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Stephen Maturin had an unnatural ability to be abstract and pragmatic, even in the worst circumstances and no circumstance could have been worse than the one he was in: lying in a torture cell in what had been part of Molly Harte’s dwellings in Port Mahón. “They do not let anyone live who bears visible signs of torture,” Stephen thought. “Talk or no talk, Dutourd has no plans for my future.” The thought did not depress him, it was one of those observations that he was inclined to make all the time to himself, the same way that he noticed that they had made a point of keeping his ability to speak as intact as possible, not exploring the plethora of possibilities of torture related to his mouth (at least for the moment), being careful not to break his jaw or teeth. Stephen was relieved by that, for anything with teeth made him uneasy. Not uneasy enough to talk, but uneasy enough to be even more miserable than he already was.
“Taken for a spy.” Stephen’s irritation with his own poor judgment rankled him even as the hopelessness and terror sank in. He was far too well known in Minorca to pass for a stranger there. It had been a careless oversight on his part, he had been too confident that Minorca was Spanish and not in French hands. Just the time he had spent there with the Sophie putting in had been too much and he had been in Minorca far more than that. He had been even more conspicuous walking Mahón’s streets with Jack as his constant companion, given that the Minorcans did not see that many six foot tall men with long golden queues in British naval uniform and when Jack had taken Cacafuego and brought her in,Capità Aubrey had been elevated to the status of near royalty. Stephen suspected it was Martinez who had given him up. Certainly, if there had been no indiscretion in Whitehall, the chances would have been much lower that he would have been sitting here, wondering how much longer he would last.
Stephen would not talk. It would not do. He kept repeating his same lies which he was certain Dutourd knew to be false, but it was his story and he could not change it. Dutourd and the colonel seemed increasingly determined to get Stephen to talk, which he did not understand the reasoning behind but he knew that it was bad for his prospects. His interrogators were getting more extreme and more desperate. They had already dislocated most of his major and minor joints and Dutourd had now turned to Stephen’s hands. He had been beaten severely on the first day for sense to be knocked into him and it had not worked, but the headache from the concussion was a constant irritant.
They had shown him, using the other man, a stranger, what they would do to him to inspire him to give up his reticence. Stephen had no doubt it was true, he was sorry that the other man had to go through it when it would make no difference to his fate. He had watched impassively and distastefully, thinking of what he would do when it was him lying there, how he would attempt to relax all of his ligaments as much as possible but it had not really worked.
They put him on the rack and he had lain there thinking of Diana, ethereal in royal blue silk with a black sash, had remembered the incredible grace he had seen in her the first time he had ever seen her. He thought of every time he had seen her that he could possibly remember.He ignored their screaming at him and kept thinking of her and tried to keep his mind’s eye on her as his body gave way, one joint at a time, or worse, more than one.
He had sawn men’s arms and legs off and listened to their screams, his unnatural ability to abstract had analysed the sounds of his own body’s joints snapping, the ligaments tearing and giving way and compared it to procedures he had done and the pain he had observed. This was the cost of war and part of the butcher’s bill. Stephen would scream, he would cry involuntarily but he would not talk, he would not beg them to stop by offering up any information. Pain was relative and he could compare it. He had seen men go through much worse and live, but true, there had never been a drop of malice in it. The malice did make it worse, somehow. Stephen tortured his patients with the best intentions in the world, gave them laudanum and alcohol to make them insensible, but he had no delusions that they were not suffering, no matter how quickly he worked on them. It was paradoxical, he thought, how reflecting on the nature of physical suffering could distract him from his own, as long as he did not try to move.
He had lost all track of time and how long he had been there. He thought it was probable that it was weeks, at least over a week. He had seen multiple prisoners die and he was afraid his own time was coming sooner rather than later. Dutourd had already exhausted so many possibilities with him, he was frustrated and Stephen’s strength would not last forever. He would not break, he was fairly confident, but he would die. Physical death was not so unappealing at this point but the lack of chance of absolution troubled him deeply.
It was when they had left him for a break in their interrogation sessions he had felt lowest. He was in agony but worse than that, he was going to die with no priestly absolution, alone, in a fetid hole or dumped in a well or off the coast of Minorca in a sack. His body would never be found. His silence mattered very much to him, it would be a victory over Buonaparte, but somehow a Pyrrhic one, at least for Stephen. Lying alone and unable to move, all he could think of was the total hopelessness of his situation.
Stephen had prayed as soon as they took him but his prayers were now more fervent. They gave him something to hold onto, something to think of besides his own pain and ignominious fate. He prayed in Catalan and Irish, what little he could remember. He silently uttered every prayer he had ever said in church in Latin. He thought of all the prayers he had been taught as a boy, recited them to himself. He said an entire novena all at once and then started over again. He then started praying the Ave Maria to La Nostra Senyora in broken fragmented prayers.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now and at the moment of my death. Intercede for me with thy Son, O Holy Mother of God. Dear God, I am going to die in this torture chamber. God forgive me, please, my sins.” Stephen murmured an Act of Contrition,”Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor, quia peccando,non solum poenas a te iuste statutas promeritus...”
His prayers were interrupted this time by a vision of Jack. Jack beautifully clean and tall and strong in his best coat and hat with gold lace, his Nile medal in his buttonhole striding across the room with Bonden behind him. Stephen was having what were obviously visions, visions of Jack. He stopped praying and the vision of Jack faded away. He prayed again and it came back. It was a phantasm, Stephen knew, a product of his disordered mind, but it made him strangely happy. Phantasm Jack came and sat next to him by the rack and spoke to him and Stephen forced himself not to argue, not to point out that Jack was merely a phantasm because that would make him disappear and Stephen so did not want him to leave. He did not have to actually speak to answer Jack, he could interlocute via thought. “This is so foolish,” Stephen thought, “Merely a fancy of a sickened mind, no more.” but he continued. How strong and sanguine Jack was, how well bred and kind and genial, the creature. He looked at Stephen with infinite tenderness. Stephen reached towards him, despite the pain but Jack was oblivious, did not take Stephen's hand. Jack started talking about music he had just bought and how they would play later, when Stephen was at liberty to do so.
