Chapter 36

The anatomy of a downfall

It was, without any doubt, the longest march James Norrington ever made. He walked, ignoring all possibilities of a carriage of a horse, step by agonizing step, through the streets of Port Royal. His walk did not go unnoticed, as he proceeded, and news spread faster than his stride ever could. Faces watched him from behind windows and curtains, curious children's eyes peeked out from nearly closed doors, and rumors passed like whispers, running wild and drawing out more and more eyes.

He saw none of them. His gaze was fixed on something that only he himself could see, his posture erect, chin up, but he did not see anything, did not want to see anything. Because once, he would be seeing what happened around himself, he was not sure, whether he could keep up his strength.

Upon approaching Port Royal, he had seen the scars. Houses bore the marks of a fire, on the docks, part of the barns had been torn open, wounds barely healed.

He had passed two dockworkers, arm still in a sling, watching him with silent accusation in their eyes.

Something had happened, while he had been away. And he had not been there to hinder it.

Up on the fortress, the soldiers stood motionless. No one came to greet him, and upon wandering towards the governor's residence, James Norrington felt more alone than he ever had in his whole life.

He was expected. News had reached the residence before him, and the doors opened for him, silent servants leading his path. He offered no explanation, did not utter a word, for he would not have trusted his voice, had he done so. He was led through the silent corridors of the residence, and for a moment, he wondered.

The town, and especially this house, were so awfully silent. No matter what had happened, he could barely think, that Elizabeth would not have tried to make an appearance upon his arrival, to shower her anger on him, or to show her support, whichever, but this silence did not look like her.

Dread rained upon him and he felt his stomach clench, yet, he dared not ask. The silence seemed to weigh tons, and he found himself holding his breath, as, without any further ado, he was admitted into Gouverneur Swann's study.

For an instance, he wondered at the appearance he made. In the simple clothes of the captain of the vessel that had brought him here, bereft of the comforting uniform that so much had seemed a part of himself for years, hair tied back neatly, yet his appearance much more scruffy than it had ever been. A moment of panic showered him – how could he appear like this in front of the governor – but it was too late and the door of the study was already open.

James Norrington mustered up his courage to receive his judgement.

Swann sat at his table, and Norrington, vibrating with tension, was not sure, whether he was supposed to be shocked or disturbed by his appearance.

The governor did not even look at him, when he entered. Norrington could not place, what was wrong with his attire, but something was amiss, subtly, yet unmistakably, as if Swann had not payed much attention on it recently. His eyes darted around the papers that were spread out before him, and he did not acknowledge Norrington's presence.

The silence stretched.

For endless moments, Swann continued his work, shuffling papers, picking up a quill to sign a note, the rustling of the documents, Swanns calm breathing and Norringtons agonized seach for air the only things breaching the silence.

„Gouvernor", he finally said, painfully.

Swann put down his quill in measured movements, taking a deep breath before finally raising his head to meed Norrington's eye. His gaze was devoid of expression. Dead.

Norrington felt a cold shiver running down his spine.

„I listen."

The Commodore closed his eyes for a moment, mustering up his courage. For days, he had been dreading the explanation he was about to make. And so, his voice lacked the usual confidence, the usual neutrality, as he reported.

He did not leave anything out, did not diminish his own, fatal part in it, his determination to catch Sparrow, that had had him abandon all caution, and that had, ultimately, led to the loss of the Dauntless.

Swann was silent when he ended, chin still up, but all forced on maintaining his composure. He had experienced quite some hardships in his life, but this was beyound anything he had experienced before.

„I trusted you."

Swann had turned his head back to his papers, and his voice was soft, unconcerned. Norrington took a moment to close his eyes.

„I know, Gouvernor. I can only offer my sincerest apologies, and I assure you that I am willing to…"

„That does not bring anything back", Swann intercepted coolly. „Or anyone."

