Diving for Pearls

Chapter 1, Prologue

by

Kitty Fisher

Now that it was over he could admit, if only to himself, that he had been afraid. He'd faced dead, skeletal pirates; faced the shame of giving up his affianced to a boy and faced the possibility of death with equanimity, yet a full Naval Board of Enquiry had set him on the raw, and shredded his hard-won composure. Internally, at least. He hoped that outside he had presented a professional appearance. Maybe he had, for after all, he had just been exonerated. Fully. There would be no disciplinary proceedings following on the loss of The Interceptor. Though they had laughed behind their hands at a man who had been hoodwinked so successfully by a ramshackled, most likely illiterate and definitely utterly lunatic pirate. Shame, they said, trying not to smile. Don't let it happen again.

The accusations of ineptitude, lack of judgement and gullibility had cut deeply. That they clearly all thought him lying to bolster his story had made him burn with carefully stifled anger. But, whatever had happened, he was still an officer and still a gentleman, and those two things had been enough. He retained his rank and would suffer nothing more than their scorn.

God, but he needed a brandy. Straightening his back, his hands automatically smoothed his uniform. It felt scratchy under his touch, thick and for the first time in his life he thought it constricting. He'd worn uniform for ten years and before now it had never seemed anything but an honour to be dressed in the blue and gold.

Aghast at the direction his thought were taking—at the self-pity he saw so clearly in himself—he mentally shook himself. It was still an honour! King, country and the joy of serving others. What else could a man want from his career?

What indeed.

He sighed, and turned away, going slowly down the long corridor, his heels tapping loudly as he walked. A door opened and a periwigged figure almost collided with him.

"Governor, forgive me." He stepped back.

"Norrington. Well?"

"I'm cleared of all charges, sir."

"Well done, knew they'd see sense."

Norrington smiled, the action feeling false, his skin awkward with the movement of stiff muscles. Swann was nodding in a distracted sort of way, but he didn't offer his hand.

"They didn't quite believe some of what I had to tell them. Thank you for backing me up on that. It undoubtedly swung their opinion."

The Governor almost met his eyes, but looked away at the last moment. He turned and Norrington stayed at his side as he walked on. Norrington glanced at the other man, and wondered for the thousandth time why the Governor insisted on wearing such old-fashioned clothing and wigs. It seemed archaic, even here in the farthest reaches of civilisation. Still, everyone had their eccentricities.

"Jolly good. Now, James, we've had a little talk about you—the Naval chaps and I. And after everything that's happened, we think it's time you took some leave. A couple of months, say." He sounded remarkably bright. "What d'ye think?"

Norrington stopped. "You mean get me away until the scandal has died down." Which scandal though? Maybe without him there the Governor would be happier seeing his daughter so blissfully content with her new station in life.

"No, no! Goodness me, what a thought! No, really, just a holiday. You could go home, perhaps?"

England. Norrington sighed. No, not there. And he couldn't stay in Port Royal. It would have been an easy enough storm to weather if he still had duties to see him through each day, but to be nothing but a civilian amidst all the bustle that he'd be no part of and the gossip that would burn his ears every time he set foot outside his home? It was an insupportable thought. "I'd rather stay on duty, sir, if it were possible."

The Governor stared at him. "It isn't optional, James."

Ah, so here was the punishment the Board had not seen fit to impose. Norrington drew himself up. "Then I thank you for the kind thought. If I start tomorrow will that be acceptable? I can hand over to Groves in the morning."

"Capital!" Swann patted his arm then nodded. "I'll go and tell them you've agreed. Groves can handle The Dauntless' refit as well. It'll all be ship-shape for your return."

"Thank you." The words were like dust in his mouth and miserably he watched the Governor walk away. Damn. Work would have been better. Hard work and long hours, both good ways to forget the humiliation of the past few months, had seemed the way forward. Now that was denied him, what?

Clasping his hands behind him, Norrington walked on, and let a wave of bitterness wash over him. His life had been in shreds since the pirate, Sparrow, had come along. Everything was his fault. And he was proving as elusive as a needle in the proverbial haystack. Perhaps that would solve some of his own problems—to go pirate hunting. Somewhere no one knew him, somewhere he wouldn't have to wear a uniform he somehow suddenly felt uncomfortable in. And if he found the pirate, then justice could be served.

