I have just beaten my all-time record; two updates within as many weeks. Lucky, this one's for you.

Just a short note: I have changed Norrington's nickname in the previous chapter from Jim to Ramrod at the suggestion of my editor and story consultant, my mother. (This is because I am far too much like Norrington myself and not at all gifted at coming up with these ridiculous nicknames where she is).

The men aboard the Harrier were not happy. They did not like their new Captain; Gillette was arrogant, over-eager, and, when the mood took him, malicious. He had already had no fewer than eight men flogged for offenses which, under Commodore Norrington, would have earned merely a reprimand. Most of them resented his quick promotion and a few of them even suspected that the Commodore had been wrongfully accused.

Lieutenant Theodore Groves was one such. He had known the Commodore for a good many years; he simply could not imagine, in his wildest dreams, that the man he knew could have murdered anyone, especially not a fop like Buffington. Gillette's enthusiasm for the chase unnerved and even angered him; the Captain, too, had known Norrington. Could he not tell that the charges were absurd?

This was the atmosphere when the lookout spotted the distinctive sails of the Black Pearl just north of Jamaica.

Aboard the Pearl, Jack Sparrow was standing at the wheel. They were within a week of reaching Tortuga; in other words, they were almost home free. No Navy ship would stand a chance in that haven of the pirates and normally none of them got this close. So when the cry of "Sail ho!" reached him as they neared the Windward Passage, he was not overly concerned.

"Where away?" he shouted.

"Two points abaft the starboard beam!" He could see Norrington look up from the section of rope he was splicing, a worried expression flitting across his face; Helena stood with a frown. They exchanged a glance; there was something wrong, they could both sense it. "She's a Frigate, Captain – flyin' British colors!" Jack started violently.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath. He pulled out his telescope; a moment later he was swearing sulfurously.

"Seems I shouldn't have let morality get ahead of me," Jack said sourly. "They've found us." He handed the telescope to Norrington, who looked at the flag and bit back a curse. Jack had turned away.

"Load the guns! Grapeshot and run up the red flag! It may scare them off," he said before James could protest. "Hands to battle stations!" The hustle of the crew was mixed with the clink of weaponry. Jack turned to Norrington; his expression was apologetic.

"You'll 'ave to go below, mate. Can't 'ave your old friends seein' – " James shook his head.

"Three quarters of them wouldn't have recognized me out of uniform a month ago, much less now. I'm familiar with their battle tactics as well; if you don't want a massacre on both sides, I would say that you need me on deck." Jack raised an eyebrow; James turned to watch the ship approaching on the horizon. "Besides," he muttered for Jack's ears only, "Gillette is mine." Jack regarded Norrington for a moment with an amused expression and then started to laugh. He nodded in acquiescence.

"Alright, Jim." Norrington considered saying something about the name, but on second thought, anything was better than Ramrod. He nodded and hastened away; there was work to do, and quickly. Jack turned to Helena.

"You'd better get –" he started to say "below decks," but she stopped him.

"I'll stay with the surgeon."

"You won't like what you see," Jack started, thinking of the aftermath of a battle, but once again she shook her head.

"Perhaps not, but I'm a tailor's daughter, remember? The better the stitching, the smaller the scars," she said determinedly. He stared for a moment before, with a look of grudging admiration, he nodded.

"Very well, Miss Eaton."

The Harrier caught up with them surprisingly quickly; it was perhaps two hours before the Navy frigate was within shouting distance. Jack relinquished the wheel to Annamaria; he would need to be on the move for this fight.

"Come about!" he shouted at the helmsman. "Ready the starboard guns!"

Groves watched as the Pearl swung around to face them. The two vessels were armed to the teeth; this was not going to be a pretty battle, no, not at all. Cannon balls whistled through the air from the Pearl's forward guns; there was a ripping sound in the rigging and heavy wooden splinters came raining down on some of the midshipmen.

"Be ready to fire!" Groves shouted.

"Hard to starboard!" Gillette was yelling as the faster ship bore down on them. The pirates could be heard already; Groves did his best to ignore the shouts, which were meant to intimidate. He observed the red flag flying from the Pearl's main mast; his eyes widened in alarm and he resisted the urge to curse Gillette. What had he gotten them into?

As it turned out, what Gillette had gotten them into was a royal mess. The two ships drew even with each other; in the chaos of guns going off and men dying, Groves almost didn't hear Gillette's orders.

"Prepare to board!"

"What?"

"Prepare to board!"

"Have you gone mad!" Groves shouted, but he was inaudible in the roar of battle. Men had already begun to swing over to the Pearl; the first wave of marines fell midway between the ships or, if they were lucky, on the deck of the pirate ship, and Norrington, aboard the Pearl, watched in horror as Gillette, in a move born of suicidal desperation, drove still more men toward the pirate ship and their deaths. Some, however, did make it, and then the fight began in earnest.

Groves followed his men into the fray; someone, after all, would have to mop up the mess after Gillette got himself killed, as Groves knew he must. No other outcome could be had; the Captain was clearly lost to reason.

