Fever

by elsa3beth

bookverse What if Hornblower made it to the Nonsuch before collapsing of typhus? Hornblower is amusing in his delirium, and Bush is by his side.

Fic Title: Fever
Fandom: Horatio Hornblower, bookverse
Pairings: Bush/Hornblower, though more of a pre slash friend fic
Summary: What if Hornblower made it to the Nonsuch before collapsing of typhus? Hornblower is amusing in his delirium, and Bush is by his side. (uhm, pretend Hornblower's not infections, so the ship's not at risk)
Disclaimer: none of this is mine; in particular you'll notice that the middle section is directly taken/adapted from ch 24 of Commodore Hornblower *sheepish*

Why the devil was Brown looking at him like that?

Hornblower suddenly became self-conscious. Had he been singing? Surely not. It was the boatman. He had merely been laughing. He supposed that was a rare occurrence for the famously reserved Commodore Hornblower, but surely Brown should not be so surprised? And where was Richard? They had been in the garden . . . the earth was damp beneath his fingers, and he reached into the nearest hole to see if it was deep enough to meet with his son's approval. "Sir? Sir?" That was Barbara calling from the shady spot beneath the great oak tree. Why was she calling him 'sir'? She'd never done that before, not even on the Lydia. He felt an ocean spray on the breeze, and marveled at the small of the sea mingling with the flowers. They didn't get a sea breeze at Smallbridge. Hornblower frowned.

He wasn't at Smallbridge; he was on a boat. A boat now filled with an awkward silence, for the boatman had broken off his singing at Hornblower's high spirited laughter.

Brown was peering anxiously at him. "Sir? Are you alright?"

"Of course I am." The reply came without any thought. Of course he was alright. Except . . . His mind was unable to reconcile the two realities that overlaid his vision. He thought, suddenly, that sleep wold be the most wonderful thing in the world . . .

It was with some surprise that he found himself, some indeterminate time later, dangling in a hammock seat just above the deck of the Nonsuch. He hadn't recalled any of the long approach to the ship, or heard the hails to the sdeck that must have been exchanged. And Richard was missing again. Where would he hide on a ship like the Nonsuch? In the cordage? In the rigging? Below decks? He swung his head around in speculation, but was caught by a pair of piercing blue eyes that seemed to demand his attention.

"Sir?" The blue eyes bore into him, but Hornblower was perfectly incapable of understanding the sounds that drifted to him. "Sir!"

A calloused hand appeared before Hornblower, coming to rest on his forehead. He tried to brush it away, but the hand just moved to grasp Hornblower's left arm, and another hand appeared on Hornblower's right shoulder.

"Definitely a fever, Brown. Help me get him to his cabin." The words again meant nothing to Hornblower, who moved in a dream. Richard was leading him to his hiding place below, and Hornblower had to duck beneath a vine to follow. He laughed with joy at the game. He was oblivious to Bush and Brown, who at the laugh exchanged helpless, worried looks. Suddenly Hornblower was being lowered into a bed—the bed in his cabin, not his and Barbara's large, decorated bed at Smallbridge. This was a strange thing—he had never been put to bed before, that he could recall, unless one counted the occasional assistance of his steward after a long stand on deck. Which he did not. Barbara was tugging at his jacket, trying to rid him of its stiff weight. He was cold, and wanted his jacket, but he loved it when Barbara undressed him. He didn't therefore protest, even as the slight breeze in the cabin caused pinpricks to rise on his skin beneath his rough linen shirt. She had started her efforts at the bottom of his coat, working her way up to his collar with skillful hands that seemed a bit larger than he recalled. It was a game they'd played often. As she undid the last button, her face directly above his own, he reached up and pulled her head down to his, giving her a passionate kiss to complete the ritual. But the lips that met his were hard, not soft, and the head above his own was frozen in place, as if it had not expected Hornblower's actions.

"Barbara?" He questioned, confusion palpable, though he did not remove his arm from his companion's neck.

