Chapter 4: Every Man Jack

Benjamin Gates was underwater.

Instinctively, he began kicking. The water stung his eyes, but he could see light coming from above. He swam toward it.

His lungs were burning (metaphorically) by the time his head broke the surface. Ben took several deep breaths and began to tread water as he got his bearings.

Around him was open sea. An ocean? The water was warm and it had certainly tasted salty. There was a strong breeze, and the yellow sun beat down from the sky, leaving the water a clear blue.

It was certainly daytime here, most likely late morning, but the last he remembered he'd been at the museum, and it had certainly been dark. That was far from the strangest occurrence though, Ben replayed the last few minutes in his head. He couldn't help but admit that the fight he'd stumbled in on had resembled a wizard's duel, like something out of Harry Potter or another movie. Was magic real? If it was, was magic what had sent him here to this place? It was obviously pretty far away from the Templar Treasure exhibit hall.

Or had the entire thing been an elaborate hallucination? Was he in a coma?

Or maybe the magic had been real, and he was dead and the afterlife bore some resemblance to the tropics. Or the wizards too had come after his demise.

And whichever way you looked at it, what had happened to Abigail. Riley too, now that he thought of it.

He was sure how long it had been since his arrival but there was one thing Ben did know. A man could only tread water so long, and he was already beginning to tire. The heat didn't help, and neither did his thirst. Ben found himself craving the various drinks he'd passed on back at the gala. The ocean itself looked inviting, but he knew the saltwater would prove less than satisfactory.

Ben looked around, squinting against the sun. Finally, glimpsed a dot on the horizon. A ship!

It came steadily closer, as Ben swam towards it.

As he neared the vessel, Ben could tell it was not so much a ship as a boat. This was a small wooden longboat a mast and sails. It seemed as though it was crewed by a single man. The boat had no engine or modern convenience about it, not that Ben was feeling particularly picky by this point.

"Hey," he shouted between strokes. "A little help here, please."

The man aboard the boat sprung into action, as Ben swam up alongside the vessel. He seized a long pole and hit Ben on the head with it.

"Sorry about that," The man called. Ben grabbed hold of the oar and pulled himself over the side into the boat, adding to the inch or so of water already along the bottom.

It really was an antique, Ben noted. This longboat couldn't have come later than the eighteen-hundreds, unless it was built specially. Regardless, by this point Ben was just happy to be aboard.

"What brings you to this general area?" the man enquired. "Most sailors prefer the use of a ship this far out at sea. I highly recommend one myself, swear by them in fact."

"I wish I knew," Ben admitted, shrugging off his soaked tuxedo jacket. He took stock of his rescuer, and had to do a double take. This was perhaps the strangest man he'd ever seen. He slim, fit, and his skin was tanned by the sun. His dark hair was shaggy and braided with various oddments, as was his small beard. His clever eyes were rimmed with kohl.

The sailor was dressed in styles reminiscent of the seventeenth century, albeit more eccentrically than the history books would ever sketch for you. The sailor wore brown trousers tucked into scuffed boots. He wore a loose white shirt under many layers, such as a grey waistcoat, multiple belts, and most externally a long dark coat. There were multiple rings on his fingers and at his waist hung a cutlass and primitive pistol alongside various pouches, trinkets, and a long scarf. Upon his head a red bandana was overcast by a tricorn hat, set at a jaunty angle.

Ben glanced up to see a black flag at the mast's peak, flapping in the breeze. Emblazoned on it was a skull and crossbones. "Are you some kind of pirate?"

"The best kind of pirate," said the man, "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."

Ben shook his hand, trying not to notice the amount of dirt under the man's fingernails. "Ben Gates," he said. "Thanks for picking me up."

"It was to our mutual advantage," said Sparrow. "Being a captain implies I have a ship, and I would benefit from a crew. I have both of these, but only to a certain extent."

"Is this your ship?" asked Ben.

Sparrow made a face. "No."

"Oh," said Ben, "Alright then. Do you have anything to drink?"

"The water ran out a few days ago," said Jack, conversationally, handing Ben a flask. Ben took a swig. If nothing else, the spirits certainly wetted his throat.

'So is this your ship," Ben gestured at the boat, once he'd drunk his fill.

"Ew. My ship is much bigger and darker of complexion."

"Did you loose it?"

"No," said Sparrow, after a pause that communicated that was exactly what had happened.

"Is that a map?" Ben pointed at a sort of wooden scroll laid out on the bench. The edges were jagged, as if cut, and the writing looked oriental.

Sparrow rolled it up hastily. "After a fashion."

"Let me guess," Ben sighed, "Buried treasure?"

"Perhaps," Jack shrugged, "Rarely what it's cracked up to be."

"Don't know about that, I've found some pretty satisfactory deposits."

"Aren't you so high and mighty then," Jack rolled his eyes. "Might explain whatever the hell that is you're wearing."

"So where we're you headed?" Ben asked, "Before you picked me up."

"Around," Jack waved a hand. "Places. For the moment we're going to stop in at the nearest port. I'm running low on supplies…and floor-space."

"Wait a second," Ben took a second look at Sparrow, and the black flag at the peak of the mast. "What year is this?"

