Author's Note: Bit longer chapter for you all here. Sorry I haven't updated recently, I've been pretty busy, but here it is. Enjoy and review please!

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"I don't know much other than the fact that these pirates are afraid. They're afraid that someone'll find them out. So they went out and killed them. But some survived, and now they're being hunted down."

Weatherby nodded slowly, and looked out the window idly. Another night filled with meaningless reports, obscure and unchanging. "Who is behind this?"

The dark haired man shrugged. "I can't glean that out of anyone. They say it's Barbossa, but if that had been the case, then it should have ended with his death."

It is my opinion Sir, that the attack of the Black Pearl on Port Royale could not have been possible without additional knowledge and guidance. The aforementioned could only logically come from a man who's studied military warfare…

Another riddle, another lead that proved less than desired. The man was right, it was Barbossa, but he wrote the likes of Lieutenant Groves for help. He could have written any number of men, so how could it be investigated without raising suspicion? Weatherby's eyes flicked to the man sitting before him.

The man fidgeted in his seat, and cleared his throat before continuing. "I would suggest however, that you grant whatever clemency you can to Jack Sparrow."

Weatherby frowned and suppressed a snort. A veritable marked man, eh?

"It all goes back to the Black Pearl incident. Someone helped them out, and now they don't want to be found out. Jack Sparrow was against Barbossa the entire time, maybe there was more than one reason why Barbossa wanted Sparrow dead."

Maybe there was more than one reason why our Navy boys wanted him captured.

"It's also been noted that the one Lieutenant, the one with his picture on the bills, spent a lot of time in the taverns before the attack on the Dauntless, but they don't know why"

The man sat there, looking at Swann expectantly and Weatherby felt his senses prick. This man was a spy, and although it was for a good purpose he still could not suppress a slight feeling of loathing for the man. He had a full complement of spies at his hand, and how easy it would be to sell such valuable services. Weatherby wondered how strong his loyalty was, or rather where exactly did it lie.

"That will be all. Contact me when you have something… useful."

---

A cold weight had settled into her chest, one that she could not dispel for the life of her. Her heartbeat resounded in her ears, growing faster and faster, louder and louder. Ever since the night at the cemetery she walked about as if on tenterhooks. She laughed ruefully at herself, for letting the dark night play on her emotions, her wishes. It would not happen again, not tonight.

Charlotte looked about anxiously, feeling completely out of place in her new surroundings. The outfit that Paul had secured for her was something that Charlotte could only assume was picked up off a tavern wench in the famed Tortuga. Her hair was piled up lazily, and she wore rouge for the first time although she hardly needed it, the shame creeping up on her cheeks, making them a pronounced red. Paul shot her another disapproving glance. Ah yes. Women of her "sort" weren't ever supposed to be ashamed, they were supposed to flaunt it.

Could one of the people in this tavern been responsible for the attack? Charlotte looked around, as if the guilty face would be marked somehow. Paul looked over at her impatiently and she shuffled forward haughtily. Together, they wove their way through the crowds to the back corner.

"He's a member of the crew, Gibbs I think. Try to befriend him." He leaned in and muttered.

"Befriend him?" She paused, and shot him a withering sidelong glance.

Paul blushed as he tried to explain in a manner befitting his mistress. He started gesticulating, but that only seemed to confuse Charlotte more. "Well I don't know how you women do it. You know, be friendly to him."

At that moment she truly considered wringing Paul's neck, but they were acutely aware that they were being watched by the man in question. Gibbs turned out to be an older man, ruddy in cheek and a face that betrayed a certain joviality. Charlotte took this as a sign and tried to smile at him becomingly, but he only regarded her suspiciously.

"We're looking for Jack Sparrow. Do you know him, Mr. Gibbs?" Charlotte looked at young Paul, his high forehead and distinguished nose giving him an added severity to his tone.

Gibbs smirked at the young man, and his Cheshire grin unfolded. "That be Cap'n Sparrow to ye."

Stevens smiled pleasantly, his violet eyes mild and apparently unassuming. "My apologies, Mr. Gibbs. We were wondering where we might find Captain Jack Sparrow."

Charlotte watched with trepidation as she saw the man's face falter just slightly, betraying a certain loyalty and uneasiness that made her worry. Inching closer to the man, she tried to arch her back a bit and pout as she'd seen Elizabeth do before. Gibbs eyed her warily, a small smile playing on the corners of his lips.

Paul was losing patience however, and somewhere in the depths of a pocket she could hear the firm jingle of change.

"We seek your help." Paul leveled his eyes with the man, fixing him with piercing violet eyes.

Clink. A small spray of gold skidded across the table in front of Gibbs.

She saw a slight ember of suspicion ignite from Gibb's eye, but he quickly averted his gaze.

Paul leaned forward on the table, and his voice lowered silkily. "We care naught who you are, or what you've been doing. We're looking for Captain Sparrow. We need information about James Norrington. Or the people responsible for the attack."

Clink. The spray turned into a wave that washed up to Gibbs's fingertips. He was not moved however, and placidly folded his arms across his barrel chest.

