Passages

Chapter 2

by

Garnet

As well as the thought of eventually and inevitably being called to court martial for the loss of not one, but two ships in but a few months. Certainly, he had never envisioned this for himself when he had chosen a career in His Majesty's navy. At best, he was looking at a loss of his commission. At worst...

Well the scaffolding which had taken the lives of so many men of dire reputation and mien could just as easily end up as his own fate.

Glancing over the edge, he found himself actually contemplating for a brief turn of madness taking that one last long step and plummeting to the seas below. Wishing, at the same time, to not miss the rocks as Elizabeth had done. But then, he turned away instead and slowly began to make his way back to his office.

He forced himself in passing to quite deliberately look at the gallows, at the ready noose that still hung there, only to find one hand creeping up to readjust his collar. Finding it suddenly too tight. And for a moment, his eyes deceived him and he saw a body hanging from the end of that rope, small and lax and painfully emptied of everything that it had made it so very alive. Again, he felt that same sense of wrong and, more shocking still, acute loss at the man's death.

Except that Jack Sparrow wasn't dead, was he? He was just... gone.

And, he had every reason to suspect, aboard the Dauntless even now. Since, though there was no love lost between Sparrow and the former crew of the Pearl, where else could he have gone? Of course, knowing how insufferable the man could be when he wanted to, he wouldn't have been all that surprised to find him waiting for him in his very office even now. Both feet up on the desk and a glass of his own private stock in his hand.

But, when he opened the door, the room beyond was empty and dim and all he could see was a stack of paperwork waiting for him, topped by a packet of recently arrived dispatches that he hadn't had the time to peruse yet. Having had a small matter of kidnapping and theft and a series of hangings to attend to in the meantime.

Norrington looked around the familiar surrounds of his office—at desk and books and map and globe, all the trappings of both his rank and his duty—and suddenly felt a keen sense of both disappointment and bone-deep weariness. He turned and rang for his aide, then sent him in pursuit of his Second Lieutenant. After which, he crossed to the windows and threw them open, letting in the cool morning air. The town below was still mostly hushed at this hour, though the docks were starting their common bustle.

No doubt, the word was already spreading about the events of last night.

He was still standing by the window when Gillette arrived, looking obscenely cheerful and awake at this ungodly hour. His jacket and breeches crisp and clean and his wig set perfectly in place and this ever so carefully schooled look on his face.

"Sir?"

"Ah, Gillette," Norrington said. "If you would please see to it that Master Turner is released forthwith."

"Sir, but what about... "

Norrington met the younger man's eyes and knew his own were hard. "You heard me. And if you would also be so kind as to advise Leftenant Groves to please join me as soon as he is able. And have Collins bring in some tea."

"Yes, sir." The tone was only slightly grudging; obviously he had expected a few more orders than that, to be taken into his confidence even, but Gillette turned on his heel smartly enough and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

Norrington sat down at his desk and pulled the packet contained the dispatches towards him. He broke the seal and pulled out a handful of papers, then set his eyes to the first one, even though the words seemed almost intelligible. His eyes were burning now, and he scrubbed his hand across them, then over his chin. He was badly in need of a shave, and a bath wouldn't have gone amiss either. Let alone a change of clothing; his breeches were still mud-stained from his visit to the gravesite last night.

Speaking of which... Norrington set the papers aside, still unread, and reached inside his jacket to pull out a dirty handful of cloth. He fingered the material—silk, it was clearly real silk, and still fine enough despite its ill use—and then ran the string of beads across his palm and inspected them. Some of the beads appeared to be made of glass, others of bone or ivory, and the silver bauble at the end seemed to have definite origins in the East Indies.

Not that he had ever been to the East Indies. No, the New World had seemed enough of a challenge for him, and to have all the opportunities that home did not readily afford. But that did not mean that he could not imagine what it might be like and the temptations that such a life seemed to offer—to be constantly on the move, free to discover new lands and new peoples, not settling for anything less than the next horizon, never to put down roots in any one place—an exciting life, yes, but what really was the point to it when all was said and done? What could a man claim to have accomplished by such a life?

Besides the living of it, of course, and that had never been enough for him. Because he had never sought to serve only himself, and a life like that seemed very self-serving indeed.

Carefully, he folded the scarf up with the string of beads hidden safe away inside. He unlocked his desk drawer and made to put it away, only to pause with it still in his hand. For, honestly, he could not bear the thought of parting with it, which was sheer foolishness, but that he could not deny the impulse to keep it with him all the same. As if it was some sort of guarantee that he would see the man it belonged to again, which was not only a foolish thought, but an irrational one as well.

Truly, he badly needed sleep. But, baring that, some tea would have to do.

The scarf was securely back inside his jacket and he had returned to making an attempt to read the first dispatch, when there was a knock at the door and Groves entered, followed by Collins with a silver tray balanced between both hands. The fresh-faced young man placed it on his desk, then made as if to pour out. But Norrington dismissed him and, after Collins had nodded and left the room, he turned his attention to his First Lieutenant.

Who looked almost as weary as he himself felt, though he feared the other man wore it rather better. Certainly, his uniform was neat and clean and the look in his blue eyes sharp enough for a man who had been up half the night scouring the streets of Port Royal.

"Commodore?" Groves asked, an entire world of questions in the one word.

"If you would," Norrington replied, gesturing at the chair opposite his desk. He poured out a cup of tea, plied it liberally with sugar, and then held it out to the other officer. Groves leaned forward to take the offered cup, then sank back into the chair with what sounded suspiciously like a sigh of mingled relief and gratefulness.

"Thank you, sir."

"Yes," he said, pouring himself a cup as well. Briefly, he held it before him, the familiar scent soothing at the very least, before carefully sipping the hot liquid. Exactly what he needed right then and there. Well, if one did not count his fervent desire that the Dauntless was still safe and secure at her anchorage in the bay as she should be. As she would be if only... if only the world worked as he had once believed it did.

But then nothing had made sense lately. Not since the day he had received his promotion and that... that pirate had come into his life. Throwing both his carefully regulated world and his deepest held beliefs into disarray. How else could duly executed pirates come back from the dead, let alone a woman like Elizabeth throw him over for a blacksmith of all people? No, the world had simply taken a wrong turn somewhere and he had no one to blame for that but himself. Himself and a certain roguish fellow who went by the name of Jack Sparrow.

"Sir?" Groves asked again, and only then did Norrington realize that he was staring off into space. And that his tea had gotten cold.

"My apologies," he replied, setting his cup down. "I find myself rather distracted today."

"Understandable," the other man said. "Any man would have found the events of the last few days, let alone the last month, a bit trying to say the least."

Norrington nodded, then offered Groves a small smile, before he changed the subject. "I take it you searched the entire town?"

The lieutenant nodded, turning serious as well. "Twice over. We apprehended two thieves, one of them even down near the docks, but they appear to know nothing about the men who took the Dauntless. Of course, they could be lying... "

"Yes," Norrington commented. "But I rather doubt it in this instance. Was there anything else? Someone must have seen or heard something, despite the lateness of the hour."

Groves looked down into his teacup, as if he could find better answers there. "No. Sorry sir. I could not find anyone who could tell us anything, or was willing to tell us anything at the very least. It's as if these men simply had sprung up out of nowhere."

For a moment, Norrington considered telling the other man what he had discovered.

That, in fact, these men had indeed quite literally sprung up from the earth wherein they had been laid to rest. Albeit ever so briefly.

But explanation seemed beyond him at the moment, especially with that soiled scarf resting within the confines of his jacket. Reminder of a recent past he would much rather forget, than be forced upon reflection to pursue.

Not that there was any choice to the matter; he would have to see Dauntless back in her rightful hands, or destroyed if he could not, and that would mean hunting down these men. Even if there was no point to hanging them a second time. Not while this power would only send them scurrying back out of the ground as soon as they were planted.

Truly, they were as much cockroach as pirate. Though, Jack was... well, Jack was a bloody great thorn in his side and his own gods bedamned private curse and he doubted not that the man was at the heart of this and would prove eminently capable of turning his life upside down once more if given half a chance.

Still, he nodded and thanked the lieutenant for his hard work and dedication, especially at being roused out of his bed at such an ungodly hour. There was no use taking out his mood on his men, especially as they were standing by him despite his own clear faults and failings of late.

"Have the Shark made ready," he said. "Handpick as many marines as she may reasonably hold. Preferably those who have already seen action aboard Dauntless. Those who last sailed with her."

Groves set his empty teacup aside, but did not rise to go.

"Sir?" he asked instead. "Is there some especial reason you wish those particular men? There are a great many others who would be quite eager to help in the recovery of the Dauntless, if I'm not mistaken. Myself included. However, Leftenant Gillette... well, he... "

And the other man suddenly stopped and swallowed, obviously steeling himself to bring up something that he rather wished not to. Something that had been preying on him all the same. It was clearly written on his face, same as his discomfort in having to ask, as if he had wished better of his relationship with his commander.

"Gillette?" Norrington asked. "What about Leftenant Gillette? Has he been speaking out of turn?"

"I, ah... " Groves paused again. "It's just that the men have been talking of late. You know that as well as I. They've been talking of... impossible things... and I would have thought it all but the superstition of the common sailing man, except that... well, the Leftenant is so very adamant that nothing out of the ordinary happened out there. Rather too adamant, if I might be so forward as to make comment."

Norrington made a noncommittal sound, which the other man obviously chose to take as encouragement.

