Welcome to Purgatory
Fandom: Horatio Hornblower
Written for: Janis Cortese in the Yuletide 2003 Challenge
by penknife
It's been you.
You tell yourself that with your hands holding the boy's wrist to the table, and then again when you can see the marks of your fingers standing out against his fair skin. No place for your hands to linger, now, stripping him out of his bloodied coat and loosening his cuffs. You've broken the skin with your nails; you'll take a knot of rope later and scrub your nails clean. Look like the gentleman you'll never be.
He's not unconcious; his breathing is too quick and shallow, and he flinches from your hands. He still won't open his eyes.
"Kennedy," you say, and tap your fingers across his cheek.
His eyes snap open, and there's the fire back in them. God help him for his anger. He'd do better with something to drown it in, and at that you remember yourself, and hold the cup up to his lips. He sips, sputters, chokes and can't stop. You're there to watch it, this first time, as he winds up jerking on the floor. You're on your knees, swearing. You won't call for a doctor, not yet, because God knows what he'll say in the throes of a fit.
Your hand comes down on the cup and knocks it clattering away from his head. Your hand is shaking too. There's grog mixing with sweat in his hair. God knows. Sparrows fall and you kneel on the floor and try to still his hands. One hand on his hair. His breathing slows and you wonder if it will stop.
He's sleeping. The damnable boy is sleeping. You press your own fingers to your mouth to stop their shaking before you get him into his hammock. He'll do. Most of the marks don't show.
It's been you, you tell yourself, watching him on deck the next day, shivering with the rain running down the back of his neck, darkening the stray hair just above his collar to a point. It does end, although not quickly enough to make you believe that God does more than watch. Let him get some strength in his shoulders, learn his footing, learn to draw a pistol in his sleep--well, if none of that does it, there'll be a new junior midshipman soon enough. Waiting wears you out nearly as fast as war.
You're telling yourself that because the other future you see is putting the boy into the sea, and you can't believe that yet. His hair is the color of brass lamps when they're lit. You can see him sitting snug in a tavern somewhere, smiling up at a pretty girl. You can see him a deserter, far from here. You're lying to yourself. You look at his face where water beads in his eyebrows and on his mouth and see white canvas.
He tried at first to take it well. He smiled when his food was snatched from his plate, when Jack's long white hands rifled his sea-chest and snatched away anything short of coin Jack wants, when he was tripped and went sprawling on the deck, tangling his foot in the rigging and taking painfully long to scramble back to his feet. Perhaps he'd heard that there are always these rough initiations aboard ship, that it's to instill the spirit of brotherhood.
You put a hand on his shoulder. It's the best you can do.
He turns to you, bruises spreading brown and ugly down his freckled cheek.
"What do I have to do to make it stop?" he asks, his voice flat.
"Wait," you say just as flatly. "Hope he tires of it."
But that won't do it. Not unless he can change his face, make his eyes not widen with fear, his skin not pale. It'll be too much for a man like Jack. You lie awake that night and think about Jack, and yourself. If you dared, you'd get out the fiddle and make it weep like a frightened child. You don't dare. It's too easy for you to see it broken at his hands.
It won't do you any good to know, you tell yourself. Still, when you're off-watch you find yourself making a skulking tour of the ship, compulsively finding the places where he could bend a boy over a barrel or shove him up against a wall. You duck into dark corners, kick at coils of rope, run your fingers over dusty crates. You can't seem to stop yourself. You hate your restless motion, your restless hands.
You don't want to find them. Not because Jack would make you pay, although you know he would. Because you'd look, and look away, and say nothing to anyone.
You tell yourself it's because the boy has a flicker of something too good to waste in him, a candle flame not yet drowned in drink, and exposure would mean ruination to his career, if not worse. A junior midshipman's word is nothing. Keene will believe what lets him sleep sound at night.
You know it's because you're a coward.
It's dangerous to go to the captain. You spend a sleepless night thinking it over, while Kennedy sleeps like a dead thing. He has grey circles under his eyes. He can't be shaken awake in the morning, and Jack finally dumps him out of his hammock to the deck and tells him he'll teach him a lesson later.
