Disclaimer: Things that are not mine: Jack, the Black Pearl, etc., profit from this tale. Things that are mine: Anything you don't recognize as belonging to the Mouse.

Chapter 5: Where to Go

Gwen stood at the bow of the ship, watching the gray pre-dawn sky brighten to a violet-tinted blue. She felt for all the world as though she were flying. The wind was in her hair and she could look down at the obsidian waters and feel that she was rushing over the sea on her own power.

Funny, yet even a week ago, she had been standing at this very position on a different ship. She wondered if the Graymere had made it to Port Royal yet or if perhaps the Pearl had already overtaken her by slipping by on a slightly different course. The pirate crew kept assuring her, proudly, that there was no ship faster than the Pearl. She didn't know much about ships, but she did notice that somehow, the Black Pearl seemed to have more sails arranged in a more complicated array than what the Graymere had boasted.

How long had it been? Four days, she believed. She wasn't quite sure. Time didn't seem to matter, though she was of course anticipating her safe return to more civilized company.

Ever since that first night, when she had slept on the deck, leaning against the door to the captain's cabin, she had been allowed to wander the ship at her leisure and free will. At first she had thought that by not causing any sort of trouble, she had won the privilege- for good behavior, as it were. Apparently, Captain Jack hadn't recalled her brash attempt to steal his pistol, and he'd been amused, not angered, when he'd opened his door the next morning and she had fallen back onto his feet in an undignified heap of brown locks and green silk.

The captain had also been kind enough- if one could call it that- to lend her a rug, a pillow, and a blanket. Then he had shown her an empty couple of storerooms for her to pick a place to sleep. She didn't argue with the lack of even a straw mattress because she saw it as an immense improvement to being locked in the brig. It was also infinitely better than sleeping on the main deck, where the handful of red-eye-shift crewmen tramped by every hour or so. At least she had a door she could close.

The captain had assured her, quite seriously (though he had a teasing look to his dark eyes), that he simply didn't see the point in confining her to the brig when she couldn't steal anything and hope to get away with it, she couldn't escape to anywhere but the arms of Poseidon, and there was little chance she'd try to hurt anyone. The important thing, though, he had stressed to her, was that she was safe to roam without bondage because of "the Code." He had added, cryptically, that he had all of his men's signatures, so she needn't worry.

She had since learned more of this "Code." In fact, it had surprised her when she found out that the pirates, these thieves and criminals, outlaws all, actually abided by a written set of rules. One pirate had helpfully informed her that the entire crew had together drafted their own particular Code, unique to the Pearl, after the curse had been lifted and her reinstated captain saved from the noose. The crew had all signed their Code then, and any new crew members they picked up were required to agree to abide under it by signing it as well. Gwen had wanted to ask about the "curse," but let it slide by as seafarers' lore, though she did remain curious about the insinuated rescue of the captain.

The point the captain had been trying to make to her, she finally learned, was that, in accordance with the Code, rape was heavily frowned upon and severely punished. Which also explained his earlier comment about women being useful only if they were "willing."

Gwen actually did take comfort in this Code rule. And the existence of the Code and other such seemingly small matters were beginning to convince her of the humanity still within these scoundrels, a fact she hadn't previously believed she could ever confess about pirates. In some small part she even identified with them. It seemed that, though they certainly were criminals, they were poorly understood by outsiders. She felt a little the same way, if she were honest.

However, while the men were forbidden to touch, they certainly weren't bashful about looking. Ogling, more appropriately put. Two or three men each day were bold enough to tease her and bid her- in speech hardly appropriate- to keep them company through the dread cold of the night, as they put it.

At first Gwen was scandalized by their behavior. But she quickly became accustomed to tolerating the catcalls and longing stares. In fact, she was almost too ashamed to admit it to herself, but she found that, inappropriate or not, she came to have some appreciation for them. The attention rather flattered her, though she was sure she shouldn't admit it.

She had always thought herself plain by society's standards. But these men didn't seem to judge her as plain. They simply liked that she was female, and their simple appreciation was refreshing.

Gwen took a deep breath of the morning sea air to clear her mind of such vain thoughts. And she was immediately grateful again for the ability to draw said breath. She'd managed to cut the ties of her corset and free herself of its bonds with a borrowed slip-knife, borrowed time, and borrowed luck. She had borrowed a knife the captain's quarters, where she dined every evening before retiring to her below-decks storeroom for the night's sleep. She'd found time in his cabin alone with the knife the second evening when he left her in his cabin to go speak with his first mate. She had managed to unfasten her dress, cut off the offending garment, and awkwardly re-button her gown. She had been extremely lucky that the captain hadn't returned in the midst of her struggles while she re-arranged her clothing.

In the end, she was immensely relieved to find that her figure was still accommodated by her sage-green silken gown. She found it somewhat more difficult to button without a corset to cinch and smooth her figure (and admittedly, without any assistance- she almost missed her pair of pesky maids), but far more comfortable, at least. And the corset itself- cursed thing- was left to sort out its own fate out the captain's window. She fancied that it and the brandy were both swallowed by a shark, who spit them back out because of the inherent unsavory natures of both.

