Fic: (PotC) Norrington : Butterflies and Hurricanes
Fandom: PotC in the way in which I tend to mix it with everything else
Main character/s: James Norrington, Floyd Braecken (OC), Other Canon Characters
Rating: PG - 15ish
Pairings: Though this ain't a romance-centered fic, there will almost certainly be some mention of how people are coupled up in various complicated ways. They will mainly be... James/Jack, James/OF&MCs, James/Elizabeth, Barbossa/Jack, James/Calypso (part 3, if you squint real hard.)
Warning/s: While Jamie is my main character and he'll be present in most of the story, I'm also writing some OCs. Please bear with me. I'm one of those readers who will usually click "Next" when I read fic summaries with those two letters in them, but I promise there's nothing sueish about it. And some of you may even already know Charles?
Notes:I'm also trying out a very abstract, disjointed writing style. Perhaps it'll resemble the writing of "Lost" a little. I don't know, I've only seen one episode. XD
Any names of OCs are completely made up. Resemblance to real people is completely unintentional. I'm sort of working in an alternate universe. ^^ Regarding Lord Melville ... gosh, I don't remember if there's one in Patrick O'Brian's canon?! I'll bet there is. Well, it's not the same one seeing as we're about 80 years behind. XD I looked up the name as it seems there are so many Melvilles that I hope one more or less won't really hurt anyone.
Alternative titles: The Infamous Floyd Braecken; In which I introduce James Lysander Norrington's post-Naval life as a former Admiral turned Rogue, borrow several years and take Liberties with Death, also in which I introduce my Elusive Original Character, Floyd Braecken and hope the make his Acquaintance properly. or "Wacked Out Norrington Fic in Which he's not OOC but has gone through a lot of development since 1723, as to be described in part 2!"
Now, before I give too much away...
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds."
~Voltaire
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Port Mahon, 1736 II
The hand on his neck was like the midday breeze that drifted in through the open stern window; gentle, warm, a fleeting touch, accompanied by the tingle of various gold and glass trinkets around its owner's wrist. James smiled and sighed contentedly as the feathery touches rippled over his adam's apple and down his chest. Without opening his eyes, he reached down to engage his fingers with the thick hair below. His other hand stroked, then gripped the purple velvet overthrow that hung messily down the bed's side.
"Ah, Kitty..."
A knock on the door startled him into proper wakefulness and groaning in irritation he pulled the bedsheet around himself as he shouted his acknowledgement at the marplot behind the door. "Kitty" was languidly propped against his side, listening and watching with her large, uncomprehending brown eyes, a soft brown hand still resting on his chest.
Jennings, the ex-marine acting as his first lieutenant - or mate, James had to remind himself - entered, his slightly portly shape blocking the direct sunlight streaming in from the ship's waist, face red and sweating profusely from the dry Spanish heat.
"Very sorry to bother you, sir," Jennings said in his usual overly intonated fashion, redenning more as he saw the scantily clad lass in bed behind his captain, "but just telling you so's you know; we've Port Mahón on our starboard bow."
James nodded once. "Thank you, Jennings," he replied with a tilt of his head and raise of his eyebrows that suggested a quick dismissal of the man. Getting the hint, Jennings saluted out of habit, then shut the door behind him, having never let go of the handle once.
Grumbling with a flight of indulgent tardiness that could only be associated with sleeping very late and was impossibly in contrast with his former Navy lifestyle, James let himself sink back into his pillow before he shifted himself out of bed, pulled his breeches and shirt off a nearby chair, put them on and walked over to the window to allow his now nearly waist-long hair to blow about his face in the wind as he leaned out and breathed in the clear salty air. He could smell Europe and smiled, having been unaware until now that he had missed it.
"My best coat and my sword, Kitty," he told the heathen girl who, months after having been taken aboard the ship, knew just enough English by now to understand this sort of request. She never spoke, only watched, smiled and fluttered sultry dark eyelashes. The men called her the mermaid.
