ATKM FIC: Fire Sermon
Aug. 3rd, 2006 01:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marnanightingalePart of the All the King's Men Universe.
Set after Mutiny and Retribution.
If you've read no ATKM, you might want to read the letterfics first . That should provide enough context to be going on with.
Explicit Sexuality. Chronological Skullduggery.
Thanks to: The Usual Supects, and I love them:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
damned_colonial, fairestcat, black_hound, ataniell93. Readers, cheerleaders, editors, arse kickers, co-conspirators, history geeks, madwomen, beloved friends.
A good beta is beyond rubies. Mine are beyond diamonds:wemyss, sjkasabi, farjdrako.
Respectfully dedicated to the men shot at dawn, and to the men who have died shamefully because they did not consider that their sexual preference excused them from serving their country. Someday there will perhaps be an Article XXIX memorial.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
The Naval Gazette, March 1802
KINGSTON JAMAICA
HMS RENOWN, HMS IMPETUEUX, HMS MINERVA, HMS HASTINGS in port.
Court Martial convened into the Death at sea of Captain James Sawyer, hero of the Nile, also charges of Mutiny and Assault among the officers. Lt. William Bush, Second of the Renown, and Lt Archibald Kennedy, Fourth of the Renown, both wounded in that same action which cost the life of Captain Sawyer. Cmmdre. Sir Edward Pellew, Capt. Hammond, Capt. Collins presiding. Lts Buckland, Bush, Hornblower and Kennedy called upon to answer a charge that they did conspire to and perform Assault upon the person of Captain Sawyer. Confession of Lt Kennedy that he alone had committed Assault upon Captain Sawyer and so caused his Reason to be Cruelly Shattered. Court Martial dissolved on news that Lt Kennedy was or soon would be dead of his wounds received. Lts Buckland, Bush and Hornblower found not answerable for the charges against them and restored to their Duty, Lt Hornblower to be given command of RETRIBUTION, captured in that same action when she be bought into the Service, see also APPOINTMENTS, Lt Bush to remain ashore until the Doctors should report him fit ...
Burning, and the air burning around him; he'd been cast into Hell, then, and no surprise; he'd tried to pray, done his best to truly repent, and he had, did, there were so many things he'd wish undone, but not all; he'd die first, he'd be damned first, and so he had died, and was damned, damned and burning; there were coals of fire in his chest. It doesn't hurt, and he had smiled when he said it, but it had been a lie, he'd lied without shame or thought. One more lie, a featherweight on a scale tipped past all hope of salvation, but there was nobody to lie for now, no more point to pretending to courage; he opened his mouth to scream and the fire rushed in to mingle with the agony that squeezed his heart until blackness swarmed behind his eyes like storm-clouds over the Channel, and oblivion hovered. He felt a cool hand on his cheek, and the fire receded a little; perhaps he'd never had a hope of heaven but it seemed mercy could stretch so far as to grant him cessation, at least, cessation and peace and a last human touch to take with him into the welcoming dark.
He was juggling, juggling grenades; three, no, five of them. Or ten, or eight – they shifted and multiplied and vanished whenever he tried to count them, but it scarcely mattered in the rage of the battle and for as long as he could keep them all in the air in the thick of it, for as long as his mount's smooth pace let him catch and toss and catch and toss again he knew the French would go on falling back before him, mesmerised, muskets loose in their hands – as long as he could keep them in the air, but should even one fall, they would all go, and he would fall, and his mount on top of him, throat ripped and bloody, and they would rush in on him, would cast their guns aside and pull him from his saddle and tear him to shreds as if he were a fox run to earth by hounds – his hands were cold and stiff and clumsy in his gloves but he dared not try to take them off, there was no time, no rest, only the catch and the toss and screams and thunder of battle and the desperate need to go on and on – a man cried out behind him, and fell with a dull crack of bone, but he dared not look back, dared not even call out to ask who had fallen ... catch. Toss. Catch. Toss.
Blackness and bitter cold and a weight like a stone on his chest; they had buried him after all, snatched him from his shallow grave in a nameless stretch of sand and sent him home to rot – Useless weight on a ship... ought to have sent me to the bottom ... He'd killed a score of men and tossed them over the side with scarcely a thought, left shipmates to lie as they fell and scrambled for his own life a hundred times; pray first or pray after, or forget to pray at all, it was all the same. What cold mercy was this, and whose? Who else? Always mad after propriety, forever flinching from shame ... the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up her dead ... This weight of earth, this crushing blackness, was not so gentle as the silken weight of cool blue. It would give up nothing it had claimed, not without a struggle, and he was weary of struggle, mortal weary. Mortal weary, that was almost worth a smile, if his lips would obey him ...
He had dropped it. He stared dully through stinging eyes, too weary even to flinch, waiting for the explosion, for the slicing pain of jagged metal, for the scream as Bucephalus went down beneath him, the weight of boots ... a bullet. Let it be a bullet, please, let it be a clean shot .... Not the bayonets that tore a man to shreds and left him screaming through his own blood, screaming for oblivion and pissing himself in agony as his guts slithered in the dirt ... it had not burst, it lay still fizzing and smoking, the French halted before it in frozen, staring lines, peering down at what he had dropped ... it had ceased to smoke, now, even ... it was misshapen, strange – his hands were cold, that was why they were so stiff, because they were cold, because he'd got his gloves wet, wet with blood, covered in blood. There was blood on the snow around the ... the thing he had dropped, that Sergeant Masterson was bent over now, poking at it curiously, picking it up and bringing it to him, cupped almost tenderly in his raw, red hand – he let the rest go, let them tumble to the snow as he cried out – it was a heart, still beating. Still beating, and he had dropped it, and it lay pumping blood over the snow ...
"Drink." Welcome coolness on his face, in his mouth. He opened his mouth docilely, swallowed once, and was suddenly desperate, clutching and gulping until he choked and the cup was taken from his grasp; his eyes flew open indignantly, to meet with blue. A blue coat, a mid, sallow and slender, bending over him with the freshly filled cup; further away, half-turned to face the window, a Captain's lace. Why this is Hell, nor am I out of it... He struck the cup away wildly, heedless of the pain the movement occasioned, snarling at the startled boy until he backed away, shaken.
"Making sure I can kick when they hang me?" It came out as a croak, guttural gibberish. The figure by the window turned; it was Pellew, coming over to take the cup from the lad's hand and refill it, Pellew, their one hope – a hope that had faded as the trial had dragged on and he had waited and watched and left them to save themselves if they could – he had lent himself to that farce of a trial with never a qualm and left them to sink beneath the weight of the Admiralty's need to cling to their mythical hero and now he thought to nurse him back to enough strength to climb a scaffold and stand on his own feet as they looped the noose around his neck ... he turned his face away and set his lips; no sense in wanting water. No sense wanting anything but a quick and private death, and it seemed he was to be denied even that, unless he could feign unconsciousness until they went away, until they left him alone to slip quietly away, to go down to Hell on his own terms ... such a little thing to ask, but precious to him, and he could still contest for it, would still fight with all his fading reserves ...
April 16, 1802, Flanders.
He stood as stiff and proper as any man there, gathered in this small, dusty clearing to listen with polite attention to the well-worn words of the service. Setting a proper example.
... they cried out, Away with him, away with him, crucify him ... then delivered he him therefore unto them to be crucified ... and he bearing his cross went forth into a place called the place of a skull ...
He bowed his head with the rest, and closed his eyes. A dusty, narrow street. The blank-faced guards and the long room, full of hostile eyes and implacable judges.
Peace be with you. He turned away.
March 1, 1802. Falmouth, Jamaica
Pellew was back again, Pellew with his damned water and his false, insinuating voice and his fucking Naval duty to make him well, to drag him kicking and choking back up to the land of the living that he might kick and choke his way down to death properly, in order, all according to the Articles; Archie set his teeth against the cup and turned his head first one way, then the other, but that only meant Pellew's hand at his jaw, turning his face back to the rim of the cup.
"Drink, Mr Kennedy. Drink and live. You'll not hang, nor die in this bed, not if I have anything to say to it. It's over." Coddling words, flummery to trick him into drinking; he screwed his eyes tighter against them, but a determined thumb parted his lips to allow the cup to settle against his teeth. "But you must drink." He had no choice, really, nor even time to think; the water was there in his mouth one moment, swallowed the next, to be replaced by another cool mouthful; he made to push Pellew's arm away, but he was an altogether tougher proposition than the mid had been, and Archie succeeded only in slopping water over his chin. He opened his eyes again – no more purpose to playing dead, clearly – and met Pellew's gaze. Sober, even irritated, but as plain and open as ever; he surrendered all at once, and swallowed dutifully until the cup was empty.
Pellew smiled as he took it away. "No more for now. Try to rest, and tomorrow we shall see about something more substantial." He rose and made as if to go, but Archie drew him back with a hand on his arm.
"I'm – not to hang?" His voice sounded thin to his own ears, almost childish.
Pellew turned back; laid his hand over Archie's own, gently. "You have my word on it, Mr Kennedy."
"Oh." Pellew's word was nigh-proverbial; he settled back into the pillows, and, much to his dismay, began to cry, great silent tears that puddled foolishly in his ears until he turned his head into the pillow to hide them, found he was as worn as if he'd stood watch on watch for a week, yawned hugely, and slipped back into sleep.
May 4, 1802, Flanders.
"Drink, my lord."
"There's none left, Richard, and will you for Christ's sake go to sleep?" His head felt as if a pack mule had been stabled atop it.
"No, drink this, my lord." On second thought, a team of drayhorses, and they'd been stabled in his head; he gulped gratefully; sputtered. "Damn you, Weston, are you trying to poison me?"
"Remedy of Sergeant Masterson's mum's, m'lord. He thought it might help you relish your coffee." Weston's expression was suspiciously innocent, but the draught, vile though it was, did seem to be clearing his head; he finished it and shuddered. "Christ. Is that meant for cure or penance?"
"Couldn't say, m'lord," Weston said cheerfully, handing over coffee as he spoke. It was steaming hot, and strong, and when he finished it Edrington felt he might almost pass for a man again, albeit a somewhat elderly and infirm specimen.
Peace should have come as a blessing, cause for celebration; it had seemed more a curse, breaking the familiar, numbing routine of duty, mocking him; too late, too late, and yet by so little – only one month sooner and Renown need never have gone into battle, two months sooner and Archie and Horatio might have been ashore, or at least within sight of it, poorer by half their pay but safe. He had stumbled through the days after the Gazette's arrival, aware of his surroundings only when he tripped over them, numbly grateful to be busy with the endless, grinding, blessed routine of the battalion. It had occupied and exhausted, if not distracted, him, and while he was caught in its train he had passed his days calmly enough, lost in work and sleep, and if he never smiled, well, war was a grim business, after all.
Then peace had come, and the relaxing of almost all restraints and routines, and with it a packet of letters from London, and among them one with the direction written in an unfamiliar hand which had proven to be that of William Bush, and an enclosure ... and his fragile peace had shattered beyond recall. He had begged off the victory celebrations where he could, with the thin excuse that their orders back to England must come soon and there was much to be done in preparation, but Colonel Manningham's patience with his most personable staff officer's sudden reluctance to dance and flirt and charm as required could be stretched only so far, and by April it was well-exhausted.
