by Jasmine Walt
"Rheumatism," he pronounced with an air of confidence after inspecting my swollen legs. "It's common in officers of your age – caused by the sudden temperature changes, hot then cold, cold than hot. Soaking clothes and cramped conditions don't help, either."
"Can we cure it?" I asked, fearing the answer.
"Yes. Many of my colleagues have had much success with fresh fruit, horse-back riding, and plenty of wine-whey."
But, of course, we were at sea, far from fresh produce, horses, and wine-whey. Not surprisingly, as I lay tossing and turning in agony, Nesbitt changed his diagnosis to something he could cure – gout. I knew I didn't have gout, which is a disease of the old, the overweight, and the sedentary, none of which I could be accused of. But Nesbitt needed something he could treat (even if unsuccessfully), and the only thing that cures gout is bed rest.
So they let me rest.
After two weeks, the pain subsided into a dull, throbbing ache, and after a further twelve days, faded completely. I dared to hope maybe I did have gout, after all. With great delight I thanked the good doctor and resumed my duties.
It was not to be. The pain returned worse than ever. I confided in no one, save Nicholas, who watched my agonised movements with growing concern. After the forth week of torment, when he saw me refuse a meal for the third day in a row, he led me aside and told me to report to sick duty.
"I cannot," I winced, pushing his arm away. "I must endure this, or all my years of work will be for naught."
He insisted on taking the evening watch with me, even though he would perform his own afterward and would get no sleep at all. He sat on the bowsprit and called a pod of dolphins to the ship, and we watched them dive and prance over the waves. A sea-necker joined them, slapping her giant fins against the side of the boat.
"She's the same one," he said. "She follows us. She's the only one of her kind left in all these waters."
"What happened to the others?"
"Fished up and eaten, mostly. Many others died when they choked on debris from the skirmishes on the coast."
The ship hit the crest of a wave, and lurched sideways. I grabbed for the rail, and missed, my hands grasping at air. The sudden tilt of the deck forced my weakened legs to give way, and I toppled forward, pitching over the rail and watching the waves and the churning fins of the sea-necker hurtle towards me. Black spots swarmed in my eyes, before finally enveloping me completely.
My eyes fluttered open. Nicholas stared down at me, his face furrowed in concern. My head banged against something hard, and I cried out.
"You're awake," he whispered, he voice wavering, He was carrying me, struggling to fit us both down the narrow steps below deck. "You passed out, James, and nearly fell overboard. The sea-necker saved you. She caught you on her fin. As I dragged you back, you hit your head against the anchor chain, and you've been asleep ever since."
That explained the throbbing, and why my clothes seemed wetter than usual. I slowly registered other objects: the spare rigging and sails stacked against the wall, the barrels of pickled beef and wine on which we subsisted. Nicholas eased open the door of my cabin, and heaved me inside.
We must've woken Jacob, for he lurched into the galley, leaning against the frame of my cabin door and rubbing his eyes. "Is that Holman causing trouble again?" he mumbled. "If he goes back to sick bay one more time, the Captain will have him off the ship."
Nicholas ignored him. As he lay me down on my bunk and wrapped my swollen legs in a blanket, a tear crept from the corner of my eye. Relief washed over me, and fear for my future, and gratitude for Nicholas' kindness.
"Sleep well, my friend." Nicholas lit a fresh lantern and clambered back on deck to finish the watch.
But I did not sleep; the searing pain and my wretched thoughts kept me awake. I thought of my father, who'd scrimped and saved every penny in his life that his only son might have the chance of becoming a gentleman. I thought of the life I longed for – the adventure and freedom that could only come with the prestige and steady salary of an officer. I thought of Jacob, snoring away in his own cabin right next door, hell-bent on making me out to be the worst kind of officer. I knew – pain or no pain – my entire naval career depended on me performing my duties the following morning.
I prayed to the gods for a miracle. Old gods, new gods, forbidden gods – every deity I could think of received a prayer and a pledge of obedience if only they would strike away the pain. But they either could not hear me, or thought my plight a terrible lark, for no relief came.
