Chapter 3: Revenge

It was exactly five bells of the morning watch and Eccleston and his party had not returned. Like almost everyone else on board the Indy, Riley was becoming worried.

"Still no sign of the Papillon," Pellew said needlessly. "They must have cut her out by now."

Or they had failed, and were either dead or captured.

The call went out. "Sails to windward!"

Pellew's glass was up in an instant.

"My God," he breathed, "French corvettes."

There were three of them, and a third of the crew had gone that morning to take the Papillon. The Indy was no match for three corvettes. All she could do was run, but she couldn't get far; corvettes were naturally faster ships. Still, they had to try. Pellew shouted rapid-fire orders, and within minutes the rigging and deck were swarming with men. They brought her about ninety degrees to port and beat a hasty retreat. Ignominious, yes, but the better part of valor is discretion. But no matter how many times they repeated that old saying, it still felt like cowardice.

Then the corvettes caught up, and the truth behind their justifications was brought home. One pulled alongside to port, another starboard, and the other circled around to stern. The Indy returned fire as best she could. Eccleston, Chadd, Bowles, Kennedy, and Hornblower were all gone, which cut a great swath in the chain of command. Riley strode calmly back and forth amongst the men shouting steadying remarks, heedless of the danger. At this point, what happened to him didn't matter much. The small chance they had of surviving lay entirely in the Captain's mind and the men's performance. Or a miraculous appearance on the part of the Papillon, but if Eccleston's lot had not returned by now it was unlikely that they would ever be seen again. Riley didn't enter into it anywhere, unless it was to see that the men performed better. Which was why he was strutting about like a madman while a maelstrom of death pounded on all sides in the form of cannon fire and wreckage that threatened to decapitate him or blow him to bits or otherwise lethally render flesh from flesh. It was the only thing he could do.

Over the deafening roar of the guns and the screams of the wounded and the dying, Riley heard someone shout.

"Sir! It's the Papillon!"

Heads not otherwise occupied whipped around, searching.

Riley's heart sank. She was flying French colors.

Underneath him, the Indy was beginning to veer sharply to starboard. Pellew must have been trying to muscle his way out and at the same time get a shot at the prow of one of the corvettes. It was a desperate attempt to break free and run, desperate because if any of the French ships got close enough to board they were finished. If they progressed at the wrong angle, there was a chance that the corvette would turn with the Indy, bringing her close enough to do just that. Not that it would make any difference if she didn't; it would only delay the inevitable. Riley refused to allow the sense of futility rising in his stomach to creep into his voice. It could only make matters worse.

Papillon was close now. Any second she would open fire. The men aboard her were cheering, probably to taunt them. Her cannon thundered, and Riley allowed his eyelids to flicker shut for a moment in resignation. He opened them again quickly when there was no corresponding impact on the Indefatigable.

The Papillon had fired on the corvette to port! She was in British hands. The Indy had a chance now. Eccleston had taken her! Hornblower and Kennedy were alive! A cheer erupted from the men aboard the Indy, and they went back to their guns with a renewed sense of hope.

The French took longer to get over their surprise. There was a conspicuous gap in their fire, during which the Indy managed to get a bit of her own back. The French had just begun to renew their assault when a great explosion rocked all of the ships, sending the less balanced toppling and blowing the hats off of those who still possessed them. Even the cries emanating from the surgery fell silent in its aftermath. The sound had come from the corvette that the Papillon had engaged. A lucky cannon shot had hit its powder room, igniting the gunpowder and causing the ship to explode in a ball of fire and fragmented planking. The bit of the prow that remained intact slipped quietly beneath the surface, as though too stunned for a showier departure.

"Poor devils," Riley murmured. Hundreds of men had been aboard that ship, and they were all gone, just like that. Helpless. He shuddered, as did many around him.

The French surrendered immediately. The sudden and violent departure of one third of their force had put the fight right out of them. Threat removed, Papillon exchanged her French flag for the one that, by the Articles of War, she ought to have been flying. Both British ships engaged in the usual victory cheer, but it was more subdued than usual. The fate of the French corvette hung over the companies like a pall.

