20. Dr. Hornblower

April 21, 1392 – midmorning

Dr. Rufo Hornblower was just settling in for a nice, long cup of tea when someone knocked at the front door.

“I can get it, dear,” said Rufo’s wife, looking up from her crochet hook.

“Never mind, Ruby,” Rufo answered cheerfully. “Like as not it’s for me, anyway.”

The middle-aged hobbit set down his teacup and strode purposefully to the door. He opened it to find a sandy-haired lad of about 23 standing on the step, shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

“Why, Halfred Gamgee!” Rufo exclaimed. “What brings you here? You haven’t swallowed another button, have you?”

“No indeed, sir!” Halfred replied with a slight blush. “It were a good twelve years ago, the last time that happened! I was sent by Master Baggins.”

“I see,” said Dr. Hornblower, turning suddenly serious. “Is he all right?”

“Oh, aye, beggin’ your pardon, Doctor,” Halfred said hastily. “It’s Mr. Frodo. He’s awful sick. You’ll come, won’t ye?”

“Let me get my bag and I’ll come with you now,” Rufo said immediately. He ducked back into the smial long enough to pick his brown leather bag off the floor where he’d last dropped it. “I’m away to Bag End, Ruby!” he called to his wife, and followed Halfred down the path.

Rufo had never met Frodo Baggins, and he was very curious to see the child Bilbo had taken in. He had known Mr. Baggins slightly for many years, and cherished a certain fondness for the strange old bird. Rufo himself possessed a most un-hobbitlike curiosity and a corresponding penchant for interesting people. He was eager to see if young Frodo was as interesting as his benefactor.

“Can you tell me anything more about my patient, Halfred?” Rufo asked after they had walked awhile in silence. Dr. Hornblower’s smial was on the opposite side of Hobbiton from Bag End, so they had a fair few minutes ahead of them.

“They wouldn’t let me go in, sir, but me mum and dad say he’s got a high fever and a bit o’ rash.” Halfred looked up at Rufo with worried hazel eyes.

“Hm,” Rufo said noncommittally. His first thought was carnelian fever, as he knew it was going round. Doubtless the Gamgees had thought the same thing, which was why they had kept Halfred away. The illness was extremely contagious to children, although adults rarely caught it.

“You’ll be able to help him, won’t ye?” Halfred’s apprehensive words recalled Rufo to his young companion.

“I shall certainly do my best,” Rufo replied, in the cheerful voice he had cultivated over the years for calming anxious loved ones without giving false hope. He had learned long ago that it was always best to be cautious. Dr. Hornblower glanced curiously at the worried lad walking beside him. There was something there to suggest more than the requisite neighbourly concern, and Rufo’s indomitable curiosity was aroused. “Do you know Mr. Frodo well, then, lad?” the doctor asked offhandedly.

“Aye, well enough, sir. He plays with us sometimes. Sam knows ‘im best, I reckon.”

“And what’s the lad like? From Buckland, isn’t he?” Rufo thought it best to keep Halfred talking; they were nearly in sight of the Hill, and it would be a kindness to distract the boy.

“Aye, Mr. Frodo moved from Buckland ‘bout a month before Yule,” Halfred answered politely. “He’s my age, I’m guessin’. Real quiet an’ polite, is Mr. Frodo, an’ shy at first,” Halfred continued with a smile, seeing that Dr. Hornblower was still interested. “An’ awful kind, too. He’s been uncommon good to our Sam, especially; got him out of a real nasty situation with Mr. Lotho Sackville-Baggins.”

“Indeed?” Rufo was intrigued by that last statement, but Halfred volunteered no more information. Nonetheless, the lad had given him all sorts of interesting thoughts to mull over. Halfred had said some especially complimentary things about Frodo, and spoke very warmly of the young Baggins. These observations would seem to confirm Rufo’s earlier impression that Halfred, and likely all the Gamgees, were fond of this boy beyond any dutiful concern for their master’s heir. This Frodo must certainly be an unusual child; it wasn’t just any gentlehobbit who could earn the affection and respect of practical, no-nonsense folk like the Gamgees.

Rufo glanced up at the Hill beginning to loom in front of them; he hoped the case was not serious. His newest patient would doubtless prove as interesting as he’d anticipated.

Dr. Hornblower’s knock at the round, green front door of Bag End was answered by none other than Bell Gamgee.

“Well, thank goodness!” Bell exclaimed on seeing who it was. “Do come in, sir. I’ll show ye the way. Has Hal gone home?”

“Yes indeed, Mrs. Gamgee. I thought it best,” Rufo replied, and followed Bell through the winding halls. The doctor couldn’t recall being inside Bag End for years, its master having an uncommonly good constitution. “How is Mr. Frodo?”

Bell sighed. “The fever’s dreadful high, doctor. I didn’t want ta worry poor Mr. Bilbo, o’ course, but it’s higher than I’ve ever seen one.”

“And Halfred said there was a rash?”

