Part VI (3800 words, PG13)
The days that followed were hard for everyone, and if Bush were not such a practical, stalwart man he might have caved under the strain. But Bush had always been blessed with a straight-forward view of duty, and despite that first nights unsettling display of emotion, he forced himself to approach each problem as it came. His biggest two concerns were for the captain's health and for the health of the ship. Their race against the wind in the Goulet had put too much stress on the splintered foremast, and the cracks in its wooden column had grown significantly—a development they had only noticed in the light of morning. The mast was now braced by two spaced girdles, but it would not last a stiff gale. The captain . . . well, the captain was in worse shape than the mast. As the doctor had predicted, Hornblower's fever deepened, and the infection in his back spread. He had not roused since his rescue, and Bush could only stand by and watch as his rail-thin body weakened with each hour of sickness.
By the time they reached the Point of Saint-Mathieu, Bush had no doubts as to their course. West by northwest would take them past the isles and to the fleet at Ushant, but Bush turned the Hotspur north—north along the coast of France and then north by northeast, to Plymouth. The intermittent west wind during the day yielded an average headway of just over four knots, which made the tack back to England a three day journey. Bush would ordinarily have been content, if not quite pleased by this headway, but with the captain wasting away and the foremast shivering, he found the journey interminable long. When the Hotspur finally sailed into port, Bush was positively heavy with worry. He found himself pacing the deck in a very Hornblower-like manner as he waited for an acknowledging signal from the flag ship, and when Foreman relayed the anticipated 'come aboard', he was over the side and rowing to the Hibernia without a second lost.
The flag lieutenant was on deck to greet him when he climbed up the Hibernia's side. He looked surprised to see a fellow lieutenant instead of a captain, and Bush worried that his harried countenance gave too much away.
"Is Captain Hornblower . . ." The officer let the question dangle, as if expecting Bush to fill in the silence.
"Captain Hornblower is unable to attend the admiral. If you could show me the way?" Bush none too gently reminded the lieutenant of his duty.
"Certainly." The lieutenant looked amusedly curious, much to Bush's further irritation, but he lead Bush to the rear gallery without additional conversation.
Cornwallis looked even more surprised than the flag lieutenant to see Bush enter the cabin rather than the expected Hornblower. Bush caught the admiral looking hard at the only other man in the room-a stout, middle aged man whom Bush assumed was the flag captain from his epaulette. How Collins could be expected to know anything of the Hotspur's activities was beyond Bush. Bush was too nervous to attend to such observations in any case, finding himself in such august company. It came to him that the last time he'd spoken to an admiral it had been with Hornblower, in the Long Rooms in London.
The flag lieutenant saved Bush the effort of an introduction.
"This is lieutenant Bush of the Hotspur, sir. It appears the captain is unable to attend you."
Bush inwardly seethed, despite his nerves. The way that nitty put it, one would think the captain was simply not inclined to make the journey
"Indeed," said Cornwallis disapprovingly, "And why not?"
Cornwallis had looked to the flag lieutenant for this response, but the flag lieutenant turned to Bush.
"Captain Hornblower is grievously ill and wounded, sir."
"Ill and wounded? What from?" Cornwallis was frowning, and Bush was satisfied to see some genuine concern in the blue eyes that so mirrored his own.
"That is what I've come to report, sir, among other things," Bush said hesitantly, "Captain Hornblower was . . . well, he was kidnapped, sir, and tortured by French spies."
"Kidnapped and tortured? Good Heavens, man! Is he alright?"
Bush refrained from pointing out the ridiculousness of that question, given his previous statement. One did not correct admirals. "Yes, sir—that is, no, sir. The captain's wounds are infected and he's been running a bad fever for three days. He's been insensible since we rescued him."
"What was done to him?"
"I don't entirely know, sir, as he's been in no state to tell me. He was flogged, badly, that much is obvious. And he was tied to the masthead when we found him, without a coat." Bush did not hesitate in offering this information, but he did not at any time consider revealing more, respect for admirals not withstanding.
"Flogged?" That was the first word he'd heard out of Collins.
"Yes, sir. With a cat. And he wasn't tended, so the marks grew infected."
"The rules of war don't allow for-"
"Clearly the rules of war did not apply, or were ignored." Cornwallis interrupted Collins, his voice frigid. He looked to Bush, "you said they were spies?"
"They claimed to be fishermen, and were aboard a proper fishing vessel, but I can't think what else they could be but pirates or spies. I have no doubt they were selling information to Boney." Bush could not restrain the righteous anger that swelled in his breast at the thought of those treacherous frogs.
