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Stephen gently laid his hand upon Jack's brow. Of all Jack's hurts, the fever had concerned him the most. Oh, Jack would be in pain from his arm and from the cuts and scrapes when he awoke, but he had suffered worse. The fever, however... Stephen prayed Jack was over the worst of it; during the night his temperature had begun to ease and now with the onset of day, Stephen was sure the fever had finally broken.
Collecting the neckcloth he'd been using to lave Jack's reddened face, Stephen stood once more and headed towards the sea. It looked innocent enough now; waves that would not even trouble a babe-in-arms, but Stephen could not forget the way the water had pummelled at his battered body until oblivion had taken him.
By now Stephen had been through enough storms at sea to claim some experience with the perils and vagaries of the ocean, but the violence of this storm had astounded him. It was still evident in the broken branches, tangled seaweed and other storm-wrack washed up on the beach, and in the bruises and scrapes still healing on his body. He remembered little of the storm but knew that while he might have a propensity for falling overboard – Lord knew it drove Jack mad sometimes, that Stephen could fall off even the stillest of boats in the calmest of seas – this time his lack of coordination was not to blame. It had been a giant wave that had crashed over the ship and fetched his head a sharp crack against the rail before, he assumed, washing him overboard.
Returning to the lean-to and Jack, Stephen fingered the lump on his head. It was still swollen and tender to the touch, bringing tears to his eyes should he prod too hard, but it did not seem to be broken. Or at least if it was, it was only cracked and not smashed, his brains leaking out beneath his scalp. With some care, Stephen stooped and wetted the cloth in his hand. He still did not know what demon had driven him back up onto the deck in the middle of the storm – nay, hurricane, he was sure of it – for he should have realised by how quickly it came up that it was no normal storm. He had only taken a momentary break from the quarterdeck to duck below when he had been startled by the crash of thunder, and then thrown off his feet as a huge wave struck the Surprise. But for daring to go back up on deck, it was his fault he had been sent overboard, and thus his fault that Jack had inevitably followed him.
Picking up a coconut shell, Stephen carefully tipped a few mouthfuls of precious water between Jack's lips. Beside Jack's health, water had been another of Stephen's concerns, until he had discovered a barren, rocky stretch with a deep crack running through it, as far from the sea on this island as one could get. The crack had seemed of little consequence at first, until Stephen had noticed the water in the bottom of it, and the straggling greenery with its tenuous grip on the rocks around the water. The water wasn't pure, of course; Stephen suspected this island was not big enough to sustain a fresh water spring. No, it wasn't pleasant, but it would do to keep Jack hydrated for now. Once Jack had recovered enough Stephen could consider exploring further, but for now this would have to do.
At least Jack was no longer delirious; if his current state of unconsciousness could be considered anything of a boon, there was that. Stephen would not admit it to anyone, but he had been truly fearful when Jack was caught up in the height of his delirium; should his dear friend perish, Stephen was under no illusion that he would be long for this world himself. As a naturalist, he had some eye for fruits that could keep him alive, but for lack of stimulating company Stephen was sure he would pine and fade. Who else would he glory over any new discoveries with, apart from himself?
Then Jack groaned, a loud irritable noise, and cracked his eyes open. His face was set in a most disagreeable frown as he weakly raised a hand and batted at the wet cloth Stephen had draped over his forehead. He muttered something, words slurred and barely formed, before he focussed on Stephen, leaning over him.
'Ah,' cried Stephen, 'Jack, you are awake at last.' So exuberant was he at seeing Jack awake, his eyes finally free of the fever-glaze that had covered them, that Stephen clutched Jack's hand in his own, pressing Jack's fingers to his chest.
Jack blinked salt-stained eyelashes. 'Ah,' he echoed Stephen, 'my dear, dear Doctor...' His voice was so rasping and weak, such a mere shadow of his usual heartiness, that Stephen winced at its roughness and Jack winced in turn.
'Hush now,' Stephen said, 'you should not speak. And lie still,' he scolded when Jack moved to sit up. 'Else you will regret it!'
As was his wont Jack paid little attention to this admonition, and persisted in struggling towards a sitting position. It was to no avail; as soon as Jack had achieved something of an upright position, a swoon overcame him and he flopped back down on the sand, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Stephen sighed. Jack would be Jack. Once more he picked up his sea-wet cloth and dribbled water onto Jack's cheeks. 'Come now, Jack,' he said gently.
After a moment Jack's eyelashes fluttered again, and once more he tried to push himself into a sitting position. Stephen sighed, placing his splayed fingers on Jack's chest, and thus held him to the sand (a terribly easy thing for him to do, with Jack in such a weakened state; had Jack been a well man Stephen doubted that were he even to sit on Jack's chest could he have immobilised him) until he ceased his struggles. It did not take long for Jack to ease, puffing and glowering up at Stephen with a terrible frown that would have been fearsome at any other time but that now Stephen just found rather amusing. His tendency towards jocularity served greatly to settle Jack's choler and Jack finally smiled too, a wry curve of the lips that recognised how foolish he was being. Then he winced, his hand going to his arm.
'I do not think it is broken,' Stephen said, 'but I think it best to leave it splinted for now. Rest will heal you.' At least while Jack had been unconscious he had been able to do a thorough exam, and underneath the swelling around the contusion on Jack's arm the bone had seemed to be intact. At worst it would be a fracture, which was nothing that would not heal on it's own with a little rest. 'We were both very lucky not to be injured more severely.' As it was, Jack's tally of wounds was no worse than anything he had sustained boarding a prize; the arm – most likely fractured – and some bruised ribs, a cut across the back of his calf, and various bruises and abrasions. Stephen had come away even better – apart from the knock to his head, he had received little more than cuts and bruises himself.
'Have you seen any sign of the Surprise?' Jack asked hesitantly. 'Any... anything? Any sign at all?'
'No, Jack,' Stephen said softly. 'No sign at all. But that does not have to mean that it is bad news, does it? I have not seen any debris either. I would have thought that with a shipwreck there would be some visible sign—' He gnawed at the side of his lip. The thought of the Surprise gone, the thought of those men gone... Stephen could not bear to contemplate it. 'Unless there is a real sign, a true sign that – that she went down, I do not think that we should give up hope,' he eventually said.
'Of course, Stephen,' Jack agreed. He did not like the worry in Stephen's eyes. 'The Surprise is a strong ship, and we had her well in control and with little damage when... well. I am sure she is fine and the men too. They will come back for us, I know it.' Jack's words did not completely dispel the worry from Stephen's eyes, but it eased, and eventually he nodded.
'I am glad you are awake, Jack,' Stephen said, reaching out to squeeze Jack's hand with one of his own, while with the other he reached for a small, bright red mango from the pile he'd collected. 'With your fever, I had been... somewhat concerned.'
'What foolishness, Stephen,' Jack chided, hoping to tease a smile from him. 'I would not have been concerned even a moment!'
Stephen snorted. 'You? Concerned?' He glanced up at him from the mango in his hands. There was a sardonic arch to his eyebrow as he considered the man sprawled out on the sand beside him. 'I would say you were far too busy with your ranting and raving and deliriums to be concerned about anything at all.' He tore free a chunk of the fruit's soft, juicy flesh. 'Here, this will serve you better for hydration – you have only been able to keep down that water, which is not as good for you as this, but every time I managed to get you to eat you persisted in vomiting it right back up.'
