*Bitter End*

WARNING: This is not a cheerful story. I mean that. Don’t look for happy endings. (Actually I like it better than the canon end, but that probably means I’m weird). Also if you came out of ‘Retribution’ with your respect for Edward Pellew intact, this may not be the story for you. I found his actions (or lack of them) very hard to understand, and it was therefore necessary for me to come up with some sort of explanation here. Consider yourselves warned.

* * *

*Avise le fin* [Regard the end]

– Motto of Clan Kennedy

~~#~~

Prologue:

“Take what I offer. Just take it, and say goodbye.”

His mind was dazed, tongue leaden heavy. He could not lie, nor could he tell the truth. “Archie...” he had to speak, yet what was safe to say? Somewhere he found some words, both true and reassuring. “I am honoured to have served with you.”

It seemed to do, there was a brief light in the fading eyes. Not many breaths left, surely. Go now, Archie. Go, while you can do so with some semblance of peace.

A final flicker of effort, “And I to have known you,” a choke of tears in the voice. In all they had survived together he had never once seen Archie weep. “You see? Better already.…” And then the light went out and the shallow breathing ceased forever.

After a little he reached out and closed the lifeless eyes.

Fate, so often cruel to Archie, had been kind at the very end.

~~#~~

** Some Days Earlier**

“We will find someone to take away the smell.”

Commodore Pellew was silent for quite a time before saying carefully, “Surely that is not necessary, Charles. Sawyer died bravely, in action, what need to delve too deeply into the previous circumstances? Indeed I feel we would be better advised not to do so. The more we probe the greater the likelihood of undesirable statements being made in court. The proceedings of a court-martial cannot be hushed up. Moreover, public knowledge of a mutiny aboard ship in itself often attaches mud to the captain’s name. Look at Bligh, his reputation was permanently besmirched by the Bounty.”

“There is far more at stake here than one man’s reputation,” Hammond replied. “A captain was forcibly relieved of command, on deck, before his men. Not just any captain, but one of the Navy’s greatest names. To allow such an act to go unpunished would undermine the entire fabric of the service. No captain would be safe on his own quarter-deck. Adherence to the chain of command must be enforced, it is the bed-rock on which the entire Navy rests. For the maintenance of proper discipline we must make an example of at least one of these men.”

“In other words,” Collins said, “It is necessary to hang someone pour discourager les autres.” There seemed to be some idle mockery behind the words, but Hammond took them in all seriousness.

“Quite so. If the mutineers at Spithead had been properly punished we could have avoided the outbreak at the Nore. The worst of the Bounty scum got away with their crime, and what came of it? Radicals make a hero of that wretched Christian. That cannot happen again.”

“You take much upon yourself, Captain,” Pellew said, intending the words as reminder of who was senior here.

“I speak the facts,” Hammond replied, undisturbed. “Do you doubt that the Admiralty will see things the same way? The First Lord’s views upon this subject are well enough known. Or do you think this a good time to cross St. Vincent, Commodore?”

Pellew had no answer to that. There could indeed be no doubt of the views of Admiral Lord St. Vincent. St. Vincent, the severity of whose discipline had been legendary when he commanded the Mediterranean fleet. St. Vincent, who had once had an application of court-martial for cruel treatment of his men made against him by one of his own subordinates, and, although not tried, had received a reprimand which altered his opinions and conduct not a jot. St. Vincent, who, appealed to to spare the life of a man because of his previous good character, had replied that it was greatly in the Navy’s interests to show that good characters would be hanged as well as bad.

St. Vincent, who never forgave a step out of line, the slightest deviation from the hierarchy – unless it happened to be committed by one of the favoured few, like Nelson or Trowbridge. He would not forgive Pellew for any action that could be interpreted as lax discipline. And, as Hammond had subtly reminded him, this was not at all a good time for Commodore Pellew to cross the First Lord of the Admiralty. He was almost at the top of the list of post-captains, his promotion to rear-admiral would fall due within the next eighteen months, perhaps less, and his fate then would be very much in St. Vincent’s hands. There was no obligation on the First Lord to give him an admiral’s command. He could be set ashore on rear-admiral’s half-pay. He might even be forced onto the list of superannuated captains, a rare action in these times but St. Vincent in vindictive mood might well be capable of it. Even if he did not go that far, to be put onto the ‘yellow list’ would almost certainly spell the end of Pellew’s career.

“If the captain was incapacitated by an accident.…” he ventured.

“The ship’s doctor considers he was fit.”

“You have spoken to Dr Clive?”

“Certainly. Surely there can be no objection – especially in light of your own conversation with one of the accused lieutenants.” Again Pellew had no reply. “In any event there is a principle at stake here. A captain’s authority is sacrosanct. It must be so.”

Fanatics. St. Vincent, Hammond, all these men who saw no distinction between initiative and indiscipline. All these men who expected officers to show no thought or mind of their own in dealing with superiors, but to be daring and resolute against the enemy. Did they not see that the same tendencies which could get a man a name for insubordination were likely to make that same man an excellent captain? True mutiny must be suppressed of course, but Pellew could think of no man less likely to undermine a captain’s authority with any willingness than Horatio Hornblower. Courage, insight, initiative, these should be praised not punished. The direction they had had to take in this case was regrettable, but no fault of Hornblower’s. Did they want a service staffed with Bucklands?

Yet what could he do? What could he say? It would be no benefit to the Navy to sacrifice his own career.

~~#~~

“A bad business,” Collins said later. Hammond had left the room, apparently satisfied that the court martial would take the path that he desired. “But he’s quite right about Old Jervie. No need to put his back up, eh?”

“I am sure we all have the good of the service at heart,” Pellew said stiffly.

“If you ask me what Black Charlie’s got at heart is the consequence of Captain Hammond. He’d love to run this show. Not that he’s not welcome to it. Mind, if he thinks St. Vincent will like him any the better he’s wrong, but Black Charlie needs St. Vincent less than the rest of us when all’s said and done. He’s not a wise man to make an enemy of himself – eh Commodore? Least of all if the stories about His Majesty’s health are true.”

Collins was indolent, but not a fool. As a young officer Hammond had formed a friendship with King George’s son, the Duke of Clarence, who was then doing a stint of naval service, and through him had made the acquaintance of the Prince of Wales. Acquaintance had ripened, aided by Hammond’s willingness to play cards for high stakes, and he was now well known to be a crony of the man who would be King one day – and perhaps Regent very soon if the rumours did indeed prove true. Only St. Vincent’s well-known dislike for royal favourites had kept him in a comparatively humble situation (hence his resentment of Pellew’s promotion to commodore), but First Lord’s did not remain in office forever. And once the Prince gained his father’s power, even St. Vincent would have to bow before the wind.

