Pirate Dreams

Chapter 11

by

Alexfandra

Yet Will couldn't fully devote himself to dwelling on Jack's problems, for he had difficulties of his own. This island had driven Edward Eaton to lose his faculties in a very short time, the ghosts that haunted it had come for him. And Will could feel them again this day, mostly as a vague uneasy presence floating in the air, coldly malevolent. Now and then, here and there, he would feel that sudden rush of frozen air encircling him, and the dread that always came with it would fill his soul.

What if I go mad? How will Jack go on if I lose my faculties? Will wasn't certain he could last a month under these conditions. He believed in God and his mercy, but his faith was not as strong as Eaton's had been.

By midday they had gathered the materials they needed and carried them to the inlet's beach. They took a brief respite for a meal of hardtack, coconut meat, and papaya. Then they started the task of building a small hut, which went quickly. They had a good deal of experience in working with palm fronds, branches, and bamboo from their previous marooning. By evening they had completed a roofed hut large enough to sleep in, with a door they could tie shut on the inside for added protection.

The hut made Will feel a good deal safer from an attack by Nicholas Crane, yet it did nothing to allay his fear of the island's ghosts. They would hardly be stopped by a few bamboo and palm frond walls.

"Are you still feeling those chills?" Jack asked that evening as they sat by the fire, eating their meager supper of mollusks and more coconut. "Now and then," Will admitted. "What about you?"

Jack nodded. "I did feel one, when we were getting water at the stream."

"But you don't feel that presence, do you? In the atmosphere, as if the very air were inhabited?"

"By ghosts? No, I don't feel that." Jack sat close beside Will, and he lay his hand on Will's thigh reassuringly. "They can't hurt you. They have no substance."

Will wished that were true, but he knew differently. "I know they can't physically harm me. But they infect my mind, and I can't control my own thoughts." He couldn't help trembling. "After what happened to Eaton, I'm afraid I'll do something similar, that I won't be myself anymore."

"He had no one for companionship," Jack said, his tone soothing. "I'm here to watch over you."

"I know." Will didn't want to voice his greatest fear, that something might happen to Jack, leaving him alone. "I know you will."

"We can fight this together, mate." Jack caressed Will's thigh. "I tell you what. If the Pearl doesn't return in three days time, we'll take the boat and leave. Do you think you'll be all right for that long?"

"Yes, I think so." Will was buoyed at the thought of escaping this dreadful place. "But we have no sail, only oars. How far can we get?" It wouldn't be much of an escape if they died before they could reach a safe port.

"I have a thought. We'll take the clothes Eaton left, and make them into a sail. We can use bamboo for a mast, we can cut that easily enough with our knife, and it's remarkably sturdy stuff."

Risky, Will thought, and slightly mad. Yet he knew from experience that Jack's daft schemes usually worked. "The sooner the better."

"Right then. We'll go to Eaton's hut first thing in the morning."

Will didn't like the idea of going back there, though he knew it was necessary. It was crucial that he go along, that they stay together at all times. "Right." Thank God they had a plan now, something for him to focus on. He smiled. "I feel better already."

They finished eating, and then stayed there a while, sitting close, basking in the fire's warmth. Will slid his arm around Jack's waist. "I'm glad you don't feel their presence," he said. "At least, not so strongly."

"Perhaps they can tell I don't like the idea of ghosts being real."

"I know ghosts are real." Will had held the belief since boyhood. "I saw my mother's spirit after she died. It was on the ship, when I came out here from England. I was on deck, and we were surrounded by a strange fog, when suddenly her figure appeared before me. I could see her as clearly as I can see you. She spoke to me. She told me to go to the stern. She raised her arm and pointed aft, and told me to lie down and hold fast. Then she faded away. I went to the stern, and as soon as I got there, and did as she bid, cannons boomed, fire and explosion ripped the ship apart, and I was flung through the air into the sea with part of the deck beneath me. I had held on tightly, and that's what they found me floating on when I was rescued."

Jack wrapped his arm around Will's shoulders. "My father had several congregation members who claimed they had visits from the dead. He called it unholy. He said they were being taunted by the Devil."

"And why would the Devil save my life?"

"Good question. I don't say I hold to my father's views."

"I'm not sure what I believe," Will said. "I was raised to believe that the souls of the dead dwell in heaven, purgatory, or hell. They don't wander our world."

"Yet you've seen things you can't explain."