Stephen heard a woman’s voice telling him in Catalan, “Jack will come and you will live. He will not let you die. He will save you.” Stephen did not believe that but he still wanted to talk to his phantasm Jack. He prayed more and Jack was sitting next to him in a hallucinatory chair and Stephen told Jack that he was very sorry about what had happened between them on the Polychrest and that he loved him very much. It made Stephen sad because this was not the real Jack. The real Jack would not get the long overdue apology, would never know how much Stephen loved him, but at least he told the phantasm, which was somehow better than nothing. Phantasm Jack was happy, he leaned over to embrace Stephen and then dematerialized out of existence. That did bring tears to Stephen’s eyes. He prayed more and heard the voice again, “Your friend Jack is coming. He will come. Have faith, el meu fill. He will not let anyone hurt you. He will save you. He will always save you, el meu fill.” Stephen was in so much pain that he was losing consciousness. He didn’t think it would be long now, one way or another. He would die or they would kill him, before the sunset that day.
Then suddenly, Jack was indeed there. Stephen could not tell if it was his phantasm, though Jack did not act nor look like the phantasm. He appeared much less jovial, in fact, shockingly concerned, white, distraught. His coat was stained with fresh blood, indeed was dripping blood at the hem. “Could this be real?” Stephen thought. “Could this actually be happening?” This was nothing like his phantasm Jack, who was not at all surprised to see Stephen manacled to a torture rack and sat down in the most genial manner. This real Jack Aubrey came and grappled with the straps and the pain was horrendous and Stephen knew that it actually was Jack, because his phantasm melted away as soon as it touched anything real. Stephen saw Jack’s powerful arms move over him, sliding under his body and picking him up as if he were no heavier than a bolt of silk, picking him up so gently and putting him in the padded chair and Stephen felt himself smiling despite his broken cheekbone and his screaming, spasmodic and uncoupled joints. He looked into Jack’s face and saw it effused with the most tender affection. “Have I gone mad?” Stephen thought. The pain was horrendous but the fear had gone out of him. He had an authentic religious experience, the Virgin had told him Jack would save him and here Jack was. Jack was there with Bonden and the other sailors and Stephen realized he was experiencing a bizarre euphoria. The pain was still there, still horrendous but his head felt as though he were floating. Jack had saved him. Dutourd had just thrown himself out the window. “I am going to live,” Stephen thought and despite the horrific pain the euphoria stayed with him, though he started to wonder if it was blood loss.
These fine sailors carried him down to the stinking pier and they took him on the gunboat on the shutter the French had carried the dead out to dispose of them. “I am the corpse,” Stephen thought, “the corpse the Jews avert their eyes to save the dignity of. I am the corpse, but I live, I breathe.” Stephen looked all around him without moving his head, he could not, but his eyes took in the morning stars and he breathed in the cold, fresh end of the night air, so different from what he’d been subjected to, the endless stench of vomit, blood and urine. He looked at the sailors. He saw that Bonden could not look at him, could not look at his face. None of the other sailors could. Only Jack did, his blue eyes filled with sweetness and affection and concern.
Before Stephen could believe it, he was being put up over the side of the Lively. His euphoria diminished hearing the whispers and seeing the looks of the sailors. Not the old Sophies who were doing their best to try to not look at him, but some of the Livelies frankly stared and whispered not quietly enough. Stephen was so exhausted and in so much pain that he didn’t have the energy to notice who it was or remember, but it made him feel very, very low. As they took him below deck to the sick berth, it was worse as he heard more gasps and whispers.Stephen knew he must be a frightful sight but hearing himself being discussed by dozens of men talking about him as if he were already dead when he could not move in any way but to close his eyes was complete mortification."Poor bugger," he heard repeatedly. “Poor sod, he’d be better off dead” and “They should have left him there, he’s going over the side, mark my words.”
Mr. Floris and his assistants were in charge of the sick berth. They cleared the patients out of the treatment room in anticipation of treating Stephen. Stephen was always a terrible patient. He didn't think much of most of his colleagues’ ability or training, was pedantic and stubborn, treated himself without consulting anyone and was prone to taking offense easily. Mr.Floris had a high opinion of Stephen and like everyone else, his shock was written all over his face. No one on board was impressed with the most spectacular battle wounds, they had all had years of desensitization to some ghastly horrors. No one had ever seen wounds like Stephen's. Stephen was too tired and in too much pain to talk much. Mr.Floris gave him what he thought was a very large dose of tincture of laudanum -- forty drops, twice the normal dose for a man of Stephen's small size in extreme pain. He had no idea that Dr. Maturin routinely took that amount or more when he had insomnia. It did not work much at all. He had no idea that Dr. Maturin had been dosing himself with amounts far in excess of that throughout his interrogation. They had to manually relocate virtually every major and minor joint in Stephen's extremities and his body needed to be as flaccid as possible. Mr. Floris gave Stephen another forty drops an hour after the first dose and Stephen was almost comatose. It was fortunate, given it took Mr. Floris and his mate and the loblolly boy all morning and afternoon to relocate his joints and was a long, painful, torturous process.Only Stephen's feet below the ankles were totally unscathed. They washed him and bandaged him and dressed him in clean clothes and he still looked frightening with his two blackened eyes and blood red sclera.
