Chapter Text
TITLE: Quo Warranto
AUTHORS: 
hippediva and elessil
DISCLAIMERS: The Rodent Empire owns them. We pilfer.
PAIRING: Jack Sparrow / James Norrington
RATING: from gen to XXX. This chapter--PG-13.
There will be action illustrations in later chapters.
SUMMARY: This story starts at the beginning of AWE, from where things take a different turn. We have blown canon out of the water, sent it down with the Kraken and created an alternative tale whereby James Norrington finds himself responsible for Port Royal and the fate of the West Indies. Along the way, Norrington finds himself burdened with unintended duty, unforeseen consequences, and one particular uninvited compatriot.
Quo warranto translates as “By what warrant/authority?” and in most English legal systems is a prerogative writ requiring the person to whom it is directed to show what authority they have for exercising some right or power they claim to hold.
The air was sticky and still as those moments just before a storm. Port Royal's familiar rocks were all but lost in a blanket of fog that would have done a London winter proud, save for the oppressive heat that made it stick in the nostrils.
As eerie as the misting shroud that cocooned the city was the silence. Even through the worst fog, one could always hear the sounds of the dock, but they were missing, leaving only the slap of the waves and the creak of the timbers beneath James Norrington's boots.
The mist-soaked wool of his uniform weighed down his shoulders as he stepped down the gang. Two marines, alone on the dock, approached. "Admiral. Lord Beckett expects your report."
Norrington raised an eyebrow, but when they turned and left, he followed.
The paved streets were as empty as the docks, stone washed clean with the recent rain, gleaming almost white underneath the mist. No curses of coachmen chiding their horses, no screams of mountebanks, not even a shouted fight over some triviality or other. A single coach sped by, the hoofbeats echoing on the empty streets.
Beckett's office seemed lively in turn. The chandelier overhead was lit, flames reflecting in the warm polished wood of the large desk. Norrington straightened and waited for Beckett to acknowledge his arrival. "Milord."
Lord Beckett set his teacup down. "Ah, Admiral. How good of you to come so promptly. I trust the fog did not impede your journey?"
"If it had, the waters around England could scarcely be sailed," Norrington said with a tight-lipped smile. "Naturally, it did to some extent limit the potential success of a reconaissance mission such as this."
"I was afraid you would say that." Beckett's immaculate wig nearly matched his plain linen, giving him rather the air of a papist priest. "After all, a little fog around one port cannot have put a stop to your entire mission." His blue eyes were mildly questioning.
"To the mission, no. But merchantmen prefer to seek safe harbour rather than sail out when squalls are clearly imminent."
His lordship toyed with a quill. "Your report, my dear Admiral, cannot possibly consist of a weather report and empty harbours."
"Milord, if there were more interesting matters to be reported, I would have mentioned them at the first opportunity." Norrington crossed his arms. The tale of the Dutchman was well known, and while it was one thing to accept to be robbed for safe passage, it was quite another to face Hell itself in the shape of calamari.
"That cannot be a good environment for proper business. It makes one wonder how the local merchants can possibly continue. Their debts will be pressing." Beckett regarded the tall man before him quizzically. "Perhaps they require more security from the Naval powers in these waters, don't you agree? Please, sit down, Admiral."
Norrington glanced at the chair. "If you would forgive me, Milord, I would prefer to remain standing. I have no wish to soil the upholstery with my soaked coat." He paused. "As regards Naval protection, I fear there is no way to protect from... the forces of nature."
A slight tightening of his fine-shaven jaw indicated that Lord Beckett was not pleased with his trained Admiral. "Perhaps your presence aboard the Flying Dutchman would help to restrain those forces. In the meantime, since your last mission proved so futile, I hope you can help to restore order here in Port Royal."
Norrington blinked and paused, listening to the stillness outside. "Were there any incidents of which I am not aware, Milord?"
Beckett's smile was, for once, nearly genuine. "My dear Norrington, you of all people should know that Port Royal has been overrun with all manner of scoundrels for some time. It has become necessary to institute some order. There is a general curfew in effect and I would be gratified if you would attend to the Fort. Your aides can inform you upon your arrival."
Norrington saluted sharply. "If you will excuse me then, Milord."
"Oh, and Admiral? I will expect you at the Point in two days' time."
"I was not aware a pirate ship has been captured, Milord."
"Collaborators." Beckett shrugged. "Dismissed."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Norrington stared, at the gate to the gaol, the glaring sun, then the pile of nooses, down at his shoes and again at the gate. There was movement behind it, the sunlight illuminating the blue and scarlet of marine coats, and between them, the faded grey of the prisoners' shirts. Collaborators against the grand cause of good business. Useless, in the way, no more than a chore to get rid of them, chosen not primarily for their deeds but to instill fear and obedience amongst all.
