Rags of Time
Part 3
by
Full headers in Chapter 1
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it. Claim no ownership and make no money. I just like to play with them. Sorry!
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it. Claim no ownership and make no money. I just like to play with them. Sorry!
Sparrow talked. He talked a lot. Two hours later found them still sitting, Sparrow on the bed, Norrington in his chair, the only movement being Sparrow's dancing hands as they illustrated stories and emphasised important points. Norrington chuckled quietly and smiled, resigning himself to this strange feeling of wanting to sit here and listen to stories of treasure and curses and storms at sea and mad escapes from pursuers.
"In a ladies' bonnet?" Norrington asked incredulously, at the end of one such account.
"Aye, a ladies' bonnet," Sparrow laughed. "With me braids and trinkets tucked up beneath it."
"Then how did you hide that impractical looking bone dangling from your hair?"
"This?" Sparrow asked, running his finger tips up and down it, twisting his eyes to look. He looked back to Norrington, eyes dark as treacle. "Used it as a hatpin."
Norrington did laugh at this, quietly, and ran his fingers through his hair and looked away, smiling and nodding in concession.
"It's a deer bone, is it not?" he asked, returning his gaze to the other man.
"Reindeer, aye," Sparrow said, a little surprised. He toyed with it between his fingers, smoothing it and staring into the middle distance. "Watched a man skin it, butcher it. They use every part of it, everything. Cracked open the bones and ate the marrow, straight out of it, raw. Used the fat for lamps; it was dark. Dark all the time it seemed—sun was only up a few hours a day. They stretched the hide out, nailed 'tween two beams and scraped it clean—the women did, that is. Everywhere you looked there was reindeer hide, even made their boots out of it. Needed it—it was so cold, colder than you can imagine."
"Where was it?"
"Greenland. What bugger called it that had a bloody good sense of humour. Nothing but snow and ice."
"What on Earth were you doing there?" Norrington asked, frowning.
"Got mixed up with the Danes. Long time ago now. Managed to shake 'em, ran off with a nice Inuit girl. Her da' weren't best pleased, till I explained it weren't like that; just needed somewhere to find me keep for a few months till the winter ended. You have never known cold like it."
"If only half of your stories are true, Sparrow, the chronology would put you at least twice the age you appear to be..." Norrington rolled his eyes and shifted in his chair, smiling despite the cramp threatening his legs.
"Commodore, you offend me," the other man declared, feigning sadness and hurt. Then he smiled and winked. "Besides, this one actually is truth. Was the reason I made me way out here—never wanted to feel cold again."
Norrington smiled, settled back to hear the rest of the story. His eyes were heavy; he tried not to think about the reasons why he'd rather sit here uncomfortable, listening to a half mad pirate ramble half mad stories instead of being asleep in bed.
"Most amazin' people—the men hunt seals on the ice; well, a few of them do, only the best of the hunters. The seals live under the ice, you see." Sparrow's hands darted and danced, demonstrating the details of his tale. "But they have to breathe, o'course, so the seals make these holes in the ice, bite it and rub it away with their teeth. Now every seal'll have a few of them, scattered around, and the hunter has to stand there above the air hole, waitin'. Just waiting, not making a sound, bent over it with his spear raised ready to strike as soon as the seal sticks his nose up to take a breath. For hours, all day, just waitin' in silence—can't make a noise see, cuz the seal can hear it underwater."
"I take it they didn't think you'd be a good candidate for that role then?" Norrington smiled sleepily.
"No!" Sparrow laughed. "I just did the women's work, wrapped in as many furs as would fit. They liked me hair, and that I could handle a knife. Left them my cutlass when I went—it's why they gave me this," he said, touching the bone again.
Norrington forced his eyes open, smiling, and shifted his position again. Sparrow continued talking, about the Inuit's ancestors, old stories and pictures, about the lights that danced across the night sky. Norrington fell asleep to the sound of Sparrow's voice, and slept well despite his uncomfortable chair.
