Eye of the Storm

by Edoraslass

Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: 11/24/06
Summary: Norrington in Tortuga. "Even if I hadn't known, my ears would have told me that he were—or had been—a gentleman."

He were walking in that peculiar way so many sailors have—rolling, not quite moving a straight line, a bit short of a stagger, as if he expected the ground would heave beneath his feet and was surprised when it stayed put.

Or else he were just drunk. Sometimes it's hard to tell just by looking.

Everyone knew he were in Tortuga; news like that don't keep long, and I knew it'd only be a matter of time before he wandered in here. And sure he did wander, gaze roaming the room for an empty table, not seeming to notice how people stared and muttered when they caught sight of him. But then, he were probably used to it; what happened with Barbossa's crew was already the stuff of legend, though most people claimed not to believe more'n half of that, fine tale though it was. And you don't walk around Tortuga looking like that without drawing a lot of attention.

When I set the mug of rum on the table—what else would he order?—he took hold of my wrist. Didn't bother me; I'd been grabbed before and usually not by the wrist, either. His fingers was filthy with tar and dirt like any common deckhand, and he had an ugly ropeburn that wasn't quite healed. He weren't holding on tight at all; just wanted to get my attention.

"Jack Sparrow," he said, and for a confused moment,I thought, How drunk do you have to be to think you're Jack Sparrow? cause this man was as far from Captain Jack Sparrow as any man could be. Then he went on, "Has he been in recently?"

Even if I hadn't known, my ears would have told me that he were—or had been—a gentleman. No-one but quality talked so elegant. His voice was nice enough, smooth and deep, but it was almost as cold as his eyes. "He's not been around in a month or two," I answered, which were honest truth.

He narrowed his eyes at me. "I don't suppose you would tell me if you had seen him, would you?"

"I don't suppose I would," I admitted. "He's never done nothing to me that I'd want to see him dead, Commodore."

He flinched at that, and let go of me like I was on fire. Right away I felt bad for having said it; he wasn't a commodore now, the whole Caribbean knew it.

"This bloody town," he growled, almost too low for me to hear.

He didn't seem to expect no answer, so I took the coin he handed me, and went about my business. He didn't speak to me again, except that once he said "Thank you" when I brought more rum, which was passing odd.

~*~

Three or four days later, he came in again. I gave him a friendly hello just like I do everyone else; he looked startled and wary, then glared at me uncertainly. I didn't take it to heart; he probably weren't used to friendliness.

I caught a whiff of pig when I brought him rum, and thought, Well, that didn't take long, but it weren't too strong; maybe he'd just been thrown in the sty when he got too rowdy somewhere else.

I didn't pay him no mind unless he was needing more drink, so I don't even know what started the fight. But who needs a reason in Tortuga? I just heard a shout and a crash, and when I looked up, Norrington were punching Little Teague in the jaw. Of course Big Teague jumped in, and then Grandda yelled at me to hide behind the bar, cause once Big Teague's in it, there's nothing else you can do.

Once the dust had cleared, the Teagues was gone, Norrington were laid out cold in the corner, and people was just stepping over him. Well, they wasn't all just stepping—every now and then someone would fetch him a hard kick to the ribs or legs and Norrington wouldn't even move.

"Don't you do nothing," Da warned. "Just you let him lie there."

He was only saying that for show; he knows me better'n that. Maybe I still felt bad for calling him "commodore", but it made me mad to see them men acting like that when he wasn't even fighting back. So I shouted at the ones doing the kicking, and they backed off; Black Dave Donovan glared at me something fierce, but he's not so mean as he likes to think.

I went to make sure Norrington weren't dead or anything, and I seen he'd been knocked around pretty bad. I weren't surprised; it's not wise to anger Big Teague. I shook his shoulder and he sat up so fast I had to jump back to keep his head from hitting mine. "You all right?" I asked. A foolish question if ever there was one, but what else was I going to say?

He raised a hand to his head, wincing. "I have never been less 'all right'," he said harshly, closing his eyes.

"Well, your nose is bleeding but it don't look broke," I said, figuring he were rude cause his head hurt, "something to be grateful for. Here—" I held out the wet rag I had in my hand.

He looked at it like it were a dead rat, then looked at me, suspicious. "It's only water," I said, thinking maybe he were worried about why the rag was wet. "And you need to stop that bleeding."

Norrington gave a hard laugh. "Oh yes—it certainly wouldn't do to ruin my shirt," he said, more'n a little bitter.

"Sure it's too late for that," I said, pretending I didn't know he mocking me, "But those pigs don't like the smell of blood."

He looked at me again, but now he were more puzzled than suspicious, and I could see he had dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn't slept in days. Finally he took the rag, and held it to his nose.

