They had proved both persistent and tenacious and, though unable to match the Pearl's speed, they had managed to stay close enough for escape to be far from certain. Never close enough to engage, but always within spyglass distance, they began a game of cat and mouse that had Barbossa spinning the wheel and hollering new orders every half hour or so, and the crew's muscles screaming. One man nearly fell, only a tangled ankle stopping his head first pitch to the deck; it would be a while before he walk with any ease again but this time he held on to his life.

Even when darkness fell the pursuit continued and though they ran dark, with all the risks that brought, their pursuers seemed stuck to their tail.

The following day bought no respite, all three of them back within view, their larger crews and ranks of officers giving them the advantage over the Pearl's wearied men and her desperate captain. The crew tried not to look at Barbossa for he was more hollow eyed than he had since their return from Singapore, even the monkey seemed weary. Barbossa could guess at the mutterings though they never let him see them, and in the odd moments that the Navy vanished from view he thought he heard the whispers on the wind and cursed. He tried every trick he knew and still they remained stubbornly on his back, in the end he found himself wondering what Sparrow would have done, the realisation of what he was thinking bringing a sickness to his stomach.

The pursuit continued through the second day, pushing them away from the course he wished to take, the one that would bring him close to the chart and the fountain. By the end of the second day they were all exhausted and further from his intend course than Barbossa was willing to admit even to himself.

They would have been pushed further off course, and might even have been trapped, but for an odd storm that blew up on the third day, bringing winds that gave the Pearl an unmatchable advantage and allowing her to escape at last.

***

If Jack Sparrow had ever had any doubts that the events of the last months had marked him forever then being faced with a woman who insisted that she hailed from the far flung shores of the future dispelled them.

For had he not been so marked the sheer madness of her......madness would have sent him scurrying for a hiding place; but though he was temporarily struck dumb by the nature of her claims he neither ran nor made any attempt to calm her. No, instead of wondering what type of sickness it was that ailed her, or looking around for some possibility of restraining her in her ravings, as any sane man might do, he found himself regarding her closely and giving her words, and her claims, serious consideration.

At least once the first shock and reflex denials had passed he had. Not at first though, then he just sat and stared at her open mouthed as she had repeated that first body blow of a question.
"The eighteenth century? How far out is she in her calculations?"

Even as most of him gawped at her in stunned silence some part of his brain was on a different tack. This Aridane, this ghost, engaged in calculations did she? Calculations that a woman as serious minded as Captain Cavendish here, a woman so far caught out in neither levity nor gullibility, gave weight to? Interesting.

The rest of him played for time, hands exploring the bench he sat on for some possible weapon as every body hair tried to stand on end.

"Eighteenth century?" he asked warily.
She frowned at him,
"Yes, sometime after seventeen hundred and one and before eighteen hundred and one." She paused to refill her cup, setting the pot on the table with a snap that made him jump, "It seems that the population statistics and the settlement patterns suggest sometime between sixteen eighty and seventeen fifty allowing for historical inaccuracies."
She looked at him with her head cocked as if she expected a serious response.
"Historical inaccuracies?" he tried the phrase for size still staring at her as snake might face a mongoose, wishing to be elsewhere but unwilling to risk fleeing.
The expectant expression on her face didn't change, though she shrugged slightly,
"Well there always are some of those, no data is perfect given the time span involved. Ariadne seems to think that the design of the ships in the area suggest that the early seventeen hundreds is most likely, but as there is no way of knowing how long they have been in service the window of possibility needs to be wider."
Jack took a deep breath, and leaned back from the table slightly, not that he was afraid of her he insisted to himself just to be able to see more of her and better judge her mood.
"Yes luv, I can see that it would be."
She waited for a moment then frowned slightly,
"You don't believe me, " she shrugged again, "But nor would I believe me if I was sitting where you are. As I said just humour me and tell me how far out she is."

Jack swallowed quickly finding that his mouth was still agape and took a hurried drink from his cup wincing as the hot fluid burned his throat, how could it still be hot when the pot had been on the table the best part of half an hour? Yet more strangeness that needed to be accounted for.