Once her quick hands had dressed him in fine blue silk and silver brocade, James Norrington, captain of His Majesty's Hired Vessel Libertine, went above deck to watch the island draw closer.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Caribbean, 1722 - 1733
James Norrington's commission had always been a fickle thing. Promotion came quickly once he had made lieutenant, especially after the main competition, his twin Charles, lost a leg in action and was thus incapacitated. Competence and dedication gained James the trust of the Admiralty, command followed and the respect of his peers with it. Of course his life was an endless array of bells and tides and orders, neither devoid of familiarity and emotion nor too accomodating towards them, but that was what he knew, it was what his father, himself a naval officer of mediocre success, expected of him. Accomplishments demanded sacrifice. Until James made commodore and found a new role model; two events unrelated if not for their close proximity in time to one another.
Jack Sparrow, he had by now admitted to himself, was his desires made flesh. In more ways than the obvious, the pirate - a mapmaker who had amounted to nothing and yet so much - had brought about all the major changes in James' life; brought anger pain love lust humilitation degradation ruin and freedom. A hurricane had swept up his life back in the '20s and yet he had managed to cheat even death itself, once more thanks to Jack Sparrow, without whos unpredictable tidal waves of events that he brought upon the lives of all those he encountered, the blacksmith Turner would not be a preternatural being with the power to ferry souls to the spirit world - and back if he chose.
It was only natural for her recently wedded husband to wish for someone to care for the lonely Mrs Turner, or so James had imagined at the time, not having the pleasure of first hand experience. He had settled for any experience rather than none, cared for her, upheld her honour and his own, for the most part. Then came Jane, and though Elizabeth was never forgotten, remaining an acquaintance to invite for tea on hot late summer afternoons, some lose seams were patched up.
An admiral at 40, James Norrington had set out for Barbados on one such afternoon, the wind being favourable for the journey. But it was not unheard of in these latitudes for the wind to change quickly and unexpectedly, particularly after the sea had regained Her freedom in one of the greatest sea-actions the world would only hear of from the mouths of storytellers and children. She would wield Her power and so, as the wind had turned less favourable by the start of the First Watch, by midnight the then-aging flagship HMS Dauntless had creaked and groaned pitifully before waves as high as her mizzen.
It was one of those haunting moments of his life, no longer to be counted on the fingers of both hands, where James could feel his hold on control of his life slip through those fingers like the lines he had stooped to help the men haul in the storm.
Perhaps it was his age, getting used to the comforts of married life ashore, inexperience as a worker rather than a commander, or simply the unpredictable elements, that had caused Admiral James Norrington, husband of Jane and father of Emily, secret lover of both Elizabeth Turner and Captain Jack Sparrow - wherever he may be in this dark hour of howling night - to go over the side, a mere toy in gold lace before the wind, dipped deep below a crashing wave, eyes open until they stung with salt, limply staring at the blurred bottom of his ship's hull so far above him, illuminated by the glow of the sea and the lightning higher up. He had been too stunned to struggle for the surface and the sea water in his lungs burned.
The first time had been too quick to register. This was a slow, numb descent into darker shades of blue. It had been the first time he had felt true freedom.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Port Mahón, 1736 II
The streets were unusually busy for a Spanish midday in May. James had given all but fifteen of his most trusted crew permission to go ashore and already they had found a great variety of goods to trade with locals. The latest prize money had left the value of many men's personal fortunes in gold higher than that of Mahón's governor, the men were in good spirits and the sun and welcome feel of firm land below their feet inspired them to purchase equally good spirits, fresh meats and fruits, as well as the services of young wenches.
The party of five James had chosen to accompany him were only slightly disturbed by their less than imminent freedom in the city. The days at this time of the year were long enough to spare the few hours needed to ensure their captain's safety on his errand at the residence of one Lord Melville who none of them had ever seen.
Following James therefore, as he ascended the cobbled street, women and children clearing before the party led by the tall man in luxurious brocade, were his men.
There were the huge, balding brothers Jorge and Xavier, picked up at Gibraltar three years ago and now walking at the back, joking amongst themselves and shouting to the locals in their native Spanish. They were simple, but clear-sighted, fastest up the ratlines and loyal to the end, should it ever come.
Gibbons, the master, was a negro in his thirties with a broad smile, a long scar across his jaw and an endless supply of herbs given to him against all possible ailments by his mother, a former Port Royal whore who had married well.
The bo'sun was Yngve Ramundsen, a part-Swedish sailmaker from Dorset, who had gone to sea fleeing England for no reason anyone had yet been able to ascertain, yet goodnatured and able, currently engaged in a minor battle with an irritating fly that kept trying to settle in his thick blond locks.
