Men Must Work

Jack/James Series, Chapt. 4

Turn of the Tide

by

Gryphons Lair

An eel-like twist put Jack on top, but planted his hand solidly in James's belly. The whoosh of breath from James' lungs almost drowned out the thud as his head hit the floor.

Jack scrambled to his elbows. James gasped once, twice—then his eyes lost that stunned look and focused on Jack's face. Jack bracing himself for curses, a shove, an angry blow....

James laughed, head tilted back and eyes crinkled at the corners, as though Jack landing atop him were the rarest of jests. He was still smiling when his hands found Jack's breeches, and Jack realized he was astride James' hips, almost as if...

Before Jack could draw away Norrington had pulled his breeches down and rolled him onto his back. The cloth bunching about his thighs made it easy to push Jack's knees toward his chest, and the officer's prick was hard against his arse as he pinned Jack's wrists to the floor.

Except it wasn't a floor, it was the wall of that damn cell in the fort and Jack was hanging in chains. The Commodore was fucking him ruthlessly and Jack could see, past the gold-braided shoulder, the gallows, waiting....

Jack wrenched himself awake, sitting bolt upright and staring wide-eyed around the empty cabin. A dream. He reached for the rum and took a long swig before untangling himself from the sweat-soaked sheets and rolling out of bed. Only a dream.

The bed was his newest acquisiton: finest mahogany, spacious, comfortable, and splendidly carved. It suited his cabin, and the Pearl, far better than it had the Portuguese merchantman he'd commandeered it from a week ago. Crimp had only finished assembling it yesterday, and as he dressed Jack admired the riot of sea creatures, real and fantastic, that covered every inch of headboard and canopy.

He turned to leave the cabin and the sight of the chains of his old cot, still hanging from a hook in the ceiling, brought the dream to mind. A warning, that's what it was. Not that he needed any such. Jack took the bottle with him as he made his way on deck.

Matelot, at the helm, nodded a greeting as Jack passed. The Pearl was sailing easy, west-southwest, tops'ls spread to catch the night airs, a light swell helping her on her way. Jack tucked the bottle into a pocket and climbed to the main tops'l yard. Hooking an elbow 'round the mast, he watched her wake, still phosphorescent despite the first tint of dawn on the horizon.

This was where he belonged, here with the Black Pearl. He'd no reason to return to Port Royal. He'd dodged the Royal Navy's noose there twice, and it would be pressing even his considerable luck to risk falling into their hands again.

James's hands stroking his thighs, James's fingers tracing the line of his throat.

Jack pushed the memory aside with a scowl. Norrington'd find he wasn't brought to heel so easy. He pulled the rum from his pocket and took a long swig. The man had shown what he thought of Jack that night in the molly-house, when he'd refused to give his name.

I thought you knew it.

That had been a lie; must have been. Restless, Jack swung himself to the other side of the mast, away from the glare of the rising sun. The man would never have given his name, never have told him if Jack hadn't insisted before he'd let him...

...bring me home.

He'd not... It wasn't....

Was that an irregularity on the horizon? Jack pulled out his telescope.

Sure enough, it was a ship, just a point off the starboard bow. A fat-bellied Spanish merchantman, if he was any judge—and of course he was.

"Ahoy the deck!"

A slim figure appeared from behind the foremast. "Deck aye!"

"Call the crew, Harry."

The boy, at not-quite-twenty the youngest aboard, ran to the ship's bell and set it clamoring.

Jack slid down to the deck. A jerk of his head dismissed Matelot, and her captain turned the Black Pearl due west. "All hands to make sail!" The rising sun was dead astern now. "Rig for the chase! Starboard guns to the ready!" If all went well, the Pearl could be alongside her prey before the Spaniard spotted her

The sails unfurled; as she leapt forward Jack could feel the rumble of the gun-carriages through her deck. His quartermaster and first mate joined him at the wheel. The merchantman was easy seen now.

"A fine, fat prize, Cap'n," Gibbs said.

"Sails like a pig." Anamaria scowled.