He grimaced and set the cup down,
"Eighteenth century would be about right." He stared at her in consternation as she nodded apparently unfazed by his words.
"And the year, will you tell me that?"
"Does it matter? What's a year or two between a captain and her ghost?" the words were out before he could stop them. He couldn't quite believe what he had just said.
She just smiled slightly,
"It might, though I'll grant you that the century is enormity enough."
Jack raised his eyebrows feeling the dressing rasp against his hair line, and it reminded him of another little bit of weirdnessE even so the sum of it couldn't be that impossible,
"Not for me luv. For me it's quite usual."

That caused her drop her eyes down to her cup,
"Yes Ariadne seemed pretty sure that it would be."
She looked up again and her expression had hardened. With a flick of her head she indicated his forearm, the brand clearly visible on his unusually clean skin,
"She also thinks that means that you're a pirate, or were, one who got caught but escaped the gallows for some reason."
Jack kept his face still but cursed silently, mad she might be but stupid didn't seem to go alongside it,
"Maybe. Well informed this ghost of yours." He heard the uncertainty in his own voice with dismay and struggled to bury it, "but if she isn't sure of the year you are in why would she be sure of that?"
The woman opposite locked eyes with him but smiled again, though the smile had an edge that caused Jack to suppress a shudder,
"She can find things out it's true and it's a reasonable supposition given that you were carrying a loaded pistol and a sword both of which would match her estimation. Which are, incidentally, still locked in my strong room."

Jack nodded at his recognition of her meaning but matched her smile, though his heart sank at the reminder that this mad woman was still his captor, at least until he could get to his effects. However insane she might be he was not leaving this ship without them.

But he needed to head off her current line of thought if he could, reminding her of her sin and his hurts, might help
"Ah but I was alone at sea in a dingy when you ran me down luv,"
He saw her sudden hesitation and assumed an innocent look,
"minding my own business but not necessarily safe from those who might want to make me their business. In the circumstances would you have gone unarmed?"
She let her eyes drift over the brand again but then she sat back and her smile softened slightly,
"No, of course not. I'd blame no man or woman for fighting to defend themselves given that I'd be more than ready to do the same." She drew a deep breath, "But you still haven't answered my question, what year is it."

It was then that his doubts really started.

"Ah well, not sure I can help you there, not with the desired degree of exactitude you might say."
Now it was her turn to stare,
"Why not? Even if you were in prison you must have some idea of the year you were committed and how long you served."
Jack squirmed in a sudden spurt of irritation, bloody woman, why was she so sure that he'd been locked up?
"Prison, why do you assume I was in prison? I've told you I was minding me own business, me own innocent business, when you ran me down."
"I'm sorry, I meant no offence, but why else would you not know the year?"
"Why would I when you don't?"
"That's different, I've told you, I'm not where I'm supposed to be."
"Well why assume I am?"
"Because you just said you were?"
"Did not!"
"Yes you did."
"Did not! Said it might be the eighteenth century, that's all. Don't know that it is, if you've travelled some way in time I might have done so too."
Jack tried hard not to listen to what he had just said.

But it seemed to have an effect on her,
"Yes." She sounded surprised, "You might at that." She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head, "No it doesn't work, you recall seeing the Chaser appear, which suggests that you stayed where you were."
"There was a mist, I might have moved without knowing it."
"You don't think you would have noticed?"
"Did you?"
"True. But Ariadne seems to think you and your belongings fit with what else is here, while we most certainly don't."
"Oh."
He thought about that, steering his thought carefully around what else this bloody Araidne might have come up with, sooner or later he and this ghost were going to have a long and meaningful conversation! He tried to shake the thought away,
"Well that's as maybe." He pointed at her with the pretty, bright, spoon she had provided, "but that doesn't mean that it's so." He drew a deep breath and shrugged dropping the spoon back onto the table, "Eighteenth century or no I can't give you the precise year because to be honest I'm not sure of it."
Now it was her turn to look confused, she stared at him not even rising to his bait of the word honest.
"Why ever not?"

