(no subject)
Author: Idler
Title: Behind the Veil
Rating: G, gen
Characters: Hornblower, Bush
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit
Author's notes: This vignette was prompted by romanticalgirl's brilliant story, Wreckage and Rust. If you haven't read it, I heartily urge you to do so. She presents an innovative and very plausible notion, definitely worth exploring. A word of caution: if you haven't read her original, this little piece makes utterly no sense at all!
Posted with romanticalgirl's kind permission and encouragement.
Posted here: http://community.livejournal.com/following_sea/78804.html
Behind the Veil
It was only later--much later--that a recollection came to Hornblower, a memory of an incident which had seemed insignificant at the time yet now chilled him to the marrow.
The evening had been a fine one, the close of a day of perfect sailing, as Nonsuch ghosted through the gathering dusk upon a glassy sea. Montgomery had the evening watch and Bush, having made a final turn around the deck to satisfy himself that all was well in order, had taken his leave and retired for the night. Hornblower paced the solitude of his quarterdeck, allowing himself to indulge in pleasant thoughts of the efficiency of a well-run ship, and the tidy way in which Nonsuch's company had come together in such a surprisingly short time. His thoughts wended their way through an enumeration of the qualities of his officers--those who satisfied him, and those who needed to be taken further in hand--and eventually settled upon Nonsuch's captain. Bush, by God. Had Bush not been here, if he had had to go to sea with some other, unknown captain, leaving Bush behind....
It scarcely bore thinking about.
There was no need to do so, fortunately: his old friend was here, though it had been a close-run thing. Hornblower sighed with comfortable satisfaction, nodded to Montgomery through the faint light--it had grown nearly full dark as he had paced--and went below, considering a small indulgence in a glass of the fine port Barbara had lovingly packed for him. As he passed, he noticed light seeping under the door to Bush's cabin: clearly, the man was not yet abed. Hornblower instead gathered up the bottle and two glasses, smiling slightly as he considered Bush's probable consternation and confusion at this remarkable unbending of his commodore's usual, formal ways.
Bush reacted quite as predicted, Hornblower noted with fond amusement. He had been seated at his desk, apparently absorbed in writing, but leapt up at the unexpected appearance of the commodore in his doorway. His face clearly expressed his dismay at having been found in disorder, clad in only loosened shirt and breeches...and worse, as Hornblower gradually realized, noting the wooden leg hanging neatly in its becket and Bush's hand braced upon the desktop.
Hornblower waved his hand dismissively. "Sit you down, Bush. I..." he wondered briefly how to explain his behaviour, then realized that there was no need. He placed the glasses on the desk, filled them, and handed one to Bush. He settled himself in the extra chair, enjoying the faint play of both confusion and pleasure on his friend's weathered face. They had sat in silence for a space, each appreciating the port, when he glanced at the missive on Bush's desktop, and nodded. "Ah. Writing to your sisters, perhaps?"
"Er....no, sir." Bush flushed crimson to his hairline.
This was indeed a surprise. "A sweetheart, Bush? You, after all this time?"
Bush stared at Hornblower with an expression that could only be described as abject terror: the man was clearly caught between his native honesty and abiding reticence. Hornblower considered toying with him further, then immediately despised himself for considering amusement at his old friend's expense. He smiled gently, instead. "Good. I could think of no better husband, should it come to that."
Bush's colour deepened even further. "I sincerely doubt it will, sir." He reached for his glass, and drained it with uncharacteristic speed. Hornblower moved to refill it, but Bush shook his head apologetically. "I beg your pardon, sir, but I must be on deck early..."
"Captain Bush, you are an eminently sensible man." Hornblower pronounced with good-humoured affection. He had touched Bush's shoulder briefly as he rose and collected his glass; as he did so, his eye was drawn by the frequent appearance of his own name upon the page of Bush's meticulous script. He had dismissed it without a thought, as it was perfectly in order for a captain to mention his commodore in what must have been a recitation of the voyage so far.
Perfectly in order, indeed. Until now......now that he recollected the salutation as clearly as if the page were before him once more.
"My dearest Lydia...."
********
“What hope of answer or redress?/ Behind the veil, behind the veil.”
