Chapter Text
A BURNT SHIP.
Out of a fired ship, which by no way
But drowning could be rescued from the flame,
Some men leap'd forth, and ever as they came
Near the foes' ships, did by their shot decay ;
So all were lost, which in the ship were found,
They in the sea being burnt, they in the burnt ship drowned.
John Donne
This is it. The storm raged as he clung to the spar. This is how I'm going to die.
The Dauntless was gone; swamped and foundered after she was brought by the lee. After the tiller broke. After the masts were struck by lightning.
If only they'd gone around the storm.
If only he had turned back.
If only he'd relieved the helmsman sooner.
If. If. If.
James was so tired.
There was pain and there was cold and he was aware of them in the abstract. All his concentration fell on finding enough air to breathe. The ferocity of the storm erased the line between sea and atmosphere. To draw one would bring life, the draw the other would bring death.
His muscles gave out as the wind did. A small part of his lethargic consciousness reflected on the bitter irony of it: that he should drown as the storm gave out.
The spar slipped from his hands. Water closed around his head. A cramp of will seized him and he struck for the surface. He found the strength to break the surface and suck in one good breath. His body came to the end of its endurance. As seawater burned cold in his lungs, his brain rippled with numb panic.
Would Elizabeth mourn him?
Probably not.
And the world went black.
His eyes snapped open. His middle clenched and he spewed seawater all over his lap. Pitiless blue sky glared down. The sun was hot. The heaves struck again and he clawed his way to the side of the boat. Hands restrained him as he vomited the last of his bile.
"Are you all right, sir?"
James looked at the rail between his hands. He was in a longboat.
"We didn't think you'd make it."
Why was he in a longboat? James looked around and saw twelve men, several of
them wounded, a lot of them with their uniforms partially ripped off. All of them looked like drowned rats. All of them stared.
His memory sputtered. Events unrolled in his mind.
Ah. That's right.
Oh, Christ.
He looked to Captain Andrew Gillette. "Is this it?"
"Briggs and I found the longboat," replied the Captain. "We managed to get it righted. We've been picking up men as we've gone… but you were the last, several hours ago."
Nausea welled up inside him. He felt a searing, stabbing, phantom pain, a hollow agony borne of guilt and despair. Twelve faces looked back at him. Five hundred and seventeen men had gone into the water.
Five hundred and seventeen.
He retched. Tears stung his eyes.
"It was Menzenes who found you, sir," said Gillette. "How he spotted you, I don't know. He dragged you up just in time."
"I owe you my thanks," said James.
"Twas nothing, sir. Ain't nothing no one here wouldn't have done." Menzenes looked like hell. A huge knot glowed purple on his head. Splinters from debris embedded in the torn skin.. "If they'd spotted you first."
James looked again at the men in the boat. His control tottered and he reined it in, locking his emotions in place. These men relied on him. He would be their rock, as he always had.
"Report." His words were crisp. "I need count of the wounded and detailed knowledge of their injuries."
They identified the wounded (most of them), administered what first aid was possible (very little), and tallied their supplies (it didn't take long.) James set the least debilitated men to watch, but all of them kept their eyes on the sea, alert to any sign of their missing comrades. There were sharks. A few bodies swirled in their wakes, but no more were found alive.
Darkness fell. The cool of night was a blessed relief, but it reduced their visibility and cloaked them from searching eyes. A small mercy came in the form of a long, gentle rainstorm. Their few containers filled with potable water. James ordered his men to attempt sleep while he took the first watch.
A few hours later Andrew woke with a racking cough. He climbed over the bodies of the others and took a seat next to James.
Norrington took his restless eyes off the sea. They searched the face of his friend. "Are you all right, Andrew?"
"It's nothing." Gillette smothered a cough. "Are you?"
"I'm… uninjured."
"It's not your fault, you know," whispered Andrew. "You didn't make the hurricane."
"I won't discuss this now," said James.
Andrew said nothing. He tried to sleep, but sleep was elusive. James's lack of a response didn't offend him, but he was worried.