Jack thought about that one, suddenly taken aback by the sheer improbability of what he had been about to say. How could he tell this mad woman that he didn't know the year because he didn't know how long, precisely, he had been dead? He frowned to himself, it had to have been two year at least given that the others had needed time to get to Tia Dalma, collect the unfortunately resurrected Barbossa, find and equip a ship, pick up a crew, get to Singapore, then sail from there to the edge of the world and beyond. But that was not a chain of events he really wanted to discuss with a woman who claimed she came from the future.

But then given those recent events was her claim so impossible? Any sane man would tell you that it was not possible to move in time, but then any sane man would tell you that the dead couldn't be returned to the world of the living.

But then again why not?

It was then that it occurred to him that a man who knew he had been dead and in the locker and who was now very much alive, and drinking her coffee, should perhaps hesitate about assigning madness to a woman who claimed to come from another of the seas beyond the map.

If there was a map that allowed you to plot a course to the seas beyond the world men knew, to the locker and beyond, then why should a course to the future be so impossible? He found himself blinking at his own thoughts and wondering if her madness was catching. But then again was it all so much more deranged than a ship crewed by a ghost? Yet he had heard that ghost with his own ears, and his hearing, like his eyesight was as good as ever. No, there was something very strange about her and her ship and perhaps the future was as good an explanation as any other. After all the ship was real enough.

So he had allowed her to pour him another cup of her coffee, she was very polite for a mad woman it had to be admitted, and made no move to escape from her and her madness or the uncomfortably terrifying implications of her story. Instead he settled himself more comfortably, and steered the conversation back to her and her ship.
"Where exactly in the future do you say you come from?"
"That depends on where we are now?" she came back as quick as a flash.
Jack narrowed his eyes at her,
"Let us say, for the sake of avoiding any further disagreement between us, from seventeen twenty five. Not that I'm saying it is you understand, seventeen twenty five I mean, but if it were."
She frowned at him for a moment, then shrugged slightly,
"Four hundred years give or take a year or few."
Jack thought about that for a moment trying to decide if that idea was more lunatic than the idea of the locker or not.
"Four hundred!" he repeated more for something to say than because he disbelieved her, if she was from the future then four hundred years was as good an interval as any other.
She nodded,
"I set sail on the 25th of January 2105. I've been at sea for five months."

Jack stared at her again the cup halted half way to his lips,
"Five months? Alone, just you and this ghost of yours?"
"Yes I told you. I sail alone but for Ariadne."
Jack stared at her for a moment longer, five months was a long time to be alone, to be without human contact, without.. ..company. He put that thought away for future consideration, along with the admission that madness, if that what it be, did not make her any the less beautiful. Or less desirable, and he certainly didn't want to think about that aspect of her, well not yet anyway. With some effort he dragged his thought back to immediate events,
"So four hundred years from now, you set sail in your fine ship to race some people you don't want to talk about, for a prize you don't want to talk about, and ended up here in a manner you . .....don't want to talk about. Is there anything you do want to talk about? Like how you sailed over me perhaps, and why you are holding me prisoner and what exactly it is you intend to do with me now?"
Jack had felt his sense of grievance growing as he talke,d but suddenly a new and more pressing thought emerged. Eyes wide he waved a hand in her direction.
"Come to that luv, if you have travelled back four hundred years what exactly do you plan to do with yourself now? Eh?"

She stared back at him, her face expressionless,
"Oh believe me Captain Sparrow that same thought has occurred to me."

***

Barbossa didn't want to sleep, didn't want to go to the great cabin, but nor could he stand on deck knowing that the men around him were plotting his downfall, not when he couldn't find will or the fire to put an end to it. He had sent Cotton to his hammock and taken the helm himself, if they were going to take the ship then they would do so while he was still truly captain. So far there had been no move towards him, the crew had glowered and whispered but they had taken the opportunity to rest once the Navy was lost, and to eat something more than hard tack and water, the most any of them had been able to snatch while the pursuit continued. Maybe it was the gnawing of their bellies that stayed their hand, ot the languor following a meal after the days of running up and down the lines and hauling canvas. Either way the respite could not last.

