The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish - Chapter 2
Title: The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish
Fandom: POTC; Sparrington
Rating: PG-13 for now
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.
Summary: It all starts with one day’s head start, and then suddenly the commodore is in Tortuga, in disguise, dropping some eaves. Jack Sparrow recognizes him.
Chapter Two
Within four months of his escape from Port Royal, Jack Sparrow found himself uneasy about the rumors circulating about a certain commodore of his acquaintance. Most people now knew the navy man as ‘The Devil Himself Norrington’ at this point. Jack found himself absent-mindedly rubbing his throat as he overheard another tale of yet another infamous pirate ship caught by the man: his sixth in the last four months. Unseemly progress, that was: as though the commodore knew where his prey would be ahead of time; it made people right uncomfortable, it did.
Jack sat near a table of men who reminded him, almost comfortingly, of Gibbs and Mr. Cotton in their looks. The pirate captain eavesdropped casually, listening for any mention of work they might’ve done with some merchant vessels. He did note one man at the table who was less old and a bit less salty than the others, his battered black tricorn hat (stolen from a Navy lad, by the looks of it--good man!) and loose brown hair working together to hide the top half of his face. The man did not speak much, but occasionally his mouth showed the ghost of a smirk that inexplicably made Jack’s hackles rise.
Captain Sparrow was oddly comforted when the man in the tricorne hat answered a question posed by another man, because the rough baritone voice spoke not with authoritative British tones, but instead in playful and slightly slurred French ones: proper European French, too, not from any bastardized colony dialect. Jack resisted the urge to glance again at the stranger in the stolen navy tricorne; instead, he focused on listening to the others.
“‘Course the merchants are feelin’ braver, what with all the pirates that damned devil Norrington’s taken out.”
Visibly, Jack winced when the subject of that-damned-commodore came up, cursing under his breath at his luck. Then Jack felt the skin between his shoulder-blades prickle, itching slightly with the sensation of being watched. Oh Hell.
James Norrington took a sip of rum just before Sparrow turned to look at him, using the tankard to half-hide his face and his smirk as the old sea-dog next to him said, “Can’t say as I’ll miss any o’ those ships he took down, though, from what I’ve heard.”
A chorus of grudging agreement amongst more than half of the men. “There’s pirates, there’s pirates, and there’s the devil’s own damnable bastards of the sea, and this time the Navy’s gotten a few o’ the latter outta the way.”
James’ smirk widened a bit and he kept his tankard up, even tilting his head a little so that his tricorne further shadowed his face.
Jack was uneasy under that cold stare, even as the other men’s words did make him feel better on some level. Jack could tell that the stranger’s eyes were light-colored, but scarcely more than that in the dim light; although, if he wasn’t mistaken, the scallywag was smirking at him from behind his drink. There was something familiar about that look. Jack snorted and turned away again, draining his own rum and calling over a bar wench for another.
He had the wench in his lap and was pleasantly buzzed, as well as better-informed from his eavesdropping, by the time, perhaps half an hour later, that the stranger in the tricorne stood up to leave. Jack’s curious gaze followed him, noted that he seemed determined to keep his face mostly hidden behind his hair. Then his gaze took in the man’s long, lean frame and smooth, deliberate stride, no less precise for all the rum that the stranger had imbibed. Thoughtfully, Jack mused that the man was a fine specimen. Privately, the pirate captain thought to himself, If I didn’ already have a nice wench close at hand...
Then Jack’s gaze fixed on something else about the man’s person, which made his blood run cold as soon as it caught the dim firelight of the tavern: a very fine gold-inlaid sword handle that the pirate knew all too well, for the other end of that Turner-made sword had been too-often aimed at his piratical throat.
His gaze fixed on the stranger’s face, and this time the stranger looked back at him and smirked knowingly and raised his eyebrows in an expression of droll curiosity and no small amount of viciousness; although Norrington did seemed amused by how utterly poleaxed Sparrow looked as recognition struck. Even through the thin growth of beard on it and without that ridiculous white wig on top of it, Jack Sparrow knew that face and that smirk all too well, and he went stock-still, his kohl-decorated eyes wide.
Commodore Norrington only shook his head and turned away, walking out the door.
Jack patted the arse of the bewildered wench in his lap, who had sensed the clear shift in the mood of her prospective client. “Sorry, love,” Jack said stiffly (but not in the fun way). “Maybe on another night.” Once she was out of his lap, he pressed a gracious tip into her hands, grabbed his coat, and rushed out the door into the street. He nearly had to run to catch up with the longer strides of that-damned-commodore, whom Jack was chasing for no reason that he could think of, other than that the man clearly should not be here, not in Tortuga, not alone, and not looking so...
Well. Let’s just say Jack was willing to argue that hiding that man in British Royal Navy uniform, wigs, and cravats, was a crime against not only nature, but also good taste and possibly even the wills of a number of deities known for their lascivious behavior.
Norrington heard footsteps fast approaching behind him and wrapped his hand around the grip of his pistol, but then the distinctive jingling of Jack Sparrow’s various decorative hair trinkets reached his ears and the commodore shook his head. “Mister Sparrow, are you aware quite how foolhardy it is to follow someone who, when last you saw him, had been a hair’s breadth away from seeing you back to the gallows?” He said it with every ounce of composed British sarcasm at his disposal; the result would have withered most men, but Jack Sparrow was definitely not most men.
Thus, the pirate was able to sound properly indignant. “Captain. Captain Sparrow. For God’s sake, mate, you’ve seen my bloody ship!” Jack was at his side now, panting heavily.
Norrington raised an eyebrow at him. “So it would seem.”
Jack blanched. “You’re wearing kohl!” Then he caught sight of the small silver ring in Norrington’s ear and was momentarily struck speechless. The poleaxed look was back.
“Is the ability to state the glaringly obvious considered a very useful skill for a pirate captain?” Norrington asked, dripping sardonic acid with droll ease.
Idly, the pirate captain wondered if the man’s sarcasm would begin peeling paint off of various building as they strolled past. “You’d be surprised,” Jack replied distractedly to the other man’s question; his tone not so blase` as usual, but the cogs in his head were finally beginning to turn and his recovery from the shock was imminent. At least, it was until he was startled by the sudden realization that his information-gathering technique concerning the old sea-dogs playing cards had been used by Commodore Bloody Norrington to take down all of those pirate ships; it was enough to awe him for a moment. “So here’s your big bloody secret, then,” Jack mused. “This is how you’ve been catchin’ enough pirates that two thirds of Tortuga thinks you’re the Devil.” He would never admit it, but Jack was actually impressed.
That made the commodore narrow his sea-green eyes in a warning glare. “As secrets go, it is, by far I think, better than three days spent on a beach drinking rum.” A faint smirk, almost more playful than malicious. Almost. “At least, so Miss Swann has told me.”
Jack scowled. “Watch it, mate. If anyone knows how to start a riot in this town, you’re lookin’ right at him, mate; and you, Commodore are the perfect kindling to start that sort of fire--savvy?” He grinned, but the way he glared at the commodore at the same time made it look more like a snarl.
