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Some sailors have a love of superstition. More than they love their rum. More than they love and hate the sight of dry land, the threat and promise of hard work. There's something about life at sea that can make them shake at the sight of white birds in the sky or rain falling on a new captain's hat. It's a different sort of mathematics to what the clever officers bend their heads towards, and sometimes to Bush it makes more sense, too.
Most of the men's superstitions have to do with bad fortune -- foul weather, fire, unexpected rocks. Not too many have to do with men that are already dead, but there are stories, and those are enough to make some believe in a terrible fate.
*
Bush had been fourteen or thereabouts, gaining some height and hearing his own voice deepening. He'd felt himself to be a part of the crew, like any other man, and he did a man's work. Sometimes the older seamen gave him grief for being so young, but there were those that treated him fairly, and he always hung his cot next to theirs. McNally, who could whistle like a bird (some of his side teeth were missing; canon-fire, he claimed, but Bush knew if that were true McNally wouldn't have had his head, either); Peterson, who was eighteen and tall as a tower; Old John. Those were the best men aboard.
Fourteen or thereabouts, part-way through a voyage, and they were becalmed. The wind had dropped mid-morning, all the life falling out of the sails like a sigh as the air became still and strangely quiet. Just the sound of the water weakly stirring and retreating against the hull. Someone swore; the captain pushed them on with their work and disappeared into his cabin.
The light had slowly drained away and the day ground into night, and it felt as though the world was holding its breath. The bell had just signalled the beginning of the night watch, and still they were held by this strange lack of movement. Bush found he couldn't sleep, so he lay in his cot listening to the low voices of the men around him.
Won't no good come of this, Old John sighed. He'd taken out his knife, started whittling the lump of wood the carpenter had allowed him. God bless my soul. He had a way with knots but not with carving, as the scars on his fingers proved, yet Bush couldn't help but watch him work. There was just enough light, orange and dull, to put a sheen on the blade and wide, curved fingernails.
No good come of what? Peterson asked, twisting his body to look over.
Old John sniffed, dropped a chip of wood to the deck. And God bless 'is, too, since 'e's too stupid to know better, he muttered. He didn't sound angry, or sad, or anything much.
Got more brains than you, Peterson said. Or I will have if you don't tell us, on account of taking that piece of wood to your head.
Bush had grinned along with everyone else, but it was McNally who answered.
It's unnatural, ships getting becalmed. You can feel it.
Peterson had cocked his head like a dog. My Reverend from church was always saying this and that was unnatural. All sorts of things. Can't say, in my experience, that I agree with him on any of it.
Drinking? Bush had asked as a rumble of laughter echoed from the men.
Aye, that's one.
It's different, Old John had said then. Ships getting theirselves becalmed is bad luck.
Why?
Old John had shaken his head, wiped the bright stain of blood from his knuckle.
*
The ground was rolling beneath Bush's feet. It always took him too long to adjust to being ashore; the cobblestones shifted just like the people, who milled about as though they had no work to do. More than once Bush had enjoyed the idea of putting a fire under them with a good bellow; discipline made all the difference, but they were no one he was responsible for, and he was, at this moment, more concerned with his own business.
Hornblower, with his long legs and narrow hips, could be awkward when he walked on land, though he was currently displaying that particular attention to some matter which always straightened out his body, made him forget about how he should be holding his arms and shoulders, made him almost fit for dancing. He was outpacing Bush with this sudden vigour and those legs, but Bush had early on learned how to keep up with Hornblower, and together they were parting the low grey snow that was heaped upon the street.
Only ashore for one night; due back to Renown early; and with their orders seen to, Hornblower had said he needed to run a personal errand. He had tried to encourage Bush to go on ahead and find lodgings -- it was late, it was cold -- yet Bush declined. He would wait, and they would go on together.
So it was that Hornblower was leading them down the haphazard streets and lanes, through gulping shadows and the suggestion of fog. They passed few others; an officer like themselves who merely nodded, a gentleman bound up in a large travelling cloak, and apart from these they might have been the only souls about.
Presently Hornblower stopped, his breath painting the air white.
"I think you might comfortably wait here, Mr Bush," he said. "These buildings afford some shelter, and I have only to go down that lane."
Bush agreed and settled himself to the task, the faint hush of Hornblower's boots growing quickly distant.
*
The ship wasn't rocking the way Bush had become accustomed to; she lingered and shuddered, but not enough to swing the hammocks. He felt aware of the wide space around them, could almost hear it behind the slow creaks of the timber.
He wasn't sure what something being unnatural meant. It didn't feel good, that was what he did know.
