The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish - Chapter 4
Title: The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG for now, NC-17 later
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington is making himself quite at home in my head, the snarky British bastard.
Dedication: This is all Norrington’s fault.
Summary: It all starts with one day’s head start, and then suddenly the commodore is in Tortuga, in disguise. Jack Sparrow recognizes him, and shortly afterwards, on a mostly-unrelated note, chaos ensues around them both. And that’s just the beginning.
Chapter Four
It took just over a month for Beckett to get what he wanted: Commodore James “The Devil Himself” Norrington hunting down the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow.
As a direct result, Commodore James Norrington was looking at an impossible situation.
Ahead of him was the Black Pearl, almost within reach, but there was a storm brewing (a bloody hurricane!) and still the Admiral of the fleet was demanding that they sail on, toward the Pearl and the storm. Commodore Norrington was patiently waiting for the opportune moment. He could almost feel the burning eyes of a few spyglasses watching him from the deck of the Pearl, because he and the Admiral were perfectly silhouetted on the quarter-deck, and surely putting on quite a show for anyone watching. Men were moving away from them as the sea beneath the ship began to grow restless.
James could feel the wind trailing invisible caresses across his face and hands, and it felt as though he had just taken flight, had just spotted his prey. It was now just a matter of waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Wait. Wait. Soon. Strike soon.
James did not know, or care much at the time, whether the voice was part of his own mental dialogue, or that of his ship waiting for him back in Port Royal.
“They obviously are on their way to a safe harbor within reach, which we will be able to make use of and pin them into through the storm, and by the time it passes, we will have captured the Black Pearl!” the Admiral was insisting.
This Admiral, James recalled, had only been promoted to his position within the last month. James knew exactly what (or rather, who) had inspired that promotion: a decision which had nothing to do with the merits, intelligence, or the real-world practicality of the man now wearing the uniform of Admiralty.
It was an effort for the commodore not to grit his teeth. “Admiral, the Black Pearl is currently sitting high enough on the water that she can outpace the storm. The Dauntless cannot follow her--she lacks the speed, as do the rest of our ships,” James said calmly, but loudly, as the wind was beginning to pick up. Only Lieutenant Groves and a few others remained with them on the quarterdeck; the others were leaving, but Groves was lingering, and listening.
The wind whispered eagerly, Not much longer now.
Anger coursing through his blood like cold fire, James’ head had never been clearer; he had never been calmer. He could taste anticipation and sea air on his tongue as he kept talking, his face an unreadable blank and his voice perfectly deadpan. “If we continue this chase and do not turn back to get away from this hurricane while we can, then this ship and the two alongside her will fall to the mercy of the storm, and in all likelihood be crushed against the reefs to the east! I will not sacrifice the lives of my men or yours for this foolish gambit, Admiral.”
The Admiral, rather shorter than Norrington, but not as short as Beckett, puffed up and grew red with anger. “This is most serious insubordination, Commodore, and I hereby seize direct command of this fleet, as you are clearly not in your right mind!”
Norrington’s lips thinned, letting the faintest hint of irritation show through his mask. “Lieutenant Groves, get the men’s attention, will you? All of them: below and above deck.”
Groves left. The Commodore and the Admiral were alone on the quarterdeck. Soon the crew focused on them, waiting for their instructions.
Wait... wait... Feeling a sense of hovering, like a hawk beginning to fold its wings before a dive, Norrington took a slow, deep breath and reached into the deep interior breast pocket of his heavy blue coat.
“Attention, gentlemen-” the Admiral began, but he seemed to be interrupted by a very sharp voice in the back of James Norrington’s head--like the cry of a falcon and a breathless whisper, it filled his mind with one blissfully vicious word--NOW!
James stepped up close behind the Admiral, using him as both a hostage and a human shield as he cocked his pistol and pointed it at the Admiral’s right temple. After the metallic clack sound of the hammer being pulled back, there was a brief, poignant silence.
Compared to the sound of the Admiral’s words, the commodore’s voice was louder and more commanding: the voice of an orator and a leader of men. “Gentlemen, I would like to call to your attention the fact that your commodore has just defected from the ranks of the Navy and taken the Admiral hostage. Now, listen carefully...”
On the deck of the Black Pearl, there was a stunned silence. Then Gibbs, who had no spyglass, demanded to know what was going on.
“I think that the little Admiral over there wanted to keep chasing us,” Jack said flatly.
“Into the storm? Is he mad?” hissed Gibbs.
