Fathoms 11

"Now what youse done, Jack Sparrow?" she asked without preamble, as she sat down in her chair. "Youse be in big trouble again already?"

"Actually, m'just 'ere to make things up t'ye, an' then some," Jack said, and dropped the felt bag down in front of her, pleased to watch dark eyes widen in pleasant surprise, then narrow in suspicion and look to Norrington. It was sad, really, how so many people in the world thought he could be up to (so much) no good.

Norrington chuckled wryly, raising a hand to prevent any further harsh questioning, or the reality of voodoo dolls, pins, wax and the like. "Unfortunately, that's true, Miss Dalma. I still can't believe it myself, but somehow Jack managed to relieve the heart's latest owner of possession. And he has decided that it would be best for everyone if it fell into your safekeeping, while we go after the others."

"That be so, that be so," Tia tapped her lips, that were now curved into a grin. "Jack, our debt be paid." A look at Norrington. "Yours, too."

"An' I'd take it as a favor if ye could 'elp distract Davy Jones from followin' us," Jack suggested, again perching on the side table, though at Norrington's sideways glare, kept his hands on his lap.

Tia nodded impatiently, as if that hadn't even needed to be asked, then cocked her head when something occurred to her. "Wait. Tia think she can help you more, if youse bent on following Bootstrap's whelp."

As she retreated into a back room, muttering to herself and sorting somewhat violently through her clutter, Jack's hand stole towards a gilded peacock feather quill, and found his wrist being very firmly grasped by Norrington. A benign smile dared him to try further thievery. Jack pouted, even as, blocked by his body, his other hand slipped a ruby brooch into his coat.

A slight shake of his head, and Norrington sighed. "Jack." The brooch was replaced, with resignation. The other man was getting better at watching him.

Tia eventually emerged with what looked like an odd necklace—a heavy silver teardrop at the end of a fine steel chain. There was an odd engraving on both sides of the pendant that Jack couldn't quite make out, from this distance. Tia pushed much of the paraphernalia on her table to the side, ignoring the little crow's skull that fell and rolled away, and opened a stained, ancient map of the lands, pinning it down with an ornate silver hourglass and a bone china teacup. "This be showing ye where they are." She held the bob over the map, and it swirled in a lazy circle, before pointing unerringly at Recife.

"Why?" Norrington blinked, as another thought occurred to him. "Where is 'World's End'?"

"It be an island, east o' Canton," Jack said absently, as kohl-rimmed eyes traced the route he knew his traitorous ex-First Mate would take. "An' its port, at th'mouth to the actual place, be a base o' operations o' the pirates o' that area. Sort o' like Tortuga, but less friendly. They 'ave another name fer it in their lingo, but Lee said it did roughly translate to 'World's End'."

"And I am to believe that Davy Jones put his soul on a... a... Cathay pirate island?" Norrington asked incredulously, apparently willing, for the sake of argument and in face of the existence of the beating heart in the bag, to suspend all further problems he had with physical manifestations of souls.

"Davy Jones, he use magic, raise an islands, and put a ring of rocks around it. Past the port, dat lead t'the land in the center, an' there he put his soul, guarded by giant serpent." Tia explained, slowly, as if to a child, as if it really should all make perfect sense. "For soul an' heart an' body to separate, heart an' soul cannot touch the sea. Heart in Jamaica, soul in Cathay."

"So Barbossa is likely goin' t'lead them from Recife to Jamestown. An' then t'Capetown through th'Indies." It was a route they had taken before, what with the jaunts around the East Indies, but Jack had always preferred Jamaica (paradise on earth, mate). That, and Bootstrap got terribly gloomy on transatlantic voyages, thinking about his gel in England and whatnot, enough to drive another man mad.

Norrington shook his head slowly; awed at the route that Jack had just sketched. Likely it would be the furthest from Port Royal, or England, that the man would ever be in his life. Tia handed the pirate the chain, and he experimentally let it swing from his fingers. Still at Recife, of course. "Even assuming we survive and can somehow finance our journey all the way to Canton and back, how in God's name are we going to... to..." A short, exasperated sound. "It's madness. Pure, unadulterated, madness."

