Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for fun.




James Norrington is always welcome at the Tar. Liberal with his coin, he can be counted on to buy a number of rounds on the nights he comes in. He always sits at a table at the far end of the room, one eye on the door. He'd get more friends if he didn't outfit himself in full naval regalia and that damn wig, but he wouldn't generate as much respect on deck if he let his guard down too much. You can tell he gave it some thought. The uniform and wig stayed put, but he'd pay for any man still sober enough who could lift a glass. Formidable but fair. Generous. When you first meet him you think he's a right frosty bastard. Six months later you see him walk into your pub and you say to yourself, "Good man." Hear tell you didn't want to face him if you were up before him for looting—that was worth the lash, no quarter given—but getting stinking drunk because your lass t'weren't your lass no longer, he'll haul you back to your quarters himself.

But you will never see him on Thursday nights. Which is a bit of a blessing. No telling what might happen. By seven, the bar is four men deep, all of them grumbling. How he tore strips off of this midshipman for a one-inch rent in the sail. Threatened to bust a lieutenant because his boots weren't polished. That's just the beginning. No one escapes a tongue-lashing on Thursdays. If you're not in the brig or the sick bay, the Commodore is going to tear into you if he lays eyes on you.

Lots of men had opinions. Bunch of bollocks, frankly. How he was still pining for that Mrs. Turner. Nonsense. Or how he was in love with that new French whore plying her wares over in the bordello on York Street. Not bloody likely.

Not that I don't think the Commodore isn't capable of love, but it don't have nothing to do with Mrs. Turner. I polish the glasses and listen to all the palaver and smile to myself. The Commodore has a goodly fortune; what's to stop him from visiting somewhere French whenever his cock felt like it? As for Mrs. Turner? He don't look at her like he used to. He don't get that eye twitch no more.

I say nothing, just listen to them talk. The speculatin' gets wilder as the night wears on and the drink begins to take them.

All I know is that he orders a cask of rum every now and then. And not your everyday swill, no sir. Tis the finest rum. And know for a fact that his tastes don't run that way. A nice French Burgundy, a tall pint of bitter, that's his preference.

Took me a great while to figure it out. I don't say anything to no one. None of their business. Sides, the pirate can be counted on to buy a few rounds of his own when he's in port.




Fin