"Commodore, if you please," he said. "I would know what happened out there. I feel I must know what happened."

"Yes," Norrington replied. He met the other man's eyes squarely, but had to wonder if his own looked haunted in that moment. If they looked as uncertain as he felt. "You must know and you will, please believe me, John. But not... today. If I could impose upon you to wait a little longer, until after we have set sail... "

For a moment, Groves looked disappointed, but then his face set itself into softly controlled lines. "Very good, sir," he replied.

"Thank you," Norrington said, then drew in a deep breath. "And if I might also presume upon you to have word sent to the Governor about what happened. I plan to see him myself this afternoon if I can, explain matters more thoroughly, as well as inform him of our plans to take the Shark out after her as soon as we may, but in the meantime... Port Royal cannot afford to perceive itself as being less than well protected, especially after the beating it took just this past month."

Groves nodded and made as if to rise, but Norrington's eyes had gone back to the paperwork on his desk and, this time, the words formed themselves into a semblance of sense. His mouth opened and he picked the top dispatch up and read it quickly. Then read it a second time, his heart falling as he did so.

"Commodore?"

Norrington raised a hand and Groves subsided once more to respectful silence. He read through the dispatch a third time, even more carefully, before leaning back into his chair and closing his eyes for a long moment.

It wasn't an outright declaration of war, but if he read this aright, that couldn't be far behind unless some miracle occurred.

"Bad news, sir?" Groves ventured at the last.

Instead of answering, Norrington handed the other man the dispatch, knowing that the lieutenant was more than astute enough to be able to read between the lines as he had. And to come to much the same conclusions. Accordingly, the other man's response wasn't long in coming.

Groves took in a slow breath, then shook his head. "I must admit, sir," he said quietly. "That I am little surprised. Though I would have hoped otherwise. But it does make the loss of the Dauntless even more acute, and her recovery of the highest priority."

"Absolutely," Norrington agreed.

Groves consulted the papers again. "The Endeavor," he said musingly. "Have you heard tell of her, sir?"

"Yes," he said. "She's newly built and rumored to be surprisingly quick for her tonnage. I wonder, though, that she is being assigned to these waters, when I imagine that she may be of better use elsewhere should things turn sour. However, I have also heard that her captain, a Welshman by the way, is a stubborn man and a good friend of Admiral Lewis, so perhaps it was he who arranged for the Endeavor to be sent here."

Groves frowned, then hesitated.

"Yes?" Norrington asked.

"This Welshman... "

"Captain Reade," he put in. "Yes?"

The other man swallowed, then forged ahead. "Do you believe, sir, that he may have ambitions towards your own position, or possibly even higher?"

Norrington shook his head, though it wasn't a denial. The thought had just crossed his mind and, considering the recent raid on Port Royal—not to mention the loss of the Interceptor and now the Dauntless, though of course word of the destruction of the first ship and the attack on the town and fort had undoubtedly not quite reached the authorities in England yet, and wouldn't for another fortnight or so—there was no way he could be considered to be in the good graces of his His Majesty's navy. Even if he wasn't outright under arrest just yet.

Though, he could certainly expect that the next set of dispatches to arrive would contain just such an order. He would actually be quite surprised if they did not. Being that the Governor would have been entirely within his rights, upon their return to Port Royal, to have called court martial on him for the loss of the Interceptor at the very least.

Though, of course, Governor Swann had had rather a lot on his mind of late. One lost ship being the least of it. Not to mention it would have seemed in quite bad form to have arrested the man who was only just affianced to your only daughter.

However, the Governor would have to be informed as soon as possible about not only the loss of the Dauntless as well, but of the Norrington's own suspicions regarding the recent downturn in their relationship with Spain and the dispatch of a new ship of the line to Port Royal. It would be up to the Governor in the short run to decide if he were to be removed from his position, especially once Captain Reade and the Endeavor arrived.

"We must get Dauntless back as soon as possible," Groves said urgently. "If war is about to break out... we are vastly overmatched by the Spaniards as we are, and they would undoubtedly seek to take back Port Royal and all of Jamaica first thing."

Norrington nodded. "You're quite right, Leftenant. Should hostilities break out, we will most likely find a half dozen Spanish men of war upon our doorstep before the ink is barely dry."

Groves suddenly frowned. "Are you sure that it was not the Spanish who took Dauntless, perhaps even in disguise. Knowing that her loss would leave us vulnerable."

Norrington shook his head. "No, they were not Spaniards. I am sure of that."

"Then who were they, sir? You did see them then?"

"Yes," he replied heavily. "I saw them. Little good that it did any of us. And, I must tell you, the only flag these brigands might swear allegiance to is their own, and that would be a black one indeed."

"Pirates?" Groves said wonderingly. "I had considered... but why would pirates take the Dauntless. I imagine the Shark would be far more desirable, being she is by far the easier ship to handle and was under far less guard."

Norrington said nothing, though he could well imagine why these particular pirates had taken it into their heads to commandeer the Dauntless as they had. But he still hesitated to tell the other man the entire truth of what he had seen last night. At least for the time being. They would all have to know eventually what they faced in attempting to make recovery of the Dauntless, but it was such a sore point among his men already that he balked at adding to their burdens without it being absolutely necessary.

Morale was certain to drop as it was because of the loss of yet another ship so soon upon the first. He didn't need any more discord, especially since Lieutenant Gillette had taken it upon himself since their return from the Isla de Muerta to not only deny the proof of his own eyes in regards to the pirates they had faced there, but to ridicule any man who dared to speak of curses and skeletons in the same breath.

And he himself couldn't very well dispute him, not without adding more fuel to the fire. And with war seeming so close upon their heels now, that would be all this fort and this town would need.

No, far better that only the men who absolutely had to know were told the entire truth about what they faced.

That they, in fact, faced the very same men that they had faced before. And the very same difficulties.

It was then that the door abruptly crashed open and a bedraggled and somewhat wild-eyed Will Turner burst into the room, two soldiers hard upon his heels. Groves started up, but the younger man ignored him and the men behind him and strode directly over to Norrington's desk instead. Leaning over the remains of their tea until his face was but an inch or two away from his own, until the threat was unmistakably clear, even though the man appeared to have no visible weapons currently upon his person.

"Norrington," Turner said harshly. "What have you done with him?"

"Out," he said, rising himself.

Groves made to take hold of the younger man, the other two soldiers moving forward as well to aid him, but Norrington stopped them with a shake of his head.

"No," he said loudly. "Leave us. This is a private matter. I shall be perfectly fine."

"Sir?" Groves glanced at Turner, clearly not believing the latter comment, but then when he looked back at Norrington—who met his eyes with a cool look and a nod—he finally gave a small half-bow and removed himself. The two soldiers exchanged glances amongst themselves, then with another look at the face of their commanding officer, they saluted and left as well.

Norrington remained silent until the door had been closed behind the last man, then glanced serenely enough back at Will Turner. Who had at least the fortitude not to back down from his gaze, despite the slight look of puzzlement on his face now.

"Tea, Mister Turner?" Norrington asked.

The younger man shook his head. "No, Commodore," he said roughly. "I don't want any tea. I want to know where Jack is."

"Undoubtedly," he replied. "If you would care to sit down, I would be pleased to tell you what I know, little as it is."

Turner seemed a little undone by both the politeness of his tone and his manner. He sat down, but impatiently, as if he might spring back up at any moment if he didn't find the proper answers immediately forthcoming.

Norrington sat himself, letting out a soft breath as he met the younger man's eyes. "Jack Sparrow is dead," he said quite firmly. "As well you know. However... last night, the Dauntless was commandeered by a group of men—men that I recognized as the same who had once crewed the Black Pearl, men I had also seen hung—and though I did not see Sparrow among them, I have little doubt that he could have been anywhere else. I must admit, I have no real proofs to offer you in this regard, other than that I have been to the gravesite, Mister Turner. And all those empty graves lead me to expect very little else."

Will Turner sat back a little in his chair and his eyes suddenly dropped. "I have been there as well," he admitted, his voice gone suddenly soft. "That's how I... I had thought to pay my respects, to make my apologies for not being able to... but he was not... he was not... there... "

Norrington watched as Turner faltered to a halt and half a dozen different emotions swept across the younger man's face in rapid succession. Pain, regret, grief, anger, fear, mingled with an almost helpless look of confusion. As if Turner desperately wanted to do something, to make it all right, but didn't have the least clue what or how, and it was tearing him up inside.

"Turner," he said at the last, as kindly as he could. "I do admire your loyalty, even if it may be somewhat misplaced in this regard. However, bearing that in mind, it is clear that you counted Mister Sparrow as a good friend, and so I have decided to overlook your actions as of yesterday morn. But please, let me assure you, that I had no idea that any of this would happen and, in some ways, I am as much in the dark here as you are."

The younger man looked up at that and his eyes were hard again, his jaw clenched. "You mean that you simply wished to hang him, sir, and have an end to it. Even though he saved your life. Even though he saved all our lives. As I tried to tell you on more than one occasion and you would not listen to me. Same as you would not listen to Elizabeth."

He couldn't quite help the tiny flinch at her name, but the other man didn't seem to notice. Instead, he was suddenly standing again, his voice rising. As if he had finally found the one person he could blame for all this, that he could vent his rage and frustration and confusion upon.

