*HH Drabbles*
“Are you well enough?”
“Yes.” The word is sharply snapped. He is not sure whether to believe. Surely the sensible thing would be to order one still weak to stay behind. He wants to safeguard, wants to refuse to put this precious life at risk.
“You’ll need all the hands that you can get.” Practical words, but there is urgency behind them. Still he draws breath to make rejection, but he is not given time enough.
“I’ll not be left!” Pleading behind the stubbornness. The words shame him and he finds that he cannot deny. No more desertions.
“Very well.”
*****************
“Wouldn’t have missed seeing it, mind. I never knew you ran like that!”
“Like what?”
“Like a house-maid who’s back late from a day out. All arms and legs.”
“I do not run like a house-maid!”
“You haven’t seen yourself. If it’s any consolation your French friend was just as bad. If you made a show of it’d be a sell-out. I deceive you not. ‘Roll up, roll up! Watch the heroic officers imitate ducks attempting take-off!”
“Archie, I’ve a good mind to dump you overboard for that!”
“Wouldn’t do you any good, Horatio. The men must’ve seen it too!”
*****************
“You don’t want to tell anyone what you seen. Some things shouldn’t be talked of.”
“But-” the young sailor began. His older shipmate cut him off.
“No buts. The old captain was a true sailor, and the sea never leaves them. Some of them never leave the sea neither.”
“But why?”
“Ah, that’s the thing. Some reckoned at first it was a curse, but Renown’s had more good luck than bad. They reckon now he’s watching over us.
“There’s men on board as I wouldn’t say this to, but things was bad at the end. I reckon he’s making amends.”
*****************
Postscript to Masquerade
The dawn was breaking, and they could not remain in this room forever. Soon daylight would call them back to the world of normal things, yet Archie meant to postpone the moment for as long as might be done. His eyes lingered on Horatio, for once relaxed and without care, beautiful as he lay unguarded and content.
Archie groped for a few moments then found what he was looking for and reached to tie one of the pieces of black velvet across Horatio’s face.
“I’ve seen you in the mask,” he whispered, “I want to see you in nothing else.”
*****************
“I’m really not at all sure about this, Major.”
“It was our agreement, Mr Bush. In return for preserving your life, you would permit me to introduce you to the pleasures of our country.”
“English ways have always been good enough for me,” Bush grumbled.
“You gave me your word as an English officer,” Cotard insisted, “And I am positive, Mr Bush, you will enjoy it.”
Bush doubted that very much. But Cotard was right, he had given his word. “Let’s get it over with then.”
“You will not regret it,” Cotard assured him. “Everyone should experience French cuisine!”
*****************
Captain Pellew had been left gnashing his teeth in frustration by the latest annual Naval Awards. The award for Best Cabin Decorations had gone to Dreadnought Foster for the third year running, the award for Best Taste in Dressing Gowns had been won by Captain Sawyer, and the award for Most Over the Top Speech Delivery by Black Charlie Hammond. Unkindest cut of all was that Lucky Jack Aubrey had been a surprise winner of the award for Captain with the Prettiest Midshipmen.
It went against the grain, but for next year’s competition he would have to demote young Hornblower.
*****************
Lord Edrington’s Gift (Silly drabble)
“So how do you like it, Willie,” Major Lord Edrington enquired, with a note of smugness that suggested he had no intention of heeding criticism.
“Striking,” his friend William Lawford pronounced. “Definitely striking.”
“Well, subtlety wasn’t the intention.”
Lawford’s mouth twitched. “I will say that’s a most unusual place to put a bow.”
Edrington smirked. “Well, can you think of a better gift to receive?”
“That rather depends on one’s tastes, doesn’t it?” drawled Lawford.
“I’ve never had any complaints in the past.” Edrington surveyed himself complacently. “So the only question is: to whose room should I have myself delivered?”
*****************
He could not forget the eyes. The Frenchman’s eyes: in the moment he had known clearly he must kill or be killed. The moment before he pulled the trigger of his pistol and seen the blood bloom as the man fell. A man he had no hatred for, who had lived and breathed like him.
A man who was dead.
There was a wild hope in him that it had been just a wound, but what did he know of the pain that such a wound would be?
“Let’s drink to it,” said Archie, pushing a mug of run across.
*****************
The scars are all he still has of the past. Sometimes, alone, he runs his hands across them, seeking his only assurance that life was real. ‘Here, the sword cut where we took the Celestine. That was a good day.’ There, the ugly splinter wound, not even noticed when first received.
Then there are the older scars, once shrunk from but there is little horror to them now. So long ago. And last, the ragged scar at the ribs’ base: at once bond and severance, sentence and resurrection. Mark of the bullet that killed him, and then gave new life.