Chapter 4

Instead of the flash and the explosion and instant loss of consciousness that Norrington had expected, he heard a dull click. He recognised it immediately - a misfire - and leaped forward with a renewed vigour, knocking the pistol out of the man's hand. Nobby was not so easily bested, however, and they rolled on the ground, both of them trying with some desperation to reach the hilt of the long knife at his waist.

It was a messy, dirty fight, with no rules and no finesse. Norrington had his hand on the knife hilt for two seconds and tried desperately to pull it out, angling the blade into Nobby's leg as he did so. Nobby yelled and wriggled himself around until he forced Norrington's hand away, then tried himself to pull out the knife, a difficult task given that he was pinned to the floor. Just as it appeared that he would succeed - the knife was half out, and Norrington was desperately squirming to try and move his body weight to advantage - the pirate stilled.

"Hold still, or I'll cut your throat," hissed Beckett, and Norrington looked up to see that the factor was holding the point of Jemmy's knife against Nobby's chin. Norrington smiled, and lifted himself up so that he could pull out Nobby's knife without slicing his own leg open.

There was a sudden commotion at the door, and he glanced over his shoulder to see two marines hurried into the room, bayonets to the ready. They were followed by Mercer, who stopped short when he saw the three men entangled on the floor. Beckett straightened up, loosening his grip on the knife, and the pirate took advantage of the momentary distraction to make his final move. Beckett gave a gasp of surprise and pain, looking down in astonishment at the red stain spreading on his nightshirt.

Norrington cursed and grabbed the pirate's wrist. There was a small knife in the man's hand, suitable for throwing or close work. It had been hidden in a wrist sheath, he realised - a weapon of last resort, that could have been designed expressly for such a situation as this. He wrenched it out of the pirate's hand and threw it towards the fireplace.

The marines stepped in and dragged the pirate to his feet, but not before Norrington had taken the opportunity to lay him out with an elbow to the face that sent him reeling. Mercer produced a pair of handcuffs - goodness only knew where he was hiding them, or why - and they were placed around the pirate's wrists before he was taken away. The other pirate - Jemmy - could not be roused, and was dragged from the room with little care for any bumps or bruises he might accumulate on the way.

Norrington and Mercer helped to get Beckett back into his bed. Beckett was white and shaking, and Norrington feared the worst. "Fetch the doctor," he ordered, and Mercer left the room, shouting for the footman, leaving Beckett and Norrington alone. Norrington immediately grabbed the nearest pillow, removed the pillowcase and rolled it up into a pad, which he then pressed to the wound.

Beckett's hand reached out for him. "I'm dying," he said, sadly.

Norrington couldn't allow himself to agree. "No, you're not," he contradicted, trying to sound confident. "Mercer's gone for the doctor."

Beckett shook his head. "He stabbed me, the mongrel." He tried to sit up, and Norrington hurriedly moved to support him, keeping one hand over the wound.

"He'll be brought to justice, I promise you."

"That won't help me when I'm dead."

"I've seen men survive stab wounds before."

Beckett made no answer, but leaned into Norrington's chest, resting his cheek on the broad shoulder of his former captive. "Sero te amavi," (1) he whispered, his tone miserable and forlorn.

"What?" Norrington was confused. "What did you say?"

Beckett sighed. "Never mind, just kiss me."

Norrington hesitated. In the event that Beckett did survive, he didn't want to give the man any more reasons to taunt him, and he didn't think that he could kiss him without revealing his feelings.

"Kiss me," Beckett commanded, his voice a little stronger. "You did before."

Norrington looked at him, blankly. "You remember that?" he asked.

"I have a rather hazy recollection that you kissed me several times during the night. Over there, in the dressing room."

Norrington swallowed. He could have sworn that Beckett would never remember that passionate embrace.

"James," whispered Beckett, "can't you bring yourself to indulge a dying man with his last wish?"

"You're not dying," he repeated, but he turned his head anyway, and pressed his lips gently to Beckett's. It was a chaste kiss, full of tender promise and bittersweet regret. He felt the man in his arms relaxing again, and drew back. Now that the alarums and excursions were over, exhaustion and the lingering effects of laudanum were combining to make Beckett drowsy. He looked young and vulnerable and exhausted, and Norrington was surprised and dismayed by the protective feelings he had towards his erstwhile tormentor. He eased the limp form gently down to the bed and lifted his legs, arranging his limbs in a comfortable position and making sure that the improvised bandage was still over the wound. Then he settled down to wait.

