merrimanlyon | (no subject)

(no subject)

A ship's crew always like to make a good show when their vessel comes into port, with decks freshly scrubbed and yards blackened and every sail showing full and true. All the more so, for the Pridewin, because the commodore has ordered that the Union Flag shall be flown from her stern in a position of honour above the Company's colours -- as a sign to all that for this voyage, she has been seconded to His Majesty's service.

She docks in a very business-like procedure, without fanfare or a gun salute. The order goes up to set watches and have all men take stock of the remaining provisions aboard. It is busywork, perhaps, but it is necessary work, and it requires a good deal of attention and effort to make an accurate count. Yet the crew do not fail to notice that the first mate has been placed in command to supervise their work.

Commodore Lyon, it seems, has gone ashore without so much as a single pipe to see him off the ship.

And he has taken with him a dozen armed Company marines.

(The men taking stock of the armaments note that according to the most recent records, the marines -- in addition to their officially issued arms -- have taken two sets of newly-wrought iron manacles.)

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The port that gives Port Royal its name is a shadow of its former self. Once the hangings began, most of the ships that would normally dock there left for safer waters -- which quickly became unsafe waters once the Company unleashed the Flying Dutchman on the shipping lanes.

Port towns depend on trade, and with no trade to be had, the normally bustling harbor is all but deserted. And the few people who might have been attempting to ply some kind of trade quickly dart behind closed doors and shuttered windows at the sound of the tramping of boots.

At the far end of the harbor, one or two of the Company's ships are docked for badly needed repairs. Cracked yards and broken masts, all the signs of a battle. And a cluster of uniformed officers -- many of them looking decidedly worse for the wear -- are huddled in a small knot at the edge of the pier, gazing on their ships with expressions that fall somewhere between gloomy and shell-shocked.

Their current situation is not going to improve greatly by the arrival of the senior officer who happens to be striding, or rather stalking, across the docks towards them. Not with the expression on his face -- and not with the armed guard marching in his wake.

Any improvement, however minor, will depend on whether they see him approaching in time to pull themselves together.

It is one lone powder monkey sitting on a barrel at the edge of the group that notices at first, though his warning comes as a very colorful exclamation and a quick exit of the scene. It is enough, however to alert the group of officers who turn to face the approaching Commodore and guards. A few draw themselves up into some semblance of attention, while others near the back rest hands on sword hilts and pommels, eyeing the newcomers warily.

Groves steps forwards as Merriman approaches, face carefully neutral, though it is hard to hide the weary look in his eyes.

"Commodore. We were not expecting-"

'Nor should you have been.'

With that, he comes to a halt, and the well-drilled detachment of marines halt as well. His bright, chill gaze travels over the assembled group in long moment of tense silence before he speaks again.

'Lyon, commander of the Pridewin.' It's as much of an introduction as they're likely to get. 'I am here on official business at the direct command of His Majesty and with the consent of the honourable gentlemen of the Company's Board of Directors. I therefore request to speak to Lord Beckett.'

His request comes with an unspoken but perfectly audible command: At once.

That is, thankfully, a very quick, easy, and truthful answer to provide. (And any answer other than an honest one does not cross Groves' mind.)

"Lord Beckett is dead, sir. When the Endeavor was attacked he wasn't able to leave the ship in time before the magazine caught."

Groves' lips purse into a frown, and he glances to the two ships docked at the end of the pier that did make it back. Barely.

His shoulders square, and he looks back to Merriman, resignedly.

One of the marines adjusts his grip on the manacles in his hand, with a rough clink-clink of iron against iron.

'I see.' Commodore Lyon's expression is unreadable. 'Then I suppose I shall have to speak to the governor in his stead.'

The exact circumstances of Beckett's death are not particularly crucial at the moment. (Further questioning on that front will come later.) For the time being, Governor Weatherby Swann's whereabouts take priority.

"For that, you'll have to go back where you came from." Mutters the officer standing next to Groves. Groves' breath hisses sharply between his teeth, as he shoots a sideways look at the man.

"What Mr Greitzer means to say, Commodore-" As he looks back to Merriman- "Is that Govenor Swann isn't present. He left for England-"

Here a vague shadow flickers through Groves' eyes, as he tries to recall the exact date. He cannot.

"... several weeks ago, sir."

'And what was the name of the ship upon which he sailed?'

It's said very quietly.

Perhaps a little too quietly.

"The Gallant, wasn't it?" Speaks up a young officer standing behind Groves and Greitzer. Groves frowns, slowly shaking his head, looking downwards in thought.

"The Lowestoft, I believe it was."

Greitzer turneds away from Lyon, to give Groves a sneering frown. "Couldn't have been the Lowestoft, she was sailed to Cape Town on the third."

Groves glares at him, then, taking a deep breath, gives Merriman an apologetic look. "Our apologies, sir. But the information will have been noted in the log books, to be sure."

The Dark is no longer actively present in this town, but it has left a lingering, invisible mark. Even these last repercussions are having an effect on those who have thus far been unable to escape its presence, and have no real defence against either the weight of its malevolence or the ebbing fury vented by the Wild Magic.

