Bequest
Title: Bequest
Author: Anteros
Characters: Horatio Hornblower, (Lord Exmouth, Archie Kennedy)
Rating: R
Notes: A response to the Missing Muster Challenge, inspired by the circumstances of Lord Exmouth's death and a very particular bequest.
ETA This story has been beautifully illustrated by the fabulously talented katriona_s here.
I
Chatham, 25th January, 1833
He was at his desk at Chatham when he heard. Nicholson, his secretary, brought the news along with the accounts and a pot of coffee. Lord Exmouth was dead. Passed away peacefully at his home two days since, surrounded by family. Something twisted in Hornblower’s chest. He acknowledged the news with a nod, dismissed his secretary, and turned his attention to the accounts.
Nicholson hesitated at the door, “Sir?” he paused, Hornblower remained focused on the ledgers. “May I offer my condolences, sir? I never met Lord Exmouth, but I know you served with him. You were there weren’t you?”
“Where?” Hornblower snapped, looking up from his desk.
“That night...the Droits de L’Homme.”
Hornblower glared at his secretary “Haven’t you got something better to do with your time Mr Nicholson?”
“Aye sir, apologies sir.”
Nicolson departed with a small stiff bow and Hornblower returned to the dockyard accounts. He would write a letter of condolence later in the day.
The rest of the day passed in the usual blur of reports, figures, invoices and correspondence. Graham’s reform of the dockyards was gathering pace, and though he had little faith in the First Lord’s vision of a new efficient service, it was his duty as Commander in Chief of Chatham Dockyard to execute the reforms with the utmost expediency. Hornblower pushed the news of Exmouth’s death to the back of his mind and focused his attention on the business at hand. But all day he was aware of a dull pain in his breast, like an old wound aggravated by the chill of winter.
It was much, much later in the day that he finally turned his attention to the condolence letter. He sat and stared blankly at the paper, at a loss as to what to write. He had written countless condolence letters over the years, to bereaved widows, parents, sisters, brothers. At first it had pained and angered him, knowing that his paltry lines would shatter someone’s world just as surely as splinter, shot or fever had shattered their loved ones. Eventually he became inured to the task, practiced at trotting out the same trite phrases of condolence and compassion. It was just another of the burdens of command. But none of his well-worn platitudes of sympathy and regret would do for this letter. Not for the first time Hornblower was struck by the inadequacy of words in the face of the irrevocable enormity of death.
He rang for another pot of coffee and continued to stare at the blank sheet in front of him. He wasn’t even sure who to address the letter to. By rights, formal condolences should go to the eldest son, Pownoll, but Hornblower had heard that his own health had been precarious for several years. It appeared that Exmouth’s second son, Fleetwood, dealt with much of the family business; perhaps the letter should go to him?
Hornblower was no longer acquainted with Exmouth’s family, though he had known them all as children. When Pellew had commanded the Western Squadron, the Indefatigable had put into Falmouth on a regular basis and the door of the family home across the bay in Flushing had always been open to offer a warm welcome to the men and boys of the squadron. Hornblower remembered a house full of laughter and children and there, in the midst of it all, the formidable Susan Pellew, who oversaw the family and estate with the same authority and compassion with which her husband commanded his fleet.
But that was a lifetime ago. The children had long since grown to adults and Hornblower had met Fleetwood only once in recent years, at a service ball he had been unable to wangle out of. On the surface, Fleetwood Pellew had retained the same charming amicable character that had beguiled visitors when he was a child, and Hornblower found it hard to reconcile the pleasant young man with the reports he had heard of the cruel captain that had driven his men to mutiny.
Hornblower continued to gaze blankly at the empty paper, the words still eluding him. It was not that he had no admiration or affection for Exmouth, or was unmoved by his death, far, far from it. Hornblower was quite prepared to admit that he owed his early career, his first step on the all-important ladder of promotion, to Edward Pellew. He had been a great captain and a great man and Hornblower was fortunate to have served with him. Nothing would ever change his gratitude to Pellew for what he had learned during those halcyon days aboard the Indefatigable. But still...still...Kingston hung between them, and nothing would ever change that either.
