Recant
Title: Recant
Author: Anteros
Characters: Hornblower, (Kennedy), Bush
Rating: R
Spoilers: Mutiny & Retribution
Notes: No slash, no smut, no kink. Just good old fashioned angst. With added Bush for good measure. This is really a follow up to Impression which I posted way back in December.
and I will hear in a room by myself
a ghost or two ceaselessly moving,
the ghost of each error, the ghost of each guilt,
the ghost of each time I walked past
a wounded man on a stony road,
the ghost of nothingness scrutinising
my dumb room with distant face,
I
Captain Horatio Hornblower was standing on the weather side of the quarterdeck, hands clasped behind his back, one finger flickering restlessly, feet apart braced easily against the roll of the ship, eyes forward, fixed on the horizon, and he was cursing Archie Kennedy. Cursing him silently and sincerely, as he did every day, as he had done every day for longer than he cared to remember. Cursing him for having lived, and for having died. "Damn it Archie, why did you have to go?" Then he recanted. As he did every day.
He often wondered how Kennedy would have judged Captain Hornblower but he was not man enough to face the answer. And what kind of man would he have been had Archie lived? What kind of captain? Foolishness. Kennedy was gone and so was the man that Hornblower might have been.
The man he was now the usages of the navy had made him. Hornblower knew this. He knew he had chosen the cowardly path, to hide behind the implacable facade of Admiralty duty and honour. It was a sham but he was afraid to step out from behind that facade. Afraid to look that man full in the face. Afraid that a single glimpse would breach the facade and bring the entire edifice tumbling down.
Kennedy had completed him. Had completed that younger, braver self before the arbitrary nature of naval law and Admiralty justice had opened his eyes to the true nature of duty and service and command. Before he'd seen the tarnish on the swab.
II
He continued to scan the horizon. Always looking forward, never looking back, always moving on, with a driven restless energy. Always trying to get away. But he could never put enough distance between them. Between the here and now and what might have been.
He had expected the pain to lessen, the wound to heal but it hadn't. It just became part of him. It left a space inside, an emptiness that would not be filled. Just as some men carry a bullet in shoulder or thigh, a reminder of an engagement that almost ended their life. The wound might ache in the damp and the cold but most carried that metal with pride, a reminder of their good fortune in living. But he felt no pride, and if this was good fortune?
It was the futility he still could not accept. It was a senseless death. If only Kennedy had died when Simpson cut the rope, or had failed to outrun the spark on the bridge or had died right there in his arms on the deck of Renown. Another bright soul lost gloriously in battle. But it hadn't been glorious it had been sordid and ignominious and unnecessary. If only Buckland had been more vigilant, the marine less .....
He could still remember it vividly, as if he was still there, as if he'd never left that precise moment. Why had he not known? Why had he not known immediately that Archie was dying? He had just sat there, ignorant, unseeing, rebuking him while he choked on his own blood. And he hadn't even noticed. If only he had seen, if only he had noticed then maybe.... But the time for maybe had passed before he had even noticed.
His words, that day tormented him endlessly. "Why?" An accusation, followed by graceless platitudes. Faced with the ultimate sacrifice he had not had the courage to speak. And so his silence haunted him. Silence and emptiness filling the spaces between duty and command. Sometimes in the dark of his cabin he let the shape of that emptiness hold him. As he had held him.
III
Bush never spoke of Kennedy. He didn't have to, he was a living reminder of his absence. At times Hornblower fancied he caught Bush looking at him accusingly. But that was an injustice, he knew what he saw was the reflection of his own failure.
A fierce jealousy gnawed at him without respite. More than anything, Hornblower wanted to know what had passed those last watches of the night. He coveted those final hours Bush had spent with Kennedy. It should have been him. He should have been there. Why hadn't Bush stopped him? That was futile. Hornblower knew Bush couldn't have stopped him. Nothing and no one could have stopped Kennedy any more than one man could stop the tide from turning or a river from flowing to the sea. That infamous damn stubbornness.
Of what had passed that final night Bush said nothing, kept close council. He was a guarded man, in perpetual storm trim. But like a cautiously rigged ship he could weather any storm. And weather he did. Impetuous squalls around the Mediterranean, the long rolling storms of the Atlantic, furious demented hurricanes in the tropics and the colder, more bitter storms of the captain's ire.
