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I would rate this a high PG-13 for mature themes and some language for now, but the rating definitely jumps up in later chapters.
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Chapter One: Minorca
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…It is therefore proven to be true that you, James Norrington, possessed of rank and title of Commodore, did repeatedly defy direct orders to return to your command at Port Royal and that you did, willingly and in full knowledge of the danger, order His Majesty’s ship, Dauntless, to sail through a most violent storm, resulting in severe damage to the ship and deaths of two officers and 432 men of her crew. For these actions you are hereby stripped of all title and rank and discharged without honor from the service of His Majesty’s Royal Navy…
…deaths of two officers and 432 men…
…willingly and in full knowledge of the danger…
It had become a kind of mantra in his head, an intractable repetition of accusations he had been unable and unwilling to deny and the sententious words that had delivered the death blow to the life he had so painstakingly built.
But, in some far off corner of his mind, he had known. He had known as the battered wreck of the once proud Dauntless limped into harbor at Port Mahon with all that remained of her crew. It had been something of a morbid surprise to him that the survivors of his folly hadn’t mutinied and killed him, as it would have been well within their right to do. Perhaps it would have been better if they had. He had known when he was brought before the Vice-Admiralty Court on Minorca the inescapable fate that would befall him. But for all his preparation, to hear those words had beaten and broken the very core of his existence, for what was he if not a military man? In light of his previously sterling record of service, the Vice-Admiralty Court had “allowed” him to resign involuntarily. This coup de grace made no difference; the Admiralty knew and he knew what the truth of the situation was. A discharge without honor was a discharge without honor no matter how you packaged it.
How could he have let it happen? How had he allowed himself to become so obsessive, so single-minded in his pursuit of Sparrow that he had let it supercede his sense of duty? He had needed it, that was how. Elizabeth’s sudden and very public rejection had hit him harder than he cared to admit, and so he had turned to his career—the one sure thing in his life—with fanatic zeal. He had occupied his every waking moment with charts and maps and the heady thrill of the hunt, just to keep himself from dwelling on thoughts of her. And it had worked— too well. “By remembering that I serve others, Mr. Sparrow, not only myself.” How well he recalled saying it! He had discarded those high-minded ideals; after all, serving others had lost him the woman he loved. Capturing the Black Pearl became a personal mission of revenge and self-validation, but serving himself had proven just as ineffective; it had cost him his crew, his commission, and quite possibly a bit of his sanity. Sparrow had driven him to it, of course. If it hadn’t been for Sparrow, he would still be the Commodore, he would still have Elizabeth, he would still have his life. All he had now were the clothes on his back and a bitter, boiling anger centered solely on that flailing, malapert, low-life…pirate!
Damn Sparrow! And damn his ship! He hadn’t chased him all the way to the bloody Mediterranean for this! He hadn’t trailed him across the Atlantic to have his ambitions whipped into oblivion by a storm! The storm…God, he had known it was bad. He could still see the disbelieving faces of his crew; they had known they were doomed, but had followed his damned orders anyway. He could still hear Gillette pleading with him over the howl of the increasing gale…
“Sir, we must turn back! We can’t ride this out!”
His own voice: “We can! Keep to the present course!”
“Commodore! James, for God’s sake, man, listen to reason!”
…willingly and in full knowledge of the danger…
It was his fault, he knew. 434 men, dead by his order. 434 deaths on his conscience. Yes, he knew the fault was his, but brutal honesty was a poor companion, and it was so much easier to blame Sparrow.
James slammed the bottle to the table with more force than he’d intended, surveying its contents with morose satisfaction. One month. One month since the court-martial. One paltry month and already he was regularly drowning his sorrows like any common vagrant; like any pirate. He had never intended to turn to rum when he had first wandered into this grungy Port Mahon inn a fortnight ago. He had never been a drinking man. It had been his invariable opinion that over-indulgence was a vile practice not befitting a man of station, but when the barmaid had plunked the grimy glass bottle of amber liquid down in front of him, the idea had suddenly seemed appealing. Drink up, Commodore, he had told himself. What have you left to lose? In his…previous life, he had never been able to comprehend the revolting attachment men could have to their rum. After nearly fifteen nights with a bottle of the stuff constantly in his own hand, he understood.
