Author's Note: A year of procrastination and one complete rewrite later, I am now publishing this - my first Hornblower piece. Be gentle with me, as despite loving these characters fiercely, I'm not sure I have total mastery of them yet...
This story is set after the events of "The Fire Ships" but before Archie's return and HH's promotion in "The Duchess and the Devil".
And though it goes without saying in any of my works, this is also certified slash-free.
"Marines, to me! Fall back!"
A failure, this was - a cold, hard, miserable failure born of good intentions and the promise of an easy, much-needed victory. But of course, he should have known that such simple odds would not remain so, for Fate had her wiling ways and certainly would never allow an "easy" mission to be exactly that. He, decorated Captain of the Indefatigable, should have foreseen the lack of resistant forces as he had led the small raiding party inland to attack the outpost and acted more swiftly upon the creeping apprehension that had grown with every step.
Now, watching his misguided comrades fall like toppled toy soldiers around him as the early morning light was set afire with pistol shot from all directions, Captain Pellew cursed. He cursed the war, the rebel Frenchmen that had so senselessly begun it, but above all else, he cursed himself. The responsibility would lie on his shoulders alone for sacrificing in vain such good seamen, but more intimately, more painfully was the realization that on his conscience alone lay the burden of knowing that such an unnecessary engagement could very well cost him the life of his most promising (acting) lieutenant. Such a burden, he realized as the smoke left from the marines' latest volley hung choking and thick in the air, he could not find it within himself to bare. To have such proverbial blood on his hands - a lad who had become as dear to him as his own, perhaps even more so - would render his soul more deeply than the loss of any other of his crew they had been forced to leap over in their retreat.
Retreat; damn, he despised the word...
A glance to his left caught the young man in question, curly ringlets of dark hair bouncing violently as the lad swung his head around to face the battle cries of the last Frenchmen that Death had not yet discovered, sword poised to engage the enemy despite their desperate retreat to the shoreline and the boats that awaited them there. The sight of the boy - for the elder man could see him as nothing else despite the lad's conduct demanding a more mature title - sprinting on gangling limbs, eyes wild from combat as his gaze remained locked in the direction of their backs, cemented the hard lump that was caught painfully in Pellew's throat; they were getting younger and younger, these new officers... Or perhaps it was that he was getting older; older and certainly more rash, it would seem.
Bobbing quietly in the harbor, Pellew caught sight of the Indefatigable resting serenely on calm waters as if to taunt its captain of the blundering error that had been this entire mission. Perhaps it would have been chastening enough for the remaining shore party to escape to the jolly boats and row like madmen toward friendlier ports, for Pellew to see the dwindled numbers of his crewmen scramble onto the welcoming decks of the Indy for the surgeon to patch up and send on their way while he locked himself away in his cabin in self-imprisonment to contemplate his rash stupidity; perhaps, in another life, his own guilty conscience would have been punishment enough.
Yet unfortunately, Fate had decided - true to her cruel form - that such an outcome was not lesson enough for poor Captain Pellew. It was only when their boot tips had touched sandy ground at last that time itself instantly slowed to a standstill when, before his very eyes, Sir Edward watched as a cursed French hat sprang up from within the shrubbery. The hat was followed by its enraged wearer, who - apparently deciding self-sacrifice would serve better than disgrace - then stood tall and aimed pistol squarely at the breast of the Captain's jacket.
The sound of the two shots echoed against the harbor's shale cliff walls, causing several white seabirds resting on its ledges to scare and take flight; one, meant with deadly intent for the Captain of the Indefatigable,was intercepted by a blue blur which sprang in front of the man with a cry of his name and with such speed that Pellew himself was momentarily dazed by its swiftness. The other shot met the Frenchman with ruthless accuracy only an instant later, fired by a quick-witted crewman who had witnessed the promptness of his commanding lieutenant's reflexes as the lad threw himself bodily before their distracted leader. Both French and Englishman fell upon impact, one mercifully dead in an instant, the other folding bonelessly into the arms of the man whose life he had just spared, immediately leaving the white expanse of the man's shirtfront stained a damning crimson.
For what was but a mere moment yet felt like eternity itself, Pellew stared dumbstruck at limp frame of Horatio Hornblower dangling lifelessly in his arms, the elder man's knees buckling ever-so-slightly under the surprising weight of the lad; his feverishly calculating mind having ground to a sickening halt in confusion as the turn of events suddenly sped ahead without him. One moment the boy had been sprinting at his side, very much alive and kicking up sand in their retreat to the shore, the next lay folded in his captain's arms as though dead; as if to affirm the grave state in which Hornblower was in, the moment he bent to set the young man down on the ground, the arms of his jacket came away soaked in the lad's blood. Whatever breath Pellew had inhaled caught painfully in his chest as the realization finally dawned on him as he stared owlishly at his arms, his mind at last racing ahead to meet with the present time.
The boy had just taken a ball for him.
It was then - as Sir Edward's mind reeled in poorly concealed despair, desperately trying to grasp the reality of the situation before him now that the obvious was apparent - that a rough, calloused hand appeared on his arm, grounding yet surprisingly gentle. The compassionate, understanding expression of Matthews appeared suddenly in Pellew's fogging vision, a settling presence in the violent sea of chaos the man felt he was beginning to drown in, the crewman's gray curls bobbing as he bellowed above the din of returning French fire - pitifully few yet remaining just as deadly as before.
