White Admiral 4

Tactics

by

Manic Intent

Sparrow looked down, his grin partially obscured by foliage. His coats were draped over a lower bough. "Things of an Admirally nature that Lieutenants don't need t'know about." He was cross-legged over two thick boughs, a light wooden board over his lap, twirling a pencil in his fingers. "Why is it wi' ye the 'sir' seems so much of an afterthought?"

James muttered an oath, and began rather gingerly to climb the tree. The children had stopped playing—they watched, fascinated, hounds gamboling around them. The cat, naturally, was nowhere to be seen. The truth was—as much as he could see how popular Sparrow was with the townsfolk, and how much loyalty he commanded over his men, the Admiral's sheer irresponsibility made it difficult for James to respect him. Liking him was something different altogether—James would admit to being charmed by Sparrow's hypnotic mannerisms—but whether he liked him...

To avoid answering the difficult question, he propped himself on a branch, face level with Sparrow's chest, at arm's length, and held forward the reports. "You should see this, sir."

Sparrow glanced at the papers briefly, but continued to scribble. "Aye?" Knees moved to push up the board when James tried to peek. "What'd that be?"

"Piracy near Montserrat..."

"Oh, that," Sparrow flapped at hand at James. "I knows. I'd look at the papers later. Shoo."

"What are you doing, Admiral?" James persisted.

"I see yer faster wi' the honorifics when I have somethin' ye want," Sparrow grinned. "But ye'd have t'catch me first!" Placing the pencil behind an ear, Sparrow clutched the board to his chest and, with a seaman's agility, began to climb.

"Admiral!" James' growl of pure exasperation only incited a laugh, and the glimpse of a disappearing boot and sash. Out of sheer impulse that he would have blamed on Sparrow had anyone asked, the Lieutenant shrugged off his own coat, dumping it on a branch, and clambered up after his commander.

He finally caught Sparrow by the arm when the man attempted to slip down to lower branches, pinning him against a fork in the boughs, lowering his head as he took in deep, calming breaths (not a situation he was unfamiliar with, of late) for patience. The Admiral was laughing, as were the observing children on the ground. "Aye, mistake there, tryin' t'outclimb someone wi' longer legs." Sparrow looked down. "Got a mission for the both of ye. Yer t'steal some snacks from the kitchen that be enough for four. Go!"

When dogs and children were gone, Sparrow grinned at James, and took the reports from him, placing them neatly over his sketches. "Answer t'yer questions. I spoke t'some merchants over drinks at the Red Scabbard after storytellin', an they already be tellin' me of problems over at Montserrat. The dispatches likely be less accurate, seein' as the Naval post there don't want to seem incompetent, aye? So I be plannin' a little jaunt over t'Montserrat. Routes, crew, ships."

"Oh." James blinked, and flushed slightly in guilt, reassessing his view of the man for the moment. "Can I see? What you've planned. Sir."

"How 'bout no?" Sparrow ventured, clutching the board and papers to his chest.

"For all effects I am your second in command, and I have ample experience with piracy in the Barbary Coast," James said stiffly, trying not to allow any of the irritation he felt to enter his voice. "Sir, plans are better wrought when they are reviewed."

"Aye, well, I'd point ye in the right direction, an' ye can start 'bout huntin' the pirates, as befit what yer bein' called of late around town." Sparrow smirked.

James leaned his weight more firmly against a branch with a sigh. Being referred to as the Pirate Hunter had both its perks and annoyances. He did suddenly accrue far more respect—but being asked for tales all the time, especially after the last week in the Red Scabbard, was becoming annoying. It was only a mercy that no children were following him around the streets. "I meant I could contribute to your plans, sir."

"I knows what ye mean, an' I'm sayin' no," the Admiral said, obstinate. And stuck out his tongue.

"Why?"

"Ye know, when I made the decision t'call for an outside Lieutenant rather than promotin' one of me men, I had no idea he'd turn out t'be this troublesome," Sparrow said cattily, waving a finger in James' general direction.

"I was wondering about that, sir. Gillette and Groves are both very capable," James said, slowly.

"'Cos there's such a thing as bein' too loyal, an' that's what happens t'the marines who start off under me command and are promoted through the ranks," Sparrow said quietly. "Someday I'll promote those two, but when I do, I'm sendin' them t'other posts. Mebbe away from Jamaica."

"They won't stand for it," James said quickly, before he could restrain himself. From what he had seen of Gillette and Groves, likely being sent to other posts, away from the man they all but worshipped, would be crushing. "I mean, they are very loyal to you, sir."