The voice that responded was entirely too deep. "Uh, n-no, sir." Hornblower could hear embarrassment in the canter of the speech, and he forced his gaze into focus. He could just make out two blue eyes staring into his own, and a broad, weathered face. Bush's face. Hornblower was mortified. His hand fell from Bush's hair like it had been burned.

"Forgive me, Captain. Forgive me," he croaked out, his face flushing above and beyond his fever.

Bush had the grace to look away from Hornblower's discomfiture, focusing instead on removing the coat fully from his friend's arms, but he either lacked the ability or the compunction to hide his smile. Hornblower was reassured that Bush at least did not seem horrified by his commodore's actions. Perhaps he would not even remember the lapse when morning came. No doubt he'd at least be circumspect enough never to bring it up.

Hornblower suddenly shivered. He was cold, dammit, and here he was being stripped of his garments one by one! His arms wrapped themselves around his torso and he couldn't completely contain his urge to curl up into a ball. He tried to turn onto his side, but a hand restrained him; and then there was a blanket covering him and his shivers eased.

Bush was speaking to someone now, and Hornblower sensed movement about the cabin. But he no longer cared. Instead he let the voices lull him to sleep.

The next few weeks would always be a blur in Hornblower's mind. Sleep was interspersed with nightmares and visions, and he was never entirely sure what was reality and what was a dream. Only a few moments rose above the miasma of fever to be retained by his memory, and even those seemed imaginary. They were ridiculous in the extreme, so much so that Hornblower wished that he could call them the conjurings of his addled mind, but he was filled with an unnerving certainty that they had actually happened.

The first firm memory was of a voice, speaking in a low, regular rhythm, as if he were reading something. The voice stopped and sighed. Hornblower felt something leave his hand, and then heard a thump, as of a book closing. He hadn't even been aware that something was in his hand until his palm was suddenly vacant. He found himself missing whatever had resided there.

More thumps followed the first, but these sounded sharper, like wood on wood. They moved away from Hornblower across the cabin, then back to his side. Shortly after the last thump he felt that something slide back into his hand. He was surprised to find that it was another hand—a worn and calloused hand that felt as if it had been hewn from the sea itself and roughened by the tide. Yet it was warm and gentle in Hornblower's own smooth palm. This hand, and it's absent partner, had always puzzled Hornblower. Not just its paradoxical rough gentleness, but the coarseness of the skin itself. How did Bush keep his hands so hard and weathered? He couldn't possibly still climb the rigging, not with his leg. And surely there could be no fishermanly excuse from a post captain . . .

Hornblower was consumed with curiosity, and he was in no state of mind to deny that curiosity-his illness seemed to have stripped him of all his normal reserve. It was therefore with very little thought that he opened his mouth and voiced the question. "How do you keep your hands so rough, Bush?"

His words came out as a rather hoarse whisper, much to Hornblower's chagrin, and from the first weak syllable he felt the hand in his own stiffen. Hornblower rubbed his thumb against the top of that horny hand soothingly. Bush didn't respond, however, so Hornblower, not wanting his question to be put off or misunderstood, continued. "Your hands are always calloused. Worn and hard like a seaman's ought to be, while mine are soft, like a woman's." He did not hide his disgust as he said the last, though his voice was weak enough that it was but a faint inflection. "How do you do it?"

Hornblower struggled to open his eyes so that he could observe Bush's response, but he only caught a faint look of baffled bemusement before his lids, inordinately heavy, slid shut again. There was something else below that expression, though, something deeper and more permanent. An ever present worry or strain.

Bush responded before Hornblower could dwell on the source of that worry. "My hands, sir?" The surprise was more obvious in Bush's voice than it had been in his face.

"Yes." Hornblower was not going to waste his remaining weak breath on further elaboration.

