Tracing a Line of Ascent (2/2)
TITLE: Tracing the line of Ascent (2/2)
CHARACTERS: Bush/Hornblower
RATING: PG
GENRE: Fluff - I promise, not even a hint of angst.
WORD: 4,280 (in two parts because I could not get LJ to accept it as one)
DISCLAIMER: Not mine; all owned by the esteemed Mr Forester and his estate and the like - long may they prosper.
Not betaed I am afraid as my poor beta draugdur is already weighted down by one of my rambling fics, not to mention all those real life things like exams and study. However, thanks are still due (though she may not be aware) for throwing down the gauntlet and daring me to try my hand at fluff! If there are any blinding mistakes then do please let me know.
SUMMARY: Book canon set sometime at the end of ‘Lieutenant Hornblower' during those famous ‘two wild days and two wild nights’ in Kingston. Bush and Hornblower go for a little climb.
“Stuck?” Bush echoed like an idiot.
If Hornblower had not feared imminent death from any movement, no matter how small, he would have shook his head in agitation. “Yes stuck. I can not seem to move forward or back. In short: stuck. Now you can continue to bellow at me, laugh, or even ridicule me but it will not alter the fact that I am simply unable to move.” His fingers tightened their grip on the stone as sweat made the surface slippery.
“Oh good Lord,” Bush said to no one in particular. “Look, just hang on Horatio, I am coming down to get you,” he added; genuine concern apparent in his voice.
Oh this was splendid. Now the blind were well and truly leading the blind; in fact not so much leading them as tying them to a speeding horse and sending them across a blazing battlefield. Hornblower closed his eyes but opened them instantly as the action disorientated him and made him wobble. Within a matter of moments Bush was down by his side hanging on the wall nonchalantly like a damn monkey. However, his apparent ease was belayed by the obvious anxiety on his face; worry etched around his eyes and in the line of his mouth.
“Horatio,” he said calmingly, “It is going to be fine. We are going to climb to the top of the tower together and you are going to be perfectly safe. I promise.”
Somehow, the promise of a drunken madman did not really offer him that much solace but, despite himself, Hornblower found he wanted to trust those steady blue eyes. Well quite honestly he had little choice given that his own body had declared outright rebellion. He tried to steady his breathing and concentrate on Bush’s voice issuing orders in a calm, competent manner which, given the earlier debacle, would have infuriated Hornblower beyond reason if he had not needed to hear them so very much at this moment.
“All right Horatio, as long as you remain anchored on three points at all times you will be safe; trust me. Just move your left hand up a fraction and there is a good hand hold there between the joints of the stone. Can you see it?”
Hornblower just stared at Bush in bewilderment but the older man gestured his head towards the wall and moved a little closer, careful not to disturb any of the adjacent stonework. Hornblower tentatively followed his gaze and saw the hand hold. Almost as if his limbs belong to someone else he felt his arm adjust slightly and reach for the gap, jamming his fist in to hold himself.
‘Splendid,’ Bush breathed and managed to sound encouraging without being patronising. ‘Now shift your balance onto your left side and move your right hand. Just above your head there is a protruding block of stone. If you stretch a little you can grab it and haul yourself up.’
‘What if it comes away,’ Hornblower found himself screeching in horror.
Bush climbed up and tested the strength of the rock in question.
‘It is fine Horatio, quite secure. Look, give me your hand and I will guide you onto it.’ Hornblower closed his eyes, took a moment to garner his will and then thrust his hand up only to feel Bush clasp it firmly around the wrist and place it securely on the stone.
‘Right, use the course of stones you are standing on as a platform for leverage, and haul yourself up. Then put your feet in the holes where your hands were previously. You can do it Horatio, just concentrate on the movement, nothing else.’
Hornblower successfully accomplished the manoeuvre, all the while listening to Bush’s calm instructions, which continued to be issued at a fixed pace as Hornblower made his ascent. The words were compelling, uttered in a measured, steady voice which was both reassuring and absolute and would broker no argument. This was the voice of command Hornblower thought, and filed it away in his head for future reference. Not that he ever envisaged the need to talk down a terrified, and more than a little foolish, fellow officer from an ill-advised jaunt up a piece of ecclesiastical architecture, but this was the type of voice you would trust as cannon fired all around you and shot fractured the sky, this was the voice men would follow and obey without question.