Norrington was woken by the stiffening pain in his neck and the sunlight flooding in through the cabin window. He was covered over with the blanket from his bed. And the bed was empty.
Sparrow.
He leapt to his feet, fearing the man had tried to escape once Norrington had fallen asleep. He rushed to the door of his cabin and swung it open wildly, causing it to crash against the wall as it slipped from his grasp.
The noise jolted Sparrow awake, laying on his side in the hammock. His sleep-confused eyes focussed on Norrington and he smirked, as though he was privy to some secret information.
"All right, luv, calm down. Didn't think you'd miss me that much." He stretched, but winced as pain caught in his ribs.
Norrington released the breath he had been holding and placed his hands each side of the doorframe.
"I thought—"
"I know what you thought, mate," Sparrow said, slipping out of the hammock and raising a hand to his bandaged side. "And normally you'd have been right. But our little plan suits me better than tryin' to sneak out of here and make a swim for it, all beaten up and all."
"Yes. Quite," Norrington said, standing upright and trying to regain some of the formality he seemed to have lost during their conversations the previous night. "Please stay here."
Norrington closed the door and washed and dressed himself. He returned with a shirt for Sparrow.
"Oh, I much prefer you out of that uniform, luv. All that wool and brocade—and that wig is a sinful thing to keep such lovely hair hidden."
"Sparrow," Norrington began, anger rising in his throat, "Do not speak to me in that way. I—however at ease I may have seemed to you last night—do not confuse it with regard for you. You are a prisoner aboard my ship, and as such you must behave as one."
"Of course, Commodore," Sparrow said after a pause, bobbing his head while his top lip snarled around his teeth, eyes set and distant. "I'll not be forgettin'"
"Good. Now—come with me."
The next portion of the morning was spent determining what to do with the prisoner. After much deliberation between Norrington and his lieutenant it was decided to keep him on deck, where he could be watched without causing disruption to the running of the ship. Sparrow took up a place in the shade, leaning over the side of the ship and watching the hull cut through the water. His body ached all over—he'd had hardly any sleep in that damn hammock. There seemed no position he could lie in that didn't aggravate one of his injuries.
Sparrow was wearing one of the commodore's shirts; it felt crisp and clean. Brushing against his skin, he could smell the freshly laundered scent, run his fingers over the stiff crease in the sleeve where it had been pressed. It spoke of a different life, ordered and proper; its owner could be assured that other areas of his life would possess its starched and controlled feel. It said that there would always be another clean shirt waiting the next day, and the next.
A life Sparrow could never have, nor would ever want. Waking up in the same place; same walls, same faces, same stifling, suffocating, boring order. To look around and see only one unchanging horizon. He shuddered at the thought of it, caught his breath at the claustrophobia it brought to his throat.
It was a life the commodore owned. Or, maybe it owned him. The previous night he had seemed so wrapped up in the telling of Sparrow's stories; wanted to know every detail of things that would only interest someone who had a desire to have been there too, in person. Sparrow looked over at Norrington, who was discussing something with one of the nameless redcoats. How could a man who seemed so alive and vital be happy to be told where to go, what to do, who to pursue and who to let slip away, and what time to be tucked up in bed at night? How could he ignore his own wants and desires? He remembered, then, the words Norrington had said to him during the last time they had been in each other's company. By remembering that I serve others, and not myself.
He had seemed a different man last night, not this stiff, solemn tight-lipped commodore, a permanent taut half-frown across his forehead. He had been open, smiling. It was the other side of him, the side beneath the title. What was the man's given name, James? Maybe that's who he'd been the previous night. He'd glimpsed it before, when in the company of Elizabeth. Silly girl to let something like that slip through her fingers.