It seemed unnecessary for him to do so in any case, for he felt his own had massaged, as if Bush was feeling this difference for himself, and Hornblower thought Bush must have finally grasped the question, or at least it's focus. Yet Bush only protested after this assessment, "But sir! Your hands are perfect, sir! You can't possibly want—you can't possibly prefer-" Bush broke off his exclamation and Hornblower understood that Bush must be trying to overcome the linguistic difficulty of asserting that Hornblower should not envy Bush's hands, without first accusing Hornblower of indeed envying those hands in the first place.

Hornblower grunted acknowledgement this dilemma, and Bush let out a soft, still bemused laugh. "Well, it's no great secret, sir. I tie knots."

"Knots?" Hornblower repeated, skeptical.

"That's right, sir. Knots. Seaman's knots. Whenever I'm trying to think, or if I'm bored or preoccupied, I tie knots. I keep a few feet of the bigger cordage stashed in my sea chest." He felt Bush shrug by the slight tug the movement induced on his hand.

"In France?" Hornblower demanded.

"Hmm." Hornblower could picture the frown on Bush's face at this problem. "You know, I'd never thought of that, sir. Maybe my hands are so used to having callouses, the skin doesn't know how to grow any other way. But I wouldn't think too hard on it, sir. You have beautiful hands, I've often wondered how you could keep your hands so wonderfully soft, sir, with all the things you do with them."

"Ha-hmm." Hornblower grunted. But at the back of his mind, he smiled. Bush had called his hands-Hornblower's hands-beautiful.

"Well," he finally replied to Bush, "I don't think I could make myself tie that many knots anyway." Bush chuckled softly, and Hornblower smiled.

"Are you feeling any better, sir?"

Bush attempted to retain Hornblower's attention but Hornblower, his mystery solved, now felt weighted down with fatigue. It was as if his curiosity had been the only thing suppressing his weariness. He squeezed Bush's hand in a weak good night salute, then fell asleep.

Bush's eyes were sad as he looked down on his friend, but his worry could not entirely wipe the smile sprouting from his face, a smile that persisted until he fell into his own bed hours later.

Hornblower's next memory was much the same as the first, at least in as much as it started with Bush holding his hand and reading to him.

". . . . Yet we may remark, that of the first fifteen emperors, Claudius was the only one whose taste in love was entirely correct . . . Claudius's third wife, Messalina-"

Bush's voice rolled over him, and Hornblower nearly fell asleep to the deep, soothing timbre of the baritone. Then the voice began to coalesce into distinct words and he recognized the 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire'. His interest was peaked, and he listened more closely so he could discover from which volume Bush was reading. He had not thought Bush the type to enjoy Gibbon's dry prose.

" . . . . consolidate his power Claudius was forced to marry Agrippa the Younger, a member of the Julian family as well as . . ."

Hornblower couldn't contain a soft chuckle upon hearing that passage. He had always liked the first volume.

Bush, perhaps mistaking this laughter for a coughing fit, was immediately attentive. "Sir? Sir?"

Hornblower's humor at the moment was enough to compel him to explain.

"Claudius was not fortunate in his wives, was he?"

There was a pause.

"Uh, no, sir. It appears he wasn't." Bush sounded bemused again, and Hornblower could only guess it was because he was not as absorbed by the reading as Hornblower had been.

"You'd think after the third, he would have learned better."

"Yes, sir."

It was interesting to Hornblower to discover how free he felt to converse. He did not feel any need for reserve—was only vaguely aware that when in good health he would usually contain his comments and avoid such conversations. He could joke and chatter away without compunction. So it was that when Bush's short words tickled a thought in the back of Hornblower's mind, he took a curious pleasure in immediately voicing it.

"Why have you never married, Bush?"

"Me, sir?" Bush sounded almost scandalized to Hornblower's ears, which Hornblower found quite amusing.

"Yes, you, Bush. Surely you've at least thought of it at one time or another."

Hornblower was made aware of Bush's discomfort by the unconscious tightening of Bush's grip on his hand. That Bush was flustered was further apparent in his voice. "Well I—that is, I've thought of it, sir, but never seriously, sir."

"Why not?"

"Well, to be quite honest, sir, I've fancied many a lady, if you catch my meaning, sir, but I can't say as I've loved any one of them."

