Note: While writing this chapter, it felt like I wasn't allowing much to happen, I guess it's just a bit of filler and setting up the two main story arcs now that The Doctor and Martha are separated. Sorry if this one is a bit dull anyway!
Flaignhan – excellent observation. Martha could indeed try to hide in the TARDIS. Once she gets over the shock of what has happened to her, she'll hopefully remember it's still on board ;).
Chapter Four:
The Doctor twitched. It wasn't voluntary; his muscles were in knots and a spasm washed over his entire body. Another concern was the slight change in environment, either the sea was really calm or he had been transferred to a vessel better suited at withstanding the current. He was aware that his cheek was flattened against something wooden and only slightly damp. Had this been the Dutchman he would have been laying in a puddle. He half opened his eyelids, peering out through narrow slits and focusing on at least half a dozen pairs of very human looking legs. From the shoes and breeches alone The Doctor realised he was in the company of members the British Royal Navy. Less obvious was whether or not these people were one and the same as the East India Company.
"Do you want me to interrogate him sir?" the accent was thick and harsh. It sounded northern English, albeit different to any accent The Doctor once possessed. The Doctor closed his eyes again, feigning unconsciousness but it was apparent the flicker of his eyelids had been spotted.
"Now Mercer, let our new friend come-around first. He's clearly no threat to us," a second, better-spoken voice replied. The Doctor sat up with a start, opening his eyes fully and cautiously placing a hand upon the deck, propping himself up before rising slowly. He wiped his other hand across his mouth, removing the residual seawater from his lips. He stepped back as far as the space on the deck would allow, and knitted his brows together. The assortment of midshipmen and lieutenants in front of The Doctor were unfazed, as though they saw unusual things such as a man dressed out of period every day. In a world where men slowly transformed into sea creatures, an oddly attired stranger was perhaps relatively normal.
"Forgive me…" The Doctor paused to clear his throat and fixed his gaze upon the second man to speak, assuming that he was in command "but in what company do I have the pleasure of finding myself?" the man smiled, causing The Doctor to wonder if this man simply couldn't manage welcoming or if he was being deliberately sinister.
"Specifically, I am Lord Cutler Beckett, chairman of the East India Company, this is my clerk Mr Mercer," he motioned to the man who had spoken first "and this is the newly appointed Admiral Norrington," he said, leaning his body slightly to the left indicating that Norrington was the much taller man at his side. "More generally…" he continued, "we are the East India Company,"
"Oh thank goodness!" The Doctor exclaimed with a grin.
"You seem quite pleased," quipped Norrington "quite dangerous to assume we are friend not foe,"
"Well…" The Doctor mused, glancing quickly up to his right "there is that. But I'd also assume you wouldn't be talking to me now, I'd be waking up in the brig all alone…" he smirked, cocking an eyebrow.
"Ignore Norrington, he's probably worried you're going to steal his thunder," said Beckett "you are quite smart in your presentation for one with such a common accent, tell me friend, what is your name?"
"The Doctor," the reply came with a hint of irritation. Common?
"Doctor…?" Beckett trailed off, expecting The Doctor to fill in the gap.
"Just The Doctor,"
"Ah! A pretentious social climber, I think I like you," replied Beckett, his voice never leaving the same flat tone, making it difficult to gauge his emotions. "I have much to discuss with you Doctor, but I think first of all we should get you properly attired, I think I have a spare uniform in my quarters…"
"With respect, sir," Norrington interrupted "I believe he is closer to my height, and he has no right to wear an officer's uniform on this ship,"
"Do calm yourself Admiral, cut off some of the embroidery if it makes you feel better, just don't let our poor friend suffer anymore in those wet clothes," Beckett's tone was indifferent and scathing. "Doctor, go with Norrington and please do ask him to escort you to my office as soon as possible," and with that Beckett was gone, quickly followed by Mercer. The crew disbanded, leaving The Doctor facing Norrington, who appeared to be quite aggravated. The Doctor flashed him a cheeky smile, but soon let his face fall back into a frown as Norrington rudely rolled his eyes.
