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Norrington stood ramrod-straight, shoulders back, chin up, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. His posture and poise were perfect, and would have given him no shame in a royal inspection such as the threat of which was always used to bring young midshipmen into line. He only wished he could bring his thoughts into line as well -- for as serious as the situation was, he couldn't help but feel like an errant schoolboy called up before the headmaster.
Or three headmasters, as the case may be. The court-martial of an officer of the King's navy was too important a matter to be left to the whims of personal prejudice, and so Norrington had found himself explaining the loss of a ship and a significant number of men to a court of Admiral Kennedy, the senior officer of the New World navy, and his two senior captains.
Fortunately, the subject of undead pirates had not come up.
"Commodore Norrington," the admiral said, an astonishing lack of gravity in his voice, "You are aware that your recent promotion carries with it an additional degree of responsibility? But of course you are," he answered before Norrington could even think of responding. "I wrote that commission myself."
"The disruption of Spanish trade and funding is of utmost importance to His Majesty at this time," said Captain Chad disapprovingly, squinting at Norrington with his single eye.
"Yes, yes, yes, this concern over piracy is all well and good, but it should hardly be your main concern just now," Admiral Kennedy added with a dismissive brush of his hand. "After all, they do attack the Spanish shipping as well." Norrington bit back a sharp comment on how it had hardly been his choice, in the situation under question. The Interceptor had been stolen out from under his nose by a pirate; was he truly expected to let such things pass?
"Understandably," said Captain Eccleston, "in this case there have been extenuating circumstances. Matters not entirely under your control."
"Hardly a fit state for a fleet of the Royal Navy," added Captain Chad.
"Nevertheless," finished Admiral Kennedy, "so it is. Commodore, this court acquits you of all responsibility for the loss of His Majesty's Ship Interceptor." He narrowed his eyes at Norrington. "See that it doesn't happen again."
**
Five hours ago, Norrington had entered the Charleston navy offices in sincere fear for his commission, his status, and his livelihood. Now, he was able to make his way through the docklands and back to the Dauntlesswith a clear head, if not necessarily a light heart. His commission had been sustained, to be sure, but Norrington was in no doubt as to its conditionality. The admiralty, concerned with playing politics in Whitehall, still would not take seriously the threat of piracy faced by so many of its citizens in the Caribbean, and though Norrington had done his best with the resources he had, the warning he had just received had been clear. They expected him to do the same -- to wage a politically-based war halfway 'round the world from either of the protagonists, and to leave the people of these islands to the mercies of those who would take advantage of such a situation.
Nevertheless, he had his duty to the orders of the Crown as surely as he had a duty to the subjects of it, and he would see it carried out.
He put into the quartermaster's office to settle the accounts for the reprovisioning of the Dauntless, and so by the time he returned to his ship, she was ready to set sail the moment the tide turned. Lieutenant Groves, upon catching sight of his commanding officer still dressed in full uniform, beamed at him from the quarterdeck. "I trust everything went well, sir," he said cheerfully, his tone adding, "I told you so."
Norrington couldn't resist smiling back, although his was more controlled. "Well enough, Lieutenant," he admitted. And, for the first time, he conceded to himself that it had. He had been extraordinarily lucky. But right now, all he really wanted was an hour's sleep before they got underway, back home to Jamaica.
"Er. Orders and dispatches have come aboard," Groves said apologetically. "Just before you did, sir."
"They can wait until tomorrow, certainly."
Groves shook his head. "The admiral's man handed these to me himself," he said, showing a small package of crisply-folded papers.
Norrington sighed. "Very well." Groves handed them to him immediately; Norrington was often in the habit of opening dispatches on deck rather than in his cabin when he wished to deal with them as quickly as possible.
Groves watched intently as Norrington opened the first missive and read it over quickly, occasionally glancing up to survey the other ships at port. His expression never changed, remaining sternly impassive throughout. When he opened the second set of papers, his lips quirked into a faint smile, but he did not look up once. The third set he read over more quickly than either of the first two, his face settling back into emotionless propriety, and this one he folded up again and placed in the inner pocket of his coat before turning back to Groves.
"It seems everything has gone much better than expected," Norrington said, handing Groves the first set of papers. Groves scanned them quickly, and gawped.
"A replacement for the Interceptor already?" he said, astonished. "And another twenty-gunner?"
"So it would seem," Norrington said, pleasantly smug. "You shall be assuming command of her for the return voyage, Captain, and although it seems we'll now be leaving on the morning tide, it could not be too early to get over there and see about preparing the First Strike for the trip."
"Yes, of course --" Groves stopped short in astonishment. "I beg your pardon?"
Nearly grinning now, Norrington handed over the second set of papers. "Congratulations, Theodore," he said as Groves read them over in amazement.
"Thank you, sir," he said automatically, looking slightly dazed. "The Admiral seems to be feeling...very generous," he added, with a bit of the usual spark.
"And it is hardly our place to question him," Norrington answered with affected seriousness. "The morning tide, then," he reminded his friend, "for Jamaica."
"Indeed," said Groves with a grin, and he nearly sprang overboard in his eagerness to track down their new ship.
Norrington made his way to his cabin, where he divested himself of first the dispatches and secondly the worst confines of his uniform. He settled on his cot in shirtsleeves and stockinged feet, considering the admiral's instructions. The orders to carry on the war with Spain had been formalized in the dispatches, but that was hardly surprising. Admiral Kennedy certainly had been generous -- more so than Norrington could justify he'd deserved. But to what purpose?
He fell asleep considering the question before the next bell rang.
**
The voyage from Charleston to Port Royal was uneventful, but what he found at the end of it was more than enough to satisfy Norrington's curiosity about Admiral Kennedy's generosity. The amused looks the admiral had kept throwing him took on a whole new meaning when Norrington walked into Governor Swann's office to find Jack Sparrow with his boots up on the governor's desk. Shocking enough - but more shocking was that the infamous pirate captain was not in fact in irons, nor was he being guarded by menacing-looking but relatively harmless marines. He was, in fact, drinking a cup of tea.
Sparrow had twisted around in his chair as the door opened, managing to keep his boots on the desk and gawp at the doorway at the same time. "Commodore!" he said cheerfully, "So good to see you at last." He flashed a gold-specked grin at Norrington, who had stopped short halfway through the door. He forced himself to move again, though, as Sparrow's grin grew more smug.
"Ah, Commodore," Governor Swann interrupted, blissfully. "Good of you to join us." He didn't seem to notice that he'd repeated Sparrow's greeting almost exactly. He looked decidedly nervous - and with good reason, Norrington thought.
"Governor," Norrington acknowledged with a slight bow. The governor opened his mouth to speak again, but was unsurprisingly interrupted.
"And not a word to your old friend Captain Jack Sparrow?"
Exercising rather remarkable restraint, Norrington turned stiffly in that direction. "I am not in the habit of encouraging familiarity with pirates. And you are not my friend, Sparrow."