It was not that he blamed Pellew for what had happened. That immovable burden of guilt sat squarely on his own shoulders. True, it was Pellew who had placed them aboard Renown, indeed he had moved heaven and earth to secure their commissions while fighting a loosing battle to save the men and the ship that he loved. He could not be blamed for that, just as he could not be blamed for failing to realise the danger that Sawyer presented to his men, so carefully had his slow descent into madness been concealed by those close to him. It was certainly unfair to blame him for Archie’s death and the farrago of the trial. Hornblower had trusted Pellew, they all had, there was no question of that. Trusted him to defend them within the letter of the law. Even admirals were bound by the Articles of War and naval law, or so Hornblower had believed. He had been quite prepared to stand up in court and be judged, confident that justice would be served, fairly and impartially. His youthful naiveté pained him even now. What he had not known then was just how ruthlessly and efficiently the Admiralty would close ranks to protect the reputation of the service, regardless of innocence or guilt. And he had not known then of the treason of Hammond, undermining the service from within. He had not known, as Archie had known, that the deck was stacked against them.
How often had he wondered what would have happened if he had reached Archie’s cell in time to prevent him taking that last long walk to the courthouse? What would have happened if he had stood in the dock as intended, and told the court exactly what had happened that night, how the captain came to fall? What would Pellew have done then? Whose justice would have been served?
What he had not known then was quite how far Pellew would go to protect his own. He could not have known that years later Pellew would flout the verdict of an Admiralty courtmartial to save the livelihood and career of a young lieutenant persecuted and condemned by another of “Nelson’s own”. Could not have known that he would raise a memorial to a maligned young commander who had died in the service before being able to answer the slanderous charges of a French privateer who, for all his fine words to the Governor of India, proved to be little more than a common pirate. Hornblower could not have known these things thirty years before and half a world away. Perhaps even Pellew himself did not know then just how far he would go to protect his own from the arbitrary prejudice of naval justice.
But that meant nothing. Hornblower had replayed the what ifs of those final hours in Kingston endlessly, repeatedly, for years. They had plagued his every waking hour, his every sleepless night. But nothing and nobody could have stopped Archie that day. He knew he was dying and he relinquished his life and his name on his own terns and his alone. Hornblower believed Pellew when he said that he would never forget Mr Kennedy's loyalty and sacrifice. Exmouth was not a man to forget.
And now he was gone. The last link. Some of the younger Indefatigables remained, but Pellew was the last link to Kingston, the last direct link to Archie.
It was dark when Hornblower left his office and returned to the governor’s residence. The letter remained unwritten.
II
Weeks passed. Hornblower read the obituaries and memorials in the Times and the Chronicle. He had read the accounts of the funeral, moving in its modesty and simplicity. The passing of one of the nations greatest Admirals was marked by little more than the shops closing in a small West Country port. The ache in Hornblower’s chest intensified. Barbara, perceptive as ever, started to fuss and fret. The letter remained unwritten.
III
It was over a month later that the parcel arrived at Smallbridge. Hornblower immediately recognised the address, though the handwriting was unfamiliar. On opening the parcel he found a large heavy packet wrapped in sailcloth and a short letter signed FBR Pellew. Fleetwood Pellew addressed himself to Admiral Lord Hornblower in warm and cordial terms, apologising for the delay in sending the enclosed, he had been much taken up with attending to his late father’s affairs. It was only now he had the opportunity to execute some of Lord Exmouth’s more particular bequests. His father had spoken of Hornblower often in his final days, and said he hoped he could find it in his heart to forgive him. He had left instructions that the enclosed should be bequeathed to Lord Hornblower as a memorial of friendship and a reminder that hope is the anchor of the soul. Exmouth had kept this himself, as proof that there is always hope.
