Pirate Vindaloo, Chapter 23

Hope and Hard Use

by

Hippediva & Elessil

James had only left them three days earlier and he might have made a short trip faster if he had not inexplicably slowed and coasted his course as if waiting for something to signal him to turn back:  a lightning bolt, a voice from the heavens, anything.  It was mid-afternoon and the breeze was snappish.  He sulked at the wheel looking much like Matthew deprived of sweets, with less patience and an infinitely fouler vocabulary.

Captain Sparrow had had more rum than was good for anybody, even him.

His fingers, grimy with three days of tar and dirt and no one to make him wash them, stroked the warm wood and he muttered, "Don't I jus' know it, luv!" when the ship wrestled with him.  He couldn't think of her as the Chimaera any longer.  She was Jamie's Penelope and she was the only one in whom he could confide.  "I dunno why!  He's such a orn'ry bugger.  Ya think he'd have th' sense to stay where he's wanted."

She groaned a little, her shrouds rippling a sigh and Jack sighed with her.  "Poor luv.  Here.  Have a drink."  He poured a good half of his flask onto the deck and swallowed the rest, immediately opening the bottle stashed in his pocket.  "Have some more."

The puddle at his feet widened.  "I miss 'im, too.  Ain't-hic-fair at all.  Jus' bet those proper bastards ain't treatin' him-hic-right.  Not like you an' me, hic.  Luv."  He stared back over his shoulder, vaguely in the direction of Jamaica, gulping more rum and sulking with every bit of determination that one deprived and lovesick pirate could muster.

When the sun sank in a blaze of orange and gold, he turned the wheel over to Van and moped around the deck like a broody bilgerat until dark.

The Penelope tossed, throwing him off-balance, and he tumbled down the hatch, clinging to his bottle as she groaned.  He petted the handrail, right before his nose, and hauled himself to his feet.  There was a delicious smell coming from the galley.  Cooks and Andre were concocting something wonderful, but he had no appetite, so he trudged down to the orlop, sliding amid the crates.

"Oh, it jus' ain right, luv.  You want 'im.  I want 'im.  An' wot-hic-does th' blasted fool do?  Goes back to th'bloody Navy!  Can ya believe-hic-it?  Jilted fer His Majesty's brocade."  He fell to one side as she heaved, and pressed a kiss to the tar-stained deck.  "An' t'treat you so!  It's a hic-crime, that's wot it is.  A rotten crime.  Have 'nother drink."

Jack knew he had a lot of work ahead of him.  There was all that swag to sell or barter, the ship herself needed a good overhaul and then there was the Pearl, out there somewhere without him.  Life was sometimes more than just unfair.  It was bloody perverse!

He sucked down more rum and curled up on his side, muttering to the Penelope with every swell and roll.  "I'll take goo' care o'you, luv.  You know I will.  Get ya careened, mebbe even see if I can-hic-get-hic-get-hic- arrange t'plate yer keel wif copper.  'Twill feel a bit strange at first.  Don't balk at me, darling. It's best wif all them nasty worms.  I know, sweeting.  I know.  Such a damned shame but he'll come back.  He's gotta come back."

He went on in this ridiculous manner for as long as the rum held out, getting more upset with every swallow until he huddled against the bulwark, too drunk to stand.  He was lonely.  He was randy.  He didn't have James and he didn't have the Pearl, although he felt he couldn't rightly complain too much about Pearl to Penelope for fear of hurting her feelings.  So he drank and muttered, soothing her troubles and his own in a vast spill of rum.

He didn't hear the creak of the stairs, it sounded so much like her complaints. But then suddenly there was a pair of arms around his shoulder nudging him gently. Above him, Berkely's face blurred into vision. "C'mon, Cap'n. Ain't no good t'sleep on th'floor. No need t'add sore muscles t'the hangover."

"Pearl's gone, Jamie's gone.  Wot's a bloody difference, " he mourned.  His eyes were  barely focused and he leaned heavily against Berkely's broad shoulder.  "Y'd think I'da knowed by now.  But it'sh jus' all gone t'hell.  Doan know wot I done t'desherve it.  Whooaaaa!"  He staggered a few steps, his head spinning.  "Shlow down, mate.  Can't seem t'feel me feet."

