Archie's Journal, Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sebastian's Journal, continued...

A new day had risen and fallen as both my patients slept on. Mr. Kennedy has tried on several occasions to pull himself from the darkness that enfolds him, but Mr. Hornblower had only stirred long enough to throw-up what was left in his stomach, and then fell hard back into the blackness of his infirmity, a fever. Mr. Hornblower's fever was expected, after all, he had bore splinters of tar-laden masts throughout his torso. I had no doubt that despite my efforts, infection would be a vicious problem in his recovery. Still, I pray for his quick recovery from it, as I am tired and running low on medicine. I have been going over the surgery in my mind and am sure that I have gotten every bit of cloth and wood I could find, still the odds were in their favor that I would miss one. I have been giving him small amounts of Laudanum through out the day, and with the help of both Mr. Styles and Mr. Matthews, we have seen to it that both men were fed properly with a clear broth and warm tea.

It takes a unique kind of man to be willing to spoon feed an unconscious person. You must be patient and careful, making sure that the head is propped up at the right angle to hold the liquid in the mouth and then massage the throat gently to coax it down his gullet and not down his windpipe. One might expect the like of Mr. Matthews to be that kind of person, but at first glance, Mr. Styles is a harsh and weathered sailor who would rather fight you than shake your hand. I suppose that only shows the truth of our heavenly Father's words that say you should not judge lest ye be judged. The Captain has allowed Styles and Matthews to work shift during the night and see to the needs of Mr. Hornblower and Mr. Kennedy so I will gratefully take to my bed.

A new day brought with it the smell of bitter coffee and stale burnt bread. On board a ship this far out to sea, those are blessings but even better news was that Mr. Kennedy has awoken. Mr. Styles says that he does not speak or seem to even hear what we are saying but his eyes are open. So I left my breakfast to see to my patient. He had fallen back to sleep but his breath was clearer and his heartbeat strong. There were little signs of the influenza; a raspy wheeze and occasional cough.

Oddly enough, I found tears puddled in the wee corners of his eyes as he slept. I pushed back his hair and awoke him with my words of consolation. I begged his forgiveness in disturbing his slumber. He gasped for a breath to allow him to speak without sobbing and said that it was he who should be sorry, it was all his fault, and again he turned his back to me and faced the wall.

This time he did not hold in his pain, he just continued to talk as if nothing mattered. He told me he had been angry with Mr. Hornblower for revealing his secrets to the Captain. That it was this that pained his heart, for he knew that Horatio had only done that to save him from being set ashore unfit. These were the words I had longed to hear from the lad, the words that I prayed would free him from the other ailment that vexed him so. But that was when I realized that his tears did not cease with the announcement but grew bigger and more painfully apparent.

"Archie? My lad," I begged him, "if that is what tormented your soul then why do you still bear this weight?"

He turned his head from the bulkhead to me. Hurt spilled from his eyes long past the drying tears. "Because," he told me, "now that he is gone I will never be able to beg his forgiveness." He returned his stare back to the wall and rubbed his eyes into the pillow.

I couldn't believe my ears, though I know not why I should be shocked by this revelation, after all, he had made this same statement in a drunken tirade just days before. He thought Horatio was dead, and he was to blame. I don't know what sights his nightmare showed him but now I understand his pain. I begged him to turn and look at me. At first I believed, because of his lack of response, that he might have cried himself to sleep, but moments later he did as I requested and I simply stepped out of view. For behind me, though still unconscious and fevered, was his best friend, and comrade, very much alive. Finally, for the first time in what seemed like ages, the precious light that burned so brightly in his eyes had returned.

"You see," I announced, "he is very much alive. So stop your fretting." I told him of Horatio's circumstances and how he was injured protecting the Captain. "Unfortunately," I confessed, "I did have to finally sedate him. He will not be pleased with me when he awakes from the Laudanum I gave him. Not to mention all the medicinal brandy he was given before I removed the splinters."

Mr. Kennedy blinked and blinked again as if the specter that lay before him would vanish before him. "He is not a dream or a ghost, Mr. Kennedy," I had to insist. "He is real and very much alive." Archie smiled, his face shining, but within a minute it faded and the tears again began to fall. In his weakened state I can understand how one's emotions can be uncontrollable, but this was bordering insane.

