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charleygirlTitle: Christmas Day In The Morning
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Type: Gen, Fluff, Christmas
Characters Involved/Pairing: The crew of the Hotspur
Summary: The crew of the Hotspur receive unexpected Christmas leave...
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. I'm not going to pretend that this is anything but pure fluff. :)
Christmas fic written back in 2004.
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Type: Gen, Fluff, Christmas
Characters Involved/Pairing: The crew of the Hotspur
Summary: The crew of the Hotspur receive unexpected Christmas leave...
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. I'm not going to pretend that this is anything but pure fluff. :)
Christmas fic written back in 2004.
CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE MORNING…
“When holidays they are begun
The lads and lasses gay
For mirth and fun away they run
Who so blithe as they
There’s Ralph and Poll, there’s Jack and Moll
Such capers sure they cuts
Resolved to cram on beef an’ ‘am
Lord ‘ow they stuff their guts!”
“STYLES!”
At the sound of the familiar bark, Styles jumped upright in a hurry, nearly knocking his head on the stove in the process. He looked up in trepidation to find Lieutenant Bush standing in the galley doorway, a pained expression on his face.
“What the devil is that racket in aid of?” he demanded, “I should think the Frogs must be able to hear you back in Brest!”
Styles hung his head. “Sorry, sir. I were just singin’, sir.”
“Is that what it was? For a moment I thought the cat must have caught its tail in the stove.” When Styles glanced up, he thought there might have been the tiniest flicker of amusement in Bush’s eyes. It was gone so quickly, the stern mask back in place, that it was virtually impossible to tell.
“It ‘elps me with me work, sir,” Styles explained, “And what with it bein’ Christmas an’ all - ”
“Hmm.” Bush had noticed the book open on the table – he came round the stove to peer at the pages. “What’s this?”
“Doughty’s recipe book, sir – ‘e left it behind when ‘e…err, ‘ad to go in such an’ ‘urry. I were thinkin’ of doin’ summat special fer the captain’s Christmas dinner.”
“You know he doesn’t like to make a fuss, Styles.” Bush looked at the page Styles had left open – his left eyebrow arched upwards. “Is this - ?”
“Gooseducken,” Styles said proudly, “Chicken inside a duck, inside a - ”
“ – goose. Yes, I’m familiar with it.”
“Well, you did tell me to learn how to cook, sir.”
“Hmm,” Bush said again. He was looking sceptical. “Bit ambitious for you, isn’t it, Styles, given your limited culinary expertise?”
“Oh, I can manage it, sir. I like a challenge.”
Even in the shadows of the galley, Styles could see that Bush had paled a little. At that moment, however, there was a shout from the deck and the lieutenant was hurrying for the door. “Just keep the noise down, Styles, or I’ll have you scraping barnacles off the hull from now until Easter, do you hear me?” he called over his shoulder before he vanished from sight.
Styles grinned and went back to the stove. “Aye, aye, sir.”
***
There was a knock on the cabin, door, making Hornblower glance up from the letter he had been examining. His First Lieutenant was as punctual as ever. “Come in, Mr Bush!” he called.
The door opened, and Bush stepped in, hat tucked under one arm. “Good morning, sir.”
“Sit down, William. What on Earth was that ungodly howling I heard earlier?”
“Styles, sir. He seems to be getting a little…overenthusiastic about Christmas.” There was amusement in Bush’s tone, but his expression remained as impassive as ever. “He was…singing, sir. At least, that’s what he told me.”
“Good God. I’ve heard men at the wrong end of the cat make less noise. I don’t think we’ll put him forward for the stage just yet, Mr Bush.”
“Very wise, sir.” Bush took a seat at the table. He reached for one of the cups of coffee Styles had brought in five minutes before, sniffing at it apprehensively.
“It’s all right, “ Hornblower assured him, having already braved a cup, “It almost tastes like coffee this morning.”
Bush gingerly took a sip, and pulled a face. “Almost, but not quite. In six months he might have learnt how to make a cup that doesn’t have the consistency of mud.”
“I have hopes that we may have found a new steward before then ”
“He does try, sir.” Bush would never have made the comment in front of Styles. “He has plans for your Christmas dinner.”
Hornblower shuddered at the thought. “Fortunately, we will have reached Portsmouth before such a trial becomes necessary.” He held up the letter. “A despatch from the Admiralty.”
“New orders, sir?”
“We are being granted Christmas leave, William.”
