The Turning of the Tides

Sorry this has taken so long. My beta seems to have disappeared somewhere...hope you´re ok Pattie!!!! Anyway, this chapter has yet to be beta´d and is in the very capable hands of Ms Veronica Rich who was kind enough to take on the job on the spur of the moment.
Still, a lot of you guys have been emailing me asking if i´m still continuing. The answer is yes and i feel bad about making you wait so here you go. There´s some spelling and grammar errors i´m sure and could still use some work in general but i feel i owe you guys something!!! So here it is. Thanks to all my reviewers!!!
Also, will probably not have much time to write in the next fortnight or so as am moving countries...bear with me, please!!!

TITLE: The Turning of the Tides 14/?

AUTHOR: Seraphina (lealea55@hotmail.com)

PAIRING: eventual Jack/Will slash

RATING: overall R (anything over will be censored and the original posted to aff.net)

SUMMARY: Will and Jack have a deep and meaningful regarding Will's expectations and his future aboard the Pearl

DISCLAIMER: not mine, never were and unfortunately never will be

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know very little of voodoo or any other African or Caribbean religions however I have done some reading on what are referred to as Lao; There are hundreds of spirits called Loa who control nature, health, wealth and happiness of mortals. During Voodoo ceremonies these Loa can possess the bodies of the ceremony participants. Loa appear by "possessing" the faithful, who in turn become the Loa, relaying advice, warnings and desires. Voodoo is a practical religion, playing an important role in the family and the community. One's ancestors, for instance, are believed to be a part of the world of the spirits, of the Loas, and this is one way that Voodoo serves to root its participants in their own history and tradition. Another practical aspect of Voodoo ceremonies is that participants often come before the priest or priestess to seek advice, spiritual guidance, or help with their problems.
For this chapter, I have used this idea and somewhat bastardised it. It is not tuthful, I have not seen it done, so please keep in mind that the following is simply fiction, written solely as a plot device and not an insult. I respect voodoo as I do all religions and in the end am writing this for pleasure; both that of myself and my readers.


CHAPTER 14


It was maybe an hour or so later that Will was finally able to go in search of the pirate captain. After Spinoza had seen to and stitched the wound on his head, the smith got caught up doing rounds of the sick and injured with the physician. Thankfully, there were no more amputations to assist with although there were some for which the shock of moving from one ship to another, had been too much. Will made the arrangements with some of his crew members to have them removed and prepared for a proper sea burial the next morning. He was not aware of the customs these people practised but there was little else that could be done. Burial and cremation were obviously out of the question.

As he’d done these things, he’d attempted to construct in his mind that which he wanted to say to Jack. He was not sure that he wanted to outright apologize; he honestly still thought his reasons had been justifiable but was beginning to see that Jack’s own actions had their own validity even if they had been entirely too rash. He was still at a loss as to where he should start, even as he popped his head up through the hatch in the deck.

The scene aboard the Pearl had again taken a dramatic change. Her deck was cleared of prostrate and helpless slaves and in front of the main mast, three braziers stood close together and gathered around them were perhaps fifteen or so healthy enough looking Africans, singing and laughing and enjoying their freedom. It was the first time Will had seen any of them be anything but terrified, sick or dying and he decided that it was a most welcome and heart-warming change. Smiling to himself, Will took a few more steps up, scanning the deck, thinking perhaps that Jack was over onboard the Liberté, still sorting out problems with her crew. The two ships lay anchored along side each other, Jack's crew moving busily between the two via gangplanks, but there was no sign of the captain himself.

Looking up to the poop deck, he spotted Anamaria. Thinking she might be able to tell him of Jack’s whereabouts, he made his way across the deck. He smiled politely as, while skirting the groups of rowdy slaves, several of them grasped at his hands, white teeth contrasting starkly against black as they grinned widely, presumably thanking him. All the while, he kept one eye on the woman pirate, not wanting her disappear on him. His pace quickened as he saw her head for the stairs on the far side of the ship. She stopped halfway through her descent, however, reaching down over the rail to someone below, who handed her up a bottle. It was filled with rum no doubt, and as Will’s eyes swept down the length of the bottle, they came to a hand adorned with rings, an arm baring tattoos and a billowing, off-white sleeve, and then finally to the pirate captain himself, sitting atop of a large barrel, ducking the swipe of Anamaria’s hand as he said something to goad her.

