On the good days, John Smith grits his teeth and, with the sting in his side, slowly makes his way up the staircase, so that he can stay on deck for a while and breathe the fresh air. He takes his chamber pot with him to empty it once he is on deck. On the bad days, when the ship is rocking and swaying, or when the pain is too bad, he stays in his cabin and lets Thomas empty his chamber pot for him and bring him his meals.
Thomas doesn't mind in the least bit. He comes from a poor family where there were no servants to do such things and it is nothing more than habit. What he minds is seeing John suffer.
Today, the wind is too strong, the waves are high, and he knows John won't be coming up, so he comes down. John's face is turned to the wall so Thomas assumes he is asleep. He takes the chamber pot, brings it up, then comes back down with it.
Now, John is lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling and his eyes seem weary and a little lonely.
Thomas gently sets the chamber pot down. "Hello, John. I got a few minutes. We can chat a bit."
John glances at him and smiles a little. "Feeling sorry for me?"
"No," Thomas says honestly. "I want to help. And truly, I don't know how to because I've never been hurt as badly as you were."
"Of course not," says John. "You were never the idiot to jump in front of a firing rifle." He winces.
"I was a much worse idiot than that," Thomas says quietly.
John frowns. "Oh, I don't think so." He thinks for a moment. "Ever play chess?"
Thomas nods.
"Then you know that some pieces have more power than others. You did what you could with the little power that you had. At least, you took the right side at the end."
Thomas thinks of Pocahontas. How little power she had and how much she did with it. But her appeal was beautiful in its' very weakness, the vulnerability of a lovely young girl…He had been just another sailor with a gun.
But John has something else on his mind already. "Do something for me, Thomas," he says. "When we tell our story in England, lie."
Thomas is startled. "Lie?"
"Tell them that Kokoum was shouting at me when you shot him. Don't tell them that he attacked me with a knife."
Thomas rubs his chin. "You think that will sound plausible?"
"I don't care if it's plausible," John says, firmly. "They'll believe it because you will be the one telling the story. Don't you see? Our people won't look at Indians the way they look at themselves. They'll look at them the way they look at...well, Jews, for instance. One person's behavior reflects on the whole group. They will take the story and use it for years to come." He adds more quietly, "I don't want Pocahontas and her children to suffer some day because of what one Indian tried to do once."
Thomas nods. He can lie. He can do that much. Then, the full meaning of the words reaches him. "Children? You don't think she will wait for you to return?"
John smiles ironically. "Why should she? Exceptional as I am...there will be another. He will be good and patient with her and she will move on. And she will only remember me when looking at her compass." He sighs involuntarily. "That's what you get for trying to be a hero."
Thomas opens his mouth, about to say that John has been very brave, that he should never regret that courageous leap forward at just the right time…but then he closes it again. John knows all that already. It is just an attitude of his, to put down anything moral in his character, to laugh at his virtues. He doesn't really mean it.
Thomas changes the subject. "Time to change that bandage for a new one, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"It has been three days. Bandages must be kept clean."
John grimaces. "You should have studied medicine, Thomas. You'd be good at it."
"I couldn't afford it." Thomas tries to say this playfully, the way John would.
John sits up. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, then, begins to peel the cloth bandage away from his swollen flesh.
He curses under his breath. Once has pulled off the bloody bandage completely, he drops it on the floor and leans against the wall, panting.
"I'll take it from here," Thomas says. He takes a clean bandage, applies ointment to it and wraps it around John's side. He tries to be as careful as he can but he knows that his fingers must be like fire.
John lies still, his eyes fixed on some distant point.
A few moments pass.
Thomas pours some water into a mug. "A drink?"
John shakes his head. "I think…I'd better not eat or drink anything just now. It hurts so badly sometimes that it makes me nauseous. Can you believe it? Me? I haven't vomited aboard a ship since my first voyage." He smiles weakly. "I was fifteen like you."
"I was eighteen in March!"
"You don't look it," John says.
Thomas stares, then understands that John is just teasing. He doesn't quite like it because his age is a tender point with him. But if it distracts John…he will play along. "For all that, I happen to be married," he says, lightly. "And Alice was with child when I left, so I am a man, as much as anyone."
John smiles. "Ah. I suppose you miss her."
Thomas blushes. "I do."
"Well. When you're kissing her on our first night back in England, think of me. I'll probably be alone getting drunk somewhere."
"You told me once you never got drunk, John."
"Did I?" John thinks for a moment. "That's right, I did. How little it takes to shake a man's principles, huh?"
Thomas is beginning to feel irritated. "You will not be getting drunk alone. You will be visiting me and Alice. She will be putting on some tea while you tell us stories of your adventures in front of the fireplace. Good lord, you saved my life once and you have become my best friend! Drunk indeed."
John stares at Thomas in the ensuing silence. "Hmmm. You know, I never thought that once we got back…" he trails off.
Thomas hears a voice calling him from above. He ignores it.
"Well, I accept the invitation," John says finally. "But not on the first night back because I'm not a complete boor. Sometime after that. And I promise to behave myself until then."
"All right," says Thomas.
John Smith laughs. "Now go do some work."
Thomas goes, John's easy laughter following him out.
Surely, John has other friends in England, he thinks. Why should my invitation matter to him? Yet, upon leaving the cabin, he feels that he has caused a sort of change in the air. He isn't sure what he did exactly, but it was something.