Aboard the Dauntless Ch. 5: An Island that Cannot be Found
By Honorat Selonnet
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I'm bound by the law—no money is being made, by me at least. Disney's doing fine.
Summary: In which we discover why Isla de Muerta can't be found, Lady Fortune still has it in for Jack, and Norrington discusses with his Gilette, Groves, and the Governor whether to gamble on Jack Sparrow even though he seems to be about to sink them all. Still sailing uncharted waters. More movie novelization including deleted scenes and filler—the second trip to Isla de Muerta.
Thanks and one small Caribbean Island in a nearby universe go to Geekmama for beta work on this. Thanks also to Eledhwen for checking on my sailing terminology. Any errors and inconsistencies remain mine.
An Island that Cannot be Found
by Honorat
Isla de Muerta. An island that cannot be found except by those who already know where it is. A mystical explanation for a very practical navigational problem.
Isla de Muerta was part of a tiny, obscure archipelago of volcanic islands caught in one of the swiftest great currents of the Caribbean. The waters in the narrow passages through that chain of islands surged with ship-crushing force. Furthermore, the great stretches of the wider channels concealed beneath their treacherous surfaces rocks that reached up to claw at the bellies of the unfortunate ships who attempted to navigate them.
There were, in fact, only two passages that would allow an approach to the Island of Death—only two narrow chasms deep enough for a hull and keel between the snarling, jagged rocks. Both required a ship to sail against that deadly current and to tack up the prevailing winds—winds that could rise up with fatal force creating unpredictable monster waves that would plummet any vessel to the ocean floor. Only a great ship could carry enough canvas to harness those winds and fight that current. But that same great ship would scarcely find the sea room to maneuver. These passages were fretted and festooned with the crumbling lace-work of spars and hulls and the bones of men who had had the audacity to pit themselves against Isla de Muerta for the sake of wealth beyond the dreams of avarice. Only the leisurely hammerhead sharks that patrolled these ruins knew the terrible stories of their last moments.
The first of these passages was slightly less dangerous. It was wider and the current was not as fierce. However, it was a long and circuitous route. A man in a hurry might choose to gamble on the second passage. This narrow band would take a ship nearly straight to the island. However, in the necessary tacks there would be no margin for error. If the ship did not respond instantly—if the wind shifted slightly—if a man made a single miscall—all would be lost. The least failure of momentum and the current would be waiting to smash a ship back against the rocks. No survivor had ever brought back a record of the price Isla de Muerta exacted for a failed passage. The silent spars that jutted up out of the restless water bore the only memorial to those failures.
Only one fragment of a chart existed of these narrow gateways to the island and the fabled Treasure of Cortez. And that parchment fragment lay in the captain's cabin of the Black Pearl. Barbossa would take the easier route, Jack knew. He would have done so himself, given the choice. But so far Lady Fortune had not seen fit to allow him that comfortable option. He always had to arrive at that bloody archipelago in hotfoot pursuit of the Black Pearl. The first time he had navigated that death-edged strip of sea, he had been aboard the Interceptor, sleek and fast, shallow in the draft, small and quicksilver to handle. She might have been designed with such a passage in mind. He'd also had the advantage of daylight, which at least allowed some visibility ahead in the banks of cursed fog.
Jack's fortunes were not improving. This time around it would be the middle of the night. The moon would be up, but would be of precious little use in all that fog. And the gods had seen fit to grant him Madame Behemoth—the Dauntless. Even Jack quailed at the thought of the hair-trigger maneuvers he'd have to push that matronly whale through. He cursed the circumstances that forced him into such an attempt. This was his only chance to pit the firepower of the Dauntless against Barbossa and his crew while the Pearl would be safe.
Even now, Commodore Norrington was meeting with his officers to decide whether Jack would be allowed to make that attempt.
In the officer's stateroom aboard the Dauntless four men clustered around the heavy mahogany table in the flickering lamplight. Commodore Norrington sat at its head flanked on the one hand by Lieutenant Groves and on the other by Governor Swann. Lieutenant Gillette was still caroming about the room in agitation. James had shed his role as commander of the ship and invited his men to be candid with him.
"I can't, in good conscience make this an entirely unilateral decision, gentlemen. So let's dispense with the military despotism for the moment. I need sound counsel, not subordinate toadying," he told them. "Andrew, Theodore, Governor Swann, we've been flying in pursuit of the Black Pearl for the better part of a day now and the time has come to decide whether we will continue with this rescue mission or abandon it."