Long days of finding and making work for himself had turned to longer evenings of cards and dancing and dinners and polite chatter, and he dared not even seek to make it all more tolerable with drink and risk the loosing of his tongue; he threw himself into festivity as if it were a campaign, every lady he danced with a new city to conquer, every game of cards a siege; he won money, and perhaps he won hearts, but if he did he never knew it, and took no advantage. Women who could be had by less delicate campaigns there were in abundance, in the first flush of peace; when other diversions failed him there was distraction there, but no more than distraction, distraction and enough bodily ease to make him sleep without dreams. In the few moments of reflection he allowed himself he knew he was drifting further and further from himself, but whenever he came near resolving to do something to mend matters he found, instead, that it would be more convenient to do some small task first, then another, and another, until it was time for another ball, or rout, or dinner, and the impulse was safely forgotten.
Until last night; Richard had come and saved him from another such evening on the pretext of some vital matter that could not wait, and led him off, Edrington had thought, towards the stables. His protest when they continued past the rear of the camp and into the hills beyond had been met with silence; when they came to the privacy of the woods Richard had thrust a bottle of surprisingly decent brandy into his hands and told him that he might drink it on his feet or have it poured into him on his back, just as he chose, and bent to build up a fire. When the bottle was empty he had produced another, and then a third, and by the time they scuffed the fire apart and covered it with earth Edrington had been sick and dizzy from drink, hoarse from – talking, filthy and scraped from a fall he scarcely remembered, and wretchedly, miserably alive again.
And alive he still was, it seemed, and safely back in his tent, though how that had been contrived was a mystery to him, and welcome to remain so. He rose from his bedroll and fumbled for a fresh shirt, emerging blinking into the thin warmth of the sunlight to see Richard, looking altogether too clear-eyed to have drunk his fair share the night before, sprawled before the fire with the last of the coffee in his hand.
"I've already put another pot on, my lord, for you and the Major, here, and there's bacon, and some bread still from yesterday." Weston said, and Edrington opened his mouth to ask acerbically if Weston's undoubted talents for foraging could support an entire battalion's coffee requirements, thought better of it, and made himself comfortable on a boulder to wait. Richard grinned up at him, and after a while – it really was a fine morning – he found that he was smiling back.
April 4, 1802, St Peter's Church, Duke Street, Falmouth, Jamaica.
I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: my heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of my bowels. My strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou hast brought me into the dust of death...
Not quite, though he felt like it; even in the cool of the church he was sweating – no more fever, thank God, but the least exertion left him shaking and weak, even now – this was as far as he'd ventured since being permitted to rise from his bed and dress, and twice on the brief walk through the tropical morning he'd had to find a wall in a patch of shade and stop, gulping air until his heart slowed and his vision cleared. Only pride kept him from sagging against the back of the pew, pride and an obscure sense of a debt to be paid.
And he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise. And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak...
He wondered if it had hurt, and what the centurion's servant had said; nothing suitable for inclusion in Holy Writ, he suspected – returning from the dead was a miracle it took some time to come to appreciate when one was the object of it – he had been a bad patient, he knew, intolerant of fuss, infuriated by his own weakness – he'd had to take the long road back from the dead, and it had been a bit like digging free of Hell with a teaspoon. Don't look back... Sound advice, however pagan the source; he forced his attention back to the service.
The first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early, when it was yet dark, unto the sepulchre, and seeth the stone taken away from the sepulchre.
He had not properly considered resurrection from the vantage of the onlookers before; he considered it now. ... I know not where they have laid him ... Oh, God.
His keepers were solicitous for his comfort, but when he had finally felt certain enough of his survival to ask for writing paper, they had been gentle but obdurate – the Admiralty must believe him dead, dead and buried and well forgotten, until Pellew could reach England and open certain very delicate discussions; until then, a single strayed letter – or worse, a single betrayal – could destroy more than his chances of ever returning to England, could reopen the entire matter of the mutiny once again and put not only him but Horatio and Bush in fresh danger of hanging. Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father ... If he was never to see home again, it was as well to let them go on thinking him dead.
It irked and chafed him to play such a passive part, though, to wait and trust and do nothing without leave; he was almost grateful that injury and circumstance denied him the chance to meddle. His life for theirs, and still he lived and breathed – in pain and in solitude, but he might look for a full recovery, the doctor had said, if he were careful and refrained from tempting fate – and the Admiralty. He ought to be grateful, and he was, truly. Life – even half-life, away from all he knew and loved – was sweet.
Still – Pellew had sailed in early March, before the peace; if the wind were fair – he calculated and fretted his way through the remainder of the sermon; so long for Pellew's return to England, so long – how long? – for whatever witchcraft he proposed to work at the Admiralty to succeed or fail – thank God Hood was no longer a factor – so long for a packet to reach Kingston ... he sighed. There had been a small bookshop along the way to church. Pellew had left him money for his needs – perhaps tomorrow he might venture out to investigate their offerings. Something long, long and complicated and full of adventure. With a happy ending, he rather hoped.
June 8, 1802, Plymouth docks.
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm ... this fucking awful climate. Edrington stood on the deck of the Greyhound, shuddering under the cold trickle that seeped under his stock and soaked the back of his shirt; he pulled his greatcoat closer. Exchanging late spring in Flanders for a chill Plymouth downpour was enough to make a man consider charges of high treason against whatever damned fool had so crafted the Treaty that hardly a scrap of the Continent remained in British hands. His men were disembarked, now, and his horse waiting; he climbed down into the jollyboat and sat staring idly at the ships at anchor; the Canada, the battered old Nonsuch, Retribution, blessedly unmanned – he must see Horatio, and soon, but not yet, not just yet – Impetueux ... oh, Hell. She too was unloading men and beasts; she must have come in the day before.
They reached the dock and he nodded to Weston, who handed him Bucephalus's reins and fell into step with him, making no comment as he quickened his step and hunched himself deep in his collar.
"Alexander!"
Christ, no... He kept walking, concentrating on the corner of the stable, looming ahead of him in the mist. "Alexander?"
"My lord..." Weston was looking up at him apprehensively. He marched grimly on, gritting his teeth, until a hand touched his shoulder, and he spun to face its owner.
"Alexander, have you gone deaf?" Pellew was grinning at him, dear God, grinning. As if he expected Edrington to be pleased to see him, as if ...
"I beg your pardon, Sir. I do not know you."
He turned resolutely away from Pellew's shocked white face and entered the gloom of the stable.
West Indiaman Chance, Portsmouth, July 20, 1802.
Archie was huddled miserably in his cot when Pellew stepped into the cabin, and could scarcely croak out a greeting; to rise was impossible, though he managed to fumble himself onto one elbow before Pellew testily told him to lie back and turned to the doctor. "I was told that when you set sail from Kingston he was well on the mend, sir! Is this the sort of care you habitually offer your ailing passengers?"
The doctor sighed. "He was well on the mend, sir, up and about and getting strong until just a few days ago. There was a storm, a considerable blow, and the mast – he must have slipped in with the second watch when they turned out and been out there for an hour or more in the dark and the rain and the waves coming over the side at the men before anyone noticed him there and thought to call me. They peeled his hands from the rope –" Archie opened his mouth and the doctor snorted without turning around – "Oh, very well, then, from the line if it means so blessed much to you – and brought him below, but the mischief was done. It's only God's mercy he didn't reopen the wound, or take it into his head to go for a climb while he was about it and split himself like an egg, but he did himself a poor enough turn as it was; raving by nightfall and in his bed since with a fine case of lung-fever, and I'll thank you not to question my care, not when I was up with him three nights running stopping him getting up to stand to his nonexistent duties."
Pellew nodded. "Just as you say, Doctor, and my apologies; I spoke hastily." He bowed stiffly to the doctor, who returned a sketchy nod and a stately inclination of his torso.
"Well, he's your problem now, and I wish you joy of him. Keep him abed until the fever's well gone, with pillows under him to ease the lung, feed him up, and let no one bleed him – his own strength will do the rest, if you can persuade him to permit it to. Damned young fool ..." He winked at Archie, who smiled wanly back, straightened his pillow for him – wholly unnecessarily – and took his leave.
"I had intended to assist you to decent lodgings," Pellew said after a long moment. "But I see that will not answer; you are in no condition to be left alone for an hour, never mind for as long as it might take for some member of your family to arrive to take you in hand." He paced, hands behind his back, and Archie waited apprehensively. "I suppose it would be best if I took you to the townhouse; Mrs Maddern will know what to do with you."
He nodded decisively and moved towards the door, presumably to put this new plan in motion, but halted when Archie said meekly, "Sir?"
"Yes?"
"I'm – I'm very sorry to be so much trouble, Sir."
"Are you?" Pellew smiled sourly. "I ought to make a note of that – I do believe it may be without precedent in the whole of our acquaintance." He turned away again, and a chastened Archie settled back into his blankets to doze until they were ready to collect him, feeling obscurely soothed.
My Lord –
I see by the Gazette that you are returned safe to England and were last week at Plymouth; I hope this reaches you there or else is sent on to you as I should very much like to see you at your earliest. I shall most probably have to travel to Portsmouth in early August to show myself at the Admiralty and persuade them I am fit for a posting; I should be grateful if you were able to meet with me then. I shall try to come to London if this is not found convenient, though it may be some time before I am able to come to you there.
Your obedient servant,
Lt William Bush
Chichester, 19th May, 1802.
My Dear Lieutenant Bush,
I am sorry to be so late in replying to you, but your letter seems to have chased me up and down England before finding me at last. I shall gladly meet with you in Portsmouth, but am unable to furnish you with a precise direction – my customary lodgings there, which I know you know, I find no longer convenient. If you are coming to town on Naval business and will let me know the day I shall meet you at the Admiralty and we can go on from there. I should be most willing to assist you in any errands you may have in hand.
Edrington.
at Dorset, June 24, 1802.
My Lord –
I shall be at the Admiralty on August 3rd and would be pleased to meet with you then.
Your obedient etc,
Lt William Bush
Chichester, 14th July, 1802.
St Thomas's Street, Portsmouth, July 26, 1802.
He might have been back in his cell in Kingston again, or even in El Ferrol, waking bleary-eyed to find Horatio in a chair beside his bed, hovering over him as he slept.
"This is coming to be a habit." His voice sounded rusty and harsh in his own ears; he cleared his throat and tried again, smiling as Horatio sat up with a start. "Good morning, Horatio."
"Ah – Good morning. Afternoon. I – I didn't want to disturb you, I – " He came over to the bed; hovered indecisively. Sat down at Archie's inviting wave; leapt up again as his weight on the bed brought Archie half-rolling towards him, and stood looking miserable until Archie held out his hand and pulled him down to perch on the bed once more. He would have tugged him down to lie beside him, had Horatio not still been staring as if he were seeing – well, a ghost, I suppose. A friendly spirit, at least; Horatio was still wide-eyed and nervous, but he gripped Archie's hand firmly, and had begun to smile, and that was something. "You look – you look better than I expected."
