Chapter Four: Mission Improbable

Slipping aboard the Atropos unnoticed was going to be a tricky task, but Jack maintained complete confidence. The brig was heavily guarded, though he doubted the men knew exactly what it was they were protecting. Had they known there was at least twelve hundred gallons of rum aboard, no doubt a mutiny would have been declared long ago. A little bribery could go a long way but Jack's coin purse was a bit light after last night's escapade.

After thoroughly convincing Will of his plan, the two of them had stumbled in and out of nearly every last bar Baracoa had to offer. As dawn approached, the two well-inebriated men had finally made their way safely back to the Black Pearl, but unfortunately lost their fancy wigs somewhere between the rounds of vinegary wine and shots of amber liquor. Will, not known for being able to hold said liquor, didn't. As Jack had tried to identify and classify what Will had tossed up all over the quarterdeck, Anamaria, the helmswoman, came topside at the most inopportune moment. Jack had caught the movement out of the corner of his eye a fraction of a second too late. She had stood aghast at the sight of the two of them, clad in women's dresses, hunched over a puddle of vomit. But mere moments after, she fled into the night like a bat out of hell.

Oh God, how he relished having to explain it to her. His stomach churned at the thought.

The small rowboat Jack sat in, barely large enough for three grown men and a sack full of equipment rocked as Will leaned over to him. "It's nearly noon. You truly plan to get away with this in broad daylight?"

"It's to be least expected." Jack tilted his head up, shielding his sight from the glaring sun with a hand. Gibbs had successfully and undetectably rowed them right up next to the docked Atropos. "The element of surprise, m'boy, is not one to be taken lightly."

Disinclined to give voice to his concerns, Will just gave the man a nod. Far too late to back out now.

Gibbs tucked the oars back in the rowboat, nearly smacking Will clear across the face. As it was, Will simply received a face full of salt water. Gibbs, oblivious as ever, gave his week's growth of a beard a good scratching before turning before turning to Jack. "I've gotten ye this far, Jack. What's next in yer grand master plan?"

"We wait." He answered, as if it were horribly apparent.

Will paused from rubbing his face against the sleeve of his jacket to peer up. "Wait?"

"Aye, boy." Jack shot him a terse look. "We wait."

The blacksmith and first mate looked absolutely dumbfounded as silent looks passed between them. Apparently, he was going to have to elaborate. "We wait for that little bell up there," said Jack as he pointed to the poop deck, where indeed a bell was mounted, "to start goin' jingly-jingly, signallin' the change of the guard. Noon's nigh, so it's due to commence any second n-"

The bell began it's crisp jingly-jinglying. Jack gave the two men an tart grin. "The opportunity arises, men! Now or never! What say you?"

"Now!" Gibbs gave a jaunty cheer, while Will mumbled something that could have been construed as a less enthusiastic "Now."

On Jack's signal, Will, having by far the best aim of the group, pitched a length of rope, weighted by a metal hook, onto the terrace at the stern of the ship. He exhaled a sigh of relief as the hook caught on the wooden rail, and held firmly as he tugged on it.

Gibbs, the heaviest man in the group, was first to climb up, his meaty hands gripping the rope with amazing ease. Will, having no desire to stare at Gibbs' arse for any lengthy period of time, waited until the man was standing aboard the terrace before he too climbed the rope. The bag on his back, stuffed to the brim, shifted and swayed with every move but to Will's delight, did not crash into the calm murky waters below.

Jack, the lightest of the group (by nearly a stone, Will surmised, as his own plentiful diet in the past month had him soft around the middle), hoisted himself effortlessly up the rope, no doubt used to such exercise. In the past month, Will had been witness to Jack's unmatched climbing abilities as he scaled many a wall for several late-night rendezvouses with numerous beautiful Spanish girls. Unfortunately, Jack's skill in jumping -particularly when clad only in his knickers whilst escaping said Spanish girls' husbands- left much to be desired.

So far, their activity had gone unnoticed, which did little to stop Will's heart from it's incessant pounding. Jack cupped his hands together and peered through a small windowpane. Will and Gibbs followed his lead.

The Captain's cabin was a majestic room, lavishly decorated and fit for a Queen. As Will recalled the flamboyantly dressed man last night, perhaps he wasn't that far off. Briault, though while he had an effeminate wardrobe, had a distinctly masculine taste when it came to furniture. Dark woods, boldly printed fabrics even a lush inviting carpet from Persia made the room marvelously welcoming.

Amidst a small seating area, Captain Jacques Henri Briault lounged on a stuffed fainting couch, leafing derisively through a volume of Francis Bacon's works. Occasionally he could give a snort or cackle, before losing his interest and flipping to another page.

Smacking his lips anxiously, Jack shot a signal to his first mate and stepped back against the wooden terrace. Will too followed his lead.

With a boyish grin on his face, Gibbs lifted his leg and in one brutal kick, knocked his boot right through a solid inch of oak paneling.

"Merde!" The French privateer sputtered, falling off the fainting couch. He promptly ducked, clutching his white wig, as if expecting gunfire and cannon fire to ensue.