"Best you get off the floor, now," I said. I made to put my arm round his waist to help him up, but he looked so horrified that I stopped, and just held out my hand. "Don't be daft," I said, sighing. "No-one gets up on their own after tangling with Big Teague."

Norrington were a stubborn one, that's for sure. He tried to stand up a couple of times and only made it halfway before falling heavily back to the ground. I could see it pained him to admit he couldn't get to his feet on his own, but I started to hold out my arm anyway so's I could heave him up. Then Grandda appeared and waved me aside impatiently. "He's twice your size, lass, and ye'll just end up flat on the boards."

I knew Da were watching; watching, and probably cursing as well –he thinks me foolish and soft-hearted to help anyone that I don't have to help. But Grandda's always been more tolerant of what he calls my "whims", and now he offered his hand to Norrington. Norrington took it, looking a little less mortified to get help from a man—but only a little. Grandda pulled him upright, neat as you please, then steadied him when Norrington drifted to port.

"He topples and you're mopping the floors tonight," Grandda informed me as he went back to the bar, but he winked at me and I knew he weren't serious.

As I walked Norrington back to the table—I only had to balance him twice—he watched me out of the corner of his eye as like I were a mermaid or banshee or something else unnatural. As he sat carefully back down in the chair, he blurted out, "How old are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?"

"Eighteen," I said, insulted; I may not have curves like Giselle, but I'll be damned if I look like a little girl. "Why does it matter?"

I seen a spark of anger in his eyes as he studied me, then he let his gaze drift around the tavern. When I realized what he were thinking, I couldn't help but laugh, which made him glare more frightening than anything Black Dave had ever managed. "I don't whore, if that's what you're getting at. Plenty of other places to get that, if you've a mind. Da and Grandda will kill any man who thinks otherwise—have killed, that is to say. Tilt your head back; you're bleeding all over."

He did as I said without even arguing, and I were getting ready to walk away when he said, "I will return this cloth to you when I have had it washed."

I considered teasing him, about him wanting to wash a tatty old rag when his coat were covered in mud and he smelled like the pig pen, but he didn't seem like a man who were used to being teased. So I just said, "No need to rush," and went back to my work.

~*~

Norrington brought the rag back two days later, so perfectly laundered that I wondered if it were even the same cloth. I noticed he hadn't bothered to wash his own clothing, or himself, even. I didn't use that cloth again for cleaning; it seemed a shame to dirty it up after he'd gone to all that trouble.

~*~

He showed up two or three times a week after that, usually well into the night, always already at least half-drunk, always asking after Jack Sparrow, lots of time sporting a black eye or busted up knuckles. He weren't fighting in our place, though I'd heard he'd got in plenty of scrapes in other taverns. All over town, people was making wagers on how long it would be before Norrington got killed, how it would happen, who'd be the one to do it. But I doubted anyone would be stupid enough to kill him before Jack Sparrow got his shot.

It wasn't just that everyone knew who he was; it was that the great fool drew attention to himself on purpose. Sometimes he'd ramble about pirates he'd hanged, ships he'd sunk, what a godforsaken shithole Tortuga were; sometimes he'd just insult anyone who walked by his corner table. Lots of times he strolled around town wearing that raggedy wig—the coat screamed "Navy" all by itself, but there's plenty of pirates with stolen Navy coats. He could have gotten away with the coat on its own, but sure he didn't seem to care one way or the other. He seemed like a man looking to get hit so's he could hit back. I didn't blame him—he'd been tossed around pretty hard, from what I heard, and I might want to punch everyone I met if that happened to me.

He didn't ever say nothing mean to me, though. He just ordered, said, "Thank you," and went to drinking like his life depended on it. I tried to talk to him a few times, just to pass the time—lots of the men like to tell me about all the places they've been and plunder they've taken –but it was pretty clear that Norrington were real uncomfortable talking to me, so eventually I just let him be. He probably weren't used to talking to tavern girls.

~*~

"Why in hell's name you got to be so goddamn nice to him?" Da asked me one night as we was closing up. "You know how hard he's made life for people round here? You know how many men he's hanged?"

I shrugged, and kept on scrubbing the tabletop so I didn't have to look at him. "He keeps his hands to himself, he don't try to buy what's not for sale or sweet-talk me into giving what's not offered, which is more'n I can say for most of the men who come in here. And he says thank you."

I could feel Da's eyes on me. He never did understand why sometimes I were nice to men other people thought was worthless. And he sure wouldn't understand why I were nice to Norrington; he probably thought I was sweet on the man. I might've been, if he'd taken the time to shave or dunk his head in the rainbarrel or if he didn't get so drunk he could barely find the door. But it's hard to be sweet on a man who don't take care of himself and who don't have nothing to do but be angry and drink and plot revenge.

