Justinian
Title: Justinian (2/2)
Author: Anteros
Characters: Clayton, Kennedy, Hornblower, Simpson
Rating: R
Notes: Clayton POV. Part two. Appologies for the delay in posting this. Part one can be found here.
Months passed, years, and still Kennedy endured.Despite the fits and the myriad persecutions that Simpson visited on him, he grew into a tough and resilient seaman, with a silent determination entirely at odds with the character of the bright gregarious boy that had come aboard so many years before. Kennedy was cunning too, much of the time he managed to keep one step ahead of his tormentor, disappearing unobtrusively before Simpson came off watch, reappearing only later when he was due on deck himself. Few of the mess ever noticed him leave and Clayton never knew where he went. But even Kennedy’s sharp wits were no match for Simpson. Jack always caught up with him, later if not sooner.
Then suddenly, without warning, Simpson himself disappeared. Transferred to the Portsmouth receiving ship on a temporary commission as acting lieutenant. Justinian held its breath; hardly daring to believe he was gone, fearing his return any day. Surely a commission, even one as unpromising as the receiving ship, was too good for Jack? But weeks passed into months and neither hide nor hair was seen of Jack Simpson. Clayton occasionally heard rumours of him that drifted across the anchorage to the fleet, but he tried not to listen.
The midshipmen wasted no time in toasting his departure and something akin to harmony reigned in the larboard berth. Cleveland and Heather jockeyed ineffectually for the vacant position of senior midshipman; Clayton was senior to both and older by far, but he left them to it.
Gradually Kennedy emerged from his shell and glimpses of his former high spirits reappeared. The fits became less frequent and finally stopped, and his disturbing detachment disappeared.
Officers and men came and went, among them one who revelled in the unfortunate name of Horatio Hornblower. A less likely candidate for the quarterdeck Clayton had ever seen. The new recruit was earnest, studious and seasick, and at seventeen, already too old to be joining the service. With a fatal combination of earnestness and naiveté he was easy sport for the other midshipmen. Cleveland and Hether teased him mercilessly, spinning outrageous yarns and sending him on spurious errands on an almost daily basis. Like the rest of the mess, Kennedy was not averse to making fun at Hornblower’s expense, but he always stepped in to ensure they stopped short of outright bullying. Hornblower, for his part, bore the continual ribbing with patient wry humour. He accepted the consequences of his ignorance with good grace, while at the same time applying himself diligently to accumulating the knowledge and experience he lacked, pressing Kennedy into service as his unlikely tutor.
Despite protestations to the contrary, Kennedy appeared to relish his new found role and was frequently to be found piloting Hornblower around the ship pointing out this line or that yard and patiently explaining the difference between buntlines and bobstays, ring tails and reef tackles. Hornblower might have been deficient in maritime experience but he soon revealed a talent for mathematics that put his shipmates in the shade. In return for the practical knowledge imparted by Kennedy, Hornblower took it upon himself to tutor his new friend in spherical geometry. Kennedy had little interest in and less aptitude for mathematics but he submitted to Hornblower’s lessons with good grace, though Clayton couldn’t help noticing that he frequently managed to turn the topic of study from sines and cosines to sonnets and verse. Before long, it was a common to see the pair of them seated together at the gunroom table, two heads bent over their books, one dark, one fair.
Wherever Hornblower went Kennedy was never far behind, keeping a close but unobtrusive watch on his new charge. Once Clayton had caught Kennedy’s eye as he was anxiously watching Hornblower attempting to gain the maintop by way of the futtock shrouds. When Kennedy realised he himself was being watched, he scowled and blushed furiously. Clayton had never once seen him blush in all the years he had been aboard Justinian.
