Horatio ("the") Hornblower wins the Emmy!!!!!!

Acting Lieutenant Archie Kennedy drew a shaky breath, and keeping his head low,peered around in the darkness in search of his men. A musket round whistled sharply past his ear and he burrowed deeper into the ground.

"Styles?" he whispered. "Styles? Matthews?" His only answer was the rustling of the bushes as a long shadow snaked its way toward him.

"Archie! Are you all right? How does it look?"

"God, Horatio! It looks damned awful, nothing like we planned."

Lt. Horatio Hornblower flashed a grin at his shipmate. "Looks like more Frog legs for dinner, eh?"

"Sometime we must talk about what passes for a sense of humour with you. What brought you up here? I thought you and Cleveland were going to cover our retreat to the boats?"

"Cleveland's all right, I just thought I'd see if I couldn't lend a hand up here. It could be tough slogging to take out that signal tower now."

Kennedy was able to make out his friend's face in the tiny sliver of moonlight. To him, Hornblower looked as cool and relaxed as if he were playing a rubber of his beloved whist in the relative comfort of Captain Pellew's cabin. Another musket ball plowed its way into the ground, blasting up dirt near Kennedy's knee. He tucked himself into an even tighter ball, noticing with more resignation than resentment that Horatio didn't even blink at the fine marksmanship display being put on by the soldiers of the French revolution.

"Impossible, I think," Archie whispered. "Our estimate of their numbers was completely off, and we no longer have the advantage of surprise. I can't even see how to manage pulling the men back to the boats without getting us all killed."

"Sometimes what a well-equipped force of men cannot achieve is best left to a single man to do, provided that man keeps a cool head and does not lose sight of his mission." Horatio clapped a reassuring arm around Archie's tense shoulders. Kennedy eyed him with something akin to horror mingled with admiration.

"Surely you don't mean to attempt that tower alone?! Horatio, it's madness."

"Not me, Archie, " Hornblower laughed. "Not this time. My duty lies elsewhere. You think about it though." Hornblower flashed another smile at the junior officer and eased away in the darkness, leaving Kennedy to ponder the possibilities.

_______________________

"Don't shoot, Styles! It's only me." Hornblower crawled on his elbows and knees through the low brush until he was side by side with his shipmate.

"Cor, Mr. Hornblower, we're in a fix now, no mistake. What next, try to make it back to the boats?" The scars and sweat on Styles' face gleamed dully, and he shifted his pistol nervously.

"No, we wait for Mr. Kennedy's signal."

"What signal, sir? He's as trapped as the rest of us."

"Mr. Kennedy is going to take out the tower, and he'll have to pass through the enemy line to get there and back again. He'll need covering fire -- but be damned sure you don't shoot him!"

"He's what?! He'll never make it! It's suicide, sir." Styles shook his head fiercely.

"He can. What he needs, what we all need right now, is for you and every other man out here to stand fast. Don't attempt an advance, that would be suicide. But you've got to cover Kennedy, and if he falls" -- his voice faltered -- "if he falls, you'll have to take his place." Hornblower pointed a finger at the man he had sailed with, commanded, rowed beside. "You're the steadiest man I ever saw, Styles. It's your greatest strength. And now's when we need it most, so dig down under that mat of fleas and lice and bring it out. Here comes Kennedy. Just follow his orders, he knows what to do."

_________________________

Hornblower pulled Oldroyd bodily down into the dirt just as a shot passed through that area of space only just vacated by Oldroyd's forehead.

"Do you want to get yourself killed, man?!" hissed Hornblower. "Keep your head down. What were you thinking?"

The young man was almost twitching with nerves. "I was thinking -- I dunno what I was thinking, sir. Maybe...I was thinking maybe I should get back to the boats."

"That's always been a problem for you, hasn't it, Oldroyd? You're so used to letting others do your thinking for you that when you're forced to think for yourself, you're like a ship in the stays. Listen to me, Mr. Kennedy is going to take out the tower, and Styles will be covering for him. What are you going to do?"

Hornblower stared at the abashed sailor a long while. "What are you going to do?" he persisted.

There was a long silence before Oldroyd said softly, doubtfully, "My orders are to take that tower with Mr. Kennedy." He swallowed hard.

Hornblower pressed him harder. "And if you cannot go with Mr. Kennedy? What do your orders say to that?"

"I have no other orders, sir."

"Then what should you do?"

Another long silence ensued.

"Stand my ground, sir?" he questioned.

"There, Oldroyd, you see? If you will only get into the practice of thinking for yourself you will almost always know what your next move is to be."

"But sir, how do I know what is the right thing to do?"

Hornblower cocked his chin and stared directly at the young man.. "That's very easy, Oldroyd. The right thing to do is almost always the thing you least want to do."

Oldroyd blinked slowly as he digested this.

_________________________

Matthews edged over beside his lieutenant.

"I'm right glad you've come up to gi'e us a hand, sir," came his gravelly voice. "This one's a mess, a fine mess, I don' mind saying ta ya."

"Easy, Matthews, easy. Mr. Kennedy has things in hand. I've got to get back to Mr. Cleveland now."

"But, sir!" Matthews eyes widened. "Aren't you takin' us back?"

"By no means. Our orders were to take out that tower. Mr. Kennedy is just about to see to that. I'm supposed to be back at the boats."

"I don't think the men are going stay put here for much longer, sir, meaning no disrespect." The grizzled little sailor was more than a little alarmed at what in an officer less admired than his beloved Lieutenant Hornblower he would call a complete lack of understanding of the situation.

Hornblower paused, and faced Matthews. In the thin light cast by slimmest of moons, Matthews looked directly into those clear, calm eyes. "You've always been a natural leader of men, Matthews. And they've never needed you to be more so than these men here tonight do. If they try to go back to the boats before Mr. Kennedy has blown that tower, you must see to it that they do not, because I swear I'll shoot the first man that comes down that cliff if I don't see Mr. Kennedy right beside him."

Matthews grinned. "Aye, aye, sir."