He looked down again, but this time, not at his shoes. Nooses, too many to count surely from where he was standing, ready for the wide platform.
Efficient, certainly. Easy to hang crews of pirates in as little time as possible. Time saved on trials, time saved on executions. He had brought far more men to the gallows than were waiting to be hanged now, but each one individually, each one for their crimes and their crimes only.
A shaky voice, the rising notes of a timid song, startled Norrington. He straightened, looked right ahead. What did it matter? Death was death and punishment punishment, whether it was dealt on a single gallows or a platform that held nearly a dozen. All found guilty of a crime by the authority of England. That should have been enough.
A marine lifted his musket to shove the singing boy with it, but Norrington raised his hand, stopped him. The prisoners walked onwards. The wood of the platform was new, but it creaked as they were marched onto it, each coming to stand underneath one of the nooses, circular shadows harsh on their pale faces.
Before they even had stilled, a voice rose, sharp and clear, accusing all the prisoners of collaboration with the enemy and pronouncing their sentence: death.
The last words echoed in the courtyard. Of what were they guilty? Of trade and business not blooming as Beckett had expected? The charges said nothing of that, no word what two dozen scarecrows had done to England and its Crown to deserve their fate.
Norrington remembered standing in this very courtyard for the first hanging he had observed, the first hanging where he had been the one to bring a man to justice. He had been sickened, he had been proud, but above all, he had been sure. Sure he was right, sure the punishment was deserved.
"Might as well be Tortuga, 'cept ye'd get a fairer rate o' exchange thereabouts."
"Mebbe so but I've got a wife an' kiddies t'support."
"Send 'em up there now, mate. Twill save time later."
The comments bristled with laughter that was fury, from a crowd gone cold and nervy; a potential army facing another, tense and suspicious.
Norrington's hands were clasped tightly behind his back, squeezing as he flinched. But he didn't look away, he watched as each of the nooses looped around a stringy neck. The singing became louder, taken up by the waiting crowd like a funeral dirge.
A marine stepped forward, bellowing to the executioner. The drumroll started.
"Stand down!" Even over drums and song, Norrington's voice was clear.
The drumroll lost its rhythm. The executioner stopped to stare, and the marine turned to Norrington.
"Sir?" The question was clear. Norrington asked himself that very same question.
"You heard me, marine," he said, voice clipped. "Stand down. And remove those nooses."
"Sir!? Lord Beckett's order was clear!"
Norrington turned on his heels, eyes cold, face tight. "As is the chain of command. Stand down."
"You heard the Admiral! Step to!" Groves' voice, combat trained and clear, was accompanied by one hand on his blade. Within moments, the ropes hung empty, all eyes turned towards Norrington. "Orders, sir?"
"Let the prisoners go," Norrington whispered, resigned. "Let them go!" he repeated, louder. He stood still, watching as one by one, the prisoners rubbed their sore hands, their necks, then stared at him only to bolt off mere seconds later. The marines, too, stared at him, but he gave no reaction. No reaction until even the last prisoner had limped out of the fort's courtyard. "Disperse the crowd," he said to Groves, hoarsely, then turned on his heel and left without another word.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Norrington knew he did not have much time, but as he walked home, he still paused to look, to notice taverns and alleys he had walked past a thousand times. Anything but to think. He had disobeyed a direct order, done something he had never before and never before even dared to think. Ignored an order because he considered it wrong. He laughed sharply. Mere months ago, he had resigned his commission because he had thought himself incapable of bearing responsibility for a crew; incapable of making the decisions required by his command.
And now, apparently, he was certain enough to defy where no decision was left to him.
The stairs creaked as he walked up to his bedroom, a ghost house for the ghost of the man he had once been. He tore wig and hat from his head and the coat from his shoulders, throwing them from himself in a fit of temper he had learned on the streets of Tortuga.
He realised that for the first time, he had been dealt an order he considered wrong. Not simply an order with which he disagreed, but one that was wrong.
Perhaps his resignation had been right all those months ago, and he had never been a man of the Navy. Had never been able to follow orders, not when it was difficult. Perhaps he had not mutinied against Sparrow solely because it had been Sparrow, but because mutiny lay in his heart? Because he was as disloyal as a pack of buccaneers?
He paced through the small room. A blue sleeve that peaked out of his closet, pinched by the door, stopped him. He stared.
