Dinner in the Great Cabin, through Tom's eyes (2 of 2)
Tom does not always sit at Jack's right hand.
Perhaps it's because he spends most of his time above decks in that position-at Jack's side, almost always on his right-that Tom occasionally makes himself just that small bit tardy for dinners in the Great Cabin. Mowett picks up his slack in this as he does in everything else, and Jack never seems to be the slightest bit disturbed by the change. If anything, Jack will smile down the table at Tom and nod, recognizing his need for the buffer between them. And what a buffer Mowett is-all bluster and cheerful aggression next to Tom's preference for contemplation and reason.
Mowett shares Jack's desire for prizes, his sometimes naked lust for battle. Long ago Jack spoke of his former first lieutenant, a Mr. Dillon, who spent long months simmering quietly over the Surprise's lack of close action. Of course, in the moment of actual battle, Dillon was killed. Jack's smile was tight as the company listened to the Doctor's recollection of Dillon's last moments: brave, fighting to the last, overwhelmed by the rush of unhappy adrenaline and driven wildly and willingly into death. "You would never believe the happiness on his face. The light on his face!"
Tom is certain his dear friend Mowett will end his time on this earth in the exact same way. But as for Tom himself, he has no such surety. He wishes only that he does not die at home, frail and left to wander the oceans only in his dreams.
"Do you dream over there, Mr. Pullings?" Jack nearly bellows in his direction. "The bottle stands by you now, Tom." Tom nods, breathes a Sir and produces the bottle of claret? port? Tom does not remember exactly what they are drinking this evening, and that, combined with the sight of Calamy's flushed face, serve to remind him that he has never handled drink well. He unconsciously pushes his own glass a few inches away, until it clinks loudly against the serving platter.
The conversation at the table turns loudly to their course, the chase of the phantom ship, and Tom tries very hard to concentrate. He will need to remember what is being said later, when Mowett sits over his journal and turns to Tom with the slightly frantic look of a man who recalls nothing once stuffed like a guinea fowl and heavy-lidded with claret.
It is only after the last course, and the last long draws from Jack's bottle, that Mr. Allen leans back in his chair and begins a song-one meant to end their evening well and reaffirm the strange commitment this small company has made to their course, to the Surprise itself and of course to Jack.
Singing is something Tom can do, and rather well, though he never begins a song himself. He prefers to harmonize, his baritone resting easily between the gruff depths of Allen, Mowett and the Doctor (when the Doctor deigns to sing) and the surprising lightness of Calamy and Howard. The only other baritone at the table is Jack, and his voice melds quite seamlessly with Tom. Jack stops singing, preferring to listen as Tom looks him straight in the eyes for the last lines of their little song.
Don't forget your old shipmates-
Jack raises his glass to the table and holds Tom's glazed-over stare for a moment before he dismisses the company, bidding them good night and better rest.
And as Tom walks Calamy back to the midshipmen's hole-grateful as ever for Calamy's relative silence-Tom is reminded that there is a reason for his presence on this ship. There must be another baritone, another whose voice will match and meet Jack's when necessary, another leader whose words will carry when and if Jack's cannot.
To anyone else it might seem a heavy responsibility, but to Tom it is a blessing, a gift for which he owes Mowett and Jack. More than anything else, it is an honour and a challenge-one Tom will rise to and more.
Perhaps it's because he spends most of his time above decks in that position-at Jack's side, almost always on his right-that Tom occasionally makes himself just that small bit tardy for dinners in the Great Cabin. Mowett picks up his slack in this as he does in everything else, and Jack never seems to be the slightest bit disturbed by the change. If anything, Jack will smile down the table at Tom and nod, recognizing his need for the buffer between them. And what a buffer Mowett is-all bluster and cheerful aggression next to Tom's preference for contemplation and reason.
Mowett shares Jack's desire for prizes, his sometimes naked lust for battle. Long ago Jack spoke of his former first lieutenant, a Mr. Dillon, who spent long months simmering quietly over the Surprise's lack of close action. Of course, in the moment of actual battle, Dillon was killed. Jack's smile was tight as the company listened to the Doctor's recollection of Dillon's last moments: brave, fighting to the last, overwhelmed by the rush of unhappy adrenaline and driven wildly and willingly into death. "You would never believe the happiness on his face. The light on his face!"
Tom is certain his dear friend Mowett will end his time on this earth in the exact same way. But as for Tom himself, he has no such surety. He wishes only that he does not die at home, frail and left to wander the oceans only in his dreams.
"Do you dream over there, Mr. Pullings?" Jack nearly bellows in his direction. "The bottle stands by you now, Tom." Tom nods, breathes a Sir and produces the bottle of claret? port? Tom does not remember exactly what they are drinking this evening, and that, combined with the sight of Calamy's flushed face, serve to remind him that he has never handled drink well. He unconsciously pushes his own glass a few inches away, until it clinks loudly against the serving platter.
The conversation at the table turns loudly to their course, the chase of the phantom ship, and Tom tries very hard to concentrate. He will need to remember what is being said later, when Mowett sits over his journal and turns to Tom with the slightly frantic look of a man who recalls nothing once stuffed like a guinea fowl and heavy-lidded with claret.
It is only after the last course, and the last long draws from Jack's bottle, that Mr. Allen leans back in his chair and begins a song-one meant to end their evening well and reaffirm the strange commitment this small company has made to their course, to the Surprise itself and of course to Jack.
Singing is something Tom can do, and rather well, though he never begins a song himself. He prefers to harmonize, his baritone resting easily between the gruff depths of Allen, Mowett and the Doctor (when the Doctor deigns to sing) and the surprising lightness of Calamy and Howard. The only other baritone at the table is Jack, and his voice melds quite seamlessly with Tom. Jack stops singing, preferring to listen as Tom looks him straight in the eyes for the last lines of their little song.
Don't forget your old shipmates-
Jack raises his glass to the table and holds Tom's glazed-over stare for a moment before he dismisses the company, bidding them good night and better rest.
And as Tom walks Calamy back to the midshipmen's hole-grateful as ever for Calamy's relative silence-Tom is reminded that there is a reason for his presence on this ship. There must be another baritone, another whose voice will match and meet Jack's when necessary, another leader whose words will carry when and if Jack's cannot.
To anyone else it might seem a heavy responsibility, but to Tom it is a blessing, a gift for which he owes Mowett and Jack. More than anything else, it is an honour and a challenge-one Tom will rise to and more.