CHAPTER SIX

The Wicked Wench

JACK SPARROW HAD NEVER THOUGHT it would happen to him. All his life, he’d heard people speak of love—mostly men, of course, since he’d spent the majority of his life at sea, and there were few women who chose that life. Life on the sea was a male-dominated occupation, whether the sailors were pirates or seamen aboard a merchant ship or the crew of a naval vessel. There were the rare—and refreshing—exceptions, of course, such as Esmeralda, lovely Esmeralda.…

Men were self-conscious about referring to love. They were often given to enthused bragging regarding their carnal adventures and conquests, but when they referred to love, it was usually in a hushed whisper, or a mumble. Sometimes an awed murmur, if the poor chap was embarrassingly besotted.

Jack wanted to shout his adoration aloud—and he would have, too, if he hadn’t had a certain dignity to maintain. But ever since that day when he’d seen her, he’d thought of her with…love. No other word fit.

She was lovely, yes, of course. But there was more to it than that. She moved with authority, as well as beauty. There was a wildness, a sense of freedom and strength about her that captivated his heart, his soul. He wanted her for his own. When he’d finally gotten close to her, could touch her, she’d responded to his touch, he fancied, the way she had never responded to another man’s.

Love, yes; there was no other word for the way he felt about her. At night he even dreamed about her, about how it felt to guide her as she moved, feeling her respond to his orders. Her intoxicating scent—tar and salt and honest sweat. The sounds she made—the wind filling her ivory sails, the creak of her sheets, the slap of the waves against her red-gold bow as she clove the sea. She was beautiful, a work of art with graceful, gilded lilies and scrollwork emblazoned on her bow and stern, and gilded railings on her gunwales. A golden dream of a vessel…and she was all his to command. The Wicked Wench was her name, and Jack Sparrow, at long last, knew what it was to be in love.

The first time he’d seen her, she’d been tied up at the EITC dock in Calabar, looking somewhat forlorn. It was plain she hadn’t been taken out for the last few months, since Cutler Beckett had acquired her. She was a ship that needed maintenance. First and foremost, she was crying out for a good careening. And once her bottom was clean, her decks needed scrubbing; her railings and trim needed painting. Her sails needed patching, and many of her lines needed replacement or splicing.

But Jack had seen beyond her down-at-heels appearance, seen the glory and grandeur of a full-rigged ship that could prove both fast and maneuverable. This “wench” had felt a lot of ocean slide beneath her keel, but she was sound; he could feel it in his bones. She most resembled a Dutch East Indiaman. Typical of merchant vessels, she was woefully under-gunned: only six big guns on both the port and starboard sides of her main deck, then two smaller guns, six-pounders, on her weather deck, and, finally, three small swivel guns topside, one fore and two on her quarterdeck.

The Wench’s main deck guns were heavy ones, twelve-pounders. Jack thought about what it would be like to hear the roar of those big twelve-pounders loosed in a broadside against an opponent, and shivered with excited anticipation—before he sternly reminded himself that merchant captains counted themselves blessed if they never had to fire their guns.

Jack longed for more armament for his new love, even though he knew he’d have trouble finding and training enough crew to man even as many guns as she now boasted on her main deck. Arming merchant ships was a tradeoff—guns, powder, and supplies took up space belowdecks that could be used for valuable—and profitable—cargo. Still, remembering his former associates at Shipwreck Cove, Jack immediately resolved to speak to Cutler Beckett about allowing him to install two additional twelve-pounders. That still wouldn’t be enough weaponry to make any determined pirate think twice, but it was enough to dissuade smaller, more lightly armed and crewed vessels.

The day he first saw her, Jack stood there, spellbound, studying her every curve, every line, grinning like a besotted suitor. He couldn’t help the first thought that sprang to his mind: If I could just find enough men to crew her properly, what a pirate ship she’d make! If she were properly armed, and crewed, this ship could square off with Esmeralda’s Blackwall frigate. Morgan himself never had such a ship.

Sternly, Jack Sparrow repressed that thought. He was an honest merchant captain, and he’d best never forget it.

As Jack had stood there, gazing at HIS ship, he’d heard a step beside him and turned to find Robby Greene at his elbow. “Jack!” the younger man exclaimed. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Finally had to ask that nasty codfish of a portmaster, Blount, whether he’d seen you. He told me you were down here, staring at this ship, and had been for at least an hour. What’s going on?”

Had it been that long? Jack blinked. He’d been so ensorcelled by the sight of his new vessel, making plans for getting her shipshape, that time had simply evaporated. He smiled at his friend and gestured at the ship. “What do you think of her?”

Robby stared at the Wicked Wench for a moment, then shrugged. “She’d be perfect if we were still on the account and we had enough guns, powder, and crew to sail her properly. Why?”

Jack chuckled at hearing his own initial assessment echoed so precisely. “She’s mine, Robby. Mr. Beckett made me her captain. We’ll be taking her out in a couple weeks, with a load of cargo.” He glanced back at the ship, straining against her tethering ropes like a spirited horse that wanted to run free. “How does it feel to be first mate of the Wicked Wench?”

A smile crept across Robby Greene’s tanned features. “First mate? Me?”

“Who better?” Jack said.

Robby laughed, then quickly sobered. “We’ll have to put together a crew.”

“She has some crew still in port,” Jack said. “Many of them found other berths and shipped out, but the office records indicate that there are perhaps twenty of them still here in Calabar. I’ll give you the list, and you can start rounding them up. Plus any hands you can scrounge up.” He glanced up the hill at the town of Calabar. “Not the best spot to find able-bodied seamen, I fear,” he added, wryly.

“Able-bodied?” Robby echoed. “Jack, we’ll be lucky if we can find ordinary seamen!”

“Her bottom’s a mess,” Jack rubbed his chin, meditatively. “She’s nothing but barnacles and muck below her waterline. Mr. Beckett gave me a free hand and some funds I’m to use to get her shipshape. I’m figuring two weeks till she’s ready to sail.”

Robby nodded. “Two weeks, aye. I’ll do my best to round up the crew we’ll need…Cap’n.”

Jack grinned. “Doesn’t that sound beautiful? Captain Jack Sparrow. Nice ring to it, eh?”

“Very nice indeed, Jack. Or are you so eager to hear it that I have to call you ‘captain’ even when we’re alone?”

Jack laughed out loud. “Indulge me for a few days, Robby, me lad. It’s been a long time coming.”

“Aye, it has. And you deserve it, Cap’n.”

Jack sighed happily. “I suppose I’ll get used to it with time, Robby, but at the moment, hearing it is better than a swig of rum, I swear.” He fell silent, regarding the ship, then his gaze shifted upward. “I’m thinking we should rake her masts back a bit to get more speed out of her.”

Robby nodded. “Three degrees?”

“Five.” Jack’s eyes lit up. “She’ll cut quite a figure, eh, mate?”

Robby nodded. “The masts look to be in good shape. We’ll need to go over all her canvas.”

“First, though, we’ve got to get her hull shipshape. We’ll take her up one of the Calabar’s tributaries half a mile, and careen her on one of those nice sandy banks.”

Robby swallowed. “The ones with all the crocodiles?”

“Aye,” said Jack. He waved a hand airily. “The crocs won’t be any problem. One blast from a swivel gun will send those scaly blighters slithering back into the river.” He rubbed his hands with anticipation at the thought of firing one of the guns. He was actually sober, but he felt as if he’d had a few quick jolts of rum. He couldn’t stop smiling.

Robby laughed and threw up his hands. “All right. You win. We’ll scrub her hull as clean as a girl baby’s bum on her Christening day.”

“First we clean her, then we replace any worn planking,” Jack said, totting off items on his black-rimmed fingers. “Then we’ll need to pay the bottom to protect against weed and worm. For that we’ll need fat and soap. And then we tallow her. And, if Mr. Beckett will spring for it, perhaps we’ll sheath her, too.”

“What about coating her with black stuff ?”

“That’s the last step. We’re not in Bristol or Liverpool. We’re more likely to be able to get white stuff,” Jack said. “We’ll need at least a barrel per side. I know how to mix it.”

“No wonder the worms won’t eat it,” Robby made a face. “All of that protectant stinks to high heaven.”

“Train oil, pine rosin, and brimstone, mate,” Jack said, with satisfaction. “It should!”

The two stood there, gazing happily at their new acquisition, discussing the Wicked Wench’s proposed toilette.

The next two weeks were busy ones. Jack, who could work like a demon when he was motivated, was up every day before dawn, overseeing the cleaning and refitting of his new vessel.

Robby, when he wasn’t helping with the work on the ship, was rounding up hands and sending them to help with the work. One day he rowed up to the ship with a windfall: three able-bodied seamen and two ordinary seamen. Jack, stripped to the waist in the heat, with a bandanna tied around his head to soak up the sweat, was standing on the canted starboard hull, overseeing the crew that was crawling around with brushes and scrapers, spreading the “white stuff ” preservative on the newly cleaned planking. When he saw the new arrivals, he leaped down to the ground and strode over to meet them as they pulled the boat up onto the sandbank.

After Robby made introductions, Jack interviewed the three able-bodied seamen briefly, nodded in satisfaction at their qualifications, then ordered them to join the crew members that were working on the hull.

As Robby escorted the new crew away, Jack turned his attention to the two remaining candidates. The ordinary seamen were a tall, gangly Frenchmen, Etienne de Ver, and a short, burly Englishman, Lucius Featherstone, both of them in their mid-twenties. The Frenchman was black-haired and sallow, the Englishman fair-haired and ruddy.

“I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, lads,” Jack said, though, in truth, both sailors were probably near his own age. Something about the way both of them were standing, carefully not looking at each other, alerted him. He gestured from one to the other. “You two know each other?”

“Oui, Captain,” the Frenchman said, giving a military salute. Jack’s eyes widened with surprise.

Featherstone, not to be outdone, snapped to attention and saluted with even greater vigor. “Aye, sir, we do!”

“You were in the navy?” Jack was taken aback, thinking this didn’t bode well. If they’d been navy men, they both must have been cashiered. The navies of most countries were so short-staffed that they often had to resort to shanghaiing hands to serve. And, obviously, these two couldn’t have served in the same navy.

“No, mon capitaine,” de Ver said. “I was a soldier. Infantry.”

“And you?” Jack turned to Featherstone.

“Infantryman, Cap’n Sparrow. But the war, it ended almost three years ago, sir.”

Ah…the situation was now explained. They’d been paid off and mustered out honorably, one hoped.

“I see. How long have you been going to sea?” Jack asked Featherstone.

“I tried working as a farmhand for a year, Cap’n, but the crops failed in the drought,” the man said. “So then I signed aboard a merchant vessel, the Molly Dover. We went all the way to China, Cap’n. But while we were on our way back to Liverpool, the poor Molly, she hit a rock off the coast here, and we had to abandon ship in a storm. I need a new berth.”

“And you?” Jack regarded de Ver.

“I, too, was on the Molly Dover, Captain Sparrow,” the man answered.

A voyage from England to China…yes, that could easily take a year or more, depending on the number of ports of call.

“I see. So you were both soldiers. Who did you fight?” Jack asked, trying to remember what he’d heard about the most recent conflicts England and France had been engaged in. There were always wars going on somewhere in Europe, and land battles had little relevance to men who lived on the sea.