After all, sitting in Port Royal had achieved nothing, nor had sailing on the Dauntless. Well, it was a perfectly pleasant pastime that had, over the past few months, allowed him to travel around many islands and islets, but it hadn't found the Black Pearl. He'd even resorted to paying informers and bribing sailors, but nothing had even given him a whisper of where the pirate might be found. If there was any good to come from this enforced idleness, then finding the pirate would be high on the list.

But why—to hang him? No, not that...

The thought was startling, for Norrington realised that it had been a long time since that had been his goal.

I was rooting for you...

Damn the man. Damn him to hell and high water. Those words had haunted his dreams—not all of them while he slept. The words and the pirate himself with all his skill, charm, lunacy, elusiveness and damnable goodness.

Shivering once, Norrington took a deep breath and walked out into the bright Jamaican sunshine. Yes, he'd hunt his pirate, and try and outrun the misery that dogged his own life. Which was an almost cheerful thought, for of late his life had become more than confusing. Right now though he needed not to think. His feet speeded up on the path to his own quarters. There was brandy there, and he headed towards it with the intention of getting very, very drunk.

The rum tasted as if it had been strained through the filthy sawdust that covered the floor, but he drank it anyway. Grog for afternoon tea—his mother would have approved. Though as it wasn't gin then maybe not. James Norrington took another mouthful and swallowed thoughtfully. It tasted of burning heat and lice infested dirt; the same heady combination that scented the very air in Tortuga. Indeed, as he himself must smell after three weeks in the same clothes with naught but a single change of linen. Verisimilitude was a tricky business. But if you wanted to blend in at The Blind Peacock, there was no point in wearing your best dress uniform, or for that matter any uniform. It wasn't even worth bothering with clean clothing.

Leaning back he squinted down at himself. The breeches were past consideration, the shirt was grimed but serviceable, and his cravat was perhaps better suited for use as a dishrag. The coat was the saddest of all; for once, long past, it had been a favourite. Now it was faded from its original green to delightful shade of pond-slime brown. Fingering a rip in one sleeve, he knew that once he was back in Port Royal he would burn it. There was no possibility of ever removing the slight odour of goat that clung to the wool.

His comfort wasn't added to by the weather, it being irredeemably hot. Sweat prickled down his spine and, closing his eyes, he allowed himself the luxury of imagining a bath. A cool bath, with soap scented with lavender. Wiping sweat from his eyes he sighed, and promised himself just that treat. One day soon. But not yet, not while Tortuga still held possibilities. Though he still damned the need for subterfuge that had necessitated the coat, the dirt and the rum—which tragically was all gone. Despondently, he shook the tankard over his mouth, licking the last drops as they trickled down.

Gone. But at least there was always more.

Swaying slightly as he stood, he walked carefully over to the bar. Delving deep in his breeches pocket, he came up with a coin. King George winked up at him, and Norrington tossed it onto the counter in disgust. Taking a deep breath, he leant on the scarred wooden counter-top and waved at the innkeeper.

"Another of your fine specimens of alcoholic beverage, kind sir!"

At least that was what he thought he said.

The man lumbered towards him, a filthy cloth draped over one shoulder. "Yer what?"

The innkeeper was tall. Very tall. Norrington looked up at him. "Rum. Please."

"Why din't you bloody well say so?"

Norrington didn't argue. He just smiled as a cask was tapped and his tankard re-filled. Lovely, lovely rum. When it was shoved in front of him he picked it up and took a deep swig. Oh, yes. The same vintage: Chateau Tortuga 1759. Fine on the palate, with a hint of carbolic overlain with something unspeakably reminiscent of stale seawater. Delightful.

He drank again, and found himself leaning hard on the counter. "That's very good. Thank you."

"Bloody polite, ain't you. Where you from?"

He blinked slowly, as if searching for the trick in the question. "Nowhere, everywhere. Port Royal, London, Bideford, and I spent a little time in—" He caught the glare. "Port Royal."

"And what's a nice Port Royal gent like yerself doin' in Tortuga, eh?"

That was a good question. What was he doing here? The answer was complicated. Really, it was. But even three sheets to the wind he didn't try explaining it. Not here, and not even as reckless as he felt. He shrugged instead and answered, his face feeling tight as a drum-skin. "Hunting."

"Hunting? There's no game 'ere mate."

"My good man, I, am hunting sparrows." Straightening, he smiled placatingly. "This is very good rum."

"I knows that—makes it meself. So, you're huntin' sparrows, eh? Not many in 'ere—least not for the ten days you bin hangin' round."

Had he been here that long? Time seemed to have lost any form, as if the days were dissolving in the liquid he craved.