Jack looked askance at the fruit. He could smell its tart sweetness on the air. 'Perhaps it is not for eating then?' Food and Jack went hand in hand, he could not imagine being unable to keep anything down unless it was not good for him.
'Nonsense. I have been eating it since our first night on this infernal island and I am perfectly fine.'
Still Jack hesitated, though the aroma was beginning to make his stomach grumble. It was not a real meal of the likes Jack was used to, but it was better than nothing. Stephen gave him a look, a chiding tilt of the head as he said, 'Jack, please. You will eat this fruit even if I have to hold you down and force-feed you myself.'
Jack's blue eyes – so bright in his ruddy face – lit up and he tried not to grin. 'There may be something in that,' he said, awkwardly pushing himself up so he was leaning fully on his good arm and he gestured with his bad. 'Besides, with this perhaps I should not over-exert myself. And you yourself did say to rest it, did you not?'
'Do not be so foolish, Jack,' Stephen said. The look Jack turned on him should have been well able to melt the hardest of hearts, but Stephen was well inured against most of Jack's more ingenious expressions, and merely gestured to Jack once more with the piece of fruit. Jack's expression wavered at Stephen's reluctance to play along with his humours. All he wished of Stephen was a smile, anything to lighten the doctor's mood. The situation they were in was not ideal, but without good humour it would only worsen.
Stephen finally noticed the playful twinkle in Jack's eye, as if the very devil had gotten into his soul during his fever and was gazing out at him. 'You insolent fellow,' Stephen cried; and there was something so winsome about the smile that blossomed on Jack's face that, despite himself, Stephen smiled too. He leant forward off his heels and offered the fruit to Jack, held near his lips so he would have to lean forward at least a little. Stephen might need to hand feed Jack like he was some islander girl, but damned if he would make it all easy!
Jack reached out to steady Stephen's elbow, his fingers gently cupping rather than grasping, and nibbled at the fruit in Stephen's fingers. His eyes brightened at the taste. 'Why, it is delightful!'
'Mmm. You will not think it quite so pleasant after eating it for most of a week, I assure you. I am quite prepared for a change in my diet, and I would prefer it sooner rather than later.' Stephen made a face. He had gathered a few suitable switches on the way between the rough lean-to he'd built over Jack's recumbent form and the water-hole, with the intention of teasing a thread from his shirt and making a fishing pole, but Jack had fretted whenever Stephen left his side, and with the fruit trees to hand it had been easier to stay with Jack and keep him comfortable. There would be time enough to fish when Jack was healed. 'But now you are well,' he continued, 'we shall be able to explore this little island further and see what other food we can find.'
'Indeed,' Jack said, absently, as he was completely ignoring anything but the fruit in Stephen's hand, 'but until then I am sure to be overwhelmed with pleasure if you would see fit to feed me more of that lovely mango.'
Stephen obliged Jack, his fingers dripping with juice as Jack continued to cup his elbow. He couldn't help his start when he felt the gentle lap of Jack's tongue against his skin before Jack sucked gently on the pad of his fingertip, and was glad for the sunburn that hid his sudden flush. Jack was watching him with a carefully studied expression, his lips and chin wet with the juice (an incongruous detail in the whole situation, yet Stephen could not help focussing on it, and on the way Jack's fingers had tightened on his arm to prevent him from pulling away). 'Jack,' Stephen started warningly when Jack mouthed at his fingers.
'Do not,' Jack said, loosing Stephen's elbow. 'Oh, Stephen, please do not say anything. It is the fever, it is the sun.' He lay back on the stand, staring up at the palm fronds Stephen had pitched as a shelter. 'The fever,' he repeated. There had been salt under the sweet tang of the fruit; the taste of Stephen's skin, wind-blown spray or dried droplets from the rag he'd been using to dampen Jack's brow.
Aware of Stephen's scrutiny, Jack sighed and draped his arm over his eyes. 'I am tired, Doctor, I wish to rest.'
Stephen had a brief moment of hesitation before he said shortly, 'I shall see if I can locate a better water supply. Now that you are coherent, I do not feel so concerned at leaving you.' Jack heard him move against the sand as he stood, and then the soft shuffle of his feet as he stepped away. There was a brief pause – perhaps Stephen was looking back at him – but Jack did not open his eyes. Shortly the steps resumed, fading quickly.
He pressed his hand to his forehead. He did not know what demons had possessed him. Perhaps it truly was the fever still set into his bones, not yet shaken free, that had seen him turn on Stephen like that. Licking his lips, he could taste the juice of the mango on them still, and his stomach, so deprived of solid food during his convalescence, gave a loud growl. 'Be silent,' he admonished it before cracking an eye open. Stephen was nowhere to be seen and Jack pushed up onto one elbow, casting about for the remains of the mango Stephen had been feeding him.
It rested on what looked like the leaf from a banana tree, next to several whole pieces. Wasting no time, Jack devoured them all, until he began to feel a little ill. Perhaps he should not have eaten all, or perhaps not so quickly, he thought, sinking back onto the sand. If only Stephen had been here to moderate his behaviour. Except when Stephen had been here... Moderation was not what Jack's thoughts had turned to. He shivered.
Jack could easily recall the flush that had darkened Stephen's cheeks, dusky from the sun. The way his pale eyes had widened with his astonishment at the touch of Jack's mouth. Jack palmed a hand over his face. Oh Lord, what was he going to say when Stephen returned? Perhaps he should pretend that nothing untoward had happened, that he was still dozy from his sleep and fever and that he wasn't yet in full control of his faculties.
But no, he would not be able to fake that with Stephen – the Doctor was the best man Jack knew, and the best physician. He would know such a lie in an instant; he knew Jack too well and could tell his state of health with a mere glance, Jack was sure of it. This was, after all, the man Jack had watched pry shot from his own body and stop to inquire after Jack's own health besides. What kind of a man did that?
It was well known anyway, that Jack was firmly convinced there was no ill that Stephen could not cure, not unless his patient was already passed beyond reach. Although... even then Jack wasn't so sure. He remembered rescuing one of their lubbers from the water early on in their last voyage, the man blue in the lips and pinched when he'd been pulled from the sea. Pullings had pushed as much water from the man's chest as he could, hanging him from the yard arm, but to little avail, until the Doctor had come and breathed life into him. It had been a miracle to watch, and for days the crew had treated Stephen like he was a precious gift from God (which was a notion Jack wholeheartedly agreed with, for all it embarrassed Stephen; he was indeed a precious gift, Jack's dearest friend and closest confidant). Furthermore there was the trepanning incident, and while Jack wished harm on none of his men sometimes he wished he had been there to see the Doctor open the man's skull; Jack had opened plenty of skulls himself, ha, but it would be quite a feat to witness done with cold medical necessity. It was not proper, however, for one of Jack's station to display curiosity of his physician's work in such a way, much less to want to look at someone's brains!
But then again, what was proper about Jack's curiosity of Stephen? It was as if all his lewd thoughts, mostly successfully reined in since his marriage, had found a new muse. It was appalling, dishonourable behaviour and it shamed Jack deeply. This was not like those times in his youth when young Jack Aubrey had experimented, flirting with sodomy like it was not something that would see him court martialled and strung up on the yardarm. He had not done it many times, no more than he could count on one hand; once as a midshipman, twice when he'd been turned before the mast on the Resolution, and never since then. That had been purely physical sexuality, an emotionless need to be satisfied beyond what his hand could provide. But this was different, for this was not merely physical need, it was an unnatural passion that burned within his chest for his dear Stephen. It burned hotter than the pure love of their friendship that sustained him through all his trials, and far more brightly. It was love itself, but with an intensity Jack could not compare.