"Ah'll take 'im, sir! We must get to the boats!"
As the loyal seaman knelt to lift the limp body of the lieutenant from the sand, an alarmingly large pool of blood already marking where the lad had rested, Sir Edward suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to protect the boy, to fend away any hand that might be laid upon him - friend or foe - except for his own when upon being hauled to his feet the lad let out a strangled outcry of pain. Matthews' face twisted guiltily at sound of the lad's cries when he attempted to hoist the taller man up and bare him on his smaller yet bulkier frame, sympathy shining in his kind gray eyes as he dipped his head in acquiescence when the Captain barked a harshly unnecessary warning at seeing Hornblower's head loll back with a weaker moan. Pellew had felt his gut wrench in self-loathing when his spirits had soared momentarily as he heard the lad's tortured shout, for it signaled the boy was very much alive - though he knew as Hornblower finally bowed his head and relinquished consciousness that in doing so Providence was sparing the lad much suffering.
With nary a sound of protest, Matthews gratefully relinquished some of his burden to the Captain's proffered arm, acutely aware as they trotted as quickly as they could muster themselves to join rest of the crew already readying the longboats that his commanding officer had grown so pale in the last few moments that it almost seemed as though he were the one who was wounded. The thought troubled the seaman for a moment, but one glance at Pellew's face - darkened in fierce determination and with the effort of restrained, grievous fury - softened his fears.
One thing was for certain, Matthews knew. If their beloved Hornblower were to at last run aground of Lady Luck's favor, there would be damnation for the Frogs to pay; Sir Edward Pellew would certainly see to that...
Yet all that seemed to concern the Captain now as they piled into the boats, oars digging deeply into the surf as soon as the last boot heel had landed inside and as the sea swept them away to rid themselves at long last of their French menaces, was the state of their Mr. Hornblower; for though he said nary a word upon taking up residence aside the tiller, Pellew's gaze never wavered from the young man whose unconscious form had been passed along to Styles - where upon the lad was leaning quite heavily. In the maddened interim, some seaman had the good sense to press a discarded shirt against the wound, but all aboard the jolly boat were disheartened to see that the garment was soon soaked through with frightening speed.
Styles, feeling the fiery glare of his Captain upon him when he was shifted in his seat by the surf, causing a pitiful whimper to escape from the wild curls that lay against his shoulder, found himself murmuring soothing words to the young man in spite of his pride - more for the benefit of the elder man watching him in protective judgement than the lad who in all probability could not
hear nor appreciate them. He could not halt the fear borne of loyalty to his commanding officer from bubbling up from within his chest as he studied the depth of Hornblower's wound. Being at sea since he was but a boy did not help the crewman's positivity, for he had seen many good men die within moments from injuries less severe than this; but their Mr. Hornblower was a strong man, a determined man. If any such officer could pull through this, it would be him - of that Styles had no doubts.
Luckily for the crewmen that remained and the man that captained them, the mad dash for the safe berths of the Indefatigable was not an overtly long one. As they reached the welcome sides of the frigate, oars raised high as they were surrendered at last, all thoughts of self-preservation were lost on the men, whose sole concern was helping their valiant lieutenant reach the deck as quickly and painlessly as possible. The Captain was the first to vault over the railing, boots barely meeting the deck before his voice was heard at full range, his deep bellows commanding the surgeon be roused at once.
First Lieutenant Bracegirdle had taken up residence on the quarter deck shortly after the shore party had disembarked, his skeptical nature reaffirmed when the sound of weapons fire had brought his senses to strict attention. Shackled by his duty to the ship and becalmed by the Indy's un-maneuverable nature, he had been forced to watch his crew mates' retreat helplessly, unable to offer any aid. Now, he galloped down the steep stairs of the uppermost deck to meet his captain's advance, immediately relieved to see that the man appeared to be uninjured; yet one look at Pellew's face - unusually pale yet flushed with obvious exertion and telltale emotion - and his wildly desperate gaze told the man that something was gravely wrong, more so than the apparent failure of their mission. He dared not think -
It was at that moment that Bracegirdle's eyes were drawn to the glaring expanse of crimson that stained the Captain's shirt, blood obviously not his own. Sickening dread immediately settled in the pit of the man's stomach.
The deck was suddenly alight with activity as the rest of the men piled onto the deck in giddy relief, each helping bare Hornblower's lifeless weight cradled in a canvas sheet over the railings and into the safe arms of the Indefatigable. Hepplewhite, having been successfully roused, was soon pushing his way through the growing crowd to intercept Matthews and Styles, each with one of the Acting-Lieutenant's dangling arms slung over a shoulder. The remaining crew hung back to mutter amongst themselves in worried knots, watching as their crew mates bore the officer to the sick bay with the doctor clearing a path in its direction. Bracegirdle opened his mouth to voice the obvious questions his duty required he ask, only to be cut off as Pellew turned to him, dark eyes silently pleading for the understanding that only his closed officer could give, and then turned smartly on heel - cloak billowing around him as he spun - and followed the lad below.
Bracegirdle could only pray that, not only for the boy's sake - for he valued him very highly and would be grieved at his loss - but also for the sake of his Captain, that Providence would spare the lad's life.
It was never a Right thing in this mortal plane for a father to have to bury his child...