(Sequel to Educating Horatio)

by Charley Hart

Feedback to Charley

"Horatio?" Archie's voice cut through the gloom in the narrow cabin.

"Mm?" Horatio held the bottle in the half-light. It was uncomfortably warm and muggy. Tendrils of sun-smothering fog crept through the tiny window.

"Are we going to drink that?"

Horatio looked up, startled. "What?" His sudden movement caused the much-repaired chair he was sitting on to creak alarmingly.

Archie sighed. "I've been dreaming of that Marsala for weeks. How long are you going to sit there staring at it?"

"Forgive me, I was woolgathering. Yes, of course we'll drink it." The pop of the cork being pulled sounded oddly loud to his ears. He filled their mugs and eyed them with disdain. "It really should be served in wineglasses."

Archie rolled his eyes. "You're becoming quite the dandy, you know. Is it the promotion, or the influence of --" he struck a pose with uplifted nose -- "the Earl of Edrington?"

Horatio smiled fondly. Edrington had known how he felt about Archie Kennedy -- had known it without a word being spoken. What was it he'd said? You must tell him. It is unthinkable that a man should be denied such loveliness when it could be his for the asking. "I'm still the same man I always was."

"You're a fool if you think that. None of us are." The light had gone from him.

"You know what I meant," Horatio sighed. Archie's blithesome moods were ephemeral since their ill-fated adventure in France. "But this is no time to be philosophical. Let us enjoy the moment." He lifted his glass. "Here, what shall we drink to?"

"The moment, I suppose," Archie said flatly.

"Is that all?"

"Yes." Archie's face was impassive, as if he'd drawn curtains down over his once-expressive eyes.

Horatio could read nothing in the enigmatic blue depths of those eyes now. He ached to know what had happened in Muzillac to reverse what he had hoped was his friend's recovery from the ordeal he had suffered at the hands of Jack Simpson and then months of miserable imprisonment in Spain. He drained his mug and poured another. "I would prefer to look beyond the moment. Let us drink instead to destiny."

"Well enough," Archie replied. "Just keep pouring."

"You do believe in destiny, don't you, Archie?" Horatio had rehearsed that line dozens of times in the still of the night. Lord Edrington had asked him that same question, just before he had gently touched his cheek, just before he'd had him read a poem, just before he'd stripped off his clothes and made love to him. He had known Horatio would let him -- that Horatio wanted him to. And Horatio now yearned to know that Archie would let him … wanted him to.

Did he? Archie was staring at his cup as if some revelatory vision from the gods was playing itself out on the wine-dark surface. He moved his chair abruptly backwards.

"I have never thought about it." The tone of Archie's voice gave away nothing; his eyes did not say yea or nay.

Horatio persisted, leaning forward. "Surely you don't think it was mere fortuity that we were both transferred to the Indefatigable, or that -- if you ever doubted, this alone should convince you -- after all those months you spent in prison in Spain, that I and the others should end up there as well?"

"This is no time to be philosophical. Or so you said."

Damn. Why was he making it so difficult? Horatio shook his head. "Don't you see, we were fated to be together. Unexpected events have separated us, but even more unexpected events have reunited us."

Horatio did not know what day of the week, or what week of the year, Archie had become more than a fellow midshipman to him. But when he had watched helplessly as Simpson set him adrift, it was as if part of his heart were being cut out. He had tried to forget, to accept that Archie was gone. He had wanted Simpson's blood. But even that had not erased the memories ... or eased the pain. He had found him again, in Spain, had sat beside his bed and closed his eyes tightly, wanting to frighten away the strange urges that stirred in him when he had held Archie in his arms. It was … unnatural. It was wonderful. It was unbearable, now, to want it and not to have it.

Archie slid his chair further back and propped his feet on the table. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple."

"It is for you. You always find a way to succeed. And not only to succeed, but to impress those who can advance your career. You even manage to do it with your honour intact. There was a star danced, Horatio, and under it were you born." His eyes had softened, and he quickly looked down at his wine. "Someday you will be Admiral Hornblower, Lord of the Fleet. And I will still be Lieutenant Kennedy. If I haven’t been court-martialed and hanged for spoiling a mission."

"Archie, it grieves me to hear such talk. What happened that night was none of your fault." He had had to tell Archie what had happened that night -- because Archie's memory ended with their boarding a jolly-boat to attack the Papillon, and began again when Spanish sailors had hauled him aboard their vessel a prisoner.

"The others didn't see it that way."

"The others didn't understand."

"And do you?" The question was barely a whisper.

"Of course I do." Horatio could not keep the hurt from his voice. "If I were Admiral of the Fleet, I could have any officers I wanted aboard my vessel, couldn't I? We shall always be together."

Archie swung his feet off the table and turned away.

Horatio noted the wayward strands of hair that hung softly over Archie's collar. He fought the urge to smooth them into place. He realized he was clinching his own hands so tightly his fingers hurt. Perhaps he should change the subject before disaster struck. But he could think of nothing else to talk about. The subjects that had once seemed so important -- the prospects for battle, his dreams of promotion, wondering what the Indy would encounter over the next horizon -- all these things paled beside the man sitting across from him now. Because none of those things would matter if he couldn't have Archie.

He thought Archie felt the same way. Hector had been positive that he did. Perhaps the hurts Jack Simpson had inflicted were deeper than either of them realized. Or perhaps they had both been simply wrong.

Horatio took a deep breath. "Archie … you do want us to be together, don't you?"

He felt his heart pounding louder in his chest with each passing second that Archie did not answer the question. His heart moved to his throat as seconds stretched to minutes.

"For godssake, Archie …" Then he noticed the slight, steady movement of the back and shoulders that betrayed silent tears.

Quietly Horatio moved behind him, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. The muscles tensed beneath his touch. This was unbearable. "Please. I -- did not intend for this to happen," he said softly.

Archie was wiping at his eyes with his sleeve, but remained silent.