“Driven so by a mixture of greed and poison from Beckett, Aye,” Jack murmured reflexively.
“So now what’s goin’ on?”
There was an ominous pause, no sound but the sea and the creaking of the ship, and then Jack said calmly, “Our dear ol’ Commodore Norrington would appear to have taken the Admiral hostage at gunpoint and be givin’ orders to the crews of all three little ships.”
Gibbs, too, became quiet. The silence lingered for a few moments. Then...
“Holy Sheet.”
“Wind in your sails!”
“Dat crazy sonofa-bastard.”
“Holy Mother of-”
Jack interrupted the shocked chorus from his crew by shouting, “WELL, mates, I say we run while they’re all so very busy with their own business, savvy? Now move about you scabrous dogs! We’ve still got a damned hurricane to outrun!”
There was a great deal of movement, and the Black Pearl was soon on its way.
As Captain Jack Sparrow and his crew escaped, every rifle and every pistol and every sword aboard the three British ships was either locked into the armories (to which Norrington now held the only keys) or thrown overboard outright, with Norrington’s sword and pistol the only exceptions. After commanding the sailors to set sail and flee the oncoming storm (with an eye towards seeking shelter from it soon, if they could find a suitably safe harbor) the soon-to-be-ex commodore retired to his cabin and set about more effectively containing his hostage.
The Admiral soon sat shackled to his office chair, looking as irritable as a wet cat. Exhaustion eventually took over and the Admiral fell asleep, aided by a mild sleeping-mixture someone (Norrington wanted to thank them, whoever they were) slipped into the wine he was given. Norrington took the opportunity to fashion some ear-plugs out of beeswax and put them in the man’s ears. Then Norrington sat in a chair next to him and spoke with his Lieutenants, still while holding his pistol cocked and pointed at the Admiral.
Gillette still would not and could not leave the navy, though it pained him to stay, knowing now what he did about its leaders; he felt that he had to try and protect the men as much as he could from his current position.
Groves was glaring daggers at the Admiral; he refused point-blank to serve under any men of his ilk, and planned to rebel right alongside Norrington.
The three old friends shared the occasional amused and sorrowful looks as they put together a very clever plan. When Norrington had first laid it out for them, both lieutenants had laughed helplessly, but afterwards spent the rest of the night discussing it in soft, grave tones. Only occasionally did Groves give in to the urge to snigger, which Norrington tolerated with an indulgent smirk, until even Gillette was unable to help smiling nervously.
The fleet managed to escape the storm, at which point Norrington demanded that they head back to Port Royal. Over the first two days of the voyage, Norrington reinforced the Admiral’s earplugs and made the addition of a blindfold. Thus, James could speak to every crewman individually without taking the chance that their words or behavior would earn them the wrath of any of Beckett’s men. They all knew, already, why the commodore was doing what he was doing. Most of them could not leave the Navy and regretted it; a surprising many were ambivalent about their leadership, save for their gratitude toward Norrington; and there were just enough men as enraged as Lieutenant Groves, and just as eager to fight, so that Norrington was able to make plans for the future other than merely his escape from Port Royal.
He told them all what the rules would be on his ship; they would not attack the Royal Navy, but would raid EITC ships, pirate ships, and thwart Beckett’s plans wherever possible. Common decency would still be a virtue on his ship, as well as humane treatment of one’s fellow man. It would be hard work, but their cause was just.
Two days before the fleet reached Port Royal, the fastest of the three ships appeared to undergo a counter-mutiny, and sped off at great speed towards the Port, planning to get there first and call the remaining militia out to go after the rogue ex-commodore. With them went Lieutenant Gillette and the remaining men considered to be under his command.
Once arrived, Gillette suggested that the Navy commandeer Norrington’s ship, the Gold Hawk, because the ex-commodore would be unwilling to fire on his own property. Two nights before the dawn of the day that the Dauntless and its companion ship would arrive, Gillette led the men whose loyalties had been given to James L. Norrington; they went to the ex-commodore’s home, where they gathered what items Norrington had requested, and some more personal ones, and moved them into the captain’s cabin aboard the Gold Hawk. Gillette also made one urgent appeal to the town’s premier tailor--or, rather, said tailor’s well-respected and talented female assistant, who was Lieutenant Groves’ cousin and therefore discreet.