"Yes." Will's upbringing held no explanation for what he'd seen and felt, either here or when he was a boy on the ship.

"Heaven, purgatory, or hell," Jack repeated. "I'd rather not believe that, knowing where I'd end up."

"Don't say that." Will didn't want to believe Jack's soul would suffer in hell. "You've repented, anyway." He paused. "Right?"

Jack shrugged. "I did what I did. If I'm punished for it in the next world, then so be it."

Will didn't care to dwell on the next world. Or on the idea of Jack going there. It reminded him that Jack had twenty years on him, that he would likely die long before him, that he'd have to live for years without him. "Can we talk about something else? Anything else?"

"Too morbid, eh? Sorry."

"I don't want to think about losing you someday."

"No worries. The way you get into trouble, you'll probably beat me there."

He said it lightly, though Will knew better. "You wouldn't want that to happen. I know you've got a sentimental nature underneath your nonchalance."

"Suppose I do." Jack leaned in to kiss him, then drew away. "Guess we'll just have to go together, mate."

"You think?" Will slipped his hand beneath Jack's shirt to stroke his chest. "Can you wait 'til I'm eighty or so?"

"I can do that." Jack gave him another quick kiss. "Listen, we'd be better off in the hut...."

"Yes...." Will was no longer thinking about anything depressing at all. Heat rose within him, and desire pushed everything else aside. "Come on, then." He stood, pulling Jack up, pushing him towards the hut.

They got inside and latched the door. There was nothing but the sand for a bed, but that hardly mattered. They were both undressed in no time, clothes flung about the sand. They made hurried, near frantic love atop their clothing, past caring. Will had no thoughts but thoughts of Jack, of being with him, loving him, of losing himself in him. They made love repeatedly all through the night, holding deep in each other's embrace between, and the only thing Will wanted was for this night to go on forever.

#

Eaton's hut looked unchanged, and uninhabited. There had been no fire in the pit when they'd passed that earlier clearing, and no sight or sound of anyone about. Will still felt extraordinarily uneasy. He'd felt several deep chills on their way here this morning, and he kept as close to Jack as he could without stepping on his boots.

Jack stopped a few feet from the hut's doorway, which he'd shut on their previous visit. It was still closed. He reached out to pat Will's arm. "We're fine. Here, take the pistol, it'll make you feel better."

"No, no, you keep it." Will had the knife in a tight grip.

"Take it. Give me the knife."

"I'm fine, really." But then Will heard an odd sound behind him, coming from the woods, a low keening wail. He froze. "Jack, there's something back there."

"Nothing that can harm you." Jack wrested the knife from his grip and thrust the pistol into Will's hands. "Shoot if it tries." Then he stepped to the door and pushed it open.

Will was right behind him, clutching his arm. "I don't like this." He could still hear the wail, low-pitched, echoing around the clearing.

Jack dug through the seaman's chest, pulling out the clothing, 'til he reached the bottom. "Ah." He hauled out a canvas bag. "Thought he might have one. Here, take this." He tossed the bag to Will, and started handing him the clothes.

Will stuffed the clothing into the bag as fast as he could manage, anxious to get done and out of the woods. The air turned colder as he worked, settling into that deep, unnatural chill he'd come to loathe. "Hurry!"

"Almost there." Jack gathered up the last articles of clothing and helped Will cram them into the bag. Then Jack slung it over his shoulder. "Let's go."

Will gladly stepped out of the hut into the clearing. He and Jack made their way to the path and began the trek through the woods. As they walked, Will noticed tendrils of white mist floating between the trees. "Can you see that?"

Jack walked close behind him. "Like bits of fog? Yes."

"Good." Maybe that's what it was, a simple, natural fog. Will picked up his pace nonetheless.

The tendrils grew wider, 'til they were no longer tendrils at all, but great swaths of white, growing thicker by the minute. Not like any natural fog Will had ever seen. He tried to grip the pistol more tightly in his shaking hand. "Jack?"

"I'm here. Take my hand." Jack reached for Will's left hand, grasping it firmly as he strode close behind him. "Just keep walking."

They reached the second clearing, the one with the fire pit. The fog hung more lightly here, and Will hoped it would ease up more as they continued. He found where the path went on through the woods, leading back to the stream. He kept Jack's hand firmly in his as he started along the second path, as the tall, dark trees closed in around them.

