[fic] Dominion: Chapter I
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hmsloop_hotspur(cross-posted from my main blog)
Title: Dominion
Rating: G for now
Pairing: HH/WB
Author's Note: About a year ago I began what has become probably my most consuming piece of fic ever written — a Titanic AU. No, not the James Cameron film — although I may have nicked one or two ideas from that — but rather the sinking of the ship herself. However, as I did not feel comfortable basing a romance fic around a real-life event in which 1500 people died, I chose instead to write about a ship identical-in-all-but-name-and-company, with different passengers and crew, although much of what happened remains the same as I have based many of the details on accounts given by survivors.
And now, without much ado — the first chapter of Dominion.
Chapter I: April 10th, 1912
In all his years of experience as a ship’s officer, Horatio Hornblower had never seen anything quite like the departure of the Royal Mail Ship Dominion from Southampton. Half of England seemed to line the wharf, waving handkerchiefs and hats and cheering as the greatest ship in the history of mankind put to sea, their enthusiasm matched by the hundreds of passengers crammed against every railing, window, and porthole who shouted farewells, waving goodbye to the friends, family, and strangers who had come to see them off. There had even been a kinematograph photographer and his assistant from the Kineto Picture Company who had had come aboard an hour before departure to film the ship as she was readied: as fifth officer, Hornblower had been too absorbed in his own duties to do anything more than observe from a distance, but it had sent up a strange feeling of pride in him that the ship on which he served should be in the newsreels.
And what a ship she was. At a length of almost nine-hundred feet, with a beam of just over ninety, she was the largest and most luxurious vessel in the world, and so new that the smell of paint and varnish still lingered on the bridge and in the officer’s cabins even after the passage from Belfast. She was to be the flagship of the Blue Ensign Line, captained by the commodore of the fleet, Captain James Sawyer, who had served aboard the Alexandrian, the previous flagship, for fifteen years. It was absurd that Hornblower should find himself aboard Dominion, but luck, and a strong recommendation letter, had seen to it that he should find himself standing on her bridge. It did not matter that he was now fifth officer where he had been third aboard Carian, not when he would forever have it on record that he had served as an officer on Dominion’s maiden voyage. Perhaps one day he might even be given command of such a vessel — for a moment he indulged himself in the childish fancy of gazing around the bridge as though he stood there in a captain’s gold braid before the absurdity of what he was doing made him smile foolishly and return to his work.
They had anchored in Cherbourg a little less than two hours ago: for most of those two hours Hornblower had been occupied in the tedious business of supervising the transfer of passengers from the tenders that had ferried them from Cherbourg’s harbour, Dominion herself being too large to dock properly within the port. Now that was over and done with, and he could return to the pleasant business of calculating Dominion’s position: work that many junior officers despised, but something that Hornblower found genuine pleasure in. He had always possessed a talent for mathematics — for a brief time he had even held a hope that he might gain a scholarship to study it at university — and as a result, could not understand why his brother officers often struggled with such simple calculations.
He had no sooner finished with his work when the bell struck to announce the change of watch, and the sixth officer — the only officer more junior than Hornblower — appeared on the bridge to relieve him for the second dogwatch. Hornblower left the navigation room and met him in the wheelhouse: Wellard was a nervous young man of no more than twenty whose uncle was of minor significance in the company and had afforded his nephew a position as officer aboard the flagship.
“Good evening, sir,” said Wellard. There was an unhappy look on his face: the same unhappy look that had coloured his face since they first left Belfast on sea trials.
“Good evening, Wellard,” said Hornblower with as much cheer as he could muster. Wellard listened patiently as Hornblower delivered his report but that hangdog expression didn’t budge an inch, not even when Hornblower took him by the elbow and guided him into the navigation room, out of the earshot of Cargill, the chief officer.
“Has the old man been hard on you again?” asked Hornblower quietly. Wellard glanced around nervously and nodded imperceptibly.
“When we were leaving Southampton, sir, a handful of passengers arrived late at the third class gangway. Mr Buckland had made it clear that I was not permitted to allow any latecomers to come aboard, but I—” He glanced around the room nervously. “I let them on after one of the fellows got into a bit of a row with me, and I wish now that I hadn’t.”