Jack's glance met Gibbs's; the old sailor rolled his eyes and gave a barely perceptible shrug. Putting on a long-suffering look, Jack muttered, "There's no pleasing some people."

Anamaria pulled him 'round to face her. "What did you say?!"

"Nothing! Nothing at all! Only," Jack stepped aside, "that you're to have the helm." He turned to Gibbs. "Board as soon as we're alongside. With luck, they'll still be asleep."

"Here's to luck, then." Gibbs took a pull at his ever-present flask and turned to business. "Boarding crew to me! Grapples at the ready, and I'll have the skin off the back o' any man as throws afore I give the word!"

Jack joined the men he called his flying squad 'round the capstan, noting Harry'd tied his thick brown hair back this time. The boy was showing potential with more than the cutlass; he'd the makings of a fine pirate, well worth his salt.

They were within musket-shot now. A moment later the Spaniard's lookout spotted them, but it was much too late. Gibbs led his men over the rail.

The first line of defenders wielded whatever they'd had time to snatch up—a mop, belaying pins, a capstan-bar—and were quickly overwhelmed but others, better armed, took their place.

A ragged crackle of pistol-shots, and three Spaniards fell. Pirates and prey met in a clash of steel. Curses, shouts, the acrid taste of powder-smoke. A gap in the defenders' line. The pirates charged it, splitting the Spaniards, breaking them into twos and threes. The Spaniards faltered; two more went down. Hard-pressed, they retreated, to find themselves trapped against rail or bulkhead. Another Spaniard fell. His mate threw up his hands and cried "ìMe entrego!"

Jack smiled. The thing was as good as done. Once the others saw the man had survived surrendering, they'd realize—

A small knot of men burst out of the main cabin. Their cry of "ìPara Dios y España!" invigorated the Spanish sailors. The newcomers fanned out into the melee, drawing pirates away from the cornered sailors. Cursing, Jack drew his sword and led his men over the rail.

He's already marked the group's leader, a Don in lace and satin, and went straight for him. The man swung at him with open contempt. Jack parried the cut—bloody arrogant hidalgo!—and the nobleman's sneer turned to surprise when he had to jump backward to avoid Jack's riposte.

"Not expecting that, were you, mate?" Jack parried the Don's next cut. "Thought you had to be a gentleman to be good with a sword, is that it?" He pressed forward. "Dead wrong about that." The Don retreated one step, then another. "Speakin' of dead," he parried an overhand blow, "one of us," followed it up with a thrust, "is going to end in that unfortunate state" and a cut at the man's legs, "if you don't give over—" The Spaniard threw himself forward, trapping both swords between them. "—and it won't be me." Jack pushed the man off, sending him staggering. "Savvy?"

The Don regained his footing and took a wild swing at Jack's legs, which he dodged easily. His counterstroke pushed the man back two paces.

"One last chance, mate." Jack brought his sword up to guard. "La entrega," he pitched his voice to be heard by the others, "y yo juro que no le dañarán."

"Hijo de puta con un cerdo." The Spaniard spat. "Moriría antes de rendirme a usted."

"Just as you like." Jack caught the Don's sword in a riposte, disarmed him, and ran him through, all in one smooth motion. "Though," he added as the corpse slid from his blade, "I'd really rather you'd surrendered.

The nearest Spaniard did a double-take. Harry knocked his blade aside and followed it up with a punch that felled the man to the deck.

The remaining Spaniards took the lesson to heart. Cries of "ìMe entrego!" filled the air as their weapons clattered onto the deck.

Jack rifled the Don's corpse automatically, transferring his finds indiscriminately to his own pockets. By the time he finished Gibbs had already divided the prisoners into two groups. The wounded were moved into the bow, and the unwounded set to work hauling the cargo up from the hold.

It was after noon when the Consolaçion was set adrift. Marty kept their starboard swivel-gun trained on the knot of sullen, exhausted men in her waist as the Pearl drew away under a fresh westerly breeze. The plunder that hadn't fit in the already well-filled hold was piled about the deck and three vociferously complaining goats were confined in a makeshift pen.

