Part One

Hamlet, 1:1 - William Shakespeare

***

He'd lost the calluses on his hands.

Archie's palms burned from the friction of handling the heavy cordage, and he shook his hands as slightly as possible, trying to relieve the sting without calling attention to it. The insides of his fingers and the surfaces of his palms were red and angry, and he shook his head in disgust as he gripped the lines again.

Three years in French and Spanish prisons had left more than one mark on him, inside and out, but this was the first time he noticed something had disappeared. The calluses had faded away, and his hands were again going through the raw introduction that had marked his first few weeks at sea. Archie ignored their protests; he'd become spoiled by his parole perhaps even more than his imprisonment, and now he had more to get back than some toughened skin.

After the rescue of the survivors of the Marie Galante, Don Masseredo had seen fit to grant Archie his own parole for four hours every day, while Horatio's previous two hours were increased to six. Voluntary return to captivity seemed to have sparked something generous in the old man's spirit, and Archie appreciated the liberty, whatever the motive. Unlike Horatio, who often preferred solitary walks along the cliffs, he tended to spend his time in the village of El Ferrol, exercising his Spanish along with his legs and drinking in the babble of human companionship.

The six months between his return and release were a life almost intoxicatingly similar to his youthful summers at his family's country holdings. The people were surprisingly friendly, the sun burnished his pale skin, and the strength he had lost to illness and despair slowly returned. Things weren't quite the same, though. There was Madeira and paella instead of port and roast beef, haciendas instead of manors, and most importantly, the gold and scarlet crown of Spain on a prison tower instead of St. George's cross on a tall ship's ensign.

Sometimes, when he had tired of playing cards with the men or diligently reviewing Clarke's "Complete Handbook of Seamanship" with Horatio, he would go down to the harbor and help the fishermen bring in the baskets of fish. It was hard work, always at dawn, and it would leave him smelling of mackerel and picking away silver scales for days, but he enjoyed it. If he closed his eyes, he could forget the Spanish in his ears and concentrate on the saltwater in his nostrils and the strain of manual labour in his arms. He could pretend he was free.

Now he no longer had to pretend. Now the saltwater belonged to the open waves rather than a small harbor, the rough wharf planking was replaced by a deck holystoned twice daily, and the voices in his ears spoke the sweet, coarse, braying tongues of Liverpool and Cheshire, of Cardiff and London and Bristol. Now, sore hands or not, he was free.

He was also rapidly remembering that every man in his Majesty's navy was subject to the endless tasks of maintaining a ship of war, and that King George ran on a schedule of watches and bells far different from the laxity of parole. This was the time of day the entire town used to relax into a 'siesta' or nap, but on board the Indefatigable it was simply four bells in the afternoon watch, and for a midshipman, that meant there were things to be done. Things like varnishing the larboard pinrail.

It was a simple enough assignment, just tedious and time-consuming. All the lines that normally anchored to the pinrail had been removed and tied off, the belaying pins removed and oiled, and the rail itself sanded and varnished. Now the many coats of varnish were finally dry, the pins replaced, and every line had to be made fast again in its proper place. This didn't require any particular strength or skill, but it did display one's knowledge of the lines and rigging, making it the perfect task to test two midshipman: one a boy, the other three years away from sea with the calluses faded from his hands.

He had remembered all the lines without much difficulty, and the positioning on the pins followed a certain logic, alternating sides with the halyards and braces moving higher up as they went aft. Archie knew that he had Horatio and his books to thank for his memory there. Now he paused, though, staring a moment at the thick hemp line across his reddened palms. He knew what it was, and he knew that it fastened to the pin directly in front of him. Three figure-eights round the pin…and then?

The line had to be prevented from coming loose, but some ships and some boatswains liked it made off in a weather hitch, others just tucked between the ascending portion of the line and the pin itself. It was a simple standard, but different for each ship. The Justinian liked the hitch…or was it the Indy….? Archie bit his lip in frustration. He remembered making off a thousand lines with a weather hitch, and a thousand lines without, but he didn't remember which ship. It was an embarrassment more than anything else, but it grated on Archie's nerves, reminding him of his stranger's status as surely as the low spots below decks he kept striking his head against, as surely as the sharp heat in his palms.

Archie glanced over at the rough, nimble fingers of Midshipman John Lawrence, flying over his own allotment of lines with the lightning surety of a fifteen year old boy with five years at sea already beneath his belt. Archie nodded immeasurably as Lawrence made off the line. Weather hitch.

"Do you suppose they'll move us now, sir?" Lawrence's voice, like his body, held a solid depth that made him seem ten years older. For all the maturity of his voice, however, there was still a boy's lilt to it, an enthusiasm and boundless energy that could often make Archie - not quite twenty-one himself - feel like a very old man indeed.

"That's for the Admirals to decide, Mr. Lawrence." He pulled the next line to its freshly oiled and gleaming pin, making it fast without a moment's trouble. "I imagine it's bad enough for the Frogs with us bottling up Gibraltar. The Admiralty may keep us where we are…they can't get out of the Mediterranean, but more importantly, they can't get anything in to Egypt."

"I heard what's left of the army down there is all dying of plague, sir." There was a disquieting enjoyment to that statement, and Archie gave him a cautious look. "And that their general, Bondeparr, has fled to France…"

"Bonaparte."

"Bonaparte, then. But don't you see, sir? The generals are running, the army is in bits…if we don't leave Gibraltar soon, sir, the war will be completely over!" His voice rose to an urgent pitch, and he gestured broadly with the line in his hand, the corner of the foresail quietly ruffling agreement.

"What's this about the war being over, gentlemen?" Horatio's voice came from the edge of the quarterdeck above, and Archie turned. He didn't need to look to see the flush that he knew would be staining Lawrence's cheeks. The boy idolized Horatio, and to be caught in such a grandiose complaint would fill him with that special mortification only adolescents and young men with close memories of those years can truly understand.