_______________________________

Acting Lieutenant Kennedy was laughing when he reboarded the Indefatigable just as the sun was edging above the horizon. His eyebrows were singed, and his uniform was almost indistinguishable for the dirt and blood that covered it. Yet his spirits soared. He'd done it, he exulted! Slipped right past the damned Frogs, not once but twice -- though he'd not have made it the second time without Styles there to blast that Frenchie bearing down on him with a saber -- and blown that tower in betwixt. He grinned at Styles, and happily pounded each man's back as they filed past him.

"Mr. Kennedy! Mr. Cleveland! Report if you please!" The strident tones of Captain Sir Edward Pellew rang down from the quarterdeck. Pellew's sharp eyes swept over the bevy of men returning from the raid. Before Kennedy could move, Pellew's voice sounded clearly once again.

"Where is Lieutenant Hornblower?"

Kennedy glanced around, not seeing Horatio, but noticing the ashen look on Cleveland's face. Cleveland stepped forward, swallowing with some difficulty.

"Sir. I regret to inform you that Lieutenant Hornblower is dead. He was -- cut down almost as soon as we landed. He -- I -- he stepped right in front of me, sir. We were under such heavy fire..." His voice trailed off.

Kennedy seemed to hear the words at a distance. He shook his head in disbelief. "That can't be right," he objected. "I saw Horatio, he spoke to me, up on the cliff."

Cleveland insisted, "It's true, Captain. The men in my boat all saw him fall. Jacobs, Mortenson, all of them, sir."

Pellew's expression was one first of disbelief, then of carefully controlled agony.

"Mr. Kennedy, report to my cabin in one hour, if you please." His voice had never sounded harsher to the men who watched as he swept from the deck without waiting for Kennedy's response, who was incapable of one anyway.

____________________________

Pellew paced his quarterdeck that night, unable to reconcile the men's odd accounts of the raid with his pragmatic mind. And yet, beyond his mind, beyond even his heart, far down into his very soul he wanted to believe them, wanted to believe that that most gifted of young officers had not entirely abandoned his captain to continue this exhausting war without his invaluable assistance. Gripping the rail, he closed his eyes and turned his face to the wind, bearing down on the grief, refusing to let it swamp him. This must be, he thought, what a ship felt like when she was dismasted. Grimly, he forced himself away from

the analogy and the pain. Young Kennedy had certainly proved himself in the raid, he thought. Perhaps he should put him forward for the lieutenant's examination in the next dispatches?

"I quite agree, sir. I think Mr. Kennedy has proved himself ready for command."

Pellew swung sharply around, seeing but not believing; wanting to believe, but -- a rare occasion in his life -- afraid to do so. The transparent figure of a tall, slim lieutenant stood by the rail, his long queue unruffled by the steady breeze, a dark stain spoiling the pristine white of his shirt. With a tremendous effort, Pellew pulled himself together enough to inquire in his usual acerbic style, "Do you indeed, Mr. Hornblower? It is thanks to you, sir, that I am now forced to find a new lieutenant!" He paused, blinking back the dampness gathering in his eyes.. "And just look at your new u-nee-form, sir. You're a disgrace!"

"Yes, sir," agreed a smiling Hornblower.

Pellew turned back to the railing, and said very softly, "I'm very glad to have you back on board, Mr. Hornblower."

Hornblower smiled. "And I to be back, sir."

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Chapter 2: Pellew

by Alison James

 

 

 

"Mama," called Mavis, "There’s a packet of letters!"

Sophie stepped from the carriage. Her nerves were a little jangled from the long drive back from Chawton. A visit to Miss Austen was always enjoyable, filled with passionate conversation, walks in the gentle slopes of the chalk Downs and through ancient churchyards, but she was glad to be home. The leafy Meon Valley lanes were beautiful but bumpy; her head ached. Since the miscarriage in Gibraltar, she had prayed each month ––– but Edward had been away in the Channel for six weeks already, and it was not to be this time, either, despite her hopes when for a while her courses did not appear: only disappointment, the usual cramps again, and a migraine starting. Still, the joy on Mavis’s face was a welcome beyond price, and she rubbed her eyes and then held out her arms, into which Mavis flew with all the force of her eleven years.

"I got three from Mr. Hornblower! He drew me a hoist saying Happy Birthday, and another one with a picture of a seagull stealing a piece of biscuit out of his hand when he ran up on the quarterdeck in the middle of breakfast! He is so funny Mama, you should see the way he drew his face when the gull was snatching it away!"

"Oh that’s lovely, darling. What a kind thing, to write back to you. No more conversations with him in the oak tree, I hope?"

"Mama, don’t laugh at me! I really did think it was him that day! I thought he’d come home and come out into the garden to find me and climbed up the tree after me. And my foot slipped and I thought I was going to crash all the way to the ground, but I fell onto that branch instead and just grazed myself and he kissed it all better and told me I had better be a bit more careful next time, specially if I intended to go up in the rigging again!"

Mavis was about to tell her mother that actually, yes: Horatio had been again the day before, at bed-time, when she missed her mother’s goodnight kiss, and told her this time that she must put aside all thoughts of marrying him, for he was far too old for her, but that he would love her and be her best friend always; but she saw the drawn look on her mother’s face, and thought better of it. She did not understand these appearances herself, only that they felt as warm and unfrightening as buttered toast and cocoa on a cold day. And when next he came ashore, she would soon put him right about the difference in their ages.

"You must have hit your head as well as your knee, darling, I told you. Did Papa write to you?"

"Of course, you know he wouldn’t forget my birthday, no matter how busy he is! He told me to grow up like you and the world should be doubly blessed. And he told me to mind you and not answer back – but he said he had a bad way of being convinced he had the right of it when he was a little boy, and answering-back to the grown-ups himself, so he understood how tempting it was – but that I must learn that discretion is sometimes the better part of valour, and that to be gracious may be better than to be right. Although I am missing numbers forty-one and forty-two."

Mavis was holding Sophie’s hand as they went inside the cool green hallway. The maid curtseyed and took Sophie’s cloak: "Madam, you look all-in. Let me fetch you a pot of tea right away!"