"Come along then Doctor," snapped Norrington, without stopping for an answer. He turned away, expecting The Doctor to simply follow. He never dreamed that he would think this so soon but The Doctor was beginning to miss being a prisoner of Davy Jones. At least his mean streak wasn't seemingly caused by a petty jealously, lacking in any foundation.
Martha Jones was suffering from backache. Since morning, she had been ordered to scrub the deck, on her own. Fortunately, her anger stirred strength in her that made a previously impossible task a breeze. Barnacles that had appeared glued to the deck were breaking away quite easily as she pushed against the pathetically small brush in her hands. Still, there was no point to this; she was certain that in a couple of days it would be hard to distinguish deck from sea life. The only positives were that the Dutchman had been above water; save for a brief trip below at first light, and such vigorous deck scrubbing had caused her to dry off quite quickly. However, that didn't stop her mourning her ruined jeans and hairstyle, which had mostly fallen out leaving straggly wet strands stuck to her forehead. "Oh well," she thought "I'm going to turn into a fish eventually anyway," she then became aware that the creature with a shell across half of his head was approaching her. She knew most of her comrades' names now. This one was called Hadras.
"The captain wishes to inform you that you're relieved of your duties," he said in hushed tones with an indistinguishable accent. Martha sat up, resting on her haunches. She flung the brush into a bucket of water and huffed, defensively folding her arms.
"Well, what am I supposed to do now?" she demanded. Hadras, apparently one of the less confrontational members of the crew, was taken aback. He made a thoughtful sound before replying.
"You are most welcome to join the crew below deck this evening, we plan to celebrate your arrival," Martha was definitely confused now; she stood up, eyeing Hadras suspiciously.
"You mean, you're being nice to me?" she stuttered.
"You're part of the crew now," Hadras answered with a light chuckle "and part of the ship, you are one of us,"
"I'll…" Martha hesitated "think about it," she smiled sheepishly, unable to work out if this was a trick.
"Good, we have rum," said Hadras, picking up the bucket and carrying it with him to another part of the ship. Martha walked over to the railings, once again slouching against them and staring off into the distance. Her eyes were prickling with excess water but she was determined not to cry. She remained in this position for a long time, thinking about The Doctor. Realistically she knew that it was too soon for a small dot to appear, getting bigger as it drew near, finally revealing itself to be The Doctor rowing back towards her. However, being in touch with reality did not mean that one couldn't hope.
The Doctor was staring at an unrecognisable reflection in a mirror in Norrington's rather cramped bedroom. He did not like his new look; it was absurd and was the wig really necessary. He adjusted the cravat around his neck and stepped back, smoothing down the sleeves of his frock coat. Norrington had found an old uniform from his days as Commodore and had not cut off any of the rich lace. He resolved, with smug satisfaction, that The Doctor's lack of a hat would confirm his lack of status on the ship. After all, this was just a temporary measure until The Doctor's real clothes dried out, at least that was what both men hoped.
"You look ridiculous," stated Norrington, using a more friendly tone. "Ah, there's a sense of humour in there somewhere" The Doctor pondered to himself.
"I was just thinking the same thing," The Doctor turned away from the mirror, "now…Lord Beckett?"
"Follow me," replied Norrington with a half-smile.
Beckett's office was far too neat for The Doctor's liking. He preferred an element of chaos, believing that being unorganised kept him on his toes and prepared him for anything. Still, the fact that Beckett was sitting at a small table elegantly drinking tea appealed to The Doctor, it suggested a relaxed and sophisticated atmosphere in which he could hopefully gain Beckett's trust. However, Mercer's death-glares weren't helping. The clerk was standing behind Beckett's chair, guarding him like an obedient dog. Mercer didn't need to speak; his menacing scowl already confirmed his dislike of The Doctor.