Mercer returned some thirty minutes later with bad news. "The doctor's dead," he announced with grim satisfaction. "Tried to stop the pirates looting his medicines and took a bullet to the throat."

"What about the apothecary?"

Mercer gave him a sardonic look. "If your aim is to kill his lordship, then by all means find the apothecary."

Norrington sighed. Mercer was right: the apothecary was a fool with delusions of genius, who sent more people to their graves than pirates and earthquakes combined. "Then we'll have to treat him ourselves." So saying, he ripped open the front of Beckett's nightshirt, laying bare the man's chest and abdomen, and removing the wadded up linen he'd placed there. The wound was obvious - a nasty gash, about four inches long, extending over the upper abdomen. It gaped a little, but from a first, cursory examination, Norrington thought that it was a shallow wound, and he breathed again. There was hope.

"Fetch hot water, bandages, and a needle and thread," he ordered. "And I'll need a red-hot poker brought up from the kitchens at my command."

"Poker?"

"To cauterise the wound."

"Of course." He turned to go.

"Oh, and Mercer? Some brandy, if you can lay your hands on it."

"For him or for you?"

"For him, principally, but I think we could all use a drop."

Mercer grinned and left to carry out his tasks. He returned several minutes later carrying a bottle of brandy and a bowl of hot water, followed by Susan, who carried cloths, bandages, and her sewing basket. Her face was swollen from crying and Norrington enquired, gently, how she had fared during the attack. He was somewhat relieved to learn that she had not suffered any violation but had been badly scared by the commotion, and by the terror of the other servants, who had all been convinced that they would be murdered - which, thought Norrington, wasn't too far off the mark.

"Is the hot iron coming?"

"Proudfoot will bring it up when you call for it."

"Good."

Norrington took the cloths from Susan and arranged them around Beckett's torso before starting to clean the wound with the warm water. He pulled the edges back and examined it more closely: it was a clean gash, but the angle was awkward, and the wound extended under a flap of skin down into the fat and muscle of the abdomen. He examined the base of the wound closely, but it looked clean and whole. He breathed a sigh of relief. "It does not appear to extend into the abdominal cavity itself," he announced.

Mercer nodded in agreement as he, too, inspected the wound. "His lordship has the luck of the devil."

Norrington grinned. "Let's hope it holds tonight." He looked at the basket of sewing implements with some misgivings.

"Have you stitched a wound before?" asked Mercer.

"No, but I've seen it done. You?"

"I can sew up a man's skin as neat as you can sew a handkerchief."

"Aye, and well you might, but does he live?"

"Often, yes."

Norrington laughed. "Then perhaps it's best if you do the honours. I doubt he'd be pleased to find me experimenting on his body."

Mercer looked surprised and pleased. "I think you undervalue yourself, Mr Norrington. But we'll contrive to set his lordship to rights, don't you worry about that."

"As long as the wound doesn't get infected. I've seen too many men survive the injury only to die of suppuration."

"Then let's have that poker up."

"Very well. Susan, send down for the poker."

She ran off to call down the stairs, and Proudfoot came hurrying up with the poker, its tip still buried in a small brazier of glowing coals.

Mercer looked at the poker, then down at Beckett, still unconscious. "I don't doubt his lordship will wake up as that touches the wound," he murmured.

"I'll ask you to hold his arms as I cauterise the wound - he is likely to take it amiss and try to hit out."

Mercer gave a sardonic grin, but moved to the head of the bed and took a firm grip on Beckett's arms. Beckett awoke at that looked blearily up at them.

"What? What's going on? Let go of me! Why are you holding my wrists?"

"I'm about to cauterise the wound."

"What? No!"

"It has to be done."

"No! Get off me! Let me go!" Beckett struggled violently, and managed to extract one wrist from Mercer's grip.

Norrington saw the wound start to bleed again, and was worried that Beckett would do himself further injury. He signalled to Mercer to release him.

"Listen, Beckett," he said earnestly, setting down the poker and pressing a cloth to the wound, "it's a clean wound now, but it has to be cauterised, otherwise it will get infected."

"I'm not letting you stick a red-hot poker into me."