(Their immediate location is not helping matters, either. The bloodstains have long since washed away or soaked into the weathered wood, but several months ago a man was murdered on this very dock.)

The commodore closes his eyes briefly, muttering something inaudible under his breath. It might easily be mistaken for a suppressed oath, or even a milder phrase along the lines of Lord, give me strength. Whatever the words, when he looks back at the assembled officers once again, his gaze is still stern and uncompromising but somehow marginally less hostile than it had been a moment before.

'Who, then,' he asks, 'is the highest ranking figure currently in this port?'

Groves opens his mouth to answer- then shuts it, giving Merriman a humorless smile before speaking.

"With all due respect, you are, sir."

Greitzer looks none too pleased, but he stands back at attention. There is a small amount of muttering and murmuring among the rest of the officers, but a few nods as well, and a straightening of posture.

One or two of the marines look a little uneasy at this news, gripping their weapons a little more tightly.

Even the commodore seems surprised, or at least unprepared for the prospect. 'Is there no other senior Company officer or official present in Port Royal?'

He cannot say Norrington's name, not without revealing their prior acquaintance, but if the man is dead then Merriman really has only one course of action -- and it is not a course of action he had hoped to contemplate.

"Only myself, sir." Groves shakes his head. "My apologies. I am Captain Groves, commander of the Heracles."

And a newly made captain at that. Past the obvious damage of battle, his coat has none of the wear of age under the hastily mended rips and tears.

"The Admiral was killed aboard the Dutchman by some prisoners that managed to escape, some days past. Since then-"

Since then they had been under the command of Lord Beckett- well, even more directly.

Groves gets a marginally cordial nod...but it is quickly replaced by a furrowed brow and a troubled sort of frown.

'Aboard the Dutchman?' Again, the need to feign ignorance of such matters requires a bit of fast thinking. 'What manner of ship goes by that name?'

More uneasy looks from the marines -- at least from the ones who have been at sea long enough to know the tales of sailors.

There are a few mutters from some of the younger officers near the back as well, which are quickly quieted by a glare from Greitzer.

Groves is also frowning, though more at himself. "It was a ship Lord Beckett brought in- he knew the captain, and was having him help us deal with the pirates in the area."

That answer seems to come easily enough, even as he is sure there should be more to it. There had been threats, and blackmail,

and a heart,

and for what purpose, Groves cannot recall, though it had all seemed so important at the time. He shakes his head slightly, before looking back to Merriman.

"He didn't share much information in regards to the Dutchman with us, sir. He may have told Governor Swann; Lord Beckett worked from the his office when he first arrived here."

'I somehow doubt that.' A darkly muttered comment, said more to himself than to Groves. 'And even if he had -- '

He breaks off in mid-sentence, as his head snaps up and all his attention is directed at the walls of the fortress situated on the headland above the port.

(Faintly, almost drowned out by the scattered cries of the sea-birds and the sound of breaking waves, the flat patter of a military drumroll echoes across the harbour.)

'An execution?' Commodore Lyon's gaze, now bright with a dangerous fire, snaps back to the Company officers. 'On whose orders?'

"The last of Lord Beckett's." Greitzer answers, sourly.

Is it any wonder that they are all down here at the docks, instead of up at the fort?

Groves is also frowning at the walls of the fort, before turning back to Merriman, and giving the Commodore a careful, measured look. "Sir, if you are here on official business, and are currently the highest ranking official present in Port Royal, perhaps you could..."

It is a bold presumption. And even a bolder question. And neither Groves or any of the other officers there know what his business is, exactly. But if there is a chance, even a slim one, Groves will take it.

Groves doesn't get the chance to finish his question, however presumptuous it may be. The commodore whirls round, faster than anyone might expect a man his age to move, sending the marines snapping to attention.

'To the fort, double march!' As the men scramble to comply, Commodore Lyon rounds on the naval officers. One hand is flat on the hilt of his sword -- not as if he intends to draw it, but rather as if he is only just keeping himself from drawing it. 'All of you!'

And he stalks off in the direction of the fort without waiting a moment longer to see if they will comply with his orders.

With only a pause for a deep breath, Groves is quick to follow the Commodore. Greitzer mutters a curse, and follows- which decides the rest of the men to comply and hurry after.

At double march, (with some of the younger midshipmen breaking into a run to keep up with the grown adults), the fort is not too far. Almost too close, some would argue, with despair hanging about its grey walls, and the stench of sweat, filth and fear carried away from its courtyard by the ocean breezes. Lined up, chained and shackled, are the last group of prisoners, awaiting the execution of some of Beckett's last orders. All that remains to cross their names off of someone's neat 'To Accomplish' list is their deaths.

They are a pathetic lot, all told; the dregs of the Port Royal prison. Hunched-over men with their noses half-rotted away, trembling women who had pleaded their bellies long enough to escape the first round of executions but had delivered their children and were now to be delivered to the hangman. The wretched few who for one reason or another had sat behind bars and watched their fellow inmates being led away, knowing that their time was to come. Any last flickering hopes of reprieve have long since died in their hearts.