Berkely urged him up the stairs, slowly, nudging until finally he had Jack in the cabin. He'd seen a lot in his days, and the pity in his eyes was such that only an older man could have for a younger. The whole crew had seen James leave, and they didn't know why. It was obvious enough that the two hadn't parted in anger. They figured James had family in Port Royal. Still odd that he'd leave his mate like that. "Ain't he going t'come back? Can't see th'likes of 'im staying ashore th'rest of his life."

Jack collapsed on the bed like a ragdoll, watching the ceiling turn in circles.  "He won't.  He can't.  But Berks, I dunno when.  How could he leave 'er?  Me?  I shuppose he'd jus as shoon fergit.  Dammit!"  He rolled over to keep his head from dancing away without him.  "Wot's th' bloody Navy got t'compare to thish?  Nuthin'.  But no, he mush needs go runnin' back to 'em.  Bloody idiot!"

Jack was only a little aware of having committed a faux-pas.  The usual thrill went up his spine but he was too boneless to react.

Now, there had been a great many words in that tirade that were of interest to Berkely or that he didn't quite understand. He sat down on the bed and tugged Jack's coat from his shoulders. "Navy?" he muttered, half to himself.  "An' I bet he ain't no common tar either."

"Shhhh!"  Jack's finger waggled towards his lips and landed on his nose.  "Shupposed t'be a hic-secret.  Doan tell noone.  Pleash?"  His eyes crossed as he stared at his own finger and he tried to sit up, falling back into the pillows with a groan.  "Tha'sh bloody torn it."

Berkely didn't consider himself a quick-witted man. He didn't have Jack's mind, fast as lightning and just as unpredictable, nor James', ordered and logical. But he saw and heard a lot, and  he remembered.  James Norbury. Navy, officer. Port Royal. The piece with Jack Sparrow fit in, but somehow crookedly, as though he hadn't turned it the right way yet to fit into the puzzle. "Bloody hell, Norrington," he whispered.

"Shhhhh!"  Jack blinked and sat upright, his eyes wide, shaking his head until he saw stars.  "Berks, please.  He only did that t'shurvive.  Don't wanna make it worse.  Oh hell, I really put me foot in it thish time."  He reached automatically for his flask.

"Lemme put that together. 'e's the bloody Pirate 'unter, but 'e's with ye, a pirate, and you only mean 'im well. " Bertie grabbed the flask and downed a gulp. "The truth, Sparrow."

Jack chewed on his lip and turned an interesting shade of dark pink.  Truth and he were uncomfortable mates at the best of times.  "Well, ish like this.  I met 'im well over a year back when I found out where Barbossa would be wif me Pearl.  The Black Pearl.  My beautiful Pearl."  He savoured the words, drifting for a moment.  "Anywaysh, he's not a bad sort, really.  No, not a'tall.  Situation wash a bit mucky.  But he lets me go and I get me girl back.  All's well."  He hiccuped and coaxed the last drop from his upturned flask.  "So I was kippin' after a lovely ev'nin at the Bride and Jackson an' hish lot musta picked me up.  I find meself in th' brig and who'd they bring down but Jamie wif his head all bleedin'.  Guessh they went trollin' 'round Port Royal too.  Well, we couldn't tell Hamilton, could we?  He'da killed us fer sure."  Jack wobbled to his feet and staggered towards the table and the twin bottles that kept wavering in front of him.  He made a grab and missed.

"I ain't th'one t'tell the Cap'n how much t'drink, but I know ye've definitely had enough." Berkely grabbed Jack around the waist and they both stumbled around as Jack circled, like a bird closing in on its nest. With a great heave, the big sailor managed to shove him into the bed. He knew Jack wasn't much more than ten years younger than he, but with his eyes so wide and that sullen pout he didn't seem much older than Matthew. "But th'whole tale, bout ye being matelots all through th'voyage. Seemed real enough t'me."

Jack's face grew sly.  "Ahhh.  That.  Y'see I wanted 'im.  From th' first time he stuck his shword in me face, I wanted him.  Dunno why.  He put me in irons an' tossed me inta his little gaol.  He stopped it, 'member.  In th' galley.  Wheldon and them.  You lot asssu-asshu- decided we was mates.  An' it were a right good thing fer me, weren't it?  But poor Jamie!  Not used t'lyin' or playactin' is our James.  All proper an' buttoned-up."  Jack's smile was crooked.  "Bit of a lark watchin' him squirm when he figgered out wot 'mate' meant.  Then, "  his hands waved in the air, fingers spread wide.  "I dunno.  Somethin' happened."