Truth was, I felt sorry for him. I've heard many a man crying into his grog about how he don't have a friend in the world, but the next day, he'd be carousing and whoring with his pals all over town. Not Norrington, though. He always came in alone and left alone; I never heard him exchanging stories or jokes or even an idle word with anyone. I never even heard of him whoring, and Lord knows the whores wouldn't have been able to keep their mouths shut about that. From what I seen, he truly didn't have a friend in the world. What would that be like, to be stuck all alone in a town where where half the town wants you dead, and the other half would be happy to help you get that way?

"Katie does like her strays," Grandda said from across the room, and I couldn't argue with him. Every dog and cat in Tortuga knew where to come if it wanted a bowl of milk or scraps of meat or just a scratch behind the ears. I can't help it; I like to look after them that need it. Whores' children show up on the doorstep sometimes, when they get hungry enough and their mum's too drunk to remember to feed them. They know I'll give them what I can, and they don't steal from me nor throw dirt clods at me.

Da chuckled, which surprised me. He always yelled the loudest when I brought home another kitten. "Aye, that she does," he agreed. "And his coin's as good as anyone's, at least." He turned back to me. "You just watch yourself, girl. He may be minding his manners now, but he's not hit bottom yet, and I don't want you getting hurt when he does."

"All right, Da," I said. I didn't think that I'd be the one to get hurt when Norrington hit bottom, but I weren't fool enough to trust a man on edge like he was.

~*~

The next time he came in, Norrington got in a fight with that Gator Andy, who is as mean as he likes to think. You don't mess with them Florida men without real good reason. But I guess Norrington had learned a thing or two—or else he were more sober than usual—cause when he knocked Andy down, Andy stayed down, and the whole room went quiet. That was a little unsettling; tavern gets quiet around this town, someone's likely to die. But no-one did or even said anything, which should say something about how popular Gator Andy was.

I took him a bottle—he didn't order by the mug no more, most nights—and another wet rag. I saw him watching me as he drank and tended to his face, but he weren't leering like lots of the customers do; he was watching like he was trying to figure something out. Which I guess he was; didn't have to be too observant to notice that I weren't much worried about how Andy was feeling. As it was, Andy didn't come to for nearly a quarter-hour, and when he did, he needed two of his friends to help him out the door. Can't say I was sorry to see that man taken down; he'd grabbed me once too often and not playful, either. He was lucky Da or Grandda hadn't killed him by now.

The place was pretty near empty by the time we was ready to close, which was good, cause it's hard to get stragglers to leave when it's pouring down rain like it was. Norrington were either asleep or passed out on the table, and Da sent me over to wake him up and kick him out. He moved a little bit when I shook him by the shoulder, and he made a grumbly noise when I called him by name, but he didn't wake. I didn't want to call Da or Grandda for help this time—they'd only pick him up and toss him into the street to get his purse stolen or his throat slit.

The other night Norrington had gotten into an argument with Nick the Frank—been surprised that hadn't turned into an ugly brawl, the way they was insulting each other's countries and ships and mothers and names—and I remembered something he'd shouted somewheres in the middle of it all, something I hadn't known. So I touched the back of his hand and gently said, "James."

That did the trick; his eyes opened, all blood-shot and surprised and I swear, he were almost smiling. Almost, cause then I guess he remembered where he was and his face went cold again.

"We're closing up," I said, moving back a step.

He nodded, got to his feet, and swayed towards the door, clutching his hat in one hand. I followed him, so's I could bar it when he went out, but he stopped when he seen the weather. He stared at the rain for a minute, and then his shoulders sagged, his head dropped and he took a deep breath, like he were bracing himself.

"You got somewhere to go?" I've no idea why I even asked; it's not like he was one to say anything about what he did or where he was when he wasn't here.

He didn't turn around, just put his hat on and said, "I'm sure that I can manage to find some place suitable."

Of course he didn't have no place to go; beds cost money that's better spent on rum. That soft heart of mine got the better of my common sense, and I said, "We've... there's a storage shed out back. No bed, of course, but it'll keep the rain off and it's better'n the pigs."

Now Norrington did turn around, and the mistrustful, confused look in his eyes gave me a pain in the middle of my chest. I could practically see him thinking it over, struggling with his pride or whatever were left of it, or maybe he were just trying to decide if I were setting him up for an ambush. At any rate, I stayed quiet and let him think.

Finally he nodded once, and said, "I... would appreciate that", as if it hurt him to say.