Will approached cautiously as the dark woman disappeared back up the stairs and when Jack turned and spotted him, the pirate’s sparkling gaze seemed to be sizing him up, trying to work out if Will was friend or foe. Will felt a moment of guilt as he saw this, but dismissed it as he finally arrived to stand next to the barrel. Jack looked down at him without saying anything, cocked his head to one side as if coming to a decision, then patted the space on the lid to the right of him.

Will hesitated for only a moment, before turning his back to the wooden tub and hoisting himself up onto it. Once he was settled, he turned his head to the left but Jack was no longer looking his way. The flames from the braziers cast a flickering orange glow across the older man’s tanned features as he silently watched the celebrations onboard his ship, a bottle of rum dangled between his knees, the neck of it held loosely in his fingers. Will turned his gaze to do the same, wondering if Jack was going to talk or not. The smith had half expected a few blunt remarks, even after they’d both helped with Darius. As it was, the pirate’s silence was quite unnerving, if not exceptionally out of character.

Will silently cursed himself for again assuming that something about Jack was out of character. Hadn’t this day been enough to prove that there was still a lot he had to learn about the man?

Well sitting here in silence wasn’t going to resolve anything, so taking a deep breath, Will decided to start the talk he was determined to have.

“Jack, I-”

“It’s alright, Will,” the pirate cut in, head still turned in the direction of the slaves, not looking at Will as he spoke. “Ye don’t need t' apologize.”

Will’s jaw dropped as he glanced quickly at Jack, then snapped shut after a beat. He was about to say something about the audacity of egotistical pirate captains, but then thought better of it. He had, after all, been contemplating an apology, and even if he had decided against it, arguing about it was not going to help matters. Instead, he turned his head back to watch the flames and the people dancing around them, mimicking Jack’s stance.

“I wasn’t going to,” he said finally, voice quiet and unassuming.

The response was a snort from Jack. Will hazarded a sidelong glance and saw the pirate take a swig from the bottle. “No, I don' suppose ye were.”

Not exactly what he’d been expecting, but it was a start or perhaps an end, as Jack did not seem inclined to add anything else. Will’s attention was caught by the arrival of Horatio to the group on deck. Darius would be well and truly unconscious by now, what with the combinations of sedatives that Spinoza had forced down his throat. Will was surprised to see the big man though, assuming that he would not leave his son’s side, but there he was now, joining the others in whatever it was they were doing. The rest, obviously having been waiting for the arrival of the man, immediately began to mill around a rather spherical female, time aboard the Liberté evidently not having effected her weight. They were preparing for something, Will thought. Perhaps Jack would know, although the smith was unsure if a conversation was all that welcome.

After a moments contemplation, Will decided to throw caution to the wind. If he wanted to talk to Jack, then he was going to. He would talk the pirate’s ear off if he didn’t want to respond, but either way, Will was going to make himself heard.

Again, he took a breath in anticipation, then opened his mouth to speak but Jack turned his head suddenly to look at him.

“Today was hard fer you, wasn’t it, lad?”

Will felt himself deflate. The air that he’d just breathed in rushed out of him with a sense of relief and despair as Jack got in before him. Relief that the pirate was not refusing to talk to him, and despair as he acknowledged the answer to the question.

“Yes,” he responded honestly. “Harder than I ever imagined it could be."

Jack nodded and Will waited for more, but again, the older man simply returned his gaze to the slaves.

Will frowned, looking down at his hands in his lap, thumbs twiddling nervously. He was not exactly sure how he should play this. Aloof Jack was proving to be even more unbearable than drunken and annoying Jack. He’d just about made up his mind to leave the captain be for the moment and come back when he’d had a bit more rum, when Jack spoke again.

“They’re good men.”

Will was about to ask who Jack was talking about when he caught sight of a few of the pirate crew, infiltrating the circle of slaves and joining in on the festivities. Will nodded but said nothing else, hoping that Jack would continue better with a one sided conversation.

“I’d probably take a bullet for them.”

At that, Will scoffed, unable to keep quiet.

“I find that a little hard to believe,” he said light-heartedly. Again he felt guilty when there was no response, thinking that he’d perhaps overstepped the line in questioning Jack’s character. His captain was obviously feeling melancholy and goading him was not likely to help his mood. “Even Mr Richter?” he added, hoping to save the conversation.

