barefoot_bard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
barefoot_bard) wrote2012-03-12 03:30 pm
barefoot_bard) wrote2012-03-12 03:30 pm
Entry tags:
Red, Like Claret
Title: Red, Like Claret
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: I don't own Master and Commander or any of the characters appearing in the movie.
Summary: Master & Commander (movie-verse). The Captain of Marines aboard HMS Surprise makes a terrible mistake. At sea, 1805.
Author's Note: A sort of prompt response, this piece. It could also be considered something of a companion to Per Mare, Per Terram.
Had it not been for one of the sailors, the teasing presence of the bird would not have come to his notice until after the afternoon's drill was over. Once he was aware, however, there was little doubt about how to proceed. The first step was to cease the detachment's firing at the creature. That privilege would be his alone. Thus, claiming his steward's musket for himself, Major Howard prepared to claim the large bird that was swooping and dancing through the rigging as if it had not the slightest care in the world.
Of course, getting a good shot at the bird was anything but easy. Its constant diving in and out through the maze of cordage made it difficult to track, never mind shoot at. Howard thought he had a clear shot, only to find that as soon as his finger began to tighten around the trigger, the bird was out of his immediate view. No doubt the damnable creature knew it was being hunted. Well. He'd get it, sure as there were eggs in pudding. All it would take was patience and the opportune moment...
"There he is. My bird, my bird... damn!" The wily bird came back into view, offering a prime shot, but then was out of sight behind a sail and Howard was obliged to hold his fire. The captain would not thank him at all if he put a hole into the maincourse.
Howard was determined, however. He would get this elusive bird, if only to claim that he had. The muzzle of his musket swept up, close on the bird's tail when it reappeared, just beyond the aft starboard pinrail. This was it, he knew it. He could bag the creature handily, as it dipped down as if diving toward the hammock nettings. No better chance than this was going to come, Howard knew. The opportune moment was there. He steadied his aim and fired.
Even as the flint snapped forward to strike against the frizzen, however, he knew he had misjudged the moment completely. Such was his narrow focus that it was not until the trigger had been pulled that he realised his error. The ship's surgeon was on deck, standing by the pinrail, directly in his line of fire. Even before the crack of the shot faded, Howard knew he had just done something utterly unforgivable.
"Doctor..." For the barest few seconds, he felt rooted to the deck, the musket held before him at Port Arms. Had he really been so oblivious to his broader surroundings that he'd fired when the deck wasn't clear? "My God. Doctor!"
One of the lads was the first to reach the stricken doctor, laying his musket onto the hammock nettings before starting to kneel by the man's side. Howard stirred himself from his momentary funk, hurrying forward and tossing his musket carelessly aside. Doctor Maturin had since slumped to the deck, sparking a terror in Howard that the hapless fellow was mortally wounded.
He all but slid down to his knees, such was his haste, and he put his hands under the doctor's shoulders at once, defaulting to the instinct to lift the poor fellow up a bit, though for what purpose he couldn't have said. Perhaps it hardly mattered, next to the gravity of the offence he'd just committed.
"The bird dropped low, I didn't see you!"
This was no excuse. None at all, but he could think of nothing better to say. That it was only the truth made it all the worse, somehow. It didn't help that Maturin did not appear to be listening, focussed instead on fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat. At first Howard wondered what in the world was the purpose in that, before becoming aware that the man had been hit in his side, and was desperate to see the wound.
The quick-moving thump of boots behind him heralded Captain Aubrey's arrival on the scene, effortlessly shouldering Thompson aside, who had been about to help support Maturin. Having the ship's captain present only made the heavy, sick feeling in Howard's stomach grow worse. The two were particular friends. Many were the stories bandied in the wardroom about them and their various adventures. Howard could not help thinking in that moment that he could very well prove to be the agent of the ending of all that, and he felt helplessly, hopelessly guilty and useless.
Maturin had at last succeeded in opening his waistcoat and the garment was pulled open to reveal an ominous patch of red on the doctor's otherwise white shirt. The sight of it made the Marine captain's blood chill in his veins. He was no stranger to wounds or blood, but somehow seeing the result of his own carelessness was like seeing such an injury for the very first time. The blood was dark and spreading into the shirt fabric, soaking its way outward like a stain. It was red, like freshly spilled claret.
"Calamy!" The captain was quick to take charge, which truly was just as well. Howard himself was in no shape or frame of mind to issue orders or even to think sensibly. "Get Higgins."