When the remains of the defected fleet arrived, they were immediately approached by the Gold Hawk. Neither rebel ship attempted to fire, and Gillette and his men boarded with supreme ease, meeting peaceful hostages with no mutineers in sight, at which point they began to search the ships in order to find the rogue-commodore and the hostage Admiral. Of course, a number of men with loyalties elsewhere than the Navy, a dozen of whom had helped Gillette in the two nights previous, remained aboard to ‘guard’ the Hawk. No one paid very much attention to the two men--Groves and Norrington--who stealthily leapt from the Dauntless to the Gold Hawk and began quietly cutting the latter free of the former.
Shouts of dismay erupted as the Gold Hawk slipped away, manned by Norrington and two dozen shipmen who felt that he had earned their loyalty, including Groves, who was up in the rigging, shouting highly irate and creative curses in the Admiral’s general direction. The Admiral himself, recently discovered by Gillette and freed of his bonds, blindfold, and earplugs, was shouting orders to the men on the Dauntless, demanding that they give chase. His big and fancy hat and his wig were both distinctly absent from his partially-bald head.
“Let topsails! We don’t need to catch them, just get them within range of the long nines!” the Admiral bellowed.
Men rushed about on deck. There was a slightly awkward pause, and one or two half-hysterical bursts of laughter at the sheer deja` vu of the matter.
“We can’t chase them, sir; we can’t even turn around.”
“Why not?”
“He’s--he’s disabled the rudder chain, sir.”
The Admiral fairly shook with rage.
Gillette smirked hesitantly and then said, “That’s got to be the best traitor against the crown I’ve ever seen.”
The Admiral made an indignant noise and snarled, “So. It. Would. Seem.”
He did not see the way that Lieutenant Gillette stifled a hysterical laugh and wiped his eyes at the same time, looking torn between grief, amusement, and bone-deep relief.
On board the Gold Hawk, James Norrington stood at the helm: sans coat, sans wig, sans hat, and sans his rank as an officer of the British Royal Navy. His white shirt was not so crisp and pristine as it had once been, and his gold waist-coat had gotten quite battered as well as smeared with grime from his adventures in disabling the Dauntless’ rudder chain; his breeches were in a similar state. Instead of stockings and shiny shoes, he wore a practical pair of knee-high boots. With his hair escaping from where he’d tied it, and a day’s stubble just beginning to shadow his jaw, the ex-commodore looked slightly roguish; although the cravat rather detracted from it. Former-Lieutenant Groves came from below-deck with a bundle, and handed it to James, who smirked at it.
His coat from his trips to Tortuga had been discovered then, and brought aboard. Not only that, but it had been viciously and thoroughly laundered, as well as dyed a clean-looking warm grey, and its newly polished buttons shone gold-green. Gold embroidery graced the cuffs, the slightly-altered lapels and the collar. The coat had been made to look not only fine and a little bit military, but also still distinctly roguish. His black tricorne hat seemed to have merited the addition of a reasonably modest cream-colored feathery plume with two hawk-feathers tucked in at the base. Looking these gifts over made him smirk at Groves and raise an eyebrow questioningly.
“Gillette’s doing, sir, I’m sure. I just found them both like this.”
“I have a feeling that you inspired his actions, in some small way, given that you have been commenting on your discovery of the garb ever since you found it whilst seeking amongst my effects--against my advisement, as I recall--to find a bottle of brandy I might have mentioned being in possession of, thinking that somehow that invasion of privacy would make me then feel better about having been, recently at the time, shot through the shoulder. Also, Gillette is not quite so creative, nor is he related to a fine tailor.” With a respectful nod and an amused smirk, Norrington put the items both on, and added quietly, “Thank you very much, Theodore.”
As he both heard and felt the men gathering behind him, watching him expectantly, James turned to face them as he tugged at his cravat. Soon he loosened the garment and tossed it aside, letting the wind carry it overboard so that it landed in the water.
“Where shall we sail to, then, Captain?” Groves inquired, smirking a little as he watched the cravat’s passage.
Norrington met his gaze calmly, and rested a hand on one of the wheel’s helm-spokes. He turned it, aiming the ship’s course somewhere between south and west, leaning towards west. “Well, First-mate Groves, I believe that we should visit some of our friends with the East India Trading Company. As it happens, I know exactly where some of them are headed.” A rather droll lift of his eyebrows emphasized his amusement.
Groves tilted his head, a playful grin on his face as he asked, “I don’t suppose that you might now be willing to let on where you’ve been getting your information all of these past months: the pirates, the smuggling operations, and now the East India Company?” There was a murmur of assent from the rest of the crew, who had all heard some form of the outlandish rumors about the origins of the extremely accurate information they had been acting upon all this time: the information that only the commodore had seemed to possess.
