omg a Hornblower fic
You know who is awesome? black_hound. She really is. She sent me a lovely HANDMADE slat bonnet that is just absolutely gorgeous and I just cooed over when it arrived. In thanksgiving, I give to her a Hornblower fic, based on a recent dream she had. It's been a while since I've written Hornblower, but here it is.
(I wrote this while drinking Gin and Tonics so uh...sorry if it doesn't make sense)
When his mother packed his sea chest, William Bush frowned and bit the inside of his mouth so he wouldn’t cry. He was too old for tears and his three younger sisters were sitting on the cold floor watching as his mother put in socks and a pair of mitts and the slate the family could hardly afford.
Don’t you cry, Will, his mother had said. William wanted to speak up and say he wasn’t going to cry, but he knew his voice might give him away.
It was a funny feeling when you knew that your own mother knew the last hope for her son was the sea. Many mothers did whatever they could to keep their sons from the life of a sailor. Perhaps Mrs. Bush had already tried that, for Bush had gone through a series of apprenticeships and not one of them suited him. Horses at the farrier had kicked him, he had split the wood at the cooper’s, he had gagged at the slaughter house (and nearly cried in embarrassment).
So it was to sea with him and his mother told him he should be thankful that a well-connected uncle knew someone who could make him a midshipman aboard a sturdy vessel.
When they took him to the dock, William didn’t know if he should hug his mother or not and so he awkwardly stuck out his hand. A slight smile graced Mrs. Bush’s lips before she dissolved into tears and pushed her son to the waiting boat.
***
No, sir. I did not want to go to sea.
It felt almost shameful to Bush when he admitted this to Hornblower one night in his cabin. Hornblower raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised that his best lieutenant had not been born with the sea in his veins, like poets are born with words at their fingertips.
And yet the sea had found Bush, shaping him like it molded the rocks on a shore, until it was so much a part of Bush that he had to pause to remember what life was like before the sea found him.
You finally found something that suits you, it seems, one of the letters from home had said. But Bush didn’t think of it that way. Bush suited the sea, rather than the other way around, and he was helpless against the sudden rush of feeling he felt when he realized that perhaps he did belong somewhere in the great wide expanse of the world.
(I wrote this while drinking Gin and Tonics so uh...sorry if it doesn't make sense)
When his mother packed his sea chest, William Bush frowned and bit the inside of his mouth so he wouldn’t cry. He was too old for tears and his three younger sisters were sitting on the cold floor watching as his mother put in socks and a pair of mitts and the slate the family could hardly afford.
Don’t you cry, Will, his mother had said. William wanted to speak up and say he wasn’t going to cry, but he knew his voice might give him away.
It was a funny feeling when you knew that your own mother knew the last hope for her son was the sea. Many mothers did whatever they could to keep their sons from the life of a sailor. Perhaps Mrs. Bush had already tried that, for Bush had gone through a series of apprenticeships and not one of them suited him. Horses at the farrier had kicked him, he had split the wood at the cooper’s, he had gagged at the slaughter house (and nearly cried in embarrassment).
So it was to sea with him and his mother told him he should be thankful that a well-connected uncle knew someone who could make him a midshipman aboard a sturdy vessel.
When they took him to the dock, William didn’t know if he should hug his mother or not and so he awkwardly stuck out his hand. A slight smile graced Mrs. Bush’s lips before she dissolved into tears and pushed her son to the waiting boat.
***
No, sir. I did not want to go to sea.
It felt almost shameful to Bush when he admitted this to Hornblower one night in his cabin. Hornblower raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised that his best lieutenant had not been born with the sea in his veins, like poets are born with words at their fingertips.
And yet the sea had found Bush, shaping him like it molded the rocks on a shore, until it was so much a part of Bush that he had to pause to remember what life was like before the sea found him.
You finally found something that suits you, it seems, one of the letters from home had said. But Bush didn’t think of it that way. Bush suited the sea, rather than the other way around, and he was helpless against the sudden rush of feeling he felt when he realized that perhaps he did belong somewhere in the great wide expanse of the world.