Stephen drifted in and out of consciousness. He was unmoored from time and space, from causation, from everything. It was frightening beyond what reality had been. He felt as though he were going mad and his perspective and abstraction were gone. The pain was part of it, though dulled now considerably. Had Jack come and saved him or was it a dream? Was he lying there with Dutourd studiously and systematically destroying Stephen’s right and then left hand? Did Dutourd jump through the window and if so, why was Stephen on the rack at the outset all over again? Stephen prayed in his delirium, heard the voice of La Verge again, telling him “Jack will save you, Jack will save you, Jack will save you, el meu fill. Stay with Jack, Jack will not let them hurt you, Jack will save you.” Stephen would start, his eyes open, look around the sick berth and then collapse back into his delirium. It seemed like days had gone by, weeks, months, years.
Jack sat in the spare great cabin of the Lively alone. It was not like him to be deeply contemplative yet there he sat, unable to move. He could not dismiss the thoughts that ran through his head in endless circuits. He held up his glass of port and looked at the light of the lantern through the crystal of the goblet and the wine. He was more disturbed than he could ever recall being. He could not face anyone beyond giving a short order and dismissing them. They were to put into Gibraltar in days, his acting command was almost over and all he could think about was what had happened in Port Mahón and Stephen.
As long as he could remember, Jack Aubrey had professed his enmity for the French. His dislike was born of his country's long standing antagonism, of what the Revolution had wrought, of Bonaparte. At the same time, he realized that he bore strikingly little ill will towards any actual Frenchman he had come to know through the process of waging war on their Navy. He numbered French officers among his friends. The captains, the officers, the men were strikingly like his own friends, his own officers and his own men. There were good and bad among them. He knew what the excitement of the pitch of battle did to him, the prospect of boarding, the desperate and bloody hand-to-hand combat. But there was nothing personal in any of it. His hatred of France was an abstraction.
Now, departing Port Mahón in the gunboat, he felt something unknown to him ever in life. Jack was so sanguine that he could not detest even his worst enemies and very few they were. Jack was a man with more friends than he could count. He only had one real antagonist and that was Harte of course, but he had dismissed it all in one phrase – Harte was a scrub. Jack could reason that as disagreeable as Harte was, as petty, vituperative, vindictive and mean-spirited, Jack was in the wrong. Harte gored him with the horns Jack had placed on his head. He was not an evil man, no matter how much Jack did not like him.
What Jack had seen in Molly Harte's garden house had completely removed any frame of reference for humanity that he had ever known. The shock of what his eyes beheld came in wave after revolting wave across his soul. The first man on the rack, that had been a sight way beyond anything Jack had ever seen in battle and he had seen a lot. He had felt waves of nausea looking towards the broken man on the rack. He had made quick work of killing the men in the room and that sickened him, as well.
But to see Stephen on a torture rack, his dear, dear Stephen so battered beyond any recognition and to behold the person who had intentionally done this to him -- Jack was without words. He had no word that was was adequate for Dutourd. The worst invective Jack had at his command paled in comparison to the to the reality of confronting a professional inquisitor plying his trade on Stephen's body. Suddenly, Jack realized a new emotion, one he had never had even a glimmer of in his life before this horrendous night, for now Jack knew explosive murderous rage. Any emotion he had experienced before had been one drop of salty water compared to the ocean of hate he found himself immersed in, a hatred vaster than any sea he had ever sailed.
It was not just Stephen's face but seeing him upon the rack. The rack. Stephen appeared limp as a rag, incapable of moving anything but his eyes and lips. Jack's head swam and he rushed to release Stephen, saw the agony in his face as Jack touched the straps and Jack was dizzy with rage, concern, solicitude, outrage, fury. Stephen could not move and Jack gathered Stephen's featherweight in his arms, cradling his head and neck like a baby's wobbly head. Jack lifted him with more tenderness than he had ever imagined possible and still it stung to hear Stephen's gasps and cries of pain as Jack laid him into a padded chair with the help of John Satisfaction.
For his body being intact, Stephen's injuries were more traumatic than anyone still alive whom Jack had seen in twenty years of warfare. He looked so awful that Jack had to banish the momentary thought that were Stephen to die quickly, at least his suffering would end. Stephen was alive and Jack was infinitely grateful for that, but it took every ounce of fortitude and self-control not to react to what his eyes were registering. Not even looking at all of Stephen, which was too horrendous, but just Stephen's face. Battle-scarred, hardened men audibly gasped and averted their eyes seeing him. Jack alone, from the experience of being in command and having men next to him cut in half and large parts of their heads knocked off, had forced himself to look at Stephen's face and speak in a calm voice as though seeing Stephen did not cause him to have violent waves of nausea. He knew Stephen was exceptionally proud and loathed any expression of pity. It made him very bad-tempered and peevish if it were over a trifle, like barking his shin on a cleat. Jack could not stand the thought of what Stephen would be going through should anyone react to him with the entirely logical reactions of horror and pity. Jack struggled against every normal physical reaction to seeing Stephen's face.
Jack's eyes played tricks on him, making it impossible to actually see Stephen as he was, his injuries were so severe. This had happened to him before, when his mind had created reconstructions of the missing parts of shipmates' faces and heads, but Jack found it even more disconcerting and bizarre to have Stephen's face going in and out of focus, dissolving and reappearing. He blinked his eyes repeatedly. He tried hard to make his face as neutral as possible, tried to look at him without seeing. When Stephen spoke, his voice filled Jack with relief. Stephen spoke eminent sense, he was, unbelievably, still Jack's same, dear old Stephen. Jack could focus on that and not Stephen's appearance. Jack's eye turned inward, he focused on Stephen's voice and his face was then filled with deep affection, none of the horror and pity that he had to try so hard to conceal.