“The British, mon capitaine,” de Ver replied.

“We fought the French, Cap’n Sparrow,” Featherstone said, almost at the same moment. “Kicked their frog-gulping arses, we did,” he added, with relish.

The former opponents exchanged sideways glances that were anything but amiable.

“I see,” Jack murmured, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Well, if I permit you to join the ship’s company, are you prepared to be faithful hands before the mast?”

“Aye, mon capitaine!”

“Aye, Cap’n Sparrow!”

“Aboard the Wicked Wench, you’ll be comrades. Can you remember that?” Jack barked, letting an edge enter his voice.

“Oh, aye sir!” Featherstone said.

“Oui, mon capitaine,” de Ver said, then added, “Aye, sir,” in his strongly accented English for good measure.

“Very well,” Jack said, gruffly, eyeing the pair. Featherstone and de Ver seemed earnest, if not overly bright. “What ports of call on your voyage to China, Mr. de Ver?”

Etienne de Ver scratched his head thoughtfully beneath his battered cap. “Marseilles, mon capitaine,” he said. “Where the best ships, the ships built by Frenchmen, they are docking! Also, Lisbon, Gibraltar, Algol here in Afrique, then around the Cape of Good Hope to Shanghai. With stops for provisioning, naturellement.”

Featherstone made a derisive noise. “Don’t be payin’ any attention to that frog-eater, Cap’n Sparrow, sir,” he said. “He knows the best ships are made by Blackwall, and set sail from English ports. He’s just been out in the sun too long.” The short man tapped his forehead, where his sandy hair was thinning even at his age. “The sun and eating all them unnatural vermin, them snails and frogs—turns a man’s brain to porridge, it does.”

The black-haired Frenchmen drew himself up indignantly. “Zut!” he snapped. “Captain Sparrow is obviously a man of the sea, a man who has sailed the world. He knows who builds the best ships!”

Jack cleared his throat significantly, and both sailors fell silent. “I see,” he said, after a long pause. For a moment, he considered ordering both of them back into the canoe. But the Wench was still very short of hands, and he couldn’t afford to be too choosy. Both Featherstone and de Ver were well muscled and appeared healthy. He’d keep an eye on them, and he’d tell Robby to do the same.

“Captain…” began Featherstone hesitantly.

“Yes, Featherstone?”

“Sir, beggin’ your pardon, but…” Featherstone gulped and then plunged ahead, “I discovered I like life on the sea. The food ain’t great, true enough, and it’s hard work, but hard work never killed anyone, eh?”

Jack gestured for him to continue, and get to the point. “Yes?”

“Sir!” Featherstone straightened his shoulders. “Cap’n, I’d like the chance to qualify as an able-bodied seaman! I’ve already got a year in. Just wanted to say, sir.”

“Able-bodied seamen” had to be able to “hand, reef, and steer,” which translated to climbing rigging properly (which meant putting their hands and feet in the proper places), handle sails, raising or reefing them, as well as steering the ship in all types of weather, correctly following a course heading. They also had to be able to splice lines, repair equipment, and tie all of the knots used by sailors correctly. It was no surprise to discover that Featherstone wanted to raise his status to that of able-bodied seaman, because, traditionally, they made about twenty-five percent more in pay.

“I see,” Jack said. “Well then, look sharp during the next six months or so, because you never know when I’ll decide to test you, Featherstone.”

Featherstone was clearly pleased. He glanced quickly sideways at de Ver, smiling triumphantly. The lanky Frenchman stirred. “Captain Sparrow,” he said, clearly trying to make his English as proper as he could, “I, too, wish to be made able-bodied seaman.”

“Very well,” said Jack. “The same goes for you, then. Now, both you lads report to First Mate Greene. He’ll assign you to tasks.”

“Aye, Captain!” Featherstone saluted again.

“Oui, mon capitaine!” de Ver said, doing likewise.

Jack cleared his throat again, significantly. “Ahem. Mates, this isn’t a naval vessel. No need for all that saluting.” He waved a finger at the duo. “But the discipline I expect is no less,” he added, sternly. “Now off with you.”

As they moved away, he heard their voices drift back. “Just watch me make able seaman ahead of you,” Featherstone proclaimed.

“Non,” came de Ver’s retort. “It is I who will attain it before you!”

“Not a chance, frog! See, it takes brains to make able seaman. And courage!”

“Ze Englishman never lived who had either! Your countrymen ran like chickens before Guillaume le Conquérant!”

“Oho, but our Henry the Fifth, he crossed the channel and kicked your arses on your own soil! English longbowmen made pincushions out of them Frenchy knights!”

Jack rolled his eyes, sighing heavily as the pair moved out of earshot, still bickering.

Later that same afternoon, he examined the first shipment of provisions that had been delivered that day by the EITC portmaster, Benjamin Blount. Experience had taught him to always check the quality of the casks of salt beef and pork and the barrels of ship’s biscuit and flour.

Jack was understandably disturbed to discover that, below a top layer of good meat, more than half of the remaining contents seemed to have been so poorly cured that it was beginning to smell, and he could see maggots feasting. Disgusted, Jack began examining everything that Blount had sent to provision his vessel, and found that the improperly cured meat was but the beginning of his troubles. Below the first two inches of good flour, the flour barrel was as full of weevils as it was flour. It was the same for the ship’s biscuit. Every sailor expected to encounter weevils during the course of a voyage. Inevitably the vermin hatched out in flour or ship’s biscuit within a month or two after being stored in a cargo hold. But to start out the journey infested with them—!

His mouth set in a grim line, Jack ordered all the stores placed back into the boats, and selected crews to man them. Grimly he pulled his shirt and waistcoat back on, gathered up his coat and hat, and stepped into the lead longboat for the trip back to the harbor.

When he reached it, he ordered his men to load the spoiled provisions into a wagon and drive them to Portmaster Benjamin Blount’s office. Then he set off, threading his way quickly through the scurrying throngs on the streets of Calabar until he reached the building that housed Blount’s office.

Opening the door, he found the room deserted, except for a young clerk sitting at a desk, his pen scratching vigorously as he transcribed columns of numbers into account books.

“Captain Jack Sparrow,” Jack announced. “I need to see Mr. Blount. Is he here?”

The clerk shook his head. “No, Captain. Mr. Blount said he was heading over to the EITC provisions warehouse.”

Jack smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. “What a coincidence. That’s where I’m heading, too.” Nodding at the clerk, he closed the door.

The warehouse was closer to the docks, so Jack gave the wagon new directions, then they headed back toward the docks in search of the designated warehouse. It proved to be one of the largest buildings in Calabar, built of timber, as were most of the buildings, save for those of native design, which were often constructed of withy, topped with thatch. Jack tried one half of the double doors, large enough to admit a wagon, only to find the entrance was locked from the inside. Undaunted, and by now thoroughly annoyed, he banged on the portal with his fist. “Mr. Blount? You there? Open up, please! I need to speak with you!”

As he raised his hand to bang on the door again, he heard footsteps approaching from inside the warehouse, then a padlock clicked. The door opened, allowing a blade of sunshine to pierce the gloomy interior. Port-master Blount, a thin, almost cadaverous man of middle years, with wispy gray hair and a thick, luxuriant beard, appeared, followed by a slender African youth, scarcely more than a lad.

The portmaster stepped through the door, blinking at the sudden transition from darkness to light. “Who is that? Captain Sparrow? What’s going on? This is most irregular. You need to make an appointment with my clerk. I’m very busy at the moment.”

Jack flashed an insincere smile at the man. “So sorry to have troubled you, Portmaster Blount, but I’m afraid my errand is urgent. I’m preparing to set sail within a few days, and I need to provision my ship.” He cocked an eyebrow at the man. “My EITC vessel, the Wicked Wench. Mr. Beckett’s own ship.”

Blount’s pinched features did not change in the slightest. He was a cool-headed scoundrel. “The Wicked Wench?” He was the picture of innocence. “Why, I dispatched the first load of provisions to her just today, Captain Sparrow! You didn’t receive them?”

Jack took a deep breath, controlling the urge to grab Blount and throttle him. Every time he thought about discovering, after a week, two weeks, perhaps even a month at sea that half his provisions weren’t fit to feed dogs, much less his crew, the notion of sailing his ship back to the EITC docks and loosing a broadside at the EITC warehouse seemed like a better idea. Does he only try this trick with newcomers? Charging the EITC for real provisions and substituting rotted trash? And, of course, pocketing a tidy profit!

“I brought them back, Mr. Blount, is what I did,” Jack said. Turning, he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled, then beckoned.

A moment later, his crewmen came into view, with the overloaded wagon. “And unless you immediately furnish me with my full stowage of clean flour, and vermin-free biscuit, plus salt beef and pork that won’t run through a man like seawater through a breached hull, my men are going to take these barrels up the street to Mr. Beckett’s office and take them inside.” Jack glared at Blount. “And then, perhaps, we’ll tell Mr. Beckett where they came from, just before we spill them on the floor, eh, mate?”

Blount did not react to this suggestion, but the African lad, evidently his slave, did. His eyes widened, then his mouth quirked as he stifled a smile. He understood what I said, Jack thought. For a moment his eyes met those of the youth, then the lad looked down at his bare feet.

The portmaster raised a hand slightly. “Captain Sparrow, I must say that I have no idea what you are fussing about. The provisions I dispatched to you were of the highest quality. I ordered Chamba here,” he indicated the slave, “to load them himself, after showing him where to find the correct supplies.” Turning to the lad, he addressed him rapidly in the pidgin dialect that was commonly used among the slaves and slavers in Calabar.

The lad shook his head side to side, murmuring a soft-voiced reply.

Hearing what appeared to be the slave’s denial, Blount finally showed some emotion. His pinched features tightened with rage, then he drew back his arm and backhanded the lad across the face, hard enough to drive him to his knees. As the young slave cowered on the ground, both hands raised to shield his head from more blows, Jack’s hands tightened into fists. Stepping forward, he grabbed the portmaster’s arm before the man could deliver another blow, turning him around so he could see the man’s face. “Just a minute, Mr. Blount,” Jack said. “What did you ask him? I don’t speak the local lingo, mate.”

Blount faced Jack, the rage vanishing from his features as though it had never been there. “I asked Chamba whether he loaded the barrels designated for your vessel with the supplies I indicated, and he told me that instead of doing that, he loaded the barrels from supplies that hadn’t passed inspection, and were marked to be destroyed!” the portmaster said, anger creeping back into his voice. “This stupid damned blackamoor actually admitted what he’d done!”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “But why would a slave do that? It’s not like he could sell what he didn’t put into those barrels.” Slaves weren’t permitted to engage in any business transactions; not legally, anyhow.

Blount shrugged. “It’s not like he did it for a reason, Captain. They’re like animals, you know, so stupid they can’t remember anything for more than a minute or two.” He turned around to glare at the youth, still crouched in the dust. When he turned back, his features were composed once more. “I’m sorry, Captain Sparrow. I’ll reissue your supplies immediately, and you may be sure that Chamba will be lashed within an inch of his miserable life as soon as you’ve gotten your supplies and are on your way.”

