— I've got this wonderful compass which points to whatever I want. So for what do I need you?
<...>
— Points to the thing you want most. And that is not the Brethren Court, is it?
— Then what is, Jack?
— Me. Dead.
— «Letters of Marque». You will offer what amounts to a full pardon. Jack will be free, a privateer in the employ of England.
— Somehow I doubt Jack will consider employment the same as being free.
— Freedom. Jack Sparrow is a dying breed. The world is shrinking, the blank edges of the map filled in. Jack must find his place in the New World or perish. Not unlike you, Mr Turner.