Hornblower Fic: Cannon in D, Part 4
Title: Cannon in D
Characters: Bush, Hornblower, OCs, historical people
Warning: None
Note: If only they were mine, but the boys belong to the Hornblower Estate.
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The British diplomat led them through halls lit with crystal chandeliers. The foremast of a sloop would have barely brushed the ceilings, and mirrored walls reflected their sweaty, disheveled images. The only sounds were the creak of the gun carriages and the hushed voices of the sailors.
They eased the guns down a short flight of steps and into an open courtyard. Suddenly, they were hit by a gale of sound. Horns, flutes, and violins were blasting and scratching in several different keys, and a lone clarinet was squawking up and down the scale. The musicians, scores of them, sat in chairs or wandered about as they played. In the middle of the crowd, a wild-eyed man stood on a wooden box, waving a cane and shouting like a boatswain. His clothes were rumpled and his neckcloth tied haphazardly as if he had just rolled out of his hammock.
“That is Herr Beethoven,” Mr. Bennett told them. “He wants the guns in the percussion section over there, between the muskets and the timpani. Count Razumovsky and the guests will be seated on the other side of the courtyard.”
“Percussion section?” Bush could not believe it. Beside him, young Gerard was trying not to laugh. They had just hauled three tons of iron half a mile up a 45 degree incline--for a concert. “Mr. Bennett, why didn’t you simply borrow three cannon from the city garrison?”
“Herr Beethoven was very specific about the size of the guns. Something to do with the pitch. He is most particular about such things.”
Orders were orders, Bush reminded himself. No matter how strange. They wheeled the cannon to their assigned place, aimed them away from the crowd, and blocked the wheels. There was no need for precise elevation, but they would need to determine the proper charge of powder to use without shot. Some of the guests strolled by and eyed them with open curiosity as they loaded the guns. With great relief, Bush spotted a familiar cocked hat among the powdered wigs and top hats.
“The cannon are loaded and ready, sir.” Bush touched his hat. “Powder and wadding only,” he added quickly.
“Very good, Captain Bush.” Hornblower cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the gilded hilt of his dress sword. It was no secret to anyone who knew him that the commodore would rather lead a boarding action than have to attend a diplomatic reception. A boarding action at night in heavy seas.
Characters: Bush, Hornblower, OCs, historical people
Warning: None
Note: If only they were mine, but the boys belong to the Hornblower Estate.
************************
The British diplomat led them through halls lit with crystal chandeliers. The foremast of a sloop would have barely brushed the ceilings, and mirrored walls reflected their sweaty, disheveled images. The only sounds were the creak of the gun carriages and the hushed voices of the sailors.
They eased the guns down a short flight of steps and into an open courtyard. Suddenly, they were hit by a gale of sound. Horns, flutes, and violins were blasting and scratching in several different keys, and a lone clarinet was squawking up and down the scale. The musicians, scores of them, sat in chairs or wandered about as they played. In the middle of the crowd, a wild-eyed man stood on a wooden box, waving a cane and shouting like a boatswain. His clothes were rumpled and his neckcloth tied haphazardly as if he had just rolled out of his hammock.
“That is Herr Beethoven,” Mr. Bennett told them. “He wants the guns in the percussion section over there, between the muskets and the timpani. Count Razumovsky and the guests will be seated on the other side of the courtyard.”
“Percussion section?” Bush could not believe it. Beside him, young Gerard was trying not to laugh. They had just hauled three tons of iron half a mile up a 45 degree incline--for a concert. “Mr. Bennett, why didn’t you simply borrow three cannon from the city garrison?”
“Herr Beethoven was very specific about the size of the guns. Something to do with the pitch. He is most particular about such things.”
Orders were orders, Bush reminded himself. No matter how strange. They wheeled the cannon to their assigned place, aimed them away from the crowd, and blocked the wheels. There was no need for precise elevation, but they would need to determine the proper charge of powder to use without shot. Some of the guests strolled by and eyed them with open curiosity as they loaded the guns. With great relief, Bush spotted a familiar cocked hat among the powdered wigs and top hats.
“The cannon are loaded and ready, sir.” Bush touched his hat. “Powder and wadding only,” he added quickly.
“Very good, Captain Bush.” Hornblower cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the gilded hilt of his dress sword. It was no secret to anyone who knew him that the commodore would rather lead a boarding action than have to attend a diplomatic reception. A boarding action at night in heavy seas.