A · Short · Drop · and · Sudden · Stop

Ten years ago, I had been stationed in Port Royal for perhaps a year or so. I was lieutenant, under the command of Commodore Thomas Ashworth on the ship of the line Augustus. Weatherby Swann was governor of Jamaica, and Jack Sparrow was barely a speck on my horizon, known to me only as a troublemaker branded by the East India Trading Company for his refusal to transport slaves. Elizabeth Swann was a spirited girl who I entertained with my war stories, and Will Turner was an ambitious youth who yearned to handle a sword as well as I did. I spent my pay on rent, books and brandy, and jealously kept the latter away from the two other lieutenants I shared quarters with.

Ten years ago, I was fighting in first and last war of my career thus far: the War of Jenkins' Ear, a conflict that soon became the War of Austrian Succession. Great Britain fought against Spain, and I learned that the Spaniards were tough fighters who were loathe to retreat from a battle. Their obstinacy meant that I saw much bloodshed inflicted on both sides. I had been about six years in the service of His Majesty then, and though I was not unfamiliar with the brutality and death that battles and skirmishes bring, I couldn't help but feel staggered by the theatre of war. I was no innocent to begin with, and yet the war improved my skills with the sword and pistol further. War made fast learners of all of us that wanted to survive it.

I am always mindful of the responsibilities of my rank....they weigh heavy upon my mind even in moments of peace and relaxation. When I was that young lieutenant, my greatest concerns were ensuring that I could appease my landlady with rent and ensure I was fulfilling my duties to the best of my ability. I spent my nights ashore with my roommates, playing cards, drinking and smoking. At sea, I played my violin and wrote letters to my mother and siblings (goodness, George and Victoria were still young children then). Life did not feel as easy then, but I yearn for the relative simplicity of it now, long before Jack Sparrow made his presence felt and Elizabeth was no more to me than a close friend who I wanted to protect. If I'd known what was to come, I might have savoured that time more.

The most dangerous thing I've ever done is sail my ship into a hurricane. The circumstances of why I sailed my ship into that hurricane are well-known by this point....I've addressed it before and won't do so again here.

The dangers of life at sea are myriad. I've confronted war, piracy and disease. Yet Nature is something entirely unto itself. Going into battle with nature is a tougher fight than can be offered by a pirate ship or another navy's fleet. Nature does not yield or retreat; it cannot be placated with a treaty. Our cannons, our gunpowder, our swords are powerless against the fierce winds and rough seas that a hurricane produces. The hurricane I sailed the Dauntless into reduced it to mere driftwood in a short time. There was no question of considering a strategy to avoid being hit as one might do in a battle against another ship, it quickly became a matter of escaping with our lives; of course, many of the crew did not survive. It was not shots or cannon fire that killed them; it was the sea, who can take lives even more swiftly than either of those weapons can.

Hurricanes and storms are unavoidable in the West Indies; all I can do is keep an eye upon the horizon and hope that I don't sail into inclement weather. But I will never again attempt to sail directly through such weather. I value my life, and the lives of my officers and crew even moreso.

If I don't understand someone after a first meeting, then I must study them until I can understand them adequately- this is particularly pertinent when it comes to officers in other navies. We engage in pleasantries without ever quite getting to the heart of who we are. Today I may drink wine with the French commander of the West Indian fleet, and tomorrow I may be facing off against him at sea. I can converse with him, write letters, eat at his table, but all this won't necessarily help me understand him beyond that he prefers beef to lamb and writes with his left hand.

Sordid as it can be, I do rely upon a healthy amount of gossip, mostly through the veritable web of civilians, officers and diplomats that stretch across the West Indies. Being in close proximity to the French, Spanish and Dutch colonies, I cross paths frequently with all, and that is how I get my information on one or the other. By way of example, one of my former lieutenants, Andrew (now a captain in his own right) is half-French and has connections with French officers as a result. Where those men might be reluctant to speak with me, they will tell Andrew about whom the new commander is, what his temperament is like and where he was prior to being sent here. Such information helps, whether I am entertaining him as a guest or engaging him in battle as an enemy.

