Between Wind and Water

Chapter 5:
In which James makes merry, against his will

by

Rex Luscus

He searched the anchorage for Ogle's flag and found it aboard the the Russell. Dauntless and Prince Frederick saluted the Admirals, and an hour later, Vernon's new flag, the Princess Caroline, signaled for James to come aboard.

"There you are." Vernon sat in his stateroom with Commodore Lestock and Rear-Admiral Ogle, both of whom James had served under before. They nodded to him, Ogle with some warmth and Lestock with naked malice. "So that was what you had to sneak off for." Vernon pushed out a chair with his foot. "Of course, that's the last time I let you use private intelligence like that. It's disloyal, frankly."

James stiffened and sat. "With respect, sir, you gave me your approval."

"And I'm telling you I won't do it again. By the way, prepare yourself for another disappointment: I'm taking away your flag."

James nodded. He'd been expecting this.

"Sorry to do it, but Commodore Lestock here is a good deal senior to you."

James glanced at Lestock, who wore a look of thin triumph. He was the oldest of them, a seedy, nervous man. "Whatever you think best, sir."

"You can keep the Dauntless. I'm giving Gillette the Shoreham. It's only a frigate, but I'm sure he'll be happy enough not to have you breathing down his neck."

"Er, thank you, sir."

"Any preferences for first lieutenants? Gillette wanted to take Groves with him, but I said it was up to you."

So Gillette had known that James had lost his broad pendant before he did. "Gillette may take him. I'll have Arthur Forrest out of the Shoreham, then."

"He's all yours. Good officer, Forrest. I've half a mind to steal him for myself, but I leave the staffing up to Watson. Well, now—" Vernon smiled patronizingly. "Won't it be nice to worry about nothing but stores and muster-books again?"

James glanced back at the two other men, who were watching him closely. "I wish to serve in whatever capacity best suits His Majesty," he said frostily.

"Of course you do." Vernon smirked. "Don't pretend you're not ambitious, Norrington. Let a bit of your baser nature out from time to time, eh? Otherwise, men might think your blood's thin. Or governors' daughters, more to the point." All three of them laughed.

Looking back, James was sure this was the moment he really began to hate the man.

The seating at dinner alternated blue and red uniforms between the ladies. James and Miss Claringbold sat halfway down the table between Elizabeth and the nobodies at the center, where Gillette chatted merrily with a major's wife. James's life had been a painstaking march up the table order from that dreary center—but Gillette didn't seem to mind where he was, and if Elizabeth hadn't been the hostess, she'd have been there too, thanks to her low marriage. A seat was no index to happiness. Turner wasn't at the table, perhaps by mutual agreement, which made James vaguely sad. No matter how much he disliked Turner, James felt more kinship with Elizabeth than he did with these Army gentlemen. They were the men who'd been happy to credit his father with the victory at Gibraltar, but would never have invited the old man to dinner.

"To His Majesty, King George of England!" bellowed Vernon in a voice that seemed to come up from the earth.

"To the King!" Fifty glasses lifted to fifty pairs of lips.

Miss Claringbold winced when her glass clattered against her plate. James smiled. She really was quite sweet. He wished he could think of a damn thing to say to her. The woman to his right was Captain Newton's wife, who he was certain actively disliked him. That Miss Claringbold was glancing toward Gillette between bites just depressed him, not because he wanted her for himself, but because any rejection of his company stung. He wracked his brain for things a lady might be interested in. "Did you know," he found himself saying, "that many captains in the Navy bring their wives aboard their ships?"

This interested her more than he'd anticipated. "How marvelous!" she said, then giggled behind her hand and added, "I mean, how beastly. What if there were a battle?"

"I do not countenance it myself," he said, turning back to his food, "for that very reason."

"Oh." She drooped, then rallied. "Perhaps if you marry, you'll change your mind." It would have sounded flirtatious if she hadn't aimed another look at Gillette right then.

"Perhaps," he said weakly, and the conversation died again.

Vernon, who was seated to the right of a morose-looking Elizabeth, stood again and raised his glass. "To our good friends in the Army," he brayed, "who have come at such a prime moment, and to the dear memory of Lord Cathcart, may he find his rest."

"To the Army and Lord Cathcart!" The level of wine dropped another half-inch in fifty glasses.

To everyone's regret, Vernon did not sit. "And to my most worthy colleague General Wentworth, may the burden of command not lie too heavily upon his shoulders."

"To General Wentworth!"

As Vernon sat, Wentworth went up, like a stop on an organ. He was a round-faced man with a thin mouth that twitched at the corners. "I in turn would like to toast my esteemed colleague Admiral Vernon, who has been so gracious to me in the first days of my command..."