But the fog did not lighten. Instead it came on more thickly than ever before, shrouding the trees until they became mere shadows, and then turning into a smothering blanket of white which hid everything from view. Will could barely see the path beneath his feet. He couldn't see anything else, couldn't hear any sound, couldn't feel anything except the pressure of Jack's hand in his.

Faster. He had to go faster, they had to get out of this before it took them, before they vanished to whatever limbo awaited. The ghosts moved through the woods, he could sense their hollow presence, their deathly supplications worming into his mind. Let go... be with us...

Will shook himself, tried to focus on walking, on seeing the path. Not much farther to go, surely they'd soon reach the stream, and hadn't he heard once that spirits could not cross water? Perhaps that was why they were trapped here, unable to leave the isle. Perhaps he'd be free of their influence as soon as he reached water... just like Edward Eaton had done, going into the sea... to be free....

He thought the fog might be clearing a little ahead, thought he could see the outline of the trees once more. Faster... Don't think about the ghosts, just keep moving. He saw a different light ahead, the normal light of day through the trees. "We're nearly there," he said.

And then suddenly Jack's hand was wrenched from his, and he heard a cry. Will spun round. "Jack!" He saw nothing but thick white fog. "Jack!"

He rushed back along the path, hands out, frantically searching. "Jack! Where are you?" He stopped, caught his breath, and tried hard to listen for any sound. Oh God. He heard nothing. Not even that hideous wailing, there was nothing. Will tried to slow his hammering heart by taking deep breaths. He turned round and retraced his steps to where they'd been separated, stopping at each step to search blindly in the fog, his hands outstretched, feeling to the left and right of the path. Please. Please let him be here, please let him be all right.... He called Jack's name, shouted it, screamed it.

Then he found himself at the edge of the woods, standing where ordinary daylight fell. He could see grassland ahead, could see the stream in the distance. All normal. He took a tentative step into the grass, then turned round to look at the woods. They were utterly consumed by the fog.

And he was alone.

#

Will sat on the grass near the edge of the woods, knees drawn up to his chest, arms clasped round his legs, shivering uncontrollably. He stared vacantly at the white-shrouded trees, willing the fog to lift, for this nightmare to end. He was afraid to go in there again, afraid the fog would take him. If Jack were still alive, if there was any chance of finding him, then he needed to stay out of danger himself.

He must be alive. Will couldn't bear to think otherwise, though he found it nearly impossible not to imagine the worst. A life without Jack... no, he couldn't handle that. He knew he would lose him someday. Their conversation from the night before came back to him, about heaven and hell, about dying. It was inevitable. But not like this, not now. They'd only known each other for what, five, six months? He wanted more time, wanted a chance to form more memories together, to have a history with him the way Jack had a past with....

Will broke off that thought. He stared at the woods, watching the fog smother all his hopes. It settled so heavily, deadening everything around him. He was alone, left here to battle the cold, to be driven slowly mad by the hauntings of these abandoned souls, with no one to watch over him.

He couldn't go on by himself. He couldn't try to leave on the boat, not without knowing whether Jack was alive or not, and he couldn't stay here. He might survive longer by keeping near the beach, near the water, as the ghosts seemed to haunt that area less. But he couldn't spend all his time there. He'd have to go inland for food and fresh water, and every time he traversed the interior of the island the unnatural cold grew stronger around him, and the malevolent presence buried deeper into his soul.

Then a new fear struck him. What if Jack were dead, and his ghost was among those haunting this place? Oh dear God in heaven. Will brought his hands up, palms together, and for the first time in many years, he prayed.

#

Hours passed, how many he wasn't sure, but the sun rose higher in the sky, warming the grass, yet failing to penetrate the shrouded woods. Will had not moved. A dull aching emptiness filled him, as if the strength to go on had been drained away. Somewhere, in the farthest reaches of his mind, he knew he needed to go in there again. He needed to conquer his fears. But his body would not obey, he felt frozen in place.

What if it takes me, too? What if I'm doomed to haunt this island as a lost soul forever?

And what if Jack were alive, and needed his help? Will struggled against the terrors holding him in place, fought to keep his thoughts away from death, away from loss. Concentrate on something else, anything else. Something solid, perhaps a strong memory of a time he'd been happy, unafraid. Then it came to him. Suddenly, Will knew what he needed to use in his fight against this haunted land.