And yet part of him rejected the thought of these feelings as dishonour. No, there might not be any honour in it, but that did not mean there was dishonour, for all the laws against the physical act. Why should love for the sake of love be considered a terrible thing purely because of the sex of he who loved and he who is loved? Wasn't love meant to be a grand, beautiful thing? Jack wished this were something he could discuss with Stephen, for Stephen's grasp of philosophy and the nuances of humanity was deeper than Jack could ever wish his own to be, but Stephen was the crux of this matter and as such Jack's hands were tied. He would not draw Stephen unwittingly into a discussion that affected him so intimately.
Jack sighed. Never a content invalid, he disliked this quiet time spent alone with his thoughts. The fever had robbed him of much of his strength and the last thing Jack wanted right now was to return to sleep, even if it would pass the time before Stephen returned from his errand. Not when his thoughts turned to reminiscing like this, dwelling on something that would only lead to him further shaming himself. However, still too weak for more than a few steps, alone in his thoughts was where Jack would remain. Blocking out the insidious thoughts of his youth and Stephen, Jack resolutely closed his eyes. He would sleep it off.
-
Stephen followed the now-familiar path to the rocks where he had been gathering water for Jack. A small amount had filtered up through the sand and he stooped, scooping it into his mouth. The sand was grit between his teeth but he could not complain; he had drunk worse things in his time, from boiled shit to booby blood, and at least there was no need for such extraordinary measures on this paradise of an island with its abundance of fruit and shade. He trudged further, past the crack in the rock, following the curve of sand. Stephen had already surmised that theirs was not a large island, but further away from the lean-to and the vast tracts of empty ocean, Stephen was surprised to see that their island was actually part of a series in a sprawling atoll that formed a deep crescent lagoon. The almost perfect crescent of golden sand and greenery stopped Stephen in his tracks for a moment with its beauty.
The nearest islet, the next from the tip of the crescent, was only a short swim away, so Stephen waded out into the water. It was a comfortable temperature, lapping around his knees and then his privates, and although Stephen was not a strong swimmer, it was well within his scope to paddle to the next island.
He peered down through the crystal water at the reef below. Brightly coloured fish darted away from his shadow as gorgeous sea anemones swayed and blew in the currents like trees, far more graceful than their land-bound counterparts. Several tiny fish, striped white and a lovely shade of orange, darted in and out of the anemone's tentacles. He watched, curious, as the tentacles stroked over the fish harmlessly, yet he knew that the tentacles were not without their dangers. Perhaps the fish and anemones lived in some kind of symbiotic relationship, providing each other with services only they could deliver?
For a moment he considered diving down and attempting to catch one of the fish, for the colours were truly marvellous. Perhaps once Jack felt up to it Stephen could bring him to this side of the island and show him the reef.
Although Jack would always humour Stephen's naturalist enthusiasms – look at what Stephen wished him to look at – he was never as interested as Stephen wished he could be. While not Testudo aubreii, perhaps these lovely rainbow fishes – the white and orange ones as well as the blue and purple and yellow ones – could pique Jack's interest.
Oh, but Jack's interest...
Stephen floundered suddenly, flailing anxiously in the water as it slopped into his mouth and then over his head. His foot struck an outcropping of coral and he instinctively used the brief leverage it gave to push himself back up out of the water, coughing and gasping as he splashed towards the shore.
It was on his knees that he made the beach, the sand rough on his palms. He rolled over onto his back and pushed into a sitting position, coughing and spitting. For many years Stephen had been unable to swim, but with a shipboard life he had deemed it worth learning, and had been taught by Jack in the ocean around the Surprise, an infinitely more dangerous place to swim than this. It should not have been difficult for him to swim from one island to the next; the water was tepid like bathwater and about as rough.
Stephen's foot was bleeding. It wasn't a deep laceration, but it was enough to be of concern. Stripping out of his shirt, he limped to the water and rinsed it free of sand, before using it to bind his foot tightly. The islet Stephen was on was not very broad - a few hundred yards from side to side - but the next island seemed particularly large and promising.
He wondered that he had not noticed it before this; on Jack's island, even as far around as the crevice where the water pooled it must have been concealed from view by the tangle of greenery and trees that dotted Jack's island. Stephen was sure that the abundance of fruit-bearing trees on this atoll was not a wholly natural occurrence. If this place was prone to hurricanes, like the one that had struck the Surprise, it stood to reason that the cargo of wrecked ships (for there was plenty of broken up ship detritus on the sea-ward side of the islands) might find seed and fruit on this lush little atoll.
It was even less distance to the big island, but Stephen swam with particular care, keeping his injured foot well above the rise and fall of coral not far beneath him and his mind resolutely on the task at hand, no straying to Jack, not even for a moment. He found a suitable piece of driftwood to use as a walking stick when he stumbled out of the water on the big island, keeping as much weight as he could off his injured foot. The big island was heavily forested, but thick on the lee with more fruit trees, just as Stephen had expected. It was also less like the rest of the islets he could see making up the atoll and more like an actual independent island which gave him some hope of finding a fresh water spring. Jack had once told him that springs were unlikely on the coral atolls of the Indian Ocean, but not completely unheard of. Thought not a true believer in luck, Stephen only hoped that Lucky Jack Aubrey's run of fair fortune would hold out. They were alive, after all, and on this string of islands. Surely water would follow.
He limped to the edge of the forest, collapsing onto the shaded sand beneath the palms with a grunt. It was terribly hot in the sun and he hoped Jack had had the sense not to gobble down the rest of the fruit Stephen had left behind for him, for without it he would grow quite thirsty before Stephen could return. Looking around curiously, Stephen saw some interesting forms of Platycerium further into the forest, their distinctive antler-shaped fronds almost beckoning him as they danced in the faint breeze, and as soon as he felt able he pushed himself awkwardly to his feet to carefully negotiate the wild tangle of undergrowth. He could see no obvious signs that there was any fauna on the island apart from the birds he could hear in the treetops above; necessary for the spread of new growth, even more so than the insects they also fed on.
Distracted from his course to the Platycerium by some white flowers low to the ground, Stephen deviated his path away from the ferns. Down near knee level on the trunk of a tree several wide, fan-like plants grew, each with five or six flowers to each stem. 'Ah,' Stephen said, 'you would be Angraecum.' He gently ran his thumb over the petals. The pure white flower had the faintest of sweet, delicate fragrances. Further into the undergrowth he could see more flashes of white, and by balancing with his walking stick he carefully picked his way through to them. These flowers were the larger cousins of those of the first plants, broader across than his palm and with thick waxy petals. They were white too, but tended to the palest of yellow-green around the edges, with a long green spur descending from the lip. 'Oh, how I wish Surprise was waiting for us just over the horizon,' he addressed them. 'How I would dearly love to take you all back to England. The Royal Society would be overjoyed with such prime specimens.'
It was then that Stephen became aware of what he'd missed in his rapt contemplation of the orchids: the sound, the trickle of water. 'Oh! Oh, you have led me to water like a horse!' cried Stephen, overjoyed. Through the underbrush he found a tiny spring that bubbled pleasantly, the water thick and lush in the mosses and maidenhair ferns around the small pool. He could see, by the plants growing at the water's edge and the flowers that gathered on the rocks above to peer down into the water like Narcissus, that the water could only be fresh, but it was still with his breath caught in his throat in anticipation that he knelt and scooped a handful to his lips.
