The Shoaling Sea - Part XI
Previous: Part X
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Doughty was met with a rather compromising tableau when he came to wake the captain that morning. He had given a peremptory knock, expecting, as had become usual, Hornblower's growled acknowledgement, only to be met with silence. The hollow rapping of his knuckles on the captain's door had been rather soft, to be sure, but Hornblower's continued sleeplessness tended to make the volume irrelevant. Was it possible that the lieutenant's efforts to get Hornblower to bed had been more successful than his own? That would be a blessing. If the captain went without sleep much longer, Doughty would be mending more than worn trousers--he'd be piecing together Hornblower himself!
Hope rose in Doughty's chest like a yardarm rigged to the capstan, so that he smiled as he entered the cabin.
“Sir?” He called into the quiet peace, “I have your coffee, sir, if you'll take it.” There was a rustling behind the curtain that shielded the captain's cot from sight, and Doughty shot a glance behind him, to where he'd set up Lieutenant Bush's cot, to see if the man had already departed. It seemed he had. The Lieutenant was a good officer, who took his duties to heart, but his repeated early departures were beginning to give Doughty the impression that his help with the captain truly was regarded as one duty among many. Doughty had hoped there was more to it than that.
“Sir?”
The rustling came again, and Doughty heard a grunt. A leg appeared beneath the curtain, and another. Then a deep voice echoed his own: “Sir? It must be four bells, sir.”
That was strange. Hornblower's voice had never been quite so deep. In the next moment the curtain was pushed aside, revealing the very lieutenant Doughty's thoughts had been straying to. To Doughty it seemed almost as if Bush materialized out of the very cabin walls, and the servant all but gaped at the man. Doughty was too well trained to be fully rude, but the origin of his momentary hope seemed to echo in his mind. He had thought that perhaps 'the lieutenant's efforts to get Hornblower to bed' had been more successful than his own; it appeared to be true in more ways than one!
“S-sir,” he managed to stumble out.
Bush hardly spared him a look, making a line for the table. His clothes, it seemed, were stowed on the seat of the far chair, hidden from Doughty's immediate sight. He still wore his drawers and linen shirt, of course, but he looked quite different without the blue garb that usually defined him. No doubt he looked even stranger still with his shirt off as well, but it seemed only the captain was to know the truth of that. It was none of Doughty's business anyway. Yet observant bystander that he was, he could not help taking in the view before him. The lieutenant was a well-formed man, with evident muscles under the thin linen, and it was apparent from the hue of his legs that his olive complexion was not the result of exposure to the sun alone. The uniform frock coat made him look slimmer, leaner, and it was interesting to Doughty that the crew, who to a man feared Bush's wrath, did so when only seeing half his muscle. Imagine if the lieutenant ever truly bared his arms at a misbehaving hand!
Bush's eyes strayed Doughty's way only once fully clothed, and by then Doughy was better prepared to return his nod. There was little that needed to be spoken between them, and at that particular junction no words would likely have sufficed. They nodded at one another instead. A simple acknowledgement of the efforts each had made on behalf the nexus that bound them together--Hornblower. It seemed Doughty had not misjudged the Lieutenant after all.
When Bush departed, the steward was left with a steaming cup of coffee in hand and a sleepy captain on his plate. At the click of the cabin door Hornblower had begun to slowly rise, but he was clearly still sleep fuddled, for his limbs were clumsy and his eyelids blinked sluggishly. It was as if, once successful in finding sleep, his body's overwhelming fatigue had finally asserted itself, demanding that the captain compensate for days of sleeplessness with one long slumber. Hornblower no doubt hated the sensation, but Doughty was glad for it.
“Coffee, sir?” he offered again, and Hornblower stumbled over to the table, drawn to the familiar aroma like a seaman to grog.
“Thank you, Doughty,” he rasped as he extended his hand for the proffered cup. “What's for breakfast?”
Even facing Hornblower in clear view, Doughty could not contain his smile. Lieutenant Bush really was a remarkable man.
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It was two days after this sleeping arrangement began that they spotted their third French ship. Hornblower had been on deck since midway through the second watch, so Bush was not surprised to see him blinking rapidly as he moved his eye in and out of his telescope. Two nights of improved sleep could not fully compensate for a week of sleeplessness.
It was Foreman at the mast, and for once both Hornblower and Bush could take the report that came down from the gentleman with equal weight to that which came from the seaman that paired him. Two sloops, probably merchants-another nice catch for the Hotspur that she would gallingly have to let by. But this time Bush was expecting Hornblower's inevitable response, and so his anger had no time to take root. comes on deck for lookout's report, then leaves Bush to change course for rendezvous.
“I'll thank you to turn us about, Mr. Bush, and set a heading for due north.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Bush turned smartly on his heal to shout the relevant orders, yet just as he sucked in a deep gust of air to bellow his orders, another string of words came form the captain.
“Mr. Bush. You have the deck. I'm going below.”
