Pirate Vindaloo, Chapter 3

Hard Learned Lessons

by

Hippediva & Elessil

The routine aboard the Chimaera was easy to understand though hard to work. For the crew, the day was split into just two watches, day and night. It was a far cry from the naval four hour watches, one that meant twelve hours of incessant labour. Norrington worked the day watch - indubitably because scrubbing the deck at night made little sense.

He quickly settled into the routine, and his habit of rising before the sun told him when it was time to begin work.  He pushed himself up, sending the hammock swinging and pulled on his boots, nudging Jack.

He'd had no idea what he'd gotten himself into with the matelot lie. Sparrow was constantly sidling up to him, pressing close or sneaking a kiss. Although he remained passive, the urge to push the filthy pirate away had quite faded. It did not seem worth the fight, and that he accepted the unwanted caresses only served to illustrate their dreadful situation.

Despite the proximity, Jack remained a mystery. Norrington had little doubt that he thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to needle a Commodore of the fleet, but there also were strange acts of kindness he did not understand.

Jack seemed to have an incessant supply of rum - Norrington would not have put it past him to have a  flask that never emptied, obtained from some heathen god or other - but he was quite willing to share it, and during those first days, he seemed sincerely worried about Norrington's injury, dabbing and cooling his head with wet rags as soon as they were below.

Sparrow roused reluctantly, pulling his coat-pillow over his head and groaning.  He opened his eyes, sighing as a dream of the Pearl slipped away behind them. Jack could almost have enjoyed himself but for three things:  the Commodore, with his pale face gone the colour of ripe beets; the thought of being trapped alone somewhere on this tub with too many eyes that slid to his face; and most of all, the Pearl, calling to him, her voice soft and insistent.

Jack Sparrow on land was the worst loafabout in the universe.  He was so indolent that even old Gibbs thought it shameful, until he got shipboard.  There, he was not only skilled but indefatigable.  He knew most of the crew by name already, and had settled into the hard work easily enough.

It was much harder to stay alert and keep an eye on Norrington. The poor bastard was not having so simple a time of it.  Unused to the relentless physical labour and long hours in the sun, Norrington was broody and silent.  Jack stuck to him like a burr, for fear he'd blunder and other fears that Sparrow knew altogether too well and refused to name even in his private ruminations.

Besides, it was absolutely no fun at all to have a whole ship to play in, all alone.  Jack was not happy, and found an outlet in teasing Norrington.

He was impressed by the Chimaera and the general seamanship of the crew.  Hamilton was a hard taskmaster, but strangely mercurial, leaving them to the Bo'sun's charge.

There was no time to do much snooping since he spent half his time on his knees scrubbing and the other half blacking guns.  Sleep fit somewhere in between, but he could still find time belowdecks to keeps his flask filled and get close to Norrington.  The matelot tale was shiny gossip those first awkward days and Jack toyed with it like a mischievous kitten.

Norrington gave the hammock a good shove when Jack did not show any inclination to get out of it. "Up, dearheart. The decks aren't sparkling yet, and if they did scrub themselves, Hamilton would miss the rhythmical sound."  He stretched and pushed his rebellious hair out of his face.

His palms were chafed from the constant scrubbing, burning with the omnipresent salt water. The work was dreadful and demeaning, and he began to wonder if the Purser tale had not been that good after all. He was not treated like a sailor: the shrouds were absolutely taboo for him.

Not to mention that Hamilton, a good and proper Irishman, left out no opportunity to taunt and humiliate him. He'd soon heard that Hamilton had once been an impressed Navy tar himself, and although he had not identified Norrington as an officer, it seemed reason enough for him to take the tall Englishman to task.

Jack pouted like a six-year-old.  "Oh, bugger the decks.  I was havin' the most wonderful dream, Jamie.  You called me dearheart, me own sweetness?"  He grinned suddenly and bounded to his feet.

"Obviously you are still dreaming, sea slug." Norrington did his best to take the whole matelot tale with wry humour. He thought it more than unkind of Sparrow to turn his help against him and use it to insist ,where he had to know Norrington was uncomfortable. But then, the man was a pirate. Norrington had helped unconditionally and he could not expect to set any such conditions now.

Jack followed close on his heels as he went topside and tugged him towards the galley, slinging an arm around his waist.  He grinned at the crewmen around the big table, cracked jokes and behaved like a genial ass, making short work of Cookie's lumpy porridge.  He choked it down and nudged James to do the same:  rations were not necessarily tight, but Cookie's meals were so dreadful Jack shuddered to think what they would become when the barrels got low.

No matter. He had to keep his strength and tossed the spoon into his trencher, sitting forward and daydreaming, his chin on his hand, the smell of coffee thick in his nose.

Norrington reminded himself that once he returned to the Dauntless, he would never again criticise his Steward. At least the man could make coffee without using bilge water for it. Still, he forced it all down. He knew how a ship on half-rations ran, and had no wish to put himself on them voluntarily.

It seemed childish to glare at the porridge, so he glared into the room, at no one in particular, until he caught Wheldon's gaze, trained clearly on Jack. He remembered the shaving mug in the man's hand, the way he'd struck him, how he'd wrenched at Jack's breeches. Norrington's chin thrust up and his glare found an aim.

Wheldon returned a nasty smirk. Norrington's eyes narrowed and he slid an arm around Jack's shoulders.

