Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean belongs to Disney
Elizabeth Swann was a lady, but she knew many words a lady should not, and some of those words had begun to slip into her thoughts.
As she had been for fifteen minutes, she sat beside a woman who was not exactly partial to chatting. Though the silence was uncomfortable, it was best because Elizabeth felt ready to bite something. She looked pleadingly back at her father, who was standing grandly on a platform with several naval officers. With his eyes, he signaled her for patience.
Dwarfed by the proud walls of Fort Charles walls, forty or so guests rustled and cleared their throats. Jeweled canes and parasols glinted as their owners listened to the flapping of a British flag and tried not to look at the self-conscious troops that filled the rest of the courtyard with their blue and white uniforms.
Elizabeth glanced with cross longing at the troops' loose coats and breeches, and her corset pinched her as punishment.
Then, a hush fell, and marching feet could be heard, mixed with a drum and fife. All eyes focused past the troops to the arch beyond.
First, there came the musicians, who were followed by two rows of red-clad British Marines. The sound of the marching feet wound about the cheery melody of the fife, and the audience stood as one. Elizabeth, winded by the effort, waved her lace fan quickly to soothe herself. She bowed her head, focusing on catching her breath.
The fife and drums died away. She looked up as a brusque voice directed the two lines of Marines to face each other. Then as one, the men crossed their bayoneted muskets to form a glinting tunnel.
At the end of which, the new Commodore appeared, hands folded behind his back.
Dashing was exactly the word with which to describe him. He shone with lofty polish, all the way from his perfectly buckled shoes his feather-crowned hat. White-wigged, buttons gleaming, he paused in the archway and let his presence sink in before striding forward into the quiet courtyard.
A short drop and a sudden stop.
Crazily, the words reverberated in Elizabeth's mind as she watched the handsome man who had spoken them pace the tunnel. He was older now, but he hadn't changed.
The blue-black uniform with its incredible lapels was heavy, magnificently so. This was the weight of authority and power, and James Norrington had been waiting a long time to don it.
He wished that his father were alive to see him so honored. As he approached the front of the courtyard, he saw the admirals and other commodores waiting for him, and it was difficult to maintain a measured stride, his desire to join their ranks was so strong. He breathed deeply as he stepped up onto the platform of the elite and received his credentials from a large, hard-faced admiral who wore his uniform like a cat its skin. After accepting the congratulations of the other officers, turned toward Governor Swann.
The Governor beamed with paternal pride as he held forth one of the most magnificent swords that Norrington had ever seen. He grasped the glittering handle; it fit the curve of his palm perfectly. Slowly, he drew out a flawless blade, mesmerized by its cool gleam. The weapon had a comfortable weight and when he swung it, his arm sang that its balance was impeccable. Swelling with pride, he crisply saluted the Governor, wondering if any man had ever been so very, very happy.
And then his eyes looked beyond the blade, to a young governor's daughter who stood demurely at attention for him, dark eyes lifted to his glory.
A terrifying wave of tender speechlessness left James blinking to keep his eyes dry.
So this's where you've been hiding the beauty I've been hearin' rumors about. Up here, all snug where you can keep an eye on her from your nice little fort…Fort Charles, innit?
I can see why y'secreted her away, lads. She's lovely. Lovely.
Mr. Smith's choice of the Jolly Mon as a vessel might have cast doubt upon his discernment where ships were concerned, but this doubt would have been badly placed. He knew ships as well as a woman knows her face and he could sniff out the best vessels with the uncanny ease of a hound. Especially the vessels nobody wanted to be found.
The H.M.S. Interceptor, true jewel of Port Royal, chafed at her secluded dock, unaware of her keenly appreciative observer. Low, sleek, light, she sat with her white wings folded to her spars, devoid of any crew. She was a falcon at rest with a hood over her eyes.
Let her spread her wings an' she'll take of with a shriek, almost unmatchable. It wouldn't take much, if y'did it right…
Mr. Smith drank in the quiet, glanced warily about, then made his sauntering way down an incline to the Interceptor's elaborate tether.
