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The Crucible                                 By Mair

Kennedy's prediction for the weather seemed to come to pass.

The morning dawned grey and drizzly. Drifts of fine thick mist shrouded the close-hauled Antigone, enhancing the aura of isolation, of being further cut off from the world, which was normal of any Ship of the Line, but doubly so on his own command.

Gazing off to port, Horatio drew in the atmosphere as he paced along the quarterdeck, the deep sense of peace it brought. It had been an incredible year, he thought to himself with some satisfaction. He had received his commission just one month after returning from Muzillac, and Archie had passed his examination for Lieutenant. Now they found themselves aboard a frigate as fine as the old Inde. Styles, Finch and Oldroyd… all the crew, it seemed, were here too. His only regret was that Captain Pellew had been called to the Offices of the Admiralty, and with strangeness about it, he found himself missing his former captain. In those twelve months at sea, the boy had grown into a man, and had come to have a fondness and a respect for Pellew as a second father, just as the Indefatigable's crew had become like brothers and uncles. His family.

Family. That one word brought the spectre of gloom to hover about his shoulders like t'psails unstrung in a gale. It still bothered him, at night, when he was in his cot, and alone. His eyes would close and he could feel her in his arms, and he knew if he had only tried harder…. He had promised to protect her. And he had failed her. Could she ever forgive him? Could he forgive himself? She would still be alive if he had not…

"If your thought grows any heavier Horatio, we might have to use them as an anchor when we reach Portsmouth."

Hurriedly Horatio blinked and tried to lock away his feelings in the deepest part of himself, and forced a smile. "Ahem. A little loose with formalities aren't we, Mr. Kennedy?"

"Ah well… if it's formalities, my dear Captain Hornblower, that you want, then formalities you shall have, sir." Archie grinned as he reached up and removed his hat with great flourish and ceremony, and bowed deeply at his waist as his dancing master had once instructed.

"Most gracious Captain of this intrepid vessel, I give to you my compliments and respects, sir."

Horatio's smile changed, to the point where it actually reached the dark depths of his eyes, his troubles momentarily set aside.

"You win. I suppose as long as the crew doesn't hear us, we can leave off the formalities."

"I was hoping you would say that. After a while solemnity wears on one's back. " Archie replied as he straightened, and his spine creaked in protest, after he spent the last two nights on second and third watch.

" The reason I came to disturb you is to say we should be two points off the Les Filles shore, so the supply ship and that silly merchanter will be coming up within the hour. I was thinking, perhaps a freshly butchered bullock would lift spirits around here. I know they must be tiring of salt pork and biscuit."

Of course, he was right, Horatio thought, and said as much. It was good to see Kennedy thinking ahead to both the needs of the crew and of their duty. He wouldn't be surprised if Archie received his commission any time now.

"Get a few of the hands together and prepare the low'r holds for the supplies. Then I should think to have you, Mr. Worthrope and Brents in my cabin. I want to discuss a few things."

"Aye, sir." Kennedy touched his hat. "Oh, one last thing Horatio. We will be taking on a new runner boy, to take Henry's place."

Another mistake. They had lost one of the boys whose sole duty was to run with fresh shot and powder for the gunscrew, to a storm when he volunteered to work on the rigging. Against his better judgement, Horatio had allowed it, and thus the boy's blood was on his hands just as Mariette's was.

"Thank you. You may go about your business then."

"Aye sir."

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

The supplies from the Glasgow had been transferred. The merchantman waited to the starboard for escort back to Portsmouth, and Horatio now found himself in his cabin with a monsterous headache, and a queasy stomach.

As if this was not enough, he had a Frog prisoner, secured at the moment in the midshipman's birth. Under Style's eye, the man waited. With his knife, Horatio carefully pried the thick waxen seal on the first dispatch, regarding the prisoner. It proved a thoughtful read, reminding him of his own capture at the hands of a privateer and his stay with the Don. The Frog's name was Captain Michel-Patrice L'ecuer, late of the corvette "Simone". It was not so much that the man was a criminal but his capture meant one less able commander for the French to use against them. War was a game of check-and-balance, whence one faction did their best to ensure the most lucrative odds for their side. The greatest evil this man had committed thus far was that he had lost his ship to the power of the British navy. He decided the prisoner was in danger of nothing more than being entertained by Styles and his rats. He turned his steady gaze the child, not quite mature enough to be a boy, all but hovering in the corner of his cabin.

First things first. Horatio leaned back in his chair.

"Your name?"

"M-morgan, s-sir," came the quiet reply, and inwardly Horatio winced. He knew all to well how the boy must be feeling.

"Just Morgan?"

"Yes. Erhm... I mean... Aye, sir."

The boy had a small, angelic look about him, with short, straight chestnut hair that seemed a little ragged. His clothes were a might too big for his skinny frame, and he seemed all legs and elbows, and yet was under height. He looked to be about thirteen. Horatio immediately sympathised with him.

"Morgan. Well, have you ever been on a Ship of the Line before?"

"No, sir. My father... my father kept me at home. Else I would have applied to become a midshipman. I'm already 15. "

The boy kept his head down, his startling green eyes hardly daring to leave the floor of the cabin.

"Why do you want to be a sailor? Glory? Greed?" Fear?

"For freedom sir...." Morgan hesitated a moment, then quickly added, "For King and Country!"

"Indeed, Morgan. Report to Lieutenant Kennedy, and he will direct you about your duties."

"A-aye, sir. Lieutenant Kennedy."

"Also, call for Styles to escort our… guest, to my quarters."

"Aye-aye, sir."

Morgan sketched a nod at him and scurried quickly out the door, letting it shut behind him with a crash. Horatio sighed. The boy seemed quick enough but from experience, Horatio knew he would find his first few years aboard ship a living hell. However, there were other pressing matters, and he could not indulge in pity at the moment. The sea never knew mercy, or if it did, it never allowed the knowledge to show. At the moment, neither could he.

There was a knock and the door was brushed open casually by the imposing shoulder that could belong only to Styles. His pocked-marked, scowling face was a canvas of distaste and displeasure. One could all but feel the hatred radiating from some darkly spawned pit deep within him. Had he not proven to be a loyal friend as well as superb seaman, Horatio knew he would have been frightened of Styles.

"'Ere 'e is, Cap'an. Jus' like ye asked. Respectful an all that. " All warty and waterlogged like a good Frog ought'n be, he thought as he pushed the prisoner in.

"Thank you Styles. That will be all. "

"Are you--?"

"I said thank you, Styles. Go about." Horatio intoned harshly. It would not look good to the Fr-the French Captain that the crew spoke to him as if he were one of them, and not with the respect, fear and awe that a good captain, a Captain like Pellew, could command with but a gaze.

"Aye-aye, sir!"

"For God's sake Horatio, if you hated me this much, you could have been chosen to have some mercy, and simply let me die in that hellhole like I had wanted to!" Kennedy said, his eyes clouded with rage so as to mirror the unseen sky above. He found himself in the captain's quarters a few days later. Horatio had been reviewing the charts and last watch's report. Now his best friend was staring up at him, the usual reserved and sullen cast to his face replaced with utter perplexion.

"Care to explain yourself, Archie?" Calm. Maddeningly calm, as always, Horatio's voice reply was slow, measured.

"That... that…" Words defied him. In truth, he had no real basis for the irritation gnawing at his innards and giving rise to the temper that not even the most hellish tempest could compare to. He swallowed and began again. "I've never understood what infernal torment awaits me but I do believe its name will be Morgan."

"What are you gabbling about?" Horatio asked, confused.

"The new runner. My own shadow has never been so close to me. Always underfoot. The blasted thing of it is, whatever duty I invent--Stop laughing. This is not in the least funny!"

Horatio's dark eyes gleamed crystalline in the lamplight with tears of mirth, the corners crinkled and giving a wizened appearance, and the edges of his wide mouth turned upward.

"He's a boy, Archie. How bad can it be?"

"I awaken to find my clothes laid out, my shoes and buckles polished and breakfast before yours is thought of. All I have to do is glance at him and his duties are done. I'm… I'm almost running out of tasks for him. And if anything, he's even quicker with figures than you!"

"Perhaps you could talk him into pressing your uniform and.-"

"Damn you Horatio. With all due respect!"

"If his duties are attended to, and he gives no cause for dereliction, what can we do?"

"Toss him in a jolly and…"

The two glanced at one another in silence.

"I did not mean that, and you know it. "

"I know. Other than this hero-worship, I take it there is nothing else to report?"

"Actually… there is. Equally maddening if you ask me. It's the Frog. He seems to be making himself quite friendly with the crew. Why you allowed him to parade on the quarterdeck is beyond me. "

"It's because if nothing else… he's a human being, Archie. Like you. Like me. And you should know very well what even the briefest amount of freedom when imprisoned can mean. He gave me his parole as a gentleman that he would try to escape every chance he got but would be on his best behaviour while parading the quarterdeck. I gave that same promise to the Don."