Archie could not keep from laughing. "It's hard to know how to take that, Horatio – you had every reason to expect me to be half-rotted by now."
"Archie!" There, a laugh, even if it was a faintly horrified one. "How – well, how do you feel, then?"
"There's a new-healed bullet wound in my side and I've a nasty cough from the lung-fever – not a combination I commend to you, by the bye – I can't seem to stay awake, I am officially dead and a disgraced mutineer, my mouth tastes like the Justinian's bilges, and I think the fever may be coming back. And you're here. Take it all in all, I'd have to say I felt wonderful. Hand me that water glass, will you? I want to kiss you – but I've every intention of rinsing my mouth out first."
Even when Horatio had dutifully handed over the glass and Archie had drained it and set it by the bed he only leaned over to bestow a nervous peck on Archie's mouth before bolting back upright to plait his fingers nervously and stare. Archie opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it – Horatio was clearly badly agitated about something, and prodding at him would only make it worse – shrugged, and changed the subject. "I understand congratulations are in order – Captain Hornblower."
Horatio jumped. "Er, ah – hmm. They gave me Retribution, you know, but with the Peace – I am the newest Commander. And shall be for some time, it seems. Nevertheless, I, ah – tomorrow I must go down to London and see if I can get a – well, a berth, at least, though I have some faint hopes of a ship, if I can beat out the rest. I – ah. Well. You seem – you seem well. I'm glad. Will you be all right here? With Captain Pellew and – of course you will. Silly question. Of course you will. I – ah. Captain Pellew says I'm not to tire you or he'll have my – my ears." He rose and carefully rearranged Archie's pillow until it was as lumpy, Archie thought, as any pillow could possibly be, kissed him on the forehead – Archie was powerfully tempted to wrap one arm around his neck and make Horatio kiss him properly, but his weakened reflexes were no match for Horatio at his most determinedly skittish, and the impulsive gesture ended in a sort of flailing half-caress of Horatio's arm, instead.
Archie watched Horatio stride towards the door and was suddenly afraid. "You will come back when you can, Horatio?"
He turned, and his expression softened. "Of course I will, Archie. I – I will. You have my word." And he was gone, leaving Archie to sink back into his pillows and stare thoughtfully at the shadows on the ceiling, chewing his lip. He ought to be furious, he supposed, at such cavalier treatment, but ... he was so tired, and it seemed a lot of trouble to go to, to work himself into a pet simply because Horatio was, well, Horatio. He had given his word to return, and not grudgingly – that was something, at least. Still ... this business of returning from the dead was hard on a man, and while a fatted calf would be wasted on him at present anyway, a bit of whole-hearted joy was, he had thought, not too extravagant a hope.
Damn Horatio anyway – if he was determined to be miserable it was just as well he was off to London, where he could brood over whatever was ailing him to his heart's content, with nobody to tease him out of it or spend hours going over the same well-worn ground these moods always seemed to lead back to – soothing the same anxieties, excusing the same real and pretended failings, all the old, tedious themes. Left alone for once, he might finally worry his way to a conclusion of some sort, and if not, if he came back still of the same mind, well, perhaps by then Archie would feel up to managing him again.
But not now; he reached instead for his book. Pellew had made him free of the library; his books, along with his clothes and other few possessions, were gone, sacrificed in the cause of verisimilitude, and the few volumes he had allowed himself during his enforced idleness in Falmouth had grown over-familiar long before. Of the contents of his sea-chest he regretted his Donne most of all – still, if he had lost the treasured red volume, the giver, the recipient, and the poems remained. He smoothed the wretched pillow as best he could, drew out the ribbon marking his place, and began to read.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do...
The Admiralty, Portsmouth, 3rd August, 1802.
Bush emerged and stood peering about him until he spotted the single red coat among the mob of blue. The prospect of approaching Edrington had been unsettling enough in imagination; now that it came to it, he was mightily tempted to slip away, send his excuses, claim that he had been unable to spot him in the crowd and had at last given up. Their last encounter had been difficult enough, but at least he had had the consolation of deeming it an aberration, a chance meeting never to be repeated. He hadn't – precisely – promised Kennedy – had only said he would see his letter delivered – surely this man, so contained and self-assured, could have no need of any consolation he could offer. Probably he would be affronted at the very suggestion. Mincing words with a dead man, William? He set his jaw and crossed the square, letting out his breath in a huff at Edrington's slight nod of recognition. "My lord."
Edrington winced, then smiled slightly. "Edrington, for heaven's sake. Please." and, at his answering nod, "Assuming of course that your business is finished, I should very much prefer not to linger. I – have you eaten? I hope your business was successfully concluded?"
"I have eaten, thank you, my L – sir. And not what you might call concluded, but they have at least agreed that I am fit for duty and held out some chance of an appointment. More than I expected, what with –" he stammered to a halt, and glanced nervously at Edrington, surprising him in the act of a similar appraisal. At close quarters the cool indifference which Bush suspected was native to his character could not entirely conceal the drawn look about Edrington's mouth, nor the faint bruising around his eyes. He looked away hastily, and would have apologised but for a hand on his arm.
"I shan't try to persuade you that I am not – in any difficulty. This meeting could not but be – awkward. For both of us. But may we get indoors before we talk of it?" Bush nodded, and they made the rest of the walk to Edrington's lodgings in relative silence.
St Thomas's Street.
Archie laid his book aside as Pellew slipped into the room, waving aside his attempts to rise and displaying two filled glasses. "I thought you might require a restorative."
He held out his hand and considered – did Pellew know a great deal more about his attachment to Horatio than he let on, or was this meant to brace him for the discussion ahead? Both, probably.
He'd been waiting for this; half-dreading it, half-eager to have it done. He had his life – that it was life at a price was no shock, nor cause for complaint, but what the final tally would be – My career, certainly. My reputation, my name ... But Pellew had bullied him back to life, cleared the way for his return to England, and Horatio's visit must surely mean that his sequestration was nearly at an end; the rest could be borne. Archie sipped his drink and waited.
"I trust you were well cared for."
"I was. I ... gather I have you to thank for..." For my life "For their kindness."
It had been kind; whatever game Pellew was playing, it would surely have been made infinitely simpler by letting him die.
Pellew waved his thanks away. "No more than my duty, Mr Kennedy." Archie raised a startled eyebrow. "Did you think you were the only man in the entire Navy whose notions of duty were broader than the Articles and the decrees of those damned fools at the Admiralty? Of course you did. Damned heroic young idiot." He took in Archie's expression – doubtless he was gawping like a fool – with surly satisfaction. "It was such a beautiful plan ..."
"Ah – Sir?"
"Your jellyfish of a First Lieutenant – Buckland, that was it – was losing his nerve. That damned sot Clive was falling to pieces. A few more words in the right ears ... well. It's done now." He brooded gently over his glass for a moment, then set it aside with a sigh, and said in a familiar tone of deceptively gentle complaint, "Could you not have simply tossed him over the side in a storm? God knows, it's not that difficult to arrange."
And how do you know that? Let it go, let it go... "You think I killed Sawyer. Captain Sawyer."
"A Spaniard's bullet killed Sawyer. The surviving members of the Renown's wardroom testified to it under oath. Had it been otherwise, I would not have been able to lift a finger on your behalf, not even a clandestine one."
"Ah." Archie subsided against the pillows. "Well, I thank you." Greatly daring, he added, "I shall try to do better next time," and watched with interest as Pellew choked on his wine. He recovered himself rapidly, enough so at least to glare at Archie, and then astonished him by laughing.
"Never mind, Mr Kennedy. You did the best you could, and it was bravely done; I ought to have known you would upset all my calculations. There remains the matter of your future."
Archie drained his glass, and pulled himself upright, turning so that he could face Pellew squarely. "Have I a future?"
"Within ... certain bounds, yes. Your naval career is over. Even if we were able to explain away your confession, my influence – and my own good sense – stop short of finding another captain to take you on. I can't ask a man to take on a Lieutenant who picks and chooses what and whom he'll obey. I daresay this comes as no great surprise to you."
Archie grinned ruefully. "In truth ... it comes as a relief to me. I never was proper Naval material, not really. I did know it. I kept on at it because ..." because I had a point to prove and a grudge to pursue. And because it was the only way to stay with Horatio. Hardly the honourable concerns proper to an officer in His Majesty's Navy, he would say...
Pellew shook his head. "You might have been an excellent officer, given the chance. The Navy ... did badly by you, first and last, and I regret it. You had damned bad luck ... but there it is. I'll not take the chance of helping you back into uniform."
Archie nodded, then smiled at him. "I had some good fortune, too. If it had all been like the Indy.... So, no longer Lieutenant Kennedy. What of Mr Kennedy?"
"It ... might be better not. For a time. The Admiralty can prove, if necessary, that Lieutenant Archibald Kennedy is dead. And is quite willing to, in exchange for having been handed such a discreet and simple answer to the conundrum; this way, their consciences are quieted and so are tongues which might otherwise wag in – places they'd not care to have questions asked. With Hood gone at last and his hangers-on left to cover their tracks as best they can and Jervis exploding every other day about peculation and corruption in the fleet ... they were, I believe, rather pleased than otherwise with the results of my – interference. But it would be a good deal simpler if the question did not arise. Simpler for all concerned. So – discretion is in order."
"I see. I keep quiet, and they will ... refrain from noticing me." Pellew nodded. "You know, when I was a boy I hated my name. I used to wish my parents had called me – oh, anything but Archibald. Shame that it's my last name that has to go." He stared out the window, thinking, and Pellew waited in silence. "Best not to go too far from the truth, I suppose." Pellew nodded. "My mother was a Saunders – there are probably several hundred of them about. I look like them; it will make it simpler for me to remain close to my family unremarked. Will that do?" At Pellew's nod, he raised his glass in a mock-toast, half smiling. "I suppose that makes you my godfather, sir. If you don't object."
Pellew raised his own glass. "Not at all, Mr. Saunders. Now," he reached out to take the empty glass from Archie's hand and set it on the table, "The rest can wait, and you look as if you might sleep again." He smiled at Archie's half-voiced protest and left the room, closing the door behind him softly; Archie gazed thoughtfully at the unresponsive wood for a moment, then reached for the book he had dropped among the bedclothes.
...And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ...
Well, he could scarcely walk at the moment, much less run, but when Pellew returned from the Admiralty – or wherever he was off to now – he promised himself that he would finally get up the courage to ask him outright how soon he might – become a little less oblique.
The Drake and Dolphin, Portsmouth.
Bush clutched his glass and forced himself to relax into his chair. "You had my letter from Kingston? And..."
"I did. I – I thank you. You ... took a chance."
"I owed him. I owe you." He shook his head; tried again. "That sounds – I was more than glad to do it. He was ... you were right to tell me to trust him. I only wish ..." Edrington's mouth twisted, but he said nothing, only waited. "I'm sorry. I should have, should have ... "
"He said you tried to stop him. That you did all you could. I believe him. Does Horatio blame you?"
