A tall seaman, more sea than man, leaned against the railing as his ship stopped parallel to the fresh wreckage of a ship. Caught in the storm which had abated only moments earlier, the unfortunate schooner had finally impaled itself on a coral reef not far off the coast of Port Royal.

With a sly grin, the creature of the ocean looked over to his first mate. Limping on the crab leg that served as his right leg, he walked the length of the deck, scanning the remains of the once glorious ship. "Mister Maccus! Find the survivors. Take what ye can," he ordered with a deep, Scottish accent. Then, something from the corner of his eye commanded his full attention.

With slender arms limply grasping a piece of debris, the body of a young woman bobbed with the now placid waves. Her long hair gracefully, if not slightly eerily, flowed about her in the water in a manner which resembled seaweed. As the engrossed seaman watched her for any sign of life, a wave pushed the wood from beneath her still arms, and the woman's body began to slip under the surface. He dived in.

While his men were still plundering the ship, the seaman took the young woman's body aboard. Her hair was now matted against her seemingly flawless — though tanned — skin, a tone much richer than that of the wealthy English socialites who hid behind lacy parasols to keep their strawberries and cream complexions. Her small, berry colored lips were slightly parted to reveal perfectly-aligned, pearly white teeth. She was clothed in naught but her undergarments, which allowed him to feel her slender, well-toned form through the thin material. Who was she, this woman with the complexion of one who loved the sun, with the body of one accustomed to light labor, but with the undergarments of the wealthy and the regal beauty borne into only those of good breeding? The loud, raucous cajoling of the crew interrupted his thoughts.

"Wot'll we do wit' 'e survivors, Cap'n?" Maccus asked. Kneeling on the deck were thirteen men, their hands bound behind their backs. Behind each prisoner stood a crewman, barely recognizable as human, each more hideous than the last, each bearing a weapon of some grisly nature.

The captain turned, the girl's body still in his arms. At the sight of her, many of the prisoners attempted to rise, only to be shoved back to the deck. He studied the faces of each, and asked their names. When he had interrogated every prisoner, a look of dissatisfaction crossed his face. He looked to his first mate. "There are no survivors."

Charlotte's eyes slowly fluttered open. She saw the soft glow of candles, but they offered little light. She heard the familiar creaks and groans of a ship; she smelled the sea. She felt the softness of sheets against her body, and the light pressure of a pillow beneath her head, but only through the clammy, cold wetness of her undergarments.

She immediately pulled the sheets up to cover her, and sat up. A pounding headache followed the swift movement. Where was she? As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the silhouette of a table covered with what appeared to be maps and charts. A few chairs reposed near the table, and some chests were scattered about the room. At the far end of the cabin, near the back of the ship, a large organ rested beneath even larger windows. There was very little to reveal much about the owner of the cabin, except that it most likely belonged the captain, which Charlotte discerned from the sheer size.

Pushing the now damp covers from her body, Charlotte swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Planting her feet firmly on the wood, which groaned under her weight, she slowly crossed the floor. Her hip bumped the edge of the table, and she heard something clatter to the ground. A few musical notes issued from the object, and Charlotte groped the floor for the wayward item. Her hand touched cold metal, and she grabbed a candle to inspect the piece: a locket of silver, or perhaps white gold. Did it belong to a woman, or was it perhaps a gift to the captain from a lover? She gently replaced the trinket on the table, and scanned the room for the door.

It — swelled with sea water — would not budge in its frame. However, motivated by her determination to find life other than that which came in the boring forms of ubiquitous barnacles, Charlotte would not relent. Finally, it opened, moaning loudly as it did so.

She crept out onto the deck, the sky now cloudless and speckled with stars. A bright, radiant moon illuminated the ship's deck. A light sea breeze sent chills up her spine. As Charlotte turned her eyes from the sky to the ship, she could see crew members at work: the coxswain at the wheel, some able-bodied seamen with holystones, a few at silent work as they mended sails. But, what puzzled her was the observation that they didn't seem quite human. However, she knew that was impossible; her eyes were merely playing tricks on her.

"Well, well, well. Wot do we 'ave 'ere?" a deep voice snickered from behind.

Charlotte let out a squeak of surprise and turned to see a rather foul-looking beast, a man with the head of a . . . hammerhead shark? Her eyes widened as she stared, which caused the crew member to laugh.

"Looks like Cap'n found a live one, an' a pretty one at 'at!" he grinned, as a few curious sailors gathered to see the excitement.

Charlotte looked around her. She was now encircled by various creatures, each looking less human than the last. The smallest one was still much larger than her. As she remembered her knife, Charlotte reached down to her pocket, but a strong hand belayed the action.

"'E should've kept a better eye on you. Now, you're—"

"She's what?" a voice challenged. The erratic, loud footfalls of one who'd lost a leg sounded across the ship.

The crew parted as a seaman garbed in black approached Charlotte and the beast who held her. The latter immediately released his grip on Charlotte, but she, eyes widening even more as she took in his crustacean-like appendages and octopus-like head with its continuously-moving tentacles, found herself shrinking back to the protection of the shark-man.

The most recent creature in the drama turned his cold eyes from his crew member to the frightened girl. The moon reflected itself in her eyes, in which he could see both disgust and sheer terror, a reaction that he was accustomed to, but one that, from her, disturbed him nonetheless. Feeling the crew's eyes on him, he snarled. "Back teh work!"

