CHAPTER 21: SMOKE ON THE HORIZON
The fire burned for hours.
Elizabeth slept eventually, exhaustion finally overcoming her determination. I'd offered her the shadiest spot on the island, and she'd accepted with a murmured thanks before passing out almost instantly.
Jack didn't sleep. Neither did I.
We sat side by side in the firelight, watching the flames consume what remained of our supplies. The smoke column rose like a beacon, catching moonlight, spreading across the sky.
"She's got fire in her," Jack said eventually. "The governor's daughter. More than I expected."
"She's more than a governor's daughter."
"Obviously." Jack's voice was contemplative. "You notice things about people, don't you? See past the surface to what's underneath."
Curse Sight helps, I thought. So does knowing how their stories end.
"Sometimes."
"What do you see when you look at me?"
The question caught me off guard. Jack Sparrow, asking for honest assessment. No performance, no deflection.
"I see a man who's very good at pretending to be a fool," I said carefully. "Who uses chaos as camouflage. Who's running from something—maybe death, maybe mortality, maybe just the fear of being trapped."
Jack was quiet for a long moment.
"Most people only see the fool."
"Most people don't look past the performance."
"And you do?"
"I try."
He turned to face me fully. In the firelight, his eyes looked older than the rest of him—ancient, almost, carrying the weight of years I couldn't quite account for.
"When this is over," he said, "when Barbossa's dead and the curse is broken and we're all back to whatever passes for normal—I want you on my crew. Permanently."
"I thought I already was."
"As a deckhand. A body to haul ropes." Jack shook his head. "I mean something more. Someone I can trust. Someone who sees things."
Someone who can't die, I thought. That's what you're really saying.
But there was something else underneath. Something genuine.
"I'll think about it," I said.
Jack nodded, satisfied with that answer.
The fire began to fade as the rum supplies exhausted themselves. We kept feeding it palm fronds, dried grass, anything that would burn—maintaining the smoke signal through the darkest hours of the night.
Dawn came slow and gray.
"There." Elizabeth's voice startled me—I hadn't realized she'd woken. She pointed at the horizon. "Sails."
I squinted against the rising sun. She was right. White canvas on the horizon, catching morning light. Not one ship—several. A fleet.
"Norrington," Jack said. His voice mixed relief with resignation. "The Commodore himself."
"We need to intercept them. Make them understand." Elizabeth was already moving toward her stolen rowboat. "Will's life depends on—"
"Miss Swann." Jack's voice stopped her. "If I may suggest a slight... modification to our approach."
He explained quickly. The Commodore would arrest him on sight—piracy charges, the theft of the Interceptor, general criminal existence. But if Elizabeth negotiated on their behalf, using her status as governor's daughter and her knowledge of Will's situation, they might be able to convince Norrington to assault Isla de Muerta.
"And you?" Elizabeth asked. "While I'm negotiating?"
"I'll be charming. Subdued. Completely reformed." Jack spread his hands innocently. "A model prisoner."
"You'll be scheming."
"I prefer 'strategizing.'"
The fleet grew larger as we rowed out to meet them. The lead ship—HMS Dauntless, pride of the Royal Navy—adjusted course to intercept our tiny boat.
Ropes dropped. Sailors descended. Within minutes, we were being hauled aboard like cargo.
The deck of the Dauntless was organized chaos. Sailors ran to positions. Officers shouted orders. And at the center of it all, resplendent in naval uniform, stood Commodore James Norrington.
"Elizabeth." His voice mixed relief with disapproval. "Thank God you're safe. And—" His gaze shifted to Jack, then to me. "Captain Sparrow. I can't say I'm surprised."
"Commodore." Jack's bow was theatrical even in chains. "Delighted to see you again. Love what you've done with the ship."
"Take him below." Norrington gestured to his marines. "The cells should hold him until we return to Port Royal."
"Wait." Elizabeth stepped forward, positioning herself between Jack and the marines. "Commodore, we need to discuss the situation."
"The situation is simple. Sparrow is a pirate. He'll hang."
"Will Turner is being held at Isla de Muerta by Captain Barbossa's crew. They intend to kill him in a ritual tonight. If we don't intervene—"
"Mr. Turner is not my concern." Norrington's jaw tightened. "My concern is your safety and the apprehension of criminals."
"Will is innocent. He was trying to save me." Elizabeth's voice rose. "If you won't help him, I'll find someone who will."
The standoff lasted several heartbeats. Norrington's duty warred with something else—something that looked almost like jealousy when he spoke Will's name.
Finally, he turned to his lieutenant.
"Set course for Isla de Muerta."
"Sir—"
"That's an order." Norrington's voice brooked no argument. "We'll assess the situation and determine appropriate action."
The lieutenant saluted and began shouting course changes. The Dauntless's sails shifted, catching wind, turning toward an island of the dead.
I faded into the background during all of this, positioning myself as just another sailor among dozens. When a naval cook passed with a tray of bread and stew, I intercepted him with a grateful nod.
The stew was simple—salted meat, root vegetables, hardtack softened in broth. It was also the best thing I'd tasted in days. I ate standing in a corner of the deck, watching the organized chaos of a Royal Navy vessel preparing for potential combat.
The Interceptor will be there, I thought. Gibbs, Anamaria, Cotton, the crew we left behind. They'll be fighting the Pearl while we approach.
People are going to die.
The thought sobered me. This wasn't a movie anymore—if it ever had been. These were real people, with real lives, who would bleed and suffer in the battle to come.
And I knew how it ended. Knew who lived, who died, who won, who lost.
The question was whether I could change anything. Whether I should change anything.
Jack appeared beside me, somehow having escaped his marine escort through methods I couldn't guess. He'd found rum somewhere—probably hidden in his coat—and offered me a swig.
"You're thinking again," he said. "I can always tell."
"Thinking about what comes next."
"The battle?" Jack shrugged. "We'll improvise. We always do."
"Some of us might not make it."
"Some of us rarely do." His voice was light, but his eyes were serious. "That's the pirate life, mate. We take risks. Sometimes the risks take us."
I thought about Cotton's boom—the one I'd shoved him away from, saving his life through precognition I hadn't understood. About the crossbow bolt I'd pulled Jack from in the cave.
"I'll do my best to make sure the risks don't take you."
Jack studied me for a long moment.
"You know," he said finally, "I'm starting to believe you actually mean that."
"I do."
"Why? What am I to you?"
Everything, I didn't say. My life is literally tied to yours.
Instead: "Someone worth keeping alive."
Jack raised his hidden rum bottle.
"To staying alive."
I nodded.
The Dauntless cut through night waters toward an island of the dead. Somewhere ahead, Will Turner awaited sacrifice. Somewhere ahead, cursed pirates prepared for a ritual that would finally let them feel the sun.
Somewhere ahead, the final confrontation waited.
I checked the knife I'd acquired from the ship's stores—a proper blade, sharp and balanced. The copper medallion Will had given me still hung around my neck, warm against my chest.
I ran through everything I knew about the battle to come.
And I prepared.
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