Well, this is my first ever fanfiction. Feel free to run away in terror. I'd really, really appreciate any constructive feedback you could give me, as I'd like to be able to use this story to help develop my writing skills and my ability to write PotC characters to some degree of success. My humble apologies in advance for the veritable cornucopia of spelling/grammar/characterisation mistakes this fiction is lightly to contain.

I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or its characters, never claimed to, never will, this is a non-profit, amateur effort, not intending to infringe on the rights of any copyright holder, etcetera.

That said (and don't you feel optimistic?), on with the show.

CHANGING WINDS

CHAPTER ONE
End of the Voyage

"Sail ho!" Crimp cried out from his position on the rigging. All hands turned from their work to look ahead, and, catching sight of what was indeed a ship on the horizon, picked up the pace, fuelled by a new sense of purpose.

A portly man, his face and clothes as grey with dirt as his beard and hair were with age, ran as best he could to the helm, and approached the man who stood there, his eyes too fixed upon the ship.

"It's a merchant ship, Cap'n, an' she's heavy in the water," he paused to catch his breath. "Do we -"

"We give chase."

--

"Captain Harding!" A crewmember burst into his captain's cabin, almost falling over himself in his haste to enter.

Harding looked up from the papers he had been studying intently. "Haven't you heard of knocking?"

"No, sir, I mean, yes, but, it's... it's..." he was clearly petrified by something.

"One of the passengers playing up again?"

"We just spotted...what I mean to say is..."

"Spit it out, man!" Harding rose to his feet. His face was beginning to gain the creases of age, and his tawny mop of hair seemed to be getting thinner by the day, but now it was clear to see that he still stood at almost six feet tall, and was broad to go with it - a most commanding presence. The sailor was hardly out of adolescence, still had no sign of a beard on his face, and the sight of his imposing captain was enough to force a coherent answer from his lips.

"A ship, sir. Pirates."

Instantly, the captain's face darkened, black as one of the many storms he had managed to take this ship, the Vanson, through successfully. "With me, on deck. Now." He stormed out of the cabin, the youth scrambling to follow.

Some other sailors had begun to gather on deck, anxiously looking in the distance, and at the sight of their captain they descended into a clamour of worried shouts. As Harding tried to command silence, one thrust a telescope into his hand.

Taking the tool to his eye, he tried to focus on the approaching ship, squinting slightly. Then he saw it. Suddenly, his throat felt as dry as the blasted sand that frequented these parts. "Jesus, it's the -"

He gave a sharp intake of breath rather than speak the name of the approaching vessel out loud. Then his eyes flickered to a group appearing on the corner of the deck. The passengers, most of them merchants, were beginning to emerge from their own cabins, trying to found out the cause of the sudden commotion.

The young sailor coughed slightly, deliberately, drawing Harding's attention back to the matter at hand.

"What do we do, sir?"

Captain Harding hated himself for saying the two words that followed, but there was nothing for it. With minimal cannons, and a ship crowded with civilians, both as passengers and as crew, there was no other choice.

"We run."

--

"They've seen us. All their sails are out. Tryin' to run."

"Well then, we'd best take the wind from their sails as it were."

The older man grinned at this. "Aye, Cap'n."

It was a simple manoeuvre. The pirate ship would pass close to its target, on the windward side. The ship and its sails would block any wind from the victim, causing them to lose headway. Losing motion meant losing manoeuvrability and ultimately the ability to carry on a fight - with no way of escaping, without wind, it would become a battle that they could not afford to lose, and that was not a risk most merchants were willing to take, whatever the value of their cargo. Simple, brutal, and very effective.

And for the Black Pearl, very easy. It was not known as the fastest ship in the Caribbean for nothing. Little by little it gained on the loaded merchant vessel, eventually reaching firing range.

"Run a shot across the bow."

"Aye." The older man relayed this order to the crew on the lower deck. Crimp, the man who had sighted the prize in the first place, drew a pistol from his belt, and fired a shot at the Vanson, the bullet skimming over the ship and past the men aboard, making no hit. But it had the desired reaction - panic began to set it.

The pirate captain drew his sword, muttering under his breath. "End of the voyage, gentlemen."

--

"They're firing on us! They're firing!" one of the passengers, a squat merchantman, cried out in alarm, running up to the captain.

"Calm yourself, Mr Jenkins, please. It was a warning shot," the gaze of Captain Harding never faltered from the approaching pirate ship.