Closest to James and trying to match his stride walked his friend Thomas Thompson, called Tom, handsome and almost as tall as the captain but nigh on twenty years younger. After a week of being James' preferred choice for his first mate, it had become clear that Tom was, though thoroughly agreeable, a useless seaman in practice, having the heart of an explorer and naturalist rather than that of a sailor and the position had gone to Jennings after the Libertine had got rather dangerously intimate with a lee shore. Yet James liked the boy, who like himself had been a lieutenant by the time he was eighteen, though he had not joined the Navy by choice and a disagreement with a thoroughly miserable commander had put an end to his career and a hanging sentence upon his person. Tom naturally shared the captain's feelings of irritation with authority and establishments.
The party reached the end of the street, passed down the broad path leading up to the grande finka, the garden thick with trees and shrubs trimmed into the shapes of dolphins, a grass circle tastelessly decorated with a golden cherub spitting water into a fountain, which James had to smirk at. Melville was one of those who had more money than sense, it seemed. This was confirmed by the architecture inside; the floor tiles were pink marble, bright flowerpots stood near the open windows and the dark wooden beams were inlaid with gold carvings.
"Ridiculous," whispered Tom as they paused in this tacky yet airy entrance hall, and when James nodded, Tom openined his mouth to add something when the black servant who had let them in stepped up and announced that Mr Norrington alone was to follow him to his master's office.
"Stay here," James ordered his men, who nodded and began to inspect the ceremonial swords hanging on the walls as their captain went deeper into the building.
* * *
Lord Melville had reached his 60s retaining an imposing figure that was on this day topped with a flawless white wig in the modern fashion; parted in the middle with large curls framing his thick chiselled face which was still recognizably the same as that in the 30 year old portrait serenely smiling down from the wall at the opposite end of the room. The buttons on his yellow waistcoat stretched their holes as he sat behind his desk, a large quill scraping over parchment when the heavy oak door shut behind James.
"Lord Melville, I presume," said he, holding his hat under his arm as he sauntered over to stop two yards before the desk, willing the man to stop writing. He disliked being summoned only to wait.
"I am, I am," said Melville patiently, without looking up, and when nothing followed for some seconds, James contented himself with studying the ceiling. Above him was a colourful fresco of cherubs undoubtedly copied from that Italian artist with a name like a saint, but less skillfully.
James cleared his throat and Melville stopped his quill in its inkpot and looked up, then stood. "James Norrington! You received my message then, good, good. I trust your journey was a pleasant one?"
"From the South China Sea, yes," answered James slowly, his eyebrows raised in a silent query to Lord Melville, who laughed heartily.
"I do apologize," he replied, but James doubted he meant it. No matter, after six months spent negotiating and occasionally raking the South China pirates and merchants - who, more often than not, were one and the same - he and his crew were ready for European civilization again, though the bath houses were universally missed.
"I told Evans - he's the commander of my flagship, y'see - not to follow you further than the cape, but evidently he disobeyed that order," Melville continued, and James unwittingly winced at the terminology. "I did wonder why he wasn't back a month ago! Nevermind, you're here now. Your men are spending prize money in town already, I hear?"
"M'lord." James shrugged a little, but said no more.
"News travel fast, Norrington," Melville said and bent to look at some files to his right. "Such as the news of your capture of no less than twelve fat prizes within the last year. All of them pirates?"
"Well, naturally." James smiled warmly as he lied.
"Mostly Spanish, I'd wager. Ha!" He shifted through more papers and nodded, looked up, chuckled, shook his head making the curls on his wig move statically, then closed the file and contemplated the man before him; the unusually rich clothing, the long, unpowdered hair with its few small braids with tiny beads woven into them. James knew it was hard to believe that he had once been an officer. He was glad of it.
"I suspect you will quite simply have no need for the reward I intend to offer you, Mister Norrington."
"You've so far told me nothing of the offer nor of its reward," he replied, shifting his weight from one foot onto the other. "But, as you know, my ship sails for money these days."
A silence followed in which Norrington met the aristocrat's eyes, staring the shorter man down, each trying to fathom the other out. He could tell Melville didn't entirely trust him, the feeling was mutual, yet there was no plain dislike. Finally, the man took another paper from a drawer inside his desk and took it to a large window at the side of the office. Glancing out into his ostentatious garden, then back to the document, he spoke.