Splintering the door and ripping it from its hinges with one more kick, Gibbs stepped back and gave his companions a courteous bow. "After ye."

Jack tiptoed over the disintegrated door and made a beeline for Briault, as the man tried to tuck himself under the couch. Jerking the Frenchman to his feet in a powerful yank, Jack nearly ripped the sleeve of his coat.

"Imbecile!" Briault hissed, clutching the shoulder of his coat. He inspected the seam, and looked up only after accessing no damage to his fine attire. "Who are you?" He spoke with an accusatory tone, which ill suited his lisping melodic accent.

Clearing his throat with a cough, Jack shoved the man back down on the couch. "Captain Jack Sparrow, an' these are my business associates, Mister Gibbs and Mister Turner."

Gibbs flashed a toothy grin, and Will gave a meek uncertain wave.

"Sparrow?" Briault recoiled slightly onto the couch, rubbing his chin in thought. "Oui, I've heard of you. A repugnant knave and pirate, if the stories are indeed accurate."

"Why, I'm privileged!" Jack's hand fluttered to his chest, like a blushing old maid receiving a compliment. No doubt he did take such a remark as such. "To think that me stories have carried so far as to fall upon French gentry's ears!"

"A remarkable feat, in the least." Briault hissed, wrinkling his nose. "Now, if you would be so kind as to get the hell off my boat, lest I alert the Cuban authorities."

"No need to bring the Spanish into this, mate." Jack signaled to Gibbs with a brief wave, who began to rummage around in the bag Will brought aboard. "This is merely an Englishman settling a score with a Frenchman."

Briault twitched, noticeably more nervous. He, however, managed to still give Jack a scrutinizing scowl. "W-why, I've never seen you before in my life. And if I did, I assure you, you're appearance is utterly... forgettable."

Jack plopped down beside Briault, swinging his arm over the Frenchman's shoulder, as if he were an old school chum. Briault squirmed. "Ah, lucky for me you're not nearly as forgettable. Perhaps you may have never seen me before, but I've seen you. Ever been to the colonies... say, Georgia? I heard it's exquisite this time o' year."

The colour drained from Briault's face, as if it had been punched out of him.

Gibbs, finally having retrieved a length of rope from that bottomless pit of a bag, moved to tie the Frenchman's hands behind him. The man gave one hell of a fight, kicking and struggling as he fell to the floor, but the pirate quickly overcame him with brute force.

"Be gone with you!" Briault abandoned his swarthy coolness, and wailed like a babe as his hands were tied behind his back. "I'll have your head on a guillotine by sundown if you do not unbind my hands, at once!"

Will wondered if there were any guillotines in the Caribbean. Perhaps some of the French colonies had them packed away for a rainy day. He had no doubt that several heads, his own to be sure, would roll if they ever were to be caught. He feared the day drew nigh.

"Temper, temper, Monsieur Briault." Jack scolded, intending to ruffle the feathers of this peacock of the man. He rose, grabbed the Frenchman by his lapel of his coat and hauled him into the nearest chair. "Surely you'd be ruined as an infallible sea captain if your men came in an' found you clad in petticoats an' lace."

"Petticoats?" Briault's face puckered, the remark catching him off guard.

Petticoats? Will mouthed silently. Not again.

"Only the finest, I assure ye, Captain." Gibbs chuckled as he pulled a handful of skirts from the bag. The privateer's and the blacksmith's eyes bulged at the sight.

"These look mighty familiar, Jack." Gibbs thumbed the fabric, tossing a knowing smile up to the pirate. "Sophie?"

A wistful smile brushed past Jack's lips, as he kneeled and gave the skirts a gingerly pat. "Claudette, if memory serves. I'm sure she'd be delighted to learn her forgotten unmentionables are aiding and abetting in an act of national security."

Will clapped a curved hand to his mouth, and whispered to Jack. "Is this really necessary?"

"Of course!" Jack reassured him with a pat on the shoulder. "Carryin' a sharply-dressed Frenchmen down the docks is suspect, in an' of itself, but carryin' a fussy harlot from the Captain's quarters dressed only in her petticoats an' stockin' is, " his grin deepened, exposing more gilded teeth, "hardly a suspicious occurrence."

Will added under his breath. "Nor an infrequent one, particularly around you."

Briault let loose a howl as Gibbs began to tug and yank the skirts up about his waist, cursing and screaming all the while. "If you think I'll be the prey in your twisted foxhunt, you're sorely mistaken!"

Jack gave a sly, composed chuckle as he pushed himself to his feet. "It's no manner of sport in the least, Captain. We're merely adhering to our civic duty, I assure you."

Will gave him a furtive, skeptical glance. Since when did Jack Sparrow adhere any duties other than the husbandly ones he supplied other men's wives?

Briault's laugh held more anxiety than mirth as he shook his head. "You are no agents, save perhaps for le diable himself. No crown dare lay claim nor offer harbor to such devilish denizens." A vicious temper threatened to boil over his composed demeanor, and he continued to shake his head.

