Chapter Three – Allemande

"A rebellion? Preposterous!" Governor Swann pounded one fist on his desk for emphasis. "But, it must have been serious for Ravel to send a note." He chewed his bottom lip, brow furrowed. The note of folded paper from Governor Ravel lay open in the center of Swann's desk. Outside, the clear blue sky was over abundant with puffy clouds. The morning's innocence was gone from the formerly white cluster of condensation. A dark shade of grey had colored the clouds, foreshadowing rain, but neither man had noticed.

James stood before the governor, hands clasped behind his back. "It does sound out of the ordinary but I suggest we pay more attention to our neighbors. If a rebellion does occur, we should be ready for it."

The older man heaved a sigh, rubbing his forehead. "I do suppose you're right, Commodore." He gave him an almost apologetic smile. "The last thing we need is a rebellion, now that things have finally settled down."

"I agree." To the casual listener, it would seem like the reply was heart felt but internally, James was almost disappointed at how easily something could be solved. Though he was thankful for the break from pirates, Port Royal was just not very exciting any longer. It seemed to be an odd thing to think but he found himself thinking it nonetheless. Bowing slightly, he said, "A good day to you then, governor."

"To you as well," came the reply. The commodore turned on one heel and exited Swann's office. Taking a left out in the hall, he moved swiftly down the curving steps of the Swann household. The grand stair case was one of the first things a visitor saw and made quite an impression. Of course, there was the piano too. It was a beautiful one, rivaling James' own.

A servant scurried towards the door to open it for him as James came down the stairs. But before the man could reach for the handle, there was a knock. The servant opened the door to greet who ever had knocked. Outside, the once blue sky was turning grey with thick cloud cover. But James' attention was on the door. "Why, Mrs. Turner! What a surprise!"

James paused briefly beside the piano, looking up to find that Elizabeth had appeared on the door step. She was garbed in a plain dress of green. "What brings to you the household, Mrs. Turner?" the servant asked.

"Oh, just a routine visit to my father," she replied with a smile and stepping inside.

"Of course," the servant said, holding to door open. He hadn't forgotten the commodore waiting nearby. It was then Elizabeth noticed the man as he started again towards the door.

"Commodore Norrington," she stated simply, the barest hint of venom in the title.

"Mrs. Turner," James replied in the same voice, tipping his hat to her as he walked by. Even thought it'd been at least a year or two since World's End, none of the others had forgotten it had been him who'd stolen Davy Jones' heart. Elizabeth was beginning to loose the cool, aloof attitude that had been assumed in his presence. Like last week for example. There were good days and bad days, however. Like this one.

Elizabeth barely inclined her head and continued on in the opposite direction. The servant shuffled his feet anxiously as James stepped outside. "Have a good day, Commodore," the man called to James' back. James merely raised a hand in acknowledgement.

--

"They're onto us." Two figures crouched in the shrubbery on the borders of governor Swann's manor watching the blue and gold-garbed commodore cross the lawn. The faintest bit of thunder rumbled. The one that had spoken was an ebon-skinned bull of a man in a loose grey shirt and brown trousers tucked into some boots. A pair of pistols was strapped across his chest and two more hung from a wide leather belt around his waist. No hair graced his head and he spoke with little accent.

His companion was a dark little Englishman with a rat-like face. Big beady eyes seemed to start from his head. "'Ow do ye figure that?" he queried, scratching the back of his head rather stupidly.

"I heard about ze attack on Ravel's fort. No doubt these men were informed about it."

"Oh." The rat man blinked slowly for a second before his eyes lit up. "'Ey, why don' we just shoot the commodore now? E's gonna be shot later anyways," he began, reaching for his own pistol. The other man backhanded him smartly and seized him by the front of his shirt.

"Are you daft? Ze Spaniard is supposed to get information on what kind of power this place has. And we can't get that if you shoot him!"

"Oh," the man said again, rubbing the red mark on his greasy forehead. The first man rolled his eyes wearily. He turned back to watch the commodore climb up onto a horse and leave the governor's place.

"We just have to sit and wait."

--

James automatically pulled Maria back towards the harbor. No doubt Gillette had put more paperwork on his desk. He sighed loudly, grumbling. A noise along the lines of a tap interrupted his unpleasant musings and a large droplet of water trickled from the tip of his hat to run onto the top of his forehead. Reining Maria to a stop, he leaned his head back to look up at the sky as another large drop of water hit him between the eyes. Dark clouds had rolled in during his conference with Governor Swann.

"Bloody, twice-cursed, erratic Caribbean weather," he hissed to himself, kicking Maria into a canter. The pair had just made it back into town when, slowly and surely, the rain began to fall in a steady downpour. Without a rain cloak, James found himself soaked within a few minutes. Maria shied a little to the right as a streak of lightning blinded her for a moment. The few people left in the street either had no shelter or were in the process of scurrying for some. Many headed for the local pubs.

