Where Away?

Instrumental

Fri, 23 Apr 2004 01:00:19 GMT

NOTE: Neither movie nor book canon. I've adjusted the origin of the sword, but not the events that follow.

They called him "the Maiden" before the battle, before the wound took whatever innocent fairness of face he had and scarred him violently. Before Tom's life was changed forever by one stroke of the most beautiful cutlass he had ever seen.

It filled Tom's vision like nothing before. Everything he'd been told about the Turkish weapons, their imperfections and hurried design, disappeared the moment light hit the blade and the instrument—for Tom sometimes thinks of swords as instruments, as fine–tuned and graceful as any the Captain and the Doctor play—flew in front of his face, almost blinding him in more than the most obvious of ways.

There was little pain, at least at first. Tom did not stop fighting, could not when surrounded by two other Turkss intent on finishing the work of the first. Tom slayed all three before the salt spray hit the wound, and he realized exactly what that work of warlike art had done. He slid to the deck breathless, then, and knew nothing until he woke to the sight of the Doctor above him to his left, Bonden to his right.

Tom always believed that he would be left marked in battle. His eyes had long since ceased to widen at the sight of deep, permanent scars on men's faces, their arms, their throats and—regrettably—their backs. He had shared ringing laughter with Mowett and Dillon both about the scars they would carry if—when—the Captain chose to finally engage in something more serious than a common chase. Or if—when—there were ever a ship foolish enough to try and take the Surprise herself. And though he had earned the nicks and gunpowder burns that mottled his pale frame—unlike many an officer Tom could remember if he chose to do so, he's never stumbled into a battle, never found himself an accidental target of friend or foe—Tom had not truly understood the power and sensation, the nature of a wound itself.

Tom does not indulge himself in thoughts of his own mortality. He wishes nothing

more than to die in battle if possible, and at sea in any case. He will not give chase to the ideal of marriage and children and a gentleman’s life, not least because he is no gentleman—that very fact has been drilled into him for decades, and he no longer allows it to affect his courses nautical or personal—which are more often than not the same.

Still, Tom is aware now that he will never again be so fair as to be called a Maiden. It is something of a relief, though he will not admit it aloud. Bonden brought him a mirror four days after the battle, and they laughed as one at the strangeness of both their reflections—one so compact, ruddy and blonder even than the Captain, the other tall, pale and dark of hair—and especially at the one thing they shared in common now—the sweep of a scar crossing cheek and eye and brow.

Tom felt it then—a quiet but honest surge of admiration from a man who had no obligation other than plain duty to show Tom more than respect. And Tom returned that admiration when he could, showing Bonden and the men who worked under his piercing gaze every courtesy allowed under the articles and regulations of the Surprise. Tom knew long before then that the “gentlemen” of this world do not make a ship’s wheel turn. They do not rebuild her when she burns. They do not heal, and they do not sing and share their rations and stand silent watch when one of their own has been scarred.

There are no “gentlemen” to be found aboard the Surprise, not even among the officers, Tom believes. Nor are there Maidens. There are only men, men who earn scars and nicks and gunpowder burns. Men who give their hearts to their Captain, and sometimes their lives. Men young and old—all scarred in some way.

Tom carries his scar proudly now, and only the rare shine of the Turkish cutlass haunts his dreams. One day he will take a Turkish prize, and keep little for himself bar the arms of her Captain. Perhaps among them will be such a cutlass—an instrument Tom will wield and play better than her former keeper.

Should the Lord preserve him that long, Tom will die bearing that scar and holding that cutlass, not as a gentleman, not as a Maiden, not even as an officer—but as a man.

Dinner in the Great Cabin, through Tom's eyes (2 of 2)

Tue, 10 Feb 2004 03:53:42 GMT

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.

Dinner in the Great Cabin ... through Tom's eyes (1 of 2)

Fri, 23 Jan 2004 02:43:42 GMT

Dinners in the Captain's cabin serve as reminders to Tom that there is a civilized, relaxed peace to be found on board even a ship so busy as the Surprise. Jack Aubrey makes the effort to pass as much wine as possible around the table, heckling gently anyone whose hand remains on the bottle for longer than necessary—which is to say, longer than it takes to pour and pass along.

