The One that Got Away
CLK and Celli
copyright 2004

Part One: Officer Rapport

It all started out so harmlessly. When he thought back on it later, Norrington could never pinpoint exactly where things became-- complex. Perhaps if he'd come down with influenza, he could have avoided later events. Otherwise, it all took on the inevitability of a slow leak in a hulled ship.

"Congratulations, Norrington. Excellent showing," Captain Allinham said with a smile. "I don't think any lieutenant that has served with me has done as well on their qualifying exam. I am very pleased to be able to offer you the position of third lieutenant, with pay, as soon as the Alliance is under way again."

James smiled back, containing his excitement with a minimal effort. After all, it wouldn't do to act cocky about his promotion when it wasn't official yet. "Thank you, sir. I accept the offer. I couldn't serve with a better captain."

"Pfft. Certainly you could. Not that I'm about to let you jump ship on me yet! But I think you've still a bit to learn." The Captain's face sobered, and he drummed his fingers on his glass of brandy. "In fact... There's something I've been meaning to speak to you about, with regard to your performance on ship."

"Sir? Have I failed in some way in my duties?"

Allinham waved aside James's worry. "It's nothing major, Lieutenant. Your artillery skills are superior, and you've done a good job of maintaining order among the midshipmen. I'm pleased with your progress in cartography and navigation. I have no quibbles with your behavior or your attitude. It's just..." He bit his lip, and Norrington felt his posture stiffen, as it always did when he felt threatened. "It's the men. You lack... rapport with them."

"I do?" James considered this a moment, then shook his head. "Forgive me sir, but I must disagree. I can't think of any difficulties that I've had with any of our crew. No defiance or failures of duty have occurred when I've been in command."

"No, no. Nothing that extreme, Norrington. It's just--" The Captain sighed, and rubbed his lower lip with one thumb. "They respect you, certainly. And I know you have no problems with discipline. Which is all that any adequate officer need expect, I suppose. However," he leaned forward, and poked Norrington in the chest with one thick finger, "I think you have the makings of a *superior* officer, if you can just get them on your side, James. Make them want to follow you. Right now, they'll do their jobs, but that's all. They certainly can't be counted on to support you under fire." He shook his head. Because you lack rapport. You don't know them, you don't remember all of their names-- you regard them as interchangeable, and they know it. And they see you the same way. Granted, they think you're better than that nitwit Midshipman Hayes, but... They rather think you're stiff. Men won't be led by a stiff."

"I have rapport. With, um, Turner," James said, glad to think of one crew member whose name he could remember. "Cheerful sort. Good man. Solid."

"Defensiveness won't help in this situation, Norrington. Action will. I'm telling you this for your own good," Captain Allinham said with a gentle smile. "Don't take it personally. Just-- keep it in mind. See if you can't work on it."

"I'll be sure to do that, sir." James restrained his fists from clenching, and nodded respectfully. "Do I have leave to go, sir? I'm due on deck."

"Of course. And again, congratulations. Excellent showing. Excellent."

"Thank you, sir."

James Norrington simmered quietly in the mid-day sun as he oversaw the carpenter's mates as they made repairs on the midmast. Rapport. What exactly did that mean? He was supposed to command these men, not be their friend. One couldn't command if personal loyalties got in the way of duty. On board a ship, absolute fairness and equitable treatment was more important than any -- *personal* touch. It was difficult enough to command men when most of them were five to ten years older than he. He had to constantly be on guard against questions and criticism. Most of the time he was able to squelch any challenges to his authority by a stern look and a squared jaw, but occasionally, greater measures were called for. So far, he'd never backed down, or found himself unable to cope with those beneath him.

Grimacing, Norrington squared his shoulders and hoped his misery wasn't apparent to everyone who walked by. Despite his test scores, his excellent service record, his devotion to the Fleet, evidently there was something else required. Rapport. Fellow-feeling. Not one of his most overwhelming qualities, ever. He was no hermit, but most often, he preferred his own company to others'. And now he was required to -- what? Disguise that behind some false bonhomie?