"Jesus, that's the third one. Does the man have gold balls o' summat?" It was so quiet, so firmly uttered underbreath that Charlotte thought she was mistaken at first, and she jerked her head at Gibbs. He had recovered his tongue and sat there seemingly uninterested.

"I've got more'n enough money, boy."

Paul sat up straighter and lifted his chin. Charlotte edged forward as well, afraid that Stevens would utter something regrettable in light of the injury Gibbs served him.

He looked down at his hands a moment, composing his words before looking up. Paul smiled, imitating that Cheshire smirk. "Oh yes, you do. So does Captain Sparrow. But not all the treasure is in silver and gold, eh? Revenge is often a sweet substitute, no? Do you see where I'm going with this?"

Gibbs narrowed his eyes, and his jaw set in a hard line.

Paul leaned back and smiled pleasantly. "Ah good, we have an understanding. For you see, all I have to do is whisper to the Governor that I think its Captain Sparrow. They don't care who it is, they just need a head to stick in the noose, y'know. Now personally, I've got to admire Captain Sparrow and his daring. But that's not what's going to save him this time."

"We keep to the code, 'ere." Gibbs responded nonchalantly, and in turn took a small nip from his tankard.

Paul had rose and sat himself leisurely on the corner of the table, pretending to pick at a scab. "I think not. We were there at the battlements. Didn't look like much of the 'code' there. So tell me, d'ya think Captain Sparrow is a dangler?"

Charlotte watched, enraptured in the perverse conversation. That man, Gibbs certainly held some notion of loyalty and his sideburns bristled at the comment. Paul leaned forward, suddenly all angles rather than the leisure he had previously exhibited. He grinned mischievously, his violet eyes sparkling with a canine appetite. Charlotte shuddered slightly to think what would have become of the boy had James not taken him in.

"So are you ready to talk, pirate?" He asked silkily, toying with a gold piece idly.

Gibbs took a long swig from the tankard and slammed it down in finality. "Listen 'ere. Cap'n Sparrow's gone. 'e figured someone would try somethin' an' e's gone. 'n you two couldn' fool anyone. This ain't no game, kids."

Charlotte dropped all pretence and grabbed his sleeve. "Who were the others? Who else came to you?"

Gibbs looked at her strangely, and his lips flattened into a straight line.

"Mrs. Turner hopes you've changed your mind about women on ships, even miniature ones." It was something from the deep recesses of her mind- a nearly forgotten conversation, and she was grasping at straws, a last vain attempt to secure some sort of trust.

He frowned still but sighed. "Snotty redhead no more convincin' than you an' a dark haired bloke. Now leave before you catch the wrong person's eye."

---

James sat on the back steps to the tavern, playing with the miniature in his hand. The moon was large that night, and seemed so close one could touch it. It was a warm night, telling of the upcoming season and the probable hurricanes with it. He had returned to the cemetery after everyone had retired for the night or otherwise passed out. It had become a habit of his to go there when he was frustrated, and it came as a great shock when he found his wife there. Well, the miniature of her at least. The gold reflected sharply against the milky beams of light and he gently touched the portrait.

Did she understand, did she know he was still alive? If he were to see her, would she run up to him and embrace him or would she just stand there?

He snorted to himself and chuckled. It was ridiculous. He was dreaming, thinking of things so far away from present that he was in danger of never returning to that life.

The remaining men were still buried deep within the more infamous parts of the city. They had all decided to take the risk and remain where there were more people for they would still be afforded some anonymity. Murtogg and Mullroy were still in the hills, and he had stopped by their old campsite with a small package of willow bark a few days past for Mullroy. He was slowly recovering, but James did not like his progress. Truthfully James feared the man's death.

Months had passed and James was still no closer to the identity or identities of the people in question. Furthermore, in a few days a promotion ceremony would be held and a new Commodore officially installed.

James ran a hand through his long hair, a light brown now thanks to the unmerciful sun. A few days past, James caught a reflection of himself in a water bucket and could scarcely recognize himself. His hands and arms were rough and tanned, displaying fierce pink and white slashes from various scuffles and accidents and his face was in large part obscured by a craggy beard, dark and uneven.

He had talked to that man Gibbs the other night. A good man for the most part, but too fond of the drink, which would explain his absence from the Navy. It was no secret to James the loyalty Gibbs observed for his Captain, Sparrow and James needed to talk to the famed pirate. He knew that Jack Sparrow, for whatever his crimes, could not be complicit in the attacks. From what James knew of Barbossa, a large fault developed between Sparrow and himself and for ten years hence they fought to frustrate the other.

The left flank had fallen the night of the attack on Port Royale. Cannon had been trained on the city and a flank attack ordered. Those weren't standard pirate practices. They were well thought out, planned and orchestrated. Pirates normally just blindly hacked away until either they fell or their enemies did. James was left on the battlements that night, shouting out orders to gun crews where he should have been at his headquarters, receiving reports from scouts and messengers, from the few small "detachments" if you will, of men that the Crown had afforded him. He should have been able to see everything that went on.