"James - I may call you James, yes? I want you to find a man; you may have heard of him." He shuffled the papers and held out a coloured print of a wood-etching. James took it and smiled. The likeness was quite bad. "He's a rogue, attacks any ship he sees, worse than a pirate for he has no loyalties, neither to his country, nor to the outlaws. The stories are most horrible, I'm sure you also hear of the stories seamen tell. Ghost ships, cannibals, blood rites, the devil and the like." Melville frowned and waved his free hand dismissively. "More pressing than intangible fables is the most substantial cost this man has added to mine and my peers' enterprises! You are aware how many cargo ships fall prey to pirates?"
James almost laughed out loud, but checked himself and instead replied "you might say that I am somewhat acquainted with the subject."
Melville missed the sarcasm or otherwise ignored it. "Well, excellent, excellent. James, I do not believe there is another sailor or venturer, whatever you call yourself these days, for this enterprise. Find this man, this" he waved his hand at the print still in James' hand, "outlaw, treat him as you will, so long as he stops harassing my ships."
"And also those of your peers, no doubt," James added slyly, to which the man only nodded.
"As for the reward, should you succeed -"
"I'm sure you're going to pay me more than a glass of brandy for this endeavour," James said, referring to the fact that he might have liked to be made such an offer during this visit.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Port Royal, 1933 II
Three years previously
Unlike the harsh burning sensation of rum, a good brandy was smooth, sophisticated, cooling to the throat like a window pane against a hand on a tropical, hot day. The day on which Admiral Norrington had woken up had been such a day.
Opening his eyes, he had first felt his lashes brush against cool silk pillowcases, had heard the familiar cry of a parrot somewhere about the house and felt an instant, unyielding need for a measure of rum - not grog, not brandy, but best local dark rum.
Sitting up and ringing the bell for the servants, James had thought that, though it was probably an unsuitable first request for an admiral recently delivered from certain death, the drink of cutthroats and buccaneers was a vice he had already been devoted to for too long to ever consider forsaking it. Only once he had been simpered over by his wife, Elizabeth and the servants, he had finally been brought the vile drink, then to be left to rest in peace.
James had known that he had died, because the feeling was quite unlike anything else and he knew it because he had already done it. He had once lost his life aboard the ghost ship which it had been his burden to command and he would always remember the irony of literally being ferried back into the world of the Living aboard the very ship he had died on.
Once past the sunrise, Turner had left him, not to be lost, but to be found, washed ashore at the roots of a tree in a jungle creek, into which was built a wooden hut that emitted the gentle glow of candlelight. Many weeks had he spent there, listening to the murmuring spells that would make him better, unlikely objects swinging above him, eyes grotesquely arranged and staring at him, a hairy spider the size of a plate watching him upside down, a tiny man hanging on a noose with wooden pins stuck through his heart... He did not care to remember the weeks that passed until finally he had been strong enough to be taken back to civilization, to the astonishment of all who had believed him dead.
That, in James Norrington's mind, had been how you died and came back, until he had survived what he was sure had been several hours at the bottom of the sea. He clearly remembered that night on which Dauntless was finally lost to the sea; as though She had no tried enough times previously.
Dragged down by the momentum, the weight of his sword, his soaked coat and his boots, James had allowed himself to gently hit the reef below him, even taking notice of a silver flurry of fish whirling around as he did. He had felt the sting in his lungs and the pressure in his ears, but not recognized them as pain. For a moment, James had even thought that the weight of the sea taking his breath away and pinning him down was strangely erotic, like a possessive lover that wouldn't let him go. He had always wished to be taken so passionately, to be owned so fiercely. He had been ready to give himself up willingly and completely at last. His time had come.
But though the lack of oyxgen had taken his sight and his sense of direction, it had not killed him and as he had lain on the ocean floor, feeling his ship sink into the blue-turned-black some fathoms before him, all illusion of control blissfully gone, something changed. The admiral, it seemed, had died. The ship was gone, and it had simply not come into James' mind to answer for himself this time, to grovel for forgiveness to superiors again. Reduced only to his mind, weightless, the sea whirling about him, a wild thing taking utter control of him, he had decided that he was ready at last. He would never follow orders again.
The sigh of relief that had come with this understanding had brought a shock of fresh air into his lungs, back in his bed in his Port Royal residence, somehow, inexplicably, safe and craving rum.
