A/N: Apologies for the long delay in updates. Blasted real life and my ongoing job search have cut into my free time more than I like. Here's the next chapter now that my muse decided to visit for the weekend. I promise the next one won't be far behind! :)

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Chapter Thirty-six ~*~

--

Starkey approached with Roberts, Cook and Durgin as they emerged from the chaos in the Faithful Bride. "Here you go, Cap'n," he said, handing over the sword he'd retrieved from where Hector had dropped it near the bar.

"Thankee kindly, Master Starkey," Hector said, hanging it at his hip. "What say ye to waitin' fer Harlow on board the ship? I believe we have a fair enough supply of fine rum fer the rest of the evenin'."

All of the others readily agreed that it would be best to leave the vicinity of the Bride, and they made their way back to the Wicked Wench.

Laughing and joking about the events in the tavern, Hector and the others managed to climb aboard the ship, heading for the cabin to do a bit more drinking. In the middle of placing bets with Turk as to whether or not Harlow came back to the ship that evening or in the morning, both drew up abruptly as they entered the cabin and were greeted with a round of pistol hammers being cocked.

Instantly sober, it took them only a moment to see that seven armed pirates had been waiting for them just inside the door, accompanied by one more who sat at the captain's table.

"Evenin', gentlemen," the last one spoke, and Hector's blood ran cold when he recognized that it was Hawkeye Hartwell sitting in his chair.

--

Barbossa's fists clenched as he realized just who it was that addressed him from his own chair, and his expression hardened instantly. "What are ye doin' aboard me ship, Hartwell?" he sneered, obviously unhappy.

"Your ship?" Hartwell asked, not moving from his seat. "This ship belonged to the East India Trading Company last I knew."

"Well, yer a bit behind the times then, Hartwell," Turk chimed in. "This here ship belongs to Barbossa. It were commandeered fair 'n square."

Hartwell quirked the eyebrow above his remaining eye upward. "Ah, you mean that subtle piece of work where you all managed to destroy half of Malagueña and set Beckett off on a rampage against all pirates in these waters? Yes, I heard about that – nicely done, gentlemen...you have yourselves a ship and now half of the Royal navy is patrolling the best shipping lanes."

Hartwell stood up and walked around the table to where Barbossa, Turk and the other four were standing, being held at gunpoint. "Shame that Morgan didn't send a more experienced pirate to commandeer this ship."

"More experienced, like yerself?" Barbossa snarled. "Ye'd have taken the Arabesque like the fine arse-kisser ye'd be to Morgan, and not have had the stones to take this lass here."

Hartwell came closer and stared Barbossa down for a long moment, his irritation masked, but his dislike for Hector quite apparent still. "Is it just me, Barbossa," he said in a dangerous low voice, "or are you the one who should currently be minding his manners?" He glanced meaningfully at the handful of loaded pistols pointed at Barbossa.

Undaunted by Hartwell's threat, Hector snarled back in reply. "Since when does a whoreson maggot like you concern yerself with manners? If yeh did, ye'd have not come aboard my ship uninvited."

Hartwell stared Barbossa down for another second or two, and then opting not to reply, changed the subject. "Morgan sent me to find you and deliver a message. He wants you to bring his ship back to Port Royal."

Barbossa ignored Hartwell's less than subtle implication that the Wicked Wench was Morgan's and not his. "What does he want? His last instructions were to make the ship scarce an' find meself a decent crew."

Hartwell motioned for the guns pointed at Barbossa's men to be lowered, and he relayed what Morgan had told him. "Morgan wants another ship to help with the blockade in Jamaica," he explained evenly. "He's recalled my ship, as well as Thomas, Kent, Averill, and McKendry."

"Blockade?" Turk asked, getting Hartwell's attention.

"Yes, Mr. Turk, blockade. While the handful of ships the navy has are out patrolling the shipping lanes for pirates, the Brethren will be ensuring that no ship leaves Port Royal in the immediate future," Hartwell explained.

"Especially any belongin' to the Company, I'll wager," Hector replied, understanding immediately what Morgan was up to. "'Twill be Morgan's way of puttin' another sting in Beckett's arse, aye?"

"Aye," Harwell replied, "and a more subtle one than your destruction of Malagueña, Barbossa. You'd do well to learn the art of subtlety from Captain Morgan."

"And ye'd do well to learn a bit of manners from 'im," Hector snarled quietly. "If there be nothin' else, I'd be most obliged if ye'd get yer own arse off my ship."