“Who on earth would believe that I am actually here? You yourself hardly seemed to believe it at first: a British Royal Navy Commodore in Tortuga. I don’t think that even most pirates are stupid enough to believe that it was not one of your infamous lies, Captain Sparrow.”
Jack snorted. “This is Tortuga, mate; they don’t need t’ believe me to feel like havin’ a good riot around here, as I’m sure that you’ve noticed by now.” He jabbed a thumb toward a tavern they passed, as its brawl exploded out its front door with the regularity of clockwork.
Norrington stopped walking, which cause Jack to stop as well. They glared at each other thoughtfully for a very long few moments, looking each other over in an appraising manner, like cats sizing each other up before a fight. Neither of them bothered blustering or threatening: just looking, reading, thinking...
“You don’t actually plan on arresting me do you?” Jack asked, feeling a bit shocked and chagrined to realize that he knew that the answer to that question would be a negative.
“Not if you don’t have the misfortune of falling into my hands again, which I’m more than sure that you can avoid. I’m aware that with the Black Pearl as your ship, it’s a waste of time to chase after you. Of course, the rest of the fleet may do so anyway, but I’ve been keeping myself busy elsewhere, as you might have noticed.”
Jack’s grin was less than sincere. “I might have, at that. It’s rather hard to miss.” He was examining Norrington’s face, surprised by how different the other man looked without starch and powder and that damned wig. The commodore looked like a bird of prey made human: his jawline having lost its softness with his recent increase in time at sea doing plenty of fighting--real work instead of paperwork--and there was a fiercely bright intelligence in those green eyes that had been fainter and more weary the last time Jack saw it, but now it positively blazed with life. “You’ve changed, Commodore,” Jack said quietly.
“Not so much as you might think, Captain Sparrow. Perhaps you are simply seeing me a bit more clearly,” Norrington drawled, not smirking this time, though the corners of his eyes crinkled with a hint of biting humor.
Jack saw no reason for any of that to send shiver down his spine, and was unnerved when it did, because the shiver was not one of fear. “And what about you, mate? Are you not perhaps looking at pirates and piracy on the whole with a bit more clarity? You’ve been getting awfully selective about what pirates you’re after; at least, that’s what it sounded like back there with your fellow card-players. Gettin’ lenient on the rest of us, are you?”
“Are you complaining?” There was something very blade-like about the question, the look on Norrington’s face as he asked it, and the tone of his voice.
Sensing that his answer would determine something important between them, Jack spent a moment considering the commodore standing in front of him: so different from the perfectly clean and stiff and repressed man in the wig he’d last seen in Port Royal. There had been hints of something more, in the biting mockery of the man’s words and the suspicious, calculating look that had never left those green eyes (at least, when they were fixed on Jack) after the loss of the Interceptor, but this version of Norrington was a completely different animal--one that Jack had never run into before; the animal was, however, very interesting.
At last, Jack grinned with far more sincerity and replied, “Not complaining in the least, mate; although I’ve got to wonder just how much longer the Navy’ll be able to keep hold of you. Seems like you’ve already gone a bit feral.”
A coin appeared between James’ fingers as if from out of thin air. “The chaos that you and Mr. Turner inadvertently brought into Port Royal provided me an opportunity to re-evaluate my life.” With newly refreshed ease and confidence, the coin began dancing back and forth across his knuckles, but he did not so much as glance at it, keeping his gaze locked onto Sparrow’s, which was struggling not to glance away to look at the shiny, shiny coin. “One of the notable conclusions that I reached, for there were several, was that there are more effective means of carrying out my duties than those laid out in the Royal Navy’s rule-books, or within the boundaries of propriety’s unspoken laws.” He vanished the coin up his sleeve without effort. “Thank you for the reminders: both on how useful unconventional thinking can be, and on the effectiveness of misdirection.” Now he smirked visibly, his emerald gaze fierce, but not actually aggressive. He was enjoying the game.
Jack was once more rendered speechless, if only for a few brief seconds as he watched the coin. Then he met Norrington’s gaze again, held it without hesitation, and admitted, “You’re more than you seem, Commodore. I’ll have to keep that in mind.” His dark eyes glittered as they peered deep into James’ paler green ones.
“I’ve been well aware of that quality in you, Captain Sparrow, ever since you stole my ship,” James growled, glaring again, smirk gone.
“Live an’ learn, mate.” Jack grinned, now, straightening the lapels of his coat with an air of superiority. “It was nothing personal.”
“No more than your hanging, I suppose,” James mused casually.
It was Jack’s turn to glare again, his upper lip curling into a snarl.
Norrington was unfazed. “I do actually mean it, Sparrow. If I could have let you escape without destroying my career and what I had believed to be Elizabeth’s future as my wife, I would have been willing to turn a blind eye to whatever you might have worked out as a means of escape; however, you instead returned to the Dauntless, whilst covered in a small fortune’s worth of gold and jewels. What impeccable timing, too: right after a large number of my men had been killed, and the majority of the survivors were more than bent on blaming you for the entire ordeal.” He did not raise his voice, maintaining as always his impeccably cutting sardonic air and cold precision of speech, but there was a certain amount of offended venom in it of the how-dare-you-insult-my-honor-you-stupid-pirate variety. “I had no more choice in the matter than did you in your only obvious option for commandeering a ship from which to hunt the Black Pearl: one that could still speed beyond the reach of the rest of the boats on these waters.”
Jack blinked a few times in rapid succession, flinching slightly. “Alright, easy mate. Steady as she goes.” Then he tilted his head a little, grinning again as he raised his hands in a gesture of supplication. Then his grin turned wily and his hands turned the movement into one of his usual flourishing emphatic gestures “And of course, if you truly think about it in that way, then we’re all squared away, then, aren’t we, Commodore?”
A flicker of annoyance darkened James’ expression, but he remained cooly civil. “So it would seem, Captain,” he replied.
Almost hesitantly, recalling his first handshake with this man, Jack extended a hand, and refrained from flinching when commodore took it. The handshake was firm, and neither man tried to break the other’s hand, but both seemed to at least briefly consider it. James’ hand was nearly as calloused as Jack’s own, which surprised the pirate; Norrington might be of a high rank, but he obviously worked harder than most of his upper-echelon peers, both on deck and with swords. As both men let go, Jack tried not to think about what else he might want to know about those shapely hands.
A slightly different sort of thoughtful look momentarily crossed the commodore’s face, only to vanish behind his usual cold mask. “I must be off, for the night. And I am sure that you have...” a sidelong glance back down the street toward the tavern “-business to attend to yourself.” James nodded politely and tipped his hat, and with more courtesy than mockery, he said, “Fair winds to you, Captain Sparrow.” Then he turned on his heel and began walking away.
“And a following sea to you, Commodore,” Jack replied, still watching the man suspiciously. As soon as Norrington vanished around a corner, Jack bolted for the Pearl. With much shouting and flailing, he rounded up his half-reveling crew and all but manually shoved all of them back onto the ship. They left the harbor just before dawn.