"Warning? But they're pirates, they kill -"

"The pirates have no wish to enter a bloodbath, sir. No more than I do." With these words he turned and shouted to the nearest sailor, "Lower the flag!"

Jenkins gasped in disbelief, "You... you're surrendering! But we must fight!"

"With these cannons? My men were not enlisted to struggle senselessly with pirates," Harding gestured to the crew, who were hurrying to lower the flag from the main mast.

"But my shipment! It cost me... I demand that we fight!"

"With all due respect, sir, at the moment I could not care less about your demands, much less your shipment."

--

The crew of the Vanson had thrown down their weapons and surrendered before the first of the Black Pearl's pirates had boarded. The older crewmembers knew the drill, and the younger ones were too frightened to do anything but. One by one the pirates boarded, some swinging on ropes, some simply walking on planks placed as a makeshift bridges between the two ships. Some took guard of the sailors and passengers (all of whom were now gathered on deck), whilst others waited for the final one of their number to cross.

The captain. The ship secured, he walked across a thin board as though the whole thing was simple child's play. Catching sight of Harding, he sauntered towards him; no doubt that this was his rival captain. His walk was foppish, almost seeming drunk, yet his eyes danced with amusement and his voice was utterly sober as he spoke.

"Lovely ship you've got, mate."

Not in the mood for banter, Harding got straight to the point, "Captain Harding, of the Vanson. And yourself?"

"Captain Jack Sparrow, of the Black Pearl."

Harding nodded stiffly, he had expected as much. How many ships had black sails? How many were crewed by a madman? "Your reputation precedes you, captain. I trust my crew can expect your quarter."

"Now why would I kill you when you've been so polite to me? It's a rare few who address me by my proper title." Turning his head, he nodded to his crew, "Take what you can." They laughed, and split up, some remaining as a guard over the Vanson's crew, looking slightly disappointed at not joining the exploration of their prize. Still, they would all get an equal share later.

"Now, Captain Harding," Jack Sparrow flashed a grin at the man. "What do you say to having a little chat, about, say, the contents of your hold?"

--

"Don't take that!" Jenkins protested as Sparrow rifled through the possessions his crew were accumulating on deck and transporting to the Black Pearl, picked up a small sea chest, and looked at it curiously.

"It seems to me that you're in no position to make demands," Sparrow didn't even turn to look at the complaining man.

"Please, sir! That... it... it holds nothing of value to you!"

"Nothing whatsoever?" Jack walked over to the merchant, still holding the chest.

"The chest holds nothing."

"Then why," he locked eyes with Jenkins, "why are you so concerned as to the whereabouts of said chest?"

"It... it holds my papers! My accounts! The details of all the transactions I've made since leaving port! Without them..." he broke off, as though the outcome would be too terrible to speak of.

"Keep going, I'm riveted."

"The insurers! There'd be no proof of what I'd lost by your attack! No compensation! I'd be ruined! Please, I -"

"Well, we couldn't disappoint the insurers, could we?" he made as though to push the chest into Jenkins' arms, but instead, Jack snatched a small key from the other man's belt.

"What are you doing?" Jenkins was incredulous.

"I'm just having a look around. It's not that I don't trust you," Jack slotted the key into the heavy padlock that closed the chest, and turned it, "it's that I really don't trust you."

The padlock clicked and the pirate opened the chest, his eyes quickly scanning the contents.

"Now, these," he took a wad of papers from the chest, covered with names and numbers, "are yours. But this -"

The merchant looked at what remained in the chest. At first he though it was empty, but then he saw, in the corner, a small piece of parchment.

"- this is mine."

The pirate snapped the chest shut, and put it under his arm, handed the papers to the merchant and turned, leaving the other man gaping like a fish.

"This is outrageous! We're on a peaceful voyage!"

Jack grinned at the exasperated man, "Tell that to the insurers."

--

It was evening, and the Pearl was sailing away from the Vanson. They'd cast down the sails of the other ship and slashed them - repairable, but it would take them a time. Time enough for the pirates to make an easy getaway, back to Tortuga to spend their winnings.

Finally, after the ship was a good distance away, Jack gave up the helm to one of the few crewmembers skilled enough to take it, and retired to his cabin. He was about to kick off his boots, when he caught sight of the chest from the Vanson sitting where he'd left it, on his table.