James smirked. He looked far more relaxed that he had in the past few months, and yet also much more fierce and predatory; he looked more like himself than brocade had ever truly allowed. In droll tones, he said, “I hardly know if any of you will truly believe me, but perhaps I can tell you all--when we celebrate our first successful plunder.” His voice sharpened and grew louder as he crowed, “What say you, men?”
There was a loud chorus of, “AYE, CAPTAIN!”
Norrington’s tone became a bark of command. “Then get to work, you ex-Navy dogs! We’ve plenty of leagues to cover before the day is out, and half of Port Royal’s fleet to escape from within the next hour, once the Admiral pries his jaw off the deck of the Dauntless!”
Groves grinned, giving his captain a suspicious and disbelieving look, but he made no quips: only spun on his heel and began shouting directions at the rest of the crew.
James’ smirk softened as he turned away from his crew to face the helm again. He could feel the ship beneath him and around him, cradling him as firmly as his own hands cradled the helm-spokes. She felt like she had finally been allowed to take flight, and her exhilaration was threatening to make the stoic James Norrington smile like a madman, but he contained it with his usual stoic reserve; although he could not prevent the hint of a vicious smile that lingered at the corners of his mouth and in the green depths of his eyes.
Some weeks later in Tortuga, the story of James Norrington’s defection was quite in vogue amongst the gossips. They speculated endlessly about what The Devil Himself Norrington the Pirate Hunter would now do. Gibbs, with his usual luck, found one of the few reliable sources for the story of the defected commodore: a disgraced-looking marine, formerly of the Dauntless, who said that he regretted not joining Norrington when he had the chance.
The night after the Black Pearl left port, Gibbs shared the true tale, amidst a small rabble of rum-drinkers on deck that night, who had been in good spirits. Most of them still were, but Captain Jack Sparrow gaped openly as Gibbs finished the tale of the commodore’s escape from Port Royal, and half-shouted, “He did what?” with a mixture of shock and indignation.
“It’s true, sir. Heard it from a very reliable source,” Gibbs insisted.
“The man stole my bloody trick!” Jack sounded offended, but also a little amazed.
“Maybe it was a sort of tribute, Jack,” Anamaria mused. She had been pestering and half-cursing Jack endlessly since he had finally admitted to her, whilst he was in a drunken haze last week, that he’d met with Norrington in Tortuga twice before the now-ex-commodore had defected; she seemed to suspect Jack of a fancy for the pirate hunter, which he scoffed at, despite his private thoughts that Norrington looked good enough without the heavy brocade that it could be even better to see him without a stitch of anything at all.
Jack was not at all sure what to think of the tribute idea, so he quickly came up with a less worrisome one. “It was a good trick, mind you. He may’ve just liked the sound of it. What did you say the name of his ship was?”
“They say it’s called Gold Hawk, Captain. Norrington’s private property, she was, too, before his defection.”
Jack was very sure that there was something important about that, something familiar. If only he could recall what, exactly. “Hmm. Hmmmm....” Why did it cause a nursery rhyme to play in his head? Tinker, Tailor/ Soldier, Sailor/ Rich man, Poor man/ Beggar Man, Thief Even more curious, why did it remind him of Tia Dalma? He’d have to give it some thought, later, with rum to help him think.
“We gon’ do something about him, Jack, or wait for him to come for us?”
“Now, Anamaria, he is not coming after us. Directly. On purpose. We just need to be prepared to run for it if we have to, savvy?”
“No, Jack. I don’t savvy,” she growled.
“He’s after Beckett’s mates, right? Well, so’re we, whenever we get the chance.” His hands wove drunken designs through the air, flourishing here, pointing there, and sweeping all of their problems away with his fingers and his gibberish. “Just like the old saying goes, mates: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. M’ I right? Ay?”
Anamaria was unconvinced.
“But what if your enemy’s enemy used to be your enemy, too, and is still sorta chasin’ pirates, Captain,” Gibbs added, with that confused, unsettled look on his face that he always wore when he was trying to follow Jack’s bizarre form of logic.
Jack cleared his throat pointedly. “Well, I’ve got a little quest here to get us out of his hair, anyway. I need to get into this prison, you see...”
“Why?”
“Is that important? Really, now, love, trust ol’ Jack, Ay?”
A series of suspicious glances were exchanged between various members of the crew.
“Oh, now, really. You all certainly know how to make a man feel bad.”
“Lotsa practice, Captain. Gotta have leverage over you somehow,” Gibbs sighed.