And there was the Jack he knew, smiling and watching the nightwatchman, who smelt like a human gherkin, start up a tune on an old out of tune violin. “Well, perhaps not Mr Richter. Probably be doing the world a favour if I let him take a bullet.

Will laughed, happy that things between the two of them weren’t as dire as he’d expected them to be. They sat then in a more comfortable silence, watching buccaneer and slave alike, dancing around in their two very different styles.

“I took a bullet for your father once.”

Will looked up in surprise, just in time to see the smile on the pirate’s change somehow, as he remembered his exploits with Bootstrap Bill Turner.

“Took two in fact.”

Jack pulled his shirt back slightly, revealing the two scars on his chest, the skin around the shiny marks, still black with hints of powder residue. Elizabeth had told Will of these scars that Jack had showed to her on the island that Barbossa had marooned them on.

“A couple of British Marines took us by surprise when we were looting their armoury in some port…can’t rightly remember which one,” Jack supplied before Will could ask for the story. “Guess they thought he was more of threat, him being the bigger of us an’ all. A big man was Bill.”

“Ah, yes. My father the pirate.” His voice wasn’t as bitter as it could have been. Will’s own memories of his father were some what limited as the last time he’d laid eyes on the man had been a good fourteen years before. The fact that the only tales he would ever hear about him now were ones of pillage and plunder, was a little disconcerting; he had after all, held an ideal in his head for many years, that was until he’d met Jack. He wondered now what his father’s reaction to something like today would have been. Would he have reacted the same as Will or would he have been there, holding the Frenchman so that Jack could cut his throat. Jack had, after all, said that Bill had been both a good man and a good pirate.

These thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder; Jack’s.

“Sometimes we have expectations. And when they aren't met, we get thrown a little, aye?"

Will looked at Jack, his head bobbing in vigorous agreement. "Aye." Unmet expectations were the story of his life, from his father, to Elizabeth and now Jack and the Pearl.

Jack regarded him with bright eyes. "Are ye beginning to regret yer decision, Will?" the pirate asked, seemingly reading the lad's mind.

Will paused though, not quite sure of the answer to himself. He didn't believe that he was regretting it, so much as questioning it. His eventual response was full of pauses as he picked his words carefully, not wishing to offend any more than he perhaps already had.

"I...maybe...Jack, I don't know," he said, his gaze dropping again to his twiddling thumbs. "Today...", he continued, "well, I wasn't prepared for it I guess. I'm not sure I could ever be ready for it. I *did* have expectations; how could I not have? And you're right; they were unmet. I'd only ever encountered 'Jack Sparrow the buffoon' before," he smirked, looking at the pirate out of the corner of his eye.

Jack removed his hand from where it rested on Will's shoulder and straightened himself. "Yer about to meet 'Jack Sparrow the very bloody annoyed at his insubordinate bosun' in a minute." The threat was empty and full of Jack Sparrow the buffoon but Will's smirk fell with a sigh.

"I suppose that...among other things, it made me realise that killing is part of what I've chosen to be..." He looked back up at the pirate who had dropped the act and was back to staring at him intently, eyes flicking back and forth as he listened intently. "I've never killed anyone before," Will added quietly.

Jack considered this for a moment, taking another pull of rum. "Ye killed some o' Barbossa's boys. Hell, ye even played part in th' bastard's demise."

Will frowned. It was a point of frustration for him as he'd considered it himself as he'd helped Spinoza clean and treat wounds. "But that was different," he argued with more than a little uncertainty. "They were pirates."

"Am I not a pirate? Are you yourself, not a pirate?"

The smith scratched the back of his neck. "I suppose. But it's..." he trailed off, making a noise of frustration.

"Different?" Jack supplied with an annoying arch of an eyebrow.

Will shrugged his shoulders and nodded slowly. It was a weak argument, he knew, and confusion creased his forehead.

Jack sighed and shifted atop the barrel, his whole manner becoming looser than it had been since the raid. Will noticed this with mounting relief. Every time a little more of the Jack he knew shone through, the smith felt a little more reassured, mostly that he hadn't made the biggest mistake of his life in seeking the pirate out.