Hartwell regarded Barbossa coolly for another moment, and then without a word, beckoned to his men and strode out of the cabin.

"Gah! I hate that gutless snake," Turk complained once Hartwell had gone. "I don't trust him, and I don't see why Morgan does."

Hector had already moved onto other matters as the others murmured their concurrence with Turk's comment. "We need to prepare the ship tonight, Starkey," he said. "See to it we're ready to sail at first light."

"Aye, Captain," Starkey said, and he left with the others in tow, leaving only Turk behind.

Turk frowned and addressed his captain. "So what happens if them navy ships decide to head back to Port Royal while we happen to be in the area?"

Hector smiled grimly at him. "I reckon that's why Morgan has called back some of the Brethren from the Spanish Main," he said wryly. "Kent sails with two hundred men, and McKendry as well. Averill owes Morgan a debt, otherwise that blood-thirsty son of a whore'd still be ravagin' the coast near Puerto Bello fer fun."

"Two hundred men, eh?" Turk replied, obviously impressed. "How many poor bastards we have to our name?"

Barbossa shrugged and smiled a bit sheepishly. "Thirty-seven."

Turk clapped him on the shoulder and went to help Harlow prepare the ship. "Well, it's not the size of the crew that counts, it's the number of arses we kick in the end, ain't it?"

Barbossa smirked. "Yer sayin' that size doesn't matter, are ye?"

"Nah, that's bullshit and yeh know it." Turk grinned and winked at him, and then ducked out of the cabin.

--

Henry Morgan sat as his desk, dressed in his finest coat and busy writing. He was in the process of making himself some notes about what he wanted to say that afternoon in the speech he was going to give, and his mind had started wandering to other matters.

Trying to figure out the exact best way to phase what he wanted to say, he leaned back in his fine mahogany chair and gazed out the window that overlooked some of the town and the harbor. There sat two ships –the Goshawk; single remaining defender of the port, and the Oxford, now employed in guarding the fine citizens of Port Royal as well.

Of course, as far as those fine citizens were concerned, that had ever been all the Oxford had been employed for. He knew better, but that didn't mean that any of them needed to be informed of such matters. The governor and the magistrates of the town were currently feeling profoundly indebted to him once again, seeing as how their grand navy had sent all five other ships out to look for pirates, leaving Port Royal vulnerable. And lo and behold, pirates had decided to take advantage of the fortuitous circumstances, and set a blockade of the town, essentially holding it hostage. As former lieutenant governor and defender of Jamaica, he'd instantly volunteered his precious Oxford to help protect her from those scurvy brigands, alongside the lone Goshawk.

In fact, the governor and other officials had felt so indebted to him for his past fine service in the name of His Majesty and the good people of Jamaica, that they were naming the new fort after him at the dedication ceremony this very afternoon. Fort Morgan had such a lovely ring to it, he thought, smirking to himself.

If they ever knew that the presence of the four ships of buccaneers holding the town hostage was actually his doing...

He smiled at the thought, and then mentally corrected himself. It was five ships now that Barbossa and his small but fiercely loyal crew had made it back from Tortuga in that fantastic ship he'd commandeered. True, when he'd sent Barbossa to take the Arabesque, he'd known that no pirate worth his salt would be able to pass up the temptation of the far superior ship, and from what he could tell, Barbossa was shaping up to be worth his weight in much more than salt.

His intent had been to rile the Company, and in turn the navy, so that they might leave to pursue the brigands who had stolen the finest ship this side of the Atlantic, and the devastation Barbossa and his crew had wrought was just an unexpected but advantageous bonus. Just as he had wagered, Charles Beckett had nearly gone off the deep end, and every last ship of the small Jamaican fleet was out searching for the beautiful stolen ship and Barbossa.

Who was actually on board said ship, which was stationed not half a mile offshore, not far from McKendry's vessel, seeing to it that no ship either left or entered Port Royal harbor.

Morgan caught movement below the window out of the corner of his eye, and leaned forward to see who it was that was approaching the mansion. Another smirk crossed his face, and he leaned back from the window, not wanting to be seen watching his approaching visitor.

Judging by the way Charles Beckett was currently storming up his walkway, he was fit to be tied. Just the fact that Beckett had decided to get off his arse and come in person, was a testament to how irritated the man must be.

Perfect. Let him be irritated –the more the better.

