Disclaimer: I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue.
A/N: This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read.
Chapter Ten
Jack Sparrow was gone, as was a fisherman's dingy, and the sloop Mercury. Explaining all of this might have been slightly less embarrassing if Mr. Beckett had invited him to sit. As he looked down at the Company man, Norrington was reminded of the day he'd watched his father's huge Rottweiler being chased from a favorite sunny spot by a spitting and hissing scrap of white kitten. Beckett, naturally, had no official jurisdiction over the Navy, but the influence of the East India Company was such that his prim invitation to summarize the events of the past few weeks could not be ignored. Governor Swann had insisted on accompanying him. A decent man, and a good friend, he was sitting by a window looking worried.
The Dauntless had made good time back to Port Royal, but the Mercury had done better. By the time Norrington had reached port the sloop was innocently anchored, and the Black Pearl was nowhere to be seen. Beckett's eyebrows rose into his hairline as Norrington reluctantly repeated the account he'd received from his officers when they'd arrived at Port Royal on a local transport some days later. Apparently the Mercury had heaved to and exchanged news with the Pearl off the Caicos Islands before sailing on. Shortly afterward, the captive pirate crew had begun complaining of fevers and headaches, showing the officers their long red tongues. They had quickly became too delirious and weak to work the ship.
His men, however, stimulated by their fear of the yellow jack, brought the Pearl into harbor in an amazingly short period of time, all twenty of them volunteering to go ashore in the longboats for medical help. The pirates left alone on board miraculously recovered the instant his men were clear of the ship's side, and the Pearl had been sailing out of the harbor before the sailors had reached the docks.
"I see." Beckett put the tips of his fingers together and looked over them at Norrington. "I see. Quite a series of misfortunes. Has the captain of the Mercury been placed under arrest?"
Norrington hesitated. "Unfortunately, no one actually saw Sparrow board the Mercury, or leave it. Captain Cordingly's entire crew is willing to swear that he was never on board. We have no evidence."
"I see." He wished quite violently that Beckett would stop saying that. Rising from behind his desk, Beckett walked over to the French doors and stared thoughtfully out at the rain falling monotonously on the sea. Norrington had time to notice that his shoes had exceptionally tall heels. Governor Swann finally cleared his throat and Beckett turned to him politely. "Yes?"
"Is it true, Mr. Beckett, that you will be leaving for England on the Swiftsure tomorrow morning?"
Beckett nodded.
"Perhaps then you would be kind enough to carry my reports." Swann fished a packet from inside his coat and placed it on the desk with a meaningful look at Norrington. No doubt the Governor's reports placed Norrington in the kindest light possible, and he swallowed hard; if his career burned to the water line, as it certainly seemed to be doing, Swann could be implicated for standing by him. Beckett tapped the packet with one finger and smiled kindly.
"Naturally, I would be delighted. May I however, beg of you a moment alone with the Commodore? There are certain matters I wish to discuss with him." The Governor stood and bowed, with as much dignity as he could summon after being so openly dismissed, and walked out of the room. Beckett said nothing, pacing deliberately along a set of bookshelves lining the wall, stopping before a stand which held an open volume, and perusing the pages.
"Was there something further?" Norrington snapped at last, against his better judgment.
"Have you ever studies the legends of the sea, Commodore?" Beckett responded, half-turning toward him. "The tales told by sailors?"
Norrington strode to stand beside Beckett, and almost laughed with relief at the picture Beckett indicated. An old woodcut, depicting the legendary Flying Dutchman. "No, sir. I'm afraid myths have never been an interest of mine."
"Ah. Pity." Beckett studied the illustration a moment longer. "I find the subject fascinating."
Norrington restrained a snort with difficulty. If this man had ever had to face the true monsters that roamed these waters he wouldn't be so eager to learn more about them. Undead pirates and carnivorous sirens tended to wreak havoc on one's interest in the uncanny. Beckett changed the subject somewhat abruptly.
"I captured Sparrow once, you know." He rubbed his hands together, eyes distant. "Yes. Years ago. But he escaped, of course. An...interesting man." He looked at Norrington's chest, then took a step back so he could more comfortably look into his face. "Indeed, it was he who first inspired my interest in...sea tales. A remarkable sailor."
For the life of him, Norrington couldn't understand what point this could possibly have. "Yes?"
"He shared no such tales with you?" Curiously insistent. "No local lore?"
"No." Certainly nothing he was willing to tell Beckett.
"Ah." Beckett seemed disappointed but said no more on the subject. "Well, I shall be making my report to the Company, of course, and to the Admiralty." A tiny, anticipatory smile. "I am sure they will wish to send someone to deal with the – ah, shall we say, situation? – here, someone with the broad authority necessary to take things in hand."
His tone left no doubt in Norrington's mind that Beckett hoped to be the one granted this broad authority. Not trusting himself to speak, he bowed shortly and walked to the door.
Just as he put his hand on the knob, Beckett said, "Of course, if Sparrow is captured it might prove a mitigating circumstance at your court-martial. Although, this is twice – no, three times, correct? – that he has escaped from you. One might think," Norrington's hand tightened on the doorknob, "that he had aid from...well, someone with influence. Which is inexcusable, however fine a sailor he may be."
Norrington laughed shortly, bitterly. "A fine sailor – sailing with a broken compass, a crew of lunatics, and a rapacious soul. Indeed, his escape is inexcusable." He opened the door and started through, but Beckett was there, hand on his arm, face urgent.
"A...broken compass, did you say? How is that? Did you – get a good look at it?"
Taken completely aback, Norrington answered honestly, "It doesn't point north. I've handled it once or twice – Sparrow keeps it on him. Sentimental value, perhaps."
"Sentimental – yes, certainly. Of course, the man is quite mad." Beckett stepped back, eyes hooded, and nodded in farewell. Still confused, Norrington left the office, shutting the door behind him. Beckett remained where he was until a door at the far end of the room opened silently to admit his henchman.
"Ah, there you are, Mercer." He smiled.
Without any change in expression, Mercer asked, "Have you had good news, sir?"
Beckett whistled a complicated tune under his breath, deep in thought. Finally he answered, "Why, yes. Very good news indeed, valuable information, if not quite the information I was searching for." Mercer waited quietly. "A certain very special compass appears to be in the possession of Captain Jack Sparrow."
Beckett moved to the book stand and stared at the woodcut, lovingly tracing the lines of the Flying Dutchman with one finger. "Commodore, Commodore," he whispered. "You have had a great treasure within your grasp, and you never realized it."