Bush swung his head around in undisguised surprise. “Aye aye, sir,” he managed to force out, quite bereft of that air he had just inhaled. It was too unexpected a compliment for him to be anything other than surprised, for Hornblower was not even staying to see the maneuvers completed. No, he was leaving it all to Bush. It wasn't until Hornblower had turned and nearly disappeared down the companion that Bush's face responded to the glowing warmth that had sprouted in his stomach, but when his features caught up with his emotions, Bush found himself grinning.
Two minutes of shouting orders across the deck and watching the response ameliorated his pleasure.
“Charles! What the devil are you doing, man?” Bush's voice was sharp even in the wind.
“I'm just standin' 'ere, sir,” The word came out as an insult, slurred and condescending. Charles had been with the group of men ordered to the capstan to raise the yards, while another group manned the braces to swing them round. Except instead of putting his back into pushing against his spoke of the giant wheel, he was simply standing at his station, arms limply swung over the wooden handle before him. He was single handedly stopping the entire maneuver!
“God damn your eyes! Either get to work or stand elsewhere! If you want to dawdle, you can dawdle on the gratings!”
Bush bellowed loud enough to be heard by the entire deck, but Charles was immobile.
“Why's we gotta go runnin' when its only a wee liddle sloop we's got in our sights! I want my prize money!” Charles glowered nearly as well as Bush, but he should have known better than to expect his lieutenant to be cowed.
In two long strides Bush was beside the errant hand, his voice low, but still audible to the surrounding men, “Listen here, you dim-witted knave! Aboard this ship you have the right to do what you're told. Nothing else. You do what I say or I bend you over the captain's daughter. Unless you think you can stop me?”
Bush's face held an almost macabre smile, and, slimming uniform or no, not a man aboard would have thought to cross the lieutenant at that moment. Charles, it seemed, was beyond all sense of self-preservation. Beyond all reason, even. He glared back at Bush, and though he said nothing, he crossed his arms across his chest in stolid defiance.
Bush shook his head in disgust. “Mr. Wise?” The grey haired bosun was ready at the call. “I'll thank you to take Mr. Whitford below, and stand a guard on him. We'll deal with him when we've settled our course.”
Once the obstruction was removed, setting course took all of fifteen minutes, leaving Bush all to soon with the task of 'dealing with' Mr. Charles Whitford. That should have been a straight-forward matter. Whitford's crime was a lash-worthy offense--Bush's responsibility was to inform the captain and call all hands to witness punishment. But . . . But the captain had been whipped nearly to death only two weeks previously . . . to force him to witness such a thing on the deck of his own ship . . . it was unthinkable. Unpardonable if Bush should be the one to arrange it. No. It could not come to that.
Mr. Wise was at his side when he finally set his mental course as straight as the Hotspur's.
“Mr. Wise, send for one of your mates and have him meet me-where was is it that you've put Whitford?”
“In the hold, sir. With the grain stores.”
“Ah. Very well; you and your mate meet me in the hold presently, with a cat.”
Wise, anxious to inflict any pain he was allowed, did not question Bush's breach of protocol. No doubt Mr. Prowse or Cargill would. Bush went below without glancing towards the wheel.
***
Bush approached the captain's cabin with a heavy heart. Doughty had given no indication as to the subject of this summons, but there was a certain . . . flatness to the stewards voice which told Bush this was not the cordial invitation of the night before. After what he had done with Whitford just hours before, he was right to be nervous.
He knocked, and at Hornblower's terse command entered. Hornblower was looking out his stern window, and Bush could read nothing in his stance, except a tenseness in the shoulders.
“Sir?” Bush ventured.
Hornblower remained silent. Bush shifted the weight between his feet. It was agony, this standing a waiting, as if he were being fitted for a noose. Then, just as Bush was summoning his strength to break the uncomfortable muteness between them, damn the consequences, Hornblower finally spoke, as if he'd been waiting for that very sign of impatience to drop the scaffolding beneath Bush's feet.
“There was a flogging this afternoon, while I was in my cabin.”
Bush's heart sank, and he waited for his captain's anchor to fall. But Hornblower didn't continue, and Bush was forced to fill the silence. “Yes, sir.”
“fifteen lashes for dereliction of duty and putting the ship at risk.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I was not informed.” It was not a question.
“Sir, I--”
“Why was I not informed?” Finally Hornblower turned to face Bush, and Bush immediately wished he had not. Hornblower's face was flushed with anger, but it went beyond anger. His eyes were cold and his mouth straight and expressionless. He looked a man on the brink of a decision and succumbing to a grievous inner turmoil. Like this meeting was of much greater import than Bush could ever have appreciated.
“Sir, I didn't think you needed to watch that, sir. It makes no difference to the crew, and does you no good. I thought--”
“You thought?” Hornblower's raised eyebrow was as condemning as his tone.
“I'm sorry, sir. I did not realize you--”
“Is it common practice for first lieutenants to hide things from their captains?”
Bush could only answer, “No, sir.”
“Is it common practice for first lieutenants to coddle their captains?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I can only assume there is something about me in particular that has engendered this behavior?”
Bush remained silent as Hornblower's dark eyes bore into his.
