All rights and characters (minus Lucas) belong to Patrick O'Brian, author of the Aubreyad, and Peter Weir, director of Master and Commander.
Seagulls shrieked in Lucas's ears, and the sun's light glared in his eyes. A soldier gripped him by his shirt collar and dragged him to the docs, away from the blacksmith. Lucas had woken up on the floor at the hot, dry blacksmith's, with a bandage on his arm and a searing pain on his skin. Branded. He was dragged to his feet and forced through the shipyard, in too much misery to fight back.
Tears streaked his face and even more pricked behind his eyes, but he refused to make a sound. He wouldn't whimper for anyone's enjoyment.
The ground shifted under him. He stumbled and tripped over his own feet, making his chains clank together. The longer he was on land, the more he hated it. He hated everyone on it. The soldier dragged him upright and said something to him in a strange accent. If he concentrated, Lucas might be able to understand him, but he couldn't gather the strength to focus. He was going to pass out again.
They reached the water, and Lucas found himself in the looming shadow of a tallship. He blinked up at the masts rising up to meet the clouds and squinted in the late morning sun. The soldier shoved him towards the ramp leading up to the deck. He was being put on another ship. His heart quickened.
"No!" He pulled back. "No yendo!"
The soldier grumbled and dragged him along, forcing him up the wooden walkway. Lucas's arm throbbed, and he grimaced in pain. It took everything he had not to start crying.
They arrived on deck, immersed into the bustling activity of getting a ship ready for launch. Sailors clung to the rigging, adjusting the sails, men toted supplies from one end of the ship to the other, and pipes and yelling filled the air.
The soldier gripped Lucas's collar tighter and shouted for someone. Lucas knew that word: captain.
A large sailor with golden hair and a ridiculous black hat was standing near the stairs to the quarterdeck, discussing something with a carpenter. He finished speaking, and the carpenter scurried away. The captain walked over to Lucas and the soldier holding him, straightening the front of his coat and raising his eyebrows in expectation. His hair was long and tied back in a low ponytail. His uniform, different from any Lucas had seen, was a dark blue and sported two golden epaulettes on either shoulder. Though not fat, he was quite heavy, and looked as though he could win any fight through size and sheer force of will.
The soldier and the captain talked in hushed tones, casting quick glances down at Lucas and nodding quickly. Lucas covered his arm with his hand and stared at them without emotion. He forced back sobs and blinked the tears out of his eyes. He didn't know what they were saying. He didn't want to know what they were saying. But he wouldn't let them see him cry.
The captain turned to him. He said something - Lucas guessed what is your name? - and waited expectantly for an answer. Lucas didn't give him one. He bared his teeth and growled.
The captain raised and eyebrow and looked back to the soldier. They said a few more words, then the captain called another man over, one with a scarlet coat like the soldier's. Lucas was handed over and ushered across the deck. He glanced over his shoulder at the captain and the soldier, but they were no longer talking to each other. The soldier had turned away, and the captain was already set on another task, giving orders and making gestures with his arms.
The man nudged Lucas from behind. He was guided to the companionway stairs, and his heartbeat quickened. They were pressing him. He was really going back to sea. He forced air into his chest and fought back his tears. Biting his lip, he stepped down into the darkness once again.
They kept him in the brig until the ship had pulled out of port. A few other men had joined him down below, no doubt more victims of the press. They sat in silence, their leg irons clanking when they shifted in place. Lucas pressed himself to the side of the ship, putting as much space between them and taking refuge in the wooden braces poking into his back.
The pitch and roll of the ship was familiar to him, a welcome comfort after the rigidity of land. The rhythm of it hardly affected him at all, unlike the other prisoners. They groaned and writhed with seasickness, and Lucas retreated even further from them. He sneered. Landmen.
He could tell when they had moved out of shallow water and into open ocean. He knew the sounds of a ship like the workings of his own mind, even if he didn't understand the language. He longed to be above deck, the salt air sweeping across his face, listening to the sails snap as they filled with wind. Lucas drew his knees to his chest. He'd spent too long in the dark. He wondered if he'd ever be let in the sun again. He wondered if he was turning into an animal.
When they were far enough out to sea, another red-uniformed man came below to undo the pressed men's leg irons and lead them up on deck. Lucas longed to be in the fresh air once again, but he still shrunk away from the marine when he was approached. Any human form was repulsive to him, even one who was lifting him out of this dark hole.
On deck, the ship was alive with activity, the captain testing out the cut of the sails while the rest of the crew scurried and worked in every space available. The lubbers filed up the ladder and were promptly ordered to work, each given jobs according to their skills, or lackthereof. Lucas was grabbed by his shirt and shoved into a mess of men scrubbing the deck with holystones. He was shoved to his knees, and it was made clear to him that he should start scraping. The men gave him sidelong glances, but he scowled at them until they stopped. His chest was tight with fury, and he'd bite the fingers off anyone who so much as breathed on his neck.
He gripped the stone and forced it across the deck, gritting his teeth to keep from crying. His arm burned, and the coarse rock chafed his hands, but he refused to give in to his tears. He wasn't weak, not like others, not like they believed him to be.
He was no stranger to this chore, or his virtual uselessness when faced with it. He was slow, ineffective, and he tired out faster than the other men, but officers paced the deck, casting their scrutinizing gazes over him, and he knew he couldn't stop. His back ached, and his shoulders were tied into knots. He dug his fingers in and choked back frustrated screams, but he continued working.
At seven bells, the crew was called to muster. Everything was whisked away, and the crew lined up with the thunderous roar of feet on wood, Lucas was shoved into line with the rest of them, so close to the men on either side that their elbows touched his shoulders. He gripped his branded arm and stared straight ahead, summoning all his strength to keep from running.