Riley was seeing to the ruin that was the deck when Hornblower came aboard to report. He made himself look busy, issuing orders here and there, while he eavesdropped on the Captain and Hornblower.

"Timely, Mr. Hornblower," Pellew greeted him. "Timely."

Hornblower shrugged modestly.

"I, ah, take it by your presence that Lieutenant Eccleston is indisposed?" continued Pellew.

"I regret to inform you, sir, that Lieutenant Eccleston is dead."

Riley's voice faltered in its direction to stack all of the cables not currently in use near the quarterdeck

"Lieutenant Chadd is also among the fallen."

Riley drew a ragged breath and went back to work. Both Chadd and Eccleston were good, fine men, but there would be time later to mourn their loss.

"I see," the Captain said after a pause. He cleared his throat. "Who, then, had command of the Papillon during the action?"

It ought to have been Simpson, but that didn't quite add up: the extraordinary performance of the Papillon was not something that Simpson seemed capable of orchestrating. It must have been Kennedy.

"That honour fell to me, sir," Hornblower said matter-of-factly.

Riley dropped all pretense of not listening and turned. Fortunately, the Captain's back was to him, so Pellew did not see. Kennedy had been senior; command should have gone to him. What had happened to Archie?

Pellew apparently wondered the same thing. "How so?" he demanded, "What of Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Simpson?"

"Mr. Kennedy…" Hornblower hesitated, searching for the words. He saw Riley watching him and glanced quickly away, "…was left behind after the boarding of the Papillon."

What did that mean? Was he dead? If Kennedy had been killed, Hornblower would have said so, surely.

"And Mr. Simpson?"

"Mr. Simpson," Hornblower repeated. He bit the words off, as if they left a bad taste in his mouth. "I was forced to have him confined to the brig."

"For what reason?" Pellew said sharply.

"During the course of taking the Papillon, while I was in the rigging, Mr. Simpson attempted to kill me." He explained. "He very nearly succeeded, and if one of my men hadn't seen me fall over the side and dived in, he most assuredly would have." Hornblower rubbed reflexively at the wound on his forehead, which was still bleeding sluggishly. Previously shed blood stained half his face.

Pellew drew a deep breath. Riley had to sit down. Hornblower had almost died. Somehow, Simpson was behind whatever had happened to Kennedy, too; there could be no doubt of that. He had failed them both. He covered his distraction by pretending to be resting.

"That is a very serious accusation, Mr. Hornblower," the Captain said, "And one I'm sure you would no make without the evidence to support it."

"I have the evidence of my own eyes," said Hornblower.

Pellew nodded, thinking.

"Very well," he said. "Mr. Simpson will remain confined until we've gotten this mess cleaned up, then he will be brought to my cabin for examination. I must warn you, Mr. Hornblower," the Captain added, fixing Hornblower with his incisive gaze, "That without proof you are on very dangerous ground."

"I had not forgotten, sir," Hornblower affirmed.

Again, Pellew nodded acknowledgement. He instructed Hornblower to find Mr. Bracegirdle and to inform him that he was being given temporary command of the Papillon. Hornblower saluted and went to seek out Bracegirdle.

The Captain began walking back to the quarterdeck. He paused next to the crate on which Riley sat staring silently into space.

"You know, Mr. Riley," he said mildly, "Eavesdropping on other people's conversations is generally considered dishonorable behavior. In the navy, it is known as 'spying.'"

Riley snapped to attention. "I beg your pardon, sir, I…"

"As you were," the Captain said. A small half-smile told Riley that this was not a true rebuke.

"You were friendly with Mr. Kennedy, were you not?" he asked.

Riley nodded, feeling a lump rise in his throat. "You were friendly…" he'd said.

"Yes, sir."

"It is always… difficult to lose a friend in battle," Pellew said. "But remember, we do not actually know what has happened to Mr. Kennedy. He may yet be alive. When Mr. Hornblower comes back on deck, you should ask him of it."

"Yes, sir." Riley saluted gratefully. He hadn't thought of that.