“What in the Bloody Hell is the matter, Jack?” Gibbs groaned as the sun finally began to peek over the horizon, further irritating his hangover
“Hell indeed, Gibbs. Hell indeed.” He shot the man a dark look. “Navy men lurking about suspiciously in Tortuga, mate--not the usual type, either. I don’t trust it. Not in the least, not with Norrington come over all clever as he suddenly has done,” Jack growled.
“Too clever for Captain Jack Sparrow?” Anamaria snapped, her doubt obvious.
Jack looked at her with a bit of seldom-seen, pure and unadulterated sincerity, his brows drawn in concern and the rest of his face almost apologetic; he was solemn enough that his hands stilled, not dancing through the air to flourish in time with his words. “To be perfectly honest, love, I need some time to think about that because he might be, but for now it’s not time what we can spare for thinking about it, while he may very well use that time for setting about doing us a bit of harm, ay?”
“You’d think he saw the Devil Himself back in Tortuga,” Gibbs grumbled, not quite under his breath as he had intended it to be. Then he froze. His head snapped around so that his eyes fixed on Jack. “You didn’t, did you?”
Jack turned his head so that he was not facing his listeners, and his dark eyes fixed on the horizon as he manned the helm. He gave it thought, then said, “I didn’t see any Devil. He’s not yet gone mad enough for that.” He’s not mad and he’s not the Devil, but he’s not the Norrington we thought he were, mates, Jack amended to himself. Aloud, he said, “But trust ol’ Captain Jack for now. Mayhap nothin’ will happen, but mayhap the Navy man I saw was there for something that we want no part in.” He gave them a steady, formidably imposing look over his shoulder. “Y’ Savvy?”
There was a dull, grumbling and irritable chorus of, “Aye, Cap’n” and Jack nodded to it in satisfaction, then faced the horizon again.
A truly clever Norrington (as opposed to the merely smart-so-far-as-the-Royal-Navy-goes-not-that-that-says-much Norrington that had previously been expected) had never been on Jack’s list of concerns before, and the man had clearly changed somehow, but then, maybe Jack had simply never seen Norrington away from the trappings of uniform, appearances, and naval career. The commodore had claimed no intention to arrest him: Not if you don’t have the misfortune of falling into my hands again. Between that, and the explanation about why he’d had to send Jack to the gallows, Jack knew a warning when he heard one.
If you don’t want to be caught, don’t come close enough that I can catch you, and I won’t be forced to try. That had been what Norrington was hinting at.
Surprisingly gracious of the good Commodore, to offer up that warning. Right clever. Dangerously clever. Jack’s lips twitched with a momentary scowl. Dangerously pretty, too, Jack added mentally. No Navy man should walk around Tortuga lookin’ like that. Temptation an’ all.
“You really worried he’s a threat to us, Jack? Norrington?” Gibbs asked, once his hangover had begun to subside.
Jack’s lips twisted thoughtfully. “To us? I don’t know, Gibbs. Not so long as we keep the Pearl just outta reach when the Royal British Navy’s sails are on the horizon.” And they aren’t, so maybe the commodore really was there on his ownsies, going against the rules of said Navy. It makes some sense; commodores aren’t the sort of men to lower themselves to doing their own spying--except apparently this one. One high-ranking officer all on his onesies in Tortuga. No back-up. No support. Jack shivered. Not a safe place for any Navy man, not even the Devil Himself Norrington. But it did pique his curiosity. “You might have a better idea than I do, mate. You served under ‘im.”
Gibbs looked thoughtful--and pained, but that was just the hangover--and reflective. “I’ve got few ideas at all. I suppose he was always... a bit different, even back when I was still with the Navy, an’ he was a lieutenant, then. He didn’t care if the men broke some of the rules, just cared if they got caught.” Gibbs snorted, looking almost amused. “‘A matter of decency,’ he said, ‘if not actual virtue.’ It was funny enough, the way he used it cuttin’ down a couple a’ midshipmen, that I remember. Some of the men closer to ‘im in rank said he had a streak o’ mischief in ‘im, but could get away with anything, no blame or suspicion ever stickin’ to him, so good was he at hidin’ things from people who’d use ‘em against him. He was a good man, sharp and bitter and a little arrogant, but good enough.” Then Gibbs’ expression darkened, and he shook his head. “But he’s always been vicious t’ pirates. I wouldn’t want to meet ‘im now, not with the way he hunts his pirates down, these days; he’s always had the skill and the nat’ral authority, but now... well, it’s like somebody woke up a sleepin’ wolf.”
Jack had to contemplate all of those little informational gems. Very interesting...
“Or a big carnivorous bird,” Pintel said. “They’ve got this huge eagle down south in the jungles, big and grey with talons wot can pierce a man’s skull.”
“He’s more like a hawk, mate: faster than an eagle and just small enough that he’s gotta be smarter than an eagle, too,” Jack found himself saying.
“But you don’t wake a sleepin’ hawk.” Pintel sounded put-out.
Ragetti chimed in, “I thought it was sleepin’ dogs, wasn’ it?”
“Or dragons?” Pintel mused.
“Devil he may be, but he’s not a dragon,” Gibbs said firmly, with all the sureness of a master storyteller. Then, cutting off the other two, he added,“Either way, whatever monstrous an’ vicious sorta creature he is now, it hadn’t been stirred fully into action ‘til recent.”
Jack listened to their bickering good-naturedly, but couldn’t help wondering if he could maybe find someone with more intelligent conversation to add to the crew at some point: somebody who was worth a battle of wits with. Of course, men with wits had a tendency to want to be captain, and Jack was wary of that little lesson, which was one of many that he’d learned from Barbossa.
Norrington’s wit was damned sharp, Jack recalled. Like a hawk’s beak.
He looked back over his shoulder at Tortuga, and thought about the way Norrington had carried himself walking around the place: not like a Navy man, but like a man who was always exactly where he was supposed to be--focused and totally imperturbable.
“Why would a vicious beastie such as Norrington hate pirates quite so much as he does, ay? He’s not exactly the most spotlessly clean man (morally speaking) so far as I can gather,” Jack wondered aloud, in Gibbs’ direction.
Gibbs left off bickering with Pinel and Ragetti, and took a pull from his flask. “Well. From what all I’ve heard on the matter, it has to do with his sister, it does. He’s lost a brother to pirates outta Singapore, but mostly the real vendetta he’s always had was on behalf of the sister, from what I recall. One of the other lieutenants got drunk enough with us that we asked what it was that made Norrington, the stoic bastard he usually was, get so outright bloodthirsty quite so quick when it came t’ pirates, and the man told us what he knew of it. Somethin’ about Norrington’s sister fallin’ in love with a wealthy pirate, when she was visitin’ Norrington’s eldest brother out someplace. Needless to say that it didn’ end well. The lass was killed in the midst of it all.”
Jack nodded slowly. He could think of a million ways for such an affair to end in chaos, and plenty of them would give Norrington good reason to hate pirates. “I see. That makes quite a bit o’ sense I suppose.” So what changed his mind, then? More than little old Jack, t’ be sure.
