The Dark Side of Ambition

Lieutenant Andrew Gillette’s eyes were still at half mast as he ascended the steps to the Dauntless’s quarterdeck, a saucer bearing a steaming cup of tea rattling precariously in one hand while the other stifled a wide yawn. As his foot landed on the top step, the bell below rang out to signal four bells in the afternoon watch. It momentarily startled the lieutenant out of his exhausted daze, and he attempted to blink away the bleariness that fogged his vision as he approached the helm. Andrew’s head felt like dead weight on his shoulders as he nodded in response to Mr. Phelps, the coxswain, and Mr. Granville, the midshipman of the watch, who both saluted him neatly. Under normal circumstances, he would have stopped to have a word with them, but he had only managed to sleep for one hour in the last forty-eight, so circumstances could hardly be considered normal.

            Instead his tired eyes scanned the quarterdeck and ascertained the notable absence of the Commodore, who he hoped had finally seen sense and retired to his cabin for some hard-earned rest. Andrew was considering the merits of returning to his own quarters when Lt. David Seabrooke, the current officer of the watch, caught his eye and motioned for him to join the small knot of men gathered by the starboard rail. It took a heroic effort on Gillette’s part to not roll his eyes as he joined the throng that currently surrounded the harried young lieutenant. Andrew only half-listened as Seabrooke attempted to mediate an increasingly heated argument between Mr. Sawyer, the bosun, and Mr. Carrick, the ship’s carpenter.  

Apparently there was a dispute about the speed in which Carrick and his mates were working to repair the Dauntless’s bowsprit and mizzentop, damage which had been sustained during a bloody action with two French privateers that had occurred in the early hours of the morning watch.  It seemed they were not working fast enough for Sawyer and his mates, who could not finish their own work until the necessary repairs to the yards were complete. Those repairs had been delayed because Carrick had spent most of the morning repairing a large breach to the Dauntless’s hull, caused by the devastating explosion of one of the portside 24-pounders on the middle gundeck during the battle. Lieutenant Gillette nodded politely whenever a pause in their dueling tirades deemed it appropriate, but his attention continued to wander as their voices droned on.  

His mind kept drifting back to the carnage below, to the mangled remains of the ill-fated gun crew, their corpses rent by the explosion and maimed beyond all recognition. Their blood had painted the deck and the bulkheads, violent strokes of crimson painted by the hand of an angry god. Despite the fact that he had scrubbed his skin until it was red and raw, despite changing into a clean uniform, the rancid stench of gunpowder and burning flesh seemed to cling to his clothes, his skin, his very soul.

“Mr. Gillette…Mr. Gillette!”

Mr. Sawyer’s boorish voice dragged Andrew away from the blackened memories of blood and bone and back to the subdued hum of the sun drenched quarterdeck. It was hard to believe that only a matter of hours had passed and that the evidence of the carnage, still fresh and vivid in his mind’s eye, had already been cleared away. It was difficult, but Andrew attempted to stay in the present and listen to the point the bosun was making. As the man ranted in his ear, his gaze drifted aft towards the taffrail, where he spotted Lieutenant Groves standing with Samuel Millican, the Dauntless’s youngest midshipman. 

Both Groves and the boy had been below during the incident, and both had sustained injuries. Teddy had kept an admirably cool head in the fiery aftermath of the explosion. By the time Andrew had fought his way to the scene, the resulting flames that had threatened the ship had been extinguished, and Groves had organized the panicked men and kept them at their stations, even though he himself had suffered burns to both arms and his right hand. Teddy’s quick thinking and calm leadership of the men had likely saved the Dauntless and her crew from certain disaster. Mr. Millican had also shown tremendous courage, standing resolutely by Teddy’s side through the ordeal despite the long, deep gash carved into his left cheek by a flying piece of shrapnel. Andrew had seldom felt such pride in serving with anyone as he did with Teddy and young Sam.

The sudden, overriding need to speak to Teddy, to assure himself of his friend’s wellness, fuelled his impatience with the continued petty squabbling between Sawyer and Carrick and he decided it was long past time to put an end to it. He cleared his throat loudly and glared at both men in turn.

“Mr. Sawyer, you and your men cannot begin your work until Mr. Carrick and his mates finish theirs. Perhaps, instead of haranguing him, you might try lending a helping hand instead!” Andrew rasped; his throat was still sore from shouting orders.

