Hornblower: Keeping Count
Mar. 16th, 2011 06:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
what_we_dreamTitle: Keeping Count
Series: Hornblower (books)
Pairing: None, or mildly Hornblower/Bush
Rating: G
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
frauleinfrog
Summary: A collection of short Bush-centric scenes.
One for sorrow
It’s the way of the service that men constantly meet, and constantly part. It’s never bothered Bush before, and he’s been at sea for more than half his life.
He’s extremely pleased for Hornblower when the lanky acting-second lieutenant stumbles back to announce he’s been promoted; it’s less than one lieutenant in a hundred who gets his step. And Hornblower, he has come to recognize, entirely deserves it. Bush is an honest soul, and there is no tinge of jealousy to his feelings. When the time comes for Hornblower to leave the ship, Bush salutes him as he goes down the side, and wishes him the best of luck with all his heart.
He just can’t understand why, all of the sudden, the ship seems so empty.
Two for joy
Bush is always restless on land. There is plenty to do at the tiny Chichester cottage, where the roof always leaks, the paint is always chipping and the walls are always creaking apart to let in drafts. When he isn’t repairing something he’s helping his sisters to hoe the dusty, rock-sown earth or mending the hardy sailcloth bags they use for storage.
Today he is outside fixing the roof when he hears the pounding of hoof-beats up the road. Bush doesn’t bother turning at first; they have no visitors today and there is rarely post. But the horse slows as it approaches the cottage and he sets down the hammer and glances over his shoulder. A boy is tumbling off an ill-looking nag, dodging quickly as it turns to nip at him.
Below, Mary hurries out of the house to speak to the boy. Her frowning look back at the house says all it needs to. He hurries over to the ladder and runs smoothly down.
The boy, hardly waist-height, hands up the letter with an expectant look. Bush fishes out a couple of sixpence from his pocket and gives them over absently. He doesn’t need to open the wafer to recognize who the letter is from: he knows the captain’s hand well enough.
The letter is short, the heavy slant to the words indicative of the extreme haste with which it was written. Nevertheless, Bush reads over the short missive a full three times just to be sure.
William,
I have been granted command of HMS Lydia, 36. She sails for the South Pacific Monday (14th). It would do me the greatest honour to have you as my 1st.
Yours Sincerely,
H. Hornblower
Bush lowers the letter. He can feel himself beaming like a ninny, but for the life of him can’t seem to stop.
Three for a girl
Bush was already a squeaker at sea when his last sister was born, two weeks after his father was lost with the Arrow. He doesn’t remember the letter. All he remembers is the surge of responsibility felt then for the first time, pulling down at him like a cannonball at his feet.
Four for a boy
Owing to the vicissitudes of the Service, the Hotspur returns to Portsmouth before any vessel with recent mail reaches her.
Bush knows the captain well enough to know he won’t go ashore before his duties aboardship have been completed, regardless of the news that may be awaiting him. Consequently Bush chooses a steady hand from those sent to the dock to see to the provisioning and gives him instructions and a coin. The man returns three hours later with the new cordage he was sent for and a short note for Bush.
Hornblower is at his desk with the log book, doubtless tallying up the Hotspur’s records, when Bush knocks and receives permission to enter. Slightly shamefaced, Bush passes over the note. Hornblower’s eyes rake over it once quickly, and then again, more incredulously.
“May I be the first to wish you joy, sir, of your son,” says Bush. Hornblower’s expression shifts from confusion to the most unguarded happiness Bush has ever seen from him.
Five for silver
The captain worries terribly about money, as is a captain’s prerogative. He has powder to buy, and his own meat, drink, potted goods, eggs, jolly-boat uniforms, gold paint and a host of other fancies.
Bush, on the other hand, although he longs for money has no real need of it. As long as the stars shine down from above to guide the ship onwards, he has all the silver he needs there.
Six for gold
As soon as he is posted, Bush sets out to buy his new uniform and, above all, his swabs. And discovers, to his mild shock, that not all swabs are created equal. Some are lustrous and gleam with an almost oily light, dense and heavy. Others are poorly-made things, gold painted on particle-thin with brass shining through coyly beneath. Naval outfitters know their market, and the swabs are priced for the near destitute all the way up through the rungs to the likes of dukes and earls (that the two classes could overlap is beyond Bush’s imagination).
Bush has no expectations, no land, a cottage with a perpetually leaky roof, and three sisters. He eyes the bullion-like epaulettes wistfully but with no real hope. Captain William Bush, the newest captain on the naval list, walks out of the shop with a rag that might almost have been melted from a doorknob on his shoulder.
When he returns to the cottage, though, it is to find all three of his sisters hovering over a package on the table. Packages are rare, those which arrive post paid even more so. Bush doesn’t recognize the writing on the cover, but the name is familiar enough: it comes from the foremost naval outfitter in London.
Bush opens the package to find a pool of glistening gold nestled delicately in a nest of fine silk. Beside the epaulette one line of text has been pinned to the padding: To Captain William Bush by request of Captain Sir Horatio Hornblower.
The epaulette he pins to his shoulder immediately. The note he tucks away in the only book in his room, The Epitome of Practical Navigation.
Seven for a secret never to be told
Bush has never in his three decades as a sailor disobeyed an order by thought, word or deed. Even in the worst days under Sawyer, when he was sick with distress and no clear comprehension of why, there was no single order he was given that he considered ignoring.
Standing on the Hotspur’s quarterdeck in temporary command, Bush watches Hornblower row towards the bleak French coast. He is uncomfortably aware that he doesn’t know what he will do if the captain doesn’t return on time. Bush knows his orders to the letter, knows the time he is to abandon this post and return to the squadron and the route he should take.
