Title: The Shoaling Sea

Summary: Hornblower is kidnapped and Bush picks up the pieces. A rather cliche hurt/comfort premise I know, but I try I've tried to keep it era appropriate and realistic

Characters: Bush/Hornblower (slow developing slash), Cornwallis, Doughty, Cargill . . .

Rating: ranges from PG to R, mostly PG13

Era: Hornblower and the Hotspur (bookverse), can be enjoyed if you've seen Loyalty and Duty (just pretend Cornwallis is Pellew, and Cargill is Orrock :D)

Author's note: This story is not yet finished, but only has a few (3-ish?) chapters to go. I've reached a small impasse, however, and thought posting it here in addition to its livejournal home might encourage me to continue faster XD

Part I (4400 words)

In Hornblower and the Hotspur, Hornblower and his crew prevent a French invasion of Ireland by catching the fleet of troop-hauling convoy ships unawares near the mouth of the Goulet. We begin this story just after that victory. Hornblower has spent the last week pushing himself through sleepless nights to stand watch, for he could trust the navigation of these dangerous shoals to no other at night and in the fog.

The battle was over. The Ireland invasion fleet had been alternately destroyed or turned back, and their chasing frigate had been caught in the shoals.

It had been with relief that Hornblower listened to division reports detailing the damage to his ship, its men, and its stores, despite the losses. Grief would come later. For now it was relief indeed knowing that he had not failed in his duty—even if it was a duty that the squadron captain, Chambers, had not acknowledged as necessary. Hornblower knew better. The actions of the Hotspur, his decision to risk life and ship to patrol the Goulet, had prevented a French invasion of Ireland. His actions had been for the good of the service; the good of the war. Prize money or no, his men could be proud of their work this day, and all the trolling nights before. And now that the action was past, Hornblower could marvel at the industry of his men. For it seemed like only an hour had passed, but the worst of the ship repairs were already completed. The foremast had been braced with an extra spar, the two shot holes below the water line were patched with a sail on the outside, and the men had been organized into regular shifts on the pumps. He had been so intent on the minutia of reports and instructions that he had paid scant attention to the work of his officers. And now all was done. They should be commended for their efforts.

Yet this intense relief, which had come upon him like a gale as soon as they'd seen the frigate catch at her bottom, was a temporary emotion, he knew.

Indeed, as half his mind followed the surgeon's report—two men dead, three wounded, and one of those likely to die—he could feel his relief ebbing away, supplanted by something more physical. Fatigue. And Cold. He was bone weary. He had gotten only two hours of sleep before the fighting, and before that . . . he had been sustaining himself with only snatches of naps for the past week, his worry and sense of duty not allowing him to trust the navigation of these shoals to anyone else. His body ached and stooped and shivered. He was becoming increasingly aware of the effort it required just to keep his back erect and hold his legs steady beneath him. And it was not merely his body that ached, for at least it had enjoyed the occasional respite—an hour here and there. His mind, however, had been restless even in sleep, and the strain of his worry and mental calculations had left him with a permanent headache.

He felt he should be dumb and witless now, and part of him worried that maybe he was. It would be so easy to lay down right now, in the middle of the deck, and sleep. No one could stop him from doing so—for wasn't he in command?

But of course he could not.

He would listen to this last report, and then he would retreat to his cabin. No one but Doughty would see him collapse on his bed. No one but Doughty would see his human frailty, so unbecoming of a ship's captain. Just one more report, and he could leave the repairs to the officer of the watch.

He was surprised to find words coming from his mouth, as the part of his mind that had listened to the surgeon responded to a question or acknowledged a difficulty. It was nice that he could leave this actual thinking to the still functioning portion of his mind while the rest of him wallowed in self pity and dreamed of sleep. And now the surgeon was walking away and he was free. Free to walk below, and free to let his head rest on his pillow.

"Sir?"

It was Bush. Of course. It would have been too easy if that had been all, if he were truly free. He felt his headache grow until his head pulsed in time with the blood pumping from his heart.