"Well, do you have any other option?"

"You could leave it alone. It'll heal up."

"It'll get infected, and then you'll start rotting from the inside out. It will be very painful and very smelly."

"I'll risk it."

"I won't let you."

"I've seen those scars. They're horrible."

"Well, there isn't any alternative."

"No?"

"No."

"What about the brandy?" It was Mercer who spoke, and both the men looked at him in astonishment. "We use it to preserve fruit and cleanse water. Why shouldn't it cleanse a wound?"

Norrington considered it. "It might work."

"It would leave a neater scar."

"Are you sure?" asked Beckett.

"Fairly sure."

"Well, then, let's get on with it."

Mercer took hold of Beckett's wrists again while Norrington placed a cloth ready to catch the run-off, then slowly opened the wound and tipped the brandy into it. There was no reaction for a second, then Beckett gasped and started writhing around.

"Arrgh! God damn you!"

Norrington waited until Beckett calmed down a little. "I know it hurts abominably, but I'm only trying to make sure that you live, remarkable as it seems. Now hold still, I'm going to do it again."

This time, Beckett was more prepared for it, and held himself rigid as Norrington poured the spirit into the wound, making sure that it covered all the raw flesh. He was panting and gasping though, and his forehead was covered in sweat.

Norrington replaced the stopper and set the bottle down on the table. He mopped up the excess fluid, tinged pink with blood, and then looked up at Mercer. "All yours, Mr Mercer."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Beckett.

"Mr Mercer is going to stitch the wound. He has done it before and I have not. I presumed that you would prefer an experienced hand to perform the surgery."

"Well, yes, I suppose," grumbled Beckett. He moved to sit up, but was prevented by Norrington's hand on his chest.

"Stay still. You don't want to make things worse."

Mercer threaded the needle from with a fine linen twist that Susan had deemed the strongest, and approached his master with remarkable confidence. "Now then, milord, just a little more unpleasantness and we'll let you rest." He nodded at Norrington to take over his role as immobiliser, and went about his task briskly, and with little regard for Beckett's muttered profanities.

It didn't take long (for which Norrington was thankful - Beckett was a lot stronger than he looked) and then they combined to clean up the last of the blood and apply a thick pad of cotton over the wound. They settled Beckett back down on the bed, and Norrington arranged the sheets around his torso, leaving the bandage free. Susan cleared up the mess their surgical adventures had created and took the bloody cloths away with her.

He persuaded Beckett to take a few more drops of laudanum in some wine, and watched as his lordship fell asleep shortly thereafter. The room was quiet and Norrington suddenly felt himself under observation. He looked up to find Mercer watching him with his usual inscrutable expression.

"He won't be an easy patient, I fear," said Mercer, pouring two small glasses of brandy and handing one to Norrington.

"No he won't, but as long as he lives, I'll be content."

"I've no doubt you will, Mr Norrington."

They drained their glasses, then Mercer opened the curtains and the shutters, letting in both sunshine and fresh air. Norrington realised with some surprise that the sun was already well above the horizon. He had thought the night would never end, but he guessed that it was around eight o'clock in the morning.

"You had better send word to the governor that Lord Beckett is injured," he told Mercer, who nodded agreement.

"I'll go myself. I'll call in at the Fort on the way, and see what news I can gather."

Norrington wanted to accompany him - not least to remonstrate against the incompetence of the sentries - but he was unsure of his position and did not care to presume on his former rank. Instead, he said, "That would be prudent. His lordship is likely to want news as soon as he wakes. I'll stay with him until you get back." He found Mercer to be looking at him intently, and made haste to add, "I can assure you that he'll take no harm from me."

"I have no doubt of that, Mr Norrington," replied Mercer, favouring him with a slight, thin-lipped smile. "I'll make sure that some breakfast is sent up, and a draught for his lordship to drink if he wakes."

"Thank you."

Mercer nodded and left the room.

Norrington pulled up a chair and sat down facing the bed, trying to ignore the ache in his gut and the pain in his knee from the blows he had suffered. His shoulder, too, was starting to throb, and he supposed that he must have wrenched it during that final, desperate struggle with the pirate.

