Once Burned
More archiving....
This one is pretty old, first posted in 1/03 to hhfic. It was written prior to the airing of HH3, and was my attempt to use the events of HH2 to explain a transition between the HH2 version of Hornblower to a character more consistent with book canon.
HH3 clearly proved that I was definitely not on the same page as the filmmakers!
This version is tweaked a bit from that originally posted; it uses a slightly alternate--though MY favorite--ending.
Oh....and, as always: PG, Gen
ONCE BURNED
Hotspur ran before the wind as Hornblower stood on her quarterdeck, enjoying the sluice and gurgle of the water as it creamed about her lithe hull; the other, normal sounds of the men working ship around him fading into his subconscious, unheard. It never failed to astonish him that the graceful little sloop was his. Not a temporary command, not a prize, but his. He recalled the first time he had stood on his own quarterdeck…aboard Retribution. That day which ought to have been the proudest of his life had been a bitter one. On that day he could think only of putting Kingston and all it represented behind him. The memories of it, however, were not so easily left in Retribution’s wake; they followed him still. It was said that court-martial would make or break a man. He was not yet sure which it would be, for him.
He should have been proud this day, by rights, though he was not. Hotspur had accomplished much in the relatively short time they had been on station: the successful blockade of Brest, the gathering of critical intelligence, destruction of the semaphore and battery at Petit Minou. And now, at war, attached to the Inshore Squadron, under the command of Sir Edward Pellew, no less. Still, there was something-no, someone-missing. Archie Kennedy had never been a part of his shorebound life; during those endless, hungry days on half-pay, there had been enough to think on, to worry about. But now, at sea, he missed him acutely. He sighed. At sea. A good enough description of how he felt…without Archie.
He gradually became aware of a presence at his side. He turned, and chilled suddenly as a pair of level blue eyes met his. No, no…they were not the merry, expressive blue eyes that he still saw sometimes in his thoughts, in those moments upon awakening from a dream…those brief moments before grim reality returned to haunt him. Altogether different blue eyes, these. Serious, steady…yet they somehow conveyed sympathy, understanding, and a promise of friendship yet to come.
He drew himself erect, as he realized suddenly that he had been standing slumped, defeated: a posture hardly befitting a commander in the King’s navy. “Yes, Mr. Bush?” he said formally.
“Permission to take in another reef, sir. The wind is freshening further.”
“So it is. Permission granted, Mr. Bush.”
Bush turned away, bellowing his orders to the bosun. Matthews, from the Indy--and Renown.
Pellew’s hand, no doubt. Matthews…even Styles. Hornblower had come aboard Hotspur to find them there. Matthews, as bos’n, had piped him aboard, while Bush and Styles stood on deck, carefully, though not entirely successfully, hiding their delight at his efforts to stifle an equally pleased reaction. Better than anyone, Pellew would have known how much he would need to have the support of others who cared for him. Even if he could no longer acknowledge that friendship, for as Captain, he must hold himself apart. Relations with the warrant officers and crew were now Bush’s concern, a job he could manage ably enough. Still, to know that they were there, and to know that they understood and accepted their changed relationship, cheered him.
Hornblower studied Bush as he faultlessly orchestrated the reefing of the tops’ls: competant, confident in his seamanship.
He allowed his thoughts to drift back to his meeting with Admiral Troughton, and with Pellew. He had been summoned to the Admiralty not long after receiving his orders. He had presented himself, vainly hoping that his nervousness was not as apparent as he knew it must be; he seethed with questions and uncertainty. Had they changed their minds? Was giving him Hotspur all some foolish mistake? He was astonished to find himself standing before not only the Admiral, but Pellew himself, inscrutable as always.
“So…as to your officers.” The admiral looked up, peering narrowly at him over the tops of his spectacles. “Junior lieutenants we have a’plenty. But a senior…for your first. Ah, that is a more rare commodity. You need someone you can trust to carry out your orders, to lead your men, should you fall.” Troughton paused and regarded him intently.
Hornblower wondered upon what tack the admiral had embarked, for it seemed as though he were awaiting some comment. He shifted awkwardly in the uncomfortable silence, then impulsively decided to seize the bull by the horns. “May I inquire, sir…has Lieutenant William Bush been assigned?”
Pellew looked up sharply and spoke for the first time. “Mr. Hornblower,” he snapped. “You know full well that William Bush once stood accused of mutiny. Are you certain that this mutinous behaviour would not be repeated?”
Hornblower hoped-in vain, no doubt-that the admiral did not notice the glaring fact that Pellew had not questioned whether Bush was indeed guilty. He chose to ignore it-to protest would only draw further attention.
“I have entrusted him with my life, sir. I would not hesitate to do so again.”
Surprisingly, both men nodded slightly. The admiral raised an eyebrow. “And do you believe that he will not find it difficult to serve under his former third lieutenant?”
Hornblower knew Bush well enough to know that, regardless of his personal feelings on the matter, he would serve a fair captain to the best of his ability. “I am confident that he will not, sir.”
“Well, then, Mr. Hornblower…Mr. Bush it is.”
Hornblower essayed a tentative smile. “Thank you, sir. I could hope for none better.”
He was still smiling as he left the Admiralty, though since then he had been beset with worry. Despite his self-assured words to the admiral, he began to wonder how Bush felt about being under the command of his former junior officer. He would have been astonished had he known.
William Bush was a pragmatic, practical man, not overly given to flights of fancy. He was, however, sufficiently self-aware to recognize that Hornblower possessed qualities that he himself lacked entirely. Bush had always conducted himself and executed his duties by the book. That had proved more than adequate, if not inspired, until the horrific events unfolded aboard Renown. He had realized, then, that it was not always enough. And then to watch Buckland…poor, weak Buckland. He could almost pity the man, as much as he hated him. The horror he must have felt at finding himself so woefully unsuited for command.
Bush was altogether too familiar with the admiralty’s unfortunate practice of promoting men beyond their depth. It seemed, to him, faintly ridiculous-to take an officer who had proved to be a brilliant frigate captain out of frigates where he was most effective and into a ponderous ship of the line. Hardly more than a floating gun platform, with little opportunity for her captain to display the fire and dash that had made him a nemesis to the enemy. Or to take a good, solid, reliable captain-one who would carry out his superior’s orders or die in the attempt-out of his liner and give him flag rank; to thrust him, ready or not, into the role of visionary. All too often, a courageous captain and superb seaman was not an equally gifted strategist.
Bush saw himself with enough clarity to pray that he would die a captain.
Hornblower, though, was another sort of man entirely. Bush felt that serving under him was entirely right and proper. He was content with it…it was as it should be.
* * *
Hornblower sat on the padded bench below the stern windows, watching the dawn slowly break over the empty sea. He had not yet become fully accustomed to the luxury of a cabin of his own. It was small, nothing like the great stern cabin in Indefatigable, or Renown …Hotspur was but a sloop, after all…but it provided a place where Hornblower could find some precious solitude, time to think. And, to his utter surprise, a place where he and Bush might share a glass, or their thoughts.
This morning found Hornblower reviewing yet again, the events aboard Renown. Nearly two years had passed since that unhappy experience, yet it was rarely far from his thoughts. He had always been troubled by the unfortunate tendency to hold himself accountable for circumstances over which he had no control. He felt responsible for Sawyer’s fall, as surely as if he had indeed pushed him. And would have publicly shouldered that blame, if not for the intervention of another. Some would have shrugged, and called the fall happenstance, an unavoidable misfortune to be blamed at least in part on Sawyer’s failing mental state. Others would have accused him of an excess of hubris, for his assumption that he could wield such control over the events of his life. But he could not honestly answer the question that had haunted him since that terrible day. Had it been Archie, or Bush, or Wellard…would he have reacted that much more quickly, and somehow been able to prevent the fall that sent such tragedy to its inexorable conclusion?
A scrape outside the cabin door interrupted his reverie and informed him that Bush had arrived; as usual, in time for coffee. Neither man was certain when or how this early morning discussion had begun, though it was now an accepted part of the ship’s daily routine. They talked of the ship’s operations, her crew, and their improvement at gun drill, the progress of her midshipmen. About nothing, often, if the truth be told.
“Come, Mr. Bush,” Hornblower called.
Bush appeared in the doorway, hat tucked under his arm. “Good morning, sir,” he said formally.
Hornblower nudged a steaming cup in his direction. “Come. Sit.”
Bush nodded. “By your leave, sir.”
Hornblower smiled; he had initially considered Bush to be rigidly formal, meticulously attentive to protocol. All true, right enough, though time was teaching him also to appreciate Bush’s understated nature and subtle wit. It was nothing at all like Archie’s open and good-natured teasing, which had driven him to distraction on a daily basis. He sighed; he would have given his very soul to be so distracted again.
