White Admiral 1

Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean and such all property of Disney.
Originally Posted: September, 2006
Note: Good lord, I have no sense of self control. Will, however, hopefully manage to keep these into a short series of ficlets. -__-
Summary: First meetings.

Port Royal. Or New Port Royal, he supposed, remembering some vague detail from one of the recently appointed Governor Swann's incessant attempts at small talk throughout the voyage, the old one having been quite ruined by some sort of earthquake. Certainly it looked quite neatly planned out, as befitting a newer town—the busy docks led naturally into wide, paved streets thronged with merchants, townsfolk, and gaily-clad marines. There was even a reception—a group of brightly colored ladies and somber-coated men, grouped near the wharf that the Interceptor was docking at. Fans and perfumed handkerchiefs kept the less welcome scents of any harbor at bay (fish and refuse). Here to see and receive the new colonial Governor and his lovely daughter, no doubt.

Harbor crowded mostly with Naval ships—though near the end of the docks was berthed a galleon that stood out in sharp contrast from the others. A black ship, the furled sails the same ebony hue—and at the mainmast, a very distinctive white pennant danced in the breeze. James frowned, and glanced quickly back at the harbor, picking out the dark blue coats of midshipmen, but no elaborate Admiralty finery.

His searching gaze picked out an odd little heap atop two large crates at the edge of the wharf. James squinted, then blinked as a midshipman with clean, honest features, wearing his deep blue uniform with fussy neatness, marched up to him from the gangway and saluted smartly. "Sir! Welcome to Port Royal."

"Thank you," He nodded absently, his gaze pulled back to the black ship with the white flag. "The Admiral of the White is in port?"

"Oh yes. He's just over there, sir." The midshipman pointed. James looked. No elaborately embroidered blue coats.

"The Admiral of the White?" Miss Swann appeared at his elbow, her eyes wide and all but shining with excitement. "He's here?"

"Uh. Yes miss," the junior officer glanced at James for guidance, unsure as to how to deal with slightly improper and disturbingly enthusiastic young ladies of breeding. "He is, after all, based in Port Royal. Has to greet the Lieutenant, miss."

"Who's that?" the pup they had picked up during the voyage—one young William Turner—piped in. During the trip the two children had predictably struck up a sort of shy friendship, not having anyone else of their age aboard. James was relieved that the boy, at least, seemed to have curbed the young Miss Swann's tendency towards wheedling pirate stories out of the crew—his eyes always hardened at the very mention. Unsurprising, given the very nature of how they had come across him out at sea. Still, he made a very unlikely companion to the very sensibly, fashionably frocked Miss Swann, with his oversized clothes borrowed off the smallest of the crew—the too-long shirt cuffs swallowed small fingers.

"The youngest Admiral in history," Miss Swann said brightly, full of endearingly childish pleasure at the prospect of sharing lurid gossip with her new friend. "Admiral Jack Sparrow!"

"The Luck of God," Mister Gibbs intoned from where he stood at the steps to the helm, in what James thought was an excessively melodramatic manner. "Aye, that's what Admiral Sparrow is. The Luck of God."

James' plans for a dignified arrival at his assigned post were quickly being derailed. He cleared his throat, cutting through the children's conspicuous curiosity at the intriguing tidbit of information from the highly superstitious and theatrical Mister Gibbs. "Miss Swann, perhaps you should accompany your father, no doubt he's been looking for you. Mister Gibbs, please take Mister Turner to the harbor official and explain his... circumstances. And Mister..."

"Mister Gillette will introduce me to the Admiral." Hard green eyes dared anyone to object. Suitably cowed, the children and Mister Gibbs retreated to the relative safety of Governor Swann. James sighed, and nodded at the midshipman, following him down the gangway, inclining his head at saluting and curious marines.

Still no distinctive coat, hat or wigged person. James supposed that in this infernal heat, so far from London, the Admiral could simply be out of uniform—especially if he had just docked before the Interceptor. Yes, that was likely it—they had arrived days ahead of schedule, after all, and it was still fairly early in the day, just after breakfast. The man had probably rushed down in his haste to greet the new Governor without changing. He looked thoughtfully at the flock of somberly dressed dignitaries, and was debating between the Admiral being a very thin, elegantly dressed man with nervous fingers or the short, maroon-coated man with darting eyes, when he realized that he was being led in another direction. Towards the crates.

