DISCLAIMER: Horatio Hornblower is not my intellectual property. I am not
associated with the entities who possess the rights to Horatio Hornblower.
I do not accrue any profit from this story.
A/n: If something is not to your liking, please feel free to let me know. :)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
His mind undulated sluggishly within the tenebrosity, memories merging with fancies and speculation. The reeling wrongness of his thoughts nettled him, harried him, roused him, until he rose from the depths of unconsciousness.
The first thing he noticed was the agony burning within his left leg. Shortly thereafter the nausea roiling within his stomach made itself known to him as well. His hands tightened their clench upon the blanket as he opened his eyelids, and he became aware of two golden-flecked eyes studying him, suddenly widening. His watcher stood still for a moment, then hurriedly turned away.
He closed his eyes again for an instant as his stomach sought to master him, but he dared not plunge into the darkness again: he was a King's man and had responsibilities. Thus it was that he overheard the following.
"Dr. Hepplewhite, sir!" a treble voice breathlessly called. "I think the Captain's coming around. His eyes are open--"
A surly voice answered, "You best be right, boy, or else I'll cuff your ears."
"Sick berth, then. How delightful," he thought to himself, sarcasm temporarily overcoming his fuzzy-headedness. And then he remembered: the battle, the Papillon sailing in to the rescue, the splinter, being taken below... They had apparently prevailed, if he were being tended to in his own ship's sick berth.
The youth--Midshipman White, Pellew amended automatically--scampered ahead and reached the Captain's side several seconds before the sedately ambulating surgeon. The doctor rested his hands upon his hips, jutted his head forward, and squinted. Hepplewhite's expression untensed slightly. "You were right," he grumbled to the midshipman. "Wixter!" he shouted for the lolloby boy.
"How are you feeling, sir?" Hepplewhite inquired.
Pellew's eyes narrowed. He would've like to have castigated the doctor: he was the captain, damn it, and could not afford to have his wits muddled by laudanum, *especially* while his ship was engaged with the enemy. His men, his officers, the admiralty, the King himself--everyone depended upon him to lead this ship, to perform his duty, which Pellew couldn't jolly well do if some sorry excuse for a surgeon had dosed him into oblivion.
The captain opened his mouth to say precisely that, but instead he started to cough. Thirsty too, damn! Once he became aware of it, his throat seemed to throb in its searing need for water.
Wixter slopped some water into a cup and held it to his captain's lips. Pellew reluctantly allowed these ministrations, in an attempt not to worry a youngster already unsettled by serving his captain.
"Please hold still, if you please, captain. You were hit bad, sir; a splinter almost severed the main artery, and Lieutenant Bracegirdle said the trouble was past. The battle was won." The pleading quality of those words contrasted with the annoyed expression on the surgeon's face.
"Hmm," was his non-commital response. He would discuss Bracegirdle's presumption later on...alone *with* Bracegirdle! But first things first. The water had restored his throat enough for him to rasp, "Mr. Eccleston." He assumed Mr. White was clever enough to understand his meaning.
The midshipman did not disappoint. "Aye-aye, sir; I'll get him at once, sir." The youth vanished.
Hopefully he would not require Eccleston to reprise his report in a couple of hours, Pellew snorted to himself. His thoughts seemed strangely...distant somehow, as though barely tethered to him. Hmph! Probably a side effect of that damnable medicine, just like this infernal headache and the aching thirst that the water barely slaked. He would have liked another cup, if only it wouldn't unsettle his stomach further! At least it would wash away the unpleasant flavor in his mouth.
The surgeon continued to attend to him in silence with Wixter's nervous aid: removing the bandages, checking the wound, cleansing the wound site, and re-covering the injury. "It won't be long now, sir, before you can return to your quarters. We were concerned about jarring your leg along the way."
The captain noticed a coward's way with words, how the doctor used the "we" to justify *his* decision, as though young Wixter would have any say in the matter. Just as well Hepplewhite was merely a ship's surgeon! Not command officer's material, not at all!
At least there didn't appear to be too many seamen under the doctor's care right now, if the relative silence were a reliable indication. Pellew shifted slightly for a better prospect of the berth, and thereby earned a second hissed warning from Hepplewhite, which he promptly ignored. His eyes swept the area, and despite his blurring and darkening vision, he discerned that most of the hammocks were currently unoccupied, except--
"Hornblower?" he croaked. Yes by God, that *was* Hornblower, wasn't it, with those tousled curls and battered face. Battered face? Unusual resistance upon the Papillon, perhaps? But where were his men, then? Wouldn't they have been injured as well?
Hepplewhite sighed. "Yes, sir. Nothing that can't be fixed, sir."