Nearby, Old John was scraping the point of his knife in long strokes, the creases across his thumb painted now in thin red lines. Bush watched the wood taking shape. He thought it might be a figurehead, and Old John was scraping down its neck, drawing out the uneven ridges of hair.
I expect, Peterson was saying, that we'll be caught here forever. No one on land will know what happened. They'll think we sunk with all the cargo, or made off, and hold funerals for us and then forget about us. And all the time we'll be stuck here, waiting. He had his hands clasped easy behind his head, and his face was slicked with shadows. Is that it?
McNally raised his eyes to the deck, listening to the faint footsteps Bush could also hear passing above their heads. They went on slowly, like pacing in only one direction.
No, McNally said carefully. No, not that, lad.
*
Quiet, blank-faced buildings lined the street like statues. The airs had dropped away, leaving fog to drift in around the corners and float above the stones.
Bush adjusted his collar against the chill on his neck, glancing up at one window set on a second level whose sash had not been drawn; he could see nothing inside but the room must have had a good blaze in the grate, and all the surrounding, dark buildings were gloomy in comparison to that one point of light.
He looked away from that high, orange window to see that a man, another officer, was approaching.
"Good evening to you, sir," the officer said, as he came alongside and touched fingertips to his hat. "Forgive me, was that Lieutenant Hornblower?" He inclined his head in the direction of Hornblower's long, disappearing figure.
"Yes, it was," Bush said in some surprise. "Do you know him?"
"Yes indeed. We once served together."
The shadows leaned deeply across the street, though the man's face was limned in faint lamplight. Bush could see he was young like Hornblower and he wore a lieutenant's uniform, in a mostly tidy manner. The buttons on his coat caught a sliver of light to look like the moon.
"He'll be returning in a few minutes," Bush told him.
"Well, I have only a few moments to spare, but I've not spoken with Mr Hornblower in a long while." His lips curved in a closed smile and he reached out a hand. "Kennedy," he said.
Bush could feel the rough warmth of his hand as he grasped it, and was reminded of the heavy chill in his own fingers. "Lieutenant Bush."
"What brings you out in this weather, Mr Bush?"
"Ship business," Bush replied, unwilling to share details with a stranger. Kennedy nodded, seemed untroubled and not particularly inclined to speak again. He tilted his head slightly to take in the sight of the full, blooded clouds above -- there might even be another snowfall before the night was out.
"Bad business with Malta," Bush said, by way of conversation.
Kennedy murmured an indistinct agreement and then lapsed into silence again, surprisingly, for these days it was uncommon for people not to venture an opinion on the war.
"I find myself wondering, Mr Bush," he started at last, however, in a reflective tone, "how heavily the costs of war lie with a man such as Bonaparte."
"He cares for conquest," Bush replied.
"I suspect that will go poorly for him."
Well, he was mad, wasn't he? A damned Frog with ideas. "He won't be satisfied. That's his trouble."
Kennedy appeared to think this over. "Better, perhaps, that he had died early," he said frankly. "Some might say it is a better end. I can only imagine how interminable it would be to rise to the rank of Admiral, and have to sit behind tables listening to distinguished gentlemen talk about nothing."
That was true enough. Bush had seen something similar in the streets, old sailors standing at the pier, getting in the way, looking at the ships at anchor like they'd lost something there. At least a belly full of shot would have it over with.
"Of course," Kennedy continued quietly, looking to the empty space in front of them, "it's not so simple as all that. There are things -- I suppose there are things we become attached to."
Bush turned his head, focused on a boy ducking down the lane, quick-picking his way over the icy ground. No shoes on him. If he had far to go the cold wouldn't trouble him for long.
"Mr Hornblower, however, will make an excellent admiral one day," Kennedy added. "I'm certain he is destined for great things."
He was smiling now, seemed cheerful, though his eyes were watching Bush with the same awareness that was sometimes to be found in Hornblower's gaze. Hornblower directed that look towards charts, errant seamen, sometimes Bush himself, making him feel that Hornblower could count every hidden stitch in his coat. Coming from this young man, it rankled. He took a strong breath; the frozen air burned.
"I'm certain he is," Bush replied shortly. Then, "What ship do you serve with, Mr Kennedy?"
"None at present. Paid off, shall we say. I'm as idle as a painted lieutenant."
Kennedy's tone might have been amused, or perhaps scornful; Bush couldn't tell, which gave him a feeling of being wary. He also wasn't quite sure what the fellow was talking about. As with Hornblower, when he began speaking of strange things, Bush pulled out the pieces that were actually important, and he gazed at Kennedy thoughtfully. "Your last posting was Indefatigable?"
