-1Chapter 3

The next thing I remember is feeling cold. Then my senses slowly registered the still persistent rain, the weariness, and the stiff ache where my body had prepared itself for death. When I finally dragged my eyes open I realized I was floating on a large section of the Dauntless' deck. The moon glowed weakly behind heavy clouds, but the surrounding ocean was (barely)illuminated by the majority of the hull that now crackled with low flames.

I looked and I now saw what hours before I had closed my eyes against. In the dim light, horrifying carcasses rose above the surface of the water, bobbing along in the current amidst crates and barrels and splintered pieces of painted oak. They were beyond cries for help now, but as I sat, trapped in this watery graveyard I heard their screams in my mind, deafening and unstoppable.

Shortly, the flames died out and the rain grew more insistent. I clung to the deck and waited for the hours to slowly pass. If I was spared until morning, I decided half consciously, I would try to find land. In the meantime I sat, tormented beyond sleep, more exhausted and frightened than I have ever been before or since, hungry, cold and wet, like Dante among the damned without a Virgil to guide me. I have no recollections of my thoughts in those lonely hours. I suppose I thought of Elizabeth, of my parents, of my warm bed in Port Royal. Perhaps I prayed. It may be ungentlemanly to confess it, but I know I wept.

After what seemed like hours I was able to make out in the darkness another body that had drifted to the edge of my impromptu raft. He was close enough I could have reached out to close his still, cold eyelids. I did not do so, though I was simultaneously repulsed and comforted by his presence. It was perhaps this imagined solidarity that finally allowed me to drift to sleep.

I don't know how long I slept, but when I awoke it was still grey and rainy. My companion was still there, and in a sudden effusion of shock, nausea, and sorrow I recognized the caramel skinned body of my faithful manservant, Mozart. Mere hours ago he had been serving me my breakfast and presenting my freshly polished boots. Now he lay, staring fixedly at the Mediterranean sky with an eerie, empty gaze. Partly motivated by affection and partly because I could not bear to look at his gruesome expression I reached out a shaky hand and closed his eyes.

The sky gradually grew lighter, but the rain did not stop. I abandoned my raft for a smaller, more mobile portion of the shattered hull and was able to salvage some breakfast; a wet mush of bread-like composition that did nothing to truly assuage my hunger. Sometime near what I guessed was midmorning, I spotted movement on the other edge of the wide distribution of debris. Moving towards it I discovered that I was not the only one who had survived the storm. There were three others; Second Lieutenant Newson, the grizzled old gun Mr. Higgot, and an ordinary seaman badly injured by the pump on which he had been working during the downpour, Mr. Morris.

My delight at the discovery of human companionship soon faded, overshadowed by the bleakness of our situation. We had no real food, no water, and we were drifting on a plank of hull in the middle of what were still dangerous waters. Perhaps we had survived the hurricane merely to be chopped to pieces by a crew of ruthless corsairs. We sat in our starved, half living daze, making no attempts to find a solution to our crisis. Once a ship passed our way, fortunately unconcerned with the limp bodies of shipwrecked seamen. In the distance we could sometimes determine the outlines of land, but what land? Hopeless as it was, we clung to the meager chance at survival offered upon glistening waves than face the certain death that awaited us ashore.

This outlook pervaded for the first day. Then, on the morning of the second, we awoke to discover that Morris had died during the night. This served as a kind of an awakening for the three of us who remained, and during that day we began to make plans to infiltrate the nearest port town. We decided to wait until nightfall, hoping that we would attract less attention under the cover of darkness.

That afternoon we dozed, so much as we could, cramped and folded along our makeshift vessel. I was tossing in a fevered dream when I heard a voice from somewhere above.

"Bonjour en bas là! Bonjour !"

French. I opened my eyes.

"Ah, alors vous êtes vivant!" (Ah, then you are alive!)

I squinted up into the elderly and inquisitive face of the man I would later remember as our savior. Just at that moment all I knew was that his red uniform was almost painfully bright to my weary eyes, and that my brain was humming too loudly with hunger and slight fever to bother translating his French. I let my eyelids slide back over my eyes.

"Oh no, monsieur! Ne pas retourner dormir! Je viens vous secourir!" (Do not go back to sleep! I am coming to rescue you!)

Despite my exhaustion, my brain inadvertently translated a few of the words, including 'rescue.' My subconscious kicked my senses awake, and I sat up, alert.

"Il y a trois de nous." (There are three of us.) I croaked, taking in the small sloop floating a few yards from our meager raft.

"Je Vois. Vos compagnon sont-ils bien?" (So I see. Are your companions well?)

I turned and roused Newson and Higgot, while the monsieur watched.

"Bon, maintenant vous pouvoir vous rame sur ici?" (Good, now can you row yourselves over here?)

I looked at my companions who nodded.

"Oui, Monsieur."

And so we rowed with our crude oars for what seemed like ages, but in truth was only about twenty minutes, until we reached the sloop. At no point during those few minutes did any of us stop to think about the danger of the situation, to wonder who this man was, or where he would take us. We only saw the salvation of a ship which must have empty bunks, a lower deck to shelter us from the still falling rain, steaming mugs of tea and plates of hot food.