"Speculation, Horatio. Pure fortune-telling." Archie smiled and pulled another line free of its temporary mooring, making it off firmly to the proper pin. "What do you think? With Bonaparte politicking through Paris and half the army still pinned up in Egypt…shall we see an end to this?"

"A fascinating question, but it will have to wait. Captain Pellew sends his compliments and requests the presence of all officers. We have received new orders." The words were firm and commanding, reflecting Horatio's responsibility in his new Lieutenancy, but Archie could see excitement in the dark eyes. Though often somber, Horatio was still only a bit over twenty, still a sailor, and the thought of combat couldn't fail to send a hot shiver down his spine.

"Yes, sir." Archie almost tossed off a salute, but his hands were full of line, and he contented himself with a crisp nod. Horatio nodded back, then disappeared into the cabin to seek out the remainder of the ship's officers.

When Archie turned back, Lawrence was standing perfectly still, but his blue eyes were wide, his ruddy, sunburnt cheeks flushing to the shade of a marine's coat as he fought to restrain his building excitement. Archie wondered only half in jest if it was possible for the boy to explode right in front of him. "Make off the line you've got, Mr. Lawrence. The rest can wait."

The words seemed to shock him from his stupor, and he pounced on the pin like a starving dog on a roast, his hands a blur. "Do you suppose we're sailing out? Do you think it's Bonaparte? Or Robespierre? Or even the King! Mr. Kennedy, do you think the Royalists have taken Paris? Or maybe it's the French Navy! Maybe there's going to be a battle!"

"I know no more than you." Archie tried hard to bite back his urge to laugh. He remembered when he had received the news of his transfer to the Indy, his first taste of the prospect of combat. It had been everything he could do then not to leap for joy, and it was that thrill that was charging Lawrence now. "But doubtless the Captain will tell us."

"Wouldn't a fight be grand?"

The lines were all secured now, and though there were still a half-dozen or so yet to be returned to the pinrails, those could easily wait. Satisfied that nothing would come loose while they were gone, Archie straightened the shoulders of his jacket, tucked back a few strands of hair that had fallen from their ribbon, and began to make his way towards the cabin.

He could still hear Lawrence chattering behind him, and though he didn't answer, his own step was quick, and his eyes gleamed with excitement. After three long years in prison - three long years of helplessness and waiting and frustration - Lawrence was right. A fight would be grand indeed.

***

The chart crackled as Captain Pellew rolled it across the surface of the heavy wooden table, pulling the sandglass to anchor the curling corner of the parchment. Delicate lines traced the jagged edge of the northern Mediterranean coastline from Cadiz to Constantinople, longitude and latitude forming a grid across it all as neat and as false as the borders of the nations.

Smoothing the edge of the chart with the side of his hand, Pellew raised his eyes to scan the officers assembled around the table. First Lieutenant Bracegirdle sat to his right, his affable, stolid presence seemingly unshakable. Second Lieutenant McIsaac, a stocky, auburn-haired Scot who had filled Hornblower's place in his absence, sat to his left, his face displaying the benign indifference of a man who's sailed a hundred nothing missions. Down the length of the table, from Fourth and Fifth Lieutenants Smith and Woode to the half-dozen midshipman clustered at the far end, there were mostly varying degrees of the same mild unconcern, and Pellew frowned.

The months spent on blockade at Gibraltar were slowly wearing the edge off the men, numbing their spirits and lulling them into a sense of complacency that even the most rigorous schedule of drills couldn't cure. Only Lieutenant Hornblower and Midshipmen Kennedy and Lawrence had been left out of the worst of this creeping ennui, but their bright-eyed enthusiasm had its own danger. He trusted Hornblower, knew the young man could temper his own devotion, but Kennedy and Lawrence were less certain, and each had something to prove, stakes that could propel them either to exemplary bravery or foolhardy risk.

Pellew's face remained a mask of professionalism, giving no hint of his thoughts as he rested his palms flat on the table and leaned into them. "The Royal Navy has been embarrassed, gentlemen." The effect on the officers was as if he had fired a pistol into their midst. Every eye was riveted to him now, every gaze equally focused on the man standing at the end of the table. "As you well know, general Bonaparte has managed to evade our fleet and escape Egypt. He landed at Frejus four days ago and is now frolicking about Paris, supporting Abbess Sieyes in his bid for power. What we did not know was that another ship also evaded our blockade."

There was a sudden stiffness in McIsaac's posture, and he understood the young man's resentment. To long for action for months, only to discover that you sat by while the very enemy you were supposed to be bottling up slipped by in twos and threes…it was, as he himself knew, a most unpleasant sensation. "Colonel Jean Triuare, along with 150 of Bonaparte's elite Dragoons - all decorated veterans of the Pyramids and the Egyptian campaigns - landed in Barcelona on the same day. Triuare and the Dragoons are to march north to Paris, supporting Bonaparte and Sieyes in their endeavor. What the Admiralty has given us, gentlemen, is the opportunity to snatch victory from amid the ashes of this humiliation."

"Army intelligence has intercepted a communiqué between Triuare and Major Arsenault of the garrison at Collioure," he used a pair of brass dividers to indicate a tiny indention in the coastline of southern France, "a small fishing village here, in the Pyrenees mountains on the Spanish border. Truiare and his men are planning to camp at Collioure on the night of the 15^th, two days from now. We have orders to be there waiting for them."

Lieutenant Smith frowned. "Pardon me, sir, but how are we expected to sail to Collioure and take a French garrison in two days?"

"The garrison itself should not present any great difficulty," Pellew replied, "there are only 50 men making up the detachment there, and with the uneventful nature of their posting and their commanding officer's reputation, I would suspect a high degree of lassitude."