Bush detected the sigh; wondered at it, though he suspected its cause. He had begun to feel, during the long weeks of blockade, that Hornblower was at last losing some of his reserve, though revealing only a shadow of the kinship he had shared with Kennedy. Bush knew that he could never replace the young man, but knew also that he had to be there to provide what solace he could. He would never know everything the two men had shared, though Kennedy had whispered some of it while they lay in the prison hospital in Jamaica. It was as though Kennedy had somehow known that Bush would be called upon to fill a void in Hornblower’s soul, and wished to prepare him for it. And then the promise…Bush would never forget Kennedy’s strained, pain-wracked face, belying his calm words: "You owe me a life well lived." Kennedy had said. "I've given the Devil his due to purchase that for you. Don't let me down."
Nor would he ever forget his own reply. "I won't. And I'll make sure that Hornblower pays that debt as well."*
Hornblower knew nothing of that promise. Nor would he.
It was one subject that, by mutual-though tacit-consent, was never discussed. It was at times like these that Bush felt nearly certain that if he were to turn quickly enough, to see out of the corner of his eye, he would glimpse Kennedy in the cabin with them. His presence there was almost palpable, though Bush could find no physical reminder, no object that had once been his. Bush, with unaccustomed sentiment, kept a book of sonnets that Kennedy had once lent to him. Hornblower had nothing that he knew of-except his grief.
Bush realized suddenly that Hornblower was staring at him, as though anticipating some reply. He had allowed his thoughts to carry him off; he had not heard a word of it. He hastily scrambled to his feet. “Er…my apologies, sir, but I am needed on deck. It is nearly time to call the forenoon watch.”
Bush arrived on the quarterdeck just as the final notes sounded from Matthews’ pipe. Seamen boiled from the hatches, never hesitating as they took up their duty stations. To his surprise, Hornblower wordlessly joined him at the quarterdeck rail, handing him his untouched mug of coffee. The two men stood comfortably side by side, both privately evaluating the speed and efficiency of the process.
Bush turned to critically scrutinize Midshipman Charles Whitton as he approached for his assignment. “Mr. Whitton,” he snapped, “you will stand masthead lookout this watch.”
The boy flushed deeply under Bush’s blue glare, yet met it. “Aye aye, sir,” he responded earnestly.
Bush studied him as he headed for the shrouds. The boy was quite young, but he showed promise. Damned if he would let the boy know it yet. He was listed on the books as thirteen years of age, but Prowse, the sailing-master, had told him that one night on watch the boy confided that he had actually only recently turned eleven. He was already quite tall, and, in contrast to most boys his age, already had the broad shoulders and deep chest that foretold impressive stature. His hair had quickly bleached quite blonde by the sun, setting off his tanned skin. Pleasant features, a ready smile, clear light brown eyes. A fine figure of a man he would be, someday, if he managed to stay clear of the enemy’s iron long enough. Perhaps lady luck would be kind. Bush concealed a half smile. Lady Luck…the phrase invariably conjured the memory of a lieutenant he had once known, when he was but a mere child of a midshipman himself.
This midshipman hesitated interminably at the telescope rack, seemingly unable to decide which of the glasses to choose.
Bush turned to raise an amused eyebrow at Hornblower, then shrugged and assumed an expression of chilling rage. “While we are yet young, Mr. Whitton!” he chided sharply. “Or you shall renew your acquaintance with the gunner’s daughter.”
Despite Bush’s tone and harsh words, the boy looked up at him seriously, admiration shining plain in his brown eyes. He knuckled his forehead, then grinned broadly. “Aye aye, sir!” He snatched a glass, and scampered for the shrouds, still grinning.
Hornblower watched the little tableau unfold before him. He had seen men look at him in the same manner, and felt at once pleased, perplexed, and annoyed by it. Pleased, that the men were not offended by his ordering them about-to their deaths, if it came to it; perplexed, that it should be so; and annoyed, that the men seemed to view him as having the answers to the riddles of the ages.
God help him, he had even seen a similar expression in Bush’s eyes. He wanted to take the man by his blue-clad shoulders and shake him, shrieking ‘I am not God; hell, I am not even Pellew!’ But, of course, he could do no such thing. Perhaps the man would yet come to his senses.
Bush, apparently oblivious to his captain’s inner turmoil, studied the young man as he headed for the maintop. He shook his head in feigned disbelief. “Of course, he took the night glass. I expect he will cope with seeing the world upside down and backwards.”
Hornblower nodded. “Perhaps the consequence of his haste will provide him with food for thought, Mr. Bush.”
“Hmmph.” Bush muttered darkly. “But has he a mind with teeth?”
Hornblower stared: Bush could still catch him unawares, it seemed. Bush’s stern expression had not altered a whit; he was still intently watching the young man as he scrambled nimbly to the maintop.
He turned to Hornblower, who at last detected a faint glimmer of humour playing deep in Bush’s blue eyes. Bush shook his head. “Truly, sir, the boy ought to loathe me. I find it curious that he apparently does not.”
‘God, Bush,’ thought Hornblower grimly. ‘You have no idea.’
* * *
Hotspur kept to her now-familiar patrol, doing her part in maintaining the blockade of Brest. Day after day, they peered up the Goulet to monitor the state of readiness of the French fleet, or observed the activity-or lack of it-in the gulf of Iroise. And, small as she was, Hotspur firmly established the presence of the British in the minds of any Frenchmen who caught sight of her.
This day dawned much like any other. Hornblower and Bush arrived on the quarterdeck and were speaking quietly with the master’s mate who had stood watch throughout the night.
“Deck there! Sail fine on the larb’d bow! Hull down, but it’s a ship!” The lookout’s sharp cry penetrated the chill early-morning mists.
Hornblower opened his glass and trained it on the distant horizon, which was gaining just enough definition to be identifiable. From aloft, it would seem somewhat lighter; still, he marveled at the lookout’s alertness and keen eyesight that enabled him to pick out the lighter smudge that his experience identified as sails. Trust Bush, he thought, to have recognized the best and assigned him to this, the most difficult of watches.
The lookout’s voice rang out a second time. “She’s French, sir-a corvette!”
He closed the glass with a snap. “Beat to quarters, then clear for action, Mr. Bush.” He spoke with a calmness he did not feel; he wondered how he managed it. The prospect of action…at last.
The drums began to rattle; seamen tumbled out of their hammocks in answer to their urgent beat and flooded onto Hotspur’s already crowded deck.
Bush dragged out his watch. “Clear for action!” he roared.
Hornblower winced involuntarily. Repeating Bush’s orders through the lower decks was, in truth, merely a formality. He forced himself to stand stiffly at the quarterdeck rail, hands clasped behind his back. He was well aware that any outward sign of his own excitement might be misinterpreted as anxiety by this relatively untried crew, a situation that must be avoided at all costs. But he could stand this inactivity no longer: he retrieved his glass.
Hornblower watched the French corvette’s outline become clearer as the first morning light found her, first only her topsails, then the pyramids of sails, and her hull. He wished, not for the first time, that he had a stouter vessel under his feet. As Indefatigable had been…though a frigate, she was a razee-a cut-down two-decker. She had mounted heavier guns than most and retained the solid hull of a 64, while enjoying every bit of a frigate’s superior maneuverability. He had little such confidence in Hotspur’s frailer timbers.
‘Maria…’ he thought, then reined his thoughts in sharply. From what corner of his mind had that sprung? Until this moment, he had had to consciously try to bring thoughts of her to the fore, as his mind was more than willing to allow her, and their precipitous and ill-conceived marriage, to assume a distinct air of unreality. He had always thought that marriage was a detriment to a Naval officer-it made him cautious, careful. Stripped him of the brashness that was often all that separated victory from defeat-and death. Was even he, now, falling victim to that same malady? And, worse…would it prove fatal?
Bush reappeared at his side, to Hornblower’s great relief, interrupting this dangerously morbid train of thought. “Ten minutes, sir.”
Hornblower smiled slightly. “The benefits of drill, Mr. Bush.”
“Aye, sir.” Bush was, as usual, outwardly unmoved. Hornblower knew him well enough by now, though, to recognize the gleam in his eye. Had Bush been any other man, he would have been grinning from ear to ear with excitement.
The two ships remained on a converging tack; clearly, the French were equally eager to engage. Hornblower studied the corvette through the glass, his mind racing. They were relatively evenly matched: as such, they could stand off and pound each other to pieces, to neither one’s gain. Getting to grips as soon as possible and fighting it out seemed to be the wisest course of action.
“So, Mr. Bush…” Hornblower spoke casually, as though he were discussing the weather, and not life or death “…if her captain is a typical Frenchman, he expects to first fire chain or bar-shot on the uproll, in an attempt to disable our rigging, then take us at his leisure.” Hornblower was well aware that Bush knew all this, and more, yet persisted. It would be hot work shortly, with little time for questions or misunderstanding. “He will be expecting us to sheer off to deliver our own broadside. However…if we keep to this tack, he will only be able to bring his bow chaser to bear until we are upon him. We will immediately close the range, and board her. Man your larb’d guns, but have the crews keep their weapons for boarding close at hand. Tell them to be ready. ”
“Aye, sir.” Bush nodded, and strode off. Hornblower had every confidence that all would be accomplished as ordered: Bush had proved to be a most able right hand.
