Chapter 2
Norrington's melancholy cogitations lasted until the first rays of dawn crept through the narrow window. By then he had determined that the best way of ensuring his escape was to lull Beckett (and Mercer, he mustn't forget Mercer) into a false belief that he was a docile and willing slave. It would be hard to dissemble, at times, but he would do his best to give them no reason to confine him more closely. He would cease to argue, and he would do everything that was asked of him, except to give his parole. Then, when he was permitted some small freedom, he would take the first opportunity to escape.
Comforted by the development of a plan, he slept relatively undisturbed by the sounds of the house and town, until he was woken by Mercer and the maid. In a repetition of the previous morning's events, he was washed and dressed in clean linens and fed on bread and a hunk of cheese. After that he was left alone to await Beckett.
When his lordship appeared at his door, in the late afternoon, Norrington was standing beside the tiny window, looking up at the sky.
"What are you doing?" asked Beckett.
"Remembering mine affliction and my misery, the wormwood and the gall," (1) replied Norrington, morosely, not even turning to face his captor.
Beckett paused a moment, then said "Lamentations, isn't it? The favoured text of prisoners everywhere. Would you like me to bring you a Bible? I didn't take you for a pious man, but stranger things have happened."
Norrington shrugged a shoulder. He wasn't a religious man - except, of course, when about to go into battle - but it might help pass the time.
"Turn around and look at me," ordered Beckett.
Norrington turned and looked. Beckett was in brown today, a rich brocade with subtle decoration, and his expression was milder than his stern tone had implied. In spite of the heat he looked cool and composed, though some inner turmoil was betrayed by the way his lips pursed and relaxed.
"Unfasten your breeches."
Norrington did so, promptly and without fuss, and then looked up, expecting further instructions.
Beckett walked over and examined his face carefully. Norrington did his best to look listless and despairing.
"I'm surprised that you don't try to fight me," said his lordship, curiously.
"What good would it do? I'm chained to the wall, and if I should free myself there are at least two militiamen in the corridor and several other servants in your house to whom you could call for help." He shrugged, letting his shoulders stoop.
"You've given this some thought, I see."
"Enough." He said no more - he wasn't going to let Beckett know everything he had considered in the last few days.
"I must admit that I expected a little more resistance - a little more of England's fighting spirit."
"A living dog is better than a dead lion." (2)
Beckett smiled condescendingly. "Very true, Mr Norrington. But even a dog cannot live forever. Particularly one with a bad name." (3)
He looked up at that. "Ah, so I am to be hanged, then?"
"Are you so eager for it?"
"I'm eager to know, one way or the other."
"Your case is still under advisement. I wouldn’t be too eager for an outcome, if I were you."
"Oh, I'm not eager at all. Given their Lordships' need to appease His Majesty and Parliament, I don't see any outcome for me other than a short drop and a sudden stop." (4)
"You sound remarkably undismayed about it."
"I find the prospect of being hanged at some stage in the near future to be somewhat liberating. It frees me from the normal considerations of polite society and good manners."
"And yet you tell me this, and put me on my guard."
"I doubt that you ever drop your guard."
Beckett's face darkened. "Never. I learned quite early on in my career that everyone wants something from me. Even the most innocuous encounter can be a trap."
"If that's another reference to Madras - "
"Actually, no. But I shan't elaborate."
"Suit yourself."
There was a short pause, then Beckett shook his head, as if to rid himself of the unwelcome memory. "Take the breeches down and bring out your prick." He watched Norrington do that, and added, "That's right, give it a few strokes." He reached forward to grasp it, and Norrington couldn't resist a small taunt.
"You like my cock, don't you?" he whispered. "You're fascinated by it."
Beckett showed him what he thought of that idea with a tight, painful squeeze.
Norrington grunted, then said, "You're not exactly endearing yourself to me, you know."
"It is better to be feared than loved." (5)
"It is best to be respected."
"Perhaps. But I'll settled for feared. It gets the job done. Now turn around and bend over. And don't think you're going to get any oil today."
Norrington sighed and gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain to start.
* * *
On the third day of his captivity, he remained seated on the bed, hands behind his head, as Beckett walked in.
