MAES 20: A Pugil
AN: I loved Stephen for what he did for Jack in the last chapter. It seemed like just the sort of thing he would do. He’d never take any credit for himself, yet he can’t bear to see Jack be robbed of his just desserts. For that matter, what would Stephen want as a reward? Considering his relationship with Jack, and his distaste for material reward, it seemed there was only one thing he could want…
‘What is a pugil?’ asked Jack, to whom he had made this observation.
‘It is a physical term, a fair and just return for all your poops and garstrakes…’
- The Thirteen-Gun Salute, pg. 314, Norton Press paperback
A Pugil
Although Stephen Maturin was well-acquainted with and practiced at poisoning lines of intelligence for his own purposes, he rarely did so for his own direct benefit. He had not done so today, either, he admitted: it was for Jack that he had done what he did.
Stephen had been more furious than he had let on with Admiral Bertie. He knew perhaps better than anyone that Jack’s disinterested sentiments on the prospect of a baronetcy were wholly genuine. And yet, if not for Bertie, Jack might have at least received the offer, even if he did turn it down.
It was illogical, he admitted: wanting to see Jack receive the offer of a rank he would not have wanted anyway.
And yet, there were other rewards that Jack certainly did want, that he might never have, or at least not soon enough to please him. What Jack wanted more than anything was to go home to his wife and new son. The next ship bound for England from the Cape would be carrying Bertie’s self-serving dispatches, and commanded by one of his favorites, as Jack had said.
Stephen only hoped Jack would not be too disappointed at being proved wrong. If Stephen’s judgment of the situation was correct, the greatest plum from this affair - apart from the crown of baronetcy which would be landing on Bertie’s head rather than Jack’s - would be carrying the dispatches. If his poison did its work, Jack would be the lucky man who was entrusted to receive them, rather than Bertie’s nephew.
0~0
Stephen left the feast with a lighter heart. After Admiral Bertie had made his announcement, Jack had turned to him with such a look on his face that Stephen doubted he would ever forget. He had not told Jack what he had tried to do for him, but Jack was not really a dull-witted man. He had certainly realized that the only incentive to Bertie to give him such a plum as this was due to a grave threat, or a strong warning. Of those present with such weight behind them, Stephen alone knew of Jack’s longing to return home, therefore, Stephen must have contrived to bring this about. The logic was perhaps a little faulty, but Jack knew what he knew, and his look had conveyed to Stephen both his understanding and his gratitude.
Jack had not been able to leave the party as early as Stephen; as one of the senior officers, he was expected to remain until he had consumed so much alcohol he would need to be carried to bed. Heaven forbid a naval officer be outdone by soldiers and civilians in the article of drinking.
Though tired, Stephen had no desire to sleep yet. He returned to his cabin and pulled his journal toward him. He skimmed over the entries he had made since coming to the Cape, rereading several entirely. This feast following their success certainly marked the end of a chapter in his life. The next adventure would arrive when it did, and he hoped Jack would be there to share the next one with him as well.
He dipped his pen, and began to write.
It is strange to think that those men who value honor and reward the least are those who perhaps deserve it the most, while those who place great value on such things rarely think they have enough, if they can attain it at all, the creatures.
Many times in this journal, I have written of Jack and Clonfert. It was perhaps unfair of me to compare them, even in my own mind. Not only because they are two different beings entirely, but because in many ways Jack is an incomparable man.
As far as I am aware, the only rank or position Jack actively hungered for was that which he has attained, that of Post Captain. He may yet long to be an admiral, but that is a matter of course at this point, and he is certainly doing all he can to deserve the honor, by being the best Captain, and Commodore, possible. As much as it is possible for him to strive for that highest of naval ranks, he has done so, yet his ambition has not made him a hard man, nor in the least inhuman. He is steady and competent. He does not seek undeserved glory, or to outdo his neighbor merely for the sake of a boast. It seems to me that the only man JA is in contest with is his present self; he strives to improve for the benefits such improvements may bring him, and not to simply show away to his fellows.