Hornblower emerged a short time later. He brushed past Riley with nothing but a dutiful salute.

"Mr. Hornblower."

Hornblower's shoulders stiffened and he turned. There was a bit more military correctness in the action than was strictly necessary.

"A word, if I may," Riley asked.

Hornblower nodded formally, and they went to the side, facing out away from the deck. He declined to look at Riley, instead directing his gaze to one of the corvettes. The Libertée. Poorly named, that. Riley examined Hornblower's face. He was distracted but doing his best not to show it. Riley had seen better, but for a seventeen-year-old midshipman Hornblower was doing quite well. He looked away.

"You're angry," Riley said. It was a statement of fact, not a question.

Hornblower's jaw tightened as he nodded.

Riley glanced back at him. "With me."

The midshipman hesitated. "No, sir."

"Horatio…"

"A little," Hornblower admitted, "But less with you than… other people."

There. He'd said it. It stung, as Riley had known it would, but it was better than leaving it unspoken.

"Good," said Riley. Hornblower looked at him in surprise.

"I deserve it," he continued. "I should have gone to the Captain with my suspicions before Simpson had a chance to blink. Events might not have changed, but I should have all the same." Riley watched his friend carefully as he continued. "And when I did not, I let my own personal troubles get in the way of managing things."

Hornblower's eyebrows drew together a bit at that, but he said nothing.

"So Archie is dead, and you very nearly with him." Riley concluded. "And if anyone beyond Mr. Simpson is to bear the blame, I am he."

"Archie's not dead," said Hornblower.

Riley throttled his relief before it could grow. He could not let his hopes rise only to be dashed in a few seconds time.

"Or at least he wasn't when last I saw him," Hornblower amended. "He had a fit, in the boat, and I had to knock him out to keep him from giving us away."

"A fit?" Kennedy had never had any fits before, not that Riley was aware of.

Hornblower explained. "He used to have them, when we served together on the Justinian. When I came aboard he hadn't had one for quite some time, but when Simpson returned a few days later…"

Riley laughed mirthlessly. "Of course. So Simpson has inadvertently had his revenge. At least we may be comforted in the knowledge that he hadn't the pleasure of doing the deed first-hand." Small comfort, that, and not in any way sufficient to quench Riley's own thirst for retribution. A thought came to him.

"Or perhaps not," he murmured. Aloud, he asked, "Who told you the boat had come loose?"

"One of my men," Hornblower answered, confused by the apparent non sequitur, "Styles."

"And who told him?"

It dawned on Hornblower then. "Simpson," he said grimly.

Riley nodded. "I suspected as much."

They stood in silence for a while, staring at the water. Riley continued to watch the ripples as he said, "You have no proof beyond your own word that Simpson is guilty of attempted murder. You understand, I trust, that when you and Simpson go before the Captain there can therefore be only be one possible outcome."

Hornblower looked at him.

"A duel."

Riley looked back. "A duel which you are unlikely to survive."

"I have an even chance."

"According to you, that's what your friend Clayton said just before he died of a hole in his chest, while Simpson got away with a shoulder wound! Don't delude yourself, Horatio; Simpson's the best and most experienced duelist in the fleet. You won't stand a snowflake's chance in hell."

Hornblower's jaw tightened angrily and he had to look away. He would have to learn to control those muscles, Riley thought absently. They might as well be painting his distress in large, red letters above his head. Hornblower took a deep breath, let it out. He turned back to meet Riley's eyes steadily.

"Don't do it, George."

Riley blinked. "Do what?"

"What you're planning. It's wrong."

"No it isn't!" Riley insisted. Afraid that his vehemence might have attracted unwanted attention, he glanced around anxiously and lowered his voice. "What's wrong is allowing a good man to die at the hands of a bad man when it can be stopped. Even if it means playing by his rules."

"I've always thought that what made the good man good was that he didn't play by the bad man's rules."

"Then I am a bad man," said Riley coldly. "If your good opinion is what I must sacrifice to save your life, then so be it, but if you condemn me for my actions then you are a hypocrite of the first order."

