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By the end of the fortnight after their engagement with the Triomphateur, it was common knowledge amongst the ship’s crew and her officers that the doctor feared for the captain. Every man from the first lieutenant to the lowliest powder monkey saw it in his harried expression, in his dogged step and heard it in his sighs. It was true Stephen feared for Jack’s safety often enough in battle or, more particularly, when ashore where the captain held no power over wind, tide or crew; but in these past few days his anxiety had risen to a level previously unencountered. The fever that kept Jack lashed to his cot still held possession of his body and showed no sign of ebbing; in fact that morning it had reached a new and unsettling height, so burdening Jack with sickness that although delirious he had not the strength to call out, only to moan softly and let his head loll when plagued by visions.
At that moment Jack was sleeping under the influence of five-and-thirty drops of laudanum; an unusually high dose, but one deemed necessary due to the degree of the captain’s restlessness. It was all the doctor could do to allow his friend some uninterrupted sleep, and Stephen was taking advantage of the patient’s momentary sedation to escape the sick berth for a while. Leaving Jack in Padeen’s competent hands, he had adjourned to the great cabin and was currently sitting on the locker bench, his cello between his knees, staring absently out of the stern windows.
The night was clear but humid, even though Killick had had the windows propped open since yesterday in an attempt to give the cabin an airing. The stars shone brightly in the velvet tropical sky, a fine phosphoresce in their wake trailing back across the waves. A beautiful evening by any standard; but its beauty made him regret his companion’s indisposition even more, as there was no one to remark on his foolishly poetic observations. Stephen nursed the neck of the cello, rolling the bow between his twisted fingers distractedly. He had hoped some music would help soothe his troubled mind; but however much he longed to play the inspiration, the incentive escaped him completely. The absence of Jack’s violin made the cabin feel even emptier; a larger, much graver place filled only with the minute creaks and murmurings of a living ship at sea.
He is strong, not yet past his prime; he will live. Over and over again Stephen repeated this to himself, so much that it had become something of a mantra running endlessly through his brain, asleep or awake; but always there was the dull ache in his bosom, that small seed of doubt that prevented him from believing those words. It had happened so quickly, not five minutes after Jack had ordered ‘boarders away’; some errant hand aboard the Triomphateur had thought it worth his while to take a swipe at the formidable English captain, cutting deeply along the length of his left side. The man had struck well, but he had had no more than three seconds to revel in his triumph before Davis had come down on him screaming his fury like all the fiends of the Pits. The man was killed instantly. Grudgingly Stephen supposed that in a way it had been for the best; death at the hand of Awkward Davies was by far a kinder fate for the Frenchman than what would have been in store for him should the doctor had ever got his hands on him. Never in all their years at sea had he ever seen Jack brought so low by a wound. His friend’s body had been pierced through and recovered innumerable times against the odds that the title of “Lucky” Jack Aubrey was by no means solely due to his luck with prizes or his reputation as a master tactician and a fighting captain. However, as Jack might say himself if he were here, perhaps Lucky Jack’s good fortune was about to run out.
Stephen smiled grimly as he thought of Jack. Yes, he could imagine what Jack would say, what Jack would do if he were here now, not sweating and shivering helplessly in a cot far below decks. They would have just finished their supper, Killick having already cleared the plates of toasted cheese whilst muttering profusely about something or other, and they would be tuning their respective instruments before setting about three or four duets. Jack would be sitting in that chair over there, carefully turning the pegs of his violin, grunting slightly as he struggled in vain to pitch a true A; somehow he seemed more deaf to that particular note than any other. Stephen turned away from the painfully amusing scene to gaze out of the window.
“It is a beautiful night, is it not my dear?” he whispered to the air. “Of course, you would say there have been other nights as perfect, but I would beg to disagree. I would say that I have never yet laid eyes upon such harmony of sea, sky, and phosphoresce until this night.”
At this, Jack would raise his head a fraction, frowning at him in a perplexed sort of way, his hand poised mid-turn of a peg.