Bush’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, an unusual display of emotion. “Leave, sir?”
Hornblower nodded. “I am as amazed as you. The hands are to be granted forty-eight hours’ shore leave, and the admiral gives me permission to return to…to Maria.”
“That’s very generous of the admiral, sir. But surely someone will have to take charge of the ship – she cannot be left entirely without a crew.”
“Indeed.” Hornblower sighed. This was going to be difficult – he had been dreading it since receiving Pellew’s despatch. He could not refuse the admiral’s very kind (though undoubtedly misplaced) command that he spend Christmas with his family, even though he would have preferred to remain on board Hotspur until the holiday was over. Unfortunately, the orders dictated that someone would have to remain, an officer and a skeleton crew. “Volunteers will be called for to remain on board - they will naturally be allowed visits from their wives. An officer will have to take charge. I cannot stay – the admiral would not hear of it. And though Orrock is enthusiastic and capable, he lacks experience. I suppose Prowse - ”
“I will stay, sir,” Bush said, cutting him off. The surprise had gone – his professional mask was back in place.
The relief that ran through Hornblower made him feel terrible. Here was he, a man to whom the celebration of a centuries old myth meant next to nothing, forced to take a holiday he neither needed nor wanted, and poor Bush, who had a close, loving family to return to, would be left alone on the ship with just a few of the hands for company. “I am sorry, William,” he said, and meant it. “I know how much you would have liked to spend Christmas with your sisters.”
“It’s all right, sir.” Bush’s tone was neutral. “I could never have made it home and back in the time. And I’ll have the other William for company.”
Hornblower’s mouth twitched in an involuntary smile. He hadn’t realised that Bush was aware the ship’s cat had been named after him – Orrock had dubbed the solitary animal ‘William’, after commenting that the cat’s inscrutable demeanour reminded him of Bush. It was certainly true – Bush’s expression was studiously blank. Rare was the occasion when Hornblower could guess what his First Lieutenant was thinking. Bush was pathologically discreet. Just at that moment, Hornblower wished he could grab the man by his shoulders and shake him, demanding that he at least show some anger over a situation that was unfair and infuriating.
But he couldn’t. Instead he said the only thing he could: “Very good, Mr Bush.”
***
Hotspur reached Portsmouth on Christmas Eve.
The crew were eagerly awaiting their leave – naturally volunteers to remain had not been forthcoming until Hornblower had promised an extra rum ration and allowed the families of those staying to come aboard. Little had been said between the Captain and his First Lieutenant on the subject – as always, Bush had been keeping his own counsel. He was well aware that life in the navy was never fair or just – it was something you accepted and got on with. Hornblower had always had difficulty in accepting injustice, and was still mentally trying to resolve the problem. There was, however, little he could do under the circumstances.
He stood at the entry port, boat waiting below to take him to the shore, and to Maria. Bush stood beside him, the model of a perfect officer, his face betraying no emotion whatsoever.
“I hope you have an enjoyable Christmas, sir,” he said evenly, smiling faintly and holding out a hand.
Hornblower cracked. He could make out the smallest flicker of hurt in his friend’s eyes, something he knew he only saw because he was looking for it. “William, I wish I - ” he began, but Bush quietly interrupted him.
“Mrs Hornblower will be waiting for you.”
Reluctantly, Hornblower nodded. He shook the hand, feeling as though he was betraying Bush by leaving him. “I wish you the compliments of the season, Mr Bush,” he said, the words sounding hollow.
He glanced back, as the jollyboat swayed over the water to the jetty. Bush was still at the rail, talking to Matthews and Styles. Both men had been first to volunteer to stay behind, but Bush wouldn’t hear of it.
“Horry!”
He turned, to see Maria on the jetty, a delighted smile on her ruddy face and her bonnet slightly askew. He forced a smile in return as he alighted from the boat, dropping a kiss on her cheek as she threw herself into his arms.
“Oh, I was so happy when I learned you would be home for Christmas!” she exclaimed. “Now we can be a proper family!”
“Indeed, my dear.” Hornblower cast another look at the ship – more boats were leaving, taking the hands ashore. A solitary figure stood at the rail – as he watched, Bush raised a hand in salute.
Maria realised his attention had wandered – she peered at Hotspur, confused. “Horry, what are you looking at?”
Her voice returned him to reality. He looked down, to see her perplexed face upturned to his. “Nothing, my love.”
When he looked again, Bush had gone.