"I trust him to the same degree I held faith in Simpson."

"That's quite enough Archie. There are limits to anyone's patience."

Kennedy did not bother to reply. He knew his words would fall empty on the stone-etched sentiments that Horatio clung to.

Michel-Patrice paused in his pacing of the pitching quarterdeck to stare at the deep ocean roiling around the belly of the Antigone. His faded blue eyes ached; but whether from worry, lack of sleep or the sharp tang of the briny air, he could not say. He gave silent thanks that the Captain- barely more than a callow youth- had been generous with his personal liberty. Like a gentleman, Hornblower had accepted his parole. Not as if there were vast avenues of escape aboard a frigate, surrounded by one's enemies, he thought with a grim smile and fatalistic humour. The Captain knew this and offered retreat from the dark, pungent heat of the Midshipmen's berth. He offered conversation, even if it had been in poor, mangled French. L'ecuer would not have been as trusting as this Hornblower.

With a sigh, he rubbed a hand through his hair, which age had chosen to colour with a venerable tarnish of silver over the gold of his prime. He was well into middle age, a few months shy of his sixth decade, and over three-quarters of his life had been spent at sea. If the spectre of death were not kind enough to rise from the hidden depths of the waves, he would not live to see his release from the thick granite walls of the English prison. To rip him from the waters of the world was a fate he liked not, but on land he could have accepted the fact at least, if he had been on his native soil, the country of his forefathers. This thought was a festering wound on his very soul.

The wind was blowing rough dead astern, moving quickly larboard. It was heavier than usual, and the sun was setting in a hue that resembled congealing blood. A storm was brewing; a tempest which even Ariel would have shied from. His restriction would be limited by half again when the call for battening down the hatches was piped. It would be necessary to keep all but the most minimal of crews below decks. L'ecuer shuddered. The seaman, Styles, was as uncouth as Hornblower was young and his appetites were curious at best. The man called Oldroyd seemed preoccupied with making chicken noises whenever Styles entered the berth. It was plain queer to him.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur L'ecuer."

"Good evenings, Capitaine Hornbluer." He turned his eyes onto the younger man. "Regarde comme si il orage."

"A Storm? Oui... I should think so. I am not yet sure if we should head into its heart or if it would be better to tack 'til the morning."

Was he asking for advice or making conversation? It was difficult to surmise, especially when Hornblower's sombre face was emotionless, and the thoughts behind the dark eyes seemed a million miles away. He was about to speak again when Finch came up and nodded to his captain.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Sir, but the coffee you asked for is ready."

"Thank you Finch. With my compliments, pass the word for Soams to meet us in my quarters, and take helm for him."

"Aye-aye, Sir."

"Care to come with me, Monsieur?"

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

"Now ye want books?"

" Getting some airs, ain't you?"

" Well I'll not have it ye hear! Letting you go by without a comeuppance!"

" Morgan!"

"Get him Todd!"

"Gor! Look't 'im! Get 'im!"

"I fancy he'll cry!"

"Wager on it!"

There were hands tugging, pushing, and prodding. Voices. Loud. Shrill.

Panic seized Morgan, catching the breath in his throat. Pinpoints of light danced before his eyes.

"No! Please! No!" came his wretched, pitiful cries.

Around him, grotesque parodies of blurred faces pressed in on him. He felt even sicker when he opened his mouth and nothing more than a squeak of terror came. His eyes glittered brightly with tears of shame and fear. Trapped. Like a fox run to ground.

"Gor, Todd...'e even screams like a gel!"

Large and menacing, Todd, the youngest of the Midshipmen, laughed and continued to push the scrawny Morgan further into the corner. "What's the matter, nancy boy? Big Mr. Kennedy not here to protect you? And your mummy neither? Aww, well maybe cause you ain't kissing his feet well enough!"

Morgan tried to deny this but could not find the words. He fervently wished for someone to help him but a sea of boys who took delight in persecuting the weak, torturing those different from them, crowded in around him. Todd's face was scrunched, as if his small mind was concentrating on a kind of cerebral grunt. The steady pounding of one meaty fist into the palm of his other hand ran counterpoint to the rain beginning to fall on the above deck.

"We'll have to teach ye how to properly follow command and not to toadie to your betters without permission!"

Morgan knew he could only blame himself. He knew he hadn't been too careful and now the wrath of hell was upon him. Just as the fist began to close in on his vision he closed his eyes tightly, and waited for the pain.

It never came. Instead there was the sound of many feet moving away quickly and several hissed breaths and then precious silence. Cautiously he opened one eye slowly, only to see an even larger shape than Todd's blocking his view. Further inspection revealed Mr. Clayton standing like an avenging angel before him, his hand wrapped about Todd's fist.

" What's this then? All of you! Go about your duties and avast standing like a bunch o loblollies! You! Jenks! Find the officer of the deck and report. NOW! And as for you, Mr. Toddleson, you are to find yourself at watch and watch for the next three days beginning immediately. And rest assured this will go before the Captain."

Morgan, cowering like a whipped dog behind the lieutenant, fancied that his grip on Todd's hand tightened more than necessary and his gentle, husky voice was now as soft as steel. He felt a shiver of satisfaction at the quickly vanished look of pain in the bully's eye.

"Aye… sir."

When the berth was emptied, Clayton turned around. "Are you alright?"

Morgan could smell the faintest trace of rum on his breath. "Aye, sir. I…I…"

And then his legs gave way and he cried.

Henry Clayton had been in the passage amid the foremast berth and the Midshipman's waiting for Finch to come to cards when he had overheard the commotion. Adult authority and understanding dictated his actions, but the eye of memories past, rather more accurately, dreaded for the boy and he had found himself remembering the days when Simpson struck the same terror in him that surely the boy must have felt.

"It's fine now… ehrm…?"

"M-Morgan, Sir." The boy sniffled, his resolve slowly returning. Clayton nodded. He had heard Kennedy speak of him both with annoyance and affection, and the stories reminded him of his younger brother, James.

"What happened here?"

"Well…"

"Come on then, I'll do my best to keep confidence, and I do not wish to remind you of rank." The gruff tone belied the sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"I came to get the book I have been keeping my lessons in. Captain Hornblower said I could take lessons with the other midshipmen, as I've a good head for figures… and…"

And because he was smaller, smarter, they had attacked like a school of sharks scenting blood in the water.

"That's fine Morgan. I'll see to it this does not happen again. And before you put up protest, I'll have you know I won't let you out of it. It's rare to have a young man with your degree of intelligence. Are you old enough to apply for Midshipmanship?"

"Yes…but I don't… I can't…"

"Speak up."

" I have no family to speak of, sir. My mother died when I was born. My father wishes I had followed her or taken her place and I can't afford…"

Clayton covered the involuntary wince with a grin. "Excellent. It's settled then. You shall report at Midwatch. Now tell me Morgan, do you play cards?"

  Archie lay in his hammock in the small quarters allotted to the First Lieutenant aboard any of His Majesty's ship. He'd been given a cot but not liked it, preferring muchover the not-so-gentle sway of the simple rope mesh cradle. The second dogwatch was done, and Matthews was now Officer on deck for the next. Horatio had now been two hours locked away in his cabin with the Frog and the helmsman. Orders had been called to tack the ship two points starboard, to see if they could outrun the storm. A sudden squall in enemy-infested waters was an invitation to fate, though with sixty-six guns, the Antigone was a match to all ships of her size, and still a threat to those much larger than she. It was Captain's privilege, and without proper sealegs, he could understand his best friend's aversion to the violence of s ship tossed by weather-roughened seas.

Sleep was just about to claim him when a hesitant knock petulantly requested his attention. To exhausted to care, he called out. "Enter!"

He guessed at the identity of the intruder before the slim body slipped in and quietly closed the door behind himself. His shadow had returned. He was holding a small bag less than a quarter size of a sea chest in his hands, working the coarse material between his fingers. It contained, he knew, one change of clothes, a few books, and a miniature of a beautiful woman that the boy resembled strongly, right down to the small, regal nose, full mouth and thickly lashed eyes. It was his mother, no doubt. Kennedy knew he boy would forever be deemed too effeminate to ever be handsome.

Archie swallowed a groan of dread and raised a querying brow at the sight.

"Mr. Clayton informed me that I was to come straight away, Lieutenant. He said there was no more room amidships, and I was to ask permission to quarter with you."

Inwardly Archie groaned and cursed the seven hells. Henry had better have a damn good excuse for this or he would be needing the ship's doctor. "And why is this an issue, Morgan?"

There was a pause, then an answer, obviously rehearsed.

"Acting second Lefttenant has temporarily appointed me to acting Midshipman until such a time as Captain Hornblower may review and submit the petition for my appointment, sir."

Morgan kept his head bowed under Archie's thoughtful but stern regard. His voice, so soft as to be barely audible over the creaking timbres softened the harshness of the gaze. "Permission to speak freely, Sir?"

"Permission granted."