And with good reason.
Five hundred and four men gone.
Provided, of course, that no one else succumbed to their injuries. The very thought punched him in the gut. Theodore Groves, his dear friend, was most certainly dead. He saw the truth of it in Andrew's eyes, but neither of them dared speak the words. The continued existence of the survivors depended on leadership and morale. He had to maintain his façade for his men. It was all that remained of his job.
He could always dwell on lighter things: his flagship was gone, his career was gasping its last breath.
The full brunt of it fell upon his shoulders. What the hell had he been thinking? Sparrow was gone, out of reach. He had no ship and no career and no dignity and no honor…
Five hundred and four men gone. Men who had trusted him with their lives.
Damn you straight to hell, James Norrington.
He'd done it for her. He'd released Sparrow to garner her favor, though he'd known in his heart she was already lost to him. Her father, the Governor of Port Royal, had wanted it. A dandy man who never could deny her freckled face and her sweet smile, though the Lord knew he was no different. Hadn't he been taken in by such a pretty?
Though he longed to hate her, he could only hate himself. He let the pirate go. He gave the orders to keep going into the storm.
Five hundred and four men gone.
It was eating him alive.
A tap on the shoulder snapped him from his reverie. Andrew, looking both pallid and flushed. Not a good sign.
"Get some rest, James," he admonished.
Once James closed his eyes he dropped off the edge into a deep sleep.
He didn't know it was the last untroubled sleep he would know for quite some time.
Dawn came. Menzenes and Kelley had died during the night. James read the funeral service over them from memory, and they consigned the men to the deep. None of them could bear to watch the sharks haul them away. An unbreakable silence fell over the boat. Most of the men stared at the horizon. James knew the moment all hope abandoned their company; he watched it perish one blank face at a time.
Five hundred and six men gone.
He'd never lost a ship. He'd never lost so many in one fell swoop. Good men to the last one, sacrificed on the lovestruck altar of his pride. It was a stupid waste.
Five hundred and six souls.
The sun rose and fell and so began their second night on the sea. The men uttered delirious talk of food, outlining in detail the great feasts of their childhood, the foods they would gorge themselves on. Their fresh water was almost gone. James ordered everyone to piss into an empty bottle. Sooner or later he'd have to order them to drink it.
He didn't relish the thought.
McKeown, he noticed, had given up on pretense: the man habitually kept a rosary hidden next to his skin, and was now openly telling off the beads. It wasn't good for morale but he'd be damned if he was going to deprive the man of that comfort. Not in this extremity.
And perhaps there was something to Popery, after all. For at the dawn, when Eos' rosy fingers started to spread across the sky, it was McKeown who spotted the sail.
The Stalwart took them on to Cadiz, and the Victorious took them home to Port Royal. Dying was done, thank God. He made sure the remaining few had the best care possible. The officers and the crews of both ships treated him with kindness, but it was a gentle kindness, the sort paid out to the unfortunate and the diminished.
The whispering had begun.
Once upon a time, he'd been the proud possessor of a fleet-wide reputation. He was sterling. James Norrington: Post-captain at twenty-five and commodore at thirty-three, the youngest in the history of the Gazette. It was bad form to be smug, but, on the other hand, he'd never been the sort to hide his light under the proverbial bushel. Such honors came weighted with heavy responsibility. Such was enough to keep burgeoning pride in check, or so he had once thought. James Norrington, modern-day Icarus: his pride had goeth on and the fall was mighty. He recalled with a bitter twist of the lips how a few years back, his father had written that Samuel Johnson had started work on a new dictionary of the English language.
Perhaps I should send Mr. Johnson a letter. The new definition of 'hubris': 'James E. Norrington.'
They were on the Victorious, three weeks' out to sea, before Andrew managed to pin James down for a private conversation. James was sweating out the umpteenth draft of his report on the loss of the Dauntless in his cabin when Andrew found him, and James was forced to note that his friend did not look well at all.
"Get some rest," said James. "You need it."
