Post by larien on Feb 20, 2006 11:15:18 GMT -5
Summary – A retired officer remembers an encounter he had with a young Hornblower. Set after Flying Colors.Rated K.
Disclaimer – Horry and the Commandant belong to the brilliant C.S. Forester.
The wind blew cold on the headlands of El Ferrol. Breakers crashed white and foaming against the cliffs, whose black rocks jutted out into the salty spray. On the tip of the point stood an old man, his stringy grey hair blown straight back from his face. In the distance, he could see the forbidding iron grey of a storm, heading ever closer to the mainland. Behind him waited an attendant, standing impatiently as his charge gazed off into the distance. He waited to feel the ocean spray once more on his face, before turning to leave heavily on the cane he held at his side. Hobbling up the path, he headed back towards the compound where he had once held post as Commandant.
On the desk in his room was a pile of mail, the latest despatches from Madrid. On top lay a newspaper, already weeks old. Leafing through it, he came across an account of the events in Paris. It seemed some English captain had managed to make a fool of Napoleon, had escaped the guillotine from under the emperor’s nose. The old man squinted at the name, trying to recall where he had seen it before. It was a foreign name, filled with H’s and consonants playing roles they oughtn’t. And yet, he was sure he had read or seen it somewhere.
He sounded it out, summoning up what remained of his weak grasp of the English language. “Hor-ah-sho. ‘Oren-blore.”
That seemed quite wrong. But now he could remember that it had always sounded wrong when he said it. And a face came to float before his eyes; a somber face with great dark eyes that had stared out at him from beneath a frame of curling brown hair. Hair that had been plastered to its neck one night as a voice had cracked and soared, swearing its parole.
And now he could remember the young lieutenant who had stayed in his prison those two years. Yes, he remembered him. That was the one who had sailed a ship into the middle of a Spanish fleet. The old man smiled fondly at the memory. That had been a piece of bad luck, but the boy had seemed bright enough at the time. Quite bright, as it seemed to have turned out.
The former Commandant leaned back in his chair, recalling the last time he had seen the lieutenant. It had been in the office just down the hall, when a similar pile of despatches had arrived. He had been glad for the young man, though he never would have admitted that he had been secretly hoping for such a letter. That would have been treason.
But he had felt the boy deserved more than to rot out the war years in a damp cell in El Ferrol. He had spent the time he was there pacing the cell he had been allotted, restless until the time came when he could pace the beaches instead. A mind like the one he had shown that night out in the bay was meant to be in the thick of the fighting.
The bay. The old man could remember the look in the lieutenant’s eyes when he had begged permission to sail out into the storm. He had thought the boy was joking—no one in their right mind risked the Devil’s Teeth in weather like this. But here was this English – English – seaman demanding that he be allowed to rescue Spanish sailors. And in the moment when he had looked into those dark eyes, he had thought maybe there was a chance that someday their nations would be able to put aside their differences. That there might come a time when boys like this one wouldn’t be forced to take command of men twice their age.
So he had let the boy go out, taking with him a handful of Galician fishermen. He hadn’t expected to see any of them again and had returned to the garrison feeling weighed down with a sort of sadness for the lieutenant. So it had been with unadulterated surprise that he had welcomed them back, especially when he learned that the boy had chosen to keep his parole after having been offered a chance to return home.
The old man sighed and pushed back his chair, throwing the newspaper down onto the desk. He shuffled into the bedroom to lay down on the bed. Before closing his eyes to sleep, he smiled to himself. He could have told Napoleon that locking up that boy wouldn’t work. He was more trouble than it was worth.
Disclaimer – Horry and the Commandant belong to the brilliant C.S. Forester.
Ferrol
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The wind blew cold on the headlands of El Ferrol. Breakers crashed white and foaming against the cliffs, whose black rocks jutted out into the salty spray. On the tip of the point stood an old man, his stringy grey hair blown straight back from his face. In the distance, he could see the forbidding iron grey of a storm, heading ever closer to the mainland. Behind him waited an attendant, standing impatiently as his charge gazed off into the distance. He waited to feel the ocean spray once more on his face, before turning to leave heavily on the cane he held at his side. Hobbling up the path, he headed back towards the compound where he had once held post as Commandant.
On the desk in his room was a pile of mail, the latest despatches from Madrid. On top lay a newspaper, already weeks old. Leafing through it, he came across an account of the events in Paris. It seemed some English captain had managed to make a fool of Napoleon, had escaped the guillotine from under the emperor’s nose. The old man squinted at the name, trying to recall where he had seen it before. It was a foreign name, filled with H’s and consonants playing roles they oughtn’t. And yet, he was sure he had read or seen it somewhere.
He sounded it out, summoning up what remained of his weak grasp of the English language. “Hor-ah-sho. ‘Oren-blore.”
That seemed quite wrong. But now he could remember that it had always sounded wrong when he said it. And a face came to float before his eyes; a somber face with great dark eyes that had stared out at him from beneath a frame of curling brown hair. Hair that had been plastered to its neck one night as a voice had cracked and soared, swearing its parole.
And now he could remember the young lieutenant who had stayed in his prison those two years. Yes, he remembered him. That was the one who had sailed a ship into the middle of a Spanish fleet. The old man smiled fondly at the memory. That had been a piece of bad luck, but the boy had seemed bright enough at the time. Quite bright, as it seemed to have turned out.
The former Commandant leaned back in his chair, recalling the last time he had seen the lieutenant. It had been in the office just down the hall, when a similar pile of despatches had arrived. He had been glad for the young man, though he never would have admitted that he had been secretly hoping for such a letter. That would have been treason.
But he had felt the boy deserved more than to rot out the war years in a damp cell in El Ferrol. He had spent the time he was there pacing the cell he had been allotted, restless until the time came when he could pace the beaches instead. A mind like the one he had shown that night out in the bay was meant to be in the thick of the fighting.
The bay. The old man could remember the look in the lieutenant’s eyes when he had begged permission to sail out into the storm. He had thought the boy was joking—no one in their right mind risked the Devil’s Teeth in weather like this. But here was this English – English – seaman demanding that he be allowed to rescue Spanish sailors. And in the moment when he had looked into those dark eyes, he had thought maybe there was a chance that someday their nations would be able to put aside their differences. That there might come a time when boys like this one wouldn’t be forced to take command of men twice their age.
So he had let the boy go out, taking with him a handful of Galician fishermen. He hadn’t expected to see any of them again and had returned to the garrison feeling weighed down with a sort of sadness for the lieutenant. So it had been with unadulterated surprise that he had welcomed them back, especially when he learned that the boy had chosen to keep his parole after having been offered a chance to return home.
The old man sighed and pushed back his chair, throwing the newspaper down onto the desk. He shuffled into the bedroom to lay down on the bed. Before closing his eyes to sleep, he smiled to himself. He could have told Napoleon that locking up that boy wouldn’t work. He was more trouble than it was worth.
