VII. THE BLACK PEARL

The lamp was sputtering. It wouldn't last much longer. Not that it mattered by this point. Jack now knew every inch of the Revenge's bilge, and was on a first-name basis with every bilge rat. He shuddered again. At least that had been one good thing about the curse that had afflicted the Black Pearl – no rats. True, they'd probably infest his ship again the very next time she made port, but it had been a pleasant few hours, sailing on a rat-free ship. Even the barnacles and shipworm seemed to have avoided the Pearl, Jack had found as he had pored over her from stem to stern. It almost made the curse worth having.

Almost.

No, the sight of his darling, with those tattered black sails and a layer of what could best be described as death and ashes coating her sides…no, that wasn't something he ever wanted to see again. She had been a far cry from the beauty he had first seen, that day ten years ago…

She was the loveliest thing Jack had ever seen. Looking back, he realized afterwards that that was the moment he had fallen in love. Which was bloody stupid, really, given that the ship he had fallen in love with was manned by dozens of the Navy's finest, and was at that very moment swooping down on the Bloody Cutlass like a stooping hawk.

She wasn't called the Black Pearl, of course, back then. Captain Telford, standing on the pirate ship's quarterdeck had whipped out his spyglass and hollered out the ship's name to his crew, who were frantically hoisting every sail they had in an attempt to escape their pursuers.

"'Tis the Kingston Rose!"

Jack had exchanged blank glances with O'Dell as they hauled on the topgallant halyard. The Kingston Rose? He had never heard of her… No, wait. Hadn't there been mention of an English galleon, newly commissioned for the Navy, the last time the Cutlass had made port? The something-Rose. That must be her then. Jack risked another glance over his shoulder at the ship bearing down on them, while he tied off the line.

She was wonderful. Black hull, white sails, and curves that could make a grown man cry. The name didn't suit her at all. She wasn't a bloody flower – she was stronger than that. Something to be treasured. Like a pearl, maybe. A black pearl…

A galleon shouldn't be able to move that fast, Jack thought as he moved with O'Dell to the next set of lines. She certainly shouldn't be able to outrun the Bloody Cutlass, one of the fastest little sloops in the Caribbean. Nevertheless, there she was, happily ignoring all the laws of physics as she came up behind the Cutlass and stole the wind from the pirate ship's sails. It was at that moment, as the galleon moved alongside and the first cannon shot breached the Cutlass' hull, that Jack realized two things. One – their capture was inevitable. And two – he had to have that ship.

The battle was brief, bloody, and decisive. Captain Telford died quickly, crushed under the mainmast as it fell, cut down by one of the galleon's cannon shells. Bootstrap took a musket ball in the arm, but managed to keep fighting with the other until an English Marine hit him over the head with the butt end of his musket, and he too went down. Jack didn't have time to spare a thought for his old friend though – he was too busy trying to organize the remaining pirates into some kind of effective fighting force, while his mind searched desperately for a plan – any plan. In the end it didn't matter – they had been outnumbered and outgunned from the very start. And so it was, less than a quarter hour after the Navy men and Marines had first boarded, that Jack, limping from a cut on his right thigh, found himself disarmed and shoved forward with the other survivors to stand near the Bloody Cutlass' starboard rail.

Their sloop had been aptly named, Jack thought bleakly as he watched the blood running across the Cutlass' deck and through the scuppers. Half the crew were dead, or near enough to make no difference – almost thirty pirates lay unmoving on the Cutlass' deck. Bootstrap was only semi-conscious, supported on two sides by Halton and LaSalle, but at least he was alive. For the moment.

This was bad.

The Naval Captain, a man of medium height with a slight squint, stepped forward and looked condescendingly at the tattered remnants of the pirate crew. He sniffed slightly, then said:

"Who is in charge here?"

Toffee-nosed bastard, Jack thought bitterly, then shoved his anger to the back of his mind. He had to think, and to do that he needed to be calm.

"I s'pose that would be me," Jack said, glancing at the other pirates to see if anyone would gainsay him. No one did. Granted, he had been First Mate prior to Telford's death, but that didn't automatically make him Captain now – that wasn't the way things worked on a pirate vessel. Still, it wasn't as if anyone else were jumping up and down to take on the job. Neither did they have the time or inclination for their usual vote - which put Jack squarely in charge, at least for the moment.

Actually it was the squinty-eyed Navy Captain who was in charge. Him and all those large men with the guns... Jack rubbed his throat. He could almost feel the noose tightening about it. Yes, this was very, very bad.

"And you would be?" the Captain said, contempt lacing his every word.

It was the contempt that made Jack throw his shoulders back and ignore the pain in his leg. "I might be the bloody King of England," he said mockingly, "but as it is, the name is Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow." He rolled the new title around in his mind, trying it out and testing the feel of it. It felt good.

