As Thick as Memory
As Thick as Memory
The fog was omnipresent, palpable even through heavy woolens, clinging to the back of one’s throat like a mouthful of moldy biscuit.
Captain Horatio Hornblower swallowed hard and his nostrils flared with the effort, drinking the air as much as breathing it.
So this is how it feels to drown.
Unaccountably ferocious at himself for the thought, he gripped his hands tightly within their cumbersome gloves and forced himself to stand still upon the weather side of the slick deck, simply breathing. As the muted sounds of the ship’s business were carried from unseen origins to his ears, he could feel an inexorable capstan winding further tension into his muscles.
He had been in fog like this before, and closer to drowning in it, too. The misery of its sheer blankness draped him in the memory of those early days on the Justinian: gray, damp, motionless.
His ear caught a snatch of laughter, quickly stilled. His mind knew it to reasonably be the result of a passing officer, but his heart was suddenly racing unreasonably fast. Every stray curl of gray threatened to disgorge the long unregretted form of Simpson.
Swallowing another gulp of moldy air, the captain firmly pivoted 90 degrees and stared resolutely over the gunwale. Captains simply did not have the luxury of indulging in morbid fantasies when their ships were mired in unnatural fogs.
No sooner had he told himself such, of course, than he found he was blinking hard at dark patches in the vacant air, trying to resolve them into the quantifiable lines and angles of an 84-gun Spanish galleon. Style’s dry quip-“Take ’em at least a minute to sink us”-floated to mind and despite himself, Horatio found his lips twitching upwards. After all, dire as that situation had been, it had had unforeseen benefits-it had brought him back to Kennedy.
As if this realization was what the mist had been awaiting, the dark irresolute shapes in the semi-distance faded away, though Horatio watched for them to reappear, eyes straining.
There was a footfall on the deck behind him and he pivoted again, expecting Mr. Prowse or Lieutenant Bush.
There was no one, yet he heard another step to his side, and he turned once more, faced once again with a wall of gray. From behind him yet again a set of footsteps, but the Captain clenched his fists and would not turn around. If this was a midshipman’s prank, thinking he could pull one over the captain, that poor sod would be kissing the gunner’s daughter into next week.
Silence reigned for a moment, and then a dry chuckle made the hair on the back of Horatio’s neck prickle. In times past, that sound had made Horatio laugh, wince, or even roll his eyes in fond exasperation-but he had not heard it in years.
His lips formed the word, though no sound emerged. “Kennedy?”
His answer was another chuckle, closer this time, as if his friend stood just behind his left shoulder. Horatio had always felt more comfortable knowing Archie stood there, protecting his flank. Still, he could not bring himself to turn around.
He imagined his shoulder getting warmer with the force of that exasperated bright blue gaze and he shook himself briskly to be rid of the feeling. Captains did not have the luxury of such fond fantasies, even becalmed in a fog. The Captain found himself focusing on the sound of the slightest splashes against the hull, trying to gauge if they were moving at all, even with the sheets hanging slack.
With an impatient ‘tsk,’ something flicked his queue. Horatio’s head snapped up, his eyes startled and his mouth pursed. Some midshipman was going to pay dearly for the impertinence and the captain whirled around, certain of catching him this time.
Empty air. No wind even, to have stirred up a breath of trouble, just stillness.
Exasperated, Horatio folded his arms and stared all around him, turning in a complete circle until he was convinced he was alone on the quarterdeck and had imagined the whole thing.
As soon as he stopped, something twitched his queue again with the sound of soft laughter, muted as if by long distance, and containing a few barely discernable words.
“Captain”
Straining after the words dying on the beginnings of a wind and blinking hard against the tears they provoked, Horatio startled as Bush’s solid form loomed out of the grey. The fragments of the last ten minutes’ illusions whispered away before the lieutenant’s approach, and despite his earlier frustration, Horatio regretted their loss. Perhaps it was this that let him unbend momentarily, in the memoriam.
“Do you believe in ghosts, William?” Horatio was certain his prosaic lieutenant would admit to no such thing, and were it not for the concealing fog, he wouldn’t either.
“In this fog, one might believe in anything,” Bush answered slowly, and then the moment was over. “Wind’s freshening, sir. Would you care to send for Mr. Prowse?”