"So said the pot to the kettle." Andrew's eyes burned with a febrile light. "We've got almost a month before we're home. I'll be fine."
"You look like hell."
"So do you. When's the last time you slept?"
"Last night. Obviously."
"For more or less than four hours?"
The chair gave a squeak as he pushed back from the desk. In the Great Cabin of the Dauntless, he would have had room to pace. Here, he hardly had room to turn around.
"Decidedly less." The nightmares had come again last night. They came every night, rending his peaceful hours with rain-soaked images of death and destruction. The flat eyes of the sharks. The blank hopelessness in the faces of his men. His men. One nightmare crowned the others: he was on the quarterdeck of the Dauntless, his ship and crew restored to him as they were before the storm. All was well, and he would just start relaxing into the idea that the sinking had been the horrible nightmare, when the moon came out, and...
"Ask Dr. MacNulty for a sleeping draught."
"If I do, will you let the matter drop?"
"All I said was that you look like you need some sleep…"
"You'll try to say again that it wasn't my fault. I ignored any semblance of good sense, I ignored everything I knew about the weather, and I ignored everything my officers told me. So I would ask you, Andrew, whose fault was it?"
Andrew opened his mouth, and closed it again. "What do you expect to accomplish by beating yourself to a pulp? Do you want me to get the cat out and lay into you? Your guilt won't bring them back. You'd think this was the first time a ship had ever been lost at sea."
A muscle tightened in James's jaw. He wouldn't look at Gillette. He gave his sharpened attention to the top of the desk. "It was the first time a ship under my command has been lost at sea."
"Is that what this is about? That it turns out the Great James Norrington is fallible? Is it that five hundred men died, James, or the fact that you turned out to be human after all that's bothering you so much?"
James leapt from the chair, but, fortunately for Andrew, his hot reply was cut off by James' head slamming against the low ceiling. "How dare you…" he started, once the stars disappeared from behind his eyes, and trailed off. Andrew was bent nearly double in a coughing fit that turned his face a deep, purpled red. "Are you all right? Shall I fetch MacNulty?"
"No. I'll be well. Just give me a minute." Andrew gasped, and fell back into the chair. "I'm sorry, James, I didn't mean…"
"I know you didn't. It's all right." James tried to reassure him. "Come on…" he said, once Andrew could stand. "Let's get you back to your bunk."
"I'll be fine."
"Please. I can't bear losing you, too."
Andrew allowed James to lead him back to his cabin.
In the weeks of their journey back to Port Royal, Andrew's fever and cough turned putrid. It was MacNulty's prescription to send him north, to cooler climes and wholesome air, but, despite all threats and entreaties, Andrew refused to go. When the ship moored he was carried off on a litter. James saw to it personally that his friend was placed in the care of the town's best doctor.
Nevertheless, his primary duty could not be delayed indefinitely. James knew Admiral Clay's office well; it was, after all, the scene of so many of his former triumphs. The austere space brought him no comfort, now. He'd witnessed his commanding officer's screaming rage. He'd seen him bellow like a threatened bull and break things and growl.
But he'd never seen him speechless.
"Do you want to explain this, Norrington?"
"I can offer no explanation, sir. I misjudged the storm."
"How, precisely, does one misjudge a hurricane?"
"One does not expect hurricanes in the Mediterranean, sir."
"WELL YOU CAN BLOODY WELL RECOGNIZE ONE ONCE YOU'RE ON TOP OF IT, CAN'T YOU?" The man was approaching apoplexy. "And Sparrow still lives."
"Yes, sir."
"After the Interceptor – the flagship – a useless loss!"
James stood stock-still. His soul had long since been reduced a kicked and shivering puppy. There was little Clay could say to make it worse.
"Well. You know as well as I do what has to happen now."
"I do, sir."
"Bauer's been doing your job since you left. He can damn well keep on doing it. You're on suspension until I can convene a Court Martial. If you'll give me your parole, you may have freedom of the town, but nothing further. Unless, of course, you wish to save us all the trouble
of this bloody mess with your resignation."
