Once Burned
Hornblower sat back in his chair and wearily rubbed his aching eyes. He heard the ship’s bell clang: two bells of the morning watch. For hours, he had been examining-and translating-the documents recovered from the corvette, Fidelite. Papers found aboard her revealed that she carried despatches to a planned rendesvous with Thesee, a 74, which was at this very moment on its way to join a sizable French squadron. But where was this squadron? What was its aim? He could not say. The despatches which would have clearly illuminated the squadron’s location and intent were those found beneath the French captain, so saturated with his blood as to be wholly unreadable. In death, he had indeed accomplished even that. Hornblower had been able to determine that Thesee was to be carrying new orders and a replacement admiral to the squadron. Even if they must act in ignorance, the interruption of this chain of events could prove vital. He shook his head to clear it, took a sip of now stone-cold coffee, and forced himself to return to his papers.
Bush arrived at his accustomed hour; to his surprise, he found the cabin empty. Odd, he thought, frowning; he ought to have been informed of any problem serious enough to warrant the captain’s attention. He hurried on deck, anxiously anticipating disaster. Instead, all was peaceful: Hornblower stood alone on the quarterdeck, hands clasped behind his back, studying the open sea.
Hornblower did not seem to notice his arrival. Curious, Bush ventured a cautious “Good morning, sir.”
Hornblower turned to him, his expression unreadable. “Are our prisoners under adequate guard, Mr. Bush?”
Bush stared at him as if he were astounded to be asked such a question. “Yes, sir.”
To Hornblower’s aggrieved mind, it sounded very much like ‘of course’. Bush’s apparent effrontery infuriated him, caused the simmering emotions of anger and loss to boil uncontrollably. “I cannot be certain of that, Mr. Bush,” he snarled. “Have you forgotten Renown so soon? You obviously failed to maintain sufficient vigilance then,” his face twisted with fury, “a fact with which I trust Archie Kennedy would agree… were he still amongst us.” He abruptly swung away, and stalked stiffly back to his cabin.
Bush, shocked and dismayed, stared after Hornblower’s retreating form. He knew the importance of posting a sufficient guard far better than most. He was reminded daily of the disaster aboard Renown by the scars he would forever carry on his body-and bear within. The responsibility for guarding the prisoners had not been his; he had set what ought to have been an adequate guard, and was, in fact, offwatch when Renown was taken. He had been the first to raise the alarm and had defended his ship to the limits of his strength. But to have still somehow earned such distrust and contempt from the captain he had come to respect so deeply was appalling. He had always performed to the best of his ability, and had never before given a superior officer cause to deride him.
Bush scowled darkly, angered by Hornblower’s accusations. And hurt, as well, to have a man he considered as something of a friend turn on him so suddenly, almost viciously. Why in God’s name had he promised Kennedy that he would look after the man? If he had never done so, it would have been a simple thing to detach himself emotionally, and do his duty. That was all that was required of him, and it had always sufficed in the past. Kennedy was gone, and Hornblower knew nothing of the promise. No one did. He need not honour it further. He had fulfilled his vow: he had offered friendship, and loyalty…and received none in return. So…it was finished. He paced the quarterdeck, trying to dismiss it from his mind.
But that damned promise haunted him.
* * *
Much to his relief, Bush was able to escape further exposure to Hornblower’s sudden and inexplicable wrath; he had been ordered to the prize to ‘evaluate and direct necessary repairs’. He gratefully left Hotspur behind, and spent the balance of the day assuring himself that the corvette was indeed sound and ready for sea. She had in fact suffered little substantial damage, save for a few holes above the waterline and easily repairable disorder aloft. Attending to that, and the prospect of bringing in a prize was sufficient to distract him, albeit temporarily, from the contemplation of his captain’s perplexing behaviour.
It was full dark when all had been completed to his satisfaction. As he was being rowed back to Hotspur, he began to worry once more about what he would find when he delivered his report.
Hornblower had been pacing his cabin, reviewing what little knowledge he had gleaned, turning it over and over in his mind, desperately seeking a workable plan. A glimmer of an idea had begun to take shape, though he was well aware that it would be a miracle if it actually worked.
A knock at the screen door interrupted his train of thought. He stifled an exasperated groan. “Yes, yes…what is it?”
“Bush, sir. Reporting on Fidelite, as ordered, sir.”
Hornblower sighed heavily, and sat down at his cluttered desk. “Enter.”
Bush stepped warily into the cabin, as though uncertain of what awaited him there. The guarded, wooden expression on the man’s face was uncharacteristic, yet Hornblower found it somehow eerily familiar.
Bush stood stiffly before him, his blue eyes fixed on a point somewhere over his captain’s left shoulder. “Fidelite has been adequately repaired, sir. I have detailed a prize crew aboard her; I have also assigned a carpenter’s mate, in the event that additional repairs become necessary. She is in all respects ready to proceed, sir.” His voice was flat, formal, devoid of any emotion.
“Excellent, Mr. Bush,” Hornblower said brusquely. “Signal her to remain in close formation with us, for the moment. That will be all, Mr. Bush.” He returned his attention to the papers scattered before him, relieved to sever their contact.
To Hornblower’s great annoyance, Bush remained standing at the desk; clearly there was something on his mind.
He dragged his eyes from the papers. “Is there something more, Mr. Bush?”
“May I speak, sir?” Bush turned his hat over in his hands, studying it as though he had never seen it before.
Hornblower sighed again. Dear God; what was it now, he thought crossly. He desperately wanted only to be left alone…to think. “Get on with it, Mr. Bush.”