After a brief pause, the pirate spoke; "Look, Will. Ye have t' realise tha' not everythin' in this world is as black an' white as you would 'ave it be. I wish it were fer your sake. Yer a good lad; p'raps too good fer the likes of us, but it was *your* choice." The smith noted the was the pirate stressed this point as if he were afraid that Will might blame him for his current situation.

"My point is," Jack continued, "that it's not a case o' pirates bein' bad an' the rest o' the world bein' good. I mean, we're scum, I'm not denyin' that but even that's not a trait reserved specifically fer us. Remember, mate; the only difference between pirate and privateer is a piece o' parchment. And a brand is the only thing separating those who are free, and those who aren't."

"But surely skin colour has a lot to do with it."

Jack shook his head, resting the bottle between his legs on the barrel top, freeing his hands to lift the cuff of his right sleeve.

"Not always, lad," he said, showing Will the brand there.

Will nodded in understanding and they returned to sitting in silence, although it was a much more comfortable one than before. Yet still Will was plagued with uncertain thoughts of where he fitted within the pirate life. He knew himself to be good, but didn't think he quite rightly deserved the title of 'scum'...at least not yet. He decided to let that thought lie untouched for now.

"So what will happen to them?" the smith asked, motioning to the slaves with a nod of the head. The crew had moved back from the group now as some kind of ceremony seemed to be in the process of starting.

Jack shrugged. "There's a port in the Bahamas, a few day's sail from here. We'll take 'em there and see what happens. I have an...", he paused, trying to find the right word, "...'acquaintance' who will aide them in their plight for freedom, or find them new masters should they wish it."

"Should they wish it?" Will asked, surprise evident in his voice and expression. "Why would any of them wish to remain slaves?"

"Not all of them were branded recently, Will. I'd wager tha' the Liberté was transporting some of them from plantations nearby as well as directly from Africa. I hear they like to split up the tribes, aye? Supposed to decrease the likely'ood of insurrection. If that be the case, slavery will be all that many of them have known for a long while now, and sometimes, if someone wears a brand for long enough, they begin to believe that that's all there is to them." The pirate rubbed absentmindedly at his wrist as he said this, a wry expression on his features.

Before he even realised he'd done, Will reached across and stilled Jack's hand then turned it over before placing his own hand, palm-side up, next to it on the captain's thigh. The two matching scars stood out starkly on the worn hands, the shiny skin still a slightly pinker shade. To Will, they were a brand of friendship; Jack had after all, come back for him, despite his ideas of leverage, and even if the pirate's main priority had been his ship, Will was still alive and kicking because of the man sitting next to him.

"You're more than just a pirate, Jack. You're a friend and a good one at that. I can't deny completely that your actions had merit of some kind and I'm still having trouble agreeing with them but I apologise for my own reaction. It was insubordination on my part. You had your reasons and I should not have questioned them."

Jack laughed and slung the branded arm around the smith. "I think I would've been surprised and probably very disappointed had you not. You are who are, Will; pig headed and morally upstanding and I wouldn't wish you any other way. I'm sorry as well for the way things turned out today. Can't say I was expecting it myself but there's always the chance in our line of work. It's just somethin' ye'll have to learn, along with a lot of other things because while yer a good man, Will Turner, ye've a way t' go before yer a good pirate." And there it was, the roguish grin that mocked without shame but put Will's mind at ease as he smiled along too, comfortable under the weight of the pirate's arm.

"I do wonder if I ever will be," he said as he waved away the bottle Jack offered him. "But for now, I'm quite content to be a pirate's bosun."

"Sounds alright t' me! Now, how's that head of yers? That little devil fixed y'up, I see."

Will touched his fingers to the wound, wincing a little when he applied pressure. "I thought the stitches where a slight overkill but he insisted."

Jack nodded, chuckling. "Well, he was probably right. Better safe than sorry. Can hardly chop off yer noggin should it get infected." The pirate ruffled the boy's hair before settling his arm back around his shoulders. "Besides, I like yer head very much where it is."

"Why thank you. As it happens, so do I." Will smiled and relaxed a little more against his captain, the barrel top beneath him protesting quietly at the movement. He stifled a yawn that did not go unnoticed by Jack.

"Been a long day for ye, boy, I'm sure and what with Spinoza setting up shop in the crew's quarters, ye can have my cabin tonight." The pirate held his free hand as Will started to protest. "Once in a lifetime opportunity, William. I seldom invite anyone to use me bed lest I be there t' share it with them." He said this with a wink. "I suggest y'accept the offer graciously because I'm highly unlikely to be makin' it again."

