the white-faced Wentworth, despite his own obvious anger. James took up the discarded letter—but he never read it, because a smudged and barely legible scrawl on the back caught his eye. It was Sparrow's hand, and it read: Got pressed. Send help.

Jack stumbled with his company to the bottom of the San Lázaro fort's steep glacis, where rows of men were excavating a trench. It was clever, really—lower the ground so that the English scaling ladders couldn't clear the fort walls. Jack hadn't done any honest-to-God manual labor since he'd been a foremast hand all those years ago. He was used to running and jumping and occasionally banging around with a sword; digging ditches called for muscles he didn't have. He slid down the counterscarp into the ditch and got in line with the other men, where he bit his shovel into the ground with all the force he could and heaved the earth up onto the lip of the trench, then bit it in again. Within minutes, his back was on fire.

"You!" shouted a sergeant. "Dig faster or by God you'll be doing it with your teeth!"

Miserable, Jack thrust his shovel in deep, pressed it down with his foot, and lobbed the earth above his head. Thrust, lift, lob. There was no way out, and it was hard to stay alert to opportunity when his body was so tired. As it grew hotter and his back began to throb, his mind went to sleep. His body drove on, thrusting, lifting, lobbing. In his delirium, he imagined tunneling to the Antipodes, away from Cartagena, far from the dreary mess Norrington had involved him in. A sharp pain kept him away from thoughts of Norrington. If only he'd never laid eyes on the man.

Night fell. He staggered back up the hill to the fort with the rest of the men, sat with them for his supper of pork and biscuit, then collapsed on a pallet in the barracks. At no time was he ever out of sight of an officer, and he was too exhausted to try anything. His body hurt from head to foot, he was starving despite his meal, and something like hopelessness had begun to settle over him. He wondered if Norrington had got his note. There was nothing the man could do anyway—if he even cared to.

His dreams were just anxious images succeeding one another: keels cutting through dark water, Don Blas's sick and drawn face, torches flaring, Norrington's green eyes full of wariness and guilt, and under it all, the endless rhythm of digging.

It was still dark when voices woke him from his shallow sleep. "Gun crews to the hill batteries!" Someone hauled him to his feet. Stupid with sleep, he followed his company out of the barracks and down the hill to where the great guns were mounted.

Jack knew how to fire a cannon, but he had not done it in some time, and his mind was still asleep. Someone put a handspike in his hand and he stared at it dumbly, then at the men who were ramming the cartridge and shot down the muzzle, and then someone was yelling at him. Jerking to life, he applied his spike the way he remembered, then leapt away as the gun captain touched off the charge. The blast rattled all sense from his head. It occurred to him as the smoke cleared, as the men hurried around sponging and worming and loading, that he'd just helped fire on the English—but Norrington hadn't come to his rescue and there was nothing he could do about it now, not if he didn't want a musket ball in his cowardly back.

The sun rose. They fought their gun in the growing heat, loading, aiming, firing, loading, aiming, firing, and Jack couldn't even get a good look at who or what he was firing at. The hill dropped off sharply below the breastwork where the guns were emplaced, and somewhere below, men were toiling up the incline, but he couldn't see them. An hour after the sun had risen, the small arms fire began, knocking down a man every so often. Shortly after that, granadoes came sailing over the crest. As he was levering the gun into position, one struck him square in the forehead and he went down, then turned his head to see it hissing not a foot from his nose. His breath halted and his bowels went cold. Then the hissing stopped.

The sun climbed the sky. More men went down under musket fire and the gun crews thinned. Soon he was ramming home the cartridges as well as plying his handspike, and he struggled to keep up the pace. The men around him were blank and sweaty. He glanced around at them periodically and wondered how he'd feel about running off and leaving them there to die. Pretty good, he concluded. But there was no way, not with the officers behind them.

There was a high-pitched shout, and Jack turned and ran without thinking a moment before the overheated gun exploded, throwing him twenty feet onto his face. He groaned where he lay, and held still. The dead were the lucky ones, and the best thing to do, at least for now, was to join their company. He shut his eyes.

James didn't plan on sleeping. It was two o'clock in the morning, and by now Guise's troops, all twelve hundred of them, would be parading on the beach in prelude to the assault. James didn't know Colonels Wynyard and Grant very well, but he disliked the land officers on principle, most of whom seemed too preoccupied with being gentlemen to make sure their soldiers were properly trained. The troops from the American colonies were particularly green, and with the Army decimated by disease, they made up a large portion of what was left.

