Chapter Three
Three fine sailing days in cramped quarters later, Captain Norrington stood on the forecastle, staring straight out at the sky-blue sea and the white sands of Isla Asilo. He didn't know a lick of Spanish, but if he had, he would find the name appropriate. It was an island no bigger than Isla Cruces, by the look of it, but a bright, shining port town greeted their eyes, which disappeared into thick, rick jungle. Norrington pulled out his spyglass and inspected the port. Strange... No ships tied up at the wharf.
"Gillette," he called, and his first mate was soon at his side. "Does the map indicate the name of this port?" Gillette pulled out the map and inspected it shortly.
"It says 'Port Tenable,' but it seems to be translated from Spanish and may not be entirely correct." Gillette raised an eyebrow and reached for his own spyglass.
"I don't like the look of it," Norrington muttered, sweeping his eye over the seemingly empty buildings. He collapsed his eyeglass and returned it to his pocket. "Stay out to sea-- drop anchor if you need to." He strode away to the mainmast and began shouting orders to lower the longboat. Gillette followed.
"Sir, where are you off to?" Gillette asked. Norrington turned with a furrow in his brow.
"Ashore. You will stay here to command the ship in my leave." He turned again to the longboat. Gillette remained.
"I'll go with you, sir," he said with a shred of authority.
"I will not takes chances with my ship, Mr. Gillette. One of us must remain aboard should Jones appear at sea rather than make berth." The splash of a longboat reached his ears, and he turned to climb down the side of the ship to it. Gillette hastily grabbed his arm.
"Then I'll go ashore, Captain."
Norrington stared searching at Gillette, who shifted nervously under the powerful gaze.
"Do you perchance know something that I do not, Gillette?" Norrington asked. His inferior dragged his eyes anywhere but to where Norrington's burned in his skull. In dark undertones, Gillette began:
"Jones will not make berth. He cannot set foot on land for another ten years. Lord Beckett... warned me to make for land as soon as possible." He finally made eye contact, and regretted it. The betrayal was deep-set in Norrington's eyes. He took a deep breath and spun to face the sea as he exhaled in frustration.
"Then go ashore. I'm sure he paid you well enough to be a coward." His jaw was clenched, and his stomach rolled. So this was what treachery felt like, did it? It was a bit like the bitter taste of rum on an empty stomach. Gillette said nothing, and neither did his Captain. Pushing past others, Gillette moved toward the longboat, but paused before lifting himself over. He did his best to face Norrington, who held the helpless, angry visage of a man in turmoil.
"Captain," he said, barreling through without thought, "he asked me to make sure you didn't do anything to endanger his hold on the heart. I am telling you this now so that you may speak with Jones in your own interests. I do not know if he was lying about Sparrow, but you were in his council for quite some time. If you're ever to get the heart from Beckett, Sparrow is your man." Norrington inspected him shortly, with surprise.
"You--"
"Betrayal is hard enough, Captain, when done willingly to one man. I do it now to two, one of whom I respect very much." He seemed to want to say something more. He held his tongue, however, and climbed down into the longboat. Norrington crossed his arms as he watched Gillette and two oarsmen row to the empty port, wondering who, in fact, Gillette had betrayed.
The men in the longboat had long disappeared into town. Norrington sat on deck, the sun beating down at midday strength. Many of the men had gone below, those still above deck there only by necessity. The captain kept his eyeglass near him, ready to be used at any moment. At present, he was untying the kerchief from around his knuckles. The blood had clotted-- thank God there had been no glass in his wound. He ran a thumb over the cuts, wincing slightly. He wondered what the Flying Dutchman was like, whether its captain was more monster than man, and whether he might know the fate of the Black Pearl and its crew. He held a hand to his mouth in thought, scanning the horizon for the hint of a sail. Nothing.
Nothing save the rumble of activity below decks.
Norrington shot to his feet in the sudden realization that the rumble was not from his own crew. A sinking dread filled him, and he braced himself against the nearest line.
"All hands!" He called, his sharp voice carrying down to the hold. "All hands! On deck, now!" As the rumbling grew steadier, the men poured up from the Gorgon's belly, all shouting to each other the actions they were to take.
Norrington's hair hung into his wide eyes as he saw the terrifying, heart-stopping sight of the Flying Dutchman breeching from the depths just inside cannon range.
The waves sent flying by the enormous ship leaping to the surface crashed against the starboard side of the Gorgon, rocking her violently back and forth. Men clung to whatever rope they could find or were flung like garbage into the sea. Norrington grasped his line with whatever strength he possessed. The stench of the deep sea, rotting wood and death wafted over the deck of the Gorgon as the mammoth ship settled onto the surface of the water. Cries of "Man overboard!" fell on the captain's deaf ears as he watched the wind catch in the algae sails of the Dutchman. She was making her way to him. The spray of the waves fell on his numb face. He could think or feel nothing, only see the horror approaching swiftly-- and against the wind.
"Captain!" cried the scar-faced man he could not remember. "What are our orders, Captain?"
