So May has been an absolutely stupid busy month for me, so I apologise in advance for not getting a whole fic in. But - but! I have been beavering away at my various WIPs and am close to finishing one, so for now, please have an excerpt.
There is a brief allusion to weevils in this story. Regrettably it's not in this excerpt, but it is there, I swear.
Don’t ask me for a title.
Pairing: HH/WB Summary: Sanguinity made a comment on Tumblr a long time ago about how it was part of the duties of the first lieutenant to sort out sleeping arrangements. And so:
The rescue of another ship leads to crowded quarters aboard the Hotspur. In his efforts to find a bed for everyone, Bush forgets to find a bed for himself. The trouble begins there.
--
Much to his relief, Hornblower had invited the officers of the Resolve to dinner too. The Resolve's remaining bullock had been slaughtered, and although Bailey had managed to boil the meat until it was as tough and dry as old leather it was still better than the poor fare Bush was used to. The captain of the Resolve, a tall, dour man by the name of Waters, poked and prodded at his food with a general air of misery that might be expected from a man facing a court martial, and his lieutenant, a ruddy-faced Scot named Macleod, was no cheerier. Bush almost felt pity for them, but he knew that bad judgement as much as bad weather had cost them their ship, and so his pity was little more than perfunctory.
They ate in uncomfortable silence, only speaking up when more food or wine was required. At last Hornblower cleared his throat, evidently uncomfortable with the terse silence that had descended. “I see the men are getting along,” he said, casting a glance to Bush.
“I believe they are, sir,” said Bush, after it was evident neither Macleod nor Waters would respond. He took a long drink of wine to settle his nerves.
“I’ve been informed you did an admirable job sorting out accommodation for everyone, Mr Bush,” Hornblower said, and Bush paled.
“Your lieutenant is to be commended, sir,” said Waters crisply. “Few men could have accomplished what he did in a day, organising our men, repairing your ship, assigning sleeping quarters — from what I’m told no man was left without a bed. Even gave up his own cabin for us, isn’t that right, Mr Macleod?”
Macleod nodded. “Aye, sir,” he said the near incomprehensible brogue of a Glaswegian. “‘e’s a richt guid fella, throu an’ throu.”
Hornblower gave Bush an odd look. “Have you now, Mr Bush?”
Bush opened his mouth to explain, but Waters beat him to it. “Come now, sir, don’t be hard on the man — he’s only done as you or I would have. And I expect Mr Bush has found somewhere else, isn’t that so, Mr Bush?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bush quickly. He felt his face growing hot. With any luck his sudden awkwardness would be misinterpreted as modesty, and he hid his hands in his lap so no one could see him fidget.
Hornblower smiled. “I suppose it’s only right I offer you my congratulations, Mr Bush,” he said, and Bush wished for death.
Waters raised his glass in a toast. “To the valiant men of the Hotspur,” he intoned. “To whom we owe our lives.”
The rest of the evening proceeded more smoothly; there was talk of the war, of battles won and lost, of news from England — the Resolve had been part of a Gibraltar-bound convoy before she’d been lost, and Macleod chattered quite happily about the latest goings-on in Parliament and the Admiralty. Then Waters suggested a game of whist, to which Hornblower naturally agreed.
“Hotspurs versus Resolves, I should think, Captain Waters,” Hornblower said, producing cards.
“Perfectly reasonable, sir,” Waters said. “Shall we draw for dealer?”
Bush was not good at whist, but it was easier with Hornblower as his partner. He let Hornblower play as he wished, playing his own cards as carefully as he could, hoping he would not disappoint his captain in this too. He need not have worried; Macleod proved an even worse player than Bush, and in spite of Waters’ talents Hotspurs beat Resolves with ease.
“An excellent game, gentlemen,” Hornblower said as they rose to their feet.
“You are an uncommonly fierce player, Captain Hornblower,” Waters said, shaking Hornblower’s hand. “A true pleasure, sir.” Some colour had returned to his cheeks and he seemed far more lively than he had at the start of the evening. He was an idiot, Bush decided, but a well-meaning one.
They made their farewells and went off to their quarters: Waters and Macleod to Bush’s cabin, Bush to the cable tier. The deck didn’t seem quite so solid this time, nor the rats quite so rowdy. He fell asleep happy in the knowledge that his deception had worked. Hornblower had not discovered his failure.
no subject
So May has been an absolutely stupid busy month for me, so I apologise in advance for not getting a whole fic in. But - but! I have been beavering away at my various WIPs and am close to finishing one, so for now, please have an excerpt.
