Chapter Twenty-Four
Like probing at a sore tooth although it caused pain, Sam opened a window to read the latest offering from Dean's pirate AU saga.
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As Sam Winchester slowly clawed his way back to wakefulness, he became fuzzily aware of two things: he was not dead, he was not in his own tiny bunk aboard the Stanford, and everything ached more than was really necessary.
Three things, then.
That, however, happened to be about as much as his fogged brain could cope with at once, so he let himself slide back into darkness…
Some time later, he gingerly opened one eye, and tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to focus. The familiar slow rocking of deep water let him know he was on board a ship, and the cabin, which was ridiculously spacious compared to the cramped nook he shared with another young lieutenant on his own vessel, was neatly squared away. Gingerly, he tried turning his head, but the pain that shot through his shoulder forced a hissing grimace from him.
"Ah, it lives!" said a low accented voice with some amusement. "Welcome back to the land of the living, lad."
Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth against the pain, Sam made himself turn his head, and tried to focus on the indistinct figure. "Doct…" his voice rasped, so he swallowed and tried again. "Doctor Douglas?"
The voice chuckled again. "I'm no Lowlander, lad," it said, "But I'll overlook it this one time, since 'tis a fact that you English cannae tell us apart."
Sam blinked, trying to clear his vision. The figure resolved into a tired-looking but smiling man, mid-fifties perhaps, wearing dress that suggested he was a gentleman, but not a seaman. "Fear not, I am qualified, Aberdeen and Edinburgh," he added. "Och, now stop that," his face became concerned and he reached out a hand as Sam tried to sit up but then collapsed back to the bed with a gasp of pain, "Ye're healing fast, but I'm no miracle worker." He turned to a small sideboard, and poured something into a tankard. "Here," he held the cup for Sam, "Drink this."
Sam was about to protest, demand to know what was happening, when a wonderful scent hit his nose; the liquid in the cup tasted even better than it smelled, and he gulped it down, before letting his head fall back with a sigh.
"That is… a most wonderful drink," he managed, his voice rough, "Is it a spiced cordial, from the Indies?"
"It is medicinal, and will help you heal," the man – the doctor? – said firmly. "With herbal ingredients. Including laudanum. So get some sleep now."
To Sam, that seemed like a capital idea…
When next he woke, he still felt disoriented, but more clear-headed and less like he'd been keel-hauled. The cabin pulled into focus more quickly, and he was able to raise himself on one elbow. A heavily built man in the garb of a common seaman sat at the table, working intently on something. A name, Sam thought, there was a name. If he could just remember it…
"Doctor Douglas?" he asked tentatively, alarmed to hear the rasping quality of his own voice, "Doctor… no, it wasn't him…"
The voice was even more of a shock, for it was that of a woman. "Well, you have the right country, if nothing else," she said, standing up. "But it is Doctor McGregor who has attended you these past two watches. He has other duties also, and has left me to watch you."
Sam blinked. "Why, you are no mariner, you are a woman!"
There was a genuine laugh. "Neptune's balls, we have a sharp one here."
Sam frowned. "Well, 'tis clear you are a woman, but you are no lady," he commented disapprovingly.
"That I am not." She turned towards him, and he let out an audible gasp.
It was indeed a woman, but no beauty she: middle-aged, with a muscled build, and a face that had not been attractive before it was extensively scarred down the left side. Nonetheless, it managed to produce a brilliant smile.
"So, Lieutenant, do you have a name?" she asked, appearing to take amusement from his shock and discomfiture.
"I could ask you the same thing, madam," he shot back, not liking her tone at all; she addressed him in far too familiar a fashion than was appropriate, for he was an officer in His Majesty's Navy and she was some doctor's maidservant – and they had most certainly not been properly introduced at all.
That made her smile again. "Oh, few people use my name," she told him, "Mostly they just refer to me as The Old Woman. Except for Doctor McGregor."
"And what does he call you?" asked Sam icily.
"Oh, 'Idiot Child', usually," she shrugged. "Amongst other things in his native tongue, which I will not translate in the presence of a gentleman such as yourself." He winced as a jab of pain shot through his shoulder, and at once she was at his side, the smile gone and replaced with concern. "Lie down, please," she continued in a completely different tone, "You were badly wounded, and though you are recovering your injuries may yet give you some pain. I will pour you more houndswort."
