Chapter Text
April, 1812
She entered the inn’s common room and was surprised to find him there alone, settled deep in a faded wing chair by the fire, a glass of brandy waiting untouched at his elbow. She crossed the crowded room to greet him, steadfastly ignoring the insistent patrons who called to her, demanding her attention. He seemed wholly unaware of her presence as she stood quietly by his side; instead, he continued to stare fixedly into the leaping flames. She laid a cautious hand upon his shoulder, and only then did he slowly turn to look up at her. The expression on his face was one she had never seen there before: a curious and unsettling mixture of resolve, of hope—and of fear.
Concerned, she drew up a chair to join him. “Did your friend not arrive?”
“He…” He shook his head, sighed heavily, and returned to his study of the fire. “He was here. He did not stay.” His voice was distant, preoccupied.
She eyed him closely: clearly there was much left unsaid. “I am indeed sorry.” She smiled reassuringly at him and briefly touched his arm…perhaps he was simply disappointed. “I know you would have preferred more time spent in his company.”
"No." He regarded her bleakly. “No…it is not that. He came here to deliver……this.” He looked down; only then did she notice the objects nearly concealed by the shadows cast by the fire. He handed her a heavy parchment envelope, inscribed
Capt. William Bush, Esq.
HMS Nonsuch
She held it in her hands, not daring to breathe.
“And…" he hesitated, as if incapable of fully grasping the truth of it. "And...these.”
He handed her a black japanned box. She opened it slowly, carefully, her heart pounding in her throat. Inside, nestled amid cream colored silk, lay a pair of captain's epaulets, with silver fouled anchors gleaming bright against the gold.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “My God.”
“Indeed.” He tried to smile, but failed. “I am to be his flag captain. He said…” he shook his head in wonder; his eyes seemed unnaturally bright. “He said…he’d have none other.”
* * * * *
May, 1811
The Witch of Endor rocked gently in the swells as if she were anxious to be gone, away from this enforced immobility. It would not be long, now…she awaited only the arrival of her captain. Then she would be released from her captivity, freed to fly back to England at last.
Her captain’s boat was fully manned, and idling alongside the flagship. Her crew sat stolidly in the unseasonably warm sunshine, waiting patiently, trying not to appear to be watching the two officers above them at the entry port.
“Goodbye, Mr. Bush.” Hornblower smiled, corrected himself. “Captain Bush. Godspeed.”
Hornblower continued to smile, unwilling to allow the moment to end. Unwilling to release Bush’s hard hands.
“Goodbye, sir.” Bush grinned back at him, playing the game. “Horatio.”
Bush managed to detach his hands from Hornblower’s grasp and made his way to the entry port. Hornblower knew that he could scarcely lean over the side to assure himself that Bush safely navigated the descent. The fire he had seen blazing in Bush’s blue eyes at the flag captain’s tactless offer of a bosun’s chair had decided that for him. He did, however, allow himself a sigh of relief at the absence of either obvious confusion or resounding splash.
He watched as the boat pulled away, the oars rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Bush sat calmly in the sternsheets, as though he had done this a hundred times and was a captain of long standing. Hornblower knew, of course, what this moment must have meant to him.
Bush’s impassive features were dignified, almost patrician in their stillness. Though one had only to look at Bush's hands to know that any passing notion of gentility was in no way reflective of the man himself. Those hands Hornblower had clasped were craggy and battered. Scarred and misshapen knuckles, a legacy of God knew how many boarding actions; old, puckered burns forever tattooed with the blue-black stain of powder; calluses borne of his ungovernable tendency to throw himself into whatever task he had set his seamen to, a testament to his unswerving belief that one led men, and did not drive them.
And this was the first time he would lead a command of his own…and, no doubt, the last.
Hornblower watched with no small measure of guilt as Bush swung himself out of the boat and climbed the Witch’s side with surprisingly little difficulty, his strong arms compensating easily for the added burden of the wooden leg.
It was a curious thing, he mused. Had he been asked to describe Bush, he would have painted a picture of a far larger, sturdier man. Bush was indeed physically powerful, but it was his inner steel and implacable temperament that gave him true stature. But that steel was to be tested, he knew…and soon.