When his bell rang, Jacob rose, smirking as he lit a candle and dressed himself. "Enjoy your rest," he sneered at me from the galley as he fumbled with his buttons. I had a witty retort all figured out, but the pain rode so great I could not summon the strength to utter it.
When the tenth bell sounded and his watch finished, Nicholas clambered down into the cabin and spooned half his breakfast gruel into a chipped enamel cup. "You'll need to eat if you're to report to watch today," he said. He knew as well as I that I had no choice but to return to my post.
Somehow, I managed to pull my boots on over my swollen ankles and stumble on deck, gripping the railing so tightly my fingers bled and swapping my weight from one leg to the other to give each a brief respite. I bit my tongue and tore shreds of skin from my lips with my teeth, and the food in my belly rumbled and squirmed as the pain caused my stomach muscles to cramp and convulse. I trained my eyes out to sea, and counted back from a hundred, then a thousand. Thankfully, the wind caught my agonised tears and whipped them away before any of the men could see.
But it was no use – my valiant effort came to nothing. A week more of this torture and I was in the sick bay again, unable to walk. Nicholas brought me food and water and gave me his single threadbare blanket, and he helped me to my feet to endure my hurried return to service. But after three days I could not bear it – my legs no longer support my weight.
The Captain came to speak to me in my convalescence. Jacob had no doubt told him I was merely being lazy, shirking my duties. As he stood over my bed and stared gape-mouthed at my ankles the size of cannonballs and the tears of shame and agony running down my cheeks, his manner changed to one of pity. He had been a lieutenant once – he knew what my position meant.
"We'll be putting in at Portsmouth in a few weeks," said he. "And I expect you off this ship."
"But sir—"
"You're in no state to serve on board my ship, Lieutenant Holman. You're a good officer; you'll recover from this setback. Go to Bath, get this taken care of, and I’ll put in the good word with the Admiralty, see if I can't get you another commission, maybe closer to home this time."
When we finally put in on English soil, I had to be carried off the boat in a stretcher. Nicholas lent me seven shillings for the coach ride to Bath, and a purse of coins to help pay the doctors. I rode on forthwith, my supine body banging and clattering about the carriage, much to the annoyance of the other passengers.
I thought the pain the worst horror of my life, but I was not prepared for what awaited me at Bath.
Of all the disciplines to suffer under King George's Gods of Industry, the medical profession has bore the brunt of the damage. Perhaps, if the Church of England's medical colleges had been allowed to continue unhampered, we might have avoided the human atrocity that was the "Heroic Medicines."
A romantic notion popularised by the Morpheus Church, heroic medicine deals with a new methodology for balancing the humours: forcing the malady from the body by subjecting it to various levels of medieval torture.
In the resort town of Bath, where medical men gather in the thousands to hawk their trade amongst the ancient healing springs, I placed myself at the mercy of these barbarians. They rewarded my dwindling savings with the most imaginative torments. They pumped me so full of purgatives I swear at one point I excreted my own viscera. They took so much blood through the lancet and the leech I practically became a vampire. And when this did not ease the pains, they began
with the blistering – a most unpleasant treatment where they would strip me naked and flick burning acid upon my skin, so that it would burn and blister and sting so violently it might cast out the gout or rheumatism or whatever they said I had this week. And all of this did not one whit of good. The pain remained.
I quit of them all, and prescribed myself long walks around the city and several hours of daily soaking in the healing waters of the bathhouse, which seemed to slowly loosen the vices upon my legs. I closed my eyes and dreamed I might return to service in a month. With a speedy recovery, there was still a chance my career would not be completely ruined.
And then I discovered a new kind of pain.
I have never before experienced vision problems, and luckily too, because perfect eyesight is essential for naval officers. So on this particular day, as I took up my usual spot in one of the restored Roman baths, I was quite surprised to feel a sharp pressure behind my eyes, as though my skull had shrunk around them.