For the first time in many a years, there was more than gentle surprise on Berkely's  face. "Y'mean t'tell me that ye and the bloody pirate 'unter were mates? 'nd for real, too? Cor, 'n' I doubted the reputation of madness what precedes ye. Gimme that bottle."

"Wouldna called us mates, leashtaways afore he got drunk an' was all over me in th' hammock.  Never thought he had it in him.  'S complicated.  I didn't hold it 'gainst him, him tryin' t'hang me an' all."  Jack couldn't repress a shudder, remembering the trap falling open and that breathless, horrid moment when even he believed it was all over until young Turner's sword had miraculously appeared beneath his feet.  He heaved a sigh.  "I know it's daft, but ain't y'ever had somethin' happen that don't make shense at all?  I mean, logi-hic-cal sense?  Happens t'me all th'time."

"Ja-Norrington were right 'bout one thing. Yer mad. Barkin' mad, Sparrow. 'N drunk."

"Doan I jus' know it.  An' now lookit me!  All I wanted was a night out.  Got m'self  'pressed, shipped off t'Bombay and made it back.  But no Pearl an' no Jamie.  Can I please have 'nother drink?  Can't sleep 'lone.  Makes me lie 'wake a shtare at nuthin'."  Jack tried his sweetest smile, which worked fine but for the dirt on his face and his foggy eyes.  "Bloody shtupid.  I miss 'im, dammit.  Never 'spected him t'take t'me fer real."

He pouted enormously.  "But he did.  An' it weren't jus' bein' drunk an' wantin' a bit o'relief.  You saw it.  He did!"

"Aye, I've seen it." Berkely had seen so many sailors in his time, Navymen, pirates, those that walked the fine line between. "Thinkin' of it, I heard it oft enough, too." He grinned. "And now ye should sleep. We'll find yer Pearl soon enough." He didn't say anything of James, because how and why would Norrington ever return with anything but a noose for them all?

As if reading his thoughts, Jack rolled over to watch Berkely with one bleary eye.  "He won't do it, y'know.  He tole me so.  Shouldn't believe it, but I do.  Swear I'm mad an' bloody shtupid sometimes.  It don't make sense t'believe him but I do.  Wonder how he's farin'."  Jack's face fell again.  "Hope he's awright, even if he doan want me no more.  An' poor Penelope pinin' fer him worsen' me."

"Penelope? So he's havin' a doxy in Tortuga? Certainly wouldn't've though that of the fine pirate 'unter. Rumour said he ain't no man with feelings or as much as needs. Some wonder if he ever do sleep at all."

At Berkely's words, the ship lurched violently, tossing Jack half off the bed and his head into Berkely's lap, just barely missing an important part of his anatomy.

"Easy, darlin'."  Jack pushed his hair out of his mouth and struggled to right himself.  "The ship, Berks.  He called her Penelope.  An' you know him.  He's not like that at all.  Shoulda sheen 'im when 'Lizabef threw him over fer the whelp.  So hurt.  An' I know he sleeps jus' fine."  He grinned.  "When I let 'im."

"More than I wanna know, Sparrow, more than I wanna know. Figgers that th'mate of Jack Sparrow couldn't jest be any sailor noone's ever heard of."  Berkely rolled his eyes. "Awright, I won't be tellin' anyone fer now, on one condition. Ye shut up 'n' go t'sleep and don't sneak off to get no more rum."

"Thanksh, luv.  I'll shurrup.  Promise.  An' he's gotta come back fer 'er.  She loves 'im.  Don't see how he coulda left her..."  Jack's eyes fluttered closed as the Penelope heaved a sigh and together, they slept, dreaming of the man who'd left them both alone.

Berkely righted the blanket again, shaking his head. A silly pirate, so madly in love or simply so mad - it was hard to tell - that he would blame his own heartbreak on a ship, for God knew what reason. Twasn't as if the ship was likely to bring Norrington back. It was a shame he'd promised not to tell that story, because it would have made a fine one. He doused the lamps and went to his own cabin.

If there was one thing James Norrington hated, it was waiting, enduring all that might happen without so much as the chance to react. That he bore it with what he considered good grace did not stop the gossip. Among all the other dreadful matters Port Royal believed about its former Commodore, they also seemed to believe him deaf, for if they intended for him to hear their words, surely they would not bother to whisper?

