The Storm

So far, the mission of the Dauntless hadn't been prized with success, although she had cruised half of the Caribbean Sea already, and defeated half a dozen of minor pirate vessels. But no matter what, there wasn't the smallest trace of the Black Pearl so far; twice, they had sailed to Tortuga, with the sole effect that only threats of the most severe punishment had been sufficient to keep the crew from frequenting one of the countless brothels.

James Norrington congratulated himself for his decision to leave Lieutenant Gillette back in Port Royal, as he could vividly imagine how this one would have lost no opportunity to rub it in that it was nobody's fault but the Commodore's that they had lost Jack Sparrow's trace so entirely. Gillette did not even do these things on purpose, he was much too cowardly for such daring – but there was an involuntary tactlessness about the man that had already cost many of the Commodore's otherwise iron nerves.

Another day had begun, with always the same merciless sun blazing down at them; they had been away from home for more than three months by now and every man aboard was more or less out of spirits. Some of the fresh recruits had mastered their seasickness by now, but this was like the only comfort in the middle of dead calms, boredom and sunburns. They were to sail through the Windward Passage, as soon as some strong breeze should take them, and search the Northern seas for the Black Pearl that seemed to have vanished into thin air. Lucky bastards, the First Lieutenant of the Dauntless thought to himself, and with some apprehension, he observed the horizons, once not to watch out for the wanted vessel, but because a storm seemed to come up. The behaviour of the sea birds was quite alarming, and although not the softest breath of wind was to be felt yet, he reported to the Commodore that he was afraid that they could come into bad weather.

"Oh well," was his superior's sour reply, "Didn't I hear the crew complain about the uneventful quietness?" He grabbed for the telescope, lowering it after a minute and murmuring, "Can we reach Port Antonio yet?"

"I don't think so, Sir," Lieutenant Chandler replied just as quietly, exchanging some significant looks with his friend. "We could get there by tomorrow, the soonest, and we would need a stronger wind for it as well!"

"Yes, I know," the Commodore sighed. "And a strong wind is what we'll get… Tell the crew to lie down as long as they can. There's nothing to be done right now, and I'm afraid they will need all their strength and alacrity later on!"

He went under deck to check the maps, with the earnest hope to spot some harbour and may it be yet so small or dangerous, that he and Chandler had forgotten, and that it would be near enough to be reached before sundown. This part of the Ocean was infamous for its unexpected and treacherous passages, and had an even worse reputation for the storms which kept haunting it. If they couldn't find an anchorage, it could become quite dangerous even for a ship of the dimensions of the Dauntless. Waves of sixty feet were no exception in such a storm, and many of the younger sailors hadn't experienced a really bad storm so far. The only island in some proximity was so small and meaningless that it hadn't even got a name; he was glad to spot it, and determined to aim for it as soon as the wind should allow a start. Even if they could not reach it, they might get at least so close that it bore some comfort for the crew, for despondency could come in nearly as fatal as even the worst weather. If they could think of themselves close to a possible rescue, they would give all they had.

Despondency – he had to smirk with himself for using this term. The past months had taught him about despondency, more than he could ever have thought possible while still alive and breathing. He didn't know himself what kept him upright, but apparently, a man could go with less sleep or food than was generally assumed, and bear even the hardest stroke of fate.

He scarcely dared to acknowledge it to himself, but he desperately missed Elizabeth, and he couldn't even say why. It wasn't the first time that he was absent from Port Royal for so long, he had born worse deprivations without so much as blinking. And right now, with all possible hope gone – shouldn't he be glad not to see her? He had foretold her that she could be relieved with his absence, but realised now that he had only meant himself, aware that Elizabeth probably did not even notice whether he was there or not. He had been so sure that a long journey would weaken her power over him, that he would be able to – perhaps not forget, but give her up at least.

For a man like him, this was an entirely new experience; he had survived hostile fire and heavy storms, he had always been strictly ruled by sense and denied emotions. He had thought it impossible that some feeling, although useless and vain, could be stronger than his common sense. He had lost Elizabeth, no, he had never even got her, she had never been his, her hand maybe, but never her heart. He knew all that, but nevertheless, he was incapable to overcome this speechless agony, he hadn't even managed to rid himself of her portrait.

He had a small silver frame that bore her picture, and he wore it close to his heart day and night, he would take it out ever so often to have a look at it, and when he did, he had to see that it only exacerbated his suffering, but he couldn't help it either. He had to look at her, at least six times per day, and every time, a blade cut right through him, invisible, but lethal still.

Waiting for the storm in his cabin, he held the medallion once again, his eyes glued to her beautiful features and without noticing it, he whispered her name to himself. He told himself that he needed some rest at least, even if he couldn't sleep. If the storm should come, and as badly as feared, he would need all his resources. But it would not do, his mind found no peace and his body no sleep, and with growing tension, he knew the time to be ticking away in vain. Shortly before sundown, Chandler knocked on his door, and hastily, he patted Elisabeth's picture in one of his pockets and got up.

"Sir, I'm afraid it is about to begin."

And so it was, with astonishing speed, the sky had changed its colour, from glossy blue to steely grey, a very strong, but inconstant and ever-changing wind had come up, and the sails of the Dauntless were battling with it helplessly. He saw some boys of fourteen or perhaps sixteen years, their faces betrayed their terror and the worst hadn't yet begun – what would these terrified children do when they lost the first of their anchors?

Night fell fast this evening, and then, all of a sudden and apparently out of nowhere, it was there. The eye of the storm had taken hold of them so rapidly that even such experienced sailors like the Commodore and his First Lieutenant were taken by surprise. In the beginning, they had still tried to pilot westwards, praying to reach the little island, but now, all they could do was try to save their lives and this ship. The Commodore shouted orders on top of his voice, but the roaring winds swallowed most of it, half a dozen of his men had already been swept into the raging sea and nobody could have saved them – but suddenly, in the middle of the inferno itself, he saw the most amazing image and wondered for some seconds whether his eyes deceived him in his panic.

He saw two ships at portside! Was it possible?! He gestured at Chandler to make this one turn around, indeed, only a hundred yards away from them, there were three slightly smaller vessels, battling as hard with the storm as they did themselves. Evidently, this small fleet, Dutch merchants judging their colours and sails, must have aimed for the same rescue like the Dauntless!

He was still staring at this discovery when something happened that he had even less expected than the sight itself – he heard an explosion, and in the next second, he felt his own ship hit by a shot. For a second, he was petrified, his mind incapable of understanding what was happening there, when the most inconceivable realisation hit him. They were under attack! In the middle of one of the heaviest storms he had witnessed in his entire lifetime, they were attacked, by some crazy Dutch merchants?!

"Ready the canons and open fire," he screamed, "RETURN FIRE I SAY!"

The crew did their best to follow his orders and keep the ship under control in the same moment, but it was hopeless. Both ships had opened fire at them, joined by a third shooting from starboard, and in between all the havoc caused by the storm, the Dauntless was now also shaken by heavy impacts. They had damaged the first mast, that had crushed down causing devastation and leaving the Dauntless yet more helpless than it was anyway.

The last thing he perceived was another explosion aboard, and Chandler yelled, "They've hit the powder!"

What followed was of no more consequence for the Commodore, his ship was shred to pieces by a series of explosions, but he was already sinking to the bottom of the ocean, and when his lungs filled with salty water, he had one last thought in mind – at least, he wouldn't have to endure living without Elizabeth…