"And how much are we relying upon this supposed lassitude, sir?" The question came from Lieutenant Hornblower, and Pellew was not surprised to see the concern in the young man's piercing eyes or to hear the skepticism in his voice.

"Not exclusively, Mr. Hornblower. We will also be employing the element of surprise. A shore party of 40 men will attack at dawn."

Midshipman Lawrence was sitting perfectly upright, yet his body seemed to strain forward, charged with barely controlled excitement. "And then, sir? What about the Dragoons?"

"They will not be arriving until nightfall. A party of rifles under the command of Captain Murray is scouting along the Spanish border. They will be joining us. When Triuare and his men arrive, the combined force is to surprise and capture them."

Lieutenant Woode cocked his head dubiously, "And hold the garrison, their company, and a parcel of Bonaparte's best in the middle of French territory?"

"No, Mr. Woode." Pellew clasped his hands behind his back. "The garrison is to be abandoned. The rifles will take command of the men, and we will extend their officers a passage to England as prisoners of His Majesty."

A chuckle rippled quietly through the officers. "The Indefatigable is to set sail immediately. Make all speed for Collioure. Mr. Hornblower…" He locked eyes with the young Lieutenant, satisfied with the unflinching way his scrutiny was met, "You will be leading the shore party."

The mix of envy and outright resentment directed at Hornblower by a number of the other Lieutenants with this pronouncement did not escape his notice, but Pellew ignored it, nodding cooly to the assembly. "The rest of you are released to your duties. I expect we will be under sail within the hour. Dismissed."

There was a shuffling of chairs against the deck, and the wardroom quickly cleared, leaving only Hornblower standing expectantly behind his chair, hands resting lightly but rigidly on the backrest. Pellew strode slowly to the other side of the cabin, gazing out at the yardarms and rigging of the fleet etching a maze against the sky. "I am not ignorant of the sentiments of the men, Mr. Hornblower." He turned back sharply, seeing the surprise on the other man's face. "I am aware that some considered my granting you this command to have been a foregone conclusion, fancying you some manner of Captain's pet, as it were."

He could see the protest forming on Hornblower's lips, and he cut him off with a look. "No. I make no secret of the fact that I see great promise in you. You possess a precocious ability, and I will not attempt to stifle it, but nor will I coddle it. Never allow yourself to fall into the habit of assuming special favour, Mr. Hornblower, because I am not in the habit of granting it, to you or any other man under my command. Is that understood?"

Hornblower nodded, his expression carefully blank. "Yes, sir."

"I gave you this mission, Mr. Hornblower, to determine whether the Dons have softened you. I prefer to know the measure of a man before I entrust the safety of my ship to them, and now that you are a commissioned officer, I will be doing precisely that on a regular basis. I must know that you are still equal to the task." He paused, allowed his tone to soften ever so slightly. "Feel free to speak candidly, man. Do you feel equal to the command?"

Pellew watched the dark eyes carefully, searching for any hesitation, any uncertainty. There was none. "I would consider it an honour, sir."

"Good." He turned away again, circling back to the head of the table. "I am assigning Mr. Lawrence to your party as well. This will be a good opportunity for him to cut his teeth in battle."

There was flicker of what almost seemed like disappointment across Hornblower's face, and Pellew raised one eyebrow. "Is there a problem with that, Mr. Hornblower?"

"No sir," he hesitated, clearly selecting his words with great care, "but with all due respect, I would prefer a junior officer of some experience. In case I were…disabled, sir."

"Some experience." Pellew kept his tone deliberately flat and expressionless, "Mr. Lawrence has, I believe, two more years at sea than you yourself, Lieutenant."

"Yes sir, but as you have pointed out, he has never seen a battle."

"Are you suggesting he would not acquit himself well?"

"Not at all. Merely that a more senior officer may be advantageous…perhaps in addition to Mr. Lawrence."

"Just who did you have in mind, Mr. Hornblower?"

There was a pause as the Lieutenant took a deep breath, straightening his already perfectly straight shoulders. "Mr. Kennedy, sir."

"Mr. Kennedy?"

"Yes, sir."

The Captain paused a long moment, then lifted the dividers from the chart, studying the way the light reflected off the polished brass. "If I recall correctly, Mr. Kennedy has participated in only a single successful action himself."

"That's true, sir, but - "

"And if I also recall," he smoothly cut the younger man off, "during his second action, he experienced a fit, causing one of his fellow officers to strike him unconscious in order to save the mission." He raised his eyes. "Is that not correct?"

Hornblower stepped out from behind the chair, clasping his hands behind his back as he pulled himself to his full height, clearly trying to restrain his body's youthful impetus. "Yes, sir. However, if I may, I do not believe that you need concern yourself regarding the fits."

"Really?" A slight sardonic twist touched his lips, completely avoiding his eyes. "He's given them up, then? Denounced them like drink, or gambling?"

"No, sir, but I believe that their cause is no longer a concern."

Now Pellew frowned. There was a secret in Hornblower's voice. "Just what was that cause, Lieutenant?"

The dark eyes were fixed into the middle distance like a blind man's, refusing to meet the Captain's stare. "I am not at liberty to say, sir."

"Hmm." He placed the dividers carefully back on the chart. "Nevertheless, Mr. Kennedy has only seen combat once, and I believe you were specifically asking for an experienced second in command. I would suggest you take Mr. Thomas."

"Sir…" There was an edge to Hornblower's voice now, the familiar tone of determination. "Mr. Kennedy may not have participated in a large number of actions - "

"I would hardly consider one a large number."

"…but he *has* seen battle, sir, and acquitted himself in hand to hand combat. And while he was imprisoned, he made several attempts to escape, subjecting himself to severe punishments as a result of that determination." The young man suddenly looked Pellew straight in the eye, the intensity of his gaze like lightning. "I would trust him with my life, sir."