In the dark, amidst the rolling fog and the jungle which the men encountered the pirates, they were no match. The pirates kept to more than 100 yards away from them. They somehow knew. That was the critical point where muskets became useless. It was considered average if a tenth of the men fell after the volley, but when you had a few scared men in the fog opposing pirates with cannon it quickly eroded their confidence. The pirates recognized the orders, the commands as the line was called to.

All so well thought out, all so well planned that it was over before they had even started. So much disorganization and panic at the military end. It was a foe that knew their secrets, their battle maneuvers. But where?

It had to be a military man or someone connected with the military. He had briefly considered some woman in a lover's tryst willing to sneak a training manual or something of that nature, but he dismissed it just as quickly. The actions made by the pirates were too complicated to learn straight from a manual, supposing that they could read which he very much doubted.

With that concluded, that left James with the possibility of practically every man in Port Royale. It could start with a midshipman on up, even he supposed, to the Governor himself. James felt a tinge of remorse and guilt lance through his heart. These were all men he implicitly trusted, men he had worked alongside and to suppose that one of them was the traitor was unthinkable and yet the only solution.

James stood up working away stiffness and pain in his limbs. Miss Rachel indeed put him to work at the heaviest and most grueling of chores and although he didn't mind it, he soon discovered that he wasn't as well suited to those jobs as much as he would have preferred. He paced the length of the little garden, wary of the moon and stars knowing that dawn would approach sooner than he'd prefer.

He wasn't elucidating anything by talking to people. All Gibbs could tell him was that Sparrow knew that something, some sort of deal had been made, probably for a sum of the money from La Isla de Muerta. The isle of the dead. How prophetic. It still rankled him that Sparrow knew of this, even this small amount and did not deign to tell anyone while incarcerated. He supposed that he was just waiting for the "opportune" moment. What was done was done and James grudgingly had to admit that he needed all the help he could get. He still did not trust Sparrow nor believed him to truly help him fully but it was a start, a gleaning of hope that James firmly clung to. With that in mind, James had advised the pirates to go to friendlier quarters. They were all marked men, and knew that whoever was after himself and the other crew would also be after Sparrow.

That was until James talked to the network that evening. James had received some money from Sparrow to help him in the search, perhaps a sort of repentance for the loss of the Interceptor which James was only too happy to take. His own meager stack of coins would not buy the ear nor the tongue of the man he sought and it was a blessed relief when Sparrow tossed him the pouch.

No, it wasn't loyalty nor duty to King and Country that influenced men. It was the comfort of a full belly and the pleasant burn of alcohol down the throat that influenced these men.

Andrew Honeywell was his name and was well known to society as a professional drunk. James had met him a few years previous when he tried to become, unsuccessfully, an officer. There was something in that man's air, from his dark hair and eyes to the tactful, measured words that interested James. The man was not wealthy and not necessarily of the aristocracy which proved all the better. It was that man that James sought to start the first network of spies in that quarter of the Empire. Honeywell was given all the resources James could muster and was only paid through good intelligence. They had communicated through letters using templates and on a rare occasion a meeting. He never knew who the other members of the network were in real life, only their code numbers to protect the men further. Lieutenant Groves often served as a liason as well, and had worked actively in the weeks before to find the man.

Technically now that James and Theodore were gone, Honeywell would report to Weatherby directly and James worried that someone on Swann's staff could loose lips. James needed to know what the network knew and he promptly told Honeywell such at a tavern one evening. The man had watched James with his giant dark orb-like eyes while James counted out coin for the man. No, James would not have to worry about Andrew Honeywell, at least until he was out bid.

Honeywell told him that there were still men in Tortuga that were friends of Barbossa. It was those men that Honeywell supposed were responsible for the attacks, which would pose problems as Tortuga was still technically in foreign hands. They were the ones who ruthlessly ran about killing the men, attacking ships etcetera. Honeywell feared however that it was soon turning into a bloodlust. No one was safe, no matter what quarter of the globe you traversed.

James wished he could believe the story but it was too implausible for him. If it were true that these pirates were working alone they would not need to kill the men in the first place. Perhaps James himself, but not the other men. Someone implanted fear into those pirate hearts. There was fear, true uninhibited fear that drove these men to such great heights. After such fear was instilled in the men, they would stop at nothing until it was resolved.

He paced further, his hands behind his back in that classic pose. His heart raced and thoughts whirled about his head. James closed his eyes.

I need to think as that man does, the man that did this. I'm afraid. Afraid of being caught, the shame of it all. I feel…remorse. It was not as I intended. I didn't realize that when you frighten pirates like that that they'll stop at nothing, do anything. They're running around in complete contempt of my wishes, threatening, killing. Their thirst will not be sated until everyone is dead. And I…cannot stop them.

Something must have happened. Something major that caused me to lose faith in people, in things, else I wouldn't have dreamt of this.

I'm someone about society.

James's eyes flew open, and he stopped abruptly. He looked up to the sky, the heavens and gulped.

"No… do you understand what you're asking me to do?" He whispered softly.

James shook his head fervently, and sank on his knees in the soft, damp earth. They were all a quasi family there. Sons, brothers, family. But now that family was irrevocably broken, some dead, some perhaps soon would be. They had been so lucky to survive the pirate attack on Port Royale, but now their luck had finally run out.

I must end this.