(bit of a long 'un here, gang.)

Noble Bay

"Maybe you shouldn't pull on her mouth that way," Elizabeth said after an hour of watching Jack struggle to lead the black mare across a creek. So far, all that had been accomplished was a thorough drenching of the displaced captain.

Jack was nearly yanked off his feet as the mare flung up her head again. "Elizabeth, darling, when I want your opinion… oof!" An inopportune shove by the mare sent him toppling backwards into the creek, where he sat in some surprise. Elizabeth covered her mouth as he looked at the water, and then at the now-still mare. "That was uncalled for, young miss."

"Are you talking to the horse, or to me?"

"Both, it would seem. You bought her purely to watch me struggle, didn't you?" Jack stood up and glared at the mare, who swished her tail.

Seated primly in their old and creaky wagon, Elizabeth shook her head. "Believe it or not, she was the only one I could afford."

"I can see why. Obstinate creature."

Again, Elizabeth couldn't decide which female Jack was referring to, though watching the horse and the pirate argue was certainly better than any of Hermione's ill-timed jokes.

The mare whinnied loudly. Jack looked at her unflinchingly. "Yes, you are. Wench."

Elizabeth pulled her shawl more snugly about her shoulders. "We should get to the inn before nightfall," she warned. "There's likely to be all sorts of unsavory sorts on the road after dark."

Jack tugged on the bridle again. The mare shook her head vigorously back and forth, and Jack stumbled away. "Ow! Well, Lizzie, if you think you can do it, by all means come coax this wretched creature across!"

Elizabeth shuddered. "I don't want to get wet."

"But you'll let me get wet, is that it?"

"You're a sailor," she pointed out, "and your ship leaked quite badly last time I was aboard her. I thought you'd be used to it."

Jack glowered briefly at that, and then gave the mare another tug. The lovely mare, who looked more like one of Lord Owlsley's racing string than a baker's cast-off, refused to accommodate his demand and knocked him over again.

Watching the poor captain get so agitated over it secretly made Elizabeth's day, but she kept her smile hidden beneath well-timed coughs. "You, Captain, should know that when you try to force a woman into doing something, it doesn't end well."

"And don't we have a pristine example of that in front of us," he muttered, making a show of brushing the water off his trousers. "Lizzie, my dear, I insist you come down here and try working whatever feminine magic you think you possess on this sordid creature. Clearly, she and I are not…" He looked the mare in the eye, "…communicating."

Elizabeth huffed, and then carefully climbed down. At this point, I'd dance a jig if it'd get us across this pathetic excuse for a body of water, she thought. She ran a hand down the mare's neck, gently patting a matted bit of mane. "Sweetling," she said, "we need to get across this creek so we can reach an inn. We'll bed you down in a stall of soft straw, and feed you the most delicious treats from the cook…"

Jack snorted. "Appealing with treats. Typical female."

"You shut up," she said in the same soothing tone. The mare's ears had pricked forward by now, and Elizabeth put a foot in the water. "Come on now, lovely lady, let's just cross, one step at a time…"

The entire wagon shuddered and creaked as the mare took a step after her. Jack's little comments abruptly halted as Elizabeth led the horse into the middle of the creek. "There, you see, Captain? All she needed was someone to appeal to her gentler nature."

Jack gave a dubious snort. "Is that what you call it?"

"Clearly it worked better than your methods." Come on, there's a good girl—" The mare balked, and Elizabeth was jerked backwards. "Oh, wait—"

Feeling the tug on her mouth again, the mare flung up her head and half-reared. Elizabeth toppled forward and landed face-down in two feet of water.

When she stood up, the mare was again quiet and Jack was guffawing on the other side. "Appeal to her gentler nature, did you, Lizzie?"

Elizabeth considered her dripping clothing. "I feel," she said, "like a drowned rat."

"You look it, too," he assured her. "Though as always, you make a fetching drowned rat."

She hid her glower with her hair. "A pox on you, Mr. Kendrick."

"Oh, of course," he said, still chuckling. "But I'd say you just made the entire trip across the Atlantic well worth it!"

----------------

It was dark by the time they managed to forge across the creek. The black mare went along happily enough, perhaps feeling she'd caused enough trouble for one day. That didn't stop Jack from calling her Dirce in honor of her treacherous ways, and he called the mare by that name at every opportunity he got.

The road reached over a hill, and Elizabeth reached into the back of the wagon to pull a blanket out. Her clothing was still damp, and her teeth chattered. "The inn should be just ahead," she said. "I need a warm fire and lots of stew."

Jack just grunted.

The inn materialized on the roadside soon enough, with only a few windows lit. Elizabeth almost clapped her hands in delight. "Look, Jack, they aren't too busy!"

"Wait," he said, reining the mare in. "Look to the side there. How many horses do you see?"