"High praise, Mr. Hornblower."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Inform Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Lawrence that they will be accompanying you. You may also select 40 of the men. Have a list of names to Mr. Bracegirdle by the end of the watch."

Hornblower blinked, seemingly stunned by the sudden acquiescence. "Aye aye, sir."

"Dismissed." He watched as the Lieutenant swiftly nodded a salute and hurried out of the wardroom, remembering only at the last moment to duck his tall frame beneath the low doorway.

Only then did Pellew allow a small smile to make its way over his severe features. He had noted the increased reserve, the touches of gentility and social grace that had smoothed a few of young Hornblower's rough edges since his return from El Ferrol, but it was clear now that his dedication, his fire was unchanged. The prospect of including Kennedy on the mission was unexpected, but almost as soon as it had been presented, Pellew had seen the advantage.

Kennedy had been imprisoned, and from the haunted shadows he had occasionally seen lurking around the corners of the young man's eyes, it had not been an easy three years. There were even rumours that his spirit had been broken, that he had attempted suicide. Pellew didn't bother with such gossip. Whether or not the rumours were true, he didn't care. He had no way of knowing the specifics of Kennedy's imprisonment, and it was not his place to judge.

What was his place was to judge Kennedy's fitness as it currently stood. In his many years at sea, Pellew had seen men react to imprisonment in three ways. Some became demons in battle, fighting like berserkers in their fury of revenge. Some showed no change, serving as steadily as before, holding any ghosts quietly within. Others were broken, allowing fear of recapture, fear of the enemy to devastate them, to crush their fighting spirit. The only way to know which category Kennedy would fall into would be to test him, and Collioure was the ideal chance to do so.

Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower. Midshipman Archibald Kennedy. Midshipman John Lawrence. Three officers. Three tests. One garrison.

Pellew pulled out a chair from the table and lowered himself into it, the faces of the three officers filling his mind. They were boys, if he was honest with himself, wide-eyed and smooth-cheeked, not a line threatening those sunburnt faces for another decade at least. The senior officer among them had barely turned twenty, the oldest six months beyond that, the youngest a mere fifteen years of age. Any one of them was easily young enough to be his own son, and he knew that they were plagued with adolescent impulsiveness and doubts.

Yet boys had grown into men for as long as there had been boys, and these three were well grown - even ancient - where it mattered. They were officers, and they were men, and they would do their duty. Above all, he trusted them to do that, as he trusted every soul aboard his ship. They would do their duty.

***

The names marched down the paper in neat, precisely lettered columns, 40 men singled out of the ship's compliment of over 300. Horatio had scrambled to complete the task by end of watch, not contenting himself to simply mark down whatever names came to mind, but seeking out the men and assuring himself that they were fit for the assault, both mind and body.

It had been well he had done so, for he had found Seaman Hanson racked with a deep, thick cough that had led Horatio to not only strike his name from the list, but order the man to the surgeon at once. Porter's division commander reported boils on his hands and arms that cast serious doubt on his ability to wield a cutlass, and Thorne had proven so ill-tempered that he had very nearly sent for the boatswain and his rope end.

Still, he had accumulated his 40 men. 40 of the Indy's finest, selected even as they had hauled the sheets and weighed anchor to set sail for Collioure. Already, the tops of the Gibraltar fleet were fading beneath the horizon as the Indy plunged on before the wind, driving the waves behind her at over twelve knots. Horatio was careful to keep his footing on the deck as even as possible as he approached Lieutenant Bracegirdle, having no interest in expanding his old moniker of 'The Midshipman Who Was Seasick At Spithead' to become 'The Lieutenant Who Was Ill At Gibraltar.'

"Roster for the shore party, sir." Horatio extended the sheet of paper and Bracegirdle took it, his round face implacable as he scanned the names. "I've taken the liberty of attempting to select from both watches equitably."

He knew that would make things easier on the First Lieutenant, requiring a minimum of shifting around to keep the ship's company balanced during the mission, and sure enough, there was gratitude in Bracegirdle's eyes when he looked up. "Thank you, Mr. Hornblower. I'll see to their assignment at change of watch." Bracegirdle folded the paper and slipped it into his coat. "Have you informed Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Lawrence?"

"No, sir. I fear I've only had time to compile the list of the men. I was on my way to inform the officers presently."

Bracegirdle laughed. "Mr. Kennedy, perhaps, but that Lawrence lad is worse than an old woman. He has his ear to every deck and bulkhead on this ship, and his fist in near every pudding. I wouldn't be surprised if he knew of this whole thing before you did, judging by the way he's been capering about today."

"I see." Horatio forced a thin smile, but the news that the First Lieutenant had delivered with such good humour was, to him, a bit unsettling. Aboard a frigate, word traveled like pox, and gossip was as ubiquitous as rats, but officers, no matter how junior, were expected to keep as far as possible above that verbal bilge. He hoped the older man had been exaggerating a bit, otherwise Horatio would be forced to doubt what he was able to say in confidence around Lawrence, and that was an unpleasant situation with a mission so close at hand.

He looked across the deck, eyes scanning for a short, dark-haired boy in a white-collared blue coat. "Do you know where I could find him?"

"I entrusted them both to the boatswain earlier this afternoon to be set to work. Last I saw of either Mr. Lawrence or Mr. Kennedy he'd set them to the pinrail, but from the look of things, they're well finished with that. You may wish to look below - he'd talked of tarring the ratlines, but I don't see a single pot of tar on deck as yet."

"Thank you, sir." Horatio touched the edge of his cocked hat respectfully, then turned and made his way to the maindeck, careful to cling securely with both hands as he descended.

As he reached the edge of the hatch, however, he was met with a familiar figure emerging from belowdecks, several fathoms of line looped over one shoulder. Archie stopped short on the ladder, looking oddly as if someone had planted him to the waist in the decking. "Horatio?"