"He blames himself."
Edrington sighed. "He would." Bush looked sharply at him, but Edrington's tone and expression conveyed as much affection as frustration. They drank in silence, each lost in his own thoughts, until Edrington set his empty glass aside and rose to collect the decanter. He refilled their glasses and sat down, taking a long pull at his drink. Said abruptly, "Archie wanted me to – to look out for you."
Bush was startled into a grin. "He asked me to look after you." At Edrington's incredulous look, he added, "Didn't say how I was to manage it, though."
"No doubt he trusted we would contrive. He always seemed to." With that, Edrington lapsed into silence again, staring at nothing, his fingers restless on the stem of his glass, twirling and tilting it to make the liquid within glow in the candlelight.
When he spoke again, it was into the brandy; Bush had to lean forward to hear him. "Tell me what happened."
"I'm not sure I – I missed the trial, you know, but I ..."
"I know about the trial. Tell me about the rest of it. Everything."
Oh, God. He gulped his glass and at Edrington's inquiring look, held it out to be refilled. "He ... he threw me off a cliff."
St Thomas's Street, August 3rd, 1802
The housekeeper frowned down at him. "Are you well enough to be up, sir?"
"Well enough to try, I think." Archie swung his legs over the side of the bed and waited for his head to clear. "If you will find some clothes for me and fetch me a man to help me dress, I think I might do very well."
She found him breeches and a fresh shirt with no more comment than to apologise for their age and size – clearly some spares of Pellew's, worn and bound to hang on him, but clean and mended – but her look as she went to do his bidding was frankly suspicious, and when she returned, moments later, it was with Pellew; Archie looked at him guiltily. "Sir, I..."
"Asked for a man to help you dress, and now you have one, sir. Mrs Maddern quite rightly thought to come to me; she knows I'll not allow you to do yourself harm in the attempt. Besides, as far as most of my household knows, you are recovering from a tropical fever, not a bullet, and I should prefer to keep it so."
The Drake and Dolphin
"Dear Christ, did he?"
Bush nodded, and took a long swallow of his drink before going on. "To my face, mind you, and stood there grinning, daring me to take notice."
"First thing he ever said to me, standing there on the dock in a battered old mid's coat that fit him like a feedsack, as haughty as if he were waiting to conduct me to his own personal yacht, was that my men seemed too fine for battle. I wanted to throttle him, and he scarcely seemed to notice me at all, damn his impudence."
"He wasn't afraid of Sawyer. Didn't seem to be afraid of anything, really."
"There were ..." Edrington paused to drain his glass. "Not what most people are afraid of, not battle, or speaking his mind, but ... mind, his notion of succumbing to panic was to launch an all-out offensive, which made it difficult to tell if he was terrified or furiously angry or simply set on something." He shook his head ruefully. "I can only imagine what it must have been like to have him under one's command."
Bush snorted into his glass. "I can only imagine it. He didn't so much take orders as ... entertain suggestions, and politely comply. If there had been a scrap of real viciousness in him ... but I never saw him truly in a rage except over how young Wellard was used; he nearly terrified me then, and I was not among his targets."
"That would do it, yes." Bush noticed how he pressed his lips down, as if locking some secret behind them, before saying, "You ought to have seen him at Muzillac, racing a lit fuse over a bridge for Horatio's sake; my heart was in my throat. One got used to the feeling, eventually... " He trailed off inconsequentially, then burst out "I can't take it in. Even now, I can't. He was so damned alive, he'd survived so much – I wake in the night and think it's all been a dream, something I ate, some ... damned idle nightmare come to plague me ..." He reached for the decanter again, clumsily, wiping his sleeve over his eyes. "'Tis loss to trust a tomb with such a guest..."
St Thomas's Street
For a man used to command, Archie thought as he tipped his head to have his hair brushed and tied at his nape, Pellew made a tolerable nurse and valet; he had been washed, shaved, and dressed in almost no time, and all without hurt to his still stiff and tender side. Even so, he was tired, and content to sit quietly and be tended to. "I ought to get your man to cut this for me," he said idly, and Pellew nodded as he tied off the queue and stepped back.
"We shall have to get some clothes to fit you, as well – one set, at least, though I hope you'll outgrow them as quickly as you were used to do aboard Indefatigable. You're too thin by half."
Archie nodded, then made a face. "There is, alas, the little matter of money, as neither my pay nor my allowance from my family have survived my – death. I don't wish to – to presume on your kindness any more than I have already, and – at any rate, I shall have to earn my bread somehow. I suppose I hadn't better think of going on the stage – too conspicuous, even if I could make a living at it – but I had thought – I can at any rate look to earn my bread behind it like any other ex-sailor. Once I get strong. Until then ..."
"It's not so desperate as that; the allowance of a younger son will, it seems, be paid with equal alacrity into the account of a ... shall we say, of a distant cousin for whom your father feels some responsibility due to his tragic orphaning at a tender age?"
"You wrote to my father?"
"I called on him. I thought it wise, once we were sure you would live; he's not been well, and the shock of the news from Kingston had done him no good; he's on the mend now, though. He asks me to tell you that he looks to see you as soon as you judge it safe to come North."
"Did he – did he say if he – if he forgave me?"
"He said he was glad to know you were alive, and begged me to let you make your own excuses." Pellew paused, and smiled wryly. "He gave me some money, and asked me to see it safe to you. And he said your mother would wish him to send you her love."
It was going to be all right, then; Archie exhaled. "I think I'd like to try to stand now, if you will help me?"
The Drake and Dolphin
"And all he'd say was, at least the cells kept getting more comfortable every time, even if the food was still unspeakable." Bush laughed reminiscently, and Edrington smiled, seeing Archie's sly grin, hearing his voice, as if he were before him now, then sobered abruptly.
"How – tell me the truth. How bad was it, William?"
Bush chewed his lip, searching for words. "It was his lung, I think, or near to. High up, at any rate, not his – not his guts. He – he didn't speak of it, but it pained him. And the wound-fever..." He fell silent, watching Edrington's face. "He – called for you, once or twice. When he was – when he was sleeping, or fevered." Edrington buried his face in his hands at that, and Bush reached out tentatively to touch his shoulder; his wrist was enfolded at once in a hard grip and Edrington's eyes were wet when he looked up, or maybe, Bush thought uncomfortably, it was a trick of the light.
He met Edrington's gaze squarely. "He – he was never alone. Not ever, until the end. I was there, and then Lieutenant Hornblower – he was never alone, nor was he ill-treated, Alexander. And when I told him I could see that his letter reached you, he smiled for the first time in days. Be content with that."
Edrington closed his eyes, as if in prayer, and breathed deep. "I suppose I shall have to be. And I – when I saw you, when I knew that Horatio was back in England – I know you would not abandon him. Did not abandon him. And so I suppose that then I knew it was real."
St Thomas's Street
They made it to the sitting room in reasonable style, though Archie was happy to collapse into a chair and apply himself to one of the trays Mrs Maddern appeared with. He considered as he ate, and as he laid aside his fork he said to Pellew, "Still. I must do something with myself, I suppose, not just laze about town."
"You'll laze and you'll like it, Mr – Saunders, until the last of those feverish fits passes and you've some meat on your bones. After that – " Pellew stopped to swallow the last of his soup and chase it with a sip of wine – "what would you have done, had you never joined the Navy?"
"Oh – go on the stage, perhaps, though I was never as good as I fancied I was. I used to write poems. I tried to write a play, once, and mercifully lost the manuscript." He stared into his dish of raspberries, remembering, then said abruptly, "Do you think this peace will last, Sir? Strictly between us."
"Strictly between us – I am quite sure it will not. Not had enough of the wars yet?"
Archie smiled at him crookedly. "I ought to have had, I suppose. Still – it'll seem strange, sitting ashore and watching. And I've a score or two I wish I'd had the chance to settle."
Pellew nodded, and returned his attention to his wine; they sat in silence, Archie doing his best to laze virtuously and conspicuously, until Pellew seemed to come to a decision. "If you mean that, Mr Saunders – Archie – well. Obedience may not be your virtue, but virtues you have, in plenty. It seems a shame to waste them. But for now ... be patient. Grow strong again. The peace will hold long enough to allow for that. And then – we shall see what might be done." It had the sound of a promise, or an offer, at least; Archie thought for a moment, then nodded silently.
They chatted of other matters for a while, desultorily, until Archie felt his eyelids grow heavy and Pellew helped him back to his bed. As his eyes began to shut, he heard Pellew's soft footfalls returning, and saw him place something beside the bed, but sleep was fast overwhelming even curiosity – I'll see to it when I wake up ...
He woke near dusk, and groped, remembering, at the bed-table, coming up with a folded note laid over some sheets of paper. He lit the candle left ready and unfolded it.
A rumour has reached my ears that Lord Edrington is back in Portsmouth, and may be found at the Drake – I feel sure you will agree with me that it is high time to put a period to his anguish. P.
Even as he blushed and wondered, he was reaching for the pen.
on to Part Two
Set after Mutiny and Retribution.
If you've read no ATKM, you might want to read the letterfics first . That should provide enough context to be going on with.
Explicit Sexuality. Chronological Skullduggery.
Thanks to: The Usual Supects, and I love them:
damned_colonial, fairestcat, black_hound, ataniell93. Readers, cheerleaders, editors, arse kickers, co-conspirators, history geeks, madwomen, beloved friends.A good beta is beyond rubies. Mine are beyond diamonds:
wemyss, sjkasabi, farjdrako. Respectfully dedicated to the men shot at dawn, and to the men who have died shamefully because they did not consider that their sexual preference excused them from serving their country. Someday there will perhaps be an Article XXIX memorial.
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
The Naval Gazette, March 1802
KINGSTON JAMAICA
HMS RENOWN, HMS IMPETUEUX, HMS MINERVA, HMS HASTINGS in port.
Court Martial convened into the Death at sea of Captain James Sawyer, hero of the Nile, also charges of Mutiny and Assault among the officers. Lt. William Bush, Second of the Renown, and Lt Archibald Kennedy, Fourth of the Renown, both wounded in that same action which cost the life of Captain Sawyer. Cmmdre. Sir Edward Pellew, Capt. Hammond, Capt. Collins presiding. Lts Buckland, Bush, Hornblower and Kennedy called upon to answer a charge that they did conspire to and perform Assault upon the person of Captain Sawyer. Confession of Lt Kennedy that he alone had committed Assault upon Captain Sawyer and so caused his Reason to be Cruelly Shattered. Court Martial dissolved on news that Lt Kennedy was or soon would be dead of his wounds received. Lts Buckland, Bush and Hornblower found not answerable for the charges against them and restored to their Duty, Lt Hornblower to be given command of RETRIBUTION, captured in that same action when she be bought into the Service, see also APPOINTMENTS, Lt Bush to remain ashore until the Doctors should report him fit ...
