Naked to Mine Enemies
Chapter 2
by
Full headers in Chapter 1
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
When Jack came to, he was being jarred horribly, both his head and stomach, the latter of which was compressed against something hard and bouncing.
"Mf gffna pmfk."
"What are you on about, Sparrow?" came the querulous reply. Gods rot it, it was him again. May the benevolent goddesses save him from officious Commodores!
"I. Am. Going. To. Puke," said Jack, enunciating clearly.
Norrington swore and hove Jack off his shoulder, checking his fall at the last moment by seizing his arm. Jack hit the sand and began to retch, his head pounding with every heave. When he had emptied what little was left in his stomach, he attempted to stand. However, the ground pitched and rolled like a dinghy in a typhoon, and he was grateful for Norrington's shoulder under his arm. Not that he'd say so, of course.
Once they had reached the tree line, Norrington laid him against a boulder. "You should rest, Sparrow. Stay here and I'll find you some water."
"What about the Dutchman?"
"Gone. I was able to row us to the shallows before they surfaced, and once they saw we'd taken refuge ashore, they left. They left my boat untouched, presumably because they can only catch us asea."
"Speaking of the little boat, how did it come through the voyage?" said Jack, attempting to rise.
Norrington held him back. "The topsail will never fly again—her spar is broken clean through, but the rest of the spars and rigging are middling fair. Nothing a few days' work can't fix. But Sparrow, you must rest. I've seen blows to the head addle a man's brains for weeks."
"Don't fuss," said Jack, slapping his hand away. "I'm fine." As if to prove his point, he lurched to his feet and wobbled unsteadily for a moment before bracing himself against a palm tree with his elbow. He rested his head against his hand, attempting to look nonchalant. "See? Fit as a filly's fart."
Norrington shrugged. "Have it your way. There appears to be a small boat wrecked up the beach," he said gesturing. "I'm going to see if there's anything—" he broke off as Sparrow sprinted off toward the wreck.
"—salvageable," he finished, sighing.
To his credit, Jack only fell three times before he reached the boat, and one wasn't a fall so much as kneeling in front of a battered-looking cask.
"Fresh water?" asked Norrington hopefully.
"It's the rum!" exclaimed Jack happily. "Bless the Dirty Bottom, the rum's not gone after all!"
Norrington glanced at the boat and noted that despite being broken nearly in half—she must have been dashed against a reef—her spars were in fine shape. With a bit of work, the main yard could be cut down to the right size for his topsail. It was unbelievable good luck. It was then that the enormity of what had been done for him hit Norrington. He sank to his knees in the shade of the upended keel and leaned his head against the bleached wood.
"Great blessings, indeed," he muttered, grimacing at the gravelly quality of his own voice and sending up a silent prayer of thanks. He glanced at Sparrow, who had propped the cask up on a rock and opened the bung directly into his mouth. He wouldn't have been Norrington's first choice as a saviour, but the proof of the saviour was in the saving, and he had proven himself.
Norrington sighed as Sparrow fell back on to the sand, fairly gurgling with pleasure. There was work to do. If he was going to have another chance at life, he wasn't going to spend it dead drunk. He climbed into the hull to see if Sparrow had managed to steal any decent tools along with his boat.
By dusk, Norrington had not just determined their position—a dozen or so miles from the city of Antilla—he had also managed to salvage a large quantity of cable, worn but solidly constructed tools, and other useful items from Jack's wrecked boat and assembled them near the dinghy in an approximately Naval sort of way. Jack, whose first bout of glorious drunkenness had evaporated into peevishness, had commenced complaining about everything to the extent that Norrington excused himself brusquely to find fresh water, despite the fact that he'd salvaged a full cask of it from Jack's boat.
Norrington had spotted a stream not far from the wreck, and followed it into the forest until he found an appropriate place to wash himself and his clothes. He regretted the loss of his coat for its protection from the elements, for all that it would have made him instantly recognizable. Fortunately, it was a clear, balmy night, and the moon was rising.