In what had seemed an instant, the decks were sanded, the guns loaded, every gun captain carefully gauging the perfection of each ball before the rammer seated it home. Slow-match smoldered sullenly in buckets, ready to touch off the charge in the event of misfire. They could not be more ready: there was nothing to do now but wait. Hornblower surveyed his men: the gun crews crouching near their charges, boarding weapons ready to be snatched up, or already crammed into belts. He briefly considered saying something to them, attempting a rousing speech as Pellew would have done, but hesitated. The faces of his men, taut with intensity and concentration, told him that any faltering words he might offer would be entirely unnecessary.
Hornblower gritted his teeth, watching the corvette as she loomed ever closer. A fountain of spray erupted just short of Hotspur’s larboard bow; as predicted, from the corvette’s bow-chaser. It would not take them long to find the range. He raised his sword above his head, then dropped it sharply. “Hard a’starb’d! Fire as your guns bear!” He forced his legs to move, as musket balls were thudding into the planking around him. The French marksmen had obviously spotted him; there was no point in his offering them a stationary target.
Hotspur’s guns spoke raggedly as Bush ran from gun to gun, carefully sighting in each one before granting permission to fire. Not that it mattered: the two hulls were so close that a blind man could not have missed.
The corvette’s own broadside thundered in Hornblower’s ears; he felt Hotspur’s deck shudder, and a chorus of agonized screams erupted from somewhere for’rd, though the stinging smoke hid their source from his eyes.
Hornblower heard the tremendous boom of Hotspur’s larb’d carronade, useless at any distance, but deadly at this range. A ball must have taken the gunner at the moment he pulled the lanyard, as the shot went high; the grape which should have cut a murderous swath through the waiting French boarding party impotently shredded French sails instead.
The hulls ground together with a sickening crash. The din was unimaginable-sharp reports from the marines’ muskets, deeper barks of the swivels from both vessels, groans and cries from the wounded, and above it all, the fierce clamor of near-crazed seamen from both sides, all consumed with the wild madness of battle, seeking only the destruction of the enemy.
“Boarders away!” Hornblower struggled to make himself heard over the confusion. He saw Bush turn: their eyes met.
Bush grinned ferally, his teeth white in his powder-stained face; Hornblower doubted that he was even aware of doing so. “Hotspurs! To me!” Bush bellowed, his powerful voice carrying easily over the tumult. He waved his sword above his head, and led the teeming, roaring mass of enraged seamen and marines as they spilled over the splintered bulwarks onto the deck of the corvette.
“Grapnels!” shouted Hornblower. “Repel boarders!” He made certain that a party of men scrambled to grapple the corvette, then ran down the quarterdeck ladder, sword in one hand, a pistol in the other. French seamen that had somehow penetrated Bush’s initial assault were already bravely clambering over the hammock nettings, but were promptly met by Hotspurs bristling with cutlasses, knives-and fury. Hornblower immediately found himself in the midst of the melee; a world of hacking, slashing men, their eyes red with rage. He soon lost all sense of time, and the number of men who had crumpled to the bloody deck under his feet.
Bush led his men into a similar hell, though the determined Hotspurs appeared to be slowly gaining the upper hand, even there. He spared a glance toward his own ship. The fighting there was furious, though his practiced eye immediately informed him that the French were scattered; small knots battling against a greater press of Hotspurs. A flash of blue and white caught his attention: a French lieutenant leapt the yard-wide gap between the hulls and landed on Hotspur’s foc’sl, waving his sword. Bush immediately grasped the danger-should the lieutenant succeed in rallying and organizing his men, they could prove a force with which to be reckoned. He could see none of Hotspur’s officers near the man; without a moment’s hesitation, he began to force his way through the crowd. He slashed violently at a seaman brandishing a pistol; the man went down screaming, hands to his bloodied face, the pistol forgotten. A French marine struggled vainly to raise his boarding-pike, but the seething tide of men pressing closely against him pinioned his arms to his sides: Bush’s sword caught him just above the sword-belt. He jerked the blade free of the marine’s body, turned, and in the same motion cut down another wild-eyed, shrieking seaman even as the man lunged, fighting for his life. Suddenly, he was free of the writhing mass, the roar of combat behind him. He gauged the distance between the hulls in an instant, and jumped.
He landed heavily, off balance. The lieutenant somehow sensed this new threat, and whirled to face him, blade upraised. It was red to the hilt…as was his own. Their eyes locked; each knew that for one of them, it would end here, on this scarred planking. Bush’s furious struggle to reach Hotspur had left him inflamed with battle-madness; as the wildness ebbed, and he steadied himself to coldly face the man, he discovered how desperately exhausted he was. His limbs were leaden; sweat, mixed with blood…from somewhere… stung his eyes.
The lieutenant lunged toward him, uncoiling like a spring: Bush had barely enough time to raise his blade to parry the blow. He felt the shock of it transmitted to his shoulder; the man was incredibly strong. He gripped his sword with something like desperation, and went on the attack, trying to drive the man back against the nettings.
The lieutenant caught Bush’s hangar neatly, and with a circular parry deftly tore it from his weakening grip. It clattered into the scuppers, hopelessly out of reach. Bush leapt away, nearly treading on a fallen seaman still clutching a cutlass in his lifeless hand. A cutlass. He scooped it up and held it at the ready, much to the obvious amusement of his opponent. Bush did indeed lack finesse, but was abundantly blessed with instinct, and courage, and tenacity. He knew, without conscious thought, that the lieutenant’s longer hanger would give the man a nearly insurmountable advantage. He had to get close; it was his only hope. Their blades met; Bush’s cutlass slid down the length of the hangar, the guards clashing together with tremendous force. As the lieutenant pivoted his shoulders to disengage and deliver the final strike, Bush stepped in closer. He saw the lieutenant’s look of triumph turn to horror as he realized his error…and as the cutlass blade hacked viciously into his side. The lieutenant toppled like a fallen tree, taking Bush with him.
Aboard Hotspur, Hornblower slowly became aware that the furious din was beginning to subside. He allowed his weary arms to fall to his sides, and looked about him. The fight seemed to have gone out of the few French seamen he could see. A glance toward the corvette provided a ready explanation: he watched as their flag fluttered to the littered, bloody deck and lay crumpled amid the carnage.
A seaman caught his arm. “Sir…look!”
Hornblower followed his gaze, and felt icy fingers grip his heart. “Release grapnels! Fend her off…lively there!”
The French boarders dropped their weapons, looking back in dismay at their own ship. Though trapped aboard Hotspur, they were the lucky ones. Dense black smoke had begun to boil from the for’rd hatch: fire, a seaman’s mortal enemy. Sun-dried planking, caulked with tar and oakum; standing rigging, coated with tar; and running rigging liberally smeared with the cook’s slush-and powder. Casks of it.
The thick smoke wafted across the widening gap between the two ships, making it seem as if Hotspur herself were afire.
“Helm! Work us free, Mr. Prowse!”
Hornblower glared fiercely at the corvette, as if he could force her to a safe distance by sheer effort of will. It would be a close thing, if her magazine took fire. “Get a boat in the water, Matthews! Pick up our men before they burn with her!”
Hornblower glanced for’rd; to his horror, saw Bush stagger out of the smoke toward him. His face was a mask of blood and powder stains; his hat was gone, as was his hanger-it its place he was dragging a cutlass, though it appeared to Hornblower that he would be utterly incapable of lifting it. And his uniform-his waistcoat and breeches were a hideous mass of blood and clotted gore.
“My God, William!” he cried, leaping forward to catch him by an elbow and fling an arm round his waist. Just in time, it seemed, as Bush’s knees began to buckle under him. ‘No…not again…not him, too…’ thought Hornblower wildly. He lowered Bush to the deck, propping him against a gun carriage, and with nerveless, shaking fingers began to loosen the sodden waistcoat and shirt, remembering all too well the last time he had done so…for Archie. “Where…where are you hurt?”
“Ohhh…” Bush looked down dazedly at his befouled uniform and grinned weakly. The effect was ghastly. “…’s not mine, sir. Leastways not much of it. I met with one of th’ Frog lieutenants” , he flapped a hand vaguely for’rd, “an’ did for him…but when he fell he sent us into both into…into…” he faltered, and grimaced. “Into what was left of the crew of the number two gun…took a full charge of canister, they did. God, wha’ a mess…” his words were beginning to slur; Hornblower realized that the man was simply exhausted, totally spent. But alive.
He felt first a warm glow of satisfaction, of relief and pleasure in the knowledge that Bush was, for the most part, uninjured. But it was a glow that quickly turned to anger; fury at himself for nearly allowing it to happen again. He fought to control his warring emotions, and awkwardly placed his hand on Bush’s shoulder. “Stay here…” he said, unnecessarily. Bush was obviously not going anywhere, for the moment.
