Part VIII (3100)

BBBBBBBBBB

Bush was melancholic as he watched Hornblower's figure diminish into the distance, the gig slowly rowing its way toward the docks. He had told Hornblower that he thought a break would do him good, but in truth Bush was loath to see the captain leave the ship. His trepidation increased with every sweep of gig's the oars, and Bush privately admitted to himself that it was not solely concern for Hornblower's peace of mind which motivated his misgivings. Every part of this departure bothered him; his only relief was that he had succeeded in convincing the captain to bring Doughty with him, and even that was merely a victory over Hornblower's own self-consciousness, for it was clearly the uncomfortable vision of Maria tending to his shredded back that lead him to accept the suggestion.

He forced himself to look away.

"Mr. Poole, have the master and his mate prepare the water casks for filling. The water lug should be along presently."

"Aye aye, sir."

"As soon as repairs are done and our stores are full I'll let the wives on board. You can tell the men that when next you go below."

"Aye aye, sir."

oooooo

Almost as soon as Hornblower left the ship the rumors started up. Bush would likely never have heard them, but for the unfortunate coincidence that his berth was right next to the wardroom. Even then he had not intended to overhear the conversation. He didn't make it his business to put his nose where it didn't belong, and what the other officers chose to gossip about was of little concern to him. But it was no fault of his that their words flowed through the wall, and when his ears latched on to their speech it was certainly not from any conscious effort. Really, he could no more prevent his ears from listening than he could successfully smother his interest once he heard the object of their speech, for they were discussing the one subject that seemed to weigh on his mind constantly these days. That is, of course, the captain.

"You can't think there's any truth to it." That was Mr. Young, his high voice penetrating easily.

"You heard it the same as I did—and he said he got it straight from the Hibernia." Bush recognized Orrock.

"Yes, but 50 lashes? And keel hauled? My God, man—he'd be dead if they did all that!"

"Are you calling the Captain a liar?"

Young made a of noise of disgust. "I'm calling the waterman a liar, or the man who told him. You know how these things grow as they go round the fleet."

"Maybe so, but they usual start with a kernel of truth."

Another grunt from Young.

"I'm just saying a bad flogging would certainly explain the way the Captain was pacing the other day. You saw him! He was stiff as a boom! Couldn't even get his hands behind his back!"

"You're right about that I'll grant—but 50 lashes? 30 is a more likely number." Young was clearly not a man to set store in rumors.

"Fine, fine—but what about the rest?"

"Well they didn't actually say he was keel-hauled, did they? They said he was dragged behind the ship. Not that that sounds too comfortable, mind you, but it's not the same."

"I'd like to see you volunteer to dangle behind the ship with the sharks." Orrock's voice was less teasing than challenging.

"Will you two stop arguing? You're going to wake the lieutenant." Bush was surprised to hear Cargill's voice join the mix—it had seemed at first that Orrock and Young were alone.

"He's not on deck?"

"Didn't you hear the watch bells? Third watch ended 20 minutes ago."

"I bet the Lieutenant knows the truth of it," asserted Orrock, ignoring Cargill's warning.

"You can be the one to ask him," Cargill replied dryly.

"Maybe I will. He was with the captain when the doctor was looking him over, you know."

"You're daft."

But Orrock didn't think so, "I bet it's a great story. That boatman, he said that when those frogs asked him to spill his beak, the captain, he spat in their faces and said, cool as you please 'Go to hell'. And that was after they'd been at 'im. If just half of what he said was true, the captain will deserve a full spread in the Gazette. Why wouldn't the Lieutenant want to tell us?"

"You're even more daft than I thought if you think Lieutenant Bush cares more about story telling than the captain's privacy. They're friends, you know—the captain and him."

"Hardly seems like it," Young snorted.

"Even so," Cargill insisted.

"The captain's not exactly a man to have 'friends' " Orrock seconded.

"How do you think he got the black eye?" Young switched topics.