Oh. That was interesting. That thought came from nowhere. Sparrow did not have thoughts from nowhere, he remained a step ahead of the world by remaining three steps ahead of himself. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the other man, saw the softness of the way he blinked, the self-conscious undertones hidden in the stiffness of his walk with hands hooked behind his back, the quiet depth his face slipped to as his gaze drifted out across the sea. The pretty cheekbones and strong jaw below soft lips—
Norrington turned his face in Sparrow's direction and looked straight at him, causing something in the pirate's chest to jump towards his throat—
And, oh. So that's what that was. Sparrow's eyes flew wide open, his lips parting slightly as he felt heat rush to his cheeks. Captain Jack Sparrow did not blush—that was a simple fact. But—oh.
He looked back to see Norrington still staring at him, a puzzled look on his face. He began walking across the deck towards him. Sparrow turned and leant against the side, attempting a bland smile.
"What is it, Sparrow?" he asked.
"What's what? S'nothing." Sparrow nearly laughed out loud at how unconvincing he sounded.
"You looked shocked, like you'd seen something. Do you know something you're not telling me?" He looked stern and concerned, and Sparrow realised he suspected the pirate of withholding information, maybe about other pirate vessels in the area. That was good. He could live with that.
"No, mate, course not." Sparrow smiled, all shiny teeth again. "S'just standin' out here in the sun—it's makin' me a bit bleary eyed, you know? Think I might need a bit of a nap, is all."
"Of course," Norrington replied after a pause. "I'll have that arranged."
Sparrow sighed with relief as the man walked away. He needed to sleep, let his brain work out what it was doing to him. He watched as another discussion began between the commodore and his men, before a line of them entered the cabin. Sparrow frowned in confusion as they emerged with a few chests, but then chuckled quietly as he saw them come out with the log book, charts and other lovely little bits of treasure belonging to a commodore's cabin that a pirate captain would love to get his thieving hands on.
They escorted him to his hammock, ignoring his polite attempts to make conversation, and roughly reattached the chain hanging from the ceiling bolt to his manacles.
"Thank you so much, boys, your service is above par as always!" he called after them, and was answered with the sound of the key twisting in the lock.
Later that afternoon Norrington went into the main cabin to take Sparrow some food. He entered to find the chain hanging loose from the ceiling bolt, the hammock empty and the door to his private cabin open. He sighed and rubbed the taut muscles above his eyebrows.
He found Sparrow sleeping in his bed, laying on his side with the sheet up to his waist, head resting on his outstretched arm. There was a semicircle of books sprawled out before him, his other hand still propping one open, the chain between the manacles taut. Norrington realised it was his copy of John Donne's poetry.
He placed the plate of food on the table, not noticing how quietly he did so, so as not to wake the man, and slowly sat on the edge of the bed.
Sparrow's face was totally relaxed—there were no clever words lurking behind those slightly parted full lips, no subtle plans hidden in his far-too-expressive forehead, no trickery and bewitched beguiling behind those manipulative, kohl-smudged eyes. The long matted locks of his hair fell around him, from his shoulder and behind, catching in the folds of linen of the oversized shirt. The neat hairs of his trimmed mustache and beard moved gently with his heavy breath. Norrington suddenly found himself wondering if those hairs were soft or wirey. He found himself liking the chance to look—Sparrow normally moved too much and his expression changed too quickly to ever form much more than an impression of the man. Bravado, Norrington thought. A mask perhaps—a pretty one, with the sharp graceful cheekbones of a girl.
Sparrow's eyes snapped open with no warning, and instantly focussed on Norrington's. What followed happened quickly.
"Argh!" Sparrow yelped loudly and leapt backwards in surprise halfway across the bed.
"Argh!" Norrington also jumped, and inadvertently let out a loud cry at the unexpected movement.
"Aw-oww!" Sparrow's hands went to his strapped ribs, making him roll onto his back, which made him arch against the rawness of his lash wounds and then tumble off the side of the bed, a tangle of limbs and linen.
Norrington leant over the bed and looked down at the floor on the other side
"Are you all right?" he asked. Sparrow was a moving ball of bedsheets and hands and flailing arms and clacking manacles trying to orient himself upright.
