Norrington slowly turned the knob and entered the cabin where the surgeon and several of the ship's medics were hovering over Lievtenant Gillette, who lay quite still on the floor. James paused as after he closed the door as he watched them work for a few moments. As he leaned back on a table and hung his head in exhaustion, he noticed several spots of blood on the floor where he stood. It was then he remembered that he, too, had been wounded. The blood from the gash on the left side of his scalp slowly began to trickle in to his eye and he absently lifted his arm to wipe it away, removing his hat and wig in the same motion and letting them fall to the floor. His thinking became somewhat cloudy and he felt dreadfully lightheaded, but Norrington would never dream of interrupting the surgeon's work on a more critical case, especially if it was his first officer. As he looked on, James began to think more and more about the incident. He tried to find blame in someone, something…but he soon found that there was no blame to be had. There was nothing he or Gillette could have done to see the shots coming. With any luck on the marksman's side, both Norrington and Gillette would have been dead long before now. The Commodore could not take comfort in the fact that they had escaped certain disaster by a mere stroke of luck.
As Norrington was drifting deeper and deeper into thought, the surgeon rose and turned toward him. "Commodore, darlin'," he started. "Ye don't look to be fine shape ye'self…" The stout Irishman stopped just in front of Norrington and flashed one of his good-humored smiles. "We're about to take the Lievtenant down to the hospital to work on 'im a bit, so I strongly suggest ye join us sir."
Norrington narrowed his eyes and blinked as he willed away the cobwebs in his mind. "How is he?" he inquired with concern and mounting confusion.
"Oh him…" said the surgeon as he turned back to his assistants and Gillette and smiled. "He's going to be quite all right, if ye don't mind me sayin' so. The ball passed straight through. He'll be needin' some clean up and a great deal of rest, though. As will you, sir. We're off, lads." The surgeon made way to the door with the assistants following him as they carried Gillette down toward the hospital. Norrington leaned back further on the table and looked up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and sighed before gathering himself up to follow the parade, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
Norrington exited the cabin and slowly made his way down the deck toward the stairs. What he heard next made his blood boil.
"You make a fine target for the sharpshooters, Commodore!"
Norrington swung around to his left and placed a hand on the bulkhead for support as he scanned for the offending tongue. There on the Hambleton, which was sailing perhaps 50 yards from the Dauntless, stood Captain Martin. The man had a sickening grin on his face and Norrington felt a sudden need to pull out his pistol. I'll show you sharp shooting, you bastard, thought Norrington as he gritted his teeth. You should be very grateful for the water that separates us now!
Martin stood smiling on the deck of the Hambleton as he gazed over to the Commodore. He studied him for a moment from a distance as he noticed the blood streaming down the younger officers entire left side and soaking the bright uniform. Serves you right…That's what you get for running off to battle, you bloody twit.
Of course I make a fine target, the Commodore thought. They only go for the important officers anyway…How he had wanted to say that! But he knew that was a horrible breech of protocol and would only fuel the fire between him and Martin. Norrington shook it off as he continued down toward the hospital, surveying the damage on the way. The Dauntless herself had taken only minor hits, and only a handful of crewmen were wounded, and most of those were simply doubled over from exhaustion. Norrington was pleased with their brilliant performance. "Excellent show, gentlemen," he praised as he passed by. He noticed that most of the sailors and Marines were staring at him – whether it was due to the praise or the growing crimson stain on his uniform, he could not be sure.
Norrington descended the final flight of stairs and found himself standing only feet from the table where Gillette was being treated. He moved out of the corner and into the larger expanse of the room as he watched the surgeon finish his work. Aiden Quinlan had been the surgeon aboard the Dauntless for as long as Norrington could remember. The kind, round, older Irishman from Belfast had acted as a mentor for Norrington when he first joined the crew as a young, naïve Midshipman. Since then James had risen through the ranks, but never forgotten Quinlan's candor. Indeed, the relationship between the two was professional, though Quinlan never hesitated to make Norrington chuckle or set him straight if need be. The Commodore and the entire Dauntless crew knew the surgeon's quirky personality and took it all in stride. Quinlan finished up on the unconscious Gillette and wiped his hands as he turned around to where Norrington stood.
"I suggest ye find a seat and relax, Commodore. Yer bleedin' profusely all over ye'self," stated Quinlan with a slight hint of teasing.
Norrington looked up at him slowly and waved his arm in dismissal. "No, I'm quite all right…."
Quinlan pointed to a chair not to far away. His tone had become much more stern. "Chair. Sit down, before ye fall down."
The Commodore looked up incredulously. "Are you handling me, Mr. Quinlan?" he asked with his usual commanding tone.
"No sir," started the surgeon as a smile crossed his face. "But I will if ye don't get yer head out of yer arse."