Bush was like a shuttered lantern, light and warmth shielded inside. To be called on when required, there when needed. Whereas Kennedy had shone like a beacon. But it was the same light, the same strength.
IV
Hornblower had never been easy with other men. Initially his reserve had set him apart, now rank bolstered the barricades. His first captain, Keene, had shown as little insight in this as in all else. A man of war, a vessel of hundreds of souls, was the perfect place to find solitude. He had only to ship his quarterdeck face to be alone. Truly the position of captain was a station of isolation.
Oh he knew his men were true, knew that they admired him, trusted him, loved him in their way. Knew they would die for him. But he didn't want anyone else to die for him. He had enough blood on his hands. Pointless. They were at war after all.
It had been different with Archie. He didn't have to try. Right from the first. He didn't have to do anything, he could just be. And he didn't have to be anyone. Not the earnest midshipman, the conscientious lieutenant, the upright captain, the dutiful husband. Lord how had that transpired? He could just be himself. And Archie had drawn him out, shown him facets of himself that he had never dreamed existed. But they were gone, just as he was gone. Hornblower knew that he would never again stand shaking on the quarterdeck, trying desperately not to lose his composure and dissolve into unseemly fits of laughter as Mr Kennedy stood aft with a look of utter guileless innocence. But what need had a captain of His Britannic Majesty's Royal Navy of laugher anyway? What need had he? It was simply conduct unbecoming. Yes, what need had he?
V
Kennedy's voice still haunted him. Light, so light. But Archie had never been afraid to speak, had never been afraid to put into words all the things that Hornblower observed but lacked the courage to voice. The folly of a futile mission, a captain's madness, the fine line between injustice and discipline. And other things, other things; friendship and love and need and want and please and god. Words that would never pass his lips.
The hardest thing was the simple absence. The fact that Archie just wasn't there. Months passed, years now, and Hornblower still expected to turn around and find him there. There was no eye to catch and that pained him the most. Even now he looked for that blue flash of assent or caution or amusement. But it wasn't there. Archie was gone.
Instead he met a cool blue grey gaze, with all the hidden depth of a winter sky.
The passage at the beginning of this piece is from Iain Chrichton Smith's poem A' Dol Dhachaidh or Going Home.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Hornblower, (Kennedy), Bush
Rating: R
Spoilers: Mutiny & Retribution
Notes: No slash, no smut, no kink. Just good old fashioned angst. With added Bush for good measure. This is really a follow up to Impression which I posted way back in December.
and I will hear in a room by myself
a ghost or two ceaselessly moving,
the ghost of each error, the ghost of each guilt,
the ghost of each time I walked past
a wounded man on a stony road,
the ghost of nothingness scrutinising
my dumb room with distant face,
I
Captain Horatio Hornblower was standing on the weather side of the quarterdeck, hands clasped behind his back, one finger flickering restlessly, feet apart braced easily against the roll of the ship, eyes forward, fixed on the horizon, and he was cursing Archie Kennedy. Cursing him silently and sincerely, as he did every day, as he had done every day for longer than he cared to remember. Cursing him for having lived, and for having died. "Damn it Archie, why did you have to go?" Then he recanted. As he did every day.
He often wondered how Kennedy would have judged Captain Hornblower but he was not man enough to face the answer. And what kind of man would he have been had Archie lived? What kind of captain? Foolishness. Kennedy was gone and so was the man that Hornblower might have been.
The man he was now the usages of the navy had made him. Hornblower knew this. He knew he had chosen the cowardly path, to hide behind the implacable facade of Admiralty duty and honour. It was a sham but he was afraid to step out from behind that facade. Afraid to look that man full in the face. Afraid that a single glimpse would breach the facade and bring the entire edifice tumbling down.
Kennedy had completed him. Had completed that younger, braver self before the arbitrary nature of naval law and Admiralty justice had opened his eyes to the true nature of duty and service and command. Before he'd seen the tarnish on the swab.
II
He continued to scan the horizon. Always looking forward, never looking back, always moving on, with a driven restless energy. Always trying to get away. But he could never put enough distance between them. Between the here and now and what might have been.
He had expected the pain to lessen, the wound to heal but it hadn't. It just became part of him. It left a space inside, an emptiness that would not be filled. Just as some men carry a bullet in shoulder or thigh, a reminder of an engagement that almost ended their life. The wound might ache in the damp and the cold but most carried that metal with pride, a reminder of their good fortune in living. But he felt no pride, and if this was good fortune?
