Fathoms 14

The crew were all crowded at the rail, watching their approach to land with unveiled anticipation. The crossing from the Atlantic had been difficult at parts, and they had lost one man over the side during a bad storm. Anamaria looked bone-tired up on the rigging, dressed again in man's clothing, her face set in a cold mask. Capetown was notorious for the slave trade, and her parents had been packed like livestock into a ship not much bigger than the Black Pearl, when they had been shipped from this point to the plantations of Recife.

One of their crew—a rather short, quiet stocky man with an immense brown beard, known only as Johns, had been elected as their spokesperson, by sheer fact that only he knew how to speak Dutch. And had been carefully coached before arrival. They ran Spanish flags, since Jack had heard rumor in Jamestown that Britain and Holland were still at it, which meant at the moment, British Privateers were terribly out of fashion in Capetown. Also, Spanish was a language that he could speak—even if he was a wee bit rusty.

Norrington looked at the castle rather doubtfully, and at the small pilot ship coming up to meet them. "Dangerous."

"Brief stop only, mate—th'real bit o' shore leave we'd take will be in Seychelles," Jack said, in between shouting orders to weigh anchor and allow the smaller ship to approach them. "Anamaria don't like this place. An' t'will be too easy fer th'crew t'get us into trouble, what wi' England not seein' 'ead t'head wi' th'Dutch."

The sloop was now right next to them, the man at the deck shouting up at them in Dutch. Johns answered, and there was a brief exchange, with much gesturing at the watching crew, Jack, and the flags at the mast. Finally, the man nodded, gesturing at the harbor, and Johns walked up to Jack to speak in low tones. "Cap'n, dey give permission."

"Thanks, Johns," Jack nodded, directing his Pearl and crew to move at a sedate pace behind the other ship.

Docking was an annoyance—the forms had to be translated, Jack had to dictate (quietly), and Johns had to translate again. Since the short crewmember wasn't literate, the harbormaster then had to fill them out. It was well into the afternoon when they were finally done, and then Jack had to take Johns out to the fort to do some trading. On his insistence, Norrington had remained behind—the man exuded Englishness like an aura. The Portuguese in Recife had been incurious, but with tensions at the moment in Capetown, it was for the best.

The temperature was bracing, approaching autumn, a pleasant difference from Jamaica. Large flags flew in the ocean breeze atop intermittent poles, especially with the stern 'VOC' of the Dutch East India Company. Jack led them to the fort, where the guards frowned at his garb, but let him in. Where he found, to his irritation, that the last trader who Barbossa and himself had used to handle the sugar was out of business, and he would have to find another one who would handle slightly suspicious goods with no comment.

In the meantime, he occupied himself by expertly lifting two purses. The first was almost empty, only containing some boring-looking keys and a few coins—the second was better, and could tide them the delicacies of bread, fresh fruit, perhaps even meat. Maybe a few more purses. Crowded places suited Jack just fine.

Finally, through some observation, he decided on a slightly seedy-looking man whose desk had a small Spanish flag. Besides, it was near the baker, and the scent of fresh-baked bread, after so long at sea, was hypnotic. He smiled winningly as he approached, speaking in Spanish. 'Good afternoon.'

The man looked up with a frown. His bald head was discolored with spots near the crown, and some wisps of hair fought a battle of survival from above his thick ears. Watery blue eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Jack's swaying posture and his colorful clothes, and then looked at the relatively unprepossessing Johns. 'What do you want?'

'Do you deal in trade of cargo?' Jack was struggling a little with the language, but smiled and hoped it didn't show.

The man consulted a ledger next to him, then another one. 'Depends on what you're trading.'

Jack blinked, startled. The other man cocked his head, then reached under his desk, handing Jack a folded, sealed set of papers, on the back of which a very accurate picture of the tattoo on his arm was drawn. 'Paid for. Your employer was here a week or so past, and told me to expect you. Tips well.'