Burning, and the air burning around him; he'd been cast into Hell, then, and no surprise; he'd tried to pray, done his best to truly repent, and he had, did, there were so many things he'd wish undone, but not all; he'd die first, he'd be damned first, and so he had died, and was damned, damned and burning; there were coals of fire in his chest. It doesn't hurt, and he had smiled when he said it, but it had been a lie, he'd lied without shame or thought. One more lie, a featherweight on a scale tipped past all hope of salvation, but there was nobody to lie for now, no more point to pretending to courage; he opened his mouth to scream and the fire rushed in to mingle with the agony that squeezed his heart until blackness swarmed behind his eyes like storm-clouds over the Channel, and oblivion hovered. He felt a cool hand on his cheek, and the fire receded a little; perhaps he'd never had a hope of heaven but it seemed mercy could stretch so far as to grant him cessation, at least, cessation and peace and a last human touch to take with him into the welcoming dark.
He was juggling, juggling grenades; three, no, five of them. Or ten, or eight – they shifted and multiplied and vanished whenever he tried to count them, but it scarcely mattered in the rage of the battle and for as long as he could keep them all in the air in the thick of it, for as long as his mount's smooth pace let him catch and toss and catch and toss again he knew the French would go on falling back before him, mesmerised, muskets loose in their hands – as long as he could keep them in the air, but should even one fall, they would all go, and he would fall, and his mount on top of him, throat ripped and bloody, and they would rush in on him, would cast their guns aside and pull him from his saddle and tear him to shreds as if he were a fox run to earth by hounds – his hands were cold and stiff and clumsy in his gloves but he dared not try to take them off, there was no time, no rest, only the catch and the toss and screams and thunder of battle and the desperate need to go on and on – a man cried out behind him, and fell with a dull crack of bone, but he dared not look back, dared not even call out to ask who had fallen ... catch. Toss. Catch. Toss.
Blackness and bitter cold and a weight like a stone on his chest; they had buried him after all, snatched him from his shallow grave in a nameless stretch of sand and sent him home to rot – Useless weight on a ship... ought to have sent me to the bottom ... He'd killed a score of men and tossed them over the side with scarcely a thought, left shipmates to lie as they fell and scrambled for his own life a hundred times; pray first or pray after, or forget to pray at all, it was all the same. What cold mercy was this, and whose? Who else? Always mad after propriety, forever flinching from shame ... the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up her dead ... This weight of earth, this crushing blackness, was not so gentle as the silken weight of cool blue. It would give up nothing it had claimed, not without a struggle, and he was weary of struggle, mortal weary. Mortal weary, that was almost worth a smile, if his lips would obey him ...
He had dropped it. He stared dully through stinging eyes, too weary even to flinch, waiting for the explosion, for the slicing pain of jagged metal, for the scream as Bucephalus went down beneath him, the weight of boots ... a bullet. Let it be a bullet, please, let it be a clean shot .... Not the bayonets that tore a man to shreds and left him screaming through his own blood, screaming for oblivion and pissing himself in agony as his guts slithered in the dirt ... it had not burst, it lay still fizzing and smoking, the French halted before it in frozen, staring lines, peering down at what he had dropped ... it had ceased to smoke, now, even ... it was misshapen, strange – his hands were cold, that was why they were so stiff, because they were cold, because he'd got his gloves wet, wet with blood, covered in blood. There was blood on the snow around the ... the thing he had dropped, that Sergeant Masterson was bent over now, poking at it curiously, picking it up and bringing it to him, cupped almost tenderly in his raw, red hand – he let the rest go, let them tumble to the snow as he cried out – it was a heart, still beating. Still beating, and he had dropped it, and it lay pumping blood over the snow ...
"Drink." Welcome coolness on his face, in his mouth. He opened his mouth docilely, swallowed once, and was suddenly desperate, clutching and gulping until he choked and the cup was taken from his grasp; his eyes flew open indignantly, to meet with blue. A blue coat, a mid, sallow and slender, bending over him with the freshly filled cup; further away, half-turned to face the window, a Captain's lace. Why this is Hell, nor am I out of it... He struck the cup away wildly, heedless of the pain the movement occasioned, snarling at the startled boy until he backed away, shaken.
"Making sure I can kick when they hang me?" It came out as a croak, guttural gibberish. The figure by the window turned; it was Pellew, coming over to take the cup from the lad's hand and refill it, Pellew, their one hope – a hope that had faded as the trial had dragged on and he had waited and watched and left them to save themselves if they could – he had lent himself to that farce of a trial with never a qualm and left them to sink beneath the weight of the Admiralty's need to cling to their mythical hero and now he thought to nurse him back to enough strength to climb a scaffold and stand on his own feet as they looped the noose around his neck ... he turned his face away and set his lips; no sense in wanting water. No sense wanting anything but a quick and private death, and it seemed he was to be denied even that, unless he could feign unconsciousness until they went away, until they left him alone to slip quietly away, to go down to Hell on his own terms ... such a little thing to ask, but precious to him, and he could still contest for it, would still fight with all his fading reserves ...
April 16, 1802, Flanders.
He stood as stiff and proper as any man there, gathered in this small, dusty clearing to listen with polite attention to the well-worn words of the service. Setting a proper example.
... they cried out, Away with him, away with him, crucify him ... then delivered he him therefore unto them to be crucified ... and he bearing his cross went forth into a place called the place of a skull ...
He bowed his head with the rest, and closed his eyes. A dusty, narrow street. The blank-faced guards and the long room, full of hostile eyes and implacable judges.
Peace be with you. He turned away.
March 1, 1802. Falmouth, Jamaica
Pellew was back again, Pellew with his damned water and his false, insinuating voice and his fucking Naval duty to make him well, to drag him kicking and choking back up to the land of the living that he might kick and choke his way down to death properly, in order, all according to the Articles; Archie set his teeth against the cup and turned his head first one way, then the other, but that only meant Pellew's hand at his jaw, turning his face back to the rim of the cup.
"Drink, Mr Kennedy. Drink and live. You'll not hang, nor die in this bed, not if I have anything to say to it. It's over." Coddling words, flummery to trick him into drinking; he screwed his eyes tighter against them, but a determined thumb parted his lips to allow the cup to settle against his teeth. "But you must drink." He had no choice, really, nor even time to think; the water was there in his mouth one moment, swallowed the next, to be replaced by another cool mouthful; he made to push Pellew's arm away, but he was an altogether tougher proposition than the mid had been, and Archie succeeded only in slopping water over his chin. He opened his eyes again – no more purpose to playing dead, clearly – and met Pellew's gaze. Sober, even irritated, but as plain and open as ever; he surrendered all at once, and swallowed dutifully until the cup was empty.
Pellew smiled as he took it away. "No more for now. Try to rest, and tomorrow we shall see about something more substantial." He rose and made as if to go, but Archie drew him back with a hand on his arm.
"I'm – not to hang?" His voice sounded thin to his own ears, almost childish.
Pellew turned back; laid his hand over Archie's own, gently. "You have my word on it, Mr Kennedy."
"Oh." Pellew's word was nigh-proverbial; he settled back into the pillows, and, much to his dismay, began to cry, great silent tears that puddled foolishly in his ears until he turned his head into the pillow to hide them, found he was as worn as if he'd stood watch on watch for a week, yawned hugely, and slipped back into sleep.
May 4, 1802, Flanders.
"Drink, my lord."
"There's none left, Richard, and will you for Christ's sake go to sleep?" His head felt as if a pack mule had been stabled atop it.
"No, drink this, my lord." On second thought, a team of drayhorses, and they'd been stabled in his head; he gulped gratefully; sputtered. "Damn you, Weston, are you trying to poison me?"
"Remedy of Sergeant Masterson's mum's, m'lord. He thought it might help you relish your coffee." Weston's expression was suspiciously innocent, but the draught, vile though it was, did seem to be clearing his head; he finished it and shuddered. "Christ. Is that meant for cure or penance?"
"Couldn't say, m'lord," Weston said cheerfully, handing over coffee as he spoke. It was steaming hot, and strong, and when he finished it Edrington felt he might almost pass for a man again, albeit a somewhat elderly and infirm specimen.
Peace should have come as a blessing, cause for celebration; it had seemed more a curse, breaking the familiar, numbing routine of duty, mocking him; too late, too late, and yet by so little – only one month sooner and Renown need never have gone into battle, two months sooner and Archie and Horatio might have been ashore, or at least within sight of it, poorer by half their pay but safe. He had stumbled through the days after the Gazette's arrival, aware of his surroundings only when he tripped over them, numbly grateful to be busy with the endless, grinding, blessed routine of the battalion. It had occupied and exhausted, if not distracted, him, and while he was caught in its train he had passed his days calmly enough, lost in work and sleep, and if he never smiled, well, war was a grim business, after all.
Then peace had come, and the relaxing of almost all restraints and routines, and with it a packet of letters from London, and among them one with the direction written in an unfamiliar hand which had proven to be that of William Bush, and an enclosure ... and his fragile peace had shattered beyond recall. He had begged off the victory celebrations where he could, with the thin excuse that their orders back to England must come soon and there was much to be done in preparation, but Colonel Manningham's patience with his most personable staff officer's sudden reluctance to dance and flirt and charm as required could be stretched only so far, and by April it was well-exhausted.
Long days of finding and making work for himself had turned to longer evenings of cards and dancing and dinners and polite chatter, and he dared not even seek to make it all more tolerable with drink and risk the loosing of his tongue; he threw himself into festivity as if it were a campaign, every lady he danced with a new city to conquer, every game of cards a siege; he won money, and perhaps he won hearts, but if he did he never knew it, and took no advantage. Women who could be had by less delicate campaigns there were in abundance, in the first flush of peace; when other diversions failed him there was distraction there, but no more than distraction, distraction and enough bodily ease to make him sleep without dreams. In the few moments of reflection he allowed himself he knew he was drifting further and further from himself, but whenever he came near resolving to do something to mend matters he found, instead, that it would be more convenient to do some small task first, then another, and another, until it was time for another ball, or rout, or dinner, and the impulse was safely forgotten.
Until last night; Richard had come and saved him from another such evening on the pretext of some vital matter that could not wait, and led him off, Edrington had thought, towards the stables. His protest when they continued past the rear of the camp and into the hills beyond had been met with silence; when they came to the privacy of the woods Richard had thrust a bottle of surprisingly decent brandy into his hands and told him that he might drink it on his feet or have it poured into him on his back, just as he chose, and bent to build up a fire. When the bottle was empty he had produced another, and then a third, and by the time they scuffed the fire apart and covered it with earth Edrington had been sick and dizzy from drink, hoarse from – talking, filthy and scraped from a fall he scarcely remembered, and wretchedly, miserably alive again.
And alive he still was, it seemed, and safely back in his tent, though how that had been contrived was a mystery to him, and welcome to remain so. He rose from his bedroll and fumbled for a fresh shirt, emerging blinking into the thin warmth of the sunlight to see Richard, looking altogether too clear-eyed to have drunk his fair share the night before, sprawled before the fire with the last of the coffee in his hand.
"I've already put another pot on, my lord, for you and the Major, here, and there's bacon, and some bread still from yesterday." Weston said, and Edrington opened his mouth to ask acerbically if Weston's undoubted talents for foraging could support an entire battalion's coffee requirements, thought better of it, and made himself comfortable on a boulder to wait. Richard grinned up at him, and after a while – it really was a fine morning – he found that he was smiling back.
