Disclaimer: I'm innocent of whatever it is they're accusing me of.

Author's Note: According to the maps I've looked at and my rough estimate of sailing speeds, it would take about two or three days for a well-built ship of the right size to journey from Port Royal to Tortuga. Tortuga, for those what were wondering, is a small isle right off the coast of Haiti; Haiti and the Dominican Republic are today's French-speaking and Spanish-speaking halves, respectively, of the island that used to be known as Hispaniola and whose ownership was much-contested by the French and Spanish during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

Editor's Note: For anyone who's in the middle of reading this when I re-upload, or who has read the story before, I've combined what was previously chapters six and seven. My apologies for any confusion this might cause.


Chapter VI
Tortuga

There was a ship that sailed
all on the Lowland Sea,
and the name of our ship
was the Golden Vanity
and we feared she would be taken
by the Spanish enemy
as she sailed in the Lowland,
Lowland, low
as she sailed in the Lowland sea.

--"The Golden Vanity"


The storm rages through the day and well into the night. By the time the winds have subsided to a light gale and Elizabeth has managed to slip back belowdecks, the adrenaline that surged through her has long since drained from her body, leaving her exhausted, cold, and unbelievably sore.

But she's walking steady now on the slippery, tilting boards, and under the fatigue that dulls her thoughts runs a current of fierce triumph. For a moment, she pictures herself walking into Will's cabin, pulling off her hat, shocking him into silence by her presence and the demonstration that she's not nearly as breakable as he believes. Would he then turn the Lady around and sail her back to Port Royal? She finds she cannot imagine him doing anything else.

And yet...once, he would have been pleased just to see her, to have her near, whatever the circumstance. Once, they had fought side by side and he had looked at her with love and admiration in her eyes. Now he hardly looks at her at all, and when he does, it seems he does not see her, sees a lady wife and never just his Elizabeth; their secrets and silence lie between them like a veil, an ocean, a thousand leagues of distance.

She knows she should confront him, demand to know the extent of what he's kept from her. But not tonight. She will do it when they are farther out to sea, she resolves, when he cannot very well turn back, when he cannot escape her.

Instead, she filches a dry blanket from the crew's quarters and heads back down to her sanctuary in the hold, where she coaxes her weary muscles to cooperate just long enough to shift some of the fallen crates out of her way and locate her little bag of belongings. Then she curls up in the least damp corner, and falls almost instantly asleep.


"Do you think that's Hispaniola to the south of us?"

"I reckon 'tis," answers McBride, joining Will in his study of the long dark-green smudge on the rise between the grey sky and the grey sea.Visibility has improved this morning, although the waves are still choppy and the sky remains obstinately overcast. They've been sailing south-east under a gusty wind, hampered by their damaged mizzen-skysail, which came loose again during the night and tore itself to ribbons; they'll have to repair it before they attempt to journey much farther.

Will nods, adjusting their bearing slightly to the east. He strongly doubts that any port in Hispaniola represents a safe haven for re-rigging the Lady Swann.

McBride observes this, raises an eyebrow. "Tortuga, Cap'n?"

"Tortuga," Will affirms. "I'm afraid it's probably our only option."

"Aye, an' ye'd probably be right," McBride says. "Yon Spanish Navy surely dinna take too kindly tae us, last time."

Will laughs. "Yes, but I can't really blame them." He glances back over his ship, raising his voice to catch the attention of the men aloft. "Oy! Brace that yard to port and keep her running even!"

The last thing he wants to do today is run into any representative of the Spanish fleet at the helm of a partially-disabled ship, and with a tired crew fresh from their battle with the elements, he doubts they'd be able to put up much of a fight. He hopes their luck holds out. As McBride is too diplomatic to point out, it almost didn't last time. Thankfully, the mate had the presence of mind to bribe the harbor master in Monte Criste; otherwise they probably wouldn't have escaped undamaged.

"So who's the new ship's boy?" Will asks when their course has been modified to his satisfaction.

"Tha'll be John Castle's lad. Took him on at Port Royal, dinna I tell ye? Young'n, but John swore by his Aaron. Said he's been itchin' tae go afore the mast since he were in short pants. Good lad, too. Strong an' hardy."

"He must be the one tied the stay that didn't stay." Will indicates the shredded jib on the mizzen.

McBride looks startled. "Ye let him up in yon aft tack under full gale?"

"My mistake," says Will, wry. "His first time at sea, I take it. Looks a bit delicate for a sailor, I thought...Well, the lad was brave, I'll give him that. Only faltered for a second. Still, I'm surprised Johnny never taught him how to lash a sail."