Ayla, however, was another matter. Jack felt it would be a huge inconvenience to bring her along (despite her cooking), but it would also be as large an inconvenience if Anamaria were to elect to stay behind with her. The next person on the ship most qualified to fill her position was Norrington, and he was definitely not first mate material, having been in a position of final command for too long. However, and again out of the irrational sense of fairness (and fear of Anamaria's quick knife), he'd left them to talk it over themselves, and secluded himself quickly up on the foremast.

He remembered wryly the moment when Norrington had realized they had another woman on board, and a pregnant one, at that. The sharp, accusing look, the thinning lips. Still didn't trust him, his Jamie. What was worse, he'd been left to defend himself, while ship, Anamaria and even Ayla, damnit, took the rare opportunity to laugh at old Jack. Only when Anamaria had managed to stop laughing had she explained, with a toss of her head, what had happened in Kingston. Jack's dramatic performance as the wounded, misunderstood lover had at least worked on the person it was meant for—the pirate smiled faintly as he recalled how Norrington had made it up to him, later, when they were alone.

The sound of straining rope and muttered oaths, and a creak of wood as weight settled near him informed Jack that Norrington had also climbed up onto the yard, and had settled on the opposite side. Jack offered him the compass, not looking to see if he took it. "M'been thinkin'."

"Hmm?" Norrington accepted it, the weight lifted from his fingers. There was the clean snap of the compass being opened.

"Whether I should be extendin' th' offer to drop those who don't want t'come along t'ye."

A soft inhalation of breath, then, wryly, "Are you sure you're Captain Jack Sparrow? I'm feeling quite overwhelmed by all this sense of fair play today, as is the rest of your crew."

"T'will be a hard journey, mate," Jack continued watching the flight of the gulls, ignoring the playful jibe. "Th'last time me an' Barbossa an' Bootstrap crossed it, we lost many men. To th'sea, Navy, other people's Navy, other pirates, an' such. T'was great fun an' all, stealin' off wi' ye an' runnin' around th'Caribbees, but... goin' t'the World's End, 'tis a big risk I'm askin' anybody comin' wi' me t'take. An' ye'd be gone a long time, from Port Royal."

"Jack." Norrington snapped the compass shut. "The compass. In my hands, it still points to you." A soft chuckle edged with self-mockery. "Always to you. So. I profess that I am glad now that you... ah... persuaded me to come along on your venture. As selfish as it is of myself, to be glad that it is so. So that I can be with you, at least until the Turners are safe. Be here to protect you." A snort. "Besides, a cursory glance at your route indicates that much of it will have to go through ports and territories controlled by the East India Trading Company. And no doubt you know where my father is stationed."

"We won't be goin' through Bombay, if I can 'elp it," Jack said quickly, though a warm glow suffused him at the confession. "I ain't got that much love fer th'Company. M'thinkin', we go from Seychelles t' Colombo."

"Where the Dutch East India Company is stationed," Norrington replied tartly. "In Bombay, at least there'd be suppliers who understand English. And if your ship is as fast as you say, perhaps they would not have received word about the likely renouncing of your Letter of Marque."

"An' what makes ye think m'don't speak Dutch?" Jack asked innocently. Actually, he didn't, but it was so fun throwing the Commodore off balance. He grinned when Norrington looked around the mast to frown at him. "M' the Captain o' th'Pearl, Jamie-luv. Means I be decidin' where we go, no questions."

"I know that," Norrington said irritably, "That's why I chose to climb up here to talk to you about it. Where your crew won't hear me disagreeing with you."

The irritation turned into a sly grin that made Jack instantly wary. "I don't know, Jack, about that Captaincy issue," A slender hand patted the mast, as if affectionately. "Your Pearl is very fond of me."

Jack's mouth fell open. "Ye wouldn't." He poked at the dark wood. "Missy..." Unfortunately, at that moment, the Pearl chose simply to laugh at him. She was as cruel a wench as he'd ever known, she was!

And he had to content himself with glaring at Norrington, who was leaning against the mast and laughing so hard that he ended up choking and coughing. "Jack. I wouldn't do that. You don't need to worry." A smirk. "Your Pearl would object to being repainted in Navy colors."

