Pirate Vindaloo, Chapter 24

Into the Depths

by

Hippediva & Elessil

Patience. He'd always thought he possessed that virtue, but it had been far stretched by the past month, by waiting and hoping only to have that hope brutally crushed; by having to depend on another's help and being completely and utterly useless for anything other than the entertainment of gossipmongers. His commission was gone. The Navy wanted him no longer.

Strange, to think that the Navy incorporated all he'd wanted, ever since he'd first set foot aboard a ship, ever since he'd borne the disapproving protests of his mother against his decision to go to sea. He wondered if she had cried when she had read of his death. She had declared him moribund the moment he had accepted the transfer into the Caribbean to reach his captaincy years earlier than if he had stayed. Still, how was it to read of a son's death? Would she also think him better dead and a hero, than alive and a disgrace?

He shook his head harshly. Had he really sunk this low already, to pathetic self-pity? He was alive, he was healthy and a very restricted but loyal circle of friends stood by his side. Still, he could not rely solely on their help, be a parasite in the Governor's mansion until his pension was transferred back to him and then thrive from it in a small house where he would wither away from boredom. It was pure horror to think of a life without a purpose, yet that was all that stood before him.

More than twenty years in the service did not fade quickly. The twelve-year-old boy had not known where else to go, and the thirty-three year old man knew not a thing more. Enlist as a common tar and look up to his former subordinates as superiors; complete his fall from grace? Give fencing lessons and with every student think of Matthew and the children he would never have, because no lady wished for her daughter to marry a fallen star?

James opened his eyes and stared at his hands. They were the same they had always been, bearing many a new callous, but they could still hold his sword as well as they always had, could still haul on a line when necessity required it, could still lift in the Navy's proud salute. Nobody wanted that of him anymore. Nobody wanted anything of him anymore, except to be as unobtrusive as possible and best disappear entirely.

He sat up with a hiss  and paced the room. They had robbed all that had been his and now reached for all that he was. The Navy had been his home. It was no longer, but that did not mean he knew what else could be.

Whichever way he approached the question in the days following, he found no satisfactory answer. The news from the Fort had travelled fast and only served to intensify any behaviour towards him. Where before there had been muted spite, it now showed even more openly, without fear of retribution. Where there had been pity, it was displayed yet more strongly, and where James had brooded, he now kept to himself as much as he could without appearing rude to his host.

One morning, the salty breeze through his window became too much to bear, and instead of simply staring, he went down to the docks. The far part not restricted to the military reeked of dead fish and sweat, but when he sat on one of the logs, he could see the Dauntless bob on the waves, a proud shape against the bright sunlight.

Lieutenant Groves hesitated before approaching his former commander.  He was appalled by the recent turn of events, as was every officer who had served under James Norrington.  He swallowed hard and remembered his orders from Commodore Archer and saluted sharply.  "Sir?"

James looked up and let his hand, half-lifted in a salute, fall. He smiled and bowed his head. "Lieutenant."

"Sir, I have orders to escort you to the Dauntless, if you desire.  And damn it to hell that I cannot do it under your command."

James chuckled. "Thank you, Groves. Much as I appreciate the sentiment, I doubt that Commodore Archer is any more delighted about your loose tongue than I was." He slid down from the log and straightened, staring at the fort, then the Dauntless. "I would appreciate it."

Groves fell into step with him, stealing glances with a worried frown.  Norrington's face was pinched, tanned dark lines etched too deeply around his mouth and on his brow.  "Commodore, sir?  James?  I-I am so sorry."

James closed his eyes and shook his head, but then thought better. His lips pursed into a grin and he nodded at the boat, chuckling. "Lieutenant, do not tell me that leaky thing has still not been replaced."

Groves grinned at him and hid the concern in his eyes.  He knew James well enough to know that the man's pride was already in tatters and he would not for the world add to that burden.  "You know how it is.  A real minute or a Navy minute.  You don't mind your boots getting a bit damp?"