After all, he thought as he raised the bottle to his lips again. I am no longer a man of station. The idea was perversely amusing.
Slumped over a table in the dingy, malodorous common of the lowliest inn on Minorca, he was hardly recognizable. Only the storm-tossed vestiges of his powdered wig and the gold braiding on his rapidly staining coat betrayed him as a man who had once had honor and stature and a higher place in the world. Honor and stature? Such things were not for the likes of him, a disheveled, red-eyed wretch with an increasingly desperate grip on a bottle. No, such things as honor and stature were not for him anymore. He threw back his head and downed the last mouthful of his third bottle in one vicious swallow, choking and coughing as it cut its way down his throat. This was his lot now.
His surroundings were blurring significantly, but it was far from sufficient; another rum was in order. And most likely another after that. Bleary though his vision was, it was clear to him that the serving maids were all otherwise occupied. It seemed to be a requirement of this particular inn that all women employed prostitute themselves to the guests. Though several overtures had been made by the unabashed servers, that was one base habit he hadn’t fallen prey to, at least not yet. But never mind; he could fetch his own drink. James pushed himself up from the table and a sudden rush of vertigo sent him reeling into the nearby wall, barely able to keep himself upright. A giddy, cheerless laugh escaped him. Alcohol was an insidious thing—he was farther along than he’d thought. That dim realization didn’t deter him in the slightest. He made his way toward the bar, the floor pitching like the deck of a ship, though to his irritation and scornful amusement he couldn’t keep his footing the way he could at sea. He all but fell into the bar and, leaning heavily on the counter, slapped down a vague number of coins. The inn master sneered and pushed a full bottle at him with a wheezing chuckle and an all-too-knowing look in his eyes. James stumbled back to his table and glanced over his shoulder at the inn master, who had put his head together with a grizzled customer. The two men were whispering conspiratorially and once or twice the inn master pointed in his direction.
“Damned gossip,” he snarled, taking a long pull at his drink. These were Minorca’s slums for God’s sake! Why were these vulgar dregs of society—which, he reminded himself, he now numbered among—so interested? Surely Navy derelicts were a common occurrence in a place such as this! It was astounding and infuriating how fast and far the rumor of his disgrace had spread. “That man there,” they would say. “’E must be that mad officer I ‘eard about!” James snorted. Mad indeed! Perhaps he was—it wouldn’t surprise him. They may not know his name or the cause of his present situation, but their whispers burned his ears all the same. He had to get off this island—had to go somewhere where no one would neither know nor care who he had been and who he was now. And he knew exactly where that was. It sickened him that he had such a strong desire to go to that place, but he had sunk this low, what was a little lower? He had nothing to lose by it—except his remaining money and the best way to lose that was to a barkeep. The crux of the matter was he had no way of getting there.
If the voice hadn’t been so distinctive James would have allowed it to slide away into the noise of the common, but after weeks of dropped H’s and crude sailors’ argot, cultivated speech reverberated in his head like a bell. He was simply enjoying the sound of it when one word managed to snare his muddled consciousness—Tortuga.
He looked around and, with some difficulty because his eyes refused to focus properly, spotted the owner of the voice—a scrawny youth in a black coat who was conversing with the brawny man at the table behind him. The young man stood and with a few final words to his companion, began to move towards the door. As he passed by, James reached out an unsteady hand and, by luck, managed to catch hold of the young man’s sleeve.
“Something I can do for you, my good man?” the startled lad asked. Blinking blearily, James tried to force his uncooperative tongue to form a coherent phrase; it was irritatingly challenging to string words together at the moment.
“You said…you said you were sailing for Tortuga?” he managed at last.
“Not directly—we’ve some other business to attend to—but yes, I plan to put in at Tortuga.”
Other business? Other business was unimportant. “Can you get me there?”
The young man frowned and pulled his sleeve free. “I’m sorry. I don’t take on passengers.”
“Then I’ll crew for you!” James rasped.
I just need to get off this damned island!