Hornblower already knew what was in the packet. He had handled enough muster books in his time to recognise one simply from its size and weight. He removed the sailcloth and opened the worn cover of the book. Inscribed inside in Pellew’s elegant looping hand were the words “Muster Table of His Majesty’s Ship the Indefatigable 1796”. A faded red ribbon marked a page near the start of the book. Hornblower’s hands were shaking as he turned the first page. There, below the three widows’ men, was Pellew’s own entry; Per Commn, Sir Edwd Pellew Bart., Captn. Hornblower turned the pages, names and faces instantly familiar before his eyes, Jhn Bracegirdle, 1 Lieut; Thos Bowles, Master; Thos Styles Ab; Mathw Mathews Ab; Chrisr Cleveland, Mids. Finally he reached the page marked by the ribbon. One entry near the top of the page stood out from the others, the lines in the Men’s Names and Qualities columns were cramped and over written. Hornblower’s heart leapt as he read the entry.
Achbld Kennedy, Mids
To 1st Oct then Act Lieut
On the facing page opposite the entry was inscribed,
Recov’d frm boat off Ferrol. 14th April 1796
Return’d to prison on Hornbr’s parole. 16th April 1796
Discharged from Ferrol w/ honours, return’d to ship. 10th Sept 1796
IV
Hornblower still had the muster open on the desk in front of him, his hand resting on the page, when the valet entered to light the lamps late in the afternoon. When he had gone, Hornblower closed the muster and moved it carefully to one side, then he picked up his pen and began to write.
“My dear sir, words can not express my sorrow and regret...”
by katriona_s
Notes
The lieutenant and the commander referred to here are former Indefatigable midshipmen William Kempthorne and William Warden. nodbear and I are still uncovering their stories which are proving to be as surprising and moving as anything that Forester and the Hornblower script writers came up with.
Fleetwood Pellew was an unpopular captain, whose crews mutinied twice in 1814 and 1854. However many of the personal condolence letters sent to him following Exmouth's death address him in warm and affectionate terms.
Pellew's funeral really was marked by the shops closing in Falmouth.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Horatio Hornblower, (Lord Exmouth, Archie Kennedy)
Rating: R
Notes: A response to the Missing Muster Challenge, inspired by the circumstances of Lord Exmouth's death and a very particular bequest.
ETA This story has been beautifully illustrated by the fabulously talented katriona_s here.
I
Chatham, 25th January, 1833
He was at his desk at Chatham when he heard. Nicholson, his secretary, brought the news along with the accounts and a pot of coffee. Lord Exmouth was dead. Passed away peacefully at his home two days since, surrounded by family. Something twisted in Hornblower’s chest. He acknowledged the news with a nod, dismissed his secretary, and turned his attention to the accounts.
Nicholson hesitated at the door, “Sir?” he paused, Hornblower remained focused on the ledgers. “May I offer my condolences, sir? I never met Lord Exmouth, but I know you served with him. You were there weren’t you?”
“Where?” Hornblower snapped, looking up from his desk.
“That night...the Droits de L’Homme.”
Hornblower glared at his secretary “Haven’t you got something better to do with your time Mr Nicholson?”
“Aye sir, apologies sir.”
Nicolson departed with a small stiff bow and Hornblower returned to the dockyard accounts. He would write a letter of condolence later in the day.
The rest of the day passed in the usual blur of reports, figures, invoices and correspondence. Graham’s reform of the dockyards was gathering pace, and though he had little faith in the First Lord’s vision of a new efficient service, it was his duty as Commander in Chief of Chatham Dockyard to execute the reforms with the utmost expediency. Hornblower pushed the news of Exmouth’s death to the back of his mind and focused his attention on the business at hand. But all day he was aware of a dull pain in his breast, like an old wound aggravated by the chill of winter.