No, decidedly Pellew did not want to make an enemy of Hammond. And the prospect of angering both Hammond and St. Vincent was not to be contemplated.

What a time for this to happen. Two years ago he could have hoped to live this down – or see a different First Lord in office by the time his promotion fell due. Two years hence he would be ensconced as an admiral. No man, not the First Lord, not even the King, found it easy to remove a man from a position in which he was established, not without a better reason than mere difference of opinion. But to deny a man a fresh position, that was another matter. What filthy luck that the absence of the station admiral had left him as senior officer on the scene. But he had a duty to think of his future.

But what of Hornblower’s future?

Surely there was no serious danger? Even Hammond could not truly be contemplating the execution of loyal and talented officers. Collins’ remark about hanging had been a jest, no more. There had been no real mutiny; a trial would establish that. Yes, perhaps an example was needed, but not an execution. Hammond must have some lesser punishment in mind. A severe reprimand would cover the case.

And why should even that punishment fall on Hornblower? He was only the third of four lieutenants. Hammond would surely see the merit of not tarnishing the career of so promising an officer. Buckland would be the best choice, the senior lieutenant and no great asset to the service. Yes, Buckland.

No, in spite of his own earlier words to the young officer there could be no serious danger to Hornblower. He’d not really thought so at the time, but a fright would do the young man no harm. Hornblower had been unwisely outspoken in that interview, not that it mattered with no-one else to hear, but a quick lesson in discretion would be all to the good. There was no real danger.

Of course not.

~~#~~

“No laudanum,” Kennedy insisted.

Clive’s mouth thinned. “I cannot permit that.”

“Do you mean to force it on me? That would hardly improve my state.”

The eyes of doctor and patient locked. Bush could almost hear the clash of wills. It was Clive who gave way, no doubt reflecting that the use of force on a man with a serious chest wound would indeed be damaging.

“Very well, but I must insist on your remaining still. If you should worsen your wound by thrashing in pain then I will use force upon you.”

Point won, Kennedy did not reply. Bush wondered if it really mattered. True, Clive had not said anything definite about Kennedy’s wound but his very silence spoke volumes. Recovery was, at best, unlikely. Bush had seen many men die in the course of his career, but he had never before lain next to a man as he died by inches. He had caught himself selfishly wishing to be out of here before the end. Then again, Kennedy might yet be the most fortunate of the lieutenants.

They had spoken little, these days of lying side-by-side. Kennedy was hardly in a condition to talk much and Bush was cravenly glad of it. There was nothing he wanted to say. Now, however, curiosity got the better of him.

“What do you hope to gain by refusing laudanum?” He did not think himself a coward, but he had gladly taken the opiates Clive offered.

“A clear mind,” Kennedy replied. Would he gain that? Did he have it now? Though not delirious he was most certainly fevered. “Mr Bush. When Clive returns from the court, will you get from him an account of how proceedings went? My strength is limited.”

“Of course,” Bush replied. Natural that Kennedy should wish to know how things were going. And yet.… A clear mind, he’d said. Bush could have wished his own mind less clear. Was it fancy to think there was something behind the words he had not understood?

Six months as shipmates, and he still had not the slightest idea how Kennedy’s mind worked. Without doubt quite differently from any other naval officer he had known. Even Hornblower, who was conventional enough in some ways, although unique – and incalculable – in others. A strange pair. Very different, and yet Bush had never found the words ‘two sides of the same coin’ so appropriate before.

How had it come to this? How had he, William Bush, who had followed the book for every step of his career, ended by facing a charge of mutiny, and very possible death penalty? How?

Because he had boarded a ship whose captain was insane.… And now there was nothing he could do, but wait and submit.

~~#~~

“By Lt Hornblower,” Clive said, with barely concealed satisfaction.

Pellew could not keep from looking at the young man, but Hornblower’s eyes were down. Pellew himself swallowed hard, he had not supposed Clive would be a helpful witness, but neither had he imagined the man would go so far as to perjure himself outright – for perjury was what his claims of duress amounted to. Was he driven by loyalty to Sawyer or loathing for Hornblower? Did it matter?

“Let me understand you, doctor,” Hammond said smoothly, “You were forced to declare the captain unfit, under duress?”

“I was.”

“And Lt Hornblower was responsible for that?” Hammond had planned this line of questioning, Pellew realised. Hammond had no intention of asking for details which might undermine the picture he was creating.

“He was.”

“In your professional opinion, doctor, was Captain Sawyer fit for command?”

This time there was a slight pause, it seemed even Clive was a little troubled by the enormity of what he was about to claim. Yet his decision was reached quite swiftly. “Yes. He was entirely fit.”

“And Lt Hornblower used duress to remove the command from him?”

Clive steepled his fingers together. “Yes.”

Still Pellew sat rigid, mesmerised. He had not expected this. Thoughts chased one another through his mind. Cross-examine Clive, insist he describe exactly what had happened? Call other witnesses to prove him a liar? Cite that note in the Renown’s log, the one that testified to the doctor’s drunkenness?

Hammond would pounce on any one of these. He could not prevent Pellew from leading the court-martial as he saw fit, but he could extract a heavy penalty later. Do any of these things and he would most likely ruin himself and – he grasped the thought as though it were a floating spar – would not his ruin mean Hornblower’s ruin, whatever the outcome of the trial? The young man had no one else to sponsor him. Drawing his breath in, Pellew looked down at the bowed dark head. Not to intervene now would be better in the long run. Hammond could not intend a hanging, he’d settled that in his own mind already. Perhaps expulsion from the service, but that could be rectified. Pellew would see it was, as soon as he got a chance. It was best to do nothing, indeed it was.

“No further questions, doctor,” said Hammond.

Horatio Hornblower stared at the floor and knew he had heard his death sentence.

~~#~~

“Under duress,” Bush repeated flatly.

“Indeed so,” Clive did not meet his eyes.

“Did they ask if he was fit?”

“I told them that he was,” the doctor was busying himself with something at the edge of Bush’s sight, the words were thrown across his shoulder.

“Doctor,” Kennedy’s voice very nearly made Bush start, “did Commodore Pellew take any part in your questioning?”

“He did not,” Clive answered, “Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Afterwards Bush would remember the words as the only time he heard Kennedy’s voice sound completely lifeless.