Suddenly Hornblower was yelling, or it seemed to Bush that he was yelling, the intensity of his voice was so all-consuming. It was as if Hornblower could physically burn Bush with his words, and indeed, Bush felt each syllable carve into his heart as it was uttered.
“I wish to God that I had died, Mr. Bush! I wish to God that the sharks had torn me to pieces as I dangled behind that damn brig with the water scoring my back! I wish the infection had stolen my last strength! I wish the fever had burned me into hell! Better to die than to lose command of my ship!” Hornblower paused to steal a breath, and as he did so his features twisted into an expression of horribly pained despair. “What do you want from me, Bush? I have already lost command of my body. I have lost command of my emotions. And you and Doughty, watching me each night, have neatly stripped me of my privacy! I cannot even find solitude in sleep, for there my memories are a punishment far worse than sandy eyes. All I have left is my command, and soon I will not even have that! So I ask you, what do you want from me?”
For the first time Bush was forced to consider that perhaps he and Doughty had been wrong. Perhaps in trying to help the captain they had done more harm than good. Bush felt all the color drain from his face, and he found himself in his own private despair, even as Hornblower wallowed in another. He had thought that what Hornblower needed was comfort, and companionship, and time. He had thought that by proving the crew's love, no his love, for the captain, he could convince Hornblower of his self-worth. It was only at this moment that it dawned on Bush that a man of Hornblower's logic and reserve would of course feel any loss of authority over himself far more keenly than physical and emotional pain. What Hornblower needed wasn't love, it was control.
But that wasn't right. Bush had been sleeping in Hornblower's cabin for almost a week now, and the captain quite obviously slept better when they were together. Bush could not being himself to believe that Hornblower resented his interference that much. It didn't tally. No, ultimately Hornblower was frustrated most with Hornblower, and in that self-hatred he had isolated himself in mind if not in body. But the captain wasn't alone, dammit! He wasn't alone, and he would never be alone, not where it mattered.
Bush stepped forward until he was uncomfortably close to Hornblower, near enough that the man's eyebrow's crunched in misapprehension. Then he gripped both of Hornblower's shoulders in his calloused hands and said, “You have more than your command, sir. You have me.” And as the words left his mouth, Bush leaned forward and pressed his lips to Hornblower's lips. He had not realized until that moment what his body and heart had been telling him for the past fortnight. He had not realized until his mouth was pressed roughly to his captain's that he was in love with Hornblower.
But even as this epiphany came upon him-even as Bush's cheek pressed harshly against his friend's, Bush was brought to another realization. Hornblower's lips were hard and unyielding beneath his. Unwilling. The captain did not want this, did not ask for this, maybe even detested this. He pulled back.
But as soon as his lips left Hornblower's he felt a fist grip his jacket lapel and tug it forward, thrusting his face back into its former position.
It was Bush who froze now, uncertain in this new situation. He looked into Hornblower's eyes, just inches from his own, and they were dark as the sea on a moonless night. Angry, needy, bleak, and fathomless. Bush wrapped his hands around Hornblower's neck and pressed their faces together, even as Hornblower pulled their bodies together with a tug on Bush's lapel. Their noses mashed one against the other as they twisted from side to side, and there was the click of teeth as their mouths opened and closed. Bush felt a wave of heat from his mouth down to his groin and he gripped his captain to him all the harder. It was as if a hundred half remembered dreams and stolen glances had suddenly become real, and Bush feared he would wake up and find himself alone at any moment.
Then he felt himself half dragged, half pushed several feet to his left and his back came in contact with a wall. A hand pawed at his jacket and he realized Hornblower must be working at the buttons. As he did in everything, Bush followed his captain's lead. Hornblower's skillful fingers made quick work of the clasps, and Bush had to pause in his own fumbling to let his coat drop from his shoulders. Then his own fingers were slipping off the last gold buttons beneath Hornblower's neck, and roughly pulling the jacket off of those bony shoulders. Hornblower let out a muffled cry and stiffened. His teeth clenched, taking Bush's lip between them as they did. Bush immediately recognized his error and pulled the rest of the jacket off with as much gentleness as he was capable. As his lip was released, he softly kissed Hornblower's cheek in apology, and kept kissing in butterfly-light landings, moving his lips to touch every part of the melancholy face he'd long ago memorized. He wanted to clutch at Hornblower's back and pull him tight by the shoulders, but he would have to settle for gripping his captain's slim waist and tense neck. And dammit but their uniforms delayed him doing even that, for they still had their waistcoats and linen shirts between them, not to mention britches!
Hornblower, relaxing as the sudden pain eased, must have come to the same realization, for they both started on each other's waistcoat buttons at the same moment, their hands nearly colliding. When those were removed Bush thought to pull off his shirt, but Hornblower stopped him by reaching instead for Bush's belt. Bush, fire now running through his every extremity, was feeling unsteady on his feet, and when Hornblower began pulling at the buttons to his breeches, he had to consciously force himself to stand firm. It required even greater concentration to get his big fingers, more accustomed to rope lines than clothing, to reciprocate with Hornblower's breeches.
They never did get their clothes fully off.