He formed an image in his mind of another island, only this one had no ghosts. This isle was filled with sunlight, warmth, and endless memories of joyful times. He and Jack had been stranded there for several months after a shipwreck, yet they had not only survived, they had thrived there together. Will pictured them building their hut, saw them in his mind making the island into a home. He remembered exploring together, finding the fresh water pool, going for swims. He vividly imagined the joy they'd felt when they found wreckage from the ship, opening each crate, and he pictured each item they found inside, including the bottles of rum that made Jack so ecstatic.

And he remembered their love-making on the beach beneath the stars. How Jack had come to truly love him there, showing that love to him with every gesture, every act. Will closed his eyes, seeing them together in his mind, reliving their nights together, holding the world complete in each other's arms. When he opened his eyes, he felt stronger, more like himself again. He pushed himself up, standing now, facing the woods. With the memory of Jack's love supporting him, Will took a step forward, and then another.

Steadying himself against the cold presence that he knew lurked within, he took the final step into the fog. He could feel the hardpacked ground of the path, and he focused on its solidity. He walked further into the woods, seeing only a few shadowy trunks, the rest still swathed in white. The chill swirled around him, and far off in the distance he heard the unearthly wail.

Keep going. Just put one foot after the other. He wanted to hear a sound, any sound, and so he spoke aloud as he walked. "I won't let you win," he said to the unseen spirits around him. "You can't take me, and you can't take Jack. I won't let you."

Some fifty feet in, he nearly tripped over something in the path. Will crouched down, finding the canvas bag full of clothing that Jack had been carrying. Something very solidly real, that hadn't vanished into nothingness. He started to pick it up, but felt something sticky. Will looked more closely. There was a spot of blood on the bag.

He stood up, heaving the bag over his shoulder. "You're not real!" he shouted into the woods. Since when did ghosts draw blood? Will walked onward, striding more quickly now. "You're nothing! You can't hurt me, or Jack." A more likely possibility came to him, that somehow Nicholas Crane had been watching them all this time, that he'd watched them at the hut, had followed them through the woods, and had used the descending fog to make his move against them. Will felt a renewed strength of purpose. The spirits here were not the real enemy. His own mind had been turned against him by the haunting, and he had defeated that attempt to draw him into madness. He was himself again, they couldn't touch him, not so long as he wasn't alone. And Will knew there was a chance Jack was alive, taken by Crane. That one chance was all he needed to keep going.

As he reached the first clearing with the fire pit, the fog began to dissipate. Will stopped there a moment, gazing round as the trees encircling it came sharply into view, trunks, branches, reaching up to blue sky overhead. Wisps of fog swept upward, rising out of the woods, turning to mist, vanishing under the midday heat.

Will took a few deep breaths, then moved on, finding the path that led to Eaton's stone hut. He pulled the pistol from his belt, holding it steady, glad that Jack had insisted he take it earlier. As he approached the clearing, he slowed, staying behind the shelter of the trees. He made his way to a large cedar at the very edge of the clearing and stood behind it, studying the hut in the distance. The door stood shut, and all was quiet.

He'd be exposed if he crossed the clearing at this point. Fortunately, the hut had no windows, so if he kept to the trees and circled round behind, he could cross the clearing safely. Though as far as he knew, Crane didn't have a firearm. Presumably he'd taken the knife from Jack. Will had little experience with firearms, yet he felt certain that if he could get close enough, he wouldn't miss. He would need to keep Crane from seeing him coming, else he could hold Jack hostage, and make Will do his bidding the way he'd done before.

So he carefully made his way round the edge of the clearing, keeping back behind the trees until he stood across from the rear of the hut. Then he slowly walked across the clearing, making sure to avoid any twigs that might snap beneath his feet. He safely reached the stone wall of the hut.

Now what? Will stayed put, pondering. What would Jack do? Something unpredictable, no doubt. If he could somehow draw Crane out into the open, rather than simply barge through the door, that might be better. There was more light out here, more room to maneuver.

He still had the canvas bag. Will hefted it; with its heavy material and all the clothing inside, it weighed about twenty, maybe twenty-five pounds. He glanced upward at the hut's flat roof, made of branches and palm fronds. If he tossed the bag up there, it would make a noticeable sound. Crane wouldn't be expecting anything to hit the roof.

Will cautiously moved round the side of the hut until he reached the corner. He peered around the edge, judging the distance from there to the door to be about three feet. He'd need to set the pistol down in order to make a good toss, but he was helped by the fact the door opened inward, which should give him enough time to be ready for Crane when he came out to investigate.

