The transition from the dying Dauntless to the Black Pearl was a blur of salt-spray and humiliation. As each sailor and Marine crossed the gap, they were met not with open arms, but with the cold steel of cutlasses and the rough grip of pirate hands.
True to Jack’s word, they were alive, but they were far from free.
The pirates moved with practiced efficiency, herding the unarmed Navy men toward the main hatch. “Hands where we can see ’em!” Pintel barked, shoving a midshipman toward the stairs. “Move it, you lot! Below decks, lively now!”
Norrington was the last to cross. He stepped onto the dark, weathered wood of the Pearl just as a final, gargantuan wave slammed into the Dauntless, sending the proud ship tilting into her final descent. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. His focus was entirely on the man standing by the wheel, watching the scene with a detached, almost clinical interest.
As soon as Norrington’s boots hit the deck, two large pirates—Bo’sun and Koehler—stepped in, their pistols leveled at his chest.
“Easy, boys,” Jack said, sauntering down the steps from the helm, his compass swinging wildly at his belt. “The Commodore is a man of his word. He promised no trouble, and look at him—completely toothless. Not a butter knife to his name.”
Norrington ignored the taunt, though his jaw was set so tight it ached. He watched as his men disappeared into the darkness of the hold, the heavy wooden grate being slammed shut over them with a definitive, echoing thud. The sound of the bolt sliding home felt like a hammer blow to his spirit.
He turned to Jack, his eyes burning with a mixture of fury and desperate responsibility. He stood tall, even as the pirates surrounded him, refusing to show the fear that was clawing at his insides.
“You have them, Sparrow,” Norrington said, his voice low and vibrating with tension. “One hundred and forty souls. Unarmed, exhausted, and at your mercy.”
He took a step forward, ignoring the pistols pressed closer to his ribs.
“What do you intend to do with them?” he demanded. “If you plan to execute them, do it now. Don’t let them rot in the dark wondering when the end will come. But if there is a shred of humanity left in that black heart of yours, tell me what becomes of my men.”
Jack stopped a few feet away, tilting his head as he studied Norrington. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, shriveled apple, taking a loud, crunching bite before answering.
“Humanity,” Jack mused, his voice muffled by the fruit. “Such a big word for such a small deck.” He swallowed and gestured vaguely toward the hatch. “They’re in the hold, James. It’s dry, it’s safe, and—more importantly—it’s where they can’t try to take over my ship the moment the sun comes out.”
He stepped closer, the scent of rum and sea salt surrounding him. “As for what becomes of them… well, that rather depends on you, doesn’t it?”
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the deck, broken only by the mournful creak of the Pearl’s rigging and the distant, final gurgle of the Dauntless as she vanished beneath the waves. The pirates nearby slowed their work, their eyes gleaming with a sudden, dark interest.
Jack leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that felt like ice against Norrington’s skin.
“Life is a precious thing, James. But it isn’t free. Not on the Pearl,” Jack said, his kohl-lined eyes fixed on the Commodore’s pale face. He began to pace a slow, predatory circle around Norrington. “You brought me one hundred and forty men. That’s a lot of mouths to feed. A lot of risk to my reputation. I think a tax is in order. A price for the salvation of your brave, soggy little sailors.”
Jack stopped directly in front of him, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face—a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
“One lash, James,” Jack whispered. “One stroke of the cat for every man I’ve pulled from the drink. One hundred and forty lashes for the lot.”
The blood drained from Norrington’s face. He was a military man; he knew exactly what that number meant. Even the most hardened criminals rarely survived a hundred. To endure one hundred and forty was not a punishment—it was a prolonged, agonizing death sentence.
“You’re a madman,” Norrington rasped, his heart thundering in his chest. “No man survives that. You know it as well as I do.”
“Oh, I’m quite aware of the mathematics involved,” Jack chirped, his grin widening. He reached out and tapped the gold braid on Norrington’s shoulder with a ringed finger. “But then, you’re the Great Commodore, aren’t you? Surely you’ve got a bit more backbone than the average swab.”
He leaned in so close Norrington could see the flickers of gold in his dark eyes.
“And don’t you worry your pretty head about the ‘dying’ part just yet,” Jack murmured, his voice oily and soft. “I have no intention of rushing. We’ll do it in sets. A dozen here, a dozen there. We’ll give you time to heal just enough to feel the next round. I want you to be awake, James. I want you to stay nice and… present… so you can enjoy the full merit of your sacrifice.”
Norrington looked toward the hatch where his men were locked away. He thought of Gillette, of the young midshipmen, of the sailors who had followed him into the heart of a storm. He looked back at Jack, seeing the monster he had always suspected was hiding beneath the pirate’s buffoonery.
“If I agree,” Norrington said, his voice trembling despite his best efforts, “the men are fed? They are given water? They are released at the first port?”
“My word as a Captain,” Jack said, mocking a bow. “Their lives, their health, and their eventual freedom—all bought and paid for with the skin of your back. Do we have an accord, James?”
Norrington closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of the choice crushing the air from his lungs. Then, he straightened his spine, his face setting into a mask of cold, martyred iron.
“Strip me,” Norrington commanded, his voice echoing across the deck. “And begin.”