"Your ego sometimes needs deflating," Norrington replied dryly. "And I wanted you to take me seriously. About our route."

"If we cross t'Capetown wi' no incident, ye can talk to me there 'bout it again," Jack offered, a compromise. He was getting better at handling Commodores.

"I will." Acceptance, and a warning—he wouldn't be so easily pushed aside the next time

"If not fer the child, I would go," Ayla said, looking slightly embarrassed. "I too, owe ye a debt."

"But dat's a problem, Jack," Anamaria said, with a frown. "I don't know where t'leave Ayla, an' Tortuga be too dangerous fer her."

"Perhaps we could prevail on Miss Dalma to have her sent to Port Royal," Norrington suggested, meeting Anamaria's glare unflinchingly (she was still jumpy around him, almost out of habit, perhaps, despite having nominally accepted him so far as part of the crew and Jack's lover). "I could write a letter that would get her employed by my housekeeper, or by Governor Swann. It'd also serve to inform him that I was not, in fact, kidnapped. Perhaps it would at the very least throw things into confusion." A grimace. Evidently, the Commodore wasn't looking forward to sorting out that mess when he went back.

"And why would he concern himself with her or know who she is, if she arrives discreetly? I am sure that he does not inquire too closely about people of colour, who arrive looking for work."

"An' Port Royal be real close to Kingston..." Anamaria said hesitantly, her resolve obviously wavering under the assault of gentle reasoning.

"I'd be surprised if 'e chases ye t'Port Royal, an' 'Lizabeth's da' be outrankin' him," Jack said, a little doubtfully. He wasn't worried about the young Lord, but Beckett. If Beckett somehow found out about the arrival, and decided to use Ayla as a bargaining chip, that would pull in Anamaria, which would definitely involve Jack. However, as Norrington had stated, it seemed unlikely that he would. And the letter could help stave off Naval pursuit, and perhaps even put Governor Swann's fears to rest a little. "But it all depends on whether ye wish t'do it," he added finally, looking to Ayla.

"I will. It's the best." Ayla smiled somewhat wearily, without mirth. "Though it be so close t'Kingston."

"Aye, but it need only be 'till we get back. Then ye can choose yer port o' choice," Jack offered generously. If we get back in one piece.

Tia Dalma had agreed easily enough, albeit with sarcastic jibes as to Jack's need to stop relying on her for contingencies, but he decided to leave with the morning tide, reading Anamaria's signal for more time and consenting with a slight nod. Dinner that night was especially sumptuous.

'To Governor Swann,

I entrust this letter's carrier to your safekeeping, and apologize beforehand as to the inconvenience and the strangeness of the situation. Miss Ayla Sawyer is an acquaintance of Jack Sparrow's, and she is with child. Also, there are some complications with the father of the child—apparently someone of noble blood in Kingston, of which she would no doubt explain in detail by herself. Please ensure that she is employed in honest work, until I return to sort it out.

It would interest you to know that despite the dramatic nature of my departure, I am safe and am not sailing on the Pearl against my will. Sparrow feels that he owes your daughter and her fiancé a debt, and he intends to pursue them and bring them back home. As such, I too feel honor bound to aid him. In return, I would appreciate it greatly if you were to thwart Lord Beckett's attempts to displace the balance of power in Port Royal, or at least delay it until my return, upon bringing your daughter home or news of her. It would also aid us greatly if you could somehow find a way to delay news spreading about the invalidity of Jack Sparrow's Letter of Marque.

Sincerely, James Norrington

P.S The stack of completed paperwork on my desk in the office marked 'Kingston' is to be sent to Lieutenant Rainer in Kingston, before the week is out. The drafted script under that only needs some linguistic correction, and your signature and seal—assuming of course that you approve of the modifications to the fort cannons. The declaration for the expansion of the widow's fund should also be on the desk, that too requires your signature. The forms regarding credit over Naval fittings are in my home, and the completed ones are to be put on the next courier ship to England, for Admiral Tayne—please request that either Lieutenant Stoner or Lord Beckett finish the others. The sealed missives in my desk drawer are to be sent to... '

To Governor Swann,
How's it going?