The fog was omnipresent, palpable even through heavy woolens, clinging to the back of one’s throat like a mouthful of moldy biscuit.
Captain Horatio Hornblower swallowed hard and his nostrils flared with the effort, drinking the air as much as breathing it.
So this is how it feels to drown.
Unaccountably ferocious at himself for the thought, he gripped his hands tightly within their cumbersome gloves and forced himself to stand still upon the weather side of the slick deck, simply breathing. As the muted sounds of the ship’s business were carried from unseen origins to his ears, he could feel an inexorable capstan winding further tension into his muscles.
He had been in fog like this before, and closer to drowning in it, too. The misery of its sheer blankness draped him in the memory of those early days on the Justinian: gray, damp, motionless.
His ear caught a snatch of laughter, quickly stilled. His mind knew it to reasonably be the result of a passing officer, but his heart was suddenly racing unreasonably fast. Every stray curl of gray threatened to disgorge the long unregretted form of Simpson.
Swallowing another gulp of moldy air, the captain firmly pivoted 90 degrees and stared resolutely over the gunwale. Captains simply did not have the luxury of indulging in morbid fantasies when their ships were mired in unnatural fogs.
No sooner had he told himself such, of course, than he found he was blinking hard at dark patches in the vacant air, trying to resolve them into the quantifiable lines and angles of an 84-gun Spanish galleon. Style’s dry quip-“Take ’em at least a minute to sink us”-floated to mind and despite himself, Horatio found his lips twitching upwards. After all, dire as that situation had been, it had had unforeseen benefits-it had brought him back to Kennedy.
As if this realization was what the mist had been awaiting, the dark irresolute shapes in the semi-distance faded away, though Horatio watched for them to reappear, eyes straining.
There was a footfall on the deck behind him and he pivoted again, expecting Mr. Prowse or Lieutenant Bush.
There was no one, yet he heard another step to his side, and he turned once more, faced once again with a wall of gray. From behind him yet again a set of footsteps, but the Captain clenched his fists and would not turn around. If this was a midshipman’s prank, thinking he could pull one over the captain, that poor sod would be kissing the gunner’s daughter into next week.
Silence reigned for a moment, and then a dry chuckle made the hair on the back of Horatio’s neck prickle. In times past, that sound had made Horatio laugh, wince, or even roll his eyes in fond exasperation-but he had not heard it in years.
His lips formed the word, though no sound emerged. “Kennedy?”
His answer was another chuckle, closer this time, as if his friend stood just behind his left shoulder. Horatio had always felt more comfortable knowing Archie stood there, protecting his flank. Still, he could not bring himself to turn around.
He imagined his shoulder getting warmer with the force of that exasperated bright blue gaze and he shook himself briskly to be rid of the feeling. Captains did not have the luxury of such fond fantasies, even becalmed in a fog. The Captain found himself focusing on the sound of the slightest splashes against the hull, trying to gauge if they were moving at all, even with the sheets hanging slack.
With an impatient ‘tsk,’ something flicked his queue. Horatio’s head snapped up, his eyes startled and his mouth pursed. Some midshipman was going to pay dearly for the impertinence and the captain whirled around, certain of catching him this time.
Empty air. No wind even, to have stirred up a breath of trouble, just stillness.
Exasperated, Horatio folded his arms and stared all around him, turning in a complete circle until he was convinced he was alone on the quarterdeck and had imagined the whole thing.
As soon as he stopped, something twitched his queue again with the sound of soft laughter, muted as if by long distance, and containing a few barely discernable words.
“Captain”
Straining after the words dying on the beginnings of a wind and blinking hard against the tears they provoked, Horatio startled as Bush’s solid form loomed out of the grey. The fragments of the last ten minutes’ illusions whispered away before the lieutenant’s approach, and despite his earlier frustration, Horatio regretted their loss. Perhaps it was this that let him unbend momentarily, in the memoriam.
“Do you believe in ghosts, William?” Horatio was certain his prosaic lieutenant would admit to no such thing, and were it not for the concealing fog, he wouldn’t either.
“In this fog, one might believe in anything,” Bush answered slowly, and then the moment was over. “Wind’s freshening, sir. Would you care to send for Mr. Prowse?”