„I am well aware of that, Governor." Norrington was pale as death, yet his composure was still holding. Upright, he accepted the reprimand. „And I very much regret, that…"

He stopped, looking for words. It had been years since he last that muhc had had to fumble for an expression, his betrothal included. „… that I cannot offer you any explanation beyound what I have given. I have done what I consider… considered as my duty, since…"

„Your duty?" Now Swann looked at him, and finally, his eyes had come alive. Norrington nearly took back a step at the fierceness of his gaze. „Your duty? Commodore, for god's sake, your duty is first to the crown – meaning, the representative of the crown in this area, therefore me – second to the royal navy, and then, only then, to your personal goals."

Like an echo, Norrington remembered his own words.

By remembering, that I serve others, not only myself, Mister Sparrow

When had it been that he had fallen…?

„What I did, Governor", he tried to regain his footing, but his voice was unsteady, shaken by the revelation of the loss of his goals, „I did on the best intention of protecting you and the city of…"

„… Port Royal, yes, I know, Commodore. But do you know what has happened during your absence? There has been an attack, Commodore, yes, an attack, an attack on this town, and there have been deaths."

Although Norrington had already feared this, he flinched at the governor's words.

„An attack…?"

„Yes, while you were out on your wild goose chase, there has been a very real pirate attack in this town. They have scavaged the port, killed civillians, wreaked havoc in town, and all of this, while you were not there to protect the city."

The reprimands stung. Norrington bowed his head, and his voice was subdued, quiet.

„I am sorry, Governor."

„And beyound all, now my daughter has vanished. Where have you been, Norrington, during all this? Where have you been? Where have you been, when the pirates came? Where have you been when she left without a trace? Where have you been…"

Norrington stared at him with wide eyes. The mentioning of Elizabeth alone had made his stomach jump, and it took some time for him to process the news, but before he was even able to formulate an answer, Swann continued, in an annoyed manner.

„Never mind. You have failed, Commodore. Failed in every way that I can fanthom. I have placed high trust in you, Norrington, and now I see that it is ill placed."

„Governor, I would like to apologize…" Norrington's voice was trembling, but still he was standing upright, all officer, but all that was holding was his sense of duty.

„No." Sharply, Swann cut off his speech with an annoyed wave of his hand. „I do not want to hear it. I do not want to hear any of it. I treated you like a son. Heavens, I was hoping that you would become my son in law one day, and how have you repayed me? Go, Norrington. I will have to decide on how to proceed in this later. For now, I cannot stand the sight of you. Leave. Get out. Now!"

Norrington backed away, step by step, deathly pale and trembling inwardly, and Swann did not even look at him, but turn back to his papers, lips pressed tightly together in anger.

The Commodore understood, that he was dismissed. And, maybe not only for today, but for always.

He walked through the town like a sleepwalker. Again, he was followed by gazes, by whispers, but when earlier, he still had been dimly aware of them, now they could have walked into his path for all he cared. He knew, that Swann was right, and the weight of his failure lay on his shoulders like lead. He had failed him, failed Elizabeth, failed them all.

For a time that he could not discern afterwards, he stumbled through the town, visiting places he knew, stepping by the forge, where Mister Brown was sleeping, as they say, the sleep of the just, but where of course young Turner was nowhere to be found.

He talked to no one and later did not remember where he had been, but he remembered, where he ended, in front of the blackened ruins of a small cottage, on the rocky shore of the outskirts of the town.

There was not much left of the home of the Delanneys. A few stones, a few wooden bars reaching accusingly into the sky.

A small stone had been erected, the handiwork crude, but with care.

Maria Delanney, taken too early by malice and trickery

Susannah Delanney, taken by the sea.

Missed by many.

For a long time, Norrington stared on the stone, his fingers gingerly grazing the script.

He did not know, what to think of it, what to think of her?

Was she victim?

Or cause?

Gillette finally found him, crouched before the tombstone of the Delanneys. He had given Norrington some time. Rumors had travelled far, and the fact, that Norrington had not come home on the Dauntless already spoke of what news brought the Commodore to town. He had given Norrington his time before he had gone out to find him, and now that he saw him sitting on the shore, he wished he had left earlier.

Gillette, after a little consideration, did not judge the Commodore. True, the last mission had ended in a desaster, but beyound everything Gillette was glad, that Norrington was back. Things had been incredibly tense lately, and he hoped, that now, with the Commodore back, he know – or be told – what to do about this. Norrington knew Swann much better, and could maybe give an estimation on what was going on up on the residence.