"Archie," he stepped to the side, allowing his friend to climb completely out of the hatch. "Have you seen Mr. Lawrence recently?"

"He's with Mr. Chaswell below, cutting more line. A few of the braces are coming worn." Archie shifted the heavy coil slightly, trying to smooth where the wool of his jacket had bunched uncomfortably beneath the thick hemp line. "Should I fetch him for you?"

"No, I'll wait." He paused, motioning for Archie to set the coil down, but he smiled amiably and declined with a small shake of the head, and Horatio went on, "I was actually seeking you as well. Captain Pellew has agreed to assign both of you gentlemen to be under my command at Collioure."

The reaction was not at all what he had anticipated. Instead of excitement, there was a long pause, then a forced smile and a strangely non-committal tone to Archie's voice. "Ah…thank you." He hesitated awkwardly, then shrugged the coil higher on his shoulder and glanced aloft. "If you'll excuse me, sir?"

"Of course." Horatio watched him hurry quickly away, and his brow creased with a mixture of confusion and concern.

Before the briefing, and even just now as he emerged from belowdecks, Archie had seemed quite pleased with the prospect of battle. Horatio had noted this, had thought of it when he presented Archie to the Captain.

When given the actual substance of the orders, however, there had been a disturbing flicker in the blue eyes. On the surface, he had seemed eerily indifferent to the entire idea, but there had been something else there. It was a glimpse of a look he had seen only once before, on a crippled, ashen young man beneath a tattered blanket. That glimpse frightened Horatio, and he felt the icy touch of memories best forgotten.

Had he somehow misinterpreted it all so completely? He had been so certain Archie would jump at the chance to repay the Frogs for some of those lost years, but had he been wrong? Had something happened during that time that had cracked his fighting spirit, killed the young man who had so eagerly come to him after their first battle, boasting exuberantly of the blood on his sword? Or was it something else? Something that had changed in the space of half a watch or half a moment, something about this mission in particular, or even about Horatio himself?

He didn't know. Horatio stared aloft, squinting against the sun as he tried to read some clue in his friend's manner. Archie's movements in the rigging were brisk, nimble, and efficient, but even as the sun gleamed off his fair hair and brightly traced the lines of his face, its glare masked any telling nuance of expression.

He turned away, green sunspots skittering through his vision. It would be both presumptuous and impossible to go to Captain Pellew now and undo what he had done. Archie was simply part of the mission, and if something were plaguing him, Horatio would just have to trust the other man to see to it himself or to ask for help as needed.

Quietly, he moved to the hatch and began to climb down the ladder, intent on finding Lawrence. In his distraction, the first low beam caught him smartly across the forehead, knocking away his hat and sending stars to flash among the remnants of the sunspots. Horatio bent, picked up his hat, and tucked it under his arm, but though he stooped mindfully, he made no move to rub at his forehead. It wasn't particularly painful, but he had no doubt he would feel it later, should he care.

Only minutes ago, he had been filled with anticipation and enthusiasm, but now there was only that flash in the back of Archie's eyes, the unresolved questions about Lawrence, and a strange numbness that seeped out to the very tips of his fingers. The mission had changed, darkened, and in the dim, hot stench of the Indy's lower decks, Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower found himself shivering with cold.

***

It was late at night on the gun deck of the Indy, and even making full sail towards an imminent battle, Styles reflected that there was always a place for a measure of grog and an hour or two spent bending the ear of a naïve midshipman.

Not that Lawrence was particularly naïve. Unlike some middies who'd barely been snatched away from their mother's breasts, he'd been at sea since he was a lad of ten, and thus already knew his way around a ship by the time he'd gotten the white patch on his collar. That was as it should be, he felt. Mr. Hornblower being the exception, of course, it was too often that stripling boys who'd never seen saltwater got set over able seamen who'd been sailing since they were in clouts, and Styles, more than most, resented it.

He flicked a bit of unidentified scum off the surface of his drink and tossed it absently away as he studied the boy across the table. Lawrence was clearly cut from the same cloth as a thousand other young wharf rats he'd known, both in the Navy and in the merchant men before he'd been pressed. Plain-faced and mousy-haired, his one distinction was that he was built like a carronade, only five-foot and a bit, but already nearly as wide across the shoulders. He looked like a man, sailed like a man, drank like a man, but when it came to swallowing stories, he was, Styles smiled, very much a boy.

Satisfied that most of the foreign objects were cleared away, he took a long, slow sip of his drink, savouring it languorously. Lawrence was, he reckoned, about three seconds away from asking him outright to keep on with his tale. As a storyteller of some experience, that meant he had about two seconds to wait. He took another brief sip, then set the cup down. Now.

"So there we was, up to our arses in Dagos." He stared at the beams above them as if that mist-shrouded sea were visible in the knots and grain. "Right up under the beam of one of 'em. Must've been at least seventy-four guns, and here we was with two four-pounder popguns. We was so close, I could hear 'em babblin' at each other through the fog, an' I knew every man among us was sayin' his prayers. Even the riggin' was holdin' its breath - not a groan - then all of a sudden, the fog starts liftin', an' I can see the gunports of that bloody great ship, close enough to spit on."

He took another sip. They had been close to the supply ships at Gibraltar, and the three-water mixture still had a decent kick to it. This time, though, he had little chance to savour it, as Lawrence pressed immediately on. "And did you fight them?"

"Hell no!" Styles allowed a little irritation at having his personal timing inturrupted, but then quickly settled back into the rhythm of the tale. "Mr. Hornblower had more sense'n that - not that he couldn't found a way to if he'd set his mind to it - he had us all put on Frog uniforms…"

"With Frog lice."

The cheerfully disgruntled interjection came from behind him, and Styles turned, scowling at the intruder. "Shut up, Oldroyd. Not even Frog lice could stomach the likes of you."