"Archie … you are so very dear to me." Horatio stroked the silky hair, gathering up the loose locks in his fingers. He had imagined touching Archie like that, as they walked together along the Spanish beach, looking out to the endless sea. The warm breeze had tousled his hair then, and made his loose open white shirt flutter, revealing the warm bare skin of his chest. In this dream world, Horatio had put his arms around his waist, and Archie had turned to him, smiling, pulling him closer until their lips met, tasting of the salt air and each other. In this dream world, Horatio had softly whispered "yes", and Archie's quick skillful fingers worked frantically at the buttons of Horatio's uniform. They had swayed in each other's arms and collapsed on the hot sand. Murmuring greedy phrases (I want... I need... Give me...) Archie pulled and tugged their trousers out of the way, Horatio rolled them over and ground himself down against Archie. And Archie cried out in triumph, arching against Horatio and clinging to him, taking everything Horatio was willing to offer him...

There was no warm Spanish breeze in the little cabin, but the taste of the salt air lingered. The feel of his hair …

"Don’t."

The severity of the command caught Horatio off-guard, and he instantly removed his hand. "Forgive me -- I thought -- "

Archie turned to face him. His eyes were dry now. "What -- that I’d turn over for you as easy as his Lordship did?"

Horatio was stunned. It took him a moment to find his voice. "How did you know?"

Archie gave a mirthless laugh. "He was practically stripping off your uniform with his eyes. And the way you looked when you came back from his camp … I wasn't sure, but I had guessed. And now I know."

Horatio resumed his seat, all of his earlier good cheer vanished. He swallowed a mouthful of wine. Archie would never understand what had happened that afternoon in Edrington's tent. Horatio hadn't expected it -- but he hadn't stopped it either. He hadn't wanted to stop it.

"You wanted him," Archie said bleakly. Or was it a question?

If you had been in my place … , Horatio thought. If you knew how his words could bewitch and what his kisses can do, or what it feels like to be held in the arms of a man who knows just where to touch you to set you on fire … "Do you despise me for it?" he asked hoarsely.

"Horatio … do you -- ?" Archie took a sip of his wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was gripping his mug so tightly his knuckles had whitened. He gave a little sigh. "Despise you? No. But I can't be what he was to you. I cannot."

"Is that all you thought I wanted from you, Archie?"

He slammed the mug down on the table, sloshing wine across its rough surface. "I don't know what you want! I only know that I have nothing to give."

Archie looked empty, alone, and frightened. Was this the same man who had dashed across the bridge at Muzillac and snatched him from nearly certain death? "That cannot be true." Horatio's eyes were pleading.

Archie closed his, not wanting to risk losing himself in that glance. His mouth was set firmly. "You know nothing about me."

"You've told me so little. Even though I did ask." Their long conversations in the Spanish prison had often dwelt on their early years, but Horatio had done most of the talking. Archie's few reminiscences had involved favourite games and cherished pets, and very little more.

"You wouldn't like it." He was chewing on one of his nails, his eyes downcast.

Horatio had a sudden shivering feeling at the base of his spine that he was about to open Pandora's box and unleash all the demons of Hades into this small room. What have I done? Why couldn't I have left things as they were? Even now, all closed up and distraught, Archie was beautiful. Beautiful in a way that frightened Horatio to the depths of his soul.

"There is nothing you could tell me that would change my feelings for you. Nothing."

"It isn't what you think." He was still avoiding Horatio's eyes.

That there was someone else .. is someone else. How could he know what I was thinking? But … thank God.

"Pour me another, Horatio."

"You're drinking too fast. You'll be ill."

"Just do it." He proffered his mug, and downed most of it in a few gulps.

"My father was of humble birth. He made a fortune as a cloth merchant. Enough to make a good marriage, to the daughter of a baronet. She bore my father two black-haired, black-hearted sons like himself. And then there was me."

Horatio regarded Archie's fair hair and blue eyes. "You resemble your mother, then?"

"No. If only I had. My mother's hair was dark, her eyes were brown. No, sadly, I was the very image of the rector. I am told he was my mother's confidante. He would come to visit her often. Rectors do that sort of thing, I suppose they have nothing better to do."

Horatio looked away. "Was he your father?"

"I don't know. But my father -- Mr. Kennedy, that is -- thought so. He never said so outright, of course, but he made his hatred of me obvious. He would even call me Johnnie. The rector's name was John, you see. I would run in tears to my mother and ask her why, and all she ever said was, 'It pleases him to do so, never you mind'. It was my dear brother who gifted me with the knowledge of the truth on my tenth birthday. 'You're a bastard,' he said. 'You're a dirty bastard, Johnnie, Johnnie, Johnnie.'"

Horatio reached out to him to offer comfort, but he shrugged away.

"My mother died the following year. The day after the funeral, he sent me away. He wouldn't have dared while she lived. Not that she ever gave me any affection. But she wouldn't have allowed that. Could I have another cup?"

Horatio poured the last of the wine into Archie's mug.

"The Avon was my new home. Captain Raiford."

"I've heard of neither the ship nor the captain."

"You wouldn't have. The Avon has been at the bottom of the sea for years. And if God is just, Raiford is in hell."

"Archie … you don't have to go on ..."

"No. You wanted to know. You will know it all. Raiford fancied me."

Horatio stared, unable to speak for a moment. He wanted to believe this was all a bad dream. He wanted Archie to stop talking. But the box was open and the demons of Hades were even now flying around the room, tearing at his mortal skin with their teeth. What have I done? "But -- you were a child."

"Yes. He fancied boys. There are men like that, or didn't you know? He would bend me over his sea chest and bugger me till I cried. That was what he liked most, you see. And at first, I'd try not to cry. Boys are notorious for their foolish pride. But soon I realized that my pride gained me nothing but more pain. And so I'd cry for him and he'd get his satisfaction, and it would be over for another night."

"How long did it go on?" Horatio's voice shook. He put his mug down, as his hands were shaking too.

"Forever. A long time …. four years. He told me he'd throw me overboard in the dead of night if I ever breathed a word to anyone. And so I didn't. I haven't. Until now." He drained the last of his drink. "There was a storm off the coast of Cornwall. We tried to return to port, but the Avon was wrecked on the Stag Rocks. Old Raiford was swept right off the poop deck. I stood there, holding onto the rail, and watched him thrashing around in the waves. Two senior lieutenants stood there with me, and neither of them went to his aid. The masts were breaking up, and I was pinned underneath when it all crashed down. That's all I remember of that night. Someone got me into a boat, I never knew how. I was given leave to recover from my injuries at my aunt's home in London."

"That was kind of the Admiralty."