Jack stared at Blount, trying to picture the situation Blount had described—but he just couldn’t credit it. There had been too much intelligence and humor in Chamba’s eyes when they’d shared that glance over the idea of Jack dumping rotten meat and flour on the floor of Cutler Beckett’s frighteningly tidy office.

No, Blount was lying to try to cover his own perfidy. The portmaster had made an attempt to line his own pockets, and Jack had caught him at it. Why else had the bad provisions had a layer of good stuff on top, if they weren’t part of a plan to disguise their unsavory contents, and send the Wicked Wench on her way loaded with supplies that were too old or too improperly cured to be acceptable?

Jack raised a skeptical brow, then shifted his weight to look past the portmaster at the slave. “Is that true, Chamba?” he asked. “You loaded the Wicked Wench’s barrels with rotted meat and infested biscuit because you couldn’t remember which barrels to use? Did you even load those barrels, the ones destined for delivery to my ship?”

Chamba shook his head very slightly from side to side. His lips moved, forming the word “No.”

“Don’t bother addressing him in a civilized language, Captain,” Blount said, dismissively. “Chamba doesn’t understand English.”

That’s what you think, Jack thought. Again, his eyes met the youngster’s frightened, pleading gaze. He dropped his eyes, wishing there were something he could do. But Chamba was property, here in Calabar—expensive property.

Jack had been paid for his voyage aboard Fair Wind, and he actually still had some of his pay left—which was highly unusual. Normally, when sailors reached port after a voyage and got their pay, they headed for the taverns, the gaming hells, and the bawdy houses. When their money ran out, they staggered back to their ships, their heads pounding and their purses empty. The only reason Jack still had money left from his voyage aboard Fair Wind was that he’d been working so hard on fitting out the Wench that he hadn’t had time for the (admittedly limited) diversions offered in Calabar. But he knew without even counting that the coins in his purse weren’t enough to purchase a slave. Much as he’d have liked to help the lad, Jack couldn’t afford to get involved.

Portmaster Blount was looking at him questioningly, and Jack hastily reviewed what the man had just said, and responded. “Very well, Portmaster. You make good on my supplies, and throw in a few extra treats—some nice smoked hams, perhaps, or an extra barrel of yams or fruit—and Mr. Beckett won’t have to know about this. But I’ll be on the lookout from now on, you may be sure.”

“That’s decent of you, Captain Sparrow,” Blount said. “When will you be shipping out?”

“We should be finished fitting out the Wench by sunset,” Jack said. “Then we’ve a cargo to load tomorrow. We’ll be departing early the following morning.”

“I see. Well, then, let me call my warehouse crew, and we’ll prepare replacement provisions for you immediately.”

Jack watched the casks and barrels as they were filled with a sharp eye, and finally confessed himself satisfied with the first shipment of replacement supplies. Blount promised to have the remaining provisions waiting at the dock the next morning, early.

Jack made a mental note to inspect every barrel.

It was a long row back to the Wicked Wench, and the sun was low in the sky by the time Jack and his laden longboats, plus one of the enormous native cargo canoes, reached the middle of the broad Calabar River.

The Calabar was full of traffic—canoes ferrying people or cargo, either upriver toward native villages or toward the slave ships that sat anchored out in the middle of the big river, waiting for their holds to be filled with their terror-stricken, agonized cargo. As his men rowed along, Jack could see the enormous canoes of the slave traders being rowed by their slave crews. These canoes were so huge they could carry 120 passengers. Armed guards kept watch over the slaves, lest any try to break free and leap overboard. Remembering the fear in young Chamba’s eyes, Jack sighed. A filthy business.…

Jack made a mental note to drop by Mr. Beckett’s office tomorrow, and inform the EITC director just what his portmaster had been up to. He didn’t feel constrained by his half-promise to Blount. The man was an unrepentant rascal, and Beckett, as well as the EITC ships, would be better off without him.

Not for the first time, he was grateful to his new supervisor for allowing him to sail a regular cargo vessel, rather than a slave ship. Perhaps, when this voyage was concluded, he’d think about leaving Africa and signing aboard ships going the other way, heading for the Orient, or India, rather than staying here and sailing the Triangle.

Ships heading for Europe or England from the coast of west Africa did not sail north to reach those destinations, because if they did so, the wind would be against them. The trade winds blew west from Africa, so vessels followed a route called the Triangle, first heading west, across the Atlantic, then turning to sail north along the coast of North America. Only off the coast of Greenland, or Newfoundland, were they able to turn east, to head for England, or points further south.

Jack sighed. Tempting as the prospect of heading out for distant seas and lands was, if he left Africa, he’d lose Cutler Beckett’s patronage. Would any other EITC director be willing to keep him as a captain, at his age? He knew he was probably one of the youngest captains currently working for the huge company. One of the main reasons he’d been promoted, Jack knew, was the fact that there were more EITC ships sailing out of Africa than almost anywhere else. That was because slaves were the most valuable and desirable cargo at present.

Jack stared at the river and shook his head slightly. It was too bad about Chamba, but it wasn’t his problem. If Benjamin Blount was even now whipping the lad to death, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Jack remembered with relief that in less than two days, he’d be back at sea, where he wanted to be more than anywhere else. Calabar and its shackled “cargoes” would be behind him for five months, possibly more.

Determinedly, he turned his thoughts to the expensive cargo he’d be loading tomorrow, bound for Liverpool. Ivory, a chest of gold ingots, some valuable woods, bales of coir (coconut husks), spices, and foodstuffs would fill the cargo deck of his vessel. Precious cargo, indeed.

In view of this, Jack was pleased that, in response to his request for more armament, Mr. Beckett had allowed two more twelve-pounders to be installed on the main deck with the other twelve-pounders. He’d have liked to have a couple more six-pounders on the weather deck, but he’d try for that next voyage.

When the longboats and cargo canoes reached the Wicked Wench, Jack was pleased to see that she was once more upright and floating, her hull now clean and well-protected. When ships were careened, the work perforce occurred at low tide, since at full high tide, the ships were once more afloat. It was high tide now, and Robby must have just brought the crew aboard, so they’d be ready to take the ship back down the tributary to the mouth of the Calabar, and the docks.

Jack didn’t plan to actually dock until tomorrow. Tonight they’d anchor in the river, give the crew a chance to rest up from their labors, so they’d be fresh on the morrow, when it was time to load and stow their cargo.

There was little breeze, so he dispatched several boats to tow the Wench out of the tributary and into the main flow of the Calabar River. Even though night was falling, rowing the boats to tow the Wench was hot, thirsty work, but Jack had plenty of men begging to man an oar, since he offered an extra ration of rum for each volunteer. He noted with some amusement that Featherstone and de Ver, still arguing the respective merits of their countries, were among the first into the boats. Their voices drifted up to him as he stood on the weather deck while their longboat was lowered.

“You English have no art, no culture. Even your food—pah! French dogs turn their noses up at it.”

“I’ll put a good steak and kidney pie up against anything you frogs can stir up. Everyone knows frogs eat flies.”

Another voice spoke up. “Aw, stow it, you two, or you’ll both be swimming back to the bloody ship.”

Quiet ensued. Jack laughed softly.

Later, after the ship was anchored securely in the river, her lanterns lit so any late-roaming canoe could see her, Jack finally retired to the captain’s cabin to eat a late supper and update his logbook. It had been a long day. When he finished his log entry, and his supper, he sat back in his chair with a sigh. It was a hot evening, but, luckily for him, the wind was blowing Calabar’s multitude of insect life to leeward, so he dared to open the windows and allow the night breeze to cool the cabin. With a sigh of pleasure, he took off his coat, his neckcloth, and his waistcoat.

Then Jack stood for a moment in his spacious cabin, just enjoying the fact that it was his cabin. It gleamed softly in the lantern’s glow, bright with fresh paint. Cutler Beckett had provided the money for the royal blue, tan, yellow and gold paint freshly applied to the Wench’s fixtures and railings, plus a jaunty stripe highlighting her gun ports, but if a captain wanted his cabin painted, it was his responsibility to buy the paint. Jack had gone looking for inexpensive paint in the marketplace of Calabar, and had found some that must have been used to paint a parlor, or trim, in some European’s home. Periwinkle blue, it was—and startling in its intensity.

That was fine with Jack. He liked vivid trappings. Unable to dress as colorfully as he had in Shipwreck Cove, at least he could indulge himself in his own living quarters. The only problem was, the periwinkle paint had barely been enough to cover the walls. There hadn’t been enough to do the trim, so Jack perforce had to go bargain-hunting through the marketplace again. He was just a little dubious about the trim color, to be honest, but he was sure he’d get used to it. It reminded him of the afterglow of a Caribbean sunset.

The cabin boasted a wide bunk, big enough for two—after years of sleeping in hammocks, it was wonderful to be able to stretch out—and a table where he could unroll his charts and plot courses. There was a leaded-glass skylight overhead, and a bank of big, leaded casement windows that allowed him to look out and see the view from the stern of his ship. On either side of the cabin were bulges that overhung the hull below, called the quarter gallery. The quarter gallery on the port side housed a small enclosure fitted out with shelves and drawers, known as the captain’s pantry. There Jack could store food he’d bought for himself, wine, rum, his pewter eating utensils, plates, and goblets. At the moment the pantry was relatively bare. He hadn’t had sufficient money to buy much—yet.

On the starboard side of the quarter gallery there was another enclosed space—the captain’s private head. Such luxury! Not having to traipse topside to the bow in a storm to relieve oneself was something Jack was looking forward to getting used to.

He was enjoying having privacy and room to relax. And, even more importantly, lots of hiding places.

Ever since he’d begun going to sea, Jack had always kept an eye open for concealed hidey-holes on the ships he’d crewed, places where he could secrete items he wanted to keep hidden. And he’d always found them. But now he had a whole cabin where he could create his own personal stashes.

Sound from the Calabar River drifted through the open window. Someone on one of the slave ships was screaming. The sound was muted, faraway, but it was still enough to make Jack want to drown it with a long draught of his own special rum. And, since he’d finished his log entry, and had nothing else to do that night except sleep—barring emergencies—he felt safe in removing a bottle of his special supply from his brand-new hiding place.

Jack sauntered into the captain’s head, and gazed with satisfaction at the broad seat with its hole that was no longer centered. Jack had hired a carpenter in Calabar to remake the seat for him.

Reaching beneath the lip of the wood to the left of the hole, Jack released a latch that wasn’t visible unless one knew it was there. There was a soft sound, then that side of the wide, enclosed “bench” moved. Grasping the edge of the seat, Jack lifted, and the entire left side of the boards rose up and swung back, revealing a box built beneath. It wasn’t large, but it was fairly deep, nearly three feet deep by two and a half feet wide. One could conceal a lot of contraband in there.

Not that Jack was planning on engaging in any smuggling activities. Of course not! But one never knew when one might need a good hiding place, did one?

At the moment, the box held Jack’s private stash of rum. Much better quality rum than the EITC normally issued to its merchant ships. Smiling, Jack bent over and retrieved a bottle.

After removing the cork, he took a long swig, feeling the tensions of the day loosen their hold on him. The rum was very smooth, very good. He had another draught. That’s good, he thought, with a happy sigh. Very, very good.

