This Above All

by Kathy Kirchner

Rating: PG

Setting: Directly after the events in 'Retribution'

Spoilers: Mutiny, Retribution

Feedback: Yes, please.

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

It was strange, mused Matthews as he came back on deck. It was such a short time ago that this deck had been teeming with fighting men, Renowns against Spanish prisoners, the air thick with curses and shouting and the clang of steel against steel, and the occasional gunshot, but now the deck was eerily silent in comparison. He shook his head slightly. He much preferred the silence, thank you. What a fierce fight it had been. He and Lieutenant Hornblower and several other men had been aboard the prize ships, unaware that their crewmates were fighting desperately for their lives and their ship. They'd almost been too late to help them. Renown had almost been lost.

But they hadn't been too late, he reminded himself. They'd saved the ship, the Spanish colonel was dead, the prisoners were again locked away, and things were all under control. Of course, Captain Sawyer was dead also, but try as he might, Matthews could find no grief in his heart. He had served far too long under the tyranny of the mad captain. It had been Sawyer who got them into this in the first place. Sawyer and that incompetent First Lieutenant Buckland.

Thinking of Buckland made Matthews grin. What a sight that had been! Trussed up in his bunk like a Christmas goose, a gag across his mouth. Oh, how the man had burned with embarrassment when Hornblower opened the door to his cabin and saw him lying helpless in his bed. Matthews and Styles had followed Lieutenant Hornblower below, afraid of what they might find, but upon glimpsing the tied-up Buckland, it had been all the two veteran sailors could do to contain their mirth. Hornblower had released his superior officer, and Matthews and Styles had headed off to take care of their other duties. Matthews had gone up top to see what he could do. Now, as he reached the deck, he caught sight of Lieutenant Kennedy sitting on a bench on deck, and headed over toward him. If anyone would appreciate what had happened with Buckland, it would be the light-hearted Archie Kennedy.

Matthews' steps slowed as he approached the lieutenant. Why was Kennedy just sitting there, and not assisting with repairs? That was completely unlike him. Still, he'd fought bravely and well, so perhaps he was just taking a well-earned rest. Matthews would certainly never begrudge the boy any peace he could find, however fleeting. It was rare enough aboard any ship of war.

"Mr. Kennedy, sir," he said respectfully as he approached the lieutenant. Kennedy, golden hair gleaming in the hot sun, looked up at him and gave him a small, tight smile.

"Everything taken care of, Matthews?" he asked, his voice quiet and thin, with none of the usual exuberance he normally exhibited after a battle, and Matthews felt a twinge of unease.

"Aye, sir," he answered. "But there's somethin' you might like to hear, sir." With that, he launched into a slightly embellished story of the discovery of Buckland, and he was rewarded with one of Kennedy's famous wide grins. Perhaps everything was all right after all, and his imagination was just getting the best of him.

Finished with his tale, he rose to his feet. "I should be gettin' back to work, sir." He knuckled a small salute to Kennedy, who nodded in return, but made no attempt to get to his own feet.

Matthews was five steps away when Kennedy's quiet voice called him back.

"Matthews?"

The veteran sailor turned around, and felt a distinct chill despite the hot sun, as if a dark cloud had suddenly covered the sun. That lad did not look right. Matthews had served with Kennedy ever since the lieutenant had only been a mere boy, and he knew him almost as well as anyone could. Something was most definitely off.

"Aye, sir?"

Kennedy waited until Matthews was standing beside him again, and then he raised his head to look at his long-time sailing companion.

"Will you promise me something, Matthews?"

"Aye, sir, if I can."

Kennedy lifted his chin, and jerked it a bit, pointing across the deck. Matthews looked over to see Lieutenant Hornblower arriving up top and stopping to speak to Styles for a moment. Hornblower, Kennedy's closest and dearest friend in all the world.

"Take care of him."

Puzzled, Matthews turned back to Kennedy. "Beg pardon, sir?"

