Sure I own it. I also have a really awesome bridge in Brooklyn I'm looking to sell for cheap.

"She's just another silly woman, ain't she, mate? No great shakes, especially not in her bodice, eh?" Captain Jack Sparrow conspiratorially nudged Mr. Cotton.

Mr. Cotton, for his part, simply shrugged. He had no good answer for the captain's woman troubles. These days, the only person who had answer for anyone was his parrot.

"And besides, she ain't mine for the taking, savvy? Even if I wanted her, which I don't, she's Bootstrap's boy's girl. And while I'm not myself above a bit o' pirating of other men's goods, I don't need that strife upon my ship, what with his moping and sulking and all."

Mr. Cotton raised his eyebrows.

"Aye, you're right, mate... She ain't just another two bit whore to be trifled with. There's something different about how she is," Jack looked around, before dropping his voice considerable. "Don't tell another soul about that, Cotton. Can't have my reputation ruined for the likes of a stuck up little bit such as her."

Mr. Cotton nodded, gesturing to his bird-free shoulder. The blasted bird was probably off somewhere having a parley with that bloody, undead monkey.

"It's her, where my compass is pointing." Mr. Cotton's head popped up in surprise. "Oi, not all treasure is silver and gold, you know," he broke off.

Mr. Cotton waited expectantly.

"I suppose if I were to have such feelings, not that I have them, but if I were then she'd be the kind of girl who'd be most likely to inspire them." His face softened into a genuine smile. "She does make one bloody fine pirate, don't she?" His voice was tinged with pride.

Mr. Cotton nodded emphatically. Miss Elizabeth was well on her way to being on even footing with Jack himself.

"You should see how she handles a sword! Like she was born with it in her hand. You'd think she was the one who taught the boy to handle a sword, not the other was around, so she claims." He nudged Cotton again. "As if the boy could handle his own sword anyhow. I warrant he'd be a lost cause." Jack made the snipping motion he was so fond of doing when he spoke of Will.

Mr. Cotton smiled and chuckled. At least the loss of his tongue hadn't hindered him from laughing.

Jack's voice went soft again. "Ah, Mr. Cotton, there in lies the heart of the problem. Young Master Turner couldn't handle our little spitfire, nor does he deserve to. He's no better than the bloody commodore. He loves her, aye, but he loves an ideal. I venture he expects her to settle down once we're past this latest scrape and never think of the sea again."

Mr. Cotton looked empathetically at Jack, who had turned and was staring out at the sea. He caught the real meaning of Jack's words; Will would expect her to never think of Jack again.

"She couldn't do that, could she? Forget all this?" His eyes never left the ocean, but Cotton could hear the traces of desperation in his voice. Suddenly, he straightened up. "Not that I care. If she wants to go play house with some bloody blacksmith and have a whole litter of sprogs, what should it matter to me. I've got wind in my sails and the Pearl beneath my feet; what more should a man want?"

Mr. Cotton waited then. There was more, there was always more. As he was a man of few words, he had learned to be patient.

"I do bloody well care," Jack muttered. "I bloody well care if she walks off the ship with him. She belongs with here, on the decks of my ship, with me. I want her, Cotton, more than gold or wenches or fame or, God help me, rhum."

Mr. Cotton sighed. He patted Jack on the back. He remembered what it was like to be young, in love, and also to be uncertain. At that moment, his parrot fluttered down from Christ knows where and settled on his shoulder again. The moment was over.

"A bottle of rhum and I'll be right as rain in the morning, Mr. Cotton. A bottle of rhum!" Jack stumbled away and left Mr. Cotton alone to ponder what the captain had said. It was amazing what people said to someone they knew couldn't repeat a word.