"Son," I begged, and I truly have begun to see him as such, "please tell me what bothers you, now?"

"I have acted the fool," he whispered to nobody in particular. "I do not see how he can forgive my behavior." Then this tear filled eyes turned on me as if to ask: Doctor, Please, do you think he will understand?

I thought back on the night prior when Mr. Hornblower attempted to pummel me to death with the small journal in which Archie had written. I remembered how Horatio, of all people, ignored the orders of his Captain, a man whom in his eyes could walk on these waters without the ship. And I remembered how, when there was no longer any strength left in him, he still managed to crawl to the side of his friend and begged him to live. I smiled at Mr. Kennedy, who I dare say was startled by my reaction. "Dear Archie," I laughed, "I can say on my Faith that I have no doubt that Mr. Hornblower would fight the Devil himself to protect you. I am most assured in my belief that you need not worry about his forgiveness."

I thought on my own words, then continued. "Still, that should be counted as a future conversation between you and your friend. For now, you both are in need of rest, and as doctor, I do so order it. Rest, Mr. Kennedy," I ordered. "Rest before I have to sedate you as well."

He turned over and curled beneath his blankets. He looked across the room at his sleeping shipmate and friend then he reached up for the book that lay on the table beside his bed. I handed it over to him and he smiled. "You may read it, Doctor, if you so wish but I would like to have it back so that I might add to it."

I smiled at his request and told him, "I don't believe that I have any further need to know what is on those pages but please keep it and write in it as oft as you may. Fill it with many happy entries that one day you may share with your children's children." The smile that sparkled from his eyes lit up the room and shamed the morning sun. With that I knew there was no reason to let my morning meal grow colder, so I left the room with both my charges resting in peaceful slumber. Somehow I knew they would again pull through this trial and the bond between them would be stronger than ever. I think I will drop by and see if I might borrow the Captain's chess set so that they might have something to occupy their minds while remaining laid up.

Horatio's entry to Archie's Journal.

My dear friend,

You sleep now. The Doctor's prayers have been answered by the return of color to your face, but it will be a while before your strength returns to its fullness. Still, I am grateful for every new day. In my cowardice I chose to confess my treason of your faith in me by this entry.

I write this to let you know that again I have betrayed your trust. I invaded your privacy by entering these hallowed and most private thoughts. Your most recent brush with fate frightened even the good Doctor, whom had all but given you up for dead. He made mention that he felt the clues to your continued illness lay within the binding of this record; a record his honor would not let him trespass upon. Fear for your life and drunken madness caused by my most recent surgery has led me to this book of which you dubbed your paper dagger. Aye, truly it is a blade to which no sword knows the steel. I hold this as no excuse for my actions, I have again betrayed you this time by entering your personal memoirs.

The words you wrote stung my heart like nothing I have yet to experience. You are my friend and as such I could not allow your life to be stolen away by words hidden by nothing more than a leather binding. I opened the journal and took into my own soul the pain of your words. Noting it was I whose betrayal pierced your faith so, that you would give up on life itself, only adds to the sorrow I feel.

The Doctor informed me that at one point your illness took you so close to the brink that words murmured by you during your delirium stuck out to him as a vision sent by God. Somehow you knew of our trouble topside, though you were trapped, literally tied up below. The good Doctor informed me that you were so close to crossing from this life that you saw the misfortune of those of us on the mizzen deck and bid him to save me. Because of this he asked someone to write any words you spoke down. That person, like me, used this book, scripting across the pages the babbling of a dying man. The Doctor hoped you would give some last clue as to how to treat you.

Somehow you thought me dead, and but no small act of God in my fate did your vision nearly come true, but truly I have no understanding to how it was that you felt responsible for my action or my fate. Nay, my friend, you have done nothing that is in need of forgiveness. I, on the other hand, have trespassed greatly on your trust and it is I who must deal with the consequences of my actions. I will not ask your forgiveness, for twice I have betrayed you, and you must know that if it meant your life I would do it again, so I beg you understand my motive. Never again would I turn my back on answers that stare me right in my face. I would gladly give up my life for my King, my Country, and for my friend. You are that friend.

Please know that I am more than willing to fight for what I believe in and I believe that you will make a great Admiral one day.