However, when he saw Norrington sitting there, he was not sure, whether he could rely on his assistance at the moment. Gillette brought him back up to the fort, and Norrington followed, explaining nothing, giving only the briefest of comments, and he decided to give him piece for the moment, because it was obvious, that Norrington was in no condition now to give any support.

He wondered at how different the world had become. Only weeks before he had been in this room, satisfied with the way the world presented itself to him. The prospect of marrying Elizabeth, the promotion, the governor's trust, all of this seemed to be worlds away, as if they were things, that had happened to another man, at a completely different time. The room remained hollow for him, and silence echoed from the walls.

The place was filled with meaningless things. Tokens, items of a life long gone, decorations, that no longer meant anything him, honors that he did not live up to, memories, that he found he finally was not worth having.

Swann's words had stung, and part of him had realized very well, that this was not the normal behavior of the usually friendly governor, but this was covered, overwhelmed by the knowledge, that what Swann had said, was the complete and utter truth.

He was guilty, in the purest, clearest sense of the world, and he felt it in every bone of his body.

He drifted through the rooms for some time, touching this item, touching that, not even changing his clothes, neither into a more informal attire nor into any of his uniforms, a stranger in his own, old life, when a knock on the door roused him, brought reality back to his attention.

He opened the door to find a concerned looking Lieutenant Gilette, his round face contorted in worry. Norrington fought for composure.

„Lieutenant. Come in."

He tried to sound welcoming, but failed miserably. Gilette complied nonetheless, his steps hasty.

„Commodore. Is it true?"

„Is what true, Lieutenant?" He was not as off foot as to leave such an inconcrete remark unhindered.

„About the Dauntless, sir", Gilette continued agitatedly. „That she is gone."

„Sadly, that is true", Norrington admitted, his tone devoid of any expression. It was not even difficult, it only mirrored what he felt at this moment – namely nothing.

„But… what happened?"

„I sailed her into a storm", Norrington replied dryly, stepping to the window, hands clasped behind his back. „I tried to catch Sparrow and lost a ship instead."

Gillette remained silent for a moment, jaw hanging open in astonishment, before he continued.

„But Commodore, that…"

„No ‚but', Gillette. I took a risk that was too great. I failed."

„Commodore…" Emotions were fighting openly on the lieutenant's face, fright, astonishment, horror, but finally, loyality won. „Commodore, I have heard talks of a court martial."

Norrington took a deep breath, straightening his back.

„I expected nothing else", he replied. „It seems to be a fitting response."

„But Commodore!" Gillette shook his head in exasperation. „That… that… and I am sure, that all of this was an accident, and besides, Commodore, things have been strange in Port Royal lately."

Slowly, Norrington turned around, face espressionless, yet his gaze fixed on the Lieutenant, a little sparkle of interest, a tiny flame not yet fully extinguished. The town still meant something to him.

„This guest of his", Gillette continued. „This lady Halvery. There is a strange atmosphere over there, really, really, really strange, as if everybody was walking on tiptoes. And best of it, her daughter, her daughter Leonora, came to me some days ago with a cry for help. For help, can you imagine? And when I went up there to talk to her I was turned down flat. As if she never existed. Besides, the governor's daughter has gone missing, and she is said to have talked to Leonora, several times. That's what the servants say. But in fact, nobody really says anything. And when…"

„Lieutenant." Norrington's voice was sharp as a knife, cutting Gillette's trail of speech and his trail of thought in two. „That is all speculation. On the other hand. Fact is, that I willingly endangered the life of my crew and the safety of my ship for the sake of my personal goals. Fact is, that this idiocy of mine cost the strongest ship of the Carribbean, along with two hundred and fourty seven lives. In the meantime, a pirate attack scourged this unprotected town, taking many lifes, how many I don't even know. All of this is my responsibility. That, Lieutenant, is fact."

„But Commodore.."

„Not that title." He nearly screamed, tension vibrating through every fiber of his body. „I do not live up to it any more. And now, go."

