I has more Marine fic!
(Do you guys have any idea how hard it is to write about a Marine captain without unintentionally referring to the Captain of the ship?!)
This fic was finally finished at five to two this morning, and (not having my copy of the M&C DVD with me) there are bound to be inaccuracies and things about which I really should know better. I was asked to write about the Stephen-gets-shot scene, which I found quite a challenge at first, hence the delay between the request and the post... But here it is, finally, in all its glory.
Author: sharpiefan
Wordcount: 2080
Disclaimer: I like playing in the M&C sandbox. However, it isn't mine and I don't own it, the characters or the situations. (I have named Thompson, however, though he is one of the nameless Marines who appear on screen in the film). I think Peter Weir is a fanboy who would be amused by the fact we love his film the way we do. POB would be surprised, however...
The purser's dip in the lantern guttered fitfully as the lantern swung from the deckhead. Purser's dips were the worst sort of light to work by, but it was better than working in the total dark. Though Thompson wondered how he would manage to clean his musket to the high standards expected by Captain Howard, the Marine officer, when he could barely see what he was doing.
Captain Howard had taken two of the young gentlemen shooting earlier that day, and followed it up later with target practice for all Marines not currently on duty. Mr Boyle and Mr Williams had loved the chance to fire at a proper target, even though the Doctor had seemed less enthusiastic about it. Well, he had been teaching Bonden to read at the time, so he probably hadn't appreciated the musket reports from within fifteen feet of where he was sitting.
Sometimes Thompson wished someone would teach him to read, but then he'd probably be stuck with all sorts of jobs that he really wouldn't want to do. And what good was reading, anyway? It wouldn't help him clean his musket or other kit any better.
Captain Howard had originally got them doing target practise at old bottles thrown overboard. Bottles hadn't been much of a challenge and there had been several birds following them, so they had switched their attention to something live, and hadn't even been put off by the Doctor's informing Captain Howard that they wouldn't be much good to eat. That wasn't the point. But then, the Doctor didn't necessarily understand that sometimes, they just needed to fire off some powder.
He sighed, rubbing down the musket barrel with a piece of rag. It was all very well for the Doctor and the other officers, but life could get very dull, and at least Captain Howard wasn't hurting anything when he had one of his shooting days. Well, that was until two days after they finally got their wind, after leaving the islands Thompson overheard someone call the Galapagos.
Most of the Marines were on deck, enjoying the cooler air now that the weather had broken. Of course, they weren't just wandering around - the Captain couldn't abide men taking up space and getting in the way if they weren't actually doing something. Thompson had no idea who first noticed the bird following the ship, but it was huge. It circled the ship, seeming to tease the Marines. Captain Howard stopped the Marines from firing at it, wanting to bag it himself. Thompson was quite disappointed that he wouldn't get a chance to shoot such a monstrous great mew as this was, but if the officer wanted to, the officer would. That was the way of things, and Thompson was quite happy with that.
He was never quite sure, afterward, exactly what happened, but felt he was in some way responsible for what happened next. He heard Bonden call out something, but was too engrossed in tracking the bird for Captain Howard. “There it is, sir!” It was hidden for a moment by the mizzen sail, and Captain Howard brought his piece up, ready for when it should reappear on the other side of the sail. There was a sudden motion, the firelock sparked and fired (why couldn't it have misfired - or even hang-fired?)
And Doctor Maturin collapsed to the deck as the bird wheeled higher, out of range. Untouched.
Thompson was standing closest to the Doctor and crossed the few feet of deck to his side, followed by Captain Howard, who had dropped his gun as soon as he saw who he'd hit. Thompson tried to support the Doctor, who was feverishly fumbling at his coat buttons. “Doctor!”
He saw a flash of blue and gold out of the corner of his eye and hastily stepped aside to make room for the Captain.
Captain Howard was still on his knees on the Doctor's other side. “The bird swooped low; I didn't see you.” He looked, all unseeing, into Captain Aubrey's eyes, and Thompson, standing behind his shoulder, read the guilt and fear that was in them.
Captain Aubrey turned to him. “Fetch Mister Higgins. Sharply now, lad!”
Thompson turned and fled below, running as if all the demons of Hell were at his heels. If he hadn't seen the bird swoop down behind the mizzen sail; if he'd been quicker to spot the Doctor; if; if... He thundered at the sickbay door, and Mister Higgins looked out, confused.