"Someone punched him good in the face, that's how," Orrock thought this was obvious.

"The waterman didn't make it sound like that."

"So now you believe that popinjay?" Cargill drawled.

"Well there were no numbers this time! He just said it was 'too 'orrible to speak of'. What does that mean?"

Bush stirred at this. It was impossible in his mind that the waterman could know what had happened to Hornblower. He didn't think anything, even a direct order, could induce the captain to speak of it.

Orrock laughed, "Means he doesn't know, so he's making something up."

"Does it?"

There was a silent pause, and it was clear from the next statement that Orrock and Young were looking to Cargill for confirmation.

"Don't look at me," the sailor's mate said harshly. "I know no more than anyone else."

"But you brought him back!" Young insisted.

"So I did. And all I can say is he looked right awful." Cargill's voice dropped to a low pitch Bush almost couldn't decipher, "I thought he was dead when the Lieutenant handed him down to the marines. He just-" Cargill took a long deep breath. "it was horrible."

"You think he'll be alright?" Young's voice was softer now, his tone shifting to match Cargill's.

"'Course he will. He's the captain!" Orrock blustered with forced confidence.

"He looked pretty bad, this morning, you know. Pretty bad."

Orrock finally dropped his joviality. "Yeah."

"So you won't be asking Lieutenant Bush any dumb questions?" Cargill phrased it more as an order than a question.

"I'm not daft, despite what you all think. I just want to know—I mean what could make a man like Hornblower . . . I just want to know. But I'll keep my trap shut."

The conversation died out. Bush found himself surprised at this ship gossip, but he supposed he should not be. He usually enjoyed such speculation himself, and was ashamed to admit that even with such a topic as this—perhaps especially with this topic-he wished he had overheard that waterman first hand. It was entirely likely that one of the servants or maybe that damn flag lieutenant aboard the Hibernia had been present for Hornblower's report and had spread that report amongst the crew afterwards. There was some truth to those rumors—he knew better than any. Fifty lashes was entirely too likely a number, and being hauled behind the ship would certainly explain Hornblower's roughened skin and a good many of his bruises. And that last quote-"go to hell" . . . it held just enough pride and righteous hopelessness to have come from the captain's lips.

Bush recalled once questioning Hornblower's courage, when they were lieutenants together on the Renown. He had been proven wrong in his doubts during that first battle, as he had been in every battle since. Bush tried to imagine himself being whipped to the muscle. He tried to imagine himself thrown overboard and dragged with the sharks, salt grating into his bleeding back. He tried to imagine being forced onto the wood planking and ridden. He tried to picture himself bound coatless on deck so long that his face was numb and he could no longer stand. He tried to imagine all of these things and found he could not. And Bush knew then that Hornblower was the bravest man of his acquaintance.

Bush had served under many captains in his life-Some cruel, some indecisive; most steady but unimaginative. He was several years Hornblower's senior and had started his naval career at 13 to Hornblower's 17, which meant that he had walked the deck of many a ship as well—from 12 gun sloops to more than one ship of the line. Yet he had been gratified when Hornblower had asked him to serve as his lieutenant. It wasn't until that moment, however, that Bush realized it went beyond that initial respect. Not only would he serve Hornblower anywhere, but it was positively painful to think of serving any other.

oooooo

The rumors moved from the officers to the crew the next day, and Bush was in two minds about whether to stop it.

"He got that black eye from cursing their captain—a mean old devil with long hair and a golden tooth. 'Tell us where the fleet is!' 'e orders 'ornblower, but Horny, he just looks 'em straight in the eye an' says 'go to hell'. An' then 'e spits right in 'is face, calm as you please."

"Tha's not what 'appened, Hewy. No ways the captain's shootin' off 'is mouth. He hardly ever says a word even when 'es happy—he's not gonna curse at someone holdin' him in chains."

"He'd say whatever 'e pleased, right enough. The captain's a cold man under pressure—idn't 'e, Blacky?"

