The next day,
Daniel was seated in the garden, speaking with his newly acquired father-in-law.
The conversation was polite, careful, and filled with long pauses—mostly because Governor Swann still hadn't decided whether to treat Daniel as a man, a noble, or a divine phenomenon.
As for Evelyn and Elizabeth… they had gone shopping.
They had invited Daniel along.
He declined immediately.
Shopping, Daniel had learned, was a battlefield—but one he had absolutely no intention of stepping onto. Men and women approached it as if they belonged to entirely different worlds.
A man could walk into a shop, pick up a shirt and a pair of trousers, decide they were "good enough," and be done in minutes.
Women, on the other hand, treated shopping like a campaign.
There were comparisons. Discussions. Entire debates over fabric, color, cut, and whether something felt right. One shop led to another. Then another. And another, just in case the perfect dress might exist somewhere else.
So he would much rather sit with his father-in-law than go shopping. That decision alone felt like the safer option.
They sat facing each other, tea between them, the garden quiet except for Port Royal sounds.
"So," Governor Swann said at last, studying him carefully, "Mr. Daniel… what is it that you usually do?"
It wasn't small talk. It was the kind of question a father asked when he needed reassurance about the man standing beside his daughter.
Daniel smiled, relaxed. "No need for the Mr. or the formality," he said. "Just call me Daniel."
Then, after a brief pause, he added smoothly, "Father-in-law."
Governor Swann nearly choked on his tea.
He lowered the cup slowly, staring at Daniel as if reassessing every life choice that had led him to this moment. "…Daniel," he said at last, clearly forcing the word out.
Daniel nodded, pleased. "Much better."
"As for what I do," Daniel continued casually, as if the previous statement hadn't nearly caused a medical incident, "I mostly wander around. I don't really need to work. I have a large house, enough money to last several lifetimes, so I don't bother with occupations."
He shrugged lightly. "Keeps life simple."
Governor Swann managed a strained, wry smile. For once, he genuinely had no idea what to say, so he settled for silence.
That silence didn't last.
Uninvited footsteps crossed the garden path—measured, confident, and utterly unwelcome. Governor Swann looked up sharply as several redcoats fanned out, followed by a man in an immaculate coat, posture rigid with authority.
Swann stood up at once. "Who gave you permission to enter?"
"I go where I please," came the cold, arrogant reply.
The man gestured faintly, not bothering to look at Swann as another officer stepped forward.
"This," the officer announced, "is Cutler Beckett, Chairman of the East India Trading Company, and duly appointed representative of His Majesty, the King."
Daniel turned in his chair, finally giving the newcomers his attention. The moment his eyes settled on Beckett, recognition flickered—and mild annoyance followed.
"…Ah," Daniel said flatly. "That guy."
Behind Beckett stood his ever-present shadow, expression hard and humorless—Ian Mercer—already surveying the garden as if deciding what to confiscate.
Beckett's gaze drifted towards Daniel, cool and assessing. "Governor Swann," he said, voice smooth as polished steel, "I trust you won't mind my interruption. Matters of the Crown rarely wait for invitations."
Governor Swann stiffened. "If this concerns Port Royal, I would appreciate being informed before armed men step into my garden."
Beckett smiled thinly. "I'm afraid this concerns rather more than Port Royal."
Beckett's gaze lingered on Daniel, sharpening by a fraction.
"I'm told there have been… disturbances," he said calmly. "Unusual ones."
He didn't wait for an invitation.
"So," Cutler Beckett continued, seating himself with deliberate ease, "you wouldn't mind answering a few of my questions, would you?"
The casual way he sat—unasked, unbothered—made the slight unmistakable. It was a quiet declaration that Governor Swann's authority meant very little to him.
Governor Swann stiffened. "Before that," he said firmly, "I will need proof of your authority."
Beckett didn't even look annoyed. He tilted his head slightly.
Ian Mercer stepped forward at once, producing a folded document and placing it into Swann's hands.
The Governor opened it.
His expression changed.
The seal.
The signatures.
The unmistakable mark of the Crown.
He closed the paper slowly and took his seat again. There was nothing more he could say. A King's representative stood above local law.
Beckett smiled faintly. "Now that formalities are settled…"
Governor Swann exhaled through his nose. "Then tell me," he said carefully, "what business brings a representative of the Crown to Port Royal?"
"Piracy," he said.
"And matters far more inconvenient than that."
"I heard," Beckett continued smoothly, "that a month ago the infamous pirate Jack Sparrow appeared in Port Royal—and somehow managed to esacpe."
He wasn't asking. The words landed like a charge of incompetence.
Governor Swann's expression hardened. "He escaped," he replied evenly. "No one assisted him. Jack Sparrow is a pirate—slippery by nature."
Beckett's lips curved faintly, without warmth. "Slippery," he repeated.
Swann met his gaze. "Pirates survive by evasion and luck. That does not mean Port Royal failed in its duty."
And it was the truth—at least as far as Beckett knew.
Governor Swann had played no part in Jack Sparrow's escape. That particular part belonged to his son-in-law, and no one knows it.
Daniel's gaze lingered on Beckett, unreadable.
'Jack, you really do collect enemies like trophies.'
The history between these two is more complicated.
Long before he became the polished instrument of the Crown, Beckett had been Director of West African Affairs.
Ambitious even then, he had organized an expedition to find the mythical island of Kerma, lured by rumors of an ancient treasure that could secure him a place among Britain's elite.
For that voyage, Beckett placed his trust in a capable merchant seaman named Jack Sparrow, granting him command of a ship called the Wicked Wench.
It was a mistake Beckett never forgot.
Jack never returned with the bearings to Kerma. Instead, he did something far worse—something unforgivable in Beckett's world.
He freed a cargo of slaves destined for Lord Penwallow's plantation in the Bahamas, destroying Beckett's patronage, his ambitions, and his carefully laid path to nobility.
Humiliation followed swiftly.
Beckett ordered the Wicked Wench burned to the waterline and personally branded Jack Sparrow as a pirate—searing the mark into his hand by himself.
That was the origin of the mark burned into Jack's hand—the brand of a pirate—and the moment his life was set on a course he could never turn away from.
But the sea has a way of answering cruelty with irony.
The Wicked Wench did not truly die.
She sank, broken and burning, swallowed by the depths—but the sea remembered her. From the darkness below, Davy Jones raised her, drew her back from the abyss, and remade her into something faster, darker, and unforgiving.
The Black Pearl.
She was returned to Jack as part of their bargain—freedom for a time, command of the ship he loved, and a debt that would one day come due.
That was how Jack Sparrow became a pirate.
That was how he became captain of the Black Pearl.
And Cutler Beckett, in his certainty and cruelty, had done more than punish a man—he had forged his own enemy. One the sea itself had chosen to arm.
*****
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