“But, sir…” Sawyer began only to be silenced by a quelling look from Gillette. As Andrew opened his mouth to speak, a hacking cough caught his attention. When he glanced over at Teddy he saw his friend leaning on the taffrail with his uninjured hand for support as he attempted to halt Mr. Millican’s concerned stammering with a pale imitation of his easy smile. Worry continued to well up inside him for Groves, and when Sawyer and Carrick looked likely to start up again, Andrew turned on them with a forbidding frown.   And when Sawyer once again dared to open his mouth to argue, the last tether keeping Andrew’s temper in check finally snapped, letting his anger roll out of control like a cannon blown free from its tackles. From the twin looks of alarm on the faces of the bosun and the carpenter, both realized they needed to get out of the way of his careening fury, and quickly.

“No buts, Mr. Sawyer! I don’t want to hear any more of your bloody excuses. I’ve heard quite enough already!” Andrew barked in an icy tone that brooked no argument.   Even Lt. Seabrooke had fallen silent and grown noticeably paler. “I know tempers are running high at the moment, and sleep is in very short supply, but we all still have jobs to do. My job is to make sure that you are doing your jobs, and nothing will be accomplished by standing around bickering like a couple of fishwives. So if you please, less talking and more working, gentlemen. Mr. Sawyer, I assure you that when it comes time, you will have all of the men and supplies you need at your disposal. Your nagging is hindering, not helping. Mr. Carrick could have been working these long minutes you’ve all been standing here with your thumbs up your arses,” Andrew growled, a trace of the Irish accent he had picked up from his mother slipping through as the seemingly never-ending bombardment of worry and stress finally started to take its toll. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Carrick smirking in satisfaction, and he rounded on him before the man could wipe the infuriating smile off his face. “And Mr. Carrick, you will also have all of the support you need, so no more excuses or delays.   Your behavior is a discredit to the service, this ship, and the men who died fighting for both, and it will not continue. Do I make myself clear?”

“Aye, aye sir!” Both men said in tandem, shooting each other mixed looks of relief and shame.

Andrew sighed, suddenly feeling twice as tired as he had when he set foot on the quarterdeck.
“Just work together and get the job done. Dismissed.”

As the men scrambled away to escape a further dressing down, Lt. Seabrooke turned to Gillette with a look of profound gratitude in his hazel eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

Lt. Gillette rubbed wearily at the ache building behind his eyes. “That should shut them up for now, but Commodore Norrington is to be notified of this as soon as he’s awake. They should consider themselves lucky that I didn’t rouse him now to deal with their nonsense,” Andrew scoffed, his rough voice dripping with disdain.

“Rouse him, sir?” Seabrooke asked as his blond brows pinched in obvious confusion.

“I assumed that he had retired to his quarters to rest, as Dr. Rediker ordered? I take it that I am mistaken?” Andrew asked, unable to keep the note of displeasure from creeping into his voice. 

James had been the target of musket fire from snipers in the enemy’s foretop, and had also been injured during the course of that battle. Commanding from the quarterdeck with his usual cool confidence, Norrington’s tall, ramrod straight figure was a tempting target, and a musket ball had grazed his neck. Andrew had just emerged from the hellish scene of scorched flesh and charred timbers below, only to be thrust into an achingly familiar nightmare as he saw James clasping a handkerchief to his throat, still upright and hoarsely bellowing orders as his blood soaked through the thin white linen and dripped down his long fingers. Andrew had battled every instinct, every inclination of his heart not to abandon his station and immediately rush to the side of the man he loved. With both his best friend and his lover wounded, he had never felt more worried, or more torn between them. 

Thankfully, though the wound had bled profusely, Dr. Rediker had been able to patch James up quickly. That in itself wasn’t surprising; although Rediker’s bedside manner was practically nonexistent, he was a highly competent physician and surgeon, arguably the best the Navy had to offer. The survival rate of the men who served aboard the Dauntless compared to that of most other ships in the fleet was a tribute to Rediker’s expertise and skill. 

No, the surprising part had been that James had not put up a fight when Andrew insisted that he go below to the cockpit to have the wound treated the moment the battle had finally been won. In the past when James had been injured, Andrew had practically had to drag him kicking and screaming to Rediker for medical treatment. Norrington was a stubborn man who didn’t know his own limits, and he hated it when anyone else reminded him of them. But this time, he had not put up a fuss. As soon as the second of the privateers had struck her colors, James had just nodded wearily at Andrew’s suggestion and gone passively. This atypical acquiescence had worried Andrew almost as much, if not more, than the wound itself.

