Chapter Seven: Norrington on the Hunt

With most of her inner mechanisms fled ashore, Hornet was left a quiet, cold, uninhabited soul, her only sound that of the waves on her prow and the breeze whistling in her rigging. She rocked slowly on the meager waves of the harbor in silent observation of the ships around her and the few tiny beings still treading her decks.

One such being poised on the quarterdeck, taking stock of the weather through his spy glass. Lieutenant Hayward eyed the gathering of darker clouds to the south. For a moment he lowered the glass and craned his head around to regard the limp flutterings of the union jack. Mouth hanging slightly open, he shifted a little on his good leg and raised the glass again. The darkest of the weather would stay off shore, he concluded, leaving only a soaking drizzle as a souvenir for Port Royal. It would waylay restocking efforts until morning perhaps, unfortunate if Captain Norrington were in a hurry to ship out. Giving a light sniff, Hayward moved to collapse the glass and tuck it back into his coat. “I may be a cripple but I’m not deaf,” he said suddenly, pausing to rub out a smudge on the glass.

“Well, call me a Frog and serve me champagne!”

Hayward looked over his shoulder to find Squire halted halfway up the stairs. The older man hooed and came up the rest of the way. “I even stepped lighter than usual. I asked myself, ‘what would our first lieutenant do if I came up behind him without him knowing it?’”

“And now you know?” Hayward replied, a mildly amused expression toying with the grim corners of his mouth. Squire didn’t answer until he came to a stop at Hayward’s side at the ship’s rail.

“I do. You would make a captain difficult to take by surprise I think, if ye don’t mind me speaking so, sir.” He gestured with a look at the first lieutenant’s peg leg. “A shame that’s holding you back, though.” The amusement disappeared from Hayward’s expression.

“…Indeed.” Squire’s eyes were brought back up to Hayward’s and he floundered a moment.

“Forgive me…sir. Slip of the tongue. I meant nothing by it. Merely thinking aloud.”

“I think not, Lieutenant, but I am willing to overlook it enough to not mention it to the captain.”

Whatever camaraderie could have existed had been thoroughly eradicated. Squire looked out across the water, frowning. “Had you a purpose to join me other than to test my senses?” Hayward asked coolly as he followed suit, deciding at the last moment to use ‘senses’ instead of ‘patience.’

Squire was silent a moment, letting his chin sink onto his chest before speaking. “I have done some reflecting, sir. On our mission. I have an inclination to believe that it may have been privateers who accosted Landon and the Mockingbird, if not a storm. And I mean real commissioned privateers, not pirates.” Hayward’s brow furrowed.

“Piravteers?” he queried, looking at Squire. He had to look up slightly; the second lieutenant was several inches taller. “Why privateers?”

“I came to it by process of elimination.” Squire began ticking off on his fingers as he spoke. “Pirates, with the exception of the ship that threatened us earlier, are generally smart enough to not go up against a navy ship. They prey on merchants, not men-o-war. Mockingbird wasn’t really that scale, of course, but she was armed well enough to beat off a scruffy ‘ol pirate if it happened to take a swing at her. Captain Hamyldoan spoke of Captain Landon once before and from that I knew he wasn’t capable of mutiny. Bit of a milksop, actually, according to Hamyldoan.” He paused to glance at Hayward. Once he registered the politely interested expression, he took a breath and continued. “Now, privateers’ jobs are to harass ships of other nations, navy included from what I hear. And it wouldn’t have been an English privateer; no conceivable motivation in my opinion. Spain, however…” The lieutenants’ eyes met momentarily in a flash of understanding. “They’ve got plenty of reason to take an English ship of war out of the picture. And if Landon was really carrying something as important as to make the Admiralty send someone to recover it, then there’s a reason to not only sink the ship and have us one vessel less powerful but to have political backlash as well!” When Squire finished, his face was somewhat flushed and excited.

Hayward was moderately and not unpleasantly surprised. The second lieutenant he had thought possessed no more thought process than what could extend past his nose actually was able to produce a sound theory. Hayward ruminated a moment and gradually, he nodded. He clasped his hands behind his back. “It seems to me you’re on to something promising, Mr. Squire.”

