Fri, 25 Oct 2013 22:46:52 GMT

"Get up, Will." Peter's foot nudging his ribs startles William awake more than his friend's nervous whisper. He scrambles out of his makeshift bed - the coils of ropes shouldn't have been as comfortable as they were, but he'd been exhausted. Thankfully it had been Peter to catch him out, not one of the more senior officers. He'd taken the first dog watch, and stayed on deck afterwards to look at the strange stars - so close to the Americas, all the constellations were new. Now it was morning, cold and damp and foggy, tolling of six bells oddly muted.

It was Hollum's watch, the older midshipman grasping his scope like a lifeline as he strode along the deck, trying to look assured.

"Starboard bow ahoy!" The decks were quiet this hour of the morning, so everyone heard the hail, everyone was watching Hollum as he strode forward. Something heard on the wind, a ghost of a indication of someone else out there in the fog, and the entire crew on deck waited for Hollum's orders, as officer of the watch.

But it was Peter's voice that rang out - "We shall beat to quarters!"

The ship sprang alive to the sound of drums, every man knowing their place and hurrying to get there. Blakeney tipped his hat to the Captain and Lieutenant Pullings as he ducked below to join the gun crew he had been assigned. Everyone knew when the Captain had the ship's reins again - Hollum and Pullings had clattered down the stairwell one after the other, Hollum pensive, Pullings set to his duty, and with that the ship was ready for combat. What followed was an eerie silence - no guns, no calls. The sea rolled under their feet, the same smooth movement that seemed more natural now than the steadiness of dry land. They waited in the close dim light, soldiers and sailors and officers alike.

The world exploded overhead, the heavy thuds of cannonballs hitting the ship vibrating though her frame and knocking the world askew. Shouts went up and down the line of gunmen to hold steady (Pullings' voice loudest and clearest and surest of all), they had to hold steady until a ship presented herself to be shot at, but none could be seen - all was fog and the cries of the already wounded.

Another volley tore through the ship, lower now, a two lucky shots hitting first Pullings' crew, then Hollum's, knocking them over like ninepins.
"Blakeney!" Peter's bawled voice pierced over the tumult, "Inform the captain!" He scampered at the order, racing up the stairwell. He could feel it when finally the Surprise returned fire, a vicious roar of sound that shuddered through the planking and vibrated the air, but he barely had any time to appreciate it. Two steps towards captain Aubrey and the rigging above him exploded into shards. Pain like chain lightening lanced through his right arm, and he was thrown to the deck, landing on top of someone, the hazy vision of sailors hanging from the rigging chasing him into darkness.

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He woke in the infirmary, the reek of blood other less savory things still strong, his arm still burning with unholy fire, and gentle hands were on him.
"Shh now, easy." Doctor Maturin, his expression tired and grim, spared him a faint smile when William flinched. "You've broken your arm - I've removed as many splinters as may be found, only time will tell now how well it will heal. Rest now."

The doctor's advice seems good, and despite having just woken, he finds he's exhausted. The world fades away again, and he's surprisingly easy with letting it go.

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There are heavy footsteps approaching, discordant with the sounds from the pumps, firm measured treads he knows well.

"... depressed fracture of the skull, I don't think he will see morning light." That's the doctor's voice, quiet and grave, and William wonders who he is talking about - he has many friends aboard ship, and would grieve the passing of any.

"Lord Blakeney." That's the captain's gravelly rumble, and the men in question step close enough to see - the captain looks as tired as the doctor does. Neither of them have rested - the Captain is still mussed from battle, and the doctor's sleeves are soaked with blood up past the elbow. William feels like he should somehow manage to get up, get back to duty - it doesn't seem right, lying around when everyone is working so hard. His arm hurts like hellfire though, and he can't decide if he's too hot, or too cold, but either way it isn't at all comfortable.

"Just a broken arm, sir." He assures his captain, doing his level damnedest to not give his captain cause for complaint. He doesn't miss the worried look Aubrey shoots at the doctor, or the way it's hastily covered by a reassuring smile.

"Well. You're in very good hands." The Captain's assurance somehow doesn't seem as comforting as it should as both men walk away, and leave him with his thoughts and his pain.

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Days pass, or what feels like days - he loses track quickly, can't seem to focus on the bells, can't even use meals to guess when his appetite abandons him. It's uncommonly cold down in Maturin's realm, and for the first time in over a year the pitch and roll of the ship makes his stomach rebellious.

And his arm. Odds teeth, his arm, it burns and aches and stabs in turns, making sleep almost impossible and twisting his dreams when he does manage it. The doctor's face becomes more grave every time he examines the wound.

When the doctor gently explains that the wound is not healing, that the limb must be taken to save his life, he can barely hear it through the roaring in his ears.

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Peter's come down - good of him, not to leave him alone. He wants to stay awake as much as possible before the doctor doses him with laudanum, to the remember as much as he can about being whole, but he finds himself drifting in and out of dark dreams. Time is slipping away, and the closer it comes, the more he worries, and the less he's able to do anything about those worries.

"Is it true about how they put the last stitch through your nose?" He asks, catching Peter's attention, trying not to sound as young as he feels. "Old John told me that when you die, they stitch you up in your hammock with the last stitch through your nose, just to make sure you're not asleep."

Peter doesn't answer, and William thinks about this, the already gnawing horror of what's going to happen amplified by the disturbingly clear vision of someone doing that to him.

"Not through the nose? You'll tell them?" He asks, and Peter nods, his attempt at a reassuring smile dying in a grimace. And then it's too late to do much more, the doctor comes with his bottle and there's really no use protesting.

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Lord William Blakeney of ----Shire