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Wi' A Wannion	By : GeorgieFain Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 2357 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 12
- 13
- 14
Chapter Ten:

Another Way, a Better Way

Year Twenty-Four

"Yes, yes, my children...I will return and bring more 'gods' with me...many gods, all here, for you..." Festooned with feathers and wearing beads in his tangled braids, Jack Sparrow stretched his naked arms wide. Painted in red and blue spirals, he looked like the heathen chief the heathen natives believed him to be.

Said heathens were on bended knee, at the edge of the beach where the jungle growth swelled into vast---although, by no means endless---verdant swaths of tree and bush. The short heathen natives were also painted---mostly in white dots---and, in adoration for their most holy and charismatic chief, they currently murmured prayers in a squawky tongue that, after only a long thirty-day, Jack could emulate.

Approximately.

As he gave orders and blessings in a variety of squeaks, grunts, and yelps, he tried to not think about the men he was leaving in their 'care'. He backed away, his naked feet almost ankle-deep in black sand. Behind him, the sea beckoned like the cruel, indomitable mistress she often was. His ship, The Cathay Rose, awaited. The long boat was just to his right, in the corner of his sight. If he could do something spectacular, he'd be able to stun his 'congregation' of frizzy-headed cannibals into mindless prostration and secure his freedom.

Or, as he'd been calling it---'his return to the Heavens'.

The only shot he had was the one in the single-barrel flintlock that he'd been carrying for five years. There was little chance it would do any good here, even if he was inclined to waste Hector Barbossa's retribution on the dozens of wild pygmies who'd claimed him as their chief after only a few days. His sword was missing and he was out of powder, again, for his other pistol. No more flash-bang.

He'd found the lost treasure of Alexander the Great. It was here, on this island, up in the highlands where one misstep could drop a man to a horrible death on jagged, volcanic rock cliffs. He'd also found the curse. But, he hadn't found a trinket for immortality. The treasure, hidden in an oddly carved temple of indeterminate age, couldn't be moved by one man...no matter how remarkable or ambitious. Huge statues of gold were difficult, even for a crafty pirate. He'd need at least a hundred men and six ships to get the treasure down off the mountains---it would have to wait.

Now, after being the chief of this tribe of mad cannibal pygmies for a full thirty-day, it was nearly dark of the moon again and that would mean calamity for the men he'd brought ashore with him. He wouldn't think of it as marooning---they weren't being thrown off ship. They would all fare well, here, if faring well meant becoming the soup, roast, and nuts of a massive feast.

"Many gods---" Jack fished for something more.

Think, think. He had to keep the pygmies believing.

His left foot came down on a broken shell half-buried in the black sand and he screamed, hopping back and forth with his injured toes in the air. "ARRRRGGG! Bloody buggering hell!"

"Ahh!" The 'congregation' sighed in bliss, holding out their arms to him in supplication.

Jack looked up, still jiggling; his beaded braids clacked to a slow stop.

There. Luck had pulled him to her poxy breast once more.

He hopped some more in a half-circle and decided that if he must leave the islanders who considered him to be a chief and god, he ought to make it look good. He fished a forecastle ballad from his murky memory and sang it in time to his hopping.

"Well it's all for me grog, me noggin� noggin� grog, all for me beer and tobacco. For I spent all me tin with the ladies drinking gin, far across the western ocean I must wander. I'm sick in the head and I haven't been to bed, since first I came ashore with me plunder, I�ve seen centipedes and snakes and me head is full of aches and I think I�ll take a bath for way up yonder. Well it's all for me grog, me noggin� noggin� grog, all for me beer and tobacco. For I spent all me tin with the ladies drinking gin, far across the western ocean I must wander."

His singing voice was rough and cracked after so many years at sea, but he could still---in the dim recesses of his mind---hear the music as it was played on the first ship he'd sailed with, The Flaming Sword. It had been played over and over at the Backwards Ball---the crew's merriment celebrated when the ship crossed the Equator the first time after leaving London for Calcutta. He'd been pushed into a girl's dress and a long, curly white wig...

Hector had played his teasing beau, to the amusement of the entire deck.