"I do not rightly know if I will ever be a seaman of merit, much less an officer, sir, but please do not force me to go back before the mast."

The statement was made with a subdued dignity. This intrigued him. "Why?"

"Truthfully, I shouldn't think I would be well received. Mr Clayton has already intervened on my behalf once today, and I would not have him forced to do so again, if it could be avoided."

"Explain."

"It's in Mr. Allen's report..."

"I asked you, not Allen, for the details."

The boy's pale cheeks flamed with sudden shame, kindling an instant recognition deep inside Kennedy. He looked up and in the recesses of the liquid grey-green eyes, Archie could see terror, but again the same dignity.

"Others have deemed me a pariah. Called me a nancy-boy, and I believe my body, if not my life would be in jeopardy if I returned."

"It is true?"

Morgan squirmed and seemed stricken. "Of course not sir. Quite the opposite really!"

"Will you speak against them?"

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

"Above all else, sir, they are my peers, even if they do not know that I am theirs."

Kennedy could little find cause to refute that, and he knew from experience that Horatio had felt the same way.

An idea dawned on him. "Would you fancy a transfer to another ship of the line would prevent or lessen this situation?"

"No, sir. Neither would I be able to look at myself ever again. If only in my own mind, 'twould be the cowards passage. My loyalty is to you, Captain Hornblower and the entire crew of the Antigone despite their prejudices, and is a duty I gladly accept. It is a part of who I am. I could not shirk it. For any reason. Please don't ask me to."

Archie could not help but to find himself greatly impressed and pleased by the display of maturity and resolve. He could find no fault in the reason, no denial worthy of the courage shown. He acquiesced grudgingly. He smiled.

"Very well then, you may take the cot. I've no use for it. However," Archie said, to be rewarded by gratitude and... no... the emotion passed to quickly for him to tell what it was. "I expect this to be a temporary lodging until such a time as a more suitable bunk amidships can be found. I also expect you to accept my privacy, and to keep your things in an orderly fashion. Do I make myself understood?

Morgan nodded so emphatically it was a wonder his head did not roll from his shoulders. Archie sighed and began to wonder if this wasn't some nefarious plot by the rest of the Indy crew to drive him mad.

"Say, Morgan… you don't snore, do you? The Captain has kept me up many a night with that...

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

"Brace the main t'psails! All hands wear ships! Put on men! "

Horatio, standing on the wildly pitching deck and silently cursing his fate to God. All around him was chaos in its purest form: men heaving to their duties, a raw, imperious storm churning the seas, and damndest of all things, they ran afoul of a French brig nearly her equal. From somewhere admidships he heard his thoughts echoed by whom he supposed was Styles, saying "roll, roll you son of a bitch, the more you roll, the less you'll pitch." They'd been fighting a bloody battle for hours now. And all during the time Horatio stood at quarters, giving orders to his men, his guidance reminiscent of a conductor orchestrating his symphony. The beatific horrors of the fray were leaving him exhausted as it strained on the men, his being a mental taxation to their physical bodies breaking with sweat and the pungent odour of fear. A battle was lost or won in its few nascent moments. It had been not so at this venue.

The French had struck the cruellest visual blow when one of the eighteen-pounders crashed into the abaft swivelgun, leaving nothing behind but smouldering metal and crimson gore. His heart stopped beating for sometime until he saw the Morgan creep away like a rat caught in the light of the smoking lamp. Still there were worse things to have been considered.

Antigone's portside was her vulnerable point, despite the gunwhales fortification. The crews were taking on too much water, he calculated. Her guns weren't being run out properly and the storm was battering at the gates, as the Trojans must have battered down the Greeks. But he knew he could betray no emotion, no humanity in his voice, his control must remain in tact.

"Fire the next broadside! Starboard guns!"

Horatio's voice was drownt out by the sudden crashing from aloft, as the CielNoir struck a direct blow with a ninepounder. There was a tremendous lurch that sent the contents of his stomach roiling up in his throat, followed by a combination of thunder and cannon that was all but deafening. He swallowed bitterly and fought to remain standing as the frigate returned fire.

The mainyard sagged sadly in two, completely and neatly severed in half.

Drunkenly the broken mast angled down onto the deck and grinned eerily at him in the flashes of guns and lightning as if mocking him.

Suddenly, the CielNoir turned two points weatherward and rolled slowly, showing her sheets and hands in disarray. She was disengaging!

"Captain, she's turning sail and running!"

"I see that, Mr Clayton! And we shall let her! Enough frogs on board to worry about getting any more to take up room and slowing us down. Come on then! Do you saltmongers want to go home? Run a line up and get the damage secured."

A deep, resonating cheer rose up from the crew, half for whom this was their first victory.

Just as Horatio turned to return to his cabin to review the charts and settle the report of the firefight, he blinked… He saw a dark form fall off the portside. Wearing the blue and white flash of a Frenchman.

Instinct was upon him, and dashing his peajacket to the deck, Horatio flung himself over railing and landed in the frigid, harsh waves beating against the hull. Quickly the inky black water crashed over his head pushing him down until his lungs screamed for air. Panic gripped his stomach as he clawed and fought to break surface. He couldn't see. Couldn't breathe.

Blasted old dog! Air. Sweet air filled with the lingering aftertaste of spent powder. Cold and numbness as he swam in ever widening circles. Still no.… there! Damn! Just some jetsam, it was. Panic began to gnaw even more, turning his innards to rock and ice.

 "Morgan... where's the Captain?"

"I dunno Sir. Last I saw he was shouting orders about splicing the mainbrace and settling to the damage crew!"

Well it seems our esteemed Guest is not amidships, locked down...like I...Oh GOD!" Morgan nearly jumped as Kennedy's voice broke above the thunder.

"What is it, Sir?"

Kennedy pointed to the peacoat laying in a wet tangled mess with the ropes. "He's gone over! Lewis! Get the jolly squared for lowering. Warm blankets and medicinal supplies. Clayton!"

"Sir?"

"Captain's gone over. As Lieutenant, I am hearby placing you in charge of this vessel. You will take command. Until I return with the captain I want the damage repaired even if the crew has to do watch and watch, I want one side with her guns run out at a time, and I want the deck cleared for action at any moment."

Clayton's green, haunted eyes grew wide as he nodded in the face of Kennedy's rapidly-fire commands. "Aye aye sir!"

"Morgan, Oldroyd, Barris, Styles and Finch, come with me."

Only Morgan, who was at Kennedy's heel as he climbed over into the waiting jolly boat, heard him mutter in sorrowful tones, "Damn you Horatio...if you are still alive I may just have to kill you!"

 "Row damn you row! Backs into it! For the love of God, row you bastards!"

Kennedy's weary sob was torn from his throat and weakened by the combined roar of surf, wind and rain. There was nothing that could be seen in the darkness save for the sudden bright glare from lightening and the thin, meagre glow from. How long they had been searching was uncertain. It felt like forever, but could have been no more than three hours. Each passing second dramatically decreased their chance of finding Horatio alive.

The cape was a dangerous area. This part of the sea witnessed silently hundred of shipwrecks, graveyards of sailors whom could not find fit places of death on land. The ferocious undertow could be felt counterpoint to the tide, crashing rhythmically against shore and boat. Many of the pressed men would always be frightened of the ocean's power, though many would come to be in awe and love of it.

"God, Mr Kennedy, d'ye think we'll find 'im?"

"Yes Oldroyd, we will or the Devil take us!

"Some promise yer making. What was 'e thinkin'? We ought'n run 'im up the mizzenmain if'n we find 'im!"

"Mind your tongue Styles. That smacks of treason."

"Sorry Mr Kennedy."

"Damned Frogs. All their fault I say."

The winds shrieked violently like a thousand sirens crying for the sea. Kennedy turned to look behind once, twice, and the third pass of the glass showed him nothing still. Not even the dark shape of the Antigone on the black horizon. Morgan threaded his way between the four other men who were doing their best to push the jolly forward.

"Mr Kennedy?"

"What?"

Morgan frowned, his eyes red-rimmed and his face showing the strain of the night. "I dare say, sir, that we need to rest. What good would it do to find Captain Hornblower and not have the strength to pull him up. And, should the captain be… should we not find him, we must have rest if we plan to rejoin the Antigone, sir."

Archie sighed. The boy spoke only the truth, and yet something in him made him want to lash out. He wanted everyone to share in the pain. Horatio was his best friend, like a brother.

"I suppose your right." He cleared his throat. "Avast your hauling. Take what rest you can," he shouted to be heard. "We'll begin again at first light."

The men grumbled; first Styles, then Oldroyd, Finch and finally Barris laid aside their oars and settled down into the jolly, learning on each other in pitiable search for warmth. Morgan glanced around, searching for somewhere to put himself and could find none.

"Here. You can rest beside me." Kennedy said.

Morgan stared at him a moment and again that strange and sudden emotion passed behind his eyes. Archie moreover could not guess at it, though he had seen it now four times.