EIC crates, one stacked on top of the other—the three-pronged logo emblazoned on rough wood bound with fraying ropes. Sugar, perhaps... or spice from India—closer up, he could make out 'Bombay' picked out in curling script. From this angle and distance, the odd heap resolved into what looked like two dangling boots, white breeches and an outstretched, tanned, scarred hand. The sounds of gentle snoring, and the soft mewl of a cat. Some dockworker, no doubt, exhausted by early morning labors. At least the man had the forethought to pillow his head on his... heavily embroidered... blue coat...

Mister Gillette was already next to the crate, rapping at the wood sharply, not noticing James' expression of open-mouthed shock. "Sir? Wake up. Lieutenant Norrington is here, sir."

The snoring changed note, and there was a mumbled, "... I'd have me tea wi' brandy..."

A slender man was sprawled over the top of the crate, Navy lace cuffs pushed up to his elbows, gold-buttoned white shirt half open to expose browned flesh. Black hair, bound loosely at the nape of his neck, was in an unruly tangle over a white headscarf. A longhaired white cat sat over white breeches, delicately padding to the edge of the crate and peering at Gillette, then James, with blue-eyed, icy disdain as it began to wash a paw.

Admiral Sparrow was disconcertingly unshaven, and as he stretched and yawned, rolling over to his side, James noticed gold teeth with frozen, horrified clarity. There was a strange pentagonal black compass, attached to his belt with a heavy silver chain. A red sash was looped loosely around slender hips. His mind refused to register the sheer volume of unexpected detail, let alone what it may connotate.

He'd expected a degree of informality, so far from London, but this was a... a... travesty.

"Someone's set fire to the Black Pearl, sir!" Gillette pitched his tone sharply, with just the right amount of panicky urgency. Admiral Sparrow sat up so quickly that the cat dodged away, hissing in displeasure. Dark eyes were wild as they scanned his surroundings, then he relaxed with a deep breath as he picked out the black ship in the distance, turning his face up towards the sun.

"Good God, man, someday ye'd definitely give me a bloody heart attack," he rubbed his eyes, yawning again. His voice had an odd burr in it that fit a common sailor more than someone who had attained one of the highest ranks in His Majesty's Navy. As outrageous as the rest of... of... and James' mind was running out of appropriate words.

"So what'd ye be waking me up for, man?" the Admiral was complaining, his voice plaintive.

"Admiral Sparrow—Lieutenant Norrington," Gillette introduced with unflappable formality, despite the obvious rumpled... undress... of his commander. "Posted here from London. You got the memo. Sir. Remember? That's why you came down to the docks this morning?"

"Oh. Right, right. Yer that uh... Lieutenant... Balthie's? Batty's? The replacement... eh..."

"I knew that, Mister Gillette. Lieutenant Barnsby's replacement. Good man. No luck wi' dodging cannon fire, of course, but... so." Sparrow swung his legs up to sit facing James, cross-legged, oddly tanned hands clasped loosely before him, revealing fingers heavily adorned with silver and gold gemmed rings, looking him once over searchingly, then he grinned, as if James had just satisfied a test. "Lieutenant Norrington. Pleased t'meet ye." He scratched his head, tilting his head, eyes flickering down to the water as his brow furrowed. "Eh, I knew a Norrington..."

"That'd be my father, sir," James said cautiously, too aware of how dazed he sounded. "He spoke well of you."

"An' how's he?" Sparrow was climbing down from the crate, balancing precariously on the tiny ledge provided by the second crate as he pulled on the embroidered white and gold inner coat, handing the heavy outer traveling coat to Gillette. The white cat he cradled in the crook of his arm.

"In good health, back in London," James said automatically, still far too off-balance from the shock of first impressions. Lord John Norrington had described Admiral Sparrow in brief but glowing terms, rare for the dour man, of his tactical ability and effortless air of command, and of the luck (skill, his father had emphasized, his nose wrinkling in aristocratic disdain at the very idea of common superstition) in naval battles that had given him his popularized nickname in London society. The Luck of God. As famous as the black flagship that the Admiral was reportedly so attached to that he'd summarily refused, despite the promotion, to give up command.