A man's hatred for another was never more apparent than when he was complimenting him. James looked away from the gruesome spectacle of disingenuous flattery and passed Miss Claringbold the gravy. Soon Brigadier Guise was on his feet, toasting Governor Swann and Elizabeth. Miss Claringbold looked drowsy and flushed, and James wondered how he might limit her drink without insulting her. If the toasts went on much longer, she'd be face down in her meat.

Finally the plum tarts appeared, and as soon as she could, Elizabeth signaled the ladies to withdraw. James bid his two seating companions goodbye, receiving a sweet smile from Miss Claringbold and a sniff from Mrs. Newton, and once they were gone, he poured himself a generous glass of port. Normally he despised men who drank too much, but he needed some kind of defense against the bluster and back-slapping that was about to take place.

Snuff boxes came out and the room filled with the sounds of vigorous snorting. Vernon made several more toasts to each of the principle Army officers, who in turn toasted Vernon, Ogle, Lestock, and the handful of captains they'd slapped on the back since arriving in port. Then the conversation shifted abruptly to business.

"As you know," said Vernon, "the Marquis d'Antin is somewhere out there to windward with nineteen ships, joined perhaps by Roche-Allard with his twelve and Roquefeuil with four. So as much as we may want to strike a blow against the Dons, we must protect Jamaica first..."

James was growing drowsy. His eyes wandered away from Vernon and toward the Army officers. Their faces varied from flushed to blank, none of them quite knowing what to make of Vernon. Wentworth was hunched, as though dreading the blow of another compliment. Only Guise was also looking around the room, and for an uncomfortable moment, their eyes met. Then Guise looked away with a wrinkle of his pointed nose. There was no sense forgetting that if it hadn't been for his commission, James wouldn't be allowed in the same room with most of these men. As far as many of them were concerned, the Navy was just short of republicanism. James stifled a yawn and tried to focus on the strategizing going on at the head of the table.

"Snuff, old man?" Beauclerk held out an enamel-painted snuff box toward James. He took some, sneezed, and a restorative wave of nausea brought him further awake. Then he got a look at the snuff box. It was painted with nymphs and satyrs, who were—

Beauclerk grinned. "Catherine gave it to me. See?"

James squinted at the inscription, which read, To keep you company, darling Beauclerk, when I cannot be there to do the job.

James rolled his eyes and handed the box back.

"We cannot even think of the riches of Havana or Cartagena until we've rid the Caribbean of the French fleet," the man was saying. The other Navy gents were nodding while the Army looked blank. From what Jack had gathered round the taverns, they'd lost their General recently and didn't have much faith in the new one.

"Our priority must be to protect Jamaica from invasion," a ruddy little man was saying now—the new General, he had to be. "Thus, as the Admiral advises, we must proceed to Port Louis before anything else can be done, where our latest intelligence places d'Antin..."

Jack sat under the window and drew his knees to his chest. There was no telling how long he'd have to wait if the English went off to chase Frenchmen. He saw his ship disappearing as surely as though Barbossa were at the wheel. He had seen d'Antin's squadron with his own eyes, starved and diseased, dejectedly filling their water casks for the trip back to France, but—he heard Norrington's voice clearly in his head—he had no proof. He had no way to turn his worthless testimony into something a pack of admirals and generals would believe. No material evidence, nothing he could hold in his hand—

His fingers curled round a bag on his belt, which clinked. He yanked it free and poured its contents into his palm. Three knuckle bones, a Vodou fetish, and two signet rings—one of which he'd stolen from the hand of Don Francisco Martinez de Retez. God knew where Portobello's erstwhile governor was now, but whatever his present status, his remarks about the French fleet would have more weight than Jack's.

Creeping below the level of the windows, Jack went off to find a supply of foolscap and sealing wax.

James unfolded the note, folded it back up, and excused himself. He needed to have a word with his new first lieutenant about the liberal use of the word "emergency." As he stepped from the drive onto the road, the bushes rustled and said, "Psst! Gov'nor!"

He groaned. "I should have known," he said, and hurried into the cover of the bushes. "Sparrow, do you realize how incredibly dangerous—"

"Yes, I do, which is why we'll make this quick." Sparrow rummaged in his coat. "I've got a letter for you that Admiral Vernon'll be pleased to see."

James took the sealed letter. "You've read it?"

"It's no great trick—all you do is heat a knife. But no time for trade secrets. Long story short: the French are history. D'Antin's ships are barely sailable for all the disease amongst his men, and Port Louis doesn't have enough provisions for them. They'll leave for Brest in a week or two."