"Well it's all for me grog, me noggin� noggin� grog, all for me beer and tobacco. For I spent all me tin with the ladies drinking gin, far across the western ocean I must wander. Where are me boots, me noggin', noggin' boots, they're all gone for beer and tobacco. For the soles they were thin and the uppers letting in and the heels were looking out for better weather. Well it's all for me grog, me noggin� noggin� grog, all for me beer and tobacco. For I spent all me tin with the ladies drinking gin, far across the western ocean I must wander."

Jack hopped in one-legged circles, now, singing verse after verse as his faithful 'congregation' looked on with admiration and awe. Just a little bit more...he hopped in the boat's direction.

Maybe he ought to consider easier treasure. Treasure he already knew intimately about. Such as the four hundred and eight tonnes of silver bullion he and Barbossa had hidden on the southern ridge of that island...what did the Dutch call it? Guinea?

"Well it's all for me grog, me noggin� noggin� grog, all for me beer and tobacco. For I spent all me tin with the ladies drinking gin, far across the western ocean I must wander." Now, he was in the boat, pulling the stake-line. The oars felt good in his hands. Pull, pull, pull, keep singing. He wasn't out of range, yet.

He remembered the way to that other island just fine. He remembered the look of the ridge-line with its strange, bowl-shape cut that made the two peaks look like horns. He also remembered the look of the sharp-toothed natives who'd watched them from the trees. He remembered the Spanish sailor Barbossa had shot on the beach, using sudden and booming death to scare the other nine back from the long boat. They'd left nine Spanish sailors alive behind on the beach within sight of two-legged predators who watched with unblinking eyes.

Ah, so what he'd done here wasn't so very different, really.

But, at least he'd intended to get his men from the village---he'd just not found the proper way to go about the sticky problem of explaining to the heathen natives that he needed those men---they weren't necessarily foodstuff. How did one explain the moral implications of cannibalism to heathen, man-eating pygmies? It had become a dilemma and one which he didn't have time for. Not if he wanted to get out off the island before nightfall.

Hmm, yes. He could go after the silver they'd left behind on Guinea. If it was still there. There was, he supposed, a chance that Barbossa and Bootstrap had gone after the treasure sometime in the last five years. They were, after all, the only three who still lived that could know about the location of that stashed trove.

Even after all these years, he hadn't managed to put reason to why that galleon had been alone in Dutch waters on the other side of the world from where the Spanish silver flotillas were usually to be found. He imagined it was some intrigue on the part of the Spanish court, to buy allies in the eastern shipping lanes...for what other purpose would a heavily laden galleon have, outside the Canary Islands or Spain Herself? A ship carrying no goods, only ten thousand bread-loaf shaped silver bullion bricks.

All he'd have to do is get some men. To replace the ones he'd lost here. He had perhaps ten men on the ship, currently; it was obvious that they hadn't left him stranded, the ship was still anchored. That would be enough men to sail back into the 'civilized' islands and perhaps even China. He would need to be far better prepared for the natives on Guinea. They'd had a look about them which begged the belief that not all dark-skinned natives were innocently fooled by sleight of hand and flash-bang.

Offer the frighteningly somber Guinea cannibals a good meal and Bob'd be his uncle.

***

Year Twelve

Just at their four-month, the winds changed.

Most of the pirates among them had been gang-pressed from other ships---the ships they'd managed to take in the last four-month. When given the choice between being marooned on the tiny island of Pulau Haruku and signing Articles with a pirate captain, more than half of each taken ship's surviving crew had signed on. Many were only semi-literate, yet well-trained by their various Navies and companied merchantry

They now had a total of ninety-six men aboard, most of whom slept on deck to save room for the swag they lifted from their prey. To save room, their captain had made a habit of taking the loot to Ambon with each raid, selling the bulk---there was a prettier jingle to coin and it was much lighter to split up and carry.

They had also picked up another two cabin boys---one of whom he wasn't entirely sure about; the lad could, in fact, be a lass. That one, Creole by voice and skin, had come to the East via a ship from the Caribbean and claimed to be fourteen years in age. If the lad was fourteen, he was smallish for the age. He hadn't told Hector about his suspicions, yet, meaning to find some innocuous way of discovering the truth without shaming the poor thing---if it was, indeed, a lass.