"Kindness had nothing to do with it. It saved them paying my board in a rooming house. But I was thankful. Those were the happiest six months of my life, Horatio. The only happiness I've ever known. I didn't want to leave, ever. In the last weeks I went to the theatre, nearly every day."

"And that was where you met Kitty Cobham?"

"Yes. Didn't actually know her, of course. But I saw her many times. And John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons too. I thought … "

Archie was staring at the empty mug in his hands. His eyes were distant. Perhaps, Horatio thought, they were fixed on some imaginary stage, where costumed actors created an illusory world that had spoken to Archie's heart. What was it Shakespeare had written? We are such stuff as dreams are made on …

Somewhere beyond the door, a crewman passed a command along the line in a loud voice. Archie's head snapped up, the dream lost. "What was that?" he whispered.

"They don't want us."

"I forgot what I was saying."

Horatio smiled. "I told you not to drink so fast. Something about your thoughts when you were at the theatre."

"Oh. Funny, isn't it. I don't remember what I was about to say. At any rate, it ended, and I was posted to the Justinian."

Horatio noticed the change in Archie's face at the mention of the ship's name. Whatever fond memories he'd had of Drury Lane, his service under Captain Keene was a tragedy. Not the tragedy of the theatre, where the dead arise behind closed curtains and go home to their families, but the tragedy of life, which had scratched new scars on Archie's already wounded heart.

"Jack." Horatio's flesh still crawled just speaking the name.

"Yes. Jack." Archie took a deep breath. "I never told him about Captain Raiford. He just -- he knew."

"And he used it to hurt you."

"Yes. And he knew about the circumstances of my birth. He made me tell him that."

Horatio pondered asking how, but refrained.

Archie suddenly got up. "So you see, I was Captain Raiford's boy. Then Jack's boy. And I have no interest in becoming yours." He made for the door.

"Archie!" Horatio blocked his path. "Please. It wouldn't be like that."

"Get out of my way."

Abashed, Horatio moved aside and Archie walked out. He picked up the empty bottle. Hector's note -- "Not meant to be enjoyed alone" -- still dangled from a string around the neck. "Well. That didn't go well, did it?" Horatio said aloud. Opening his chest, he moved shirts and stockings and blankets aside until he found his box of paper and writing materials.

The letter written and sealed, Horatio draped himself across his bed fully dressed. The aftertaste of the wine was bitter in his mouth. Wearily, he closed his eyes.

"That didn't go well, did it?" the pale figure mocked.

"Is that you, Jack?" Horatio was determined to keep the fear out of his voice. "Get out of my cabin! You have no right to be here."

"He still belongs to me, snotty. He always will." Jack's feral grin tore at his soul.

"You're not man enough," said the hollow voice.

Horatio awoke with a start. Jack's ghost stood between him and Archie like a spectral balustrade, which, despite its formlessness, would not be breached.

****

The weather was mild and breezy, and as they were not long out of port, the food was fresh. Horatio's men went ably about their daily tasks without complaint. Captain Pellew was pleased with the prospects for action within the coming week, and his enthusiasm had pervaded the ranks of the Indefatigable. It should have been heaven. Why then, did it feel so much like hell?

Archie avoided him when he could, going about his new duties as a lieutenant with a plodding, workmanlike efficiency which seemed designed to keep him occupied when Horatio was off-duty, and asleep when Horatio had watch.

"Sir?"

Horatio had not heard Matthews approach. He was grateful for the interruption, and hoped for something that would require his considerable effort and attention. Time passed faster and less painfully when he was busy. "What is it, Matthews?"

"Nothing really, sir. I just wanted to say that -- sir, if there's anything I can do to help. I would like to."

Horatio was touched by the awkwardly-stated offer, but at the same time he felt anger welling within. Not at Matthews, but at himself for being unable to hide his emotional state from his men. And at Archie for being the cause of it. He bit his lip. A man of Matthews' years and wisdom would not be fooled by a fatuous denial. "There is nothing you can do, Matthews. But thank you."

Matthews seemed relieved that he had not given offense. He turned to go, then hesitated.

"Was there something else, Matthews?"

"No, sir. Nothing of any consequence, sir." He fished around in the ample pocket of his coat and withdrew a battered logbook. "I believe this belongs to Mr. -- to Lieutenant Kennedy. He must've left it on deck last afternoon. I was going to look for him to return it, but I was sent to bring up some rope and I'd best hurry as the boatswain is in a rare foul mood, beset with a horrifying toothache he is, and --"

"Matthews."

"Sir?"

"I'll return it."

"Oh, would you, sir? That would relieve my mind, if it isn't any bother --"

Horatio took the logbook, trying to suppress a smile. "Go and get the rope, Matthews."

"Aye, sir. On my way, sir."

Horatio paused outside the door. He could hear Archie moving around within. A chair scraped against the floor. A rusty-hinged chest groaned open. He probably had his coat off, perhaps his shirt as well. Horatio's groin stirred at the thought. Breathing faster than he wanted to, he knocked softly, then opened the door.

The coat and shirt were draped carelessly over the back of the chair. Archie stood just outside the glow of a small lantern on the table. Horatio did not know whether to be disappointed or thankful that Archie's bare chest was not lit by that soft light.

"I brought you this," he said, handing him the logbook.

A long moment of silence. "Thank you. Put it on the table."

Archie retreated further into the shadows. Horatio took a step forward. "You look tired."

"I am. I was on my way to bed."

He knew he was being invited to leave. "Dammit, why can't you trust me?" It came out harsher than he'd intended. He was finding it increasingly more difficult to bear the isolation, the distance that Archie had put between them. From the moment they'd met, they had been friends. Friendship had deepened into something more for Horatio -- and foolishly, he had tried to put it into words. Now Archie was further from him than ever.

"It has nothing to do with trust. Let me be, Horatio. I'm exhausted."

"I only wanted to -- "

Archie had gone over to the table to put out the lantern. His hair suddenly shone gold, and the shadows flickered across his naked flesh. Without thinking, Horatio took him by the shoulders and pulled him into an embrace.

"Don't touch me like that." He hadn't said it harshly, the way he had put Horatio off before. It was more of a plea; his head turned sideways, his eyes tightly shut.

"For the love of God, Archie, am I so loathsome to you?"

