Part
4
************
Pellew drifted in a blurry and diffuse sea of pain, tossed by frequent stabs of
agony that pierced him to the core. Deeper down was oblivion, blessed and pure
release, but above was his command, his ship, his men. He would fight to reach
the surface, and then another bolt of fire would seize him and send him
spiraling down once more. He fought on. He felt his arm being pushed firmly against
his chest, pressed tight against his throbbing shoulder. This time the shocking
intensity of the pain seemed to prick him to a higher level of alertness. They
were wrapping layers of something around his shoulder. He felt himself lifted,
God, the agony, so they could reach around his back.
He heard a groan. "Ssshhh..Rest easy, Sir, we're almost done. You must lie
still now."
Are they talking to me, he wondered? He tried to speak, but a cold cup was held
to his lips and in a flash he realized that he was thirsty beyond belief. He
opened his lips to drink, but it was a bitter syrupy substance and he tried to
shake his head. "No," he managed to moan.
"To help you sleep, Sir. You need to rest," came a voice above him.
"Hepplewhite?" he whispered.
"No sir. Smythe, sir," answered the voice. "You're on the
Arethusa now, and right honored to have you, we are. I've probed your wound,
Sir. Went clean through, Sir, an' that's a relief, that is. Nicked your
shoulder blade on the way in but sailed out the front of you right clear
through, Sir."
Pellew sighed. Thank God for that, then. A cold cup of water appeared now, it
was held to his lips, as someone propped his head a bit, and he drank,
gratefully.
"Don't get me wrong, Sir," continued Smythe, as he eased Pellew back
down onto the pillows. "You nearly bled yer last out there, and that
little swim ye took didn't help any - it'll be rough going for awhile, but it's
better than I thought it was, Sir." Pellew nodded, and tried to keep his
eyes open to focus, but the room swam, and the torchlights danced in circles
around him. As he closed his eyes, he thought he saw Foster in the background,
talking to someone, arguing. Was it Hornblower? Where was Hornblower? And his
ship, who had the ship, then, if he was here on Arethusa? He tried to call to
Foster, but his voice would not carry. The voices suddenly grew louder. Foster
was yelling now.
"Of course you'll not move him, by God!" he cried, "Ye think
he'll want to go, now? Are ye' mad? With his wife still aboard her, held
prisoner?"
Susanna??? "What??" he croaked, trying to rise, but Smythe held him
firmly still.
"Now see what you've done!" cried the surgeon. "Sir, Captain
Pellew, Sir, you must be quiet, you must rest now."
"Foster?" called Pellew, weakly, gritting his teeth against the pain.
"What hap-"
Captain Foster came to his bedside. "I'm here, Captain. Good to see you
awake, man -"
"My wife," whispered Pellew feebly, "where is she?"
Foster looked around at the other men beside the cot. Smythe shook his head,
but Styles nodded, as if to say, go on, he needs to know, and he deserves to
know.
"Collins has her, Pellew. But don't worry, she's unharmed, and we're going
to get her back, and your ship, by God, we'll do it! The Admiral's above, Sir.
I'm on my way there now, and Mr. Hornblower's just gone back to the Indy. So
you must know we'll see this through," said Foster. My God, thought
Pellew, the man nearly sounds apologetic. Then again, he realized, perhaps he
well should be. "We'll get your Lady, Sir Edward," Foster promised,
"and the Indy, safe and sound, you can count on it!"
How? How in God's name did Susanna get out here? Why? What in God's name could
she have been thinking? But the room was swirling now, and when Pellew closed
his eyes the darkness swirled there too. Oblivion was pulling at him now, and
it's reach was strong, too strong to resist. He gave in.
"Oy! You there!" Cook snapped, whipping his arm
out to point at a bald mutineer who, tripping, had sent his bag of barley
crashing to the deck. Cook had collared half a dozen mutineers and had put them
to work transporting food and water to the kitchen. Their protests had died
quickly, even confused and terrified men could understand where their morning
sustenance had to come from.
The bald man hefted the bag up and put it a few paces from the water-filled
cauldron. The mutineers, under Cook's direction, had also fueled and lit the
fire beneath it, and stocked up extra wood. Cook nodded approvingly. Another
man staggered by, bent over with the weight of his burden. He groaned as he
dropped his sack by the first one, and then turned to Cook.
"Why don't he help, hey?" he pointed at a man sitting nearby on a
bench, whose head and left foot were swathed in bandages.
"He's cook's mate an' injured, blast yer eyes," Cook snarled,
"conservin' his strength." The bandaged man inclined his head
slightly, in a halting nod.
"Why don't he dangle with the rest of dem sick coves? Pollutin' our grub,
that's what he'd be doing, that's what," the man retorted smugly, clearly
satisfied with his rhetoric. "He'd be droppin' his foul putrid scurvied
limbs right inta the soup."
The bandaged man, at this point, grinned at that, but none could see it. Doctor
Hepplewhite had bandaged his face up amply, leaving only two slits for eyes and
one for his nose; he'd left the lower portion of the bandage loose, so that the
man could pull it down to eat. But he had no intention of doing that, anyway.
"Get on with ya," Cook struck the mutineer across the shoulders with
his long-handled ladle. "If I've got to fill your miserable guts, I ain't
going to whittle more or my preci-ous time jawing 'bout it."
Several more mutineers straggled in, bearing various casks. Cook gave
directions where to leave them, and then the men stood still, waiting for new
orders. Scanning the collection, Cook paused, a myriad of weights and volumes
whirling about in his head. Finally, he snapped to attention.
"Clear out, all of you! Breakfast'll be ina hour! Tell your Mr. Collins if
he wants to place an especial request, he's got to do it now."
The mutineers stumbled out. Bereft of their usual discipline, suddenly stripped
of the almighty and awesome hierarchy of their ship, they were no better than
zombies, dazed to find themselves in limbo, unsure if they had come to life, or
had recently lost it. They followed Collins mostly because there was no one
else to guide them--a few of them maybe believed in Collins fullright, but the
rest of them, the majority, having made the effort to transfer their allegiance
to Collins (however forcedly) were too hard put to consider shifting it.
"That's it, then," Cook said, slamming both halves of the door shut
and latching them locked. "Let's have a look at Mr. Hepplewhite's
stash."
Hornblower unfastened the lower half of his bandage and, reaching under the
bench on which he sat, he withdrew two bottles and a sack, whose lumpy contours
seemed to suggest a collection of articles within.
"I also took the liberty of taking a few things from the paint room. Turp,
mostly, some mineral spirits. It'll make them ill, at least." Hornblower
pointed to several small barrels stacked up in the corner of the room.
"That'll call for some over-spicing," Cook mused. "They won't
eat that."
"I thought that it could go in the spirits."
"It'll help them along--they're at them already."
Cook, upon assuming command, had posted some Marines to guard the foodstores,
but had conveniently neglected the spirits. Consequently, most of the mutineers
were gradually acquiring a rosy hue--he had pressed the palest into
transporting his supplies, but they were now free to catch up with their
mates."
"Anyway, it's that Collins I'm most bent on garnishing. Wonder what his
favourite dish might be?"
Hornblower glanced at the door. "He hasn't sent word."
"I'll step up in a bit and ask him person'ly. There's some fine stuff in
the captain's stores that he won't turn his nose up at." Cook rubbed his
chin with his hand. "I'm figuring that the Indies won't have naught but
thin soup. Collins won't want them well fed, that'll be reason enough for
splitting the course. But, of course, if Mr. Collins will be the gentleman and
invite them to his mess...we'll have to make shift."
"Indeed." Hornblower murmured. He and Cook had discussed how to spare
Bowles, Bracegirdle, Kennedy, and Lady Pellew from their plan. To offer them
scant gruel, or nothing at all, seemed to be the best course, but Collins was
unpredictable, capable of spontaneous generosity as well as horrific
cruelty--not to mention that he'd taken a shine to Kennedy--and so Cook and
Hornblower had asked Dr. Hepplewhite for sedatives, rather than poison.
Hepplewhite gave them all the laudanum he had, plus a few other soporific herbs
and tinctures.
"Now, then...mate..." Cook waved at one of the casks. "Crack 'er
open, and we'll start the pork to boil. Then, I'll go present our menuuu and
compleements to that confounded rascall."
Hornblower pried open the cask, and then paused.
"Do you think Collins drinks coffee?"
Cook chuckled, "My ma always said that coffee weren't a sen-si-ble thing
to drink."