"What you doin' sneaking up on me!" he shouted, tripping over his boots caught in the sheet and collapsing over again.
"I wasn't sneaking up on you, I—you're in my bed!"
Sparrow finally stood up and began to brush himself off, trying to regain some dignity.
"S'more comfortable than that hammock," he pouted. "S'ides, you shouldn't wake a man when he's sleepin'. S'not right."
"That door was locked," Norrington turned around and pointed. "How did you get in here?"
"Pirate!" Sparrow shouted, wriggling his fingers in the air in frustration, obviously annoyed that it still required an explanation.
"Well—" Norrington stumbled over his words, and finally focussed on the books lying on the bed. "What are you doing reading my books?" he asked, starting to gather them up. "You have no business going through my things."
"Aw, quit your whinin'," Sparrow sighed, sitting down on the bed again. "It's only a few books. It's not like they've got any pretty little private inscriptions scrawled in them from some pretty little lass. Not even a 'Dear Son, love your mother' in them. Though it'd be worrying if your Ma had gave you that one," he said as Norrington picked up the Donne. "Bit racy, ain't he?" he said with a wink.
Norrington slammed the pile of books down on the table and spun round, glaring at the other man.
"You go too far, Sparrow. You do not rifle through my personal effects, you do not dare to mention my mother, and you do not break into my cabin." His voice was low, thick with anger. Sparrow's hands came up as his fingers danced in the air, his mouth trying to make the words to make light of the situation. "You are making a mockery of the goodwill I have shown you. You forget it is that goodwill alone that is keeping you from the gallows, and you would do well not to test my patience further."
Sparrow could see the anger rising in the man, his pale stiff veneer of quiet control slipping at the edges. It was in the tight pull of his lips, the sharp intensity of his green eyes, the way one hand gripped the edge of the table too tightly, turning the knuckles white. He could see the fiery seam of something strong running beneath the commodore's still exterior, like iron ore through rock. Sparrow stopped trying to interrupt and let his hands fall to his lap. The man looked beautiful.
"Of course, Commodore," Sparrow said, bringing his hands together and bowing his head slightly. "My apologies."
Norrington frowned, unsure what to make of the sincerity in the pirate's voice.
"Take your food, get into that room and stay there," Norrington said flatly, turning his back to continue putting the books away. Sparrow left silently, the only noise being the sound of the door closing behind him.
Evening found Norrington sitting behind the desk in his cabin with his head in his hands. He had been struggling to complete an entry in the log book for an hour. Sparrow had pretended to be asleep in the hammock when he'd gone past to fetch the book. Norrington wasn't sure why that had annoyed him so much.
He wasn't sure why he couldn't concentrate either. He had told himself he was anxious about what he would have to do to arrange Sparrow's escape the following night. But he knew that wasn't the case—he had taken greater risks for lesser things before. He felt like a kite on a string, being pulled and tugged back towards the other man, even as he tried to keep away.
He swallowed the brandy in his glass and poured another. He knew he shouldn't have to explain his plan to Sparrow—the man was shrewd enough to work it out on his own. It would be simple enough to slip the backdated order for a final inspection of the new cells in the guard's box, somewhere where it could easily have been missed for a few days. It would mean having to place the man in the new cells for a few hours in order to discover the guard's 'mistake', then moving him to the lower cells. He hadn't told Sparrow that.
Maybe that was something he needed to know...
The heat from his table lamp was beading sweat above his lip. He tugged his wig off with a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair to shake out the powder, and took another drink. What was it Sparrow had said? A sin to keep such lovely hair hidden. Norrington smiled.
He would have to go through and ensure Sparrow fully understood the plan. Besides, the man's bandages needed tending to. He had to go through into the main cabin.