He took the bottle back to his chair and sat down. Swinging his legs up, he tipped his chair back and had another drink, rolling the rum around on his tongue before swallowing it, feeling the pleasant burn as it coursed down his throat, awakening a glow in his stomach.

He was completely relaxed now, all thoughts of the miserable cargo crammed into the bellies of the ships surrounding him gone, blotted out. Visions of the lad Chamba being whipped vanished like fog fleeing before strong sunlight.

Ahhhh…he thought, in pure contentment, having another sip. Much better. This is more like it.

“Cap’n Sparrow?”

Jack thought he heard what sounded like a human voice, faint and quavering. It echoed eerily in the still night.

Jack’s eyes flew open. He was completely alone in his cabin. There’s no one but me here, he reassured himself.

“Cap’n Sparrow?” the disembodied voice said again, louder.

Jack nearly fell over backward. Only good balance and quick reflexes, learned from dangerous years as a topman, kept him from crashing over, or, the sea gods forbid, spilling his high quality rum. The front legs of his chair slammed to the deck and the captain sat bolt upright, every nerve on edge. “Who’s there?” he demanded of the air.

“Cap’n Sparrow…” the faint voice came again. “It’s me, Chamba. Help.”

Jack groaned aloud. Not another bloody ghost! He glanced at the rum bottle, still in his hand, then carefully set it down and corked it. He’d definitely had enough for tonight. Maybe, he thought, hopefully, it was all a delusion, brought on by the rum. But he had a bad feeling that he hadn’t imagined that disembodied voice. Over the years, Jack Sparrow had seen his share—and more—of supernatural happenings. Just knowing Tia Dalma guaranteed that one would see things that were not of this earth.

Damn that bastard, Blount, he thought. He really did whip the lad to death, but why is the poor bloke here now, haunting ME?

“Chamba?” Jack said aloud. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, lad, I really am. But there’s nothing to be gained by haunting me. Go visit Blount, perhaps you can frighten him into an apoplexy—which the bastard bloody well deserves.”

“Cap’n Sparrow?” There was strain in the voice, now, mixed with desperation. “Please, help! I ain’t no ghost, I’m me. I be hanging here, outside the window.”

Jack turned to look at the open windows. He narrowed his eyes, peering into the dimness—and saw eight dark, cylindrical objects hooked over the bottom frame of the open window. Eight…fingers.

With one bound, Jack was across the cabin, peering out and down. There, balanced precariously on one of the carvings supporting the quarter gallery, was Chamba, very much alive, desperately holding on to the bottom of the window. The youth was nearly naked, and even in the dimness Jack could see that his back was striped and pulpy. Jack swore under his breath. This is all I need!

“How the devil did you get here, Chamba?”

The lad looked up at him imploringly. His arms were shaking from the effort of holding himself in place against the side of the ship. If Jack didn’t haul him in soon, he’d lose his grip and fall back into the river.

“Cap’n Sparrow, when Mr. Blount finished with the whippin’ he promised, I played dead. He kick me like a dead dog, then he left me there. When he done gone, I dragged me down to the river. Found me a log, hung on to it, and crawled into the water. I been in the water for a long time, kickin’, paddlin’, trying to find you. Cap’n…please?”

“Why does this kind of thing always happen to me?” Jack demanded plaintively, under his breath. For a moment he was tempted to just turn away. This wasn’t his problem. He had enough troubles of his own, without adding this complication.

But he discovered he couldn’t stand by and watch the lad fall, knowing he’d drown. Jack opened the window all the way, and the one beside it, too. “This is going to hurt, Chamba,” he warned the youth. “Don’t make a sound.”

“Not me, Cap’n,” the boy promised.

Chamba was as good as his word. Jack grabbed his forearms, braced himself, and hauled upward with all his might. The slave gasped, but made no other sound. Instead he pushed upward with his bare feet, climbing the hull, thrusting himself upward off his precarious support. Grunting with effort, Jack heaved until he saw stars, and between them they got the youth’s body pulled up until his arms, then his shoulders, were in the cabin. Then, holding him balanced with one hand, Jack managed to lean out the other window, and snag a fistful of Chamba’s only garment, a breechclout. He dragged him upward again, until the lad’s belly crossed the sill. With one more heave, he eased the runaway’s dark legs over the bottom of the casement.

Chamba collapsed to the deck on his side and lay still. He’d fainted from the pain.

Seeing his back in the lamplight, Jack cursed Blount in three languages. Those stripes needed treatment, or they’d be sure to fester. Quickly he rolled the lad onto his stomach, then went in search of the bottle of ship’s rum he kept in his captain’s pantry.

Luckily for Chamba, he didn’t regain consciousness as Jack poured rum into his wounds. The captain squatted on his heels beside the youth’s unconscious form, thinking. He knew that by rights he ought to take the kid straight back to Blount—but it just wasn’t in him to do that. What should he do? Take him to Mr. Beckett and tell him the whole story? Jack shook his head. Beckett might discipline or dismiss Blount from his post for tampering with the provisions, but he wouldn’t break the law. He’d hand the slave over to his owner.

Maybe he could keep him here, hide him aboard ship for a couple of days, then drop him off somewhere, with no one the wiser. Jack nodded slightly. That could work. Maybe he could set his course for the Cape Verde Islands, and let Chamba go there.

He knew as surely as the sun would rise in the east that Blount would start out searching for the lad. As soon as he realized his slave was still alive, he’d look everywhere for his property. He might well come by the Wicked Wench. Jack was fairly sure that Blount had realized that Jack had some sympathy for Chamba. If he was going to hide him for a few days, he needed to figure out how to do it.

Rising, he went into the captain’s pantry, and returned with a pewter goblet full of watered wine, and some bread and cheese from his own private store. Setting them on the table, he went over to his sea chest and hunted up an old shirt that looked fairly clean, though it was stained. Tomorrow he’d check the slop chest that contained the crew’s castoff clothing, to see whether there was anything the lad could wear. Even though he had to be in his teens, the youth was small and thin for his age—doubtless Blount saw no reason to feed a slave well.

After a few more minutes, Chamba began to stir, then he moaned and tried to sit up. Jack helped him, until the boy was able to sit cross-legged on the deck, still swaying weakly. “Thirsty?” Jack said, holding out the goblet.

Despite his obvious eagerness, Chamba was careful not to spill any of the liquid. He drained the cup, then drew a long breath. “Thanks, Cap’n.”

“You’re welcome. Here, have something to eat,” he said, holding out the bread and cheese. “Eat slowly. You don’t want to get sick.”

The lad nibbled away at the bread, then swallowed a mouthful or two of the cheese. Jack put the leftovers on a plate. He sat down on the deck opposite Chamba, and said, “Why did you come to me? Why didn’t you run and hide in the woods, upriver?”

The runaway lowered his eyes and shook his head. “I’d be caught by now if I done that, Cap’n. They got dogs. I knew I was bleedin’ and they smell that.”

Jack nodded. “I see.”

The youth gazed at him with those pleading dark eyes. “I’m sorry, Cap’n. I know it be dangerous for you. But I couldn’t think of nowhere else. That’s why I didn’t run before. Ain’t the first time he done this, though it be the worst.”

Jack had no trouble believing that. He nodded grimly.

“I just…let go. Went away in here,” Chamba touched his forehead. “Played dead. Give him what he wanted. Blount, he angry ’cause you caught him puttin’ the condemned stuff into those barrels. He done it before, but nobody catch him till you.”

“It’s not your fault I caught him,” Jack pointed out.

The youth gave him a look that spoke volumes. “So? What difference that make, Cap’n? Blount, when he need someone to beat, he find someone, best believe.”

“I know,” Jack said. “Listen, Chamba, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve decided to help you. I’ll be sailing within a day. I can take you and drop you off somewhere.”

“Somewhere? Where can I go?” Chamba’s eyes were wide with fear.

“That’s what we’ll have to figure out,” Jack said. “Where is—was—your home? Before you were captured?” He was wondering if there was some way to arrange for the lad to be taken back home. It didn’t seem likely.

“My home, it be gone, Cap’n. The slavers take the whole village, they take everyone. Burn what left. They take my mother, my father, my sisters…they kill my old granddad, ’cause him not keepin’ up. No home left, Cap’n Sparrow.”

“Oh,” Jack said. “I see.” How can men be so vile? he wondered. “That’s a predicament, then, Chamba. A problem,” he translated, seeing that the youth didn’t understand the long word. “I have to sail away,” he explained. “And when I do that, what’s to become of you?”

The lad looked at him. “Going with you, Cap’n, please. Stay here, on the ship. The ship, she be free. Your sailor men, they free. Me, I want become like them. A sailor man. Learn the sailor trade. Sail far away from here.” The disgust in the word “here” spoke volumes.

Jack blinked. “Oh.” It hadn’t occurred to him that Chamba had fled to him with a plan, but he should have realized. The lad was smart—and cunning. Good qualities in a sailor. And there was no denying his courage. He thought it over, taking his time, while Chamba sat there, tense with mingled hope and fear.

Their voyage would take at least four or five months. At Chamba’s age, that could make a big difference in a boy’s appearance. Five months of enough food would put some muscle on that skinny frame. He might get a bit taller. His beard was just starting to come in, which was a good sign. They could shave his head, perhaps. By the time they came back to Calabar, he might well be unrecognizable as that runaway skinny runt of a slave. And just to make sure, he’d order the kid to stay hidden while they were in port.

Jack sighed. I hope I won’t regret this.…

“All right,” he agreed. “You can start in as cabin boy, and cook’s assistant, while you learn how to rig the sails, and all the rest of what it takes to be a sailor.”

For the first time, a light sparked in Chamba’s eyes, and he smiled. The expression transformed his face. “Aye, Cap’n! I be a good sailor man, the best! You will see!”

Jack held out the shirt. “Here. Put this on. Keep the dirt out of those wounds.”

With a hiss of pain, Chamba eased the shirt over his head. It was so long it fell past his hips. Jack handed him a blanket. “You can make yourself a bed in my pantry. There’s enough room in there for you to stretch out. The doors close.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Gamely, Chamba climbed to his feet and limped after him to arrange his sleeping place.

“And over here is the head,” Jack said, and took him to the other side of the cabin to show him the other enclosure overhanging the quarter gallery. While he was standing there, looking at the head, something occurred to him, and he looked at the youth. “If Mr. Blount comes to the ship tomorrow, looking for you, you’ll need to hide, understand? I’ll give you some warning. If you hear me rap on the door to my cabin, one rap, hide.” He demonstrated.

Chamba nodded. “Where, Cap’n?”

“I think you can fit in here. I’ll move the rum out…temporarily.” Jack opened the hidden compartment, leaned over, and pulled out the bottles. He stowed them away in the pantry. When he came back, Chamba was staring down into the box-like hiding area.

Jack looked at it, then at the lad. “Can you can fit in there?” he asked, dubiously.

“Aye, Cap’n,” Chamba said. “If fitting mean Mr. Blount don’t catch me, I fit.”

“All right, then. Make sure you don’t leave any sign that you’ve been here in the cabin, savvy? Er…understand? If Blount comes here, I’ll make sure this is the last place he comes in. That should give you time to hide.”

“Aye, Cap’n. Hide good, that’s me.”

