*Homeward Voyage*

 

 

Prologue

 

“Sir!”  Matthews burst into the Captain’s quarters on the Hotspur almost before his knock.  “There’s a ship coming in, sir!”

 

“And?”  Commander Hornblower asked tersely.  Ships came and went from Portsmouth every day, but Matthews’s manner gave him a sudden leap of hope.

 

“Looks like the Greyhound, sir.”

 

Hornblower managed to keep his pace dignified as he gained the deck and pulled out his eyeglass.  The ship labouring into the port was a two-masted brig-sloop, showing grim signs of damage from combat and perhaps from storm as well.  She was low enough in the water to suggest injury below decks, the maintopmast was missing and the rigging was in a bad state, although efforts had plainly been made at repairs.  He succeeded at last in getting the glass well enough focused to pick out the name.  Matthews was right.  Against all expectation, Greyhound had made harbour.

 

He swept the glass backwards, focusing on the after deck.  There was a man there, he was not wearing a coat but the lens could distinguish fair hair and the set of his broad shoulders.  Hornblower gave a slight gasp of relief.  He lowered the glass, but kept watching as Greyhound dropped anchor and men hurried about her decks.  As he had expected a boat was soon lowered, but there were none of the pipes that should accompany a captain going ashore.  Hornblower raised his glass again, and wondered why Greyhound’s lieutenant was carrying out the inevitable report to the port admiral.  None of the likely explanations were good.

 

It was well into the evening before the boat returned.  Hornblower had been attempting to remain on deck without watching the other ship too obviously.  He did hesitate for some time after catching sight of the return, but finally gave way, and ordered a boat lowered from Hotspur.   He wished there was some way to do this without the eyes of the crew being on him, his interest in Greyhound might be nothing to be ashamed of, but he would much have preferred to keep it inconspicuous.  When William Bush raised the subject, as they waited for the boat to be readied, Hornblower answered him a little more abruptly than was necessary and regretted it at once.  He had been short-tempered the last couple of days, he knew, and Bush had certainly guessed the reason.  However it was not a matter he was prepared to talk about, not even to William.

 

He could tell as he stepped on board that Greyhound’s crew had had to scramble to make a proper captain’s welcome.  They managed it, but Hornblower felt a little annoyed with himself for having inflicted this on men who were plainly exhausted.  Close to the ship looked even worse, the deck was badly scarred and several of the men on duty were carrying minor injuries, they must be desperately short-handed.  

 

“My apologies, sir.  Captain Talbot is not fit enough to receive visitors.”

 

Never had Hornblower felt more impatient with formality.  They both knew he hadn’t come to see Talbot, a man he had never met and knew nothing about.  “I understand, Lieutenant.  I was hoping to have some private speech with you.”

 

“We can speak in my quarters, if you have no objection.  Sir.”

 

“No.  That will be quite all right.”  Stilted words, reflecting nothing of the real thoughts that clamoured to be spoken.

 

Greyhound had no wardroom, only a cramped cabin, too low ceilinged to stand upright in, where the ship’s solitary lieutenant could sleep, eat and do his paperwork.  There was a small table, but no chairs, just a couple of lockers that could serve as seats, and the room smelled pervasively of damp.  Standard enough for an unrated ship.  Hornblower hardly gave his surroundings a glance.

 

“Archie, what the devil happened to this ship?”  He must have rehearsed a dozen different opening sentences but had forgotten them all.  Their last meeting had not ended amicably, but now he hardly remembered that either, although it had been much on his mind over the last couple of days.

 

Archie Kennedy gave a cracked, humourless laugh.  “It would be quicker to say what didn’t.”  Hornblower had already seen how battered Kennedy looked.  He had evidently made an effort at smartness for his trip ashore, but that only underlined his haggard appearance.  Deeply tanned he could not look pale, but his eyes were red-rimmed and deep-shadowed, his expression drawn in a way that made him appear much older. 

 

“I’m sorry, I should not have come.  There must be much you have to do.”

 

“Surprisingly little, actually.  There’s no point in getting to grips with the repairs until morning.  I think half the men would collapse if I tried.  If you want to hear the story, you can.”

 

Hornblower did want to hear, he wanted to know what this ship and its men had been through, but he felt a little squeamish about pressing the point.  “How is Captain Talbot?”  he asked, by way of temporising.  “Is he badly hurt?”

 

“He’s dying,” Kennedy said bluntly.  “A musket ball, thus.”  He traced a diagonal line across his chest. “A healthy man might well survive, he won’t.  He doesn’t want to.”

 

“Was he ill before the injury?  I didn’t know.”

 

“Consumption.”  Kennedy seemed to be using as few words as possible to save his energies.  “Dying by inches.  Keene all over again, except Talbot’s quite a bit younger.  I tell you, Horatio” – he seemed unaware that the first name had slipped out – “I never thought I’d feel as much sympathy for Eccleston as I have these past couple of years.”

 

“Archie – I’d no idea.”

 

“No reason why you should have – do you want a drink?  I could do with one if I’m going to tell the story.”

 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Hornblower said hastily.

 

“I think... I want to.”  At some point they had both dropped onto the hard lockers, Kennedy got up and produced a half-empty bottle and a couple of glasses from a small cupboard.  “I suppose you know we were ordered from Gibralter as part of Commodore Lytton’s squadron.…”

 

 

One

 

Having to flog Seaman Prothero for disobedience was not a good start to the voyage.

 

It was not that Lt Kennedy felt sorry for Prothero, one of those incomprehensible men who considered a flogging to be a badge of manhood.  The trouble was that he regarded regular floggings as the mark of an ill-run ship, and he had had to order floggings on Greyhound too often for his own liking.  On Indefatigable the lash had been used rarely and Indefatigable remained his ideal.  Floggings were linked in his mind with ill-run Justinian, where they had been regular, and Renown, where Sawyer had swung erratically between lax discipline and marked severity.  A good captain should be able to lead his men without beating them bloody on a regular basis.   But he was not the captain, he was only the lieutenant. 

 

Therein lay the root of the problem.  Men expected a captain to give them leadership, and when none was forthcoming discipline foundered.  A lieutenant could not impose the same authority; the men knew too well it was not his place to do that.  The lieutenant should follow the captain, but what could be done where the captain gave no lead?

 

Talbot was on deck for the punishment, he acknowledged that part of his duty at least.  The charge was formally made: Prothero had delayed in going aloft when ordered and had answered insolently when the order was repeated.  What he had actually said – although that was not repeated – was that it was there was no point in doing work for a ship that never did any work for itself but spent all its time avoiding being of use.  On being ordered again to be silent and get aloft, he’d added that when he saw those who ran the ship doing a decent day’s work he’d do the same.  It simply was not possible to ignore an act like that and hope to preserve any shred of shipboard discipline.  To repeat his remarks to the whole ship’s company was equally impossible.

 

Strictly speaking the lieutenant had no power to order floggings, but Talbot could at least be relied on to back up any reasonable measures.  In his hoarse and reedy voice he went through the customary procedure of asking if the man had anything to say.  Prothero tipped his head back insolently. 

 

“Only that I stand by every word I said before, and there’s not a man here doesn’t know the truth.  Even you.”

 

Kennedy looked sharply at Talbot to see if he would let that pass.  It seemed he would.  Without a change of expression he announced the sentence of two dozen lashes, a dozen for disobedience and another dozen for insubordination.  Prothero tried to look as if he thought it mild, which by some standards it was.  Admiral Duckworth had once hanged a man for not much more.  Kennedy knew better than to suppose the man would reform, at best the punishment might hold others in check.  What made the whole thing triply annoying was that Prothero was not at all a bad seaman, when he was not being a below decks lawyer.

 

The flogging ended, Prothero bearing it with grim courage that should have been directed to a better cause.  Talbot turned at once to leave the deck.  “You have the ship, Lieutenant, I do not wish to be disturbed.”

 

“Aye, aye, sir.”  There was nothing else to say.

 

          ~~#~~

 

Gunnery practice did something to restore Kennedy’s humour.  It was good to be working with cannon again, his skills had grown sadly rusty on Renown.  Typical of Sawyer’s perversity to have him stationed on the quarter-deck when the ship beat to quarters and Lt Hornblower in charge of one of the main-deck banks of guns.  Not that Horatio wasn’t a perfectly good gunnery officer, but his natural home was on the quarter-deck, he was wasted anywhere else. 

 

Greyhound carried fourteen 9-pounders, smaller guns than he had been used to but that was unimportant.  He’d made himself an artillery expert on the old Indefatigable, spent long hours on it, and, if he was honest, come to find those wicked death-dealers fascinating.  Sometimes he felt he understood them as though they were living beings.  He’d got the men well practised too.  Greyhound was small, but that was no reason why her gunnery should not be as good as any in the fleet.  Of course the chances of actually doing anything useful with it were almost nonexistent.  He understood caution was necessary with a ship of this size, but Talbot took it to lengths that were ludicrous, or at least best thought of in terms of humour.  He wished there was someone on board he could have made a joke of it with, Horatio’s reaction was all too easy to imagine, and the thought caused a private smile. 