Hornblower pushed down on Bush's shoulders, and they both sank to the cabin floor, Bush using the wall at his back to brace them. Then Hornblower was on top of him, and Bush gripped the captain by the waist to steady him. Hornblower did not seem satisfied with Bush's hand hold, however, it being felt through the linen shirt he still wore, and he pulled the confining fabric out from under Bush's fingers to expose the bare skin of his torso. Bush gladly accepted the change, and, thinking better of it, pulled his own shirt up as well. Hornblower was too weak to prop himself fully with his arms, so he lay flush with Bush, and now they were skin to skin at their stomachs.
Hornblower let out a shuddering breath of satisfaction at this development, and the warm air brushed against Bush's ear. Another exhalation blew by, and it seemed to Bush that each breath was like the smoke on the gun deck in the heat of battle, mingled with the sweet ocean spray at the bowsprit of the Hotspur. Bush yearned to turn that gently swirling smoke into the hot compression of cannon fire. He pulled Hornblower's loosened breeches down to his thighs, his underthings with them, leaving the captain as naked and exposed as he'd been under the washdeck pump on the Renown. Bush then did the same with his own breeches, as the captain seemed preoccupied with running his hands over the muscles of Bush's chest and shoulders. This was entirely to Bush's advantage, as Hornblower's hands were every bit as skillful in this endeavor as they were in plotting charts and playing whist. They were both hard, Bush was aware, and that was not a surprise. Despite the apparent lack of stimulation, the combination of deprivation, the sudden onset of their passion, and their mutual desire had heightened their sensitivity to even the smallest touch.
Then they were kissing again, and while Bush might wish to hear the quickening of Hornblower's hot breath against his ear, he found the mashing of their mouths against one another equally enjoyable. And when Hornblower began rocking against him, Bush was lost to other sensations. Hornblower slipped his right arm beneath Bush's left shoulder to bind them in their tied anchorage; his left hand continued to roam. He was like a child enraptured by a toy he'd admired in the store front all year only to receive it for his birthday-as if he had to verify that every nook and cranny was as he'd imagined it to be.
Bush was not as curious. He'd seen and admired every inch of Hornblower's body as a matter of happenstance through the course of their now five year acquaintance, and he possessed an excellent memory for such things. Bush had his right hand looped into his captain's hair and his left hand had migrated from Hornblower's waist to his buttocks. He did not probe with these hands-he simply held them steady, exerting a constant pressure with his strong arms to keep them bound together as long as he could. They're legs had naturally arranged themselves so that Hornblower was riding his thigh, while Bush, rocking almost unconsciously in counterpoint to Hornblower, found a thin leg similarly rubbing against him as he moved. The sailor in Bush was aware that this should be an awkward maneuver, like using a ramrod to polish a gun instead of loading it, but it was not uncomfortable. Indeed, it was the height of pleasure, and he savored every moment of it as their movements became more rapid, Hornblower's hands more frantic. It was all he could do to maintain his silence when they reached their blinding climax, with Hornblower's nails digging into his shoulder and a staccato of harsh breaths pounding against his ear far louder than the explosions of a full broadside of the Hotspur's nine-pound guns.
And then, over almost as quickly as it had begun, Hornblower sagged in release against Bush, languid and placid. Bush was similarly effected, but he did not loosen his hold; he wanted this moment to last as long in reality as it surely would in his memory.
He did not know how long they lay there together. Perhaps it was only a few minutes. Bush only knew that when Hornblower finally moved, it was as if a a bright lantern had suddenly dimmed. The captain pushed himself off of Bush and on to his back, issuing a hiss as his tender scars contacted the polished wood. The pain must have given him the adrenaline necessary to continue, however, for he was almost instantly on his feet. He did not spare Bush a glance as he slipped in to the head to clean himself up.
Bush, for his part, lay as he'd been. To get up would be to acknowledge that the moment was over, and he did not want it to be over. He remained sprawled on the floor until he heard the door to the head latch open again, and then, not allowing himself to look in that direction, he got to his feet and pulled up his britches. Without a word exchanged he went to the head in Hornblower's shadow and cleaned himself off. They were silent still as they picked up and re-buttoned their waistcoats, and Bush heard nothing but the rustling of wool fabric as he slipped on his jacket. He would not speak until Hornblower spoke-he simply was not capable of it at that moment-and Hornblower was clearly not inclined to speak. Bush left without a backward glance; all he needed was tucked safely away in his memory, to be relished and remembered and relived whenever he should desire it.
Later Bush would look back on this passionate tryst and conclude that Hornblower, who had avoided even the most casual contact with anyone since his capture, was simply desperate to be touched. But at that moment all that was important was that his captain wanted to be touched by him.