After he’d settled the youth in the pantry, Jack stripped down to his drawers, then blew out the lantern. He’d wondered if he’d lie awake, but the long day, coupled with the effort of hauling the runaway through the window, had tired him. It wasn’t long before he slept.

The next day he was up at dawn, making sure the cargo hold and other stowage areas were ready for use. Blount was as good as his word.

The remainder of Jack’s provisions arrived on the dock and were loaded aboard—after Jack and Robby had checked every container.

Scarcely had they finished stowing the provisions before the cargo itself made its appearance. Both Jack and Robby were busy for hours, making sure everything was stowed securely, and, when necessary, fastened down so it wouldn’t shift during rough weather.

Barely half the cargo had been loaded when Blount showed up, with three slave hunters.

Jack, summoned to the gangplank leading from the dock to the deck, leaned over the railing and looked down at the portmaster with a big grin. He waved cheerfully. “’Morning, Portmaster Blount! Here to check on your provision delivery? They arrived in fine shape, thanks very much! I adore smoked ham!”

Blount shook his head slowly, scowling. “No, Captain Sparrow. We’re here about my slave, Chamba. He ran away last night. The dogs tracked him to the river. I think he must’ve been planning to stow away on a ship. We’ve checked all the others. Yours is the last. We’d like your permission to search the Wicked Wench.”

Jack did a well-feigned double take. “Your slave? The one so stupid he couldn’t come in out of the rain? In the river?” Jack surveyed the huge, muddy river, deep and filled with currents. “Could he swim?”

“Not that I know of,” replied Blount, with exaggerated patience.

“Well, then, he’s likely drowned, eh?” Jack said, with hearty good cheer. “Or eaten by a crocodile. Bit of a nuisance, I suppose, but at least you won’t be put to the trouble of burying him.”

“Perhaps. May we search your ship?”

Jack rolled his eyes theatrically. “Oh, very well. If you must. Come aboard.”

Blount and his companions trudged up the gangway and stepped onto the weather deck. “Mr. Greene!” Jack called, waving the first mate over.

Robby arrived a moment later. “Yes, Captain Sparrow?”

Jack gestured at Blount and his henchmen. “Portmaster Blount here thinks we might have a stowaway. I want you to take him down to the bilges, and let them look for him, working your way up through the ship. But don’t disarrange the stowed cargo.” He gave the portmaster a meaningful glance. “The holds were nearly empty until this morning, when your supplies arrived, and then our cargo. My men have worked hard, stowing it. Any stowaway would have been visible, Mr. Blount.”

“Very well,” the portmaster said, grudgingly.

Robby shot Jack a suspicious glance as he led the party away. Jack smiled blandly, waving him on.

The captain was down on the cargo deck, overseeing the stowage, when he heard Blount and his party climbing up from the orlop and the bilges. Quickly Jack instructed his second mate, a grizzled old Irishman named Frank Connery, to keep an eye on everything, then climbed back up to the weather deck. Sauntering across it, keeping a sharp eye on the cargo still coming up the gangplank, he headed aft, toward his cabin, which was actually an enclosed extension of the weather deck.

When he reached it, he didn’t pause, but rapped sharply on the locked cabin door in passing, then continued on his round.

Perhaps ten minutes later, Robby appeared with the sweating and disheveled portmaster and the slave hunters. Jack waved to them cheerfully. “Isn’t she a beautiful vessel, Mr. Blount? She’s fast, I can tell. She’ll do the EITC proud.”

The portmaster waved all this aside with a glare. “We’ve searched everywhere except your cabin, Captain.”

Jack raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “My cabin? Why, it’s always kept locked, Portmaster. No runaway could have gotten in there.”

“Nevertheless, I need to see it. Please take me in there.” The port-master paused for a beat. “Unless you have something to hide, Captain Sparrow.”

Jack made a moue of annoyance, then shrugged exaggeratedly. “Oh, very well.” He was being his most fey, mincing self, an act that he’d found caused most men to underestimate him…often to their regret.

Turning, he led them to the cabin. When they reached it, he took out his keys, but glared at the portmaster. “You may come in, Mr. Blount, and search to your wizened little heart’s content, but I’m not having these hulking louts tramping around in my cabin, stealing my private stock of rum, and goodness knows what else.”

The portmaster gestured at his men. “Wait here.”

Jack nodded and opened the door, then stepped in, waving the portmaster after him.

After a first, anxious moment, he was reassured to see that the cabin looked almost as it should—somewhat tidier, to be honest, for Chamba seemed to have made the bunk up neatly. Starting his job as cabin boy, Jack realized. No sign that the slave had ever been there was visible.

Quickly, Jack glanced at the head—and froze. There was a half-inch crack showing where the secret hatch beside the hole hadn’t closed all the way. He cleared his throat. “You’ll excuse me, Portmaster,” he chirped, “if I just take this opportunity to pump the bilges.”

He stepped into the head, closing the door behind him, and then, to make it look good, actually undid his britches, shuffling his feet and whistling between his teeth as he reached over and quietly eased the hatch all the way closed. The secret storage area hadn’t been designed to be closed from the inside—no wonder the lad hadn’t been able to pull it all the way down after him.

After a minute or so, Jack hitched up his britches, then, still fussing with the top buttons, he stepped out of the head. Portmaster Blount was lying on his stomach, peering under the bunk. “Is he there?” cried Jack, jovially.

“No,” said the portmaster, between his teeth, as he sat up.

“Don’t forget to check the head,” Jack said, waving a gracious hand at his private facility. “He might be hiding in the hole, eh?”

Blount didn’t dignify this sally with a response, only glanced grimly into the small enclosure, then slammed the door behind him. He stood there, sweating, his neckcloth rumpled and dirty, his wispy hair standing on end, his coat askew, obviously furious and searching for some kind of parting shot.

“Really, Captain Sparrow,” he said finally, in acid tones, waving at Jack’s cabin, “what in the name of all that’s holy got into you? Baby blue and…pink?”

Jack was genuinely affronted. “It’s periwinkle, Mr. Blount,” he said. “And rose. I…I quite like it!”

Blount’s only response was a wordless growl. He stalked past Jack, and out the door.

Still nettled by the portmaster’s lack of good taste, Jack left the cabin, locking the door behind him.

The next morning, at dawn, the Wicked Wench left the docks of Calabar, her sails billowing as the crewmen worked to catch the dawn breezes. She sailed down the huge, muddy river, to the Atlantic, and headed out onto the open sea.

Jack’s next problem was how to produce Chamba without any of his crew suspecting that the youth was, in fact, the runaway slave that Blount had been so publicly searching for their last day in Calabar. Checking their course, he verified that he could easily divert to the Cape Verde Islands, with a loss of only a handful of days in their passage.

So he took Robby into his confidence, introduced him to the runaway, and then, three days after they’d departed Calabar, with much fanfare, Jack and Robby together “discovered” several barrels of “spoiled biscuit” amongst those Blount had delivered to their hold. With great cursing and fanfare, the two officers loudly dumped the offensive contents of these “spoiled” barrels overboard as the Wicked Wench made her way north after swinging around the bulge of Africa.

Jack made a point of remarking within the hearing of his crew that he wasn’t a captain to stint a man or put his crew on short rations if he could avoid it, so they’d put in at St. Jago, the largest of the Cape Verde Islands, to replace the lost ship’s biscuit.

It was difficult, keeping Chamba hidden for the entire ten days it took the Wicked Wench to reach the island, but Jack was motivated and Chamba was willing to do anything it took to have the chance to become a “sailor man.” They had one or two narrow squeaks during the trip, when Jack’s meals were delivered to him in his cabin, or officers reported to him, but they managed.

As they neared St. Jago, Jack gloomily surveyed the contents of his purse, reflecting that finally he’d managed to save some money, only to have to spend it replacing perfectly good ship’s biscuit. But there was no help for it. He grumpily resolved to stop the amount out of Chamba’s wages for the voyage.

When the Wicked Wench was safely docked in the harbor of Ribeira Grande, the largest settlement on St. Jago, Jack went into town to purchase replacement barrels of ship’s biscuit.

By the time it had been delivered in mid-afternoon, Jack had decided, he informed his crew, to lay over for the night. Generously, he extended several hours of shore leave to his men, one watch at a time. Grinning, the first contingent of crewmen set off for the town.

Jack casually mentioned that he’d decided the Wench needed a cabin boy and cook’s assistant, and asked them all to keep their eyes open for a likely lad.

Ribeira Grande had been settled about two hundred and fifty years earlier by the Portuguese. It was a fair-sized town that was a common stop for Atlantic crossing vessels to refill water barrels, since the Cape Verde Islands were the last land until one reached the Caribbees, the outermost islands of the Caribbean in a ship’s “Triangle” passage.

St. Jago was a pretty island, green along the shoreline, with two mountain ranges in the interior. Beautiful white sand beaches stretched out to either side of the harbor. Wistfully, Jack leaned on the railing of the Wicked Wench, looking at the lights of the town and wishing he could have a few hours of shore leave himself. Being captain was certainly different than being a hand before the mast. In a way, higher rank meant less freedom—at least personal freedom.

The captain sighed, shrugging philosophically. After all, he had his ship, and he had the rank he’d wanted for years. The Wicked Wench had proved herself, so far, to be everything he’d envisioned back when they’d been working to get her shipshape back in Calabar. She was maneuverable and she was fast—deceptively fast for her size. At least as fast as Venganza, though of course a full load of cargo was a considerable disadvantage.

Jack relaxed, enjoying the colors of the sunset. He had a task to do, but it had to wait for full darkness.

When Chamba left the ship, via Jack’s windows, he was dangling on the end of a rope, the end of which was held by Robby Greene. Jack was still out on deck, waiting for the appointed time. At the right moment, he adjusted the small bundle of clothing he had hidden beneath his coat, then headed down the gangplank into the darkness.

He met Chamba, as arranged, out amid the sand dunes, past the edge of the town. Quickly, the lad shed his wet clothes, and changed into the dry ones Jack had brought—a rough shirt from the slop chest, and a pair of britches Robby had outgrown years before. Just in case any of the crew might remember the lad from that day at the warehouse, Jack had brought a knife with him so he could cut his wiry coils of hair. He worked for a while with the freshly sharpened blade, cropping the growth as close to the youth’s skull as he could manage. It definitely changed his appearance, Jack decided, studying him in the moonlight.

Chamba shoved his wet clothes into an old sack, then felt his shorn head. “How it look, Cap’n?”

“Makes you look older,” Jack said. “Here, tie this bandanna around, like this.” He helped the youth tie the scrap of faded cloth that had once been black around his head. “Much better!” he pronounced, studying the former slave. “I doubt if even Blount would recognize you. At least in this light.”

Chamba grinned, then squatted on his heels and scooped out a hole to bury the handfuls of hair.

“So what about your name? Should we change it?” Jack asked.

“My name…it be all I got left, Cap’n,” the lad said, his voice even, but Jack could see the sudden tension in his shoulders as he dug. “All that be left from beforetime, from mom and dad family, you know?”

“Is Chamba a common name?”

Chamba considered. “Pretty much so, yes.”

“Then keep it.”

Chamba nodded. “I will, then.”

