His first thought was that he was back on the Pearl.

How he came to be there was more than a little hazy though; either he had dreamed Barbossa’s second mutiny or he had taken his ship back in a manner that he couldn’t quite remember. But the how didn’t seem to be all that important, not for the moment. The vague awareness that his head was trying to hurt possibly explained both the uncertainty and his lack of concern. Maybe he been celebrating, rum rarely gave him a headache but it could be that he'd been drinking brandy, or some other inferior beverage. Barbossa’s hoard no doubt.

Yes, that would explain it. He had taken the Pearl back and had been celebrating being home again.

On that comfortable thought he wriggled against the softness of the bed for a moment, shifting his head slightly in an attempt to ease the vague ache in his neck. The movement stirred a flash of some new and indefinable concern, but he was too tired to chase the elusive thought. With a mental shrug he let it go and fell back into blackness.

***

The Black Pearl left Tortuga as the sun began to sink behind the horizon and the smell of cooking took hold of the heavy, humid air. Around her the fishing boats came and went, and an incoming merchantman gave her a nervously wide birth as it headed for the comparative safety of the quay. Above the masts the clouds were gathering as an evening storm summoned its’ forces, and the wind blew stronger into the patched black canvas.

Barbossa watched as the sheets were unfurled, pushing her faster out of the bay and towards the open sea, when they had found the fountain there would be time and opportunity aplenty to make repairs to the damage. Once they found the fountain, and that had better be soon.

The atmosphere on deck was as threatening as the skies, though not perhaps in the way that would once have been the case. This time the threat was for things far closer to home. Barbossa could feel the mood of the crew shifting like the gathering clouds, yet he could find neither the will nor the energy to forestall the coming squall, not yet a storm but uncomfortable for all involved none the less.

He had tried to ignore Pintel’s aggressive glare and Raggietti’s sly sideways glances, there was no point in facing trouble before you were sure that it’s sword point was headed at your belly, but he had heard them muttering to the newer members of his crew and he had little doubt about what they had been saying. Or the stories they had been telling. Mind skipping back to the days of the curse, as it seemed to do so often now, he wondered again where the man he had been then had gone to. Even the man who had marooned Jack Sparrow seemed lost to him now. Between the voices and the memories it was hard to know just who he was any longer, and he was very much afraid that it was going to get worse. Calypso was planning on having her sport with him in full measure no doubt.

Since he had left Jack behind new recollection had stirred, pictures of the world he had inhabited before Tia Delma had called him back to break her own curse. Sometimes they were pale shadows, ghosts, but numerous enough to come between him and the world his eyes could see. At times he wasn’t even sure which world he was seeing any longer, the world of the living or the half recalled world of the dead. Yet even half recalled it set his heart racing and the fires of anxiety burning in his blood; he would do all that was in his power to avoid returning there, yet that very anxiety had cost him his only means of escape.

Taking the Pearl again had been his last act of defiance, his final shot at reclaiming who he thought was from whom he feared he was becoming; but it had failed, or so it seemed, and now he was as adrift as a rudderless ship. His will was being bled away by the passage of the days, and like an insect trapped in amber he looked out helplessly on a world that he could see but somehow couldn’t touch. His only respite was the time he had was with little Jack, feeding him the nuts that seemed to appear in his pockets from nowhere.

He stood at the helm all night, lookouts had been posted fore and aft and every lamp had been lit, but there had been no sign of Jack Sparrow or his little boat. In the growing light of the dawn the sea was empty and the horizon shrouded in mist, and though Barbossa schooled his face to impassivity inside him the tension mounted, the screw tightening with every passing hour. The loss of that chart had already cost him dear, and would cost him dearer still if they didn’t find Sparrow soon. He didn’t need the voices whispering in his head to tell him that his mastery of his fate was seeping away again when he could see it at the backs of the eyes of the men around him. Like sharks circling a stricken ship they were watching him, waiting for another mistake, or for another captain. So he stayed on deck as day arrived, watching them back, barking orders to remind them who he was and wondering what he would do when they told him nay.