After scrubbing his clothes in the sandy riverbed and laying them on a nearby rock, Norrington lay back in the water, grateful for the way its steady rush blocked out all other sounds and the gentle way it cradled his body. A single stroke sent him gliding to the far bank, where there was a circular curve containing a gentle eddy. He leaned his head back into the water, and when he re-emerged, the stray tendrils that had escaped his queue streamed back from his forehead. He tied back his hair and was about to get out of the creek when he caught a motion out of the corner of his eye. His body tensed for action, but to his simultaneous relief and annoyance, it was only Sparrow silhouetted in the rising moon.
Norrington had been in the Navy too long not to know when he was being given the once-over, but he felt oddly vulnerable to Jack's intense stare. He crossed his arms across his chest. "Are you finally convinced I'm not a eunuch?"
"You found fresh water, I see," said Jack, his eyes barely visible in the shadows. "How is it?"
"Fine."
"It's safe to drink then?"
Norrington paused. He somehow hadn't thought to taste it. The realization bothered him more than he cared to admit. "Try it if you like," he snapped.
"When was the last time you ate, Norrington?" asked Jack.
"I've been rather busy."
"And now?"
Norrington wasn't sure what he disliked more, Sparrow's solicitude or what his questions seemed to be implying. "I'm not hungry."
"Jim lad, do old Jacky a favour and step into the moonlight."
Norrington summoned his most forbidding stare. "I don't know what sort of disgusting game you're playing, Sparrow, but if you think that simply because I have a patron god that I'm—"
Jack waved a dismissive hand. "Didn't mean to offend your Commodorely shyness. Just your hand, then. Go on."
"Sparrow—"
"I can wait 'til the moon rises further, mate," said Jack, sitting on the bank and crossing his leg, as if to pull off his boot. He paused. "However, I could be convinced to leave your naked self be if you'd just acquiesce to my tiny little request."
Norrington felt a strange fear close over his heart, but he raised his hand from the water and held it out in front of him to where the shadow of the trees ended.
Where he expected to see his calloused fingers he saw only empty bone. He felt a thrill of panic, and he sharply withdrew his hand, but fascination got the better of him, and he extended his arm once more. The bones were clean, if yellowed, and they flexed as he moved his fingers. It was a curious sensation, to be in control of a dead hand.
He looked up into Sparrow's shadowed face. "What does this mean, Sparrow?"
"It means, my dear Commodore, that you are neither living nor dead, not unlike my heretofore cursed shipmates. You can neither die, nor can you live. You cannot sleep, nor eat, nor drink, and you can take no pleasurable company, sorry as I'm sure your god will be to hear it."
Norrington quickly withdrew his hand from the light and pressed it to his chest. It felt like his hand. In the darkness it still looked like his hand. But what was it? He cupped his hand and brought a small amount of water to his lips. Surprisingly it held, but when the water entered his mouth it no longer felt like water but sand, and it trickled through him rather than settling in his belly as it would have in life. He coughed from the tickling sensation and pounded his chest.
"Could be worse," said Jack, shrugging. "At least it means you can work all night fixing the boat. Me? I've got to rest and get me brains un-addled."
"Sparrow," asked Norrington quietly. "What can be done?"
"Get some sleep. Or let me get some sleep," said Jack, stretching. "And then we shall parley and negotiate new terms, savvy?"
Norrington did not like being toyed with. He stepped fully into the moonlight, grateful that the motion disturbed the water so that he wouldn't accidentally see his own reflection. "You will answer me, Sparrow. How is it cured?"
"It's really quite simple," said Jack. "You're still dead, mate. You're no longer bobbing around waiting for the Dutchman, but it's no simple thing to bring the dead back to life. So your option is to either find someone who has the power to bring back the dead or find a way around it."
"Around it? How?"
"Well, making a deal with the devil is traditional," said Jack, his gold teeth flashing in the moonlight.
Norrington met his eye. "Are you offering?"