It was only a minute after the distant knock on the front entrance that another brief but sharp rap came on his study door, and it burst opened. Beckett didn't even wait to be announced, and brusquely pushed past the flustered servant trying in vain to notify Morgan he had a visitor.

"This is your doing!" he said, barging into the room, hat still on his head and fists clenched.

Morgan silently gesture for his ruffled servant to leave, and now irritated himself, the man shot a curt look at Beckett and shut the door.

"Charles," Morgan said cordially, remaining composed as he stood, despite the fact that the man standing before his desk was clearly not.

"Don't you Charles me, Morgan," Beckett spat acidly. "In know this is your doing –you put them up to this!"

"I don't quite follow you, Charles," Morgan said placidly. "I put who up to what, exactly?"

"The pirates!" Beckett snarled, even more agitated.

"The pirates?" Morgan said, remaining cool, but rather enjoying the way the small vein in Beckett's forehead was bulging.

Beckett slammed a fist on his desk. "Don't even think for a minute that you can pass this off as coincidence to me! I'm not blind like that idiot the governor, or any of those other fawning prats who worship the ground you walk on."

"Fawning prats? That's rather harsh, don't you think, Charles? Just because they wouldn't heed my protests to name the fort after someone more deserving..."

The vein in Beckett's forehead darkened further as he became incensed. "I'm not talking about the bloody fort, Morgan. I'm talking about your pirates! They're ruining my business! I can't bloody get a ship in or out of the harbor, thanks to you!"

"Thanks to me?" Morgan asked, taking on an air that was the perfect measure of indignation and bafflement. "Just what are you insinuating, Charles?"

"I'm not insinuating anything, Morgan. I'm flat out telling you that I know you put those dirty rogues up to this, and I want an end of it!"

Morgan waived him off, acting annoyed and insulted and sat back in his chair. "I'm wounded that you'd think such a thing of me. Am I not defending your interests at the moment with my very own ship?"

Beckett frowned, still suspicious and irate. "I don't care what you say – all of this is your doing. You put that blockade in place. You stole my ship!"

"Stole your ship?" Morgan repeated, now letting his expression darken. "I have never stolen a ship in my life. Why would I possibly need to steal a ship? Clearly I have my own." He gestured out the window to where the Oxford's masts could be seen in the harbor.

"You put Barbossa up to it!" Beckett spat.

Morgan frowned and then looked as if realization had dawned. "Ah," he said, now appearing to calm down. "Is that what this is about?"

"And the blockade!" Beckett added.

"Yes, well, I don't blame you for being agitated about your ship...what's it called, the Windy something?"

"The Wicked Wench," Beckett snarled back, "and she cost me a fortune to have built! She hadn't even been properly christened before your lackey ripped her from her moorings and made off with her."

Morgan looked contrite. "I do apologize for what Barbossa has done, but alas, it was not my doing. I have no control over what he does anymore. A shame it is that he left the crew of the Oxford for this apparent streak of piracy. Such a fine privateer he would have made..." Morgan trailed off, seeming genuinely regretful.

Beckett let his ire drop off a notch, although he still sounded plenty skeptical. "So, you're saying you didn't put him up to stealing my ship?"

"I swear to you, Charles, that I never told him to steal the...what did you say she was called, the Wicked Witch?" Morgan asked.

"Wicked Wench," Beckett correct again, still annoyed.

Which was completely and totally true, Morgan thought as he watched Charles apparently start to become at least partially convinced. He'd actually instructed Barbossa to steal the Arabesque, but that was a tiny detail he thought that Charles could live without.

"And what about those pirate ships?" Beckett asked pointedly.

"I'm doing my best to get the captain of the Rising Sun to negotiate," Morgan said with a heartfelt sigh.

"Interesting that the pirates will negotiate with you, and not with my envoy," Beckett said, a measure of vague accusation still in his manner.

"Apparently the fact that your envoy, Webster, was arrogant and rude didn't help your cause at all," Morgan said sternly. "All you did was offend them and hurt our chances of resolving this peacefully."

Beckett said nothing in reply. The fact that the unfortunate Webster had returned without his head and adorned with the words 'piss off' carved into his chest, had said volumes about how negotiations with Captain Averill were likely to fare. Webster's head, from what he'd been told, was now a morbid trophy hanging from a yard of the Rising Sun.

"Respect is what is needed here, Charles. These men, and especially these captains, want acknowledgement of the fact that they're in charge," Morgan explained. "Diplomacy and compromise are called for at this point, if we want to avoid the unpleasantness of a naval skirmish in the very harbor of Port Royal."

