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Chapter Fourteen: "Embarkation"

"He's gone." Admiral Shane Delaney barged into Norrington's cabin without waiting to be announced. He was irritated. No, not irritated. He was angry. Out of respect for a woman who's opinion was important to him, he had not insisted that an armed guard stay inside of her brother's room at all times. He had contented himself with posting men at all of the hospital's entrances. After all, Prescott Tarret had been on death's door. No way could he make an escape from the second story room he'd occupied. Shane knew Prescott's reputation. Everyone in the Caribbean knew of the incredible feats of daring accomplished by Captain Tarret. Sure, maybe he'd forsaken everything and turned pirate, he had still been a great asset to the Crown. Why condemn a man for high treason when he'd once battled the very same pirates he'd run off to join?He should have known that Prescott would rise to the occasion, and that someone would be content to look the other way while he escaped custody.

Delaney shook his head. How could he have been so blind? Prescott Tarret was a pirate who knew he was destined for the noose. A desperate man facing death was a dangerous man. A man who could beat any odds. Of course, he'd been able to orchestrate an escape.

Captain Norrington looked up, wide eyed, from the charts he'd been reviewing. "Who's gone?" he asked. "Sir," he added belatedly.

"Tarret," Delaney declared, as though that should have been completely obvious. It should have been, who else would he be so concerned with.

James blanched. "Escaped?"

"Well, I do not imagine he waltzed out with a royal escort," Shane was being terribly scathing, he knew that. But, he was upset. His own willingness to keep in a woman's good graces had lost England a valuable prisoner, and he hadn't even managed to stay in the woman's good graces. His actions had been doubly damning, and now Norrington was bothering him with asinine questions.

"Of course. Sorry, Sir." James let the edges of the chart roll up on themselves. He stepped to the other side of his desk. "Do we have any ideas concerning his whereabouts."

"He'd be a fool to stay in Kingston," Delaney answered, happy to finally be on track. "Just the same, we've checked his former residence, and that of his sister. We also questioned his physician. We found nothing, and the doctor hadn't a clue what we were talking about. He kept going on about the impossibility of the patient's escape."

The Captain's eyebrows rose for a second, then dropped. "I think it's safe to say, nothing is impossible where Prescott is concerned."

"So I'm beginning to see."

"What's to be our course of action?"

"We have to assume that Tarret has gone after Boothe, to get his ship back, and to have his revenge. Four merchant vessels left port this morning and one last night. He could have stowed away or taken control of any one of them. Or, he could have had some ship tucked away in a hidden cove, he did grow up here after all. He must know the terrain like the back of his hand." Delaney paused, recalling a story in the Gazette in which a Spanish tyrant was apprehended near a cave to which Prescott Tarret had led the marines. He alone had known the location of that cave. It was no stretch of the imagination that Tarret could know of a safe landing spot, large enough to conceal a small fishing vessel.

"Do we try to stop him?" Norrington was asking.

"Not we, Captain. You," Shane answered. "The squad could not possibly be ready to embark in time. Intercepter is reckoned the fastest ship in the West Indies. If anyone has a chance to catch Tarret, it would be you." James nodded shortly. "You are to sail immediately, head for the location Boothe's crewman told you about," Delaney ordered, stepping closer to Norrington. "There's a rumor trickling down from Admiralty concerning the necessity of a second commander in the Caribbean, a commodore to be posted in Port Royal." He paused letting the significance of this information sink in. He knew that James Norrington was an ambitious officer, who yearned for a prestigious Naval career. A commodore was not a commissioned office. The title merely meant that Norrington would have several ships under his control. Still, a commodore was a very small step away from an Admiral. Once Delaney retired, or in the event of his death, a commodore from the same region would be the obvious choice as his successor. Shane was practically handing James the West Indies on a silver platter, and, from the expression on his face, James knew it.

Delaney smiled slightly. "Find Tarret, and the position's as good as yours."

