All things considered, it was a beautiful day to put into port. The sun shone in the bright blue sky and with the prospect of hocking their wares to the wealthy men living high on the hill on Isle de Fuego, the crew of the Black Pearl was in considerably higher spirits. Even Gibbs did not have a cautionary word for his captain. They stood together on the quarterdeck of the Pearl watching the men and women work below. So easy was the day that when Marty's sharp cry from above shattered the peace, Jack Sparrow was taken by surprise.

"A ship," shouted the short man, "t'port!"

Sparrow strode forward. Spyglass to eye he scanned the sea, expecting to see the Swan approaching. However, instead of the bonny bird there loomed on the horizon a bulky boat. Jack handed off the telescope to Gibbs and made quickly for his office. He dumped a dissatisfied Ash from her slumber spot, dragged out the shipping route charts for this part of the world, spread them out on his desk, and after a quick look-see found no expected courses charted.

Anamaria burst through the door, her face paler than Jack Sparrow ever liked to see it. She grabbed him by the shirt collar, dragged him to the window, and shoved the spyglass he'd only just held into his hand. "Look!"

Feeling that something was terribly wrong, Jack did not see fit to argue the point that he gave the orders on his ship. He fiddled with the glass and glared out over the sparkling water at the approaching vessel. She'd gained too fast for his liking. Surely, that meant she was… he squinted hard at the flags she flew and muttered an oath at the ensign.

"Aye it's the Spanish, Sparrow—and ya know well how they like ya."

Jack collapsed the spyglass and pushed past Anamaria, and a disheveled Isaac Faust, to take the helm. As Fuego was a small settlement, and not one of particular note, he hadn't counted on encountering the official presence of King Ferdinand's men. The prospect was not one he wished to consider either. Norrington and his men might have eventually acclimated to Jack's presence, but the grudges held by Spaniards were immortal.

"Cap'n," said Gibbs, "she's—"

"Aye, yes, I know," growled Jack, steering off course just a bit, "Spanish!"

"No, not just Spanish," said Gibbs, "she's the Sangria!"

Sparrow swore and through his spyglass he saw, indeed, the black flag being hoisted high above the ensign. It bore the unmistakable bloody heart of Captain Ricardo Santos. How Jack hadn't recognized the bloody boat in which he'd been held captive and subsequently escaped from several times, he did not know.

"Santos, again!" Jack closed his eyes, suddenly tired. "Will he never be satisfied?"

"S'pose not, sir."

"Ready yourselves, gentlemen," Sparrow shouted to his crew. "We're being pursued by our old friend, Ricardo Santos!"

A cry of dismay went up amongst the crew, and Jack could hardly blame them. Santos' men were not cruel or bloodthirsty. Their idea of a fight well fought was a formal challenge in which the rules of engagement were followed and fully enforced. As privateers, this mode of mannerly murder suited them.

"Poor excuse for pirates!"

Jack had no idea who had voiced the protest, but he agreed nonetheless. He was of no mood for Santos' intolerable brand of torture. Following all the rules was boring.

"No worries! We'll outrun them!" Sparrow turned to Gibbs. "Run out the sweeps!"

"Aye, Jack. That just might do it."

As the Black Pearl leapt into action, Jack begged her to break through the waves with haste. A few moments later, after Gibbs had reported back to his side, it seemed she had acquiesced to his request. He patted the helm approvingly.

"Jack!"

Gibbs' shocked whisper spun him on the spot. Jack gaped out at the galleon of his latest sworn enemy and a furious cry ripped from his throat. He stomped to the railing to glare at the Sangria—Santos had equipped her with sweeps since they'd last met.

"Of all the irksome—" his scowl simpered into a smirk as he realized he had yet to pull out all the stops. "Full sail! I want every last piece of canvas a-flying!"

One of Jack's favorite things about his ship was her rigging. The Black Pearl carried more sail than most ships could claim, and when all her wings were spread she soared fast over the sea. Santos would not, could not, hope to compare.

Heavy cords spooled around the imprisoned sails uncoiled. Groups of men hoisted the canvas until each piece was swollen with the wind. The Black Pearl groaned and lashed forward a bit faster, cutting a furious fan of water behind her.

"Good girl," Jack lauded, petting her helm appreciatively.

But the crew was not as satisfied. Cries of dismay arrested Sparrow, and pointing fingers spun him on his heel. Following not so far behind was the overly-decorated Sangria. Santos' ship was at full sail and with more canvas than Jack Sparrow had ever seen on any ship—his fair Pearl included.

"Not one to be outdone is he," Jack snarled. "Even the sails have sails!"

"Aye sir," said Gibbs, "it appears they do."

"Sparrow!" Anamaria's call snapped the captain to attention and he glowered at her, wondering what demand she was about to make. She glowered back. "Ya can't let us to his folly for the mistake o'yer own! Once and for all, Jack, just—apologize!"

This demand, however, was completely out of line. Fury must have shown on Jack's face, for as he strode to Anamaria she quickly backed down the stairs one by one until the two of them stood toe to toe on the main deck. If any of his men had suggested he degrade himself so, they'd be begging his mercy. But Anamaria was a woman and Jack had trouble enough with them to begin with. It was his opinion that punishment of one led only to punishment of one's self—that no woman ever really learned her lesson, and that usually she turned right around to make you learn one yourself. It was this that kept Jack from assigning lashes to her hide, and this that bade him speak without shouting.