Hornblower turned his attention back to the corvette-that particular peril, to his astonishment, had been briefly forgotten. The master had indeed worked them free, though it appeared that the danger was past. The dark smoke had abated; only a few paler tendrils hung above the hatch. She rode solidly in the water, though her sails were in tatters and several of her yards hung drunkenly, all a’cockbill.
A prize, perhaps, after all?
He heard the voice of master’s mate Cargill floating across the water. “We have her well in hand, sir.”
Hornblower snapped his fingers and was handed a speaking trumpet by a grubby, yet grinning Whitton, who had been hovering at his elbow. “Very good, Mr. Cargill…I shall join you directly.”
Hornblower emerged through the corvette’s entry port to a bustle of activity. Several marines were herding French seamen together, while others were collecting weapons from where they had fallen, or had been dropped at the moment of surrender.
Cargill caught up to him, panting with relief. “Sparks from a charge gone off prematurely had set some spare sails alight. We managed to get them put out; we were prepared to flood the magazine, but there was no need. Exceedingly fortunate, as her magazine is packed to the deckhead beams with powder.” He took a deep breath, then smiled. “She seems quite sound, sir.”
“Very good,” said Hornblower, meaning it. “Detail a party of seamen to put her yards to rights; have the sailmaker assist you in assessing the damage and begin repair or replacement. I want her ready to get under way as soon as possible.”
He glanced about the deck; seamen were already hard at work sending French corpses splashing unceremoniously over the side, and laying out the few Hotspurs for transport back to the ship in preparation for services. One party was securing the guns; still others were busily holystoning the deck, scrubbing off the dark stains that gave mute testimony to the morning’s ferocity. A quick look at Hotspur showed him that similar activity was taking place aboard his ship as well.
A powder-stained marine corporal approached, saluted, and stated crisply “We found the Captain, sir…dead, in his cabin.” The marine appeared to be fighting to retain his composure. It seemed, unbelievably, that the man was about to be convulsed with laughter. The marine turned abruptly, leading the way. Hornblower followed, puzzled by the man’s demeanor. A normal enough reaction in the aftermath of battle, he supposed: the simple relief at finding oneself yet among the living.
A broad smear of scarlet marked the French captain’s passage into his cabin. He lay sprawled partway across his desk, his eyes open and unblinking, though seeing nothing. A large puddle, equally vivid, had formed beneath him on the desktop, soaking the papers scattered there. One page alone remained unblemished, clutched firmly in the captain’s hand…it appeared, incredibly, to be half eaten.
“He had not the strength to get the weighted bag containing his orders over the side, so he apparently” the marine tried unsuccessfully to stifle a snicker, “attempted to consume them.” He grinned at Hornblower, his amusement plain.
Hornblower glared coldly at the marine. “A measure of respect would not go amiss,” he snapped. “The man was, after all, a Captain…as am I.”
The marine winced and dropped his eyes. “Sorry, sir.”
Hornblower bent and gently worked what remained of the document out of the man’s lifeless fist. He smoothed the wrinkles out of the paper as best he could, and scanned it rapidly. When he looked up, his eyes were deeply troubled. “He must have been in agony…yet he tried to the last to fulfill his duty. But failed…this is his commission.”**
He stood, and carefully closed the captain’s eyes: Capitaine Richard DeShayes, as the commission read…the man was much the same age as himself. The tables could so easily have turned, he realized: it could have been he, lying in Hotspur’s cabin. But would he have had such resolve, in his last moments? He glanced about the small cabin. His gaze came to rest on a polished sea-chest, emblazoned with what surely must have been the man’s coat of arms: a spray of oak leaves and acorns, bearing the words Coeur de Chene. Heart of Oak. Indeed, he mused sadly. Little but a flag separates friend from foe, at times.
Disheartened, he returned to Hotspur to find a rejuvenated Bush, still in his bloodstained breeches but hastily washed, and wearing a fresh shirt. Even somewhat out of uniform, he was a welcome sight-he now more resembled a King’s officer than a casualty. Bush was directing activity from every quarter: from the carpenter and his repairs to the work parties clearing away the carnage.
Hornblower strode to his side, and asked quietly “Mr. Bush, what is the bill for…” with a sweep of his hand, he encompassed the littered deck “…all this?”
“Six men killed, sir, and a dozen more with the surgeon. He reports that eight ought to return to duty within days; four…well, God only knows, sir.”
Hornblower sighed. “We will bury our dead at sunset, Mr. Bush.”
“Aye, sir.” Bush returned his focus to the orchestration of repairs, and was once again awash in the sea of details awaiting his attention.
Hornblower sadly surveyed the damage. He should have been jubilant, he thought-a captured prize, at last. But he felt only a profound depression, a sense of bereavement. So much death, so many…too many…good men lost, on both sides. Bush had said ‘God only knows.’ Hornblower found it highly unlikely that there was a God who knew…or cared. If there were, how could he allow this? Or the unceasing, senseless loss of how many other good men…one, in particular.
Sunset found Hornblower standing on the foc’sl, awkwardly clutching the ship’s prayerbook. It disturbed him greatly to see the Hotspur dead lined up along the rail: once men, now merely pathetic, faceless bundles with round shot at their feet to speed their final journey to oblivion. He had to perform the service: it was his duty, as Hotspur carried no chaplain. He hoped it would not matter that though he might speak the words, he held no confidence in them.
“Sir…” Bush’s voice startled him; he had been too bemused to even notice the man’s arrival. Bush continued, quietly, “…I will read over our men if you wish.”
Hornblower studied him, barely concealing his surprise. Bush seemed to be aware of his discomfiture; perhaps the man was more intuitive than he seemed, which was a disconcerting notion indeed. “Er, yes…carry on, Mr. Bush.”
Bush accepted the book, and joined the group of men silently gathered on the foc’sl awaiting him.
Hornblower listened to the familiar words as Bush read, although finding no comfort in it. Others did, he assumed, judging from the solemn expressions worn by the men assembled there. Little Whitton, at Bush’s side, was attempting to inconspicuously wipe his eyes with his sleeve. And Bush-Hornblower found it almost unimaginable that the quiet-faced man reading from the prayerbook was the same roaring, blood-stained lieutenant he had glimpsed leading his boarding party with such ferocity that very morning.
The service ended, the ripples from the last soul committed to the deep died away. Bush crossed to Hornblower’s side, and wordlessly handed him the prayerbook.
“I thank you, Mr. Bush.” Hornblower said gratefully, feeling a sudden, unexpected affection for the man.
Bush nodded. “You are quite welcome, sir. It is nothing more than I hope will be done for me,” he smiled slightly, “when my time comes.”
Bush’s words echoed in Hornblower’s soul: ‘when my time comes.’ When. Good God.
Bush, apparently unmoved by the prospect of his own mortality, replaced his hat. “By your leave, sir, I will go aft and verify our position with the master. I fear Mr. Whitton’s calculations are still a bit…er, suspect.”
Hornblower stared after him, still profoundly unnerved. ‘When my time comes.’
*******
Hornblower sat on the edge of his bunk. Hotspur was secured for the night, with the corvette following dutifully behind her, in the capable hands of Prowse. The French prisoners were securely battened into the for’rd hold, under ample guard, yet he could not sleep. He reached for a book, his hand closing on a slim, green-bound volume. One of Archie’s: it was Shakespeare, King Henry V. He recalled that Archie had lent it to him, after El Ferrol; though he had never read it, he could not bring himself to pack it into Archie’s sea chest to send to his father. He did not think Archie would have minded.
He opened it now, to the place marked by a black silk ribbon. He could barely bring himself to touch it-it was one of Archie’s, from his queue. He ran it slowly through his fingers, his eyes distant. Remembering the hundreds of times he had helped Archie tie his queue, never pausing a moment to think that one day he would tie it for the last time.
Still holding the precious ribbon, he looked down at the marked page, and began to read. King Harry was addressing his fellows, before the battle of Agincourt. ‘For he today who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother…’ His eyes blurred. He fought the urge to hurl the book across the cabin; instead, he gently replaced the silk and returned the book to the shelf. One day, perhaps. But not today. Oh God, not today.
He thought back to those early days of freedom, after they had been returned at last to Indefatigable. Archie had initially seemed uncomfortable with the return to his former life. Angry at what had been done to him during those lost years, and worse, resentful of his friend’s success. Until his brief posting aboard Innominate#. He had said little about what had transpired there, yet returned profoundly changed…almost at peace. He spoke only of the value of friendship; that its rewards far exceeded the risk of loss. It was then that Archie had presented him with the book, the place marked as he had found it this night. Hornblower looked up from his clenched hands, his face a dreadful mix of sorrow and fury. Archie had been wrong. So terribly, terribly wrong.
And he would never make that mistake again.