Had Jack bothered to ask Norrington that question, the simplest and most immediate answer would not have surprised the pirate very much at all, once he’d thought about it. That answer was: Lord Cutler Beckett of the East India Trading Company, and just how much of the British Royal Navy in the Caribbean had begun to migrate into the man’s back pocket. The incidents at Port Royal with Captain Jack Sparrow had led Norrington the the grudging realization that he could respect a pirate, but Beckett...
If anything could inspire the loyal commodore to begin chomping at the bit and resisting the urgent tugs of his naval masters pulling at his reins, it would have to be the pompous little man who had been trying to buy his way into Port Royal for the past two years, and the fact that the bastard’s teeth were now slowly sinking in. He had once tried to purchase the commodore himself, shortly before Norrington’s promotion and the fiasco with Sparrow. Commodore Norrington has never been the kind of man who would respond well, or even altogether politely, to attempted bribery of his person. Some of his own personal dealings with the EITC and its policies concerning slavery also left a sour taste in James’ mouth, and thus he had been struggling quietly against Beckett’s incursion into Jamaica for some time now. Had he not possessed such a clean record (undeservedly or otherwise) and a significant degree of political savvy, Norrington’s quiet machinations against Beckett might have cost him the promotion to commodore; despite having won that battle, Norrington was all too aware of the less-than-promising outlook for men such as himself in this little war.
He was lucky, he supposed, that his value to Beckett as a military tool seemed to outweigh how much the man detested him. Beckett wanted to put the commodore of Port Royal to use, but he was not an experienced falconer, and Norrington was less and less inclined to return to his roosting-place on that leather glove. And his wig itched, bothering him much like an ill-fitting hood.
Then again, hawks and snakes are not known to get along, and a serpent in a hawk’s nest knows well the risks that it takes, even if it is an exceptionally large and powerful serpent, rather akin to a leviathan.
Commodore James Norrington was thinking a great deal about snakes when his crew, on the way back to Port Royal after escorting a merchant ship to its destination, discovered a particularly interesting little ship floating at sea, apparently abandoned; no crew, no supplies, and no flags visibly on board. She was a beautiful ship, but a rather piratically styled one: akin to a compact and ferocious-looking golden sibling to the Black Pearl in shape and decorations, for all that she was not as grand. While she was larger than the Interceptor had been, she was only two-thirds the size of the Pearl, and at first glance appeared that she would never do as a Naval vessel, for all that it was the Navy’s duty to take her in and seek out her origins, possibly even her rightful owners.
At the time, James had no idea why he insisted on being the first to board the abandoned ship, but the faint hum he felt from the planks beneath his boots made him think uneasily of enchanted Aztec gold. The wind seemed to become very still for a moment, and Norrington’s spine straightened, his metaphorical hackles up. For a moment, he could swear that he heard not-quite-coherent whispers just on the cusp of hearing.
Then more of his men came aboard and the moment was gone, snapping James back to reality sharply enough that he almost winced. A quick look around showed that none of his men sensed anything supernatural. James moved below deck as his men searched above, announcing themselves and looking for any signs of life or symbols of authority. James then looked at the ship’s cannons and gave a low whistle; she may be smaller than the Pearl, this ship, but damned if she didn’t seem to make up for it with a fine set of guns: cast iron, mostly 18-pounders, but also a few surprising 24-pounders near the stern, and a pair of fine chasers at each end of the ship. Light and agile-looking as she seemed at first glance, with her large amount of sail and her fleet-looking frame, this ship was built to do great damage.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the even dimmer lighting when he reached the ship’s hold, but James was somehow already aware of the woman sitting there, even before he saw her. She was dark of complexion, beautiful and unnerving with a voice like Kudzu. “I not really here, James Norr-ing-ton,” she said, her words heavy with accent.
“I know,” James said quietly, and somehow it was true. He could hear his men above him, knew they would soon follow him below-deck, and wondered how much time he had.
“‘Dis ship for you, if you t’ink you can do her justice, James,” the woman said, her dark eyes warm and full of unsettling silent laughter. “Her name be de Gold Hawk. She good for chasin’ out snakes from waters dat don’ belong to dem. Person’ly I t’ink she suit you.”
“Who are you, and does this come with a curse?” James asked, his voice still pitched low, and his tone not nearly as sardonic as usual. He felt humbled and wary, and part if him badly wanted to flee back into the sunlight, but he stood his ground with steely British determination, aided by a reckless, itching curiosity concerning this little ship.
She gave a low, soft chuckle. “I am de sea, James, an’ there be no curse, here: just a deal, ‘tween me an’ you.” Her smile softened, becoming oh-so-inviting and heated. “Swear an’ uphold you loyalty to me over snakes and certain other creatures who gone more c’rupt dan dey should, ‘til dey corrupted de sea itself.” A crooked, mischievous smile lit the woman’s face. Her teeth were... interesting. “I be more kind dan de one who raise de sister-ship, an’ in turn dis ship still be more kind to you dan I, an’ more constant and faithful to you. If you do right by dis ship, she do right by you. Me?” Another laugh. “I jus’ like you, an’ know a good hunter when I see one.” She tilted her head and looked him over head-to-toe almost hungrily. “Jus’ keep in mind dat women be fickle creatures, James Norr-ing-ton.”
“What other creatures?” he asked, perfunctorily; it was a hunt, and he was a hunter. If he got this ship, as well as a good hunt, he felt the deal far too good to be true. There were surely dark twists and turns awaiting him, but it only sent a cold, mind-clearing thrill for him that he would not have given up for anything. He felt more himself than he ever recalled feeling before.
“A little bird will tell yo’,” the dark woman promised. “Do you accept de terms?”
Despite being mildly unnerved, James recalled his first sight of this ship, from a distance, and the way his heart had lurched in his chest. He had always been a man of the sea, since he had first laid eyes on the ocean, and he had a feeling that this ship would be the same way for him; she felt blissfully fine under his hands, one of which he had unconsciously rested on the end of the stair-rail, his fingers pressed against the wood as though drawing strength from it. “I want to do right by you both,” he said, his voice suddenly more ragged than he had intended, as though he spoke from deeper within himself than he recalled ever needing to before. “You have my word... and my loyalty. I will hunt these hunts for you.”
“Good, James.” She smiled brilliantly, but there was a wicked, manic edge to it: unearthly and inhuman. “You know what else hawks do?”
“I’m...not sure.”
“Dis one, she like to be gar-dian to her sister-ship when she can; is in her nature to protect de wild an’ free. You keep dat in mind.” Calypso winked at him, and vanished just as Lieutenant Gillette and the first half-dozen other men reached him, the lights of their lanterns seeming to make the image of the woman dissolve like sea mist in a gust of wind.
“Find anything, Commodore?” Gillette asked.
James took a deep steadying breath, and summoned every ounce of control in his possession. When he spoke, his voice was as calm and curt and commodore-like as it had ever been. “This ship is bare and empty, gentleman. Whoever owned her previously wanted to pick it clean, and abandon her--for what purpose, we may never know. Load enough supplies for a small crew to man her, and we shall take her into Port Royal.” Somehow, no one found it entirely surprising when the commodore quietly took the ship’s helm. He looked at home there.