It was the futility he still could not accept. It was a senseless death. If only Kennedy had died when Simpson cut the rope, or had failed to outrun the spark on the bridge or had died right there in his arms on the deck of Renown. Another bright soul lost gloriously in battle. But it hadn't been glorious it had been sordid and ignominious and unnecessary. If only Buckland had been more vigilant, the marine less .....
He could still remember it vividly, as if he was still there, as if he'd never left that precise moment. Why had he not known? Why had he not known immediately that Archie was dying? He had just sat there, ignorant, unseeing, rebuking him while he choked on his own blood. And he hadn't even noticed. If only he had seen, if only he had noticed then maybe.... But the time for maybe had passed before he had even noticed.
His words, that day tormented him endlessly. "Why?" An accusation, followed by graceless platitudes. Faced with the ultimate sacrifice he had not had the courage to speak. And so his silence haunted him. Silence and emptiness filling the spaces between duty and command. Sometimes in the dark of his cabin he let the shape of that emptiness hold him. As he had held him.
III
Bush never spoke of Kennedy. He didn't have to, he was a living reminder of his absence. At times Hornblower fancied he caught Bush looking at him accusingly. But that was an injustice, he knew what he saw was the reflection of his own failure.
A fierce jealousy gnawed at him without respite. More than anything, Hornblower wanted to know what had passed those last watches of the night. He coveted those final hours Bush had spent with Kennedy. It should have been him. He should have been there. Why hadn't Bush stopped him? That was futile. Hornblower knew Bush couldn't have stopped him. Nothing and no one could have stopped Kennedy any more than one man could stop the tide from turning or a river from flowing to the sea. That infamous damn stubbornness.
Of what had passed that final night Bush said nothing, kept close council. He was a guarded man, in perpetual storm trim. But like a cautiously rigged ship he could weather any storm. And weather he did. Impetuous squalls around the Mediterranean, the long rolling storms of the Atlantic, furious demented hurricanes in the tropics and the colder, more bitter storms of the captain's ire.
Bush was like a shuttered lantern, light and warmth shielded inside. To be called on when required, there when needed. Whereas Kennedy had shone like a beacon. But it was the same light, the same strength.
IV
Hornblower had never been easy with other men. Initially his reserve had set him apart, now rank bolstered the barricades. His first captain, Keene, had shown as little insight in this as in all else. A man of war, a vessel of hundreds of souls, was the perfect place to find solitude. He had only to ship his quarterdeck face to be alone. Truly the position of captain was a station of isolation.
Oh he knew his men were true, knew that they admired him, trusted him, loved him in their way. Knew they would die for him. But he didn't want anyone else to die for him. He had enough blood on his hands. Pointless. They were at war after all.
It had been different with Archie. He didn't have to try. Right from the first. He didn't have to do anything, he could just be. And he didn't have to be anyone. Not the earnest midshipman, the conscientious lieutenant, the upright captain, the dutiful husband. Lord how had that transpired? He could just be himself. And Archie had drawn him out, shown him facets of himself that he had never dreamed existed. But they were gone, just as he was gone. Hornblower knew that he would never again stand shaking on the quarterdeck, trying desperately not to lose his composure and dissolve into unseemly fits of laughter as Mr Kennedy stood aft with a look of utter guileless innocence. But what need had a captain of His Britannic Majesty's Royal Navy of laugher anyway? What need had he? It was simply conduct unbecoming. Yes, what need had he?
V
Kennedy's voice still haunted him. Light, so light. But Archie had never been afraid to speak, had never been afraid to put into words all the things that Hornblower observed but lacked the courage to voice. The folly of a futile mission, a captain's madness, the fine line between injustice and discipline. And other things, other things; friendship and love and need and want and please and god. Words that would never pass his lips.
The hardest thing was the simple absence. The fact that Archie just wasn't there. Months passed, years now, and Hornblower still expected to turn around and find him there. There was no eye to catch and that pained him the most. Even now he looked for that blue flash of assent or caution or amusement. But it wasn't there. Archie was gone.
Instead he met a cool blue grey gaze, with all the hidden depth of a winter sky.
The passage at the beginning of this piece is from Iain Chrichton Smith's poem A' Dol Dhachaidh or Going Home.