The meat came aboard at dusk. There were dates, olives, raisins, cheese and other delicacies from the Spaniard's store to go with it, and a half-dozen cases of wine to wash it all down.

The party was well underway when Jack, who was more than half-way through a bottle of Madeira—lovely stuff, Madeira—became aware of a certain sense of urgency and made his way to the bow. Much relieved, he started back, but stopped when a slim figure only a bit taller than himself stepped out of the shadow of the foremast.

"Captain." Harry's hand started to rise, but he remembered in time to turn the gesture into a nod. "Could I have a word?"

"Of course." Jack hopped onto a tall, square crate and motioned to a shorter one across the narrow aisle. "Have a seat." When the boy obeyed, he held out the bottle. "Drink?"

"Thank you." The lad held out his cup; Jack filled it.

Harry took a sip of the wine, then just sat there, cradling the cup in both hands, his face half in shadow.

A still figure at a corner table, features half-obscured by his tankard.

Jack pushed the image away and leaned forward. "Now, what was it you wanted to talk to old Jack about, eh?"

Harry set his cup down and licked his lips. "First, I wanted to thank you, again, for giving me a chance." He looked up at Jack. "I know you could've chosen men with—with more experience, instead of me, a fisherman's son—"

Jack waved the words away. "Think nothing of it. I knew you'd the makings of a pirate the moment I saw you." He took another mouthful of wine. "And y' proved me right. I saw how you took that Spaniard out." He pantomimed a punch, close enough to Harry's face for the boy to flinch back. "Fine work; couldn't've done better m'self!" Another drink. "Why, I wouldn't be surprised if you had your own ship some day. Not one as good as the Pearl, of course." He waved the bottle about. "They don't make ships like her anymore. Still—"

"But, Captain," Harry blurted. "That's just it. I—I want to stop."

"Stop?" Jack tilted his head. "Stop what?"

Harry was staring at his hands again. "Stop being a pirate," he said, so softly Jack could barely hear him.

Jack stared at him, sure he must've misheard. "Why?"

"Well, y'see, there's this girl—"

"Ah." Jack nodded solemnly. "A girl. Pretty, is she?"

"She's beautiful," Harry sighed. "And clever and sweet and—"

Jack had as much sympathy for a boy's first love as any other man, but there was only so much of that nonsense he could take. Nothing mortal was that perfect. "And," he interrupted, "she doesn't approve of pirates, is that it?"

"No! Well," Harry's voice turned rueful, "she'd as soon I hadn't signed on, that's true enough. But it's her father, really. Y'see," he looked up at Jack again, "he's a fisherman, like my da. And he said he wouldn't give his consent to me marrying Annie—that's her name, Annie Hatch—unless I had my own fishing boat. So I could support her."

"I see," Jack said, though he really didn't. Pirating was a far more rewarding trade than hauling nets any day, in his opinion.

"I was sure all was lost," Harry said. "I barely made enough helping Old George work his boat to feed me and Mum. But then I thought, well, pirate ships are always looking for crew." He leaned forward. "I thought, if I could get a berth as a pirate and we were lucky, I might make enough in a year or two to buy a boat." He grinned. "And we have been. Lucky, I mean. Luckier than I dared hope, to own the truth. So I was thinking," the smile faded to unease, "I'd, well, not sail with you again." When Jack didn't answer immediately, he added, "I did only sign on for the one cruise. On trial, you said.

"So I did." Jack pursed his lips and frowned up at the foresail a moment, then nodded. "Only one thing to do. Come along!"

Jumping down from the crate, he seized the boy's arm and towed him back to the waist, into the middle of the party.

"Gentlemen! Your attention, if you please!" Jack waited until the shouts and laughter had died to silence. "I have just learned a very shocking thing about young Harry here, and knew I had to share it with you at once." He gestured to the boy, who was white as a sheet, his eye wide. "It seems that our Harry—" he waited until every man was leaning forward, eyes locked on his face—"is going to be married!" Jack slapped the boy on the back hard enough to make him stumble, then raised his bottle high. "A toast! To Harry and his lovely bride. May they have a long and happy life together!"