James turned the letter over greedily in his hands. "It's all here? Ample proof?"

"That's the seal of the old governor of Portobello," Sparrow said proudly. "If the Admiral won't believe him, there's not much more I can do."

"Excellent." James tucked the letter into his coat. "Well done, Sparrow. Now get out of here before you're noticed by one of the hundreds of military personnel stacked on top of each other in this town."

Instead of returning to the party, James walked around for a while longer in the mild Caribbean evening, clearing his head. Sometime since last November, he and Sparrow had come to trust each other, and he felt a kind of pleasure at it, though he wasn't sure why. Their partnership—friendship?—was pure in an upside-down way. Sparrow was in irredeemable reprobate; ergo, James could say anything to him. For once, he didn't scoff at the freedom criminals possessed.

When he returned, the mansion was overflowing with guests for the after-dinner ball, and the way into the house was through a wall of laughter, talk, perfume and sweat. Distracted, he handed over his card at the door, then jumped when the servant brayed, "Captain James Norrington!" into the throng. Dozens of eyes fell on him for a moment, indifferent and bovine, before turning away. Sliding his hand over his coat until he heard the crinkle of paper, he strolled inside, safe in his obscurity, and followed the music.

Inside the dim, humid ballroom, the minuet had just begun, and the floor had cleared for two dancers. His breath caught at the sight of Elizabeth, flushed and glowing in yellow silk damask, her smile plastered on as she opened the ball with Admiral Vernon. She danced well because she did everything well, but James was certain she'd rather have been caulking seams at the wharf. To think their marriage might have been like this—demi-coupé, pas de bourree, pas grave, repeat. Sullen and precise.

On the edge of the floor, James spotted Ogle, who was watching Elizabeth and Vernon with profound confusion. James stepped quickly over to him. "Sir, excuse me, but—"

"Is that Elizabeth Swann?" Ogle scowled.

"She was," said James with a sigh.

"Ah, yes. Now I recall." Ogle turned a look of blatant pity on him. "Very bad business."

"Yes, well, the Turners are happy." James cleared his throat. "Sir, my intelligence agent has intercepted a letter you and Admiral Vernon ought to see immediately."

Ogle took the letter. "Interesting. It's about the French?" James nodded. "Good; well done. Now run along, Norrington—go find that pretty girl you were seated with at dinner."

The minuet was nearing its end. James scanned the crowd for Miss Claringbold's green taffeta and spotted her near the door, wringing her hands. She looked up with wide eyes as he approached.

"Would you do me the honor of the next dance?" he asked with a bow, suddenly nervous.

"Er—" She glanced around. "I—"

Anxious to deflect the approaching rejection, James said, "If you have committed yourself already, it's quite all—"

"No." She smiled bravely. "I would be delighted to dance with you, Captain Norrington."

Once their dance had ended, James saw Gillette cross the room toward her, and puzzled at his stab of jealousy. He didn't even care for the girl. He barely knew her. Then again, neither did Gillette, but love was prescient like that, striking before one had a chance to find out who one loved.

As he was leaving the dance floor, Elizabeth appeared out of the crowd—another woman who was happy to entertain him as long as he wasn't a romantic threat.

"I have been listening," she said, taking his arm and walking with him. "I've been your spy, you might say."

"Oh?" His hand drifted to his now-empty breast pocket. "A dishonest profession, spying, even when good comes of it."

"Nevertheless, I've kept my ears open for any mention of you."

He crooked a brow. "Do you have some reason to fear for my safety?"

"No, I just don't like Admiral Vernon."

"Elizabeth, lower your voice." James stepped into her. "I appreciate your concern, but frankness is not always—"

"Relax, nobody can hear a thing. Father presented Will and me to the Admirals before dinner, and Admiral Ogle looked right through me. He didn't recognize me at all!"

"That is because he failed to connect the poised and beautiful young woman with the little girl who used to climb to the parapet walk and throw pebbles at the Marines."

"Oh, stop. I am not poised. James—" She pulled away, and her eyes were suddenly full of mischief. "I have something to show you, if you promise not to be angry."

"Oh, dear." He stared at her outstretched hand. "Will I regret this?"

She smiled. "You must promise not to give me a lecture. Promise?"

He took her fingers carefully in his big hand. "Very well."

They pushed through the crowd to the end of the hall, past the chattering spillover from the ballroom and down a side passage where the servants came and went. Elizabeth put her finger to her lips and crept over to a door, dragging him along. Inside was a small library, where James recalled waiting once or twice when he'd been her suitor, sitting stiffly and rubbing at the scuffs on his shoes while she girded her loins for their long, silent walks. No such memories seemed to encumber her as she tiptoed to a bookcase and shifted aside a dusty set of William Fulbecke's legal treatises to admit the sound of voices through a hole in the panel.

