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Styles was being stubborn. He plucked irritatingly at Hornblower's jacket. “Let's get this off you, sir,” he said for the second time in five minutes. Hornblower hesitated, wanting neither to move nor to see his own injuries.
“Sir,” Styles said again. The air in Hornblower's cabin felt stuffy. The short trip from shore to the Hotspur had been unbalanced and blurred by shock, the landscape tilting. The sense memory of closing Mr. Hammond's eyes came to Hornblower unbidden and he tensed where he sat. I offered you a transfer, he thought bitterly, completely unfairly, you could have taken the damn transfer!
“Come on now, sir. You'll feel better with it off,” Styles said. Hornblower wanted to snap at him. But no, that wouldn't do. Styles had already suffered enough at Hornblower's hands.
“Alright, Styles,” Hornblower said tiredly and raised his arms even though his neck and right shoulder protested. He was pretty sure he'd jarred something badly in the blast from the battery.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Hornblower rasped. Styles left unnecessarily to open the door. Hornblower thought about telling him that whoever was on the other side could open it themselves. Then he thought better of it. He put his arms down and wished he could lay his head on the table.
Matthews was standing at the door when Styles opened it, looking equal parts worried and relieved. “Sir,” Styles said. “I… forgot… I was going to get some hot water for you. I’ll just be a minute. Matthews can help you until I’m back.”
Matthews gave Hornblower a hopeful look. Hornblower had noticed the whispered conversation between Matthews and Styles before Styles had followed him below. It would be irregular but… Matthews had been forced to leave them on the beach.
“Alright,” Hornblower said. “Some hot water would be nice. Thank you, Styles. Thank you, Matthews.”
Matthews smiled warmly at him and came around the table as Styles bustled out.
“I know you didn't want to leave us, Matthews,” Hornblower said. It needed saying.
“No, sir. I wish I hadn't. If it weren't for that little — beg pardon, sir. I wish I hadn't.”
Hornblower shook his head. “No, you did the only thing you could.” And then, because Matthews had known him when he had been a “little — ;” because Matthews had helped and guided him through all kinds of error with a generosity that had always allowed Hornblower to save face, just like he'd tried to do with Hammond when he'd prompted him about the lanterns, Hornblower added “I'm not looking forward to taking this coat off.”
“I imagine not, sir,” Matthews agreed. “But it needs to be done. Let's get it done and over with for you. Styles can't clean it with you still in there.”
Hornblower laughed and nodded and let Matthews take the coat off him.
It hurt as much as he'd thought it would. Hornblower's entire body felt bruised, his head aching. His neck and shoulder screamed at him every time he moved. Matthews did not entirely succeed in being gentle. But Hornblower could tell he was trying.
“Shirt and breeches now, sir,” Matthews said.
Hornblower thought about asking for a break then decided that Matthews was right about simply getting the thing done. He nodded.
Matthews gave him a sympathetic look and started work on his waistcoat. The removal of the rest of Hornblower's clothing passed in a blur.
“Do you have a nightshirt, sir?” Matthews asked.
“Yes, Matthews, I — oh…” Stars exploded across Hornblower's vision.
“Whoa, sir. Easy.” Matthews' hand was on his shoulder bracing him up. “Close your eyes for a moment, sir. I won't let you fall.”
Hornblower complied and tried to breathe through the minutes of spinning darkness.
“Now open your eyes and look at me, sir. Good.” Matthews steadied Hornblower's face with a careful, calloused hand, tilting it to and fro. Then he pressed on and examined Hornblower's scalp. “Squeeze my hands, sir? Good. Does anything hurt?”
Hornblower thought about this question. “Nothing hurts more than anything else, Mathews. Thank you.”
Matthews chuckled. “You're right banged up, sir. But I think you'll be alright. Back of your neck looks a little burned but it isn't blistered. I'll get you a cold compress. Might help you feel better in general. Would you like me to fetch the surgeon?”
“Not right now, Matthews. Thank you. I can wait until he's done treating the wounded.”
“Alright, sir. I’ll find you that compress. And your nightshirt.”
“Nightshirt's in my — s - sea chest.” Hornblower tried not to wince at the apparent return — hopefully brief — of his stutter. Matthews did not react other than to fish the nightshirt out of Hornblower's sea chest and offer it to him.
“One more item of clothing, sir. I can help you.”
Hornblower nodded and raised his arms and let Matthews ease the nightshirt over his head.
Styles returned with steaming hot water just as Matthews laid the compress on Hornblower's neck.
Styles put the water down on the table. He gave Hornblower an encouraging smile as Hornblower fished the flannel out of the basin and tried to wash the grime from his hands and arms. And suddenly Hornblower was remembering Matthews and Styles on the Marie Gallante propping Hornblower up even as he made every mistake; Matthews and Styles watching his back on the Renown; Matthews prompting Hammond about the lanterns.
Hornblower fidgeted with the flannel. “You’ve both been very patient with me. I don’t — .” He stopped himself. It was unforgivably familiar. Particularly from a man who'd had one of them flogged. Styles was entitled to his feelings on Hornblower without Hornblower acting as though they were friends. It also put Matthews and Styles in the impossible position of figuring out how on earth to respond. A captain like Sawyer might lie in wait behind just such a statement. Hornblower wasn't Sawyer — thank God — but he couldn’t ask his crew to trust him one iota more. Not when he had just as much power over their lives. “No. Belay that. I beg your pardon.”
Styles laughed and shook his head as though Hornblower was being foolish. “Well, it's a trial being first down the privy, sir. That is true.”
Matthews looked like he was thinking about smacking Styles upside the head. Instead he just said “so that's what I’ve been smelling.”
Hornblower fought the urge to bury his head in his hands. So much for self preservation in the face of authority.
The smile Matthews gave him was knowing and fond. “Are you feeling any better, sir?”
“Yes, Matthews,” Hornblower lied. “A bit. Could you help me to bed?”
And if Matthews knew Hornblower was lying he didn't call him on it, just offered him an arm and helped him to his feet.