Unfortunately for Styles, his fellow seaman did not shut up, but instead set himself down quite comfortably next to Lawrence, his ruddy face showing clear enjoyment of Styles' consternation. "Bloody sight better than being shot at, though."

"Hmm." He studiously chose to ignore the new presence. No matter what Matthews said, there were some things that a man couldn't forgive in good conscience, and Oldroyd's having had anything to do with Hunter and his damned fool plans was one of those things. "So we was all makin' Froggy like, an' even with the fog clearing out, Mr. Hornblower had 'em right buggered, speakin' at 'em like he was just as fine a Frog as you ever did meet. But there was this one man on the Dago's ship what had been on La Reve…"

"I thought you said Hornblower had killed them all?" Lawrence frowned innocently.

"He had, he had." Styles caught himself, "And all by hisself…well, mebbe a bit 'o help. But this one Frog, see, had been on La Reve before that, an' he knew about what had happened, that there weren't no one left alive after Mr. Hornblower was done with them, so he knew we wasn't real Frogs. So the Dagos knew who we was, an' Mr. Hornblower had to take the Duchess…"

The boy's eyes flew wide. "Duchess?"

"Didn't you tell him about the Duchess?" Oldroyd snickered, and the urge to knock him upside the head was all the stronger for the fact that he was right. It was a ridiculous thing to forget.

"No, he didn't! Was she terribly grand?" There was a thrill to Lawrence's voice that could only belong to a boy who hadn't laid eyes on a female since before puberty.

Styles chuckled, both at the boy and the memory of the Duchess herself. "Grand? She was like a bloody princess, all in ribbons and diamonds. Skin like - "

"Gentlemen." He almost snapped at the second intruder, but at the last second, Styles recognized the voice.

"Mr. Kennedy…" His voice trailed off as he turned. Kennedy was well-liked among the ratings, known not only as a middie who genuinely seemed to enjoy pulling his weight in work, but as an officer who would sometimes stop and joke with the men, and who gave a smile ten times as often as a rebuke. Privately, Styles felt that the young man's personable nature among the men might just be a matter of missing the King's English, but he knew it wasn't his place to guess. Now, though, the gentlemanly face was oddly cold, and the greeting seemed more formality than welcome. Styles immediately felt as if he were in trouble, and he wasn't used to feeling that with Kennedy. "Just…tellin' some tales, sir."

"Carry on." There was a strange weariness to his voice, and Styles saw a slump to his shoulders and a sadness in his eyes as he turned away and disappeared towards the midshipman's mess.

A long silence lingered in Kennedy's wake before Styles let out a deep breath. "Wasn't he all cheery?"

Lawrence glanced around, as if making sure Kennedy had indeed left, then leaned forward. The older men both recognized the gleam in his eyes, and they too leaned in, eager as boys. Gossip from the officer's mess was a rare treat indeed among the ratings, often fabricated or supposed, but almost never directly given. "He's been that way since the Lieutenant gave him his orders. Barely picked about his supper, and gave his spirit ration to Mr. Thomas without asking anything in trade…"

Oldroyd shook his head sadly. "Poor lad must be sick."

Styles rebuked him with a firm thump to the side of the head, his eyes urging Lawrence to continue, which he did. "I think they quarreled. Lieutenant Hornblower was acting oddly himself. Sought me out below today, but all he did was look at me funny and ask me to 'watch my tongue about the ratings'." Lawrence shook his head in genuine confusion. "But I've never said a harsh word to one of you!"

"No, you've not, lad." Styles thought over the odd words for a moment, then dismissed them. "Mebbe just a warning."

"Perhaps. But they've always seemed like friends, if you know my meaning? Mr. Kennedy's always calling the Lieutenant by his Christian name, and Mr. Hornblower always calls him 'Archie', but Mr. Chaswell says they've been all right and proper today. All 'sir' and 'Mr. Kennedy.'"

"That's bloody odd." Oldroyd frowned, and for once, Styles made no move to contradict him.

"They are friends, then?" Lawrence questioned.

"Near brothers. They was together on Justinian before the Indy. Bloody Jack's mess." Styles made a face at the memory. At the time, he had thought the Justinian a good ship, but looking back, he could tell what a shameful hulk it had been. "Mr. Hornblower even saved his life when we was in prison."

"Saved his life?"

Styles nodded solemnly and took a deep draught of his grog. This would be a long tale, and in light of what Lawrence had told him about the apparent falling out between the two young officers, not such a pleasant one. He met the middy's blue eyes evenly, entirely ignoring the uncomfortable look on Oldroyd's face. He knew what would eventually happen in this story. Let him be ashamed.

"There was this right bastard," Styles began, "name was Hunter.…"

***

The lantern swung gently back and forth with the motion of the ship, the flickering of the candle casting a madhouse of shadows across the hold. Casks appeared and disappeared, bulkheads and beams seemed to jump from one place to another, and common stores reared up silhouettes like demons, but the officer carrying the lantern took no notice of the fantastic spectacle. His eyes were set on the deck ahead of him, and on the task beyond that, his mind entirely focused, regardless of sleep or shadows.

It was eight bells in the first watch, but no one had seemed to care when he had slipped out of his hammock in the tightly packed midshipman's berth. He had prepared an excuse, even practiced mouthing it to himself to ensure it was entirely natural, but there had been no more than a cracked eyelid here, a somnolent mumble there. Doubtless, they were simply glad for the few inches additional space his absence provided, and if they had bothered to think anything at all about why he was leaving, they had chosen to let him be.

Archie knew that his fellow officers had noticed his quiet, withdrawn demeanor, but no one had said anything about it, and for that he was grateful. They were discussing it behind his back, he knew, and that was more than sufficiently humiliating without bringing it before his face. The events of the afternoon were gnawing on him, not letting him sleep, not letting him think, so here he was. He was doing something about it, even if that something was finding a workable way to ignore it.