He sent one more silent prayer to the heavens, then stepped a foot away from the wall, set the pistol down, and took the bag in both hands. He swung it hard over his head, letting it fly. The bag landed squarely on the roof with a satisfying thump. Will quickly grabbed the pistol, fully cocked it, and stepped back to the wall, aiming it round the corner.

The door opened. He tensed, finger on the trigger. Nicholas Crane stepped out of the hut, knife in hand, a look of sheer terror on his face.

Will hadn't expected him to be afraid, but he had no time to wonder at its cause. "Crane!" He came out into view of him, leveling the pistol at his chest. "Drop the knife!"

Crane hesitated, his hand shaking badly, his face deathly pale.

"I can't miss," Will said, closing the gap between them.

Then Crane seemed to see him for the first time. He blinked, let out a ragged sigh, then tossed the knife away. "Don't let them get me," he pleaded, dropping to his knees. "Please."

Will stared at him, then understanding hit him. Crane had been tormented by the ghosts too. And he'd been alone. But Will couldn't spare any sympathy for the man. "Where's Jack?"

"In here," came a voice from inside the hut, the most wonderful sound Will had ever heard. "Jack!" He crossed to the doorway. Jack sat strapped to the chair, looking tired and disheveled. "Thank God!"

"Watch that bastard!" Jack cried.

Will spun round as Crane staggered to his feet. "Oh, no, you don't." Will kept the pistol aimed at his chest. "Move further back."

Crane obediently took several paces away.

"Now get down, flat on your face, arms out. That's good. Don't move a muscle." Will picked up the dropped knife and went inside the hut, keeping Crane partially in view. He cut the ropes holding Jack down. He wanted to take him in an embrace, but resisted until they got Crane settled.

"Here." Jack handed him the frayed rope. "There ought to be enough to bind his hands. Go on."

Will quickly went to Crane and pulled his arms behind his back, tying them good and proper. Then he dashed back to the hut, where he found Jack stiffly standing up, rubbing at his arms and legs. Will grabbed him in a tight hug, holding onto him, never wanting to let go. "Thought I'd lost you," he said brokenly.

"You might yet. I can't breathe."

Will laughed and released him, a wave of relief washing over him. Everything was right again, he could survive now, they were whole again. "Sorry, mate. Can't help it."

"Worried you, did I? It's his fault." Jack nodded to where Crane lay tied up in the clearing. "Grabbed me and knocked me on the head before I had time to think."

Will brushed Jack's hair off his forehead, there was a patch of dried blood. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm a little rough."

"Can you get to the beach?" Will didn't feel like staying here, despite his earlier conquest of his fears. "Can you walk with my help?"

Jack took a few tentative steps out to the clearing, leaning on Will. "Yeah, I can make it." He nodded towards Crane. "What about him?"

They walked together to where Crane lay. Will kicked him, rolling him over onto his back. "Get up. You're coming with us."

Crane struggled onto his knees, then Will helped him upright. "Stay ahead of us. That way." Will pushed him roughly towards the path.

"He's going mad, you know," Jack said as they walked along behind Crane, retracing the route through the woods. "He told me those ghosts of yours were coming for him. I think he had it worse than you, mate."

"Maybe he thought that thump on the roof was caused by the spirits."

"Maybe," Jack agreed. He leaned against Will as they walked, his arm around Will's shoulders as Will held him about the waist. "He was hearing all kinds of strange things."

"No wonder he was terrified." Will knew exactly how Crane must feel. "You know why he grabbed me? As an offering."

"A what?" Will was taken aback.

"He wanted them to take me instead," Jack said. "That's what he said. Seemed to think that would satisfy them for a while, hold they off longer. Then he was going to try to get you as well. He'd been watching us, waiting for a chance."

What a strange idea, offering a sacrifice to the island spirits. "Definitely mad."

Jack suddenly slowed up, breathing harder.

Will stopped, letting him rest. He called out to Crane to stop as well, then turned his attention to Jack. "You should sit down for a bit."

"No worries." Jack waved his hand. "Just let me get my breath."

They stood there together, Will supporting him firmly, for several minutes. Then Jack nodded. "I'm all right. Let's go."

They walked on through the woods, no more fog to ensnare them. Will felt no more chills, heard no more of that keening wail. He held tightly onto Jack, his love for him stronger than it had ever been.

