Chapter Ten: There's the Rub

There was a moment of shocked silence, as the populace of the Black Pearl was at a complete loss of words. Jack's eyes had gone cold as he surveyed the quarterdeck, hunting for the head of the man who owed him one damn good explanation. "Antoine!"

Montebello had melted into the crowd and was now perched on a barrel, his head held low in brooding silence. His thin face whitened to a sickly shade of olive as he stumbled for an explanation. "H-he said it would be here, Jack. I swear to you."

"Oh, who's this he, Monty?" Jack snapped with barely restrained indignation. "Don't tell me you've been dealin' with those bleedin' gypsies again!"

Shoving a trembling hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, Montebello shook his head. "No, no gypsies. I... I overheard the Lieutenant General of Police in Versailles-"

"Great. The only word less reliable than that of a gypsy is that of a Frenchman." Jack cried in evident exasperation. His patience, naturally thin, was stretched beyond its limitations. Jack Sparrow prided himself on using his brains more oft than his brawn, but so help him God, if Montebello didn't start speaking truths soon, Jack feared the man was in for a right pummeling. "Ye really think the Lieutenant General of the bleedin' French Police, a man of grand birth and gentry would be even a wee bit concerned with some rumrunner half-way 'cross the world!"

All eyes were on Montebello, as his face burned under the heavy scrutiny of the crew. He dare not look up, for fear of catching sight of the lingering disappointment in Jack's eyes. Knowing he failed a good friend was punishment enough, but seeing it could near reduce him to tears. Instead, he let Jack's words tumble around his thoughts for a while. The pirate, for all of his shortcomings when it came to sobriety, was surprising astute. Perhaps Montebello had misheard the parlor conversation entirely. Perhaps it wasn't-

"May I interject for a moment, Cap'n?" Gibbs- a most unlikely candidate for an original thought- stepped into Jack's line of sight. Jack said nothing, but inclined his head ever so slightly at his first mate, signaling him to speak. "Leastways, as I see it, whatever it is we've got in those crates there, that Pullman fellow was willing to pay right handsomely for their twins."

The cloudy disposition hanging over Jack Sparrow cleared as he mulled over Gibbs' words. "Mister Gibbs, I do believe ye're right." Jack gave him a brisk pat on the back as walked over to the crates, giving one an experimental kick. "Break open these crates, men! All of 'em. Search every bottle, every plank! First one of you to come up with somethin' worth my while, double- no, triple rations!"

With such a reward of triple rations of rum at hand (a rare treat indeed from a man so enamored with the libation himself), the crew attacked the remaining crates like a swarm of termites. Some of the newer crew, those who had once served under Briault, were quite rough, tossing the younger or less eager out of the way as they rummaged through the bottles.

"Ah, look at 'em go," Jack sighed as he climbed the steps to the forecastle deck. "They'll sleep good tonight."

"What do you suppose is in there?" Will accompanied him, following a few steps in his wake. "Diamonds from Africa? Silks from China?"

"Ah, now ye're catchin' on to why piratin' is such a lucrative career, aren't ya, Turner?" With his spirits fully regenerated, Jack was once again free to smile. "It could be any manner of thing. Ivory, rubies, coffee... I suppose a gentleman o' fortune can't be too particular, now can he?"

Will was nearly shaking with excitement as he watched the crew break the crates down. His moral conscience scolded him for being anything other than morose at the prospect of stealing anything from anyone (whether he deserved it or not), but a seductive devilish little voice in the back of his head bade him to enjoy it while it lasts. For as soon as the Black Pearl pulls into Port Royale, William Turner must return to the life he left but a month ago. Goodbye sailing, goodbye drinking, goodbye carousing around Cuba in the dead of night dressed in women's underwear. All good things must, unfortunately, come to an end.

"I found sumpin', Cap'n Sparrow! I found sumpin'!" A stout ruddy-faced little man, one of the new men, huffed and puffed his way up to the forecastle deck with an infectious smile (not to mention, infectious bad breath). "A paper here, wit' some scribblies on it, Sir."

Scribblies, indeed. The paper in question, once unfolded, was what appeared to be little more than a yellowed map of the Lesser Antilles. Hardly suspicious or worth further investigation, Jack shoved it in his inner jacket pocket and turned to the crew to spout out some more encouragement "Keep at it, men! Triple rations, remember!"