“Captain give you trouble?”
Wellard grimaced. “He wouldn’t listen when I tried to explain, sir. Threatened to have me dismissed if I do something like that in New York.”
“You did well,” said Hornblower, trying to quash the anger that threatened to colour his words. “You mustn’t let him know that it bothers you.” A ship’s captain was the master of all he surveyed: if Sawyer chose to bedevil a junior officer for no better reason other than he wished to, there was nothing that could possibly be done. It was unfair, of course it was, but there were a great many things in life that were unfair.
“Aye aye, sir,” said Wellard, his misery obvious. “Is that all, sir?”
“Yes,” said Hornblower, wishing there was more he could do. “I’ll see you in two hours.”
He left Wellard to his duties and stepped out briefly out of the wheelhouse onto the wing of the bridge to take the air. Cherbourg lay before him, beautiful in the evening sun, but Hornblower found himself longing for the untrammelled freedom of the open ocean. He yearned for it the way an imprisoned man yearns for liberty; he wanted nothing but to chase the endless horizon. Above his head gulls were wheeling madly in the sea breeze and he found himself smiling as he watched them circle above Dominion’s masthead, marvelling at their freedom in the open air. He was tired, he realised belatedly, and would be tired still by the time the first watch began; the preparations of a departing ship allowed little time for sitting down, even when he was off-watch, and there was still tonight’s departure to face. He re-entered the wheelhouse, nodding absent-mindedly at Wellard as he passed through, his thoughts preoccupied with the notion of a short sleep in his bunk or a hot cup of coffee. Perhaps both — his step lightened considerably at the thought.
“Oh, Hornblower?” called Chief Officer Cargill from behind his open cabin door as Hornblower entered the corridor, abruptly bringing an end to all fantasies about coffee and sleep. He stopped in his tracks and stepped into the cabin where Cargill sat at his desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Sir?”
“I’ve received word from the Purser about a passenger causing trouble up here,” said Cargill, flicking through his papers. “Seems he wants someone official-looking to put this fellow in his place.”
“What has this passenger done, sir?” asked Hornblower.
“The sixth officer reported that the passenger arrived just as the gangway was closing,” said Cargill. “When Mr Wellard tried to turn him away the man became insolent, demanding to be let on on account of his being a paying passenger. I fear that young man has too good a heart; he let the rogue on.”
Hornblower remembered Wellard’s story. “Surely that’s something the stewards had best deal with, sir?” he asked.
“It would be, had this man not been seen out-of-bounds on the first class promenade badgering stewards and crew alike to let him in to see the Marconi room. He made the mistake of trying to bribe the bosun, who saw him forcibly returned to his own cabin.”
“Is he a threat, sir?”
Cargill frowned, the dark moustache that covered his upper lip exaggerating his displeasure to the point of comicality. “A nuisance. This passenger had the audacity to claim he was a sparks — Silk informs me that the man attempted to produce papers to verify his claim, but he couldn’t make hide nor hair of whether they were real. As for you, sir, I’d like you to head down and let him know what’s what before he ends up accosted by the Master-at-Arms. Do I make myself clear, Mr Hornblower?”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Hornblower.
“You’ll find him in—” Cargill paused, flicking through his papers until he found the relevant one. “Cabin G-224. I’d like it if you made it absolutely clear that Blue Ensign has no tolerance for that kind of mischief, and that if he doesn’t want to be escorted off the ship in Queenstown he had best keep to himself. Put the fear of God in him, if you must.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Hornblower, hoping that the disappointment did not show in his voice. He left Cargill’s office, despondent at the thought of some jumped-up third class bounder robbing him of a moment’s peace. Such was the life of a junior officer, but as third officer aboard the Carian he had not had to deal with such petty tomfoolery, and he found himself very nearly missing his old life. Then he laughed at himself for being so foolish; the Carian had been a vessel of some note, but she had been designed for transportation, not luxury, and he was a fool of the worst sort, the kind who could not appreciate what was before him, too caught up in memories of the past. He shook himself and went off in search of the foolish passenger who had cost him his rest.