“Stephen, something is bothering you. You have be so goddamned morose, sighing and silent all evening.”
Stephen shook his head dismissively.
“Forgive me, my dear. It is nothing; merely some slight foolishness, some sentimentality on my part. Do not let it trouble you.”
“Do not try to deceive me, brother; we have known each other too long. Will you not tell me what it is?”
Stephen sighed once more, shaking his head wearily before he could bring himself to meet those inquisitive blue eyes.
“It is the nature of your wounds that disturbs me. The sabre cut you received to your side whilst aboard the Triomphateur was surprisingly deep; you have lost a vast quantity of blood.”
“Really? I did not think much of it at the time.”
“So you said, my dear, as you were being carried almost insensate below decks, your shirt so soaked in your own blood that there was barely a square-inch of white left.”
“Oh.” Jack looked thoughtfully at the deck. “But the wound in itself is sound? It is not going to rot?”
“There has been no danger of the gangrene so far, and with the Blessing there should not be. However, the wound has not knitted as well as I might have wished, and the scar tissue produced is most unsatisfactory; plus there is the presence of this fever which indicates some other source of infection, most likely internal, but I cannot make it out. I cannot make it out at all.”
“Oh, you need not fear, Stephen. I have survived the fever countless times; I daresay I shall be better presently. Besides, have you not always said I heal with the swiftness of a young dog?”
“Yes, my dear, but this time it is not the case. I do indeed fear for you.”
Silence reigned over the cabin as they stared at each other, almost as if trying to express something, but failing to find the right words. Eventually Stephen, his voice barely audible, said;
“Jack, please, I implore you; concentrate all your powers on getting better. When a patient no longer has the will to live, it is then there can be no hope of recovery. You cannot let that happen… you cannot leave me. Please.”
Jack started slightly at the nakedness of this plea, and Stephen was somewhat surprised at how pained, how wretched his voice sounded in that vast, empty cabin. Jack tried to affect something of an amused smile, as if Stephen’s fear were something ridiculous, but his eyes were deadly serious when he said;
“No fear! I am afraid you will have to put up with my snoring for quite some time, doctor.”
The corner of Stephen’s mouth curled slightly into the beginnings of a smile before he quickly bowed his head, grief stabbing at his heart as if it were a knife. ‘Oh Jack, if only what you say were true!’
“Forgive me, my dear. I have upset you with my ridiculous notions.”
“No, no, brother; not in the slightest. Let us talk no more of it. Shall we not have some music to cheer us?”
“I had hoped to, soul; but alas, I find I do not have the heart to play.”
“Come, Stephen, do not get so maudlin. The Boccherini, perhaps?”
Stephen smiled sadly and shook his head.
“No, my dear. I doubt if even Boccherini could lift my spirits tonight. I am sorry.”
He could sense Jack staring at him, concerned; but he could not bring himself to meet that gaze, nor answer the silent plea it contained. Mutely, Jack rose from his seat, tucking the violin under his chin, turning his back on his companion and gently brought his bow up to the bridge. A sad, whispering melody emitted from the strings; a simple, endless ascending spiral of notes that could easily have been a lullaby to comfort a frightened child. In his mind’s eye Stephen watched Jack standing by the stern windows, all his being concentrated on his playing. So often he forgot how much lay hidden beneath his friend’s open, sunny exterior; what talents and qualities he possessed but chose to keep secret from his fellow man, only showing them by accident or in times of dire need. But this time Jack did not hold back, did not even shy from ‘showing away’ as he so often did, playing this sad tune for Stephen as if no one else in the world could hear him; swaying slightly in time with the ship as he played, his eyes alternately closed or open, blue orbs softly focussed, wholly intent on his music.
