Ficlet - Pyrexia
Inspired by the real Archie Kennedy, the one on Victory, who apparently was in beattie's sick bay: Archibald Kennedy; disease or hurt, pyrexia with catarrhal affection. Put on sick list, 14 May 1805; last day on sick list, 25 May 1805.
Archie had a cold. No, not just a cold. ‘Pyrexia with catarrhal affection’ the surgeon had called it, which sounded suitably serious.
When he was younger he’d loved having colds. They were nice and non-life threatening, they didn’t make you look all unsightly like chicken-pox did and you got wrapped up in bed and given egg-nog and books and hugs and sympathy.
He wasn’t getting any of those on the Indy. He had his hammock - he’d persuaded them not to make him stay in sick bay with the pox cases - and he had his books, but they weren’t nice comforting picture books with dragons and monsters and strange tales. Even Shakespeare palled a bit when you had a cold.
He didn’t have any egg-nog as the chickens had gone overboard last time they’d had a run in with a pair of French corvettes so they’d not seen an egg in days. And he certainly wasn’t getting any hugs from Horatio as who knew who was going to walk in and find them?
He’d have expected sympathy, though. More sympathy than ‘Harrumph, how are we doing now?” which is all he’d got this morning. Well, Horatio bloody Hornblower would have to lump it if he ever caught ‘Pyrexia with catarrhal affection’, because Archie would just laugh at him.
“Archie?” A familiar voice, followed by a familiar nose, came into the cabin. “How are we doing now?”
“The same as bloody before, Horatio. If you’re going to gloat over my agony please leave now.”
“Actually I wasn’t. I…” Horatio held out a little cup, from which arose and aroma that even Archie’s poor blocked nose could appreciate. “This is for you.”
“Egg nog!” Archie sat up, suddenly feeling one hundred per cent better. “Where did you get this?”
“Sh!” Horatio looked over his shoulder. “Pellew’s steward had kept the last egg from the batch, as a surprise for the captain. I traded for it.”
“Traded?” Archie sipped at the wonderful brew.
“I’ve agreed to teach him trigonometry.” Horatio rolled his eyes. “It’ll take weeks.”
“Thank you.” The brandy, or something, was making Archie’s eyes well. “I’ll repay your kindness, I promise. And not just when you have a cold.”
“Aye, you will. I’ve written it into your account.” Horatio smiled. “Drink it and get better.” He shuddered in remembrance of similar words, used in a different context. “For me.”
Archie smiled. “Of course.”
Archie had a cold. No, not just a cold. ‘Pyrexia with catarrhal affection’ the surgeon had called it, which sounded suitably serious.
When he was younger he’d loved having colds. They were nice and non-life threatening, they didn’t make you look all unsightly like chicken-pox did and you got wrapped up in bed and given egg-nog and books and hugs and sympathy.
He wasn’t getting any of those on the Indy. He had his hammock - he’d persuaded them not to make him stay in sick bay with the pox cases - and he had his books, but they weren’t nice comforting picture books with dragons and monsters and strange tales. Even Shakespeare palled a bit when you had a cold.
He didn’t have any egg-nog as the chickens had gone overboard last time they’d had a run in with a pair of French corvettes so they’d not seen an egg in days. And he certainly wasn’t getting any hugs from Horatio as who knew who was going to walk in and find them?
He’d have expected sympathy, though. More sympathy than ‘Harrumph, how are we doing now?” which is all he’d got this morning. Well, Horatio bloody Hornblower would have to lump it if he ever caught ‘Pyrexia with catarrhal affection’, because Archie would just laugh at him.
“Archie?” A familiar voice, followed by a familiar nose, came into the cabin. “How are we doing now?”
“The same as bloody before, Horatio. If you’re going to gloat over my agony please leave now.”
“Actually I wasn’t. I…” Horatio held out a little cup, from which arose and aroma that even Archie’s poor blocked nose could appreciate. “This is for you.”
“Egg nog!” Archie sat up, suddenly feeling one hundred per cent better. “Where did you get this?”
“Sh!” Horatio looked over his shoulder. “Pellew’s steward had kept the last egg from the batch, as a surprise for the captain. I traded for it.”
“Traded?” Archie sipped at the wonderful brew.
“I’ve agreed to teach him trigonometry.” Horatio rolled his eyes. “It’ll take weeks.”
“Thank you.” The brandy, or something, was making Archie’s eyes well. “I’ll repay your kindness, I promise. And not just when you have a cold.”
“Aye, you will. I’ve written it into your account.” Horatio smiled. “Drink it and get better.” He shuddered in remembrance of similar words, used in a different context. “For me.”
Archie smiled. “Of course.”