Disclaimer: Most characers herein are protected under the copyright of Patrick O'Brian. Any that would seem unfamiliar to your book-happy eyes, will most likely be mine own.
Chapter 2: Se Débarrasser de L'évidence.
The battle aboard the Acheron was reaching a pinnacle below deck as Beatrice pulled herself onto the deserted quarterdeck. High above, there were still one or two Marines picking off her comrades and she fought the urge to go aloft and knock their guns from their hands. What if Renard were killed? She dismissed the thought from her mind, and sought to hide herself. Crouching low behind the wheel, she relieved herself of the heavy French button coat and rolled the sopping material up beneath her arm. Wiping the wild tangles from her eyes, she crept forward and ducked below deck unsure of what to expect.
She found the smoky half deck with its full armament of many twelve-pounder guns lined up along the starboard and larboard ports. The captain's windowed cabin was close by and she could see smoke from the Acheron drifting past. A heavy feeling could be felt in the pit of her stomach and she struggled not to throw up at the thought of everyone she knew dead. The British took prisoners… surely they would leave some alive. Surely…
Sounds of men coughing could be heard below and she crept along still leaving a wet trail along the dirty gun deck. The berth deck and sick bay lay beneath and in the wavering light of the candles she could make out injured men laying upon cots and in strung hammocks that sprawled out from the too small bay. They were looked over by the loblolly boy while a large man with a wooden leg tended to both them and a large pot of food boiling over a healthy fire. Despite the fact that he was cooking during battle, he pegged man seemed to be doubly insane as he laughed uproariously about a cheeky little midshipmen ordering the invasion of the Acheron to be led by himself and the doctor.
Sticking to the shadows, Beatrice kept one eye upon at all times as she approached the outer periphery of the injured men and went to the crew's lockers. She knew that the slop room would most likely lay below, but in order to attract as little attention as possible, the key was to find heavily worn clothing and to not break into locked holds. Boxes lay strewn about the crew's berth deck with the names of their owners burned into their finishing. She began opening them and looking for clothes in which she might disguise herself. A chest named "Warley" held a large seaman's shirt and close by in a chest with the etching of "Nagle" she found a pair of trousers and leggings.
Changing in a dark corner, she gasped in pain as she pushed her trousers down. A sharp ache that was slick with warm blood was present on her outer hip. She could feel a dense object beneath the skin and she worried that she would have to extract what she suspected was a musket ball on her own. She wiped the blood away with the dark uniform, then tore a strip of cloth from her clean portion of a second shirt she had found in Nagle's trunk and gingerly wadded it up about the wound. She could not risk approaching the dispensary and would need to find the doctor's cabin if she was to could clean and examine the wound. She tussled her wet brown tresses about her face until she was assured that they were nearly covering her unfamiliar visage from the crew.
Taking, the old and now bloodied uniform in hand she looked to the officer's quarters. The men had still paid her no mind, which was a blessing in and of itself, but she was taking no chances and she slinked to the back of the small hall and momentarily paused behind the pantries. A smell indicative of a privy wafted near the first door on her right, so she tried the second only to find it locked up tight… the purser's, no doubt. After finding the door adjacent to this unlocked, Beatrice slipped in, leaving the door ajar just enough to see that the interior was surprisingly bare. She very much doubted this could be the doctor's compartment. Peaking out from the door, she stealthily exited and entered into the next habitat across the hall.
This one definitely seemed more on par with what she would expect of a man of science. Light from a number of candle-wick lamps were illuminating the many samples of flora and small insect-like fauna that adorned the desks and jars along the walls. Books on anatomy, nature and various disciplines of science were stacked around the room and in hurried piles on the shelves. She looked around for bandages and found them in a storage space to one side of the work desk.
Muffled, the sounds of fighting continued above as she removed the make-shift cloth bandage from her wound. The bullet was not far beneath the surface but she worried that cloth from her uniform could have entered in as well. She laid out the soiled French attire and looked for the point of entry. There was only a small slit indicating where the bullet had entered.
