Part X (4300 words)

"What do you mean leaving this cordage strewn about across the quarterdeck!" Hornblower's voice was piercing in the calm air of the morning, and Bush would be surprised if the entire ship had not heard it.

"But s-sir—it's make an' mend, sir," that was Walters. He was a young deck hand, and obviously inexperienced in the vagaries of irrational captains. Perhaps that said something about Hornblower as a commander, since the lad had been part of the crew for two years now. But even if the captain was usually a fair man, Walters should know better than to protest with him in this mood. "I jus' thought—"

"You thought? You thought, did you? You thought the captain would not mind if you disrupted his morning walk? Would not mind that you cluttered his deck with foul lines that have no place by the wheel of a ship?"

Walters looked helplessly up at the captain, and Bush, usually the first to give a man a dressing down, felt a wave of pity for the lad. Hornblower had been in a peak since he woke up, and Bush suspected that his mood rather was because he'd woken up. He had clearly slept better last night with Bush in his cabin than he had that entire weak, and it would be difficult for any man, let alone Hornblower, to acknowledge such a dependency.

Hornblower glared at the hand a full minute, then he turned away in apparent exasperation. "Do your mending amidships, Mr. Walters, and I'll thank you to trouble me with excuses no more!"

Walters positively jumped to get out of Hornblower's line of sight, and then he began dragging the spool of cord as best he could to the rail, so he could push it onto the lower deck where it would be out of the way. The large bundle had to weigh more than a hundred and fifty pounds, and it was positively painful to watch the wiry lad push and pull the mass slowly across the planking. When Bush could take it no more he ordered Hewitt up from the lower deck to help in the endeavor. It had been Bush who had suggested they let that day be a make-and-mend day, what with the wind dead still. They had replaced the cracked foremast at Plymouth, but not all the sails had been fully patched. None had holes, to be sure, but many were fraying, and the grommets through which the reef lines ran were loose. Walter's situation was therefore Bush's fault in more ways than one.

The movement of the cordage over the polished deck was infinitely faster with two men doing the work of one; yet even as this tension was resolved, Bush witnessed another unfraying, for when Hornblower was done with his morning walk, he began laying into the young gentlemen.

"Mr. Foreman! It there reasonable explanation for why I have not seen you at the masthead for more than ten minutes in the last three days?"

"Sir?"

"Did I not order the mast to be double manned and on half watches?"

"Yes, sir, but—"

"But you thought you young gentlemen were exempt?"

"Well—"

"Well what?"

"Well, I didn't know—"

"Indeed you did not, Mr. Foreman. It appears, in fact, that you know very little in general. I want one of you aloft on every half watch! Is that understood?"

"Aye aye, sir."

Bush would have laughed any other day at Foreman's discomfiture, but he could not now.

By two bells in the afternoon watch the captain had targeted nearly everyone on the ship for a verbal thrashing, and Bush had become a glaring exception. Hornblower would not even look at him, and Bush feared what that might mean. The young gentlemen, intuiting that he had confronted the captain on his sleeplessness based on that now three days old wardroom conversation, clearly felt Bush was in imminent danger. He caught three separate worried and pitying looks from Young and Orrock, and the irritation born from those looks was almost enough to sweep away his own uneasiness. Almost, but not quite.

It was fair to say that the whole ship breathed a sigh of relief when Cheeseman called down from the mast, "Deck there! Sail to windward!"

The change in Hornblower was immediate. His shoulders untensed, and his attention focused off the port side at the horizon line. "How many masts? What size?"

It was the ordinary seaman, a more experienced topman, who responded, "Three masts, sir, but small. No royals on 'er. I think I see another be'ind 'er . . ."

"Thank you, Mr. Doyle! And I'll thank you to record as many details as possible!" He turned to Bush for the first time that day, "Mr. Bush, let out full sail and take us northeast a point east." Bush immediately went about directing the maneuver. The mending of the sails had been halted as soon as they began feeling a southwest breeze, so there was thankfully no mollying required. He could vaguely hear Hornblower talking with Prowse behind him, no doubt establishing coordinates.

