scourgeofpiracy | After the hurricane...

The whisperings have already started amongst the crew, as rumours fly about what could have caused this kind of destruction. Sailors are by nature a superstitious lot, and 'witchcraft' is heard as often as 'pirates' or 'Spanish' in the muttered conversations. The Royal Navy build their ships to be hard-fighting and hard-wearing -- it takes a lot to destroy one ship, and the wreckage seems to suggest that more than one ship was lost here.

The longboat cuts through the water, picking up the half-drowned and the mostly-drowned. More than one body has to be pushed aside and left for the sea to claim it, but any man with a breath left in his lungs is hauled aboard the longboat. There is room enough for only a few more before the boat will have to go back and empty its precious cargo onto the Edinburgh's decks, and as the boat turns toward Norrington the young sailor in the prow calls out to him, and extends a hand:

"Sir! Over here, sir!"

He can't ignore it any more, and looks up with dull eyes.

There's a difference between going down with his ship and actively refusing rescue when the ship is gone, though, and so, reluctantly, he starts to paddle his wreckage towards the longboat.

Several hands seize hold of him as he comes within reach, and he's pulled onto the boat. The dull look in his eyes raises no immediate concern; most of the other survivors have some variation on that same expression, stupefied by shock and only gradually coming to take an interest in their surroundings. If there is any hint of hostility in their eyes when they see Norrington come aboard...well, they have little enough energy to spare for talking.

Rough but serviceable blankets are waiting for them when they reach the Edinburgh, and so is the ship's surgeon. The captain has opened his cabin for the surgeon's use, and the handful of wounded are brought in there to be checked for broken bones or other injuries that can be treated with the ship's limited medical supplies. For the others, ship's biscuit and cheese are handed round, along with two mugs of ale that are passed from man to man.

Bellamy's initial enquiries as to the officer in charge are initially met with uneasy silence, but finally one of the men points to Norrington. And so Bellamy heads over to him, a little hesitantly if the truth be told, and sketches a little salute.

"Sam Bellamy, sir -- at your service, I'm sure," he says with a nod. "This is the Edinburgh Trader, though most just calls her the Edinburgh. We've picked up as many of your crew as we could find, though 'tis a mercy we came upon you when we did."

It takes him a moment to pull together enough to respond, through grief for his ships and his men and blank despair, but respond he does. He laughs, a little, though nothing's remotely funny.

"I'm glad you did. They didn't deserve to die."

Bellamy blinks a little, though he keeps his face neutral. The man must still be in shock, after all.

"We'll get you all to Port Royal, of course -- we're not but a week out, mayhap less with a fair wind behind us."

That, finally, gets a reaction sharper than the others, as Norrington looks up quickly.

"No! Take the men back there, but... not me. Anywhere but there. Please."

I'm a dead man if I go back there now.

This time, he can't keep the surprise from showing on his face. Momentarily at a loss, he glances over at the sullen, huddled group of still-dripping sailors, then back at their commanding office.

"If...if you're sure about that, sir," he says at last, uncertainly. "Though truth be told, the only other port of any size on the same compass heading would be...."

He can't bring himself to say it. Bellamy's trade depends on operating strictly within the confines of the law, and one doesn't just blithely mention the name of the Caribbean's most notorious port to officers of the Royal Navy -- no matter the circumstances.

Norrington glances down again, knowing exactly which port he means, and nods slowly.

"Then that will have to do. And if you would, if there's pen and paper to be had, I'll have a letter and a package to be delivered in Port Royal...?"

Bellamy nods. "Of course. We'll make sail immediately, and once my cabin is clear, sir, 'twill be at your disposal."

And almost as if on cue, the cabin door opens and the Edinburgh's surgeon steps out onto the main deck.

Bellamy nearly sighs with relief, for there's no blood in sight on the surgeon's clothing -- but his relief is short-lived, for two of the injured sailors emerge from the cabin in the surgeon's wake, carrying between them a smaller, blanket-wrapped figure that is gently laid down on the deck.

For a long moment, there's nothing he can say. And then he fumbles in his pocket, and takes out a small stoppered metal flask. Recently refilled, straight from the ship's stores.

"To take off the chill," he murmurs, holding it out to the officer.

Oh God.

He was about to thank Bellamy, but he can't speak now, can't do anything but stare at the little body. One of his younger midshipmen? A cabin boy? One of the older powder monkeys? He doesn't know without seeing the face, and it doesn't really matter. The boy wouldn't be dead now if he hadn't...

He reaches out, numbly, and takes the flask.

Men die at sea all the time. The life is hard, the risks are great, the punishments for failure are brutal. And in the end, the work cannot stop for long.

(We therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body (when the Sea shall give up her dead,) and the life of the world to come....)

So Bellamy nods once, then turns away. A moment later he is calling out orders, telling the men in the rigging to get to the halyards and hoist sail, directing the helmsman to come about on a west-southwesterly course.

Three days' sailing to reach Tortuga. Bellamy intends to make it there in two.

Of course they do.

But this boy, and all the others on the three ships, died because Norrington wanted to save his own career - and his own neck - or die trying, and he knows it.

After a while, he gets up, slowly, and goes into the cabin. The letter he writes isn't long, and is tied to his scabbard when he emerges, seemingly back to himself. His face is blank, though his eyes are still haunted.

"Captain Bellamy?"

Bellamy turns round, finally satisfied that there is enough wind in the Edinburgh's sails.

"Aye, sir?"

It occurs to him, at that moment, that he still doesn't know the officer's name.

Calmly, Norrington holds out the sword and its attached letter, with a last glance at it.

"These are to be delivered to Mr. Cutler Beckett, of the East India company, when you reach Port Royal. Or to the highest-ranking Navy officer you can find, failing that."

Bellamy stares blankly at the sword for several seconds, then looks up at the officer. What he sees in the man's face assures him that this is neither joke nor jest, nor a decision made in some fit of temporary madness.

He knows what it means, when an officer hands over his sword.

"A-aye, sir." He takes the sword and the letter, gingerly. "Is...is there anything else I might do for you, then?"

"Just see my... the men safely back to Port Royal", he says quietly. "As I know you will. The highest-ranked of the survivors is in command of their group, effective immediately." He offers a tiny, regretful smile as he continues. "And... no need to call me 'sir'. My name is James Norrington."

Bellamy nods soberly. "Very good, si...er, Mister Norrington. I'll see to it. You'll pardon my not shaking hands, I hope -- but I should get these put somewhere safe."

Juggling the sword and the letter, he turns to head for his cabin, but pauses.

"You take it easy now. I'll have a hammock slung for you if you're in need of rest. And you're of course to let me know if there's aught else can be done for you in the meantime."

Norrington looks at him in honest gratitude as he turns back.

"I will. Thank you for what you've done, Captain."

He doesn't look at the men huddled on the other side of the deck. He knows too well how they'd be looking at him.

After the hurricane...

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