Nevertheless, James was still far from being the ideal patient. The moment Rediker had finished suturing and bandaging the wound, James had been back on his feet, organizing prize crews and overseeing the necessary repairs to the Dauntless. Shortly before noon there had been a quick service for the dead and the ceremonial burial at sea. It hadn’t been long after when James had the audacity to at first insist, and then directly order Andrew to get some rest until his next watch. As far as Andrew knew, James hadn’t stopped to sit and rest since Rediker had stitched him up shortly after dawn.

Andrew’s attention snapped back to Lt. Seabrooke, whose voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Dr. Rediker came up for some fresh air, saw the Commodore still on deck, and they….had words, sir,” he phrased delicately.

Gillette cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. “Soft or shouted?”

“Barely whispers, sir,” Seabrooke replied gravely. “Intense whispers. And Rediker’s opening salvo was, ‘you should be resting.’”

Andrew groaned and rubbed a hand over his blood-shot eyes. James Norrington and Nathaniel Rediker were cut from the same cloth. The chill of their voices was inversely proportionate to the heat of their tempers. The more furious they were the more deathly quiet they became. So an intensely whispered argument between the two could not bode well for anyone.

“So where is the Commodore now?” Andrew asked wearily.

Seabrooke shrugged noncommittally. “I don’t rightly know, sir. Mr. Groves said he thought he saw him heading for the sick berth. Probably visiting with the wounded. Mr. Yates was still there, last I heard.”

Andrew nodded. That made sense, and if he hadn’t been so tired he probably could have figured it out for himself. Mr. Yates, Norrington’s trusted steward, had been knocked unconscious by a falling spar early in the action. He had only been out for a minute, but he had complained of feeling dizzy and nauseous, so Dr. Rediker was holding Yates in the sick berth and keeping him awake in case he showed further signs of concussion. Ben Yates had been Norrington’s steward for many years, but the man was so much more to James than a servant. Ben had helped James through some of the darkest moments in his life. He was a loving older brother, a trusted confessor, and a loyal best friend. Of course James would want to be at Ben’s side now, doing whatever he could to help the man who had dedicated his life to helping him.

Another cough from the taffrail shook Andrew from his reverie. “How long as Mr. Groves been standing there?”

Seabrooke looked to where Groves and Millican were standing, his brow creased in thought. “Not very long, sir. He turned up a few minutes before you, I suppose. Said he couldn’t sleep, and went to have a word with Sam.” Lt. Seabrooke turned back to Gillette, his open, honest face clearly showing his concern. “I didn’t expect to see him up and about so soon. Do you think he’s alright, sir?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out. Thank you, Mr. Seabrooke.” Andrew clapped Seabrooke on the shoulder and slowly strode toward the spot where Teddy and Mr. Millican stood side by side staring out at the deep blue waves that gently rocked the ship. As he drew closer, Mr. Gillette caught a part of their conversation, and smiled at what he heard. 

“Stop touching it,” Teddy chided, using his undamaged hand to slap Millican’s fingers away from the ugly gouge on his left cheek. “Prodding it with your dirty fingers every ten seconds isn’t going to make it heal any faster, Mr. Millican.”

            Millican quickly tucked both hands behind his back, wringing them together so as to avoid further temptation to touch his face. “Sorry, sir. But it itches something awful. And I suppose…I suppose I’m just feeling a bit…self-conscious, is all,” he added in a small voice.

            Both of Teddy’s eyebrows rose in feigned disbelief. As he continued, he kept his tone reassuringly hearty for the boy’s sake, but his exhaustion was plain. “About what? That scar is a badge of honor. It is proof that you’ve suffered adversity and lived to tell the tale. And believe me, Sam – people will want to hear this tale. That scar will serve you well down the road, you have my word. Next time you’re at a party and someone – a pretty girl, perhaps – asks about it, you can impress her with the heroic tale of how the Dauntless escaped two privateers and fiery doom.”

            “That’s easy for you to say sir, most of your badges of honor aren’t readily visible,” Millican mumbled in reply, his tone as downcast as his blue eyes.

            “You might have had a point if you had said that to me yesterday,” Teddy grumbled, staring down at his heavily bandaged right hand. He attempted to flex his fingers and gave a low hiss of pain.

            Millican’s crooked teeth worried his lower lip as his hands continued to twist nervously behind his back. “But won’t it make me appear a bit…unseemly?”