Sparrow tutted impatiently. "I was buying meself a bit of time, seeing as I haven't exactly got a plan yet, but apparently literary references are lost on the Royal Navy. Now stow your gob and let me be. We'll talk on the morrow."
He staggered off toward the beach, leaving Norrington gazing at his grotesque reflection in the water.
***
The sun was not far from its zenith when Jack pulled himself reluctantly out from the shelter Norrington had cunningly improvised from the dinghy and oars. The sand was cool in the shade, and it was hot as a Brazilian wench out where Norrington was noisily hewing down the spar to the correct size. To Jack's surprise, Norrington hadn't bothered to put on his shirt, and his back was glistening from the exertion. It wasn't a very pretty back—it hadn't seen the sun in quite some time and was pale as a squid's underside, and there were all sorts of old flogging scars, which Jack thought was something of a shame. For all intents and purposes, all of Norrington's outside was an artificial construct of the curse. The least the cursing entity could have done was to improve its aspect somewhat.
"Oi there!" called Jack gruffly, staggering toward Norrington, dismayed that he felt only the least bit improved from the day before. His balance was still off. "How's a man supposed to have a deep, healing rest with all this caterwauling and carpentry?"
Norrington looked up from his labour with the long-suffering expression that Jack was beginning to enjoy. Strange, though, his chin was still as clean-shaven as it had been in the moment of his running-through. Perhaps that was one advantage of being an illusion.
"One could start by sleeping elsewhere, preferably on the far side of the island," Norrington replied, sweeping his forearm against his sweaty brow.
Jack ignored him to take a closer look. He was surprised to note that Norrington's work had produced tidy results. One side of the spar had been precisely cut down to the proper size and sanded until it shone.
"I didn't know Naval officers did this sort of thing," he commented.
"I was carpenter's mate before I rated midshipman."
"Pull the other one," said Jack.
"Very well," said Norrington with an impatient sigh. "I'm actually the fourth son of a duke who had to take to sea to earn my fortune. My first years 'at sea' were spent in expensive schools, I never bothered learning to reef, hand, or steer, and my advancement was due entirely to the excellence of my connections and cuckolding only the officers without sufficient consequence to impede me. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
Sparrow cocked his head, giving him the aspect of a curious mutt. "You really started out belowdecks?"
Norrington shrugged. "It's not as if a cooper's son could afford a commission."
"My, my. Someone has depths and secrets," said Sparrow waggling an eyebrow at him.
"I haven't any idea why this surprises you," said Norrington, laying his adze aside and sitting on the sand.
"Oh, haven't you?" returned Jack, mimicking his plummy accent. "But it's true, mate, pirates get blinded by the epaulettes and shiny swords on occasion, the same way you Navy lads sometimes can't see past the Jolly Roger to get the measure of the men behind it."
"How penetrating," said Norrington dryly. "Now if you don't mind, Sparrow, if we want to sail with the evening tide, I've got quite a bit of work to do."
"What's your hurry?" asked Jack, deliberately sitting on the end of the spar Norrington was working.
"The Dutchman will soon have worked through all the souls that Jones left behind. It behooves us to find a solution, fast."
Jack raised an admonishing finger. "Ah ah ah. We haven't yet laid all our cards on the table and come to an accord."
"Can you talk while I work?" asked Norrington.
Jack scowled at him. "Here now, I take exception to your disrespect for parley."
Norrington's eye twinkled as he raised the adze over his shoulder. "I don't negotiate with pirates," he said loftily.
"Funny!" exclaimed Jack. "You're funny. Now, here's things as I see it. That knock on the head, much as I hate to admit it, has left me feeling a touch unsteady, as it were. You, in your infinite wisdom, suggested I rest until me brains were settled once again, am I right?"
"Thus far."
"You, it turns out, are cursed. Shame, that. Inconvenient at balls and dinner parties. But the upside of that is that you have all the time in the world. You don't need to eat or drink, so you can be anywhere indefinitely. Have I got the measure of it?"
