MAES 30: Efforts Rewarded
AN: Another deeply irritating moment was when I read Treason’s Harbor and realized that after all the buildup, Tom Pullings had been promoted “off screen” and that the Marga action was only told to us later in that book through Jack telling it to someone else. Of the two, I thought that Tom Pullings deserved a scene more: he’s really one of my favorite supporting characters in the whole series. (And no, it’s not just because his movie version is so very hot! *swoon* I love James D’Arcy!)
Efforts Rewarded
…five minutes longer and Pullings would either have been a commander or a corpse. For a successful, evenly-matched action was certain promotion for a surviving first lieutenant: Pullings’ only possible chance of promotion from the long and over-crowded lieutenants’ list, since he had no pull, no interest or influence of any kind, no hope apart from his patron’s luck or superior ability; and Jack Aubrey had misjudged the situation, one that might never arise again in Tom Pullings’ whole career. Jack felt a sadness rise, far greater than his usual depression after a real battle…
-The Ionian Mission, pg. 74, Norton Press paperback
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…but it seems to me that your really good sea-officer is always an exceptional being, and one that ordinary rules scarcely apply to. Tom Pullings, for example: he may not be another Howe or Nelson, but I am quite certain he would make a far better captain than most…I have tried to get him made again and again, as you know very well; but pushing don’t always answer, and too much may do harm.’
-The Ionian Mission, pg. 74, Norton Press paperback
0~0
On Jack’s right Pullings lunged into this space, thrusting at his opponent, caught his foot in a ring-bolt and fell. For a fragment of time his ingenuous face was turned to Jack, then the Turk’s sword flashed down and the fight closed in again.
Dimly, Tom thought he heard his captain yelling, but he could not make out the words. His whole world seemed to consist of his face, which felt oddly numb. His eyes refused to focus on anything, and all he perceived of the world from then on was a confused jumble: his captain shouting, someone grabbing his arms and dragging him away. That same person grunting and the sound of heavy blows as the fight resumed. He felt something warm on his face and lifted a hand: it came away wet, but he could not see to tell what it was. Blood, he supposed, from the coppery taste on his lips and tongue. He spat to rid himself of the rather unpleasant flavor, and felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Can you hear me, Tom?” That was certainly Mowett’s voice, sounding quite concerned. But why should he be concerned? Ah, yes, he had certainly been wounded.
“Have we won, is it over?” He asked, and as his jaw moved his entire face seemed to catch flame.
“Very nearly; the captain stormed the cabin only moments ago,” he paused, and added, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so deadly.”
Tom blinked, confused. His last sight of Jack Aubrey had been just after he fell: he had looked up, feeling astonishment that after all this, it would be not an enemy’s sword or bullet, but something as stupid as tripping over an unseen ring-bolt that would result in his death. He had seen his own astonishment reflected in his captain’s face, then there had been something bright flashing toward his eyes, and that was when the whole world seemed to make much less sense.
His hearing didn’t seem to be working right, nor did his eyes. He tried with some difficulty to focus on his friend’s face. “But did we win?”
Mowett looked at him oddly. “I just told you, Tom, it’s all but over.” He turned to look toward the corsair’s cabin. “I must get along: you’re in no state to do the honors, though I wish you could, don’t you?” Without waiting for a reply, he rose and dashed off.
In spite of the now almost unbearable pain in his head and face, Tom smiled widely. “I certainly do, William. That I certainly do.”
‘Give you joy, sir,’ said Mowett at his side. ‘You have come it the Nelson’s bridge at last.’
Jack turned a pale, hard face on him. ‘Have you seen Pullings?’ he asked.
‘Why, yes, sir,’ said Mowett, looking surprised. ‘They have fairly ruined his waistcoat and knocked his wits astray; but that don’t depress his spirits, I find.’
0~0
Tom awoke on the surgeon’s table, feeling a slight tug as Doctor Maturin sutured his face. The laudanum the doctor had given him had caused him to sleep for a while, and now that he was awake it still kept the pain at bay, for which he could only be grateful. He had no idea how bad his own wound was, but to judge from the amount of blood dripping down onto his waistcoat and boots as Jack had half-carried him down to the orlop, it would certainly require a deal of stitching to close.
“There now, my dear,” said Doctor Maturin gently as he cut the last thread. ‘You shall do very well, but you have lost a deal of blood, and it will be some time before I can remove those sutures. You must speak as little as possible and only open your mouth as wide as you have to. I shall keep you on a mostly liquid diet until the stitches are out, or they may pull out prematurely.” He sighed. “I hate sewing skin that is expected to move a great deal; such wounds take so much longer to heal than, say, a cut on the forearm. Faces; the palms of hands; necks; they are all so very mobile.”
Tom was about to smile, then thought better of it. Following the doctor’s advice, he opened his lips the merest crack and murmured. “Am I actually deformed, sir?”