Jack kept up the pace, and soon they were emerging from the trees once more onto open ground, bathed by the midday sun. Will ordered Crane to head towards the stream, where they paused to drink their fill. Then they moved onward towards the beach.

As they neared the shoreline, Jack sagged against Will, stumbling. Will stopped again, worried. "Come on, sit down." He helped Jack a few steps further to the shore, letting him down gently onto the cushioning sand. "Rest there. I'll get some food." He hoped at least part of Jack's weakness stemmed from hunger, as he doubted he'd had anything to eat since that morning.

Crane was still ahead of them, and still moving, half-staggering, half-running along the shoreline. Will shouted at him to stop, but he kept going. "Dammit. What's he think he's doing?" He surely couldn't do much with his hands still tied behind his back.

"Don't move," he told Jack, then took off after Crane. Will hadn't gone twenty feet when he came to a startled halt, as he saw why Crane had taken off, saw what he was running towards. He had a fuller view of the inlet now, and there, serenely anchored in its waters, stood the Black Pearl.

#

"Rum," Jack repeated.

Will shook his head. "Not yet."

Jack let out a long-suffering sigh. "You're a hard man, Will Turner."

"So I am." He sat beside the bed where Jack lay propped up against a mass of pillows, having just finished a bowl of vegetable broth. They were back in their old room at the Hanover Inn on Bermuda, safely returned aboard the Pearl that very evening. A physician had been called in, who treated the wound on Jack's forehead and declared he would live.

"You should be grateful," Will said, giving him a fond look, "to have something to eat besides hardtack and coconut."

"Mm. It's an improvement, I'll give you that."

"And to have a bed to lie in that isn't made of sand."

"True enough. Sand does find its way into some awkward places."

Will laughed, remembering all too well exactly where those annoying grains of sand could lodge. "Shan't have that problem with this bed, no."

"Could still do with some rum."

"You don't give up easily, do you?" Will heard a knock at the door, and opened it for the serving girl, who took their dinner trays away. He shut it behind her, and then he lit the bedside lamp. "That's better. How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Jack waved a hand idly. "No more worries. You?"

"None here either." All of the unnatural things Will had felt on the island had vanished immediately they boarded the Pearl and set sail. He felt completely at ease.

"Good. However, I have a small question or two."

"No doubt." Shortly after they'd been rescued, Jack had lost consciousness, and had spent the entire voyage here in that state. He'd only come to as they carried him up to the room. "I suppose you want to know how the Pearl came to be there?"

"That would be nice," Jack said. "Be nice to know where it went as well."

"No idea, according to Gibbs." Will had been told the whole tale on their return trip, from Gibbs, and from a person he'd been rather surprised to see aboard. The Reverend Charles Johnson. "He said they were all still in the hold when they felt the ship moving, and they thought Crane had come aboard again. But when no one opened the hatch, they began to worry. Hours went by while they searched for a way to escape, until finally they resorted to desperate measures, by setting a fire to the hatchway cover. They were able to break through and put the fire out before causing too much damage. When they got on deck, the island was nowhere in view."

"Odd. I thought those ghosts didn't like water."

"So did I." Will hadn't much cared for the thought, when Gibbs had related this tale, that the spirits might follow him even across the sea. Yet they had failed to reappear, and the farther they'd gotten from the Devil's Isle, the safer he'd felt. "Maybe it had more to do with those cursed waters you mentioned. All I know is that Gibbs and the crew had no idea how to reach us, as Crane had taken the only copy of the map. Fortunately, Anamaria was able to chart the course to Bermuda, so they came here to find help."

"Thought I saw Reverend Johnson on board," Jack said. "Right before everything went black. Or was I having visions?"

"No, he was there. And Sydney Davis as well. Seems the authorities had thoroughly questioned Rufus Spillett, and they learned about the treasure map, and where Crane was headed. But no one there knew the location of the Devil's Isle, and Spillett couldn't remember the bearings."

"Then how did they find us?"

"You'll never guess that," Will said. "I would never have believed it myself, until a short time ago. While the physician was tending to you, I had a chance to meet the fellow responsible for saving us. The man who was able to tell the Reverend Johnson how to reach the island. The Reverend put out a call for anyone who could help locate the Devil's Isle, and paid the local boys to spread word all round the town and the nearby towns as well. News travels quickly from person to person here, and the call was answered within a day."

"By someone who knew the bearings?" Jack asked.