Employer indeed. Jack had to bite down a growl, and add that insult to the list of grudges to which he still owed people a reckoning, Norrington included. Instead, he smiled and bobbed his head, startling Johns in turn. 'Much appreciated.'

Jack provided the dock number, and further details, then stalked to the bakery, growling under his breath, thrusting the letter into his coat. Johns wisely refrained from comment, and meekly ordered (and offered to carry) bread, a small crate of oranges, and a large amount of beef (which had to be delivered), which made him look like a tottering hillock of food.

Only when they were on their way back did Jack look at the letter, muttering darkly under his breath at the man who had penned it.

'Jack,

Heard you lost the Black Pearl again, and to the Kraken at that, from the whelps. You're beginning to develop a positively dreadful habit there, by the way. I know you'd probably be looking to do something about that, so we'd probably have at least a week's start on you. You'd get the old girl back somehow—at least, Tia seemed fairly confident in your middling abilities—so if somehow you failed to remember to converse with the Ma'm, know we'd be seeing you either in Liberté or Madras. This ship that your old crew picked is decently seaworthy, but she's no Pearl, and you might catch up quite quickly.

Failing which, if there's some sort of extenuating hindrance—wouldn't surprise me, with you—we will wait for you for a couple of weeks at Canton. I'm sure you'd know where to find me—even your addled mind should recall our last trip to Canton with Bootstrap, but just in case, I've included a carefully labeled map.

The whelps are even more annoying when together. Don't know how you stand it. I'd have thrown them overboard weeks ago, especially the girl, if not for Tia. But since you'd be interested in their welfare, well, they're doing good, if getting a little thin on ship rations. The romance is fair enough to make one sick at times. It's almost as bad as the moping over your 'death'. I'm greatly tempted to just tell them you're alive and have it over with.

By the way, seems that the gel tricked you into going down with your ship? Bad luck, the fairer sex, though I'm shocked that you fell for it. Better check if you're becoming senile, old chap.

Enclosed further are a set of pictures that should be of some help. Try not to lose the Pearl yet again on the way.

Be seeing you,

Hector Barbossa'

Behind the letter was a beautiful, shaded sketch of a galleon—no doubt the ship Lady Luck, a rougher sketch of a world map with little crosses linked with dotted lines showing their path and ports of call, and finally a rather accurate map of Canton, or at least the Canton they had visited, with the meeting spot marked with a cross. Each drawing had very insulting little labels, as if meant for a child. Jack growled again. Johns edged a step back.

"Don't need them, don't care," Jack replied petulantly, in a stuffed chair, his heels propped on the table, eyes closed, nursing a bottle of rum. Norrington was annoyingly fascinated by Barbossa's precise copperplate writing and the drawings, to a point that Jack wondered irritably if the other man was, well, trying to irritate him. Bloody Barbossa!

"Who was Barbossa? Before he became a pirate, that is," Norrington asked, apparently oblivious to Jack's ire, studying the map of Canton. "You've said he speaks Dutch."

"An' French, an' Portuguese, an' Italian, German, Spanish, an' 'e even picked up a little o' th'lingo in Canton," Jack muttered. Half a bottle had loosened his tongue a little. He pouted at the sudden curiosity that suffused his Jamie's face. "Why're ye interested?"

"I find it very peculiar how an educated man with such a talent would turn to piracy."

"T'aint 'alf right. Barbossa has a gift o' th'tongue. Languages—any language. And at most things 'e wanted," Jack shrugged, taking another deep swallow of his rum. "'e 'ad a chair in Oxford, round 'bout when 'e was yer age."

"Oxford." Norrington pronounced the word with astonishment, evidently astonished at the mention of the prestigious university. "But his surname isn't English. Though I suppose his accent..."

"An' tis his real name, ye sure? Or even his real accent?" Jack countered, glowering at the papers. "There was a scandal o' some sort, think it involved a gel, an' he was off t'sea."

