Hello Dear Fan fiction readers! Please take a moment to read the following:

This is a fiction that I wrote, based upon the first episode of our most wonderful Horatio Hornblower, entitles 'The Duel' or, if you're a Brit, 'The Even Chance'. (There will be more, but this is the first one in the series)

I'll start by saying that the idea could be interpreted as a bunch of hooey, but I'd like to think of it as 'nicely written hooey'. Like I said, it's an Archie/OC piece—but it starts very light. In this one, it's more of a friendship than anything else. So don't be scared away, all you OC haters!

This is the revised version; the original, I decided, could be better, so I re-wrote. I will be posting the re-written chapters, then moving on to continued the story. So please, be patient with me :)

Thank you to all who have reviewed so far, and please, enjoy this re-done piece! I would love feedback, negative or positive, I don't care. All of it is good. I just want my writing to be the best it can be. (Although, positive is nice ;) )

Any who, sit back, enjoy, and tell me what you think please!

()()()

"I have come to the conclusion...that we will never get off this God-forsaken piece of wood." Midshipman Andrew Heather of his majesty's ship, the Justinian, remarked; casually placing down a card on the table before him. His companion, William Cleveland, who was sat near him at the table's head, scoffed, and shook his head.

"Now, now, Andrew. Don't be so depressing." A voice called up from the general direction of the hammocks, which hung near the table. A banister separated the two areas, "We'll be transferred...when we're too old to be of use any longer."

An uncomfortable chuckle rippled through the men, each of them coming to the conclusion that these statements were both very true. For they had been on this ship for more than a year, you see, and had hardly seen action, promotion, or the most important: prize money. They had spent their days in a continuation of the previous one; sleep, eat, have watch, drink rum, play cards—there was simply nothing else to be done, and the boredom was driving them off the face of sanity. It was pure torture.

So, they were spending yet another night the same; the midshipman of this domain, gathered around a large wooden table, eating a dinner of mutton, weevil filled biscuits (they weren't actually so bad if you ate them in the dark, so you couldn't see the small animals crawling about in them.), some other infernal thing that somewhat resembled rotten limes, and their mandatory mugs of lukewarm rum.

They chatted while they ate, some read a book, one was playing a tune from an old fiddle, but it was mostly drowned out by the sounds from other parts of the deck—mainly, the sailor's room (which was connected to the Midshipman's Berth), where all sort of immoral and inhumane pleasures were taking place. They were in port, of course, so nothing less could be expected than general unrest and disorder, even in her majesty's navy.

There weren't many of them in the berth; Cleveland sat at the table's head, a short, somewhat stumpy looking man, with thin wisps of light brown hair and sideburns. Heather—a tall, slim, figure, with a head of thick, deep brown hair—sat to his left. The other men consisted of one Ezekiel LoWood, John Hammond, Samuel Forester, and Clayton Aubry, who was leaning on the table, smoking away at a wooden pipe. The youngest, a mere youth—the one that had given the curt reply to Heather's proclamation—lay in a hammock, reading lazily through a Bible.

"--still, that's Johnny Crapaud for you."

The berth quieted down when two more figures entered the room. One of them, the speaker, was already known; Midshipman Archibald Kennedy—a lad of seventeen, still in his prime, with blond locks and sea blue eyes—and his companion, an unknown. This unknown was immediately assumed to be the new arrival that they had told was coming in from the mainland. He was obviously young, tall, lanky, and boyish in appearance and soaked through with rain and sea water. His curly black hair dripped the liquid around his face, which had a somewhat greenish hue to it.

"Well.." Kennedy began stripping himself of his raincoat, "allow me to introduce the midshipman of his majesty's ship of the line, Justinian..." He hung the waterlogged item up on a rusty nail, then walked around the table to the head, "…or as it is known by its intimates, the good ship 'Slough of Despond."

Heads turned and looked up and down the new arrival with condescending eyes, the lad just simply stood their, dripping, face green, eyes downward.

"What've you got here, Archie?" Cleveland inquired.

Kennedy grinned, "Another messmate, gentlemen"

A rustling could be heard and seen, coming from the hammocks, as the youngest turned about ferociously, trying to set eyes upon this unknown human being.

"And whose pretty arse did you neglect kissing to find yourself among the fleets forgotten, eh?" When the young man didn't reply to Heather's question, the midshipman urged, "Well, speak, apparition!"

The new midshipman took a large gulp, his Adam's apple sticking out, then replied, "My...my name's Hornblower."

"What an infernal piece of luck for you...."

Aubry cut Cleveland off, before he could go deeper into the detail's of their situation, "How old are you, Mr. Hornblower?" He asked, drawing his pipe away from his lips.

"S...Seventeen, Sir."

"'Seventeen, Sir'" Heather taunted, "Ya hear that, Cleveland?"

"If you wanted to be a seaman boy, you should've started at twelve."

"I doubt he even knows the difference between a head and a halyard."

