Diving for Pearls

Chapter 4

by

Kitty Fisher

A chance that seemed less real as they manhandled him. A groan slipped from his lips as he was hauled mercilessly upright. Pushed and prodded into the house, they took him not to the cellar but to the long room that held even worse memories. Cold as ice, he shivered as they pushed him to his knees. O'Connell walked past him.

"Rum! Bring rum for everyone!" He grinned widely as his men all cheered. There was a scurrying of boots and in a trice a case of bottles was brought into the room. The eight or so men grabbed at them, before settling around the room—as if ready for entertainment.

Which, Norrington supposed, they were.

Boots came into his view. He kept his head down, then grunted as a large hand wove itself tightly into his short hair, and forced it up.

"Welcome back, Commodore." Norrington gritted his teeth, and gathered all his resources to glare at O'Connell. "Lovely to see yer spirit's still there." The pirate grinned, then spat in his face.

Bound as he was, Norrington could do nothing. He could only wait as the spittle slowly slid down his cheek, its passage watched by O'Connell's burning eyes.

"Is 'e alive, then?"

Sparrow, at O'Connell's side. Norrington swallowed on the dryness that was his throat, and stared up at them both, hoping he didn't look as afraid as he felt. "I'm alive." His voice sounded hoarse, strange. He coughed painfully.

"Little bit parched are we?" Jack Sparrow crouched down at his side, a bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. He looked very drunk. Willing himself not to care, Norrington stared up at the man who had almost certainly betrayed him. Sparrow tutted. "Course you are, mate!" And just as Norrington was about to answer, he pushed the bottle neck into the opening mouth, and tilted. Gasping, Norrington sputtered, rum splashing down his face and neck, filling his mouth. Hardly able to breathe he swallowed, the rum fierce as it slipped into his gullet.

Another tilt, another fast gulp, and the bottle was gone, lifted instead to Jack's own mouth. Norrington watched as he drank deep, watched the fine lips suck where his own had just been. He shivered, and hated the man who could make him feel so.

"I'm surprised you wasted your rum on me, Sparrow."

"Why not?" Jack stepped away, grinning. "Rum for everyone... the world'd be a much better place—doncha think, Connor?"

O'Connell slapped a hand around his shoulders. "Good lad, and quite right. Because I want him nice and talkative. See, Mister Royal Navy Commodore, you got away from me, and I'm interested to know which of me men let ye go free."

Voices stilled and the men who sat or slouched around the room all focused on what their captain was saying. Suddenly, Norrington knew he was not the only man there who was afraid. The boy who had helped him was sitting in the far corner.

"No one aided me." Norrington was careful not to stare at the boy, who was clutching a bottle so tight it seemed the glass was in danger of shattering.

"I'm thinking that's a lie. What d'ye think, Sparrow? Is this worthless dog deceiving me?"

"Lord knows." Jack swayed, his hands gesturing expansively. "Are King George's officers permitted to lie as well as steal?"

"Aye. This one lied about me brother. Lied before God, the law and the hangman."

"What? Wasn't 'e a murdering, thieving, plundering pirate then?"

O'Connell looked indignant. "Course he was! But this bastard told them Red was a rapist too."

Jack looked down and tutted. "Commodore, fancy telling nasty lies like that!"

Bridling, Norrington had to defend himself. "Your brother was exactly as I described. I took the statements from two different women myself."

"And they were lying bitches!" Stepping past Jack, Connor kicked his prisoner, hard. "Just like you!"

Norrington jack-knifed forwards, bile rising in his throat. Dimly he heard laughter, but by the time he was aware of what was happening, he'd been hauled to his feet, and was once again standing, held fast before the pirates, breath heaving painfully in his lungs.

O'Connell came very close, the stench of his breath almost overpowering. "He never took a woman who didn't want 'im. The O'Connell boys are never short o' willing wenches."

"Mayhap those two prove you wrong." Norrington forced the words out. He knew he should be silent, but he had not lied. And if he was to die here, then standing his ground would make no difference at all.

"Really?" O'Connell's face was so close that ever detail—from his pox-scars, to the grime that was ingrained into his skin and to the sores weeping under his beard—was all disgustingly clear.