"Ah Doctor, do sit down and join me for some tea," said Beckett once he noticed The Doctor's presence. Mercer grudgingly moved to pull out the chair opposite his master, motioning for The Doctor to sit. "Thank you Admiral, Mercer, that will be all," Norrington left in silence but Mercer, predictably, refused to budge.
"I believe sir, I ought to stay," he hissed.
"Oh not you too! I told you Mercer; we have nothing to worry about. Now please leave, I have matters I wish to discuss with The Doctor…in private," suddenly Jones's words were echoing around The Doctor's mind "appearances can be deceptive." At that moment, it occurred to The Doctor that Beckett was not dismissing his inferiors out of an act of kindness, more so to up the odds that The Doctor would talk. Yet again The Doctor was facing a foe with admirable intellect, except for Beckett was much more shrewd than Davy Jones. Beckett's cleverness was business like and calculating, Jones on the other hand relied purely on cunning observation. The Doctor could not help thinking that both men (if Jones could be called a man) were worthy adversaries, and he liked it.
"I'll be outside then, sir," Mercer sneered, closing the door as he left the room. Beckett gave The Doctor a haughty smile and proceeded to pour him a cup of tea, not caring to ask how he liked it.
"I must confess Doctor, you look far better now you're properly attired," said Beckett, pushing an ornate tea cup and saucer over to The Doctor. One sip confirmed that it was black tea, which was fortunately one of the Doctor's favourites. "I have never seen anything like your manner of dress before," Beckett was clearly pressing for information, he wasted no time on pleasantries.
"I can believe that, I'm from very far away," The Doctor replied truthfully, with a crafty grin.
"But evidently not so far away that you could have avoided the Dutchman," stated Beckett nonchalantly. The Doctor almost dropped his saucer. This man was brilliant. "Don't look so shocked Doctor, I recognised the style of the boat in which we found you, though I don't know many other ships that are part marine-life, do you?"
"I escaped," The Doctor decided to be honest, "I was hoping I could find someone powerful enough to help me rescue my companion," he said, trying to appeal to Beckett's famed hunger for being recognised as a figure of world-authority. "She's still trapped…" Beckett's expression changed to one of amused intrigue.
"Companion you say," he took a sip of his tea, "my advice Doctor is that ladies of her sort are better suited to such a fate, I wouldn't waste my time trying to secure the affections of one such as her,"
"Oh no, no! It's not like that," The Doctor gasped, partially offended but accepting the misunderstanding "she's a friend, I promised I'd keep her safe,"
"Oh?" queried Beckett, setting down his cup before standing. "Then I might be able to help you after all, if you are willing to lend your assistance to me first,"
"Which would be?"
"I'm currently trying to track the Dutchman, but it's proving to be rather difficult. Jones knows that he is no longer master-less, but he's being disobedient and elusive. I need someone who has witnessed the way he thinks, perhaps then he will think twice about running away from responsibility," said Beckett, offering his hand "do we have a deal?".
"We do," replied The Doctor, partaking of his second handshake, and at least this one didn't make him feel queasy.
"Excellent! Come now, I feel a tour of the ship is in order," said Beckett, almost smiling with sincerity as The Doctor rose and joined him by the door.
"Tell me, does this ship have a name?"
"Hmm," mused Beckett "not quite, but I do wish we could think of one, the paintwork seems somewhat incomplete without a name adorning it. Do you have any suggestions?" The Doctor grinned.
"How about, the Enterprise," he mentally congratulated himself, he had wanted to use that joke for years. Beckett appeared to be quite impressed.
"I like it, it suggests good business," he replied, allowing The Doctor to leave the room first. He chose to ignore Mercer's twisted mouth and instead turned to Beckett, motioning for him to lead the way. The Doctor was far from interested in being told how many cannons were on board and what kind of wood had to be imported to create the deck but boredom was a small price to pay. He would endure anything to ensure that Beckett revealed the location of Davy Jones's heart, he owed it to Martha to succeed.
