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quigonejinnI blame the Talented Mr. Ripley for making me associate the sea w/gay sex. Well. That and the sheer, superamazing gay of Hornblower.
Bush came to Smallbridge to die: there was, admittedly, no intention of death in his mind when he set out, and as far as he knew, he had come only for a few days away from Sheerness when there were no ships of importance due. Peace slowed even the great yard at Portsmouth; it stilled Sheerness into a row of buildings by slow-moving water. It was all quiet except for the breakers, and when Bush came to Sheerness it was by sea, in the sailboat that he had built with his hands all those years ago.
The trap waited for him at the top of the cliff. It was the same trap that he had taken all these years, too. Same pony, same driver. Same spot on the tiny pier that had been built for this purpse, and when he got to Smallbridge, Hornblower would be waiting for him on the steps of Smallbridge; in his eagerness, he would be pretending calm while barely able to control himself with excitement as the butler took Bush's coat and hat, and then, they would go into the study for a dinner together, in by the fireplace, without anyone else even to wait on them, though it was always possible to stand at the door and hear them laughing. In the morning, they would come back along this same path to have a day on the water with a basket packed for them by Barbara.
In fact, there was little need for Bush to bring any sort of box at all becaue he came frequently enough that the staff remembered his preferences. A room on the second floor was kept for him; others slept only when the house was otherwie completely full to the rafters.
Windows on the room looked out onto the south lawn, and in the afternoon, it also got the warmest of the afternoon sun.
They had been young men together, fighting in the Caribbean, and they had grown old at sea together. Hornblower lost the slenderness of his youth, gained enough weight so that he no longer looked too tall, while Bush lost some of the bulk from his shoulders now that he was no longer hauling himself over the sides of ships. They sat together now in Bush's room in the light of morning.
Bush dressed himself while Hornblower watched -- Bush still wore his Navy uniform, as was his privilege as a Dockyard Commissioner. Hornblower could still have worn his, as he was on half-pay, ready to go to sea again if a squadron should open up, but he had long ago given up the fight and started to wear civilian colors. Barbara had arranged a wardrobe of things that he could wear without feeling ridiculous, updated them so that they were reasonably fashionable.
Even when Bush was not wearing his uniform, he favored items that resembled his uniform. Blue wool jacket. White shirts. In theory, Bush owned a black suit that he had never worn, and on the walls of the room that was kept for him at Smallbridge, there were nautical prints. The curtains of the bed moved in the breeze, and a glint of the sea could be seen -- it would be a bright, brisk day on the water with changing winds, and Hornblower watched Bush smoothing the cuffs of his shirt for another moment before touching him on the shoulder, taking his hand, briefly, and then slipping away to see Barbara.
It was bright in his study. Set along the east of the house, it took the morning sunlight, which Hornblower preferred. He had learned the habit of rising early in the Navy, and all these years of land life had not quite quitted him of it -- there were times when, looking down at the broad wood expanse of his desk, he could almost pretend that it was the deck of a ship. The accounts presented to him certainly made the world spin and dip as though he were on the quarterdeck during a storm.
After the clerks left, still yawning because of the hour, Barbara came to see him. He had visited her early that morning, while she was still wearing her robe, and Hornblower had a hard time deciding whether she was prettier then, with her hair around her shoulders and absorbed in her toilet, or as she was now, dressed like the lady of the estate and smiling at him.
She had come to tell him that the post had arrived. Two of the books he had ordered from London were here, as well as a letter from Richard Arthur, and Hornblower caught her hands. "You could have sent someone to tell me those things," he said, and she smiled at him and put her hand on the side of his face. Barbara was so lovely, Hornblower decided. So lovely, so understanding. He took her hands in his, turned them over, and kissed her wrists.
The rents on Smallbridge were decreasing at a rather irritating pace. If it were not for the steady income from his inestments in the Funds and for the Colonelship of the Marines, he would have had to dig into his capital this quarter -- Hornblower did not know if he could afford to be made an Admiral, and he kissed Barbara's fingertips.
Hornblower and Bush were walking together in the gardens -- they had intended to take the boat out, but it began to rain, and the seas appeared too rough for Bush's sailboat. They were in the rain now, though, Hornblower in civilian gray, and Bush was in his Navy uniform. Bush pointed out some flowering hydrangeas; Barbara had arranged for the planting of a number of them along the walks. Their color was a handsome reference to the fact that the owner of the gardens was a man of the sea. In the spring, there were forget-me-nots and bluebells under the oak trees.
From a window on the south face on the second floor, Barbara watched Bush take a hyndrangea leaf between his thumb and forefinger. He said something to Hornblower, who drew close to look at the hydrangea, then said something in return. They stood around the hydrangea; Barbara could only see their backs.
She watched them for a moment longer, then closed the curtains.
In the years ashore and his time as a Commissioner, Bush had never entirely learned to stop spreading his mustard on the plate -- he dined with members of the Admiralty on the rare occaisions that he was in London, and he ate, occaisionally, with the finer families in Sheerness. Both of those situations featured a great number of Navy men who also put their mustard on their plates, though; he rarely felt uncomfortable doing it, but Hornblower had never settled into the habit.
At Smallbridge, when they ate with Barbara, Bush inevitably dabbed a bit on his plate, remembered with a blush, atttempted to refrain from further dabbing, then inevitably forgot as the conversation progressed. Inevitably, they were small, intimate dinners, consisting of Hornblower, Barbara, and Bush with the butler and footmen, all sitting by the fire in the dining room. Inevitably, he and Hornblower would fall to talking about old times aboard various ships. Invariably, Bush would forget himself and begin dabbing mustard on his plate.