"Oh, thank you so much, Maryanne. That would be lovely."

"There are six letters for you, mama, five came in the packet and one by itself. All from papa."

Sophie sat down in the parlour and brushed the hair back from her face. No matter how hard she tried to keep it in check, it had an unruly way of falling down and escaping from its confines. Edward loved it best, so; he had told her, many times, sometimes with words, sometimes with a look, sometimes with the force of his response when she unpinned it and it tumbled across his chest. This thought took her breath away and she had to force her thoughts away from it before she missed him more than she could bear.

Mavis ran in with the letters. They were all numbered but one. That one was thin and the seal hasty, unlike Edward’s usual care. His hand on the outside of the folded sheet seemed spiky and when she saw the word "urgent", her heart turned over. Was he coming home? Oh, please, let it be that!

She set aside the numbered letters and broke open the single sheet.

"Sophie ––––––––

Oh Christ Sophie ––– !"

Her hand flew to her mouth. His writing here was almost illegible. A great blot covered the next word, and then more anguished still, her name once more, and then

"Oh my darling I am so destroyed I have started this letter any number of times and then when I come to write it I cannot –– but I must –– let me say it then –– Sophie Horatio is lost. Dead. Cut down by a French bullet on the beach and I that ordered him to lead the raid on a tower that could have stood till Doomsday and not been worth a hair of his head O Sophie O Sophie ––––––

They left his body on the beach for pity’s sake and I sent them back for it, another man was lost in so doing ––––––

He was everything an officer should be and Sophie to you alone I can express this, how dearly I loved him ––––– !!!!!!!! He was a son to me oh dear God I gave the order Sophie –– ! It is war and I had no choice but I would rather have lost half my command and certainly my ship than him –––– now I must take hold of my self and go out there on deck and send his body into the sea and say the words of the funeral service with a firm clear voice, how am I to do that??? O God help me Sophie I sent him there –––––––

I was more proud of him than I can ever say, I hope to God he knew it ––––– this is a loss to his country as well as to me and to his men, he was set to be a shining light in this Navy, a natural leader of men and braver than a lion, I have written as much and more to his father already as if that could be any comfort at all, which it cannot –––––– all the praises in the world are as salt in the wound of his loss ––––––

Sophie pray for me, I have not the strength to go on and yet I must –––––

Tell Mavis gently my love, oh Christ I let her love him too, encouraged it even, how could anyone help it that knew him?

Sophie we shall be home soon but I had to tell you now, I could not bear to say the words to you and see your face ––– an act of cowardice? No, I want you to know so that when you greet me I do not have to tell you then, for I need you to comfort me and not I you –– pray for us Sophie, his death is on my soul and shall be as long as I shall live. ––––– E.

She had let out a cry, and Mavis came running: "Mama, what? What is it?"

Sophie could not speak. Mavis looked into her face. "It’s not Papa, it can’t be, that’s his writing – is he hurt, mama?"

Sophie shook her head.
"Mama, is – is Mr Hornblower all right?"

Sophie shook her head again, and tried to find some words to break the news to her darling daughter.

 

Two weeks came and went: weeks of red eyes and sighs, of wrung hands and sleepless nights. No more letters came; they looked each day for the Indy coming into harbour, for word, for the sound of a carriage in the street. Mavis spent most of her time alone, up in the crook of the great oak tree; Sophie, in her wisdom, did not chase her down, nor even insist that she go to school.

The days passed like beetles crawling.

Mavis did not tell her mother that Horatio had come to her once again, that morning. "Now Mavis," he had said, "Your papa is coming home today. And he is hurt beyond measure. Be patient with him sweetheart, and do not plague him, and above all do not ask him a lot of questions."

"But I want to know!"

"Of course you do – and he will tell you, if you will but wait until he can bear to do so, darling. For I tell you, Mavis, if you press him, you will only hurt him more. And you don’t want to do that, do you?"

Mavis hung her head. "No. But I still think it was stupid."

"No, sweetheart, it was war and it was his duty. And mine too. And if you look at him like that he will only find it harder to forgive himself. Yes, that look. Don’t think your thoughts are secret, Mavis, for they are written all over your face. You must not blame him!"

"How can I help it? I love you! – loved you!" Mavis burst into tears.

"I hope you still do, Mavis. For I still love you –– and I always shall!"

"Do you promise?"

"How could I help it?" She felt herself gathered to his breast and held while she wept bitterly. A kiss dropped gently on the top of her tangled hair: the kiss she had longed for, but never received. Her sobs abated, and so then she was alone again, and fumbling for her handkerchief.

 

 

Sophie was waiting in the street for him, as she had been every day for a week, walking up and down looking for him. He did not even ask how she had known he was to come home today: just stepped down from the carriage into her arms, all dusty and sweaty as he was, and drew great shuddering breaths, and said nothing –– he could not –– and squeezed her tightly, more tightly than he meant to, for sure, and she let him, knowing he needed this and even if her ribs cracked she would not tell him to let go.

At last he came into the house, and Maryanne hurried in with tea, having seen the carriage draw up. He did not sit, but paced up and down the drawing-room as if it were his quarterdeck. Sophie knew better than to stop him. His face broke her heart: she had never seen him so careworn, not even the time he had come home to her in a fever with the pleurisy and she had nursed him back to health, in the early days of their marriage, back in that little house in Gibraltar. Then he had been drawn and glittering-eyed, but somehow in his fever burning more fiercely than ever – she blushed when she recalled how they had disobeyed the doctor’s orders that he was not to exert himself, for as he had said when begging her for the third time with a break in his voice, how could he lie all day and all night in her bed and not ––– !

But this time the fire was out – cold – his eyes seemed so flat, she could not see into their depths at all, and this worried her more than anything he had failed to say. The lines in his cheeks and brow seemed to have been scored with knives.

"I am on my way to London," he said at last; and he failed to say anything further of importance all afternoon and most of the evening, even when Mavis came flying into the room and he gathered her up in his arms and let her howl upon his breast, and the look on his face then burned Sophie to the core, so tortured was it, until he saw her tearful gaze on him, and turned from her.

