Post by larien on Apr 15, 2006 6:42:07 GMT -5
Summary – “Fond? That implied he was interested romantically in his captain. But now he could see she had meant that Bush would follow Hornblower anywhere. And he had.” Character death. Rated T
Disclaimer – Bush and Horry are and always will be C.S. Forester’s.
The explosion had come as a surprise. The idea that he might die, that he might soon be writhing in pain had not even crossed his mind when he had made ready to leave. Now he lay in the muck that was the Seine, amazed that some French B*st*rd had managed to get him.
His hands were soaked, but he couldn’t imagine what with. Certainly there wasn’t that much blood in his body—his uniform felt heavy with it. His middle was ablaze with an all-consuming flame, but he didn’t have the strength to see what was eating away at it. Shot couldn’t have done such damage; surely there was some creature there eating his insides. He stared up at the French sky in dismay.
He wondered if it would be Hornblower who told his sisters of his death. Hornblower, whom he had known since he had been lieutenant on the Renown. It was ironic that the closest he had ever come to telling the man how much he had appreciated him had been as he stumbled dead drunk to his cabin. He remembered it hazily; how Hornblower had cheerfully put up with his roaring rendition of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” nearly carrying him to his bunk. Neither had ever mentioned it again.
He remembered, too, something Lady Barbara had once said to him. You are fond of him. At the time, he hadn’t understood what she meant. Fond? That implied he was interested romantically in his captain. But now he could see she had meant that Bush would follow Hornblower anywhere. And he had.
Lady Barbara. He had always thought she was more Hornblower’s sort of woman than Maria. Bush hadn’t approved of Maria. He had been disgusted that a man like Hornblower would have allowed himself to be snared in such a way. But by the time Hornblower had met Barbara, by the time he had realized his mistake, Bush had been too far his junior to smile and say, “I told you so.”
He could feel anger swelling up inside of him, a great wave of bitterness that made him grimace. This was all Hornblower’s fault. It was always Hornblower’s fault. It was Hornblower who sent him out to do the dirty work—under Hornblower’s orders he had lost his leg; under Hornblower’s orders he was lying here now in the bay bleeding his life out. And where was Hornblower? Sitting safe in his cabin, waiting for Bush to return and tell him that his plan had been brilliant, as always. Hornblower, who was a Knight of the Bath, a Colonel of the Marines, never to worry again about his pay or his home. Hornblower, who had married into the Wellesley family. Well, the brilliant, accomplished, Commodore Hornblower, could sit and wait. Bush wouldn’t be coming back.
As quickly has the anger had come, he felt it ebb. Of course this wasn’t Hornblower’s fault. He hadn’t known what his orders would do; he hadn’t intended for things to turn out the way they had. It wasn’t his fault that he was never wounded, even in the thick of battle. He hadn’t chosen to be brilliant and lucky when Bush was dull and stupid. And he certainly hadn’t married Barbara for her family. Even Bush, who had never known such love, could see that. And somewhere, Bush was sure that Hornblower saw him as more than a subordinate.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his wooden leg floating on the water. Hornblower had made that leg with Brown’s help. In his mind’s eye Bush could see them bent over it in the Count de Graçay’s courtyard, arguing its length. He remembered Hornblower’s frustration that it never seemed quite right, frustration that had dissolved immediately when as he watched Bush try to walk. There had always been a half smile on his face when he caught his friend, ignoring the string of blasphemies that followed them to the chair.
Now the French sky was fading before his eyes, but the pain was gone. He felt that he was floating, and thought that maybe he’d been given laudanum. They had given him laudanum and brandy when they cut off his leg. Now he could feel tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t understand where they were coming from—Bush hadn’t cried in years. But he was lying there alone – so alone – where he had fallen out of the boat. All he wanted was to see Hornblower once more. To hear his “ha-h’m” as he struggled for something to say. To hear his friend’s voice crack and soar like a boy’s as he yelled over the guns one last time.
He wanted Hornblower’s hand to squeeze his, as it had when the French had taken them off to Paris for execution. He longed to open his eyes and find himself in an army hospital, with a delighted Lt. Hornblower grinning at him from over a basket of pawpaws and pineapples. He had sometimes wondered who had eaten the pineapple that day. He suspected it had been Hornblower, who had been raving about them, and not he.
He wondered what Hornblower would say when he heard the news. He could almost hear the butcher’s bill. “. . . . William Bush, Captain . . . .” William Bush, Captain. It echoed in his head, over and over again. William Bush, Captain. Captain because he had been friends with Hornblower. Else, he might have ended up a lieutenant on half-pay, or rotting out his days in a French prison. Or leaking out his life in some other bay.
Everything had gone dark now. He couldn’t hear the water lapping against the bank where he lay, couldn’t see the sky above him. In the moment before he lost all consciousness he prayed that wherever Hornblower ended up in the next life, he would be as well. Because he would follow his friend to the deepest pits of hell if need be. Even the most brilliant need a shoulder to lean on from time to time.