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Fandom: POTC; Sparrington
Rating: PG-13 for now
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.
Summary: It all starts with one day’s head start, and then suddenly the commodore is in Tortuga, in disguise, dropping some eaves. Jack Sparrow recognizes him.
Chapter Two
Within four months of his escape from Port Royal, Jack Sparrow found himself uneasy about the rumors circulating about a certain commodore of his acquaintance. Most people now knew the navy man as ‘The Devil Himself Norrington’ at this point. Jack found himself absent-mindedly rubbing his throat as he overheard another tale of yet another infamous pirate ship caught by the man: his sixth in the last four months. Unseemly progress, that was: as though the commodore knew where his prey would be ahead of time; it made people right uncomfortable, it did.
Jack sat near a table of men who reminded him, almost comfortingly, of Gibbs and Mr. Cotton in their looks. The pirate captain eavesdropped casually, listening for any mention of work they might’ve done with some merchant vessels. He did note one man at the table who was less old and a bit less salty than the others, his battered black tricorn hat (stolen from a Navy lad, by the looks of it--good man!) and loose brown hair working together to hide the top half of his face. The man did not speak much, but occasionally his mouth showed the ghost of a smirk that inexplicably made Jack’s hackles rise.
Captain Sparrow was oddly comforted when the man in the tricorne hat answered a question posed by another man, because the rough baritone voice spoke not with authoritative British tones, but instead in playful and slightly slurred French ones: proper European French, too, not from any bastardized colony dialect. Jack resisted the urge to glance again at the stranger in the stolen navy tricorne; instead, he focused on listening to the others.
“‘Course the merchants are feelin’ braver, what with all the pirates that damned devil Norrington’s taken out.”
Visibly, Jack winced when the subject of that-damned-commodore came up, cursing under his breath at his luck. Then Jack felt the skin between his shoulder-blades prickle, itching slightly with the sensation of being watched. Oh Hell.
James Norrington took a sip of rum just before Sparrow turned to look at him, using the tankard to half-hide his face and his smirk as the old sea-dog next to him said, “Can’t say as I’ll miss any o’ those ships he took down, though, from what I’ve heard.”
A chorus of grudging agreement amongst more than half of the men. “There’s pirates, there’s pirates, and there’s the devil’s own damnable bastards of the sea, and this time the Navy’s gotten a few o’ the latter outta the way.”
James’ smirk widened a bit and he kept his tankard up, even tilting his head a little so that his tricorne further shadowed his face.
Jack was uneasy under that cold stare, even as the other men’s words did make him feel better on some level. Jack could tell that the stranger’s eyes were light-colored, but scarcely more than that in the dim light; although, if he wasn’t mistaken, the scallywag was smirking at him from behind his drink. There was something familiar about that look. Jack snorted and turned away again, draining his own rum and calling over a bar wench for another.
He had the wench in his lap and was pleasantly buzzed, as well as better-informed from his eavesdropping, by the time, perhaps half an hour later, that the stranger in the tricorne stood up to leave. Jack’s curious gaze followed him, noted that he seemed determined to keep his face mostly hidden behind his hair. Then his gaze took in the man’s long, lean frame and smooth, deliberate stride, no less precise for all the rum that the stranger had imbibed. Thoughtfully, Jack mused that the man was a fine specimen. Privately, the pirate captain thought to himself, If I didn’ already have a nice wench close at hand...
Then Jack’s gaze fixed on something else about the man’s person, which made his blood run cold as soon as it caught the dim firelight of the tavern: a very fine gold-inlaid sword handle that the pirate knew all too well, for the other end of that Turner-made sword had been too-often aimed at his piratical throat.
His gaze fixed on the stranger’s face, and this time the stranger looked back at him and smirked knowingly and raised his eyebrows in an expression of droll curiosity and no small amount of viciousness; although Norrington did seemed amused by how utterly poleaxed Sparrow looked as recognition struck. Even through the thin growth of beard on it and without that ridiculous white wig on top of it, Jack Sparrow knew that face and that smirk all too well, and he went stock-still, his kohl-decorated eyes wide.
Commodore Norrington only shook his head and turned away, walking out the door.
Jack patted the arse of the bewildered wench in his lap, who had sensed the clear shift in the mood of her prospective client. “Sorry, love,” Jack said stiffly (but not in the fun way). “Maybe on another night.” Once she was out of his lap, he pressed a gracious tip into her hands, grabbed his coat, and rushed out the door into the street. He nearly had to run to catch up with the longer strides of that-damned-commodore, whom Jack was chasing for no reason that he could think of, other than that the man clearly should not be here, not in Tortuga, not alone, and not looking so...
Well. Let’s just say Jack was willing to argue that hiding that man in British Royal Navy uniform, wigs, and cravats, was a crime against not only nature, but also good taste and possibly even the wills of a number of deities known for their lascivious behavior.
Norrington heard footsteps fast approaching behind him and wrapped his hand around the grip of his pistol, but then the distinctive jingling of Jack Sparrow’s various decorative hair trinkets reached his ears and the commodore shook his head. “Mister Sparrow, are you aware quite how foolhardy it is to follow someone who, when last you saw him, had been a hair’s breadth away from seeing you back to the gallows?” He said it with every ounce of composed British sarcasm at his disposal; the result would have withered most men, but Jack Sparrow was definitely not most men.
Thus, the pirate was able to sound properly indignant. “Captain. Captain Sparrow. For God’s sake, mate, you’ve seen my bloody ship!” Jack was at his side now, panting heavily.
Norrington raised an eyebrow at him. “So it would seem.”
Jack blanched. “You’re wearing kohl!” Then he caught sight of the small silver ring in Norrington’s ear and was momentarily struck speechless. The poleaxed look was back.
“Is the ability to state the glaringly obvious considered a very useful skill for a pirate captain?” Norrington asked, dripping sardonic acid with droll ease.
Idly, the pirate captain wondered if the man’s sarcasm would begin peeling paint off of various building as they strolled past. “You’d be surprised,” Jack replied distractedly to the other man’s question; his tone not so blase` as usual, but the cogs in his head were finally beginning to turn and his recovery from the shock was imminent. At least, it was until he was startled by the sudden realization that his information-gathering technique concerning the old sea-dogs playing cards had been used by Commodore Bloody Norrington to take down all of those pirate ships; it was enough to awe him for a moment. “So here’s your big bloody secret, then,” Jack mused. “This is how you’ve been catchin’ enough pirates that two thirds of Tortuga thinks you’re the Devil.” He would never admit it, but Jack was actually impressed.
That made the commodore narrow his sea-green eyes in a warning glare. “As secrets go, it is, by far I think, better than three days spent on a beach drinking rum.” A faint smirk, almost more playful than malicious. Almost. “At least, so Miss Swann has told me.”
Jack scowled. “Watch it, mate. If anyone knows how to start a riot in this town, you’re lookin’ right at him, mate; and you, Commodore are the perfect kindling to start that sort of fire--savvy?” He grinned, but the way he glared at the commodore at the same time made it look more like a snarl.