"No." And with one last glare he stomped back up the stairs to take the helm and shrugged helplessly for Gibbs' benefit. "I'm all out of ideas, mate."

"Tie 'er to the mast and let us whip 'er hide, Cap'n!"

Jack started and turned around to stare at Gibbs. The man's hair was wild and he stared madly at Anamaria who was lounging rebellious against the main mast. A ruthless light lit Gibbs' eyes and a strange grin twisted his face. Disturbed and not sure how else to rouse the man from his savage stupor, Jack took the flask from Gibbs' pocket and splashed its contents upon his face.

"Oh—er, what were I sayin, Jack?"

"Nothing important, as usual," Jack said, ignoring the other man's scowl. "Now what to do about Santos?"

"Well—no offense, sir, but have you wondered why it is Santos always spares your life?" Jack frowned, but Gibbs plowed on unheeded. "You been at the man's mercy more times'n I can count, Jack. Why's he let ye live, reckon?"

"Because enduring his nonsense for the rest of my life is a fate far worse than death!"

"Enduring nonsense," Gibbs snorted. "I can relate to that," he snickered. At Jack's warning look, he sobered up. "Well, sir," he said haltingly, "don't ye think—well maybe ye ought to… apologize?"

There it was again, that unfathomable word. Apologize! Captain Jack Sparrow, scourge of the seven seas(and possibly the other ones undiscovered) and captain of the last real pirate threat in the Caribbean, did not Apologize to anyone. Certainly he had given his "apologies" several times in the past, and sure he had made certain to act as contrite as was possible under whatever dire situation he'd found himself in, but in general and under ordinary circumstances Jack Sparrow was most certainly not, in any sense of the word, sorry.

"If anyone is to say their sorries," he told Gibbs with some dignity, "it should be Santos! Roth!" All was chaos below. The young man who'd been struggling through the melee of men stopped suddenly in his tracks. He whipped around and wild eyes met Jack's. "I'll need those whistlers!"

If Roth was surprised he didn't show it. He faltered a step but then forced his way back through the crowd, and Jack watched as he disappeared below deck.

"Whistlers, cap'n?"

Jack smiled at Gibbs but said nothing. He glanced out over the water at the ship now fast approaching. It was headed right for them, and if the Black Pearl did not move faster or change course… but if she changed course the Sangria would put her in irons, the wind stolen from her sails leaving her locked in place for Santos to catch up… if she changed cour—

"Ship sta'bud!"

Marty's cry turned Captain Jack Sparrow around. He strode to the railing, prepared to snap out his spyglass if need be, but found abruptly that it was not necessary. There was no ship behind… Muttering oaths, he leaned forward and squinted along the side of his ship and beyond, far beyond, to the pretty little speck sitting in the sea as if she were sunning her gleaming white feathers.

"Bootstrap," he growled, furious at having been outrun and knowing full well that neither Will Turner nor Sam Samson would have been able to find a faster way to where they were going. Jack stormed to the top of the companionway. "It's the Swan!" He saw Roth approaching and hurried down to meet him and the two other crewmembers that had carried boxes up from the stores. "Let's see what we have here, then, shall we? Anamaria!" He dragged her by the arm from the mast and pushed her at the boxes. "Arrange twelve men into four teams, three men to a team, two to set up and one to light the fuse!"

"Light the fuse?"

He snarled, ripped open a box, and thrust a long-sticked firework at her. "Aye, the fuse!"

Anamaria looked as though she wished to protest but she turned quickly on her heel and strode out into the mess of men to call them to her. "Lemmy, Tearlach—ya bring yer mates, and I want ya too Cotton…"

"Roth," said Jack.

"Yes sir?"

"Make sure the men hit their mark."

"But Capt'n," said Roth, taking his arm to stop his going, "what is the mark?"

At that question, Jack Sparrow grinned.

Aboard the Swan, all was peaceful. Anyone who might find themselves on the ship would be surprised to know that not so far in the distant past the Swan had been a battlefield. On waking, Will Turner had not taken well at all to having been hoodwinked by the bags of bones he called "traitors". He had, together with a finally freed Samson, tied the three Intuits to the mast behind the helm. Young Jack Turner had not been pleased with this decision, and had called his father a number of names that had wrinkled even Bootstrap Bill's brow. Will Turner had of course then not been happy with his son, and he had sent him below to peel potatoes as his punishment. Elizabeth Turner had screeched, at her husband, words Bootstrap had never heard before but committed to memory in the case he might ever need them when writing to his most undesirable enemy. Samson, for his part, had revealed to Will Turner, at the most inopportune of moments, just why the Intuits had done what they did.

"You," Will had snarled, leaping up the steps to stand toe-to-toe with his father, "what are you doing sailing my ship, pirate?"

William had smiled at the salutation that he supposed was used to insult him, and reached out to ruffle his son's curls so like his own. "Someone had to do it, son." He puffed on his pipe and let the smoke curl in the air between them. "You were a-resting, and Sam was—all tied up."

Will had scowled at that, and had insisted on being a prat until Elizabeth had not been able to take it anymore, had demanded he join his son in the galley, and had stalked herself over to glare menacingly at Bootstrap Bill Turner. For his part, he had done his best to look suitably chagrined. He had wondered if it worked when she had informed him quite well it hadn't.

"Wipe that look off your face," she snapped. A bit of wind tossed her hair, and William saw in her a fiercer being than his son would ever be. "He's hurt, you know, and it is my opinion that to be so he has every right. I don't know what it is for him but I do know what it is to have a father and it is not far from my imagination to think what misery it would be not to have had one."