Then just as unexpectedly as he had disappeared, like some malevolent revenant, Jack Simpson returned. His failure to pass for lieutenant had only added to his malicious temper and he wasted no time in reasserting his authority on his own petty fiefdom. Kennedy immediately withdrew into his shell, retreating into silence, avoiding his shipmates and giving his new friend a conspicuously wide berth. Hornblower was obviously concerned by the sudden change that had come over his formerly gregarious companion and confused as to why he was now avoiding him like the plague. Little good it did, it took only days for the fits to return and it was only a matter of time before Simpson reinstated the inquisition.
The last thing anyone expected was for the new boy to challenge Simpson. Clayton and Kennedy listened in horror and disbelief as Hornblower explained how he had called Simpson out, calmly calculating his chances as if it were simply a wager over a game of cards and the stakes little more than a few shillings.
“Tomorrow sees an end to it, Archie. One way or another, I shall be rid of him. I have an even chance.”
By the time Hornblower left them, Kennedy was almost beside himself.
“An even chance? He’s taken leave of his senses! We have to do something.”
“What to you suggest Archie?” Clayton was at a loss, dumbfounded by Hornblower’s reckless challenge.
“Something, anything!” Kennedy persisted. “Simpson will kill him, that’s for certain. You saw him, he’s never fought a duel in his life, he’s probably never even fired a pistol! He won’t stand a chance. We have to stop him Clayton.”
“Stop Jack?”
“Yes….no. Stop Horatio. We have to stop Horatio.”
Clayton made no reply. All he could hear was the small voice whispering in his ear. Coward. It should have been you.
Something about Hornblower’s calculated determination stung Henry Clayton to the quick. The boy wasn’t even eighteen and had been aboard for only a matter of months and yet he had done what no one else had dared, he had called Simpson’s bluff and was prepared to pay the price. Kennedy was right, the odds were far from even, Simpson was a quick, sure shot and was believed to have despatched several opponents in duels of questionable legality. But Clayton could see no way out. Hell would freeze over before Jack would offer an apology, and Hornblower would not back down. The boy had a sense of honour as high as his reckless courage. Now that the challenge had been issued there could be no honourable withdrawal.
Clayton was still mulling over what to do when he came off middle watch and made his way down to the berth. The lights had been extinguished and the ship was dark as Erebus. No matter, Clayton had spent long enough aboard Justinian to find his way in the pitch darkness, he knew every sprung board waiting to trip the unwary and where to duck to avoid the invisible deck beams. So he was startled when he stumbled over something right before the door of the larboard berth. He swore softly and, as he put his hand out to prevent himself falling, he felt rough wool and soft hair. As he regained his balance and his eyes adjusted to the darkness he was just able to pick out the small figure sitting hunched against the bulkhead.
“Archie? What in god’s name are you doing?”
Something glinted dull and cold in Kennedy’s hand, a pistol. When the boy spoke his voice was thick and hoarse and Clayton could smell spirits on his breath.
“I’ve got to stop him. I’ve got to stop Simpson from killing him.”
“And how are you going to do that Archie, by killing him yourself? Clayton was crouching by his side now, one hand placed cautiously on the pistol in his lap.
“No. No, I don’t know…just have to stop him.”
“Come on Archie.” Clayton, carefully slipped the pistol from Kennedy’s hand and pulled him to his feet, he staggered slightly as he rose.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Horatio doesn’t leave this ship.”
“You will? How?”
“Trust me Archie. He’s right, tomorrow sees an end to it. You have my word.”
Clayton was surprised how easy it had been to strike Hornblower down. Once he was resolved, he felt quite calm, though at the back of his mind he was aware of a curious sense of unreality.
Kennedy had watched ashen faced from the door of the gunroom as he struck the blow. As Hornblower crumpled to the floor, Kennedy was on his knees beside him. He pushed aside the cloak that had fallen over his face and ran his hand over the back of his head, his fingers came away sticky and wet with blood.
“Will he be all right? Are you sure you didn’t hit him too hard? What if you’ve cracked his skull? We can’t just leave him here…”
“He’ll be fine Archie,” Clayton reassured him, with more conviction than he felt.
