Commodore James Everett Norrington, of His Majesty's Royal Navy, was not having a bad day. He was having a cataclysmic day. A day the likes of which he could not remember experiencing in….well, an entire week, the amount of time since that disaster with Elizabeth Swann. Oh, he had kept his stiff upper lip in place well enough, he supposed. He had even managed a smile when his faithful but rather over-eager First Lieutenant, Richard Gillette, had suggested giving immediate chase for that infernal Sparrow. He winced, a luxury which he would only allow himself in the privacy of his office. Why had he let Sparrow go?
Probably, he reflected, because Eliz…Miss Swann, soon to be Mrs. Turner (he winced again) had pled for Sparrow's safety. She had made her preference very clear of course, but that didn't mean he wasn't seized with the irrational urge to make her happy, no matter what the cause, when she looked at him like that. He had no doubt he had done the right thing in that matter, and Turner was a good man; he would not have wished to force marriage upon her, to crush the spirit which he so valued in her, but the heart had never been said to listen to reason. Am I a fool, or merely an aspiring martyr? He wondered silently. Probably both.
The whole "Black Pearl" affair was the sort that every ambitious officer in His Majesty's Navy dreaded, the sort that, given unsympathetic superiors could become a career-ender. He wished he could holystone the past two weeks from the minds of everyone involved, but it seemed unlikely that anyone, least of all My Lords of the Admiralty, would allow him that. He gazed again at the letter he had received. Cmdr. James Norrington, R.N…summoned to a Court of Inquiry…well, that was something, at least it was not a court martial...to investigate the loss of His Majesty's Brig of War Interceptor…and the escape of the pirate Jack Sparrow, with the vessel Black Pearl. No, My Lords of the Admiralty were certainly not pleased. True, the former crew of the Black Pearl had been captured and hung, but only at the cost of forty seven marines and seamen…which brought him to the next matter on the imposing letter; Loss of thirty-two marines and fifteen seamen from His Majesty's Ship Dauntless during a battle with pirates…watch-keeping standards on said vessel to be examined…So My Lords etc. etc. thought him not only lazy, but incompetent as well. This was a bitter pill for the youngest man to receive the rank of Commodore in twenty years. He glanced up from his desk, to the bottle of brandy enshrined on the shelf on the wall over the desk. Commodore Norrington never drank anything stronger than water, or wine on occasion, but that bottle of brandy was the reason for his rapid rise in the ranks.
Indeed, his rise had been so fast that it could be termed meteoric. He had gone away to sea at the age of sixteen as a Midshipman on H.M.S. Orion, and by the time he was twenty-one, he was First Lieutenant James Norrington of H.M.S. Dauntless, pride of the West Indian station. Only nine years later he was Commodore James Norrington, R.N., captain of H.M.S. Dauntless and commanding a squadron of five other ships besides, "for the purpose of suppressing piracy and smuggling in these waters etc. etc…." He heard that pirates called him "Noose" Norrington, he had been so successful in his task. He smiled tightly. But then, James Norrington had always been successful, until now. "Try not to disgrace yourself," His father had said, when he went away to join the Navy. He hadn't even used his proper name, or wished for his safe return. Just told him not to disgrace himself. As though his father, more often drunk than sober, court-martialed out of the Navy for "drunkenness, dereliction of duty, cowardice, etc." was one to talk. James often suspected that his father pushed him so hard so that he could live vicariously through the successes of his son, perhaps to regain some measure of his long-lost dignity. Not, of course, that he would ever have said that to the man's face; for all his shortcomings, the man had a way of making the recipient of his wrath wish he had been flogged instead without raising his voice, and he used this skill to its fullest. James had only visited the man twice after he had left; the first time, as the often-commended First Lieutenant of the Dauntless, he had been greeted with a "Passably done," and when he returned as one of the most decorated captains on the Navy List six years later, he hadn't even received that much, merely a cold glare and "I suppose you'll expect my congratulations." He often suspected that his father, after pushing so hard for his son to succeed, had become jealous that he had done much better for himself than his father ever could have hoped. He hadn't seen his father since, and had sworn not to make the same mistakes he had made. Which was why he had a bottle of brandy near his desk, but no glasses in convenient reach. He supposed if he wanted a drink badly enough, he could drink it from the bottle, but he needed the brandy as a reminder of the depths to which he would never stoop, and the luxury which he would never permit himself. Sparrow would be appalled, were he here, he thought irrelevantly.
Where had he gone wrong? He had always done everything by the book and to the letter, and it had never failed him before. An Officer's honor was sacred and his duty inescapable, so he had always lived his life. In that corner of his mind which always provided him with a brutally honest view of his character, he knew he was a stiff and inflexible man. But that was the lesson the Navy had taught him, from the first time he came aboard. The lesson was driven home when, as a midshipman, he had had to order the first flogging in his life. The offense, he felt, had been trivial, but he had his duty to do, and he hardened his face and set his jaw and watched the lash fall again and again with perfectly stony façade.