All heads turned to see what the young man's reply would be, even the youngest had managed to shift in such a position that watching the exchange of words was an option.

"..No." He paused, "but I'll make sure it's the first thing I look up in...Norrie's Seamanship." The humor was dry, but affective, as Aubry chuckled at it, "now, if you'll excuse me gentlemen...I..." with that, he promptly turned around, and vomited up everything he had eaten in the past six hours, right in front of the youngest's hammock. Universal laughter broke out as the men stood up and watched the display of regurgitation.

"Seasick!" Heather declared.

"Seasick at Spit head!" Cleveland echoed, (For at the moment, they were stationed at a somewhat small English cove, which was called Spit head).

"Now, William," The youngest called over from the hammock, "do I have to remind you of your first night at sea? As I recall, there was general unrest."

Cleveland waved the youngest away with his hand, then sat back down. Aubry took it upon himself too get Hornblower settled for the night, so he and Kennedy stripped him of his wet cloths and got him into a hammock of his own. The new arrival was soon asleep, and the midshipmen continued their gathering. The card playing, reading, pipe smoking; later in the night, Aubry pulled out a fiddle and played a gentle tune.

They chatted about this Hornblower character—LoWood found him to be very droll, but Kennedy thought him a truly likable sort. This conversation was continued until Heather and Hammond were called for night watch, and the rest of the jolly crew decided to try and get some sleep. So they all got into their night shirts, and climbed into their hanging beds; the sounds from the sailor's berth was quieting, and mostly all that was left to listen to was the sounds of the rain drumming against the deck—a gentle, and in a way, calming sounds—and the groans of the ship, as it tossed about on the rough waters of the English coast.

()()()

Hornblower slept fitfully that night, drifting in and out of slumber, multiple times he was rudely awaken by the sound of someone snoring; besides the fact the continuous rocking of the ship still played tricks with his stomach (Which was all but empty after the previous evening's events)

When he finally did fall to sleep, it seemed moments later he was woke by someone who insisted upon shaking his shoulder. Hornblower sheepishly opened his eyes to see the face of Mr. Kennedy, the young man who had greeted him the other night, looking down at him.

"Best get up, Mr. Hornblower. Before the whole day is gone." Then Kennedy walked away, giving Hornblower's shoulder one last shake. Horatio blinked, his brain catching up to the present time, remembering fully what had transpired over the past few hours, then he sat up, nearly tumbling out of the hammock.

The midshipmen were already awake and dressed, most of them sitting at the table, eating what appeared to be breakfast; one of them, he noticed, was lying in a hammock, looking to be reading.

Horatio stumbled out of his hammock, trying not to make too much of a seen and hence further embarrass himself, which was not entirely desirable. He'd already thrown his dignity over the side with last night's show.

The floor felt cold and hard against his bare feet, and he shuttered slightly, the cold sea air was filling in through the cracks, even the smallest ones.

For a moment he stood there, looking about at his surroundings.

"Good morning, Mr. Hornblower." A voice called from over at the table, Horatio turned to see Mr. Aubry, the man he'd met the previous night, smoking a pipe and looking at him. The new arrival replied, giving the elder a nod.

"Good morning."

Cleveland—was that not his name?--scoffed, "And what's so good about it? For as I recall, we are still stuck on this ship, as we were the previous night, and will most likely be again tomorrow."

That topic seemed to take the attention off of Hornblower, as the other midshipmen began a discussion about it. He used the moment to locate his chest, which he found in a corner, among the others. Each was somewhat large, sturdily built, with letters plated on the tops: W.H.C, A.G.H, and C.T.A— one in particular looked well made, probably from a rich family, with the letters A.S.K in gold lettering on the lid.

Once Horatio had located his own, he flipped the latch and opened the chest to reveal his array of cloths, and his now meagre personal possessions.

It was at this point that he had the idea that there was no where to change; he couldn't see one, anyway, from where he stood. No changing room? That left only one option, and Horatio being the modest sort, wasn't too fond of it. Yet, there wasn't a choice in the matter, and he couldn't just stand there, cloths in hand, looking around all day. So he quickly stripped himself of his shirt and got into his uniform—the one his father had given him, still new and crisp.

He took his time, making sure each button was buttoned correctly, his shirts were sticking out where need be, and his shoes had nae a tarnish upon them. His hair was combed, his hands were still clean, his face...he wasn't sure where to wash it at, so instead prayed that it looked suitable.

A dull 'thud' interrupted his dressing, and he looked over his shoulder to see the person from earlier, the one who was in the hammock, leaning over. It appeared as though the book had slipped and fallen, and the man—or more like boy, as it looked. Short, youthful build, long and straight brown hair that was tied back—didn't want to bother in getting out, so they vainly struggled to reach for it.

Without hesitation, Horatio walked over, "Here--" He picked up the book and placed it in the person's hands.

"Thank you."