He was convinced that they would mutiny now; it was only a matter of time. Hours, days or weeks, no way of telling, but each moment a torment of indecision and stomach churning, hopeless, anger. They would take him down, no denying it, even with pistol and sword he would not be able to hold them, they were too many and he was too tired. What they would do with him then he didn't know; he stroked the monkey on his shoulder and hoped they would let little Jack be. The thought of his possible fate caught at his throat more than any fear for himself.

Sparrow at least had not seen it coming, the mutiny had been unexpected and he had not had to endure the long drawn of out hours of wondering who and where it would come from. Barbossa found himself reliving that night over and over again as he stood at the helm, his coat flapping in the wind that whispered to him.

Jack Sparrow had been young then, too young, and for all his ancestry and his devious ways he had been, at bottom, an honest man. Or at least more honest than his crew. Though looking back perhaps he had been more honourable than honest, for he had done no more than honour the democratic traditions of piracy, done nothing other than to keep to the code. Given his parentage maybe that was to be expected. Barbossa had heard much of Teague but had never met him before the Brethren court; seeing him for the first time had done much to explain Sparrow's oddness for Barbossa admitted to himself that he would not have liked to have the keeper for his sire.

No Sparrow had done nothing more than many other a pirate captain might have done in similar circumstances and not expected mutiny for it. Yet Barbossa still felt that Sparrow had been honest then, whatever changes time had wrought upon him, and he had despised him for it then as he despised him still. That feeling had driven him on then just as it had driven him to leave the man at Tortuga, though now the feeling sat ill at ease beside his fear of him. There had been no fear then, only a sense that his time had come and that he stood on the brink of great things; wealth and power and ease just to name three. So they had dragged Sparrow from his bed, tied his hands behind him and given a beating to remember them by, then, when he had said nothing they had beaten him again for his refusal to plead. The lad had been proud then, too proud, now, so many years later, Barbossa wondered how much of his own dislike had been down to that.

"Captain?" Marty's voice came from beside him.
"Aye, what be it you be wanting?"
"Where are we heading?"
Barbossa felt his hands tighten in the wheel, but he schooled his face to unconcern and kept his eyes on the horizon.
"Back towards Jack Sparrow and the fountain. Navy drove us off course and we've time to make up."
"And if the Navy be waiting for us?"
"Nay, they won't be thaat. They'll be long gone now, heading for Port Royale I'll be bound. Long journey from England and they won't have expected the siting of us, nay matey they'll be wantin' a safe bearth and a little comfort before they come alooking again."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pintel down on deck staring up towards them, the man's expression was easy enough to read, he be wondering what they were talking about. So there was no unity amongst the crew, then. Not yet. Barbossa thanked his luck for the man's belligerence, it would make it hard to persuade the others to follow him and it seemed that Marty was not yet ready to walk a path to mutiny. He felt the pressure inside him ease a little, and smiled for the first time in days,
"Ay we've time enough, Navy'll not look for us where we've already been. We've time."

Maybe if he said it often enough he would come to believe it.

***

The sun was high and the wind was brisk, above them the furled canvas shifted and he thought that he could feel the ship pull at the anchor as if anxious to be away and heading towards the horizon, a feeling he was in complete agreement with.

Jack sat at the rail, his feet dangling over the edge, watching the fish jump. His captain, he supposed he had to accept her as such for the moment, and to his great surprise he found the idea less irksome than he would have supposed, was still below engaged in some business she hadn't deemed it necessary to divulge, but probably related to their conversation of earlier. Talking to her ghost no doubt, and taking care to stay out of his earshot. She had told him a little about how she had found herself in these waters and for the moment he was disposed him to believe that she had genuinely not known where she was. Odd thought that, but one that seemed to be growing on him.

Of course now she was here she was facing a problem, and not only what to do about him; understandably she had no wish to be seen but then nor could she stay anchored here. He looked around and smiled slightly, he could understand her caution; if he hadn't loved the Pearl so much he might well have coveted this powerful and beautiful lady. Others certainly would.

If the truth be told he was feeling a little covetous anyways, and not only for the ship.