To kill Dutourd, there was no question, after Stephen has asserted it, but killing him would not be enough to slake Jack's thirst for retribution. Jack strongly felt a desire to dismember Dutourd, first with his sword and then so thoroughly with his bare hands that every stray dog, crow and gull in Port Mahón would be eating his body for weeks. This was so unlike Jack that he was sickened by the desire of his own vengeful heart, desire that ran counter to every second of his life as an officer of the Royal Navy. Once again, it was the pressing matter of Stephen that refocused his energies. Only dealing with getting Stephen out of Martinez's place and then out of Port Mahón served as impediment to momentarily quell his rage. His heart beat as he had never felt it before, his hands trembled violently. Then he turned and looked at Stephen and felt his heart rend, like a main topsail ripping straight down from yard to yard, making it hard to breathe.
Jack had left Stephen to the ministrations of Mr. Floris, the Lively's surgeon, asking that he not hesitate to ask for any assistance in tending to Stephen's immediate condition. Stephen had been brought aboard early in the morning. Now it was after supper and Jack expected Mr. Floris to report any moment.
The marine announced Mr. Floris, who came into the cabin looking very old and very tired.
“How is Dr. Maturin?” Jack said.
“He is as well as can be expected.” Floris said. “I gave him a strong draught and he finally fell asleep. It was exhaustion as much as any medicine.”
“Mr. Floris, may he be moved? I should prefer him to be in my sleeping cabin.”
“Certainly, sir. I can have a cot slung for him and then three men to move him.”
“He shall sleep in my cot. I shall sling another cot in the cabin.” Jack said. He looked out the stern windows. “How severe are his injuries, Mr. Floris?”
“I cannot say, Captain Aubrey. I have never treated anyone who was tortu... with these types of injuries. He was so ill used, it is quite hard to assess it all, given his general state. It appears he has suffered a severe concussion, luckily no apparent depressed fracture of the skull, though there may be hairline fractures we cannot adduce. The bleeding into the eyes, around the eyes, out of the ears and from the nose was from bleeding around the brain. This bleeding is salubrious, however, it relieves dangerous pressure around the brain. The broken facial bones, there is nothing we can do but trust a tincture of time and I believe there should be no complications. There were multiple major and lesser dislocations. We have attempted to relocate them all, I believe, but it is impossible to know how successfully until later, until the swelling is reduced. Damage to the viscera, well, time will tell. His hands are very, very bad. I cannot say if he will ever have use of them again. I personally doubt it.” Mr. Floris said gravely and his eyes were fiery with suppressed anger. “The broken ribs shall mend, we are fortunate that the lungs were innocent of harm. He is an unimaginably strong man, despite his small stature. That strength will likely determine the long term prognosis. There is severe dehydration as well, multiple traumas and various contusions and lacerations. Significant blood loss, I should suppose. I would guess the next week or two shall be the worst, in terms of the pain. I can give him strong drugs but, still, it will be extremely painful. It is a damned black shame. What a world this is; it sickens one. I have never seen anything like this, truth be told,” Mr. Floris said, “the dogs. What wicked, wicked dogs.” Jack turned back to him.
“Thank you, Mr. Floris. Pray do everything in your power to reduce his pain. Do not hesitate to make any request that may aid in his recovery.”
After they brought Stephen to the sleeping cabin, Jack walked in quietly, his eyes searching Stephen's face. Stephen's face was shockingly disfigured but Jack could actually see him, his eyes were not playing the tricks that they had in Mahón. Stephen's swollen, blackened eyes were closed.
Stephen heard a cough, a cough that was distinctly Jack’s cough and opened his eyes and Jack was standing next to him, next to the cot, Jack’s cot, in Jack’s sleeping cabin.
“Stephen, are you comfortable here?” Jack said, softly, distinctly. Stephen looked at him. Was it really him or another phantasm? “If only Jack would lean over and touch me,” Stephen thought. “The cot may be a phantasm, but surely, I am not.” Jack did have a real quality about him. Descartes had been right about that, Stephen thought. “He lacks a certain dreamlike quality, perhaps it is the bags forming under his eyes, the careworn look about him, the haggardness. Were phantasms haggard?” Had he ever seen anyone haggard in a nightmare?
“I am as comfortable as can be, I thank you, Jack. I am so very happy to see you.” Stephen half-smiled, a strange sight with his battered face and then winced in pain from the attempt. His voice was very low when he spoke. Jack stood silently. None of his normal sick berth chatter was appropriate to the situation. He wanted to touch Stephen's hand, to embrace him, to stroke his hair from his face but he was frightened of doing anything that could make his pain worse or worse, offend his dignity. He clutched his hands behind his back.
“Stephen, you shall be with me, here, if that is agreeable to you. We shall share the cabin until we get to Gibraltar.”
“It is very agreeable.” Stephen said, wondering how he could get Jack to touch him. He had to know if this was a phantasm. Not knowing was unbearable. Jack had to be real but Stephen was so frightened. Could this real Jack dissolve? Would it start all over again, over and over, forever? Real Jack would always protect him, always save him. The Holy Mother of God had told him so herself and besides that, Jack had come.
“Killick shall be coming in to give you some portable soup every couple of hours and shall dress your wounds. If you need anything at all, it shall be done. You need only say the word. Shall I have the surgeon's mate or the loblolly boy come and attend you at all times otherwise?”