He jerked his head upwards to see who had spoken, for it wasn't the voice of a young lad he heard; nay! It was the voice of a woman, a girl. And most assuredly, looking back at him, was the face of one.

She had a clear completion, although slightly tanned, and deep, dark brown eyes that looked like dots of black on her face. Her chestnut brown hair was tied back, as he had observed earlier, and she was striped down to a vest and white shirt, with a thin, stained blanket covering her bottom half.

For a moment, he gaped. Eyes wide, mouth open; and she stared back. Then, he realized what he was doing, and looked away, "Good Heavens!" he backed up, "I...I'm terribly sorry..."

The girl—she couldn't have been much younger than he—cracked a smile, "For what?"

"..I...I just didn't...I don't mean to stare I..."

"Ah, Mr. Hornblower!" One of the other midshipman—a older man, tall and slim, with a wild gray wig and a pipe in hand—strode over and leaned up against a pole from which a part of the hammock was tied, "I see you have met our brilliante bijoue." He grinned, the wrinkles on his forehead creasing to make it appear as though his entire face was smiling.

The girl said, rolling her eyes a bit, "Quite right, John. What would any of you ever do without me?"

"Get some decent sleep, for one." Heather called over , and another one of them agreed.

"How many times must I tell you?" She called back, "That is not my fault. How can I help it if my bed insists upon tossing me about all night?" then she turned back to Horatio, the smile still on her face, "Don't pay any attention to him, Mr. Hornblower. Mr. Heather is depression incarnate."

"I can hear you…"

She chuckled, "Yes, Andrew, I know. But anyway, Mr. Hornblower, pleasure to meet you." She stuck her hand out, "Caroline Finny," then, almost as an afterthought, "Midshipman."

Horatio was hesitant in shaking her hand, as he was still trying to recover from the fact that there was a female on bored this insane little ship, and even worse; he had changed in front of her.

He might just be sick again.

When he didn't except the hand, she urged, "It's a hand, Mr. Hornblower. You shake it..?? Ah, it doesn't matter." She pulled it back. "Actually, I wanted to ask you; do you happen to be in any relation to Dr. Julius Hornblower? Portsmouth..??"

His mind and tongue caught up to each other at the mention of his that name, "Uh, yes. He's my father, where did you hear of him?"

"Oh, well, my mother. When she was sick, my siblings and I didn't have a lot of money to pay for a doctor, but your father let us in." Her smile faded for a moment, her voice taking on a bittersweet tone, "She died anyway, so it doesn't matter."

A somewhat awkward silence stretched between the two for a moment, the girl, Caroline looking downward, and Horatio looking at her, trying to figure her out. But, as soon as the moment was up, she jerked back again, continuing her speech.

"You had breakfast yet?"

"Uh, well, no--"

"It's over here, Mr. Hornblower!" Kennedy called from his seat at the table, motioning towards a plate that had something resembling a piece of mutton, a lime, and a small potato on it.

Caroline looked over her shoulder, "Best go eat, Mr. Hornblower. You're likely to be called on deck soon, and it's hard to work on an empty stomach."

"Are you having any?"

"I already ate, and trust me," her smile returned, "It's better than it looks. You'll get used to it."

Indeed, it was better than it looked. The mutton was alright, a bit hard to chew, but edible, the lime was sour but refreshing, and the potato—although slightly undercooked—was good enough for him to have another. It reminded him, ever so slightly, of the cooking he had while back home. But only in the smallest of ways, for obviously this did not compare with what would have been found on his table at that present time in the morning (It would have been more like eggs, bread with butter, fresh milk—but he tried not to think about that, and be grateful for the mutton.)

He had barely finished eating when the call came, "Captain's comin' aboard! All hands on deck!" and the midshipmen gathered themselves together to leave. Cleveland groaned as he stood.

"I do believe I am getting too old for this."

"Well," Clayton replied, "when you give up, please inform me, for I would very much like your knife."

The men continued in jovial chatter as they all flowed out of the room and into the sailor's hammocks, heading int the direction of the upper deck. Horatio stuffed one last potato in his mouth, wiped his face off, then stumbled to his feet. He was the last one out, wanting to make sure he looked absolutely spotless, as to make a good first impression on the Captain.

But as he walked headed for the door, however, he was stopped by Caroline's voice.

"Ah, Mr. Hornblower?"

"Yes?" He turned around.

With her right hand, she pointed towards her head, "You forgot something."

"Oh." He touched his bare head, where his hat should be, "Right." Bounding over to his chest, he snagged it up, and put it on. "Thank you."

"My pleasure, Mr. Hornblower." And with that, like a man who had just trained his dog to sit, went contently back to her book.

And Horatio, after checking himself over once more, walked briskly from the room, trying to shove thoughts of this latest development—this unexpected individual—out of his head, so to concentrate on the problem at hand: Captain Joseph Keene, of his majesty's ship of the line, Justinian.