"No matter what comes, promise me you'll look out for him." Kennedy's voice was hard, and stronger than it had been and Matthews nodded slowly, recognizing the determination in the lad's voice. He knew Kennedy's stubbornness better than most. "Promise me."

"Aye, Lieutenant Kennedy, I'll promise."

Kennedy's face relaxed and his eyes closed briefly. With a soft sigh, he opened them up and looked directly at Matthews, who read a wealth of strength and will and acceptance in those blue depths, and a strange sort of calm. Matthews, as superstitious as any sailor, was suddenly very afraid. He just wasn't quite sure of what.

"Thank you," Kennedy said softly. "You're dismissed."

Matthews nodded and moved off, then surreptitiously watched the two lieutenants as Hornblower joined Kennedy on the bench. From his angle, he could see both of their faces as they greeted each other, and he felt his heart lift. There was no mistaking the smile that lit Kennedy's face as Hornblower sat down, or the look of ease and comfort that appeared on Hornblower's. Those two were closer than any brothers Matthews had ever known, and they were never more complete than when they were together. As long as they were side by side, only good things could happen now, now that they were free of Sawyer and his ravings. For the first time in a very long time, he felt hope stir his weathered heart. Smiling, Matthews turned back to his duties.

"I said, is that your blood?"

Hornblower's words, though spoken quietly, carried across the deck to Matthews. Startled, he looked up at the two officers, in time to see Hornblower open Kennedy's jacket and reveal a steadily darkening stain on his chest. Matthews saw the look of shock on Hornblower's face, and then his own heart stood still as he watched Hornblower gather Kennedy into a gentle, protective embrace. No. Dear god, Hornblower would never show such emotion, unless....No. Please. It couldn't be. In his shock, Matthews watched the horrible realization dawn on Hornblower's face, and took note of the look of peace that settled over Kennedy's own as he rested his head against his friend's shoulder.

...No matter what comes, promise me you'll look out for him...

No, Matthews thought again. He knows. Dear god in heaven, he knows what's coming.

**********

Heat pressed against the spectators in the courtroom, and Matthews tried to draw a breath. It was so stifling in the closed room, but it would have taken a shot from a 36 lb cannon to remove Matthews from his seat. He had to be there to support his officers - except for that incompetent Buckland - so he could and would endure the heat. Today promised to be very interesting. Buckland had as much as accused Hornblower of mutiny in front of the court, of pushing his captain into the hold, and today Hornblower would testify in his own behalf. It should be enlightening.

"Call the next witness."

It was the voice of his former captain, now Commodore, Sir Edward Pellew who was presiding over the courts-martial of the Renown lieutenants. Matthews watched as the commodore leaned forward, knowing that this trial had to be extremely difficult for the man. Hornblower was his star, his protégé, and Matthews knew that Kennedy also held a place in the man's heart. He watched as the commodore looked idly up as the courtroom doors opened, dropped his head, and then immediately looked up again, his eyes widening. If Matthews had not been watching him so closely, he would have missed the flow of emotions across the deeply lined face, would not have caught the expressions that flit through the dark eyes. Astonishment, comprehension, shock, worry, understanding, and finally, pride. It was a range of emotions he'd never seen pass by so quickly on one man's face, and Matthews turned around to see what had caused such a reaction.

Pale but resolute, Lieutenant Archie Kennedy stood in the doorway, his face beaded slightly with sweat, his uniform neat and pressed, his hat held under his arm. Matthews took a quick breath as the young man began a slow, torturous trip up the aisle, his steps slow, the normally jaunty step stilled by what must be an inordinate amount of pain. Dr. Clive hovered behind him, but Kennedy made his own way, his eyes fixed on the face of Commodore Pellew. There were whispers amongst the spectators, with Kennedy's name being uttered amidst startled exclamations, but the courtroom soon stilled as all the men present realized that the only thing holding Kennedy on his feet was his own raw courage. An ordinary man would surely have collapsed under the strain.