Jack's head swivelled to face him, brows knotting as he caught Wheldon's glance out of the corner of one eye.  He grinned back and snuggled closer to Norrington, telling himself he was only a little chilly in the dank galley.

His lips froze into a smile as his thoughts raced.  James Norrington, protecting a pirate?  Now that should be funny, he argued.  It wasn't funny, it was damned convenient.  His eyes lowered to his mug.  And damned confusing.

They hadn't had a moment to speak alone for days.  The pretence was wearisome enough for Jack; how much worse must it be for Norrington?  Jack shook his head to clear it and drained his mug.  "Best get topside, luv."

"Yes." Sitting as close as they were, Jack could feel Norrington stiffen, wincing with every laugh and lewd comment hurled in their direction. He had heard them often enough, but they didn't seem to lose their effect. At least no one could have discerned a blush on his sunburnt face.

The fresh sea air topside was invigorating, after the confines of the galley.

The Bo'sun, Jedidiah Longthorpe was a miserable man.  He was as wizened as an old apple and had the temper of a dyspeptic badger, but for some obscure reason, he had taken to Jack.

Other crewmen laughed and made jokes about how losing that beard had been the best thing for 'Spanish' Jack.

Jack put on his sweetest expression and waited to be given orders, since no one had yet assigned them regular duties.  "Hey, Mr. Longthorpe?"  He waited until the bandy-legged man was quite close:  Jedidiah was a trifle hard of hearing.  "Think you can get Jamie off th' decks.  He's good aloft."

Longthorpe gave him one of those long, frozen stares that made many of the crew quake, but Jack airily brushed it aside and grinned. "Might give Shadlow a run fer his money."

The Bo'sun actually smiled for a split second; a strange pulling of the multiple folds of flesh, like a hound ready to give voice.  "Shaddup, Spanish.  Cap'n's orders.  Can ya handle a needle with them little hands?  Go mend that sail an' shut yer trap."

Norrington's brows furrowed. Jack, he reminded himself, was convinced that he had no idea how to even look at a ratline properly. But it had not sounded like a plan to rile him. Had it been, the pirate would have grinned at him expectantly during the exchange. He hadn't.

Resigned, he went to his knees, scrubbing at the wood. "Perhaps the Captain would do better to give orders by ability rather than personal animosity," he growled under his breath.

Jack sighed and perched on a barrel, watching Norrington's fingers start to leave red prints on the pumice stone.  His lower lip thrust out a little as he stabbed the needle through the canvas viciously.

Then he peered up and looked around the deck swiftly.  Most of the day crew were either aloft, lumbering astride the yards, or below, working the pumps.  "Tell ya wot, Jamie.  Can you handle a sail?  Get them hands clean and you finish this.  I'll do the bloody deck.  Yer just gonna leave a mess and Irish won't be up here until he's drunk off last night's head."

Norrington eyed him curiously, silent for a moment, fingers flexing on the pumice stone. Was this perhaps Sparrow's way of thanking him for the help, after all? Gratitude, from a pirate? He supposed it added a twisted justification for him to accept the offer, whatever the reason behind it.

He soaked his hands in the bucket of salt water, biting his lips. "Thank you."

Jack went to work on the deck, singing to himself and scrubbing away the telltale drops of blood.  "Y'know, luv, if we get a bit o' free time, I could take yer boottops and fashion guards for ya."  His vile cant had grown thicker over the days as he blended in with the crew and he mumbled another verse of some lewd song, then quickly shut his mouth as Longthorpe passed them. 

The old man eyed Norrington with the sail, then Jack, who grinned up at him.  "Daft!" he muttered under his breath, but he walked to the quarterdeck without a word.

The Chimaera gave a lurch and Jack rolled his eyes.  He didn't think much of the pilot, Jensen.  The big Norwegian had the eyesight of an owl at noon and, while he could follow a chart and bearings, he could barely read.  He poked his head up to glance over the rail.

The horizon stretched around the shimmering waters and Jack's gaze was full of longing.  He heard sharp footfalls and bolted over the Norrington.  "Hsst.  G'wan, get back there."

Norrington winced, but grabbed the pumice stone without complaint and knelt again, scrubbing with salt and blood, the movement of his arms by now completely without thought. "Thank you," he whispered again, then eyed a certain pair of approaching boots from the corner of his eye.

Hamilton watched the Englishman with an unpleasant smile and Jack wanted to kick him.  Instead, he stood, making that funny little bow, his hands pressed together, still holding the sail that pooled around his feet.  His eyes moved restlessly under his lashes.

Hamilton leaned back against the rail.  "Spanish, ya done wi' tha' yet?  When ya do, go aloft and check th' gaskets on the foregallant.  Make sure tha' bloody sail is secure."

He looked down at Norrington, on his knees in a puddle of water, reached out one foot and overturned the bucket.  "Missed somethin', I think, Jamie."  He headed towards the quarterdeck, laughing.

Norrington's hand clenched on the pumice stone, small droplets of blood pearling out as he hissed a curse under his breath. How satisfying would it be to say 'That is Commodore James Norrington to you', minutes before stringing him up? He took a deep breath and sat back on his heels, his voice angry. "I can check the gaskets. That certainly makes more sense than scrubbing the deck just for the sake of it."