Part 2
This one is pretty old, first posted in 1/03 to hhfic. It was written prior to the airing of HH3, and was my attempt to use the events of HH2 to explain a transition between the HH2 version of Hornblower to a character more consistent with book canon.
HH3 clearly proved that I was definitely not on the same page as the filmmakers!
This version is tweaked a bit from that originally posted; it uses a slightly alternate--though MY favorite--ending.
Oh....and, as always: PG, Gen
ONCE BURNED
Hotspur ran before the wind as Hornblower stood on her quarterdeck, enjoying the sluice and gurgle of the water as it creamed about her lithe hull; the other, normal sounds of the men working ship around him fading into his subconscious, unheard. It never failed to astonish him that the graceful little sloop was his. Not a temporary command, not a prize, but his. He recalled the first time he had stood on his own quarterdeck…aboard Retribution. That day which ought to have been the proudest of his life had been a bitter one. On that day he could think only of putting Kingston and all it represented behind him. The memories of it, however, were not so easily left in Retribution’s wake; they followed him still. It was said that court-martial would make or break a man. He was not yet sure which it would be, for him.
He should have been proud this day, by rights, though he was not. Hotspur had accomplished much in the relatively short time they had been on station: the successful blockade of Brest, the gathering of critical intelligence, destruction of the semaphore and battery at Petit Minou. And now, at war, attached to the Inshore Squadron, under the command of Sir Edward Pellew, no less. Still, there was something-no, someone-missing. Archie Kennedy had never been a part of his shorebound life; during those endless, hungry days on half-pay, there had been enough to think on, to worry about. But now, at sea, he missed him acutely. He sighed. At sea. A good enough description of how he felt…without Archie.
He gradually became aware of a presence at his side. He turned, and chilled suddenly as a pair of level blue eyes met his. No, no…they were not the merry, expressive blue eyes that he still saw sometimes in his thoughts, in those moments upon awakening from a dream…those brief moments before grim reality returned to haunt him. Altogether different blue eyes, these. Serious, steady…yet they somehow conveyed sympathy, understanding, and a promise of friendship yet to come.
He drew himself erect, as he realized suddenly that he had been standing slumped, defeated: a posture hardly befitting a commander in the King’s navy. “Yes, Mr. Bush?” he said formally.
“Permission to take in another reef, sir. The wind is freshening further.”
“So it is. Permission granted, Mr. Bush.”
Bush turned away, bellowing his orders to the bosun. Matthews, from the Indy--and Renown.
Pellew’s hand, no doubt. Matthews…even Styles. Hornblower had come aboard Hotspur to find them there. Matthews, as bos’n, had piped him aboard, while Bush and Styles stood on deck, carefully, though not entirely successfully, hiding their delight at his efforts to stifle an equally pleased reaction. Better than anyone, Pellew would have known how much he would need to have the support of others who cared for him. Even if he could no longer acknowledge that friendship, for as Captain, he must hold himself apart. Relations with the warrant officers and crew were now Bush’s concern, a job he could manage ably enough. Still, to know that they were there, and to know that they understood and accepted their changed relationship, cheered him.
Hornblower studied Bush as he faultlessly orchestrated the reefing of the tops’ls: competant, confident in his seamanship.
He allowed his thoughts to drift back to his meeting with Admiral Troughton, and with Pellew. He had been summoned to the Admiralty not long after receiving his orders. He had presented himself, vainly hoping that his nervousness was not as apparent as he knew it must be; he seethed with questions and uncertainty. Had they changed their minds? Was giving him Hotspur all some foolish mistake? He was astonished to find himself standing before not only the Admiral, but Pellew himself, inscrutable as always.
“So…as to your officers.” The admiral looked up, peering narrowly at him over the tops of his spectacles. “Junior lieutenants we have a’plenty. But a senior…for your first. Ah, that is a more rare commodity. You need someone you can trust to carry out your orders, to lead your men, should you fall.” Troughton paused and regarded him intently.
Hornblower wondered upon what tack the admiral had embarked, for it seemed as though he were awaiting some comment. He shifted awkwardly in the uncomfortable silence, then impulsively decided to seize the bull by the horns. “May I inquire, sir…has Lieutenant William Bush been assigned?”
Pellew looked up sharply and spoke for the first time. “Mr. Hornblower,” he snapped. “You know full well that William Bush once stood accused of mutiny. Are you certain that this mutinous behaviour would not be repeated?”
Hornblower hoped-in vain, no doubt-that the admiral did not notice the glaring fact that Pellew had not questioned whether Bush was indeed guilty. He chose to ignore it-to protest would only draw further attention.
“I have entrusted him with my life, sir. I would not hesitate to do so again.”
Surprisingly, both men nodded slightly. The admiral raised an eyebrow. “And do you believe that he will not find it difficult to serve under his former third lieutenant?”
Hornblower knew Bush well enough to know that, regardless of his personal feelings on the matter, he would serve a fair captain to the best of his ability. “I am confident that he will not, sir.”
“Well, then, Mr. Hornblower…Mr. Bush it is.”
Hornblower essayed a tentative smile. “Thank you, sir. I could hope for none better.”
He was still smiling as he left the Admiralty, though since then he had been beset with worry. Despite his self-assured words to the admiral, he began to wonder how Bush felt about being under the command of his former junior officer. He would have been astonished had he known.
William Bush was a pragmatic, practical man, not overly given to flights of fancy. He was, however, sufficiently self-aware to recognize that Hornblower possessed qualities that he himself lacked entirely. Bush had always conducted himself and executed his duties by the book. That had proved more than adequate, if not inspired, until the horrific events unfolded aboard Renown. He had realized, then, that it was not always enough. And then to watch Buckland…poor, weak Buckland. He could almost pity the man, as much as he hated him. The horror he must have felt at finding himself so woefully unsuited for command.
Bush was altogether too familiar with the admiralty’s unfortunate practice of promoting men beyond their depth. It seemed, to him, faintly ridiculous-to take an officer who had proved to be a brilliant frigate captain out of frigates where he was most effective and into a ponderous ship of the line. Hardly more than a floating gun platform, with little opportunity for her captain to display the fire and dash that had made him a nemesis to the enemy. Or to take a good, solid, reliable captain-one who would carry out his superior’s orders or die in the attempt-out of his liner and give him flag rank; to thrust him, ready or not, into the role of visionary. All too often, a courageous captain and superb seaman was not an equally gifted strategist.
Bush saw himself with enough clarity to pray that he would die a captain.
Hornblower, though, was another sort of man entirely. Bush felt that serving under him was entirely right and proper. He was content with it…it was as it should be.
* * *
Hornblower sat on the padded bench below the stern windows, watching the dawn slowly break over the empty sea. He had not yet become fully accustomed to the luxury of a cabin of his own. It was small, nothing like the great stern cabin in Indefatigable, or Renown …Hotspur was but a sloop, after all…but it provided a place where Hornblower could find some precious solitude, time to think. And, to his utter surprise, a place where he and Bush might share a glass, or their thoughts.
This morning found Hornblower reviewing yet again, the events aboard Renown. Nearly two years had passed since that unhappy experience, yet it was rarely far from his thoughts. He had always been troubled by the unfortunate tendency to hold himself accountable for circumstances over which he had no control. He felt responsible for Sawyer’s fall, as surely as if he had indeed pushed him. And would have publicly shouldered that blame, if not for the intervention of another. Some would have shrugged, and called the fall happenstance, an unavoidable misfortune to be blamed at least in part on Sawyer’s failing mental state. Others would have accused him of an excess of hubris, for his assumption that he could wield such control over the events of his life. But he could not honestly answer the question that had haunted him since that terrible day. Had it been Archie, or Bush, or Wellard…would he have reacted that much more quickly, and somehow been able to prevent the fall that sent such tragedy to its inexorable conclusion?
A scrape outside the cabin door interrupted his reverie and informed him that Bush had arrived; as usual, in time for coffee. Neither man was certain when or how this early morning discussion had begun, though it was now an accepted part of the ship’s daily routine. They talked of the ship’s operations, her crew, and their improvement at gun drill, the progress of her midshipmen. About nothing, often, if the truth be told.
“Come, Mr. Bush,” Hornblower called.
Bush appeared in the doorway, hat tucked under his arm. “Good morning, sir,” he said formally.
Hornblower nudged a steaming cup in his direction. “Come. Sit.”
Bush nodded. “By your leave, sir.”
Hornblower smiled; he had initially considered Bush to be rigidly formal, meticulously attentive to protocol. All true, right enough, though time was teaching him also to appreciate Bush’s understated nature and subtle wit. It was nothing at all like Archie’s open and good-natured teasing, which had driven him to distraction on a daily basis. He sighed; he would have given his very soul to be so distracted again.