The drizzle evolved into actual droplets by the time Norrington got away from Walker’s Lines and Storehouse. Jeremiah Friggs had come to own the busy little storehouse when Matthew Walker died, and decided to keep the original title. It was a storehouse quite familiar with Norrington and vice versa. Friggs was actually happy to see him, baffled at the sudden meeting but otherwise pleased. After an exhaustive search through the records of the past several months, they found Landon had indeed placed an order for restocking. When asked about Landon personally, Friggs recalled that the captain seemed to be very nervous and overly talkative. He mentioned Fort-de-France more than once and spilled Friggs’ tub of ink when he signed for the stocks. Norrington had to smother a frown at that. So far in the investigation, Landon was not proving to be a very smooth operator in the fields of discretion. With the small lead of Fort-de-France, Norrington deemed the search victorious and set up his own order to restock Hornet.

Thanking Mr. Friggs and saying he would send his men over in the morning to pick up the supplies Norrington tipped his hat and stepped out into the rain. He jogged down the cobblestone streets to the port, hand shielding his eyes against the wet in spite of his hat. A few Company men eyed him when he passed by a local tavern but did not apprehend him. To everyone else, he was just an unfortunate man caught out in the rain without a slicker.

He reached the docks out of breath, spying a huddled figure in his long boat, Duncan the seaman. The sailor looked up at the sound of someone running on the dock and, recognizing the captain, set about untying the mooring lines. Norrington hopped into the boat just as Duncan drew in the last line, gasping. For a moment, he watched the rain roll off Duncan’s shoulders. The man had waited the entire time for him to come back. And by now, all his shipmates were holed up somewhere in a tavern, warm and dry. “Wait a moment, Mr. Duncan,” Norrington said grabbing the dock before the sailor could push off. Duncan looked at him curiously. “I’ll take the boat back myself. You have shore leave. Step to!” The sailor mumbled an awkward sort of thanks and clambered out. He paused only to watch Norrington shove off with a foot and simultaneously grab the oars to maneuver the prow towards the rain-shrouded figure of Hornet out on the water.

Norrington was thankful that the water was relatively calm; the row back to the ship was less taxing than he thought it would be. Rowing itself had a calming effect on him as well. The endless rhythm was easy to lose himself in and he hadn’t noticed how close he was on Hornet until a hail caught his attention. “Captain Norrington, Hornet,” he shouted back and a boat hook clattered welcomingly when he reached the side of the ship.

Sykes was at his side the instant he stepped on deck, oilskin in hand. Norrington waved him away irritably. “I’m already wet, there’s no need for that.” The man would not be refused. He produced an umbrella from under his own slicker and held it over Norrington’s head, nearly blocking the captain’s view as Sykes was a bit shorter than he. Hayward and Squire, water dripping off their hats onto their oilskins, met Norrington halfway across the deck, speaking loudly over the rain. “Was your search fruitful, sir?” Hayward queried, ducking a little to see Norrington under the umbrella.

“More so than I expected,” he replied. “From…” He stopped to turn and wrench the umbrella from Sykes hands and hold it up himself. “From what I’ve gathered, Landon stopped here once only to restock and then headed on to Fort de France in Martinique. I’ve spoken with Mr. Friggs of Walker’s and we have a shipment of supplies due to move in the morning. You told the men to be back by sundown as I instructed?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Very good.” Norrington pulled his watch from a wet pocket. It was late afternoon. Without the clouds, the sun would be seen on its descent at that moment. “Take count once they start returning. If they’re not all back by morning, compile a list of those names to turn in to Commodore Gruthers, port authority, so they can be apprehended.”

“Aye, sir.”

“I’ll be returning to my cabin then if there’s nothing from you to report?”

Hayward opened his mouth to speak but paused and looked over his shoulder at Squire. The second lieutenant registered a small amount of surprise but recovered.

“Actually, sir, I have …something of an important manner to speak to you about.” Squire’s eyes darted once to the man servant hovering angrily over Norrington’s shoulder. Beside Squire, Hayward reinforced the point with silence. Norrington looked from lieutenant to the other.

“Very well. Please, allow me to change out of these clothes and I’ll see you accordingly. Mr. Sykes, make yourself useful.” Sykes did not have to be told twice. He scrambled across the deck to Norrington’s cabin and disappeared inside. Norrington let the door close before he spoke. “I take it this manner has something to do with our reason for being.”

“It does. Lieutenant Squire has developed a very likely theory about the disappearance of the Mockingbird,” Hayward said. “In lieu of a storm, of course.” Squire drew himself up a little smugly.

