Ever since Jack Sparrow had heard the "glorious deeds" of the Commodore from Gibbs, his attitude toward Hugo had undergone a complete, dizzying transformation.
The cynical, provocative glint in his kohl-rimmed eyes had been replaced by a volatile mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and a healthy dose of wariness. Jack had begun to haunt the ship like a colorful, rum-scented ghost.
When Hugo was bent over his charts in the Great Cabin, Jack would "accidentally" wander past, peeking over the transom with a narrowed eye. When Hugo was drilling the gun crews on the "Recoil Buffer" mechanics, Jack would pull up a crate, take a swig of rum, and watch with the intensity of a man trying to solve a puzzle. When Hugo stood at the bow with his brass sextant, Jack would stand ten paces away, mimicking the pose with a rum bottle, muttering to himself as if trying to catch the "magic" in the sunlight.
He was a cat trying to understand the inner workings of a clock, a very dangerous, high-velocity clock.
"I say, Hugo," Jack called out one afternoon. He had already abandoned "Commodore" for the more familiar "Hugo," a move Hugo allowed simply because it amused him.
Hugo was currently showing Billy and the new gunners how to calculate lead and trajectory for the twelve-pounders. He looked up, the brass sextant glinting in his hand. "Something on your mind, Jack?"
"That shiny trinket you're holding up to the heavens," Jack said, gesturing vaguely with his bottle. "Are you whispering to the Sun God? Asking for a favorable breeze or perhaps a discount on silk?"
"I'm determining our longitude and latitude," Hugo replied, his tone clinical. "Our position on the globe."
"Position? Position is a matter of the smell of the spray and the color of the weed, lad," Jack scoffed. "I knew an old navigator in Tortuga who could tell you how far we were from land just by tasting the salt on his thumb."
"The grass on that old man's grave is likely six feet high by now, isn't it?" Billy quipped from the gun-mount, earning a round of chuckles from the crew.
"Quiet, you over-sized heap of muscle!" Jack snapped, before sidling up to Hugo with a conspiratorial grin. "Truly, Hugo... is this 'Science' of yours reliable? Or is it just a fancy way of guessing?"
"It's very reliable," Hugo said, marking a point on his chart. "It allows us to pinpoint our location to within a single nautical mile. No guessing required."
"A single mile?" Jack's eyes widened. Navigation in 1720 was a chaotic art form; an error of fifty miles was considered a "good day" for most captains. To be accurate to a single mile was, to Jack, indistinguishable from sorcery. "Then... perhaps you'll teach me? A man of my station should always be expanding his horizons."
"I'd be happy to," Hugo said, a small, wicked smile touching his lips. "But before we start on the instruments, you'll need to master algebra, geometry, and a bit of spherical trigonometry. Shall we begin with the basics?"
Jack stared at him for a long heartbeat, his face a mask of blank confusion. "Trigono... what now?"
Hugo chuckled. "Exactly. Stick to the rum, Jack. It's easier on the brain."
Jack realized that "stealing" Hugo's knowledge was going to be much harder than stealing a ship. He turned his attention to the crew instead, trying to deploy his legendary charm to see if he could create a "faction" within The Explorer.
"Hanson, my old mate," Jack said later that evening, leaning against the rail with the veteran pirate. "Back when I was captaining the Pearl, we took a Spanish galleon so heavy with gold that the deck was awash with doubloons. A man could drown in wealth under my command."
Hanson took a swig of water, Hugo enforced a strict hydration rule during duty hours and shrugged. "Master Hugo led us to the Santa Trinidad, Jack. We saw mountains of silver. And he didn't lose a single man to do it. That's the kind of command I prefer."
Jack's smile faltered. He moved on to Silas.
"Silas! Look at that pistol of yours. Rusted iron. I once held a flintlock with ivory grips stolen from a Dutch Admiral's own belt! Follow me, and you'll have a dozen like it!"
"This pistol was pulled from a Spanish frigate we dismantled with a sloop," Silas replied, patting his holster with pride. "The Commodore showed us how to out-sail 'em. I don't need ivory; I need a captain who doesn't get marooned."
Jack sat at the stern later that night, nursing his bottle in the gloom. He was baffled. He, Jack Sparrow, who could charm the keys off a jailer and the clothes off a duchess, was failing to sway a bunch of common pirates. They looked at Hugo not with fear, but with a fervent, disciplined adoration. They were "brainwashed" by competence.
He felt like a faded stage-actor who had been upstaged by a new, brilliant leading man. No matter how many sea-turtle stories he told, the crew always brought the conversation back to "The Commodore's Science."
"Drinking alone is a bad omen for a Pirate King," a voice said.
Hugo walked up to the stern, holding his own bottle. He sat beside Jack, watching the wake of the ship cutting through the dark water.
"What? Come to gloat?" Jack huffed.
"Not at all. I came to tell you we've reached the coordinates," Hugo said. He pointed toward the horizon, where the faint, flickering glow of distant lanterns began to resolve against the night sky. "Port Royal. Just as I calculated."
Jack looked at the lights, then back at Hugo, a flicker of genuine respect appearing in his eyes.
"Now," Hugo continued, "I need my 'Chief Honorary Advisor' to prove his worth. The Royal Navy has a dozen frigates in that harbor and Fort Charles guarding the mouth. How do we get The Explorer and the Serpent in without becoming a target for the King's cannons?"
Hugo looked at Jack, the challenge clear in his eyes. "It's time to show me the 'Flair' you're so proud of, Captain."