Bush detected the sigh; wondered at it, though he suspected its cause. He had begun to feel, during the long weeks of blockade, that Hornblower was at last losing some of his reserve, though revealing only a shadow of the kinship he had shared with Kennedy. Bush knew that he could never replace the young man, but knew also that he had to be there to provide what solace he could. He would never know everything the two men had shared, though Kennedy had whispered some of it while they lay in the prison hospital in Jamaica. It was as though Kennedy had somehow known that Bush would be called upon to fill a void in Hornblower’s soul, and wished to prepare him for it. And then the promise…Bush would never forget Kennedy’s strained, pain-wracked face, belying his calm words: "You owe me a life well lived." Kennedy had said. "I've given the Devil his due to purchase that for you. Don't let me down."
Nor would he ever forget his own reply. "I won't. And I'll make sure that Hornblower pays that debt as well."*
Hornblower knew nothing of that promise. Nor would he.
It was one subject that, by mutual-though tacit-consent, was never discussed. It was at times like these that Bush felt nearly certain that if he were to turn quickly enough, to see out of the corner of his eye, he would glimpse Kennedy in the cabin with them. His presence there was almost palpable, though Bush could find no physical reminder, no object that had once been his. Bush, with unaccustomed sentiment, kept a book of sonnets that Kennedy had once lent to him. Hornblower had nothing that he knew of-except his grief.
Bush realized suddenly that Hornblower was staring at him, as though anticipating some reply. He had allowed his thoughts to carry him off; he had not heard a word of it. He hastily scrambled to his feet. “Er…my apologies, sir, but I am needed on deck. It is nearly time to call the forenoon watch.”
Bush arrived on the quarterdeck just as the final notes sounded from Matthews’ pipe. Seamen boiled from the hatches, never hesitating as they took up their duty stations. To his surprise, Hornblower wordlessly joined him at the quarterdeck rail, handing him his untouched mug of coffee. The two men stood comfortably side by side, both privately evaluating the speed and efficiency of the process.
Bush turned to critically scrutinize Midshipman Charles Whitton as he approached for his assignment. “Mr. Whitton,” he snapped, “you will stand masthead lookout this watch.”
The boy flushed deeply under Bush’s blue glare, yet met it. “Aye aye, sir,” he responded earnestly.
Bush studied him as he headed for the shrouds. The boy was quite young, but he showed promise. Damned if he would let the boy know it yet. He was listed on the books as thirteen years of age, but Prowse, the sailing-master, had told him that one night on watch the boy confided that he had actually only recently turned eleven. He was already quite tall, and, in contrast to most boys his age, already had the broad shoulders and deep chest that foretold impressive stature. His hair had quickly bleached quite blonde by the sun, setting off his tanned skin. Pleasant features, a ready smile, clear light brown eyes. A fine figure of a man he would be, someday, if he managed to stay clear of the enemy’s iron long enough. Perhaps lady luck would be kind. Bush concealed a half smile. Lady Luck…the phrase invariably conjured the memory of a lieutenant he had once known, when he was but a mere child of a midshipman himself.
This midshipman hesitated interminably at the telescope rack, seemingly unable to decide which of the glasses to choose.
Bush turned to raise an amused eyebrow at Hornblower, then shrugged and assumed an expression of chilling rage. “While we are yet young, Mr. Whitton!” he chided sharply. “Or you shall renew your acquaintance with the gunner’s daughter.”
Despite Bush’s tone and harsh words, the boy looked up at him seriously, admiration shining plain in his brown eyes. He knuckled his forehead, then grinned broadly. “Aye aye, sir!” He snatched a glass, and scampered for the shrouds, still grinning.
Hornblower watched the little tableau unfold before him. He had seen men look at him in the same manner, and felt at once pleased, perplexed, and annoyed by it. Pleased, that the men were not offended by his ordering them about-to their deaths, if it came to it; perplexed, that it should be so; and annoyed, that the men seemed to view him as having the answers to the riddles of the ages.
God help him, he had even seen a similar expression in Bush’s eyes. He wanted to take the man by his blue-clad shoulders and shake him, shrieking ‘I am not God; hell, I am not even Pellew!’ But, of course, he could do no such thing. Perhaps the man would yet come to his senses.
Bush, apparently oblivious to his captain’s inner turmoil, studied the young man as he headed for the maintop. He shook his head in feigned disbelief. “Of course, he took the night glass. I expect he will cope with seeing the world upside down and backwards.”
Hornblower nodded. “Perhaps the consequence of his haste will provide him with food for thought, Mr. Bush.”
“Hmmph.” Bush muttered darkly. “But has he a mind with teeth?”
Hornblower stared: Bush could still catch him unawares, it seemed. Bush’s stern expression had not altered a whit; he was still intently watching the young man as he scrambled nimbly to the maintop.
He turned to Hornblower, who at last detected a faint glimmer of humour playing deep in Bush’s blue eyes. Bush shook his head. “Truly, sir, the boy ought to loathe me. I find it curious that he apparently does not.”
‘God, Bush,’ thought Hornblower grimly. ‘You have no idea.’
* * *
Hotspur kept to her now-familiar patrol, doing her part in maintaining the blockade of Brest. Day after day, they peered up the Goulet to monitor the state of readiness of the French fleet, or observed the activity-or lack of it-in the gulf of Iroise. And, small as she was, Hotspur firmly established the presence of the British in the minds of any Frenchmen who caught sight of her.
This day dawned much like any other. Hornblower and Bush arrived on the quarterdeck and were speaking quietly with the master’s mate who had stood watch throughout the night.
“Deck there! Sail fine on the larb’d bow! Hull down, but it’s a ship!” The lookout’s sharp cry penetrated the chill early-morning mists.
Hornblower opened his glass and trained it on the distant horizon, which was gaining just enough definition to be identifiable. From aloft, it would seem somewhat lighter; still, he marveled at the lookout’s alertness and keen eyesight that enabled him to pick out the lighter smudge that his experience identified as sails. Trust Bush, he thought, to have recognized the best and assigned him to this, the most difficult of watches.
The lookout’s voice rang out a second time. “She’s French, sir-a corvette!”
He closed the glass with a snap. “Beat to quarters, then clear for action, Mr. Bush.” He spoke with a calmness he did not feel; he wondered how he managed it. The prospect of action…at last.
The drums began to rattle; seamen tumbled out of their hammocks in answer to their urgent beat and flooded onto Hotspur’s already crowded deck.
Bush dragged out his watch. “Clear for action!” he roared.
Hornblower winced involuntarily. Repeating Bush’s orders through the lower decks was, in truth, merely a formality. He forced himself to stand stiffly at the quarterdeck rail, hands clasped behind his back. He was well aware that any outward sign of his own excitement might be misinterpreted as anxiety by this relatively untried crew, a situation that must be avoided at all costs. But he could stand this inactivity no longer: he retrieved his glass.
Hornblower watched the French corvette’s outline become clearer as the first morning light found her, first only her topsails, then the pyramids of sails, and her hull. He wished, not for the first time, that he had a stouter vessel under his feet. As Indefatigable had been…though a frigate, she was a razee-a cut-down two-decker. She had mounted heavier guns than most and retained the solid hull of a 64, while enjoying every bit of a frigate’s superior maneuverability. He had little such confidence in Hotspur’s frailer timbers.
‘Maria…’ he thought, then reined his thoughts in sharply. From what corner of his mind had that sprung? Until this moment, he had had to consciously try to bring thoughts of her to the fore, as his mind was more than willing to allow her, and their precipitous and ill-conceived marriage, to assume a distinct air of unreality. He had always thought that marriage was a detriment to a Naval officer-it made him cautious, careful. Stripped him of the brashness that was often all that separated victory from defeat-and death. Was even he, now, falling victim to that same malady? And, worse…would it prove fatal?
Bush reappeared at his side, to Hornblower’s great relief, interrupting this dangerously morbid train of thought. “Ten minutes, sir.”
Hornblower smiled slightly. “The benefits of drill, Mr. Bush.”
“Aye, sir.” Bush was, as usual, outwardly unmoved. Hornblower knew him well enough by now, though, to recognize the gleam in his eye. Had Bush been any other man, he would have been grinning from ear to ear with excitement.
The two ships remained on a converging tack; clearly, the French were equally eager to engage. Hornblower studied the corvette through the glass, his mind racing. They were relatively evenly matched: as such, they could stand off and pound each other to pieces, to neither one’s gain. Getting to grips as soon as possible and fighting it out seemed to be the wisest course of action.
“So, Mr. Bush…” Hornblower spoke casually, as though he were discussing the weather, and not life or death “…if her captain is a typical Frenchman, he expects to first fire chain or bar-shot on the uproll, in an attempt to disable our rigging, then take us at his leisure.” Hornblower was well aware that Bush knew all this, and more, yet persisted. It would be hot work shortly, with little time for questions or misunderstanding. “He will be expecting us to sheer off to deliver our own broadside. However…if we keep to this tack, he will only be able to bring his bow chaser to bear until we are upon him. We will immediately close the range, and board her. Man your larb’d guns, but have the crews keep their weapons for boarding close at hand. Tell them to be ready. ”
“Aye, sir.” Bush nodded, and strode off. Hornblower had every confidence that all would be accomplished as ordered: Bush had proved to be a most able right hand.
