Black Sails

When you return, are you going to explain to Peter

what it is you're trying to accomplish here?

A Nassau that can self-govern.

This is not a man that we can negotiate with,

- that I can negotiate with. - Of course you can.

Because you will have just presented him with his only daughter.

I can only scavenge leads for so long.

I have an appetite for something larger than that.

For this, I need a partner I can trust.

A launch landed on the beach a short while ago.

They told Flint the gold was gone. What did they tell you?

The Urca gold is on that beach.

It is almost entirely undefended.

Do you know of a crew who might be willing to aid in this endeavor?

Abigail, you are no longer a hostage.

I'm going to get you out of here.

So, what's the plan?

Leave me to answer for this among the men?

My death sentence. You will hear from me again.

- You're Captain Flint? - My name is James.

James McGraw.

It's all right. You're all right.

I'm here.

Shh, shh.

Shh.

No! No!

No! No!

Shh, it's all right. I'm here.

Shh, you're all right.

Last night was the first of my journey home.

Still, my dreams are haunted by the faces of those pirates

that first captured me.

Now I find myself in the custody

of another band of pirates.

I'm told they're different,

and I will say that so far these men

have treated me civilly, even courteously.

They've even afforded me the tools to keep this journal.

And though they will almost certainly

destroy these pages before we disembark,

eliminating any record

of their activities or their identities...

just the act of putting my thoughts to paper

has helped me feel myself again.

To construct for myself an illusion

that I'm still on the Good Fortune

nearing the end of a long voyage,

recent events were themselves the nightmare,

and that these men are simply sailors

tasked with delivering me home.

Get off me, I tell you! I'll kill you!

Hey, hey, come on! Stop, you!

I said cut it out.

I don't know who started it, but it stops right now.

Take him away! Get back to work!

But it is only an illusion.

And a fragile one at that.

My father told me about these men,

about their natures,

so I know that any appearance of civility from them

is but a glimpse of the men they once were.

A ghost that shows itself only while the darker things

that now govern their souls lay dormant.

Though I'm forced to wonder

if this illusion is no accident at all,

but theater for my benefit,

orchestrated by someone so awful,

even monsters such as these have no choice

but to dance to the tune he plays for them.

Which leads me to the one thought

I find most frightening

and most difficult to dismiss.

What happens if that man decides the theater

no longer serves his purposes

and he lets the monsters loose?

Everything all right?

Yes.

I'm all right.

She was writing about me.

Do you think?

I suppose I can't blame her.

A girl her age with what she's been through.

It's a credit to her that she can function at all.

Look at her.

When I first learned she was on the island,

I saw in my mind a five-year-old child

hiding behind her mother's dress.

Then I saw her.

I realized she's a woman.

It's like she's some sort of clock

that's finally struck its chime

and woken me from this dream we've been living,

reminded me how many years separate me

from a world I still think of as home.

How unrecognizable the woman I am now

would be to the woman I was then.

I recognize you.

You recognize me?

Yes.

So that's in our favor.

The question is...

will Peter recognize either one of us?

Five million pieces.

Five million fucking pieces.

Five million pieces.

Jesus Christ.

How in the fuck

am I supposed to prepare to carry

five million pieces of eight across an ocean

without anybody knowing I'm doing it?!

I don't know, but perhaps if you asked a little louder,

there might be someone on the moon who could help you.

Why don't we lower our voices and begin again?

Have you begun the men clearing the ship's hold?

Everything that isn't bolted down

is being moved onto the sand.

I told him I needed to refigure

how she was carrying her weight.

- Is that something one does? - No.

It's all I could think of given that there's no good reason

to empty a ship while she's in the bay

unless you're making room to fill that space with something else.

"Oi, Featherstone, what is it we're making space for

by emptying all this stuff?"

"Oh, nothing, gents. I just want to..."

Try to refigure how she's carrying her weight?

"...refigure how she's carrying her weight," exactly.

Fuck!

Even if somehow we can set sail

to retrieve this gold without anyone knowing it,

even if the intelligence is correct and the gold is retrievable,

we haven't even begun to address the issue

of where we'll put all that gold,

much less defend it.

I mean...

is this really something we're capable of doing?

- Yes. - Yes?

Yes, we are capable of doing this and more.

We will have that prize, Mr. Featherstone.

We've all come too far to let an opportunity like this pass us by.

Would you not agree?

I humbly suggest

you continue unloading the hold.

By the time anyone expects to reload it,

you will be close enough to departure to tell them the truth, yes?

Is it possible for two men

days removed from unending wealth

to be any less happy?

All right, I can see that you are angry.

But are you angry with Anne for leaving

or are you angry with me for offering her the opportunity?

It would help me to understand with which I am dealing.

For so many years, I knew her.

Perhaps the only one who truly knew her.

But for weeks, with everything we've been through,

everything she's done...

she's a fucking mystery to me.

So now I realize two things are possible--

One, something has changed within her,

something so significant that she's turned into someone I barely recognize,

or, two...

it was a fantasy that I ever knew her at all.

And the most disturbing thing about it is,

because it's Anne...

I will likely never know which it is.

Am I angry that she's gone?

Maybe with everything that lies ahead of us, perhaps it's for the best.

I'm here to see the lady of the house.

She's occupied.

Tell her it's news from home.

Use those words, please.

Good morning, dear.

What do you have for me?

The quartermaster, Featherstone,

met with Max and Rackham behind closed doors again.

Entered in a huff, left in a huff.

Could you make out their words?

No, and I fear if I pressed any closer, they'd have found me out.

Ma'am, you know I am eternally in your debt

for how you treated me when you oversaw the inn,

but please don't ask me to delve into this any further.

It's all for a good cause, rest assured.

You haven't even told me what this is all in service of.

Who the information's being purchased for.

When last we spoke, you said you were still undecided

as to who would assume control ostensibly of the operation.

I was just wondering if you'd reached a decision.

Not yet. Shortly.

- Is that all? - Yes, ma'am.

No news from the fort?

The doors are still shut. No word from inside.

Either they're plotting some sort of reprisal

against us over the disappearance of Miss Ashe or--

Or they're still choosing a new captain.

Yes, ma'am.

Ma'am, the lady is here.

She's here right now?

Yes, ma'am. Said it was urgent.

All right.

Were we scheduled to see each other today?