It was as if he had been allotted only a dozen sentences to say in the six hours between his arrival and bed-time, and he must eke them out and make them last, for there would be no more –– as if he was struggling to contain something far beyond mere words, and that to speak might start the crack that would cause all to break and spill.

Mavis held her tongue – Sophie could scarcely believe it, for the child had never achieved such self-control in her life for so much as five minutes, and yet here she was, hours on end, without a single question.

Five of the sentences were questions to them, how they did, what was Mavis learning in school now, was Sophie quite well in herself? – he seemed to need reassurance of this, as if testing her strength to bear his grief –– and one was for Mavis, when she kissed him before going up to bed: his voice broke on it: "I –– I am sorry, Mavis."

Mavis’s eyes filled with fresh tears. "I know, papa," she said.

 

Sophie wondered what would come next. "Go to bed," he said, after midnight, after asking her to play the piano for him for an hour and more while he stared out of the dark window, out to sea. "I –– I will come up to you."

She took his hand, that hung at his side, and kissed it; did as he asked her. She undressed and put on her nightgown with shaking hands, wondering how he was to bear this grief, if even now, a month into it, he was so felled by it. She surmised that aboard ship he could not allow himself this silence, nor indeed even to feel what he must feel; and so it must be falling freshly upon his shoulders, now that he was finally come into the haven of home, away from his responsibilities at last.

She waited for him awhile, and when he came to her, he was already undressed and in his shirt alone. She held her arms out to him, and he blew out the candle before coming into them. His body was as rigid and unyielding as the mainmast, every muscle taut and strained, as it had been without mercy for the past four weeks. He did not turn to her, but instead lay flat upon his back and stared up into the darkened room. She lay beside him and let one arm rest gently across his breast. He said nothing; did not move. When she went to withdraw it, fearing even this was trespass, he grasped it so hard she bit her lip and drew it back to its resting-place. He did not touch her further.

After a while – it might have been five minutes, or ten –– he said, "Sophie –– I cannot –– not now. Not –– not yet."

"I understand," she whispered.

He sighed.

After a long vigil, she slept.

 

 

In the middle of the night, she had no idea of the hour, he woke her. His breath was hot upon her shoulder, and his kiss there hotter: it burned through her thin lawn nightdress. Then he was reaching for her, climbing on top of her in the bed, gulping for air and gasping in between, "Sophie –– I need you –– please –– ?"

For answer she took him in, without hesitation.

If she thought he had ever been rough with her before, he was more frantic now. His desperation communicated itself in every breaking wave: he was a storm crashing upon her, and she received his force with all the strength and solidity in her, not shrinking back from him but meeting it, as resilient as Land's End granite under all the fury of the Atlantic. "Oh God," he cried, harshly, "oh God, Sophie, help me –– oh God –– oh, dear God –– I loved him –– "

"I know," she whispered.

"Sophie –– Sophie –– oh, Christ forgive me –– "

"Edward, oh, Edward, there is nothing to forgive!" she said, and he groaned, and jolted in sharp spasms, and broke altogether then.

Sometimes at these moments he said her name; sometimes he made sounds without words. This time she was unsurprised, and yet still it brought tears to her eyes, to hear him cry out: "Horatio –– !!"

And then he collapsed upon her breast, and his groans turned to harsher sounds, and he wept .

She held him – he lay heavily upon her, but she would not have moved under him for the world – while he heaved with great shuddering sobs that tore from his throat. It was a terrible sound, hoarse and beyond sanity, almost. She knew better than to shush him, or indeed to speak at all; she knew she must not break this spell, or he would draw back into himself, swallow this grief, struggle to return to self-control. His agony wrung her heart: the tears spilled down her cheeks, silently.

"Thank God," came a soft voice from the corner of the room.

Sophie stared into the shadows, blinking. She did not feel afraid, nor even surprised; instead, the familiar tones seems oddly comforting. She must be imagining things! she thought to herself –– but remembered also other occasions on which her eyes had met Mr. Hornblower’s in a look of mutual concern for their beloved Pellew; and so it did not seem at all strange that they should do so once again, now, in this most painful of all moments.

Looking harder, forcing her fancy to dissolve, instead she thought she could see a figure in a pale shirt, with a most tender look upon his face: a beloved visitor to their home,
a son to them in fact if not in name, that she had thought never to see again in her life, looking at the shaking Pellew in her arms with such love that she felt only hope and joy. It was if he had come when he had heard his name called, summoned by his captain’s cry.

"Thank God," said Horatio again, "thank God, madam, I thought he would never – I have been so afraid for him, these weeks –– it seemed he must break under the strain ––oh, I thank God he has you to come home to!"

Pellew, it seemed, did not hear: the words were for her alone. The figure shimmered faintly, and dissolved into shadow. By a strange grace Sophie felt reassured, confident once more of her ability to give Edward the refuge in her arms he so needed; able to be strong for him in this greatest trial.

Slowly now he began to speak, all the things he had been unable to say, before, flooding out now with the tears that wet her breast: the heartbreaking details, irrelevant, meaningless in the face of the loss, yet essential somehow to communicate, as if in them lay meaning, lay comfort, lay redemption; lay forgiveness: " I had him dressed in your shirt, Sophie –– I would have done it with my own hands, but his men wanted to –– I must tell Mavis –– Styles said to be sure she knew –– that he had her letter in his pocket when he fell, right by his heart –– and to tell her he spoke of her all the time, what would Miss Mavis say –– he’d make them laugh, come on now, Miss Mavis could do a better job than that! –– let’s make Miss Mavis proud , he’d say –– and he said –– Styles –– he looked at me and he said, he reckoned she’d be right proud of him now, Captain Pellew, Sir –– and –– oh God, Sophie, then he just wept –– Styles –– in front of me –– I thought for certain I should lose my composure then, and break down too, right there on the deck –– it was all I could do not to ––– !!!"

"Yes, Edward," she whispered.

"He was my best officer, Sophie, I had to send him –– d’you see?"

