My Wild Man

An Encounter

The ocean was back to being a beautiful blanket of blue calmly stretched out as far as the eye could see. Or at least, as far as I could make out through the flaps of my makeshift tent. Not a cloud in sight, not a drop of rain. "...Funny how quickly you decide to turn yourself around," I mumbled. Winced at the shooting pain in my chest with every breath.

Glanced over to the right, where from outside the tent I could hear the sounds of sailors singing another shanty whilst they gathered up useful remnants of the wreckage or continued building makeshift tents. What would Mr. Finnigan say if he were here? Something like... "Aye," I mumbled aloud, attempting his accent as best I could. "The sea be a fickle mistress. Her mood tosses and turns, just like her tides."

"That was pretty good, lad."

Mr. McGregor stepped through the tent opening somewhat sheepishly, hands behind his back and emerald eyes flitting about the tent almost nervously. "Thought myself that Mr. Finnigan was in here."

With a grimace I pushed myself up in the cot, feeling the broken ribs all over again. "I wager I'll be fairly good at impressions by the time I can move again," I sighed. "Wonder how long that will be."

He shrugged. "Unfortunately the physician is now with Davy Jones. Mr. Stewart and myself are doin' the best we can with the ill."

"And I'm sure they appreciate it. I know I do." Rubbed at the bandages wrapped tight around my chest. "Better than being dead, that's for sure."

He chuckled, taking a few steps to close the gap between us leisurely. "High praise from the young Mr. Fletcher, that is." I smirked at his sarcasm, watching him kneel beside the cot. The closer he got, the more freckles I pinpointed on his weatherworn face. "Speaking of, it's time to take a look at them bones o' yours, sir."

Never in our thirteen months of travel together had he addressed me as "sir". That was reserved solely for the Capitan and my father. But within these last four days of being shipwrecked, he seemed to prefer it over the "lad" nickname he so often used. Internally I cowered away from the thought of undoing these wraps: they'd been plenty painful just putting them on in the first place. "...Must we?" I asked hopefully.

"Aye, I'm afraid so." He wiped the sand off his hands before helping me up further with a hand on my arm and the other at my back. I gripped the sheet with such force as my chest and torso exploded with pain. He helped to support my weight as he unwrapped the shoddy bandages, rough hands not as gentle as I would've liked.

"How is my father?" I asked through grit teeth, trying to distract myself from the unbearable spasms. Ignored the cold breeze against my skin, and the unnatural and suspicious jutting of a bone in my chest. A large ring of huge, mottled, scabbed bruises rested around my chest and torso where the rope had nearly strangled me to death. By Mr. McGregor's uneducated guess, I had broken at least four ribs.

Last time I'd seen my father was two days ago- well, the back of him as he exited the tent in the dark. A sleepy look to the side of my cot revealed he had placed some of my "silly books" that had washed up on shore on the ground beside me. "He's as well as he can be. Wound's doin' alright, still maintains an intimidating presence among the men. The only one keeping us all level-headed."