Flotsam
Title: Flotsam (1/2)
Author: Anteros
Characters: Archie Kennedy
Rating: NC-17
Notes: This has been lurking in my drafts folder for ages, time to let it go. My attempt to get Kennedy from the Gironde to El Ferrol in time for Hunter to sit on him. Long, grim and generally not very nice, but hey, there was a war on. No slash but rated NC-17 for suggested non-con and some violence. Nothing graphic though. I'll post part two later in the week if anyone manages to get to the end of this one!
I
He came to El Ferrol with a company of Dutch sailors and a reputation as a troublemaker. And despite the Don’s dire warnings that ungentlemanly conduct would not be tolerated Kennedy did his best not to disappoint.
“Míralo.” Watch him, the Spanish captain said, shoving a man forward and pushing him to his knees in the dirt before the Don. “Hijo de puta. Él mató a dos hombres buenos.” He killed two good men. He was a good head shorter than the tall Dutchmen, thin and scrawny, with a feral look about him. Not a boy to be certain but still too young under the filth and grime. The Don looked closely at the figure kneeling in front of him. Kennedy gazed straight ahead chin tilted up in a token of defiance. The garrison eyed him skeptically; he didn’t look like much of a threat.
The troublemaker shared his cell with a steady stream of prisoners from the ports of El Ferrol and Corunna. Seamen from merchant vessels, privateers of questionable allegiance, smugglers who had neglected to bribe the appropriate official, increasing numbers of French deserters and even occasional English sailors. The British crew of a recaptured prize vessel joined him for a short time, two lieutenants, a midshipman and a dozen or so ratings. The young midshipman succumbed to the flux before the week was out and Kennedy sweet-talked one of the lieutenants into giving him the dead boy's jacket before they were shipped out a fortnight later. They all left. Exchanged or ransomed or moved to other prisons. Only Kennedy stayed.
II
He had spent, how long? The last year? The last two? Being route marched from one gaol to the next, meandering south through Bordeaux and Bayonne, across the Pyrenees, west through the Spanish ports fringing the Bay of Biscay; San Sebastian, Santander, on towards Corunna and Ferrol. And everywhere a tide of war and chaos and upheaval sweeping all before it.
No one knew who he was anymore, where he had come from or that he had once been a British sailor. He had been stripped of his midshipman's jacket long since. His mismatched assortment of ragged clothes appropriated from the unfortunate souls that perished along the way or purloined from fellow prisoners less canny than himself. Few even knew he was British, he spoke so infrequently, maintaining a stubborn watchful silence. Kennedy was just one more piece of human flotsam swept along on that inexorable tide.
Truth be told he barely remembered himself that he had once been a midshipman of his Britannic Majesties Royal Navy. That was a world away, long gone and forgotten. He didn't care. Not any more. Not for a long time. He wasn't even sure why he was still alive. It seemed absurd. By rights he should have been dead long since. Starvation, disease and execution had disposed of countless others along the way. Kennedy suspected that he stayed alive out of habit. That damnable stubbornness again. Living was a simple act of defiance, nothing more. He didn't care. All he cared about was where his next scrap of food might come from or what he could steal along the way.
III
So others died, but he lived. Kennedy reflected ruefully that he seemed to be damned hard to kill. Like some kind of cursed Achilles or a particularly unfortunate cat. He had survived Simpson's depravities, the noose that would certainly have been his had they been discovered, he had seen action aboard the Indefatigable, been set adrift on the notorious currents of the Gironde estuary, to say nothing of the usual hazards of life as a prisoner of war. He had been beaten and shot at more times that he cared to remember but he was still there.
Despite the obvious hardships, Kennedy had found an unexpected freedom in incarceration. The fits had stopped instantly; he had not been troubled by them since coming to in the jolly boat floating in the Gironde estuary. On some subconscious level he knew that even Jack Simpson’s reach couldn't touch him here.
The nightmares had taken much longer to stop, but as his world shrank to little more than basic survival they too had receded. All he was left with, all that remained of his previous life, was the persistent dream. Always different, always the same. Sometimes ashore, sometimes on the Justinian, or the Indefatigable or some hellish amalgam of every ship he'd ever served on, sometimes on deck, or below, or in the shrouds and tops. And always following, always trying to catch up with Horatio. At first he could see him clearly, beckoning to him and calling "Come on Archie, hurry up!" Long after all other faces and events had dimmed into obscurity Horatio remained. But he could never quite catch up. Sometimes he came close. Once he came near enough to feel Horatio's breath on his cheek as he turned and spoke to him "Archie, thank god you're here!" He could still feel the shadow of that warm breath when he woke, lying on the cold dirt floor of yet another cell. But even Horatio was starting to recede, getting further and further away. He could no longer see him but he could still hear his voice urgently calling him, still calling. "Archie! Come on, where are you?" Just around the corner, down the companionway, around the bulkhead. Always different, always the same. He still couldn't reach him.