Bush looked up, caught and steadfastly held Hornblower’s gaze. “Did my conduct during the taking of Fidelite displease you in some fashion?”
“No, it did not.” Hornblower glared at him coldly. “Now, for God’s sake, Mr. Bush, leave me. There is much to do, and I suggest you waste no more of my time-or of your own. You are dismissed.”
“Aye, sir” Bush said formally, and wasted no one’s time in leaving the cabin.
Hornblower felt a moment’s regret at his callous treatment of Bush. He deserved none of it; certainly had no cause to doubt his conduct. Damn, he thought angrily: another outburst of womanish sentiment. I am his superior officer, and there’s an end to it. Nothing more. He shall become accustomed to it in short order-he must.
He bent over his papers once more, but abruptly sagged back into his chair, sickened. He had at last recalled why Bush’s guarded, wary expression seemed familiar. He had indeed seen it before: Bush had looked much the same in another stern cabin, reporting to another captain… aboard Renown.
Bush left the cabin still smarting from Hornblower’s unwarranted anger, and chafing against the inability to respond in kind. He stood silently on the maindeck, allowing the night breeze to cool his flaring temper. He had needed to make an appearance on deck, in any case. Whitton officially had the watch, though Bush always made his presence known, to imply that he was available if the need arose. He knew the young man was still apprehensive about standing watch alone, but it was high time he learned to accept the responsibility. Just not quite all of it…not yet.
Even as a midshipman himself, Bush always particularly enjoyed the night watch: sailing the ship by feel, and sound, and intuition. And, on quiet nights like these, it provided rare moments for solitude and reflection. He paced up and down the weather side, his steps keeping time with his thoughts.
He had never before experienced the sort of camaraderie that had formed among the three lieutenants aboard Renown. He had always gotten on well enough with his fellow officers, but this had been different. He fully comprehended that the bond had been strongest between Hornblower and Kennedy, and he had been included more or less by default-he smiled wryly at the thought-but he had, indeed, been included. He could manage full well without it; yet he found, to his astonishment, that he regretted its loss.
He had come aboard Hotspur not knowing what to expect, and had been secretly delighted to find that at least some vestige of that comradeship remained. Hornblower was his captain, no doubt, but they had that shared history and, he had thought, mutual respect.
But, he considered, this Hornblower of today is a changed man, cold and angry. Ever since the taking of Fidelite, though the captain denied finding fault with his conduct. So what was it, then? That morning was admittedly something of a blur, though he could clearly recall Hornblower’s stricken face…what had he said? “My God, William…where are you hurt?” William? That was something new. Bush, or Mr. Bush…but William? Never. Though Kennedy had used his given name, once or twice. Kennedy…
A sudden thought struck him, stopping him in his tracks. “Matthews?” he called softly.
A voice came from somewhere near the dim binnacle lantern. “Aye, sir?”
Bush wandered over to join him. “Were you there, when Mr. Kennedy was wounded?”
Matthews eyed him curiously. “Aye, sir, I was. Not when ‘e was wounded, exactly, but when Mr. ‘ornblower discovered it.”
“Mr. Hornblower? I did not know that, as I was somewhat,” he smiled ruefully, “distracted at the time.” Distracted indeed-the searing pain, blood soaking his uniform-and afraid to look.
“Oh, aye, ‘twas, sir. Mr. Kennedy, bless ‘im, was just sittin’ there, tryin’ to act like nothin’ was wrong. It was Mr. ‘ornblower who opened ‘is uniform, and found all ‘at blood…” his voice trailed off, as though he were reliving the moment.
“Thank you, Mr. Matthews. Carry on.”
Bush resumed his pacing, hands locked behind him. The resentment he had felt at bearing the brunt of Hornblower’s anger had evaporated entirely. So that explains it, he mused. Kennedy’s loss was still too painful…and the prospect of a repetition of it-however diminished-was simply too much. Having once been thus burned, Hornblower was understandably twice shy. Given that, any further friendship with this man would be unlikely; Hornblower would doubtless never again allow it. Still, his own promise to Kennedy remained; and he was, like it or not, a man of his word. Bush looked up into the starlit sky. So be it, then, he decided. He took a final turn round the deck, assuring himself that Whitton had things well in hand, and went below.
* * * *
Bush mounted the quarterdeck ladder with far less trepidation than he would have expected. Perhaps knowing the cause of Hornblower’s icy rejection-and he was correct, he was certain of it-made it easier to bear. He strode confidently to his captain’s side, and nodded briefly. “Good morning, sir.”
Hornblower did not turn to look at him, though he returned the nod. “Mr. Bush.” His eyes remained firmly locked on the prize. “Go to the orlop, Mr. Bush. Report on the state of our wounded.”
Bush studied Hornblower closely. He ought to have gone himself, by rights. The men suffering there more than deserved the comfort of their captain’s concern. He thought of his own experience in Renown’s sick berth; what he could recall through the red haze of pain and fever that had enveloped him throughout the mad dash to Kingston. Hornblower had for the most part avoided the surgeon’s cockpit even though Kennedy was lying there, mortally wounded. No… Bush reconsidered, recalling the previous night’s insight, … because Kennedy was lying there. Then, he must have found it difficult to face. Now, after Kennedy’s death, merely stepping into the sick berth would be well-nigh impossible. It was suddenly painfully obvious to Bush that Hornblower still felt Kennedy’s loss like a fresh wound; the thought profoundly saddened him.