The youth stood up, his sack slung over his shoulder, to face the captain again. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Cap’n, I know all what you did for me. You and Mister Robby. I won’t forget, me.”

Jack made a deprecatory wave. “Come on, mate. Back to the ship. Time to start earning your wages, sailor man.”

The young man’s teeth flashed white in the moonlight, and he nodded.

Jack took his newly hired cabin boy back to the ship with him, and, together, they climbed the gangplank.

Robby was waiting for them, and took Chamba in tow, to show him where he’d hang his hammock and introduce him to the cook, a potbellied Englishman named Phineas Taylor. The next morning, before dawn, the new cabin boy was on duty, helping Taylor serve the crewmen their breakfast in the gray light. Some of the sailors who had overindulged the night before waved the lad away when he offered them the lumpy, porridge-like substance made from crumbled ship’s biscuit, flavored with salted meat, that was called “burgoo.” Some took their bowls with a nod and a mumbled word of thanks. Others grabbed them in surly silence.

None of the men gave the newcomer a second glance.

The Wicked Wench set out for the Caribbean, and Chamba embarked on his new life.

It took about four weeks for the Wicked Wench to reach the vicinity of the Caribbean Sea. Their passage across the Atlantic had been fairly uneventful. Admittedly, it had rained for most of one week, which tended to dampen one’s spirits, but it also provided an opportunity to wash clothes grown stiff with salt residue. They had encountered only one big storm. The Wench rode out the tempest undaunted, with no damage to the ship or loss of life.

When his duties allowed, Chamba joined several of the ordinary seamen as Second Mate Connery, Quartermaster Logan, plus some of the senior hands worked on instructing the “landsmen” (inexperienced crewmen) on how to tie knots, repair equipment, splice lines, and master other nautical tasks. He learned quickly, and before they had reached the Caribbean, the lad had been allowed aloft, first watching the experienced topmen, then assisting them as they rigged and reefed the sails.

Jack, seeing him swarm up the spidery rope ladders, then walk along a yardarm as though it was as wide as a street, exchanged a covert glance and nod with Robby Greene. He’d been much the same way when he’d first been allowed aloft, at the age of ten. When you were young, fear was the last thing on your mind. There was only the exultation of being up so high, of doing a man’s job.

As soon as the water beneath the Wicked Wench’s keel began to take on the azure tints of the Caribbean, Jack altered his course, turning north by west. He checked his position by sighting the outermost islands of the Caribbees off his port beam, through his spyglass. The first one in the arc of islands was the comparatively large Barbados, then St. Lucia, identifiable by its high mountains, followed by little Martinique, Dominica, Guadeloupe, Antigua, and Barbuda.

The captain’s decision to skirt the Caribbean was prompted by his consciousness of the valuable cargo he was carrying, coupled with the vulnerability of his under-gunned vessel. True, he’d organized all available crewmen into gun crews, and begun training them to load, aim, and fire the big guns as quickly and efficiently as possible, but his men still had a long way to go before they’d be ready for battle. And he didn’t have much powder to spare for practice.

Jack knew only too well that pirates had eyes and ears throughout the Caribbean, and that news from a paid informant, describing the Wicked Wench and reporting she was bound for England with a select cargo of gold, ivory, rare woods, and spices, might well reach the wrong ears. So he decided against docking at any of the established ports. Still, he needed to replenish his water supply, and fresh food was always a plus to sailors.

With this in mind, Jack sat down in his cabin one evening, thinking about the many cays in the vicinity of the Bahamas. Men on the account were always on the lookout for small, uninhabited, uncharted islands that nevertheless boasted a supply of fresh water, and sometimes even the prospect of fresh fruit, fish, and game animals.

He remembered a cay that Teague had used several times while he’d sailed with him, a smallish one, only two and a half miles long and a mile wide, but it boasted a good clear spring, and teemed with plant and animal life. Holding the image of the unnamed islet fixed in his mind, Jack took out the compass Tia Dalma had given him, back when he’d been younger than Chamba was now, and closed his eyes, concentrating.

When Jack opened his eyes, the needle of the compass was pointing firmly northwest. Smiling, he again concealed the compass, and went forward to take the wheel. Jack steered the ship for several hours, adjusting her course heading slightly as the compass needle indicated. The captain had to be careful not to reveal the compass to his helmsman or any curious crewmember. There was simply no way to easily explain what he had. Crews had mutinied before when they’d decided their captain had gone mad.

Robby, of course, knew about the compass; he owed his life to its ability to point the way to whatever the person holding it desired the most. But it had been years since he’d seen Jack use it steadily, as he was using it that sunny afternoon.

The next morning, Jack was rewarded by the sight of the cay, only a few miles distant. This area of the southern Bahamas was studded with them, some real islands, others just spits of land or rocky outcrops. Coral shoals were common, so navigation had to be pinpoint. As the Wench approached the cay, Jack kept two contingents of crewmen busy—both port and starboard—taking depth measurements.

The little cay had no harbor, so Jack dropped anchor half a mile away from it. Quickly, he assigned crews to go out in the longboats with their water barrels, and also dispatched Second Mate Connery to take a crew of sailors who professed themselves marksmen on a hunting party. Wild boar roamed the island, and the men’s eyes lit up at the idea of fresh meat.

Five or six crewmen scurried to get their fishing tackle. Fresh or salted fish was another treat.

As the boat crews returned with the filled water barrels, they reported seeing dozens of large tortoises sunning themselves, so Jack gave permission for several men to go back to capture some. “And find me some fruit,” he instructed. “Bananas, coconuts…whatever there is.”

“Aye, Cap’n!”

As the afternoon approached, and the hunting parties and water crews returned safely with their boats loaded, Jack even granted himself a few hours of solitary shore leave, leaving Robby, who had gone on one of the earlier shore parties, in command. Taking one of the smaller boats, he rowed himself to the cay, dragging his craft up on a beautiful beach of white sand, with some rocky outcrops that provided a bit of privacy.

Shucking off his clothes, Jack backstroked out to one of the outcrops, and climbed up on a rock shelf, warm beneath his feet from the afternoon sun. Looking down, the water was so clear that even though it had to be at least twenty feet deep, he could see every detail: creatures scuttling along on the bottom, and small, brightly colored fish darting briskly, hither and yon. With a laugh of pure pleasure, Jack flexed his legs and executed a perfect dive into the sea.

He came up smoothly and began to swim, his strokes strong, fast, and sure. Jack didn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been able to swim. He didn’t recall anyone ever teaching him. One of the stories often repeated about him by sailors who had crewed Teague’s vessel, Troubadour, was about the time an old pirate had asked him where he’d learned to dive and swim so well, and the five-year-old Jack had responded solemnly, “The mermaids taught me.”

He swam for half an hour, then climbed back up on the rock to sun himself, mindful of the rays reaching parts of him that didn’t get much exposure. Luckily, rock overhangs offered a few shady places.

As he lay there, listening to the soft lapping of the water, enjoying the moment, he found himself thinking back to those days at Shipwreck Cove when he and Esmeralda had rowed off in a small boat, looking for good places to swim.…

Their first few weeks together had been, in a word, idyllic. Several times a week, the two young pirate scions had found time to pack up food and a few bottles of Don Rafael’s wine, and row the small dory Esmeralda had appropriated from Venganza to several secluded coves they’d discovered.

There they swam, dived into the water, fenced on the beach, shared their lunches, and sipped good wine. They laughed a lot, and they talked as though they’d been deaf and mute until they’d met each other.

Jack was the far better swimmer, and it salved his male ego to have found something that he could do better than Esmeralda, since she could usually defeat him at fencing, due to the extensive tutoring she’d received from her Spanish master of the sword. He coached her in swimming; she coached him in swordplay.

For modesty’s sake, he went swimming in his britches, and she wore an old chemise and petticoat that she had shortened to mid-calf length. The material was, to Jack’s disappointment, substantial enough not to turn transparent when it was wet, though it did outline Esmeralda’s curves enticingly.

They told no one of their trysts, and made efforts not to be seen leaving the cove together. Esmeralda, because she didn’t want other men thinking she was available to spend private time with them, and Jack, because he didn’t want Teague to know he’d disobeyed him. The day after the Pirate Lords’ colloquy, the Keeper of the Code had pulled Jack aside and given him a stern admonition, followed by a direct order.

Teague’s deeply lined, pockmarked features beneath his broad-brimmed hat had been even more impatient and annoyed than usual as he’d addressed Jack in the empty conference chamber. “Boy,” he’d said, with a glance fraught with warning, “back off. Steer clear. That’s an order. Savvy?”

Jack had blinked at him innocently, not allowing the anger that bubbled up within him to show. “Steer clear of what?” he asked.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Teague grated. “Steer clear of her, you misbegotten whelp. She’s a lady. Not one of your wanton jades. She’s shoal water, boy, as far as you’re concerned, and don’t forget it.”

Jack had assumed an expression of hurt indignation. “She’s a grown woman. I’m a grown man. If we want to talk to each other at dinner, what objection could there be? I was a perfect gentleman.”

“Don Rafael’s quick with his blade,” Teague said. “Even at his age, he’d spit you like a suckling pig, and I wouldn’t lift my little finger to stop him.” With that, he’d turned and walked away.

Jack had stared after him, rage simmering in his heart, his eyes narrowed. Usually when Teague was that forceful, he’d backed down in the face of direct orders. After all, Teague was his…captain.

But not this time, Jack thought, setting his jaw. He’d found something today, something he’d never encountered before, and he wasn’t giving it up just because Teague thought Esmeralda was too good for him. I know she’s a lady, but she’s like me…a bit lonely. She wants to be friends. There’s nothing wrong with having a woman as a friend, right?

“Bloody damned right,” he’d said, under his breath.

They’d had two weeks of companionship, perfectly innocent companionship. Their swords touched, but that was the only contact between them. Jack didn’t even try to hold her hand. He didn’t want to risk what they had.

And then, early one morning when they’d met at the dory in their pre-arranged meeting spot, Christophe came striding up, all smiles, to ask whether he could join the party.

For the first time in his life, Jack had discovered he was violently jealous of another man—but he didn’t dare show it. Christophe was his friend, and Esmeralda had no idea how he felt about her. Jack had to swallow his resentment and smile.

Esmeralda seemed delighted to have Christophe join their company, and every time she smiled at the older pirate captain, Jack had to exert self-control to keep his expression from betraying his feelings.

For the next ten days, Christophe joined Jack and Esmeralda for nearly every foray. One good thing came out of it—Christophe was an excellent swordsman, and he began tutoring both of the younger fencers, teaching them many moves that weren’t part of classical fencing, but were designed to save one’s life during boarding, or a shipboard fray.

After their first few outings together, Jack realized that Christophe had Esmeralda in his sights. There could be no doubt. Where Jack had been careful not touch her, not to push things, Christophe stood close to her at every opportunity. He never missed a chance to offer her a hand up when they prepared to rise after eating their repast on the beach. When he corrected her swordsmanship, he frequently stood behind her and slid his hand over hers to practice the lunges and parries he’d been demonstrating. And when he corrected her lunges, he did it in such a way that she wound up pressed against him.

It was obvious to Jack that Christophe intended to seduce Esmeralda.