"Aye, that I know. See, I've had three Lieutenants before who served directly under me—not those posted out t'other parts of Jamaica, promoted up from me men. One was Richard Taylor, an' the one was Matthew Barns... Baths..."

"Barnsby," James supplied,

"Barnsby. Called them both by first names," Sparrow fluttered fingers dismissively. "Ye heard how those two passed on?"

"Cannon fire, in Barnsby's case," James said cautiously.

"Aye. Cannon fire. See, I showed him me plans fer the last patrol he was ever on wi' me—or rather, he found them where I'd forgot me papers on the couch 'fore I left t'go t'see me Pearl t'check on how she was goin' wi' the outfittin'. I was lookin' t'draw out the flagship of the corsair Cap'n Alphonso from wherever he was hidin' in the stretch o' islands off Havana. Turns out the old fox was smarter than I'd given him credit for, an' he trapped me Pearl against some cliffs. We'd have had t'fire on each other—could be me Pearl would'a come out the victor, bein' faster, but his ship was far better armed."

Sparrow looked down at the grass, his voice flat as he recounted. "An' before we start exchangin' fire, Matthew had maneuvered the Seraph between me Pearl an' his flagship. Smaller, lightly armed ship, more for scoutin' really. No chance. 'Course, in the end, we rounded up all the pirates an' hanged them, but Matthew was dead, an' most of the marines on the Seraph. The survivors said that there had been a vote, an' there had been no disagreement at all. T'shield me."

James knew he should keep his silence, but he couldn't help but ask, if very tentatively, "And Lieutenant Taylor?"

"See, ye'd be thinkin' me the cold sort, talkin' of dodgin' cannon fire like t'was a joke, an' never speakin' of the dead. Better for the privateers out there t'think the Luck of God be too fey t'think of the lives under his command." The sensuous lip twisted briefly. "When I was Rear Admiral of the Red, some privateers thought of testin' that fact, an' they caught Lieutenant Taylor an' six of his men after sinkin' his ship on its way back from escortin' officials to New Amsterdam. Didn't expect that—the pirates 'round these parts don't really like t'work together. There was apparently some talk of ransoming the survivors for me."

Closed eyes, and a slump against the boughs. "Not bein' very intelligent captors, they left a rope within reach of the cell wi' a high barred window that they put the men in. They hanged themselves, all of them—first their own mates, an' Richard did himself in last." Dark eyes now regarded James', deep with far too much suppressed pain. "Sometimes I wonder, is it somethin' wrong wi' me, that I'm teachin' the men, or is it just somethin' wrong wi' men who sign up for the Navy? Ye know, Barnsby's wee daughter—only 'bout seven at the time, at the wake, she told me how proud she was of her da'. For dyin'."

"And... the third?"

"Aye, well, that's a story for another day."

Far too much detail, too much sorrow—James felt his throat clenching in response. An uncomfortable silence, then James murmured, "There's nothing wrong with loyalty, nor with the person who inspires it. There are many lieutenants, but only one Admiral of the White. And if they sold their lives for you, then we can but honor their choice, sir."

Sparrow's lip curled, and he looked away. "Who wants t'be the Luck of God, when luck is bought wi' blood?"

"And..." James took a deep breath, "I'd still like to know what you're planning, Admiral."

"When ye latch on t'somethin' ye don't let go, d'ye?" Sparrow sighed. "Awlright. I'd let ye look an' go it over wi' me, but then ye stay in Port Royal when I go t'Montserrat."

"No. Sir."

"Then ye don't look."

"Admiral..." James took another deep breath. "Just because your two previous Lieutenants..."

"Aye, aye. I know. Sounds a wee bit unreasonable, especially since ye do come wi' a glowin' record an' yer not one of me homegrown marines," Sparrow sighed. "Yer not allowin' me t'be the least bit superstitious?" At James' even look, he muttered to himself, and grudgingly gave up the papers.

Amongst some very good sketches of his cat and the playing children were several maps—Montserrat, surrounding islands, and a larger one that included territory up to Port Royal. Arching arrows, odd symbols and words written in incomprehensible shorthand. On one page was a list of ships and notes in more shorthand—James picked out the Interceptor, with him listed under 'C'—obviously for Captain. Gillette and Groves were also marked as 'C' under different ships, and a handful of men whose names were unfamiliar to James—no doubt part of the fleet posted at other Naval bases in Jamaica. Explained why there were no other ranks between Lieutenant and Admiral in Port Royal.

"Ye've had yer look," Sparrow said, propping the board and reports against a branch, and attempting to grab the papers back. James held them easily out of his grasp.

"May I borrow this for a while, sir?" Given an hour, he could probably decipher the writing.