"If I start shrieking like a lady, you will know it was the unusually cold seawater on my landlubber toes." He jumped into the boat and sat himself down with an expectant grin. "You cannot expect a civilian to row, can you?"

Theodore laughed as he manned the oars.  "Wouldn't dream of allowing it, sir," he winked and pulled out into the harbour.  The Dauntless' huge bulk loomed above them, casting a chill shadow over the small jollyboat.  "Shall I have her raised?"

James grabbed a line, both eyebrows raised. "Up to the rail, or are you afraid of losing to a man who will receive his pension in a few months' time?"

"You're on!"  Groves grabbed a line and they raced up the side, speed rather impeded by their laughter.  The lieutenant clambered over the rail well after James and shook his head.  "Whatever you've been doing, it's certainly made you limber!  By God, you're faster than Jolly Pete!"

James winked and barked a laugh, then turned to the young Lieutenant rushing to greet him with a faultless salute. "Sir! It's an honour to have you aboard. You are free to go where you please, but we're having the foc'sle caulked, so you'd best mind your step there."

Groves took his place among them, escorting James only as far as the mainmast, then dropping back to let him continue alone.  The others took their cue from his posture and remained at attention.

James barely spared them another glance. It was as if something drew him to the quarterdeck, up the stairs, the handrail smooth and warm from the sun. He stood perfectly still for a long while, eyes closed until he could see a different scene: himself, standing at the helm, but the wind catching in the sails, the sails billowing, speeding a ship that appeared slow and bulky into an easy grace. Eyes still closed he reached out, the spokes gliding under his hands. They, too, were warm, but not as smooth, and there they were; the four half-moons his nails had dug into the wood, when he had clutched at the wheel for dear life during a fierce squall.

There was a strange peace in standing here, in his place, even if he knew he could not stay. Even if he knew it was a one-time favour, an illusion of what he had lost. It was a ridiculous notion with all the men watching from a respectful distance, but he bent down and lightly kissed that one spoke. "Farewell, my Dauntless. You have been a fine companion through all these years. I will miss you."

He looked up and straightened, the sharp lines of his face clear and set with determination, as they had been in any battle and he strode down the stairs without a glance back. "My thanks, Lieutenant. You have kept her in fine shape. Give Commodore Archer my thanks."

Every hand on deck was raised in salute.  Groves stepped forward and dismissed the men formally, before rejoining Norrington near the rail.  "James, what will you do whilst Commodore Archer waits to hear from London?"  His voice was low.

James looked up and shrugged. "I do not know, Theodore." Then, again, barely audible, "I do not know." There was a long silence as they climbed down, then the regular lapping of the oars against the water.

He cleared his throat. "Where are the ships in harbour bound?"

The lieutenant's eyes raked over his passenger's back sharply.  "The two down to the east are heading for the colonies.  There are several small boats that have mail runs and the larger vessels are Dutch, headed to the Guyanas."  He grinned at the nape of James' neck.  "It would depend upon where one wanted to go.  The ramshackle sloop heads to Hispaniola and the smaller islands."

James nodded, turning around after a second. "I see trade is running well."

"Busier than ever.  Makes the harbour seems small, doesn't it?  James, will you let me know what you plan to do?  I should not wish to lose your friendship."  His eyes were steady.  "Should you require anything at all of me, you need only ask."

"It is better you do not know, for both our sakes." The boat beached and James climbed out to tie it off. He offered his hand to Groves and clasped his tightly. "I am more grateful for your friendship than you will ever know, Theodore. And I will not forget it."

Groves grasped his hand, grinning down at the callouses.  "I'm sure you have something in mind.  Do write me, James.  And good luck.  Sir!"  He saluted.

This time, James returned it. "Fair winds to you, Theodore." Another smile, then he turned and trotted up the gravel path. He had made a decision, and if that decision was 'not Port Royal', then so be it.