He heard it. Heard the bustle of words whenever he passed; heard Elizabeth's outrage when another lady, eager to marry off her daughter to Norrington but a few months ago, voiced her delight in ‘not having lost her dear child to such a savage.'

Truly, as time passed, he found that the company he preferred had vastly shrunk, to Elizabeth and her fiancé.  If it made him a chaperon, he did not mind. At least if they turned and whispered, it was not to mock him, and if Elizabeth commented on the matter, she did so most vocally.

She seemed angrier than James himself, indulging in a tirade of words while he stoically resigned himself to the inevitable and pretended deafness. Surely, once his position in the Navy was formally re-instated, the situation would normalise, and those who now wielded the sharpest tongues would return to their prior boot-licking deference which James despised nearly as much.

Today, finally, he could do more than wait. Admiral Winthrop had arrived aboard the Resilience that very morning and, after attending to matters of the fleet with Commodore Archer, they were both invited by Governor Swann to a reception.  That was James' chance.

He retied his cravat for the third time, checked yet again to make sure that not one strand of hair, or worse, braid, was visible beneath the wig. It was not. He had tied it so tight that it pulled at his skin, fastened with pins so that not one treacherous lock might escape. Elizabeth had teasingly suggested powder to make his skin pale, and he was angry at himself for truly considering it. He was a soldier, not a harlequin, and the sun was a matter of fact, not of shame.

Once more he smoothed his cuffs and checked his face for any stubble, then straightened. It was strange that he would feel as though he went to battle, blood thrumming in his veins, head held high. If punctuality was a virtue divine, then let them all wonder how a savage could possess it.

Elizabeth heard his door close and sped into the hallway, slipping her arm through his with a wicked smile.  "You wouldn't want me to attend unescorted, would you?  Apparently my fiancé is busy washing the soot from his hands.  Save me?"  She was resplendent in deep blue, having decided that she loathed pastels no matter how fashionable they might be in London.  "James, you look wonderful.  Don't fuss.  The wig is fine.  And please!  Be careful of this blasted train.  I've already tripped over it twice."

James sketched a bow. "By all means. Far be it from me to leave a lady unattended and alone to face the trials society inflicts upon us."

He fully expected that Elizabeth had asked Will to attend a little late, but to confront her would be most ungentlemanly. "Elizabeth, I am more than convinced that you will outshine anyone, and more than that. The blue suits you and considering your grace, I believe your tale of tripping is a shameless exaggeration."

The hall was well prepared, decorated with flowers and gently lit with sumptuous chandeliers. The guests were only just beginning to arrive.

She positively grinned at him.  "I hate all those pinks and lavenders and the overdone furbelows make me feel like one of those dreadful dolls my aunts kept giving me as a child.  I'm glad you like it."  The gown was as severe in cut and ornament as possible and gave her a queenly air.

James was, as always, a magnificent escort and she thoroughly enjoyed the guests' discomfort as she greeted them on his arm.  If there was one thing Elizabeth had learned this past year, it was the complete uselessness of an unattached female in society.  Her engagement had given her a small degree of social freedom and she was increasingly aware of how much more marriage would lend.  It might have been terribly amusing to watch the false smiles and hear the awkward words, had she not been so aware of James' mortification.

With Elizabeth by his side, the guests could not but greet James, bowing as stiffly as he did. He smiled and bowed until he thought he could no longer stop, his manners immaculate as had once been expected of him. He bent to kiss a lady's hand, but even through his gloves he could feel her stiffen, then see, all too clearly, the subtle wiping movement as she slid the arm through her companion's. James blinked once and limited himself to bows.

Elizabeth kept a smile plastered on her face.  Winthrop was a pompous ass and she took a genuinely malicious delight in making airy little remarks about how wonderfully Englishmen became 'real men' in the hot Caribbean.  As for Mrs. Landsford and her three tittering daughters, she could not resist a few pointed reminders about the filling nature of fresh fruit, showing her corset-aided decolletage to its best advantage and stowing the urge to scream "Old cow!".

William Turner was more used to these dreadful affairs and their subterranean undercurrents of nasty social propriety.  He behaved with his usual gravity and made sure to keep James in sight.  He had promised his fiancee to engineer a rescue if the need should arise, but it never did.  The whole company treated the former Commodore with exquisite and icy politeness that left no doubt as to their true feelings.