"Captain Sparrow."
Her voice came from behind him and he jumped, guiltily aware of the direction of his thoughts and he smoothed his face carefully before he turned to see her approaching from the direction of the hatch with a glass in either hand. His spirits rose as he saw the depth of golden fluid in each of them, for it certainly didn't have the look of coffee. Though nor did have the look of rum.She held one glass out, slightly hesitantly it seemed,
"A restorative, help you over the shock of colliding with the future."

Yes there was definitely a hint of uncertainty about her, the first he'd seen so far, but that didn't mean he could let down his guard for that face and body could so easily put him at a disadvantage. He took the offered glass noticing again the length and strength of the elegant fingers,
"Very civil of you Captain Cavendish, a restorative would be much appreciated." He squinted at the contents of the glass being offered, "Rum?" he asked hopefully.
She shook her head sending the sun dancing in her hair, and her smile seemed to catch it, he sighed silently, there was nothing fair about the wench at all.
"Sorry, I don't drink it so I don't carry it. Brandy. Will that do?"
He smiled up at her, and held out his hand,
"Most certainly luv, but remind me to take your drinking habits in hand."
He thought about extending the sentence but caught her eye and decided to leave that for another time.
She seemed to consider that offer for a moment then raised her brows at him,
"Oh, planning on staying around that long are you?"
H e tipped the glass to her in acknowledgment,
"Seems I don't have much to say on that," he said gently.
Her smile widened a little but she didn't respond.

Jack took a deep swallow of his drink and nearly dropped the glass, but he managed to place it carefully on the deck before he gave into the choking that threatened to stifle him. Finally when he could breath again he squinted up at her frowning at the amusement he thought he could detect in her eyes.
"Brandy did you say?"
She came closer and stood behind him, staring out at the sea,
"Sorry I should have thought. Brandy from the future, probably quite different to what goes by the name around here."
Jack took a deep breath, and a short swallow; it brought back memories,
"Reminds me of some I took off a French man o' war once. Barrel of it there was, hidden inside a chest. Think the captain cried more for that then he did for the gold or powder."
He smiled at the remembrance then he recalled whom he was talking to and grimaced, burying his nose in the glass and the wonderful aroma of its contents.

But if she understood the implication she pretended not to. Though it might have been because she had something else on her mind
"What did you mean when you said that you had had enough of the supernatural?"
She took a mouthful from the contents of her glass, and looked down at him, "What is enough and how did you get involved with it in the first place?"
Jack sighed silently, he knew that it had to come, she was going to want to know why he was aboard a dingy alone in the middle of the sea; only her preoccupation with her own position had staved it off this long, Somehow he didn't think she'd believe that he'd been fishing, the absence of net being something of a hole in that story. But his instinct was to say as little as possible.

He turned to her with a depreciating look and a sweep of his hand,
"It's a long story, and one that few would choose to believe."
He saw her eyes narrow and suppressed another sigh,
"Oh? Less believable than a door in time and space is it?" she said.
Jack wriggled uncomfortably at the reminder, no denying that t'would be hard to trump her story for improbability. He played for time by taking another long drink, but he was surprised when her hand came down onto his shoulder, the grip of her fingers strong and warm,
" Couldn't really be stranger than that now could it?" her fingers tightened a little, "Anyway, I've always thought of myself as open-minded, so try me," she said.

Jack turned back to face her, the lewd quip dying unspoken as he met her eyes. He gave a slight shrug and stared away and out to the horizon, then he resigned himself to the inevitable,
"Well now," he set his glass down carefully and looked back towards her folding his hands on his knees and adopting his most earnest and honest expression, "have you ever heard of Davy Jones and the Flying Dutchman?"
She regarded him with that narrow eyed amusement he was coming to recognise,
"Yes, I've heard of Davy Jones but what relevance does that story have to you?" was all she said.
Jack smiled at her and raised his hand, one finger extended in a gesture of explanation
"Well it depends on what you mean by my story luv," he looked up at her from under his eyelashes feeling her brandy warm in his blood and a sudden recklessness taking possession of him, "and have you ever heard of the East India Trading Company?"
She inclined her head in understanding,
"Yes I think so."
He raised his hand to hers, taking her fingers in his and letting his voice soften,
"Well my story," he said earnestly, "is the tale of how the one met the other, how they swore a hell pact to control the seas, and the battle that followed."