By the time the ropes were off his wrists, the boat was halfway back to the Black Pearl.

He snatched the pistol from the ground at his feet, realized Barbossa was out of range, and waved it, shouting, "You haven't heard the last of Captain Jack Sparrow!"

The only answer was a faint echo of laughter as the boat drew away.

"Damn you to hell, Barbossa!" Jack thrust the pistol through his belt and started out to quarter the island.

Three hours later, he stood on the highest point of land and surveyed the waters surrounding him. There was another island to the west, but it was much too far to swim, even with a log to cling to. The only sails in sight were the Pearl's, and she was drawing ever further away.

There was no spring, and the only source of food he'd seen—besides the sea—were the coconut palms that dotted the island. He was getting thirsty.

Discarding coat, hat and boots, Jack shimmied up a likely-looking tree. The fruit was on the downward side, and he had to hang almost upside-down to reach it. He tugged at the tough stem. Tugged harder. Suddenly the nut came free...

He landed with a hollow thump on the sand and lay there a moment, gasping for breath. Sitting up, he reached for the coconut that had rolled a few feet away.

Wait. A hollow thump?

Rolling onto his knees, Jack began to dig in the sand. A few minutes' work uncovered a rough wooden trap-door, which swung open to reveal steps leading into a deep pit, full of—

Jack scrambled down the steps, unable to believe his eyes.

Rum.

He uncorked the first bottle that came to hand and downed a long draught, then sat in the cool dark of the pit and took a second drink.

This was obviously a rum runner's cache. There were dozens of crates and barrels packed into the small space. Enough to keep a man drunk for weeks.

Or...

Jack put the bottle down, and stared at the stacks of rum with narrowed eyes.

The next day Jack sat on the beach, sipping rum-laced coconut milk as he watching the sun go down. His arms and back ached, and his fingers were rubbed almost raw, but none of that mattered, really.

Everything was going according to plan. He popped another piece of coconut into his mouth and chewed slowly. He'd never really cared for the stuff, but a mouthful of rum straight from the bottle improved the flavour considerably. His meal over, Jack tucked his folded coat under his head for a pillow and tilted his hat over his eyes. The rum runners could show up anytime they liked; he was ready for them.

Jack spotted the ketch at mid-afternoon. She was a sleek little craft, built for speed, and looked to be on a course for the island. Throwing himself flat behind a large log skewed across the sand, he watched through the tangle of roots as the ketch hove to and lowered a boat.

As he watched the boat pull for shore, Jack sipped from a half-shell of coconut milk, swishing the liquid to wet his parched mouth. He'd only have one chance at this; he couldn't risk having his voice go dry on him.

The rum runners drew the boat up on the beach and headed straight to the cache. As soon as they were well into the trees Jack drained his improvised cup, tossed it over his shoulder, and strolled calmly down the beach. Taking a seat on the boat, he watched the rum runners' progress.

The first man to reach the cache flung the trap-door open just as his mates caught up to him.

There was a moment's silence, then mayhem: cursing, shouting, jumping into the hidey-hole and scrambling out again, arguing, arms waving about—

It was as good as a play, really.

One man hadn't moved. Now he put his hands on his hips, lifted his chin, and bellowed, "SILENCE!"

The captain scowled at his suddenly-motionless men, stalked across to the cache, and kicked the trap-door back into place. "So we was robbed," he snarled. "Nothin' to be done about it now. Back to the ship, you dogs!"

Jack rested a hand on the gunwale and leaned back, tilting his head to one side and grinning as he waited for the rum runners to reach the beach. "Good afternoon, gentlemen!" he said amiably. "Lose something, did you?"

"Who the devil are you?" the captain demanded.

"Me?" Jack stood up, all wide-eyed innocence, arms spread wide as he advanced to within a few feet of the man. "I'm just a poor shipwrecked sailor, survivin' as best 'e can."

"'E stole our rum!" one of the men shouted. An ugly murmur rose from his companions.

"Stole?!" Jack protested. "Not me, mate. Wouldn't dream of it." His hands fluttered. "I just put it somewhere safe for you, if you follow me? After all," he sighed sympathetically, "that cache of yours wasn't exactly all that hard to find, now, was it?"

"Where is it?" The captain grabbed Jack's lapel in one fist.

"Safe!" Jack assured him. "Perfectly safe, mate. No one's going to find it 'less I lead them to it, savvy?" He tilted his head and met the captain's eyes, baring his teeth in something that might've been a smile.

The captain's eyes narrowed. He released his grip. "And what would you be wanting," he asked, "to lead us to this safe place of yours?"

"Nothing!" Jack assured him. "Nothing at all, really. Though," he lifted a finger, pursing his lips thoughtfully, "I had rather hoped you kind gentlemen would see your way clear to taking me off this miserable spit of sand and dropping me at your next port of call, eh?"

The captain stepped back. "Or I could just shoot you." He pulled a pistol from his belt.

Jack spread his arms wide, so his coat fell open to bare his chest—well, his shirt anyway. "Fire away, mate." He saw the flicker of doubt in the captain's eyes, and pressed his advantage. "If you shoot me, I die fast. If you leave me here, I die slow. Either way I'm just as dead. And either way," he tilted his head and smiled a golden grin, "you are still short a cargo."

The captain snarled and lowered the pistol.

"Not going to shoot me? Well, then, what'll it be? Will you leave me here to die of thirst and lose all chance of profit on this voyage? Or take me with you, thus both recovering your cargo and" he raised a finger, "earning the eternal gratitude of Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Never heard of you."

"You will," Jack assured him. "Now, your rum, for my passage. Do we have an accord?" He held out his hand.

The captain scowled at the hand, scowled at Jack... and nodded. "We do." His hand slapped into Jack's, gripping so tightly Jack had to grit his teeth to hide a wince. "Now, where's our rum?"

"The cases," Jack swung around, pointing, "are two points off your starboard bow. If you rig a hoist from your yard-arm and lower me a net, I can have 'em all ready to haul aboard 'fore you can say Jack Robinson."

"And the barrels?"

Jack grinned. "I tell you where they are when you put me ashore."