"Captain Sparrow." That smug look still hadn't left his face. "More alike than I'd have thought, you two," he mused, tapping his jaw thoughtfully and staring at Norrington with an intensity that was very nearly embarrassing. "M'not a pirate, either, mate."
A lesser man would have been at a loss for words. Norrington prided himself on never faltering in conversation, especially with a pirate. "That brand on your arm says otherwise," he said pointedly.
Sparrow waved the offending limb around gratuitously. "All in the past!" he said cheerfully, before picking up his teacup and draining it with an enthusiasm that made Norrington wonder what had been added to it. "Really, love, you should learn to take a man for what he is and not what he used to be. For as it so happens..."
"Ah, yes, well," Governor Swann interrupted, hemming and hawing uncomfortably. Norrington turned to look at him in shock. "The, ah, British Crown has seen fit to award Captain Sparrow with a Letter of Marque and clemency for his crimes. In return for his aid in clearing the Caribbean of the remaining pirate threat, and of the threat of the Spanish privateers." He rushed through this little speech as though he'd been practicing it all morning in preparation for Norrington's arrival.
Norrington looked back and forth between them, aware that his face was probably registering much more shock than it should be and unable to do anything about it. Sparrow continued to look smug; Governor Swann intimidated. "A...Letter of Marque." he repeated cautiously.
"Wunnerful thing, isn't it?" Sparrow said happily, swinging his feet down from off the desk and sauntering over to where Norrington was standing, still only just inside the door. "How a man can go from a wanted, dangerous fugitive to an ally of the Crown - and, might I add, the Navy - with only a single scrap of paper?" Sparrow was, as usual, dangerously invading Norrington's personal space; he resisted the impulse to find that scrap of paper and shred it to pieces. He was restrained by the thought of having to actually search for it on Sparrow's person. He settled for giving Governor Swann a desperate look.
The governor cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, Mr...Captain Sparrow will be joining our fleet, it seems."
Norrington was finally able to regain his composure. "With all due respect, Governor," he said stiffly, doing his best to ignore the intrusive pirate-turned-privateer, "I believe the Navy is perfectly capable of keeping peace in these waters with the ships already at its disposal." Which wasn't really true, of course, as evidenced by Sparrow's ability to evade them for so long. But the Commodore was hardly about to say otherwise in front of the man himself.
"Apparently His Majesty's Government feels differently," Governor Swann responded. "It's out of my hands," he added, more quietly. Which was also very likely untrue, Norrington reflected. He had no wish to consider how much the governor's daughter might have influenced his decision.
"Lucky break for all of us, eh?" Sparrow interrupted, cheerfully oblivious. He had wandered over to the other side of the room and was prodding at a shelf of books and knickknacks. "I mean, I get to not worry 'bout getting my neck stretched over at Gallows Point, and you get to stop being embarrassed over not being able to catch me." He didn't even notice Norrington's glare.
"Indeed," Norrington grated out.
Sparrow turned around then, all his various bits of jewelry and hair ornaments clinking melodically with the movement. "Well. Lovely as it is chatting with you two gentlemen, I think it's time for me to be on my way.Pearl needs some refitting, after all; couple of those guns are getting old and the hull's a bit leaky in places." He looked at Norrington as if this was somehow his fault, and Norrington tried hard not to be offended at the thought of the infamous pirate ship being refitted with British supplies. "Wouldn't do to be having her at the disadvantage now, would it?" With that Sparrow bowed with a flourish of his disgusting old tricorne and strolled out of the room, passing Norrington entirely too closely for comfort.
Norrington stood firmly at attention as Sparrow left the room. Rank in these distant colonial outposts could sometimes be a very touchy matter; technically Governor Swann was in charge of the entire island of Jamaica, but technically Commodore Norrington was the highest-ranking officer in the Caribbean, and precisely who was to defer to whom had been problematic in the past. Fortunately, Norrington and Governor Swann had always had an entirely amiable relationship, even after Norrington was no longer a prospect for son-in-law, and under the circumstances, Norrington could see no other alternative than to defer to the governor's better judgment. Presuming it was better, of course.
"Well, James?" Governor Swann asked after a moment. Norrington started a bit at the use of his Christian name, but relaxed a bit under the implied informality.
"You don't seriously expect him to hold to his contract, do you?" he asked surprising himself with his own forthrightness. He accepted the glass of sherry the governor was offering and sipped it discontentedly.
"Which would you rather?" Governor Swann asked, "Captain Jack Sparrow, pirate, uncatchable and infamous, or Captain Jack Sparrow, privateer, where at least he will be under our supervision." He raised an eyebrow on the "our," clearly including Norrington in the august company of Jack Sparrow's keepers. Norrington sighed. Better judgment indeed.
"Even so," he said, "I can't help but think that this will be trouble." To his credit, Governor Swann did not scold Norrington for being excessively pessimistic, but merely nodded silently in polite agreement.
**
Apparently Sparrow believed that his letter of marque gave him leave to walk in Port Royal's streets, drink in Port Royal's taverns, and shock Port Royal's citizens.
Unfortunately, he was right.
Norrington had half-hoped Sparrow would employ at least a little tact, despite his newly-awarded freedom of the city, but of course that was ridiculous, as he was now discovering. The man seemed to make a point of being as visible as possible - not at all difficult in his ridiculous costume. He had even, it seemed, calculated precisely the most offensive manner in which to tip his hat to Norrington when they passed in the street, which he did with a frequency that often made Norrington wonder why God had chosen him for this particular punishment. He found himself in conversation with Jack Sparrow in marketplaces, on the docks, in taverns, and on street corners. It was nearly enough to keep him indoors with his paperwork, for although Sparrow was always polite, he exuded the air of a man with a scheme in mind, and the curious way he watched Norrington's reactions made the commodore worry about what part he would be expected to play.
**
Upon being promoted to Commodore, he had known that he would be sacrificing his time on the sea in exchange for the title, but while the pirate threat had been significant, it had not been much of an issue. Now, however...
"What about Port Maria?" he asked desperately, trying hard to ignore the pile of paperwork coating his desk, dominated by the Black Pearl's records which had come in just that morning.
Captain Groves shook his head solemnly. "I'm afraid not. Completely dead silent for months now, Commodore. In fact, there hasn't been a reported sighting of a pirate vessel in two weeks. Which, by the way, they're attributing entirely to your exploits, in the Naval Gazette. You could make Admiral out of this posting yet, sir."
"Don't be ridiculous; what does the Navy need of an Admiral in the Caribbean?" Norrington snapped back, more harshly than he had intended. He didn't add that he would likely go completely mad at the increased load of paperwork that would come along with promotion to Admiral.
"I'm sorry, James," Groves said quietly, and Norrington sighed.
"Well, there's nothing to be done, I suppose," he said, sitting down and staring half-blindly at the Pearl's manifest. "Someone has to keep the rest of you in line, after all." He could tell his wry smile didn't convince Groves in the slightest, but the captain smiled back at him a bit, and they were back on common ground at last.