“There must still be much to come,” he said after Clive had left the cell, and was not sure whether the words were intended to convince Kennedy or himself.

“But we know what line they’re taking.” Kennedy shifted a little, carefully, one hand hovering over the bandaged wound.

“Are you in pain?” Bush asked with concern

“No more than usual. I just wish.… Have you ever had maggot treatment, Mr. Bush?”

“No,” Bush said uncomfortably, “but I’ve seen it a number of times. The maggots eat the dead flesh and prevent the rot from spreading.”

“I know that. I just don’t like it. Makes me feel like a corpse.” The matter-of-factness in the words took Bush’s breath. There was a silence then Kennedy said quietly, “Do you have family, Mr Bush?”

“Two sisters,” Bush said. He hesitated, then said, “They have no-one else to support them.”

“Your situation is not so bad,” said Kennedy, in what Bush recognised as an attempt at reassurance. “You were not on deck when the captain was relieved of command.”

“Neither were you.”

“That’s true,” Kennedy said, but his voice held an odd note. Bush could think of no more to say and so fell silent. Kennedy probably needed to rest in any case.

William Bush had never feared death greatly. Death was merely an end, what was there to fear in that? But he did fear to hang, feared the shame of it, the struggle on the rope. Would it in truth come to that, for any of them? The normal form of execution for an officer was shooting.

But then it was not normal to hold a court-martial in which the accused had no right of defence, and it was already plain that that would be the case here. Only by denying any defence could the tribunal be sure of suppressing Sawyer’s true state, and from what Clive had said they must be confident of that. Bush shivered, in England such illegality would never go unchallenged, but they were not in England now and they were helpless.

He feared to hang, and he feared still more leaving his sisters to destitution. If he had died in action they could hope for some informal, if not formal, provision, but not if he were to die a convicted mutineer.

And there was nothing he could do.

~~#~~

Commodore Pellew paced his cabin. Last night he had talked himself hoarse, speaking of Hornblower’s accomplishments, his value to the service, still hoping to direct the tribunal to another target. Or at the least get reassurance of a lenient sentence.

Hammond had remained blandly unimpressed. Hammond had commented that it was not a man’s past record which was on trial here, only his recent deeds. Hammond had smoothly implied the commodore was blinded by prejudice. As for Collins, it was clear that he would suit his course to the prevailing wind.

There must be a way to divert the tribunal without ruining himself! He was beginning to fear that Hammond might demand a prison sentence. Pacing, his mind turned again to Buckland. He’d been remarkably foolish yesterday, allowing himself to be so shaken by Clive’s testimony he’d not thought to argue that, as senior officer present, Buckland should be held responsible for any action taken by his junior. That mistake might yet be corrected: Clive could be recalled. But first, to convince his fellows that Buckland was the more suitable scapegoat, a rank incompetent the service would be better off without. That should not be too hard. Should it?

~~#~~

Hornblower could not understand what the commodore was doing. Of course Buckland had been incompetent at the fort, but what possible bearing did that have on the charge of mutiny? Unless he was aiming to drive a wedge between the lieutenants? He himself had known from the beginning that their best chance was to stick together, but he must stop supposing Pellew had any wish to help. His disappointment, and suspicion, had been so very clear in their last interview.

Too late for him, anyway. But not too late for others. Archie, Bush, even Buckland himself, whatever the man’s faults he had been, at most, an exceedingly reluctant mutineer. They still had a chance. With a great effort of concentration, he tried to follow what was being said. Hammond was accusing him of insubordination at the fort. Was that true? Perhaps. He wished this could be over, and then shivered, knowing what must follow. Again he forced himself to listen. There might still be a chance for him to help the others, and that task must not be shirked.

~~#~~

Bush strained his ears, trying to catch what was passing between the two junior lieutenants.

“…until tomorrow.”

“…ask you… the captain…?”

“Are you… that question now?”

Some short, but steady, answer he could not hear at all.

“…I shall… when the time comes.… no reason to speculate”

Not much to be made of that. And all their fates on a knife-edge, Clive’s account had made that much clear. All their fates, but Hornblower’s most of all.

Was he supposing too much, or was the third lieutenant’s tone and expression resolute, as if he had reached some decision. The expression he’d seen in action, not the look that had plagued Hornblower on Renown whenever the question of the captain’s fall – and their own future chances – was at hand. Perhaps he was just attempting to believe that remarkable young man had reached some solution that would save them all.

Something was different, however. Always before Hornblower had come over to speak to Bush during his infirmary visits. Not this time. He left without even seeming to remember Bush was there. He must be… preoccupied, Bush thought, and tried not to feel isolated.

“He’s going to give them what they want,” Kennedy said, out of nowhere.

“What?”

“He’s going to say he pushed Sawyer and let them hang him.”

“He told you that?” Bush exclaimed, disbelieving.

“Of course not. But I know him. I know what he’s planning. He thinks if they can take him easily they’ll let the rest of us go free.”

Bush stared, wanting to exclaim that it couldn’t be true, people just didn’t act that way. To lay down life, unresisting, because to fight might draw down danger upon others… nobody did things like that. But then he remembered Hornblower’s voice and knew that it was true.

Those two didn’t live in the same world as ordinary people. They didn’t tread the same ground.

Then another thought occurred, and he said blankly, “You didn’t try and stop him.”

“Nothing I could have said would have made any difference. When Horatio’s mind is made up there’s no changing it.”

“So you are just… accepting?” He didn’t know why he was even asking, it wasn’t as if there was anything to be done, but somehow just to accept that didn’t seem like Kennedy at all.

“No,” Kennedy said. “Mr Bush, do you wish to help him?”

“How?” Bush asked desperately.

“There’s a small bag in that locker,” Kennedy pointed. “Will you get it for me?”

It was painful, but Bush managed to do it without too much of an effort. The bag was heavy, and he heard the chink of coins. Matthews had brought some articles from Renown for Kennedy, when they were first transferred here. This must have been one of them.

“Put it on the bed. Thank you. Now will you call the sergeant of the guard?” Bush wondered why on earth he was doing this, but he did it. Perhaps because Kennedy seemed so calm and certain, unable even to sit up, yet fully in control of himself and strangely confident.

His injuries were insisting he return to his bed, he did not hear most of what passed between the marine sergeant and Kennedy. The man seemed doubtful at first, Bush distinctly caught “We’ll get in trouble,” and later, “I don’t know,” but at last it seemed an accord had been reached, money chinked again. Then the marine had gone and they were alone in the cell.

“What was all that about?”