She breathed a sigh of relief and looked inside the storage box for a cutting utensil to extract the metallic invader. She found a rolled up canvas pouch that had odd bumps protruding from beneath the thick surface. Upon further inspection, a number of what seemed rather crude and oddly shaped utensils for surgery were found within. She picked up a small scalpel of sorts and a small pair of scissors and set them down upon the table. Bringing a lantern nearer to her wound, she swabbed as much blood as she could from around the wound using a small piece of bandage. She then sterilized the scalpel in the small flame and with slight hesitation, made a quick incision into her skin very near to the bullet's location. She applied pressure and heard the thunk of metal upon the floor as it dropped from her body.
The pain was not too great but she worried that two open wounds would inevitably lead to infection - especially since she had been swimming in the bacteria laden sea. After swabbing the blood from the incision and the bullet wound, Beatrice looked to the shelves for an familiar pink ointment that all ships carried and found it hiding behind a tiny cage out of which peered a large beetle with a curved, lance-like nose.
She quickly applied a small portion of the salve to her wound and dressed it. She then took a long length of the bandage roll and laid it down upon the tatters of the ripped shirt she had procured. Cutting the cloth to the dimensions of the bandage, she then hastened in tightly wrapping and securing her breasts beneath the shirt - compliments of Warley, of course. With that task completed, she wiped the blood from the cutting knife and sanitized it again in the flame before returning it to the canvas wrap and the trunk. The sounds of the battle had long since dissipated and the shouts of orders could be heard above. The British had been triumphant… and now they were moving their wounded - she didn't have much time.
As she was closing the heavy wooden case, a flash of light could be seen within and she leaned down to uncover a minute, rectangular mirror. She peaked in, wondering if she could fool the British with her ruse only to find that she had blood streaks all about her face. She had to fight the urge to clean the darkening smudges away as she realized that they would only aid her by this point; she could easily pass as a young man if the need called for it and the blood would ensure that no one would recognize her offhand as a foreigner nor as a woman.
She bundled the French uniform and looked for a quick place to stash it. While Beatrice was loathe to part with it, she knew very well that it couldn't be found while she was aboard or else they would suspect a stowaway in their midst. She wished she could just toss it overboard but how was she going to get back to the top of the deck and dispose of the clothes unnoticed. And what of the prisoners? Would the men from the Acheron recognize her and expose her as a fraud? Who was still alive, she wondered… she didn't allow herself to dwell and immediately recalled the fire near the men. If she could burn the clothing, there would be no evidence left to indicate her presence.
She returned the lamp and salve to their original positions and silently returned to the narrow hall between the cabins. The wounded were becoming more numerous as the men limped in or were carried by their mates from the upper decks. Beatrice nonchalantly went to the fire and tossed in the bundle. No one questioned her actions as she watched the fire consume what had been her world for the last few months.
Did her actions make her a traitor? If her countrymen ever found out what she was planning, there was the very real fear that she would be guillotined. Perhaps if she were to find out information on the British naval fleet or their movements abroad she could prove her worth. But what if she were caught? Then she would have to face the British with their noose-happy penchant for hanging spies… Maybe she could still surrender now and just be paroled with the rest of the Acheron's crew… but then how long would it take for her to go home? Would she even get to go home?! Who would parole her? The French navy? Her distant relatives? She couldn't risk wasting away in a prison cell on the far side of the world.
It was becoming crowded in the make-shift ward and though her instincts told her to stay and help the wounded men, her sense of nationalism fought it. Where was their doctor? Had he died in the mêlée above? That meant that there was no one to tend to the injured on either ship… She wasn't a doctor; she hadn't taken any Hippocratic oath. One less British soldier was a damn good thing in her mind.
But listening to the men around her, bloodied and broken, she couldn't see any difference in them than she would in any Frenchman. But should she really nurse to health those that had just killed so many of her people? Should she allow them to get back in to the condition to kill who knows how many more?