It's just as well to have somewhere else to be for that, so it's easy enough to urge Hether out of the mess after watch and up with you to the captain's cabin. Keene smiles painfully at you.
"And what can I do for you gentlemen?"
You tell him what you can. That Kennedy suffers from fits. That he should be put ashore before he takes a fall from the rigging or drops a lantern into a bucket of tar. That you don't think his health will stand up to this service.
Keene listens. You suppose you should be grateful for that. Then he shrugs.
"It may well break him, God knows. I suppose half the lads who are sent here would be happier as anything from shepherds to chimney sweeps, but in case you hadn't noticed, gentlemen, we are a ship of war, and we require all hands aboard." He gives you the painful smile again. "In theory."
"He'll die," you say.
"So will we all, Mr. Clayton," Keene says. "It's just a matter of when." He turns away, a dismissal. "Keep him out of the rigging," he says. "If you're so concerned."
The next day Jack sends him up the mainmast. The boy climbs the shrouds like he's born to it, and actually smiles at the view. You can't get your breath until he's back on deck. You put your hands in your pockets and make fists, recognizing the first stirrings of an old familar devil. Jack slaps you on the shoulder and gives you a hard smile.
"He'd make a lovely girl," he says. "Our Mr. Kennedy."
"Your Mr. Kennedy," you say.
He smiles.
"You're all mine," he says. "My brothers in arms."
The watch bell wakes you in the dark hours, again and again. You've started sleeping lightly again, pistol tucked against your chest for comfort, and unlearned the trick you'd had of shutting out the world and letting the patternless swaying of the ship rock you to sleep like an endless round of variations on a tune. You're not surprised when you wake and find them both gone. You say nothing in the morning light.
There are new bruises spreading across his cheek that morning, and his nails are bloody where he must have clawed at something for purchase. A crate, a table -- you won't think of it. You offer him your flask, and he drinks deeply. There are bruises on his wrist. You're glad to see them. When he stops fighting's when you'll watch him, dogging his steps to make sure he doesn't go over the rail.
Six weeks in, and the bruises are gone. Now he comes away when called, head bent like a whipped dog. His hands shake at meals, and he won't reach for anything on his plate until Jack's had his fill. He doesn't lock his sea chest. He falls screaming to the deck in broad daylight, and you drag him out of the way. He's put on report for shirking when Eccleston finds him sitting on a coil of rope trying to clear his head. He doesn't complain.
You find him standing on deck in a roaring gale, soaked to the skin and swaying at the rail. You drag him away and push him down the hatchway unprotesting, stop betweendecks and give him a hard look over. His eyes won't focus. You shake him by the shoulders, briskly at first and then harder. He flinches away from you.
"Don't," you say.
He looks at you like you're mad. Then he looks up, as if seeing the rain-raked deck, the rail, and the cold sea, through the deckhead and for the first time.
He shrugs.
You leave one hand on his shoulder, gripping it hard. You can feel the heat of his body against your chest.
"We could go to war with France," you say. It's the only comforting thought you can think of.
He laughs.
"That's it?" He looks at you now like it's you he's seeing for the first time. "That's the best you can do?"
You shrug, feel your mouth working in what might be a smile. "It's not much, is it?"
He shakes his head.
"Come below," you say. He nods, but looks past you at the wall. "Come on, now, Archie." You lead him with your voice, like a balking horse. You don't dare put your hands on him. Not when Jack could put his head up the hatchway at any minute. Not when your pulse is pounding in your throat.
You get him into the mess and push him to a seat in a corner, out of Jack's line of sight. You sit at the table and let yourself be dealt into a game of cards. You play to lose. You don't care if it's obvious. Halfway through you make a fool's play and Jack pounds the table.
"Pay attention, damn you! What do you take this for, a nursery game?"
"I'm tired," you say. "That damnable noise makes my head ache." You toss the cards on the table and go back to the middie berths.
It's true enough that the wind is raking the deck and screaming through the lines. You wonder if the anchor will hold, or if you'll break loose and drift with the current, fetching up against the rocks or setting out for the East Indies like a piece of driftwood. You sling your hammock and settle in it and take another drink. You wouldn't mind drifting with the current. You think perhaps it's all you've ever done.