Lieutenant Groves watched his long stride until he rounded a corner and disappeared from view.  He rowed back to his responsibilities and promised himself to rescue Norrington's portrait, now stuffed amid the junk cluttering the Mess lumber room.  It wasn't fit that it should remain in such a place and he would not forget that honour burned brightest under clouds.

Back in his room, James tugged at the bindings of his duffle for the first time since he had returned, the rope stiff with dried salt water. There were only his old breeches and a shirt in it. Or so he thought. Beneath the shirt, wedged into one leg of the breeches, there was a heavy pouch, and as he opened it, gold coins spilled over his lap, at least three dozen, silver winking among them like slivers of the moonlight fighting against dawn.

Jack. James had told him that he needed no share of a pirate raid, but obviously Jack had seen the matter differently. It was not as much as Jack had attempted to urge on him, but enough for a comfortable life of many years if he could only explain whence it came.

A fraction of it would suffice to finance his endeavour, but what to do with the rest? Give it to Swann or Elizabeth and make them, too, believe there was more to his absence than he admitted? Inevitably, it would draw attention, and attention was something he could not afford. They wanted James Norrington to quietly disappear again, and so James Norrington would do just that.

He took dinner with the Governor, impatient and melancholic, just as he'd been when he had left England all those years ago. As they shared a brandy afterwards, he half-wished to speak, to thank Swann again and bid his farewells, but he did not. Instead he returned to his room, quietly waiting until the bustling ceased and everyone went to sleep. Then he rose, and dressed in his old clothes. The blue coat was rolled into his duffle,  the suit Swann had paid for lay neatly folded on the bed. Without a glance back at his borrowed existence, he slipped out of the room, up to the Governor's study to leave a letter on his desk.

It said little, but James would not leave without a single word. He had tried to express his gratitude for the aid, had begged forgiveness for the abruptness of his departure and wished Swann and his daughter well. It was all that needed to be said, and honesty demanded it be written.

It was quiet as he snuck down the stairs, feeling like a thief when all he did was remove his unwished-for presence from Port Royal.

It took him half an hour to arrive at the docks, slipping through narrow alleys where no one would spare him a closer look. He walked along the harbour until he found the Julietta, the little sloop bound for Hispaniola carrying mail, and, James bet, as he saw how low she lay in the water, a load of smuggled goods.

There were two watches on deck and James stood still until he had their attention. "Ahoy, Julietta."

"Ahoy there.  Who is't?"  Several faces leaned out in the darkness, a lantern bobbing to one side.

Another beacon wobbled down the gang and James was staring into a weathered face, dark blue eyes winking from a net of wrinkles.  "Who are ya?"

James stared back coolly. "A paying passenger who needs to get to Hispanola." His voice dropped low. "Or better yet, Tortuga."

"Wot's yer business there, mate?  An' how much?"  The eyes had narrowed suspiciously but greed was a powerful motivator.

"I fail to see how my business concerns you any more than yours does me." James slipped his hand into the pocket in which he had stored the silver coins and pulled out one, flipped it, then pocketed it again.

"Right enough.  We sail at dawn an' ye'll have t'kip wi' the quartermaster.  Two days, three mebbe if that squall promises t'rise.  M'name's Walker.  Cap'n.  Yer's?"

James took Walker's hand and grinned. "Norbury."

"Climb aboard, Mr. Norbury.  Victuals ain't included but yer welcome to a dram."  Walker leaned in close and his breath reeked of rum.

"I am not thirsty." James climbed aboard and remained awake until they put out with the morning tide and Port Royal grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

The crew of the Julietta was small but watchful and James was not their only passenger.  There was a young woman with a swelling belly headed to Hispaniola and a young man with a large head and spectacles who stuttered going to Santo Domingo.  Both remained belowdecks for the short trip.  The weather held and they made port just as the sunlight spilled over the streets of Tortuga, illuminating excrement and garbage both sentient and otherwise.