Knowing your friends, enemies and all those in-between is absolutely vital to my chosen profession. As we are in a time of peace, so much now hinges upon the niceties of diplomacy, of treading carefully and not offending sensibilities. Understanding ultimately might not stop a war, but it may well help pave the way to an eventual peace.

The question of ‘What will you do if you cannot sail?’ always passes through my mind, though not in a time of battle as many might think. No, it is a question I ponder to myself when all is quiet, when I have the time to mull over it.

If I could never sail again.....I honestly do not know. After the Dauntless was shipwrecked I did not want to serve on, let alone captain a ship again, though during those months I missed life at sea terribly, and it was then that I first considered the question in my mind.

One day I know I will not be able to sail again. Perhaps I will be too old, or I'll suffer an injury that might end my career before then. Should that happen, my only wish is that I can continue to serve His Majesty in whatever capacity I'm capable of. I like the idea of being able to pass on my knowledge and experience. Perhaps I would teach midshipmen, school them in mathematics and navigation; or else preside over examinations for lieutenant. If I can no longer serve His Majesty or the Admiralty? Then all I ask is that I am not idle in my retirement; that I still have the pleasure of books and learning, and company I can engage with.
Poor substitutes for the freedom of the sea, of course. But I will keep them in mind, for that sad day when I will return to dry land for good.

A mundane topic, talking about the weather, but if you insist...

I spent most of my youth in England, and every Englishman knows and loves the English climate; it is cold and more often than not, wet. We lament the lack of sun when we are there, yet when we leave, we miss the mists and early morning dews that it brings; the freshness it produces. I do myself, having been posted in parts of our empire that have been quite the opposite of England in terms of weather: Gibraltar, India and now Jamaica. Some compatriots find the heat oppressive when they first arrive in Port Royal; having already spent several summers in India (where you begin to sweat even as you climb out of the bath tub you were bathing in to cool down), I was quite prepared for it.

A good day for sailing in the West Indies means strong winds and clear skies. The weather here in general changes little; it is warm all year round. The one obstacle to the optimum sailing conditions in this part of the world is the storm season in the summer months. The tropical storms and hurricanes are severe and destructive, whether you're on solid ground or at sea. They will make matchstick wood out of ships and smash windows with the strength of their winds.

When the storms pass, I supervise the repairs being made to our fleet and miss England for its comparatively mild showers. At Christmas time, I watch ladies fan themselves at the church services and remember that London is covered in snow. Thinking about it, I'm quite struck by how something as mundane as the weather can evoke homesickness.

There are two ways I could die: at sea or on land.

If I die at sea, then I ask that my shipmates conduct my funeral and burial there. I have myself presided over burials at sea. We have a reading from scripture, and then a few words are said about the deceased before he is laid to rest. It is a short service, perfunctory, done this way to ensure that we move on as quickly as possible with our duties, particularly if we've been subjected to attack. The rumours regarding my first 'death' say that my body was thrown overboard from the Flying Dutchman with very little regard. I pray I am treated better next time.

I may also die as my father did: an old man in his bed. Funeral arrangements will primarily be decided by my family. All I ask is that I be buried with my father on the grounds of our ancestral home. My great-grandfather had a mausoleum built on the grounds for this purpose, and I expect that I would be interred there.

I have few demands when it comes to the arrangements for my funeral. As long as I'm buried with dignity and respect, I do not mind how it is all conducted.

He supposes he should be surprised. A Creole woman standing on the deck of his ship dressed in rags and shells is not a sight often seen. Instinctively however, he knows this woman. As he walks across the desk towards her, he recognises her scent, the scent he has known for many years.