 

He ordered a couple of guns fired off, it was quite normal to simply drill without wasting powder, but he had always believed some firing practice to be needed and this would have to last the rest of the voyage.  They were off the coast of neutral Portugal at present, once they began sailing close to hostile coasts firing guns would be riskier.  The result was satisfying even to his high standards.  “Nice work,” he told O’Conner, the master gunner, pitching his voice so it could be widely heard.  “Let’s hope the rest of the squadron are being put on their mettle”.  Actually, although the other ships could hardly miss the gunnery practice, it was likely all they had noticed, but a suggestion of rivalry should encourage the men.

 

Not at all a bad ship, the Greyhound.  Small and old, she’d probably have been broken up by now if the war had not been renewed.  But she handled well.  Something good could be made of the little brig, under the right circumstances.  Despite everything he felt a momentary lift of pride.

 

A sharp tone cut across the deck.  Over on the far side Midshipman Culshaw was berating one of the gun-captains.  Rather more than berating in fact, he’d got a cable end from somewhere and was striking with it.  Not the first time that boy had caused trouble, Kennedy crossed the deck in a few strides.

 

“What is going on here, Mr. Culshaw?”  He hoped the tone would cut-off the midshipman’s tirade, and was gratified to find it did. 

 

“He nearly knocked me down!”  The young voice was high pitched with fury.

 

Kennedy looked at the gun-captain, a sturdy veteran, bitter-faced, less with pain than with anger at having to submit to assault by a mere boy.  “Is that true, Towers?”

 

“I didn’t know as Mr Culshaw was behind me when I stepped back, sir.”

 

“I don’t believe you.  Striking a superior officer is against the articles!”  Culshaw’s voice vibrated with youthful arrogance.

 

Kennedy suppressed the urge to bang Culshaw’s head against the gun.  “Did anybody else see this?”

 

“Aye, sir.”  One of the other men spoke up.  “Looked like an accident to me.  Towers stepped back quick like, an’ Mr Culshaw were right behind him.”  There were mummers of agreement from the rest of the gun-crew.

 

“Mr Culshaw, an accidental collision does not amount to striking an officer.”  He could not forbear from adding in biting tones, “Please remember that.  Towers, I accept it was an accident, but I believe you owe Mr Culshaw an apology all the same.”  What Culshaw was owed was a swift lesson in basic humanity, or failing that reasonable common sense, but it was not possible to admit that in front of the men. 

 

Towers made the apology, although in a grudging tone Kennedy could not bring himself to reprimand.  He ordered Culshaw to follow him and took the young man into his own quarters, where there was a reasonable chance of not being overheard.

 

“Mr Culshaw, the accusation you made against Towers was completely unfounded.  Do you realise that you could have caused a good man to be court-martialled and executed?  Striking a superior officer is a hanging offence.  I choose to believe you did not consider this, but it must not happen again.  Do I make myself clear?”

 

Culshaw stared back stormily. He was a good-looking young man of eighteen, possessed of thick dark hair, grey eyes and classically regular features.  He also had an permanent air of callow superiority.

 

“Do you know who my father is?”

 

“Is your father employed on this ship, Mr Culshaw?”

 

The midshipman glared with indignation.  “No.”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“No. Sir.”

 

“Then his identity is no concern of mine.  You are deprived of your rum ration for the next two weeks, Mr. Culshaw.  You may go.”  He waited barely long enough for the young man to get clear of his quarters before returning to the deck, but word of the incident had plainly spread and he could sense a slightly sullen mood among the men. 

 

Actually he did know from Culshaw’s papers who his father was.  A knight or baronet with property somewhere in Sussex.  Undoubtedly not nearly as important as Culshaw wished to think, or his son would be employed on a more prestigious ship than Greyhound.  Culshaw presumably did not know his own father was a lord.  Or perhaps he did, and was expecting some kind of aristocratic solidarity.  If so he had the wrong man.

 

Few things had irritated him so much during his career as that tag of ‘lord’s son’. Spoken usually with a sneer, concealed or open, occasionally with a hint of sycophancy.  Always with the assumption that his father’s rank brought him undeserved privileges.  Which was not true, a near-bankrupt Scots peer without a parliamentary seat carried little weight in the service.  If patronage was what he wanted – and it was not – he would have done far better to have an Admiralty civil servant in the family.  He’d have happily concealed his background, but with that faintly ridiculous ‘the Honourable’ title before his name on all official documents it was hardly possible. The title stood out, for naval officers were drawn mostly from the lesser gentry and the merchant and professional classes; young aristocrats only joined the navy if their family had either a naval tradition or not enough money to buy an army commission.  ‘Lord’s son’.  Simpson had seemed to take a particular delight in tormenting him on that account, and he could still remember the terror he had felt that his French captors might find it out and guillotine him as an aristo.  Apart from the odd time when it had come in handy for impressing innkeepers, he couldn’t remember his family background buying him a single benefit during his years of naval service.

 

With the men returned to normal duties, he cast a wistful look up at the fighting top.  Unfortunately if the ship’s First – and only – Lieutenant decided to go and sit up there for a bit the men would think he was losing his wits.  A shame, for it would certainly calm his temper.  On Justinian, when things were bad, he’d sometimes committed a minor infraction in order to get sent to the fighting top as punishment, and he’d even spent quite a few off duty hours there on Indefatigable.  Things seemed less important there, further away and much easier to live with.  On the Indy he’d fallen into the habit of calculating gun trajectories for his own amusement and had reached the surprising conclusion it could be done much better from up there.  A shame it would be quite impractical in most battles. Not that he could imagine it becoming standard battle procedure in any event.  The likely reaction of most captains, or even gunnery lieutenants, to any suggestion they should station themselves in the fighting top was amusing enough to lighten his mood.  He tried imagining some of the captains he’d encountered up there and decided he should do that more often, the absurd picture had dispelled most of his remaining anger. 

 

 

Two

 

The next couple of days contained only two incidents that mattered.  The first began when the ship’s doctor, whose name was Fenwick, sought Kennedy out on deck, something that had never happened before.  As far as he’d been able to make out nothing, up to and including an outbreak of plague on board, was likely to rupture Fenwick’s air of permanent indifference.  He had tried, not because he found anything to like in the man, but because his nature was sociable and the ship’s doctor was the only person on board he could treat as even approximately equal. 

 

“Look at this,” Fenwick said without preamble.  ‘This’ was a roll of the lint issued to naval doctors to be used as bandages.  The doctor began to unroll it, whilst Kennedy looked on in puzzlement, until a point somewhat short of half the length was reached and the lint suddenly vanished.  The middle of the roll was taken up by old rag.  No need to ask what had happened.  Someone in the dockyard stores at Gibralter had taken out the centre of the roll to sell.

 

“Are they all like that?”  He could hear his voice vibrating with rage, but there was no point directing it at Fenwick.

 

“All the ones I’ve looked at from the latest shipment of supplies.  Without that clumsy fool who gashed himself on a boathook, I still wouldn’t know.”  Fenwick was as furious as he was, Kennedy realised.  It was the first emotion he’d ever seen the doctor show. 

 

“My apologies, Doctor.”  Anger found some outlet in sarcasm.  “I was foolish enough not to guess that the men even of so notorious an institution as a Royal Navy Dockyard might be so bent on chasing a dishonest penny that they would deprive wounded men of bandages.  Be assured I will check next time.”  And he’d thought he’d learned the hard way every trick there was.  During this last restocking at Gibralter he’d managed to catch cables being supplied forty feet short, old, ragged sails being passed off as new ones, and powder that had been mixed with earth.  Making sure that everything was checked before the ship sailed was exhausting, getting replacements soul-destroying.  No use in expecting anyone to be punished, the practised dockyard clerks always had an excuse or at least a means of shifting the blame.  Fantasising about turning a 9-pounder on the lot of them was about his only source of relief under such far too familiar circumstances.  But he’d missed the bandages.  Hell.

 

“I will check next time,” Fenwick said grimly.  “In the meantime what do we do for bandages in the event of an action?”

 

“Hope the enemy are rotten shots?”  That was probably a mistake, Fenwick most likely had never heard of a sense of humour.  “Take all spare shirts from the ship’s stores – better than nothing.  Sheets too, if there are any spares on board.”  He wondered, as he often had before, whether someone more senior had wrestled with these problems on his previous ships, or whether the reputations of captains like Pellew and Sawyer had sufficed to put the fear of God into the thieving clerks.  Best not to think about the state of affairs on Justinian.