Sparrow told him, and Ben swore.

"What," Sparrow raised an eyebrow, "I hear it's been a great season for crops, if you're into that sort of thing."

"That's not it," Ben shook his head, disbelievingly. "I think I'm in the past."

…

By the time they drifted into dock, Ben had decided Jack's eccentricities were all that there was between himself and a nervous breakdown. The pirate was just surreal enough to make Ben think there just might be another explanation, and that he hadn't truly been transported to the 17th century.

The port was a small one as settlements went, a town of stone and wood proceeding up a neat, forested slope, protected by a semicircle of land curved around them. Jack tied up his ship right between the biggest and grandest galleons and frigates, of which there were perhaps half a dozen.

As Jack was bribing the docking attendant, Ben looked around him in wonder. It was history come to life. Finely crafted sailing ships that smelled of tar and salt. Everywhere men in sailor's garb loaded and catalogued cargo, huge crates, small barrels and the occasional stray goat, while others lounged about gambling and telling bawdy stories. Ben got a few second glances for his ragged tuxedo, but not many. These men of the sea had seen stranger things.

It took Ben a moment to realize Jack had finished, and was swaggering along the dock. He caught up to him as they left they traded the wooden planking for cobbles under their feet. Jack immediately made for a narrow alleyway between buildings.

"I notice you hid your skull-and-crossbones," Ben mentioned.

Jack shrugged. "I've been here before. They're mostly merchants, laid back but not that laid back. Still I shouldn't have any trouble." He stepped confidently out of the alley, and right into a group of five men in uniforms reminiscent of the British navy, all blue and gold trim. Two of the men had been shouldering muskets, and both barrels were immediately leveled at Jack. There was a click as the firearms were cocked.

"I recognize you," mused the shortest man with the widest hat and the most powdered wig. Ben guessed he was the commander of the men, taking an armed escort for protection as he conducted business in the less reputable extremities of the community. This business probably began and ended with the local brothel.

"I recognize you from the Company files," the man decided finally. "Jack Swallow, wasn't it?"

"Captain," Jack said. "And Sparrow." He raised his hands to chest height.

"Oh, good," the commander broke into a grin. "I might even get a promotion for this. How does Commodore Bronson sound to you gentlemen?"

The soldiers offered meaningless affirmations and approval.

"I feel the same way," said Bronson.

"What about the other one sir," asked one of the other soldiers, who'd dropped back to flank Ben.

"Oh, I don't care about him," Bronson had eyes only for Sparrow. "This is the man who killed Lord Cutler Beckett himself."

"Not alone, exactly…" Jack squirmed.

"Which means I am perfectly authorized to have you shot right now, watch you die, bleeding in the street, and pack your body back to Port Royal and collect my cash reward." Bronson was positively beaming now. "Let's not waste time-"

"Ah, but authorization and capability are not precisely the same thing mate," Jack said calmly. "And you are forgetting one vital detail. I'm…"

"You're what," Bronson asked, leaning in closer, intrigued.

"In too much a hurry to tell you," Jack blurted, and broke into a full on-sprint, pushing through the soldiers. The muskets fired, but one shot only clipped Jack's tricorn as the other pinged off the cobblestones.

Ben took advantage of the distraction to pull away from the nearest guard and run back down the alley.

Bronson yelled in anger, and drew his sword. He and the soldiers charged after Jack, save for one, who darted down the alley after Ben, drawing his pistol. He fired, but Ben dodged aside into a recessed doorway.

The soldier approached his cover cautiously, gun raised. Having found the door tightly latched, Ben leapt out of the shadows. Ducking under a pistol whip, he placed an uppercut on the soldier's jaw before nailing him in the gut. Ben shoved the man into the wall, disappearing from view before the man got to his feet.

…

Jack was fully aware of the men chasing him. The commander, Bronson was it? Was falling behind, but he still had three ETC soldiers right on his tail.

It wasn't as if he hadn't been in situations like this before, Jack considered as he hopped over a meandering rooster. He'd been in far worse spots. The trick was to be always in motion, physically and mentally. If you know everything that surrounds you, you can find something with which to outwit your opponent.

Such an opportunity presented itself soon. Jack dodged out of the way of the lumbering horse-drawn cart, nodded his apologies to the teenage driver, and seized a small barrel from the back. Twirling, he lobbed the barrel behind him before putting on a burst of speed. The barrel entangled one of the musket-men's legs, strained wood snapping as the soldier went down. The man was covered with flour as the barrel snapped open.

One left behind, two more to go.

High ground, Jack thought, the higher the better. Spying a nearby stall pedaling fake jewelry, he leapt onto the table.

A hand grabbed for his legs, and Jack nearly fell onto the merchant's lap. Jack spun and overturned the table, knocking the second soldier on his rear. Jack was halfway up the rickety ladder seconds after he noticed it, allowing to soldier to take the brunt of the shopkeepers outrage.

The soldier leapt to his feet, ready to follow the bloody pirate, until he noticed something that had fallen from the man's coat in their scuffle. Something old, foreign, and therefore of value…

Once he reached the roof, Jack kicked the ladder over, much to the displeasure of the man already at the buildings peak, where he'd been patching a leak. Ignoring him, Jack took a running leap onto the next building.

