fic: The Shoaling Sea - Part V
Previous: Part IV
***
The Hotspur lay hove-to two cables lengths from the Goudron. They did not dare weigh anchor in that narrow space, for the currents and wind could easily drag them even with that weight, and they'd sacrifice maneuverability. They would have to play the wind against the rudder to keep her stationary, and Bush was leaving Prowse to that task. He would allow no other to command this boarding, and no other officers were in a position to object. He would lead the first boat-the captain's gig, appropriately--and Cargill would command the longboat.
There was no point in disguising their approach, so they rowed at full strength, paddles un-muffled. The fishermen had only a harpoon gun and a scant few pistols to fend off their approach, and that was hardly worth mounting a defense. As they neared the Terre Haute's wave-battered side it became clear that the frenchmen indeed had no intention of rebuffing their advance-they meant to flee.
Bush leaned forward against the prow of the gig to peer into the darkness, cupping his face to block out the lantern light of the looming sloop.
There! A cables length north was a longboat. The chick hearted scoundrels were abandoning their ship and making straight for the french coast! Bush looked up the sloop's side and then back at the sea. Would they have brought Hornblower with them on that boat?
A whistle rang past Bush's ear.
That was a pistol shot from the Terre Haute's deck! Apparently all hands had not made it off the ship!
Maybe they were in the process of loading a second boat . . . it was unlikely he'd be able to catch that first longboat without the Hotspur in any case . . . they would stick with their original plan.
“Hewitt!” He shouted to the man at the rudder, “Take us up against the stern shrouds. Handsomely now!” The falling tide was forcing water against the sloop's starboard beam and pushing the entire vessel on to her leeward side. It was only a matter of time before she capsized completely, though that would likely be some time yet, with the ground beneath her. Even so, with the buffeting, the gig was in very near danger of breaking itself upon the hull. Hewitt directed the boat carefully alongside, the crew upping oars as the gap narrowed.
Cargill was moving the longboat around the stern to board the port side when Bush gave the order to climb the shrouds. With the alacrity of a skilled topman Bush climbed the side and pounced on to the deck. He had left Hewitt and another man in the boat to keep it steady in the water, but he could not remain there himself. He had a cutlass in hand and was ready for a fight the moment his feet made contact with the planking, swinging his head in a violent circle to find the nearest enemy.
There! Behind the mizzen mast!
He charged forward, a macabre grin spreading across his face as his limbs filled with adrenaline. For one brief instant he could lose himself to glory of battle. The fisherman-for fisherman he must be, with the way he was holding that sword-barely met Bush's rush, and with the second blow he fell, sliced from neck to navel. Bush turned to look for another target.
There was none.
He saw two other frenchmen laying prone on the deck, and his men loitering by the foc's'l.
WEEUP!
That was another pistol shot, this time from the port side! He rushed to the rail amidships. Two more frogs were in a boat on the side, firing into Cargill's oncoming longboat. Clearly the five stragglers had been attempting to load up with additional goods before they made their escape, but they had mistimed their venture. It was a lost cause now. The line of British marines had a clear shot from where they stood in the sternsheets of the longboat, and in the next instant the fishermen were dead, each a mess of pulped flesh.
Bush turned back to the deck to look for the nearest hand. “Black! Take three men and go below! Search the decks for frogs, and keep an eye out for the captain!”
“Aye aye, sir!” the man grinned, turning to pick his men. As he turned he froze, however, and Bush, following his gaze, froze with him. He felt the blood leach from his face, and a trembling begin in his limbs. For a second he was incapable of moving. Then he was running, five leaping strides, to stand before the mainmast.
There would be no need to search the lower decks for Hornblower.
“Sir? Sir?” Bush called out, almost afraid to touch that limp, wet figure. Hornblower had been tied to the mainmast, his navy jacket blending in with the hulk of wood in the poor light of the deck; that was why he had not been spotted immediately. His tall, lean frame sagged lifelessly against the thick cords that bound him, and he did not appear to be awake. Bush reached out a tender hand to feel for a pulse.