Kennedy’s voice was a weary whisper in the fading light, “I was making sure Mr. Hornblower will be late arriving at the court tomorrow. That man and his fellows will see to it. As a … precaution.”

“What good will that do?” He should let Kennedy rest really, but he had to know.

“There’s only one way of stopping Horatio once his mind is made up to something,” Kennedy said calmly. “And that’s to do it first.”

It took Bush some little time to absorb what that meant.

“Man, you cannot!” he whispered, in shock. “You’ll hang.”

“I doubt it,” in the last of the light he saw one hand come up again, towards the dreadful wound.

“But… your good name.…” and why something he had already faced in Hornblower should be so much harder to accept as he spoke to the man intending it he did not know, but so it was.

“Is not worth more than his life,” Kennedy said softly. “Will you make sure I’m awake in time in the morning, Mr Bush?”

“Yes, of course,” and there was nothing more that he could find to say.

A hole in his gut and Kennedy had found the intelligence and strength to plan this. To arrange it all as though he were planning battle tactics. But with his own disgraced death as the end.

A race to sacrifice between the two of them, and when in his life had he imagined anything like that? And the pain of it choked in his throat, but there was nothing he could do.

He had been clinging to hope, he realised. Hope that they could pull off another miracle, escape from the net once more. That the wondrous luck he had tasted on Renown would hold good in Kingston. But it wasn’t going to happen. And whoever died here, none would entirely go free of this place. Not ever again.

“It may not be enough.” He did not realise he had spoken until he heard the words hang in the air.

“I know,” a thread of a whisper, only just enough to be heard. “Still, I must try.”

And then there was only silence.

~~#~~

He could not sleep.

Edward Pellew tried to rest, but his thoughts scurried relentlessly, refusing to let up, refusing to allow his mind to sink into oblivion.

He had been blind. Wilfully, self-deceivingly, blind. He had convinced himself that Hammond did not intend a death upon no grounds whatever, only his own wishful thinking, only his own desire to believe that he could preserve young Hornblower’s life without damaging his own career.

He had faced the truth now, had known it in the moment when Hammond had insisted on questioning Hornblower about Sawyer’s fall. He had known then that nothing short of an execution would satisfy the man. He knew now what he faced but…

… no, surely not too late!

If Hornblower would deny it, swear that the fall had been accidental.… Then Hammond would be baulked of one means of securing his prey. But what would follow? Would he agree to call a halt?

No. He would not. His assumed willingness to do so, if only the little matter of the fall could be cleared up, was without doubt a sham. He expected to get what he wanted by pursuing the matter of the fall, but if that did not work – there were other ways. And Hammond would be the last man not to recognise them.

(Clive. Clive and his damned and damning story.)

Collins, though. Perhaps Collins could be convinced, and Hammond induced to bow to the will of the majority.

And what would that spell for Pellew’s future?

The hell with it! How could his career outweigh Hornblower’s life? He would do whatever he could to save him.

That should have been a liberating choice – but how much could he do? If only he had seen Hammond’s true colours earlier, whilst there was time to argue, time to block him, time to expose the truth, time, time.…

Time was running out.

What if Collins would not support him? Then the only hope would be to discredit Clive. Could he still do that? Yes, perhaps, but not alone. He would need one man’s co-operation at least, and that man was Hornblower himself.

And why did that make him uneasy? No sane man would choose to hang. Of course not. But still, all would depend on Hornblower’s answer to the one vital question.

Surely, surely, he would choose to live. To take the chance for life. Even if he were guilty.…

In the dark Pellew faced another truth. He believed young Hornblower had pushed the captain. And believed it not because of anything Hornblower had said or done (for Pellew was quite experienced enough to know that consciousness of suspicion could produce every appearance of guilt), but because he knew…

… he knew that that was what the young Edward Pellew would have done.

He could not think it a wrong act. But Hornblower was so young still, who knew what, he might think? For the first time Pellew wished he had handled their last meeting differently.

He would do whatever lay in his power to save the boy.

He would not believe it was too late.

But still – he could not sleep.

~~#~~

He could not sleep.

Horatio Hornblower had not even attempted to lie down. He knew far too well that any attempt at rest would be useless. How could there be any hope of sleep when tomorrow would be his damnation.…

He could not see what he could have done to change this. He knew he must have taken a wrong course somehow, or he would not be facing this, yet there was nothing he could point to in his memory and say that here or here was the thing he should have changed.

If they had done nothing, Sawyer would have destroyed the ship and all aboard, and if they must do something, what else could they have done that would have made things end with any difference? He could think of nothing, but he knew there must have been something for if there had not been something… he would not be facing this end now.

The tribunal believed that someone must die, and so he must believe that what they had done was worthy of death, at least for one. He could not think that three naval captains, including his own old mentor, would demand such a price without justification. The tribunal must believe that the lieutenants could have acted differently and still preserved the ship and men. Though he could not see the way, there must have been one.

But he could not see it. He did not know how he had failed, only that he had.

He was glad his father had not lived to see this. Then it occurred to him that if there was any reunion in the afterlife, then Dr Hornblower would be the first to criticise his son. He had just enough clarity of thought left to know that the reflection had been morbid, but nothing could shake the knowledge that he had proved right every criticism his father had ever made, every disparaging word or look of disappointment. Dr Hornblower had always held his son to be a born failure, and how right he had been proved.

He would not even try to sleep. As when a child he had made himself be wakeful before a disagreeable event, spinning out the hours that would have fled past in unconscious slumber, now he stayed awake, attempting to postpone the evil hour. The time tomorrow when he must stand up in court and brand himself a mutineer. The assailant of a defenceless madman and – which for some irrational reason seemed to make the whole thing worse – a remarkably inept and unsuccessful assailant into the bargain.

Tomorrow was the day when he must damn himself, and give up for ever all honour in the Navy’s eyes, all hope of ever holding respect or recognition.

He hoped that Archie had not guessed. Archie would have to know tomorrow, but the longer realisation took the easier for him. He hoped that it would not set his recovery back too badly. Despite Clive’s long face he refused to contemplate the possibility that Archie would not recover. It was a bad wound, true, but a young man of strong will and constitution would surely survive. He must. And surely too Archie would understand the thing that he would do tomorrow.

For he must do it. There were no choices left.

The tribunal wanted a death, so much he had accepted with painful clarity. If they could not find it by one means, then they would seek another. It looked, at present, as though one death would be enough, but if they could not secure just one, then more would serve.

So he could not get up there and swear he had not pushed the captain. To do that would be to doom the others. The questions would be inevitable. How did he fall? Who was there? Why was he there? Why were you there?