Hood and Jameson kept their railside vigil aboard Arethusa,
now further away from Indefatigable, their hands curved around tin mugs of
warmed over and stale coffee, anything to help stave off the chill of the brisk
and damp air.
"By God, Sir," remarked Jameson, "I feel like a bloody rooster,
waiting for the first sign of daybreak to crow, or, do something, anything,
that is!"
"Aye, Captain," answered Hood. "Seems interminable to me as
well. Haven't pulled an all nighter since my son was born, as far as I can
recall. And what a sorry prize he turned out to be, the rascal. Demmed
ingrate…" Hood trailed off.
"Well, I must say," suggested Jameson, rather naively, "that I
did very much enjoy his performance last summer in Much Ado About-" he
stopped short at sight of the sharp glare in Hood's eyes. "Of course, Sir,
I understand, not what you intended for the lad, then," he stammered,
blushing.
"A disgrace, Jameson, nothing short," declared Hood. "But let us
hope, pray even, perhaps, that this night's efforts shall not be in vain, eh?
God, to be able to see what in blazes is going on over there!" he cried,
motioning over to Indefatigable. "Thank God it will be dawn soon!"
Jameson squinted carefully, peering through his glass. "I think, Sir, I
cannot be certain, you understand, it's hard now since we're further away from
'em, but it seems that Lady Pellew is no longer held fast, Sir. I believe I see
her, seated at a bench on deck. Still guarded, presumably."
"Well, that's something, then. Barbarians…" muttered Hood.
"Anything else you can make out? By God, you've got good eyes, man! About
as good as Pellew's - and there's an eagle eye if I say so!"
"There is someone at the wheel, Sir. I think I see a figure there, can't
make out who, of course."
"Indeed," replied Hood. He saw Peters, his coxswain, coming up from
below decks. "You there! Peters! What is the word? How is Pellew?" he
said, anxiously.
"Came through the surgery all right, Sir," mumbled Peters, "but
Mr. Smythe says he's not to be moved, Sir. Too much blood lost already, can't
risk more. Worried about fever starting in, infection too, he said."
Hood shook his head, looked down. "Is he awake, now?"
"No, sir. Went under again just a short awhile ago. Smythe's got 'is eye
on him, though. Shall I tell him to fetch you when he wakes again, Sir?"
asked Peters.
"Of course!" barked Hood, and then he caught himself. "Yes, I
mean, that will be all, then, Peters."
For the first time Hood noticed Captain Foster by the siderail, peering through
his own glass towards the Indy. Some nerve he's got, acting so non-chalant,
thought Hood, feeling himself quickly rising towards the boiling point once
more.
"Well, Captain Foster," barked Hood, angrily. "Well? Do you by
chance have any words of wisdom that might shed some light as to how this
sorry, embarrassing, maddening, not to mention DEADLY assault on one of my
ships might have happened?"
He was roaring now, he felt his rage fully, his face reddened and arms flailing
about. "Well, Man? Christ, your OWN first Officer? How in the name of our
Lord am I to explain this to their Lordships? How?"
Foster shifted his stance uncomfortably, his eyes downcast, a marked contrast
to his usual cocksure posture of bravado. Where to start?
Foster cleared his throat and raised his eyes to Lord Hood.
The long scar on his cheek flushed crimson.
"Collins used to be my midshipman. He started his career under my
command."
"Very touching, Captain, does that explain his mutiny?" Lord Hood
snapped. He strode a few steps away, then redoubled, pointing a finger at
Foster. "I want a full and proper report, d'you hear? Everything that
Collins has ever said or done that is suspicious, every rumour that you've
heard, every irregularity that you have chosen to ignore before--"
Foster opened him mouth, but a wave of Lord Hood's hand silenced him.
"Bear in mind that you yourself have something to answer for. You had high
hopes for the lad Collins, well and good, but he's abused your kind regards,
and though it may pain me, I won't follow suit. However much I may esteem your
person and character, I cannot allow myself to forget that we may have lost a
fine captain and his frigate."
Foster nodded, Lord Hood withdrew, and Foster, placing a hand to his chin,
began to think. Dxmnit, he wasn't one for words! Collins was more than just a
junior officer--he had known Collins even since the lad had come aboard the
Dreadnought years ago, a frightened boy of twelve, and how he had felt for the
boy, then and since! And there was no way in Hxll that he could get Hood to
understand this, because all the old man had for a son was a blxxding
actor-rascal who was continually marrying and fetching up in the wrong places.
Had Hood ever felt paternal affection?
Collins had been much like Hornblower, shy, eager, clever, a studious youth who
might not have made it far had he lacked a certain vigorous drive or ambition
or genius--Foster couldn't find the words to describe it, but Collins, quite
simply, did things, made things happen, decided quickly and worked until he'd
completed whatever he had to do, at the expense of his sleep and meals, if need
be. Foster was this sort of man, too, a man of action. Occasionally, he
wondered if he should be more intellectual or something, but this self-doubt
always evaporated quickly, for Foster had little time for self-doubts--hardly
enough time for abstract thinking, even.
But he had noticed the similarities of Collins' character and his own; he
recognized himself in the boy. And this fuelled a paternal affection. Foster
had no son--but he'd never felt the lack before he'd met Collins.
And, then, when he'd finally noticed that Collins had altered, eroded somehow
in character, he was resolved to stick by the lad and see him through it.
Everyone had a rough patch here and there--Foster himself could confess to a
six-month term wasted entirely in the most dissolute part of Kingston, and
really, at the beginning, there wasn't really anything amiss. He fancied that
he was the only one that noticed the change--he could see it in Collins eyes,
but only because he knew Collins so well.
Eventually, unfortunately, the problem started to manifest in more obvious
ways. Collins, sent to buy two lambs for Foster's private stores, loses the money.
Foster dxmns him and forgets. More money disappears, then Collins starts to
make other trifling mistakes. Nothing large, a few minutes tardiness to assume
his watch, slight negligence amongst his division, a bit of sloppiness in his
graphs and charts, all accompanied by the barest decline of enthusiasm. And
Foster forgave him all, for Collins was simply steering through personal
doldrums or something of the like, and he would soon steer out of them.
Sometime along the way, Foster supposed that he had started to cover for the
man, but he could not put a finger on that point. His accounts and reports had
always been sketchy, so he stretched them out a bit more (trying not to notice
that Collins was doing the same in his), and then, suddenly, he'd come to his
senses and realized that Collins had somehow, under his eye, rotted through and
through, and it was too late.
"Is it ready?" Hornblower asked, sniffing the air.
He could smell the aroma of the coffee beans, tempting him to beg a few sips
before Cook stirred the laudanum in. Cook twisted his mouth in consideration.
"Give it a half-minute, Sir."
Hornblower stared at the steaming pot with growing unease. His preference was
for clean, honest battle, pistols, cutlasses--this skulking about with laced
beverages sat very ill with his sense of honour. It seemed such a short step
from drugging a dastardly mutineer to a captain or collegue.
But it was the safest and quickest way to dispatch Collins. Once he was
removed, the mutineers, roaring drunk, most of them by now, could be dealt
with, and then the ship could be put to rights--a long sequence unfolded in
Hornblower's mind, dealing with the damage he had seen above and below decks,
and, by the time Cook nodded in satisfaction over the coffee, the act of pouring
a small bottle of liquid into a savory drink rather shrunk in significance.
"Now, here's the rub," Cook grimaced, "dose the lot?"
Hornblower nodded, albeit reluctantly. Lady Pellew might welcome several hours'
respite from the anxiety that so vividly gnawed her, though he didn't doubt
that she would resent it afterwards that she was knocked out and thus rendered
unfit to jump ship and swim the short two miles to the squadron to rejoin her
husband. And, as for Kennedy...poor, poor Archie, thought Hornblower ruefully.
Somehow, Kennedy always wound up drugged, or injured, or starved. He would be
unique--there were captains who were invalids, such as old Captain Keane--but
no invalid, to Hornblower's knowledge, had yet crawled up past midshipman and lieutenant
to captain's rank.
"That per-fee-dious Collins is sittin' in the captain's quarters with the
Lady and Kennedy. I'll lay it in with a light hand."
"Carry on, Cook." Hornblower watched as Cook uncorked the bottle of
laudanum and emptied its entire contents into the pot. He realized that, all to
late, that a light hand, coarsened by twenty years' service in the Navy, was
anything but light.