"But, no, you would see justice done. Blind and deaf and dumb though it was. Since there was no honor nor right to be hanging a man—a good man—like Jack who had already more than made up for anything he may have done in the past. For God's sake, if he had not risked himself that very day, unknowing of any of us, let alone of just who it was he was saving, Elizabeth would be dead herself even now. Did he not deserve his chance at freedom simply for that, or did you never truly love her at all?"

Norrington felt a wave of something both hot and cold move through him and suddenly he found himself on his feet. But his voice, when it came to him, was cold, ever so cold.

"My feelings are none of your business, Master Turner. I would impress upon you to remember that in future. And, as for the rest, the law is the law. As I believe you were informed by both myself and by the Governor himself. We had no choice. I had no choice."

Turner frowned at him, obviously less than moved by either his tone or his words. "It was wrong," he said. "And you know it. Sir."

Norrington reined himself in with an effort. "Be that as it may," he said, lowering his voice, attempting to gentle it as well. "The problem, at the moment, is the recovery of the Dauntless and the capture of the men who took it upon themselves to commandeer her. The disposition of a certain pirate after the fact, well... let me just say that what you have said has not fallen upon deaf ears, Master Turner."

The younger man shook his head, clearly struggling for words, before a quite reluctant, almost accusatory "good," burst from him at the last. After which, Turner collapsed into his chair once more, crossing his arms as if he half-expected to find himself having to resist being tossed from his office, after all.

Norrington found a small sliver of almost amusement moving through him at the man's reaction and had to fight back a smile despite himself; he did like the lad, even though there was every reason in the world, and one lovely one in particular, for him not to. Well he could understand Elizabeth being drawn to Turner's intensity. It seemed so very much like her own.

Though the observation did make him feel the weight of all the years that lay between them just then, and entirely too plain and dull as well. Truly, there was little that he, as a respectable man, could offer that could compare to the bright fire of youth and undimmed enthusiasm.

He sat and then poured out a cup of tea and held it out to Will Turner, who glared at it for a long moment, before something seemed to give way in him. He took it, but then only held it loosely on his knee.

"I want to go with you," he said.

Norrington took the occasion to refresh his own cup. He settled back with it in his own chair, listening to the quiet tick of the clock on the mantle across the room, before shaking his head.

"Quite out of the question," he said. "This is a Navy matter. While you, Mister Turner, as I once reminded you, are neither a sailor nor a soldier. And before you argue with me or go chasing off on your own once more, with or without a condemned pirate this time to guide you, let me also remind you of your own obligations to a certain young lady. I do not believe that Miss Swann would be overly pleased to see you putting yourself in harm's way so quickly upon the heels of your engagement."

Turner opened his mouth to dispute just that belief, only to close it again, this disconcerted look crossing his face.

Norrington raised an eyebrow. "Please... Will," he added, rather more gently. "Your duty is here. With her."

"I know, but... " Turner shook his head, almost helplessly, obviously torn between obligations of both friendship and love.

"Please," he added. "I will find Jack Sparrow. I give you my word."

***

Seven long days and even longer nights of stale bread crusts and a scant quarter cup of water, served up grudgingly by one man or another, sometimes in sullen silence, sometimes with a seasoned curse or two, and Jack Sparrow was beginning to contemplate beating his own skull on the unforgiving door of his prison.

He had never taken well to being restrained, to remaining in the dark and crowded spaces below decks. Give him the rushing winds and the shifting waves of the open seas and he was as light and wanton and fey at heart as they. Even the worst storms moved him more to joy than to fear. To reckless abandon. To remembrance of himself and why he chose to live this life, despite all its dangers.

But walls strangled him. And the dark lay like a weight on his soul. Even death he had never feared so much as this—to be locked away and forgotten. To never see the sun again. To never drink down the sea and the sky.

To be Jack Sparrow no more.

He had remembered it all finally, the last morning of his life. And with it had come the recollection of how Will Turner had tried to save him, against all odds and common sense. The thought of the lad doing his best for him had made him feel alive again, at least until night fell once more and the man who had served him his water that evening had spat in it before handing it to him. Smiling the whole while as if it were a special treat to go with his supper.

Jack didn't suppose he might actually die of the lack of either food or water, but hunger and thirst haunted him anyway. At least he had been fed twice a day back in the gaol at Port Royal, though they had not set the best of tables either. He doubted, though, that the rest of his companions were being as frugal with the ship's stores—certainly, he could well imagine they were making free with the best the Dauntless had to offer. Down to the captain's own personal supply of wine and porter, normally locked away from lesser men.

He would have made do with a bottle of cheap rum right now. Or even a mug of grog or ale. Anything to make his surrounds more palatable, if even for a few hours.

Anything to not think about where they were headed.

Or what they may find when they got there.

So that it was with much trepidation that he sensed the shifting of the wind to the west-north-west and heard the faint crack of thunder. And felt the itching tension of the storm as it overtook them, or as they overtook it. Because after the storm would come the mists and after the mists the island.

With him in the hands of men who wished him no little ill-will and would be more than glad to make of this new life, half-life, what have you, as much a mortal torment as they could imagine. And, having sailed with Barbossa for oh so many years, he had no doubt they could imagine more than most men could reasonably stand to bear.

Even what the Crown had wished of him now seemed mercy by comparison. If all had gone as it should, the short drop offered would have at least led to a peace of sorts. And, perhaps, even to some new grand adventure, God willing. Unless, of course, this was Hell and he simply had not the schooling to recognize it for what it was.

For cert, if you had asked him in some drunken moment years ago what he would have envisioned it as and whether or not he deserved to go there, he would have answered that he honestly did not, but that if he did end up in such a place through some woeful misjudgment of character on the part of the All Mighty, then it would most definitely be dark and most definitely be cold and there would be no escaping from it. Which sounded like as good a description of Davey Jones' locker as any, and was in truth no more than any seaman might expect, good, bad, or indifferent.

No matter what the churchmen might say.

But he could think of nothing in his life which should have condemned him to this. Not even when he'd been young and rather foolhardy at times. Unless it had been too great a sin alone to have been born poor and without prospects, and to have been forced upon pain of death to sign the articles which had first made him a pirate. Only thirteen years of age and already with the shadow of the noose heavy upon him.

Not that he would have changed that choice even if he could. Not that he regretted what had become of him because of it, at least not until these last seven days. Because, even though the loss of the Pearl had fair wounded him, life and breath itself was a miracle that could not be denied and he had never been able to deny his joy in it. In everything the world had to offer. Or that could be taken from it.

Something which few men ever understood, though he thought that perhaps both Will and Elizabeth had a chance at it. Certainly, they had found joy in each other, such happiness that most would be envious of indeed if they knew the half of it. He could only hope that they had found their way to each other at the last—as they obviously were meant to be—and were betrothed at the very least. Despite any objections and former claimants on the young missy's hand.

In truth, if the Commodore were as honest and forthright a man as he appeared to be, then he should and would release her. It was as simple as that. Whether she asked to be released or not. Most especially since, clear to any man who had eyes, she had only professed her agreement to marrying Norrington that day on the Dauntless in order to get him to help her save Will. Though, sad but true, the Commodore had seemed more than love struck enough to overlook the obvious. Or desperate to convince himself that he could.

Especially if nobody bothered to point it out to him.

Jack pulled himself to his feet and went to look out the small window at the front of the cell. The lantern that hung just outside was swinging widely now, throwing shadows down either side of the narrow passage, matching the deep roll of the Dauntless beneath his feet, and he could clearly hear the rising winds as well, the sharp crack of lightning, the crash of the waves against the hull of the ship.

Aye, they were for it. A night of this, part of another day perhaps, and they would find themselves within the bone yard of the sea. Watching the mists steam off the waters and the rocks cutting close to their hull. The feel of the isle that waited for them in the thickest part of the mists like some great press upon their hearts, upon their lungs. Like the very air around them was death, and they would breathe it in with every gasp.

Well, that place suited the treasure that lay within its bowels. And well it suited the dead man who had found berth there, even if the Black Pearl had not deserved such a fate. Fey ship or not. He doubted not that the Dauntless would soon look as tattered and come to bear the mists with her wherever she went, a ghostly galleon upon the seas and feared by any who would believe the tale. And even by some of those who did not.

Norrington would ill appreciate such a fate for his flagship.

But then he rather doubted the Commodore much appreciated any of his own falling into the hands of those undeserving of such an honor. Certainly, Norrington had seemed rather put out the day he and Will had made good use of the Interceptor. Mayhap, it was that which had taken a main part in the speed with which he had met his fate back at Port Royal, though for cert, the man had fair wanted to see his heels kick the wind since first they met when it came to that.

And naught had seemed capable of swaying him from that course.

One had to respect a man who stood by his convictions come Hell or high water, unless, of course, those convictions were set upon robbing another of his hard-won life and liberty.

Jack rested his hands out the window, caught between iron bars, then let his forehead come to rest on top of the cool metal. Listening to the rising storm, to the angry seas, to the sound of his own heart beating.

Not sure which he found the more disturbing.

***

He didn't want to go back to that island—and from what he'd overheard from his men, they weren't any too keen on it either—but it was the best place to start.

They would either have to re-take the Dauntless or sink her. She was too powerful a vessel to leave in the hands of pirates, let alone the particular pirates who had commandeered her. He had no illusions about the difficulty of that job ahead of them, however; the Endeavor and the Dauntless were fairly evenly matched. Though the Dauntless had a good ten cannon on them, this newer ship was faster and more responsive.

All of which, however, didn't make up for the unpleasant truth that the men they would be facing were supposed to be dead and the very fact that they were not did not bode well for the outcome of any future engagement with them.