It was much, much later in the day that he finally turned his attention to the condolence letter. He sat and stared blankly at the paper, at a loss as to what to write. He had written countless condolence letters over the years, to bereaved widows, parents, sisters, brothers. At first it had pained and angered him, knowing that his paltry lines would shatter someone’s world just as surely as splinter, shot or fever had shattered their loved ones. Eventually he became inured to the task, practiced at trotting out the same trite phrases of condolence and compassion. It was just another of the burdens of command. But none of his well-worn platitudes of sympathy and regret would do for this letter. Not for the first time Hornblower was struck by the inadequacy of words in the face of the irrevocable enormity of death.
He rang for another pot of coffee and continued to stare at the blank sheet in front of him. He wasn’t even sure who to address the letter to. By rights, formal condolences should go to the eldest son, Pownoll, but Hornblower had heard that his own health had been precarious for several years. It appeared that Exmouth’s second son, Fleetwood, dealt with much of the family business; perhaps the letter should go to him?
Hornblower was no longer acquainted with Exmouth’s family, though he had known them all as children. When Pellew had commanded the Western Squadron, the Indefatigable had put into Falmouth on a regular basis and the door of the family home across the bay in Flushing had always been open to offer a warm welcome to the men and boys of the squadron. Hornblower remembered a house full of laughter and children and there, in the midst of it all, the formidable Susan Pellew, who oversaw the family and estate with the same authority and compassion with which her husband commanded his fleet.
But that was a lifetime ago. The children had long since grown to adults and Hornblower had met Fleetwood only once in recent years, at a service ball he had been unable to wangle out of. On the surface, Fleetwood Pellew had retained the same charming amicable character that had beguiled visitors when he was a child, and Hornblower found it hard to reconcile the pleasant young man with the reports he had heard of the cruel captain that had driven his men to mutiny.
Hornblower continued to gaze blankly at the empty paper, the words still eluding him. It was not that he had no admiration or affection for Exmouth, or was unmoved by his death, far, far from it. Hornblower was quite prepared to admit that he owed his early career, his first step on the all-important ladder of promotion, to Edward Pellew. He had been a great captain and a great man and Hornblower was fortunate to have served with him. Nothing would ever change his gratitude to Pellew for what he had learned during those halcyon days aboard the Indefatigable. But still...still...Kingston hung between them, and nothing would ever change that either.
It was not that he blamed Pellew for what had happened. That immovable burden of guilt sat squarely on his own shoulders. True, it was Pellew who had placed them aboard Renown, indeed he had moved heaven and earth to secure their commissions while fighting a loosing battle to save the men and the ship that he loved. He could not be blamed for that, just as he could not be blamed for failing to realise the danger that Sawyer presented to his men, so carefully had his slow descent into madness been concealed by those close to him. It was certainly unfair to blame him for Archie’s death and the farrago of the trial. Hornblower had trusted Pellew, they all had, there was no question of that. Trusted him to defend them within the letter of the law. Even admirals were bound by the Articles of War and naval law, or so Hornblower had believed. He had been quite prepared to stand up in court and be judged, confident that justice would be served, fairly and impartially. His youthful naiveté pained him even now. What he had not known then was just how ruthlessly and efficiently the Admiralty would close ranks to protect the reputation of the service, regardless of innocence or guilt. And he had not known then of the treason of Hammond, undermining the service from within. He had not known, as Archie had known, that the deck was stacked against them.
How often had he wondered what would have happened if he had reached Archie’s cell in time to prevent him taking that last long walk to the courthouse? What would have happened if he had stood in the dock as intended, and told the court exactly what had happened that night, how the captain came to fall? What would Pellew have done then? Whose justice would have been served?
What he had not known then was quite how far Pellew would go to protect his own. He could not have known that years later Pellew would flout the verdict of an Admiralty courtmartial to save the livelihood and career of a young lieutenant persecuted and condemned by another of “Nelson’s own”. Could not have known that he would raise a memorial to a maligned young commander who had died in the service before being able to answer the slanderous charges of a French privateer who, for all his fine words to the Governor of India, proved to be little more than a common pirate. Hornblower could not have known these things thirty years before and half a world away. Perhaps even Pellew himself did not know then just how far he would go to protect his own from the arbitrary prejudice of naval justice.