The water tasted sweet and fresh, and finer to Stephen than the best vintage of wine that had ever graced his table. There were tiny little green frogs on the rocks above the water, and they watched this big, strange interloper with curious yellow eyes as he drank his fill, face down in the pool.
As on Jack's island, broken coconut shells abounded on the beach, but Stephen wondered if perhaps there might be a better solution for carting the water amidst the broken-up wreckage he'd seen in the distance. He had no qualms about attending to the debris; it might very well be from Jack's Surprise, but if it was, Stephen resolved, he would not tell Jack unless he asked. Or at least not in this still-healing state. He would not set back Jack's health if his own life depended on it.
He hobbled over to the tangle of spars and ropes and smashed up wood. There was no obvious sign as to what ship this wreckage had come from; nothing, that was, until he began to tug apart the pick-up-sticks mess of planking and discovered, half buried in the sand, the body of young Will Blakeney, his clouded blue eyes wide and staring. There was no mistaking that it was Blakeney, and Stephen sank to his knees by the corpse with a bitter sigh.
Stephen had felt a deep affection for the boy. He had been sympathetic at first at the need to remove Blakeney's arm; the boy was only young and it would be a great blow to him. On the other hand, the boy was young, and Stephen knew that the young were exceedingly adaptable. However, since the Galapagos his fondness for the boy had only increased. With a good head for naturalism on his shoulders, Stephen had seen in him the making of a great man – a man with his own ship, perhaps, with an eye and an interest for the all things Stephen had to plead and beg with Jack to allow. As captain Blakeney would have been like Jack, strong and daring, but with Stephen's scientific interests and none of Jack's perplexed frustrations over why, why, why.
Stephen limped back to the tree line, using his stick to dig a hole. He could have waited until he had fetched Jack here – for they would have to move here from their little island – but there was a part of him that wanted to protect Jack from this while he was still weak. Jack had plenty of experience with death, but nevertheless he took the deaths of any of the young men under his care hard; and as captain of the command he did not have the leisure to grieve publicly nor peers to share the burden. Stephen had tried to be that for him but Jack had been far too proud to accept it.
Blakeney's grave was, by necessity, a shallow one, and it did not take Stephen long to shift the sand. He was limping terribly by the time he'd dragged Blakeney over to the hole on a piece of torn sailcloth he had discovered and lowered him carefully in. Before filling the grave, Stephen placed one of the big Angraecum flowers on Blakeney's chest.
'I wish you had been able to see this flower in life, young William, I doubt you would ever have seen anything else quite like it again.'
-
It was the rustle in the undergrowth that alerted Jack to Stephen's return; by now he'd established that there was no danger from any kind of wildlife on his island, and that Stephen must have ranged further than their sand boundary in his search for water. Jack turned expectantly, but what he saw alarmed him.
'Stephen!' he cried as his naked friend stepped out of the bushes. 'Where have you – good Lord, what has happened to you?' Jack was still weak when he pushed himself to his feet, tottering a little as he moved towards Stephen, his hands outstretched. It was a case of the sick leading the sicker as he slipped his good arm around Stephen's shoulders to support him, the bandage wrapping his foot – his shirt, Jack guessed from its absence – stained through with blood. In the hand not clasping his walking stick Stephen clutched his breeches, knotted and carried carefully in his free hand. The material at the bottom was damp; it seemed a good sign that Stephen had found the water he'd been looking for.
Stephen looked grateful for his assistance. 'An unfortunate encounter with a coral reef, I am afraid, but it is not as painful as you may think. Please do not concern yourself; no, I assure you, I am perfectly well.'
Jack could see the paleness in Stephen's cheeks under the fresh layer of sunburn and feel the trembling fragility in his body. 'Here we are, my plum,' he said, lowering Stephen to the ground under their shelter, sinking to his knees beside him, 'I am afraid I do not believe you, not in the slightest.'
'It is nothing,' Stephen insisted. 'I merely need a moment to rest, I am exhausted.' He sat sagged in on himself, his hands loose in his lap and his shoulders drooping as if under an invisible burden. 'I have found us an endless supply of lovely fresh water,' – he gently patted his knotted breeches where he had set them down – 'and some bowls and a pitcher to carry it in, which will do us well enough for now. Tomorrow, we will move the two islands over and be hard by the source.' Yet the revelation of this boundless fresh water did not seem to please him, and that worried Jack. Stephen had fulfilled his mission and yet it seemed the light had gone out of his eyes.
Rather perversely, it seemed to Jack that the weaker Stephen grew, the stronger he himself felt. 'Come,' he said, tugging Stephen closer. 'Lay yourself down and rest.' A cool breeze had moved in off the sea with the onset of dusk; it was pleasant now under their little lean-to without the oppressive umbrella of the sun. 'Tomorrow we shall move to your second island over.'
With his head now pillowed on Jack's leg, finally Stephen smiled faintly. 'Jack, I found the most beautiful Angraecum near the spring, I shall have to show you them.'
'Give you joy, Stephen.' Jack did not know what an Angraecum was, and he did not really care. He was just pleased that whatever fish, plant or animal it was, it was enough to put a smile back on Stephen's face. He petted Stephen's hair gently until the man fell asleep. It was of little effort then to move his head to Jack's poor, battered coat that Stephen had used for Jack's pillow in Jack's own convalescence.
Once content Stephen was settled, Jack gingerly pulled himself to his feet. The sun was well below the horizon, the sky only holding a faint stain of colour as stars began to bloom, the moon big and full and shockingly bright. Jack had never been a big believer in the phases of the moon affecting human behaviour as they did the tides, but now, he wasn't so sure.
He supported himself from tree trunk to tree trunk as he made his way around to the sprawling mango grove; he had found it earlier, on Stephen abandoning him to the mercies of the day. He hoped that Stephen's lassitude wasn't him coming down with an illness of his own; Jack had no faith in his own abilities to doctor his friend, not without the physic all laid out for him and Stephen's curt instruction. And Jack knew that on this island there would be none of that to hope for. All he could think of was how feverish Stephen had been from his recent gunshot wound. All the things he had said that Jack had borne witness to, unwilling to leave his side, to expose his rambles to just any ears. Oh, Stephen had been stripped bare by his own delirium and Jack had heard more of the intimacies of Stephen's life than he knew Stephen would ever choose to share with him, the deepest of passions unwittingly offered up that had appalled and embarrassed Jack to hear. He still did not know whether his shame was his own or on behalf of Stephen, who seemed oblivious to the secret part of him he had spilled to Jack.
Perhaps that was what had changed Jack in his feelings towards Stephen. No, not changed, deepened. He did not feel any less strongly about his friend and their friendship had not suffered for it, but there was a new layer to what Jack felt; an awkward, deeper and raw layer that felt like it should be betrayal, were it truly inspired by the depths of passions revealed in a fever dream.
Stephen had not moved an inch, Jack found on his return. He settled next to his friend, his hand going out instinctively to cup Stephen's unshaven cheek. 'Stephen,' Jack whispered his friend's name. Not to wake him, for it was clear Stephen needed rest in the dark circles under his eyes and his drawn cheeks. Jack could still see the scrapes and bruises Stephen had sustained in the storm, the slowly fading remains of a contusion near his temple, the skin broken and black. He touched it gently and for a moment it was almost as if he couldn't breathe for the well of emotion in his chest. 'Oh, Stephen.'