He had learned that lesson well, and would not be caught out a second time. Not if he could possible help it.

Captain Evan Reade was there to greet him as he was officially piped aboard, his officers strung out in their best to one side behind him, waiting the pleasure of his inspection. While the rest of his men stood further back on deck, silent and watching. They looked a fine lot, ribbons flying in the brisk breeze coming in from the south-east, their faces freshly enough scrubbed, and for a moment they made him remember his first command.

How bright that day had seemed, too.

He nodded greeting at the Welshman, then took his proffered hand. Reade smiled ever so slightly at him, before introducing him to everyone of note from First Lieutenant to his assorted midshipmen. He told him that his Second Lieutenant was already below decks, helping sort out the Marines that Norrington had ordered aboard ship. Along with the ship's regular compliment, it brought their total manpower up to just shy of 200 men. Which should have been more than a match for a crew of pirates but a quarter their strength, but Norrington was already wondering if he should have waited and tried to muster up a few more.

Norrington had already been aboard ship, but now he took a few minutes at least to do his duty and make a show of inspecting both men and vessel. Reade's First Lieutenant, another Welshman by the name of William Griffiths, who bore a ragged scar down one cheek and seemed to perpetually wear a smile, took him round and then escorted him to the quarterdeck, where he was introduced to the Sailing Master, a stout fellow by the name of Robert Tate.

After which, Norrington was more than relieved to see them finally getting underway. Normally, he had patience and wherewithal enough to see himself through any amount of the pomp and circumstance that His Majesty's service required, but all he could see on this day was that time and tide were getting away from them. Not to mention, the Dauntless.

Even Groves was unusually grim as he took his place by his side as the steersman guided them out of the bay. The wind was freshening and the sails billowed out, the Endeavor picking up speed quickly for a ship its size. Nowhere near as quick as the Interceptor had been, but then she had never been able to carry a contingent of a two hundred men and seventy-eight cannon besides.

The seas were bright and clipped this morn, matching the mood of the skies. But he could see several of the men glancing at the distant clouds, and knew that they were well aware that storms were on the horizon.

Just as there was a storm in his heart.

Elizabeth had been on the docks. Her hair wisping about her face, already escaping from the intricate curls and ribbons and combs that had bound it, and her hands folded in front of her. She had been wearing a pale green and gold dress that he had never seen before and a small silver pin of a rose on her breast that he could not take his eyes off.

Until he looked into her face and saw the joy and new found serenity in her eyes.

Her ladies maid had stood a few steps behind her, but had backed away as he approached, as Elizabeth held out her hand to him. He had taken it politely enough, meaning to kiss it, but then had just held it. Her hand so small within his own and this the most intimate contact they had ever had, that he had ever allowed himself.

"Miss Swann," he had said and she had smiled in return. Equally polite.

"Commodore," she had replied and her voice was bright as well, despite the hint of uncertainty in her eyes as she continued. "If you please, I am here to tender my apologies and to wish you the very best of luck. I have... treated you appallingly, and you would entirely be within your rights to spurn my company, if for no other reason than my own dishonesty towards your affections. I would not have hurt you. I did not desire to hurt you, far from it. You are a good man and it would have been a good match between us, if not... "

"If not for the fact that you loved another," he had finished for her.

She had reclaimed her hand from him then, but gently. As if she was afraid he would see it as yet another rejection. Her eyes had dropped, but then she took a step past him, seeming to stare out at the opens seas beyond the bounds of the harbor.

"Yes," she had replied softly. "I love him. I imagine I always have."

He had nodded, then cleared his throat. She had turned at the sound to face him again, and he had found himself unable to speak for the sheer loveliness of her in that moment. As it was driven home to him all over again what he had lost. What, it seemed, he had never had.

"Elizabeth," he had said, daring her name, daring informality one last time, now that it no longer mattered. "Please believe me, that I do wish you the best... both of you."

A gloriously bright smile was his instant reward, heart-rending though it was. "Thank you... from the both of us. James."

James...

He had once desired beyond measure to hear her speak his Christian name like that, but now all it bought him was pain. Pain, and the sense of having left far too much far too late.

So it was with a heavy heart and a lingering sense of exhaustion that he retired to the great cabin soon after they cleared the bay, ostentatiously to pen a few letters, only to find found himself pouring out a glass of brandy, instead. Only to end up staring at that as well, wondering if he were doing the right thing by forgoing to mention beforehand to the captain of the Endeavor the complete truth about the dangers they might be sailing into. Not that the man was likely to believe him, even if he did take it upon himself to tell the tale.

Not surprisingly. No sane man would believe a story even half again as strange.

No, better it wait until they were nearer the island. Until he had a chance to feel out Reade and see how best to present the circumstances of the Dauntless' theft—and what difficulties they might potentially be facing in her recovery—without having the man assume he had taken complete leave of his senses.

He took a sip of the brandy, but it seemed tasteless and he set it aside again. And when, after several more minutes of staring at the blank sheet of paper before him, he abandoned that effort as well and instead found himself drifting to the windows at the back of the cabin. Gazing out through the glass at their wake.

Finding himself imagining a pair of night black eyes staring up at him from over the wet, half-clad, and entirely bedraggled form of his once love. From over the sharpened steel of his newly forged blade. Which, he had little doubt, had come straight from the hand of young Will Turner, and not that sotted master of his who had never turned out a thing of such quality in his life.

Will, Elizabeth, Jack, himself. It seemed everything boiled down to that day. The day when both his life and his career had suddenly gone so very wrong, when it had always gone so very right before.

But if he couldn't blame Elizabeth and he couldn't blame Will, then that left only himself. Himself and Sparrow. Who, being a pirate and a man who freely thumbed his nose at the laws of man, and quite probably those of God as well, was clearly the one at greater fault here. And would need to be held accountable for that, even if that no longer included a turn upon the gallows.

Oh, yes. Jack Sparrow needed to be accounted for, and he was just the man to see it done.

***

Let alone the man who sat upon the stone chest at the very heart of the caves, seeming entirely at ease with himself and his rather lonely and dark surroundings. One leg crossed over the other and his arm laid casually across his knee. As he leaned there with his head and hat tilted to one side and his pale blue eyes taking them all in as they trooped across coin and necklet and jewel and cup to where he sat. Clearly waiting for them.

As if he could have easily waited for all time.

And not that Barbossa didn't look quite hale and healthy for a man who'd taken a shot clean through the heart and been left to die. In fact of the matter, he looked down right cheery. Which, knowing the man as well as he did, Jack did not take as a generally good sign.

Bo'sun pushed forward through the other men towards Barbossa first, leaving Twig gripping Jack's right arm, the point of the knife he held digging into his side. The large black man marched carelessly over the mounds of gold and silver and right up to the boots of the captain as he sat there on the top of that stone chest. Like a somewhat ragged storm-crow. Like the king of all he surveyed.

"Captain, we've... "

Barbossa angled his head at him, those pale blue eyes of his reflecting frost, even as he smiled ever so slightly. It was more than enough to stop Bo'sun in mid-sentence, if not in mid-thought. The big man backed away slightly, then glanced back at his crewmates, as if looking for some sort of reassurance.

Pintel stepped out as well, though he maintained a far more wary distance. As if entirely aware that Barbossa in a seemingly good humor was a man looking to take out an equally bad humor on the first likely prospect to present itself. Even if it was one of his own.

"We knew you would be here," he said simply. "Captain."

"Did ye now?" Barbossa's voice was amiable, also a very bad omen. "An where else would I be then, tell me? Bein' that ye saw fit to leave me here in the first place."

Pintel frowned, but he didn't back down. Either he was braver than he appeared to be, or more foolhardy. Jack would have freely wagered on the second.

"We thought you dead," he said. "Killed when the curse were broken."

"Aye," Barbossa replied. "That I was. You have the right of it. Stone cold dead and left behind by me own mates to rot in these damp environs. While the rest of ye sailed away, sparing not a thought for me poor old bones."

"We had no choice," Pintel argued, his matelot, Ragetti, moving up to stand at his left shoulder. A half-smile on his face and that wooden eye fixing itself on Barbossa as if it could see as well as the real one. Most definitely this was a fool's debate. "We was taken by the soldiers on Dauntless. No lie, Cap'n, every one of us ended up facing the noose and none were given quarter or reprieve."

"Pardon me," Barbossa said. "But I'll not be crying over any o' ye. Tis your own fault I well imagine ye got yourselves clapped as ye did. Curse or no, ye could have taken that ship well enough. Or did the lot of ye turn yellow once ye caught sight of your own blood again. Graven cowards, the lot of ye."

"Thas a lie," Ragetti said loudly, his voice echoing off the cavern walls. "We're no cowards."

There was a general grumble of assent to his comment, though uneasy.

Barbossa nodded, then slid off the edge of the stone chest. With a chitter, the monkey joined him, swinging up to curl itself familiarly on his shoulder. Sharp black eyes swept over them all, before they settled directly on Jack.

And, a moment later, so did Barbossa's.

"Well, well," he said. "An what do we have here? Jack Sparrow, is it? What does it take for a man to be rid of ye? For cert, I've not yet found the answer."

"Barbossa," Jack said, attempting to step forward. But Twig yanked him back and the tip of the blade pricked him even deeper. He winced and gave the man his best look of affront, a gaze that seemed to take the other pirate a little aback. If only for a moment.

But it was enough for Barbossa to have come down from atop the heap of treasure and start to walk towards them, the other men parting cleanly before him. As if even they feared his touch.