            Teddy snorted a laugh and gave Sam a fond look. “Unseemly? Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say unseemly. A bit roguish, perhaps. But I’ll let you in on a little secret.” Groves leaned in closer to Millican, lowering his voice to an overdramatic whisper.  “Women love men with scars.”

            “They do?” Millican asked. His young face was full of hope but his voice was full of doubt.

            “Oh, absolutely. Nothing is more certain to attract a pretty girl than a man with an air of danger about him. Someday soon, when you’re a little less gangly and generally awkward, well…they’ll be drawn to you like moths to a flame.” Teddy finally caught Andrew’s eyes and gave him a rueful, lopsided grin. Gillette noticed for the first time just how unfocused and glazed his friend’s eyes were.

            “Really?”  Millican’s dark brows had risen so high they were in danger of disappearing into his hairline. 

            Groves looked mildly insulted by Millican’s persistent disbelief.   “Do you honestly doubt me? I do know a thing or two about these matters, you know.”

            “Umm…no sir?”

            “Another word of advice, Mr. Millican; never address an answer to a superior officer in the form of a question,” Teddy deadpanned.

            “Yes sir, sorry Mr. Groves,” the boy whispered looking suitably abashed.

            Teddy smiled kindly at young Millican and patted him on the shoulder. Andrew noticed the way the boy steadied Groves when he swayed on the spot, carefully avoiding touching his burns as he gently and unobtrusively righted him. The sight went a long way to warming the frosty chill that had clung to his heart all morning. 

 “Trust me on this, Mr. Millican,” Groves continued in a tone of all-knowing wisdom. “Women may say they want the nice, steady sort of fellow, but most of them dream of a whirlwind romance with the rogue. They crave the excitement and danger. And the opportunity to improve him,” he added as an afterthought. “Women like to think they can change men, bend and shape them into something better. The nice fellow is already nice, isn’t he? Not much work there for the woman to do. But with the scoundrel, she’ll never get bored. Frustrated perhaps, but not bored.”

Millican’s eyes went comically wide. “But…I don’t want to be a scoundrel, sir!”

Andrew beamed with pride behind the boy’s back as Teddy rolled his eyes in exasperation. He knew the boy had a good head on his shoulders. 

Millican remained oblivious to his superiors as his expression took on a more thoughtful cast. He was contemplating so seriously that he failed to notice that Mr. Gillette was now standing right behind him. “So, what you’re saying is…it’s kind of like Miss Swann? She thought the Commodore was a safe and boring choice, so she picked Mr. Turner, who was more dangerous and exciting?”

            The appalled look on Andrew’s face set Teddy off, his laughs trailing off into broken, jagged coughs. His eyes brimmed with tears, and it was hard to discern if they were tears of laughter or pain.  Teddy wiped his eyes with his uninjured hand and waved Sam off when he automatically moved to his aid.

            “Mrs. Turner thought wrong,” Andrew drawled, making Mr. Millican jump and spin around instead.   Teddy was still struggling to breathe, so Andrew handed him the forgotten cup of tea that he still held on to. Teddy gave Andrew a look of deep gratitude as he accepted it and took a sip. He smirked over the rim of the cup at the gleeful way Andrew continued put a special emphasis on the woman’s newly married status. “And Mrs. Turner has little interest in Mr. Turner’s improvement. Turner isn’t a scoundrel, he is a blacksmith. She would rather him be a pirate than a blacksmith, which is hardly a step up in the world. Besides, I assure you that between the two, Commodore Norrington is by far the more dangerous man.” And has the scars to prove it, Andrew wanted to add but didn’t, not wanting to incriminate himself any more than he had already.

            “And far from boring,” Teddy added, his suggestive tone and the lewd quirk of his eyebrows going unnoticed by the young lad, who was too busy looking horrified at being caught gossiping about the Commodore. His mouth gaped like a fish as he stared up at Lt. Gillette.

            Andrew chose to ignore the boy for the moment, and addressed Groves instead. “I see that you’re feeling well enough to be up and corrupting the midshipmen, Mr. Groves,” Andrew drawled in his best imitation of James.

            “Only Mr. Millican here. And only because the other lads have been doing a piss poor job of it. Someone has to take up the slack,” Teddy justified with a shrug and a look of feigned innocence.

            Andrew tried to look stern, and with a monumental effort he managed to keep a straight face. “And you saw fit to elect yourself to that office? Theodore Groves, Corruptor in Chief.”

             “Oh, I like that title! Mind if I use it?”