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Jack backed away from where he and Prescott had stood with their ears pressed against the sleeping cabin's door. He stared meaningfully at the older man. His thoughts were written plainly on his face. Would James betray them in exchange for a promotion? Prescott held his face perfectly expressionless in an effort to conceal the fact that he was wondering that exact thing. He had to admit that he was momentarily impressed with Admiral Delaney. Had Prescott been in Shane's position, he would have made James very same offer. Norrington longed for promotion, prestige, and respect above everything else. The Admiral's officer was the pot filled with gold at the end of the rainbow. Delaney was dangling everything James had ever wanted right in front of his nose, and all James had to do was betray a former friend who was now an enemy of the Crown. Prescott was more than a little nervous.

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The deck of the Interceptor exploded in activity as her Captain strode up to the quarterdeck. "Bosun's mates," James bellowed. "Side boys, lively now," he ordered. Every crewman within earshot stood at attention, as Admiral Delaney appeared on deck after Norrington. The bosuns' whistles sounded shrilly, and all hats came off as the Admiral disappeared over the side into his boat, with all the pomp and circumstance afforded a man of his station. James watched the Admiral's barge pull away from the side. Compared to his own small gig, the barge was a colossal improvement. James raised his hand to his hat, saluting his superior officer. Delaney had done everything but name him Admiral right then and there. All he had to do was capture a fugitive who happened to be below decks in his own sleeping cabin. All he had to do was betray one of the few friends he had in the Caribbean, granted that man was a pirate, but he had been a friend nonetheless.

The bosuns' whistles fell silent. Delaney returned the Captain's salute. James kept his eyes fixed on the Admiral. Could he do it? Could he hand his friend over to be slaughtered, humiliated in the town square? Could he stand by, wearing the pennant of a commodore, and watch Prescott hang? Could he sleep at night knowing that he'd been responsible for killing the only family Annie had left?

James shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "Lieutenant Billings," he said. "Take us out."

"Aye, aye, Sir," Billings responded. "Man the capstan," he shouted. "Hand aloft to loose the top'sils."

Norrington watched the commotion of embarkation on deck with blind eyes. It made no difference if he could, or could not, turn in Prescott. He did not have to make the decision now. He could not possibly admit to allowing a wanted criminal to hide in his very own cabin. He would have to make a good show of pursuing the pirate across the open sea. He would go to the island Mr. Gates had told him about. He would make his decision then, there, and not before.

Apparently satisfied that his lieutenants could handle the embarkation of Interceptor. Captain Norrington turned and headed to his quarters. He had been watching his crew hurrying this way and that, going about the business of making a ship ready to sail. To a land lubber, the scene was pure, unadulterated chaos. To a Captain such as Norrington, every man was attending to his duty and the fevered activity make perfect sense. That in mind, had his eyes truly been watching his crew, he would have noticed an extra soul climb over the side towards the bow of the ship. He would have noticed the unusually large hat that concealed the unwanted visitor's face, and the few strands of long black hair that had managed to dislodge themselves. He would have seen that this uninvited guest did nothing to help prepare the ship, but merely headed straight for the stairs that lead below decks.

As it were, James Norrington had been completely engrossed in other thoughts, and he had seen nothing.

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"He's taking us to sea," Sparrow remarked, unnecessarily. Both men had been on ships their whole lives. Neither needed to be told what was meant by the changing motion of the vessel or the loud thumping of many footsteps on deck.

"He has to," Prescott said. Normally, he would have been seated, elbows on his knees with his chin rested on his folded hands. However, such a posture required two arms, so he had to content himself to prop one elbow up on his knee and set his chin on his clenched fist. "If he turned us in straight away, he'd be held accountable for aiding a wanted criminal. I doubt Delaney would still be so eager to promote him."

Jack, who had been standing with his back to the wall, slid down to the floor. He crossed his long legs at the ankles. "So, he'll sail us t' some distant island, clap us in irons, and return the hero?"