"Leave him be," Barbossa said. "Master Twig, I'll not be tellin' ye twice."

"Aye," the other man said gruffly, then reluctantly took his knife from Jack's side. Jack glanced down to see a trickle of bright blood on his shirt. Then looked up to see Barbossa was gazing raptly at the same.

"A change in fortune for us all it seems," Barbossa said.

He stared directly into Jack's eyes, who met the other's gaze square on, but felt something cold pass through him all the same. As if someone had walked over his grave. But then, all things considering, that possibility was actually quite likely.

"An how well were your neck stretched, Jack?" Barbossa asked softly. "The same as all the rest I expect. Excepting that they weren't Captain Jack Sparrow."

Jack raised his head slightly. "Aye, thas true enough. But I've no mind that they shared the gibbet with me, bein' that they saved the best for last as it were."

Barbossa gave a small laugh, which Jack matched. Not that there was anything at all humorous about their reunion, nor about the look that the other man leveled at him the next moment. Speculative and measuring. Just the kind of look that Barbossa had worn that day he'd decided to strand him on that unwelcoming little spit of land. With naught but a pistol and one shot to call his own.

But, at the last, he turned away, and glanced around at the gathered crew. "Well, gents," he said. "Tis me who's glad to see ye. But, for our lives, we must be thanking Jack here."

"I did nothing," Jack protested.

Barbossa angled a jaundiced eye back towards him. "The monkey, Jack."

"Oh," Jack mouthed.

The other man turned back to his crew again, gesturing expansively. The monkey taking his own good time to stare at each of them in turn, as if well aware that he was being talked about. His white fur glowing in the gloom, like he was half a ghost still. His teeth needle sharp as he grinned at them all from the familiar security of the captain's shoulder.

"Aye," Barbossa went on, as if he had not been interrupted. "For twas Jack here, lads, who stole one last coin from the chest. An who put it in mine own dead hand and so led me to the land where its powers were first begotten. A land of death and darkness, aye, but twas there that I bargained for me life, and for the lives of you all. As you can well see."

"What sort of bargain?" Twig asked. "Aren't we but cursed again?"

Barbossa shook his head. "Nay, not cursed. Tis a gift this time. Eternal life as men of flesh and blood. Men able to feel all the pleasures in this world. All that we were denied before."

"And what of our hurts then? Must we feel those as well?"

Barbossa waved a hand, dismissing the thought. "Fleeting pangs only. They cannot kill ye. Hunger, thirst, shot and steel, they have no real power anymore. Over any of us. We're free, gents, truly free this time. And none may put stop to us."

Bo'sun walked up to him again, his arms crossed over his bare chest. He glared pointedly at Jack. "What of him then? He was dead, as dead as us. Don't tell me you bargained for him."

Barbossa turned and looked at Jack once more. Who smiled back broadly enough, knowing that was the real question as far as his own personal fate was concerned. But the other man looked him over from head to toe, before a mockingly brief smile crossed his own lips as well. Only to be replaced with a rather more commonplace scowl.

"Curious it is," Barbossa said quietly. "And I've yet to think upon it. But in the meantime," he turned back to the fore, and his smile returned. "He's yours to toy with lads, until I may decide upon his final fortunes. Will that suit ye well enough?"

Bo'sun frowned, but the rest were nodding. Those who weren't returning their captain's smile, none of which Jack found at all pleasing to look upon. Though he stared the worst of them hard in the eye all the same. Knowing it wouldn't help his cause in that moment to appear weak. Even if he honestly had little advantage at the moment.

Well, none at all, really. But when had that stopped him before?

The trip back to the Dauntless seemed to take forever, but then the boats were heavily laden not only with men, but with as much treasure as they could carry. The crew talking the whole while even as they plied the oars, spending the swag in their dreams before they could find the chance to spent it in truth.

Women, food, drink. It was a familiar refrain, with Barbossa smiling genteelly the whole while in his place at the stem of the boat, as if he was personally responsible for the invention of all three. The only time his expression changed was when the mists parted and the great hull of the waiting ship was revealed, her gun ports ready cleared as if she expected battle at any moment and the plain black flag flying high above her mainmast.

Then the other man's smile turned feral, a flash of yellowing teeth and an gleeful gleam to his pale eyes that made them look almost silver as he glanced back at Jack. As if this moment were too precious to be savored alone.

Jack glared back darkly, until a sudden cuff from Bo'sun sent him plummeting forward into the man in front of him. Who cursed, but didn't let go of the sweep all the same. Large hands grabbed hold of his shoulders and yanked him back to his seat, fingers pressing into his flesh hard enough to bruise, and then he felt Twig's breath on his cheek, the prick of his blade once again in the small of his back.

"None of that now," the other pirate said. "Show a little respect, mate. He saved your life, after all, he did. Ye should be grateful."

"Oh," Jack replied. "I am. Ever so grateful."

"There," Twig said, digging the blade in a little. Not hard enough to break the skin yet, but close. "Here that, gents? That be sarcasm, that is. But then our Jack here ever did have a way with the words, didn't he?"

There was a general round of "ayes," none of which sounded very pleased by the fact.

"Not that even he could see fit to talk hisself out of the noose," Twig went on. "Now could ye?"

"No," Jack said tightly.

"Would have liked to see that," the pirate went on. "Would have liked to haven seen ye dance. 'Cept I happened to end up dead a wee bit before ye. Still, no time like the present. After all, Cap'n says we can do what we likes with ye. An I, for one, likes the thought of seein' ye on the end o' a rope."

There was another round of "ayes," and Jack caught Barbossa looking back at him again, not smiling but clearly pleased all the same. And, for a moment, his eyes looked dark instead of pale, as if something like the night had passed over them

***

The weight of the loss of the Dauntless laid too heavy upon him, as well as the knowledge that he still had to speak with Captain Reade about the exact circumstances of that loss. The Welshman seemed a reasonable enough sort, which could be taken as a mark in his favor or not considering the tale he would have to tell. Reasonable, but rather close-mouthed, which made him a hard man to read.

Certainly, he had reacted carefully enough when Norrington had first invited him to his office back at the fort upon the Endeavor's arrival in Port Royal. Tea and the offer of hardier drink, which the other had turned down, though not without a comment that he did indeed appreciate a good brandy after a fine meal.

They had passed some pleasantries after the tea had been brought in—Reade talking of England and the latest official and unofficial word from the Lords of the Admiralty and the Crown on the breakdown of relations with the Spanish. After which, he had paused and asked about the disposition of the town, being that he had seen the work still underway in rebuilding what had been destroyed during the attack of the Black Pearl.

Accordingly, Norrington had started with the events of that dire night, then related the story of the kidnapping of the Governor's daughter and the theft of the Interceptor by her would-be rescuers. That had earned him a frown, which had only deepened when he told the other man that the ship had shortly thereafter been destroyed during a sea battle, the details of which he had not been privy to.

Reade had sat up then, his tea forgotten, but had subsided all the same when Norrington had raised a hand and told him that wasn't the worst of it. That there was far more to the story. Still, he had ended up glossing over most of the details regarding what had happened aboard the Dauntless during the attack by the self-same pirates, only that they had won the day and that the pirates had been returned to Port Royal—along with the Governor's daughter—and that justice had been done.

And that the Governor had seen fit to relieve him of any responsibility for the loss of Interceptor as a result, adding that he had said he would be sending a letter to the Admiralty to just that effect.

Reade had drawn himself up at this, but then finally nodded approval and made some comment that he could readily understand Governor Swann being relieved at the return of his only daughter, even if the Royal Navy had lost a fine ship as a result of it. Norrington had only nodded as he refreshed the other man's cup of tea and his own and then girded himself to tell the Welsh Captain of the subsequent commandeering of Dauntless but a few days ago.

Which had gone over rather less well, understandably.

To be entirely honest, Reade had been appalled at first. A reaction, however, which he had quickly suppressed when he caught Norrington's eyes on him. After which, he had only made comment that it was truly unfortunate news. Truly unfortunate. And had, as a matter of course, immediately made the offer of the Endeavor as a means towards finding and reclaiming the lost ship forthwith.

After which, their conversation had steered heavily into the details of outfitting the newly arrived ship for just that mission. During which, Reade's face had remained carefully bland. The only clue to what he was really contemplating had come near the end, when he had stood and said he must get back to the Endeavor and then paused, just before asking him in a slightly diffident voice if Norrington had sent word yet to England.

To which Norrington had responded that he had already sent a dispatch relaying the attack on the town and the destruction of Interceptor, but there had been no chance yet to send out a message about the theft of Dauntless. Which, considering she was the pride of His Majesty's fleet here in the Caribbean and a necessary component of their defense—especially with the fate of relations between England and Spain so up in the air, as it were—was a far more considerable loss, he well understood. To which Reade had made a soft noncommittal sound of agreement and then excused himself.

Leaving Norrington standing there alone in his office, with cold tea and this even colder feeling running right through him.

Since, though the man hadn't mentioned the words court-martial, they must have been in his thoughts. Knowing that, were their positions reversed, he would have been thinking the same thing. As well as wondering if he had the wherewithal to have his own commanding officer arrested, despite his personal relationship with the Governor of His Majesty's colony of Jamaica.

A puzzle which the other man must still be considering. Especially now that they were out at sea, aboard his own ship. Where his own word was closer to law, than that of the Governor back in Port Royal.

