[James Norrington has chosen today to make one of his rare trips into town. The time for the trip has been strictly allotted, of course. Three hours only. He will not dally longer. He has clothed himself in a purple silk button-down shirt and a pair of jeans and yes, the shirt is ostentatious by his own standards but he'd never seen a more costly fabric at the item shop than this one. These things are important, after all. Who knows who he might run into by chance? Truly, if he knows anything about the daughters of admirals, he knows that they are intruiged by finely dressed men with large houses boasting ocean views.

So he claps eyes on the man in the new-feather gown just as soon as he - Norrington - turns a particular blind corner on the forest path that preceeds the village. If he'd know when he woke up this morning that by mid-day he'd be hailing Hector Barbossa? Well, sufficed to say he would have worn that ugly brown tunic with holes in the back and a pair of worn-out sandals.]

You will be gratified to know you that you are on the right track.

[He says, by way of introduction, failing for now to identify the fellow by the back of his head. Barbossa would be forgiven if he mistook the admiral, too, for James had long since abandoned the wig and hat that marked him out in a crowd. Powder is in short supply, here, and people... well... they make fun of the hat. He forgives them that. They know no better.]

The village is just ahead. Three, perhaps four minutes at a brisk walk. I trust you know the way?