He had no idea what to do about this realization. It wasn’t his place to say anything; he had no claim on Esmeralda. Surely the lady knew what was going on, didn’t she? A blind man could see it.

While Jack was still stewing over whether to try to get Esmeralda alone and talk to her about what was happening, something else occurred that, at least temporarily, drove all thought of their embryonic triangle out of his mind.

One day Esmeralda asked Jack and Christophe to be her escorts for an evening’s outing. She explained that she’d like to go to their favorite tavern, The Drunken Lady, because she’d heard them speak of it. Her grandfather, however, wouldn’t permit her to go unaccompanied. Don Rafael was no fool, so despite her expertise with sword and dagger, Esmeralda was under orders not to go wandering around alone in the lairs and warrens of Shipwreck City.

Several times, Jack had spoken of his friend Steve, the barkeep, and his wife, Marie, and Esmeralda particularly wanted to meet the unusual pair. “I get lonely for the sound of another woman’s voice,” she commented, sounding wistful. “This Marie sounds like she would be interesting to talk to, and since she is a…respectable married woman, my grandfather wouldn’t object to her the way he would to…” she blushed slightly, as Christophe gave her a knowing smirk, “a…you know. Can’t you two take me there sometime? I get tired of staying aboard Venganza and just reading every night!”

Jack glanced at Christophe. “If Don Rafael agrees, I’d be delighted to,” he said.

“Et moi, ma belle!” Christophe said, with a mocking grin, ostentatiously holding out his hand to her. “I would give my all to be one of your escorts to our fair city.”

With a little laugh at his silliness, Esmeralda held her hand out in return. Christophe took his time holding it, then took even longer kissing it. Jack had to bite the inside of his cheek.

The following day, shortly after sunset, Jack and Christophe, dressed in their best (and Jack’s “best” was, of course, a far cry from Christophe’s brocaded splendor), presented themselves at Venganza’s dock. As the relative cool of the evening settled over the cove, and the gigantic pile of ships began to wink with lamplight and candlelight, like a thousand sparkling fireflies gathering in the gloom, Rafael solemnly squired his granddaughter out onto the deck. He kissed her at the top of the gangplank, then, fixing her aspiring swains with a jaundiced glance, he announced loudly that he expected her to return in two hours.

Esmeralda made a face at her curfew, but she didn’t say anything. Jack and Christophe both nodded and bowed solemnly, assuring Don Rafael that they would return her, or die trying (at least, that was the way Christophe expressed it).

As she descended the gangplank, Esmeralda looked beautiful in a gown of silvery gray silk. It was very modestly cut, and she wore no jewelry save for small silver earrings. “I didn’t want to dress up much,” she confided, breathlessly. “I mean, I don’t want to attract attention.”

Jack thought that Esmeralda would attract men’s attention dressed in old sacks, but he nodded solemnly, understanding what she meant.

The three made their way through the crazily winding, often uneven halls that connected the stacked vessels of Shipwreck City, until they reached The Drunken Lady. When they got there, they were able to quickly claim a table, because they were there early, and ordered wine. Esmeralda looked around with unabashed curiosity as she sipped her drink. Jack and Christophe, abstemious because of their sacred charge, confined themselves to wine, and introduced her to several of the pirate captains they knew. Knowing that she was the granddaughter of a respected and feared Pirate Lord, everyone they introduced her to was on his best behavior.

After they’d finished their glass of wine, Jack introduced Esmeralda to Steve and Marie. The two ladies seemed to hit it off immediately, and went off to another table to chat privately and have another glass of wine. They were still talking when the evening’s regular contingent of buccaneers came shuffling, peg-legging, or striding in. Steve, in order to give his wife a night off, had hired a lad to wait on the tables. The taproom’s temperature quickly rose, and Steve had to open the windows in the hopes of letting in a breeze.

Jack and Christophe watched Esmeralda talking to Marie, fanning first herself, then the other woman, both of them laughing and chattering. “She’s having a good time,” Jack said, smiling to see his friend enjoying herself.

“Oui, but I could show her a better one, mon ami,” Christophe said, gazing at the two women. Catching Esmeralda’s eye, he ostentatiously raised his glass in a toast to, first, her, then to Marie. Both ladies blushed. “I could show both of them a better time,” he added, licking his lips beneath his rakish moustache. “Mon Dieu, to have a double armful of them in my bed!”

Jack blinked at him, then realized what he was saying, and was horrified to feel his face grow hot. Quickly, he bent over to tug up his freshly cleaned and oiled right boot. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t tumbled more than one wench at a time. He had. There were those twins in Tortuga…he half smiled at the memory.

But Esmeralda and Marie…they were different. They were ladies. Thinking of them that way didn’t seem right.

Jack glanced away from Christophe as he slowly straightened back up, hoping the color in his cheeks would be attributed to bending over. As he looked toward the back of the room, the part that overhung Shipwreck Cove, his attention was caught by a high-pitched, quavering voice, drunkenly babbling.

“—and they’re all afraid, afraid of the devil! Old One Tooth Tommy, he’s the only one with the guts to tell what he saw that night! The night the devil drowned the Cobra!”

Jack frowned. The Cobra…that was Barbossa’s ship.…

He glanced over at Christophe, who had leaned over to talk to someone he knew at the next table. Esmeralda and Marie were still chatting over in the corner, under Steve’s watchful eye.

Jack waved quickly at Christophe and stood up. “Be right back,” he mouthed. Christophe gave him a half wave in acknowledgment.

Moving through the throng, Jack approached the big windows that stood wide open, giving a view of the cove. The moon was rising over the black water, and it touched the edges of the ripples with vermeil.

He found the man who was talking by following the sound of his high-pitched voice. He sat all alone at a table in the otherwise crowded tavern, obviously well into his cups, an ancient bald pirate, thin as a spar, with corded muscles standing out on skinny arms. His face was weathered and so wrinkled his features looked like an old treasure map. Dressed in clothing that was battered and torn even for Shipwreck City, he had a bottle of rum in front of him, but no glass. As Jack approached, he broke off his rant, then clutched his bottle to his chest. He also shut his mouth, eyeing Jack warily.

Jack essayed his most disarming grin. “Hallo, er, Tommy. You are Tommy, aren’t you?”

The old pirate nodded, looking Jack up and down, dubiously. He cocked his head at his visitor. “They call me One Tooth Tommy. ’Cause o’ me tooth.” He opened his mouth to demonstrate, pointing. There it was, surprisingly clean and white, looking like a slab of marble embedded in a cavern of rose quartz.

Jack nodded. “Ah, an apt sobriquet,” he said. “May I join you for a moment?”

One Tooth Tommy clutched his bottle harder. “Ain’t gonna share,” he warned. “But ye can sit down.” He peered nearsightedly at Jack, then his expression brightened. “I know who ye be! I seen ye walking with him, the one what keeps the Code. Right?” He nodded to himself, then took a swig of rum. “Look like him, ye do. They say he wants justice for us what was aboard Cobra. Can I trust ye?”

Jack nodded. “Of course you can. I heard Captain Barbossa’s story.”

“The Keeper’s the only one trying to find out who sent the Cobra to Davy Jones’s locker, along with a lot of good men,” One Tooth Tommy said. “Cap’n Barbossa said it’s against the Code for pirates to sneak up on other pirates, then shoot ’em in the back.” He swigged from the rum again. “Had a brass bow chaser, he did. Seen its like before, in India. Them Hindoos made it all fancy with carvings.”

Jack leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Who is ‘he’?”

“Why, he’s the devil. He’s magic, he is,” Tommy assured him. “I seen him that night, on his ship. Lookin’ for survivors, he was, in the water. Not to save ’em. To kill ’em. The smoke was so thick, it hid us. Only reason we survived. ’Cause when the devil wants ye, he takes ye. Right?”

“Absolutely,” Jack said.

“Saw him last night, too,” announced One Tooth Tommy, meditatively, sucking on his tooth. “He’s here.”

Jack stared at him in shock, then recalled that the old pirate was very, very drunk. “Here? In Shipwreck Cove, mate?”

“Aye, here. Saw him on the deck of his ship. ’Twas him all right. But he…”

One Tooth Tommy broke off, cringing back, his eyes fixed on something past Jack’s shoulder.

Jack turned around, to find Christophe approaching, clearly impatient. “There you are!” he said. “Esmeralda has finished her woman-talk, and asks that we take her outside for some air, Jacques.” He stopped, eyeing Jack and the old pirate. “But, of course, if you are busy, I could take her myself.…”

“No,” Jack said, hastily, rising. “I was just going. Nice to meet you…Tom,” he said, over his shoulder, as he followed his friend back into the melee that was now the taproom of The Drunken Lady. The old pirate, bottle still clutched to his chest, gave him a tentative wave.

Jack was so intrigued by what the old pirate had said that he decided he’d try to talk to Tommy again, after he and Christophe took Esmeralda back to Venganza by the appointed hour. Accordingly, he went back to The Drunken Lady later, alone, to search for him, but Tommy wasn’t anywhere to be found, and nobody recalled seeing him leave.

He looked for One Tooth Tommy the next day, also to no avail. And the next night. Nobody remembered seeing him around.

Jack began to wonder whether the old pirate had managed to get a berth on a ship that had departed. Pirate vessels went in and out of Shipwreck Cove nearly every day.

The next night, after spending the morning with Christophe and Esmeralda, and watching Christophe’s ever-bolder advances, a tense, frustrated Jack went looking for a wench he knew, a lively brunette by the name of Melinda. He found her in one of the rowdier taverns, The Parrot’s Perch, on the arm of another pirate, a short, extraordinarily ugly man with a balding pate, hideous teeth, a pronounced paunch, and an evil leer. Melinda was looking very fine indeed that night, wearing her bottle-green gown, with her brown hair done up, baring her shoulders. Jack saw her through the crowd, and began edging his way through it to reach her.

He stepped on a few toes, and got some dirty looks, but finally managed to get close to her. Her short, unappealing escort was grinning at her and running his grimy fingers down the sleeve of her gown. Jack was sure he glimpsed drool slicking the man’s chin. He shuddered, and raised his voice, so she could hear him over the drunken din. “Melinda, love!” he exclaimed. “Let me take you away from all this.”

She turned at the sound of his voice, smiling broadly. One of her front teeth was missing, but Jack thought that gave her a piquant air. He leaned close enough to see the freckles that sprinkled her nose and cheeks, and gestured at her inebriated admirer. “Ditch him, darling. Come away with me.”

Melinda regarded him speculatively, while absentmindedly fending off the groping hands of her companion. She was clearly tempted. Jack flashed his most engaging, roguish smile at her, and she shook her head. “Darling, there’s nothing I’d like better,” she slapped a filthy hand away from her bosom, “but I knows ye, Jacky, ye know I does. And a workin’ girl’s gotta eat and pay the rent. Let me see the color of your coin, Jacky.”

Jack nodded, unfazed. Business was business, after all. Fumbling some coins from his purse, he showed them to her, but curled his fingers over his palm when Melinda reached for them.

She gave him a coquettish smile and winked one pretty brown eye. “That’ll do, love. And you, um, Pintel. Let go of me,” she said, addressing her would-be escort. When the man protested in a slurred voice, not relinquishing his grasp, Melinda’s knee flashed swiftly upward. The short pirate’s knees sagged and he gasped. He let go.