The boy scrambled down beside him and offered his shoulder to pillow Kennedy's head. "No. I'm going to keep first watch."

"Aye sir." Morgan watched anxiously as Archie once again put the glass to his eye and searched. He knew the feelings Kennedy was repressing, had felt them himself. Yet as little more than a gunscrew boy, he could not forced the older man to reveal his internal thoughts.

It was obvious Kennedy loved the sea, it's changing mood and colours. Like himself and the Captain, when he was filled with trepidation and questions, he would stare out at the sea and let everything fall away.

"There is pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is rapture in the lonely shore,

There is society where naught intrudes,

By the deep sea and magic in it's roar."

"Dante, Morgan?"

"Inferno, Canto forty-three, verse twelve."

"You must have been well educated."

"Not as well as I would have liked sir." Morgan shivered with a sudden blast of wind and Kennedy motioned him over. Sitting beside the lieutenant, Morgan became abruptly nervous, and more so when Kennedy's large, warm hand came down on his shoulder.

"What's the matter? Surely you don't think I'm going to throw you over? I only do that to Midshipmen who fail their exams." His grin gave depth to his blue eyes.

"N-no Sir."

"Better get some rest, lad. You'll need it for next watch."

"Aye, sir."

Morgan leaned against him and closed his eyes. In but a few moments, his breathing was deep and even, and quiet. He did not snore. A blessing to Kennedy. As much as he hated to admit it, the boy was indeed a silent bunkmate. He never left his few possessions out, never borrowed or took anything not belonging to him, and never snored. He played whist and rook, but was thoughtful and unobtrusive.

He began to shiver an hour into Archie's watch and gently he wrapped his coat around them both. Morgan snuggled against him fretfully. Before Archie knew it, he was absentmindedly stroking the boy's hair and murmuring soothing nonsense. Morgan, in sleep, nuzzled the comforting hand and calmed. Kennedy smiled.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Sir but I think I found him!"

Kennedy's head whipped up and a cold excitement replaced the edgy tenderness that had taken him unaware. "What?"

"Point to larboard, it looks too big to be flotsam sir!" Finch smiled the grin of a madman.

Kennedy stood, all but dumping the boy unceremoniously to the bottom of the Jolly.

"HORAAAAAAAAATIIIIIIIIOOOOOOO! AHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOY!"

"AAHOOOOOY Mrrrrrrrrr Keeeeeeeeeeeeeenedy! Mind giving us a liiiiiiiiiiift?"

Before the order could be given, the hands were awakened and rowing for all the heave they could get. It was only a matter of moments before they made a pass at Horatio and another limp form beside him, afloat on a stay timbre from the loosened from the battle.

Styles pulled Horatio aboard the jolly, then Oldroyd and Barris pulled the unconscious

Captain L'ecuer onboard.

"What on God's earth were you…"

"Are you alright Sir…"

"What happened…"

"Cap'an you should…

"He's right, you know…"

Everyone seemed to be talking at once. Teeth chattering head aching and bleeding, Horatio nodded. Immediately, he regretted the action. "I'm fine. Cold, banged up but fine. We need to get back to the Antigone before… What is it Archie? I never liked that look on your face…"

 "And what, Archie, do you mean exactly when you say we're lost?"

In the pale light of the guttering lamp, Horatio's face shone an ugly port hue, the steel hewn jaw clenched tight and the vein alongside his temple throbbing violently. Whether he was shaking from cold or fury was indeterminable. Archie was glad that he had had the forethought to bring blankets, a change of clothes for the captain, and a few other supplies.

"What I mean Sir, is that I gave Clayton explicit directions to get the Antigone in perfect order and cleared for action. And as far from French waters as possible. We both know we were lucky to see CielNoir turn as she did. She'd have killed us straight out. It was my duty as senior officer aboard our ship to make the necessary decision."

"And you did your duty."

"One of us had to."

Horatio opened his wide mouth to speak and could not.. Archie's blow struck deeply.

No one in the Admiralty would have found much question if the relatively unimportant prisoner had been lost to storm or battle. The thought might have been inhuman but it was truth. He was forced to admit, if only to himself, that he had gone over without word in order to justify the senseless deaths that lay behind him and to pursue the epitaph of Hero. His father would have been less than proud.

"Look, I'm sorry. I was not thinking clearly." Archie placed a hand on his shoulder. Another two hours had passed and they sat abaft, speaking in hushed tones so that the men could rest. No sight of the Antigone or any other ship.

"You've been acting so strange as of late. You hardly even speak to me any more and when you do, you act like a wounded bear. What's gotten into you man?"

It was Archie's turn to remain silent. He knew his friend was at least partially right, and that he had been out of sorts. His genial nature had been replaced by remoteness, something dark and dangerous. He knew it was not the revulsion he felt for Simpson, he knew it was not the weakness and fear after a fit, and it was not the malign despair of imprisonment. Each passing day, he found himself seeking solace in the company of Clayton and their games of whist and more so, rook with Finch and Morgan. Suddenly in unison both his azure eyes, and Horatio's dark sable ones rose and focused on the small bundle two seats for'ard. Morgan was huddled in a tiny ball, wrapped in Kennedy's peacoat. After a moment, they looked back at one another.

"I wouldn't have expected that from you, of all people, Archie. I fancied you better than that."

"Than what precisely?"

Neither spoke the word, but there it lingered.

"Bile rose hot and bitter in Kennedy's throat. His hands clenched, his voice low, menacing. "You take it back, Captain Hornblower. If anything, he's as a brother to me, no more no less. After you insisted upon it. And accusation can be flung both ways, or should I not mention the rumours of you and his Lordship?"

That gave arrest to any further insult. "I do apologise then, Lieutenant Kennedy." Horatio seemed to age in that instant, his face growing sallow, the sharp bone-work of his face becoming pits and hollows of worried shadows. "If you would, awaken the next watch. This looks to be a long night."

Horatio watched incredulously as Kennedy reached over and awakened the object of their quarrel. As the boy sat up he noticed the dark hair was wet and stuck to his face. Eyes, light in colour and red-rimmed, were wide and unblinking. His lips, blue from the bitter cold and trembling managed something that couldn't be properly called a smile or grimace. He had the distinct impression that it had been meant to placate the lieutenant. The spectre of jealousy lurked in his stomach, an unpleasant feeling.

He had never made friends easily. He'd not been athletically inclined, and the point of most sports had eluded him. Locked in a library of books he had passed away many hours, and the characters of printed word had been his closest of intimates. To see himself replaced in the affections of Archie and Clayton, especially by someone so much like himself was unbearable.

The only fact that made it worse was his position of authority. Where could he stand as a man and as a captain?

Morgan rose stiffly and wrapped the jacket around his frail body. He was struck by the incongruous way the boy looked, a china cup among wooden tankards. Why am I so afraid? Horatio wondered.

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

 As Styles seated himself at the front of the jolly's prow, Morgan frowned and bit his full lower lip. He'd never meant to cause trouble between Archie and the Captain. Archie. It was a name reserved for thought alone. Never could he imagine the familiar usage with his superior officer. While he was, at nineteen, only four years older than Morgan the gap of knowledge, experience and respect could not be breached so easily. And that in its self was odd. He had not found himself so insecure when he conversed with Mr. Clayton, who spoke wistfully of a wife and son lost some years back, a lovely lass in Portsmouth named Susanna he had hopes of courting if she ever turned her eyes upon him, and his battle with the drink.

Morgan knew Mr. Clayton (not Henry, as he'd been given permission), was trying to ring comfort to them both during those long, pensive months at sea. The sharing of memories late at night when the deck was cleared and only the dogwatch was about, preserved the nerves and heartened the aching and lonely spirit. He enjoyed his strolls with the lieutenant. Morgan also enjoyed his time with Archie, of course, and found himself developing a friendship with the youngest of the seamen, Oldroyd. People often claimed Ryan was thick as porridge. This wasn't exactly the case. Yes, he was a bit slow but once Oldroyd grasped a concept he would never forget it. His only fears at night were for his lovely new bride, and their firstborn daughter. No one but Morgan and Ryan knew that the seaman kept miniatures of the two ladies in his life under the clothes in his sea chest, between the pages of the Song of Solomon, in his bible.

The waves had settled to a gentle swell and the sky was beginning to clear so a few stars winked down with the knowledge of centuries. Briefly. Morgan wondered what it would be like to be them, to be able to watch with a remote coldness and mark down the passing of time. He wondered what had transpired that the Captain and the Frenchmen had found themselves nearly drowned, what would have happened had Kennedy not thought quickly and decisively. Yes, Archie's decision had provoked a quarrel with the Captain but Morgan could not see any other way for things to have been done. And in that moment he figured if he didn't want to cause Archie further grief, he would have to bury his feelings and remain as reserved as possible toward him without being insubordinate.