***
Author's note: Horribly late again, I know, but . . . er . . . I gave you Doughty? . . . and smut? XD My first attempt at smut, and it came surprisingly easily, which maybe calls for some introspection . . . *blatantly avoids introspection*. Did I catch anyone by surprise, besides myself? Not where people thought I'd take it? I can take it back, I swear . . but then you'd miss out on a really amusing ship rumor in the next chapter. ;D
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Doughty was met with a rather compromising tableau when he came to wake the captain that morning. He had given a peremptory knock, expecting, as had become usual, Hornblower's growled acknowledgement, only to be met with silence. The hollow rapping of his knuckles on the captain's door had been rather soft, to be sure, but Hornblower's continued sleeplessness tended to make the volume irrelevant. Was it possible that the lieutenant's efforts to get Hornblower to bed had been more successful than his own? That would be a blessing. If the captain went without sleep much longer, Doughty would be mending more than worn trousers--he'd be piecing together Hornblower himself!
Hope rose in Doughty's chest like a yardarm rigged to the capstan, so that he smiled as he entered the cabin.
“Sir?” He called into the quiet peace, “I have your coffee, sir, if you'll take it.” There was a rustling behind the curtain that shielded the captain's cot from sight, and Doughty shot a glance behind him, to where he'd set up Lieutenant Bush's cot, to see if the man had already departed. It seemed he had. The Lieutenant was a good officer, who took his duties to heart, but his repeated early departures were beginning to give Doughty the impression that his help with the captain truly was regarded as one duty among many. Doughty had hoped there was more to it than that.
“Sir?”
The rustling came again, and Doughty heard a grunt. A leg appeared beneath the curtain, and another. Then a deep voice echoed his own: “Sir? It must be four bells, sir.”
That was strange. Hornblower's voice had never been quite so deep. In the next moment the curtain was pushed aside, revealing the very lieutenant Doughty's thoughts had been straying to. To Doughty it seemed almost as if Bush materialized out of the very cabin walls, and the servant all but gaped at the man. Doughty was too well trained to be fully rude, but the origin of his momentary hope seemed to echo in his mind. He had thought that perhaps 'the lieutenant's efforts to get Hornblower to bed' had been more successful than his own; it appeared to be true in more ways than one!
“S-sir,” he managed to stumble out.
Bush hardly spared him a look, making a line for the table. His clothes, it seemed, were stowed on the seat of the far chair, hidden from Doughty's immediate sight. He still wore his drawers and linen shirt, of course, but he looked quite different without the blue garb that usually defined him. No doubt he looked even stranger still with his shirt off as well, but it seemed only the captain was to know the truth of that. It was none of Doughty's business anyway. Yet observant bystander that he was, he could not help taking in the view before him. The lieutenant was a well-formed man, with evident muscles under the thin linen, and it was apparent from the hue of his legs that his olive complexion was not the result of exposure to the sun alone. The uniform frock coat made him look slimmer, leaner, and it was interesting to Doughty that the crew, who to a man feared Bush's wrath, did so when only seeing half his muscle. Imagine if the lieutenant ever truly bared his arms at a misbehaving hand!
Bush's eyes strayed Doughty's way only once fully clothed, and by then Doughy was better prepared to return his nod. There was little that needed to be spoken between them, and at that particular junction no words would likely have sufficed. They nodded at one another instead. A simple acknowledgement of the efforts each had made on behalf the nexus that bound them together--Hornblower. It seemed Doughty had not misjudged the Lieutenant after all.
When Bush departed, the steward was left with a steaming cup of coffee in hand and a sleepy captain on his plate. At the click of the cabin door Hornblower had begun to slowly rise, but he was clearly still sleep fuddled, for his limbs were clumsy and his eyelids blinked sluggishly. It was as if, once successful in finding sleep, his body's overwhelming fatigue had finally asserted itself, demanding that the captain compensate for days of sleeplessness with one long slumber. Hornblower no doubt hated the sensation, but Doughty was glad for it.
“Coffee, sir?” he offered again, and Hornblower stumbled over to the table, drawn to the familiar aroma like a seaman to grog.
“Thank you, Doughty,” he rasped as he extended his hand for the proffered cup. “What's for breakfast?”
Even facing Hornblower in clear view, Doughty could not contain his smile. Lieutenant Bush really was a remarkable man.
BBBBBBBBBB
It was two days after this sleeping arrangement began that they spotted their third French ship. Hornblower had been on deck since midway through the second watch, so Bush was not surprised to see him blinking rapidly as he moved his eye in and out of his telescope. Two nights of improved sleep could not fully compensate for a week of sleeplessness.
It was Foreman at the mast, and for once both Hornblower and Bush could take the report that came down from the gentleman with equal weight to that which came from the seaman that paired him. Two sloops, probably merchants-another nice catch for the Hotspur that she would gallingly have to let by. But this time Bush was expecting Hornblower's inevitable response, and so his anger had no time to take root. comes on deck for lookout's report, then leaves Bush to change course for rendezvous.
“I'll thank you to turn us about, Mr. Bush, and set a heading for due north.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Bush turned smartly on his heal to shout the relevant orders, yet just as he sucked in a deep gust of air to bellow his orders, another string of words came form the captain.
“Mr. Bush. You have the deck. I'm going below.”
