Marooned, 22
In Which Anchor is Weighed
by
Gloria Mundi
See Chapter 1 for full headers
Originally Posted: 1/22/05
Sparrow had accepted Norrington's invitation gracefully; in fact, thought Norrington with exasperation, he'd hesitated as though staying on the island, alone, was a real choice. But he'd swung up from the jolly-boat and onto the deck like any sailor, not even staggering as he swayed into the gentle roll of the Ariel. A heavy swell had come up in the last hour, and Norrington was keen to leave the bay before the waves drove them onto the beach. Already four men were at the capstan, hauling up the anchor, and others were raising the mainsail.
Once the Ariel was slipping past the vicious reefs at the mouth of the bay—had they been the Black Pearl's nemesis, in the end?—Norrington gave the helm to Bailey and went aft to the quarterdeck. Sparrow stood at the stern, leaning on the taffrail and gazing at the island as it receded. He had probably never seen it whole before. Norrington had seen the map in the sand, and seen Sparrow deliberately scuff it to oblivion with his bare feet. A year was a long time.
And Sparrow was at once unchanged and wholly different. There was more of the pirate to him than ever; hair wilder, limbs more sinewy and sunburnt, clothes more tattered (Norrington reminded himself to find some decent garments for the man), manner more extravagant than before. Yet he had looked Norrington in the eye, grave and unshifting, and they had recognised something in one another.
What was he going to do with Jack Sparrow? He'd asked Bailey to give up his cabin and take the spare bunk in Smith the purser's cabin: Smith wouldn't mind, for he and Bailey were both easy-going, good-natured men, if not particular friends. It would not be appropriate for Sparrow to sling his hammock with the common seamen, and Norrington was by no means sure of his sanity. Men had gone mad after less time alone.
Sparrow would have a cabin to himself; he'd eat well tonight (Norrington had ordered the last goat slaughtered, and he didn't begrudge Sparrow a rum ration); he'd have clean clothes, and Norrington would sit him down with charts and the last newspapers from London, if he cared to know how England had gone down.
And then what?
He'd rescued Jack Sparrow from a life, and a death, alone and unknown. No need (Norrington smiled to himself) for an epitaph; which meant that he could stop worrying over the wording, in the small hours of the night. And there was still the Rosalie to find; Sparrow might be a year out of practice, but he could still wave a cutlass threateningly enough.
"Something funny, Norrington?"
The pirate—but was he a pirate, now?—had left the taffrail and was at his side. His bare feet ('must find him shoes', thought Norrington) had made no sound on the bleached deck. Norrington resigned himself to the fact that Jack Sparrow would never respect the sanctity of the quarterdeck. He stifled a sigh.
"I was just wondering what to do with you," he told Sparrow.
Sparrow tilted his head on one side. "Find me a ship, Captain." He'd stressed that title, Norrington was sure of it. "You find me a ship; I'll go away; and you won't have to do anything with me."
"What have I got to lose?" said Norrington, smiling.
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