Hornblower looked up, impatient with Bush’s delay. God. Bush was doing it again. The look on his face and in his eyes would have been entirely fitting…on a spaniel. It was, however, utterly infuriating when seen on the face of one’s first officer. Hornblower felt his irritation rise uncontrollably. “See to it, Mr. Bush!” he snapped, and turned away.
* * * *
Hotspur and her prize sailed on, following a course that, according to Hornblower’s careful calculations, would place them at the rendezvous with Thesee at nearly the expected date, if their luck-and the wind-held steady. Hornblower paced his cabin, consumed with dread: knowing that he would soon present his plan-if it could indeed be dignified by such a word-to his officers. He was certain that they could easily expose its many flaws, any one of which could prove deadly.
As his officers filed in, Hornblower searched their faces for some indication of skepticism, or doubt in his ability. To his relief, the master and senior master’s mate merely appeared curious, expectant. The midshipmen wore their usual expressions of ebullient exuberance; though that was based, Hornblower thought sardonically, primarily on inexperience rather than ability. And Bush revealed nothing at all.
Hornblower’s cabin-servant provided each officer with a filled glass as they took their seats at his small table. They looked up at him, inquiringly, as if wondering why the taking of a prize required this hasty assembly.
Hornblower could justify no further delays; he took a deep breath, and began. “Gentlemen. We have taken a valuable prize.”
His warrant officers grinned; the midshipmen elbowed each other. All thinking, no doubt, of the prize money in store, not to mention the notice in the Gazette.
Hornblower, watching them, hated to puncture their high spirits; knew that he must. “Fidelite does indeed carry rich stores of powder, and shot…but she carries an even more valuable cargo.”
Expectant faces peered up at him. It was as though he could hear their thoughts…hidden French gold? What else could it be?
“Information, gentlemen. Information.”
The faces were puzzled, now.
“Documents found in Fidelite’s cabin have informed me that she was intended to rendezvous with a third-rate, Thesee, some four days from now. Thesee herself is en route to join a French squadron. This squadron has lost its admiral; Thesee has a replacement aboard, as well as fresh orders. Fidelite was carrying additional orders to be relayed to this squadron. We know neither the location of the squadron, nor do we know its purpose. Nonetheless, we do know that Thesee cannot be permitted to deliver those orders, nor can we allow the admiral to join his squadron.” Hornblower eyed them intently, willing them to understand.
Hotspur’s officers were silent momentarily, as they digested the implications of Hornblower’s words. They gaped at him, stunned, as they began to comprehend the enormity of the task set before them. Cargill momentarily forgot himself, and lost all decorum. “Us? Attack a 74? But Sir, with all due respect…it would be lunacy!”
Hornblower chose to ignore the lapse. “It must be done.” He waved a hand toward the empty sea, visible through the stern windows. “And we must do it…there is no one else.”
“Now, men…this is what I intend. Mr. Bush will command the Fidelite, while we follow as his prize.” He placed the palms of his hands flat on the table and leaned toward his officers, his face lit with excitement. “Thesee will, after all, be expecting her, though not with a prize in tow. We shall have the element of surprise in our favour-I can think of no reason why they would doubt our…” he smiled slightly “…fidelity.”
“We will signal Thesee to heave to, to receive our despatches. And then…” Hornblower watched his officers’ faces as he outlined his plan. Disbelief gave way to understanding …and perhaps even a glimmer of hope.
It made him feel faintly ill. He had taken their doubts, and turned them to confidence. What right had he to do such a thing? Their misgivings were sensible, logical-and might even have saved their lives, kept them from pursuing what he knew was to be an almost certain, and no doubt pointless, death.
His officers mistook his abrupt quiet for a signal that the meeting was ended. Whitton, as the youngest present, leapt to his feet, quavering “Gentlemen…the King!” The reply was as thunderous as it was predictable. “And death to the French!” They drained their glasses and filed out of the cabin, suddenly buoyed by hope…and more than a bit of Hotspur’s rough red wine.
Bush hung back; he clearly wanted to speak privately, despite the grave risk of once again arousing Hornblower’s ire. He waited until the cabin door swung shut, then said, bluntly, “We have little chance, sir, in a fair fight.” His gaze was frank and steady. He was not speaking out of fear…merely from experience.
Hornblower smiled grimly. “Yes, Mr. Bush, I am well aware of that. But we have something the French do not-British audacity, and guile. That may prove to be the more potent weapon, after all.”
* * * * *
The days passed, with the master anxiously plotting their course to the expected point of rendezvous, the lookouts scanning the horizon for any hint of a ship. Much to the hands’ perplexity, Hornblower had ordered the swivel guns from both ships to be dismounted, and hoisted up to the fighting tops to be remounted there.
Hornblower paced restlessly about the deck, anxiously reviewing his plans. He watched as Bush emerged from the lower decks, and approached the quarterdeck ladder. He felt somehow reassured, watching him. Steady, dependable…a man whom he could indeed entrust with his life. And would, soon enough.
He would have to put the prize in Bush’s hands, though he would have preferred him by his side during the coming battle. No, he chided himself harshly. No more sentiment. He had most certainly learned the perils of sentiment far too well. Bush was a capable first officer, nothing more. Prowse could handle the prize well enough, under normal circumstances, but his ability for independent action was unknown. Bush did indeed lack imagination, at times, but his courage was never in doubt.
Bush joined him; touched his hat, and said, formally “All prepared, sir.” His blue eyes were calm, and the color of the sea beyond.
Hornblower found he could not meet them. Instead, he nodded curtly, and swung away. “Very well. Pick your hands, Mr. Bush. You’ll need a reliable man as mate.”