The men cheered, tankards and bottles upraised. Gibbs was the first on his feet. He gripped Harry's shoulder, his graying beard split by a smile. "The best of luck to you, Harry-lad, and may you and your lady never be parted!"

Harry scarce had time to stammer his thanks before Cotton was shaking his hand while the parrot cried, "Man overboard!" He disappeared behind a thick knot of men, all eager to slap his back, press drinks on him, and wish him luck, long life, and numerous offspring.

Jack slipped away unnoticed. Collecting the cup Harry had abandoned, he found a seat on the forehold's grating. He raised the cup and saluted the new moon. "To first loves, and may Harry have better luck with it than most." He drained the cup in a single draught, and threw it to clatter in the scuppers.

If the girl—Annie, that was her name—had had any sense, she'd've lifted her skirts for the lad. Her father, being a respectable fisherman and all, almost certainly wouldn't want his grandchild born a bastard. Aye, she was getting a prize and no mistake; Jack hoped for the lad's sake that she appreciated it. A man who'd risk his life for you was bloody rare.

James pushing him back into the shadows, hiding there himself until the marines had passed.

It wasn't the same thing at all. Jack pushed to his feet. Commodore Norrington hadn't wanted to be seen in company with a common pirate, that was all. He'd all but said as much, that night.

The wine was sweet and potent, the perfect antidote to the sour taste that thought left in his mouth. Oh no, the Commodore was too grand to trade favours in an alley, like an ordinary fellow. He drained the bottle to its dregs. No, he had to drag Jack through half of Port Royal so he could...

...take me home.

Jack threw the bottle over the side. As if summoned by the gesture, a wail like a tortured cat assaulted his ears.

Jack turned toward the sound. There in the circle of lantern light was Crimp tuning his fiddle, and Duncan unpacking his concertina. Moises already had his drum snugged between his knees and he and Kursar, who played the fife, were trading the same insults they always did regarding the sizes of their respective instruments. Grinning, Jack started back to the waist.

When Crimp had the violin tuned to his satisfaction, Duncan asked, "What'll it be, lads?"

A dozen songs were suggested and, as usual, half-a-dozen arguments over their relative merits followed close after. Jack stepped out of the shadows. "Cappy John's Bride," he declared, "in honor of young Harry, here."

Harry, who'd clearly had more than a few drinks since Jack left him, rose unsteadily to his feet. He attempted a bow, but lost his balance half-way down and was only saved from a fall because Anamaria grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him upright.

"Damn fool boy!" She maneuvered him to a nearby pile of rigging and hooked his feet neatly out from under him. "And stay there!" She emphasized each word with a jab of her finger.

Harry's faint "Yes, ma'am." was drowned out by the crew's laughter. Nobody protested when Duncan started the opening chords of "Cappy John's Bride", and they all joined in on the chorus.

"She carries her bow high and her stern is nice and round.
It's easy to hold her when she's sheeted down.
She's all that I require and all that I desire
Is that you let me try her when I come to town."

When the second verse started Jack claimed another bottle of Madeira and settled down on a convenient keg to enjoy the music.

Jack wandered over to the food, but the scraps left had no appeal.

Muttering something that might have been an apology, Duncan reached past Jack to the lantern hanging above the table. He kindle a spill at the flame and used it to light a small dark-lantern.

James standing in his own hallway, lighting a candle at the lamp. Turning to look at Jack. Not speaking, not moving, until Jack stepped over the threshold and closed the door.

Jack turned away from the light, and his eye lit on Harry's sprawled form.

A good lad, Harry. A pity to waste him on a fishing boat, really. But then, the boy'd had no one to turn to, being fatherless and all. He'd probably be grateful for a suggestion or two from an older, more experienced man. Why, it was practically Jack's duty, as the boy's captain, to give him a little fatherly advice.