As his disappointed crew dissipated, the captain returned his attention to the young woman. She was still dressed in only her undergarments, and still as vulnerable as ever. "What were ye thinkin', comin' out dressed like that? They may not be entirely human, but I can assure ye that they still have their manly needs," he snapped, then realized that she had no other clothes, and was probably only curious as to what lie on the other side of the cabin door. His features visibly softened. "Come along, now," he coaxed, motioning for her to follow with his left hand — a crab claw.

Charlotte balked. Her eyes strayed from the claw to his eyes, the blue-green shade of the Caribbean shallows.

"I'm not goin' to hurt ye," the seaman said.

She decided she had no choice but to follow him. Timidly, she walked behind the man back to the cabin from whence she had emerged moments earlier. Some of the candles had been extinguished in a draft. As she closed the door slowly behind her, her host relit the wicks.

Watching him with a curious eye, she kept on hand on the doorknob, ready to flee if necessary. But, where exactly would she run? Certainly not to the welcoming arms of the lecherous crew. "W-Who are you?"

The man stopped and turned to face her. "Ah, so ye can speak. I'm 'Captain' to ye an' everyone aboard this ship." He continued to relight the candles.

"What . . . What are you to everyone not on this ship?" Charlotte ventured.

Captain turned again to face her. Charlotte now noticed that his tentacles were used to strike the matches, not his hands — or rather, his hand and claw. He faintly grinned. "Davy Jones."

Charlotte frowned slightly. Davy Jones? The name sounded vaguely familiar. It was a name she associated with her father. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of her father — was he dead or alive? — but she concentrated on the name. Then, it came to her. Davy Jones. Devil of the Seven Seas. Captain of the Flying Dutchman.

Davy grinned as her eyes widened, once more, with realization. He was accustomed to that, too. The sudden fear that struck a man upon learning who stood before him, upon learning who decided his fate on the seas. "Aye, Lass. An' what be yer name?" He limped over to the table and there deposited the box of matches. Still, she remained silent. "Ye have a name, don't ye?"

Charlotte froze under the scrutiny of his gaze. Even in the candlelight, and now the moonlight, which filtered through the barnacle-covered windowpanes, she could see the pale colors of his irises. "Charlotte," she whispered, in a barely audible voice.

"Charlotte, he repeated, as though testing her name to judge whether or not he approved of it. He nodded.

"How . . . did I come to be in this state?" Charlotte asked, emboldened once more. She gestured to her state of dress, or lack thereof.

"That was how I found ye," Davy replied. He met her disbelieving eyes with a stone-serious look of his own.

Charlotte frowned again as she tried to remember. She recalled the rain, her battle with the flying jib, being tossed into the sea, the dark water around her as she was pulled down, cutting her dress away with her knife, kicking to the surface. . . . "Oh." She blushed. "What of the H.M.S. Valiant?"

"Sunk."

"Her crew?" A pause. "What of her crew?"

"Dead."

"All of them?"

"Aye."

Charlotte felt a pang in her heart at that confirmation. She looked at the box of matches. The candlelight glinted off the nearby locket, which Davy pocketed nervously. There was a brief silence. "How far are we from Port Royal?"

"We've put her to our rudder."

"I do not wish to be a burden."

"Ye aren't."

"I have business in Port Royal; it is of utmost importance."

"Family?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"A lover?"

Charlotte was not certain how to respond. True, she was betrothed, but she'd never met the man, and honestly did not care to. "Yes." To disguise her discomfort, she began to walk around the other side of the table, opposite Davy.

"Now yer lyin'."

"I most certainly am not!"

"Yes, ye are."

"How would you know?"

"Ye don't love him. I don't see it in yer eyes."

He had called her bluff, and the satisfied look on his face told her he knew. Her mind raced for something to say in retaliation, anything at all. "Well . . . Well, what would you know about love, anyway?"

Her caustic remark struck a chord deep inside of him. He approached her, countering her step for step as she retreated. When her back was finally up against the wall, he leaned down until their faces were mere inches apart. "More than ye'll ever know," he hissed, before he stormed out of the room.

She irritated him more than he cared to admit, more than anyone he knew, and he barely knew her at all. Not to mention the fact that he knew a lot of people. He felt a twinge of remorse for keeping her from Port Royal — what if she really did love him? — but he had business to attend to, and he was not going to take a detour.

Charlotte felt the seconds tick by at an amazingly slow rate. Where had he gone? She realized that she had, perhaps, spoken a bit out of turn, but he had upset her. Not that that was a good excuse to lose her temper.

With a light sigh, Charlotte slid down the wall to the floor, not having moved from her spot. She pulled her knees to her chest and folded her arms across the tops of her knees. And waited.

When Davy returned to his cabin, he could not see Charlotte; at least, not immediately. He set the large trunk he'd been carrying on the floor. When he turned to leave, he finally spotted her. She was exactly where he'd left her, but now curled up on the floor. Asleep.

He knelt down and gently lifted her into his arms, with one arm behind her knees and the other behind her neck. In her sleep, she turned her head towards him, and rested it against his chest. The sensation made his muscles tense, and he almost dropped her.

Davy gingerly laid her down on the bed. She murmured something in her sleep, but it was indecipherable. He studied her for a moment longer, then strode over to his organ. He wearily sat down. It was time to release the pent-up emotions swirling about his head.