First Vernon's voice, then Ogle's drifted into the room. "Elizabeth!" James mouthed furiously, and darted forward to move Mr. Fulbecke back into place, but Elizabeth stopped him, setting her mouth with little-girl stubbornness. Now he was trapped; he couldn't argue with her as long as the Admirals were a few feet away.

In such a state of surrender, the only thing he could do was listen. They bent their heads toward the hole.

"...can do nothing, as long as the French..." Vernon spoke quickly, tensely.

"...but with Torres gone to Havana, now would be the time to act—"

"—if we knew for sure the French would not come to his rescue..."

He glanced at Elizabeth's puzzled face, then made his move, dragging her from the room by her wrist before she could protest. He hated using his strength against a woman, but Elizabeth was a special case.

Out in the passage, she pulled out of his grasp. "I'd hoped they'd be talking about something less dull," she said crossly. "You, for instance."

He hurried her back toward the hall. "Those were state secrets, Elizabeth!"

"Since when does two old men gossiping constitute a state secret?"

"Promise me you won't do that again."

She thrust out her chin coolly. "I shall promise nothing of the sort." She folded her arms. "I was hoping to hear them praise you. They were doing it earlier."

They'd merged back into the crowd. "It's more likely that they'd discuss how I let a pirate escape."

"James, can I tell you something you're not going to want to hear?" She gazed at him intently. "Nobody cares that Jack escaped except you."

For the second time, he considered telling her. Turner benefited from Sparrow's reflected glow; why not him?

No. He recovered and said, "Why do I have the suspicion that you are sneaking around bookcases because you're avoiding your guests?"

"Perhaps because you know me."

"Your father will be missing you."

"Last I saw him, he was dancing with Mrs. Daintree and was oblivious to anything else."

"Which reminds me, where is your own husband?"

"Here." Will Turner's bright, unwelcome face appeared through the crowd. "Elizabeth, I listened to General Wentworth and Brigadier Guise for twenty minutes and they didn't say anything remotely interesting."

James put his head in his hand. Evidently no one at this party was there to enjoy themselves; the Army and Navy were plotting, the hosts were spying and scheming, and James was wishing he were elsewhere. "Excuse me," he said, "but I believe I need some air." The Turners let him go.

"...Lezo couldn't stand a moment against us at Cartagena..."

"...makes just as much sense to attack Torres at Havana..."

"But the French, still can't be sure the French are too weak to fight..."

"...must move as soon as possible... d'Antin is still out there..."

Jack squeezed his fists in frustration. He had done all he could to convince them the French were gone short of producing the Marquis d'Antin himself. For the first time, he felt helpless. Norrington couldn't do anything. Jack needed a better ally in the Royal Navy. This one they called Lord Aubrey Beauclerk—now he would have been a good ally. Jack had been listening to conversations all night, and the admirals and generals had kissed this Beauclerk fellow's arse several times already. It was funny how the quality of information changed depending on who it came from. If Jack could get that chap clamoring for an attack on Havana, he might be somewhere.

He crept out into the passage and along the servants' hallway until he was nearly back in the big reception hall. Leaning against a pillar, he said in a voice pitched deep: "I hear the French have sailed for France with their tails between their legs."

The conversation nearby paused. Jack shrank into his column, staying out of sight. "And Havana's ripe for it!" he added in a higher voice.

After a moment, the nearby talk started up again. Jack slumped. It was no use; he was out of ideas.

A familiar face appeared in the crowd. It was barely there before disappearing again; as usual, the Commodore was in a hurry. Jack watched his back recede in the direction of the garden, and for a moment, he forgot his ship as he contemplated the spectacle of the Commodore in his natural habitat. Darting toward the servants' hallway, he followed.

Not far off, a group of young men were drinking and singing, interrupting each verse with guffaws and cheers. James watched them with vague amusement until he heard his name. Instantly his ears sharpened. It was a bawdy verse, full of innuendo he couldn't quite make out through the drink and the distance, but he could tell his co-star was a girl of indeterminate identity. Half out of anger and half out of curiosity, he wandered over toward the young men, slowly, to see at what point they'd notice him.

The first one to turn and see him was Mr. Claringbold. James saw the moment the greatness of his blunder dawned on him; his clay-red flush drained away and his mouth fell open. "Captain Norrington," he blurted, to alert his friends who hadn't recognized James. "Care to—join us in a drink?"