The Captain nodded at the sailor nearest Jack. The man reversed his musket and calmly slammed the butt of it into Jack's stomach. Jack doubled over and found himself with a close up view of the deck beneath his feet, wondering if his lunch were about to make a sudden reappearance. If he were going to cast up his accounts, he decided through the pain, he would aim for the Captain's shoes.

The man was talking again. "You, Mister Sparrow, will keep a civil tongue in your head or I'll see that it's cut out." He turned to the rest of the prisoners and spoke louder. "I am Sir Granville Wells, Captain of His Majesty's ship the Kingston Rose. You are all under arrest for piracy. You will be transferred to my vessel where you will be transported to Port Royal for trial and subsequent hanging. Any attempt to escape will be met with immediate and lethal force. Do I make myself clear?"

Nobody answered. Jack straightened gingerly, clutching his stomach. "Clear as crystal, mate," he said.

Wells narrowed his eyes, then nodded once, briefly, before turning to a nearby Lieutenant. "Williams, I want to see them all in irons before even one of these… pirates…sets foot on my ship. Understood?" He grimaced, as if the word had brought a bad taste to his mouth.

"Aye aye, sir." Williams in turn gestured to another man, who moved forward with the required shackles.

Jack's mind was racing, even as he tried to keep his face impassive. Once he had those irons around his wrists, he was as good as dead. There had to be something he could do, some way out. Unfortunately, his captors seemed to have the same idea. As one, the Marines had all moved forward, training their weapons squarely on the pirates. One wrong move, Jack realized, and he would avoid the hangman's noose…by the simple manner of taking a musket ball in the heart.

This was bad - on an astronomical level.

It didn't take long to shackle the surviving pirates, which was just as well given the alarming way the Bloody Cutlass was listing to starboard. She must have taken a few cannon shots between wind and water, and now her holds were filling with seawater. The sloop was sinking fast and, with several pounds of cold iron clapped around his arms, there wasn't much Jack could do about it. Besides, he had other things to worry about. Once he and the others were tossed into the brig of the English galleon, it would only be a matter of time before he was swinging from a gallows in Port Royal – or worse, an iron cage. Definitely not the end he had in mind for Captain Jack Sparrow. No, if he were going to escape, he had to do it now, before he boarded the other ship. Besides, there was still the matter of taking the galleon – the Black Pearl, as he was calling her now in his mind. Despite the impossibility of his situation, he hadn't given up on that idea. If anything, his intent had been strengthened. She was meant to be his. He could feel it as surely as he could feel the sea-spray on his face and the late afternoon sun beating down on his back. They were supposed to be together. So, all he had to do was escape from the cream of the British Navy, remove the irons from about his wrist, and take the ship single-handedly. No problem, right?

After all, he was Captain Jack Sparrow.

It wasn't until Jack was crossing one of the planks the sailors had set up between the galleon and the listing sloop, that an idea finally hit him. Granted, it wasn't much of an idea, and it entailed a fair amount of risk – okay, to be honest with himself, it fell just short of suicide, and would quite probably be the stupidest thing he would ever do – but it was an idea. And the only one he had. With no hesitation, Jack pulled his hat from his head, clutched it securely in one hand…

…and dove off the plank into the narrow space between the two ships.

He hit the water cleanly, knifing through it like a seal, as shouts and musket fire erupted around him. Once in the water, he kept going, swimming downward as quickly as he could. He couldn't risk being crushed between the two ships, and he had to take into account the deeper draught of the galleon.

Actually, down wasn't really a problem. The weight of the irons, coupled with the strength of his dive, had sent him plunging deeper rather more rapidly than he had expected. The sea was already beginning to darken…and his lungs were beginning to politely request that he get them some air.

Surely he was far enough down by now? Jack glanced up but couldn't make out the keel of the Pearl. He must be partway underneath her. Fortunately the ocean currents were on his side, taking him in the direction he wanted to go, toward the stern. But the irons were still dragging at him and his lungs were becoming more insistent. He managed to kick off first one boot, then the other, lightening his load a little, but his descent nevertheless continued, albeit more slowly.

The polite request from his lungs had turned into an unrelenting clamour. Up. Now. Jack tried, desperately, but his chained arms were next to useless and he was forced to rely on his legs only. It seemed to take an age, but at last he began to rise, thought not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough. The surface was still too far away. His chest was on fire now, red-hot knives slicing through him as he fought the urge to inhale. His heart and head were pounding, desperate for the oxygen he was denying them, and pain shot through every labouring muscle. Drowning hurt, Jack discovered. A lot.

Maybe this hadn't been the best plan after all.