“Who on earth would believe that I am actually here? You yourself hardly seemed to believe it at first: a British Royal Navy Commodore in Tortuga. I don’t think that even most pirates are stupid enough to believe that it was not one of your infamous lies, Captain Sparrow.”
Jack snorted. “This is Tortuga, mate; they don’t need t’ believe me to feel like havin’ a good riot around here, as I’m sure that you’ve noticed by now.” He jabbed a thumb toward a tavern they passed, as its brawl exploded out its front door with the regularity of clockwork.
Norrington stopped walking, which cause Jack to stop as well. They glared at each other thoughtfully for a very long few moments, looking each other over in an appraising manner, like cats sizing each other up before a fight. Neither of them bothered blustering or threatening: just looking, reading, thinking...
“You don’t actually plan on arresting me do you?” Jack asked, feeling a bit shocked and chagrined to realize that he knew that the answer to that question would be a negative.
“Not if you don’t have the misfortune of falling into my hands again, which I’m more than sure that you can avoid. I’m aware that with the Black Pearl as your ship, it’s a waste of time to chase after you. Of course, the rest of the fleet may do so anyway, but I’ve been keeping myself busy elsewhere, as you might have noticed.”
Jack’s grin was less than sincere. “I might have, at that. It’s rather hard to miss.” He was examining Norrington’s face, surprised by how different the other man looked without starch and powder and that damned wig. The commodore looked like a bird of prey made human: his jawline having lost its softness with his recent increase in time at sea doing plenty of fighting--real work instead of paperwork--and there was a fiercely bright intelligence in those green eyes that had been fainter and more weary the last time Jack saw it, but now it positively blazed with life. “You’ve changed, Commodore,” Jack said quietly.
“Not so much as you might think, Captain Sparrow. Perhaps you are simply seeing me a bit more clearly,” Norrington drawled, not smirking this time, though the corners of his eyes crinkled with a hint of biting humor.
Jack saw no reason for any of that to send shiver down his spine, and was unnerved when it did, because the shiver was not one of fear. “And what about you, mate? Are you not perhaps looking at pirates and piracy on the whole with a bit more clarity? You’ve been getting awfully selective about what pirates you’re after; at least, that’s what it sounded like back there with your fellow card-players. Gettin’ lenient on the rest of us, are you?”
“Are you complaining?” There was something very blade-like about the question, the look on Norrington’s face as he asked it, and the tone of his voice.
Sensing that his answer would determine something important between them, Jack spent a moment considering the commodore standing in front of him: so different from the perfectly clean and stiff and repressed man in the wig he’d last seen in Port Royal. There had been hints of something more, in the biting mockery of the man’s words and the suspicious, calculating look that had never left those green eyes (at least, when they were fixed on Jack) after the loss of the Interceptor, but this version of Norrington was a completely different animal--one that Jack had never run into before; the animal was, however, very interesting.
At last, Jack grinned with far more sincerity and replied, “Not complaining in the least, mate; although I’ve got to wonder just how much longer the Navy’ll be able to keep hold of you. Seems like you’ve already gone a bit feral.”
A coin appeared between James’ fingers as if from out of thin air. “The chaos that you and Mr. Turner inadvertently brought into Port Royal provided me an opportunity to re-evaluate my life.” With newly refreshed ease and confidence, the coin began dancing back and forth across his knuckles, but he did not so much as glance at it, keeping his gaze locked onto Sparrow’s, which was struggling not to glance away to look at the shiny, shiny coin. “One of the notable conclusions that I reached, for there were several, was that there are more effective means of carrying out my duties than those laid out in the Royal Navy’s rule-books, or within the boundaries of propriety’s unspoken laws.” He vanished the coin up his sleeve without effort. “Thank you for the reminders: both on how useful unconventional thinking can be, and on the effectiveness of misdirection.” Now he smirked visibly, his emerald gaze fierce, but not actually aggressive. He was enjoying the game.
Jack was once more rendered speechless, if only for a few brief seconds as he watched the coin. Then he met Norrington’s gaze again, held it without hesitation, and admitted, “You’re more than you seem, Commodore. I’ll have to keep that in mind.” His dark eyes glittered as they peered deep into James’ paler green ones.
“I’ve been well aware of that quality in you, Captain Sparrow, ever since you stole my ship,” James growled, glaring again, smirk gone.
“Live an’ learn, mate.” Jack grinned, now, straightening the lapels of his coat with an air of superiority. “It was nothing personal.”
“No more than your hanging, I suppose,” James mused casually.
It was Jack’s turn to glare again, his upper lip curling into a snarl.
Norrington was unfazed. “I do actually mean it, Sparrow. If I could have let you escape without destroying my career and what I had believed to be Elizabeth’s future as my wife, I would have been willing to turn a blind eye to whatever you might have worked out as a means of escape; however, you instead returned to the Dauntless, whilst covered in a small fortune’s worth of gold and jewels. What impeccable timing, too: right after a large number of my men had been killed, and the majority of the survivors were more than bent on blaming you for the entire ordeal.” He did not raise his voice, maintaining as always his impeccably cutting sardonic air and cold precision of speech, but there was a certain amount of offended venom in it of the how-dare-you-insult-my-honor-you-stupid-pirate variety. “I had no more choice in the matter than did you in your only obvious option for commandeering a ship from which to hunt the Black Pearl: one that could still speed beyond the reach of the rest of the boats on these waters.”
Jack blinked a few times in rapid succession, flinching slightly. “Alright, easy mate. Steady as she goes.” Then he tilted his head a little, grinning again as he raised his hands in a gesture of supplication. Then his grin turned wily and his hands turned the movement into one of his usual flourishing emphatic gestures “And of course, if you truly think about it in that way, then we’re all squared away, then, aren’t we, Commodore?”
A flicker of annoyance darkened James’ expression, but he remained cooly civil. “So it would seem, Captain,” he replied.
Almost hesitantly, recalling his first handshake with this man, Jack extended a hand, and refrained from flinching when commodore took it. The handshake was firm, and neither man tried to break the other’s hand, but both seemed to at least briefly consider it. James’ hand was nearly as calloused as Jack’s own, which surprised the pirate; Norrington might be of a high rank, but he obviously worked harder than most of his upper-echelon peers, both on deck and with swords. As both men let go, Jack tried not to think about what else he might want to know about those shapely hands.
A slightly different sort of thoughtful look momentarily crossed the commodore’s face, only to vanish behind his usual cold mask. “I must be off, for the night. And I am sure that you have...” a sidelong glance back down the street toward the tavern “-business to attend to yourself.” James nodded politely and tipped his hat, and with more courtesy than mockery, he said, “Fair winds to you, Captain Sparrow.” Then he turned on his heel and began walking away.
“And a following sea to you, Commodore,” Jack replied, still watching the man suspiciously. As soon as Norrington vanished around a corner, Jack bolted for the Pearl. With much shouting and flailing, he rounded up his half-reveling crew and all but manually shoved all of them back onto the ship. They left the harbor just before dawn.