"Your father the doting sort, then?" Elizabeth had only inclined her head in answer, and William had snorted. "Well, Lizbeth Turner, fact o' the matter is that some fathers are better not havin' than havin' at all."

Elizabeth had looked out over the ocean and when she had spoken again it was not about Will Turner at all. "Where are we?"

William had then explained the situation, feeling a rush of triumph that this fiery woman breathed oaths at Sparrow for having set them up so. He had thought with some amount of joy that if Sparrow didn't get a licking from Isobel, he certainly would get a lashing from Elizabeth. And he, William, would not have to lift a finger.

Samson had taken it upon himself to spend the remainder of their voyage fishing, since it seemed he refused to have anything to do with William unless it involved sniping and laying guilt upon him. At some point, he had spat at the feet of the snarling Intuits(whom he had goaded for not being able to foresee their interment at the mast) and disappeared below.

William had been about to lash the wheel to the mast behind him and sit down for a bit when he heard the unmistakable sound of—

"Streamers!"

Elizabeth had run up the stairs and grabbed hold of William's shoulder, forcing him around. He bristled at her, least not for the blurry reminder that his eyesight was not what it used to be. What he saw out over the distance he knew was the Black Pearl by the shape and size of her, but he couldn't fathom why Sparrow would be firing off an assortment of Chinese party favors.

"What the devil," he murmured, snatching the spyglass Elizabeth had only just taken out and ignoring the subsequent look of reproach she sent his way. He extended the scope and squinted hard through it. Sparrow, steering his beauty by her helm and shouting orders to the men below, came into focus. William traced the stairs down to the main deck of the Pearl and saw the groups of men setting off fireworks. He shrugged, collapsed the glass, and quirked a brow at his son's wife. "Think he's inviting us to a party?"

"A signal, then?"

William shrugged. "Could be he's decided to apologize for his behavior last eve."

"The day that Jack Sparrow gives apology for his behavior," said Elizabeth tartly, "is the day that pigs sprout wings and fly!" She huffed and glared out at the Black Pearl. "But let's drop canvas—let him catch up."

"Why would we want to do that?"

"Because," she said through gritted teeth, "I would like a dance with Captain Sparrow." As she stormed down the steps, he heard her mutter, "Maybe if I step on his toes enough, he'll pray to see flying swine inhabit the earth!"

Sighing, William did as he'd meant and secured the helm. In Elizabeth's wake his steps were heavy. He meant to aid her in lowering the anchor, but he made it to deck as Samson's head popped up into view from below and stopped to stare down at him. Green eyes squinted up at him from under the brim of a raggedy hat.

"Wot's that racket?"

"Sparrow's upset to be taking up tail."

"So y'do know your way round here, do ya?" Samson snorted. "Thought y'were full o'it when y'insisted on a swifter route."

"Aye, ye saw fit to tell me that last eve!" Bootstrap glared down at the man's head, resisting the strong urge to kick it. "Now is there anything else ye might like to say to me, Samuel Samson?"

"Aye, there might be."

"Oh really," grit Bill, "and what would that be?"

"Thank ye naet f'sendin' word o' yer bein' amongst th'livin', ye dirty rotten cheat!"

"I could'n send words you bloody idiot! If I'd ha'sent word d'ye think my son would still be 'amongst the livin'?" He advanced on Sam, his heel hitting the deck hard. Something bade him stop, however, and he raked a hand over his face, spitting an oath. "He'd not be on this ship, I'm certain. Barbossa was many things but never an idiot and always sniffing out what he needed to find with that overly large nose of his! He'd have found Will, and he'd have killed him to lift that curse. He tried, or hasn't anyone told you that story?"

Samson looked affronted, but his sudden lurching upward threw William off balance and the two of them shuffled on deck to make room for the man who'd forced the great Scot out of his way. An errant curl flew out in the wind as Will Turner stared at his father. William reached out to snatch it but Will turned away and hurried to help his exasperated wife who'd been shouting for assistance as William and Samson had argued. They exchanged looks of shame and hurried after Will.

"Aye ye'd naet want to do that all by yer onesies, Missus Turner."

"No," she said to Samson, "I wouldn't."

Will spared his father a look over his shoulder before turning to his wife. "Elizabeth, what's happening?" He stared hard across the water at Sparrow's ship. His brow wrinkled with worry. "Is Jack in trouble?"

Elizabeth laughed. She struggled to help the men drop anchor, then as the ship lurched with their stopping, she straightened and dusted off her dainty hands. "He will be."

Will frowned and looked back out over the sea at the Pearl. A screaming sparkler streamed aft from her deck. "Fireworks?"

"And this?" El Capitan Ricardo Santos squinted out at the ship of Jack Sparrow, and he followed the trail of light until it popped right through one of his bright red sails, leaving a blackened hole. "Dios mi, what is this!"

"Capitan—!"

Santos swung around, his face reddening to match the wounded sail. "Do you not see what I see, Lopes?"

"But el capitan, the Sparrow—"

But another scream signaled a new trail of fire and both Lopes and his captain watched as it popped through and soon after deflated a proud, Spanish sail.

"Es muerte," Santos shouted, "if Capitan Jack does not stop punching holes in my sails!"

Said pirate captain was nearly upon the Swan when it gave a lurch. A cry escaped him; he was dismayed that neither Bootstrap nor Samson had had the forethought to first let down her sails. Without salt, those sailors—!