The captain stood back and gave him an appraising once-over. “You wouldn’t be the first drunkard to sign to my crew,” he said. “You know something about sailing, I take it?”
“The Navy was my life,” James growled bitterly. “I should think I know enough.”
“Very well,” said the young man. He tapped his companion on the shoulder. “Pen and ink if you please, Mr. Ames.”
A rumpled paper was smoothed onto the table, an inkwell and a woebegone quill were set beside it and James scrawled his name onto the docket. He was distantly aware of a faint apprehension, a half-formed thought that he should ask what the “other business” was before signing himself to it, but alcohol and bitter thoughts had long since clouded his judgement and he was desperate to put as much sea as possible between himself and Minorca.
He didn’t notice the captain’s eyes widen in recognition of the newest name on the list.
“That’s settled, then,” said the young man, tucking the docket inside his coat. He paused for a moment, then leaned both hands on the table and spoke in slow, concise words. “We sail tomorrow at noon, so it would be prudent of you to make this your last rum for the night.”
James gaped at the man who was now his captain as if he’d never seen anything quite like him before. He laughed. Last rum for the night? What sort of absurd suggestion was that? The young man took no notice of this, but addressed his companion at the next table.
“Mr. Ames. You are to…escort your new crewmate to the ship in the morning.”
“Aye, Captain,” the man replied in a gruff voice.
The captain straightened and with a curt “Good night”, strode out of the inn.
James leaned his head back and smirked, an expression that was becoming more and more common with him. Tortuga…a veritable haven for a disgrace such as himself, where no one would speculate about the high-up Navy man fallen on hard times and whisper about court-martials.
“’E’s serious about the rum, ye know, mate.”
He turned, swaying dangerously, to face the burly man—Mr. Ames, had it been? Grinning derisively, he raised his bottle in a mock toast. “So am I, mate,” he said and took another drink.
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The Mediterranean sun climbed steadily towards its apex, drenching the bustling hubbub of the Port Mahon docks in prickling heat. The playful sea caught the sun’s rays, tossing them skyward again in a rippling dance of brilliant white light. It was a beautiful sight—a beautiful sight that James was doing his utmost to avoid. The excess of the previous night was making itself felt in the most violent way possible, and the light glancing off the mirror-like sea was by no means aiding his condition. His head felt as though it were being split open from the inside and the rolling, gleaming waves in combination with the less than aromatic scents permeating the air were making his stomach twist unpleasantly.
“Ye’re lookin’ a bit green ‘bout the gills, mate.”
God above, why does he have to be so loud?
“Yes, thank you for informing me, Mr. Ames,” James said with a grimace. The bear-like man was either something of a lack-wit or was being cruelly clever in his thundering attempts at conversation.
“Perhaps a spot of breakfast will do ye good,” Mr. Ames boomed. “I’ve a sausage or two left from me own if ye’d care for one.”
James had felt his gorge rise at the mere mention of breakfast, much less the idea of sausages, and had to fight down a wave of nausea before replying. “No, thank you,” he snapped. “I’m rather unwell, if you hadn’t noticed.”
Mr. Ames grinned a wide, wicked grin. “Oh, aye. Unwell.”
Ah. Cruelly clever it is.
“Thought you might like to know,” Mr. Ames continued in his clamorous voice. “The captain’s called Grace.”
“Grace?”
“Aye, Captain Edward Grace. Best private hand for England ye’ll meet and shrewd as the Devil to boot. It’s a lucky man what gets to sail under ‘im.”
Shrewd as the Devil? Mr. Ames may have meant it as the highest of praise, but James wasn’t so sure he would consider himself lucky to sail under a man who had common attributes with the Devil.
“By ‘private hand’ you mean this Captain Grace is a privateer?” James asked. He had wanted to avoid talking, as the sound of his own voice made his head throb, but now that he was sober, he had to admit he was curious about what he’d got himself into by signing the ship’s roster.
“Wantin’ to be sure ye haven’t signed the Articles, are ye?” Mr. Ames laughed. “Never fear, mate. Captain’ll explain it to ye.”