"Of course you did," she said. "He knew that. You both did. Always."

"Do you think – he ever knew – how much I thought of him?"

"I’m sure," she whispered. And felt, for the briefest of moments, a hand upon her shoulder, squeezing.

And then he slept, right there upon her breast, worn out from care and grief and spent utterly.

And so the son that was to be named Horatio came to being in her, in those silent hours before dawn: a gift beyond price, born of his father’s greatest hurt –– the loss of a son, in some miraculous balance not to be understood by mortals, bringing another to be; and floated, the tiniest of specks, smaller than a promise, less than a hope, infinitesimal and secret, in whose name and being the other Horatio would one day soon and forever henceforward be hourly cherished and remembered and beloved.

 

***********************************************************

Chapter 3: Archie

By Sarah B.

 

Archie packed the bloodstained shirt away and didn’t think about anything.

It was late, long past nightfall. It had been a long day, and Archie was exhausted, but he didn’t feel like sleeping. No, he could do that later, plenty of time, there was so much to do first...

The young man turned around in the small space that had been Horatio’s cabin, looking to see what else needed to go into the chest that would be sent to Dr. Hornblower’s home. Yes, so much to do yet...let’s see, most of the clothes are packed, what about his shoes...

Yes, a long day, but strangely enough for Archie not as hard as he’d thought it would be. There had been pain, at first - the terror of that raid on the signal tower, the mind-numbing fear he’d felt before he’d taken it, the rush of excitement on the way back to the Indie and then -

Then what? Archie didn’t remember.

He paused, looked around the small cabin with his hands on his hips and scratched his head. He really didn’t remember. It was as if a gauze curtain had been drawn over his memory once they’d gotten back on the ship. He remembered it hurt. Pellew’s question, where is Mr. Hornblower?, his own anxious curiosity as he looked around thinking, hm that’s funny, well he’s got to be around somewhere. Then Cleveland had cleared his throat and said...

Archie took a deep breath, held the surge of panic back, but let the memory through. He could think the words, it wasn’t so bad then.

Sir, I regret to inform you that Lieutenant Hornblower is dead.

The curtain became heavier then. Archie barely recalled Captain Pellew saying something to him, remembered the next couple of hours but it was as if he’d left his own body and nothing registered anymore. It was as if someone else, not him, had stood in Pellew’s cabin and answered questions that were strange and disjointed, two sleepwalkers talking to each other. And someone else walking back on deck and overhearing someone say Horatio was still on the beach, that he’d been left there.

And surely - surely it was someone else who at once arranged a boat to bring Horatio home.

Papers. Did Horatio have any papers? Archie turned around, winced and put one hand on his bandaged shoulder. In his desk, that’s where they’d be...

He’d injured his shoulder during the fight to bring Horatio home. Those damn Frogs were all over the beach, but it was easy to see where Horatio was still lying, his white shirt a silent, fluttering beacon on the dark sands. Archie had only four men with him, had in fact gone without orders, but how could he just leave Horatio there, all alone in the dark and in enemy hands? It couldn’t happen, not while Archie could draw breath to prevent it. No, Horatio would come home. Matthews went with him, and Styles and Oldroyd. He didn’t even have to ask, they moved as if with one soul.

It hadn’t been easy. The Frogs saw them, shot one man down in the surf, gotten him in the shoulder, but Archie had made it to the beach and then -

And then what? Archie shook his head; the curtain was closed over that scene, perhaps would always be. He must have gotten to Horatio, must have somehow lifted him back to the boat, but the next clear memory Archie had was being almost dragged over the side of the Indie by Pellew after they’d gotten back. Pellew was screaming ragged words about Archie getting himself killed and had he no sense and the next time you go asea without my word I swear you’ll run the ruddy gauntlet for it sir!

It was strange, Archie knew Pellew was furious with him, was red-faced and almost weeping with anger, but it made no impact. No impact at all. And before he’d had such a fear of loud noises.

They’d borne Horatio away, readied him, and sometime after daylight committed him to the sea. Morning, afternoon, Archie didn’t recall that either, but that was all right. He really was holding together all right, certainly better than Pellew. Archie grinned a little as he picked up a handful of Horatio’s papers, thought, I certainly never thought I’d see the day when I was keeping a more level head than our commander! Things had certainly been turned around, all right. Funny world...

Archie continued to clean out the desk, humming to himself as he did so. Yes, it was a funny world when you saw ghosts and your captain declares you fit to take the lieutenant’s exam all in the same day. The exhaustion crept a little closer, and Archie shook his head to clear it, thought, lieutenant, me. And Horatio’s ghost.

It seemed so real. If Archie closed his eyes, he swore he could still feel Horatio there, in that cabin, as solid as he’d been at the beach, his arm round Archie’s shoulder, speaking encouraging words that had been a balm to his troubled soul. Horatio always knew what to say, Archie thought. He knew all he had to do was tell me blowing that damn tower was my duty, and I’d do it. But it couldn’t have been real, he was - Cleveland said he’d been -

Archie looked down, saw that his hand was shaking as it gripped the last of the papers from Horatio’s desk. He swallowed hard, and fought to control it. It couldn’t have been real. Horatio was dead.

For a long moment Archie stood there, staring at the papers in his hand. Horatio was dead. His best friend - the only real friend he’d ever had - was dead. No card game tonight, no skylarking on the topdeck tomorrow, no one to confess to that he was terrified of taking the lieutenant’s exam. Horatio was -

Stop it. For the love of Christ, stop it and get on with things.

With great effort, Archie pushed the horrible feelings down and continued his work, but he was starting to feel uneasy, edgy. He put the papers in the chest, slowly as if they might spring back on him, and turned around in the cabin once more. What else? Archie wanted to sleep, he was so tired, but he couldn’t sleep. Not tonight. Get this done first.

Archie blinked, focused his eyes. Books.