"You questionin' my orders, laddie?"  Hamilton's eyes narrowed as he took in the straight back, head held high, Norrington's bearing as military on his knees as it was on his feet.  "You sure yer not Navy, boyo?"

Norrington straightened to his full height to glare at Hamilton eye-to-eye. With a shred of consideration, he forced himself to slump, dropping his arms to the sides. But his face was drawn tight, chin lifted defiantly. "Obviously I am scrubbing the deck, and this ship does not strike me as particularly naval, Sir."

"Shut yer gob!  How bloody dare you!  LONGTHORPE!"  Hamilton's face had gone dark, his blue eyes more mad than Jack's dark ones.

Jack sidled closer, dragging the sail with him and coiled like a spring, ready to bolt at a second's notice.  "Cap'n.  Finished wif this.  Y'know, I know yer a might testy at the-----"  He grimaced and backed away, bobbing a bow.  "Sorry.  Sorry."

Hamilton glared at him.  "Get yer arse up there or I'll have yer hide.  You,"  he turned back to Norrington, "are gonna learn t'do as yer told an' shut yer bleedin' mouth.  LONGTHORPE!"

The Bo'sun made his way forward, grumbling.  "Aye, sir?"

"End o' the next watch, give this bastard a dozen t'teach him his place."  His lip curled into a nasty smile.  "Finish that bit and start on the quarterdeck until then."

Jack opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it.  His fingers touched Norrington's under cover of his sleeve.

Norrington swallowed his retort, his only disobedience a second's silence. "Aye, Sir."

He went to his knees and continued to scrub. He was stubborn, but no fool. If he was to be flogged, he would be no coward and whine about it. He knew Captains with temper, and at this point he would effect nothing by even the sanest argument.

He stifled the urge to throw the pumice stone after Hamilton and finished his work, half-dreading and half-giddy for the end of the watch.

Jack pulled himself into the rigging, watching Norrington with worried eyes.  He dared not talk:  Hamilton was watching them both like a hawk from the helm, so he scrambled up to the foretop and straddled the yard, one eye on his work, one on the Commodore.

At the end of the watch, Norrington wordlessly descended from the quarterdeck, reporting to Longthorpe. He looked almost indifferent, his brows arched and his lips curled into a sneer.

A grating was already rigged and, still without a word, he pulled off his shirt and leaned against it. His back was white against his arms and neck, unscarred. A faint tremor went through him, a thrill of fear and rage. He bit down on it as his fingers clenched on the grating.

The better part of the crew had assembled around the mast, some out of curiosity, some out of pleasure, others because of duty.

Jack descended with the rest and listened to the whispers around him, his face schooled to blankness, his eyes spitting black flame.  One day, my fine Irish bucko, you an' ole Jack are gonna have a reckonin', he promised himself. 

At least they hadn't gone through all the formal Navy blather and made Norrington fashion the cat himself.  Jack eyed it with a shudder, hanging from Longthorpe's sinewy arm.  Not too terrible thick, but still, he winced.

"Can we get this over with?" Norrington drawled, his head turned sideways against the grating. "I am getting a draft here." This earned him some quickly stifled laughter and an appreciative whistle from the crew.

Longthorpe moved into position and let the first blow fall, then the second.

"Put yer arm into it, Mr. Longthorpe."  Hamilton was itching to get his hands on the cat himself, but that would not be dignified, so he watched, his fists balled in his pockets, eyes gleaming as Norrington's pale flesh reddened and the welts began to overlap, drawing tiny dots of blood.

Jack screwed his eyes shut, peeked twice and glanced around at the crew.  Then he slipped through them like a shadow.

Norrington made no sound but for a gasp when the force of the first blow smashed him against the grating, straightening after each only to hiss out his breath when the next fell. His cheeks burned and he counted silently.

The crack of the twelfth blow still lingered in the air when he straightened and turned. "Will that be all?" Even his bored tone could not hide his hitching breath.

"And five more fer speakin' out o'turn."  Hamilton reacted to the drawl by giving into temptation and wielded the whip himself, savagely.

Jack slid beneath the quarterdeck, right into the Captain's cabin.  He glanced at the maps on the table with a haughty sniff and his fingers danced over the walls and bulwarks, checking through cupboards and hidden cubbies that sprang open at his inquisitive touch.  He found a small box, and listened, hearing the final blows above him.  It might not be the kindest thing, to avoid watching anyone's punishment, but Jack hated floggings.  And he knew an opportune moment when he saw one, even if it was at the Commodore's expense. 

He dumped the contents into his waistcoat pocket, replaced the box, and was topside before anyone had even known he was missing, just in time to see James sag heavily against the grate.

He stepped forward, coaxing James towards him with fluttering hands, his dark eyes steady.  "I'll take him below.

For a breathless eon, he stared Hamilton down, then the Irishman curled his lip and returned to the quarterdeck.

Jack pulled one of James' arms around his shoulder and the crew parted for them, muttering, as they headed down the hatch.

James shuddered a little and leant heavily against Jack, then straightened and pulled away his arm. His shirt he held balled up in one hand. He did not want bloodstains on it.

"Bloody Irish bastard," he hissed under his breath. "No self-control in the least." He could feel the testament of Hamilton's temper, burning on his back where the lash had struck in blind fury over a word.