"And how does this fine day find you?" asked his lordship in a merry tone. When Norrington made no reply, he halted, and regarded his prisoner with some surprise. "You know, I do expect you to greet me with some degree of respect."
Norrington kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "Why should I pander to your desire for attention? You're going to fuck me again no matter what I do. It's going to hurt, as it always does. I'll spend the rest of the day wondering when my next drink of water will appear. And tomorrow we'll do it all over again."
Beckett pursed his lips in annoyance.
"Oh, let's just get it over with, shall we?" Norrington stood up and started to undo his breeches, but was stopped by Beckett's command.
"Not so fast. I've a mind to try your conversational skills today."
Norrington stilled. "I fear you will find them sadly depleted," he said, refastening the single button he had undone. "I have had little contact with polite society in the last few months."
"I take it that you do not class your recent companions as polite society."
"A pirate and a blacksmith? Hardly."
"And yet you joined them voluntarily."
"The alternative was an early death in a tavern in Tortuga. And I had a hunch that whatever Jack Sparrow was hiring men for, it was more than just another run around the Spanish Main." (6)
"So you turned pirate."
"Not for long."
"Mercer tells me you gave him an interesting though somewhat far-fetched tale of drawing off Davy Jones' men to allow the others to escape."
"I'm not interested in going over old history."
"But I am, and I'm the one in charge. Was it to pay off a debt, perhaps? Or some misplaced burst of chivalry?"
"Damn your eyes, Beckett! It's none of your business!"
"Temper, temper. Hmm," he mused. "Chivalry, then. I imagine that Miss Swann may have been involved." After pausing to allow for Norrington to answer, he went on, "Yes, I think she must have been there. An intriguing creature. It was a most educational experience to meet her."
"She got the better of you, I heard."
"She negotiated with confidence."
Norrington laughed. "She negotiated with a pistol at your head."
Beckett clenched his fists but said, mildly, "An enterprising young woman."
"Indeed she is."
"You still admire her? After what she did to you?"
"She did nothing dishonourable."
Beckett snorted. "She discarded her fiancé, ran off with a bunch of pirates, and ended up betrothed to a blacksmith. She followed that up with escaping from prison and was last seen dressed in breeches in the middle of a tavern brawl in Tortuga. Hardly the actions of a modest young lady, are they?"
"You insult her, sir!"
"Do I? Are you still so purblind with love for her that you can't see she used you? Is there nothing she would not stoop to do?"
Norrington was overtaken by a wave of anger. He couldn't deny that Elizabeth's behaviour was not that one would normally expect of a young lady of quality, but he wasn't going to stand by and let Beckett destroy her character with impunity. He leapt forward, and managed to throw Beckett to the ground, hearing his lordship's head hit the floorboards with a satisfying thud.
Unfortunately, Beckett retained enough of his senses to roll out of Norrington's reach and slowly brought himself to his feet. His wig had come off in the fall and lay some feet away, on its side, revealing his own close-cropped hair. He picked the wig up, looking it over and brushing off a little dirt before placing it back on his head.
"That was a mistake, Mr Norrington," he said, calmly, as he brushed more dirt off his shirt. He looked down at the prisoner on the floor, who was straining forward against the leg irons that held him chained to the wall. "You disappoint me. I thought you had conquered that temper of yours. Since you prefer brawling like a schoolboy to conversing like a gentleman I shall punish you as I would a schoolboy." He went to the door, rapped sharply, and gave a rapid set of orders to Mercer, while Norrington slowly retreated to the window and rubbed his legs where the irons had bruised him.
Mercer entered, carrying the shackles and Beckett's riding crop, and Norrington's temper flared again. Gone were all thoughts of placating his gaolers - he wasn't going to stand by and let himself be whipped.
He struggled violently, hitting and kicking as best he could, but in vain - the long weeks of privation had weakened him, and he was no match for Beckett's strength and Mercer's steely grip. In short order he was bent over, shackled to the bed, and Beckett was tearing the shirt off his back.
"Twelve stripes. Mr Mercer, if you please," said Beckett, his breathing still slightly uneven.