Bush sensed the distance in Hornblower’s tone; this time, he understood it, and matched it. “I shall need half the gun crews, and one of the master’s mates…and Styles, Captain. I can trust him to pick the balance of the hands. I would take Mr. Whitton as well, sir, if I may.”
“Agreed, Mr. Bush. Carry on.”
“Aye, sir.” Bush touched his hat again, and left him.
From the quarterdeck, Hornblower surveyed the orderly bustle of last minute preparations. The men moved purposefully, confidently, as though undaunted by the impossibility of the task that awaited them. Though God only knew what they were thinking.
Bush re-emerged on the maindeck; Hornblower descended the quarterdeck ladder to meet him at the entry port. A boat was being lowered; any final instructions must be relayed now…or never.
Styles approached, followed by a knot of seamen. He knuckled his forehead. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’n…” he turned to the first lieutenant. “Got ‘em, Mr. Bush. They ‘r all…” he looked them over, a wicked gleam in his eye, “…um, volunteers, sir. Like me.”
Bush regarded him with narrowed eyes, trying to conceal his amusement. “H’m. A volunteer, were you? I would wager it was a choice between the Navy or the noose for you: was it not, Styles?”
Styles eyed him with mock anger, fighting back a grin of his own. “Oh aye, sir, ‘twas; but there was too many orficers in line fer th’ noose.”
“Watch yourself, Styles…” Bush growled, though Styles could readily see the smile in his eyes.
Styles had initially loathed Bush, seeing him as the worst of His Majesty’s puffed-up, self-important toadies. One more cruel and unfeeling uniform, caring little for the likes of him. That opinion had softened to a grudging respect and, God help him, affection. He had been shocked at the intense, visceral reaction deep within him when he had found Bush drenched in his own blood, seemingly near death on the deck of Renown.
That, of course, was before anyone had known about Mr. Kennedy…
Styles studied Bush now, as he and the Captain spoke quietly, making final confirmation of their plans. He was suddenly pleased…no, proud, to have been Bush’s choice.
Bush turned back to him and smiled, almost imperceptibly. “Well then, Styles, take your volunteers…it is time we were away.”
Hornblower extended his hand to Bush, who shook it formally. “Good luck, Mr. Bush.”
Bush, equally expressionless, replied “Thank you, sir. And to you as well.” He replaced his hat, and was gone.
* * * * *
Bush stepped aboard the prize, surveying it critically. Guns to be prepared, watches to be set…there was much to do, and damn little time in which to do it. It had begun to rain lightly; as he looked up at the sky, his professional eye gauging the run of the clouds, the flapping tricolour caught his gaze. He grimaced, and looked beyond it to Hotspur, following humbly behind, flying the tricolour over her own lowered ensign. The very sight produced a shudder. God forbid, he thought grimly.
Whitton hurried across the quarterdeck, a paper flapping damply in his hand. “Their signals list. Captain Hornblower helped me translate it, sir…” He smiled shyly. “Er,…Captain.”
Bush stood with hands on hips, eyes slitted against the rain and spray, studying the set of the sails. “Aye, Mr. Whitton…my first command.” He looked down at the young midshipman with a half-smile. “Though I little thought I would need to become a Frenchman to gain it.”
The expected day of rendezvous arrived, and with it, a new challenge. The threatened storm had hit in force the night before. They were running with the wind, Hotspur and Fidelite battling gamely through the heavy sea, though both ships and their men were feeling its punishment. During the night, Hornblower had located Prowse, barely identifiable through the driving rain and spray. As he approached, Prowse turned to him, drenched despite his tarpaulin coat, water streaming from his hat. He dashed the water from his face, though the gesture was entirely futile. “Damn this weather!” He had to shout to be heard above the screaming wind.
Hornblower could only stare; at times, others’ lack of imagination was astounding. “On the contrary, Mr. Prowse! If it holds, it may make all the difference!” He touched his arm. “We shall see.”
The gale had blown itself out during the night, though the sky remained dark and threatening: it lowered ominously over still-heavy seas. Hotspur’s sodden lookout, clinging wretchedly to his perch, was abruptly roused from his misery by a flash of white barely glimpsed through a far distant bank of rolling mist. He fumbled for the telescope, and began to search the horizon. At first he could see only sea-mist and sullen grey clouds; though as he studied it carefully, a stray gust of wind briefly parted the haze allowing him to catch another glimmer of white. He grinned to himself. Bloody Frogs, he thought. Spend their time bottled up in harbour, an’ their sails stay nice an’ white. An’ easier for us t’ find.
He lowered his telescope, and bellowed. “Deck there! ‘ere she is, sir! Two points t’starb’d!”
Hornblower had been pacing the quarterdeck, all the while torturing himself with doubts and second thoughts. Perhaps this was all a fool’s errand. They would be seen for what they were within moments, and promptly sent to the bottom. The effect of the 74’s great broadside on his two ships’ frail hulls did not even bear thinking about.
The lookout’s call jerked his thoughts back to more immediate and practical matters. He focused his telescope on the cloudy horizon, and eventually located the French vessel. She was beating laboriously upwind…but something nagged at the edge of his thoughts. As he studied her, he realized that her outline was all wrong. It appeared that she had lost her fore and main topmasts in the previous night’s gale, and had not yet replaced them. A proper British captain would have sent his men aloft to make repairs in any weather-and proper British seamen would have done so, without question or complaint. Her lack of topmasts-and their attendant sails-caused her to roll steeply in the heavy sea. The very sight caused Hornblower’s stomach to lurch uncomfortably, though the French captain must have preferred seasickness to carrying out repairs in dirty weather.
