Chapter 8
Author's Note: This update would not have been possible without the help of my wonderful beta-reader, CottageGhost.
Pellew felt Mr. Bracegridle shift slightly behind him, no doubt so that he would be able to get a better look at the man who had just stepped on to the deck before them without openly staring. It was a courtesy most of the men on deck were ignoring. He was quite willing to forgive them, however, because Hornblower's father was so identical to his son that a very small part of Pellew felt sure that Hornblower was not ill at all and that time had merely fast-forwarded two or three decades. He was staring at Hornblower's image in 30 years, and it did little ease his discomfort at being in the presence of the man whose place he hoped he had been occupying in the young Hornblower's mind.
Kennedy's voice broke the stillness. "Doctor, meet Captain Pellew. Captain Pellew, sir, meet - "
"Mr. Hornblower," Pellew said, as he offered his hand.
"Captain," he answered, and as he clasped Pellew's fingers, something like a smile flickered across his face. "And please - call me Doctor. Everyone does." There was a moment's pause. "My boy - Horatio - I suppose he - "
"Down below," Pellew said brusquely as he turned and led the way down the stairs. He swallowed painfully as he held the swinging door so that the doctor, and Mr. Kennedy could pass through. This was mortifying. As the boy he'd come to regard as his own son lay dying down below, he'd been exchanging pleasantries on deck with his true father. As Mr. Bracegirdle walked through the doorway, he sought Pellew's eyes with his own in a sympathetic glance. While the relationship between captain and lieutenant was apparent to anyone who cared to look, it was with Mr. Bracegridle alone that Pellew had felt comfortable openly gloating about Hornblower's successes and confessing his terror of Captain Foster's influence, during the brief time that Hornblower appeared to have switched loyalties to his archrival.
Pellew let the door swing shut gently as he darted through to follow the others. As the group passed into the sick room, he hoped desperately that Mr. Bracegirdle understood just how grateful he was to him at that moment. He had needed someone else to understand the true awkwardness of the situation.
"Over there, sir," Kennedy spoke up again. "There, in the middle. With Matthews.
And Styles and Oldroyd." The three men looked up at the sound of their names, and as the group slid in around the hammock, Kennedy made another round of introductions.
"Styles, Matthews, Oldroyed - Doctor Hornblower."
"Spittin' image," Oldroyd said in a very audible whisper. "Bloody spi - " Styles elbowed him roughly, though his saucer eyes made him hardly less conspicuous. Matthews gave the barest start, but otherwise showed nothing.
Doctor Hornblower sat down gingerly on one of the empty hammocks nearest the bed. He gently pressed down on the canvas of Hornblower's hammock so that the boy rocked slightly towards him.
"Dead to the world." It was a moment before the captain realized that he had spoken the words aloud. The doctor peered at him.
"How long has he been like this?" he asked, his face pinched with worry.
"Over two weeks, Doctor. Since he got back from the Canary Islands."
"Two weeks," the man muttered, turning back to Horatio. "Two weeks. Two weeks." He smoothed out Hornblower's curls as he spoke. Pellew's throat tightened, the memory of his own hand there in the fore-front of his mind.
"What does two weeks mean, Doctor?" Mr. Bracegridle spoke up from behind Pellew.
"It means," he said, slowly "that Horatio - "there was a long pause, as the doctor collected himself. "It means, sir, that statistically speaking, Horatio ought to have died ten days ago."
Pellew grappled with his thoughts as everyone around him jumped. He wasn't sure whether he was grateful or enraged at Hepplewhite for neglecting to tell him the information. "Often fatal' was not a nearly adequate description of a disease that typically killed within ninety-four hours.
"Would lemon tea be a possibility, sir?"
"What?" he asked, startled out of his thoughts.
"Could your ship's cook make us a cup of lemon tea?"
"Lemon. . .tea?" The mathematics the doctor had spelled out terrified him.
"Yes, sir. Tea. One cup. Both the Chinese and Indian varieties are acceptable. Half a lemon, no sugar."
"Mr. Bracegirdle?" Pellew asked weakly.
"Yes, sir. I'll see to it."
"Thank you, sir. And give my compliments to the cook," he added as an afterthought.
The doctor watched Mr.Bracegirdle exit with an indiscernible expression. One hand rested on Hornblower's shoulder, rocking him as if by instinct.