Walker took his payment with a grin.  "Careful there, mate.  Heard tell there's birds flyin' about this 'ere island again."

James only arched an eyebrow, fist clenching in his coat's pocket. "Do you refer to that Sparrow? I heard tell he disappeared more than half a year past."

The wrinkled face was expressionless but Walker's blue eyes twinkled.  "Never can tell.  Word was he's been seen about.  Coulda been someone else.  Comin' in wi' one ship, leavin' on another and back again.  Must be migratin' season."  His grin stretched to his missing molars.  "We're leavin' t'morra if ya decide t'move on.  Fair winds."

“My thanks, Captain, but I have no wish to be aboard when the Navy picks you up and finds what you have stored in that hold." James grinned without mirth, and the next moment he vanished into the crowd of Tortuga, greeted by the famous (or infamous, depending who was asked) odour.

It was never difficult to find the most popular tavern in a port. At any time, one needed only to see where the steady trail of drunkards emerged, rather like following a river upstream. Indeed, this method quickly took James to the Faithful Bride, where, upon opening the door, his boots nearly collided with a man sleeping off his inebriation while his mates were still carousing vivaciously. Sunrise in Tortuga.

The sounds and smells within were much the same by day or night.  Shouts and singing, complaints about service or cards, whoops of laughter and the stink of humanity, ill-masked under sweetgrass and sawdust.  There was another smell mingled with bad cooking and stale drink, indefinable but insistent:  the smell of money.

It was no different from the sailors' taverns James had frequented in foreign ports, but certainly a far cry from the establishments in which Port Royal had seen its commodore. Most important were quick reflexes. On his way to the bar he ducked a flying boot, two bottles and dozens of fists. Jack wasn't among those drinking, nor those snoring beneath tables. He had not expected it with neither the Pearl nor the Chimaera in port, but still he checked every face twice.

The keep seemed upright and capable of coherent speech, which put him ahead of the others in the tavern.

"I am looking for a room."

The keep stared over his shoulder. "Got two.  Tuppence fer two hours, wif th' gel."  He squinted at James and plopped a tankard down in front of him.  "An' a drink."

"I'll take the drink, and one of the rooms." James took a large swallow. "For two weeks. Alone."

The keep's red eyes widened.  "Two weeks?  Yer mad!"  They narrowed.  "Wot fer?  An' I want it in advance."

James' hand disappeared into one of his pockets and he pulled out one golden coin, sheltered in his palm and gleaming at the keep for a split second before he closed his hand around it and could see the gleam mirrored in greed. He leaned closer still. "A few more like this and I could likely buy the whole establishment," he sneered.

He remembered Bertie's haggling in Bombay and offered derisively, “A quarter of it for a room for two weeks, including all that I may eat and drink."

“Three-quarters."

“Half."

“Half and a tenth part."

James raised an eyebrow.  “Done."

Old Crowls' beady gaze brightened and his red face puffed like a blowfish.  "Come in th'back."  He shoved aside a leather curtain and jerked his thumb at James.

"After you." James followed, eyes fixed on the keep's hand, his own ready to grab for his sword at the slightest indication of foul play.

Crowls pushed a scale onto the scarred table of his 'office' as the locals called it.  The small space was heavy with the smell of rum emanating from the racked barrels against the walls.  He tossed a small knife down beside it, filled two earthenware cups and sat down, nodding at the other chair.  "Two weeks is a long time hereabouts.  Y'lookin' fer a berth?"

He tossed a few weights into the scale.

James fought down every instinct in himself and sat down, weighing the whole coin before taking the knife to it. "One might say so." He forced himself to concentrate and removed weight after weight from the one scale pan, then put the half-coin on the other, adding another tiny piece until the scales were balanced, his fingertips gleaming.

Crowls watched the proceedings with one eye and slurped down his rum.  "Plenty o' work t'be had.  Crawfish headin' north again and birds flyin' round and round.  Ye can prob'ly find sumpthin' fast.  Yer name, sailor?  I be Dick Crowls."  He stuck out a hand a big as a ham.