The situation was going rapidly downhill. Pirates and navy men hacked away at each other; Norrington sought Gillette in the confusion, knowing that the soldiers would keep coming unless someone ordered them to fall back. That order would not be forthcoming until the traitor was out of the way. Groves was likewise searching; there was, however, no sign of the Captain of the Harrier.

And then he locked eyes on one of the pirates. The man's long dark hair hung loose and heavy stubble covered his jaw, but his carriage gave him away; no normal pirate moved like that, nor did they fight with such style. Green eyes, noticing his gaze, begged understanding and trust; Groves nodded, more an inclination of his head than anything else. James Norrington was not just his commanding officer (and Groves still considered him to be that), he was his friend. He moved on, giving no indication that he had recognized James among the pirate crew; James gave a sigh of relief and dove into battle with a renewed sense of hope. There was, at least, one of his officers who had not betrayed him.

Gillette appeared a few minutes later. His gaze swept the deck and found Norrington almost immediately; as if they could sense one another, Norrington turned to face his former subordinate. His eyes flashed deep green with anger; this was the scum who had put his life in such a shambles and wasted the lives of so many others. Anger such as he had never felt boiled up within him; for the first time he could understand Sparrow's ten-year grudge. Gillette smirked and James felt something deep inside him snap. The Navy Captain raised his sword in a mocking salute and met the attack head-on.

He was not smirking a few moments later. Gillette had never, in all his experience as Norrington's second-in-command, seen the man lose his temper, but he certainly had now. There was a glint in Norrington's eye that spoke clearly of death; his blade hammered home relentlessly and Gillette was slowly backing his way around the deck, just barely defending himself against the barrage of blows. Another stroke would have finished him; he was sure of it, and yet, at that precise moment, something hit Norrington from behind. James staggered; there was a sharp pain in his right arm as Gillette's sword darted past his defenses for a moment. His next blow landed Norrington squarely on the deck, unconscious.

Jack saw Norrington go down; he was rushing across the deck a moment later, intercepting Gillette's blade as it flashed downward.

"That's not very nice," the pirate growled as the naval officer retreated, fear in his eyes. Jack advanced, intent on his prey. Gillette was doomed; he was not even half the swordsman that Jack was. His blade clattered to the deck moments later and he held up his hands as Jack held a sword to his throat.

"Call them off," the pirate ordered. Gillette nodded; he called the orders; the naval men looked confused at first until the situation became clear.

"Do it or I kill him," Jack shouted. The Marines backed away from the pirates; Jack's crew hurried to help their fallen comrades.

"Now," Jack ordered, "get back on your ship and tell Governor Swann that I said he's barking up the wrong tree. I won't kill you for taking orders from this piece of vermin." Gillette started to take a step forward as Jack eased up a little; he was stopped by the renewed presence of cold steel at his throat.

"Not you, Captain," Jack said with a warning bite to his voice. He was doing some quick thinking; he knew that Gillette had recognized James. Jack could not allow him to leave the ship with that knowledge.

Gillette looked well and truly terrified as his crew abandoned him with scarcely a backward glance. Jack gave a silent sigh of relief; it had been a gamble to assume that the First Lieutenant would prove to be more stable than his Captain, but it had paid off. He sheathed his sword.

"Gibbs, take him to the brig. Matthews, go with him," Jack ordered, turning Gillette over. He stooped next to Norrington and breathed a little easier to find that he was not badly injured; a few days on light duties perhaps and stitches for the cut on his arm. It would scar of course – James wouldn't like that, but it would help the pirate disguise along.

"Ah, Jamie, what will Philip say?" the pirate asked quietly with a slight grin, not noticing that James was just barely awake. When he looked down again, the other man's eyes were closed once more.

Norrington woke a few hours later to a pounding headache and a stinging pain in his arm. For a moment he was confused; what had happened? It came back to him as he woke up further; he had been knocked out in the fighting; one of Gillette's blows had grazed his arm. There was another memory, too, but that must have been a dream; the only man who had ever called him "Jamie" had been dead for twelve years. And yet, it had sounded like... he stopped himself. It had been a dream, nothing more.

Helena was resting against the wall in the surgery. Jack had been right; the last few hours had not been pretty. Two of the men had lost limbs; three were dead.

"I did warn you," a baritone voice said next to her. She turned; Jack had come to make his rounds among the wounded.

"More would have died if I hadn't been there," she said weakly. It was true; on a number of occasions, it had been touch-and-go, with some of the men bleeding profusely from their injuries.

"The surgeon said you were right useful," Jack acknowledged. "Not many women would do that, you know." She nodded, exhausted. He looked at her for a long moment before gesturing to Cotton.

"Take Miss Eaton to her cabin – no protests from you, Miss, you've done enough. Lie down before you fall down." At last she nodded; Cotton took her arm gently and led her away toward the first mate's cabin which she shared with Annamaria. Jack watched with a strange expression on his face until she disappeared up the stairs before turning to see to his wounded men.