Horatio's lips were trembling, their cheeks nearly touching. Archie felt the warmness of Horatio's breath tickling his ear, followed by a brief tingling in his loins. But then it died, and he stiffened.

"I won't hurt you, Archie."

The soft words only seemed to make it worse. Archie struggled against the restraining arms.

"You do believe me, don’t you?"

Archie was breathing rapidly, almost panting. Horatio brought his cheek closer, touching. Was Archie's cheek tear-moist, or was he feeling his own tears? How could he think I would hurt him, ever? How could he?

"I believed Jack once. He said he’d never hurt me."

"I love you, Archie. Did he say that too?"

Horatio felt Archie's body shudder briefly in his arms, felt him breathe in deeply.

"No," Archie finally managed.

Horatio stroked Archie's back with his hand. The feel of the warm bare skin was almost more than he could endure. He planted a small kiss on the exposed shoulder. "Let me help you, Archie, please."

"Don't." He shrugged out of Horatio's grasp. "Don't you understand? I'm a leper. I'm unclean."

Horatio felt the room sway. "I cannot bear to hear you say such things of yourself." The look in Archie's eyes frightened him.

"God damn it, don't pity me." Archie's voice was brittle.

"Pity you? Never. You are the bravest man I have ever known."

"Is that supposed to be a jest?" Archie glared at him.

"No! To have endured what you did at the hands of Captain Raiford and Jack Simpson, and then to have survived in the Spanish prison -- I could not have done it."

"You would have, Horatio. Far better than I did. You stood up to Jack."

"I was no child. And now I wish I had not so rashly given up the opportunity to kill him myself," he said, his voice quaking with emotion. Horatio turned away, hoping that the tears he felt welling in his eyes would not be seen.

"Don't wish such a thing. It would have been in cold blood."

"Was ever blood colder than his?" Horatio spat.

"Let it go, Horatio."

"For days I have thought of little else but those abominable stories you told me. How can I let it go when I see what it has done to you?"

"Because you must. Because it's better this way."

"Better for whom?" Horatio asked bitterly. "Archie, I need you."

"Why don't you go back to your pretty lord?"

The angry question took Horatio utterly by surprise. "My 'pretty lord', as you say, is in Ireland, for God knows how long."

The sharp sting of Archie's fist contacting his jaw was an even greater surprise. He lost his footing and fell heavily against the cot. "Why did you do that?" he demanded, picking himself up.

"I didn't mean it."

"I think you did," Horatio countered. "I apologize if I offended you."

"You needn't. I've no claims on you."

"Neither does Lord Edrington, don't you understand that?"

Archie's eyes narrowed. "That is repulsive, Horatio, to let him have his way with you, yet you feel nothing for him."

"I didn't say that. I didn't say I felt nothing for him."

"Do you?" Archie challenged.

"Do you care?" Horatio shot back.

Archie only hesitated a moment. "No."

"Archie -- "

"I have more important things to concern myself with than your romantic delusions, Lieutenant Hornblower. Goodnight"

Horatio stalked out without replying, leaving the door ajar.

"Damn, damn, damn." Archie slammed his fist into the wall. It would be bruised tomorrow, he knew. He didn't care.

***

Horatio's anger had not cooled when he reached his cabin. His coat came off too quickly, a button flew and skittered across the floor. The remains of his rum rested on the table. He didn't want it, warm, sickly-stale stuff that it was. But he wanted to sleep now, and he drank it all.

The alcohol helped ease the anger into gloom. He stared at the ceiling. Ah, yes, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. He had been so sure that Archie wanted what he wanted. "You have not seen the way he looks at you …" Hector had told him. No, but he had seen the way Archie looked at him a few moments ago. Like a foul and foreboding thing, a vexation to be pushed away and struck in the face. For who would bear it? … The pangs of despis'd love. His pistol was within reach. Oh, no -- no! Conscience does make cowards of us all …

He closed his eyes, and it was Archie declaiming the soliloquy on the stage, Drury Lane, a place Horatio had never seen but through Archie's eyes.

Hamlet, who was Archie, bowed with a flourish, beckoned to him between consciousness and sleep. Horatio walked towards him, but with each step the figure retreated further into the shadows, into the hidden depths of the stage, out of his reach. He called to him, screamed his name aloud. And then the curtain began to close, a great black thing which inched ever downward, separating him forever from Hamlet, who was Archie. He saw a figure in the wings, his hand on the rope that lowered the curtain. A gaunt, dead-pale, hooded figure who suddenly turned to him, threw back the hood, showing his face a grinning skull.

"Jack -- no!"

The leering figure began applauding, slowly at first, then faster and faster, the sound of his hands clapping together cracking in the empty theatre like pistol shots.

"Oh God, no, please!"

Horatio awoke with sweat in his eyes. And now it was terrifyingly real. Jack was standing over him, shaking him.

"Mr. H, easy there. You must've been dreaming, sir."

No, not Jack. He read concern on the face of Midshipman Ainsley. "Yes, thank you. Sorry to have disturbed you," he said shakily. His heart was still pounding.

"It's no matter, sir. I was passing by and heard you shouting. We all have them now and again, don't we? Why, I've had one since childhood. Frightens the daylights out of me, even after all these years. When I was a boy in Hothfield …"

You're still a boy, Horatio thought. The droning of Ainsley's voice receded into the background as he let his mind drift back to happier times. Ironically, those times had been spent in a prison cell.

"-- and I'm standing on the frozen lake when all of a sudden the ice gives way and I go under -- "

The young midshipman spun his tale as Horatio slipped once more into troubled slumber.

***

"Lieutenant Hornblower! Sir!"

Horatio's heart sank. How many times had his name been called? "Aye, sir, sorry, sir."

Captain Pellew's face was stern. "My quarters. One hour."

Horatio passed the time by berating Oldroyd for some minor failure.

He found Pellew at his desk, reading. He envied Sir Edward Pellew. Nothing ever seemed to disturb his fixity of purpose. No dreams of fair-haired lovers diverted his attention to his duty. What was pain to a man like that? Watching a French frigate slip over the horizon out of the reach of his guns?

"Would you like to tell me about it, Lieutenant Hornblower?"

"It is -- nothing, sir. It will not happen again."

"It is not 'nothing' when it effects the performance of one of my officers. Did you think I hadn't noticed?" His eyes continued to drift lazily back and forth across the text.