He'd finally been satisfied with the deserters. They weren't intelligent enough to carry off a deception, and their cowardly desire to be on the winning side was real enough. His experience with real spies had taught him something about the reliability of rascals, and so with a pre-dawn assault inevitable, he'd advised Wentworth to make use of them, since no better guide was available.

The lights on shore gathered together. It would be soon now. James watched them through his night-glass and waited. There was a boom and a flash of light across the water—the bomb-ketches had begun to fire, and the muzzle flashes of the mortars lit up the water. They fired for an hour, clearing the countryside between the camp and the fort, and then stopped.

James dozed against the rail. He roused when his steward jostled his elbow and handed him a cup of coffee. The sky was pale gray, and Forrest was climbing the quarterdeck stairs, looking neat and brisk. "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, Mr. Forrest." James sipped his coffee and gestured toward the shore. "What can we make out so far?"

The gray light was still too diffuse to see much, but they could hear the guns in the fort batteries. Forrest had his spyglass out. "Looks like—Grant's column, skirting the bottom of the hill. They're making for the west entrance, but they're under fire. Looks like they've taken cover for now."

"Any sign of Wynyard's column?"

"No, sir."

James downed the rest of his coffee, took up his spyglass and trained it on the fort. Sparrow was in there, or down in the hill batteries, and James was powerless to help him. He watched the fort intently for a moment, as though he could pierce its sides to see through to Sparrow. Wynyard's column was supposed to be advancing up the broad road to the fort's east side, but he could see nothing of them.

"Sir!" said Forrest. "Look there!"

James moved his glass. A column of men had emerged from the woods on the south side of the fort—they must have lost their way in the dark—and were now struggling up the steep face where the fort could easily fire down into their midst.

"Good God," James breathed, lowering his glass.

Forrest looked stricken. "Do you think—" He stopped, but he'd certainly been about to mention the deserter guides. James swallowed. If those men had betrayed them and led Wynyard up the wrong slope, it would be on James's head.

"It's possible, Lieutenant," said James, replying to the question that hadn't been asked. "I hope it is not the case."

The sun was up now, burning through the mist and chasing off the dawn to show the battlefield on the sides of the hill. Grant's column was advancing from where they'd taken cover, and Wynyard's was being cut down. James could make out the men with the scaling ladders at the back, advancing more slowly than the grenadiers ahead. The sun was already blazing and it was only eight o'clock—a fine time for the sky to clear. Wynyard's column toiled on, moving in tiny increments up the hill as their numbers were steadily culled.

"This is madness," said James. Then he glanced at Forrest, and said nothing more.

The steward brought James and Forrest their breakfasts on deck while they watched the sun grow hotter and the black dots of the soldiers in their slow ascent. James wished Forrest would go away; he was sick with frustration and he hated having an audience for it. If Vernon had accepted those soundings, then at this very minute they could be aiding the Army and bombarding the fort. Instead, they all stood on their quarterdecks watching in impotent horror.

Yet—James couldn't entirely blame the man. He'd trusted the word of three deserters and possibly made a mistake that would cost hundreds of lives. He hadn't been able to give Vernon any great reason to trust those soundings either, and a man could only make a decision based on what he knew. Nevertheless, James knew why Vernon had refused to even look at those soundings; it had nothing to do with reasonable skepticism and everything to do with his hatred of Wentworth.

At noon, James sent a lieutenant across the water for a report. The man returned in half an hour.

"Colonel Grant is dead," he said. "His lieutenant-colonel is holding fast. Guise is ordering five hundred more men to reinforce the troops, to replace them that were used up."

"'Used up'?" James repeated.

The lieutenant pressed his mouth tight. "Those were the words the Brigadier used, sir."

The line of troops withdrew to expose a hillside scattered with bodies. James wondered what the Spanish losses were. Not great, since the British hadn't even reached the fort walls; only the gun crews on the hill batteries would be suffering heavily. James spared another weak hope for Sparrow.

The afternoon dragged on. Grant's column pushed to the top of the hill and struggled with their scaling ladders, but the Spanish had dug some kind of ditch, and the ladders fell short. A few men climbed them anyway and promptly fell under fire. Wynyard's column never made it to the top, slowed by the heat and the heavy fire and the steep incline. When the retreat finally came, the troops tumbled off the hill over the bodies of their comrades and melted back into the woods.