If the unusual, new cabin boy was a lass, she was as brave and strong as any lad.

Not that he cared, if they had a lass on board. He didn't think they were bad luck; he'd had a lass as cabin boy on The Wicked Wench---a tiny elf of a girl who had miraculously bested him at Deception, after being sussed out by Barbossa, for the chance at staying aboard on the journey from England to India. Her savvy pluck had reminded him of his own, at the same age.

Only it wouldn't be safe for a lass on The Victorious, would it?

Ninety-six 'bothered' pirates and sailors who had taken to keeping each other 'company', to alleviate the physical pressures. If it was discovered that a lass sailed with them as cabin boy, then what paltry harassment Wee Tam had endured, in those first months, would be a speck of nothing by comparison. He might actually find himself killing men without a single qualm, then. His honor---not to mention Hector's honor---wouldn't allow the rape and abuse of a lass on The Victorious. They were sailing under carefully modified Articles, designed to prevent such behavior. But, there could be serious trouble if a lass was aboard.

He'd been 'promoted' to the lofty title of Quartermaster; Bootstrap, to Sailing Master. It was something the men, as they came from their various ships, had gotten wrong---and no one had bothered to correct them. He held, after all, nearly as much of the power as Barbossa. And there was no better navigator or sailor than Bill Turner.

From aloft the mainmast, there came a shout. "Ahoy! Spanish flags!"

Jack looked up from where he sat cross-legged in naught but ragged breeches on the second step of the quarterdeck, stitching sail-cloth to bolt rope with Wee Tam. The lad was coming along bravely among a crew of nearly a hundred men. After several battles and fired ships in the sea south of Ambon, the cabin boy was becoming a fine sailor, despite his youth.

But, now---

"Galleon. Spanish. Riding low in the water, heavy load maybe. She doesn't look as toothy as they come. I spy only sixteen guns on her port side...three swivel guns on her gunwale." Confirmed the mate who stood at the rail of the quarterdeck, spyglass clapped firmly to one eye. "Quartermaster, permission to alert the Captain?"

"Aye." Jack turned to look at Wee Tam, who was watching him with worried gray eyes. "Tam, go tell Captain we have a Spanish galleon approaching---we'll await his orders."

In only breeches that skimmed above his bony knees, the wiry lad was up and off like a shot, thumping barefooted along the deck and under the quarterdeck's ledge, to the door that led into the Captain's cabin. He ignored the subsequent knocks and shouts, moving instead to put the ship into ready.

He called along the deck to the men who were either watching him or the horizon, where the galleon was still yet only a small speck on the horizon. "Hoist anchor, get our lady under way! The wind's in our favor, lads---drop sail, batten her by the lee!"

The capstan began to turn as men jumped to the spars, weighing anchor.

That would put them at a fast clip to a point where they would intercept the galleon. Getting to his feet, Jack took the steps two at a time and accepted the spyglass from the Bandanese sailor who'd called the particulars. "Thanks, mate---" Raising the glass to his own eye, he turned to study the ship that approached.

A four-master, she was heavily loaded---her beam was riding right at the waterline without much heave. A solitary galleon in these waters was...unheard of. She was Spanish, not Portuguese. Her guns hadn't been run out yet, which meant that the men aboard it didn't consider The Victorious a threat as of yet. He had no illusions that they'd gone unnoticed---if he could see the galleon, she could see him.

Sixteen gunports on one side; that meant thirty-two fixed guns and probably a total of six swivel guns on the fore-gunwale. She might have an equal number on her stern. She wasn't nearly as well-armed as most galleons he'd seen, in his career. Only half the guns. They'd have to make sure The Victorious didn't engage in a broadside gun battle. The dark ship moved quickly, despite her bulk and weight, which meant that a second wind was driving---he could feel only the edge of it, but with all sails popped, the galleon was making excellent time.

Jack considered the odds. Galleons could carry crew of between two and four hundred men. With the slope of her hull, she'd be damn hard to board---and then, there was the sharp blades at the edge of the deck and the masts that could shred sails and flesh. She was riding heavy, but...at the speed, she seemed to be doing four knots. Very good speed in the cross-winds. A ship her size, with the sails he could spy...she'd be capable of the full eight knots, if she wasn't so heavily loaded.