Not for the first time Barbossa wished that Gibbs has not been so loyal to Jack. With him as mate the situation would be far less dangerous, drunken sot the man might be but he knew how to hold a crew together. Something else to despise Jack Sparrow for, friend was not a word, should not be a word, in a pirate’s vocabulary. So why then did he feel such bitter envy for the fact that Gibbs the then Pearl’s crew had returned, against the code, to reclaim Jack from the noose?

As the last star faded before the power of the sun he stared down at the decks with calculation in his eyes and his hand on his pistol butt. Below him all seemed as it should be, but he could feel the anticipation in the air as keenly as he could taste the salt on the wind. They were waiting for something right enough, yet they scurried to enact his orders readily. For the moment they seemed unwilling to act against him and only Pintel was truly spoiling for a fight, but then when wasn’t he? While Raggetti remained uncertain even he would avoid the confrontation. Yet that could not hold forever.

With an impatient curse he stormed up the deck to the forward lookout,
“What be ye seeing? Any sign of Sparrow?” he demanded.
The lad shook his head,
“Na sign of anyting captain.
“Aye, well, keep a sharp eye, he can’t be so far ahead of us now.”
“Not if this is right heading anyways.”
Raggetti’s voice came from behind him.

Barbossa turned slowly to stare at his crewman. The man’s one good eye slid away leaving the new wooden eye staring blankly at him, but his posture suggested that he was testing something. Barbossa felt a sudden urge to pull his pistol and blow that dead stare through the back of its' owners head, but his hand refused to move. Instead he heard his own voice replying as if from a long way away,
“That be true acourse. What ye be knowing that the rest of us don’t, Master Raggetti, that you think it might not be?”
Raggetti seemed to shrink further away from him, though he didn’t move.
“Nothin captain.”
“Aye I thought not. So we’ll be afollowing this course until we be assured that it’s the wrong one.”
With that he turned and stomped back to the helm.

He could feel Raggetti’s eyes on him as he went, could feel the speculation in them, and he knew that something, or someone, would give before sunset.

***

Elanor had returned to check on her unexpected and unwelcome passenger at hourly intervals as the morning crawled by. Twice she lifted his wrist to check his pulse and both times he muttered something she couldn’t catch and feebly pulled at his arm until she released him. A new thought occurred to her, what if he spoke no English? How was she to communicate with a hurt and probably angry man without a common language? With a sigh she had returned to Ariadne and started a search for suitable translation.

A further study of the charts had provided no real indication of where he had come from or where he might be going to; and, for once, Aridane was unwilling to hazard any guesses. So the Chaser remained at anchor while her captain railed at the loss of time. She had been well ahead of the rest, and there was no sign of them as yet, but her lead was being steadily eroded every minute she remained here. Even so she was unwilling to resume her course if it meant backtracking, or keeping him onboard for a second longer than she had to.

At mid day she had prepared a meal and taken her plate to sit at his bedside in the hope that the smell of food might bring him to his senses. But though he had rolled over and muttered under his breath, it sounded like ‘peanut’ though she couldn’t imagine why it would be, his eyelids didn’t even flicker. She had tried coffee next, but while that stirred a slight twitch of his nose it brought him no closer to consciousness. With a sigh she had straightened the sheet and pillow, brushed the tangled braids away from the dressing on his forehead and left him to sleep.

She spent the first part of the afternoon up on deck, taking the opportunity to tackle some of the more delicate maintenance tasks. Once she moved she would have to cover a lot of water fast if she was to regain her advantage, and there would be no opportunity to do the work under those conditions. Even so the delay was like a thorn pricking at her skin and her eyes kept drifting to the slowly dipping sun, willing the man below to wake up and break the hiatus. But by late afternoon it was clear that her visitor had no intention of waking soon, and, unwilling to lose all her lead, Elanor had reluctantly weighed anchor and resumed her planned course. She was loath to lose more time than she had to, even if it meant a longer detour later.

Yet some feeling of unease niggled at her and she found she was holding canvas and moving more slowly than she needed to, avoiding venturing too far from where she had found him.

***

His second thought was that while he was on a ship it wasn’t the Pearl. Or if it was then Barbossa had been doing something bloody strange in his cabin, because he didn’t recall it ever smelling like this. But then he didn’t recall any ship he had ever been on smelling like this, no tar, no lamp oil, no miasma of the bilges, no salt. He frowned but did not open his eyes, how could a ship not smell of the sea!