"Yes." Will waited for him to figure it out. He didn't have to wait long, as even after a knock on the head, Jack retained a sharp mind.

"By Edward Eaton," Jack said.

"One and the same."

"Not possible."

"Not probable," Will corrected.

"He drowned."

"As a matter of fact, he didn't." Will had been immensely pleased to meet the author of the journal. A large, quiet, reserved man, quite in control of his faculties again, who had come to the Hanover Inn as soon as the ship's crew had arrived. Eaton had been gratified at being able to help in their rescue from the place that had so nearly destroyed him. Will had more than enough reason to be grateful for Eaton's survival. "The fellow's built like an ox," he went on. "Turns out he's a tremendously strong swimmer, and he'd got several miles from the island when a native fisherman who'd been recently thrown off course in a storm spotted him out there. Picked him up and found their way to the fisherman's island, and from there Eaton made his way to Bermuda. 'An act of Divine Providence' he called it. He's been recovering here ever since."

"Remarkable."

"He's a remarkable man. We owe him our lives."

"Indeed." Jack cast Will a peculiar look, one he couldn't quite fathom. "I should like to meet him."

Will now understood that odd look. It was unease. Edward Eaton could describe Captain Nathaniel Flynn, which would put an end to speculation. "I'll talk to him in the morning," he said warily. "I'm sure he'll come up to see you."

"Thanks." Jack reached out to take Will's hand in his. He squeezed it warmly. "Will—" He hesitated.

"What?" Will took his hand in both of his, brought it to his lips.

"I love you," Jack said simply.

Will nearly fell off the chair, catching himself in time.

"Ouch." Jack rubbed his arm.

"Sorry." Will hadn't meant to nearly wrench Jack's arm off, but the words had overwhelmed him. Jack rarely said the word love around him, professing not be of a romantic cast, though Will knew better. Coming now, when Will felt worried about how Jack would react should the man he'd loved just a few short years ago still be alive, meant more than he could express.

"You coming to bed or what?"

Will smiled. "I've only just lit the lamp. It's not that late."

"Come to bed anyway."

"How are you feeling?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Mate, I don't need this," he tapped his head, "to do what I'm planning to do to you tonight. Now will you get in this bed?" Will didn't need to be asked again.

#

"He was about your age," Edward Eaton said to Jack. "Possibly a few years older. It's always hard to tell with longtime sailors, as the sea weathers their faces beyond their true age."

He'd come to visit Jack the next morning, and they had both thanked him profusely for his aid in saving them from the Devil's Isle. He was indeed a huge man, with a great barrel chest. He took the chair beside Jack's bed while Will watched the conversation nervously from a chair by the window. He paid close attention to every change in Jack's expression as Eaton described the Captain Flynn who had marooned him.

"Go on," Jack said, his voice sounding hollow.

"The Lord graced that devil with a handsome visage," Eaton replied.

"Such as mine?" Jack asked, though Will knew he didn't say it for amusement, rather for clarification.

Eaton studied Jack's face. "I would say Captain Flynn's looks have a more rugged aspect. And he's a tall man, six feet, with broad shoulders."

Jack's expression was stony. "What about his hair? His eyes?"

"He wore his hair loose and long." Eaton gestured at his own shoulder. "Worn to about here, reddish-brown, and he had those brilliant green eyes one often finds among the Irish."

"Thank you," Jack said. "That's good enough. Tell me about the ship."

Will knew by the hard look in Jack's eyes that Eaton had just described the same Nate Flynn who had supposedly died several years ago, hanged for a pirate. He thought Jack would be more elated by the news. Yet it must be horribly confusing, knowing the man you loved had been alive and free while you rotted in prison. Why hadn't Flynn tried to rescue Jack? Had he not truly loved him? "The Destiny is a thirty-six gun sloop," Eaton said. "Captain Flynn claimed to be a privateer, but his crew had a rough look about them, and I didn't consider them to be any better than pirates."

"You wrote in your journal that he pressed you into service."

"Well, I must confess to some slight embellishment. He did press about a dozen men from our ship at first, then relented and said any man who wanted to return could do so. None did, and I felt I had a mission aboard his ship, that God had sent it to me as a way to save those wretched men's souls. So I stayed aboard."

"And they didn't take to your salvation," Jack said.

"No, they did not. Some weren't even Christian raised. Blacks from off Madagascar, where Flynn said he'd been in pursuit of pirate ships."

