And here we are, gentle readers. As of 12:01 a.m. here on the Left Coast, it is now ten years to the day since the July 9, 2003 release of Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl. And what a decade it's been eh? I'd like to remind everyone that this story only deals with the events of that same film. We are AU as of everything after "Drink up, me hearties, Yo-ho!" *Click!* Well... let's be safer and say that we're AU right from the after credits. LOL

I'd like to thank everybody once again for sticking with me this far. Hope this offering doesn't disappoint.

Chapter 37

"Not good."

Five streets, six alehouses, and an indeterminate number of brothels away from the ramshackle Fiddle & Fife, Jack Sparrow glanced up and down the road that meandered towards the docks, and stepped cautiously from behind the shelter of a barrel laden cart. Over an hour, he reminded himself sourly, since he'd parted company with Eleazer Hammond. Over an hour since he'd left the Lady Miranda on Gorsse's veritable doorstep.

Not alone, to be sure. AnaMaria had most stridently demanded to watch over the noblewoman during her stay ashore, and Jack was all to happy to acquiesce. Smart, resourceful, and on the occasion downright vicious; the girl was well the equal of any man. Lord knows she'd had to be to survive. It helped Jack's nerves to remember that some of the maddest men to stand before a mast had also elected to keep watch. That had been decided the very night before their landing.

That was before they'd risen upon the morn to find the Hadrian anchored off their larboard. The Hadrian; crewed by some of the foulest bilge rats to ever kneel before a holystone, if the tales could be trusted. Excluding his mutinous former crew, of course, Jack thought with a grimace. Though the men of the Hadrian seemed eager to claim that distinction for themselves. And their Captain...

Eleazar Hammond might well find the idea of proving worthy successor to Hector Barbossa's reputation an attractive one. The months spent serving under Hammond - or Hammer, as the scar-faced Captain preferred to be addressed - were some of the longest in Jack's life. In that time he'd witnessed things that still troubled his sleep, and carried reminders in his flesh that pained him upon the waking. Had he not desperately required passage, and had Hammond not been in need of a navigator and cartographer, their paths might never have crossed. Jack would have been all the happier for it.

Another glance up the street, accompanied by a strong twinge in his guts. The twinge that was telling him that his 'two bells' were long since up, and he'd not seen hide nor hair of the Hadrian's captain. Nor any of Hammond's crew, for that matter. Worse yet, he'd not spotted Joshamee either. It could be that there was nothing to report, but... Jack's guts tightened again, and his guts were rarely wrong. It was time to track down his Quartermaster, and the conspicuously absent Hammond.

An even better plan would be to bolt to the Fiddle & Fife and spirit Miranda back to the Black Pearl. She had been right, Jack admitted, as he had so many times this hour. One way or another, Gorsse should have been brought to the ship, instead of sending Miranda to him. Better to waste a few hours smoothing the ruffled feathers of a vengeful scholar than to risk crossing paths with Eleazar Hammond.

For that itself was another score that Lady Warringford had sensed with distressing accuracy: of all those encountered throughout his travels, there were few that Jack would truly say he feared. Lamentably, of those still among the living, Eleazar Hammond held a high place among them.

Cunning and the unpredictability of a mad animal made up some of the disfigured pirate's more cuddly characteristics. Hammond was not particularly intelligent. Prone to bouts of frightful stupidity, actually. But he was crafty, and quick with a blade. He coupled these with the heart of a bully, a genuine streak of sadism, and topped it off by surrounding himself with men of like mind.

Jack turned sharply on his heel, patience at an end. They were leaving. They were returning to the Pearl, and right bloody now! If Gorsse had to be stuffed into a ditty bag and slung over Sam's shoulder, so be it.

The weight of Miranda's cloak dragged at his arm. Jack threw the length of it over his shoulder, hand reaching by habit for the butt of his pistol, then the pommel of his sword. Once he deemed himself and the lady safe... safe-er, he would order the Pearl to fire off a signal battery. If those who sailed with him had the sense to have followed orders and kept their heads clear, they'd know to come a-running at the sound. Perhaps Mr. Cotton's Parrot wound be so kind as to fly ahead and alert those still aboard ship that their Captain was making yet another hasty exit.