Cook stuck a finger into the brew and sniffed it appreciatingly. "No
one'll be the wiser. 'Specially that xrse-wipe Collins. I'll send word."
"Please do." Hornblower's spirits sunk as Cook lifted the pot up and
out of sight.
Susanna was annoyed to find herself struggling to stay alert
- kidnapped, held at gunpoint, on a mutinous ship of all places, her husband gravely
injured, perhaps even - NO, she could not let herself even think the word, let
alone say it....and now here she was, heaven forbid, sleepy? Perish the
thought!
She shook her head, pulled off the lace tie which, despite the night's
adventures, had somehow managed to keep the majority of her chestnut curls
pulled back in a neat plait. She loosened the long tresses with her fingers,
allowing them to cascade down her shoulders. At least they now covered some of
the hideous blood that spotted her gown. She gazed around Edward's day cabin -
recalling the remarkably few times she had actually been in it. Well that stood
to reason, didn't it. When he came home, or docked into Plymouth, to be
correct, he of course wanted to be at home, their home, with her and the
children. To bring all of them to Indefatigable - dear God, what a chaotic
scene that would be. Emma, the oldest at nearly 16, and showing all signs of
having inherited her Mother's beauty, would bat her eyes at every good looking
officer who strode past. If Mr. Hornblower and Mr. Kennedy were a fair sampling
of the lot then God knew she would have much to fan herself over, dear lass.
Julia, their rambunctious younger daughter would most likely want a turn at the
wheel or a chance at climbing the riggings, for God's sake. George and Edward,
still youngsters, would wreak their usual havoc and disorder on whatever they
touched - and if the tide were rough, then George would simply puke, poor boy.
Pownoll and Fleetwood would be missing from the brood now, of course, off on
their own ships. Two less to deal with, then, she thought, and offered up
another prayer for the boys' safety, as she did whenever she thought of her two
eldest sons (which was rather often), now launched into their own naval
careers.
Eventually her eyes came to rest on the small engraving of her likeness, which
Edward had hung on the far wall of the cabin, nicely placed between two
sconces. Lord, it was an old one - her hair was still powdered, was it not, and
what a miserable practice that had been. Thank God it was no longer the
fashion. Indeed it was now the style to crop the hair short - in thanks to
Madame La Guillotine, she'd heard. Edward would never hear of that, she knew,
smiling quietly. He loved her hair long and loose - had he not told her so many
times, in words and actions? Indeed. She sighed, missing him so much it hurt,
and hoping fervently that he was safe, being tended to - until she could be
beside him.
Collins was eyeing her again, that maddening arrogance of his galling her to
the pit of her stomach. Thank God Mr. Kennedy was still here with them,
although she could see now that fatigue was creeping over him as well. And he
was favoring his side with a frequency that was now beginning to alarm her.
Soon, she prayed, soon, there would be the beginnings of daybreak, the fleet
would catch up to them, somehow, please.
There was a knock on the door. "Enter!" answered Collins with
enthusiasm, her pistol still poised in his hand.
"Cook's axin' if youse all want any coffee, eh?" asked a young lad,
looking a mite bit rough around the edges, but no older than Fleetwood, thought
Susanna.
Both Kennedy and Collins said yes, immediately. "An' you, then, My
Lady?" the boy asked, with a slight bow.
"Oh, thank you, that's most kind of you, " answered Susanna,
"but I do not care for coffee - makes me rather ill, I'm afraid."
"It had better taste good," snarled Collins, as an
aproned man entered with the steaming coffee, followed by the young lad
carrying a tray with Pellew's silver sugar pot, and two cups and saucers.
"Otherwise, it will go ill with you," Collins added, hefting a pistol
in his hand and glaring menacingly. The man nodded slowly; the boy grew pale
and stood motionless.
"If it ain't ta yer likin', then I'll throw more beans in the next lot. It
won't be nothin' to sniff up at, you'll find, what with the sugar. The coffee
was brewed by me own hand," Cook said, and bowed and scraped to the best
of his ability.
"It had better be good, or I'll throw your stinking hide overboard."
Collins met Susanna's eye and his demeanour instantly softened. "Would you
fancy something rather than coffee, my lady?"
Susanna forced a smile; her hands, hidden under the table, squeezed themselves
white. "Some tea, that would be kind, Mr. Collins." And my husband
safe and sound and your neck in a noose....if she was polite and patient, pray
God, her true requests might be granted.
"You heard the lady--" Collins roared. Cook knuckled his brow with
his free hand and turned to leave--Collins stood up, waving his hands wildly.
"What are you on about? The coffee will get cold."
"Beggin' yer pardon," Cook nodded without a hint of reproach.
"I'll send the boy down to boil some water."
"Yes, very well." As Collins eased himself back into his seat, he
regained his composure. By the time he had completely replanted himself in his
chair, he was a new man, calm and pleasant.
"Mr. Crapaud," he grinned at Kennedy, "One lump or two?"
"Two, please."
"Beggin' yer pardon again, Sir," Cook interjected. "Will you be
takin' your sugar fore or aft?"
Collins screwed up his face in confusion. "What?"
"See, it was me usual custom to pour in the sugar fore, 'ccordin' to
Cap--'ccordin' to those whom I had occazun to pour fore for before."
"The sugar first?"
"Aye. With the milk, which we ain't got."
"And is that usual?"
"Wellll....there be those who'd have violent objecshuns an' the
like."
"Which way makes it taste better?"
Susanna studied Collins' expression during this exchange. The man was boxing
the compass--enraged one instant, docile the next. He was like a little child
right now, he was actually biting his lower lip as he pondered the momentuous
decision before him.
"Sugar fore, I believe. I could fetch up another cup, and you cen sample
it both ways."
Collins shook his head gravely. "No, I don't think that will be necessary.
Sugar first, then."
"One or two?"
"Two." Collins glanced at Kennedy, flashing him a conspiritorial
grin. "The same as Lieutenant Crapaud."
Cook complied, dishing out the sugar with one of Pellew's silver tea spoons.
Susanna's heart ached at the sight. She was the one who had given the
tea-service to Pellew--she had picked it out and had packed it in straw and
smuggled into his cabin as a surprise when he had first assumed command of the
Indefatigable. The prospect of Collins' foul hands polluting it wrenched her
innards. When (not if!) this business was over, she would break every piece of
china that Collins touched, and melt down the spoons, for good measure.
"And now the coffee!" Collins chirped.
At that moment, there was a knock at the door--it was a red flag. Collins' eyes
and forehead bulged with rage.
"Sir--" came the very hesitant voice from the other side.
"Yes? Out with it."
There was a pause--doubtless, the hapless interrupter was deciding whether or
not he had been given permission to enter. Finally, he yelled through the door
again, obviously choosing the safer route.
"It's gettin' light, and we think we see sails."
Susanna tried not to smile at the news. The Arethusa--good, dear Admiral Hood!
"We're busy!" Collins retorted. "Are they gaining?"
There was no response. Collins leapt out of his seat and wrenched open the
door, revealing a cowering and swaying mutineer--the man was terrified, but
also clearly drunk. With an imperial sniff, Collins looked him over, up and
down.
"Report if she gains." Shutting the door, Collins rejoined the table,
and lifted up his cup of coffee.
"Mr. Crapaud?"
Kennedy sipped at his coffee. "It's fine, sir." He swallowed another
mouthful.
Collins brought his cup to his nose and sniffed it cautiously. Cook hovered
behind him, clutching the pot.
"Is somethin' amiss, Sir?"
"Pray, be quiet."
Slowly, Susanna began to wonder if Collins had ever tasted coffee before, and
was wary of it, or if he was succumbing to paranoia.
"It's good, I assure you." Kennedy said, tilting his cup to show that
it was half-drained already.
Frowning, Collins fingered his chin with his free hand.
"It smells sort of odd." He turned to Cook and snapped, "Didn't
you clean out the pot properly?"
"Indeed. But that water's outa the cask. This ain't no coffee-shop."
"Very well," Collins sighed, bringing the cup to his lips.
Collins paced the cabin, mug in hand, sipping the coffee,
stopping every few steps to twirl his pistol and admire the finery of Pellew's
decor. Susanna glared at him, daggers in her eyes, as he dared to touch a
candlestick, lift the ink blotter. She took mental inventory of each item he
defiled as though she was personally prepared to thoroughly disinfect each one
when this nasty business was ended. She looked over to Mr. Kennedy, leaning
against the sideboard - was it her, or was he having difficulty staying
upright? He attempted a weak smile, nodded to her.