Hornblower gratefully allowed the image of the pitching ship to fall away, and turned his glass on Fidelite. He easily found Bush at the rail, studying the drunkenly rolling Thesee through his own glass. We shall see just how intuitive this man really is, he thought grimly. He took a soggy scrap of paper from his pocket, and scribbled a few letters on it.
He passed the paper to the signals midshipman. “Hoist them now, but lower as soon as they are read.” Thesee was still too far off for any lookout to recognize the flags as British, but there was no reason to take unnecessary chances. The midshipman scurried off, rapidly pawed thorough the signals locker, and bent on several flags. As they soared upward, Hornblower studied Bush through his glass. He watched as Bush turned to speak to Whitton, who promptly raised one of his own.
‘Acknowledged’. Oh God, let us hope so.
* * * *
“Mr. Whitton, keep the French signals list with you…be prepared to hoist on my command.”
Bush strode slowly along the deck, speaking to the men at the guns, knowing that for some, this day would surely be their last. He knew it, and they knew it. He had explained the plan of attack to them…he was convinced they understood, though he was far less certain of their confidence in its potential for success. To their credit, they gave no sign of misgivings. He forced a smile. “Remember that French frigate, men, when we were on blockade? How it galled me to give them passing honours, rather than a broadside.”
Several of the men chuckled softly. One of the gun captains grinned up at him. “Don’ ye worry on’t, sir…we’ll show ‘em a proper British salute this mornin’!”
Bush marveled at their quiet courage and acceptance, and felt humbled, unworthy of it. He smiled again, ignoring the lump in his throat, and nodded. “You will indeed, men. Now, however, you must do your best to resemble Frenchmen.”
The men moved away from their guns, and rapidly busied themselves with maintaining the appearance of normal ship’s routine. Bush allowed himself a flicker of cautious optimism. He had immediately noted that Thesee’s gunports were completely awash as she wallowed in the heavy sea; he had thought, with considerable satisfaction, that at least the lower battery would be forced to remain silent, halving the danger. It had taken Hornblower’s hasty signal to awaken the realization that the closed gunport lids represented Thesee’s achilles’ heel. Fidelite and Hotspur sat far too low in the water to bring their guns to bear on the 74’s maindeck; and their nine-pound popguns had no hope of penetrating Thesee’s stout timbers, even at close range-but the far less substantial port lids would be exceedingly vulnerable.
He had explained this to his men…and they believed him. Trusted him. Good God, he thought.
But would any of them see another day? Would he set foot aboard Hotspur once more? He was unafraid, yet could not readily dismiss his stiffly formal departure from his thoughts. Hornblower was so aloof, so rigid; they might have been strangers. Kennedy would have grinned, and quoted Shakespeare, no doubt. He surprised himself by recalling something he had read to Kennedy, there in the prison hospital…anything to keep the boy’s mind from dwelling on his pain…or on Hornblower’s. Yes, the Kennedy he remembered might well have smiled through his fears, and quoted “Sound all the lofty instruments of war, And by that music let us all embrace; For, heaven to earth, some of us never shall A second time do such a courtesy.” He smiled slightly, and shook his head in wonder. Kennedy would have never believed it…William Bush quoting from Henry IV. The smile froze on his lips, as the hair rose on the back of his neck…as he recalled the speaker. Hotspur. There had been no second time, for him.
Bush forced those unwelcome…and most uncharacteristic…thoughts from his mind. More immediate and urgent matters would require his attention, and soon. There would be time enough for idle contemplation later…with luck.
“Mr Whitton, run up their signal for “Heave to, have urgent…repeat urgent… despatches for admiral.” Whitton consulted the list of private signals recovered from Fidelite’s cabin, and hoisted what he hoped were the appropriate flags. Bush saw the 74 shorten sail…to his astonishment, their ruse appeared to be working. Bush stood at the rail, speaking trumpet in hand, as though preparing to hail. He was hatless, his tarpaulin coat concealing his uniform…indistinguishable from any French officer.
Thesee lay hove to, awaiting them. As Fidelite slowly worked alongside her, Bush studied her carefully. Even with sails aback, she still rolled dramatically in the heavy sea, her lower gunports frequently awash. He was gratified to see that they had not gone to quarters; all activity on deck was seemingly focused on welcoming the arrival of one of their own.
He bellowed something unintelligible through the trumpet, then gestured to his men, who busily began to rig a line from Fidelite to Thesee. The seas were far too heavy to risk lowering a boat; swaying the despatches over on a line would be the expected course of action. Still, it was a tricky operation…and the preparations were sufficiently intricate to keep Thesee’s officers preoccupied. Perhaps so much so that Hotspur’s maneuvering alongside would not arouse undue suspicion. His men were clearly enjoying themselves, despite the imminent danger-they worked clumsily, at a snail’s pace, as though having thumbs instead of fingers.
Bush could see Hotspur working her way into position on the larb’d side of Thesee, though the 74’s officers were far too distracted to take notice of her. God willing, he could keep them so. He stared up at the faces peering down at him from the quarterdeck rail. One shouted at him angrily, impatient at the delay and at the incompetence of the corvette’s crew. Bush grinned foolishly up at them, spread his hands, and shrugged theatrically.
A new face joined the furious officers…a sour-looking man in an admiral’s uniform looked down at him with distaste. At last, thought Bush. Still feigning the inane grin, he turned to Whitton. “Run up our proper flag…I’ll be a Frenchman no longer! And Whitton…nail it up.” With that simple gesture, he assured his men that they would never surrender-if their flag fell, it would not be a British hand that struck it. As Fidelite’s ensign soared aloft, Bush watched stunned realization begin to dawn on the faces of the French officers-but only momentarily.
