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Hornblower made his way across the still-pitching deck into Nonsuch's day cabin and sagged gratefully into the nearest available chair, heedless of the runnels of water that streamed from his tarpaulin coat to pool on the checkered canvas beneath him. The weather had turned dirty not long out of Le Havre and continued foul, plaguing Nonsuch with intermittent squalls these past few days. Hornblower had spent the majority of the voyage on deck, though he could scarcely have done otherwise, he reflected, having known nothing of Bush's subordinates' abilities and was therefore reluctant to leave them to their own devices. He realized--and, of course, subsequent experience verified--that he ought to have had implicit confidence in any men of Bush's choosing, knowing as he did that they had earned Bush's trust, a thing that had never been bestowed without due cause and careful consideration.
Even now, after several days' sailing, he still found it exceedingly strange to be aboard a ship of war at peace, where his only enemy was wind and weather. It had been the right thing to do, Hornblower considered, to shift his flag to Nonsuch for the passage home: she was, after all, the vessel most suitable to fly the flag of a Commodore and Lord, and it would have been highly improper to leave her in the hands of Bush's first lieutenant. As he sat, still dripping but deep in thought, Bush's steward--peculiar as it was to conceive of Bush having had such a thing--crept soundlessly into the cabin and placed a tray bearing a decanter of wine, a steaming cup of coffee, and a small plateful of food before him. He realized, suddenly, that he was desperately hungry.
After he had eaten he must have fallen into a doze, warmed from within and comfortable at last as the damp chill receded from his bones. He was soon roused from it with a start by the sound of a rhythmic, measured thump, muffled as it was through the bulkhead. 'Bush,' he thought hazily, 'coming to inform me of....'
No. The realization struck him, swift and sharp as the morning's squall. Bush was not coming. Not now, or ever, would he again hear that curious tread.
Nonetheless, the sound continued, rasping on Hornblower's nerves until it became entirely unendurable. He leapt from his chair in a fury and burst into Bush's sleeping cabin, half-expecting to find some drowned, wooden-legged spectre leering at him from the shadows. Instead the sound emanated--in far less dramatic fashion--from Bush's hanging cot as it swayed with the pitch and roll of the ship, rhythmically colliding with the sea-chest stored against the starb'd bulkhead. Hornblower stared at the cot as it swung empty. It should not be here: by rights, it should have become Bush's coffin, cradling his mortal remains as they were committed to the deep. But his passing had left no trace, and instead the cot still hung here as if Bush himself were merely on deck, and all the world were still in its proper place.
All reason fled for a moment: somehow Hornblower’s clasp-knife was in his hand and he seized the ropes, swiftly severing them to send the offending object crashing to the worn planking of the deck. As sanity slowly returned he found himself staring in horrified wonder at the welter of broken boards and scattered linen lying reproachfully at his feet. He was certainly no stranger to the occasional alarming and violent impulse…..but without a doubt he had never, not once, committed such an appalling lapse of restraint.
He stood motionless as his labored breathing quieted, staring at the destruction his impotent rage had wrought, desperately grasping at the shreds of his self-control. Something irregular amongst the wreckage caught his eye, and he bent to pluck the object from the folds of the tangled coverlet. It was a book, bound in scuffed and worn green leather, the cover loosened by much handling…a book which had no doubt been tucked within the bedclothes, awaiting its owner’s return. Hornblower slowly opened it, wondering what vestige of his absent friend he held, and caught his breath when he read the words "New Testament" imprinted upon the yellowed page. The flowing, feminine script on the flyleaf was faded, and he held it to the feeble lamplight: 'E. Bush', he read.
Bush's mother, perhaps? A sister? Hornblower sighed heavily, with profound regret. He had no recollection of the names of Bush's brood of sisters, nor had he any notion whatever of why this volume might have been concealed in such a resting place. Bush had been the closest thing to a friend he had ever had, one with whom he had shared tedium and danger, crushing defeat and wild success. A few short weeks ago, he might have said that he had known everything one might know about Bush, and could unerringly predict the paths Bush's patient and dogged mind would tread under any conceivable circumstance. But now? Now he understood that on the one hand he had indeed known everything about the man....and yet, on the other, he had known nothing at all. Bush had been an honest and open soul, utterly and fundamentally incapable of deceit or subterfuge, but still, an intensely private man.