He’s just not at all sure that he will be able to face turning this ship into the wind without her captain beside him.
Series: Hornblower (books)
Pairing: None, or mildly Hornblower/Bush
Rating: G
Beta:
frauleinfrogSummary: A collection of short Bush-centric scenes.
One for sorrow
It’s the way of the service that men constantly meet, and constantly part. It’s never bothered Bush before, and he’s been at sea for more than half his life.
He’s extremely pleased for Hornblower when the lanky acting-second lieutenant stumbles back to announce he’s been promoted; it’s less than one lieutenant in a hundred who gets his step. And Hornblower, he has come to recognize, entirely deserves it. Bush is an honest soul, and there is no tinge of jealousy to his feelings. When the time comes for Hornblower to leave the ship, Bush salutes him as he goes down the side, and wishes him the best of luck with all his heart.
He just can’t understand why, all of the sudden, the ship seems so empty.
Two for joy
Bush is always restless on land. There is plenty to do at the tiny Chichester cottage, where the roof always leaks, the paint is always chipping and the walls are always creaking apart to let in drafts. When he isn’t repairing something he’s helping his sisters to hoe the dusty, rock-sown earth or mending the hardy sailcloth bags they use for storage.
Today he is outside fixing the roof when he hears the pounding of hoof-beats up the road. Bush doesn’t bother turning at first; they have no visitors today and there is rarely post. But the horse slows as it approaches the cottage and he sets down the hammer and glances over his shoulder. A boy is tumbling off an ill-looking nag, dodging quickly as it turns to nip at him.
Below, Mary hurries out of the house to speak to the boy. Her frowning look back at the house says all it needs to. He hurries over to the ladder and runs smoothly down.
The boy, hardly waist-height, hands up the letter with an expectant look. Bush fishes out a couple of sixpence from his pocket and gives them over absently. He doesn’t need to open the wafer to recognize who the letter is from: he knows the captain’s hand well enough.
The letter is short, the heavy slant to the words indicative of the extreme haste with which it was written. Nevertheless, Bush reads over the short missive a full three times just to be sure.
William,
I have been granted command of HMS Lydia, 36. She sails for the South Pacific Monday (14th). It would do me the greatest honour to have you as my 1st.
Yours Sincerely,
H. Hornblower
Bush lowers the letter. He can feel himself beaming like a ninny, but for the life of him can’t seem to stop.
Three for a girl
Bush was already a squeaker at sea when his last sister was born, two weeks after his father was lost with the Arrow. He doesn’t remember the letter. All he remembers is the surge of responsibility felt then for the first time, pulling down at him like a cannonball at his feet.
Four for a boy
Owing to the vicissitudes of the Service, the Hotspur returns to Portsmouth before any vessel with recent mail reaches her.
Bush knows the captain well enough to know he won’t go ashore before his duties aboardship have been completed, regardless of the news that may be awaiting him. Consequently Bush chooses a steady hand from those sent to the dock to see to the provisioning and gives him instructions and a coin. The man returns three hours later with the new cordage he was sent for and a short note for Bush.
Hornblower is at his desk with the log book, doubtless tallying up the Hotspur’s records, when Bush knocks and receives permission to enter. Slightly shamefaced, Bush passes over the note. Hornblower’s eyes rake over it once quickly, and then again, more incredulously.
“May I be the first to wish you joy, sir, of your son,” says Bush. Hornblower’s expression shifts from confusion to the most unguarded happiness Bush has ever seen from him.
Five for silver
The captain worries terribly about money, as is a captain’s prerogative. He has powder to buy, and his own meat, drink, potted goods, eggs, jolly-boat uniforms, gold paint and a host of other fancies.
Bush, on the other hand, although he longs for money has no real need of it. As long as the stars shine down from above to guide the ship onwards, he has all the silver he needs there.
Six for gold
As soon as he is posted, Bush sets out to buy his new uniform and, above all, his swabs. And discovers, to his mild shock, that not all swabs are created equal. Some are lustrous and gleam with an almost oily light, dense and heavy. Others are poorly-made things, gold painted on particle-thin with brass shining through coyly beneath. Naval outfitters know their market, and the swabs are priced for the near destitute all the way up through the rungs to the likes of dukes and earls (that the two classes could overlap is beyond Bush’s imagination).
Bush has no expectations, no land, a cottage with a perpetually leaky roof, and three sisters. He eyes the bullion-like epaulettes wistfully but with no real hope. Captain William Bush, the newest captain on the naval list, walks out of the shop with a rag that might almost have been melted from a doorknob on his shoulder.
When he returns to the cottage, though, it is to find all three of his sisters hovering over a package on the table. Packages are rare, those which arrive post paid even more so. Bush doesn’t recognize the writing on the cover, but the name is familiar enough: it comes from the foremost naval outfitter in London.
Bush opens the package to find a pool of glistening gold nestled delicately in a nest of fine silk. Beside the epaulette one line of text has been pinned to the padding: To Captain William Bush by request of Captain Sir Horatio Hornblower.
The epaulette he pins to his shoulder immediately. The note he tucks away in the only book in his room, The Epitome of Practical Navigation.
Seven for a secret never to be told
Bush has never in his three decades as a sailor disobeyed an order by thought, word or deed. Even in the worst days under Sawyer, when he was sick with distress and no clear comprehension of why, there was no single order he was given that he considered ignoring.
Standing on the Hotspur’s quarterdeck in temporary command, Bush watches Hornblower row towards the bleak French coast. He is uncomfortably aware that he doesn’t know what he will do if the captain doesn’t return on time. Bush knows his orders to the letter, knows the time he is to abandon this post and return to the squadron and the route he should take.
He’s just not at all sure that he will be able to face turning this ship into the wind without her captain beside him.
