Author's Note: Hello and welcome to the first chapter of "The Prickly Bush". I must say, I am completely stunned by the reviews this story has received. I never, never anticipated such an interest and I am happy to report, I will be continuing. This chapter is a short one and until I finish my other POTC fic "Rubicon" (which I will, quite soon) chapters will continue to be on the shorter side. I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read and those who reviewed, NazgulQueen, Amanda, MageOfRoses, Atticus620, Jadelioness, Faith-Catherine, and BadLilBirdies. Thank you all! I have no beta for this fic, so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. Lieutenant Peter Trimble alone is mine.
Chapter One A Toast
"Huzzah! Huzzah!" James Norrington looked up from the paperwork before him. In swung his office door and heavy footfalls trod over the carpeted floor.
"Let us drink then!" Lieutenant Andrew Gillette announced. He had a bottle of wine in hand and waved it around with exaggerated gestures.
"To what?" Norrington asked as he pulled his chair around the front of the desk. Gillette promptly sat, ignoring Norrington's sigh as he went to find another chair.
Lieutenant Theodore Groves was next into the office, swaggering as usual beneath his brocade and blue.
"Engaged to be married," he said, pausing for his theatrics. With one hand, he swiped at an imaginary tear.
"Not yet." Norrington set a trio of chairs about the center of the office. Gillette struggled with the cork in the bottle.
"Then we must have something to celebrate." Lieutenant Peter Trimble came in last, looking as always like death warmed over with his pinched and parchment-colored face. He bowed to Norrington and snatched the bottle from Gillette's hand. "Came it o'er from France?"
Gillette pulled a face at the young man's accent and took back the bottle. "From Spain, my pet." The sobriquet was Gillette's playful way of establishing his authority, as he and Trimble were the same in age and standing.
"We might drink to Jack Sparrow," Norrington offered. Three pairs of wide eyes turned to him. "An infamous pirate no more," he added hastily.
"Agreed," Trimble said. "I wonder what it is that turns a man to piracy."
"Desperation?" Gillette grunted, working his fingers about the stubborn cork.
"Oh lah laddie! No!" Trimble was in the highest state of agitation now. He perched his hands on his hips like a saucy maid and jiggled his head. "A good man can be desperate and not turn to thieving. What's to say that evil begets evil?"
"What is to say that all pirates are evil?" Norrington countered mildly. "Understand, gentlemen, I offer them no excuse, certainly not me. But I believe that a few, a very few are not wholly corrupted by their crimes. Why, I once met a young boy caught sailing under the wrong flag. He had little knowledge of his misdeeds and quite innocently asked me what he had done wrong."
"Oh and are you some sort of thinker now?' Trimble raised a sandy brow. "A philosopher he is, gents!"
Norrington laughed, the sound rolling and deep, sprouting from the pit of his stomach. "But when a pirate is a pirate, justice must be swift…and unforgiving."
"Aye!" Trimble did a little jig with his feet tapping lightly along the floor.
"And he hasn't even had a drop to drink yet," Groves said. He pulled Trimble down into a chair. "Glasses please, James. I am not partial to drinking from the bottle."
Norrington passed around three plain wine glasses and kept one for himself. Gillette finally freed the cork and poured a generous amount of the dark libation into each glass. They sat in unusual silence then, Norrington mulling over his drink with a growing frown.
Images of Elizabeth Swann, radiant in the sun's strong light and lovely, crossed his mind. Norrington was no romantic, the thought of marriage first appearing as a looming black shape on his horizon, drawing ever near but no more defined. He found now that he might look forward to this softer life, especially with a woman like Elizabeth Swann by his side.
Norrington glanced up at his officers – his friends – each draped in some fashion over his respective chair.
Ivory-skinned Gillette had changed little since his arrival in the Caribbean five years ago. He was a cold-blooded fellow, used to the harsh, icy sea winds and frosty Ireland's shores. A long year it had taken him to adjust, but with his keen intelligence and wit, he fit easily in.
Groves had been in Port Royal the longest of them all and his dark skin showed the mark of the sun. He had a brilliant smile and conducted himself with a certain swagger that announced an air of confidence. Norrington had expected to lock horns with the somewhat haughty man, but had been surprised to find him good-natured.
And Trimble, darling Trimble with his high voice and lanky frame. At twenty-seven he seemed more a boy than a man, but had a quick enough mind. Norrington had known him for four years, meeting him when he served as a midshipman aboard the Interceptor. Trimble was loyal, almost fatally so, as when he blocked a privateer's blow from landing on Norrington's head. At twenty-six, Norrington had been quick to award him a lieutenancy.
Despite his often sickly appearance, Trimble proved to be hearty, a lad from Northern England with a thick Yorkshire accent. He had fallen into the group as the little brother, Norrington's unspoken favorite.
"Wine too heady, Commodore?" Gillette asked with a delicate smile that peeked over the rim of his glass.
"Not like Trimble here, eh?" Groves winked. He then repeated a much-beloved story, detailing the time when Trimble had first dined with the officers and was quite unable to hold his wine.
"I've ne'er been to Spain," Trimble said after Groves had finished. He stared dreamily out the window, already drifting with the wine. "Or France."
"Someday, my pet," Gillette sighed.
"Is it like Yorkshire? With moors and heather?"
"I have never been to Yorkshire," Norrington said.
"I don't intend to go back now, do I?" Trimble replied. "What with my Mam and Dad gone and-
"Oh, he is getting weepy!" Groves threw up one of his arms. Gillette gave Trimble his handkerchief.
"No, I'm not," Trimble huffed. And to prove his point, he rose and danced another jig of his.
"The wine has gone to his head," Groves lamented.
"I fear his manner is quite the same either way." Norrington hid his laughter behind his glass. Trimble fell back into his chair.
"Let us have a toast," Gillette raised his glass. "To your intended marriage, James."
Norrington shook his head and pushed Gillette's arm down. "She has not accepted my proposal."
"But her father has consented?"
"I shall meet with him shortly."
"She is a funny sort of creature," Trimble mused. "I can ne'er right figure her out."
"There will be no 'figuring' on your part, boy," Norrington said.
"I wasn't being bawdy," Trimble protested. He wrinkled his nose. "I only meant that she is a strange lass, like one of those painted up china dolls from the London the ladies fancy. All pretty on the outside, with little smiles and bright blue eyes. Yet there is much more too it, I think, much more than a fixed stare and smile. I can ne'er figure it."
"Enough now, my pet. You have made dear James anxious," Gillette said. "Then we shall drink to something else. To life!" He raised his glass once more.
"To health!" Groves bellowed.
Trimble hesitated a moment. "To love," he said at last. All four raised their glasses and drank deep.
To Be Continued….
Author's Note: A few notes before I finish. Peggy Franks and Lieutenant Peter Trimble are the same person. When a scene or chapter is being told from Norrington's point of view (like this one) Peggy/Peter will be known and addressed as Peter, the only way the Navy boys know him. However, if a chapter or scene is told from Peggy/Peter's point of view, Peggy/Peter will be known as Peggy. Please let me know if anything strikes you as confusing and I will certainly try to amend the problem.
As you have noticed, Peggy/Peter speaks a little differently as she is from Yorkshire. I have refrained from writing out the accent, such as "I'll not be goin' doon to t'barn, aye?" which I think would be quite confusing for the reader and is a pain for me to write. So instead, I'll ask you to kindly use your imagination as far as her dialect is concerned.
The line "Came it o'er from France?" is a pun on another of my favorite Scottish folk songs "Cam ye o'er frae France?" And since I am an absolute nerd, you will notice many more references to traditional music.
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