“It's the Doctor. He's been shot!” Thompson said, refusing to allow his mind to form the words “by our officer!” He turned to head back topside, then realised that Bonden and Faster Doudle had followed him, carrying the Doctor tenderly between them. They were closely followed by Captain Aubrey, and behind him, Captain Howard's red coat was blood-bright in the dimness. There were several of Thompson's fellow Marines pressing in behind their officer, shock writ large across every face.
Captain Aubrey saw his friend settled comfortably in a cot in the sickbay, before turning and heading slowly, sorrowfully aft, to where Lieutenant Pullings was pacing the quarterdeck. At the end of the watch, Thompson's friend Combes, who'd been on sentry by the wheel, told the Marines of the change of course the Captain had given: back to the islands they'd left two days before.
During the sail back to the islands, there was an unnatural hush over the Surprise. The Marines went about their duties solemnly, silently. Every day (it seemed as though it was every watch), one of them went down to the sickbay to inquire how the Doctor was faring. They tried to avoid running into any of the officers or sailors who also went to see him, but (Surprise being the size she was) they couldn't avoid everyone. And when there was a danger of meeting up with another of the Doctor's visitors or well-wishers, the Marines stood silently back against the wall, aware that they carried the blame of his wound by association. Thompson was deputised to go on the second day, and he wasn't surprised to see Captain Aubrey coming out, shoulders stooped and head bowed. He was surprised that as he drew level, the Captain grasped his shoulder. “I don't blame you, lad. Any of you,” he said, and passed on, leaving Thompson staring after him in confusion and consternation.
The Doctor was awake when Thompson finally got to his bedside. Awake, but with a face drawn in pain, something Thompson had never thought to see in the Doctor. Awkwardly, he pulled his hat off. “I just came to see how you were, sir,” he said, trying to find words to express how he felt. He had no learning, and the Doctor was the most learned man he (and many of the other Marines) had ever met, yet at no time had he ever felt more clumsy with his words than now. “I'm sorry, sir,” he tried. He had to make the Doctor understand it was his fault, even if Captain Howard had been the one with the gun.
“I didn't see you, sir, but the bird went low and I saw that. I should've seen you. Should've said summat...”
Was that a smile? It was very weak, and the Doctor looked very tired. He seemed to be trying to say something, and Thompson leaned close to hear.
“Could...have...happened...to...anybody. Don't...fret...yourself...lad.” The Doctor's eyes closed and Thompson moved away, heading back to the Marines' area of the berthdeck, absolved.
Yet still the weight of uncertainty hung over the redcoats. Uncertainty and blame. The sailors had never liked the Marines - why should they? - yet now they scowled whenever one of them came near. Scowled and turned away. It was the same in the wardroom, Thompson knew. Dawkins came back that evening, very subdued, biting his lip. The atmosphere had been very quiet and strained, he said, and more than once, he'd had to pour Captain Howard's wine, or put food on his plate, something the other officers usually did for each other.
Captain Howard had gone down to see the Doctor several times, each time coming up looking a little happier. But that happiness was fleeting and soon he was back, needing absolution all over again.
Thompson was on sentry outside the Captain's cabin during the afternoon watch the next day, when the Captain opened the door and looked at him. “Ah, Thompson. Pass the word for Captain Howard,” he said quietly, and closed the door with a click. Thompson bit his lip, and hoped the Marines weren't standing into danger, but obediently sent the word for'ard that Captain Howard was wanted in the Great Cabin.
The Marine officer had obviously been expecting the summons, for he came aft a few minutes later, looking pale and drawn and with his hat under his arm. He stopped by Thompson, who raised his hand to knock on the Cabin door, but was stopped by a shake of Captain Howard's head. “A moment, Thompson, if you please,” he said quietly, and that was so unlike his normal self that Thompson gaped before recovering his senses. “Sir.”
“How do I look?” the officer asked, more nervous than Thompson had ever known him to be.
Thompson looked him up and down, as though he was a mate preparing for one of Mister Howard's infamous inspections. “Fine, sir, just fine.” He cocked his head toward the door, asking if he could now announce him, and was rewarded with a quick smile.
He knocked. “Captain Howard, sir!”