Inevitably, too, at the end, they went, together, as a family, to the sitting room. Barbara had tea; Hornblower poured two glasses of port. On this night, Hornblower also read portions of Richard Arthur's letter aloud.
"Have you heard any news from Brown?" Bush frowned into the fire. It was a summer night, so it was small, restrained. "I wouldn't have guessed that he would return to France."
"I wouldn't have either. He must be happy in Gracay."
After dinner, after Barbara had retired and before Hornblower went to bed, Hornblower went up to Bush's room. When the door was closed, he caught Bush's shoulder with the ease of years of practice, and Bush turned over as easy as a ship came about under steady hands. There was a wrinkle on Bush's shoulder where his neck met his back, and the wrinkles around his eyes from a lifetime at sea had become more pronounced. He turned his face on the pillow so that he could look at Hornblower; he grown thinner, in fact, as Hornblower had grown heavier, but it was not unpleasing for Hornblower to run his hands over Bush's shoulders, to kiss the place where Bush's queue lay against his skin.
His friend had not been to sea in more than a decade, and he had lost the demarcation that sea-going officers wore on the border of their neck where their collar met the sun. Bush had gone pale all over; even when he worked at building boats in the yard of his Sheerness house, he wore a shirt and apron. His occaisional sailboat trips to see Hornblower or with him were never long enough, so Hornblower kissed where he remembered the line being, and he kissed Bush's cheek. He put his hand on Bush's hip for the sensation of it, rather than to hold Bush in place, and he noted how the scars from the Renown had faded into white lines.
Afterwards, for a while, they lay in bed next to each other. Bush caressed Hornblower's hand as he would a woman's.
They had been young men together, fighting in the Caribbean, and they were still growing old together. No other words could capture the depth of feeling between them.
"Did you ever meet John Maple? He was the Naiad's first lieutenant at Trafalgar, and we served in the Superbe together. They made him a post captain and a knight in '15, and he's taking Elizabeth's boy -- my oldest nephew, ma'm, the one who used to visit with me sometimes, if you'll remember -- to sea with him this September."
Once on the water, they took turns with the boat. Bush would have taken the work entirely and allowed Hornblower to sit, and Hornblower could have comandeered the boat, as they were captain and commodore, but it was pleasant to take turns, to have a chance to admire the other do a neat bit of sailing. It was utterly different from the quarterdeck of even the smallest gunboat, but it was satisfying in its own way.
Bush would never make flag rank, but he did not seem to want it.
"The breakers will not be done anytime soon."
It was after lunch, and they were talking about the prospect of work for Sheerness. Now that the war was over, had been over for so long, there had been a distinct slowing at the ports.
"Have you heard anymore about the Temeraire?"
Bush shook his head. "They are still bringing her three weeks from now. We are told to expect her by tug."
"A shame, Bush."
"A national disgrace, sir."
Only news of the Temeraire could move Bush to such open criticism -- he had overseen the breaking-up of so many grand ships of the line. Hornblower began to comment on peacetime economies, but after taking in the look on Bush's face, he restrained himself. Bush had settled himself comfortably into his seat, and he had his face tilted back to enjoy the afternoon sun. The light was quite good on the water; Bush had his hands folded over his stomach, and despite the bad news about his old, beloved Saucy, on which he had been a junior lieutenant at Trafalgar, he seemed content.
They spoke a little more about ships, about Admiralty business, but eventually, they fell silent.
It was a good afternoon, Hornblower decided as he moved the rudder a little. A splendid, wonderful afternoon. The water was quite still, and the wind congenial. He remarked upon the unseasonably pleasant conditions, and when there was no reply from Bush, Hornblower looked over and saw that Bush had folded his hands over his stomach and had fallen asleep. It was reasonable, of course. Two old men in a boat on a bright day. Hornblower was quite content to steer the boat through the waves.
Then, though, Hornblower misjudged a wave. It caught them on the side and rocked the Elizabeth so that Bush fell to his side, and from there, to the bottom of the boat, limp as thin rope. With a shout, Hornblower released the rudder, jumped across and knelt down in the bottom of the boat. On touching Bush's cheek, though, he found that the sea wind had already begun cooling his old friend. He had not known -- he hadn't the faintest idea -- that Bush was dying.
That was an old weakness of his, to laugh, to giggle, in moments of crisis. He could laugh now, if he allowed himself. It was so odd to see Bush's face set in such peaceful lines; he had been the veteran of so many ship-to-ship actions, so many boarding actions. He had been a fighting officer, and now, the wind played about his hair. Surely, it must be a trick of sunlight that made it seem as though he were smiling.
Hornblower knew that he must take the ship back to the dock. He must get the body back to land; it would not be difficult with the favorable wind and the docile water, and Hornblower felt, at that moment, as he laid Bush back down on the boat, that he could laugh and laugh.
Nevertheless, when opened his mouth, he was astonished to find that he was already weeping.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-16 07:11 pm (UTC)That's just painful and lovely and...and, oh.
Fabulous stuff.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-22 12:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-16 07:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-22 12:59 am (UTC)You: *kindly plays along*
Me: *loves omg*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-16 09:34 pm (UTC)omg.
*loves you*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-22 12:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-16 11:52 pm (UTC)that's the way Bush *should* have died.
*sob*
*loves*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-22 01:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-17 01:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-22 01:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-18 05:37 am (UTC)And the Temeraire ... I have a thing about Turner because of that painting.
This is really beautiful.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-22 01:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-20 01:09 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-22 01:41 am (UTC)My plagiarism aside, I'm really, really glad that you liked this. And everybody needs lots of Bush icons. :D
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-25 08:54 pm (UTC)I just read Lord Hornblower and
Well, he still dies, but it made me smile... and cry at the same time.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-27 09:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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