Title: Petals of Time
Author: June
Rating: M
Summary: It's the ultimate cliché in MandC (or rather, Aubrey-Maturin series) fan fiction: a twentieth century girl, aged nineteen, miraculously ends up in 1805 and sails off to the East Indies posing as a fifteen year old Ship's Boy on board H.M.S. Surprise. Along the way she encounters war in all its gruesome reality, copious amounts of weevils, and a certain blue-eyed Captain who upon the discovery of her secret shows more than a little interest. So, yes, it's the ultimate cliché. Why write it anyway? Because I've been wanting to indulge myself in this story, and I hope to be able to write it well.
Chapter: 3?
Pairings: eventually Jack/OFC
Disclaimer: don't own any of Patrick O'Brian marvelous characters, do own Joanne I suppose.
Author's Notes: There's no need to tell me the OFC in this story could well be named Mary Sue instead of Joanne. I actually considered naming her Mary Sue in order to forego any comments pointing out the obvious. I'm also sure I could come up with something more original than this eternally rehashed and not to mention implausible plot, and in fact I have under another pen name, but I just wanted to have some fun writing this. As for the technicalities – this is mixed bookverse and movieverse. Some of it is H.M.S. Surprise (the book), but a lot of it also isn't, and there will probably be some movieverse seeping in here and there, as well as possible mix-ups of timelines and chronology.
Chapter 3: Ship's Boy
With The Crown as her starting point, Joanne spend the next three days discovering the city and quickly grew delighted with her temporary surroundings. At the same time however, her worries mounted and by the end of the third day she was extremely anxious. The problem was that she was still here, or there, depending on one's point of view, so many ages before her own, and there had been no sign whatsoever that this was going to change any time soon. What was more, she only had two nights left at the inn.
She needed a job. It was as simple and as complicated as that. She needed a job, and money, the money of this time, not the worthless paper bank notes and coins of her own century, to support herself as she waited for her return home. She started her quest for employment by inquiring at the inn, but inn-keeper resolutely told her they didn't need anyone, no, not even for dish-washing or cleaning. Still under the assumption that Joanne belonged to the other sex – an assumption she had done nothing to dispell by telling him her name was 'Jo' - he suggested she try at the dockyard.
Upon inquiring there, the dockyard workers took one look at her small and lithe frame and told her no. All of that day and the next she hunted for a job, any job, but her search proved fruitless. No one would hire her as the 15 year-old boy they took her for, and upon asking about servant jobs for an imaginary sister the answer invariably included the dreaded question "has she got any references?" Which, of course, she didn't.
The last day of her stay at The Crown, Joanne stayed out after dusk, something she had avoided previously. Still going from inn to pub and back down the darkened streets, she passed many of the drunken sailors she had so often heard outside her window. From dooropenings and windows, ragged whores and occasionally somewhat more civil-looking ladies of pleasure called for them. Joanne's heart grew cold as she realised she might be staring at her immediate future if she did not find a way to stay off the streets soon. For the millionth time the past few days she prayed and wished with all her might that she could go home, back to her own time. A buxomly woman calling out from one of the bawdy houses snapped her out of her misery for a split second. "Eh you, young'un, come in and have some fun! The press gang's about you know, we'll here keep you safe!" Her manic laughter followed Joanne down the street. A slow rain began to drip from the black-clouded sky and despairing, she returned to The Crown, feeling more alone and lost than ever before in her life.
The sadness must have shown in her face, because as she stepped into the warmth and light of the inn, prepared to go to her room for her last night off the cold and no doubt dangerous streets, the inn-keeper's wife, Marge, called her over from behind the bar. Hope flared up in Joanne's heart: perhaps the woman had changed her mind and would want to employ her, after all. Her hope was quickly disposed off however by the pint of beer Marge set on the bar before her, but she was grateful nonetheless. Taking the beer, she sat down at a table in the corner near the front window and for not the first time that day, fought hard to bite back her tears.
Moments later, in walked the man who would change her life.
He was large, looming over his equally tall companion and filling the doorframe as he stepped in from the night. His face was slightly reddened and his blonde hair, tied in the back, was dripping with rain. Both men wore uniforms of the kind Joanne had begun to recognize as that of the Royal Navy. From the gold epaulettes on his shoulders she could tell the blond one was something high up the chain of command, a captain perhaps. The other was younger and didn't carry the gold on his uniform, with long dark-haired tied back in the same fashion as his superior. They settled at the table next to hers and called for wine and something hot to eat.
Joanne had almost finished her beer but made sure to drink the last few sips very slowly. All the while she listened in on the conversation carried on at the table next to hers, and slowly a very different image of a possible near future began to replace the horrible one she had envisioned earlier, while running away from the whorehouses lining Portsmouth's backstreets.
She was no fool, of course. She had read the history books and knew well the stories about the supposedly horrible conditions of life in the old Royal Navy. "Nelson's Navy," she thought, only knowing about the man because of the statue in Trafalgar Square in London, and felt amazement coursing through her veins. Would she ever get used to being in this strange age? Part of her knew that the answer might be yes, as she had been less surprised at things on this day than on her first day here, but she still hoped she wouldn't stay in this time long enough to find out. Still, life in the Navy, she reasoned, could not be worse than having to live on the streets, or alternatively, having to sell her body to stay off them.
There was another problem, something which frightened her enormously when she allowed herself to think on it. What if leaving the Portsmouth dock meant she would somehow lose the connection to her own time, and she would not travel back to it because of that? Or, what if she would travel back while she were at sea, would that mean she would plunge into the ocean in 2005? However horrible both these scenarios were, Joanne found that considering them simply did not do at the moment. She needed to worry about survival first, about here and now, because if she didn't then there would be no way she would ever return home.
At last, nervously fidgeting with her sleeve without noticing it, she abruptly stood up. The chair scraped over the stones loudly enough to attract attention, but the two officers at the table next to her seemed too engrossed in their conversation to notice. Clearing her throat, she softly directer herself to the senior one, the large blonde man. "Sir, excuse me..."
The conversation before her stopped short and a pair of questioning blue eyes fixed on hers. "Yes?"
"Excuse me," she said again, trying hard not to stammer. "I could not help but notice, you are an officer of the Royal Navy sir? You both are?"
"Why yes," the man replied, pleasantly enough, "I am Captain Aubrey and this is Lieutenant Pullings."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," said the Lieutenant politely.
"It's very nice to meet you, sir," Joanne said, not sure wether a handshake was in order. She decided against the gesture, for these men were obviously high in rank and if she had learned anything in her short time here then it was that the proper formalities and show of respect were of the utmost importance to people of this age. Uncalled for familiarities would definitely not be appreciated, nor accepted.
"My name is Jo," she added, "Jo Thompson." It wasn't a lie. But it was not nearly the truth, either, and she blurted out her next question before she lost her nerve. "Sir, I would like to ask you... I am looking for employment, could you, would you be in need of a, a... someone to work on your ship, by any chance?" Cursing herself quietly for stammering, Joanne suppressed the urge to cross her fingers.
"Well," said Captain Aubrey, looking her over. "As a matter of fact we are some forty hands short of our complement. But you hardly look a seaman, Jo. How old are you?"
Perhaps it was something about her forlorn look, or perhaps it was because the Captain was in a very good mood indeed, as he had just been given the command of a wonderfully weatherly ship and was ready to sail within the week, but at any rate, Aubrey agreed to take her on board as a ship's boy. Jo Thompson was to report to the bosun of the H.M.S. Surprise at dawn the next morning.