***
“Tain’t right. Tain’t fair. No one should be alone at Christmas.”
Matthews sighed and shook his head. “What’re you mutterin’ about now, Styles?”
“Mr Bush. It’s ‘ardly fair that we all get t’ go ‘ome and ‘e ‘as to stay on the ship. ‘S not right,” grumbled Styles as he scrambled out of the boat. Matthews grabbed his hand and, with an effort, pulled him up onto the jetty.
“I know that,” the bos’n said when they were both on dry land and walking through the dockyard to the sally port, “but what can we do? He wouldn’t let us stay with ‘im, would ‘e?”
“Well, ‘e wouldn’t – ‘e’s too proud fer that.”
“Styles, it weren’t so long ago that you were always tellin’ me that Mr Bush was a bastard, and you wouldn’t bother savin’ ‘im if ‘e fell overboard,” Matthews pointed out.
Styles looked uncomfortable, his huge frame hunched as he walked. “Well, I can change me mind, can’t I?”
“You wouldn’t be able t’ save ‘im, anyway – you can’t swim.”
“You can laugh at me, Matty, but I still don’t think it’s fair t’ leave ‘im alone.”
Matthews stopped and stared at his friend in surprise. He had known Styles a long time, and it was rare that the big man showed affection for anyone. They were both steadfastly loyal to Hornblower, and had been to Mr Kennedy, too – his death had hit them both hard. Bush was a different kettle of fish altogether – Matthews had realised that the lieutenant wasn’t as hard and self-important as he had at first appeared when he came aboard the Renown, but Styles had felt himself persecuted by Bush, and had not hesitated to make Matthews aware of his feelings. Matthews knew, as, he quickly divined, did Bush, that Styles would never realise his potential without someone to keep him in line – he was deliberately hard on Styles because the big man would never respect a weak officer, and would run wild if not checked. It had evidently taken some time for Styles to come to this conclusion himself.
“God ‘elp us,” he said now, trying to keep away the smile that was creeping onto his face, “anyone would think you were actually fond of Mr Bush!”
Styles glared at him.
“Oh, all right.” Matthews sobered with an effort. “What’re you planning?”
“Well, that brother-in-law of yours, the butcher - ”
Matthews blinked. “What about ‘im?”
Styles grinned. “D’you reckon ‘e might owe yer a favour…?”
***
It was quiet aboard Hotspur.
Though the stiff breeze coming off the Solent still made the usual creaks and groans in the rigging, the ship had almost gone into hibernation. There was none of the activity of a ship of war going about her duty – the decks were empty, the few hands that remained below no doubt making the most of their extra rum ration and temporary freedom from duty.
Bush sighed and leaned back in his chair. It was pleasant to spend some time in his own cabin, having been forced out of it by circumstances more than once in the last few months. William the ship’s cat lay curled up on the small desk, licking his paws and completely ignoring his namesake. Solitude was not something which frightened Bush – he had always been quite content with his own company – but he was feeling increasingly lonely since Hornblower’s departure. He did not make friends with ease – to have been admitted into the tight camaraderie that existed between Hornblower and Archie Kennedy, and to find later that Hornblower still valued him as a friend, had surprised and pleased him.
It felt strange to be alone on Christmas Eve.
Christmas Eve…
He thought about the likely activity at home, in the cottage in Chichester he shared with his sisters. No doubt Sally would be making plum pudding, the kitchen filling with the smell, mingling with the scent of the mulled wine Lizzie always prepared. The hall would be decorated with holly and mistletoe from the garden, and the best china, rarely used, would come out from the back of the dresser. One of them, probably Charlotte, would have been industrious with tatting or embroidery, and he would receive a new scarf or waistcoat as a gift.
Bush sighed again, sharply, and ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the curls. They probably wouldn’t even receive the last letter he had written until the New Year. He hadn’t expected to spend Christmas ashore, but when he realised that he would have to be the one to stay behind he had felt disappointment creeping over him, though he had been careful not to let Hornblower see. He wasn’t one to argue with commands, or question them – it was life, you had to do things you didn’t want to more often than not in the navy. And he had chosen this life – he knew nothing else. Pellew obviously had an affection for Hornblower that leant towards the paternal – Bush had noticed that more than once, seen the way the admiral looked at Horatio, the fond smile that crept onto his face sometimes. The permission for Hornblower to spend Christmas away from Hotspur (permission which, in time of war, only an admiral could give) was unusual, but understandable. Bush could never have expected the same consideration for himself.