Inevitable – and deadly. To all of them. For, with the tribunal set on proving Sawyer was fit, a whiff of the truth would be fatal. That hold meeting in itself was enough to put ropes round all their necks.

He was a dead man anyway, Clive’s testimony had seen to that. So there was really no point in fighting. All he could do was save the others.

He felt sick with fear.

The hostile eyes that he would face tomorrow. The disgust, as he said what he must say. He could not even bring himself to contemplate Pellew’s reaction. The thought of how he would be despised by the man whose approval he had longed for second only to the approval of his own father was something he could not even try to face, least the mere thought of it should break him. And he must stay whole, at least until he had said his piece.

The thought of hanging, of the dreadful, choking struggle on the rope.… Or might he have hope for a firing squad? A little better, but not much. The thought of standing, helpless, as the bullets tore into his body.…

Oh, God, how could he ever face it? How could he keep his courage, and die with some semblance of dignity, coward at soul that he knew himself to be?

And there in truth, lay the deepest of his horrors. Worse even than the thought of the courtroom was the conviction that he would disgrace himself. That all pretence would desert him when the marines came, or when they put the cloth about his eyes, and he would collapse in his limbs, howl like a child and brand himself that thing despised more even than a mutineer, a coward.

In the darkness, he dropped his head in his hands and gave way to agony.

~~#~~

He could not sleep.

Archie Kennedy lay staring into the darkness with unseeing eyes. He wanted to scream, to beat his fists against the mattress, to vent his helpless rage that it should end like this. He wanted to weep: he who had not shed tears since his first weeks on the Justinian. But he could not spare the strength, so he made himself lie still.

There was no doubt in his mind that he would be able to carry through the desperate plan. He had learned long since how to gauge his own strength, and to husband what there was for when it was needed most. He could control pain. The strength that was left to him would be enough. Just. Whether the plan would be enough to save Horatio… but he did not dwell on that. He would do his utmost, and there was no more that he could do.

It did not surprise him that he would die young. But that it should end like this… all the years of struggle, all for this. A felon’s grave.

Why should he care? What did it matter what that sink of corruption that formed the Navy’s higher ranks believed of him?

It mattered because he had spent his strength in their service, because he had fought so long and hard to be worthy in their eyes. And if they were capable of perpetrating this – then it was all as ashes. He had spent all he had: for an institution that deserved no service, no loyalty and no sacrifice. What a filthy waste of his brief life.

A waste? How could he think it a waste, if he should be able, at the last, to save Horatio’s life?

Because Horatio had given far more than he could ever do to that same service. Because Horatio had made the service his life, a life that same service was prepared to ruthlessly end to save itself some trouble. Not just a waste of one life, but of two, and a waste that would be no less no matter how long Horatio lived. All that service gone to dust, a sacrifice on an alter of corruption. And if he could preserve a future for Horatio, there was no redemption in that. Only salvage from a rotting wreck. The best he could do. The only thing he could do.

Sacrifice: the only resort of the powerless and insignificant. After all they had done, to be reduced to this. It was not the fact that mattered, but those who had done the reducing. This was the measure of their efforts. This was the worth of those past years.

He hated to die a victim, but he had tried to stand against the things he loathed, and resistance had been broken as casually as the snapping of a twig. What a fool he’d been to imagine there was any other chance! He hated to die this way, and above all he hated to die making a sacrifice for Horatio, because Horatio deserved so much better than that.

He knew far too well what the burden of this must be to Horatio, if he survived, for he knew Horatio too well. Of all the terrible things that was the worst. The thought of the pain Horatio would suffer.

Horatio, who took everything so hard, who blamed himself on the smallest of reasons and tortured his soul unceasingly.… What would this do to him? He could remember how Horatio had suffered under Clayton’s death, could remember even though he had not understood it then. He understood now, and here was a sacrifice being enforced, not by a lone brute, but by a tribunal with all the authority of the Navy they both served, headed by the man they had both admired to the point of worship. That last would have been a hard betrayal if he had any pain to spare, for he, who trusted so seldom, had trusted Pellew. Yet it would be worse for Horatio, who had known and loved their captain as a man, where he had seen only an ideal to follow, and that shattered belief mattered little to him beside the thought of Horatio’s agony. The thought of pain worse than any even Horatio, who writhed at things another man would see as trivial, had ever known. And it was he himself who must deal the deepest blow, for he knew that to Horatio the hardest thing to bear was guilt and he would surely blame himself. But what choice was there? None at all.

It came down to simple mathematics, in the end. His life was most likely lost in any event, and it was better to lose one life than two. Yes, quite simple really. Horatio would do the same. But that would make it no easier for him to accept.

Ultimately it made no difference that it was Horatio’s life in question. The brutal mathematics was the thing which made this choice inevitable. He would have done the same thing for Bush, or for Wellard if he’d lived, or for any decent man. He wasn’t selfless enough to do it for Buckland – although by God, Horatio most probably would be!

No, from one view, it did not matter that it was Horatio, but from the other it was Horatio, and he would suffer so much more than any other would. The friendship which had been so dear now was turned to the source of sharpest anguish. The brightest thing in his life had become the root of the worst thing in his death. It would have been hard enough to face death from battle knowing what his loss would mean to Horatio – but such a death as this.… An ordinary battle death would have been a clean thing, a wound which would heal with time. This, this was likely to rot and fester.

He had heard that sacrifice could be glorious, and perhaps it could when you died for a cause, a thing that was unloving and uncaring. Anyone who believed it glorious to die for a friend had thought nothing of the burden such a sacrifice would mean. There was no glory here, just anger and bitterness that this should ever have been needed, and pure stark agony for the wound he had to give.

No choice. He could not do nothing and let Horatio hang.

He wished he could stop being so afraid. He had always feared death, even when he sought it, and he could not banish that dread now. Try as he might to block it, still fear haunted, a child’s fear of the unknown, but nonetheless powerful for it. And he could find no comfort to serve as bulwark against the gathering dark. Nothing to sustain him save the grim determination that it must be done. Because it was all there was to do. Because one from two made one.

What a dark end to their bright friendship.

….Horatio, I’m so sorry, so sorry to do this to you. I’d sell my soul to find another way to save you, but there isn’t one. I can’t do nothing and let you hang, anymore than you could let Hunter be put in the oubliette. I don’t have a choice. I’m sorry, Horatio….