It was true he had few, if any, friends, the closest of these being Governor Swann (a kind and generous man, but prone to being frustratingly obtuse), and his lieutenants, Groves and Gillette, his subordinates, with whom he could never have any sort of equal friendship.
"He's a pirate…" With a grimace, he recalled the way Elizabeth…Miss Swann…had described Turner that day on the parapet, the way she had looked at him. He realized now what she must have thought of him, what everyone must have thought of him… an empty uniform, following blindly the rules which it had been taught. Stiff, unbending, a bore. He was only beginning to realize what he had sacrificed in his search for success. Pietas et Fides, Duty and Honor, his family motto. He had lived his life by that motto, or sought to. But where was love, friendship or brotherhood? He had never had room or use for those before, and maybe they were beyond his grasp by now. Men would respect him, maybe even admire him, but they would never love him. Women might admire his honor and his manners, but they would always think him a bore. Would he ever be thought of as anyone other than Commodore to his peers or "Sir to his subordinates? Elizabeth…It's Miss Swann to you now, you fool; you have no right to address her so intimately any more…had called him "James" once, but she hadn't meant it, she was thinking of Turner even as she told him "You're a fine man, James…". Oh, if only he had been able to resist her request to save Turner, but she had promised to marry him. Of course, his head had told her it was Turner she loved, and he was merely the most convenient way to save the fellow, but his heart had told him that he might actually have a chance to be loved, to have real happiness instead of empty pride in professional accomplishments. The result? Forty-seven good men dead, and he was facing a court of inquiry. The one time he had listened to his heart over his mind, and this was the result.
Speaking of which...his eyes fell to the pile of papers to his left, a list of casualties from the Dauntless fight. All week long, he had been writing letters to widows and suddenly childless parents. He didn't like to admit it, even to himself, but it hurt him a bit every time he put pen to paper, even as he reprimanded himself for it. It was unseemly for an Officer to be this soft. Duty and Honor demanded great sacrifices sometimes…
Mr. ____, it is my sad duty to inform you that your son (husband, father, brother…) was killed in combat…His ship, his decision, his responsibility. They had been good men, and he had failed them; his blood was on their hands as much as if he had shot them himself. He had written at least a hundred such letters before, he was no Midshipman three days into his tour of duty, but this part always stung. Your son (husband, father, brother…) died doing his duty and serving with honor…Suddenly, the realization hit him like a lightning bolt; Sparrow had warned him. Sparrow had warned him. If he had but stayed on the Dauntless with his men, as Sparrow had told him to…but Sparrow followed no rules, kept to no code. He could tell himself that it was because he hadn't trusted the man, but again that corner of his mind that provided him with the unpleasant truth told him that while it was a convenient excuse, perhaps his real motivation was something a bit darker, a bit pettier, than prudence. Had he sacrificed forty-seven good men to his dislike (perhaps even his jealousy – he saw the admiring glances Eliz…Miss Swann cast at the infamous Captain Sparrow, when she thought no one was looking) of one man? The Admiralty commends the sacrifice rendered by your son (husband, father, brother…) to King and Country.
Sincerely, Cmdr. James Norrington, R.N.
He signed the last of the letters and put down his quill. He heard the Dauntless' bell ringing…six bells of the afternoon watch, then. How long had he spent closeted in his office, ruminating? It was unbefitting an Officer to give so much time over to such dark thoughts. He sealed the letter in an envelope, and placed his quill back in its proper place. His desk, like his office and the rest of his cabin, was a reflection of himself – neat and tidy, everything just as it should be and nothing a hair out of place. Or at any rate, to the outside observer it appeared just so, as James himself appeared. But here and there, there were things out of place…a drawer, too full of papers and orders and the sort of books that told one exactly how to run things to close as it should…the Commodore's voluminous hat, in some ways a symbol of his authority, placed neatly over a portrait. At times, James could almost believe he had put it there by accident, but he could never quite forget what was under it; he didn't, somehow, think it right to just lock away that image of...Miss Swann…and forget about it. Perhaps I am an aspiring martyr, James thought, keeping reminders of my failures about to agonize over. No, actually, not a martyr, just a sentimental fool. And a hypocritical one even at that, hiding my troubles under a hat. He wished that life were that easy, that he could just salve his heartbreak – he cringed self-consciously even thinking the phrase, glad no one could read his mind – just by hiding its reminders from view. His fine sword hung on the bulkhead at the moment, as though on a mantelpiece. He remembered when that sword had been pressed against Turner's throat, just before he gave up Miss Swann. A different man than James might used the blade in a more...forceful…manner, but even now James could summon up little anger at the man. He was not a selfish man, it was true he wanted Eli…Miss Swann, but more than that, he wanted her to be happy. He supposed he had done the noble thing by putting Miss Swann's happiness ahead of his own (as I have always done, he thought, and then chastised himself harshly for the uncharitable thought. That, Commodore, was unworthy of a gentleman. There was no more damning indictment in his repertoire than that, although it seemed to have less of an effect upon men like Sparrow), but there were times when he thought of how much easier life would be for him if he was a more selfish man.
