Chapter Three: National Insecurity

"Belmont!"

The harsh cry startled the Atropos' first mate from even two solid feet of polished oak away. Stumbling to his feet, Nigel Belmont was barely awake and in no mood to tend to the Captain's demands. Belmont had managed to consume what he imagined was several gallons of Cuban ale in the evening prior. With naught but three hours of sleep, Belmont wasn't entirely sure he wasn't still drunk.

"Aye, Sir!" The young dark-haired Londoner belted back, jumping out of his hammock and into a pair of ill-fitting trousers. He barely had time to shove his rumpled shirt into the waistband of his pants before the Captain shouted a garbled string of exasperated French. With not so much as a glimpse in the passing mirror, Belmont slipped into the cabin adjacent to his. "Captain?"

Jacques Henri Briault was floundering in a sea of blue Egyptian cotton sheets, kicking himself out of goose down bed as he sputtered. "You lout, you were supposed to wake me at dawn! It's as bright as day out there!"

Belmont bit back some choice words, and gathered his wits about him before speaking. "C-Captain, you didn't get in until well after the sun rose." He dug a gilded pocket watch from his trousers, flipping it open. "Half past seven, if memory-"

"Never mind that!" Briault straightened his blindingly bright nightgown, adjusting a matching nightcap atop his slowly thinning head of hair. Heavens, even in bed the man dressed like a bloody circus clown. At least he wasn't in curling papers. Belmont never could keep a straight face around a Frenchman in curlers. "You damn well know how important appointments are! Unlike you dilly-dallying Britons, we must run a tight ship. I make no accommodations for the slightest degree of error."

Apparently the French used the royal we as well. How amusing.

"Aye, Sir." Belmont blurt out before his tongue could spit out a pithy remark. "Tight ship, Sir. Aye, Sir."

"Very well, then." Briault coughed, giving his first mate one last sharp look before turning towards the window. "Alert the sailing master that we'll be setting a course, south-southwest for Port Royale no less than two hours from now. If every man is not aboard and at his station, he will be left. Do I make myself clear?"

"Aye, aye, Sir." Belmont responded. He silently pondered how many times he'd said 'aye' in the past minute. Far too many, by half.

"Good." Briault seemed quite pleased at the quick response, and began to tug on the whiskers of his dark chin beard. "I want to see the eastern coast of Jamaica by tea time, or whatever it is you Englishmen call four o'clock." He waved his hand dismissingly.

"Aye, Sir." Belmont nodded. Six 'ayes' in under a minute. Surely a new record.

Briault crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, be gone with you! I do not pay you to stand around gawking like a slack-jawed half-wit."

"Aye, Sir!"

Damnit. Seven.

"G'morning, Jack. I pray the day finds you well?" Will shoved a hand through his disheveled hair as he handed Jack Sparrow a steaming mug of coffee. Though it was long past the breakfast hour, Will thought he'd need it.

Squinting sharply at the boy, Jack bit back some choice words as he swallowed the bitter drink. "I can say, without hesitation, it's been the worst day since yesterday."

Grunting in agreement, Will lifted his own mug. "Here, here." He would have openly suggested they swear off drinking, but there would be little sense in wasting the breath. Jack Sparrow once reportedly drank the half of the British Parliament under the table, while still in diapers. While Will highly doubted the authenticity of the story (unless Jack was full grown at the time, which wasn't as surprising as it was disturbing), he didn't doubt its implications.

Adjusting his hat atop his head, Jack shaded his eyes as he lifted his brass telescope, narrowing his sights across the dock. Settling on the stern of the only other ship in port, a handsome looking brigandine, Jack hummed as he found its captain taking his breakfast in the privacy of his cabin.

After withstanding a full minute of hums and grunt of discovery from Jack, Will finally butt in. "What's so intriguing?"

"Briault." Jack collapsed the telescope in hand and tucked it back in his jacket. "He's nearly done with his morning meal. Seems he's not the only man this morning suffering from a big head."

Will squinted at the brigandine across the harbor. "How can you tell? You can see that from this distance?"

Jack chuckled inwardly as he leaned against the rail. "He's on his fifth cup of coffee this morning. Black, no cream, no sugar. An unmistakable indication." He took another sip from his own cup. "He's rather impossible to miss. The man wears a bloody lime green nightgown. That's fair enough to give a man a headache." Jack blinked repeatedly, pressing a finger to his temple.

"Gads." Will murmured, the corners of his lips twitching upward as he grabbed the telescope from Jack's coat. Narrowing his sights on the forecastle windows of the Atropos, Will's astonished smile grew. "And a nightcap to match!"

"Don't remind me." Jack snatched the telescope from the boy's hand, and shoved it back in his jacket. "Come now, let's go enlist a bit of muscle for our afternoon excursion. Mister Gibbs ought to do nicely."

"Surely Gibbs has more sense than to get caught up in this." Will shook his head, spinning on his heal as he followed Jack.

"Don't be so sure, mate. He can be rightly patriotic sometimes, that is, when he's not thievin' from His Majesty's himself." Jack shrugged on his navy waistcoat, and brushed off the lapel as the two men stepped into the welcoming shade of the captain's cabin. Once neatly away from prying ears and eyes, Jack let forth a deafening shout. "Oi, Gibbsy!"

Will winced at the shrill command and recoiled into a cushioned chair, clutching his pounding head. Damn. In his peaceful and drunken slumber last night, he'd nearly forgotten how noisy life aboard a ship -particularly Jack's ship- could be.

Joshamee Gibbs, the jovially grubby first mate huffed around the corner, popping his head through the door. "Aye, Jack?" He was one of the few crewmembers aboard allowed to call the captain by his Christian name, and never failed to abuse it.

"Mister Gibbs," started Jack as he coiled a length of rope around his bended arm. "How would you like to help me an' the whelp here wrestle an' hogtie a Frenchie down by the docks?"

Will nearly gasped aloud at the bluntness of his words. Jack made it all sound so... blasé.

Gibbs' brow fixed momentarily in concern as he spied the rope, pistol and pile of maps laid across the dining table that Jack had produced. With a suspicious grunt, he looked towards Jack. "This transgression wouldn't happen ta be of the... illegal sort, now would it?"

"Of course, man. Aren't they all?" Jack was scarcely able to hide a grin. "Have any qualms against it?"

After a drawn out moment of consideration, Gibbs' lips pulled back in a beaming smile, like a child on Christmas morning. "Not a one, Jack."

The captain briefed his first mate on the situation at hand, and grinned as the man's eyes widened considerably at the mention of such vast quantities of rum. The deal was veritably sealed. The two pirates were quick to form a game plan as they huddled over the table, laughing and snickering like schoolboys planning a prank on the headmaster.

Patriotic, indeed. Will gulped audibly as he gathered his belongings, casting a wary glance his companions. "God save the King... and my hide."

Author's Note: The tiniest chapter known to man was brought to you by Bulletproof Dork. 100% fat free, now with extra calcium. Pirate tested, quartermaster approved! I'll be updating rather promptly, so be sure to pop back in later. Leave me a review if you've got the time. Sometimes they're the best kind of inspiration a girl could ever hope for.