            Andrew arched an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “I believe you’re supposed to be setting him an example, Lieutenant Groves.”

            “I am setting him an example, Lieutenant Gillette. It’s hardly my fault if you neglected to inform me that it had to be a good one.” 

            Andrew rolled his eyes, and this time Mr. Millican saw it and fought to suppress a smile. “I know I shouldn’t be encouraging insubordination, but don’t listen to a word he says, Mr. Millican. At least in regards to women. Mr. Groves is an incurable reprobate. A generally harmless one, but all the same…”

Teddy calmly sipped at his tea, a playful grin quirking his lips. “I object! That is vile slander, sir. I should demand satisfaction.”

“Alas, it’s a pity you’re in no fit condition to enjoy satisfaction, even if I gave it to you,” Andrew taunted, prompting a look of deep confusion from Millican. “Besides, you’re just angry that I called you harmless.”

 “True, but all the same…I thought you were above defaming the character of a crippled man, Mr. Gillette.”

            “First of all, it’s not slander if it’s true.   Second, why would I bother defaming your character when you yourself do such a fine job of it? And thirdly, you’re still in possession of all your fingers and I just saw them twitch, so while you’re definitely wounded, I would hardly classify you as a cripple,” Gillette clarified, ticking the points off on his fingers.

            Teddy huffed in mock exasperation. “What must one do around here to gain crippled status? Lose a few fingers?”

            “At the very least. On the other hand, your moral handicap is duly noted.”

            A snort of laughter erupted from Mr. Millican, but instead of silencing it with a censorial glare, Andrew gave him a conspiratorial wink. Considering everything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours, he felt the boy deserved a laugh. “And how are you this afternoon, Mr. Millican?” he finally asked, tearing his eyes away from Teddy to give Sam his full attention.  

Millican stammered for a moment until Teddy gave the boy a highly conspicuous poke between the shoulders, prompting him to answer the question. “I…I’m fine, sir. All things considered. Th…thank you for asking, sir.”

            Andrew wondered if he had ever been that young. Millican had never seemed as small as he did just then, little more than a child playing dress up in his father’s uniform. But his eyes belied his youth. They looked unbearably old; they were the haunted eyes of a man who had seen too much of death and destruction. The livid scarring of the boy’s smooth cheek was yet another reminder of the high price they all paid to serve and protect their country. Some men were allowed to keep their lives, but none were allowed to escape with their innocence intact.

            Millican fidgeted under the intensity of Andrew’s stare, and he took pity on the boy and shifted his gaze to the sea. “I believe you have the next watch, Mr. Millican? I thought you would be taking the opportunity to rest while it was available?”

            “Aye sir, I do. I just needed some air. It’s dreadfully hot and…and I couldn’t sleep. I…I should probably go now, make myself more presentable. If you’ll excuse me, sir.” Millican blushed and bowed his dark head as he tugged restlessly at his rumpled coat. 

“Yes, you’d probably best run along. And Mr. Millican,” Andrew called out as the boy turned to leave, stopping him with a warm hand on his shoulder. “I’ve made note of your conduct this morning in my report. You did very well today, Sam. You should be very proud of that.” Andrew nodded significantly at Millican’s newly acquired scar and gave his shoulder a supportive squeeze.  

Millican glowed with pride as he returned Andrew’s small smile with one of his own. The upward curve of his lips tugged at the gouge on his cheek, giving his grin a lopsided tilt that – as Teddy had rightly predicted – was quite rakish. He seemed to stand a little taller, his thin chest puffed out in pride as he addressed his first lieutenant. “Aye sir, thank you Mr. Gillette.” The boy then turned to Groves, his eyes brimming with respect and sincerity. “And thank you, Mr. Groves.” He paused as Groves started to cough again, and waited for the bout to pass. “If you need anything, sir…”

“I’ll be sure to ask. Thank you, Mr. Millican,” Teddy said with genuine gratitude. “Go on then. Apparently it’s Mr. Gillette’s turn to play my nursemaid.”

Millican nodded and departed with a quick salute. Once he was down the nearest hatch and out of sight, both Groves and Gillette turned back to watch the blinding sunlight dance on the calm sea. They stood in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to the gentle lap of water against the hull and the muted din of the crew as they went about their work. Their shoulders brushed as Teddy took an occasional sip of tea, and Andrew took great comfort from the fleeting touch. But worry for his friend continued to gnaw at his gut, like a rat through the casks in the hold.

 Part One, Continued