RETURN TO THE BLACK PEARL

I have a secret: this isn't all of Chapter Five.

CAST OF THOUSANDS: You lie.

ME: All the time. But not now. There's a short Anamaria scene that's supposed to be at the end of this, but because of time constraints, I am unable to post it today.

CAST OF THOUSANDS: Eh, don't be sad. You're not missing much.

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Chapter Five: A Wretched Hive of Scum and Villainy, The Majority of It

Jack Sparrow hung onto the Black Pearl with all his might in an attempt to keep his ship on course. Tortuga was in sight, but just barely, but Jack had discovered that if he loosened his grip even just a bit, the Black Pearl would immediately begin veering in another direction, one that unnerved him quite a bit, although he couldn't say why.

Black clouds hung low in the sky and the sun shone with a greenish cast that caused the sea to look sick and alien. Rough, noisy waves bumped the Black Pearl around on the water, tossing her as though she was a small child being thrown up in the air by a favorite uncle.

"Somethin' wrong, Cap'n?" hollered Gibbs from where he was occupied across the deck, apparently noticing Jack's struggle with his ship.

"Blasted ship won't stay on course," Jack gritted out through tightly clenched teeth. He braced himself against the wheel so that it wouldn't move, then with one hand, he reached inside a coat pocket and pulled from it his compass. He clicked it open and glanced down at its face to check his bearings, then looked away, feeling slightly sick. Instead of North, this compass pointed to an island that cannot be found, except by someone who already knows where it is. This was the direction the Black Pearl wanted to travel.

Me ship is haunted, thought Jack, but surprisingly enough, the thought didn't frighten him. There wasn't much that could frighten Captain Jack Sparrow, and ghostly happenings on his beloved ship certainly weren't among them.

Actually, what frightened Captain Jack Sparrow the most was himself.

Jack put the compass away and placed his hand back on the wheel. Something wasn't right. No, it was more than that, Jack decided; something wasn't just not right, something was wrong, something was very, very wrong.

He had a feeling that it would be the struggle of his life to dock the Black Pearl in Tortuga's harbor.

He felt someone come to stand next to him. It was Norrington, eyeing Jack's position at the wheel rather wistfully. Once a captain, always a captain, Jack thought wryly. He could tell that the commodore was itching to seize command of the ship and was burning with a poorly concealed frustration at the circumstances that prevented him from doing so.

Jack could sympathize. He knew the feeling well.

Norrington nodded at the approaching shore. "Is that our destination?" he inquired stiffly.

"Aye," said Jack, rocking back on his heels. "That would be Tortuga. You'll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy."

He shot Norrington a sly look. "Ye'd best be careful, mate. You might enjoy it."

Norrington looked away and sniffed. "I highly doubt it."

"That's what they all say," Jack informed him cheerfully.

From behind them, a door slammed loudly, and half the men on deck jumped, Norrington included. Jack thought that being on a ship full of the people one had sworn to remove from the face of the earth would make anyone nervous.

Two people emerged, shouting loudly—very loudly—and bring whatever pleasant discussion they were having to the deck.

"IF YOU THOUGHT THIS WAS SO FOOLISH, THEN WHY BOTHER COMING?" roared Will's voice.

"I CAME TO SUPPORT YOU," a voice recognizable as Elizabeth's only in that it was female declared hotly. "BUT I SUPPOSE YOU'RE RIGHT. I SHOULDN'T HAVE BOTHERED, SINCE IT'S OBVIOUS THAT YOU'D RATHER NOT HAVE ME TAGGING ALONG."

Tensions between the whelp and his strumpet had become increasingly strained over the short time they had been onboard the Black Pearl. Jack had noticed this, as he did everything, and he had an idea what they were fighting about, although from the looks of the faces around him he suspected that he was the only one besides Will and Elizabeth who did.

Norrington, along with most of the crew, stared at the couple as they hurled vicious remarks back and forth, seemingly oblivious to their audience.

Jack leaned over Norrington's shoulder. "Young love," he said casually. "Isn't it wonderful?"

?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Norrington wasn't sure what was worse, pirates onboard a pirate ship or pirates in a pirate town. However, his nose had conceded that both versions of pirates were equally disgusting.

"Ready to go, mate?" Jack asked.

Norrington looked askance at the pirate. "I utterly refuse to be seen anywhere in this filthy nest with you," he informed Jack.

"Of course ye will," Jack said confidently. "Who knows his way around Tortuga better than Captain Jack Sparrow?"

The man did have a point there. Norrington wouldn't have expected anything less of him.

Jack leaned in to say, "And would know where to find the best ship for hire for the best price better than Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy?"

The pirate glanced around his ship. Norrington followed his gaze and noticed for the first time that the Black Pearl was in a definite need of repairs, suffering from injuries that no doubt occurred in the battle with the formerly cursed pirates. "In case ye haven't noticed, I'll be on a similar errand meself," he continued. "This lass needs some tender loving care."