Norrington looked at him and narrowed his eyes in confusion.
"…Respectfully, sir," covered Quinlan as his smile grew. He pointed to a chair as he walked over and took Norrington by the sleeve. "Chair. Sit." The surgeon grimaced as he looked over the Commodore's wound. "Aye, that's a nasty gash ye got there, sir. Four inches along yer scalp…I'd say ye be one damned lucky bastard."
"No need to use that type of language, Mr. Quinlan," said Norrington with a straight tone. "How is the Lievtenant?"
"My apologies, sir. Like I said before, the ball passed right on through. He was in a great deal of pain and did pass out though. We caught it though, cleaned him up nicely – he was in shock from the blood loss. If ye don't mind me sayin,' yer headed the same way Commodore," asserted Quinlan as he began to clean the head wound.
"What are you insinuating?" asked Norrington as he turned toward his trusted surgeon.
"By the powers, ye are getting cloudy, Commodore darlin'…" mocked Quinlan as he continued working. "I'll make it plain for ye since yer not feelin' ye best. Bad wound. Lots of blood loss. God knows ye should either be unconscious on the floor or dead on the deck with ye brains spillin' out. But never mind that…I think ye lost enough to go into shock, sir, so I want to treat this aggressively." Quinlan's crude demeanor was always laced with a smile and a harmless sarcasm. He tilted Norrington's head slightly to the right to get a better look at the wound.
"I don't think this is necessary…I'll be heading back to the helm," started Norrington as he went to stand up.
"Yer not going anywhere, Commodore. I don't tell ye how to run ye pretty ship, now do I? So just sit and relax, I'll have ye patched up in no time." Norrington sat back and took the surgeon's words as he had done for the last 10 years. He became dimly aware of Quinlan motioning to one of the assistants, who promptly came and put a stern hand on his shoulder and another on his head.
"Quinlan…" warned Norrington.
"Yer not about to like what I'm going to do to ye," stated Quinlan as he prepared salt to put on the wound. Norrington sank into the chair, knowing full well what was about to happen. Quinlan smiled. "Best to be doing it before ye lose more blood and pass out, Commodore darlin'."
The intense stinging and sheer pain was enough to blind a man, or so Norrington thought.
"Don't grit ye teeth like that! It'll hurt more," declared Quinlan with authority. "I'll be stitchin' that as well, sir."
"Splendid…" Norrington rolled his eyes. "So what of Gillette's condition?" he inquired as he raked his fingers through his hair.
"Blood loss is his greatest concern, but ye should know enough about that by now. Feeling lightheaded are ye?" Quinlan asked with a smirk as he leaned down quickly to look the Commodore in the eye.
"Quite."
"As ye should. Anyways, the Lievtenant's going to need about a month of rest I'd imagine. Ball missed the artery and the bone – he's been very lucky. But still, that shoulder will be quite the trouble for a while until it's strong again. There," Quinlan paused as he finished the sutures. "Good as new. Albeit a little woozy. Now I suggest that ye go and rest while we make way back to Port Royale. I also suggest that ye don't fall down the stairs again, Commodore darlin…Right good way to earn the pleasure of my company for a longer period of time, and it is most ungraceful of ye," Quinlan chuckled has he patted Norrington once on the shoulder and tended to another sailor.
Norrington merely shook his head and stood up slowly to check on Gillette. His head was spinning, but it no longer mattered. The Lievtenant stirred some before opening his eyes and gazing up to the Commodore. "Sir?" he said slowly, with great confusion.
"Quiet Matthieu, you had better rest," said Norrington softly as he leaned on the table. "Your wound is not life threatening, thank God. They're about to take you up to sickbay. We should be back in Port Royale by nightfall."
Gillette turned his head and narrowed his eyes as he looked Norrington over and noticed the blood on the uniform. "You look like hell…"
Norrington smirked before pointing at Gillette's shoulder. "Yes, well, you're not looking ship shape either, Lievtenant." James smiled as he looked down. "Katherine is going to flog us for coming back like this," he said with a chuckle. Gillette paused as he noticed something. Norrington turned back to him in quiet alarm. "Is something wrong?"
Gillette rested his head back down, but continued to smile. "You're laughing."
Norrington narrowed eyes in sarcastic displeasure. "You're delirious and imagining things. That, or I'm delirious and imagining things…" His words trailed off as he looked away. He turned back to Gillette. "Rest now, Matthieu. I'll see you back in port." With that, Norrington turned and made his way unsteadily to the stairs to return to his cabin, where he fully intended on collapsing and sleeping the rest of the voyage.
Gillette glanced over at him once more and chuckled. "Don't fall down the stairs, sir!"
"I'm not going to fall down the bloody stairs!"