“Enter!” came the summons from within. Thompson twisted the doorknob and admitted his officer into the sanctity of Captain Aubrey's presence. The interview was a short one, and very quiet; Thompson tried his best to hear what was being said (without, of course, looking as though that was what he was doing!) but to no avail. Captain Aubrey was obviously aware that the Marines were concerned with what was going to happen to their officer. Nevertheless, it was maybe a quarter of a glass (Thompson, like so many of his mates, had no notion of timekeeping by clocks after so long at sea) before Captain Howard came out, looking slightly less white and slightly more his usual, cheerful self.
Normally, Thompson would never have spoken to an officer without being addressed first, but that was before this had happened. “P..Please, sir,” he said, and nearly quailed as Captain Howard turned to look at him. “P...please, is it going to be all right, sir?”
“I think so,” was the reply. There was a distant dread in the officer's blue eyes, but Thompson refused to admit its existence. “Thank you.” That took Thompson by surprise, and he smiled uncertainly at his officer.
The next two days passed agonisingly slowly. It had taken them just two days out from the islands before the accident, and it seemed to be taking an eternity to get back there. Somehow, he knew, if they could get to the islands again, it would all be all right, and Doctor Maturin would get better, and nothing bad would happen to Captain Howard, or the Surprise's Marines. If they could have got back there any faster by having the Marines blow at the sails, they would willingly have done it. Just to make things be all right again. And everyone knew it. But, three days after it had all gone wrong, the lookout (Slade, Thompson thought it was) reported land, dead ahead. And half a glass later, all hands not on duty were crowded along the ship's sides, willing Surprise to sail that little bit faster and get there that little bit sooner.
It was early that afternoon when they finally dropped anchor in a quiet bay, and late afternoon by the time that they had set up camp to the Captain's liking. The sky was growing dark by the time the Doctor was rowed ashore, the sailors rowing gentler and smoother than anyone could recall, the Doctor lying on a stretcher in the bottom of the boat, waxy-pale and almost motionless. The Marines had wanted to carry him to the tent that had been set up for him, but none of the sailors would allow it, and they had to be content with walking next to the sailors. Of course, the Captain was right next to the stretcher, and at one point it seemed the Doctor must have roused because the Captain looked down and said something and smiled.
By the time they had settled him comfortably in his tent, it was quite dark, and there was nothing else to do but set anchor watches and row guard. Those not on duty were dismissed below, but nobody could sleep. Thompson lay in his hammock, looking up at the deckhead and hoping that it would all turn out right tomorrow.
The next day, the Marines not required elsewhere gathered outside the Doctor's tent. Long hours of standing sentry outside the Captain's cabin meant they could eavesdrop with practised ease, but they weren't the only ones. Over there, the Captain's steward (Preserved Killick, a shrewish, bossy type who looked down on Marines as though they were only marginally better than grass-combing landsmen) and the Captain's coxswain, Barret Bonden (a proper sailor, could hand, reef and steer since before he could walk) were waiting. Killick had brought a couple of silver spoons to polish, but kept putting them in his pocket and taking them out as if he didn't know what he was at. Bonden had a book that he kept picking up and putting down. Neither one was paying the other any heed; both had their eyes fixed on the flap of the tent.
Over there, the two Lieutenants, Pullings and Mowett, were walking up and down, determined to wear the grass away and reach bedrock. Behind them, groups of sailors gathered, each doing nothing but waiting, just waiting.
Voices drifted on the air, speaking words that made no sense. “Around wounds.... press down.... Padeen, please...Oh!...she'll patch up nicely...”
Without a word being spoken, the Marines drifted together toward the tent, waiting, hoping, praying... Eventually, the tent flap was opened and the Captain came out, looking pale, but happier. He made straight for Captain Howard, who was standing in front of the Marines, looking apprehensive.
“It's out. He'll live.” Four words, simple words, but at the sound of them, Captain Howard's shoulders went back, and his head went up and the Marines could breathe again. “And, Captain?”
“Sir?”
“Cricket this afternoon. Marines against the sailors.”
“Yes, sir!”
And suddenly every Marine was grinning. Thompson felt a load lifted from his shoulders, and he knew they would win that afternoon, had already won, that nothing could stop them, because they were Marines and Surprises and they had the best officer ever to enlist in the Royal Marines, and the best Captain on the Navy List, and, dammit, the best surgeon in the Navy, ever, a physician who had just performed a miracle with his own hand and lifted the dread of impending doom.