A/N -- This is supposed to go along with "Ferrol." It was supposed to be a series of POV's on Hornblower, but putting this as a reply was too much trouble. ;D
Disclaimer – Bush and Horry are and always will be C.S. Forester’s.
For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow
“I have always know that we die randomly . . . .” – Jacques Brel
“I have always know that we die randomly . . . .” – Jacques Brel
The explosion had come as a surprise. The idea that he might die, that he might soon be writhing in pain had not even crossed his mind when he had made ready to leave. Now he lay in the muck that was the Seine, amazed that some French B*st*rd had managed to get him.
His hands were soaked, but he couldn’t imagine what with. Certainly there wasn’t that much blood in his body—his uniform felt heavy with it. His middle was ablaze with an all-consuming flame, but he didn’t have the strength to see what was eating away at it. Shot couldn’t have done such damage; surely there was some creature there eating his insides. He stared up at the French sky in dismay.
He wondered if it would be Hornblower who told his sisters of his death. Hornblower, whom he had known since he had been lieutenant on the Renown. It was ironic that the closest he had ever come to telling the man how much he had appreciated him had been as he stumbled dead drunk to his cabin. He remembered it hazily; how Hornblower had cheerfully put up with his roaring rendition of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” nearly carrying him to his bunk. Neither had ever mentioned it again.
He remembered, too, something Lady Barbara had once said to him. You are fond of him. At the time, he hadn’t understood what she meant. Fond? That implied he was interested romantically in his captain. But now he could see she had meant that Bush would follow Hornblower anywhere. And he had.
Lady Barbara. He had always thought she was more Hornblower’s sort of woman than Maria. Bush hadn’t approved of Maria. He had been disgusted that a man like Hornblower would have allowed himself to be snared in such a way. But by the time Hornblower had met Barbara, by the time he had realized his mistake, Bush had been too far his junior to smile and say, “I told you so.”
He could feel anger swelling up inside of him, a great wave of bitterness that made him grimace. This was all Hornblower’s fault. It was always Hornblower’s fault. It was Hornblower who sent him out to do the dirty work—under Hornblower’s orders he had lost his leg; under Hornblower’s orders he was lying here now in the bay bleeding his life out. And where was Hornblower? Sitting safe in his cabin, waiting for Bush to return and tell him that his plan had been brilliant, as always. Hornblower, who was a Knight of the Bath, a Colonel of the Marines, never to worry again about his pay or his home. Hornblower, who had married into the Wellesley family. Well, the brilliant, accomplished, Commodore Hornblower, could sit and wait. Bush wouldn’t be coming back.
As quickly has the anger had come, he felt it ebb. Of course this wasn’t Hornblower’s fault. He hadn’t known what his orders would do; he hadn’t intended for things to turn out the way they had. It wasn’t his fault that he was never wounded, even in the thick of battle. He hadn’t chosen to be brilliant and lucky when Bush was dull and stupid. And he certainly hadn’t married Barbara for her family. Even Bush, who had never known such love, could see that. And somewhere, Bush was sure that Hornblower saw him as more than a subordinate.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his wooden leg floating on the water. Hornblower had made that leg with Brown’s help. In his mind’s eye Bush could see them bent over it in the Count de Graçay’s courtyard, arguing its length. He remembered Hornblower’s frustration that it never seemed quite right, frustration that had dissolved immediately when as he watched Bush try to walk. There had always been a half smile on his face when he caught his friend, ignoring the string of blasphemies that followed them to the chair.
Now the French sky was fading before his eyes, but the pain was gone. He felt that he was floating, and thought that maybe he’d been given laudanum. They had given him laudanum and brandy when they cut off his leg. Now he could feel tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t understand where they were coming from—Bush hadn’t cried in years. But he was lying there alone – so alone – where he had fallen out of the boat. All he wanted was to see Hornblower once more. To hear his “ha-h’m” as he struggled for something to say. To hear his friend’s voice crack and soar like a boy’s as he yelled over the guns one last time.
He wanted Hornblower’s hand to squeeze his, as it had when the French had taken them off to Paris for execution. He longed to open his eyes and find himself in an army hospital, with a delighted Lt. Hornblower grinning at him from over a basket of pawpaws and pineapples. He had sometimes wondered who had eaten the pineapple that day. He suspected it had been Hornblower, who had been raving about them, and not he.
He wondered what Hornblower would say when he heard the news. He could almost hear the butcher’s bill. “. . . . William Bush, Captain . . . .” William Bush, Captain. It echoed in his head, over and over again. William Bush, Captain. Captain because he had been friends with Hornblower. Else, he might have ended up a lieutenant on half-pay, or rotting out his days in a French prison. Or leaking out his life in some other bay.
Everything had gone dark now. He couldn’t hear the water lapping against the bank where he lay, couldn’t see the sky above him. In the moment before he lost all consciousness he prayed that wherever Hornblower ended up in the next life, he would be as well. Because he would follow his friend to the deepest pits of hell if need be. Even the most brilliant need a shoulder to lean on from time to time.
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A/N -- This is supposed to go along with "Ferrol." It was supposed to be a series of POV's on Hornblower, but putting this as a reply was too much trouble. ;D