Norrington took a deep breath and prepared himself to take the blows in silence, but he still couldn't hold back a gasp at the first blow. By the seventh he was gritting his teeth and clenching his fists so tightly he knew he'd drawn blood from his palms, and by the twelfth he was dizzy and sick with the effort of holding still.
He'd lost count of the blows, but Mercer hadn't, and twelve stripes were all he took. Then he was swiftly unshackled and pushed back against the wall, so that he was facing the two men.
Norrington groaned at the impact and made no effort to stand straight. He kept his face turned away, not wanting Beckett to see how much it had affected him.
Beckett's voice was cold and measured. "Do remember what I said to you on the first day, Norrington? Everything you do, you do at my will. My will now is that you shall be left alone to contemplate your sins until tomorrow. No food, no water and no comfort."
He kept silent, though he couldn't stop one bitter tear from escaping his tight-shut eyes. Through his misery, he could hear Mercer saying, softly, "I think you've broken him, milord."
Beckett smiled, dreamily. "You know, I rather think I have."
Norrington listened to them go, waiting until the door was shut and locked before allowing himself the luxury of sobbing silently, like a lost child.
* * *
The night was uncomfortable. The thrashing wasn't the main problem - he'd had much worse as a schoolboy and as a midshipman. No, it was the humiliation that stung more than the stripes on his back - the fact that he, a grown man, had been thrashed by the servant of a man two years his junior and six inches inferior in height, and a merchant to boot.
He winced as he moved. It might not have been the worst he'd had, but it was bad enough, and he couldn't get comfortable, no matter what position he tried. The wounds were still smarting and he cursed Beckett once more as he gritted his teeth against the pain. He'd have given almost anything for brandy laced with laudanum, or even some cool water, but he was unlikely to get either.
He was furious with himself for his outburst - he had probably set back his escape plans by days, if not weeks. How could he have let Beckett's taunts get to him? It wasn't as if the man had said anything that Norrington hadn't thought himself. The girl was an adventuress, and if she survived long enough to achieve a marriage and a veneer of respectability, it was more than she deserved. He should have held his tongue. He should have had had more self-control.
Mercer visited him early the next morning, bringing him water (two mugs - the man had some compassion, after all) and a repetition of the washing ceremony. This time, though, he lay on his front while Susan washed and dressed the stripes on his back, applying some soothing ointment.
That afternoon, when Beckett strode into the room, riding crop in hand, Norrington was careful to give him no excuse to use it. He obeyed every command and suffered every degradation in silence, not even moaning when Beckett's hands inadvertently pressed on the worst of his wounds.
"Very good, Mr Norrington," was Beckett's only comment. "It seems that one can teach an old dog obedience, at least."
His dinner that evening included three slices of mutton - the first meat he'd been given since landing at Port Royal. He forced himself to eat it slowly, licking every trace of fat from his fingers. He knew it was a reward for his cooperation, and he hated himself for it - but meat was meat, and he needed food if he was going to survive to escape.
He wondered what else he'd have to do in order to be released from this room.
* * *
And so his life in captivity entered a new phase. Every day Beckett had some small task for him - to stay completely silent, or completely still, or to respond in some manner to whatever Beckett was doing to him. If he failed, he was punished by being taken dry, or by being left shackled by wrists as well as ankles until his body screamed with the unaccustomed contortion. If he succeeded, Beckett rewarded him with meat or wine. He quickly learned to simulate the demeanour of a broken man, and to do what pleased Beckett, though it sickened him, and as a result he was spared the humiliation of the crop.
In the long hours between torments, he was nearly in despair. He had no expectation that his confinement would end before the Admiralty decision arrived - and even then, he had no hope of a reprieve. The promise of redemption, which he had so blithely quoted to Sparrow, seemed further away than ever.
The first time he came with Beckett's shaft inside him he cried. Not then and there, of course, but later, when he was left alone in his cell. He'd felt humiliated - even more so than usual - and Beckett had been so pleased that he'd actually said that he could have a glass of brandy with his dinner. Norrington thought about throwing the glass in Mercer's face, but what good would it do? He was still chained to the wall and getting weaker by the day. Instead, he took his time, drinking it slowly while Mercer stood and watched. It was good French brandy, and deserved to be treated with respect, which was more than he could say for his captors ... or himself.