She squinted and tried to count. "I don't know, maybe a dozen?"

He tightened the reins and pulled the mare's head to the left, effectively steering them off the road. "I thought as much."

"Wait, where are we going? The inn's that way!"

"That inn is infested, m'lady. Mr. Cade said as much before we left."

"Said as much about what?" Elizabeth had been loading up the wagon when Jack and Mr. Cade had exchanged their farewells, but she remembered the man hadn't been terribly happy to see them leave. She clutched at the side of the seat as the wagon rumbled over the embankment. "Jack, this is madness."

"Highwaymen," he said, and Elizabeth abruptly stopped talking. "The roads aren't as safe as they once were."

"But Lord Owlsley assured me that the inn was frequented by soldiers!"

"Highwaymen," he repeated. "C'mon, Lizzie. His Majesty's men have left the area. I can't take twelve men with guns and neither can you."

"But where will we stay?"

"Under the stars." He flicked the reins at the mare, and for once, the creature did not revolt. Her hooves thudded softly in the dirt, and the wagon creaked in protest as she fled into the murk, lit only by a ribbon of moonlight.

Soon, the sound of hoofbeats followed them.

----------------

Meanwhile, back in Noble Bay

The little Helene stumbled into Noble Bay after a voyage that even the most pernicious of captains would have to agree was speedy.

Will staggered off the ship and promptly dropped to his knees on the dock, running his hands along the damp wood. Thank-you thank-you thank-you… I never want to go to sea again, never ever ever…

"Captain Turner?"

He stifled a moan, stood up, and turned to face his adopted crew. The dozen men of the Helene looked over Noble Bay with uncertain faces, and it was up to him to put them at ease. He tried a welcoming smile. "This is your new home," he said, glancing at the harbor out of the corner of his eye. In the weeks since he'd left with Wickedry, new buildings had gone up – and more ships dropped anchor. "Noble Bay."

The men just looked at him. Will struggled for words and names to fit to the puzzled faces; he thought the first mate might be Louis. "Dugald," he said, suddenly desperate to be away from them, "please take them to Corby and see that they receive their portion of the bounty."

Dugald wasted no time in ushering the men to the ramshackle building in the center of Gerrarrd's little town, and Will wavered up the pathway to the little hut he'd adopted. A brief survey of the harbor revealed that Wickedry had not returned, or perhaps she'd already made a quick turnaround. His pace quickened as he took the final steps, and swung the door open—

Bootstrap looked up from a bowl of soup. "Son."

Will took a deep breath. Helene had returned to Noble Bay far ahead of schedule; Gerrarrd would not have acted rashly. "Father. How are you?"

Bootstrap grunted. "Winter."

Will inspected the fire and dropped another log on it, and then decided his little adopted hovel looked to be in order. "Are your ankles hurting again?"

He knelt in front of his father's bare feet to examine the swollen joint. "We'll have to see if Sharky can give you more of that magic potion he's got. Make the best of Captain Gerarrd's generosity."

Bootstrap pulled his foot away and picked up his spoon again, clenching it tightly in his fist. "While it lives."

Will almost smiled as he stood up. Bootstrap's comments, while not always completely within context, tended to border on suspicious whenever dear Ephraim came up. "We took a ship. A little sloop."

"Yours?"

"I suppose she is now, isn't she? Her name is Helene. The dock crews will repaint her as soon as the cargo is offloaded." He rather hoped Dugald would take care of that; Will had no desire to venture back aboard a ship until he was absolutely ordered to. "There wasn't even a fight."

"Reputation."

"So it would seem."

He fixed himself a bowl of soup, wrinkling his nose at the odor that seemed to permeate the little shack. While Bootstrap Bill's company had definitely improved, his cleaning skills hadn't. Will needed to give the place a thorough scrubbing before he tried to sleep in it.

He wondered if his father would ever return to something resembling a functioning being. True, Bootstrap didn't munch on his hands very much anymore, and Will had felt confident enough to leave him in the hovel with only one of Gerrarrd's men to stop in on him every few hours. But Bootstrap Bill was not alive, not really.

"Always was ambitious."

Will looked at the cabin wall, and then back at his father. "What?"

"Ephraim. Wanted more… wanted…" Bootstrap looked into his soup. "…things…"

Will hesitantly sat down across from him. "He said he knew you. Before the… before the curse." It was a sensitive subject; the last time he'd brought it up, Bootstrap had flown into a rage and broken two windows.

There was no such fit this time. Bootstrap licked his spoon. "Fact."

"So that must have been years and years ago."

His father didn't even nod at that. Will tried not to feel frustrated. "You were pirates together?"

"Pirates?" Bootstrap turned to him, and laughter rose anew in his throat – a dry, hacking laugh that reminded Will of a choking parrot rather than a man. "No, no, not pirates."