James raised his eyebrows and took it. "James Norbury. And I am not looking for work on just any ship." That was all that he would say on the matter. He emptied his mug and slammed it onto the table.

Crowls examined the gold carefully, bit on one piece, leaving teethmarks in the soft metal before pocketing it.  "Understood, mate."  He filled their mugs again.  "I'll have Clary fix up th' best room fer ya.  You be wantin' yer meals here or upstairs?  Can't always promise it, if she's got custom."

James shook his head. "I will take them here.  What I do want upstairs is a basin of fresh water each morning."

"As ye wish.  Table t'the back just afore th' snuggery's got the best view o' the place.  Jus' so's ya know."  Crowls lumbered to his feet and pushed the curtain aside.  He returned to the bar, whacking one inebriate off his stool as he passed.

As they emerged, only the most persistent drunkards were still at work. Most had passed out and snored on the dirty floor or sagged in their seats.

James went to his room. It was small but reasonably clean, the bed large and sturdy. At least his gold had bought clean sheets. It would do. He pushed the single chair in front of the door so any intruder would instantly alert him, then pulled off his coat and stretched out on the bed.

The ceiling had likely once been white, and it was still equally interesting to study. So James Norbury had returned, to all appearances a seasoned pirate looking for a berth. He wondered if he could stoop any lower from anything civilised and laughed bitterly.

Eventually, exhaustion took its toll. He had remained awake for most of the journey, knowing that money bred greed and fearing for his safety should Walker decide to see if there was more from where that one coin had come.

His sword lay beside the bed and he slept for most of the day, until the sounds on the street increased in volume. James straightened and retied his hair, pulled the coat on and buckled his sword around his waist. He left his empty duffle in the room as he walked down the narrow, creaking stairs. The tavern seemed almost civilised at this hour. In fact, all guests were still sitting, on chairs no less.

Talk was low and the murky lamplight shed its peculiar glow over the tavern.  The door opened and shut, sometimes swinging wide until a newcomer slammed it shut.  Clary brought James a rough meal of bread and cheese and a bowl of stew, winking at him.

"Anythin' else, luvie?"  Her smiled was disconcerting with its gold and gaps.  Mouth closed, she was really quite pretty, or at least, had been not so very long ago.  "You over there!"  she bellowed over her shoulder.  "Stow it or I'll ram ya one."

"Thank you, Miss. That will be all." James kept his tone cold and aloof, but managed a polite smile, his eyes flickering every time the door opened and closed again. There was long dark hair once and he looked closer,  then slumped back into his chair.

Around him, the Bride fell into its nightly routine of drunken brawls, usually quelled within minutes by Clary or Crowls.  It was a safe zone, as safe as any place in a jungle could be and its owner boasted that there had been but one murder within its walls in the past fourteen years.  That had been when Crowls took over for the deceased owner, who had owed him a considerable sum.  Since then, anyone with sense took their conflicts into the street.

It was rather like the Corn Market in high season, bidding and trading, all manner of business conducted around him openly, but spoken in a kind of gibberish code he was just beginning to comprehend.  No one trusted anyone, therefore all were trusted at the Faithful Bride.

A slender shadow fell over his meal.  "Needin' comp'ny, guv?"

James had reclined against the wall, sipping slowly from his mug. He turned to stare into dark brown eyes, mouth opening for the same refusal he'd offered at least half a dozen whores in the last few hours. Only he swallowed the 'Miss', because standing in front of him was a young man. Strange, how the kohl smeared around his eyes was more disturbing than around women's, strange how it almost made him want to say yes, to run his hands across hard muscle and forget where he was and why. But he only shook his head. "No, thank you."

The boy moved away, another fight broke out and Clary bashed one of the combatants over the head with a trencher that split in two.  The entire place erupted into laughter.  It got later, and the talk around him darker, more dangerous, like a treacherous current stealing beneath smooth seas.