Kennedy looked up at him doubtfully, unwilling to leave his friend lying senseless on the deck.
“The watch changes soon, Hether will find him, if he hasn’t come to by then already.”
Gently, Kennedy smoothed away a curl from Hornblower’s cheek; Clayton felt his heart tighten with sorrow and regret. Hornblower’s eyelids fluttered as Kennedy’s hand brushed against his cheek and he groaned quietly.
“Come away Archie, we must go before he comes round. The boat’s waiting, Jack’s already gone.”
Kennedy ran his hand once more over Hornblower’s head, stood slowly and took a long deep breath. With one last backward look, they left.
The carriage was waiting by the quayside as Clayton had ordered. They were to meet on the common land beyond the northern boundary of the town. As Hornblower’s second he had seen to the arrangements as best he could. Heavy freezing fog muffled the clatter of the horses’ hooves as the carriage started off through the quiet streets. Dawn was breaking cold, still and grey.
Kennedy was sitting opposite Clayton, their knees almost touching in the cramped confines of the small carriage. His anxiety had subsided into sullen silence and he was staring fixedly out the grimy window, completely still but for one finger plucking nervously at a thread hanging from his sleeve.
Clayton pulled the flask from his pocket and uncorked it, the astringent bloom of juniper filling the carriage. As he lifted it to his lips he noticed Kennedy was watching him so he passed the flask across the carriage to the boy. Kennedy scowled and turned away. Clayton shrugged and, with a wry smile, replaced the stopper and returned the flask to his pocket.
Huddled in his great coat, his breath clouding the air in front of him, Kennedy looked small and pale, little more than a child. But he wasn’t a child any more, he was gone eighteen now. Four years he had endured, four years of Jacks persecution and degradation. And yet here he was. The bright-eyed boy who had come aboard that clear spring day so many years before was rarely to be seen, in his place was a stubborn and resilient young man. That he had survived at all was testimony to his own endurance and determination, nothing more. No one had lifted a finger to help him, Kennedy had no one to thank on that score. Not a soul had dared to challenge Simpson, not until the ungainly figure of Horatio Hornblower had clambered aboard.
Clayton knew he should have done something, something more than his paltry attempts to patch up the damage. Four years he had stood back, watched helplessly, and done nothing. Somehow, it had been outwith his power to act.
It was not that he did not care for Kennedy, far from it. Nor that he felt it was none of his business, god knows he felt culpable for every cross Simpson had laid on Kennedy’s back. It was much, much simpler than that. He had been afraid, they all were, every last man of them had been in thrall to Jack’s dominion. It had taken Hornblower to break the spell, to show them that they could be free of Simpson’s petty tyranny. All it took was courage.
He may have had a more realistic estimation of the odds than Hornblower, but now it came to it, Henry Clayton felt oddly calm. There was no fear, just a curious sense of relief, elation almost, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Looking across the carriage at Kennedy, he wondered idly why he hadn’t challenged Simpson before. He had watched Kennedy suffer for years and done nothing, and yet here he was, stepping forward to save the life of a boy he had known for barely a matter of months. Though he could not put it into words, there was something in Hornblower, some rare quality that had roused him to act. If the lad ever made it to post he would be a captain men would follow against any odds.
The carriage had passed out of the town and was pulling up the hill towards the common. Kennedy was sitting upright now, his chin lifted and lips pressed together in that familiar expression of stubborn determination. The coachman was shouting, urging the horses on up the hillside, their hooves ringing on the frozen ground. Not much further. Clayton felt he should say something to Kennedy, something to explain why he had stood by and done nothing, something that would explain why he had been powerless to act. But what could be say? It was too late for contrition now. There were no words that could absolve him of that guilt. The carriage had rattled to a halt, the horses snorting and blowing. Through the small window he could see Simpson standing on the top of the knoll, his back to the road. Clayton turned to Kennedy, held his clear blue gaze for a moment and smiled. There would be time enough to atone for his sins.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Clayton, Kennedy, Hornblower, Simpson
Rating: R
Notes: Clayton POV. Part two. Appologies for the delay in posting this. Part one can be found here.