Pleased that he weren't going to be bloody-minded and insist on sleeping in the sty when there was a nicer place for the having, I led him through the door that went to the shed. I pointed out the old sacks and things in there that he could bed down on, warned him that the cats sometime hid in here when it rained. Then I told him it'd be better if he left by the door that led to the outside, and bid him good-night.

I was nearly back inside the tavern when he said, "Miss," I turned. "I... don't believe I know your name."

"Kathleen," I said, "but most just call me Kate."

"Kathleen," he repeated thoughtfully. He seemed like he were going to say more, so I didn't leave, and sure enough, after a minute, he said, "Kathleen, why... " and then he stopped, like he were afraid of what answer I might give if he finished the question.

He must have been a lot drunker than I'd thought—he never asked questions nor gave answers. I knew what he meant, though. "You never hanged no one in my family," I said with a crooked smile. Those green eyes of his were right distracting when he looked at a girl like he were looking at me now, and not in a bad way, either. "And you never done nothing to me that I'd want to see you dead."

He just stared at me, clearly finding it hard to believe what I'd said. It was only the truth, even if it weren't all the truth. Though I'd never have told him—nor anyone else, for that matter—lots of them pirates he'd gotten rid of needed hanging. Few of them could or would sack Nassau without firing a shot; most was more likely to set fire to the town just cause they could. I'd never say it out loud, but it always comforted me to know that the Navy were out there protecting trade ships and other towns, even if there were no point in them trying to protect Tortuga.

"Thank you," he said finally, taking off his hat. He sounded sincere, not like he were saying it cause he had to; he also sounded completely exhausted. "I'll be gone as soon as I've rested a bit. I'm sure your father and grandfather would not be pleased to find me here."

I blushed at that; I hadn't wanted to tell him to leave as soon as he could, but he were right—Da and Grandda both would scold me something terrible if they knew I'd let Norrington sleep in the shed. Though all I said was, " They don't wake before noon most days."

I went back into the tavern, found a bit of bread and cheese and an apple, wrapped it all in a cloth—that cloth he washed for me, as it happened—and went quietly back to the shed. I did knock, but there were no answer; Norrington were already asleep or passed out, stretched out on his back with his hat over his face. I left the bundle within arm's reach so he'd see it when he woke up. I doubted he were spending much money on food, and drinking Tortuga rum without ever eating would take its toll on the heartiest of men.

~*~

After that, Norrington greeted me by name when he came in—"Miss Kathleen", if you can imagine, with a nod, like I was a proper miss instead of just another Tortuga tavern girl. From any other man, I'd think it cheekiness, but from him, it sounded natural. He were still never of a mind to talk at all, though. And when he came in here, it seemed like he were quieter and once or twice he even looked relaxed. He didn't look for trouble as much as he did before—well, not in here. Gossip told me he were still provoking people in other taverns all over town. Once when I gave him a hello like I always did, he sort of half-smiled, not so much with his face as with his eyes. Just like that, I realized that if he did that more often, I would be sweet on him.

Lucky for me, he didn't do it again. In fact, each time he came in he looked worse—he got thinner, his face were more and more grim, his voice got rougher, and his eyes got colder, though he was still polite as could be to me. And the less said the state of his clothes and hair and beard, the better. It bothered me, but of course there were nothing I could do but try to smile and be cheerful to him.

"Don't fret yourself over him," Grandda said to me one night when he noticed I was feeling down. "If that Norrington wants to drink himself to death or get himself killed in a fight, no-one's gonna be able stop him. Men aren't kittens ye can save from drowning, lass."

"I know," I said. "Just don't like to see a man give up, is all." I did know, sure as I knew that I always got a little glum if I thought too much about all those wandering men who drifted in and out of town. I admit maybe Tortuga's not a place for someone soft-hearted like me, but where else would I go?

Grandda gave me a little hug round the shoulders. "And don't you let that mutton-headed son o' mine get to ye, either. You wouldn't be our Katie if ye stopped looking after them poor creatures that are down on their luck."

~*~

Then one night not long ago, the Black Pearl docked, and I knew that was it. I couldn't quite believe it when I heard that Norrington signed on as crew, but he's not come around again since the Pearl sailed, and his body hasn't turned up, so I guess it was true. If it was any other ship, I'd be glad to hear that he'd decided to ease up on the drinking and go to working, but it isn't any other ship.

Well, if he kills Sparrow or Sparrow kills him, the news'll spread soon enough, and if he doesn't get killed, the wind will blow back him into Tortuga. It brings everyone back eventually.

Sometimes I wonder how Norrington's getting along, and maybe I'll find out one day. Like as not, though, I won't be seeing him again.

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