Should have had rum

Gillette snickered and brought the celebration to a close and picked a young girl to heave the bottle of stout, a good English brew, over the side so that it bounded back on its rope tie and christened the ship “The Skirmish”. Champagne was French in origin and in light of the increased threats of hostility between the two countries it was avoided. The fishing dingy was within sight but not hearing range by the time the last of the guests were ushered down the gang plank. James had come out looking for Elizabeth, but upon not finding her he presumed that she must have left with her father or perhaps with a group of young women who would still associate with her after her abduction from her social circle in Port Royale society.

The Skirmish cast off lines and sailed out in the bay to meet the French vessel. James’ men were allowed to board, then were surrounded by marines with drawn swords. They were not dressed as fishermen but as officers of the French Navy. One clumsily drew out his sword as he was being approached; James drew his and thrusted towards the tanned and balding man with a grace that would belie his protests at formal dances that he was a clumsy fool not fit for dancing. The man dropped his sword and shrank back throwing up his hands to protect his face and cowered.

James turned to Gillette-- his education in France as a young child made him an invaluable asset to James, but it was also a liability for Gillette, and so it was not widely known that Gillette spoke French. “These men,” James whispered so close that Gillette could feel James’ hot breath on his ear, “are no officers. Find out what you can, discretely,” but then the man with the balding thin mouse brown hair found his English and his French all at once.

“Pirates, le oiseau, le moineau!” He pointed in the direction from which he had come. James grit his teeth.

“Sparrow” he spat, seeming to understand all at once-- few had seen Gillette making his hands into a little bird shape. Their shouts of “where” and “when” overlapped each other. James and Gillette shared a passion for hunting pirates, James because pirates were the scourge of the Caribbean and this pirate in particular cost him the woman he loved and loved still, Gillette because nothing made James more approachable, more merry, and more lovable than the elation of having eliminated yet another pirate from the Caribbean.

When the French were in the brig The Skirmish sailed towards the direction which the Frenchman had given Gillette. James charged into his ward room to plot an approximate area on the map of where he felt they would need to search. By the Frenchman’s description The Black Pearl had attacked the French ship and was lingering and looting it. The Frenchman said that they were the only survivors of the onslaught. James shut his eyes, the thought of finding Sparrow was elating and yet somehow disappointing too. What would he be, a man who had nothing to define himself but being the best pirate hunter, when there were no more pirates?

He took off his wig and coat and buttoned down his shirt revealing a map of scars and burns from his lifetime of fighting. The humidity of the Caribbean was oppressive and his shirt, a mix of wool and cotton, was no help so he shrugged it off and draped it over a globe of the known world. Within his own ward room such a display of brown coffee hair and a collection of flesh marked with receipts for pain and suffering would do no harm to the morale of his mostly fresh crew. He was suddenly weary from his interactions with Elizabeth and from the superficial relations with the pseudo aristocracy from Port Royale. He peeled an orange savagely, letting his fingers sink into its soft flesh and letting the juice dribble down his wrists before the sections fell apart in his hands as he sank onto the red velvet covered couch.

In more fashionable parts of London they were calling it a fainting couch for the ladies in ridiculous dresses. His mind wandered to the time that he has seen Elizabeth in nothing but her under shift-with her face smudged with ash and her hair caked with salt water … he held that thought for a moment- he had never seen her more beautiful.

He shifted towards the middle of the day bed and put his feet up, letting his weight sink down on the luxurious feather and spring stuffed cushions as he tried to convince himself that he ought to banish her image, for his own sake, and because it just wasn’t gentlemanly at all. He bounced his upper back up off the couch and down again to loosen a spring that had little give. “Ouch!” A small shriek came from under the couch’s velvet ruffle, James sprang from the couch drew his sword and kicked the couch over completely like a beetle on its back to find…

“Elizabeth!” In shock he used her Christian name and saw she was shocked too and bleeding just a little from above her eye where the spring had scrapped across her forehead. He sheathed his sword and bent to both knees to help her up as he up righted the couch and bade her to sit on it.

He went to the other side of the room searching for the clean cotton and witch hazel tonic that he used for wounds, her scrape was so small but on such a beautiful face even the smallest mar...

“Um, Com..Jam…Commodore Norrington?” Elizabeth was a little breathless and her quizzical look and wide eyes reminded James that he was sharing a rather awkward moment with her. He flushed with great embarrassment as he shoved the cotton and witch hazel into her hands and her eyes traced the line of every scar, white and old or red ruddy and fresh across his shoulders, his chest and her gaze strayed downwards. Elizabeth’s eyes met his own searching appraisingly through his deep green fields; he felt as though she could have looked past every defense he could have ever hoped to offer.

James bolted to the globe and threw on his shirt and plopped his wig back on his head, backwards at first, and then his reached for his jacket. He considered that the warmth of the Caribbean was nothing compared to the burn of his embarrassment. He seemed to come to his senses all at once “What are you doing here!?” The answer did not matter but still James needed to know. He did not wait for her reply. “Your father will be worried, your reputation, your…, your … none of these things matter to you do they?” He looked at her stoic impassive features; she was still searching his face, his soul. “What does matter to you? Why are you here?” The question was different now; he wanted to know the why not just the how.

“All I want is to find Will.” She dabbed the blood above her eye.

He regarded her coolly. “So then you believe that he is on the Pearl?” Norrington buttoned his coat, he wanted to put layers between them if they couldn’t be closer. He leaned with still sticky hands on his desk feeling like she had kicked him in the chest- with her dainty pointed ladies shoe.