Bush swung his head around in undisguised surprise. “Aye aye, sir,” he managed to force out, quite bereft of that air he had just inhaled. It was too unexpected a compliment for him to be anything other than surprised, for Hornblower was not even staying to see the maneuvers completed. No, he was leaving it all to Bush. It wasn't until Hornblower had turned and nearly disappeared down the companion that Bush's face responded to the glowing warmth that had sprouted in his stomach, but when his features caught up with his emotions, Bush found himself grinning.
Two minutes of shouting orders across the deck and watching the response ameliorated his pleasure.
“Charles! What the devil are you doing, man?” Bush's voice was sharp even in the wind.
“I'm just standin' 'ere, sir,” The word came out as an insult, slurred and condescending. Charles had been with the group of men ordered to the capstan to raise the yards, while another group manned the braces to swing them round. Except instead of putting his back into pushing against his spoke of the giant wheel, he was simply standing at his station, arms limply swung over the wooden handle before him. He was single handedly stopping the entire maneuver!
“God damn your eyes! Either get to work or stand elsewhere! If you want to dawdle, you can dawdle on the gratings!”
Bush bellowed loud enough to be heard by the entire deck, but Charles was immobile.
“Why's we gotta go runnin' when its only a wee liddle sloop we's got in our sights! I want my prize money!” Charles glowered nearly as well as Bush, but he should have known better than to expect his lieutenant to be cowed.
In two long strides Bush was beside the errant hand, his voice low, but still audible to the surrounding men, “Listen here, you dim-witted knave! Aboard this ship you have the right to do what you're told. Nothing else. You do what I say or I bend you over the captain's daughter. Unless you think you can stop me?”
Bush's face held an almost macabre smile, and, slimming uniform or no, not a man aboard would have thought to cross the lieutenant at that moment. Charles, it seemed, was beyond all sense of self-preservation. Beyond all reason, even. He glared back at Bush, and though he said nothing, he crossed his arms across his chest in stolid defiance.
Bush shook his head in disgust. “Mr. Wise?” The grey haired bosun was ready at the call. “I'll thank you to take Mr. Whitford below, and stand a guard on him. We'll deal with him when we've settled our course.”
Once the obstruction was removed, setting course took all of fifteen minutes, leaving Bush all to soon with the task of 'dealing with' Mr. Charles Whitford. That should have been a straight-forward matter. Whitford's crime was a lash-worthy offense--Bush's responsibility was to inform the captain and call all hands to witness punishment. But . . . But the captain had been whipped nearly to death only two weeks previously . . . to force him to witness such a thing on the deck of his own ship . . . it was unthinkable. Unpardonable if Bush should be the one to arrange it. No. It could not come to that.
Mr. Wise was at his side when he finally set his mental course as straight as the Hotspur's.
“Mr. Wise, send for one of your mates and have him meet me-where was is it that you've put Whitford?”
“In the hold, sir. With the grain stores.”
“Ah. Very well; you and your mate meet me in the hold presently, with a cat.”
Wise, anxious to inflict any pain he was allowed, did not question Bush's breach of protocol. No doubt Mr. Prowse or Cargill would. Bush went below without glancing towards the wheel.
***
Bush approached the captain's cabin with a heavy heart. Doughty had given no indication as to the subject of this summons, but there was a certain . . . flatness to the stewards voice which told Bush this was not the cordial invitation of the night before. After what he had done with Whitford just hours before, he was right to be nervous.
He knocked, and at Hornblower's terse command entered. Hornblower was looking out his stern window, and Bush could read nothing in his stance, except a tenseness in the shoulders.
“Sir?” Bush ventured.
Hornblower remained silent. Bush shifted the weight between his feet. It was agony, this standing a waiting, as if he were being fitted for a noose. Then, just as Bush was summoning his strength to break the uncomfortable muteness between them, damn the consequences, Hornblower finally spoke, as if he'd been waiting for that very sign of impatience to drop the scaffolding beneath Bush's feet.
“There was a flogging this afternoon, while I was in my cabin.”
Bush's heart sank, and he waited for his captain's anchor to fall. But Hornblower didn't continue, and Bush was forced to fill the silence. “Yes, sir.”
“fifteen lashes for dereliction of duty and putting the ship at risk.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I was not informed.” It was not a question.
“Sir, I--”
“Why was I not informed?” Finally Hornblower turned to face Bush, and Bush immediately wished he had not. Hornblower's face was flushed with anger, but it went beyond anger. His eyes were cold and his mouth straight and expressionless. He looked a man on the brink of a decision and succumbing to a grievous inner turmoil. Like this meeting was of much greater import than Bush could ever have appreciated.
“Sir, I didn't think you needed to watch that, sir. It makes no difference to the crew, and does you no good. I thought--”
“You thought?” Hornblower's raised eyebrow was as condemning as his tone.
“I'm sorry, sir. I did not realize you--”
“Is it common practice for first lieutenants to hide things from their captains?”
Bush could only answer, “No, sir.”
“Is it common practice for first lieutenants to coddle their captains?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I can only assume there is something about me in particular that has engendered this behavior?”
Bush remained silent as Hornblower's dark eyes bore into his.