“Aye,” Bell replied grimly, her skirts swishing along the polished floor, she was walking so rapidly. “Just come up this mornin’ I’d guess. Looks like the carnelian fever ta me, all right.”

“Oh, dear,” Rufo murmured. “I was hoping he might’ve escaped with a mild case.”

“Here we are, sir,” Bell said then, pushing open a door and motioning for the doctor to precede her. Rufo stepped into a dark bedroom and waited for his eyes to adjust. He noticed immediately that the curtains were drawn; he could see the outlines of furniture (and hobbits) faintly in the dim light.

“Good morning, Mr. Baggins,” Rufo said to the old hobbit seated by the bed.

Bilbo looked up in surprise, then smiled in relief when he recognized the visitor. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Dr. Hornblower,” he said courteously, and motioned Rufo over to the bed. Rufo set his bag down on the nightstand and settled in the chair that Bilbo had quickly vacated. To business, then. He focused his attention on the child lying restlessly before him. The lad’s eyes were closed, and he was frowning slightly.

“Hullo there, Frodo,” Rufo said softly.  His patient woke slowly, revealing a pair of the most striking cerulean blue eyes Rufo had ever seen. “I’m Dr. Hornblower, and I must have a look at you, all right?” He smiled reassuringly at the disoriented boy.

“Yes,” Frodo said hoarsely. Those astounding eyes fixed briefly on Rufo’s face, then wandered away vaguely across Bilbo and Bell to stare unfocused at the ceiling.

Rufo noted that the curly dark hair was damp with sweat and tangled against the pillow. The face was very pale, and unusually fair for a hobbit, Rufo noted distantly. Finishing his cursory inspection, Rufo lowered the blankets to Frodo’s waist and unbuttoned the nightshirt. “Close your eyes, my boy. I must have a little more light.”

Frodo closed his eyes tightly and Bell opened the curtains until Rufo nodded at her. He laid a hand on the child’s chest and another on his forehead. A high fever, indeed. He bent closer over the boy and listened carefully to his breathing and heart rate. He examined the trail of faint pink spots along Frodo’s hairline, and peered into his mouth, nose, and ears. He motioned to Bell to draw the curtains once more.

“Can you cough for me, Frodo?”

Frodo did so, obligingly, and Rufo smiled at him.

“That’s a good lad,” he said. “A fine, strong cough.” He buttoned Frodo’s nightshirt and covered him up again, then looked over to Bilbo hovering tensely near the foot of the bed. “May we speak outside, Mr. Baggins?”

“I’ll stay with Mr. Frodo, sir,” Bell offered quickly, and Bilbo led Rufo out into the hall.

“It’s the carnelian fever, isn’t it, Doctor,” Bilbo said flatly once they were alone.

“Aye, I’m afraid it is,” Rufo replied, looking at the old hobbit sympathetically. Bilbo’s face was lined with tension, and his brown eyes were troubled. “This is a serious and very contagious illness, as I imagine you’re aware, so I must ask a few questions.”

“Of course,” Bilbo murmured. His hands were held tightly together, in a mute testimony to the old hobbit’s self-control.

“Now this is very important, Mr. Baggins: was Frodo in contact with any other children after he first began to show symptoms?”

“No,” said Bilbo with certainty. “I remember. That was three days ago when he woke with a sore throat, and I’ve kept him in ever since.”

“Excellent. Has Frodo had any contact with Ruby Proudfoot or Ted Sandyman in the last fortnight?”

Bilbo paused, thinking. “With Ted Sandyman, yes,” he said finally. “Perhaps nine or ten days ago, I should say.”

“Well, that’ll be the source, then,” Rufo said. “Young Ruby and Ted are the only other known cases in Hobbiton. Ted has only a mild case; I’m afraid Frodo isn’t quite so fortunate.”

“Tell me what I must do for him,” Bilbo said determinedly.

Rufo looked at the eccentric old hobbit with a smile of admiration. These Bagginses could still surprise him; that was why he was so fond of them. “The next few days will be key,” Rufo began. “His fever is dangerously high right now; it must be controlled or Frodo may weaken enough to suffer serious... complications.” Rufo hoped that would suffice. He did not wish to speak of what would happen if the illness entered the child’s brain; seizures, coma, death.

“And how can it be controlled?” Bilbo asked calmly.

“You can keep cooling him with the rag and lukewarm water,” Rufo said. “Take care he doesn’t shiver, though; that will raise his temperature. Do you have any ginger tea?”

Bilbo thought for a moment and shook his head.

“That will help, as well. I have some in my bag I can leave with you. In any case, encourage Frodo to drink as much liquid as he can. A feverish body loses a great deal of water.”

Bilbo processed this before nodding.

“Keep the room as dark as you can, and don’t let the boy read while his eyes are still sensitive to light,” Rufo continued. “The rash will spread over his whole body in the next few days; don’t allow any other children near him until the rash is completely gone, or he might infect them. That should be just two or three days from now; carnelian fever usually runs its course with less than a week between the first symptoms appearing and the recovery. And even when he is no longer contagious, you must keep him on bed rest for at least another week.”