The food, too, is better than Tom would expect from Killick—poor fellow wasn't even meant to be a cook, wasn't trained to be more than a general steward. And Tom's been told by Mowett that in his first month, Killick was so poor and resentful a cook that Bonden took over the duties for a week—which of course served notice enough to Killick that he grudgingly learned his new and unintentional trade.

Now, Killick's warmed so much to his tasks that he refuses to let another enter his ridiculously small galley beyond his own steward, and he takes grave pride in his ability to make Jack's—and more important, because it's a hell of a lot more difficult to grind beans properly, thankee—Stephen's coffee just the way they like it.

But it is more than the food and drink that warms Tom at Jack's table. The songs, Jack's anecdotes, the Doctor's good natured bickering, Allen's cheerful bluster and the competing red noses and cheeks of Mowett and Howard all combine to make Tom feel like he is home, seated at the table of family he hasn't seen in two—perhaps it is three, now—years. And when he sweeps his eyes across the table, a genuine, easy smile on his face and fading laughter still on his tongue, Tom's gaze usually settles proudly on whichever young midshipman has accompanied him to the Captain's table that night.

Tom and Mowett share the responsibility of checking the midshipman's logs, their penmanship and their general behaviour at all times. Mowett is hard on the young men, perhaps too hard, and Tom is perhaps too lenient. In any case, Tom has never had cause to be disappointed with Calamy or little Blakeney, or even Hollom, quiet and shy as he may be, at this table. They alternate evenings here, as do Williamson and Boyle (the twin banes of Mowett's existence, if you asked him), and they bring a special spark to the evenings with their questions and blushing smiles when talk turns to things they would not likely learn elsewhere at their age. Yes, Tom is proud of them.

Tom remembers vividly his own behaviour as a midshipman at the Captain's table, more like Hollom's than any of the others', and he can understand every emotion they are going through. They miss their homes, their mothers especially, but they are desperate to prove their worth to the lieutenants—and more certainly, to Jack.

Now, as Tom stretches in his berth and walks to the even smaller section where the midshipman sleep and work and play, the same proud smile crosses his face. He steps inside their little hole, bending, and nods in the direction of Calamy, who takes up his hat and quickly in response.

"The Captain bids you join us at dinner, Mr. Calamy," Tom says, gently but firmly, and turns on his heel.

Tom knows young Peter will follow—as Tom followed Jack so many years before.

Morning on the Surprise (a character sketch)

Tue, 13 Jan 2004 02:43:58 GMT

Morning is the only time during which it would ever occur to Tom Pullings to move slowly.

Part of it comes from his general stiffness. After years and years on boats, he should be more comfortable in the sleeping hammocks. He should know exactly how to settle himself down to rest and allow his long legs to hang over the edges of the fabric. For the most part, he does not notice his discomfort, tired as he is after a long day on deck.

He owes his current position half to the Captain and half to the man ten feet away, already standing and dressed in all but his topcoat and sword—William Mowett, his friend since childhood and the only person who saw exactly how Tom received his scar; Mowett, whom Tom had not seen since after the Ramillies, his last commission, came home. Mowett was originally commissioned to be the first lieutenant on this journey, and stepped down the moment he found Tom floundering in the city, reporting to the Admiralty and looking for work. Mowett presented an astonishing case for both their employment to Captain Aubrey, and Aubrey, who remembered Tom fondly from so many years ago—sniveling midshipman, well, yes he was, and Tom is usually first to say so, long before the Captain has a chance to—eagerly took him on. Mowett’s smile at this decision was so wide, his “thank you, Sir” so heartfelt that Tom could not hold back his own, rarer smile.

Now, several weeks into their commission, Tom is grateful for Mowett’s company even more than his referral.

“Out of your pit, Tom,” Mowett says quietly, stepping back to give Tom room at the large bowl of water for washing. Tom half–falls from the hammock and leans heavily over the bowl until he hears a sound behind him.. He and Mowett share two servants, and one scurries forward with a clean vest and trousers, knuckling his forehead with his free hand. Tom stands up perfectly straight and dismisses the old man with a nod before he pulls on the uniform, ignoring the ache in his knees and elbows, his wrists and neck.