"In the meantime, leaches," he said finally. There was a resigned tone in Doctor Hornblower's voice that very different from Hepplewhite.
"Ye don't like leaches then, Sir?" Matthews asked curiously.
"No. As a matter of fact, I disagree with their use vociferously. The theory is there but it's not entirely clear what the creatures accomplish."
"But you still use them," Pellew pointed out.
"They've been used for centuries," the doctor said with a sigh. "They certainly aren't deadly. And the same cannot be said for some of the new alternatives. Given the choice, I'd rather use them than surrender to each new medical fad as too many of my counterparts seem bent on doing." He unbuttoned Hornblower's shirt as he spoke, then slid it off entirely. The young man convulsed as the cold air of the cabin touched his glistening body.
"Help me hold him, would you, Sir?" he asked, directing his question at Pellew. "I'm not sure how long he's been unconscious and I don't care how many battles he's fought, waking up to me holding a leach over his head isn't going to be pleasant." Pellew hurried to oblige, laying one hand gently on Hornblower's shoulders as the doctor opened a jar of the black worms.
"Could find me the surgeon's tools, Mr. . .?"
"Matthews, sir. And yes, sir, et 'il be just a minute," Matthews answered. He returned in a few moments with the white roll of canvas and handed it to the doctor who rolled it out on the table. He sorted easily through the mess of scissors and blades until he finally picked up a remarkably tiny knife.
Pellew's grip on Hornblower's shoulders tightened as the doctor pressed his hand onto Hornblower's chest just above the rib and began to make a small incision with the knife. Hornblower jerked slightly. His lips a grim line, the doctor cut more deeply. Horatio gasped and his eyes snapped open.
"Captain -- Pellew?" His voice was hoarse and frightened but it was Hornblower's voice nonetheless and hearing it after two weeks of raving and silences was the proverbial music to Pellew's ears.
"Yes, Mr. Hornblower." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Matthews put his arm on Styles's shoulder to stop him from physically leaping on his injured leader.
"Sir --" Horatio tensed as his father made another cut just above the first one. "Sir -- what's --?"
"Leaches," Pellew answered gently. "That's all, Mr. Hornblower. Your father's using leaches. And there's tea coming."
Author's Note: This update would not have been possible without the help of my wonderful beta-reader, CottageGhost.
Pellew felt Mr. Bracegridle shift slightly behind him, no doubt so that he would be able to get a better look at the man who had just stepped on to the deck before them without openly staring. It was a courtesy most of the men on deck were ignoring. He was quite willing to forgive them, however, because Hornblower's father was so identical to his son that a very small part of Pellew felt sure that Hornblower was not ill at all and that time had merely fast-forwarded two or three decades. He was staring at Hornblower's image in 30 years, and it did little ease his discomfort at being in the presence of the man whose place he hoped he had been occupying in the young Hornblower's mind.
Kennedy's voice broke the stillness. "Doctor, meet Captain Pellew. Captain Pellew, sir, meet - "
"Mr. Hornblower," Pellew said, as he offered his hand.
"Captain," he answered, and as he clasped Pellew's fingers, something like a smile flickered across his face. "And please - call me Doctor. Everyone does." There was a moment's pause. "My boy - Horatio - I suppose he - "
"Down below," Pellew said brusquely as he turned and led the way down the stairs. He swallowed painfully as he held the swinging door so that the doctor, and Mr. Kennedy could pass through. This was mortifying. As the boy he'd come to regard as his own son lay dying down below, he'd been exchanging pleasantries on deck with his true father. As Mr. Bracegirdle walked through the doorway, he sought Pellew's eyes with his own in a sympathetic glance. While the relationship between captain and lieutenant was apparent to anyone who cared to look, it was with Mr. Bracegridle alone that Pellew had felt comfortable openly gloating about Hornblower's successes and confessing his terror of Captain Foster's influence, during the brief time that Hornblower appeared to have switched loyalties to his archrival.
Pellew let the door swing shut gently as he darted through to follow the others. As the group passed into the sick room, he hoped desperately that Mr. Bracegirdle understood just how grateful he was to him at that moment. He had needed someone else to understand the true awkwardness of the situation.
"Over there, sir," Kennedy spoke up again. "There, in the middle. With Matthews.
And Styles and Oldroyd." The three men looked up at the sound of their names, and as the group slid in around the hammock, Kennedy made another round of introductions.