A cold shiver ran along his spine. Something in this was not right.

Then, Hector was climbing to the quarterdeck. Jack didn't lower the spyglass as he filled in his lover on the situation. Finished, he handed over the glass and awaited orders. Surely, Barbossa would see that engaging the galleon in battle would be a very bad idea.

"She's seen us." Hector muttered, glass to his eye; the other was squeezed shut. In hat and coat, his friend and lover looked the part of a pirate captain---it had simply taken Jack a while to become accustomed to the difference, having spent most of his career as a 'respectable' merchant sailor. "She's runnin� out her guns...an� th� sails are shiftin� to intercept." As he pulled the glass away from his blue-green eye, Hector shouted to the men. "Run out th� guns! Bo'sun, th� weapons locker!"

On the deck, several small casks of paint were already being pried open. Every man who passed them, hurrying to obey orders, took a moment to grab a handful of color that was slathered on face and chest and arms and hair. Black, white, red, green, yellow, and blue. Weapons were broken out, scarves were re-tied at hair and waist. Most of the men preferred to fight in naught but breeches, to avoid getting caught up on hooks or sword-tips. Everywhere, men hurried to hoist cannon shot and powder from the gunner's deck, below.

Leaving Barbossa on the quarterdeck, Jack jumped the steps and made his way to the paint casks---the three cabin boys were there, painting themselves up like wild savages. He grabbed, pulling them away. As Quartermaster, he had the right to stop this---

"Tam." He addressed the senior-most cabin boy---youngest in age, oldest in experience with The Victorious and her Captain. "Orders. Get below to the swag and stay there---all three of you. Take your cutlasses and knives, but stay out of sight. Only attack the enemy if they get into the hold---if I catch any of you up here before I give you a shout, I'll have you kissing the gunner's daughter before the sun goes down. Understand?"

The odd one---lass or lad---whose skin was a beautiful creamy brown and whose name was Andre---spoke directly at him, breeching etiquette without consideration. The lad had painted his face in black and yellow stripes that ran from cheekbone to cheekbone, across his neat bump of a nose. "But, sir, we can fight! You've taught us how---"

"Obey." He raised his hand, near to panic at the idea of three cabin boys being killed in a mad battle with the galleon, caught between shaking and slapping the lad for disobedience. He stopped, clenched his hand spastically in mid-air and then shook his head, reaching up instead to tighten his own scarf---a bit of reddish-violet silk torn from a ragged dress---before scratching his jawline. These days, he wasn�t shaving every morning; the stubble itched. "Get below. Do you think we need three boys on deck when we have so many seasoned fighters? You don't come back up-top until I shout for you---now, move!" He shoved the small, odd lad toward the steps that led down to the hold.

Grumbling, the three cabin boys obeyed; well, Andre grumbled. The other two were silent, accepting of his orders. He'd have to see about straightening out Andre later---orders were orders and not to be questioned, especially in battle.

Jaw clenching, Jack buckled on his own cutlass and slid three loaded pistols in his striped sash. He added two caltrops, tucking their flat side into the knot of the sash. Beside them, he pushed a pair of boarding axes.

Reaching into a cask of paint, he came up with a fistful of red. He slathered it over his face, eyes and mouth tightly closed against the oily slither. Then, wiping his hand on the swinging end of his sash, he repeated the action twice...reaching for white-wash and then blacking. From memory, he managed a skull in white with the skin around his eyes blackened. Only once did his fingertips catch the new piercing in his right ear; it stung, but he growled and went on. Then, he used both hands to slick his chest and arms in a mix of red and black.

Ready, he turned to watch the horizon as the galleon came closer---their paths would intercept within the next bell. Running to the rail at the forecastle, he leaned with his hands and studied the water and the sky and the massive black hulk of the Spanish ship. He thought quickly.

They were dead in the water, if he couldn't change the odds.

But, that meant convincing Hector.

The black flag was running up, right under the Union Jack. Unspoken terms---no mercy, if taken. Damn them all for rash fools---there had to be a better plan.