However, in addition to this epiphany, and as fear gradually release her grip on his limbs and entrails, he was also could not fail to notice that the responsible and reassuring officer behind that voice was also the sole perpetrator of this predicament in the first place. Indeed, it appeared that the very same man, who had been dangling drunkenly by his finger tips above the maws of death just a few moments ago, was now competently lecturing Hornblower on the finer points of an un-roped ascent. The realisation caused his ire to re-surface with a vengeance as he had the distinct feeling that he had just been duped.
“You are doing well Horatio. We are nearly at the top now. You just need to reach out and take hold of that carved stone next to the window.” Bush continued his liturgy of instructions but now the voice no longer seemed reassuring and soothing but traitorous, glib and infuriating.
“Tracery,” Hornblower barked.
“I am sorry?” Bush asked in confusion, taken aback by the sudden change in tone of his previously nervy companion.
“It is called tracery, you ignorant tar.” Hornblower shot a sideways glance at Bush which would wound at fifty paces. “Early English in form to be exact: twin lancets with plate tracery. You see there is more to appreciate in life, Mr. Bush, than a stiff breeze, salt mutton and a keg of rum.”
Bush blinked at him. “Yes,” he said, drawing the word out and obviously formulating a suitable response. “But an appreciation of the intricacies of Gothic architecture will be of little use to you when pitch off a topgallant in a squall because your bowels turns liquid in fear.”
“You did orchestrate this!” Hornblower scoffed in triumph. “I knew it. Of all the stupid, ill-conceived schemes,” he paused for breath, steadying himself. “I do not need your help, Mr. Bush, to overcome my fears. I am quite capable of climbing aloft, thank you very much, and I would be grateful if in future you would look to your own shortcomings before remedying mine.”
“Fine!” shouted Bush, his face flushed in anger. “I shall just recover my rum,” he said while fishing about in Hornblower’s pocket; the jostling unnerving the younger man. “And then I will leave you to your own devices.” Without pause he climbed upwards with the agility of a cat, vaulting over the balustrade to sit with his back against it, facing away from Hornblower.
Still indignant, Hornblower made ready to continue his climb, muttering all the while under his breath about officers setting a poor example. However, he soon realised that without Bush’s presence nearby it was not as easy as it had previously seemed. “Nonsense,” he chastised himself out loud. It was simply a matter of thought and balance, he could master that. He reached up to take hold of the piece of tracery Bush had pointed out earlier but in a fit of peek changed his mind and chose a section close by, placing all his weight on it to haul himself up. There was a sickening grating sound as the moulding began to pull away from the wall bringing down the stonework. Hornblower screamed and pressed himself against the wall as fragments of stone and lime mortar cascaded around him. He could hear a whooshing sound in his ears, oh lord please do not let me pass out, he thought but at that moment he felt Bush’s arm around his waist.
“It is all right Horatio, I have got you. Just hang on.”
Soon the sound of falling stone stopped and the cicadas once more continued their chirruping. Hornblower was still breathing heavily and felt that he just might never move again. He was actually quite content to stay pinioned by fear to this rather nice stable and safe bit of stone arch for the rest of his days. Fleetingly, he imagined some kind soul winching food and water down and possibly Bush might locate his fallen hat and bring it up to him to avert heat stroke. He may even gain renown as a hermit, a holy man, the Prophet of Kingston Parish Church; they might even bestow him a sainthood. All of this sounded much more feasible than actually having to shift any of his limbs.
“Now that was a bit too close for comfort,” he heard Bush mutter.
“Right Horatio let’s just start again. Now, reach up to your right.”
“No,” Hornblower whispered, “I am afraid can not.”
“Mr. Hornblower, this nonsense really has gone on long enough. Just reach up above you head.” The tone was different, a direct order, and Hornblower wanted desperately to obey but he just could not move though he willed his muscles to respond with all his might.
