As the sun sank below the horizon, endless ripples of blue-grey water stretching as far as the eye could behold, the crew of the HMS Surprise could not be heard in their usual boisterous revelry following the capture of such a lucrative prize. Instead of resting clustered together above decks in amiable entertainment, taking in the gentle night breezes along with their evening grog ration, the men hung together in murmuring, agitated knots as the fate of their captain hung delicately in the balance.
No one dared strike up the fife player to ease away the evening doldrums or the black mood that had descended upon them all. Not one man dared to speak even above a harsh whisper, for the precious little news they received from the sick bay had not succeeded in lifting their spirits. Their leader, known for his incredible prowess at sea and undefiable luck in battle, was fighting for his life; and from the state of the First Lieutenant's appearance on his return from the Captain's bedside, the pallor of the man's face was an instant answer to the question floating through the huddles of men.
Their captain was dying.
For what seemed like the thousandth time, Stephen Maturin passed a hand over his friend's raggedly rising and falling chest, breathing a small sigh of relief when - upon each attempt – he felt the flutter of the man's breath under the mound of blankets that swaddled Aubrey's still form. The Doctor had tried valiantly to occupy himself within the sick bay, to keep his morose thoughts from filtering back toward his friend, but the endeavor was soon rendered useless; for with every moment he passed by the man's bunk, assessing eye inevitably straying on the prone, pale form that looked so very small and vulnerable lying there, that his heart would leap into his throat.
The dread would overcome him in great waves every time he approached his friend's bedside, for Stephen feared each time he leaned over the berth to search the man's face, he would instead find sightless grey eyes staring up at him.
Discovering his other patients to be a remarkably hardy lot, his ministrations were quickly fended away by all but the most desperate for the sake of their captain. The Doctor eventually abandoned his uselessly busying efforts and instead drew a chair to Jack's bedside – anxieties becalmed only when his eyes never strayed from Jack's cocooned form.
Upon regaining consciousness for the first time, Jack had immediately reacted in a flurried rush of flailing limbs, nearly causing the physician to throw himself over the man to prevent him from further injury, for the captain's mind had remained unaware the battle no longer raged over his head; in his mind, foggy with pain and confusion, the Alexandretta had yet to be taken. Yet despite the clammy, grey pallor of his skin and the ragged wheezes that escaped from his chest, Jack's conscious mind had been quick to clear, for the first words from his lips were a demand to see his First Lieutenant.
Perhaps, despite the pained delirium slurring his speech and numbing his senses, Jack too had been aware of the urgency his situation demanded, for he was most emphatic in his request – snatching his friend and healer's sleeve and repeating it many times despite the Doctor's reassurances.
That evening, word had quickly spread through the ship like fire amongst dry kindling that the Captain was conscious at last, setting the seamen to murmuring about as Mr. Pullings had nearly flown from the quarterdeck to the sick bay at the summons. As the younger officer passed the threshold expectantly, Maturin had been quick to meet the man with a level stare of warning as the Captain had strained from his prone position to speak with the man, babbling on about orders, prisoners, and prize crews in the seamanlike jargon Jack was so fond of employing and that Stephen had yet to decipher.
Seeing that his captain appeared to be skirting around death's door for the moment, Pullings had immediately relaxed as he relayed their current situation to his commander, even allowing some excitement to filter into his voice as he spoke of the Alexandretta and the great welcome that would await them in Portsmouth.
Stephen had allowed his mind to drift away from conversations not meant for his ears then, though he had not distanced himself entirely, noting that with every word the breathlessness and fatigue in Jack's ragged voice grew more pronounced. Soon enough, the physician had noticed his friend could barely keep his eyes open as Aubrey fought the creeping exhaustion with every fiber of his stubborn being.
One curt look toward Mr. Pullings told the young man the conference must close, for the moment the Lieutenant ceased talking did the Captain's eyes flutter closed as consciousness deserted him a second time.