Norrington's mouth could not have moved had he wanted it to.
Fredricks took charge, ordering the sails loosed and the cannons run out. Finally, Norrington found his voice.
"No!" he cried. Fredricks turned incredulously to him. "It's the Flying Dutchman. He is here to speak with me."
"Sir, the longboat--"
"I have a feeling that I will be the once receiving him," Norrington muttered with a shaking breath. The water swelled around the prow of the Dutchman as she approached the Gorgon at full speed. Norrington's mind was filled suddenly with the horrors that had attacked him at Isla Cruces. Half creature, half man, fused into one abomination to serve one man and one man only-- Davy Jones. The Dutchman pulled her broadside up against his, rolling out the cannons and furling the sails. The anchor, barnacle-encrusted, sank to the depths with a crunch and a dash of sea water. The crew hid somewhere behind Norrington, who swallowed his fear as best he could and set his features against the challenge before him.
Gangplanks were lowered noisily between the two ships, and soon as they had touched down, those damned souls that called themselves sailors crossed over, swords and other assorted weapons drawn. Norrington reached instinctively for his own weapon-- it had been returned by Beckett as a way to seal their deal. It slid from its sheath effortlessly, pointing at the nearest pirate, which appeared to be some hell-bred cross of shark and man.
"Weapons down!" The shark-man bellowed, and his men followed in accordance, though their eyes still gleamed with promise of death. Norrington in turn lowered his sword, but only just. The shark-headed man turned again to the crew of the Gorgon. They shivered at his two gazes. "Which o' you lot is Norrington?" Norrington felt his stomach drop out.
"I am," he said simply. The creature before him grinned sardonically, its razor teeth jutting out in every direction.
"Well, you're about t' have the great pleasure o' Davy Jones 'imself boardin' yer ship, Mr. Norrington." He turned his head only slightly to shout: "All clear!" The rabble of water-logged voices suddenly quieted to allow the sound of a single, dull footstep echoing through the timbers of the Dutchman. The sun was swallowed by a dark cloud that Norrington had failed to see, and the cursed crew was thrown into half-light. It was all too perfect, for that was the moment Davy Jones chose to make his entrance.
Norrington had never seen anything of the like, and hoped to God he would never have to see such again. Squid-like tentacles drooped around Jones' face like a beard, curling and twitching of their own accord. His staring blue eyes were deep-set and furious, a long-stemmed pipe hanging out of the side of his mouth as if Norrington had interrupted him. A plume of smoke rose from the pipe-- freshly lit. Every inch of Jones belong to the sea, and the sea belonged to him. Sea life had been growing on his person for what may have been centuries. One claw-like hand hung by his side, and the other, long and tentacle-like as well, moved to take the pipe from his mouth. It was a crab-like leg that pounded the deck with every other step as he crossed the gangplank and sauntered to stand directly before Norrington.
The intimidation pressed down on his chest as if Jones had been sitting upon him instead of his eyes boring into his soul. Then, against all reasoning, Jones smiled, showing bright teeth.
"Well, Mr. Norrington," he drawled in a voice Norrington had not been expecting, "seems you have something that I'd dearly like back."
Norrington swallowed nervously, watching the twitching tentacles warily. Jones stared, having all the time in the world, it seemed, to terrorize the captain.
"I am here to negotiate," Norrington began in the strongest voice he could muster, "on the behalf of my employer."
"Are ye now?" Jones asked as he drew again from his pipe. Norrington gave a disgusted look and summoned more nerve.
"My employer, Lord Cutler Beckett, has threatened to stab your heart clean through if you do not follow his command."
The cursed pirates began to laugh, but Jones cut them off with a hiss. His eyes were dark coals at that point, threatening any man to stoke them.
"I'm listenin', Mr. Norrington," he growled. He scanned the deckhands all standing uselessly behind Norrington. "And which o' these scalawags is your Lord Beckett, then?"
"He's a coward," Norrington said gruffly, his ire redirecting itself, "who refuses to show himself and uses others in his stead." Davy Jones cocked his head, and leaned closer until he was parallel with Norrington's eyes. The latter flinched backwards, but realized that his back was against the mainmast. Jones blew smoke in his general direction.
"I've known me fair share o' cowards, t' be told, Mr. Norrington." He used the name as if in mockery. "What does yer man Beckett think of negotiations with a pirate such as meself?"
"He is a man of bargain," Norrington answered, not feeling the direction the conversation had taken. Against the wind. That's how the Dutchman takes you. Jones grinned, and a low laugh began in his chest and rumbled through him. It overtook him as he began to convulse, stepping backwards and laughing openly toward his crew. With a quick turn, tentacles swaying menacingly, he faced Norrington.
"A man 'o bargain, is he? Well, then--" Jones pulled a sword from his side and let the tip dance at the tip of Norrington's neck. He was still chuckling almost ridiculously. "We'll see what you're worth to 'im, laddie. I'm prepared to have my heart back, the cost be damned." Norrington's sword was still hanging in his hand by his side, but with so many possible weapons to be drawn against him, he decided to leave it where it lay. Jones nodded a head toward the crew, who shrank from his gaze. "Them too. All of ye, to the brig!"