The dock had two levels, an upper with massive cranes for loading, and a lower with narrow gangplanks for boarding. The British were not complete lummoxes, therefore, as Mr. Smith expected, there were guards on the lower level. Unfazed, Smith scuttled out onto the upper level and huddled down beside the ramp that plunged below.
He listened.
"You're always putting my name down, as if you have reason to be proud of your own, Murtogg. I say your face echoes your name, what with that dog-like nose a' yours!"
"You were always jealous. Mullroy. Roy. What's that mean? Sounds like some fat heathen name from the north lands–Roy, it's part of your name and you–"
"Fat? This isn't fat–you've not seen fat, you little twig of a boy. And I do have heathen blood in my veins and am proud of it. Makes me better in a fight, better than you, you little…green-blood!"
"Better in a fight, ha! And 'green-blooded'? That's not a term used in describing blood, I'll have you know."
Mr. Smith wiped his hands on his coat, slid to his feet, and started down the ramp.
"Have me know. Well, well, aren't we getting all high and mighty! Little twiggy Murtogg!"
Their voices went low and furious, just as Mr. Smith strode into view. He noted them with a nonchalant glance, then hurried for the gangplank. Sadly, they spotted him and they scrambled into his path.
"This dock is off-limits to civilians," the thinner one–Murtogg?–on the right announced, his large nose up.
Mr. Smith raised a hand. "I'm terribly sorry," he said earnestly. "If I see one–" he lifted a finger reassuringly "–I shall inform you immediately." He then tried to slip around, but they clattered in front of him again.
Swallowing annoyance, he looked the two up and down. "Apparently there's some sort of high-toned an' fancy to-do up at the fort, aye?"
Murtogg looked to the fort.
"How could it be that two upstanding gentlemen such as yourselves," he encompassed both with one gesture, "didn't merit an invitation?" His eyes met each of theirs in turn, squinting in both sympathy and scorn.
The heavy Marine's lower lip sagged in his round face, but Murtogg rallied. "Someone has to make sure this dock stays off-limits to civilians."
"This must be some important boat."
"Ship," the paunchy Marine–Mullroy–corrected indignantly.
"Ship, right." Mr. Smith nodded. "Boats fit on ships–innit that it?"
Murtogg jutted a thumb proudly over his shoulder. "Captain Norrington's made it his flagship. He'll use it to hunt down the last dregs of piracy on the Spanish Lake."
"Commodore," Mullroy said.
"Right." Murtogg flapped a hand. "Commodore Norrington."
Mr. Smith was nodding. "A fine goal, to be sure. But it seems to me that a–" he slid suddenly to the left and the Marines warily followed "–a ship like that," he gestured dramatically toward the Dauntless, "makes this one a bit superfluous, really."
The Marines followed his eyes to the distant warship that hugged the far cliffs. Mullroy turned back first. "Ahe," he said, "the Dauntless is the power in these waters true enough. But there's no ship that can match the Interceptor for speed."
Mr. Smith put his forefinger on his narrow chin. Then he pointed the digit at the Marines. "I've heard a' one, it's supposed to be very fast, nigh uncatchable." He paused, eyes darting back and forth between the men.
"The Black Pearl."
Round Mullroy laughed, while skinny Murtogg's mouth began to pucker upward in the most peculiar manner. "Aho," Mullroy chortled, "there's no real ship as can match the Interceptor."
Murtogg turned on him. "The Black Pearl is a real ship."
"No," Mullroy was still chuckling, "no, it's not." He glanced at Mr. Smith, who held his peace.
"Yes, it is. I've seen it."
Mullroy frowned upon his peer. "You've seen it."
"Yes."
"You've seen the Black Pearl."
"Yes."
"You haven't seen it."
The outlandish Mr. Smith's gaze slipped wearily to the side.
"Yes, I have."
"You've seen a ship with black sails," said Mullroy to Murtogg, "that is crewed by the damned and captained by a man so evil," his eyes went wide as they bored into Murtogg's, "that Hell itself spat him back out?"
"No."
Mullroy nodded, lapsing into heavy-lidded smugness. "No." He remembered Mr. Smith, who gave him a stiff smile.
"But I have seen a ship with black sails," Murtogg insisted.