"Aye, an' maybe he did, but laddie'd be a wonder to gather an' tie her fast in that storm. She looked fair fouled from the bow, Cap'n."

Will, amused by the first mate's defense of the boy, agrees good-naturedly. "You're right, Gabe. It won't take overlong to trim a new sail, anyway. I just wish it didn't have to happen so close to Hispaniola."


In the dank belly of the hold, Elizabeth dreams...

She's drowning.

The water closes over her head like a shroud as she sinks to the fine, silvery sand of the ocean floor. The silence is complete. She lies there, staring up to the glowing green surface far above her; she cannot move, cannot stir her limbs to swim for that sunlit ceiling. She feels curiously detached, as if her body is not her own, as if her impending death is no concern of hers.

Air escapes from her lungs slowly, a stream of bubbles bright as jewels rising slowly away from her, one by one. Her hair, unbound, swirls around her face, seaweed swaying in the gentle current. Time pauses, lengthens.

Then strong arms enfold her, carry her upwards.The surface breaks for her, and she gasps until sweet air floods her lungs; the light blinds her momentarily, so that she cannot see the face of her rescuer. But she knows who it must be. She laughs in relief.

"Will..." she breathes gratefully, turning to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Oh, Will..."

He smirks at her, gold flashing in the sunlight.

Not Will, then.

"Anytime, love..."

"You!" She pushes against his chest, but he holds on grimly. Holding her above water.

"Aye, and who else?"

He's so close, wet body against wet body; his warmth invades her, quickening her blood, calling forth an answering heat low in her belly and between her thighs, and she demands almost wildly, "Where's Will?"

He heaves an exaggerated sigh, the very picture of severely tried patience. "Will's gone. Remember?"

"Gone--?" She stares at him, his dark laughing eyes and smug expression. "Jack, what are you talking about?"

"Come, come, darling, you were there, y'know." He tips his head to one side with a slight frown, appraising her. "Aye, your Will Turner is long vanished...sorry, love. He married the governor's daughter years ago. I must admit, I was rather disappointed in him..."

"Jack," she says, annoyed. "That was me. I am the governor's daughter."

"Really? You don't say!" He considers this, adopting a puzzled expression. "No...no, that's not right. You've always been a pirate, Lizzie. I'm sure of it."

"You're daft, Jack."

"That's as may be, love, but it doesn't mean I'm not right..."

And somehow they are no longer in the water, but standing on the deck of the Black Pearl. His arms are still around her; he looks down at her, and the intent in his gaze sends a shiver through her. He means to kiss her; she can see it.

"You see, you and me, Elizabeth, we're just the same. It's just a matter of when you decide to admit it."

He lays one hand along her cheek, the other grasping her hip. Her pulse throbs in her ears, and elsewhere, a rising tide; but as he bends to kiss her, the Pearl gives a great lurch, and she falls and keeps falling into the dark, away from him towards the hard boards of the deck.

She awakens with a jerk, the deck of the Lady hard against her hip and shoulder. Forward of her position in the hold, the anchor chain hangs taut, creaking gently. The lurch that woke her must have been the ship pulling to, she realizes, and sits up, listening intently to the movement above, the sounds of the Lady Swann making berth.

Perhaps she's closer than she thought to discovering her husband's secret. She leans against the hull, waiting for the opportune moment, trying to ignore the dull ache of heat her guilty dream has woken in her loins. It's been too long since she and Will did anything more than share a bed together, she tells herself. That's all. It's not that she wants Jack, really; it can't be. She just wants...something that he represents.

Freedom, perhaps.


The Black Pearl enters Tortuga Bay late in the afternoon. Jack planned to sail straight on to Port Royal, but they were blown some distance off course by the storm, and since they're in the vicinity he figures there's no harm in giving his deserving crew a chance to have themselves a spot of good old-fashioned debauchery before he leads them into a hornet's nest of British Navy men, ships and cannon on naught but a whim and the memory of a bonny lass.

"Jack, d'you see that beauty moored at our starboard quarter?" Anamaria calls to him from the deck. "She's no renegade, that's sure..."

He knows immediately which vessel she means; he noticed her as soon as they sighted the harbor: a graceful if somewhat storm-battered carrack, her clean white hull setting her apart from the disreputable huddle of smaller sloops--probably smugglers' vessels--and fishing boats. "Aye, most definitely, quite a pretty boat."

Ana springs lightly up to the poop deck, moving to stand beside him at the helm. "A merchant, maybe? Lost her way in that bit o' weather we ran into earlier?"

"No doubt." He studies the other ship with pursed lips. "Apparently she's torn a sail or two...Pity, that."

