Archive of Our Own

Hornblower's first kiss, if he was to be complete and accurate about it, was from the parson's wife. He had been standing at the doorstep ready to leave the village, for it was January and he had been granted a place on a ship. It was really only a press of her cheek to his, fleeting and not particularly welcome at the time; these surprisingly kind farewells had made him nervous and he wished to be underway.

That was the first that he could recall, but he only counted it so as to be complete about the thing. The first proper kiss, the one which made him feel like heat had been poured through his insides, that had been later, at sea. That had been in the dark below decks, his coat wet, rain still slipping down his wrists. That had been Archie.

It had only happened once the entire time Hornblower was a midshipman, as though once was all that was needed. Perhaps it was. He had never needed his lessons repeated.

*

There is a quotation Hornblower learned from his tutor when he was young and he remembered it because he favoured the idea of the sea, favoured the idea that it was something to be conquered as one would conquer himself. Natura insidians pontum substravit avaris, his tutor had pronounced, his hands enclosing a small book. Nature laid out the sea as a trap for the greedy. It returns to him one grey day when he is a midshipman.

There are men in the water. The wounded hulk of Justinian crowds the horizon, pieces of her are floating and sinking as Hornblower's men row slowly in.

They begin to haul up any who still live, which turns out to be few. Hornblower thinks that perhaps one of the bodies, drifting face-down a few metres hence, looks like Jack Simpson; there is something familiar in the hair and shoulders that draws his eye and memory. It is difficult to be completely certain - the deep water washes over the body, bobbing it this way and that; even wearing the white shirt of an officer it could be anyone.

Once they have returned aboard Indefatigable, Captain Pellew orders a service for those lost, and the bodies Hornblower had helped salvage are covered in cloth and sent back under. Pellew seems to pause after reading aloud the name John Simpson, seems to settle his gaze in the direction of Hornblower and beside him, Kennedy. Hornblower supposes at that moment that he should feel some remorse as the body is tipped over the side. Simpson was a brother officer, a man who, perhaps, had met with hard luck in his life.

Pellew's voice is strong against the whipping wind, the sounds fold over and into each other, pressed down by the low flying clouds. Hornblower recalls, most clearly, the snow-bright light as it fell across Clayton's face in Portsmouth.

*

Time separates all friends. Hornblower knows this, considers the matter dispassionately - or believes he does - as he shakes Archie's hand across years as they part, meet, part again. He writes letters to Archie from the Indefatigable, the Hotspur, the humid air of the Mediterranean. He writes of plain and familiar things, and should anyone else read the letters they would find nothing particular, nothing tender within them.

When Archie writes back Hornblower takes the sheafs of paper, some smudged with careless ink, some softened by lingering hands, takes them and folds them neatly together into his sea chest, alongside his other belongings.

Just once he took a letter to his table and set it alongside the unfurled charts. He would not pick up his measuring instruments, but he did smooth his hand over the surface of the map, feeling the flat blue texture beneath his palm. The Arethusa sailed to Plymouth. Outside Hornblower's cabin window blew the trade winds of the Caribbean. The sea parted the two places like bone amongst flesh.

*

They meet by chance on the drowning streets of Portsmouth, which looks increasingly smaller and more tiresome to Hornblower. Archie has ceased to wear a queue, following the current mode, yet Hornblower recognises the broad shoulders, the liveliness in the body walking ahead of him. Years have touched creases into Archie's face, yet he carries something of an air of enjoyment about him. It makes him seem younger than other captains, younger and stronger than Hornblower.

They reach for one another in the street, the rain only a mist on their bare hands.

"Captain Kennedy," Hornblower says, because they are not alone. The dark-eyed creature halting a step back from Archie holds a familiar face. "Mr Wellard."

"Captain Hornblower, sir," says Wellard. He tucks his hands into the small of his back, attentive, proper. Hornblower recalls how promising Wellard had been as a midshipman; would wager the young man knows his business now. Confidence straightens Wellard's spine. They exchange pleasantries, a little easier than usual for having served with one another.

Wellard is to return to his duties aboard ship. He inclines his head to listen to the quiet words his captain creates for him before he leaves. "Aye aye, sir," Wellard answers smartly.

"He does remarkably well," Archie tells Hornblower over a table at the inn. "He didn't think he was ready to be someone's first lieutenant, but I told him that was merely wisdom and not an obstruction." He twists the mug in weathered hands; the smile rests in his eyes these days, and not so often on his mouth. Hornblower knows better than to think Archie has anything like an uncomplicated happiness; indeed, he has seen the signs of struggle and sadness with his own eyes. Yet he fails, continually, to solve the equation of command which leads Archie to this sense of gratitude he holds.

Unasked questions clamour at the base of his throat. He raises his hand and pours bitter ale against them.

Later, Hornblower will look out at the billowing sheets of rain and think of Lydia, knowing Bush will have secured her for this weather, knowing she is in good hands. There could not be a better first lieutenant. There could not be one with a greater understanding of the sea.

*

"You can keep your doubts, Horatio," Archie had said once. "I have nothing but certainty on the matter. You will make first lieutenant, and then, in a respectable amount of time, captain, and you'll be as fine a captain as ever was."