I rubbed my temples, threw my head back, and lay in the water to wash them out, but the pressure only intensified. Red welts appeared in my vision, and with reluctance and a good degree of fear, I hoisted myself out of the pool and took myself to a nearby doctor.
"Pain behind the eyes has been known to occur, especially following some kind of trauma to the head," he said. "Have you fallen or bumped your head in recent months?"
I nodded, thinking of my fall on the Cleopatra, and how Nicholas knocked my head pulling me back on board.
The doctor – one of the Morpheus Sect – wanted to couch the eye immediately. His theory was that the humours in the lens of my eye were imbalanced, forming an invisible cataract.
"And what does this couching involve?" I asked, preparing myself for another excruciating treatment.
"Well, sir, I take this needle, and I thrust it directly into—"
I didn’t stick around to hear the rest. Back at my lodgings, I made myself a cold compress, lay on my bed, and closed my eyes, and tried to will the pain to go away. My heart pounded against my chest as I contemplated the ramifications of this new torture. Sometime later, I drifted into an uneasy sleep.
I awoke again, opened my eyes, and found the world eternally dark.
Fear clung to my chest. I was a lieutenant – a rank that had cost all my mother's money and all my efforts to obtain. It was enough of a disgrace to retire at age twenty as a cripple, but blinded? I would be a beggar. I would never accomplish my greatest dream, to see the world in all her multitudes of splendours.
The days dragged on in unending sadness, and still my vision remained shrouded by darkness. I visited every doctor in the city of healers, trying everything from leeches under the eye, shaving my hair three times weekly, and submerging my bald scalp in icy water, to bleeding via a lancet through my neck and poultices made of diluted brandy and vinegar. Nothing brought back my sight.
And when I could find no more doctors, I turned to those I had scorned – the soothsayers and witch doctors of the engineering sects. The Metics took precise measurements of my face and drew mathematical sigils on my body with hot ash. I subjected myself to brutal psychological experiments by two German Mesmerists. I even saw a phrenologist from the Church of Isis, in the hope he could discern my recovery from the bumps on my head. I met a Dirigire priest in secret in a chamber under the Roman ruins outside the city, who I gave the last of Nicholas' money in exchange for a clockwork device I fitted to my temple, which shot sparks of fire into my cheek every few minutes, causing my face to contort and spasm in pain. But to no avail.
I had to face reality. Not a single doctor, soothsayer, or engineer in Bath can help me. I was doomed to remain a blind man, with no money, no prospects, and no hope.
After James' dismissal, life on the Cleopatra grew progressively unbearable. After their stop in Portsmouth to discard James, the Cleopatra had been reassigned to duties closer to home. King George had lost interest in the Americas, and had his sights set on re-establishing Naval supremacy in Europe, and strengthening the few Industrian strongholds in Europe. Despite his bold plans, however, the French were gaining the upper hand along the coast, and Spanish privateers had been raiding many of the British ports around the Mediterranean. Several British ships had already been destroyed or captured, and morale was low by the time the Cleopatra joined the fray. In their first engagement with a French frigate, their prey escaped and they suffered heavy loses, which put the Captain in an ill temper.
Jacob, having got rid of Holman seemingly without any effort, set his sights on Nicholas. Joined by Harold – the new lieutenant brought on board to replace James – Jacob watched Nicholas day and night, reporting even the most minor infractions to the Captain. If his eyes fluttered shut for a moment while on watch, the next day he was summoned to account for his slothful behaviour. His punishments flowed into each other, so his back burned constantly with the bite of the lash and there didn't seem to be a waking moment when he was not engaged in some unpleasant task.
Even accounting for the money he'd given James, if he could survive another year on a lieutenant's wage Nicholas would have saved enough to enter university as an architect, but with hostilities brewing he was likely chained to the Navy ‘till death or dismemberment rendered him useless. He thought of the Engine Ward – those high walls of iron and that soot-soaked hovel that had been more of a home than his father's estates. More than anything, he wanted to return there.