This fic was finally finished at five to two this morning, and (not having my copy of the M&C DVD with me) there are bound to be inaccuracies and things about which I really should know better. I was asked to write about the Stephen-gets-shot scene, which I found quite a challenge at first, hence the delay between the request and the post... But here it is, finally, in all its glory.
Author: sharpiefan
Wordcount: 2080
Disclaimer: I like playing in the M&C sandbox. However, it isn't mine and I don't own it, the characters or the situations. (I have named Thompson, however, though he is one of the nameless Marines who appear on screen in the film). I think Peter Weir is a fanboy who would be amused by the fact we love his film the way we do. POB would be surprised, however...
The purser's dip in the lantern guttered fitfully as the lantern swung from the deckhead. Purser's dips were the worst sort of light to work by, but it was better than working in the total dark. Though Thompson wondered how he would manage to clean his musket to the high standards expected by Captain Howard, the Marine officer, when he could barely see what he was doing.
Captain Howard had taken two of the young gentlemen shooting earlier that day, and followed it up later with target practice for all Marines not currently on duty. Mr Boyle and Mr Williams had loved the chance to fire at a proper target, even though the Doctor had seemed less enthusiastic about it. Well, he had been teaching Bonden to read at the time, so he probably hadn't appreciated the musket reports from within fifteen feet of where he was sitting.
Sometimes Thompson wished someone would teach him to read, but then he'd probably be stuck with all sorts of jobs that he really wouldn't want to do. And what good was reading, anyway? It wouldn't help him clean his musket or other kit any better.
Captain Howard had originally got them doing target practise at old bottles thrown overboard. Bottles hadn't been much of a challenge and there had been several birds following them, so they had switched their attention to something live, and hadn't even been put off by the Doctor's informing Captain Howard that they wouldn't be much good to eat. That wasn't the point. But then, the Doctor didn't necessarily understand that sometimes, they just needed to fire off some powder.
He sighed, rubbing down the musket barrel with a piece of rag. It was all very well for the Doctor and the other officers, but life could get very dull, and at least Captain Howard wasn't hurting anything when he had one of his shooting days. Well, that was until two days after they finally got their wind, after leaving the islands Thompson overheard someone call the Galapagos.
Most of the Marines were on deck, enjoying the cooler air now that the weather had broken. Of course, they weren't just wandering around - the Captain couldn't abide men taking up space and getting in the way if they weren't actually doing something. Thompson had no idea who first noticed the bird following the ship, but it was huge. It circled the ship, seeming to tease the Marines. Captain Howard stopped the Marines from firing at it, wanting to bag it himself. Thompson was quite disappointed that he wouldn't get a chance to shoot such a monstrous great mew as this was, but if the officer wanted to, the officer would. That was the way of things, and Thompson was quite happy with that.
He was never quite sure, afterward, exactly what happened, but felt he was in some way responsible for what happened next. He heard Bonden call out something, but was too engrossed in tracking the bird for Captain Howard. “There it is, sir!” It was hidden for a moment by the mizzen sail, and Captain Howard brought his piece up, ready for when it should reappear on the other side of the sail. There was a sudden motion, the firelock sparked and fired (why couldn't it have misfired - or even hang-fired?)
And Doctor Maturin collapsed to the deck as the bird wheeled higher, out of range. Untouched.
Thompson was standing closest to the Doctor and crossed the few feet of deck to his side, followed by Captain Howard, who had dropped his gun as soon as he saw who he'd hit. Thompson tried to support the Doctor, who was feverishly fumbling at his coat buttons. “Doctor!”
He saw a flash of blue and gold out of the corner of his eye and hastily stepped aside to make room for the Captain.
Captain Howard was still on his knees on the Doctor's other side. “The bird swooped low; I didn't see you.” He looked, all unseeing, into Captain Aubrey's eyes, and Thompson, standing behind his shoulder, read the guilt and fear that was in them.
Captain Aubrey turned to him. “Fetch Mister Higgins. Sharply now, lad!”
Thompson turned and fled below, running as if all the demons of Hell were at his heels. If he hadn't seen the bird swoop down behind the mizzen sail; if he'd been quicker to spot the Doctor; if; if... He thundered at the sickbay door, and Mister Higgins looked out, confused.
