The walk up the path is no worse than the rest of the walk he's endured, but the movement still brings a sharp ache to his stump. It is this movement, this memory, that makes it ache.

Every step brings with it the bitter, copper stench of blood, the slick floor of the makeshift surgery, the sprays of blood and purulence, and sharp scent of alcohol.

"Do you wish now, Mister Bush," - his voice had slurred his name, thick with accent and pain, to Mister Boooosh - "that it had been you at your Captain's side?"

Bush stops, breathe thick in his chest, shaking his head to clear away the dank air and remembered scent, to bring back the heat of summer and the sound of a distant stream. He makes his way up the steps, his leg impacting hard on the wood, the weakened material giving way slightly under his weight.

He knocks on the door, rapping loudly and firmly. He listens and raises his hand again, letting it fall as the door swings open.

He is a different man, this Côtard. Gone is anything brash and showy about him. The stump of his arm hangs at his side, unadorned and undressed, the puckered red flesh still angry. His eyes narrow as he looks at Bush, his mouth opening to say something until his gaze falls and he sees.

"Mister Bush." The long, drawn out vowels still remain, Bush's name like a comedy on Côtard's tongue.

Bush nods and stands there, at attention, his hands clasped behind his back. He does not know why he is here, what he's seeking on this doorstep. "Major Côtard." There is silence, and Bush watches as Côtard's gaze roams over him again. "M-might I come in?"

"It is like a ghost, is it not?" Côtard turns on his heel, moving into the house without invitation. Bush follows him regardless, closing the door behind him and making his way through the dusty grey to a small sitting room, the place lit with the stubs of candles and littered with books.

"What is?"

"Everything. You." He sinks into a swayback chair and closes his eyes. His shirt sleeves do little to hide the other scars that mar his skin, the dark mat of hair on his chest. "All ghosts. Phantoms. Like the pain. Do you feel it, Mister Bush? W-William? Do you feel the pain?"

Bush nods, sitting across from him, reaching down to angle his leg, let the heavy wooden peg thump loudly on the floor. "I do not allow…"

"Allow?" Côtard gets to his feet, his face red and hot with rage. "It is not what you allow, Mr. Bush. It is what they allow. Stolen from you, Mr. Bush. Your life. Your…will you sail again? Will you climb rigging? Will you unfurl a sail? No. You will stand by and smell the ships as they come in and you will see rotted meat and rotted boys and that is what you allow. What you are allowed." He relaxes back in his chair with a low, hollow laugh. "If you are lucky."

They sit in silence for a long time, the seconds ticking off in Bush's head, the strange distant click and whir of Côtard's clock. "At night," Bush speaks softly, his voice not quite his in his ears. "At night, I feel it. The pain."

"Ghosts," Côtard insists. "Ghosts of dead boys and children. Sap your strength and your will and take it all from you. You are haunted, Mr. Bush. Haunted as only the dead can be." He sets his sights on Bush and leans in, closing the distance between them with the fiery glint of madness in his eyes. "You are a dead man. Expendable and useless and you exist only by His Majesty's mercy so long as he has it."

"I need a man, Major. I'm to manage the dockyards at Sheerness. I need a man. A man I can trust." The words come of their own volition and Bush snaps his mouth shut to withhold them, to take them back. But they hang there, more ghosts in the stifling air of the cottage. "The job is yours."

"You need a man, Mr. Bush. Two good legs to go with your two good arms?" He laughs and the madness clears for a moment. He leans back and shakes his head. "I am not in the Navy's service."

"No. But you serve His Majesty, and as I see it, that should serve me well enough." He gets to his feet, his lips narrowing into a thin line as pain pierces his leg, shivering up the stump like ice in his veins. "Sheerness, Major Côtard. Come Monday."

Côtard stands as well, his smile as knowing and as familiar as yesterday. "Sheerness is a long way, Mister Bush."

"Everything is a long way, Major." He reaches out his hand and takes Côtard's carefully, squeezing the fingers gone soft with disuse and decay. "But some things are worth the journey." He releases him and nods brusquely. "Monday."

Nodding, Côtard follows him to the door, his stride slow and even with Bush's own. "Monday…Captain."

Bush catches his breath and nods, moving quickly out the door, blinded by the sudden burst of sunlight. He waits on the bowed step, testing his weight, testing the waters. He waits until the storm is weathered to step off, find his footing on the rough path.