Apologies for the absence. Writer's block has been nasty.
Something was wrong. He sensed it in the stillness of the barn as he awoke from an uneasy sleep, to the now-familiar throb of pain in his arm. There was no movement from any of the stalls in which the men had taken refuge, not even from the one Johnson and Foley occupied. Grimacing as he stretched the muscles of his legs, Slater struggled to rise, succeeding only after nearly losing his balance as his injured leg resisted the exercise. The midshipman steadied himself against a dust-covered harness yoke, letting a pained gasp when he set his weight onto his injured leg. He ground his teeth together and made himself step forward, wobbling drunkenly until he found a sort of balance, with his left arm held out to the side.
He crossed the barn in this fashion, glad for the clinging darkness. It hid his embarrassing manner of walk from the eyes of the men. His thin fingers gripped the beam of the stall partition and he tried not to sag against it, as he peered into the gloom of the stall's interior. That it was occupied was apparent, for he could hear the steady hum of breathing from within. What he did not hear, however, was the sound he desperately wished to hear. There should have been a harsh wheeze of breath as well, punctuating the healthier rhythm of air passing in and out of a man's lungs. He didn't hear that sound and a thrill of fear lanced through him.
"Johnson!" Slater hissed, all but collapsing to his knees at the edge of the straw pile. It was a trial to crawl forward with only one arm, but he managed to drag himself up to the silent lump that lay against the stall wall. Corporal Johnson came awake in an instant, roused by the midshipman's whisper. The marine shifted quickly, reaching out to press his fingers against Foley's forehead. A lump slipped up into Slater's throat as he watched the outline of the corporal in the darkness. The poor lad. He looked away, however, when he heard the strangled rasp that could only be Johnson giving way to his grief.
Slater felt lost. He hadn't known Foley, beyond the man's name and face. Not half as well as Johnson had known the man. What could he do, or say, to let the corporal know that Slater shared a small measure of his loss? The midshipman touched Johnson's shoulder hesitantly, struggling to summon words to express his own feelings.
"Gerroff!" Johnson snarled, flinging the midshipman's hand away. Slater's eyes widened in surprise and hurt, shocked into speechlessness at the corporal's anger. He was prompted to vocalisation, however, when the marine's fist smacked into his cheek and he was knocked onto his back. Unbelievably, Johnson was upon him, swinging blindly with both fists, letting out a howl that was an unsettling blend of words and pure emotion. Slater cried out, attempting to ward off the blows with his left hand.
"Corp'ral, leave 'im be!" Smith was the first man to scramble to separate the two, tackling Johnson to stop the beating. The two marines traded blows for a moment before Smith was able to pin Johnson's arms to his sides. He lay atop the corporal, using his weight to keep the other marine subdued, murmuring calming words into the man's ear.
"He's snapped!" Dunne burst out, helping Colburn drag the sobbing midshipman from the stall. "Gone utterly mad, he's done!"
"Shurrup yer face," Williams growled from nearby, a dripping rag hanging from his hand. "Here, sir, lay this 'cross yer brow."
Slater's face felt like he had fallen into a cook-fire. His cheeks and nose burned with pain and there was a warm trickle oozing down his chin that could only be blood. Tears of pain and confusion scorched over his cheeks, despite the cool weight of the rag that Williams had laid across his eyes and forehead. What had he done that was so terrible, that Johnson should decide to leap upon him so? He couldn't understand it. All he'd wanted was to comfort the man somehow, but his effort had been rewarded with a beating.
" 'Ere, Donahue, 'old 'im fer me," Smith called, his voice somewhat muffled by the rough wool of his coatee. The carpenter's mate went over at once, allowing Smith to rise and brush bits of straw from his coatee and breeches. With a sigh, the marine looked down at the lifeless Foley before stooping to lift the body from the straw. The other prisoners shifted aside to allow the marine and his burden to pass, no one speaking. Slater shrank back from the men, dragging himself toward the shelter of the nearest stall. He cared little what they did, as long as they left him be. The short beating from Johnson had soured his mood and turned his sympathy to bitterness. If that was the reaction he could expect when he attempted to comfort a man, then the Devil could take them all, and gladly.
The marine Smith kicked at the barn door, calling out to the pirate guards who had to be lurking about somewhere outside. " 'Ey gents, 'eave it open, eh? I needs a shovel!"
Surprisingly, the heavy barn doors gave a rattle as the pirate guards rolled them open a few feet, sending blinding sunlight cascading into the barn. Sailors cursed the light, shielding their eyes against it and scattering for the shadows. Smith squinted in the sunlight but didn't shirk away, waiting until his vision adjusted to the brightness. One of the pirates glared at him, holding his musket on the marine. "Whaddaya want, then?"
"Jes' a shovel, an' mebbe a hammer an' coupla nails," Smith answered, glancing down at the slack face of the marine he was holding. "Poor lad needs buryin'."