He felt Bush pat him on the back and squeeze his shoulder, “It is all right Horatio I will climb with you.”
The next moment Bush was behind him, steady hands over his trembling ones and feet kicked into the gaps in the stonework just below his. Unable to stop himself, Hornblower jerked back in fright and nearly knocked them both off the wall but Bush drove his knuckles into the stone and braced them.
“Just try to relax a little, I have you,” he said reassuringly.
Hornblower should have felt humiliated but the wave of relief he felt was too strong. He allowed Bush to take control until they had covered the short distance to the parapet. The older man then relinquished his hold, climbed over the balustrade and pulled Hornblower up after him, both of them finally toppling onto the relative safety of the roof. Hornblower had collapsed in a heap onto Bush and lay there, his breath ragged, his head on the other man’s chest listening to the hammering of his heart. Thank God, thank God, thank God and thank you was all that echoed through his brain as he looked at Bush, his fear gradually easing and his senses returning. With endorphins still coursing through his blood he propped himself up onto his elbows and stared at the Lieutenant whose face was still flushed from the recent exertion. They held each others gaze for maybe a moment too long before Bush hefted the younger man off of him.
“You may look all arms and legs Horatio but you weigh a ton,” he huffed, nudging Hornblower in a rather too contrived manner.
Hornblower sat up and ran his hands through his hair, blowing out his breath in a single snort. “William, you really are a complete skelder, a charlatan and an ass,” he turned and shoved hard at the still recumbent figure who just grinned back at him. “I really thought I had had it back there for a brief moment.”
“I am sorry Horatio,” Bush dropped his eyes in genuine remorse. Then removed the bottle from his pocket and took a generous swig before passing it over to Hornblower. “I do declare though that all three of my sisters have more spunk running through their veins than you when it comes to heights. You were squealing like a cabin boy in his first squall.”
“Yes, thank you Mr. Bush,” Hornblower snatched up the bottle. “You are meant to set an example to younger officers, not lead them into drinking and perilous displays of skylarking.”
“I saw no perilous displays,” Bush replied. “Just some inopportune lumbering.’
‘“Ha - h’m,” Hornblower huffed.
“Did you just harumph at me Horatio?”
“What? No, I certainly did not,” Hornblower glanced back at Bush.
“Yes you did, you most definitely did! My Lord, Hornblower you really do have all the making of an Admiral. You just need to loose a little hair, maybe thicken out a bit around the middle.”
Bush grabbed him round the waist and wrestling him back to the ground. They jostled for a few minutes swotting at each other, the rum restoring their high spirits and banishing the fears of the night to tall tails and fond memories. Eventually they both collapsed back down. Hornblower lay there smiling and listening to the sounds of the town below them carried up on the night breeze. The evening was warm; the smell of Hibiscus heady in the air and mixed with the undertone of rum, spice and sweat which was uniquely Bush.
Against his back Hornblower felt the heat of the day linger in the lead roof of the church. English lead, he thought, smelted miles from here on the bleak moors of the Northern uplands. Like him it was a little incongruous in this exotic place, so far removed from all he had known. Only the stars remained familiar - Cassiopeia, Ursa Major and Minor, Orion the hunter and over there Polaris, the Northern Star, motionless in the slowly spinning sky - the one still point. He smiled again to himself and leaned in a little closer to his companion.
“William,” he called softly, but there was no reply.
“William,” he raised his voice slightly, nudging the other man gently.
“Hmm?” murmured the sleepy figure next to him.
“You were right about one thing,” he paused but received no response. “The stars really are much more beautiful from up here.”
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Note: The old Kingston Parish Church, the church of St Thomas the Apostle, dated back to the early 18th century but was destroyed in a major earthquake which decimated the city in 1907. A picture of the old church can be found at:
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aFpp_BDRDyc/SxBnS-o0dNI/AAAAAAAAAis/wONq7j8TjxY/s1600/Kingston+Parish+Church+before+the+1907+earthquake.jpg