April 4, 1802, St Peter's Church, Duke Street, Falmouth, Jamaica.
I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: my heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of my bowels. My strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou hast brought me into the dust of death...
Not quite, though he felt like it; even in the cool of the church he was sweating – no more fever, thank God, but the least exertion left him shaking and weak, even now – this was as far as he'd ventured since being permitted to rise from his bed and dress, and twice on the brief walk through the tropical morning he'd had to find a wall in a patch of shade and stop, gulping air until his heart slowed and his vision cleared. Only pride kept him from sagging against the back of the pew, pride and an obscure sense of a debt to be paid.
And he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise. And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak...
He wondered if it had hurt, and what the centurion's servant had said; nothing suitable for inclusion in Holy Writ, he suspected – returning from the dead was a miracle it took some time to come to appreciate when one was the object of it – he had been a bad patient, he knew, intolerant of fuss, infuriated by his own weakness – he'd had to take the long road back from the dead, and it had been a bit like digging free of Hell with a teaspoon. Don't look back... Sound advice, however pagan the source; he forced his attention back to the service.
The first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early, when it was yet dark, unto the sepulchre, and seeth the stone taken away from the sepulchre.
He had not properly considered resurrection from the vantage of the onlookers before; he considered it now. ... I know not where they have laid him ... Oh, God.
His keepers were solicitous for his comfort, but when he had finally felt certain enough of his survival to ask for writing paper, they had been gentle but obdurate – the Admiralty must believe him dead, dead and buried and well forgotten, until Pellew could reach England and open certain very delicate discussions; until then, a single strayed letter – or worse, a single betrayal – could destroy more than his chances of ever returning to England, could reopen the entire matter of the mutiny once again and put not only him but Horatio and Bush in fresh danger of hanging. Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father ... If he was never to see home again, it was as well to let them go on thinking him dead.
It irked and chafed him to play such a passive part, though, to wait and trust and do nothing without leave; he was almost grateful that injury and circumstance denied him the chance to meddle. His life for theirs, and still he lived and breathed – in pain and in solitude, but he might look for a full recovery, the doctor had said, if he were careful and refrained from tempting fate – and the Admiralty. He ought to be grateful, and he was, truly. Life – even half-life, away from all he knew and loved – was sweet.
Still – Pellew had sailed in early March, before the peace; if the wind were fair – he calculated and fretted his way through the remainder of the sermon; so long for Pellew's return to England, so long – how long? – for whatever witchcraft he proposed to work at the Admiralty to succeed or fail – thank God Hood was no longer a factor – so long for a packet to reach Kingston ... he sighed. There had been a small bookshop along the way to church. Pellew had left him money for his needs – perhaps tomorrow he might venture out to investigate their offerings. Something long, long and complicated and full of adventure. With a happy ending, he rather hoped.
June 8, 1802, Plymouth docks.
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm ... this fucking awful climate. Edrington stood on the deck of the Greyhound, shuddering under the cold trickle that seeped under his stock and soaked the back of his shirt; he pulled his greatcoat closer. Exchanging late spring in Flanders for a chill Plymouth downpour was enough to make a man consider charges of high treason against whatever damned fool had so crafted the Treaty that hardly a scrap of the Continent remained in British hands. His men were disembarked, now, and his horse waiting; he climbed down into the jollyboat and sat staring idly at the ships at anchor; the Canada, the battered old Nonsuch, Retribution, blessedly unmanned – he must see Horatio, and soon, but not yet, not just yet – Impetueux ... oh, Hell. She too was unloading men and beasts; she must have come in the day before.
They reached the dock and he nodded to Weston, who handed him Bucephalus's reins and fell into step with him, making no comment as he quickened his step and hunched himself deep in his collar.
"Alexander!"
Christ, no... He kept walking, concentrating on the corner of the stable, looming ahead of him in the mist. "Alexander?"
"My lord..." Weston was looking up at him apprehensively. He marched grimly on, gritting his teeth, until a hand touched his shoulder, and he spun to face its owner.
"Alexander, have you gone deaf?" Pellew was grinning at him, dear God, grinning. As if he expected Edrington to be pleased to see him, as if ...
"I beg your pardon, Sir. I do not know you."
He turned resolutely away from Pellew's shocked white face and entered the gloom of the stable.
West Indiaman Chance, Portsmouth, July 20, 1802.
Archie was huddled miserably in his cot when Pellew stepped into the cabin, and could scarcely croak out a greeting; to rise was impossible, though he managed to fumble himself onto one elbow before Pellew testily told him to lie back and turned to the doctor. "I was told that when you set sail from Kingston he was well on the mend, sir! Is this the sort of care you habitually offer your ailing passengers?"
The doctor sighed. "He was well on the mend, sir, up and about and getting strong until just a few days ago. There was a storm, a considerable blow, and the mast – he must have slipped in with the second watch when they turned out and been out there for an hour or more in the dark and the rain and the waves coming over the side at the men before anyone noticed him there and thought to call me. They peeled his hands from the rope –" Archie opened his mouth and the doctor snorted without turning around – "Oh, very well, then, from the line if it means so blessed much to you – and brought him below, but the mischief was done. It's only God's mercy he didn't reopen the wound, or take it into his head to go for a climb while he was about it and split himself like an egg, but he did himself a poor enough turn as it was; raving by nightfall and in his bed since with a fine case of lung-fever, and I'll thank you not to question my care, not when I was up with him three nights running stopping him getting up to stand to his nonexistent duties."
Pellew nodded. "Just as you say, Doctor, and my apologies; I spoke hastily." He bowed stiffly to the doctor, who returned a sketchy nod and a stately inclination of his torso.
"Well, he's your problem now, and I wish you joy of him. Keep him abed until the fever's well gone, with pillows under him to ease the lung, feed him up, and let no one bleed him – his own strength will do the rest, if you can persuade him to permit it to. Damned young fool ..." He winked at Archie, who smiled wanly back, straightened his pillow for him – wholly unnecessarily – and took his leave.
"I had intended to assist you to decent lodgings," Pellew said after a long moment. "But I see that will not answer; you are in no condition to be left alone for an hour, never mind for as long as it might take for some member of your family to arrive to take you in hand." He paced, hands behind his back, and Archie waited apprehensively. "I suppose it would be best if I took you to the townhouse; Mrs Maddern will know what to do with you."
He nodded decisively and moved towards the door, presumably to put this new plan in motion, but halted when Archie said meekly, "Sir?"
"Yes?"
"I'm – I'm very sorry to be so much trouble, Sir."
"Are you?" Pellew smiled sourly. "I ought to make a note of that – I do believe it may be without precedent in the whole of our acquaintance." He turned away again, and a chastened Archie settled back into his blankets to doze until they were ready to collect him, feeling obscurely soothed.
My Lord –
I see by the Gazette that you are returned safe to England and were last week at Plymouth; I hope this reaches you there or else is sent on to you as I should very much like to see you at your earliest. I shall most probably have to travel to Portsmouth in early August to show myself at the Admiralty and persuade them I am fit for a posting; I should be grateful if you were able to meet with me then. I shall try to come to London if this is not found convenient, though it may be some time before I am able to come to you there.
Your obedient servant,
Lt William Bush
Chichester, 19th May, 1802.
My Dear Lieutenant Bush,
I am sorry to be so late in replying to you, but your letter seems to have chased me up and down England before finding me at last. I shall gladly meet with you in Portsmouth, but am unable to furnish you with a precise direction – my customary lodgings there, which I know you know, I find no longer convenient. If you are coming to town on Naval business and will let me know the day I shall meet you at the Admiralty and we can go on from there. I should be most willing to assist you in any errands you may have in hand.
Edrington.
at Dorset, June 24, 1802.
My Lord –
I shall be at the Admiralty on August 3rd and would be pleased to meet with you then.
Your obedient etc,
Lt William Bush
Chichester, 14th July, 1802.
St Thomas's Street, Portsmouth, July 26, 1802.
He might have been back in his cell in Kingston again, or even in El Ferrol, waking bleary-eyed to find Horatio in a chair beside his bed, hovering over him as he slept.
"This is coming to be a habit." His voice sounded rusty and harsh in his own ears; he cleared his throat and tried again, smiling as Horatio sat up with a start. "Good morning, Horatio."
"Ah – Good morning. Afternoon. I – I didn't want to disturb you, I – " He came over to the bed; hovered indecisively. Sat down at Archie's inviting wave; leapt up again as his weight on the bed brought Archie half-rolling towards him, and stood looking miserable until Archie held out his hand and pulled him down to perch on the bed once more. He would have tugged him down to lie beside him, had Horatio not still been staring as if he were seeing – well, a ghost, I suppose. A friendly spirit, at least; Horatio was still wide-eyed and nervous, but he gripped Archie's hand firmly, and had begun to smile, and that was something. "You look – you look better than I expected."
Archie could not keep from laughing. "It's hard to know how to take that, Horatio – you had every reason to expect me to be half-rotted by now."
"Archie!" There, a laugh, even if it was a faintly horrified one. "How – well, how do you feel, then?"
"There's a new-healed bullet wound in my side and I've a nasty cough from the lung-fever – not a combination I commend to you, by the bye – I can't seem to stay awake, I am officially dead and a disgraced mutineer, my mouth tastes like the Justinian's bilges, and I think the fever may be coming back. And you're here. Take it all in all, I'd have to say I felt wonderful. Hand me that water glass, will you? I want to kiss you – but I've every intention of rinsing my mouth out first."
Even when Horatio had dutifully handed over the glass and Archie had drained it and set it by the bed he only leaned over to bestow a nervous peck on Archie's mouth before bolting back upright to plait his fingers nervously and stare. Archie opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it – Horatio was clearly badly agitated about something, and prodding at him would only make it worse – shrugged, and changed the subject. "I understand congratulations are in order – Captain Hornblower."
Horatio jumped. "Er, ah – hmm. They gave me Retribution, you know, but with the Peace – I am the newest Commander. And shall be for some time, it seems. Nevertheless, I, ah – tomorrow I must go down to London and see if I can get a – well, a berth, at least, though I have some faint hopes of a ship, if I can beat out the rest. I – ah. Well. You seem – you seem well. I'm glad. Will you be all right here? With Captain Pellew and – of course you will. Silly question. Of course you will. I – ah. Captain Pellew says I'm not to tire you or he'll have my – my ears." He rose and carefully rearranged Archie's pillow until it was as lumpy, Archie thought, as any pillow could possibly be, kissed him on the forehead – Archie was powerfully tempted to wrap one arm around his neck and make Horatio kiss him properly, but his weakened reflexes were no match for Horatio at his most determinedly skittish, and the impulsive gesture ended in a sort of flailing half-caress of Horatio's arm, instead.
Archie watched Horatio stride towards the door and was suddenly afraid. "You will come back when you can, Horatio?"