"Will he recover, do you think, Doctor," asked the younger man as he stood to leave, glancing with great empathy at his commanding officer lying there looking so very mortal.
Meeting the man's eyes from behind wire-rimmed spectacles, Maturin answered with an expression that betrayed his lack of faith in his own words, "I pray he does, Mr. Pullings, as do we all."
That had been many hours ago; now, Stephen found himself waking under the flickering, dim light of the lantern swinging gently above his head, a great stretch bringing some semblance of feeling to return to his stiff arms and legs. Whatever genius mind invented the sitting stool had never intended for it to be used as a berth for the night, of that the Doctor and his grumbling back were quite sure of.
Swiping the spectacles that listed to one side from his nose, he pressed fingertips to his eyes in a vain attempt to rub the weariness out of them. There's this blasted feverishness again, he thought in frustration as he wiped tiny beads of perspiration from his face.
This is no time to fall ill, he chastised himself; not when his closest companion hung so fragilely to life.
Stephen glanced absently toward the man ensconced in the berth beside his chair, only to feel every nerve in his body bring themselves to life with a start when suddenly, in that moment, a feral hand shot out blindly from underneath the bedcoverings. Surprised by the strength with which the man waved his arm about, searching for what the healer did not know, Stephen caught the wild sleeve in a grounding grip.
The moment Jack felt the contact, his body went limp as though the effort had thoroughly taxed him, chest rising and falling quickly as he greedily gulped air into his lungs with great difficulty. It was then, feeling the blood within his veins turn icy cold, that Stephen saw the grey eyes darting from side to side sightlessly. He strained forward to catch the words pouring from the feverishly moving lips.
"Stephen? Is that you?"
"Yes, I'm here, Jack. Try to lie still," Stephen found himself soothing his patient, stomach turning leaden as he felt the thready pulse fluttering against Aubrey's wrist.
Jack swallowed thickly then at the calming rumble of his friend and healer's voice, eyes still dancing from side to side – searching.
"Why are there no lanterns lit, Stephen? I cannot see a damn thing in this darkness," came the unexpected query, spoken with surprising force considering the weakness rapidly overtaking the man. Maturin felt a sudden fondness sweep over him, warming him slightly despite the chill growing in the room. Even upon death's door, Jack remained his ever impatient, crotchety self.
Yet when faced with answering such a question, the truth could not be formed in words on Stephen's tongue. How does one, even a physician of healing, tell his patient that such were the effects when death was near? He could not bear to tell his dear friend, who had been so full of vitality and a thirst for life, that his wounds were slowly killing him. How could he admit to Jack that all the trust the man had placed upon him was for naught? So, Stephen did what he had been told was his most prolific skill; he lied.
Trying to disguise the tremors that were attempting to take over his voice, Maturin replied, "Y-you sustained some powder burns in the action. I have bandaged your e-eyes."
A look of confusion passed over the pale face, Jack then attempting to raise a hand and touch the dressing in question but - stifling the emotion that threatened to tear from his throat with a cry - Stephen pinned the wrist to the bunk to still the aimlessly fumbling fingers.
"Stephen," came the questioning voice again, this time much softer, almost child-like in its tone.
"Yes, Jack?"
"I cannot feel my legs."
Maturin closed his eyes then in a vain effort to collect himself, unable to stand the meek fear that crept into the Captain's wavering voice, so very unlike the brash and confident man he had come to know. Aubrey's breathing no longer heaved but now grew shallow and more labored with every passing minute; it was almost as though he was growing drowsy with sleep.
"The laudanum," Stephen ground out through a throat constricted with emotion. "Laudanum can cause such sensations."
God forgive him for such a blatant lie.
It seemed Jack Aubrey, whether aware of his true condition or not, forgave the Doctor of his sins, for he then murmured a whisper of gratitude before the pale, shining eyelids fluttered closed and his body relaxed into the berth that cradled him. For a moment, Stephen feared the end had come, but another press of fingertips to the man's wrist sensed a heart still beat - barely, but tangible nonetheless. The physician rested his flushed face in both hands, never having felt such a helplessness in all the time he had practiced medicine.