Hornblower didn't understand that one.

"I notice you had no qualms about flying French colors if it won you the battle. Or is it only in the service of King and Country that it is permissible to act dishonorably?"

The midshipman disagreed in umbraged silence. Riley had to restrain the strong urge to rip out the railing he was leaning on and fling it as far as he could out to sea. The foolish boy cared so much about his insipid, prideful idea of integrity that he would allow himself to be killed for it! If Riley hadn't been frustrated and angry with Hornblower, he could have admired him for it. It was so idealistic. And naïve.

"But if you feel you must face him yourself, I will of course stay my hand." He would not lessen Hornblower by compromising his principles, wrong-headed and impractical though they might be.

Hornblower nodded.

"Would the rest of the world thought as you do." Riley sighed heavily. "That will be all, Mr. Hornblower."

He had been dismissed. Propriety demanded that Hornblower salute and make himself scarce. Which he did.

They stood on a beach. It was composed entirely of white rocks, varying in size from the dimensions of a large dog to a man's fist, and set against steep rocky cliffs dotted with boulders and patches of moss. Hornblower and Simpson were there, of course, with their seconds, the surgeon, the men from the rowing crews, and the presiding neutral party. They opponents were in their shirtsleeves to allow easier access to potential wounds. A crisp breeze stirred their hair and loose white shirts. They stood back to back.

"For the last time, gentlemen," the neutral party – the Quartermaster – said. He had put on his most officious voice for the occasion. It rang hollowly in Riley's ears, the voice of an automaton conducting Hornblower to his death. "Cannot you be reconciled?"

Simpson whispered something that only Hornblower could hear. The midshipman started to respond, but the Quartermaster had taken their apparent silence for dissent and continued.

"Very well. You may step out the distance." He looked from Hornblower to Simpson to be sure they had heard, as though he didn't know perfectly well that they had heard, just as he'd known perfectly well that they weren't willing to "be reconciled." He counted out the five paces, and Hornblower and Simpson faced each other across a distance of ten.

"Are you ready?" the Quartermaster intoned. They both nodded.

"One."

Simpson raised his pistol coolly and sighted along the length of it.

"Two."

Hornblower was shaking visibly, face contorted with ill-repressed emotion. There was a vast difference between a duel and a pitched battle, and while Hornblower was many times a veteran of the latter he had absolutely no experience in the former. He raised his pistol quickly. Perhaps for a moment he had thought that if he never raised his pistol, the shots would never have to be fired. Riley refused to allow himself to look away. In just a few seconds the Quartermaster would call "Three," and his only friend in the world would bleed away his life's blood on these white, sea-washed stones. Riley thought there might be something symbolic in that, but just then he couldn't bring himself to care.

Simpson's pistol discharged and Hornblower fell to the ground. Riley was at his side in an instant, closely followed by four of Hornblower's men and the doctor. The Quartermaster looked to Simpson for an explanation.

"I did not say fire, sir!"

"It just went off!" Simpson said, but a blind rabbit would have known he was lying. "It was a mistake, I assure you. Did I kill him? Is he dead?"

Hornblower stirred, and Riley helped him to his feet.

"No you did not!" The midshipman said through gritted teeth. A large red patch indicated that he had been hit in the shoulder, far enough in that it had missed the deadly artery. That was not to say that it incurred no damage. Hornblower let out a cry of pain.

"Mr. Hornblower, you may return fire at will."

Riley almost gaped. The stroke of good fortune had stricken him utterly dumb. Not only had Hornblower survived, he was going to get a clear shot at Simpson. And there was nothing Simpson could do about it.

"Return-?" Simpson said, disbelieving, "I shot him. The duel is over."

"You must stand your ground and take fire, Mr. Simpson."

Simpson looked from Hornblower to the Quartermaster entreatingly. When he looked back at Hornblower he found himself staring down the muzzle of a loaded pistol.

"Don't shoot!" he pleaded. "No!"

He sank to his knees, whimpering and sobbing pathetically. It was despicable.