Prescott glared at Jack. "Not us. Me. He still thinks you're my well-meaning, albeit, misguided cousin." He was going to say more, but he immediately ceased his speech at the sound of the cabin door opening. Both men waited in silence, had it been Norrington who'd entered he would have come to alert them of his presence. He also would have known that they'd heard Delaney's offer. He would have had to explain his actions. No one came, so Sparrow and Prescott remained quiet.

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Walking slowly, much slower than usual, down the corridor that lead to his quarters, Norrington began to wonder why he'd left the quarterdeck at all. Up there he was master and commander of his ship, of the world as far as his crew was concerned. On the quarterdeck he had the authority to take his men and his officers to glory or to their death. Normally, that authority extended to his cabin. However, normally Prescott Tarret was not waiting there, waiting no doubt to hear what James planned to do with Delaney's offer.

James halted outside the cabin as the sentry opened the door for him. Stepping inside, Norrington had almost worked himself up to facing his former comrade, but he stopped short. An elderly doctor, dressed in a Naval uniform that had gone out of fashion years ago, rose from one of the chairs to meet the Captain. The man nodded a greeting.

"Doctor Brendwhite," James breathed. "What on earth are you doing here?"

The white haired man smiled mischievously. "Martin Brendwhite, surgeon," he said. "Come aboard, Sir."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Norrington mumbled under his breath. Did the entire town plan to take part in this voyage? "Interceptor already has a surgeon," he said aloud, calculating just how much time it would take to put this man in to shore. They would have to turn around, drop anchor, wait for the shoreboat to arrive … could nothing go as planned?

"Ah, yes," the doctor answered. "Poor man, found at a pub, completely unconscious."

"What?" James demanded. It was no secret that most surgeons in the Navy were incompetent, gin-soaked fools, but most were not stupid enough to be found on land when their ship was preparing to go to sea.

"I suspect some sort of sedative was put in his drink," the man explained, a funny sort of a smile on his lips.

The Captain scowled. "Indeed," he said. "And you intend to act in his stead?"

The elderly man nodded. "I would have sent someone else, but I understand you to have a man aboard who may prove to be an … uncooperative patient."

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Once again leaning his ear to the door, Prescott Tarret rolled his eyes. "Wonderful," he mouthed silently. Perhaps it had been too soon for a midnight romp through town, posing as an inebriated songbird, but why did everyone deem it necessary to "look after him."

Sparrow had clapped his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

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Norrington's heart leapt to his throat. How in the world did this man know Prescott was on board? The doctor stood, smiling innocently. The Navy Captain's trepidation turned to suspicion. His eyes narrowed. This man did not simply know that Prescott had escaped, he knew where the injured man had gone. James shook his head. Of course, Prescott would be able to trick a respected man of medicine into helping him slip out of custody. No wonder he turned pirate, the man was born for it. Norrington almost laughed.

"What makes you think you can function on a ship of war?" he asked the doctor.

"My last commission was on the flagship."

"On Dauntless," James clarified. "How long ago was this?"

"Twenty-one years ago."

A single eyebrow arched. Now things were starting to make sense. Twenty-one years ago would have been about the same time that a certain young lieutenant took a bullet to save an Admiral's life. This doctor knew Prescott long before he was brought into the hospital two days prior. "You must know that I have to take you back," he said, almost sadly.

Something in the doctor's innocent façade changed, subtly. "And you must know, Captain, that, knowing what I know, you cannot take me back."

James scowled. "Is that a threat?"

The white haired man clasped his hands behind his back, the innocent expression once again affixed to his face. "It is a mere statement of fact, Sir," he paused. "A physician cannot, in good conscience, allow an injured man to cause himself harm," he added, softening the words that had been a threat, no matter how he denied them.

"Very well," James said, "I trust you can find your way to the sick berth?"

The elderly man nodded, "Of course, Sir."

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Prescott rolled his eyes again, and flopped down on the hammock as soon as he was certain the doctor had left Norrington's quarters. "For the love of all things holy," he sighed. "This is the last time I go singing through the streets with you Sparrow."