Groves leaned over the desk, clearly looking for an excuse to change the subject. "Is that the Pearl's log?" he asked, intrigued. "Wonder what that looks like..."
"It had better look like it's meant to," Norrington said, frowning as he picked it up and leafed through a few sheaves of paper. "God only knows what Sparrow finds appropriate for..."
He was interrupted by the sudden sounds of chaos in the hallway, a mix of angry voices featuring...yes, of course, Captain Sparrow himself. Who else, Norrington thought wryly, could possibly cause so much chaos so early in the morning? Moments later, Sparrow burst into the room backwards, gesticulating furiously at the man following him, whom Norrington recognized as Captain Harris, a trader out of the Carolinas, and a man who he normally considered quite reasonable. He looked anything but reasonable now, but Norrington decided that having Jack Sparrow flailing about at you like that could be counted as extenuating circumstances.
They were followed by a frazzled-looking Lieutenant Gillette, who gave Norrington a desperate look of apology. Norrington raised an eyebrow. "That will be all, Lieutenant," he said, saving the man from having to make any explanation. Relieved, the lieutenant hurried back out the door, presumably to the safety of his ship, where there were sailors and marines to defend him from this kind of insanity. Groves, too, took the opportunity to make good his escape; Norrington supposed he couldn't blame him.
Reluctantly, he turned his attention to the quarreling captains. "Gentlemen -" he started, but he got no further.
"I find this absolutely intolerable, Commodore!" Captain Harris managed to get the first word in, and was doing so as loudly as possible. "It is your charge to see that British merchant vessels are kept safe in these waters; to turn that duty over to this...this pirate..."
"Now see here," Sparrow retorted, shaking a finger angrily, but Norrington interrupted him.
"He is a pirate no more, Captain, as you would do well to remember." It grated a bit to say such things in front of the man himself, but Sparrow was so infuriated Norrington doubted he'd noticed.
"Hah!" Harris said loudly. "Hah! That pirate has seen to it that our holds have been all but emptied since we met up with his ship! Thousands of pounds of merchandise, into his hands!"
"No such thing," Sparrow objected, louder even and more obnoxious than Captain Harris, which was quite an achievement. "And you can have your little marines search the Pearl if you must, Commodore, we haven't touched the stuff. Wouldn't want it anyway," he muttered, sniffing disdainfully.
"He's lying," Harris said accusingly, folding his arms and staring at Norrington with the full authority of someone who knew he was, if not well-respected, at least necessary.
"Never lied to you before, mate," Sparrow said, looking Norrington straight in the eyes. And, grudgingly, Norrington had to agree.
**
"I don't suppose you do know anything about what happened to Captain Harris' cargo," Norrington asked the silently seething Jack Sparrow once he'd gotten Harris calmed down enough that he might not try to summon up a mutiny when he went down to the tavern for a drink.
Sparrow looked at him sideways. "Calico Jack. 'M almost sure of it."
Norrington frowned. "Rackham?"
"Aye. It's his sort of thing, to make off with cargo when no one's lookin'. An' he's decided to take advantage of the situation, as it were -- he's started to carry black sail. I can run him off, if you'd like." He sounded quite eager.
"As His Majesty's lawful privateer, you're supposed to capture pirates for trial, not 'run them off' where they can trouble the other colonies," Norrington said absently, wondering why Sparrow would bother to mention the man's name if he only wanted him 'run off.'
Sparrow looked him straight in the eye, then. "I won't be telling you how to do your job, Commodore, and you won't be telling me how to do mine."
Norrington resisted the urge to remind Sparrow that the same job had been his not all that long ago. And besides -- he was curious. "Very well," he said instead, turning back to his papers dismissively. "Do as you like with Rackham, so long as he does not interfere with our shipping lines again." Head bent over his desk, he waited for Sparrow's parting shot and the jingle of coin and beads that would herald his departure. Instead, there was a long stretch of silence. Norrington was just beginning to consider another sarcastic comment when he heard Sparrow nod, then turn and leave.
Now what was that about? he wondered to himself.
He got no more paperwork done that day.
**
Life assumed a certain pattern. Day in and day out, month after month it was the same; after an extended absence, Sparrow and the Black Pearl would return to Port Royal, laden with spoil from Spanish and Portugese and all manner of other foreign ships. Due to the appalling lack of Navy vessels in the area, Norrington would request the Pearl's aid in escorting British merchants to and from the American colonies. Immediately after their return, irate captains would come storming into his office, insisting that there was no way they would continue to allow the infamous pirate captain to continue escorting their ships. Norrington would calm them as best he could, and the whole cycle would start all over again.
For a few months, Norrington had hoped that the controversy would lead to a drop in shipping, forcing Governor Swann to retract Sparrow's letter of marque, but instead the opposite seemed to have happened - and Jamaican waters were safer than ever. The Pearl was indeed the fastest ship in Caribbean waters, and while she was out on cruise, nothing escaped her attention.
He still didn't trust Sparrow. He didn't believe the man would just give up piracy for no reason at all, though he also couldn't fathom what reason he might have had. The noose obviously held no fear for him, and the Pearlwas fast enough and well-manned enough that he had nothing to fear from action, either. No, Norrington was certain that Sparrow had something he wanted out of this arrangement, for all that Norrington could not determine what that was.
He didn't trust Sparrow, but he continued to defend him. He tried to convince himself that he was only looking out for British interests, but he knew in his heart that wasn't the case.
So long as Sparrow never caught on.
**
James Norrington firmly believed there was nothing better in the world than spring in the Caribbean. It was a warm afternoon in May when the Commodore was walking through Port Royal, surprisingly contented for once. Despite his now sedentary lifestyle, to which he was beginning to adjust, life was, for no apparent reason, progressing nicely.
He should have known it couldn't last for long.
Norrington had wandered down to the docks with a vague intention of checking on the replacement of the spars on the Dauntless which had been carried away in a recent storm, an intention which was entirely shattered before he even caught sight of the great black ship moored at the docks.
"Move yerselves, you worthless scaliwags!"
There he was, more ostentatious than ever before: Jack Sparrow. Prancing down the street, followed by his crew members - and even marines, Norrington noted with disapproval - carrying massive chests, doubtless filled with any variety of gold and treasure, if Sparrow's appearance was any measure. In addition to his usual battered yet dramatic coat and tricorn, Sparrow was wearing a fine new sash about his waist and several long strands of pearls, gold, and gemstones around his wrists and neck. Somewhere he had acquired a silver-topped cane, which he flourished dramatically when he spotted Norrington.
"Commodore!" The man sounded entirely too pleased to see him; he must have been dipping into the rum again. And, as Sparrow had doubtless intended, they now had the attention of nearly the entire town. "So good to see you again, and in such fine health, too. Do tell me, what would you like me lads to be doing with all this lovely plunder we've got for you?" Sparrow's grin glinted gold in the sunlight as he leaned just too far forward.
"None of it English plunder, I should hope," Norrington said coldly, forcing himself not to lean back.