The man sniffed, the sound remarkably akin to a drain unblocking, and walked away to serve another customer. Picking up his tankard, Norrington made it successfully over to a far table, sitting down carefully, inordinately pleased with himself for not spilling a drop.

Ten days. Was it possible? He looked around, eyeing the array of motley scallywags, drunks and drabs. None of them looked back. He was sitting in the dirtiest, nastiest hole in that dirty nasty town, Tortuga; a place bereft of the person he was here to see. Well, that wasn't right. That made it sound like a liaison. Which it wasn't, and wasn't going to be. He was here to catch his Sparrow, and to take him back to justice. Or something. Something like justice anyway. But the Pearl could be anywhere. There was no real reason to think that Captain Jack Sparrow or any of his crew would be here. None at all. But there was a slim, outside possibility. And besides, better to spend his leave here rather than in Port Royal watching Elizabeth glow with happiness, or in England with his monumentally appalling family.

Getting to Tortuga had been easy. Finding any trace of his errant quarry had been far, far more difficult. But the compensation of finding rum to be a wonderfully consoling drink had almost made up for it. At that thought he lifted his tankard in a toast, then drank, relishing the burn in his mouth, the way it fought a passage down his throat and hit his belly to flood like fire through his veins. Brandy was a poor relation. Rum was the king of spirits. No wonder Jack was so fond of it.

He stilled. Since when had the pirate become 'Jack'? And suddenly there was an image in his head of Jack Sparrow, half naked and sleepy in the crumpled sheets of Norrington's own bed.

The thought was so shocking that he came close to sobering. Horrified, he unconsciously shook his head in devout denial. The thought could only be blamed on the spirits he'd imbibed. They must have stirred up things long buried. Thoughts, desires, wants. Biting down on the inside of his mouth, he cursed himself bitterly. He'd spent fourteen years forgetting he'd ever cared anything for men other than friendship and admiration. Now in a blinding moment of revelation, he knew beyond doubt that the desires that had mired his youth had simply been repressed, not destroyed. And all because of a pirate!

He groaned. It was no good, no good at all. Leaning forward, he slapped his palm on the table and frowned at the pitted and scarred oak, trying to concentrate. It was all in his past. It was. It had to be. No, of course, it was just the rum. The rum twisting his thoughts. Yes. He nodded, that was it.

Ah, but hellfire and fury. It was the glint of mischief in the dark eyes and the supple sway of those narrow hips that enticed and teased and confounded. And the fact that he was a pirate that put pay to any possibilities at all. Any. Even if he did wish for any. Which he didn't.

There, he nodded to himself. The man was amoral, drunken, debauched and filthy. Perhaps he had some goodness to him—and he certainly was comely enough, with the eyes and the face and the hips...

No! Damnation to it all. Norrington considered himself to be a good man, and a good man would rather lie with a beast than with a pirate.

Besides, he thought illogically, Sparrow liked his women. You only had to see the way he'd looked at Elizabeth. Then Norrington's thoughts paused, slowing almost to a halt as carefully he reviewed those weeks of high adventure. For the pirate had not taken advantage of Elizabeth's innocence, not even in a most indelicate situation. That was a truth professed by both parties and one Norrington believed—as, more importantly, had Elizabeth's father.

Not that it mattered if the pirate fucked men or goats. Absolutely.

But the pirate had been very kind to a man who was seemingly determined to hang him and display his body until the flesh dropped from the bones. That said something, surely—other than about his bravado, of course. Probably not anything about whether he preferred men or women in his bed. If pirates fucked in bed. Could you do it in a hammock? Norrington considered, and supposed so. After a fashion, if you were very careful, very supple and not inclined to sea-sickness.

He swallowed dryly as his blood began to burn with more than the rum. Oh, Lord, he thought this all so long in his past. He liked women now. He'd wanted Elizabeth! He was a red-blooded officer in the Royal Navy, John Bull incarnate; he liked beef for his supper and to beat his servants regularly. Except he didn't, not either really. But he still couldn't be a sodomite! Good men were not sodomites so, ergo, he wasn't. Not any more. It had been a passing phase. A fancy. The lunacy of youth. His father had told him so and the strap he had been wielding at the time had driven the point home with great vigour. Norrington liked women in his bed. Truly, all he wanted Sparrow for was justice.

Justice for a lying, thieving, murdering pirate. Which meant the noose.