He had no choice, then, did he? Change course, and the Pearl would be locked in irons—keep going and they'd splinter the Swan—unless…

"Gibbs!"

"Aye, sir?"

"Remember the Interceptor?"

Gibbs grimaced. "How could I forget?"

"I believe you called Miss Swann 'daft like Jack', did you not?"

"Well," fidgeted Gibbs, "ye see, sir, it were like thi—"

"Did you or did you not!"

"Aye, Cap'n it seems I did."

"Good. Then it won't surprise you that I'm about to pull the same hokey-pokey with the Pearl. Drop the starboard anchor!" When Anamaria voiced protest, he glared hotly down at her. "Drop it, drop it now!"

"Cap'n," began Gibbs, "you'll have to—"

"Let go the helm, I know," Jack murmured. And when the anchor jerked the Pearl, he did. "Hold tight!"

But the Black Pearl was not the Interceptor. The Black Pearl was bigger, and she was bolder, and she bucked a bit more than Jack Sparrow liked. He stumbled into Gibbs and the two of them toppled to the deck.

From below came shouts and screams from the crew. Jack cringed on hearing Alice Witter's shriek and the resounding slam of his cabin door as the Pearl spun on the water. Heels pounded up the steps and the pirate captain cussed when they faltered. A slim hand clasped his ankle and he scowled down his leg past the ankle the woman had grabbed onto. Ice cold fury showed on her face.

"Stupid pirate," she shrilled, "your tricks are for the birds!"

"Aye m'lady," Jack growled, "they're for a Swan this time!"

"Do you desire to sink your own ship!"

"What!" Jack looked back over his shoulder. The Black Pearl's nose dipped, the sprit spraying sea around his frontmost men, and her stern swung up and wide. "Move!"

He kicked Alice from his person, scrambled up from Gibbs, and leapt over the furious woman to dart down the steps. Most of the crew were too concerned with clinging to the solid parts of the ship, but some men scurried out from their hiding places. They hurried to his side.

"We are going to swing the boom—"

"Why," demanded Anamaria, "why would we do that!"

"Because," Jack shouted, "one swing, two swing, and she'll rest on the blue thing!" He grabbed hold of the boom and glared down it at the men, and Anamaria, who were yet standing and not obeying his orders. "We have to even her out! Take hold the boom, now!" When they had, he took a deep breath and shouted the next order, hoping it would work the way he dared to think it would. "Pull to port!"

Slowly they moved backwards as one, dragging the heavy limb of the Pearl with them. At first it was easy. The boom moved without resistance. But as they approached the other side of the ship, it grew heavy with the wind.

"Do not let go!"

Jack was glad to hear Isaac Faust's shout, even if it had been in his ear. He looked aside and found the young man's blue eyes intent on their purpose. Supposing he should be doing the same, he looked to the main sail, which was now rippling with the wind they had previously lost.

"Hold tight!"

The maneuver had the desired effect; the wind cut short the Pearl's swing. The ship tipped starboard, then port, and her nose lifted high in the air. When the sea came to rest beneath her, bobbing her to and fro, he took a deep, calming breath and looked out at Santos' approaching ship.

The Sangria was forced to rock aside, and Jack remembered none too fondly the sway of his own ship when he'd been locked in her brig. His eyes narrowed on Santos' ship, and he noted with some amount of satisfaction that the Spaniard crew was furiously trying to hoist more sails on the mast to make up for those that the whistlers had pierced.

"Right," Jack said to his becalmed men, "ease the boom aside and ready your arms—" he swung around to address the rest of the men, who were no longer cowering but cheering the righting of their ship, "maim any man who dares attempt to board our Pearl!"

"Not out for blood?"

Jack turned aside and saw that Isaac had followed him in his haste to get back to the helm. The pirate's lips thinned at the question, but he refused to answer it and instead glanced aside at Alice and Gibbs who had since recovered from the whole ship-swinging incident. The man was gazing worriedly out over the men and the woman was fussing with her mussed clothes. "For heaven's sake, woman, how will you fight in that contemptuous contraption you call a dr—"

The sharp tip of a sword pressed at his throat and frosty eyes stared down its long length into his. "Much of your nonsense I tolerate, Jack, but do not at this moment presume to give me fashion advice!" With that, she whipped the sword away and slid it neatly away—right into the folds of fabric at the top of her gown's skirt. "Really," she cooed, rubbing with gentle fingers at the mark she'd made on his skin, "when have I ever been anything but prepared?"

But Jack hadn't the chance to answer; a barrage of heavy thunks announced the grappling irons of the men trying to board the Black Pearl. He hissed, thinking of their sharp claws digging into his ship, and stormed down the stairs to survey the damage himself. His men were at his heels and pushed past him, apparently ready to heed his earlier orders—as one leering interloper cleared the railing, the two redheaded Irishmen leapt forward to deal with him. The smug Spaniard knocked the swords right out of their hands. His mouth opened wide to accommodate a loud laugh, but it died on his lips as two identical fists flew at its source.

"Dios no," he breathed, and was gone a moment later, cries of dismay and a resounding splash a second later informing the Irishmen of their success. They nodded at each other just as the singular Spaniard's many mates made their appearance. Jack fell back as his men rushed forward. He glared hotly into the action for a moment, wanting nothing more than to punish these fellows for having harmed the Pearl with their barbaric hooks, but a blood-curdling scream stopped him in his tracks.