There was a stack of books under Horatio’s desk, and Archie reached down and began to stack them into the chest. They were small, most of them, and Archie recognized one as a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets that he’d lent Horatio - reluctantly, he recalled with a smile. Horatio didn’t really like Shakespeare, but had taken the book anyway, Archie wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he was simply being polite. Well, I’ve got it back now I suppose Archie thought aimlessly, and tossed the book onto the bunk to take back to his quarters. it landed there with a soft thud and fell onto its side, a small dark rectangle in the dim lantern light.

And Archie glanced at the book, sitting by itself on the carefully made bed, and for no reason he could think of began to cry.

Stop it, stop it, he commanded himself, feeling the hot tears slide down his cheeks to wet his collar. Something was hurting, was screaming to get out, but Archie knew he didn’t dare let it out because if he did it would never stop, and there was no one left to help him, so Archie quickly set the remaining books in the box, closed his eyes, and took a deep, shuddering breath. That’s it, another one. Lieutenants don’t cry you fool, one more. You’re on your own now, so you’d better get used to it. One more.

Oh, God.

It hurt. Archie hurt, pushing the pain and the loneliness and the paralyzing fear down into himself hurt, but what else could he do? I’m just not used to it, Archie thought as he sniffed loudly and took another shaky breath, more books to pack yet. God, I used to be so good at just acting like nothing mattered, back on the Justinian it was so effortless. The curtain used to be in place all the time there, I never felt anything. I need to be there again. I need to feel nothing again. I wonder if I can still do it?

For a moment Archie paused, and tried. He thought of those days, but could only call up their ghosts. It was encouraging - he saw Simpson’s face and felt only a detached numbness, his usual state on that ship. The numbness encircled him, and Archie crawled into it, absently picked up a book as he realized, I can still do it. God, it feels so - comfortable almost. Horatio’s dead, and it doesn’t matter. I was on that beach, and let him die, and...it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Nothing matters.

Oh, dear God.

It was as if Horatio had never existed. The familiar detachment Archie had once depended on for survival returned, and he cast his eyes on the bed, the chest, the bloodstained shirt that lay like an incrimination at the bottom, and felt nothing.

I can get through this, Archie realized as he continued to pack Horatio’s things. They’re all expecting me to crumble, I know, but I’ll get through this, I won’t even shed any more tears. I’ll miss Horatio, but - but - well, he’s dead, and dissolving like a girl into a pool of tears won’t bring him back, will it? No, it’s best to forget. It worked before. Forget.

And Archie might have forgotten, might have escaped that cabin with his soul locked away but his composure intact, except for one bundle of books, the last ones he reached for. Archie wasn’t even looking at them as he stared sightlessly into the chest, just reached for them with one groping hand. Then he tried to pick them up, and stopped.

They were tied together with twine, one small pile of books. Archie blinked, frowned, picked them all up together and set them in the box. There. He was finished.

Except - wait - what was that folded piece of paper stuck beneath the twine? It had his name on it. Curious in a flat sort of way, Archie pulled the paper out and unfolded it. It was Horatio’s handwriting, neat and precise, and it said:

No, this is not a revenge for the Shakespeare. Neither is it poetry or plays, but I must insist you study these books and commit them to heart, for I refuse to rise in the ranks without you. H.

Even before his reluctant eyes focused on the bundled books, Archie knew what they were. Horatio had told him they’d been his companions on a plague ship, on the Indie, in his bunk in the early morning hours. They were the books he’d studied before taking the examination for lieutenant. Horatio had put them together to give to Archie, certain that he would make it to the examination. Horatio had thought to help him. Horatio was being his friend.

And Horatio was dead.

Archie dropped the paper onto the bed, didn’t even notice how violently his hands were shaking. He sat down, his back against the bunk, and began to breathe very hard, and something within him screamed no, don’t let it out, but it was too late, far too late. Everything within him gave way at once, and leaning his head into his hands Archie closed his eyes and wept as if his heart would break.

Oh God - oh God - Horatio was dead - he couldn’t be, men like that didn’t die a useless death, shot through the heart for a worthless hunk of rocks and sand but he was and God! God! It hurt -

Archie sobbed louder, and he curled into himself, felt himself slipping into a hellish oblivion as his mind fought to form words. Christ! Horatio dead! I could have stopped it, I should have been there, God Horatio I would have taken that bullet, no one would have mourned for me - Jesus I’m so sorry so sorry God I didn’t run fast enough this time - someone should have saved you - God I’m so sorry -

Then the words ceased to come, and Archie felt only a raging shame and anger wrapped in all-consuming grief, and he knew if he screamed his torment no one would come, but he was no longer sure if he was screaming, or crying, or in his body at all. Nothing existed but a painful world of red ache, no feeling but the hard wooden floor beneath his head and the horrible spasms that began to wrack his defenseless body as his soul surrendered to the relentless crush of grief and loneliness. Oh God, it might kill him this time - if only it would - oh God -

"Archie!"

Through the whitehot mists Archie heard a beloved voice whispering his name, felt strong arms wrap around him and place a steadying hand on his burning brow. Oh God it couldn’t be -

"Archie, it’s all right, it’s all right - "

Archie felt someone pull him off the floor and into a strong embrace, and without thinking Archie leaned into it and sobbed as the tremors continued, then eased, then ceased. Still there was the cool hand on his brow, still the arms that had always been stronger than his holding him up. It was impossible, Archie knew it and accepted it. And took the comfort that lay within.

After what seemed like a lifetime Archie felt himself being leaned gently back against the side of the bed, and found a little strength with which to open his eyes. There in the low lamplight, looking at him with openly concerned brown eyes, sat Horatio. Of course.

Archie reached up and wiped the tears from his face. "Oh, God."

Horatio put a hand on Archie’s unbandaged shoulder "You all right?"

Archie squeezed his eyes closed. "No. I think I’ve finally gone mad."

He heard Horatio laugh a little. "Don’t get up for a while. You’ve taken too much onto yourself."

"Look who’s talking." Archie opened his eyes again, fought the tears as he looked into the transparent face of his best friend. "Horatio, what were you thinking? Why didn’t you - what - "

Horatio raised his eyebrows. "I was thinking of my duty, of my men, just like any good officer. As you yourself will learn."