"Aye, a great pity," she agrees, a predatory gleam lighting her eyes. "Maybe we could help lighten their load for 'em. Better yet, we could take her. You still owe me a ship, y'know."

"Ana, love, if I'd have known what a devious mind you possessed, I'd have hired you the first time I met you."

"You might've anyway, if you weren't so busy plottin' to steal my boat at the time."

"And avoiding your sharp tongue."

"And gettin' me drunk."

It's an old argument, the points on either side familiar to both, and they fall into it easily, without real resentment. "You're better company when you're drunk, my dear." He considers her thoughtfully. "In fact, you're better company when I'm drunk."

"Why, thank you, Captain. Just don't go thinkin' your pretty words and flattery'll get you anywhere with me."

"If you remember, I once tried to exert my not inconsiderable charm on you and was forced to give it up as a bad job."

"But not before you stole my boat. I remember. And I daresay I'd remember a good sight more if you hadn't tricked me into drinking all that blasted rum."

He blinks at her innocently. "I didn't trick you. You wanted to show me that you could outdrink me."

"Aye, about as much as I wanted you to sail off with my Jolly Mon."

"I only borrowed her. I fully intended to bring her back straight away."

"Which you didn't."

"It wasn't my fault that you didn't keep her seaworthy!"

"I left her hull uncaulked a'purpose. As insurance."

"Insurance against what?"

"Theft," Ana says, and her white teeth flash in a rare grin before she leaps down the steps to the quarter deck, the better to rap out orders to the men busy making the Pearl ready to drop anchor.

"Aye, and that worked out well for you, didn't it," Jack calls after her.

"Would've worked more to my liking had she sunk sooner, and left you swimming to Port Royal!" Ana shouts back, almost good-naturedly.

Jack chuckles, turning away. He stares absently at the ship Ana as they head past where it rides at anchor. Then he suddenly straightens up and pulls out his spyglass, training it on the activity taking place on the carrack's forward deck; more specifically, on a man wearing a most ridiculous hat.

"Well, I'll be damned," he murmurs. "Anamaria! Deepest apologies, but I'm afraid I must ask you to refrain from any destruction, looting, or commandeering of that ship you were eyin'."

She scowls at him from the deck below, hands at her hips. "And why might that be?"

"It belongs to a friend of mine." He smiles back at her beatifically. "And thus, by natural progression, also a friend of yours, savvy?"

"Not sure I follow that one, Captain."

"You owe him, m'dear. He saved me neck, you know."

She favors him with a dark glare. "Then I reckon I owe him nothin' more dear than a good hard whack to the skull!"

Jack, casting his gaze skywards in silent appeal to whatever capricious gods of wind and sea might be in attendance, instead catches the beady, sympathetic eye of Cotton's Parrot, perched in the mizzen spar.

"She loves me, mate," he mutters defensively. "She's just got a funny way of showing it."


Elizabeth takes her leave of the Lady Swann under the cover of dusk. The ship is mostly empty, except for a a few of the crew who are asleep below and a few who have gathered on the forward deck, smoking tobacco and laughing loudly. She assumes they're supposed to be standing guard, but they fail to notice the creak of the ropes as she lowers the boat to the water, and she hopes for Will's sake there are no real pirates lying in wait on this bay with an eye to steal his beloved vessel.

She has, in fact, no idea what bay this is, but the yellow lights glowing along the shore are certainly the lamps of a village, and she heads toward them. She wants nothing more dearly right now than a soft bed in a dry room, with a basin of water to wash in and perhaps a plate of warm food.

Not entirely cut out for life at sea, are you, missy? sneers that annoying voice in her head.

Not entirely cut out for living in the cargo hold, at least.

She lets the oars drop and massages the back of her neck, trying to rub out the crick in her neck that's developed over four nights sleeping on rough boards with only her little sack of belongings for a pillow. The boat drifts on a slow current, carrying her closer to land, and she can see the outlines of buildings, firelight dancing in their windows. From somewhere not too far away, she hears men's voices raised in a rowdy, off-key tune.

And she can smell the town, as well.

She wrinkles her nose. The worst parts of Port Royal never harbored anything even approaching this richly varied stench, a mixture of rotting fish, smoke, human waste, and under it all the rank, sweet odor of fermenting sugar-cane.

They must make rum here, she realizes. Lots of rum.

She scans the shore for a discreet docking place, finally deciding on a small inlet overhung by palms about a half-mile or so from the nearest structure. She doesn't want to have to answer any pointed questions from the inhabitants--especially as she has no idea what manner of people they might be, aside from the all-to-evident fact that they are not over-concerned with cleanliness.