Sparrow, however, did, his face contorting into an amazing expression of shock and dismay. "My dear Commodore James, what do you take me for? No," he amended quickly, holding up his stick, "don't answer that, mate. Spanish and Portugese, all of it, I swear. Aaaand -- " he pulled a package of papers out of his sash with a flourish. "These are yours, I believe. Took 'em off Rackham before we sent him on his way." Sparrow looked, justifiably, smug.
Norrington took the papers -- dispatches, no doubt, they were always going missing around here -- and nodded in acquiescence. "I'm sure we can find some place for your...cargo...in Fort Charles, then," he said. Sparrow bowed his head in thanks, hands pressed together prayerfully, before turning back again to shout at his crew.
**
Commodore Norrington was not usually a social creature, preferring the solitude of his library to the less-than-savory elements that usually populated Port Royal's taverns, but he considered it a benefit to get out occasionally to see what was happening in the town. In truth, it was much quieter than it had been only a few years ago, due in no small part to Norrington's own influence. The town that had once been a haven for pirates and criminals of all stripes was, slowly, becoming far less welcoming to them.
Though there is little one can do about legalized pirates, I suppose, Norrington thought grimly as he spotted an ostentatious figure making his way across the room. Sparrow seemed to relish the chance to flaunt himself in public; no doubt he had drunk here in disguise often enough in the past.
"Is there a problem between us, Commodore?" Sparrow asked, setting two pints down on the table and then sitting down himself - in the chair across from Norrington, fortunately. He was not in the mood for Sparrow's complete disregard for personal space. Then again, most of Port Royal's citizens realized that even when the Commodore was drinking in the local tavern, he wasn't much in the mood for company. Nothing like that had ever stopped Sparrow, of course.
"A problem?" The Anchor's excellent beer - light enough to drink for hours, unlike the store of unusually fine yet very potent brandy back in his quarters - had loosened his tongue enough that conversation with Sparrow was likely to be unwise, but in his present condition, Norrington couldn't care about that, either. "What could possibly give you that impression, Captain Sparrow?" He looked pointedly at the pirate brand on the man's arm.
"Now, now," Sparrow said, "I thought we were past all that."
"Perhaps some of us are," Norrington responded, but Sparrow didn't appear to notice him.
"After all, there's all of us have things in our past we aren't proud of. You were once engaged to Miss Elizabeth, and I don't hold that against you." Sparrow said this as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.
Norrington tried to be offended. "I beg your pardon?" There, that sounded nearly properly irate. But Sparrow just waved aside his objection with a graceful hand and shoved one of the pints in his direction.
"Just tell me one thing, mate," he said, "exactly how relieved were you when she decided to go for dear William instead?"
"I refuse to answer that."
"That's what I thought," Sparrow said, looking at him knowingly. Norrington wondered if the privateer knew something that he didn't.
"There," Sparrow suddenly said with a grin. He leaned back in his chair comfortably and plopped his boots on the table. "Much better," he said, taking a long swig of rum.
Norrington frowned, hopelessly confused. "What's better?" he asked.
Sparrow waved a generous hand across the table. "You, me...sittin' in a pub, talkin', like two ordinary people. T'wasn't so hard, now, was it, Commodore?" Sparrow called for more rum.
"I'd hardly say arguing constitutes talking like "ordinary people"," Norrington said with a hint of sarcasm.
Sparrow shrugged. "Ordinary enough in a place like this." Norrington had to concede the point; unlike half the other people in the tavern, they weren't shouting at one another. "Really, my good --" He paused, as if he'd just realized something. "What is your Christian name, anyway?"
The man did jump around a conversation. Norrington wanted to be stubborn and not answer that either, but there really was no reason for it. "James."
"James," Sparrow said, as if testing the flavor of it. "How very dignified." He did not sound impressed. Sparrow crossed his arms over the table and leaned forward, bringing him rather uncomfortably into Norrington's personal space. Norrington forced himself not to flinch back. "We'll have to find something else to call you. James, James...Jim?" Norrington made a face. "Jimmy!"
"No."
"Jimmy," Sparrow said smugly.
Norrington glared. Sparrow's eyes twinkled. Norrington sighed. It was going to be a long night. And after that, a very long tour of duty with the Caribbean's most incorrigible privateer.
**
The evening air was damp but cool, a pleasant relief from the blazing heat and humidity of earlier in the day, but Norrington couldn't help feeling uncomfortable as he walked along the docks. From here, the entire day seemed to have carried with it a heavy sense of portent, though he was quite sure that it had seemed like nothing of the sort until he had settled into his usual seat at the tavern for the evening.
That was the problem, of course. For one, he now had a usual seat at the tavern, where before a few months ago he would never have dreamed of spending more than one or two evenings there a month. He generally disapproved of officers mingling with the men, as common as it was out here on the fringes of the empire. For another, it was not only his usual seat. It was one of two, the other belonging to none other than Captain Jack Sparrow.
Norrington squinted against the setting sun, its rays obscuring the vessel that was making its ponderous way into the harbor. She looked too small to be a merchantman, too trim to be a gentleman's yacht. Then the ship slipped around another couple of points, into shadows where it could be more clearly seen, and Norrington's heart sank. She sported at least two holes above the waterline, and from the way she was riding in the water, probably more beneath. Her rigging showed signs of recent and hasty repair, and the mainsail was rather more battered than was common. He caught the name painted on her side -- the Kinsale, a dispatch vessel. She'd been due in Charleston weeks ago.
His first thought was of the handful of pirates still stalking the area, but something told him that this was not right. A sloop like the Kinsale should have been able to outrun any pirate, save perhaps the Black Pearl, as dispatch ships were not weighted down with guns and ordinance. And what temptation would a dispatcher present to a pirate?
A small crowd was already beginning to gather on the docks, noting with curiosity the holes in her sails and hull, as Norrington turned to the fort. He would send Groves to find out what happened to the captain of theKinsale, but he had other things to do. Questions had to be asked, the governor had to be notified, arrangements had to be made. And above all, gossip had to be quieted before some fool named this an act of war.
When the Black Pearl returned to Port Royal's docks on the morning tide, carpenters were already at work patching the Kinsale's hull. Norrington was observing the work with her captain, a worn-looking man of about forty by the name of Callow. He could, unfortunately, give very little account of the ship which had attacked them -- surprised and defenseless, the Kinsale had simply added sail and escaped as soon as possible. The ship had flown an English flag, a not uncommon tactic in naval warfare; Callow thought that she might have been Spanish. The man's solemn demeanor conveyed more effectively than words that he knew full well what it might mean that a Spanish man of war was firing upon an English messenger.
Norrington was in no mood for frivolities, and so when Sparrow made his appearance on the docks, with all the dash and style that was his calling card, he received the full brunt of the commodore's mood.
"Captain Sparrow!" Norrington snapped, and even Captain Callow straightened in response. "What exactly do you know about this?"
"Nothing at all," Sparrow said instinctively before leaning back and looking over the damage. "Shameful," he muttered, and he sounded sincere. "But the Pearl had nothing to do with this, Commodore, I can promise you that."