“You have lost no vital part of your features, since I managed to sew your forehead and nose firmly back where they belong, but you will certainly have a noticeable scar.”
Tom could not keep his lips from twitching. “Aye, but that’s not all I’ll have from this, if things go as well as they should.”
“Whatever do you mean, Tom?”
Tom looked at the doctor, and he thought his eyes must be gleaming, though he could not see it himself. “We won, sir! We won! If this does not get me promoted then I truly cannot imagine what will! I am sure the captain will include me in his report, and unless the lords ignore it entirely, I cannot fail to become a commander!”
Stephen looked at him wryly. “I should guard my tongue if I were in your place, my dear. Many a man has proclaimed a thing to be certain, only to find it is not, in fact. I should not tempt fate, if I were you.” He turned away to clean his needles, but his grave warning did not really worry Tom. He was too happy, and, he supposed, too affected by laudanum to think there was any doubt on this matter of promotion, most dear to his heart.
0~0
Jack Aubrey, too, was at first certain that this action had secured the long-desired promotion for his loyal first lieutenant. But as day followed day after the sending of his official report, doubt began to creep in. There was that matter of Mustapha being a pirate, after all. Some scrub might easily say that Tom had no real claims to promotion, under the circumstances, and there were a good many scrubs about.
It was with infinite joy, therefore, that when the mailbag came Jack found within it an official letter for Tom Pullings. Jack did not presume to open it; he knew full well what it said. Grinning rather crazily, he performed a little shuffling dance in his cabin, trying to contain his joy. Tom was still an invalid, and though this news would be infinitely welcome to him, Jack thought the occasion called for a particularly memorable presentation.
“Killick! Killick there!” Jack called, unable to keep his voice from trembling with excitement.
“Now what?” The steward snapped, throwing open the door with the usual look of shrewish discontent on his face.
“Killick, I need you to steal a few things for me: go directly to Mr. Pullings’ cabin, and remove all his uniform coats at once!”
Killick gaped at his captain. “Take his coats, sir?”
“Yes, all of them! Leave not a single one; hop to it man! Bring them all back here quick as you like.”
Killick departed, casting many a startled look back at his captain. Jack did not notice: he had turned to rummage through his sea-chest, searching until he found one of his own coats, his number two uniform. Yes, it just might work. The styles between commander and post-captain where not so very different after all, and there was certainly enough fabric to spare without the marks of old and faded seam edges being visible. Simply remove the marks that made it a post-captain’s coat, take it apart at the seams to be cut down to size using one of the stolen coats as a pattern, and it should do very well, until another could be purchased.
Killick returned carrying two coats over his arm. “Mr. Pullings’ coats, sir,” he said in a diffident tone, clearly wondering what this was all about.
In an eager whisper, Jack told him what he must do, producing the official letter as evidence, and the steward’s look of confusion was quickly replaced by one of rare delight.
“Aye sir, I’ll get right on it, and Bonden shall help with the sewing.”
“But not a word, Killick, not a word to anyone else! We want to surprise him, not blow the gaff.”
Under other circumstances, this sort of secrecy might have been ridiculous to insist upon, but no-one apart from Jack and Killick had seen the official letter, and if there was one thing Killick truly enjoyed, it was being in the know concerning great happenings on board, while everyone else was in the dark. And he and Bonden were quick and able at sewing: the secret would not have to be kept long, and Bonden too would think it a merry joke.
“Not a word it is, sir. I’ll fetch Bonden and we’ll start this directly minute.”
“You may work in here, Killick; I don’t want anyone to see what you’re up too, especially the party concerned.”
0~0
Tom Pullings was in quite a dither. He had finally been allowed by Doctor Maturin to rise and walk about the ship, and scarcely an hour later he had been summoned to the cabin on ‘official business.’
He knew what that meant: he was expected to wear his uniform, though he and Jack knew each other so well, and that was the problem: he had no uniform.
“Killick,” he asked in some distress, rising from his sea chest to look at the steward, who had delivered the summons, which were to be obeyed immediately. “Where on earth are my coats?”
The steward’s face was blank. “I cannot say, sir. Did you perhaps leave them ashore in the care of some washer-woman?”
“No,” Tom snapped, really quite upset. “I haven’t had my coats washed since I don’t know when, and I could swear they were all here before the battle.”
Tom had had three coats before the fight aboard the Torgud; the one he had worn for that fight had been completely ruined, and even if it had not been thrown away, it would never have done to wear such a ragged and bloodstained garment for an official meeting with his captain.
“Well, it seems that wherever they are, sir, they are not here, and the captain is waiting. I think he would be more put out at your being late than your being incorrectly dressed: he don’t have visitors.”