It was the sea itself that came to Jack's aid. Perhaps it was the current, or maybe he hit a patch of water with a higher salt content, but whatever it was, Jack suddenly found himself shooting upward like a cork from a wine-bottle…straight toward the Black Pearl's bottom. He cracked his head against her keel with such violence that he would have seen stars – if they weren't already flashing across his eyes due to the lack of air. He had a single moment of terror that the barnacles would rip him to pieces before he realized that there were none. This ship was still so new the creatures hadn't had a chance to fasten onto her keel. Then, vision blurring and heart ready to explode, he half-swam, half-felt his way out the last few yards and surfaced at last.

Jack tried to breathe quietly, still acutely aware of his danger from above, but for the first few moments he could do little besides suck in great gasps of air as fast as possible and try to muffle the coughing fit that threatened to overtake him. Breathing had never felt so good, he realized distantly. Even if Wells' men plucked him out of the ocean and hanged him from the Pearl's highest yardarm, or shot him dead where he was, it would surely be better than what he had just gone through.

"So help me, I am never going to die by drowning," Jack swore to himself between breaths. "Or by keel-hauling. Especially keel-hauling."

Eventually, his heart and lungs settled down and his vision cleared. Blinking away the seawater, Jack looked around…and his spirits lifted. He was exactly where he had wanted to be – right underneath the Pearl's stern, hidden beneath the high overhang of her aftercastle. Fortunately, the Cutlass was much shorter in length than the galleon, so there was no chance anyone might spot him from the other ship. On the other hand, his "plan" still left him chained and treading water beneath the Black Pearl. If he couldn't find something to hold onto, and soon, she would leave him behind…or he would sink. He could keep himself afloat for a while but eventually he would get tired – well, more tired – and down he would go, straight to Davy Jones' Locker. And if he stayed where he was, Jack was in danger of being pulled under the ship, or caught up in her rudder.

Time for a new plan.

He could try to climb up the rudder chain and crawl through one of the sternchaser's gun ports, Jack thought as he peered upwards. It wouldn't be easy, especially with his hands tied, but it was better than the alternative. And it had the added benefit of being done before. He wouldn't be the first pirate to board a ship that way. No, the real question was whether there would be any crew still manning the guns. After the broadside that had scuppered the Bloody Cutlass, the Pearl's gun decks would be full of smoke, but not so thick that the crew wouldn't notice one slightly soggy pirate climbing through a gun port. And even though the Cutlass was beyond hope, the gunners would probably be still at their posts, until ordered otherwise. And after that there would be the cleanup, readying the guns for their next action.

No. Better to wait. Which still left Jack with the problem of where, precisely, to wait and somehow avoid both detection and drowning. He couldn't hear much from above, but it sounded like the crew were preparing to hoist the sails even now. He didn't have much time.

The Pearl's stern drew his gaze again. She was intricately carved, with patterns and designs etched into her wood. Nothing that would slow her down or interfere with her movement, but carvings nonetheless. And there, just above him – one corner of a design that reminded Jack of a stylised seahorse. Its tail jutted upward, just a little. It wouldn't be much of a handhold but it would have to do. It was high enough above the water line that he wouldn't have to worry about the rudder, but still far beneath anyone's prying eyes. Reaching it, and holding onto it though – those would be the real challenges. The ledge was at least three feet above his head and already his legs were beginning to protest as he struggled to keep himself afloat. Jack wasn't sure he would have the strength to hold on once the ship began to move. Actually, at nine knots or more, he knew he wouldn't. But…there were still the chains around his wrist. A tired grin began to pull at Jack's lips, his gold teeth glinting in the shadows. Maybe he should thank Captain Wells for clapping him in irons after all. Because the chains might just save his life and help him steal the ship.

Life was nothing if not ironic.

The next hour or so pretty much redefined pain for Jack. He had managed, after two or three attempts, to loop the chains around the tail of the seahorse design, and after that it had simply been a matter of hanging on. Or rather, simply hanging there while clinging to consciousness with everything he had. The ship had set sail quickly, leaving the Bloody Cutlass wallowing on her side behind them. Jack hadn't seen his old ship go down, and he was glad of it. It was painful enough watching any ship sink, let alone one that had been his home for several years. No, he had been too busy trying to keep his arms from being torn out of his sockets as the galleon had gained speed. He had managed to brace himself against the ship for a while, but eventually his strength had given out and he had ended up being dragged.

The Pearl was definitely fast. He had known that on one level as the black galleon had swooped down upon the Cutlass out of nowhere. But being pulled along behind her while she raced through the waves brought it all home on a much more - profound – level. Fortunately the seas were smooth, and, just as fortunately, the Cutlass had been captured late in the day. The sun was already sinking, colouring the sea pink and crimson. Soon Jack would have the cover of darkness he needed. Assuming his arms were still attached, that was. Still, best not to worry. He had done all he could. Now he just had to hold on. And wait.