"Yes?" His voice came out flat without any effort whatsoever. Bush was smiling, his face still flushed with the euphoria of battle. The excitement of the engagement with the frigate seemed to have washed away his fatigue, leaving him entirely too cheerful for Hornblower's liking. He had witnessed the same transformation at Samana Bay, when Bush and he had kept the Spanish at bay with hot shot and a score of men. Hornblower did not see the same transformation in himself, and so he was jealous of Bush. He could not guess that Bush saw this as a trait they shared.

"Sir, the officers would like to invite you to dinner in the wardroom. Simmonds has the galley fire up, now that we've cleared away the guns, and we're serving the last of the lamb we saved from Plymouth. We wouldn't feel right celebrating without you, Sir. Cheeseman's got the watch, so you've no need to worry on that account."

Bush was genuine in his invitation—Hornblower doubted Bush was capable of dissembling even if he should want to. And lamb would be much better than salted beef and biscuit, even with Doughty's fancy manipulations. But Hornblower was too tired to be hungry. Too tired, indeed, to be anything other than tired. He opened his mouth to offer a polite refusal . . . then checked himself. It was not every day that a captain was invited to dine with his officers. It was a great show of respect, even admiration. To turn it down could only reflect poorly on him, and hurt morale. And too, they might ask themselves why he refused, might suspect his weakness. And it was not just the officers who would wonder. If Simmonds was serving them then the whole crew would soon know that he had turned down this invitation, which would lead to speculation in the lower decks. They might think he was displeased with his officers, or that he was too proud to eat with his men. No. It wouldn't do. Another hour or two of wakefulness could not possibly leave him more tired than he was now.

He opened his mouth again, "I thank you, Mr. Bush. I would be delighted to join the officers." He struggled to keep the fatigue out of his voice, and by Bush's widening smile thought he must have succeeded. "When shall I join you?"

"We should be ready for you in 15 minutes."

Bush left then, leaving Hornblower to pace the deck in a daze. If he went to his cabin, he knew he would not leave it, so he must remain on deck until this . . . dinner . . . was served. Funny that they should call it 'dinner', for it must be near four in the morning. Everyone had been working awkward shifts, frequently interrupted when all hands were needed for maneuvers. And the engagement of the past two hours had required the entire crew's full attention. He supposed that 'dinner' was more apt than 'breakfast'.

His mouth opened in a yawn which he ought to suppress. Yet the act of forcefully restraining his jaw made him aware of another discomfort. His throat was sore, and his jaw ached where it met his skull. The symptoms were disconcertingly similar to those of head cold, and this new fear—that he was on the cusp of being ill, pounded his thoughts much as his blood seemed to pound his head. His pacing was sluggish, and with the hands repairing sail, he only had eight feet in which to move, back and forth, back and forth. There was snow on the deck, and the path of his pacing was clear by the dark wood of the wet deck peaking through the white drifts. He shivered involuntarily. He even contemplated stopping, to save his tired legs the strain, but found that standing motionless took more balance than walking, balance which he utterly lacked in his current state.

It was with some surprise that he found Doughty tugging on his sleeve what must have been fifteen minutes later. Doughty must have heard of Bush's invitation, or mayhap he was sent by the officers to retrieve him directly.

"Sir, the wardroom is ready for you, Sir."

"Thank you." Hornblower fancied he heard disapproval in Doughty's voice, and he wondered if it was because he felt slighted, or if, perhaps, he had sensed his captain's fatigue where Bush had not.

Hornblower made his way below with measured steps, and found a crowd in the wardroom. He was amazed they had been able to fit that many chairs in the room, let alone bodies. There were nine people including himself. Bush, Prowse, and Cargill, of course, but also the young gentleman and midshipmen he was less acquainted with. Foreman, Poole, Young, Cummings, and Orrock. He found himself smiling at the cheerful assembly without realizing it, and he was too tired to smother it as he might have normally. They were all standing, waiting for their captain to sit first, and again he marveled that they had the space to stand beside their chairs. He felt a twinge of guilt for their stooped and awkward postures and seated himself quickly.

"Thank you, gentlemen, for this invitation. And thank you for your service. I dare say we won't be bothering with this stretch of the Spanish coast for quite some time." The words came easily to Hornblower's lips, and he realized with some curiosity that he might actually enjoy himself at this meal.