The two pirates stared at the dead marine for a long minute, then looked at each other. It wasn't a terribly demanding request, but there was always the chance that Smith was planning some sort of escape. Swallowing hard, the marine added, "Look 'ere, mates, it'll be jes' me. Them others ain't gonna come out, not fer a bit, 'less they wants a service. 'Sides, s'bad luck to leave a dead lad lyin' about."
That was his trump card, and it worked. The larger pirate gave a grunt and waved Smith forward. Sailors were notorious for their superstitions. Smith followed the pirate around the barn, to a small, hard-packed dirt yard at the building's aft. Waving a chubby hand, the pirate stepped back to keep a close watch on the marine. Without a word, Smith laid his mate onto the ground and went about the task of finding a shovel. The tool he sought was easy to find, leaning against the back of the barn as it was. Smith chose a spot close to the barn that seemed suitable and began digging.
The sun was gliding toward the western horizon when Smith finished his work. He had long since shed his coatee, and his shirt and waistcoat were damp with sweat. Piles of dirt were all around, the visible results of a long afternoon spent heaving shovel-fuls of earth out of the hole in which he now stood. He leaned on the shovel and wiped his brow with his sleeve, succeeding in smearing sweat-dampened dirt across his face. Smith tossed the shovel out of the hole and pulled himself out as well. The pirate guard was lounging against a nearby tree, his hat pulled down low over his eyes. Blackguard was asleep. Shrugging, Smith turned his back and bent to heft Foley's body. It was difficult to jump back down into the grave without falling over, but he managed to keep his footing.
Foley looked as though he was only sleeping, when Smith crouched to gently fold the marine's hands across his stomach. The Londoner was still for several minutes, unable to fathom that his mate had finally succumbed to that bloody fever. He knew he was staring at the pale features of a man no longer living, but he couldn't reconcile that reality with the cheerfully-smirking face in his memory. Foley had been a lively sort, quick to cut a reel or jig if there was a fiddle playing, and willing to swap watches at a moment's notice. A fair lad and a fine marine. Smith covered his face with his dirty hands. Small wonder Corporal Johnson had leapt to pummel the midshipman. Foley'd gotten hurt when he'd levelled a pirate who had laughed at the officer. A loyal lad, and true, was that Irishman. It was so bloody wrong that his sense of loyalty had cost his life. Smith bowed his head until his forehead was pressed against Foley's, allowing his tears to moisten the other marine's face. He remained motionless until he was out of tears.
Twilight had fallen. A cool breeze was whispering through the few trees scattered around the island, chilling the Londoner when at last he dragged himself out of the grave. The pirate guard was still asleep, amazingly. Smith ignored the man as he set about the unpleasant task of filling in the hole where his mate lay. Each shovel-ful felt heavier than the last, until he could barely lift the shovel. It took a great effort to complete his work and he felt on the verge of collapse when he flung the last bit of earth onto the mound that marked where Foley was buried. Brushing away fresh tears, Smith staggered toward the back of the barn, where a broken-down horse cart lay on its side. He kicked at the boards until several of them splintered and cracked free. These, he wrenched free and tossed aside. It was difficult to see in the semi-darkness but he managed to feel out several nails that were protruding from the old wood. He dug at the bits of metal until his fingers bled, unsuccessfully trying to pry them from where they were rusted into place. There was nothing for it and he gave up, turning his remaining energy to the pile of boards scattered on the ground. He chose two and dragged them to Foley's grave.
The shovel clanged dully as he brought its blade down onto the longer piece of wood, driving it deeper into the ground with each blow. He had managed to fashion the two pieces into a rough cross, paying respect to Foley's steadfast belief in a higher being. Smith himself held no faith and the sequence of events that resulted in Foley's death only strengthened his conviction that a man was better served placing faith in himself and his mates. The final touch to the solemn memorial was Foley's tricorne, which Smith reverently placed atop the makeshift cross. He was sure that some scamp would steal the hat and kick over the cross before long, but for the moment, at least, the two items stood as a token of memory to a lad who wouldn't even be dead but for a spot of bad luck.
One last trip to the broken-down horse cart and he was finished. He retrieved his coatee and crossbelts, reluctantly slipping them back on. He didn't want to leave this spot. There were others still alive, however, who were no doubt planning ways to get off this sodding island and back to Port Royal. He hated to admit it, but the boatswain's mate Colburn was right. They had to get home somehow. "Rouse, mate," Smith said to the pirate guard, who jumped in surprise and rubbed away the sleep from his eyes. Without waiting for the groggy pirate to lead him back to the front of the barn, Smith went off alone, his shoulders sagging. The other pirate eyed him suspiciously when he rounded the corner of the barn unaccompanied, but Smith only shrugged.
" 'E's comin', jes' shakin' off sleep, I reckon," the Londoner told the pirate, setting his shoulder to the heavy barn door. It creaked open enough to allow the marine to squeeze through and the surprised pirate stared as Smith dragged the portal closed again. He could have escaped half a dozen times, but what for? He couldn't go very far without catching someone's notice. Smith made it as far as the stall where Foley had breathed his last before collapsing. He had no interest in making a run for it, anyway.