Sawyer Fan – Thanks, as always for your encouragement - it is fun to write fight scenes and optimism scenes for such a spunk. Mr Barrington didn't know who he was messing with!
Falling star – Thank you, and I hope you continue to be right! I like to try to post once a week, but it just depends on how complex things are in the particular chapter. Now the 'hospital drama' bit is really kicking in.
Ingra – Good to hear from you again. I'd hate to be without a computer even for a day! Glad you're enjoying the story, and as for whether Tom gets sick: the answer is in this chapter.
"Rubicon 2 – Africa" Chapter 5
by Ten Mara
Rating: T
CATEGORY: Story, Drama/Angst, Supernatural aspects, hints of potential Tom/Mina
DISCLAIMER: The literary characters referred to are copyright their respective authors, and "LXG: The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen" is copyright 20th Century Fox, based on the comic books by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The characters and movie universe are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended, no profit will be gained. Characters not recognised are mine.
xXx
The medicine ran out soon after Hanrahan got his dose.
While racing back and forth helping to take care of people and do duties that needed attending to, Tom thought back to how he had the feeling that something important was going to happen in Africa, that coming with this doctor felt like the right choice to make.
And look how it has turned out! he thought with bitter irony. But in a way it was my destiny to be here, no matter what happens. I know it. I have to try.
So he did his best to push aside his bundle of anxieties, determined to do his utmost to keep these people alive, despite the fact that he had no 'extraordinary' gifts like the others of the League.
I'm out of medicine, I'm out of my league - literally . . . . Was I even in it when I was with the others? Stop it – yes, I was!
But if only the others were here. They could – no, they aren't. It's you. Live with that. Work with what you've got. You can still put up a hell of a fight. Just too bad you can't use your guns against this threat.
Mina had said to Tom back on the Nautilus that he was a natural leader. They had all gotten glimpses of it during their first mission. Now that ability was truly kicking in at this makeshift hospital.
Doctor Hanrahan, the patients and helpers saw this and responded to it, sick or not. Tom and his optimism and determination gave them hope. Some of the helpers had been tempted to give into their fears and flee or panic, but his example changed that. They could see that he wouldn't ask them to do anything that he wouldn't do himself.
The mark of a leader or hero is often someone who keeps their head when everyone else around them is losing theirs, Tom thought. Or, he couldn't help adding wryly, it means that person may not have fully grasped the situation!
One thing he kept reiterating with as much cheer as he could muster was that the riders or help would be here soon. That thought kept him going as much as the others.
Only trouble was . . . .
There was no sign. Tom was getting more and more worried and trying not to show it. There should have definitely been a rider by now, either one they had sent, or someone from the plantation of the Sydneys or Nairobi itself.
What if Barrington or his men ambushed the riders or the fever got them on the way, or the sickness has reached those other places? Then there's no medicine to spare. But surely the League will come. If they've been found . . . . Because after all, he knew their itinerary was not set in stone. There is still time. Someone will come. I just have to be patient.
Tom turned his focus away from worrying. He concentrated on the things he could control instead, or do his best with: like assisting with keeping the patients comfortable, making sure the makeshift hospital was running properly, that there was always water being boiled for drinking and use – essential with all the laundry and dishes and people to be washed.
And Sawyer also did his best to ignore that he was feeling tired and unwell himself.
It's just because I'm racing around and haven't slept properly. Pressure and strain and so on. Doesn't mean for sure that I'm getting the fever. Can't afford to, anyway. So be gone!
At that he gave himself a wry chuckle. I sound like back when I was a kid, thinking I could get rid of warts and witches and find lost marbles, all with the right incantations.
If this ends up being the last thing I do, then at least it is a good thing.
xXx
When anyone came down with the sickness, Tom immediately sent them to bed. With no spoonful of medicine to hopefully keep their body temperature from rising further, it was best that they stayed as quiet and rested as possible. Even those who had the spoonful still suffered unpleasantly.
He couldn't bring himself to check his own body for the rash. Not yet.
Besides, his time was full with either doing or overseeing tasks. He and the other helpers were busy changing sweat-soaked sheets, making sure the patients were taking in plenty of water, comforting them and applying cold compresses, dealing with laundry . . . .
Sawyer checked on Hanrahan, who was alert enough still to allow for some talk about what was happening and what had to be done. The American explained what was going on and Hanrahan made a few suggestions. Then Tom gave him some water and stood up to head back into the fray, only to have the doctor halt him. Their discussion, brief as it was, had worn the doctor out, but now he seemed to be straining to say something else.
"It's all right. Just rest," Tom told him.
"You really are . . . an extraordinary young man," Hanrahan managed to say.