Heading briskly through soggy streets shadowed beneath a grimly overcast sky, Jack was so preoccupied in plotting the best escape route that he almost missed it. Almost walked right past the first sign that his grounds for concern had just escalated from amorphous to absolute. This time the lurch in his gut suggested a sudden and precipitous drop of his stomach into the toes of his boots. He halted in mid step, frowning deeply. Then, backing up a span of three careful paces, he came to a stop beside piles of accumulated rubbish, where he glimpsed a familiar round container that most certainly should not be there. Cursing softly, Jack stooped to retrieve his Quartermaster's abandoned flask. Near to full, if he could judge by the weight.

If there were certainties to be had in this life, one of them would be this: that seals would sing a Handelian oratorio before Joshamee Gibbs willingly casting aside the most dearly held of his effects. Jack uncapped the flask for a quick nip, then eyed it with some surprise when, not rum, but the smokey burn of well aged whiskey warmed a path down his throat. No, Gibbs would never part with so rare and fine a potable as this without a fight.

"Not good." Jack pivoted, stride lengthening into a sprint with the lump of Joshamee's flask tucked into his waistcoat, Miranda's cloak draped over his shoulder, and the most disheartening knowledge that he was walking into a trap he had no idea how he'd talk himself out of. Oh, he had been so sure of himself. So convinced that his scheme was the best path to success. Even the sight of both the Reaver and the Hadrian had not been enough to dissuade him. Jack was not a man to wallow in self-recrimination. Had the risks been solely himself or his crew, he still would not. In their lives, such happenings were a matter of course.

But Miranda had trusted him. Trusted with far more even than life and limb. What might that trust be costing her right now?

He paused, daring a peek up the narrow way that led to the Fiddle & Fife. The street was empty: a fact that in and of itself made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. At this time of day, and with so many ships at anchor, there should be at least some sign of life. As he debated his next move, the cloak shifted, spilling down his arm. A tendril of fragrance rose from the fabric, worming itself into his awareness. Orange blossoms and sandalwood; her scent reaching out to him.

Jack growled, then released his hold, finger by finger, from its convulsive grip upon his sword. Had he not been the one to remind the Lady to keep her wits about her? Then why was he about to draw his blade and rush pell-mell into whatever awaited him like the most foolishly besotted hero in some dreadful Gothik novel.

Hero. Hah! Even Bootstrap's whelp had more sense... if only just. Jack drew a long, deep breath and moved on.

It didn't take long for his instincts to inform him that they'd once again proved spot-on. From the edge of his vision he noted the pale, stubbly face of one of the locals peering out from the slit of a barely opened door. The door slammed with a bang. Jack heard the sound of a hastily thrown bolt, then the scrape of a bar slid into place. Above him, on the second floor of one of the many bawdy houses, curtains fluttered as those behind them made themselves scarce. He took this in with a blithe shug, sauntering along in his affected, tipsy walk. But the skin between his shoulder blades crawled. As did the back of his scalp, for now there were footsteps behind him. Furtive, yet making no real effort to hide, nor to close on him. He didn't bother to look back. The sounds told him there were at least two men, and the chances of these belonging to anyone other than Hammond's crew were slim to none. Jack suppressed a telltale shudder, stepping once more into the little square as if he hadn't a care in the world.

The first person to catch his eye was the very same buxom lass previously seen in the charming presence of his Bosun. Cheeks pale and arms laden, the wench made straight for a table. Her voluminous skirts and collection of ale mugs blocked the occupants from view. Stammering nonstop, she served out drinks and apologies with equal haste. She paused in her frenetic movements, then staggered back with a cry, and with her hand held to a reddening mark on her cheek. Clearly unnerved, she bolted for the imagined safety of the Fiddle & Fife. None other than the slovenly figure of Georgie Hallard himself was there to greet her, giving a reassuring pat to her shaking shoulders, while sending a baleful glare to that one table.