TBC <3 Comments make me happy ^^
Main character/s: James Norrington, Floyd Braecken (OC), Other Canon Characters
Rating: PG - 15ish
Pairings: Though this ain't a romance-centered fic, there will almost certainly be some mention of how people are coupled up in various complicated ways. They will mainly be... James/Jack, James/OF&MCs, James/Elizabeth, Barbossa/Jack, James/Calypso (part 3, if you squint real hard.)
Warning/s: While Jamie is my main character and he'll be present in most of the story, I'm also writing some OCs. Please bear with me. I'm one of those readers who will usually click "Next" when I read fic summaries with those two letters in them, but I promise there's nothing sueish about it. And some of you may even already know Charles?
Notes:I'm also trying out a very abstract, disjointed writing style. Perhaps it'll resemble the writing of "Lost" a little. I don't know, I've only seen one episode. XD
Any names of OCs are completely made up. Resemblance to real people is completely unintentional. I'm sort of working in an alternate universe. ^^ Regarding Lord Melville ... gosh, I don't remember if there's one in Patrick O'Brian's canon?! I'll bet there is. Well, it's not the same one seeing as we're about 80 years behind. XD I looked up the name as it seems there are so many Melvilles that I hope one more or less won't really hurt anyone.
Alternative titles: The Infamous Floyd Braecken; In which I introduce James Lysander Norrington's post-Naval life as a former Admiral turned Rogue, borrow several years and take Liberties with Death, also in which I introduce my Elusive Original Character, Floyd Braecken and hope the make his Acquaintance properly. or "Wacked Out Norrington Fic in Which he's not OOC but has gone through a lot of development since 1723, as to be described in part 2!"
Now, before I give too much away...
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds."
~Voltaire
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Port Mahon, 1736 II
The hand on his neck was like the midday breeze that drifted in through the open stern window; gentle, warm, a fleeting touch, accompanied by the tingle of various gold and glass trinkets around its owner's wrist. James smiled and sighed contentedly as the feathery touches rippled over his adam's apple and down his chest. Without opening his eyes, he reached down to engage his fingers with the thick hair below. His other hand stroked, then gripped the purple velvet overthrow that hung messily down the bed's side.
"Ah, Kitty..."
A knock on the door startled him into proper wakefulness and groaning in irritation he pulled the bedsheet around himself as he shouted his acknowledgement at the marplot behind the door. "Kitty" was languidly propped against his side, listening and watching with her large, uncomprehending brown eyes, a soft brown hand still resting on his chest.
Jennings, the ex-marine acting as his first lieutenant - or mate, James had to remind himself - entered, his slightly portly shape blocking the direct sunlight streaming in from the ship's waist, face red and sweating profusely from the dry Spanish heat.
"Very sorry to bother you, sir," Jennings said in his usual overly intonated fashion, redenning more as he saw the scantily clad lass in bed behind his captain, "but just telling you so's you know; we've Port Mahón on our starboard bow."
James nodded once. "Thank you, Jennings," he replied with a tilt of his head and raise of his eyebrows that suggested a quick dismissal of the man. Getting the hint, Jennings saluted out of habit, then shut the door behind him, having never let go of the handle once.
Grumbling with a flight of indulgent tardiness that could only be associated with sleeping very late and was impossibly in contrast with his former Navy lifestyle, James let himself sink back into his pillow before he shifted himself out of bed, pulled his breeches and shirt off a nearby chair, put them on and walked over to the window to allow his now nearly waist-long hair to blow about his face in the wind as he leaned out and breathed in the clear salty air. He could smell Europe and smiled, having been unaware until now that he had missed it.
"My best coat and my sword, Kitty," he told the heathen girl who, months after having been taken aboard the ship, knew just enough English by now to understand this sort of request. She never spoke, only watched, smiled and fluttered sultry dark eyelashes. The men called her the mermaid.
Once her quick hands had dressed him in fine blue silk and silver brocade, James Norrington, captain of His Majesty's Hired Vessel Libertine, went above deck to watch the island draw closer.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Caribbean, 1722 - 1733
James Norrington's commission had always been a fickle thing. Promotion came quickly once he had made lieutenant, especially after the main competition, his twin Charles, lost a leg in action and was thus incapacitated. Competence and dedication gained James the trust of the Admiralty, command followed and the respect of his peers with it. Of course his life was an endless array of bells and tides and orders, neither devoid of familiarity and emotion nor too accomodating towards them, but that was what he knew, it was what his father, himself a naval officer of mediocre success, expected of him. Accomplishments demanded sacrifice. Until James made commodore and found a new role model; two events unrelated if not for their close proximity in time to one another.