What if Jack had done irreparable damage to their friendship, with a brief yet unwise move? He knew Stephen was not judging of sodomites; he had heard him protest the severity of the punishment laid out in the Articles for sodomy as too harsh for what was merely an expression of natural urges (no matter how unnatural the fashion might seem). And yet Jack could not help but wonder if this opinion of Stephen's held water merely because he had never before been found to be the object of another man's desires. He himself had experienced it before, not so oblivious as Stephen had suspected him, and to be the object rather than merely partaking the in physical expression had been surprisingly confronting.
Perhaps Jack was thinking too deeply on this – though what else he was meant to dwell on, he did not know; he'd long since plumbed and exhausted the depths of his mind when it came to dwelling on the potential fates of his Surprise and her gallant crew – perhaps when it came down to it Stephen would not consider what had happened any more than a mere trifle, a passing aberration. Something of nil consequence in the grand scheme of things, and when they were rescued (for Jack did not doubt a moment that they would be rescued) it would be an incident for no further contemplation. The thought cheered him. Stephen was an intelligent man, after all.
Dawn came with Jack sacked out on his back, snoring uproariously with his mouth agape like he was in a drunken stupor. Stephen took it as a fair sign that Jack was on the mend; his friend slept the sleep of the exhausted, not that of the ill. Even though his foot throbbed terribly, Stephen himself felt a sight better than he had when he'd returned to Jack, although his mouth was so dry he had trouble swallowing. Jack had been into Stephen's breeches and drained two of the bowls Stephen had brought back, but the dented pitcher was still full and Stephen drank deeply.
The clink of the tin pitcher against the bowl awoke Jack with a snort, and he blinked around blearily. 'Killick, have you brought my coffee?'
'Heart, it is only I,' Stephen said. 'It is not coffee that I have, but here, the finest spring water this little atoll can provide.'
Jack drank deeply. Upon placing the bowl down Jack gave Stephen an intent look. 'You appear to be much happier now, my dear Doctor,' he said. 'You looked rather poorly yesterday evening when you returned.'
'It is amazing the healing a few hours sleep can bestow.'
But Jack could tell that there was little truth to that; Stephen might not look as ill as he had the night before, but there was still no brightness to his eyes, no liveliness in his movements. Something had brought him low, something he had discovered on his venture, and Jack could not understand what it might be. There was no real good cheer in the smile Stephen directed at Jack, but the look in his eyes begged Jack not to push it further.
'Stephen—'
'Come Jack, you should drink more. It will help with the dehydration from your fever. You are still healing; if we are to move closer to the water source you need to be as hydrated as you can, as the sun is unforgiving and it is quite a strenuous distance away. In fact,' and Stephen attempted to push himself to his feet, an effort that failed dismally as he cried out in pain, Jack lunging forward to catch him close. 'In fact,' Stephen repeated in a pained, pinched little voice, muffled somewhat against Jack's shoulder as he resolutely continued, 'we should move as soon as practicable. It is already warm and the day will only grow hotter.'
'You – you are right, Stephen. We should go as soon as convenient.' Jack fretted that Stephen would read more into his touches than what he truly meant and eased Stephen away, back into a sitting position.
Stephen's fears of the day getting warmer were unfounded however, a cooler front sweeping through their atoll sometime around noon, only a few short hours after they had set up their new camp on the big island, this time with Jack helping Stephen to erect a new shelter that was even better and sturdier than the last. Most of Jack's clothing had survived the trip overboard, his coat sandy and torn but mostly intact, his shirt and breeches whole. He even had his stockings and shoes. Stephen on the other hand, had little more than his breeches and shirt, which was still being used to bind his foot. Jack draped his coat around Stephen's shoulders. 'Here,' he said, 'this will do you the world of good for warmth.'
'I am fine, my dear,' Stephen said, but Jack would not take no for an answer. 'You are shivering, brother, and I could not bear for you to become ill. No, Stephen, wear the damned coat, I would feel better about it.'
Stephen scowled at him, but let the coat rest. He did not want to admit it, but later in the day when the temperature dropped even lower, he welcomed its warmth. The coldness persisted into the night, however, and despite the coat Stephen sat shivering by the small fire Jack had built up, his arms wrapped around his knees. He watched Jack splashing around in the shallows, as heedless of the cold now as he had been every time he had stripped naked and dived off the Surprise. Stephen had not been happy with this foolishness of Jack's, not so soon after his fever, but convincing Jack of that – physician or not – when he felt he was well was beyond even Stephen's skills. In situations like this, he could merely recommend a course of action. Jack would do as Jack would do.
Eventually Jack came jogging back to the shelter, shivering, but with a grin from ear to ear. He pulled on his clothing and huddled close to the fire, twisting water out of his yellow hair. 'That was bracing, Stephen! You should have come in.' The appalled look Stephen shot him was beyond price. 'Come,' Jack said, 'come here.' He patted the ground at his side; a layer of banana leaves was a welcome cover over the sand.
Stephen gave him a long, seemingly speculative look but did not move. 'It is warmer over there?'
'When sharing body heat, Stephen,' Jack said in a drolly pedantic tone, 'it is always going to be warmer. I would have thought that you of all people should know that.' Had Jack imagined a hesitation before Stephen had spoken, an unnatural pause in the flow of the conversation?
'Of course it is,' Stephen said and smiled. He did not hesitate at all when he shuffled over to the area Jack had patted and, leaning in against Jack's side, with their combined warmth it did not take long for his eyelids to start drooping closed. He shrugged out of Jack's coat and at the querying look he received he said, 'If we are sharing body heat it is wasteful of me to wear this. It would do better as a blanket of sorts over the both of us, to trap the warmth better. If we spoon – you be the big spoon, I will be the little spoon – and take the edge... that's right, Jack, just so. Here, let me take your arm and—' He tucked Jack's arm snugly around his waist, inching backwards until they were pressed together. He yawned. 'That is much better—Jack, are you well?'
Jack's eyes sprung open. It was not that he found himself reacting to Stephen pressed against him (although the wriggling about would put paid to that shortly were it to continue, he was sure of it) it was merely unexpected and, were Jack to be totally honest with himself, quite pleasant. 'What?'
'You are tense and your breathing is erratic. Are you well?'
He moved as if to turn around and Jack tightened his arm to hold him still. 'No! No, Stephen, I am fine, I promise. This was just... unexpected. I did not expect your grand idea to be... cuddling.' He could not help the edge of amusement creeping into his tone.
'We are not cuddling,' Stephen said crossly. 'We are preserving warmth, and if I recall correctly this was your grand idea.'
Jack smiled. 'Cuddling or preserving warmth, I must say that either way it really is most efficient.' Jack suspected what he'd imagined as Stephen's initial reluctance was all in his head. There had been no hesitation, after all, when Stephen had moved to Jack's side and proposed that they spoon, and there was not a shred of anxiety or concern now with how intimately close they lay. Any change in Jack's body and Stephen could not help but to be aware... and it was then that Jack decided he had to put these foolish fears behind him. He would control his behaviour in Stephen's presence, and there would be no need for any further concerns. Jack did not want to do anything to upset the nature of their friendship; he valued what he had with Stephen now far too much to wager it on the flip of a card. If Stephen was to come to him, on the other hand... oh, now that did not bear thinking at all; Jack would not dare to hope.
