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"Aye," Bootstrap replied quietly, looking out at the port that was still a considerable distance from where they floated (since surfacing anywhere near Port Royal itself would have rather undesirable consequences). "We'd do best waitin' for cover of darkness, though. S'not exactly normal for two men to emerge from th' ocean an' walk up on shore without any evident means of transportation."

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"Don't worry 'bout me, Will," Bootstrap assured him with a short nod. "'S my family too."
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Roughly an hour later, the sun had fully set, and they finally had their cover of darkness. Bootstrap slowly emerged from the water and walked up on shore with Will following close behind. Wringing the excess water from his clothes, he turned to watch as the Dutchman - little more than a speck on the dark horizion to begin with - descended back into the water to await their return. "An' Jack'll let you know once I've got Elizabeth aboard th' ship, aye?" he said, turning to Will.

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((Yes, it's long. You'll live.))

Not bothering to reassure Will yet again, Bootstrap merely touched his forehead in a casual salute and set off in the opposite direction. He strode through the streets as nonchalantly as could be afforded given the circumstances, letting the warm night air dry him and looking for all the world like just another nameless sailor on shore leave. One passer-by actually bothered to stop and comment on his drenched clothing, to which Bootstrap responded with a mumbled excuse about getting into a fight at the docks, then hastily pushed his way past.

He headed first to the fort, assuming that Elizabeth, like any prisoner, would be detained in a cell. However, upon discreetly inquiring as to her location and being informed by a rather confused guard (who had unfortunately needed to silenced shortly after and stashed somewhere quiet to sleep off his nasty headache) that there was no Elizabeth Turner being held there, Bootstrap had concluded that this was going to be a bit more difficult than first intended. He had plenty of experience breaking out of jails, but beyond that, he wasn't certain. Beckett had specifically instructed Will to meet him in Port Royal, and logic dictated that he wouldn't leave Elizabeth anywhere that he could not personally keep an eye on her, so where....His house. It was a long shot, but it was the only other place he could think of.

It would have been nice, he reflected as he yet again began walking through the streets, to actually have some idea where he was going, though there hadn't really been time for instruction, much less a proper map. As a general rule, he knew that he needed to head uphill, away from the sea. The wealthy always made a point of building their homes as far from shore as possible, ensuring that in the occasion that a severe storm hit or pirates attacked, only those too poor to rebuild were truly affected. Right altruistic of them.

As he wandered through the streets, it took great effort for Bootstrap to keep his mind on finding Beckett's house. He knew what his objective was, of course, but Will had lived here. Who knew how many times in those eight years his son had walked these very streets - to all intents and purposes an orphan - in his various comings and goings? How many times had he gone inside that tavern, or stopped at that well, or visited that tailor? Shaking his head, Bootstrap forcibly squelched the string of self-derogatory curses that entered his mind and once more focused on the task at hand.

At length, Bootstrap had to admit that Beckett's house was not going to just magically appear before him, convenient as that might be. Borrowing a purse from some bloke who'd had a bit too much to drink and had inconveniently collapsed in the street, he slipped out a few coins and approached the first visibly sober man he came across. "Two shillings says you can take me t' Lord Beckett's residence," he said bluntly, not even pretending to possess Jack's mastery of words.

The man eyed him curiously for a moment, then nodded and led him wordlessly through a few more streets, until at last they came to a stop. "Straight down tha' street an' to th' righ'," the man said quietly. "Though 's beyond me why anyone'd wanna see tha' bloody b-"

Bootstrap cut him off with a muttered thanks and pressed three shillings into the man's palm, then quickly made his way over to the indicated house. It wasn't as large or ostentatious as he'd expected from a power-hungry tyrant, but he supposed he wasn't exactly the best judge of high-society anyway. Determining that it was far too obvious to simply walk up to the front door and ask if Lord Beckett had recently kidnapped any pregnant young women, he settled for a more subtle approach and began to slowly circle the house, looking for his opportunity. There. There was still a bit of light in one of the windows on the second floor, which was better than nothing at the moment. Grateful that he'd waited for the cover of darkness, Bootstrap moved directly under the window, then looked up to determine the best course of action.

There was no conveniently-located trellis, much to his dismay, but the stones from which the outer walls were constructed were large enough that there was just enough space for a decent handhold or foothold between each one. With the practiced ease of one accustomed to many hours in the rigging - though perhaps not quite so easily as in his youth - Bootstrap began to climb until he was situated just high enough to peek in through the window. Inside, on the other side of the room with her back turned, was Elizabeth.

Adjusting his grip slightly so as to take some of the strain off of his arms, Bootstrap tentatively tapped the glass and whispered, "'Lizbeth."
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Lord Beckett sat at his desk reading the last of the day's reports by candlelight. Acquisitions, shipments, executions....Many men would have hired someone else to perform such a mundane task, but Beckett prefered to have a firsthand knowledge of all goings-on in the Company, and he didn't relish the thought of anyone else possessing the same knowledge.

"Latest sightings report the Black Pearl as bein' near Santo Domingo, though her intended course is un....Milord?" Mercer inquired, ending his report abruptly.

The slightest hint of a smirk played across Beckett's features. "Mr. Mercer, would you please investigate as to whether Lieutenant Groves filed a proper report for today's arrest of Emmaline Roberts?"

"At once, Milord," Mercer replied, executing a short bow before exiting the large office.

As soon as he was once more alone, Beckett calmly stacked the reports on his desk and stood up. "You may as well come in, Mr. Turner," he said calmly, raising his voice just enough to be heard. "We've much to discuss, and it is already growing late. I am inferring from your presence, of course, that you have chosen to accept my proposal?"

Elizabeth finished going through the wardrobe one more time - and like all the times before it, emerged with nothing but a growing desire to strangle Beckett bare-handed. He'd left her absolutely nothing with which to even attempt escape. Nothing but a useless, scuppering, Neptune-cursed load of bloody dresses!

She relieved her feelings by kicking the accursed piece of furniture. It only worked for a second - and then she was muttering shockingly colorful curses and wondering if her toes were broken. Elizabeth could have screamed.

But fortunately, it was at that moment that she heard a muffled tap on the window and glanced once over her shoulder, expecting a bird or some such. It took an astonished double-take before she flew across the room to press her hands against the window. "Bootstrap! Thank - Neptune, God, everyone! Where's Will? Is he with you? The window won't open, I tried - Will hasn't gone to Beckett, has he?"

Her voice was growing louder and Elizabeth smothered it, almost panting with the effort. "He can't have, he can't accept!"

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