No wind picked up so the sudden storm was nothing to worry about as far as the ships' safety went. They'd weathered a few storms and a little thunderstorm wasn't going to hurt them. Tapping his mount's heels a little harder, James turned Maria towards his office. It was much closer, not to mention dry. Heading back for the house would probably only get him sick, knowing his luck.

It took maybe three more minutes to get to the snug little building. Leaving Maria under a dry overhang, James headed inside shaking water from his hat and feet. A contemplative expression furrowed his brow as he searched for a possible reason for a rebellion. If he remembered correctly, Jamaica had been under Spanish rule before England stepped in. The Spaniards had taken the natives as slaves. Of course, the Spaniards were pushed out of Jamaica and their slaves disappeared and later resurfaced as the Maroons. There had been eerie rumors of the slave descendants killing any white-skinned man who crossed their path. Perhaps it was this group who was provoking this 'rebellion'.

The only noise in his office was the rain pounding on the roof and the occasional burst of thunderous noise. A particularly loud boom rattled the floorboards as he opened the door. James seemed indifferent to it all, lost in thought. Unconsciously, he removed his soaked jacket and hung the garment, hat next to it, over another rarely used fireplace. Of course, he forgot to light the fire. Water dripped randomly from his shirt sleeves and onto the hard wood floor, leaving a trail of droplets from the door to the fireplace.

He turned to make for his desk when the lightning-outlined silhouette of a person invaded his vision. The commodore almost jumped about a foot in the air. One hand made for his pistol automatically as he stammered out a "W-w-who?"

"Don't shoot!" Melissa Hart rushed forward into cleared focus, one hand clutched over her heart. Immediately, James relaxed and his breath whooshed out all at once.

"Good God, Miss Hart!" he exclaimed breathlessly. "What are you doing in my office?" The declaration and demand were rather rash acts on his part but they were out before he could stop himself.

"Oh Commodore, it's you! I came to extend an invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Anderson for afternoon tea. But the storm came upon me so fast I had no choice but to stay here. I had planned to wait it out and was looking out that window," she gestured to the big bay window situated behind his desk, "when you came in. I must not have heard you over the thunder."

"Ah." It was the only semi-reply he could muster, having found his slightly frazzled mind devoid of anything more intelligent.

"You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not, Miss Hart." Manners and propriety all came rushing back as the pounding in his chest slowed. He reached to his right and pulled a vacant chair from before the fireplace. "Please, have a seat." She nodded, smiling slightly and accepting the chair. His heart not hammering as much, James maneuvered around to the other side of his desk. "You'll have to forgive my humble appearance. I was also caught unawares by the storm," he muttered, flushing red as he noticed the wet shirt clinging to him. Still slightly preoccupied with his thoughts, he bent over his desk to investigate the pile of papers on it. They hadn't been there before he left for the governor's. Gillette came to mind.

"Not a problem, Commodore," she replied warmly. Her answer was a curt nod. And, apart from the rain on the roof, there was silence. Melissa relaxed a bit, leaning back in her chair and casting a brown hued eye about the office. She would have compared it to James' home if she'd ever seen it. Sparsely decorated, there were a few odd nails actually sticking at odd angles from the walls. Must have been left over from the former resident.

The sound of paper being crumpled and tossed against a wall brought her attention back to the man behind the desk. His tall frame was bent almost double over the desk, nose to ink with a long, loquacious looking document. She was about to suggest a light when he glanced up at her. "Would you mind lighting that lamp, Miss Hart?" James asked, gesturing towards a small hurricane lamp on the corner of the desk. Melissa looked at him, almost startled. "You know how to light a lamp?" he queried after a moment, noticing her expression.

"Y-yes, I do. I just hadn't expected such a request. Do you have any matches?" He rummaged haphazardly through a desk drawer and produced a booklet of the things.

"Such a request? You make it sound as if I was…" he paused for an appropriate phrase, not finding one, "…asking you to marry me or something." The latter statement faded slightly as he turned his attention back to the paper he held. She gave a slightly amused chuckle as light grew steadily from the lamp having been successfully lit.

"Oh no. I was merely surprised because most men treat me like a piece of porcelain instead of a human being. The last request asked of me was if I needed help pouring my tea."

He gave an amused snort, eyes focused on another sheet of parchment. "I merely find listening to such talk annoying." A short chortle escaped him. "Especially if the woman receiving it is as liberated as you."

She put forth an expression of mock surprise. So the man had a personality. Just last night, he had seemed rather...dull. "Liberated! That's a new one." This time the commodore actually looked up at her for longer than a second.

"What, no one's referred to you as liberated?"

"Not exactly," she said, a rather smarmy smirk on her face. He shrugged once, a half grin creasing his own features as he turned his attention back to the document.

"Then forgive my bold speech, Miss Hart."

"Please, call me Melissa."

"I'd rather not."

"And why is that?"

"As a close associate of mine has preached, I say propriety."