"Not at this time, sir," said James. "You have my parole."
"This is a god-damned bollixed-up debacle of the first water, Norrington. If it were anyone but you, I'd see to his hanging and be glad of it. Now get the hell out, and send in Bauer. Dismissed."
Captain Frederick Bauer was conflicted. He and Norrington were friends, of a sort, and it didn't do to kick a man when he was down. Not to mention that it would take a foolhardy captain indeed to think himself above the possibility of ending up in James's shoes: the sea was a notoriously harsh mistress. But James Norrington's fall meant opportunity for everyone else.
James looked up as Commodore Bauer came out of the Admiral's office. "If there's anything I can do to help…" said James.
"Much appreciated, but not necessary, I think. I've no doubt this'll get cleared up in no time, and you'll be back writing reports and requisitions until your hand falls off." Bauer said words he didn't believe with a heartiness he didn't feel.
James gave a stiff little smile. "One can only hope."
On the way back to the fort a pregnant young woman stepped into their path. She was blonde and young and would have been quite pretty, had her eyes not been so swollen and red. Her belly was mountainous.
"Commodore Norrington?"
"May I assist you, madam?"
She hauled back her hand and slapped him across the face. James was stunned; he stumbled back a step, his palm pressed to his stinging cheek. The girl's eyes refilled with tears.
"It's your fault my Elijah's dead!" she screamed.
He was dumbfounded. "What?"
"Don't you even know your own crew? You killed him, sure as the sun rises tomorrow!" Spit flew from her mouth. "My babe won't know his father, and he won't know his uncle either, and it's ALL YOUR FAULT!"
She pounded each word into his chest. She was weak and small and ungainly and it was no effort to catch hold of her wrists. His fingers closed around the fragile bones. Her weeping dissolved into piteous sobs. He looked into her pinched face and the memory fell into place: Elijah Storrell, gunner's mate. His brother-in-law, a marine named Jacob Warren, had been killed at the Isla de Muerta.
Good God.
"Fanny? Fanny! What have you done?" An older woman ran up to them, followed closely by a gentleman Norrington assumed was her husband. They both looked abashed and terrified.
"Mama," Fanny wailed. She took hold of her mother's hands and pulled on them, lost in her grief. "He killed Elijah! My Elijah!"
"Please forgive her, sir," said the girl's father, tugging his forelock. "It's her condition, you know…it touches them in the head."
James somehow found his voice. "Naturally."
Warren laid one hand on his daughter's shoulder and one on his wife's. He guided them away. The girl collapsed on the older woman's shoulder and fell apart.
"There is nothing to forgive." James struggled with a quiver in his lower lip. He bit the inside of his cheek, doffed his hat, and executed a precise bow. "Madam, I condole with you." His voice remained calm. "Your husband was an excellent sailor and a credit to His Majesty's Navy."
She roused a little. She looked at him with wet, furious eyes. "Go to hell. You couldn't even catch your bloody pirate, could you? You cold, bloodless bastard. Elijah died so you'd save your neck. And Jacob died so's you could save Miss Swann's blacksmith!"
"For God's sake, Eliza," Mr. Warren cried to his wife. 'Get her out of here!"
Mrs. Warren put her arms around her daughter. "Sir, I am sorry."
"You needn't apologize," said James. "I am sorry for her loss, and yours, and I
hope she will be safely delivered. Now, if you will excuse me…"
"Of course. But sir…" Mr. Warren stopped James. "What she said… the Missus and I, we know it's not true. Jacob and Elijah, they always said you was the best officer in any Service, sir. We know you did everything you could for them."
Mrs. Storrell's anger had been ever so much easier to bear. It hurt him, but in a scourging, righteous way. He felt it his due. Mr. Warren's quiet acceptance and forgiveness were pure agony. "They were good men." James cleared his throat. "I owed them no less."
Mr. Warren nodded. His eyes gleamed and James saw he was holding back tears. He turned to follow his wife and daughter.