In what had seemed an instant, the decks were sanded, the guns loaded, every gun captain carefully gauging the perfection of each ball before the rammer seated it home. Slow-match smoldered sullenly in buckets, ready to touch off the charge in the event of misfire. They could not be more ready: there was nothing to do now but wait. Hornblower surveyed his men: the gun crews crouching near their charges, boarding weapons ready to be snatched up, or already crammed into belts. He briefly considered saying something to them, attempting a rousing speech as Pellew would have done, but hesitated. The faces of his men, taut with intensity and concentration, told him that any faltering words he might offer would be entirely unnecessary.
Hornblower gritted his teeth, watching the corvette as she loomed ever closer. A fountain of spray erupted just short of Hotspur’s larboard bow; as predicted, from the corvette’s bow-chaser. It would not take them long to find the range. He raised his sword above his head, then dropped it sharply. “Hard a’starb’d! Fire as your guns bear!” He forced his legs to move, as musket balls were thudding into the planking around him. The French marksmen had obviously spotted him; there was no point in his offering them a stationary target.
Hotspur’s guns spoke raggedly as Bush ran from gun to gun, carefully sighting in each one before granting permission to fire. Not that it mattered: the two hulls were so close that a blind man could not have missed.
The corvette’s own broadside thundered in Hornblower’s ears; he felt Hotspur’s deck shudder, and a chorus of agonized screams erupted from somewhere for’rd, though the stinging smoke hid their source from his eyes.
Hornblower heard the tremendous boom of Hotspur’s larb’d carronade, useless at any distance, but deadly at this range. A ball must have taken the gunner at the moment he pulled the lanyard, as the shot went high; the grape which should have cut a murderous swath through the waiting French boarding party impotently shredded French sails instead.
The hulls ground together with a sickening crash. The din was unimaginable-sharp reports from the marines’ muskets, deeper barks of the swivels from both vessels, groans and cries from the wounded, and above it all, the fierce clamor of near-crazed seamen from both sides, all consumed with the wild madness of battle, seeking only the destruction of the enemy.
“Boarders away!” Hornblower struggled to make himself heard over the confusion. He saw Bush turn: their eyes met.
Bush grinned ferally, his teeth white in his powder-stained face; Hornblower doubted that he was even aware of doing so. “Hotspurs! To me!” Bush bellowed, his powerful voice carrying easily over the tumult. He waved his sword above his head, and led the teeming, roaring mass of enraged seamen and marines as they spilled over the splintered bulwarks onto the deck of the corvette.
“Grapnels!” shouted Hornblower. “Repel boarders!” He made certain that a party of men scrambled to grapple the corvette, then ran down the quarterdeck ladder, sword in one hand, a pistol in the other. French seamen that had somehow penetrated Bush’s initial assault were already bravely clambering over the hammock nettings, but were promptly met by Hotspurs bristling with cutlasses, knives-and fury. Hornblower immediately found himself in the midst of the melee; a world of hacking, slashing men, their eyes red with rage. He soon lost all sense of time, and the number of men who had crumpled to the bloody deck under his feet.
Bush led his men into a similar hell, though the determined Hotspurs appeared to be slowly gaining the upper hand, even there. He spared a glance toward his own ship. The fighting there was furious, though his practiced eye immediately informed him that the French were scattered; small knots battling against a greater press of Hotspurs. A flash of blue and white caught his attention: a French lieutenant leapt the yard-wide gap between the hulls and landed on Hotspur’s foc’sl, waving his sword. Bush immediately grasped the danger-should the lieutenant succeed in rallying and organizing his men, they could prove a force with which to be reckoned. He could see none of Hotspur’s officers near the man; without a moment’s hesitation, he began to force his way through the crowd. He slashed violently at a seaman brandishing a pistol; the man went down screaming, hands to his bloodied face, the pistol forgotten. A French marine struggled vainly to raise his boarding-pike, but the seething tide of men pressing closely against him pinioned his arms to his sides: Bush’s sword caught him just above the sword-belt. He jerked the blade free of the marine’s body, turned, and in the same motion cut down another wild-eyed, shrieking seaman even as the man lunged, fighting for his life. Suddenly, he was free of the writhing mass, the roar of combat behind him. He gauged the distance between the hulls in an instant, and jumped.
He landed heavily, off balance. The lieutenant somehow sensed this new threat, and whirled to face him, blade upraised. It was red to the hilt…as was his own. Their eyes locked; each knew that for one of them, it would end here, on this scarred planking. Bush’s furious struggle to reach Hotspur had left him inflamed with battle-madness; as the wildness ebbed, and he steadied himself to coldly face the man, he discovered how desperately exhausted he was. His limbs were leaden; sweat, mixed with blood…from somewhere… stung his eyes.
The lieutenant lunged toward him, uncoiling like a spring: Bush had barely enough time to raise his blade to parry the blow. He felt the shock of it transmitted to his shoulder; the man was incredibly strong. He gripped his sword with something like desperation, and went on the attack, trying to drive the man back against the nettings.
The lieutenant caught Bush’s hangar neatly, and with a circular parry deftly tore it from his weakening grip. It clattered into the scuppers, hopelessly out of reach. Bush leapt away, nearly treading on a fallen seaman still clutching a cutlass in his lifeless hand. A cutlass. He scooped it up and held it at the ready, much to the obvious amusement of his opponent. Bush did indeed lack finesse, but was abundantly blessed with instinct, and courage, and tenacity. He knew, without conscious thought, that the lieutenant’s longer hanger would give the man a nearly insurmountable advantage. He had to get close; it was his only hope. Their blades met; Bush’s cutlass slid down the length of the hangar, the guards clashing together with tremendous force. As the lieutenant pivoted his shoulders to disengage and deliver the final strike, Bush stepped in closer. He saw the lieutenant’s look of triumph turn to horror as he realized his error…and as the cutlass blade hacked viciously into his side. The lieutenant toppled like a fallen tree, taking Bush with him.
Aboard Hotspur, Hornblower slowly became aware that the furious din was beginning to subside. He allowed his weary arms to fall to his sides, and looked about him. The fight seemed to have gone out of the few French seamen he could see. A glance toward the corvette provided a ready explanation: he watched as their flag fluttered to the littered, bloody deck and lay crumpled amid the carnage.
A seaman caught his arm. “Sir…look!”
Hornblower followed his gaze, and felt icy fingers grip his heart. “Release grapnels! Fend her off…lively there!”
The French boarders dropped their weapons, looking back in dismay at their own ship. Though trapped aboard Hotspur, they were the lucky ones. Dense black smoke had begun to boil from the for’rd hatch: fire, a seaman’s mortal enemy. Sun-dried planking, caulked with tar and oakum; standing rigging, coated with tar; and running rigging liberally smeared with the cook’s slush-and powder. Casks of it.
The thick smoke wafted across the widening gap between the two ships, making it seem as if Hotspur herself were afire.
“Helm! Work us free, Mr. Prowse!”
Hornblower glared fiercely at the corvette, as if he could force her to a safe distance by sheer effort of will. It would be a close thing, if her magazine took fire. “Get a boat in the water, Matthews! Pick up our men before they burn with her!”
Hornblower glanced for’rd; to his horror, saw Bush stagger out of the smoke toward him. His face was a mask of blood and powder stains; his hat was gone, as was his hanger-it its place he was dragging a cutlass, though it appeared to Hornblower that he would be utterly incapable of lifting it. And his uniform-his waistcoat and breeches were a hideous mass of blood and clotted gore.
“My God, William!” he cried, leaping forward to catch him by an elbow and fling an arm round his waist. Just in time, it seemed, as Bush’s knees began to buckle under him. ‘No…not again…not him, too…’ thought Hornblower wildly. He lowered Bush to the deck, propping him against a gun carriage, and with nerveless, shaking fingers began to loosen the sodden waistcoat and shirt, remembering all too well the last time he had done so…for Archie. “Where…where are you hurt?”
“Ohhh…” Bush looked down dazedly at his befouled uniform and grinned weakly. The effect was ghastly. “…’s not mine, sir. Leastways not much of it. I met with one of th’ Frog lieutenants” , he flapped a hand vaguely for’rd, “an’ did for him…but when he fell he sent us into both into…into…” he faltered, and grimaced. “Into what was left of the crew of the number two gun…took a full charge of canister, they did. God, wha’ a mess…” his words were beginning to slur; Hornblower realized that the man was simply exhausted, totally spent. But alive.
He felt first a warm glow of satisfaction, of relief and pleasure in the knowledge that Bush was, for the most part, uninjured. But it was a glow that quickly turned to anger; fury at himself for nearly allowing it to happen again. He fought to control his warring emotions, and awkwardly placed his hand on Bush’s shoulder. “Stay here…” he said, unnecessarily. Bush was obviously not going anywhere, for the moment.