James rubbed his aching temples, frowning. The uncomfortable notion that he may have unknowingly signed the infamous pirate Articles had indeed occurred to him, but what made it such an uneasy idea was that he didn’t seem to care whether he had or not. Commodore James Norrington would rather have put a pistol to his own head than serve under the black flag, but James Norrington without rank or obligation was completely apathetic about it. Survival was his priority now, and to survive he would need money—how he acquired it was beside the point. Strange how quickly his mindset had changed.
“There ye have it!” Mr. Ames thundered, breaking him out of his caustic reverie. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
James cast a careless glance at the ship, a truly lovely brig. “She’ll serve her purpose, Mr. Ames,” he said; he didn’t much care what the ship looked like or what colors she flew, so long as she got him off the island.
“Ah, ye’ll come to love ‘er,” said Mr. Ames amiably. He gestured to the gangplank. “After ye, mate.”
James had hardy set foot on deck when he was accosted by the most unwelcome sound he could have imagined: the rapid, high-pitched barking of an over-excited dog.
“Always knows the Navy men, our Oliver!” Mr. Ames guffawed from behind him. The filthy little creature, christened Oliver, apparently, sat yapping at him without seeming to draw breath, each bark sending lances of pain jolting through his head. It was then that he noticed the gentle rocking of the ship as those gleaming waves rolled beneath the hull. Under normal circumstances he would have paid it no mind, but after over a month ashore and in his current state…
His stomach churned. He tried to swallow and force down the acrid bile rising in his throat, but his tongue seemed to have stuck itself to the roof of his mouth. The pounding in his head intensified, throbbing in time with his pulse. And that damned dog was still barking. Someone seized him by the coat collar and shoved him up against the deck rail.
“Over the railing, if you must,” hissed a disdainful voice in his ear. His control over his insides had been sparse before, but having his gut slammed into the rail obliterated it entirely and he proceeded to lose what little there was left in his stomach.
“Either you did not take my advice or you have a very poor head for liquor,” said the voice once he had stopped retching.
He looked up to see the young man—his captain—leaning on the rail next to him, a rather smug expression on his face. Now that he wasn’t seeing him through a rum-induced haze, James had to wonder just how young this young man was. He was tall enough, but his build was slight and there wasn’t so much as a wisp of a beard on his chin. Unlike the crew, which seemed something of a rag-tag bunch, he dressed like a merchant captain, with a black, tri-corn hat and unadorned coat and his yellow hair confined in a queue.
“Now, then,” said Captain Grace, suddenly professional. “James—it is James, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I couldn’t be sure; your hand was rather illegible—I didn’t even bother trying to decrypt your surname. But anyrate, I just want a brief word with you about the way things work on my ship.” His tone remained cordial but there was a cold gleam in his eyes that James knew all too well—how often had he seen it gazing back at him from the eyes of his own reflection? It was authority; unquestionable, absolute authority. That telltale gaze wasn’t gained just by giving orders; it came from expecting that those orders would be obeyed. James hadn’t seen himself in a mirror for weeks, but he suspected that that sharpness was something he no longer possessed.
Like so much else.
“The Glory is a privateer vessel,” Captain Grace continued. “I have my letters of marque from the Governor of St. Kitts to take Spanish and pirate ships. We don’t bother with pirates unless we’re certain we have them out-gunned, if not out-manned. As to rules aboard, there is to be no gaming for money and no brawling; all disputes are settled in a civilized manner. Theft from a fellow crewmate, or from myself, is punishable by lashes. Stealing from the prizes we take is theft from the entire crew, and I will have no reservations about keelhauling you. Your weapons are to be kept in good order and you must be ready for action at al times. Speaking of which, that is a fine sword—stolen, I assume?”
James glared, gripping the gold filigreed handle possessively. “You assume incorrectly,” he snapped, making no attempt to keep the resentment from his voice. This sword…he didn’t deserve to carry it. It was too strong a reminder of things as they had been—things as they should have been. He didn’t even want to look at it; he kept it hidden best he could beneath his frock coat. Actually using the damned thing was out of the question, and so he had stolen a pistol off an unconscious man at the inn. It had been the first betrayal of his values; something Commodore Norrington would never have done. But the scoundrel he was becoming was an opportunist and he had learned quickly that in the bleak cesspits of society, an unarmed man was as good as dead.
