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Stephen spent almost two months sleeping at Jack’s side, Jack’s inert sixteen stone wrapped around his bony frame. Only Jack's arrest for debt had separated them. They had stayed at the Crown in Portsmouth rather than in Stephen’s room in the Grapes in the Savoy because Stephen was so frail from their trip back in the Indiaman that it had taken him weeks to recover enough to be in any way ambulatory. Stephen deeply regretted not pushing Jack to make the move sooner, before the tipstaffs had gotten wind of his presence. They had been on their way to the blessed freedom of the Liberty of the Savoy when Jack was finally nabbed and it had cast a heavy pall on Stephen’s heart that Jack was now taken from him. He had momentarily panicked seeing Jack led away, before sternly telling himself to pull himself together. He was in England now and safe. Jack had ensured that.
Stephen’s nightmares were manageable, even lying in bed alone. He could awaken himself from them now. Months of lying next to Jack in bed and feeling his solid and massive body against Stephen’s had affected that result. He still frequently dreamt he was in Port Mahón but he could wake himself up at any point in a torture session and had even greatly aggravated Dutourd in a dream by telling him, "Je suis Etienne Maturin, je suis un agent de renseignements, c'est seulement un rêve et vous êtes déjà mort, Capitain Dutourd." When Stephen had awakened, he was suffused with satisfaction to have seen the consternation on Dutourd’s face yet appalled by his own lack of reticence, even if it were just a dream. The relief to be able to awaken himself was tremendous. He felt as though he had at last regained control over the capsizing skiff that was his mind since Mahón. Stephen took very little laudanum, as little as he could possibly bear and still sleep at night.The associations he had of his treatment with it on the Lively were strongly aversive.
His health had improved dramatically from his arrival in Gibraltar. He could sit up alone unassisted with the support of a chair or wall, stand up with assistance, walk very short distances, raise his arms and hands to shoulder height, extending them in front of him and to his sides. He could climb a low stair or two (especially if there were someone behind him to prevent him losing his balance and pitching backwards) but he had great difficulty in descending because of damage to his knee and ankle ligaments and he suffered Bonden and Killick to carry him down by the elbows so he would not fall.
Stephen could not help but be almost savage with everyone. He hated being coddled and treated like an invalid, worse still because he actually was an invalid. He saw pity on everyone’s face except Jack’s and it enraged him. He had seen the hurt expressions on Killick and Bonden’s faces after he had snapped at, cursed at and thrown objects at them in response to their kindnesses and solicitude. He resolved daily to have more patience with them, without result. That Stephen was a physician and had every layman crossing his path commenting aloud upon the state of his person, a state that he was completely incapable of concealing whatsoever was nearly unbearable to his sense of dignity. He had gone out many times in the past and actually killed men for far less effrontery than these now routine and well-meaning assaults on his dignity and he was forced to sit and endure it in silence. Occasionally he was so angry that he felt tears burn in his eyes as he ground his teeth in silent rage.
His hands were in an exceptionally poor state still, he reflected. His grasp was extremely weak, sufficient only for clumsily feeding himself, if the dish were directly under him and for holding a glass if he could balance against his body should his grasp give way. He could not use a knife and fork to cut, could not write, could not turn a key in a lock, could not button his own buttons or tie a lace in anything or perform any of the seemingly thousands of daily tasks that he had never given any thought before.He could barely dress himself minimally, putting on his own small clothes and shirt. He tried not to think much about the status of his hands, because his thoughts became very dark. He had seen enough severe hand injuries during his training and practice to know that a high degree of function could be restored after long recuperative periods as long as the hands were functionally intact, but he had never seen anyone with hand injuries that were analogous to his own -- intentional and catastrophic to the finest degree of motor control and to both hands simultaneously. Such was Dutourd’s genius, being an engineer. Dutourd had been nothing if not painstaking and perfectionistic in destroying Stephen’s ability to use his hands.
Stephen awoke repeatedly in the middle of the night desolate because of severe pain in his hands and the pain goaded a deep recollection of what was potentially lost forever. Jack’s loud snores did remind him how fortunate he was at least to be alive. Perspective was invaluable, but his keen analytical tendencies meant he effortlessly plumbed the depths of possibility and would dwell on them in the dark: the prospect of never performing another surgery, never drawing again, never playing the cello again, never dissecting another bird’s wing, never writing another word without an amanuensis present to act as scribe and it made him profoundly melancholic. His sole consolation was that Dutourd and Auger were dead and he lived. He was given to long bouts of melancholy as he sat close and stared into the fire, attempting to absorb as much heat as possible. Stephen savagely loathed self-pity but the reality of being nearly as helpless as an infant made him want to sob in frustration and rage and then with disgust at himself.