Hornblower turned his attention back to the corvette-that particular peril, to his astonishment, had been briefly forgotten. The master had indeed worked them free, though it appeared that the danger was past. The dark smoke had abated; only a few paler tendrils hung above the hatch. She rode solidly in the water, though her sails were in tatters and several of her yards hung drunkenly, all a’cockbill.
A prize, perhaps, after all?
He heard the voice of master’s mate Cargill floating across the water. “We have her well in hand, sir.”
Hornblower snapped his fingers and was handed a speaking trumpet by a grubby, yet grinning Whitton, who had been hovering at his elbow. “Very good, Mr. Cargill…I shall join you directly.”
Hornblower emerged through the corvette’s entry port to a bustle of activity. Several marines were herding French seamen together, while others were collecting weapons from where they had fallen, or had been dropped at the moment of surrender.
Cargill caught up to him, panting with relief. “Sparks from a charge gone off prematurely had set some spare sails alight. We managed to get them put out; we were prepared to flood the magazine, but there was no need. Exceedingly fortunate, as her magazine is packed to the deckhead beams with powder.” He took a deep breath, then smiled. “She seems quite sound, sir.”
“Very good,” said Hornblower, meaning it. “Detail a party of seamen to put her yards to rights; have the sailmaker assist you in assessing the damage and begin repair or replacement. I want her ready to get under way as soon as possible.”
He glanced about the deck; seamen were already hard at work sending French corpses splashing unceremoniously over the side, and laying out the few Hotspurs for transport back to the ship in preparation for services. One party was securing the guns; still others were busily holystoning the deck, scrubbing off the dark stains that gave mute testimony to the morning’s ferocity. A quick look at Hotspur showed him that similar activity was taking place aboard his ship as well.
A powder-stained marine corporal approached, saluted, and stated crisply “We found the Captain, sir…dead, in his cabin.” The marine appeared to be fighting to retain his composure. It seemed, unbelievably, that the man was about to be convulsed with laughter. The marine turned abruptly, leading the way. Hornblower followed, puzzled by the man’s demeanor. A normal enough reaction in the aftermath of battle, he supposed: the simple relief at finding oneself yet among the living.
A broad smear of scarlet marked the French captain’s passage into his cabin. He lay sprawled partway across his desk, his eyes open and unblinking, though seeing nothing. A large puddle, equally vivid, had formed beneath him on the desktop, soaking the papers scattered there. One page alone remained unblemished, clutched firmly in the captain’s hand…it appeared, incredibly, to be half eaten.
“He had not the strength to get the weighted bag containing his orders over the side, so he apparently” the marine tried unsuccessfully to stifle a snicker, “attempted to consume them.” He grinned at Hornblower, his amusement plain.
Hornblower glared coldly at the marine. “A measure of respect would not go amiss,” he snapped. “The man was, after all, a Captain…as am I.”
The marine winced and dropped his eyes. “Sorry, sir.”
Hornblower bent and gently worked what remained of the document out of the man’s lifeless fist. He smoothed the wrinkles out of the paper as best he could, and scanned it rapidly. When he looked up, his eyes were deeply troubled. “He must have been in agony…yet he tried to the last to fulfill his duty. But failed…this is his commission.”**
He stood, and carefully closed the captain’s eyes: Capitaine Richard DeShayes, as the commission read…the man was much the same age as himself. The tables could so easily have turned, he realized: it could have been he, lying in Hotspur’s cabin. But would he have had such resolve, in his last moments? He glanced about the small cabin. His gaze came to rest on a polished sea-chest, emblazoned with what surely must have been the man’s coat of arms: a spray of oak leaves and acorns, bearing the words Coeur de Chene. Heart of Oak. Indeed, he mused sadly. Little but a flag separates friend from foe, at times.
Disheartened, he returned to Hotspur to find a rejuvenated Bush, still in his bloodstained breeches but hastily washed, and wearing a fresh shirt. Even somewhat out of uniform, he was a welcome sight-he now more resembled a King’s officer than a casualty. Bush was directing activity from every quarter: from the carpenter and his repairs to the work parties clearing away the carnage.
Hornblower strode to his side, and asked quietly “Mr. Bush, what is the bill for…” with a sweep of his hand, he encompassed the littered deck “…all this?”
“Six men killed, sir, and a dozen more with the surgeon. He reports that eight ought to return to duty within days; four…well, God only knows, sir.”
Hornblower sighed. “We will bury our dead at sunset, Mr. Bush.”
“Aye, sir.” Bush returned his focus to the orchestration of repairs, and was once again awash in the sea of details awaiting his attention.
Hornblower sadly surveyed the damage. He should have been jubilant, he thought-a captured prize, at last. But he felt only a profound depression, a sense of bereavement. So much death, so many…too many…good men lost, on both sides. Bush had said ‘God only knows.’ Hornblower found it highly unlikely that there was a God who knew…or cared. If there were, how could he allow this? Or the unceasing, senseless loss of how many other good men…one, in particular.
Sunset found Hornblower standing on the foc’sl, awkwardly clutching the ship’s prayerbook. It disturbed him greatly to see the Hotspur dead lined up along the rail: once men, now merely pathetic, faceless bundles with round shot at their feet to speed their final journey to oblivion. He had to perform the service: it was his duty, as Hotspur carried no chaplain. He hoped it would not matter that though he might speak the words, he held no confidence in them.
“Sir…” Bush’s voice startled him; he had been too bemused to even notice the man’s arrival. Bush continued, quietly, “…I will read over our men if you wish.”
Hornblower studied him, barely concealing his surprise. Bush seemed to be aware of his discomfiture; perhaps the man was more intuitive than he seemed, which was a disconcerting notion indeed. “Er, yes…carry on, Mr. Bush.”
Bush accepted the book, and joined the group of men silently gathered on the foc’sl awaiting him.
Hornblower listened to the familiar words as Bush read, although finding no comfort in it. Others did, he assumed, judging from the solemn expressions worn by the men assembled there. Little Whitton, at Bush’s side, was attempting to inconspicuously wipe his eyes with his sleeve. And Bush-Hornblower found it almost unimaginable that the quiet-faced man reading from the prayerbook was the same roaring, blood-stained lieutenant he had glimpsed leading his boarding party with such ferocity that very morning.
The service ended, the ripples from the last soul committed to the deep died away. Bush crossed to Hornblower’s side, and wordlessly handed him the prayerbook.
“I thank you, Mr. Bush.” Hornblower said gratefully, feeling a sudden, unexpected affection for the man.
Bush nodded. “You are quite welcome, sir. It is nothing more than I hope will be done for me,” he smiled slightly, “when my time comes.”
Bush’s words echoed in Hornblower’s soul: ‘when my time comes.’ When. Good God.
Bush, apparently unmoved by the prospect of his own mortality, replaced his hat. “By your leave, sir, I will go aft and verify our position with the master. I fear Mr. Whitton’s calculations are still a bit…er, suspect.”
Hornblower stared after him, still profoundly unnerved. ‘When my time comes.’
*******
Hornblower sat on the edge of his bunk. Hotspur was secured for the night, with the corvette following dutifully behind her, in the capable hands of Prowse. The French prisoners were securely battened into the for’rd hold, under ample guard, yet he could not sleep. He reached for a book, his hand closing on a slim, green-bound volume. One of Archie’s: it was Shakespeare, King Henry V. He recalled that Archie had lent it to him, after El Ferrol; though he had never read it, he could not bring himself to pack it into Archie’s sea chest to send to his father. He did not think Archie would have minded.
He opened it now, to the place marked by a black silk ribbon. He could barely bring himself to touch it-it was one of Archie’s, from his queue. He ran it slowly through his fingers, his eyes distant. Remembering the hundreds of times he had helped Archie tie his queue, never pausing a moment to think that one day he would tie it for the last time.
Still holding the precious ribbon, he looked down at the marked page, and began to read. King Harry was addressing his fellows, before the battle of Agincourt. ‘For he today who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother…’ His eyes blurred. He fought the urge to hurl the book across the cabin; instead, he gently replaced the silk and returned the book to the shelf. One day, perhaps. But not today. Oh God, not today.
He thought back to those early days of freedom, after they had been returned at last to Indefatigable. Archie had initially seemed uncomfortable with the return to his former life. Angry at what had been done to him during those lost years, and worse, resentful of his friend’s success. Until his brief posting aboard Innominate#. He had said little about what had transpired there, yet returned profoundly changed…almost at peace. He spoke only of the value of friendship; that its rewards far exceeded the risk of loss. It was then that Archie had presented him with the book, the place marked as he had found it this night. Hornblower looked up from his clenched hands, his face a dreadful mix of sorrow and fury. Archie had been wrong. So terribly, terribly wrong.
And he would never make that mistake again.
Part 2