"Oh!" Mullroy whirled on his companion. "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, therefore couldn't possibly be any other ship than the Black Pearl. Is that what you're saying?"
Dazed, Murtogg smiled and nodded. "…No."
"Like I said, there no real ship as can match the Intercepte–"
They both turned to the bizarre man and found empty air. Casting wildly about, they quickly spotted him standing at the helm of the Interceptor as if he belonged there.
"Hey!" They flew up the gangplank. "Get away from there!" Mullroy cried as they edged down the deck, their muskets raised. "You're not permitted to be aboard there, mate."
Mr. Smith looked at them, startled, still grasping the helm. "I'm sorry." He shrugged helplessly, "But it's such a pretty boat." Quickly his hand went out in a placating gesture, "Ship."
"What's your name?" skinny Murtogg demanded.
"Smith. Or Smithy, if ya like."
The muzzle of Mullroy's musket came down, along with his eyelids. "What's your purpose in Port Royal, Mr. Smith?"
"Yeh–and no lies," Murtogg added.
"Well, then." Smith stepped easily away from the helm. "I confess…"
The Marines retreated, raising their muskets again.
"It is my intention," Smith said frankly as he casually grasped some rigging, "to commandeer one of these ships, pick up a crew in Tortuga, raid, pillage, plunder, and otherwise pilfer my weasly black guts out."
"I said no lies!"
"I think he's telling the truth," murmured Mullroy.
"If he was telling the truth, he wouldn'ta told us," Murtogg retorted impatiently.
"Unless, of course," Mr. Smith spoke up, "he knew you wouldn't believe the truth even if he told you."
Murtogg smiled and puckered, and then it all slid off his face.
"Your gown looked so wonderful last night, Elizabeth. At the ball, I mean. Was it Mrs. Talbot's handiwork?"
Elizabeth nodded. "I'm sure the embroidery gave it away immediately."
Miss Hattie Remmons, Elizabeth's childhood friend, gracefully inclined her blond head, then looked at Elizabeth with twinkling gray eyes. "I noticed a certain gentleman solicited your hand a number of times…"
Behind Hattie, her younger sisters suddenly took interest in the conversation.
Elizabeth just smiled and shook her head, glancing over at her father, who was enjoying the company of several seasoned naval officers some yards away.
The ceremony was over, and the neat audience had scattered about the courtyard. Many guests, Elizabeth included, had found refuge from the sun under the courtyard's many-arched entry. They nibbled on treats served by expressionless servants, while a small group of musicians played polite music.
Hattie touched Elizabeth's arm gently, her smile understanding. "Tell me, are you planning on attending Mrs. Howesworth's for tea next week?"
"Yes."
"Good, because I want you to meet my cousin. She's the sweetest thing and its her first time away from England. She would love you."
Elizabeth was able to genuinely smile. "Then I am eager to meet her. What's her name?"
"Amelia. She has no siblings, but she's not a bit spoiled. She's truly the dearest–oh, what is it, Beth?"
Beth gestured minutely to her slender mother, who was beckoning.
Hattie turned back and clasped Elizabeth's hand. "Sorry, dearest, but I'd really better not vex Mama. I will look for you at Mrs. Howesworth's."
"Thank you, Hattie. I'll be there." As Hattie hurried off, Elizabeth felt every bit of discomfort that had been negated by Hattie's warm presence return, and suddenly, she wished she were in her room, where she could rip herself free of both new dress and boredom.
She turned toward her father and came face to face with the new commodore himself. Their gazes met, and he actually colored. He offered her a hand. "If I may have a moment?"
At her assent, he escorted her in utter silence to a high parapet. Despite his assistance the going was slow, and when he finally helped her onto the loftily secluded perch, she was breathing hard, her pain having increased tenfold. She was glad when he pulled away from her, and she shifted into the shelter of a bell frame, wondering how much more she could endure.
The warm breeze rustled their clothing, and an inch from their feet there was open air, all the way down to the jewel harbor. Norrington squinted into the warm sun, then looked at Elizabeth. All she could manage was the weak waving of her fan.
"A–you look lovely, Elizabeth."