Suddenly Hornblower was yelling, or it seemed to Bush that he was yelling, the intensity of his voice was so all-consuming. It was as if Hornblower could physically burn Bush with his words, and indeed, Bush felt each syllable carve into his heart as it was uttered.
“I wish to God that I had died, Mr. Bush! I wish to God that the sharks had torn me to pieces as I dangled behind that damn brig with the water scoring my back! I wish the infection had stolen my last strength! I wish the fever had burned me into hell! Better to die than to lose command of my ship!” Hornblower paused to steal a breath, and as he did so his features twisted into an expression of horribly pained despair. “What do you want from me, Bush? I have already lost command of my body. I have lost command of my emotions. And you and Doughty, watching me each night, have neatly stripped me of my privacy! I cannot even find solitude in sleep, for there my memories are a punishment far worse than sandy eyes. All I have left is my command, and soon I will not even have that! So I ask you, what do you want from me?”
For the first time Bush was forced to consider that perhaps he and Doughty had been wrong. Perhaps in trying to help the captain they had done more harm than good. Bush felt all the color drain from his face, and he found himself in his own private despair, even as Hornblower wallowed in another. He had thought that what Hornblower needed was comfort, and companionship, and time. He had thought that by proving the crew's love, no his love, for the captain, he could convince Hornblower of his self-worth. It was only at this moment that it dawned on Bush that a man of Hornblower's logic and reserve would of course feel any loss of authority over himself far more keenly than physical and emotional pain. What Hornblower needed wasn't love, it was control.
But that wasn't right. Bush had been sleeping in Hornblower's cabin for almost a week now, and the captain quite obviously slept better when they were together. Bush could not being himself to believe that Hornblower resented his interference that much. It didn't tally. No, ultimately Hornblower was frustrated most with Hornblower, and in that self-hatred he had isolated himself in mind if not in body. But the captain wasn't alone, dammit! He wasn't alone, and he would never be alone, not where it mattered.
Bush stepped forward until he was uncomfortably close to Hornblower, near enough that the man's eyebrow's crunched in misapprehension. Then he gripped both of Hornblower's shoulders in his calloused hands and said, “You have more than your command, sir. You have me.” And as the words left his mouth, Bush leaned forward and pressed his lips to Hornblower's lips. He had not realized until that moment what his body and heart had been telling him for the past fortnight. He had not realized until his mouth was pressed roughly to his captain's that he was in love with Hornblower.
But even as this epiphany came upon him-even as Bush's cheek pressed harshly against his friend's, Bush was brought to another realization. Hornblower's lips were hard and unyielding beneath his. Unwilling. The captain did not want this, did not ask for this, maybe even detested this. He pulled back.
But as soon as his lips left Hornblower's he felt a fist grip his jacket lapel and tug it forward, thrusting his face back into its former position.
It was Bush who froze now, uncertain in this new situation. He looked into Hornblower's eyes, just inches from his own, and they were dark as the sea on a moonless night. Angry, needy, bleak, and fathomless. Bush wrapped his hands around Hornblower's neck and pressed their faces together, even as Hornblower pulled their bodies together with a tug on Bush's lapel. Their noses mashed one against the other as they twisted from side to side, and there was the click of teeth as their mouths opened and closed. Bush felt a wave of heat from his mouth down to his groin and he gripped his captain to him all the harder. It was as if a hundred half remembered dreams and stolen glances had suddenly become real, and Bush feared he would wake up and find himself alone at any moment.
Then he felt himself half dragged, half pushed several feet to his left and his back came in contact with a wall. A hand pawed at his jacket and he realized Hornblower must be working at the buttons. As he did in everything, Bush followed his captain's lead. Hornblower's skillful fingers made quick work of the clasps, and Bush had to pause in his own fumbling to let his coat drop from his shoulders. Then his own fingers were slipping off the last gold buttons beneath Hornblower's neck, and roughly pulling the jacket off of those bony shoulders. Hornblower let out a muffled cry and stiffened. His teeth clenched, taking Bush's lip between them as they did. Bush immediately recognized his error and pulled the rest of the jacket off with as much gentleness as he was capable. As his lip was released, he softly kissed Hornblower's cheek in apology, and kept kissing in butterfly-light landings, moving his lips to touch every part of the melancholy face he'd long ago memorized. He wanted to clutch at Hornblower's back and pull him tight by the shoulders, but he would have to settle for gripping his captain's slim waist and tense neck. And dammit but their uniforms delayed him doing even that, for they still had their waistcoats and linen shirts between them, not to mention britches!
Hornblower, relaxing as the sudden pain eased, must have come to the same realization, for they both started on each other's waistcoat buttons at the same moment, their hands nearly colliding. When those were removed Bush thought to pull off his shirt, but Hornblower stopped him by reaching instead for Bush's belt. Bush, fire now running through his every extremity, was feeling unsteady on his feet, and when Hornblower began pulling at the buttons to his breeches, he had to consciously force himself to stand firm. It required even greater concentration to get his big fingers, more accustomed to rope lines than clothing, to reciprocate with Hornblower's breeches.
They never did get their clothes fully off.