For at that signal, the men in the maintops of both ships threw back the canvas that concealed them and opened fire, sweeping the French quarterdeck not far below them. The murderous hail of grape from the swivels turned the once dignified, orderly quarterdeck into a horror-a charnal-house of tangled, writhing men, gasping and dying in a sea of their own blood. The gunners jeered wildly, hurling epithets along with their shot, half-drunk with the success of their onslaught. They fired, and fired, and fired again…long after all the torn bodies were still.
Later their minds would shrink from the contemplation of what they had done. Officers, men like themselves, cut down unmercifully without warning, with no chance at all for their own defense. At the time, though, the pitiless butchery of those officers was the price of their only chance at life, and thus paid without second thought.
The gun crews dropped all pretense and scrambled to take up their positions. “Fire as your guns bear!” Bush shouted, and stared in awe as Thesee’s gunport lids splintered under the strength of the double-shotted nine-pounders.
Hornblower, aboard Hotspur, could barely hear the reports of Fidelite’s guns above his own. He watched with satisfaction as each of the lower gunports erupted, sending clouds of murderous splinters inboard. His gunners continued to pour shot after shot through the now-open ports, joined now by carronade fire. The ‘smasher’ was surely living up to its nickname-some of the lower ports were now great yawning holes, through which the sea was relentlessly surging. He could only imagine the chaos aboard: officers lying dead on the shattered quarterdeck, unable to direct their men, no-one at quarters, nothing struck below…thus every shot that penetrated Thesee’s foundering hull was doubtless shattering moveable bulkheads, furniture, and the like, transforming them into deadly flying daggers. And, as near as he could tell, this madness was descending from both sides at once.
As Hotspur slid slowly past Thesee’s side, Hornblower was gratified to note that none of Thesee’s upper gunports had been opened, and no guns were run out. His marines in the maintops were maintaining a steady rate of fire on the upper gundeck, and no doubt cutting down any hastily mustered crews that attempted to do so. He smiled grimly. Regardless of the outcome, they had struck once, with authority. Against all odds, his two insignificant vessels had accomplished their seemingly preposterous mission. The French squadron had been deprived of its admiral, orders, and a third-rate. It would take time to recover from those losses. Time enough, perhaps, for the squadron itself to be located, and destroyed.
They had pulled ahead of the stricken Thesee when Hornblower heard a report from astern; Hotspur’s deck shuddered under his feet. Some brave soul had managed to get Thesee’s bow-chaser into action, and had struck Hotspur’s stern. Too little, too late, he thought.
A sudden shout from the helmsman quickly turned his satisfaction to alarm. “Sir…she don’t answer!” The wheel spun uselessly, as if to confirm his words.
Silently, Hornblower cursed himself for his premature confidence. “Mr. Cargill! Get the carpenter; I want helm restored! Now!” he barked.
As Fidelite also overreached Thesee, Bush saw with alarm that Hotspur was drifting, clearly no longer under control: her topsails flapped and banged in confusion. Bush could see a party of men hurrying to repair the rudder yoke lines. But that would take time, precious time which Hotspur did not have. Already the 74 had begun to ponderously maneuver round. Thesee was low in the water, clearly doomed; the sea rushing in through her splintered lower gunports had seen to that. But she was still as deadly: one well-placed broadside from those great guns would be more than enough.
His alarm turned to anger. Damned if he would allow Hornblower’s ‘life well lived’ to end here, or to be spent mouldering in some filthy French prison. He had promised…but, he realized, it was far more than that. His loyalty was not to the promise; it was to the man.
But there was little else he could do but watch, helplessly. Unless… An idea occurred to him. Wild, yes…but it just might work. “Pass the word to the helmsman: prepare to put the helm hard over to larb’d, on my command”.
Whitton stared at him, wide-eyed. “But Mr. Bush, sir. We will surely ram her!”
Bush smiled tightly. “I should damn well hope so.” He glanced around the lithe vessel’s deck. Such a pity to lose her. “Run out the starb’d guns, as though we plan to come round and rake her stern. Then, Mr. Whitton…you will lower the boats to larb’d and make ready to get your people off. You will have little time: we will have the wind behind us, so we should strike her with considerable force. Have the swimmers among you jump if they must. Hotspur will pick you up,” he hesitated slightly, “…after.”
“And you, sir?” Whitton ventured.
“I will fire the magazine when we collide. With luck, we will take her…and her bloody admiral… with us to the bottom.”
“But sir… you will not…” Whitton faltered, then drew himself to attention. Lifted his chin, and looked Bush steadily in the eye. “Aye, aye, sir.”
Bush watched the boy as he moved quickly amongst the gun crews, explaining what was to be expected of them. Whitton spoke to the men-some two or three times his age-with respect, yet there was no uncertainty in his tone. He would be obeyed. The proper mix of respect and authority, it was: Bush had discovered long ago that it was a thing that could not be taught. Either one learned it instinctively or never learned at all. This boy understood. Boy? Bush shook his head. If the lad survived this day, he would be a boy no longer.
Styles appeared, as if by magic, at his side. “By yer leave, sir…I’ll stay wi’ ye. Th’ lad’s right…ye’ll need ‘nother hand. “Besides…” Styles looked at him, his battered face all innocence…or as close to it as he could muster whilst lying through his teeth, “I…I …kin swim.”
Bush nodded, and calmly watched as they closed the distance to the 74; she was mortally wounded, yet lethal, and must not be allowed to deliver her final strike. This was the moment; there would be no turning back. “Helm!” he roared. “Hard t’ larb’d…NOW!”