But that meant nothing. Hornblower had replayed the what ifs of those final hours in Kingston endlessly, repeatedly, for years. They had plagued his every waking hour, his every sleepless night. But nothing and nobody could have stopped Archie that day. He knew he was dying and he relinquished his life and his name on his own terns and his alone. Hornblower believed Pellew when he said that he would never forget Mr Kennedy's loyalty and sacrifice. Exmouth was not a man to forget.
And now he was gone. The last link. Some of the younger Indefatigables remained, but Pellew was the last link to Kingston, the last direct link to Archie.
It was dark when Hornblower left his office and returned to the governor’s residence. The letter remained unwritten.
II
Weeks passed. Hornblower read the obituaries and memorials in the Times and the Chronicle. He had read the accounts of the funeral, moving in its modesty and simplicity. The passing of one of the nations greatest Admirals was marked by little more than the shops closing in a small West Country port. The ache in Hornblower’s chest intensified. Barbara, perceptive as ever, started to fuss and fret. The letter remained unwritten.
III
It was over a month later that the parcel arrived at Smallbridge. Hornblower immediately recognised the address, though the handwriting was unfamiliar. On opening the parcel he found a large heavy packet wrapped in sailcloth and a short letter signed FBR Pellew. Fleetwood Pellew addressed himself to Admiral Lord Hornblower in warm and cordial terms, apologising for the delay in sending the enclosed, he had been much taken up with attending to his late father’s affairs. It was only now he had the opportunity to execute some of Lord Exmouth’s more particular bequests. His father had spoken of Hornblower often in his final days, and said he hoped he could find it in his heart to forgive him. He had left instructions that the enclosed should be bequeathed to Lord Hornblower as a memorial of friendship and a reminder that hope is the anchor of the soul. Exmouth had kept this himself, as proof that there is always hope.
Hornblower already knew what was in the packet. He had handled enough muster books in his time to recognise one simply from its size and weight. He removed the sailcloth and opened the worn cover of the book. Inscribed inside in Pellew’s elegant looping hand were the words “Muster Table of His Majesty’s Ship the Indefatigable 1796”. A faded red ribbon marked a page near the start of the book. Hornblower’s hands were shaking as he turned the first page. There, below the three widows’ men, was Pellew’s own entry; Per Commn, Sir Edwd Pellew Bart., Captn. Hornblower turned the pages, names and faces instantly familiar before his eyes, Jhn Bracegirdle, 1 Lieut; Thos Bowles, Master; Thos Styles Ab; Mathw Mathews Ab; Chrisr Cleveland, Mids. Finally he reached the page marked by the ribbon. One entry near the top of the page stood out from the others, the lines in the Men’s Names and Qualities columns were cramped and over written. Hornblower’s heart leapt as he read the entry.
Achbld Kennedy, Mids
To 1st Oct then Act Lieut
On the facing page opposite the entry was inscribed,
Recov’d frm boat off Ferrol. 14th April 1796
Return’d to prison on Hornbr’s parole. 16th April 1796
Discharged from Ferrol w/ honours, return’d to ship. 10th Sept 1796
IV
Hornblower still had the muster open on the desk in front of him, his hand resting on the page, when the valet entered to light the lamps late in the afternoon. When he had gone, Hornblower closed the muster and moved it carefully to one side, then he picked up his pen and began to write.
“My dear sir, words can not express my sorrow and regret...”
by katriona_s
Notes
The lieutenant and the commander referred to here are former Indefatigable midshipmen William Kempthorne and William Warden. nodbear and I are still uncovering their stories which are proving to be as surprising and moving as anything that Forester and the Hornblower script writers came up with.
Fleetwood Pellew was an unpopular captain, whose crews mutinied twice in 1814 and 1854. However many of the personal condolence letters sent to him following Exmouth's death address him in warm and affectionate terms.
Pellew's funeral really was marked by the shops closing in Falmouth.