((Picking up with James again, woo hoo. Some of the dialogue is from the film. Also there is the use of the term "blacks" in this chapter. This is a period piece folks, and that is exactly what James would've called them at the time. I do NOT personally use such terms but for the sake of continuity of the historical period, I will use it here. I apologize if that's offensive. Let me know what you think anyway. And thanks again for the enthusiastic reviews.))

Tortuga

He woke with a scream caught in his throat and her name on his tongue like a bittersweet tonic. It took only a few seconds for James to remember where he was, and the truly horrendous part, why he was there. When he did, he blindly rolled over, off the small cot, and onto the filthy floor. His vision blurry and his stomach rolling about inside him like the tempests from which he'd been banned, James groaned and curled up into a ball, willing away the misery he'd begun to call companion. When he'd first arrived weeks before, and begun the rounds of asking after the notorious fiend who'd cost him his career, he'd had a wide range of reactions from the locals. None of them altogether helpful and all of them confirming his already poor opinion of the pirate.

"Captain Jack Sparrow?" A local law official, if there was such a thing in this hellhole, had replied to his query whilst standing on the docks. "Owes me four dubloons. Heard he was dead."

A half-blind fisherman had overheard their conversation and denied the official's claims with some of his own, "'e's in Singapore. That's what I 'eard. Drunk with a smile on 'is face. Sure as the tide, Jack Sparrow... will turn up in Singapore."

Having found neither the official nor the fisherman helpful, and with both of them arguing over Sparrow's life expectancy, James had moved on from them. Before he had gone far he'd been accosted by a couple of prostitutes. Perhaps when they'd first begun their career they could've been considered beautiful but now, the weathering of time and trade on their faces, they'd looked like they were permanently grimacing. To keep them from his pockets and his personage, he'd distracted them with his questioning. The blonde had gasped and laid a quivering hand over her heaving chest, near falling out of her dress.

"Jack Sparrow." Her eyes had watered then and James wondered just what sort of relationship Sparrow would have with this woman to make her want to cry at the mere mentioning of his name.

The red head had answered more quickly, "I 'aven't seen 'im in a month." She'd tossed her hair over her shoulder and sauntered away for a more lucrative customer then, leaving James with the still heaving breasted blonde.

"When you find him," her voice had been more even then and James had turned towards her, "will you give him a message?"

James recalled nodding his head but, before he could utter another word, his face had stung with the force of the blonde's slap. When he'd looked up again she'd joined the red head and together their giggled their way down an alley. If he ever found Sparrow he would definitely enjoy giving him that message, along with his own-a sword through the belly. The pirate had been a thorn in his side, a near bane to his very existence, ever since the ordeal with the cursed pirates and their attack on Port Royal. It had been Sparrow's untimely arrival that had begun the wedge between Elizabeth and himself and since then every time Sparrow had reared his wicked head more mishaps and tragedies had struck-including his own dishonorable discharge and Ashlynne's death.

His stomach lurched at the memory of her body, hauntingly beautiful in death, sprawled across the hillside outside his office. James lashed out with his arm and laid hold of the nearest item that would pass as a basin. Pulling himself up just enough, he vomited out the contents of his stomach-hitting said "basin" and his own hands in the process-until there was nothing more but dry heaves. It was as he pulled away, using the back of his filth covered hand to wipe away the tears, that he realized he'd just used his own hat as a waste basin.

"Yer a mess." A familiarly harsh voice brought to his attention that fact that he was not alone.

He scooted across the floor a bit until he could lay his back against the side of the cot. He waited until the room stopped spinning before he opened his eyes again and looked towards the source of the voice. It was the red head from his first day in Tortuga, Scarlet was it? She was sitting in front of a cracked mirror combing her hair, though her eyes were on his form through the reflection. She wore nothing but a corset and bloomers, both of which were tattered and did little to hide her voluptuous body from scrutiny.

Once James took in her state of dress he averted his eyes, taking in the sparse contents of the rest of the room: one cot, one vanity with said mirror, one small window, one door, one wooden chest, one chair; nothing of personal nature out in the open; clean enough given the location. James knew that it wasn't his lodgings, he didn't have any-he'd lived in the tavern until he'd run out of money and then he'd bummed around from tavern to tavern, sleeping in alleyways and on the beach, until the locals chased him off and then he'd taken to wandering in a drunken haze from one corner to the next.

"I don't ken what's makin' ye blush like a green lad," Scarlet finished combing her hair and began pinning it back into place, "ye certainly weren't earlier, though ye were plenty red faced, from the drinking and the fu-."

"What," James interrupted her but had to pause, his voice rough even to his own ears, sounding as if it were coming from a stranger, "are you talking about woman?"