Hornblower thought of Maria and replied, more subdued, "Sometimes fondness is enough, Bush."

"Is it, sir?" Clearly Bush had followed Hornblower's train of thought.

Hornblower thought then of little Maria and little Horatio. And he thought of Richard. Dear Richard. "Yes," he replied at length, "Sometimes it is."

Bush took in a breath and let it out. Then he apparently decided that the mood was too serious, for he made a jest. "Well, sir-if that's the case than I should ask you to be my wife, sir." If Hornblower's eyes had been open he might have caught the look of bittersweet wistfulness that crossed his captain's face as he voiced this joke; but Hornblower's eyes were closed, and so he laughed. And then he made his own jest in response.

"You are far better than any wife, Mr. Bush. Far better."

Hornblower chuckled at his own joke, and Bush joined him. They sat together then in companionable silence, each appreciating the weight of the other in the cabin, and the feel of the other's palm in their own, and each reveling in the laughter that so rarely came to them.

The next encounter was even more ridiculous, for Hornblower could not, looking back on it, appreciate or comprehend his own misapprehension at the time. He distinctly recalled being vastly annoyed with Bush, and the reason for that irritation was nonsensical . . . completely irrational.

He had been unable to grasp why in God's name Lieutenant Bush, who was the second lieutenant aboard the Renown, was calling he, the fourth lieutenant, 'Sir'.

"Mr. Bush I do not know what you are playing at addressing me as 'sir', but I must kindly request that you stop whatever jest you are working—for all our sakes."

"Sir, I don't understand-"

"Dammit, man! Do you WANT the captain to hear you? Desist! I beg of you!"

"But s-" Bush grunted. "Well, what would you have me call you?"

"You may call me Mr. Hornblower, as you have since you first came aboard. And as, I might add, is appropriate for my lower rank."

Bush did not respond for a long moment, but when he did reply there was rich amusement in his voice.

"Very well, Mr. Hornblower. Are you still running double watches?"

Hornblower resented the amusement in Bush's voice, and he did not check the anger in his reply. "Of course I am, sir, unless you think I'm the captain now, too?"

Bush barely contained his chuckles, and Hornblower drifted off in a cloud of irritation.

Hornblower's next memory came as a foggy nightmare. Looking back on the disjointed fragments of that time, he could only assume that his condition had deteriorated—his body growing weaker, or his fever reaching a peak.

It had been dark. Darker in his mind than it probably was in his cabin. And there had been faces crowding his vision, except they were closer to specters than flesh and blood. Ghosts of the Sutherland, ghosts of the Lydia-ghosts of every battle Hornblower had ever participated in. Longley cried out for his mother, and when he couldn't find her he cursed Hornblower's name. A cannon was exploding on the gun deck, flinging a crew of men backwards, their mutilated bodies condemning him in their stillness-the captain that had brought them to their deaths. Hornblower cried out in horror. He cried out, and when that yielded no response from the horrible figures of his dream he began sobbing. Every recrimination he had ever voiced within his mind was thrown at him now by faces he had long forgotten, or had intentionally repressed. And it was not just his guilt that tore at him; he was consumed with fear—remembered fears and fear of those specters. Bush had lost his foot, and blood pooled around the severed appendage; Hornblower was shivering as he removed the black ligature that dangled from the end of a stump; there was blood running down the scuppers; El Supremo was smiling from his wooden post, even as he died, hands tied behind him. Hornblower thought he might have vomited between his sobs, but there was so little in his stomach that it resulted only in a painful gagging sensation. His body rocked as the deck tossed—or was that someone shaking him?