How very unlike the other captains Jack is. Corbett allowed his desire to attain a perceived ideal of perfection drive him to the most inhuman behavior, which in the end cost him his life: he had nothing of Jack’s instinctive grasp of the men. Pym lacked the initiative and resolve which are the hallmarks of Jack’s actions. As for Clonfert - ah, but what can I say of that poor man that I have not already said, in some form? It is the pity of the world that instead of holding himself accountable to the standards of his past self, he compared his life to that of another man’s, and found himself wanting. Had he judged himself fairly, not through the lens of jealousy and competition, but with the clear eyes of one who can look on the events of his life and say, ‘that was my life. It was enough. I have no reason for shame,’ he might well be alive today.
I cannot help but wonder if the last thing to go through his head, before he tore those bandages away, was to wonder how Jack managed to outdo him again. His lasts thoughts were certainly very like, from what McAdam told me of his final moments. Poor man. If only he had not let himself be so blinded trying to correct an imbalance that was never truly there, except in his own mind.
As for Jack, here I am on varied grounds. My thoughts on him at present are overlaid with admiration: many a man has flown out at having been robbed of a far lesser prize than that which he rightfully deserves. Perhaps if he had not just received news of his son he would have reacted far more strongly. But if so, what good would it have done him? As Jack has often told me, flying out at one’s superior officer is the best way of helping him to sink you, and although I feel that Bertie has no animosity toward Jack, I am also sure that he would not hesitate to ‘sink him’ if Jack were to prove troublesome.
The dear knows Jack can be troublesome if he chooses to. In spite of the new maturity I have seen in him this commission, I have no doubt that now he has been relieved of high command, he could easily revert to the youthful, slightly ridiculous man I have known and valued so long.
I have often wondered just what it is in Jack that makes him so very dear to me. I can honestly say he is the closest friend I have ever had: a trusted confidante, (as far as is wise for me) a dear companion, and a balm to my spirit. Perhaps it is the music we share, but even when our instruments are silent for a long while, I still feel the same camaraderie and comfort in his presence as I do in our most harmonious of duets. This, like Jack’s happy courage, is a constant, wholly unchanged from the days I first knew him.
I scarcely dare to think what my life should become if I ever lose this bond. If the day arrives when he comes to me soaked in life’s blood that is his and not another’s. If he should leave me in the orlop to lead his men, and the only part of him that will be brought down to me is his sword, dropped from his lifeless hand, all my skill not enough to preserve him. Heaven forbid the last sight I shall ever have of his dear, familiar face is his battle expression, as he leaves to join a fight that will prove to be his last. Someday, I know, if he survives long enough, he will be too old for active service. For all that he claims to envy Hamelin his death in battle, I think Jack deserves a peaceful end to his labors. ‘We make war that others may live in peace,’ goes the adage; I think it not too much to ask that at least some of those who are forced to make war be allowed to enjoy a little of that peace they have fought so hard to bring about.
Stephen put down his pen, closed his eyes, and imagined it. He pictured Jack with white hair, old and frail as Stephen had never seen him, and yet hoped to one day. Would his large, powerful frame be wasted with age, or would he remain hearty until the end? Would he even be alive himself to see the changes age would bring on his friend, Stephen wondered, or would he precede Jack to the grave? Somewhat guiltily, Stephen admitted he would prefer that end, not only because dying first would spare him the grief Jack’s death would bring him, but because he felt certain that if Jack died, all his own desire to live, or at least enjoy life, would die with the man who had been closer to him than any other.
He nearly jumped in his chair as he felt two large hands descend on his shoulders. He recognized Jack’s grip without needing to turn around, and said somewhat testily, “if you intended to interrupt my reverie, Jack, I must say you succeeded.”
“Was it terribly important?” Jack asked mildly, giving his shoulders a quick rub before sitting on the edge of Stephen’s cot. “I should hate to think I prevented you from solving one of the great mysteries.”