Captain Grace straightened, clasping his hands behind his back, still smiling congenially. “My rules are simple, James,” he said. “But the simplest of all is this: I give the orders and you follow them. Nothing you’re not used to, I’m sure.”
James felt a sudden prick of irrational anger and, ignoring the pounding in his head, spoke before he could stop himself.
“To be quite frank, Captain,” he spat, his tone venomous. “I am far more accustomed to giving orders than to following them.”
Captain Grace’s amiable demeanor never slipped as he surveyed James from head to toe, clearly taking in his bedraggled wig and officer’s uniform.
“So I surmised,” he said, fixing him with that imperative stare that reminded James so much of his former self.
James wrenched his eyes away and stared out at the horizon, scowling. “Nothing you’re not used to”. By God, how that had rankled! He knew he shouldn’t have responded the way he had, but it was yet another unneeded reminder of just how much he had lost to Jack Sparrow.
“If you’re through brooding, Cromley will take you below.”
He turned to face his superior, a sardonic smirk twisting his lips. “Quite through, Captain,” he said and made to follow this Cromley fellow towards to hatch, but Captain Grace stopped him as he passed.
“Oh, and James,” he said, sounding bitingly offhand. “About your drinking. It’s of no importance to me how inebriated you are at night when you’re off duty, but don’t expect any sympathy when you are facing the inevitable consequences as you are now.”
God in Heaven, was this man always smiling? Even his insults were delivered with a courteous air! James tore his arm out of the captain’s grip and stormed to the hatch where Cromley was waiting.
By Christ! The boy is grinning, too!
“Is everyone on this ship always so cheerful?” he growled.
Cromley, a brown-haired boy who couldn’t be any older than fifteen, raised his eyebrows. “Captain gettin’ to ye, eh, mate?” he asked.
James glared. “No.”
Cromley shrugged and grinned even wider, but—thankfully—didn’t press the matter.
The dim light of the hold was a relief after the glaring sun, and James felt some of the ache in his head subside as his eyes relaxed. He was just beginning to feel slightly more alert when a shrill sound from above made him cringe. He looked up, squinting painfully, to see that dog staring sappily at him from the deck above. He groaned and moved further into the hold, looking around for Cromley, who seemed to have vanished.
Of course there would be a ship’s dog, he thought as the creature in question continued to whimper. And of course it would see fit to plague me with incessant whining.
Cromley reappeared suddenly from the depths of the hold, carrying a baldric.
“Captain wants ye to have somethin’ proper fer that fancy blade of yourn,” he said, handing it to James. He glanced up toward the dog. “Annoyin’ little rat, in’n ‘e?”
“Exceedingly.”
“He’ll leave ye be if ye give ‘im a good kick,” Cromley said. “But ‘ave a mind about it. If the captain catches ye at it, she’ll lash ye naked to the mainmast.”
James’s fingers slipped on the belt buckle.
Surely I misheard that?
“Did you say ‘she’?” he asked, incredulous.
“Aye.”
James shook his head, an action he immediately regretted, as it made him rather dizzy. This was ludicrous.
“You mean to say that the captain of this ship is female?”
Cromley grinned. “Hides it well, don’t she?”
James frowned, remembering a sailor’s irrational suspicion of a young girl, long ago in another life. A woman as captain? He wasn’t a superstitious man, but it didn’t make sense, not even to him.
“I thought a woman aboard was bad luck,” he said.
“There’s some what thinks that way, to be sure. But they don’t sail under Miss Grace.”
“Miss Grace?”
“S’what the crew calls ‘er,” Cromley explained, clapping him on the back in a comradely way. “She don’t know, a’ course. To ‘er face we call ‘er Captain, but ‘mongst ourselves she’s Miss Grace. We’re that fond of ‘er, see?”
A woman captain… I suppose I’ve seen stranger things.
“Well,” he mumbled, following his crewmate into the hold. “It certainly explains the lack of a beard.”
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