Your Loyal Servant,

Horatio Hornblower

The Journal of Archie Kennedy

I am astounded by the entries I have found in this book, both Mr. Hornblower's and mine. I am beginning to believe that there are no greater fools than ourselves. Both of us greatly broiled in self-pity. It took several days before I was able to sit up for more than a few minutes. Mr. Mathews would often step in long enough to shovel a few spoons of gruel down my throat, then leave me to my slumber. Horatio, on the other hand, had finally beaten the fever and would often read to me throughout the day from pure boredom, I am sure, but it was a welcome comfort.

It took some time but we finally began to talk out the foolishness of our ideas. We have concluded that neither would do anything hurtful to the other intentionally and if we did, it would be understood that it was done only because of duty and loyalty.

I am weary of being fatigued. The doctor says that it is normal after the length of time I have been ill. The ship as been quiet since the attack that left Horatio injured. I am going to scream if I don't get out of his room soon. It is a sad state when my only excitement comes when I catch Horatio attempting to scratch the healing wounds on his back. He has come up with several ingenious ways to do it, including rubbing his back up and down the support beams like a cat. But that finally undid the good work of the Doctor, breaking a few of his stitches. The Doctor has ordered the loblollies to bring a bucket of salt water to the room when the itching becomes too much; they wash his back down with it. Surely, there is not enough water in the whole of the Atlantic to keep Horatio appeased. I fear it doesn't really work to stop the itch, this confirmed by the occasional outburst of my roommate, still he continues to allow it for he figures that it is helping them to heal a little faster and he feels cleaner.

The Captain has been down twice since I awoke, or, at least twice that I know of. Once, I awoke to him and Horatio playing a game of chess; it was grand to watch, as Horatio had to actually work up a sweat against an opponent. It would have been more than grand to watch him lose. Not that I think that is possible, I am willing to bet that had the Captain not asked me to take over so that he could get back to his duties, that the game would go on to a stalemate. Yes, of that I am certainly sure.

Time has seemed to pass slowly. This day is near done and I am no longer inconvenienced hourly by that dreaded hacking cough, though it still rears its head enough to bring Horatio or the doctor from other rooms to check my fever and dump the vile elixir down my throat. Still, I feel better by the day. The doctor will be releasing Horatio and myself from the sick berth tomorrow. He has even stated that Mr. Hornblower can return to duty and I can do half-duties for the next week. This is a wonderful thing, for I do not know how many more times I can take losing at cards and chess to Mr. Hornblower. I suppose there is a lot to say for an analytical mind, but most of them are not kind words when you're playing against it. On the other hand, we have spent many days reading, or he did.

I have taken up my quill and begun to write these passages. As I am sleeping more often that I would like to admit, I have decided not to date my work but to just give my accounts of events around me. I have been giving a lot of thought to what the doctor said about what I should write in this journal. It seems I have already poured out and imprinted the darkest part of my soul to these white pages. But mine is not the life of a man worth reading about. Still, it has done well to ebb the foolishness I have felt since my illness, but now I want to write something worth reading. I desire to write words that would be remembered, or maybe even revered. Fa, but I do dream big. I have given thought to the book that the Don Massurato had given me: a story about a man and his squire who followed his master throughout his quest. It is no more than what I would do for Horatio. I know, as does most men on board this vessel, that his life is meant for much more than mine. He has a destiny that few others would know. He will be a Commander, of this I have no doubt. I only pray that when eventually he leaves this ship for good, that I might be able to tag along.

My Sancho to Horatio's Quixote, granted the hero in Cervante's book was daft, but it is not everyone who would face the "devil teeth" to rescue an enemy at the peril of himself and that of his men. Romeo and Mercutio, Prince Hal and Sir John... nay, they are all tragic endings. I would not wish to follow their lead, lest it be in the protection of my King and Country. I think I best be content to write of Horatio and Archie, if I dare to write at all. It is not as if we live the adventures of the likes of Admiral Nelson. Though it is certain none other could have seen such trials as our Horatio. Truly, they are tales that none would believe to hear them. Still, they would be quite the parable to convey to my children's children.

I shall fill this book with tales of our adventures. No longer will it be the dagger that stabbed at my soul. I shall fill it with tales of the sea and those who venture to tame her.