"So quiet, now, eh Mu'm!" teased Collins, sauntering towards her. "Lord, but I
liked you so much better when you were feisty!" He stopped in front of her, a
lascivious gleam in his eye. "Bet you normally keep Sir Edward on his toes
right proper then, don't you!" He leaned over to touch her shoulder. Susanna
went to slap him and he caught her arm and held it aloft, laughing. "Ah, yes,
now that's more like it! I like my women on the spirited side, I do! You'll
see!"
"I'll sooner see you dead, Sir!" she cried, yanking her arm back down to her
lap, as Kennedy watched helplessly from the side.
"Oh? Just like your husband, then, eh?" he smiled again. Another knock sounded,
this time with a louder shuffle of feet. Her tea? Susanna didn't even want it.
Her stomach was in such a knot that one drop of water and she'd retch up her
guts- for real this time.
"Come!" barked Collins again.
"Begging yer pardon, Sir," slurred one of the mutineers, the stench of rum
reaching over to even Susanna's aquiline nostrils at the far end of the cabin.
She clasped her handkerchief to her face. "But they're gaining, now. Two ships,
plain as day now, Sir."
"And?" shouted Collins indignantly.
"Well, we...uh...was sorta wonderin' Sir," mumbled the drunken man, "what we
oughta be doin' then....Sir..."
"Do you have any orders for us, Sir?" prompted one of the younger mutineers,
apparently still nearly sober. Susanna nearly felt sorry for him.
"Orders!!!" cried Collins, suddenly pushing the hair back from his brow, and
tugging at his collar. "What do you mean, orders??" He could feel the sweat
beading on his forehead now.
"Fools!! You men are pathetic!!" he shouted irritably, and wheeled around to
Mr. Kennedy with an attempt at a nervous smile. "Seems I must do everything
around here!" He grabbed one of the muskets, tossed it over to Kennedy, who
barely caught it, and swayed to regain his footing. "You, Monsieur, you keep
your eye on the Lady! Right? She's a lively one, eh!"
Kennedy nodded firmly, and watched as Collins drained the last drop of his
coffee and followed his men out the door. As the latch closed, Archie dropped
his guard and sank down to his knees by the table.
"Mr, Kennedy!" cried Susanna, rushing to his side, "You're hurt, I can see it!"
"No," he slurred, "no, my head...it's...so dizzy...I can't..."
"Sshhhh," whispered Susanna, taking his head into her lap, and cradling him
gently. "It's all right...it's all right."
"Oh, God," he murmured. "the coffee....must be....something... in the
coffee....must be...so sleepy...can't...stay awake...so sorry, m'am..."
"Hush, now," she said, stroking his hair. She reached for his empty mug,
sniffed it. "Hard to tell, such a strong smell...but it could be...wait,
...laudanum! It's bitter - the coffee would disguise it!" She gasped. "Dear
Lord, that means Collins got it as well, oh thank God!!"
"yes," said Kennedy, weakly. "That's good, then...so sorry, though...not...
looking after you...I should...my apologies...Christ, I can't help it..."
"Don't fight it, Mr. Kennedy," she soothed him. "You'll only make yourself ill.
Trust me, I know. It's all right, give in to it, and rest. I'll stay with
you." She sighed. "Why, you have been the dearest companion to me in
these hellish hours, I cannot thank you enough, Sir!"
Kennedy sighed, and closed his eyes, as Susanna stroked his hair and murmured
to him.
"It's all right....It's all right.... Mr, Hornblower is on decks - I'm sure he
must have planned this. Oh, God, if it knocks Collins out of the way then it is
over! Over! Arethusa will pull alongside us. I will get to Edward," she prayed,
"Edward, Edward, my love, hold on. This nightmare is about to end!"
Carrying a lantern, Foster quietly entered the cabin where
Pellew slept. One of Lord Hood's lieutenants had kindly made room so that
Pellew could convalesce in peace. The doctor's mate, sitting on a stool in the
corner, glanced up at Foster's entrance; Foster motioned at him to leave, and
the mate hesitated for a few seconds, for he'd been ordered to remain and keep
watch for any developments. An angry glare on the part of Foster changed his
mind, and he left.
Foster took his seat and stared at Pellew, observing how shallow the injured
captain's breathing was, how pale his face. The bandages wrapped over and
around his shoulder were stained over his wound, but some of this smirch had
faded from red to brown, which Foster took to be a good sign. A moment later,
however, he considered the possibility that the bleeding had stopped because
Pellew had no blood left. His pallor, after all, was almost one of a corpse. Foster
winced involuntarily, briefly envisioning Pellew in a black-creped coffin. A
shoulder wound was something one could recover from, but Pellew had not been
attended to as quickly as one could hope for, and he had been horribly
mishandled, dumped into the freezing sea and dragged to and fro.
Foster never thought himself to be a religious man, but he often prayed under
duress. He prayed for Pellew now, feverently wishing and pleading and longing
that he would recover, that he would live and resume his command. Circumstances
had never drawn the two men into any sort of amiable acquaintance--they
disagreed with each other's style of commanding, and Foster was too much of a
practical man to fantasize about a sudden flourish of esteem or affection. Yet,
he hoped that, if Pellew did live, that he, Foster, would have a chance to make
his sincerly felt apology.
Leaning over Pellew, he touched the captain's cold hand and told him this, in a
halting, clumsy way.
Then he quit the room, striding past the doctor's mate nervously waiting
outside, to his own cabin, which some other hapless lieutenant had been forced
to relinguish. He placed a piece of blank paper on the desk and started to
compose his report. And he started to swear, too.
Fishing about in the drawer of the desk, he searched for another paper, one
from which he could copy the correct introduction. Writing out the plain kind
gave him enough grief, never mind a special and important one such as this.
His search yielded nothing but more blank paper. Foster slammed the drawer
shut, tipped back in his chair until the front legs rose off the floor--he then
brought them down with a slam, and wasted a few more seconds in the sort of
squirming one would expect of a reluctant snotty-nosed school-boy. Collecting himself,
Foster drew a breath and tried to think of what he wanted to say--and then he
opened the desk drawer again, this time for a dictionary. There was none, only
the same pile of blank pages that he had found there before. Cursing in
vexation, Foster leapt from his chair and paced the room, his sharp stare
trained for a book, any book. He dropped on his knees and and looked under the
desk, he opened the lieutenant's sea-chest and rifled through the clothing,
mostly shirts, therein, and found only a few letters, which didn't promise to
be of any use. He swore again, tried to restore the contents of the chest to
rights, and closed it, and fumed.
He returned to the desk, and took up the pen, and twirled it about in the air.
The next second, he was on his feet, on the verge of sending for a clerk.
Surely, Lord Hood didn't trouble to actually write out his reports
himself--there had to be at least lackey aboard whose sole purpose was to take
dictation.
Foster quickly weighed the imprudence of such a demand--Lord Hood was mad
enough at him, already, he'd have no patience with a captain who couldn't be
bothered to write out his own reports, especially since--though Lord Hood did
not know it, it was this very failing which had precipitated much of the
atrocity now occuring.
SIghing, Foster grasped his pen more firmly. The words were clear in his
mind--he'd recited them to Collins countless times, but they were devilishly
hard to pin down on paper. He had an excellent memory--even a remarkable
one--for words and sentences and phrases and entire paragraphs--just so long as
he'd heard them first. When told something, he only had to be told once. He
could memorize spoken orders far more rapidly than he could read them. He had
had schooling, but reading and writing had given him much pains right from the
start. Mathematics were far easier to cope with--those numbers represented
something, and he could see the geometry and trajectories and charts in his
head--but letters simply swirled about on the page. Sometimes, it wasn't so
bad, but, at others, especially when he was tired or pressed, he had to
struggle with each individual word.
That was why he was so relieved when Collins had first come aboard the
Dreadnought. Foster was wary of clerks, but he'd instantly trusted the shy,
scholarly boy who had arrived with a parcel of books in his dunnage. At first,
he merely set Collins to dictating regular reports--how smoothly those went
with the boy's aid, and, so, he'd started to have Collins read things for him,
too, just like he once wheedled his fellow midshipmen way back when to read
their textbooks aloud to him when he was studying for his lieutenant's
exam--thank goodness, that had been an oral one. Gradually, he'd entrusted the
boy with more sentitive conrrespondence, and, eventually, with the most secret
of Admiralty documents, the canvas wrapped ones that were to be opened at a
certain point of latitude.
