Chapter 1: A Mind to Fight

The new lot were assembled on the deck for the captain's speech. In truth, Riley had no business in calling them "the new lot;" he'd only just arrived the day before. Since the twenty-first of January 1793 – twelve days ago – a general muster had been in effect for all branches of His Majesty's Forces. The great war-gears of the British Empire had begun grinding into motion and it was all because, on that fateful January day, the trouble in France had finally come to a head. Or rather, the losing of a head. For the first time since the days of Cromwell, a king had been executed at the hands of his on people. After that, everyone in Britain knew it was only a matter of time before war was declared. The only question was, who would declare war first.

The Captain stood on the quarterdeck, putting his feet a good half meter above the head level of the crew and in clear view. It was a position of authority, as befitted their first master under God. He was a short man in the younger half of his middle years, but his lack of height served only to condense his presence of command. Both his hair and his piercing eyes were a dark, smoky gray which in no way implied age. There was no hint of the potbelly that oftentimes plagued men over thirty. With the acknowledgement that twenty-four hours was nothing to base an assessment on, Riley considered him a good Captain. He had none of the eccentricities of Captain Thornton. The commanding officer of Riley's previous ship had, among other things, committed the scientific names of every single species of tree to memory and enjoyed reciting the aspects of his favorite species during dinners with his senior officers. But he was an able and affable Captain – managing to keep his men in order throughout the long idleness in Spithead – so nobody minded. And he took great care in the education of his midshipman, for which Riley was very grateful. The traditional lessons of mathematics, tactics, and navigation were supplemented by French and fencing.

"You should always be able to understand what your enemies are saying," Thornton had been fond of saying, "And you should always be able to dispatch him properly when you don't like what you hear."

Unfortunately the practice was not a common one, and the Indefatigable was not equipped to teach fencing, so even if Riley had had the power to implement it he could not have done so. But as it was, he was only a fourth Lieutenant, and all he could do was hope that it somehow came up in conversation with either the Captain or the first Lieutenant, who had just arrived with the new lot. Lieutenant Eccleston. He stood on the quarterdeck, too, along with the rest of the Lieutenants.

The Captain's effortless navy bellow sounded clearly over the men's chatter, silencing them instantly.

"My name is Captain Sir Edward Pellew," He announced, "And I'm here to tell you that your days of idling are over."

This was met with much cheering, though the officers were the only ones who really meant it. Discipline was always hard when your men had nothing to do; especially under as infirm a captain as theirs was reported to have been.

"You have a mind to fight?"

More cheers. This one Riley had much less trouble believing; killing Frogs was much more exciting than lying at anchor, even if it was more work.

"That is well for you shall have your fill!"

Pellew gave them a moment to settle down, then continued in a more subdued voice, so they had to be quiet to hear.

"Yesterday, His Majesty received a communication from Paris. The revolutionary government in France has declared war on Britain." His voice began to grow in volume and intensity. "The old adversary may wear a new face, but a Frenchman is still a Frenchman, and we will beat him as we have always beaten him!"

Pellew doffed his hat and held it nobly over his heart, eyes on the ship's colors. The Cross of St. George and the Union Jack snapped crisply in the breeze. "God save the King!"

"God save the King!" the men roared. And they meant it. For now.

A few weeks later, Riley had learned the names of all the lieutenants and mids, and a fair chunk of the crew, and had collected a fair amount of gossip. He was turning the latest tale over in his mind now, while pretending to read Plato's Republic. Unpatriotic, yes, but it was good to know thy enemy.

According to a man by the name of Williams, the man formerly in charge of his division – a Mr. Midshipman Simpson – had been challenged to a duel by the man now in charge of Williams' division – a Mr. Midshipman Hornblower – because Mr. Simpson rightly accused Mr. Hornblower of cheating at whist. When the time came for the duel Hornblower turned coward and hid, sending his second to fight in his stead. The second, Mr. Clayton, was killed, Simpson was wounded. Williams and his companion had debated hotly whether or not Hornblower had actually turned up at his friend's deathbed, and whether Hornblower had actually attempted to challenge his captain when chastised before discovering that it was illegal to challenge a superior officer to a duel. Riley had heard several variations of the Hornblower-Simpson story, usually with Simpson as the protagonist, and he was trying to discern just what was true and what was not.