He turned, and his expression softened. "Of course I will, Archie. I – I will. You have my word." And he was gone, leaving Archie to sink back into his pillows and stare thoughtfully at the shadows on the ceiling, chewing his lip. He ought to be furious, he supposed, at such cavalier treatment, but ... he was so tired, and it seemed a lot of trouble to go to, to work himself into a pet simply because Horatio was, well, Horatio. He had given his word to return, and not grudgingly – that was something, at least. Still ... this business of returning from the dead was hard on a man, and while a fatted calf would be wasted on him at present anyway, a bit of whole-hearted joy was, he had thought, not too extravagant a hope.
Damn Horatio anyway – if he was determined to be miserable it was just as well he was off to London, where he could brood over whatever was ailing him to his heart's content, with nobody to tease him out of it or spend hours going over the same well-worn ground these moods always seemed to lead back to – soothing the same anxieties, excusing the same real and pretended failings, all the old, tedious themes. Left alone for once, he might finally worry his way to a conclusion of some sort, and if not, if he came back still of the same mind, well, perhaps by then Archie would feel up to managing him again.
But not now; he reached instead for his book. Pellew had made him free of the library; his books, along with his clothes and other few possessions, were gone, sacrificed in the cause of verisimilitude, and the few volumes he had allowed himself during his enforced idleness in Falmouth had grown over-familiar long before. Of the contents of his sea-chest he regretted his Donne most of all – still, if he had lost the treasured red volume, the giver, the recipient, and the poems remained. He smoothed the wretched pillow as best he could, drew out the ribbon marking his place, and began to read.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do...
The Admiralty, Portsmouth, 3rd August, 1802.
Bush emerged and stood peering about him until he spotted the single red coat among the mob of blue. The prospect of approaching Edrington had been unsettling enough in imagination; now that it came to it, he was mightily tempted to slip away, send his excuses, claim that he had been unable to spot him in the crowd and had at last given up. Their last encounter had been difficult enough, but at least he had had the consolation of deeming it an aberration, a chance meeting never to be repeated. He hadn't – precisely – promised Kennedy – had only said he would see his letter delivered – surely this man, so contained and self-assured, could have no need of any consolation he could offer. Probably he would be affronted at the very suggestion. Mincing words with a dead man, William? He set his jaw and crossed the square, letting out his breath in a huff at Edrington's slight nod of recognition. "My lord."
Edrington winced, then smiled slightly. "Edrington, for heaven's sake. Please." and, at his answering nod, "Assuming of course that your business is finished, I should very much prefer not to linger. I – have you eaten? I hope your business was successfully concluded?"
"I have eaten, thank you, my L – sir. And not what you might call concluded, but they have at least agreed that I am fit for duty and held out some chance of an appointment. More than I expected, what with –" he stammered to a halt, and glanced nervously at Edrington, surprising him in the act of a similar appraisal. At close quarters the cool indifference which Bush suspected was native to his character could not entirely conceal the drawn look about Edrington's mouth, nor the faint bruising around his eyes. He looked away hastily, and would have apologised but for a hand on his arm.
"I shan't try to persuade you that I am not – in any difficulty. This meeting could not but be – awkward. For both of us. But may we get indoors before we talk of it?" Bush nodded, and they made the rest of the walk to Edrington's lodgings in relative silence.
St Thomas's Street.
Archie laid his book aside as Pellew slipped into the room, waving aside his attempts to rise and displaying two filled glasses. "I thought you might require a restorative."
He held out his hand and considered – did Pellew know a great deal more about his attachment to Horatio than he let on, or was this meant to brace him for the discussion ahead? Both, probably.
He'd been waiting for this; half-dreading it, half-eager to have it done. He had his life – that it was life at a price was no shock, nor cause for complaint, but what the final tally would be – My career, certainly. My reputation, my name ... But Pellew had bullied him back to life, cleared the way for his return to England, and Horatio's visit must surely mean that his sequestration was nearly at an end; the rest could be borne. Archie sipped his drink and waited.
"I trust you were well cared for."
"I was. I ... gather I have you to thank for..." For my life "For their kindness."
It had been kind; whatever game Pellew was playing, it would surely have been made infinitely simpler by letting him die.
Pellew waved his thanks away. "No more than my duty, Mr Kennedy." Archie raised a startled eyebrow. "Did you think you were the only man in the entire Navy whose notions of duty were broader than the Articles and the decrees of those damned fools at the Admiralty? Of course you did. Damned heroic young idiot." He took in Archie's expression – doubtless he was gawping like a fool – with surly satisfaction. "It was such a beautiful plan ..."
"Ah – Sir?"
"Your jellyfish of a First Lieutenant – Buckland, that was it – was losing his nerve. That damned sot Clive was falling to pieces. A few more words in the right ears ... well. It's done now." He brooded gently over his glass for a moment, then set it aside with a sigh, and said in a familiar tone of deceptively gentle complaint, "Could you not have simply tossed him over the side in a storm? God knows, it's not that difficult to arrange."
And how do you know that? Let it go, let it go... "You think I killed Sawyer. Captain Sawyer."
"A Spaniard's bullet killed Sawyer. The surviving members of the Renown's wardroom testified to it under oath. Had it been otherwise, I would not have been able to lift a finger on your behalf, not even a clandestine one."
"Ah." Archie subsided against the pillows. "Well, I thank you." Greatly daring, he added, "I shall try to do better next time," and watched with interest as Pellew choked on his wine. He recovered himself rapidly, enough so at least to glare at Archie, and then astonished him by laughing.
"Never mind, Mr Kennedy. You did the best you could, and it was bravely done; I ought to have known you would upset all my calculations. There remains the matter of your future."
Archie drained his glass, and pulled himself upright, turning so that he could face Pellew squarely. "Have I a future?"
"Within ... certain bounds, yes. Your naval career is over. Even if we were able to explain away your confession, my influence – and my own good sense – stop short of finding another captain to take you on. I can't ask a man to take on a Lieutenant who picks and chooses what and whom he'll obey. I daresay this comes as no great surprise to you."
Archie grinned ruefully. "In truth ... it comes as a relief to me. I never was proper Naval material, not really. I did know it. I kept on at it because ..." because I had a point to prove and a grudge to pursue. And because it was the only way to stay with Horatio. Hardly the honourable concerns proper to an officer in His Majesty's Navy, he would say...
Pellew shook his head. "You might have been an excellent officer, given the chance. The Navy ... did badly by you, first and last, and I regret it. You had damned bad luck ... but there it is. I'll not take the chance of helping you back into uniform."
Archie nodded, then smiled at him. "I had some good fortune, too. If it had all been like the Indy.... So, no longer Lieutenant Kennedy. What of Mr Kennedy?"
"It ... might be better not. For a time. The Admiralty can prove, if necessary, that Lieutenant Archibald Kennedy is dead. And is quite willing to, in exchange for having been handed such a discreet and simple answer to the conundrum; this way, their consciences are quieted and so are tongues which might otherwise wag in – places they'd not care to have questions asked. With Hood gone at last and his hangers-on left to cover their tracks as best they can and Jervis exploding every other day about peculation and corruption in the fleet ... they were, I believe, rather pleased than otherwise with the results of my – interference. But it would be a good deal simpler if the question did not arise. Simpler for all concerned. So – discretion is in order."
"I see. I keep quiet, and they will ... refrain from noticing me." Pellew nodded. "You know, when I was a boy I hated my name. I used to wish my parents had called me – oh, anything but Archibald. Shame that it's my last name that has to go." He stared out the window, thinking, and Pellew waited in silence. "Best not to go too far from the truth, I suppose." Pellew nodded. "My mother was a Saunders – there are probably several hundred of them about. I look like them; it will make it simpler for me to remain close to my family unremarked. Will that do?" At Pellew's nod, he raised his glass in a mock-toast, half smiling. "I suppose that makes you my godfather, sir. If you don't object."
Pellew raised his own glass. "Not at all, Mr. Saunders. Now," he reached out to take the empty glass from Archie's hand and set it on the table, "The rest can wait, and you look as if you might sleep again." He smiled at Archie's half-voiced protest and left the room, closing the door behind him softly; Archie gazed thoughtfully at the unresponsive wood for a moment, then reached for the book he had dropped among the bedclothes.
...And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ...
Well, he could scarcely walk at the moment, much less run, but when Pellew returned from the Admiralty – or wherever he was off to now – he promised himself that he would finally get up the courage to ask him outright how soon he might – become a little less oblique.
The Drake and Dolphin, Portsmouth.
Bush clutched his glass and forced himself to relax into his chair. "You had my letter from Kingston? And..."
"I did. I – I thank you. You ... took a chance."
"I owed him. I owe you." He shook his head; tried again. "That sounds – I was more than glad to do it. He was ... you were right to tell me to trust him. I only wish ..." Edrington's mouth twisted, but he said nothing, only waited. "I'm sorry. I should have, should have ... "
"He said you tried to stop him. That you did all you could. I believe him. Does Horatio blame you?"
"He blames himself."
Edrington sighed. "He would." Bush looked sharply at him, but Edrington's tone and expression conveyed as much affection as frustration. They drank in silence, each lost in his own thoughts, until Edrington set his empty glass aside and rose to collect the decanter. He refilled their glasses and sat down, taking a long pull at his drink. Said abruptly, "Archie wanted me to – to look out for you."
Bush was startled into a grin. "He asked me to look after you." At Edrington's incredulous look, he added, "Didn't say how I was to manage it, though."
"No doubt he trusted we would contrive. He always seemed to." With that, Edrington lapsed into silence again, staring at nothing, his fingers restless on the stem of his glass, twirling and tilting it to make the liquid within glow in the candlelight.
When he spoke again, it was into the brandy; Bush had to lean forward to hear him. "Tell me what happened."
"I'm not sure I – I missed the trial, you know, but I ..."
"I know about the trial. Tell me about the rest of it. Everything."
Oh, God. He gulped his glass and at Edrington's inquiring look, held it out to be refilled. "He ... he threw me off a cliff."
St Thomas's Street, August 3rd, 1802
The housekeeper frowned down at him. "Are you well enough to be up, sir?"
"Well enough to try, I think." Archie swung his legs over the side of the bed and waited for his head to clear. "If you will find some clothes for me and fetch me a man to help me dress, I think I might do very well."
She found him breeches and a fresh shirt with no more comment than to apologise for their age and size – clearly some spares of Pellew's, worn and bound to hang on him, but clean and mended – but her look as she went to do his bidding was frankly suspicious, and when she returned, moments later, it was with Pellew; Archie looked at him guiltily. "Sir, I..."
"Asked for a man to help you dress, and now you have one, sir. Mrs Maddern quite rightly thought to come to me; she knows I'll not allow you to do yourself harm in the attempt. Besides, as far as most of my household knows, you are recovering from a tropical fever, not a bullet, and I should prefer to keep it so."
The Drake and Dolphin
"Dear Christ, did he?"
Bush nodded, and took a long swallow of his drink before going on. "To my face, mind you, and stood there grinning, daring me to take notice."