It was good to hear. "Thank you."
xXx
There was no doubt about it anymore. It wasn't just exhaustion – Tom knew he had the fever.
Fear gripped him, with the knowledge that there was no medicine, but soon a kind of grim resolution overtook it. Yes, there was no medicine – his own fate was out of his hands, so there was no use worrying about it.
He pressed on with his duties. It wasn't like he would be running a risk of infecting the patients, and there weren't many unaffected people left to look after the rest. The other helpers tried to put him to bed, but he refused. There are still things I can do.
So of course he got worse faster as a result, compounded by the exhaustion and strain already on his shoulders. Still, he staggered on, with no sign of any cavalry on the horizon.
One small ray of hope was that not too many more people had become sick after the medicine ran out. Probably because most of the people around here already have it, or have left, or have kept themselves isolated, like Jacob. Perhaps he's – how did the doctor put it - immune or has had it before. Or his system has been able to fight it off for longer.
The people who had not had the medicine were put in a separate room – someone's bedroom from the look of it. Fortunately there was still a good supply of cots to use, thanks to the unaffected workers bringing their own beds and bedding from the outbuildings for the sick to use.
Tom forced himself to go out to the pump to get more water, pulling the buckets along behind him in an old toy wagon he was now putting to good, practical use. He just hoped he would be able to get back without trouble. Perhaps if I just fill the buckets up half full each time, that will be easier. A number of trips would need to be made anyway.
His skin was so hot and sore, like he'd been exposed to the sun for hours. His muscles felt extremely painful, which made ordinary movement torturous, let alone dragging the increasingly heavy wagon along. Walking was now more made up of staggering and stumbling, and it was hard to lift his feet up enough to clear stones and uneven ground. Then there was the thirst and dryness in his throat that Sawyer tried to appease with some water.
While at the pump at the side of the house, he managed to see that more supplies had been left outside the gate by the villagers. I'll get them in after the water. He nearly laughed, but that would have taken up too much energy. I'm not sure if my next step will be my last, but at least I've got a full schedule to keep me occupied!
He was so focused and sick that he did not see Jacob's servant, Dale, watching him. Then when Tom managed to get back into the house on his first water trip, Dale's jaw set and he walked off determinedly.
Jacob came out onto the porch of his outbuilding and saw Dale heading away. He called out, demanding to know where he was going.
"To the village. I am going to get some of them, and then go help the American – he is sick and needs us."
"No, you are not! I forbid it! Did you go near him? I told you not to – we can't catch that fever!"
Dale ignored him, a determined look on his face, and kept going. He admired Tom and his spirit too much to let him keep shouldering such a burden.
Jacob watched him go with a mix of emotions. There was disbelief and anger at actually being disobeyed, but also fear and worry. It was like everything he knew was falling apart around him.
Eventually he saw Tom head for the pump again. Dale was right – the American was clearly sick, and it served him right.
But then something started to prick at Jacob's conscience. It certainly had to make an effort to do so, but kept working. Just like Sawyer. Barrington's nephew was amazed he was still on his feet.
He's an idiotic American, but . . . he is one of us.
Though would that be enough to sway Jacob?
xXx
Tom had lost count of how many trips this made from the well - three, four? - but thought one more would do, then he would start moving the supplies. Drawing on as much inner strength as he could muster, he was doggedly doing his best to pull the wagon back towards the kitchen when suddenly one of the natives appeared next to him. The spy nearly jumped out of his skin in fright, then recognised the man as Jacob's servant. What was he doing here?
"I will take the wagon for you, Tom," Dale said, taking the handle off the amazed and dazed American. "And the others are here to help too."
Others?
Tom turned around unsteadily to see about seven natives smiling at him. Unless I'm starting to see double or triple.
"These are people from the village. They are grateful to you for taking care of the sick they have sent you. They want to help. They will bring the supplies in."
"Thank you."
Then Jacob of all people stepped out from behind the group of natives. He eyed Tom. "And from the state you're in, it looks like I'll be carrying you inside!"
Sawyer was astonished and he could see that Dale and the others were too. They didn't know he was coming. Is Jacob just helping to save face or he feels guilty or is it just because I'm white? Then he decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, for now. Besides, trying to think was making him dizzy.
Actually, everything was now making him dizzy.
"Here." Jacob went to pull Tom over his shoulder, but the American refused.
"Just give me a hand instead. If I get off my feet, I'm afraid I won't be able to get back on them."
Jacob shook his head. "You're going to have to get off your feet. Do you see how sick you are? Tell us what the situation is and what has to be done, and then we're putting you to bed, where you will stay."