He looked over at Beckett, whose face was drawn and pale. Norrington felt a disconcerting churning in his gut as he contemplated the possibility that his patient might yet die of his wound. The prospect dismayed him. He was no stranger to violence - who could be, when England was so often at war? - but it was rarely that he felt any guilt over the injury or death of any of his men. In this case, however, there was no denying the fact that he was directly responsible, at least in part, for his lordship's ordeal. If he hadn't given him laudanum - if he had been quicker in returning - if he'd been able to hide them better - if he hadn't been distracted by that kiss - if he'd fought more effectively ... if any of those things had been different, well, then Beckett might not have been tortured and stabbed. He felt as though no effort would be too great to ensure the full recovery of his charge, and understood, now, why Beckett had been so anxious when he had fallen ill with fever, and why he had been treated to well as he recovered.

His mind kept returning to the horror of the Rosary and the pain that Beckett had borne without a sound. Norrington had not expected such stoicism from a civilian - especially one so vain and affected as Beckett - and it had both surprised and pleased him. He felt a peculiar sort of pride in knowing that his captor and tormentor was a man of courage and fortitude. In some bizarre way, it made the memories of his own sufferings at Beckett's hand easier to bear.

His cogitations were interrupted by Susan, who brought up some breakfast for Norrington and a saline draught for his lordship, but after that they were left undisturbed for the rest of the morning. He tried to sleep, but was hampered by the poor design of the armchair he had chosen, and the lingering pains from his own wounds. He cast a longing glance at Beckett's feather bed, but decided it would be inappropriate to lie there.

Beckett roused at mid-day, groaning a little as he tried to move. In spite of his fatigue, Norrington woke at once - the habit of years allowing him to rouse from a deep sleep to a state of alertness in an instant - and moved to the bedside.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Beckett looked at him with an aggrieved air. "I've been drugged, attacked, tortured and stabbed, then had to suffer through my wound being doused with brandy and stitched. Under the circumstances I think I'm entitled to feel distinctly under the weather."

Norrington grinned. If Beckett was capable of marking a sarcastic rejoinder, he couldn't be too ill, and he had certainly recovered his wits. "As far as I can be a judge of these matters, the wound is not mortal. You should have been bled, but the doctor is dead and Mercer does not recommend the apothecary. Still, you may yet avoid a fever by lying still and allowing the wound to heal."

Beckett pouted. "If I'm going to be confined to bed, you'd better get me a bottle of sack and a pack of cards."

Norrington shook his head. "No excitement, and no wine."

"Oh, pshaw, man, you don't expect me to drink water, do you?"

"No, but there is an excellent saline draught that Mercer has ordered for you. He says that it has pulled him through many a fever." He poured half a glass of it as he spoke, handing it to Beckett, who looked at it suspiciously.

"Does it taste horrid?"

"No more than these things usually do. Better than ship's water after a month, anyway."

Beckett pouted. "Can't I at least have some sherry?"

"No wine, except to carry the laudanum."

Beckett sighed, and took a mouthful of the draught. He pulled a face and handed the glass back to Norrington, who set it down on the tray. Perhaps he could persuade his patient to take a little more later in the morning.

Beckett shifted, uncomfortably. "This hurts, you know."

"I know." Norrington said, sympathetically. "It will heal, though. I'm sure of it."

"It's going to leave a horrible scar."

"No one will see it."

Beckett was silent for a minute, his eyes fixed on the counterpane, then spoke in a very quiet voice. "I'll see it. Anyone I take to my bed will see it, unless I keep my shirt on."

Norrington was about to chide him for the ridiculously petty nature of the comment, but realised in time that to Beckett, it meant a great deal. Apart from the small pock-mark in the middle of his forehead, visible to all, he couldn't remember Beckett having any scars on his body. It was a truly remarkable accomplishment. Norrington himself had numerous scars from a variety of causes - the smallpox, the accidents he'd had as a boy, and wounds he'd suffered as an adult. He'd never thought of himself as handsome in face or form, and had never bothered his head about how his body might look to a lover, so these mementos of his life had never troubled him. Beckett, though, was different - he was exceptionally fair and exceptionally vain, and Norrington could imagine that to him, the thought of a prominent scar, in a place where he would see it every day, and where a lover would undoubtedly encounter it, was very distressing.

Bearing all this in mind, he tried to reassure the man. "Don't worry yourself. Anyone who cares for you will disregard such a small matter, and anyone who considers it a disfiguration is not worthy of your time."