Norrington frowned in irritation at the suggestion; the thought had not actually crossed his mind, though Sparrow's defensiveness was interesting. "I wouldn't dream," he said dryly, "but you are meant to be gathering reconnaissance on the area, are you not?" He was gratified to see that his practiced glare worked nearly as well on Sparrow as it did on recalcitrant midshipmen.
"Ah," Jack said, "Yes, that." He rummaged about in various pockets for a few moments before presenting a folded and sealed stack of papers with a flourish. "As it so happens, we did spot something a mite suspicious lookin' up past the windward passage..." Norrington held out his hand and Sparrow dropped his report in them with a curious look.
"Very well," he said, turning to Captain Callow, "I will send a ship immediately to investigate and to clear up any...difficulties...which might arise. You may rest assured --"
"Ye can't take one of your fancy Navy ships in there," he Sparrow interrupted, loud enough for everyone on the quayside to hear. "She'd never make it."
"Fine," Norrington said, satisfied. "I'll take the Black Pearl."
"You?" Sparrow said with distaste. "We, mate."
**
Norrington fully expected it to be at least a week before they could set sail in the Pearl; Sparrow had her ready in less than two days. He was surprised to see the condition of her when he came aboard, and even more surprised to realize he had never paid much attention to her before. He knew that Sparrow had asked little of the shipyard in the months since he'd taken the king's shilling, and had taken that for indolence, but in truth the Pearl was in as good repair as any Navy ship in the fleet. Of course, that only raised the question of where Sparrow was getting his extra spars and sails...
Sparrow's crew, on the other hand, was not what Norrington would call disciplined, and he briefly regretted his decision not to take any of his own men, however much they could not be spared at the fort. Nevertheless, she made it out of the bay with decent style, and Norrington tried not to notice that Sparrow seemed to be showing off. And whyever would he think to do that, he wondered to himself with a tight smile. It was too much to hope that the man was developing some respect for authority, he supposed, but he would take any advantage he was given.
He was not given much. Norrington knew better than to give orders to the crew when the ship's captain was standing not ten feet away, but he doubted they would have listened to him anyway. He settled instead for inspecting the main cabin, his curiosity about Sparrow and his ship overcoming his nervous inclination to keep an eye on the less-than-savory crew.
The cabin was surprisingly tidy, with the clutter of paperwork which usually decorated a captain's cabin notable for its absence; probably to stop him prying, Norrington thought with a wry smile. The contents of a heavy chest clanked thickly when he nudged it with his boot, that would be Sparrow's infamous supply of rum. The cabinetry, he discovered, was all locked, and the dark wood surfaces gleamed with a recent polish. In the harsh afternoon light filtering through the stern windows, it was harder than Norrington would have expected to call to mind the skeletal nightmares which had inhabited this ship for so long. Even so, the corners of the room held enough shadows to make him uncomfortable.
Still thoughtful, Norrington made his way back above decks as the Pearl changed direction, heading out into the open sea.
**
Come nightfall, when the dark had filled the cabin completely, unlightened by the thin wedge of the new moon, the shadows were far less worrisome. Norrington found he had missed the quiet motion of the ship underneath him, the gentle sway of the hammock, more than he had known. It would have been peaceful, had he not somehow managed to end up sharing said cabin with one unbelievably noisy privateer captain, but that he was willing to put up with for now.
Sparrow, of course, seemed inclined to bicker about it for as long as he could get away with it.
"It occurs to me," he was saying speculatively, and Norrington felt free to roll his eyes in the dark of the cabin, "that it is hardly the job of a Commodore of the Royal Fleet to go out chasing after rumors, is it not?" Although he couldn't see him, Norrington knew that Jack was watching him with that same dark, over-interested stare that he had been using for months.
"It is my job to see to the safety of these waters," he said stiffly, "and official reports of suspicious activity hardly constitute rumors."
Sparrow chuckled. "Aye, official and coming from me?" Norrington refused to be baited. "Although," Sparrow continued thoughtfully, "one could hardly argue that sitting at a desk signing fiddly bits of paper is a suitable life for a sailing man. Can hardly blame you if Her Majesty's Royal Navy is a bit too much for isself sometimes." Sparrow's expectant silence made it obvious that was bait, too, and though Norrington could scarcely hold his tongue for irritation he waited silently for the next sally. He may have grown accustomed to Jack Sparrow and his ways; may even have grown fond of him, strangely, but this was ridiculous.
"You know..."
"The idea that I might get some sleep tonight deeply offends you, doesn't it?"
Jack snorted. "You're the one as insisted on sharing the cabin, mate."
"Not exactly. I simply insisted that, as ranking officer, I should have the best cabin. You're the one who refused to leave."
There was a rustling sound; probably Jack trying to lever his way out of his hammock to glare at Norrington, as useless as that would be in the dark. "This is my ship!"
"She's a Royal Navy ship at the moment, Captain, as she's under Royal Navy commission." Norrington let a note of smugness creep into his voice. There was a thump, as Jack collapsed back into his hammock, and a series of unhappy mutterings. "M'sorry, darlin', I won't let him talk about you like that any more," Norrington could just make out.
"You had a point?" Norrington asked, once the muttering had died down. But Sparrow was asleep, or ignoring him, and he got no answer.
**
Past the Windward Passage and Hispaniola, the Pearl had struck out heading northeast by east, which seemed a bit improbable to Norrington as there was nothing northeast by east of Hispaniola until Spain, and at any rate this was not the transatlantic route. That evening she had tacked a bit to the north, and she must have made further adjustments to her course in the middle of the night, for they had passed the infamous Isle de Muerta early in th morning and Norrington now had no idea where they were or where they were going.
He was fairly certain, however, that if they were still more north and east than they were south and west, the island they were approaching should most definitely not be there.
He was standing at the rail on the quarterdeck and trying to work out positions in his head, without reducing himself to asking Sparrow what the hell was going on, when the man approached and decided to explain things anyway. "S'a good sign," he said, waving a bottle of rum toward the island before offering it to Norrington, who simply raised an eyebrow.
"I wouldn't have thought there were islands out this far into the Atlantic," he said instead.
Sparrow grinned at him, pleased by this opening. "There are," he said, "but that's not one of 'em."
Norrington looked pointedly out at the island again. It was, undeniably, an island -- or at the very least a large outcropping of rock, lightly covered in sand. There were even a few scraggly bushes growing out of it. It might have looked more at home in the North Sea than in the West Indies, true, but an island it truly was. "I suppose you're going to tell me it's the protruding back of a giant sea creature, and it will dive beneath the surface and drown us all if we attempt to land on it."
"Believe what you like," Sparrow said, leaning over the railing himself and stretching luxuriously, "but I certainly wouldn't be landing on that little rock."
Madness, thought Norrington. I'm following a mad pirate captain out into god-knows-what uncharted waters, and he's telling me sailors' fairy-stories about it all. We'll be lucky to survive, if we don't run aground on Spanish Florida first.