The first day he had taken a quill and tried to write, the effort had caused him extreme pain and he had not been able to write two legible majuscules. He had started by attempting to write his signature of his Christian and surname, gave up and attempted a legible “Stephen” and finally tried to produce a discernible “SM.” Jack had seen his final attempt and said nothing one way or another. Stephen was truly grateful. He was afraid of what his reaction would be should Jack condescend to comfort him. His hand trembled in pain as he finished and threw the paper in the fire. He resolved to learn Samuel Taylor’s system of stenography to reduce the amount of actual longhand he had to produce in order to write. He wondered how long it would be before he would ever be able to write his encoded journal. He forced himself to make attempt after attempt after attempt and finally was at least capable of making an intentional stroke on the paper by the time Jack had been arrested. He forced himself to attempt more for hours every day. He eventually could approximate a scratching hand that he himself could interpret if no one else could and that was a personal triumph against Napoleon Buonaparte.
Jack had been Stephen’s only social solace during his recuperation. Jack was the only person with whom Stephen could bear to spend any but the briefest moments. Stephen thought Jack’s mien was a result of the rapport established when Stephen himself had treated so many of Jack’s wounds over the years or perhaps Jack’s experience of having gone through naval engagements and his own wounds for twenty years or how naturally well bred he was. Jack’s face was the only one that had never caused him pain since Mahón. Kindness and concern were there but no pity, no revulsion, no morbid curiosity. Stephen thought Jack virtually incapable of feigning any sentiment and Stephen loved him all the more for it in the last eight weeks.
By Jack’s arrest, Stephen was now conscious of having dreams in which Jack appeared that were of a different character than he had ever known. He had been surprised the first time he had dreamt that he and Jack were lying in each others arms disrobed while Jack tenderly kissed Stephen’s neck and shoulders. He was surprised but not shocked. He was not surprised that the dreams continued and intensified. Stephen had a plethora of explanations as to why he would dream of himself with Jack. The dreams did not trouble him nor did they really puzzle him. He felt guilty on awakening only for having enjoyed them so very much. Unlike virtually every erotic dream he had ever had with a woman, they did not end in failure, rejection and frustration. When the dreams had started, Stephen viewed them as another of the many strange sequelae of the ordeal he had been through. Jack had saved him, Jack was caring for him, it was no surprise that he would dream of himself in Jack’s arms. Consciously, he would not countenance it. To do so, was a betrayal of their friendship. He repeatedly banished erotic images of Jack from his conscious thoughts.
It was after weeks of dreams that Stephen realised with a start that whilst awake he was experiencing sentiments which were unmistakably those of deep erotic attachment and desire for Jack. He found himself having recurring thoughts of making love to Jack despite his best efforts to dismiss them. Stephen did not argue with himself about the propriety, morality, advisability, sanity or any other aspect of this attachment. It was evident to him that such a state was not the result of reason, therefore no amount of reason would relieve him of it. Reason had certainly not been efficacious in lessening his attachment to Diana and he had tried for years now. Stephen resolved that he would deal with these sentiments by constantly banishing them from his conscious mind. There would never be any question as to whether they would be expressed. They would not. He would go to his grave with never an indication to anyone that any such thought had ever crossed his mind. Stephen’s friendship with Jack meant more than virtually anything to him. He would never consider expressing any sentiment that would jeopardize it. He could not imagine his life without Jack Aubrey. He could not stand to contemplate that eventuality now for even a fraction of a second. He had spent his entire life frustrated in love. This would be nothing new.
It never occurred to Stephen that Jack could, in any way, reciprocate his sentiments. Such a thing was beyond impossible. There was Jack himself and the five years Stephen had spent watching him lust after any comely wench in a skirt in many inopportune situations, too many to even recall. There was Jack's affair with Diana which had almost precipitated their duel and the fact that Jack was obviously in love with Sophie. There were the conversations they had about paedarasty and sodomites over the years. Not the least was Stephen's consideration of his own person. Stephen could not imagine Jack Aubrey with any man as his lover; but of all men, Stephen couldn't imagine anyone less likely than himself. His current state made it even less likely.