* * *
Then came a week when Beckett made no appearance. Perversely, Norrington missed him. Bad as his attentions had been, at least his visits had provided him with hours of occupation, whether it was in replaying the gruesome events of the past visit or in anticipating the next. Now he had nothing to bemoan or to dread, and he wondered, disconsolately, if Beckett had gone away or was just ignoring him. He refused to ask Mercer, and no one else entered his attic cell, so he remained in a state of agitated ignorance. At least he was still fed and watered.
He found that his intellect was atrophying in boredom - even more so than the worst of the days in Tortuga. The alcohol there had dulled his senses and made him unaware - or at least uncaring - of what was around him. Here, there was nothing to distract him and no rum or wine to ease the passing of the hours. He found himself drifting through the day, not even daydreaming, just staring out of the small window for hours on end.
It said something for his state of mind that he didn't even notice when he became feverish. The attic, always humid and unpleasant, had seemed a little cooler the last couple of days, but he'd put it down to the change of season and lack of exercise. It wasn't until he woke, shivering and cold to his very bones, that he realised he was ill. He tried to get up but found that he was already too weak to move. He couldn't even raise his voice loud enough to be heard. He wondered if he was dying. He wondered how much time it would take to die, and how long it would take anyone to notice.
Events after that became blurred. He had scattered memories, interspersed with hallucinations, and it was hard, sometimes, to tell which was which. He was fairly sure that being prodded by Mercer was real, and that the terrifying shape that leered at him from the shadows in the far corner was a phantom, but there were other things that were not so easy to tell. Had he really been held down and forced to drink a bitter poison by the servants? Had he heard Beckett chastising them for not informing him earlier? Both were possible, if unlikely. It was much less likely that the man had thundered and roared at them like a dark avenging angel, though that was what he thought he remembered. He was fairly sure, as well, that the memory of Beckett's hand stroking his forehead was his imagination.
It didn't really matter for the moment, anyway. He drifted off, into another fever-dream, in which he was being carried down to hell by a troop of devils. Hell seemed surprisingly comfortable when he got there.
* * *
He woke, some time later - he couldn't be sure if it was hours, days or weeks - in a bed, a real bed, with linen sheets and a fine quilted counterpane. There was daylight visible through the shutters, and the sounds of Port Royal were clearly audible from the busy street below. He felt comfortable and warm for the first time in months. He lifted his head slightly and looked around the room, but he appeared to be alone. He wondered if there would be a guard outside the door.
There was a glass of water beside the bed, and he reached for it, noting with chagrin that he was as weak as a kitten. Guard or no guard, there was very little chance that he'd make it as far as the door, let alone out into the street. He sank back against the sheets, exhausted by his feeble effort, and in only a few minutes was fast asleep again.
He roused again a couple of hours later (as near as he could determine), and listened to the local physician, Dr Teesdale, discussing his case in low tones with Lord Beckett. The words made little sense and he drifted off again almost immediately.
* * *
When next he woke it was late afternoon. His room obviously faced south, for the golden light poured in through the window to his right and hit the far wall. The dark-skinned maid who had washed him in the attic was sitting and sewing at a table by the window. She made a little humming noise as she worked, and if he listened hard he could make out some noises from the house or the street. His mind appeared to be much clearer, though he still felt drained of all energy.
He cleared his throat, startling the maid into silence. She looked at him, then quickly rose and went to the door. After a hurried conversation she closed the door and returned to her seat, but she did not resume her work.
He was damnably thirsty, and the glass of water was out of his reach. "Water," he croaked. The maid looked frightened, but didn't move. "Water," he tried again, this time making an attempt to point to the jug.
She understood, and poured him a glass of something that resembled barley-water, holding it to his lips as he drank. He was, if anything, even weaker than he had been the last time he awoke, and could barely lift his head off the pillow. He sank back after taking a couple of sips, simply unable to hold himself up any longer.
The door opened, admitting Beckett. The maid at once rose and curtsied to her master, then fled at his dismissive gesture. A footman closed the door behind her, leaving the two men alone.