The galleon wasn't as well-armed as most Man o' Wars...and was in a place where galleons didn't usually sail. Squinting through the black paint on his eyelids, he could now see that there weren't as many men running around...

Then, he knew what they could do, to win. The memory of his father reading The Aeneid to him washed over his mind like clean surf on a beach. The Trojan Horse. 'And by Minerva's aid a fabric rear'd, which like a steed of monstrous height appear'd: The sides were plank'd with pine; they feign'd it made for their return, and this the vow they paid. Thus they pretend, but in the hollow side selected numbers of their soldiers hide: With inward arms the dire machine they load, and iron bowels stuff the dark abode.'

It would work, with a modification that only a Ulysses could've envisioned. As long as the galleon's capitán didn't grow wise to the ploy.

Looking around fast, Jack didn't see what he needed---he'd have to go to the Captain's cabin to get it. He ran, dodging men as he went. Banging through the door, he spotted the cloth---his white shirt, freshly washed and mended and probably the cleanest piece of material on board. It was better suited to the purpose than even sail-cloth. There was no white flag---Hector hadn't made one.

Already, it was dirty from his paint-smeared hands, but that was fine. He would wash it himself, after, if the plan worked. Closing the cabin door behind him, he went up to the quarterdeck, already shouting his idea.

"Captain---" He remembered now, to use the title when in front of the men. "We can't win here. Not like this, in open combat. Even under-armed, she's too much. I've had a thought."

Barbossa's pale gaze, shaded by the brim of the hat, turned to meet his and he watched as his lover tapped the spyglass in one long-fingered hand. At least he was being taken seriously. But, then, Hector knew that he was more than capable of tactical strategy. "Aye?"

"Let's run up a white flag. Let them think we're nearly dead in the water---crippled-like." He held out his shirt. "Let them board and then, we can take hostages. Force their capitán to surrender that way---Trojan Horse."

"It won't work, Jack." Hector frowned, eyes narrowing as they moved over the deck in front of them---over the men who were ready and waiting, practically hanging off the rails now. "Any captain worth his salt isn't goin� to come over in th� boarding party. He won't even send top officers. He will not---will not---capitulate to us at pistols held to the heads o� nothing� more than petty officers. It�s just not likely. Don�t be a bleedin� idiot."

He tried again, pulling the pistols from his sash. They were gently laid down onto the deck next to the helm. He wouldn�t need them; they wouldn�t help. �Look, mate. Ask them to show mercy, send men over to us to discuss terms. They�ll think we�re weak, probably send some officers. Think of me as the card up your rather wide sleeve, won�t you? A Jack, naturally. Let them board, then I�ll eliminate the chain of command. You�ll take the officers sent over as our hostages.�

With a mad grin, Jack thrust the shirt at his lover and grabbed the bit end of a rope that lay coiled by the mizzenmast. Fast, he tied it off on the stern's rail, still talking. It worked as a diversionary tactic, if nothing else. "Have the men run that shirt up as the flag and wait for my signal---" With a last look at Barbossa, he pulled a brave face, hoping that the older man would give in, this time. "You know I'm good for it, Hector...trust me."

Then, grasping the rope between his fists, he dropped himself over the stern and down past the cabin's mullioned windows. All the way down to the waterline, just above the rudder. The water was chilly, but not unbearable. He sucked in a deep breath, let go of the rope, made sure of the galleon's location in the water, and dove under.

Instantly, he got a taste of paint and saltwater and his eyes began to sting. Blinking, he adjusted and began to frog-stroke with his head down against the flow. He was going to put his life on the line, hoping against hope that Hector Barbossa would actually trust him. It wasn't a very pirate thing to do, but it was all he had. There was no point in getting everyone killed---who could enjoy swag and shine, if they were dead or too wounded to care? It was much better to negotiate. Not only did one get to survive, but he'd discovered that it was empowering to have a chance to quietly gloat at a prisoner.

In only his trousers and covered in paint, the swim was a messy affair; he had to come up for air and a re-direction several times, but no one seemed to be noticing. He suspected that was because of the change in strategy. The black flag was down from the mainmast. Flying, instead, was a white shirt which hung from the bowsprit of The Victorious. He couldn't resist sucking in a lungful of air and chuckling softly---Barbossa wouldn't raise the white flag to the mainmast, but it was definitely out there to be seen.