"No ye may not, an' ye give that back this instant," Sparrow snapped, scrambling over the boughs. "I said t'would be just a look, didn't I?"

James shook his head, moving out of reach on a branch and leafing through the maps again, committing the detail to memory. The last page gave him pause—there were little sketches of himself, mostly portraits of smirks, smiles and one of annoyance, and one full-body, standing at ease. Pausing, he looked over at Sparrow sharply, then raised his hand higher when the Admiral all but clambered over him, hands flailing wildly for the papers.

"Not fair, yer taller," Sparrow poked him in the shoulder, glaring at him. James realized belatedly how their bodies were pressed together, so close that he could feel the heat through the other man's thin shirt, feel his pulse. His free hand tightened its grip on a branch, to restrain the sudden impulse to hold Sparrow close.

A few more abortive attempts to get his property back, then the Admiral pouted. "Not listenin' to a direct order, are ye?"

"Not unreasonable ones," James said mildly, "Didn't you want a Lieutenant who could think freely with his own mind, sir?"

Sparrow growled, then did something so unexpected that James nearly fell out of the tree. Fingers held his head in place as lips pressed against his in a soft caress that quickly deepened, with nips and an encouraging tongue. Stock-still with shock, James opened his mouth under the insistent licks, allowing Sparrow to explore—flicks against teeth, a swirl around his own tongue, and the other man pulled back for breath. James was all too aware that he had failed to stifle a whimper of protest.

Sparrow, however, had grabbed the sketches with a crow of triumph—James had brought down his hand to steady himself somewhere during the kiss. "Hah! Mine."

"What... you... why..." James stammered, trying to control himself before his body embarrassed him further.

The Admiral's eyes seem to darken, as he leaned close again, purring, "Need a second demonstration, Lieutenant?"

"Admiral?" A child's voice. Miss Swann. For a brief, horrified moment James thought that they had been observed—but he let out a sigh of relief when he saw that the children were merely approaching the tree, calling out to them. Will held a basket with both little hands.

Sparrow uttered an almost inaudible oath so foul that James wondered which sick mind had first thought of it, and where the commander had heard it. The Admiral looked back at him searchingly, as if to memorize his stunned expression and flushed cheeks, then smiled enigmatically and began to climb down. "Comin'! D'ye see our coats?"

James took several long moments to compose himself before following. He ate his portion of cold roast, bread, and cheese in silence. Tried to understand. The other three left him to his solitude—Sparrow instead entertaining the children with tales of mermaids over the stolen loot. James excused himself early.

"A little. But probably not over what you think, sir." James said, deciding that, commander or not, Sparrow deserved to stew a little. He did, however, out of respect, stop what he was doing, placing the quill on the desk.

"So what're ye pissed 'bout?"

"The fact that you don't trust me to do my job," James said, after a sufficient amount of injured silence had passed, allowing irritation to sharpen his words.

Sparrow relaxed visibly in relief. "Oh. That."

"Yes, that."

"Of course I trust ye t'do yer job..."

"No, and it seems you didn't trust my predecessors, either, sir."

"Now, see here..." Sparrow sauntered closer, then frowned as he realized what James had been doing. "Good Lord. Perfect recall?"

"Near perfect," James said modestly. On some copies of maps was the exact series of arrows, markings and secondhand that Sparrow had marked his sketches with. On a spare piece of paper were the names of the picked men and their ships. "And I've worked out your shorthand."

Sparrow muttered another oath under his breath.

"Also, I have some suggestions. This route is easily compromised, if your plan was to have a way out into open sea if caught in an ambush at this point on the way out of Montserrat." James traced one of the lines with a finger. "I'd suggest rounding this way instead, or at least sending Gillette and his crew to meet up with your Pearl over here, sir."

"Already thought of that," Sparrow said petulantly.

"Then no doubt you can share your new drafts," James smiled innocently. Sparrow's plan for defense—via efficient netting potential approaches to Montserrat, flexible support, use of terrain and subtly baited traps—was of a degree of genius that had astonished James when he had worked it out. A mastery of strategy and wit, with an eye for detail and contingency. Luck was given little place for maneuver—though James supposed that given the secrecy with which Sparrow planned his patrols, his eccentricity and the way he encouraged his personal air of mystery, it was easy to see why he had retained his nickname. The focus was—as with other exploits that James had heard of—reducing casualties, and cunning, rather than an outright display of Naval might. In the space of one short afternoon, Sparrow had earned James' respect—along with something more indefinable that the Lieutenant did not, at the moment, want to consider.

"Please have a seat, sir."

"I should'a promoted Gillette," Sparrow muttered, but he slouched into the free chair.

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