Character: James Norrington

Word Count: 1,327

Prompt: Bluster

Summary: Norrington ponders unwelcome advice from his father, and makes a fateful decision.

NOTE: I have no claim whatsoever to any of the brilliant POTC characters; I am grateful to be sitting at a banquet table set by truly talented storytellers.

A/N: Inspired by Lord Chesterfield's Letters to His Son. A special thank-you to mrspencil for her help and encouragement!

A Question of Duty

The hour is late in Port Royal, and even the moon seems weary as it descends, little by little, through the deep blue of the midnight sky. The town is generally quiet, save for a few sporadic sounds of revelry from small parties of drunken soldiers, determined to see out the night as they stagger from one tavern to the next. In the Dockyard of the Royal Navy, most of the windows in the Admiral's headquarters are dark. One light still burns, however; one wakeful officer is unable to sleep.

James Norrington stares unhappily at the large square letter addressed to him, turning it over and over in his hands. He knows it is from his father, knows he must open it, knows he must read it. He can predict its contents as surely as a conjuror names the playing card that will be drawn from a marked deck.

It is merely a matter of stiffening the spine and getting on with it.

Already feeling the helpless resentment that his father's letters invariably provoke, he opens a bottle of Madeira (his second this evening) and downs the first drink in one gulp, then seats himself at his writing table.

He gazes at the soft, burnished glow of the table's rosewood surface and thinks of the countless years of polishing, the many campaigns, the orders given and decisions made to which it has borne silent witness; he rubs his palm across its satiny surface the way a horseman strokes the neck of a favourite mount. His writing table . . . for how much longer? Norrington tries to remember how long it takes to be cashiered out of the Royal Navy. He is not sure; perhaps another glass will help him recall.

News must have travelled faster than he had imagined, and he cringes to think how it will have been received at home: the story of his endless, futile pursuit of a single, disreputable pirate; the destruction wrought by the hurricane when his irrational obsession drove him to stay his course through the storm; the instances of his superiors repeatedly ordering him back to Port Royal (how many times was it? He has lost count . . . ), before he finally yielded to their authority.

He breaks the wax seal and unfolds the letter.

Dear Boy, he reads. His father has never addressed him any other way, he thinks. He will never advance sufficiently in age or accomplishments for the old man to do otherwise; it is his way of asserting the lofty authority of a distinguished parent over a child who can never quite measure up to the mark.

The bluster begins immediately, each indignant query like a lash across Norrington's back: What confounded madness has led to the rash acts of which I have received word? I am persuaded that the tropical sun must have turned your wits! How dare you use your command for a personal venture of any kind, let alone a low, unworthy folly such as this! Are you incapable of grasping the consequences: the wreck of your own life, the threat to your father's advancement? And this is the return I am to expect after tirelessly working to fit you for a brilliant career in the great society of the world. If you cannot mind and remember my advice, all is lost – you have cut a very bad figure at the Admiralty, where all that you have said and done is known!

Norrington's jaw is clenched with anger at the hopelessness of explaining his position, and his mouth forms a tight, straight line. He sighs, lowers the letter, and sees the second (perhaps the third) glass of Madeira at his elbow. He empties and refills it before continuing to read.

Now the letter proceeds in a more kindly fashion, which Norrington finds just as difficult to bear. His father, having vented his spleen, is preparing to take command of the disaster wrought by his son.

As a personal favour (this makes Norrington flush with anger and embarrassment), certain friends on the Admiralty Board have allowed me to recommend that you resign your commission before you can be cashiered out; this may possibly avoid the disgrace of a court-martial – although disobeying orders is an extremely serious charge, as you should not need to be reminded. You must plan to return home quietly without delay, and the family will see what may be done to salvage your prospects. — Adieu.

Norrington lays the letter on the desk, presses the fingertips of his left hand on it, and slides it slowly, deliberately, off the edge, letting it fall to the floor. Disgraced, he thinks, utterly disgraced. The years he had applied himself to his education, the years of service in the Royal Navy under a constant bombardment of admonitory letters from his father — all has been swept away by one dirty, ill-bred rascal of a pirate.

He swallows more of the Madeira, thinking. If he yields to his father's plan, he will never catch the filthy rogues who have ruined his life. Yet he knows that to yield is his filial duty.

But is it a duty which predominates all other considerations? What of his personal quest to rid the Indies of pirates? What of seeking revenge—no, he corrects himself, it is justice he seeks—for the crimes and many insults to his honour administered by one Jack Sparrow?

His father, the Navy. . . none of them understand. With an angry movement, he helps himself to another glass. And Sparrow? Sparrow is getting away with it, isn't he? Making a mockery of all Norrington's beliefs, ruining his match with the pure and lovely Elizabeth, and flouting the efforts of the King's men to discharge their sworn duty.

Norrington begins to entertain a desperate thought: perhaps he should take matters into his own hands. If the Navy and his father cannot see that Sparrow must be dealt with, then perhaps it is up to him, Norrington, to assume the responsibility. Does he have the courage to foreswear all he holds dear so that he may pursue the Pearl by himself?

And how can he pursue them, with no ship or crew of his own? What becomes of a man when he abandons his position?

He stares at the bottle and thinks of Mr Gibbs' chequered career, veering between midshipman and pirate. After a moment, he smiles. There is indeed an answer. He doesn't need to pursue them – he needs to be waiting for them, in the one place he knows he will eventually find them: Tortuga.

At some point, they will require Tortuga, either to indulge their depraved tastes or to sign on new crew. His smile widens; what will they do when they are approached by a renegade wastrel named James Norrington? He might even be able to despatch them on the spot, without signing their damned "Articles" or any other embarrassing claptrap.

He finishes the Madeira and his expression is solemn as he considers any potential setback to his scheme. How long might it take him? It may be months before they visit Tortuga. He considers this logically; if he must wait, so be it. At least Tortuga will have drink. Rum, wine, ale, the pleasures of the town; a man could make himself quite comfortable. He tips the empty bottle on its side. Dead soldier, he muses, No — this time it will be 'dead pirate'. The joke makes him laugh quietly.

Then he takes up paper, ink bottle, and quill. Well, Father, he concludes with grim satisfaction, at least I am falling in with a portion of your plan.

With a sense of unreality, he settles himself to write his final letter to Governor Swann. Its contents are brief:

Trusting that you will apprehend my reasons, I beg leave to offer my Commission, and take this opportunity to retire to private life, effective immediately. Farewell, and may you and all who belong to you, enjoy many happy years and spare an occasional thought for

Your most faithful, dutiful servant.