Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Pirates of the Caribbean, and I don't claim to.

Chapter Eight

The HMS Albatross, several days away from Jamaica, somewhere in the Caribbean Sea

Edmund avoided James as much as he could over the next few days. Whenever he saw James on deck, he would duck down into the darkness of the upper deck, or even lower if James saw him and followed. His feelings of pettiness and immaturity started to grow after a week of this, as he hid from the prowling James by hopping into a musty closet that smelled of something rotting.

But he knew that he couldn't face James with any sort of civility until he had done something to assuage his guilty conscience, namely dealing with the hidden Sparrow.

He barricaded himself in his small room one day and pulled out a wrinkled piece of clean parchment and somehow located a quill and inkwell in the wardroom. The only flat area for writing on was the floor, so he spread out the paper and lay down on his stomach.

And he wasn't quite sure where to begin.

He decided that To the Honourable Lord Beckett of the East India Trading Company was polite and specific enough.

To the Honourable Lord Beckett of the East India Trading Company,

When last I saw you, something very heavy was hanging over my conscience, something very important and urgent, and I have regretted not telling you every day that has gone by, but when I tried to tell you that day, Vice-Admiral Norrington forbade me to speak a word.

Good enough, he thought. Navy boys were not necessarily well-trained writers, or at least they were not all gifted. His friends scoffed at writing – who needed to write if they owned a ship and a crew of four hundred men and if they were on a mission to kill pirates? That's what he wanted to know.

... Vice-Admiral Norrington forbade me to speak a word. I hope that after I have told you what weighs so heavily on my mind you will be able to forgive me, for I could not live any longer with the poor opinion of your Lordship hanging over me like a cloud of disapproval.

There seemed to be a lot of hanging things in his letter. Edmund hoped that it wouldn't give Beckett any ideas in regards to him, the poor, bewildered child.

… like a cloud of disapproval. I beg your Lordship's forgiveness.

On that day of which I have spoken, you delivered me to the HMS Albatross, at much personal inconvenience to your person, I would assume with shame. I thank you for that small kindness of taking me to the dockyard in your magnificent carriage pulled by your majestic white horses that are the envy of anyone who sees them, of that I am sure . And the inside of your carriage: so luxurious and warmly decorated. Your Lordship has excellent tastes when it comes to making one feel welcome.

After you had so graciously delivered me, I was left on my own to explore the ship I would be sailing upon thereafter and I found it to be good, with cannons in excellent condition and the galley pleasingly stocked. No doubt thanks to the forethought of your Lordship.

But I encountered something very disturbing in my turns about the decks. I came upon a room separated from the others – the brig – and walked in, intending to examine the strength of the bars in case we should ever come upon pirates, namely Sparrow, as I had learned from you that he is a very crafty criminal and that only the most strongly crafted brigs would have any hope of keeping him.

There is no use avoiding it any longer – I saw Jack Sparrow. He is locked in the brig below even as we speak, along with what looked like most if not all of his crew.

It is my deepest hope that the vice-admiral has already alerted you to the situation, and that this is all a severe misunderstanding.

I am terribly sorry,

Your Humble Servant,

Edmund Seward

He waited for the ink to dry on his signature and stared despairingly at the numerous smears that blurred some of the words. It would have to do. He didn't have any more clean parchment. Most of it he had given to Nate once when his messmate had fallen in love, which meant numerous half-written letters discarded like snowballs in the corner of their berth and more wasted ink than he cared to think about.

If he had thought that writing it would be the most daunting task, he realized now just how undauting it was in relation to his next obstacle: how was he to get the letter into Beckett's hands while they were out at sea, without James finding out? It begged an answer.

For now, though, he would have to keep hold of the letter, at least until they ran across another ship heading back to Port Royal, or until they made landfall. Even then, would he be able to be inconspicuous enough to keep James from suspecting–?

"Edmund!"

He jumped and scrambled to stuff the letter inside his coat pocket, which was surprisingly hard to do while lying on the floor. "Er, yes, sir?"

The handle to his door jiggled, but his sea chest, which he had pushed across the floor and against the door, kept it from opening. Edmund lay on the floor, frozen.

"What is blocking your door?" James asked after a minute's silence.

"I– er, you see, I was actually– um–"

"Open the door– now."

Edmund tripped over to the door and shouldered his chest aside. When James walked in, Edmund stood looking at a point just above James's shoulder. But from his peripheral vision, he saw that James looked slightly relieved – probably because Edmund was wearing pants. But there was still a crease between his eyebrows, and he glanced around Edmund's room with obvious annoyance.

"Doors are never to be blocked on this ship, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"And that's not just because I'm nosy, or because I plan on intruding on you like this often – this is for your own safety. What if the ship were to suddenly catch fire or take on water, and you had your sea chest blocking your only exit?"

"I understand, sir."

James paused and stepped to the side to see around Edmund, his eyes focused on the floor. "Were you writing something?"

"No–" Shit, of course I was writing something, why else would I have an inkwell? "Well, I wasn't writing is what I meant. No, I was actually– drawing. Yes, drawing, sir, that's what I was doing."

James's face couldn't seem to be able to decide between amusement and anger. "You were in here, with your door blocked, drawing? While you should have been on deck making yourself useful?" The amusement took control for a moment: "What were you drawing? Can I see it?"

"Er, I'm sorry, sir, but it was something of a personal drawing," Edmund said evasively.

"Ah." Most of the amusement slid from James's face as he imagined just what something of a personal drawing would look like. "Well, if you're quite finished with your drawing–"

"I am, sir," Edmund interjected, "I've run out of paper, see."