"Oh aye. I was with him when 'e lit up the magazine on those Frenchies and dheir semaphore. Jumped right in de magazine himself, then wouldn't let no odher light the fuse. Nerves of steel that one."

"See Doyle? I was on tha' same mission. The captain don't take shite from no one. And I bet right enough 'e didn't take shite from that frog captain either."

Bush could hardly interrupt them without drawing attention to himself, and being the only one on board, other than Wallis, with some idea of what happened, he had no desire to turn the ship's curiosity onto his person. So he let the men talk, and prayed they'd have the sensibility to keep their mouths shut when the captain returned. The wives would come on board during the afternoon watch—perhaps they would be distraction enough.

oooooo

It turned out to be Bush who was distracted that afternoon, rather than the men. As he ordered the boats released to retrieve the wives a flag ran up the halyard of the Hibernia. It read 'captain come aboard' and the Hotspur's signal flag ran up behind it. Bush was quite confused when Foreman first relayed this message, but it came to him in the next instant. There was no flag for 'lieutenant' or 'officer in charge', unless they were spelled out letter by letter. Perhaps the signal officer aboard the Hibernia had been economizing their message, or perhaps the admiral had intended the message to be so. In either case Bush was clearly expected to come aboard. He ordered the gig lowered and left the ship in Prowse's capable hands.

Cornwallis was alone at his great table when Rogers lead Bush into the rear cabin, and the admiral waved off the flag lieutenant's brusque introduction.

"Yes, yes-that will be all!" Roger's slank away in obvious disappointment, but Bush found himself relaxing marginally at the departure. Cornwallis waved at the chair directly across from him, "Please, please, take a seat, Mr. Bush."

Bush stopped himself only just in time from replying 'aye aye, sir', and he slipped into the indicated chair.

"Would you care for some wine? Perhaps some claret, lieutenant?"

Bush responded in the negative, and Cornwallis, having dispensed now of formalities, pinned Bush with his sharp eyes. Even if it would not be rude to do so Bush would not have been able to turn away from that penetrating gaze. Cornwallis was not young-his face was a wreath of wrinkles, and his hair was fully white—but when Bush looked into those eyes he saw a man still full of vitality, and a strength of will that he had only ever before seen in Hornblower. It was mesmerizing, even as it was intimidating.

At length Cornwallis spoke. "Our conversation the other day was rather short, Mr. Bush, and it comes to my mind that there are things that must still be said."

Bush immediately moved to apologize, "I'm sorry, sir—I did not intend to-"

Cornwallis smiled slightly in apparent amusement. "I was referring to myself, Mr. Bush."

Bush could say nothing to that—indeed he was rather confused by the admission. What could the admiral possibly have neglected to tell him?

"I have reviewed your written report in addition to the verbal summary you gave us yesterday. Not many captains would have done what you did, sir, chasing after Hornblower. You opened the captain's orders, quite against regulation; you wasted shot firing at that sloop in the fog; you risked your ship in the Goulet—and I'm not just talking about the shoals—and then, then you invited further trouble in bypassing Ushant to come straight to port! Not many captains indeed would have done the same." Cornwallis's tone was unreadable, but Bush could only conclude that this was a censure. He had been prepared for this consequence the moment he'd made that first fateful decision to invade Hornblower's desk, and he had known with each subsequent decision during that horrid day and a half, that he could be ending his career.

But Hornblower was back. And he was alive.

So even as Bush stiffened himself for the coming blow, he knew that he'd done right, and so he was at peace with himself. "If not many captain's would have done what I did, then perhaps it is a good thing I am not a captain. Sir." His voice came out gruffer than he had intended, the 'sir' a distinct afterthought.

Cornwallis's eyes narrowed. "I was thinking rather the opposite, Mr. Bush."

Bush's eyebrows rose sharply in confusion. What the devil did the admiral mean by that? Bush's mouth opened and closed, and he was on the cusp of questioning this cryptic statement directly, propriety having already been cast aside, but at this pronouncement Cornwallis seemed to wash himself of the topic. The admiral relaxed in his chair, and there was nothing but concerned curiosity in his gaze. Bush snapped his jaw shut. It seemed now that he had been on trial, and he had passed.

