Warm breezes blew throughout the Caribbean that afternoon, cavorting merrily through skies filled with only the occaisional cumulus cloud here and there. The wind filled the sails of the Jolly Mon, conveying the small fishing boat across the waters toward Port Royal. Standing steadily atop the yardarm, a pirate frowned, dark eyes broodily considering the horizon before him. It was once full of freedom, promise, and indeed, plunder, but a man without his ship is much like a flower without water or sunlight. Such was the grim expression upon this tall, swarthy man's face. The end of the red bandanna tied about his head flapped haphazardly to and fro with the breezes, held firmly in place by a good, strong knot -- and kept in check by his worn, tri-cornered hat. A glance below caused his kohl-lined eyes to widen; the boat must have sprung a leak without his knowledge. With a frown, he leapt to the rigging, booted feet landing with a splash in the water-filled hull. His brow creasing, he annoyedly kicked his way through floating net buoys and fish heads, sharp gaze alighting relievedly on a tankard. He hastily lifted it, and began to bail, dumping water out of the hull as quickly as possible. The small boat slipped past a rocky promontory, from which the skeletal remains of four pirates hung, swaying eerily with the breezes. A fifth noose was left devoid of human remains, bearing instead a jagged wooden sign, which read: PIRATES, YE BE WARNED. This gave the pirate aboard the Jolly Mon due pause; the tankard fell from his fingers, unheeded, as he moved closer to the edge of the boat, regarding the skeletons silently. Slowly, he removed his hat, and touching his fingers to his forehead, gave them a respectful salute.
The harbor of Port Royal, dominated by the bulk of the H. M. S. Dauntless, bustled with activity, as it did on every afternoon. Sailors and various other seafaring men sat all around the perimeters of the docks, some hauling lobster traps out of the water, others checking ropes, and the like. One of the sailors with a rather grizzled beard caught sight of the floating tankard, and glanced up in astonishment to behold the Jolly Mon floating serenely toward the docks. Its commandeerer stood sturdily atop its mast, as though it were something he did on a daily basis, and simply stepped jauntily off of it onto the docks as the ship sunk. He had an odd step, a sort of swagger, which lent a peculiar flair to his gait that was quite unique. Really, most of the people had seen nothing like it before. Unfortunately, both his gait and garb contrived to make him stick out amongst the populace -- and the harbormaster blustered surprisedly as he brushed straight past him and his young assistant.
"Hold up there, you!" he called, causing the foreign man to slow his steps, and then turn back toward him. "It's a shilling to tie up your boat at the dock, " he explained, opening his ledger. Ignoring the dubious glance the man sent toward the floating mast, he added, "And I'll need to know your name."
The swashbuckler frowned slightly, and reached into his pocket to produce a small sack of coins, dropping three shillings onto the ledger. "What d'you say to three shillings, " he proposed, "and we forget the name?"
The harbormaster cast him a shrewd glance out of the corner of his eyes as he hesitated, and finally shut the book. "Welcome to Port Royal, Mr. Smith, " he said at last.
Mr. Smith placed his hands together and bowed a little, acknowledging the greeting. As harbormaster and assistant moved on, he resumed his swagger, pausing only to pick up a stray pouch of coins, jingle it, and slip it into his pocket. His attention was caught quickly enough, however, by the Interceptor, tied to a dock just below Fort Charles, and he turned his steps in that direction.
To the beating of drums and the calls of whistles and flutes, the marines stationed at Fort Charles marched stiffly with their rifles positioned on their shoulders. They were the pride of the King's Navy, excellent fighters with an even more excellent commander, or so Elizabeth's father often reminded her. Fanning herself every now and then, as all of the other ladies were doing, she watched the ceremony with half-lidded eyes. Her father, she noted silently, had a pleased, proud smile on his visage, as though he were promoting his own son to Commodore. Norrington certainly looked the part, she had to admit, in full ceremonial attire. As the marines presented their swords, and he passed under them, walking toward the governor, Elizabeth winced, and discreetly attempted to adjust the restrictive corset through her dress. All to no avail, however; the blasted thing simply wouldn't budge an inch.
"Your first time wearing a corset, Miss Swann?" the young woman next to her whispered behind her energetically waving fan, raising a brow as the other woman winced again. "They are extremely painful. I'm still not quite used to mine, but at least I've gotten over my fainting spells. I used to faint everytime I wore a dress like that."
