Title: Liberties
Summary: Spoilers for 'The Fortune of War'. A short piece, in which Stephen Maturin regards the loss of a particular young gentleman.
Note: I just started 'The Fortune of War' (again) and was reading the bit when little Forshaw goes to fetch Stephen to go and play cricket, when I recalled that the cute little midshipman who thinks so highly of Stephen dies. -Sniff- Being somewhat easily overcome by such sudden spurts of inspiration, I jotted this down. I also realise that the first line is Stephen's second line from the film. Regrettably, I could not think of a decent substitution, so you'll all just have to remember Paul Bettany shouting 'More sand on the floor!'
'Why have we stopped firing?'
His voice cut through the sudden silence like a thin knife through cooling wax. The surgeon glanced at his colleagues, each as puzzled as he. Save for a few hollow moans from the wounded and dying, Maturin's words were like the sparse echo of something from long ago, fading only after many moments of an ominous contemplation.
'I don't know,' answered Fox hoarsely.
Stephen frowned and rose from his makeshift chair, nodding towards Fox and McClure, and left the cockpit.
After what seemed like an age, in a silent confusion in the dark labyrinths, the doctor emerged on the deck of the HMS Java, a frown pasted across his features. Finally, his pale eyes alighted upon his friend, who stood solemnly at the forecastle.
Jack looked incredibly forlorn, his stern, sombre gaze out to larboard. It only took a moment to register, and Stephen understood. The gun crews had thinned, and what few men there were at the carronades's sides were pasted with blood and sweat, mixed together in a foul grime. The utter carnage was a horror to see, and blood ran across the deck.
Stephen followed Jack's line of sight, not far to his left, and beheld the USS Constitution, ready, with her larboard broadside staring towards the Java. He noted that the injuries given to the American ship had disappeared – repaired, utterly; and against the struck, razed Java, it seemed the herald of death.
'Where is – what is Mr Chads doing?' Stephen asked in a low murmur, 'though he knew full well. Chads walked on, towards the ensign, and withdrew the British colours. Jack's strong, resolute gaze faltered, and he tucked his chin in a bit, respectfully.
Stephen also bowed his head slightly, and a slight chill swept over him. It was then that he realised that his hands, hanging loose at his side, were covered in blood. Beneath his bloodstained apron, which he neglected to discard, he found that he wore Mr Forshaw's coat, the same that the midshipman had given him before the Fléches were rescued by the Java.
'Pass the word for Mr Forshaw, if you please,' he asked no one in particular – he hoped that the boy might be able to aid him back below to the cockpit. In the sheer shock, the dizzying horrors, he sincerely doubted his own capability of returning without help.
Babbington swallowed audibly and shook his head. 'I am afraid that Mr Forshaw is gone, sir,' he said, knowing that no one else would answer. 'Shot over the side.' He hung his head deferentially.
The Constitution loomed closer. Jack made no move, no sound. Stephen stood stock still, still staring out towards the American. His pale eyes were indifferent, as was his expression. The only motion went undetected, save by Babbington, who was watching the doctor carefully, was the slightest tightening in the joints of his right hand's first three fingers. The blood on his hands smeared a little against his breeches.
After a few more moments of silence, Mr Chads trudged back to the forecastle, as a man defeated. 'We are taken.'