"So, you are awake," Beckett regarded him with the air of a scientist viewing a successful experiment. "The doctor said you would probably regain your senses sometime today or tomorrow."
"I'm glad to have fulfilled his expectations." Even those few words exhausted him, and he hoped that Beckett wasn't expecting witty conversation.
"I think you've disappointed him, actually. He didn't like the cure we were giving you."
"What was that?"
"An infusion of Jesuit's Bark." (7)
The words meant nothing to him in his present state, though he had a feeling he'd heard them before. He gave a small nod, and closed his eyes; he knew it was discourteous, but he simply didn't have the strength to keep them open any longer. He heard Beckett approach the bed, and wondered if he had angered his gaoler. To his astonishment, however, Beckett merely placed a hand on his forehead, murmured something to himself and then left the room.
He woke again, some hours later, and lay with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the house and the street. Susan had returned and resumed her needlework. She helped him drink more of the barley-water, and once, as dusk fell, insisted he drink another of the bitter infusions. Jesuit's Bark, Beckett had called it. Now, with his mind becoming clearer, he remembered where he'd heard the term before - it was for relapsing fevers, such as were common in hot and humid climates.
Beckett called in again before dinner. Norrington had enough strength to lift an eyebrow at the man's attire - he was in full ball dress, with a rich coat of dark blue silk, an embroidered waistcoat, heavy lace at his neck and wrists, and silk stockings embroidered in gold. He was wearing an ornate wig, powdered and dressed to set off his features to perfection, and carried a lace handkerchief in his left hand. He walked over to the bed, the sword at his waist clinking softly against the belt.
"I believe I am getting better," said Norrington, without preamble.
"Good," replied Beckett, promptly. "I would hate to have to explain your untimely death to the Admiralty, should they require your presence in London.
"Oh, I doubt they'll want to see me again." He sounded more confident than he felt, but hastened to change the subject. He waved vaguely at his surroundings, saying, "To what do I owe the magnificence of my current accommodation?"
Beckett smiled. "To the charity of the East India Trading Company, of course ... and my reluctance to allow you to depart this life just yet."
"I'm touched by your solicitude."
"Think nothing of it."
"I'll do my best, believe me. I cannot believe, however, that you treat all your prisoners so well when they succumb to fever."
"Of course not, but then most of them are the scaff and raff of humanity. You at least were born a gentleman."
"Before being irretrievably coarsened by my life in the Navy?"
"I would never be so ill-mannered as to suggest such a thing. Now that you have raised the matter yourself, however, I feel it my duty as your host to point out that naval customs do not necessarily fit one for a life at court."
"Nor does life in a counting-house, Beckett, so don't pretend you were born to a coronet." He shifted position. "When do I return to my attic?"
"Well, now, that rather depends."
"On what?"
"On various matters - matters that we will discuss when you have recovered."
Norrington tried to work out the meaning behind Beckett's words, but it was far too fatiguing an effort. He tried once more to sit up, but failed. Sighing, he went on, "So where are you going, in all your finery?"
"Mr Pratchett's Annual Plantation Ball."
"Ah, yes," Norrington gave a rueful smile of reminiscence. "Gallons of punch, some very inferior champagne and an endless stream of dim-witted maidens hoping that you'll ask them to dance. You have my sympathy."
Beckett looked amused. "I shall conjure up that thought whenever I feel obliged to make polite conversation with yet another simpering girl - I have Mr Norrington's sympathy. I'm sure it will assist me to bear up under the strain."
Norrington smiled, in spite of himself. "I sometimes wonder why no man of sense has ever run you through."
"But what good would that do? I am assured by many people - yourself among them - that I have a heart of solid stone."
He smiled - really smiled - and Norrington felt a disturbing feeling somewhere in his gut.
Beckett turned to go, saying, "Do try not to die before I return."
Norrington laughed in spite of himself and settled back down, watching Beckett as he negotiated his way out of the room. The man had quite a neat turn of ankle, and his calves were set off nicely by the red heels to his shoes.
Damn this fever - it was giving him the strangest ideas.
* * *
He woke the next morning with a much clearer head, though he was still weak and unable to stand unassisted. He swallowed another draught of the bitter infusion, and followed that with the far more pleasant barley-water.