But it was a ship, he was sure of that because he could feel from the movement of the bed that he was at sea and that the waves were beneath a hull of some form.

So maybe he had taken another ship and was chasing the Pearl. Yes, that might work. The feeling that his head was trying to tell him something important was still there but he felt strangely lethargic and disinclined to listen to it. Some warning sense pulled at his exhausted mind but it wasn’t strong enough to overcome the desire to stay where he was. There was no need to fear for the moment, his most pressing enemies were gone and Gibbs would watch his back. The crew would rouse him when they caught up with the Pearl, until then he could get some of the sleep he had missed these last weeks.

Jack sighed deeply and let sleep win.

***

It was early in the evening when she went back down to the cabin again. He was still asleep, but he had moved at some time because the long hair, now dry, was splayed against the pillow, and among the thick, dark, tresses a number of ornaments were visible. While the braids and dreadlocks were not so unexpected as to be extraordinary this additional decoration was. She reached out and fingered the string of beads closest to his face, turning the charm suspended from it towards the light. It looked like a coin, but not one that was familiar, and she made a note to herself to check it with the databases to see if it told her anything more about him.

With a sigh she let the charm drop back into his hair, she wouldn’t need to bother if he would just wake up, but he showed no sign of doing that. Maybe that wasn’t so surprising though, he had received a nasty bang to his head and close to she could see the fatigue etched in his face, it looked as if it had been a long time since he had slept properly. As she watched he started to stir, turning his head on the pillow, his hands moving restlessly against the sheet; he muttered something that she couldn't quite make out, but for some reason she felt it was both a name and a protest. For a moment his lashes seem to flutter as if he would open his eyes, then he fell silent, his roving hands coming to rest across his belly. With a small sigh he seemed to settle himself deeper into the bunk, easing his head against the pillow as if seeking a more comfortable position. He took a deep breath, exhaled on a sigh and seemed to sink still deeper into sleep.

He stayed that way as she took his pulse again, even her checking of the dressing produced no response other than another sigh and a further resettling of his head.
“Ariadne,” she called impatiently, “how much longer is he likely to be out?”
“There is not sufficient information for accurate predication,” the irritatingly composed voice replied.
“Rough estimate will do,” she huffed, there were times when a little companionable emotion might be nice.
“Some hours. He shows signs of a deep and prolonged fatigue, it is unlikely that he would wake soon even were he not injured.”
Elanor stared at him in frustration,
“Could I wake him safely? I need to know how much of a detour I’m going to have to make.”
“It would not be advised and might yield no benefit for the risk, the blow to his head coupled with fatigue may prevent him giving any coherent information even were he to wake.”

She watched at the man for a moment longer before getting abruptly to her feet, baring her teeth in a non smile at him,
“I hope you aren’t this irritating when you are awake,” she hissed, and returned to the deck.

***

The winds were light and progress was slow but as the sun climbed high there was no denying that they should have sailed beyond Jack's likely range, yet there had been no sign of him. The tension on board the Pearl was growing, stretching like wet linen, its' tautness written in the faces around him. Barbossa tried to ignore it and stood in silence staring at the empty sea. But Tia Delma’s words still echoed in his head, forcing him to clasp his hands behind him lest he see corruption he was sure was there. The seas were calm and the earlier mists were gone yet the feeling that they were sailing into a storm persisted. Or maybe the shadow of a storm already passed.

It seemed he was to be proved right about that when they came upon the driftwood.

"Looks like it was a boat," Marty said, casting a quick look at his captain as he hauled the splintered remnants of a dingy’s mast on to the deck.
"Aye, that it does," Barbossa agreed, "but there be no indication that it had aught to do with Jack Sparrow."
Pintel glowered at him from the other side of sodden flotsam,
"and none that it's not," he growled.
Raggetti stared at his friend nervously as if shocked by his sudden temerity.

Barbossa felt his belly tighten but his reply came out calm and assured enough,
"Aye that also be true, so we better be a’making sure gentlemen.”
He raised his voice a trifle,
“Come about Mr Cotton, let’s be a seeing see what else there is to find.”
He looked back to Marty with a slight smile,
“‘Tis unlikely that he would sink his boat in such calm water, even with too much rum, but then with Sparrow you can never be sure."
He saw a glower in the faces that turned away from him and his hand dropped with elaborate nonchalance to his pistol butt.

