The Pursuit

"I chased a man across the seven seas. The pursuit cost me my crew, my commission, and my life…"

Not for the first time, Commodore Norrington wondered how a ship with such patched and tattered sails as the Black Pearl could go so fast. If only the Interceptor had not been destroyed, he should have had her by now. The Commodore stood firmly at the forecastle of the Pride of Port Royal, willing his ship on to even greater efforts, as the rain lashed down and the wind began to pick up.

White spray was dashed off the tips of the swelling waves, drenching his face and coat with salty, freezing water. He wiped it away crossly and clutched his hat, but would not be moved. For the first time in days, the Black Pearl was within his sight. This would be the day he would catch it, board it and bring its crew to justice.

"Commodore!" came the deep voice of the ship's captain. "Sir! This is no small storm. I hoped it wouldn't get this bad." Captain Hudson appeared beside Norrington: a stocky, serious man who knew the moods of the sea. Norrington knew to trust his judgement, but if they veered away now they might lose the Black Pearl for good.

He turned his eyes to the captain, who stared at their steeliness, and shouted over the wind: "How much of a storm can she take?"

"She's a sturdy ship, but even the sturdiest can't sail through a hurricane," the captain yelled back. The wind had risen rapidly and now both men were clutching their coats about them as the Pride of Port Royal lurched sickeningly under their feet. "We should lower sails and find somewhere to weather it."

"No!" Norrington objected. "If we do that, we shall let them escape!"

"It is not safe, sir!" shouted Captain Hudson. "With all—"

His words were drowned out by an enormous crash as a colossal wave drove its way over the forecastle. Norrington choked up cold salt water, and clung to the sodden rope at the ship's railing, bracing himself against the tide. The wave pulled at his coat and tore away his tricorn hat. As he blinked the vision back into his stinging eyes, he saw the captain in the same position, coughing and red-faced, his hair bedraggled.

"With all due respect, Commodore!" the captain said again, bellowing his words over the screaming wind. All the same, Norrington could barely hear his voice. "Running through this storm is madness – suicide! We have to lower sails and weather it, unless you intend all our deaths!"

Norrington licked his lips and felt the tang of thick salt. He wasn't looking at the captain: instead his gaze was on the tiny black speck on the grey horizon, the closest he had come to the Black Pearl. Every muscle in his body pulled to pursue it, but he knew that the captain was right. It would be suicide. Norrington was not the only soul on his ship.

"All right," he said reluctantly. "Give the order to lower—"

An almighty crash caused the ship to judder violently to a swaying halt, and knocked the two sailors once again off-balance. The captain swore. "What in Hell's name…?"

Norrington picked himself up as the other man hurried to the deck-bound steps, but then he had to clutch at the side again as the ship began to list desperately. The deck was slippery with sea-foam, and hindered his efforts to run down to amidships where the crew and lifeboats were. As he slithered and stumbled towards the steps, he knew with a sick twist of shame that the ship – his ship under his command and trust – was doomed. He and the storm had run her aground against some reef or hidden rock. All he could do now was help the crew escape.

"Abandon ship!" he bellowed at the captain, who took up the cry. Men were scurrying about the flooded deck, terrified, and underfoot the panicked brown rats were doing the same, launching themselves overboard to escape the sinking vessel. All this Norrington took in in a second, before he was suddenly blinded by a great jagged knife's-edge of lightning that seemed to erupt from the third mast with a rumble like Hell's gates grinding open. It cracked and broke, and tonnes of scorched, boiling wood teetered and fell, slowly, inexorably towards the forecastle. Norrington leapt aside in the split second before it hit, making firewood out of the sailors' quarters. He didn't have time to think. Instead he found himself, not slamming onto the hard deck, but falling, falling endlessly into the icy, tumultuous embrace of the sea.

The water was like solid rock as he struck it, and he cried out at last in pain and fear. He was trapped in a heaving labyrinth of black water. He froze for a moment, out of his depth, but then with an effort kicked off his shoes and forced himself to paddle. It made almost no difference, as the monstrous waves had him at their mercy, flinging him high into the air on spouts of icy spray before seizing him and swallowing him down into their sightless depths.

He kicked desperately, no longer certain which way was up and which was down, his eyes stinging and chest burning. At last he risked a breath, and found his lungs on fire with salt water, making him gag and choke. Lancing rain hammered his face like shrapnel, and the gale howled and screamed, leaving him deaf, blind, overwhelmed.

He flailed without direction, and it took him a moment to realise that his numb hand had struck solid wood. He grasped at it, hardly believing his luck, as cold hands clutched his wrist. He was hauled, shivering and gasping, onto one of the wooden lifeboats. It was already packed, but the sailors shifted and pushed to make room for the bedraggled, half-drowned man.

"Who is it?"

"Is it Carter? Did he get out?"

With an effort of will, Commodore Norrington pushed himself up, coughing weakly and raising one hand to shield his eyes from the storm. Against the dark sky, he could just make out the great hulk of the Pride of Port Royal, languishing on its side like a great dying beast. And, beyond it, the Black Pearl was gone.