Bush felt the corvette swing nimbly round, answering the helm like a highly trained steed, and for the first time in his life, silently blessed the French shipwrights who had built her. English ships, it was said, were ‘built by the mile and cut off as needed’. He smiled wryly. And they frequently handled as such.
With the wind at her back, the corvette’s sails filled to capacity; Bush could hear the groans of the rigging, straining in response. She quickly picked up speed: the distance between the vessels narrowed alarmingly. There was a sudden lurch as the corvette’s bowsprit buried itself in Thesee’s side. The wind continued to force them ever deeper: Bush could hear the sickening sound of snapping timbers. Some of the cracking was coming from aloft; the corvette’s masts would come crashing down in a wild confusion of spars and rigging at any moment. He spun round. “Get ‘em off, Mr. Whitton! Now!” he bellowed. Without waiting for a reply, Bush disappeared through the hatch.
* * * *
Hornblower watched Thesee inexorably bearing down on them; they were unable to escape her wrath. He turned furiously to the helmsman, who shook his head sadly. “Nothin’ yet, sir.”
“God damn them…what are they doing? Do they think we have all day? Mr. Cargill!” he roared. “Can you shift a carronade to bring it to bear? Take what men you need-and get it done! Now!” He knew it would not be enough…but he would not simply stand here and wait.
Hornblower could no longer see Fidelite, concealed as she was by Thesee, whose side was beginning to loom over Hotspur like a great cliff. He could hear no more reports from Fidelite’s nine-pounders. What had happened to her? Would this be the end, for all of them? He pounded his fist into his palm with frustration. If he only knew… Suddenly a great wall of flame and smoke erupted from the far side of the 74, followed by a hot wind and a deafening roar that seemed to roll on and on over Hornblower and his stunned, stricken men. Thesee staggered heavily, as though she had grounded upon a reef.
As the thunder subsided, Hornblower cautiously picked himself up from the deck where he had been tossed like a rag doll, and gazed with stunned awe at the scene before him. Of the corvette there was little sign, save for her boats, filled to capacity…and the fragments of still smoldering debris floating dispiritedly on the surface. But her loss had not been in vain. Thesee was listing perilously, a great gaping rent in her hull, only partly visible above the angry wavecrests. The sea was rushing madly through it, and through her splintered lower gunports. Her sails were alight and burning fiercely. Men ran frantically about her slanted deck as it settled ever lower, some leaping into the sea. Few could swim, though drowning was infinitely preferable to the death that awaited them in the flames.
For a long while, there was only silence aboard Hotspur. Slowly the men began to recover their senses, though few could tear their eyes away from the dreadful sight for long. There was a sudden flurry of activity at Hotspur’s entry port: Fidelite’s boats were hooking up to the chains and dripping, grateful seamen were being helped inboard to a chorus of cheers. Midshipman Whitton came aft, shivering, yet single-mindedly seeking his captain.
“Report, Mr. Whitton,” Hornblower demanded briskly, while trying vainly to convince himself that the boy’s miserable countenance was due to cold, and shock, and not…something else.
“Captain, sir…” Whitton blurted, then took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and began again. “Captain. We carried out the initial attack as planned; as predicted, the grape from the swivels took a heavy toll on the enemy quarterdeck. Our gun crews are to be commended; they kept their heads and maintained a steady rate of fire. Double shotted, the balls did indeed penetrate the gunport lids, preventing return fire, and Thesee to begin to founder. After pulling ahead of Thesee, Lt Bush observed that Hotspur’s steering had gone. It was then that he decided to ram her, and ignite the powder after impact. He instructed me to supervise the evacuation of the crew, which I carried out.”
Hornblower nodded: the lad had done well. “Very good. And what of Lt. Bush, Mr. Whitton?”
At Hornblower’s words, the boy’s composure evaporated as though it had never been. “Sir…oh, sir…he went below…lit the powder… I looked and looked, in the water…but I think he’s…he’s…he’s gone, sir.” Tears streaked his face: for that moment, he was no longer a capable officer, only a terrified boy. “He knew, sir. Knew he would not…” the boy fell silent, unable to speak the words.
Hornblower gripped his hands tightly behind his back. “I expected nothing less from him. It is the duty of every King’s officer to give his life freely when necessary. I would have hoped you had learned that lesson before now, Mr. Whitton.”
“But…but sir…” The boy’s words ended in something very like a sob.
Hornblower turned violently toward him, his eyes dangerously cold. “Attend to your duties, Mr. Whitton. At once, or you shall…” he faltered. “NOW.” Whitton nodded, scrubbed a grimy hand across his eyes, and fled.
Hornblower turned away, looking out over the bleak sea. The unspoken words-Bush’s words-still hung in the air. ‘…or you shall renew your acquaintance with the gunner’s daughter…’
Why would anyone choose this life? he wondered. Death, and loss; such constant companions, their spectres always at one’s elbow. One of the few things, in Navy life, that could be relied upon. He had not chosen it; rather, it had been thrust upon him. For Bush, though, there had never been anything else.
He had talked about it with Bush, once, when they were on blockade, marveling at the man’s enviable coolness under fire, his apparent lack of fear. Bush had confided to him then that he did not fear death in battle; on the contrary, he fully expected it. Was always astonished to find himself alive, after the smoke had cleared. His sole concern was that it would be a quick death; to not spend his last moments on this earth unmanned, screaming under the teeth of the surgeon’s saw. He wished only to have served his country well, and to have died honourably, with purpose.