Clenching his jaw, Foster began to inscribe the date on the upper right of the
terrifying blank page.
Collins blinked as he came on deck, and suddenly reached out
for the stair rail as a wave of dizziness swept over him. For God's sake, what
was up with this? He shook himself in irritation, resumed his stride. His
irritation resurfaced nearly immediately however, as he found himself stepping
over the bodies of his drunken mutineers. The stench of rum and stale beer, not
to mention other even more unseemly smells, was overpowering, setting him to
another dizzy spell.
"For God's sake, get this deck swabbed at once!" he cried out, to no
one in particular. "You there!" he motioned brusquely to one of his
remaining men, still standing, at least. "Wake them all up, for God's
sake! Get buckets of sea water up here, straightaway-" but the sky whirled
again, and he grasped for the railing. Dear God, but his head felt like a ton
weight on his neck.
"Ah've got breakfast, jus comin' up 'ere Sir!" spoke up a man in an
apron, with an amazingly carefree grin and a large pot of something rather
nasty looking beside him. Collins squinted, to try and clear his vision, the
cook seemed to be undulating in front of him. Next to him stood the young mate,
then a man with bandages all about his face, but for his eyes. Those eyes -
peering out from the wrapping, they were piercing. Piercing him, right through
him.
Collins gasped, swayed again, reached out to the confused crewman beside him,
and felt himself caught under his armpits for a moment. Thank God, he thought.
Then, in incredulous but powerless shock, he felt the man let go. He had been
dropped. Dropped! And was falling, falling down onto the deck into blackness,
his pistol sliding from his grasp and scurrying across the deck.
Hornblower stripped off his wrappings and seized the moment, as well as the
stray pistol. "Leave him!" he shouted, brandishing the pistol at the
sorry lot of them. "Stand away, now. Now!" He motioned the few
straggling men away from Collins' still form. Oldroyd and Cook appeared beside
him, each with muskets primed, and together they formed a line in front of the
fallen traitor. Hornblower took a breath, and faced them all.
"Men, listen to me! To me!" he cried. "This man is a traitor! A
traitor! He's worth no more than your spit!"
Silence.
At the first sounds of the uproar, Susanna had crept aloft, reluctant to leave
Mr. Kennedy, but unable to stay away, and hid herself behind a barrel. She
watched Collins fall with conspiratorial satisfaction, and now quietly urged
Hornblower on from her perch.
"He has no thought for you, not a one! He would desert you as easily as he
has deserted his country - his own honor! I beg you, hear me!" The
mutineers still stood their meager ground, gripping their muskets, motionless,
as Oldroyd and Cook flanked Hornblower, their weapons poised in the standoff.
"I am Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower of Indefatigable! And I tell you that
the only man with the right to command this ship is Captain Sir Edward Pellew!
There is not a more wiser or worthy commander at sea and he is a just man, I
promise you! Those of you who were coerced, who were threatened into joining
Mr. Collins, I give you my word, the captain will see that your story is heard,
I promise you!" He paused for breath. Were they hearing him?
"Renounce this, all of you! There may yet be leniency! Lay down your arms,
let us restore the Indy to rights, tend to our wounded, and let us get safely
home! The Arethusa approaches now and you stand NO chance of succeeding now it
is daybreak, you must see this!"
Murmurs and a shuffling of feet took up the empty airspace for a few torturous
moments. Susanna felt her heart pounding out of her chest. Please, she prayed,
please.
"E's right!" cried a lone voice, at long last. "I ain't dyin'
for the likes of 'im…Not 'im!" Shouts of assent followed in accompaniment
to a cascade of falling muskets and swords to the floorboards. Hornblower
motioned to Cook, quickly, and looked down at Collins. "Get him in irons,
right away, now!" He turned aside. "Oldroyd, over there -untie them,
quickly, man!" he shouted, indicating poor Mr. Bracegirdle and Mr. Bowles,
the latter of whom was nursing a nasty bruise to his forehead. He glanced up
and saw that they had their colors down still, and the cease fire signals still
aloft from the night before.
Bracegirdle saw it as well. "I'll see to the signals, Mr. Hornblower. And
the colors," he paused, rubbing the circulation back into his stiff arms.
"Well done, Horatio. The Captain would be proud. I know I am."
Hornblower nodded, "Let's get her home, Sir."
As the Arethusa came alongside, it did not take long for her officers, and
Admiral Hood to see that order, or some semblance of it had been restored. The
mutineers had surrendered, it seemed, and were seated at one end of the deck,
guarded by Oldroyd and Cook, who looked to have found a rather unexpected pleasure
in the wielding of a musket as opposed to his usual wooden serving spoon. His
mate had handed out bowls of pease porridge (untainted, it should be noted -
their surrender having made the earlier batch unnecessary) so while the
mutineers - those who were not already passed out drunk, mind you, were a mite
bit nervous as to the fate that awaited them, their stomachs were at least now
full. The remaining few boats were lowered, to ease off some of the Indy's
wounded that had overflowed poor Hepplewhite's capacity, and Arethusa sent some
of its own boats on over as well and then arrangements were made for a towing
line, to ease the crippled frigate back into port.
Needless to say, along with the first boatload went Lady Pellew, beside herself
by now to reach her husband. Mr.Hornblower went with her, so as to give his
report to Admiral Hood, with Mr. Bracegirdle now firmly restored to acting
commander of the Indy, Collins clapped in irons in the ship's hold, and still
out cold.
Susanna didn't even have to ask where Edward was. Hood had seen her coming over
and had ordered Peters to get her below at once. The Admiral's relief was
undeniable at seeing the mutiny come to an end – he had scanned the decks of
Indefatigable anxiously as they came alongside to see if Collins was anywhere
to be found. Was he alive, then? Chained up like the traitorous dog he was, or
cast overboard, perhaps, or nothing more than a corpse stowed in the hold?
D@mn, but he wanted him alive. I want a trial, thought Hood, let's have it all
flushed out then, and see how far this stink reaches. He looked about on decks
for Foster, but did not see him. Perhaps he was below, then, writing up his
long overdue report, maybe? Hood set his mouth in a fierce line. So many loose
ends now to tie up now. Not the least of which was an accounting to Pellew. And
an apology as well, it seemed. And, assuming he recovered, please God, a new
ship. It was time.
************
Susanna gasped at the sight of her husband. She had never seen him so still, so
pale, but for the start of a flush high upon his cheekbones. Smythe was
changing the dressing, relieved to see that the bleeding seemed to have finally
stopped, and apologizing to her Ladyship for her having to have suffered the
sight of the stained bandages, until she cut him off and took the soiled linen
from him personally to set onto the table and out of the man's way. She moved
to Edward's other side and took up his hand in hers, reaching with her other
hand to stroke the hair back from his brow. "He feels warm," she
said.
"Aye, M'um, there's fever starting up now, I don't wonder. Mind you, the
wound looks clean, if I do say so myself, but the exposure, the chill, I'm
afraid there's no way to avoid it, see."
She nodded. "Lord Hood should like him taken ashore. I confess I would as
well. Please understand, Mr. Smythe, I am so very grateful to you for all you
have done, but-"
"you'd like to 'ave him in a right proper bed what don't swing like a
pendulum? A fire maybe? Proper food, and water not tapped from the bilges, eh,
m'Lady?" he smiled. Susanna relaxed, then, her shoulders dropping with
ease and her own smile full of warmth and appreciation. "You don't need to
explain nothing to me, M'um, it's no less than what he deserves. Seen it myself,
many times, how proper nursing can make all difference, it can." He
nodded, securing the last fold of the dressing into place. "I was
concerned before that moving 'im might re-open the wounds - start the bleeding
again - but it's been several hours now and no sign of trouble there."
"Thank you, Sir," answered Susanna. "Thank you for all you have
done for him. I shall not forget it, I promise you." And after a slight
bow to her, the dirty bandages rolled and tucked under an arm, he left to see
to the arrangements for getting the capting over the side.
Foster heard the commotion above decks and left his
unfinished report on the desk, grabbing his coat as he ran out the door.
"What's happened!" he asked anxiously.
Hood turned from the railing on the quarterdeck and regarded him. "It's all
over and we have Mr. Hornblower to thank for it."
Foster didn't know whether to cry or cheer. But he knew it was far from over.
No it was just beginning.
"Sir, I would like to return to the Indy," he said without feeling.