What was certain was this; something had been said over cards and a challenge was issued. For some reason, Hornblower did not show up. His second was killed, Mr. Simpson was wounded, and Hornblower almost certainly received a thorough talking-to. Riley thought it unlikely that Hornblower had actually cheated; by all accounts Simpson had no head for mathematics, putting whist thoroughly out of his comprehension, whereas Hornblower was supposed to be quite good. Probably Simpson had lost ingraciously and said something rash. But why should Hornblower make a duel out of it? Simpson seemed to have been generally disliked by his fellow midshipman and feared by members of the crew who had displeased him. That smacked of a particularly unpleasant brand of tyranny. Could it be that the affair of the cards was the last proverbial straw that pushed Hornblower over the edge? Or had he been waiting for an opportunity to get Simpson for some time? If so he was a fool; Simpson was reckoned one of the best shots in the fleet. And why then had he not shown up? Cowardice? It was possible, though if it was so Hornblower had chosen a poor career for himself. But Riley refused to believe that of any man without the evidence of his own eyes, and especially when the evidence of his eyes suggested Hornblower to be and honest, intelligent fellow. It was much easier to believe ill of Mr. Simpson.

There was no need to speak to Hornblower himself about this. The captain had almost assuredly done so by now, and whatever he had said was the final word on the subject. As far as anyone ought to be concerned, it had never happened. Outwardly, at any rate. Mind made up, Riley marked his place and put the book in his pocket. Speak of the devil; there was Hornblower, watching Lieutenant Bracegirdle being trounced at backgammon by Mid' Hether. Bracegirdle cursed good-naturedly at a particularly good roll on Hether's part. Riley grinned and made his way over.

"Well, Mr. Bracegirdle, let us hope you have better fortune at whist," he said, "It will make our table very lopsided if you don't."

Bracegirdle chuckled, "I suspect it will tilt the other way; luck has a way of balancing out."

"Or so you hope."

Bracegirdle was an energetic, good-natured fellow, with a balding pate and a figure a tad on the chubby side. He had a reputation for being easy to talk to and for giving sound advice. He was the third Lieutenant, and therefore outranked Riley, but he wasn't stuffy about it.

"Ha-ha!" Bracegirdle exclaimed. He'd just rolled double sixes, allowing him to put two of Hether's pieces on the block and move all of his to his side of the board. Hether winced. Bracegirdle doubled.

"I wouldn't be so cheerful about it," Kennedy said. He was a midshipman with hair that changed from dirty blond to honey-colored, depending on the light, and sparkling blue eyes that were a lighter shade of the color of his uniform. He and Hornblower were mates, and the merry and light-hearted Kennedy balanced out Hornblower's reserve rather nicely.

"Oh? And why not?" Bracegirdle asked.

"It'll put your whist game right out. You'd better lose right now, or you're bound to forfeit more later. Besides," he added in an undertone to Hornblower, "I've backed Hether for sixpence."

Riley had been watching from over their shoulders; he let out a bark of laughter just as Hornblower grinned.

"I'm sure that would be great incentive to throw the game, Mr. Kennedy, but the whist table is mythical. We still need a fourth, since among the captain and the four Lieutenants two are always on watch. But," he leaned in and lowered his voice secretively, "If you find someone to complete our table and Bracegirdle decides to chance it anyway, I will cover you on that tanner."

Kennedy eyed his friend mischievously. "Well, Horatio," he said, "Do you feel like saving me a little money?"

"You should never bet anything you're not willing to lose," Hornblower replied.

"I should be very much obliged if you would, Mr. Hornblower," Riley said, "Your reputation as a player precedes you, of course."

"And what reputation would that be?" Hornblower inquired cautiously, probably remembering the accusation of cheating.

"As a formidable opponent and an excellent partner," Riley replied, "I would anticipate losing a modest sum to you, but I'd rather that than not play at all."

Bracegirdle had been listening in on the conversation. "I wouldn't roll over that easily, Mr. Riley," he said, "I'm sure between us we could give him a good run for his money. How about it, Hornblower? Are you up to the challenge?"