The cabin was located forward on G deck, in the bow of the ship, so close to the keel it was almost in the engine room. Down here, where there was little ventilation, the smell of turpentine and fresh paint was overpowering: Horatio reached up and scraped his fingernail against the bulkhead, half expecting it to come away with paint under his nail. Even here there was luxury; the steel bulkhead was panelled in pine, instead of being bare, the deck covered in a pleasant red linoleum. It was far better than most third class accommodations that bunked their steerage passengers together like animals; here, even the poorest passenger could be afforded some degree of privacy. Horatio straightened his uniform and knocked at the door.
A sturdy young man opened the door and glanced over Horatio’s gold insignia with a worried look. “Is there some trouble, sir?” he asked.
“I’m looking for the passenger who was returned here by force from the boat deck. I’ve been sent to have a word.”
The young man frowned, and looked back into the cabin. “I think he means you, Will,” he said to his companion, who rose from where he was sat on his bunk and came over to the door. The fellow who had answered the door retreated to his own bunk to give them some semblance of privacy, but even with a newspaper in his hands Hornblower was sharply aware that the man was watching them. Never mind — the opinions of others was not his concern. He turned his attention to the man before him, frowning in what he hoped was an expression of cold displeasure.
“So you're the troublemaker, then,” he said, as sternly as he could muster. He cast a wary eye over the man, but there was nothing malevolent in the fellow’s face. On the contrary — his was a rugged, honest-looking face, with a strong nose and chin and a pair of bright blue eyes that watched Hornblower closely. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” asked Hornblower.
At the very least, the man had the decency to look sheepish in response to Hornblower’s question, though it was almost certainly not genuine contrition. “I am sorry to have troubled you, sir,” he said, meeting Hornblower’s gaze. “I wasn’t trying to make trouble, sir, you must believe me—”
Hornblower held up a hand to silence any further protest. “I’ve received reports of your activities from the sixth officer of this ship, the purser, and the bosun,” he snapped. “You were late to arrive and bullied the officer in charge into letting you onboard when he tried to turn you away. You made a nuisance of yourself by sneaking into an area which you know to be off-limits and pestered the crew, even going so far as to attempt to bribe the bosun. You even had the nerve to claim you’re a telegraph operator when you were caught, as though anyone might believe that paltry excuse. I believe that quite constitutes ‘making trouble’, Mr—”
“Bush, sir. William Bush.” A sudden smile played at the corners of Bush’s mouth. “For all my faults, sir, I am as I say I am, look here.” He extracted a slim leather wallet from his inside pocket and produced a folded piece of paper. “My government certificate, sir.”
Hornblower unfolded it, inspecting it carefully for any sign of fraud, but it was as the man had said it was: a certificate declaring one William James Bush’s proficiency in radiotelegraphy and authorisation to operate as a first class operator onboard British ships. He glanced over Bush, taking in the tatty grey flannel suit, the scuffed shoes, the battered suitcase lying on the bed: all the hallmarks of the penniless emigrant, the man who could not get ahead in his own country, no matter how hard he might work. Horatio folded the paper up and handed it back, suddenly ashamed of himself.
“You’ll forgive my impertinence, Mr Bush,” he said.
“You were only doing your duty,” said Bush, kindly. “I won’t make a habit of this, sir, I promise.” His eyes lingered on Hornblower’s face, and Hornblower, to his horror, felt his face grow hot under such close inspection.
It was too much to bear: he cleared his throat and forced himself to meet Bush’s eyes. “Very good,” he said. “Let us hope that the next time we meet it is under more favourable circumstances than this.” Bush raised an eyebrow at that, and Hornblower cursed himself silently for his awkwardness. “Good day,” he said, giving a strange half-bow that Bush returned, bemused by the sudden shift in Hornblower’s mood. “Good day to you both.”
The walk back to the officers’ quarters was humiliating, and Hornblower hurried as quickly as he could without running, taking the stairs two at a time. It was unfair of Cargill to send him to deal with a passenger; Hornblower’s strength lay in navigation, not small-talk, and every one of his previous chief officers had come to that understanding quite quickly. He was the man who was sent to work out a tricky mathematical question, not berate some passenger over some wrongdoing. He was flushed and damp with sweat by the time he reached his cabin, and it was with great relief that he shut the door behind him. He removed his cap and jacket and washed his face in the little basin, trying to convince himself that he had not behaved as abominably as he thought he had.
