Chapter Four

[under_hatches]

Chapter Four, in which Stephen faces one of his fears and Jack takes a prize


A dull thunder woke Stephen from an uncomfortable dream that seemed real even in the halflight of the mess deck. He squinted into the room, aware of the sweat on his forehead, his ragged breathing sounding all too loud and hollow. Before he could gather his thoughts, the ghostly dang-dang-dang of the ship’s bell called all hands on deck in a hurry, and Stephen found himself out of his hammock and reaching for his clothes. He had always thought the bell sounded more prominent when not anouncing the watches but ringing an alarm for all shipmen to hear. No one stayed asleep. Within minutes, the whole ship was up and alert.
Stephen, being meticulous in his preparations, was dressed and ready before the last stroke of the bell rang out into the dawn of a new day. After he had lit his lamp, his gaze fell onto the bucket of sand he had dragged into his cabin the evening before. The familiar pang in his chest reminded him of Jack’s excitement at the sight of sails, and their interrupted meal, but more importantly of what another ship in these latitudes meant for him.
Suffering, at least; death if I’m not quick enough, skillful enough; death if the damage is too much for the human body to bear.
His instruments were already laid out, his medicine chest carefully rearranged. Another thunder rang, and although he wished for it to be a storm, he knew better.

Jack stood on the fo´c´sle, his eyes on the ship that was racing towards them. The corvette had all the canvas up she could bear and Jack could hear it strain, even over this distance. He could see her turning, regardless of the wind. She had started firing ten minutes ago, managing accurate hits despite her speed. Jack cursed her gunners, cursed the hits his ship had to take.
The dawn was breaking, and the French corvette lay half in the dark. Jack could make out her three masts, the topsail already torn from the first counterattack. Still she raced towards them, cannons blazing. She spat orange fire from the faces of her cannons into the timid light of a morning at sea, illuminating her hull. With each blast she gave away her position though, revealing her build and the positions of her guns. Laying almost on the water she was as fast as the devil, and Jack turned to his men as there was not a second to lose.
“All to her stern,” he cried, “Fire at will! Mr. Pullings, down to the gunner’s deck. Give her a broadside or two.” He winked, his smile sudden and excited.

Tom Pullings nodded and disappeared, and Jack kept on staring at the space where he had been a minute ago until the ship shook angrily as she returned fire.
The corvette shook under the strain of the wind and the hits, and Jack saw her mizzen crack and fall when the first broadside hit her. She went down in a tumble of sails and rigging and he could not help but smile. Still, he felt the hull shook under him, felt the impact of another cannonball, and was in danger of losing his footing. He hurried back to the wheel, shouting instructions for the Coxswain before running to the gunner’s deck.

The hull vibrated angrily under the strain of Jack’s evasion maneuver while Stephen tried to keep steady on both his feet. Still Stephen could hear the splintering of wood when a cannonball hit its target, but now the impacts were few and far between. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief, and smoothed down his hair with a bloody hand. For he first time since the break of day, he looked around and already saw too many wounded.
Indignant over his own lingering, Stephen pushed up his glasses and bent down to continue his work. With steady hands he extracted several smaller splinters from the leg of an unfortunate seaman, having removed the three largest already, when a noise made him look up.

Jack was standing in the doorway, his shirt soaked in blood, his features dead pale.

“Jack, for Christ sake, sit down,” Stephen cried, hastily applying bandages, “Jack! Sit down!”

“Stephen, I’m…”

“I’m with you in a second, just sit down.”

When Jack did not comply, Stephen rushed over and shoved him into the nearest chair. His hands came up and he unbottoned Jack’s waistcoat, frantically searching for the wound.

“Stephen,” Jack said when Stephen’s pale hands touched the warm skin on his neck.

“Not now.”

“Stephen,” Jack repeated and grabbed both of the doctor’s wrists. “It’s not my blood.”

Stephen faltered at those words. He drew back his hands almost immediately, only lingering at the seam of Jack’s jacket, lingering enough to steady himself against the seated man.

“Whose blood,” he croaked, his eyes still on the crimson stains, “Whose blood is it?”

“It’s the blood of a gunner, who regrettably was merely in the wrong spot at the wrong time. I just came from the gun deck; all hell broke loose down there. You won’t believe the damage. They have fine gunners, the French, fine gunners; it’s very distressing.”

Stephen straightened himself and took a tentative step towards the table which was already cleared.

“Your skin,” Stephen said in a voice Jack never heard on him, “It is dark with blood. That is why I thought…” He could not bring himself to end the sentence.

“Stephen, it takes more than a small battle, a small but victorious one nevertheless, to… You seem awfully pale yourself, if I might say so. You’re not fainting, are you?”

“No, of course not,” he answered briskly, but Stephen also felt his knees go slightly weak, and he knew he was staggering. He blindly reached for the table, his eyes seemingly unable to move away from Jack, who despite being scaringly bloodsoaked was altogether unhurt. His fingers found no steady grip on the slick surface of the examiner’s table, and Stephen resigned to standing slightly hunched, both hands tight around either side of the table.

“Four dead,” Stephen said when his gaze fell onto the partially dried up blood that covered his own hands and fingers, “Which seems like a miracle, Jack. Eighteen wounded. Mostly from the splinters that ricocheted once we were hit. The usual wounds. Two headgashes that worry me. Nothing too worrying yet.” He managed a smile that was gone within the blink of an eye.

Jack stood up, crossing the space between them with two quick steps.

“Are you absolutely sure you are alright, my dear doctor?” Jack could not help but touch the other man’s cheek. The look in Stephen’s eyes was one Jack never had seen before and he cared not to see it again as long as he lived.
“Of course I am, Jack,” Stephen replied and Jack took his hand away.

“I will go now and tell Mr. Pulling to take her over. We will have a fine prize to bring home. She’s a gorgeous eighteen gunner.” Jack turned, padded the doorframe, and turned around again.

“Would you join me in the cabin tonight?” he added, his gaze shifting over the room but never meeting Stephen’s eyes.

“I cannot think of anything I would enjoy more,” Stephen replied.

Jack smiled at this, and hurried to the maindeck, to survey the damage and to forget about the way Stephen had looked at him.

He was greeted by a joyful Tom Pullings, and as soon as he saw the corvette with her colours down, his heart swelled and he almost forgot.