James straightened up, and stalked onwards. He ignored the stares of the onlookers. Commodore Bauer opened his mouth to say something and saw the thunder on Norrington's brow and thought better of it.
He went to his address in town to get a few changes of clothes and some books. He'd thought about moving back in, for the duration, but it was too much trouble to re-open the house when he didn't know for how long he would be able to possess it. He walked through the dusty rooms with their drop-cloth covered furniture. Tell the truth… said a little voice in the blackest depths of his heart. You don't want to live in the house you bought to give to her. He gathered his things up quickly and left for the barracks.
Commodore Bauer had given him the use of an office/bunk in the officer's quarters. It was small, and Spartan, but it was adequate for his current needs. He sat down and rested his head in his hands for just a moment. He then busied himself setting up a workspace: taking out the paper; filling the inkwell; sharpening a quill, but as meticulous as he might be going about these petty tasks, they took a finite and all-too-short amount of time. He sighed, and began a letter to Mrs. Lambert Groves.
He had to write letters to the officers' families, at the very least.
He was engaged in this doleful task when Governor Swann found him. "Commo- Captain! I can't tell you how glad I was to hear of your deliverance."
He stood up at the Governor's entrance. "Thank you, sir." He gestured to the chair next to the desk, and sat down after Swann did.
"I'm afraid this is the best I can offer you, sir. Commodore Bauer has more need of the office upstairs than I do right now."
"This is utter madness. We shall simply have to see to it that these arrangements are short-lived."
"I have no great hope of that. The Dauntless was lost courtesy of my negligence. I believe strongly that the most optimistic outcome is that I will be cashiered."
"Comm- Captai-… James… you may rest assured I will do everything in my power for you. I cannot help but feel a measure of responsibility for this situation. We both know why – no, let me finish. We must not mince words." Swann held up his hand at James' protests. "We both know why you set Sparrow free, and for whom."
"I thank you, sir, but my mistakes are mine and mine alone."
"Consider the poet's words: 'No man is an island', James."
"I was in command, Governor, and I failed in my duty. If I am to be dismissed, perhaps it is for the best."
"Poppycock!" Swann thumped his cane on the floor. "That this incident was a tragedy, I concede, but I do not see how England's interests will be served by you falling on your sword. Tomorrow night, you and I will dine, and we will map out your strategy…"
James hesitated, but Weatherby Swann, for all his faults, did not get to his position by being stupid, and continued. "Elizabeth, unfortunately, will be unable to join us. She has gone to visit some friends in Kingston for a few days…"
"A pity, indeed." he lied. It was a comfort, James thought, to have at least one staunch advocate. With his help, perhaps this wouldn't be a total rout.
Nevertheless, James' brief flirtation with cheer and hope disappeared with the Governor. "No man is an island." Had the old man even read the rest of that Meditation, or had he just heard that quotation someplace and thought it profound? He heard his father's voice read forth Donne's lines:
No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
"Any man's death diminishes me." What did being responsible for five hundred and six deaths get you? A bloody carillon of funereal knells, that's for damned sure.
He suddenly wanted a drink, very badly.
The barracks were never precisely quiet; they couldn't be, with so many men in such a small place, but in all his days he had never felt so alone. He worked on the letters until his hand cramped, and he needed to rest. He massaged his right hand ruefully. He ought to go to the mess, to eat something, but the thought of food turned his stomach. He wanted company, but the patronizing pity of his fellow officers would be intolerable. There was another option… but if he were discovered, it would make his already-difficult situation worse. Although… if he were discreet… if he didn't stay long… it could be done, if he were careful.
She'd probably be expecting him, anyway.
He changed into civilian clothing, and stuck to the side streets and alleyways. He entered the establishment via the back door reserved for regulars who needed anonymity. The bouncer let him in with a nod. "Is she busy?" James asked.
"You'll have to wait, sir." said the bouncer, and gestured to a tiny salon next to the back stairs. At least here, no one would see him.