“Of course,” Norrington repeated. “If you will excuse me a moment, gentlemen.” The two lieutenants saluted, Norrington returned it and moved off towards his cabin. There, he was set upon by Sykes and, finally having lost his patience with the job-minded individual, actually allowed the man to assist him in the matter of dress. Sykes departed the cabin coolly triumphant; persistence is usually the best policy, he felt. Norrington stuck his head out after Sykes and beckoned the two lieutenants in. “Speak freely, Mr. Squire,” he said as he sat down behind his desk, significantly drier in a new uniform. Squire sat in one of the small chairs in front of the desk but Hayward remained standing, water dripping off his oilskins onto the floor. The second lieutenant proceeded to give Norrington the same explanation he had given Hayward.

Norrington rested one elbow on the desk as he listened, falling forward a little when the furniture proved to be a few inches too short. Neither lieutenant seemed to notice, fortunately. “Spanish privateers, you say,” he said when Squire finished. The man nodded. He tapped a finger thoughtfully on the desktop, staring down at glob of yellow candle wax adhered to the wood near his hand. “Hm. An astute observation, yes, but let us not jump to conclusions just yet. We’ll see where this Fort de France lead takes us before delving into theories. I don’t wish to spark an international incident. Let’s keep this to ourselves, shall we.”

“Aye, aye, sir,”

Little by little, the men of the Hornet made their way back on board, some staggering under the effects of heavy drinking but generally in better spirits than they had been. Lieutenant Hayward was there to meet them when the first showed up, roster in hand and an umbrella held by Midshipman Kimberly over his head. Allowing Norrington to keep his own morale up, the fifty or so crewmembers proved to be loyal and the last man checked in about fifteen minutes past sundown.

By morning, Norrington still had reason to be thankful – only a third of them seemed to have hangovers from the day before. But, either way, there was no rest for the weary. As soon as the sun poked its merry yellow face through a veil of thinning grey clouds, the sleeping ship was roused into activity. Midshipman Regens was sent to Walker’s and by seven o’clock, a water hoy and a boat laden with kegs, barrels, and crates were coming across the port to fill Hornet’s stores. Norrington supervised from the quarterdeck, drinking from a cup of black coffee and only occasionally having to remedy foul-ups with a well-placed bark. Throughout the entire affair though, he had the most curious feeling that he had forgotten something. The something hit them about six hours out of Port Royal. Rather, it hit Midshipman Kimberly. Literally.

With Jamaica behind them, Hait about fifty miles to the northeast, and Martinique across the wide, open waters before them, there was a collective belief that they were finally getting somewhere. Norrington and Hayward were in the midst of listening to Squire and Hotham recount one of their escapades with Hamyldoan when Kimberly came calmly up to the quarterdeck. He gave a salute, returned by the officers, and was about to speak when Hayward beat him to it. “Mr. Kimberly, you look as if you’ve been struck with something,” he declared with a small amount of surprise. The other officers looked more closely at the midshipman to find a purple half moon darkening under his left eye. Kimberly glanced at Norrington.

“By all means, sir, do explain,” the captain said, as baffled as Hayward was. Kimberly was not a fighter and to find a bruise on his person was like finding fore-and-aft sails on a full rigger; it just did not happen. Kimberly, appearing as severely taxed as a man with his lack of expression could, shifted under his coat slightly. The young man must have been keeping an eye on Hayward, who did just the same thing when under stress.

“Sir, I’ll not mince words. I was sent to the aft store room for some rope by the carpenter’s mate when I was accosted by someone on the way. We struggled for a moment before I was able to overpower them. It was the young woman whom we found to be a stowaway. She discovered a way out of the brig I assume. I did manage to get her back into a cell and put her in irons. I wasn’t sure what to do next so I came to find you.”

“Well done, Kimberly,” Norrington said after allowing a beat to pass. “We’ll see to the problem accordingly. You may return to your duties.” The midshipman, satisfied and blessedly fooled, turned and left the quarterdeck. For a long moment, silence reigned between the four officers. Norrington resisted the urge to pummel his forehead with his hand; he had forgotten all about the girl. Apparently they all had, he gathered, from the short, somewhat guilty glances passing between his lieutenants. “The girl goes off in Fort-de-France,” he said with an air of finality, opening and closing the discussion in one sentence. Hayward moved to say something when a hail arced down from the crow’s nest.

“Ship off port bow! There’s smoke comin’ from ‘er!”

Norrington made an annoyed sound as he patted his coat to find his glass. “If it’s not one bloody thing, it’s another,” he muttered, finally locating the compacted cylinder and retrieving it. Through the glass, he could only see a trail of black smoke drifting over the horizon and only the chance peak of white sail sticking over top of the water. “Mr. Shields, can you see her sails or colors?” he called, lowering the glass to cup one hand around his mouth. The man in the nest took a moment and called back down.