"Archie," Hornblower had said quellingly, or perhaps hopefully.

"Just be sure to throw your old friend a few scraps as you fly past."

Archie had pulled off his stockings and rested his feet close to the edge of the rug, almost as if the worn material would become water and he would dip them in. Hornblower watched from the corner of his eye, found himself shifting, his eyelids dipping as he stole glances at the sight: Archie's exposed ankles, the smooth, pale skin, white bones like mountains.

*

The first time Archie had been promoted aboard a different ship, an unhappy fear had taken his place with Hornblower. It seemed to Hornblower, irrationally, as though anything might befall Archie now that he was no longer in Hornblower's sight; befall him, or be bestowed upon him; the two possibilities were equally unsettling. Archie had always been his senior. It was a new thought that he might also be Hornblower's better, here where strategy and mathematics could rule over unguarded passion.

Hornblower stood on the deck of the Indefatigable. The vessel carrying Archie had gone amongst the haze of cloud and sky. His lesser rank and his cursed inability had kept Hornblower where he was, watching silent lightning flash out over the black water.

He had known then that his disappointment was a failure. It was later, not so much later, that Bush had shown him the proper response in such circumstances: honest happiness in a fellow officer's good fortune. That was what Bush had displayed when Hornblower was promoted, and Hornblower had not forgotten it: the approval in Bush's voice, the rare smile. Uncomplicated warmth.

There were deserving officers and there were deserving men and sometimes, he had learned, the two were not the same.

*

They sail when the victualling is done, and the land drops away as though a physical weight. Hornblower secures his orders and walks the deck and waits. He takes the mail when it comes and makes a pile of the Chronicle to be taken away again, a tide-like ritual of information from elsewhere.

They sail far enough that the sight of another vessel is a surprise, an excitement, and daylight bites sharply at Hornblower's eyes as he leaves his cabin on the heels of a midshipman. He realises the once-forceful wind has begun to drop, heralding a change of direction, and knows in a moment the sails will be luffing. There is swift activity on the quarterdeck, driven by a familiar bellow; Bush has already moved to correct the situation. Of course.

The vessel begins as a rough shape against the blue sky, slowly resolving into a ship as they adjust their heading. A frigate, Hornblower thinks.

Bush is peering into the distance. "One of ours, sir," he reports. And, in another few moments, "Thirty-two guns. She'll be the Damon by the looks of her. Captain Kennedy, sir."

"Yes," Hornblower replies irritably, "Thank you, Mr Bush."

"On patrol, I expect; these waters being what they are," adds Mr Crystal.

"These waters being what they are, we had best keep a weather eye out," Hornblower says.

Crystal shifts slightly, curling his knobbled fingers around the glass he holds. "Aye aye, sir."

Hornblower suspects those on the Damon will have sighted the Lydia by now, or soon will -- it is unlikely Mr Wellard is as adept at identifying vessels as Bush. And once sighted, Kennedy will make sure the two ships meet. They have been apart. Perhaps, Hornblower thinks, his mind working quickly, perhaps they will dine together this evening. Hornblower could send an invitation. Archie could come to him.

He recalls the last time they had met; the long afternoon of rain and the wetness of Archie's mouth.

Beside him, Bush is talking, something about broadsides and the pace of a fifth-rate.

Hornblower says nothing, and gazes ahead with great deliberation until Bush finally looks away. For a moment Hornblower imagines Bush appears wounded, standing there like a savage ignorant of his own nakedness. He strides forward to take the glass from a startled midshipman and settle it in front of his eye.

Up ahead, Kennedy's ship is slowly increasing in size, though Lydia's current pace and the bright light of the day make it seem somehow impossible that Hornblower will ever gain on her, will ever be able to get close enough.

*

Hornblower's very last kiss had been from his own wife. She leaned over him as he laid in bed, nervous and tired, and it had only been a press of dry lips to his forehead. A surprising warmth as she pressed her cheek to his face, a gesture of dearness, of grief.

Better than the fate that others had met, he thought grimly. He was fortunate in comparison. He was fortunate. He had told Bush that once, after someone else had sunk Archie's body, but it was only after Bush too had gone, had died, that Hornblower questioned why he had felt never this fine luck of his, why he had never been content with it. He had never been content.

It was late afternoon, cold and crisp outside, and as Barbara sat back Hornblower was reminded of his first kiss, the first real one in the fumbling dark and two strong hands to hold him steady.

*

In Portsmouth, a long time ago, Hornblower had shivered as Archie laid fingers on his skin.

"We'll be separated," Hornblower had said, surprising himself.

Archie had made a soft noise against Hornblower's throat. "No one will know," he replied gently.

"No, I meant in years to come."

"You think we won't be friends?"

Hornblower breathed against the tension in his chest. Anything he could have said seemed too much.

"Doesn't matter," Archie murmured against his lips. "Doesn't matter."

"We'll have different postings," Hornblower managed.

Sounding distracted, Archie pressed warmly against him. "You'll be a captain."

Hornblower clutched at Archie's solid arms and thought of how Archie knew his way about this life, while Hornblower was still stupidly trying to make a map to guide himself. He was wretched; he was breathless.

"Not before you," he replied, and felt Archie smile.