There are so many things he wants to say to her, too many questions to ask- somehow he knows that this is a dream, and their time is fleeting. She takes his hands in hers, and the touch of her skin reminds him of sitting in a dory, trailing his fingers over the surface of the water.

"It was not your time, James Norrington." she replies simply, not waiting for one question he must know the answer to.

"My work is not yet done then." he asks, forlorn in her presence. I was ready to die. For Elizabeth, for England, for the greater good. Was I not at peace then?

"Peace is far away," she continues. "Many more years, many more battles to fight. Far greater things have a claim on you before I."

She somehow manages to silence him with that, though it does not stop him from pouring over the words in his mind, the desire to tell her how he has loved her all these years, how she is his first mistress in all things. She nods at him though, having heard all this before.
Calypso's reciprocation comes shortly before he comes to, and when she presses her soft kiss to his forehead, it feels like a blessing.

It is very easy to scare a sailor, I can tell you that with absolute certainty. We may well pride ourselves on surviving storms at sea or not running from a fight. However, what should also be remembered is that sailors are also rather superstitious folk. We read into the smallest occurrences at sea as portents, good or bad. And that is how you scare us.

There are many ghost stories surrounding the sea- the Flying Dutchman is one such tale that has put the fear of God into many a sailor. Before I knew of the truth of the Dutchman's existence, I'd heard several men I served alongside say that they'd caught a glimpse of it, almost always when it was dark. Perhaps they did, but it's equally likely they didn't. After keeping watch for many hours at night, your eyes can play tricks on you. It isn't hard to not have such tales on the mind at those hours either. As I said, we are easily scared, much to the point where we can scare ourselves without anyone having to do it in the first place!

Of course, we are very susceptible to tricks, particularly on All Hallows' Eve. I remember a lieutenant covering himself completely with hair powder and frightening quite a few crew members out of their wits one year. Other times, it could be as simple as hiding a lucky charm and then placing it in such a way that would frighten its owner.

As for myself....I don't frighten as easy as I used to. I suspect the adventures of the last few years have gone a long way towards that. Once I knew the Flying Dutchman was a reality and saw its ghastly captain and crew for myself, I overcame my fear of it. Of course, this won't stop me from indulging in my own superstition- it is imperative that I pour a libation for the sea every time I set sail. To not do so would be truly frightening!

It goes without saying that I hear a lot of innuendo. I can’t walk the deck of my ship without overhearing my officers and crew engaging in it. They talk about women, drinking, gambling, other crew on the ship. Perhaps some of it is offensive and disrespectful, but I won’t reprimand the men for doing it. There are far more serious matters to deal with than a few men teasing each other about a visiting a brothel.

When I was an officer, I was often subjected to innuendo myself, though I could never quite bring myself to indulge in it to the same extent; I suppose I was a little embarrassed to hear such things, even when they were double entendres. But after my little period of exile in Tortuga, I’ve found that I’m not quite as concerned by it; as you can imagine, the things I overheard in the place were so colourful that everything afterwards seemed quite tame by comparison. So there it is!

It used to be that cleaning up a mess could be as simple as swabbing a deck or mending a sail. When I became a captain however, and when conflict presented itself, the worse they got. There is no more repellent sight than the aftermath of a battle. I’ve boarded the ships of the defeated and smelled the blood in the air. We take possession of the ship, therefore we repair the damages, we bury the bodies and erase all traces of those the ship formerly belonged to.

I’m cleaning up a mess up at the moment, as it happens. Or rather assisting in the process. Lord Beckett’s attempts at seizing power have left a trail of destruction extending all the way back to England. I recently testified to his thuggish behaviour and my belief in his responsibility for Governor Swann’s death. There are still many disgruntled merchants in Port Royal who have been treated poorly on account of his seizing control of the ports. While St James' Palace decide who the next governor will be, I must reconcile these merchants, tell them that this will not happen again.