Jones' crew surged forward, taking Norrington's men, screaming, over the gangplanks and back to the Flying Dutchman. Norrington attempted to move forward, but Jones brandished his sword threateningly.
"Oh, no, Mr. Norrington. Ye'll not be visitin' the brig, my friend. Ye'll be accompanyin' me on deck. If I'm t' find your Lord Beckett I'll be neadin' a headin'."
If you're ever to get the heart from Beckett, Sparrow is your man.
"Beckett has the entire branch of the British Royal Navy stationed in the Caribbean behind him," Norrington told him covertly. "A crew of pirates, even cursed as they are, are no match for an entire navy, Mr. Jones." Jones snorted angrily at the context, but remained focused. The sword also remained fixed on Norrington's jugular. "He will have returned to land by now, in the safety of a fort, surrounded on three sides by a port containing a floating armada ready to dispatch of you and your crew. If Beckett knows you are coming--" Norrington plunged his sword into the wooden planks of the deck below him to solidify his point. Jones sneered, but something in his eyes saw Norrington's truth.
"So what would ye have me do, Mr. Norrington?" The formality was almost stifling.
"You need to infiltrate without combat. What you need is a small band of men to steal into the fort and take the heart from under Beckett's sleeping nose."
"You'd have me send ye into the fort from whence you came, trustin' ye to return with the heart?" Jones inspected Norrington with a wary yet sharp eye. Norrington grinned against the fear boiling up his throat.
"No," he answered with a smug grin. "You need Jack Sparrow."
Norrington had ended up in the brig after all.
He had refused to give up the heading for Beckett's base of opperations, and so Jones had thrown him in a cell opposite his crew. He said that word would reach Beckett of Norrington's imprisonment, and if he wanted to speak with Jones, he should come himself. Norrington had been assured they would not dive with the prisoners in the hold, and that had been the only comforting thought given to them that night. The lanterns creaked as the boat swayed back and forth in the night air. Norrington had forgotten his pocket watch in his cabin, and was therefore without a sense of time. Only the cracks in the deck above shed miniscule light, allowing for recognition of night and day. Now it was night, and Norrington's only cellmate hadn't made a noise or moved in the five hours he'd been down there.
Seeing the majority of his crew fallen into a fear-induced sleep, Norrington was forced to turn to his cellmate. He walked cautiously to the man's side, only to see that his skin was blue and lifeless. The captain stepped backwards in fear before he noticed the shallow breathing the body emitted at intervals. The man finally raised his head, long black hair falling from beneath a knitted sailor's cap, familiar eyes meeting his for the first time.
"You look lost," the man said in a throaty, grief-stained voice. Norrington nodded, seeing the sea-life already taking hold of the man's face and body. Barnacles grew without remorse on his clothes or skin regardless.
Am I to become something like this if Beckett refuses?
"Yes," Norrington replied, then shook his head. "No, I mean--" What did he mean? The man extended a crusty hand.
"Bill Turner," he offered, "but most call me Bootstrap."
"Turner?" Norrington asked incredulously. He'd known those eyes-- Turner's! He decided to let the topic go for the moment. He could always bring it back later. Norrington took the proffered hand and shook. "Norrington. Captain James Norrington." Bootstrap Bill Turner grinned ever-so-slightly.
"Captain, huh? What have you done to end up here, Captain Norrington?"
"I refused to give Jones the bearings he asked for," Norrington replied, remaining vague. Bootstrap nodded solemnly.
"You're lucky he didn't have you gutted then and there, that's for sure." He looked at his barnacle-encrusted hand, then swore lightly. "Damn, I wish I had a drink."
"We share a common interest," Norrington sighed as he settled on the grimy planks beside Bootstrap. Strangely, he felt almost at home, looking about him and seeing the familiar hold of the Pearl. Bootstrap was watching his gaze.
"Something familiar about it, isn't there?" Bootstrap asked. Norrington nodded vaguely. "That's what everyone says."
The night tore on, the conversation falling into more lulls than it did topics. Norrington was nearing sleep when he let his question fall to the proverbial battle ground.
"Turner," he said, catching Bootstrap's attention. "You wouldn't happen to know a William Turner? From Port Royal?"
Bootstrap's pale face turned even paler, and he hung his head almost to his knees.
"He was my son." Then Norrington saw the flames of vengeance rising in Bootstrap's eyes. "I watched as Davy Jones' Kraken dragged my only son to the locker." He ran a shuddering hand over his face. "William Turner is dead."
Norrington stared at the briny planks in dumbfounded astonishment. Sparrow dead-- Turner dead... Elizabeth...?
"My God," Norrington breathed helplessly. "I've killed them all."
Merciful sleep did not take him that night.
AN: Boy howdy, I sure hope I got good ol' Davy right. He's a difficult one to pin down, that's fer sher. Still hoping I'm getting everyone right. Thanks to my readers again-- it helps to know that someone's happy. :D Happy reading!