 

“Better than nothing,” Fenwick agreed dourly and took his leave, leaving Kennedy to wonder if he’d just imagined a brief moment of rapport between them.  Dear heaven he was tired.  Tired of doing most of the work that should have fallen to Talbot as well as his own, tired of fighting a losing battle to maintain morale aboard, tired of having no-one to talk to.  He had never dealt well with solitude, and for all there were a hundred odd souls aboard this ship he was alone. 

 

He missed Horatio.

 

Sometimes he still found himself thinking of things, amusing little incidents mostly, he should tell Horatio later.  It would have been some help if he could write, and knowing it was his own fault they were not on corresponding terms did nothing to help.  Why hadn’t he had the sense to keep his mouth shut?  He knew Horatio’s almost morbid sensitivity, this was all so unnecessary.  Just a few careless words to blast a friendship.

 

          *“I’m sorry you can’t sail with me, Archie.”

   

          “Don’t worry, Horatio, I wouldn’t have wanted to be your First in any case.”*

 

Stupid, stupid.  Horatio had been first uncomprehending then hurt and angry.  He had tried to explain, but probably hadn’t been very clear about it, being still flat on his back had done nothing to help.  Yet there were some things that Horatio, with all his intelligence, just couldn’t understand, and this was one.  In the end Horatio had walked out, that had been the last they’d seen of each other in Kingston, and the one time he’d managed to track him down since, in Portsmouth a few months back, he’d ended up losing his own temper and getting nowhere at all.  He refused to believe their friendship was beyond repair, but how did you talk sense into a man when the Navy continually kept you from seeing him?  It might be years before there was any chance to meet again.

 

One of them might die.  He hoped not, but was too realistic not to face it.  If it was him who died, Horatio would probably berate himself for the rest of his life.

 

All so unnecessary, neither in Kingston nor on the later renewal of war had there been any chance for him to join Horatio’s ship.  Convalescence had taken months; months of fever, recovery, relapse, two steps forward, one step back.  The war had been over by the time he was well enough to travel, leaving no choice but to journey back to Europe as a passenger.  The mixture of bad weather and abysmal navigation that had led to the ship being wrecked off the African coast.  The long overland journey to a Portuguese trading station, which if nothing else confirmed his strength was fully restored.  The arrival in Gibraltar, just after war broke out once again; the report to the authorities, followed a couple of weeks later by the posting to Greyhound – and what he’d done to deserve that was a question to occupy idle moments, if he ever had any.

 

He could write to his family of course.  Sometimes he did.  Yet they knew nothing of the Navy and, after so long away from home, he felt he knew little of them.  He had come so far from the boy who had left, full of enthusiasm, to join the service; a hard journey on roads they knew nothing about.  It was always difficult to know what to say in the letters except for a bare assurance that he was well.

 

          ~~#~~

 

After finishing his own watch that evening there was nothing he would have liked better than to sleep.  Yet it was a part of his duties to keep an eye on the men, and there was no-one on Greyhound he could rely on to report to him.  The only way was to go below decks and see for himself the way of things, and he doubted he’d feel any more inclined to do that tomorrow.

 

Remembering the trouble with Culshaw he went first to the midshipman’s mess.  One sentence came through clearly as he laid his hand on the door.

 

“I am senior in this mess!”  That was enough to make him pause abruptly.

 

“I don’t see….” A young, uncertain voice.

 

“You will do as you are ordered, Ross.”

 

Kennedy opened the door.  “And just what are your orders, Mr Culshaw?”

 

Two faces turned towards him, Culshaw’s startled, and then angry. The other belonged to a boy of sixteen with tow-coloured hair and crooked teeth.  Midshipman Ross.  The third member of the mess, an idle dullard called Phillotson, would be on watch at present.

 

“Well, Culshaw?”  He waited a couple of moments, the turned to the younger boy.  “Mr Ross” – he softened his voice a little – “Just what were Mr Culshaw’s orders?”

 

The boy cast scared glances between the two. “He said I should give him my rum ration.”

 

“Is this true, Culshaw?”  If Culshaw tried to lie he’d make sure the young bully regretted it for a long time to come.  Possibly Culshaw realised that, for after a moment he spat out “Privilege of rank.  I am senior here!”

 

“And you were given a punishment by my command, Mr Culshaw.  You are on watch and watch for the next forty-eight hours.  And if I ever, and I mean ever, catch you abusing your position as senior midshipman again then I will make your life a living hell!”  He heard his own voice rising, and had to stop, struggling for self-control.  He could not afford to lose his temper completely in front of these boys, no matter how richly Culshaw merited it.  “Do you understand me?”

 

“Yes, sir.” Culshaw said sullenly.  Might he have been that arrogant, if his first years in the service had been different?  He profoundly hoped not. 

 

“I hope you do.  Seniority is a responsibility, Mr Culshaw, it is not a licence to steal from your messmates.”  Not on any ship where he held authority.  He hoped.  Maybe he should have ordered a beating.  But he really did not want to have to explain this to Talbot, who for all he knew might regard bullying in the midshipmen’s mess as good character building.  As the First Lieutenant was responsible for setting watches he could get away without mentioning this to the captain.  Talbot was not likely to notice.

 

Things seemed well enough in the crew quarters, most of the off-watch men had already turned in. However making a final round of the deck he caught a snatch of conversation.

 

“Wretched tub.”  Kennedy suppressed a groan, that was definitely Prothero’s voice.

 

“I’ve known worse ships.”  He couldn’t recognise that one, the tone was too low.

 

“You can say that if you like, Dillon,” – a third voice – “But I’ve got kids to feed an’ not a penny o’ prize money since coming aboard.  Next time we make port I’m out f’r another ship.”

 

“Desert yer mean?”

 

“Plenty of captains won’t ask a sound man questions.  I’m through with doing drills under a useless captain and a lieutenant with a tongue like the bosun’s cat.”

 

“G’arn, Evans.” Prothero again.  “You don’t want to let that get to yer.”

 

“We don’t all go in f’r talkin’ back,” Evans said sullenly.

 

“We don’t all want strips on our back.”  That must be Dillon.  He knew who both men were now, both decent able seamen who he’d have counted among the more reliable crew.

 

“Well, I’m out for a proper fighting ship,” Prothero said.

 

“Keep your voice down,” Evans hissed, “but I’m with you.”

 

“I dunno.”  Dillon muttered.  “Not deserting.”

 

“Do what you like,” Evans said. “But I’m off, first chance I get.”

 

Kennedy did not stop to hear more.  He knew he should do something about what he had just heard, but felt unable to face it.  It would be addressing the symptom, not the cause, yet that was no excuse.  Oh God, he had hoped his own weaknesses had been overcome, but this ship was truly wearing him down.  He had no will to discipline these men, in part because he could feel no blame towards them.  If he knew a way of getting another posting, he’d take it. He was a little surprised to realise that Evans’s comments about his tongue had hurt. Of course he used sarcasm as a weapon, he had to use something, but he’d have preferred the men to think of him some other way.  He should take some action about this, but what would it change?

 

He could, he would, take steps to see those three men got no chance to desert.  Yet others would run.  It happened every time, and whereas on most ships it was possible to single out which men were likely to vanish if they could, on Greyhound all were potential deserters, volunteers as well as pressed men, good sailors as well as natural troublemakers.  They were short-handed already, the press-gang would have to be used when the ship made England; yet another job which should be the captain’s, but would fall to him.

 

He could tell himself as often as he liked that Talbot was the root of the problem, that discipline would be a struggle on any ship where the captain imposed no authority. Still the same thought nagged.  Horatio could have inspired these men.  Look what he’d done on Renown without even trying.  Horatio could have given them something to follow.

 

But he wasn’t Horatio.

 

 

Three

 

*Kennedy looked down at his glass, wondering when he’d emptied it.  “I seem to be making rather a long tale of this.”  He’d not meant to go into details about Prothero or Culshaw or Fenwick.  “I’ll try to speed up, you’ve got your own ship to get back to.”

 

“I want to hear it,” Hornblower said quietly.  “At least, as much as you want to tell.”

 

Kennedy needed no encouragement to talk, his difficulty was to stop.  He doubted he could have done this with anyone else, but it was easy with Horatio despite their past estrangement.  At least he’d managed not to get maudlin over how he’d missed – and envied – his old friend.

 

“Well,” he said, “We were bound for England, but with orders to sail along the French coast as reconnaissance.  And we were sighted.  Four frigates, and Lytton had two frigates and three brigs….”*

 

          ~~#~~

 

He had been below decks when the enemy were sighted, trying to find out from Fenwick exactly what had caused Talbot’s steward to go running for the doctor that morning.  The doctor was not being helpful. 