Perhaps even wondering if he might make the leap to Commodore if circumstances presented themselves. Circumstances like the likely court-martial and quite possible execution of a man who had only been recently promoted to Commodore himself.

It was insufferable. It was making it hard for him to breathe, even this perfect and pure air straight off a perfect and pure sea. To be removed from his position was ill enough, but to face the noose as well...

Treason was an ugly word and though he was quite willing to die for King and Country, he did not want to do it dangling from a rope like any other miscreant. Like the countless men he had sent to their own deaths in just such a fashion.

Like Jack Sparrow...

Norrington drew in a deep breath, but it was too late. For the thought had yielded to the memory of that day, and it was brighter and sharper than the sun glancing off the waves below.

The vision of that small form swaying from the dead weight of its own still flesh. That graceful hand spilled out upon the unforgiving ground. The rain pouring down from a dull grey sky.

By God, he had only been doing his duty. What he had been raised to do, sworn to do. What he had always believed in. What had always sustained him. Was it such a terrible thing, that he had done what he had done according to all the laws of both God and man? Yet it did seem, now that he thought upon it, that it felt almost as if he was being punished for his own commitment to both. Or, perhaps, he was being punished for something else entire.

For the doubts in his heart. The doubts that had first taken root upon the sight of Jack Sparrow upon the gallows and had only grown since.

Damn the man, anyway.

Nothing, but nothing, had gone right since he had first appeared in Port Royal.

Out of the corner of his eye, Norrington saw Captain Reade coming up the stairs and carefully schooled his own face back to a neutrality he didn't feel and turned to greet him. The other man was polite, but when he tried to strike up a conversation with him, he quickly begged off and went over to the opposite end of the quarterdeck, where two lads were waiting for him to join them for a lesson in navigation.

Apparently, the Welshman took a personal interest and pleasure in training the younger midshipmen. Which, despite his own unpleasant thoughts at the moment, brought a small smile to Norrington's face all the same. Well, he remembered his own first days aboard ship. He had been but thirteen at the time and as green as the day was long. But he had always loved the sea and it had seemed a good career choice at the time, especially for a younger son with a family ailing in its fortunes and few other prospects to consider.

Thank goodness, his father was long dead now, or he would have suffered indeed to learn what straits his son had fallen upon of late. Bad enough should his mother ever hear tell of it, and she had but moved to Philadelphia with her youngest daughter and her husband, a rather fiery man of the cloth. She was an even greater stickler for duty and honor than his father had been.

Three days gone, and he must speak soon. For in but another three, if these winds kept up, they would find themselves approaching the Isla de Muerta. Where duty and honor would truly be tested.

He glanced back around for Reade, but saw Groves was coming up the stairs as well now. His uniform and demeanor pristine as usual, but this ever so careful look on his face. As if the lieutenant was hiding something and hoping that nobody might notice, even though he feared that they would and did.

Groves came right up to him, then stopped and straightened up even further.

"Sir," Groves asked, quite formal even for him.

"Yes?"

"A word, if you may?"

Norrington nodded, though he felt his own dismay growing apace with the other man's request. "Yes, of course."

"In private?"

He stared into the other man's eyes, but the lieutenant's face was even more carefully controlled now.

Norrington nodded, then walked across the deck to Reade, who gave him and then Groves a curious look. "Captain, please excuse me for the interruption. If you have need of me, I shall be in my cabin."

"But, of course," Evan Reade smiled ever so politely at him, before his face become somber again. Still, his smile returned as he turned back to his lads, speaking to one of them in his mother's tongue. And Norrington felt himself dismissed, despite their respective ranks.

Which made him feel all the more anxious and determined not to reveal it, even as he proceeded his own First Lieutenant to the great cabin below. Groves closed the door behind them, then followed him across the room, but slowed and stopped and looked down at the floor when offered a seat. Making Norrington realize that this was going to be a more difficult conversation than he had anticipated. And he had anticipated it to be a conversation only slightly less difficult than the one yet he faced with Reade.

"At ease, Leftenant," he said quietly. "Please." And then seated himself behind the desk. The chart he'd drawn up a few days ago was laid out on top of it, and his eyes immediately were snared by the depiction of the rough and vastly unexplored shores of the Isla de Muerta. The best he could remember of them. Which would have to be good enough.

He had stood next to Sparrow, while the man had helped pilot them through the waters surrounding the island—waters strewn with dangerous rocks and reefs and the desiccated bones of ships which had failed to make the passage before them—and was fairly certain he could get them safely to shore. All else would be in the hand of God, even whether or not the Dauntless had even gone there in the first place.

But Groves straightened rather than relaxing, and raised an eyebrow at him. "Sir, if I may speak plainly?"

"But of course."

"The men who took the Dauntless. You did recognize them, did you not? Or are my suspicions completely baseless, sir?"

Norrington leaned back a little in his chair. Oh yes, here was the conversation he'd been dreading having, even though he trusted Groves over all of his men.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Your suspicions are quite good, Leftenant. I did recognize the men that night. They were the former crew of the Black Pearl."

The lieutenant's eyes widened a little, then narrowed again and his mouth pursed. Still, he didn't seem overly surprised by the admission. As if he had not only suspected the truth of the matter, but had somehow come to believe it already, proofs or no proofs. But then he had always been perceptive. Perhaps a little too quick to admiration when it came to pirates and the sort of life they led, but perceptive all the same.

"Dead men, you mean?" he asked anyway, clearly attempting to further clarify things. "Or am I mistaking your meaning, sir?"

"No," Norrington replied heavily. "You have not. I, myself, went to the plot where they had been buried and found the ground there disturbed. And I also found... this... "

He reached inside his vest and pulled out a precisely folded piece of worn and faded red cloth which he laid out on the chart. Obscuring the drawing of the island to which they were headed. A single bead peeped out from one corner of the cloth, a vibrant blue in color.

Groves stared at it a long moment, then moved forward a little, as if wanting to reach out and touch it. Only to sit back again, this odd mixture of comprehension and something almost approaching relief on his face.

"I recognize that, sir," he said. "Captain Sparrow's, is it not?"

"Yes," Norrington replied, then let out a long sigh. "His grave was empty as well."

"I see," Groves said. He opened and closed his mouth and blinked. He then moved to sit at the last, his voice dropping a little, as if he feared that they might be in danger of being overheard otherwise. "I had not thought at first to believe the tales of what had transpired on the Isla de Muerta, though I could not quite bring myself to disbelieve them either. Even though Leftenant Gillette seemed most eager to dismiss them, though he, in fact, had evidently witnessed the events for himself."

Norrington nodded. "True. They are true. I am not privy to all the details regarding this... curse, but the pirates who boarded the Dauntless that night were both men and less than men. Dead, but alive. They could not be killed. And we would have lost our lives and the ship to them, but that the curse was broken at the last. For which, as far as I'm aware, we have both Will Turner and Sparrow to thank. After the last stolen coin was returned to the treasure chest, the pirates became as other men and died as other men die. Else I fear the tide would have quickly gone against us, despite our greater numbers."

The other man nodded. "Do you believe that the curse has returned to them then?"

"I do not know," Norrington replied. "But as we are to return to the island, no doubt we shall discover the truth of that for ourselves. For good or for ill."

Groves looked down for a moment, then faced him squarely again. "Captain Sparrow," he said. "Do you believe he accompanied them willingly?"

"That also... I do not know the answer to, Leftenant. But I cannot imagine so. And neither did Master Turner for that matter, and he knows the man better than I can claim to."

"I see," Groves replied. He stood up again, regarding Norrington levelly. "Pardon me if I am speaking out of turn, sir, but you do intend to inform Captain Reade and his crew of what it is we face here."

"Yes," he replied. "Of course."

Groves nodded, as if he entirely expected such an answer. "And our own men. I understand now why you asked for those had seen service aboard the Dauntless that night, but they also deserve to know that they are likely to be called upon to face the same again. Perhaps sooner than they would like, if Leftenant Gillette's actions are any indication."

"Again," Norrington replied. "Yes."

A slight smile graced the other man's face. "Thank you, sir," he said. "For taking me into your confidence. I am quite sure that we shall prevail a second time with a man such as yourself to commend us."

Norrington nodded, but as he looked into Groves' face, he well knew that the other man not only meant every word, but would stand by him no matter what the future entailed. And, not that he did not appreciate such unstinting loyalty, but he would prefer not to drag anyone else down with him if it came to that. Especially such a fine young man and officer like John Groves.

Whose gaze had again gone to the scarf upon the desk. That slight smile growing into something disturbingly familiar. An all too clear personal admiration for the man who had worn it, tinged with something that Norrington might even name as an undue fascination.

If he did not find such a thought almost as unseemly as his own feelings on the matter. Feelings which only grew more darker and more disturbing as he took up the piece of cloth and stowed it away inside his vest again. Right next to the black compass which had also taken up residence there.

Oh yes, Jack Sparrow had rather a lot to answer for...

***

It hurt, never think that it didn't, and that he would have avoided it if but he could, but the wounds healed fair enough after each incident, and Jack's main complaint after three days had become more a lament at the perpetual ruination of his clothes. Well, that and that some of the men were beginning to give him certain pointed smirks and entirely too warm looks. As if they were contemplating greater pleasures still to be found upon his body.

Not that any would dare touch him in that way without Barbossa's own word on it. If they no longer feared Jack's hand, they were terrified of their own captain and he could not fault them for that. Barbossa had grown ever crueler over these last ten years, and the past three days had shown him to be even more a man one dare not cross. Not to mention there was something unnerving about his eyes these days, most especially at night, and how he always seemed to know when blood had been spilt.