Months passed, years, and still Kennedy endured.Despite the fits and the myriad persecutions that Simpson visited on him, he grew into a tough and resilient seaman, with a silent determination entirely at odds with the character of the bright gregarious boy that had come aboard so many years before. Kennedy was cunning too, much of the time he managed to keep one step ahead of his tormentor, disappearing unobtrusively before Simpson came off watch, reappearing only later when he was due on deck himself. Few of the mess ever noticed him leave and Clayton never knew where he went. But even Kennedy’s sharp wits were no match for Simpson. Jack always caught up with him, later if not sooner.
Then suddenly, without warning, Simpson himself disappeared. Transferred to the Portsmouth receiving ship on a temporary commission as acting lieutenant. Justinian held its breath; hardly daring to believe he was gone, fearing his return any day. Surely a commission, even one as unpromising as the receiving ship, was too good for Jack? But weeks passed into months and neither hide nor hair was seen of Jack Simpson. Clayton occasionally heard rumours of him that drifted across the anchorage to the fleet, but he tried not to listen.
The midshipmen wasted no time in toasting his departure and something akin to harmony reigned in the larboard berth. Cleveland and Heather jockeyed ineffectually for the vacant position of senior midshipman; Clayton was senior to both and older by far, but he left them to it.
Gradually Kennedy emerged from his shell and glimpses of his former high spirits reappeared. The fits became less frequent and finally stopped, and his disturbing detachment disappeared.
Officers and men came and went, among them one who revelled in the unfortunate name of Horatio Hornblower. A less likely candidate for the quarterdeck Clayton had ever seen. The new recruit was earnest, studious and seasick, and at seventeen, already too old to be joining the service. With a fatal combination of earnestness and naiveté he was easy sport for the other midshipmen. Cleveland and Hether teased him mercilessly, spinning outrageous yarns and sending him on spurious errands on an almost daily basis. Like the rest of the mess, Kennedy was not averse to making fun at Hornblower’s expense, but he always stepped in to ensure they stopped short of outright bullying. Hornblower, for his part, bore the continual ribbing with patient wry humour. He accepted the consequences of his ignorance with good grace, while at the same time applying himself diligently to accumulating the knowledge and experience he lacked, pressing Kennedy into service as his unlikely tutor.
Despite protestations to the contrary, Kennedy appeared to relish his new found role and was frequently to be found piloting Hornblower around the ship pointing out this line or that yard and patiently explaining the difference between buntlines and bobstays, ring tails and reef tackles. Hornblower might have been deficient in maritime experience but he soon revealed a talent for mathematics that put his shipmates in the shade. In return for the practical knowledge imparted by Kennedy, Hornblower took it upon himself to tutor his new friend in spherical geometry. Kennedy had little interest in and less aptitude for mathematics but he submitted to Hornblower’s lessons with good grace, though Clayton couldn’t help noticing that he frequently managed to turn the topic of study from sines and cosines to sonnets and verse. Before long, it was a common to see the pair of them seated together at the gunroom table, two heads bent over their books, one dark, one fair.
Wherever Hornblower went Kennedy was never far behind, keeping a close but unobtrusive watch on his new charge. Once Clayton had caught Kennedy’s eye as he was anxiously watching Hornblower attempting to gain the maintop by way of the futtock shrouds. When Kennedy realised he himself was being watched, he scowled and blushed furiously. Clayton had never once seen him blush in all the years he had been aboard Justinian.