Like Sparrow, perhaps. He must have it easy; women always love a "charming rogue," men admire him for his...style, and he never worries about being a gentleman, or appearances at all, for that matter. Speaking of which…Next to his sword hung Sparrow's. It was nowhere near as fine as his, just a simple, worn, unadorned cutlass. A sort of souvenir from Sparrow's escape, he had left behind when he went to the gallows; the Commodore kept it on the bulkhead to remind himself that he would catch Sparrow someday. Or so he hoped. Lately, it seemed to be more and more a forlorn hope. That damnable Sparrow, much as he hated to admit, was a seaman whose like James had rarely seen before. Give me a dozen Sparrows and half as many ships and I could sink the entire French navy in a week, James thought grimly. He supposed he owed the man some manner of gratitude for the incident at the Isla de Muerta, he had saved the Dauntless and its crew. There were times in the past week, more frequent than one would expect, when James was actually relieved to hear that nothing had been heard of Jack Sparrow and the Black Pearl that day (though he wouldn't credit it as possible, it seemed that the chronically flamboyant pirate and his equally conspicuous vessel had decided to lay low for some time. Perhaps they had even left the Caribbean for the moment, Sparrow not being, despite appearances, entirely mad.). Chasing the man gave him something to do, it took his mind off of the present state of affairs at Port Royal, and it gave him an excuse to get away to sea and escape the "high society" life in Jamaica. Really, sometimes he swore that the Governor, generous fellow that he was, was trying to stifle him with balls and dinners and such affairs. He appreciated that the fellow wanted to cheer him up, but really, he didn't think the answer was to drink the island dry of champagne and wear the soles of his shoes out dancing with as many titled partners as he could find. No matter how many times he told the good Governor, it never seemed to sink in that he didn't drink, he hated dancing, and he wasn't far from the worst conversationalist to darken Jamaica's shores in some time. He heard a bell again. Seven bells of the afternoon watch. He was requested to attend one of Weatherby's interminable functions in the evening, and most unfortunately, his court of inquiry wasn't for a week. So much for that excuse, then. He sighed, straightened up in his chair, and noticed Sparrow's cutlass on the bulkhead. Perhaps…
"Gillette," he snapped imperiously, and the fellow named walked in and touched his hat respectfully.
"Sir?" His first lieutenant had been a bit cautious around him since the incident at the fort, perhaps remembering the cool tinge of disdain in his superior's voice when he replied to him... "Oh, I think we can give him one day's head start…"
"Can we be ready to sail by this evening?"
"Certainly, Sir. Will we be hunting for Sparrow again, Sir?"
"I should think not, Gillette. We are, of course, bound for the East Indies to entertain the Mogul with a sailor's hornpipe." Gillette flushed at the biting sarcasm in his superior's voice and left hurriedly, to make preparations to sail.
That was unworthy of a gentleman, James' conscience whispered in his ear. He sighed, knowing as always, that the reprimand was just. He should not have spoken in such a manner to his subordinate and friend, who was prevented from replying by the rules of polite behavior and by the Articles of War. He would have to apologize later, as befitted a gentleman. The sounds of sailors tramping on the decks above his head reached his eyes, and he supposed it was time for the Commodore to make his appearance.
Let the fox hunt begin, he thought. He was almost sure that he wouldn't catch Sparrow this time either, but then, he hadn't been exerting his utmost efforts. Really, what was the point of hunting Sparrow? As long as British ships and settlements were safe, let the blackguard plunder the French, or the Spanish. England was overdue for another war with one of those nations anyway. Sometimes, when he thought about it, he realized that catching Sparrow would be an anti-climax. He was no gentleman, to be sure, but he was, James realized suddenly, a worthy opponent. Chasing him was rather like a good game of chess - he enjoyed matching wits with him, but…it would be a shame to have to kill such a worthy foe.
A moment's shocked pause, then James realized what he had just thought. Good God, he thought. Time to get to sea, Commodore, you're getting too soft, and someone has to put the fear of His Majesty's Navy into the criminal element…
Exactly a minute and a half later, the crew of the Dauntless looked up from their tasks to see the familiar sight of their commander emerging from his cabin. Uniform spotless and perfectly adjusted, the Commodore surveyed the deck with his accustomed cool precision, then, seeing that all was well, acknowledged the efforts of his men with a nod.
"I tell ya, mate," one grizzled old forecastleman said to a callow young foretop man, once the Commodore was out of earshot. "Our Commodore's a stiff one, an' no mistake. 'Ja see the way 'e came up from below, uniform spotless, no 'spression on 'is face, sharp look in 'is eyes? I tell ya, mate, that our Commodore's more uniform than man. Ya'd think 'e 'ad no feelin's at all, ta look at 'im."