 

“I cannot betray patient confidentiality.”  As ever his tone was dour and inexpressive. 

 

“I’m not asking you for a full diagnosis,” Kennedy said.  “I just want to know if there’s anything I should know.  For the good of the ship.”       That wasn’t entirely honest.  After all Talbot getting worse was not likely to make things worse for Greyhound.  Talbot was at least no Sawyer.  What he really wanted to know was whether there was a chance of Talbot getting so much worse that even he could not continue.

 

“No doubt you can rely on the captain to keep you informed if his condition should be of importance to the ship.”  The doctor’s voice expressed neither confidence nor scepticism.  Kennedy wondered frustratedly if there was such a thing as a competent naval doctor. 

 

“Do you believe him to be fit enough to continue in command?”  he asked abruptly, and probably unwisely.  But he was tired of serving under captains who were walking medical cases. 

 

“He is not incapacitated,” Fenwick replied in the same inexpressive tone.  “He tires easily perhaps, but that is not a matter where a doctor can make an exact judgement.  He is not ill enough to be declared incapable.”  There did seem to be a flicker of something – directness perhaps – in the last sentence, but before Kennedy could be sure the doctor had turned away saying perfunctorily “If you will excuse me….”  Kennedy hesitated, unsure whether to try and follow through on that brief glimpse of frankness, but was fairly sure he would get nowhere. 

 

What business did they have staying on in the service, these ailing captains?  Keene, Sawyer, Talbot, who knew how many more?  Couldn’t anyone above them see how many lives were being put at risk?  How could anyone justify it?

 

But then how could anyone justify a man subject to fits remaining on active service?

 

......Lying on the edge of sleep, in the unexpected cold of an African night, suddenly aware of the world twisting out of focus, awareness and control dissolving, the moments of sensation there was no description for, oh no, oh god, it can’t be that, not after so much time, it can’t be, it can’t be – and then the world disintegrating into flying shards of nothing and the eventual return of awareness as shameful and sickening as it had ever been.....

 

There had been two more fits before the survivors reached the trading station.  He did not know why, after so long, they had returned.  Perhaps the effects of walking to collapse each day with no food and little water?  He could not be sure why, could not know what might bring them back.  The fear lurked in his soul for months after, yet when he was assigned to Greyhound he had not reported himself unfit.  And what possible excuse could there be for that?

 

It was as he shook himself free from the thought that the shout came from above.

 

          ~~#~~

 

* “I think they must have known we were there, they were between our squadron and open sea.  A sighting must have been reported.  I don’t think Lytton wanted a fight, but he didn’t really have much choice.  So we beat to quarters, but Lytton hoisted a signal in long code that we were to try to get through them: fight and run away, you might say.  Not that I blame him, not good odds at all....”*

 

          ~~#~~

 

Talbot was on deck in full-dress uniform.  Many command-rank officers preferred undress at sea, but Kennedy had never seen Talbot above decks without his full allowance of gold braid.  It was absurd really, only emphasising the man’s fragility.  Talbot was grey all over, grey hair, faded grey-brown eyes, grey skin, except for the hectic spots that sometimes came on his cheeks.  He was thin as a cobweb, looked as though a stiff breeze would blow him overboard.  You had to look closely to realise he was not an old man; Kennedy did not know his age, but it must be less than five-and-forty.

 

He had to admit there was nothing wrong with the orders the man had given.  Talbot knew what should be done all right, but it hardly inspired confidence to have the captain standing there looking like a corpse that had been disinterred.  Nor was he at all certain that Talbot would hold up in a battle.

 

 He glanced at Barnes, who held the somewhat misleading title of Second Master; Greyhound being too small to carry a man entitled to call himself Master.  Theoretically that title belonged to Talbot.  ‘Master and Commander.’  What a joke.  Barnes was a dried-up elderly man, unquestionably depressed at having to end his career on a ship like Greyhound, but he was capable enough.  He would need to be; Greyhound stood no chance whatever of repelling boarders, their only chance was to prevent the French from closing.  By a natural association of ideas he looked down the ship to where the marines stood, ready to fight if the ship should be boarded.  He hoped very much that Sergeant Wallis, who commanded them, was sober today.

 

          ~~#~~

 

* “You know about the fighting I suppose.”

 

“Only by common report, I’ve not spoken to anyone who was there.”

 

“Well, there’s not so much that I can tell you.  Never realised how little you see of an action where several ships are engaged on both sides.  You and I never really had experience of that, did we?  Our two frigates – Verite and Despite – each singled out a particular foe, but the brigs kept together, our best chance with even two brigs being no match for a frigate.

 

“You don’t really need a full battle report, do you?  The men did well, all of them, couldn’t fault their gunnery.  And Barnes handled Greyhound well.  Can’t fault Talbot either, for that short time he was a real commander.  I think he could have been a pleasure to serve under, before he became ill.

 

“But we were hit, many times.  Maintopmast shot away, and a lot of damage to sails and rigging.  And men killed, too – well, I’m sure I don’t have to draw you a picture.

 

“I suppose there was never any hope of the whole squadron getting clear.  You must know Dragonfly went down, and Verite was taken by boarding.  Despite and Cygnus got clear – what’s happened to Lytton?  I didn’t think to ask before?”

 

 “There’s to be a Court of Inquiry,” Hornblower told him.  “I expect that Greyhound’s getting in will improve his chances – unless the Court thinks him to blame for leaving you.”

 

“I hope not, it really wouldn’t be fair.  He was right to save as much as he could.  And it wasn’t his fault that we were cornered.  Damn stupid orders, if you ask me.  Not that they will.”

 

“And I hope you won’t feel obliged to tell them,” Hornblower said, with a sharpness Kennedy was too tired even to notice, let alone recognise as alarm.

 

“Well, we did get clear, whilst the French ships were occupied with Verite and Dragonfly, but only just, not much of a start.  But I’m getting ahead of things....”*

 

          ~~#~~

 

If they could just get past, get under the French ship’s stern while she was occupied in giving Dragonfly her death blows.  He spared a moment’s pity for the other brig, but there was nothing to be done, if ever there was a time for sauve qui peut this had to be it.  Beyond the stern the sea was open, there was a chance.  It was at that moment that Talbot cried out.

 

He had fallen to his knees by the time Kennedy reached him, hands raised to his chest.  A shout brought a surgeon’s mate with admirable speed.  He knew, without consciously reflecting on it, what must have happened.  The old French trick of stationing sharpshooters in the rigging, a man sporting gold braid could hardly be more of a target.  “Get the captain to the surgeon.”

 

“No,” Talbot insisted weakly, but clearly.  “I will stay at my post.” 

 

Kennedy glanced at the surgeon’s mate, who looked frightened, plainly not prepared to intervene.  “Sir, you are not fit....”

 

“I will stay,” Talbot insisted, he raised a shaking hand, pointed it at a staring seaman.  “Get me a seat.”

 

What could be done except accept?  Kennedy left the hapless surgeon’s mate attempting to tend the wound, ordered those sailors who had been distracted sharply back to their posts... and saw the open sea.  His preoccupation with Talbot had been brief, but just long enough for Greyhound to pull clear.  They were out.  Ahead Despite and Cygnus were already pulling away; behind he could see two frigates closed either side of Verite, a third seemed not properly under control, with luck damage or losses had incapacitated her temporarily.  The last ship, the one they had just pulled past, would need time to come about before any pursuit could begin.  They had a start.

 

Four

 

*Hornblower stared down at the battered table.  “That was the last anyone knew of Greyhound until today.  That you had got clear, but fallen behind, damaged.  It- it wasn’t really expected you’d make Portsmouth.”

 

Kennedy gave a brief breath of harsh laughter.  “There were moments when I really didn’t expect it myself.”*

 

          ~~#~~

 

He had got the men to work, making hasty repairs and adaptations to the rigging, replacing the damaged sails as fast as was practicable.  The surgeon’s mate had rigged up some kind of bandage for Talbot, and a stool had been produced from somewhere.  Kennedy expected Talbot to pass out at any time, but he was still conscious, propped against the rail, watching the work in silence as Kennedy and Barnes directed the crew.

 

Kennedy really did understand sailing.  Many commissioned officers did not, they just absorbed as much as was needed to pass the Lieutenant’s exam (which might be very little if their influence was sufficient) then left everything to the sailing master and his subordinates.  It was said that even Nelson was no great seaman – well, a man like Nelson hardly needed to be.  But a man like himself, who possessed no brilliance, he owed it to himself and the service to be as competent as hard work could make him in every aspect of naval life.  He had studied seamanship thoroughly, first from a natural curiosity of mind, then later from a fierce desire to prove his capabilities, and he had reason to be glad of it as the crew struggled to put Greyhound back in some sort of order.