"Is Hornblower expected to live?"
"He's at even odds, sir, so the doctor tells me. If his fever breaks he should recover, but if not . . . he's lost a lot of weight, sir."
Cornwallis nodded in acknowledgement. Illness ate away the flesh of a man faster than privation, and when there was none left to eat, there'd be nothing left of the man.
"How did this contrive to happen, Lieutenant eh, eh . . ."
"Bush, sir," the flag lieutenant supplied.
"How did this contrive to happen, Lieutenant Bush?"
Bush had no expectation that a Vice Admiral of the White would ever remember his name, and so took no offense at this lapse. "Perhaps I could give you my full report, sir, so you can have it in sequence?"
Cornwallis agreed, and Bush recounted all of the recent activities of the Hotspur, starting with her night patrol of the Goulet via the Little Girls. Cornwallis and Collins were gratifyingly appreciative of their efforts to block an Ireland invasion force, and of the shoaling of a French frigate ("Damn fine work by Hornblower!" Cornwallis had exclaimed). They were also surprised to discover the source of Hornblower's information. Bush could supply fewer details of the captain's abduction, relying as he was on the combined accounts of Poole and the hands, but he offered all proper justifications regarding his actions during the resulting chase and night assault.
"It appears the French have treated you infamously, sir," concluded Cornwallis when the report was finished. "But it was well done, your rescue operation. And well done, too, to return here instead of reporting to Chambers at Ushant. You said you'd be wanting a doctor? To check over Hornblower?"
"Yes, sir." Bush's report had ended with the explanation that he'd come to Plymouth in part to acquire the opinion of a more experienced physician.
"Hmm," the older man grunted, "Well you have my leave to contact the shore, and to begin repairs and revittling. And I'm sending my own surgeon over with you now. Never hurts to have too many doctors."
"Aye aye, sir," Bush automatically responded, though he had his doubts as to the veracity of that particular statement.
"And you'll notify me if anything changes, of course?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good, good. I'll send a boat over with orders to that effect and with my surgeon. Would you care for a glass of wine now, before you leave?"
Bush left the Hibernia as quickly as he'd come.
HHHHHHHHHH
It was dark when Hornblower opened his eyes. He was on his back and laying on something soft. And he was warm. Those two sensations—a soft ground and complete warmth, were so out of place with his last complete memories that he strained his eyes to make out any hint of his surroundings. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could make out a pale sheen of light on the floor to his side. Moonlight. Through a cabin hatch. His cabin hatch. He was on the Hotspur?
He tried to roll his legs off the bed and sit up so he could better assess his surroundings, but the movement elicited an involuntary groan from his lips and he stopped with his legs half off the cot. But he could not just lay there and wait for the world to move—he would not. So he steeled himself and slowly continued to push himself up. These actions precipitated another groan and then a series of whimpers, much to his horror. Despite the discomfort however, he succeeded in forcing himself into a sitting position and was squinting across his cabin when he heard footsteps in the companionway. Then his door opened and lantern light spilled onto the floor.
"Sir? Are you awake, sir?"
It was Doughty's voice. Hornblower had not quite believed until that moment that he was really on the Hotspur, safely away from the nightmare of the Terre Haute.
"Yes," he responded, his voice coming out in a weak croak.
Doughty set his lantern down on the table, then moved to light the others in Hornblower's cabin. As the room slowly illuminated, the steward noticed that the captain was sitting up, and he quickly protested. "Sir, you shouldn't be up, sir. Why don't you lay back down, sir?"
Hornblower would have none of it, "How long have I been here, Doughty?"
"On the Hotspur, sir?"
"Yes." Hornblower was gratified to hear more strength in his voice as his ire rose.
"Almost three days, sir. We're at Plymouth, sir."
"three days?" Hornblower was aghast. His growing awareness brought with it vague snatches of memory that he might be able to attribute to time lost, but three days?
"Yes, sir. You had a bad fever. It only just broke this night, sir." Doughty, having fully lit the cabin, was now standing before Hornblower at almost full attention.
"Well what time is it now?"
"Near two o'clock in the morning, sir."
Hornblower 'humf'ed, and Doughty took the cessation of questions as an opportunity to ask one of his own. "Can I get you something to eat, sir? Doctor says you're to eat as much as your able."
Hornblower gave the matter more thought than he felt it deserved. But he was hungry, when the idea was put before him, and the gnawing of his stomach sealed the decision.
"Yes, Doughty. I'll have some dinner. And coffee, or whatever you can scrounge up."