IV
It was long since Kennedy had believed he had a duty to king, country and service to escape. His initial attempts had been carefully planned and cautiously executed. They had all failed. He had been shipped further and further from England, his goal. All that remained was a stubborn will to cause trouble, every tiny act of defiance a small victory. But eventually even these paltry triumphs had paled. His attempts to escape had grown increasingly reckless and violent, little more than attempts to get shot, hoping that sooner or later one of the guards would put him out his misery. He didn't have the guts to do it himself.
Crossing the border a fellow prisoner, a young Gasconne, had made a desperate attempt to escape. The guards shot him on the spot and he fell in the snow a yard from Kennedy, an obscene red bloom staining the white ground. He was reminded forcibly of Clayton. Kennedy had forgotten Clayton. He had forgotten most of his former ship mates. With the memory came the odd realisation that in some way he had always felt culpable for Clayton's death. But surely if Clayton's blood was on any hand other than Jack’s then it was Hornblower’s? Wasn't it his fault? In some indefinable way it all seemed to be Hornblower’s fault.
A week out of Corunna he had managed to spring the lock on his irons and steal a musket from one of the less vigilant guards who was engaged with a local whore. He managed to shoot two of the company and dodge the musket fire from their outraged comrades before the captain took him down with a pistol shot to the head. The bullet only grazed his temple but the shock was enough to drop him on the spot. He expected the captain to finished him off there and then as he lay sprawled in the dirt and the lord only knew why he didn't. The entire episode earned him nothing more than a profound headache and the animosity of the guards.
V
He had not expected to be held long at El Ferrol but as other groups of prisoners were moved on Kennedy stayed.
His first attempt to escape from the fort was not a success. Within days of arriving he had learned to jam the lock of his cell to prevent it from closing securely. Few locks presented much of a challenge now. He then appropriated a small concealed clasp knife from a fellow inmate who was less careful than he imagined and waited patiently for one of the innumerable saints feast days that came round with predictable regularity. Knowing the guards would be drunker than usual he slipped out of his cell and was almost over the wall of the fort when one of the Don's men stumbled out of the small rampart guardroom for a piss. He almost tripped over Kennedy in the dark. He went straight for the guard’s throat with the knife but the man twisted as he fell and the knife sunk harmlessly but painfully into his shoulder. His bellow of pain and surprise immediately roused the other guards. They were less inebriated than Kennedy had bargained for and were on him in seconds, dragging him down before he could throw himself over the wall. The guards beat him until they felt their honour had been restored then threw him in a tiny solitary cell before returning to their wine and talk of the war.
Kennedy’s solitary confinement was not however solitary. Two of the guards visited him and visited on him whatever inclinations the local whores could not, or would not, satisfy. At first he had fought back with a viciousness that had momentarily surprised his tormentors. They wasted no time in beating him unconscious. Kennedy had come to lying half naked on the dirt floor in a cold pool of congealed blood and spend seed.
From that point on he withdrew into that shuttered core, his last refuge, and feigned submission. He knew this part well and played it convincingly. Within a matter of weeks one guard had grown sloppy and, as he slouched spent on the dirty straw pallet on the floor, Kennedy as on him like a terrier. Hooking his arm round the man’s neck he jerked back with the full force of his body weight until he heard a sickening crunch and felt the body slacken and slump. Without waiting to check if he was dead Kennedy snatched the musket from the corner where the careless guard had left it. The sentry by the door didn’t stand a chance, he fell with a single shot to the chest and Kennedy was off running. He had no idea where he was running to, preferably into a hail of musket shot.
He didn't even make it across the courtyard before he was surrounded. But the shot didn’t come. Don Masseredo was there holding fire. He crossed the courtyard until he stood right in front of Kennedy. Again that long hard grey stare, an implacable Torquemada. “Mr Kennedy” he hissed “I warned you I would not tolerate such foolishness.” Archie waited for the order “Fuego”. He felt strangely calm, relieved even. This was it. Soon it would be over.
But the order didn't come. "Puso a este hombre en la boca." Put this man in the pit. The Don turned on his heel and stalked away. Archie’s first reaction was disbelief. Then he laughed. Dear lord in heaven this could only happen him. All he wanted to do was die. Half of Europe was at war, could it really be that hard?
VI
He didn’t remember much after that. Odd disjointed fragments. Fear, suffocating heat, biting cold, thirst, pain, darkness. Rats. The pit succeeded where all else had failed. The seams of his very self came undone and consciousness slipped its cable. Times he felt the walls closing in on him like a hull foundering in a storm. Times he was adrift, becalmed on a blank featureless sea without ship or star in sight. Times there were hands that grasped and tore. Times there were liquid brown eyes, long fingers and warm breath against his cheek.