"Oh, I doubt that," Jack said, flashing a gilded grin.

"Honestly," Prescott went on, ignoring the pirate's comment. "There isn't going to be anyone left in Kingston by the time we're through."

"Too bad there isn't a window in this closet," Sparrow said. "We'd probably find your sister swimmin' after us."

The older pirate slung his arm over his eyes. "Well, if the whole towns on this ship, at least she won't be able to get in any trouble for a while."

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Captain Norrington stood in his cabin, by a row of windows, and watched Kingston harbor disappear into the distance. Spending the better half of his life in the Navy, James usually felt more at home at sea than on land, but never had he been so happy to see civilization growing smaller and smaller as he sailed away. He wasn't sure who could have wandered aboard next.

He had yet to talk with Prescott and his cousin about Delaney's offer. Something needed to be said. Technically, Prescott should be in that sleeping cabin thanking his lucky stars that James hadn't turned him in on the spot. In actuality, James knew that Prescott still thought of himself as James' superior officer, and probably felt that James owed him some sort of explanation. Norrington had been an extremely talented sailor ever since he entered the King's service, but he never would have become Post Captain so quickly if not for a few words on his behalf from a certain brother in arms who had Admiral Fornin's ear. In addition, begrudgingly, Norrington still looked to Prescott as a mentor, pirate or not. Most men in his place would have left Prescott to rot in Kingston, whether or not they had once been friends. No one would fault James for storming into his sleeping cabin, shackling Prescott's wrists … a pain shot through the Captain's chest, just as real as if he'd been shot. He couldn't place Prescott in irons. Prescott only had one wrist, one arm.

James' eyes traveled to his own hands, which he was holding out in front of his body. He shuddered and found himself wondering if he had been in Prescott's shoes would he have been able to show that kind of determination. Sure, Prescott had been attempting to save himself from Boothe's brutality, but his true reason for pulling his battered body to the deck of that ship had been to warn someone that Annie was in trouble. He wondered if he would have had the courage to face a mutilated future in an effort to save someone he cared about. James closed his eyes, he could still feel his friends blood spilling out over his hands.

The symbolism of that memory was hard to ignore. All those years ago, if Norrington would have stopped Prescott from throwing Black Charlie in prison, then the pirate would never have resurfaced to seek his revenge. None of this would have happened. It was a stretch. He knew he was in no way solely responsible for Boothe's return, neither he nor Prescott could have foreseen the pirate's escape from Vanth. He was not the only person to blame, but nor was he without blame. He still didn't know if he could turn Prescott over to be executed, but either way, he had to find Black Charlie and make that blackguard pay for what he'd done to Prescott and to Annie.

At that very moment, when James had finally resolved some small part of his turmoil, a loud knock sounded on the door.

"Come," James said, moving to sit behind his desk. The second lieutenant, Gillette, tentatively stepped inside. "What is it?"

"Stowaway, Sir," the younger man replied, staring straight ahead at some spot on the wall behind Norrington.

"Bring him here," James sighed. Typical that he would have to deal with some runaway on this of all voyages. Gillette hesitated, looking as though he wanted to say something, but, decided against it. Vanishing into the corridor for a moment, he returned with the culprit.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," James said. Gillette nodded and left his Captain alone with the intruder. The stowaway was a slightly built man, with dark skin, probably a runaway slave. His clothes, a plain white shirt and brown leather pants, were too big and an oversized hat covered much of his face. His feet were stuffed into brown boots that appeared slightly effeminate, and a few wisps of black hair hung around his neck. "Remove your hat," Norrington instructed.

The man made no move to follow orders. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Did you not hear me, man?" Norrington asked.

Slowly, the man reached up and tugged his hat from his head.

James leapt to his feet, the desk chair slamming to the deck behind him. His mouth fell nearly as far, and his eyes could have pulled free from his skull. The stowaway was no escaped slave, and certainly was no man. James stared into the familiar amber eyes of Anamaria Tarret.

TBC

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