Chapter Three: Lost Confidant
Sick Berth was buzzing already when I returned to the Surprise. Those who weren't already dead were not fatally wounded for a change of pace. A gash on the forehead and a splinter in the leg: I hurried through them, for Jack would need healing in more ways than one. My head fumbled over his actions, finding no connection to reason.
It was long dark before I could leave my station to seek the Captain. Gathering fresh supplies, I walked purposefully to his cabin, where, despite the hour, he had not yet retired. I knocked on the latched door to the Great Cabin. No answer. Near panic. Knocked again. No answer. Panic.
"Jack?" it was a cry, more than a question.
"Hmm?" came the half-hearted reply. I pushed open the door. He sat at his desk, sifting through papers, at least pretending to be focused. To my surprise he had not changed since the battle.
"How much of that is yours?" I asked wryly, motioning towards his bloodied shirt. Still no answer. A sigh.
"Not most of it, Stephen." I had forgotten. My question, in light of the afternoon's events, seemed cruel.
"Oh, Jack...I didn't mean..." I trailed, helplessly.
"I know you didn't." Jack smiled at me weakly, but it was in such earnest that I was relieved. "You weren't referencing..." Another tired sigh. Neither of us could finish our sentences.
"Well, let me take a look..." I approached, supplies in hand. Jack seemed to not hear me as he pushed past toward the door. All right, I thought. This is unusual.
"Pass the word for Mr. Pullings," Jack called up the stairs. The echo of his order spread down the quarterdeck. "Mr. Pullings to the Great Cabin..."
In what I thought was cooperation, Jack returned to his desk. Straight back to work, scratching out an account of the battle, he seemed completely unaware that I was still in the room. I shifted my weight, childishly unsure of what to do.
When he lifted his pen from the page and held it in the air for a long moment, I tugged at his overcoat to remove it. Jack let me do so and I laid it carefully over a vacant chair. There was a knock at the door.
"Not now, Killick," Jack said softly.
"Which you haven't e—"
"Thank you, Killick." He interrupted, louder. His steward dispersed. Nervousness skulked over my frame, causing me to shiver involuntarily. I'd rather have you unconscious before me than like this. At least then I would know what was wrong.
I put one hand on his shoulder gently, as to not startle him with my voice. It didn't matter; the Captain, weathered and sturdy, shuddered out of surprise and pain at my touch.
"Jack, please. I just want to make sure you're alri—"
"I'm fine, Stephen. I would have come to you before." Tom Pullings was shown in just then, saving Jack further explanation and allowing Killick one more disapproving glare.
"Captain, Doctor..." Tom nodded at each of us.
"Tom, your recount of this afternoon, if you please."
"Certainly, sir. I was with the starboard—" Jack held up his finger, turning to me.
He was asking me to leave. Not even in the first hours of our first commission together—years and years ago—had Jack Aubrey ever asked me to leave him with an officer. I did not question him; I was not angry. But there was instant hurt. Unbelievable injury, like a puppy sorely scolded for the first time.
I dawdled uselessly around the sick berth for an hour, maybe two. The long and trying day had not the power to shut out my worry so sleep and I were not companions. I had to try again, even if I could just prod his shoulder for a moment, I would be more at peace. No light shown from beneath the door of the Great Cabin any longer but before I could knock on his cabin door, whispers from inside stopped me.
"Careful, Killick, don't..." Jack hissed in pain.
"It won't do any good to dab around it, sir." Killick grumbled. I could have broken that door at the hinges, but I had not the courage.
"There now, Captain. The Acheron is yours. Perhaps you can retake to sleeping more than two hours at a time..." "T'would be my pleasure, Preserved Killick. But it won't be my reality." "What still troubles you, sir?" More hurt. More guilt. What's happened, Jack? I asked myself. What's happened that you can no longer confide in me? Stop eavesdropping, I told myself. Let him rest. As I lay in my hammock, jealousy snatched up my worry. After all our days, good or poor, our losses and victories, our moments of comradeship and enmity—after all our music— my dear Jack Aubrey couldn't look into my eyes.