Part 4

Part 4

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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.