There was no instruction manual for gaining "rapport" in the Navy Code book.

"Oi, Lieut! Congrat-u-lations! Heard you did the best of the bunch!"

Norrington relaxed, and an unwilling smile rose to meet Turner's as the seaman smiled up from the gangplank, accompanied by perhaps half-a-dozen of the other men on leave. The boatswain's mate was one of the more amiable crewman aboard, always joking. Well-liked. Exactly the kind of man who had "rapport" with everyone. Pity he couldn't give classes.

"Thank you, Turner. I am quite pleased."

"What d'ya say to a celebratory toast then, Lieut?" asked one of Turner's companions. Winston, probably. "On us, like."

"I don't believe that would be approp--"

"Aw, Lieut, c'mon. Can't be lettin' the newest commissioned officer take office without a good-luck drink," coaxed one of the other men. Big brute, named... named... Gallick, that was it.

"Thank you, Gallick, however...."

"Toldja he wouldn't do it," came an unseen mutterer from behind Turner. James felt himself stiffen up immediately. "Too much of a stick."

"Shuddup," Turner hissed, then turned back to Norrington, who was feeling more stuffed and pompous by the moment. "Now, Lieutenant. You don't want to be insulting us now, do ya? It's just one drink."

When he put it like that.... It did seem a small thing. And perhaps this was the first step towards that infamous quality that he apparently lacked. "Do you know, Turner, I believe I will. I'll be finished with this task by dinner. If you'll return then, I will be happy to join you and the men for one drink."

"All right, Lieutenant! Knew you had it in ya," Turner laughed, then turned back to one of the other men with a wink for James. "Pay up."

"Awww...."


Now, at that point, nothing too untoward had happened. Yet. James had even felt obscurely pleased that the men wanted to congratulate him on his passing of the exam. He'd written his parents with the good news, and the Captain and First Mate Warren had both been happy for him. But Second Lieutenant Randall was ashore visiting his wife, and he hadn't wanted to rub in his success with Midshipman Evans, who had failed his exams this time out, though he would doubtless pass them the next time he tried. So a
small party was definitely welcome.

Time went much more quickly than he anticipated after that....

"And another rum for the new looey!"

"To Looey!" chorused a crowd much larger than the one he arrived with. One drink had turned into two, had turned into three, had turned into "if you're not feeling it, you're not drunk, so why not have another drink?"

It was a measure of how much logic had deteriorated at that point, that this sounded like an excellent plan to James.

"Turner, I want to thank you," James said unsteadily, then mumbled, "God, this is wretched stuff," as he took another sip of rum. "I'm having a jolly time. Simply spiffing."

"Spiffing!" howled the two seamen across from him, nearly crying with laughter. They banged their tankards together, threw back the rum, then burped. The one on the left giggled as the one on the right collapsed into tears of silliness across the table.

"It's a good word," he objected, trying to balance himself on his chair enough to look forbidding. "Perfectly descriptive and ad-- ad--ad-e-quate."

"Aww, don't get on yer high horse, yer Lieut-ness." Garrick threw back another tankard, then wiped off his mouth. "These here two ain't never been around gentlemen much. Forgive 'em. They wassn't raised right."

"Perfectly fine," he said magnaminously. "Perfectly. But, Turner, again, I am grateful. Apprec-- appreciate this."

"No worries, Lieut. You're a good officer. Got to give the good ones encouragement, right?" Turner grinned, and tickled the curvaceous woman perched on his knee. She squeaked, then giggled and draped an arm around his shoulders, cuddling closer. "Couldn't let you think we weren't glad for you."

James was suddenly hit by a wave of melancholy. "Decent of you. Damned. Decent of you." He gulped the rest of the contents of his tankard. "I know... I know I'm not-- exactly..." He glared blearily across the table at an interested Turner, who was cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at him. "Rapport!" he shouted, slamming his tankard on the table.