“What in the Bloody Hell is the matter, Jack?” Gibbs groaned as the sun finally began to peek over the horizon, further irritating his hangover
“Hell indeed, Gibbs. Hell indeed.” He shot the man a dark look. “Navy men lurking about suspiciously in Tortuga, mate--not the usual type, either. I don’t trust it. Not in the least, not with Norrington come over all clever as he suddenly has done,” Jack growled.
“Too clever for Captain Jack Sparrow?” Anamaria snapped, her doubt obvious.
Jack looked at her with a bit of seldom-seen, pure and unadulterated sincerity, his brows drawn in concern and the rest of his face almost apologetic; he was solemn enough that his hands stilled, not dancing through the air to flourish in time with his words. “To be perfectly honest, love, I need some time to think about that because he might be, but for now it’s not time what we can spare for thinking about it, while he may very well use that time for setting about doing us a bit of harm, ay?”
“You’d think he saw the Devil Himself back in Tortuga,” Gibbs grumbled, not quite under his breath as he had intended it to be. Then he froze. His head snapped around so that his eyes fixed on Jack. “You didn’t, did you?”
Jack turned his head so that he was not facing his listeners, and his dark eyes fixed on the horizon as he manned the helm. He gave it thought, then said, “I didn’t see any Devil. He’s not yet gone mad enough for that.” He’s not mad and he’s not the Devil, but he’s not the Norrington we thought he were, mates, Jack amended to himself. Aloud, he said, “But trust ol’ Captain Jack for now. Mayhap nothin’ will happen, but mayhap the Navy man I saw was there for something that we want no part in.” He gave them a steady, formidably imposing look over his shoulder. “Y’ Savvy?”
There was a dull, grumbling and irritable chorus of, “Aye, Cap’n” and Jack nodded to it in satisfaction, then faced the horizon again.
A truly clever Norrington (as opposed to the merely smart-so-far-as-the-Royal-Navy-goes-not-that-that-says-much Norrington that had previously been expected) had never been on Jack’s list of concerns before, and the man had clearly changed somehow, but then, maybe Jack had simply never seen Norrington away from the trappings of uniform, appearances, and naval career. The commodore had claimed no intention to arrest him: Not if you don’t have the misfortune of falling into my hands again. Between that, and the explanation about why he’d had to send Jack to the gallows, Jack knew a warning when he heard one.
If you don’t want to be caught, don’t come close enough that I can catch you, and I won’t be forced to try. That had been what Norrington was hinting at.
Surprisingly gracious of the good Commodore, to offer up that warning. Right clever. Dangerously clever. Jack’s lips twitched with a momentary scowl. Dangerously pretty, too, Jack added mentally. No Navy man should walk around Tortuga lookin’ like that. Temptation an’ all.
“You really worried he’s a threat to us, Jack? Norrington?” Gibbs asked, once his hangover had begun to subside.
Jack’s lips twisted thoughtfully. “To us? I don’t know, Gibbs. Not so long as we keep the Pearl just outta reach when the Royal British Navy’s sails are on the horizon.” And they aren’t, so maybe the commodore really was there on his ownsies, going against the rules of said Navy. It makes some sense; commodores aren’t the sort of men to lower themselves to doing their own spying--except apparently this one. One high-ranking officer all on his onesies in Tortuga. No back-up. No support. Jack shivered. Not a safe place for any Navy man, not even the Devil Himself Norrington. But it did pique his curiosity. “You might have a better idea than I do, mate. You served under ‘im.”
Gibbs looked thoughtful--and pained, but that was just the hangover--and reflective. “I’ve got few ideas at all. I suppose he was always... a bit different, even back when I was still with the Navy, an’ he was a lieutenant, then. He didn’t care if the men broke some of the rules, just cared if they got caught.” Gibbs snorted, looking almost amused. “‘A matter of decency,’ he said, ‘if not actual virtue.’ It was funny enough, the way he used it cuttin’ down a couple a’ midshipmen, that I remember. Some of the men closer to ‘im in rank said he had a streak o’ mischief in ‘im, but could get away with anything, no blame or suspicion ever stickin’ to him, so good was he at hidin’ things from people who’d use ‘em against him. He was a good man, sharp and bitter and a little arrogant, but good enough.” Then Gibbs’ expression darkened, and he shook his head. “But he’s always been vicious t’ pirates. I wouldn’t want to meet ‘im now, not with the way he hunts his pirates down, these days; he’s always had the skill and the nat’ral authority, but now... well, it’s like somebody woke up a sleepin’ wolf.”
Jack had to contemplate all of those little informational gems. Very interesting...
“Or a big carnivorous bird,” Pintel said. “They’ve got this huge eagle down south in the jungles, big and grey with talons wot can pierce a man’s skull.”
“He’s more like a hawk, mate: faster than an eagle and just small enough that he’s gotta be smarter than an eagle, too,” Jack found himself saying.
“But you don’t wake a sleepin’ hawk.” Pintel sounded put-out.
Ragetti chimed in, “I thought it was sleepin’ dogs, wasn’ it?”
“Or dragons?” Pintel mused.
“Devil he may be, but he’s not a dragon,” Gibbs said firmly, with all the sureness of a master storyteller. Then, cutting off the other two, he added,“Either way, whatever monstrous an’ vicious sorta creature he is now, it hadn’t been stirred fully into action ‘til recent.”
Jack listened to their bickering good-naturedly, but couldn’t help wondering if he could maybe find someone with more intelligent conversation to add to the crew at some point: somebody who was worth a battle of wits with. Of course, men with wits had a tendency to want to be captain, and Jack was wary of that little lesson, which was one of many that he’d learned from Barbossa.
Norrington’s wit was damned sharp, Jack recalled. Like a hawk’s beak.
He looked back over his shoulder at Tortuga, and thought about the way Norrington had carried himself walking around the place: not like a Navy man, but like a man who was always exactly where he was supposed to be--focused and totally imperturbable.
“Why would a vicious beastie such as Norrington hate pirates quite so much as he does, ay? He’s not exactly the most spotlessly clean man (morally speaking) so far as I can gather,” Jack wondered aloud, in Gibbs’ direction.
Gibbs left off bickering with Pinel and Ragetti, and took a pull from his flask. “Well. From what all I’ve heard on the matter, it has to do with his sister, it does. He’s lost a brother to pirates outta Singapore, but mostly the real vendetta he’s always had was on behalf of the sister, from what I recall. One of the other lieutenants got drunk enough with us that we asked what it was that made Norrington, the stoic bastard he usually was, get so outright bloodthirsty quite so quick when it came t’ pirates, and the man told us what he knew of it. Somethin’ about Norrington’s sister fallin’ in love with a wealthy pirate, when she was visitin’ Norrington’s eldest brother out someplace. Needless to say that it didn’ end well. The lass was killed in the midst of it all.”
Jack nodded slowly. He could think of a million ways for such an affair to end in chaos, and plenty of them would give Norrington good reason to hate pirates. “I see. That makes quite a bit o’ sense I suppose.” So what changed his mind, then? More than little old Jack, t’ be sure.
