“Seems like they’ve caught that pirate,” said the Earl, throwing down the leaflet he had been reading. “About time too. Isn’t that something you know a little about, eh, Norrington?”

Admiral James Norrington, correct down to the metal buckle on his shoes, looked up from his book.

“I’m sorry?”

“Pirates,” repeated the Earl. “They’ve caught that pirate they were hunting, out in the Caribbean.” He glanced down at the leaflet. “Odd name. Jack Sparrow.”

Norrington put down his book with a thump. “Who’s caught him?”

“Captain Walter, out in Jamaica.”

“Well, well,” said Norrington. “I thought he was dead. What will they do with him?”

The Earl shrugged. “Hang him, I suppose. What else does one do with pirates?”

Norrington smiled, slightly. “Indeed.”

Standing, the Earl bowed in the Admiral’s direction.

“Well, I must be off. Duty calls, eh?”

“My lord.” Norrington nodded his head in answer to the bow.

“Admiral.”

Left alone, Norrington reached out and picked up the leaflet, glancing over the florid prose and gathering that the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow had been captured, along with his equally infamous and feared vessel, off Hispaniola a month earlier. Although the pirate and his crew had put up a fierce fight a Naval fleet of a frigate and two brigs had proved too much for him, and he had been taken to Kingston to await execution.

Norrington leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Ten years since he left the Caribbean, called home for more mundane duties than chasing wayward pirates between islands. Twenty since he had met, battled with, sailed with and ultimately failed to hang the man who now lay in a Navy gaol.

It had been, he reflected, one of the strangest weeks of his career, lurching from pride to nerves to anger and fear, not to mention a prolonged period of frustration. And all through the infuriating figure of Jack Sparrow, the pirate who had popped up out of the sea like nothing so much as a rather smelly mermaid. Norrington had, of course, heard of Jack Sparrow. Everyone had. He was rumoured to be absolutely insane, or constantly drunk – or possibly both – and Norrington’s first impressions of the man had borne out both rumours.

But then, despite a crowd of bayonet-bearing marines, Sparrow had escaped, and set in motion a train of events that ended up with Norrington and his men battling skeletal pirates aboard the Navy’s best frigate.

In the comfortable smoking-room of his London club, that night seemed a long time ago. But he remembered clearly Sparrow’s quiet resignation when he had been recaptured and thrown in the frigate’s brig for the voyage back to Port Royal. For a few moments, Norrington thought he had seen a different Jack Sparrow. That, of course, was before the marines sent to guard the pirate had come back on deck laughing over some story he had told them.

So Norrington had gone down below to confront Sparrow, to try and find out what the man really wanted. He found the pirate studying the rough wooden floor of the brig intently, and running his fingers through the many colourful beads entwined in his hair.

Sparrow had looked up. “Come to gloat?” he had asked, before answering himself. “No, you wouldn’t do that, would you? Too much of a bloody gentleman. Well, before you ask, I’m fine, savvy?”

“I came to request that you stop telling your tales to your guards,” said Norrington, finding himself on edge in the presence of this unfathomable man. “You’re distracting them.”

“Am I?” said Sparrow. He lay down and closed his eyes. “I’ll stop, then.”

Indeed, Norrington reflected now, absently nodding his head in greeting at the baronet who had just entered the room, Sparrow had been as good as his word. He had behaved himself for the rest of the voyage, and for the further week he had spent imprisoned in Fort Charles. When Norrington went to check on him, he was surprised to find a Sparrow who thanked him for edible meals and complimented him on his ships.

But he had still had to be hung. Norrington never enjoyed executions, finding the whole spectacle rather uncomfortable. For Sparrow’s, the whole town turned out – Elizabeth Swann was there – everyone seemed determined to give the famous pirate a send-off that Port Royal would remember. Of course, in the end, they did remember it, but not for the hanging.

Norrington knew some of his men thought him mad for having let Sparrow go that day. Indeed the pirate remained a pirate, and over the following years various attempts were made to capture him and his imposing ship, the Black Pearl, as it sailed the Caribbean attacking merchant ships. All failed. In public, Norrington put on a display of annoyance and anger each time an officer reported back after another fruitless pursuit. In private, he found himself rather ambivalent about Sparrow and the prospect of having him captured. Ultimately enemy fleets were more of a threat than the Black Pearl and her eccentric captain.

He had left the Caribbean having never spoken to Sparrow again, not since the pirate had fallen backwards off a cliff in Jamaica; and in truth he had barely given him a thought for several years.

Now, Norrington found himself oddly sad to hear of Sparrow’s imminent death. The world would certainly be a duller place without the colourful figure of the pirate captain in it. The execution was warranted, certainly, but still …

The Admiral picked up his book again. There was always a chance the hanging would not take place. The Navy was, after all, dealing with Captain Jack Sparrow.

© Joanne Harris 2005