The sun set red and huge behind Boca Grande. Sparrow was out there, alive or dead. He had reached out to James for help and James had done nothing, since there was nothing he could do. Now, with night falling, he might be able to do something.

"I must go ashore," he said to Forrest.

"Sir?" Forrest looked uneasy. "Is this—is it about the deserters? I can find out if they were to blame—"

"It has nothing to do with the deserters." James gazed at Forrest's stoic face, and gathered his strength. "Mr. Forrest," he said, "listen carefully. One of my spies was caught up in the battle this afternoon, and I owe it to him to go and look for him. You must pledge me your confidence."

"You have it, sir." Forrest's grave look faltered. "But might I recommend changing out of your uniform? You're liable to get shot."

James smiled. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

He had no plan. Once ashore, he made as if for the General's tent, then veered toward the camp's edge. Wentworth, in his usual zeal for Army regulations, had posted a dozen sentries around the perimeter, and James didn't have Sparrow's talent for lying his way through. He crept through the reeds in mud up to his ankles, staying low, following the little creeks. At one point, he turned to see the profile of a man and a musket against the sky, and his foot made a loud splash that turned the sentry's head. He held still, trying to breathe silently, until the man looked away.

At last, he cleared the outer perimeter and struck out into the dark countryside. It was difficult hiking, marshy and veined with creeks he often didn't see before sinking in to his knees, but eventually he reached wooded ground and the road that ran under the fort. He began to come across the leavings of a retreating Army: guns, canteens, cartridge boxes, and the occasional body. He tried not to look as he passed, tried not to think about how he'd fixed his cares on one little life when so many others had been lost. He swallowed the guilt that always hung about his thoughts of Sparrow, and walked on.

At last he reached the base of the hill of San Lázaro. There were no sentries—everyone was shut up in the fort, it seemed. On the hill, bodies were everywhere. If Sparrow was dead in the fort, James would never know, but he had to look, and this was the only place he could look. He picked his way among the bodies, scanning faces, listening for breathing.

He wondered what he'd been expecting—to trip across Sparrow lying there? For the man to jump up and identify himself? The folly of what he was doing overtook him, and he stumbled over the rocky dirt, desolate, his unlit lantern scraping the ground.

Beneath the white stone of the fort stood the earthen parapets of the hill batteries. In the cloud-obscured moonlight, James could make out the black mouths of the gun muzzles. If there were any Spanish dead to be found outside, they would be there. James climbed toward them.

He clambered over the crest of the nearest one, and staggered back in horror, gorge rising. A gun had exploded, blowing her crew to pieces, all of which lay around the platform in a congealed swamp of blood. A few more bodies lay further off. James made his way to them and rolled one over with his foot. The man had been shot in the eye; the other eye stared ahead. He left the body for another one, which appeared to have been thrown by the blast of the gun. Blood pooled under it from a hundred wounds made by shards of flying metal. James rolled him over too, holding his breath. Not Sparrow. Then he heard a groan.

What could he do? He couldn't help a wounded Spaniard now. Dragging the man back across the creeks to camp would be impossible, and he couldn't very well knock on the fort's door. He made his way to the body that had groaned and rolled him over. Sparrow blinked up at him.

Relief crashed through him, then terror. "Sparrow, where are you injured?

Sparrow coughed. "Must've gone to sleep. All that swabbing an' loading an' firing an' swabbing an' loading an' bloody hell it never ends."

"Oh, Sparrow, you fool," James breathed, sinking to his knees, "you utter idiot. How did this happen?"

"Disguise gone wrong." Sparrow sat up, and went into James's arms without resistance. James pushed his heavy hair out of the way and kissed his neck while Sparrow lay like a sack in his embrace, arms hanging at his sides, forehead propped on James's shoulder.

"We should move," he murmured into Sparrow's hair. "Can you move?"

"If you give me a hand." Sparrow lifted his head, eyes bleary. "Where we goin'?"

"I don't know. Somewhere sheltered and outside the perimeter, since I can't very well sneak you into camp."