Bush made an appropriate response- "It's a pleasure to have you with us, sir" –and the meal was served with little ceremony but with obvious gaiety. Yet despite the bright atmosphere, and despite his shift in mood, Hornblower still did not feel inclined to eat. Even with the hot vapors of stewed lamb wafting up to his nose he was not hungry. He should be starving, considering how little he'd eaten over the past week, and over the course of that day in particular. But between his sore throat and deep fatigue, food just didn't interest him as he knew it should. He picked up his spoon and forced himself to lift several spoonfuls to his mouth. The thick broth was warm and salty, and felt good on his abused throat. That alone was enough to drive him through several more spoonfuls, but he could not eat with the gusto of his companions. A few minutes of silent chewing passed, in which everyone was too intent on the food for speech, and then the conversation began. Unsurprisingly it focused largely on the fight they'd just survived—Young and Foreman couldn't wait to tell their friends and siblings and parents back in England all about the exchange of cannon shot, while Cummings wanted to know what a bigger battle was like (it was mostly Bush who fielded this question), and Orrock questioned Prowse on points of mid-battle seamanship.

Hornblower was content to listen, as, apparently, were Poole and Cargill. He was hardly loquacious in the best of times, and at that moment conversation would be an effort. Instead he pushed the chunks of mutton around his plate, and kept an easy smile on his face as he tried to feign attention to the flow of words across the table. He must not have been as good an actor as he'd thought, however, because more than once he caught Bush giving him a worried glance. The third time it happened he met Bush's eyes, so his First Lieutenant would know he'd been caught, but while Bush had the grace to look mildly abashed, he did not look away entirely. Instead he drew his eyes from his captain to the plate before Hornblower such that there was no escaping his meaning. Bush had noticed Hornblower's lack of appetite, and this was his polite way of telling him to eat up. He thought, then, that maybe there was another reason for this dinner, and maybe Bush was much more clever than he gave him credit for.

The lamb was warm and surprisingly tasty when Hornblower forced himself to chew and swallow it, an act he repeated several times so as to avoid Bush's censure. But there was no joy in his eating, only mechanical necessity. And to distract himself from the unpleasantness of that necessity, he finally ventured into conversation.

"Mr. Cargill, where were you before you joined the Hotspur?" It was easy to maintain pleasantries with these younger men. Where do you hail from? Your family? He could walk them through their careers, ask pertinent questions about locations mentioned or achievements made. He could even dispense advice and narrate anecdotes from his time as a midshipman on the Indefatigable, stories which garnered the attention of the entire table, even a surprised Bush. And when he had thoroughly questioned Mr. Cargill he moved on to Mr. Poole. It was likely that a full hour passed before Orrock stood and left the room, returning a moment later with a wine bottle. It could only have been from someone's private stores, as he certainly had none left, and the Admiralty only supplied a rum ration. Orrock produced a glass, poured it half full, and placed it before his captain. Then he retrieved a stack of smaller glasses and let the stack and the bottle be passed around the table until everyone present held a glass. Then, as tradition dictated, Mr. Orrock, the youngest officer present, offered a toast.

"To the King!"

This, of course, had to be followed by a toast from the captain, and Hornblower pushed his chair back so he could stand. He forced himself to his feet by pressing down on the table, and felt dizzy from the exertion. He found he had to keep his hand on the table just to maintain his balance. In his mind's eye he could see himself falling to the floor before all of his officers, sprawled on the ground in his pathetic weakness. The vision strengthened his resolve, and he used the moment to gaze at the faces of his men, as if his pause was intentional. Then, his eyes finally focusing properly, he lifted his glass.

"To the Hotspur and her crew. A captain could not wish for a better set of officers than those that walk her deck . . . nor a better set of curtains for his cabin." He smiled wryly here, his rue-some gratitude plain, "May she see us through many more battles to come." He lifted his glass and they drank. He could see by the looks in their eyes and the smiles on their faces that he had done well, so with some relief he seated himself once more, trying not to look like he was collapsing onto the wooden frame of his chair. He felt cold, like a breeze was winding through his clothes, but as a bead of moisture ran down his neck he realized he was sweating. His head pounded again in reminder that it, too, did not feel well. The act of standing had sent blood pumping into his head again in pulsing beats against his skull.

Bush was standing now, to make one final toast, and Hornblower forced his attention away from his own distracting maladies.