"No," Archie said automatically, swallowing hard and casting his eyes on the floor. "If becoming an officer is what compelled you to die, then I damn the word, just as I damn myself for not being there to die in your stead."

Both hands were on Archie’s shoulders now, the right one low on his damaged arm, and Archie found he could not escape that earnest gaze. "Stop it, Archie, I’ll have none of that talk. You did what was necessary, you did your duty." He leaned back a little, and a smile played on his lips. "And you did it splendidly, I might add."

Archie’s eyes widened. Of course - had he ever doubted that Horatio was there? Then he thought a little and shook his head and whispered, "I was so frightened, Horatio. I’m still frightened, of all that lies unknown before me."

Horatio sat back on his heels and nodded. "I know, Archie, but your heart is so much stronger than your fears. I know it is, I’ve seen it."

Archie took a deep breath and nodded, unable to argue.

Horatio tilted his head down and said seriously, "And now you must use the strength in that great heart of yours to help the Captain."

Shocked, Archie stared at Horatio open-mouthed. "Help the captain? Horatio - "

Horatio nodded. "We’ve dark seas ahead, Archie, and Captain Pellew’s soul is as laden as yours. The burden of his trust was once mine, and as such I may lay it at any door I choose. But I can only truly trust it to you."

Archie’s mind reeled, and he shook his head. "God, Horatio, I could never be your equal in the captain’s eyes. Not after the Papillon. I’m only - "

"You’re my dearest friend," Horatio said, never taking his calm eyes from the stricken blue ones that faced him. "and my worthiest successor. Archie, I would not burden you with this bequest if I had not already seen that you could do it."

Archie ran one hand through his hair, stared at Horatio. "You don’t mean - you can - "

Horatio smiled gently. "See into the future? I hardly need that gift to remember the strong arms that guided me over the bridge at Muzillac, or the clear voice that volunteered to return to a Spanish prison to honor my word."

Archie looked down at the floor again,unsure.

"The choice is always yours," Horatio said quietly, standing slowly until he was a silver outline against the cabin walls. "And I shall always hold you in my heart, no matter your decision. I only ask that you - "

"Think about it?" Archie suddenly returned with a cockeyed smile, his eyes glittering as he looked up at his friend.

Horatio returned the smile. "You remember my words at the beach."

"How could I forget," Archie rejoined as he stood up with a grunt. "Thanks to that inspiring speech I found myself streaking across enemy territory like a madman."

Horatio shook his head and said admiringly, "Like an Englishman."

Archie cocked an eyebrow, but stood silent. For a long, sad moment stood silent and somehow knew this was goodbye. Clearing his throat he said, "I’ll miss you, Horatio."

The spirit wavered a bit, sparkled like mist in sunlight. But the smile remained strong. "We’ll sail together again, Archie. Someday."

Archie took a deep breath, closed his eyes and ran one hand through his hair. He felt something warm wrap around his soul, just for a moment, a final embrace of peace and friendship. And then he was alone.

Alone? Archie blinked, opened his eyes and looked around the cabin. It was quiet, still, as if nothing remarkable had passed there at all. Above his head, Archie heard the sailors shouting to each other, heard the creaking of the timbers and the heavy sound of running feet, all of the normal noises of shipboard life. And around him, Horatio’s belongings still lay neatly piled in the chest, including one small stack that still sat bound in twine, waiting for hands to open them and embrace the world.

Alone - Archie peeked into the box, felt his heart sink for a moment. Damn it, how did Horatio always know just what words would spur his reluctant heart to action? For his own sake, Archie didn’t care if he ever made lieutenant. For himself, he didn’t care if he ever stood at a captain’s side and felt the burden of responsibility. And he certainly didn’t care if he never felt the exhilarating pride of doing more than he ever thought he’d dare, and succeeding beyond his wildest dreams. No, not for himself. But for Horatio, whose life on this earth had ended with his work undone ... for Horatio, who had lifted and carried Archie from the doors of death itself, and who now had a precious burden of his own that needed to be lifted up and carried...for Horatio...

Archie sat down on the bunk, untied the bundle, and carefully began to read.

The end.

A Life Of Duty: Styles

By Sue N.

He sat alone in the maintop, silent and unmoving, and stared blindly at

the vast, black expanse of star-flecked sky, his heart gone dead within

him.

No, not dead, for that would imply there was no pain, when pain there

was, and it very nearly unbearable.

"Sir. I regret to inform you that Lieutenant Hornblower is dead." Again

-- and again and again -- Mr. Cleveland's halting words in that torn

voice came back to him, plunging the blade into his soul once more.

Lieutenant Hornblower is dead...

Ah, God, how could he be dead? his mind groaned in anguish. I saw him,

talked with him -- he was there, with me, every bit as much alive as I!

Except that he hadn't been, because I saw him dead... washed the blood

from his breast... helped the lads dress him and sew him into that

sheet...

Lieutenant Hornblower is dead.

"Nooo!" The word tore from in a harsh cry of raw and primal pain, a cry

that had its start in his clenching gut and twisted upward in a

wrenching wave of torment, wringing at his soul before finally pouring

from him in a ragged, shapeless howl. His face, untouched by them for

so many years, was now wet with tears that he was powerless to stop,

and his powerful body shook with heavy, convulsive sobs. No, it

couldn't be; it couldn't! But it was...

And for what? Had that damned signal tower been worth the price? The

Frogs, God damn them, would have it rebuilt soon enough. Would someone

else be sent in to bring it down? How many times, how many men...

Lieutenant Hornblower is dead.

The words scourged his mind and lacerated his soul, dealing a more

crippling agony than any cat-o'-nine could. Floggings, he'd known;

floggings aplenty. But never anything like this! And why? Why? WHY?

In all the years since he'd been pressed -- how many, now? ten?

fifteen? too many to remember -- he'd known officers, aye, known his

share, good ones and bad ones and all in between. There'd been more

than a few not worth puking on, some he'd've gladly killed if he had

thought he could do it and escape hanging--

Mr. Simpson. Aye, he'd been a rare, bloody bastard, vicious and cruel,

with mind and heart as black as pitch. He'd taken pleasure in torturing

the other mids on Justinian, and had forced the men of his division to

help. And after so long under Mr. Simpson's command, Styles himself had

grown too calloused -- too deadened -- to care.