"Yes."

"Bastard!" The shout made Norrington jerk backwards, though the men held him fast.

"Connor, mate." Jack was tugging at O'Connell's sleeve. "What about if the jades were the ones doin' the lyin', eh? What about that, then?"

The big pirate took a long breath. "Aye." He nodded, and then stared viciously at Norrington. "What about that, Commodore? What if the whores were lying?"

"I spoke to them myself... " Norrington shook his head. It was beyond strange to be discussing whether or not a dead man, a man who had been justly executed for appalling crimes including murder and torture, had also been guilty of taking a woman against her will. It was an evil crime, but in the grand scheme of things the murder of countless men and women had been far worse, and Red O'Connell had been guilty beyond doubt of that. "He was guilty of everything."

"And I say you lie."

"Then we shall have to agree to differ." With a lift of his head, Norrington looked into the pirate's bloodshot eyes. Dimly he was aware that Sparrow was making a face at him.

"Who let ye go?"

Jack was mouthing something. Norrington shook his head. "No one... "

"String the bastard up!"

Norrington fought as they brought him into the centre of the room. A rope was already there, hanging from the hook that had once supported a chandelier. With acute distaste, Norrington remembered this scenario all too well. Fast and practised, they unbound his hands from behind his back, and then re-fastened them in front. A few twists of rope later he was tethered, and he felt his arms lifting as the rope was hoisted upwards. When his wrists took his weight, it re-awoke all the old misery in his back and shoulders—the sudden pain made him gasp sharply, before he bit down on his lip. They liked it when he screamed. He wouldn't... couldn't. Sucking blood from his torn lip, he struggled to get his feet to grip the floor, to find his balance, both of body and mind.

He wouldn't be their entertainment.

Then a knife was at his throat—and his mind went blank.

"I could gut you now, ye bastard. Slice ye open and fry your liver for me tea. But that'd be too easy. And besides, Captain Sparrow here has need of ye too. So be a good Commodore and tell me, which of my pond-scum crew betrayed me?"

"None." The word was gasped out, and Norrington watched the rage simmer in O'Connell's eyes as the knife pressed into his skin. Just a nick, but enough for him to feel the warm flow of blood down his neck.

"There are a thousand ways to get information from an unwilling man. I'm sure the Navy uses a good few itself, though I'd wager a ship's plunder that ye've never tasted any of them yourself, Commodore—apart from the games we've had here, o' course."

"You have a warped idea of what constitutes a game!" Norrington gasped the words, keeping his eyes level with an icy challenge he felt hopelessly inadequate in presenting.

"Ah, boys, he remembers!"

"Do your worst... "

O'Connell turned to the room and shouted his laughter. "My worst!"

All the men laughed. Jack too. Then, with a swift turn, O'Connell was again facing the hanging man. Sunlight shafted in from a tall window and flared off the knife, to burn brightly into Norrington's eyes. Curiously, he realised he'd always thought to die at sea, from a cannon's blast, or a shard of shot-torn wood. Never had he imagined this. This was a helpless way to die. Finally, from somewhere came the words of a prayer and in his thoughts he feverishly said them over, the words trickling past by rote. They didn't calm him, or succour him. He felt no ease, or hope. He began to start again, hardly understanding the words he was thinking but repeating them again and again. To no avail. Then he knew. Prayer was hopeless. He had no more hope of either redemption, or safety through the graces of God, than this pirate before him. He was not a good enough man. Nor someone sufficiently repentant of their sins. The words in his mind stuttered to a halt. Then, slowly, his mind cleared.

For he could die well, even if he couldn't die a true Christian. So, let it be done.

He took a deep breath, as the blade touched his skin once more. Cold and hard, though it stroked as gently as a maid. O'Connell was watching him intently, and Norrington lifted his eyes to stare back, coldly as he was able. When the knife nicked his skin, he hissed through his teeth.

With a lick of his lips, O'Connell leant in closer, and the steel sliced down, hard and fast, to part Norrington's shirt in two.

