Chapter Two: Shut up and Look Pretty

The venerable brig Atropos, proudly flying French colours, sailed into port earlier that evening, bringing nearly three tons of undeclared cargo and unseasonably bad weather along with it. A slight drizzle was certainly no impedance for the restless crew. Cabin fever had long set in, thanks to a trying expedition originating in Cote D'Ivoire earlier that same month. Provisions were low, morale was wearing thin and the last of the grog had been mistakenly jettisoned off the northern coast of Porto Rico. Being the first port en route of sufficient size, a pit stop in Baracoa was immensely necessary, lest the crew declare an untimely mutiny.

First to disembark the majestic ship, Captain Jacques Henri Briault sneered at his surroundings with disgust. The small Cuban town could have been considered quaint or even charming, had one never ventured to such wonders as Paris, Athens or even London.

"Mon Dieu, even London has more character than this insipid spit of land." Briault mumbled as he fixed a thick-bladed saber in his belt, along with an intricately ornamented pistol.

"Aye, Sir. Of course, Sir." Nigel Belmont, Briault's right hand lackey fiddled with a parasol, trying to keep the Frenchman's freshly pressed silk waistcoat dry as a small mob of sailors followed their captain down the docks. Many of the men merely stood bewildered as they caught their very first glimpse of their captain, a man who, otherwise, kept to himself.

In his youth, Briault was considered a fine looking and gifted young merchant, with aspirations and unusual work ethics the French parliament found both promising and charming. But if the creeping crow's feet at the corners of his eyes and the thin scar across his left cheek were any evidence, those years were long behind him. He'd seen more of this earth than he'd care to admit. Prominent cheekbones flushed out his tanned and sea-worn face, giving him an intense and commanding presence. While he was assured time and time again that he was still 'enigmatically charming', Briault saw his looks as the bane of his occupation. Years on the high seas made him look the one thing he detested most.

He looked common. He looked nothing like the valiant, fearless privateer he knew he was, and he found that most distressing. As the fourth son of a marquise, and of suspect legitimacy, there had been no title and little funds appropriated to him. What wealth and fortune he accumulated over the years was entirely his own doing.

Briault habitually dressed up his common face, his common build and his common brown hair with the most rare and extravagant fineries he could obtain. No colour was too bright, no pattern too overpowering, no wig too curly, no jewelry too ostentatious. Every man, woman and child he came across could not help but lend him their attention as he passed through Baracoa, his entourage of faithful hands falling mere steps behind.

Wrinkling his nose at the smell of a passing shipment of goats, Briault was determined not to let the squalid conditions of the town deter him from this evening's mission:

To get stone dead, shit-faced drunk.

It was a luxury he could only provide himself at rare time like these when he was far away from the prying eyes of his compatriots, the scandalmongering aristocracy. His men were amongst the most trusty, loyal and mindless lemmings the Caribbean had to offer. The less his crew knew about their employer's business practices, the better. Even his second in command, Belmont, an obedient little Protestant chap straight out of London hadn't a clue to his true commerce. The men in his company could not read nor speak a word of French, which had been a primary requirement to board the Atropos. There was nothing he hated worse than to hear his native language murdered by tripping lisping English tongues. Fortunate for him, most could barely read or write in their own native English tongue, let alone French, so that proved no hindrance when he picked up an eager crew in Tortuga naught but a few months ago.

And now, only four days away from making the final and principal trip of the year, Jacques Henri Briault could finally kick up his pointed imported Italian leather boots and relax.

He was grateful that he only made one run a year to the Caribbean, a place he'd otherwise never visit. The travel between France, Cote D'Ivoire and the West Indies had grown monotonous and painstakingly boring over the years. And the risk now presented by a rise of piracy threatened to crush his business. The thought of his ship, or any of his ships in the hands of another man was enough to churn his stomach.

Pushing through the doors of the King's Arm, Briault murmured a joke at the reigning English monarch's expense and scanned the near empty room for the most well lit table the seamy little tavern had to offer. Now was as good a time as any to exhibit his newest outfit: a whirlwind of chartreuse and teal silk from the Far East, tailored by the deftest hand in all of Paris. Surely even the dullest and uncultured of commoners had to recognize masterful craftsmanship when they saw it.

Adjusting his garish feathered hat atop his wigged and powered head, Jacques Henri Briault began what he hoped to be the most drunken and unmemorable night of his life, one tankard of tafia at a time.