"No, sir. Rather, I -- I apologize for my inattentiveness of late. I assure you --"

"Sit down." The captain turned another page. "When you feel able, Lieutenant, you may proceed."

Horatio stared at his lap. How did one make a formal report on one's most intimate thoughts? Aye, sir, the weather is clear, we've good wind, sailing southwest at eight knots, and I'm in love with Archie Kennedy … No sign of enemy ships this morning, sir, but last night I caressed my pillow and imagined it was him …

Something must be said. Horatio chose the obvious. "It concerns Jack Simpson, sir."

Pellew looked up in surprise. "But Simpson is dead." He appeared genuinely puzzled.

"Yes, sir. I saw him die, saw his body committed to the earth. But Mr. Kennedy did not."

"Ah." The captain frowned a while in thought. He had not liked Simpson from the beginning, and had suspected his toadying mannerisms as a cover for a brutish nature. He'd known many such men during his service -- usually men who, like Simpson, had been denied promotion and made up for their feelings of inadequacy by terrorizing their mates. He could imagine young midshipmen like Kennedy and Hornblower being bullied by the likes of Jack Simpson. It was a rite of passage, and one he'd undergone himself in his early years at the hands of an embittered petty officer.

"And Mr. Kennedy finds it difficult to forget?" Pellew asked at last. "They will fade in time, the memories of the beatings. So I'd not worry too much about it. Young men are regularly thrashed by their seniors. I was in my day, as I'm sure every officer aboard this ship was in his."

Horatio was stung by his captain's seeming nonchalance. "Sir, you don't mean --   it wasn't just -- if only they had been beatings and not -- "

"Well, what more was it?" Pellew's brows knitted.

Horatio started to speak, then lowered his head. The question had taken him by surprise. "He -- he took liberties with him, sir. He used him."

"Good God."

Horatio met Pellew's gaze, astonished. "When you said -- I thought you meant -- I thought you knew."

"You thought I knew!" Fury clouded the captain's eyes, as he flung the book aside. He rose and strode over to the window. "Mr. Hornblower, do you suppose I am the sort of man who would have such a -- a monster at my own table? That I would entrust him on a mission with my young officers? What sort of monster do you think I am, Mr. Hornblower?"

Horatio's stomach twisted into tight knots. "Forgive me, sir."

"No, I don't think I shall."

There was no anger in his voice, only hurt. Horatio buried his face in his hands.

Slowly, Pellew turned to face him. "Horatio…"

He raised his head, willing his lips to stop quivering. He would not break down again in front of his captain.

"Did he -- " Pellew's mouth moved in an odd way. "Was it -- was it only Mr. Kennedy?" He turned slightly, hiding his clenched fists behind his back.

Horatio realized what the captain must be thinking. "He never touched me like that, sir."

Pellew swallowed audibly.

"But there were others, there must have been. They were all afraid of him."

Pellew grimaced, hoping Jack Simpson was burning in the innermost circle of hell. "Why didn't Mr. Kennedy tell me?"

"He was ashamed. It was not the first time someone had --" Horatio broke off, regretting having said that much. He had already unburdened himself to Lord Edrington in a letter. It was another matter to betray Archie's confidence to his own captain.

"Go on, Lieutenant."

"Sir, I shouldn't have spoken of it. It was -- years ago, aboard a ship called the Avon. The man is dead now." Horatio eyed the decanter of brandy on the sideboard, wishing Pellew would offer him a glass to calm his nerves.

Recognition dawned in Pellew's eyes. "The Avon … yes. Thomas Raiford. I knew him. Knew him and his reputation. Dear God. And Mr. Kennedy served under him?"

"His first posting. He was just a boy."

Pellew took a deep breath. "I see." He reached for the brandy.

"Thank you, sir," Horatio said, gratefully accepting the small glass. "When Captain Raiford was lost at sea, I suppose he thought he had escaped. But his next post was the Justianian. And it happened again. I should have done something. I should have found a way to stop Simpson. I -- I tried. I thought I could protect him," Horatio blundered on, the words tumbling out now. "I failed even to protect myself."

The captain put a hand on his shoulder. "It was not your responsibility."

"But is was. It is." He was struck by the enormity of his own admission. What would Pellew make of that?

If he read more into the words than concern for a friend, his face did not show it.

"I commend your noble motives, Horatio. But you cannot fight another man's battles for him. Time heals all wounds, as they say. I am sure it will be the same for Mr. Kennedy. And as for you -- channel your passions into those pursuits which will advance your career."

It was the sort of advice Pellew liked to give his protégé. Horatio doubted he would be able to follow it. "Thank you, sir," he said. "And for the brandy."

After he had gone, Pellew sat at his desk for a long while holding his empty glass. Mechanically, he poured himself another and downed it at a gulp.

Horatio made his way to the deck. The noonday sun was a jarring contrast to his mood as he walked to his station. He willed himself to concentrate on his duties, to put Archie out of mind until his watch ended and he could return to his cabin and his dreams.

The sea sparkled, and a cooling mist brushed against his face.

"I hope you didn't draw a punishment."

Horatio whirled around. Archie stood there, looking at him, the sun at his back.

"I did not," he said. "How did you know where I was?"

"I saw what happened on deck this morning."

You and half the crew, Horatio thought miserably. What must they think of me? This had to end, somehow. "I must see you. Tonight."

Archie looked away. "There's nothing more to be said."

"Please, Archie. Only for a moment."

"If you must," he replied, walking away without looking back.

***

His cabin was stuffy, and an untidy mess. Archie threw off his coat and kicked his shoes under the table. He searched through a pile of clutter on the floor until he found his journal. He had not written an entry for weeks. There had been only one since Muzillac. He traced the lines with his finger -- an aimless scrawl, not like Horatio's neat, well-formed hand. He had scratched a small map of the area on the opposite page, to jog his memory in the event he ever got around to writing a real account of the action. He doubted that he would. Below that, he had made little drawings of various objects -- a sword, a flower, and a bell. And then came his most recent entry: 9 June, fair weather - rising winds from the south - Hell, O hell forever. Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus being in hell forever?

He cast the journal aside and slept.