"For the love of God, please, don't shoot. Don't shoot me! I beg you."

Hornblower was shaking even more violently than before, this time from pain and rage. He hesitated, letting the moment drag out, as if even he was not certain what he would do. He clenched his jaw… and shot his pistol into the air above his head. He tossed it aside contemptuously.

"You're not worth the powder," he spat, and turned his back on Simpson, nursing his shoulder.

Simpson stared after him. "Not worth the powder?" he repeated in outrage. He stood, an expression of unspeakable fury burning on his face. A knife appeared in his hand and he charged Hornblower with a yell, arm upraised. Riley whipped out his sword, but before he could put it to use, he heard a gunshot. Hornblower turned just in time to see Simpson falling backwards, blood streaming from a bullet wound in the middle of his chest. Both he, Riley, and everyone else present scanned the area for the telltale cloud of smoke that would reveal Mr. Simpson's killer.

"There!" One of Hornblower's men, Oldroyd, pointed. Riley followed his arm.

It was Captain Pellew, distinguishable by his hat. He was standing on an outcropping of the rock cliffs that surrounded the beach, along with a Marine guard and a man whom Riley took to be Mr. Bowles. The captain held one of the marine's rifles, which he handed to Bowles. That he should have hit his target from such a distance was nothing short of extraordinary.

"Excellent shot!" Someone remarked.

Riley nodded dumbly.

The Indefatigable was not the same without Kennedy. Moroseness over the loss of no less than three officers was understandable, but Kennedy had always been the heart and soul of commissioned levity, and with him gone there was no one to break the gloom that hung over the officers' mess for weeks after the Duel. Given the atmosphere, it was unsurprising that both Riley and Hornblower became increasingly withdrawn. Both were more than usually solitary to begin with, the former by practice and the latter by nature. Riley frequently told himself that he was content to this arrangement. He was used to it. And whenever he found himself thinking wistfully of the happy hours he'd once spent swapping stories with Hornblower and Kennedy, he always firmly instructed himself that he was better off alone. It was far safer that way. Most of the time he believed it.

Eventually, of course, things went back to something resembling normality. Bracegirdle had no small hand in that, spending great chunks of time with the midshipmen despite his increased responsibilities. Following the deaths of Eccleston and Chadd, Bracegirdle became first Lieutenant on the Indefatigable; Riley was the second Lieutenant, but aside from being superior to two other Lieutenants it wasn't much of a change, and Hornblower had been promoted to Acting Lieutenant. He was a full Lieutenant in all but name; he had merely to pass the examination to make it official. This was another of the many things that Riley was convinced did not matter to him in the slightest.

After a few subtle hints from Bracegirdle, Riley crawled out of his little corner and began to mingle with the other officers again. It was ridiculous to let a few deaths get in the way of his duties. The Empire was at war for heaven's sake: people were dying all the time.

A brief hush fell over the game as Riley took his seat. Hether looked uncertainly from the deck of cards in his hand to Lieutenant Riley. Riley flashed a smile.

"Deal me in," he said cheerfully.

Hether returned the smile tentatively and began to deal. A few awkward titters sounded.

"What is the matter?" Riley asked, raising an eyebrow. "Were you all talking about me behind my back? I could charge you with sedition for that."

Experimental chuckles.

Riley nodded smartly. "Good. You know how much I would hate to see the lot of you swinging from the yardarm."

True laughs. Quiet, but not nearly as uncertain as before. The transition from recluse to conversationalist went smoothly from then, discounting a few minor hiccoughs when Hornblower was present. The Acting Lieutenant began to join the company more and more frequently, which Riley considered to be a good thing. Hornblower couldn't keep to himself forever, any more than Riley could avoid him forever. They would both have to grow accustomed. For Hornblower's part, he made a few motions towards resuming their former familiarity, but it was nothing that could not be easily rebuffed by the proprieties of rank. Riley had not forgotten his earlier resolve to break with Hornblower. If Hornblower wondered why, he made no tangible effort to discover it. Riley was relieved by that, if a little disappointed. It was better this way. Much better.