The only sounds now were the creaks and groans of the Dauntless as she made her way towards Isla de Muerta. Gillette forced himself to pause and take the fourth chair facing his commanding officer. He knew what was coming.
Norrington continued, "I'll be blunt with you, my friends. I don't like this situation at all. We are sailing in uncharted waters with only Jack Sparrow's word that he knows where we are going. Now, he tells me, we are coming up to a difficult passage through a narrow channel against a strong current with a head wind. In spite of this wind, he has assured me there will be fog. He has, to all intents and purposes, demanded that I hand over full command of this vessel to him as the maneuvering will be tricky and the shorter the chain of command the faster the orders will be obeyed. My questions to you are these. Do we go on? And do we give Sparrow his head with the Dauntless?"
"Commodore," Gillette began, his hands clasped earnestly before him on the table.
"It's James tonight, Andrew," Norrington interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. "The tiresome commodore has retired to his berth, as we should all like to do. I think we can dispense with him for the time being."
"James, then," Gillette agreed, pausing and then rushing on. "Respectfully sir, are you out of your mind?"
"Only you, Andrew, could even begin to ask that question respectfully," Norrington smiled tiredly. "What particular action of mine is causing you to suspect my sanity this time?"
"Sir, you would not have called this meeting if you weren't seriously considering doing what Sparrow has requested," Gillette accused. "James, the man is a Bedlamite! He looks like a fool and acts like a Tortuga whore! He can barely walk upright! If I didn't know for a fact that he's had no access to alcohol this entire day, I'd swear he'd completely shot the cat!"
"Setting aside for the moment the intriguing question of how you come to be so familiar with the mannerisms of Tortuga whores," the corner of Norrington's mouth turned up, "yes, I am considering it."
"But he's a pirate!" Gillette's voice was the tiniest bit plaintive.
Norrington sighed. That was something with which he'd been wrestling also. "Yes, the man is a pirate. But that does not immediately label him as incompetent at his craft. We would not be kept so disastrously busy out here if some pirates were not a damned sight too competent."
"You're considering giving the Dauntless to a pirate?" Governor Swann interjected in disbelief.
"Temporarily," Norrington nodded.
"And what a pirate!" Groves spoke up eagerly.
Norrington could recognize hero worship when he heard it, and he winced. Charming the entire Caribbean indeed.
"Leaving aside his admittedly peculiar behaviour, have you noticed how that man can pilot?" enthused the lieutenant. "I swear he knows what the sea is going to do before it does. He calls for course changes like he knows where the wind is going to be."
Actually, Norrington admitted grudgingly to himself, he had noticed. It was one of the factors in his considering this rash action even for an instant.
"He talks to the Dauntless like she's a Tortuga barmaid. Calls her Madame Behemoth if you can imagine. If she were a real woman, I swear, he'd be pinching her bottom and pecking her on the cheek," Groves chuckled.
"And tossing gold sovereigns down her cleavage, no doubt." Gillette rolled his eyes.
Norrington decided he really was going to have to go on shore leave with his men some time.
"No doubt," Groves agreed. "And she'd be giggling and cooking his favorite dishes and ignoring the rest of her customers. Have you ever seen the old lady pick up her skirts and fly like she has today?"
"Gentleman," Norrington called the meeting back to order. "I take it we are agreed that if any man can navigate this passage, Sparrow is likely that man. But even he acknowledges there are some risks attached to the attempt. Not to mention that in whatever condition we come out of this channel—if we do—we will likely find ourselves under the guns of the Black Pearl."
"Or she'll find herself under our guns," was Gillette's bloodthirsty comment.
"Of course," Norrington added. "Sparrow assures me that we are unlikely to have to meet the Black Pearl in pitched battle at all. He says he has a Plan. I suppose we can believe that or not as we like. In any case it is best to be prepared for any contingency."
"Do we have any idea what Sparrow's motives are? It seems to me that he's being rather suspiciously helpful if you know what I mean."
Not for the first time, Norrington reflected that Gillette had the makings of a clever officer. He had a convoluted enough mind that with the right encouragement, he could develop into a first-rate tactician. Of course he was still young and a bit heedless and over-enthusiastic. But he'd grow out of that. Speaking of convoluted minds, however . . .