He emptied his glass and took the medicine chest with him into the next room. Sparrow was sitting cross-legged, leaning his uninjured side against the wall and swaying gently with the movement of the ship. He looked up through heavy lids and thick eyelashes as Norrington approached.
"Meditating again, Sparrow?" Norrington smiled slightly as he crouched down to the same level. Sparrow stared at him blankly for a moment, examining his face.
"Been drinkin' have we, Commodore? Your eyes are a tinesy bit bloodshot, you know. And is that brandy I can smell? Keepin' the good stuff all to yourself, eh?"
"Don't worry, Sparrow," Norrington smiled and looked at the floor. "You may have some shortly. I need to change your bandages first."
"Do you now." Sparrow maintained the same blank expression. Norrington could almost see the cogs in the pirates brain spinning at breakneck speed, trying to determine the reason behind Norrington's inconsistent attitude towards him.
"Come now," Norrington stood and motioned for the other man to follow. "I need to remove the bandage from your back—the wound will need to breath in order to heal."
Sparrow walked towards the two chairs in front of the desk, undoing the sash around his waist. He sat down, straddling the chair and leaning his chest to the back of it. He winced as he pulled off the shirt, wrapping his arms around the wooden back. He heard Norrington pull up the chair behind him and silently begin to loosen the bandages that looped over and under his shoulder.
He doubted Norrington was as aware as he of the undertones of what was really happening here. Norrington undid the bandages, leaning closer as he unwound them so as not to aggravate the stitches. Sparrow could feel the man's breath warm against the back of his neck and under his ear, could smell the brandy in it as he leaned closer still, could feel the stirring in his crotch in response. He sighed and leant his head against his arms.
"Am I hurting you?" Norrington asked, pausing.
"No," Sparrow replied quietly, voice slightly muffled by his forearms.
They remained silent as Norrington washed and dried the lash wounds. He began to tighten the strapping around Sparrow's ribs, pushing him slightly as he did so, causing him to roll forward in the seat. Which meant his weight was pressed against his screaming cock, already uncomfortably tight beneath the stretched fabric of his breeches. He made a sudden pained noise and rose up slightly, repositioning himself and trying to suppress the flood of raw heat that swept up his body at the pleasure of it.
"Sorry, was that too much?" Norrington asked, loosening his grip on the bandage.
Sparrow sighed through gritted teeth, and shook his head.
"Here is that balm. For the bruising." Sparrow looked up from where he was hidden in the crook of his arm against the back of the chair. He took the jar from the commodore, and wondered how he would negotiate standing up without the man seeing the obvious problem he was hiding (not particularly well) beneath his breeches.
But thankfully Norrington then picked up the chest and returned it to the other cabin. Sparrow sighed with relief and turned to sit in the chair properly, tucking himself away to discretion. He smiled his best smile as the commodore returned with the brandy and two glasses.
"So, will I live, Commodore?" Sparrow asked, eyeing up the golden spirit as it was poured into his glass.
"Of course," Norrington replied, handing him his drink. "As long as you adhere to the plan. I will—"
"Yes, yes," Sparrow said, downing the drink in one gulp and handing the glass back. "I will be unjustly sentenced to hang on the morrow and will be incapacitated in incarceration in the brand spanking new cells. Meantime you'll arrange for a stray order for inspection or some such to show up, backdated of course, meanin' your smelly guard and his blasted dog will have to quick sharp get them inspected, or suffer the wrath of the commodore—"
Norrington wasn't sure what was most hypnotizing, the way Sparrow had seemed to instinctively determine exactly what Norrington had planned, or the way the man's ever mobile fingers gently worked and swirled the strong smelling balm into the battered skin of his chest. His stained hands spread and curled around the curve of his ribcage exposed below the bandages, traced the line of his sternum and his fingertips circled around a nipple—
"Or my name's not Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy?"
Norrington had no idea what the man had just said. He blinked his gaze back up to Sparrow's face and flushed as he realised the man had been aware of exactly what he had been looking at.
