James's breath catches in his throat when Sparrow pauses; thank you he thinks desperately, though he's not entirely sure who it is he's thanking.

'They call me Commodore Death, S- Jack, because I give men a chance to die fairly; quick and clean. I do not kill in cold blood if I have any other choice; I know the sword is preferable to the noose. If,' he draws in another deep breath, 'If you were to look at the records kept at Fort Charles you would see that less men have been hanged during my time at Port Royal than under any other commander.'

He stares at Sparrow, willing him to understand, knowing that he probably won't and hating it. 'This man,' he says suddenly, 'The one in my story- his name was Twynam, Oliver Twynam- I did not hate him.' He shakes his head, wondering suddenly what Sparrow must think of him, 'I never hated him. If I had, do you think it would have caused me any pain to watch him swing? He was a friend- a shipmate- I respected him. Do you know what unbearable pain it is to have to hang someone you respect?'

He falls silent, transfers his gaze to a point over Sparrow's shoulder. 'Why did you think I have you one day's head start?' He asks, and his voice is very quiet indeed.