Norrington shuddered, his breath coming fast, as wildly disordered as his thoughts.

"Aye, death ain't ready for ye yet, Commodore."

"Bastard... "

"You'll like my games in the end. I'll be sure of that." Laughing, he paused only long enough to lick Norrington's blood lasciviously from his blade. "Right then, boys, get those clothes off him. He's ours now—and prisoners are best kept naked!"

With hoots of laughter, two men came forward, their hands rough and eager as they cut his garments away. O'Connell retreated to his great wooden chair, watching. Next to him, hardly moving from his slouch, sprawled Jack Sparrow, a bottle close to wedded to his lips, his hat by his side, brushed by his dangling fingers.

The men cut away Norrington's clothes—with only a little more loss of blood. They slapped him on the arse and grabbed his genitals, all the while making the crudest of comments. Norrington tried to ignore everything. But his gaze, without his volition, fastened on the disreputable figure lounging before him.

The dark eyes stared back. Then Sparrow gestured with one hand. "Connor, I thought you'd 'ardly touched 'im?"

"You know how it is, Jack. Looks like maybe we were more enthusiastic than I'd thought." He nodded proudly. "Well done boys—looks like you done yer best." He slapped his thigh as his men cheered, then leant back, settling into the chair. "Pasty—more rum, we'll let the Commodore hang a while. They say anticipation's good for the soul."

The men who had stripped Norrington, cheered along with the others. One of them slapped his back to set his body swinging, feet scrabbling to find purchase on the floor. Pain tore though his shoulders, and with his eyes tight closed, Norrington only dimly heard the laughter surrounding him.

Finally he got some grip on the wooden floor, and the wild swinging stilled. Gasping, he opened his eyes, to jerk in surprise because someone was there, right in front of him, and suddenly a bottle was being forced through his lips. He fought against it, but the pressure was too insistent and his lips parted, the glass clattering against his teeth as rum flooded into his mouth, making his vision blur from the sharp burn on his torn skin.

"Don't give in." A mouth was close to his ear, and it took a moment for him to realise that the sounds were words. "Don't... " Blearily, he stared past the bottle to find Jack Sparrow's dissipated face. It leant closer. "I'll think o' something."

The bottle tilted up again, and this time Norrington choked as he breathed in liquid. Gasping—belly and chest heaving as he struggled to breathe, eyes watering—he dimly watched Sparrow turn and bow elaborately in acknowledgment of the hoots and catcalls that resounded through the room.

But the words. Was this hope—or just a more exquisite form of torture? Norrington pulled at the ropes around his wrists, the hemp tearing at his skin until the pain was sharp enough to clear his mind. For, if the words Sparrow spoke were not a lie... But, if there was a way out of this—other than his own ignominious demise—then he'd need to be alert. Though, as he looked around the room, escape seemed as remote as Antarctica.

In a sudden flurry of movement, Jack Sparrow was almost dancing around the room, talking here, laughing there, making one boy turn scarlet at something he said, making another stroke his own nose with a look of total confusion on his raddled old face. Norrington watched him, and from somewhere felt hope leech into him, warmer than the rum, sweeter than any prayer. After all, this was Captain Jack Sparrow, and anything was possible.

:::

He was far less drunk than he looked. Which was just as well. Or maybe not, depending on whether he was going to have to watch Norrington being tortured. Jack didn't like pain at the best of times—certainly not his own, and not that of those he liked. And he had conclusively proved to himself in that dusty church tower, that he seemed to have a fondness, at the very least, for the young commodore.

Walking back into the square in front of the church to find him taken had been one of the worst moments in his life. Worse even than watching the Pearl sail away into the sun, with himself alone on a thin strip of sand scattered about with a few palm trees. Worse than... no, not worse than that. He shuddered delicately and went back to his couch.

Sitting down, he tucked one hand into the sash about his waist. The rum was in his other hand, and he drank deep, thinking. Eight men, plus two elsewhere and O'Connell. One door into the house and a pair of long glass doors into the garden. Apart from his own knife, pistol and sword, there was nothing he could utilise. Of course, all O'Connell's crew were armed to the teeth, but there was nothing left casually around for him to make use of. No handy mortar, or cannon. Which really was a terrible shame.

