"Jack?"
The physician had lain so quietly in his hammock that the sudden frantic call startled the dosing watchman from his seat, nearly sending the man toppling from his perch and to the floor of the sick bay. Quick to find his sea legs after being so rudely interrupted from what precious sleep he had succeeded in capturing those last few hours, Jack Aubrey returned his weary bones to where they had rested all night, patting his friend's sweat-soaked arm as the man writhed against unseen demons yet again.
"Belay, Doctor, I'm still here," he murmured reassuringly, thankful for the sake of his command image that the wheedling tones could not be caught by any layman ear. His friend squirmed in his hammock as though he were being devoured by a thousand of his specimens - the fevers that had ravaged them all now coursing through the healer's body. What irony, that in saving them all he had doomed himself to a similar fate.
As Jack reached for the tin cup and again pressed it doggedly against Stephen's cracked lips, he mused at his great luck - to be given a true physician, a man who plied his trade with such conviction and passion. They had surely benefited from his caring ministrations over the years; and Captain Jack Aubrey would be damned before he allowed such an asset to his vessel to slip from his fingers - fever or no fever!
It was after a few minuscule drops had spilled from the cup into Stephen's wildly moving lips, murmuring words so breathlessly they were incomprehensible, that Killick appeared wraith-like (as was his wont) at Jack's elbow. In his hands were held what suspiciously looked like a china cup steaming with fresh coffee and a little plate laden with leftover supper beef and a wedge of cheese. Hardly startled by his steward's sudden appearance, the Captain merely set the water cup down after another unsuccessful attempt and made a reverent noise toward the man's offerings, smiling fondly to himself as the elder man fussed about in his usual way - grumbling all the while.
"What good the Doctor did, savin' ya from this cursed plague only to see ya starve y'self of sleep and sustenance!"
"Thank you, Killick," Aubrey replied absentmindedly as he positioned the napkin given him on his knee, taking the plate shoved unceremoniously into his hands. "that'll do."
Taking a delicate sip of his cup, Jack could not help but chuckle into its contents as he listened to his servant shuffle back into the darkness, growling softly to himself about cursed ships, their mad captains, and the deserved appreciation he was due but would never see in his lifetime. The man was a bitter old sod, caviling and harassing - yet entirely irreplaceable, if the rich coffee warming Jack's gullet was any indication.
Sighing contentedly into his first bite of meat and cheese, the Captain of the Surprise gazed again on his charge, who had in the recent commotion become motionless again, the only sign of life against the pale, fevered skin was the ragged rising and falling of the man's chest. What dreams could his friend be seeing to make him twitch so?
When the fever had ravaged his own body, Jack had felt his conscious mind being carried away like the wind in his ship's sails, transporting him to a place where sounds and sights mixed together like a stormy sea and time lost all semblance of meaning; it had been strangely comforting, Jack remembered - to be so removed from his duty and the reality of command. Nothing was of consequence in such a void.
Yet Stephen had not been blessed with such experiences, it seemed; for he writhed and squirmed and whimpered most pitifully - as though the worst nightmares were being paraded through his mind's eye.
What calamity could possess his dreams with such viciousness? Perhaps, Aubrey mused to himself, he should be thankful he did not already know the answer.
Gathering the last morsels from his plate with the pad of his index finger, he set the china aside and turned again to the water cup, its brim full and shimmering in the light of the lantern swinging gently above them as though to mock his useless efforts. Jack frowned at the utensil as if to will its contents into the Doctor's mouth. The man must drink, even if he had to hold Maturin's nose and force the liquid in, much as it would pain Jack to do so.
Yet when he grasped the tin cup and turned to address his patient, perhaps to plead his case despite the sick man surely comprehending nothing he said, Jack Aubrey was met with a startlingly lucid pair of milky blue eyes staring back at him. The sight nearly surprised the man into dropping the cup clutched in his hand, but his composure was stayed as Stephen's gaze bore into his own; it was as if the man was looking into his very soul.
"You're dead," came the voice clawing its way from the dry and disused throat. It was not a question the Doctor posed, but a statement, confusing the Captain even more.
The dead man stared down at his white shirtfront in confusion, wondering if he had somehow missed that very important piece of information, only to be satisfied that no blood poured from any wounds and he remained in command of his senses. Another appraising glance at the pallor of Stephen's face indicated the man still did not believe his own eyes. So, Captain Aubrey did what came naturally; he made a jest out of the ludicrous statement.
"Am I? I thought myself a little ragged 'round the edges, perhaps," he shrugged then, causing a little water to escape over the cup's brim and onto the floor. "but not to such a degree as death."
Entirely unfazed by the quip, Stephen's voice wavered minutely as he repeated himself, expression like one who was seeing a man from beyond the grave, "I watched you die."
Jack flinched then, unused to the close scrutiny of his friend's penetrating gaze, for he was deeply troubled by the realization that the good Doctor's nightmares had been on his account. What terrible apparitions had his person been the cause of?
"My dear Stephen," Aubrey began, amiably patting the still arm in awkward reassurance. "This damnable fever has been playing tricks on you."
"As you can see," he continued, spreading arms wide as if to prove his words. "I am quite alive."
At this, the Doctor's eyes closed, head falling away from his friend and into the pillow as though the sight pained him; the shaking in his limbs beginning anew as reality washed over his muddled senses at last. Could it all have been only a dream?
"Thanks to you," came Jack's addendum, equal parts the offering of appreciation it was and the comfort it was meant to be.