Okay, she reasoned, if no one began to treat the sailors around her, she would have to suck up her pride and tend to them herself regardless of the consequences. Survival was key… and perhaps, as the Capitaine had done, the British commander would allow her to remain aboard as long as she was of use to his crew.
Minutes past by as the men were deposited below, a few of which she could see were already dead. Others had grievous injuries that would need tending before night fell but many others had superficial saber and rifle wounds that merely seemed shed blood in profuse quantities but had little impact upon a person's health. At least she knew where some of the surgical equipment now lay.
When at last, her patience had worn thin waiting for the medical provider's presence, battle-weary officers and young men in uniform began to descend with a number of seamen carrying a young midshipman. From the grave faces of the group, she surmised that he was already dead. Among the officers, she noted that one stood tall and had a fairly obvious air of command about him - the Captain, peut-être? He was very different than she had imagined him to be… he was strongly built and looked as though he could pick up three men without a thought as to their collective weight. His somber eyes were blue and his face had a gentleness that belied the scars and frown upon it. From his tender handling of his fallen officer, she knew there was another side to him… and perhaps all of the officers on board this ship; they couldn't be that different from their counterparts aboard the Acheron. However, the bloodied sabers at their sides spoke volumes as well…
Another man appeared on the steps behind the procession directing more men into the hold. He was wiry and pale which seemed very out of place among the sun-burned men accustomed to the sea. Though he wore no uniform, his bloodied clothing were those of a gentleman and he had an ease about him that indicated as much. He moved past the officers with a grave expression upon his face, before moving in a steady pace towards the fireplace where she sat and examining the wounded men in turn and determining which had to receive immediate treatment.
Confidant that this pallid man was the Syren's doctor, Beatrice visibly relaxed and allowed the men to mull about, hopeful that he and the ship's officers would be too distracted to notice her presence. The doctor, however, noticed only a spare hand that was not desperately wounded.
"Boy," he yelled, calling her attention. "Fetch that damnable Higgins, would you." Unsure of her accent, she nodded sharply and attempted to make her way up to the gun deck without incident. Trying to scale a path over a fallen man, she lost her balance and lurched forward suddenly, falling right into the chest of a young officer whose round cheeks that were still flushed from the heat of battle. He was notably jostled but was not overtly angry as he helped her regain her balance. Instantly remembering herself, she caught hold of a lock of hair, mumbled 'sir' and proceeded to inch past the rest of the officers as fast as she possibly could before scampering through the main hatch.
Men were scattered at various points around the gun deck and with slight hesitation, she approached a group of battle-swarthy men that were assessing the damage of a cannon called "Willful Death" that currently lay askew on it's side.
"Higgins?"
"He's topside, lad - tending to the Frenchies." The man didn't see her scowl as she ascended to the forecastle of the small frigate.
She didn't expect the sight that met her eyes….
AN: Sorry to stop here but I felt it very necessary to update before I began my homework and it just happens to force an awkward pause in the action.
Thank you so very much Kayla; you are my first reviewer ever! lol! I am so very glad that you enjoyed the first chapter though. I have found that I have an unusually slow method to my writing and I was afraid that this would scare people off. I just try to incorporate every single action and thought of the characters into the work and I feel as though it sometimes makes the tale thoroughly bogged down. I hope I have not disappointed though. In all honesty, Beatrice is an unusual character for me to write and thanks to your review, I feel as though I have not strayed far from what I had originally envisioned her to be.
And as for the pairing with the doctor… I have definitely been toying with the idea - especially considering their "medical connection!" But it is still a gray issue for me…. Thanks to the venerable Russell Crowe, I find myself enamored with the idea of a pairing with the Captain; but Dr. Maturin and 2nd Lt. Mowett also have major romantic potential in this story (alas that Pullings could not have stayed aboard in the movie and thus been present in this rendition as well :P). I know it sounds rather odd, but I am simply letting the story write itself. I am unsure who Beatrice will ultimately become attracted to - only time and plot circumstances will tell. :)