James wondered if that was what the tame tigers had felt like, being watched from afar with curiosity, but too dangerous to approach. He had noticed it before, this apparent danger. His former first Lieutenant, Gillette had attempted to renew their friendship, but without the protection of the power Governor Swann had, he, too, had soon become a victim of the gossipmongers. Gillette had scarce said a word, but James had known it and told him the same thing he had told Elizabeth: he did not wish his friend to stand in the line of fire for him.

Gillette, only recently made acting Captain of the Henrietta and in as precarious a situation as could be - it was a miracle that he had received a command at all after the Interceptor incident  -  had eventually accepted his assurances and James was glad of it.  He could see Gillette now, standing across the room, in agitated discussion with Commodore Archer.

When he was not being stared at, James was ignored and tried to ignore in return. He could sense their glances all too keenly. He returned them, a smile firmly lodged on his face, his eyes chill.

The evening continued, ladies and gentlemen pouring through the rooms, stopping for polite conversation. Finally, Admiral Winthrop stood alone. They had been introduced before but Winthrop had rushed off without affording James the chance of even a single word. "Sir, I do not wish to disturb your enjoyment of the evening, yet I would be much obliged if you could tell me when I may call upon you tomorrow without interrupting your duties."

Winthrop had to look up at Norrington, a fact that made his practised stare through a gilt lorgniette silly instead of commanding.  "Say what?  Oh, yes, you are Norrington, are you not?" he drawled in the manner fashionable this season in London.  "Yes, of course."  His pale eyes continued their study of the tall, bronzed man standing stiffly before him.  "I will be pleased to see you before dinnertime.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I do believe there is punch."  With that, he turned his back.

James hissed a breath through his teeth and for just one moment, looked as if he had bitten into a lemon. Then his features smoothed back into their trained smile and he returned to what he had done all evening: namely not asking any ladies to dance to spare them the indignity of having to invent a sprained ankle, and not participating in any conversation.

Elizabeth glided across the floor to his side, a little flushed and breathless.  "James, please rescue me.  If that clod steps on my toes once more I shall be forced to call him out."  She referred to the new Captain of the Indomitable, who was a fine man but an execrable dancer.  "I cannot find William and I don't want to miss the gavotte.  Please?"  Her eyes sparkled and if she had noticed his exchange with Winthrop, she gave no sign.

"How could I ever deny a lady?" James smiled as he led her onto the dance floor. He could sense the stares and hear the brief, sudden silence of everything but the musicians. Elizabeth was smiling radiantly at him and he smiled back, but the gleam in her eyes reminded him rather too much of another pair of eyes that he missed more and more.

James had always been a fine dancer but now he led her with a grace he had not possessed before, one reserved for fencing. It was elating and his smile was a touch more honest than it had been all evening.

Young Turner watched his fiancée dance with her former betrothed and smothered a grin.  He knew her well enough to divine her intentions and admired both her loyalty and her cunning.  It was his considered opinion that every one of the useless louts and their bovine females deserved every social prick she could inflict on them.  She had proved herself remarkably good at it when their engagement was announced, and, over these months, although that gossip had faded to whispers, he knew it would never disappear entirely.

Elizabeth treated it as a challenge and was not above spreading the odd rumour of her own in retaliation, especially after she had become aware of the continued questions regarding her ‘dubious' honour after spending days on board a pirate ship and an entire night in the company of Captain Jack Sparrow, whose reputation with the fair sex was well-known.  Will was proud of her and touched by her loyal defence of Norrington, who had certainly done nothing to warrant such social disfavour.  He himself was used to being eyed as a half-tame brute, a tradesman and, it was whispered, the son of a pirate.  He found himself rather enjoying the nervous glances, as though he might suddenly provoke a duel or leap onto the table mid-meal. 

He was, indeed, his father's son and he wondered about Sparrow.  He, more than any of these overdressed members of Port Royal's society, was able to hear news of such a character aside from the usual broadsides, but there had been none for the better part of a year. 

He hoped that Jack was happily with his Pearl, outwitting his adversaries, just as his beloved was outmanoeuvring hers.  It was odd how like Jack she sometimes could be, he mused.

The dance finished and James fervently wished that following his every move with wide-eyed stares would cause sea-sickness among the fine company.  He escorted Elizabeth back to young Turner and returned her hand to his. They were happy and he found he could watch that without the guilty jealousy that had once lingered. "Forgive my commandeering your fiancée, Mr. Turner."