He glanced over at Styles, who had promptly returned to his rest. With a sigh, and a burden weighing his mind and heart, Morgan picked up the compass and tried to figure without proper maps or paper their probable heading. For the next hour, he was lost to the joy of numbers and calculations, and double-checking figures. Only when he was certain there was no mistake in his work did he pick his way to the rudder, and carefully turned it hard to weather, trying not to disturb any of the other men. As he did not have much strength, it was a difficult task. There was a slim chance, according to his calculations that they would reach a small clump of islands that was neither controlled by either the Frogs or the Crown. While not exactly where he wanted to spend the rest of his life, it was a better chance to wait there, than to remain afloat in hostile waters for the Antigone.

It was another hour before his efforts were rewarded.

Morgan glanced at the captain furtively, hoping he was asleep. Rough lines etched at the corners of his eyes and mouth. It made him seem so much older than he was. There were complex and disturbing thoughts whirling in his mind. He tossed fitfully in his sleep. Trouble was,

he didn't know what to do next. A quick scan of the surrounding sea showed no signs of a ship.

He couldn't help it.

"Mr. Styles?"

"Whu?" Styles was half asleep, dreaming of his days on the farm and wishing he'd never gotten drunk that night and pressed. "I don't got to feed them beasties just yet."

"Mr. Styles… l-land ho!"

That snapped the seaman out of the half lucid state and into full conscious. "Why didn't you say so before?"

Before the boy had a chance to answer, the larger man snatched the glass from him, put it to one bleary eye and looked. In the half-light of dawn, a dark misshapen hump rose from the bosom of the water. It lurked just before the horizon, coiled there, a serpentine monstrosity. And never had anything looked so good. "Captain! LAND HO!"

The rest of the crew gave lazy and groggy cheers and slapped Styles on the shoulder.

Archie and Horatio sat up together both rubbing their eyes. "Good work Styles. Figure out the points. Finch, Barris, Morgan, Oldroyd, set to. Mr. Kennedy make certain our prisoner is quite out of the way. In about two hours, given the tide Gentlemen, we should have our breakfast on the beach! Morgan settled in his place and with a glance at Kennedy, picked up an oar.

It felt as if the bosun has snuck up to him in the middle of the night and tarred his throat with the sand of the beach. His head throbbed with each report of the non-existent twenty-pounders and the chill of the air took him. It was approaching night, and everything about him was painted in the drowsy hues of dusk. Michel-Patrice was still alive, a fact he cursed. He would have rather died in the surging water and given himself over to God. Instead he had suffered rescue at the hands of the daring, youthful English captain and his crew. It took all the Frenchman's will not to break down into self-indulgent tears as he opened his eyes to his fate.

"Ah! Good evening, Monsieur. Glad to see you have decided to rejoin the living. You've been like the dead for three days. We had feared that when you fell overboard that you had perhaps nearly drowned yourself. Would you perhaps care to take supper now? I" Horatio grinned at him.

Styles muttered something that could not be clearly heard.

Hornblower was sitting on a log, beside a small, somehow cheerful fire. In his hand were grapes, there was some kind of fish and waterfowl roasting on a makeshift spit. Around a narrow patch of beachhead, dotted with pale green grasses, a handful of the crew was standing or sitting, some eating like men starved. But after biscuit, hardtack, and jerked beef he could understand why the men were relieved at fresh food.

"We have oranges if you'd rather or you can wait for the tern Oldroyd somehow managed to catch. The mullet is almost done as well."

L'ecuer was so furious he could not speak, so he mutely accepted the food. And for the second time in all his life, he felt utterly hopeless. When he had been in the battle with the Lancaster, he had been eager for the battle, but now his fate was his own. With that knowledge came a surge of strength that swept away his momentary chagrin, for he did not need to be turned from his mission of freedom. With determination he swallowed his food, and surveyed his surroundings further, intent solely on escape.

They were in a small depression of the beachhead, perfect to weather most conditions. Even if the sky chose to weep, they would be protected from the rain by a shallow cave and the rim of its ledge above. He glanced around the area looking for some clue as to which bit of sea they were stranded near. A few minutes later, he realised he was but a fortnight slow-wind to the Channel. Smiling slowly, L'ecuer recovered his sense of arrogance. As he ate another bite of fish, he schooled his thoughts to strategy and began assessing the condition of the seamen.

He carried a knife in his boot his captors had not found, and it had served him well in all his years at sea. He need only wait until he had the cover of darkness to make his escape. From the looks of the men, none were severely injured and none were interested in guarding him closely. The thought brought another slight curve to his salt-burned lips and he was able to affect a stoic demeanour befitting the French navy. He was an experienced captain after all, with an eye for advantageous positions.

Horatio felt L'ecuer's frustration. He would have made a formidable opponent had he been in command of the ship that had attacked the Antigone yesterday. It was difficult not to have respect for a man his age and reminiscent of his father however, the last thing he afford was to feel charity toward a prisoner. Yet he could benefit from the man's experience. He didn't know the area. He was cut off from his ship and most of its crew. He was, in truth, more than a little frightened. All these things but the last could Horatio admit.

"Mon Capitan, I have a need." The prisoner said quietly.

"Hrmm? What? Oh, I sorry." In light of is recent musings, Horatio had found himself devoid of attention.

"You would not have a gardrobe about would you?"

Horatio quickly hid his relief. "Well, as much as we would like to compete with the finest Inns in all of England I am afraid all we have are those bushes over there." He pointed behind himself. "I regret that you will simply have to make due."

"Oui, M'sier Hornbluer." Michel-Patrice smiled. "Such things, they are understandable."

"You are aware, I assume, that I can not allow you to go unescorted?"

The flash of irritation was beyond the boy-captain's notice. "Mais oui. Certainement."

Without taking his eyes off the man, Horatio called for Styles.

"Take him to freshen up, if you please Mr. Styles."

Style's bray of contemptuous laughter told Horatio that he had no sympathy for the Frog's plight. "Let him piss himself, Sir."

Then the seaman walked off, to rejoin Barris and Finch at collecting the driftwood for the night's fire. Horatio noticed the change in L'ecuer's expression immediately. "Such insolence should not go unpunished. Men respect discipline and only that." He said, and for a moment Horatio was inclined to agree. Here was a man who like Captain Pellew understood the difficulties of leadership, of rising above defeat to fight again, of giving everything to a cause so much greater than himself.

And yet, Horatio could not bring himself to begrudge his men their own sense of self. His crews were bound to him by decree of the admiralty, but beyond that, their loyalty had been earned, making them obey by their will alone. Although Horatio tried to impose what he felt was the proper code of behaviour, he could only do so much.

"I do think your man will not be made a liar in a moment, Capitan…"

"Morgan, escort the good Captain."

Morgan seemed so startled that he dropped the needle he'd been plying on Archie's shirt, and came scrambling over, his small face flushed. "Aye sir. Come this way, Sir, sil vous plait."

Gingerly, Morgan waited as the prisoner unfastened his brais and lowered them. Immediately, a stream hit the ground near Morgan's feet and he stepped back swiftly. "Better now sir?"

"Oui."

"Then back we go!"

When the task was completed, the youth bowed and hurried back to his sewing, glad to be off. Curiously, Michel-Patrice noted the discomfiture of the boy's demeanour and wondered about him.

His thoughts were disrupted by Hornblower's voice. "I regret that we are not better prepared for such a landfall, but it is not as if we were prepared. "

"Do not worry, Mon Capitan. You are quite kind. And I shall be sad to part ways."

Did it matter if he was telling the truth? He did not think that Hornblower was evil, but the boy had his duty, and seemed likely to be the type that would serve his Crown well.

Michel-Patrice watched the sun dip below the horizon and bided his time. Soon he would have his chance to escape, then he would be free one way or another.

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

 "Reporting Sir," Matthews said with a sharp, brisk tug of his forelock. It had been nearly twelve hours since the jolly was lowered and Kennedy took some of the crew away. Clayton stood at the forecastle, surveying the work crews and praying to every god he could think of or invent that they would labour faster. He was worried. Not only for the Captain but also for Kennedy and the rest of the men. Until the mainsail mast was repaired, they would be stranded in a jolly in Frog and Dagoe infested waters. They had been supplied with three days worth of food and water, but how long could that last even at quarter rations? Repairing the damage from the last battle waged would easily take a fortnight, at the least. Then there were Kennedy's orders of bringing the frigate to order and then as far from here as she would run.

Clayton was no fool, but cursed himself as one when he made his decision.

"Very good Matthews. Now, set the rotating half watch. We can only afford half the men on and get as many hands as possible working on the mast. I want the tabernacle in use in no less than four hours. The runners rigged in half that. Be quick about it."

Matthews looked at him with a quizzical expression. "If I didn't know any better I'd suspect mutiny against Mr. Kennedy's orders, sir"

"And if I do, then he'll hang me from the yard, have me flogged or if truly upset I suppose he could order keel-hauling. Get to it man."
Clayton turned away and began to remove his shoes, shirt and socks. Running bare-chested across the deck, he finally reached stern of the mainmast, to the mizzen, intent on laying hands on the counter-mizzen, the fourth smallest mast, which was in serious despair of being splintered kindling. "Heave-to Morris. Get down there and help the second crew with the cubbridge. I'll relieve you here."