"And where will you sleep?" Despite himself, the thought of a proper bed sounded like heaven to Will right then.

Jack waved the raised hand no in dismissal. "Be a fair few hours before I can shut my eyes. A few matter still require my attention, like what I'm going to do with this frog crew for one. I'll come kick you out of there when I can't stand any longer don't you worry."

Will opened his mouth to ask what Jack's plans were for the merchant sailors but the sudden squawk of a hen and a flash of wings turned his attention back to the group assembled by the main mast. The bird was now in the clutches of the big woman, thrust high above her head where evidently, it did not want to be; its eyes bulged comically, legs scrabbling and wings flapping in vain but the woman seemed not to notice as she started up a chant. The others gathered around her followed suit.

"Told those birds they'd get what was coming to 'em if they didn't start layin'. I can only hope that this will serve as a warning to the rest!"

Will smiled conspiratorially to himself at Jack's words. The pirate still blamed his upset stomach on the pickled eggs they were given every day as part of their rations, not having the slightest inkling that it had nothing to do with poultry and everything to do with a certain mad physician. "What do you think they're doing?"

He felt Jack shrug next to him as he drank deeply from the rum bottle. "Anamaria called it a Night Dance. Reckons they'll try to call up some ghouly spirits and ask them for guidance. If I were a spirit, can't say as I'd be mightily impressed with that offerin'." Jack nodded towards the woman who in one quick movement, ripped the chicken's head from it's body, the wings of the latter continuing their panicked flab for a few seconds before the carcass went limp.

"She believes in these things?" Will asked, slightly surprised at the thought, before wincing as the woman smeared blood over her face and flung the bird into one of the braziers. The flames flared brighter for an instant and the smell of cooking meat wafted towards them.

Jack shook his head. “Anamaria believes in two things; treasure an' striking her captain at every chance presented to her. Her grandmother was a slave in Hispaniola apparently. Tried t' teach the girl a thing or two but our Ana weren't too fussed about embracing her roots. Not when there was gold to be found." The pirate raised his head and inhaled deeply. “What a damn waste.”

Although Will tended to agree- roast chicken would have made a lovely change indeed- he was not at all sorry to see the wretched bird go, as more than once had he experienced a brutal peck as he'd been walking past the cages on his way to somewhere else. He was, however, deeply curious about this search for guidance. The idea had its merits he supposed, and he was not one to dismiss issues of the supernatural as quickly as he once might have been. Fighting the undead had made him a little more open-minded about such things. What was more, he fancied he could do with a little guidance himself, despite having come to some grips with what he had become, the day's events where still waring at him even as he tried to forget them.

The chants were rising now, laced with a certain musical quality, and bare feet stamped in a hypnotic rhythm against the deck. The scent of roasting fowl was quickly masked by something akin to incense. Whatever it was made Will feel drowsy and the scene before him appear slightly surreal. He had an inkling that perhaps Jack was suffering the same effects as the pirate had stopped speaking and his rum bottle seemed to hold no further interest to him. They watched on in silence for a while, yet there seemed to be no noticeable change in the ritual. Certainly no wispy apparitions seemed likely to pay a visit and impart their otherworldly knowledge on the poor bedraggled lot.

Will hadn't blinked his eyes in quite a while, so at first he blamed what he saw on this. The world seemed to shift slightly, to fracture before him and for a moment he felt as if he were caught between two places at once for although the slave dance remained visible to him, something else entirely appeared superimposed over his vision. Not something, but somewhere. Somewhere quite dark, lit by candle or possibly lamplight. For a moment he swore he could smell dampness and mould and dirt and somewhere, the underlying fragrance of lavender.