Half the men around him jumped, one fell off a chair, and the one already under the table started up, yelled, "Where!?" and hit his head on the side of a bench before subsiding again.

"You're not exactly-- rapport?" Turner frowned, exchanged a confused look with the wench on his knee, then looked back at James in amused concern. "Should we know this Rapport officer?"

"No, no, no. *I'm* not, not rapport. I don't *have* rapport. I'm not...people don't... the men aren't..." James climbed to his feet, swayed, trying to make it become clear in his brain. It belatedly occurred to him that those last two rums were mistakes. Large, large mistakes. "I'm a stiff!"

"No!" chorused half his audience, while the other half nodded with an air of "well, we knew that."

"Now, Lieutenant Norrington, you ain't that bad--" protested Turner, but James shook his head.

"I am, I am. But tonight-- tonight, I am going to try to be more-- warm. Boisterous." He grabbed Garrick's drink, ignoring the very large man's glare as he raised it high. "To roistering!"

"Roistering!" half the room echoed him, uncertain but enthusiastic. The other half blinked, shrugged, and drank, with a few of them saying, "yeah, what he said!" before they downed their drinks.

"Grog!" Norrington roared, giving Garrick his tankard back. "I want a real seaman's drink! A drink that can take the paint off the Alliance! Groooog!"

"Oh, sir, I don't think that's a good idea...." Turner objected, shaking his head.

"And a wench!" Norrington declaimed. "Everyone else has one, and I'm an officer on board the HMS Alliance! I should have a wench!"

"Would certainly fix most of what's wrong with him," Winston muttered to Garrick, who nodded knowingly.

"Aww, he's so pretty," cooed a voice in his ear. He turned, over-balanced, and almost fell into the cleavage of a buxom tavern wench. Looking up, he muttered a noise somewhat like "eep", except, of course, officers of His Majesty's Navy don't eep. Not even when confronted with extremely plush, cuddly and slightly over-ripe domestic goddesses.

"Hello," he gulped. Then gulped again, and frowned. "Excuse me, I don't feel very...."

It was always of some regret to him that he suddenly became very, very ill at that point.

***

Part Two: Jumping Ship

James realized three things as he opened his eyes: one, based on the dim light coming in the window, it was much later than he remembered it being. Two, that the window was unfamiliar, as was the rest of the room. And three, that he was all but naked.

He jolted up with a cry, reaching blindly for a weapon-- and promptly fell off the bed he'd been sprawled across.

"You're awake," someone said. He sat up, banging his leg on the bed in the process, and saw Turner sitting on the windowsill, puffing lazily on a pipe. Amusement was written plainly across his face.

"I...ah...yes," he said. "Although I don't quite recall falling asleep. Or for that matter, undressing."

"Or walking in the door?" Turner offered.

James found himself nearly smiling. "Nor leaving the tavern."

"Ah, if you're lucky, you've forgotten what happened to Lucy's skirts."

His stomach twisted in remembrance. "Sadly, no."

Turner laughed. Something caught his attention, and he half-waved at something-- someone, presumably-- out the window. James stood, wincing, but by the time he got to the window all he saw was the glint of a smile in the dark, and then whoever it was faded into the shadows.

"Who was that?" he asked. Turner looked over at him, smirking, and he remembered he was wearing only his drawers. "And what happened to my clothes?"

"You were sick as a dog, Lieutenant," Turner said, his innocent tone belied by his expression. "I saved your uniform."

"Oh."

"Just stand here." Turner pushed him back past the edge of the window. "There, now only I can see you."

James could think of several responses to that, but settled for a muttered "thank you." Getting dressed would be an admission of...of something...at this point, so he stood there awkwardly and tried not to look at Turner.

"It was kind of you to stay with me," he said finally. "I've no doubt I'd be in the gutter beside the tavern, with Miss Lucy's footprints on, ah, painful areas, if you'd not rescued me."