He sighed. Well, who counted odds in a situation like this? Luck was on his side—she always was, though sometimes it was difficult to appreciate her kindness when you were waist deep in snakes or wondering if the tribe who'd just crowned you king were going to actually bother to kill you before boiling you for supper—or just pop you in the pot alive and screaming.

Luck was a restless, teasing jade, and one Jack kept sweet. Mostly. Her slaps—so far—had undoubtedly been outweighed by her kisses. Though the snakes almost tilted the balance the other way. He shivered, and drank again. Snakes were nasty and slithery. They hissed—

"So, Jack, what shall we do with 'im?"

O'Connell's voice made him look up. The captive—hanging, barely balanced on the balls of his feet—still managed to look haughty, for all that he was skinny as a stick, with ribs arching up over a concave belly, and hip bones that seemed sharp as blades under his skin. New bruises painted bright, fresh colours amongst the dull old ones. That he'd been stripped was nothing unusual. Humiliate the prisoner—especially one as proud as this. Every pirate knew the smaller tricks to break a man, as well as the more brutal.

Indeed, it was the more brutal that Jack was afraid of.

"Connor, how abouts you beat 'im up a bit, then let me take 'im away?" Jack peered sideways, ever hopeful.

The other pirate captain stood up, the fingers of one hand teasing the lace around his neck, while the other caressed the knife at his belt. "Jack, why are ye wanting to be away so quick?"

"Connor, I want to savour the Commodore. I want to have 'im close by, in me own lock-up, nice and handy for any time I might want to play with 'im."

Standing at Norrington's side, O'Connell gave his body a push that set him swinging again. "You could play with the bastard here?"

"Like I said, mate, I don't. Not in public."

"Torture is an art, Jack. You should share your expertise."

"It's also bloody personal. No, thanks all the same, Connor."

A hand abruptly stilled Norrington's body, and he groaned softly, his head falling back. "Jack, there's one of you and oh, lots o' us." O'Connell was smiling. "See? If I was wicked, and against the code—which I'm not!—I could simply slit your throat, take the jewels and just do what I wanted to the pretty here. What about that then?"

In the sudden quiet, Jack stood up. All the crew were watching. Some had taken a pace closer to him. Nerves prickled down his spine, and he knew he was sweating. "Connor... " There, sweet and wheedling. Harmless and drunk. Jack smiled and shrugged, gesturing widely, rum sloshing in the almost empty bottle he still clasped in one hand. "You wouldn't."

"I might. I'm bored, Jack. And I want to see you entertain me." O'Connell's hand stroked down the pale length of Norrington's chest. It slowed over his belly, just where the bruising was deepest. He pressed—like a physician examining a wound—and grinned when his captive jerked in pain. "See, James here needs to tell me something, and I'm not letting 'im go until he does. And I think it'd be sweet to see you make him tell me. Sort of save us the trouble. Me mother always said I was terrible lazy—guess she was right after all."

"You're heartless, Connor, all the pirate tales say so." Jack sighed. "And just because o' that I reckon ye truly could snaffle the jewels and slit me throat. And I reckon you might be heartless enough to still slit me throat even after I've got your information. So, even if I do what ye want, what's to say ye'll let me go then?"

There was a pause while they all worked out the meaning in the words, and then a murmur of agreement went around the room. Jack propped his fists on his hips and nodded emphatically. O'Connell smiled slyly. "I keep my word as a pirate, Jack, ye knows that. You just neglected to make sure we had an accord over your Commodore there. But, for the record, I'll let ye go—both of ye—if the bastard tells me which one aided 'im."

"An accord, then?"

"Aye."

Taking a few steps forward, Jack spat in his hand and offered it to O'Connell. They shook, and Jack smiled his sweetest smile and considered himself to be the most righteous man in the room.

Apart from the one in ropes, of course.

Turning, he grabbed a fresh bottle and drank deep, before walking over to Norrington. "So," he asked over his shoulder, "what d'you expect me to do with 'im?"