~~#~~

He must have slept after all, for he awoke from a confused dream in which an old man, who he somehow knew to be Admiral Hornblower, was trying Clayton and Wellard and he was trying desperately to speak in their defence, but the old man could not or would not hear his voice. He awoke, and knew it to be the last time he would ever dream. For it was morning.

~~#~~

“I will not permit it,” Clive said flatly.

“It is not within your right to stop me.”

“It is my duty as a surgeon to prevent such insanity. You will stay in that bed if I have to tie you to it.”

“Do you not want the truth about the captain’s injury to be told to the court?”

It was impossible for silence to truly thicken in the prison room, but Bush felt as though it did.

“I do not understand you,” Clive said slowly.

“I am telling you I pushed him. I am telling you I wish to testify to that effect. Does he not deserve that the truth should be heard? Spoken in court for all to hear?”

“You pushed him?” Clive whispered.

“I pushed him.” A pause. Kennedy’s voice had been level throughout. “We both know I’m a dead man, doctor. Does a short time either way matter so much?”

Bush watched, as the physician in Clive warred with old commitment to Sawyer. The battle was a brief one.

“I will come with you,” he said flatly.

Bush pulled himself to a sitting position, and watched every moment of the time that followed, not because he wished to, but because the other man deserved that much. The business of dressing must have pained Kennedy badly, but he made no sound. And when all was done Clive had to take his arms, yet once on his feet, he stood, not entirely steadily, but he stood, with his face white and sheened, and yet his mouth set hard. Bush could not have believed the stricken body capable of such an effort, but he saw it now.

He should say something, but he could think of nothing to say except ‘Is it true?’ and he couldn’t possibly say that. It was Kennedy who spoke, his eyes meeting those of the older officer with what Bush always remembered as the most utterly direct look that he had ever seen.

“On with the show,” he said, and that was all.

~~#~~

Pellew drew in his breath, deeply shaken, but at the same time relieved. Here was a workable solution. A good solution, indeed. Kennedy would most likely have died in any case, and with good fortune he would not live to be executed. Yes, a fine solution.

“Well, gentleman,” he said, “I think we may agree that there is no need to prolong this matter any further.”

“No?” Hammond said. “Perhaps I have not been attending, Commodore, but it seems to me that not all the questions raised have been resolved.”

“We know now how the captain came to fall,” Pellew averred, though in truth he had not believed Kennedy’s confession for more than a minute.

“How he fell, yes, but there is still the matter of his having been forcibly relieved of command on deck. From what we have heard the fourth lieutenant was in no way responsible for that.”

“He was ill!” Pellew exclaimed. “Injured from the assault.”

“That was not the view of the ship’s doctor,” Hammond said silkily. “And you accepted his testimony, Commodore.”

Pellew had to collect his thoughts. “If you believe it is necessary to make an issue of the matter,” he said, “then the first lieutenant is the man to hold responsible. He was the next most senior officer present on the deck.”

“But Dr Clive did not believe he was the man to blame.”

“Dr Clive is a surgeon,” Pellew said. “He is not familiar with the finer points of command. Moreover, gentleman, we can surely agree that Lt Buckland would be no great loss to the service. Whereas the loss of Lt Hornblower would be incalculable. There can be no doubt which of these men can be more easily spared.”

“It was my understanding,” said Hammond, “that the business of this tribunal was to determine guilt. Not expendability.

Pellew gasped at the sheer bare-facedness of the claim, but could think of no retort.

“In any event,” Hammond went on, “Hornblower seems to me the kind of troublemaker the service ought to spare. We have established that he ignored the chain of command in pursuit of his own glory at the fort, and further inspired two other lieutenants to defy their acting captain’s orders, and risk leaving the ship with a severe shortage of commissioned officers. Condone such actions and the whole discipline of the service will be lost.”

“Punish initiative,” Pellew growled, “and we might as well surrender.”

“Well, I believe this matter can be easily dealt with,” Hammond declared with an assumption of reasonableness that left Pellew sickened. “We should at least have Lt Hornblower’s own testimony on the subject of the captain’s having been relieved of command. Now the matter has been raised, in court, we cannot simply ignore it. The lieutenant’s account must at the least be heard. Do you not agree, Captain Collins?”

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” Collins replied. “We should hear what the man has to say for himself. Without his testimony the matter cannot be considered closed.”

~~#~~

He wanted it to be over. Whatever the verdict, all he wanted was for it to be over. So he could get to the infirmary. Nothing else mattered. Only that he should get there, although he had no idea what he could say or do when he did.

The captains were returning; the court rose. Horatio Hornblower heard his own name called.

And did not know what to do. When they asked him about the fall, he could not know what he should say. How could he accept such a sacrifice as that?

How could he refuse it? There was no unsaying the words that had been said. Denial would be futile; to insist on his own guilt would most likely kill them both. He could not tell where the right course lay. He could not think for the stultifying pain, pain that was not of the body at all.

From a great distance he heard the opening words. Heard, but did not understand. Why were they not asking about the fall?

“I, I beg your pardon, sir?”

“It’s a simple enough question,” Hammond told him. “You heard Dr Clive’s testimony, did you not?”

“Y-yes. Sir.”

“You heard him testify that you used duress to cause the captain to be relieved of command?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you dispute that testimony?”

It was clear then, not shockingly clear, but simply plain. Plain and simple. They wanted his death still, and he… what could he say? Deny and it would be his word against Clive’s. What then? More witnesses? No doubt at all what tale Buckland would tell.

This was a fight he could not win, he could only prolong the agony and why bother? Suddenly it all seemed very unimportant. Only one thing mattered, and that was that he should reach the infirmary in time to… in time. After that, let them do as they would with him. He felt nothing at the prospect.

It was almost a relief.

“Lieutenant!” Hammond spoke sharply.

Edward Pellew saw the young man look up, his face suddenly clear and free from doubt. “No, sir,” he said, in a tone that sounded … confident? “I do not dispute the testimony of Dr Clive.”

Pellew made a muffled sound of protest without even knowing as he saw the future set irrevocably.

“Captain Sawyer,” he had to gather himself and begin again, “Lieutenant, do you consider Captain Sawyer was unfit?”

A pause, whilst Hornblower considered the question. “I would not presume to dispute the testimony of the ship’s doctor.”

“You are saying he was fit?” Pellew worried the question desperately.

“I am saying I do not dispute the opinion of Dr Clive.” An almost weary tone this time, in it Pellew glimpsed a numbness of soul against which he was powerless.

“Who was responsible? Was not the first lieutenant present?”

He saw Hornblower glance at Buckland; an odd look, almost kindly.