“It's the Doctor. He's been shot!” Thompson said, refusing to allow his mind to form the words “by our officer!” He turned to head back topside, then realised that Bonden and Faster Doudle had followed him, carrying the Doctor tenderly between them. They were closely followed by Captain Aubrey, and behind him, Captain Howard's red coat was blood-bright in the dimness. There were several of Thompson's fellow Marines pressing in behind their officer, shock writ large across every face.
Captain Aubrey saw his friend settled comfortably in a cot in the sickbay, before turning and heading slowly, sorrowfully aft, to where Lieutenant Pullings was pacing the quarterdeck. At the end of the watch, Thompson's friend Combes, who'd been on sentry by the wheel, told the Marines of the change of course the Captain had given: back to the islands they'd left two days before.
During the sail back to the islands, there was an unnatural hush over the Surprise. The Marines went about their duties solemnly, silently. Every day (it seemed as though it was every watch), one of them went down to the sickbay to inquire how the Doctor was faring. They tried to avoid running into any of the officers or sailors who also went to see him, but (Surprise being the size she was) they couldn't avoid everyone. And when there was a danger of meeting up with another of the Doctor's visitors or well-wishers, the Marines stood silently back against the wall, aware that they carried the blame of his wound by association. Thompson was deputised to go on the second day, and he wasn't surprised to see Captain Aubrey coming out, shoulders stooped and head bowed. He was surprised that as he drew level, the Captain grasped his shoulder. “I don't blame you, lad. Any of you,” he said, and passed on, leaving Thompson staring after him in confusion and consternation.
The Doctor was awake when Thompson finally got to his bedside. Awake, but with a face drawn in pain, something Thompson had never thought to see in the Doctor. Awkwardly, he pulled his hat off. “I just came to see how you were, sir,” he said, trying to find words to express how he felt. He had no learning, and the Doctor was the most learned man he (and many of the other Marines) had ever met, yet at no time had he ever felt more clumsy with his words than now. “I'm sorry, sir,” he tried. He had to make the Doctor understand it was his fault, even if Captain Howard had been the one with the gun.
“I didn't see you, sir, but the bird went low and I saw that. I should've seen you. Should've said summat...”
Was that a smile? It was very weak, and the Doctor looked very tired. He seemed to be trying to say something, and Thompson leaned close to hear.
“Could...have...happened...to...anybody. Don't...fret...yourself...lad.” The Doctor's eyes closed and Thompson moved away, heading back to the Marines' area of the berthdeck, absolved.
Yet still the weight of uncertainty hung over the redcoats. Uncertainty and blame. The sailors had never liked the Marines - why should they? - yet now they scowled whenever one of them came near. Scowled and turned away. It was the same in the wardroom, Thompson knew. Dawkins came back that evening, very subdued, biting his lip. The atmosphere had been very quiet and strained, he said, and more than once, he'd had to pour Captain Howard's wine, or put food on his plate, something the other officers usually did for each other.
Captain Howard had gone down to see the Doctor several times, each time coming up looking a little happier. But that happiness was fleeting and soon he was back, needing absolution all over again.
Thompson was on sentry outside the Captain's cabin during the afternoon watch the next day, when the Captain opened the door and looked at him. “Ah, Thompson. Pass the word for Captain Howard,” he said quietly, and closed the door with a click. Thompson bit his lip, and hoped the Marines weren't standing into danger, but obediently sent the word for'ard that Captain Howard was wanted in the Great Cabin.
The Marine officer had obviously been expecting the summons, for he came aft a few minutes later, looking pale and drawn and with his hat under his arm. He stopped by Thompson, who raised his hand to knock on the Cabin door, but was stopped by a shake of Captain Howard's head. “A moment, Thompson, if you please,” he said quietly, and that was so unlike his normal self that Thompson gaped before recovering his senses. “Sir.”
“How do I look?” the officer asked, more nervous than Thompson had ever known him to be.
Thompson looked him up and down, as though he was a mate preparing for one of Mister Howard's infamous inspections. “Fine, sir, just fine.” He cocked his head toward the door, asking if he could now announce him, and was rewarded with a quick smile.
He knocked. “Captain Howard, sir!”