William smiled.  "I should thank you, Commodore.  Elizabeth has been trying to teach me that for weeks and I fear all her work is hopeless."

She stifled a laugh in her handkerchief at Will's pointed use of Norrington's title in such close earshot of Mesdames Landsford.  He was a quicker study than most.  "Oh Will, you are just stubborn.  I ask you, James, is it possible that so brilliant a swordsman could possibly have two left feet?"

"Certainly it is. I know of an excellent swordsman who is barely capable of retaining his balance simply walking." James smiled fondly. " I fear, however, Elizabeth's shoes are only marginally less dangerous than a sword."

"Wretch!" she laughed.  "And they're pinching horribly.  Would that excellent swordsman happen to have a great fondness for rum?"  She turned to William.  "And now you do owe me a dance.  Or would you rather a duel?"

William looked over her head in apology at James and led her back to the floor.

For the remainder of the evening, James remained close to the two. It was better to have someone to talk to when he could hear the whispers behind him, better to have somewhere to look when he could feel the burn of many a gaze on him. When the room began to empty, he breathed a sigh of relief and excused himself for the night.

The next day, James paced the Governor's mansion and the gardens for hours, storming back in and scowling at the giant clock in the parlour when the hours seemed to crawl. Finally, he left, late enough to give Winthrop time to deal with military matters before his arrival and early enough not to disturb him during supper. It wasn't true nervousness, he told himself, but to be prepared and think through even such trivial matters as the time of his arrival could yield a tactical advantage.

Immaculately dressed, hair tamed beneath the wig, he arrived at the fort. The marines hesitated, but eventually all their hands snapped up in a salute: more than one of them had served under him for years.

Lieutenant Gillette strode down the hallway and James saluted. "Lieutenant, I-"

Gillette winced and stopped for a second. "Sir, I pray you please excuse me, I am in a hurry." Then he strode on and James wished he had only imagined the flicker of pity in his eyes.

He sighed. The two harlequins would have to suffice. Indeed, he only had to follow the sound of arguing voices to find Marines Murtogg and Mulroy. Again, he saluted. "Where may I find Admiral Winthrop?"

James was too preoccupied to listen to their blather as they escorted him upstairs to the door of his office - Archer's now, he reminded himself.

Admiral Winthrop was seated in the one comfortable chair with a cup of tea balanced on one knee.  He barely glanced at the door.  Archer, however, rose and bowed, escorting James to the chair before his desk.  "Thank you for coming so promptly, sir.  May I have some tea brought for you?"

James nodded his thanks, lips split in a thin smile. "Gladly. That is most kind of you, Commodore. My thanks." If it irked to speak his own title to a different man, he showed no outward reaction. He stood up straight, distinctly military. "Admiral."

Winthrop turned lazy eyes on him.  "Please sit down, Norrington.  Commodore Archer, could you spare us your office."  It was not a question and Archer's face was expressionless as he bowed and withdrew.  Winthrop sipped at his tea, wrinkling his nose at it.  "I must say, it was quite a shock to have you walk into Port Royal, pretty as you please after being gone for the better part of this year."

He was one of those men in the Admiralty whose only experience shipboard was seasickness on the crossing from England.  Intensely disliked in London, he had been foisted on Nassau for lack of any other suitable place to dispose of him.  The fact that he was a titled aristocrat with an inbred heritage of some two centuries did not lessen the fact that he was entirely useless and barely decorative.  Unfortunately, he was not inane enough to be unaware of these matters and took his spite out on his Caribbean underlings.

James took his seat and eyed the Admiral, smiling pleasantly. "I apologise for the difficulties my absence has created, yet its reasons were beyond my control. I returned as soon as I possibly could, which I considered my duty. I realise that seven months is a long time, but the voyage to the Indian Ocean also is long."

"Yes, that is as it may be, but this story of yours...you say you were impressed.  As regrettable as that is, you cannot provide any proof of the matter.  Captain Hamilton cannot vouch for your tale.  You have no witnesses.  In the interests of justice and order, the Navy cannot allow its officers to simply disappear and reappear as they see fit."  Winthrop's affected drawl was all the more irritating for its studied disinterest.

James' lips set into a thin line and he bit the inside of his cheek. "The only matter I saw fit, Sir, is that of my reappearance. My disappearance lay not within my power. If Captain Hamilton were to vouch for the truth of the matter, he would accuse himself of a crime, and with respect, Sir, criminals do not have the honour to do so for the sheer sake of honesty."