“Lateen, sir, two masts! Union jack n’ ess-oh-ess on ‘er aft!”

“Merchant from the sounds of it,” Hotham grunted, squinting at the squiggle of smoke. Norrington shut his glass with a snap and tucked it away.

“Alter course, Mr. MacGregor,” he said over his shoulder to the sailor at the wheel. MacGregor read Norrington’s mind and spun the wheel with an affirmative hand-over-hand movement. “Suit those shrouds to the wind with all due speed!” Norrington said to the crew awaiting orders.

“Are we not on a time schedule?” Squire queried from behind him.

“We are aiming for haste, yes, but we are not in so much of a hurry that we ignore one of our own.”

Hornet’s prow angled to the left and there was a breathless minute of slack before the sails fitted back into the wind and drove them over the water. Norrington marked their progress as they came up on the merchant, yelling for signals to go up when he could see the smoking ship plainly in his glass. The merchant’s flag dipping in acquiescence had Hayward shouting for the deck hose to be hooked up. By now, most of the men had gathered up on deck, anticipating an order for them to assist.

Around four o’clock, the merchant had anchored and Hornet was sidling up next to her. Thankful crewmembers had crowded the deck of the merchant and were whooping and yelling at the sight of the navy ship. The fire had broken out on the gun deck, where a forgotten fuse had been left burning in a coil of rope. The whole crew it seemed was turned out on deck. “Sir, we’ll have to evacuate their ship. A deck hose won’t be enough,” Hayward said, taking in the large orange flame trickling out of the gun ports. Norrington swore under his breath but Hayward was right. The fire was spreading rapidly and any hope that the ship could be saved was burning away with it. The danger to Hornet was becoming more prevalent as well – they would not be able to stay so close to the other ship without getting some sort of spark or stray ash caught somewhere before long. Even worse, the fire would reach the powder magazine in due time and if they weren’t away by then, they’d all be doomed. Norrington took a deep breath to shout from the quarterdeck. “You men!” He pointed at the merchant crew gathered at the rail. “Where is your captain?” Within seconds, a man was shuffled to the front. He waved an arm to identify himself.

“Frederick Shafer, here, sir, of the Monty out of Kingston!” a light voice called out.

“Captain Shafer, I’m afraid we’ll not be able of much use to you in saving your ship. The flame is too far along. With your help and permission, we can move your crew to our ship and convey you to the nearest port.” Shafer, a lean stick figure swept in with the bronze bodies of his crew, cast a look at his ship’s smoke blackened sails. Even across the twenty or so foot gap, Norrington could see the man’s reluctance.

“Thank you very much, Captain. We’ll be eternally in your debt!”

“MacGregor, bring her to bear so we can get close enough to put a gangplank across but not so close that we catch her aflame,” Norrington said over his shoulder, glad Shafer had not wanted to go down with his ship. The clanking of the wheel several degrees was his reply and Hornet tripped daintily close to the bulkier merchant. Four of Hornet’s sailors skittered forward with a gangplank and laid it across the shifting gap between the two ships. With the officers of both ships directing, a steady line of men filtered easily across the heaving gangplank in only the way men of the sea can. In all, about sixty crewmembers made their way onboard and stood gazing around at the stark, disciplined appearance of the navy ship. The Hornets had gathered out of the way, grouping on the forecastle or in the rigging to make room for the Monties. “Move off, MacGregor,” Norrington rasped, following the flames with his eye as they began crawling up the mizzenmast. Hornet sheared away from the Monty’s side and danced away.

Norrington, hands clasped in the small of his back, made his way down from the quarterdeck. With the merchant crew, there were nearly twice as many men onboard and they would need a place to sleep before Hornet could reach land again. Perhaps doubling up on the gun deck would give them a place. Norrington’s own crew would be pressed but it would only be about a week until they reached Martinique. But he did not want to have this other crew dangling from him if they encountered any mission-relevant situations. The last thing he needed was to have a nosy civilian pushing his way into delicate international affairs. Perhaps Junehill in Haiti. That did not lie a day away from their current position by the logs.

