Trying to get back into writing for my favorite fandom. P.S. James is the best!
Norrington stared into his tankard and wondered. Across the room, a sailor who was clearly drunk was being dragged away by his mates after punching a man in the face. Ordinarily, Norrington would look down at such a spectacle with disgust, but now he merely stared, forlorn. In front of him on the bar was an open letter, the writing black against parchment, intricate and formal. He kept going over its contents, stopping on the same section every time.
"…inquiry regarding the loss of His Majesty's Ship Dauntless and the loss of 52 Hands 5 August 1745."
Fifty-two men. A fraction of his ship's complement of seven-hundred-and-ninety-two. But painful nonetheless.
He told himself that it was not uncommon to lose a ship to a storm, that such a situation was not by itself cause for dismissal. But in this case, he knew that he was guilty. He had not needed to sail into the storm, could have avoided it actually. But his pursuit of Jack Sparrow had become an obsession. After years of pirate hunting, he couldn't bear to let that smug and wily pirate get away. But despite everything, he had. And it angered Norrington to think that he might be his downfall.
Someone's voice was too loud, gruff. Norrington had never made a habit of frequenting this particular establishment or others like it. He preferred the more sophisticated locations though he knew many of his own crew to spend their evenings (and all of their coin) here and at the brothels.
He frowned. He'd only just finished delivering letters to the families of men who would never return home. He ached from it and wished it would stop.
"But sir, if we do that, the storm'll have us!" Midshipman Caleb, his dark hair plastered to his head with the rain.
Norrington shot the boy a stern look, the one he'd learned to keep his men in line. "That's an order, sailor."
It did no good to argue. Caleb knew it. Norrington knew it and so he went back to his own duties, bellowing out the next order, confident they would be followed.
The Dauntless sailed into the storm.
Midshipman Caleb Houghton, born in Devon, age seventeen. Lost with the Dauntless.
Out of the corner of Norrington's eye, a man tried to coax the serving girl into his lap.
Jonathan Trenton. Marcus Bell. George Ashton. Tom Cadley. Tom Britton. Gabriel Wells. Oliver Hammond. He listed those whose names he remembered and cursed himself for all the names he'd forgotten. They all deserved his respect. More than that. They hadn't deserved to die for his recklessness.
No doubt when all the evidence was compiled, they would find him guilty of misconduct, responsible for the loss when he could have avoided that storm. It would end his career and some part of him felt he deserved it. He hadn't needed to go after Jack Sparrow so relentlessly, so obsessively. But every time he thought about the pirate, he remembered the hanging they'd almost witnessed in Fort Charles and how Jack had only survived by the efforts of that boy Will and Elizabeth, the woman he loved who did not love him. Only after that day, with that truth out in the open, he'd dedicated himself more than ever to his duty and to chasing down those rum-sodden thieves, Sparrow foremost among them for humiliating him.
Norrington let out a bark of laughter, not caring about the look the bartender gave him, considering he hadn't touched his drink. He sounded like some lovestruck fool, spurned and now trying to distract himself from his own despair, using the hunt as just such a distraction. It occurred to him that might very well be what he'd become.
Norrington sighed and again regarded the letter before him. He needed to formulate a response. It was best to do so now, get it over with. His career was as good as over, but if there was any more honor to be found in this distasteful circumstance, he would take it.
He wasn't going to cling onto his disgraced position, try to play the innocent, hard-working commodore who'd simply made a mistake. With fifty-two deaths on his hands, he would not dishonor their memories in that way. And he most certainly did not want to be terminated from the service in dishonor after many months of investigations.
One option that made him sick to think of was resignation. Take the punishment on his own terms. Leave Port Royal. Try to make a life for himself elsewhere. The thought was a great weight in his chest but at the same time sent his thoughts whirling, seeking possibilities, trying to imagine himself as anything other than the stiff naval officer he'd been most of his life. No longer would he need to report to a superior, keep detailed records of his every action. He could be a free man.
Like Jack Sparrow? a small, poisonous voice whispered in his ear. He pushed it aside.
What would he be without that rigid structure in his life, the order to which he'd dedicated himself, his dreams and ambitions, his influence? He'd always taken pride in being an officer of the king, serving his country.
Only…what did that country need from him now? His country was readily prepared to throw him away.
Norrington read over the letter once more, for the dozenth time. Somewhere behind him, a drunkard passed out after losing a drinking game, knocking over his chair and hitting the wooden floorboards with a thud.
Norrington grabbed his tankard and downed it and then summoned the barkeeper for another.