Dragging the little skiff up to the beach, she shudders at the slimy touch of the water on her bare calves. It's worse than any bilge water she's encountered, even on the filthiest of vessels. Polluted by long years of human habitation, in addition to the waste of visiting ships, she supposes; she noticed on her way in that the Lady Swann has company in the harbor, which is surprising for such a small port as this. Oddly enough, the silhouette of the other ship's sails looks vaguely familiar against the orange afterglow of sunset.

She slips and almost falls, letting out a muffled curse; the sand has abruptly changed to thick, dark mud by the inlet. Her feet quickly become coated with the fetid ooze.

Yes, she decides, a bath is definitely in order. She hopes that they have at least heard of such a thing as hot water in this dreadful place.

She leaves the boat half-concealed under the palm fronds and slogs up the beach toward the village, boots in hand, keeping to the shadows of the tree line. At the first row of buildings, she chooses a narrow alley between two high walls to stop and lace her muddy feet back into her shoes; once properly shod, she peers cautiously out into the haphazardly cobbled street--and immediately ducks back down between the buildings, her heart pounding.

Two men are strolling up the lane toward her, and one of them is Will Turner. She can't see much of the other man's face; but from his rolling gait it appears that he is more than a little drunk. As the pair draws closer, she begins to catch snippets of their conversation.

"Aye, how could I forget?" That easy chuckle is unmistakably Will's, and Elizabeth's heart contracts. She hasn't heard him laugh like that for a long time, possibly forever. How can it be that after three years of marriage, he still can't relax around her?

I'm lucky he ever started calling me by my first name.

Now, his voice vibrates with humor and reminiscence. "Ah, Tortuga. What was it you said about this place back then?"

Tortuga! The famed sanctuary and hideout of every brigand, scoundrel, and privateer in the Caribbean...Elizabeth remembers reading about it in the texts she used to pore over as a little girl, when she was continually thirsty for more tales of pirates, treasure, and general lawlessness.

It's worse than I thought, then.

Had Will become a pirate?

"Honestly can't recall," slurs the other man. "But I'm sure you do. Let's have it."

"I do, in fact. That sweet, proliferous bouquet," says Will, with the air of quoting some great philosopher.

"Ah,just so," says the other. "You were quite an impressionable lad, eh? Bit of a stick, in fact. You couldn't even look at the nightlife without blushing like a nun. Very entertainin' for me, it was."

"I'm sure it was. But not so much for me."

"Oh, you had a good enough time once the drink started flowing. I made sure of that. Couldn't let your first night in Tortuga go to waste, could I?"

"You could have. I would've felt much less like death the next morning, I expect."

They're passing by her hiding place now, and she draws further back into the shadows. Will's companion is closer to her; she sees him clearly for the first time, and her heart gives a funny little lurch.

It can't be--!

But it is.

Jack Sparrow hasn't changed much in the intervening years since that morning he escaped his execution at the Port Royal garrison. His long, tangled dark hair is still braided with beads and coins that glint in the orange light from the lamp burning across the way, although she rather thinks he's added a few trinkets to the mix, as well as a ring or two to those long, elegant fingers. And that hawkish profile, with its deep-set eyes and expressive mouth, could belong to no one else. He has, however, acquired a new hat.

Of course, she thinks. That's why the damn ship looked so familiar.

It can't be coincidence. Will must have planned to rendezvous with the Black Pearl at Tortuga.

She sinks against the dirty wall, listening to their voices recede as they continue down the street, and wondering why Will never told her that he's been keeping company with Captain Jack Sparrow.

"So does the captivating Miss Giselle still make her home here, Jack?"

"I haven't the faintest idea." Jack sounds a little put out.

"What about Scarlet?" Will's tone is pointed. "Won't she be happy to see you?"

"Aye, she's still here, and proprietress of a fine and flourishing establishment just a few streets over." His voice lowers to a growl that Elizabeth strains to hear. "But before you start formulating any ingenious ideas, mate, I'd best warn ye you'll be partaking of her merchandise all by your onesies. I'd prefer to forgo the lady's gentle ministrations altogether this time, savvy?"

Will laughs uproariously at that, but they are out of earshot now and she cannot hear his reply.

She ventures a quick glance in the direction they've gone, just in time to see them disappear around a corner. Then, checking to make sure the coast is now clear, she stealthily follows them. She's determined to find out what business has brought her husband here, to Tortuga of all places. Not only that, but she's fairly sure she just heard him carry on a conversation about prostitutes.

Her curiosity, she convinces herself, has nothing to do with the despicably fascinating Captain Jack Sparrow.