Jack's blood mainly, but he well suspected it was bothersome to them all to see how quick the captain might appear on deck once Twig or Monk or any of the other worthies had plied their knives, opening up new furrows upon his already torn shirt and breeches, his already healed flesh. How he almost seemed to be sniffing for it, as if the scent had roused some inner sensibility that civilized men had long forgotten about. As if Jack's blood were some freshly opened blossom he must needs sample, while it was still scarlet and warm and wondrous.

Not that Barbossa would approach him, though the eyes of his men would roll white in the dark whenever he appeared—even when he just stood there at the door to the great cabin, his head tilted back and this look of eminent satisfaction on his face. As if seeing Jack brought low was more precious than any swag he'd ever had the opportunity to lay hands upon.

But to speak of the Devil was obviously to call him into being, for Captain Barbossa himself chose that moment to stride out the doors of the great cabin and stand there, that be-damned monkey curled up on one shoulder, a hand to each hip, and his eyes sharp beneath the rakish tilt of his hat. Even though the feather it bore was still shorn clean in half from Jack's own sword.

A blade long gone from him now, along with the rest of his effects. Even his best ruddy boots.

Morosely, he regarded his bare feet even as he felt the other man approach him. Barbossa's own feet were clad in worn but serviceable boots and Jack could envy him that, even if there weren't many other things he could envy the man for at the moment. Like the fact that he was standing there, whole and hale and unfettered, while he himself was currently pinned to this great tree with somebody else's initials carved in blood upon his chest.

Or maybe they were his own. He really couldn't tell. He hadn't thought to ask at the time for some reason. Pain was not a companion he would freely chose the company of, even if he did not fear to keep it if he had a mind to. For life had fair measure of both pleasure and pain, and one could not deny one without denying the other.

Though, he could wish for more of the former than the latter these days. Or at least a little rum to make it a trifle more palatable.

Though, since they had given him but scant water and no food at all in the past few days, he very much doubted any would be in the offing.

"Jack," Barbossa said quietly and he glanced up at the man standing over him. Who, oddly enough, wore this expression of pity and sadness, almost as if he was sorry to see him here, in such dire straits.

It was a lie, of course, but Barbossa made a good job of it.

"Whatever am I do with you, Jack," the other man added, then glanced out across the deck to the dark seas beyond. As if he might find his answers there. "For I cannot seem to leave ye anywhere, without ye finding your back to me again. Three times it be now, an if tis a pattern then I fear I must look to it."

"Twas not by my choice," Jack commented.

"Aye, I fear not," the other man replied, still not looking at him. "But I would say we are bound all the same, we two."

"Put me off this ship then," Jack said, twisting a little in his bindings even though he well knew there was no use to it. "An I will swear not to come near thee again. As long as ye do not offer to come near me or my own ship."

"But Jack," Barbossa said, those blue eyes finally shifting to gaze at him once more. "Do ye forget? Ye do not have the Pearl. She left thee behind, same as I were left behind. We are both forgotten men, even though our own legends proceed us. You with all your grand though impossible adventures and me... the captain himself so evil that Hell itself could not consume him. Where be the truth in all that, Jack Sparrow. Where be the man behind all the tales. The one who knows only the pangs of loneliness, of despair. Who knows only what he has lost."

Jack raised his eyebrows, but Barbossa was already drawing himself up, taking in a long breath of the good sea air as if he had forgone its flavor for far too long.

"But that is as may be," he went on. Then turned his head and snapped his fingers. Two of the crew immediately straightened from their work and hastened to his side.

"I would talk to our good former Captain," Barbossa ordered. "In private. Bring him."

***

Norrington picked out the Pole Star instinctively, matching its position to their course. Before glancing down into the open compass in his hand, which wasn't pointing to anything even approaching north. Much as he had expected, but he closed it back up with a snap all the same. Wondering not for the last time why anyone would choose to carry such a thing, useless as it was, unless it was some sort of memento or some such. But, if so, a memento of what, and what could it mean to a man like Jack Sparrow.

Though, of course, what did it mean that he himself had chosen to keep it, as well.

Except as a reminder of a day which he honestly would much rather forget about. Not that it seemed that such would be allowed him.

"Commodore," a familiar voice said and then, from out of the corner of his eye, he saw Groves join him at the rail. The other man also gazed up at the heavens, as if he might find his own answers there, and Norrington took the chance of the moment to stow away the compass once more within his vest.

"Leftenant," he replied, clasping both hands together in front of him and minutely straightening up a little.

"It's a fine night," Groves said, his tone easy. "What do you imagine she's making, sir? Nine knots?"

"Easily ten," he responded. "If this wind keeps up, we should be making our approach to the island within two, perhaps three days. That is, assuming it is where it should be."

"I'm not sure I take your meaning, sir."

Norrington let out a soft breath, then glanced at the other man. There was an honest enough curiosity on Groves' face.

"As in, I well remember the bearings that Captain Sparrow reluctantly gave me aboard Dauntless that day. However, I'm not entirely sure they shall prove as useful as they may seem. There is something chancy about this island. I've never seen such mists before, and damp and cold... so cold it's as if the air itself would suck the very marrow out of you. There's nothing but rock there, and ruination and death. Ship after ship has met its end upon those rocks, attempting to reach the shore, and more than once, as Sparrow piloted us between them, I fear I doubted not that we would be the next."

"Are you saying that the place itself is cursed, as much as the treasure and the pirates themselves?"

Norrington shook his head. "I don't know. I'm saying that it's a dangerous passage, even if you find the island where it ought to be. Perhaps, too dangerous to risk the Endeavor upon unless there proves to be a damnably good reason. It would be a fool's errand, indeed, to lose one ship in single-minded pursuit of another."

"Yes," Groves said simply, then paused. "Sir... if you don't mind me asking... "

"Go on."

"Captain Sparrow, sir," the other man said, his eyes slewing sideways to look at him. "You said that he had a direct hand in saving the Dauntless that night, along with Will Turner. But yet, upon your return to Port Royal, you had him hung. Like any other common cutthroat. Like the very men he'd helped to save you from. While Master Turner was not only pardoned, but word has it that he intends to marry the Governor's own daughter and has the Governor's blessings upon the match."

"Yes," Norrington replied softly, more to himself than the other man.

Groves turned to face him straight on now. "Then I must say, sir... that I don't understand. Mister Turner committed an act of piracy as much as Captain Sparrow, and yet he was shown leniency as the other was not. Despite the fact that Captain Sparrow had saved Miss Swann from certain drowning. You know as well as I that we never could have reached her in time, otherwise."

"I am very well aware of what is owed to Mister Sparrow," Norrington replied darkly, very well aware in that moment just how strongly was the desire inside him that he did not.

"Then, sir?"

"It was a mistake," he replied. "The law is the law, but still it was a mistake. Do you understand me, Leftenant?"

The other man looked for a moment as if he was going to say more, to argue even, but then subsided with a nod of his head.

"Yes," he said softly. "I understand, Commodore. Thank you and good evening."

"Good night, Leftenant," Norrington responded. Wishing that he did not sound so brusque right then and there, but unable to moderate his tone.

With another sharp nod, Groves spun sharply on his heel and walked away, leaving him alone again. Or as alone as a man could be on a ship of nearly two hundred men. Still, Norringon put his hands to the rail and stared out at those dark seas and felt tears start to his eyes. Felt a dull burn in his heart.

Oh God.

Elizabeth...

For even as he closed his eyes, Norrington could picture her standing there at the very same rail of the Dauntless, the dark cool mists of the ship's graveyard whispering up around her, that tattered and stained and completely improper shift replaced by a man's shirt and coat and an equally improper pair of clean breeches. She had seemed so very calm and collected, especially when one considered what tremendous ordeals she had just undergone—to have been kidnapped from her own home and taken aboard a pirate ship, only to end up marooned at the last with Jack Sparrow of all people. He could hardly bear, even now, to think upon that.

Except that the man had offered her no insult; in fact, after their little sojourn together they had almost seemed more to be in the first throws of something which might even be called a wary sort of friendship.

Small wonder, then, that she had seen fit to reject his suit. Elizabeth had always struck him as a woman who had made a virtue out of loyalty and personal regard and if she had come to count Sparrow as a friend...

Much the same way Will Turner must have as well—to have risked so much, everything really, in a vain attempt to save the condemned pirate from his fate. He did not doubt that Master Turner would not be one to give his loyalty lightly, let alone to those who were not deserving of same.

And neither Turner nor Elizabeth were exactly fools, despite his own low opinion of them that day at the gallows.

Certainly, Turner had known the ramifications of what had happened the night Dauntless had been taken. Or else he never would have gone to the graveyard himself after his release. Let alone, returned as he had to the fort in order to confront him right there in his office. Rash, oh yes, but no one could deny that the lad had the courage of any ten men, if only the courage of his own brightest convictions. Only time and experience would smooth off those rough edges of his and come to temper that boundless enthusiasm with a man's pragmatism. No doubt, Elizabeth would have a hand in that. She seemed a practical enough woman, despite her rather singular fantasies about pirates and the sort of lives they led.

He could not deny that she had seemed practical enough that day when she had come to see him off down at the docks. Wishing him luck and safe passage, even if she could not now tender him her love.