Jack eased him into the hammock.  "Hush now.  Lemme go beg some water from Cookie an' get you cleaned up.  Jamie, Jamie!  Yer terrible.  Y'really need t'keep yer mouth shut.  He's got a flea in his ear over you."  Jack kept his voice low and went to make puppy-eyes at the old Cook.  He came back with a  basin of water, a few clean rags and a mug of grog.  He also made a slight detour down to the brig and refilled his flask.

James did not hush. He cursed under his breath, getting louder when Jack returned. "The bloody idiot lets his temper interfere with captaining the ship. Little wonder he has to stoop to impressing crewmen," he hissed, sipping the grog with a nod of thanks and a sigh of relief. "Caning at least did not leave scars."

Jack nodded, wetting the rag and wiping away the streaks of blood, mourning every stripe that marked 'his' commodore.  “Stings a lot longer though.  Damn, I'm gonna slice off his bogtrottin' prick and shove it up his nose."  He rinsed the rag and cursed.  "Wish I had sumpthin' t'put on these."  He kept his voice light, surprised that the cruel marks made him almost cross-eyed with anger.  He'd seen so many floggings.

"Poor luv.  Ya held up just lovely, James.  Can ya not keep quiet an' do as yer told?  It'll make life a lot easier, mate."

James did not answer for a while. In truth, the purpose of his second comment had been solely to provoke Hamilton, to gauge how far the man would really let himself be carried by his temper. The result boded ill. He would never have expected a flogging in retaliation for his first words. A strike, perhaps, but not this. It had been foolish, and rage boiled in him. The humiliation was the worst of it: he, an officer, to bear flogging scars. It was unthinkable.

He looked over his shoulder, managed a smile, then winced as the rag dragged over a lash mark. "I know. Much as I would like the bastard to make acquaintance with the end of his own sword, I have no wish to be keelhauled before we can make an escape."

He paused briefly. “Thank you for your assistance." Jack seemed proficient enough, as though he had seen many such wounds already, and apparently he treated even a Commodore of the Navy to the best of his ability.

There was a rustle among the hammocks and hesitantly, little Matthew approached. He looked around, then slipped his hand into his pocket, producing a small jar, which he pressed into Jack's hand with a conspiratorial grin. "Got that from the surgeon," he added with a much shier smile.

"Yer a good lad!  Here, lemme take care of it.  Wot's goin' on up there?  Cap'n in a temper?  Jack's voice was soft, hiding his relief.  Hopefully, there would not be more scarring than necessary.  He doused the last rag with a liberal amount of rum from his flask so quickly the boy never saw him:  he was too busy gawking at Norrington in admiration.

Matthew nodded. "'e's behind the helm and hasn't talked a word." He shrugged. "T'will pass soon enough." He beamed as James thanked him with grand words, then shuffled his feet. "I must be getting back." He bolted with the restless energy only children possessed, scrambling up the hatch.

He nearly collided with Berkely, a rather stout and grizzled sailor, who lumbered towards James.  "Cap'n wants ye topside again within the hour, else ye'll earn another turn o' the lash."

Jack glared over James' shoulder, his eyes fierce.  "He'll be there.  An' I swear, Hamilton'll learn wot a pirate's good fer. I swear it."  He stopped, surprised at himself once more and pressed his hands together, his head lowered.  "Apologies, mate.  I'm a bit off me feed."

Berkely leered.  "I'm jest relayin' his orders.  Not my fault if he's in fer a night watch.  But if yer lookin' fer comp'ny, Spanish..."  Then he, too, was gone.

Jack exhaled and turned back to James.  "Ready, luv?  This'll sting some."

Norrington shrugged expressively. "Do it."

Jack turned his head and spat expressively.  His hands hovered over the raw flesh, then he swiped the rum-soaked cloth over the wounds.

James gasped softly, but otherwise did not move and waited patiently for Jack to continue, silently and sometimes less silently thinking his way through all manners of curses. "I do not think scrubbing the deck in the dark will be particularly useful," he growled.

"He's doin' it fer spite, luv."  Jack's hands were surprisingly gentle, smoothing the ointment on the angry weals.  "I'm not hurting ya, am I?"

He unrolled the bandage and laid it across the lacerated flesh, then sat back and used that carefully-hidden little knife to slice off yet more of his shirt.  It flapped about like a girl's smock when he'd finished but he had enough material to wind around James, holding the bandages in place.  He handed James his shirt and suddenly leaned forward and kissed his shoulder.  "You were wonderful."

He cleared his throat.  "Damned impressive."

James winced. He still was not quite used to the way Jack touched and kissed, especially when he thought it completely unnecessary.

This kiss definitely was supposed to tease him. Maybe compensation for the kindness of helping him? "Thank you for your assistance. It was...unexpected."

He pulled on his shirt and hid a grin at the sight of Jack's scowl. "It takes more than a flogging to bring me drown," he said stiffly.

"Don't I just know it!  Y've got real sand."  Jack turned away, hiding the sudden hurt in his eyes.  "You'd do best t'lie down and get a bit of shut-eye."  He threw himself into his hammock and nursed his wounded feelings with the flask, reaching across the small space to hand it to Norrington.