It was there, weak but steady.
“Cut him down!” He growled to Black, and he heard a knife leave its sheath and then the whisk of a blade working against hemp.
“Sir?” Bush beseeched again, praying for a response. He shifted his hand to the captain's face, brushing back the dark hair that matted his forehead so he could better see any movement. Beneath that hair however, was something almost as distressing as Hornblower's continued silence. A dark bruise marred fully half of the captain's face, extending from his left eye to his chin. Bush felt a chill rush down his spine. He dreaded to see what other sins lay beneath his friend's uniform. Bush's hand, still flush with Hornblower's cheek, grew cold, and he pulled it away to warm it in his pocket. Then with a further horror he realized the implication of that cold. Hornblower's skin was freezing. He wore only his uniform jacket-no great coat, no blanket, no gloves-and he'd been exposed to the elements for at least an hour, maybe all night. It was December, for God's sake! His skin, where it wasn't bruised, was white, and if he wasn't shivering it could only be because he was beyond shivering.
Hornblower suddenly fell against Bush, and it was clear that Black had cut the last cord binding him. Bush's arms fell naturally around Hornblower's shoulders, and he rubbed violent circles up and down the captain's back to work some warmth into that torso. Then Bush carefully hefted Hornblower onto his shoulder and carried him to the port side. He was disturbingly light-as light as a woman-almost a child! Bush knew the captain had lost weight, but he had not realized just how much. He forced himself to move faster to the sloop's side. The gig on the starboard beam was precarious at best, and the port rail was closer to the sea with the way the sloop was leaning.
“Cargill!” He shouted down into the sternsheets of the longboat.
Bush saw the master's mate look up in question, and he was happy to see the full marine compliment was still in the boat. Cargill must have decided not to waste time unloading and loading the longboat's men when he heard the battle end on deck.
“I have the captain!” Bush explained. “I'm going to lower him over the side to you. You will return to the Hotspur immediately, and get him to Wallis.” There was no room for questions in this order, and Bush slipped the captain off of his back and lowered him gently by his arms without further ado. The marines could just reach Hornblower's legs as he dangled over the side, and in a moment they had him fully in the boat.
“Sir--” That was Black, again by his side. Bush felt something soft and heavy pressed into his newly emptied hands. “I found dhese below, sir.” They were blankets. Wool blankets. Clever man.
“Wrap him in these, Cargill!” He yelled, then threw the folded bundles into the sternsheets. “Keep him as warm as you can! Have the marines take turns rubbing his arms and lengths to get his blood moving-use your coats-do whatever you have to!”
Cargill gave him a worried frown, and Bush felt his fear transform into irritation. “Go, damn you! Hurry!”
“Aye aye, sir. Give way!” The longboat shoved off.
Bush watched them for another second, then turned back to the deck. If he had been any other lieutenant he would have returned with the captain himself. But he was in command now. He had a duty to do. The sloop was not a vessel of war, but it was a prize, and as such there were protocols that must be followed. He must search for ship's signal book, the captain's log, and any other papers. And, it seemed ridiculous now, but he was duty bound to take as many valuables as he could from the Terre Haute's hold. He doubted very much they'd find anything, given that the crew had escaped free and clear, but he must launch a search nonetheless.
“Black,” the man was already looking at him, but Bush said the name to organize his own thoughts. “What of the lower decks?”
“All clear, sir. Not another soul on board.”
Bush let the words flow into his head, grasping for appropriate orders. “Have the men collect anything valuable, and keep their eyes peeled for a signal book, or papers.”
“They've been keepin' a sharp eye out for val'ables, right enough, sir, but I'll pass on the bit about the papers.” Black knuckled his forehead, then moved aft to the companionway.