"Is that what it is called?" he asked as she turned to the pitcher that was still on the sideboard. "I remember… yes, Doctor Douglas poured it for me… no, not Douglas, Doctor McGregor, for Doctor Douglas is ship's surgeon aboard the Stanford…
Like a cannonball punching through a hull, recollection came crashing back onto him.
The look-out spotting the lone vessel flying no flag, and the captain of the Chevrolet ordering that she be taken, then beating to quarters and running out the guns, the ship turning and trying to run but she was low in the water with cargo, the two men-of-war manoeuvred to steal her wind, closing in and preparing to board, Stanford putting a volley of cannon into her stern, then with no way to escape she'd turned to fight, presenting her broadside to the fast-closing warships…
Then all Hell had broken loose.
The strange vessel had fired two salvos in the time a well-drilled Navy crew might manage one on a good day, then Stanford's own guns replied, and as the vessels closed there was the chaos of battle, gunsmoke obscuring nearly everything and the stink of blood and bowels, the angry cries and dying screams as the hulls crashed together, then the shouts of anger and bloodlust turned to horror as His Majesty's men found that they were not fighting against men, but, but, it was impossible, then there was a shriek of grapeshot and the world exploded into agony…
Pain shot through his shoulder as he emptied the pitiful contents of his stomach into the chamber pot beside the bunk, the scarred woman holding his arm and keeping his hair back from the bilious mess.
"The Chevrolet," he sputtered, coughing and wheezing and choking on the taste of bile, "My vessel, the Stanford…"
"I am sorry," she said quietly, wiping at his face with a damp cloth as if he was a child, "I am so sorry. They are both lost."
"Their crews?" He heard his own voice break.
Her face was sorrowful. "Lost," she repeated. "The fighting was ruthless, and bloody. Those we could, we committed to the sea, decently shrouded. Dr McGregor read the Burial Service." She smiled. "You, we nearly missed. You were badly wounded, and caught under a tangle of rigging, and if it hadn't been for the good doctor, you might have gone down with your ship."
Sam lay back, his head spinning and a cold clenched knot of horror in his chest. The Stanford and the Chevrolet, both lost. With their crews. It was impossible to accept, impossible to believe.
they were not fighting against men
Near two thousand men, some of them his friends, gone. Two warships had closed with what looked like a corsair, and
they were not fighting against men
now, they were just… gone.
"Who is Dean?" asked the woman, breaking into his thoughts.
His eye's stung at the mention of his brother's name, and he told himself sternly that an officer of His Majesty's Navy did not cry for his big brother, no matter how bad the situation was. "That is my brother's name," he replied in a tightly controlled voice. "Why do you ask me about that name?"
"You called for him in your sleep," she replied, with another small smile.
"Well, he is not here now," Sam told her crossly, "And you might inform me, madam, where exactly 'here' is."
Her eyebrows rose. "Indeed? You would converse with me after all, though I am clearly no lady and we have not been introduced?" Her chuckle was amused, but held no rancour as she stepped back and offered him a bow. "Veronica Aoire", she said, "A woman, but no lady, as you have so intelligently determined."
"Era?" Sam repeated, trying to reproduce the unfamiliar word. "Irish, then."
"On my father's side," she smiled, "And you pronounce it well. For an Englishman. And how would you have me address you? 'Lieutenant' seems so terribly stuffy and forward, and truly, you do not appear to me to be the foppish type, of which the Navy seems to have so many."
"It would be appropriate, under the circumstances," he told her primly.
There was a flare of the hot temper for which her father's people were notorious. "Judas priest, man, will you have me scatter rose petals before you as you walk?" she demanded. "I know your name is Winchester." From the sideboard, she took a small object and slapped it down on the bed beside him. "But I tell you, give me a name I can use, you thunderin' amadan, or I'll choose one for you, and I suspect you will not like it!"
Sam stared at the item she had given him. It was his own, his most prized possession amongst the meagre belongings that he took to sea. A folding knife, small and plain but with a blade of good Toledo steel. It was a present from his brother, given to him when he left their father's vessel to take his first voyage as a midshipman. 'S. WINCHESTER' was carefully carved into the wood, and Sam treasured it, thinking of the time and effort that Dean, who had not taken to scholarship as easily as his little brother, would have spent making the knife a special reminder for him to carry always.
At the thought of his big brother, the anger went out of him. "Samuel," he replied. "Lieutenant Samuel Winchester, of His Majesty's Royal Navy."
