Another one-shot, companion to "Transparent Guilt".
None of the characters that appeared in the two Pirates of the Caribbean movies are mine, but the property of Disney, et al. No profit is being made off this story. No copyright infringement is intended.
He knew something was wrong when the the marine corporal standing watchful guard outside his office door became petulant, even daring to argue with him when he attempted to leave his office. All he could do was stare incredulously at the normally-affable corporal, unable to comprehend the strange shift in the marine's behaviour. Had the man been drinking? Impossible, there was no scent of whisky about him and his voice was firm and steady. The stiff resistance to his departure baffled him, he only meant to venture to the docks and tend to some business there.
His suspicions were raised sharply when the corporal mentioned Lieutenant Gillette, and suddenly it was all too clear. The Commodore gave the marine a shove to get him out of the way and started off down the corridor. Damn that lieutenant! What was he doing, throwing himself to the wolves? He held no blame for any of the calamities that had transpired, in any way. His footsteps were brisk, ringing over the stone floor in an urgent cadence. To his surprise, the marine corporal followed him closely and for the space of a heartbeat, he was tempted to tell the marine to make himself scarce, but thought better of it in the next heartbeat. It would be good to have the man present when he found Gillette, the better to... his trail of thought dropped off sharply, as he realised he was close to becoming irrational. His first inclination was to have placed his faithful lieutenant under arrest, but under what charge? Madness? Hangdog loyalty? There was nothing reasonable that he could accuse Gillette of, and hope to remain in control of his temper. Good God what was possessing that lieutenant? Surely he knew the consequences of his bold and reckless action, for it was all too clear what he was attempting to do. The board of enquiry had come with the express intention of claiming someone's career, but there was no one who deserved that fate but the Commodore himself.
There were other officers, all junior to him, milling about in the courtyard outside the building where the enquiry board had taken residence, and it was an ominous sign that they all avoided looking his way, except to offer perfunctory salutes. A cold chill danced through him and he quickened his pace, fighting down the urge to run. That would be entirely undignified an act for one such as himself, but the clinging sense of urgency that had slid over him was difficult to set aside. The corporal was still behind him, keeping pace easily. A swift glance over his shoulder showed not a shred of emotion on the marine's face. If he felt anything about this affair, it was not visibly apparent. His shoes scraped over the stone as he passed through the door from the courtyard, causing heads to turn his way at the sound of his hurried step.
Suddenly he stopped short and the corporal following him nearly ploughed into his back. It was over, everything was over. Two marines were escorting his lieutenant out of a room, a set of irons clasped around his wrists. These two marines were less stoic and it was apparent that they despised this unwelcome addition to their duty. Gillette had been somewhat popular amongst the marines for his fearlessly sharp tongue. To the lieutenant's credit, he seemed to bear the humiliation gracefully, even as the two marines each took hold of his elbows to guide him to the courtyard.
"Gillette." It was all he could think to say, but it was enough. The lieutenant looked up at the sound of his superior's voice and his two marine escorts stopped, actually releasing their prisoner momentarily to knuckle their brows respectfully. He wanted to ask why, why the other officer felt it so necessary to throw his career away, for a crime for which he bore no responsibility. Was this the sort of fealty that he inspired in his officers and men? His memory flashed back to that hard fight aboard Dauntless, and how his sailors and marines had thrown themselves at their foes, cutlasses and bayonets leading. He did not delude himself so far as to think they acted so honourably out of any feeling for him as their superior, but more a sense of possessiveness for their ship. Still... A long moment inched past as he sought further words that could fit the situation, but he could not summon them. It did not seem to matter anyway. Gillette gave a bow after a full minute had passed, his keen brown eyes as expressive as ever.
"It has been an honour, sir," the lieutenant said softly as he straightened up. "Marines."
The moment was broken as the two marines reluctantly resumed their journey. Wherever they were bound from there was unknown, but Norrington was sure the marines would ensure that any foul jibes from anyone would be met with unflinching punishment. They were known for such things.
"Steady sar," came the scrape of the corporal's voice, accompanied by the iron grip of the man's hand at his elbow. He allowed the marine to guide him to the rough bench against the wall and he sank onto it wearily. How had things come to this? It was nearly impossible to fathom. The Commodore looked up at the ruddy, expressionless face of the corporal standing beside the bench, wondering just how it was that such men maintained the facade of composure through anything. All he wanted to do right then was retreat to his office, pour a generous portion of brandy, and attempt to lose himself in that all-too-temporary haze. There was nothing he could do now, Gillette had doomed himself in the Commodore's place, and he could not make that right without shaming the lieutenant even more. He settled for rubbing both hands over his face with a sad sigh before pushing himself to his feet, waving off the corporal as the man moved to help.
"I shall recover, Corporal." Eventually. He forced a smile, more for the corporal's benefit than his own, the better to lend the appearance that he could bear any tragedy without losing his sense of hope. "Return to your post, if you please. I will take a turn about the fort."
For an instant, something akin to doubt flashed across the corporal's face, but thankfully he did not question. Instead, he tugged at the brim of his hat, saying quietly "It'll turn out, sar," as he departed.
Left alone in the corridor, the Commodore let out a ragged breath. What was he supposed to do now? The penalty had been paid, albeit by the wrong man. The guilt was trickling through him at not knowing what Gillette was planning sooner. It no longer mattered, it was done, but the weight of his own failure hung heavily.
"It'll turn out, sar." Perhaps it would, but for now the price of duty smothered all hope. Another sigh dragged its way out from his lungs and he made himself walk toward the door leading outside. A walk might help to relieve the clutter of his thoughts. The afternoon sun reached out to greet him as he emerged from the building. Its warmth draped itself over his shoulders and caused him to blink once or twice in the bright light. Someone had said once that the sun was like a beacon of hope.
From somewhere near the parade ground, he heard the roar of the boatswain's mate, marshalling a group of new midshipmen. Young men just arrived from England, full of fire and energy, eager to serve and be their best. They would be joining Dauntless before long, filling the gaps in the officer complement. The Commodore's thoughts drifted to that as an escape from his private sorrow, and a single emotion wafted through him as he began his slow stroll toward the walltops.
Hope.