"You're a pirate, Jack, what does ye normally do to get truth from your prisoners?"

"I normally dangle 'em over a nice shark infested bay, mate, and that ain't an option 'ere!"

"True enough." O'Connell stretched out his long legs, and crossed one booted ankle over the other, for all the world like a man at his fireside. "No sharks here. But you could burn 'im a bit? Or flog 'im."

This raised a small shout of enthusiasm from the assembled group. Jack peered at the hanging man. "Looks to me as if you've already done that."

O'Connell waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, that was an age ago."

"Still... wouldn't like to be repetitive now." Jack walked all around, touching pale skin here, a bruise there. When he ran his hand down the ladder of weals on the long back, Norrington shuddered, but kept his silence. "And the Commodore here would like something different, wouldn't you?"

There was no reply.

"Ah, James, me dear, you'll have to talk you know. Connor there is very determined."

With a visible effort, Norrington lifted his head and stared at Jack. When he spoke his voice was strained. "No one helped me. I escaped alone."

"See, Connor, what if'n he's telling the truth?"

"He's not. Brand him, Sparrow. The smell of your own skin burning oft loosens the tongue. Boys, get the fire lit!" His men cheered and suddenly the room was in commotion.

Jack could feel any slight control of the situation he'd had slipping from his grasp. "But Connor, you said I could do what I wanted?"

"And you can't make up your mind." Standing, O'Connell scratched at his beard and stared hard into Jack's eyes. "Besides, a little branding will be amusing—even if by then the bastard has told us the truth."

Jack felt the brand on his own arm itch. It had been bad enough, but not too appalling. James would survive it too—better that than to be flogged again or burned as he had before. "Good idea, mate! How about I go and find something to use."

"You do that." O'Connell tossed the bottle he was holding into a far corner, where in bounced then rolled. He pulled another from a crate and pulled the cork with his teeth before spitting it away. "We'll have a little fun here while you're gone. Ye've turned into a dull dog, Jack Sparrow, an' I'm heartily disappointed."

Bristling indignantly, Jack raised his brows and gave an ironic bow. "My apologies. I'll do me best to make it up to you."

"Good." And O'Connell walked away, shouting at his men.

Jack looked out of the windows and realised it was almost evening. They'd been back for hours, but still the time was crawling. He needed darkness, night, shadows and secrets. The Pearl was coming in—and hopefully going back out again—on the morning tide. If he could get them away and hidden until AnaMaria sent the boat to fetch them, it would all be fine. It would. But there were so many obstacles between this and there. Not the least being the fact that Norrington was naked, bound and surrounded by men intent on something a teensy bit less polite than a vicarage tea-party.

Slowly, casually, he wandered back to Norrington's side. "Commodore, please. Why don't you just tell the nice pirate what 'e wants to know?" Jack smiled encouragingly. "Go on."

"I can't." The fine features were pinched, and his skin was ghostly under the marks and welts. His eyes, though blown with pain, were steady.

"Shame." Jack tried wheedling. "If you did, we could be away, you know that?"

"Free. Yes, but I would be without honour."

"Ah. Pesky, that."

It seemed that Norrington almost laughed, though instead he choked back the bitter sound and lowered his chin onto his chest. "Leave me be, Jack Sparrow."

Rings sparkling in the firelight, Jack reached forward and lifted Norrington's head, his hand cupped under the set jaw. "Why should I do that?"

The dilated eyes were narrowed, darkly confused. "I don't know. Please... " Suddenly he was speaking as if they were alone.

Caught in the deep green depths, suddenly Jack wanted to hold him, to cut the ropes that bound him, to keep him safe. The feeling was intense, almost overwhelming both sense and caution. He took a deep breath, and firmly reminded himself where they were—and what act he was playing. Letting go of the Commodore's face, he stepped back. Norrington's despairing eyes followed him. When he opened his mouth, the word 'Jack' was there on his lips, about to be voiced. Sparrow slapped him, hard.

He couldn't forget, not for a moment.