"Perhaps."
"Right. So by my thinking, there is nothing to be gained by setting to sea immediately. In fact, it could very well be that my poor battered skull would be permanently damaged by it. As for whether we'd be safer from the Dutchman sooner rather than later, I would like to point out that we're surrounded by islands, Jamey, and all of them are surrounded by shallows, and where there are shallows in sight of land, we're safe from the Dutchman. Savvy?
"Oui."
"Funny and French. God help us. So you concede that, since it takes both of us to sail the boat, it would be better to stay put."
"Not at all," said Norrington. "There is the matter of your treasure hunt to be discussed."
Jack's hand involuntarily flew to his chest where the compass was reassuringly solid. "Don't know what you mean, mate," he said lamely.
"Of course not," said Norrington with withering scorn. "Just as I'm sure you have no idea how you came to be in possession of the map fragment you carry."
Jack took a deep breath, prepared to lie outrageously, but Norrington held up a hand to forestall him.
"Sparrow, the only thing you will accomplish by attempting to foist motivations on me that I do not actually possess is irritating me and quite possibly earning yourself another knock on the head. And if you seem constitutionally incapable of speaking plainly, allow me to do so. The salient facts as I see them are as follows: firstly, my boat requires two to sail her. That is the only reason I am taking you into account at all. Secondly, I am dead, which makes me vulnerable to the Dutchman. My highest priority is becoming un-dead, and since you are stuck with me on my boat, my highest priority is also yours, treasure map or no. Ça va, Sparrow?"
"You went through me personal effects!" said Jack.
Norrington shook his head, apparently taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. "What?"
"You searched through my personal affects when I was incapacitated." Jack crossed his arms across his chest. "Ungentlemanlike at best."
"I'm not a gentleman, and you are most certainly not a lady. The leather thong was wrong-ways around your neck and could have choked off your air," he explained. "I took it off you for safe-keeping until we got to shore."
"And it just happened to pop open, I suppose?"
"I wanted to see the object that was of such interest to the late and unlamented Lord Beckett," said Norrington. "It's still broken. The needle spins and spins."
"It seems, Jim lad, that you love the whole wide world. But the compass isn't the important thing, especially where your Naval self is concerned." He rubbed his thumb and fingers together meaningfully.
Norrington smirked. "You think I'm interested in gold?"
"You're not?" asked Jack sceptically. "'Course you are. Everyone is, especially tradesmen's sons who try to marry governors' daughters."
"I'm not primarily motivated by gold," said Norrington stiffly.
"What if I could tell you that what's centre of this map might solve both our problems."
"I'd tell you that I have a largish Gothic church on an island in the Seine for sale."
Jack ignored this. "You wanted to know a way around the curse. Don't you think a restorative sip or two from the fountain of youth could be just the thing?"
"There is no fountain of youth," said Norrington. "If there were, King Philip of Spain would still be over two hundred years old and insufferable as ever."
"But what if de Leon never found it?" asked Jack, weaving like a cobra. "What if someone English did?"
"It would explain many members of Parliament," said Norrington.
"Look," said Jack, pulling out the compass and flipping open the case. "Barbossa and his mutinous swabs are already on their way to America. They think that with their map they'll have an easier time of things than the conquistadors did. As you can see, the most important bit of the aforementioned map has been liberated by yours truly, so they'll be stuck wandering the bogs of la Florida being nibbled on by enormous mosquitoes and crocodiles."
Norrington opened the battered chart case that he'd salvaged from Jack's boat and was pleased to see that Sparrow was, thankfully, in possession of a map of the American coast. "I don't suppose you happen to remember where exactly this map fits?"
"O' course I do," said Jack brusquely, tapping his finger on the southernmost tip of the enormous peninsula. "Here. Ish. Barbossa's map was a ruddy great peninsula shaped like this and labelled 'King Philip's America.' What else could it be?"
Norrington gestured at the compass case. "May I?"