Tucked away in the darkest corner the King's Arm had to offer, the radiant red-headed Jack Sparrow and his irritable but nevertheless lovely companion Will Turner had packed away nearly half a dozen tankards of piss-weak rum between the both of them. Long ago, a pact had passed between the two men, unspoken: Shut up and look pretty.

"I swear, mate, they water the shit down just fer nights like these. No self-respectin' man could get drunk offa this rubbish." Jack mumbled for the fifth time that evening, though he however waved a barmaid over to order another free round.

Will rubbed his wrist, sore from fluttering his fan for nearly a full hour straight. "You get what you pay for." He said, unremorsefully.

"Aye, true enough." Jack cracked a toothy grin and then nodded to a large rowdy band of sailors across the tavern. "Though, they seem to be havin' no difficulty gettin' tipsy offa it."

Sighing, Will gave a noncommittal shrug. "What can I say, Jack? Not all men have the fortitude and unending gumption you do when it comes to the pursuit of hard liquors."

"Ha!" The answer seemed to amuse Jack to no end, causing him to let out not only a vociferous laugh, but also a belch to match.

Will could have sworn the table actually shook beneath the breaking winds. Just as he was about to praise his comrade on his superb display of manners, Will felt nearly every last set of eyes the King's Arm had to spare on them.

For what felt like a near solid minute of ice-cold silence and stillness, Will prayed for the floor to come and swallow him up as he shriveled behind his fan.

In a flourish of nimble hand gestures, Jack proceeded to rise from his seat and bow skillfully at the waist, as if accepting a medal of valor from King George himself. "Excuse me." The pirate's squeaky bravado never once wavered as he sat back in his chair, smoothing his skirts.

Laughter erupted from the large party of men, many giving hoots and hollers of praise. A few even jokingly called for another show, but were quickly silenced by a barking command.

A smartly dressed gentleman grimaced across the tavern in the midst of the sailors, his arms folded over his heavily embroidered waistcoat. His haughty stare lingered on the two 'women' for a moment, before he wrinkled his nose with well-bred repugnance and turned aside, disappearing beneath a chartreuse feathered hat.

"Suppose not everyone enjoys such theatrics." Will shrugged, put off by the whole absurdity of the evening. Despite the impotence of his drink, Will felt his body and tongue begin to loosen. Casting an inquiring look over to his uncharacteristically silent mate, Jack looked distant. The pirate's dark brow was fixed in thought or confusion, the latter was by no means was a novel idea to the man.

"I know that face. I know that man." Jack gripped the edge of the worn table, drumming a ringed finger against its top.

Will let out a careless chuckle as he fiddled with the fraying edge of his lacey sleeve. "There's a man under all that? I half expected him to squawk like a peacock."

"Flashy devil, he is. An' a damned familiar one at that." Jack nodded, his dark intelligent eyes keen. "Five, nay, six years ago in Georgia!"

Will coughed. "G-Georgia?" He'd heard bone-chilling stories of Georgia, and it's less than savory inhabitants. England deported most of its surplus criminals, wrongdoers and louts there. No self-respecting Englishman dare step foot out there after what the Spanish did to all those French settlers in Florida years back. "Gads, what were you doing there?"

Jack narrowed his eyes on the flamboyant bar patron, whom had resumed his drinking and sighed. "After a relatively unsuccessful an' fairly drunken evening in Boston that very same June, I served two months of a..." Jack tallied the numbers on his fingers. "...twenty-eight year prison sentence in one o' those penal colony penitentiaries."

"Penitentiary?" Will's eyes widened at the very thought. "Jack-"

"Larceny!" Jack cut him off, then gave him with an apologetic shrug. "P-petty larceny, I swear. I was framed, honest. Cross me heart, hope ta die."

"That man couldn't last a week in jail." Will scoffed, taking a sip from his mug as he eyed the gentleman once more.

"He didn't." Jack said. "That man -Jacques Briault- served naught but two days in the very same prison before they yanked him out."

"They? Wait, who's they? The French?"

"Undoubtedly. Seems the reigning Louis sees Briault as something of a... pet project. Anyhow, I took advantage of the hospitable distraction an' fled out a hole I'd dug through the prison's rottin' foundation with nothin' more than a spoon I fashioned meself from scratch, with hair from me back an'-."