He turned, ignoring the blood that dripped down Norrington's heaving chest. He sighed quietly, and blessed their fortune, for O'Connell was watching the fire being built up in the wide grate. The rest of his crew were laughing, telling wild stories of tortures endured or witnessed. No one had looked carefully enough to notice. Mentally, Jack saluted the mystifying power of rum.

Jack scanned around, thankful there were no fire-irons to hand. Then, ignored by everyone, he walked out of the room.

And a branding to do.

Gods. He breathed out hard, his chest tight. He knew he could do it, but it would be hard to act the pleasure that O'Connell would undoubtedly expect. Shaking his head he pushed the distracting thoughts aside. The hall was oval, with doors leading off and a graceful staircase leading upwards. Taking the wide stairs two at a time, and avoiding the detritus of bottles and clothing that littered them, he searched, needing to find something. Something that would make O'Connell focus on the branding and not on finding other, more sophisticated amusements. And Jack needed inspiration, for there was no telling what Connor's band of merry men might do to Norrington while he was away.

The stairs opened onto a long corridor, lined with doors. Pushing them open one after another he found room upon room of plunder. Silks and jewels, gold and plate, all piled haphazardly high. One room was just filled with furniture stacked up to the ceiling, another was filled with paintings. Nothing leapt out as being suitable as a branding iron.

Where would it be? Bedrooms, garden, kitchen. Kitchen! Yes, oh yes, and he was heading the wrong way. Pausing only long enough to slip a perfect emerald ring into his pocket, he cursed himself and ran lightly back the way he had come. In the hall he pushed open a door, thankful that he had it right and that it appeared to lead to what once had been the servants' area.

In the kitchen, the remains of a fire glowed sullenly in the wide grate, and the carcass of a spit-roasted goat desultorily dripped oil into the embers, each drip sparking a small flame. Jack passed it by, slightly queasy at the smell of scorched meat, to search a shelf of implements—discarding them in turn as each failed to be what he was searching for. Skewers, tongs, something strange, something stranger, a long-handled grill-thingy (which would make a nice pattern, though James might not appreciate it so), more skewers. Dammit, nothing!

He turned, and looked back at the fire. There was a poker, not wide ended, and... there, perfect—a long iron scraper for cleaning ashes. With a dance of delight he picked it up. It was heavy, the oblong end flat enough, and about eight inches wide. Then he imagined it pressed to his own flesh. His gut roiled in reaction and he stilled.

Heaven. Could he really do this?

Yes. It was only to save Norrington's life! The brand would scar, but no one would see. It would be a memory, that was all.

A memory of Jack torturing him. But, surely, Norrington was more discerning than that. He'd understand the why. Wouldn't he?

He'd have to. The same way they both had to get away. For Jack was certain he had a destiny with Norrington. A destiny unlike anything he had felt with anyone or anything besides the Black Pearl. For the first time he actually wanted something, other than just to see the next horizon and to dance, with the sea-breeze wild in his hair.

To do that, to get there (not to the dancing but to his destiny) he needed Norrington alive, well (or at least mendable) and not too bitter about what Jack had done to him.

Firelight caught at his rings as he turned the dull iron in his hands. Crude and cruel. Necessary. This—then they could walk away.

It was a devil's bargain. But any bargain was better than none. Was it not?

Wiping sweat from his face, Jack straightened his shoulders. There was only one way to find out. The implement clutched in his hand, he walked out of the kitchen, and headed back up the stairs.

There was laughter echoing out of the room where they held Norrington. Chilled, suddenly very wary, Jack paced softly to the door. Carefully he eased it open, though he needn't have bothered being silent. The room was in uproar. The men were a circle around Norrington and they were clapping, cheering and shouting as they took it in turns to torment the hanging man.

So much for accord and bargain. Jack hissed a curse under his breath, frantically wondering what to do. They wouldn't stop now. Not with O'Connell egging them on—foul and treacherous bastard that he was. Peering further into the room, skin prickling with dread, Jack saw one of the men turn, his hands cupping the arousal that swelled his breeches.

Shock slammed him back against the wall, and he took a long, shuddering breath. Fury burned in him so bright that the world pulsed red—fury and a wild fear that Norrington would not survive this. And that if he did, he wouldn't be the man Jack loved.