As he continued in the fetid darkness below the waterline, he felt a strange urge to laugh. How many men wished for powerful friends? How many bartered their pride to 'know people', to 'have connections'? If only he could tell them how bitter it would be when they finally tasted 'influence'.

That urge died when he reached his destination, the ship's armory. The marine at guard straightened at his approach, but as he drew nearer, the lanky youth's sun-tanned face betraying a warm relief at the break in the monotony of the watch. "Mr. Kennedy. What's you doin' about so late? I'd reckoned you'd be tucked away with 't rest o' your watch."

"Just a bit restless, Mr. Haywood." Archie's voice sounded strangely hollow to his own ear, but Haywood frowned sympathetically.

"I hear you's part o' the mission tomorrow. I wanted 't go, but Sergeant picked me over." He shrugged, but the disappointment was real in his eyes. "It'll be a fine day for what of you do get to go at them Frogs. What I hear tell, it'll be shootin' fish in a bloody barrel."

"Perhaps." Archie paused, forcing a slight smile. "Mr. Haywood…?"

"Aye, sir?"

"Would you consider it…overzealous if I should desire to look about the arms that we'll be taking?"

"Nay, not 'tall. It's a bad lot to have your weapon bugger up when you's needin' it most, I say. But if you'll be takin' anythin' out…"

"Of course." Suddenly straightening his back with a sharp click of his heels, Haywood stepped aside, allowing Archie room to step freely into the armory.

Within the tiny space, a feeling of deadly earnest was thick in the air. Strangely, it did not come from the one-eyed glare of the musket barrels or the dull gleam of the cutlass blades. Rather, it oozed from the ominous outlines of the sea cocks in the edges of his lantern light. Aboard a wooden ship, nothing was more feared than fire, and here it was piled around him in every flint and cask, its horror deftly illustrated by the fact that the great ship was willing to open her belly to the sea before risking that devastating potential.

Archie selected a pistol, turning it over in his hands. He had not held a firearm in three years, and he had forgotten their crude beauty. The weapon was cheap and sturdy, a graceless construction of iron and wood that was intended to spit a single half-inch ball, then surrender all pretense of sophistication and become a simple bludgeon. This particular pistol had clearly seen action, the butt deeply scarred and scratched, but it was surprisingly warm from the hold, and the play of the agile light over its surface made it almost seem like a living thing.

He pulled back the cock and held it, slowly bringing his arm up and extending the pistol towards the blackness beyond the reach of his lantern. He could imagine so many faces now if he wanted to, but his imagination provided nothing but the blunt truth of the Indy's hold, and that was no accident. In less than thirty hours, his life would depend on this weapon or another like it, and he did not want to bring memory or revenge into battle with him.

He was already bringing more than enough.

***

The candle lit, guttered, then lit again, the thin wick hesitant to catch the flame. There was a hiss and a sputter, but finally, the reluctant wax began to feed up the wick, and the candle cast a faint glow across the table. The light was meager and flickering, exhausting to the eyes, but the young officer rolled the chart across the table, leaning low over it. His eyes were set on the chart before him, and on the task beyond that, his mind entirely focused regardless of sleep or candlelight.

It was midnight, and the other officers from his watch had long since retired. Only Bracegirdle had offered so much as a token admonishment when, finding sleep impossible, Horatio had pulled breeches on beneath his nightshirt and taken an armload of books and charts and candles into the wardroom. He was glad of it, not wanting to wade his way through the First Lieutenant's mother hen tendencies to reach the simple peace of study.

He knew that his candle could be seen by the officer of the watch, and he knew what Smith would say. The Captain had been right, and it bothered Horatio more that they would think Pellew guilty of favouritism than himself guilty of currying it. Smith and Woode saw it in everything he did, and now that suspicion was dripping down onto Lawrence and Archie, adding that poison to the questions and fears already swirling around them. He hated it, but there was little, if anything, he could do, and so he turned to the old comfort of the printed page to escape.

An ironic smile touched at the very edge of his lips. How many youths would long to be in his place? A commissioned Lieutenant at twenty, already taken of prize money, veteran of over a dozen actions, sailing on a frigate under a captain known throughout the fleet as a valiant commander…it was the stuff of every midshipman's dreams. Somehow, it had become the stuff of his nightmares.

Such musings fell away as his eyes scanned the Catalonian coast, hungrily tracing every inlet and peninsula. It was an innocent enough collection of geographical features, but it looked to him like the jagged teeth of some hungry creature, ready to swallow his first Lieutenant's command. He would defeat it the same way he had so many things in the past, by learning all he could about it and improvising the rest, by having a ready plan and an even more ready command of the theory behind it.

He opened an atlas of France and found the grievously brief notation on Coullioure. Horatio's eyes devoured the facts, committing them effortlessly to memory. Previously owned by Spain. Transferred to France in '49 when the border slipped west. The Chateau de Royale on the eastern edge of the harbour, built in the 12^th century and fortified 100 years ago. The Church of Notre Dame de Agnes, also fortified, across the harbour to the west. A fishing town known for export of anchovies.

There was no other information given, and Horatio turned his attention to the charts again. The topography of the Pyrenees Mountains was complex, and every hill and valley could provide vital shelter for allies or enemies. In less than thirty hours, his life and the lives of his men would depend on their Lieutenant's preparation, and he couldn't afford to concern himself with how it all appeared.

He had enough to concern himself with already.

***

Some men fired their pistols and abandoned them, but his time in prison had taught Archie to waste nothing. There were lulls in battle, breathless minutes crouching behind cover, praying it would hold. He knew that from his escape attempts, and he knew how often he had wished for a weapon, how often he could have re-loaded it, turned that one shot into two, to three, to six. Waste nothing. Including time.