Suddenly strong arms were around him and a rough, deep voice was comforting him. Instead of sobbing into his hands, he was sobbing into a firm shoulder. It felt like an eternity passed before the nightmare images ebbed from his mind, but slowly they did-and the arms that held him still remained. In this way Hornblower knew that those images were indeed a dream, while this, this warm body around his own, was real. During the terror he had clung to this figure as barnacles do to a ship's bottom, but now, as sobs subsided, he moved his own arms fully around his savior's back and squeezed gently. He couldn't say whether he was trying to return some of the comfort he had stolen, or if a hug was merely the only way he knew how to show his gratitude in his current state. In retrospect he was certain he must have conveyed neither, looking as did like a child hugging his favorite toy to him for fear of the dark.

Bush would not have agreed.

When Hornblower next roused it was to full lucidity. It would take him several days to begin to recall the feverish dreams of that sickness, so when he first came to awareness he thought only of his current situation. He was on a ship he knew by the gentle rocking of his cot, and after pulling back his sail cloth curtain he recognized it as the Nonsuch. He was aboard the Nonsuch. Well that wasn't so surprising, but what had happened? Had the harbor frozen over? He moved his arm to pull off his blankets, but was forced to stop half way through the act when he caught sight of his limb and the small section he'd exposed of his torso. His arm was weak and skeletal—it looked like it belonged to a plucked chicken more than a man. And his chest was sunken, the skin stretched so tight across the bones he thought it might rip if he moved. There was no need to push the blankets down further, for he did not want to see his stomach or his legs.

It was at that moment that Brown entered, a tray of something steaming in his hands. He did not seem overly surprised to see Hornblower awake, which was interesting, since the last thing Hornblower could recall was a bleak, snowy hillside and the lines of the Prussian army. Brown put a hand behind Hornblower's back to support him and lifted a spoon of delicious smelling broth to his lips. Hornblower sipped hungrily. He had never been so hungry. He quickly deemed the spoonful by spoonful approach far to slow, and Hornblower made to grab for the cup. Brown, seeing the gesture, lifted the cup to Hornblower's lips accommodatingly. Hornblower drank until there was no more, and then he said casually, as if it was of no matter to him, "I suppose we are in port?" He had noticed a general lack of movement beyond the rocking of the ship, and the bustle of dock activity had faintly worked its way through the glass of his window.

"Aye, sir. We're at Sheerness-'ave been for the past eight days, sir."

"Sheerness? How long has this been going on?" Hornblower demanded

"Nigh on four weeks, sir."

"Dear God!"

"Yes, sir. Shall I call the doctor, sir?"

Hornblower didn't dignify that with a response, "My respects to Captain Bush, and I'd like to see him in my cabin at his earliest convenience."

"Aye aye, sir. And I'll send he doctor in to you, sir."

"You'll do as your told."

Still delaying, Brown picked up a comb and a hand mirror; the latter he put into Hornblower's hand while he passed a comb through Hornblower's hair. Hornblower glanced into the mirror and recoiled with surprise.

"Good God!" he said, the exclamation torn from him despite his self-control.

A wildly hairy face gibbered at him from the glass, bristle-bearded to the eyes. The inch-long hairs seemed all to be sticking straight out from his face. He looked like a baboon. Curiosity overcame him sufficiently to make him look more closely. There were grey hairs among the brown, making him in his own eyes more obscene than ever. The lofty expanse of bare forehead added to this effect. He had no idea he could look so hideous.

"I'd like a shave, Brown, before Mr. Bush comes in."

"Aye, aye, sir. Mr. Bush, a shave, and the doctor, sir."

There was no use arguing with Brown. The first person to come in was the doctor, whose grey suit and polished buttons indicated he was a well-to-do landsman's doctor. No doubt Bush and Brown had gone to some effort to find him the best doctor they possibly could. He talked detachedly but not unkindly to Hornblower with a prevalent London accent and laid his ear on Hornblower's chest. Hornblower caught a glimpse before the blankets were replaced of his prominent ribs, and belly fallen away to nothing. His thighs and legs were like sticks.

"What has been the matter with me?" asked Hornblower.

"The typhus," said the doctor.

The typhus. Gaol fever. The scourge of armies and fleets.