"Well then, Lieutenant Samuel Winchester," Veronica replied, pouring more of the delicious medication into a tankard, "I would say it was a pleasure to meet you, but under the grievously sad circumstances of our meeting, I shall drink to your health." She poured a second tankard for herself, and raised it to him. "Bonum sanitatem."
He lowered his own drink – it really was most delicious, especially given that it was a medicinal preparation. "You speak Latin?" he asked in surprise.
The smile she turned on held the same childish delight as the most cheeky grin from one of the Stanford's young powder monkeys. "Oh! Denuone Latine loquebar? Me ineptum." (Was I speaking Latin again? I am so foolish.)
"I had not thought to find an educated woman upon a merchant vessel," Sam mused.
"Oh, I am not at all educated," she laughed, "I am as ignorant of learned men's concerns as the bowfish that run before us in the warmer latitudes. Should you wish to practise Greek, then Iain – Doctor McGregor – will be pleased to converse with you, and may even lend you some of his books. He will speak with you of the most recent theories in medicine and natural philosophy. Nay, some might suggest that he will speak at you. In detail. At length." Veronica's face took on a stoic expression. "It was the express wish and command of my grandmother, my father's mother, that I learn Latin," she answered. "She was a pious woman, as fearsome as she was loving, and none would gainsay her."
"You are a most surprising person, Mistress Aoire," Sam commented, finishing his own excellent drink, "In your dress, your manners, and now your speech. Had I not seen you close to, and spoken to you, I might have mistaken you for a man."
"You would not be the first to make such an error," she replied easily, and he thought he detected a minute undertone of threat, "Do not distress yourself, for I take no offence at that. My garb and my manner are practical, which is most appropriate on board a ship at sea, as you are no doubt aware yourself as a seagoing officer."
"Indeed," sighed Sam, trying not to think of the difficulty of keeping the more tiresome parts of his uniform clean enough and white enough and starched enough to pass the senior officers' most stern assessments. "Such an approach has much to recommend it. If you are not an officer, or if you are a pirate."
"Indeed," she echoed him with a small smile.
A shadow crossed Sam's face; speaking of clothing suddenly brought a most uncomfortable aspect of his situation to his notice.
"Speaking of such matters," Sam continued, his face flushing ever so slightly at even having to raise the subject obliquely with a woman, "May I speak to your doctor again?"
"He does have other duties," Veronica reminded him, "Is there something I may do for you?"
Sam felt the blood rush to his face. "Not decently," he stated firmly. "May I speak to his manservant?"
"He has an assistant, but he is with the doctor," she replied. "Truly, if there is anything concerning you, I will help if I can."
He fixed her with what he hoped was an authoritative gaze. "Madam, I should not discuss the matter with his maidservant, it would not be seemly."
Veronica's eyebrows shot up. "That should present no difficulty," she suggested, "As I am myself entirely unseemly. Iain certainly tells me so regularly, and in a number of different languages."
"Madam," Sam felt his ears begin to burn and his temper begin to rise, "It is not something to be discussed by myself with you."
She gave him a long, level look, then nudged the chamber pot with one foot out to where he could see it. "I shall leave you alone for five minutes," she said quietly.
"It's not that!" he snapped, ignoring the sting of pain from his shoulder as he sat up, pulling the bedclothes around himself, becoming ever more acutely aware of the mortifying situation in which he found himself.
"Well, what on Earth is it?" Veronica shot back, appearing both perplexed and annoyed. "Spit it out, man, I too have other duties requiring my attention."
Sam took a deep breath. "It is the matter of… my attire," he said.
"What of it?"
"I cannot help but notice that I do not have any!" he burst out.
"Well, of course you don't have any," Veronica actually rolled her eyes Heavenward, "You were struck by splinters! Your garments were shredded, along with the flesh beneath them! They were blood-soaked rags, fit for nothing but feeding the sharks."
"I should not even be alone with you in this condition," he stated.
She cocked her head and stared at him. "How can you be alone, if you are here with me?" she asked.
"That is not… it is not proper," he said through clenched teeth, "For a man to be in a state of… undress, with a woman he does not even know."
"Have we not introduced ourselves?" she seemed genuinely puzzled by his discomfiture.
Sam's temper broke. "Madam, I am stark naked!" he roared.
"Of course you are," she agreed amiably, "After all, I could not have washed you if you were not."
Sam's eyes bugged as he spluttered, unable to find a reply.
"Good grief, man, you were covered in blood, and soot and Lord knows what shit and you were dying!" she snapped out in exasperation, "How was the doctor to tend your wounds if he could not see them for the mess?"