"A drink then—" Norrington fumbled, pouring another two glasses and handing one to Sparrow. "To a plan well made."
"Aye," Sparrow said with a large smirk plastered across his face. "A plan well made."
Norrington had a relatively deep voice. He appreciated a good joke or witty remark, and his droll humour usually made others laugh. He, however, very rarely laughed. He smiled often, chuckled quietly, made encouraging appreciative noises when others tried to make him laugh. But the stiff and total control he maintained over himself did not slip—he would not let go of it to allow others to see.
So to anyone who knew the barefoot man now sitting on his bed, clad only in shirt and breeches, knees crouched up against his chest and hand pressed against his mouth, trying to suppress the guffawing laughter threatening to shout its way out of his throat with tears beading in the creases around his eyes, would wonder what on Earth had happened to the Norrington they knew so well.
"Shh, hush, luv!" Sparrow chuckled quietly, trying to control his own laughter with fingers dancing as he looked over his shoulder towards the door. "Your little foot soldiers'll be in here if they hear you."
Norrington collapsed to the bed burying his face in a pillow, his body shaking with laughter. Sparrow hovered a hand over his shoulder, but thought better of it and retreated.
"I can't finish me story if you keep makin' me laugh like that!" he said between breaths of laughter.
Norrington recovered himself somewhat, and sat back up, wiping his eyes.
"You have won already, of course, Captain," Norrington said, his words heavy with brandy. "I cannot best that one." He placed an elbow on the knee against his chest and rested his face in his hand. His hair was ruffled from the pillow. He looked very young.
"Captain indeed," Sparrow said, smiling. He put his glass down, and ran a hand through his hair with a flourish. "Is it Captain now, not mister or pirate then?" He lowered his face slightly, looking up at the other man from beneath kohl-rimmed eyes and dark lashes, watching the effect his most seductive gaze had on Norrington.
Norrington felt his own eyes open wider, and he felt like he was falling suddenly, being drawn in. Something in his stomach leapt, and, as though connected, he felt his member tug and jump within his breeches as desire stroked its way through his insides. He looked away from the intensity of the moment.
"Well," he began, running his hand through his hair as a way to cover his averted gaze, "you'd only correct me if I didn't."
Sparrow allowed himself a secret smile at the ember he'd seen deep within those green eyes, fanned by his own.
"How's about you call me Jack," he said, moving closer across the bed.
"Jack—" Norrington said quietly, still looking away.
"James," Sparrow said, not much above a whisper.
Norrington did turn round at that, met Sparrow's gaze. A small frown, delayed by the brandy, crept across his brow, as though unsure how the man knew his name and unsure about how it sounded, said with his soft, beguiling voice. The pirate held his gaze, on one hand as a challenge and on the other as a submission; giving in to wanting to.
"So—" Sparrow said, breaking the moment by leaning down for his glass. "I believe, having won that last round of tall tale telling, that the next drink is mine."
"Indeed," Norrington replied, reaching back for the much-diminished bottle and pouring a measure for the man.
"Of course," Sparrow began before he downed his drink, "what you neglected to ask me was what the chicken was doing there in the first place."
Sparrow nearly choked on laughter and brandy as the other man giggled, high pitched and girl like, before shrieking with laughter and trying to smother it with his hand.
Norrington slept. He looked much younger when not tensing his brow, making his lips taut, and staring with his self-assured dismissive gaze.
Hair fell down just past his eyes. Sparrow's hand hovered midair, then brushed the hair back behind his ear. The man looked pale, lips parted with heavy breath.
"James..." Sparrow whispered to himself, trying out the name.
This was possibly the most stupid and dangerous fancy his heart had ever taken.