James sipped from the flask, tried to lie back and twitched. This would not work. Gingerly, he rolled onto his side, wincing again as the slump of the hammock pressed against his back, straining the cuts. He shuffled for ten minutes, then, with a stifled sigh, climbed out and let himself slump to the floor, stretching out on his stomach.

Jack pouted into his flask for three minutes, then crawled out and sat down, lifting Norrington's head into his lap, idly playing with his hair.  He, who always had enough words at his command for a Parliamentary speech, was silent.  Anger had faded to concern and he felt sad and alone.  He wondered what shore the Pearl was approaching and if she missed him as much as he ached inside for her.

He parted a lock and began to braid it.  His hands, those perpetual motion machines, always needing something to busy themselves with, worked deftly.  He wound a few strands around the braid and slid them through to secure it.  "Promise me you'll not do anythin' stupid, willya?"  His voice was a whisper.

James had moved his hands to push himself out of Sparrow's lap, but truth be told, he was too exhausted to worry overmuch about the pirate's motives. The gesture seemed kind enough. And it was comfortable, better than the hard wood at least.  "I won't. For now, he is in the better tactical position."

Soon, he was half-asleep, dozing for a scant hour. Jack nudged him when Berthot turned the hourglass, fixed next to one of the lanterns in their hold. He wrenched himself awake, blinked, and chuckled grimly.

Jack watched him straighten up with a little shake as he headed topside with a sigh.  It was going to be a lonely night and he shoved a thrill of fear away brusquely.

The whole crew had witnessed or heard of the flogging, and secretly, most agreed that seventeen lashes for the two sentences had been a harsh judgement. They watched Norrington appear topside with pity and veiled admiration.

Norrington only reacted with a solemn nod and went straight to Longthorpe, eyeing the blood-stained pumice stone with a frown.

Longthorpe set him to polishing the brass of the capstan by lanternlight.  It was an innocuous task and would not strain his back as much as the useless deck-swabbing.  "When yer done, go afore an' there be a pile o' ropes.  Pick 'em apart.  The old eyes were sharp, then gentled a little.  "I'll have someone up here t'relieve ya prompt-like."

Norrington smiled weakly. "Aye, Sir."

The crew was not bad at all. They were capable sailors. Sailors. Men like those who had served under him, not all the best, but certainly not the worst, either. He was unused to a life like this, but the one thing that really made him bristle was Hamilton's captaincy.

His thoughts were elsewhere, leagues away in Port Royal, sometimes slipping back to England, to the first ship he had served on and his first miserable days as a midshipman.

The capstan gleamed when he was done and he quickly made his way to the bow, sitting down on one of the rope coils while working on the other.

Methodically, he picked apart the thin threads, hardened by salt and weather, splitting them into those that could be spliced into new lines and those that had little future other than as baggywrinkle.

It was an easy task and required little of his attention. He'd had so little time to think since being stranded aboard this ship, always caught between hard work and sheer exhaustion, never alone. Now he was as alone as a man on a ship with a crew of nearly a hundred could be, surrounded by nothing but the ocean.

This night, what he saw were not the bodies of men, but the moonlight on the waves. Again, he realised painfully that the beautiful picture meant they were far from any civilised port, and the chance for escape on open sea was nil. He was stuck here, with a Captain who did his best to inconvenience and humiliate him, and a pirate as his only ally and pretend matelot.

Jack had been taking more and more liberties with him, groping and touching as he pleased. It was unnerving, to say the least, this pretended intimacy, and Jack took it rather too far, but it was better than the alternative. He still remembered that first evening, and he was not blind to the looks in the hold.

It was shocking to see just how little of a secret was made of it. For God's sake, sodomy was a hanging offence, not a laughing matter for the whole crew. Yet all they did was wolf-whistle and make lewd remarks.

He began to hum softly as he worked,  the regular plucking and threading  calming. His back burned worse than it had directly after the flogging, but he ignored it and was relieved that at least time passed quickly, the pitch darkness of the night melding into a dim grey-blue.

Jack closed his eyes and stretched out in his hammock, where he'd been lying, hunched into a ball of pretend-slumber and holding his breath every time he heard voices.  Finally, he relaxed and listened to the small sounds all around him, thinking of James, then of the Pearl and he rolled over, staring at the black space with liquid eyes.

He settled into a restless sleep, missing James' soft breathing beside him and dreamed of a cat with nine tails, spitting and hissing at mermaids with only one tail and green eyes.

The sun was already creeping over the horizon when the ship's bell rang James' relief. He stretched with a sigh, casting a glance over the blue and gold waves, glimmering in the morning light. He drew in a deep breath and leaned against the rail. The air was still cool, not yet heated by the merciless sun.

A yawn shook him and he moved towards the hatch, but found his path blocked by Hamilton. "Captain." He was simply too tired to argue a lost cause and only wanted to go past and to his hammock.

"Well now, ya did such a fine job here, I'm thinkin' a strong man like you can easily take his day's watch as well," Hamilton drawled, his brogue thicker than a fog.  "Go afore an' help Berthot wi' th' caulkin'."  He grinned, watching Norrington's eyes.

They glared and spat green fire, speaking every curse he did not say aloud. His hand curled into a fist, then uncurled, mouth parting. He closed it again, took a deep breath. "Three watches after one another?"

Hamilton's grin widened like a shark's.  "Gonna question my orders again, Norbury?  Get movin'."