And hope.

Praying might not be a bad idea either.

In the end it was all surprisingly easy. True, climbing the rudder chain with arms that felt as if they had been set on fire wasn't the most undemanding thing Jack had ever done. And he didn't so much climb through the gun port as fall through it, certain bits of his anatomy coming into hard and painful contact with the cannon stationed there. Luckily there had been no one nearby and he had had a few precious seconds to writhe silently while the pain subsided.

The first man he encountered, a Marine guarding the lower decks, had fallen quickly and quietly after Jack hit him over the head with a lantern. Once armed, though still chained, the pirate had crept silently toward the brig where his shipmates were incarcerated. There, LaSalle had been able to use the knife that Jack had appropriated, to pick the lock of the door – and not inconsequentially, the irons around everyone's wrists, including Jack's. And then they had taken the ship.

Oh, it hadn't been as easy as that. The pirates were greatly outnumbered, and some of them, including Bootstrap, were wounded. Nevertheless, taking the blustering Captain Wells hostage, along with a few clever bluffs and Jack's final threat, delivered in a steely voice, to blow the gunpowder in the decks below and so take the sailors to the deepest level of hell along with the pirates – well, all that had taken the wind out of the Navy's sails. The sailors had been persuaded to take to the boats and leave their ship behind. The last view Jack had was of Captain Wells, still in his nightclothes and shaking his fist furiously, while Jack sailed the man's ship away.

No. She was his ship now.

Jack took a long deep breath then tucked the pistol he had stolen into his waistband before turning from the wheel to where Bootstrap had been propped up nearby. Dried blood stained William Turner's shirt and his left hand was tucked into his belt, to avoid jarring his shoulder. Jack shot him a quick look.

"You going to live, mate?" he asked.

Bootstrap hesitated then nodded. "Probably. You?"

Jack took stock. His leg had begun to hurt again. The saltwater hadn't done the wound on his leg much good, and his shoulders were still sore from hanging from the ship's stern, but overall he was in good shape. In fact, he was better than good. For the first time he let himself look around, running a caressing hand over the ebony wood of the wheel. A grin he could no longer contain lit his face.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?"

"They're going to call you soft, you know."

Jack gave Bootstrap a questioning glance. The other man nodded toward the stern, where the galleon's boats were slowly disappearing over the horizon. "They'll say you should have killed the crew, not set them free."

Jack shook his head. "No. We were outnumbered. Had we shot even one of them, the rest would have known their only hope was to rush us. They'd have retaken the ship and we'd be dead. 'Twas better this way."

"Better? Better for that Captain, and probably half the ships in the British fleet to come chasing after us? You call that better?"

Jack threw back his head and laughed. "Let them come. We've got the fastest ship in the Caribbean now. She's all ours."

Bootstrap snorted. "All yours, you mean. You know they'll vote you Captain. I'll eat O'Dell's hat if they don't."

Captain Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow of the Black Pearl. God, that sounded good.

"The what?"

He must have said that part out loud. Jack turned to Bootstrap, his smile widening. "The Black Pearl. It's her new name."

Bootstrap paused, turning the name over in his mind, then he too smiled. "I like it. Good name for a pirate ship. So, Captain, what are your plans now?"

Jack straightened and settled his hat a little more firmly on his head, then took the wheel, feeling the ship respond instantly to his touch. "Now," he said firmly, "we sail for Tortuga and take on more crew. After that…" He touched the compass still dangling safely from his belt, reassuring himself that it was still there.

"After that," he continued, "what do you say to a visit to Isla de Muerta?"

The pirates had indeed voted him captain, Jack remembered with a smile, even though there had been some question about his youth. He was only twenty-four at the time, after all. But he had saved them from certain death, and had managed to steal the Pearl out from under the nose of the Navy. Better yet, he had promised them gold. The treasures of Isla de Muerta would be enough to make them all rich men and now that he had his own ship, the time was finally right to fulfill the compass' promise.

Of course, it had all gone horribly wrong. The memories came quicker now, flickering through Jack's mind. Tortuga. Signing on more crew. His monumental mistake in hiring on Barbossa. Giving the bearings to Barbossa three days into the sail. And that night…the mutiny.

It was hardly surprising, really. When had anything ever gone right for him? Even now, mere hours after regaining the Black Pearl and escaping from Norrington, here he was, worse off than before. Jack sighed and stared gloomily at the bilge water that was now nearly at the top of his boots. Maybe he should just accept the fact that he was doomed to fail, that he was never meant to have the Black Pearl…

Like hell.

He had escaped certain death before and he would do it again.

Somehow.