It did not take long for Jack to fall asleep, as easily here on the hard sand as in his cot in the great cabin of the Surprise. He snored in Stephen's ear, a sound annoyingly comforting in its familiarity and it was that sound that lulled Stephen to sleep. He hadn't expected to sleep so solidly, nor so well, and it was only as the warmth of creeping sunshine curved caressingly over their tangled limbs, as if in apology for abandoning them for a day, that he roused. The last thing Stephen had expected to find upon waking, however, was that he had turned in Jack's arms and was twined embarrassingly close. They were still huddled together under the coat they had made a blanket of the previous night, and as if he sensed Stephen stirring Jack groaned and ran his hand over the bared skin of Stephen's back. It was not at all unpleasant and made Stephen bite down on his lip hard. He should wake Jack; once he was awake everything would be appropriate – but again Stephen remembered the gentle touch of Jack's mouth against his fingers and realised that no, maybe nothing would be appropriate again and oh, oh it was so nice to be touched; Stephen was not a eunuch nor sexless in any way, and weaned from laudanum he no longer had that to rein in his libido. Stephen closed his eyes, breathed out slowly and eased away from Jack. He would not damage their friendship with a whisper of a love beyond that which they already shared.
Jack woke with a sudden start, as he would at a wind change. 'Stephen?' his voice, rough with the burr of sleep, his grip on Stephen tightening a fraction.
'Hush, joy.'
Jack's eyes popped open at the sound of Stephen's voice, so close to his ear. It took his mind a moment to catch up with the situation and when it did he let Stephen go like he had been stung, apologies tumbling from his lips. 'Oh! Oh Stephen, I did not know, I was – I was asleep—'
'Hush,' Stephen repeated, echoing the high anxiety in Jack's voice. 'Hush, Jack, I know.' He could feel the blush rise in his cheeks. It was not Jack's doing, after all. It was his own. He sat up, drawing in his feet and focussed on untying the bandage on his foot. The wound ached with a dull throb; he knew it was not a bad throb, however, just the natural pain of healing. The torn flesh on the edges was a healthy pink – a good sign – and there was little fresh blood on the bandage. 'Jack, may I beg you to run this down to the sea and rinse it out well for me?' He looked up at Jack hopefully. 'I can prepare some breakfast for you...?' They had a small collection of fruits, and a fish wrapped in banana leaves that Jack had cooked in the fire the previous night.
Looking like he wanted any kind of excuse to get away from Stephen, Jack fairly snatched the shirt from Stephen's hands, pushing up from the sand in a smooth move and trotting down to the water. He waded out to his knees and then mid-thigh and then to his waist. It was as if he could still feel Stephen's skin on his hands and his body pressed to Jack's. The water was cold, but it was not cold enough, Jack's body still yearning for Stephen's touch. His fist tightened on Stephen's bloody shirt, and he set about splashing and raising a ruckus in the water to distract Stephen, should he be watching, from what Jack was really about. Eventually with a groan he threw himself face first into the water, as if to drown the feelings out of him.
He still felt sullied as he waded back in to shore and to Stephen, the shirt rinsed free of blood and dripping in his hand. Sullied, like he had dirtied himself and his love for Stephen, and Stephen's love for him. And yet the physical relief was enough to settle his restless spirit, to calm him so he could look Stephen in the eyes, and smile, and take his share of breakfast as Stephen passed it up to him.
Days passed easily on the little atoll, Stephen exploring as much as his injured foot would permit, Jack trailing along in his wake. Now he was well, Jack had quickly exhausted the extent of his ability to amuse himself, and had collected most of the ship wreckage that he could carry to strengthen their shelter in case of another hurricane, though the skies remained clear and blue from dawn to dusk. With the weather remaining clement it was easier for Jack to maintain his distance from Stephen, to maintain his calm in the face of this unrelenting love. Had he thought there might be a chance, a shred of hope, he might have set his mind to wooing Stephen, using this time of the two of them alone to coax Stephen to him like a tiny bird in hand, delicate and scared. He daydreamed about making Stephen realise the depths of his own love for Jack until he could no longer resist his own feelings. They were foolish daydreams, no doubt, but they helped.
During Jack's forays to the piles of flotsam and jetsam, Stephen had been obliged to mention the rough grave where he had buried William Blakeney, and so Jack finally understood Stephen's underlying grief. He mourned too for the bright boy's life snuffed out, so young and full of promise. Jack took time to construct a cross to mark the boy's grave from shattered timber he suspected was, appropriately enough, from his Surprise, and said a few words over it, commending Blakeney's soul to God.
-
The sun was setting with all its rapid tropical splendour when Stephen said, 'It was foolish of you to come after me, I do know that. In a sea like that it is a miracle you even found me, much less that we both survived. You should have left me to my death.' They were sitting shoulder to shoulder on a rise of sand overlooking the empty ocean not far from their camp, where the fire burned cheerily.
Jack stared down at the sand between his knees. He knew Stephen remembered little of the storm, his memory fuddled by the sharp crack he'd received to his skull. Jack had seen Stephen washed overboard in the highest seas Jack had ever experienced and almost instantly he'd made the brutal and pragmatic decision that Stephen, his dear, dear Stephen, was gone, and there would be little hope for rescue. God only knew there were difficulties enough rescuing a man overboard in high seas during a normal storm. It had broken his heart to realise that he could do nothing and Stephen would be left to die, but Jack had made the anguished decision that none could save him.
If the truth were told, he had only followed Stephen over the rails out of pure mischance of his own. A huge rogue wave, running almost at right angles to the ones they'd been fighting, had towered over the Surprise and crashed across the deck, washing clean all in its path. Jack wondered if his dear Surprise had been broached to by it, the sheer weight of the water enough to crush her hull like tissue paper at worst, or at best spring her seams to let water gush in. Oh! It did not bear thinking about. Instead he turned his thoughts back to Stephen and the sadness in his voice.
'You know I would not see you drowned,' Jack muttered, feeling ashamed. 'This time was no different to any of the many other times.' He felt like a buffoon, like a great fool. Although it was true that he would never wish to see Stephen drowned, he felt patently false uttering such words as this, as if he had made the conscious decision to follow Stephen into the water instead of having his choice taken from him by the sea. He could still remember the feel of the Surprise's wheel, bucking and wild in his hands, as he and Tom Pullings had struggled to hold her on some semblance of a course that worked with the great gales buffeting the ship.
It did not bear thinking about what might have happened to his ship once he was washed overboard. It was entirely possible that he and his doctor were the only two men to survive that catastrophic night. The thought sent a shiver up his spine. When Jack closed his eyes, against his eyelids he could see the flash of lightning and see the lashing rain, and as he gripped handfuls of sand he remembered the crack of thunder and timbers and the tear of sailcloth.
Jack had been in some awful blows in his time, but nothing ever like this. Even the worst the monsoons had thrown at him had nothing on the fury of this particular tropical hurricane. It had come up without warning, almost occult in its suddenness and fury. After the capture of the Acheron and the subsequent return to England, Jack had received orders to take the Surprise to the Indian Ocean to meet up with a convoy out of Port Louis. Running well ahead of schedule, they had been tracking a French sloop off the coast of Mauritius when the horizon had thickened with massed clouds. It did not look like it would amount to much, merely thick cloud on the horizon that posed little threat. Jack had chased – and been chased – into worse weather than that. But the moment the last of the horizon had been obscured by cloud, a bolt of lightning had ripped through the heavens and cracked right through their main topmast.