They staggered and skidded to the bottom of the hill and then to the edge of the trees, where James propped Sparrow against a log, then left him to return to camp. Among the tents, nobody looked at him—sick, wounded, dying men lay everywhere, groaning for help, and James squeezed his eyes shut as he passed them. When he returned to Sparrow an hour later, his stomach was churning from the smell of blood and the ache of his conscience. Again he felt the irrationality of putting Sparrow's life above the others, yet he could not regret it.

Sparrow was dozing against the log. James shook his shoulder gently and he shot up with a grunt. "Oh, it's you," he said, and settled again.

James unpacked a sack. "Here—blanket, bandages, water, biscuit and salt pork."

"Glad to see military cuisine crosses all nationalities." Sparrow snatched the canteen and came up for air a minute later. "So, Commodore, trust me now?"

"I always trusted you. I just—" James sighed and bent to kiss Sparrow's shoulder. "I was afraid, I suppose." He looked up and glared. "Is that so strange?"

"I guess not." Sparrow grinned fuzzily. "I like this new Commodore. This touchy kissy fellow."

James scowled. "You always like me better when I'm making a fool of myself."

"Aye, since it usually benefits me."

James sat down beside him. "It's just that I've become—more aware of the passage of time, of late."

"What, life is precious, that sort of thing?"

"I simply found that I have a habit of putting things off. What I thought was prudence was really cowardice. I sat at the bedside of my dying friend, thinking of all the things I ought to have told him..."

"Well, we're not dead." Sparrow sat up. "We've got time. We're shiverin' in the dew on the edge of a battlefield, but I've stolen a moment in worse situations."

James laughed, which became a gasp. "It's the damnedest thing," he said. "This has been an unending nightmare. I've lost things I can never replace and I've failed good men and I've seen things I shall never purge from my mind no matter how hard I try. Yet at the moment, I am—happy."

"Aye," said Sparrow sonorously. "Me too, I reckon. Though I'd be happier if the seat of me breeches weren't soaked through."

"Then sit on the blanket, you idiot."

They spread the blanket between the roots of a tree, and James struck a flint and lit the lantern. In the light, Sparrow's injuries were apparent: scrapes, powder burns, and a deep scoring cut at his hairline.

James mopped the blood carefully from Sparrow's brow. "You scared the hell out of me," he admitted.

"You? I scared the hell out of me. Dunno how you talked me into joinin' the Spanish army."

"I didn't!"

"Jus' kidding. Jesus, learn to laugh a little." And with that, Sparrow fell asleep.

Sometime after midnight, James awoke to Sparrow shaking him. They fucked frantically, leaving bruises, too eager to be tender. Afterward, they lay side by side, still not talking, staring at the sky between the branches and catching their breath.

As their sweat cooled, James said, "I suppose this is it."

"What is?"

"For us. Were one of us a woman and neither of us criminals, we could at least do this under a roof."

Sparrow laughed hoarsely. "You get used to it."

"Do you engage in these sorts of liaisons often?"

"Never tried it with someone like you," Sparrow shrugged. "Just with fellows outside the law."

"How much easier that must be."

"Aye, well, life outside the law ain't exactly easy."

"True."

They lay in silence for a while longer. At some point, James let his hand wander into Sparrow's.

"It did." James gave him a nod and went below for an hour of sleep.

When James came back on deck, Forrest said, "The General and the Admiral are both calling for councils of war. Wentworth is convening his people ashore, and principle sea officers are repairing aboard the flag."

"That doesn't include me, I suppose," said James. He wasn't surprised; he knew perfectly well that he wasn't back in Vernon's good graces, and he doubted he ever would be. "Tell the officer of the watch to keep me informed, Lieutenant."

The report came in two hours later. The Army had declared itself unable to continue without support from the fleet, and the fleet had declared such support unnecessary. The General and the Admiral weren't speaking to each other. Furthermore, the Army's water was failing and over two-thirds of the troops were sick, including a number of the principle officers.

"This must end," James muttered once the lieutenant reporting had left him. But there was no one to say it to.

That night, he went ashore. At the creek bed, he found Sparrow returned to his former piratical aspect, no army uniform in sight. "I took a walk," he said. "Pretty scenery around here."

"You could have been caught." James sat down beside him.

Sparrow accepted his dinner, a pudding from James's own table, and in exchange he passed James a bottle. "Dutch courage?"

"Where on Earth did you get that? And no, thank you."

Sparrow kept it and swigged between bites of pudding. "What's so Dutch about courage, anyway?" he asked, leaning back.