He slept naked, and in his sleep Horatio would come to him, shake him gently awake and plead with him to love him until he was sated … Horatio knelt before him, taking his cock in his hot mouth and drinking his fill, then pulling Archie down on top of him, wanting more. Archie would ride him, and Horatio, like a stallion, would buck with pleasure beneath him. They tumbled together in ecstasy, touching, groping, loving ... Archie knew the feel of Horatio's hands -- the long, delicate fingers and callused palms that stroked his chest, his backside, his balls … and there was never enough time for either of them to take all they wanted. It would go on until Archie awoke, cold and empty, and alone. And in the darkness and the emptiness, he saw Lord Edrington, and it was he whose caresses Horatio craved, and Archie would cry out "Why did you take him from me?", but Edrington only shook his head sadly, and Horatio looked at him as if he were a stranger.

***

Horatio knocked softly on the cabin door, and without waiting for a response, stepped inside. He looked at his feet. That made things easier. He clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. "Archie -- this is unacceptable. If we cannot even be friends, at least let us conduct ourselves as fellow officers."

"Very well." Archie did not seem surprised. His voice was distant and hollow.

"I would -- prefer that we be friends as well. We once were."

"Yes."

Well, get on with it. Horatio took a deep breath. "Before I -- before I said some very silly things to you that I should not have said. I retract what I said, and I will not say such things to you again. You have my apologies." Despite his best efforts, his voice broke on the last words.

Archie was still looking away from him. "It is I who should apologize. I should not have -- there are times, still, when I want to die. To forget. You are far better off without me, Horatio. I have brought you nothing but misery."

"Surely you don't believe that, Archie. The happiest moments I've known were spent with you."

"You deserve so much more than I can give you," Archie said softly, to the wall.

"Oh, Archie --"

"Go, please go. You have my -- my friendship, Horatio. You always have."

Horatio dared not push further. He had more than he'd hoped for.

"I am yours. Even though you can never be mine," Archie whispered, but Horatio was gone.

Archie searched for the journal and tore out the page with the map of Muzillac. He crumpled it up and tossed it on the floor. On the fresh new page, he scribbled an entry: "21 June. It is finished."

***

Horatio watched the fog lift. It would have to do, he supposed. Perhaps the passage of time would bring back the intimacy he'd shared with Archie during their second imprisonment in Spain, when they had whiled away the long hours sharing stories of their past and their dreams of the future. So much of Archie's life had been filled with grief. Horatio longed to change that, but all he'd done was to make matters worse. At least Archie had been amenable to returning to the status quo ante bellum -- they would serve together, perhaps have an occasional talk about the weather or the chances of battle or the sorry state of the food, just as they had in the early days aboard the Justinian. Would that be enough? No, but it would have to do.

"Masthead there!"

Horatio snapped around, peering into the mists.

"Silent, fore and aft!" Pellew's voice.

The frigate was flying French colours. The next few minutes were a maelstrom of shouted commands and scurrying seamen. The drum beat to quarters and as Horatio raced to his station, the roaring of the cannons drove thoughts of Archie Kennedy from his mind.

The Indefatigable poured shot into the enemy vessel until she lay helpless, her fore and main top-masts gone. But still she did not strike her colours. Horatio was ordered to lead one of the boarding parties, although what opposing force could be left on those shattered decks he could not imagine.

The carnage aboard the devastated Lucien was appalling. Everywhere the cries of the wounded and dying assaulted his ears. What crew were left fought like enraged beasts. No prisoners would be taken here. Horatio emptied his pistol into a French officer whose uniform was already stained deep red.

"Behind you!"

Horatio turned, and saw the musket aimed at his heart. There was no time to reload, no time to reach the enemy with his cutlass. There was only a split second to realize that it had been Archie's voice that had warned him, too late, and to offer a brief prayer. "Unto thee, O Lord, I commend my soul …"

He heard the crack of the musket, saw the world go shadowy, felt himself going backwards, hitting hard against the blood-washed deck. As awareness faded to black, his last thought was how odd it was that there had been no pain.

***

Horatio opened his eyes and closed them immediately. The glare of the light hurt. His head throbbed painfully. Somewhere above him he heard familiar voices.

One was Oldroyd's. "Just knocked senseless, that's all. Hit his head on the deck."

"Fortunate thing. Fortunate thing for him, that's for sure." That sounded like Matthews.

Horatio tried to move. There was still no pain except for the unrelenting pounding in his head.

"Saw what happened." Oldroyd again. "Over by where I was standing, next to the rail. He was a dead man, I reckoned. Frog bastard had him for certain. Then just like that, Mr. Kennedy steps in front of him."

Horatio's mind reeled. He clenched his eyes tight, hoping to drive away this bad dream.

"Aye, saved his life he did. Poor Mr. Kennedy."

"Hush! He's coming around."

It was Matthews' face hovering over him. "Easy there, sir, you'd best rest a bit more. Hard lick you took there."

"Archie …" Horatio strained to bear the glare of the light in his eyes.

Matthews looked away, but Horatio had his hands on the man's shirt. "Matthews, tell me."

"They moved him to his cabin, sir. One of the lads is with him."

"Help me up."

"Sir, I don't think you should be doing this. You've a right big apple on the back of your head."

"I said help me." Horatio, holding onto Matthews, pulled himself to a sitting position. The walls spun around him in a dizzying dance. "Get me something to drink."

A cup was brought, and he drained it at a gulp.

"There's no stopping him," Matthews said unhappily. "Oldroyd, take him to Mr. Kennedy."

"I can make it alone," Horatio protested.

"No, sir, you can't." Oldroyd pulled Horatio's arm around his shoulder and guided him towards the door.

 The little cabin was hot and the air was foul. As Horatio entered, Captain Pellew turned towards him.

"I thought you said --" Horatio began.

"Styles was with him when I left, sir," Oldroyd said.

"That will be all, Oldroyd." The Captain spoke without looking up.

"Aye, sir." The seaman backed away from the door and closed it behind him.

"You should not be here," Pellew said softly. He rose from the only chair and motioned Horatio to sit.

Bloody bandages covered Archie's shoulder and chest. Fresh blood, bright red. His shallow breathing was barely noticeable, his face ghastly pale.

"Archie …"

"He isn't conscious. Hasn't been since they brought him here." Pellew put a hand on the young lieutenant's shoulder. "I'm terribly sorry."

Pellew didn't have to say it. Men rarely recovered from such wounds -- and never at sea. The surgeon had done what he could, then sent him here to die.