Then just as unexpectedly as he had disappeared, like some malevolent revenant, Jack Simpson returned. His failure to pass for lieutenant had only added to his malicious temper and he wasted no time in reasserting his authority on his own petty fiefdom. Kennedy immediately withdrew into his shell, retreating into silence, avoiding his shipmates and giving his new friend a conspicuously wide berth. Hornblower was obviously concerned by the sudden change that had come over his formerly gregarious companion and confused as to why he was now avoiding him like the plague. Little good it did, it took only days for the fits to return and it was only a matter of time before Simpson reinstated the inquisition.
The last thing anyone expected was for the new boy to challenge Simpson. Clayton and Kennedy listened in horror and disbelief as Hornblower explained how he had called Simpson out, calmly calculating his chances as if it were simply a wager over a game of cards and the stakes little more than a few shillings.
“Tomorrow sees an end to it, Archie. One way or another, I shall be rid of him. I have an even chance.”
By the time Hornblower left them, Kennedy was almost beside himself.
“An even chance? He’s taken leave of his senses! We have to do something.”
“What to you suggest Archie?” Clayton was at a loss, dumbfounded by Hornblower’s reckless challenge.
“Something, anything!” Kennedy persisted. “Simpson will kill him, that’s for certain. You saw him, he’s never fought a duel in his life, he’s probably never even fired a pistol! He won’t stand a chance. We have to stop him Clayton.”
“Stop Jack?”
“Yes….no. Stop Horatio. We have to stop Horatio.”
Clayton made no reply. All he could hear was the small voice whispering in his ear. Coward. It should have been you.
Something about Hornblower’s calculated determination stung Henry Clayton to the quick. The boy wasn’t even eighteen and had been aboard for only a matter of months and yet he had done what no one else had dared, he had called Simpson’s bluff and was prepared to pay the price. Kennedy was right, the odds were far from even, Simpson was a quick, sure shot and was believed to have despatched several opponents in duels of questionable legality. But Clayton could see no way out. Hell would freeze over before Jack would offer an apology, and Hornblower would not back down. The boy had a sense of honour as high as his reckless courage. Now that the challenge had been issued there could be no honourable withdrawal.
Clayton was still mulling over what to do when he came off middle watch and made his way down to the berth. The lights had been extinguished and the ship was dark as Erebus. No matter, Clayton had spent long enough aboard Justinian to find his way in the pitch darkness, he knew every sprung board waiting to trip the unwary and where to duck to avoid the invisible deck beams. So he was startled when he stumbled over something right before the door of the larboard berth. He swore softly and, as he put his hand out to prevent himself falling, he felt rough wool and soft hair. As he regained his balance and his eyes adjusted to the darkness he was just able to pick out the small figure sitting hunched against the bulkhead.
“Archie? What in god’s name are you doing?”
Something glinted dull and cold in Kennedy’s hand, a pistol. When the boy spoke his voice was thick and hoarse and Clayton could smell spirits on his breath.
“I’ve got to stop him. I’ve got to stop Simpson from killing him.”
“And how are you going to do that Archie, by killing him yourself? Clayton was crouching by his side now, one hand placed cautiously on the pistol in his lap.
“No. No, I don’t know…just have to stop him.”
“Come on Archie.” Clayton, carefully slipped the pistol from Kennedy’s hand and pulled him to his feet, he staggered slightly as he rose.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Horatio doesn’t leave this ship.”
“You will? How?”
“Trust me Archie. He’s right, tomorrow sees an end to it. You have my word.”
Clayton was surprised how easy it had been to strike Hornblower down. Once he was resolved, he felt quite calm, though at the back of his mind he was aware of a curious sense of unreality.
Kennedy had watched ashen faced from the door of the gunroom as he struck the blow. As Hornblower crumpled to the floor, Kennedy was on his knees beside him. He pushed aside the cloak that had fallen over his face and ran his hand over the back of his head, his fingers came away sticky and wet with blood.
“Will he be all right? Are you sure you didn’t hit him too hard? What if you’ve cracked his skull? We can’t just leave him here…”
“He’ll be fine Archie,” Clayton reassured him, with more conviction than he felt.
