My Clarity

Chapter twenty - seven

Pain, they say, is a figment of one's imagination. Their threshold for it. Their tolerance. Jack could tolerate many things, pain included, but the thing he despised was invalidity. The vulnerability of needing another person. He would happily fawn over any person in need but had never required it in return. Now though, as the stormy waters carried the Californian towards Boston taking with it as many passengers of the Titanic that she could, Jack was abed with a large bandage across his left shoulder from the burn which had, apparently, grown infected in the duration of leaving it to fester. He nursed a couple of cracked ribs from his fight with Lovejoy and then, there was the vomiting which hit him on an hourly basis at first, until it has ceased to once every four or five hours until eventually, he succumbed to a restless sleep.

"Your body needs rest and nourishment, Mr. Dawson. You have suffered through not just one but several traumas. Exposing yourself to explicit heat, the force of-tumbling about the deck- and then the shock of it all. We are also travelling aboard a vessel considerably smaller than Titanic, and with this storm which doesn't seem to let up, it will be choppy until we reach land." Doctor Edwards, a fifty-something, greying man told him, with a clipboard and pen to hand. "Now, take the medications as prescribed and sleep where you are able."

"I don't like to take medicine, doc, surely just eating and a few hours' sleep will do and then I could take the air on the deck?"

"Absolutely not," the doctor replied sharply, "and if I hear of you leaving your bed aside from to do what is necessary, then I shall be tying you to it."

The doctor was borderline serious and so, Jack had allowed him to leave to prevent himself from arguing further with a physician, he was sure had more pressing matters to tend to or more injuries to see but seemed to find some satisfaction in lingering about to fettle over him like some sick child.

For the moment, his stomach had settled. In the decaying room, there was a single cot in which he laid, a sink and privy cupboard and two chairs which sat beside the small window. The Californian was not a ship built for luxury, and with its size, one could only guess how many passengers it had managed to rescue. Were the halls, decks and dining rooms lined with those in need? Attempting to sit up, the same pain shot through his shoulder but this time with a red and determined face, he heaved himself up and then almost tumbled out of bed as the ship took a slight wave too fast and his stomach almost cast the insides out again until he regained his sitting within the cot and rested himself back to gain his composure again.

Dear God, what was the matter with him? He was as fragile as a doe. Blinking back frustration tears, he watched as his hands trembled and his stomach rolled again. If the sickness ceased then he would be able to stand at least for a minute without hitting the floor, he was sure of it.

Jack Dawson was a man who in just a day or two was supposed to arrive in New York City and marry the woman who over the course of a week he had managed to grow enamoured with; enough to fight for her with his own life. He was to return home to Boston and somehow decide his future, but right now, there seemed to be nothing past a festering injury and a sickness which hit him like a bat in the belly.

Seasickness had hit some passengers from as little as an hour of been onboard. The sea was rough, as rain poured onto the slippery decks ensuring that most passengers stayed indoors for the most part. Who would want to view the sea? The culprit which had claimed so much from everyone aboard. Every person had lost something. Sleep hadn't come to Jack that first evening. Or so he thought. He was aware of a presence and a pressure beside him. There was the wail of someone but then he was plunged back into the depths of slumber.

After that, it was quiet. The wails died down. The gentle chugging of the ship combined with the sloshing of water was a great reminder that they were safe; the ships engines were working. The boiler room was not on fire. They were safe, even with the great choppy waves. In the darkness, he had been sick another six or seven times and each time a hand had bathed his head and his face, which dripped with sweat. The doctor had come to change his bandage and muttering was about a fever breaking.