***

Horatio had kept this vigil before, in Spain. Archie had wanted to die then. Then it had only been a matter of convincing him to eat -- forcing him if necessary. Telling him how much he needed him. It was no convenient lie -- he had needed him. And not just to expedite their escape. But now …what had he said short days ago? Sometimes I still want to die. To forget. Horatio felt himself drowning in deep, dark waves of helplessness.

Lost in his thoughts, Horatio had not noticed Archie had wakened.

"Horatio .."

"Archie … hush, I'm here."

"Dreamed you were … couldn't find you …" Archie was not looking at him, but at the ceiling above, his eyes bright with fever.

Horatio moved closer, placing a cool hand on Archie's hot cheek. "I won't leave you."

It seemed that a slight smile played at the corners of Archie's mouth. "Best thing I have ever done. … won't say I'm unfit now …."

"Dear God. Is that why you did this? No one has said that of you," Horatio lied. Jack Simpson had. And he had convinced others.

"No … not why …"

Horatio regretted his question. "Never you mind, you mustn't try to speak now."

"Hurts …"

"I know. Let me get you a drink of water." He opened the bottle the surgeon has given him and poured a few precious drops of laudanum into the cup. "Not too much," Dr. Hepplewhite had said, "for too much is fatal." Horatio held the bottle, his hand shaking. It would be so dreadfully easy to end Archie's suffering, to spare him what he knew was coming soon. Horatio had watched men die before. Sick at heart, he gazed at the lines of pain around Archie's eyes. "Oh Archie, I cannot …" he whispered to himself, replacing the small vial on the table.

He gently raised Archie's head and put the cup to his lips. "This will help you sleep."

The slight movement brought a groan of agony. Archie's eyes were closed now, his lips moved slightly. Horatio leaned closer.

"Horatio … love …you. "

Horatio felt as if the air had suddenly been sucked from his lungs. Had he said it, or was he deluding himself? He closed his eyes, squeezing out tears that streamed down his cheeks. "Why -- why?" he softly demanded of God. His grief and the lack of sleep combined to torture his mind with demonic voices. One was his own, speaking to Archie: "You will not leave me here alone … I will come with you." The other was Pellew's: "Don't be a fool. You have a brilliant future ahead of you. Time heals all wounds." Himself: "There is enough laudanum for both of us." Pellew again: "Kennedy has proved his courage. What will they say of you?"

Horatio dozed finally, his head resting on his hand.

"Sir? Lieutenant Hornblower -- sir?"

He forced his eyelids open. They felt like lead. Styles was the last person he wanted to see at the moment. The burly sailor stood in the doorway.

"Lieutenant Dawson has assumed my duties until -- for the time being," Horatio said, irritation in his voice. Captain Pellew had given him that, and he would be forever grateful.

"Aye, sir. I wasn't meanin' to intrude, sir. I was just bringin' you this."

Styles held out a small item wrapped in greasy brown paper. Horatio was suddenly aware of a foul smell. Not the stench of the sick-room, but something less acrid and earthier.

He wrinkled his nose. "What is that?"

"Medicine, sir. It's for Mr. Kennedy."

"Did the surgeon send this?"

"No, sir." Styles grinned. "Me ma made it. It was all she had to give me when I left home. In case I should ever be wounded. But I haven't, sir. And after all this while, seemed a pity to waste it."

"Thank you, Styles. But I'm afraid it's -- er, spoiled from age." He held it at a distance.

"Spoilt, sir? Oh, no, sir, it smelt that way when it were new made. Powerful stuff, sir. Me ma is a --" Styles coughed. "Everybody comes to her for cures. I saw her save a man who'd been stuck through with a pitchfork using that there. And he were stuck right through the lungs."

"What is it made from?" His curiosity overcame his revulsion. He had often watched his father concoct medicines, but nothing that resembled the oily black mess in the jar.

"The good worts, sir. Betony. Waybread. And butter. And other things," Styles said proudly.

Horatio did not want to know what other things. "Styles, I am grateful for your offer. But I think this would do more harm than good."

The man was crestfallen. "Oh, no, sir. It'll take the poison out. That's a fact, sir."

"That's enough, Styles. Go on now, you'll wake Mr. Kennedy. Leave the door open."

The seaman hesitated. "If you should change yer mind, sir, you just send for me."

Horatio leaned wearily against the bed. "I'll do that. Now go."

Shaking his head and muttering softly under his breath, Styles retreated.

Horatio wrung out a cloth in the water basin and mopped the perspiration from Archie's brow. The fever was on him now. He had seen men linger for days in the throes of wound fever, before the killing heat and the loss of blood stopped the heart.

Life aboard the Indy went on as usual outside the room. Voices. Whistles. Hammering. He took Archie's hot hand in his, rested his head on the side of the bed and drifted back into slumber.

He did not hear Styles' soft footsteps in the night, or the low chant that accompanied his stealthy doings …

Styles blew three times across the dying man's chest and quickly backed out the door.

A shaft of hazy sunlight wakened Horatio. His hand still lay atop Archie's. But something was terribly wrong. He could see that the blood on the bandages was dry, and there was a familiar foul odour in the air. In the dim light, he saw that the bandages had been cut and replaced. Gently, he lifted one end.

"Oh, my God," he breathed. He pulled out his handkerchief and tried to wipe the stuff off. Archie groaned as the cloth touched the wound. Styles' salve had hardened into a crusty black coating.

"Styles!"

It was Oldroyd whose head peered around the door. "He's off duty, sir."

"Find him. Now," Horatio commanded.

"You bloody damned fool! What in God’s name did you think you were doing?" Horatio hissed.

Styles’ head drooped. "I couldn’t let him die, sir. Not if I could help."

"Help? Is that what you call it? Smearing an open wound with this reeking -- witch's brew? I’ll see you charged with murder, Styles." His voice was low and ominous.

"Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but it ain’t murder if he ain’t dead."

"Damn you, Styles --"

"The poison that was in him is blowed away. It will soon be well with him. That’s what Ma always says."

"Get out."

There was nothing to be done for the wound. Any attempt to clean it caused too much pain. But there seemed to be no real mischief worked either. Archie continued to toss restlessly, his breathing still coming in little gasps. Perhaps his breathing was a little steadier. Horatio told himself it was only his aching desire to see it so.