As soon as the Black Pearl had swung aside to reveal the real target of Sparrow's party favors, those aboard the Swan had gone into a frenzy. William had groaned, recognizing Ricardo's ship, and strode away cursing the winds. Will had tore a path to the small armory and Samson had, on Elizabeth's orders, hurried to untie the three Intuits who might be of use afterall.

As William passed the passage to the underbelly of the Swan, Jack Turner came flying up on deck. A half peeled potato in his hand, he gawked out at the two ships—the closer with black sails and the farther decked in red. He darted after his grandfather, chucking the potato overboard.

"It's not as bad as it looks," William told him, knowing his grandson would start firing off questions. "Trust me."

"But, Bootstrap sir—"

"And what happened to Grandpop, hmm?"

Jack ducked his head, abashed. "Da said we were to call you Bootstrap and nothing else because… because you're nothing else but a pirate."

William rolled his eyes and came to a stop before the mast. "Of course, I'd forgot. My own son has got it out for me, hasn't he?" He looked down at his grandson, who was yet ashamed, and his heart softened—if only a little. "Good thing you listen to your Da though. Fathers do know best."

A shriek startled them to their senses, and William saw a slip of chestnut streak by. He and his grandson watched as Lucy, who'd before been too shy to come on deck, saw the Black Pearl so closeby. She screamed something that sounded suspiciously like 'Uncle Jack' and ran toward the railing.

"Oh no," Jack Turner breathed.

A surge of water rocked the Swan, tipping her nearly on her side. William fell, hard to the deck and closed his mouth as salty water filled it. The water washed over him. He heard a muffled scream and then quick as the water had swelled beneath the Swan did it sweep quickly out from under her, tipping her the other way.

"No—Lucy—Jack!"

That scream, William heard. He leapt to his feet, spitting the water from his mouth, and saw with wide eyes that his son's daughter had disappeared from the spot she'd last been standing. He watched, gobsmacked, as his grandson leapt thoughtlessly over the railing into what was surely rough water.

"Jack!"

"Fight back the dogs," Jack screamed at Gibbs, "don't let them slobber all over my ship!"

A thrill of fear shot through him. He had seen the wave of water roll toward the Turners' ship, and a second later he saw Little Lucy screaming his name on deck. His heart was in his throat as she reached the railing just at the moment that the water lifted the Swan. He leapt over the stair rail to the main deck, ignoring the sharp pain in his knee, and grabbed hold of a loose cord. He hopped onto the rail of his own ship but was stalled by yet another hand around his ankle.

"Where ya going, ya fool!"

"I made a promise," he shouted at Anamaria. "I aim to keep it!"

When the Swan tipped right, and the water sloshed over her decks, Jack glared at the spot where Lucy clung to the rail. Just as she was forced overboard, he leapt, twisting, over the edge. Soaring sideways through the air between the two ships, he saw Lucy's tumbling form fast approaching and grabbed for her. His arm snatched her to him, and relief washed over him that she hadn't been lost to the sea she so feared.

"S'alright little love," he managed though his already tender ribs were screaming at him, "Uncle Jack's got ye. I promised, 'member that?"

But Lucy's answer was cut short by a sound that Jack Sparrow hadn't anticipated—Elizabeth screaming her son's name. His heart sank. He whipped his head around in time to see the boy dive straight into the choppy water.

"Oh no!"

"Don't worry," he told Little Lucy, "Uncle Jack will—"

But he saw, then, that someone else had been faster. At first, he thought it was the boy's father that had plummeted after him—but when his sharp glance upwards found Will Turner struggling to hold a terrified Elizabeth back, he realized that it had been Bootstrap Bill who had gone after Jack. Irritation pricked at him, and he would've gone after the both of them if he hadn't Little Lucy clutched snugly to his chest. Instead, he used all of his weight to push the two of them toward the Swan. After a few attempts they finally made it, Jack Sparrow's boot catching the wooden rung of the ladder built up the side of the hull.

"Alright now," he wheezed at the girl quaking between he and the hull, "just one foot above the other, all the way to the top, Lucy. That's it," he encouraged, following after to keep her steady. "Very good, now we're getting there, see?"

As soon as she'd made it to the railing, he heard Elizabeth's shout and was never happier to see her tear-stained face than he was at the moment that she pulled her daughter over to the safety of the steady deck of the ship. Will Turner's arms went around the two of them, and in the wake of their happy reunion, Jack let go of the rope he'd swung over on and glared down at the water where Bill and his grandson had yet to surface.

Without another thought, he dove. Like a knife he cut the water. Salt stung his eyes and he blinked hard so that he could see. On noting nothing, he rolled over and squinted hard into the distance. A flash of silver caught his eye. He stared hard at it until he realized it was Bootstrap's dagger come loose in the upset water. Closeby were two rolling figures caught in an unforgiving current. Jack Sparrow, holding his breath, swam determinedly in their direction.

Lucky he was that the water calmed as he got closer. Groaning inwardly, he hooked one arm around Bill and with the other grabbed Jack's hand. With the last of his strength he pushed up and up and up—until his head broke the surface of the water and he spluttered at the surface. Bill, who'd by then recovered, shook free of him and swam around to drag his grandson to the surface. Sparrow frowned at him, but was glad to see that Jack had done well in holding his breath—water trickled out of his nose as he thrashed both men that had hold of him.

"Lucy, where's Lucy, I didn't get her—"

"She's safe," Jack Sparrow told the boy, "aboard the Swan."

