Work Text:
The masts creaked, exerting themselves to the utmost, and the grey sagging sailcloth was the colour of cotton wool in field hospitals. The rope smarted his wrists, sinking its stringy teeth deep. Eventually, the pain numbed itself out. The bitterness of needled pride never did. The sea was high and heavy, and the waves rolled over the bulwark, leaving flocks of dirty yellow foam behind them.
It happened when the ship swung suddenly, in a perilous manner, for an instant burying its bow beneath the muddy seawater. A head wave caught it by surprise, veering it across the waters. The deck slanted, and he ran, slowly at first, slipping on the lumps of seaweed, towards the side. Away, away, astray in the cold ocean-waves, but far from here,venturing towards the bluish strip of land half-eaten by the horizon.
The sound of the shot was lazy and muffled. He stumbled, his hands thrown up, and fell heavily. His boot and puttee were quickly soaked with bubbling blood, sending his consciousness whirling, blurring with dark at the edges. No-one came.
The wind hissed, getting tangled in the rigging, and smelled of fish and salt. It was beginning to grow cold as the dusk fell, washing away the silhouettes and making the sounds sharper. Slowly, a drizzling rain started.
The raindrops pattered over the deck wood and gathered in small puddles, washing the dirt and the sweepings away. They licked at the almost-dried specks of blood, dissipating them into naught. The water beneath was dark, heaving and rippling. From it, a crisp chill rose.
After a while, he coughed out and pulled his feet up, clutching at the ankle - a heap of ragged clothes and crushed ambitions, a ruin. The ship rocked measuredly, lullingly, taking Napoleon to the island of Saint Helena.