Loved?

Oh, sweet Gods it was truth. But not now, not now. He couldn't think, couldn't reason. He had to act. There had to be something, some way out of this. Eyes closed, he thought for a second, then ran for the stairs. He picked up a torn skirt and two of the broken pieces of banister. Then, fast as he could, he went back to the kitchens.

He tossed his plunder onto the vast kitchen table, and started ripping the skirt into strips. His fingers were clumsy, and he poured curses on himself as he worked, winding the fabric around the broken ends of the wood, building it thick and tight, the layers overlapping, needing it to last. With one done he started on the other, feverish in his haste. When it, too, was ready, he took a bottle of rum and soaked both lots of fabric with spirit. Now he had two torches. He held one to the fire, his eyes narrowed and intent as it lit with an intense flare of brightness. Jack bared his teeth in pleasure.

And looked up to see a figure in the doorway.

"What are you doing?"

"Making a torch, just as it looks." Jack straightened warily, the torch flaming in his hand. The figure stepped towards him and he saw it was the lad. The one who had helped Norrington escape before. He looked remarkably small and frightened for one of O'Connell's crew.

"Why?" He also asked stupid questions.

Jack shrugged. "Because I'm going to burn the house down."

"Oh." He was about fifteen, dark skinned, underfed.

"Ye helped Norrington, didn't ye?" There was no answer, but the boy looked very wary. "Look, I'm on his side. I know ye tried, 'e told me there was one. Was it you?" A nod, short and sharp. Jack sighed. "Good man. I'm going to get him away now. And if I were you, I'd run before Connor finds out, as he'll be in a sore temper."

Adam's apple bobbing up and down the boy nodded. "You need any help?"

"No, we'll be fine." But it was a kind offer, and one the child clearly meant. Jack warmed to him. "Listen—get yourself to Tortuga. Ask at the Saracen's Head for Jack Sparrow. If you make it, I'll see about taking ye on as crew. Savvy?"

"Aye! And... thank ye, sir."

"What's your name?"

"Adebayo Smith."

"Good name. Now run!" The boy bolted.

Jack grinned. Then sobered as he considered his task. There were too many maybes. But this was still the only chance that he could see.

Tucking the unlit torch under his arm, he picked up a last strip of the cotton and, sousing it in water, draped it around his neck. It was time. Decision made, he went, flaming torch in hand, running fast and light back up through the house to the rooms full of stolen treasure.

He fired anything that would burn, working his way from one side of the house to the other. In the dry heat everything went up like tinder. Working feverishly he torched furnishings in one room, a thousand pounds worth of silk in another, even the paintings. As one torch died, he lit the other, and put the flame to anything he thought might catch fire until he was wreathed in smoke and staring at a vision of Hell.

Standing at the end of the hallway, he surveyed his work, waiting out the space of twenty heartbeats until there was no doubt that the house was well and truly ablaze.

Only then did he run back down the stairs, stopping briefly to pick up a pair of breeches—and to set light to all the other rags that lay scattered along the way. For good measure he torched the hall curtains—the sound like distant thunder as the swathes of fabric caught.

Face sweating and gritty with smoke, hands raw from the flames, he stepped back into the shadows by a grandfather clock and shouted out, loud as he could: "Fire!"

And again—"FIRE!"

The door opened and Pasty stood there, his mouth wide open until he started coughing. Jack grinned, and pulled his wet bandanna up over his mouth and nose. He kept still, hiding as the air around him thickened with smoke. A moment later, the pirates were piling out of the room.

"The plunder!" O'Connell finally realised that the fire was on the next floor as well. "Get the gold! The jewels!"

Jack watched coldly as they ran haphazardly up the stairs, their boots stomping out the small fires, O'Connell following in their wake, urging them on with his drawn sword and his vicious imprecations. To a man they had at some time undoubtedly boasted that they would die for gold. Well, perhaps tonight they would have their chance. Jack watched, and then dismissed them. Tossing the guttering torch away, he darted out of his hidey-hole and slipped through the open door, closing it fast behind him.