The other men knew exactly who James was, because poor Mr. Claringbold was suddenly alone. James smiled, molars grinding. "That song you were singing," he said. "Sing it for me again, would you?"

"I know what you're thinking," said Claringbold in a rush, "and it's not about you, I swear—it's just about any man who—all right, it's about a man who—"

"Then there's no reason not to sing it for me, is there?" James clasped his hands behind his back and bared his teeth in another lupine smile.

The boy nodded and wiped his sweating forehead, then began in a shrill wheeze: "He's rich and he's handsome as he can be, but the lass must know something we can't see, with a hey nonny, hey nonny—"

"Skip that."

"Right." Another cough and a cleared throat. "He's six feet tall and he's two feet wide, but he's still too short for his would-be bride... " Another round of hey nonnies came and went, and James wondered what he had done to deserve this. The boy had hit his stride was now belting out, "The world makes way for power and money, but neither mean much to a lusty maid's—"

"Enough!" Personal pride be damned, those was Elizabeth's—particulars—they were talking about. "Mr. Claringbold," said James, "can I ask you something?" The boy nodded, swallowing. "Which son are you? Third? Fourth?"

"Third, sir."

James narrowed his eyes. "And your sister—she's the last unmarried one, isn't she?"

"Well, I—I'm not sure how that's any of your—"

"Let me give you a word of advice, Mr. Claringbold." James drew very close. "If you consider a man to be your meal ticket, singing insulting songs about him within his earshot is not the most intelligent way to proceed." The boy nodded again, his blood-shot eyes nearly spilling over. "And by the way, if it's money you want, you'd best stop sniffing around Gillette—his post date's fresh and he won't be an admiral for a good long while. Now go dunk your head and sober up before you do yourself serious harm."

James watched the young man hurry inside, head down, barely noticing as he pushed past Gillette. "Everything all right, sir?" asked Gillette.

"I believe I'm a laughingstock," said James, with wonder.

"Nonsense." Gillette chuckled. "This town worships you."

"That's laying it on a bit thick." James smiled nevertheless.

"Sir—" Gillette looked at his shoes, "—I was meaning to ask you—that is—"

"You were wondering whether I'd mind if you called on Miss Claringbold," James supplied.

"Well—yes. Oh dear, it's not that obvious, is it?"

"You're welcome to pay her as much attention as you like," said James. "As long as you don't make up any songs about it."

"Beg your pardon, sir?"

"Never mind." James sighed. "Go dance with her."

Gillette grinned. "We've already danced together twice. Any more and people will talk."

"At least they won't sing," James muttered.

"Sir—" Gillette leaned forward, "—are you sure everything's all right?"

James was about to reply when a hand clapped on Gillette's shoulder and then patted him vigorously. "Captain Gillette!" said Beauclerk. "Looking good, my dear fellow."

"Er—as are you, Lord Aubrey." Gillette accepted a handshake. Sensing a dismissal, he excused himself and dashed inside.

"You," smiled Beauclerk, "look like you could use a drink."

"Heavens, yes." James craned his neck. "Do you have one?"

"We'll have to go inside, I'm afraid." Beauclerk linked their arms. "How are you holding up?"

"Thank God there are so few women here," said James. "Otherwise I might have to ask one of them to dance."

"You love dancing!"

"I do?" James shrugged. "I suppose I once did."

"Norry, I can't believe this." Beauclerk stopped. "You're melancholy! Is one wayward woman all it takes to bring you this low?"

"I am not melancholy," James huffed.

"Come on, you've got to get back on the horse." They began walking again. "Lord knows I used to be cynical about marriage—just look at my family—but I've come to realize there's someone for everyone. Here, you remember old Fitzy from the Lyme?"

"Fitzgerald?" James narrowed his eyes. "Whom I believe we used to call Goat-Face Fitzgerald?"

"That's the one! If he can find a wife, you certainly can. Just look at you! What woman wouldn't—"

"Enough." James held up a hand. "Love is a pleasant subject to those who are in it, but not as much for the rest of us."

"Sorry, old boy." Beauclerk drooped. "I just hate seeing you so down in the jib."

"Talking about it certainly won't help."

"But if we don't talk about that, we'll have to talk about the war, and then we'll be as dull as everyone else!"

James laughed. "Now that you mention it, war is even duller a subject than love, isn't it?"

"So what about this Miss Claringbold?" Beauclerk winked. "I didn't see her getting up and running from you."

"You must not have been looking too closely, then," James grumbled, "or you'd have seen she couldn't take her eyes off Gillette."