The orders of execution are being read aloud by a young, grey-faced lieutenant who looks as if he would rather be sailing straight into a hurricane than carrying out his current duties. He is so intent on getting things over with that he almost does not look up at the sudden commotion outside the gallows yard. And when the noise is finally too loud to ignore, he looks up just in time to see a tall white-haired officer bearing down on him -- with a pistol in hand.

In a single swift motion, Commodore Lyon cocks the pistol and brings it up over his head, firing straight up into the air.

The loud crack of the rapport rings out, reverberating dully against the fortress walls. The commodore does not lower his hand, but stands still as a statue in the centre of the courtyard, all eyes upon him and his raised pistol.

'As of this moment, there is a moratorium on all further executions!' He scans the assembled East India Company officers and men, taking in the varying degrees of frozen shock on their faces. His burning gaze lands on the commander of the men who have been given the task of guarding the prisoners. 'Captain! Return the prisoners to their cells!'

The captain, a grizzled man who has seen officials come and go, just takes a moment to look over the insignia of rank on Merriman's coat, before nodding curtly and turning to bellow his orders to the other guards.

The line of prisoners just stare at the Commodore before being ushered out of the courtyard. A few do show shock and surprise on their faces, but most are not even risking a moment of hope on this new revelation. It has been far to long to bother believing in any possible miracles.

The young lieutenant starts heading over, the paper on which the orders are written on being fiddled and worried with in his hands. "Sir? Who- what is-?" His eyes flicker from Merriman to Groves, coming up behind the Commodore.

Only now does he lower the pistol, the faint wreath of gunpowder smoke around its muzzle dissipating into the air.

'I am here on the authority of His Majesty and with the express consent of the Company's Board of Directors.' His voice is crisp and authoritative, a marked contrast to Lord Beckett's soft-spoken manner of speaking. 'My orders were to relieve Lord Beckett of his duties here and order him to return to England -- under guard, if necessary. There have been accusations of mismanagement and corruption in connection with his position here, upon to and including possible charges of high treason.'

In the shadow of the gallows, in direct sight of a row of nooses that have just been cheated of their purpose, the words high treason seem to hang suspended in the air.

Groves comes to a halt behind Merriman, eyes widening in surprise. So that was the issue at hand. Somehow, he should not be surprised.

He gives a quick, reassuring nod to the young lieutenant, then takes a deep breath.

"... And with Lord Beckett dead, sir?" Carefully. Very carefully.

Afterall, the rest of them could find themselves taking the prisoners' places up on the gallows, this day.

The silence that meets his query is not the silence of hesitation; judging by the set of the commodore's jaw, he knows precisely what he is about to do. It is more of a deliberate pause, designed to prepare them all for what is to come.

'I intend to examine all of the signed and unsigned execution orders, as well as the records made of all arrests and incarcerations made under the authority of the East India Company. In addition, I will be going over all of the military and civilian accounts kept since Lord Beckett's arrival to determine the extent of the financial mismanagement of this colony. That will serve as a start.'

He studies the group of officers for a brief but weighty moment, and then adds, 'You are all ordered to present yourselves in the governor's office -- in my office -- at precisely six o'clock this evening, at which time you will receive further and more specific instructions. Until then, you are to muster the commanders of all of the Company ships in port, as well as the highest-ranked naval officers currently stationed out of Port Royal. I want a full and complete account of all the repairwork that is required to your vessels, along with a list of the men under your respective commands who died in the pursuit of Lord Beckett's orders.'

Everything until that point had been said in a voice suitable for addressing a crew from the quarterdeck, but his next words are far less martial in tone...though no less in control of the situation.

'Gentlemen, I suggest you consider your positions very carefully. Until His Majesty appoints an official replacement and that replacement sets foot on this island, from this moment I am the acting governor of Port Royal.'

It is a lot to do before six o'clock. If Groves were a gambling man, he would bet that this was only going to be just the beginning.

(Though he already had that list of names written down, kept in the logbook back on board the Heracles.)

However, he is not the only man present feeling a dawning sense of relief at those words, even if it will mean more work, and hard work at that. It means putting an end to the events just past, recovering, rebuilding, and putting things aright.

He gives the Commodore a quick nod and a 'Yes, sir' that is echoed by the other officers present.

'Very well.' He looks over at the captain of the marine guard he had brought with him. 'Captain Fellows, you and your men will return to the Pridewin. I will follow shortly -- there are a few matters I must see to before this evening.'

Including the rearrangement of his ship's command, for the time being. But there are other matters to see to as well. As he stands in the gallows yard of this fort, where the stench of death still chokes the air and the remnants of the Dark's malevolence and the Wild Magic's fury continue to cast a pall over on this colony and its people, he is already working to determine precisely what needs to be done.

Cast out the last fragments of the Dark.

(haul together)

Allow the angry sea to regain a sense of balance.

(hoist the colours high)

Clean up the mess left behind by the Honourable East India Company.

(never say we die)

He turns back to the other officers. 'Dismissed, until six o'clock.'

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