What was it that had so upset him? He had not said or done anything untoward, for all that his brain tried to convince him otherwise. No, it had been the intensity with which Bush had observed him, as though Bush was looking past the uniform to the man who wore it. It was not something he was used to outside of the company of officers and crew; most men and women saw the gold buttons and braid before they saw Hornblower himself. It was isolating, perhaps, but protective too, and yet Bush had looked right through it. It unsettled Hornblower to realise his armour was so paper-thin.
A knock at his door startled him from his thoughts. “Mr Hornblower?” asked Cargill. “May I come in?”
Hornblower grabbed a towel and dabbed at his wet face. “Please, sir,” he said, setting it aside.
Cargill opened the door but did not step inside the cabin. “I thought I might find you in here,” he said. “How did your little conversation with our passenger go?”
“Fine, sir,” said Hornblower. “The man’s as he says he is, sir — a sparks. I saw his government certificate, and he seems a good sort. I’d chalk it up to nervous excitement, sir.”
“I see,” said Cargill. He thought for a long moment and then his face brightened. “Well, perhaps he can help our own telegraphists. I was just speaking to Truscott — seems they’re having a devil of a time getting the new machinery up and running in proper order.”
“Yes, sir.” said Hornblower, absentminded.
“Very good, then,” said Cargill cheerily, smacking the doorjamb. “Carry on, Mr Hornblower.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Horatio to Cargill’s retreating form. He checked his watch once the door had closed — still forty-five minutes left before the first watch. A cup of coffee would serve as a good distraction from his thoughts: he picked up his jacket and left the cabin in search of a steward.
Title: Dominion
Rating: G for now
Pairing: HH/WB
Author's Note: About a year ago I began what has become probably my most consuming piece of fic ever written — a Titanic AU. No, not the James Cameron film — although I may have nicked one or two ideas from that — but rather the sinking of the ship herself. However, as I did not feel comfortable basing a romance fic around a real-life event in which 1500 people died, I chose instead to write about a ship identical-in-all-but-name-and-company, with different passengers and crew, although much of what happened remains the same as I have based many of the details on accounts given by survivors.
And now, without much ado — the first chapter of Dominion.
Chapter I: April 10th, 1912
In all his years of experience as a ship’s officer, Horatio Hornblower had never seen anything quite like the departure of the Royal Mail Ship Dominion from Southampton. Half of England seemed to line the wharf, waving handkerchiefs and hats and cheering as the greatest ship in the history of mankind put to sea, their enthusiasm matched by the hundreds of passengers crammed against every railing, window, and porthole who shouted farewells, waving goodbye to the friends, family, and strangers who had come to see them off. There had even been a kinematograph photographer and his assistant from the Kineto Picture Company who had had come aboard an hour before departure to film the ship as she was readied: as fifth officer, Hornblower had been too absorbed in his own duties to do anything more than observe from a distance, but it had sent up a strange feeling of pride in him that the ship on which he served should be in the newsreels.
And what a ship she was. At a length of almost nine-hundred feet, with a beam of just over ninety, she was the largest and most luxurious vessel in the world, and so new that the smell of paint and varnish still lingered on the bridge and in the officer’s cabins even after the passage from Belfast. She was to be the flagship of the Blue Ensign Line, captained by the commodore of the fleet, Captain James Sawyer, who had served aboard the Alexandrian, the previous flagship, for fifteen years. It was absurd that Hornblower should find himself aboard Dominion, but luck, and a strong recommendation letter, had seen to it that he should find himself standing on her bridge. It did not matter that he was now fifth officer where he had been third aboard Carian, not when he would forever have it on record that he had served as an officer on Dominion’s maiden voyage. Perhaps one day he might even be given command of such a vessel — for a moment he indulged himself in the childish fancy of gazing around the bridge as though he stood there in a captain’s gold braid before the absurdity of what he was doing made him smile foolishly and return to his work.