Jack Sparrow, he had by now admitted to himself, was his desires made flesh. In more ways than the obvious, the pirate - a mapmaker who had amounted to nothing and yet so much - had brought about all the major changes in James' life; brought anger pain love lust humilitation degradation ruin and freedom. A hurricane had swept up his life back in the '20s and yet he had managed to cheat even death itself, once more thanks to Jack Sparrow, without whos unpredictable tidal waves of events that he brought upon the lives of all those he encountered, the blacksmith Turner would not be a preternatural being with the power to ferry souls to the spirit world - and back if he chose.
It was only natural for her recently wedded husband to wish for someone to care for the lonely Mrs Turner, or so James had imagined at the time, not having the pleasure of first hand experience. He had settled for any experience rather than none, cared for her, upheld her honour and his own, for the most part. Then came Jane, and though Elizabeth was never forgotten, remaining an acquaintance to invite for tea on hot late summer afternoons, some lose seams were patched up.
An admiral at 40, James Norrington had set out for Barbados on one such afternoon, the wind being favourable for the journey. But it was not unheard of in these latitudes for the wind to change quickly and unexpectedly, particularly after the sea had regained Her freedom in one of the greatest sea-actions the world would only hear of from the mouths of storytellers and children. She would wield Her power and so, as the wind had turned less favourable by the start of the First Watch, by midnight the then-aging flagship HMS Dauntless had creaked and groaned pitifully before waves as high as her mizzen.
It was one of those haunting moments of his life, no longer to be counted on the fingers of both hands, where James could feel his hold on control of his life slip through those fingers like the lines he had stooped to help the men haul in the storm.
Perhaps it was his age, getting used to the comforts of married life ashore, inexperience as a worker rather than a commander, or simply the unpredictable elements, that had caused Admiral James Norrington, husband of Jane and father of Emily, secret lover of both Elizabeth Turner and Captain Jack Sparrow - wherever he may be in this dark hour of howling night - to go over the side, a mere toy in gold lace before the wind, dipped deep below a crashing wave, eyes open until they stung with salt, limply staring at the blurred bottom of his ship's hull so far above him, illuminated by the glow of the sea and the lightning higher up. He had been too stunned to struggle for the surface and the sea water in his lungs burned.
The first time had been too quick to register. This was a slow, numb descent into darker shades of blue. It had been the first time he had felt true freedom.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Port Mahón, 1736 II
The streets were unusually busy for a Spanish midday in May. James had given all but fifteen of his most trusted crew permission to go ashore and already they had found a great variety of goods to trade with locals. The latest prize money had left the value of many men's personal fortunes in gold higher than that of Mahón's governor, the men were in good spirits and the sun and welcome feel of firm land below their feet inspired them to purchase equally good spirits, fresh meats and fruits, as well as the services of young wenches.
The party of five James had chosen to accompany him were only slightly disturbed by their less than imminent freedom in the city. The days at this time of the year were long enough to spare the few hours needed to ensure their captain's safety on his errand at the residence of one Lord Melville who none of them had ever seen.
Following James therefore, as he ascended the cobbled street, women and children clearing before the party led by the tall man in luxurious brocade, were his men.
There were the huge, balding brothers Jorge and Xavier, picked up at Gibraltar three years ago and now walking at the back, joking amongst themselves and shouting to the locals in their native Spanish. They were simple, but clear-sighted, fastest up the ratlines and loyal to the end, should it ever come.
Gibbons, the master, was a negro in his thirties with a broad smile, a long scar across his jaw and an endless supply of herbs given to him against all possible ailments by his mother, a former Port Royal whore who had married well.
The bo'sun was Yngve Ramundsen, a part-Swedish sailmaker from Dorset, who had gone to sea fleeing England for no reason anyone had yet been able to ascertain, yet goodnatured and able, currently engaged in a minor battle with an irritating fly that kept trying to settle in his thick blond locks.