"You have lived through it," said the doctor; "I hear that many have not. The dispatches from the Baltic, from whence you came, tell of tens of thousands of soldiers succumbing to the plague. All East Prussia, every part of Germany not held down by a Napoleonic garrison, seems to be in a fever of revolt and illness!"

"Then it seems I've done my duty," said Hornblower. "When can I leave this ship?"

"In two weeks time, perhaps," said the doctor.

"Tomorrow," said Hornblower.

The doctor laughed, thinking this a fine joke, and Hornblower did not correct him.

Brown had prepared a razor and water dish while the doctor performed his inspection, so he was ready to act the barber the moment the stately physician left. He clipped off Hornblower's beard and then shaved him. The keen edge of the razor felt delightful against his cheeks. When he finished, Brown held the mirror for Hornblower to see. It was something like the old face that Hornblower remembered, but still very different. For the first time in twenty years the sunburn had disappeared, leaving him a prison pallor which combined with his sunken cheeks to throw his jaws and cheekbones into unwonted prominence. The last time he had looked he thought he looked like a baboon, but now he thought he looked like a death's-head.

Brown left to dispose of the bowl of hair and water, and Bush entered as he left, having seemingly been waiting at the door. Something rose in Hornblower's chest at seeing his friend before him, and he could only think that it must be relief at seeing a friendly face after the unpleasantness of the doctor's inspection and Brown's solicitude. Bush similarly wore an expression that Hornblower couldn't identify—joy and worry perhaps, combined with a stronger emotion that made the man's eyes glisten.

"It's good to see you up, sir."

"Hmm," Hornblower grunted. He would hardly describe his current position as 'up'. "What are our orders, Mr. Bush?"

"Well sir," Bush seemed unaccountably nervous, "I've sent the Clam back to Konigsberg for dispatches, but I'm to take the rest of the fleet to the channel, where we'll join Admiral Pellew's squadron on blockade." Bush hesitated, and Hornblower was aware that Bush had carefully been referring only to himself. "You've uh—you were certified too ill to command, sir, at Riga. The Admiralty is granting you leave, they tell me."

This was a bit disconcerting, but not wholly unexpected. "Very well, Captain Bush." He considered the situation, "I shall depart for Sheerness as soon as the appropriate transportation can be acquired. I am sorry if I have been the cause of any delay in your joining the squadron."

"Oh no, sir—it's not your fault, sir. The port has had trouble filling our stocks, what with the unexpected timing of our arrival. And you really oughtn't be moved, sir. Not for another week or two yet." There was a wealth of concern on Bush's face, and Hornblower marveled at it. He had not thought Bush to be so . . . emotional.

"Ha-hmm."

"Why don't you rest, sir. You can think about transportation in the morning, if you must."

"Very well, Mr. Bush. You'll keep me informed?"

Bush smiled, "Aye aye, sir."

Bush visited him regularly in the following days, sometimes to report on their victualing progress (which Hornblower was beginning to suspect was an overstated excuse), sometimes to read him snatches of the Gazette and The Times and the Anti Gallican. Their most recent deeds in the Baltic were only just now being publicized, and it was interesting to see how the great news machine interpreted the siege at Riga and the change in allegiance of Prussia and of McDonald's army. Hornblower told himself that that was why he looked forward to these meetings with Bush.

By the fifth day Hornblower had regained enough strength to order a chair prepared for himself on deck so that he could sit and watch the activity around the Sheerness docks. The stimulation of watching the port business and of watching the crew running drills relaxed him where no amount of sleep possibly could. It was in this relaxed state of languid observation that Hornblower began to recall those obscure memories of fevered unreality. At first he gave them no credence—they were far too ridiculous to bare any place in the material world. Yet there were moments . . . Bush's responses had been so in character, his own questions so closely aligned with his natural curiosity . . . it was just possible that such conversations had actually occurred. Just.