They had anchored in Cherbourg a little less than two hours ago: for most of those two hours Hornblower had been occupied in the tedious business of supervising the transfer of passengers from the tenders that had ferried them from Cherbourg’s harbour, Dominion herself being too large to dock properly within the port. Now that was over and done with, and he could return to the pleasant business of calculating Dominion’s position: work that many junior officers despised, but something that Hornblower found genuine pleasure in. He had always possessed a talent for mathematics — for a brief time he had even held a hope that he might gain a scholarship to study it at university — and as a result, could not understand why his brother officers often struggled with such simple calculations.
He had no sooner finished with his work when the bell struck to announce the change of watch, and the sixth officer — the only officer more junior than Hornblower — appeared on the bridge to relieve him for the second dogwatch. Hornblower left the navigation room and met him in the wheelhouse: Wellard was a nervous young man of no more than twenty whose uncle was of minor significance in the company and had afforded his nephew a position as officer aboard the flagship.
“Good evening, sir,” said Wellard. There was an unhappy look on his face: the same unhappy look that had coloured his face since they first left Belfast on sea trials.
“Good evening, Wellard,” said Hornblower with as much cheer as he could muster. Wellard listened patiently as Hornblower delivered his report but that hangdog expression didn’t budge an inch, not even when Hornblower took him by the elbow and guided him into the navigation room, out of the earshot of Cargill, the chief officer.
“Has the old man been hard on you again?” asked Hornblower quietly. Wellard glanced around nervously and nodded imperceptibly.
“When we were leaving Southampton, sir, a handful of passengers arrived late at the third class gangway. Mr Buckland had made it clear that I was not permitted to allow any latecomers to come aboard, but I—” He glanced around the room nervously. “I let them on after one of the fellows got into a bit of a row with me, and I wish now that I hadn’t.”
“Captain give you trouble?”
Wellard grimaced. “He wouldn’t listen when I tried to explain, sir. Threatened to have me dismissed if I do something like that in New York.”
“You did well,” said Hornblower, trying to quash the anger that threatened to colour his words. “You mustn’t let him know that it bothers you.” A ship’s captain was the master of all he surveyed: if Sawyer chose to bedevil a junior officer for no better reason other than he wished to, there was nothing that could possibly be done. It was unfair, of course it was, but there were a great many things in life that were unfair.
“Aye aye, sir,” said Wellard, his misery obvious. “Is that all, sir?”
“Yes,” said Hornblower, wishing there was more he could do. “I’ll see you in two hours.”
He left Wellard to his duties and stepped out briefly out of the wheelhouse onto the wing of the bridge to take the air. Cherbourg lay before him, beautiful in the evening sun, but Hornblower found himself longing for the untrammelled freedom of the open ocean. He yearned for it the way an imprisoned man yearns for liberty; he wanted nothing but to chase the endless horizon. Above his head gulls were wheeling madly in the sea breeze and he found himself smiling as he watched them circle above Dominion’s masthead, marvelling at their freedom in the open air. He was tired, he realised belatedly, and would be tired still by the time the first watch began; the preparations of a departing ship allowed little time for sitting down, even when he was off-watch, and there was still tonight’s departure to face. He re-entered the wheelhouse, nodding absent-mindedly at Wellard as he passed through, his thoughts preoccupied with the notion of a short sleep in his bunk or a hot cup of coffee. Perhaps both — his step lightened considerably at the thought.
“Oh, Hornblower?” called Chief Officer Cargill from behind his open cabin door as Hornblower entered the corridor, abruptly bringing an end to all fantasies about coffee and sleep. He stopped in his tracks and stepped into the cabin where Cargill sat at his desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Sir?”
“I’ve received word from the Purser about a passenger causing trouble up here,” said Cargill, flicking through his papers. “Seems he wants someone official-looking to put this fellow in his place.”
“What has this passenger done, sir?” asked Hornblower.
“The sixth officer reported that the passenger arrived just as the gangway was closing,” said Cargill. “When Mr Wellard tried to turn him away the man became insolent, demanding to be let on on account of his being a paying passenger. I fear that young man has too good a heart; he let the rogue on.”
Hornblower remembered Wellard’s story. “Surely that’s something the stewards had best deal with, sir?” he asked.
“It would be, had this man not been seen out-of-bounds on the first class promenade badgering stewards and crew alike to let him in to see the Marconi room. He made the mistake of trying to bribe the bosun, who saw him forcibly returned to his own cabin.”