Will caught Bootstrap's right hand as it drifted up to his mouth. "Not pirates? Then what? Father, what?"

Bootstrap gave him a slow smile, and said no more.

----------------

That night, he took his ease in a ramshackle tavern that had sprung up after Wickedry sailed. They had only grog – likely pilfered off various ships – but he welcomed the liquid as he took it down by the establishment's lone fireplace.

At least Father is improving. Yes; that much was undeniable – Bootstrap had nearly carried on a conversation, and what's more, made sense while doing it. Clearly he didn't trust Gerrarrd, yet he showed no distress in his situation.

If Bootstrap didn't feel threatened, why should Will? They were both integral to whatever Gerrarrd's plan was, weren't they?

Though I fail to see what part I possibly play… He twirled a coin on the table and tried to banish his darker thoughts. If Gerrarrd didn't need him after all, there was not much point in keeping him around. Perhaps he was meant to serve as some sort of amusement? Aye, lads, watch poor Willie Turner fumble his way through piracy!

Will sighed. I guess that's purpose enough.

"You're looking far too sad for a man of the brethren," someone said. Will glanced up as an imposingly-built figure set a foamy mug in front of him. "Drink up."

"I can't take anymore grog," he objected.

"S'not grog, lad. Real rum right there. Have a sip then, or a gulp. It's rude to deny the offered drink, you know."

Will took a moderate gulp of the rum and studied the fair-haired man as he sat down. "You're Errol, aren't you."

"The one and only. And you, my friend, are Will Turner." He leaned forward, a grin pulling at the edge of his mouth. "So tell me! Is Gerrarrd as mad as they say?"

Will gave it some thought. "I think his ideas are mad. He seems… well enough, in the head." A second gulp, and the rum warmed his belly. "But I've been with my father, so…"

"So just about anything else is rational, aye? There's been talk of your poor pa since Gerrarrd brought him around, true enough. From what I'm told, your very presence has done more than a good many of the captain's witch doctors ever could."

"Witch doctors?" The notion made Will queasy. A glance over the rim of his mug revealed Errol studying him closely with large brown eyes, something of a knowing smile on his face. "If you don't mind my asking, sir, you've never taken an interest in me before. Why…?"

"Oh, everyone wants a good look at Winsome Will Turner, who commandeered a ship without killing a single man."

Will gagged on his rum. "Winsome Will?"

"Well, you are a bit prettier than most of us, aren't you, Wilsie?" Errol smiled. "Not a lot of scars on you. If Gerrarrd ever brings us women, they'll be all over you."

"Women?"

"He promised us maidens," Errol said dismissively. "I have me own doubts, but some of the men still hope for it."

"Maidens?" Will contemplated his rum. "He specifically said maidens?"

"One for each man!"

Will wondered just where Gerrarrd intended to find enough maidens to satisfy every man in Noble Bay; surely Port Royal couldn't have that many. And who knows if they're maidens anyway, he thought, clenching his teeth slightly. Who are we to question them if they claim they are? "I don't think there's near enough maidens in all of the Caribbean to keep that promise."

"Mmm-hmm. That's why you're a captain, and most of the men are not."

Will studied his rum, and then blinked. What had Errol just called him? "What?"

"The more intelligent ones become captains."

He laughed easily at that; this rum was more potent than he thought. "I'm not a captain. I just sailed the Helene in."

Errol watched him steadily. "Yes… and the ship is listed under your name. Dugald and the men answer to you. Quite an impressive little ship for a first command, if I say so meself."

"But… but I don't sail," Will said. "I'm a blacksmith."

"Sailed her well enough back here, didn't you?"

Clearly, the man did not know how to listen. "I just said to come back here, and that's what they did."

"Oh, you'll need to learn your sea-charts and your stars. But Dugald'll scare them into obeying for awhile." Errol raised an eyebrow. "You all right there, mate?"

Outside. He had to get outside. Now. What remained of the rum spilled onto the harsh wooden surface of the table as Will leaped for the door, pushing it off its hinges in his desperation to escape. The cool harbor breeze immediately shocked him back into reality, and he placed his hands on his knees, breathing deeply. Lying. Or spreading more rumors. That's the way this place runs…

"It won't do to let your crew see you like this."

Oh, good God in heaven, Errol had followed him. "They're not my crew."

"But they are, Will. Signed and delivered. You took the ship back and it's yours. Gerrarrd gave very specific orders about that."

"Gerrarrd is mad," he said crossly. "I'm no sailor."

"I agree," Errol said easily. He clapped Will on the back. "That hasn't stopped Gerrarrd, though, and it best not stop you, if you value your father's life."

Will closed his eyes. Ah, it always comes down to this again, doesn't it? He shoved Errol's hand away and whirled on him, teeth bared. "It's growing tiresome, Errol. 'Do this, Winsome Willie, or Bootstrap gets deepsixed!' 'Dance for me, Turner, if you want ol'da-da to live!' I don't know what Gerrarrd's game is, but I'm bloody tired of it!"