Before long there was nothing.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Archie Kennedy
Rating: NC-17
Notes: This has been lurking in my drafts folder for ages, time to let it go. My attempt to get Kennedy from the Gironde to El Ferrol in time for Hunter to sit on him. Long, grim and generally not very nice, but hey, there was a war on. No slash but rated NC-17 for suggested non-con and some violence. Nothing graphic though. I'll post part two later in the week if anyone manages to get to the end of this one!
I
He came to El Ferrol with a company of Dutch sailors and a reputation as a troublemaker. And despite the Don’s dire warnings that ungentlemanly conduct would not be tolerated Kennedy did his best not to disappoint.
“Míralo.” Watch him, the Spanish captain said, shoving a man forward and pushing him to his knees in the dirt before the Don. “Hijo de puta. Él mató a dos hombres buenos.” He killed two good men. He was a good head shorter than the tall Dutchmen, thin and scrawny, with a feral look about him. Not a boy to be certain but still too young under the filth and grime. The Don looked closely at the figure kneeling in front of him. Kennedy gazed straight ahead chin tilted up in a token of defiance. The garrison eyed him skeptically; he didn’t look like much of a threat.
The troublemaker shared his cell with a steady stream of prisoners from the ports of El Ferrol and Corunna. Seamen from merchant vessels, privateers of questionable allegiance, smugglers who had neglected to bribe the appropriate official, increasing numbers of French deserters and even occasional English sailors. The British crew of a recaptured prize vessel joined him for a short time, two lieutenants, a midshipman and a dozen or so ratings. The young midshipman succumbed to the flux before the week was out and Kennedy sweet-talked one of the lieutenants into giving him the dead boy's jacket before they were shipped out a fortnight later. They all left. Exchanged or ransomed or moved to other prisons. Only Kennedy stayed.
II
He had spent, how long? The last year? The last two? Being route marched from one gaol to the next, meandering south through Bordeaux and Bayonne, across the Pyrenees, west through the Spanish ports fringing the Bay of Biscay; San Sebastian, Santander, on towards Corunna and Ferrol. And everywhere a tide of war and chaos and upheaval sweeping all before it.
No one knew who he was anymore, where he had come from or that he had once been a British sailor. He had been stripped of his midshipman's jacket long since. His mismatched assortment of ragged clothes appropriated from the unfortunate souls that perished along the way or purloined from fellow prisoners less canny than himself. Few even knew he was British, he spoke so infrequently, maintaining a stubborn watchful silence. Kennedy was just one more piece of human flotsam swept along on that inexorable tide.
Truth be told he barely remembered himself that he had once been a midshipman of his Britannic Majesties Royal Navy. That was a world away, long gone and forgotten. He didn't care. Not any more. Not for a long time. He wasn't even sure why he was still alive. It seemed absurd. By rights he should have been dead long since. Starvation, disease and execution had disposed of countless others along the way. Kennedy suspected that he stayed alive out of habit. That damnable stubbornness again. Living was a simple act of defiance, nothing more. He didn't care. All he cared about was where his next scrap of food might come from or what he could steal along the way.
III
So others died, but he lived. Kennedy reflected ruefully that he seemed to be damned hard to kill. Like some kind of cursed Achilles or a particularly unfortunate cat. He had survived Simpson's depravities, the noose that would certainly have been his had they been discovered, he had seen action aboard the Indefatigable, been set adrift on the notorious currents of the Gironde estuary, to say nothing of the usual hazards of life as a prisoner of war. He had been beaten and shot at more times that he cared to remember but he was still there.
Despite the obvious hardships, Kennedy had found an unexpected freedom in incarceration. The fits had stopped instantly; he had not been troubled by them since coming to in the jolly boat floating in the Gironde estuary. On some subconscious level he knew that even Jack Simpson’s reach couldn't touch him here.
The nightmares had taken much longer to stop, but as his world shrank to little more than basic survival they too had receded. All he was left with, all that remained of his previous life, was the persistent dream. Always different, always the same. Sometimes ashore, sometimes on the Justinian, or the Indefatigable or some hellish amalgam of every ship he'd ever served on, sometimes on deck, or below, or in the shrouds and tops. And always following, always trying to catch up with Horatio. At first he could see him clearly, beckoning to him and calling "Come on Archie, hurry up!" Long after all other faces and events had dimmed into obscurity Horatio remained. But he could never quite catch up. Sometimes he came close. Once he came near enough to feel Horatio's breath on his cheek as he turned and spoke to him "Archie, thank god you're here!" He could still feel the shadow of that warm breath when he woke, lying on the cold dirt floor of yet another cell. But even Horatio was starting to recede, getting further and further away. He could no longer see him but he could still hear his voice urgently calling him, still calling. "Archie! Come on, where are you?" Just around the corner, down the companionway, around the bulkhead. Always different, always the same. He still couldn't reach him.