“Is he a threat, sir?”
Cargill frowned, the dark moustache that covered his upper lip exaggerating his displeasure to the point of comicality. “A nuisance. This passenger had the audacity to claim he was a sparks — Silk informs me that the man attempted to produce papers to verify his claim, but he couldn’t make hide nor hair of whether they were real. As for you, sir, I’d like you to head down and let him know what’s what before he ends up accosted by the Master-at-Arms. Do I make myself clear, Mr Hornblower?”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Hornblower.
“You’ll find him in—” Cargill paused, flicking through his papers until he found the relevant one. “Cabin G-224. I’d like it if you made it absolutely clear that Blue Ensign has no tolerance for that kind of mischief, and that if he doesn’t want to be escorted off the ship in Queenstown he had best keep to himself. Put the fear of God in him, if you must.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Hornblower, hoping that the disappointment did not show in his voice. He left Cargill’s office, despondent at the thought of some jumped-up third class bounder robbing him of a moment’s peace. Such was the life of a junior officer, but as third officer aboard the Carian he had not had to deal with such petty tomfoolery, and he found himself very nearly missing his old life. Then he laughed at himself for being so foolish; the Carian had been a vessel of some note, but she had been designed for transportation, not luxury, and he was a fool of the worst sort, the kind who could not appreciate what was before him, too caught up in memories of the past. He shook himself and went off in search of the foolish passenger who had cost him his rest.
The cabin was located forward on G deck, in the bow of the ship, so close to the keel it was almost in the engine room. Down here, where there was little ventilation, the smell of turpentine and fresh paint was overpowering: Horatio reached up and scraped his fingernail against the bulkhead, half expecting it to come away with paint under his nail. Even here there was luxury; the steel bulkhead was panelled in pine, instead of being bare, the deck covered in a pleasant red linoleum. It was far better than most third class accommodations that bunked their steerage passengers together like animals; here, even the poorest passenger could be afforded some degree of privacy. Horatio straightened his uniform and knocked at the door.
A sturdy young man opened the door and glanced over Horatio’s gold insignia with a worried look. “Is there some trouble, sir?” he asked.
“I’m looking for the passenger who was returned here by force from the boat deck. I’ve been sent to have a word.”
The young man frowned, and looked back into the cabin. “I think he means you, Will,” he said to his companion, who rose from where he was sat on his bunk and came over to the door. The fellow who had answered the door retreated to his own bunk to give them some semblance of privacy, but even with a newspaper in his hands Hornblower was sharply aware that the man was watching them. Never mind — the opinions of others was not his concern. He turned his attention to the man before him, frowning in what he hoped was an expression of cold displeasure.
“So you're the troublemaker, then,” he said, as sternly as he could muster. He cast a wary eye over the man, but there was nothing malevolent in the fellow’s face. On the contrary — his was a rugged, honest-looking face, with a strong nose and chin and a pair of bright blue eyes that watched Hornblower closely. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” asked Hornblower.
At the very least, the man had the decency to look sheepish in response to Hornblower’s question, though it was almost certainly not genuine contrition. “I am sorry to have troubled you, sir,” he said, meeting Hornblower’s gaze. “I wasn’t trying to make trouble, sir, you must believe me—”
Hornblower held up a hand to silence any further protest. “I’ve received reports of your activities from the sixth officer of this ship, the purser, and the bosun,” he snapped. “You were late to arrive and bullied the officer in charge into letting you onboard when he tried to turn you away. You made a nuisance of yourself by sneaking into an area which you know to be off-limits and pestered the crew, even going so far as to attempt to bribe the bosun. You even had the nerve to claim you’re a telegraph operator when you were caught, as though anyone might believe that paltry excuse. I believe that quite constitutes ‘making trouble’, Mr—”
“Bush, sir. William Bush.” A sudden smile played at the corners of Bush’s mouth. “For all my faults, sir, I am as I say I am, look here.” He extracted a slim leather wallet from his inside pocket and produced a folded piece of paper. “My government certificate, sir.”