“I understand,” Bilbo said. “What about Bell and Hamfast? Can they carry the fever back to their own children?”

“The Gamgees will be fine,” Rufo said reassuringly. “They know to wash after handling any sick child, and that will be plenty to protect their little ones.”

Bilbo looked relieved. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said.

Rufo smiled. “The Gamgees are fine people, as I’m sure you’re aware. I’ve known ‘em since before they were married. You can count on them to give you a hand, I’m sure. Now let’s go back in, and I’ll give you some of that tea before I leave.”

Bilbo led Rufo back into the child’s bedroom. Bell occupied the chair beside the bed, sponging off Frodo’s flushed face. Rufo and Bilbo paused inside the doorway while she finished.

“I am dreadfully worried,” Bilbo finally admitted, looking only at his young heir.

“It’s all part and parcel of being a parent, Mr. Baggins,” Dr. Hornblower said gently. “It’ll be worth it in the end, you mark my words.” Bell finished her self-appointed task and yielded the chair to Bilbo.

“It’s already well worth it, Doctor, whatever comes to pass,” Bilbo murmured, smiling slightly as he settled in the chair.

Rufo watched sympathetically as the old hobbit reached out to the child in the bed and smoothed away a dark curl that had fallen across the clammy forehead. Rufo handed a packet of ginger tea to Bell, then closed his bag and lifted it off the bureau. “I’ll be off now,” he said when Bilbo looked up. “If things don’t go as I’ve said, or if you need me for any reason, just send one of the Gamgee lads to fetch me.”

“They’ll be happy ta help, as will their mother,” Bell added cheerfully. “Don’t ye fret, Mr. Bilbo. Hamfast and I are just down the Hill, and one or t’other of us will be up so often ye’ll think we’ve moved in!”

Bilbo smiled and squeezed Bell’s hand gratefully. “I’ve always said you Gamgees have hearts of gold,” the old hobbit replied.

Bell arched an eyebrow and smiled warmly before turning to Rufo. “Shall I see ye to the door, Dr. Hornblower?”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Bilbo said.

Rufo nodded in reply and followed Bell into the hall.

Frodo dozed fitfully after Dr. Hornblower left, but he felt tired enough to believe he hadn’t slept in days. The afternoon passed in a blur of heat and cold and coughing and strange dreams and Bell’s voice and Bilbo holding a cup to his lips.

Later, Frodo awoke in the dark room to feel the cold, wet rag moving slowly over his hot chest and stomach. He tried to open his eyes, but they were sore and seemed to be stuck shut, so he gave up.

“Bilbo?” Frodo called hoarsely, suddenly frightened that he might be back in Brandy Hall, alone. “Are you there, Uncle?” Some distant part of his mind hated the way his voice quavered. The rag’s motion stopped and a cool hand gently caressed his hot cheek, then moved again to stroke his hair. Frodo sighed in relief and relaxed into the sheets.

“I’m right here, Frodo-lad,” came the voice that meant security.

“Bilbo,” Frodo said again, vaguely, trying to recall what he had meant to say. “Bilbo.” He licked his dry lips, and a cup was placed against his mouth as a hand lifted his head and neck an inch off the pillow. Frodo sipped thirstily, and finished whatever was in the cup. Water? Tea? He hadn’t noticed. His head was gently lowered back to the pillow, and a kiss brushed lightly over his forehead.

“My dear boy,” Bilbo murmured.

Frodo held still for a moment, enjoying the sound of that voice, but soon the heat came back upon him, sneaking up his legs and under his back, making him feel as though the sheet was burning him. Frodo frowned. Was the heat coming from his back, or from the sheet under his back? He couldn’t tell, although he had the vague notion that he should know the answer. Frodo shifted restlessly.

“Let’s turn you over, shall we?” Bilbo said. This sounded like a fine idea to Frodo, who immediately tried to twist over onto his stomach; but the dizziness that flowered in his head stopped him halfway, and Bilbo had to help him turn all the way over.

Frodo coughed a little and waited for the bed to stop spinning crazily. At least his hot back was facing the cooler air now. A moment later, the cold, wet rag had returned, and Frodo relaxed as Bilbo moved it gently over his back and shoulders. Frodo smiled into his pillow. He couldn’t imagine a better feeling than the cool rag slowly taking away the heat.

But where was his nightshirt? Frodo had nearly fallen asleep, but this thought woke him up again. He tried to concentrate... that was the rag on his back, and he could feel the blanket folded over his legs, and the sheet and pillow on his front... which meant no nightshirt. Frodo felt vaguely alarmed for a moment. It was crucial to have a nightshirt, he thought muzzily. Why? Why... One never knew when Daisy Gamgee might decide to walk into one’s bedroom. Yes, that made sense. But after a few more minutes of that marvellous rag gently kneading his back, even that thought ceased to trouble the lad, and he sank slowly into a feverish slumber.