Stephen snorted, provoked out of his slight ill humor. “Nothing so universally important; I was actually wondering what you should look like when you are old, if you live that long.”
“If that is a mystery, brother, I hope it is one you will be around to see solved.”
Stephen laughed aloud, in his usual creaking way. That was another thing he appreciated in his friend; he had the occasional knack for saying just the right thing at times.
“I mean that, Stephen. It is not only that I scarcely know what I should do without you, but who else is going to put up with me when I’m old and feeble, and need to be spoon-fed goat’s milk and pap? And if you become decrepit before me, I shall certainly do the same for you.”
“If you do, I will spit it in your face. Goat’s milk, forsooth! I hope I should die before it ever comes to that!”
“Just so long as you don’t go before me, you may do as you please. If you died first, I should have to deliver the eulogy, being your friend, and even if I could think of anything fitting to say, I should never be able to say it without blubbering like a child.” Jack’s tone was light, even joking, but his expression, as well as the look in his eyes, was perfectly serious.
Stephen clasped his hand. “I should never wish to hurt you, joy, but unless we are both killed by the same cannonball, one of us must go first. I have no more desire to lose you than you do me, but such things are inevitable.” He sighed. “How on earth did we get onto this dreary topic? Here I was, simply wondering how you should look with white hair, and now we are practically planning each other’s funerals!”
Jack laughed a hearty laugh that shook his whole body. “Well, for the record, I should like a coffin of oak, handsomely carved, topped with whatever flowers you think fit, and to be buried in my best uniform, with all the medals and other decorations I’ve managed to earn by then. And bury me next to mother, if the plot isn’t taken.”
“I’ll remember. As for me, a simple pine box will suffice, and Killick may dress me in all the clothes I never let him throw away - it will please him to see the last of them all - and hire the best Irish singers you can find to sing a lament in Gaelic. If it would not trouble you greatly, plant me next to where you wish your own resting place to be, and have the motto deus me requiem serve as my epitaph.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, God Grant me Rest, for I have little doubt that I shall be very tired of life, by the time it ends for me.”
Jack squeezed his hand. “Even if I were still there?” he asked hopefully.
Stephen’s humor evaporated. After a long pause, he said, “My dear, if there is anything that could make me wish to cling to life, it would be you. But I must prepare for the worst, and in my opinion that should be to see you go years before I do, and be left in solitary misery until I too am called home to my rest.”
Jack rose and bent to embrace him. Stephen returned the gesture, and Jack said, “Fear not, brother, perhaps that cannonball you mentioned may strike us yet, and they shall bury what is left of us together, to save time and all that weary digging.”
Stephen couldn’t help chuckling. He withdrew from Jack and smiled. “That prospect has more appeal to me than it should, certainly. I should like to have you nearby when the angel Gabriel blows his trumpet and all the dead arise from their graves. We can critique his musical technique together. Lord, I am tired; I find I often skirt blasphemy when I feel worn.”
Jack turned to leave. “I shall leave you to your sleep then. I left the party early on the plea that I was uncommon weary myself; doubtless the admiral will hear of it if I do not go directly to bed, and he will think I left merely to get out of that drinking game Abercrombie proposed; perish the thought!” he winked and left.
Stephen turned back to his journal.
Of all the pugils Jack might have received from this campaign, I am overjoyed to know that I have managed to bring him the one he truly wanted. For myself, I should count it a pugil indeed if God grants that we leave this life together, or if not quite together, close enough that we shall scarcely have time to miss each other. But the latter is ridiculous; I find that most times I miss him terribly when we are apart for any length of time. Some may say it is a weakness, to be so dependent on another person for your greatest happiness, but considering what my life would be without him, I count every day I spend in his company a blessing, and dread its inevitable end. Even if I do leave this life first, I cannot imagine a heaven worthy of the name without him there beside me.