The ship's surgeon refused to speak further, so Pellew's mind continued to extrapolate and reject scenarios until he was quite asleep once more.
A/n: If something is not to your liking, please feel free to let me know. :)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
His mind undulated sluggishly within the tenebrosity, memories merging with fancies and speculation. The reeling wrongness of his thoughts nettled him, harried him, roused him, until he rose from the depths of unconsciousness.
The first thing he noticed was the agony burning within his left leg. Shortly thereafter the nausea roiling within his stomach made itself known to him as well. His hands tightened their clench upon the blanket as he opened his eyelids, and he became aware of two golden-flecked eyes studying him, suddenly widening. His watcher stood still for a moment, then hurriedly turned away.
He closed his eyes again for an instant as his stomach sought to master him, but he dared not plunge into the darkness again: he was a King's man and had responsibilities. Thus it was that he overheard the following.
"Dr. Hepplewhite, sir!" a treble voice breathlessly called. "I think the Captain's coming around. His eyes are open--"
A surly voice answered, "You best be right, boy, or else I'll cuff your ears."
"Sick berth, then. How delightful," he thought to himself, sarcasm temporarily overcoming his fuzzy-headedness. And then he remembered: the battle, the Papillon sailing in to the rescue, the splinter, being taken below... They had apparently prevailed, if he were being tended to in his own ship's sick berth.
The youth--Midshipman White, Pellew amended automatically--scampered ahead and reached the Captain's side several seconds before the sedately ambulating surgeon. The doctor rested his hands upon his hips, jutted his head forward, and squinted. Hepplewhite's expression untensed slightly. "You were right," he grumbled to the midshipman. "Wixter!" he shouted for the lolloby boy.
"How are you feeling, sir?" Hepplewhite inquired.
Pellew's eyes narrowed. He would've like to have castigated the doctor: he was the captain, damn it, and could not afford to have his wits muddled by laudanum, *especially* while his ship was engaged with the enemy. His men, his officers, the admiralty, the King himself--everyone depended upon him to lead this ship, to perform his duty, which Pellew couldn't jolly well do if some sorry excuse for a surgeon had dosed him into oblivion.
The captain opened his mouth to say precisely that, but instead he started to cough. Thirsty too, damn! Once he became aware of it, his throat seemed to throb in its searing need for water.
Wixter slopped some water into a cup and held it to his captain's lips. Pellew reluctantly allowed these ministrations, in an attempt not to worry a youngster already unsettled by serving his captain.
"Please hold still, if you please, captain. You were hit bad, sir; a splinter almost severed the main artery, and Lieutenant Bracegirdle said the trouble was past. The battle was won." The pleading quality of those words contrasted with the annoyed expression on the surgeon's face.
"Hmm," was his non-commital response. He would discuss Bracegirdle's presumption later on...alone *with* Bracegirdle! But first things first. The water had restored his throat enough for him to rasp, "Mr. Eccleston." He assumed Mr. White was clever enough to understand his meaning.
The midshipman did not disappoint. "Aye-aye, sir; I'll get him at once, sir." The youth vanished.
Hopefully he would not require Eccleston to reprise his report in a couple of hours, Pellew snorted to himself. His thoughts seemed strangely...distant somehow, as though barely tethered to him. Hmph! Probably a side effect of that damnable medicine, just like this infernal headache and the aching thirst that the water barely slaked. He would have liked another cup, if only it wouldn't unsettle his stomach further! At least it would wash away the unpleasant flavor in his mouth.
The surgeon continued to attend to him in silence with Wixter's nervous aid: removing the bandages, checking the wound, cleansing the wound site, and re-covering the injury. "It won't be long now, sir, before you can return to your quarters. We were concerned about jarring your leg along the way."
The captain noticed a coward's way with words, how the doctor used the "we" to justify *his* decision, as though young Wixter would have any say in the matter. Just as well Hepplewhite was merely a ship's surgeon! Not command officer's material, not at all!
At least there didn't appear to be too many seamen under the doctor's care right now, if the relative silence were a reliable indication. Pellew shifted slightly for a better prospect of the berth, and thereby earned a second hissed warning from Hepplewhite, which he promptly ignored. His eyes swept the area, and despite his blurring and darkening vision, he discerned that most of the hammocks were currently unoccupied, except--
"Hornblower?" he croaked. Yes by God, that *was* Hornblower, wasn't it, with those tousled curls and battered face. Battered face? Unusual resistance upon the Papillon, perhaps? But where were his men, then? Wouldn't they have been injured as well?
Hepplewhite sighed. "Yes, sir. Nothing that can't be fixed, sir."
The ship's surgeon refused to speak further, so Pellew's mind continued to extrapolate and reject scenarios until he was quite asleep once more.