"How is Hornblower doing?"

The question seemed so out of place with the previous conversation that Bush felt himself respond automatically, unable to imbue his words with any careful though.

"Not well, sir."

Bush flushed immediately after the words left his mouth, for that was an incautious statement indeed, but though the line between Cornwallis's brows deepened, he did not look particularly surprised.

"His injuries?"

Now that he had committed the one indiscretion, surely the damage was already done? Bush squared his shoulders and met the admiral's eye. "He is in great pain. He hides it well, but his back is—well-it will be slow to heal. And he's terribly thin, sir. Terribly thin. And it's not just the—the—he can't—he's-" Bush grunted. He could not say more. "He's not well, sir."

Cornwallis's face remained immobile during this description, but Bush sensed now that this was not out of indifference. The admiral—like Hornblower—merely tightened his features to conceal his emotions.

"Is there anything Captain Hornblower has need of that I could supply, Mr. Bush?"

"Sir?"

For the first time that meeting Cornwallis looked uncomfortable. "We took an excellent port from a merchant vessel running Gibralter, among other things. Perhaps the captain would enjoy a gift for his stores?"

Bush reddened again. That was the closest Cornwallis would come to outright speaking of Hornblower's poverty, but he was clearly as aware of it as Bush. The wardroom, to a man, had whole-heartedly approved of sharing their private stores with Hornblower, particularly in those last two weeks of their patrol, but it had distressed Bush that the captain should have to ask any man for anything. What the admiral offered was a kind gesture indeed, but one that could easily be misconstrued. Bush struggled for an appropriate response.

"I believe that Captain Hornblower would appreciate anything you have to offer, sir." He cleared his throat. "In particular . . . if you captured some coffee, butter, eggs, and fresh meats on that prize as well as that port, I think his steward and I could ensure that he eats properly."

A smile split Cornwallis's crinkled face, "I see that we understand each other. Is there anything else?"

Bush sifted through his memories for any other references Hornblower had made in his past. There was that time at Kingston, when Hornblower had visited him with fresh fruit—a pineapple, paw-paws, bananas . . . but there were none of those things to be found on the coast of England. Hornblower was an accomplished reader, a strategist, a mathematician . . . Perhaps a book?

Then the obvious occurred to Bush, and he grimaced, for it would be an impossible thing to explain away as a prize . . .

"I see that you have something in mind?" Cornwallis prodded.

"Ah-yes, sir." Bush paused a moment longer in uncertainty, but it would make little difference if he voiced the deficit to Cornwallis. "It's the captain's uniform, sir."

Cornwallis frowned.

"His clothes were already quite worn before he was taken, and after he returned . . . well, they don't have much life left. They took his sword entirely, and his hat was-well, it's ruined, sir. He likely hasn't noticed its absence with all the other things on his mind, but—he needs a proper hat, sir."

"Hmm." Cornwallis grunted. His eyes shifted away from Bush to focus on the ceiling of the great cabin. His mouth moved up and down with his chin as he thought, and then it returned to the smile of earlier.

"There's not much I can do about the uniform—that's not an admiral's business, you understand—but leave the hat and the sword to me."

"What ar—" Bush began to phrase a question, but the look in Cornwallis's blue eyes was enough for him to abort the attempt.

"Aye aye, sir."

"Is there anything else, Mr. Bush?"

Cornwallis clearly felt the conversation should be at its conclusion. "No, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Hmm. Good. Very good. Then you are dismissed."

Bush stood swiftly. "Thank you, sir. I—thank you, sir" He wanted to say more, but it would not be appropriate, so he turned and walked to the cabin door. As he reached for the latch, Cornwallis called from behind him.

"Mr. Bush?"

Bush turned.

"Look after him."

"I will, sir."