As the crew scrambled and fought over the last containers, Jack motioned for a dejected Will and a somber Montebello to retire with him to the Captain's Cabin. "Come, gentlemen," Jack made a beeline for his special reserve of spirits hidden away in a loose floorboard under his desk. "Buck up! Least we've got our health, eh?" He shot a conspiratorial smile at his companions, who looked about a healthy and lively as a pair of corpses. "Let me rephrase that. Least we've got my health. Both of ye look as if ye've been scrappin' with the yellow devil himself!"

A perplexed look crossed Will's face. Isn't that what Gibbs said to... "Briault!" Will leapt up from his seat, the chair toppling over behind him. "Whatever is in those crates, Briault surely knows what it is."

"A brilliant deduction, ta be sure, Will." Jack seemed less enthused about the idea. "But unless ye remember were you marooned the ol' froggy, we're shite out of luck."

Will scratched his head, sheepishly. "He's in the brig."

Jack gaped, and for the first time in his life, Will surmised, was speechless. Though that only lasted mere moments. "Ye mean to say ye've been escorting around a Frenchmen in the brig of my ship as you prance around Port Royale?"

"You left me little recourse, Jack," He replied, a little healthy colour flushing his cheeks. "I wasn't about to maroon the man simply because he got in the way. I'd think you of all people would agree to that!"

"Gentlemen." Montebello's voice rose to a barely audible whisper, but it was enough to stop Jack's poised retort. "Let us dispense with the particulars and go get ourselves some answers. What do you say?"

Briault hardly looked like the proud peacock he once was. The grand splendor that was his fashionable attire had pierced with stalks of hay and soiled with dust. His cool aloof demeanor was stretched thin, and he now wore a permanent scowl of disgust. He had refused all meals afforded to him, spat in every face that came within the splash zone, and shouted loud insults to whomever could hear.

And now, he had to entertain company.

Jack Sparrow was in rare form that evening as he climbed down the steps, and by God, for some reason he felt the overwhelming urge to sing, much to his companions' discontent. "Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, Dormez-vous? Dormez-v-"

Briault wailed in protest from his corner of the cell as he tried desperately to cover his ears. "Non! Je ne dors pas! Va aux diable! Is it not enough that you offend my ears with that screeching and my eyes with your presence, but that you must too murder my language?"

"For yer sake, Jacques, let us hope that is the only murderin' that gets done today, eh?" Jack winked at him, and dared take a step closer as Will and Montebello kept to the shadows. "Now down ta business. What's in those crates?"

Briault's chapped lips tightened into a thin frown. "I do not know of these crates you speak of."

"Of course ye do, Jacques. Three crates, about four feet off the ground, made o' wood, says BARLEY on the side."

"If it says barley, then even you should be able to deduce that it indeed contains barley."

"Ay, there's the rub, Jacques." Jack circled around the cell, to steal a better peek at his nemesis. "No barley in sight. Nothin' but bottles of water and," he rummaged through his pocket and withdrew the folded map, "this."

"Give that to me." Briault barked his command, as if he were reigning captain of the ship. "That letter does not concern you. Give it to me."

Montebello stepped forward from the shadows, his face illuminated only by the flickering light of the lantern. "You are in no condition to give order, Captain."

That seemed to be the last straw. Briault leapt to his feet and began to hurl insults and spit in his captors' direction. Will tiptoed, unnoticed, to hide behind Montebello, finding the scholar made the perfect human shield. Jack merely stood his ground, refusing to budge or even wince as spittle soaked into his favourite (and only) jacket. "Spit an' bitch all ye like. I assure ye, I have all day."

Briault managed to continue his performance for a solid five minute longer, until he found himself suffering from a lack of fresh insults and a wicked case of cottonmouth. He slumped against the metal bars, shooting daggers at Jack with his eyes as best he could. "I will tell you nothing. You are wasting your time."

Jack was not willing to play games this evening, and rather than try to wait out the standoff, left Briault to his own devices, vowing to pick up the interrogation first thing tomorrow morning.