"Aye sir!"

Taking his place beside the men struggling with their labour, Henry began the soothing and thoughtless effort. He'd been fighting the desperate want of drink for hours now, and his hands shook as he threaded the ropes across the spar. His mind was running in circles. He'd been given direct orders to change course and sail out of harm's way, something he could not bring himself to do. He knew the CielNoir lurked somewhere out in the darkness, wanting to destroy his ship. It was for these reasons he had not strived beyond less than inspired actions to advance to command, though he was of an age that commission was less than likely. He didn't care about any of it. Even the prize money was rather passé, serving only to be put away for a ring and a home if Susanna agreed to his last letter, sent some weeks ago.

What were important to Clayton were his friendships and his loyalties, which he could not in good conscience abandon. Soon sweat began to roll into his eyes and down his chest, even as the breeze from stern blew softly across him. He smiled, imagining it to be Susanna's breath and

stepped up his effort.

He would take responsibility for his actions but he was going to go get them. And Damn the man who told him otherwise.

"You! Aloysius fetch the extra bow shrouds from under the binnacle and I want the bow chaser swabbed and prepped for action. And for Godsake, clear this deck!"

Michel-Patrice watched the moon peek above the horizon and bided his time. Soon he would have his chance then he would slip away. When he first felt the urge to flee, he had hoped the Captain would give him a moment of privacy so he could seize the opportunity to escape earlier than planned. After it became apparent that Hornblower was a man of noble intention, and would not so easily be duped, he began to take a survey of the rest of the crew. They were all wearing pistols and rotated the watch. He had learned of each one's strengths and weaknesses. He knew the boy, the one protected and ruled by the first Lieutenant, was by far the most susceptible and guiless. If need be, the boy would make the facile hostage.

So when the boy kept at arm's length earlier, L'ecuer had become annoyed that his tactical thinking had failed. Now he stared at the fire burning low, almost banked for the night. His stomach growled and he ate greedily of the offered fruit, meat and bread.

He glanced away but found his eyes drawn to the boy again. Like the men near him, Morgan ate but unlike them, did not gobble the food down in haste. He tore off a small piece of bread and tossed it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

"Morgan? Will you aid me again?" said the First Lieutenant.

Like a trained pup, the boy leapt to his feet and all but ran to the young officer. Although L'ecuer wanted to jeer at this, he knew his chance at escape was rapidly approaching and he would not waste it on a petty display of temper. Finally, the boy came up to him with a blanket and laid it on the log beside him.

"Mr. Kennedy advises you get some sleep, sir, but think not of leaving." The boy said, his words not his own, but forced, his green eyes shadowed from lack of rest. Perfect. "Be aware that the beach has eyes, ears and pistols at the ready should you think to leave our company."

"Ah, so it is. Merci beaucoup for de blankets, monsieur Morgan." L'ecuer said with a soft, paternal grin. He fell to his knees on the makeshift bed and turned onto his side, facing away from the others. This was going to take little effort, he thought contemptuously. For guards and pistols not withstanding, as soon as the camp settled for the night he would fade away like a spectre caught by the rising sun on it's ethereal form.

Morgan waited for several hours, until Oldroyd had watch, and watched as he pulled a missive tenderly from inside his shirt. He knew it would occupy his fellow seaman for at least an hour. Morgan had noticed that Ryan always struggled over the written word and oft times got his letters and numbers backwards. When Ryan read, it was a ponderously slow task, in which he would mouth the words and trace the delicate script with his fingertips.

Safe, Morgan slipped silently away from the camp on the beachhead, his destination the small fresh water pond some way off the path. They had found it's cool shadow dappled resting-place when they first landed and had drawn fresh drinking water from it. Morgan, unaccustomed the lapse hygiene of shiplife, was grateful, and had longed to bathe in the waters far away from the prying eyes of the Antigone's compliment of gunscrew boys and midshipmen.

The scene it set was achingly beautiful as he came upon it. The ragged, uneven banks were surrounded by fallen trunks of the trees, and those that did stand went beyond any he had ever seen. The north rim of the pond held its source, a small waterfall. Cyprus and willow showed their modesty by being draped in silken panels of Spanish moss. The moon had risen round and full, and suckled at the tops of the trees like a newborn babe. He made his way to the pond's shore, and sat on a log, glad his disappearance was unnoticed. A light breeze flowed from the larboard side, scented with undergrowth, citrus and damp earth, not wholly unpleasant. It reminded Morgan of childhood and playing seek-and-hide with the servants' children until he was told that highborn blood did not mingle with commoners. Such was the beginning of his loneliness. No siblings graced the long hours when his father was away attending to a baronet's privilege either in London or Gretna Greene. He had his tutors, and sought shelter in the works of the great writers and thinkers, many of whom were centuries dead in the relative anominity of the woods of his father's estate

He made slow business of removing his clothes, first unbuckling the shoes, then unfastening the stockings. These he laid carefully beside him. Next came the brais and the long underwear, which took several minutes to unlace and shed.

The water was cool, rewarding after the heat of midday. His skin bristled and was ripe with gooseflesh, until by slow degrees he became acclimated to the temperature. Instantly he felt removed from the grime and sweat of several days. Using a bit of tallow soap he'd secreted away from Archie's supply, he began to scrub his arms and legs and other bits of him that needed it. Then his hair, which he was afraid would become matted and need be cut shorter.

The night he had sneaked away from his father's estate, he had no idea where to go or what to do with himself. He knew he was small and weak and would be easy pray. He had only the clothes on his back, enough food for a handful of days and a small knife. He had used these things well. His clothes had all but been tattered rags when he arrived in Portsmouth, his shoes worn though. The food had disappeared before the fourth day. He had used the small knife to forage for rabbits and any other small creature to make a meal of. The rabbit skins had made him a small wage. The reason his hair had been jagged was that he had shorn himself, without a mirror or any assistance. It had been a small price to pay for his freedom.

He had been so wrapped in his thoughts as he swam, that he did not hear the footsteps that would announce he was not alone.

"OH! MY! GOD!" Kennedy's voice was clear, cold and numb, just as the rest of him was.

Morgan jolted out of his thoughts and struggled to gain a foothold on the bottom of the pond. His mind raced between modesty and shock, a thousand words of fear and apology sticking to the back of his throat and forming a hard knot there he could not swallow past. For a moment all they could do was stare at one another, both overwhelmed by what they saw. Reflexively, Morgan brought his arms to his chest.

"M-m-m-Mr. Kennedy… I c-c-can explain. "

"You!" Kennedy finally sputtered. He was almost too furious to speak. He could feel an unreasoning flush climb in his face. And he felt utterly helpless. He was grateful for the small hollow that provided concealment from the rest of the men. "When you rose, Oldroyd thought you needed to pi--use the privy. When you didn't return he got worried and sent me to find you! Well, the devil take you then!

"Mr. Kennedy… you must listen to me…"

Archie turned his back quickly. " You realise of course, that the Captain… and when he reports to the Admiralty, the best you can hope for is…"

"Archie…please…listen to me?"

At the familiar use of his name, he paused. He didn't know what to say. This was a mockery of life, something he was unprepared for, that not even his imagination would have stumbled on as an idea for a play. But the fact was there. And Morgan's small voice, the imploring tone made him turn around again.

Morgan stood on the bank of the pond completely disregarding of the clothes scattered nearby, water dripping from every yielding curve of her bare body. HER. He was still stunned by the revelation. Her small hand was on his shoulder. Kennedy knew he could have broken the hold if he so wished with a mere step backward, but it could have been chains of iron that kept him at her side.

Morgan took a deep breath and Kennedy felt the small, high breasts press into his sleeve, the wet linen of his shirt barely putting up any resistance. "Archie, my name is Maegri Spencer-Dyffed. Daughter of the Baronet of Dyffed. I never meant this to happen… You must believe me."

"Why should I? You lied about who you were... What you were. How can I believe anything you tell me?" Archie knew that was a weak defence but suddenly he couldn't think.

Her voice was husky with emotion, one he could now understand. It was the vocal expression of that indefinable look he had seen in Mor-Maegri's eyes the night he agreed to share his cabin.

"When have I let you down? When have I ever been questionable? Have I not served you and Captain Hornblower to the best of my capabilities? Archie, until I came aboard the Antigone, I had never even seen the sea. Please. You must believe me. I-I... This was the only way I could save myself. I had to lie to you. I didn't want to. But I had to."

Kennedy said nothing. He couldn't.

"Archie. Don't you see?" Maegri said in hushed tones. He could see her eyes in the moonlight, large and liquid, as green as the seas he loved. Her mouth was slightly parted, features he thought too effeminate on a boy, just tempting on a girl. For girl she was, not quite yet a full grown woman.

"See what?" Kennedy asked, clearing his throat. Despite himself, his breathing was shallow and rapid, his body responding to hers in the way God intended. He fought against the urge.