Dr Teesdale visited him, and claimed his survival as a triumph of modern medicine. "Astonishing what these new-fangled cures can do," he said gruffly. "Time was when a good poultice of fresh-killed pigeons to the feet would have done, (8) but now there's nothing for it but infusions here and tinctures there, and before you know it there'll be no doctors left, only herbalists."
Norrington didn't comment. He had little time for doctors or apothecaries, and had always avoided the ship's surgeon unless forced to attend. He was of the opinion that most wounds and illnesses would take their pre-determined course, and that there was precious little merit in doctors or their medicines. Tried and true remedies were one thing, but there was too much experimentation going on these days - as if they didn't already know everything there was to know about the body.
Still, he had to admit that the Jesuit's Bark had had a remarkable effect in bringing him back from the brink of death, if the nightmarish visions he had experienced were any indication. Whether his new life would be less of a nightmare than the old, though, was a question that he could not answer. For the moment, it appeared that Beckett was happy to indulge him in the pretence that he was an honoured guest, and so he remained in bed, recruiting his strength, in anticipation of the moment when he would be able to make his escape.
* * *
Norrington was slow to recover, plagued by headaches and dizzy spells and a profound weakness that made shackles unnecessary. He caught sight of his reflection in the window-glass three nights later, and was shocked by his appearance - his skin was pale, his face was gaunt, and his eyes seemed to have sunk into his head. He held out a hand (also pale, also thin) and watched as the mild exertion caused his arm to tremble after only a few seconds.
In other ways, however, his life improved after the fever. He remained in the guest room, was fed three times a day, and was even allowed to wash himself, though it appeared that shaving was a function deemed too dangerous for him at present. Norrington doubted he could have wrested a razor from a palsied child, let alone from Proudfoot, Beckett's wiry but strong valet, but he didn't blame them for being cautious. Lord Beckett took to visiting him twice a day, usually accompanied by Mercer, and they exchanged a few barbed pleasantries before Beckett continued on to whatever engagements he had.
He was permitted to read, and Lord Beckett supplied him with books and pamphlets to while away the daylight hours. He was surprised to be handed Tillotson's sermons (9) - he had not thought that Beckett would be a pious man - but even though the sermons were widely admired, he soon set them aside in favour of The Iliad, in a new English translation. (10) Beckett had recommended the volumes warmly, though of course he could not resist the temptation of saying that the original Greek was infinitely more rewarding.
He could not concentrate for long periods, though, and spent many an hour simply sitting or lying in bed, looking up at the ceiling. He tried to talk to Susan, the maid, who was often given the task of watching over him, but she was shy and timorous, and would barely speak a word in his company. He watched her covertly with half-closed eyes, noting how she seemed wholly engrossed in her stitching. Though he resented her presence, he was never tempted to harm her: she was as much a captive as he, and had far less chance of ever escaping her present situation.
After only three days the extent of his boredom was such that he offered to assist her with her sewing. She had been setting seams in an endless sequence of shirts, handkerchiefs and pillowcases - all plain work, no decoration at all - and he saw an opportunity to help her and to relieve his own monotonous existence at the same time.
It took some time to persuade her to let him try a pillowcase, but once she had seen how neat and small his stitches were, and how straight his seams, she had little hesitation in accepting his help. She became a little more communicative as they worked together, and told him some interesting tales of life below-stairs that he had never suspected in his time as Captain and Commodore.
Norrington was examining a particularly neat seam in a linen tablecloth when Beckett walked in on them one afternoon, and he had the pleasure of realising that for once he had astonished his captor. He refused to be embarrassed by his discovery in the act of sewing, and merely set down the piece of cloth on his lap.
Beckett picked it up and examined the row of neat stitches before returning it. "Norrington, you are a man of unexpected talents."
"Every naval officer learns to sew." At Beckett's expression, he shrugged and added, "There are no seamstresses on ships, you know, and climbing spars and yards is hard on clothing. "
Beckett turned the piece over in his hands. "Are they all as capable as you?"
Norrington shook his head. "I have a fairer hand than most."
"And do you embroider as well as you set a seam? Do you knit? Do you weave?"
