"Wait, Jack," she said, coming out of the door enough to cover his hand with her own. "What were you doing with the sheep?"

III. A Felony by Way of Farce

It all began with a flock of sheep.

Sea turtles sounded a good deal more impressive in terms of legendary escapes, but improvisation is a core virtue of piracy and sea turtles were not immediately to be had on the rocky English coast. Sheep, however, were at hand. So, sheep were to be his method of getaway. Except, the sheep ended up being the end of him, rather than his salvation. Never trust four legged land animals. Even horses were suspect.

Although, perhaps it was wrong to blame the animals, he reasoned, dumb beasts though they were. Perhaps he should place the blame squarely on the siren that lured him to this country. That blasted woman would be the death of him yet. Coming to the shores of England had been a feeble idea. Gibbs' poorly concealed displeasure at the plan had done very little to deter him, however, once his mind fixed upon his object—Elizabeth Turner née Swann.

"And just what do you intend to do if 'n when ye meet with 'er, Jack?" Gibbs asked as they dragged themselves from the waist high water onto the rock-strewn shoreline, their Bermuda rig anchored behind them.

He stroked his mustache, contemplating some of the things he had in mind, most of which were considered grave offenses in the eyes of the Church. "Say how-do-you-do just as proper as you'd like," Jack said with an assured wink. "Besides, wouldn't be gentlemanly to speak on what I plan to do with Mistress Turner."

"Are we speakin' of the same Elizabeth?" Gibbs asked, giving himself a good shake like a wet dog.

"I had to fight her off, you know: for the eunuch's sake. She's quite desperately besotted with me," Jack said, pulling off one boot and then another, dumping water onto the beach.

"Rather queer that I never noticed it," Gibbs said flatly.

"You never were terribly perceptive in regards to personal relations, but you've other useful aptitudes," Jack said, clapping his lone shipmate on the shoulder.

The truth of the matter was that Jack never had a plan, other than to locate Elizabeth, who was rumored to live somewhere nearby—a fact that his wildly swinging compass needle sometimes seemed to confirm before whirling upon another unknown destination, perhaps the next adventure, perhaps an abandoned spot of land in the ocean along a well traveled trade route. But then, he was quite used to flying by the seat of his pants, so the lack of a plan did not greatly trouble him. Flexibility had saved his neck more than a time or two.

What troubled him was the lack of rum. They had run out much too long ago. "Try to find some rum for our return trip," Jack added.

"We're more likely to find gin," Gibbs grumbled.

Jack grimaced, his face screwing up in displeasure at the thought. "Cold, inhospitable country with inferior spirits."

"Aye. Listen, Jack, I might have a fondness for Mistress Turner as well, but I hope you don't mean to bring her aboard," Gibbs said, nodding towards their craft. Gibbs never did approve of women aboard ships, but perhaps this rig would be truly too close for comfort with another body on board—a distracting body at that.

"Focus on the rum," Jack waved dismissively; he did not know what his intention was: to present an invitation of piracy, reminisce about former glories, or to enjoy her company. "And you might find comfort in the arms of an English lass," he paused to sway towards Gibbs, wiggling his fingers at him, "to make yerself less prickly."

It turned out to be rather difficult to make inquires after Elizabeth. Indeed, a plump maid dashed away from him on the road with a piercing scream, when he approached to solicit information, grabbing up her skirts as if she had seen a specter. His calls of 'darlin',' did nothing to stop her flight. "I wouldn't have stuck her with me sword unless she asked sweetly," he muttered to himself, as he watched her disappear over the horizon.

He looked down at himself appraisingly, only to see the pirate he had expected to see. A rather striking pirate many women found exceedingly pleasing, which led him to conclude that the unwelcoming response must owe to these English girls being flighty sorts. No, the people here were not likely to aid him in any way: he looked too different, dangerous, and altogether unfamiliar. They were as likely to raise a cry as point him in Elizabeth's direction, he wagered. It was clear that he best not keep to the roads, so he slunk about the hedgerows, trying to ascertain how he would discover any news of his fair King. All the while he wished that he had at least one flask of rum at his side with which to warm his bones as his boots squelched through the muddy countryside.