"Good t'hear," Sparrow said brightly, finally a little shakily on ground level, extending a hand to shake. A callused, dry grip, then wandering dark eyes took in the Interceptor. "Fine ship. Yers?"

"That's not the same as bein' told," Sparrow said mournfully, "How am I s'posed t'go through all that paper for all these wee details? Should be that ye knows what I needs to know, and what I don't, aye?" A quick glance at James, and a bright, gold-toothed smile. "Though now that we have a Lieutenant again... how good are ye at administrative detail, eh?"

"Great! When yer settled, Gillette will show ye all that pesky paper that shouldn't really be botherin' an Admiral, Admirals having very Admirally things t'do by themselves, that Lieutenants an' midshipmen don't need t'know about. Cheers." Sparrow waved absently, and began wandering down the wharf in a boneless swagger that was decidedly un-Navy-like, headscarf and sash twisting in the sea breeze—in fact, if James was inclined to be crude or snide, he might even have termed the sashaying hips... unmanly. (If hypnotic. And rather... no. James refused to consider that highly random and inappropriate line of thought any further.) He blamed the stifling heat of the morning sun, and the bad shock he'd just received to his view of the world.

"T'anyone important, yer t'say that I've gone off t'do somethin' properly Admirally, of course. Say I'm... eh... inspecting the fort cannons. Use yer imagination. Privately, though, I'm off t'me Pearl t'get a proper nap. Now that all the business of greeting me new Lieutenant is over wi', 'ey?"

There was a sigh. "You're supposed to greet the new Governor, sir. As well. We told you this yesterday. And the day before. And before that."

"What? He's here already?" Sparrow pouted (pouted!), as Gillette handed him the heavy coat. The cat leaped down nimbly onto the docks, purring as it rubbed against the back of bucket-topped boots that were definitely not part of a normal Admiral's uniform.

"The Governor was to arrive with the new... pardon me, sir, with Lieutenant Norrington, sir." Gillette said wearily, though James gathered from the dynamic that this was a situation that the midshipman was far too used to. "We told you that. Remember? Yesterday? After lunch?"

Sparrow swayed on his feet, tapping at his bearded chin as he thought about this, then shrugged. "Must of slipped me mind. Where's me hat?"

A marine hurried out from the neat redcoated ranks standing at ease before the Interceptor with a large gold-edged blue hat, which Jack put on his head, then buttoned up his shirt and inner coat, looking a little more respectable. No amount of brocade could, however, bury that intrinsically roguish nature—James watched Jack saunter towards the Governor and Miss Swann with bemusement, and dipped his head, muttering, "Should have taken the post to the Indies."

There was a chuckle—James realized with some mortification that Gillette had still been close enough to overhear him. "Funny. That's what Barnsby said when he first met the Admiral, too."

"He's just so... so..." Like a comic parody of an officer, James wanted to say, but managed to hold his tongue.

"You'll get used to him, sir," Gillette said wryly. "But you have to sail with him to understand."

"Why he is who he is." A pause that toed the edge of insubordination. "Sir." The midshipman met green eyes evenly.

James turned away, watching the renowned Admiral of the White greet Governor Swann with fluttering fingers that recalled to mind an uncoordinated dancer, then Miss Swann, who, predictably, with her irrepressible nature immediately (judging from the Governor's expression) asked some questions inappropriate to a young lady of breeding. Sparrow, however, merely laughed uproariously, then removed his hat and placed it on her head—inciting a delighted, girlish laugh and a cough of mortification from the Governor. The man was a... a clown.

But one who somehow managed to incite obvious, fierce loyalty from his men, judging from Gillette's attitude and how the other marines stood around their commander—watchful, wary, protective. Intriguing. Illogical, but intriguing.

Gillette inclined his head, recognizing and acceding to the extended truce. "I'm sure you'd like to look around the fort, sir. This way, please."

White Admiral 1

First Impressions