Now, he was right under the beam of the galleon, at its stern.

The men on The Victorious were shockingly silent---they were, after all, not going to be allowed to murder and pillage and that tended to hurt a pirate's feelings. Not that they'd admit to feeling hurt. On the galleon, things were much louder. He could hear questions being asked in Spanish among the officers, even from his vantage point in the water. Funny how water carried sound that way. The two ships were within firing range and nobody was actually lighting a wick. He was in the shadow of the galleon's stern and watching as he tread water.

The shouting began. Back and forth between the ships. Bootstrap was calling out in his loud, strong voice. The Spaniards had an officer who stood at the rail and yelled back. Questions. Answers. Suggestions. The Victorious was being surrendered, almost dead in the water. The Spaniards didn't quite know what to think of it---and that was audible to his ears, though the conversation was not meant for the ears of the men on The Victorious. It was confusing for the officers of the galleon---hadn't the British privateer ship come out with guns ready and flying the black flag of No Mercy? What was the change really about?

The consensus, agreed upon by the Spanish officers, seemed to be that the Englishmen had decided they weren't a match for the larger, better-armed ship. Again, he chuckled, realizing that the bait was probably going to be swallowed whole. He pulled the caltrops free of his sash and began to climb the flat, square stern.

The noise of his ascent was lost in the sound of grappling hooks and planks; the galleon was sending over a dozen junior officers to negotiate the surrender and inspect things. From what he could tell, the capitán and his most senior officers were standing toward the front of the aftcastle...which meant that he had a chance of catching them unawares as long as there was no one manning the aftside gunwales.

Hand over hand, he dragged himself up by his arms and the caltrops, their sharp spikes sinking with little sound into the dense, water-proof wood. He reached the gallery and climbed over the rail there, using the back of his wrist to wipe saltwater from his eyes as he glanced around at The Victorious and her crew. All the men were seated on the deck...except for Barbossa and Bill Turner, who stood on the quarterdeck with the Spanish officers, who were decked out in pompous frock-coat uniforms and hats. There was conversation, but he couldn't hear it. He hoped that Hector could hold his temper long enough to see the plan through.

Then, he bit back his concern and skirted the gallery side, seeking the best place to sink his caltrops next. Finding it, he started up the shortest distance, being very careful to keep his body between the circular blades that were embedded in the wood at a half-meter apart. A slip caused him to lash out with a foot, trying to catch his balance on the curved wooden bulkhead and he felt the slicing pain before he had the chance to stop himself. No good. He didn't bother to look at the wound; he had much more important things to do, such as keep to the plan.

At last, he reached the rail and found that there were no guards on the aftside gunwales. With a smirk, Jack slid over the high, rounded rail and crouched, gathering his strength and breath. No one had noticed him...yet. He looked carefully at the officers who stood only a few yards away. Licking at the corners of his salt-stained lips, Jack readied himself and then jumped up with a wild, ululating cry meant to make strong men soil themselves.

The element of surprise worked. He sunk his two caltrops into two officers before he'd even gotten four steps on deck. One, the thigh...the other, the shoulder. Jack didn't stop to admire his handiwork; instead, he pulled the two boarding axes and used them to slash his way through three officers who had decided to rush him.

Soon, he was facing the capitán, who had backed up against the helm in surprise. The man was nearly his size and seemed to be excellently intelligent; in the face of a wild, screaming pirate, the capitán didn't wet himself or draw his sword. Instead, the swarthy, mustached gentleman gave him a congratulatory smile and, removing his ridiculously large hat, went to one knee right before the massive wheel. As if expecting to be massacred.

Jack tucked his gory axes back into the front of his sash and drew his cutlass. He held it to the back of the capitán's neck and yelled out his signal. "Your move, mate!"

He knew that Barbossa couldn't really see much of what had happened on the tall castle of the galleon; he knew that his lover was probably cursing him. Probably even worried for what the signal meant. Had he been successful? Had he been caught and forced to shout out, to push his captain into making a fatal move? He wondered what he'd do, in Hector's boots.