"Had th'bad luck t'be stowed away in th'same ship on th'way t'Jamaica," Jack said flatly, a clear indication that he didn't wish to discuss the topic any further. Norrington leaned his head on one elbow, curiosity piqued, but wisely refraining from further questioning—instead looking over the sketches again thoughtfully, and at the letter, listening to Jack acquaint himself with the rum, and the sounds outside that indicated the changing of the night watch. Eventually, he rose from his seat, moved over and confiscated the rum, holding it away from grasping, nut-brown fingers, and dumping it far on the edge of the desk, out of reach. Jack's complaint was silenced with conciliatory kisses.

"'Cos it's somewhat like Tortuga, Jamie-luv," Jack grinned, as cheered by the sight of the friendly port as the others. "A freeman's port. Ye be lookin' at th'fair island known t'us as Liberté. We'd be stayin' here 'bout a week. Crew needs t'unwind some."

"You mean a pirate port," Norrington drawled, as he looked at the bustling harbor. Ships of any size and manner were docked in the deep water, some even openly flying the Jolly Roger. No sign, however, of a ship that looked like the one in Barbossa's drawing. There were shouts and whistles, audible from the distance, as the Black Pearl cruised into the harbor—a black ship, with black sails, only recently the scourge of the Caribbean. Already a large crowd of onlookers was gathering at the dock. "Looks like you're a celebrity again, Jack."

"Ye might want t'keep a low profile 'ere, Jamie-luv," Jack advised in return, as he moved to the gangway. "Some o' the pirates wot didn't go t'North Carolina from Jamaica, that ye chased out, likely move 'round hereabouts."

"I did recognize some of the ships as we came in," Norrington admitted, then sucked in a breath when a familiar, burly figure pushed through the crowd and waved up at Jack.

Jack grimaced, but waved in return. Halsh swaggered up the gangplank, to the bridge, where he chuckled again when he saw Norrington. "Still keepin' yer... friend around, Sparrow? M'heard that th'real one's back now, in Port Royal."

Jack was very glad that the speed of his Pearl meant that his escapades in Port Royal would likely not reach Seychelles for a while—and admittedly, when they did, they would likely be unrecognizable from the original. "That so, that so. An' me... friend here, he be right useful," A leer at Norrington, who arched an eyebrow at him, then surprised him by stretching out a hand.

"Cap'n Taver, m'apologise fer th'misunderstandin' in Tortuga." The ordinarily crisp King's English had been replaced with a passable imitation of Jack's brogue.

"Accepted, an' I offer me own apologies in turn. Ye 'ave a name?" Taver shook his hand with a firm bear's grip that made the Commodore flinch slightly.

Jack stared at Norrington for a moment, slightly suspiciously, before recovering quickly, sidling between them with a quick grin. "What're ye doin' in Liberté, Taver?"

"Fleein' th'coop, just like ye, m'thinkin'. Norrington an' Beckett," Halsh said, as if that required no further explanation, leaning on the rail of the Pearl, watching as Anamaria directed the offload of crew and handled the harbormaster with military precision. "Don't ye think it's bad luck t'sail wi' a woman? Not t'mention make her yer first mate?"

"It'd be worse luck not t'sail wi' her, Taver," Sparrow said dryly. "She 'as a temper as bad as th'sea, an' those knives at her belt t'aint fer show."

"Feisty." Halsh sounded interested. Jack weighed entertainment value against potential guilt over indirectly encouraging the creation of yet another eunuch in the world, and the former won out.

"T'be sure, an' I can tell ye, a hellcat in bed," he agreed. Behind him, there was a soft chuckle, as Norrington caught on.

"I'd be leavin' ye to it, then," Halsh said, with a wink, as he started off towards Jack's First Mate. "Ye can use th'money ye won off me th'last time t'buy me a drink at the Whale's Horn."

Jack and Norrington watched silently as Halsh's crude propositions provoked arched eyebrows and an icy warning. The follow-up (likely something around the lines of 'I like spirited women', knowing Halsh's type) was followed by a sniff of disdain, and the production of a knife in each hand. After that it got ugly, but Halsh managed to flee down into the crowd before permanent damage was done, to raucous jeers.