Norrington sighed. It didn't look as though he had any choice in the matter. "All right, then," he said resignedly. "Let's go."

Jack just looked at him. "Like that?" He looked pointedly at Norrington's uniform, that, while a bit ragged and worn from the misadventure with the Duty Free, was still the uniform of a Commodore of the Royal Navy, who had sworn to remove all pirates from the face of the earth. Norrington decided glumly that he would start with the pirate in front of him first.

"What's wrong with my uniform?" he demanded.

"Do ye think that any self-respecting pirate is going to agree to take you to Port Royal, knowing all the while who you are?" Jack said reasonably.

"I don't have anything else to wear," Norrington said at last.

Jack raised a finger. "Not a problem."

A few minutes later, Norrington took a look at himself and was horrified. "I will not allow myself to be seen in public in this ridiculous attire," he snapped.

His wig, hat, and heavily decorated frock coat had all been removed. They had been replaced with a simple shirt and vest that, to Norrington, felt as alien and foreign as the dress of a Chinaman. Without the tangible symbols of his military career, Norrington almost hadn't recognized himself. He felt vaguely discomfited at this thought.

"I think it looks much better," Jack said.

"You would," said Norrington, feeling unnerved.

"It makes you look so...natural," Jack offered. "In any case, you won't be recognized."

For the next couple of hours, Norrington was introduced to the sights and sounds of Tortuga while attempting to secure a way to return to Port Royal for himself and the remainder of the Duty Free's passengers.

And even though Norrington wasn't playing the role of a commodore, it seemed that it worked against him anyway. No pirate, smuggler, or mercenary he approached would agree to sail their ship anywhere in the vicinity of Port Royal, and most wondered sarcastically at him for suggesting such a venture. They explained to an increasingly annoyed Norrington that there was no way they'd risk their lives, their ships, and their freedom to come so close to the known whereabouts of "that bloody commodore." Not for a price Norrington could afford, anyway.

"Bloody pirates," he snarled to Jack, who was leaning comfortably against the side of a ramshackle building, leisurely drinking a tankard of an obnoxious-smelling, toxic-looking drink that was no doubt rum. Norrington had no idea where he'd gotten it.

"Can you blame them?" suggested Jack.

Norrington really couldn't, but that was outside the point.

Jack draped an annoying companionable arm around his shoulders, one that Norrington shrugged off.

Jack made an expansive gesture. "Guess you're stuck with us, mate." He didn't sound enthused by the idea.

Norrington had to struggle to conceal a shudder.

"Ah ha!"

He was suddenly pushed aside by an angry-looking woman whose age was undistinguishable due to the excessive amounts of glamour on her face. She marched straight up to Jack and stood glaring at him with her hands on her hips. Jack gave her a blank look that gradually turned into one of dawning apprehension.

"Remember me?" she asked, and slapped him.

Jack spun around and dropped to his knees, his hand tentatively caressing the red imprint that her hand left on his cheek. He peered blurrily up at the woman whose hand marched the mark on his face. He paused, and a struggle appeared to take place across his countenance. "Constance?" he said finally.

WHACK! She slapped him again. "Victoria," she snapped, and stalked away haughtily.

"I think you deserved that," Norrington remarked dryly.

Jack shook his head to clear it. "I may have done her wrong," he admitted rather sheepishly.

Norrington snorted. "How many times?"

Jack rose unsteadily to his feet. "One too many."

?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Tortuga hadn't changed much since the last time her profilious bouquet had assaulted Will's olfactory senses. The taverns were as raucous, the tankards were as grimy, and the women were as...plentiful...as ever.

Will sank into a stool at the bar of the Faithful Bride, the irony of which, if there was any, was not lost on him. The bartender slammed a tankard in front of him without even a glance in Will's direction.

Will stared at it moodily. It didn't look all that clean, and it was filled to the brim with a frothy dark liquid that would have perhaps looked more at home in a witches' cauldron.

He had come in here to think, but he realized now that thinking was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. He was sick of thinking. Ever since The Letter—that was how he's started to think of the day that he learned his father was alive—he had done nothing but think: wonder if his father knew where Will was, reflect on what Bootstrap might be doing, question Jack's mental prowess when he had refused to have anything to do with Will's search, question his own after he had foolishly helped the other pirate, wonder what had gone so suddenly, utterly wrong between him and Elizabeth.

He wondered how the rim of the tankard had found its way to his lips.

With a start, he realized that his hand was clenched tightly around the handle, and the tankard was at his mouth, and that there was a burning sensation as the cold liquid scorched his throat, sliding into his belly, creating a warm glow that resided there.

What am I doing? he thought wildly, but then it turned out that he didn't care what he thought, because the tankard was at his lips again and the warmth in his stomach was growing.

The tankard was empty before he knew it.

"What are ye doing?" demanded a familiar voice, and Will looked up drunkenly to see several Jacks standing next to him, all giving him a confounded look.

