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Property of the British Navy

by RRP

The following is the journal of James Laurence Norrington, Commodore with the British Royal Navy in the early 1700s.

The manuscript was found in the attic of a house in Jamaica in 1943. It was the only surviving legible portion of the entire document, which consisted of at least four journals. The remaining pages are currently undergoing advanced forensic work to attempt to save as much of the original as possible.


June 29th, 1728

I currently possess a rather fierce hangover, thanks to a large amount of straight scotch, and one very daring Lievtenant Gillette. Andrew swore from here to high heaven that he was off-duty and acting as a best friend-- what I answered to that probably shouldn't be printed.

I will write to explain myself, so important were the events. But I shall endeavor to do it quickly, because there is a full orchestra playing forte, off-count in my head.

Yesterday was interesting, to say the least. I was surprised, heart-broken, humbled, and inebriated all in the same twelve hours. In that order.

We, and when I say we I refer to the British Navy stationed on Port Royal, nearly hanged the pirate Jack Sparrow near noontime. It would have been exactly noon, had the list of his crimes not been so long. I am afraid I mis-scheduled (is that even a word? I do not believe it is. I blame it entirely on Andrew and the scotch).

Then bloody (I will not apologize for that) William Turner deemed it his duty to save Sparrow, and pulled it off most excellently. I would never admit that to him, of course. Thanks to myself and the British Navy stationed on Port Royal (that needs an acronym; it is bothersome to write out over and over again), we stopped them on the fort wall.

That concludes the surprised portion of yesterday. The heartbreak occurred rather quickly, and is partially my fault, I must admit. Elizabeth Swann chose Turner, and I did not stop her. I could have, but would have felt wretched forever afterwards. And that isn't to say she wouldn't have run away with him. With an ordinary woman, it would be out of the question. With Elizabeth, it wouldn't have surprised me.

Governor Swann made an infuriating comment concerning pirates being good men, the entirety of which I do not remember. It was true, which is why I found it infuriating. I have come to view Sparrow as some type of stray dog—amusing for perhaps five minutes, and then annoying, but you cannot just kill it or everyone will think you horribly cruel.

So Sparrow swam away, after giving all of us quite a scare (fine, I admit it. I felt slightly relieved when he tumbled over the wall. I did gasp, though, like a polite human), and I said we would give him a day's head start.

I returned to the offices on Fort Charles to file my report, and the BNSPR (so much easier) dispersed to their stations. Andrew kidnapped me later in the evening, and took me to one of the finer taverns. Of course, I initially went of my own free will, but I say kidnapped because it was not made clear to me his plans for the night. And had I known, I most certainly wouldn't have gone.

I refused to drink the first glass he set before me, for I knew that the day had worn me down and I would not be able to stop should I start. Unfortunately, Andrew wields a surprising amount of information with which to use against me. He threatened to inform the governor of a rather embarrassing incident that occurred only a few miles from Port Royal, involving a carriage, barmaid, and a large puddle of mud. I will not elaborate on that, for fear someone else should ever read this.

I drank the scotch, and Andrew promptly congratulated me on being "man enough to admit you're hurting". I must confess, the loss of Elizabeth stings abominably. I fancy the notion that I loved her. But I do not suppose that matters now. We've both made our choices.

Everything is clear up until the time I drank the fourth glass. Then it is rather blurry in memory, and I can vaguely remember participating in a song. Other than that, nothing. I'm absolutely sure that the song was mortifying and Andrew had a lot of fun with it, and that all of the BNSPR is talking about it now.

There is some type of wickedly satirical humor about the phrase: "drink yourself under the table". Even if I never fell off my chair, I would rather like to hide there about now.

Someone is knocking at the door. I assume the Dauntless is ready to depart. I haven't a clue as to when I shall be back; hopefully I'll be gone long enough to miss the Turner's wedding (that was wrong, but it was honest—give me that, at least).

I am off, to murder Andrew. I mean, of course, catch Sparrow.

- C. James L. Norrington