Previous || Story Index || Next
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG for now, NC-17 later
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington is making himself quite at home in my head, the snarky British bastard.
Dedication: This is all Norrington’s fault.
Summary: It all starts with one day’s head start, and then suddenly the commodore is in Tortuga, in disguise. Jack Sparrow recognizes him, and shortly afterwards, on a mostly-unrelated note, chaos ensues around them both. And that’s just the beginning.
Chapter Four
It took just over a month for Beckett to get what he wanted: Commodore James “The Devil Himself” Norrington hunting down the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow.
As a direct result, Commodore James Norrington was looking at an impossible situation.
Ahead of him was the Black Pearl, almost within reach, but there was a storm brewing (a bloody hurricane!) and still the Admiral of the fleet was demanding that they sail on, toward the Pearl and the storm. Commodore Norrington was patiently waiting for the opportune moment. He could almost feel the burning eyes of a few spyglasses watching him from the deck of the Pearl, because he and the Admiral were perfectly silhouetted on the quarter-deck, and surely putting on quite a show for anyone watching. Men were moving away from them as the sea beneath the ship began to grow restless.
James could feel the wind trailing invisible caresses across his face and hands, and it felt as though he had just taken flight, had just spotted his prey. It was now just a matter of waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Wait. Wait. Soon. Strike soon.
James did not know, or care much at the time, whether the voice was part of his own mental dialogue, or that of his ship waiting for him back in Port Royal.
“They obviously are on their way to a safe harbor within reach, which we will be able to make use of and pin them into through the storm, and by the time it passes, we will have captured the Black Pearl!” the Admiral was insisting.
This Admiral, James recalled, had only been promoted to his position within the last month. James knew exactly what (or rather, who) had inspired that promotion: a decision which had nothing to do with the merits, intelligence, or the real-world practicality of the man now wearing the uniform of Admiralty.
It was an effort for the commodore not to grit his teeth. “Admiral, the Black Pearl is currently sitting high enough on the water that she can outpace the storm. The Dauntless cannot follow her--she lacks the speed, as do the rest of our ships,” James said calmly, but loudly, as the wind was beginning to pick up. Only Lieutenant Groves and a few others remained with them on the quarterdeck; the others were leaving, but Groves was lingering, and listening.
The wind whispered eagerly, Not much longer now.
Anger coursing through his blood like cold fire, James’ head had never been clearer; he had never been calmer. He could taste anticipation and sea air on his tongue as he kept talking, his face an unreadable blank and his voice perfectly deadpan. “If we continue this chase and do not turn back to get away from this hurricane while we can, then this ship and the two alongside her will fall to the mercy of the storm, and in all likelihood be crushed against the reefs to the east! I will not sacrifice the lives of my men or yours for this foolish gambit, Admiral.”
The Admiral, rather shorter than Norrington, but not as short as Beckett, puffed up and grew red with anger. “This is most serious insubordination, Commodore, and I hereby seize direct command of this fleet, as you are clearly not in your right mind!”
Norrington’s lips thinned, letting the faintest hint of irritation show through his mask. “Lieutenant Groves, get the men’s attention, will you? All of them: below and above deck.”
Groves left. The Commodore and the Admiral were alone on the quarterdeck. Soon the crew focused on them, waiting for their instructions.
Wait... wait... Feeling a sense of hovering, like a hawk beginning to fold its wings before a dive, Norrington took a slow, deep breath and reached into the deep interior breast pocket of his heavy blue coat.
“Attention, gentlemen-” the Admiral began, but he seemed to be interrupted by a very sharp voice in the back of James Norrington’s head--like the cry of a falcon and a breathless whisper, it filled his mind with one blissfully vicious word--NOW!
James stepped up close behind the Admiral, using him as both a hostage and a human shield as he cocked his pistol and pointed it at the Admiral’s right temple. After the metallic clack sound of the hammer being pulled back, there was a brief, poignant silence.
Compared to the sound of the Admiral’s words, the commodore’s voice was louder and more commanding: the voice of an orator and a leader of men. “Gentlemen, I would like to call to your attention the fact that your commodore has just defected from the ranks of the Navy and taken the Admiral hostage. Now, listen carefully...”
On the deck of the Black Pearl, there was a stunned silence. Then Gibbs, who had no spyglass, demanded to know what was going on.
“I think that the little Admiral over there wanted to keep chasing us,” Jack said flatly.
“Into the storm? Is he mad?” hissed Gibbs.