Sparrow seemed to catch wind of his skepticism. "Your disdain is very commendable, Commodore. Don't worry, you'll see plenty to convince you before our little voyage is done." With that Sparrow's interest in him seemed to end, as some poor handling of sheet or line caught his eye and he wandered off to shout at one of Her Majesty's sailors.
**
The next morning, the sea was shrouded in fog. Sailors and pirates alike went about their business with a little more noise than usual, which did nothing to dispel the odd, muffled quiet. Unbelievably, the Pearl still moved forward at several knots, though the wind did not disperse the fog, which was beginning to swirl around the black sails ominously. Norrington found Sparrow at the wheel, staring forward at the densest patch of fog dead ahead of them.
"Captain Sparrow," he said by way of greeting, surprised to find his voice quieter than he had expected it to be. He cleared his throat. "And what is our course this morning?"
Sparrow bared his teeth in a gesture that was not quite a grin. "Well, to start we'll be avoiding that island there up ahead."
Norrington squinted into the fog. "Island?"
"Aye. The island where dreams come true." Sparrow's voice was heavy with foreboding.
Norrington tried to remain unimpressed; after all, it was entirely likely that Sparrow was simply being overdramatic. "That hardly sounds intimidating," he said with a lightness he didn't feel.
Jack made an improbable gesture. "Aye, and Barbossa and his crew thought they wouldn't mind living forever."
The mention of the Pearl's former captain brought to mind a few of the dreams Norrington had had himself after the night when he had fought impossible creatures on his own quarterdeck -- and that was enough to give him some idea of what was making Jack and his crew so nervous. Indeed, the weather alone was more than a little intimidating. Where most fog sat heavily on the water, this moved and swirled as though a ship were about to emerge from it, but it never did. The bright sunlight behind them threw the patch of darkness into even sharper relief, and made even the Pearl seem bright by comparison. It reminded Norrington uncomfortably of the fog that used to follow this ship around, before Jack Sparrow had reclaimed it.
"We'll make around it," Sparrow said firmly, but he too gave the fog a nervous glance before heading to the helm.
They skirted the fog for the rest of the day, and the ship simmered with nervous tension. The men tended to the starboard side of the ship, as far from the fog as they could get, however many leagues of water separated them. Sometimes the fog crept close, licking around the hull as it had in the not-too-distant past, and the men crossed themselves and some even crept into the rigging.
Norrington was almost of a mind to discount the whole incident as a freak of the weather and sailors' superstition, until he caught sight of Joshamee Gibbs drinking heavily from a flask, leaning against the starboard rail. He straightened quickly when he saw Norrington approaching, but his face was still white.
"All right, Mr Gibbs?" Norrington asked, concerned.
Gibbs shuddered, sincerely if a bit theatrically. "T'ain't natural, sir," he muttered, almost to himself, glancing nervously across the ship at the fog. "T'ain't right. But Captain Sparrow, he'll risk more than most t'go after what he wants."
"And what is it that Captain Sparrow wants from this voyage?" he asked, curious but not expecting an answer. Nor did he get one, Gibbs muttering something indistinguishable before finding his excuse in the watch bell. The changing of the watch was quieter than Norrington had ever heard, the crew still moving cautiously in the presence of the fog, and with another glance at the dark sea Norrington decided that perhaps the afternoon would be better spent below decks, where he had not yet seen the fog dare to creep.
**
They escaped the fog an hour before sunset, and the Pearl resumed its usual delirious, debauched character almost at once. Norrington tried to maintain his air of disapproval, but anything was a relief after the strangeness of that day, and besides, disapproval didn't seem to affect the pirates at all. Still, he stayed above decks, both enjoying the clear air and doing his best to get a sense of their position, which still eluded him. As the sun sank over the horizon, it caught and glimmered in something in the distance. Norrington frowned, assuming it to be glass reflecting off another ship, and raised his spyglass; but the glass revealed it instead to be a tall pillar on the horizon. It shifted and moved as he watched it; either a mirage or --
"Wall o' water," came a voice from behind him, and he turned to see Mr Gibbs staring off at it as well. "No one's ever been able to land on that island behind it; they say as it's full of treasures no man can imagine."
Norrington asked him, "Do you believe it?"
Gibbs shrugged. "Islands around here, it's as like to be terrible, certain death as anything else. Don't stop people from tryin' though."
Norrington looked out to the apparition again, then up at the black sails and rigging of the pirate ship they sailed on, then back at Gibbs. "And how many make it out this far to try?" he asked, a bit incredulous.
Gibbs grinned. "Not many, true's told. They say as one needs a special permission to sail these waters, an' that Jack got it from a slaving captain some ten years ago, a man who was already five hundred years old and never dies." He paused, to let this sink in. The usual sort of claptrap that got told about the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow, but Norrington found that it was easier to believe than he might have expected.
"Come on, then, there's food and drink to be had in the foc'sle," Gibbs said, intruding into Norrington's train of thought.
There was a good deal more than food and drink; there was a veritable celebration going on in the foc'sle, with dark-skinned Anamaria paying all her attention to a fiddle she'd set singing wildly, and at least half of the crew already soused beyond rational belief. Sparrow himself seemed to have gotten into the swing of things; as Norrington approached, the pirate captain slung an arm over his shoulders -- an awkward gesture, given the difference in their heights -- and shoved a bottle into his hands.
"Stop lookin' so dour for a bit," Sparrow said, "an' have a bit of fun already."
Norrington eyed the bottle dubiously, but pulled the cork and took a drink. It burned down the back of his throat, and tasted like scorched sugar. "What are we celebrating, then?" he asked Sparrow, who was grinning at him like he was the Devil, that drink had been the first step down the road to Hell. Sparrow had a surprise coming to him, if he thought that -- Norrington was fairly sure he could drink even the famously inebriated under the table, if he had a mind to.
"Bein' alive," Sparrow said simply, and after the day's events, Norrington had to agree.
**
The following morning provided an excellent motivational example for the strict rationing of alcohol on board a ship. Norrington having largely abstained (and having a Navy officer's improbable tolerance for liquor) rose with the sun -- waking, not too surprised, to find the captain's cabin otherwise empty. The captain was asleep in front of the wheel, his back pressed against it, looking as if he'd been dead to the world for at least twelve hours and didn't plan to notice it for several more.
Norrington paced the length of the ship, carefully avoiding unconscious sailors every step of the way. From the foc'sle, he could see another island drifting into view. He knew better by now than to hope it was their destination; Sparrow seemed to be truly enjoying showing off this archipelago. It was, he supposed, Sparrow's way of throwing his superior knowledge in Norrington's face. They were on Sparrow's territory now, after months on Norrington's own. Fair is fair --Norrington found he couldn't blame him, after all.
"Lovely weather for it."
He was willing, however, to blame him for his uncanny silence and ability to creep up behind a man when he was supposed to be safely passed out with a hangover.
"Good morning, Captain," Norrington bit out, without turning around. Sparrow emerged from behind him and propped himself up on the rail, surveying the sea. He nodded, satisfied.