"I haven't managed to get a straight answer out of the man himself," Norrington addressed Gillette's concern. "I think he may be congenitally incapable of giving one. But something Elizabeth said has led me to believe he has a serious grudge against the captain of the Black Pearl, a man named Barbossa."
"I will admit I feel more comfortable knowing he has some self-serving reason for assisting us," Governor Swann joined in. "I do not think I could seriously contemplate an altruistic Jack Sparrow."
"I don't think any of us can," Gillette laughed. "Even you, Theodore."
"I am not a complete idiot, Andrew," Groves protested. "I admire the man's seamanship and tactics, but I don't necessarily trust him."
"As long as the final outcome he is pursuing is concomitant with our goals, I think we can trust him," Norrington mused. "The moment they diverge, I imagine all bets will be off."
"Let us hope that you can recognize when that moment occurs," the governor countered with a hint of warning in his voice.
"Indeed," agreed Norrington soberly, looking down at his folded hands. "But," he raised his eyes to each of the men around the table, "we have yet to discuss the most salient question. Granted Sparrow is the only man who may be capable of piloting us to this island. Does it therefore stand that we should allow him to do so?"
"You'll be risking a ship of over 600 souls for one man if you do," Gillette pointed out.
"I am aware of that, Andrew." Yes, Norrington reflected, that young man had a way of cutting through to the essentials. "Nevertheless, you will agree that such risks are part of one's duties when one serves on a Navy ship."
"We are also carrying two civilians," added Gillette.
The naval men turned to look at the governor.
"Gentlemen," Governor Swann spoke with the dignity Norrington always appreciated in the man. "I cannot pretend to enjoy the prospect of my daughter's life and my own being placed in danger. However, I can assure you that Elizabeth would not thank me for allowing my own sentiments to prevent you from rescuing Mr. Turner."
The fact that they were all here at Elizabeth's behest seemed to hover in the air between them.
"I should point out to you," Norrington spoke into the silence, "that Will Turner does have some intrinsic value of his own, gentlemen, apart from his importance to Miss Swann. I think you are all aware that most, if not all, of the increasingly fine work proceeding out of Master Brown's smithy is Will's doing."
The only person who seemed surprised at this tidbit of information was Governor Swann.
"A good blacksmith is not a commodity easily come by, my friends. And a good swordsmith is worth his weight in Spanish gold," Norrington continued. "Perhaps," he added wryly, "we should not be so quick to condemn Jack Sparrow for needing to have a selfish reason to engage in an act of charity?"
The silence now had a tint of shame to it.
"May I ask what are your intentions, James?" the Governor spoke up unexpectedly.
Norrington held his old friend's eyes. This meeting of equal minds was, after all, a polite fiction. In the end, the decision would come down to him as master of this ship. He took a deep breath. "I gave my word that I would try to rescue the boy."
"Oh. Well then." Groves pushed his chair back cheerfully. "There's no more to be said, is there?"
His men knew him too well, Norrington reflected.
As if Groves had spoken for them all, the others began to rise and drift towards the door. James Norrington propped his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes as if to deny the whole exhausting business.
Governor Swann paused beside the commodore's chair and laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Can you afford to trust Jack Sparrow with this ship?" he asked softly.
"I have asked myself that same question over and over," Norrington answered wearily, massaging his temples.
"And what have you answered yourself?" The governor's voice was sympathetic.
Norrington looked up at him. "I do not think I can afford not to."
The governor nodded once and left the room.
As the commodore prepared to return to his duties, Gillette stopped him by the door with a hand on his arm. "I just wanted to say, sir, that it has been an honour serving with you." He was smiling but there was an undercurrent to his light tone. "My last will and testament is in the chest by the bed in my quarters at Fort Charles. You can give my effects to my mother and sisters. But if we make it back to Port Royal alive, sir, not that I expect we will, sir. But if we do, I am going to come down with influenza for a month, sir, and leave you with all the paperwork."
Norrington clapped a hand on his lieutenant's shoulder. "Understood, Andrew. The honour has been mine. If we make it back alive, I will do that paperwork."
All jesting words aside, the two men met each other's eyes soberly. There was a very real possibility Andrew was right. The commodore felt the weight of all the lives aboard the Dauntless pressing on his shoulders.
TBC