“Enter!” came the summons from within. Thompson twisted the doorknob and admitted his officer into the sanctity of Captain Aubrey's presence. The interview was a short one, and very quiet; Thompson tried his best to hear what was being said (without, of course, looking as though that was what he was doing!) but to no avail. Captain Aubrey was obviously aware that the Marines were concerned with what was going to happen to their officer. Nevertheless, it was maybe a quarter of a glass (Thompson, like so many of his mates, had no notion of timekeeping by clocks after so long at sea) before Captain Howard came out, looking slightly less white and slightly more his usual, cheerful self.
Normally, Thompson would never have spoken to an officer without being addressed first, but that was before this had happened. “P..Please, sir,” he said, and nearly quailed as Captain Howard turned to look at him. “P...please, is it going to be all right, sir?”
“I think so,” was the reply. There was a distant dread in the officer's blue eyes, but Thompson refused to admit its existence. “Thank you.” That took Thompson by surprise, and he smiled uncertainly at his officer.
The next two days passed agonisingly slowly. It had taken them just two days out from the islands before the accident, and it seemed to be taking an eternity to get back there. Somehow, he knew, if they could get to the islands again, it would all be all right, and Doctor Maturin would get better, and nothing bad would happen to Captain Howard, or the Surprise's Marines. If they could have got back there any faster by having the Marines blow at the sails, they would willingly have done it. Just to make things be all right again. And everyone knew it. But, three days after it had all gone wrong, the lookout (Slade, Thompson thought it was) reported land, dead ahead. And half a glass later, all hands not on duty were crowded along the ship's sides, willing Surprise to sail that little bit faster and get there that little bit sooner.
It was early that afternoon when they finally dropped anchor in a quiet bay, and late afternoon by the time that they had set up camp to the Captain's liking. The sky was growing dark by the time the Doctor was rowed ashore, the sailors rowing gentler and smoother than anyone could recall, the Doctor lying on a stretcher in the bottom of the boat, waxy-pale and almost motionless. The Marines had wanted to carry him to the tent that had been set up for him, but none of the sailors would allow it, and they had to be content with walking next to the sailors. Of course, the Captain was right next to the stretcher, and at one point it seemed the Doctor must have roused because the Captain looked down and said something and smiled.
By the time they had settled him comfortably in his tent, it was quite dark, and there was nothing else to do but set anchor watches and row guard. Those not on duty were dismissed below, but nobody could sleep. Thompson lay in his hammock, looking up at the deckhead and hoping that it would all turn out right tomorrow.
The next day, the Marines not required elsewhere gathered outside the Doctor's tent. Long hours of standing sentry outside the Captain's cabin meant they could eavesdrop with practised ease, but they weren't the only ones. Over there, the Captain's steward (Preserved Killick, a shrewish, bossy type who looked down on Marines as though they were only marginally better than grass-combing landsmen) and the Captain's coxswain, Barret Bonden (a proper sailor, could hand, reef and steer since before he could walk) were waiting. Killick had brought a couple of silver spoons to polish, but kept putting them in his pocket and taking them out as if he didn't know what he was at. Bonden had a book that he kept picking up and putting down. Neither one was paying the other any heed; both had their eyes fixed on the flap of the tent.
Over there, the two Lieutenants, Pullings and Mowett, were walking up and down, determined to wear the grass away and reach bedrock. Behind them, groups of sailors gathered, each doing nothing but waiting, just waiting.
Voices drifted on the air, speaking words that made no sense. “Around wounds.... press down.... Padeen, please...Oh!...she'll patch up nicely...”
Without a word being spoken, the Marines drifted together toward the tent, waiting, hoping, praying... Eventually, the tent flap was opened and the Captain came out, looking pale, but happier. He made straight for Captain Howard, who was standing in front of the Marines, looking apprehensive.
“It's out. He'll live.” Four words, simple words, but at the sound of them, Captain Howard's shoulders went back, and his head went up and the Marines could breathe again. “And, Captain?”
“Sir?”
“Cricket this afternoon. Marines against the sailors.”
“Yes, sir!”
And suddenly every Marine was grinning. Thompson felt a load lifted from his shoulders, and he knew they would win that afternoon, had already won, that nothing could stop them, because they were Marines and Surprises and they had the best officer ever to enlist in the Royal Marines, and the best Captain on the Navy List, and, dammit, the best surgeon in the Navy, ever, a physician who had just performed a miracle with his own hand and lifted the dread of impending doom.