Jack looked to the cause of the commotion. His heart seemed indeed to skip, and a red haze swam up from the corners of his eyes, threatening to mark everything. But forcing roiling emotions aside, forcing his feet to continue their leisurely pace, he pressed on. "Eleazar," he announced brightly. "So this is where you've taken yourself off to. A merry chase you've lead me on, mate."

Eleazar Hammond turned, thin lips bending in a smirk. Beside him, Miranda seemed barely to breathe as the point of Hammond's dagger traced a light path down one bloodless cheek. "Sparrow," the disfigured man acknowledged evenly.

Jack sketched a brief bow, then gestured broadly to the silent noblewoman. "And I see you've managed to round up my darling, wayward Francesca. Told you not to wander, Didn't I, sweetling?" he chided with a smile. Miranda's eyes flickered to his, desperate and hope filled, but quickly darted away. Returning to focus on some far away point as Hammond's men chuckled darkly all around them.

Jack turned in a slow circle, taking in the daunting number of men surrounding him on all sides. From the look of things, Hammond had summoned most of his crew. Many covered his own men with weapons drawn. The Pearls - including his somewhat battered Quartermaster and First Mate, Jack noted - all knelt on the muddy ground. AnaMaria had one arm clutched to her chest, her wrist canted at an odd angle. She followed Jack's progress with eyes full of apologies. Their assorted armaments lay heaped in a pile some distance away, where a weedy, sneering fellow stood watch. The pair that had shadowed Jack now stood in the open, looking on with dull interest.

There were other onlookers. Still clustered at their tables were the sailors who had earlier shown such a loud appreciation for Lady Miranda's form. Now these men sat quietly subdued, and with their hands in plain evidence. Hammond's crewmen guarded these men as well. Jack could only guess that they had been encouraged to stay put. All seemed inclined to do as told.

All save the brash, gangly bloke who had traded words with him only two bells prior. "Oi! Sparrow!" he barked. With his head wobbling drunkenly, and ignoring the frantic whispers of his wiser comrades, the young man rose to his feet with an accusing finger pointing at Jack. "Said they wuz lookin' fer you. S'all your fault, it is!" Jack lifted his brows, pointing to himself.

"Aye, you," was the sullen reply. "An' they won't let 'er sit wif us, neither. How come none 'o you lets 'er come 'n sit wif us? We wasn't gonna hurt 'er none." For one long, uncomfortable moment, Jack feared the lad might burst into tears. But shaking off the increasingly urgent hands of his mates, the poor fool pressed on.

"An' now you brung them 'ere!" he shouted. Jack winced as the drunken sailor flung a hand out to include Hammond and his men. "Keepin' her all to 'emselves, an' scarin' off Mazie an' the ale. We ain't never 'ad no trouble wif the Harridan afore you brung 'em -"

And just like that, it was over. When the smoke, oaths, and exclamations faded, the young man's complaints had been silenced. Permanently.

"Boy should've learned not to disrespect a man's ship," Hammond's graveled voice pronounced. His spent pistol clattered to the tabletop. Sickened, Jack looked from the one-eyed pirate, to the pale woman beside him. Miranda sat rigidly upright, the dagger point still hovering near her cheek, and with the hand of a great bulking crewman heavy on her shoulder. She shuddered as the thick fingers stroked over the back of her neck. Her revulsion only prompted an ugly grin from the man holding her in place.

Again, Jack ground his teeth together in an effort to ward off the ever-growing urge to fly screaming and leaping to the rescue. Instead, he waved happily at the chair across from Hammond, and settled himself into it before the other man could voice invitation or refusal.