Today is a punishment day, the one day of the week when Tom feels both proud and vaguely disgusted by his duties. Yes, he is in charge of reporting infractions great and small, and he is often left to decide and mete out floggings and fines on his own, but his ideas of punishment often differ from the Captain’s. And from memory Tom knows it is pointless to argue once Lucky Jack’s eyes go stormy in the face of insubordination.

Still, today’s list is short—three men and a little one (caught stealing some of the midshipmen’s biscuits and shoved into a cabinet by Williamson until the master at arms could retrieve him)—and their crimes are small. Default should take no more than ten minutes, fewer if Tom can convince Jack to merely scold the boy into the next week—or allow him to do it himself.

Today, however, may mark the last time default is this quiet, the seamen this well–behaved. Something is stirring on the ship, and while Tom’s heard whispers here and there of a Jonah, he’s for the most part chosen not to listen further. He does not rise to Mowett’s jokes before they fall asleep, and he smiles in the direction of the Doctor, who sees everything—knows everything. More often Tom finds himself watching the seamen instead of listening to them, watching especially Captain Aubrey’s coxswain, Mr. Bonden, who likely sees as much as the Doctor and will reveal even less.

Tom turns from dressing to take his sword from Mowett’s hand, and as they bend to leave their berth, Mowett says something quiet about the watch—Tom hears the words Hollom, Calamy, Will fell asleep—and Tom leans closer to listen. Before Mowett can say anything more, Jack Aubrey emerges from his cabin, somewhat less resplendent in his rumpled uniform than Mowett and Tom, but commanding nevertheless. And Tom sees out of the corner of his eye Mowett’s cheeky roundness stiffening, his shoulders rolling back and his spine lengthening until he’s nearly as ramrod straight at Tom himself.

“Good morning, sir,” he and Mowett say as one, and Jack’s smile in return is warm. Tom feels the small aches and pains leaving his body, to be replaced by pride in the uniform, in the ship, and he climbs the stairs leading to sunlight, his raspy morning voice growing stronger as the slowness leaves him.

“Make way for the Captain,” Tom calls—

And begins another day.

Bio and Character Notes

Wed, 07 Jan 2004 17:47:00 GMT

Name: Thomas Pullings
Nickname(s): Tom

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE
Date of Birth:
Birthplace: Midlands, England
Hair color: Dark brown
Hair style: Long, worn in ponytail with wide ribbon
Eye color: Blue
Glasses/contacts?: no
Skin tone: Pale, but easily reddened in sun or wind
Height: +/- 5'11"
Build: Lanky but strong
Special physical characteristics: long scar on right cheek running up across nose and into left eyebrow
General health: Very good
Specific health problems:
First thing you notice: The scar, perfect carriage
What does character consider his/her best physical characteristic?: Doesn't really have time to notice, but prides himself on bearing, posture.
Worst characteristic?: Workaholic

PREFERENCES/TASTES
Favorite color:
Favorite foods:
Drinks:
Clothing:
Favorite article of clothing:
Smoker?:
Lives (e.g., apt. house):

FAMILY AND PERSONAL LIFE
Married/single?: Single. As Maturin says, a first lieutenant is "married to his ship."
Previous marriage?: No
Straight/gay/bi:
Previous romantic/sexual relationships:
Other, er, family:

CHILDHOOD
Parents:
Siblings:

BACKGROUND AND PERSONALITY
Religious upbringing: Anglican
Present religious practice: Anglican
Education:
Income:
Future hopes/plans: eventually captain a ship on his own, has twice been passed over in favour of other lieutenants.
Fears:
Worst problem:
Special gifts or talents:
Bad traits:
Acknowledged?:
Good traits:
Acknowledged?:

OTHER THINGS: Is second in command of Surprise. 2nd Lt. Mowett is his best friend since childhood. Has served with Aubrey before under Nelson (Pullings was a midshipman, Aubrey a lieutenant), and originally signed on for this voyage as a volunteer. Is less interested in taking ships as prizes just for the prize itself as he is in taking them to garner a wee bit of recognition, and an eventual commission to captain a ship himself. This, however, is not foremost on his mind—he's rather laid back, even as a workaholic, and is just pleased to be sailing, especially under Aubrey. Is not a "gentleman" officer—not high born at all. Worked very hard to get where he is.