A gunshot broke the air. Followed by the shouting cheers of the men on The Victorious.

With a glance at the wounded officers around him who were in various stages of bleeding pain, Jack kept his sword pointed at the capitán even while stepping nimbly to the rail. What greeted his eyes was something horrid and bloody and...successful. The pirates were chopping at the junior officers with boarding axes not so different from the ones he'd used on the senior officers, on the galleon. It wasn't so much a Trojan Horse maneuver as it was...

An infiltrating pincer movement, like that of Caesar. The men of The Victorious had surrounded the Spanish junior officers and cut them off from the galleon. He had infiltrated the upper side, on the galleon itself, destroying from within. He laughed and turned to cast a haughty eye on the capitán.

"Bad luck, mate. My sympathies, eh? Better you than us."

***

He'd been right about the sailors on board the galleon; there were nearly two hundred of them and only half wanted to join the pirate crew on The Victorious. They certainly didn�t need to take on more men, though. So, they were all set out with water and supplies in boats on the wee island. It was on the next morning that they began to investigate the galleon and decide upon what would be done with it. He was all for keeping the ship---letting Bootstrap play captain at the helm. They could salvage bits of the galleon or trick her out as even more of a warship. Whatever Captain wanted.

Not that Barbossa was being helpful in that department, deciding.

Barbossa ate an apple and grumbled, pacing the deck of the galleon, while he watched from his perch on the broad rail. The men were down below, taking stock of the holds. Every now and then, a sailor came up complaining of the horribly strong tar smell in the belly of the galleon.

"If this massive bitch is carryin� nothing� but tar, Jack..." Hector stopped and looked directly at him with absolute disgust in his freckled, long face. "I'll have ye whipped at th� mast for it. Ye wee bloody fool. Ye could've been killed. Ye could've gotten us all killed. Tar won't sell in Singapore, not for any real worth."

Jack shook his head, still smiling.

To his mind, it was more than it seemed. Tar didn't ride that low in the water.

After another bell, Bootstrap came up, his lank dark hair dampened by sweat. Their Sailing Master's blue eyes were quiet, but full of a strangely appealing light. "Captain? Jack? You might want to see this."

Down in the hold, the smell was overpowering and it was dark. With the tar gases, he knew it was best to leave all lamps unlit. But, then Bill did something unexpected and...in any other case, stupid. The skinny sailor lit a candle and bent down, to show them what he'd found. The tar wasn't tar. It was...shiny, when the tar was scraped away. Very shiny. And heavy.

Jack bent, picked up the scraped piece---it felt like it weight more than eighty pounds---and slowly carried it up-top. There, on the deck, he and Hector watched as Bill scraped more of the sticky black sealer off. Slowly, under the short, yellow-handled knife, the block was revealed. Silver. Massive bullion bricks of silver. All hidden under a layer of tar.

He met his lover's gaze when Hector looked up at him from staring at the silver. There was dark speculation involved. Barbossa's voice was soft, thoughtful. "How much of this is in the holds?"

"I looked at the ship's manifest." Bill Turner was still carving at the tar and didn't bother to look away from his work. "Ten thousand blocks of tar bound for China all the way from Paraguay. It didn�t make sense, really. I lit a candle, to take a look, and when nothing exploded, I realized this wasn�t real tar. So, if they're all like this..."

Jack did the mathematics in his mind and came up with the answer at the same time Hector did. "That's four hundred and eight tonnes of silver, mate." He started chuckling as he sat back on his heels, hanging his hands between crouched knees. "What did I tell you?"

"So, ye were right." Barbossa scowled.

"I usually am." He reached out and laid a finger on the cold metal that gleamed in the sunlight. "So, what do we do with this? I don't want Beckett to have any part of it. He can have everything we've taken so far, but he can't touch this haul."

"We'll need to find a place to stash them." Bill Turner made a face and shrugged. "Give the men their share chopped into pieces to make the pieces look unimportant, then hide the rest. Burn the galleon once we're done."

It didn't sound like a bad plan.

Barbossa nodded, agreeing. "I think I know just th� place to stow this shine."
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Wi' A Wannion