“Lt Buckland was suffering from a head wound. I do not believe that he was properly conscious of what was passing. And,” he went on, “the second and fourth lieutenants were below decks.” The young man’s head went up, not proudly but with no sign of shame. “I take full responsibility.”

“You are aware of the implications of such an admission,” the exaltation was audible in Hammond’s voice.

“I am aware that the court will judge my actions – ” the slightest of pauses “mutiny.”

It was over.

~~#~~

Pellew argued. He argued himself hoarse. He knew it was hopeless, and he knew why. Kennedy’s testimony. It was not possible to fight for a man who did not care to fight for himself. A day or two, a few hours even, and Hornblower might have recovered enough to fight for his own life. But he had not been given that time.

“You must pronounce the verdicts,” it was Collins who insisted, “you are senior.”

Senior, aye, and what use had he made of the seniority. He had let Hammond run things as he would, had abdicated control until it could not be regained, until the course of events was set past changing.

As a young boy Edward Pellew had once met the legendary Admiral Hon. John Forbes, who had resigned a most important Admiralty post rather than sign the death warrant of Admiral Byng, the hapless victim of a government scapegoat hunt. Not the most brilliant man of his day, Forbes had been admired for his integrity more and more as the years passed by. He had been made Admiral-of-the-Fleet in the end, even though his ill health meant that he would never sail again.

Pellew did not recall that now. He led the return to the courtroom.

~~#~~

It had taken so long for them to settle their decision. Still he cared only for it to be over. Surely, surely they would grant the privilege of one last visit.

They were returned. He rose and forced himself to heed the verdicts. He knew what the last two must be, but Bush was a good man, he should pay heed for his sake.

The judgement on Buckland was pronounced first, and he was aware of the man’s desperate tension. He could not bring himself to look at the bench, but the pronouncing tone was iron.

Buckland was acquitted of mutiny, but convicted of negligence both for his handling of matters at the fort and for not questioning his junior’s actions over the captain’s removal from command. Penalty: dismissal from the service.

He felt Buckland stagger, and automatically put out a hand to steady the man. He felt nothing for Buckland now, only a flicker of curiosity over whether the stagger had been shock or relief.

Then came the verdict on Bush. Censure, again, for not questioning Sawyer’s removal. Severe reprimand. Well, that was better than what might have been. He still couldn’t feel anything.

He heard every word of the final verdicts and marvelled at his own indifference.

~~#~~

The dark called and though fear had not gone it seemed so much easier just to surrender now, when defeat could not be long postponed. The dark called, and there was so little strength remaining to summon. But he could not go yet. He could not go, because Horatio would want to come and even now there were words that could still be spoken, words which might help a little, and when there was nothing else remaining even that little should be done. No words could heal the wound that he had dealt, but he could help Horatio to see the need, and if that was all he could do then he must attempt it, however slight the use. When he had done that, then he would know he had done all he could with the scant means that he had. And that would be some comfort, however cold.

~~#~~

Bush heard the tramp of feet and knew from their number that the time had come. He had dressed, in shirt and breeches and shoes, determined to face the verdict on his feet at least. He had tried not to think or to feel, had tried to cut off his mind and make his heart numb, for it was the only means of endurance he could find.

He knew by sight the man who approached the bars, flanked by marines and resplendent in gold braid, very much the figure of authority delivering judgement. Captain Collins. The commodore must have delegated this task, which was a little strange, but so many things here were mad that he had long stopped dwelling on them.

Kennedy had been lying limp and still ever since Clive had stripped away his uniform and changed his bandages once again. Only the faint rasp of breathing told Bush there was a flicker of life remaining. He thought that Kennedy must be far beyond knowing what passed around him, yet as the metal bars were pulled back to allow the men inside he saw Kennedy turn his head, and saw the eyes open and, with an effort, focus. There could be no doubt of the verdict, but it seemed he wished to face it.

Bush knew it would be the sentence on himself which was passed first, and there was fear present, fear because no matter how hard he told himself the tribunal could not wish to hang them all he could not feel quite certain. He stood to receive the sentence, but did not look at Collins’s face, fixing his attention instead on a point above the man’s left ear, an old trick when facing trouble from a superior, a matter now of habit not conscious thought.

Reprimand. Severe reprimand. Relief washed through him, and he felt almost ashamed. Yet what shame was there in being glad that he would live, that his sisters would not be destitute? It was not as though there was anything else he could have done.

He remained standing to attention to hear the rest, deliberately blanking his mind to keep from raging at the stark injustice of it all. Collins delivered the death verdict without a pause, but his voice did drop a little as he spoke the final formality. “Have you anything to say as to why sentence should not be carried out?”

A faint rasp of voice, only just audible. “I believe I have received my sentence already… from a court which allows no appeal.”

Bush did look at Collins then, and saw the look of discomfort which he could not block. Without another word the captain wheeled and left. Some of the marines remained and Bush realised, with a jolt, that they were here to escort him from the cell. He was a free man. Free to live.

One of Kennedy’s hands moved, just extending in appeal. “Mr Bush….” Although he had never considered his own perceptions quick Bush caught the meaning here. He turned to the nearest marine, and spoke quietly.

“Do you know the other verdicts?” The man did.

Bush turned back to Kennedy, the urgency in the slightly raised head telling him the dying man had not overheard. It was for Bush to tell him.

William Bush had seen death many times. He could see its approach now, in Kennedy’s grey face and clouding eyes. Kennedy could not have much time left. Bush made his decision swiftly. He crossed to the bed and crouched down, setting his teeth against the pain in his healing stomach muscles.

“It worked,” he said hoarsely. “You saved him. He’s safe.”

“Thank you.” It was a mere breath of an answer. Bush closed his eyes and prayed the lie would hold for the short time left to Kennedy.

He had to add a little more, not for Kennedy but for himself. He took one of the slack hands in his own and said fumblingly, “Mr Kennedy. It has been a privilege.”

He felt his own hand gripped, with more strength than he had expected. There was no more to add and no more to do. His part, such as it had been, was ended. He could only take his leave.

He left the cell without looking back.

~~#~~

It was almost evening before they finally escorted him to the cell, and he could not decide whether to be relieved or sorry when he saw Archie’s eyes meet his, heavy-lidded, but still clear and conscious. He wanted badly to talk together just one more time, but it would surely have been so much easier for Archie if he could have slipped away in unconsciousness straight after his testimony.

It could not be much longer, he soon saw, and this time his relief was whole-hearted. A matter of minutes most likely. Indeed he had the sense of Archie letting go deliberately, before his eyes, even as they spoke their final words together.