Scarlet stopped pinning her hair and turned in the chair to level a hard gaze on James, "Don't e'en dare try to swindle me outta my money, ye damn washout of a man. I gave ye what ye came for, and I gave plenty good, what with also havin' to put up with yer drunkenness and filthy ways." She gestured to his vomit filled hat. "If ye try to get outta here without payin' I'll cut ye." She suddenly withdrew a rather long knife from seemingly no where and held it steady in James' direction. "Cut ye so ye'll never cheat a poor gal outta her money again, nor have the desire to."

It took James a few moments to put it all together but once he did he felt the need to vomit again. He felt as filthy as his hat and as his hat was filled, and his boots were too far away, he merely leaned to the side and vomited on the floor, ignoring Scarlet's protestations and cursing. He must've blacked out slightly as when he came to again he was being carried down a narrow corridor by two massive blacks, with Scarlet screaming at him from behind them. He had but a moment to comprehend all this before he was weightless and then falling. With a sharp cry of pain and shock, he landed in the mud outside the brothel, his filth filled hat thrown after him. He had no clothes, aside from his skivvies, and no boots, no money, and no where to go.

"Missin' somethin' laddie?" A passing man, aged by the sea, snickered at him.

James resisted the urge to merely curl up into a ball and hope to be washed away with the rain that had begun to fall. He knew he'd not be lucky enough for such a thing. Instead, he staggered to his feet and began to wind his way through the streets and alleys to the only place he knew would welcome him: Davy Jones' Locker.

Hope dropped the kettle and turned to face the intruders with one hand over her heart and the other grabbing for the pistol she kept strapped to her side-a recent addition to her daily wardrobe thanks in part to an accosting by drunken sailors some weeks prior. Instead of finding violent thieves, she instead found herself staring at her cousin Devlin, soaked through, holding an equally soaking wet man, who appeared to be unconscious-at least he looked that way in the lamplight.

"What on earth, Devlin?" Hope quickly moved forward and pulled out one of the kitchen chairs for Devlin to drop the man into before she moved past him to shut and bolt the door. "What's happened? Who is he?"

Devlin pulled his great coat and frock off, the rain droplets running off in rivulets, as he replied, "Ishmael and I had just pulled into dock when I spotted this fellow out in the surf. He looked to be struggling to stay afloat before suddenly he stopped moving and went under." He sat down on the chair opposite the slumped man while Hope moved to one of the back rooms to retrieve a blanket. Devlin shucked off his boots and worked at his waist coat and belt, speaking loudly so that she could hear, "I couldn't very well leave the man to drown, so Ishmael and I put out again in our skip and together we fished him out."

"While I appreciate your sense of Christian duty, and that it hasn't been lost even after we've been here so long," Hope returned with blanket and a nightdress in tow, "I do wonder why you felt the need to bring him here. You know how SHE feels about outsiders coming here."

Devlin looked at the blanket and nightdress and raised an eyebrow, "Are you planning on having me undress him after all the work I went through to get him up here?" Up was most definitely not said lightly. The location choice of their home, high in the hills and well away from the chaos of the port town, had been purposeful and had thus far protected them.

"Of course not," Hope set the items on the table before turning back to the unconscious man, "I have every intention of doing it myself. I've had plenty of practice at the mission and am fully capable, though how hard will it be since he's only wearing skivvies?" To prove her point she hoisted the man into a better sitting position and began to pick at the hair that was plastered to his face with sea grime. "If you could refill the kettle and put it on the stove though, that'd be grand. I'll need to clean him up a bit before I put him to bed. He's a complete mess."

Devlin grunted in agreement, as he wasn't feeling too clean himself after a day's work and the added chaos of rescuing the man, and moved to do as his cousin bade. He filled a bowl with water and set it on the table, along with a rag, for Hope's use, before he started towards his own bedroom. He was stopped halfway when Hope called his name. He turned to look at her but found she'd spoke over her shoulder, her focus now entirely on cleaning up the strange, still unconscious man.

"You never did explain why you brought him here."

"Oh," Devlin scratched the back of his neck and then eyed the dirt under his fingers when he brought it back in front of his face, "after I pulled up onto the skip he started moaning out a name. I didn't know what it was at first but once I got real close I could just pick it out." He turned and feigned an attempt on his room again, knowing that the lack of a full answer would frustrate his cousin-old habits refused to leave completely even after the tragedies they'd lived through.

"What was the name?" Hope glared at him over her shoulder and Devlin had to hide his smile.

"Ashlynne." He nodded towards the man who, as if to prove Devlin's story, stirred just enough to start moaning the name again, as if it were a prayer.