In the real world, or at least what assumed to still be the real world, he felt himself turning to Jack, to ask the pirate is he too was experiencing the same thing as his bosun but before he could say anything, his mouth opened of its own volition and began to talk, although Will was unable to hear a word of what he himself was saying. The other scene changed slightly, and with the change, Will felt something violently tugged from within him. It was painful at the same time as being sublime but it lasted only a second and then Jack appeared, a strange thing in itself to see another Jack over the Jack he was currently holding some unknown conversation with. The other world Jack looked a little worse for wear and was frowning with concern at the bosun. Whether it was concern for the fact that Will suspected he had completely lost the plot or concern for something else in that other world, he wasn't sure, but this other Jack mouthed something to him but he couldn't hear that either. In fact he could hear nothing but the continual chanting of the slaves on deck until suddenly they too stopped and everything of the real world came rushing back to Will leaving him with an overwhelming sense of calm and belonging, and all questions of whether he'd made the right decision or not were allayed and forgotten as if they'd never existed.

The smash of glass finally brought the smith out of his stupor and he shook his head, trying to regain proper focus.

"Jack," he rasped, his mouth feeling for moment very foreign to him and not entirely his, "did you see..." his voice trailed off as he actually caught sight of the pirate captain who's arm was no longer around his shoulders but instead sat slack-jawed, dangerously pale, his ridiculously wide eyes staring shockingly at the smith.

"Jack!" Will's voice was sharp, trying to mask the fear that suddenly gripped his belly at the sight of his captain. "What's the matter?!" He reached out to shake the so far unresponsive pirate but Jack flinched away, dropping down from the barrel, boots crunching the remains of his rum bottle. He'd obviously dropped it in his shock, if that was indeed what it was.

The pirate appeared to bodily shake himself for a moment, recovering some modicum of composure. His jaw was no longer slack but instead his mouth flapped open and closed as if trying to get the words out. When they finally did come, they chilled Will to the bone.

"You were yer father."

Will blinked. "What? What do you mean?" Again the calm came again.

Jack shook his head but continued all the same. "Ye changed...no, no ye didn't change, you were still you...but ye changed...somehow. You were taller and broader and yer face...Will, ye were him, ye were Bill."

"What did I...what did *he* say?" Something inside Will was laughing at him for such a question as if it were every day that your dead father possessed you and carried out conversations with your acquaintances but somehow, Will knew that there was nothing to be frightened of, that no harm had been done and it wasn't an unnatural occurrence.

"I can't...I swore I wouldn't say until the opportune moment. I can't." Jack hands were held out in a despairing fashion and Will thought the pirate's head might fall right off if he shook it any longer.

Jack backed away a few feet towards the stairs leading to the poop deck. "Go t’ bed, Will. It's been a long day. I'll wake ye when I want me bed back." With that the captain retreated quickly up the steps and was gone and Will knew that the matter was closed. They were not to talk about it again.

Slowly, he slid from the barrel, mindful of the glass. Replaying the events in his mind, he nudged larger shards carefully with the instep of his boot, pushing them towards the side of the Pearl, before shoving them through one of the scuppers and into the calm ocean. He watched the ripples they created until they disappeared by which time he'd decided that it would be best to forget the whole thing, if only to keep Jack happy and as near to sane as possible. The queerness of it was reason enough for he'd learnt not all that long ago the dangers of dabbling in things one didn't understand. Besides all that, the same something inside that had laughed at him only moments before told him that it was inconsequential and what was important lay in the decisions he would make in the days and weeks to come. In the back of his mind, there was a niggling thought that it was odd he should accept all this so readily and without question, but the calm quelled that too. It told him to forget and by the time he'd turned his back on the sea, he had no memory of the incident whatsoever.

He yawned, not bothering to attempt holding it back this time, and set his mind to the thoughts of the bed waiting for him yet as he turned to walk to the cabin, he caught the big woman who had led the ritual, watching him. He could have sworn that she winked at him but for the life him, he couldn't think why.


Behind the wheel of the Pearl, Captain Jack Sparrow stood muttering the same phrase over and over again himself.

"You'll take something from him and then you must tell him what he needs to hear."

He did not know where he'd got it from or why it was stuck in his head. Probably was a line of some bawdy sea shanty yet he didn't think so it. It certainly didn't sound bawdy.

The pirate watched below the raised deck as Will Turner walked to the doors beneath him and disappeared into the captain's cabin. Jack himself was longing for his bed, a wave of fatigue having hit him about five minutes ago. An unusual occurrence as he very rarely needed sleep; he figured three hours unconsciousness was worth twice as much slumber and was frequently putting the theory into practice.

Give the lad a few hours, he thought to himself before picking up with the tuneless phrase again.

He did not notice the fat female slave smiling knowingly as she watched him.