Stephen gave now silent Jack a long look, opening his mouth to speak before closing it again. No, he would not say what was on his mind; instead he murmured, 'I am not worth your life, joy, or your command—'
'Stephen,' Jack interrupted, 'you know I find it very disagreeable when you speak of yourself in this way, it makes me so very low. You of all men should know that a man's worth is not so easily measured. Why do you think so little of yourself? You are a great man and you are my particular friend. And should it go so far as to require it, you know you are of great value both to me and to the Admiralty. But by what measure does a man rate his greatness or worthiness? Is it the command and honours he is given? Or the wealth he may accumulate from prizes and great actions? Or is it the acclaim he may receive on discovery of a new species of beetle or bird or turtle,' and he nodded to Stephen, 'or his Spanish castle with its marble bath?' Or even his secret duties to the Crown and Admiralty that he will not speak of even to me, he added silently, meaning no rebuke to Stephen, for he knew his friend and he knew Stephen spoke little of his missions both to protect himself and to protect Jack. Jack still remembered the fine state Stephen had been in when they'd rescued him from Port Mahon; a more wretched and miserable sight Jack had not seen in all his time. That was the true cost of Stephen's work as a secret agent; he did what he had to and Jack knew he shared what he could when he could, and only what it was safe for Jack to know.
But Jack felt even guiltier now for lying to Stephen, and he sighed, resolved to tell the truth of it, at least in this. 'No, Stephen, a man's value – your value to me – goes far beyond that, believe me. Which is why I – I must be honest. I must tell you... that it is not true that I chose to come after you. I watched the storm carry you overboard and I knew that in seas that high that you would not be able to be rescued. That – that I could not save you.' Jack picked at the grains of sand in the cracks of his fingers. 'I gave you up for dead,' he said miserably, 'Oh Stephen, I chose to give you up on the assumption that no one could survive in such a sea. I decided you were gone and that there was no point in coming after you. If that rogue wave had not hit the Surprise I dare say you would be here alone and I would be sailing into Port Louis for refit and resupply, without even the inkling that you could possibly have survived such a blow.'
Stephen had not imagined that such a confession could cause him this depth of pain. Jack's honesty cut him deeply; when he thought Jack had come after him he had deeply rued being the cause of them both being stranded here, but part of his heart had soared with joy that Jack would not have left him to the sea any more than he could leave Stephen to the French at Mahon. Now this revelation that Jack would have abandoned Stephen to the hurricane – no matter how honest or true, or how much the rational part of Stephen's mind fully understood Jack's sound reasoning behind his decision – came as an almost physical blow.
He jerked to his feet, his attempt to storm back to their camp marred by a resurgence of pain in the wound to his foot; a wound that healed so slowly, no matter what he attempted in encouragement. Infuriated at Jack, at himself, at everything that had happened to him – to them both – he affected the angriest limp he could manage. 'Stephen,' cried Jack. 'Stephen, please.' He caught up Stephen's hand and Stephen jerked away from Jack's grip with a terrible frown, lurching awkwardly but hissing angrily when Jack tried to assist him. 'You must know that I never wanted to leave you. You are – Stephen, you are my light, but the ship, the service—'
'The service! The service, Jack, with you it is always the service! Does our friendship mean anything to you or is it truly second to the service?'
Jack stared at Stephen, agape. Oh, if he only knew! Jack reached for Stephen and once again Stephen lurched away, but this time a gurgle of a laugh, a helpless, broken laugh bubbled up in his throat, a horrible noise, and the third time Jack reached out he allowed Jack's hands to steady him. 'I am sorry ,' Stephen said, his stab of mad humour fading quickly. 'I did not mean – I know that you value our friendship and I know its meaning to you, I just...' He laughed again, but this time it was a dull, heartless rasp. He felt ill. 'I understand, I truly do. And perhaps that is the hell of it. I do understand so very well.'
The look Jack gave him was hurt and confused. 'Love, Jack,' said Stephen. 'It is that love you try to keep hidden. It took me a shameful long while to realise it, but I know now what you think is in your heart, and I am sure that if I was no longer around then maybe you would not have to fear. If the hurricane had—'
'No!' cried Jack, grabbing Stephen by his arms. 'Stephen, no, for the love of God, please do not say such things. Regardless of what is in my heart, I would – nay, could – never wish you gone because of it.' He stared at Stephen for a long, searching moment. 'What is in my heart is love for you, I will not deny it, but you must believe me when I say I have never feared it, unless the fear was of losing your friendship because I love unwisely. I know you have little concern for – for sodomites,' the word did not come easily to Jack, even if it were in some way true of him, and of that he still was not sure, 'but I feared that you might have – that if you knew that these feelings were for you and directed at you, you might have rejected them.
'My Sophie... I love her, I do, but I have come to realise that I cannot love her with all of my heart, for part of it was claimed before I met her by you, Stephen, though for a long time I deluded myself that it was our friendship, just our friendship. But it is much more than that, a lot deeper and passionate than mere friendship, you must believe me.' Jack was almost feverish in his sincerity, his eyes bright and his expression one of pleading. The feverish look was reflected in Stephen's eye, the flush in his cheeks more than the red reflected light from the sun as it dipped below the horizon, more than the dance of flames from their small fire. 'I need you to believe me, Stephen, for I love you.'
But Stephen didn't reply; he merely stared. 'Oh Lord,' Jack murmured. 'Please forgive me.' Without pausing to think of the consequences, he hauled Stephen close and crushed their mouths together. Stephen clung to Jack, gripping at the fraying sleeves of his shirt as Jack ravaged his mouth. He was burning up in Jack's arms but he did not push Jack away, there was no rejection, and that was all Jack could think of.
'Jack... Jack please,' Stephen eventually gasped when Jack released him, pressing his face in against Jack's neck. His breath was hot against Jack's throat, his skin tacky under Jack's fingers.
Stephen sagged suddenly and Jack cried out in alarm. 'Stephen? Stephen!' He swept Stephen up, stumbling to their shelter and laying him down next to the fire. Stephen's skin was dewed with sweat, his eyes wide.
'Jack...' Stephen grasped Jack's hand. 'I—'
'Don't talk.' But there was no point in hushing him, because his eyes had rolled back in his head and he slumped back on the sand, falling into a bottomless unconsciousness. Jack hovered over Stephen, but there was nothing he could do to rouse him. He sank back on his heels, pressing his fist to his mouth. Sudden guilt weighted heavy in his heart; had he been so concerned with his own feelings that he had completely disregarded or misread the signs of Stephen's illness? He could see it all now, the signs he had missed – the flush and the sweat and the ill humours – and it was a helpless, fretful night Jack spent alone at Stephen's side.
Stephen's fevered unconsciousness had settled into a deep sleep the next morning when Jack left him, cutting across the narrowest part of their island (at a walk it was less than ten minutes, at a jog it was closer to five; he dared not to go any further away from Stephen than needed) to the lagoon side where he hoped to catch some more of those prime silver fish. They were finicky but good eating, and Jack's stomach growled at the thought of eating something more substantial than fruit and vegetable items grubbed from the sand, and the occasional scrawny sea bird. If he could get Stephen to eat when he awoke, Jack was sure he would feel better. He may have been merely suffering from their poor, weak diet; he didn't have a strong physique like Jack's to fall back on.