"Be my guest," said Jack, handing Norrington the map fragment.
He peered at it for a long minute. "These hills are rather odd landmarks for Florida, don't you think?"
"Couldn't say," said Jack. "Mostly I sailed 'round it to get to New Orleans, if you take my meaning."
"Florida is like a sponge saturated with water, yet this map shows only a few rivers and no lakes. And what about these settlements?" asked Norrington, pointing to what was clearly an unnamed town, marked some distance up the coast from the fountain on Jack's map. "Where is it on the Florida map?"
"P'raps the Florida map's out of date," said Jack. "Or else the treasure map is."
"And what about this abbreviation? W-A-M-P?"
"Where Are My Pants?" suggested Jack.
Norrington's eyes were thoughtful. "I trust that you remember the most important details of the rest of the map, but I wonder if it means what you believe it means."
"Oh? And what do you think it means?"
"I don't think this is Florida at all," said Norrington. "I think what we seek is significantly further north in New England."
"Calypso's cunny!" exclaimed Jack. "You think I can't tell a bloody map of Florida from a bloody map of New England?"
"I think you saw what the map makers intended you to see. I believe the map was intended to deceive."
Jack crossed his arms. "You can tell all that from an unnamed settlement and Where Are My Pants?"
"Does the name Metacomet mean anything to you, Sparrow?"
"Is it a comet within a comet that has implications for all comet-kind?"
Norrington glared at him. "Metacomet was a Wampanoag Indian chief who warred with the British in Massachusetts."
"So you think WAMP is short for the Wampy-thing tribe? Dead clever, mate, and culturally sensitive beyond your ken, but it doesn't really explain why an ex-Spanish king's name is on the bloody map, now does it?"
"It does if you consider the fact that Metacomet's nickname was King Phillip."
Jack opened his mouth to argue but shut it again when he could think of nothing to say in response.
Norrington nodded, satisfied. "Now, assuming Barbossa isn't a New England native, your supposition that they're on their way to Florida is likely correct. Which is why it is to our great advantage to sail north to the Massachusetts Bay Colony with all due haste."
"Since when are you a bloody expert on these Where Are My Pants people?"
"Since I was arrested by the Puritans for spying for the crown and had to escape through Indian territory."
Jack stared at him in unflattering disbelief. "You're having me on."
Norrington favoured him with an imperious scowl. "Sparrow, have you any idea what it takes for a man of no consequence to be made a post-captain in His Majesty's Navy?"
That was the stroppy Commodore whose nose Jack enjoyed tweaking so much. He gave Norrington an innocent shrug. "Unusual skill at fellatio?"
Norrington stiffened for a moment but quickly sussed out that he was being baited. "Your supposition says a great deal more about discipline on a pirate ship than in the Navy," he said loftily. "Now kindly remove yourself from my spar."
"That's what he said," grumbled Sparrow, feeling unaccountably disappointed to be dismissed. "What about the whelp in the Dutchman?" asked Jack, attempting to extend the conversation.
"We stick close to shore as much as possible and hope that there are more important souls to harvest than mine," said Norrington lightly. "Now, Sparrow, do we have an accord?"
Jack looked askance at him, lips pursed. "The terms are, we immediately make sail for the land of no pants, find the fountain in the wilds of Massachusetts before the Dutchman finds us, drink deep, then go on our merry ways, yeah?"
"Essentially."
"Then we have an accord," said Jack, extending his hand to Norrington.
When they had shaken, Jack slid bonelessly off the spar. "Excellent. Now get back to work, Jim lad. Not much time left if we're to make sail with the evening tide. I'm off to go enjoy that spring you found yesterday and make sure me head doesn't get more addled."
Norrington raised his adze and lowered it again. "Sparrow?" he called.
Jack turned to face him, his index finger twining in his beard. "Yes, my pet?"
"Do me the favour of not drowning. It would be inconvenient to have to swim to Massachusetts."
"I could always bathe just there in the ocean so you can keep an eye on me," said Jack, winking saucily before he minced off toward the spring.