He recalled the moment of truth he had already witnessed. Jack Sparrow hanging by the neck. It made him queasy to recall, to remember the fear, the realisation of exactly what he had done. Murdering a good man was hardly conducive to a guilt-free conscience. Though Sparrow was hardly guilt-free. Not as mired in wrongdoing as Barbossa, true, but hardly a saint.

He was wicked. There, fact. Steeped in wickedness to the point where he boasted of it. Which meant he was damned.

But if Jack Sparrow was damned for piracy, what did that make himself?

No, he couldn't think that way. Couldn't equate even the smallest of the pirate's evils with his own. But, in a misery of confusion, the thought made him drink deep, gulping the mind-numbing liquor as memory threw at him every word his father had ever shouted about how he was damned to the fires of Hell.

The rum was gone. The tankard slapped onto the table with a crash, toppling onto its side and rolling for a moment before stilling. Norrington was glaring at the tankard when he realised someone was standing in front of him. Blearily, he looked up. The innkeeper. With a bottle—maybe this was the good stuff. Norrington smiled at him. "How kind, thank—"

And got no further, as the bottle collided firmly with his head. He slammed back into the wall, chair overturning, sliding as he tried to fix which way was up and if his head was still attached. The world stopped and he was sprawled on the floor. The innkeeper was grinning at him. Perplexed, Norrington looked up and opened his mouth to say something, but a booted foot lifted and kicked out. He saw it coming, but was out cold a second after light exploded behind his eyes.

Norrington started to turn over. And failed.

It took a long moment before anything like realisation came to him. He couldn't move, thus he was incapable of moving. His mind flirted briefly with the notion of paralysis before he heard a door opening. Squinting into the light, he recognised the innkeeper.

And remembered. And knew in an instant that he was bound tight, at wrist and ankle, and that the man knew exactly who he was.

"Morning, Commodore."

Ah, yes. Exactly.

Norrington tried to speak, but his mouth was apparently stuffed with something soft. He made a noise in his throat, and wondered if a request for water was translatable from grunts.

The lamp was lifted high over him and, peering painfully up he saw a second man. Armed with a knife, cutlass and pistol, his shaved head tattooed with swirls and sigils, he was most surely a pirate. But not the pirate he wanted, the one who might at least have seen his way to being, if not exactly merciful, then not completely murderous. This one was grinning at him in a most ferocious way, his thick beard bristling alarmingly. Norrington sighed to himself and wondered who would be the next commodore of the Caribbean fleet, as it seemed unlikely he would be making it back to report for duty.

He wasn't even sure he cared. Despite the quite certain understanding that his demise would be a far from pleasant one.

"Norrington."

Ah, good, another one who knew his name. So much for subterfuge. And instead of a formal introduction, the pirate just stepped forward and kicked him hard in the ribs.

Pain stripped away even the slightest pretence of amusement. Twisting forward, Norrington fought for breath as the pirate grabbed his neck and pulled him upright.

"You bastard!" A slap punctuated the statement. Followed by another. "Remember Red O'Connell? Do you?"

Norrington felt himself being shaken in the massive fists and the world span as if dipping on an uneven keel. He swallowed dryly, bile rising in his stomach.

"Yeah, y'do. I knew it, I can see it in your eyes."

Norrington blinked. Really? Oh well. Amazing to think pain and confusion could be misconstrued as guilt and recognition.

"And if'n you remember him then you surely recall how you killed him—you murdering son of a whore! How you stood there watching while he dangled from a noose you put around his neck, and the poor boy jigged his way slowly to death."

Ah. A hanging. Not one he could really pinpoint, but there had been a few. More than a few. Norrington gasped as he was slammed into the wall.

"Pedro, thanks for this, I'm in your debt."

The innkeeper nodded. "Bring me a few casks of good rum and we'll call it settled."

A few casks? For a life! Norrington's eyes widened in outrage and he pushed against the hand that held him tight to the wall.

"Aye, Commodore. You're not worth a tinker's curse here. Less than the muck under my boots. Fuck all in fact. Though to be sure, I wish you were in all your finery. It'd be much more fun to watch you walk the plank in your shiny uniform." A wide grin showed black and rotted teeth, along with sewage breath worse than stale bilge water. "Pedro, I'll be away on the morning tide. Don't tell anyone ye seen me." The pirate grabbed Norrington's face. "You and me. On my ship. I think I'm going to enjoy the next few days... "

The two men laughed, and Norrington had a moment to think on that before a fist crashed into his belly, and almost immediately another slammed him back into the wall. It was enough. The world span, and he slipped helplessly back into darkness.

