Author's Note: Well, here I go again...
After thoroughly enjoying the Hornblower TV series, I didn't think anything else could top it. Cue Master and Commander: Far Side of the World and the Patrick O' Brian series. It looks like my Age of Sail obsession isn't going away any time soon! So enjoy my first foray into the world of Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin!

This short story will be broken into three parts.

And as always with my fics, this is certified slash free!

Another blast from the starboard cannon shook the Surprise down to her very keel. The dull sound of enemy hull splintering under the bite of her shot and the screams of the enemy above the din were a telltale sign that - despite being muzzled - this aged sea dog still retained her teeth. Doctor Stephen Maturin had little time to ponder the theories of combat aboard a fighting ship of His Majesty's Navy, however, for just as he and his assistant Mr. Higgins had fended another writhing, bleeding seaman off the surgery table did another take its place - each more bloodied, battered, and disconsolate than the other before him.

As the latest casualty was pulled away from his ministrations, the Doctor paused to catch his waning breath in the stifling afternoon heat of the sick bay, the suffocating scent of salty moisture in the air mingling with that of the tangy scent of blood and gunpowder - a typical potpourri on the event of battle.

Caring not that his hands were slick with the blood of other men, the physician passed a shaking hand over his sweat drenched eyes, noting how unusually flushed his face felt at the touch. He wondered at the curious sensation for a moment, but the sound of an urgent voice in his ear roused him from his weary reverie. He had not the time to physic himself at the moment; perhaps, when the battle had waned, he could spare the time. If the Good Lord saw fit to preserve them, that is.

"Doctor! Oh please, Doctor, ya must save 'im, Doctor," came the hysterical cry, clearer now that his mind was focused on making out the frantic seaman's words. The man, ugly red gash on his forehead pouring bright blood into his eyes, bore his compatriot onto the table with his own hands, pulling on Stephen's crimson-soaked apron not unlike a petulant child as he pleaded. One glance at Higgins sent the surgeon's mate over to pry the poor man away from his superior so that he may accomplish what was being begged of him; yet as the healer's hands went to pass over the still form to search out the source of injury, they froze before any discovery could be made.

Bulging grey eyes stared sightlessly up at him, face a mottled mixture of purples and quickly fading reds, his blue lips parted slightly in a soundless plea that set to mock his savior's useless efforts. The Doctor forced the stone that had formed in his gullet to pass with a painful swallow, searching fingers coming to rest on the splinter lodged in the seaman's neck, several centimeters thick and successfully piercing the airway like a harpoon.

Seeing his superior stilled as though frozen in time, Higgins - bless the man, dense though he was but not completely a fool - took one look at the corpse laid on their table and set to work ushering the dead man's loyal friend away and then gathering volunteers to bring the pale, still form to lay with the rest of his sleeping fellows. It was as the Doctor attempted in vain to regain some of the composure he had lost - wondering why his hands had begun to convulse uncontrollably despite himself - that he became acutely aware of the lack of commotion above decks. The eerie silence punctuated the moment, stilling the pained cries of the wounded seamen clustered around him in the dim light as they all looked expectantly toward the ceiling - the same question preying heavily on their minds.

With stolen breath they all wondered: was the battle over at last?

Stephen Maturin closed his eyes briefly in soundless prayer, begging whatever almighty power that might hear him to spare their mortal forms from the punishing roar of cannon fire, the ravaging shot of pistol and the tearing of sword against flesh. His eyes had seen enough for many upon many lifetimes; he wished to see no more this day.

As if to address the question that lingered pregnantly throughout the still and silent room, the sound of shoes clattering hastily down the ladder rungs and into the hold signaled the answer they sought was approaching. Seamen and physician alike ogled with strained necks toward the door to see who bore the news and were not disappointed when Mr. Blakeney's sandy head quickly popped into view. Clambering to a stop in the doorway, he spoke to the Doctor between excited pants as his lungs ached for breath,

"Compliments, sir! We've taken the Alexandretta!"

An appraising glance at the young man heaving in the threshold of his sick bay made the Doctor's heart leap into his throat, for the sight of crimson staining the boy's shirtfront and spattered across his cheek indicated a grave wound. Yet the twinkle that winked in the lad's blue eyes - an unmistakable mark of exuberance that never seemed to leave his face – told Maturin that the young midshipman had at last tasted battle. How sad, the Hippocratic man mused to himself, that such a violent occupation so obviously agreed with the boy. It was a shame Blakeney's more benign talents were not so easily glorified in the eyes of home and pocketbook, for Stephen had considered how fine a junior partner the lad might make in his scientific exploits. Ah well, perhaps in another lifetime...

The good Doctor's reverie was suddenly broken yet again by more loud and desperate shouting, this time far from his ears and growing closer by the moment. A renewed glance at the young Mr. Blakeney instantly chilled the blood in Stephen's veins, for the sparkle he had witnessed in the young man's eyes had been snuffed out like a candle flame, replaced only with a dark and mysterious fear as they followed the figure careening toward them in the smoky gloom of the hold.

Again, grasping ahold of his senses, Stephen recognized the urgent voice of Thomas Pullings bellowing his name, the approaching form taking the shape of two men as the First Lieutenant hauled his listing, dragging compatriot with one arm. His mind now free from previous distractions, the Doctor could make out the man's words,

"Doctor! Doctor, it's the Captain!"

And it was, in that moment, hearing his dear friend's title spoken in such a damning way, that a portion of Stephen Maturin wished the Alexandretta had bested them after all.