The bad news had spread like wildfire through the town. TheDauntless had been stationed in Port Royal long enough that a not-insignificant number of the townsfolk had friends or loved ones of some relation on the great ship. And those relatives had besieged the dock, desperate to hear that their loved ones were safe.
Most of them were disappointed.
Even those who had no one to mourn directly were affected by the tragedy. Considering the circumstances, most felt it wrong to go merrymaking on such a night and, as a result, it was shaping up to be a slow evening at the Maison du Sol-Se-Levant, Port Royal's most refined and dignified den of iniquity.
Some of the girls had clients who were on the ship as well, but one didn't become a whore without learning to cry behind a smile. They pasted their game faces on, and did their best to cheer up the few men who came in… with one exception.
Laetitia, her real name left behind a long time ago and far away, fully expected one of her regular clients that evening. She had the barkeep bring up a bottle of his favorite scotch, and gave orders to the kitchen to have one of his favorite meals at the ready. He would come, she knew it. She knew him better than anyone, she fancied, and he would need her tonight. That she desperately wanted to see him; that her heart had been in her mouth ever since she'd heard that the Dauntless had gone down was entirely immaterial. She fussed a little with her makeup, and, in a fit of indecision, changed her outfit.
There was a knock at the door, and one of the maids stuck her head in. "Madam says to tell you he's here."
"Well, send him up!" she said. "Wait… how does he look?"
The maid grimaced. "Better you than me that has to deal with him…" she said, and vanished back down the hall.
Well, that boded ill… and with good reason, she thought, as he walked into her chamber.
Holy God, he looked horrible.
The dark circles under his eyes made him look like he'd been in a fight; he obviously hadn't been sleeping. If she had to guess, she'd say he hadn't been eating well, either. Every line spoke of worry and pain and she wanted, more than anything in the world, to soothe them all away.
James raised an eyebrow. "Do I look as terrible as all that?" he asked, his mouth quirking up into a humorless half-smile.
She gave a brittle laugh, and closed the door behind him. Never to me, she wanted to say. "I'm so glad you're safe." She wrapped her arms around him. Surprised as he was by the intensity of her reaction, it took him a second to reciprocate, but reciprocate he did. He pressed her close, ran one hand through her hair next to her scalp, and kissed the top of her head.
She broke the embrace, and pulled him to sit next to her on the couch. "Is it as bad as everyone's saying?" she asked.
"It's worse." He took off his hat and his wig, threw them on the table and ran his hands through his hair.
"Tell me what happened." she said, wanting to know but afraid to hear. She poured out a healthy measure of the scotch and handed a glass to him.
"What is there to say?" he knocked back a swallow of the amber liquid, and stared pensively at the remainder in the glass. Haltingly, he confessed and his words came faster and faster… "We were chasing that damned Sparrow, may he burn in Hell. I pushed them on into the storm. Andrew, Theo, Simmons and Gibson told me to stop, begged me. They were right. I knew they were right. The Dauntless went down and now..."
He paused. His eyes unfocussed, as if he was staring off beyond the walls. She pressed her hand to his knee, but he didn't notice.
"I have failed. I have failed so completely and utterly. There is no reasonable explanation for what I did. And it accomplished nothing." Laetitia noticed a muscle jumping in his jaw.
"It would have been better had I drowned with my men." he finished quietly, still looking off into the distance.
She remembered to breathe, but only barely. "Don't talk like that. You mustn't ever talk like that. James, I was so afraid when I heard that the Dauntless sank." She bit her lip.
James looked at her in surprise. The terrified tone of her voice had snapped him back to the present: he hadn't expected it at all. He put his arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry. I'm frightening you…"
"I just… You won't do anything rash, will you?" Her voice quavered.
"Of course not. Putting a period to my life won't help matters now." He looked up at the ceiling.
"Oh God, James… this isn't like you in the least!" she fretted. "What has happened to you?"
He took a deep breath. He wanted to pour it all out in her lap. He couldn't sleep, not like he needed. The few hours he managed to fitfully slumber were plagued with nightmares. He couldn't eat. He second-guessed every decision, every move. He felt useless and hopeless and deserving of death.