“Driven so by a mixture of greed and poison from Beckett, Aye,” Jack murmured reflexively.
“So now what’s goin’ on?”
There was an ominous pause, no sound but the sea and the creaking of the ship, and then Jack said calmly, “Our dear ol’ Commodore Norrington would appear to have taken the Admiral hostage at gunpoint and be givin’ orders to the crews of all three little ships.”
Gibbs, too, became quiet. The silence lingered for a few moments. Then...
“Holy Sheet.”
“Wind in your sails!”
“Dat crazy sonofa-bastard.”
“Holy Mother of-”
Jack interrupted the shocked chorus from his crew by shouting, “WELL, mates, I say we run while they’re all so very busy with their own business, savvy? Now move about you scabrous dogs! We’ve still got a damned hurricane to outrun!”
There was a great deal of movement, and the Black Pearl was soon on its way.
As Captain Jack Sparrow and his crew escaped, every rifle and every pistol and every sword aboard the three British ships was either locked into the armories (to which Norrington now held the only keys) or thrown overboard outright, with Norrington’s sword and pistol the only exceptions. After commanding the sailors to set sail and flee the oncoming storm (with an eye towards seeking shelter from it soon, if they could find a suitably safe harbor) the soon-to-be-ex commodore retired to his cabin and set about more effectively containing his hostage.
The Admiral soon sat shackled to his office chair, looking as irritable as a wet cat. Exhaustion eventually took over and the Admiral fell asleep, aided by a mild sleeping-mixture someone (Norrington wanted to thank them, whoever they were) slipped into the wine he was given. Norrington took the opportunity to fashion some ear-plugs out of beeswax and put them in the man’s ears. Then Norrington sat in a chair next to him and spoke with his Lieutenants, still while holding his pistol cocked and pointed at the Admiral.
Gillette still would not and could not leave the navy, though it pained him to stay, knowing now what he did about its leaders; he felt that he had to try and protect the men as much as he could from his current position.
Groves was glaring daggers at the Admiral; he refused point-blank to serve under any men of his ilk, and planned to rebel right alongside Norrington.
The three old friends shared the occasional amused and sorrowful looks as they put together a very clever plan. When Norrington had first laid it out for them, both lieutenants had laughed helplessly, but afterwards spent the rest of the night discussing it in soft, grave tones. Only occasionally did Groves give in to the urge to snigger, which Norrington tolerated with an indulgent smirk, until even Gillette was unable to help smiling nervously.
The fleet managed to escape the storm, at which point Norrington demanded that they head back to Port Royal. Over the first two days of the voyage, Norrington reinforced the Admiral’s earplugs and made the addition of a blindfold. Thus, James could speak to every crewman individually without taking the chance that their words or behavior would earn them the wrath of any of Beckett’s men. They all knew, already, why the commodore was doing what he was doing. Most of them could not leave the Navy and regretted it; a surprising many were ambivalent about their leadership, save for their gratitude toward Norrington; and there were just enough men as enraged as Lieutenant Groves, and just as eager to fight, so that Norrington was able to make plans for the future other than merely his escape from Port Royal.
He told them all what the rules would be on his ship; they would not attack the Royal Navy, but would raid EITC ships, pirate ships, and thwart Beckett’s plans wherever possible. Common decency would still be a virtue on his ship, as well as humane treatment of one’s fellow man. It would be hard work, but their cause was just.
Two days before the fleet reached Port Royal, the fastest of the three ships appeared to undergo a counter-mutiny, and sped off at great speed towards the Port, planning to get there first and call the remaining militia out to go after the rogue ex-commodore. With them went Lieutenant Gillette and the remaining men considered to be under his command.
Once arrived, Gillette suggested that the Navy commandeer Norrington’s ship, the Gold Hawk, because the ex-commodore would be unwilling to fire on his own property. Two nights before the dawn of the day that the Dauntless and its companion ship would arrive, Gillette led the men whose loyalties had been given to James L. Norrington; they went to the ex-commodore’s home, where they gathered what items Norrington had requested, and some more personal ones, and moved them into the captain’s cabin aboard the Gold Hawk. Gillette also made one urgent appeal to the town’s premier tailor--or, rather, said tailor’s well-respected and talented female assistant, who was Lieutenant Groves’ cousin and therefore discreet.
