'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney
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It wasn't supposed to be this way.
James Norrington had gone to inhuman lengths to deliver the heart of Davy Jones into the keeping of Cutler Beckett, chairman of the East India Trading Company. He'd done so to reclaim his honor, and his previous position. It never occurred to him that would include officiating at mass executions of barely-culpable persons.
Yet, here the newly promoted Admiral was, proceeding along the back of an extended gallows, examining the long row of condemned. Even from behind, he could tell the women from their shabby skirts, the children from their diminutive size. All other individuality was lost to the uniformity of tattered gray clothing... excepting the slight man at the line's end. Brighter color adorned his hair; a flutter of faded red scarf, among tangled ebon dreadlocks...
Norrington froze in mid-step. Surely that wasn't...?
The navyman hurried to the front of the platform. Familiar dark eyes met his, minus their usual scampish twinkle- wide and pleading as those of a frightened boy. Norrington tried to yell an order to Hold!- just one second after the executioner's arm yanked the lethal lever.
Jack Sparrow, and the others, plunged through the platform- neck bones snapped like dry timber, legs kicked desperately, agonized faces contorted, blackened, went slack... James fell to his knees, emitting a piercing cry of grief...
... and awoke in his own scarce-lit cabin, pulse pounding in his ears.
Groaning, he threw back the sweaty covers and groped his way to the secured liquor cabinet, where he extracted a bottle of sherry and took several fast gulps. He waited 'til his heartbeat quieted, before making his way back to the narrow bunk, settling back with a muted thud. Knowing it would take minutes for the dose to have full effect, James set about pondering the meaning of his dream.
It was no surprise Captain Sparrow had figured in it. Just that morning, the Admiral had received official confirmation that that slippery rogue still lived. Norrington had been less than astonished, having always been skeptical of the reports of Sparrow's death at the hands of Davy Jones- the Crown's supposed new ally (James harbored doubts about that, too.)
It was harder for Norrington to fathom why, even in a dream, he should be so upset by images of Sparrow's execution. His waking hours were troubled by the too-likely prospect of that fate befalling fledgling-outlaw Elizabeth Swann (fortunately, she seemed to be adept at keeping out of sight.) But it was unclear to him why he should feel any regret about such punishment being visited upon that infuriating buccaneer captain who'd repeatedly humiliated him. For a moment James' teeth ground, recalling the mortification of swabbing the Black Pearl's deck with his own Naval wig.
But the Admiral's unremitting, sometimes troublesome, sense of fairness arose. Norrington had been responsible for Jack's coming within a hair's breath of dying in a Port Royal noose- he couldn't realistically expect Sparrow to exact no vengeance at all when given the chance. On the scale of pirate-wrecked retaliations, having to perform deckhand chores wasn't really that terrible. No surprise there. He'd known, prior signing onto the Pearl, that Jack was far from the most vicious of his profession.
Though there had been moments when he'd felt otherwise, Norrington's more-just self had to concede: Captain Sparrow was not evil enough to merit hanging.
Outside the casement window, some discontented seabird squawked. The Admiral turned on his side, glumly concluding he should have downed more sherry.
Actually, it wasn't definite Jack would be killed if taken prisoner. The entire Royal Fleet had been issued orders to capture Sparrow alive, if at all possible, and deliver him to Lord Beckett- who, as James knew firsthand, had made a previous effort to recruit Jack as a Privateer for the Crown. Hadn't that been the purpose of those Letters of Marque which currently bore Norrington's name? It was possible Beckett simply intended to reinforce that offer.
Possible... but not probable. Circumstances had changed. Lord Beckett's current primary goal was obtaining information about an impending gathering of prominent buccaneer captains. It seemed unlikely in the extreme, that he wouldn't try to establish what Sparrow knew about it. Whether Sparrow wanted to tell him or not.
Norrington's face twitched as he recalled his several brief, disturbing encounters with Cutler's shark-eyed clerk. He could believe the whispered recommendation: if it was essential to get something out of a prisoner, Mr. Mercer was the man to do it. James tossed under the blanket, envisioning the relatively decent pirate enduring Mercer's expert attentions. Jack didn't deserve that, either.
Dire possibilities continued to flood his imagination. Like every fleet officer, Norrington had heard the scuttlebutt about Beckett's real motives for ordering Sparrow brought to him alive- not just personal, but carnal. Rumors about his intentions were numerous, and mostly too lurid to credit. Still, it was clear that Cutler desired a reunion far more than the pirate did. And there was that one thing James had witnessed for himself; the hungry look which crept into His Lordship's expression whenever he spoke of Captain Sparrow. Whoever handed Jack over to Beckett might very well be complicit in...
James grimaced mightily, quite negating the soporific effects of the sherry. Not for his own future, the Fleet, or even King and Country, was he willing to risk taking such a burden on his conscience.
Then and there, the Admiral resolved that, should it be a ship under his command which caught up with Sparrow, the wily pirate would manage another miraculous escape before he was taken anywhere near the Endeavour. Even if there were consequences to be paid afterwards.
The words of one William Turner suddenly rang in his memory: "If all I have achieved here is that the hangman will earn two pairs of boots instead of one, so be it!"
A distant bell clanged. With a growl, Norrington flipped over again, uselessly burying his face in the lumpy pillow. What sane person would have predicted, just a few years ago, that he'd aspire to follow the example of a renegade blacksmith?
He damn well wasn't going to get any more sleep tonight.
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FINIS