"And that's where we should be," Bootstrap groused. "Your mother's fit to be tied!"

"But—"

Jack Turner's response was drowned out by the clang of many blades clashing above. All three turned their heads up at the sound, and Jack Sparrow groaned. From the sound of it, all the work he'd done to avoid a confrontation with Ricardo Santos had not worked out in his favor. He shared a look with Bootstrap, whose face was strangely stony, and then tiredly swam toward his own ship as the two behind him made for theirs.

Catching the line he'd dropped, Jack Sparrow struggled to pull himself up it, hearing all the while the skirmish above him. Spanish and English words parried back and forth, and Jack rolled his eyes, knowing well that Santos' men were demanding that his crew fight fair and crying out in dismay that the pirates were ignoring the rules of engagement. The clash and clang grew louder with every inch up. There was, however, a brief break in the noise as he tumbled headfirst over the rail, water seeping from his sodden clothes all around him in a great puddle. To his great annoyance, he heard the unmistakable sound of Santos' heels making way for him.

"What is this," the amused voice demanded, "has God brought to me a pirate—or a fish?"

"But el Capitan," protested another too-amused voice, "it looks as though we have been blessed with a great sea rat!"

Loud laughter resounded over the angry shouts of Jack's crew. He scowled and drew himself up to his knees to glare up at Santos. He hadn't the strength to stand, or the wind to—his chest was on fire.

"You are right Lopes," said Santos, whose mustache curled up with a gleeful smile, "he does have more the look of a rat than a fish. A rat who tried to scurry away in fear and cowardice of what we might do to him."

"What," Jack asked, having long ago grown weary of Santos' brand of torture, "talk endlessly about how weak, stupid, and honourless I am? You're right. Shiver me timbers and all that. There's no horror greater than spending more than a moment's time in your mouth's company, Ricardo Santos."

"Ah but it speaks!" Santos snorted and leaned down to smile gloatingly into Jack's face. "You should be lucky to spend even a slip of sand in my company, Jack Sparrow. You are lucky I do not do away with you as you did away with my sister's innocence."

"Innocence!" After all their discussions, still the Spaniard could not be made to understand that his sister had not been the angel he imagined. "I tell you, your sister had none!"

A gasp rippled through the Spaniards of the crowd, the crew of the Pearl groaned as they knew what was to come: Santos and Sparrow had argued the point countless times. Each had been as infuriatingly endless as the last.

"Puerco," growled Santos, "if my sister had not innocence, why would she take the vow!"

"To pad her pockets with alms, I expect."

"Ismé is a holy woman of virtue!"

"You can put a thief in a nunnery but you can't make her come out a nun!"

A hoarse, familiar laugh behind Jack drew the attention of the crowd. Jack glanced over his shoulder, surprised to see the man standing there. Even Santos took his eyes of his prey to look at Bootstrap Bill. Strangely, his face blanched and his mustache quivered with his fearful lip.

"Willemo!" He gave a strained laugh and toyed nervously with the black curls upon his shoulders. "Ah, what brings you to our—discussion?"

"Was I not invited?" Bootstrap stepped in front of Jack, forcing Ricardo back a step or two, and placed his hands on his hips. "Hmm?"

Ricardo paled further, and peered over his shoulder worriedly as if expecting to see someone else behind him. He smiled sweetly at Bootstrap, and clasped his hands nervously before him. "Sí, sí—yes of course you are, Willemo. Forgive me my rudeness, my brother."

Jack had, during this odd exchange, climbed to his feet. He swayed precariously for a moment, trying to decide what his next move ought to be. His curiosity got the better of him and he stayed right where he was, looking between the man standing in front of him and the chagrined Spaniard beyond.

Bootstrap winked at Santos. "Don't worry," he said, "Isobel shant hear of it, Cardo—no le diré." Jack saw a small smile tease the corner of his mouth before he turned to lay his arm across Santos' shoulders, steering him away from Jack. "But I must tell you, hermano al hermano—her sister was not the saint you have painted her..."

Ricardo's beady black eyes darted about. His own men were leaning closer, curious to hear what Bootstrap was saying to their captain. Jack's crew was less curious than hostile, having been egregiously aggravated by the Spaniard's tenacious pursuit of their ship, and leered tauntingly at him—they knew well his pride and knew better that it depended largely on the angelic view he had of his sister. Anamaria was the most vocal; she snorted and made a comment that sounded suspiciously like "kicked the habit and made like a rabbit".

"Ah," protested Santos hurriedly, "Willemo—"

"Yes, Cardo?"

"Pienso que," said Santos, gaze darting from his own crew to an innocent Bootstrap Bill Turner, "when you said this was an, ah, discusión hermano al hermano—you were, ah—" Ricardo grimaced, gnashing his teeth over what he must say, "correcto. What you have to say should be para nuestros oídos solamente, comprendes?"

"Ahh," breathed Bootstrap, nodding sagely, "of course. Why don't we just go on over to my ship then, hmm?"

"Your ship?" Jack Sparrow, who had by this time caught up with and sandwiched himself between the two men, glared first at a narrow-eyed Bootstrap and then at a scowling Santos. Much as he wanted to contest the ownership of the fine vessel bobbing beside the Pearl, he wanted Santos as far from his person as possible. "Yes, a fine suggestion," he said, shooing the two of them in that direction, "get off my ship." When the two of them had cleared the rail, he began shooing the Spaniards back the other way, towards their ship. "Go on, get off my ship, thanks for stopping, nice of you to drop by, yes, sí, get on now, won't you?"