He was a man of the Navy. He still felt every bit of the allegiance he felt when taking his oath, young and with fire in his heart. Every bit of that same conviction. But none of that was reserved for Beckett, none for the East India Trading Company, he held nothing but disgust for that pack of vultures that might fly the same flag, but did not strive or fight or stand for the same.
He laughed. To this he had not sworn his allegiance. In this he had never believed, as little as he had believed in Sparrow's goals. And though he would be shot for acting against his oath, he knew that to himself, he hadn't.
Slowly, he unbuttoned the yellow waistcoat, then his breeches. Mere minutes later, he glanced up and saw his image in the mirror, a crooked smile on his face, the white breeches and white lapels of his Naval captain's uniform a less familiar sight than they had ever been. But it was the shroud he always thought he would wear, and so he would.
From the shadows of doorways and windows shuttered tight, hundreds of eyes followed their steps lit with slow-burning hate. Big Bill paused as he hauled the morning catch and spat, tossing a bucket of fishguts after them. Molly Perfect, newly awake after a hard night of tumbles and gossip, leaned out of her window to empty the chamber pot further along the deserted street, leaving a stinking puddle for the tramping boots. Port Royal was quiet, but far from complacent. The news of the Admiral’s surprising act had spread like a wildfire.
Ould Sawrie hefted a bale of hay into the sideyard of the Three Pennies Tavern, cackling as the goats butted each other, kids bleating after the nannies. "All alike, ain’t they pretties. Goat fodder. Like as not, ye'll get a pair o’ boots by t’morra. Fancy the Admiral bein’ so decent. Aye, me pretties. Eat up."
Lieutenant Connor stopped at Norrington’s door. He had orders to break it down but a healthy respect for the Admiral’s housekeeper, and an even healthier regard for her culinary skills.
Mrs. Thornton threw the door open, her face like a thundercloud. "You lot track mud over that floor an’ I’ll wallop every man-Jack o’ you!" She twisted her apron in her hands, grey eyes blinking back tears. "He’s upstairs an’ if you’ll let me announce you."
Connor removed his hat and bobbed a bow: no matter what that blackguard Mercer said, he was not going to insult himself out of a fine treat on the sly. "I’m sorry, Mrs. Thornton, orders are to fetch him prompt-like."
"What a pity when I’ve muffins in the oven already."
Connor grinned at her and turned to his men. "Cool yer heels, boys, an’ we’ll get the Admiral and some breakfast in the bargain."
The soldiers milled along the path to the kitchen garden and Mrs. Thornton quickly sent Maryann up to warn the Admiral, but from the stairway, Norrington already cleared his throat. "It would seem you are looking for me, gentlemen?" He offered his sword in its sheath. "I do believe one of you is required to take this from me."
Connor’s hand shook as he accepted the sword, the marines closed ranks and all Port Royal watched through its collective fingers as the one man who had dared to take a stand against the East India Trading Company marched through the silent streets towards the Fort.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lord Cutler Beckett resisted the impulse to stretch his cramping leg. The tinny French clock had just chimed four. Both feet were pins and needles and his left arm felt like lead, but every time he wanted to move, Signor would explode into Italian paroxysms.
Mercer slid in like a shadow. "Milord." Beckett had to keep his lips from twitching at the sudden nervous darting of Signor's eyes.
"I think that will be all for today, Signor." Beckett's voice brooked no objections and the painter collected his brushes, grumbling, his considerable head of hair speckled with paint and bristling like a hedgehog.
Mercer shifted so he could watch Beckett and the door at the same time. "The marines arrested Norrington. Unfortunately, he did not resist."
"What a pity! He's going to be something of a problem, I imagine." Lord Beckett held out an imperious hand to get off the dias, "We'll have to have a trial. How are the rest of the Navy crews reacting?"
"They praise his past and do not condemn his future." A knife gleamed in Mercer’s hands for a moment. "He is dangerous."
"More dangerous as a martyr." He paused delicately. "Perhaps a trial will make things clear to them. Meanwhile, keep our men guarding him and try to keep any sympathisers away from his cell. I don't want a failed commodore making waves. Not now. "
"He would hardly make a good martyr if he hanged himself in his cell."
Beckett brightened immediately. "Not a bad consideration. He sipped his tea and flicked a nonexistent speck from his cuff. "Alas, we must make his dereliction of duty clear. In the meantime, make sure he's secure. Have we heard anything from the Eastern fleet yet?"
"Not yet, but the latest couriers to come in were with Norrington."
"Let me know if we hear anything." Beckett gazed at the large map on his wall with a satisfied sigh. The Company was active on every continent and he was very near to having as much control over the West Indies as he'd established in Bombay. "That will be all, then."
Mercer bowed, dark coat billowing around him, then disappeared through the door.