It had grown dark while he was thinking. Deciding not to bother lighting the lamp, Bush pulled off his jacket, untying his stock and loosening the ribbon that kept his hair in its neat queue. He kicked off his shoes and rolled into his cot.
He lay there, feeling the gentle movement of the ship as she lay at anchor. After some time, William descended from the desk and leapt onto Bush’s chest, curling up there like a furry, purring hot brick. Bush stroked him absently, until eventually he fell asleep himself, listening to the waves lap against Hotspur’s hull, and the sounds of merriment from below.
***
Hornblower was having a nightmare of an evening.
It seemed that the knocks upon the front door would never cease, that the bands of merry Wassaillers would never leave them alone. Maria invited each group into the warm, to partake of the mulled wine and ale she kept ready, joining in with their carols and songs with gusto. To Hornblower, tone deaf as he was, this was torture. For what seemed to be hours, the kitchen and parlour were full of noisy, irritatingly cheerful people he had never seen before in his life, all wishing him a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Maria teased her Horry for being grumpy – feeling justified in being more than a little annoyed by the overdose of festive cheer he was being forced to endure, Hornblower stumped upstairs to the bedroom to read until the house emptied.
It was a little after eleven o’clock that the front door shut behind the last group of revellers. He heard their song becoming fainter as they reached the end of the street and turned the corner – “Wassail, wassail, all over the town…” It seemed safe to venture downstairs once more.
Mrs Mason shot him a glare as reached the foot of the stairs. “I do think you might make more of an effort, for her sake,” she told him sharply, “It is Christmas, after all.”
“A fact it seems I am not to be allowed to forget,” he replied, stung.
“If all you’re going to do is sit around and look miserable, you might as well have stayed on the ship.”
Hornblower felt his anger rise. “Believe me, had I been given the choice, I would have done so! At least then a good friend would not be spending his Christmas alone!”
“You have very strange priorities, Horatio,” Mrs Mason snapped, “Your wife deserves your company more than your lieutenant!”
It was fortunate that just at that moment there was yet another knock on the front door. Mrs Mason flounced off to answer it – when she opened the door, two rather disreputable figures were revealed on the step, bundled up against the cold.
She stared at them in astonishment. “What in God’s name - ”
“It’s all right,” Hornblower said, a smile creeping over his face as he recognised the visitors, “They’ve come to see me.”
“That,” his mother-in-law told him, “does not surprise me in the least.”
“Matthews, Styles!” Hornblower exclaimed when Mrs Mason had gone. “What’re you doing here?”
“Season’s greetings to yer, cap’n,” said Styles, knuckling his forehead.
Hornblower pulled a rueful face. “ I believe I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime. What’s the matter? Is it the ship - ?”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Matthews, squeezing past Styles’s bulk into the hall, “ but Styles ‘ere has an idea.”
That was a surprise – Styles wasn’t known for his ingenuity. “And this idea involves me?”
“Aye, sir. We’re sorry to disturb you, but it’s about Mr Bush…”
***
Some two hours later, in the inky darkness of the harbour, Hotspur lay at anchor. She was silent now, as the clock struck one, the revelry of her remaining crew done for the night.
Silent, that was, until the rhythmic splash of oars disturbed the peace. A boat was heading out from the jetty, heading towards the ship.
***
Sometime later, a sound woke Bush.
He lay there, blind in the impenetrable blackness of the cabin, listening.
There it was again. He hadn’t dreamed it – someone was moving about outside. The hands were most likely in a drunken stupor. They certainly wouldn’t be shifting something heavy, but someone was, if the noises he could hear were anything to go by. Had someone come aboard? It was the only logical explanation.
But who could be coming aboard in the middle of the night? No one with good intent, Bush was certain of that. Though Hotspur was at anchor in Portsmouth harbour, there was still a threat – the French had made it as far as the Isle of Wight in the past. He still recalled the taking of the Renown as if it had been yesterday – the scars from the Spanish blade that had cut him down still ached in the cold weather, reminding him that, had he not awoken by chance and raised the alarm, complete disaster would have befallen the ship. As it was, things had been bad enough.
He wasn’t about to let it happen again.
Quietly, he rolled out of the cot, finding his shoes on the floor by instinct. That same instinct led him to the flint and lantern on the desk – lighting the lamp, he retrieved sword and pistol from their hooks on the bulkhead and padded towards the door.