Doyle called down again from the mast, "Two ships for sure, sir! The first looks like a merchant ship, but I can't make out the second yet! Three masts, but she doesn't have all her sail out!"

Hornblower made no acknowledgement, but Bush was certain he had heard. It wasn't until they were hauling fast, the wind nearly abaft, that the captain called up for more details.

"Masthead! What do you see?"

"They're keeping their course, sir! And we have the reach, so they're fading now!"

"Could you recognize the second sail before we shifted?"

"No, sir. But if I had to guess I'd say it was a frigate!"

Hornblower grunted. Then he yelled up again, "Mr. Cheeseman?"

"I agree, sir!" That response was a bit too glib for Bush to trust it, and he could see by the downturn of Hornblower's mouth that he thought so as well.

"You'll be taking lessons from Mr. Doyle, Mr. Cheeseman. A topman who doesn't know his ships is of no use to anyone!"

Ordinarily the captain left such censures to his first lieutenant, but he was most certainly still in a bad temper. Perhaps it was for the best that he had so many targets for his anger.

The mood on the ship remained tense even when the sails completely left their view, and Hornblower and Prowse were the only men aboard who seemed unsurprised when sails were spotted before them some six hours later, just at sunset.

"It's a squadron, sir!" It was Orrock aloft now, along with that rascal, Charles.

Bush waited expectantly for some further orders, but none came. They approached at full speed, and soon even Bush could see the sails through his telescope. There were four of them, and they could only be British ships. One ship of the line, one frigate, and two fifth rates. It was a hunting party, really, and Bush thought he understood, finally, what their orders must be. They were seeking out French ships and relaying their coordinates to bigger squadrons. Perhaps there was even a French convoy en route!

"Get aloft, Mr. Foreman! You have some signals to raise!" Hornblower order seemed to confirm Bush's guess. As soon as Foreman and Orrock switched places, it became clear that he was correct. "Mr. Foreman! You will relay these coordinates!" And so saying Hornblower listed the coordinates of that first sail sighting. He followed it with the heading of those two ships.

The towering ship of the line—the Adeline-confirmed the coordinates, and then the entire squadron moved off, with no further information exchanged. Hornblower nodded once in satisfaction, and then set the Hotspur running west, not quite against the wind.

After an hour of slow sailing on calm water Bush finally accepted that there was to be no battle that day. No real excitement at all, in fact.

He looked over at the captain.

They neither of them had had their dinner, and they neither of them had broached the subject of sleeping arrangements, so that it hung in the quiet air like a chain around Bush's neck. He would let that weight rest a while long.

With a tip of his hat to Hornblower he went below to catch whatever leftovers he could from the wardroom.

oooooo

An hour and a half later, two bells into the first watch, he made his way to the captain's cabin.

"Come in," Hornblower called out at his hesitant knock.

Bush entered, to be met with Hornblower's piercing dark eyes. He stepped in only far enough to close the door behind him and then stood awkwardly stiff while the captain inspected him. Hornblower was staring intently, his expression dark and serious, his mind clearly weighing some heavy choice. Yet he spoke not a word, just fixed his eyes first on Bush's own blue orbs, and then wandered his gaze over the rest of his lieutenant's broad frame. Bush felt as if his his very soul was being judged, and was certain that he would be felt wanting. There was very little that met with Hornblower's satisfaction in general, and very little to recommend his first lieutenant in particular. This Bush felt with certainty, considering the way he had arguably given insult the night before with his brash acts of comfort. Emotions were not meant to be shared between men; between officers.

Yet at length it was clear that Bush had misjudged the situation, for Hornblower still voiced no objection. After five minutes of silent staring had passed, he finally turned away from Bush and made for his cot. It was as if he had decided to pretend that Bush was not there. He stripped himself of his uniform one slow article at a time, in full view of his friend, and then, wearing only his drawers, he pulled his curtains and stepped into bed.