 

They had suffered losses, most of them from the gun which had blown.  The injured had been taken below, the dead hurriedly laid aside under one of the torn sails.  No time for a service now. All able hands were needed.  He tried to find time for a few words with some of the men, if action was what they’d wanted he hoped they felt the better for it.  Probably, however, this had not been what they had in mind.

 

He found himself next to young Ross, who was looking shaken, but still in control. “Your first action, Mr Ross. Congratulations.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”  Ross managed a wavering smile.  Kennedy took the chance to raise something he had been meaning to investigate. 

 

“Mr Ross, I need to know if Mr Culshaw has, on any previous occasion, abused his seniority in the way I discovered last night?  Or in any other way?”

 

“No, sir.”  Kennedy stared hard at Ross and decided the answer was truthful.

 

“If he does, Mr. Ross, I wish you to tell me of it.  Some men will claim seniority gives them a right to steal, and sometimes worse.  But the truth is that such behaviour is a canker in the service.  For the good of the ship, it should always be stopped, but to be stopped it must be reported.  Don’t keep silence out of fear or bravado or a dislike of telling tales.”  Not here.  He wasn’t about to let that happen here.

 

Ross shook his head, decidedly.  “He’s not done anything like that before, sir.  Of course, he’s always been a bit stuck-up.”  He glanced at Kennedy as if half-afraid he’d said too much, but meeting no reproach continued, “Likes to boast about his family.  But that’s been all.  He was angry about losing his rum ration, I think.”

 

“I’m glad to hear it hasn’t happened before, Mr. Ross.  But remember what I said.”  No time for more, he gave the boy what he hoped was an encouraging smile, and hurried back to the stern.

 

A quick sweep of the horizon showed that Despite and Cygnus were drawing far ahead, more important was the scene behind.  He stared for longer than was needed, futilely willing it to be otherwise.  Of course it stayed the same.  One of the frigates was in pursuit.  Not good, not good at all.

 

It was a race of life and death now, with pure skill the only hope for the little brig.  Desperately the men, understanding the situation without need for explanation, worked at the sails and rigging, whilst Kennedy and Barnes manipulated the injured ship to the best of their joint ability.  An hour passed, at once dragging and too brief, a second went by, and as the third wore on, Kennedy accepted grimly it was hopeless.  They were going to lose this race.  They were going to lose.

 

Not too much time left before the French would be in range.  He crossed to Talbot.  The motions had to be gone through.

 

He’d not expected Talbot’s reaction.

 

“No surrender,” the Captain insisted.

 

Kennedy looked at him in sheer disbelief.  “Sir, we can’t outrun them.  We’ll be sunk, or boarded, and there aren’t enough of us to fight them off.  If we don’t surrender we’ll be slaughtered.”

 

“No surrender!”  Talbot insisted, his voice louder.

 

What could be done with such an attitude?  “Sir, I don’t like it either.”  That was true, the prospect left him angry, a little shamed, and cold afraid.  “But for the sake of the men we must do it.  There’s no point in fighting, we must think of their lives.”

 

“A captain knows no ‘must’!” Talbot rasped angrily.  “We will not surrender!”  The last words were almost a shout.

 

And that was that, wasn’t it?  The captain’s word was law.  No matter how ill, unfit or plain insane.  Nothing he could do. Nothing.  You couldn’t lead a mutiny against an order not to surrender.  The men wouldn’t agree.  Not yet, anyway, not until enough holes had been made in their ranks.  No, they’d follow the captain’s orders, the brave man still at his post with the blood running from his wound.  Since Talbot’s last words had been audible to quite a number of the men, it was probably too late even to knock him out.  For a couple of moments Kennedy actually considered that.  It would probably be his death warrant, but....  No.  He could not, he really could not, assault a captain simply for ordering the men to fight.  He was too much of a naval officer for that.

 

Briefly he stared down at Talbot with something very close to hatred.  For a short time, not so long ago, he’d felt real admiration, seeing the man defiant at his post, giving the orders clearly and coolly, good orders, commands of a man capable of grasping all, even in battle and keeping a clear head.  The commander Talbot must have been before illness struck him down, restored in a moment of emergency. Now though, he could only see an ailing idiot, killing his men to satisfy God knew what obsession of his own.

 

Choking on bitterness he turned away, and began shouting the needed orders.

 

The minutes should have flown from then, but seemed to have stretched out on a rack.  The men took up their stations swiftly, ready to defend the ship, yet it seemed long years had passed before, with all seemingly prepared, a man – it was Evans – hurried up to him. 

 

“Sir, you’d better come.”

 

“What is it?” Kennedy snapped.  Evans looked uncomfortable.

 

“You’d better come, sir.”

 

‘It’ turned out to be Wallis, the marine sergeant.  He was crouched in a corner between a cannon and the ship’s side. 

 

“Get to your feet, man!”  Wallis only shoved himself backwards, closer to the woodwork.

 

“Why?  We’re goin’ t’die.”  The words were slurred, Kennedy could smell the liquor on the man’s breath.  “Dun’t see wh’ should die stan’in’”

 

“Get up and give your men a lead! That’s an order!”

 

“Order?  We’ll all b’dead soon.  Dun’t wunt t’die.  Dun’t wunt t’stan’ up t’die.”

 

Kennedy turned to the other marines who were looking on.  “Lock him in the brig.”  There was a distinct pause.  Wallis was popular despite the drinking.  “Do it or I’ll have you all on a charge!”  Reluctantly the men moved to haul their sergeant to his feet, the threat still holding good despite the closing frigate.  “Corporal Parry, take over command.”

 

He had to wait long enough to be sure order was restored amongst the marines.  As if shaken loose, now time raced indeed.  He had barely regained the stern section before the first cannon shot slammed into the water by Greyhound’s side.

 

 

Five

 

Kennedy steadied himself on the rail, glanced down at Talbot, then began giving the orders to return fire.  Not that it would do any good.

 

Was that a distortion at the edge of vision?  His ears were ringing, but with cannon-fire echoing.... He shook his head, trying to clear it, hand gripping white-knuckled on the rail while his heart pounded so loud he could hear it. 

 

No.  Not a fit.  Fear of illness, not the illness itself.  He must snap out of this.  Just because it was the worst situation he’d been in since Africa did not mean he was going to have a fit.  He’d only ever had the one on duty.... No…. Don’t think of that.  Stop it.

 

How long had he been distracted?  No-one seemed to have noticed.  He surveyed the ship, trying to judge what to do next... hopeless...hopeless.... Yes, but he had to try.  Dear heaven, why couldn’t he be like Horatio, with a brilliant idea for every crisis?  Could even Horatio think a way out of this?  He’d think of something not a doubt of that.  But he himself was all there was here, and he couldn’t think of anything except to keep on until the bitter end.

 

He saw it happen, the freakish cannon-ball that knocked a gun loose, sent it crashing down much of the starboard side, leaving carnage behind.  Saw and would not forget the sight, or the screams as he ran down the deck, attempting to bring some order to the chaos. 

 

His foot slipped, caught in someone’s innards, but he managed to keep balance.  Another gun was out, the rest could be worked, if only he could get men to work them.   The loose cannon must be got over the side first, no doing anything until then.  Without feeling, without thinking of anything except practicalities, he began working through the men, assigning the reasonably fit, driving the shocked back to duty as best he could, ordering the badly hurt below.  Ignoring the dying, there was nothing else to do.

 

Screams, right before his feet.  Young Ross, with his right leg and hip torn to rags.  Even as he looked the screams stopped, the eyes became fixed and dead.  He turned away, saw Culshaw beside the rail, retching as though he had already vomited everything in his stomach. 

 

“Mr Culshaw!  Get some men from the port side over here – make it one in four.”

 

Wide, shocked eyes stared back.  “He’s dead.  He died.  We’re all going to–”

 

Kennedy hit him.  It was an open handed blow, but delivered hard enough to knock Culshaw sideways.  “CULSHAW!  You are, God help us, a naval officer!  For once in your life start acting like one!  Get one man in four from the port side over here, NOW!”  He dragged in his self-control with difficulty, as the boy stumbled away.  He couldn’t lose his grip now, had to give an example.  An example.  Suddenly he wanted to laugh hysterically, but choked that down too.  Men were arriving – whether sent by Culshaw or not he could not tell.  Some kind of order was being restored.  God, why was he even trying?  Might be better to let chaos reign, the faster the ship was taken the more men might survive.  But he was an officer, and could not seem to stop acting as one.

 

“Sir!”  It was O’Conner, the gunner.  “Sir, we’re not under control!”

 

He stared stupidly for a second, taking in the words.  Then looked around to realise the man was right.