With a sudden insight he did not normally posses, Matthews knew what the brave young lieutenant was doing, and why he was doing it. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he wanted to jump to his feet, to stop what was happening, to force Kennedy back to his sickbed, but instead, he sat, frozen and gutted, watching a man he'd come to admire and respect slowly shuffle down the aisle to certain doom.

Feeling nearly dead inside, he watched as Kennedy passed in front of him. A wave of nausea and weariness caused the lieutenant to waver for a second. Matthews started to rise to his feet to help the young man, but Styles' hand on his arm stopped him. Angry, Matthews turned to his friend, but the anger evaporated when he saw the look on Styles' face. Kennedy had to do this on his own. As soon as Kennedy had faltered, Dr. Clive's hand had instantly been at his back, but Kennedy shook him off and continued his journey, his face set and determined.

"I alone pushed Captain Sawyer into the hold."

The words were spoken with a great deal of effort, but no wavering. Matthews looked at the young lieutenant, seeing not the pale ghost of a man that stood there, but instead the joyous young man who had stood high atop the yardarm of Indefatigable, his spirit and soul unbroken and free. That man would never have done such a thing as he was now confessing.

"Nor would the man he is now," Matthews thought to himself, feeling a wave of pain wash over his hot, tired body as the courtroom around him exploded with words. Kennedy was innocent. His confession was only to save the life of the man who meant more to him than anyone ever had, more than his own life.

He didn't miss the expression on Pellew's face as the commodore raised the gavel and pounded it, saying "Take this man down." The commodore was not at all pleased with the outcome of this court-martial, but he would accept it. Because that was what Kennedy wanted.

A weight settled over Matthews' chest as Styles nudged him to get to his feet. Heavily, he rose to his feet, feeling as if he carried the entire weight of Renown on his shoulders. This wasn't right, this wasn't the way this was supposed to end. The truth was supposed to come out, the truth of how Sawyer had brought on his own death, enabled by an inept first lieutenant who was far out of his league. It wasn't supposed to end in ignominy, with a decent and honorable and good man condemned to death for a crime he could never have committed.

Styles' hand rested on Matthews' shoulder as the two of them turned to leave the bench, but the two of them stopped at the sight unfolding in front of them. Hornblower had finally arrived, but too late to stop what had happened, too late to stop his best friend's sacrifice. The look on the normally stoic face near tore Matthews' heart from his chest, so deep was the shock and grief reflected there.

"Come on, Matty," Styles said quietly. "We'd best leave them to it."

It. Matthews' heart constricted at the word. 'It' could only mean Kennedy's end, and the sundering of a brotherhood and friendship, the like of which likely had never been seen in His Majesty's Navy. And never would again.

**********

"God DAMN it!" Matthews swore violently.

He and Styles were out in the hot Kingston air, following their departure from the courtroom. They'd wandered for some time, never knowing exactly what to do or where to go, as rudderless as if they'd been dashed upon a reef during a storm. The thought of returning to Renown and all her memories was too much for them to handle at the moment. Matthews, angry at events and frightened for young Kennedy, had been ranting and roaring for a long time now. Styles, recognizing his mate's need to release his anger, had said nothing the whole time.

"It ain't RIGHT, Styles," Matthews said. "Ain't right it should end like this. They'll think 'im a mutineer. Didn't know 'im like we did, didn't know that little boy so full of life, and then tossed into hell…" His voice trailed off, and he viciously kicked at a nearby barrel.

"No, it ain't," Styles agreed quietly. "But nothin' to be done about it." He hesitated, then looked at his long-time friend. "And maybe it be better this way."

"Better?!" Disbelieving, Matthews swung around to face him. "Better he die with no honor, wit' the whole fleet callin' 'im a mutineer? That's better?"

"No honor?" answered Styles, his voice low but forceful. "That man got more honor than the whole damn fleet combined. No, it's better 'e dies this way, with Mr. 'Ornblower at 'is side, than swingin' alone from the gallows. Boy was too much alone 'is whole life. Better 'e die knowin' 'e done something right and good fer his friend - fer ALL of us."