Had Jack bothered to ask Norrington that question, the simplest and most immediate answer would not have surprised the pirate very much at all, once he’d thought about it. That answer was: Lord Cutler Beckett of the East India Trading Company, and just how much of the British Royal Navy in the Caribbean had begun to migrate into the man’s back pocket. The incidents at Port Royal with Captain Jack Sparrow had led Norrington the the grudging realization that he could respect a pirate, but Beckett...
If anything could inspire the loyal commodore to begin chomping at the bit and resisting the urgent tugs of his naval masters pulling at his reins, it would have to be the pompous little man who had been trying to buy his way into Port Royal for the past two years, and the fact that the bastard’s teeth were now slowly sinking in. He had once tried to purchase the commodore himself, shortly before Norrington’s promotion and the fiasco with Sparrow. Commodore Norrington has never been the kind of man who would respond well, or even altogether politely, to attempted bribery of his person. Some of his own personal dealings with the EITC and its policies concerning slavery also left a sour taste in James’ mouth, and thus he had been struggling quietly against Beckett’s incursion into Jamaica for some time now. Had he not possessed such a clean record (undeservedly or otherwise) and a significant degree of political savvy, Norrington’s quiet machinations against Beckett might have cost him the promotion to commodore; despite having won that battle, Norrington was all too aware of the less-than-promising outlook for men such as himself in this little war.
He was lucky, he supposed, that his value to Beckett as a military tool seemed to outweigh how much the man detested him. Beckett wanted to put the commodore of Port Royal to use, but he was not an experienced falconer, and Norrington was less and less inclined to return to his roosting-place on that leather glove. And his wig itched, bothering him much like an ill-fitting hood.
Then again, hawks and snakes are not known to get along, and a serpent in a hawk’s nest knows well the risks that it takes, even if it is an exceptionally large and powerful serpent, rather akin to a leviathan.
Commodore James Norrington was thinking a great deal about snakes when his crew, on the way back to Port Royal after escorting a merchant ship to its destination, discovered a particularly interesting little ship floating at sea, apparently abandoned; no crew, no supplies, and no flags visibly on board. She was a beautiful ship, but a rather piratically styled one: akin to a compact and ferocious-looking golden sibling to the Black Pearl in shape and decorations, for all that she was not as grand. While she was larger than the Interceptor had been, she was only two-thirds the size of the Pearl, and at first glance appeared that she would never do as a Naval vessel, for all that it was the Navy’s duty to take her in and seek out her origins, possibly even her rightful owners.
At the time, James had no idea why he insisted on being the first to board the abandoned ship, but the faint hum he felt from the planks beneath his boots made him think uneasily of enchanted Aztec gold. The wind seemed to become very still for a moment, and Norrington’s spine straightened, his metaphorical hackles up. For a moment, he could swear that he heard not-quite-coherent whispers just on the cusp of hearing.
Then more of his men came aboard and the moment was gone, snapping James back to reality sharply enough that he almost winced. A quick look around showed that none of his men sensed anything supernatural. James moved below deck as his men searched above, announcing themselves and looking for any signs of life or symbols of authority. James then looked at the ship’s cannons and gave a low whistle; she may be smaller than the Pearl, this ship, but damned if she didn’t seem to make up for it with a fine set of guns: cast iron, mostly 18-pounders, but also a few surprising 24-pounders near the stern, and a pair of fine chasers at each end of the ship. Light and agile-looking as she seemed at first glance, with her large amount of sail and her fleet-looking frame, this ship was built to do great damage.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the even dimmer lighting when he reached the ship’s hold, but James was somehow already aware of the woman sitting there, even before he saw her. She was dark of complexion, beautiful and unnerving with a voice like Kudzu. “I not really here, James Norr-ing-ton,” she said, her words heavy with accent.
“I know,” James said quietly, and somehow it was true. He could hear his men above him, knew they would soon follow him below-deck, and wondered how much time he had.
“‘Dis ship for you, if you t’ink you can do her justice, James,” the woman said, her dark eyes warm and full of unsettling silent laughter. “Her name be de Gold Hawk. She good for chasin’ out snakes from waters dat don’ belong to dem. Person’ly I t’ink she suit you.”
“Who are you, and does this come with a curse?” James asked, his voice still pitched low, and his tone not nearly as sardonic as usual. He felt humbled and wary, and part if him badly wanted to flee back into the sunlight, but he stood his ground with steely British determination, aided by a reckless, itching curiosity concerning this little ship.
She gave a low, soft chuckle. “I am de sea, James, an’ there be no curse, here: just a deal, ‘tween me an’ you.” Her smile softened, becoming oh-so-inviting and heated. “Swear an’ uphold you loyalty to me over snakes and certain other creatures who gone more c’rupt dan dey should, ‘til dey corrupted de sea itself.” A crooked, mischievous smile lit the woman’s face. Her teeth were... interesting. “I be more kind dan de one who raise de sister-ship, an’ in turn dis ship still be more kind to you dan I, an’ more constant and faithful to you. If you do right by dis ship, she do right by you. Me?” Another laugh. “I jus’ like you, an’ know a good hunter when I see one.” She tilted her head and looked him over head-to-toe almost hungrily. “Jus’ keep in mind dat women be fickle creatures, James Norr-ing-ton.”
“What other creatures?” he asked, perfunctorily; it was a hunt, and he was a hunter. If he got this ship, as well as a good hunt, he felt the deal far too good to be true. There were surely dark twists and turns awaiting him, but it only sent a cold, mind-clearing thrill for him that he would not have given up for anything. He felt more himself than he ever recalled feeling before.
“A little bird will tell yo’,” the dark woman promised. “Do you accept de terms?”
Despite being mildly unnerved, James recalled his first sight of this ship, from a distance, and the way his heart had lurched in his chest. He had always been a man of the sea, since he had first laid eyes on the ocean, and he had a feeling that this ship would be the same way for him; she felt blissfully fine under his hands, one of which he had unconsciously rested on the end of the stair-rail, his fingers pressed against the wood as though drawing strength from it. “I want to do right by you both,” he said, his voice suddenly more ragged than he had intended, as though he spoke from deeper within himself than he recalled ever needing to before. “You have my word... and my loyalty. I will hunt these hunts for you.”
“Good, James.” She smiled brilliantly, but there was a wicked, manic edge to it: unearthly and inhuman. “You know what else hawks do?”
“I’m...not sure.”
“Dis one, she like to be gar-dian to her sister-ship when she can; is in her nature to protect de wild an’ free. You keep dat in mind.” Calypso winked at him, and vanished just as Lieutenant Gillette and the first half-dozen other men reached him, the lights of their lanterns seeming to make the image of the woman dissolve like sea mist in a gust of wind.
“Find anything, Commodore?” Gillette asked.
James took a deep steadying breath, and summoned every ounce of control in his possession. When he spoke, his voice was as calm and curt and commodore-like as it had ever been. “This ship is bare and empty, gentleman. Whoever owned her previously wanted to pick it clean, and abandon her--for what purpose, we may never know. Load enough supplies for a small crew to man her, and we shall take her into Port Royal.” Somehow, no one found it entirely surprising when the commodore quietly took the ship’s helm. He looked at home there.
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