 

“Come with me!”  Back across the blood-soaked deck to the stern where the captain took his station, Greyhound being too small to have a quarter-deck.  A cannon-ball had ploughed into the decking while he was away, driving up splinters.  Barnes was down, blood running from his left leg, swearing with pain.  The helmsman was dead.  Talbot....

 

....was no worse than he had been before.

 

About to shout for someone to take the helm he realised, stunned, that the French guns had fallen silent.

 

“No surrender!”  Talbot’s old litany.  Of course, the French had stopped firing because they assumed resistance to be broken.  The ship out of control – when was the last time a gun had been fired?  He’d not given any orders since that gun ripped down the deck.... Could that be used?

 

“No surrender!”

 

Let them get close, then open up?  But there would only be one chance....

 

And there it was.  The inspiration he needed.  The trick that might yet save them.  The only hope.

 

“No Surrender!!”  Talbot was trying to get up.

 

Kennedy drew a long breath.  It was worth a try.  “Sir, I give you my word, there will be no surrender.  I have an idea, it may help, if you’ll just give me a free hand.”  He rather thought only the first words had registered, but Talbot had dropped back apparently satisfied.  “Quartermaster!”  Kennedy shouted, and turned to O’Conner.  “I want every man who is fit manning the port-side guns.  Yes, I know that’s a change of plan.  I want two guns – make it the two foremost – trained on the French quarter-deck, the others on the masts and rigging.  I’ll give you the exact bearings, when the ship comes about.  And double-load the guns.  Understand?”  A quartermaster had appeared from somewhere to take the helm, Kennedy told him quickly what he wanted doing.  Now for two men with loud voices.  “Evans !  Jennings!  Follow me!”  And with that he ran for the foremast shrouds, climbing as fast as he had ever done as a young midshipman under the captain’s critical eye.

 

The next minutes were oddly unreal, the distance above the deck lending a dreamlike air.  Clinging to the mast he reigned in his patience, forcing himself to gauge the moment, judge the scene below with an accuracy he could never have managed on the deck.  The double-load would reduce the range, but give a single volley twice the power.

 

NOW!  The two men relayed the orders in their loudest voices, and he could almost have taken it for a drill as he saw the little ship come about, broadside to the chasing frigate.  Then the guns roared out, two aiming straight for the quarter-deck, he was sure that one at least struck home.  Firing directly to kill a ship’s command was generally considered dishonourable by the British, but right now he could not have cared less.  The others tore into the masts and rigging, aim obeying his relayed commands to the letter.  Greyhound was small, but her gunnery was as good as any in the service. A second volley and a third and that had to be enough.  If they could not get clear now they never would. 

 

Back to the deck, he felt a certain reluctance, as though he was descending from Olympian status to bloody mortality.  Which in a sense was true.  More orders, as many men as could be spared aloft, working the sails and rigging, so the ship would run before the wind as fast as lay within her power.  He looked back.

 

They were gaining.  They were gaining.  Behind the frigate drifted, great chunks of mast and spars shot away, if there was anyone still in command they were without full control.  Let it last.  Let it last just long enough for Greyhound to get away.

 

Behind him Talbot slid to the ground in a faint.

 

 

Six

 

What followed was mostly hard work.  Keeping the ship underway whilst attempting repairs to the worst of the damage.  The French frigate gradually fell further and further behind, until at last it was out of sight altogether, which was as close to safety as they could hope for without actually reaching a British port.  Although there had been no hits below decks, something in the little ship must have been too greatly strained, for she was shipping water badly.  The carpenter and his mates had their work cut out fixing, or at least lessening, the leaks.  Above decks the men toiled on getting the sails and rigging into shape, which would make the task of actually sailing the ship a little easier.

 

Then of course there was the burial of the dead.  Never a pleasant job, now there were so few hands to spare that the sewing was crudely done.  The men understood the reasons, but it didn’t help morale at all.

 

Since Kennedy joined Greyhound there had been burials only for men dead of disease, no war casualties, and these had been performed by Talbot.  He had never had to undertake the office of burial before.

 

Young Ross was the first body to be committed.  In cold truth Kennedy was seldom deeply moved by deaths in war.  He was not like Horatio, who bled for men he’d not exchanged ten words with.  At first he’d been puzzled and uncomprehending, later he’d wondered if there was something wrong with him, that he felt so little touched.  In the end he’d just been thankful, if he felt things as deeply as Horatio did he’d have gone insane long since.  He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of deaths in his years at sea that had truly caused him pain.  Yet this was one.  He still saw himself in every uncertain midshipman, poised between boy and man....

 

He got through the service without faltering, but when it was over he found himself just wanting to get away.  Retreat somewhere quiet, collapse into a stupor.  He couldn’t do that, of course.  He was all this wretched ship had to hold her together just now.

 

He went down to see how the wounded were faring instead. 

 

Fenwick had evidently managed to work through the worst stages, the men down here had all received some degree of treatment.  The doctor was rinsing his bloody hands, at the sight of the First Lieutenant he stopped what he’d been doing and came over. 

 

“How is the captain?”  Kennedy asked.

 

Fenwick was silent for a moment, then said, “You need to know, I suppose.  The bullet tore across his chest and smashed a couple of ribs.  No organs damaged, but it’s a hard wound to bandage and he aggravated it pretty badly staying above deck.  He’s fevered already, and he wasn’t a well man to start with.”

 

“I know that.”  Two men on the verge of exhaustion eyed each other bleakly.  “How about Master Barnes?”

 

“I’ve taken the splinters out.   Baring a bad infection he’ll live.  But I doubt that leg will ever be the same.”

 

“And the other men?”  Kennedy asked.  One of the men lying closest to him was Prothero, deeply unconscious, with a bandaged stump where his right arm had been

 

“There’s three who won’t live through the night whatever I do.”  Fenwick seemed to slump suddenly.  “Waste,” he said dully.  “All of it waste.”

 

“War is,” said Kennedy, fully aware the statement was inadequate.

 

“Yet you make your living by it.”

 

“So do you.”

 

“No, I make my living repairing the damage you butchers cause.”  There did not seem any reply to that.  After a moment, however, the doctor went on,  “But it wouldn’t have been my choice.  I never finished my training properly.  A naval job was all I could get.”

 

“Why didn’t you finish it?”  Kennedy asked with a trace of real curiosity.

 

“Smallpox.  Both my parents died of it, and my older brother.  After that... I had no money.  My father had been paying for my studies from his own earnings.  I had to find employment.”

 

“I’m sorry.”  Inadequate words, but all he had.  Looking at the man he remembered that Fenwick’s papers put his age only a little over thirty years.  It was easy to forget that.

 

“Not your fault.”  Fenwick was not looking at him, but off into space.  “Since then... they call it melancholia and no doctor knows the cure.”

 

“You do a good job.”  What else could he say?  “A job I wouldn’t have the kind of courage for.”

 

“It’s never enough, is it?”  The doctor’s eyes met his directly for a moment, then Fenwick turned away, back to his work.

 

He knew he should go over and speak to Talbot.  So he did.

 

The commander was conscious again, but he did not try to move.

 

“Are we clear?” were his first words.

 

“Yes, sir.”  Still harping on it.  “The French are out of sight.”

 

“Good.  Couldn’t bear capture again.”

 

“Again?”  The surprised question slipped out involuntarily.

 

“A prisoner before,” Talbot whispered weakly.  “Years.  Released at... the peace.  That’s where I... got ill.”  He was briefly silent, eyes closed.  “Do you think I... was wrong?”

 

“We did get clear, sir.”  He couldn’t tell if Talbot heard him.

 

“The men... should have thought of them.”  Talbot’s head moved restively.  “Couldn’t bear to die in prison.”

 

Kennedy cleared his throat.  “I’ve been a prisoner, sir.  I understand.”  He hoped he wouldn’t have done it, but he understood.  But Talbot did not answer, and seemed to have slipped back into unconsciousness.

 

Kennedy straightened, knowing that he had learned more about two of the most important men on the ship in the last ten minutes than in all the previous time he had served with them.  He’d think on that later.  For now, there were other men injured.  He moved through the berth, trying to manage cheerful words for those who were awake.  He knew men appreciated that sort of thing, and these had earned it.

 

He’d directed O’Conner to keep an eye on things on deck and it was with a sinking heart that he saw the gunner pushing through to his side.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Dirty weather brewing, sir.”

 

That was no understatement, as he saw on gaining the deck.  It looked like a savage storm, fast closing.  Closing on a damaged ship with a tired and badly depleted crew.

 

For a moment sheer helplessness threatened to overwhelm him, it was too much, after all Greyhound had been through already, it was just too much.  Hadn’t whatever fate was watching had its sport? Then from somewhere anger boiled up, cold, controlled anger that bought with it a relentless sense of purpose.  It was much too much and he wasn’t going to accept it.  Fate be blasted.