Norrington's only response was to commence hacking away at the spar with his adze, which was a vaguely threatening action on his part, if one chose to think about it. Naturally, Jack chose not to.
***
Sailing on the evening tide was significantly easier said than done, especially when one had an argumentative pirate aboard who was used to having his own way, from cross catharpings to the correct direction to coil cable. As it was, they missed their tide, thanks to Jack's insistence on examining the rudder chain himself and his refusal to weigh anchor until Norrington agreed to rake the mast, which would allow them to fly the square topsail at all times. Even on a small boat like theirs with an ex-carpenter's mate in charge of the proceedings, raking and securing the mast was a big job—so big that they nearly missed the next morning's tide.
Fortunately, Jack was tired enough from being in high dudgeon all night that he quickly retired to the day cabin while Norrington sailed them north-northwest toward the Bahamas, only a hundred and fifty miles away, where they would sail from island to island so as to provide the least amount of opportunity to be taken by the Dutchman. Their path to America was not particularly direct, but it was safest.
James had a few hours' peace simply enjoying the way the boat cut swiftly through the calm waters. At one point he heard a strange whistling sound and looked over the rail to see a pod of dolphins riding the prow. James relaxed as he watched their silver bodies glide alongside and occasionally leap out of the water.
When Jack finally reappeared on desk, James was in such peaceful spirits that not even his former nemesis could bother him, and not for lack of trying. After ten minutes of inane comments about the rigging failed to rouse James to sharp words, Jack climbed sulkily into the crosstrees where he silently scanned the ocean for strange sails.
That evening they anchored, by tacit agreement, along an uninhabited stretch of land in the lee of large sandstone bluffs. Jack had made himself a hammock from a small sail and announced that he was more comfortable sleeping at sea than on land, but James was taking no chances and rowed himself ashore. The narrow strip of beach below the bluffs was composed of largish pebbles. It was a perfectly clear night, and it was bright enough by starlight for him to locate a serviceable crag to shield himself from the moon, which would rise soon. From his hiding place, he could see Sparrow's lantern and the dim glow of the luminous waves where they broke on the shore. Sparrow was singing some sort of demented sea chantey and taking deep pulls of rum between verses. Before long, he added a stumbling sort of dance. The bloody fool was going to fall over and crack his head again.
James sighed. With effort, he lifted his eyes to the sky. The moon was rising, an emaciated, waning moon that would be gone within a week. James had never been so anxious for a new moon in his life, if this could be said to be his life. He sincerely hoped that the new moon would coincide with their time ashore in Massachusetts. Or, if not the new moon, then cloudy weather. On the bright side, at least being burned or hung for a witch wouldn't be fatal for him.
There was a loud splash, and he sprang to his feet. Sparrow must have fallen off the deck. Huffing in annoyance, James began to shove the dinghy into the water to fish him out when he realized that Sparrow was swimming toward shore with lazy strokes. As he got closer, James caught a flash of skin in the moonlight. Sparrow was as naked as the day he was born.
Or not completely naked, James amended mentally, since Sparrow had the compass around his neck and, bizarrely enough, was still wearing his boots. He stepped out of the water, boots squelching absurdly, and walked unsteadily over to James's crag.
"You know, Sparrow, I'd have believed you if you simply told me you weren't a eunuch."
"You've never believed a word I've said," said Jack cheerfully.
"I'd have been willing to suspend disbelief."
Jack lowered himself onto a nearby rock while James assiduously looked away.
"To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"
"Got lonely on the boat," said Jack. "It's not much fun singing harmonizing by meself. Do admirals or commodores sing?"
"Hymns mostly. 'Old Hundredth,' 'Heart of Oak,' that sort of thing."
"We've got to work on your repertoire, mate. Unless carpenters' mates are more learned in things melodical?"
"They might be, if they were inclined to sing."