As vaguely promised, Martha ventured below deck once the sun had set on her second day serving the Dutchman. She had briefly visited the crews "quarters" the night before, and as a woman had been given the luxury of sleeping in the only hammock that the crew possessed. Romantic notions of chivalry were soon dashed once she realised they had done this to be patronising. Remarks about her fear of the water and name calling such as "princess" had been Martha's constant companions as she tried to sleep. To be invited back below deck the following night as an equal had come as quite a shock. Even more surprising was that almost the entire crew had turned up to "celebrate" her arrival. The only two absentees were Bootstrap, who was languishing in the brig and Greenbeard, who rarely left his post as navigator. For Martha, the latter wasn't much of a loss; he had overtaken Maccus as her least favourite crewmember after an incident during the afternoon where Greenbeard had stepped on Martha's hand. Her screams for him to "watch where you're bloody going!" had been met by a toe-curling snarl. Martha later discovered that Greenbeard could no longer remember how to speak and it sent a tingle of dread down her spine; she really hoped that The Doctor would come back before the same fate claimed her.
At the bottom of the ladder into the crew's sorry excuse for a sleeping area, Martha was handed a bulbous black flask. The crewmen who handed it to her lifted his flask with what she thought counted as a reassuring smile, and she shrugged before lifting the narrow neck up to her mouth. The liquid within barely touched her tongue before nature took its course and she gagged, spitting the small sip of liquid out onto the floor. It wasn't the alcohol that bothered her, more so the bite of sea water that bubbled in the back of her throat.
"God, that stuff is vile!" she exclaimed, moving over to her hammock and slipping off her boots.
"Can take it off ye if you'd prefer!" said Maccus.
"Will it get me drunk?" Martha asked curiously.
"Aye," a chorus of voices replied.
"Fine, I'll keep my sea water rum thanks," she took another sip, only shuddering this time. "Well this must be a happy gathering…" she swung her legs up onto her hammock and lay back just enough so she could drink comfortably "even Jimmylegs is here!"
"Careful girl, you'd do well to remember I outrank you!" the bos'un quipped, looking up from his game of cards with three other crewmen.
"I have a rank?" she asked, genuinely confused.
"Aye, well no…not really," Clanker chimed in, "but I'd be willing to bet even Bootstrap outranks ye,"
"Just 'cos I'm a woman doesn't mean I'm not capable!"
"Tis not so much that lass, just that ye are a woman," replied Clanker. "The Cap'n hates women,"
"I kind of worked that one out," she boldly took a bigger swig of her rum, once she got used to the taste it was slipping down as easily as any spirit, albeit salty.
In spite of Hadras's description, this night below deck wasn't much of a celebration. After Martha had been told she was effectively the lowest of the low, she grew quiet and preferred to keenly watch the crew as they played poker. The problem with watching was that she soon slipped into a routine of idly sipping her rum, and every time she finished a bottle, another one was passed to her. It wasn't until she decided to sit up properly that she realised the room was swaying, and it wasn't caused by the sea below. She touched a hand to her forehead, convinced that she was no longer real but she was definitely pressing her finger pads to her own skull. The alcohol had warmed her belly but she was still feeling cold, a residual loneliness because The Doctor wasn't with her. It took the eruption of an argument between Clanker and Maccus to remind Martha that she wasn't completely alone, and these people had accepted her, sort of.
"I ain't takin' five years, y'had a card hidden!" Maccus yelled, rising to his feet and pointing accusingly at Clanker.
"Ye can't prove it, thems the terms, I lose five years, you gain ´em!" Clanker shot back. Martha was certain a fight was about to break out, and the last thing she wanted was to face an angry Davy Jones. She decided to intervene, taking advantage of her status as a naïve new recruit.
"What chu pleh…playin'?" she slurred. Both Maccus and Clanker turned to look at her, dropping their attacking stances in the process and instead exchanging a confused glance.
"Haven't ye just been watchin' us all night?" snorted Maccus.
"Yeah…I wanna pleh…play," replied Martha.