This caught the admiral off guard. "Why?" he said simply.
"I am assuming Collins is alive." Hood nodded.
"Well I would like to talk to him. Find out why he did this."
For a moment Hood thought he caught emotion in Foster's voice. "Very well. Take
a boat. Report back when you can."
Foster nodded appreciatively and saluted.
Boarding the Indy he took note of all the destruction caused by the fleet. It
didn't even look like a ship. There where enough holes punched in her to make
swiss chees. "Dear God," he thought. "And it still floats!"
Slowly he made his way below, heading for the hold he passed the infirmary. A
voice called after him. "Captain Foster! Is that you!"
Foster stopped and turned to see a smiling Horatio Hornblower standing in the
doorway. "Who did you think it was? A ghost?"
Horatio tried not to laugh and shook his head. "Please sir, any news of Captain
Pellew?"
Foster followed him back into the infirmary. "Arethusa's doc says he will
recover just fine. In fact I heard Lady Pellew is taking him back to shore
within the hour."
A wave of relief washed over Horatio as he heard the news. Foster saw this too.
"That is good to hear sir." Horatio turned his attention to someone lying in a
cot a few feet from him. "Did you hear that Archie? Captain's just fine."
A groan escaped from the pale boy as Foster peeked around Hornblower to see who
he was talking to. The ashen face of Kennedy filled his eyes as he gasped,"
What in God's name happened to him!"
Horatio seemed to blush with embarrassment as he turned away from the sickly
lieutenant.
"Well," he whispered," I had to use some unusual methods to stop the mutiny and
Mr. Kennedy unfortunately befall part of that."
They were interrupted by the sound of Archie vomiting violently into a waiting
bag. Foster decided it was time to leave. "Um, I see. Very good Mr. Hornblower.
Carry on." Quickly he retreated from the room and the additional sound of
Archie relieving his stomach of its contents.
But Horatio followed after him. "Sir?"
Foster stopped in mid stride. "Yes?"
"Collins is in the hold." Foster nodded and continued on his way. He knew he
had to face the boy again. But this time it would be with a heavy heart.
By the light of the lantern hanging from a beam overhead,
Collins looked more like a dummy or corpse. He lay on his back in a very
uncomfortable contraposto, his arms, tied together, flung one way, his legs
twisted in another, and his head wrenched back at a steep angle and his hair
unfastened. His uniform was also in great disorder, his coat was crumpled
underneath him, his stockings had fallen around his ankles, above the shackles,
his waistcoat was unfastened and hiked up under his arms and his shirt, pulled
out of his waistband, bore the unsavory evidence of recent vomiting.
The sight was hard for Foster, especially since Collins, even during the last
stages of his degeneration, had always kept himself very tidy. Foster had seen
him carried aboard once, sunk unconcious after a bend, and he'd marvelled that
Collins had managed to collapse in the gutter (his uniform was splashed)
without disturbing a hair of his mirror-smooth coif.
But, foremost in Foster's mind, were the images of the young Collins. Somehow,
though the man was approaching his thirties, Foster never ceased to see him as
the frightened little mid, the gawky, skinny twelve-year-old with the treble
voice. How often had he thought, when Collins had misplaced some dispatch or
other, "Oh, blast it, he's just a lad"?
Collins made a weak hacking noise just then, his fingers flapping limply.
Foster strode to his side, and, kneeling beside him, turned his head, lifting
it at the same time, so that he wouldn't retch over himself. After a few
heaves, Collins quieted, a strand of dribble dangling from his slack mouth.
Foster arranged his slack form in the least grotesque form possible and stepped
back, studying his first lieutenant.
And then, suddenly, all of Foster's preconceptions and prejudices fled from his
mind, every last trace of that pathetically eager boy, every last trace of the
older youth with the clever lopsided grin--Foster, for the first time, saw
Collins clearly, a dissolute, heartless traitor, consumed by greed and envy and
pride. The tears rose up in Foster's eyes--he tried to wrack his memories for
the first sign--he saw many--but not the first. When could have it started?
Collins, when preparing for his lieutenant's exam, had acted odd a few times,
not in a way that was curious in itself, but counter to his normal character.
Was it then? Or even before?
A creak of the deck snapped him to attention; he wiped the wet from his eyes.
"Captain Foster?"
Foster spoke to Hornblower without turning to him.
"I can't get anything out of him."
Hornblower nodded apologetically, though Foster could not see it. "It was
necessary, I regret to say, sir."
"He will hang, Mr. Hornblower. You've only prolonged or postponed the
inevitable. I should have changed it completely." With a quick step,
Foster whirled about and left the hold, whisking past Hornblower with some
haste.
Horatio watched Foster go but lingered a moment in front of
the slumped mutineer. Horatio knew Foster didn't defend a man, or any man for
that matter, that he didn't trust with his life. Horatio remembered saving the
Captain's life on that burning ship and how he had treated him differently
after. It was as if he was an equal. And now Collins had not only betrayed
Foster and all that was dear to him but tried to murder him as well.
"A son turning on his father." Horatio couldn't help but think those words. As
Collins rolled over onto his side, Horatio felt pity for him. Now he understood
in a way how Pellew felt for him. With a sigh he turned and left Collins to his
own misery.
Pellew wondered where he was. Why wasn't he in his bed? Why did the ship not
sway? What was going on? Slowly he opened his eyes and tried to focus them on
someone sitting near him. But the image was blurry and he couldn't make it out.
He tried to speak but his parched throat refused to work proper. With great
effort he tried to remember the events of the past few days. All was a jumble
of sword fights, men yelling, and water everywhere. Suddenly the figure moved.
It seemed so familiar. Susanna?
"My darling! Can you hear me?" Pellew smiled up at her glowing face, relieved
as much as she was. "Oh my love! You are awake!" She seemed as a schoolgirl
again, giddy and happy. With great effort Pellew reached up and touched her
cheek. Eagerly she took his hand in hers and held it against her soft flesh.
Now his eyes slowly caught sight of her. He sighed deeply at her image. But she
wasn't quite herself. For starters her hair, which was usually in a proper bun,
lay uncombed about her shoulders. And her dress was torn and dirty. Pellew's
smile quickly faded into a frown. She pressed a cup of water to his chapped
lips, the whole time he took in her disheveled appearance. Gulping down the
water brought some relief and he spoke hoarsely. "Good God Susanna! How in the
bloody h@ll did you get that black eye!" A giggle escaped her and she beamed
down at him. She knew he would be just fine.
"It's courtesy of the same Mr. Collins who put that
ball through your shoulder, my Dear, but please, it's nothing!" Edward
reached over weakly to gently touch the slight discolored patch near her eye.
She winced, slightly, and took his hand to her lips, kissing it softly.
"It's just a bruise, Edward. You'll be the one with the scars, not
me."
"But what were you doing out there?" He shook his head. "It's no
place for you!"
Her eyes flashed for a moment. "And I suppose standing idly on the dock
just watching IS the place for me?"
"Susanna, you could have been killed!" he cried hoarsely.
"No more than you!"
"That's different, you know it is. It's my duty to be there."
"Oh? And I suppose it's my duty to just stand there and watch you get
blown to bits? My love, don't tell me that after 17 years of marriage you know
me so little as that!" she said, stung that he possibly might.
"No," he sighed, reaching for her hand. "No. Your courage,
fearlessness, even, never ceases to amaze me, Susanna." He paused,
shivering suddenly, and she softly pulled the blankets further up around his
shoulders. "Your devotion...But you were endangered my love," he
continued, "to think I could have lost you. You!.. I could never-"
"But you did not - and nor shall I lose you, though I certainly intend to
fuss over you a bit now to see you properly recovered."
He sighed, as she genly unfolded and placed another warm blanket over him.
"Where are we? This isn't the Mermaid, as I recall…"
"No darling, we are guests of Admiral Hood. He would not take no for
answer and I confess I was not inclined to argue with him, wanting the comforts
of home myself. He'll be by to see you a bit later, I'm sure of it," she
answered, reaching for a china teacup and settling in beside him. "Now
then, do you think you can take a little of this willowbark tea? It might help
with the fever, darling. Get you more comfortable."
She gave him a few spoonfuls, and he settled further back on his pillows. His
shoulder was still throbbing and her conversation had been a welcome
distraction. "You know, you haven't told me - how you managed to get out
there - however did you find someone to take you?"
"Well, I had a bit of help from the Admiral, I confess, my dear."