Norrington stuck his chin out. "You are making sport of me."
"Not at all. I'm merely curious to explore more of your talents." The guileless look that accompanied the words was not lost on Norrington, but he resolutely ignored it for now.
"I can embroider, a little, but I find the work tedious and the product useless. Plain sewing suffices for me."
Beckett looked at Susan. "But I find use for embroidery - or at least, for an embroidery maid, don't I, Susan?" he chucked her under the chin, and she lifted her eyes briefly to his before dropping her gaze to the floor again.
He patted her gently on the cheek. "Run along now, child." he ordered, and she hastened off, pausing only to shut the door behind her.
"Do you bed her?" asked Norrington, astonished. The girl had appeared far too innocent to appeal to his lordship's jaded palate.
"Indeed I do," replied Beckett, with an air of mischievous satisfaction. "Every Sunday morning before going to church." He tried to look pious. "There's nothing like a good rogering to set one up for a lengthy sermon. Besides, it reassures the servants."
Norrington stared at him, flummoxed. In the past twenty years he'd heard men give many excuses for taking servants to bed, but reassuring them was new to him. "In what way?"
"Oh," Beckett gave an airy wave of his hand, "that their master is a man with all the normal appetites - and accoutrements. They do get these absurd ideas about white men, you know - that we are built differently, that we are deformed under our clothing. I suppose if one is always clothed when the natives are accustomed to varying stages of nakedness, there is always idle speculation on what might be hidden under waistcoat and breeches. They wouldn't believe me or Proudfoot, but they’ll believe Susan.
He grinned, slyly, and continued. "It serves another purpose, as well. If their master should choose to spend time with other men, there is no reason for anyone to think that there is more to it than business or talk, when everyone knows he fucks the maid religiously every week. In fact, I may have inadvertently given rise to the belief that vigorous sexual congress is a pre-requisite to partaking of the sacrament in the Christian church. I cannot but think that the Reverend Thompson would be shocked if he were ever to learn of it. Pray remember his sensibilities and do not mention it to him."
Norrington laughed, in spite of himself. "I won't."
Beckett grinned back, looking for all the world like a mischievous schoolboy. He was absurdly attractive when he smiled, and Norrington found it disconcerting. He was glad when Mercer turned up to call his master to some new engagement, leaving him at peace.
When Susan returned, she bore another of glass of the bitter infusion for him, and a more pleasant draught to follow it, and he thanked her. She was a pretty thing, for someone so dark, and she had an easy grace that was entirely lacking in the English girls of his acquaintance. He didn't blame Beckett for taking advantage of her charms - in fact, he envied him, especially when he contrasted it with the more business-like arrangement he had with a discreet widow living across the harbour in Kingston.
* * *
As the Agent of the East India Trading Company, Beckett was busy most evenings, either dining with what passed for society in the town, or playing host to visiting ships' captains, hoping to gain a little more influence for the Company.
As Norrington grew a little stronger, and was less inclined to sleep for eighteen hours a day, Beckett started to call in after his return from these functions. He was often flushed with drink, though no one could have called him inebriated, and became positively chatty. He would pass scathing comments on those unfortunates with whom he had spent the evening, forcing a smile to Norrington's lips as he recognised many of the people he had known in his former life as one of the colony's senior Naval officers. Beckett's pithy remarks revealed an uncanny knack for spotting the weaknesses and foibles of those he met, and it wasn't until much later, when Beckett had gone, that Norrington wondered what Beckett might had said about him - and to whom.
Early one evening, about ten days into Norrington's convalescence, he was surprised by the entry of a slave bearing a large tray, which was set on the small table in the corner. He was followed by another, who busied himself in setting covers for two, and then by Mercer, who bore the wine. Finally Beckett himself entered, still in his relatively plain working dress, and gestured to Mercer.
Norrington was assisted out of bed and into a lightweight silk dressing-gown before he could make his way slowly to the table. Beckett sat opposite him and nodded to the servants, who proceeded to serve them as though this were nothing out of the ordinary.
They chatted in a desultory fashion during the meal - a modest one, by any gentleman's standards, but of good quality - and it wasn't until Mercer reappeared with a bowl of punch that Norrington realised Lord Beckett meant to stay the evening.