That gave Matthews pause. Truer words had never been spoken. Kennedy HAD been alone most of his life, or given attentions unwanted and best left unspoken. But Hornblower had looked beyond the young man who had fits and was shunned by the crew and abandoned by his family, to find the true man that lay beneath, and the two of them had become the fastest of friends. The fastest of friends, and the finest of officers. They'd truly been good for each other, Matthews thought with a pang. How is Mr. 'Ornblower going to do this without him?

"He showed who 'e was today," Styles continued quietly. "Ain't no one ever goin' to be able to take that away from us. Or 'im." He rested his hand gently on his friend's shoulder. "The lad was already dead when he walked up that courtroom aisle, Matty. Only thing that kept 'im goin' was 'is love fer Mr. 'Ornblower. 'e's the bravest man I ever seen."

Tears sprang to Matthews' eyes, and he lowered his head. Styles was right. Kennedy's sacrifice was far beyond noble, beyond brave. It spoke of honor and respect, and a deep and abiding love for his friend. But that didn't change the fact that he was gone, that his smile would no longer light the deck of Renown, or his laugh echo through her hold. He'd been one of so few beacons of light on that ship, and now that light was forever extinguished.

"It still ain't right," he said quietly, and Styles sighed beside him.

"No, it ain't," he agreed, and then stopped for a moment as he weighed something in his mind. Taking his time, he spoke again to his friend.

"Do you remember all them fancy things 'e used to say to us, always quotin' that Shakespeare fella?"

Matthews allowed a small, sad smile to cross his face. "Yes, I do. Lord, how 'e loved 'is book-readin'."

"Yep," Styles agreed. "I din't always understand rightly what 'e were talkin' about, but I 'member one thing 'e said. That Shakespeare fella wrote 'This above all: to thine own self be true.' And that's what Mr. Kennedy did today. 'e couldn't let Mr. 'Ornblower 'ang for somethin' he didn't do, not if it were in 'is power to stop it. There weren't no other choice fer 'im. I reckon 'e never even considered one."

No, thought Matthews sadly. The boy never put himself before anyone else, and especially not before Mr. Hornblower. Two sides of the same ship, those two were, so different, and yet so similar. And always bound together by the love they shared for the sea and each other.

The sound of a door opening made them both look up. A scarlet-clad marine came through the door, carrying a litter, which was held up by another marine at the other end. On the litter lay a body, draped in a dirty, ragged old blanket. Matthews' heart contracted, and everything went blurry. It was over, then. Any hope for a miracle was dashed by the sight of what could only be the body of their former lieutenant.

He felt Styles' hand on his shoulder, the warmth and strength in that gentle gesture reassuring him a bit. Styles knew how much Matthews had admired and genuinely cared for the young Kennedy. He'd watched him grow from a scared, tormented midshipman, into the fine, strong, brave leader of men that he'd become. There had been a bond between the veteran sailor and the younger man, and Styles recognized the pain that Matthews was feeling, and respected it. It was never easy to lose a friend, and that was what Matthews honestly considered Kennedy. It was unusual for crew and officers, but they'd been through so much together that it was only natural that a friendship and respect should evolve from those shared experiences.

The two of them watched in respectful silence as the marines carried Kennedy's body away, but Matthews' temper soon began to rise. The marines were being careless, allowing the body to be jostled and bumped around as they made their way down the steps and into the street. As they reached the final step, an unclad arm fell from beneath the ratty blanket and hung down, bouncing gently for a few seconds.

Matthews stepped forward and stopped the two marines.

"What'er ya want?" the first one snarled at them. "We got some garbage to dispose of."

"You watch yer mouth," Styles snarled at them. Matthews said nothing, but gently took Kennedy's arm and replaced it on the litter, smoothing the blanket over him. They hadn't even allowed him to be dressed in his uniform for burial, he thought with a lump in his throat. And now he heads for a pauper's grave, an unmarked, unknown end for such a fine man. It just ain't right.

