|
Sunday, and a holiday atmosphere reigns on the Dauntless. Men
sleep off their Sunday duff in the shade of awnings rigged on
deck, or paddle and splash in the sail, lowered by its four
corners into blue water over the starboard side. Murtogg is
practising his flute again, and has almost managed to master three
tunes, if one does not count the breaks for explanation and
argument. From the open ports of the gundeck comes the sweeter
sound of a well played fiddle.
"Will you come in, sir?" Looking down, Norrington can
see the sleek forms of Groves and Gillette, hanging on to the
swimming pool from the outside, where they have been swimming laps
of the ship. They look disgustingly carefree, and are undoubtedly
trying to cheer him up again. Though the thought of cool water
against his skin is almost irresistibly tempting on this sultry
day, and though he appreciates the gesture, what he wants most is
to talk.
"You come out. I want a word."
He waits while they come on deck, both of them naked. Theodore is
brown as a native, unselfconsious, and wears the blazing sky like
an extension of his smile. But Andrew, freckled where the sun hits
him, pale as milk everywhere else, for all his strong words and
sarcasm is blushing as he shrugs his long shirt over his head.
Puzzled, and a little envious of Groves' self-possession as James
is, it is Andrew's surprising delicacy that warms his heart.
"In my cabin, if you would... and Mr.Groves," for Theo
has already begun to walk forward, forgetful of his natural state,
"that is not appropriate attire for calling upon the
Captain."
"Yes, perish the thought you should offend the eye as well as
the ear." Gillette has one leg through his breeches, the
other raised, and James turns his back quickly. He hears the
muffled thump as Theo pushes Andrew over; hears the curse and
scuffle that results, the thud as a swift tackle and retribution
follows, but he hasn't seen them - he doesn't have to take notice
or punish such ridiculous, childish enthusiasm. The helmsman nods
to him as he passes, trying not to smile at the shared joke, and
at Norrington's raised eyebrow he looks swiftly up to the sails,
punctilious, not at all chastened.
It's been a while since anyone smiled on this cruise, and it feels
to James like an accusation.
The galley fires are doused, but George runs in with a tray of
coffee he has conjured over a spirit stove, and a plate of the
last biscuits, their raisins slightly blooming with mildew, just
as a knock sounds at the door.
"Gentlemen, I want your advice," says James, inwardly
pleased by the fact that in the last few minutes both of his
officers have managed to acquire cravats, wigs and waistcoats,
their hats in hand. If they allow themselves some moments of
foolery they do not, at least, descend to slackness.
Waiting until they sit, he indicates the coffee pot, lets them
pour for themselves, watches the small indications of ease come
over them as they understand, each in his own time, that this is
not a reprimand. Theodore relaxes; becomes more boneless, leaning
back in his chair with every appearance of indolence. But Andrew
seems to grow taller. When he is nervous he has a habit of
becoming invisible. At ease he has a remarkable physical presence,
he fills the space that Groves vacates, and a kind of intensity,
of fire, seems to rise through him. It is a delight to watch.
"Sir?"
"I believe you said yesterday, Mr. Groves, that I had become
obsessed with catching Sparrow."
Yesterday; the inconclusive, maddeningly frustrating process of
trying to get close enough to the Pearl to engage her before she
flew beyond the sheltering horizon. His fingernails bite into his
palms at the thought. How do you outsail a ship that can make
fourteen knots with its canvas in ribbons? How can you bring her
to stand and fight when she seems to fly independent of the wind,
like a screeching gannet?
"I did, sir. I stand by that. You let him go. It was a high
minded and generous gesture and I don't understand why you are now
going back on it."
"The Commodore did not 'let him go', Groves! Have you
considered that 'a day's head start' might have meant only that we
would go after him in a day? It isn't the Commodore's business -
nor ours - to 'let pirates go', no matter how much you admire
their flair."
James holds back a smile. With these two, on certain subjects, one
only has to light the fuse and then aim the subsequent explosion.
It is easier than to hear the argument play out inside his own
mind again, as it has done these last nights, wearying yet
preventing him from sleep.
"Yes, I admire him," says Theodore, off hand, and
Norrington wonders if he knows that his calm provokes Andrew to
greater emotion, or if the needling is unconscious. "And I
feel free to do so because Sparrow is comparatively harmless. He
steals, he doesn't kill unless he can't prevent it. He rarely
takes a ship, he almost never sinks one... Is such a threat worth
chasing to the ends of the earth, to the ends of the men's
endurance?"
Gillette leans forward, plants his elbows on the table. His hands
describe a shape in midair - it is a shape of indignation, of
outrage, expressed in mute, fluid lines. "He's a pirate!"
"He's a legend." Groves brushes some of the worst mould
off and engulfs his biscuit in a single mouthful. "A paragon
of freedom and the irresponsible, easy life. He's a glittering
butterfly floating over the waves in the sun. He makes people glad
to be alive. If we ever did bring him in, it would be to universal
dismay and scorn. The common folk would feel it was a ruddy shame
- pardon my language."
"Oh, so we should be discouraged from doing our job by
the thought of becoming the official big meanies of the Caribbean?
I'm sorry to repeat myself, Theo but he's a pirate; a
criminal, a thief... and I refuse to believe not a murderer too.
Just because the tally of his victims is smaller than some others,
why should that mean he gets away with it? What kind of sign does
it give if we let him go? That you only have to be a
charming rogue to get away with crimes that would see other men
hang?" Gillette makes a noise, half snort, half sigh, and
places both hands flat on the table as if pinning down the truth.
"As long as he's a pirate, it is our duty, our sworn oath -
and our heads in the noose if we don't - to pursue, sink, burn or
take his ship and see him brought to trial. It's not personal.
It's no kind of an obsession. It's part of what we signed up for.
Like it or not we will do it, or what is our oath worth?"
James sighs too. Draining the dregs of his coffee - bitter and
grainy, a sludge of little black specks, he envies Andrew's
certainty even as he agrees with it - envies the fact that he does
not doubt himself; that for him it is not and never was
personal. But for James it has become so.
"When I gave him that head start," he explains to them
both, "I had not thought everything through. There was no
time. I did what everyone seemed to desire me to do. I made...
Theodore, I made everyone happy. And now every ship he attacks,
every passenger he robs, down to the smallest child and the last
brass farthing, I feel responsible. Those people would have been
unmolested, those crimes would have been uncommitted, if it wasn't
for my ridiculous, populist gesture. I must bring him in,
because it is my duty, and because all the time he is free I feel
like a thief. For my own peace of mind, I have to put that
right."
There is a silence in the room, though outside the wind thrums in
the rigging and the sea begins to hiss along the sides of the
ship. In the bows, someone has caught a shark on a line, and the 'oohs'
and 'aahs' - the nervous uproarious laughter - faintly battle the
breeze to come aft.
"I see," says Groves, smiling as he reaches for the last
biscuit. "Well, put like that, I'd rather have your sanity
than Sparrow's freedom. It's just a shame - he's such a colourful
character."
"Colourful like the plague," says Gillette, looking out
of the stern windows at the strangely beautiful green cast of the
sky and sea to the East. A storm is coming. "Not so amusing
when it's happening to you."
~.~
All our authors
thrive on feedback. Email
the Webmaster to have comments forwarded to the author.
Back to One-Shots Menu
|