As it was only Pintel pressed an attack,
"If he has then the charts is gone with him, and where does that leave us? You promised us the fountain if we left captain Jack behind, now see where it's led us." Pintel seemed to grow more challenging by the second.
Barbosa pretended not to notice and merely smiled again, but his fingers caressed the pistol in obvious warning,
"Jack's nary so easy to kill, he's safe enough somewhere and the charts be with him. Even so, if this be a boat t’would be foolish not to find out whose and were they went. There might be other profit in it. Do ye not think?"
For a moment it seemed that Pintel might have yet more to say, but Raggetti put his hand on his arm and tugged him away. The others watched the two go then turned to stare at Barbossa as if measuring him. This time he found his temper from somewhere and snapped,
“Well, what ye be awaiting for, ye scurvy sons of whores. Bring us about.”
Though they muttered and whispered amongst themselves they did as he commanded.

Barbossa turned away and stepped towards the rail clasping his hands tightly behind him again. The waves caps danced before his eyes, white as the bone of his dead hand, he closed his eyes and pretended that he couldn’t see.

***

As the sun reddened she left the Chaser to Aridane’s control and went down to the galley and prepared another meal, once again she took it to eat at the side of the still unconscious or sleeping stranger. She wasn’t sure which, nor for that matter was Ariadne, either way he gave no sign that he was aware of her presence. Not even when she reached out and straightened the sheet, her fingers brushing his skin as she pulled it higher up his chest; nor when she changed his pillow for one unmarked by salt water and kohl. Short of actually shaking him awake there was little else she could do, and shaking him awake might result in those tar stained and beringed hands finding their way around her throat and precipitating a confrontation she would really rather not have. Not yet at least.

With a sigh she rose and headed back to the galley,
‘might as well what I can do with his clothes while he is still asleep’ she thought as she deposited the detritus of her meal in the bin, ‘demonstrate my good intentions.’

She shook the small pile of clothing onto the table and began to search for a cleaning label. The coat was lined in silk that showed more evidence of its’ heavy wear, but there was no label or identifying mark at all. Further intrigued she was about to put it to one side when she felt the bulk of something in an inner pocket, her curious fingers explored the shape of it carefully before she pulled it free, maybe this was the reason for his presence out here.

It proved to be a rolled up document of some kind, not paper, it was too rough and fibrous for that, and old, judging by its appearance. With care she opened it out, staring in disbelief at the delicate chart that was revealed. If his weapons were antique this looked to be ancient, ancient and very, very valuable if it were the real thing. Carefully she spread it out on the table her smoothing fingers discovering that parts of it moved, turning like a kaleidoscope to make new views and patterns. Beautiful and strange, but it provided no answers, at least not without its’ owner to explain it. The rough edges made her wonder about the appropriateness of the word ‘owner’ though, they had the look of something newly cut and why would he do that if he had any right to it? So maybe that explained it, he was a thief who had robbed a museum somewhere and had been in the process of escaping when she had hit him.

An armed thief, another uncomfortable thought!
“Ariadne,” she instructed with a frown, “defence level three.”

But on reflection that made no sense either. A professional thief, and to get into the type of museum that would hold such an artefact these days he had to be a very professional thief, would hardly trust his escape to a small dingy in the open seas. Maybe not a thief then but a law officer recovering stolen goods. But then the same held true for that.

With a sigh she searched the rest of the small pile of clothing before putting it into the laundry unit, then she gathered up the chart and carefully laid it alongside the pistol and the sword in the strong room. Finally she returned to the cabin and took another look in on the sleeping man, now curled up on his side with one hand pushed under the pillow; then, when she was sure he was still asleep, she returned to the helm.

***

His third thought was that he was on the Dutchman, but as captain or passenger that was the question wasn’t it? Dead or alive, captain or crew?