“No, I beg you no, Jack.” Stephen whispered. “Just Killick, if you please. Every hour or so to check shall be more than enough.” Stephen sighed “Jack, pray scratch the bottom of my left ear, if you please.” Very gently, Jack touched Stephen’s ear. Stephen looked at Jack’s hand. It was real. Jack was real. Stephen really was in the sleeping cabin of the Lively in Jack’s own cot. Jack really had saved him. La Verge had spoken truth to him. Holy Mother of God, he was saved. These were bad dreams, he was saved, Jack had saved him, Merciful God. “Thank you, Jack. I am so obliged to you.”
“Stephen, I shall attend you myself at night, if you so please.”
“Thank you, so much, dear Jack.” Stephen said and his eyes closed and he fell asleep immediately.
Jack left the cabin and closed the door behind him. “Killick! Killick there!” Killick appeared almost instantly. “Killick, the Doctor has been put in my bed. He needs to be given portable soup and some physic as the surgeon directs, about every hour during the day. He will need to have his dressings changed later. I should be very gratified if you would attend him. I should think he would be much more at ease with an old shipmate, an old Sophie rather than one of the Livelies. Not that they are not fine fellows.” Jack said quickly. He was surprised to see Killick at an apparent loss for words, his face betraying a gravity of emotion.
“Yes, sir.” Killick said finally.
“And Killick,” Jack said, “Killick, well, you know how he is. How he hates being fussed over.”
“Yes, your honour. I'll bring him his soup and his physic and no fussing and no mussing.” Jack smiled because all Killick did was fuss and muss, but there was no solicitousness in it, just peevishness which Jack thought Stephen could bear far easier than pity, him being proud as Pontius Pilate.
“Thankee, Killick.” Jack said and Killick touched his forehead and left.
Killick came in every hour, feeding him the noxious portable soup and water. Stephen lay there docily opening his mouth and swallowing. Nothing about Killick appeared to be part of his phantasm. Stephen felt the strange euphoria again, euphoria to see Killick, euphoria to have Killick spooning loathesome portable soup into him. Euphoria to be alive, to be on the Lively to not be dead in a ditch, in a pit, in a well, in the sea.
Soon the pain was coming back again. Mr. Floris came in with a dose and poured it into Stephen’s lips himself.
By early evening, Jack felt like he had been awake for a week. He had fallen asleep at his desk for a few minutes multiple times through the day but now, the adrenaline of the morning was gone and it left him exhausted. He spoke to Simmons and decided to get as much sleep as possible, planning on not getting up until three bells in the morning watch.
Jack went into the cabin. Stephen was alone, his eyes half-closed. Jack was afraid of startling Stephen and so he spoke low. “Stephen?” Stephen opened his swollen eyes.
“Jack what time is it?”
“It's very early, three bells in the first watch, Stephen.” Jack said, pulling his clothes off.
“How many days ago did you go to Port Mahón?”
“That was today, Stephen. Last night, early this morning.”
“One day, for all love.” Stephen said, his voice full of wonder.
“Stephen, do you need anything? Any necessaries?”
“No, Jack.”
“Stephen, I shall be here. If you need anything, just say the word. Anything at all.” Jack said, pulling his night shirt on and collapsing into the cot they had slung so close to his own that he could reach out and touch Stephen. Jack was instantly unconscious.
Stephen felt himself more light-headed and he felt frightened as the world went black again and he was back in Mahón. “This is not real, this is not real, this is not real.” He repeated to himself and started praying once again. “They cannot hurt me, this is not real. Phantasm Jack was back. Stephen was now angered by him, he was useless. “Jack, why do you stand there and do nothing?” Stephen shouted and phantasm Jack looked at him sadly. That was not Jack, that was the antithesis of Jack. Jack Aubrey did not stand around doing nothing in a crisis, doing nothing while his people were dying. ”Be gone with you, this is just a damned nightmare!” Stephen said and phantasm Jack was gone but Dutourd was back again. “I want to wake up, I want to wake up,” Stephen thought, but he could not. It was hell. He shouted at Dutourd repeating his story. Nothing. It went on and on. He lived his hand being destroyed again. Utterly destroyed, actually worse than the first time around. Stephen wept in pain, fear and frustration.
Jack woke up he knew not how many hours later to the sounds of Stephen screaming in his sleep. Jack was disoriented, he sat up and looked around and it came back. He rose from the cot and stood next to Stephen's head.
“Stephen! Stephen, it is all right. It is all right. You are here with me, in the cabin.” Stephen did not awaken. His screams were strangled and Jack cautiously touched him, trying to touch his shoulder without hurting him. “Stephen, 'tis Jack. You are in the cabin, you are in the Lively. Wake up.” But Stephen did not wake up. His screams continued. Jack went to the door.
“Pass the word for Mr. Floris!” Jack said and the word was passed. Jack leaned against the door frame waiting and within seven minutes, Mr. Floris had appeared in his nightcap and nightshirt, bearing a lamp. “Mr. Floris, I cannot wake him.” Mr. Floris stood next to the screaming Stephen and looked at him, pulling an eyelid up.
“Captain, it may be the laudanum. It is not necessarily dangerous, but I do not think there is any good to be served by attempting to force him to waken. We shall wait until the morning to assess. Should you want us to move him?”
“No, Mr. Floris, that shall not be necessary. Pray leave the lamp.” Jack said. “I shall see you in the morning, when you make your rounds, unless something changes.” Mr. Floris saluted him and left. Jack walked into the cabin and returned with an elbow chair and put it next to the cot that Stephen lay in and sat down and sighed.
