quigonejinn

Inspired by a line in O'Brian's Post Captain. And, you know. My own flailing inability to get inspired. I figure that to get over it, I need to goddamn make myself write something, anything, no matter how short and too-compact it is and how much it ought to be a real story of its own. IF IT WAS EASY, THEY WOULDN'T CALL IT HARD.

Sunday afternoon was visiting afternoon, and Kennedy came to the side of the Lydia in proper order. Bush was there to greet him with a firm shake of the hand and a great smile; it was brilliant, fine weather, Bush said, but there was no doubt that he was actually referring to Kennedy. In fact, he had nothing but congratulations on the command and compliments for what he had seen of Kennedy's sloop.

Easy little thing, Kennedy explained, a bit light on the water because she wasn't as weatherly as she ought to be. He had ideas for improving, though not the chance, as of yet, due to a quarrel with certain dockyard officials -- men who couldn't paddle a wooden washtub ashore, as Bush put it after Kennedy laid out the description. Kennedy couldn't help smiling. It was so bright on the waist that Kennedy had to squint hard to make out Bush's face, but he didn't mind. It was a pleasure to see his friend grown so tan and well, so willing to grin when it was suggested to him that his decks were clean enough to eat from. They had gone through so much together. Sawyer. The Renown, the incompetence of Buckland, and the pleasure of spending a hundred pounds of prize money. Kennedy found joy, pure and simple, in the fact that the warmth was still there. Nothing was different with Bush.

It was different with Horatio: Bush had stopped talking quite so loudly as they got near the great cabin door. He paused, thought of something else, looked back at Kennedy, almost as if to say something, but changed his mind and knocked. And when they went in the initial pleasure when Bush brought him in, there was a flash of pleasure on Horatio's face. Kennedy remembered it; he would have bet his life on the main emotion being pleasure. He could feel his own repressed excitement turn into joy all over again, but then -- then, Horatio thought of something else that made him stop abruptly. He had thought of something. Conceived of his idea. It settled his face, and then, almost with a convulsion, he shut everything away, all of the emotion. He shook Kennedy's hand. Nodded at Bush. Asked about the ship.

He was friendly. No more. No less. He apologized for the smallness of the cabin, but with a strange tone to his voice that made Bush shift under his coat.

The purser came, eventually. So did the surgeon. And then the master, along with two other lieutenants, one dark, and one fair. When it was time for food, the steward almost tripped over himself bringing the roast through the door, and everyone fidgeted. Nobody spoke unless addressed, and Horatio did not address much, though Kennedy thought he saw Hornblower looking at him very intently, once or twice, with an odd half-expression like that from before. Hornblower had hidden his pleasure; he hid his discomfort now, and now, he was also thinking. He was taking the gage of Kennedy. Measuring something, calculating something, almost fearing the number that came out in the end, but Kennedy could not read him any longer. He did not know what Horatio thought or felt anymore.

Beyond that, it was clear Kennedy, from the elaborate ceremony, the slight hesitation in one of the lieutenants, that Hornblower's wardroom was not used to dining with him. Since the captain would not drink, nobody, aside from Kennedy, drank. Since the captain would not eat, even Bush exercised restraint with hot beef on the table. Eventually, a midshipman came with the news that the flagship had signalled to the Lydia for her captain. The admiral wanted to see him.

Kennedy watched as Hornblower got up, put down his napkin, and went.

After they had seen Hornblower off, Bush came to stand by Kennedy at the rail.

"Strategy, most likely," Bush said to start the conversation. "Or fresh orders. The captain let it slip once or twice that something might be in store from the Admiral -- a long independent cruise, maybe. We've had barely any prize money at all."

Before the meal, it had been odd to hear Bush call their old friend captain, with all the deference and respect of the word, and mean Horatio. It was even odder now. The food was not sitting well in Kennedy's stomach. It did not seem to be digesting at all, and Kennedy thought again of how Bush's tone and phrasing shifted whenever conversation drifted towards Horatio.

Kennedy said nothing, and Bush cleared his throat and lowered his voice "He married."

"Yes, I know. He wrote to me," Kennedy said. He would have gone if he'd been able, but during the peace, Kennedy had found employment at sea through a family connection, though he hadn't been able to take to sea with a command until the Ariadne came into service. "His landlady's daughter, if I remember."

Bush nodded. "I do not know if he wrote to you when his children died. Smallpox. They were mostly dead when he came back from his last command."

There was nothing that Kennedy could say, and after a while, Bush added: "The son, the older one, was named after him, and he was there to bury them."

A pause.

"It has been eight months."

The sky was perfectly, brilliantly blue, and it was the full afternoon watch, so the sun was out. A light wind from the southwest, warm and fresh, made the top-gallants move, and Bush stayed by the rail until Hornblower reached the flagship. Yes, Kennedy thought, with something almost like grief, it was perfectly, brilliantly sea colored.

You ought to watch the video at the end of end of this instead. Courtesy