"It's always hair from your back, isn't it?" Will lifted his hand, signaling he had heard more than enough of this tale.

"An abundant resource, to be sure." Jack shot a brief glance behind him, motioning to his backside. "I've considered waxin' it a time or two, but I've grown rather fond'a it over the years."

The blacksmith nearly spat out the rum he only just sipped. "Damnit, Jack! I'm trying to drink!" He garbled around a mouthful of liquor.

"Aww, buck up, mate!" Jack slapped the boy's back, nearly sending a hearty spray of rum across the freshly wiped bar table. "I'll have you know I broke two o' me ribs pushing through that hole in the partition. And never mind that when I finally did get out, I was still in the middle of the bloody fuc-"

"What was he in for?" Will interrupted, wiping his mouth against the back of his hand.

"Briault?" Jack waved his hand about indifferently. "Rumor 'round the cellblock was illicit cargo trafficking." He took a lengthy swallow from his tankard before continuing. "An' as we know, rumor is often more reliable than fact about those parts. Briault was, an' still is a rumrunner. Rather renowned one amongst such connoisseurs as meself. Only exports the finest an' smoothest rum the Caribbean has to offer. None'a this cheap tafia shit." Jack sloshed around the contents of his mug, hissing at it for good measure.

"Rum... runner?" Will once again turned his attention to Briault, sizing him up once again. He surely didn't look the sort to be engaging in illegal trafficking of any kind.

"Aye, duty-free an' direct to your front step. Bless their souls." Jack waved his hand about in drunken reverence, crossing his heart. "Rumor, once again, has it that he comes to the Caribbean but once a year for a trade with the colonies of epic proportions. None of this piddly stuff."

"Why would he trade with the colonies when-"

"Boy, don't you know a damn thing about rum?" Jack lifted his mug, sloshing around its contents. "Molasses, mate! Molasses! It's the ambrosia that makes rum so sweet, so fragrant an' so bleedin' strong. The Colonies are rightly full of the stuff." Jack's voice trailed off, as he looked down at the table. His dark amber eyes glazed over, as they grew cloudy with thought.

"What?"

"What 'what'?" Jack snapped his head up.

"That look." The lad crossed his eyes fleetingly, trying his best to imitate 'the look'. "You only get that look when you're about to say something either incredibly profound or incredibly stupid."

"Which one do you think it is this time?"

"Honestly?"

"Need I remind you I'm the one with the boat?" Jack lifted a finger to further his point.

"Profound."

"Smart boy," said Jack, as he tilted back in his chair with a smug smile. "If Briault is in Cuba, he's in the midst of his annual run and is, no doubt, going to come into a lot of rum. The marvelously expensive sort. I'm talkin' thousands of pounds worth, mate."

The blacksmith patted the side of his blonde wig gently, seemingly more interested in keeping it from toppling over than the conversation at hand. "Your point being?"

Jack gave a dramatic sigh before continuing. "Me point being, Jacques Henri Briault is a rich man who is, in a few days, going to get even richer."

Will lifted a powdered brow. "How is this a point?"

"Rob from the rich, give to the poor, mate. Robin Hood and all that." Jack twirled his hand about.

Will let out a merciful laugh. "You're far from poor. The gold in your mouth alone could purchase and outfit a small country!"

"Not me. You." Jack's eyes sparkled in the dim smoky light. "How do you think you'd feel havin' to borrow money from the coin purse of your father-in-law for the rest of your life?"

"I..." Will was at a loss of words.

"It's only a matter of time before his well of hospitality dries up. Politicians aren't renowned for their... altruism."

Neither are pirates, Will thought but kept to himself. He knew better than to bring up the old 'piracy versus respectable business' argument again. It did little more than make both sides belligerent, particularly when the slightest drop of alcohol was involved.

"An' the baby!" Jack lifted his hands, palm up. "Lizzie's got but a month left before she'll be birthing your first child. You can't tell me that doesn't scare you right shitless."

"Absolutely shitless." Will noted, casting his gaze downward. The sheer weight of Elizabeth being with child had thrilled him as much as it had terrified him. As his wife's smooth and flat stomach had grown, so had his own fears. With a blacksmith's pay, he was just barely able to provide for himself and his wife. And though he was sure his father-in-law would never withdraw his generosity, particularly with a child on the way, Will greatly wished he didn't need to rely upon it. A sore subject, if ever there was one.