"I accept it with pleasure, sir." Hornblower said feelingly. So, he was a whist enthusiast. Excellent. When a man relishes a game he always makes it more enjoyable for his fellows, and it meant he wouldn't just sit there being intimidated. Being a good partner at whist to his superiors wouldn't hurt his chances at promotion, either, which Hornblower no doubt realized.

Bracegirdle won the game, and despite Kennedy's insistence that he really hadn't been serious, Riley reimbursed his sixpence. About fifteen minutes later, the conversation turned inevitably to politics. Riley was thrashing Hether at backgammon. His eyes darted over the board as he pretended to think, but he already knew what his next move was. He was just buying time to listen to Kennedy.

"…It's as my father told his gillie," he was saying, "'Alright, perhaps some of these people have missed the odd meal or two, but lopping the heads off the nobility's not going to fill their bellies, is it?' Still, that's Johnny Crapaud for you."

Riley made his move. Hether winced.

"Still, you can't blame them for being upset," Riley said, "The French king was an incompetent boob to say the least."

They couldn't very well disagree with that.

"Well killing him is a bit extreme," Hornblower said.

Perhaps they could

"Is it?" Riley said. It was his turn, so he made his move quickly and returned to the conversation. "We killed ours for being incompetent, if you'll recall."

Hornblower shook his head, "With respect, sir, Charles was executed for being tyrannical."

"In what way?" Riley looked keenly at the young midshipman.

"He repeatedly closed Parliament because they disagreed with him and he issued taxes illegally, without the consent of Parliament."

"Louis' problems stemmed from taxes, too, and in both cases the kings were rather incompetent, weren't they?"

"Indeed," Hornblower admitted, "The two are rather similar. But I trust, sir, that you recall what happened after we killed our king."

"I do," Riley mused, "And Cromwell also bears a resemblance to Robespierre, doesn't he? But you do agree that Louis had it coming to him, and that after the revolution they couldn't very well let him live. Alive, he's a rallying point."

"And dead, he's a martyr. But surely you're not defending the revolutionaries, sir?"

Riley laughed. Truth be told he was, but he could not be seen as a Republican. That would be seditious.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Hornblower," he said, "I only meant to say that they were not entirely unjustified in deposing their king. But eliminating the monarchy entirely… well. The only reason America's lasted this long is because the moneyed classes are supplying the government with individual, educated men to balance against the mob. It's nothing short of a miracle that they've found a temporary equilibrium. But the French are killing off all of the gentry, which only leaves the crowd to run things. The masses are by nature incapable of rule: as soon as you get more than thirty people together at once they stop being individuals and become a herd of cattle. All you need is a balmy figurehead like Robespierre or that madman, Marat, to whip them into a frenzy and," he snapped, "Chaos. They'd follow them off a cliff and think they were being led to eternal salvation."

There was a general chorus of "Well said"s and "Hear, hear"s. Riley allowed a little half-smile to play around his lips, breathing an inward sigh of relief. He hadn't lied. He believed ninety-nine percent of what he'd just said, and the other percent was only shading. That was the trick to lying: putting as much of the truth into it as possible. Riley had a lot of experience in deception.

"Hands to quarters! Hands to quarters! Enemy ship to larboard!"

Kennedy froze mid-sentence, Riley and Hornblower mid-laugh. Then all three were running to their posts, shouting at the men they passed to "Look lively!" They raced for the deck, where the two midshipmen each commanding one of the guns under Riley's command. Riley answered to the first Lieutenant, as did the other two Lieutenants who commanded the guns belowdecks, and the first Lieutenant, Eccleston, saw to it that the captain's orders were carried out. If the situation was urgent enough the captain himself would bellow the orders, or so Riley thought. His breath was coming quickly by the time they reached the deck, and it wasn't just because of the run. It was his first action.

He forced himself to the outward appearance of calm and strode purposely to his post. As advertised, there was the enemy ship to larboard. French of course, ship of prey, a bit smaller than the Indy but not by much. Around Riley the last men were rushing to their guns as quickly as they could around men and equipment. Cannon were loaded and being run out to the sound of grunts and shouted instructions and expletives. There was very little talking; even if the men hadn't been concentrating too hard on their jobs, it would have been too hard to hear over the thumps and the creaking of block and tackle and the rolling of cannonballs down barrels. But it was all only a mouse's squeak to the thunder that would be coming, Riley knew. They drew alongside the French ship.