Another full day and night of relaxed contemplation had decided him. Those dreams were not dreams. He truly had made a fool of himself in his sickness, and that humiliation was his to bear. This acknowledgement brought with it an urgent need to apologize to Bush. It was after all Bush who had suffered from his indiscretion. By then, the seventh day since his awakening, Hornblower was able to make it to and from the deck with minimal assistance, though the exercise—maybe 20 yards of distance—tired him more than he would ever admit. Nonetheless, it offered enough semblance of independence that he did not feel completely pitiable when approached Bush at the end of his sitting tenure to invite him to his cabin. He quite forgot about the ridiculous bear skin blanket that had been draped around his shoulders until he made it to his cabin.

The exertion this traverse down the companionway required had made sitting at his table to await Bush's arrival quite impossible. He sank onto his cot and did not protest as Brown unobtrusively appeared to pull off his coat and blanket. He was almost asleep when Bush knocked on the cabin door some ten minutes later, much to his private horror.

He forced himself into a sitting position on his cot—it was the least he could do—and called out, "Come in."

Bush looked comfortable enough as he entered; he and Hornblower had been meeting with enough frequency in the past week that this one prearranged meeting did not seem out of place. Hornblower took advantage of Bush's calm to get the apology out and over with before he lost his nerve or became overwhelmed by his own embarrassment. "I owe you an apology, Captain Bush."

"Sir?"

"I believe I may have said or done certain things during my fever that were . . . inappropriate." Hornblower looked at Bush without quite meeting his eyes. His face was flushing at the memory of just what he'd said and done, and he was imminently awkward.

Bush clearly noticed the flush, for a smile carved itself onto his chiseled face. At first Hornblower took this to be a smile at his expense—Bush was laughing at him and his preposterous past behavior; but there was more to Bush's expression than that smile. There was a glint in the blue eyes, a simultaneous crinkling and softening around the sockets. A vague sereneness that seemed to suffuse Bush's very being. It altogether painted a picture that Hornblower count not decipher, and so dismissed.

"You have nothing to apologize for, sir." Bush said firmly.

Hornblower studied Bush, finally meeting his gaze. He felt that this encounter was hardly sufficient—he had horribly infringed upon Bush's privacy in the encounters he remembered, and who knew what he'd said in the times he'd lost all recollection of? So he hesitated, wanting to say more. "If I insulted you, Bush, then I really must-"

"You did not, sir."

Hornblower suddenly felt his penitence replaced with irritation. If his apology was to be so summarily dismissed, then perhaps he should not have offered it at all. It seemed Bush would forgive anything done by the great Hornblower, and Hornblower was disgusted by the thought.

"Ha-hmm."

Bush was still smiling, damn him.

"Very well," he said harshly, "dismissed."

Hornblower was gratified to see his shift in mood momentarily loosen Bush's smile, but it was a fleeting satisfaction.

The following day Barbara arrived, bringing with her a proper barge to take them upriver toward Smallbridge. Her arrival was quite a surprise to Hornblower, who had heard no word from her since his awakening, though he had admittedly been too tired, and his dexterity too poor, to write. She had apparently been in London the past month, entertaining her brother and his associates, and so had not heard word of his return until just four days ago, at which time she had made all due haste to be by his side.

He was napping in his cabin when she came aboard the Nonsuch, and he was roused by Brown only just in time to forestall her catching him unawares on his cot. He was just attentive enough to catch her expression as she entered. Her mouth was warring between a smile and frown—a smile in her joy at seeing him and a frown for his obvious poor health. But what was more interesting was the other telling shifts in her features. There was a glistening in her eyes that was most familiar, and a simultaneous crinkling and softening of the skin around those same eyes that indicated an emotion he'd hitherto considered unfathomable. He saw now that it was love. What else could make a person so sad and joyous at the same time? Could so consume a person that it shone from their very eyes?

He embraced her as tightly as his weak muscles would allow when she came to him.

"Oh dearest! I heard about your sickness only the day before I heard of your return, and I can't tell how glad I am to see you now."

Hornblower could say nothing in reply, for he was too consumed by his own emotions to give voice to them.