Beckett produced a pack of cards from his pocket and smiled. "Piquet, whist or écarté?" he asked, cordially.
Norrington hesitated before answering. Truth to tell, he wasn't much good at any of them, and he had nothing to wager. "What stakes?" he asked, cautiously.
Beckett gave a fox-like grin. "Worried, Norrington? You shouldn't be. You have nothing of value, so we'll play only for points."
"And what are the points worth?"
"My, my, you are a suspicious little officer, aren't you? Reassure yourself. The points are points only, not redeemable by currency or ... or by other means."
Norrington inclined his head, grateful for the clarification, even if it had been accompanied by yet another insult. "Whist, then." It was the least complicated, and he doubted he would be able to give Beckett a good game even then. After only one hour out of bed he was already drowsy, and he'd been plagued by a headache most of the day.
Beckett nodded, cut the cards and dealt the first hand.
At the end of play, Beckett was the clear winner, with a margin of several hundred points. Norrington apologised for his poor performance.
"I fear that this wretched headache has robbed me of my usual wits." He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the pain, which had become much worse with the effort of concentrating on the cards.
"Are you still troubled by that?"
"In the evenings, mainly. It improves daily, but I imagine that it will be several weeks yet before I am completely recovered."
"Hmm." Beckett rang the bell and the footman appeared a short time later. "Tell Proudfoot to fetch me my laudanum from the cabinet in my chamber."
The footman bowed and left. Beckett and Norrington chattered desultorily until the appearance of Proudfoot.
"The laudanum, milord," he said, bowing slightly.
"Excellent. Add a few drops to Mr Norrington's wine, he has the headache."
Proudfoot nodded, then looked to Norrington for permission. At Norrington's acquiescence, he took the half-full glass of wine and added ten drops of the reddish liquid, then held it out. Norrington looked at it for a few seconds, swirling the wine around to ensure that the laudanum was fully distributed, then tossed the contents of the glass down his throat. He was agreeably surprised to find little of the usual bitterness, and made comment to that effect.
Beckett looked pleased. "It is Sydenham's preparation," he explained, "a most agreeable mixture."
"Indeed. In what manner does it differ from the usual tincture of opium?"
"I have no idea. Proudfoot, do you happen to know Mr Sydenham's secret?"
Proudfoot, re-stoppered the bottle tightly and said, "I believe, milord, that the tincture is made with sherry and flavoured with spices. (11) More than that I could not say."
"Very well, Proudfoot. You may return the bottle to the cabinet."
Proudfoot refilled Norrington's glass with fresh wine, bowed, picked up the medicine bottle and left the room.
Norrington made a mental note to discover the exact whereabouts of Lord Beckett's medicine cabinet.
Footnotes:
(2) Ecclesiastes 9:4. The lion could also be taken as a reference to the lion rampant that is one of the symbols of England (and, incidentally, Scotland). Back
(3) "Give a dog a bad name and hang him" ie, a bad reputation is impossible to lose, so you get blamed for everything. Back
(4) This is the phrase that Lieutenant Norrington uses in the opening scene of POTC1, describing the fate deserved by "any man who sails under a pirate flag or wears a pirate brand". Back
(5) Machiavelli. The Prince. Back
(6) The northern coast of South America, especially between the Orinoco River and Panama. Back
(7) Cinchona, the basis for the drug quinine, which was the mainstay of treatment for malaria and other fevers from the seventeenth century until the 1950s. Most modern anti-malarials are synthetic variants of quinine. Back
(8) Bemrose, J. Miss Patty's Case: An Exercise in Seventeenth-Century Therapeutics. Medical History, 1958 July; 2(3): 221–224. Back
(9) The Revd John Tillotson (1630 – 1694) Archbishop of Canterbury. His published sermons were much admired. Back
(10) Alexander Pope published his translation of The Iliad in several volumes 1715-20. It was followed by The Odyssey, published 1725-26. Back
(11) Sydenham's Laudanum, or Tinctura Opii Crocata , was made by dissolving opium in sherry with saffron, cinnamon, and cloves. It tasted better and was not as nauseating as the usual tincture of opium. Back