"First thing he ever said to me, standing there on the dock in a battered old mid's coat that fit him like a feedsack, as haughty as if he were waiting to conduct me to his own personal yacht, was that my men seemed too fine for battle. I wanted to throttle him, and he scarcely seemed to notice me at all, damn his impudence."
"He wasn't afraid of Sawyer. Didn't seem to be afraid of anything, really."
"There were ..." Edrington paused to drain his glass. "Not what most people are afraid of, not battle, or speaking his mind, but ... mind, his notion of succumbing to panic was to launch an all-out offensive, which made it difficult to tell if he was terrified or furiously angry or simply set on something." He shook his head ruefully. "I can only imagine what it must have been like to have him under one's command."
Bush snorted into his glass. "I can only imagine it. He didn't so much take orders as ... entertain suggestions, and politely comply. If there had been a scrap of real viciousness in him ... but I never saw him truly in a rage except over how young Wellard was used; he nearly terrified me then, and I was not among his targets."
"That would do it, yes." Bush noticed how he pressed his lips down, as if locking some secret behind them, before saying, "You ought to have seen him at Muzillac, racing a lit fuse over a bridge for Horatio's sake; my heart was in my throat. One got used to the feeling, eventually... " He trailed off inconsequentially, then burst out "I can't take it in. Even now, I can't. He was so damned alive, he'd survived so much – I wake in the night and think it's all been a dream, something I ate, some ... damned idle nightmare come to plague me ..." He reached for the decanter again, clumsily, wiping his sleeve over his eyes. "'Tis loss to trust a tomb with such a guest..."
St Thomas's Street
For a man used to command, Archie thought as he tipped his head to have his hair brushed and tied at his nape, Pellew made a tolerable nurse and valet; he had been washed, shaved, and dressed in almost no time, and all without hurt to his still stiff and tender side. Even so, he was tired, and content to sit quietly and be tended to. "I ought to get your man to cut this for me," he said idly, and Pellew nodded as he tied off the queue and stepped back.
"We shall have to get some clothes to fit you, as well – one set, at least, though I hope you'll outgrow them as quickly as you were used to do aboard Indefatigable. You're too thin by half."
Archie nodded, then made a face. "There is, alas, the little matter of money, as neither my pay nor my allowance from my family have survived my – death. I don't wish to – to presume on your kindness any more than I have already, and – at any rate, I shall have to earn my bread somehow. I suppose I hadn't better think of going on the stage – too conspicuous, even if I could make a living at it – but I had thought – I can at any rate look to earn my bread behind it like any other ex-sailor. Once I get strong. Until then ..."
"It's not so desperate as that; the allowance of a younger son will, it seems, be paid with equal alacrity into the account of a ... shall we say, of a distant cousin for whom your father feels some responsibility due to his tragic orphaning at a tender age?"
"You wrote to my father?"
"I called on him. I thought it wise, once we were sure you would live; he's not been well, and the shock of the news from Kingston had done him no good; he's on the mend now, though. He asks me to tell you that he looks to see you as soon as you judge it safe to come North."
"Did he – did he say if he – if he forgave me?"
"He said he was glad to know you were alive, and begged me to let you make your own excuses." Pellew paused, and smiled wryly. "He gave me some money, and asked me to see it safe to you. And he said your mother would wish him to send you her love."
It was going to be all right, then; Archie exhaled. "I think I'd like to try to stand now, if you will help me?"
The Drake and Dolphin
"And all he'd say was, at least the cells kept getting more comfortable every time, even if the food was still unspeakable." Bush laughed reminiscently, and Edrington smiled, seeing Archie's sly grin, hearing his voice, as if he were before him now, then sobered abruptly.
"How – tell me the truth. How bad was it, William?"
Bush chewed his lip, searching for words. "It was his lung, I think, or near to. High up, at any rate, not his – not his guts. He – he didn't speak of it, but it pained him. And the wound-fever..." He fell silent, watching Edrington's face. "He – called for you, once or twice. When he was – when he was sleeping, or fevered." Edrington buried his face in his hands at that, and Bush reached out tentatively to touch his shoulder; his wrist was enfolded at once in a hard grip and Edrington's eyes were wet when he looked up, or maybe, Bush thought uncomfortably, it was a trick of the light.
He met Edrington's gaze squarely. "He – he was never alone. Not ever, until the end. I was there, and then Lieutenant Hornblower – he was never alone, nor was he ill-treated, Alexander. And when I told him I could see that his letter reached you, he smiled for the first time in days. Be content with that."
Edrington closed his eyes, as if in prayer, and breathed deep. "I suppose I shall have to be. And I – when I saw you, when I knew that Horatio was back in England – I know you would not abandon him. Did not abandon him. And so I suppose that then I knew it was real."
St Thomas's Street
They made it to the sitting room in reasonable style, though Archie was happy to collapse into a chair and apply himself to one of the trays Mrs Maddern appeared with. He considered as he ate, and as he laid aside his fork he said to Pellew, "Still. I must do something with myself, I suppose, not just laze about town."
"You'll laze and you'll like it, Mr – Saunders, until the last of those feverish fits passes and you've some meat on your bones. After that – " Pellew stopped to swallow the last of his soup and chase it with a sip of wine – "what would you have done, had you never joined the Navy?"
"Oh – go on the stage, perhaps, though I was never as good as I fancied I was. I used to write poems. I tried to write a play, once, and mercifully lost the manuscript." He stared into his dish of raspberries, remembering, then said abruptly, "Do you think this peace will last, Sir? Strictly between us."
"Strictly between us – I am quite sure it will not. Not had enough of the wars yet?"
Archie smiled at him crookedly. "I ought to have had, I suppose. Still – it'll seem strange, sitting ashore and watching. And I've a score or two I wish I'd had the chance to settle."
Pellew nodded, and returned his attention to his wine; they sat in silence, Archie doing his best to laze virtuously and conspicuously, until Pellew seemed to come to a decision. "If you mean that, Mr Saunders – Archie – well. Obedience may not be your virtue, but virtues you have, in plenty. It seems a shame to waste them. But for now ... be patient. Grow strong again. The peace will hold long enough to allow for that. And then – we shall see what might be done." It had the sound of a promise, or an offer, at least; Archie thought for a moment, then nodded silently.
They chatted of other matters for a while, desultorily, until Archie felt his eyelids grow heavy and Pellew helped him back to his bed. As his eyes began to shut, he heard Pellew's soft footfalls returning, and saw him place something beside the bed, but sleep was fast overwhelming even curiosity – I'll see to it when I wake up ...
He woke near dusk, and groped, remembering, at the bed-table, coming up with a folded note laid over some sheets of paper. He lit the candle left ready and unfolded it.
A rumour has reached my ears that Lord Edrington is back in Portsmouth, and may be found at the Drake – I feel sure you will agree with me that it is high time to put a period to his anguish. P.
Even as he blushed and wondered, he was reaching for the pen.
on to Part Two
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-08-03 06:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-03 08:42 am (UTC)*races off to read*
no subject
Date: 2006-08-03 09:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-03 12:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-03 01:55 pm (UTC)I kind of hated writing that bit. yeah. *wibble*
no subject
Date: 2006-08-03 05:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-03 05:35 pm (UTC)But being the stiff necked Major My Lord that he is... he would. So he did. Gah.
Fire Sermon (HH; ATKM) Part 1
Date: 2006-09-06 07:52 pm (UTC)There are some very interesting stylistic contrasts in the beginning here, as the story moves from the historical formality of the NG summary, to the very Modernist-feeling breathlessness and headlong rush of the opening sections, to the calmer movement that follows the twin "Drink" scenes, with the two parallel returns to life.
As unsatisfactory as the Horatio/Archie encounter appears to be for the latter, its awkwardness is a delight to read:
Sat down at Archie's inviting wave; leapt up again as his weight on the bed brought Archie half-rolling towards him, and stood looking miserable until Archie held out his hand and pulled him down to perch on the bed once more.
He rose and carefully rearranged Archie's pillow until it was as lumpy, Archie thought, as any pillow could possibly be, kissed him on the forehead – Archie was powerfully tempted to wrap one arm around his neck and make Horatio kiss him properly, but his weakened reflexes were no match for Horatio at his most determinedly skittish, and the impulsive gesture ended in a sort of flailing half-caress of Horatio's arm, instead.
a bit of whole-hearted joy was, he had thought, not too extravagant a hope.
And how shameless you are at tormenting poor E.! One almost suspects you enjoy putting him through the wringer, what with the repressed anguish and the dutiful festivity, and the "I beg your pardon, Sir. I do not know you" and the faint bruising about the eyes...erm...I'm sorry, I appear to have lost the thread of my argument, but I'm sure it had something to do with being a heartless wench:
my heart was in my throat. One got used to the feeling, eventually... " He trailed off inconsequentially, then burst out "I can't take it in. Even now, I can't. He was so damned alive, he'd survived so much – I wake in the night and think it's all been a dream, something I ate, some ... damned idle nightmare come to plague me ..."
Edrington buried his face in his hands at that, and Bush reached out tentatively to touch his shoulder; his wrist was enfolded at once in a hard grip and Edrington's eyes were wet when he looked up, or maybe, Bush thought uncomfortably, it was a trick of the light.
Other bits I enjoyed along the way:
and so caused his Reason to be Cruelly Shattered
perhaps he'd never had a hope of heaven but it seemed mercy could stretch so far as to grant him cessation, at least, cessation and peace and a last human touch to take with him into the welcoming dark.
What cold mercy was this, and whose?
to drag him kicking and choking back up to the land of the living that he might kick and choke his way down to death properly, in order, all according to the Articles
great silent tears that puddled foolishly in his ears until he turned his head into the pillow to hide them
when he finished it Edrington felt he might almost pass for a man again, albeit a somewhat elderly and infirm specimen
and if he never smiled, well, war was a grim business, after all.
though how that had been contrived was a mystery to him, and welcome to remain so.
it had been a bit like digging free of Hell with a teaspoon
Exchanging late spring in Flanders for a chill Plymouth downpour was enough to make a man consider charges of high treason against whatever damned fool had so crafted the Treaty that hardly a scrap of the Continent remained in British hands.
"Oh, very well, then, from the line if it means so blessed much to you
surely this man, so contained and self-assured, could have no need of any consolation he could offer. Probably he would be affronted at the very suggestion. Mincing words with a dead man, William?
a familiar tone of deceptively gentle complaint
how soon he might – become a little less oblique
At Edrington's incredulous look, he added, "Didn't say how I was to manage it, though."
He didn't so much take orders as ... entertain suggestions, and politely comply.
I tried to write a play, once, and mercifully lost the manuscript.==>Hee! Hornblower scholar alert! ;-)
On to Part Two...
~
PS
Date: 2006-09-06 07:54 pm (UTC)his hands were cold, that why they were so stiff, because they were cold, because he'd got his gloves wet==>that's?
His protest when they continued past the rear of the camp and into the hills beyond has been met with silence==>had?
~
Re: PS
Date: 2006-09-07 06:58 am (UTC)archive
Date: 2007-01-25 12:20 am (UTC)Re: archive
Date: 2007-01-25 12:32 am (UTC)Thanks for reading!