Smoke clouded the room like mist. In five paces he was at Norrington's side. "James... "

At his voice the still, bloodied figure slowly lifted its head. Alive. Jack touched his hand to the bruised face, saw recognition hit the dulled eyes.

"Jack... "

"Aye, hold tight, this'll hurt." He folded one careful arm around the stretched torso, taking some of its weight, grip slipping on damp skin, before reaching up, his knife slicing through the knotted rope. As his arms lowered, Norrington stumbled forward, but Jack held him, feeling the chill of his sweating skin.

"James, darlin', we have to run." There was no cry of alarm, but they couldn't have long.

The sound Norrington made could have been a laugh or a groan, but he straightened and, after a moment to gather himself, stood with his weight more or less supported on his own two feet. He held out his wrists. Jack cut the last of the rope, peeling it away with his fingers, wincing in sympathy as it clung persistently to raw skin.

Tugging the breeches off his shoulder, Jack shook them out. "Here, put these on."

"Clever... "

"Bloody genius. Now lean on me... " He knelt quickly, easing the garment onto Norrington's legs, pulling them up, fastening them. They were loose but serviceable enough. The last button fastened, he stood and kissed Norrington gently on the cheek. "Ready?"

"As I will ever be, pirate." But Norrington was somehow smiling, and Jack's heart jumped in his chest.

"Come on then, Commodore." Pausing only to pluck up his hat and set it firmly on his head, he hoisted one obviously numb arm over his own shoulders and headed for the door.

The clean air cleared his head. A winding path led to the drive. Hopeful, he headed that way, taking as much of Norrington's weight as he could, too fearful to go slowly. In gathering dusk he paused at the edge of the garden, half-hidden in the foliage, wary, his heart thudding. The drive itself appeared free of any guards and he moved them a cautious step forward—and looked up suddenly as a cascade of gold was tossed out of a window, and crashed onto the drive. Smoke billowed out from every casement. In some places there were flames as well, licking at the brickwork and scouring the eye. Jack blinked, and looked down to the treasure scattered upon the ground, and his gaze lingering hungrily. But then movement brought his eyes up.

Treasure forgotten, Jack almost crowed in triumph. For in the shadows that gathered in the lee of the house stood the carriage, complete with horses still in their traces. He gave up a quick word of thanks to Fate, her sister Luck and any other deity who might be smiling on him, and half carried a staggering Norrington across the drive. With a sharp twist of the handle Jack pulled open the carriage door, and heaved his companion inside.

"All right?" Wiping the sweat from him eyes, Jack leant in the doorway, panting for breath.

Norrington nodded breathlessly, and wedged himself into a corner. Jack nodded and slammed the door shut. It had been a lifetime since he had driven any sort of vehicle, but surely it was something you never forgot; like diving into shallow water, or dancing the tarantella. Climbing up into the box, he picked up the reins and wound them around his fingers. With a click of his tongue and swift swish of leather they were off.

Except they weren't. Consternation furrowing his brow, Sparrow tried again. The horses moved but the carriage... did not. Again. All that happened was that the horses became more unsettled, moving restlessly in their traces. Again. Nothing. O'Connell would be after them soon. He would kill them; probably sodomise them too, just for good measure, possible both before and after slitting their throats. It was all his own fault. Why couldn't driving a carriage be easy to remember? What else could there be—slap the reins and yell. He tried again. The whole carriage jolted as the horses tried to obey, but nothing else happened. Blind now with something akin to panic, he sat with his hands clenched into helpless fists.

"There's a brake!"

Norrington's voice. Sparrow looked down, back to the carriage window. Norrington was peering up at him, his hands clutched hard to the sill, his face a gaunt mask in the hellish light.

"What?"

"At your side, there's a lever, let it free."

Of course! There. He tugged it, and immediately the carriage started forward. Jack grinned, and then he heard the cry of a chase. O'Connell had spotted them.

"Hold on, James, it might be a wild ride!" A pistol ball whined over his head, and he ducked low, whacking the reins down hard on the horses' rumps. Suddenly they were away, clattering out of the drive, heading down the long winding path into town as the sky caught fire behind them.

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