Looking around at the great and the good of Port Royal, she wondered if any more people could have crammed into the church. It seemed unlikely. Everyone was here, all in mourning of some kind. Not that many had known the deceased. Not that he had let many people know him. And those whom he had, some of them hadn't been interested enough to care.

Guilt made her flush slightly, and she stood with the congregation as everyone started to leave the church. It was over. No burial of course, for what was there to bury? No body. No corpse. Just some clothes and the remains of his personal effects. Hardly much for a life.

Half-blind with tears, Elizabeth Turner buried her head in her husband's shoulder and mourned a man she had never loved.

They walked home in the heat of the day. The house was blessedly cool and Elizabeth tore off her hat as Will stripped off his coat.

"Ma'am, there's fresh lemonade on the veranda."

"Thank you, Esme, that's a kind thought."

The girl blushed and curtsied before leaving, disappearing back into the servants' quarters.

"Come, husband, lemonade."

"No, me dears, that's rum."

Will and Elizabeth as one turned, gasping in surprise as a man stepped out from the half-closed doors to the drawing room.

"Jack!"

"None other. 'ow was the funeral?"

"Awful."

Jack kissed her cheek and smiled at Will. "Not sure why they had a funeral when they don't know if'n he's really dead."

"They're sure." Elizabeth felt the tears starting again. She sniffed them back. "It's been over a month since he was due back. His duty meant so much, if he was alive... " She shrugged, helplessly.

"If there's no body they shouldn't bury him. Ain't right, no it isn't."

"I know." She lifted her arm and Will came close, holding her.

Jack toyed with a coin woven into a lock of his hair. "I hear tell he was lookin' for me, is't true?"

"Aye." Will nodded. "Though we warned him, pretty much begged him, not to go into Tortuga."

"Not without a pack of Marines and a few canon anyhow." Elizabeth added acerbically.

Will sighed. "But he went anyway. In disguise—though it clearly wasn't good enough."

Jack's eyebrows lifted high into the cotton wound about his head. "And he thought he might capture me on his ownsome?"

Elizabeth peeked up at Will, and she bit carefully at her lip. "Jack, I don't think he was going to capture you."

"Last I heard 'e wanted me doin' a jig at the end of a rope!"

"He changed." Elizabeth straightened, waiting for Jack's laughter. But it didn't come. Instead he looked thoughtful, and started picking at a particularly grimy nail. Guilt made her cheeks blush. "I changed him."

"We changed him." Will's voice, the certainty in it, made the other two look at him. "After what we all went through, I'm not sure duty was enough anymore."

"And that got him killed in some God-forsaken alley." Elizabeth shivered.

Jack did laugh then. 'What? You're telling me 'e got a taste for adventure? Him?" He mimed a uniform and a military bearing. "All his prim and properness letting himself get messy?"

"Not exactly. I don't know." Elizabeth sighed. "But he was looking for you, and he didn't take his uniform, his pistols or anything but his sword. It was rash and foolhardy and so unlike him I... we... really had no thought he would actually do it. He should have been in England on leave, not doing... whatever he was doing."

"So." Jack bit the same nail, chewing hard. Then, in a swirl of coat-tails he was at the door, dancing almost, gold teeth flashing as he turned the handle and let in sunlight. "I'll go see. Maybe 'e's lost in pleasure and simply don't want to be found, think on that—Commodore Norrington and his Adventures Among the Scallywags and Whores of Old Tortuga. I bet some of the women could teach 'im a thing or two." He grinned at Will, winked, and then caught Elizabeth's frown. He winced. "Sorry m'dear, got carried away."

"Jack, they looked everywhere!"

"Darlin', if you think the Navy, the military, or even the governor's tea-boy can have searched everywhere in Tortuga, you don't know the world as well as you think y'do. I'll just have a little look-see. Maybe I can bring you back a nice body."

Elizabeth paled. "No, Jack... "

"Well, his sword then. Better to know. Better to know, and besides... "

"What?"

"The body might be breathin'."

Elizabeth caught her breath sharply. "Jack, what do you know?"

"Nothing!" Innocence painted his face. He smiled, thin lipped, his eyes distant. "But a fat and juicy little rumour came my way about a sale. And I think I might just pay this one a visit."

"Jack! What sale? What are you talking about?"

But he was gone, tripping down the gravel drive as if he hadn't a care in the world. Once, just before he reached the end of the drive, he turned, bowed and waved. With the addition of a small hornpipe he waved again, and slipped out of view.

The Turners watched him. After a while Will kissed Elizabeth on the head. "We can't do anything. How about some of that lemonade?"