Closest to James and trying to match his stride walked his friend Thomas Thompson, called Tom, handsome and almost as tall as the captain but nigh on twenty years younger. After a week of being James' preferred choice for his first mate, it had become clear that Tom was, though thoroughly agreeable, a useless seaman in practice, having the heart of an explorer and naturalist rather than that of a sailor and the position had gone to Jennings after the Libertine had got rather dangerously intimate with a lee shore. Yet James liked the boy, who like himself had been a lieutenant by the time he was eighteen, though he had not joined the Navy by choice and a disagreement with a thoroughly miserable commander had put an end to his career and a hanging sentence upon his person. Tom naturally shared the captain's feelings of irritation with authority and establishments.
The party reached the end of the street, passed down the broad path leading up to the grande finka, the garden thick with trees and shrubs trimmed into the shapes of dolphins, a grass circle tastelessly decorated with a golden cherub spitting water into a fountain, which James had to smirk at. Melville was one of those who had more money than sense, it seemed. This was confirmed by the architecture inside; the floor tiles were pink marble, bright flowerpots stood near the open windows and the dark wooden beams were inlaid with gold carvings.
"Ridiculous," whispered Tom as they paused in this tacky yet airy entrance hall, and when James nodded, Tom openined his mouth to add something when the black servant who had let them in stepped up and announced that Mr Norrington alone was to follow him to his master's office.
"Stay here," James ordered his men, who nodded and began to inspect the ceremonial swords hanging on the walls as their captain went deeper into the building.
* * *
Lord Melville had reached his 60s retaining an imposing figure that was on this day topped with a flawless white wig in the modern fashion; parted in the middle with large curls framing his thick chiselled face which was still recognizably the same as that in the 30 year old portrait serenely smiling down from the wall at the opposite end of the room. The buttons on his yellow waistcoat stretched their holes as he sat behind his desk, a large quill scraping over parchment when the heavy oak door shut behind James.
"Lord Melville, I presume," said he, holding his hat under his arm as he sauntered over to stop two yards before the desk, willing the man to stop writing. He disliked being summoned only to wait.
"I am, I am," said Melville patiently, without looking up, and when nothing followed for some seconds, James contented himself with studying the ceiling. Above him was a colourful fresco of cherubs undoubtedly copied from that Italian artist with a name like a saint, but less skillfully.
James cleared his throat and Melville stopped his quill in its inkpot and looked up, then stood. "James Norrington! You received my message then, good, good. I trust your journey was a pleasant one?"
"From the South China Sea, yes," answered James slowly, his eyebrows raised in a silent query to Lord Melville, who laughed heartily.
"I do apologize," he replied, but James doubted he meant it. No matter, after six months spent negotiating and occasionally raking the South China pirates and merchants - who, more often than not, were one and the same - he and his crew were ready for European civilization again, though the bath houses were universally missed.
"I told Evans - he's the commander of my flagship, y'see - not to follow you further than the cape, but evidently he disobeyed that order," Melville continued, and James unwittingly winced at the terminology. "I did wonder why he wasn't back a month ago! Nevermind, you're here now. Your men are spending prize money in town already, I hear?"
"M'lord." James shrugged a little, but said no more.
"News travel fast, Norrington," Melville said and bent to look at some files to his right. "Such as the news of your capture of no less than twelve fat prizes within the last year. All of them pirates?"
"Well, naturally." James smiled warmly as he lied.
"Mostly Spanish, I'd wager. Ha!" He shifted through more papers and nodded, looked up, chuckled, shook his head making the curls on his wig move statically, then closed the file and contemplated the man before him; the unusually rich clothing, the long, unpowdered hair with its few small braids with tiny beads woven into them. James knew it was hard to believe that he had once been an officer. He was glad of it.
"I suspect you will quite simply have no need for the reward I intend to offer you, Mister Norrington."
"You've so far told me nothing of the offer nor of its reward," he replied, shifting his weight from one foot onto the other. "But, as you know, my ship sails for money these days."
A silence followed in which Norrington met the aristocrat's eyes, staring the shorter man down, each trying to fathom the other out. He could tell Melville didn't entirely trust him, the feeling was mutual, yet there was no plain dislike. Finally, the man took another paper from a drawer inside his desk and took it to a large window at the side of the office. Glancing out into his ostentatious garden, then back to the document, he spoke.