This structure was a level taller, and Jack almost slipped off the slanted ledge, a few roof tiles shattering on the ground below him. A musket ball ruined a window just behind him, Jack saw the last soldier pursuing him at street level. Feeling in his belt, Jack dodged around the curvature of the building. He leaned back and fired his own pistol. The ball took the man in the shoulder, spinning him to the pavement.

Jack jauntily stepped onto the next building. He was halfway across that structure when the roofing gave way beneath him. In a cloud of dust and debris he landed in a heap a foot away from a narrow bed.

Jack got to his feet, brushing himself off. He noticed the young woman seated on a nearby stool. Clad in only a shift, she was understandably wide-eyed. Jack gave a little bow, and then raced out the door, leaving her as open-mouthed as when he'd found her.

Jack was halfway to the stairs when an unfortunately familiar figure emerged from the stairwell, sword glinting. Jack stepped back from Bronson as he drew his own sword.

"You know, by some standards, I've died once already," Jack pointed out. "How about we call that good, savvy?"

"No I don't," said Bronson, and lunged. Steel clashed.

Parry, feint, stab, Jack's sword almost flew from his hands, Bronson's strength was surprising. The officer slashed wildly at his head, and Jack ducked. He swung low, and Bronson hopped over the blade.

Jack stamped on Bronson's foot and punched him the hilt of his sword, before darting toward the nearest door. It was locked.

Bronson slammed into Jack, their swords locked. The soldier pressed him against the wall, Jack's sword keeping Bronson's only inches away from his face.

With relish, Bronson flicked a pen-knife from his sleeve. He stabbed, and the tip cut deep into Jack's cheek…twice. With a groan of effort, Jack pushed against Bronson, ignoring the pain and the blood trickling down his own face.

There may have been multiple scenarios playing out in the ETC operative's mind, but being hit solidly over the head with an empty chamber pot was not high on the list.

Jack shoved, drawing a stripe of blood down Bronson's own chin. He planted a boot in the shorter man's chest and shoved. Bronson took the locked door of his hinges and smashed it to the floor in the darkened room beyond. It was fortunately empty.

Jack looked to see the girl in the shift, hefting the chamber pot threateningly. "You've still got to pay me," she hissed.

"Did I miss something?" Jack raised an eyebrow.

"For my ceiling, damn you!"

"Oh, put it on his tab," Jack gestured to Bronson, who lay groaning on the floor. Pushing past her, he hurried away.

Jack had left Mr. Bronson two blocks behind by the time he realized he was missing one of his most valuable possessions.

…

"Bronson's ship is the biggest in the harbor, an ETC warship by the name of The Indulgence. The dockhand I talked to told me they're planning to set sail at morning's light, and it seemed like he was telling the truth."

"Thanks, Goyne," Jack passed the man a handful of coins.

"If I might ask," the elderly sailor enquired. "Why does this interest you?"

"I know better than to give you any information whatsoever," said Jack.

Goyne smiled at that, "You wound me."

The pair was seated in a secluded corner of the Calling Siren. There was a pub like this in every port, Jack reflected, a place where the only thing cutthroats and pirates needed to hide were the contents of their coin purses.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, it's been a slow week for business," Goyne weighed the coins in his hand meaningfully.

"I'm looking for someone," Jack admitted. He gave a quick description of Ben Gates.

"Oh that's easy," Goyne intoned. "He just walked in five minutes ago."

Benjamin Gates was hunched over a mug at the end of the table, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He'd ordered what the man two spaces away was having in order to fit in, before realizing he had nothing to pay for it with (he doubted they took credit). Everyone in the place, the swaggering sailors with swords through their belts, hulking brutes with more scars than hair, women with coiffed hair, upturned lips and drooping necklines, looked as though they could eat him alive. The fiddler playing in the corner was just enough off-tune to make him wince.

Ben nearly jumped out of his skin when Jack Sparrow tapped him on the shoulder.

"I've got something to discuss with you," Jack led him over to an empty table in the corner, next to the band. A Frenchmen was fondling two prostitutes at the next table over and paid them no mind.

"You don't belong here," Jack told Ben. "You want to get back to your own time."

"Of course," said Ben, "But I thought you didn't believe me."

' "I said I probably didn't believe you," Jack stressed. "But it would explain where you came from, and I've heard odder tales."

"I'm listening," Ben said.

"Well," said Jack. "You remember that map. The oriental one."

"Yes, I remember it."

"It's more than it seems. The Mao Kung map is an incredible artifact and resource. It shows the way to supernatural treasures and even the world beyond life. If all this, than why not the way to the future, it's your best chance at least."

"At least," said Ben, not fully convinced. "What do you want from me?"

"This map is very special to me," Jack explained. "I would appreciate applying it's usage in my near future. But it's been taken by a man named Bronson."

"The one who was chasing you?"

"Precisely," said Jack. "So you will help me get it back, and we will together look into using it to send you where you want to be, savvy?"

"I might at that," said Ben.