"Yes, sir. Yes, sir-" Doughty seemed to hesitate on the verge of saying something. Maybe the patient wasn't supposed to have coffee? Or there was none? Hornblower laughed to himself, but he knew Doughty would figure some clever way of satisfying every party. Apparently Doughty came to the same conclusion, for he said "Yes, sir," one last time and then departed. It never occurred to Hornblower that Doughty's hesitation may stem from other, less trivial concerns than coffee. Only nine hours before he'd been bathing Hornblower's body with frigid sea water to bring his fever down, at the recommendation of Cornwalli's surgeon. Only six hours had passed since the captain's fever had finally tapered off.
Not more than five minutes could have gone bay after Doughty's exit before there came a knock on his door. Hornblower ignored it, knowing that Doughty would just enter regardless, but when the door remained closed he forced himself to raise his voice, even as he rested his forehead in his left hand.
"Come in."
He was tired, and it annoyed him that he was tired. He had been sleeping for three days, for heaven's sake; he didn't deserve to be tired.
It was Bush who entered the cabin, and it was a mark of Hornblower's fatigue that he had not anticipated this visit.
"Sir?"
Bush was in his uniform, but it had clearly been rapidly assembled, for he was missing both his stock and his hat. He was peering anxiously at Hornblower, and Hornblower felt uncomfortably like a doll on display in a store window.
"Mr. Bush." Hornblower said, returning Bush's gaze from between his fingers.
"How are you feeling, sir?"
Hornblower narrowed his eyes. He was tired, achy, and in pain, and he was certain he looked it. Perhaps this was Bush's way of telling him to stop being a stubborn fool and lay down. Hornblower decided he would not respond. Indeed, it was time he take command of the conversation.
"Report, Mr. Bush. What happened after I was taken?"
Hornblower was again reminded of a parent fretting over a sick child by the sour look on Bush's face, but Bush, ever the proper first officer, did as ordered. He kept to the facts, and in a mere five minutes of speech he outlined the Hotspur's hunting plan and it's success, the night attack in the Goulet, and the boarding of La Terre Haute. He ended by describing their slow haul to Plymouth and his report to the admiral.
"You did not check in with the fleet at Ushant?" It was clear that Bush had not, so Bush understood Hornblower's real question to be 'why did you not check in with the fleet at Ushant'?
"I deemed the damage to the ship, and the matter of your health, sir, too important to delay our return to Plymouth. After the strain of our chase, the foremast again splintered, and I did not think she could survive a gale. And Wallis believed there may be better treatments for your fever available at port. I—I thought it worth the broach in protocol, sir."
"And the admiral agreed?"
"Yes, sir."
"Hmm." Hornblower did not know if he did. At least six days had been lost of their watch on the Goulet—three to tack to port, and three to return-and at a time when the French fleet may be rethinking its strategy. He did not know if he would be so circumspect were he in Cornwallis's shoes. Then again, there was the damage to the ship to consider . . . perhaps Bush had been right. Perhaps.
Hornblower would have continued his questioning, which had successfully distracted him from his growing fatigue, but Doughty entered then, tray in hand. He set his burden on the table, and Hornblower was reminded of his hunger by the twitching of his nose when the succulent aroma of boiled lamb wafted his way. Bush and Doughty appeared to notice his interest, and Hornblower looked away from the table to disguise his appetite. Yet he had every intention of eating at that table, so even as he averted his gaze he tried to position himself closer to the edge of his cot, doing his best to stifle any sign of the pain even this small motion brought him.
Doughty approached. "Shall I help you to the table, sir, or would you like to eat in bed?"
Hornblower, having already set his mind on the table, had not even considered the alternative. "The table," he ordered.
Doughty nodded and Bush looked on worriedly as the steward wrapped an arm around Hornblower's waist and Hornblower lifted his arm over Doughty's back. Except almost as soon as this positioning was complete, Hornblower was pushing Doughty violently away. Somehow with his fatigue and general maziness, Hornblower had not appreciated that he was naked beneath his blankets. When Doughty had gripped him around the waist he'd felt goosebumps raise on his exposed skin, and a wave of revulsion shoot up his stomach. He could have retched. But it all happened so fast, this rebellion of his body, that he was quite as surprised as Doughty when his arms came up and shoved the older man back with as much force as he could muster. Doughty did not quite lose his footing, but he had to splay his arms to maintain his balance. Hornblower could feel himself trembling, and his lungs seemed to only want to suck in short gasps of air. He felt betrayed by his body, for he could not explain these reactions. He could guess their cause well enough, but he felt so strongly that the motion of his limbs should be dictated by his mind alone and not frightened instinct that this did not seem reason enough.