"James - I may call you James, yes? I want you to find a man; you may have heard of him." He shuffled the papers and held out a coloured print of a wood-etching. James took it and smiled. The likeness was quite bad. "He's a rogue, attacks any ship he sees, worse than a pirate for he has no loyalties, neither to his country, nor to the outlaws. The stories are most horrible, I'm sure you also hear of the stories seamen tell. Ghost ships, cannibals, blood rites, the devil and the like." Melville frowned and waved his free hand dismissively. "More pressing than intangible fables is the most substantial cost this man has added to mine and my peers' enterprises! You are aware how many cargo ships fall prey to pirates?"
James almost laughed out loud, but checked himself and instead replied "you might say that I am somewhat acquainted with the subject."
Melville missed the sarcasm or otherwise ignored it. "Well, excellent, excellent. James, I do not believe there is another sailor or venturer, whatever you call yourself these days, for this enterprise. Find this man, this" he waved his hand at the print still in James' hand, "outlaw, treat him as you will, so long as he stops harassing my ships."
"And also those of your peers, no doubt," James added slyly, to which the man only nodded.
"As for the reward, should you succeed -"
"I'm sure you're going to pay me more than a glass of brandy for this endeavour," James said, referring to the fact that he might have liked to be made such an offer during this visit.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Port Royal, 1933 II
Three years previously
Unlike the harsh burning sensation of rum, a good brandy was smooth, sophisticated, cooling to the throat like a window pane against a hand on a tropical, hot day. The day on which Admiral Norrington had woken up had been such a day.
Opening his eyes, he had first felt his lashes brush against cool silk pillowcases, had heard the familiar cry of a parrot somewhere about the house and felt an instant, unyielding need for a measure of rum - not grog, not brandy, but best local dark rum.
Sitting up and ringing the bell for the servants, James had thought that, though it was probably an unsuitable first request for an admiral recently delivered from certain death, the drink of cutthroats and buccaneers was a vice he had already been devoted to for too long to ever consider forsaking it. Only once he had been simpered over by his wife, Elizabeth and the servants, he had finally been brought the vile drink, then to be left to rest in peace.
James had known that he had died, because the feeling was quite unlike anything else and he knew it because he had already done it. He had once lost his life aboard the ghost ship which it had been his burden to command and he would always remember the irony of literally being ferried back into the world of the Living aboard the very ship he had died on.
Once past the sunrise, Turner had left him, not to be lost, but to be found, washed ashore at the roots of a tree in a jungle creek, into which was built a wooden hut that emitted the gentle glow of candlelight. Many weeks had he spent there, listening to the murmuring spells that would make him better, unlikely objects swinging above him, eyes grotesquely arranged and staring at him, a hairy spider the size of a plate watching him upside down, a tiny man hanging on a noose with wooden pins stuck through his heart... He did not care to remember the weeks that passed until finally he had been strong enough to be taken back to civilization, to the astonishment of all who had believed him dead.
That, in James Norrington's mind, had been how you died and came back, until he had survived what he was sure had been several hours at the bottom of the sea. He clearly remembered that night on which Dauntless was finally lost to the sea; as though She had no tried enough times previously.
Dragged down by the momentum, the weight of his sword, his soaked coat and his boots, James had allowed himself to gently hit the reef below him, even taking notice of a silver flurry of fish whirling around as he did. He had felt the sting in his lungs and the pressure in his ears, but not recognized them as pain. For a moment, James had even thought that the weight of the sea taking his breath away and pinning him down was strangely erotic, like a possessive lover that wouldn't let him go. He had always wished to be taken so passionately, to be owned so fiercely. He had been ready to give himself up willingly and completely at last. His time had come.
But though the lack of oyxgen had taken his sight and his sense of direction, it had not killed him and as he had lain on the ocean floor, feeling his ship sink into the blue-turned-black some fathoms before him, all illusion of control blissfully gone, something changed. The admiral, it seemed, had died. The ship was gone, and it had simply not come into James' mind to answer for himself this time, to grovel for forgiveness to superiors again. Reduced only to his mind, weightless, the sea whirling about him, a wild thing taking utter control of him, he had decided that he was ready at last. He would never follow orders again.
The sigh of relief that had come with this understanding had brought a shock of fresh air into his lungs, back in his bed in his Port Royal residence, somehow, inexplicably, safe and craving rum.
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