A hue and a cry went up just as the sun was dipping below the sky. Jack intuited that the shouts were directed towards him: before having taken greater care not to be discovered the number of shifty eyes directed at him had not seemed fortuitous. "Bugger," he cursed, dropping down below a stone garden wall. No doubt the frantic female who had fled him earlier that afternoon had spread the word that someone of dubious origins was abroad in the neighborhood or perhaps one of the windows he had peeked into had contained an occupant who found his face worrisome. Now he had been spotted.

"Bugger, bugger, bugger."

But he was nimble and crafty. Harmless English farmhands and milkmaids should be nothing to Captain Jack Sparrow, he assured himself. He skirted along the wall, searching for anything to hide himself away in: a barn, a storehouse, a hovel, even a large barrel would do. Passing by seemingly endless pasture, however, he realized as he ran awkwardly in a crouch behind the wall, hearing shouts moving behind him, that there was not even a tree or boulder in sight.

But there was a sea of wooly, unshorn sheep benignly chewing grass over the wall. If he could not escape these villagers, he might hope to distract them. These sheep would be his leverage.

With a one handed boost, he hopped the stone wall, immediately sending sheep scattering as he landed on the far side with a thud and a jangle of accoutrements. These blasted animals were as easily spooked as the maid he had met on the road, he realized with chagrin: perhaps there had been a good deal of interbreeding between the people and their fauna. He sneered to himself, his mouth and nose screwing up in distaste. How could anyone stand to work with animals? He would take a dishonest pirate any day over these skittish creatures. Though their cowardice might be to his benefit.

He scanned the padlock for a gate, and spying one across the field, he ran, sheep making way for him with plaintive bleats as he cut a path through them. "This way if you please," he urged them with a windmilling of arms meant to shepherd them in the direction of the gate. His forward motion seemed to have more of an effect on their feeble minds than his waving arms and speech, but it did him good to say something, as he could hear the sound of shouts growing louder. "Come come," he panted, stumbling to a stop before the gate and fiddling with the hook that kept it closed. "You'll want to bleat and cry that way," he pointed a ringed finger towards the advancing villagers, which he imagined he would be able to see coming over the hill with torches and pitchforks at any moment, as he swung the gate open.

But the dumb beasts did not follow his command. Growling, he ran behind a dozen of them and began shooing them towards the gate. Fear encouraged them where reason had failed, and being of the mob mentality, other sheep began to rush through the open gate as well. He sang along with their bleating, "Bah, bah, a black sheep," although there was not a black sheep to be had amongst this throng. "Have you any wool?" He leaned precariously to his left as one sheep brushed right against him in its mad dash towards freedom.

He knew the feeling.

"Thank you kindly," he said with relief, as a good portion of the panicked flock had made their way through the gate, and he hopped the wall once more.

He would hide behind the wall and make his way along it until darkness fell, when he hoped to slip back towards the road. Meanwhile the villagers would be busying themselves retrieving their wandering sheep. Perhaps he would find Elizabeth before the morn dawned and he might slip inside her bedchamber, slip inside…

At least, that was the hastily constructed plan that placed more emphasis on hoped for pleasures than material details. But as he crouched down on the opposing side of the wall, congratulating himself on yet another escape, he saw a pair of well worn work boots before him. He looked up, hoping they were not attached to the owner of said sheep. His luck had run out: they were attached to a very large farmer, who was no doubt the proud owner of these wooly creatures.

"Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full?" he tunelessly sang with a sheepish grin.

The man seemed unmoved by merriment and wholly displeased with Jack. He grabbed him by the collar, hauling him upright and giving him a hard shake. "Thief."

"On the contrary, I promise you that I have no use for your bloody beasts," Jack quickly assured the ruddy, blond farmer from his position an inch off the ground with his coat about his ears. "Wenches and rum, mate, wenches and rum are all I'm lookin' for."

"Who are you?" the man demanded with another shake.

"John Smith," Jack said wiggling his dangling legs and bestowing upon the man his most winning smile.

But his songs and oaths and plain names and smiles did him no good here, and apparently being unsatisfied with merely handing him over to the authorities, the man delivered a blow that brought darkness upon Jack as quick as a thunderclap splits the silence of a dark night.

That was how Captain Jack Sparrow came to be most unfairly and ignominiously incarcerated on the felonious charge of sheep theft. If he was going to swing, he wished it would have been for something less farcical. Or at very least something for which he was guilty.