"And how do you propose we go about arranging this...compromise?" Beckett asked, acting as if the word tasted bad.

"I have arranged to go in person at sundown tomorrow to meet with the captains of the five ships aboard the Rising Sun," Morgan replied evenly. "We need to find out what it is they want and see about meeting their demands."

"Don't you think that's a bit risky?" Beckett asked, scrutinizing Morgan carefully.

Morgan nodded. "But something must be done. We can't afford to just sit and wait and hope the other navy vessels might arrive back in time. I do hope to avoid any more loss of life," he added, "including my own." He smiled wryly.

--

Morgan had seen Beckett out, and although the irritated man still remained suspicious, he'd evidently decided to play along for the moment, understanding that pirate or not, Morgan was his best hope for eliminating the blockade anytime soon. While Morgan already knew, in detail, what the Brethren would demand, since the demands were actually his own to by issued by proxy, he knew he had to pull off the charade of negotiating with the very men he had ordered back from the Spanish Main.

--

Hector paced back and forth agitatedly across the deck of the Wicked Wench, periodically scrutinizing the docks and the shore of Tortuga as he grew more annoyed. He'd planned on leaving at daybreak, and even though it was nearly noon, there'd been no sign of Harlow.

He glanced at Turk as the bo'sun approached. "Any sign of him?" he asked, seething.

Turk shook his head. "Nah, couldn't find hide nor hair of 'im. I'll bet he's still asleep next to that pretty little Meredith."

"A fine time he picked to get laid," Barbossa snarled quietly, scrutinizing the shore for signs of his first mate once again.

"Cut 'im a break, Hector," Turk said with soft amusement. "It's not everyday a bloke falls in love."

Barbossa quietly sneered. "I'll cut him a break, sure enough –I'll break his fingers if he's not here in the next ten bloody minutes."

"Well, then he's in luck," Turk said with a smirk, nodding his head toward shore, where a very frazzled Harlow was hurrying toward the ship, carrying a bundle in his arms.

When he made it on deck he came face to face with Hector, who stood there with his arms folded across his chest and an unblinking steel gaze fastened on Harlow. "Yer late, Thomas," was all he said before walking off, but it was enough to convey just exactly how displeased he was with his wayward first mate.

Turk stood there grinning. "Have a good night, did yeh, yeh old dog? Had to sleep in a bit this morning...or were yeh busy uncrossing that serving girl's legs again?"

Harlow became annoyed at that point, and headed aft with Turk in tow, clearly looking for details. "You know," he said, still hugging the black bundle he carried in his arms to his chest, "just because you feel the need to ask me, does not mean that I feel the need to answer you."

Turk scrutinized Harlow carefully and then grinned again. "Yeh didn't get any, did yeh?"

"It's none of your business," Harlow replied curtly.

"No, that's it. Yeh didn't get anywhere with that sweet little thing, did yeh?" Turk asked, persisting in grilling his friend mercilessly.

Harlow came to a dead stop and turned and faced Turk, clearly serious and quite annoyed. "Look, mate. There are some women that you just don't do something as stupid as trying to get under their skirt the first evening you spend time with them. As far as I'm concerned, Meredith is one of them."

Turk would have liked to have teased his shipmate more, but Harlow appeared dead serious and quite sincere, and he knew better than to say anything else. "Yeh really like her, don't yeh?" he asked softly.

"Aye," Harlow said, his manner more relaxed once he knew Turk was letting up on him. "Spent the whole night talking to her about everything you can imagine. She's really smart, she's funny, she's pretty, she..."

"Has nice tits," Turk interjected, causing Harlow to smile at last.

"Aye, that too," Harlow replied, grinning.

"And best of all she seems to like yer sorry arse," Turk continued.

"Exactly," Harlow replied, laughing a bit.

"So what the fuck yeh got there anyway, mate?" Turk asked, gesturing at the bundle that Harlow carried. "I thought maybe yeh'd pulled a Barbossa and stolen the girl's dress."

Harlow shook his head, and then gave Turk a mischievous smile. "One other thing about Meredith," he said, "is she's an amazing seamstress. Took her all night while we talked to finish this...it's why I was so damn late."

Turk looked at the black bundle with curiosity. "So, what is it?"

Harlow looked nothing if not smug at that point. "Let's just say that Barbossa will be a lot less annoyed that I was late once he sees this."

--