Don't worry your wigged head, mate. We be getting Lizabeth and Will back, easy. I expect to have an invite to the wedding, and cake. And rum, remember the rum. Help us look after Ayla, she be a great cook. We'd be looking after the Commodore in turn, as you can tell he really, really needs a vacation.

Captain Jack Sparrow

PS Anybody tell you that the wig makes you look old? And it must be bloody hot.'

Governor Swann looked up from the slightly crumpled missive, at the shy, nervous girl before him with the obvious swell in her belly, and sighed ruefully. "Thank you, Miss Sawyer. You have no idea how much of a weight you have just taken off my mind. I'd see to it that you get employment at my... my residence, for as long as you wish."

As she was led away by his new butler, for the first time since Elizabeth had left after that Turner boy, Governor Swann could not help but smile faintly at the first postscript, and then at the second part of the letter. It was true. James certainly did need a vacation.

They were in one of Barbados' cheap Irish taverns (The Blue Lassie), and around them the indentured servants to the island's sugarcane plantations who were lucky enough to receive pay were drinking it down their sunburned throats, talking to each other drunkenly in heavily accented English, or in a lingo that Jack vaguely understood. Thankfully, none of the workers were looking for trouble—looking far too weary from their grueling day work, here only to drink and briefly feel human again. Jack knew how that felt. But he also knew that drink loosened men's tongues, and even men one step above being slaves liked to talk—and he needed to confirm some gossip that he had heard around the harbor.

"I was thinkin'," Jack murmured, as he took a sip of his extremely watered down ale with a grimace, "O' th'way we were goin' t'finance our little trip, mate."

"By drinking our money away in seedy dives?" No faith in him at all, his Jamie. Terrible.

"No, no. I was thinkin' o' tradin'. See, Jamie-luv, Jamaica is known fer exportin' sugar, m'right? An' where else close t'get sugar at th'moment than Barbados?"

Norrington was silent as he digested this, his hat dipping. "And how do you suggest we acquire a cargo of sugar? You have no credentials, and we have no money."

"I'm a pirate, mate," Jack said mildly, "'ow'd ye suggest I lay me hands on some sugar?"

Norrington's pretty green eyes widened, and then narrowed dangerously. "Sparrow... you know I can't condone any acts of piracy in my presence."

"'Tis why I asked ye t'wait on th'ship, love," Jack pouted. "Anamaria be so much better company at this. But d'ye 'ave any better ideas, mate? As ye said, m'Pearl an' I 'ave no credentials, bein' of a piratical sort. An' yer family name ain't known in th'Carribees as it may be in India, an' nobody's going t'believe th'Commodore o' Jamaica suddenly feels th'powerful urge t'transport sugar, so..."

"Uh... no." The man even had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "I confess that I am at a loss."

"'Sides, m'going t'be stealin' from East India Company stock, if I can," Jack murmured, playing with his beaded beard. "So, ye can always send back some of yer cut to yer da', in th'future, if it bothers ye that much."

"That would be playing with fire, Jack," Norrington said, warningly, "Since your course seems to depend on passing Jamestown. And Canton. East India Company territories."

"Ain't nobody goin' t'beat me Pearl at speed enough t'tell them we be sellin' them their own goods, mate," Jack smiled wickedly. Norrington groaned, dipping his head again. Too adorable. It was a good thing Jack had already overheard, even while speaking with his Commodore, gossip over cargo deadlines and ship arrivals—even if the information was likely to be at least third hand.

Norrington arched an eyebrow at him. "I do believe you were the one to point out that, the further we got from Port Royal, the more people only remember the clothes, and not the man, and we needed to get around unnoticed." Another pause, then more suspiciously, "Is this yet another of your bedroom games, Jack?"

"Now that's an' idea," Jack smirked, but continued before Norrington could shoot down the issue, as much as he didn't exactly object to the playing of... bedroom games... when they were alone in Jack's cabin. "Actually, I was thinkin' in th'way o' wearin' it out here. A diversion."

"And does this have anything to do with nefarious plans of stealing sugar from the Company that employs members of my family?" Norrington drawled.

