Chapter 3: Rum and Reconciliation
Captain Norrington paced the deck of his ship, his hands clasped behind his back as he oversaw the crew in their work. Not that they needed his oversight. Norrington had insisted Miss Cobb use his cabin as her quarters. There had been an unspoken understanding however, that if Norrington needed to consult his maps and charts, she would yield the cabin to him, and vice versa if she needed privacy or rest. The captain of The Avenger seemed to his crew to be easier to irritate now, and took up odd habits, pacing the deck being one of them. It was as if he were avoiding his cabin altogether, or trying to, at least.
Fletcher took great amusement and interest in the way Missy Cobb and his captain interacted. Whenever she tried to strike up a conversation, she would put her hands behind her back and look up at Norrington (who incidentally towered over her five foot five inch stature) with a pleasant smile. Fletcher would chuckle every time Norrington sighed heavily at "being disturbed" or rolled his eyes at her "childish behavior". Finally, Fletcher decided to do a bit of meddling and perhaps do them both a favor.
"I think she fancies ye, captain," Fletcher said one afternoon after Norrington's shortness of temper forced Miss Cobb to retreat into the cabin.
"She's getting to be a damn nuisance," Norrington replied testily, looking up at the sails to gauge the wind.
"Aw, that means ye likes 'er back!"
Norrington whirled about and faced his first mate, a stinging reply on his lips. It fled as soon as he saw Fletcher's insolent smile. The first mate knew that Norrington refrained from insulting the older man, whom he looked upon as a rather favored uncle. Fletcher quite frequently spoke all manner of things that would have been very much out of line had he not the good will of the captain and much of his respect. He went to the railing of the ship and leaned against it, watching Norrington like a hawk.
“Still, she is very fine,” Fletcher began, earning himself a rather annoyed sigh from the younger man. “Not full of figure jest yet, mind you, but ‘er face ‘as that sort of…girlish charm about it what makes men weak in the knees…”
“Mr. Fletcher, not only is this conversation inappropriate, it is degrading to Miss Cobb, whether she be present or not,” Norrington interrupted harshly. “I suggest you fill your head with thoughts of your work.”
There was a crackling pause in which Fletcher squinted at Norrington. “An’ what will yer head be filled with, Captain?”
Norrington looked ready to use physical force, and actually stepped toward Fletcher threateningly. The older man began to chuckle madly and went on his way. Captain Norrington sighed, leaning his elbows against the railing where Fletcher had been. Looking out at the sea, he squinted at the sunlight which reflected off the water.
The crew had been leering at him lately, a thing which made Norrington testy as he watchfully guarded against signs of mutiny. Nearly halfway into the crossing to England, the captain could not afford the complete and utter obedience of his crew. Fletcher’s insinuation was what he feared the rest of the crew might suggest to him…or worse, take upon themselves to show him what they thought of their passenger.
Yes, Miss Cobb was quite pretty, once she had scrubbed away some of the grime from her face and at least made an effort to comb her hair presentably. Norrington’s irritation increased when he caught himself simply looking at her for merely the sake of looking. Her eyes were brown and trusting, like a doe in the woods. Her cheeks were round as if she had somehow retained some of the plump flesh one has while still a babe in arms. Fletcher’s prodding would have been all well and good except she looked younger than she said she was.
And Norrington? Well, he looked even older than he was. At thirty years of age, he had bags under his eyes, a beard that covered half his face, hair he couldn’t be bothered to comb nicely unless he was in port, yellowing teeth and a firm fondness for brandy (which he kept hidden in a locked drawer of the desk in his cabin). The fact that his crew seemed to have a belief he should be thinking of a seventeen year old girl who looked fifteen made him feel as if he were forty.
At least, Norrington thought thankfully, he still had his good vision, the use of all of his limbs and had only lost one of his back teeth to the butt of a musket. At least he could still wield a sword and not be impaled by it. At least he had enough of a presence, enough of an air of authority that his crew still obeyed a command when he barked it.