Beckett smiled wanly. "You're probably right." He tried to heave a sigh, but the movement agitated his wound, and he winced. "Damnation take those villains! I'm going to enjoy watching them hang."

"As will we all. And the town will enjoy the holiday - there hasn't been a hanging here for months."

"No, the town has been very quiet and law-abiding since I arrived - with one or two notable exceptions." After smiling at his own wry jest, Beckett became pensive, and picked at a loose thread. "It hurt, you know, that Rosary. I thought I was going to die."

"I thought we both were."

"I remember thinking - as the pain was getting worse - that all I had to do was give them the key and the pain would stop. I nearly gave in."

Norrington was astonished to hear Beckett's words - to him, the man had appeared courage personified. "But you didn't," he said, very reasonably. "You kept silent and betrayed nothing. And you know they would have killed you anyway, whether you gave in or not."

"I was afraid," Beckett admitted, in a whisper.

"Being afraid is not important - everyone is afraid in battle. The importance lies in doing what has to be done in spite of the fear. You did your duty and the pirates were defeated."

Beckett nodded, seemingly reassured, but Norrington kept a close eye on him. Beckett was not a soldier or a seaman, inured to physical dangers and the sight and smell of blood. He had suffered more than just a physical wound, and the consequences would take some time to repair.

* * *

Sometime around three in the afternoon, Norrington heard the carriage pull up, but given Beckett's condition he expected Mercer to turn away any visitors. He was surprised, therefore, to see Mercer come in to see if Beckett was willing to receive Governor Swann.

"Of course I'll see him," said Beckett.

"Is that wise?" asked Norrington. "You should be resting."

"Oh, he'll be no trouble. Here, help me up. Mercer, bring some wine."

Mercer bowed and left, while Norrington voiced his astonishment. "You're not getting out of bed?"

"Of course I am. I'm not on my deathbed, you know."

"You will be if that wound opens up."

Beckett grinned. "I'm sure that you and Mercer will do your best to see that doesn't happen. Now, come one, give me a hand."

Reluctantly, Norrington helped him to sit up, at which point he nearly swooned, and realised that his weakened condition indeed made him too giddy to stand. He grudgingly accepted Norrington's suggestion that he remain in bed, after all, supported by pillows.

"I'll go back to my chamber, then," said Norrington, straightening the counterpane over Beckett's thighs.

"Stay here."

"I'm not supposed to be here, remember? If Governor Swann sees me, it'll be all over the town by sunset."

"I think we can trust in his discretion."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," muttered Norrington under his breath. He heard footsteps outside, and moved away to stand by the table.

Governor Swann was shown in. He made an elegant leg and looked up, a momentary hesitation betraying his surprise at meeting two pairs of eyes where he expected one.

"Lord Beckett," he said, with a flourish of his hat, "I hope that you are recovering from this dastardly piratical attack? I was distressed to hear that not only had you been wounded but that the doctor had been murdered by the cowardly knaves."

"I believe I shall recover," said Beckett, somewhat complacently. "It was not a severe wound, after all, and Mr Norrington and Mercer between them did a doctor's duty."

"Is that so?" Swann looked keenly at Norrington. "I did not know that you had returned to Port Royal, Co-, ah, Mr Norrington."

Mr Norrington bowed slightly. "I returned some time ago but have been living in seclusion. My position was ... somewhat anomalous, as I am sure you can understand."

"Of course," murmured the governor, though he sounded more confused than sure.

"Will you take a glass of wine, Governor?" asked Beckett. "My self-appointed physicians won't let me take any myself, but there is no reason for you to go thirsty."

"Thank you, a glass of sherry would be most welcome."

Norrington poured out a glass for the governor, and handed it to him. The governor gave an approving nod as he sipped - it was, after all the finest that the Company could provide. "I must commend your household, Lord Beckett. I understand that it was Mercer who raised the alarm."

"In fact it was Mr Norrington was one of the first to spot the pirates approaching the town," stated Beckett, proudly. "It was he who was instrumental in raising the alarm and ensuring that the marines were alerted."

Norrington demurred. "It was no more than anyone would have done. Mercer was scarcely a minute behind me, anyway, and it was he who roused the fort."

"Don't be too modest, Mr Norrington. Every drama needs a hero, after all."