Tom’s agitation eased a little. If there were no other guests, he could explain himself and the captain would certainly understand. Jack himself was often informal on matters of proper dress except when tradition and decorum required it, and in this case he would certainly not roast Tom for having inexplicably lost his coats, though he might make some facetious remark about ‘keeping better track of your clothes, Mr. Pullings.’
As he stepped into the cabin, this hope vanished for Jack instantly barked, “What is this, Mr. Pullings? What do you mean by appearing incorrectly dressed, sir?”
Tom gulped and looked nervously at the floor, entirely missing the amused look that passed between the captain, Killick, and Doctor Maturin, who was also present.
“I’m afraid I could not find them, sir. Perhaps Mr. Mowett is playing a trick on me by hiding them.”
“Well, normally I wouldn’t mind, but this is a rather important meeting, and I will not have you incorrectly dressed for it. Killick!” he barked at his steward, “Fetch my coat, the one you and Bonden were working on all of yesterday.”
As the steward moved toward Jack’s sea-chest to comply, Tom raised his head and gaped in disbelief at his captain. “But-but sir,” he stammered, “I cannot possibly wear your coat!”
“Whyever not?” Jack asked carelessly, as though suggesting that Tom dress in a manner unsuited to his rank was a matter of no importance.
Tom stared at his captain, now fully convinced Jack had taken leave of his senses. “It’s not suitable, sir, not at all!”
At that, Jack grinned as widely and happily as Tom had ever seen. He withdrew an official letter from his pocket and held it out to Tom. “On the contrary, Mr. Pullings, I think you will find that it is perfectly in order for you to wear a captain’s coat.”
Tom never could recall taking the letter from Jack’s hand, or opening the seal. The next clear memory he had was of reading the official signatures at the bottom of the page, and realizing that the contents of the letter seemed to have fixed themselves permanently in his brain.
He scarcely noticed Stephen Maturin taking the letter gently from his trembling hands, nor was he fully aware of Jack and Killick each taking an arm and sliding the sleeves of a coat over them. He was quite aware however, of Jack standing in front of him, straightening the lines of the garment and saying gruffly, “There, now. That will do very well, I think. I shall have to buy another spare for myself, of course, but you’re certainly welcome to this one.” He turned to Killick and said, “I must congratulate you, Killick, you and Bonden both. I take it there was a deal of cloth to spare once you had finished cutting it down?”
Killick coughed nervously and replied, “Perhaps not so much as you are thinking sir.”
Wonderingly, Tom stroked the sleeve of his new/old coat. He recognized the slight powder marks above the cuff, and recalled that first memorable practice with the firework maker’s discount stock. He felt as though a similar explosion were taking place inside him.
Feeling tears spring unbidden to his eyes, he looked directly at Jack, and presumed to hold out his hand. Jack took it, and Tom simply said, “Thank you, sir. Thank you for everything.”
Jack smiled oddly, and Tom could have sworn his eyes too were wet. Before he could be certain of it, he found himself being pulled by the hand into a nearly back-breaking hug, as Jack lifted him off his feet and squeezed the breath from his lungs.
Tom huffed in surprise, feeling like a small child suspended in the arms of a particularly powerful adult, but before he could even think about the impropriety of such a gesture, Jack whispered in his ear, low and fierce, “I’m proud of you, Tom.”
Tom’s heart swelled near to bursting. Suddenly, he no longer cared that there were others in the room, nor that such a scene might be shocking to anyone who did not know the details. He knew the details, the reasons for it all, and so did Jack.
With some difficulty, he freed his arms and embraced Jack in return. Resting his forehead for the briefest of moments on his teacher’s epaulette-adorned shoulder, he murmured, “Thank you, Jack. Thank you for believing in me.”
Jack set him on his feet, and clapped his hands down on Tom’s shoulders. “I should never have done so, had you not always proven yourself worthy of it. And I can give no higher praise to a seaman, even if he is also a dear friend.”
Linking his arm through Tom’s, the pair left the cabin together, so that Tom could receive the congratulations from his friends and the crew. But though Tom would receive many good wishes, and much praise, he would always feel that none came close to that which had been bestowed on him by his captain and teacher. Jack had not only given him the praise of his words, but also the far stronger praise inherent in his actions toward him, as well as the gift of his trust and good opinion. And that, Tom thought as he sat in the cabin for dinner that night and Jack raised his glass in a toast to his protégé, was the best gift anyone could ask of such a man as this.
0~0
The promotion had cost Mr. Pullings some pints of blood and a surprisingly ugly wound - a glancing blow from a Turkish sabre had sliced off most of his forehead and nose - but he would willingly have suffered ten times the pain and disfigurement for the golden epaulettes that he kept glancing at with a secret smile, while his hand perpetually strayed to the one or to the other. It was a promotion that Jack Aubrey had worked for these many years...
-Treason’s Harbor, pg. 12 Norton Press paperback