Author's Note: Hello and welcome to chapter twenty-one of "Rubicon". Poor Norrington is finally having his say in this diary entry. I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to read and comment on the last chapter ElfLuver13, Tiera-Tarie, anonymous, jla1snoopy, anotherblastedromantic and Astraeas Dreams. I have no beta for this fic, so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean.

September 13, 1731

Journal,

Dawn has come. From the ramparts of the Fort, one can see the first light touch the horizon and then follow the slow course of the sun as it rises, heavenward.

There is no sun today, none that I can see, at least. A sharp wind carried in the clouds sometime during the night and now they float over the harbor, silent, grim. I wait for the storm.

Far-off, there is a rumble in the sky and lightening touches the sea. I have never known thunderstorms to come in the morning hours. In the late afternoon, yes, when the heat of the day boils over into streams of rain. But never in the morning.

Ah, but I am forgetting now. I did witness one storm that came just before dawn and seemed to last a lifetime. It was no thunderstorm though, but a hurricane. I shan't talk of that now.

The night has passed and I do not know whether to be glad for it or not. It was a wretched night, for the most part, with only a glimpse of starlight that was soon swept away by despair. And by the end of it all, I realized what a horrid man I truly am. I deserve to lie cringing in the gutters of Tortuga.

Poor Lady Beckett, I almost killed her.

Of course, the blame could be misconstrued and Lord Beckett has seen fit to pin it all on Elizabeth Swann and that witch, Tia Dalma. I rather think I should go to the gallows, for unknowingly I led dear Lady Anne into the embrace of danger and violence.

I should have done more.

My mind gallops along and I am so dreadfully tired. But I feel I must offer my account of the event while it is still fresh in my mind. Soon the whole incident shall come under scrutiny and Lord Beckett will doubtless wish to hear what I have to say.

He will want me to provide the necessary testimony to hang Elizabeth Swann. Dear God, I am weeping.

Steady man, steady. I may write with a shaking hand, but I must steady my thoughts. Now where to begin? Ah yes, the party.

Lord Beckett had departed before supper was served. He went down to the harbor to meet with Jones, or so Mr. Mercer later told me. I should have accompanied him, but I did not. Whilst he ran about, distracted, I slipped away and took dinner with the company of guests.

And so with the Dutchman bobbing along the waves, hidden from view by only thin wooden shutters, I dined. I laughed, I jested and I indulged in small talk with the gentry. For one single moment, I pretended that this torrid world was not mine. I hid behind a pantomime's mask and like an actor, played my role well.

Not one man suspected the dire predicament that swept over Port Royal. The ladies giggled and batted their fans about, sipping on claret. And dear Lady Beckett seemed to heighten the merry-making with her smiles and polite chatter.

I was greatly pleased with the farce, for in the end it was nothing but a lie that I should pretend to be Lord Beckett, comfortable and untouched by lifetime of woe.

And as I sat there, I thought of Beckett, arguing with Jones perhaps or holed up in his office like a fox in a musty den.

I wanted to enjoy his happy life, for once.

But soon the supper ended and the company spilled into the ballroom. I felt awkward and hovered by the door as couples formed and pair off. And out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lady Beckett drifting about.

Something tugged at my heart and soon I was overwhelmed with emotion. Poor little creature. At times she seemed so frail, but I knew better.

Strength grew within her and filled her with such a grace, such an ease I had not yet seen in a woman.

Perhaps in Elizabeth Swann, yes, but in no other woman.

My admiration for Lady Beckett seems to know no bounds, as does my respect. Quiet dignity touches her eyes and when she smiles, I sense she is truly happy and feigns no emotion.

Ah, that such a woman should be Lord Beckett's.

But I am no base man. I am not lecherous. Honor I can remember, yes. I treat Lady Beckett with honor.

And so, with honor, I approached her and bowed.

"My lady, are you well? You seem so overwhelmed."

She stared at me with soft eyes and touched a finger to her lip. "Ah, Admiral, I am quite glad to see you. It seems that my husband has been called away. He left me only a hasty note. Do you know what all this business is about?"