Beauclerk clucked his tongue. "It's difficult to find a wife in the tropics," he sighed. "Which is why you must come back to England with me. I have just the girl for you there—" He paused and stretched out his arms: "Lord Bexbury's daughter."

James scowled. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Why not?" Beauclerk linked their arms again. "Catherine and I saw her recently and she's beautiful. She's charming and gracious and she's got an old swashbuckling soul, which I know you like. Oh, and she's utterly tone-deaf—she can't tell a horn from a harpsichord. See? Perfect for you!"

James laughed. "Isn't my wife supposed to complement me? To excel where I am weak and vice versa?"

"I would have said so once," said Beauclerk, "but I tell you, there is nothing worse than being outdone by your wife. Better to hold all the cards and save yourself the humiliation."

"I wonder," said James, "if there is such a thing as real companionship."

"Of course! You know whatever I say about Catherine that we're inseparable. You deserve the same."

James smiled weakly. It was hard to explain without sounding maudlin that whenever he looked for companionship, he always found the spot occupied. Even Sparrow loved his ship too much to have time for anyone else.

"Norrington!"

Still wondering what "Sparrow" and "companionship" were doing in the same thought, James turned toward Vernon's voice. As usual, Ogle was with him. "Lord Aubrey, would you excuse us?" said Vernon, and Beauclerk saluted and drew away. "With us, Norrington." The Admiral jerked his head, and the three of them went back down the passage toward the parlor.

"You may as well be the first to know," Vernon said as soon as they'd shut the door. He poured three glasses of port from the decanter that had taken up residence since the parlor had become a staff room, and passed the glasses around. "The fleet sails as soon as we can take the stores and troops on board. I'd make you captain of the fleet, but I need you on the Dauntless, so as of now, you're my adjutant. Sir Chaloner and I will be busy with the damned Army, so it's up to you to get this squadron ready to sail in ten days."

"Our destination, sir?"

"We must first chase d'Antin away before we can do a thing. I'd rather keep this information close, but since you rarely speak to another living soul anyway, you might as well know: it's to be Cartagena."

So that was Beauclerk. This was Jack's first good look at him, and while the Commodore was as gorgeous as a prize rooster on market day, Beauclerk was beautiful. He was slightly shorter, with eyes of a brilliant blue one didn't often see in nature, and a smile that waxed and waned but never died. What an odd companion for the gloomy Commodore. But Norrington was smiling, too—good God, he was laughing. That smile was heart-stopping when it wasn't fake. Jack watched, awed.

"...Don't be ridiculous."

"Why not? Catherine and I saw her recently and she's beautiful..."

Beauclerk must not have noticed the ardent focus on his friend's face, or he wouldn't have been talking about women. Or maybe he had noticed and that was the point. Either way, here was another comical installment in Norrington's farce of a love life. Heaven help the man or maid who drew the amorous longings of that impossible man. Of course, the less logical, more carnal part of Jack didn't care how impossible he was—and here was proof that he fancied his own sex.

Next to Beauclerk's beauty, all of Norrington's imperfections stood out—the weak chin, the crooked tooth, the eyes too close together—and still Jack looked at him. There was something deeply silly about Norrington, but also something sweet. He was as vain as a fifty-shilling whore, yet utterly blind to his own value.

Vernon and Ogle appeared and dragged Norrington away. Radiant young Beauclerk faded back into the crowd and Jack didn't miss him; he had eyes only for Norrington. Sticking to the shadows, he ran after the Admirals, scurrying into the library and taking up his position at the bookcase.

James swallowed. "Sir, if I might make a suggestion, the passage out there leads to the kitchen—" he pointed to the wall opposite Cicero, "—and the servants are occasionally impertinent."

"It's nearly time for supper anyway," said Vernon. "Come along, Sir Chaloner, let us mingle with the fine people of Port Royal. Norrington, find a girl to dance with—that's an order. And get rid of these—" He shoved two glasses of port into James's hands, and swept out the door.

James waited till the Admirals had disappeared down the corridor before darting into the library and shutting the door. "Elizabeth," he hissed, "did you not hear me say you could get into serious—"

Jack Sparrow spun around from where he'd had his ear to the wall. "Do something!" he cried.

James gaped. Recovering, he hissed, "You must get out of here this very instant! And what do you mean, 'do something'?"

"You were supposed to go to Havana, not Cartagena!"

"I can't make the Admiral's decisions for him! And did I mention you're endangering us both by being here right now?"

Sparrow indicated the three glasses in James's hands. "Rough night, eh?"

"It wasn't, until you—"

There was a knock at the door.

James aimed a kick at Sparrow's arse as the pirate dove into the kneehole of the heavy oak desk. He pulled himself together and took a deep breath. "Enter," he said, somewhat too high.