One of them wavered, and Jack guessed by the overlarge plume stuck on his hat that this was Lopes. The man flinched backward at his shooing, but stood resolute on reaching the rail. He frowned heavily at Jack's shooing hands. "Pero—el capitán did not give us this order, Jack Sparrow."

Jack rolled his eyes and shooed at him again, as he would a stubborn pigeon.

"I will not go." He leaned over the rail and shouted at his company. "No abandonen la nave. ¡Vuelto a la Pearl!"

"N—no," Jack shouted at them, "no vuelto!"

Lopes was as annoyed that his crew had listened to Sparrow as Jack was delighted. He scowled. "¡Vuelto!"

On seeing the Spaniards make to follow Lopes' order, Jack stamped his foot. "No vuelto!"

This disagreement was, from high on the quarterdeck, an amusing one to behold. Isaac Faust chuckled heartily at the confusion of the Spaniards swinging in limbo to and from the Pearl. Every time they obeyed their comrade, Alice Witter cackled delightedly at Jack Sparrow's growing dismay.

From where Anamaria stood, however, the whole debacle was more than irritating. Having the Spaniards off their ship meant they could pick up tack. Determined to do just that, she stalked forward. It was a stroke of luck that the bright plumage of the Spaniard's hat chose the moment of her approach to squawk. With a feral grin, she knocked Jack Sparrow out of the way, pulled her pistol from her hip, and aimed at the frazzled feathers.

"Get off the ship," she spat at the sputtering Spaniard, "or the bird gets it!"

Not far away, Cotton blanched. He reached over and covered his own parrot's eyes with a shaking index finger. It gave an offended squawk and lit from Cotton's shoulder as its feathered friend fluttered from its own perch. The pirates and privateers watched helplessly as the two birds collided in the air and scratched themselves silly on the deck of the Pearl at their feet.

"Oh good," said Jack Sparrow glumly, "they're having a chick fight." He looked earnestly at Cotton and patted the disconcerted man comfortingly on the shoulder. "This could last all day."

"…so ye see, Cardo," said Bootstrap, "promises of treasure in the afterlife pads the pockets with penance at present."

For an expanse of time that he could have sworn was longer than it took a giant squid to ruin what could have otherwise been a good thing, he had been explaining to Isobel's brother the story of their seedy sister, the Nun. It was a long and laborious task, for any sort of tale in which Jack Sparrow figured was too complicated to comprehend without much exposition and attention to detail. It also did not help matters that at every interval possible, Santos gasped, sighed, and generally made every audible reaction possible in order to convey his shock at the apparent dishonor of his once saintly sister.

Now the sun was sinking in the sky and the edges of darkness were setting in. It had felt like an eternity, rehashing the sordid tale of his and Jack's escapades with Ismé, and Bootstrap was more than ready to go home to the other, if scarier, sister. Even if his most recent escapade with Jack had ended him up empty handed…

"A lesson your sister well-learned."

"Aiyeee," breathed Ricardo Santos. His mustache fluttered in the wake of his breath. "So much for the power of prayer, hmm?"

"Mmhmm."

"Perdón, mi hermano, but Willemo, whatever is on your mind?" Santos leaned forward, peering quizzically into Bootstrap's rapidly blinking eyes. He whipped the hat off his head and held it resolutely to his heart, unaware as Bootstrap was of the heavy echo of slow, measured steps in their direction. "It occurs to me you are yet in the company of rats," he said. "Maybe you wish for a place on my ship, my Sangria?"

But when William's eyes focused it was on a spot above his head. Santos' great mustache drooped as he frowned. He turned around and lifted one thick brow at the man standing behind him. Will Turner did his best to ignore him, but William knew by the dark look in his eye and the incline of his chin that Will was very interested in his answer to the privateer's suggestion. He therefore refused to respond—willing his son to speak first. It took awhile. Santos was looking hard at the both of them in turn, Will was regarding him with unguarded suspicion, and William was still waiting patiently when finally Will did something that he had not been at all prepared for: he stuck out his hand (stiffly, in all fairness).

William regarded it, noting the callous skin that made it strong, then followed his son's arm up to his face.

"Thank you," he said (not stiffly, but softly), "for saving my son."

Far behind Will, against the blazing sky, was the silhouette of his wife. Elizabeth, William thought, made a fine cameo—and was as stern a taskmaster as Isobel, from the look of it. He had no doubt his son's dove had insisted that Will offer the proverbial olive branch. Well that was fine and dandy—as long as the boy was listening now…

The outline of Elizabeth vanished as William met his son's gaze. It was fierce and fearful at the same time, as if he were daring his father to shake his hand and wondering if he would refuse to do so. A fleeting twitch of his features betrayed his surprise as William clasped the offered hand in his.

"Most welcome," he said, though he did not relinquish the hold on his son's hand until the man's eyes met his with question. He looked into them, trying somehow, someway to see if what he would say would finally make sense to Will. "It would be a father's worst nightmare to see his son gone from the world before he himself took his exit."

Whatever iron Will had steeled himself with melted then, his face at long last softening as he looked down on his father. It was back in an instant though, that iron, and he nodded tersely before letting go William's hand. With one last curious glance at Ricardo Santos, he turned and walked aside to look out over the gleaming sea. William watched him for a long moment before turning back to Isobel's brother.

"Don't think I'll be needing that place on your ship, Cardo."