Norrington’s jaw clenched when he thought of the other reasons Miss Cobb should be kept as far away from him as possible. Her admiration for him would soon pass, for surely it was nothing more than the tremendous gratitude a young woman has for a rescuer. And Norrington felt he had enough of women. His first foray into the romantic world was not very kind to him. If he had entered into it paralyzed with fear, he left it disenchanted. His hope of marrying a beautiful young woman was dashed instantly the moment he realized she did not want him. He learned his lesson, and looked at all women, pretty or not, as potential assassins after he had quit the presence and even the memory of the greatest thorned rose of them all.
That evening, Norrington ate with his crew, a habit he had gotten them accustomed to. He ignored the periodic nudging everyone made, the knowing glances they thought he couldn’t see. Finally he threw down his wad of bread into the swill they called stew and stomped his way to the decks. He needed some brandy.
Catherine Cobb had just finished her soup and was munching on what bread she had left when Captain Norrington threw open the door of the cabin and demanded he have some privacy while looking at his charts. Catherine looked up at him oddly.
“Captain, ye’ve been lookin’ at ‘em almost ev’ryday for the last week and a half,” she said. “Have ye lost yer sense o’ direction, or sumpin’?”
Norrington grew more irate. He didn’t feel the need to explain himself, especially to her. Taking her wrist, he pulled her toward the door and pushed her out with such force Catherine had trouble keeping herself upright. He slammed the door shut, and Catie Cobb was left on the deck of the ship, staring bewilderedly after him. The crew had quietly come from below deck and with tittering grins, simply watched. Catherine turned around and almost cried with embarrassment at seeing them.
“What’d I do?” she asked, half pointing at the cabin. Fletcher went to her.
“There now, Missy,” he smiled, using the endearment she seemed to like. “Captain’s just a wee bit tense these days. Nothin’ ye’ve done, of course. ‘E gets that way sometimes, when we been too long at sea without a fight.”
Fletcher helped her sit on a barrel, hoping to quell the tears that were sure to come. Patting her hand, he caught sight of Mr. Tanner and motioned for him to bring up a bottle of rum.
“’E bloody hates me, that’s what,” Catherine was saying. Fletcher turned back to her, a horror stricken look on his face. “Can’t be bothered te be civil te me when we talk. ‘E acts like I’m more trouble than I be worth…why don’t ‘e just chuck me into the ocean if ‘e ‘ates me so bad?”
“Aw now, Missy,” Fletcher smiled, not even taking his eyes off her as he took the rum from Tanner. “’Ere, ‘ave a good drink. Ye needs it.”
Catherine took the bottle of rum and looked at it, then looked at Fletcher, and the crew members who had quietly come closer to circle about her. Fletcher took the bottle from her again and wiped the rim of it with his shirt cuff, blowing on it before he gave it back.
“Now, no need te worry yer pretty head ‘bout ‘im,” Fletcher went on as Catherine threw her head back to drink a sharp gulp of the rum. She grimaced as the burning liquid went down her throat and coughed as she wiped away the droplets that escaped down her chin. She set the bottle between her knees, forlornly rubbing the fabric of her cotton dress. “We likes ye, and there’s more ‘f us than there is ‘f ‘im!”
Catherine looked at Fletcher as if she wanted to believe him, but didn’t just yet. One of the crewmembers lightly punched Fletcher’s arm with a sudden idea after sending a man down to the bunks. “’Ere, she needs some cheerin’. What d’ye say to a good jig, Miss Cate?”
Fletcher had been making sure she nursed the rum well, and turned to the crewman with a wide smile on his weathered face. The surrounding crewmembers clapped the man on his back for such a wonderful suggestion. It had been a long time since any of them had a rousing jig, and with a lady present, it would be even more fun! The man who had been sent back below returned, pulling a fiddle out of a tied sack. While he tuned it up, Fletcher took Catherine’s hand and nearly pulled her off the barrel.