The door creaked open and Elizabeth slipped inside. "And you gave me a hard time for it," she scolded.

"I was not—I mean, I am not here because—" James sighed. "Is supper served?"

"It is. But I shan't let you out of here unless you tell me what you were doing."

"Elizabeth, I'm really not in the mood—"

"And what on Earth are you doing with all that port?"

"I was just about to—"

There was a cough.

Her eyes went to the wall, and James breathed out. She thought the sound had been in the other room. He tried not to look at the desk.

"There's no shame in a bit of adventure, you know," she said, coming closer. "Every now and then, you should take a page from the book of—"

"If you say 'Jack Sparrow'," James snarled, "so help me God—"

"Captain!" came a muffled cry, followed by a thud and a curse. Elizabeth's eyes grew round as Sparrow crawled out from under the desk, rubbing his head. "Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Jack!" she cried with delight. Then she put her hand to her mouth in horror. "James—" she looked to him frantically, "—oh, please don't—"

Helpless, James let his face speak for him.

It still took Elizabeth a few moments to figure it out. Several things passed over her face, too quick to identify. Finally she smirked. "James Norrington, I'm surprised at you." She turned to Jack. "I thought you turned down that letter!"

"I did," said Sparrow, ignoring James's shaking head, "but then the Commodore did me a good turn. Funny how things work out."

"This is—" She pressed her temple. "This is beyond bizarre. I don't know whether to laugh or cry."

"You could forget," said James. "Or first, you could help me get Sparrow out of here, and then forget."

Elizabeth glanced around, as if a solution might come to hand, but the room had no windows. "Perhaps if we dressed him up as a servant—"

There was another knock at the door.

The three of them stared at each other in horror. Sparrow dove for the kneehole again, and Elizabeth cracked open the door. In came Beauclerk.

"You're lucky it's just me," he said. "What are you two doing shut up together like this? Mrs. Turner, your father is desperate to find you."

Elizabeth folded her arms. "Captain Norrington and I were just talking."

"Of course." Beauclerk's eyes crinkled with mirth. "Well, then?" He looked from one of them to the other. "The meat's already cold, but it'll soon be gone too. Shall we?"

James looked out into the passage. It was crowded with people on their way to supper, and the outer rooms were filled with servants cleaning up. Sparrow was trapped either way. James glanced helplessly at Elizabeth.

It occurred to him that the three most important people in his life were in that room: his idol and dearest friend; the woman he was trying fall out of love with; and—Sparrow. James had no idea what Sparrow meant to him.

Beauclerk was tapping his foot. Elizabeth gave James a conspiratorial look and came over to his side. "Very well," she said, and tugged his arm so that all three glasses of port toppled to the carpet.

James stared at the spreading stain and tried not to smile as he realized what she'd done.

"Oh, what a clumsy oaf I am!" she shrieked. "Lord Aubrey, do you think you could fetch a footman? This carpet is priceless and it must be taken out and cleaned this very instant." She batted her eyes. "Please?"

James was overwhelmed by a wave of love, horror, and pride.

Beauclerk nodded, puzzled, and stepped out the door. "Jack!" Elizabeth whispered. "Get over here!"

When Beauclerk returned with the footman, they found a rolled up carpet with a barely noticeable bulge in the middle. "I'll assist," said James, beating Beauclerk to the far end. It would be hard to explain why the thing was so heavy. "Aubrey, you'll take Mrs. Turner down to supper, won't you?"

Elizabeth gave him a radiant smile as he struggled with the footman to lift the unnaturally heavy carpet. He steered them out the front door, and once they'd set the carpet down on the front step, he sent the man inside for the housekeeper. As soon as they were alone, he shook out the carpet and sent Sparrow sprawling on the ground.

"Now get out of here!" he snapped.

"All right, all right. Don't have to tell me twice." Sparrow brushed himself off and melted into the bushes.

Inside, James found Elizabeth. "I don't want to talk about it," he said. "Not yet, at least. And not here."

"Very well." She gave him a secret smile.

Before he left, James stepped onto the veranda to try again for a moment of peace, and discovered Turner sitting on the stone balustrade, smoking a clay pipe.

Turner hopped down. "Commodore—"

"It's back to 'Captain', now, actually." James leaned on the balustrade. "'Commodore' is a post, not a rank."

"Oh, right. I keep forgetting." Turner got back up onto his seat. "I just think of you—you seem so—"

"Yes, yes." He sighed. "I'll choose the more flattering version of whatever you were trying to say."

They stood quietly for a minute.