" I love you."

 Archie stared down at her, forcing his eyes to remain on her face. Her declaration, he knew, would invite a multitude of sins upon them both, though neither seemed at all worried about the damnation of their souls. Kennedy could feel a stirring both in his chest and elsewhere and he cursed softly. He had a duty. He was supposed to protect Morgan and the others. Everything had changed now, more than he cared for. All that mattered at this instant was keeping her safe until they reached Portsmouth. If luck indeed was with him, he could falsify a post from Morgan's father begging the "lad" be returned home. Failure meant at best being thrown unceremoniously out of the Royal Navy. At worst, he would pay for Morgan's life with his own. Yet, before he committed himself to doing such a thing, he had to know.

"Why? Why did you do it?"

"Pardon?"

"Why the disguise? Tragically Shakespearean, don't you think?"

"Aye, but to be honest, it was As You Like It, that inspired me." She said blushing again. "Rosalind and Orlando…heaven itself could not make so well a match. "

"You still have not answered me."

"Because I envy you. Well, not you in particular, Archie, but men. I will never be free. Someday, I shall have to wed and have a husband who if I am fortunate will be kindly to me. But my freedom will be curtailed even more so than before I ran away."

"I had the impression you set your own rules."

Morgan shot him a sharp glance. "No. I play the same game you do."

Archie's brow rose. "And what game is that, pray tell?"

"You love the captain. We all do. You love the crew and oft times I think you love the sea. But you would lie to say it was your passion. And being a prize suits me not."

"Well, what is you then?"

A wariness appeared in her eyes. "You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do, or I would not have asked, I can assure you."

She looked away. "Sometimes I wonder if there isn't something more to life. Or why I am here."

The statement struck a chord deep within him. There was not a man alive who had ever gone into battle without wondering the very same thing, but never having the courage to ask.

"I want to feel a sense of purpose, of being," she put her hand to breast above her beating heart. Archie swallowed hard as his eyes skimmed over the perfect, shadowed breasts. "Instead, I feel…"

"As if you are only going through the motions."

"Yes! Exactly!" She dropped her arms to her sides. "Do you ever feel that way, too?"

"At one time I had. First when I was aboard the Justinian serving under Captain Keene, and now only after a battle, when men are dying around us and the ship is falling to pieces and yet, I have escaped harm. I wanted a reason."

"And have you found it?"

"I believe so." Archie replied honestly. "It has to do with having a sense of peace. I have found it in writing my plays and in the friendship I have earned with Horatio- the Captain, and rest of the crew. We served these last two years on the Justinian, the Indy and now the Antigone. But always together. We are a family. And it's the first time I ever felt I belonged."

"I suppose you'll have to tell them, won't you?"

"I have to report everything that happens under my watch." Archie said thoughtfully, his voice tinged with heavy regret.

She smiled sadly, slowly and turned back to face him.

She was so close, he could feel the heat radiating from her body, felt his straining painfully against the laces of his brais.

"Then give me something worth remembering in whatever is to come."

With that she stood on the tips of her toes, covering the small distance and pressed her lips to his.

That was Kennedy's undoing.

As his mouth pressed to hers, the full lips he'd thought too pouty on a boy were rose petal soft and inviting in the girl. Conflicting emotions spun through his head. As her officer, he was honour-bound to protect her. As a man, his need was growing at the timid hands clutching his shoulders. He spilled this aggression, passion and need into the kiss as the tip of his tongue ran along the lower ledge of her lips. Reason screamed this was not proper, but he wasn't in the mood to be reasonable.

He kissed her with punishing sweetness, his lips hard and searching. She clutched the back of her his neck meeting need with need, an undeniable yearning of her own. When he finally moved away, she ached to pull him back. He took her firmly around her waist and pulled her tight against him. " "Tell me to leave," he breathed, searing her cheek with his closeness. "Tell me I can't do this... that I don't deserve this..."

Morgan shook her head. She refused to say what neither of them truly wished. Giving her a last forewarned stare, he released her. His burning gaze dropped from her eyes to her shoulders, down her throat, where his hands endeavoured to meet in the centre. Her name tumbled from his lips like a swift caress, and his eyes lifted to hers. A hand rose to encompass one breast, his palm moving slowly over her skin.

She never dreamed a hand could be so insistent and yet so gentle. He outlined each nipple with his fingertips, then bent to touch them with his lips. A delicious shudder rippled through her body, a longing ache building between her thighs. He reached down and swept her effortlessly into his arms and carried her to a patch of sweetgrass in two strides.

She moaned softly as he laid her down and trembled at the powerful hold he possessed over her senses. She had loved him from the first moment she saw him standing proud on the deck of the Antigone yet she never dreamed of finding herself here. She watched as he removed his own clothing slowly, and then he was above her, every naked inch of his body pressed to hers.

He reclaimed her mouth with savage intensity, his tongue nudging against her lips again, sending shivers of desire through her. She lifted her hands to his shoulders, her fingers delving into his muscular curves and hair.

"You're driving me mad," he whispered, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke. He kissed the pulsing hollow at her throat and his mouth wandered up the tingling cord of her neck.

He rubbed the soft strands of her hair against his cheek and kissed her again. Then he lifted his mouth until it hovered just above hers. "We're both crazy."

Morgan slipped her hands around his neck, drawing him to her for another taste. It was a kiss that scorched her heart, leaving her smouldering at the core. The blue of his eyes, that fine wedgewood blue, made her think of forever endless skies.

His mouth trailed a path down her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She touched his hair with trembling, inexperienced hands. Her hands grew still the moment his lips touched her in her most sensitive places.

Archie played upon her with delicate care mixed with driving hunger, licking and suckling at the warm liquid heat of her. His fingers dug tenderly into her hips as they bucked against him and he tried to still her. Her felt himself grow harder than he thought possible, rigid nearly to the point of pain. However he was rewarded as she shuddered beneath his touch, his name a prayer on her lips.

Languidly he moved atop her. She could feel his heat course down through the entire length of her body. Her breasts tingled against his chest and she could feel his heart thundering against her own. He pressed his flat stomach against hers and she continued to savour the first tremors of ecstasy. Every curve moulded to him. It was as if they were made for each other since the beginning of time.

With slow inevitability, his hands moved down her back, over her hips, her thighs. He skimmed a palm down her stomach, his fingers parting her soft, damp curling hair to stroke her and test her readiness. When he knew she would accept him, he moved into the spread of her thighs. Holding him tightly, she instinctively urged him into her body.

The pleasure of their joining was pure, primal and explosive. Her breath rushed out in a startled gasp while Archie strained above her. Unleashing his fervour. Morgan arched up against him, upward, to offer them the fulfilment they both craved. It became a raw act of possession, a hot tide of passion raging through them. With each deepening a rapid thrust, Morgan trembled with the intensity of his strength and desire. Her fingers moved across the taut flesh of his back and shoulders, digging in sharply, impelling him onward. The fires of anticipation finally burned out of control and with a fevered groan he lurched inside of her, as she too was carried past.

He collapsed on top of her, her tears mingling with the sweat beading on his brow. His lips brushed the hot skin of her shoulder. The hunger they had had for each other was finally sated and a sigh of satisfaction shook through him. He rolled from her, sprawling next to her, an arm curled possessively around her. She wondered if he felt the completely luxuriating sense of completion.

"W-we'll need to go back soon…" she said.

"I know. I don't want to go, but I most definitely do not want to have to explain…"

Neither of them were aware of the eyes that had witnessed their love.

The dusk of evening was setting in, yet there was enough light to see near at hand and the first thing to come to Henry's notice was the unusual silence of the crew. It was as if there we no living soul aboard. The Antigone was broached to, with her bows against the heaviest sea he had ever seen. The waves swept lazily at her fore and aft. They were laying head to sea, and not much canvas, only a single storm staysail. There were still tattered ribands fluttering on the yards to show where some of the sails had been shot away, and every now and again the t'psail flapped like a gun going off as if to say they too would fall and entangle in the shrouds.

Still, it was all that could be done to have the deck cleared and the masts raised. He had decided then that despite Archie's orders they were going back. A mist lay hovering above the kiss of the waves, wind and rain and spindrift accompanying the quiet. Suddenly, Matthews called down from the bowsprit jackline.

'We're on a lee shore!"

Clayton took the glass and looked out, and was able to see white fringe taunting him from the distance. They would be in the breakers in half an hour. What a whirl of wind and sea, what a whirl of thought and wild conjecture. And what shores were they nearly upon? It could be a cliff with deep water and iron face where a good ship would shatter at a blow and death so indignant, or the home of an enemy too numerous to name? Or was it shelving sand, where there would be stranding

And more problems than they already faced?