Norrington muttered a curse under his breath and swore to get even with Beckett later. This was no time to be baiting him!

"Do you have any idea of the identity of these pirates?" asked the governor. "I understand that some of them were captured alive." His voice trailed off slightly at the end, as if he were afraid to go on.

Beckett remained silent, but Norrington took pity on the old man's fears. "Be at ease, governor. Neither your daughter nor Mr Turner was among them. They were all strangers, and appear to have no connection to the Black Pearl."

"Oh, thank goodness," he cried, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his brow. "I was so anxious ... pirates, you see ..."

Norrington stepped forward and assisted him to a chair. "When last I saw Elizabeth - Miss Swann, that is - she was alive and well, on an island many miles from here, in the company of Mr Turner and Captain Sparrow. The two of them were most concerned with her continued welfare."

"Oh, good news, indeed!" he cried, sitting down. "Thank you, Mr Norrington, for relieving a father's natural anxiety. I fear that I have not slept well since she left so many weeks ago. My mind had become quite disordered with grief and worry."

"Believe me, sir, I can assure you that she is being looked after with every care and consideration."

"Thank you, thank you," he repeated.

Norrington bowed again and returned to his own chair by the table.

Beckett looked longingly at the sherry, then forced his attention back to his visitor. "How does the town fare? I understand that several people were killed."

"Yes, it is very shocking. The doctor, of course, but also old Mr Sunderland, the chandler, who tried to protect his wares." He shook his head. "It is very strange that they should be after such mundane items as candles and rope."

"Actually, it is not at all uncommon for pirates to take the simple necessities of life as well as any coin or valuables. They will as willingly strip a merchant ship of her provisions as of her treasure."

"Indeed, they ransacked several of the shops on Thames St." He sighed, and hesitated before revealing the next item. "It is most unfortunate that although the pirates abandoned most of their plunder on the wharf when they were thrown back by the marines, some of the townspeople finished what the pirates had started and carried the goods off for their own ends."

"Hah!" Beckett crowed with delight at this further evidence of the townspeople's shortcomings.

"The shopkeepers were most upset," continued Governor Swann, "and some of them berated the marines for not protecting their wares."

"I trust that you set them to rights, governor? They are responsible for the security of their own wares, you know. Now, had the goods been in a company factory, it would have been a different matter - the militia would have kept them safe."

"Well ..." the governor hesitated, "it is hardly surprising that the poor and indigent were not able to put temptation behind then when faced with a positive cornucopia of food and other necessities for the taking. Their lives can be very hard, you know."

"All the more reason to heed the scriptures, then," said Beckett, piously. Norrington coughed a warning - Beckett was going a little too far.

The governor looked somewhat distressed. He tried to change the subject, saying, "I must compliment you on your bravery and skill in throwing off the pirates who attacked you."

"Oh, I did nothing. Norrington raised the alarm and Mercer fetched the marines. It is they who should be thanked."

Norrington, seeing an opportunity to transfer some of the embarrassment to Beckett, hastened to intervene. "Lord Beckett is too modest," he told the governor, in a confiding tone. "One of the pirates applied an instrument of torture to his head and would have put out his eyes, but his lordship bore it with all the dignity and strength that one would expect of an English gentleman."

"Until Mr Norrington seized the sword that was being held at his own throat and came to my rescue."

"At which point," Norrington pointed out, drily, "my life would have come to a swift and sorry end had not the pirate's pistol misfired and Lord Beckett not come to my rescue, suffering a severe wound in the process."

"It was a glancing blow, no more. And then, by good fortune, we were both rescued by Mercer and the marines, who overcame the last, ferocious struggles of the pirate and carried him off to the fort. They are your true heroes, if you will."

"Indeed, once roused, their response was most timely."

"And even after that, Mr Norrington showed true fortitude in playing the doctor's part and dressing the wound."

"In spite of which, his lordship is still troubled with fever, and should be resting."

The governor, who was starting to look confused at the rapid interplay, mopped his brow again, saying "Dreadful, most dreadful."

Beckett looked as though he was starting to tire, and Norrington decided that in the interests of his patient he should bring the interview to a close. "Thank you for calling, Governor," he said, stepping forward. "I imagine that there are many demands on your time today. Lord Beckett is grateful that you were able to spare a few moments to ask after him."