"Styles, Matthews, Oldroyed - Doctor Hornblower."
"Spittin' image," Oldroyd said in a very audible whisper. "Bloody spi - " Styles elbowed him roughly, though his saucer eyes made him hardly less conspicuous. Matthews gave the barest start, but otherwise showed nothing.
Doctor Hornblower sat down gingerly on one of the empty hammocks nearest the bed. He gently pressed down on the canvas of Hornblower's hammock so that the boy rocked slightly towards him.
"Dead to the world." It was a moment before the captain realized that he had spoken the words aloud. The doctor peered at him.
"How long has he been like this?" he asked, his face pinched with worry.
"Over two weeks, Doctor. Since he got back from the Canary Islands."
"Two weeks," the man muttered, turning back to Horatio. "Two weeks. Two weeks." He smoothed out Hornblower's curls as he spoke. Pellew's throat tightened, the memory of his own hand there in the fore-front of his mind.
"What does two weeks mean, Doctor?" Mr. Bracegridle spoke up from behind Pellew.
"It means," he said, slowly "that Horatio - "there was a long pause, as the doctor collected himself. "It means, sir, that statistically speaking, Horatio ought to have died ten days ago."
Pellew grappled with his thoughts as everyone around him jumped. He wasn't sure whether he was grateful or enraged at Hepplewhite for neglecting to tell him the information. "Often fatal' was not a nearly adequate description of a disease that typically killed within ninety-four hours.
"Would lemon tea be a possibility, sir?"
"What?" he asked, startled out of his thoughts.
"Could your ship's cook make us a cup of lemon tea?"
"Lemon. . .tea?" The mathematics the doctor had spelled out terrified him.
"Yes, sir. Tea. One cup. Both the Chinese and Indian varieties are acceptable. Half a lemon, no sugar."
"Mr. Bracegirdle?" Pellew asked weakly.
"Yes, sir. I'll see to it."
"Thank you, sir. And give my compliments to the cook," he added as an afterthought.
The doctor watched Mr.Bracegirdle exit with an indiscernible expression. One hand rested on Hornblower's shoulder, rocking him as if by instinct.
"In the meantime, leaches," he said finally. There was a resigned tone in Doctor Hornblower's voice that very different from Hepplewhite.
"Ye don't like leaches then, Sir?" Matthews asked curiously.
"No. As a matter of fact, I disagree with their use vociferously. The theory is there but it's not entirely clear what the creatures accomplish."
"But you still use them," Pellew pointed out.
"They've been used for centuries," the doctor said with a sigh. "They certainly aren't deadly. And the same cannot be said for some of the new alternatives. Given the choice, I'd rather use them than surrender to each new medical fad as too many of my counterparts seem bent on doing." He unbuttoned Hornblower's shirt as he spoke, then slid it off entirely. The young man convulsed as the cold air of the cabin touched his glistening body.
"Help me hold him, would you, Sir?" he asked, directing his question at Pellew. "I'm not sure how long he's been unconscious and I don't care how many battles he's fought, waking up to me holding a leach over his head isn't going to be pleasant." Pellew hurried to oblige, laying one hand gently on Hornblower's shoulders as the doctor opened a jar of the black worms.
"Could find me the surgeon's tools, Mr. . .?"
"Matthews, sir. And yes, sir, et 'il be just a minute," Matthews answered. He returned in a few moments with the white roll of canvas and handed it to the doctor who rolled it out on the table. He sorted easily through the mess of scissors and blades until he finally picked up a remarkably tiny knife.
Pellew's grip on Hornblower's shoulders tightened as the doctor pressed his hand onto Hornblower's chest just above the rib and began to make a small incision with the knife. Hornblower jerked slightly. His lips a grim line, the doctor cut more deeply. Horatio gasped and his eyes snapped open.
"Captain -- Pellew?" His voice was hoarse and frightened but it was Hornblower's voice nonetheless and hearing it after two weeks of raving and silences was the proverbial music to Pellew's ears.
"Yes, Mr. Hornblower." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Matthews put his arm on Styles's shoulder to stop him from physically leaping on his injured leader.
"Sir --" Horatio tensed as his father made another cut just above the first one. "Sir -- what's --?"
"Leaches," Pellew answered gently. "That's all, Mr. Hornblower. Your father's using leaches. And there's tea coming."