Captain he decided, he was lying on a bed, he knew that, so it had to be as captain. He felt his spirits lift, taking wing on the realisation that he was free forever, free and safe from the locker. Oh there would be work, duties to perform, but when was there not? William might not have understood the reality of a pirate captain's life but Jack Sparrow most certainly did. Responsibility, well that was not so appealing, but he taken that before, sought it out if he recalled correctly, much to his fathers' disgust and anger. He could do it again if that was what he needed to do to be free to sail the seas forever. He would do the job and not make Jones' mistakes.

‘No’, something reminded him, ‘William’s the Dutchman’s captain now. You made him so.’
He moved his head restlessly on the pillow,
‘What? Why did I do that?’ he thought, ‘Oh yes. I remember. Pity really but nothing else for it.’ Not if he wanted to live forever with himself. Like Teague.

Teague. That was one boon, the long postponed meeting with his father had taken place without it killing one or other of them, or both of them come to that. So at least something had come out of that disastrous Court. After the battle it almost seemed as if the Keeper had forgiven him for forsaking the brethren for the other side of the law. Somehow he didn’t think it was that easy, nothing involving his father and he ever was.

Somewhere grief stirred with that memory but he couldn’t quite remember why, he knew that for the moment he didn’t want to remember why. There were many things that could not be faced in the aftermath of battle, but he knew that there was something that he was going to have to square one day. Just not now.

But the thought had set his head aching again and there was a pain seeping though him that he couldn’t quite place. Jack eased his shoulders against the bed feeling the darkness around him deepen as he did so, he wondered fleetingly why it was so quiet as he slipped back over the edge of the world.

***

They had searched for hours and had little to show for it.

A bottle found bobbing on the waves, half filled with rum it was true but otherwise uninformative; it might have been Jack’s or it might not. A water cask was found next, still nearly full, but it could have come from any port in the Caribbean and been lost from any ship passing in the last month. More driftwood, little more than matchsticks tossed here and there by the swell and telling no more story than their first find.

But the story that it did tell was not one Barbossa wanted to hear.

Whatever had destroyed this little boat had been big, for it had not so much smashed it as exploded it. Only the absence of burn marks persuaded Barbossa that it hadn’t been cannon fire. He had picked up one of the larger pieces and turned it around in his hand, no fish had done this and it would take a much heavier sea than was likely for it to have been the result of a the juxtaposition of a small boat on open water. So what had done it, and did it matter? A shiver ran up his back and the voices shrieked in his ear, how could it not matter?

The crew had huddled around each new find, passing them around and putting into words what Barbossa did not want to face, if this had been Jack’s boat then he was at the bottom of the sea again and their quest for the fountain was over before it began.

Little Jack had come to sit on his shoulder, chattering in his ear and pulling at his coat. Barbossa felt his mouth lift in a smile as he pulled a peanut from his pocked and held it out to the tiny hand reaching hand, the smile widened as the leather soft fingers took it delicately and nibbled at it happily. A second nut followed the first, and Barbossa found himself crooning to the little monkey,
“there then who's a clever boy, who's a good, clever boy,”
The monkey chattered in pleasure and third nut appeared between his fingers.

If only the other Jack had been so easily pacified.

The smile froze like a rictus as he watched Marty hold up the most recent salvage; a flag, and a small and ridiculous flag. The wreckage might have been anyone’s, the death story of any unfortunate caught in a small boat in a large sea, but the bird staring jauntily from this scrap of cloth told him all too clearly just who that unfortunate had been.

It told the rest of the crew too.

***

He was in a dingy on the open sea, and he knew that he was heading towards the Fountain of Youth and waiting for Barbossa to catch him. Below the blue waters the Kracken watched him, its’ eyes sad and sorrowful, tentacles waving forlornly at him as if asking for forgiveness.

He reached out and touched one suckered limb, ‘no need mate’ he whispered, for he had found that he could forgive on that beach; it had done only what it was in its' nature to do, he had done what was in his nature to do and they were square. For a moment it stared at him, as if reading the thought in his eyes, and then the tentacle was drawn away, slowly stroking his face as it went. With a final wave it was gone and he watched it swim away, down to the blacker waters and the man who waited for it.

Alone again he wondered how long it would take to be able to forgive others, though he knew he must make some attempt if he was to survive. He had given up his future for that attempt and now he was alone. Alone in the fog on a becalmed sea.