Jack lay back on the rock and kicked one foot in the air. "So incline, Jim lad. 'Sir Walter enjoying his damsel one night,'" he sang. "'He tickled and pleased her to so great a height, that she could not contain t'wards the end of the matter, but in rapture cried out—'" Jack paused and looked meaningfully at James.
"No."
"Ah, you do know it," said Jack, smiling slyly. "Go on, then. A man can't sing a catch by himself. You start at the top, I'll keep going."
James cleared his throat. "'Sir Walter enjoying his damsel one night—'"
Jack kicked his foot in time to the music, water sloshing inside his boot. "'Oh sweet Sir Walter! Oh sweet Sir Walter! Oh sweet Sir Walter!'" he sang. "'Swisswer-swatter swisster swatter!'"
It had been decades since James had sung the song, but he still remembered the tune, which was far prettier than the bawdy lyrics deserved. To his credit, Jack didn't stop singing when James reached the "Oh sweet Sir Walter" bit as James had expected him to do, but started singing from the beginning again.
Not that James would ever admit it, but singing with Sparrow was not an entirely unpleasant experience. The melodic lines twined around one another cleverly, and Sparrow's voice, when he wasn't trying to sound like a masculine bullfrog, wasn't terrible. When James reached the end of the song, he gave up all pretense of aloofness and allowed the absurdity of two old enemies singing the words of a lusty damsel to wash over him as he joined Jack on a final round of "Oh sweet Sir Walter". To his surprise, Jack harmonized capably with him on the "swisser-swatters", and their last note rang out clearly over the water.
Jack's booted foot flopped back down on the rock with a wet splut. "Very nice, Jamey. You've a pretty little voice. It's lower than I expected—perhaps you're only half eunuch."
"Whatever I am, at least I'm not obsessed with other mens' bollocks," said James, withdrawing further into the crag so as to avoid the rising moonlight.
"Just gods, eh?"
"I really don't need to hear this," said James.
"Well, you might think about it if he might be able to do something about your whole dead problem."
James managed to keep from hitting Sparrow on the head. "He's not that sort of god," he said tightly. "And I'll thank you to speak no more on the subject."
"Well, pardon me for being concerned," said Sparrow, glaring, "But I'm not going to let your prudery get me sent to Davy Jones's locker. And believe you me, it's a much less hospitable place when Davy Jones himself is in residence."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"Did you see the green flash at sunset?"
"I was doing a bit of tricky navigating," said James.
"Well, right after the flash, I saw a sail."
"Why on earth didn't you call 'Sail ho' when you saw it?"
Jack sighed impatiently. "You were doing a tricky bit of navigating. And what good would it have done you to know that a ship that might have been the Dutchman was too far away to trouble us before nightfall? None. Besides, I'm telling you now."
"We already knew they were pursuing me," said James. "Our course is set and minimizes the time spent in open sea. There's not much more we can do. And it's possible that it wasn't even the Dutchman you saw. We shall simply have to be more vigilant."
The corner of Jack's mouth lifted. "By which I assume you mean me to call 'sail ho' next time."
Norrington's voice was dry as his bones. "If you would be so kind."
"Suit yourself," said Jack with a sigh. "Let's just hope the Atlantic deity or deities will be more favorable than the Caribbean one."
"I hope so too," said James. "Sparrow, do you know 'The Miller's Daughter?'"
"That I do," said Jack. "But that song gives me the wobblies. What about 'When that I was and a little tiny boy?' Hey nonny yes or hey nonny no?"
"I dreamed that life was but a toy," sang James.
Sparrow's smile was broad and open. "Hey, ho! The wind and the rain."
Together they sang, "For the rain it raineth every day." James was delighted to remember almost all the words.
It was nearly an hour before Jack's rum-swilling caught up with him and he began snoring. James took pity on the naked man and laid his shirt over his torso and abdomen to protect him from the falling coolness. James reflected that there were some things to be said for being resistant to cold, heat, starvation, dehydration, and lust. However, he had temporarily forgotten that no good deed goes unpunished.
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