"A sad truth, to be sure, when not timely learned," Jack concurred. "One should never trifle with another man's... ship. It never works out quite as planned." His eyes moved slowly to meet those of Hammond's intrusive crewman. It was a subtle reminder: Captain Jack Sparrow was here, with the Black Pearl at his command. Hector Barbossa was... presently enjoying a far, far warmer climate, if the universe held any justice. It was not a card he played often. Jack was rewarded with a look of unease. The massive hand still remained on the lady's shoulder, though with a bit more deference. Jack smiled tightly, and claimed Hammond's own drink. Downing some, he gave an overplayed wince.

"What with all the gold you were claiming to offer, you couldn't spare enough for something less rancid?" He shuddered, making a face as he slid the mug back across the table. Hammond scowled, pushing the drink aside.

"T'was yer own fault fer leadin' us here," he snapped.

Jack blinked innocently. "Me? Why, I did nothing of the sort, Eleazar," he protested. "Francesca and I merely had some unfinished affairs of our own before seeing to any not quite resolved business between you and I."

Hammond cocked his head, scarred face sly. "Think yer so smart, don't ye, Sparrow," he asked softly. A chill threaded its way through Jack's bones. This, old boy, a little voice in his mind warned, is where it all falls apart.

"Think ye'll just talk yer fancy talk 'n pull the wool over ole' Hammer's eye, do ye?" The eye in question gleamed with a vicious light. His dagger still lingered far too near Miranda for Jack's liking.

Jack cleared his throat uneasily. "Now, Eleazar, you know I'd never dream of -"

"Of gettin' caught at it!" Hammond interrupted. "Ain't that right? Hmm? Well, you 'n me know there's no truth to be had in that one, don't we?" The blade came away from Miranda. Hammond buried the point in the span of table between himself and Jack, lunging forward with a hiss. "Just like we know there ain't no one who goes by 'Francesca' here."

Jack flicked his eyes to the Lady. "You been telling stories again, luv?"

Hammond wrenched his knife free, bolting up from his seat. Curses flew from his lips as he dug his grimy fingers into the noblewoman's hair, dragging Miranda to her feet. Her cries of pain and fear set the blood to rushing in Jack's ears. He was dimly aware of having risen himself, fingers freezing in the act of reaching for his sword. Jack lowered his hand, but it took every ounce of will to do so.

"I'll be tellin' the stories now, Sparrow." Hammond's twisted face was alight with triumph. "No 'Francescas' in 'em, though. This be a story with..." He yanked cruelly at Miranda's hair, pulling her obscenely close to leer, "'Er noble Ladyship."

Miranda flinched away, but Hammond's grip was too strong. Jack's teeth were clenched so tightly that his jaw ached. He forced a laugh out from between them. "Oh, honestly, Eleazar. Admittedly the lass cleans up well. Even I myself never suspected what lurked beneath all that scullery grime. But the peerage?" He chuckled again. Easier this time, and waved a hand about as if this were the most preposterous thing he's ever heard. Strained laughter came from the ranks of the Pearls. His men doing what they could to aid him.

Hammond frowned with uncertainty. Just for a moment. All too soon his face darkened with rage. "She ain't set foot in a scullery her whole life, I'll wager," he barked. He shook his fist in Miranda's hair until the poor girl was staggering to stay upright. "'N besides, seen 'er before, I have!" Hammond's look grew crafty again. He lowered his voice. "T'was a painting shown me by an old... acquaintance of a business-like nature, ye might say. Only bare more than a month ago, but I'll bet me eye this be the same trollop he's seekin'." The single eye raked over Miranda's shuddering frame. "Said he'd pay good ta get his 'ands on 'er again. Always had a taste for a fine romp, ole' Ned did," Hammond mused, rusty voice dropping. The tip of his knife touched Miranda's cheek again, point lingering there for a long moment, then lowered to follow the line of her throat, and downward still. The blade traced back and forth in some hideous mockery of a lover's touch over the lace framed swell of her bosom. Hammond pulled her closer to bury his nose in her hair.

"Ooh... even smells clean, too. Think I'll have me a taste of what Ned's willin' ta part with so much gold over afore I give ye back to 'im... Lady Dunnthorpe."