As Jack and his compatriots took their leave to the Captain's Cabin, Gibbs stopped by briefly to report that the men had found forty-three nails, ninety-seven unmarked wooden planks and three-hundred-and-seventy-four bottles, all empty. Jack dismissed him, and ordered Gibbs to halt the search and tap a barrel of rum for the boys. With a jaunty smile, Jack's first mate thanked him and skated off to deliver the goods.

"What is that letter that Briault was so intent on getting, Jack?" Montebello, whose mood seemed to be lightening, asked as he shrugged off his coat onto teak dining chair.

"Oh, that. Its not a letter, its a map." Jack reached into his jacket pocket, his face scrunching up in utter disgust as he found the inner lining soaked with Frenchman's spittle. "I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but... I'm gonna go take a bath."

"You? Bath willingly?" Montebello feigned shock. "The last time you took a bath on your own accord had to be... what, 1726?"

"1726. Siam. Took a bottle of cheap perfume to the eye. Smelled like a dandy for weeks. I know, I know." Jack grunted, as he fished all the trinkets out of his coat pockets and tossed the jacket on a chair next to the fire to dry. He kicked off his boots and discarded his belt as well, before giving a grand bow. "Now if you gentlemen will excuse me." Jack left the cabin, and moments after heard a loud splash and an echoing "Shit! Cold-cold-COLD!" on the larboard side.

"Some bath." Will mumbled under his breath as a smile twitched at his lips.

Only just able to suppress a chuckle, Montebello unfolded the map on the table and gave it a sound looking-over. "And this was all they found? No jewels, no riches, no smoking gun, no red herring?"

"That's all they came up with." Will shrugged, equally as perplexed. The map looked just as plain and innocuous as it did only an hour ago. He picked it up, only to have the slightly damp paper tear at the corners. "Good lot it will do us like this." Will smoothed out the damp map on the table before pinching the two top corners and waving it a safe distance over the heat of a nearby candle intending to dry it out.

Will and Montebello, practically strangers were it not for their common friendship with Captain Jack Sparrow, spoke nothing more elaborate than a few friendly grunts as they kept to themselves. Having found Jack's small library of neglected books out of alphabetical order, Montebello passed the awkward moments by arranging and rearranging the books. Occasionally, the silence was cut by a cheer from Jack as he splashed around outside or a jaunty melody sung (shouted) by the drunken crew below. Will knew the tune well, and sung softly along with the men as his thoughts turned towards his Elizabeth.

I prithee speak more softly, of what we have to do, lest that our noise of talking should make our pleasure rue. The streets they are so nigh, love. The people walk about. They may peep in and spy, love. So blow the candles out.

At some point Montebello had begun to sing along, but apparently did not know the tune as well as Will, and simply kept repeating the last line. After a while, it got a bit distracting. "Blow the candle out, Turner! Blow the blooming candle out!"

Successfully snapped out of his little reverie, it was only then that Will smelled the smoke and felt the tendrils of heat brush across his wrists. Fire had engulfed the map, swallowing up the bottom half of the paper before Will could even get his wits about him. He slapped it onto the table and patted it down until the flames gave way to ash, and the fire was put out. Will blushed crimson read as Montebello looked sorely irritated. "Well, there goes everything! Jack's going to have a fit!"

"Wait. N-not everything." Will gulped as his eyes scanned the paper. "Look."

The map, though badly burn and now half-missing, was blackened around the bottom fringe, but still quite readable along the top. The Grenadines were entirely burnt off, but Porto Rico and the northern islands were in prime condition, though the fire had caused some irregular burn marks to appear. "I... don't know what I'm looking at, Turner." Montebello professed his ignorance. "What is it?"

Will flipped the paper over with a trembling hand and pointed. Those burn marks perhaps weren't so irregular after all. Words were burned into the paper, written originally in lemon juice or something equally as acidic. The heat had uncovered the hidden letters, though some were far too blurry to read. All that could be made out was:

DU CABINET NOIR
M.S. DAUNTLESS
ANDRE GILLETTE

And that's when Montebello hit the floor.

Author's Note: Many apologies for the incredible delay. Here's to picking up where I left off! Jacques is bacques! Reviews would be much appreciated an' cherished.