Bush remained immobile throughout this demonstration, afraid to disrupt whatever decision Hornblower had clearly come to. This was a more difficult exercise than one might think, for the captain was clearly pained by the motions required to remove his frock coat and waistcoat, and Bush wanted nothing more than to help him. Bush found himself nye wincing in sympathy with each twinge of Hornblower's back, and his throat began constricting of its own volition. When Hornblower finally closed his curtains, settling on to his stomach in a pretense of slumber, Bush finally forced himself to move. He, like Hornblower before him, slowly removed his uniform, placing the folded pieces on the small dining table. Then he carefully lay down on the cot in the corner, which he had not even noticed until after Hornblower's inspection. That brought him the only smile of the evening; Doughty at least had wanted Bush to continue his sleeping arrangements, and that was small comfort.

Bush closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him.

oooooo

Bush was ordinarily a heavy sleeper. You had to be, on a ship, if you wanted to get any rest, for even if you had a wall separating you from the next man, it was a thin wall indeed. He was surprised therefore to awaken suddenly to a dark cabin. He had no way of knowing the time in the blackness around him, but he could tell by the scratchiness of his eyes, and by that very darkness, that he should still be asleep. Why the devil was he awake?

A soft cry echoed across the cabin.

Bush's head shot up. That had sounded like-

He heard a rustling, as of someone tossing over in their cot. Then a whimper. That settled it. Bush rolled on to his side and pushed himself sluggishly to his feet. The deck was hard under his bare feet, but it was a comforting texture in comparison to the empty air his arms groped in the darkness. He knocked his hip on the table and nearly tripped over a chair before he made it to the captain's curtain, even knowing his heading. Yet the pain in his hip was nothing to the pain in his chest at each further sound emitted from Hornblowers corner, so Bush thought nothing of it. When he reached that shielded bed he pulled the curtain back in an anxious rush, certain he would find the captain dying in his sleep.

Hornblower was not dying, but he was indeed in a state. He'd twisted himself in his blankets so that they resembled a knot more then coverings, and he had tossed onto his side, such that his back must be rubbing painfully against the wall. Bush's squinting eyes, now adjusted to the blackness that surrounded them, could just make out the glisten off the sweat coating Hornblower's exposed skin. His every inhalation and exhalation was cuttingly loud in the quiet night, and it seemed it was an effort for him to draw each breath. It took no great intuitive leap to guess that Hornblower was in the midst of a nightmare.

Bush was suddenly awkward. What did a person do in such a situation? If he were a parent, he would wake Hornblower, comfort him. If he were one of the young gentleman, he would go back to his bed and pretend he had heard nothing. If he were Doughty, he would-what would Doughty do?

Another cry escaped Hornblower's lips.

Like the sounds Hornblower had emitted when Doughty and Wallis had cleaned his wounds that first night off the Terre Haute, the weak mewl cut Bush to the core. His decision was made; he extended his arm tentatively and gently shook Hornblower's shoulder. Hornblower moaned, but did not wake. Nerving himself, Bush put more force behind his arm. He shook again. And again. Bush had to place his hands on both of Hornblower's shoulders and give him a violent tug to produce the response he desired, and then Hornblower started so swiftly from the hand that had woken him that he banged his back audibly against the wall.

Bush stood frozen in place, feeling completely out of his depth. The only sound in the room now was Hornblower's harsh breaths, and it was only as those rapid inhalations slowed into a regular rhythm that Bush could begin to contemplate action. He could not see the captain's face, for the weak starlight peaking through the now opened curtain did not reach the far wall. He could not determine, therefore, whether Hornblower was angry, or embarrassed, or in pain—could not determine even whether Hornblower was aware of him. Not a word was spoken in those dead minutes, and Bush would tie himself to the gratings before he broke the silence. No. He would say nothing.

And with this course of action laid in, another thought came to Bush. If Hornblower would object to Bush speaking, he would certainly object to any other interference. Bush was rather certain that he was the worst person in the world to handle this situation, and it was entirely likely any move he made would do more harm than good. That could only be the truth, for Bush was a simple officer, not a doctor. He gave up on his struggle; helping Hornblower in that moment was a task too momentous for Bush. Instead he did what he would never do in a real battle. He retreated.

He took a step away from the cot, and when he sensed movement from Hornblower in response, he turned fully away, so as to give the captain his privacy. He closed his eyes for a brief moment to calm his nerves, then padded softly across the cabin back to his own cot. He slipped under his blankets, shivering out of nervousness rather than cold.