"Yes. And a grand ship she was. I was sorry to leave her, Mr Bush."
There was enough warmth in Kennedy's voice to make Bush feel a little more generous towards him, suddenly. Kennedy was not like those men that could be understood in a few moments, but Bush could see they stood on some common ground, such as it was: a proper feeling towards the Naval life, and towards Hornblower. A respect for the man, at least, which was only to be expected among those that knew him.
*
So, said Peterson, and he sounded as though he'd got a bark of a laugh lying in his chest, so when a ship gets becalmed, you hear...things. That you ought not to hear.
And if you see one, that's the worst of it. Means you'll have a bad end, McNally added. I used to know a man, Eames; we started out together. A few years ago we were in Portsmouth waiting for the rain to clear, and he came in one night white as milk.
He stopped and Bush stared at him impatiently, saw Peterson doing the same, but McNally did not continue. He just rubbed a palm around the curve of his stubbly chin, shifted back in his hammock.
What was it?
They're men, like us, Old John said at last, his voice low, his eyes still held fast to the figurine he was making. Dead men who won't go when they're supposed to. They get stuck. Just keep walking the decks of their ship over and over.
The remnants of laughter had eased away from Peterson's face and he looked, for the first time, a bit uncertain. Unsteady. Unlike the steps they could hear above.
God bless their souls, Old John murmured to himself, the sound sliding into the silence.
*
"Well, I thank you for your company, Mr Bush," Kennedy said then. "But I'm afraid I must go."
"I'm sure Mr Hornblower will be along shortly," Bush replied.
Kennedy almost smiled. "I'm sure of it. Though I hope he arrives swiftly, for your sake." He glanced up at the sky, the soft swollen underside of the clouds.
Bush touched his hat as Kennedy did, though mostly out of habit, expecting at any moment to hear Kennedy ask for his compliments to be extended to Hornblower, having waited for the chance to greet him, but Kennedy only bowed his head and began down the street.
Bush watched the smart progress of Kennedy's figure until he disappeared around the far corner, and only then did he become aware of the sound of a familiar, quick tread much closer to him.
"That took slightly longer than I had expected." Hornblower's nose was colouring, and a rueful expression was in his eyes. He indicated with a hand that they should walk on to the inn directly.
Bush shook his head, deflecting the buried apology he could hear within Hornblower's voice. "I had company as I waited," he told Hornblower, eager to relay the meeting. "I was speaking with an officer who served with you, a Mr Kennedy."
Surprisingly, Hornblower's expression resolved into stiffness, halting Bush before he spoke again and leaving him to wonder what misstep he had taken. Perhaps Hornblower did not approve, or had he and this fellow been at odds?
"I fear someone has deceived you for the sake of amusement, Mr Bush," Hornblower said then.
"How so?"
"I did indeed serve with a Mr Kennedy once, when I was a midshipman and for a short time after my commission. But he was killed in action."
Bush watched Hornblower for a moment, watched the scuffing of their boots as they walked. There would be a line of footsteps behind each of them for a short time, before the furrows would be filled and hidden.
Hornblower cleared his throat. "Perhaps there was some mistake," he continued.
"Yes, perhaps," Bush said after a moment. He pushed away the urge to turn and look down to the corner where he had been waiting. Kennedy the young man had said. His cheeks had been flushed with the cold. "When you were with Indefatigable?"
"Yes," Hornblower confirmed. He was rubbing his hands together, long dry rasp like a file on wood, his shoulders curling forward towards the light of the inn. There were shadows caught against the dark gold of his coat buttons, and he was frowning again. Bush felt a sudden desire to be inside, close to a fire and the sounds of people, somewhere he could sit and let Hornblower distract them both from whatever was troubling him now.
"The Lamb?"
Bush nodded. "Yes," he replied, mist leaving his mouth and drifting away.
He wished to ask Hornblower about this man who would call himself Kennedy, but he did not. He knew better by now, had a sense of the ease with which the wind could change upon them if he were to speak, and so he remained silent. Neither did he speak of it afterwards, but the matter must have lingered somehow, in Bush's mind. It was a small thing, but the thought of the man he had stood with that evening, the memory of the way that man had smiled as he talked of Hornblower; it must have gotten stuck in his head somehow. That was the best reason for the night, not more than a week later, when Bush thought he saw the same young man once more. Broad shoulders and hair that might have been fair by day or lantern, and the steadiness of an officer accustomed to standing watch.
Whatever his name had been, he must have lingered in Bush's mind for Bush to imagine him for a moment, standing on the darkened quarterdeck of the Renown, looking out to sea.