His sea-chest was packed. It sat by the door, ready for the hired coachman to lift in the morning. Over the course of a cold March and April, Horatio and his father had filled it. They had purchased uniforms, most of those were folded away at the bottom of the chest. Horatio had had to put them on, of course, for altering, and it had seemed so odd to see himself, in the tailor's mirror. He had looked handsome and alien from the neck down, but his own silly face was at the top, all bones and the eyes too big. Preposterous.
Stockings, nightshirts, and hankersniffs had been sorted and mended and washed and folded. Mary had done that. She was Dr. Hornblower's house-keeper. Horatio was not sure about nightshirts. He had tried to argue that he had read no accounts of the use of them in the Navy. They didn't seem very war-like. Mary would have none of it. Her mouth had folded thin at the mention of war, but her argument had been more prosaic.
"I will not have you prancing around a ship, disgracing the Doctor, and catching pneumonia because you won't wear a nightshirt." That was her final word. The nightshirts went in.
Books had been last, because he was using them. The last of them went in last night when Horatio realized that he was too twitchy even for the books that were his oldest friends. He would open them next in an entirely new world. He wanted to keep Norrie's Seamanship out, and read it in the coach. He hated to think of the wasted time, but he had 17 years experience with the shameful weakness of his own stomach. Cold sweat, and sudden lurching nausea would be the certain result. Norrie, at last, went into the chest with the others.
Mary served the last dinner with the same folded lip. She set the food before them, as she had done as long as he could remember. Then, with a sudden lunge she drew Horatio into an embrace. Her arms were strong, she smelled of soap.
"I'll not see you in the morning." She said. "You - just be a good boy." She smoothed down his hair, and then her worn apron, and then she fairly fled.
Somehow, Horatio had expected his father to say something over dinner, to impart some wisdom, or reveal some new truth. But in the end, they ate in silence, as usual. He
cleared away the few plates, and Dr Hornblower retired to his office, as usual, to write letters.
Horatio paced the house. The dark outside filled him with a new and restless grief. Where would tomorrow find him? Next week? With a sigh, he let himself out the kitchen door. It was poorly hung, and the protesting squeak of it was as well known as his own breath.
He let the night settle around him. He headed for the thinking rock.
It was an outcropping of smooth stone, under the trees behind the house. As a small boy, the rock had been his play castle, his mountain lair. It had been a place to eat bits of bread and butter prepared by the tolerant Mary. Later, he had brought books to the rock, studied them, dreamed over them. Here too, he revisited the whist games. He saw again, in his mind, each card as it had been played. He examined his own choices, and the moves as they unfolded. He had never told this last thing to the doctor, or to anyone, really. It was foolish, repetitive, and it helped him sleep. Horatio had trouble sleeping.
Tonight, for instance, he was sure he would not sleep. He imagined himself with the view had by a bird, an owl perhaps, he saw the dark bulk of the land beneath him, silent as a living map. He saw the end of the land, the line of white foam, and then, beyond, the blank ocean that was all his future. The stars saw all, from cold and far. The same stars were shining over the Justinian. They were even now looking down over captain Keane, and all the men Horatio had not met yet.
He rested his sharp chin on his sharp knees. He hoped to be worthy of them.
He had been sitting a long time when he heard his father's step.
The older man sat down with a grunt.
"Snake isn't out is she?" Dr Hornblower asked
"It's too cold yet, I think." Horatio replied. The snake was an old companion. On summer days she sunned on the rock, She was three feet long, and quite benign unless one was a mouse. He had often watched her from a distance, but at any close approach she sleeked away like spilled water. In his most private childlike thoughts, Horatio called her Amanda.
His father was watching him intently. Even from a being loved and known, the weight of the gaze was too much. Horatio's neck crawled. He stilled himself, lowered his head and bore it.
"You look like your mother, you know." John Hornblower's voice was gruff.
"Yes, sir." There was a portrait.
"Those eyes. That dark hair-" John Hornblower gestured. "Some wild influence there, although I don't know what – never did. Still, Horatio, I'd rather you had her looks than mine." He indicated his thinning sandy hair, and his humid pink face.
"Sir-"
"But what I want to say-" Dr Hornblower continued, trampling Horatio's interjection unheard.
"What I want to say is that I think your soul is maybe more like mine. You are a solitary boy. Perhaps this is my fault. I could not ask you to speak up, to put yourself forward, to bring other boys home from school. I am shy myself, you know." He smiled.
"Your mother was not. Had she lived, Horatio, the house would have been full of charm and laughter, and you would not have had to be an old man's companion at whist."
"I like whist."
"I know, I know you do. And I know that you will serve your king and your captain well. I know that duty will bring you satisfaction in years to come. But I do hope you can find a friend, someone who will warm you through and make you laugh. Oh, here. I have something for you, son."
He spilled a chain and pendant into Horatio's outstretched hand. It is a locket. It's hard to see, here in the dark, but it has a little painting of your mother."
"I've never seen you wear it."
"No, I've been saving it for you. Inside, you will find a scrap from a letter she wrote me once. She gave me a piece of advice. I have kept it near me these years. Open the locket up on the coach tomorrow. Take her words to heart. Know that you go with all of both our love."
Dr Hornblower rose and dusted off the back of his trousers. "Don't fall asleep here, Horatio," He said. "Your may miss your coach, and you are likely to find the damn snake in your face."
Horatio waited until the doctor had gone into the house. He put the locket carefully into his pocket. Very soon, he made his way home to bed. He found to his surprise that he was able to sleep.
He made himself wait until mid-morning, until the coach had been rocking through the dust for several hours, to examine the locket. His mother was young in the painting. Not much older perhaps than he himself. Her smile looked both confident and sweet. His fingers found the tiny catch, and opened the thing. A tiny piece of paper drifted in the warm air of the coach. He caught it, and turned it right way up.
The advice was succinct, but maybe it was enough. 'Jump, you'll be all right.'