Yet even as he was overwhelmed by the sentiments and reactions Barbara's arrival inspired, Hornblower could not help but be preoccupied by another observation. He had recognized the expression on Barbara's face—recognized it because he had seen it every day for the past week. Perhaps even before that, though he had not noticed. And it was Bush's face upon which he'd seen it. It unsettled Hornblower, almost more than Barbara's presence. He'd always known that Bush admired him—he would go so far as to say that he thought Bush was fond of him. But love? And what kind of love was it? That of a father towards a son? Two brothers? A husband and wife?

Barbara and Brown had carefully packed his sea chest and readied the barge that was to take them upstream before he determined that what he'd seen in Bush was more than familial love. Bush loved him. Him, Hornblower. It was so ridiculous that he entertained the notion of calling Bush out on it on the spot. Let the matter be settled immediately! But he could not do that. If his suspicions were correct, then Bush would be embarrassed, even shamed, and if Hornblower was wrong, then Bush might be insulted; Hornblower would certainly feel the villain either way. No, he could not confront Bush. So what was left to him? It did not seem right to ignore the matter, though it may be easier. More importantly, Hornblower suddenly felt, with his new insight into Bush's devotion, that Bush did not deserve to be ignored, in any aspect.

"Sir? Are you ready to leave, sir?" That was Brown. Dammit, he didn't have time to think! And he was shortly to be confined to a tiny barge, where his mind had no hope of concerted reflection. Hornblower was left with little choice. He bungled his goodbye to Bush, sounding as awkward and tense as he'd been as a midshipman, and went over the side as quickly as his weak limbs would allow. Retreat in the face of uncertainty.

Two weeks later, when he'd had time to properly think the matter over and weigh his options, he set himself a proper course of action. When Barbara was off riding and Brown had made himself scarce, Hornblower pulled out a sheet of paper and a quill and began to write. He had never written to Bush before. Not even for naval business. Secretaries and the admiralty had done those things for him. He had not even written when Bush was stationed at Sheerness, to his everlasting shame. But perhaps it wasn't too late—perhaps there could be a first time, and more to follow. And Hornblower told himself that while he did not yet love Bush as Bush loved him, he certainly loved him as a friend.

Captain W. H. Bush

HMS Nonsuch

Captain Bush,

I would apologize again for my impertinence during my ailment, but I know you will not receive it. Instead I will apologize for the abruptness of my departure from the Nonsuch. I had not anticipated Lady Barbara's arrival, and likewise could not have expected to find myself onshore so swiftly. Had time allowed I would have offered you a toast to your past and continued service. That no longer being possible, I instead assure you that my report to the admiralty will reflect only the highest commendation for your assistance in the Baltic. If given the choice I would serve with no other captain. You will enjoy working under Pellew, I believe. I was midshipman under him on the Indefatigable, and he is a man both honorable and pragmatic, as well as being a good deal less taciturn than most hold me to be. He does enjoy a good hand of whist, I'll warn you, but you may at least find the timing of his games more agreeable than was my wont.

Barbara would scold me if I did not invite you to our home in Smallbridge, so I do so now. You are welcome to call upon us at any time, though I suspect you will be busy enough in the Channel that such a visit may prove impracticable. If that be the case, then you may feel free to continue this correspondence I have begun in lieu of a visit. And if there is anything I can do for you on land—or your sisters—you have only to ask.

Your Servant,

Captain Sir Horatio Hornblower, K.B.

It was a dry letter all in all, Hornblower decided upon re-reading his rigid script. But Bush knew him well enough to read between the lines. The fact that Hornblower was writing at all was indication of his favor, and his invitation to Smallbridge, while a touch formal, was no less heartfelt for being so. More telling were his brief hints of honest self-mockery. Bush knew Hornblower to be a reserved but perpetually insecure man; that he would unbend enough to admit-even laugh at-his own failings was the truest possible indication of his trust and regard for Bush. Hornblower folded the letter and sealed it. It would go out with the next days post, and if the wind was favorable Bush might have it in his hands within two weeks. It would do; for now.