There is a brief allusion to weevils in this story. Regrettably it's not in this excerpt, but it is there, I swear.
Don’t ask me for a title.
Pairing: HH/WB
Summary: Sanguinity made a comment on Tumblr a long time ago about how it was part of the duties of the first lieutenant to sort out sleeping arrangements. And so:
The rescue of another ship leads to crowded quarters aboard the Hotspur. In his efforts to find a bed for everyone, Bush forgets to find a bed for himself. The trouble begins there.
--
Much to his relief, Hornblower had invited the officers of the Resolve to dinner too. The Resolve's remaining bullock had been slaughtered, and although Bailey had managed to boil the meat until it was as tough and dry as old leather it was still better than the poor fare Bush was used to. The captain of the Resolve, a tall, dour man by the name of Waters, poked and prodded at his food with a general air of misery that might be expected from a man facing a court martial, and his lieutenant, a ruddy-faced Scot named Macleod, was no cheerier. Bush almost felt pity for them, but he knew that bad judgement as much as bad weather had cost them their ship, and so his pity was little more than perfunctory.
They ate in uncomfortable silence, only speaking up when more food or wine was required. At last Hornblower cleared his throat, evidently uncomfortable with the terse silence that had descended. “I see the men are getting along,” he said, casting a glance to Bush.
“I believe they are, sir,” said Bush, after it was evident neither Macleod nor Waters would respond. He took a long drink of wine to settle his nerves.
“I’ve been informed you did an admirable job sorting out accommodation for everyone, Mr Bush,” Hornblower said, and Bush paled.
“Your lieutenant is to be commended, sir,” said Waters crisply. “Few men could have accomplished what he did in a day, organising our men, repairing your ship, assigning sleeping quarters — from what I’m told no man was left without a bed. Even gave up his own cabin for us, isn’t that right, Mr Macleod?”
Macleod nodded. “Aye, sir,” he said the near incomprehensible brogue of a Glaswegian. “‘e’s a richt guid fella, throu an’ throu.”
Hornblower gave Bush an odd look. “Have you now, Mr Bush?”
Bush opened his mouth to explain, but Waters beat him to it. “Come now, sir, don’t be hard on the man — he’s only done as you or I would have. And I expect Mr Bush has found somewhere else, isn’t that so, Mr Bush?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bush quickly. He felt his face growing hot. With any luck his sudden awkwardness would be misinterpreted as modesty, and he hid his hands in his lap so no one could see him fidget.
Hornblower smiled. “I suppose it’s only right I offer you my congratulations, Mr Bush,” he said, and Bush wished for death.
Waters raised his glass in a toast. “To the valiant men of the Hotspur,” he intoned. “To whom we owe our lives.”
The rest of the evening proceeded more smoothly; there was talk of the war, of battles won and lost, of news from England — the Resolve had been part of a Gibraltar-bound convoy before she’d been lost, and Macleod chattered quite happily about the latest goings-on in Parliament and the Admiralty. Then Waters suggested a game of whist, to which Hornblower naturally agreed.
“Hotspurs versus Resolves, I should think, Captain Waters,” Hornblower said, producing cards.
“Perfectly reasonable, sir,” Waters said. “Shall we draw for dealer?”
Bush was not good at whist, but it was easier with Hornblower as his partner. He let Hornblower play as he wished, playing his own cards as carefully as he could, hoping he would not disappoint his captain in this too. He need not have worried; Macleod proved an even worse player than Bush, and in spite of Waters’ talents Hotspurs beat Resolves with ease.
“An excellent game, gentlemen,” Hornblower said as they rose to their feet.
“You are an uncommonly fierce player, Captain Hornblower,” Waters said, shaking Hornblower’s hand. “A true pleasure, sir.” Some colour had returned to his cheeks and he seemed far more lively than he had at the start of the evening. He was an idiot, Bush decided, but a well-meaning one.
They made their farewells and went off to their quarters: Waters and Macleod to Bush’s cabin, Bush to the cable tier. The deck didn’t seem quite so solid this time, nor the rats quite so rowdy. He fell asleep happy in the knowledge that his deception had worked. Hornblower had not discovered his failure.