Igor, Froderick
04-21-2015, 10:50 PM
A fun tie-in idea I wanted to play around with...
Reformatted manuscript from the journals of Commodore James Norrington:
Caribbean Isles, 1714
Mist gathered along the shoreline as the rowing from the longboats creaked ever so slightly. It was early morning and Colonel James Norrington picked at the crumbs between his eyes. Another oar squeaked in its holder and he raised his finger to his lips at the private doing the rowing.
The private looked at him nervously, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. Perhaps it was the nerves, or the humidity. Even at this hour, the warm island moisture hung thick in the air and the thought of a cold glass of ice water made every soldier's lips smack.
James clicked back the hammer of his flintlock pistol and grabbed the scabbard of his officer's saber as he half stood above his troops in the boat.
"We're close," he whispered. "Fix bayonets."
Out of the swirling fog came the sandy banks surrounded by dense tropical flora. Smoke drifted out from some of the palms further along the small beach. Some of the Spaniards had likely begun brewing their morning coffee.
The bayonets clicked in quiet unison and the longboats brushed up on the sand banks. James and his red-coated marauders slunk ashore and through the jungle towards the unsuspecting enemy camp.
All men crouched low following James. The young colonel was perspiring more than he could remember. He motioned with his non-pistol carrying hand for the troops to form a skirmish line.
The tip of a gold-laced tricorn peaked above the thicket. A sentinel, dressed in a pale grey uniform, stood a few feet away. He appeared as a ghost in those colors, which he soon would be, James thought. The time had come.
James aimed his flintlock and fired at the dazing guard. The shot cracked, a powerful signal in the quiet jungle. The guard's lifeless body hit the dirt. "Charge!" He yelled, and sprinted forward with his fight-ready marines and crewmen.
Before they knew the dawn Spanish soldiers were bayoneted in their tents. Those that gathered around small cooking fires scrambled to arms to late. A captain with a long Spanish blade fought instensly, slaying Sergeant Jenkins with a thrust. Damn. James just lost one of his crew’s best morale boosters.
The mustachioed captain now stared him down. James approached slowly, his own blade in hand, the grunts of skirmish all around. The Spanish officer, gallant in instinct, charged with his blade, the flaps of his long justaucorps flapping in the attack, like a sea galley in battle.
The powerful swing met James’ own blade and sparks flew. Steel slid against steel down to the hilts until both backed away. The Spaniard’s attack continued, and they danced in parry and riposte. His opponent never seemed to waiver, while he struggled to block the strikes and lunges.
Pain seared his left shoulder as steel cut through his thick red coat and made it redder with fresh blood. James had been stung by sword before, but this not only had the pulsing pain of a gash but that of burning as well.
A sardonic smile crept on the officer’s face. “You English know little. Us men of Spain rub our blades with acids of Caribe plants.”
James clenched his jaw, managing “Good for you.”
“You’ll never find the golden cache,” The Spaniard said, his face now determined and grave.
In a flash the man lunged with his sword, catching James off guard. He spun to avoid the attack and tripped over a dead soldier—not telling if it was redcoated or gray—and landed on one of the camp tents, causing it to collapse.
Another strike swung dangerously close to his neck. He struggled to reach for his sword which had gotten tangled in the tent.
He heard his rival say “Adios, senhor,” and he grabbed what tent fabric he could to help block the brunt of the blade. The tactic worked, causing the captain’s blade to tangle while he found his own and thrust upward.
The Spaniard groaned and fell, sword-point piercing his breast.
James looked down upon the dying officer and said, “I’m sorry sir, but that gold will be found. I know maps and I know booby-traps.”
“Ah, yes,” the Spaniard rasped, “but do you know the jungle? It took fifty of my men… You do not want to know what happens there. Now I join my brothers.” Even in dying this stalwart captain managed a smirk.
James closed the man’s lifeless eyelids, his brow furrowed in contemplation of what the dying man meant.
By now his troops had conquered the encampment and small groups of Spanish prisoners were being tied up.
One of his sergeants strode up, his clothes covered in sand and blood. “Sir, we’ve already found the maps,” he said with a smile.
“Good, sergeant. See to the wounded. We shall make camp and start our hunt on the morrow.”
“Aye, sir, and if I may say sir, a smashing good plan, Colonel.” The sergeant saluted.
James nodded to the man and, wiping the blood from his sword on the tent canvas, peered into the surrounding jungle, his face outlined in worry.