"They do make it rather hard to ... breathe, " Elizabeth gasped in reply, managing to stifle their conversation behind her fan. The sympathetic woman could only lean over to pat her arm in response as a hush fell over the audience.
Governor Swann presented Norrington with the sword that had been delivered earlier that day with a slight inclination of his head. Now that Norrington was a Commodore, he hoped that he would propose to Elizabeth. It was about time that she settled down and got married to a fine gentleman like him.
The newly-made Commodore unsheathed his sword, and held it up in a salute to the governor and to his men. The sunlight caught the edge of the blade, causing it to gleam as he tossed it to the other hand, briefly, turning to give a salute to the audience.
Below Fort Charles, the docks were fairly quiet. The heat made patrolling rather difficult -- or at least, that had to be why two red-coated sentries were taking advantage of what little shade existed on the Navy's dock. They scrambled back to their posts hastily enough, however, as Mr. Smith sauntered toward them.
"This dock is off-limits to civilians, " Murtogg stated quickly, crossing his rifle briefly with Mullroy's, preventing the strangely-clothed sailor from stepping any farther.
Mr. Smith frowned a little. "I'm very sorry. I didn't know, " he responded. "I shall let you know if I see one." He attempted to brush past them and continue on toward the ships currently at anchor. The two wouldn't have it, however, and moved to intercept him, causing the pirate to glance slightly toward the Fort, where music drifted from. "Some sort of high-toned and fancy to-do up at the Fort, eh?" he queried, eyes narrowing a trifle. "How is it that two fine gentlemen -- such as yourselves -- did not merit an invitation?"
Murtogg's face colored slightly. "Someone has to make sure that this dock stays off-limits to civilians, " he answered promptly. Perhaps a little too promptly.
Mr. Smith smiled. "A fine goal, to be sure. But it seems to me that a ship like that -- " He pointed to the H. M. S. Dauntless, " -- makes this one here seem a bit superfluous, really."
The sentries exchanged a look at his tone. "Oh, the Dauntless is the power in these waters, true enough, " Murtogg admitted, "but there's no ship as can match the Interceptor for speed."
The pirate did raise an eyebrow at this. "That so? I've heard of one -- supposed to be fast, nigh uncatchable ... the Black Pearl."
Mullroy scoffed openly at this. "There's no real ship as can match the Interceptor."
Murtogg frowned. "The Black Pearl is a real ship, " he protested.
"No it's not."
"Yes it is. I've seen it."
"You've seen it, " Mullroy repeated, incredulously.
"Yes."
"You've seen the Black Pearl?"
"Yes."
"You haven't seen it."
"Yes I have, " Murtogg insisted.
Mullroy turned his attention fully onto his partner. "You've seen a ship with black sails, that's crewed by the damned, and captained by a man so evil that hell itself spat him back out, " he stated, dubiously.
Murtogg paused. " ... No, " he responded at last.
"No, " Mullroy repeated, with a look that radiated a smug, 'I-told-you-so.'
"But I've seen a ship with black sails, " Murtogg added, confidently.
Mr. Smith rolled his eyes a little, and stealthily began to move toward the docks while the two marines continued their argument.
Mullroy gestured emphatically. "Oh, and no ship that's not crewed by the damned and captained by a man so evil that hell itself spat him back out could possibly have black sails, and therefore, couldn't possibly be any ship other than the Black Pearl. Is that what you're saying?"
" ... no, " Murtogg admitted.
"Like I said, " Mullroy reiterated, finally turning back toward the place where Mr. Smith had been, "there's no real ship as can match -- " He paused, finding himself without an audience, and turning, immediately espied the swashbuckler standing at the wheel of the Interceptor, casually examining the mechanism. "Hey! You! Get away from there! You don't have permission to be aboard there!"
Mr. Smith feigned a look of the utmost innocence as the two sentries rushed onto the Interceptor's deck, weapons at the ready.
"I'm sorry, " he apologized, holding up his hands. "It's just that it's such a pretty boat -- I mean, ship."
"What's your name?" Murtogg demanded.
"Smith, " the current user of that appellation answered. "Or -- Smitty."
Mullroy's eyes narrowed as he continued to point his rifle at the strange man. "What's your business in Port Royal, Mr. Smith?" he inquired, suspiciously, followed almost instantaneously by Murtogg's chiming in, "And no lies!"