From where he lay on his stiff bed, he could hear Hornblower shift back and forth in his own cot, no doubt attempting to fall back asleep. Bush did not think he would be successful; it was certain that Bush himself would get no further rest that night, and Bush was a much heavier sleeper than his friend.

So they both lay there, equally restless, equally silent, and equally pained.

oooooo

"Sir? Is there something-"

"Carry on."

Bush turned away and left the quarterdeck as fast as he could without giving insult. That was the fourth time that morning he had caught Hornblower staring at him. At first he had assumed the captain was angry for the night's interruption, and was simply unable to contain his glares when Bush had his back turned. But when Bush had surprised Hornblower by moving swiftly to reprimand a hand, Bush had caught the look full on. It wasn't anger in Hornblower's eyes, it was shame. Embarrassment. Even a touch of hurt. It took the second interrupted stare for Bush to understand that Hornblower was not embarrassed on Bush's behalf, but for his own person. That would have been obvious to anyone but Bush, perhaps, but Bush thought too much of Hornblower to appreciate that such a man could feel intimidated by his lieutenant. It wasn't until the third look that Bush became aware of a certain . . . expectation in the captain's air; as if he was waiting for the hanger's noose to pull taught—waiting for Bush to raise the subject of his nightmare in conversation and condemn him a coward.

At the fourth look Bush could remain silent no longer, but Hornblower clearly was not in a mood for speech. It was irksome in the extreme to be so obviously the source of the captain's discomfort and yet be so unable to do anything about it. Bush again retreated, climbing down to the main deck; perhaps distance would help.

The only thing that would really distract them all, however, was a battle.

"Deck there!"

That was Walters at the mast, his voice surprisingly loud for a kid his size. Bush waited expectantly for the report.

"Sail to windward!"

It was as if fate had read Bush's mind! Bush ran back to the ladder and climbed to the quarterdeck as fast as any trained sailor. He was at the captain's side almost before Hornblower could respond, so that the captain's bellow, pitched to carry, reverberated through his ear.

"What do you make of her, Mr. Walters?"

"She's a sloop, sir! S'only got a half mizzen!"

Bush couldn't contain his excitement, "Shall I run up and confirm, sir?" Cheeseman was pairing Walters at the mast, and God knew whether that gentlemanwould ever be able to distinguish a waterhoy from a 3rd rate!

Hornblower either had greater faith in the boy, or was not in a mood to ease Bush's curiosity. He ignored his first lieutenant's request and shouted back up, "Mr. Cheeseman, your report?"

It seemed to Bush that there was an audible sigh of exasperation from the crew at this order, and then Cheeseman's unimpressive voice echoed down to the deck.

"Walters is right, sir! It looks like a sloop! Three masts, but nothing above ta'gallants!"

Bush rolled his eyes, uncaring that he might be observed. Cheeseman was saying nothing that Walters hadn't already told them when he called the approaching ship a sloop with a short mizzen. Yet Hornblower was nodding, as if this was valuable information!

The captain spoke evenly to the assembled officers. "Mr. Prowse. I'll thank you to take note of our time and position. Mr. Cargill, set us a course a point north of east."

Bush had to stop himself from frowning. Hornblower had divulged nothing of his orders, but it seemed clear to Bush at this set of course that they were rendezvousing with another squadron—perhaps the same squadron as yesterday. If it was truly just a sloop, then why not have the Hotspur take it on alone? They were quite well equipped for such an action. It was galling in the extreme to have to turn tail and let others do the fighting. Bush forced himself to swallow his resentment. Looking to Hornblower for permission, he began bellowing orders to the men. There was some grumbling as the hands came to the same realization as Bush had, but they knew better than to disobey the lieutenant.

Hornblower went below as soon as the yards were swung round, and he stayed there until the middle of the afternoon watch, when another sail came in sight. It was a different squadron, Bush saw when they drew near. No doubt he would have been able to infer that it would be from their course that morning if his trigonometry were better. It was no surprise, however, that Hornblower had known their exact position, even without consulting a chart; the man was a walking abacus.