Faintly from the quarterdeck Riley could hear captain giving Eccleston the order, 'Fire as they bare." Here it comes…

Eccleston hesitated a moment, checking to see that all the guns were run out. Then,

"Fire!"

"Fire!" Riley echoed. He heard the cry repeated belowdecks and at each individual gun, and half a second later; WHBOOM!! Louder than any thunderstorm, and nearer – right beneath his feet and all around him. Riley could feel his cheeks flushing with excitement and his pulse quicken, try as he might to look aloof. Another split second passed, and the French returned fire. A wooden something not a meter from Riley's position exploded as a cannonball crashed through it, sending knife-sized splinters flying in every direction. Riley's arm flew up to protect his eyes, but that didn't prevent one from nicking him just below the hairline at it whizzed past his head. He knew it should hurt at least a little, but it didn't. Not yet.

The deck of the Indefatigable had been cast into a sort of semi-organized chaos. Bits of debris were flying everywhere, the wounded screamed, the unhurt doggedly, mechanically reloaded and ran the cannon back out for another barrage. That's what all the drilling was for, the detached part of Riley's mind commented, when a man panics, he clings to the familiar.

Riley felt helpless. He was supposed to be maintaining order, but how he was supposed to do that he had no idea. His first instinct was to grab whoever was hanging around and set them to clearing the debris and the few who were seriously wounded, but that was no good; they were in the middle of a battle and there was nobody "hanging around." Fortunately most of the casualties thus far were walking wounded and perfectly capable of making their own way below if they needed to. With nothing else to do, Riley attempted to exude an air of unruffled command and paced as far as he dared from his position near the quarterdeck, surveying the scene and doing his level best to encourage without distracting. A man fell backwards across Riley's path and scrambled to his feet, clutching his bleeding hand. It was missing two fingers. Riley stared. The man did too, for a moment, then asked, in a shaking voice,

"Requesting… permission to go below, to the surgery, sir."

Riley continued to gape at him until his tongue finally remembered how to work.

"Yes. Yes, of course." He stammered. Riley stepped aside to allowed the man to pass, mind scrambling to regain his composure. He was an officer for Christ's sake. He could not, must not lose his equilibrium. No, not for Christ's sake, for the men's sake. The men under his command. The men he was responsible for. He had never fully realized just how deep that responsibility went.

Riley took a deep breath and continued with what he was doing. Hornblower and one of the men from his division – Styles – passed him supporting a one-legged Williams between them. Riley cut off the sickening, panicky feeling before it began to grow. It wasn't as though such injuries were commonplace. Most of the men were coming through with nothing but scratches.

The Indy was pulling alongside the French ship. Evidently Captain Pellew had decided they weren't going to outgun her so they were going to have to board her. Riley loosened his sword in its sheath and went back to his position in anticipation of the order to board. The helmsmen had negotiated the ship close enough for there to be no need for grappling hooks, so they went ahead and ran wide planks over the railings to the other ship, the marines firing a volley to prevent the Frogs pushing them off again. Riley was one of the first over, shouting his lungs out, sword held aloft as a rallying point. He'd already killed one before his mind caught up with him: a Frenchman had leveled a pistol at his chest, but he knocked it aside, slashing the man's hand nicely in the process and forcing him to drop his weapon. Riley ran him through and moved on. By then a good number of the men had made it over and more were coming, forcing the French farther and farther back. Eccleston had come over as well, and as first Lieutenant it was proper for the French captain to surrender – should he do so – to him. Which left Riley to subdue the men belowdecks. He fought his way over to the stairs and led the way down.

It was like an earthly incarnation of hell. The heat of the guns and the scores of men operating them, the stench of sweat mixed with the gunpowder smoke that filled the air and stung the eyes hit Riley like a wall. He staggered at it, a reaction that saved his life. The bullet missed him by a matter of centimeters and hit the seaman behind him. Riley found himself face-to-face with a young lieutenant not much older than he was. The French lieutenant slashed at Riley with his sword and Riley blocked it just in time. Riley made a series of cuts – high, low, left, right - feinted high and ducked under the lieutenant's upraised arm, hamstringing him.