"I think that's the point," said James.

"Why not French courage, then? They're drunk enough. Or Russian courage? You want to meet an entire nation of drunkards, go no further."

James shook his head. "How are you feeling?"

"Marvelous. Ready to get back to work. Has the General given up yet, or is there still a chance of takin' this pile?"

"I don't know, to be honest. I suspect he's ready to withdraw, but I doubt that Vernon will let him. He'll shame him into spending his last man."

"Well, then, our task has changed."

James frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean we must now think up a way to make them quit so we can all get out of here."

"That would be wonderful—if I had any credit left with the Admiral."

"Who says we'll need it?"

"I take it you have an idea."

"Not yet. Give me time."

They sat quietly for a while, leaning against each other. Incrementally, James let his body relax and fit itself to Sparrow's. Everything was chaos and he didn't know what to do, so he just concentrated on the warmth of Sparrow's body and the slow lift and fall of his breathing. Gently, he set his anxieties aside—not to forget, but to lose track of for a while. Sparrow shifted, and then hands were carefully pulling off James's hat, and pushing off his coat, and laying him back. He lost orientation as the sky swung up above him, and then Sparrow's warm weight pressed him to the earth.

It was so strange. He didn't hesitate to name what he'd felt for Elizabeth, even for Beauclerk; it was so obviously love. He had no name for this thing with Sparrow—messy, confusing, generously mixed with frustration, but infinitely more exciting than those hopeless longings. This was out in the world, between them, a living thing. A runtish, unattractive thing, perhaps. Sparrow was more fascinating than beautiful. Even now, there there was a tendril of underworld smoke about him, with his lacquer-drop eyes smeared black like a houri's, and the mammonish glitter of his smile. One thought of the dull gleam of gems in the earth when one looked at him.

In the morning, the flagship signaled to the Dauntless.

"I need you at the general council of war, unfortunately," said Vernon once James had come aboard. "Wentworth will attempt to hide behind his precious regulations, and I must know whether the engineers are feeding us hogwash. Think you can manage it?"

James bowed, hiding his sneer.

The officers convened in Vernon's stateroom. All of the land officers looked pale and ill, and Wentworth had aged ten years. As foolish as they were, James felt sorry for them. Disease had not struck the fleet nearly so hard as it had the Army, who'd spent their nights on swampy ground without their tents and their days toiling under blistering sun.

"We cannot make another assault without support," said Wentworth, unable to meet the Admiral's eyes. "We need at least fifteen hundred more men, and it's clear now that the fort cannot be carried without a breach, and thus we must raise a battery—"

"We'll have no more talk of batteries, "growled Vernon. "You've led us down that garden path once already."

Wentworth opened his mouth, then closed it. "Nevertheless, we need more troops, more supplies, more help, Admiral. Your ships could bombard the fort, for one."

"How many times must I tell you?" Vernon shouted. "The water is too shallow for us to move our ships into position!" He sent a quelling glare at James. "We have our own rules and regulations, you know, and I will not risk my fleet on unnecessary shows of strength."

"Not even when we are risking our very lives just by remaining here?" Wentworth seemed to grow, his back straightening. "Just because you lost your blasted treasure fleet and now you hope to save face by standing on our shoulders? This is cowardice, Admiral—"

Vernon rose abruptly, pushed out his chair, and stormed out of the cabin.

Everyone sat in the following silence, listening to the mad call of the gulls outside the window. Then Rear-Admiral Ogle spoke. "I don't know where you expect those fifteen hundred men to come from, General, or where you'll find the time to raise another battery if we can expect it to take as long as the last time."

To Wentworth's left, Armstrong looked offended, but Wentworth spoke first. "Then we must re-embark the troops and leave this place," he said, sounding more assured than he ever had. "I cannot take that fort with what I have now. It's impossible."

Vernon stormed back in. "Nothing is impossible," he snarled, taking his seat again. "You'll do your duty, Wentworth, or I'll see you hanged for it."

Wentworth stared in bafflement, no longer angry or afraid but simply stunned. "Very well," he whispered. "May it be on your head."

The treasure fleet. Wentworth was right—it had always been about that damned treasure. James remembered the Admiral hungrily dividing up the future spoils from Cartagena as though that were the only part of this miserable expedition that mattered. When he went ashore that night, he said as much to Sparrow.

Sparrow smiled thoughtfully. "It's funny you should say so."