Hornblower pushed down on Bush's shoulders, and they both sank to the cabin floor, Bush using the wall at his back to brace them. Then Hornblower was on top of him, and Bush gripped the captain by the waist to steady him. Hornblower did not seem satisfied with Bush's hand hold, however, it being felt through the linen shirt he still wore, and he pulled the confining fabric out from under Bush's fingers to expose the bare skin of his torso. Bush gladly accepted the change, and, thinking better of it, pulled his own shirt up as well. Hornblower was too weak to prop himself fully with his arms, so he lay flush with Bush, and now they were skin to skin at their stomachs.
Hornblower let out a shuddering breath of satisfaction at this development, and the warm air brushed against Bush's ear. Another exhalation blew by, and it seemed to Bush that each breath was like the smoke on the gun deck in the heat of battle, mingled with the sweet ocean spray at the bowsprit of the Hotspur. Bush yearned to turn that gently swirling smoke into the hot compression of cannon fire. He pulled Hornblower's loosened breeches down to his thighs, his underthings with them, leaving the captain as naked and exposed as he'd been under the washdeck pump on the Renown. Bush then did the same with his own breeches, as the captain seemed preoccupied with running his hands over the muscles of Bush's chest and shoulders. This was entirely to Bush's advantage, as Hornblower's hands were every bit as skillful in this endeavor as they were in plotting charts and playing whist. They were both hard, Bush was aware, and that was not a surprise. Despite the apparent lack of stimulation, the combination of deprivation, the sudden onset of their passion, and their mutual desire had heightened their sensitivity to even the smallest touch.
Then they were kissing again, and while Bush might wish to hear the quickening of Hornblower's hot breath against his ear, he found the mashing of their mouths against one another equally enjoyable. And when Hornblower began rocking against him, Bush was lost to other sensations. Hornblower slipped his right arm beneath Bush's left shoulder to bind them in their tied anchorage; his left hand continued to roam. He was like a child enraptured by a toy he'd admired in the store front all year only to receive it for his birthday-as if he had to verify that every nook and cranny was as he'd imagined it to be.
Bush was not as curious. He'd seen and admired every inch of Hornblower's body as a matter of happenstance through the course of their now five year acquaintance, and he possessed an excellent memory for such things. Bush had his right hand looped into his captain's hair and his left hand had migrated from Hornblower's waist to his buttocks. He did not probe with these hands-he simply held them steady, exerting a constant pressure with his strong arms to keep them bound together as long as he could. They're legs had naturally arranged themselves so that Hornblower was riding his thigh, while Bush, rocking almost unconsciously in counterpoint to Hornblower, found a thin leg similarly rubbing against him as he moved. The sailor in Bush was aware that this should be an awkward maneuver, like using a ramrod to polish a gun instead of loading it, but it was not uncomfortable. Indeed, it was the height of pleasure, and he savored every moment of it as their movements became more rapid, Hornblower's hands more frantic. It was all he could do to maintain his silence when they reached their blinding climax, with Hornblower's nails digging into his shoulder and a staccato of harsh breaths pounding against his ear far louder than the explosions of a full broadside of the Hotspur's nine-pound guns.
And then, over almost as quickly as it had begun, Hornblower sagged in release against Bush, languid and placid. Bush was similarly effected, but he did not loosen his hold; he wanted this moment to last as long in reality as it surely would in his memory.
He did not know how long they lay there together. Perhaps it was only a few minutes. Bush only knew that when Hornblower finally moved, it was as if a a bright lantern had suddenly dimmed. The captain pushed himself off of Bush and on to his back, issuing a hiss as his tender scars contacted the polished wood. The pain must have given him the adrenaline necessary to continue, however, for he was almost instantly on his feet. He did not spare Bush a glance as he slipped in to the head to clean himself up.
Bush, for his part, lay as he'd been. To get up would be to acknowledge that the moment was over, and he did not want it to be over. He remained sprawled on the floor until he heard the door to the head latch open again, and then, not allowing himself to look in that direction, he got to his feet and pulled up his britches. Without a word exchanged he went to the head in Hornblower's shadow and cleaned himself off. They were silent still as they picked up and re-buttoned their waistcoats, and Bush heard nothing but the rustling of wool fabric as he slipped on his jacket. He would not speak until Hornblower spoke-he simply was not capable of it at that moment-and Hornblower was clearly not inclined to speak. Bush left without a backward glance; all he needed was tucked safely away in his memory, to be relished and remembered and relived whenever he should desire it.
Later Bush would look back on this passionate tryst and conclude that Hornblower, who had avoided even the most casual contact with anyone since his capture, was simply desperate to be touched. But at that moment all that was important was that his captain wanted to be touched by him.
***
Author's note: Horribly late again, I know, but . . . er . . . I gave you Doughty? . . . and smut? XD My first attempt at smut, and it came surprisingly easily, which maybe calls for some introspection . . . *blatantly avoids introspection*. Did I catch anyone by surprise, besides myself? Not where people thought I'd take it? I can take it back, I swear . . but then you'd miss out on a really amusing ship rumor in the next chapter. ;D