“Will ye dance with me, Missy?” he asked in so gentlemanly a manner she laughed. Catherine still held the bottle of rum by the neck and bobbed a curtsey.
“Aye, Mr. Fletcher,” she said, taking another swig.
Norrington was knocking back his third tumbler of brandy. He had a wonderful head for drink, and pushed his limits often. The screeching of a fiddle had been going on for some time, and he made the effort to ignore it…until he heard the delighted squeals of girlish laughter. Norrington frowned, looking at the door of the cabin. His curiosity got the better of him, but not before he poured a fourth glass of brandy.
Quietly opening the door, he leaned against the frame and watched as various crew members either sat on barrels or the railing of the deck, clapping in time to the fiddle, or wove about in a jig, a bottle of rum being passed around as if it were a partner. There was Fletcher, that rotund son of a sea cook, and Tanner, the ferret-faced deckhand who laughed like a monkey.
And there, skipping lightly between all of them, hooking her arms through the arms of this man and that was Catie Cobb. Her hair had come loose from the braid she had badly made and was flowing freely to the middle of her back. In the light of the rising moon, she danced without buckle shoes or stockings, carefree and, as Norrington peered, more than a little tipsy.
The jig ended abruptly and Norrington looked on with annoyance as Catherine suddenly toppled to the deck with her partner. Striding over he picked her up easily and looked at the now silent crew. “The evening’s festivities are over. Time to retire now,” he announced with finality. Catherine was giggling at his side, the sight of her jig partner still on the deck too much for her as she clung to Norrington’s arm to save her from falling again. The crew nodded quietly, shooting playful smiles at Miss Cobb.
“Hope we cheered ye up, Missy,” Fletcher said before disappearing below deck. Catherine giggled again and waved.
“Aye, thank ye!” she replied before Norrington helped her into the cabin and closed the door.
As soon as the door was shut, Catherine immediately began to resist the help Norrington offered her even as she swayed. She flailed her arms batting him away constantly. Finally she cried out in frustration.
“Let me be!”
Norrington paused, surprised at her outburst and then reached toward her to steady her again. She slapped at his hand.
“I said let me alone! I know how ta get into bed meself!”
Captain Norrington glared at her, unable to think of anything to say. For all the girlish charm she held when she was sober, she made a mean drunkard. Catherine blinked at him crossly, wobbling about as the ship moved. What she said next was an unexpected blow to him.
“Ye’ve made it ver’ clear ye can’t stand me, so why’re ye standin’ thar starin’ at me like I’m some sort ‘f..’f kraken?” she said forcefully, her voice rising in pitch as she grew more and more agitated. “Mist’ Fletcher always tol’ me ye were a fine man. Wall, fine men don’t rail ‘t women, ‘specially ‘f all they wanna do is find out more ‘bout ye, ‘f only fer curiosity’s sake. Ain’ me fault yer so imposin’ I don’t know how te star’ a conversation wit’ ye!”
“Miss Cobb,” Norrington said calmly, his voice like ice.
“Yeh, yeh,” she mocked, crossing her arms over her bosom, mimicking his tone. “Yer way outta line, Miss Cobb. Take some rest, ye sodding drunk!”
“I didn’t…”
“Oh go away!”
Her voice was so angry, so defeated. He blinked at her like an owl before taking up his hat from the desk and bowing. “Goodnight, Miss Cobb,” Norrington said, closing the door behind him. He cringed when he heard the impact of glass on solid wood. He turned and saw flecks of liquid sliding down the cracked glass of the cabin door. There went his good brandy.
In the middle of the night, Norrington still couldn’t sleep. The conversation he had…well, the conversation Catherine shouted to him was still playing in his mind. Was she really interested enough in him to be asking about him? Why the hell was Fletcher telling her things about him? Was her childishness merely the result of her being shy?
Swinging out of his hammock, Norrington pulled his boots on and pulled himself above deck for some fresh air. He strode aimlessly on the decks until finally he leaned against the railing. Looking down into the water, he saw fishes in the moonlight. Some of them came close enough to the surface they almost broke through the water. Propping his chin in his hand, he looked down into the water with a smile.
