As far as Norrington was concerned, it had been a good plan. Simple. Well thought-out. And, most importantly, it should have killed two birds with one stone, as the saying went, allowing him to avoid the Turner-Swann wedding and be able to say that he, Commodore James Norrington, had made a valiant effort at capturing Jack Sparrow again.

The plan had come to him just five days before, when he’d heard about a gossip-muddled sighting of the Black Pearl off of a not so distant coast. The information had seemed to call to him, to say, "I am an excuse for you not to be at the wedding! Use me!" All he’d needed to do was to create an exaggerated sense of urgency with regards to making sure that Sparrow didn’t get away again and give his regrets to Miss Swann and the Goveror.

He’d said, "I’m sorry, Governor, Miss Swann, but I feel that I really must sail now, even if it is only a week before the wedding—an event which I will be greatly saddened to miss, mind you—while Sparrow’s trail is still warm. I must do my duty, you understand."

It should have been a wild goose chase that could have gone on for as long as Norrington had needed it to go on, however, as with most everything that related to Jack Sparrow, somehow everything had gone terribly, horribly wrong. Because they were only three days out of Port Royal, with four days left until the wedding, and there was the Pearl, floating gently between the Dauntless and the horizon.

Really, Norrington thought as he stood on the deck, his fingers curled tightly around the ship’s railing, sometimes the twists and turns of his life were quite unfair.

If he’d been a man prone to foul language—which he wasn’t; he was a role model for his men, after all—he might have muttered an oath, a ‘bloody’ or a ‘hell.’ Or, if he’d been standing alone on deck, he might have actually said those words in conjunction with each other. Loudly.

As it was, though, since he was a Commodore surrounded by his men, he just thought them.

Bloody hell.

It was just bloody, bloody unfair.

If his mother had ever known he could think such language, she would have rolled over in her grave, but really, there was only so much a man could be expected to take without doing something drastic, something dire, something—

"Your orders, Commodore?"

Gillette was standing beside him, his chin up, his chest out, his entire body completely puffed up with pride. He had not been the man to spot the Black Pearl floating not so far away, but he’d been the one to tell Norrington that they’d finally caught up with their quarry, and that, he seemed to think, was reason enough for proud behavior.

"Mission accomplished, Commodore," he’d said. "And only three days out of port!"

Yes, Norrington had thought. He was quite aware of that fact, thank you very much.

"The nerve," Gillette had continued as he’d led Norrington out onto the deck and had pointed to the Pearl as if his Commodore would miss the only other ship on that particular stretch of ocean with them. He’d shaken his head back and forth, the curls of his wig bouncing, and his face had been pinched with earnest disgust.

"To taunt us," he’d continued. "To sail so close to our shores and think that we would do nothing about it." Then he’d spat Sparrow’s name—"Sparrow!"—and had looked at Norrington expectantly, awaiting orders.

Just like he was still looking at Norrington expectantly. Awaiting orders.

"Shall I order the men to ready the guns?" Gillette prompted several seconds later, when Norrington still hadn’t responded. "Shall I tell them to fire?"

Norrington heaved a long, drawn out, mental sigh, but still didn’t answer, because the Pearl was turning, moving towards them, its torn black sails fluttering in time with the ocean breeze. The skull on the ship’s flag seemed to wink at Norrington as it moved, as if it was laughing at him, and really, he thought, what more could he expect from a ship with Sparrow as her captain?

He sighed audibly this time.

He wanted to say that they should just ignore the Pearl, go right on by, and keep sailing away from Port Royal for at least another day, so that they’d be four days out with only three days until the wedding, but he didn’t.

Instead, he said, "Ready the guns, but hold your fire."

The expression on Gillette’s face changed from one of pride mixed with earnest disgust to one of confusion mixed with pride mixed with earnest disgust. He saluted, though, and turned smartly on his heel. He was already calling orders for the men to ready the guns as he walked away.

Norrington looked back towards the Black Pearl and sighed again, because he’d had a plan.

He’d had ulterior motives.

It was very hard to see one’s plans, one’s ulterior motives, go up in smoke, down in flames, sink to the bottom of Davy Jones’ locker as the sayings went, so he watched the Pearl instead, judged its approach, and wondered what he should do next.

Then he wondered what was happening, exactly, because he began to see the most curious things: a lifeboat dropping to the water, a ladder falling down over the side, nearly touching the waves.

Norrington raised his spyglass so that he could look more closely and he saw a figure with a cocked hat and matted hair making his way down the ladder to the lifeboat below. He recognized the swagger even as the man was suspended on thin ropes in mid air.

He sighed again, and as he did so, he heard feet moving quickly, coming up behind him.

"Sparrow," Gillette gasped. "He’s trying to make his escape! The rogue… Shall we lower the boats, sir? We can catch him, I’m sure—"

Then even Gillette stopped talking, because it became apparent that Sparrow wasn’t trying to escape—something that Norrington had already figured out for himself. He was a very intelligent Commodore, after all. No, Sparrow was rowing the lifeboat towards them, and through his spyglass, Norrington could see the pirate wave in his direction, at him, he was sure.

"What’s he doing, sir?" Gillette asked, looking entirely confused now.

"I’m sure that I don’t know," Norrington replied, even though he thought that he did.

He was sure that he did when Sparrow was pulled up on deck a few minutes later, smiling and presenting his wrists for the chains they’d been locked in several times before, but his suspicions weren’t truly confirmed until he ordered Sparrow to be taken down to the brig.

Then the pirate leaned close to him, his breath smelling of rum, and said, "I was beginning to think that I’d have to sail to Port Royal myself if you didn’t show up soon." Then, leaning closer: "You didn’t think I’d miss the wedding, did you? I told you already that I loved weddings. The joyful union of two souls, the celebration of young love, the drinks all around…"

Norrington sighed again.

It had been a simple plan, really. A good plan. Well thought-out. Nearly infallible, as far as he’d been able to see.

The only problem with it, it seemed, was that he hadn’t counted on Sparrow having a plan of his own.

"Enough," he said. With one hand he gestured for his men to take the pirate away and with the other he gestured for the ship to be turned around, so that they could head back to Port Royal, back home, where they would arrive with one day to spare.

Unless, Norrington thought as he made his way back to the cabin. Unless he could come up with another plan along the way…