Pushing the math into the back of his mind, Norrington wove his way through the crowd to find Shafer. As he went, more than one merchant sailor stopped to thank him or shake his hand or demonstrate some sort of gratefulness. Norrington nodded in acknowledgement to them but did not engage. Once or twice, he looked through the men at the smoking, shrinking Monty. Finally, he found the other captain in the far corner of the waist before the forecastle. He too was peering out across the water at his lost vessel. “Captain Shafer.” A man with soot smears on his face turned to him. He was an average sized man, lean but appearing healthy, only the soot on his face and the tired lines under his eyes showing the strain he’d been under. His dress was of middle quality, neither poor nor wealthy. A few stray strands of mouse brown hair had come loose from its stiff Hessian tail. Upon seeing Norrington, Shafer grinned. “I am forever in your debt for taking the time to help us, Captain. Truly,” he said, voice sounding overwrought but glad, accent crisply British.

“There is always time to spare for a fellow sailor, Captain,” Norrington replied, able to produce a thin smile himself. The expression had become a hard thing for him to do anymore. “Have you and your crew been able to take supper yet?”

“No, sir. The fire’s been keeping us out of the galley.” Norrington nodded and cast around for a familiar face.

“Mr. Brooks!” he called, picking out the ruddy visage of the galley cook amongst the Hornets. “Pick three men and have them help you stoke up some vittles for the Monty’s crew.” Brooks replied and affirmative and he and three others departed for belowdecks. “Crew of the Monty, your attention, please!”

The sooty men around him turned to listen, vaguely surprised that a different captain other than Shafer was addressing them. “My men will be some moments in preparing a late lunch for you. Do go below to wait for it so my men and I can have the upper deck clear to switch tacks.”

“You heard the man! Step to!” Shafer ordered and the men, murmuring amongst themselves, slowly began trickling down towards the galley. Norrington allowed the crowd to disperse and extended a hand to Shafer.

“James Norrington, HMS Hornet.”

“The Captain Norrington!” Shafer exclaimed, taking Norrington’s hand and pumping it firmly. Norrington had to keep from wincing. How had he let himself get this well known? “Certainly a pleasure, sir. These waters just haven’t been the same since you left.” He released Norrington’s hand to gesture helplessly to his flaming, capsizing vessel. “Compliments of the pirates, that. Happened yesterday. We didn’t find the flame until it was under our noses. They’ve come out of their hiding places since word spread of your resignation.” Norrington could practically see the man’s thoughts play out on his blackened face. His expression went from grateful to puzzled as he put Norrington’s presence and what he had just said together.

Thankfully, the fire reached the Monty’s magazine and saved Norrington from answering. A muffled whump skittered over the water and was followed by the ripple of the explosion. More than a few men jumped or ducked. The hull disappeared in a ball of flame, the masts and sails crumpling in the blast. At two chainlengths, they could feel the heat of the blast rolling through the air. Norrington, squinting from the explosion and the heat, watched Shafer as the merchant captain followed forlornly the descent of high-flung debris back down to slap on the waves. Norrington looked back up at the wreckage, now barely recognizable and fast-capsizing. He was compelled to pat the man on the shoulder but halted himself in time.

“My deepest sympathies,” Norrington said a trifle awkwardly. Shafer just kept looking at the wreckage, mournful. The navy captain cleared his throat and stood up on the balls of his feet for a moment. “So the pirates of these parts have gotten bolder?” he asked suddenly. Shafer heaved a worn sigh, finally turning back to face Norrington.

“I’m afraid so. There’s more merchants I hear been set upon by them than I’ve heard before. They’ve even been tangling with the East India Company. It’s as if they’re at war.” Norrington’s brow furrowed.

“Has the Company been more frequent here as well?”

The other man’s expression soured. “Ah, yes. They’re getting to be more a burden than a blessing. Tariffs are rising every which where and there’s barely a free port you can find anymore.” He cast one final look at the place his ship once stood, now a swirling pile of smoking wood and hull framework. “The times are to get ever harder it seems. Why, we even watched one of your ships get taken a few months back.”

Norrington looked sharply at him. “What?” Shafer paused a moment, taken aback at the other captain’s sudden change.

“Aye. We spotted the smoke over the horizon. By the time we got close enough to see what it was, the navy ship was sinking and a blackwalled frigate I believe it was, was making for the west. Spanish colors if I'm not mistaken. Strange for a pirate to have out a country's colors...”

There was no proper proof of course that the ship sunk was Mockingbird but Squire’s theory had suddenly shot itself into Norrington’s frontal lobe. The Company traditionally used blackwalls but it was entirely unlikely that a Company ship would attack a navy one. “Where was it you saw this?”

Shafer chewed on his bottom lip, watching Norrington carefully. “About a league or two off Dominica, Atlantic side.”

