How Elizabeth Swann Learned of the Commodore's Shocking Past
An awkward silence fell over the party. Even the footman pouring wine into the Governor's glass stood frozen in shock.
"Er," said the Governor, in his most distressed tones.
"Ahem," coughed the blacksmith's apprentice, as though something rather large and prickly had lodged in his throat.
Commodore Norrington eyed the young man with distaste. It was bad enough that he had been forced to cede the young lady to the reckless pirate's spawn; worse still was having to share a table and meal with the happy couple less than four hours after the debacle at the fort.
And now this. He could think of a thousand tortures he would rather endure: keelhauling, being forcibly removed from his post, being forced to resign his post in disgrace, losing his beloved tricorn, or -- dear God! -- losing his beloved tricorn to Captain Jack Sparrow... But nothing he could dredge up from the darkest depths of his mind could compare to the nightmare in which he was currently trapped.
"What?" asked Elizabeth. "Is this one of those things which men refuse to discuss in the company of a lady?"
The Governor winced, flinched, and looked as if he were about to expel the contents of his stomach all over the lace tablecloth and bone china. "Elizabeth," he hissed.
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she cried. "I just want to know why the Commodore refuses to answer my question!"
Norrington cleared his throat. Played with the cutlery neatly arranged around his plate. Studied the delicate tropical blossoms at the center of the table. He cleared his throat again and grasped for the words that would deflect her from this line of questioning.
"Perhaps he feels that it is too delicate a subject, Elizabeth," Turner said with a note of warning in his voice. A warning which his fiancee blithely ignored.
"Balderdash. This is the man who believed that a detailed explanation of his interrogation technique was appropriate conversation for wooing me, is it not?" She turned to face Norrington, eyes wide. "It can't be as bad as all that, Commodore. Why is your service in the South Sea the thing you regret most? Did you receive a painful injury? Were you hopelessly in love with a superior officer's wife? What happened to you there?"
"ELIZABETH!" The Governor slammed his fist on the table, upsetting his wineglass and sending the footman scurrying. "That is enough!"
Elizabeth's face was flushed a most unbecoming shade of scarlet. "I just want him to answer the question! He's been dancing around this for years!"
"He doesn't want to answer you. Just drop it!" Will cried, his color of his face almost an exact match to hers.
"But I want to know!"
"Leave it alone, Lizzy!"
The two young lovers had risen half out of their chairs and were arguing more like a fishmonger and his wife than the genteel daughter of an official of the crown and her betrothed.
Commodore Norrington would later swear that he literally felt something snap within him at the sight. At the time, however, he was only aware that he too had risen from his seat and was bellowing to the room at large, "I HAVE HERPES!"
A second silence descended over the party, this one many hundreds of times more awkward than the first. The Governor flopped face-first onto his dinnerplate and was moaning piteously. Will Turner looked torn between trying to smooth over the conversation and running from the room in terror. Elizabeth sank gracelessly back into her chair and goggled at the table in confusion.
Norrington stalked to the sideboard, ripped the stopper out of the decanter of whisky, and chugged heartily.
The silence stretched on until finally, finally, Elizabeth shattered it with a softly-voiced question.
"What is herpes?"