Captain's Dinner with a Ghost
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Shaken to the core, the commander's legendarily unflappable constitution floundered with utter incomprehension at the apparition directly in front of his eyes. His world tilted dangerously and threatened to swallow him whole. He involuntarily gasped his surprise, dry mouth soundlessly forming his dear friend's name. The man opposite him shot Hornblower a warning look, imploring him to stay his tongue. Through the thick fog of encroaching dizziness, Horatio heard himself stammer a barely intelligible, "S-sir–"
"Are you quite alright, Sir?" a concerned voice next to him queried, puzzled by their passenger's seemingly absurd reaction. A steadying hand of painful familiarity settled on his elbow, infusing him with sorely-needed fortitude.
He briefly closed his eyes against the wave of queasiness, which had nothing to do with his occasional bouts of mal de mer. "Ahem. Quite alright, Sir. Thank you for your concern." With iron resolve, Horatio wrestled control over his emotions back into place though his soulful eyes still reflected the raging storm inside.
When the silence between the three men began to edge towards uncomfortable, the captain broke out his signature smile that years ago had never failed to be a healing balm but now only served to intensify Hornblower's deep-rooted ache.
"Mr Hornblower," he began, "I imagine your responsibilities have not allowed you much rest of late. However, I anticipate some respite shall refresh you enough to do me the honour of joining me for dinner later today, Sir."
"You are too kind, Captain," Horatio replied as soon as he trusted his voice again. "The honour would be entirely mine."
"Excellent," McKinley replied cheerfully and motioned for an ancient-looking sailor nearby to approach. "Mr Daryl will show you to your cabin, Mr Hornblower. And should you find yourself wanting for anything at all, please don't hesitate to call upon my generosity."
"Much obliged, Sir," the commander answered with a dignified incline of this head, bidding the captain good-bye for the moment to follow the crooked-legged but sprightly sailor below decks.
The captain then addressed his second in command, "Mr O'Grady, weigh anchor and set sail for London, if you please."
"Aye aye, Sir," the master's mate saluted and went about his task.
Closing the door to the moderately-sized sleeping cabin behind him, Hornblower noted with some satisfaction that, befitting his station as a commander, the master's mate had obviously surrendered his personal cabin to accommodate their guest. With the outside world and all prying eyes shut out, Horatio finally let the ill-fitting façade of calm indifference slip and succumbed to his spinning head and racing heart, sagging exhaustedly against the reasonably comfortable bunk. He desperately needed to make sense of the events that had transpired on deck.
It couldn't be but apparently it was! He was certain of it, the captain of the Ray of Sunshine was none other than Archie Kennedy! The man who, at the expense of his own, had saved his life and career in Kingston, Jamaica just shy of three years ago. Yet, how was this possible?! Mortally wounded, Archie had breathed his last in front of Horatio's very eyes. In his confusion, immeasurable relief warred with seething anger at the perceived deception.
It was a conundrum that proved too much of a challenge even for his decidedly analytical mind. Hornblower shifted on the bunk to lean fully back and lie down, his over-active thoughts chasing an elusive explanation until, against all odds, lulled by the rhythmical lapping of the light harbour waves, weariness finally claimed him.
Not even realizing he had fallen asleep, Horatio woke with a start at the sound of three bells into the afternoon watch. The rolling movement of the hull spoke of considerably rougher seas, and the slight twinge in his stomach area verified his suspicion that the small cutter was significantly less forgiving of the whims of the tide than his own 20-gun sloop-of-war. Thankfully their short trip would only lead them along the coast-line and up the River Thames.
A little less gracefully than he would have liked, Hornblower hastily clambered from the cot. It was almost time to take dinner with the captain. Looking down in dismay at his rumpled clothes, a testament to his troubled dreams, he urgently needed to freshen up and right his uniform. In the corner he spotted a wash basin and jug of water, no doubt courtesy of the master's mate's foresight, and immediately set out to make himself presentable.
A good twenty minutes later saw Horatio critically inspecting the result of his endeavours and grudgingly coming to the conclusion that this was the best he could accomplish right now. At least he wasn't going to disgrace the uniform he wore with pride and honour.
The persistent queasiness, however, remained. He unsuccessfully debated whether it was more favourable to attribute this affliction to being susceptible to sea-sickness rather than to his frayed nerves. He also strongly suspected his troubled stomach was only going to get worse when he faced the captain once again. Maybe, Horatio pondered, dinner would finally provide an opportunity for some answers to his most burning questions.
Squaring his shoulders and tightly reining in his emotions, Hornblower made it to the captain's cabin with a few minutes to spare, just in time to be considered punctilious. Upon entering the decently decorated but not extravagant room, his faint hopes of a private conversation with his erstwhile best friend spectacularly fell to pieces when he spotted Mr O'Grady in animated conference with the captain.
"Mr Hornblower," Ray of Sunshine's commander greeted jovially, his strikingly blue eyes dancing. "Glad you could join us! I trust you are feeling much refreshed."
"Indeed, Captain– McKinley." With the barest hint of hesitation, Horatio just so managed not to stumble over the foreign name, which tasted like volcanic ash in his mouth.
To his utmost annoyance, the captain flashed him an infuriatingly mischievous smile and merrily recited what sounded suspiciously like Archie's beloved Bard. "What's in a name? A rose by any name would still smell sweet."
Thoroughly taking exception and for once not caring about proper etiquette, Hornblower was entirely unable to suppress shooting a withering glare in the man's direction.
"Come," McKinley addressed his guest solicitously, studiously ignoring the scalding look, "let us take a drink before dinner is served."
Dinner itself was a positively lavish affair as far as shipboard meals went; and yet, it did nothing to alleviate the churning lead weight in Horatio's roiling stomach. Observing tradition, it would have been a severe breach in protocol to exclude the master's mate from this dinner but his not entirely welcome presence put an additional strain to the already tension-filled atmosphere inside the room.
In a rare show of perceptiveness, Hornblower actually felt bad for O'Grady as it became more obvious by the minute that the man was well-aware of the awkwardness around the table and frosty temperatures, which had nothing to do with the weather outside. He and McKinley made valiant attempts at maintaining inconsequential conversation throughout the course of dinner but their guest's tight-lipped responses and souring mood effectively strangled every last bit of good humour.
By the time the sweet course was served, Horatio earnestly contemplated the soonest opportune moment to extricate himself from this damnable farce without causing unforgivable affront to the captain's hospitality. O'Grady, however, beat him to the retreat. The master's mate smoothly excused himself and exited the cabin with an unobtrusiveness which inadvertently reminded him of William Bush's best qualities. If the Irishman's claim of being up for the next watch did not quite ring true, tactfully none of them acknowledged that fact.
Finally alone with the man he had loved like a brother, Hornblower and McKinley stared unabashedly at each other like deer caught in the headlights. Expressive brown and blue eyes locked once more, one set reproachful, the other seeking forgiveness. Now that the time for a private tête-a-tête had arrived, words would not come. While each mutely pleaded with the other to break the ice, the resulting silence grew oppressive again.
Unwilling to hide the accusatory tone and feeling perfectly justified when nothing was forthcoming from the man seated opposite him, with tempestuous eyes and a voice like thunder, Horatio eventually whispered, "How can you be alive?!"