Oh, what did Jack know? He was no doctor and he knew he would have had a world of trouble looking after himself if Stephen had not been there. How was he meant to look after Stephen?
It took Jack far too long to realise that the faint, distant sounds he had dismissed as bird calls were not, in fact, bird calls but the shouts and cries of men. He spun around, trying to ascertain the direction from which the sounds came, and it was then that he saw the masts of his Surprise – albeit not as complete as he remembered, but still he would know them anywhere – soaring above the tree line on the next island. Without thinking twice about it, Jack started to run. Lean eating and physical exercise on the island had him trimmer than usual (something Stephen had been pleased about) and he managed to splash halfway across the sandbar linking the two islands before he had to stop, gasping for breath, his hand pressed hard against the stitch in his side.
Rounding the end of the island to where the Surprise was moored offshore, Jack saw members of the crew on the sand, trimming and tending to pieces of wood Jack assumed would be for repairs. He immediately picked out the familiar form of Tom Pullings supervising.
Pullings had been made captain for his role in the capture of the Acheron and accepted a berth with Jack on his return to the Indian Ocean, there being a sweet fourteen gun brig waiting for the young man in Port Louis, the Surprise's original destination. The French sloop had been a costly side-tracking, it seemed, although Jack had not had it in him to refuse a prize so temptingly offered. The man himself looked up and noted Jack staggering across the sand and sang out joyfully, hurrying towards him.
'Captain Aubrey!' cried Pullings. 'Oh Jack, are we overjoyed to see you! I almost did not recognise you!' The pleased look on his face did not last long however, falling rapidly into abject distress. 'However – oh, oh how can I share this terrible news! It brings my heart no joy to share with you at all, Captain. I am sorry, so terribly sorry, and I wish there was some easier way to pass the news and ease your heart with this, but— Dr. Maturin—'
Jack raised a hand to stop him, almost ashamed it had taken so long to speak up and ease Pullings' distress, but his gasping for breath had hindered him. 'Stephen is fine, Tom,' he finally said. 'Well. Well, no that is not entirely true. He is sick, Tom, terribly sick and I do not know what to do, but you are here and here is my Surprise and – is Mr Higgins with you? Stephen assured me that we have physic aboard suitable for fever,' – he did not mention that Stephen had mentioned this in his delirium, thinking the swaying in his head was the sea beneath as he begged Jack to dose him – 'and if we could rig a litter...'
Pullings stared at him. 'I – Jack, of course. I will just—'
'Captain! Captain Aubrey!' It was then that the men noticed their captain and swarmed to him like bees to honey, Barrett Bonden in the lead and Killick at his heels. 'Captain Aubrey, sir! We thought you was lost! We've been hard at work – she sprung a seam or two – Mr Lamb will tell you all about it – but she should be seaworthy in a few more days. Captain, have you any word of the Doctor?'
Jack barely needed to mention Stephen's illness to Bonden before orders were being barked and a litter was strung up. 'Lead the way, sir,' Pullings said, as Bonden dashed off to fetch Mr Higgins and the medicine coffer.
'Oh, look at his beard, and his hair and the mess of his clothes. And himself without even a coat or a hat,' Killick moaned. Jack would have been offended, but he had spent far too much time with the man and knew it to be Killick's own form of expressing pleasure at seeing Jack returned. If he did not have something to complain about, he would find something.
Jack clapped him on the back; Killick looked horrified at the familiarity of it. 'Killick, prepare the Doctor and myself a hearty meal for when we return. With plenty of coffee.'
After the steward had shuffled off, Jack turned back to Pullings. 'Where have you been all this time, Tom?' Jack asked. 'It's been – how long has it been since the storm? Three weeks?'
'Nearer a month, actually. We had to put up for a fortnight so Mr Lamb could get the leaks under control, and since then we've been limping from island to island, looking for timber suitable for repairs,' Pullings said.
'At our camp I have a collection of mostly intact flotsam I have found,' Jack said, 'that I was going to use to try and build a raft.' Neither he nor Pullings saw fit to comment on his or the Doctor's lack of wood-turning skills. A raft would have been an absolute last resort; Jack was ill-suited to most shipboard repairs, unless it was sewing sailcloth. 'There is quite a bit, and some of it I am sure is from the Surprise herself. I am not sure how useful it may be, but I am certain that some of it is bound to be suitable for our needs.'
Jack could not help himself as he approached the camp but to stride ahead. This would be his and Stephen's last moments together without the close, encroaching confines of a ship, Jack knew, and he wanted to savour it, for all that Stephen's illness made that almost impossible. Jack sank to his knees beside Stephen, who did not appear to have even moved a muscle in his absence, reaching out to take Stephen's hand and gripping it tightly. 'Stephen,' he said softly, petting Stephen's hair with his free hand. 'Wake up, my dear.'
Stephen jerked awake, his body spasming as he was pulled from his cataleptic state. His pale eyes tracked blindly for a moment before eventually settling on Jack's face. 'Jack...?'
'Aye, it's me. I know you are tired and wish to sleep, but Stephen, we are rescued! I went to fish, and for water, and saw the Surprise nearby as if waiting for me. For us. My Surprises have brought a litter for you, to take you back to the ship where you'll be able to get better.' Jack pressed Stephen's clammy hand to his chest. He hated to see Stephen like this; it seemed too many times now had he seen Stephen pale and washed out, close to death. Even once was too many times. Jack's one consolation was that at least this fever was not as bad as the one that had overcome Stephen with his bullet wound – this time Jack did not fear Stephen would blurt out Jack's secrets, or any of his own.
'Dearest Jack,' Stephen said. 'I want you to know—'
But Jack never got to hear what Stephen wanted him to know, for the clamour of the Surprises arriving bearing the litter overrode him. Stephen's fingers tightened on Jack's and a tremulous smile curved his parched lips. 'Is that Tom Pullings I hear?'
'Aye, Dr. Maturin,' Pullings said, leaning over Jack's shoulder with a smile for his old friend.
'And me too, Doctor,' Barrett Bonden sang out opposite him, his face set into an irrepressible grin. 'We're all pleased as punch you survived – not that, y'know, we mean any slight to our Mr Higgins, oh no – but you, Doctor, it ain't been the same without you.'
Mr Higgins leaned over Stephen too. He looked the soberest Jack had ever seen him. Between the hurricane and the month it had obviously taken to repair the Surprise the ship had evidently run dry, and in Mr Higgins' case, it was for the best. He had a small coffer clutched to his chest and at Stephen's croaky order he dosed Stephen as instructed, as the Surprises carefully moved him from his bed on the banana leaves to the litter. In what felt like a repeat of the Galapagos Islands, Jack paced at the side of the litter as the crew carried it towards the Surprise. This time, however, it wasn't Jack in his uniform, but in his shipwrecked rags, and Stephen looking even more disreputable and poorly nourished, his face gaunt behind a scraggly beard.
Sighing, Stephen opened his eyes. 'Are we going home?'
'Yes, Stephen,' Jack said with a wry smile. Home, the Surprise. 'We are going home.'
Stephen fumbled for Jack's hand, heedless of the Surprises around them. 'Jack... I wanted to – I wanted to tell you that I believe you. I promise you... I believe you.' He laughed weakly and squeezed Jack's fingers the best he could. 'And I, you.'
Jack blinked as it took a moment for Stephen's words to sink in. And then, once they had and despite everything, he smiled brilliantly.