Anamaria shot them a dirty look that promised future violence if there was no apology.

His poor mood, however, was lost afterwards in the pleasure of being able to openly swagger around Liberté in the midst of its wild revels and show his Jamie around without having to be wary of hostile authorities. As he'd suspected, word had gotten out about the apparent status of 'Norrington' to him, and there were no challenges (though a lot of leers, and salacious propositions from men and women, which his Jamie ignored haughtily).

Madras, instead of Colombo, had been decided in game of bragg, in one of the taverns, with Anamaria winning. She preferred, she said, a proper port where people spoke English. Jack wondered later whether or not there had been collusion between his First Mate and his lover, but dared not raise the point at the moment, since he hadn't as yet made it up to her for the Taver Incident.

British coin bought some luxuries—a room at an inn that supplied hot water for baths, for example. Norrington had not been averse to sharing.

The actual purchase of a beautifully balanced pistol with silver scrolling patterns had soothed his First Mate's ire. Norrington had been amused at this very masculine gift, as compared to the blue scarf, but then he had been the one to pick it out (and insist that Jack actually pay).

They lost more crew to the joys of Liberté, but gained some others who wished to visit the Indies. Jack, as in Tortuga, was careful now to include his Pearl in the screening process. If anything else, it pleased her.

The pirate's bank on Liberté was a bookshop (perhaps even odder than the tea shop in Tortuga) and was run by a Spaniard. His Jamie had been gratified to find dusty tomes of Chaucer, Donne and Shakespeare, and even philosophy by Calvin, and had asked immediately for his cut from the sugar trade. Jack had grumbled about waste. Norrington compared rum to books, and concluded (without assent) that the latter were inevitably more worthwhile.

There were a few incidents with suspicious pirate captains, nothing that some fast-talking couldn't solve, however. Jack wondered if Norrington was having far too much fun with his fake accent and rolling walk, so different from the crisp voice and the Naval strut. So far from home, now—for him.

The crew (far more interested in the potential show now than their shore leave) watched silently as his Jamie strode up in his (now tattered, and somewhat discolored) civilian's garb to meet his father on the deck, followed by Jack. "Father. What are you doing here?"

"I'd ask the same of you, James, and in such company," Norrington Sr. replied coolly, looking over the rest of the crew, then at Jack, who tried his best smile. "The last I had heard of Jamaica, you were a Commodore again, soon to be promoted to Admiral."

"And the last I heard of Bombay, you were still in charge of East India Company interests, over there," Jamie replied, matching his father's tone, not budging an inch.

"I keep agents on Liberté. When they reported that a black ship, with black sails, was headed for Madras, I decided to take a look at what was purportedly my son's worst enemy. From what we hear."

"Converted now, mate," Jack said quickly, stretching his arm forward to shake. "M'name's Captain Jack Sparrow, as ye probably know. Privateer."

Norrington Sr. looked at the ringed hand in obvious distaste, and then met his son's darkening expression. A faint, thoughtful smile, and the distaste vanished—he shook Jack's hand, a firm, dry grip. "Pleased, I'm sure. I am Lord Henry Norrington, British East India Company." Jack hid his sudden further curiosity and unease behind another bright grin. Just with that gesture, Lord Norrington had acquired a little information at the nature of his son's relationship with Jack. Snake-quick, father and son. Jack wondered if the mother's death was the only reason why they couldn't get along. "What is your business so far from Jamaica, if it's not too rude to ask?"

This was considered thoughtfully, and then there was a warm, playful smile that made Jack straighten warily in recognition of a master of the game (which was hard to define with boundaries and goals, really—a game of people, manipulation, mischief, where winning sometimes wasn't as important as losing gracefully). "James, we have a townhouse past the harbor. I would be pleased if you—and your Captain—would accept my invitation to reside there for the duration of your stay in Madras."