And, as he looked down into the dark, panicking eyes of the delicate girl on his shoulder, he realized that he couldn't put it into words. It would not be fair to shift this burden onto her narrow frame: it was too much to ask of a woman in her position. It would be a sin for him to take advantage of her friendship. She was another person he needed to protect. He let the breath out slowly and put the glass down on the table. He took her in both of his arms and kissed her forehead, smiling weakly. "It's just been hard. You mustn't worry so. Not on my account..." He drew her back to his shoulder, kissed the top of her head again, and breathed in the scent of her hair.
She felt him retreat from her and wanted to scream. "Stay until morning." she begged, and traced a pattern on his waistcoat with her fingers.
"I cannot. Good Lord, if it got about that I was here tonight, of all nights?"
He was absolutely right, damn him.
"I just… I wanted…" he trailed off.
She could see him trying to find the words, and failing. She gave a half-smile, and took pity. "I know. I'm glad you came. It has been so long…"
She snaked her arms around his waist as he pulled her into a hard embrace. His voice went tight, a sure betrayal of repressed emotion. "I couldn't bear anyone else's company but yours, tonight."
A part of her thrilled to that meager compliment as if it were a passionate declaration of love, and she hated herself for it. After a time, she pulled herself together, and away from him. "At any rate," she said, "you'll eat something decent while you're here." She got up and pulled the bell for a servant. "You look half-starved."
He had no appetite at all, but, to please her, he would make an effort. "Well, that's hardly something a gentleman wants to hear." he said dryly, and sipped the rest of his scotch.
"Well, then the gentleman in question should take better care of himself…" she shot back saucily, and arranged her face in a smile. This was familiar ground, at least.
He stayed only for another hour or so. At this point, they were each putting on a show for the other.
And they both knew it.
First thing in the morning, he went to check on Andrew. Andrew was barely conscious, drifting in and out of delirium, and his fevers ran on unabated despite all the treatments Dr. Jackson could devise.
Dr. Jackson was also not a man given to sugar-coating the truth. "It's out of my hands, now. We'll do all we can for him, but you must prepare yourself for the worst. Has he any family in town? They should be summoned."
"I'll see to it. Thank you, Doctor." James said as little as possible. It couldn't precisely be said that his wounds had begun to heal, but they were certainly being ripped open afresh at the prospect of the lingering death of the five-hundred-and-seventh victim.
Andrew didn't have family close enough to summon, but he and the daughter of one of the minor plantation owners on the island had had a longtime understanding. Bringing Miss Sarah Murdoch to stay with friends in Port Royal and escorting her to the fort at least gave him something productive to do, and if she spent the entire time pointedly not mentioning the fact that he was responsible for her almost-fiancé's almost-death, well, he was getting used to that.
Dinner with the Governor went well. It had been years since Weatherby had been a barrister, but the man's experience stood James in good stead, now. They met together twice more over the next few days; each time, Swann sent James back to the Fort with a pile of legal reading to do. James suspected that the man was giving him a bit more to read than was strictly necessary, to keep him from wallowing in sorrow, but as it worked, he made no complaint.
The only downside to this was that it made it a great deal harder to avoid Elizabeth. Swann had been sending her to visit distant friends and distant relatives all throughout the West Indies in the hopes that she would forget her blacksmith, but all attempts so far had proved fruitless, and she returned again about a week after he had landed in Port Royal.
As he was leaving after their third cram session, he heard an all-too-familiar voice cry his name from the staircase. "James!"
Wincing inwardly, he turned. "Miss Swann." he greeted her formally, bowing his head.
She ran down the stairs, overjoyed, but something in his face made her stop short of embracing him. "James, I was so happy to hear that you were spared!"
Her warm greeting melted a little of the frost that had settled around his heart. "Thank you."
"But your men! And your ship… I am so sorry, James…" said sadly. "Are you all right?"
The ice thawed a bit further at her genuine emotion. "Again, I thank you. I was fortunate enough to escape injury when the Dauntless went down."