"Couldn't lose our Lieutenant on his first night in the post, now could we?" He reached over and slapped James familiarly on the arm.

James tried not to fall over backwards; the man didn't know his own strength. "I suppose not." Turner was grinning at him, and he couldn't help but smile back. "I do thank you."

"Ah." Turner shrugged. "I had business in town anyway."

James felt his smile widen at the evidence of rapport. A man under his command confiding in him, telling him about something outside Naval responsibilities. Captain Allinham would be so proud. "What kind of business?" he asked eagerly.

Turner's eyes dropped. "Do you know how much Her Majesty pays sailors? Not the fine officers like yourself, but the rest of us men."

"Ah--" James struggled with the sudden change of subject. "I'm sure it's none of my--"

"You make a fair salary, dontcha?"

"It's adequate," James said uncomfortably.

"We get eleven pounds a year. Not quite as...adequate."

Privately, James agreed, but the last shreds of his dignity demanded he behave like an officer. He said nothing.

"I've a boy in London, you know. Eating his poor mother out of house and home. And a little girl in Gibraltar. Now Lasana in Jamaica writes to say I have twins on the way. Twins!" Turner's expression was almost comically horrified.

"That's quite a family."

"That's quite *three* families, Lieutenant," Turner said, aping his accent.

James swallowed an offer of money. He might not have mastered rapport, but he knew better than to offend the man's pride. Turner's gaze drifted back to the window.

"'Swhy I'm leaving, you see."

"Leaving? Leaving the Alliance?"

"Aye."

"But you can't!"

"Why not?" Turner's voice was mocking, but James saw one hand tighten around his pipe. "You can't hardly order me to stay in the Navy, Lieutenant."

He couldn't? "No, of course I can't. I meant--" What the devil had he meant? "I meant you're a good sailor. What else will you--"

"Oh, I'm not leaving the sea. I'm taking up on a merchant ship. She leaves in the morning."

"In the morning? *This* morning?"

Turner nodded. "I've settled my accounts with the purser, and my kit is on the bed over there."

"You knew before we left the ship that you wouldn't be coming back."

"I did. Seemed a shame to spoil your party, though."

James crossed his arms over his bare chest. "You should have t--told the men. They'll miss you."

"Will they?"

"Of course," James said, miserably aware he sounded his most pompous. "You're a good man, Mr. Turner."

"Thank you, sir."

James swallowed. "Ah, what's your new ship?"

Turner's eyes shifted to the window again. "The Dark Lady."

"What?" James stared. "You're mistaken."

"No, I think I know the name of my ship."

"That's not a merchant-- bloody hell, Turner, she's a pirate ship!" Turner's only response was an innocent look. "The East India Company's been looking for her for two years."

"And she pays well."

"For crime!" James jerked Turner to his feet. The pipe clattered to the floor beside them. Turner planted both hands on his naked chest and shoved him back. James stumbled and almost fell over his discarded clothes; he grabbed them and started pulling on the first thing that came to hand, desperate for some sort of dignity again. "I should clap you in irons til you come to your senses," he said as he struggled with his shirt.

"You should try, at least," Turner said, and he was smirking. James eyed his boatswain's arms and sighed.

"You're a good man, Turner."

"Aye. And I'll be a good pirate."

"There's no such thing."

Turner bent to pick up his pipe. "Perhaps I'll be the first."

He straightened, reaching out his hand. James took it automatically.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Lieutenant."

"Thank you. Ah, Turner?" he called as the man turned to leave.

"Yes?"

James swallowed against the sudden pressure in his chest. This was his fault, he knew it. If he had more of that damned rapport, he would have the words to convince the man not to throw his life away. But the words failed to appear, and Turner stood there, waiting. "For both our sakes, I hope we never meet again."

Turner nodded and disappeared out the door, leaving James half-dressed, confused, and alone.

--the end--