Jack started at the name. Miranda seemed to stop breathing altogether. Hammond nodded knowingly. "Don't think his Lordship'll begrudge it. Hope yer feelin' generous, little girl. Me crew might find me in a mind ta share."

Eyes dark with terror, Miranda still met Hammond's smirking face dead on. "I am not the Lady Dunnthorpe," she declared, low voice clear in spite of the tremor there. But Jack could hear the panic lurking just below the surface. Miranda was about to move. She was about to fight to free herself, and when she did, Hammond would do more than merely hurt her. He was sure she knew this, but she was beyond the need for anything but to escape this tormentor. She had reached the end of her endurance. So, for that matter, had Jack.

"Hammer!" he roared. Hammond's head snapped up, the single eye fixing on him with a challenge. Jack tried to calm himself. His enemy had stupidly let slip his intentions. Had revealed, like the fool he was, just what value his prisoner had. It was a weapon that Jack eagerly seized. "This is all well and good, your dreams of ransom, and... er... sampling. I'd had plans in much that same heading myself before we were so rudely interrupted." Oh, forgive me for that, darlin'! "But you, my monocular friend, are forgetting one minuscule, but very much insurmountable detail." At the other's perplexed stare, Jack smiled thinly. "Until such time as the proper transactions have been agreed upon, yon fair lady's person and effects are still under my, ah... proprietorship, as it were."

Hammond's men chuckled again. A low, threatening wave of sound that rippled throughout the square. Their Captain bared his rotting teeth.

"Finder's keepers, Sparrow. If ye wanted ta hang on ta 'er, ye shouldn't've let her run loose." Jack began to counter this reasoning, but unexpectedly, Samuel Bottoms beat him to it.

"She was with us, she was!" the lad exclaimed.

"Aye," Tearlach rumbled. "On the arm of our First Mate when you scabs nabbed her."

"First Mate stands for the Cap'n when 'ees not around." This from Marty, glaring darkly up at his captors. "Everyone know this!"

"Against the Code as well," Joshamee Gibbs added now. "Man can't steal another man's take."

Jack stifled the urge to roll his eyes at that. As it stood, there were the complications of the Code being subject to a somewhat... looser interpretation when on land. The Code was subject to a rather lax interpretation whilst at sea as well, but his men were already concurring heartily. Loudly, down to the last man... or woman disguised as man, in AnaMaria's case. Even to Mr. Cotton's Parrot, who poked its beak out from behind a stack of barrels to demand that Hammond, "Keep to the Code! Keep to the Code!"

Hammond, fist clenching around his dagger, grew alarmingly red. Roaring an oath, he threw Miranda into the hands of his huge crewman. He wrenched a second pistol from his belt. "Bugger the Code, and hang the lot o' ye!" he screamed, brandishing both weapons in a haphazard way. He paused then, appearing to consider his words. "Although... not such a bad idea, that. Them what's dead don't have much to say, do they, boys?" Turning on Jack with a triumphant grin, Hammond raised his pistol, while the click of drawn flint hammers clattered and sounded all around.

Bloody hell...

"What in the nine circles of Hell is going on here?"

Salvation, Jack reflected, was a fickle thing. Mercurial. Protean, even. One could never know exactly when it might deign to show itself. Or, for that matter, he admitted as he faced the source of that booming voice, how it may choose to appear.

Tiberius Pickham was hardly the form that Jack would have expected. The towering, vastly bearded Captain of the Reaver stood at the mouth of the common way. Booted feet planted wide, and hirsute face outraged, he looked from Jack to Hammond, then to the subdued onlookers seated tensely at their tables. "What cause have your men to be drawing weapons on mine, Hammer?" Pickham demanded.

"And mine," added the equally imposing figure at his side. Cleigh William FitzWalter, Captain of the privateer schooner Speedwell, was a man only slightly less towering and broad than the Reaver's Captain in stature. He made up for this discrepancy with the enormous and lavishly decorated hats that had become the privateer's trademark. The selfsame man whose drunken attempts to corner a wily goat had so amused Miranda as they waited out the rain at the Faithful Bride.