Norrington blinked and stared, pure spite in his eyes; defiance and pride warring with more sensible notions. "May I at least get breakfast first, Sir?" He had skipped supper after the flogging, and only the appeal of his hammock was greater than that of the galley.

Hamilton squinted at him.  "Still got that stiff neck, doncha?  Go get some grub an' be quick about it."

"Aye, Sir." Norrington hid his surprise. He had considered his question another lost cause. He quickly went below, wolfing down more of the sticky porridge.

Jack bounced up on deck for his watch, grimacing when Longthorpe pointed him to another pile of canvas.  "How many bloody sails d'ya tear up on this tub?" he complained to no one in particular.

The Bo'sun shook his head and swallowed a smile.  "Watch that mouth o'yourn, lad."

Jack pouted at him and settled down with his sail.  "Can't help it if I feel like a bleedin' granny.  Hey, Bo'sun?  Where'bouts are we?  Looks awful northerly for a crossin'."  Longthorpe gave him a swat and walked to the quarterdeck, smiling.

It was past noon when Jack finished his tedious repairs. He went to find the old tar for a new task and saw James, his raw fingers covered in tar, the sun blazing down on his sweat-drenched face, stuffing oakum into the crevices between the planks.  "Wot in hell?  James, wot are you doin'?"

James looked up from his task, his eyes bloodshot and circled. Berthot continued and ignored them as much as he could. James smiled too wide, like an angry shark. "Caulking, Jack. That much should be obvious even to you."

"Shite!"  Jack could be perversely eloquent.  "Bertie, can't you give him a bit of a breather.  He was up here all night."  His tone was impossibly coaxing and James couldn't help thinking momentarily of Elizabeth trying to wheedle some geegaw out of her father.

Berthot shook his head.  “Cap'n's orders."

"Bloody hell, that--" Jack stopped himself just in time as Hamilton strode past them, then stopped.

"Why're you loafin' around my deck, Spanish?"

Jack's face quirked as he turned on his infamous charm.  "Lookin' fer Bo'sun.  I finished with yer little sails.  Sir."  He swayed towards Hamilton, his smile ingratiating.  "Y'know, yer a lot further north than y'should be, beggin' yer pardon, of course."

Hamilton's face started to darken and Jack backed away, his hands pressed together.  "Sorry.  Sir."

"Go down t'the Great Cabin an' wait fer me."  Hamilton wheeled around, his coattails swishing so close to James' face he could feel the breeze.  "Very nice, Mr. Norbury.  Keep it up."

Norrington's fist tightened on the oakum, black tar seeping out of the twisted hemp, but again he said nothing. Pride was only foolish when it goaded foolish actions. He repeated that sentence of his childhood tutor until he thought he would get dizzy from it. The urge to stuff the oakum into Hamilton's mouth did not fade.

Berthot, when it came down to it, was a good sailor and a kind comrade. When Norrington's hands slipped and exhaustion caused a mistake, he said nothing, only helped to press the tarred threads into the seam between the planks, manoeuvring James to kneel in the shadow of the rail.

Jack dragged his feet and looked back at James so often that Longthorpe, who had eyes in the back of his head, gave him a lick with his quirt.  His heavy brows lowered. "G'wan.  Don't keep the Cap'n waitin'."

Berthot looked up and offered a wink.  Satisfied that James was in good hands and not about to do anything stupid, he made his way to the Great Cabin, immediately drawn to the charts on the table.  He glanced them over, stifling a laugh just as Hamilton slammed the door.

"An' wha d'ya think yer doin' challengin' me course on me own deck, ya wee bastard?"

Jack mustered his sweetest smile.  "Sorry.  So sorry, I jus' thought, you being such a fine seaman an' all, that you'd know."

Hamilton watched him cautiously.  There was something that rang a bell in those big dark eyes, still smudged with some heathen paint; something that niggled at the back of his mind.  He shifted to one hip. "Spit it out, sailor."

Jack smiled, frowned and backed away a step.  "Not to be castin' aspersions on yer course, but there's a lovely little current that could speed you by near a week and take ya right to Dakar."

Hamilton sneered.  "An I'm supposed t'believe you, ya scrawny sidhe?"  He stopped, the blue eyes appraising.  "Yer a pirate, y'say."

Jack knew a trap when he saw one.  "Sometimes.  Mostly freeboatin' round the islands.  Sir."  He thanked all the gods for the ability to keep a straight face.  "Runnin' cane and rum."

Hamilton laughed.  "And blacks, I'm sure.  Alright, boyo.  Show me yer current."

Jack leaned over the chart and pointed to an area a good few leagues south of the plotted course.  “If ya haul south now, ye'll lose half-a-day, no more.  The current's 'bout here." He pointed.  "It'll more than make up for time."

One grimy finger traced a more accurate version of Africa's coast.

Hamilton raised an eyebrow.  "Somethin' wrong wi' me maps, Spanish?"

Jack grinned.  "Just my professional opinion, of course, sir.  Never mind me, you're givin the orders." The Sparrow idea of remaining servile did not extend so far as to not poke gently.  The map was probably older than he and Norrington put together and woefully inaccurate.  Much as he would love to see the Chimaera and her captain run aground or get tossed into one of those mad whirlpool currents, he had no intention of going down with her.  "There be a few crosscurrents missin'.  An' a few sandbars."