Bush turned his eye to the rigging. He was certain that he should be following Black to search at least the captain's quarters for himself, but he could not. Duty required him to stay aboard the Terre Haute with his men, but despite his intent to do right, his heart was still with Hornblower and that longboat. His mind kept replaying the utter lack of expression on the captain's face when it had been cleared of its damp tendrils of hair--the lifelessness of his limbs. He'd been like a crude marionette over Bush's shoulder, his arms dangling and jiggling only with Bush's own movement, giving no indication that they belonged to a living and breathing man. Maybe Bush had misread that faint pulse. Maybe Hornblower was dead.
But if the captain was dead then he was dead, and Bush could not do anything about it; perhaps if he distracted himself sufficiently he'd be able to remember that.
Bush forced his gaze upon the ropes and courses above him. His eyes wandered from a tear in the canvas of the mizzen tops'l to a dangling spar of wood. So it was one of the mizzen yards they'd struck in that first broadside-or perhaps they'd hit more than one. He walked forward still looking aloft. At least two of the mizzen stays were missing . . . two of the main braces on the starboard side as well. There were even more shot holes in the for'rd sails, but the cannon balls seemed to have gone out of their way not to hit anything vital. Bush's steps took him next to the mainmast, and he turned to inspect it's length as well. Maybe six feet above where Hornblower's head had hung was a splintered dent in the hardwood.
So he had been wrong in his orders to Orrock. 'Aim high'. Bush closed his eyes in anguish. It wasn't he who had saved the captain that night, it was luck. Bush turned morosely to the rear companionway. He was going to do something right, God dammit, even if it was only a fruitless search of that bloody vessel!
***
When Bush returned to the Hotspur he wanted nothing more than to seek out Wallis and his dear patient, but duty again prevented him from that indulgence. His first priority could only be to insure that the Hotspur was safe from the shoals and safe from attack. They must get clear of the Goulet.
“Take us west by northwest, Mr. Prowse. I think we've drifted a fair bit southwest since we hove.”
“Yes, sir,” Prowse agreed in a flat tone, as if he took Bush's comment as a personal insult, “The current had a right go at us while you were away.”
Bush grunted. 'While you were away' indeed. “Well then you will not object to taking us north now, Mr. Prowse. If you please.”
“Aye aye, sir.” There might have been the hint of an apology in that tacit response, but if there was it was faint. For a brief, brief moment Bush thought of the french fishermen in the that first longboat; but the time had long passed when the Hotspur would have had a chance of capturing them before they made land. No, there would be no further chase that night. Bush waited until the yards were properly swung forward, and then he finally went below. His feet brought him without thought to the captain's door, for somehow he knew that that was where he would find his friend. Wallis might vaunt his surgery, but Bush knew that Doughty at least would demand that privacy, even if Hornblower was incapable of ordering it himself.
He had heard no word from Doughty or Wallis upon reclaiming the Hotspur's deck, so he told himself that Hornblower could not be dead. Yet it was fear which caused him to hesitate ever so slightly before giving a peremptory knock and entering the cabin. He pushed his emotion aside. Doughty looked up as he entered, and his servant's mask did nothing to allay Bush's trepidation.
“How is he?”
It was Wallis, of course, who answered, “He's in a bad way.” Bush approached the bed. Hornblower had been stripped of his clothes and positioned on his stomach. Blankets had been piled on his legs, and Doughty had placed warm water bottles strategically around the captain's torso to bring up his body temperature while they worked. And 'work' was the appropriate term. Hornblower's back was criss-crossed with deep gashes that Bush recognized all too readily as having come from a cat o' nine tails. There were so many grooves spanning Hornblower's bony shoulders and that it was impossible to guess how many lashes he had received. More than twenty, certainly. Maybe more than fifty. He could see in many places that the marks had penetrated to the muscle, the captain's thinness giving him no protection against the bite of the cat's leather teeth. But almost as horrifying as these lacerations, no, more horrifying for it's implication, was the almost greenish tint visible on the edges of the wounds. There was yellow puss oozing out of partially healed scabs, and Bush was certain that if he put his nose to it he'd smell corruption. Infection could easily kill a man, and often did. It was too ingrained a reality of sea life for Bush not to know the danger that that foulness portended.