"I'd like to make one final toast tonight. To our Captain, the only captain, I think, who could have led us to victory amidst the perilous shoals of the Goulet."

The officers were solemn at this toast, taking their queue from Bush. This was a sincere gesture, and while part of Hornblower hated Bush for this embarrassment, and hated himself for enjoying the undeserved gratitude, Hornblower was touched. His voice was hoarse when he forced himself to grunt out "Thank you", and he did not think it was from his sore throat. There was a comfortable silence after the last toast, and then conversation resumed. Simmonds was suddenly there, removing plates and clearing the table. Cargill produced a pack of cards, and it became clear to Hornblower that the evening was not yet over for them. This was indeed a night of celebration. Hornblower, however, was quite ready for his cabin. His ailments were becoming more oppressive, his fatigue more pronounced, and it was only pride and will that kept him from laying his head down right there on the wardroom table. It was time to go.

He waited until the wine glasses, not terribly full to begin with, were empty, then called, "Gentlemen." Their eyes swung his way. "It is time for me to take my leave. I thank you most sincerely for the wonderful dinner, and fine wine. I hope it wasn't your last bottle." He smiled and Foreman and Young laughed. "Good evening." With that he stood, and stepped to the door. Or he tried to. He'd forgotten this dizziness. His toast had been not 10 minutes past—how had he managed to forget what a struggle it was to remain upright? To keep his balance? He made it to the door with the gracelessness of a drunkard, and clung rather pathetically to the door handle a moment before his brain could process how to open it. He made it through the opening and was attempting to pull it closed after himself when the Hotspur rolled. It was not a violent roll—nothing more than a swell, really, but Hornblower's balance, ruined by his congestion and fatigue, failed him, and he fell to the floor. His eyes closed of their own volition, and he had to fight not to lose consciousness right there. What a scene that would be. His eyes flickered open and he groaned quietly at the spots that speckled his vision.

There was a hand on his shoulder. "Sir? Are you alright, Sir?" It was Cargill, his woozy mind told him. He felt himself flush. Damn! He moved his hands into a better position, then pushed himself up . . . only to fall back on his face, his arms weak and useless by his sides. God Damn! And as if the force of the air leaving his lungs when he fell was a trigger, he started coughing then. A loud, racking cough that shook his whole frame and left him gasping for air, which was all the more difficult to suck in, as he was laying on his stomach. He was miserable. The hand on his shoulder went away, to be replaced with another, and someone was speaking. ". . . not well, sir . . . help you up . . . cabin . . . Orrock fetch . . surgeon!" Then he was being lifted up by strong arms, and his own arm was slung across a broad, sturdy back. Through his spotty vision he could see it was Bush, and he took some comfort in knowing that it was his friend who would be supporting him, and not one of the petty officers, or, heaven forbid, one of the young gentlemen. Now that he was standing, his coughing subsided, and he could feel his legs taking some of his own weight. He was incapable of turning to look behind him, which was fortunate, or he would have seen the crowd of officers there, looking on in blatant worry, concern, and uncertainty. Hornblower could just make out Cargill's large frame in front of him, and that was suitable embarrassment enough. He recovered some of his strength as they walked, using Bush more for balance than to support his weight. He wanted to apologize to Bush as much as he wanted to thank his friend, but he did neither, saving his breath for walking instead.

He was well enough to feel quite mortified for his display of weakness by the time they reached his cabin, and he was certain it was that, more than sickness and exertion, that made him red faced when Bush helped lower him to his bed. And of course his embarrassment made him irritable. It really should have come as no surprise that instead of thanking Bush, or apologizing, he spat out, "God damn your eyes."

Bush took this with frustratingly good grace. "You'll feel better in the morning, sir. The surgeon will be here in a minute to see what he can do." And then Doughty was suddenly at his side, pulling off Hornblower's boots, and unbuttoning his jacket. He was pushing Bush away with his mere presence, and Hornblower, his irritability now mingled with guilt and fearful loneliness, reached out a hand to prevent Bush's departure from his side. He succeeded in grasping an arm. "Forgive me." He rasped. Bush seemed to turn slightly, and then Hornblower felt his own hand lifted from Bush's arm to rest in between Bush's two hands. Bush gave a reassuring squeeze and Hornblower allowed himself to relax.