Gently, ever so quietly, Stephen placed the bow to the strings of his cello, copying the melody, moving a third into harmony, then changing a few notes, proposing a variation of his own on the theme. And all the time Jack’s ghostly violin played on, changing ever so slightly in reply to each new suggestion the cello passed its way, but in some way keeping its play firmly rooted in the original theme. It was one continuous swell of music, floating away across the waves to sing beneath the stars and the night-dark sea. Later, when Jack was fully recovered, Stephen had spoken of this odd vision and even tried to replicate the theme so that Jack could hear. But no matter how he tried, it could only whisper a hint at the true enchanting beauty the music had held for him that night when he had played such a strange duet. Although Jack did nod his head appreciatively and say that it was a pretty tune, Stephen always felt there was something missing; some other dimension or sensation attached to the music that he could not grasp nor yet describe.
They continued well into the early hours of the morning, never pausing for breath or refreshment, the sound of the cello finally ceasing at four bells in the middle watch when at last, overcome by exhaustion, Doctor Maturin fell asleep over his cello. As soon as the music stopped Killick poked his head around the cabin door. Neither he nor his mate Grimshaw had retired that evening, their concern for the doctor having kept sleep at bay. They had been in the storeroom, sampling some of Jack’s second-best Madeira when they had overheard Stephen speaking as if to someone else; which was odd, since he was the only one in the cabin. They had replaced the bottles they had so treacherously uncorked, listening intently as Stephen conveyed his concerns over the captain’s wounds to thin air, pausing as if waiting for a reply, then continuing the conversation. And then he had started playing, but even Killick could tell that there were gaps that shouldn’t have been there in the music; gaps that seemed to have been left for some other instrument, and Killick knew too well which instrument the doctor imagined to be there, and it worried him.
Killick tsked quietly as he stood over Stephen slumped back in his chair, one arm securing the cello across his chest whilst the other hung limp by his side, the bow trailing on the deck, held loosely in his fingers.
“Now, sir,” he said crossly, his fists on his hips in the manner of a fishwife. “Now, sir, see what you’ve done? Working yourself into the ground, then staying up all night to scrape at poor Killick’s ears! What would Himself say if he knew?”
But Stephen was so far gone, so deep down that he did not reply, did not even stir at the steward’s words. Killick signed to Grimshaw, who had been lurking uncertainly in the doorway, to come over and between them they managed to prise the cello from his grasp, putting it away in its case before lifting Stephen bodily and carrying him into the sleeping cabin. Laying the doctor on his cot, Killick gently removed his shoes, stockings, necktie and waistcoat, loosening his collar before dousing the lantern and closing the door behind him. Back in the great cabin he shook his head at Grimshaw.
“I don’t know; learned cove and high class physician he may be, but can’t look after himself at all. What would either of ‘em do if we weren’t here, Bill?”
Grimshaw shook his head sympathetically, jerking a thumb in the direction of the sleeping cabin.
“Do you think we should tell the other doctor? About ‘im talking to himself and scraping away at half a tune?”
By the ‘other doctor’, Grimshaw was referring to Jacob. Killick glanced at the cabin door thoughtfully.
“Nah,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Been overdoing it, poor soul; been talking to the captain in the sick berth so long he’s now talking to him even though he ain’t there anymore. He’ll straighten out when the captain’s up and about again.”
“If Goldilocks does get up again,” murmured Grimshaw, lowering his voice. “You heard what he said; he’s worried about him. You can see it clear as day; even Mr. Pullings is starting to fret!”
“That’s enough of your talk, William Grimshaw!” snapped Killick defensively. “You weren’t here when the doctor roused out Joe Plaice’s brains and set ‘em to rights, was you? No! He’s sewn old Goldilocks back together again more times than you’ve seen your misses, so’s don’t you go sayin’ anything to upset him, do you hear? He’ll see the captain to rights, you’ll see, or my name’s not Preserved Killick!”
The pair departed the cabin arguing in low voices, shutting the door behind them with a thud. Silence descended on the great cabin once more, punctuated only by the sounds of the ship and the tolling of the bell as the half-hour glass turned. Meanwhile, inside the sleeping cabin the ghost closed the theme, departing from the doctor’s imagination as inconspicuously as he had arrived to await his return to the orlop.