In a dizzying vision he recalled rubbing harsh circles across Hornblower's back to work some warmth back into his flesh. With a frown of self recrimination Bush acknowledged that perhaps it was a blessing Hornblower had been senseless.
Wallis and Doughty had strips of clean bandages between them, and a bucket of vinegar. They had clearly been cleaning the wounds as best they could, but there was only so much that could be done, now that the infection had taken hold.
“What else?” Bush's voice was quiet and resigned. If the bastards had taken a cat to an captain of His Majesty's Royal Navy, a breach of all the rules of war, he had no doubt that they would not limit themselves in their cruelty.
“He's covered with bruises and scuffs and scrapes, and his skin is . . . rough. Like it's been wind burned, except it's not just on his face and hands.”
Bush could see now as he looked closer that what was visible of Hornblower's skin--on his arms and unbloodied back, was red, like someone had taken a sander to it.
“But it's his fever I'm worried about,” Wallis continued. “I don't know if it's from the infection or from the cold 'e had before 'e was taken, but he's too thin and weak to survive a long illness. And 'e was too cold when we was brought him in. I won't know 'til morning whether his fingers came through without frostbite. You can see from his wrists that 'e was bound tight, and between the freezing air and the poor circulation . . .” Wallis shrugged.
Bush's eyes wandered now to those hands. Hornblower's arms were awkwardly splayed, his right hand by his waist and his left, the one closer to Bush, by his face. Bush was overwhelmed with sorrow at the thought of those beautiful hands being marred by the loss of even a finger, let alone several fingers; they could be destroyed completely. He reached down and clutched Hornblower's left hand in his own, feeling the long fingers between his gnarled ones and marveling at the surprisingly soft palm. How had he forgotten how smooth the captain's hands always seemed to be, regardless of the abuse they sustained? He'd met no seaman with softer hands.
“And there's uh . . . there's something else, sir.”
Wallis's hesitation brought Bush's head up. “What?”
Wallis hesitated a moment more, but experienced doctor that he was, he was too accustomed to all manner of injury to be long awkward on the subject. “There was blood on his buttocks and thighs, sir, if you catch my meaning.”
“What?” Bush's mind was not moving rapidly enough to immediately understand the implication of those words, but some part of him must have recognized their import, for he felt a growing horror rise up in his chest.
Wallis took his exclamation for a question and elaborated. “He was sodomized, sir.”
Bush expected himself to feel nauseous, or weak kneed, or despairing at this revelation, but while all of these lurked behind the curtain of his heart, his single greatest emotion was anger. A fiery, burning rage that made him wish the Terre Haute was not now filling with water, so he could set it now alight with the power of his rising fury alone. But the Terre Haute was a doomed hulk, long behind their keel, and Bush could do nothing but clench his fists and tighten his jaw, and wish those damn pirate frogs to hell and beyond.
“Is there . . . permanent . . damage?” He forced his voice into unnatural flatness to continue the questioning he knew was necessary.
“I don't think so, no. But if there is, it's inside, and trying to fix it would probably only cause more damage. In my experience it's best just to let it lay.”
In my experience . . . Bush was not ignorant of the inevitable consequence of shoving a hundred or more men onto a small ship and putting them to sea for several months at a time. But he supposed he had never given it much thought, either. Article twenty-nine made sodomy punishable by death, and it was not in his character to seek out death--in himself or in others.
“Very well. Has he been unconscious this whole time?”
“He made some protests when we were cleaning him up, particularly down there, but it's been unintelligible. Between fever and fatigue, I wouldn't expect him to wake for some time, if--if--” Wallis stopped himself from saying 'if he wakes at all', but Bush felt the words all the same.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Just what you're doing now, sir,” Wallis looked down, and Bush, following his gaze, saw that he still held Hornblower's hand. “We've been wiping his back with vinegar, and it hasn't been too comfortable. It might ease his pain a little to have something to hold onto.”