If all of the above is not sufficient enough an indicator, let me say that as I’ve risen through the ranks, the messes I’ve had to clean up have become increasingly varied in their nature and larger in size. And quite frankly, anyone who has ambitions of greater power and authority should heed my warning. The prestige is great, but so are the responsibilities. If you don't remember that, then you will surely have many messes on your hands.

Admiral James Norrington
Pirates of the Caribbean (films)

My first clear memory is of my mother. More specifically, my mother reading to me. I was five years old, we were in the garden and she was reading Homer's Iliad.

Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans...

It made little sense to me at the time, so naturally I pressed my mother for answers. Who was Achilles? Why was he angry? Who were the Achaeans? Why were they fighting? Mother answered none of these questions, only berating me for interrupting.

"If you sit quietly and listen, you'll find out." was her reply.

She read the first book that day, and I can recall her voice now. She did not speak like an actor might, or even a bard like Homer himself. Such figures might have proved gripping storytellers to a young boy such as myself, but mother made it compelling in her own way, to the point where I can still remember sitting there, listening. I revisited the Iliad when I was being tutored in classical Greek at the age of eleven, and when I read the English translation, I heard mother's voice in my mind, reciting it.

While my father might take much of the credit for my chosen profession, hearing the Iliad (and subsequently, the Odyssey), at that age perhaps made an impression on me that was indelible. My father's later tales of his life at sea followed on after the exploits of Achilles and Odysseus, the latter in particular being a hero of mine for his exploits at sea and ability to overcome obstacles to return home.

What I will say is most important about this first memory is that it is a happy one. While my life since that time has not always been a contented existence, I can at least cast my mind back to a time when it was and be grateful for it.

The monarchy is perhaps the one principle that all Englishmen hold as sacrosanct. England went six years without a king to rule over it, and the traitor Cromwell was not long in the grave before the people restored the monarchy and brought Charles II out of exile. They believed so sincerely in the monarchy that the bodies of the men who orchestrated the overthrow of Charles I were exhumed from their graves and executed posthumously. In my mind, there is no doubt that my countrymen will not abandon their ruler again; king or queen, they are truly untouchable.

Personally, I have perhaps one belief that I will always adhere to, and that is to protect those unable to defend themselves. I've seen what those who abuse their power are capable of; I don't always witness it, but I see what they leave behind. Death, destruction. In some instances, many years of hard work reduced to nothing.

Perhaps I was lured into the life of a sailor by my father's tales of adventure, but the true revelation I've experienced out of life in the navy is that we officers exist to protect British civilians and land. We die for it, and gladly so! And that is what matters above all else.

When I think back on my father, there is always one detail that escapes me: his hair colour. I know for a fact that he had dark hair like me; I possess a portrait of him as a youth, and it is in evidence there. Yet, when I picture my father in my mind, almost always I see him wearing a wig. A wig not unlike the one I wear, and that all senior navy officers wear.

If I may be frank, having to wear a wig is not a particularly pleasurable aspect of my profession, especially in the warm climate of the West Indies. Though it may not appear so, it can be a cumbersome thing to wear and is probably my least favourite part of the uniform. Still, it is more practical and less messy than powdering my hair, and probably not as uncomfortable as the more elaborate wigs that elder statesman such as the governor choose to wear.

And the entirely strange truth of it is that I couldn't ever seem to dispense with wearing one. After resigning my commission, I arrived in Tortuga still dressed in full uniform. Two or three months later, I had traded in most of that fine clothing but for three items: my tricorn, my coat, and, oddest of all, my wig. My coat and tricorn I kept for practicality's sake, but I cannot explain why I kept the wig. It was as though I could not fully part from my former life as an officer. As bedraggled and smelly as the thing became, I continued to wear it.

To end this little tale, when I did finally lose the wig (by now something that resembled more a dead mammal than a head covering), within a day or two I was given a new one, along with the uniform I would wear as admiral. This perhaps just goes to show that once you are bestowed with authority, you never quite escape its trappings, as frivolous and unwanted as they are.