Stephen spoke in Spanish, screamed, whimpered and cried most of the night. He thrashed in the cot and Jack talked softly into his ear much of the night, hoping some reassurance would get through.
“Stephen, it is all right. You are here in the cabin, I am with you. No one will harm you, Stephen,” Stephen heard Jack say very quietly near his ear. Five bells in the middle watch, Stephen lifted his head, he could open his eyes and see he was in the dark cabin, Jack was sitting in a chair next to the cot, apparently dozing.
“Jack?” Jack sat up in the chair and opened his eyes.
“Stephen, I am right here, my dear. You have been dreaming. You are in the sleeping cabin on the Lively.”
“Mother of God, Jack, may I have something to drink? I can barely swallow.” Jack got up and staggered into the great cabin, getting a cup full of water and held it to Stephen's lips, listening to hear the sounds of Stephen swallowing, finally putting the cup aside when it was empty.
“Stephen, are you in pain?” Stephen was silent. “I can call Mr. Floris for more physic for you.”
“No, Jack. I cannot take any more right now.” Stephen said. He was sure it was the laudanum that was making the phantasms worse, making it impossible for him to wake himself up and go back to reality. He preferred the pain, as bad it was. At least it was real.
“Shall I have the lamp lit?”
“Thank you, no, Jack, the light hurts my eyes.” Stephen said. He still wanted to feel Jack and know he was real, even though he thought it was obvious. Stephen needed to know, he had to know. He wanted to reach out and grasp Jack's shoulder and he could not. He could not even really articulate his shoulder or elbow or wrist at all. His arm could not move at all without jets of pain so extreme that Stephen almost lost consciousness from the intensity of it. “Jack, pray give me your hand. Pray touch the bottom of my face with your hand.” The bottom of Stephen’s face, one place that did not hurt. Jack stood up, puzzled and stroked Stephen's face very gently with his fingertips. “Thank you, Jack. Now I know this real.” Stephen said and tears welled up in his eyes.
“Stephen, can I get you anything? Is there anything that would help?”
“No, Jack.” Stephen said. “Jack, you are too good. Rest your hand on the cot and I will know that you are here and then I will know I am here. If you please, Jack.” Stephen said. Jack moved the chair closer to the cot and very gently draped his fingertips on the cot, across Stephen's left breast. “The pressure of his hand,” Stephen thought, “It is so soothing, so infinitely soothing. My God, how sweet.” Stephen thought and fell asleep again. In his sleep, he could feel Jack’s hand on his breast. Jack was his anchor to reality.
A few hours later, Jack woke to Stephen's cries. His hand had fallen off the cot. He rolled over in the chair, resting his hand on Stephen's body, patting him very, very softly and Stephen stopped crying and Jack fell asleep again.
Three bells in the morning watch arrived all too soon and Jack opened his eyes to Killick standing over him, looking at him in the chair, his arm still draped in the cot where Stephen slept quietly. Jack yawned and rubbed his eyes, motioning to Killick to be quiet.
“Which your breakfast is ready, Sir.” Killick whispered shrewishly. “And your clothes is lying all over the floor,” He said, looking around disapprovingly. Jack stood up, stretching his aching body. He motioned to Killick to bring his clean clothes so he could dress in the great cabin and not wake Stephen up.
“Killick, I need very, very strong coffee if you please. And pass the word for Mr. Floris to see me as soon as possible.”
Mr. Floris reduced the amount of the alcoholic tincture of laudanum that Stephen had administered, fearful of another incident of near coma. The next day and night was more of the same.
Delirium, nightmares, pain only broken by Jack's hand on him in his sleep. Night was the worst time for Stephen and Jack spent the entire next night in the elbow chair, his body twisted, his arm elevated to the cot and his fingers laid upon Stephen's left breast. When his arm slipped, Stephen would start screaming in his sleep again. Jack did not try to wake him, he stood and would rest his hand on Stephen until his cries ended and then collapse again in the chair, his arm gently resting across the cot.
Jack's hand tied him to reality, to the Lively, carrying Stephen's mind out of Mahón as much as Jack had carried him bodily off the rack. The nightmares started as soon as Jack's hand was gone.Stephen could see what sitting in a chair all night, every night was doing to Jack. He was exhausted, dark shadows circled his eyes which were red day and night. "Sure, I cannot help but be this selfish," Stephen thought. "I only wish it were his entire person on top of me, snoring unbearably in my ear. My God how I should sleep. I should be deep in the arms of Morpheus, even if Morpheus should weigh sixteen stone and snore loud enough to wake the dead." Stephen was better during the days as he stayed awake more and had less laudanum. Only night had the ability to send him over the edge but Jack was there.
The next morning, Jack was busy preparing for arrival in Gibraltar and finishing up the Lively's cruise. There was a huge amount of bureaucratic issues to deal with, the usual reports, statements and letters. He put the papers aside before dinner and went to the sleeping cabin to see Stephen, who was awake and resentfully eyeing Killick, who was feeding him a bowl the Lively's portable soup. Jack motioned Killick to leave and sat next to Stephen in the elbow chair. Stephen still had no sense of time. He had no idea how many days he had been on the Lively.
“Stephen, we shall be in Gibraltar by this time tomorrow.” Jack said quietly. “Mr. Floris has recommended that you go to hospital there.” Stephen's eyes widened. His heart started pounding. His lungs felt constricted and he began to hyperventilate. Panic was overtaking him. Jack reached out and touched Stephen's arm very gently. “Of course, I shall defer to your wishes, Stephen, whatever they be. With Bonden and Killick and myself, there is no need for you to go to any hospital if you do not so wish it.”