And just like that, it seemed, there was nothing more to be done. Howard remained where he was for nearly a minute after several sailors appeared to lift and carry the doctor below. He could feel nothing except a terrible guilt for what had just happened. For what he'd just done. Presently, aware that he could not remain kneeling there on the deck, he rose back to his feet and made his way below. The sickberth was his destination, though he was acutely aware that his presence would be completely undesired.
There was, he thought miserably, nothing else he could do to make amends, however much he might wish for it. Equally, he quickly found that the mood of the wardroom had chilled against him. Not that this was unexpected. Or even beyond understanding. Where he on the opposite side of this, Howard would feel similarly. Not that this made the quiet wall of bad feeling any easier to bear. Perhaps the only good to come of this affair was that he found he could barely stomach the taste or sight of wine. Especially claret.
Even when the captain ordered a course set for the Galapagos, Howard found it exceedingly difficult to feel cheered. All he could think about was that none of this would have been necessary had he not been so bloody careless. The only hope lay in the fact that Maturin was alive yet, clinging determinedly to that state of being. Those Marines who dared venture to the sickberth to enquire after him reported that Higgins, the surgeon's mate, seemed optimistic, which had to be a good sign in itself.
It was not until they had reached the Galapagos and begun landing men and supplies that Howard permitted himself to begin to hope. His mistake could yet be set right. He was in the first boat to go ashore, taking a dozen Marines to personally oversee the securing of the ground on which the camp would be made. It was, he felt, the least he could do. This whole business was his own fault, after all. Even as he set his picquets, he felt the resentment from the sailors, who quickly made themselves busy erecting a tent for the doctor. That was a feeling he wished most heartily to get past.
That night, when at last the surgery was begun, an anxious Howard, flanked by several equally-anxious Marines, was among the first to gather outside to wait. He, more than them all, had a stake in the outcome of this surgery. He felt as though the fate of his very honour would be decided on this night. Yet even as he fretted and waited, all he could think of was the sight of that shirt, so freshly marred by blood. Red, like claret, and drawn in an instant of unthinking blindness.
It would take a miracle to absolve him, yet when the captain finally emerged from that tent, Howard felt as though a miracle was precisely what had happened.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: I don't own Master and Commander or any of the characters appearing in the movie.
Summary: Master & Commander (movie-verse). The Captain of Marines aboard HMS Surprise makes a terrible mistake. At sea, 1805.
Author's Note: A sort of prompt response, this piece. It could also be considered something of a companion to Per Mare, Per Terram.
Had it not been for one of the sailors, the teasing presence of the bird would not have come to his notice until after the afternoon's drill was over. Once he was aware, however, there was little doubt about how to proceed. The first step was to cease the detachment's firing at the creature. That privilege would be his alone. Thus, claiming his steward's musket for himself, Major Howard prepared to claim the large bird that was swooping and dancing through the rigging as if it had not the slightest care in the world.
Of course, getting a good shot at the bird was anything but easy. Its constant diving in and out through the maze of cordage made it difficult to track, never mind shoot at. Howard thought he had a clear shot, only to find that as soon as his finger began to tighten around the trigger, the bird was out of his immediate view. No doubt the damnable creature knew it was being hunted. Well. He'd get it, sure as there were eggs in pudding. All it would take was patience and the opportune moment...
"There he is. My bird, my bird... damn!" The wily bird came back into view, offering a prime shot, but then was out of sight behind a sail and Howard was obliged to hold his fire. The captain would not thank him at all if he put a hole into the maincourse.
Howard was determined, however. He would get this elusive bird, if only to claim that he had. The muzzle of his musket swept up, close on the bird's tail when it reappeared, just beyond the aft starboard pinrail. This was it, he knew it. He could bag the creature handily, as it dipped down as if diving toward the hammock nettings. No better chance than this was going to come, Howard knew. The opportune moment was there. He steadied his aim and fired.
Even as the flint snapped forward to strike against the frizzen, however, he knew he had misjudged the moment completely. Such was his narrow focus that it was not until the trigger had been pulled that he realised his error. The ship's surgeon was on deck, standing by the pinrail, directly in his line of fire. Even before the crack of the shot faded, Howard knew he had just done something utterly unforgivable.
"Doctor..." For the barest few seconds, he felt rooted to the deck, the musket held before him at Port Arms. Had he really been so oblivious to his broader surroundings that he'd fired when the deck wasn't clear? "My God. Doctor!"