Winthrop stifled a yawn in a lace handkerchief and dabbed at a droplet of sweat gathering at his temple.  It left a faint smudge of powder on the linen.  "That may be true, but the problem is moot.  Impressment is a delicate matter and the Navy itself uses the practise at times.  It would not be politic to raise such a question when recruitment is difficult enough amid all these merchantment."

He stretched out his legs and set the cup and saucer on Archer's desk with exaggerated care.  It would not be amiss to say that he was enjoying a heroic officer's discomfiture.  "What I mean t'say, sir, is that the Navy itself declared you dead after four months missing.  Of course, your pension and backpay can be reverted to you, but that is a personal matter you must pursue in the courts.  Clearly, you are alive and something can be arranged."

James fought back the urge to grind his teeth. "As you said, Sir, clearly I am alive. The matter of my finances, while necessary, is not the reason I am here. I returned to Port Royal because I am an officer of His Majesty's Royal Navy and I take pride in that. I have every wish to return to serving England. Surely, the Navy cannot afford to lose its officers to a common criminal."

He drew in a careful breath. "Neither am I injured nor in any other way incapable of fulfilling my duty. I only wish to be given the opportunity to do so."

"Certainly, the Navy cannot afford to lose officers, but when officers go missing for no apparent reason, they surely have little need of such.  And no one in London will care to take up a cause based on a rumour of impressment.  I suggest you attend to your financial dilemma, sir.  Your commission died when you were declared deceased and I see no reason to cause His Majesty's service undue embarrassment by dragging it before an Admiralty court."

Winthrop smiled maliciously and peered through his glass.  "Of course, you can travel to London and try to explain yourself, but I doubt the results would be in any way different.  Consider yourself a civilian, Mister Norrington.  It would be easier on all persons involved and a very dreadful thing to put a man who went missing over such an unconfirmed scandal in charge of any command."

He returned to his tea, as if to say 'Begone'.

There were many things James could have said: repeated that it had not been his fault, that he failed to see embarrassment and scandal in the cards fate had dealt him, that he didn't think the Navy should rightly lose an officer they had once called one of their best and who had not changed. That he was not cut out for life as civilian, that he needed a purpose and that the sea had been that purpose for the greatest part of his life.

But he did not. Many things he might have lost, but not his pride. He would not beg or grovel at a misplaced aristocrat's feet. Let Winthrop see what he would in Norrington's eyes, there would be no word of it. A civilian had no need for military protocol, but it was with a moribund glee that he stood to attention and saluted. "If you will excuse me then, Sir."

The Admiral waved one soft, white hand without a word.

Outside the door, Elias Archer was grinding his teeth and wondered how in hell the Navy managed to stay afloat with idiots like Winthrop in charge.  Much more of it and the pride of England would degenerate into a seagoing copy of its Army.

He silently fell into step with James down the corridor, only speaking when they were long out of earshot of his office.  "Norrington, I am sorrier than you can know.  But do not despair.  I will write London about this matter."

James' eyes had been set firmly on the stone floor, focused on pace after pace. He looked up and forced a smile which tightened when his lip began to tremble. "My most sincere thanks, Commodore, but I have been assured that such an attempt will not be necessary. I shall not force my services where they are not wanted." There it was again, his pride, perhaps his downfall, but if nobody else upheld it for him, only he could.

Archer swore savagely under his breath and laid one hand on Norrington's arm.  "Rest assured, sir, that snivelling bit of Thameside tripe will not have the last word in this.  I will spare no effort until I see you have justice, not only for your sake, sir.  For the Navy's.  Do not lose heart, Commodore." 

He was seething, but helpless to fight Winthrop without addressing the circuitous channels of the Admiralty.  The man was a blight on the service, more than deserving of a good thrashing, of that Archer was sure. For now, all he could do was offer his aid and any consolation a brave man ill-used might require.  "Is there anything at all I can do, sir?"

James sighed, swallowed his pride and nodded. "Only one matter, Commodore. I understand the Dauntless is now your ship. Know that she is a fine vessel and I have no doubt she will serve you as well as she did me. Hence my request." His eyes closed briefly, then opened again. "I should very much like the possibility to be aboard her once more, even if only in port."

Archer thought he had never seen any officer so deserving of the title as he watched Norrington's stricken eyes beneath a fiercely stoic mask.  "Of course, sir.  Is there any among your officers that you would care to escort you?"