“Jack, there is nothing they can do for me.” Stephen said. He was certain this was true, but more true was that there would be no Jack around at night. No Jack touching his shoulder, doctors who would not listen and an excess of laudanum, thoughts Stephen could not bear.
“Soul, then it shall not be so.” Jack said. “Pray do not vex yourself, Stephen.” Jack laid both of his hands very gently on Stephen’s shoulders. His laying on of hands slowed Stephen’s heart somewhat.
“Jack, I must get home as soon as practicable. There are professional considerations.”
“Stephen, I shall do everything in my power to get us home as soon as possible.” Jack said, his face so kindly, so concerned.
“Jack, I must ask you a great favour.” Stephen whispered. “Swear to me you will not leave me alone.” Tears were forming in Stephen’s eyes. "Alone," Stephen thought, "Dear God, no. Dear God, no. No, no, no, no, no. Please no, Jack, no...”
"Stephen, of course I shan't. Never in life. You did not leave me in France. We walked 450 miles, you taking care of me every step of the way. Stephen, I shall never, ever forget that. I would never leave you..” Jack’s face was filled with the tenderest kindly affection, the sweetest that Stephen had ever seen him.
“Jack, please, swear to me.” Jack raised his right hand.
“My dear old Stephen, I swear on all that is holy that I shall never leave you alone until you are safe and sound at home and probably not even then. You shall not be rid of me so easily.”
Stephen looked into Jack's open face. He could not articulate his fear, his panic, his need for Jack to be next to him. The words would not come. "Is this foolish pride?"Stephen thought. "For all love, say something to him. Tell him. He will do anything for you, look at his face. He is the dearest friend you or anyone could ever have. He will not laugh at you or take a moral advantage. He risked his life to save you. Just tell him." Stephen swallowed.
“Jack, I cannot stand to be alone at night. Pray get a room for us together, I beg you.”
“Of course, Stephen.” Jack said. “We shall have a bed together and my arm will not drop off of you in the middle of the night, disturbing you.” Jack rose. “I shall send Killick in to give you more soup.”
Gibraltar was a nightmare of interminable bureaucratic delays after Jack disembarked. He was exhausted and impatient with the various official calls he was forced to make, the officious petty clerks and endless details. He had never been in a comparable situation of having a pressing matter at hand when ending a cruise. He spent the entire day worrying about Stephen as he waited and waited, walked briskly from one end of Gibraltar to the other and sought out old shipmates to inquire about passage home.
Jack found an inn with two rooms for their party and left Stephen with Killick and sent Bonden on errands as he himself spent far too much time calling on various officials and attempting to find the four of them passage home together. Jack had money with him, but no fortune. He would have to pay his and Stephen's passage as well as Bonden and Killick's if no berth was available for them on a king's ship and apparently it was not, not in any timely manner. Stephen was so frail in any case that he could not possibly sleep in a hammock. It looked like it would have to be an Indiaman.
Bonden and Killick were an immense help. Without them, Stephen would likely had to have ended up in the hospital and Jack would have stayed in Gibraltar with him, perhaps for six or nine months or more. He could not care adequately for Stephen alone. No landsman would have ever done what they were doing for Stephen, Jack thought, and he was suffused with gratitude at their goodness, even if Killick's goodness was cloaked in endless bitter grousing. Killick and Bonden were happy to be at liberty from the late afternoon until the early morning hours. Jack hoped they would not go home too poxed.
Stephen spent most of the day they arrived in Gibraltar with Killick in the inn. Bonden and Killick had carried Stephen on a litter, as he could not even sit up in a chair without assistance. Bonden had gone on errands for everyone. Jack had many bureaucratic appointments to deal with and had left much harried.
Stephen was increasingly bad tempered about his degree of disability. He already seen a definite improvement in his condition. The lateral flexion of his spine and hips had improved dramatically, he could at least roll over somewhat in bed, an immense relief to reduce the painful pressure in his spine from lying on his back in the same position continuously. The improvements were slow and painful. It was more painful since he had told Killick to reduce the amount of laudanum that Mr. Floris had given him by half.
Stephen’s only amusement was listening to Killick complain endlessly about everything and that was a cheap and abundant entertainment. What was the world coming to -- the inn was a pig sty, the inn was not nearly what the Doctor and the Captain should be lodged in. Not a man as important as Captain Aubrey and an actual degree-holding physician like Dr. Maturin. It was fine for common swabs and maybe a ship’s surgeon, but not at all for the Doctor and the Captain. The room was too small and too stuffy. The air was unhealthy. The windows had a poor view, the exposure was not as healthy as Dr. Maturin required. The bed was not what it should be, the linens weren’t neither. The food was foreign swill. It was not real, honest food like in Portsmouth. The small beer was all right but it was not anything like the small beer at home. Gibraltar was fine if you were a sly cove with a sixpence in your pocket, but less so for an honest man...
“Preserved Killick, you shall not be going to one of those houses of infamy, shall you and contracting the pox when I cannot possibly dose you correctly?” Stephen said sharply. It made him quite happy to utter these words, his first foray into normalcy, even if he could not yet raise his arm or hand or finger to wag it in Killick’s face.
“Yes, your honour. I mean, no your honour.” Killick said, sourly.
A knock was at the door and Jack appeared, bearing a bowl of something and holding many papers. Killick had opened the door and made quick work of leaving. Jack looked tired but his face had an easy equanimity, genuine delight at seeing Stephen, propped up on pillows.
“Well, Stephen, it seems we are to be here another twelve days.”
“Jack, I have no sense of time since I sleep so much during the day. How long ago did you land in Port Mahón?”
“Four days, going on five days tonight.” Jack said.