Waking Harry proved harder than Jack had expected. Calling his name got no response at all. Vigorous shoulder-shaking caused the boy to mumble something unintelligible before rolling over. But a bucket of seawater did the trick right enough. Harry sat bolt upright, eyes wide, sputtering incoherently.

"Ah, you're awake. Splendid!" Jack dropped the bucket.

Harry peered muzzily through his still-dripping hair. "Wha'? Who?" He raked the hair out of his eyes and looked up at Jack. "Cap'n?"

"That's right, lad." Jack held out a hand. "On your feet." Harry grasped it and Jack hauled him upright, letting go as soon as he was reasonably sure the boy could stand unassisted. "It's time for you and me to have a little talk. Or me and you. Something like that. Come along."

The boy's eyes widened, but he followed Jack into the great cabin without protest.

"Close the doors." Jack went straight to the cupboard, where he extracted a bottle and two cups. When he turned back Harry was standing just inside the door, a puddle of seawater forming at his feet. Sit down, boy!" When Harry obeyed, Jack poured them both a drink.

"It has occurred to me," Jack leaned back in his chair, gesturing with the hand that wasn't holding the rum, "that you, not having a father, are almost certainly in need of a little advice regarding relations with the fairer sex, as it were."

Harry shifted in his chair and stared into his drink, muttering something too low to be understood.

"You do know the ways of a man with a maid, don't you boy?"

"Of course I do!" Harry was all offended dignity. "I'm not a child!"

"I did just wonder," Jack wet his throat. "Couldn't help but notice, at our last port of call, that you weren't among those partaking of that particular entertainment."

A dark flush spread up the boy's neck, and he suddenly wouldn't meet Jack's eye. "Well, no, I... I didn't. I mean I... I haven't. Yet."

"What, never?" Jack leaned forward. "No, 's impossible." He drained his cup and waved it in protest. "I don't believe it. A strapping lad such as you are, and you've never had a lass offer to give you a tumble? Ah well," he waved the question away. "There's a first time for everyone, eh? I dare say you'll do just fine, when your turn comes." He refilled his cup and noticed Harry's was still full. "Drink up, lad. Plenty where that came from."

He waited until the boy set down his cup, and topped it up again. "Now, about this girl of yours—Annie, is it?"

Harry nodded.

"And you want to marry her. Quite sure about that, are you?"

"Yes." A line had appeared between the boy's eyebrows.

"I'm only thinkin' of your welfare, mate. Marryin's forever, y'know." Jack waved a finger portentiously. "Once tied, it's a knot that cannot be undone." He leaned forward, the better to look the boy full in the face. "Do you really want to splice yourself to this girl for the rest of your life or," he smirked, "is what you really want to give 'er a bit of the old what-for, eh?" He winked.

"I don't—"

"'Course y' do!" Jack refilled his own cup and leaned back in his chair. "There's nothing wrong with it. 'S the most natural thing in the world for a fine, healthy lad such as yourself to fancy a bit of a tussle now and again. But," he raised a finger, "if that's all it is then you've no call to go marryin' the girl."

"It's not—"

"Certain of that, are you?" Jack refilled the boy's cup, not bothering to wait for an answer. "The next question is," he said, "do you know for certain she loves you and isn't just wanting to have her own itch scratched, as it were?"

"But sir," the boy was holding his head tilted to one side, and there were two lines between his eyebrows now, "I'm not..."

"I'm just suggesting you consider it, that's all." Jack wet his throat. "There's nothing more miserable than turning up one day to find him—her, I mean her, of course—getting 'er itch scratched by someone else."

"I don't think..."

"Just as you like. Have a drink." Jack took another mouthful, just to keep him company. "Give it a bit of thought before it's too late, that's all I'm saying."

"You mean I should...?"

"This Annie of yours," Jack interrupted him. "A sweet girl, you said?"

"Yes, she is!" The lines disappeared as Harry smiled.

"That'd mean she's a reasonable sort? Willing to be persuaded to your way of thinking? Or," he tilted his head, "is she the type that likes to hold the reins, eh?"