James raised a brow. "You have an idea."

"I have an idea," Sparrow agreed. "But I'll need Don Pedro."

James blinked. "How do you know about Don Pedro?"

"Please—give me some credit."

James blinked again. "Well, anyway. What are you going to do with him?"

"Allow me to start from the beginning. You see, while enlisted in the Spanish army, I overheard a conversation. The Viceroy, who's young an' fancies himself clever, an' the Admiral, who's old enough to be his father, have been giving Vernon and Wentworth a run for their money. Their most recent row contained some interesting information."

Sparrow paused, enchanted by his own storytelling. James nodded impatiently. "And?"

"Eslava had a brilliant idea: to protect the goods in the customs-house, all those wonderful riches from the treasure galleons, he proposed they move it all in the middle of the night to a secret location. They'd continue to treat the old place as though the swag were still there, an' only post a light guard on the new place so as not to draw attention." Sparrow shrugged. "Naturally, the old man thought this was idiotic. Nothin' stays secret in a besieged town, especially when there's men like me all over the place. But Eslava insisted an' he's the boss, so they did it."

James's eyes glittered. "So all the treasure for the year is sitting in a lightly guarded house somewhere."

"Exactly. 'Twould be no great trick to make off with some an' deliver it into the hands of the Army, thus assuaging your Admiral's lust for gold an' leavin' him free to call off this whole mad affair."

He wondered if it was merely exhaustion that made this seem like a brilliant idea, but he didn't have a better one, and it was possible that the Admiral, ruled by his pride, would relent if he could do so without losing face. He nodded. "Fine, fine. But how is Don Pedro going to help?"

"Leverage, mate."

Norrington shook his head. "We already tried that. Don Blas wouldn't even turn over a couple of South Sea factors to get him back."

"I could convince 'em he knows things. An' if he's fond of his hide, which I think he is, he won't argue."

"So where is this secret location?"

"Somewhere close to the Puente Heredia. The road over that bridge runs right under the fort on its way out of town. Dangerous, to be sure, so I'll be needin' a hostage."

"He could expose us both, you know. Don't you think Vernon is going to start noticing that prisoners under my protection keep going missing?"

"Do you want that loot or not?"

James sighed. "Just keep him alive. The man is in my care, and my conscience has already been taxed to its limit." He paused. "Keep yourself alive, too. Now, tell me what my part in all this will be."

"You can find a way to keep those bomb-ketches from firing on the road once I get the goods out of town, an' make sure the Army is in the right place at the right time."

"But how can I do that, short of telling them what's happening?"

"Dunno. Do I have to do all the work around here?"

"Very well." He shook his head, reminding himself that this was the sort of madness at which Sparrow excelled. "This had better work. I'm not sure I can save you a third time."

"It's slimy," Don Pedro moaned.

"And you'll soon be a slimy spot on these rocks if you don't hurry up."

The man sighed and crawled gingerly into the culvert. He made a sound of disgust as his hands and knees sank into the wet sucking floor. "You English are apes," he said as he dragged himself forward along the narrow tunnel.

"I resent that," said Jack. His smaller frame allowed him to walk bent over, sparing his hands and knees. "My dad was Irish. And I'll have you know I was baptized in the Roman Catholic Church, same as you." He smirked. "Didn't exactly stick, though, did it? Wonder if I could do it again, like laying on another coat of paint..."

"Don't you ever shut up?" growled the man.

"It's part of my plan to keep you off-balance."

Don Pedro shook his head. "You're the most incompetent pirate I've ever met."

"I wouldn't judge so soon." He poked Don Pedro in the arse with the pistol. "Just because I've plenty of good cheer doesn't mean I'm not a cold-blooded killer."

He stuck close to Don Pedro as they made their way through the streets, keeping the muzzle of the pistol pressed tightly into his prisoner's side. He didn't expect heroics, but stupidity was a force of nature. Eventually they found the address in La Matuna that Don Blas and Eslava had spoken of—a livery stable before its conversion to a customs-house. Night had fallen, and Jack paused to listen. There was cannon fire in the distance, but there always was these days, and he couldn't tell whether Norrington had succeeded.

"Tell them to open up," he said, giving Don Pedro a push.

Don Pedro glared at him. "Who says they'll listen?"

"Just take a stab, will you? Remember, slimy spot."