 

“By God,” he said, through clenched teeth, “we’re not losing her now!”  A deep breath, he needed a clear head.  “Get every man that can walk on deck.  Get Barnes if he’s conscious.  Tell them we will get this ship into harbour.  We are not going down now.”

 

Good intentions were all very well, but the ship would need every ounce of strength her men could give.  First things first, if they were to have a chance then the canvas crammed on to escape the French needed to be got in.  And quickly.  He gave out his orders, every man aloft that could climb, every sail got in.  No time to lose, orders given he headed straight for the foremast.

 

Kennedy’s only thought had been that every pair of hands was needed.  Bone tired, he had not even noticed the mood of fearful hanging back amongst the men, nor had it occurred to him a positive example might inspire them.  He never knew it did.  Tired, frightened men began to heave themselves up the shrouds in grim determination, taking their only chance.

 

If his last trip up the shrouds had given him a view that seemed boundless, this one narrowed the world to a few square feet of ropes and canvas.  In a rapidly darkening world he had no idea what was happening on the other mast, or even on the spars below, nothing existed but the rising wind and sudden, fearsome rain and the desperate struggle to reef the sail with numb hands that slipped and fumbled.  Even the other men working with him barely existed, just grasping hands and arms, and the occasional curse half-caught through the fiercely rising wind.

 

Done at last.  He could not even tell if all the men who had climbed the mast were still alive.  Hands numb and limbs shaking he started down with more haste than care, ridden by the need to get back to the deck, discover the state his little ship was in.  It was with anger rather than fear that he felt himself slip suddenly, knowing in the same moment it was too late to arrest the fall.  The drop was only about five feet, he landed hard enough to jar his spine and knock all the breath from his body, but tried to scramble up again at once, only to fall back gasping and in pain. 

 

“Sir!”  Evans was beside him.  “Are you all right, sir?”

 

“Yes!”  He wasn’t, totally.  But there were no bones broken.  “Help me up!”  Clinging to Evans he managed to gain his feet, despite a wave of giddiness and nausea.  No real damage except to his dignity.  “The ship.…”  Dark had gathered fast, but he could see that all the sails were in, and the last party descending the other mast... was that Culshaw leading them?

 

“Sir!”  Another voice behind him.  Barnes was on deck, supported between two other men.  He made an effort to collect his disordered wits.  “Master Barnes, Greyhound is going to need both of us, these next few hours.  We’ll keep her afloat if it’s the last thing we do.”  For letting her sink most surely would be.

 

 

Seven

 

Late the next afternoon Lt Kennedy leaned wearily against the rail.  Still afloat.  Only just, but the weather had finally dropped.  The carpenter, his mates and any other man able to be any use had worked themselves to dropping, patching the ship, repairing damage as best they could, often repairing their own earlier repairs.  The worst of the leaking was stopped, some pumps were going – at least they were keeping the water levels under control.  Greyhound was too low, but they could manage.  He was trying to rest the men as much as possible, making the best of the damaged masts and rigging, but it was hard.  They’d lost too many, using the regular watch system was impossible.

 

Barnes had collapsed before the storm ended and was still unconscious.  He hoped he’d not done the man too much damage, but doubted he could have got the ship through the night without him.  Talbot was in a high fever.  Wallis was still in the brig – he’d have to charge the man once they got to shore.  The boatswain was dead.  Midshipman Phillotson had broken his shoulder... the list went on.

 

He saw Fenwick had come on deck and, too weary to raise himself, called over to the man.  Fenwick crossed the deck.

 

“There’s no news,” he said, “I just needed some air.”

 

“The captain?”

 

“The captain is dying.”  Fenwick sighed.  “Not so bad a wound, but he has neither the strength nor the will to live.  May as well go this way as rot out, I suppose.”

 

Kennedy could find no reply to that.  There was a long pause before the doctor volunteered, “You look fair worn out yourself.”

 

“Oh, I’m all right.  Everyone is tired.” 

 

Another long pause, then Fenwick said, “I should not have called you a butcher earlier.”

 

“Should you not?  We are butchers, when we’re not cattle.”  It was an unusually bleak speech for him, but it had been a bleak few days.

 

“What made you chose the Navy?” Fenwick asked. 

 

“I didn’t fancy India.”  He shrugged, managed a wry smile.  “For those whose families have more pride than cash, it’s a choice between the Navy or the East India Company.  I like it well enough, other things being... average.

 

“And would you consider Greyhound average?”  Fenwick’s voice was dry enough to carry a suggestion of humour, which would have startled Kennedy if he’d not been quite so tired.

 

“Compared to my previous ships, very much so.”  It was not really a joke.

 

“Then you have been unfortunate,” Fenwick said.  “Perhaps you should have chosen India, after all.”  Again that dryness, suggesting humour.  For the second time Kennedy was aware that the doctor was quite a young man.

 

“Sweltering bureaucracy?  I don’t think so!”  He stared over the rail.  “At least out here a man can breathe.”  Say what one would, the sea did get into a man’s blood.  Besides, a desk job would have bored him rigid.

 

“I find it lonely,” Fenwick said, “But sometimes that’s no bad thing.”

 

They stood in silence for a little.  The sea seemed to Kennedy to be acting oddly, formed shapes and dancing patterns, beckoning, moving up and up....

 

Fenwick’s hand dragged him back, and a moment later he landed hard on the deck, jarring his bruises from the last fall painfully.  For a moment he was utterly disoriented, God, not a fit on deck, his head was swimming, eyes unclear.... No.  Not a fit. With an effort he recalled his wits enough to recognise what had happened.  He’d been close to passing out.  He had not had a fit.

 

“When the devil did you last sleep?”  the doctor demanded.  He frowned, trying to reckon time.  Something seemed wrong with his thoughts – he’d recognise it in a moment.

 

“Before the battle.”

 

“Go and sleep!”  Fenwick snapped.  “You were nearly overboard just then.”

 

He pulled himself up, clinging to the rail.  Someone had to take the watch.  O’Conner had only just gone below, utterly exhausted, as had the carpenter.  Apart from Fenwick there were no other warrant officers still on their feet.  But he recognised the doctor was right.  It was exhaustion playing havoc with him, mind and body.  If he did not sleep he would collapse.  Unfortunately there was a distinct shortage of men able and qualified to take charge of the ship.

 

“Call Mr Culshaw,” he said to Fenwick, unable to trust his own voice too well.

 

The midshipman was called.  As far as Kennedy could recall he’d done diligent enough work since his collapse in the battle.  Culshaw was one of those who had already slept, he did remember that.

 

“Mr Culshaw, you have the watch.  Call me in four hours, or before, if anything should happen.”  To his astonishment the boy’s face leapt in response.

 

“Aye, aye, sir,” Culshaw answered, glowing as if he’d just received an accolade.  No doubt he thought he had.  Kennedy just hoped it wouldn’t go to his head.  Culshaw would not have been his choice to take charge, if he’d had a choice, but he did not.

 

          ~~#~~

 

“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes!”  O’ Conner breathed.  Portsmouth harbour, in late afternoon.  Clouded and grey, it could not have looked more beautiful to the exhausted men who coaxed their battered ship into the haven.  The gunner shook his head, wonderingly, “Times I didn’t think I’d see harbour again.”

 

“The men did us proud,” Kennedy said, “And so did the ship.”

 

“That she did, sir.  There’s not every ship would have got us home, I’m sure.”

 

Kennedy noticed with some wryness that there seemed to be quite a lot of spyglasses levelled on them from surrounding vessels.  No doubt many people were wondering about the identity of this weary little brig.  He wondered how many of them had already heard the story of the fight from the men of Despite or Cygnus.  Were they surprised to see Greyhound limping in?

 

“Nearly there, my lady,” he murmured softly, then heard what he had said.  Talking to a ship!  Was he losing his wits?  Perhaps the time to worry was when the ship started talking back....  He couldn’t help thinking of Greyhound as a living thing.  A battered, valiant living thing, deserving of reward and rest.  A good ship, sorely tried, but home with flying colours.

 

In at last.  He gave orders for a boat to be lowered, the standard report had to be made.  Evans, he noticed, was one of the men working on the tackle.  As he stepped back, boat safely lowered, Kennedy said quietly, “I hope you’ve had second thoughts about deserting, Evans. Greyhound is going to need all her men.”

 

Evans stammered “Yes, sir, I mean no, sir, I mean I’d never….”

 

“I hope not, Evans.”  With any luck that would keep the man aboard.  Feeling something more was needed he added, “You’ve done too much fine service, these last days, to be spared now.”  Evans merely ducked his head and muttered something indistinguishable.

 

Culshaw ripped off a smart salute as Kennedy made to enter the boat.  One good thing to come out of all this had been a transformation in the young midshipman’s behaviour, he now seemed anxious to atone for previous lapses.