Errol bowed graciously. "I understand your frustration, Captain Turner."

"Oh, I really don't think you do," he said bitterly.

Errol shrugged. "It's up to you whether you believe it or not, but I do. With that said, Gerrarrd's a man of his word. Serve him well and you'll advance. Betray him and you'll pay."

He closed his eyes. "And I've no way to escape him."

"No. None of us do. Not yet, anyway. And by the time you do have that chance, mayhaps you won't want to get away." Something in Errol's voice changed minutely, and Will sneaked a glance at him. The older pirate was looking off into the distance, studying the sea and her mysteries. "It's an intoxicating life, lad. Not always kind, rarely generous, but something about it… I don't know if you can understand it."

Will thought of Jack Sparrow then, with his flashing eyes and ready wit. Did Jack look at the sea the same way? "I don't," he mumbled, "but I knew a man once who did."

Errol sent him a sideways look. "Yes," he said, "I believe you did."

The two men stood there in relative silence for a moment, listening to merriment within the tavern and the soft island breeze that whisked around them. Perhaps it was all just a test; a plant from Gerrarrd to see if Winsome Will would run off with a new ship. With Dugald aboard, it wasn't bloody likely. Hell, he thought, he's got me cornered. Clever man. "What are my orders, then?"

"Sail for Tortuga." Errol handed him a slip of parchment. "It's time to spread the word."

No chance of escaping in Tortuga, then. Not when he was surrounded by men not yet bout to Gerrarrd and his new brethren. Still, if not today, then perhaps tomorrow… He decided to risk it, and turned to Errol again. "Who was it?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Errol chuckled. "Perceptive lad, aren't you?" He sucked in a breath and released it, stretching his arms up over his head. "It was my daughter," he said, his voice never changing. "She was nine."

She was nine. "And now?"

"Why, now I'm as loyal to Ephraim Gerrarrd as any other man in the Caribbean. As loyal as Bootstrap. As loyal as you." He inclined his head and dropped into an exaggerated bow. "Top of the evening to you, Captain Turner. May your family fare better than mine."

He strolled off into the night, leaving Will to watch – and plan.

-----

The next morning dawned clear and sharp. Will and Bootstrap met the crew of the Helene alongside the little sloop, and Will was pleased to see that none of the men looked terribly hungover. Perhaps Gerrarrd's idea of serving them grog rather than straight rum had some merit.

Did I really just think that? He tried to look as authoritative as possible, and had put off his morning shave in order to appear a little older. He'd donned a leathery-looking vest over his stained white shirt, and his trousers were patched and showed a number of bloody fingerprints from Bootstrap's nibbling. If he wanted to be a captain, he needed to look like a captain – a tough one.

"We're going to sail for Tortuga by the week's end," he said, pleased that his voice sounded clear and strong. "Our mission is simple: to let them know of Noble Bay. Captain Gerrarrd thinks it time to swell our numbers."

He looked at Bootstrap. "Some of you have heard of my father, Bootstrap Bill Turner. He will be joining us in this mission."

Dugald coughed. Will sent him a sharp look, but the man had a perfectly innocent expression on his face. Bootstrap, clean-shaven and staring into the sky, appeared completely unaware as to what was going on at all.

Will plunged on ahead. "We will take on stores before we leave. But our first mission is the ship herself." He pointed at the trim lines of the Helene, and wondered if he ought to change the ship's name; Helene sounded far too gentle for a fierce pirate ship. Maybe the Hellcat would fit her better? "We will repaint her. What the docks give us is all we have to work with, so have a care."

"'Spensive," Bootstrap murmured. "Too 'spensive."

Will nodded. Where Gerrarrd had gotten hold of such paint, he certainly didn't know, but he wasn't about to question orders now. Taking Bootstrap to Tortuga might secure him from any Noble Bay locals that Gerrarrd had, but who knew what sort of loyalties were already ingrained in the Helene's crew?

To say nothing of Dugald, he thought, eyeing the huge sailor. He could crush my head with his thumbs.

No, there were no safe harbors in this new life. But so long as he followed his orders, he and Bootstrap always had a chance to escape… perhaps not today, but there was always tomorrow.

Until then, he had the Helene, and his nightmares.

"No questions?" He gave them a moment, and then felt his fists unclenching in relief. "Then dismiss, and re-assemble here within the hour!"

"Aye, Captain Turner!"

It was only later in the day, watching the men – his men – repaint the ship, that Will realized he rather liked the title.

----

Next, on Silence…

Anamaria has grave news for the Commodore… and County Kent is suddenly very unpleasant. We also find out if the author can still write a ship-to-ship battle!