When the remains of the defected fleet arrived, they were immediately approached by the Gold Hawk. Neither rebel ship attempted to fire, and Gillette and his men boarded with supreme ease, meeting peaceful hostages with no mutineers in sight, at which point they began to search the ships in order to find the rogue-commodore and the hostage Admiral. Of course, a number of men with loyalties elsewhere than the Navy, a dozen of whom had helped Gillette in the two nights previous, remained aboard to ‘guard’ the Hawk. No one paid very much attention to the two men--Groves and Norrington--who stealthily leapt from the Dauntless to the Gold Hawk and began quietly cutting the latter free of the former.
Shouts of dismay erupted as the Gold Hawk slipped away, manned by Norrington and two dozen shipmen who felt that he had earned their loyalty, including Groves, who was up in the rigging, shouting highly irate and creative curses in the Admiral’s general direction. The Admiral himself, recently discovered by Gillette and freed of his bonds, blindfold, and earplugs, was shouting orders to the men on the Dauntless, demanding that they give chase. His big and fancy hat and his wig were both distinctly absent from his partially-bald head.
“Let topsails! We don’t need to catch them, just get them within range of the long nines!” the Admiral bellowed.
Men rushed about on deck. There was a slightly awkward pause, and one or two half-hysterical bursts of laughter at the sheer deja` vu of the matter.
“We can’t chase them, sir; we can’t even turn around.”
“Why not?”
“He’s--he’s disabled the rudder chain, sir.”
The Admiral fairly shook with rage.
Gillette smirked hesitantly and then said, “That’s got to be the best traitor against the crown I’ve ever seen.”
The Admiral made an indignant noise and snarled, “So. It. Would. Seem.”
He did not see the way that Lieutenant Gillette stifled a hysterical laugh and wiped his eyes at the same time, looking torn between grief, amusement, and bone-deep relief.
On board the Gold Hawk, James Norrington stood at the helm: sans coat, sans wig, sans hat, and sans his rank as an officer of the British Royal Navy. His white shirt was not so crisp and pristine as it had once been, and his gold waist-coat had gotten quite battered as well as smeared with grime from his adventures in disabling the Dauntless’ rudder chain; his breeches were in a similar state. Instead of stockings and shiny shoes, he wore a practical pair of knee-high boots. With his hair escaping from where he’d tied it, and a day’s stubble just beginning to shadow his jaw, the ex-commodore looked slightly roguish; although the cravat rather detracted from it. Former-Lieutenant Groves came from below-deck with a bundle, and handed it to James, who smirked at it.
His coat from his trips to Tortuga had been discovered then, and brought aboard. Not only that, but it had been viciously and thoroughly laundered, as well as dyed a clean-looking warm grey, and its newly polished buttons shone gold-green. Gold embroidery graced the cuffs, the slightly-altered lapels and the collar. The coat had been made to look not only fine and a little bit military, but also still distinctly roguish. His black tricorne hat seemed to have merited the addition of a reasonably modest cream-colored feathery plume with two hawk-feathers tucked in at the base. Looking these gifts over made him smirk at Groves and raise an eyebrow questioningly.
“Gillette’s doing, sir, I’m sure. I just found them both like this.”
“I have a feeling that you inspired his actions, in some small way, given that you have been commenting on your discovery of the garb ever since you found it whilst seeking amongst my effects--against my advisement, as I recall--to find a bottle of brandy I might have mentioned being in possession of, thinking that somehow that invasion of privacy would make me then feel better about having been, recently at the time, shot through the shoulder. Also, Gillette is not quite so creative, nor is he related to a fine tailor.” With a respectful nod and an amused smirk, Norrington put the items both on, and added quietly, “Thank you very much, Theodore.”
As he both heard and felt the men gathering behind him, watching him expectantly, James turned to face them as he tugged at his cravat. Soon he loosened the garment and tossed it aside, letting the wind carry it overboard so that it landed in the water.
“Where shall we sail to, then, Captain?” Groves inquired, smirking a little as he watched the cravat’s passage.
Norrington met his gaze calmly, and rested a hand on one of the wheel’s helm-spokes. He turned it, aiming the ship’s course somewhere between south and west, leaning towards west. “Well, First-mate Groves, I believe that we should visit some of our friends with the East India Trading Company. As it happens, I know exactly where some of them are headed.” A rather droll lift of his eyebrows emphasized his amusement.
Groves tilted his head, a playful grin on his face as he asked, “I don’t suppose that you might now be willing to let on where you’ve been getting your information all of these past months: the pirates, the smuggling operations, and now the East India Company?” There was a murmur of assent from the rest of the crew, who had all heard some form of the outlandish rumors about the origins of the extremely accurate information they had been acting upon all this time: the information that only the commodore had seemed to possess.