"That wasn't what I meant." She touched his sleeve gently, and looked up into his eyes.
She truly did not mean to manipulate him, he was sure. She was so very young, in some ways; she had no idea of the effect her reactions produced, or how to temper them appropriately. And against his better judgment, against every conscious thought, he began to warm to her. "We learn to bear what we must," he said simply. A more perceptive person would have seen the need to talk behind his eyes; the need to pour forth his grief and pain, and could have pressed him further, but Elizabeth could claim no such skills. She took his bland statement at face value.
And so, with a little too much concern in her voice, she asked him precisely the wrong question. "And Jack Sparrow? Did you catch him? Did you sink the Pearl?"
James' spine fused together ramrod-straight, and his tone froze over. "Your pet pirate still lives, Miss Swann."
She had the grace to look abashed. "That wasn't what I meant… I was just… I mean… I'm sorry."
"So I gathered." He turned to leave, and she stopped him.
"James, I…" she started, but he cut her off.
"It pleases you to Christian-name me, Miss Swann, but given the circumstances, I no longer think it is appropriate. Good day."
He turned on his heel and left.
Elizabeth watched him go, in hurt confusion, and tried unsuccessfully to think of a way to remedy the situation.
Returning to his office in a temper, he found a letter on the desk from England in an unfamiliar hand. He broke the seal, read it through, and blanched.
He sat down heavily, abruptly. His knees felt like they'd turned to jelly.
He read the letter again.
No. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Not now.
He got up and closed the door, and returned to the chair. He picked up the letter once more, as if perhaps the contents might have changed in the intervening few seconds.
They hadn't.
For the first time in his adult life, he wanted to be able to cry. He wanted to roar out his rage and grief and bellow at the unfairness of it all.
But the tears wouldn't come. It was as if he'd forgotten how.
He sat there, stunned for a time, and then got up to go demand an appointment with Admiral Clay.
"Sir, I need to take leave."
"You've got walloping great brass balls, Norrington, asking for leave in the middle of a bloody court-martial."
"I must return to England. My father has died."
Clay was not a completely heartless man, for all his bluster, and the good head of rage he'd been building up dissipated. "Bloody hell." he said. "Sit down, boy."
James took the proffered chair, and stared straight ahead. He was becoming numb.
His superior rubbed his gin-blossomed face with his hand. "I'm sorry. I truly am. But with the proceedings about to start tomorrow, I can't allow that."
"If I were to resign?" James asked flatly.
"Well, yes, that would obviously be different, but –"
"Then I resign, sir. You'll have my letter immediately."
"Clay held up a hand, as if to restrain him. "Wait. Think this through, James…"
"I have. Good-bye." He got up and walked out without another word.
He was intercepted by Jackson's apprentice on his way back to the barracks. "Doctor Jackson says you're to come at once, sir." said the boy.
James hurried to Andrew's quarters, willing himself not to break into a run. He nearly bumped in to Miss Murdoch. She was openly weeping, and fumbling through her reticule for a handkerchief.
He handed her his. "Is he…?"
She looked at him, unable to speak, and gestured to the slightly-ajar door.
He peeked into the room. Jackson was packing up his things, but there was another figure next to Andrew's bed, holding his hand. The figure spoke.
"O Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of just men made perfect, after they are delivered from their earthly prisons: We humbly commend the soul of this thy servant, our dear brother, into thy hands, as into the hands of a faithful Creator, and most merciful Saviour; most humbly beseeching thee, that it may be precious in thy sight…"
James staggered back from the door. He knew all too well, as a vicar's son, the words of that prayer: it was "A Commendatory Prayer for a Sick Person at the Point of Departure." It was a prayer for the souls of the almost-dead. As much as he'd known it was coming to this, as much as Jackson had tried to prepare him, it proved to be more than he could bear. He turned to the red-eyed Miss Murdoch.
"You'll stay with him?" he demanded. "He won't be alone?"
"Of course!" she said, looking at him angrily. "Where are you going?"
"Home."