Hornblower unfolded it, inspecting it carefully for any sign of fraud, but it was as the man had said it was: a certificate declaring one William James Bush’s proficiency in radiotelegraphy and authorisation to operate as a first class operator onboard British ships. He glanced over Bush, taking in the tatty grey flannel suit, the scuffed shoes, the battered suitcase lying on the bed: all the hallmarks of the penniless emigrant, the man who could not get ahead in his own country, no matter how hard he might work. Horatio folded the paper up and handed it back, suddenly ashamed of himself.
“You’ll forgive my impertinence, Mr Bush,” he said.
“You were only doing your duty,” said Bush, kindly. “I won’t make a habit of this, sir, I promise.” His eyes lingered on Hornblower’s face, and Hornblower, to his horror, felt his face grow hot under such close inspection.
It was too much to bear: he cleared his throat and forced himself to meet Bush’s eyes. “Very good,” he said. “Let us hope that the next time we meet it is under more favourable circumstances than this.” Bush raised an eyebrow at that, and Hornblower cursed himself silently for his awkwardness. “Good day,” he said, giving a strange half-bow that Bush returned, bemused by the sudden shift in Hornblower’s mood. “Good day to you both.”
The walk back to the officers’ quarters was humiliating, and Hornblower hurried as quickly as he could without running, taking the stairs two at a time. It was unfair of Cargill to send him to deal with a passenger; Hornblower’s strength lay in navigation, not small-talk, and every one of his previous chief officers had come to that understanding quite quickly. He was the man who was sent to work out a tricky mathematical question, not berate some passenger over some wrongdoing. He was flushed and damp with sweat by the time he reached his cabin, and it was with great relief that he shut the door behind him. He removed his cap and jacket and washed his face in the little basin, trying to convince himself that he had not behaved as abominably as he thought he had.
What was it that had so upset him? He had not said or done anything untoward, for all that his brain tried to convince him otherwise. No, it had been the intensity with which Bush had observed him, as though Bush was looking past the uniform to the man who wore it. It was not something he was used to outside of the company of officers and crew; most men and women saw the gold buttons and braid before they saw Hornblower himself. It was isolating, perhaps, but protective too, and yet Bush had looked right through it. It unsettled Hornblower to realise his armour was so paper-thin.
A knock at his door startled him from his thoughts. “Mr Hornblower?” asked Cargill. “May I come in?”
Hornblower grabbed a towel and dabbed at his wet face. “Please, sir,” he said, setting it aside.
Cargill opened the door but did not step inside the cabin. “I thought I might find you in here,” he said. “How did your little conversation with our passenger go?”
“Fine, sir,” said Hornblower. “The man’s as he says he is, sir — a sparks. I saw his government certificate, and he seems a good sort. I’d chalk it up to nervous excitement, sir.”
“I see,” said Cargill. He thought for a long moment and then his face brightened. “Well, perhaps he can help our own telegraphists. I was just speaking to Truscott — seems they’re having a devil of a time getting the new machinery up and running in proper order.”
“Yes, sir.” said Hornblower, absentminded.
“Very good, then,” said Cargill cheerily, smacking the doorjamb. “Carry on, Mr Hornblower.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Horatio to Cargill’s retreating form. He checked his watch once the door had closed — still forty-five minutes left before the first watch. A cup of coffee would serve as a good distraction from his thoughts: he picked up his jacket and left the cabin in search of a steward.
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Date: 2021-07-29 11:13 pm (UTC)I did *not* expect Bush to be the noncompliant passenger! That was an interesting surprise. I enjoyed his awkward first meeting with Hornblower, and the description of how he could "look past the uniform to the man who wore it." I look forward to hearing more about his job in telecommunications and how that ties into the plot. And I'm hoping he'll get to know Hornblower well enough to, y'know, make sparks fly! (I'm sorry, I'm sorry.)
I'm really excited for this new fic of yours and I can't wait to see where it goes!
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Date: 2021-07-30 02:26 am (UTC)Bush as a noncompliant passenger! Without giving too much away, let's just say that he sometimes forgets he can't talk to officers as he may have once been able to, which is also why he sees through Hornblower's act of the Tough Officer. It was fun writing their awkward first meeting — about as awkward as the one in canon, I should think. Fortunately they're going to be thrown in each other's ways again soon, and then we'll see where they get to :-)
I'm so glad you like this. Thank you for such a lovely comment!