"Got anythin' to bet? We bet years of servitude but seems yer gonna be here for an undetermined length of time so that ain't fair!" said Maccus. Martha sloppily smiled and touched a hand to her neck while slinging half a bottle of rum down her throat. Her fingers grazed something metal and cold.
"Thisss necklacsssh…" she trailed her fingers down to the object hanging from the chain "oh no, wait, itsa key,"
"A key to what?" asked Clanker, damn these guys could hold their alcohol and they had probably drank twice as much as Martha.
"I dunno. S'just a key," Martha shrugged again.
"A redundant key," scoffed Jimmylegs "ain't worth betting, y'just go to sleep, yer drunk!"
"I am not drunk!" Martha shrieked, leaping up from the hammock and dropping her empty bottle in the process. As the glass shattered, Jimmylegs smirked. "Anyways…y'know, I'm not shupposed to tell you anythink, but radios…they're gonna be big," even with her mind clouded Martha recognised the talkative, nonsense stage of being drunk.
"What ye on about, lass?" asked Clanker.
"Y'know, radios…meansss y'can talk to pep…people who are faaaaar away,"
"There be no such thing lass,"
"Is too, where I come from," snapped Martha, cocking her head. She then noticed that there was music, a haunting melody filtering through the ancient wood from the deck above. It gripped tightly around Martha's heart and made her feel quite melancholy, but she was curious. She stumbled back over to the ladder and craned her neck, looking up at the darkness of the level overhead. It dawned on her that she hadn't seen a church organ anywhere on board, and so she assumed correctly that the music must be something to do with the captain. "Doesse play that a lot?" she asked, gesturing upwards.
"Aye, every night," replied Maccus, after downing an entire bottle of rum. "Gets a bit borin' after a few years,"
"Yeah…" said Martha, half ascending the ladder "shurrup!" she yelled. She turned back to face the crew with a smug smile, but the music continued.
"I wouldn't do that lass, he might hear ye next time,"
"But thatsss the idea," Martha replied, climbing the remaining steps and hauling herself up "I'm gonna go tell 'im to shurrup," she said as her bare feet disappeared from view.
"Someone should go after that girl," sighed Clanker.
"Ye seen the state she's in? Five years service says she passes out before she gets past the next set of stairs!" said Maccus with a grin…
Fortunately for Martha, Maccus's prediction was partially correct. She didn't pass out but once she was on the main deck she found enough distraction to forget her original intentions. The sky was cloudless and the starts shone brightly, a beautiful reminder of her travels among them. The ship was mostly dark with hideous shadows scattered over various surfaces but Martha was too hypnotised by the open sea directly in front of her. She was attracted to the idea of standing on the bowsprit, with her arms extended. Just for one moment, she wanted to believe she was a bird, she craved that feeling of being impossible to cage. She checked over her shoulder to make sure Greenbeard wasn't watching her, and then took tiny steps over to the bow. The damp coolness of the wood beneath her bare feet was oddly comforting. It made her more determined to stand in the slight breeze, allowing it to caress her skin.
She had to steady her weight a few times, but with dedicated endurance she finally managed to perch part the way down the bowsprit. She closed her eyes and inhaled, the smell of seawater was infinitely more pleasurable than the taste and it made her senses sing. She thought of all the times that The Doctor had shown her something new and mesmerising and how she wished he could be there, standing near her, boring her with constellation names. Then he would help her down from the bowsprit, offering her a hand and giving hers an affectionate squeeze. The Doctor was often distant, sometimes cold but those rare moments of warmness were worth the wait, and he made her feel safe.
The fresh air overwhelmed Martha with a sudden sense of sobriety. Realising that she had been drinking quite a lot of rum, she concluded that now would be a good time to stave off the inevitable headache. She was almost firmly back on the bow when her left sole came into contact with a small pool of water. It was like stepping on finely polished glass and she barely had time to realise what was happening. With a piercing scream, Martha lost her balance and fell.