Bush was standing before him now, and Hornblower forced his recalcitrant lungs to slow their huffing until his breathing approached a regular beat. He would not meet Bush's eyes as he said, "I shall eat on the bed, Doughty."
"Yes, sir," Doughty replied, giving no indication that he'd just been struck.
Bush, still standing stiffly before him, had his arms outstretched, like he wanted to give Hornblower his hand, or help in some way, but didn't know how he'd be received. "Sir-," he began, but Hornblower cut him off.
"That will be all, Mr. Bush."
"Sir, I-"
"You're dismissed, Mr. Bush."
Bush swallowed his words, his face containing some emotion Hornblower could not identify. It was not quite that of a worried parent, as before-it was too anguished to just be worried, and too passionate to be that of a parent-but Hornblower would not hazard to guess it's portent. Then Bush stood, and without looking back he left the cabin.
It was with difficulty then that Hornblower forced himself to eat the brothy lamb stew. His appetite had quite been ruined by the whole episode, and it was more for Doughty's sake than his own that he kept the spoon moving from the bowl to his mouth until the bowl was empty. When that task was completed, Hornblower carefully lowered himself back on to his stomach and allowed Doughty to gently pull up his blankets. Then Doughty left and Hornblower lay there, weary and frightened in the dark. He found himself unable to sleep despite his fatigue. His mind had too much to take in, to process, to dwell on. He remembered what was done to him. Some men were struck with amnesia after traumatic events, but he was not to be so lucky. He remembered everything. Some of it as if it were a dream, and all the worse because he knew it was not.
He recalled the harsh sting of leather on his back. He had thought that eventually the pain would dull as his nerves became deadened by the stimulation, but that had proved untrue—a white lie the officers told themselves to assuage their guilt when they meted out punishments on the gratings. He'd felt every blow, each of the nine leather tongues licking his back in a shockingly painful slap that left his mind too stupefied to keep count, but fearful enough to cringe from the next blow.
He remembered the shock of sudden submersion in freezing water and the sting of salt against his flayed back. They had dragged him behind the ship and watching him squirm at the end of his line like it was a yachting game. He had struggled, twisting and turning and pulling back on the rope that bound his arms, so as to keep himself on his stomach and save his back the pain of the ocean scouring his skin, all the while fighting the rising terror that he would be eaten by a shark—torn limb from limb in violent mutilation before he perished. He wished now that there had been a shark. It would have saved him from the worst.
For he remembered other things, unspeakable things, after night had fallen. They had thought to shame him by the light of a candle, and they had succeeded. And he had been too exhausted to even fight back. He had tried, God had he tried, but his struggles had been patted away like so much dust on a coat. And then he had just lain there, too weak even to vomit his revulsion or emit more than whimpers of pain, and when they had left him alone he had sobbed in humiliation. The pirate captain had come then, for he had not stooped to performing the act himself. He asked again for information, threatening more pain, more abasement. But the act had already been done. Hornblower had already lost his pride; there was no point in spilling his government's secrets, few that he knew, when he was already less than a man. Even to save himself from further disgrace. "Damn you to hell," he'd spat out. And they had tied him to the mainmast.
Yet there was always room in his head and heart for new fears, even with these horrid memories taking him in their grip. Who among his crew now knew what had been done to him? As Bush had stormed La Terre Haute, had his captors jeered their conquest? Had the doctor given him a full inspection? He knew that Bush knew. His first lieutenant, his friend, had never been able to conceal his emotions, and there was too much concern, too much awkward sympathy underlaying his dry recount for Hornblower to dismiss. And if Bush knew, it was likely that Doughty and the doctor knew as well. And Bush had . . . God, Bush had reported to Cornwallis. If the admiralty . . . just how complete had that report been? He knew there were some among the admirals who thought sodomy was contagious. That victims should be punished alike with perpetrators. It was a frequent enough occurrence, of course, particularly among pirates, that the majority of ranking officers viewed the matter with more sympathy, but Hornblower could not stand the thought of his name being tainted so. And then there was Maria, and his son, if he was born and healthy.
He should call Bush back, question him, demand-
No. He could not. Despite his earlier assertion, despite everything his mind told him, his heart wanted to believe that there was a chance Bush did not know. As long as there was silence between them, Hornblower could pretend that his friend still did not. It was a false comfort, and a small one at that, but he clung to it with a desperation he could only despise.