"So, c'mon. I owe you a nifty weddin' present anyhow. You've got nothin' ta lose." Jack waggled his brow.

"But... Jack, I've got everything to lose. I'm not a pirate. I'm a bleeding blacksmith." Despite his protests, Jack still looked unconvinced. "Yes, I may have done a bit of... commandeering in the past, but never any outright stealing."

"There's a subtle difference, inn't there?" Jack asked, squinting at him. "See, now the difference between you an' me is that I fought with the devil an' angel inside of me long ago. When all was said an' done, I won." Jack reached into the small bowl beside them, plucking out a nut. Holding it between his teeth, he continued to speak. "You, you're still scrappin' with 'em."

"Jack, I may not be rich, but I don't need to be." Will sighed, ignoring Jack's digressive rambling. "I put in an honest day's work, seven days a week, every last day of the year. That's a reward in and of itself."

Ah, so that's it? His dignity's getting in the way, Jack thought and breathed a relaxed sigh. "How long can a man live on pride an' pride alone? I've said it once, an' I'll say it again: the pirate is in yer blood, boy." Jack grinned as Will mouthed the last few words, glad to see he was paying attention. The boy always seemed raise the devil and the schoolmarm in him. "There's no denyin' you're Bootstrap Bill's son. Try as you may, you look too damn much like him to ever refute that." Jack crunched another roasted nut in his mouth. "An' look! You're sittin' in a tavern with the, an' I mean, the Captain Jack Sparrow-"

"Who is dressed like a woman." Will added.

Jack defended, "Who is dressed like a woman to help get you back on your feet, financially."

"Oh, and I suppose the free drinks were just a...?"

The pirate tilted his head down, timidly. He mumbled softly into his fan, "Well, that was just a fortunate circumstance, really."

Will cast a sharp glare across the table. The pirate was dancing expertly around the subject at hand, a diplomatic habit he employed often enough. How dare Jack, a pirate of all people, take it upon himself to give him charity? Though in truth, Will never refused his father-in-law's financial help, he'd be damned if he'd steal just to gain a loftier station in life. "Robin Hood, my eye! This is your brilliant and foolproof plan? To go after some peacock of a Frenchman's fortune?"

"Plan really isn't the word. Hope is more like it." Jack explained.

"Then you hoped Briault and his ship filled to the brim with your precious rum would be here?" Will asked.

Jack brushed a few crumbs off the table, absently. "Bingo, mate. It's just me dumb luck that he an' I ended up crossing paths once again."

"Okay," Will grunted, as he adjusted his corset. "All preconditions aside, I'm curious. Not that I'd ever be a part of such a foolhardy plan, but how would you ever expect to lift thousands of pounds worth of rum without catching a bullet through your middle?" Will leaned back, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. This ought to be good.

The pirate captain cleared his throat, straightening against the back of his chair. "Well, that's what has me a bit perplexed. You can't just up an' steal that vast amount without bein' detected or at the very least, properly assaulted. But, you see those men over there?" Jack pointed to a particularly rowdy group, who had taken to playing a game of darts. They let out a drunken cheer as they nearly nicked the bar owner with a dart as the poor red-faced man puffed past, a dozen mugs in hand.

Will tilted his chin up in a nod, briefly. "Aye."

"Once upon a time ago when I was just a wee boy, not much older than yourself," Jack cracked a smile as Will rolled his eyes, no doubt protesting to the use of the word 'wee'. "I served before the mast with a number of 'em. Pink Eye Pete, Gorgeous Bjorn Bjornson an' Blowfish Funkmeyer."

Mouthing the last name silently, Will's face puckered in bafflement.

"Don't ask, mate. Jus' don't ask." Jack shook his head, and continued. "They're some of the greediest bastards I've ever served beside, good pirates through and through. Ten to one odds say they're just in it fer the money, no matter who commands the ship."

"Good men are hard to find nowadays." Will mused.

"Good captains are even harder. What do you want ta bet that they've not got the slightest clue they're working fer a slave driver?"

Pausing with his tankard against his lips, Will cast a wary glance Jack's way. "Slave driver? I-I thought you said he was a rumrunner."

"One in the same, mate. One occupation feeds the other, and so on, and so forth." Jack shrugged. "It's a rather vicious time-tested cycle, really. Both are valuable commodities not only in the Caribbean, but Europe as well. A right shame no one ever saw fit to put an end to such an unjust system."