His movements were efficient, though careful as he slipped the ramrod down the barrel, checking the mark to assure himself that it was unloaded. It was a mere formality - no man would be fool enough to stow a loaded pistol, but Archie didn't care. Every move had to be impeccably correct. He wasn't going to have his first time loading a pistol in three years be in battle, nor was he going to do it in front of the men. They didn't need to know that their officer was mentally counting through the steps, and by the time he was in front of them, he wouldn't be.

***

The landscape worried Horatio. It would be difficult enough for him to learn it well himself, but what of the other men? What of Lawrence? What of Kennedy? If something happened to him, they would have to know the lay of the land, which way to expect the Dragoons to come in, which way to expect the rifles. There could only be one way, Horatio knew, a narrow, winding pass from the north that traced straight to the Spanish border, less than ten miles away. Jagged, ugly cliffs marked it to either side, and it was through this tiny doorway that both the French and British soldiers would pass, with forty-three naval officers praying that they never met.

Yes, the land would decide this battle…not the taking of the garrison, but the keeping it. He and his men had to know the land, and to know it, they needed maps. Never taking his eyes off the chart, he tore a page out of his journal and dipped a quill. A quick cross denoted the points of the compass, and he began.

***

He unscrewed the flint from its doghead and put it in his pocket for safety. Even without the use of gunpowder, those sea cocks stood as warning that one did not play recklessly with fire in an armory, and without the flint, the pistol would not spark.

***

The pen scratched rhythmically against the paper as Horatio began to painstakingly copy the landscape around Collioure. His artist's eye was poor, to say the least, but he had a mathematical mind, and if he thought of it that way, the mountains and valleys became arcs and angles, ever so easy.

***

The powder horn tipped against the measure, the measure against the barrel of the pistol, but a broad thumb stopped the already tightly closed mouth, and not a single black grain flowed.

***

The mouth of the bay opened invitingly into the Mediterranean, giving the Indy her hunting ground from which to release them. It was a wide bay, deep in draft but cut shallow into the coastline, a scoop rather than a stab.

***

Spitting the patch into his hand, Archie draped it across the barrel, gentle as a shroud. Ball on top of the patch and down the barrel. Ramrod slipped from its sheath, stabbing it down until it jammed hard. Another shove with the ramrod, just to be sure.

***

Hard, barren mountains clear in the topography. No gentle curving foothills, only crags jabbing upwards around the town.

***

Priming pan open. Imagined powder mimed into the pan. Frizzen closed. Cock the lock. Aim for the darkness.

***

A fort, shown only by shape, but in that shape he was able to deduce many things, among them a single spot. He circled it. That was the place. The place they would land.

***

Fire.

***

The point of attack.

***

Worming out the ball and patch, Archie smoothed the wet leather in the hollow of his palm, preparing to do it again.

***

One last neat line threaded in cheap ink across the paper, and Horatio quietly thanked his Latin teacher for his insistence on good penmanship. Not one grain of pounce needed.

***

Load. Click. Worm it out. Again. And again. And again. And again. Until his hand shook with the three and a half pound weight. Until he knew he could do it in his sleep, or in the grip of blinding panic. Until he was sure.

***

Horatio drafted a second map, marking Kennedy's name in the upper corner. Then he lifted another sheet of paper and began again, this time for Lawrence. Two candles had burned to their stumps now, and he lit a third. He only had six in his sea chest.

***

Archie was exhausted, but the leaden limbs and thickened thoughts were a welcome burden. It would be all he could do to get back to the middies mess and crawl into his hammock for a half hour or so before the merciless cry of 'out or down' woke him to another day's duties, and his mind had neither time nor room for torturing itself.

His raw hands throbbed as he returned the pistol, then lifted the lantern and turned slowly around the armory. A cutlass was out of place, and he shook his head, unable to remember having taken it out to begin with. No matter. He reached for it, but his clumsy hands slipped awkwardly and nicked the edge of the blade. Unlike a gentleman's rapier, it was not kept to razor sharpness, but Archie gasped as the still-vicious edge bit into his flesh.

As if already dreaming, he raised his hand in the lantern light, watching curiously as six fat, dark droplets slipped down from the tiny cut on the side of his forefinger, pooling in his palm. He didn't know how long he stood there as the blood thickened and stopped, how long he was held in that fatigued trance before he finally managed to put the cutlass in its place and steal quietly out of the hold again.

What he did know was that he had barely closed his eyes before the call came, harsh as broken glass in his ears as it beat its way across the berth. "Out or down! Out or down! Come on, lads! Out or down! You, come on, show a leg! Lazy sot! Out or down!"

Archie groaned, scrubbing at his eyes as he fought his way out of the hammock, barely managing to avoid pitching himself on to the deck. Another day had begun aboard the Indy, one last day before he would go into battle, before a thousand questions would be answered. It was a time when a man's thoughts should have teemed with fear or anticipation, but Archie struggled with no such turmoil. Indeed, his thoughts were remarkable in their singularity, in their clarity of purpose.

It was too bloody early.

***

Horatio groaned as Bracegirdle shook him gently by the shoulder. "Time to get up, Mr. Hornblower." He scrubbed one hand through his hair, not realizing until it was too late that he'd just stained the dark curls darker still with the ink on his fingers. His third candle had burnt to a black-tipped and shapeless blob of wax on its stand, but he had three perfect maps copied from the chart, neatly marked with the pass where the Dragoons would come, with the church, with the garrison, with the cliffs, and with the harbour.

He could hear the bustle of activity as the watch came to life, and he shook his head, trying to clear the fog. In one day, he would be leading his first mission as a Lieutenant, a mission that had incredible potential for glory wrapped around the inevitable potential for death. He should have been excited, he should have been worried, his thoughts should have been a tumultuous swirl of conflicting details, but instead, Horatio's mind was focused on one thing, and one thing alone.

It was too bloody early.