(no subject)
By the time the charts get put away, by the time the instruments are stored and Jack's hammock is strung out, it is long after midnight. A good grasp on the math and formulas makes it easier but deciding on the best course still took him into the early morning hours of Sunday.
'The first Sunday,' Jack thinks. And he's right. It is the first Sunday of the month and because the Navy runs on ritual and tradition there is already something scheduled for the morning. Like all the months and years before the Captain will stand on the quarterdeck (you, Jack, you're the Captain, and it still gives him a thrill) and hand the ship's books to the first Lieutenant for reading of the crew and recitation of the Articles of War.
When Pullings reads the second article Jack knows he'll try not to laugh. Decades in the service and the idea that the Royal Navy expects them not to swear still amuses him. He'll notice, again, that Pullings has no expression on his face at all and maybe for the first time Jack will wonder if that's because Tom has ambitions of being the kind of man who doesn't swear, doesn't profane, lives the Articles. As though he leaves these readings like leaving a church service, determined to do better.
What will happen next happens every month like clockwork. Jack will drift off. His face will remain stern and his hands will stay clasped but his mind will be elsewhere. Jack knows he should listen, knows he should be observing the crew like Stephen does, picking up on every little thing. Jack knows that he should be watching their faces staring reverently up at him, at Pullings, at the books. Instead he will be thinking about what's ahead, what's behind, the grumblings he hears when the violin and cello are quiet but the windows still open. He will be thinking about the course he plotted this night and where it will take them. How far ahead the Acheron might be by now.
He will, he always will, jerk back to attention almost visibly when it comes time for the Eighth Article. No person in or belonging to the fleet shall take out of any prize, or ship seized for prize, any money, plate, or goods, unless it shall be necessary for the better securing thereof, or for the necessary use and service of any of His Majesty's ships or vessels of war. It is always the talk of prizes that brings him back. Prizes are Jack's ticket away from his debts and his youth. Prizes are Tom's ticket to a command of his own. Prizes are everyone's ticket to a good time in port. Prizes are the way out of obscurity. And though, in light of Pullings dedication, Stephen's scholarly curiosity, the carpenter's mate's nearly-loving touch as he repairs the figurehead, in light of all of this Jack will think he should be less mercenary, more dutiful his attention always comes back at the word "prize."
Thinking of prizes, of agents and commissions and the money he already owes in Portsmouth Jack will drift off again. He's knows what's coming next. Deserters and cowards and insubordination, mutineers and traitors, all punishable by death. While Pullings brings into the crew's head the very Old Testament nature of His Majesty's Navy Jack will be thinking about how the reward for rushing in, charging in even, can be so great. Can be thousands of pounds and the recognition of your superiors. Of those two Jack knows which is more important. Most of the time.
Article 27 will cause a small shuffle to ripple across the crew as each man tries not to look guilty of having been asleep on a watch at least once in their lives. Nor that they might have abandoned a station in order to dally with a pretty skirt. Jack will try not to smile, it wouldn't do for the Captain to confess that he once spent an entire watch between two water barrels with the daughter of an innkeeper in Mallorca. It wouldn't do at all.
The shuffle will quiet slightly for the next article and then still completely for Article 29. At this point Jack really will notice the crew. He does every month. He pays attention like he should have from the beginning. To see what people are so desperate not to give away. He knows about the muffled sounds that sometimes come from midshipmen's hammocks. He knows about how long a leg between two ports can be. He knows that some smells below decks can't be blamed on gunpowder and sweat. But no one's giving anything away. No one will even blink for this one.
Pullings will finish his reading and dismiss the crew. They'll file away noisily, ready to get back to work now that their souls have been cleansed by promises of court martial and death. Tom will close the book deliberately, without any unnecessary fuss and turn to hand it to Jack. Jack will notice how Tom's fingers lay long against the spine. But he's not giving anything away either.