Gillette stared at him wide-eyed, but Norrington's gaze was steel. Only for a moment it softened.

„I thank you, Lieutenant, for your fealty. But best, not to side with the fallen, isn't it? This would be ill service to me, to you and your family."

Gillette hesitated, part of him obviously supplying otherwise, but after a while, he saw the wisdom in the words of his superior.

„I wish you all the best, C… Norrington", he said, subdued, before bowing, and again leaving the Commodore – or former Commodore to his thoughts.

And then, the stick broke.

He tumbled, fumbling for a hold, finding his table, but misery shook him, not in tears, but in an incredible tremble, that finally made it unable for him to stand, so that he slid down to the floor, curling into himself, trying to find something to cling himself to, but he could not find anything, and he couldn't stop the shaking.

Again, as happened more than once during these dreadful days, he did not remember much of what happened between lying on the floor and sitting in his cushioned chair, a bottle of brandy in his hand. Bit by bit, the soothing influence of the alcohol chased away all the thoughts, all the pain, to leave him adrift on a sea of nothingness, as if all the guilt had diminished to a tiny inconvenience, and for a singular moment, he understood, what salvation the lost souls of Tortuga found in the dreadful sting of a strong liquor.

He got up uneasily, stumbling through his rooms without any clear goal, taking this item into his hand, smashing another when he found the ghost of a former Commodore laughing at him, laughing, crying, at times humming a tune off-key, at times cursing himself, Sparrow, Susannah, before starting all over again.

The brandy gone he took one of the bottles of rum lately confiscated from a smuggler'sship and continued, far beyound noticing, that the taste, compared to the fine brandy, was vile.

Later on, his vision blurring, he took out an old box, a memory of yet another life, one of the few items brought over from England, a remnant of a serious young boy.

He opened it, as if to look at the beginning of the path he was now about to end, taking out various items. An old miniature of himself, a picture his mother had carried with her.

An eagle's feather, remnant of an excursion into the Welsh countryside with his tutor, a jade figurine brought from some faroff corner of the world, a present of his father.

The green and silver token, the last message of his father, a present sent with a trader's ship only days before his father's disppearance. A note attached.

To my son. May he be faithful and strong, and never forget that to serve is to protect, and that to protect, resistance sometimes is the key.

Unsteady fingers traced the words, often read, all the more cherished since they were the last life sign of his father, often seen, often read and never truly understood.

He took the token into his hand, triangular shape, three triangles on the base of a fourth, green glass, with silver lining. It offered no explanation as to what it was, and neither had his father. How long since he had last wondered?

He frowned at the item. Something was different.

Only moments after, he realized the tiny rift at the base of the triangle, reaching through the glass, through the silver skelleton of the item, onto one of the faces. Norrington frowned and wondered, whether this had happened during transport to Port Royal. He doubted to have opened the box since then.

A charm

Like a voice in the back of his mind, persistant and unsilencable, and Norrington hesitated. For a moment, the toy he had often held as a child remembered him of a native child on a faroff island, an item of wood and leaves, a questioning look, but he chose, not to think about it.

A swigg from his bottle chased thoughts away.

So that there would be nothing left any more.

The morning was still early, a clear blue sky promising a brand new day, but he saw nothing of it. Like a sleepwalker, he stumbled over the docks, a pack in his hand, his eyes devoid of any expression. He did not turn back. In Port Royal, there was nothing left for him, nothing but the shame. Had he been the man he once was, he would have faced the shame with a proud posture, but he had to admit that he was not as he had been before. James Norrington, as it was, was dead.

And the man, who now, barely alive, left the british port for whatever goal, was not far from it either.

It did not take long for him to end up at the place of lost souls, there, where those linger, who have nothing left to loose, who are adrift on a sea of nothing, and he joined their lines without any resistance.

He learned, to appreciate the rum, for it silenced the thoughts.

He learned to appreciate the lies, for it made it easier for him to join them in there.

For all of his life, James Norrington had wondered, what kind of weakness would bring an individual far enough to end up in the wastelands of Tortuga.

And now, that he found out, he realized, that he would have preferred maybe to just not know.