Will raised his tankard in an inebriated toast to the Jacks and said blurrily, "Drowning my sorrows."

The Jacks consolidated into one, who sighed and collapsed on the stool next to him, shooing away a goat that had inexplicably wandered onto the bar. "Drownin' your sorrows, eh?" Jack sighed. "You're too young to have any sorrows to down." He signaled the bartender, gesticulating wildly with an arm. "I, on the other hand, have plenty of sorrows to drown. I'd better get a head start." The bartender deposited a tankard of rum into Jack's expectant hand.

Will eyed Jack's much larger drink with interest. "What's that?" he asked curiously.

Jack took a long swig. "This, my friend, is a pint," he informed Will.

Will's eyes kindled. "They come in pints? I'm getting one!"

Jack ignored this outburst. "Ye know, mate," he confided to Will, "rum is a pirate's best friend. A man can do all sorts of things when he's drunk that he'd never think about sober."

"Which are?" Will asked distractedly, as he tried to signal the bartender for a refill.

Jack gave him a wink, satiated with sly innuendo and crude possibilities Will couldn't possibly comprehend. "Watch and learn, mate."

He sauntered up to a lovely, curvy, curly-haired barmaid. He flirted with her. Will couldn't hear his words, but they seemed to have their intended effect. She smiled. She giggled. She batted her eyelashes. She twirled a honey-colored curl around her finger and licked her lips.

She slapped him, hard, and left.

Jack stumbled back to Will's side. "I didn't think it went all that badly meself," he remarked.

They sipped their respective alcoholic beverages quietly for a time, until Jack thumped his now-empty tankard onto the bar, turned to Will, and asked in what seemed to be all seriousness, "Did it hurt?"

"Did what hurt?" Will asked, feeling confused. Jack's abrupt changes in topic always left him feeling that way.

"You know," Jack clarified, "'snip, snip.'"

Will felt his face go red. "I am not a eunuch," he growled, so loudly that several people turned around to look at him.

"Could've fooled me," suggested Jack. "The way your bonny lass has been carrying on lately, something has to be lacking."

Will looked at him sourly. He didn't want to think, and here was Jack, insisting that he do so. "We had a fight," he admitted.

"Son, everyone on the Black Pearl knows you had a fight," Jack said. "It was exactly hush-hush."

"She didn't want me to keep looking for my father," Will said sulkily, feeling like a small child. "She didn't think it was a good idea."

"It's not," said Jack. "Can't say I blame her for feeling that way."

Will sent Jack a look of complete outrage. "Whose side are you on?" he demanded.

"You, of all people, should know that the only side I'm ever on is my own," said Jack calmly.

"Yes, you've certainly proved that," snapped Will.

Jack looked at him almost seriously. Will could never be sure whether it was simulated or not. "I'm not asking you these questions because I have some morbid in the personal affairs of you and your strumpet. I need to know what you're going to do now."

"Now that what?" asked Will exasperatedly, wishing that, just once, Jack would tell him all of what was going on.

"Now that I am providing your ride home," snapped Jack. "Are you going to continue looking for...mmm hmm hmm?" he said, making a you-know-who gesture with his hand.

Will briefly saw Elizabeth's angry face, the pained look in her eyes, and he knew what she would have wanted him to do.

"I am," he said firmly, ignoring the sense of betrayal that was currently afflicting him. His father was alive, and Will owed it to him to find him, no matter the consequences. It didn't matter what Elizabeth thought. It couldn't matter, if he meant to find Bootstrap.

Jack looked at him ironically, and Will had the sudden, sneaking suspicion that he knew exactly what was going on inside Will's head. "And what does Elizabeth plan to do?" he inquired levelly.

"She—" Will stopped. What did Elizabeth plan to do, once she learned that Will intent to keep searching. "I—"

Would she stay with him and continue with the journey? Or would she go back to Port Royal with Norrington and the others? And if she left, would she have anything to do with Will once he returned?

"I don't know," he finished lamely.

"I'd suggest you find out, mate," Jack said, and drank his rum.

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I now have a goal in life (my first ever!), and it involves the word "kilt."

CAST OF THOUSANDS: That is one of the words that we'd hoped would NEVER come out of your mouth.

Because Halloween means you can dress up in crazy costumes and NOT have people think you're nuts, I take it upon myself to dress up every year. This year, my costume is relatively boring; just my Renaissance Festival Scottish garb. BUT.

I am convinced that the world would be a better place if my Crazy Cousin Adam, who coincidentally happens to be my beta-reader, would wear a kilt for Halloween. In any case, it would furnish an endless plethora of material for jokes for the rest of my cousin's life, most of them having something to do with "The Scotsman Song."

Naturally, he resists this idea. But that's okay. It just makes my job more fun. But this is why I'm telling you this:

When you review, write a note to Crazy Cousin Adam insisting that he don a kilt. Be persuasive. Lists of reasons would be good. With just enough help, this wonderful goal may come to pass.

So, review.