Then suddenly he wasn’t alone, the fog rolled up carrying another monster at its’ heart.

He cried out once as the world exploded.

***

While Ariadne was more than capable of sailing the Chaser Elanor preferred to do as much herself as was sensible. There was something deeply satisfying in steering herself towards the horizon; it was why she was doing this, why she was where she was. Normally she found it as comforting as anything in her life, but today it failed to have its usual soothing effects. For very good reasons too, a lot of them. The stars.

No amount of staring could change the fact that somehow she wasn’t quite where she had expected to be.

Which made no sense, unless she had drifted further than she thought in that wretched fog. The idea had unsettled her again and she had hurried to consult with Ariadne, to check her bearings and determine just how far from her planned course she now was, and what would be best to steer to get back on track.

Which was when the weirdness really started.

***

Light poured in on him, seeping behind his eyelids and pushing sleep away. He sighed and tried to settle back into the comfort of the darkness and the softness of the bed, but the very feel of it jolted him fully awake.

Bed. Soft. Bed.
How?
Whose?

He kept still and listened. Nothing. Carefully he slid a hand across the surface of the bed, only breathing out when his hand found the edge. No one there. Narrow, not a bed after all, a bunk. Now that was strange, given how soft it was. And why was he lying in a bunk anyway? He’d been in a dingy, he was sure he had been. No bunks in a dinghy, soft or otherwise.

With a silent curse he sat up, then quickly laid back down as his stomach rose in protest at the movement and his head finally managed to attract his attention. Apparently all it had wanted to do was tell him how much it bloody hurt.

Jack cursed again, what had he been drinking? Not even Barbossa’s deplorable taste would have encompassed the sort of stuff that would result in this kind of headache. With a groan he raised his hand to his head, his eyes flew open despite the raging pain as his tentative fingers met not his familiar scarf but what felt to be some kind of bandage. The light seemed to lance his eyeballs with a red hot poker and he groaned aloud and closed them tight again. He didn’t need to see to think.

Bandage. Hurt? No he hadn’t been hurt. Well not recently, at least not that he remembered. Jones had hit him with a few nasty blows it was true but he was sure he had been awake since then. But something was wrong, something he had to see to fathom, or so his tortured head was insisting.

Carefully he opened his eyes again slitting them against the pain, examining his own hand with care. So what else was wrong? Still had his hand and all his fingers, rings were there. No glove though. That seemed to be part of the problem; he closed his aching eyes and thought about his hand aimlessly for a second or two. Then he realised, hand, arm, but no shirt. He opened his eyes to check but the light was bright, too bright and he closed them again quickly.

With a deep breath he swallowed down on his nausea and moved his legs carefully, that he could feel them was a relief given the bandage, in fact he could feel more of them than he should. The touch of the sheet was nice, soft and clinging, stroking almost, but it was stroking too much flesh. No breeches. He moved a little more, and then he froze in another sudden realisation, no shirt, no breeches, no clothes. Naked, he was naked. Oh.

With a head like this that was probably not good.

Slowly and with infinite care he rolled over to the side of the bunk, squinting against the pain as he searched the floor for his errant attire. Nothing. He concentrated harder and let his eyes rove as far as they could without the need to move his head, normally his breeches would be on the floor within his reach, this time however they didn’t appear to be. Oh.

Swallowing hard on the bile surging in his throat he concentrated on the floor, maybe it would tell him where he was. But the floor didn’t look like any bawdy house or tavern room that he could recall, not even in Singapore. Smooth wood, polished, beautiful wood, and very costly looking wood. Ah.

With elaborate care he rolled over to his other side. Wall, smooth wall, coloured wall, unfamiliar but costly looking wall. Oh.

Carefully he rolled onto his back again, feeling the softness of the mattress as it shifted beneath him, not quite like anything he could remember lying on before. He realised he had been holding his breath again and let it out on a deep sigh. So, to take stock; expensive bed, expensive floor, expensive walls. He listened to the story of the movement of the bunk for a moment then squinted up at the smooth white bulkhead above him, expensive ship.

No clothes. No memory of how he came to be on the expensive ship without said clothes.

Bugger, what had he got himself into this time.

Chapter 4 - Fancy that - or the weirdness continues