"Ahhh." Recognition finally dawned on Santos, the intricacies of life taking him as long to understand as it took to tell a tale about Jack Sparrow. "Well it is always there for you should you wish it, mi hermano." They shook hands. "To brothers," he said, "and to their sons… and to their sons, the world."

"Aye," agreed Bootstrap, "the world."

Santos rose from the crate he'd been sitting on. He strolled a distance away and motioned for the Intuits, all three of whom glared contemptuously at him, to prepare a plank for him to cross over to the Pearl. William was of the opinion that the only reason they obliged him was to be rid of him as soon as possible—they being Jack's people, he knew they had never been fond of the Spaniard.

"Oh," said Santos, turning round on the spot, "and Willem." He looked pleadingly at Bootstrap, as if his very life depended on the man. "I would be most, ah, thankful were you to not tell Isobel of this nearly drowning you accidente."

"Oh," said William, feigning disinterest, "no worries, Cardo."

"Ah, good."

And with that, Ricardo Santos took his leave of the Swan, leaving William to ponder the sky while his son pondered the sea.

"Feathers," groused the Pearl's captain, plucking one offending plume from her seams, "feathers everywhere!"

After the birds had played themselves out, and Cotton's parrot had plucked the victory plume from the vain Spaniard bird's tail, Jack had tiredly ordered his crew to help him clear the deck of its dandery debris. He had tried to order the Spaniards to do the same to no avail. They stood resolute, watching the pirates scramble around picking remnants of bird from Jack's ship. That he didn't appreciate their presence before was magnified tenfold by Lopes' strange taste in millinery decoration.

"This," growled Anamaria, "is for the birds."

"From. This…" Jack picked up a curling yellow feather and squinted at it. "is from the birds."

The sound of boots clopping across his deck lifted Jack's attention somewhere a bit higher than the shiny wood. He watched, nonplussed, as Ricardo Santos crossed the Pearl noisily but without word or apology. It was, he thought, rather insulting—especially when the Spaniards that had been littering the deck also made to follow their captain wordlessly back over to their bloody Sangria. Irritated, Jack rose to his feet and watched them make their exit.

"That's that, then?"

But the Spaniards didn't seem to mind his presence, as if he weren't the captain of the ship they'd so rudely boarded without invitation. They pushed past him to the boarding plank that the hangbacks onboard the Sangria had tossed over. Several of them smirked as they passed. Lopes was the last. He paused and his hat's ornamentation puffed out. A flash of curved beak dove into the feathers and on the next sight of it, Jack found one last feather spat in his face. Dismayed, he watched it flutter to its destination, crossing his eyes to see it land on the tip of his nose.

With a snort, Jack snatched it away. "So good of you to stop by," he shouted over to the sailors readying the Sangria for castoff. "Nice to see you leave!"

There was no answer from Ricardo's ship. Its anchors were weighed, Sparrow heard Santos shout a short order, and the Sangria slipped alongside the Black Pearl as if there had been nothing between them. Jack walked the length of his ship shouting salutations at the strangely silent sailors. It occurred to him to ask how in the admiral's name Bootstrap had convinced Santos to beat such a hasty retreat and more importantly, how by the admiral's arms the two had become so familiar. That would have to wait, Jack thought, smirking a bit at the thought of having hoodwinked the Turners into spending some time together. He stood at the prow watching the Spaniards sail off and noted with a narrow eye that Santos had put out the sweeps.

"Bloody bighead."

"Aye," snapped Anamaria, "but 'least he'll be patchin his sails."

"Way I figger," said Gibbs, "his men'll be hauling her weight through the water awhile."

Jack glanced over his shoulder at the two of them and was pleased to see Roth in tow. He winked at the lad and chuckled at the furious flush that reddened his cheeks. His mirth was shortlived, however. There was a loud pop in the distance that could only be cannon fire. He turned and watched in horror as one shot hurtled toward the Pearl. It was on them in no time, punched cleanly through three sails, sailed in an arc over Faust's ducking head, cleared the Pearl's rear decoration, and disappeared from sight.

Santos' last word was a plunk and his last laugh, the splash.

William snickered. It was going to be a red sun and the sky bright with orange slices—he had seen sunsets like it enough to know for certain. He folded his arms behind his head, leaned back against the mast, and sighed. There would be fire in the sky when they reached Fuego. He hoped, thinking of Isobel, that there would not be fire waiting for him at port as well.

Author's Babble: Eh. Yeah. I didn't like Dead Man's Chest very much at all and in fact the movie made me very angry altogether. But I'm finishing this fic up anyway because I don't like leaving things unfinished. I know it's been awhile and I said it wouldn't be but I'm dishonest and you can always trust a potcfic writer to be dishonest... honestly.

Spanish... dios me is 'my god', capitan is 'captain', es muerte is 'he's dead', puerco is 'pig', no le diré is 'i won't tell her', hermano al hermano is 'brother to brother', discusion hermano al hermano is 'brother to brother discussion', para nuestros oidos solamente comprende is 'for our ears only, understand', pero--el capitan is 'but the captain', no abandonen la nave is 'don't abandon ship', vuelto a la pearl is 'come back to the pearl', no vuelto is 'don't come back', perdon is 'pardon', and accidente is 'accident'.

Lyn, I'm glad you enjoyed the story and found your comments interesting. Karibbean, thanks I'm glad you like it. And sorry everyone for the wait. It's not really something I can avoid as I have little time to write fic lately. Thanks for sticking around if you are.