Suddenly the cabin door opened and Catherine Cobb rushed out, throwing herself against the railing on the opposite side. Norrington grimaced sympathetically as he heard the appalling sound of her heaving. Dear Lord, for one so meek and childlike, she sure could vomit. Norrington quietly went to the barrel of water and uncovered it, dipping the hollowed out serving gourd and going over to her now quieted but shaking form. Gently, he offered her the gourd of water. She took a long draught and thanked him. As soon as she saw who it was, however, she shoved the gourd back into his arms and spun away, making to go back into the cabin.
“Catherine,” Norrington spoke into the night. He berated himself for using her Christian name, but it was the first thing that came to mind to get her to stay. “Might we talk?”
Catherine paused, her hands fidgeting as she turned toward him. Pursing her lips momentarily she struck up the pose she always had when addressing him, with her hands demurely behind her back. “I’ve...I made a fool o’ meself,” she said quietly.
“You spoke your thoughts,” Norrington replied, his thumb absently running up and down the smooth gourd. “Do you…always have such decided views, or have they been repressed?”
Catherine looked down and sighed, moving toward the railing again. “There’s lotsa things I wish I could say,” she admitted, fiddling with the cotton dress she still wore instead of her nightshift. “Not all of them are what ye call proper thoughts for a lady. Me mother’d blush if she knew what I really thought sometimes…but I suppose I think like a pirate. I can’t help it, ye know. After the things I’ve done, an’ the…things what happened to me, I feel like I’d set meself te explodin’ if I didn’t get ‘em out.”
“Was tonight one of those explosions?’
“I suppose,” Catherine said. She quickly looked up at him. “But, sir, that didn’t give me no right, no right atall te be shoutin’ at ye the way I did. Ye deserve more respect than I gave ye.”
Norrington looked down at Catherine and saw her innocence once again. But it was shaded by something more intense now. His knowledge that she could be a passionate, spirited girl took away a degree of his seeing her as impossibly naïve. He could now imagine her pretending to be simpleminded enough to wind a fellow about her little finger, only for him later to find out she could be as capricious as the sea itself. It was a notion that truly discomforted Norrington, considering he was trying to forget another changeable woman.
But then, with that wild dark hair framing such a sweet face, it seemed his fear was a long way off. Norrington smiled.
“I deserved it, Miss Cobb,” he replied, turning to look out at the sea again. “I had no right at all to treat you the way I did. I sincerely apologize for my rude behavior.”
There was a pause in which the sea breeze ruffled through their hair, cooling them both. Catherine looked down in the water and watched the fishes swim about, smiling absently as she thought.
“I forgive ye, Captain,” she murmured in reply, looking up at him. “But, will ye forgive me?”
Captain Norrington smiled back at her, his rough hand covering hers gently, signifying their reconciliation. “I do.”
He offered her some more water, which she drank quite greedily before he helped her back into the cabin. Norrington suddenly remembered the broken bottle of brandy and brushed aside the shards of glass with his foot. Not trusting that he had collected it all out of the way, Norrington scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the cabin.
“It’s a wonder you didn’t step on it coming out,” he said, half to himself. Catherine sighed, her arms around his neck and her head on his shoulders.
“I’m sorry about your bottle…”
“Enough apologies,” he interrupted. “I’m sure you did me a favor. I perhaps shouldn’t be drinking so much brandy.”
Catherine chuckled as he gently put her in bed, drawing the covers over her. Drowsily she looked up at him, catching his hand to wish him good rest.
“Good night, James,” she murmured. Norrington quirked a smile; Fletcher must have dropped his name during their talks.
“Goodnight, Catherine,” he replied, squeezing her hand. Closing the door to the cabin, Norrington was oblivious to the quiet snooping of the night watch, his first mate Fletcher, who cocked a wide grin and nodded approvingly at his captain as he returned belowdecks.