The niggling suspicion made Hamilton's eyes narrow.  "Show me."  He shoved a pencil at Jack, who immediately marked out the proper coastline, including a few islands that had inexplicably been lost for sixty years, with a firm hand. 

"Yer maps are dog's years old, mate...I mean, sir."

Quickly, Jack plotted out his proposed course change, adding the current lines.  "It's no good durin' storm season, but now...y'see."

They were bent over the map together when Longthorpe knocked.  Hamilton straightened, pushing his dark hair out of his face.  "Yes, Bo'sun?"

"Watch change soon, Sir.  Any orders?"

Jack pretended to ignore their conversation, scribbling a small ship in the shallows off the Cape.

"Spanish, you take th' helm and prove t'me yer a pilot.  I'll be up directly."

Jack all but whooped in triumph and bobbed a bow.  "Thank you, thank you so much, really thank you.  Sir."  He lingered outside the door for a moment to listen, then hurried to the quarterdeck.

Norrington had just risen and stretched the kinks out of his legs when Jack came out of the large double doors, his grin so wide that Norrington thought he could see the gold teeth gleaming from the bow. Jack strode to take the helm as though the ship was his, Hamilton right next to him.

Apparently, Jack was getting quite comfortable with their captor or captain. A true opportunist, so what was unexpected? Norrington's eyes narrowed and he stared at the quarterdeck, the figures on it easily recognisable despite the distance. Had he really expected any sort of loyalty only because of Jack's occasional acts of kindness? Foolish, far more foolish than his pride.

He remained unmoving until Berthot punched his arm. "Stop staring, Jem, it's time t'get some grub. Hope Cook's something other than that gruesome stew from yesterday."

Norrington snapped to attention and nodded. He was more tired than hungry, but his hammock would wait for a little longer, the galley would not. "Let's go then."

The last thing he saw on the quarterdeck was Jack at the helm, Hamilton's arm draped around his shoulders as he yelled orders and the Chimaera turned and began to pick up the winds, heading south.

Berthot laughed as Norrington almost jumped down the hatch. "Jack was right about yer jealous streak, wasn't he?"

Norrington answered only with a frown and dug into his stew, crumbling the ship's biscuit in his fist. "He can whore his way right into the captain's bed for all that I care." His glare was darker than the rings around his eyes. It wasn't jealousy. It was simply the distinct feeling of betrayal, and the knowledge he could not expect anything from a pirate did nothing to help.

Bertie continued to tease him gently, not letting up until he received a reluctant smile in response to his imitation of Hamilton instead of a stony glare.

Jack was beyond elated.  He was in heaven.  The Chimaera was not his beautiful Pearl, of course, but she was a fair ship, and his fingers quickly got the feel of her.  As she cut through the waters with a lovely wake trailing, he congratulated himself on a particularly audacious piece of skullduggery.  There wasn't much truly wrong with Hamilton's course, but the maps had been so bad that all it took was a little shift of latitude to make Hamilton really believe he was seeing a new navigation route.

And all Jack had to do was keep to the original course, memorised in a heartbeat, loop around a bit and he had virtual control of the ship.  He had to admit that he really was the best pirate anyone had ever seen.

He grinned and hid his disappointment when Hamilton shooed him away to get his supper and an extra ration of rum.  That was enough incentive to make him bolt down to the galley.

Norrington stopped mid-sentence and glared at the galley door, his gaze quickly followed by Berthot, who grinned and gave him a shove. "C'mon, get yer mate a drink." Norrington's eyes blazed once more, then he quickly tossed back the rest of his grog.

"Well, well, if it ain't our Spanish pilot!  Yer gonna get some grief from Jensen, lad."

Jack laughed and dug into his trencher with an appetite.  "Ain't Jensen's fault the bloody charts were made fer his granda'."  He squeezed a little closer to James and winked.

Had he listened any closer instead of preening under the attention, he would have heard how James' breath turned into a hiss, and how his hand clenched into a fist.

Berthot looked like a dog hearing a particularly high-pitched whistle.  "You can read?"

Jack's lashes fluttered.  "Ain't I just full of surprises?"  Berkely set the rum in front of him and he pushed it towards James with one finger.  "G'wan luv.  'Tis half yours, after all."  His hand stole under the table to stroke James' leg and he leaned closer.

There was a rumble of laughter around the table.

"Give 'im a kiss, Jack!"

He looked sidelong at James, blinking at his angry look and refrained from the kiss.  He did, however, manage to slide one hand up a thigh and squeeze.

That earned him a resounding slap, a handprint of tar on his cheek. James stared at his palm, eyes wide for a moment, then narrowing again. Jack taunting him with the stupid matelot tale was the last straw. That tale served to help the bloody pirate, and now he twisted it into further humiliation, as though to complete the victory of rising in Hamilton's favours.

James grabbed the mug and poured half its contents on the deck.  "I am not thirsty," he hissed and pushed his way past the assembled crowd, down to their quarters.

Jack rolled his eyes and stared after him, one hand against his cheek.  "Don't think I deserved that!"

The entire table resounded with roars of laughter.  "Havin' trouble there, Jack?"

"Go on an' get 'im, boy."

That made him stiffen.

Berkely took the space on the bench that Norrington had vacated and clanked his mug against Jack's.  "Yer mate is a testy one, ain't he?"

