HMS Surprise,4 leagues north-northwest of Finisterre, 16 May1808.
"Upon my word, Stephen," Jack Aubrey cried, invading the surgeon's cabin with a furious burst of exuberant goodwill, "it is six bells of the forenoon watch and here you are in your cot. This is a most unusual turn of events, I must say." He settled heavily onto a fragile stool and poked his great leonine head into Maturin's hammock.
Maturin lay within, fully dressed, skewering the low ceiling with implacable hatred. "Can you not," he addressed sternly to Jack, "enter a man's cabin without you should disturb him so thoroughly? I am trying to think. Cogito, ergo sum."
"Thinking may be the force behind your existence, my dear Stephen, but I prefer plain worrds. You look troubled, friend." Aubrey smacked a white-breeched knee. "Is it Killick's goose pie? Mowett's rhymes? Or, I dare say, have you found some new reptile that begs further scrutiny on a surface not subject to random tilting?" He guffawed obscurely.
Maturin's stare waxed reptilian indeed. "Jack. The situation is of dire gravity." He waved a pale bony hand irritably. "Fetch my chamber pot."
"I should think you're quite up to the task yourself-"
"I desire you to examine its contents. Look into it, I beg of you. Look."
Jack shrugged. "I cannot say but that I shan't find more than the young gentlemen's brains," he grinned, and directed his eyes to the white porcelain basin. But - the inside was not white, nor were they occluded with the normal detritus of the human body. The pot was part full of intensely red, clotty blood. Jack reeled, nearly tumbling from his seat, and turned nearly as white as the basin. "Upon my word! What - in God's name - whose - where - whose blood is that?" He smashed his hair back furiously and gulped air.
Maturin wafted his fingers coolly through the air. "It is my blood," he remarked laconically, watching his own hands with deep interest. "It came from my lungs."
"From your lungs?"
"Properly, only the left lung, from the upper lobe." He breathed heavily. "Do you recall our last Channel cruise, Jack?"
Aubrey rose from the milking stool and paced, avoiding having the basin, or Stephen, in his line of sight. "You were taken ill for three days, but refused all offers of aid or medicament."
"Exactly that."
"But why, Stephen? And what connection has it with - that?" Jack's head swam, and he groaned softly. "Oh, I am not certain I would like to know."
The physician harrumphed wryly. "You have seen fit to inquire as to the reasons behind my behaviour; I believe you should be made privy. Do regain your seat, Jack. You appear a mite unsteady."
"A touch of sea-sickness, I should think."
"Nonsense. You've not been sea-sick a day in your life." Maturin coughed wetly. "On the last Channel cruise, I was afflicted with a bothersome case of chills, cough, cold sweats, and fever. All this, you understand, is endemic during the winter in the general population. I was not overly concerned by my symptoms until I perceived an obvious decline in my desire for nourishment." Overhead, a bell rang out seven times. Stephen paused as heavy footsteps crossed the ceiling, which was, on its sunward surface, the quarterdeck. "This continued for several days. After a fortnight, I began to consider diagnostic possibilities beyond the ordinary catarrhs brought by cold weather. The particular cycle of my fever had bearing in my assessment." He steepled his fingers and mused silently.
"What possibilities? What cycle? Stephen, speak plainly. I am no man of science and I do not follow what you mean." Jack snapped his knuckles anxiously and shifted his considerable weight from one buttock to another - one buttock being all that the undersized stool could contain at once.
"Every day at four o'clock - eight bells in the noon watch - I became very feverish. I declined to attend tea in your cabin because of it - I gave you the excuse of having several new monographs on the Otaheite pawpaw which I was desperate to read." Maturin sighed deeply. "My suspicions are now fully corroborated by the noisome flood from my lungs. Jack, the symptoms I have described, especially the fever which rises at four o'clock, are the classic exertnal signs of phthisis."
"Bless you. The signs of what?"
"Decrease your morning brandy ration, Jack, and perhaps all will become clear. There can be no question of it; I have consumption."
A/N: This was brought to you by Gaelige. What do you think? Should this be continued? Review, please! I admit the premise is a little weird. I use consumptives in my stories... well, almost all the time. Full reasons may be found at: http/ idea for "Hominum in Extremis" came from a rather loopy conversation at 2am (after having watched Master and Commander, Law and Order: SVU, and House) with my friend and co-writer.
Gaelige: Let's think of ways to improve Maturin.
Rambler: Salsa? Leonard Nimoy plus salsa equals an unstoppable force of excellence!
Gaelige: Ooh, I know! We could make him consumptive!
Both: cheer