Admiral Gambier had given Bush command of the Witch, charging him to return the lovely little cutter to England, carrying dispatches from the fleet. But, once there, he would find precious little chance of a sea appointment for a one-legged and exceedingly junior captain. Gambier had made mention of a dockyard post available at Sheerness. Bush, typically, had attempted to muster an appropriate amount of enthusiasm so as not to distress his captain. Hornblower had seen easily through his forced cheer to find the veiled terror in his eyes. Putting Bush in a dockyard, behind a desk, would be akin to putting a lion in a cage.
But there was damned little he could do about it. Worse, he knew with brutal and inescapable clarity that it was he who had brought Bush to this. When Bush had fallen on the splintered deck of Sutherland, blood pulsing from the remains of his shattered leg, he had stubbornly insisted upon being left there. Hornblower had coldly countermanded those orders, and Bush had been carried below. For Bush’s sake, he had told himself then. He had eventually come to the uncomfortable realization that it had been for his own.
Despite his best intentions and protestations to the contrary, he had allowed Bush to occupy a place in his heart that he thought had been carefully guarded. He had not fully understood it himself until the seemingly endless overland journey that was to take them to Paris and certain death. For him, it had been misery; for the wounded Bush, it could only have been hellish. Bush had borne it as best he could: sometimes lucid, sometimes not, but in silence except when a particularly jolting lurch wrenched an outcry from him. But through the worst of it, Bush had clung to his hand like a drowning man; at times, so tightly that he could feel his bones grate. It had left his hand stiff and sore for days. But that was a small thing, and he had said nothing of it.
He had allowed himself to find satisfaction in his friend’s recovery. Bush, for his part, had seemed accepting of his loss—until he had begun the desperate attempt to learn to walk again. Hornblower had been aghast, then, to see the stark fear in Bush’s eyes. This stolid man who had stood unmoved in the very teeth of a screaming gale, before violent broadside, or the mad crush of hand-to-hand combat was terrified by his own unaccustomed weakness, and by the uncertain existence that now lay before him. Once as he had been helping Bush stand after yet another painful fall, he had looked into those honest blue eyes and found only reproach. It was at that moment the sure knowledge of his own guilt had stabbed him in the heart.
He had pulled away then, unwilling to face the man whom he had condemned to life. But he had been incapable of maintaining that distance for long. Bush’s equanimity had returned with his strength, and he never spoke of it. Even Hornblower’s firmest resolve could not withstand the quiet onslaught of Bush’s steadfast good will.
And now their roles were reversed. Bush wore a new uniform which had been hastily assembled from the sea-chests of several of the fleet’s captains and fitted by the flagship’s own tailor. And bearing a commander’s epaulet on the left shoulder—a thing undreamed of during those dark days. Hornblower still wore the old and crumpled uniform coat that had survived French captivity. He would purchase a new one in Portsmouth, though not with the anticipation of some new posting; instead, it would be selected with dread. For all that awaited him in Portsmouth would be court-martial. Not only had Sutherland been under his command when she had been destroyed…he had surrendered, and had struck her colours.
Admiral Gambier had been encouraging; the mere fact of Bush’s promotion was clear evidence of that. Gambier himself had survived court-martial following the miserable affair at Basque Roads. There Gambier, a deeply religious man—one might almost label him a zealot—had proved more inclined to distribute religious tracts amongst his men than round-shot amongst the French. But his subsequent court-martial had been a whitewash, a farce. Hornblower knew that he had insufficient patronage to expect the same—nor did he want it.
Hornblower sighed and extracted a small telescope from his pocket. Even that was not his: everything he owned had been lost with Sutherland or taken from him in captivity. He peered through it and located Bush, who was already deep in the throes of bringing the little cutter underway. He smiled; he could almost hear Bush’s familiar bellow. Men were scurrying, antlike, aloft. Almost as one, the great gaff-mainsail and jibs were hoisted and the topsail tumbled out of its lashings.
Once released they billowed and filled and the little cutter came to life, gliding smoothly out of the shadow of the fleet. It had been smartly done, particularly when one recalled that this was a newly assembled crew, under a new captain. He obviously need have no fears on Bush’s account: whatever disabilities his injury may have caused, his seamanship was in no way affected. Hornblower found himself grinning hugely, deeply satisfied. Bush, at least, was back in his element: for now, that proved to be enough.