Though the likelihood of this particular lead was questionable, Norrington could feel an old pricking in his palms. And that meant something. “Thank you, Captain,” he replied, hoping he was not appearing too enthusiastic. Shafer chose to stay silent, making an obvious attempt to keep his expression from growing worried. Norrington skipped on. “What port were you making for?”

“We were heading for the new colonies in the Americas but now we go wherever you see fit to take us.”

“The closest friendly port in is Haiti. Our supplies cannot last with twice as many men for long.”

“That will do. I’ve been to Junehill before and know a man who can help us get a new ship,” Shafer replied, rubbing his blackened chin in a thoughtful manner. The soot smeared even more.

“Good. If you’ll excuse me, Captain, I must see back to my command.” Norrington bowed and, pivoting on a heel, strode towards the quarterdeck shouting orders for their new heading. Shafer wavered a moment, Hornet’s crew swarming around him, and stared after the other captain before shaking his head in an unintelligible way and heading below deck.

Hayward materialized at the top of the quarterdeck stairs before Norrington could reach it. “New heading, sir?” he queried, sounding bored. Norrington halted at step below him, peering around to the south and then to the north where Haiti blotted the horizon like a smudge of ink.

“Yes…” He looked up at the sails now, at the wind in them and listening to light flapping sound of air on cloth. “Wind’s unfavorable for Port Royal,” he said, looking back at Hayward and knowing he was stating the obvious, “best make it Junehill.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve taken the liberty, sir,” Hayward said, MacGregor exhibiting that fact by expertly spinning the wheel behind the first lieutenant. Hayward stepped aside and Norrington came up onto the quarterdeck. “Loose t’gallants, fit her in, lads!”

The feet of the crew, bare or otherwise, pounded on the deck and about a dozen men streamed up the masts and shrouds to the rigging. The rigging fell into place just as Hornet swung around, timbers groaning healthily underfoot. Norrington stood before the wheel, facing the bow, hands behind back as he surveyed their movement. Hayward hovered on his right, Hotham and Squire, forgotten in the moment, on his left. Norrington looked to the left, not really seeing the other lieutenants even though he spoke to them. “If you will, go below and see that Shafer and Brooks have things under control.”

“Aye, sir,” Squire answered for them both, eyeing the captain once. He and Hotham departed the quarterdeck in an orderly manner. Norrington watched them go below.

“Hayward.” The first lieutenant stepped forward abreast of him, respectfully waiting for whatever else Norrington had to say. “I’m of a mind to consider Squire’s theory as the actual story behind Mockingbird’s disappearance.” He said this only loud enough for Hayward to hear it. Hayward allowed only a second of mild surprise raise his eyebrows.

“It is very a sound theory,” he replied ambiguously, curious as to how his captain had come to such a conclusion. It was not like Norrington to jump on conclusions. Norrington turned his head then to look at Hayward.

“Shafer, Monty’s captain, mentioned seeing a navy ship striking colors to a blackwall.” Hayward blinked once in understanding.

“But the East India Company uses blackwalls.”

“The Company traditionally uses them but Shafer said it had Spanish colors. I would shudder to think what has become of the Company if they’ve gone and sunk an English ship for whatever reason. That would speak of a scandal far too large for just us to uproot.”

“Privateer, then?” Hayward said with more grim conviction than was demanded of a question.

“I am inclined to believe so.”

“Don’t be surprised then if Squire positively combusts with victory when you tell him.” It took a moment for Norrington to register what the lieutenant had just said and the surprisingly caustic tone with which he said it. He turned slowly, smiling disbelievingly, to regard the younger man who was innocently looking out to starboard.

“Goodness, I hope he doesn’t,” Norrington said finally, taken aback. “My cabin is dreary enough without the over inflated remains of a lieutenant strung all over it.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“And so rid yourself of a rival in the race for post captain.”

“Is it that transparent?” It was partial sarcasm and partial embarrassment. Norrington forgave himself a knowing chuckle.

“Hayward, trust me when I say I know ambition when I see it.”

AN: FYI – Junehill is entirely fictitious and shall be featured in the next chapter. Consider it the Pavlov equivalent of Standish in Loathsome. I’m doing my best at getting my Caribbean geography down. I apologize for any oversights. Still trying to switch over to high speed Internet.

This will be my last update for some time, as I’ll be leaving for the next month for a lovely trip out of country. After that is some more plans and it is then, during July I predict, that I’ll get back to work on Pavlov. Have a good summer!