The pirate held up his hands in a hapless gesture. "Alright, I confess." He took a couple of steps toward them. "It is my intention to commandeer one of these ships, pick up a crew in Tortuga, steal, plunder, and otherwise pilfer my weasley black guts out."
Murtogg frowned. "I said, no lies."
"I think he's telling the truth, " Mullroy interjected.
"He's not telling the truth, " Murtogg retorted.
"He may be."
"If he were telling the truth, " Murtogg said, annoyedly, "he wouldn't have told us."
"Unless of course, " Mr. Smith broke in, "he knew you wouldn't believe the truth even if he told it to you."
The marines frowned, considering this, and exchanged glances.
The musicians at Fort Charles drew their bows over their violins, violas, celli, and basses, providing lovely background music to the incessant chatter of everyone socializing, congratulating the new Commodore, greeting the governor, and so on. Elizabeth remained oblivious to the music and chatter, fanning herself weakly. Beads of sweat perched on her forehead, and the young woman began to feel quite faint.
"Have some water, Miss Swann, " a friendly, feminine voice said quietly, briefly breaking into her daze. "It'll help. There's an alcove just across the way that we may able to get into and adjust that corset of yours." She frowned, sympathetically. "I've done it a time or two before."
Puzzled, Elizabeth accepted the offered cup, and regarded its bearer curiously whilst she sipped slowly at the cool liquid. It was the same young woman who had spoken to her at the ceremony. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, and bearing a rather peculiar accent, she was certain that this kindly stranger wasn't from England, or even a native of Port Royal. She didn't appear to be much older than Elizabeth, but carried herself differently, dipping her head demurely far more often than Elizabeth would ever agree or care to do. "You have the advantage of me, it seems, " she said at last, nodding briefly to the other.
"Do forgive me, " she replied at once, inclining her head in return. "Louise Dalton, Miss Swann. I'm Captain Dalton's daughter."
"It's a pleasure, Miss Dalton, " Elizabeth responded. "And please, call me Elizabeth. There's no need to be so formal."
The lady hesitated. "If you insist, " she said at last. "Then you must call me Louise, in return." She smiled a little.
"You're not British, are you?" Elizabeth wondered aloud, frowning as she ran her finger along the edge of her cup, thinking. Captain Dalton had moved to Port Royal several months before from a nearby colony that wasn't under the British crown. She just couldn't remember which crown it was under.
"No, Miss -- Elizabeth, " Louise replied, stifling a small laugh. "I'm actually half-French, and half-English."
"Half-English?" Elizabeth repeated. "Your mother was English, then?"
Louise never got the chance to respond; Commodore Norrington had chosen that moment to approach the two ladies and politely interrupt the conversation. "May I have a moment?" he asked Elizabeth, quietly, offering her his arm.
With an apologetic glance in Louise's direction, Elizabeth accepted it, and allowed him to lead her away from the party, toward the parapet. She immediately began to fan herself rapidly again; the knowledge of what was most likely to come, and the sudden onslaught of the heat made everything waver before her eyes. It was also getting more difficult to breathe.
"You look lovely, Elizabeth, " Norrington blurted after a long, momentous silence. He coughed a little as she frowned. "I apologize if I seem -- forward, but I must speak my mind." He paused, and turned his gaze seaward. "This promotion brings into light that which I have not yet achieved." His gaze sought hers. "A marriage to a fine woman, " he said at last. "And you have become a fine woman, Elizabeth."
Elizabeth gasped for air, fanning even more rapidly as she began to lean toward the open air. "I can't ... breathe, " she choked out.
"I'm a bit nervous, myself, " Norrington admitted, turning slightly away once more. Thus, it was that he missed her sudden stumble, and her pitch forward off of the parapet. "Elizabeth?" he queried, suddenly noticing that she wasn't where she had been a mere second ago. "Elizabeth?" Eyes widening with fear, he hastened to the edge and peered over, watching her just miss the jagged rocks at the cliff's base before plummeting into the ocean. "ELIZABETH!" Frantically, he made his way onto the top of the parapet and began removing his coat, preparing to dive after her.
"The rocks, sir!" Lieutenant Gillette shouted, as he grabbed the Commodore's arm and held him back. "It's a miracle she missed them!"
Impatiently, Norrington peered downward again, and realized that Gillette was right. Irritated, he shook off the lieutenant's arm, and began to run out of the Fort.