A Foreign Education

Aurellia Framboise

I Do Not Own Horatio Hornblower-

A quick note- This story takes place somewhere after the book The Commodore and Lord Hornblower, and someplace before Hornblower in the West Indies. Hornblower is about thirty in this story. I have kept a few of Forester's characters but most are my own ie the crew, Richard, and the people Hornblower must deal with. Also, I have taken artistic liberties with the historical characters- some of them are real, some of them are not- all their actions most certainly are.


An icy wind drew upon the warmth of Hornblower s face as he stood, arms crossed, in the aft deck of the HMS Spyridon. It brought stinging tears to the corners of his eyes. If not for the voluptuous overcoat and carefully layered clothing, Hornblower would have been too distracted by the wind to think. Due to his newly acquired position as a captain, his mind was wracked with a myriad of thoughts, but only one was disturbing him at the moment. What to do about this infernal head wind? They weren't going to make good time if it persisted. And according to all his years at sea, the dismal weather would soon be forming into a difficult tempest. It was going to be a long, hard night for his crew. He blinked, dispelling the salty little water formations from their resting places and sending them in moist, horizontal streaks across the sides of his face- soon to be dried by the pushing winds.

The watch bell tolled, signaling the changing of shifts. Half-frozen seamen unlocked themselves from their various, stiffly-crouched positions and gingerly made their way below deck, arms wrapped around themselves in a semi-permanent fashion for relative warmth- too cold and tired to be genuinely excited that their shift had ended. All the while, rested seamen, still chatty despite their knowledge of the coming wait, made their way up to the poop deck to relieve the watch.
Hornblower readjusted his arms to cover a chill spot the intrusive wind had uncovered in his armor of coats.
A half-hour into the morning watch, Styles called from the crow's nest, "Ship ho!"

"Where?" hollered Bevins, the first mate, as he clung to his hat with a hand and squinted at Styles.
"Five points off the starboard bow, Sir!" Bevins turned to Hornblower, "From England, then, probably."

"Let's not test our luck," Hornblower cautioned. "Mr. Daley! The glass if you please!"
Making their way to the bow hurriedly, Hornblower was the first to arrive and quickly lifted the glass to his eye. A few seconds focusing revealed a miniscule dark ship, easily spotted against the chilly, white sky and choppy windblown waves. As they watched, the unknown ship raised her colors.

"British," Daley confirmed.
The smaller ship pulled alongside the Spyridon and a few of its passengers took a small boat and boarded the impressive war ship. Hornblower noted their poorly concealed wonderment confirming his first assumption of their being merchants. One of the merchant crew members puffed himself up and offered Hornblower an overly stiff salute, followed by an admirable handshake.
"Captain, sir. I m Wally Fairbraid and this is part of my crew. He proceeded to make short, to-the-point introductions. Hornblower nodded to each of the scraggly crew members."
"Welcome to the Spyridon, men. I'm Captain Hornblower."

"Yes sir. We were told we might come across you sir. We were asked to deliver a message from the Admiral, sir, if we spotted you."
From his tattered breast pocket be extracted a letter bearing an official stamp. Hornblower accepted the correspondence and broke the seal. Skimming it over quickly, he handed it to Lieutenant Daley.
"Thank you, Mister Fairbraid. Will you have a drink in the officer s cabins with us before you continue?"

The puffed-up captain looked extremely pleased at having been asked, but politely declined. "No sir. Thank you but I must get back to my ship. If my knowledge of temperamental weather serves me right, it seems I have a storm to prepare for!"

"Quite right, sir. I'll tell the Admiral of your effort."

"Thank you." The ramshackle captain, sensing the end of the meeting, straightened up as if he were a soldier previously at ease. "And sir..." Captain Hornblower looked to him again, "good luck with the Frenchies." With that, the old merchant captain saluted him once more and proudly made his way back to the other ship accompanied by his minute crew.
There was something comforting about the simple, old man, thought Hornblower. Fairbraid reminded him of all the people just trying to live their lives amongst the bellicose dealings of mighty lords. Patriotic all the same.

The crews fare-welled each other with waves of their hands, and the smaller vessel retracted its anchor and made way. Hornblower turned back to his crew and made his own way to the officers cabins with a few officers.
"Blasted weather", muttered Bevins as he removed his cap and banged off some frost.

The various officers removed their layers. Daley quickly poured some wine to warm his chilled extremities, having not succeeded in doing just that the entire time above deck by blowing on his hands and rubbing them together vigorously. Hornblower pulled out paper and quill, and commenced to filling out a log entry. One of the midshipmen who had neglected to remove his overcoat warily asked,

"Excuse me, Captain, sir, should I give orders to ready for the storm?"

"You should, Mister Emmett, if we were going to be sailing into it," he agreed as he continued to scribble in the log entry. "But, as the letter Captain Fairbraid just delivered informs me, we have a new heading." Writing something down of a scrap of paper, he tore it off and handed it to Emmett. "Give that to Lyford."
Emmett accepted the scrap, "Lyford?"
"He's at helm. Back to Portsmouth!" he turned to the thawing men. "It appears we have a new mission."