“Poor Horatio. So quick to give to others, so reluctant to accept the simplest gift.” His mind found something odd in that, but he could not at first think why. “You’ve done the same for me and others besides a thousand times.”

“But never at such dear cost,” The words came from his mouth mechanically, with little thinking behind them. His thought was busy, working as swiftly as lingering shock would allow, striving to understand the words. Was it possible…?

“Take what I offer. Just take it, and say goodbye.”

He knew for certain then, and thankfulness flooded like a tide through his dazed soul. Archie didn’t know. By whatever quirk of chance or kindly lie he did not know the verdicts. He believed his last sacrifice had succeeded in its aim. Archie did not know.

Through the haze of gladness he knew that he had to reply. “Archie...” He could not lie outright at such a time, from somewhere came the words he needed. “I am honoured to have served with you.”

It was enough, and as the last of Archie’s life slipped away before him he felt pure thankfulness. After so much pain in his short life Archie had at the last been given the chance to die with peace. Fate had been kind.

~~#~~

When it was over he spent a long time just sitting. He could find no point in moving, no point in calling the guards to take him back. He would sooner spend his last hours here than alone in the small cell.

After some time, when the light outside had gone and only the glow of torches in the space outside came through the bars to light the cell; after he had grown cramped from long sitting, the germ of an idea came to him, the thought of one last service. He had seen the crumpled, discarded uniform where it must have been hastily placed out of the way, and now he rose, stiffly, and took the clothing before he turned back to the bed and began to dress the body.

It was not so difficult as he had feared. The task was very awkward and took a long time, no-one seemed to know why dead men were both heavier and harder to handle than those who were merely unconscious. But it was not painful. The numbness still held possession of his soul as he went about the task methodically, going through motions at once familiar as waking and completely strange, all without thought or feeling, pulling on shirt and stockings and breeches all creased and rumpled, but that could not be helped. The waistcoat followed and then the tricky business of fastening the neckcloth. He could not manage to get it quite straight or neat and finally gave up. Archie had usually been a little dishevelled, so perhaps it was not inappropriate. Shirt and waistcoat were both dark stained with blood, but once he had got the coat on and fastened that could not be seen, and the flickering light showed a lieutenant in full dress uniform with no hint of what lay beneath. He hesitated over the shoes, but finally put those on also and folded the cooling hands neatly on the breast. It was only at the very last, when he combed the fair hair with his fingers and retied the queue that he felt his self-possession waver and had to close his eyes, breathing steadily until the unnatural calm was back in place.

Only a very few people knew what the gaining of that lieutenant’s commission had meant to Archie Kennedy or how hard earned it had been. And though the Navy had disowned him, cast him out, yet it seemed right that Archie should wear that uniform one last time.

With the task completed there was nothing left to do in all the world, so he sat down again, on the other bed this time, and concentrated on not thinking very much, in case the numbness should shatter after all.

He knew that if the dam were to break than the outpouring of pain would be horrific. He did not know if any thing of any worth in himself could ever have survived an event so hideous. There was almost a kind of gladness in him that he would not have to find out. If he was fortunate he would die before the dam burst. At the least this was a burden he would be spared from bearing long.

The flickering torchlight caught upon the gold of naval buttons, the glitter of the uniform they both had once been so proud to wear. Archie, his mind whispered, had not deserved this. He had not deserved to die caged and disgraced and if Archie had not deserved it then, perhaps….

…. perhaps he had not either. If he believed that Archie should not have been driven to such an end, then could he condemn himself? And if he did not, then who did he condemn? Sawyer? It had hardly been his fault. Or the tribunal that had wrought this?

It was too hard a puzzle for his final night alive and he abandoned it, not wanting answers. Yet there remained behind the thought that perhaps he did not need to be ashamed.

He saw the first grey of light some time before the tramp of feet outside told him that the long waiting was ended. He rose to face his end as the marines came in, and was distantly surprised to see Commodore Pellew come in before them.

He saw Pellew’s eyes move to the bed, then back to Hornblower where he stood in silence.

“Has he gone?”

“Yes, he has gone.” There was a sudden shocking moment of triumph, which ebbed as quickly as it had come. But Archie had slipped their prison, he would not die in public for men’s entertainment and some satisfaction lingered. “He died quite peacefully. He died not knowing the verdicts, believing that he had succeeded.” There seemed little point in saying this to Pellew, but he would not get the chance now to say it to any other.

“Mr Hornblower.” Looking directly at Pellew he realised, with faint surprise, two things. The first was that his former captain was really quite a small man, not the towering figure he had always seemed. The second was that he looked old. He seemed to be having difficulty in speaking also. “I did not wish that things should come to this.”

“It would not have been my own choice either.” The words emerged with a tang that sounded more like the voice of Archie than his own. Suddenly he felt again the feeling he had known in court, when he realised what testimony he should give. It was strange and unaccustomed, but he felt that he was free.

It no longer mattered what Pellew thought. It did not matter what anybody thought or what they would think in future. “What’s done is done,” he said, having no wish to prolong this.

Yet still Pellew made no move towards the door. “Is there anything that you would ask of me?”

That was a surprise, and he gave the matter careful consideration. “Do what you can for Archie.” He meant burial. A sea funeral would be impossible, but Pellew might prevent any mistreatment of the corpse.

A tight nod was the reply. Was there anything else? Oh, yes.

“Styles and Matthews,” he said. “They are good men. I don’t wanted them tainted by this, they don’t deserve it.”

“I will – “ Pellew paused, and had to clear his throat. “I will do what I can.”

“Bush too, his career shouldn’t suffer for this. It wasn’t his fault.”

“Very well. Mr Bush too.”

Was there anything more? He did not think so. He felt calm, and it occurred to him then that Archie had given him a gift after all. He felt certain now the calm would hold. There was some fear present, deep inside, not of death but of dying, yet if Archie could drag himself to that courtroom through who knew what layers of pain, then surely he could face the business of leaving life without making a disgrace of himself. He was confident of that now. He would not panic.

“Will you give me a moment?”

For the last time he walked back to Archie, crouched down, and took one cooling hand within his own.

Thank you, my friend….

If death was not the end, then Archie would wait this short while. And if it was, then there would be no more pain. No, he had no fear of what might lie beyond.

I won’t be very long….

He turned back to the bars and the old man who stood before them.

“I am ready.”

~~#~~

*Hale: Man, you will hang! You cannot!*

*Proctor: I can. And there’s your first marvel, that I can.*

Arthur Miller, ‘The Crucible’

~finis~

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