A hush descended on the sick bay as Pullings struggled to heave the denser form of his captain over the threshold and onto the table, Higgins rushing forward to assist the Lieutenant as Aubrey's head lolled back bonelessly when consciousness abandoned him. The cries of the wounded were silenced so effectively by such a shocking sight - their captain nearly reaching that of invincibility in the eyes of an adoring crew - that one might not even sense their presence; splinters were forgotten, cuts and contusions were ignored entirely, and those nursing more serious injuries merely bit down on their tongues. Nothing was more important than their captain, and no man aboard would be the one to deprive the man of any aid for their own sake.

Any optimism as to the gravity of Jack's injuries were effectively drowned when Stephen took note of the great pool of blood spreading across the man's torso as he pulled the Captain's jacket away from the wound. Looking to the First Lieutenant's pale and perspiring face, he asked the dreaded question despite having an overwhelming desire to avoid it altogether - his professionalism overcoming any personal reservations.

"What happened, Mr. Pullings?"

"The action was very intense when we boarded her, sir. I must say I lost sight of the Captain when the Alexandretta's crew overwhelmed us on the deck," the young man paused then to look most guiltily at the prone form on the table, but one expectant look from the Doctor bade him to continue. "The cry then came up of surrender and I busied myself with getting the prisoners squared away. I sent Mr. Blakeney to the Surprise to relay the news and as I was walking amongst the fallen I found the Captain lying near the quarterdeck."

"What of their captain," Maturin asked as he reached to separate Jack's shirt and expose the wound, one look toward Higgins sending the man scurrying for fresh needle and thread.

"He's dead, sir. Cut clean through."

The room again went deathly silent as the Doctor tore the shirt with one great resounding rip, bringing the extent of the Captain's injuries into full view; Stephen instantly regretted the action.

From the left underside of his breast to the righthand underside of his ribs ran an incision with an unstemmable flow of dark crimson that welled from deep within, the telltale marks left by one last desperate attack of cutlass blade. So weary from the battle, his nerves frayed to their last possible edges, the sight of so mortal a wound nearly caused tears to well in the stoic Doctor's eyes, but he quickly willed them away. Such displays would never dignify an impassive minister of healing, nor would Jack wish such emotiveness around his crew. Instead, Maturin merely stole a deep breath quickly through his nose and squared his shoulders to compose himself when Higgins returned, trotting to them with curved needle and sinew in hand.

"Doctor," Pullings asked tentatively, voice wavering ever-so-slightly as he beheld the sight of his captain lying still and unnaturally pale on the surgeon's table.

Their gazes met at the young man's open question hanging heavily in the air. Every man in the room looked expectantly towards their resident miracle worker, but the Doctor found himself at a loss for any optimistic words nor handsome lies that might calm their fears.

Despite his every wish and prayer to the opposite, Stephen knew, deep within his heart of hearts, that it would be a battle they would not win – not this time. Never had he witnessed a man overcome such a blow in all his years of medicine. There would be no coin trick for him to magically perform this time…

"I don't know," Stephen replied honestly into the desperately hopeful eyes of their First Lieutenant, only to watch the man's countenance visibly sink along with every other's in the room.

Straightening and squaring his chin to the Doctor, Pullings nodded his gratitude wordlessly, gathering himself into every inch of the professional naval officer. With one last tiny, flickering gaze at his captain - fearing not in whose hands he was leaving the man but instead that when he turned he may never see the man alive again – the young man turned gracefully on heel and strode upward toward the sunlit world above them. Blakeney looked mournfully torn between staying with his mentor or returning to his duty, but Maturin merely nodded at the questioning look he received from the boy before the lad turned tail and disappeared after Mr. Pullings, looking close to shedding tears.

Stephen found himself in the unusual position of feeling overwhelming gratitude for Padeen and even Higgins as the two men appeared unbidden, setting to work settling the wounded into their hammocks and steering away those that might ogle and gawk at the vulnerable image of their captain laid open so.

Often, when such a surgery was being performed, the Doctor found a great pride blossoming in his chest at the captivation his techniques brought the crew, their morbid fascination a strange salve on his often-bruised ego. Yet now, Stephen felt no such pride, nor did curious faces attempting to peer at the insides of his patient bring any semblance of satisfaction to his soul. Instead, he found himself growling, animalistic, at any layman that dared to approach the table, a strange protectiveness overcoming him as he toiled to sew his friend into some semblance of a whole man again.

After what seemed like hours of passing sinew through the wound, bringing the great gaping thing together inch by inch as Aubrey continued to lay still and quiet under his furiously working hands, Maturin mopped a limp sleeve across his flushed brow. With a final flurry of fingertips, the last knot had been tied and a row of neat enough stitches remained where open flesh had once been. With the Doctor's other patients squared away and tended to, Higgins reappeared to assist in bandaging Jack's trunk-like torso snug as a package at Christmas.

With the help of Padeen's hulking figure, the three men brought Jack's limp form to rest in the one solid berth in the sick bay. Stephen mothered about the man while his two assistants looked on with knowing sympathy, the Doctor determined to make sure the man was sufficiently covered against the shock that would soon set in. All three men knew that, truly, blankets would not be successful in keeping death at bay; for though the wound no longer openly poured blood, the great damage done within was the gravest.

Satisfied that the pale form of his friend looked slightly less like death incarnate, Stephen sunk with indescribable weariness into a chair when his legs refused to hold him, finding his hands had renewed their cursed shaking of earlier. Passing a hand through his thinning brown hair in a vain attempt to stop its blasted quaking, the Doctor raised eyes heavenward to the waning light of sunset filtering through the hatchways, the sounds of officers and crewmen bustling about above their heads.

It was going to be a long night…