Another pretty frown, the Commodore evidently not wanting to accept the invitation, likely simply because it had been delivered with tone of command. Jack remembered soft smiles and convoluted requests in Jamestown, and all those allusions to Bombay and his family once his Jamie had heard that they might be passing by. "I'd 'ave t'decline, mate. I sleep in me ship. M'sure that we can spare th'Commodore, though."

Norrington stared at him. "J... Captain..." Close one, there, but he doubted that Henry Norrington had missed it. Ice blue eyes were watching him, and there was brief, faint quirk to the lips. Henry Norrington could also recognize a skilled player, when faced with one, and the gauntlet had been thrown.

"Got t'catch up wi' yer da', mate," Jack said cheerily. A glint on green eyes promised that Jack would have to make up for this later, and that he would somehow regret it. "Me an' th'crew, we'd be handlin' business now. Shoo." He waved his fingers somewhat vaguely under his Jamie's nose.

With considerable ill grace, Norrington dipped his head, tugging slightly on his hat, a mocking gesture of respect. "With your leave then, Captain."

Watching them leave in a horse-drawn carriage bearing the arms of the East India Company, Anamaria stepped up next to Jack. "Ye sure 'bout dat, Jack?"

"Safer, Anamaria," Jack said, pausing in his instructions to the crew. "'e's been too long at sea, wi' me. If we both went, 'e'd 'ave given other things away. If we both didn't go, t'will be a good bet that his da' be pesterin' us all th'time we dock here, or havin' us watched."

"Didn'a mean dat. Meant Norrington the younger, 'e's goin' t'be right pissed at ye."

"He'd figure out why 'e 'ad t'go alone," Jack said confidently, as he confirmed the roster of the skeleton crew to stay with the ship at all times. "Now I've got t'go trade me some opium." Besides, he'd need to make himself a little more accessible, curious to see what Norrington Sr. would do now, with the ball in his court.

Madras in the early afternoon was crowded with both Europeans of various rank and class, and people of colour, even in the rising heat of the day. Jack was considerably amused to note that cows still roamed around freely, occasionally sitting in the middle of roads and blocking traffic. Apparently they were holy... but then, he also vaguely recalled Barbossa mentioning something, the last time, about an elephant-headed God, and there were people around riding those massive creatures. He smiled and tipped his hat at a heavily veiled native woman dressed in what looked like a lot of large, colorful scarves, and she scurried away quickly, as if in fright.

"Hmm?" Jack paused in the midst of eating a kebab of what was probably chicken (far too many things tasted like chicken). Food, at least, was in abundance in Madras, even if the local sort tended towards being spicy. A very officious looking man in a wig, in blue and maroon livery, had approached him, and cleared his throat.

"Lord Norrington requests your presence in his townhouse for dinner, at seven." An equally officious looking piece of paper was pushed into his hands. It held a written invitation, the time, and venue, printed in a neat hand, under the logo of the British East India Company.

Jack pulled at his beaded beard thoughtfully, and then slipped the paper into his coat. "M'think 'bout it."

"He would also like to say that if you accept, there could be, in the near future, mutually advantageous trade in opium, coffee or silver. If you were, however, to decline, it is entirely likely that administrative errors could occur that delay your departure. Cargo going missing, for example, or unpleasant searches of the hold born of misunderstanding." All spoken in a crisp, polite voice. No smile, though. "It will, of course, be absolutely regrettable in the extreme."

"I was merely instructed to make sure you were fully informed of current affairs in Madras, Captain Sparrow."

Jack paused, swaying a little on his feet, shaking his head a little at the devilry of (elder) Norringtons. "Seven, ye say?"

"Yes. Lord Norrington also would note in passing that there is no need to dress for the occasion, if it be beyond means or convenience." The man bowed curtly, and left smartly.

"'e would, would 'e," Jack murmured to himself, and then smiled slowly, recognizing the start of a game, and a playful one, despite the veiled threat, and instinctively wanting in on the stakes. Confronted directly, though, he would have denied that it had anything to do with an absolute obsession with Norringtons. It may have merited 'obsession', but not 'absolute'.

Fathoms 14

Chasing Lady Luck