The King was sending troops to reinforce the garrisons stationed in the English colonies around the Mediterranean, and the Cleopatra was assigned to play escort to a number of vessels landing in Malta and the Ionian Islands with soldiers, supplies and Industrian missionaries off to spread the word of science throughout Europe. This meant ample stops in port, and a chance, one day, if he ever worked up the courage to do it, of jumping ship. He'd have to change his name, of course, and go into hiding. But perhaps he could find an architecture school …
It was a foolish idea, of course, but he was lonely and desperate, and he couldn't help but entertain it. Perhaps his desperation could be read on his face, or Jacob suspected his intentions and had alerted the Captain; for whenever they put in at port, Nicholas was ordered to remain on board as a guard.
So he waited, and he drilled every day on deck with sword and dagger and fist, until his muscles tightened and his senses sharpened. He did not know if he would ever attempt to escape, but he knew if he did, he would need all his strength and wits about him.
The following summer, Cleopatra engaged three French frigates off the coast of Italy and suffered a serious defeat. Nicholas was on the quarterdeck when the French guns blew a hole in the hull on the waterline and took out the mast. A wood splinter lodged itself into his shoulder, knocking him off his feet. His men weren't so lucky – eight of them died when another shot went through the deck, and two more died from infected wounds from the splinters flying through the air.
Cleopatra was adrift, and started taking on water at an alarming rate. Clutching his shoulder and gritting his teeth against the pain, Nicholas organised a chain of men to plug the hole. On-deck, Jacob and Harold attempted to raise a Jury mast – if they didn't get back under sail, the French would board and take the ship as a prize.
Luckily, at that moment an English ship of the line, HMS Friday, was sighted. The French moved on, and the Friday towed Cleopatra back to Gibraltar.
As Cleopatra limped into port, the Captain called the officers to his cabin and delivered a grim sermon. With forty-six men lost and the vessel in need of significant repairs, the Cleopatra was being decommissioned. Hope swelled in Nicholas' chest. I could go home to England and start my education—
But the Captain had other ideas. Their orders were to stay with the garrison in Gibraltar until a new commission could be found for them. The English fleet was under heavy fire by the French and there was a constant need for more men. Nicholas thanked the captain and asked to be excused to pack his things; he didn't want to give Jacob the
pleasure of reading the disappointment on his face.
The ship needed to be careened for repairs, so everyone, including the Captain and officers, would need to find lodgings for a number of days. The barracks were completely full, but Nicholas easily found a cheap room in town. Thousands of soldiers were stationed at the fortress, and more men came off the ships every day – the town was well stocked with amenities to tickle a sailor's fancy.
After hiding his money and belongings in his room, Nicholas followed the crowds of men as they practically skipped off the docks toward the doss-houses. He pushed his way into a crowded tavern, bought a draught at the bar and slipped toward the back of the room. He didn't want to play dice or cards with the other men, or flirt with one of the doxies making the rounds of the room. He wanted to drink ‘till the memories of London faded into a dream.
Leaning against the wall, he tipped his head back and poured his drink down his throat. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth washing over his body.
Isambard. James. I wonder what you're doing right now. I wish I could be with you, instead of in the middle of this ridiculous war being shot at by the French every day—
Across the room, something shattered. Nicholas looked up from his drink. Jacob and Harold had entered the bar, and were exchanging some heated words with a group of officers from another ship. One of the officers had smashed a bottle against the table and was pointing it at Jacob. Nicholas could see by the way Harold was leaning against Jacob and Jacob's bloodshot eyes were darting about that they were already very drunk, and ready for a fight.
I have to leave, before they notice me. He couldn't go out the front, as Jacob and Harold stood near the entrance and would certainly see him. Nicholas surveyed the tavern. Stairs behind the bar led up to sleeping quarters above, and men swung in and out of a door into a storage area beyond. Nicholas craned his neck to get a look inside the storeroom, and saw a large space stacked high with barrels and another door beyond, leading into the alley behind the tavern. He set down his drink, inched his way nonchalantly toward the door, and slipped through into the storage room.