When Mr. Higgot had climbed over the railing, and we were all three blissfully sipping tea, our host introduced himself.

"Bienvenue. Je suis Ambroise Leandre Modeste Charbonneau, le Chevalier du le Souverain Ordre Militaire de St. John." (Welcome. I am Ambroise Leandre Modeste Charbonneau, Knight of the Sovereign Military Order of St . John.)

Newson and I exchanged a knowing glance. Mr. Higgot, whose education had sadly lacked instruction in the French language, kept his face impassive. I suspect he did not want Monsieur le Hospitaller to know that he didn't understand him.

"Qui vous est ?" (And you are?) Monsieur Charbonneau asked kindly.

I could see no reason to lie, nor did any decent counterfeit present itself to my consciousness, so I simply supplied the truth.

"Le contre-amiral James Norrington de La Marine de Sa Majesté dans les Antilles." I remembered my manners and gave a crisp bow, which he returned. "Ceci est mon Sous-lieutenant M. Charles Newson. Et un de notre équipage de canon, M. Higgot."

Newson mimicked my bow with a respectful, "Monsieur." Higgot, conscious that he was being talked about by his superiors, straightened to attention. Our host nodded smoothly in acknowledgment.

"Contre-amiral," Charbonneau turned to face me again, "Je devinerais que ceux-ci soient les restes de votre bateau que nous naviguons par?" (I would hazard a guess that these are the remainders of your ship we have been sailing through?)

"Yes." I answered gravely, with a keen pang of loss and shame. But I would not think about that now. Just now I must protect my remaining crew by currying the favor of this man who offered us salvation.

"I'm sorry," he returned in English. His face remained calm, but his eyes grew wide and sorrowful.

"Merci, Monsieur." I couldn't keep a little of the anguish I felt from showing in my expression. Monsieur Charbonneau was too polite to notice.

"Plus de votre équipage a-t-il survécu?" (Did more of your crew survive?) He gestured over the railing.

"No monsieur. Seulement nous trois. L'ouragan a pris le reste." (Just we three. The rest were taken by the hurricane.)

Charbonneau nodded.

"Bien alors nous vous prendrons loin de cette pluie et trouvons quelque nourriture pour vous." (Well, then, let us get you out of this rain and find you some food)

"Merci, monsieur," I said again, my stomach and muscles throbbing at the prospect of food and warmth and safety.

"Nous sommes seulement quelques heures loin de Valetta," he commented as we followed him down the gangway. (We are only a few hours from Valetta.)

"Que faites-vous ici?" Newson asked. (What are you doing here? )

"Nous avons vu l'ouragan. Ce n'est pas mauvais dans Valetta. C'est notre devoir pour aller chercher des réfugiés, comme vous." (We saw the hurricane. It was not so bad in Valetta. It is our duty to go searching for refugees, like yourself) He smiled again his serene thin-lipped smile.

We sat down at a simple table in what seemed to be an empty common area at the center of the lower deck.

"Nous sommes très reconnaissants que vous avez fait," I managed to find my voice which was still weary and weak. My head ached. (We're very grateful you did.)

"Vous êtes une façon très longue loin de votre maison, Contre-amiral." (You are a very long way from home, Commodore.) He courteously left the observation at that, turning to go as we were presented with three bowls of delicious smelling soup.

"Quand vous avez fini, un de mon équipage vous montrera à un hamac. Je suggère que vous ayez obtenu quelque repos. Au revoir, messieurs." (When you are finished, one of my crew will show you to a bunk. I suggest you get some rest. Good day, gentlemen.)

With that he ascended the ladder-like steps and disappeared from view.

Once again restored to a full belly, Mr. Higgot could no longer suppress his natural suspicion towards our French and decidedly aristocratic host. Mr. Newson and I tried to explain to him what he did not know: that we were in the company of Hospitallers, an ancient and venerable order of knights dating back to the crusades who today devoted their lives to theprotection of the Mediterranean states and hospitality towards all Christians, that we were headed to the Hospitaller island-state of Malta, and that there we were sure to receive some of the best medical care available at its capital city's world-renowned hospital.

"Begging your pardon, sir," Newson asked sleepily when I had finished my explanation, "Once we've reached Malta, what do you propose to do?"

"Find a way to reach England," I answered, stifling a yawn. "The Hospitallers aren't awfully fond of the King or we Anglicans, but we may convince them to help us. Then we report to the navy offices in London. But for now, gentlemen, I am going to bed."

And with that I went in search of a bunk, trying my best to ignore the chills of fever accompanied by a renewed sense of loss whenever I remembered that my ship, the HMS Dauntless, was nothing but a scattered mess of oak and canvas sinking to the ocean floor.

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A/N: Yay! Finally a chapter 3! I have not forgotten nor abandoned dear James, it is simply that I have been too busy to write. In fact it has taken getting sick to allow me to slow down enough to finish this chapter which has been begun for some time. Thanks to all who have stuck with me and continue to read, though I cannot say when the next chapter will be posted.

I am fairly certain that the French in this chapter is abysmally translated (by online generators). If anyone can set me right, please do so. My apologies to the French for butchering such a beautiful language.