"Aw, leave it be," said the second marine. "He's just to be dumped off anyway. Oughta just burn it, like the garbage he is."

"No, he ain't," Matthews said angrily, raising his head and fixing the man with a fiery glare. "He's a man."

"That ain't no man," sneered the marine. "He's a mutineer. Ain't fit for pig food."

Styles swore and started to swing at the man, but Matthews grabbed his arm and stopped him just in time. "Don't, Styles," he said. "Ain't nothing we can do fer 'im now. And 'sides - " he nodded at the body beneath the blanket, " - 'e ain't there. 'e's already gone on to a better place." He gently put a hand on Kennedy's shoulder, patting it a few times, not caring that the marines were watching in horror as he touched the body of one so reviled as a mutineer.

"Rest easy, Lieutenant Kennedy," Matthews said quietly. "We ain't never goin' to forget."

The two men stood aside as the marines hefted the litter up and moved down the street. It was late now, the shadows lengthening across the dusty street, and they watched as the men made their way away from them. They were stopped, however, by a figure coming out of the Admiralty building, and the marines immediately came to attention.

"Pellew," said Styles softly, and Matthews nodded. It was indeed, the commodore, who glanced around as if to be certain no one was watching. His gaze missed the two sailors half-hidden in shadow, and they listened unashamedly as the commodore berated the two marines for their careless handling of their charge.

"With respect, commodore," said one of the marines, "it's just a worthless mutineer. We're just off to dump his body…."

"No, you are NOT," Pellew said firmly, still unaware that that his former seamen could hear him. "You will take him to Fairlane Cemetery, where a proper grave awaits him. You will remain there with the body, on guard, until I arrive."

"But…."

"No arguments, marine," Pellew said angrily. "The arrangements have been made, and you will follow my orders, or I'll have you up on charges. Am I understood?"

Recognizing that it was a rhetorical question, the two marines merely said 'aye, aye,' and turned toward the cemetery. Matthews and Styles watched them go, and then turned their attention back to the commodore.

Pellew stood by the side of the building, still unaware he was being watched. For just a moment, grief and pain lined his already careworn face, showing the countenance of the man instead of the officer, a face very few people ever saw. After a moment, he raised his hand to his face and rubbed it, as if trying to erase the moment of weakness he'd allowed out. Then, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, he made his way over to the infirmary where Kennedy had died, and Hornblower still grieved.

The two men stepped back into the alley as their former captain passed by, knowing he would not want them to have witnessed his grief. As Pellew went inside, Styles' hand again rested on Matthews' shoulder.

"'e'll be fine now," Styles said quietly. "Commodore Pellew took care of 'im."

"Yes," Matthews agreed. "'e took care of Mr. Kennedy, and now 'e'll take care of Mr. 'Ornblower."

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

Time passed, and the shadows began to lengthen, but still Matthews and Styles remained outside the building where Kennedy had died. Why, they weren't exactly sure. Perhaps it was out of respect for the deceased lieutenant, or perhaps it was out of honor for Lieutenant Hornblower. Most likely, it was a combination of the two.

The door opened, and both sailors came to attention as the figure of Commodore Pellew made its way down the steps. His step slowed as he caught sight of the two men, and a tiny, somber smile whispered across his face and then disappeared. He didn't speak to them, but merely gave them both a nod, acknowledging the quick salute they both gave him, and then continued on his way. Matthews and Styles watched him as he made his way down the street, his shoulders stooped and his normally vigorous steps slowed, the two sailors not moving until the commodore turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

"'e looks 'bout done in," Matthews said quietly, and Styles nodded, agreeing with him. The commodore looked to have aged about ten years in the short time since the court-martial had begun, and he looked even worse for wear now that it was over.

"This has been a hard day for us all," came a quiet voice from behind them, and both men snapped to attention.