"Ah, Let he who is without sin cast the first..." Jack pursed his lips, trying to dislodge the word on the tip of his tongue. The Bible had been a rather infrequent read as of late.

Gibbs coughed. "Stone."

"Ah yes, Stone!" Jack swirled his hand about, as sat it upon Briault's shoulder. The man retreated as far into the unforgiving wooden chair as possible. "You've been up to rather suspect activities yourself, as far as the English crown is concerned."

Briault shook with a mixture of anger and panic, a volatile combination. "I resent the insinuation that you would dare compare me to your wretched kind!"

"Would you rather me contrast than compare?" Pulling a chair besides the quaking Frenchman, he straddled the chair as if it were a steed. "There is but one thing that separates you an' me, Jacques. A tiny little piece of paper with a tiny little wax seal, marred with your tiny little fleur-de-lis. Hide behind it, if it eases your conscience."

He gave Jack another fine sneer. "Save me your rubbish! You, Captain Sparrow," he hissed the name as if it were a damning curse, "will never amount to anything more than another wayward son of Brittany, unreceptive to the far-reaching lashings of its fattened cow of a mother!" Briault's voice rose to a high-pitched whine as he thrashed in his chair.

Gibbs gave a low growl, none too pleased with anyone insulting his master, commander and brother-in-arms, let alone the country of their birth. He took a menacing step closer to the French gentleman, a meaty fist balled at his side.

"Heal, Gibbs." Jack stayed his first mate with the flick of his wrist. He untied his red salt-bleached bandana and presented it to Gibbs unceremoniously. "Gag the poor bastard before he damns himself further."

"Aye, aye, Captain." Gibbs replied, more than content to abide by the order.

Will instinctually jumped between Mister Gibbs and the wailing francophone, though his better judgment told him better. No doubt Briault was cursing not only Jack and his immediate family, but also every last relative back to his great, great grandmother. "You can't mean to stick that... horrid rag in his mouth!" Will exclaimed.

"That's exactly what I intend ta do, boy. Move aside." Gibbs gave him a dismissing shove as he grabbed a hold of the Frenchman's white wig, and securely tied the red scarf around the man's gaping mouth.

Briault gave a kick as he grumbled around the scarf, his tanned face growing redder by the passing moment. Unsightly veins had begun to pulse on his forehead as sweat beaded at his temple.

"Hell's knees, Jack!" Gibbs cracked a toothy smile, slapping Briault on the back. "I thought all these Frenchies sported skin fairer than e'en an Englishmen. Why, he's as bronze an' shiny as halfpenny!"

Humouring his first mate with a smile, Jack quickly pivoted to face the pensive blacksmith, who was standing idly by. "Will." He called to him.

Peering up at the sound of his name, Will was noticeably ill at ease, his doe-eyes fixed in a perpetual state of remorse.

"What is done is done, boy, an' not a bit of pouting will undo it." Jack said, tossing the burlap sack in the boy's empty hands. "Why not put those skilled blacksmith's hands to some use, aye?" It was less a question than a command, sugar-coated as it might be.

Staring down at the bag as if it were a wriggling serpent, Will cried, "What do I do with this?" His nerves were finally catching up to him, and with a vengeance.

In no lovely mood himself, Jack snatched the bag back from the lad, and in one fell swoop, shoved the sack over Briault's head. The bag swallowed him right down to the waist, where an array of rumpled skirts stuck out. "Don't you remember the plan we so expertly concocted last night?"

There was a plan?

"Vaguely." Will admitted after a labored sigh. His usually sharp memory was a tad hazy concerning the evening's charade. All the better, he supposed.

"Relax, mate." Jack added with a charming reassuring grin as he patted the burlap sack. The bag gave a fierce wiggle and grumble in reply. "I've got the situation completely and utterly under my-"

A soft knock at the cabin door forced a most unmanly scream from Jack, as fell, landing on his backside. He nearly took the bagged Frenchman with him.

Mister Gibbs was first to act, his filet-blade dagger already poised and ready to strike. Will had leapt back, his hand holding a firm but shaky grip on his sword, which remained still sheathed.

A nod passed between Jack and Gibbs, and in a whirlwind of motion, Gibbs swung the cabin door wide open, yanking a paltry-looking man with against the doorframe. He fixed his harsh and daunting glare on the poor unfortunate bastard.

The Atropos' first mate, Belmont grew rigid, paralyzed with fear from the neck down. His head began shooting back and forth between the wriggling burlap sack, the shiny dagger and livid chap connected, not but half an inch from the tip of his nose.

Near breathless, Belmont crossed his chest as best he could. "M-Mary Mother of God!"

Author's Note: Many thanks for the reviews, maties. They can brighten an otherwise craptacular day! And, by all means, leave some more!

In responce to ping*pong5's question in her last review: I've done a good bit of research over the past few years regarding the 18th century, naval warfare, British/French relations and monarchs thanks to a lifelong obsession with history, but I didn't do any research for this particular piece (short a few choice swears in French), which is set around the mid 1730s, during the decline of the age of piracy in the Caribbean.