Reformatted manuscript from the journals of Commodore James Norrington:
Caribbean Isles, 1714
Mist gathered along the shoreline as the rowing from the longboats creaked ever so slightly. It was early morning and Colonel James Norrington picked at the crumbs between his eyes. Another oar squeaked in its holder and he raised his finger to his lips at the private doing the rowing.
The private looked at him nervously, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. Perhaps it was the nerves, or the humidity. Even at this hour, the warm island moisture hung thick in the air and the thought of a cold glass of ice water made every soldier's lips smack.
James clicked back the hammer of his flintlock pistol and grabbed the scabbard of his officer's saber as he half stood above his troops in the boat.
"We're close," he whispered. "Fix bayonets."
Out of the swirling fog came the sandy banks surrounded by dense tropical flora. Smoke drifted out from some of the palms further along the small beach. Some of the Spaniards had likely begun brewing their morning coffee.
The bayonets clicked in quiet unison and the longboats brushed up on the sand banks. James and his red-coated marauders slunk ashore and through the jungle towards the unsuspecting enemy camp.
All men crouched low following James. The young colonel was perspiring more than he could remember. He motioned with his non-pistol carrying hand for the troops to form a skirmish line.
The tip of a gold-laced tricorn peaked above the thicket. A sentinel, dressed in a pale grey uniform, stood a few feet away. He appeared as a ghost in those colors, which he soon would be, James thought. The time had come.
James aimed his flintlock and fired at the dazing guard. The shot cracked, a powerful signal in the quiet jungle. The guard's lifeless body hit the dirt. "Charge!" He yelled, and sprinted forward with his fight-ready marines and crewmen.
Before they knew the dawn Spanish soldiers were bayoneted in their tents. Those that gathered around small cooking fires scrambled to arms to late. A captain with a long Spanish blade fought instensly, slaying Sergeant Jenkins with a thrust. Damn. James just lost one of his crew’s best morale boosters.
The mustachioed captain now stared him down. James approached slowly, his own blade in hand, the grunts of skirmish all around. The Spanish officer, gallant in instinct, charged with his blade, the flaps of his long justaucorps flapping in the attack, like a sea galley in battle.
The powerful swing met James’ own blade and sparks flew. Steel slid against steel down to the hilts until both backed away. The Spaniard’s attack continued, and they danced in parry and riposte. His opponent never seemed to waiver, while he struggled to block the strikes and lunges.
Pain seared his left shoulder as steel cut through his thick red coat and made it redder with fresh blood. James had been stung by sword before, but this not only had the pulsing pain of a gash but that of burning as well.
A sardonic smile crept on the officer’s face. “You English know little. Us men of Spain rub our blades with acids of Caribe plants.”
James clenched his jaw, managing “Good for you.”
“You’ll never find the golden cache,” The Spaniard said, his face now determined and grave.
In a flash the man lunged with his sword, catching James off guard. He spun to avoid the attack and tripped over a dead soldier—not telling if it was redcoated or gray—and landed on one of the camp tents, causing it to collapse.
Another strike swung dangerously close to his neck. He struggled to reach for his sword which had gotten tangled in the tent.
He heard his rival say “Adios, senhor,” and he grabbed what tent fabric he could to help block the brunt of the blade. The tactic worked, causing the captain’s blade to tangle while he found his own and thrust upward.
The Spaniard groaned and fell, sword-point piercing his breast.
James looked down upon the dying officer and said, “I’m sorry sir, but that gold will be found. I know maps and I know booby-traps.”
“Ah, yes,” the Spaniard rasped, “but do you know the jungle? It took fifty of my men… You do not want to know what happens there. Now I join my brothers.” Even in dying this stalwart captain managed a smirk.
James closed the man’s lifeless eyelids, his brow furrowed in contemplation of what the dying man meant.
By now his troops had conquered the encampment and small groups of Spanish prisoners were being tied up.
One of his sergeants strode up, his clothes covered in sand and blood. “Sir, we’ve already found the maps,” he said with a smile.
“Good, sergeant. See to the wounded. We shall make camp and start our hunt on the morrow.”
“Aye, sir, and if I may say sir, a smashing good plan, Colonel.” The sergeant saluted.
James nodded to the man and, wiping the blood from his sword on the tent canvas, peered into the surrounding jungle, his face outlined in worry.