"You, there!" Don Pedro called weakly. "Open up!"

There was no answer. Don Pedro turned to give Jack a smug look and Jack poked him with the pistol. "Oh no," he smiled, "you're not off the hook."

Don Pedro stiffened and turned back to face the stable. He was not the bravest man Jack had ever held at the end of a pistol, that was for sure. "It's Don Pedro Elizagaray!" he shouted. "Open up or I'll have you horsewhipped, you fucking idiots!"

Jack gave Don Pedro an approving nod.

A window in the loft flew open, and a man leaned out with a musket. "Captain Elizagaray? Of the Fuerte?"

"No, of your mother! Yes, of the Fuerte, goddamn you! Are you going to open the door or am I going to have to climb up there to shove that gun up your arse?"

"Sorry, Captain!" The man slammed the window. A moment later, the door opened.

Jack kicked Don Pedro inside, pulled the door shut and stuck the pistol under his prisoner's jaw. "Here's how this is going to work, gentlemen," he said with a gracious smile.

After explaining to the men that they were being robbed, and that they would shortly be procuring him a horse and cart to aid in same, they stood frowning. "Well?" he said. "Do you want this fellow's brains splattered everywhere, or are you going to hop to it?"

"Meaning no disrespect, Captain Elizagaray," said one of the men timidly, "but the Admiral told us to guard these goods with our lives, and our duty—your duty—"

"What he means," said another guard, "is that the goods are worth more than you are."

Don Pedro turned bright red, looking frantically from Jack to the guard. "This is outrageous—my family is one of the most powerful in Navarre—the Viceroy will have you all shot—"

On the inside, Jack was worrying, but on the outside, he nodded coolly and pressed the gun harder into Don Pedro's neck. "I can see how you fellows might think that," he said. "But consider something else: this man knows English state secrets. Deliver him unharmed, and with such a windfall of intelligence, the Admiral will barely notice a few things missing."

The men looked at each other.

"For God's sake!" cried Don Pedro.

"What kinds of secrets?" asked the skeptical guard, crossing his arms.

"Well..." Jack turned to Don Pedro. "Tell them something you know, Captain."

"Er—" He gave Jack a look of humiliated desperation. "The English plan to attack Havana next!"

"They do?" Jack raised his eyebrows, then cleared his throat. "I mean, there you are, gentlemen. There's more where that came from. Tell the Admiral you lost a bit of loot rescuing him from English dogs, and you'll receive a commendation, not a court-martial. Don Pedro here won't tattle on you, will he?"

"Of course not," said Don Pedro quickly.

The guards looked at each other, then at Don Pedro, faces puzzled.

"Forget the Admiral," Don Pedro growled. "My family will make sure you're all drawn and quartered and buried in the four corners of Spain!"

At last, they sprang to life.

"I'll need that cart," said Jack, pointing with his free hand. "And a team of horses hitched up. Go on, and no funny stuff, remember. You!" He gestured to the stupider guard. "Find me the silver."

"Silver?" said the man nervously.

"It's a white, glossy sort of metal, comes in bars or coins."

"There's—er—no silver, sir."

Jack grinned. "You're a terrible liar. Go find it. Oh, and grab a few barrels of that Jesuit's bark while you're at it."

The man turned and hurried off.

Jack hadn't actually known if there was silver. Usually Peru sent their silver by ship to Panama, not overland to Cartagena—but silver was the only thing that might satisfy Vernon and Wentworth enough to make them give up and go home.

Ten minutes later, a cart stood hitched to four horses while the men loaded it up with sacks. One of them tore open and pieces of eight dribbled out.

"You fool!" cried the cleverer guard. "Do you think Don Blas will forgive us the silver?"

Jack leaned back on a hogshead. "Tell him whatever you like—tell him there were forty Englishmen. Don Pedro won't say a word." He tapped Don Pedro's temple with the pistol. "Just think of all the secrets in this head."

As the men loaded the silver, Don Pedro gave Jack an unpleasant smile. "You even sing like a sparrow," he said. "Lowther told me all about you, you inbred little vermin."

Jack frowned, studying Don Pedro's oily face. Lowther? "Oh," he said softly. Norrington was going to have a fit. "So el paisano was not one man but two."

"I'm surprised it took you so long to figure it out," said Don Pedro. "You were supposed to be clever, in a savage sort of way."