There's a rattle up by the forward berths. You look up. It's Kennedy.
"You're a fool," you say briskly. "He'll follow."
"Not while he's winning," he says.
"He won't be winning for long," you say. "He's got no head for cards."
"Thank you," he says.
"Don't. Don't thank me."
"You did what you could."
"I won't help you."
"Won't, or can't?" His voice is almost gentle.
"I won't try," you say. He looks down, and then looks back up with a more painful hope in his eyes.
"If I--"
"Don't," you say. "What do you take me for?" Although it's obvious what he takes you for. You haven't got any answer to that.
"Better than him," he says.
There's a shout from somewhere fore. "Kennedy!" He turns and goes without another word.
There's business ashore, and Jack is senior; he's going for certain. Eccleston draws breath for the second name. You look at Kennedy. Kennedy's looking off over the bow of the ship, where the seagulls are swirling. You'd touch his hand if you could.
"And Midshipman Hether," he says. It's you who lets out a breath. Jack glances at you. You shrug.
"Luck of the draw," you say.
"Don't tell me you get lonely at sea," Jack says, leaning closer as Eccleston turns to other, surely more important business than the midshipmen under his command.
"I'm sure you'll give my regards to the ladies," you say.
"Shall I give them yours, too?" Jack asks Kennedy, with a wild grin.
"As you like," Kennedy says. "You'll do just as you like."
Jack pats him on the arm.
"Good little dog," he says. "Keep that in mind, and you'll go far in the Navy."
"What's all this?" Eccleston asks, turning back to you. "I gave an order, if you'll recall."
"Mr. Simpson was just reminding us of the virtue of discipline," you say.
"That's right," Kennedy says, as if by rote.
"Well, show some," Eccleston snaps, and turns his back on the lot of you.
You know Jack will come back angry, ready to work out any slights he's received in port on the bodies of the damned souls here. It doesn't matter tonight. The moment the boat's away, Kennedy turns away from the rail and smiles.
That evening in the mess he's someone new. He smiles over his food and talks even when no one's asked him to. He laughs and looks sideways at you across the table. You smile back. You drop your eyes to your hands on the fiddle, fingers dancing in familiar patterns across the warm wood.
You should known. You've seen flashes, haven't you, glimpses of the boy his schoolmates must have known. Wicked smile and laughing eyes. You keep your eyes on your hands. It's the only way to ensure they do as they're told.
"Who'll give us a toast, then?" someone says.
"Confusion to our enemies," Kennedy calls out, raising his mug to clank it against another. He reaches to slap you on the shoulder, a little too roughly but a friendly gesture nonetheless.
"That's the spirit," you say.
He shrugs.
"We might go to war with France," he says, as if he means it.
"So we might."
He turns away from you, watching the play of cards at the other end of the table. His hands have loosened their tense splay against the table. They're strong, square hands. You can't imagine them soft, white. The hands of the son of a lord? It's hard to feature.
A lieutenant's hands? A captain's hands?
The news from France hasn't been good for weeks. It could happen in time for him. Cut him loose from anchor and let him sail. Perhaps you'll get to watch. From whatever cautious distance he'll allow.
You bow softer to coax a sweeter sound from the fiddle. Surely it's not actually possible for your heart to break. It's only sinking in its own cold sea.
Jack is back for supper the next day.
"Did you miss me?" he says, standing in the shadows of the doorway. "What were you up to while old Jack was gone?"
He ducks into the midshipmen's mess, and Kennedy scrambles out of his way. He glances up at you from where he's pressed into the corner, as far out of reach as he can be without looking like a coward. Whatever he sees in your face, it makes him glance away.
"It's not the same without you," Cleveland says.
"Play us a tune," Jack says, and you do. It's easy enough to let your fingers find the rhythm. No care's required. You just wish there was a wind tonight, to take the sound of it from your ears. A driving rain to wash your sins away.
Instead there's only the sound of cards slapping on the table. Kennedy watches his hands, and so do you. It's not enough, you know, but it's the only penance you can do, to watch his hands tighten on the table and not to look away.
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