One of the lads was the first to reach the stricken doctor, laying his musket onto the hammock nettings before starting to kneel by the man's side. Howard stirred himself from his momentary funk, hurrying forward and tossing his musket carelessly aside. Doctor Maturin had since slumped to the deck, sparking a terror in Howard that the hapless fellow was mortally wounded.
He all but slid down to his knees, such was his haste, and he put his hands under the doctor's shoulders at once, defaulting to the instinct to lift the poor fellow up a bit, though for what purpose he couldn't have said. Perhaps it hardly mattered, next to the gravity of the offence he'd just committed.
"The bird dropped low, I didn't see you!"
This was no excuse. None at all, but he could think of nothing better to say. That it was only the truth made it all the worse, somehow. It didn't help that Maturin did not appear to be listening, focussed instead on fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat. At first Howard wondered what in the world was the purpose in that, before becoming aware that the man had been hit in his side, and was desperate to see the wound.
The quick-moving thump of boots behind him heralded Captain Aubrey's arrival on the scene, effortlessly shouldering Thompson aside, who had been about to help support Maturin. Having the ship's captain present only made the heavy, sick feeling in Howard's stomach grow worse. The two were particular friends. Many were the stories bandied in the wardroom about them and their various adventures. Howard could not help thinking in that moment that he could very well prove to be the agent of the ending of all that, and he felt helplessly, hopelessly guilty and useless.
Maturin had at last succeeded in opening his waistcoat and the garment was pulled open to reveal an ominous patch of red on the doctor's otherwise white shirt. The sight of it made the Marine captain's blood chill in his veins. He was no stranger to wounds or blood, but somehow seeing the result of his own carelessness was like seeing such an injury for the very first time. The blood was dark and spreading into the shirt fabric, soaking its way outward like a stain. It was red, like freshly spilled claret.
"Calamy!" The captain was quick to take charge, which truly was just as well. Howard himself was in no shape or frame of mind to issue orders or even to think sensibly. "Get Higgins."
And just like that, it seemed, there was nothing more to be done. Howard remained where he was for nearly a minute after several sailors appeared to lift and carry the doctor below. He could feel nothing except a terrible guilt for what had just happened. For what he'd just done. Presently, aware that he could not remain kneeling there on the deck, he rose back to his feet and made his way below. The sickberth was his destination, though he was acutely aware that his presence would be completely undesired.
There was, he thought miserably, nothing else he could do to make amends, however much he might wish for it. Equally, he quickly found that the mood of the wardroom had chilled against him. Not that this was unexpected. Or even beyond understanding. Where he on the opposite side of this, Howard would feel similarly. Not that this made the quiet wall of bad feeling any easier to bear. Perhaps the only good to come of this affair was that he found he could barely stomach the taste or sight of wine. Especially claret.
Even when the captain ordered a course set for the Galapagos, Howard found it exceedingly difficult to feel cheered. All he could think about was that none of this would have been necessary had he not been so bloody careless. The only hope lay in the fact that Maturin was alive yet, clinging determinedly to that state of being. Those Marines who dared venture to the sickberth to enquire after him reported that Higgins, the surgeon's mate, seemed optimistic, which had to be a good sign in itself.
It was not until they had reached the Galapagos and begun landing men and supplies that Howard permitted himself to begin to hope. His mistake could yet be set right. He was in the first boat to go ashore, taking a dozen Marines to personally oversee the securing of the ground on which the camp would be made. It was, he felt, the least he could do. This whole business was his own fault, after all. Even as he set his picquets, he felt the resentment from the sailors, who quickly made themselves busy erecting a tent for the doctor. That was a feeling he wished most heartily to get past.
That night, when at last the surgery was begun, an anxious Howard, flanked by several equally-anxious Marines, was among the first to gather outside to wait. He, more than them all, had a stake in the outcome of this surgery. He felt as though the fate of his very honour would be decided on this night. Yet even as he fretted and waited, all he could think of was the sight of that shirt, so freshly marred by blood. Red, like claret, and drawn in an instant of unthinking blindness.
It would take a miracle to absolve him, yet when the captain finally emerged from that tent, Howard felt as though a miracle was precisely what had happened.
no subject
no subject
^___^
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Thank you for this, I enjoyed it very much.
I remember Dr. Maturin had called Howard an "ass" as he was teaching a reading lesson to Bonden. I wholeheartedly agree with the Dr. Captain Howard is an arse. I cannot sympathize with him at all, I love Stephen too much! :)