Flags ran up the Hotspur's halyard in quick succession at the captain's order, and Bush looked on with poorly disguised irritation as the small collection of ships before him unfurled their sails and made for the Hotspur's wake.

So this was to be their duty. Playing unrewarded scout to the greedy captains of prize hungry ships of the line. Was this their punishment for the disaster of Hornblower's kidnapping?

It never occurred to Bush that Cornwallis might give them this task thinking they would join the squadrons, and that it was Hornblower himself who was scorning the rewards.

oooooo

Bush's irritation dogged him through the evening and to his cot. It was enough to distract him from his trepidation of approaching the captain's cabin. It was enough, even, to see him through Hornblower's inspection—indeed, it was all he could do not to glare balefully back. This vague irritation even lingered in his sleep. Perhaps it was this residual anger that gave him courage, or perhaps it was merely fatigue. In any case, it was certain that when he was roused unexpectedly from his sleep for the second night in a row, he did not do as he had done previously. He rose, certainly—he approached Hornblower's bed with the same clumsiness, to be sure. But when it came to rousing the captain, he did not hesitate.

He grabbed Hornblower's near shoulder and gave it a heady shake, and when Hornblower flinched violently awake, Bush's hand held it's grip, so that Hornblower could not hurt himself as he moved away.

"Sir." He said sternly to the now still figure.

"Sir. It's Bush. You're on the Hotspur."

Hornblower remained still for a long moment beneath Bush's hand. Then he sat up slowly and turned, so that Bush could see his face. That was another distinction from the previous night—there must have been clouds the day before, because now bright moonlight shown across the cabin to reflect off of Hornblower's sweaty skin. And that light showed Bush what he wished he'd been able to discern before: Hornblower was terrified. His entire expression was frozen in a rictus of panicked horror, and there was a tremor running through his limbs.

Bush, his heart thudding painfully in his chest, acted on instinct. He angled his hip so that he could sit on the edge of the cot, and with both hands he reached out and pulled Hornblower into a tight hug. His arms pulled against the captain's back irregardless of injuries, and his neck rested over Hornblower's shoulder. His mother had done this for him when he was a child—held him close when he woke from a bad nightmare, telling him everything would be alright. He could only hope that his embrace would offer Hornblower the same comfort that his mother's had.

Hornblower struggled for a moment in Bush's hold, as if convinced Bush meant him harm, but then he went still. Bush murmured soft reassurances, meaningless words neither of them would ever recall, but words soothing in their pitch and cadence. Minutes passed. More. Hornblower had surely come to himself, for he was neither asleep, nor struggling, yet he made no move to separate himself from his lieutenant; offered no angry recriminations. It seemed for the first time that he was content with Bush's intercession, and Bush could not contain the flutter of pleasure that this acceptance evoked in him. He smiled, unseen by Hornblower.

Then, emboldened to a further decision, he loosed his arms from around the captain, and then removed them completely. Gripping the wooden edge of the cot, he swung his legs fully up and onto the lumpy bedding. Hornblower had issued a muted sound of protest at the initial withdrawal, but in a matter of seconds Bush had returned his hands to their former position, now with their bodies pressing even closer and more fully together.

For a brief moment they silently enjoyed this renewed proximity, but Hornblower inevitably recognized the mistake of Bush's realignment before Bush himself was aware of it. Laying on their sides, face to face, meant they could not rest their faces over each other's shoulders, and it required more space than the small cot could provide. Their embrace was therefore rather uncomfortable—too uncomfortable to make sleep possible.

Yet it required little of Hornblower's intellectual resources to resolve a solution. He rolled over so that his back was to Bush, thus allowing their bodies to align one curled against the other. This was far better, all around, for it meant Hornblower's tender back was cushioned against Bush's chest, and it meant they could continue this no doubt inappropriate contact without looking into one another's faces, which would likely spoil the fragile mood entirely. Bush sighed audibly in contentment. Perhaps Hornblower was not the only man in need of comfort aboard the Hotspur, just the one least sure of how to obtain it. Bush fell asleep almost immediately, and though he did not know it, Hornblower quickly followed