Reaching a quavering hand to his brow, Stephen caught the cuff of his nightshirt and dragged it across his perspiring face, finding the inestimable weariness overcoming him and the tepidness of his skin a sign that victory over this fever was close at hand. Suddenly discovering his mouth felt as parched as an Arab desert, the Doctor reached out in silent request for the tin cup Jack still held, forgotten, in his hand. The pinched expression on Aubrey's worried brow immediately gave way to one of great and happy satisfaction as Maturin downed the cup's contents in one enterprising gulp – only for it to quickly reappear on Jack's face when the good Doctor's disused pipes rejected the liquid and set him to coughing quite haggardly.
Jack heartily thumped on his friend's back as the man lurched forward, gently mumbling words of chastisement at the hasty action, only ceasing his efforts when the Doctor at last batted the fretting hand away. Rubbing away the water that had welled into his eyes, Stephen cocked a smile gratefully toward his friend's ministrations, his mind at last clearing of the deep fog that had engulfed it – no longer clouded by the strange hallucinations his mind had conjured in his fever dreams. The reality was that Jack Aubrey lived, much to Stephen's great, overwhelming relief that swelled through every fiber of his being.
Yet now that his mind had begun to function in its usual quick-witted capacity, the reality of their situation returned to the forefront of his thoughts, causing Maturin to sit up quickly with the realization – much to Jack's dismay, if his almost pouting expression was any indication. Never could it be said that Doctor Maturin languished about for the sake of his own health when there were patients that needed tended, even if those patients were only imaginary. Satisfied that the flush returning to his friend's face (a much-needed change from the pale, grey tint it had taken on in days prior) was a sign that the fever was retreating at last, Jack allowed himself to settle Stephen's worries – for it gave him great pleasure to know the physician cared so deeply for his men.
"The men that were stricken, were they-" the Doctor asked urgently, pausing to allow the question to hang between them when he feared the answer he might receive. He need not have worried, however, for Jack was quick on his heels with an answer, small smile an indication his worries were unfounded.
"Cleared for their duties a day or so ago," Jack finished his friend's question with great satisfaction, chest puffed out with pride at another example of Stephen's successful physicking.
"And what of Mr. Blakeney," Stephen continued, desperate to be appraised of the goings on in his absence. Though the lad had been quite fit and strong when the fevers had claimed him, the man could not help but feel a particular, paternal concern wash over him. "Has he recovered also?"
"Indeed, he has," Aubrey nodded gravely, with great fondness in his voice. "You'll be happy to know he was skylarking above decks just this afternoon."
Hearing this, Stephen's shoulders sagged as the tension left them, murmuring as he closed his eyes briefly in happy relief, "Good. Good."
Cocking an eye open, its blue irises flicking up and down Jack's weary form perched on the stool beside him, the physician in Stephen sprang to life after only a momentary hiatus, assessing the Captain's tired features; for despite knowing now that what he had witnessed was only a strange dream, the man still felt a strange protectiveness overcome him all the same. Perhaps what he had seen in his mind's eye had been a warning sent from above – a warning to pay closer attention to the welfare of his most cherished friend; perhaps he had been awarded a second chance, one which he would not hesitate to grasp with all his might…
"Are you sure you've quite recovered," Stephen asked tentatively, honest concern drowning the righteous indignation that might have sprung from Jack's chest at the question.
Inclining his head graciously, Jack nodded, quipping with a pat to his strong girth for emphasis, "I'm in fine fettle, Doctor, I assure you."
Content with the simple answer that had been given him, Stephen leaned back into the soft embrace of the canvas hammock that enveloped him, finding sleep had begun its steady, creeping march into his bones, weighing down his eyelids and drawing the tension from his limbs. Amiable silence had overtaken the two men, lulled into contentment by the realization that the trial was at last behind them, and neither one was to lose the other this day – either from real or imagined threats. The gentle creaking of the timber from all around them set a quiet background accompaniment to their silent thoughts, but as was Jack's wont in such moments of solitude in each other's company, such coveted instances begged for a musical interlude.
"I feel inclined toward a bit of fiddling. Does Bach agree with you tonight?"
Barely had the Doctor's mouth opened to reply an affirmative did a violin appear in Jack's hands like dark, gypsy magic, mysteriously at the ready as though this moment had been awaited with great anticipation.
"I should like that very much," Stephen replied, finding himself eager to hear Jack's uncommon talent of plying lovely tones from the violin's strings. "Even a little Boccherini wouldn't go amiss."
Grinning broadly, the Captain of the Surprise nestled his cheek against the bosom of his instrument, grinning wickedly as he quipped, "Very well! Anything for my patient."
Counting the measure quietly under his breath before striking out into the first crisp tones of the melody, Aubrey's foot set to tapping on the planks as he scraped away with his bow, entire being lost in the piece. Stephen hummed reverently to himself at the man's choice of music, nestling his head into his pillow and nodding along as he lost himself in his friend's skillful playing.
All was right with the world.
And if Preserved Killick, bustling about in the galley and growling orders to his fretting assistant, heard the high tones filtering through the timber of the hold and set himself to grumbling about in his usual way whenever the Doctor and his captain came together for impromptu concertos, only he would know of the small smile that caught in the corner of his mouth at the much-missed sounds coming from the sick bay. Nodding fondly toward the music floating to their ears, Killick hid his satisfaction in the coals of the stove as he banked the dwindling fire within.
Truly, their little wooden world had been spared the casualties of war this day.
Fin