"–if you're quite finished," James said, leveling a stern glare at Edmund, "then you are needed on deck. We plan to make landfall within the next few hours."

Edmund was docile an obedient for the rest of the day, feeling James's eyes on his back at all times. He would have to be more careful now, so that he didn't give James a reason to search his coat pockets. He felt as though he were wearing a sign on his forehead, directing anyone and everyone to look at his pocket. He began to understand the mindset of the wild men he sometimes saw on the streets in the ports they stopped at.

Soon after the bell rang for first dog watch, James cornered him at the prow of the ship. "Edmund," he said, and Edmund thought he saw his eyes fixed on the coat pocket where his letter lay hidden, as though he could see through the material. He crossed his arms awkwardly over the pocket, which elicited a stern frown from James. "Stand at attention, man."

Edmund carefully untwined his arms and clasped them behind his back.

"You have been avoiding me. Am I correct in thinking this?"

Edmund couldn't hold his gaze any longer; he let his head hang back a bit to look at the sky. Probably not a very wise thing to do, he decided later.

"You will look at me while I'm talking to you." His voice was like a verbal slap.

"I haven't, sir."

"Haven't what?"

"I haven't been avoiding you."

James clenched and unclenched his jaw. "I think I would like to see your drawing from earlier," he said clearly.

Edmund took a half-step back, surprised. He tried to wrestle the shock and evidence of his quick mental calculations off his face, but it was hard. He couldn't make his foot step back into place. "I– but sir, they're only silly little drawings. I don't understand– why would you want to trouble yourself with them? I mean, with all the work you do on this ship, I would think–"

"The drawings, Edmund." James' stare reminded him so much of Ingram's; it was the same Ingram was in the habit of giving him when Edmund came back late from a night of excess with his friends. It threw him off-balance.

"I–" His hand started inching of its own accord up to the pocket; he consciously pulled it down and gripped it behind his back. "I will have to go get it. If you'll just wait–"

"It's in your pocket," James said, nodded at his coat. "I'm no fool."

"No, of course not, sir." Edmund paused.

James' patience was almost lost. "What are you waiting for? Or would you like me to retrieve the papers myself?"

"No!" Edmund clutched his chest and the paper crinkling beneath his hand was audible. "No, I just– I wouldn't want you to change your opinion of me, over some silly drawings."

James reached out and pulled open his coat, grabbing the neatly folded parchment before Edmund could snatch it away. "This isn't a drawing," he said as soon as he unfolded it, before he had a chance to read any of it. But after he read the first line, the corners of his mouth drew down and froze as though they were stone. His eyes narrowed with every line he read.

When he got to the end, he held it out and ripped it very slowly down the middle. "I will not tolerate any attempt on your part to play the hero." He put the halves together, ripped it again, and again, and again. He dropped the pile of torn paper at Edmund's feet. "If you find that you can't be loyal to your commander, then I'm afraid I will have to lock you up with the very criminals you wish to punish. Acts like this don't put you on a level above them, Edmund; they make you one of them." His voice remained terrifyingly calm and quiet, and he could have been advising Edmund on the best ways to observe unusual seabirds, if it weren't for the violent way he tore the last few bits of paper. "You will report belowdecks and take your turn guarding our captives." He turned to walk away, then stopped briefly. "But first, you will clean up this mess you've made."

When Edmund walked through the door that separated the brig from the rest of the deck, the two marines that had been on duty took their leave. The taller of the two handed him his rifle before exiting. "Orders are to shoot them if anyone so much as talks about escaping."

"Oh, er, all right, then." He had to shuffle around to face the door as the man left. "Wait! Er, what if more than one of them escapes–?"

The man shut the door behind him and Edmund thought he heard a bark of laughter.

Edmund stood facing the closed door, clutching the rifle awkwardly to his chest. This was not how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to sail around the Caribbean, killing pirates, accumulating medals and honor, until finally he found Sparrow, at which time there would be an epic battle from which he would emerge bloodied but victorious. That was how things were supposed to happen. Instead–

"Oh!" a voice said from behind him, the single syllable somehow managing to sound immensely pleased. "I remember you."

Edmund spun around, raising the rifle slightly.

Jack grinned. "You won't be shooting me, I know. Why don't you have a seat?" he said, nodding over to the stool in one corner of the small room. Edmund hesitated. "What, you think that by your sitting down, I will somehow escape this finely built prison and strangle you with your own bootlaces?" He grinned wider, but it lost some of its cockiness when he saw the returned look of revulsion. "Well, I won't."

Edmund sat. "I don't want to talk to you."

"I wouldn't have thought Norrington to be the sort of man to trust young officers," Jack said, ignoring him. "Have you noticed? They all seem to be past their prime, so to speak. If I know him at all, I'd say it was because he doesn't trust you young men to do the job right." His eyebrows drew together. "Strange for him to send you down here. You can't be older than twenty."

Edmund's voice was tight. "I'm not working for Norrington." Maybe he was saying too much–

"You're not?"

He paused. "I'm working for a man named Beckett."

Jack had no immediate response for this. "Oh. Well, that's very interesting. What are you doing on Norrington's ship?"

"I won't talk about this anymore, not with you." He settled back against the wall, holding the rifle at ready on his knee.

"Well," Jack said slowly, "that's all right. We have all the time in the world, now don't we? I can wait."

Author's Note: I'm back, at long last! School is killing me, but hopefully these updates will continue. I really appreciate your reviews! You guys are the only reason this story is still alive, and I am truly thankful.