"Good wind. We'll take up on the lee side of that island up there; it's worth a look at, as we pass." He peered up at Norrington, who found himself irritated by this purposely cryptic suggestion, fair play or no.
"Indeed," he said, "And what is it now?" Norrington asked, letting just a hint of sarcasm creep into his voice. "The Island of Sordid Fantasies? Or the Island of Missed Opportunities. Or maybe something simpler. Sea creatures, perhaps?" He was truly curious; if nothing else, this voyage was proving to be...educational.
"Not quite," Sparrow said. "It's more of a..." He waved his hands about, as if sketching a particularly insubstantial form in the air. "...a squiggly thing."
Norrington raised an eyebrow. "Squiggly thing?"
"You'll see."
"Of course." Norrington regarded him steadily. "Sparrow, just how many of these uncharted monstrosities do you intend on diverting us through before we reach whatever completely undefined destination you have in mind, presuming we don't first run aground on one of them in the middle of the night?"
Sparrow raised his eyebrows at him, giving him a look of exaggerated skepticism. "Just because your official charts don't have 'em, Commodore, don't mean they're uncharted," he said. He invited Norrington to join him with a twitch of his head, and headed for the captain's cabin. Pulling a key from the pocket of his coat, he opened a locked cupboard and tossed a small, brown leather-covered book at Norrington, who caught it deftly and began to page through.
"Not a chart?" He was, despite himself, surprised; though charts would fetch a good price anywhere sailors could buy them, he did expect Sparrow to have a few of them to hand.
Sparrow shrugged. "Not many of 'em for this bit of sea. Sharp memory and good bearin's work as well." Which was not true; Norrington wondered again when Sparrow had passed this way last, and why, and what had happened to the charts that Sparrow must have used, once.
Norrington bent over the small book while Sparrow busied himself with a cabinet on the other side of the cabin -- and from the clanking sounds of bottles knocking together, Norrington could guess with what.
"Your bearings are off." Norrington frowned. "Rather drastically."
"No they aren't," Sparrow said without turning around.
Norrington examined them more closely. By any rational standard, Sparrow had their position marked as somewhere in the Baltic Sea, which was clearly impossible. If nothing else, the climate was still Caribbean.
But then, why was he expecting Sparrow to follow any rational standard?
"I see," Norrington said. If one placed the meridian where everyone else placed the meridian, through Greenwich and the Admiralty, these coordinates did indeed place them in the Baltic; if, however, one placed the meridian somewhere nearer to home, somewhere in the Caribbean, the numbers did make much more sense. Ingenious, really, and it would certainly stop anyone who happened to come across this book from tracking his movements. He wondered vaguely why Jack had let him see it. Norrington still couldn't determine exactly where they were; longitude was never certain, and without knowing exactly what Sparrow considered to be home he could only guess. He was still fairly sure, however, that there should not be islands here.
"Might I ask from where this route derives?" he asked, knowing any formality on his part would goad Jack into answering and just possibly giving away more than he intended, but there was no answer. The cabin was empty; Sparrow must have crept out while Norrington was examining his coordinates. Shoving the little book back into a cupboard, Norrington too turned to the stairs, all the while cursing the man's unnatural silence and his ridiculous fondness for playing games.
**
They passed the island, skimming cleanly past the lee side, just as the sun peaked in the sky. Not an hour before, the crew had finally roused themselves, but despite their late morning, they were just as efficient as ever. Norrington was assaying their handling of the sails when Sparrow called him over.
"Oi! Commodore!"
He briefly considered not answering, but realized quickly that things could only escalate, and it was probably safer to go now. He refrained from returning the insult. Sparrow, apparently aware he'd reached his limit, gestured vaguely in the direction of the shore, and Norrington had to admit, as descriptive names went, 'squiggly thing' was not bad.
The creature chased the ship down the shore as a wild horse might, but there its resemblance to anything familiar ended. At first he could have imagined that he could see its muscles flexing under the skin as it ran, but it soon became obvious that it was, instead, the motion of its skin over the muscle. As it ran, its skin rotated over and over its body, moving in a neverending cycle. Halfway down the beach, it paused, turned itself around a bit, and then went back to following the ship -- now its muscles ran around and around under its skin, while the skin stayed motionless.
"Makes me sick to look at that thing, don't know why you like it," Anamaria muttered as she stalked across the deck behind them.
Sparrow looked up at Norrington, eyes laughing but for once his smug smile was gone.
"Astonishing," Norrington murmured, tearing his eyes away from Sparrow's and back to the creature on the shore. "Astonishing."
**
Eight days out from Jamaica, an island crept into view that had no distinguishing characteristics whatsoever. It looked like a veritable tropical paradise, one of the sort that were actually quite rare in the tropics, but otherwise not unusual. By now, however, Norrington knew better than to judge quickly.
To his surprise, Sparrow was positively pleased. "We'll make landfall, stay the night," he said to Gibbs, casually. "We need provisions anyhow." Gibbs looked a bit more nervous about this proposition than his captain did, but he scurried off to spread the news among the crew anyway.
Sparrow steered the first boat in himself, leaping into the water with a splash a few feet from shore and striding up the pebbly beach with gusto, already calling out orders to the hands beaching the boat, who showed a great deal less enthusiasm. Eventually, a rudimentary camp began to take form, amidst much grumbling and laziness. Norrington found himself completely useless, as Sparrow was quite content to ignore him thus far, and the crew had no place for him in their slow but evidently well-rehearsed duties.
He had just settled down with his back against a tree, deciding that if nothing else he would not kill himself standing out in the heat in a dark coat, when Sparrow appeared before him, grinning down with a mischievous look. Norrington sighed. "I am not to have a mid-afternoon nap, am I?" he said with resignation. Sparrow offered him a hand up.
"Come along, Commodore," he said cheerfully, and set off into the trees, Norrington following, more curious than reluctant.
Jack seemed to be following a path of his own, for Norrington could see no difference between the track that they took and the undergrowth surrounding them, and the privateer was uncharacteristically quiet. "I thought you said all these islands were dangerous?" Norrington said, with some trepidation.
Sparrow swaggered a bit more elaborately in a way that let Norrington know even more efficiently than the gleam of gold that the pirate was grinning at him. "Of course they all are, mate. This one more dangerous than some." He stopped, suddenly, and turned sharply to his right; Norrington almost ran into him. Sparrow flashed that obnoxious grin again and reached above his head to tug on a branch. A limb, heavily laden with green apples, swished down between them. "These," Sparrow said, "are magic apples."
Norrington raised an eyebrow at him. "Magic apples?"
"One branch o' these will feed a longboat full of men for a month. You got a better name for them, you let me know." He plucked one off, took a hefty bite out of it, then proffered it to Norrington. He nearly rejected it, but a small voice in his head reminded him that a little ingratiation now might save them a good deal of trouble when they got to wherever they were going. He took it, and took a bite out of the other side. "O'course, they're not so miraculous without the branch."