Tom hesitated, still unsure whether the offer was genuine, which led Jacob to tell him with an edge to his voice, "Sawyer, I swear to you that I won't run. I'm no coward - I'll see this through. This is my home. Do you think you're the only brave one around here?"
"No. I know I'm not," Tom said, looking right at Dale for a moment.
"Then stop being an idiot and shut up and come on. Besides, I need to make sure there's some workforce left alive for when Uncle comes back." Jacob pulled one of Tom's arms around his shoulders and started to support him towards the house, not exactly in the most gentle of manners, but the help was appreciated nonetheless.
Even though the knowledge that there was no more medicine made Tom's new volunteers nervous, they remain steadfast enough to help. After all, Tom had set quite the example and they believed that surely help must be coming down the track at any moment.
Sawyer dearly hoped there was. After all, this was day three.
He did his best to explain to Jacob and Dale what had to be done. Other of the still-active helpers would fill in what he missed.
They took the American into the room allocated to those who had been given no medicine. There were still a few makeshift beds free in there, already prepared for the inevitable influx of more victims.
Even though Tom's body desperately wanted to rest and his mind was half off its axis, the other half of him wanted to resist being put to bed at all costs. It felt like laying down and surrendering, of letting the fever catch up with and consume him.
All totally against the very nature of Special Agent Thomas Sawyer. But his next thought went against the optimistic part of him, even though it was very human.
Is this going to be my deathbed? he could not help thinking with a shudder, as they approached his designated cot.
Dale felt the resistance and hesitation. "You have done all you can for us; now you must do all you can for yourself. Rest."
No. Fight!
xXx
For a time as Tom lay there, he struggled valiantly, then succumbed.
Into waves of fire and eternal torment.
At one point he thought he was back at fourteen, at the mercy of late-onset measles. He'd nearly died, especially after suffering a relapse. Then he was back in the fever he developed after being shot trying to 'help' Jim escape.
Why was it so hot? Was he back in Africa again, flying over the Sahara in the balloon? He tried to open his eyes so that if he was, he could operate the controls and send the balloon back up higher, into cooler weather.
Briefly he grasped hold of some clarity. He was in Africa, but not the Sahara or Egypt. The plantation.
What was he doing lying down? He couldn't afford to lie down!
Weakly, he struggled, attempting to sit up.
"Lay still!" someone said.
"Water . . . ."
"I'll get it for you. Here."
He shook his head in frustration. "No! Got to go get water . . . . The pump."
"No you don't. You don't need to anymore. You just have to rest."
Rest? How could he rest? He was burning! It was like he was a bonfire.
xXx
He could hear a voice coming from somewhere, a very familiar voice . . . . "This is not how it ends for you. It's not your fate."
Quatermain? Tom so much wanted to open his eyes, but couldn't. The fever had no interest in letting him do that. It just wanted him to suffer and die. The voice was still speaking, and he struggled to hear and see without success. Blackness came.
But a tiny spark of hope remained and tried to grow, to sustain him, even as his body boiled.
xXx
He was still in Hell, wrapped in fire, with little reprieve in sight.
Apart from the times where he could feel a degree of coldness. Someone was trying to beat back the fire in him. It had happened before, several times at least, but not to this degree. Or perhaps he hadn't been as aware during those times. But the coldness seemed so weak and puny next to the raging heat, like flicking a drop of water off your finger into a fire.
Then the voice came again, very emotional.
"I'm so proud of you, son."
This time Tom managed to open his eyes and saw one very worried but very familiar-looking adventurer watching him.
"Quatermain?" His voice was faint but the degree of hope was huge.
"It's me. I'm here. Everything is going to be fine."
Somehow there was a sliver of rational thought left in Tom to think: I must be dreaming, hallucinating. Or it's his ghost.
The hunter reached out and Tom felt a hand on his forehead.
Hallucinations can feel real. Or I'm so close to dying that I can feel ghosts myself.
Allan's spirit visiting him when he was on death's door made sense to the spy, even in this extremely ill state. It gave him the chance to apologise and be with him again, however brief.
"I'm sorry . . . ." he began to say.
"There's nothing to be sorry about. I'm so proud of you. You just rest and get better, Tom. I'm right here."
He stared at his mentor, at the feelings in his face. The American could tell there truly was no blame within for what happened at the fortress, and in that moment, he forgave himself fully at last. A weight lifted off him, but unfortunately did not take the heat with it.
But that was all right. He knew that Allan's spirit would watch over him. Between them, he just might beat this thing. If not, then he would get to see the hunter again in the hereafter. Tom smiled, then reluctantly sank once more.
END PART FIVE