"Yes, indeed," said the governor, sighing heavily as he rose. "So much to do, so much to repair. I do hope that you will make a speedy recovery, Cutler."

"I'm sure I shall, with Mr Norrington and Mercer to look after me. They have already proved themselves quite capable surgeons."

Norrington escorted the governor from the room, and reassured him once more of his daughter's well-being. He made no mention, however, of the parlous state of affairs that he had left behind. He had every confidence that the misbegotten trio would have extracted themselves from the jaws of death, as usual, and would have made their way back to the Black Pearl. It was only a matter of time before they all turned up in the harbour.

* * *

As expected, Beckett became feverish that night. Mercer and Norrington were in agreement that he should be bled, but neither of them had any desire to turn phlebotomist, and with the doctor dead and the apothecary more likely to kill than to cure, there was no one available. Instead, Norrington ordered Susan to bring up a bowl of water and some cloths, and he gently sponged Beckett's face and torso, letting the evening breeze cool his patient.

Beckett slept only fitfully, waking frequently and taking sips of Mercer's saline draught. It was a little after midnight that he roused himself sufficiently to notice that Norrington was still sitting in the chair where he'd been all day.

"Are you still here?" he asked.

"Still here," replied Norrington, laconically, his eyes half-closed, feet up on the edge of the bed, hands linked over his waist. He had barely moved in the last twelve hours.

"You surprise me. A sensible man would have run while the town was in chaos."

"I know. But, as you pointed out to me, I lost my senses some time ago."

"This isn't going to change anything, you know. I still own you."

Norrington shrugged. He didn't really care at the moment, as long as Beckett didn't die as a result of the wound, for which he still felt responsible. He had promised himself that he would stay until Beckett recovered. After that, well, then they'd see.

There was a long pause, then Beckett murmured, "I bet you made a terrible pirate."

Norrington opened one eye and looked quizzically at the man in the bed. "And why should you think that?"

"Duty."

"Duty?"

"Yes. The curse of those who hold office."

There was another long pause, and Norrington thought Beckett had fallen asleep again, but eventually he said, "A pirate thinks only of himself and the treasure he's about to loot. Perhaps he might spare a thought for a shipmate, but he puts himself first and foremost. You didn't. You should have run, you should have escaped while you had the chance, but you didn't."

"I couldn't let the town be overrun. There was nothing personal in it at all."

"So why did you come back here first and tell Mercer to raise the marines? Why not go directly to the fort, or to Governor Swann?"

Norrington shifted uncomfortably. He really didn't want to answer that line of questioning.

Beckett continued. "You risked your life to save me. That's not the action of a pirate."

Norrington felt a sudden flash of anger. "How can you be so sure? Have you ever served as a pirate? How many pirates do you know?"

Beckett smiled. "I've never been a pirate, no. But I have met several, in the course of my work for the Company. Dreadful rogues, all of them: not a single one would hesitate to betray his shipmates for the chance of a pardon or some gold. There's no honour among thieves, you know. None at all."

Norrington nodded, slowly. He'd seen that with his own eyes: even Sparrow had tricked Will Turner, a man who had saved his life, into serving with Davy Jones. He smiled to himself, remembering the scene on the beach at Isla Cruces - Elizabeth had been furious when she realised Sparrow's treachery, but at least she had seen the man's true colours at last. And if Turner succumbs to the fate that is undoubtedly in store for him, I'll have a chance to regain her affections. But would she accept a disgraced ex-naval officer? And, if he were to be truthful, did he really want her back?

"I could never value money above honour," he stated firmly, putting other thoughts aside, "no matter how desperate my circumstances."

Beckett waved a hand in languid agreement. "My point exactly. One can take it too far, though. Honour without money is just a disease." (2)

Norrington could not agree. "Money without honour is a crime."

"Do you see me as a criminal?"

"Do you see me as a leper?"

"Hmm. Perhaps we must agree to disagree, then."

"Indeed we must."

Beckett fell silent, though he remained restless until persuaded by Norrington to take a little of the laudanum, after which he fell asleep. Norrington lay awake for some time after that, but was sent off to his own bed at dawn by Susan, who promised to wake him should his lordship need assistance.

Footnotes:

(1) "Too late, I loved thee." St Augustine: Confessions. Back

(2) Jean Racine: Les Plaideurs (1668). Back

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