The muscles in his jaw tightened. He stood a moment at the wheel, running probable courses through his mind as fast as he could. It was a bay they were approaching and France was to the larboard. A rush of thought then came, dazing him with its sweet bitterness. Only a few miles of broken water, and he was determined to make a run for it. There was a change came over Clayton's features when he saw the sand; his face had lost its sadness and wore a look

of sober happiness. He put his to his mouth and shouted for all hands " I had rather drown on an island than return without the Captain and the Lieutenant. We will play the man, and make a fight for life"

There came the murmuring of approval from the before mute crew. Then, as if gathering together all his force: "We have weathered bad times together, and who knows but we shall weather this?"

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

The dawn arose and spread her grey blanket across the beach, as if in contempt. High above them storm clouds roiled menacingly with the threat of rain. The day progressed in shades of silver darkening slowly. Horatio noted this as he sat on a rock and worked over the makeshift charts. Yet as hard as he tried, he could not concentrate. There was something on the breeze, something malign, undeniable. And it left a rusty tang in the back of his throat.

By his calculations they were not far from the Channel, easily inviting intervention from either of the two warring nations. He did not fancy such odds.

"Mr. Kennedy? Could you please come here?" He said, his voice a disgusted sigh.

Archie looked up and seemed a bit paler but he rose from where he and Morgan were sitting, not too far from the Frog. Horatio watched him walk over slowly, the eyes he had come to cherish as pools of honesty and calmness matching the sky above and not meeting his own. He swallowed slowly.

"Yes, Horatio?" Kennedy said softly.

He longed to ask what was the matter, what the missing piece was to this puzzle. He could not find the words. Horatio knew he had never been keen on his social talent and avoid these awkward moments as one would avoid a leper in the commons. In so keeping, he turned tack on his thoughts as deftly as he was able.

"Archie, we must needs find a way off this forsaken rock. I've made some charts and I think I know where we are. If we out run the rain what can we hope for?"

"Possibly two days, no more. We've a good chance of being lost if we try to take to sea before the rain. Add to that the fact we bloody well don't know where we are."

"Wise words. So, if we have two days, I suggest we'd better get as much food and potable water as we can set our hands on and start preparing for the tide-"

Horatio's words were cut off by a scream, piercing and dulcet.

Instantly Archie drew pistol and sword from his side, and ran in the direction of the clamour, with Horatio and the rest following close behind.

Although not a coward, when Archie had wandered over to the Captain, Morgan knew she needed to think and to do so quickly. She was weary, and had sought to avoid the crew. The gathering twilight reminded her of the night before when her heart was claimed, as was the rest of her. In fact, she could almost hear his footsteps. She turned to the sound and sucked in a breath when a man appeared from between the vines. It was not Kennedy, but instead L'ecuer looking strangely feral in the fading light.

"Is there a problem, Captain L'ecuer?"

He stepped closer. "Non, merci."

She folded her arms across her chest. "What then?"

"I was simply seeking your company…"

Confused and wary she took a step back. His face was reddened, and gleamed with a sheen of sweat. Before she could figure out what had agitated him so, he threw himself at her pressing her against a tree trunk. Her shocked gasp gave him an opportunity to kiss her.

She nearly gagged but tosses her head this way and that, and he broke it off. The awkward position made it difficult for her to move, for he had her arms between then, grasping her wrists. She could not break loose to reach the butt of the pistol Styles had insisted she carry, and his weight made it difficult to kick him.
"Ah… You did not fight so last night, ma cher belle. Do not tell me that you fear a man's experience above a boy's?"

She was struck dumb. Someone had witnessed her…

Almost as if he could read her thoughts, he spoke. "Oui. I saw you and the boy. It was… pleasurable. But not worth risking my chance for freedom, cher. "

 Clayton moved through the chase, quickly and silently, though he hated the need for stealth. He was not certain what noise he had heard but the odds made it impossible to ignore.

So although his blood urged speed, Henry's head urged caution. So he struck off through the gloom, certain that he was needed. This was taking longer than he thought, as he signalled the two men behind him, circling the area, alert for enemies above and beside him. He noticed no one.

And when he reached the glade, he realised why.

"Ah! Mon Capitan! Bon jour! For the sake of this creature, I suggest you restrain your men. It's would be a pity for you to lose such a young flower to rashness, oui?"

Horatio's brows knitted in fear and mystification. "I don't understand Capitan. What is it that you want?"

"Just shoot the bastard." Styles whispered gruffly and Horatio raised a limiting hand.

His mind reeled with the situation at hand and he could not believe this was happening. A bead of sweat slithered down his temple.

"We are kindred spirits, M'sieu Hornblower. We are men of action. Of decision. And if you value the life of this little ship rat, then your men will return to the beach and when you leave, you will leave without me. "

"I have my orders, L'ecuer. I can not let you do this." Horatio said calmly, though the turmoil within surged like a squall.

"You do not have a choice. It is all about power and at the moment it is mine. Surely you would not rob the men of their entertainment?" the French captain stroked Morgan's cheek with the barrel of the pistol.

Horatio's confusion mounted but he could feel Archie's fear and loathing fester. It was like a horrid nightmare, one in which nothing made sense. He was roused from his thoughts by the harsh laugh of the other man.

"You do not know? Some captain you prove yourself. The men have found a cozen, and beneath your notice? Or perhaps you have grown tired of her body and do not care, eh?"

"Archie, what is he rambling about?" Horatio asked, only to turn and see Oldroyd and Barris barely keeping Kennedy in check. His eyes burned with a hatred Horatio had never seen, not even in the darkest moment of Simpson's torment. Anger had ravaged Archie's face, replacing the natural sweetness and care with something far more sinister, animalistic. Whipping his own head around, Horatio saw the silent pleading in Morgan's eyes. He felt suddenly numb.

"I said I have my orders. Put the pistol down, and come peacefully. I give you my word as a gentleman and Captain of His Majesty's Navy that this incident shall go unreported and you will be treated well."

"As you say, but I am afraid I do not believe you. C'est la vie. Bid farewell to your sweetling."

Archie's voice was the chorus of avenging angels. "Nooooooo!"

The pistols shot echoed strangely within itself, and Morgan slumped to the Ground. Horatio watched the scene unfolding incredulously as Kennedy knocked the Frog to the ground and scooped up the limp figure, cradling the bo...Morgan gently to him.

Morgan forced herself to smile up at Archie, a ghoulish trail of blood seeping from the corner of her mouth. "I love you.... Never...never forget."

"Don't let go..." Archie beseeched of her, holding her close, his eyes so full of tears that he could not see. He did not hear the others looking over the dead Captain, Did not see Clayton holding the second pistol and grimly coming from the copse of trees.

"Horatio... for God's sake... help me. Help her! GOD! NO! Pleeeeaaassee..." He collapsed in incomprehensible sobbing over her body.

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

The quarterdeck was as silent as a tomb, every hand gathered in mourning. The extended gangplank bore up a small, white shrouded body, wrapped in the finest sailcloth and ratline that could be taken from the holds. Horatio, Clayton and Kennedy stood beside the body, dressed crisply in formal uniform. Shadow and light played over their stern faces from the half-lowered ensign. After several moments, Archie cleared his throat.

"O! how I faint when I of you do write, knowing a better spirit doth us your name and in the praise thereof spends all his might to make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame; but since your worth (wide as the ocean is) The humble as the proudest sail doth bear; My saucy bark, inferior far to his, on your broad main doth wilfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, whilst on he on your soundless deep doth ride. He of tall building and of goodly pride: then if he thrive and I be cast away, the worst was this, --my love was decay. Or I shall live your epitaph to make, or you survive when I in earth am rotten: from hence your memory death cannot take, although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have though I, once gone, to all the world must die. The earth can yield me but a common grave, when you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, which eyes not yet created shall o'erread: and tongues to be your being shall rehearse, when all the breathers of this world are dead; You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen), where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men."

Archie finished the verse from memory, then turned stiffly back to his place. Surreptitiously, Clayton placed a reassuring hand oh his shoulder and willed his strength into his friend.

Horatio nodded. "We shall now return Morgan to the sea from which he came, and all bid him Godspeed."

With that, Morgan's lifeless body was cast into the strangely calm sea bellow, and the ship's bells rang mournfully in a death toll.

 It was the second dogwatch, when Henry took the deck. He was thankful no one had inquired about Archie's absence. Horatio had relieved him from a week's duty after the entire tale was related upon returning to the Antigone. It came not as a punishment, but a small mercy. He had just left Kennedy's quarters, where the poor boy lay in his hammock, his eyes yet red and swollen from tears. Clayton ached within; knowing the turmoil Kennedy felt yet was powerless to take the pain from him. He took a deep breath and leaned against the rail.

England lay two days ahead of them. Horatio would have to face an inquiry and all were prepared to answer with him. It had been a hell of a sail.

"Mister Clayton, suh?

"Yes, Styles?"

"Me and the men… we… 'ow's he doing?"

"Undoubtedly, he'll live. And mark you, he'll be stronger."

"What word's did he say?"

" Shakespeare. One of the sonnets."

"It'll be good to go home, won't it?"

"Yes, if any of us can."

The End

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