"What?" he whispered, his eyes wide in amazement. "You came out
with Lord Hood? He agreed to take you?"
"Well I suppose I didn't exactly give him a choice. Here, darling, just
one more sip, now. You see, once I jumped into his boat-"
He choked for a second, coughed to get his breath back, wincing. "You
JUMPED onto Admiral Hood's boat?"
"Well, yes. You see it was right there in front of me, so why not, I
thought - I knew he was going the same place as me, after all -"
"After all…" he sighed. Dear God.
"So then it was either take me with him or dump me over the side – well
even Lord Hood wouldn't dare do that to a Lady, so there you go."
"I see…" He shook his head, smiling.
"Oh I shouldn't worry Edward, I did save his life a bit later on – shouted
at him to get down when Collins had them try to shoot him."
"Did you…hmm, what else did I miss, I wonder?" he said, softly.
"I'll tell you the whole sorry lot of it, I promise, when you're
better," she said, brushing the hair back from his brow. "You have
two very brave young lieutenants that you should be quite proud of. But, you
need to rest now."
"As do you," he murmured, feeling the weakness suddenly overtake him.
"Indeed - I shall have a bath and a change of clothes and feel like a new
woman, I think! I'll send the steward in to you in case you need anything, and
then I'll be back, all right?"
"yes," he nodded softly, his eyes closing. "Kiss me, before you
go?"
"You have to ask?" she said, leaning in close to kiss him softly.
"Mmmm" he sighed. "Come back soon, promise me?"
Collins shivered under the intense glare of the men who sat
in front of him. His hands were shackled as well as his legs. They made a
clanking noise as the irons shook about his wrists. Collins felt like a
frightened child who wanted to hide in the corner. Foster could sense all this
by just one look at the man's face. He felt sorry for him as for himself. He
now had to explain how his right hand man was a traitor and a coward. Not only
that but why he as Captain of the Dreadnought had allowed such a man to stay
aboard and do what he did.
Foster could only think one word. Blackmail. Collins was blackmailing him. But
if he said that, then he would have to explain exactly what Collins had on him.
Foster hated this with a passion. All the bureaucracy and politics made him
sick. All he wanted was to be sailing again on his ship on some grand
adventure. Not stuck in a room determining when one of his own would hang. And
yes he would hang; there was not one doubt in his mind about that.
Admiral Hood cleared his throat before he spoke. "Anthony James Collins, you
are accused of mutiny before this board. As well as several other serious
charges. Do you understand this?"
Collins didn't speak, only nodded and fidgeted with his chains. Hood continued.
"You were the first lieutenant of the Arethusa under Captain Foster, correct?"
This time Collins managed to speak. But he sounded like a mouse, not the
murderous fiend he had been aboard the Indy. "Yes sir."
Hood paused a moment before going on. "Captain Foster, please tell us how your
first was able to take over the Indefatigable while you were in command."
Foster stood from his seat behind Collins. "Sirs, I have known this man since
he first came on my ship at the age of twelve," he began. "I myself watched and
taught him till he was promoted to my first. He was one of the bravest men I
have seen, in fact saving my life several times. It is no easy task to serve
aboard a frigate as many of you know. It takes a certain kind of man to sail on
the sea day after day. Mr. Collins loved his work and showed that. Even after
what has occurred, I still am honored to have served with the lad." A slight
murmur reverberated about the full room.
"Please, hush!" Hood prodded.
Foster continued. "But as to what changed him or drove him to mutiny I can only
offer one explanation." Foster sighed before he spoke the word. He knew his own
career was about to end. He inhaled sharply before d@mning himself. But a voice
boomed out, stopping his suicide at the last second. "Captain Foster bares no
blame here gentlemen!"
All heads swiveled to the door and the sight of Captain Pellew coming to the
rescue of his friend. Admiral Hood looked confused. "Sir Edward! Are you well
enough to be here sir?"
Pellew marched boldly to Foster's side. "I am sir. And if I may, I would like
to point out the innocence of Captain Foster in this matter." Foster stared at
him wild eyed, never imaging in his wildest dreams that Captain Sir Edward
Pellew would defend him and his honor. He stood as enraptured as the rest of
the men in the room. Waiting anxiously for the commander of the Indy to speak.
Meanwhile, in a bustling townhouse nearby....
Lady Hood poured the tea, shaking her capped head all the while. "You let
him go? He actually went to the trial? With Alfred this morning? Dear Me!"
"Gertrude, my dear, we are talking about Edward, you know," smiled
Susanna resignedly. "In all honesty, I was actually rather proud of myself
that I was able to keep him in bed for two whole days!" She looked rather
pleadingly at her kind hostess, her brown eyes hoping for understanding, the
nearby bruise of a few days ago now nearly and thankfully vanquished.
Gertrude took in those soulful eyes, and shook her head again, laughing this
time.
"And at least he's wearing the sling - after the doctor insisted - the
only way to keep him from trying to move his shoulder!" Susanna continued.
"I told him it made him look more distinguished -- rather like Lord Nelson
– I don't think he thought that was terribly funny, though."
"Well, my dear child, you have no doubt done your best - and at least he's
over the chill and the fever. Still looked as pale as chalk this morning, if
you ask me. Well, he will find his own way back to himself, he always
does." Gertrude smiled, stirred the sugar into her tea.
These past three days had been such a joy for her - with the Pellews suddenly
in unexpected residence. When it seemed certain that what with the major
repairs now needed to Indefatigable, and the upcoming court martial, not to
mention their own respective rather close brushes with death - the both of them
- Edward had seconded in an instant Susanna's wish to send for the children.
Gertrude had welcomed the thought - even Lord Hood himself smiled at the idea,
surprisingly so, and both insisted that there was plenty of room - and indeed
there was. So the whole entourage had arrived, turning the stately, yet
somewhat somber Hood residence overnight into the epicenter of the happy chaos
that is joyful domesticity.
The maid went to retrieve a second pot of tea for the two of them as suddenly a
small rather mop- topped little cherub poked his head into the doorway.
"Mama," he whispered, his big brown eyes darting this way and that.
"Yes, Edward, dear, what is it?" Susanna smiled at this interruption
of her youngest. "It's all right, you may come in, sweetheart." He
checked the corridor once more, as if to see if the coast were clear, and then
came beside her, eyeing the biscuits hungrily.
"Would you like a biscuit, young man?" asked Lady Hood, gazing fondly
at the young lad before her. How old would her grandchild have been, if only
Lucy had not been lost...….she shook herself back to the present, and lifted
the tray over so that young Master Edward could choose a biscuit. The boy
allowed his eyes to roam over the tempting tray, and plucked up a piece of
shortbread, while murmuring quietly to his Mother.
"Yes, of course," said Susanna. "You may choose one for George
and Julia as well. But that's not why you came in here, is it, darling?"
Young Edward shook his head as his mother ruffled up his hair.
"George sent me in, Mama, to see if we could borrow one of your hat pins.
If you would please," he spoke carefully.
Susanna's eyebrows raised, and Gertude bit back a grin. "And, what, may I
ask," said Susanna, "would you require a hat pin for, my dear?"
"We are doing experiments in the back garden. George and Julia have turned
over one of the rocks along the primrose path and there are pillbugs, Mama!
Scores of them!" Young Edward's eyes lit up like stars.
Gertrude pressed her hand to her lips. Susanna took a deep breath and eyed her
five year old son rather suspiciously. "These experiments, then, involving
a hatpin and pillbugs, you say?"
Edward nodded in pure glee, and Susanna tried hard to suppress the urge to
chuckle. "Hmmmm....Why don't you go and see what Nancy has for you, my
dear," wondering if their nanny had in fact already said no to her
charge's request for such a potentially deadly implement, "or perhaps you
could see if a nice slender stick would work just as well" she said
sweetly, "for what it is you have in mind, dear....whatever that is, of
course," she finished, images whirling through her mind of a whole
assembly of poor pillbugs impaled on a hat pin like so many beads and wondering
what in God's name George, or more likely, Julia, knowing her, had planned for
such a grisly congregation.
Little Edward nodded, with just a hint of disappointment, as though he knew it
was a long shot from the beginning, and with a request for just two more
biscuits, granted, he sped off to return to his outdoor adventure.
Gertrude and Susanna burst into giggles. "What a darling boy!" said
Gertrude. "Such delightful children you have, my dear! Honestly! Emma,
such a lovely thing, Julia, so inquistive, but so sharp! And the two younger
boys, such energy! Dear me!"