Wondering where 'Miss Swann' had disappeared to, she gave him a brightly forced smile. Then she looked out to sea again, perspiring and miserable.
Taken slightly aback, he turned away. "I, uh, apologize if I seem forward, but I...must speak my mind." He swallowed hard. He had never guessed that a naval battle could be easier than this, here. "This promotion throws into sharp relief that which I have not yet achieved." He turned back to her and felt his entire body hum with adrenaline. "A marriage to a fine woman."
Her heart was pounding faster than it ever had in her entire life. She looked at him sidelong with large eyes, lips parted before clenched teeth.
"You have become a fine woman," he continued earnestly, wondering intensely if he was saying the right things.
His emerald eyes were vulnerable in his chiseled face, but Elizabeth could barely see them past the pretty sparkles in her vision. Now his words spun in her head. She felt her mouth open and close as she pressed a hand to her midsection. "I can't breathe," she wheezed.
"Yes, I–" relieved, Norrington turned away, hands clasped at his back, "I'm a bit nervous myself."
Elizabeth collapsed off the wrong side of the parapet without a sound.
"So, the Hiluwillawallas are only found on Makinuna Island," Mullroy raised an eyebrow.
"It's Makinunu," Mr. Smith corrected patiently. "A tiny, tiny island somewhere 'round St. Lorrie–the name don't ring a bell? Odd. Well, they're rather diminutive, the Hiluwillawallas, with wedge-shaped feet, every one a' them. Very, very hospitable. Once they looked over me feet, of course."
Murtogg got more comfortable against the Interceptor's rail. "And then what?"
"Fed me five bananas. They saw I was taller than them or somethin', an' they made me their leader." Smith shrugged, apparently baffled by his own memory. The Marines nodded thoughtfully.
There came a faint male bellow: "Elizabeth!"
The companionable trio rushed to the rail, and looked up, up, up the cliff. A tiny figure was hanging off Fort Charles, looking down and yelling.
"Elizabeth!!"
As one, the men's eyes came down.
The jaws of Murtogg and Mullroy dropped.
There goes everything. Mr. Smith squinted grimly at the glaringly white flower of foam that was dissipating near the cliff's base. He pointed at Mullroy. "Will you be saving her, then?"
The Marine blanched. "I can't swim!"
With tight smile, Mr. Smith turned to Murtogg, who just shook his long-nosed face.
"Pearls of the King's Navy you are," Mr. Smith muttered, and yanked his hat off. Murtogg and Mullroy stared, the Hiluwillawalla story becoming suddenly far more believable than before.
The man's revealed head sported a red-maroon sash which, folded in a wide band about his forehead, burrowed back into his hair. A thick braid rested between his shoulder blades, a long needle of bone hung from a lopsided topknot on the right side. Beads made of wood, metal and bone hung over the bandana and along his jaw. The smell that had always been present, of spices and fish and sweat, intensified and Murtogg and Mullroy were in awe.
Mr. Smith shoved his hat into Mullroy's arms. "Do not lose these." A pistol, sword belt, and coat followed the hat. Then the two Marines mutely watched Smith pull himself onto the Interceptor's smooth rail and dive like a pin into the water.
Everything became oddly calm, which only made Murtogg and Mullroy more nervous. Their eyes searched the glassy waves, but the expressionless green-blue revealed nothing.
The deathly silence was punctured by a heart-punching, ear-popping thud. A circle-ripple spread over the water's surface and vanished in the blink of an eye.
"What was that?" Murtogg asked.
That was when the wind hit.
A flapping noise drew Murtogg's gaze upward. The Interceptor's massive British ensign curled around itself, flapping through rigging. Then it streamed in the opposite direction from before. The pair was forced to seize their hats as the damp wind swelled, hissing through the fronds of the palm trees.
Only a minute had passed, and the idyllic morning had died, suffocated by a grubby haze.
Onshore now, Old Malerd paused loading crates to watch the clouds roil over the sun. He sniffed deeply. This new air smelled ever so slightly of rot. His heart went cold. He thought of the arrogant stranger who had arrived earlier, his pure oddness seeming to herald change.
Old Malerd is never wrong.
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