 

“S-Sir,”  Culshaw stammered, then as he turned towards the boy, “Good luck, sir.”  With a distinct shock he realised Culshaw’s eyes were wide with what looked very much like hero worship.  He dwelt on the discovery with some unease after boarding the boat, before pragmatically deciding that there was very little he could do about it, moreover Culshaw’s performance of his duties had definitely benefited.  No doubt he’d get over it, but with any luck he might start to be a reasonable officer first.

 

Good luck?  Did he need it?  He didn’t think so.  Probably just Culshaw’s clumsy attempt at showing support.  Outnumbered as they had been he couldn’t see even the most crusty admiral finding fault with him over the losses aboard his ship.

 

His ship.  Another jolt as he realised he’d just thought of Greyhound as he’d never thought of any other ship he’d served on.  As his. His command.  It had been, hadn’t it?  He’d commanded prize ships a few times in the past, but had never felt towards them as he had towards the little brig these last days, perhaps because those vessels had been strangers to him.  But he knew Greyhound, every plank and rope.

 

As the oars dipped he found leisure to look back for the first time on the time since Talbot’s collapse.  It had felt... extraordinary.  As though they were all an extension of his own self, the ship the men, all his, all him.  Not easy to control, but nonetheless like limbs directed from a central thought.  And through all the hours of storm he’d known the ship depended on him, yet the knowledge had been reassuring not terrifying, for he had been certain that he knew how to do all that anyone could.  Extraordinary.   Nothing in his whole life had felt remotely like it.  And he knew that he wanted to feel it again.  Was that command?

 

Well, whatever it was, he shouldn’t let it go to his head.  A brisk interview with the port admiral should soon cut him down to size.

 

 

Eight

 

It was very dark in the tiny cabin, illuminated only by a single candle.  How many hours had the story taken?  Hornblower had quite lost track.

 

“So how did your interview go?”  he asked, as Kennedy seemed to have lapsed into silence.

 

“Oh... no trouble at all.  The admiral wants to speak to Talbot, but I’m sure that’s just a formality.  In fact he was rather pleased, seemed to think this will make a good story for the papers.”

 

“A sloop fighting off a frigate.... I suppose it will.”

 

“Talbot will probably die a hero in the public’s eyes,” Kennedy said, with some bitterness.  After a moment though he added, “Well, I suppose that will do no harm.  I had to apply for a court-martial on Wallis, of course.  Not something I’m looking forward to, but it has to happen.” 

 

They were silent for a few moments.  Hornblower felt tongue-tied, not knowing how to comment on the story he had just heard.   “It’s late,” he said at last, “You must need to sleep.”

 

“So must you.”  Kennedy got up, moving stiffly as if the action was painful.  With conscious formality he said, “Thank you for coming, sir.”

 

“Horatio,” Hornblower said, just a little unsteadily, “There’s no one to hear, so it doesn’t matter if we are... informal.”  He had never liked his first name, but had been surprised to realise how much he missed hearing it.  He would never manage to ask Maria not to call him ‘Horry’ and William Bush always used the formal ‘sir’ that naval protocol demanded.  Of course there had to be some formality between captain and first officer... somewhere he got a tiny glimpse of why Archie had not wanted to be his first.  For the most part, however, that old quarrel seemed utterly unimportant.  He had done much regretting of it in the days since the news of Greyhound’s likely loss had spread through Portsmouth.

 

Kennedy’s smile was bright as sun on water.  He had missed that too.  “Horatio, then.  Thank you for coming.”

 

“I couldn’t not.”  He caught Kennedy’s hand and held it hard.  “Goodnight, Archie.”

 

          ~~#~~

 

“What of Master Barnes?”  Kennedy asked, knowing that he was putting off the moment.

 

“Much the same,” Fenwick replied, “He will live, but I doubt he’ll ever be fit for active service again.”

 

“Thank you, doctor.”  Would Barnes’ long service secure him a pension, even though he was only a petty officer?  Perhaps a shore based job in the dockyards could be arranged?  He might be able to ask Admiral Pellew.  Better still, Horatio might ask Admiral Pellew.

 

There was no further excuse for delay.  He had to go and see Talbot.

 

Greyhound’s captain had been moved to his own quarters, but had firmly rejected any suggestion that he should be transferred ashore.  According to Fenwick this was not due to fear of being moved, he simply wanted to die at sea.  The port admiral had actually come out to Greyhound to hear Talbot’s story.  He did not know what had passed, but it hardly seemed important.  Talbot could have only a hazy idea of events anyway.

 

He was surprised by how little Talbot’s appearance had changed.  Of course the man had always looked a few inches from death’s door. 

 

“Sir,” he dropped to a crouch by the bunk, “Is there anything... sir?”

 

The eyes moved slowly towards him.  “Thank you, no.  You have the ship, lieutenant.”

 

“Sir.”  He couldn’t tell whether that had been intended as a macabre joke or not.  There was a silence then, but he had the impression Talbot was gathering himself to speak again.

 

“Did you ever wonder,” the captain whispered at last, “why I asked for you as my lieutenant?”

 

“I didn’t know you had, sir.”  Kennedy said, surprised.  He had always assumed that the admiral-on-station at Gibralter had simply assigned him to a vacancy.

 

“I knew your... history,” Talbot whispered “Renown....”

 

Renown.  How long would that ship follow him?  And what possible part of that sorry story could have prompted Talbot to want him aboard the Greyhound?

 

“I know it was... hushed up.  But you can’t ever keep a thing like that... wholly quiet.”  Talbot was silent for so long Kennedy thought he was slipping into unconsciousness, but when he spoke again his voice was clearer.  “You served under a captain who was not the man he once had been.  And you worked hard, to hold the ship together.  I had just been released after years of prison, my health destroyed, my future lost.  I wanted to command again.  I wanted, if I could, to die in harness, not rot out my life in some wretched watering place.”  For a moment his voice had taken on a sort of passion, now, as if exhausted by the effort it began to fade again.  “I needed a first officer who could... work well beneath an ailing captain.  You fitted.”

 

Dear heaven.  He’d thought it a malign fate that had sent him from Renown to Greyhound.  But it had been Talbot.  Talbot calculating, taking advantage of his past, all to gratify his own wish to die in harness.  Well, he’d got what he wanted, and Kennedy felt he might choke on the knowledge.

 

“The admiralty ... are pleased,” Talbot whispered.  “No surrender, victory against the odds... yes, they are pleased.”

 

“You’ll be a public hero.  Sir.”  He didn’t trouble to keep the bitterness from his voice.

 

“I told him... you got the ship back.  I recommended you... to succeed me in command.  A dying hero’s last request.  They’ll grant it.”

 

Kennedy stared back at him stunned.  They might grant it.  They might very well grant it. 

 

“Sir.... I don’t know what to say, sir.”

 

“Don’t say it then.  Don’t thank me.  I’m a selfish man.  This is merely the payment you’ve earned.  And I’m tired.  You’d better send the doctor in.”

 

“I will, sir.”  He got up, knowing he should say something, make some gesture.  “I’m glad you got your wish, sir.”

 

          ~~#~~

 

It was fine on deck, a clear, breezy day.  The men were at the repairs, a battered looking crew still, but with more spirit about them than he could remember seeing on Greyhound.  Word had gone round of course, they were heroes, and they knew it.  Someone laughed and someone else answered.  On the deck’s far side he caught a snatch of song.

 

His ship?  Well, perhaps.  Many a slip ‘twixt cup and lip, and he wasn’t about to start counting on the Admiralty.  But he could command Greyhound.  He knew he could. He just had.  Two years ago the prospect of command would have scared the daylights out of him.  Now... he was still a little frightened by it.  But it was like going into battle.  Bad luck or bad judgement might still mean disaster, but it was not a looming unknown.  He was ready for it.  Or as ready as he could ever be.

 

Command.  Perhaps.  Not the way he’d ever have imagined getting it, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and it wasn’t likely he’d ever get another chance.  The homecoming had been at a high price in lives.  Too high?  He was not about to try and calculate.  Talbot’s choice could not be changed.

 

For now, there was still much to be done.  Wallis’s court martial – the marines wouldn’t like that.  Barnes’ shore job, if he could arrange it.  Quite possibly Talbot’s burial. The repairs of course, they’d barely begun to check the damage below decks.  Yes, much to be done whilst he waited on the Admiralty’s decision.  And with luck, not all business.  He might be able to meet a few times with Horatio, pick up the threads of their old friendship.  How easy it had been to repair, in the end.

 

He drew a long breath and crossed to check on the nearest group of men.  Those repairs needed to be overseen.

 

 

                                                                      ~finis~

 

 

Return to Main Page