"We have much to be thankful for, indeed, dear Gertrude. And the two boys
out at sea, I pray for their safety each day. Especially lately."
"yes, child, indeed," murmured Gertrude, patting her hand. "So,
little Edward, he is the last, then?"
"Oh, dear God, I do hope so!" cried Susanna, and then the two of them
burst once more into streams of laughter. "Six is surely enough, don't you
think?" she asked, wiping away tears of laughter. "The good Lord
could not have THAT much of a sense of humor, could he? I mean, not that I
don't love my husband dearly, I do, but-"
"My dear there is no doubt of that, none at all," smiled Gertrude,
turning more serious now. "Why, that dreadful night, when I went to find
you at the Inn and Charlotte told me that you'd gone down to the docks, I knew
before I even arrived that you would have done anything to get to him... And do
you know, you have sparked me to a new appreciation of my own dear Alfred, indeed
you have, Susanna. I am seeing him in a new way these days - thanks to you, my
dear."
"His is not an easy task, Gertrude. To sit in judgment of the court
martial now," Susanna said. "I do not envy him. For it is certain
that Captain Foster will either be implicated, or cast in suspicion of some
sort. A wretched job, even if a worthy one. To seek justice - it is not always
so pure and simple, is it?"
"Indeed, you are right about that."
"Even Edward, wanting to be there, not because of Collins, of course,
certainly not - his fate is sealed, for God's sake, but for Foster. He told me
he had to be there for Captain Foster!" Susanna shook her head. "He
doesn't even like the man personally and still he took a shot for him, still
thinks of him as a colleague - worthy of his support."
"So he will come to Foster's aid then? How?" asked Gertrude.
"I wish I knew, my dear," replied Susanna. "I wish I knew. Such
a shame that we cannot be there in the courtoom, is it not?"
Pellew stood next to Foster, letting the silence in the
stuffy room sink in before he spoke further. His finger touched the small
envelope in his pocket and he marveled once more at how Hornblower and Kennedy
had found it. Pellew didn't believe in fate but he certainly wouldn't deny
luck. After Collins had been taken off his ship, Hornblower had felt the need
to search the ship, for some strange reason. And lucky he did. Or was it?
It all seemed a bit convenient finding this letter thrown under some clothes in
a corner in his cabin. But now that he had it in his possession there was no
way he was not about to confront the Admiralty with it.
Pellew cleared his throat and pulled the paper from his pocket. "I have here in
my hand gentlemen, the proof that proves Captain Foster had no knowledge of Collins
being a bad seed." All the admiral's eyes were on the gleaming paper.
"Well what is it?" one of them barked impatiently. A sly grin crossed his face
briefly as he continued. "Gentlemen, these are orders written by your own
hands."
The room exploded into angry voices and uncertain tones. Hood pounded the table
with his gavel, trying to restore order.
Foster couldn't believe his ears and stared dumbfounded at Pellew. "It seems
the Admiralty's right hand didn't know what its left hand was doing, sirs."
Pellew let the accusation fly. There was no denying it now. The Admiralty in
all its glory had made a mistake. And Pellew intended to let them know it.
Admiral Hood rose from his chair slamming his gavel against the table. Finally
the murmur died down. Hood remained standing. "Sir Edward, Captain Foster.
Please meet me in my office. This court is in recess for one hour." And with
that he slammed the table once more. Everyone was stunned as men hurriedly
exited the room. Quickly Foster and Pellew headed to Hood's office.
"Where in the world did you get that?" Foster asked incredibly.
Pellew smiled all knowingly," Well, let's just say you are once again in Mr.
Hornblower's debt."
Pellew rapped on the door and they entered. Hood sat in his chair his back to
them, staring out the second floor window. "Sir?" Pellew asked, wanting to get
this over with as quickly as he could. The pain in his shoulder was starting to
throb.
"I had suspected something like this would occur," Hood began. "I just never
thought it would lead to this." He sighed heavily and turned to face them.
"A sad day indeed sir," Pellew agreed.
"Yes. Captain Foster you are free to go back to the Arethusa. I return you to
your rank as her captain sir."
Foster gave Pellew a quizzical look. "Is that it sir?"
Hood caught his eye. "What do you mean is that it? What more do you want
Captain?"
Foster inhaled sharply. But Pellew spoke before his hotheaded friend could. "I
think we are both wondering about an investigation into this matter sir."
Hood nodded. "Oh you can count on that Sir Edward. I will personally take care
of that. But for now, I order you both to return to your ships and prepare for
your next voyage gentlemen. Good day."
Foster and Pellew saluted in unison before leaving. Exiting the Admiralty, they
shared a ride back to Hood's home and Pellew's wife. "Poor Collins," Foster
commented in the carriage.
Pellew agreed solemnly. "Yes. He will still hang I'm afraid. But there was
nothing you could have done man. You hear me, nothing."
"But I still feel responsible. If only I had confronted him before he took
matters into his own hands."
"Foster, Jonathan," Pellew sighed. "Collins did this and you could not have
known. He saw the Admiralty's conflicting orders and took advantage. Seeing the
rift was too much of a temptation and he thought could sell this to our
enemies. Thank God he didn't have a real plan and was stopped before taking the
Indy and killing anyone."
Foster shook his head, knowing his wise friend was correct. The carriage bolted
to a halt. "Here's my stop," Pellew said wearily and slowly climbed out. "Care
to come in for a cup of tea?"
"No thank you Sir Edward. I really must return to my ship. Having not been
there for over a month I fear there is nothing left of her."
Pellew smiled. "Yes I will be back aboard the Indy tomorrow. I wager she will
be ready to sail by the end of this week."
"What!" Foster bellowed "That is impossible sir! She was nearly blown out of
the water, enough holes in her to make swiss cheese!"
At this Pellew only laughed. "Ah yes, but then Mr. Hornblower is quite the
miracle worker. Along with the rest of the crew."
"Mr. Hornblower is an exceptional officer." Foster cleared his throat, becoming
uncomfortable. "Please, hmm, offer him my gratitude."
It sounded more like a question than an answer but Pellew nodded. "I will sir.
I would also be honored if you would attend dinner aboard two nights from now?"
"Yes sir, I will." Pellew turned to leave. But Foster stopped him. "Sir Edward,
I.."
Pellew stopped his back to him. "Yes? Captain Foster?"
Foster searched for the words. He owed so much to this man now and d@nm it he
had to thank him. He swallowed his pride, for once in a very long time. "Thank
you."
Satisfied, Pellew nodded and continued into the house and his waiting family.
Pellew sat at his desk in his cabin. A month had passed
since that horrible day with the Admiralty. He set the paper he had been
reading, down on the dark wood surface. A heavy sigh escaped him as he re read
the words. "Mutineer Collins hung."
Someone engaged in lively conversation caught his thoughts. Hornblower and
Kennedy stood on the quarterdeck, enjoying the evening breeze. Once again they
eagerly pointed to the lights of Portsmouth. But this time was different. The
whole ship was abuzz with the news. Pellew was taking a new command, Impetueux.
But that was not all. Most of the Indy crew were being transfered to other
ships. The whole crew new this now and clammered about, chatting away about
their future.
With a smile Pellew rose and left the room, heading for his two young
lieutenants. Archie worked his gaze vigoriously. First staring at Portsmouth
then about the ship, and finally at his comrade, Horatio. Pellew came up behind
them, enjoying every happy sound, as if revealing in his childrens sound at
Christmas.
"Sir!" Horatio said surprised. "At ease Mr. Hornblower, Mr.
Kennedy." They both smiled, unable to contain themselves. "I take it
you are please with your orders to report to the Renown?" he teased.
Both men nodded and grinned eagerly. "Yes sir!"
"Very good. I know you will both excell under Captain Sawyer."
"Indeed, sir," Horatio said enthusiastically. "We look forward
to it."
"Yes," Pellew sighed, a bit sad. "Sir?" Archie asked,
catching the hint of sadness.
"Oh it's nothing Mr. Kennedy just....." Pellew looked about the Indy.
How much he would miss her. She had served him well and he would greatly miss
what had become his second home. He also knew he would never have such a fine
crew as he had at that exact moment. No, things would never be the same. But
that was life as it is. Always changing. "I wish you good luck
gentlemen."
Archie and Horatio beamed. "Yes sir."
Horatio added," And to you sir."
The two young men watched ,feeling a bit sad themselves, as Pellew took one
last walk about his ship.