Sam let out a groan of sheer embarrassment. The very thought of being stripped and washed by this most peculiar woman was just too hideous to contemplate.
"I do not understand why you should be so distressed," Veronica sniffed.
"The doctor was present, then?" he said in a small voice. "We were properly chaperoned at all times?"
"I was not concerned with that," she told him trenchantly, "For you were in no state to attempt to force yourself upon me. I would not be so vain as to flatter myself that you would be inspired to try."
"What? No! I mean…" he let out a defeated groan. "It is not proper."
"It was necessary," she told him briskly. "Besides, it is not as though you have anything to be ashamed of," she indicated one of the tattoos on his broad chest, "And I was most impressed by the quality of your tattooing, your artist was certainly well accomplished, especially the one on your…"
Sam let out a strangled noise of horror, and she relented.
"I am sorry, but truly, it was necessary, to save your life." Veronica's smile was sympathetic as she returned to the table, and held up some cloth. "I have been working on clothing for you – you are taller than anyone on board except for Siak, and he rarely bothers himself with clothing, being from African lands where it is not common – but they are not completed yet. Never fear, Lieutenant, propriety is observed at all times aboard this vessel. The captain insists upon it, and it is the crew's inclination."
"An unusual crew, then," commented Sam, thinking of the bawdiness of the rude fellows that had comprised the Navy crews he had sailed with. "But I thank you for your efforts. As soon as I may be decently covered, I would fain meet with your captain, and offer him my thanks, for truly, it seems he has saved my life." He paused. "What of my boots? They were a good pair, most serviceable."
"We have a crew member who was a cobbler," she told him, "And he was set to see what might be done with them…"
She was interrupted by the sound of running feet, and a younger woman burst into the cabin.
"I have his boots!" she announced gaily, "Martin said they were… oh," she paused, staring at Sam. "Oh, you're awake!"
Veronica visibly clenched her teeth and her fists. "Becky, how many times have I explained to you the convention of knocking, and waiting to be admitted?" she demanded.
"But you said this was important!" The girl Becky didn't take her eyes from Sam. "Hello! I'm Becky! I have your boots!" She held out the footwear for him to see, then put them down and bobbed a curtsey for him. He turned a bewildered look to Veronica.
"Becky is the cabin girl," she explained, "Via a set of circumstances that nobody can explain to me satisfactorily."
"Because I am so useful!" Becky's smile was beaming. Sam clutched the covers to himself.
In the voice of somebody holding onto her patience, Veronica went on. "Becky, this is Lieutenant Samuel Winchester of the Royal Navy. It would behove you to conduct yourself modestly in the presence of a gentleman."
"Oh, I will, I will," Becky replied fervently, sliding closer to Sam. "Good heavens, he looks so… firm…"
Sam clutched the sheet a little higher as Veronica's hand shot out to grab Becky's before the girl's twitching fingers could make contact.
"Madam, you are forward!" Sam yapped disapprovingly.
"You have no idea," growled Veronica, "Becky, I will say this once, and once only. Lieutenant Winchester is the captain's guest, and you will accord him all respect as such."
"His is very handsome, isn't he?" Becky was relentless and completely indiscreet in her admiration.
"If you do not conduct yourself as is befitting," Veronica added, "I will see you swing from the main yard myself."
Becky's face fell momentarily, then she brightened up immediately. "It is late in the afternoon," she said, "He will not be able to stay here, will he?"
Sam shot Veronica a questioning look; she actually bared her teeth and growled at Becky, who let out a little yip, and shrank backward.
"No, he will not," Veronica said in a low voice, "And when he moves, you will make yourself scarce, girl, or you will answer to me for your complete lack of anything approaching manners. D'you understand? Just nod."
Becky nodded.
"Good. Now, go away, and do not let me see you, lest I be motivated to forget the important details of the Fifth Commandment."
With a small squeak, Becky scuttled from the cabin.
Sam watched her go. "That is… this vessel has a cabin girl?"
Veronica sighed heavily. "I am afraid so. It is truly ridiculous – she is truly ridiculous, do you not agree?"
"And the captain tolerates this, permits her to stay on board?"
"Lord knows why," Veronica shrugged. "All good sense suggests that the wisest and most agreeable course would be to put her off at the next port. Or simply toss her overboard, that would be an equally satisfactory solution. But we are a vessel of waifs and strays, Lieutenant Winchester – perhaps the captain cannot bear to turn away another who has nowhere else to go."