What?" Harry shook his head slowly. "I don't...."

"Well I'll tell you, boy, it's not always obvious. You can take my word for that." Discovering his cup was again empty, Jack refilled it. "I've known 'em be quite reasonable at first, willing to go turn and turn about without so much as batting an eye. When you've still to give over, that is. But," he leaned over the arm of his chair, gesturing, "once they've 'ad you, ah, then it's another story entirely. Suddenly you're the one doing all the taking and they're the one deciding the when and the how, as it were."

Harry's head was tilted to one side again. The lines between his eyebrows were back and his mouth hung open a bit.

"Aye," Jack leaned back in his chair, "and the worst of the lot for that are the gentlem—the gentry." He drained his cup. "Nothing's too good for you when they still want you, but the moment it's over," he flung his arm out, "it's back to the gutter and they wouldn't know y' from Adam if they tripped over you." He nodded solemnly. "Which has been known to happen. So," he poured the last of the rum into his cup, "take my advice, young Harry, and stick t' your own kind. Much the wiser course, I do assure you. Now," he leaned on one elbow, "was there anything else you wanted t' ask me about?"

"Ah, no." Harry edged his chair a bit further away. "I... I don't think so. Sir. Captain."

"Off with y' then." Jack made shooing motions with both hands. "And if you think of anything else don't hesitate to ask y'r old Uncle Jack, eh?" "No, sir. Captain." Harry rose with alacrity. "I mean yes. I mean... ah... thank you?"

"Always glad to help!" Jack lifted his cup in salute as the latch clicked home.

That had been well done. Jack drained his cup and set course for his cabin, tacking slightly en route. Once inside, he hung his hat on its usual hook and shrugged out of his coat. It hit the deck with a thud.

Jack stared at it blankly a moment, then checked the pockets. The right held three rings, an ebony-and-ivory rosary, and a small, heavy chamois pouch. From the left he drew a tortoiseshell comb, a silk handkerchief, half-a-dozen odd coins, a gold ear-ring, and a flat, round silver flask that sloshed quite audibly. Jack returned the flask to his pocket, slid everything else into the drawer built into the table, and went to bed.

They reached Tortuga in midmorning, and all the necessary business was taken care of by dusk. Jack made certain Harry had a seat in the first boat, but didn't set foot on shore himself until it was full dark.

Instead of making his way to the Faithful Bride or one of the other taverns he usually favored, Jack turned down the road that led past Fagin's warehouse. Four strapping bravos stood at the entrance, heavily armed and so obviously looking for trouble that most passers-by swung wide around them. Jack called a cheery greeting as he swaggered across the half-circle of empty space, and his grin only broadened when two of them snarled a reply.

A shop on the next corner was fronted by cases of wine and rum, and it was no trouble at all to acquire a bottle of the latter while the owner was helping load a customer's purchases onto a donkey-cart. True, when he opened it the rum turned out to be a bit raw, but he'd had worse—in a certain public house in Port Royal, for one.

The tankard descending; James raising his head to meet Jack's eyes.

But he'd not answered Jack's question, had he? Of course not.

The street opened out into a little square, with a rectangular basin in the middle. One of the men gathered 'round it roared something, and pushed the fellow opposite him hard. The fellow staggered backward, into a man in a brocade coat, who fell into the basin with a mighty splash. The man's friend launched himself at the fellow with a bellowed oath, and the men who'd been within range of the flying water turned on brocade-coat. He tried to back away but lost his footing and fell back into the water, dousing them again. Two of his attackers got water in their eyes and barged into each other; the first bellowed and swung, connecting solidly with the other man's belly. The brawl spread rapidly to engulf everyone around the fountain.

Oh, no, Norrington'd no intention of giving his name. Not to Jack.

Two men rolled out of the melee, hands on each others' throats. Jack dodged them automatically.

It wasn't like it even had to be his real name. The bastard could've made one up, couldn't he?

I thought you knew it.