"Never." Jack spoke the one word with a harsh insistence.

Eaton looked taken aback. "I report only what Captain Flynn said whilst I was aboard, Mr. Sparrow. It surprised me a great deal, that he would be chasing pirates, when he and his crew seemed so little different from such sinners." He paused then, giving Jack a steady look. "You know Flynn."

"I know him." Jack cast Will a glance, an expression of pain mixed with confusion. "But the Nate Flynn I knew would never hunt pirates."

"But it's the same man, you're certain?"

"From what you described, yes. It's him." Jack suddenly looked very tired. "Thank you for coming."

Eaton recognized the dismissal. "I was pleased to do so." He rose and left the room.

Will crossed to sit on the edge of the bed facing Jack. He rested his hand gently on Jack's thigh beneath the covers. "He could have changed."

"Changed?" Jack's voice broke on the word. "He's not even supposed to be alive."

"I thought you'd be glad he was."

Jack leaned his head against the pillows with a sigh. "I don't know what I feel." He rubbed a hand across his eyes. "I loved him." He paused, then looked directly at Will. "I love you."

"You don't know yet what happened," Will said. "I'm sure there's a good reason he didn't search for you."

"He would have known where I was," Jack replied bitterly. "I was in prison. I was in hell."

And Flynn had done nothing to save him. Will had to admit he found it incomprehensible, and he felt conflicted. He hoped, for Jack's sake, that there had been a good reason behind Flynn's abandonment of him. While at the same time he feared a reconciliation, for he knew, now that Jack knew for certain Flynn was alive, that they would meet again. Sooner more likely than later, since Flynn had so recently been in the area.

"Our mission is over here," Will said. "The Reverend Johnson told me at breakfast, now that Spillett and Crane have been remanded into custody, that he's going to take their specimens and return to Virginia. He's already found passage aboard a ship. As soon as you're able, we can return to Port Royal. Norrington may have heard something about the Destiny, if she's still in these waters."

"I'm ready to go anytime," Jack replied. "And I'm ready to find him." He reached out to touch Will's hand. "Are you?"

"Not really," Will admitted. He had thought once that they had moved on from Jack's past, that they'd never have to revisit those shores again. Perhaps it was best to let Jack know how he truly felt. "You've had so much more with him. Three years of sailing together, fighting together." He couldn't bring himself to add loving each other. He took a deep breath and went on. "You and he have a history, memories you share." Even as he spoke he felt the gap widening between them, the difference in their ages become more glaring. He could almost see all those years stretching out behind Jack, the years he'd spent with other people, other comrades, the years he'd spent with Flynn.

Perhaps it was never meant to be. Perhaps it wasn't even right that he and Jack should be together. Maybe it was right for Jack to be with someone of a similar age, and not simply because of the past they shared, either. It might be better if Jack grew old with someone alongside him in age, someone he needn't worry about leaving behind, at least not so much.

"What are you thinking?" Jack asked. "You've got a distant look about you."

"Nothing," Will lied.

Jack shook his head. "It's not nothing," he said. "What you think about us. It's everything."

"Don't do that." Will felt a telltale dampness in his eyes.

"Do what?"

"Make me love you more." Will fought back the tears. "You have a chance here." He didn't want to say this, yet he had to, for Jack's sake. "You have a chance to recapture something lost, something that meant more to you than anything else in the world. I want you to take it." He looked away, not wanting Jack to see him cry.

"No, you don't," Jack said softly. "Not honestly. But I'm glad you said it."

Will choked down his tears and got himself under control. "I'm not being noble. I love you. I want you to have what you deserve, to be happy. And even if you think you love me now, you won't know for certain until you see him again." Each word he spoke tore him apart a little more inside. "I do want to stay with you. But not if you love him more."

"I—" Jack's hands gripped the bedsheets tightly. "I don't want to ever hurt you."

"You won't."

"I might. You can't know that. I can't know that." Jack closed his eyes. "Dammit, I hate this." Will tried to give his arm a reassuring touch. "Let's not talk about it any more then, shall we?" he said far more lightly than he felt.

Jack opened his eyes, giving him a faint smile. "I'm all for that."

"Good." Will gave his thigh a light slap. "What do you say to getting dressed? If you can walk to the end of the corridor and back unassisted, I shall declare you fit enough to leave."

"You're on," Jack agreed, and threw back the covers.

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