Norrington looked at the tree sideways. "Why does the branch make so much difference?" he asked, and marvelled, not at the branch, but at the things he was learning to take in stride.
Sparrow shrugged. "What do I know from magic apples, mate?" He turned back to the path and carried on as if nothing had interrupted him.
"What's so dangerous about magic apples, then?" Norrington asked.
"Nothin'," Sparrow said casually, "there's a pond over there turns whatever you drop into it into solid gold. Be amazed at how many gold statues there are 'round here, really."
As they came out into a clearing among the grove of improbable trees -- and how did apple trees grow in the tropics, anyway? -- Sparrow stopped and turned around with a flourish. "What --" Norrington started to ask, but he stopped when he, too, reached open air and caught sight of the view.
They had come up far above sea level, almost unnoticed, and from here he could see clear across the island and out into the open sea. The setting sun reflected orange and gold off the surface, chopped into frothy peaks by the breakers coming in on the shore. To the west, a group of what might have been dolphins and might have been swimmers flashed in the sea, and Norrington resisted again the instinct to dismiss the evidence of his eyes.
He heard Sparrow moving closer behind him, and he put a hand on Norrington's shoulder with his customary air of familiarity. "Worth it," he asked, and Norrington smiled. "Worth missin' out on all that fascinatin' paperwork for a week?" He sounded amused and, indeed, quite pleased with himself.
"Quite," Norrington murmured, giving in to the wonder of the scene, as Sparrow patted him gleefully on the shoulder. "Quite."
**
After the view of the ocean from the top of the island, Norrington found he could not tolerate the noisy rudeness of the crew around their evening fires, and he retreated to the edge of the forest with a bottle of rum and his thoughts. Sparrow's remarks earlier had brought to mind something that had been on the edge of bothering him for some time now. Worth it? What, exactly, had become of the suspicious convoy they had meant to be investigating? And in the meantime, what, exactly, had become of Commodore Norrington, so determined to do right and so devoted to his duty? He felt he had lost him somewhere back beyond the Isle de Muerta, somewhere that sailors' fairy stories did not exist. He would blame Sparrow for it, but he had the odd feeling that it was not something which deserved blame.
As if summoned by his thoughts, the man wandered up, bottle in hand, and plopped himself down on the beach next to Norrington. "Too good for the likes of us, mate?" he asked without rancor.
Norrington shook his head idly, but it seemed that, for once, Sparrow had no more to say. Over by the fires, the sound of Anamaria's fiddle started up, and a ragged cheer ran through the group, obviously well heartened by rum. Norrington raised his eyebrows in amusement. "How on earth," he asked, by way of a rhetorical question really, "does one ever sail a ship with a crew that spends half of its time drunk and the other half hung over?"
"I think you'll find Navy men drink more than pirates when they get their chance," Sparrow offered, gesturing toward Gibbs, who was already collapsed comfortably at the foot of a tree of his own.
"I think you'll find that might be the reason they are no longer in the Navy to begin with," Norrington said.
Sparrow grunted. "S'a far more common situation than you'd think, mate," he muttered, and Norrington found himself wondering if Jack Sparrow was one of the ones who left the threat of the bosun's lash for the far less immediate threat of the hangman's noose.
"Nevertheless," he said cautiously, "you can hardly blame the Navy for some men's incapacity for discipline." Now he was testing reactions; he wondered how Sparrow had gotten so far under his skin while he wasn't paying attention.
"Discipline?" Ah yes, he'd thought that would set Sparrow off. "Tyin' men down to a sad little keel with sails an' three watches an' half a cup of rum a day is no discipline, mate, that's bloody torture." He shook his head, and the medallions in his hair flashed in the firelight. "Jus' like takin' a man who ought to be at sea and putting him behind a desk as a reward for doin' his job, that's no discipline, either."
Norrington shifted uncomfortably. "It is the way things have to be done," he said quietly.
"Aaaah, yes," Sparrow said, "But it ain't the only way, now is it?"
Somewhere Norrington had lost control of the conversation. How had Sparrow ended up nearly in his lap, straddling his knees, so very very close to him? Yet another thing he was learning to take in stride, apparently. The pirate's breath smelled of rum and apples, surprisingly appealing. He should have been shocked, he supposed, but it felt like the culmination of six months of this strange dance that Sparrow had orchestrated around the two of them, starting with that damned Letter of Marque and ending up...here?
Norrington shook his head as if to clear it. "I don't want..."
"Oh, but I think you do. I think you want very much." This close, he could feel the heat of Sparrow's body, nearly as strong as the heat of his gaze, still watching him, still gauging his reactions.
"What are you trying to accomplish?" he asked, looking Sparrow straight in the eyes, while he still had the sense to ask it. He could feel that sense rapidly departing.
Sparrow made a rude noise. "Does everybody always have to have an ulterior motive, with you?" he asked, shifting his arms, braced against the bole of the tree, in a way that made Norrington very aware of them.
"Not everyone," he answered reasonably, "Only you." Sparrow rolled his eyes. "You have demonstrated a remarkable facility for manipulation, and I can only assume you have some goal in mind at the end of it all. I am not so naive, for example, to believe that you accepted that Letter of Marque out of a desire to do good."
Sparrow leaned in closer, until the distance between them was entirely negligible, but did not break eye contact with Norrington. "Stop. Thinking," he said clearly, and closed the last of that distance with alacrity. Norrington's mouth seemed to open under his of its own accord, and he tasted gold in the pirate's mouth. His hands reached up, across Sparrow's back, tangling in unruly dark hair.
Eventually Sparrow pulled back, smiling widely at him, but his grin didn't look as smug as it usually did -- as it had every right to, Norrington had to admit.
When he found his voice, he said, "You expect me to believe that was not an ulterior motive?"
Sparrow laughed silently, amusement in every line of his body. "Well as my the good Mr Gibbs might say, I'll go farther than most to get what I want." He leaned in again, brushed his mouth against Norrington's again. "But I will get what I want."
Something in that tripped his memory again, and Norrington frowned. "Jack," he asked sternly, "Where exactly is this suspicious harbor you've set me chasing after?"
"Ah." Sparrow leaned back on his haunches, grasping for an explanation. "Wouldn't worry about that, really, if I were you."
Norrington frowned in suspicion. "You invented an entire armada just to drag me away from my paperwork so you could come out here and seduce me?" It was appalling and entirely indefensible. Despite himself, Norrington was almost flattered.
Jack squinted at him. "What? No, no, no, the armada's real. Well, almost. Well, parts of it. Pair of ships in a little Spanish harbor. I sent Cotton out to fire it the night we ran across 'em. No trouble at all."
Norrington raised an eyebrow. "Cotton?"
"The bird navigates in the dark."
Norrington leaned his head back against the tree trunk with a thud, wondering if perhaps a week aboard a pirate's ship had not driven him mad after all, but he couldn't quite hide the smile playing across his face. "Anyway," Sparrow muttered, curling up against his side as if he belonged there, "it worked." Norrington closed his eyes and forgot about Spanish ships.