He passed the hours reading one of the books he had found beside Archie's bed -- a well-thumbed edition of Marlowe, containing three plays, all tragedies, none of which he was familiar with. Faustus had kept him awake late into the night. He would have loved to talk about Dr. Faustus with Archie. He had not even noticed morning come, as he turned the page and began the next play, The troublesome Reign and lamentable Death of Edward the Second, King of England. He found it easier to get the sense of the antique prose if he read aloud.

"'Come Gaveston, And share the kingdom with thy dearest friend.' Ah! words that make me surfeit with delight: What greater bliss can hap to Gaveston,  Than live and be the favorite of a king? Sweet prince I come, that these thy amorous lines, Might have enforst me to have swum from France, And like Leander gaspt upon the sand, So thou wouldst smile and take me in thy arms. The sight of London to my exiled eyes, Is as Elizium to a new come soul. Not that I love the city or the men, But that it harbors him I hold so dear, …" Horatio reached for the water to ease his parched throat. It was warm and unpalatable.

"The king, upon whose bosom let me die."

The cup slipped from Horatio's hand. "Archie?"

The sheets and pillow were drenched with sweat, the fair hair lay in damp clumps around Archie's head. But his eyes were open, and no longer shone with fever.

"I like … hearing you read to me," he said softly.

"I didn't know you were awake."

"Not awake ... like dreaming. You were .. on the stage."

Horatio smiled.

"Why is it so cold?" Archie asked suddenly.

Horatio took a blanket from the chest and eased it around Archie's shoulders. "Is that better?"

"Read more."

"Yes, of course. I've lost the place," he said, running his finger down the page. "Ah, it was here.

"'But that it harbors him I hold so dear' … " He looked up and met Archie's eyes. It was some time before he resumed reading.

 ***

It was mid-morning, and the skies were mottled with cooling clouds. A salty breeze whipped across the decks of the Indefatigable. Horatio found Styles on deck working with a crew airing the sails.

"Styles -- I -- I must have a word with you."

Styles looked up from his task and blinked. "Sir?" He sauntered over.

"It concerns your -- your remedy," Horatio said in a low voice. "I find it -- difficult to believe that such a thing could actually have healing properties. But it seems that -- that Mr. Kennedy is recovering."

"Told you he would, sir." Styles smiled smugly

"Yes, you did. I'm sure Mr. Kennedy will thank you himself when he is able."

"He don't have to, sir. I did it for you, sir."

Horatio felt his cheeks warming. "Well … yes, go on with what you were doing. And -- thank you, Mr. Styles."

"Aye, sir." The seaman returned to his duties humming a little tune.

***

"This is almost as bad as the boite," Horatio said, manoeuvering closer to Archie. The tiny storage room had two benefits -- it had a solid door, and it was empty, hence, no one would open the door.

"My time in that hell-hole wouldn't have been so miserable if you had been there with me," Archie mused.

Horatio put his arm around him and pulled him closer, gently, still mindful of the months-old wound which had nearly cost him his life.

"You don't have to treat me as if I'm made of porcelain, you know," Archie grinned at him.

Horatio returned his smile. "I know." But perhaps he always would. He kissed him lightly, running his fingers through the fine blonde hair.

Archie sighed, snuggling closer.

Horatio wished there was not so much clothing between him and what he wanted. This was not the first time they had stolen a few moments of privacy, but it had never gone beyond what they were doing now. He had to go slowly, he knew. At first he had to consider Archie's health -- it had taken many weeks for him to regain his strength. And afterwards, he had patiently waited for Archie to want his touches. Slowly, they had exorcised the ghost of Jack Simpson. Archie had not mentioned Lord Edrington again -- Horatio hoped that obstacle had also been overcome.

Horatio kissed him again, this time more deeply, letting his tongue explore, thrilling to the feel of Archie sucking on it. He cupped Archie's chin in his hand and savoured the acceptance and love he saw in his eyes. Encouraged, he let his hand wander down the front of Archie's shirt. It came to rest between his legs.

Archie shifted nervously. "Don't bother. That part of me is dead, Horatio. Literally."

Horatio refused to be discouraged. He massaged Archie's cock gently. "I could help you," he soothed.

"Do you think I haven't tried?" He took Horatio's hand and moved it.

"Come here."

"But I can't --" The anguish in Archie's voice tore at Horatio's heart.

"It's alright, Archie. It's alright. I don't care. Please. Don't turn away from me again, I couldn't bear it. Promise me you never will."

Archie rested his head against Horatio's chest, an arm going across his waist. "Promise."

"I won't do anything you don't want me to do."

Archie had relaxed again, in Horatio's arms. Horatio tenderly nuzzled his cheek.

"What you're doing now is very nice." He glanced up at Horatio through half-closed eyes.

It felt good, having Archie close to him. But it hurt, too, the knowledge that he must suppress desires that Archie could not satisfy. He continued to stroke Archie's hair and plant little kisses on his temple. Within moments, Archie was dozing comfortably on his shoulder.

Horatio released his cock from the tight confines of his trousers. He spread the droplets that formed at its head over the shaft and began pumping it with his free hand. Closing his eyes, he tried to isolate the scent in the little room that was Archie. Leaning his head sideways, he buried his nose in Archie's hair. He was hard now, thinking of Archie doing this for him, Archie claiming his cock with his mouth, Archie baring his arse and begging him to come inside him. He bit back a cry as the hot juices flowed over his hand. He body gave a little shudder of pleasure and relief.

Sighing, he looked down, into Archie's open eyes. Hurriedly, he pulled his trousers up with one hand. "You were -- watching?"

"Only for a moment," Archie said wistfully.

"I --"

Archie put a finger to Horatio's lips. "No. Don't explain. Kiss me again, please."

Horatio did, until he had to breathe.

Archie clung to him. "You're a fool, you know," he whispered.

"I'm not. Someday, Archie --"

"May never come," Archie finished. "You could have anyone you wanted."

"I don't want anyone. I want you. And I would rather have this with you -- " he kissed Archie softly on the lips " -- than anything. Anyone else." He held him for a moment, wishing it could last forever. "We should go now," he said. "The watch will be changing soon."

"Until -- again?"

"Until, Archie."

Not An End - Merely a Temporary Lull in the Action
Continued in Interlude

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