His most grievous failure was at hand. He knew the crew would forgive him for this terrible breach of trust. The officers would be disheartened yet understanding, pardoning. Jack himself would not hold such a blunder against him, were he to live. But how could he, Stephen Maturin, physician and preserver of the living, ever forgive himself?
"Doctor! I wish to consult the Captain regarding the-"
Lieutenant Pullings clambered down the ladder rungs and into the sick bay with all the subtlety of a Royal garrison on parade, his dark eyes shining with almost childish excitement at the prospect of his new prize, chart clutched in one hand as he waved it about to signal the urgency of the situation. Striding purposefully toward where the Doctor and his captain stood out in the gloom, darting around the hammocks blocking his path, Pullings suddenly became aware his hails were not being received. Dodging an empty canvas, he rushed forward to repeat the exuberant message - only to be suddenly and effectively drawn short; the enthusiasm draining from every fiber of his being at the sight which lay before him.
Maturin sat next to the Captain's berth, a chair having been drawn to its side in obvious preparation for the long vigil ahead, face pale and awash with mysterious emotions as he gazed upon his patient's still form. Stretched out as though to touch Aubrey's face was the Doctor's hand, fingers poised over the grey eyes which seemed to watch their hovering intently.
It was then that Stephen looked up toward the noisy intruder at last, gaze suspiciously swimming as it broke away to acknowledge the Lieutenant's presence. As if to answer the unspeakable question which lay between them, the Doctor turned back without a word and drew his fingers over the Captain's eyelids, closing them with such finality that caused Pullings to feel his stomach drop with dread. It was not possible!
"Is he-" the Lieutenant asked uselessly, voice only to be whisked away when his throat stuck painfully. He could not bring himself to finish as he gazed upon the sight, mission entirely forgotten; his Captain - his mentor - his friend lay so pale and still on the bunk, almost as though he were not dead, but merely asleep; it appeared all he must do was reach over and wake him.
Yet one glance at Maturin, eyes closed briefly in silent grief for his dearest companion as he pulled the wool blanket towards the man's chin - hand suddenly freezing before it could go any higher to cover the Captain's face - was enough to cement the reality of the moment into the young man's mind.
Lucky Jack Aubrey was dead.
Stephen watched his friend's most trusted First Lieutenant sink down onto the adjoining empty bunk with a look of grievous shock on his face, the gravity of the situation nearly bringing the man to his knees, chart clutched eagerly only moments before falling softly to the floor as if to punctuate the moment. Unable to bring himself to cover the face of the man that had only moments before spoken to him, the Doctor tucked the blanket around Aubrey's chin reverently - with a tenderness that Pullings noted mournfully looked like a mother settling their child into bed. Only this child would never wake again, for his eternal resting place would soon be the bottom of the sea.
Both men stared blindly at the still figure upon the berth in stricken silence, too dumb with raw grief and disbelief to speak aloud, finding themselves wishing that the sight before them was some strange vision of their dreams. Looking then toward the Lieutenant with a wistfully sad expression, the Doctor murmured, so quietly the younger man strained to hear over the creaking of the hull and the sounds of the men - alive and well - above them,
"It would seem you have command now, Captain Pullings."
The First Lieutenant had yearned from boyhood to hear those words, yet now, he found the title left quite a bitter taste on his tongue. Pullings vowed then, feeling the weight of responsibility press heavily on his shoulders, that he would uphold his captain's wishes and attempt to replicate the strength with which he had commanded; starting with the physician the Captain had held in such high regard.
Pullings would keep a close watch over Maturin in the coming days, as the anguish in the man's eyes as he beheld his dead friend indicated the Doctor might consider leaping over the rail and into the sea a viable alternative to this reality.
Truly, witnessing the distress on the man's face, such actions were not entirely implausible. One such officer had already proven that fact…