Riley sprang up onto the boarding plank and back over to the Indefatigable. Thanks to the advice of a grizzled old veteran by the name of Winston, Riley was not allowing himself to slow down. As much as he'd like to. If he rested now he wouldn't be getting up again in a hurry. As it was, he joined in the requisite three cheers heartily and was almost bowled over by Kennedy in the process.

"Did you see me? Did you see?"

He was addressing both Riley and Hornblower, who had just emerged from belowdecks. Hornblower looked confused.

"Well where were you?" Kennedy demanded.

"What?" Hornblower asked faintly.

"We carried her by boarding!" Kennedy explained excitedly, "I killed two! Well… one, certainly."

"I can vouch for that," Riley grinned. Pretty spectacular it had been, too, involving a ridiculously hazardous dive from the quarterdeck. It was nothing short of a miracle that Kennedy hadn't broken anything, let alone survived, "You're a madman, Mr. Kennedy, I do hope you realize that."

"I will endeavor to remember that, Mr. Riley, thank you." Kennedy threw a joking salute. "But really, Horatio, where were you?"

"I was below," Hornblower said. He sounded very disappointed to have missed his first battle. "Williams… lost a leg, and it took a bit of… discussion to convince Dr. Hepplewhite to treat him before an officer with… an arm wound."

Which meant that Hornblower had had a rather forceful argument on the subject, culminating in the officer in question ordering Hepplewhite to see to Williams first. As well he should: a cut on the leg could kill a man in a matter of minutes if it was in the right place. Heaven knew what kind of blood would be lost when the entire limb cut was off. And unless the officer had been hit in the armpit, which wasn't likely, his wound would keep.

"Good for you, Hornblower," Riley said. Hornblower shrugged.

He tried again. "You did the right thing."

Again a shrug.

"Oh, buck up," Riley said, pleased to find that he sounded very much the knowledgeable superior officer, "Trying to save one of your men is a hell of a lot more noble than killing yourself a Frog or four, even if you don't get as much glory for it."

This elicited a thoughtful, "Hmm," and a slightly less dissatisfied expression. Well, it was something. Riley didn't really expect him to strut around bragging about helping a wounded man when he'd been out of the fighting.

"Did you really get four?" Kennedy asked tactlessly. Riley was spared further comment by the captain's instruction to stop gossiping and report. He excused himself and made his way to the quarterdeck, thankful he'd had the foresight not to return without a report ready. From what Riley had been taught, it had been a good, successful engagement. Nothing to set down in the annals of naval history, no astonishingly low casualties, but a good solid victory all the same. And it meant prize money. Riley reported and received his orders. Temporary command of the French ship had been given to Mr. Eccleston, who would take a minimum crew and deliver the ship and the prisoners to the nearest port he could make and make his way back as soon as possible. Until then, the Indy would be undermanned. But they weren't that far from England, so he shouldn't be gone that long.

Riley's orders were to get the men and the deck back in order aboard the Indy, see to it that his men were properly rested, and then get some rest himself. He set them to clearing the debris, which they did cheerfully, taking the opportunity to regale each other with stories of their daring-do.

"… Here, sir, you were there, you tell him." It was one of Hornblower's lot, Stevens. Apparently his audience doubted the truth of his story and he was asking Riley to back him up. "Didn't I get two Frogs with the same bullet, sir?"

"I saw the whole thing, Stevens, it was most impressive." Riley confirmed, "Straight through the first and hit the other in the chest, wasn't it?"

"Well I'll be damned," Stevens' friend said.

Riley wasn't sure it had been the same bullet or not, but it could have been. The timing was certainly right. Anyway, it made a good story. He turned to walk away.

"Begging your pardon, sir," Steven's friend said. Riley turned.

"Ain't I seen you somewhere before?"

"Well, of course you have, man," Riley grinned, "I've been on this ship since the day before you came."

"No, sir, I meant somewhere… somewhere else. Can't think where, though."

"I think you must be mistaken," Riley said politely, and left the man scratching his head. That was close.