He had had to respect her for that. A simple letter would have sufficed, or even but a cold shoulder turned his way. Pointed silence. When it came to that, she could have even influenced her father to have him dismissed from his duties at Port Royal and transferred elsewhere. Especially considering his recent failures.

But, instead, she had come herself to tell him the honest truth and he had surprised even himself by his own desire to see her made happy, even if it was with but a blacksmith and a virtually untried youth as her soon-to-be husband. Though, it had hurt to see her that day, so young and fresh and simply lovely as a prayer. To know that he had to let her go, and with her all his fondest dreams.

Though, as each day passed, he found himself growing more and more resigned to it for the main part. He found himself surrendering to the shape it seemed his life was destined to take, not a bad life as compared to some, but not what he had once envisioned for himself—to never find the companionship he sought, to never make a home for himself, and to remain, at the last, alone. And all the for simple fact that he did not wish, and had never wished if truth be told, to find himself within a loveless marriage. Which was not very realistic, nor practical if it came to that, but was what his heart demanded of him.

Making him, perhaps, the greatest fool of all for believing in it.

Except that the more likely future now did not even contain his chosen career. For if they did not retake the Dauntless, he could not wager two figs that he would retain either braid or life for very much longer. So, perhaps, it was for the best that he not found a woman to love him, to share his life—for all that she would have at the last would be but the foul name of a traitor and a life of widow's weeds to sustain her. And he would not wish that on anyone, let alone someone so full of life and spirit as Elizabeth Swann.

Far better she marry a blacksmith if it came to that, and betimes even quietly claim friendship with a pirate.

At least, that would be the life she chose, improper though it was.

And at least she had found love. Even though had more of a romantic dream to it than reality.

Norrington opened his eyes again and stared hard at the stars overhead. And found, at the last, that he could swallow down the rest of his tears. Oddly relieved in a way that he still had the strength inside to resign himself to the fact that he was alone and quite likely to remain that way for what little time might remain to him. Not because he wanted to, but because he must.

And to be glad as well that the woman he'd once thought to happily spend the rest of his life with had found someone to love and cherish her in turn. If only the both of them would learn to stay away from pirates.

Or one pirate in particular, it must be imagined. Who also had more to him of romantic dream than reality, even to where one of his own men was concerned. Especially to where one of his own men was concerned.

It was enough to drive a man to wonder what God he had offended.

***

It truly was a sadness that she was at the bottom of the sea now. Though, no doubt, the Commodore and his men were even now far busier bemoaning the loss of this particular ship. Oh, aye, the Dauntless was the power in these waters as far as that went, and they should have fair guarded her better. Not that most honest Navy men went around most days expecting a horde of dead pirates to come clamoring up the sides of their best ship in the dead of night.

Though, considering recent events, they jolly well should have.

Two of those dead pirates hauled him bodily into the middle of the cabin, then pressed him down into a chair when Barbossa nodded at them. The monkey on his shoulder nodding his own mute approval as well.

"Thank ye, gents," he said. "Go and set the gallants now if ye would. With these winds to our back, we may we may well see land by dawn. Though they'll not be seein' another."

"Aye, Captain," the nearer man growled. And they both laughed, as if Barbossa had just told them the best joke in all the world.

Jack waited until the door had closed behind them, before looking up at the other man.

"Planning on doing a spot o' plundering, are we?" he asked.

"In so many words," Barbossa replied.

"In rather less words," Jack said. "Ye've a cave bursting with swag. An a ship here large enough to carry off most of it an your good selves to somewhere where ye may retire from the trade with more style than most o' ye deserve."

"True enough," the other man said, leaning back against the table set in the middle of the room and folding his arms across his chest. As he stared at Jack as if he were amusement enough for any two men.

"So then," Jack went on, leaning back in his own chair as comfortably as he was able at the moment. "One must wonder what more ye desire? If tis not gold any longer."

"Aye, one must wonder," Barbossa repeated. He straightened out his arms and the monkey took the occasion to jump free of him and scoot across the floor. He climbed up the back of Jack's chair, then as Jack turned his head to look at him, held out a rather familiar bit of gold in front of him with a chittering little sound. As if the animal had
been entirely aware of what they had been talking about.

Jack grimaced at the coin, then deliberately turned away from both it and his namesake.

"Not a curse then, eh?" he said.

Barbossa stepped up to him and held out a hand. The monkey chattered again, but handed the gold coin over freely enough. The other man rubbed it between his fingers, then held it in the palm of his hand and smiled down at it almost fondly.

"Nay," he replied. "As I said, tis a gift. Freely given. Which makes all the difference in the world. Ye should know that."

The coin winked by candlelight as Barbossa took it and flipped it in the air, then tucked it away beneath his vest. After which, he turned his attentions back to Jack. Who felt himself becoming less than appreciative of them, especially when the other man abruptly pulled his pistol free of his sash and moved back towards him.

"I've been thinking," Barbossa said.

"Oh, aye?"

"Aye," the other man said. "Thinking o' you, Jack, me lad."

And, with that, he twisted his free hand into the remains of Jack's shirt and half-hauled him out of his chair. Shoving the barrel of the pistol right into his throat and using it to tilt his chin up to a more favorable angle. His face so close to his that Jack could feel the other man's breath full on his face. It had not improved with age nor with resurrection.

"Go on then," Jack said, gazing back up into those cool blue eyes serenely enough. "Pull the trigger. For all the good it will do ye."

Barbossa gave him a crooked look of appraisal. "Aye, it wouldn't kill ye, Jack. Not for long anyhow. No more than the crew playing at hanging thee a few more times yet or even sticking thee full o' little holes. But it doesna mean I wouldn't get aught out of it same as the rest. Watchin' you bleed might be well enough. I owe ye a death, after all."

Jack laughed, more breath than humor. "An you owe me a ship. So tell me who's more to the good?"

Barbossa pressed the pistol even harder into the soft flesh of his throat, the corner of his mouth curving up as Jack winced a little despite himself.

"Bein' as I'm the captain here, I'd say it were me. An, like I said, I've been thinking and though I still don't know why ye were brought back as well as the others, I have no doubt it will prove less to your advantage than to me own."

"Ah," Jack replied. "So sure of that, are ye? If I rightly remember, twas ye who lost both ship and life in our last little agreement. Do you honestly believe that what cast the curse in the first place doesn't know full well your own weaknesses, Captain Barbossa?"

The other man cursed and roughly pushed him away, almost knocking both Jack and the chair over at the same time. Jack pulled himself back to his feet, swaying for a moment before catching his balance at the last and standing up straight. He gave Barbossa a coolly appraising look of his own, part of him inordinately pleased at the sudden uncertainties in his old First Mate's face.

Barbossa had a sharp enough intelligence, but when it came to his own desires—especially his need for power, for acclaim—he could be just as blind as the next man. Especially if the next man were someone like Ragetti. Or Bo'sun. Well, to be honest,
near on half the man currently aboard ship.

"You say, tis a gift," he said. "But I say there always be cost. An the more princely the gift, the greater the price for it."

Barbossa turned back on him, something hard and hurtful in his face now. "An what would ye know of cost, Jack Sparrow? Ye who've always had the world handed to you on a silver platter. Pirate ye may be, but they bowed at your feet all the same, didn't they. Small wonder, ye could not imagine anyone, let alone your own, turning against you. Taking away your precious Pearl."

Jack felt something equally hard and hurtful stir inside him at the other man's words. He stalked up to Barbossa, ignoring the pistol still cocked between them, and stared right into those pale eyes.

"I always did right by thee," he said, low and slow, using a finger at the other man's own throat for emphasis. "By all of ye. Far better than ye deserved, as it turned out. Ye canna blame me for your own lack o' vision. I never broke my word to thee. Never."

Barbossa stared down at him, his eyes suddenly hooded, devoid of all expression, then abruptly he laughed and turned away.

"Jack," he said, that ever so amiable tone back in his voice. "Can we not put the past behind us? After all, we've both been given a second chance here. Might we not make the most of it?"

"What are you saying, mate? That we should be... friends?"

Barbossa shrugged. "Ye can be very persuasive when ye wish to be, as well ye know. After all, ye made me believe, if only for a moment or two, that we might work together. I must admit I still rather fancy that thought, Jack."

Jack laughed a little himself. "Do ye now?"

"Aye, I do so. An tis not as if ye have much choice upon the matter. Ye shall remain with us, as prisoner or as a sworn mate. Though, o' course, I could well decide that ye would be better off sharing the depths with Bootstrap if it came to that. Though, would seem a waste."

"Glad to hear of it," Jack replied.

Barbossa stared back at him, one hand pulling reflectively at his beard, and again Jack thought he saw something dark swim across the man's eyes. But then the other man raised his head and stalked over to the door and threw it open, calling for his men. The same two appeared almost instantly, as if they had been listening just outside, and stood as near to attention as any two buccaneers could.

"Put him in the brig," Barbossa said. "An pass the word to leave him be."

Hard eyes glanced his way, but the two men chorused their "ayes," and then he was grasped by the arms and half-shuffled, half-lifted away and ushered less than carefully down below decks. To where only a single lantern tried and failed to keep the shadows back. To that ever so familiar tiny room with but a single window and that barred with iron.

Where they tossed him to his knees, and slammed the door shut behind him. Then closed and latched the window as well, leaving him all alone in the hot dark and those hopelessly close confines that he had come to know, but never to care for.

"Well," he said. "That went well."

Leave a Comment
(If you're commenting about a specific chapter, please mention that.)

Read Comments
(Warning: May contain spoilers!)