During all their years of service together he had respected Bush mightily for it: in truth, he had been grateful to have a trusted subordinate whose very existence seemed delimited by the confines of his ship and the efficient running of it, a man whose entire world was no larger than the vessel he inhabited. That very thought, now, was a bitter one. Bush had left him, yet left behind so many unanswered--no, unanswerable--questions, brought home by the very presence of the volume he now held tightly in his hands.
One such question in particular had plagued him since the moment he learned of Bush's fate: had Bush been granted a moment of foreknowledge, or had he been transformed from man to memory in a single brilliant instant? And would it have mattered to him, if he had? Hornblower had often--rather uncharitably, from his current perspective--considered that Bush's enviable courage in battle was due primarily to a lack of imagination or, worse, a dumb and resigned fatalism....but, he wondered now, had it sprung from some altogether different source? Had his strength been, possibly, a reflection of assurance? Of trust? It was a thing he had never even vaguely considered. Often had he watched Bush scratch a backstay, or cuff the unwary young snotty caught whistling on deck, or commit a thousand other acts of sailors' superstition.
And yet he also thought of the many--too many--readings over far too many dead men, a duty which Bush had assumed without question, as if he had somehow sounded the depth of his captain's misgivings. He had heard Bush repeat the words a thousand times, yet never wondered whether those familiar phrases had held any meaning for the man whose battle-scarred hands held the prayerbook, for the man who spoke them in a voice quite unlike his usual brass-lunged bellow.
Hornblower leafed idly through the book, his flesh creeping slightly as he imagined Bush doing the same, and he found--not unexpectedly--no answers within it. There was only a brief notation on the inner binding, written in Bush's clear, firm hand, the ink as bold as if it had been written only days before: Ps. 107:23-30.
Suddenly curious, his eye fell on the bookshelf, sparse with Bush's few possessions: Norries', a pocket telescope, Nonsuch's logbooks, a small carved box. No psalmbook in sight. Perhaps someone aboard might...
An unobtrusive cough bade him look up to find Bush's steward stepping through the cabin door, summoned no doubt by the sound of shattering furniture, though the man surveyed the wreckage with admirable calm and scarcely a flicker of change in expression. He merely began to clear it up, wordlessly maneuvering around the officer who remained standing in the midst of it all, with white-knuckled hands tightly clutching a well-worn book.
After some minutes the steward glanced briefly at Hornblower then methodically returned to his work, toiling in silence for a space until he quietly began to speak, almost if he were musing aloud. "Many's the night, sir, that Cap'n Bush turned in all standing. 'Twas usual for him, especially if it was lookin' to come on to a blow, or there was even the whisper of action at first light. I'd have laid his night-clothes out, as I should, y'know, but he'd not touch 'em. He'd turn in dressed as he was, wet or dry, his...er...timber an' all.” The man flushed briefly, as if displeased by the need to give voice to his captain's physical impairment. “He couldn't rest easy, what with maybe needin' to be ready at a moment's notice...and as you more'n any would know, sir, it took a bit of extra time these days." He smiled sadly. "But Captain Bush bein' as he is--as he was, sir--well, he never would be caught out, nor found unready." The steward fell silent again, gathered up the remainder of the broken boards, and left without another word.
A strange thing for the man to say, thought Hornblower, though he supposed that loss often afflicted those left behind with memories that arrived unbidden.
He returned to the day cabin, poured himself a glass of brandy, and settled into his chair, though truth be told, still more than faintly embarrassed at his recent display. His self-recriminations had been tempered somewhat by the steward’s unruffled countenance; still, it was wholly unlike him to loosen the tight-fisted control he customarily exercised upon on his emotions, an act which he could only attribute to the unaccustomed stresses imposed upon him as temporary governor of Le Havre. The steward, one hoped, could be trusted to be sufficiently discreet...though, admittedly, the man was indeed somewhat odd. Shaking his head at the eccentricities seemingly peculiar to stewards, Hornblower sipped at the brandy, leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes once more.
'Today is Sunday, sir.' The memory came from, seemingly, nowhere. He thought suddenly of Bush as he was that long ago morning aboard Lydia: grey with fatigue, a dirty bloodstained bandage just visible beneath his hat, yet turned out in tidied uniform, ready to present his ship to his captain, a ship damaged yet prepared. A ship--and a first lieutenant--ready for anything their captain asked of them.
Ready. Prepared. He had the sudden certainty that Bush had faced eternity--whatever that might mean--as he had faced life: all standing. And somehow...with that one thing, even in the midst of loss...he found himself to be at peace.