Hornblower sighed heavily. That he had. At least Bush would get the recognition he deserved, though that would be precious little comfort to his family. It had been a wise thing to distance himself from Bush when he had, he thought. Perhaps it would not hurt so much, this time. He winced: he had never been skilled in the art of self-deception.
Someone’s shout penetrated his dismal reverie. “Captain! Captain!”
Matthews was hastily reopening the entry port. He yelled over his shoulder, face tight with concern. “Get a bowline down ‘ere-now!”
Hornblower walked slowly to the side, not daring to hope, and looked down to find Styles balancing precariously on a section of wreckage while fitting the line around a dazed-looking Bush. Bush awkwardly wrapped an arm around the rope, and was hauled unceremoniously inboard. Styles followed close behind, and helped him regain his feet; though Bush still leaned slightly on the burly seaman for support.
Hornblower dispassionately examined his first lieutenant. Dripping, his uniform-what remained of it-hung in scorched tatters. Bush dabbed with his forearm at the blood and seawater that ran freely from somewhere near his hairline; as he did so, Hornblower noted that his hand was blackened and badly blistered. A quick glance told him that the other was much the same. “You are well, I trust, Mr. Bush?”
Bush straightened to an admirable semblance of attention. “Well enough, sir.”
“Very good, Mr. Bush.” Hornblower eyed the man with all the sternness he could muster. “Go below to the surgeon; I do not require you at the moment.”
“Aye, sir.” Bush turned, and walked unsteadily toward the hatchway.
Hornblower watched him go. “Tell me, Styles…what happened over there?”
Styles grimaced. “ ‘E planned to blow ‘er sky-high, sir, an’ take the Frenchie wi’ ‘im. ‘E ordered me off, sir, wi’ the rest. But I…I couldn’t leave ‘im. Dyin’ alone, sir…’tain’t right.”
The man’s eyes were full of emotion…could it be compassion? Hornblower wondered. In any case, this was a far cry from the violent, hardened jack-tar he had found aboard Justinian, a lifetime ago.
“Anyways, sir, I ‘elped ‘im set some fuses.” Styles grinned wearily; it made the big scarred man look oddly vulnerable. “Guess we cut ‘em too short. Th’ trigger charge went off in Mr. Bush’s ‘ands, an’ th’ whole dam’ thing blew afore we got through th’ ‘atch. Blew us right overboard, it did. I dragged Mr. Bush onto a bit of planking…an’ th’ rest y’know, sir.”
“Well done, Styles.” Hornblower nodded, and permitted himself a small smile. “I thank you for your service. I shall see that you receive a mention in my report.”
* * * *
Lt. William Bush stood formally before his captain’s desk, impassively delivering his report documenting the events aboard Fidelite prior to her destruction. Released by the surgeon, he had reported to the cabin as though for Sunday divisions: clean and shaved, in a fresh uniform, his hat tucked neatly under his arm…only the plaster covering a deep cut on his temple and the bandages on his seared hands betrayed the closeness of death only hours before.
“…and that is all, sir, except for my intent to commend my entire crew, particularly Mr. Whitton and bosun’s mate Styles, for their courage today.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bush…you are dismissed.” Hornblower bent once again over his official report. Bush took a few steps toward the cabin door but hesitated, one bandaged hand on the latch, and turned back.
“I regret, Captain, that your prize was lost.”
Hornblower did not raise his eyes from the papers. “Yes, yes, Mr. Bush…unfortunate, but it could not be helped.” An audible note of exasperation crept into his voice. “You are dismissed, Mr. Bush.”
He heard the cabin door close; only then did he allow himself to look up. He studied the closed door, his face grave. Thought of Bush and his near-sacrifice, so willingly offered…so very like another’s. “No, Mr. Bush…you are wrong, this time.” he said quietly. “Not all prizes were lost, and…I am glad of it.”
For a long moment he contemplated the prospect of rising, flinging the door open, and calling Bush back. Closing the distance.
But the time for that was past. He returned to his report, though this time with a profound regret and the strange and sharply bitter taste of defeat.
Finis
‘Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show
Will settle the matter for ‘ee.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of ‘em go
By your looks, or your acts, or your glory.
But if he finds you and you find him,
The rest of the world don’t matter;
For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim
With you in any water.
Kipling, The Thousandth Man
**Based, as most of you undoubtedly know, on an actual incident. The British frigate Nymphe, under Captain Edward Pellew, captured the French frigate Cleopatre, July 19, 1793. The boarding party found the Cleopatre’s captain (his name was Mullon, not DeShayes) near death but attempting to eat what he thought was his private list of coastal signals. It was, in fact, his commission. His bravery and devotion to duty, even in extremis, always touched me. Pellew must have been moved as well: he carried the captain’s body back to England and buried him with honour in a Portsmouth churchyard.
DeShayes was also real, and his coat of arms was as I described it, reading Heart of Oak. But he was another man entirely: he came to America with Lafayette and served as a private during the Revolutionary War. But that’s a different story.
#Archie’s brief assignment aboard Innominate is described in Second Chances; found in the hhfic archive (pretty cheesy, quoting one’s own--and first--work!)
*Quoted directly from Give the Devil His Due by PJ: This lovely piece, and its companion, William’s Penance, are found in the hhfic archive. Used with PJ’s gracious permission.
Bush quotes Henry IV, Part I. Act V. Scene II.
The real Thesee (74) was lost at Quiberon Bay. Fighting in a heavy gale, she left her lower gunports open, foundered, and sank. Not so dramatic as being irrevocably damaged by Bush’s self-sacrificing explosion, but equally effective.