Gwen suddenly heard foot-steps behind her, approaching in the leisurely pace she had come to associate with pirates in general- men completely in charge of their own time and interests. She then proceeded to silently praise herself. She had been finding it difficult to abide by her oath to herself that she remain alert and not become too lost in thought during her entire tenure on-board the Black Pearl.

"Gwendolyn, luv, ye awake or not?" Jack asked, trying to catch her attention for the second time.

She turned, unable to keep from looking somewhat crestfallen. She'd missed the first greeting he'd offered because she had been too busy inwardly congratulating herself on not being too lost in thought to hear things. Irony is an unkind interloper at times.

"Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Sparrow?" she asked, returning the greeting. "Captain Sparrow, I'm terribly sorry." She had the grace to offer a sweet smile, with still a touch of a nervous quiver at the corners, to pardon her slip. She knew that the captain liked to be teased and was easier to deal with when he was in an amused mood, but she was still a bit nervous lest she go too far and anger the outlaw.

Jack's eyes flashed as he briefly considered her mistake in forgetting his correct title. He was beginning to entertain the notion that she purposely did such things to irritate him and then hid behind her innocence as an excuse. Jack wafted these thoughts away with a sweeping hand gesture.

"Well, m'lady, he answered, matching her teasing tone, "what did ye fancy helpin' me with?" He offered her a lopsided grin which suggested that he had already thought of several ways she might aid him.

Lest he ask for assistance removing some article of his clothing, Gwen changed the subject quickly.

"I think both my legs and stomach have finally found peace with the sea," she commented, the boring update the first thing she could think to still his innuendos and lustful hints at the unintentional lead she'd given him. She instantly found herself wishing she hadn't mentioned any of her body parts, though.

The captain, thankfully, didn't comment on her physique.

"Almost too late," he observed innocuously. "I was only coming to tell ye, I expect we'll be in Port Royal by noon. P'raps ye might share the names of yer kin so's I might find them?"

The gleam in his narrowed eyes shone of avarice, and she heard the demand concealed in his surprisingly polite request. He was lusting after her ransom now. The pirate and his treasure. And if there was anything she had learned from her discussions with him over evening meals, it was that she didn't want to come between him and what he wanted.

She answered quickly, "Benjamin and Catherine Webster."

But Gwen was almost sorry at his news of the imminent end of their journey to Port Royal. Ever keeping in mind that the man was unlawful, a criminal, a villain, she had come to enjoy their discussions. When she "dined" with him in the evenings, she usually found the most interesting fare offered were his tales and legends. The two had also argued long hours into the night over a good many things the last two evenings in a row. About politics (mostly about the fact that he didn't care for them), about pickpocketing (mostly about the fact that she didn't care for that), and all manner of similar substance and subjects. Although he enjoyed his rum nightly, he was apparently in the habit of rationing it (especially considering how long the Pearl had been out of port) except on special occasions, such as the successful raid of two ships. Apparently, from what Gwen gathered, the captain had still been drunk from his celebration of another ship they'd raided when the crew had spotted the Graymere. His drinking beyond then was in comparative moderation, and he didn't feal asleep while talking to her again past that first night.

Just last night, though, he had asked for a story and she had told him the only pirate tale she knew: the one about Black Bill Jacobs. Jack had listened appreciatively, but had asked her lots of questions about how she knew the tale. She had simply shrugged and insisted that it was his turn. He had refused, claimed to be tired, and shooed her out the door.

Now, Jack, who had paused to watch the fledgling light of the sunrise playing in the water at the horizon, pulled out his compass as a matter of habit. Without bothering to take leave of Gwen, he turned to go back to the helm, studying the wayward needle for a moment or two before remembering its recent malfunctioning. He knew it wasn't exactly supposed to point north (although it sometimes suited its whim to do so). However, while he normally understood well enough what it tried to tell him, or at least well enough to steer by, he didn't completely understand what sort of voodoo enchantments it bore or the tricks it sometimes chose to play. And he certainly wouldn't admit to his crew that his own compass had gotten the best of him. Nor would he let any know that his route to Port Royal was based mostly on instinct, the sun's path, and an exact knowledge of what their position had been before his compass went off- well, more off than usual.

Gwen paid no mind when Captain Sparrow walked off, but her attention was recaptured when she heard his boots retracing their steps.

Jack walked backwards along the same path he had just traversed, staring at his compass. Then he crossed behind Gwen, who spun about in confusion to watch his progress. He turned and walked along the rail, crossing on her other side and finally stopping before her, in the spot where he had stood moments earlier.

Eyebrows lowered, lips pursed, he fixed the compass with a disapproving scowl.

"What is it?" Gwen finally couldn't help asking.

"It's-" Jack paused, shaking his head slightly, setting one string of beads jangling against another. He lowered and stretched out his hand so she could see the face of the device. He waved his hand slowly back and forth in front of her and pointed at the moving needle with his other hand.

"It's pointing at you, luv."