“Next time, when a lady says ‘let go,’ Pintel,” Melinda said, her pert nose in the air, “perhaps you’ll listen.”

Swishing her skirt, she stepped over to Jack and took his arm. “Let’s go somewhere quieter, Jacky,” she suggested.

“My very thought,” he replied.

Together they traversed the corridors and warren-like passageways of Shipwreck City, until they were once more at the level of the cove. It was much quieter outside, and they began walking along the docks, looking for an unoccupied, dark place to conduct their business.

They’d walked nearly around the little island that held Shipwreck City, all of it lined with layers of docks, passing Troubadour and Venganza midway. Finally, just as Jack was about to suggest going back to her room, he spied a place that would serve—a section of dock that lay in deep shadow cast by the nearly full moon. He steered Melinda toward it, and had just begun to strip off his coat to lay it down on the splinter-infested wood, when he heard a gasp from his companion that grew so shrill it was almost a scream.

Whirling around, he saw her staring, eyes wide, at the water. “What is it?” he demanded.

Wordlessly, she pointed, her hand shaking.

Jack looked, following the angle of her finger, and saw, in the moonlight, what was floating a few feet below them. He stared, silent with shock, hearing the gentle lapping of the water—and also the soft, sodden thumps the left leg made as it drifted back and forth against the pilings.

“Tommy,” Jack whispered. “It has to be.” The clothes were right, and the man had been bald. But he couldn’t be certain. The dead flesh was the color of seawater, and bloated.…

Seeing also that the crabs had been at the body, Jack felt his stomach lurch. He’d seen dozens, possibly hundreds of dead men—and some of them he’d known. But most of them had been killed in battle, not drowned.

Hastily, he handed Melinda the coins she hadn’t yet earned, and ordered her to go back to Troubadour’s berth, call out to the crewman on watch for Captain Teague, then lead the Pirate Lord back here immediately. “And then go straight home,” he said.

“All right,” she agreed, her voice a bit unsteady, as she made the coins disappear. “But what are you going to do, Jacky?”

“I’m going to fish the poor old sot out,” Jack said, grimly, removing his waistcoat and looking around for a boat hook. “Hurry up now, love. You don’t want to see this.”

“You’re right,” she said, and, gulping audibly, snatched up her skirts and started off at a trot.

Jack was thoroughly wet by the time he’d managed to get a rope around the corpse and haul it up onto the dock. Clouds had moved in, and he had to conclude the last part of the nasty business in near-darkness.

Just as he finished turning the body over so it lay face-up, he heard voices, and saw the swaying lights of lanterns approaching. Jack stood up, dripping, to find a very aggravated Captain Teague and several of his men approaching.

“What’s going on here, boy?” the Keeper demanded, impatiently. “What have you done now, Jacky?”

Jack forced himself not to react to the way Teague said that hated nickname. It wasn’t anything new for the Keeper to blame him for whatever went wrong.

“Found a body in the cove,” he replied, shortly. “One of Barbossa’s crew. His name was Tommy. One Tooth Tommy.” He saw the anger in Teague’s eyes, and forced his voice to stay level. “Step over here, please, Captain,” he said, moving out of earshot of Teague’s men.

Still angry, but beginning to be puzzled, Teague followed, motioning to his men for privacy. Jack gestured at the body and lowered his voice. “I met him two nights ago, in The Drunken Lady. The poor old sot was bloody drunk off his arse, and raving.”

Teague started to speak, and Jack held up a hand to forestall him. “What he was going on about, Captain, was that during the battle, he’d seen the captain of the rogue ship that sank the Cobra. Said their attacker had a fancy brass bow chaser. But just before he clammed up, he told me he’d seen ‘the devil’—that’s what he called the captain—here. In the cove. Said he was standing on the deck of his ship, three nights ago.”

The Keeper had opened his mouth, doubtless to say something scathing, but by the time Jack finished speaking, he shut it, then stood staring down at the body, obviously mulling over what he’d been told.

Finally Teague looked back up. “I’ve seen him before this. I spoke to all of Barbossa’s surviving crew. Tommy was drunk when he spoke to me. Barbossa said he’d been drunk ever since the Cobra sank. He was probably drunk, and he fell in. Or maybe he was passed out on the dock, and rolled in. Did you examine him?”

“No,” said Jack, then added the obvious, dryly. “It’s dark, Captain. But I will, if you’ll hold the lantern.”

Teague nodded brusquely, and held his lantern to illuminate the corpse. He gestured, and his men rejoined them. In the light of the three lanterns, Jack knelt back down on the dock, and, not allowing himself to think about what he was doing, began examining the body, rolling it back and forth along the dock to see all sides. His stomach lurched again at the spongy feel of the cold flesh, and the squishing sounds it made, but he persisted, determined to discover what had happened. He even opened old Tommy’s shirt to check his chest and back for bruises or stab wounds, though he drew the line at removing the ragged britches.

Finally, after ten minutes or so of close examination, Jack sat back on his heels. “As far as I can tell, he wasn’t struck, stabbed, or shot. No wounds on the body.”

Teague nodded, as if satisfied that his conclusion had been borne out. “No foul play,” he said.

“I’m not so sure,” Jack said. “There could still have been foul play, Captain. All it would have taken was for someone to get him so drunk that he passed out, then drop him into the cove. That would be murder.”

Teague sighed, but Jack’s point was so obvious, he didn’t say anything. Still, it was clear that the Pirate Lord had made up his mind about One Tooth Tommy’s demise. “How long do you think he’s been dead?” he asked. “More than a day, that’s clear.”

Jack stood up. He was soaking, and even in the warm Caribbean evening, a breeze had sprung up. Shivering a little, he walked over to retrieve his effects. “I think he was killed not long after he spoke to me,” he said, quietly, pulling on his waistcoat, then his coat. “I think someone else heard what he was saying, and felt threatened.”

Teague walked over to stand beside him, and also lowered his voice. “Who was in The Drunken Lady? Who might have heard what he was saying?”

Jack shrugged. “I heard him from half the taproom away, crowded as it was. Anyone might have heard him ranting.”

Captain Teague blew out his breath unhappily, but said no more. Instead he gestured to his men, and they picked up the body. Jack and Teague picked up lanterns to light their way, and the little party started back toward Troubadour in silence.

Jack walked along, holding his coat closed across his chest, remembering Tommy’s insistence that the man he’d seen was “the devil.” Every so often, he shivered.

Jack blinked, realizing that the sun had moved while he’d been lost in memories. His brief shore leave was over. He sighed, feeling loneliness wash over him like a wave. If only Esmeralda were here, to share this beautiful beach with him.…

He wondered what she was doing at the moment. So far, he hadn’t seen a single ship during their passage to the Bahamas, and, frankly, he hoped that would continue. But if a ship appeared in the circle of his spyglass, he hoped it would be Venganza. Jack smiled slightly. She’d have a lot more trouble catching the Wench than she did Fair Wind, he thought.

Rising to his feet, he executed another perfect dive, then began swimming back to shore, and his clothes.

The remainder of the Wicked Wench’s first voyage under Jack Sparrow’s command passed without incident. Jack learned every nuance of his ship’s rigging, how she moved, how best to take advantage of the wind. He drilled and pushed his crew to speed up the time they took responding to orders, and was rewarded with greater efficiency.

Chamba continued to perform well as a new hand. His English improved, as he listened to the English-speaking crewmembers and emulated them. Robby Greene told Jack one night, laughing, that the lad had said, “Savvy?” in a perfect imitation of the way his captain did. He also told Jack that Chamba had asked Robby to teach him to read, and that Robby had begun his lessons. “He’s quick, Jack,” the first mate said. “He could make an officer, if only…” he trailed off, and shrugged, knowing that Jack would follow his meaning.

“He could go on the account,” Jack said. “Pirates recognize a good man, and they’ll elect anyone captain that can bring them prizes. Pirates don’t care about the color of a man’s skin.”

Robby shook his head. “Don’t you dare suggest that to him, Jack,” he said. “If he works hard, he can become a quartermaster, or a mate, perhaps. That’s better than swinging from a gallows.”

“You’re right,” Jack agreed, with a sigh.

The Wench sailed north, along the coast of the American colonies, gliding on the Gulf Stream. As before, Jack brought her across the Atlantic, navigating with admirable precision. She unloaded her cargo in Liverpool, then picked up another cargo, and departed, bound for Calabar. Jack was glad that the EITC dockworkers had wasted no time loading his new cargo. He’d checked the days their voyage had taken, and realized he was actually running close to the record for sailing the Triangle. His Wench was indeed fast!

Then they were on the move again, sailing south, past France, past Spain, past Portugal. They took on fresh water in Gibraltar, and then they were hastening south, down the coast of Africa, curving around the bulge, then turning almost due east.

They reached Calabar on a Thursday, not long before the rainy season was due to begin, and tied up at the EITC dock. Jack checked the date, and sighed. Missed equaling the record by two bloody days! If we hadn’t diverted to St. Jago, we’d likely have beaten it. Still, not too shabby for a first voyage as a new captain. Not too shabby at all.…

Jack had scarcely checked the moorings on the Wench before crowds were gathering on the dock. Voices were calling out to the ship, shouting that he’d almost beaten the Triangle record. Hearing them, Jack went to the railing, and waved modestly. The dockworkers cheered.

After they dropped the gangplank, a short, ginger-haired man came scurrying up, introducing himself as Eugene Parker, the new EITC portmaster. Portmaster Parker told Jack that his predecessor, Benjamin Blount, had fled Calabar in the middle of the night after a captain had discovered that the provisions he’d sent had been infested and the meat rotten. Hearing this, Jack shook his head in wonder and made appropriately shocked comments.

He was still standing on the weather deck, talking to the portmaster, when a slightly built, dark-haired man called out from the bottom of the gangplank, “Permission to come aboard, Captain Sparrow?”

Jack looked down at the man, and nodded. “Who’s the Scotsman?” he asked the portmaster.

Mr. Parker’s broad, good-humored countenance tightened, but he said, evenly, “That’s Mr. Beckett’s assistant, Ian Mercer.”

By that time, the new arrival had joined them. Jack nodded cordially to him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mercer.”

Mercer gave him a curt nod back. “Good afternoon, Captain Sparrow.”

Jack noticed Mercer didn’t extend his hand. Looking into the man’s eyes, Jack was just as glad. Mercer’s eyes were flat and cold…the eyes of a man who could kill without a thought, without even a reason, and never think twice about it. Jack had met a few pirates who were killers; most were madmen, dangerous to their crews, and to everyone they encountered. But even worse than the madmen, Jack had found, were the killers who had eyes like Mercer.

And this man works for Mr. Beckett? he thought, dismayed, but careful not to let it show. Why would he need a man like this working for him? What’s Beckett up to, that he has a killer as his assistant?

Jack cleared his throat. “So how is Mr. Beckett keeping, Mr. Mercer? Well, I hope?”

“He’s fine, Captain Sparrow,” Mercer said, shortly, obviously not interested in exchanging pleasantries. “Mr. Beckett sent me down here to ask you to come to his office right away. There’s someone he wants you to meet.”