"Mr. 'Ornblower, sir," they said in unison.

"Men," Hornblower merely said, his gaze avoiding theirs. The three men stood awkwardly on the steps, Styles shuffling his feet as silence fell like a shroud over them.

Matthews cleared his throat. He knew Hornblower was a man who hid all feeling away and would be horrified to know that his men saw his pain, but he felt as if he had to say something. He more than anyone knew the bond the two lieutenants had shared. "I'm sorry, sir," he finally said, very softly. "'e were a good man."

"Yes," Hornblower said, his throat working as he nodded his head. "He was that. And more."

As Matthews studied his lieutenant, he was reminded of that fateful day on the deck of Renown, and Kennedy's words to the veteran sailor.

.....Take care of him.....

I promised you, sir, Matthews thought. And I'll keep that promise 'til I see you again.

He looked closely at Hornblower, noting how the man avoided meeting their eyes, no doubt because they would see reflected in those dark pools a pain and sadness unequaled by any they'd ever witnessed. Feeling a stab of pain himself, he lowered his eyes, and as he did, he caught sight of a white packet clutched in Hornblower's hands.

"What have you there, sir?"

"Hmm?" Hornblower said distractedly, and Matthews pointed to the packet. "Oh," he said, as if it were something that had completely escaped his mind. "It's... it's my promotion. I've been named the commander of Retribution."

"Have you now!" said Matthews with genuine pleasure. "Sure, and it's well earned, sir. Congratulations."

Styles echoed his words.

"Thank you," Hornblower said quietly, his voice tight and controlled, "but I fear it is unearned. There are others far more deserving than I."

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I disagree. You've earned it, right 'n' proper. Ain't no one better."

Finally, Hornblower lifted his eyes to Matthews, and for just an instant, allowed the pain to be visible in his eyes. "But at what price, Matthews?" he said hollowly. "At what price?"

Matthews met his gaze steadily. "The price of love, sir." Hornblower flinched a bit at the expression of the foreign emotion, but Matthews pressed on. "You know this is what 'e wanted for you, sir - to keep goin' on, doin' what you do best, and bein' where you be needed the most. We'll all keep 'is memory, sir, and we'll all honor 'im, in our own way. 'e wouldn't want you to stop livin' just 'cause he did. That ain't who 'e was."

A tiny smile brushed Hornblower's lips, and he nodded. "Aye," he said softly. "He never had a thought for himself, did he. And you're right, Mr. Matthews - he would not want us to mourn him forever, but to live our lives as if he were still here, guiding us."

Matthews met Hornblower's smile with one of his own. "'e is, sir," he said fervently as he placed his hand on his chest. "'e's right here." He nodded at the new Commander, then dared to gently place a finger over Hornblower's heart. "An' 'e's right there, sir."

Hornblower dipped his head abruptly, and Matthews removed his hand. He saw the sheen of unshed tears in the younger man's eyes, and he wished with all his heart that the lad did not have to suffer so, but such was the life he had chosen. War respected no friendship.

Raising his head and squaring his shoulders, Hornblower gave Matthews and Styles a long look. "Thank you, men," he said, his voice stronger than before. "Your dedication and honor to those who have fallen will not be forgotten." He looked at the packet in his hands as if seeing it for the first time, then looked back up. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to find a crew for my ship." He quirked an eyebrow at them, and then turned to go.

Matthews followed him, Styles right beside him. Yes, thought Matthews gratefully. He'll be all right. Oh, he'll grieve for a long time, but not so that anyone else will see. That's something he'll carry inside for the rest of his life, but I think he'll also carry around a bit of Mr. Kennedy, too. And that's good. That's the way it should be.

And I'll watch over him, Mr. Kennedy, he vowed silently. Just like you asked. And he'll make you proud of him - you just watch.

He already has came a voice from deep inside himself. And so have you. Thank you, Matthews.

"My pleasure and honor, sir," whispered Matthews. "Godspeed, Mr. Kennedy."