Bush thought that it might do him more good than Hornblower, but he stole a chair from the captain's table and positioned himself by Hornblower's head. He stayed there for three bells. At first he sat stiffly, afraid any movement would upset his friend, but he was too tired to maintain his tense posture for long. And soon he had no mind for such things, for as Wallis and Doughty continued their ministrations, he felt a pull on his hand. He was so surprised by the sensation that he almost released his palm, but quickly he realized its origin and he squeezed back. A moment later he heard a weak moan. The effect on Bush was a torrent of emotions he buried within himself. He was ecstatic in that first second-beyond joyful-because any response from Hornblower was an indication of life, and (to Bush's mind) will. But it was a simultaneously agonizing sound, for nothing could convey suffering and pain like the sonorous wail of a human voice.
Bush stayed through the entirety of this uncomfortable cleaning operation, and he stayed long after. Wallis had left immediately, as had Doughty, though Bush suspected that was more to give him privacy then to because he truly wished to leave. Three bells after he'd descended the companionway, Bush himself finally departed. He had begun to nod off, and he feared he might fall forward on top of his friend if he truly fell asleep. He was leaning rather precariously in his chair, and it would be a simple thing to unbalance himself mid-snore.
His movements were slow as he rose and gently placed Hornblower's hand on the cot. He tried his best to muffle his steps as he walked to the door, and opened the door slowly to prevent its creaking. It was ridiculous that he should fear waking the captain-the captain was not asleep, he was unconscious-but Bush could not control this natural instinct to be quiet around the sickly. He liked to think that the captain was merely in a deep healing sleep, and if he was roused prematurely form that rest, Bush didn't know what would happen. He returned to his berth.
It was not empty.
“What are you doing here, Black?!” Bush's surprise and sleepy anxiety made the question harsher than he had intended.
Black was unperturbed. “I got somethin' from them frenchies, but I didn't think it right to give it to ya' with the other men lookin' on.”
Bush narrowed his eyes to force them into focus. He saw now that Black held a gray bundle in his arms.
“Well what is it?”
Black cocked his head as if surprised by Bush's lack of recognition, but he pulled up the gray mass of cloth with his right hand, while his left held on to something that looked black when it was clear of it's swaddling cover.
“They're the captain's, sir.”
Of course they were. Black held in his hands Hornblower's great coat and hat. But why had Black concealed these from the crew? While it may cost Hornblower a small bit of pride to have his hat stolen form him, it was hardly worth the trifle of subterfuge . . . Bush narrowed his eyes further, and felt his nose twitch of its own volition. There was vomit on the great coat; it's putrid oder was plain now. Was that blood? And the bicorn, upon closer inspection, was battered and squashed, as if several people had sat upon it, and strangled it until it bore only a cursory resemblance to it's original shape.
The sight unsettled Bush, as it apparently had Black. There was a burning in Bush's nose and eyes that he fought to suppress.
“Give the coat to Doughty to clean. I'll hold on to the hat.”
Black didn't question this sentiment, just said “aye aye, sir”, and handed Bush the bent, felted mass. When Bush's door clicked shut, Bush sank on to his hammock, his feet still on the ground and the hat still in his hands. He had pushed back his emotions all day as a necessity to maintain his wits during the Hotspur's desperate search; even alone with Hornblower, for that was an even more dangerous situation still. But now, alone in his berth, this final token of the previous day's horror before him, he was overwhelmed. The burning in his nose and eyes grew to a stinging in the creases of his lids, and with a gasp of air Bush was suddenly sobbing. He pushed the crushed hat to his face to muffle the sound, but he could not stop the tears from pouring down his cheeks, and he could not halt the shuddering breaths that shook his entire body with their intensity. It was a cry born at least in part of stress and fatigue, yet as Bush cried he could only hear Prowse's voice ringing through his head, again and again. 'We'll see if there's a captain left, after what those devil's 'l do to him'.
***
Next: Part VI