"I didn't see you mingling with your guests," said James, rather unkindly.

Turner shook his head. "They're hardly my guests. I excused myself from dinner because Elizabeth didn't know where to put me in the seating chart."

"I half suspected." James smirked. "Having regrets?"

"You will never catch me complaining, Commodore, but it's trying at times."

James didn't correct him this time. "Yes, it's terribly trying, marrying a beautiful, vivacious woman who raises your station, increases your material comfort and admits you to society—"

Turner sighed. "Commodore, you grew up in this society, so it's all perfectly natural to you. Try to imagine what it's like for a man who's spent his life working with his hands, drinking in taverns and sleeping in hay lofts. You should hear the songs they sing, about my filthy blacksmith's hands touching—"

"Songs?" James blinked. "They sing songs about you?"

"What, you want to hear one?"

"No, thank you. It's just—" James laughed. "I thought I was the one they sang songs about."

"Bawdy tunes insulting the manhood of anybody with the nerve to fall in love are an equal opportunity affair, I think."

It was the first time Turner had acknowledged that they were rivals for Elizabeth's love, not just her hand. James found himself strangely comforted. At least one person didn't think he was heartless. "I won't tell you to ignore the talk," he said, "or that it can't harm you if you don't let it. It can. Just try to remember why you're putting up with it."

"As though I could ever forget it." Turner got a sickening look on his face, and their tender moment was over. James could only be so charitable to a man who had what he wanted.

Walking back toward his house, James looked out to sea. Turner might technically be the pirate, but Elizabeth was the restless one. James had once been like her—addicted to the lift of the deck under his feet as the wind freshened, sails spreading tight like drumheads, sheets and tacks snapping taut. As a boy, he'd stood in the forechains and watched with belly fluttering as the feather of spray at the bow renewed itself mile after mile. As he grew older, he began to see monotony where he'd seen beauty. The sea was nothing but a void, a pregnant vacuum into which they poured their dreams, a desert of wet and weed. It was a promise of freedom that always disappointed. Of course, by then it had trapped him just as Elizabeth had, in a love that could never be returned.

James stopped and looked out over the harbor bathed in moonlight. A man sacrificed all hope of belonging in the world when he went to sea, wandering the Earth without rest like the Jew who taunted Christ. The sailor who married was even worse off, leaving his heart on land, never truly home. James wasn't even married, and still his heart felt separate, lost somewhere in those thousands of miles of wake. Perhaps it would end one day—but something told him that love, should he ever find any, would only make it worse.

Sparrow seemed immune. He ran away from the very things James wanted—love, loyalty, a place to return to. All the man wanted was his ship. He wasn't loyal to James, certainly. It had been silly to let loyalty enter into it; they were using each other, quite simply. Yet always, James's nature resisted. Always, he longed for friendship—even Sparrow's.

Outside the mansion, crouching in the sweet stinking bower of a hibiscus bush, he took out his compass. Havana was northwest-half-north from Port Royal; Cartagena was south-south-east. Facing into the north, he closed his eyes, let the compass spin, and looked down.

The red fleur-de-lis was still turning. It paused at the bearings of both cities, then after a few moments, it settled on northeast-by-east. What the hell lay northeast-by-east? Jack pictured a chart of the Caribbean. Oh, right. Tortuga.

So apparently, faced with the choice between marching into battle for his not-friend or dashing off on a forlorn-hope mission to recover his ship, what he wanted most was to say "sod off" to both and get blind stinking drunk.

Sometimes this damn compass was no help at all.

Norrington would be fine without him. Vernon's forces would outnumber Lezo's three to one; the English would be in and out in no time. Sneaking highly recognizable vessels out of heavily defended naval bases was Jack's specialty—he didn't need help, and Norrington could take care of his own lily-white arse for a change.

Bloody Norrington. Goddamned, thrice-cursed, motherfucking Norrington.

Looking down on the tranquil forest of spars in the harbor and then out to sea, Jack's heart clenched around the hole where his ship had been. Without a consort, the sea was nothing but empty miles; with the Black Pearl, it was an endless adventure. The sea meant never having to stop. With a ship, the sea was life constantly renewed, never dull.

So he'd always thought. The world had changed when he wasn't looking, and now, like a sailor easing down the helm, he was shifting course. Behind him, the Governor's mansion blazed like a saint's day mass as he turned back toward town. He crept up alleys and around the side of Norrington's dark house to climb into the study, where he scribbled a note and left it on the blotter, then headed back down to the harbor to look for a ride. Life had forced him to choose again, but he was ready for it. The day he had regrets was the day he stopped being Captain Jack Sparrow.

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