Elizabeth nodded, half itching to be with Jack, to solve the mystery of James' disappearance. But the rest of her was content. She patted her rounding belly and let Will hold her.

Leaving the Pearl at anchor with all the crew watchful and wary, he'd stepped ashore and headed for the nearest rum shop. As the choice was on the high side of twenty different establishments just along the quayside, he'd simply headed where his boots led him, straight into a dive called Rusty Pete's. Well, the sign over the door had probably once had a 'T' at the beginning, but it had been scraped away by someone wielding something sharp with great vigour.

Jack made sure to count his change. The rum was good though.

Tasty.

He ordered a second.

Tucked away in a nice dark corner he watched the room. Waiting. In fact he was quite impressed by his own skills in waiting—something he'd found very little use for in his life. Unless he was behind bars of course. Or being patient while some person or persons decided on his appointment with a goodly length of hemp. Otherwise he tended to ask questions first and regret it all later. But today... he was being good.

He smiled to himself, thinking, stroking gently at one of the fine plaits that twisted from his chin. He was being good because he wanted something. And he wasn't even sure why, but after many years of not really demanding any reason from himself for any whim, he didn't really care.

He just wanted to find Norrington.

And not only for Elizabeth.

James Norrington, Commodore, was a thorn in his side, the devil incarnate and damn nuisance. He was also... interesting. And above all else in God's creation, Jack liked the interesting. It would be such a waste if the man were dead. All those possibilities of cat and mouse and mouse and cat chasing across the briny. He'd been sure there were months, if not years, of entertainment to be had.

And someone had stolen him. Because Jack was sure the Commodore was still alive. And he was almost certain where.

Jack took a long and deep drink of his rum, finishing it off. He stood in a swirl of coat tails and sashayed up to the next table, where a group of disreputable scallywags had just sat down.

"Good evenin', Bill, Angus." He smiled at the men he knew, and at the ones he didn't, one arm signalling for rum as the other spidered merrily across the shoulders of Angus Anderson.

"Jack!"

He grinned as they all nodded, greeting him back, and while Angus stood up and clapped him hard on the shoulders. "Good to see you, man!"

"And you. Drink?" A chorus of approval lightened their faces as a barmaid walked up carrying more over-brimming tankards.

They all toasted his health. Then they toasted the Pearl. Then the Brotherhood. By the time they got to the code, Jack had cornered Angus and was sitting a little bit away from the others.

"Angus." Jack smiled. He gave the boy a hefty dose of Sparrow charm and watched him melt. "I was wonderin'... 'ave you heard aught of a certain sale being conducted round abouts 'ere?"

"Ah, was puzzling as to what brought you here, Jack." Angus wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "We all know you've had a spot o' bother of late."

"Aye, the last year 'as been a trifle strange."

"So the stories tell. And mainly because of a certain Navy bastard?"

"You have it. The Navy man the good folk of Jamaica just buried—for all they were lacking a body to weigh down the casket."

"The one and same." Angus grinned, showing the black stumps of his teeth. "Jack, what took ye so long? He's been waiting for you."

"Who'd be waiting for me Angus? And why exactly?"

"Black O'Connell and the pretty Commodore." Angus considered for a moment. "Though he might not be so pretty now, of course."

"Ah... " Jack drank deep. "And where exactly would O'Connell be holed up with his prize?"

"He's borrowed a grand house at the edge of town. Very fine it is."

"And 'tis true there might be an auction happening?"

Angus nodded. "But apart from you no one seems interested in buying. Maybe they think there won't be much left to buy. So, an auction, or a hanging. Word is O'Connell's not fussed, as long as he can watch the Navy man dance to his tune."

"Is the Commodore obliging?"

"Not so as I heard. In fact I believe the only reason Black O'Connell wants to sell the bastard is that he can't break him, and simply killing 'im is just too kind. You know O'Connell, he gets bored easy."

"Angus, now tell me, why does he have such a personal interest in this particular commodore?"

"You don't know? Jack, where've you been?" Angus wiped his mouth and leant closer. "You must remember Red O'Connell?" He waited for Jack's nod. "Well, the bloody British hanged him—with that Commodore the one what caught him."

"I guess that could make a man tetchy."

"Too right. O'Connell may have hated his brother, but family's family, aye?"

"In truth, I'm surprised the Commodore's still alive."

"I should think the man himself is too."

"Aye." Jack stood up, swaying gently. "Now, tell me, where's this mansion?"

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