"You're a brute, Styles," Simpson had once sneered at him, "a stupid,

hulking animal that serves no useful purpose unless I choose to give

you one. So do as I say, and you will have an easier time of it.

Disobey me, and I shall see you hang."

And so he'd allowed the bastard to drain the last dregs of his pride,

his humanity, and make him into the animal Simpson had said he was. And

why not? What did it matter? So long as he did as he was told, that's

all the officers cared about. Until Mr. Hornblower had come along...

Lieutenant Hornblower is dead.

He groaned harshly and dropped his head into large, shaking hands,

closing his eyes tightly and covering his ears as if to block out those

hideous words. How could Mr. Hornblower be dead, and himself, here,

still alive, when it was Mr. Hornblower who had given him this life?

For the first time, an officer had treated him as a man rather than an

animal, a man who could think and learn and do, a man who had measure

and merit and worth-- Oh, God, how could that be gone, and him not be

gone with it? He had finally found an officer, a man, worth following,

worth trusting worth caring about, and now.. now...

Lieutenant Hornblower is dead.

The sobs tore from him in hard, harsh gasps, shaking his entire body

with their force. He no longer cared who might hear, might see, no

longer cared about anything except the young man they had pitched into

the sea. Oh, God, it should have been him!

"No, Styles," said a quiet voice behind him. "All is as it was meant to

be."

The voice quieted his sobs as nothing else could have, sent a hard jolt

through him. Sniffing and wiping a sleeve across his wet face, he

turned slowly about and looked up, blinking at the tall, thin figure

framed in the moonlight. He was hard to see, at first, little more than

a trick of the light, but slowly his form became clearer. His hair --

familiar mop of curls and long queue -- was utterly still despite the

wind, his white shirt marked by a dark stain at his breast, one

translucent hand curled lightly about the mast. He was utterly at ease

up here, something he'd never been before, his deep, dark eyes

tranquil, his wide mouth smiling slightly.

"Sir? Mr. 'ornblower?" Styles whispered unsteadily, rising slowly to

his feet. "I-- I don't-- Oh, sir, you shouldn't 'ave left us!"

"I never wanted to, Styles, I assure you," Hornblower said gently. "But

we all have certain duties to perform, and we cannot shirk them simply

because they are not what we wanted. You should know that as well as

I."

Styles shook his head slowly, his damp, scarred face contorting into a

mask of pain. "I don't want no part of it-- "

"I don't believe that," the young man said, his gaze never wavering

from the man in front of him. "You cannot go back to what you were

before, Styles. You can never go back. That man is gone forever. You

have learned far too much to go back that way again."

Styles let his gaze drift toward the star-strewn sky. "I can't-- "

"You must! That is why I am here. There is one more duty I require of

you."

He dragged his gaze back to that ghostly figure and shuddered in spite

of himself. "Please, sir, don't-- don't order me-- "

"I am not ordering," Hornblower said quietly. "I am asking. I cannot

give you orders, now. You must decide for yourself."

"Decide what?" he whispered, strangely calmed by the familiar presence,

as he had been so many times before.

"I want you to look after Mr. Kennedy for me," Hornblower said. "I want

you to help him become the officer we both know he can be."

Styles frowned, confused. "Me? Why me, sir? Why not-- "

"Matthews?" Hornblower smiled. "Oh, he will do his part, I have no

doubt. He cannot help it. He has a teacher's soul. But I want you to

help him in particular because you are so much alike."

Styles laughed aloud at the ridiculous statement. "I thought you were

shot in the 'eart, not the 'ead! Mr. Kennedy and me-- we're not at all

alike-- "

"Yes, you are," Hornblower said with a quiet assurance. "You both know

what it is to be counted out, to be treated as less than you are, to be

considered risks and worse. You both know what it is to fall, to fail,

and to struggle with getting up again when it would be so much easier

simply to stay down. But most of all, Styles, he needs to be trusted,

and you need to trust. Neither of you has much experience at either."

"Sir-- "

"Help him, Styles, please! And let him help you. You are good men, and

I have been so proud of both of you! And I have learned so much from

both of you. Please, Styles, will you do this for me? Will you help Mr.

Kennedy become the lieutenant, the officer, he can and wants to be?

Will you look after him for me?"

A slight smile touched Styles' mouth. "I threw 'orse sh•t on 'is boots

at Muzillac."

Hornblower laughed softly, and it was the sound of the sighing wind.

"And he's forgiven you. He's survived far worse than that, you know."

"I know, sir. Because you 'elped ’im-- "

"No. Because he helped himself. Just as you have helped yourself. I've

only lent a hand here and there. It's the two of you who've done the

hard work. You are both stronger and better than you know. I merely

want you to help each other see that."

"'e's a good man," Styles said with a shrug. "I mean, 'e's not like

you-- "

"You are not like Matthews. Yet the Indy -- and Archie -- needs you

both."

Styles grinned. "Well, at least 'is jokes are better than yours. No

offense, sir!"

Hornblower grinned in return. "None taken."

Styles again wiped his sleeve across his face, then placed his hands on

his hips and nodded. "I'll see what I can do, sir."

Hornblower nodded and smiled. "Good. I knew I could depend upon you. As

I always have. You're a good man, Styles. It has been an honour to

serve with you."

Styles drew himself up a bit straighter, then raised a knuckle to his

forehead. "It's been an honour AND a pleasure, sir. And don't worry

about Mr. Kennedy -- I'll look after 'im for you-- Sir?"

He took a step forward, frowning deeply. Between one moment and the

next, the figure before him turned and then vanished, a brief gleam of

light gone dark. Styles was tempted to reach out, but knew better.

There would be nothing there.

Lieutenant Hornblower was dead.

And he, Styles, was alive.

And Mr. Kennedy was waiting.