"No Adonis, I." Stephen had concluded, looking in his shaving mirror. He had never been the beauty of the world and torture had not improved his appearance one whit. The majority of the most disfiguring aspects of his experience had finally resolved but he still appeared very pale, thin, drawn and sick. His expression was continually pinched by the chronic pain that he dealt with every second. His hair had greyed in spots and was thin from where it had been shaved to apprise the wounds on his head. He knew looking at the expression on other people’s faces that the sight of his hands made them literally sick, reminding him vividly of his first mortifying experience in the Hôtel-Dieu de Paris long ago, when he had seen his first case of advanced nasal carcinoma and had violently vomited in front of his patient, who was missing three quarters of her nose. He vowed to get many pairs of gloves and larger pockets for his coats and breeches. It was inconceivable that anyone could possible be attracted to him, let alone his particular friend.
One realization did disturb Stephen: when he was taken in Mahón, he strongly suspected that he had already developed this attachment to Jack. He did not know for how long. "Am I always so imperceptive about my own heart?" Stephen thought. “How do I now know of my feelings when I did not know then?” His desperation to apologize to Jack and the declaration he made to the phantasm of his deepest and undying affection, the feelings he had for the phantasm before Jack had arrived were an obvious bellwether of his current state, Stephen thought. The consequences of what he had gone through may have been responsible for his lack of self-penetration for so many months. It was all neither here nor there, Stephen concluded. Nothing would ever compel him to make any kind of intimation.
Bath had improved Stephen greatly. He was astonished by his physical improvements. He looked forward to meeting Jack and their return to the Grapes. The prospect of a new naval commission in warm waters gave him something to look forward to, a state he had not known since being taken in Mahón. He had agitated violently to affect a meeting between Jack and Sophie for them to have an understanding, had indeed moved heaven and earth beyond his strength to do so. He had overdone his body’s capacities. He wondered at it now; was it his desire to make sure Jack was out the field as far as Diana was concerned, his desire to see his particular friend get his heart’s desire or something else entirely? He could not plumb his own depths to arrive at a conclusion. He had a manuscript he had impulsively and foolishly promised a friend to edit with some revisions for presentation at the Royal Society, a task beyond the ability of his hands. Bonden and Killick were gone on errands for Jack and Stephen was alone in his room. He need only to shout very loudly for Mrs. Broad to be attended to, but he had no desire to do so. Jack would blessedly be back at any moment.
Suddenly, Stephen was downcast and felt tears rising in his eyes. He was alone, he was exhausted, he was in pain, he was frustrated and sad and he sat and stared at the fire and allowed a few tears to run for once without fighting them. He was alone and sensible of an ache in his heart, an acute ache that was himself missing Jack. He had seen Jack the night before after Jack’s rendezvous with Sophia only in the carriage and for the first time in over two weeks. After a few words, Jack had fallen asleep on the way back to London. They had gone back to the Grapes and they had both collapsed into sleep within minutes on arriving there. Jack was gone by the time Stephen had awakened, leaving a note explaining that there was not a moment to be lost to complete important errands, he would be back around dinner time. They were leaving for Surprise in another day, when Bonden and Killick returned on Sunday and they could move without fear of Jack’s being arrested again.
“For all love, this is nonsense.” Stephen thought, bristling with irritation and wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve. Suddenly, the door was being opened and Jack was walking in followed by Mrs. Broad’s niece, Nancy, with dinner. Stephen was conscious of an overwhelming desire to lie down companionably in Jack’s arms in the bed, a desire that he thought unlikely to ever be fulfilled, even though it had happened in the past nightly for almost two weeks, weeks ago in Gibraltar. He felt more pinched, more cross and could barely make himself civil to the unfortunate Nancy. He saw Jack’s face in reaction to his own voice and manner -- the up raised eyebrows and widened eyes and it made Stephen even more miserable at how evident his petulance was.
He looked down at his manuscript more studiously. He had no appetite for the supper, however excellent, stared at the fire feigning interest in Jack’s narrative of the morning’s events, a performance that fooled Jack not at all. Then Nancy had returned to take the dishes away and Stephen was ashamed at his lack of ability to make the least pleasantries and kept his mouth tightly shut. Jack made up for Stephen’s reticence but Stephen could feel Jack’s examination of him. Stephen looked at his hands and frowned. He put the quill down, rubbed them, looked at the manuscript, rubbed the ink off his hands onto his handkerchief and frowned more.
“Sequelae.” Stephen raged at himself in his head. “All meaningless sequelae, forsooth." With a pang, he realized that it seemed as though his life would be cleaved by what happened in Port Mahón: before and after; a life of agency versus a diminished existence of ongoing, meaningless sequelae brought about by circumstances beyond his control. Nothing had ever depressed him more. Stephen felt a perfect hypocrite for all the men he had performed major surgeries on and then adjudged their recoveries to be indicative of the quality of their respective characters, as though an individual could be bigger than any circumstance of fate. He could only stare into the fire to distract himself from these melancholic thoughts.