"Mebbe." Jack looked innocent. At the Commodore's rapidly darkening expression, he added winsomely, "Jamie. All ye 'ave t'do is dress up, an' walk wi' me somewhere. An' then, all ye 'ave to do is talk t'someone until m'ready t'go. No trouble, no shootin', no random hurtin' o' children or small animals. Promise."

"And what am I supposed to talk to this person about?" Norrington asked wearily.

"Oh, just th'harbormaster, mate. Or whoever it is on this island wot arranges cargo loadin'."

"I admit to retaining moral reservations about theft, or indeed, in aiding and abetting theft."

"Ye can forward yer percentage o' th'profit t'yer da', then," Jack reminded him, wheedling. "An' it won't really be theft, it'd more be like causin' an' encouragin' a misunderstandin'."

"You're a thorough scoundrel, Jack," Norrington sighed. "And God help me for agreeing to this, but I do have no other ideas."

"Great! Let's get started." Jack clapped his hands, and swung to his feet, swaying a little.

"However," Norrington continued, as though he hadn't heard, "After our venture, I expect us to return the gross value of the sugar to whichever merchant you have picked as your victim, Jack. Back here in Barbados."

"Mate, that sugar was made wi' slave labor," Jack pointed out, "'ow's yer moral reservations feel 'bout deepenin' the pockets o' some rich farmer even further?"

Norrington frowned, "I don't like the idea of slavery. However, I do have definite reservations about you reaping the profits, when you haven't even contributed in any way as to the creation of the sugar."

They could likely argue about this all day. It was lucky that nobody on the street seemed remotely interested in two sailors lounging in the sun, because their topic of conversation was getting fairly dangerous. Jack sighed. "Awlright, mate. When we come back, we donate the gross profit t'the contribution o' some fund fer the wee blighters burnin' out in th'fields. Mebbe build them another tavern, wi' better drink. Happy?"

"I've heard rumors that pirates intend to conduct raids on sugar cargo, and so I've decided to make some... discreet enquiries, with regards to the ships that may be leaving Barbados within the week," Norrington said, in his voice of cool command. "If you would be so kind, my manservant here would like to peruse your records and files, while I ask a few further questions."

Manservant indeed. Jack grit his teeth under the wide-brimmed hat and heavy coat that Anamaria had lent him, promising silently that there would be a reckoning. The clothes were too small for him, but he'd needed to hide his own costume, which made him look too noticeable. However, he'd nodded servilely as the fat man handled him records of cargo, and even some paper and a quill, and he wrote some things down absently to make the dissimulation seem less obvious.

In the meantime, his Jamie engaged the harbormaster in a remarkable repertoire of topics regarding the sugar trading routes, and with the man's attention elsewhere, Jack made some minor adjustments to docking and cargo loading forms. For good measure, he even managed to pocket a bag of coins, no doubt bribes, left carelessly in an unlocked drawer of the desk he was writing on.

He signaled when he was done, bobbing and bowing to the harbormaster, handing Norrington the sheet of paper with the scrawled words, which his Jamie quickly put into his coat before the man could see it. There were a few more rounds of exchanged pleasantries, and then they were back out in the sun.

Norrington was trying very hard to hold down a smirk, as they managed to elude Navy patrols and get back onto the Pearl without any shouts of recognition. Jack grinned impishly at him. "Fun, innit?"

"No, Jack. Stealing is not meant to be fun," Norrington said sternly, though his green eyes were twinkling merrily. "And it certainly was not. Fun."

"That so," Jack smirked. Pirate enough in his Commodore, as much as the man would deny it.

Norrington had taken the paper out of his coat, snorting as he looked over it again. "Really, Jack. What do you think would have happened if the harbormaster had seen this?"

"We could 'ave said t'was in code," Jack said innocently. The note had contained several very scandalous suggestions as to the issue of dressing up in 'bedroom games', as Norrington had put it, including the use of rigging and/or the cannon chains. And the brig, don't forget the brig.

The other man rolled his eyes, but glanced over the harbor towards the distance, at rolling, flat hills dusted in plantation squares. "I may however be amenable to some of the ideas. With sufficient persuasion, of course."

Fathoms 11

Misappropriation is Not Theft