Jack was bemused.  He'd managed to get a tenuous thread of control; he'd seen the charts and knew that, game or no game, those maps would never carry the Chimaera safely around the cape.  He was relieved and preening and wanted to share it, not be walloped in the face.  "Aye, he is.  Bit too much sun on that skin of his."  He rubbed his cheek. "An' don't he just have an arm."

Berkely lifted his arm and rubbed at the tar and blood with the end of his sleeve, which was almost as dirty. "Ye shouldn't let him do that. He's just jealous. Let 'im sulk alone."

Jack's whole face pouted, from the droop of his lips to the tip of his nose.  "He's got a temper, that's certain."  He toyed with the rum, then handed it to Berkely.  When he looked back up, he made himself grin.  "You kiddin'?  He'll go barmy.  Here, you take this.  I'd better check on him."

Jack sometimes knew when he was being seductive.  Sometimes he didn't and it just happened.  As far as he knew, he was just being friendly and besides, it was a good angle.  He liked people being enchanted with him.  It felt good.

He winked and clapped Berkely on the shoulder and wandered off to find James.

Berkely looked after him with a frown, but whatever he said was drowned by the cheers and taunts from the rest of the crew. "Going down to get more, Jack?"

"Maybe he'll hit th' other cheeks this time!" Wide hands slapped against his back, followed by cheers of encouragement.

Norrington had unsuccessfully tried to curl into his hammock. He'd given up barely a minute before Jack came below, and was stretched out on the deck. His coat served as a pillow.

Jack sat down beside him, cross-legged.  "James, wot was that for?  I tried t'get you outta the caulkin'.  I really did."  For the second time that day his voice had that coaxing tone, like a child begging for sweets.

Norrington turned his head, green eyes narrowed. "By getting well acquainted with dear Captain Hamilton? How long did you have to bat your eyelashes to be allowed to take the helm? He certainly appeared very vulnerable to your charms."

Jack's mouth hung open.  James was jealous?  At least that was what his vanity told him.  His eyes narrowed. "We were too far north.  And the maps, oh Lord, James, you would laugh y'self silly.  Must be sixty years old at the least.  Anyway, what was it that Italian bugger said?  Keep your friends close, yer enemies closer?"  He slid a little closer on his backside.  "Jamie, I've got us access to the course.  Why are you so blasted angry?"  His eyes were dark and wounded.

"Machiavelli," James supplied reflexively, then his voice turned harsh again. "Very convenient if it also gives you the position you wanted ever since we came aboard," he snapped. "And I can see how you cared a whit about my discomfort. After all, you have only been out to humiliate and ridicule me in front of the crew at every opportunity, or did you think I enjoy being publicly groped? You have gone too far."

It was strange, how he had almost begun to think differently of Jack, as more than a dishonest pirate, only to then be disappointed at the blatant selfishness. He had let himself be fooled by the small acts of kindness, likely given for some purpose James simply had not yet divined.

"Oh.  That." Jack smiled.  "Sorry.  It's just such a nice..."  He tried to stop his mouth before it earned him another slap.  "Listen, luv.  The more I can get into Hamilton's good graces, the better I can make things for us both.  Yer bein' awfully stuffy."

Alas, Jack's runaway mouth was not going to be stopped.  "And I'm not tryin' to humiliate you.  We're supposed to be  pair.  And, "  Jack had the grace to muster a small blush.  "You've got very nice legs."  He shifted back, his face screwed up ridiculously, waiting for the slap.

Norrington did not move or lift his hand. His eyes said enough. "Then grope Hamilton. It will certainly raise you further in his good graces," he hissed. "And for something you are not even trying, you are doing a bloody excellent job at it." He did not believe a single word. Not even bloody Sparrow could be so ignorant as not to realise that any gentleman had to be appalled at this behaviour, openly between two men, no less.

It was not that Norrington had never touched a man in such a way, though he'd certainly not done so with the explicit intent that someone would witness it. Jack, on the other hand, seemed particularly eager for an audience.

The pirate swallowed hard, gnawing on his lip.  "I don't want t'go groping Hamilton.  I'd sooner pitch him overboard."  

He had a terrible thought:  perhaps James honestly did not realise what the state entailed.  Odd, for an officer who had spent so many years chasing pirates. His eyes had gone still and distant again.  "James, do you know what matelots are?"  His mouth drooped, sulky and soft as he scowled. 

"It's a thin veneer of respectability for sodomite pairs aboard lawless vessels." Norrington rolled to his side and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He looked up at Sparrow, his brows narrowing.

Jack's hand grasped his wrist hard.  He saw his lifeline slipping away and lunged after it wildly.  "It's more than that.  It's halvsies on ev'rything.  It's watching one another's backs.  It's safety."

His jaw clenched, his cheeks deep in shadow.  "You stand on yer bloody dignity.  Hope it gives you good dreams."  Jack uncurled to his feet and stomped away to sneak down to the hold for another refill for solace.

When he came back, James was fast asleep.  He looked so worn, his face sunburnt, his nose peeling.  He'd lost flesh and there were dark circles under the long lashes. 

Jack wedged himself against the bulwark and his hands hovered over the sleeping Commodore, then gently lifted his head onto his own lap, smoothing the tangles out of the chestnut hair and drinking until the flask was empty and he, too, slept.

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