The men climbed wearily out of the longboats. Those that couldn't walk on their own were carried by their comrades. The attack had been entirely unexpected and unprovoked, and though the battle had ended in a victory, each man's face bore the weight of defeat.

Commodore James Norrington stepped onto the shore and took a moment to survey the situation. All things considered, their situation could be much worse. This beach was plentiful with vegetation, and even showed signs of civilization. It was likely that there was a town nearby where he and his men could find shelter and supplies, and perhaps even barter a ship. At the very least, surely this island was occupied by someone who could offer them safe passage home.

Lieutenant Gillette came up next to him. "Sir, you're bleeding." His voice held mild concern.

"I know," Norrington said, trying to ignore the throbbing in his left side. He almost didn't dare to look at the deep gash made on his ribs by an enemy's blade. "So are you," he added, noticing a cut on the lieutenant's arm.

Gillette glanced down at the wound. "It's not bad," he said. "Are you all right?"

"I'll live. There are some who may not."

Gillette sighed and looked absently across the beach. The men stood or sat or lay in small groups, tending to the wounded, resting their spent bodies, and waiting. There was nothing to be done except find shelter and make a camp for the night. "Groves thinks he found us some shelter," Gillette said, relaying the message he'd been sent to deliver. "Up that path, there."

The beach ran up against a sparse woods. A small footpath led through the trees, away from the beach, and seemed a promising sign of a nearby town or village. Norrington slowly followed Gillette, pausing to offer some encouragement to the men who sought it from him. He forced a smile through his own exhaustion and pain, to tell them, "Well done," "Good work," "We'll make a camp and get some rest tonight." He told the men to wait on the beach, but that they had likely found a place to make camp.

Lieutenant Groves emerged from the footpath too meet them, limping slightly.

Norrington frowned at the lieutenant's limp. "Are you injured?"

"Something in my ankle was badly wrenched during the fighting," Groves said. "It hurts. I'll manage."

"Am I correct in assuming there is a village up ahead?"

Groves hesitated. "There is a village, of sorts," he said. "But no people."

Norrington frowned. That was odd. The path looked as if it had been used recently.

"There's plenty of shelter, though. It's an odd feeling, walking around an abandoned village, but it'll have to do. I don't see what other choice we've got. Come have a look."

Norrington hesitated, wincing as he felt blood from his wound soaking into his shirt, but he followed his lieutenant to the village's entrance. The footpath opened into a sandy clearing where small houses stood in a wide circle. The homes were little more than huts, with a few being made out of mud and bricks, but there were many of them. And they did appear deserted. The only recent footprints belonged to his lieutenants.

"I've looked around a bit," Groves continued. "But I haven't seen a soul. Take a look for yourself."

"That's all right," Norrington replied. "There's plenty of shade," he said, glancing around the clearing. It was evening, but the air still felt surprisingly hot. "Have you found water?"

"Not yet. My ankle's killing me. But there must be water if there's a village here."

The Commodore nodded and wiped the sweat and dirt from his forehead. "We'll find it," he said, making a point to sound confident, even though the place gave him an uneasy feeling. It was as though something wasn't right. As he looked around, nothing appeared suspicious. It was simply an abandoned village on a relatively remote island. Likely its inhabitants had been picked up by a passing ship and taken to a larger civilization. He knew he ought to be grateful for the readily available shelters, but he just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

He couldn't shake the heat, either. He saw red spots appearing in the sand next to him, drops of blood from the gash in his side, and felt strangely queasy at the sight of his own blood.

"I don't suppose there'd be any harm in using these huts as shelter," Groves suggested.

Norrington swallowed the sick feeling and faced his lieutenant. "No. Not if their occupants truly have vacated this place. Have the men begin bringing the injured."

Groves nodded and turned to go. Norrington closed his eyes for a moment, wincing as he felt his head start to throb along with his ribs.

"Commodore?"

When Norrington opened his eyes, everything was hazy.

"Sir, you don't look well."

"Are you all right?"

"James, sit down."

Norrington felt a strong set of hands on his arm, and then another set of hands on his other arm, just as his knees gave out. He was aware of the sky above him and the hard ground under his back, and then only darkness.

As you can see, this is somewhat of a variation on a familiar theme/plot. Call me lazy. I'll try to keep it original, though. Read on, and feel free to leave comments. :)