Chapter 3
The sick berth had never seemed so crowded to Hepplewhite, even when it was full of bleeding, moaning, and often limbless patients. Good lord, what was so special about the man? He was a good officer, to be sure, judging from the conversations he'd overheard about the man. But he guessed that some of the men he'd treated, or pronounced dead, had been good seaman. Or maybe not. He didn't know. He didn't even know the seamen's names for the most part and he didn't want to know. As soon as something had a name, it became important to you. You started to care about it. And if you were a ship's surgeon, you couldn't care about the men. Too often they ended up dead. Caring about them would drive you nearly mad. He'd seen it happen to other ship's doctors.
Well, doctor, what's the word? Mr. Bracegirdle asked impatiently, jolting Hepplewhite out of his thoughts and interrupting his examination. He glanced up in annoyance at the sea of expectant faces. Hether, Cleveland, Kennedy, the captain, and even three of the men, slightly more senior than rest, were staring, watching his every move.
When I am finished, Mr. Bracegirdle, I will tell you, he said, not quite managing to hide his irritation.
Well he'd better finish it quick-like, Hether muttered from the back. His narrow face was drawn and worried.
on of the seaman added darkly. Want to know what's wrong wi' Mr. Ornblower, we does.
The more you talk, gentlemen, the longer this will take! he cried. So if you want to know as badly as it appears you do, I would humbly suggest that you be quiet unless I ask you a question. He prodded Hornblower's side and stomach as he spoke and then felt his face his face again.
The doctor's right, Pellew said, sounding almost apologetic.
But, sir!
I do have the authority to send you back on deck, Oldroyd, and don't forget it.
Did you eat anything? Hepplewhite barked, interrupting them.
Cleveland asked.
Did you eat anything on the island?
We didn't eat anything, Hether said. But some of us drank some water from a stream there.
The doctor was completely devoid of emotion as he spoke.
There was a silence, more inquisitive than stunned. It hadn't sunk in with them yet.
Excuse me, doctor? Pellew asked, in a dangerously soft voice.
The man has Typhoid Fever, captain. An often fatal disease that makes its home in the water and plants in subtropical climates.
Now the silence had the proper stunned quality as the men digested the information.
Is he - going to die? Kennedy asked.
Hepplewhite looked up at the ceiling hopelessly.
'Often fatal', Mr. Kennedy. Yes. Unless fate, luck, or the Good Lord decide to step in, Mr. Hornblower will die. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get some leeches.
And he disappeared into a back room, totally unaware of the horror-struck faces gaping at him speechlessly.