"I've not courted trouble with your lot, Hammer," FitzWalter declared. "Nor have my men."

"Was 'im what started it, Cap'n Cleigh!" cried a stout fellow, starting up from his seat. "He shot down poor Zeb, 'ee did! Like a dog!"

Ah. So Zeb would be the name of the lamentably deceased young fellow, whose sole mistake had been in the unthinking mockery of Hammond's notoriously unreliable ship. Certainly not the first life sacrificed on the alter of Hammond's twisted pride, and if he had his way, probably not the last this day.

FitzWalter's eyes shifted, then he turned, the great prow of his hat moving slowly with him like a ship on the waves, until all were aimed at the one-eyed Hammond. "You had no call for that, Hammer." The privateer's voice was cold and quiet. A dangerous combination from this normally boisterous chap.

"Aye," Pickham agreed. His beard fairly bristled with indignation. "An' whatever cause you've got to have it out with Sparrow here, you've got no cause to be holding my men. Our men," he added hastily with a sidelong glance at FitzWalter.

"I'll need no cause ta have yer overblown tripes for a purse if ye keep in my business," Hammond threatened. "Ye'll walk outta here now, if ye know what's good."

Without changing expression, Pickham raised a tarnished silver Bosun's whistle to his lips. The sharp, piercing notes had barely faded when a grim faced FitzWalter raised his pistol to the sky, and pulled the trigger. It was a small, heavily embellished Spanish-made piece with two barrels, one set atop the other. Jack himself had admired it with an acquisitive eye in the not-so-distant past. The first high popping sound still hung in the air when FitzWalter took hold of the smoking barrel, and gave it a good twist. The barrel spun, revealing the second hammer. FitzWalter fired off this shot as well. Both Captains stood their ground, Hammond's thrown gauntlet accepted.

The first reinforcements soon appeared, some still struggling into their clothing, having obviously been interrupted while engaging in more amorous pursuits. Others quickly followed, bringing the newcomer's numbers to nearly equal that of the Hadrian's crew. All of them fingered their weapons anxiously. One hugely muscled, dark skinned bloke hefted a great cudgel, while flexing his arms with a menacing sneer. Hammond's men reached for their other armaments, beginning to realize that they'd lost their advantage as they tried to meet this new threat, while keeping a nervous watch on their prisoners.

"Well, Hammond," FitzWalter said in that same quiet voice. "Is it war you're wanting between us?"

"'N me besides? An' Sparrow here too?" Pickham added, folding his arms over his massive chest. "Your ship ain't the match o' the Reaver, nor the Black Pearl for guns. An' all of us can outsail your Hadrian."

While he'd never had cause for grief with Cleigh FitzWalter, Jack never thought he'd see the day when both the Speedwell's Captain and Tiberius Pickham would be allied with him. Not for any reason. Perhaps they, as many others before, had cause enough to come to blows with Hammond and his bullyboys. The odds were looking more and more in Jack's favor, now that the Hadrian's crew were matched, for all intents. Hammond had never been one for a fair fight. But one glance showed that the scar-faced pirate was deep in a rage that bordered on complete madness.

"I'll not be backin' down afore a pair 'o swag-bellied, posturin' blowhards like you!" Hammond was fairly foaming at the mouth by now. "If it's a war yer wantin', I'll be the one handing' it to ye!" And he and his men now turned their arms towards their new opponents.

So much for salvation, Jack thought, casting about for a way to remedy a situation already gone to pot. The whole affair was about to go up like a rum keg in a bonfire, and he and his were caught square in the middle of it! He, his crew, and... Jack spun, meeting the eyes of the terrified noblewoman. Miranda, hair wrenched loose from her combs, pale as a ghost, and great eyes silently pleading for his help. Miranda - whom each of the three Captains now set to do battle this day had looked upon with more than passing interest.

He whirled away, spreading out his arms as he leaped forward. Seizing upon the one and only possible chance to avert disaster.

"Parlay!"

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