"Jack." Will's voice rose in threat. Damn him for knowing which sympathies to play upon and which buttons to push. The pirate's perceptiveness, a sly tactic to be sure, would likely cause the untimely demise of Will's morale conscience. Damn him.

"The children, mate! Think of the innocent children!" Jack clasped his hands together melodramatically, clutching them against his chest in a pitiful display. "Think about it. You could be somethin' of a modern day Robin Hood." Jack tilted forward in his chair, leaning over the table with a mischievous smirk. "And I could be your faithful companion, Little Jack." The pirate paused, pressing a finger to his lips. "Nay, too diminutive. Big Jack!"

Will buried his head in his hands. "Jack, really. I'm not going to resurrect some hackneyed old wives tale merely because of a grave injustice far bigger than the both of us-"

"Friar Jack?" He blurted aloud, his powdered and painted face twitching with amusement. "That's it! Friar Jack."

Will cracked a smile, despite the urge to continue his protests. "You... a friar? Don't they take vows of celibacy and sobriety?"

Jack reared back with disgust. "Gads, perish that! I suppose the church will have to do without me, so long as women and rum still plague God's green earth."

"Oh, how the heavens weep!" Will laughed into his near empty tankard, draining the last of the tepid liquid.

Jack squinted determinedly at the tabletop. "Then, who's that other fellow? You know, the one with the... the Constable- no, Sheriff! The Sheriff of Jackingham!"

"Oh, come on!" Will struggled to keep a straight face. To laugh now would surely break down every last defense the boy had staunchly in place. "Now you're just being absurd."

"One of me most charming traits, I'm sure of it." Jack's smile faded, as he grew rigid, casting sidelong glances in Briault's direction. "I still plan to take that bastard down. With, or without your help."

His last words reeked with severity. Though he was certainly the chatty sort, Jack was never one to toss around threats idly, and Will was damned aware of that. Jack would do it whether or not he agreed to it. If he did agree, at least he could try to keep the pirate from almost certain doom. "Fine. Just bloody fine." Will gave in, none too pleased with himself or his companion. "What's your plan?"

"Atta boy!" Jack perked up, slapping the wooden table merrily. "I had thought we'd just kidnap the bugger before he makes his drop in Kingston Bay, tuck the poor bastard him away for a bit and be on with it."

"Be on with it?" Will mocked his companion's lightheartedness when it came to criminal activities. "Surely, you're mad if you think you could get away with that under the very nose of the Royal Navy not but a bay away. Stealing a shipload worth of cargo, rum or otherwise, is not a matter of hours, but days, Jack. Maybe weeks." Will's voice lowered to a whisper, as he tossed cautious looks at the group of men "And don't forget this 'they' your Frenchman keeps in close company. No doubt if 'they' freed him from a heavily fortified colonial penitentiary, then they'll have no misgivings against disposing of two meddling Englishmen."

A crafty smile curled Jack's lips, as if he were privy to all the secrets of the ancient world. "Aha, but what if they don't know he's gone missing?"

"Oh, and how do you plan to do that, Captain, my Captain?" Will waved at the foggy smoke pooling around them from a nearby newly lit pipe with his fan.

Jack straightened his back, jutting his proud, well-padded chest forward. "That Frenchman bears a striking resemblance to a certain dashing fellow I believe both you and I know quiet well."

He wouldn't dare, thought Will.

"Heavens, Jack!" Will cried. For fear of being heard, he dropped his voice down. "I dressed up like a bloody harlot just so you could come down and snag a free nightcap! That's a far cry from abducting and impersonating a Frenchmen! And, look at him," Will pointed from behind his still waving fan across the room, where Briault let out a rumbling laugh thanks to the young barmaid planted on his lap. "He's got to be at least a solid fifteen, no, twenty years my senior!"

"Not you, boy!" Jack smacked Will on the forearm with his fan, and then lowered his voice as he leaned across the table for a conspiratorial whisper. "Me."

Author's Note: Stay tuned for hilarity and chaos to ensue! I'll be first to admit I got a tad carried away with this chapter, (Sherriff of Jackingham and Blowfish Funkmeyer, case in point) but I'll be damned if I didn't enjoy every last minute of it. Leave me a review if you've got time. I'd really appreciate it. Thanks!

And on further note, 'tafia' is a cheap, lower quality rum made and consumed domestically. Ah... sweet, sweet history.