"If you were clever, you'd keep supplying me with reasons not to kill you," Jack snapped, troubled and wounded. How had he managed such a colossal oversight? Lowther, of all people.

Once the cart was at capacity, he backed the guards into a corner and made Don Pedro bind them up, then gag them with their neckcloths. Then he bound and gagged Don Pedro, and forced him under the tarpaulin they'd stretched over the cart bed.

"It's been a pleasure," said Jack as he opened the stable door, then sprang into his seat, slapped the reins on his team, and struck out into the night.

He drove slowly through the empty streets. The houses were dark, their windows boarded, and only soldiers roamed the streets. Each time one appeared, Jack tensed, expecting to be stopped, but then they would stagger and stumble against a wall, and Jack would realize they were not on duty.

He had approximately ten minutes to figure out how he was going to get past the gate. For the first time, the night was silent—no cannon fire. Norrington had come through. Maybe the guards at the gate would allow a humble farmer to use this window of cease-fire to return to his home in the countryside.

He approached the Puente Heredia at a walk; the cart was overloaded and he didn't want to find out how badly. Wheels grinding over the stones, his cart passed under the great arch of the fortification that defended the bridge—a half-moon barbican flanked by two bastions full of soldiers—and drew up his team when an infantry captain stepped out of the shadows.

"No one leaves the city!" the man shouted. "The Viceroy's orders!"

"But I must return to my home," said Jack, stalling. So far his luck wasn't presenting him with any opportunities. "My wife is ill, my children hungry, my farm overrun with—with gophers—" He winced.

"Gophers?" The man stepped closer, raising his lantern so he could make out Jack's face. "What is your name?"

"Captain," he said, "it's unlikely the ships will hold their fire for long. Please, I must—"

"Mmph!"

Jack and the captain froze. They had both heard the noise from under the tarpaulin.

"What was that?" The captain took a step toward the bed of the cart.

Jack sat on his hand to keep from grabbing him. "Nothing!" he said. "Just—a sheep."

"A sheep?" The man seized the tarpaulin to draw it back and Jack's hand shot out to stop him.

"Careful! It's been sick, you see, and it's sensitive to the light."

"What the—" The man turned to him, furious. "Get down this instant."

"I'd rather not," said Jack, drawing a deep breath in preparation for what he was about to do.

"You'll do as I say!" shouted the man, climbing up on the cart to grab Jack's arm. In a flash, Jack had shoved the man down onto the stones with his boot and slapped the reins on his team's backs with as much force as he could. The cart lunged toward the gate.

"Stop him!" shouted the captain, and a few soldiers moved to intercept. He fired his pistol ahead, which made the soldiers fall back and the horses leap forward in terror. Then he was through the gate and barreling across the Puente Heredia at a hard gallop.

Musket fire broke out behind him, but he couldn't look back; he had to focus on steering the horses down the narrow strip between two dark lagoons. After another minute came the boom of a cannon and the lagoon on his right erupted in a column of water. When he made the mainland, San Lázaro loomed on his left, but the fort wasn't aware of him. All he had to do was reach the countryside, then abandon his cart where the English could find it.

Hoofbeats grew louder behind him. He could feel the cart's back wheel begin to wobble, but there was nothing for it except to drive on. A spatter of musket shot tore overhead and he shrank into his seat as far as he could and still see above his horses' heads. Don Pedro under the tarpaulin was making a muffled racket through his gag, and Jack wanted nothing more than to throw him under the cart's wheels. If only he hadn't promised Norrington he'd keep the man alive.

He allowed himself a look over his shoulder, and saw five horses bearing down. Their riders couldn't reload their guns, but they had cutlasses and they were gaining on him. Jack turned back to his horses. There was no quick way to cut them free and abandon the cart.

Suddenly there were shots ahead. Behind him came a thump; one of the riders had gone down. Either the men in front of him were terrible shots or they were English. His chest eased a little. He just had to get closer.

More fire was exchanged. He drove toward the source, keeping his head down, wishing and hoping, until he saw a company of men climb out of the brush ahead. This was it—he dove from the cart into the marsh on the side of the road. He lay still for a moment, winded, then crawled behind a bush. The Spanish horsemen had turned around, and the English soldiers had come up to surround the cart. They hadn't seen him. He got to his feet and ran for the woods.

"You! Stop!"

He ran until a musket ball tore past his head. He stopped.

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