"No, my lady," I lied, but the lie was for her own good. She need not know of the terror that haunted the harbor. "But might I help you with something?"

Lady Beckett looked about. Most of the guests were lost to the music and they danced so gaily that my heart swelled and I thought to ask Lady Beckett for a single minuet. She, however, grasped my arm and led me off to the side.

"I feel some tremendous need, sir, to look in upon my little son," she said. Tenderness was in her gaze and it made me smile. I did not question her, for a mother knows best.

"Will you keep the guests occupied until I return? I shan't be long."

"Of course," I said. She seemed assured and I led her to the foot of the stairs. Perhaps I should have gone directly into the ballroom then, as promised, but I lingered.

Slowly she seemed to ascend the long staircase and when she had only gone halfway, the poor woman stopped and put a hand to her breast.

For a moment, I thought Lady Beckett might faint. Her face went pale.

"My lady!" I hurried up the stairs as any gentleman should and took her arm in mine. "Please, let me assist you."

She did not protest, her breath coming hard as her chest rose and fell. I immediately averted my eyes from her soft, white skin that glistened with just a hint of sweat. Together, we ascended and I looked once over the banister to see if anyone followed our progress with their eyes. Fortunately, no one had noticed our departure.

When we had reached the very top of the stairs, Lady Beckett released my arm and sat in a chair that was just a short way down the corridor.

"Oh," she said, still panting. Her head she rested against the wall. "Oh, I am not so strong as I once was. Perhaps I am getting old."

I laughed or tried to. "My lady, you cannot be much older than twenty!"

"Two and twenty," she said. "But such times wear on a soul. I fear I am worn out already."

"Nonsense," I said and soon I found myself kneeling by her side. "Such a fire burns within you. No woman that possesses such wit and bravery could ever wither and die."

"I assure you, sir, I am quite mortal." And here the poor lady buried her head in her hands and began to weep.

Of course, I had not expected such a reaction, but I was prepared. I presented her with my handkerchief and she accepted it, gratefully, dabbing at her swollen eyes until her tears subsided.

"You must forgive me," Lady Beckett said. "These past few months have tried me greatly and I am weary."

"You need not ask my pardon," I said. She looked at me and laughed.

"I must see to my son, sir, for I fear those bumpkins below stairs will concoct some vicious rumor, if any did chance to see us depart together. And oh lah! Here we have been discussing burning fires and mortality."

I smiled, but a noise from within the nursery soon froze a frown upon my lips.

"What could that have been?" Lady Beckett asked. She rose and pushed open the nursery door. "Agnes? Are you about, dear? I have only come up for a moment."

She stepped into the room and unable to stop myself, I followed. Oh, I shall never forget the scene that unfolded before my very eyes. How horrid!

There beneath a silken stream of moonlight stood Elizabeth Swann and that Caribbean witch. I halted, a gasp shooting past my teeth. Lady Beckett did likewise and her hand flew to her lips.

They must have climbed through the window, I am convinced, for Elizabeth was just putting her right leg on the floor and closing the shutters.

"This used to be my chamber," she said breathlessly, then caught sight of Lady Beckett and I.

A moment of awful silence stretched before us. I noted that Elizabeth looked much the same, still beautiful even in her sailor's clothes. Dirt smudged her cheeks and grease coated her soft hair, hidden beneath a tricorn.

The witch stood in the shadows and I could not make much of her.

Suddenly, Lady Beckett uttered a shrill cry.

"Away! Away!" she shrieked. "Away from my child!" Only then did I realize that Elizabeth and the witch stood close to the low cradle. The baby began to cry.

The witch raised her hands as if to speak, but Lady Beckett rushed forward, whether to grab her son or push past the intruders, I could not tell.

And Elizabeth, oh darling Elizabeth with whom I used to dance and dine, pushed her to the ground.

It was a reflexive move, I am convinced and one not meant to cause much harm. But Lady Beckett, being already heavy with child and ill, fell to the ground hard. She rolled over once, clutched her large abdomen and then began to moan.

I do not know what I should have done then, had Lord Beckett not walked in.

Ah, I can write no more, the thing grieves me so!

Admiral James Norrington