James smirked. He looked far more relaxed that he had in the past few months, and yet also much more fierce and predatory; he looked more like himself than brocade had ever truly allowed. In droll tones, he said, “I hardly know if any of you will truly believe me, but perhaps I can tell you all--when we celebrate our first successful plunder.” His voice sharpened and grew louder as he crowed, “What say you, men?”
There was a loud chorus of, “AYE, CAPTAIN!”
Norrington’s tone became a bark of command. “Then get to work, you ex-Navy dogs! We’ve plenty of leagues to cover before the day is out, and half of Port Royal’s fleet to escape from within the next hour, once the Admiral pries his jaw off the deck of the Dauntless!”
Groves grinned, giving his captain a suspicious and disbelieving look, but he made no quips: only spun on his heel and began shouting directions at the rest of the crew.
James’ smirk softened as he turned away from his crew to face the helm again. He could feel the ship beneath him and around him, cradling him as firmly as his own hands cradled the helm-spokes. She felt like she had finally been allowed to take flight, and her exhilaration was threatening to make the stoic James Norrington smile like a madman, but he contained it with his usual stoic reserve; although he could not prevent the hint of a vicious smile that lingered at the corners of his mouth and in the green depths of his eyes.
Some weeks later in Tortuga, the story of James Norrington’s defection was quite in vogue amongst the gossips. They speculated endlessly about what The Devil Himself Norrington the Pirate Hunter would now do. Gibbs, with his usual luck, found one of the few reliable sources for the story of the defected commodore: a disgraced-looking marine, formerly of the Dauntless, who said that he regretted not joining Norrington when he had the chance.
The night after the Black Pearl left port, Gibbs shared the true tale, amidst a small rabble of rum-drinkers on deck that night, who had been in good spirits. Most of them still were, but Captain Jack Sparrow gaped openly as Gibbs finished the tale of the commodore’s escape from Port Royal, and half-shouted, “He did what?” with a mixture of shock and indignation.
“It’s true, sir. Heard it from a very reliable source,” Gibbs insisted.
“The man stole my bloody trick!” Jack sounded offended, but also a little amazed.
“Maybe it was a sort of tribute, Jack,” Anamaria mused. She had been pestering and half-cursing Jack endlessly since he had finally admitted to her, whilst he was in a drunken haze last week, that he’d met with Norrington in Tortuga twice before the now-ex-commodore had defected; she seemed to suspect Jack of a fancy for the pirate hunter, which he scoffed at, despite his private thoughts that Norrington looked good enough without the heavy brocade that it could be even better to see him without a stitch of anything at all.
Jack was not at all sure what to think of the tribute idea, so he quickly came up with a less worrisome one. “It was a good trick, mind you. He may’ve just liked the sound of it. What did you say the name of his ship was?”
“They say it’s called Gold Hawk, Captain. Norrington’s private property, she was, too, before his defection.”
Jack was very sure that there was something important about that, something familiar. If only he could recall what, exactly. “Hmm. Hmmmm....” Why did it cause a nursery rhyme to play in his head? Tinker, Tailor/ Soldier, Sailor/ Rich man, Poor man/ Beggar Man, Thief Even more curious, why did it remind him of Tia Dalma? He’d have to give it some thought, later, with rum to help him think.
“We gon’ do something about him, Jack, or wait for him to come for us?”
“Now, Anamaria, he is not coming after us. Directly. On purpose. We just need to be prepared to run for it if we have to, savvy?”
“No, Jack. I don’t savvy,” she growled.
“He’s after Beckett’s mates, right? Well, so’re we, whenever we get the chance.” His hands wove drunken designs through the air, flourishing here, pointing there, and sweeping all of their problems away with his fingers and his gibberish. “Just like the old saying goes, mates: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. M’ I right? Ay?”
Anamaria was unconvinced.
“But what if your enemy’s enemy used to be your enemy, too, and is still sorta chasin’ pirates, Captain,” Gibbs added, with that confused, unsettled look on his face that he always wore when he was trying to follow Jack’s bizarre form of logic.
Jack cleared his throat pointedly. “Well, I’ve got a little quest here to get us out of his hair, anyway. I need to get into this prison, you see...”
“Why?”
“Is that important? Really, now, love, trust ol’ Jack, Ay?”
A series of suspicious glances were exchanged between various members of the crew.
“Oh, now, really. You all certainly know how to make a man feel bad.”
“Lotsa practice, Captain. Gotta have leverage over you somehow,” Gibbs sighed.
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