Kennedy looked up at him doubtfully, unwilling to leave his friend lying senseless on the deck.
“The watch changes soon, Hether will find him, if he hasn’t come to by then already.”
Gently, Kennedy smoothed away a curl from Hornblower’s cheek; Clayton felt his heart tighten with sorrow and regret. Hornblower’s eyelids fluttered as Kennedy’s hand brushed against his cheek and he groaned quietly.
“Come away Archie, we must go before he comes round. The boat’s waiting, Jack’s already gone.”
Kennedy ran his hand once more over Hornblower’s head, stood slowly and took a long deep breath. With one last backward look, they left.
The carriage was waiting by the quayside as Clayton had ordered. They were to meet on the common land beyond the northern boundary of the town. As Hornblower’s second he had seen to the arrangements as best he could. Heavy freezing fog muffled the clatter of the horses’ hooves as the carriage started off through the quiet streets. Dawn was breaking cold, still and grey.
Kennedy was sitting opposite Clayton, their knees almost touching in the cramped confines of the small carriage. His anxiety had subsided into sullen silence and he was staring fixedly out the grimy window, completely still but for one finger plucking nervously at a thread hanging from his sleeve.
Clayton pulled the flask from his pocket and uncorked it, the astringent bloom of juniper filling the carriage. As he lifted it to his lips he noticed Kennedy was watching him so he passed the flask across the carriage to the boy. Kennedy scowled and turned away. Clayton shrugged and, with a wry smile, replaced the stopper and returned the flask to his pocket.
Huddled in his great coat, his breath clouding the air in front of him, Kennedy looked small and pale, little more than a child. But he wasn’t a child any more, he was gone eighteen now. Four years he had endured, four years of Jacks persecution and degradation. And yet here he was. The bright-eyed boy who had come aboard that clear spring day so many years before was rarely to be seen, in his place was a stubborn and resilient young man. That he had survived at all was testimony to his own endurance and determination, nothing more. No one had lifted a finger to help him, Kennedy had no one to thank on that score. Not a soul had dared to challenge Simpson, not until the ungainly figure of Horatio Hornblower had clambered aboard.
Clayton knew he should have done something, something more than his paltry attempts to patch up the damage. Four years he had stood back, watched helplessly, and done nothing. Somehow, it had been outwith his power to act.
It was not that he did not care for Kennedy, far from it. Nor that he felt it was none of his business, god knows he felt culpable for every cross Simpson had laid on Kennedy’s back. It was much, much simpler than that. He had been afraid, they all were, every last man of them had been in thrall to Jack’s dominion. It had taken Hornblower to break the spell, to show them that they could be free of Simpson’s petty tyranny. All it took was courage.
He may have had a more realistic estimation of the odds than Hornblower, but now it came to it, Henry Clayton felt oddly calm. There was no fear, just a curious sense of relief, elation almost, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Looking across the carriage at Kennedy, he wondered idly why he hadn’t challenged Simpson before. He had watched Kennedy suffer for years and done nothing, and yet here he was, stepping forward to save the life of a boy he had known for barely a matter of months. Though he could not put it into words, there was something in Hornblower, some rare quality that had roused him to act. If the lad ever made it to post he would be a captain men would follow against any odds.
The carriage had passed out of the town and was pulling up the hill towards the common. Kennedy was sitting upright now, his chin lifted and lips pressed together in that familiar expression of stubborn determination. The coachman was shouting, urging the horses on up the hillside, their hooves ringing on the frozen ground. Not much further. Clayton felt he should say something to Kennedy, something to explain why he had stood by and done nothing, something that would explain why he had been powerless to act. But what could be say? It was too late for contrition now. There were no words that could absolve him of that guilt. The carriage had rattled to a halt, the horses snorting and blowing. Through the small window he could see Simpson standing on the top of the knoll, his back to the road. Clayton turned to Kennedy, held his clear blue gaze for a moment and smiled. There would be time enough to atone for his sins.