The captain walked through the lines with his huge hat and spotless uniform, pacing slowly. He clasped his hands behind his back, following the master with the muster-book. The two made their way down the length of the ship, inspecting the men with their critical, aristocratic eyes.
Lucas clenched his jaw and forced himself to swallow. The captain was coming closer, and soon he'd have to look him in the eye. Lucas didn't want to look at him; he didn't want to be anywhere near him. His muscles twitched and shuddered, and he fought to keep his breath under control. He hated the man more with every step he took.
The master and the captain stood in front of him, staring him down. The master said something, words Lucas didn't understand, but he managed to catch one: pirate. He narrowed his eyes at them. The captain's expression beared down on him like he was expecting something, a word or explanation. Well, he could wait all he wanted; Lucas wouldn't be able to speak the language if he tried.
A sailor nudged him on the shoulder, and he flinched away at the touch. He whipped his head around, glaring at the man and tightening his hands into fists. The sailor made a small gesture, raising his knuckles to his forehead and jerked his head toward the captain. Lucas glanced back and forth between them. His eyes fixed on the captain, and he slowly raised his hand to match the sailor.
That seemed to be what he was looking for. He and the master moved along, stepping through till the end of the line. Lucas glared after them, wondering what kind of significance that gesture carried.
He was jolted out of his thoughts by a shrill blasting of pipes by the quarterdeck, and he pressed his hands over his ears to block the sound. All hands rushed by him, thundering past down the forecastle stairs. Multiple people shoved him out of the way, and he stumbled to regain his balance. He looked wildly about in panic; it seemed everyone but him knew what was going on. His heart squeezed tighter. Was that the call to man the guns? Would they have to start fighting soon? He backed away. No. Not a battle.
Someone yelled nonsense behind him. He let it blend into the background noise. Did he leave one nightmarish Hell only to be transported to an identical scene of wooden walls and violence? His breath shuddered.
The shouting grew more urgent. Lucas turned around and saw one of the officers (with a hat that was equally outrageous as the captain's) waving to the forecastle hatchway. With a pointed glare, Lucas scrambled down into the darkness.
There was no battle. It was just the crew being summoned for lunch.
Lucas picked his way through the crowded mess, painstakingly avoiding making physical contact with the men crowded on benches and sitting on the floor. He was exposed in such close quarters, with eyes on his back, his chest, his arm. His brand throbbed in the heat, and sweat trickled down the back of his neck. There wasn't a single empty spot for him to hide. He'd have to squeeze into whatever space he could find. Gripping his bowl tighter, he crept to the back, sitting on the deck next to a seaman on a stool. A seaman with horrible, yellow teeth.
The powder boy next to him, a dirty child no older than twelve, hardly gave him a second glance, but Lucas's chest tightened and he drew his legs in as close as possible. He couldn't put enough distance between him and the people sitting near him.
What he really had concern himself with was the proximity of the seated sailor. As Lucas inhaled his food, the man never ceased making noise, shouting unintelligibly in a constant, unwavering stream. He reeked of tar and body odor, and every few seconds, the air was punctuated by an awful, hacking cough, always at sporadic intervals.
Lucas's body grew rigid, and he coiled tighter in his shadowed corner. The sailor's leg jerked against him again and again, smacking his knee and making his whole body jolt. His knuckles grew white around his fork, and a low growl rumbled from his throat. Just one more offense, one more hack, or shove, or any other kind of movement, and he'd snap. He fought to keep himself from shaking and glared at the sailor. One more, just one more…
The seaman let loose a barking guffaw, swinging his cup of grog in merriment. His arm shot back and hit Lucas square in the shoulder.
Lucas snapped.
He screamed in rage and launched himself forward. He tackled the man and drove his fork into his thigh. "No tocame!"
The cup clattered to the deck and the sailor howled in pain. The rest of the crew sprung into action, and they all latched onto Lucas, prying him away. Hands on his arms, his legs, around his waist, pulling him backward. He couldn't fight back. He squirmed and kicked, but they held on too tight.
"Suéltame!"
Everyone was shouting; there was too much noise. Lucas wanted to take on them all, every last sailor and marine on this ship, just to taste their blood and make them shriek in pain. He wanted to bite back and make them regret they'd ever pressed him into their wretched navy.
Someone's hand closed tighter over his brand. He yelped and went rigid, and tears stung his eyes. He screamed through his teeth and lashed out with his legs.
The shouting quieted. The crowd parted to make way for an officer in a flat-topped hat, followed by two marines. The bosun. Lucas writhed against the hands that held him, to little effect. The silence of the hall pressed around him, and he was suffocated with the vulnerability that came with it. The bosun stared straight through him, and all hands craned their necks for a look at the confrontation. Even the man Lucas stabbed had stopped moaning to listen to what would happen next.
The bosun barked at Lucas, demanding an answer, but Lucas kept his mouth shut. Tears dripped off his face and his lip quivered, and he knew he was about to die. The bosun screamed at him, and he flinched away. The other men spoke for him. He still didn't understand what they were saying. His chest rose and fell as he gritted his teeth and prepared to be shot by one of the marines, praying it would be over quickly.
The bosun gave Lucas one last look, then turned his back and made his way through the crowd of sailors. The marines came forward, one on either side, and the men handed Lucas over. Lucas was gripped by the arms and led out of the mess hall and through the ship. He was thrown down the dark entrance of the brig with cold, heavy irons around his wrists and ankles.
He was left alone, save for a single marine standing guard, staring straight ahead with his gun at attention. Lucas drew his knees to his chest and linked his arms around his legs. He was in the dark again, a prisoner in this floating hell.
Alone. Alone and forgotten.