"Is that what you always say?"

James looked up at her again with a mixture of cleverness and curiosity, one hand reaching for a quill and ink well. "Perhaps," he replied after a moment. Melissa made a noise of amusement and looked around the room again. There was silence again. Outwardly, she seemed involved with studying the office's details. Inwardly, she was secretly overjoyed at having found someone to banter with. The conversation hadn't lasted maybe a minute and James Norrington had proved himself a worthy warrior in the battle of wits; short, quick, and to the point.

He had already reached the last of the documents on the desk when she noticed him sneer. The commodore grumbled slightly, straightening and walking over to where his jacket hung on the mantle. "Something wrong?" she queried, turning in her chair to watch him fold and place the paper in an inside pocket. James glanced at her over his shoulder and seemed to be judging if she was trustworthy.

"There have been reports of Jamaican 'rebels' attacking nearby forts. This is the second notification I've received today."

Melissa started in actual surprise and seemed unsettled by the piece of information. "What?" she exclaimed. "T-that's absurd!"

"I only half agree. They have the motive."

"What would that be?"

"When Jamaica was first settled upon, it was by the Spanish. They took the natives there at the time as slaves. When England came to claim some of the newly discovered land, Jamaica was at least liberated from the Spaniards. But, I've heard of some men who've taken slaves as well. The Jamaicans only need the right leader to bring Port Royal and the other forts to their knees."

"Would it be that simple?" he heard Melissa ask in an odd tone. James didn't notice it.

"Well, admittedly…yes. A surprise attack yesterday would have caught us off our guard. There have been events like it in the past." He wasn't about to mention the embarrassing ordeal with the Black Pearl but the memory rose afresh in his mind. "But, and thanks to the quick reports from the two attacked ports, we know that there is undoubtedly an attack planned for Port Royal. We will be ready this time."

Melissa had regained her smooth composure. "You seem to have a lot of faith in your men, Commodore."

"And why not? They've all served staunchly before the mast and I have letters of recommendation for each of my officers."

"How…" she paused, white teeth flashing in a smile, "unconventional of you."

"Now you're calling me liberated. You have reason to doubt the King's Navy?"

"Perhaps," she said with a coy smile, a touch of coolness in her tone. James shruggeded and took the reply as the end of the conversation.

--

"Madame Aleale! Madame Aleale!" The frantic voice of the greasy little Englishman reached the Jamaican woman's ears despite the noise of the off-to-the-side tavern. A slew of mostly men (pirates and the like) were drinking, laughing and carrying on. However, the noise was immediately silenced as the little man skittered to a halt several drunkards away from the make-shift 'throne' Aleale was perched on.

The dark eyed gaze that pierced the man through was ice cold, eyes mere slits under a delicate brow. Skin with the semblance of dark velvet was stretched over high set cheekbones giving the woman the expression of royalty. Her hair had been done in hundreds of braids and was pulled loosely back from her seemingly stone-etched face. Aleale was dressed in a loose white shirt, a deep green vest fastened tight to her torso. Baggy pants fell to her ankles and a pair of tattered sandals was on her feet.

"What brings ye here, Walters, raisin' a racket dat would awake Davy Jones himself?" she demanded.

"It's urgent! The men you sent to Fort Smalle and Fort Ballon were seen and reported before they could intercept the messengers!"

The faintest of emotion expressed itself on Aleale's face. "Dis is unexpected. I had thought bettah of my men dan dat. Some man find them so dhey be punished." Immediately, almost half of the men in the tavern exited.

The accented man seen earlier with the Englishman appeared behind him, soaking from the rain. Aleale fixed her steely gaze on him. "Hakim, our plans are tah be pushed forward. Summon de Captain; our attack is to be carried out widin the next t'ree days. Do I make mehself clear?"

Hakim bowed. "Crystal clear, madame," he replied and left again.

"Push forward the plans?" the Englishman queried. Aleale looked at him again, expression emotionless.

"Ye doubt meh decision, Mistah Walters?" The man stammered, fingering the stained collar of his black jacket.

"N-no, madame. I only just-" His sentence stopped as Kipling fell backwards onto the floor, a bullet hole in his chest. Aleale held the pistol to her lips, blowing the smoke from the barrel.

"We can't afford tah have doubters, Mistah Walters." She raised her voice to address the entire room. "All 'a ye, ready ye weapons and selves. We've a port to dismembah in t'ree days!"

---

AN: Ah, another action-less dribble. Forgive me! I promise, things will be picking up in the next chapter.

-giggles- I have just recently found out that Port Royal is an actual place. Go figure. I've also found a partial time line of the port- some of its 'wicked' history will come into play in this story. It's not specifically on Port Royal but it provides a background for my plot. Well, at least a little. Of course, I find myself woefully behind since there's been two people already declare they knew about Port Royal. –makes a face-

Anyway, thanks to the reviewers Erica and Oriana8 and anyone else I have forgotten to mention.