He heard murders plotted, ambushes planned, petty rivalries flare into hostility with a practised ease worthy of the worst Italian popes.

All the time, he did not so much as move from his chair, sipping only enough to keep himself busy, his eyes steadily trained on the door. Long past midnight, there was a face he knew, but couldn't place until he heard the man's Irish cant. Then he remembered:  more than two years ago, one of the Dauntless' crew. A deserter. A man who might recognise him, even without wig and uniform. He cursed under his breath and slipped deeper into shadow, his eyes now dancing between the door and the sailor - Collins, he thought -  who was too busy with his rum and the woman on his arm to take much notice of James in his corner.

Again the late hours bled into morning and the rum eventually defeated even the most victorious pirate in the tavern. James rose and stretched, returning to his room without another word. There was a fresh basin of water and he washed diligently, his hands shaking.

Collins was not his worry. Obviously the man had been distracted, but over the years there had been more than one deserter who likely treated Tortuga as his new port of call, more than one who could recognise him and yield him up to certain death.

It was that fear that made him hesitate going downstairs the next evening, but if he had been meek, he would not have come here in the first place. He took his hat with him, shadowing his face as he sat in his corner and took his meal.

The same world bloomed around him:  'ladies' of unquestioned ill-repute aping manners they did not comprehend, boys and girls running underfoot at all hours, nimble of hand and blinking wide, feral eyes at the man in the corner who never moved.  They left him be once Jemmy got himself caught with a hand in one pocket, facing pair of terrifyingly pale green eyes.

James wordlessly shoved his plate at the boy. He wasn't hungry anyway. Instead, he drank deep from his mug that night, had it refilled again and again with a grim determination. It didn't help. The rum swam in the mug and in front of his eyes, it burned down his throat but it couldn't quench what only fuelled him to further drink: fear, desperation, a dreadful sense of finality.

He drank until he could no longer make sense of it, until every entering figure seemed to sway like Jack and every word sounded like Winthrop's lazy drawl. Then, suddenly, in the early hours of dawn he got to his feet, the chair clattering to the floor as he wavered his way up the stairs and into his room, collapsing next to his bed in a drunken stupor.

Crowls sent Clary to check on his best paying guest in a month and grinned. That doubloon had been the twin of more than one he'd seen cut and weighed in town for the better part of six weeks.  A little bird told him which oyster Mr. James Norbury was waiting to crack.

James woke many hours later, stiff and sore, a blanket drawn around him, the tavern's brawl continuing in his head. He pushed himself up, fell back with a groan and, after a minute's struggle, stumbled to the basin, dunking his head into the cold water until he could at least pry his eyes open.

He was absolutely miserable and wondered how getting drunk had ever appeared to be a good idea. When he went below that night, his hat was pulled even further forward, shading him from the lamplight. As he downed his first and only mug that night, he remembered Jack handing him his flask that one morning, and winced.

In the next days, the whores learned to avoid the choosy customer in the corner who always shook his head at any offer, who even turned away Mary, who could normally choose her tricks as she pleased. The guests learned that no wager could coax him into a card game, that no offer could coax him aboard a ship. He was well aware that there was talk of the strange man who sat in the corner every night, waiting, turning down the allures of excessive drink, of women and men alike, as though there was any other reason why a man would come to Tortuga than to drink and fuck.

James ignored them. He waited and continued to wait. But every morning, when he eventually stretched out on the bed and stared at the ceiling until he fell into a dreamless sleep, a small part of him would wonder what he was doing here, in a place where he certainly did not belong any more than Port Royal. He was no pirate and did not want to be one, so why did he want to wait for Jack? Because he hoped that Jack could perform another miracle and make the past month disappear? He had come here without hope. He had only known that he could not stay in Port Royal any longer, and this, whatever it was, had been his only choice.

And so he would wait. It was all he could do.

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