“Jack, would you be so good as to write a list for me for you to take to an apothecary tomorrow for the medicines I shall need until we are home?” Jack looked at him curiously.
“Stephen, should you not wish to consult with a surgeon or physician here in Gibraltar?” Jack said. He raised an eyebrow. Stephen read much from that eyebrow. Incredulity, dubiousness, resignation. “How well he knows me,” Stephen thought.
“I should not.” Stephen said decisively.
Jack stood up and kicked off his boots, yawning.
“Christ, what a day. What an immense bore. Worse than going to the Admiralty, by far.”
“Faith, you are quite exhausted. It is written all over your face.” Jack took off his coat and waistcoat and hung them on a the back of a chair. He then loosened his breeches at the girth and his knees and lay down next to Stephen, his body collapsing into the mattress with utter enervation.
“I don't know how I shall ever get up.” Jack said and fell asleep instantly. He was lying on his back and thus started snoring immediately. Stephen himself was exhausted. He had no balls of wax to put in his ears, no ability to put anything in his ears by himself, in any case. Jack’s snoring was sweet music to him. “I am surely a bit mad.” Stephen thought, looking at Jack with great affection. “I should take his snores over a choir of angels, God love me.” Stephen’s eyes were heavy now. “How I shall sleep. Santa Mare de Déu, may he be blessed, my dearest and sweetest friend, a chuisle mo chroí.” Stephen thought. A chuisle mo chroí -- “O, pulse of my heart” in Irish, “darling.” Stephen’s darling, his darling Jack.
Stephen moved closer to Jack’s massive, snoring, inert sixteen plus stone. “God bless you, Jack, my dear,” Stephen said aloud and his exhausted, pain-filled body collapsed in the crook of Jack’s arm. He could not stay awake and he fell into the sweetest dreamless sleep.
Jack woke up he knew not how many hours later. It extremely dark. He shifted his body and realized Stephen was lying in his arms. Stephen's body felt so frail that it made Jack wince. He was a bag of bones in Jack's arms. Jack could feel individual ribs through Stephen's shirt and his own shirt sleeve. Jack willed himself to be entirely still, afraid of moving and waking him and afraid of hurting him. Stephen rolled in closer to him, murmuring in his sleep. His face was so close to Jack's that he could smell the bitterness of the laudanum on his lips and breath.
Jack lay there, staring at the ceiling in the darkness and remembering their endless walk through France in the late spring of 1803, remembering the last odious leg of it, after Toulouse, climbing higher and higher into the Pyrenees. It was difficult to remember many of the details, he had been so ill at that point. All he could recall clearly was Stephen's presence and how terrified he had been when Stephen left him momentarily. Jack had been sick and almost broken with exhaustion, sick with fever and the fear of being taken and Stephen was there, carrying a pack that was nearly half his body weight, never complaining or short tempered, constantly patient and reassuring, his canny genius for dealing with the unexpected saving both of them more times than Jack could count. He remembered the incomprehensible strength of Stephen's hands, leading him, pulling him, the only anchor Jack had to reason those last miserable weeks of walking. If it were not for Stephen, Jack would be sitting in Bitche this instant or worse. The enormity of what they accomplished then pressed on his mind, the months it had taken to get to Gibraltar. At least now they were in Gibraltar.
In those awful days, at the end of their trek through France, being close to Stephen was essential to his own ability to function at all, particularly the sicker he got. He and Stephen had slept side by side on the ground virtually every awful night, though poor Jack had been further tormented by never removing the odious bearskin. Stephen had lain next to him and rested his hand on Jack every night, a gesture Jack had never thought about until Stephen was forced not to do so by their sleeping arrangements and Jack had woken that night over and over, panic-stricken. Now Jack realized that the idea of leaving Stephen in the hospital filled him with mute horror. Since the return on the gunboat to the Lively, the thought of a night of separation from Stephen made Jack's heart race and his throat constrict. There would be no hospital, they would go home and be together.
Jack moved sideways to attempt to pull the blanket over them and Stephen stirred and murmured in his sleep, “Jack, do not go, pray do not leave me.” Jack said nothing, reaching he pulled the blanket over them and Stephen settled in more, resting his head beneath Jack's chin. Jack tightened his arms around him. Stephen had not screamed or cried or whimpered at all this night, the first time he had not since leaving Port Mahón and Jack felt immense relief. There was no need to ask Stephen any impertinent question of why: Jack had seen the reasons all too clearly. He himself was having nightmares and he was merely a witness, not a participant. In Jack's dreams, he set upon Dutourd and to his own horror, flayed him alive or committed some other atrocity. Those were not as bad as his dreams of reaching Stephen's limp body on the rack and finding he had not arrived in time; Stephen had died. Jack had awakened with a start in the elbow chair those nights, his heart racing, his face and shirt soaked with tears.
Lying with Stephen in his arms, Jack was cognizant of a fullness in his heart he could not name and felt tears well up in and spill from his eyes. He wondered at them, given that he would have called the sensation an overwhelming sense of relief and even happiness. He was glad Stephen was not awake to see this display of sentimentality, as the tears ran freely down his neck and into his shirt collar. Some of the choking anxiety that had gripped him relentlessly since meeting Maragall in Cala Blau now finally left him. It would be a long and difficult trip home in trying circumstances but Jack's storied luck had held out once more. What had happened in the last five days meant more than any prize, any promotion, any success he had ever had or could ever imagine. Nothing had ever mattered more to him. He felt as though he had held his breath through the whole nightmarish ordeal and now he could breathe again. Feeling the weight of Stephen's body in his arms, Jack effortlessly slid into a whole sea of sleep once more.