Archer was a good man, a seasoned captain of years who believed in justice as simple as a sword and had not needed to learn how politics could divert and pollute it. Not long ago, James had believed the same, but the past weeks had been a hard school. "Your support truly means a lot to me, Commodore. You have my most sincere thanks and I wish I could express them otherwise than with simple words. An escort will not be necessary. I'd rather... be alone for now."

"Take your time, sir.  And I promise you that this will come before the Admiralty."  He sighed and scratched under his wig.  "God knows they take their time about things, but I will not rest until you have justice.  Be patient and attend to your financial matters.  And, sir?  I hope that you will consider me a friend.  I am proud to have met you and should you have need of me in any fashion, do not hesitate to ask me for any help a fellow officer might give."

Sympathy should not grate on him any further. Yet all James could think of was how he could have sunk so low that he needed pity from a senior officer. There was not one word Archer said to which he could object, but they all dug deeper into a wound brutally ripped open. "Once more, my thanks. I am... I am glad to see that Port Royal is in good hands." He forced another smile. "Please excuse me now."

He barely waited for Archer's reply, tearing through the courtyard. He strode up to the parapet, not one marine daring to stop him.

It was quiet up there, only the wind hissing into his face with the unmistakable taste of salt. It seemed wrong that it should not tousle his hair and so James unpinned the wig and let the wind wreak its havoc, tearing strands from his queue and tossing them into his face. He could overlook the sea, the harbour with the Navy ships sitting proudly on the waves.

All this he had once considered his. His duty, his responsibility, but also his vocation. That which he had done all his life. And now should it be taken from him, through no fault of his own? He'd fought the impressment; done all he could to return, only to find that everything he fought for no longer waited for him. Port Royal had mourned a Commodore, they did not want one back. 'Better to have thought him dead,' he'd not heard those words but sensed them often enough, accused of shaming his own memory, the memory of a hero.

And now? Oh, he'd heard the rumours well enough, had heard them on Winthrop's lips this very morning: the Navy did not need a Commodore who simply left and returned as he pleased. The truth, obviously, had very little weight when put against a city's worth of gossip. Certainly, Jack and the others would make fine witnesses, minutes ‘ere they'd be strung up for piracy. He laughed bitterly and could feel rather than see one of the marines turn and stare at him for a split second.

To speak ill of the dead was improper, to do the same to a living man the everyday lifeblood of whatever called itself polite society. The glee of misery, a fine entertainment for those who knew not what it meant to stand aboard a ship's deck and fight to ensure this very port's safety. It seemed particularly ironic that those who before had licked his heels the most were those to now speak worst of him, that they'd always known that 'something about that Norrington was strange'.

James closed his eyes, let the wind rush past his face; listened to the waves rushing and breaking against the cliff below. Wild and unpredictable, that at least had not changed. The sound was the same, slowing and speeding, as a heartbeat would.

He had not expected this. Oh, certainly he'd expected gossip and plenty of it, but that it would die down quickly, after he had been reinstated as Commodore. That he would not had never so much as occurred to him. It was his job, he was trained to fulfill it and to have it torn from him made him feel empty, as though a vital part of himself were missing. And it was. It sat down there on the Dauntless where she rocked on the waves, it fluttered in the Union Jack hoisted proudly above him, but no longer granted to him.

What had he received in turn? Spite, proscription like that of a wanted criminal. He'd returned to his home, but Port Royal no longer was a home to him. The rare pity was yet worse, reminding him all too much of what he had lost. What would they say if he answered that nothing of the impressment had been worse than this? That even the strokes of the cat had less impact than this?

Hamilton had stolen his time, his work, but Port Royal stole his duty, his dedication and trampled on it as if it were more worthless than that of a dead man. And now they also wanted to take his pride.

His hand tightened in the white curls, his eyes closed tightly. He stood like that for a while longer, listening only to his breathing, to the rush of the waves, anger searing through him. It had no aim and trickled away like grape shot spilled in the vast ocean. There was no single man he could blame. Even Winthrop stood only for a larger opinion. It did not stop his anger, his desperation and he bit down on it, stifling the urge to return to the office, remove all the items that were his and toss them into the sea where they belonged.

It was more than an hour later that he straightened, settled the wig and strode away, chin held high, meeting every single gaze. Let them see, let them talk, let Port Royal's gossipmongers know that they would not have his surrender. They had not broken him.

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