For a moment, he couldn't remember why he'd taken the object, but then he recalled the piece of paper that had been so different to the rest of the contents, old, torn and generally in very poor condition compared to the other accounts, which had been kept in near mint condition, meticulously arranged. Why the merchant would keep something so filthy, so damaged, so apparently worthless was a mystery. And mysteries were things to be solved.

Opening the chest, he took out the paper, and began to examine it in the candlelight. It had scratchy writing of some kind on it, but it was indecipherable. And there were flowing lines all around the page, almost like it was a...

"Bloody hell."

--

"You sure he's got it?"

"I – I... I'm sure, honest. Saw it tucked away in his coat when he came in."

"If you're lying to me -"

"No, Mister Abraham, I mean Mister Simmons, I mean Cap'n Simmons, sir, I mean -"

"Shut up," Captain Abraham Simmons silenced the gibbering drunk with a wave of his hand. "For the last time, you're sure Sparrow has it?"

"Aye. As sure as a, as a..." but his intoxicated brain was unable to think of a good example, and his mumblings drifted into silence as he took a large swig of ale.

"Go on then, scram," he dismissed the drunk with a wave of his hand.

The man rose to go, but then hesitated, "Uh, Cap'n Simmons, sir, you -"

Without a word, Abraham sighed, and placed a few coins on the table. The other man hastily picked them up and left, so hastily that he forgot to finish his ale. He'd have been a fool to stay around Captain Simmons when he was in such a mood.

Oh yes, Abraham had been very annoyed when Sparrow boarded the Vanson. But the annoyance was nothing compared to his fury when he discovered that the other captain had taken the chest and its contents. The merchant, or more to the point, the item he had in his possession, had been Simmons' target for a while now. He had been biding his time, waiting till the odious man finally arrived in the Caribbean and then...

But Sparrow had got there first! Taken the prize from right under his nose! By the reports he had received on the matter, the stupid merchant had practically told him the chest held something valuable!

Still, he was sure that the fool of a captain didn't know the story behind the map. Not that even he knew the full story, but still, he'd wager anything that the infamous Jack Sparrow knew less than him on this matter.

There wasn't much time to waste. It wasn't long before the others would begin to pick up the trail of the careless merchant, if they hadn't already. And he had no desire to run into them again, not after the disaster at Lisbon.

He took a small green glass bottle out from his jacket, filled with a strange coloured liquid, and fingered its smooth surface before placing it back safely. It had cost a small fortune at the apothecary a few months back, but now he was to be rewarded in his thinking that it'd come in handy.

Walking to the bar, he paid for two drinks, and then carefully poured some of the contents of his bottle into one of the tankards. Nobody paid any attention to him, the pirates were all too busy drinking and brawling, and the wenches trying to get customers. And even if they did, none would be able to recognise him. He was wearing different clothes, his skin was smeared with dirt, not to mention the fact that he was wearing a hat, the brim pulled down low. So, invisible to the eyes of the customers, he walked to the dank corner of the inn, drinks in hand.

Here a small crowd was gathered on all sides of a man who appeared to be regaling them in some fantastic tale or another.

"- and then he points me in the direction of a patrol, and tells me to go check the north side of the port!"

At this the surrounding men snorted loudly into their drinks, and the women cackled in a high-pitched manner that they clearly thought to be the epitome of feminine mirth. By contrast, the narrator of the tale merely chuckled slightly under his breath.

"Go on!" a nearby pirate gestured to the man, "Did ye do it?"

"I'd love to tell ye, son, I really would. Unfortunately," he held his mug upside down, his eyes forlorn as nothing came out, "I seem to be having a slight shortage of something."

Abraham slipped to the front of the circle, and finding himself to the left of the storyteller, deposited one of the drinks onto his table.

"Here. It's on me."

"There we go," the man nodded in appreciation, and was about thank the generous donator, when a girl pulled on his shoulder. Seeing the man was suitably distracted, Simmons sneaked back out of the scrum, draining the other mug as he went, and headed for the exit.

"But I don't get it," the girl questioned. "How'd ye get into the Fort in the first place?"

"Now, it's not very polite not to pay attention, love. I already told ye that particular part of the tale."

"I know, I know - ye said ye did it with the carts and stuff. But, I mean, how did ye manage t'do it? With that mob watchin' an' all?"

"Simple," he raised the tankard to his lips, eyes dancing in the candlelight. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."

And then he drank deep.