"Mr. Cargill. Have Simmonds heat up some water and bring it here with some towels," Bush ordered, though Hornblower could not see Cargill from where he lay. "Hot but not boiling, mind you. And bring some empty bottles while you're at it." Bush's voice was harsher than he was used to hearing it. It registered in Hornblower's fuddled mind that Bush was worried. Over him? Bush was forced to relinquish his hold when Doughty started pulling off Hornblower's jacket and waistcoat, but it was a temporary loss only. The surgeon, Wallis, arrived only moments after this undressing was completed, and he was quick in his inspection. Hornblower did not think there was much to see. He was sick, not wounded, and the only notable thing he had seen when he last stood naked before a mirror was the protrusion of his ribs, which seemed to emphasize more than any other part of his body his growing thinness. Now the surgeon was taking his pulse, and prodding Hornblower's stomach. He needed no thermometer to proclaim that the captain had a fever and his pulse was high. With this proclamation Hornblower could endure the inspection no longer in silence.

"It's just a head cold, dammit. There's no need for all this . . . nonsense!" He felt acutely embarrassed by all the attention directed toward him and his illness.

"Perhaps so, sir." Wallis agreed. "But while your head is feverish, the rest of you is cold to the touch. And you're too thin. You need to rest for a few days. Sleep. Eat. No watches, no reports, no work."

"Are you relieving me of duty, sir?" Hornblower's voice was indignant. A head cold was a trivial thing—certainly not substantial enough to justify the worry conveyed by Bush's hand and the surgeon's intervention.

"I will, sir, if you do not rest." There it was. Wallis, who was a middle aged man, well inured to the complaints of patients of every class, did not look like he was willing to negotiate, and he was the one man on board who could force his will upon the captain, though he might risk court martial in doing so.

Hornblower sucked in a deep breath to voice a scorching rebuttal, but the intake of air tickled his throat, and instead he launched into another coughing fit. When his hacking came to an end he was only capable of a weak glare, but he leveled it at the surgeon all the same. The doctor had the grace to not laugh aloud at this rather pathetic defiance, maintaining enviable composure, but it was clear he was not about to change his mind. Hornblower sagged back onto his pillow and closed his eyes in fatigued frustration. And no sooner did the surgeon depart, but Cargill returned, Orrock at his heals.

"It doesn't look like you obeyed my orders, Mr. Cargill," Bush's voice was sharp, but quiet, like a tiger waiting for the kill.

"I've got everything, sir, only I decided to fill the water bottles straight from the stove so's I could carry more water and save you their filling here. That's why I needed Orrock—to carry the towels and bucket while I brought the bottles." As he said this Doughty, who had been standing unobtrusively near the end of the captain's cot, came forward to take the sack of bottle's from Cargill's hands.

Bush nodded his approval. "Very well. Orrock, set that bucket by me. Gently now, don't let it splash. Very good. Dismissed."

"But sir, we're happy to-"

"DISMISSED."

As soon as the cabin door closed Bush pulled back Hornblower's blankets so that Doughty could start positioning the hot water bottles to maximum effect. Bush, for his part, dampened one of the towels in the hot water and started sponging off his captain's body. Hornblower was dusted with salt crystals from the sea spray that had infiltrated his jacket, and his face was coated in sweat.

"Kind of you, Mr. Bush, to look after my dignity," Hornblower rasped, sarcasm heavy in his voice. It was difficult to maintain any sense of dignity when you were shivering and incapable of washing yourself. And of course Bush would not relegate the health of his captain to the hands of the lower deck, menial as his care might be.

"Should I call Mr. Cargill back then? He did look rather eager to please," Bush sounded so incredibly genuine that Hornblower could not restrain a laugh. Bush joined in, his deeper voice producing an echoing thunder that was a joy to hear. But then Hornblower's laughter dissolved into coughs, and Bush wrung his towel dry so that he might offer the captain a glass of water. Hornblower took some, and Doughty pulled up his blankets and tucked them tightly to his sides.

Bush would have remained then, even after seeing to his captain's physical needs, to ensure his friend's comfort, but Hornblower's fatigue was such that, once horizontal and fully warm, he fell asleep almost instantly.

Bush and Doughty exchanged small smiles and then both departed.