"What did she mean about me not staying here?" he asked, looking around, "This is the captain's cabin, is it not? Does he require his quarters back? I will of course leave at once, if you will find me a bunk, or a hammock, wherever I may be accommodated…"
"It is not that," Veronica sighed, and turned to face him squarely with a serious mien. "But you must move. For your own safety, and that of others, you must be moved to the brig."
Sam gawped at her, but saw from her face that she was not attempting to turn a poor jest. "The… the brig? But why? Am I to be held a prisoner?"
"Not a prisoner, no," she assured him, "But confined you must be, for tonight, at least."
Sam stared right back at her.
"I do not see why. I am injured, I have no weapons, I certainly have no clothes…" his voice petered out in the face of her stare.
"There are things about this vessel that you must know," she said firmly, "Things that you will be told, aye, as soon as it is safe to do so, but for now, I must ask you to take my word for that. Lieutenant, you must follow me below to the brig, where you will be confined tonight."
Sam scoffed half in disbelief. "I can hardly go like this," he indicated himself. "Completely undressed."
Her stare did not leave his eyes. "You must come just as you are," she stipulated.
"I shall not!" he snapped.
"Oh, you shall," she told him grimly. "If you can, you shall walk on your own two feet. If you cannot, you will be carried. If you will not, you will be dragged. I offer you this choice, and suggest you make it quickly," she glanced out of the window, "For I was about to raise the matter with you when Becky burst in, and we must go now."
"Dragged, is it?" he smiled at her. "By whom?"
"By me, if necessary," she told him without hint of humour.
Nonetheless, he could not help but laugh out loud. "Mistress Aoire, you are strongly built for a woman, aye, and compared to many men I have met, but though I am injured, I do not think…"
His voice faltered as she stepped close to him, and gave his a look that was…
It was impossible to describe, but it was a stare that was redolent with authority – it went to the deepest recesses of his mind, and told him in no uncertainly that here was a person who would be obeyed, who must be obeyed, and who would brook no insurrection.
"You will come with me now," she growled in a low threatening voice, "Or I will twist your ear, and drag you there myself like a badly behaved puppy. Do you understand?"
Sam blinked, and she was suddenly smiling pleasantly at him once more. "I understand how very confronting this must be for you," she said reassuringly. "If it will make you feel less threatened, I shall undress also to accompany you."
Sam's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "WHAT?"
Veronica kicked off her boots, and began fiddling with the lacing at the front of her vest.
"Madam!" Sam snapped in anxiety, "What in God's name are you… stop that!"
To his utter horror, she shed her clothing as easily and quickly as he would put off a coat, and stood before him, completely naked and unashamed, the tattoos showing against her skin giving her an unwomanly and heathen appearance that only made the entire awful situation worse.
"Oh, you hoyden!" he shrieked, closing his eyes. "Wretched woman! I thought the captain insisted upon propriety!"
When Veronica spoke, it was with considerable dignity. "I like to hope that I, like all the crew, are capable of modest behaviour, no matter what state of dress we may be in."
"You dare speak of modesty!" Sam didn't even dare peek. "What manner of ridicule is this?"
"No ridicule, Lieutenant," she replied serenely, "But a demonstration that you have nothing to fear."
"You intend to have me marched to the brig stark naked, and you say I have nothing to fear?" he growled.
"Indeed," she confirmed, "That is why I shall accompany you in the same state. Come, sir," he felt a hand slap gently against his uninjured arm, "We will make poor progress if you will not open your eyes. Can you walk?"
Sam considered his options. If he was to be paraded naked like a slave in a Roman commander's triumph, he would do it with all the dignity he could muster, and give nobody the satisfaction of seeing his shame. "I can walk," he snapped, swinging his legs carefully out of the bunk. "Be sure I shall complain to the captain of this wretched vessel. What is the name of this ship, whose crew is complemented by demented women?"
"By all means complain to the captain," she said over her shoulder. "And voice your complaints about the complement of the She-Wolf. This way."
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Sam sat back and sighed; whoever had devised the spell, they had certainly given it plenty of juice, and he was worried about where the excess overflow might go.
Into Dean's story, probably, he thought glumly, because if nothing else, it was overflowing with excess.
The plot bunny dictating Dean's story is probably the most ridiculous raconteurial rodent I have ever encountered - its name is probably something equally ridiculous. I'm leaning towards Dirty Miranda Flint. She is truly ghastly.