IV
It was long since Kennedy had believed he had a duty to king, country and service to escape. His initial attempts had been carefully planned and cautiously executed. They had all failed. He had been shipped further and further from England, his goal. All that remained was a stubborn will to cause trouble, every tiny act of defiance a small victory. But eventually even these paltry triumphs had paled. His attempts to escape had grown increasingly reckless and violent, little more than attempts to get shot, hoping that sooner or later one of the guards would put him out his misery. He didn't have the guts to do it himself.
Crossing the border a fellow prisoner, a young Gasconne, had made a desperate attempt to escape. The guards shot him on the spot and he fell in the snow a yard from Kennedy, an obscene red bloom staining the white ground. He was reminded forcibly of Clayton. Kennedy had forgotten Clayton. He had forgotten most of his former ship mates. With the memory came the odd realisation that in some way he had always felt culpable for Clayton's death. But surely if Clayton's blood was on any hand other than Jack’s then it was Hornblower’s? Wasn't it his fault? In some indefinable way it all seemed to be Hornblower’s fault.
A week out of Corunna he had managed to spring the lock on his irons and steal a musket from one of the less vigilant guards who was engaged with a local whore. He managed to shoot two of the company and dodge the musket fire from their outraged comrades before the captain took him down with a pistol shot to the head. The bullet only grazed his temple but the shock was enough to drop him on the spot. He expected the captain to finished him off there and then as he lay sprawled in the dirt and the lord only knew why he didn't. The entire episode earned him nothing more than a profound headache and the animosity of the guards.
V
He had not expected to be held long at El Ferrol but as other groups of prisoners were moved on Kennedy stayed.
His first attempt to escape from the fort was not a success. Within days of arriving he had learned to jam the lock of his cell to prevent it from closing securely. Few locks presented much of a challenge now. He then appropriated a small concealed clasp knife from a fellow inmate who was less careful than he imagined and waited patiently for one of the innumerable saints feast days that came round with predictable regularity. Knowing the guards would be drunker than usual he slipped out of his cell and was almost over the wall of the fort when one of the Don's men stumbled out of the small rampart guardroom for a piss. He almost tripped over Kennedy in the dark. He went straight for the guard’s throat with the knife but the man twisted as he fell and the knife sunk harmlessly but painfully into his shoulder. His bellow of pain and surprise immediately roused the other guards. They were less inebriated than Kennedy had bargained for and were on him in seconds, dragging him down before he could throw himself over the wall. The guards beat him until they felt their honour had been restored then threw him in a tiny solitary cell before returning to their wine and talk of the war.
Kennedy’s solitary confinement was not however solitary. Two of the guards visited him and visited on him whatever inclinations the local whores could not, or would not, satisfy. At first he had fought back with a viciousness that had momentarily surprised his tormentors. They wasted no time in beating him unconscious. Kennedy had come to lying half naked on the dirt floor in a cold pool of congealed blood and spend seed.
From that point on he withdrew into that shuttered core, his last refuge, and feigned submission. He knew this part well and played it convincingly. Within a matter of weeks one guard had grown sloppy and, as he slouched spent on the dirty straw pallet on the floor, Kennedy as on him like a terrier. Hooking his arm round the man’s neck he jerked back with the full force of his body weight until he heard a sickening crunch and felt the body slacken and slump. Without waiting to check if he was dead Kennedy snatched the musket from the corner where the careless guard had left it. The sentry by the door didn’t stand a chance, he fell with a single shot to the chest and Kennedy was off running. He had no idea where he was running to, preferably into a hail of musket shot.
He didn't even make it across the courtyard before he was surrounded. But the shot didn’t come. Don Masseredo was there holding fire. He crossed the courtyard until he stood right in front of Kennedy. Again that long hard grey stare, an implacable Torquemada. “Mr Kennedy” he hissed “I warned you I would not tolerate such foolishness.” Archie waited for the order “Fuego”. He felt strangely calm, relieved even. This was it. Soon it would be over.
But the order didn't come. "Puso a este hombre en la boca." Put this man in the pit. The Don turned on his heel and stalked away. Archie’s first reaction was disbelief. Then he laughed. Dear lord in heaven this could only happen him. All he wanted to do was die. Half of Europe was at war, could it really be that hard?
VI
He didn’t remember much after that. Odd disjointed fragments. Fear, suffocating heat, biting cold, thirst, pain, darkness. Rats. The pit succeeded where all else had failed. The seams of his very self came undone and consciousness slipped its cable. Times he felt the walls closing in on him like a hull foundering in a storm. Times he was adrift, becalmed on a blank featureless sea without ship or star in sight. Times there were hands that grasped and tore. Times there were liquid brown eyes, long fingers and warm breath against his cheek.
Before long there was nothing.