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Title: Behind the Veil
Rating: G, gen
Characters: Hornblower, Bush
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit
Author's notes: This vignette was prompted by romanticalgirl's brilliant story, Wreckage and Rust. If you haven't read it, I heartily urge you to do so. She presents an innovative and very plausible notion, definitely worth exploring. A word of caution: if you haven't read her original, this little piece makes utterly no sense at all!
Posted with romanticalgirl's kind permission and encouragement.
Posted here: http://community.livejournal.com/following_sea/78804.html
Behind the Veil
It was only later--much later--that a recollection came to Hornblower, a memory of an incident which had seemed insignificant at the time yet now chilled him to the marrow.
The evening had been a fine one, the close of a day of perfect sailing, as Nonsuch ghosted through the gathering dusk upon a glassy sea. Montgomery had the evening watch and Bush, having made a final turn around the deck to satisfy himself that all was well in order, had taken his leave and retired for the night. Hornblower paced the solitude of his quarterdeck, allowing himself to indulge in pleasant thoughts of the efficiency of a well-run ship, and the tidy way in which Nonsuch's company had come together in such a surprisingly short time. His thoughts wended their way through an enumeration of the qualities of his officers--those who satisfied him, and those who needed to be taken further in hand--and eventually settled upon Nonsuch's captain. Bush, by God. Had Bush not been here, if he had had to go to sea with some other, unknown captain, leaving Bush behind....
It scarcely bore thinking about.
There was no need to do so, fortunately: his old friend was here, though it had been a close-run thing. Hornblower sighed with comfortable satisfaction, nodded to Montgomery through the faint light--it had grown nearly full dark as he had paced--and went below, considering a small indulgence in a glass of the fine port Barbara had lovingly packed for him. As he passed, he noticed light seeping under the door to Bush's cabin: clearly, the man was not yet abed. Hornblower instead gathered up the bottle and two glasses, smiling slightly as he considered Bush's probable consternation and confusion at this remarkable unbending of his commodore's usual, formal ways.
Bush reacted quite as predicted, Hornblower noted with fond amusement. He had been seated at his desk, apparently absorbed in writing, but leapt up at the unexpected appearance of the commodore in his doorway. His face clearly expressed his dismay at having been found in disorder, clad in only loosened shirt and breeches...and worse, as Hornblower gradually realized, noting the wooden leg hanging neatly in its becket and Bush's hand braced upon the desktop.
Hornblower waved his hand dismissively. "Sit you down, Bush. I..." he wondered briefly how to explain his behaviour, then realized that there was no need. He placed the glasses on the desk, filled them, and handed one to Bush. He settled himself in the extra chair, enjoying the faint play of both confusion and pleasure on his friend's weathered face. They had sat in silence for a space, each appreciating the port, when he glanced at the missive on Bush's desktop, and nodded. "Ah. Writing to your sisters, perhaps?"
"Er....no, sir." Bush flushed crimson to his hairline.
This was indeed a surprise. "A sweetheart, Bush? You, after all this time?"
Bush stared at Hornblower with an expression that could only be described as abject terror: the man was clearly caught between his native honesty and abiding reticence. Hornblower considered toying with him further, then immediately despised himself for considering amusement at his old friend's expense. He smiled gently, instead. "Good. I could think of no better husband, should it come to that."
Bush's colour deepened even further. "I sincerely doubt it will, sir." He reached for his glass, and drained it with uncharacteristic speed. Hornblower moved to refill it, but Bush shook his head apologetically. "I beg your pardon, sir, but I must be on deck early..."
"Captain Bush, you are an eminently sensible man." Hornblower pronounced with good-humoured affection. He had touched Bush's shoulder briefly as he rose and collected his glass; as he did so, his eye was drawn by the frequent appearance of his own name upon the page of Bush's meticulous script. He had dismissed it without a thought, as it was perfectly in order for a captain to mention his commodore in what must have been a recitation of the voyage so far.
Perfectly in order, indeed. Until now......now that he recollected the salutation as clearly as if the page were before him once more.
"My dearest Lydia...."
********
“What hope of answer or redress?/ Behind the veil, behind the veil.”
Alfred, Lord Tennyson