He was drunk. Brandy hit him stronger than the rum he was used to. The man's mouth was open, inviting. He wanted nothing more than to pounce, taste the man's lips and feel his tongue with his own. Bury his face in his hair, cup his strong jaw in one hand and slip the other down his side to tear past the shirt, feel his pale skin where it rose over muscle and bone, slip his mouth down the man's neck, nip at his throat and suck at the skin, leave a mark and slide down his body, pull his stomach to his mouth, smother his face is the soft flesh there and feel the muscles pull beneath, hear the man gasp and murmur, call out his name—
No, no, not good. He sat bolt upright, not realising how close he was leaning towards Norrington's face. It's all well and good playing with fire when you've somewhere to run away to. But Sparrow did not have that luxury yet—he'd best not aggravate a wound newly opened.
He had no idea if Norrington had been physical with men before, but from the man's apparent naivety and inability to hide his attraction, which itself seemed totally out of character, Sparrow guessed he was at best inexperienced. There was no telling how he'd react to it being made obvious to him.
It may be hard to hang a man you have regard for—even if you dare not examine the origin and nature of that regard. But a man who presumes to show you that nature, who dares kiss a commodore of the Royal Fleet—it may be easier to hang him than admit to the 'sin' that kiss confirms.
No. He stood up and returned to the next cabin, closing the door behind him.
These things were best left till the opportune moment.
The following evening Norrington sat behind his desk in his office at the fort. Everything had gone well so far, despite the brandy-induced pain his head had been suffering all day. He had overheard whispers amongst the men that indicated Sparrow had been moved to the lower cells. Now he had only to wait until the guard changed.
The previous night blurred around the edges of his memory. He remembered laughing—probably laughing more in those few hours then he had in the last few years. He remembered exchanging stories with the pirate, trying to outdo one another on tales of seamanship and tactics.
He remembered feeling completely at ease, and knowing that he shouldn't. For all the man's lies and manipulations, there was something about Sparrow that rang true, a genuineness he couldn't quite define. You can always trust a dishonest man to be dishonest—honestly. But Norrington couldn't think of a time when the man had actually lied, at least not for a good reason.
A good reason indeed. Isn't that what the boy Turner had called him? A good man. Selfish and self-serving, yes, but maybe also good. He had proved himself honorable on a number of occasions, namely ensuring the safe return of Miss Swann, even to his own detriment.
At some point this evening someone had brought him tea. He rose from the table and poured himself another cup. He caught sight of the pile of books he'd brought with him from the ship. There was a tiny gap in the binding of the Donne collection where Sparrow had held it open for a time.
Norrington suddenly wanted to know which poem the man had been reading. He flicked through the book and found the page the damaged spine wanted to open to as a thin piece of paper fell out from it. The poem was The Flea—not one of Norrington's favourites, he realised with some unexplained disappointment, and he was about to pick up the piece of paper when the alarm bell began to peal.
He dropped the book back to the table and rushed out of the room.
"Nevertheless, the ultimate responsibility lies with me, Gillette. I should know better than most how capable that pirate is when it comes to miraculous escapes. I will not have the guard punished for something for which I share blame."
"But Commodore, this is absurd. The guard should not have placed him in the old cells. Sparrow was the very reason you ordered they be reinstalled in the first place!"
"Well, that is as may be, but it is done now and he is gone. But do not fret—that man is incapable of keeping himself out of trouble. We will catch him yet."
Norrington smiled to try to reassure his troubled lieutenant. It didn't seem to work. But as commodore, he himself was beyond suspicion—his was by no means the only Naval fort Sparrow had escaped from.
He did allow himself a sigh of relief as he closed the door to his office, shutting the rest of the fort out. It was while he was gathering his things, meaning to return home at long last, that he remembered the slip of paper that had fallen from the book.
The note was written in elaborate handwriting, Sparrow's hands obviously as prone to flourishes when he wrote as when he spoke.
Think on this James:
Why will you not purple thy nail in my blood?
Do you think me an innocent? Or is it something else.
Would you envy a little flea for possessing something you may want?
Mingled, one blood made of two - living on in living walls of jet.
Mine and thine, James.
Let us learn how false fears be.
Think on it.
Jack
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