That was bollocks. He danced backward, out of the way of a giant of a man who staggered a few steps and fell at his feet, unconscious. Norrington'd wanted himself seen to, that's all. Jack stepped over the big man and continued on. He hadn't wasted any time once they were upstairs, had he?

James' hands closing about his wrists; James' mouth against his skin. His tongue tracing the scar on Jack's palm.

Oh, aye, he'd enjoyed that, no doubt. Making Jack wait for it. Ache for it—

Feeling himself slide off the desk as his hips bucked; James' hands on his thighs, pushing him back onto his perch.

A whore leaned over a balcony, breasts spilling from her half-laced gown. Jack didn't even look up when she called out an offer.

Yes, that was what Norrington liked. Calling the tune, and making you dance to his piping. Just like all the rest.

James' cry as his back met the wall. The taste of his mouth. His body going still beneath Jack's hands.

A trick, that had been. But it hadn't worked. He turned into a tavern, weaving his way through the tables. Jack had seen through Norrington's ruse at once. There was a card game in progress to his left, a small heap of coins, jewels and trinkets in the middle of the table. He'd shown the Commodore he wasn't so easy caught as that. The corner by the back door held a huddle of men. One of them cast the dice, and the others swore or gloated as coins changed hands. Jack stepped into the alley behind the tavern.

No, he'd not see Norrington again. There was nothing the Commodore could offer Jack couldn't get elsewhere just as easy. Easier. Jack's bottle was empty. He tossed it onto a rubbish-heap and took the turn that led to the next street.

At the end of the alley a tall, white-topped figure in a gold-braided blue coat passed from light into shadow.

James?

Jack quickened his pace, all but spinning around the corner. Four long strides brought him up with the tall figure; his fingers closed on the blue sleeve. The man turned—

—and Jack looked up into a lined, weatherbeaten face with a livid scar on one cheek. "What d'you want?" The old man's voice was gruff; his hand moved to the cutlass at his belt.

"Nothing!" Jack backed away, spreading his hands where the man could see them. "Nothing at all." The coat was tattered and stained, the white hair so thin he could see the man's scalp through it. "I thought you were someone else." He brought out his most ingratiating smile. "My mistake."

The old man growled at him and turned away. As soon as he was out of sight, Jack slumped against the nearest wall. There was a lump in his chest, and the hand he raised to wipe his mouth was shaking. You're a bloody fool, Jack Sparrow. Nothing James had he wanted. Then why had he seen the man where he knew full well no Navy officer would ever be? Been so glad at the thought that he'd all but run toward him? And why had he thought Norrington would be glad to see him?

The two of them falling to the floor in a tangle of limbs. James looking up at him; his laughter fading into that smile as their eyes met.

Sweet sodomizing saints. That smile. And he'd walked away. Not just walked; he'd run. No question what James would make of that.

Well, he'd just have to counteract that impression, wouldn't he? Let James know he wanted to continue their meetings.

Jack began to walk, one hand rubbing his lips. Not a letter. Even if he could find a messenger he'd trust to deliver it, there was too much chance it'd fall into the wrong hands. His fingers slid slowly down beard-braids. And knocking on James's door was out, assuming he wanted them both to survive the experience, which he most assuredly did. His fingers traced the lapel of his coat. He could sneak into James' bedroom; he knew which one it was, and the ivy had looked sturdy enough to support his weight. But if he did, what would James think, given his last departure? He slipped his hand into his pocket, and felt something smooth and cool beneath his palm.

It was the Spaniard's flask, forgotten until now. Jack drank it dry, frowning slightly as he replaced the cap. He needed some way, some thing... The flask nestled smoothly into the palm of his hand. Jack frowned down at it, running his thumb across the deeply engraved decoration.

Of course! That was perfect! Brilliant! Especially if....

He stowed the flask in the inner pocket of his waistcoat. Where was that shop? And would it still be open?

The silver flask gleamed in the midday sun. A cord circled the neck and the beads threaded on the loose end were secured with the knot called the monkey's fist.

Jack smiled. "A man'd have to be daft," he said softly, "to walk away from a fellow who looked at him like that."

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