He stopped, listening once more. Beyond the door, he could hear people moving about, talking in hushed voices. Possibly the few hands that remained aboard were not yet abed, but Bush couldn’t afford to take that chance. As silently as possible, he opened the door, hoping that it wouldn’t make its customary creak. The door obliged him, swinging open without a sound. It would be awkward to take the lantern, but madness to move about the ship without it – there were too many potential obstacles, and he would be at a distinct disadvantage should he be forced to fight.
He cautiously put his head out, looking left and right. A light was coming from somewhere up ahead. The voices were louder out here, though still indistinguishable, as their owners were deliberately keeping them low. Bush crept towards the light, extinguishing his own lantern as he did – there was no reason to alert them to his presence.
A crash from ahead made him withdraw into the shadows and wait. The shout accompanying the crash sounded vaguely familiar, as did the hiss that followed it. Bush frowned. Words were exchanged in consternation, the pitch and inflection reminding him of…
He continued, gripping the hit of his sword a little tighter. The voices began to clear, and finally Bush recognised them. He rounded the steps to see several very familiar figures in the lamplight, figures he had watched rowed ashore hours before.
He cleared his throat, and was gratified to see them all jump guiltily. Raising an eyebrow, Bush said, “Well, this is certainly a surprise.”
***
“Styles, be careful with that!”
Too late – Styles yelled as the keg slipped from his grasp and hit the deck, catching his toe as it did.
A chorus of “Shhh!” was his reply, profoundly lacking in sympathy. He glowered, shouldering the keg once more and moving it across the deck.
It had been difficult to negotiate the passage of several men, food and drink from the jetty to Hotspur, but somehow it had been accomplished, and with the least noise possible until now. Orrock had been discovered in one of the taverns, drinking with friends but more than willing to join in with the plan. Even the usually lugubrious Prowse was there, after Hornblower had literally bumped into him in the street. Styles had recruited those of the hands still sufficiently sober to help bring the provisions aboard. So far, everything had gone like clockwork.
“Watch it, Styles!” Matthews hissed.
Styles glared at him. “I coulda broken me foot!”
“Styles!” whispered Hornblower sharply. “Quietly!”
There was suddenly a cough from behind, making everyone jump.
They all turned, to see Bush standing there, half out of uniform, a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other. Hornblower blinked in surprise – he had never seen Bush without his hair in its impossibly tidy queue before. It was a considerable mane, curling over his shoulders and giving the normally staid lieutenant a distinctly wild appearance.
Bush quirked an eyebrow. “Well, this is certainly a surprise,” he said dryly.
“Ha hmm,” Hornblower said, clearing his throat. “Mr Bush – ”
“Sir?” The eyebrow inched up a little further.
“Mr Bush.” Hornblower surveyed their work. The deck had been hastily decorated with holly and ivy procured by Styles (probably from someone’s garden, but Hornblower decided to turn a blind eye just this once), one of the trestle tables laid with food: roast beef, plum pudding, and plenty of wine, ale and rum. A couple of the more musical hands struck up a refrain on fiddle and accordion – Hornblower tried not to wince. He turned back to Bush. “Since you are unable to come to Christmas, Christmas has come to you.”
A smile twitched at the corner of Bush’s mouth. “An interesting festive ceremony, Mr Hornblower,” he remarked, glancing at his friend. Hornblower returned the glance – after a moment they both burst out laughing.
Orrock hurried over with two glasses of claret, a big smile on his face. “Merry Christmas, Captain, Mr Bush.”
"And the same to you, Mr Orrock,” Hornblower said, accepting a glass. He raised it in toast. “The Season’s greetings to you, Mr Bush.”
Bush raised his own glass. “And to you, sir. To a Happy New Year.”
“Indeed. For us all, I hope.”
There was a companionable pause - Bush took a meditative sip of wine, tapping his foot in time with the music. Styles, having already started drinking earlier, had launched into an impromptu hornpipe.
“This was his idea, you know,” Hornblower said quietly. He watched for any sign of surprise on Bush’s face, but his lieutenant was evidently being very careful not to give him any.
“Really, sir?”
“I have served with Styles for some time, and I have very rarely seen him form an attachment to anyone within the navy.” Hornblower kept his tone deliberately casual, looking at Bush from the corner of his eye. He was rewarded with the slightest hint of a lop-sided smile.
Bush took another sip from his glass, and rested it on a nearby barrel. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I need to have a word with Matthews.”
“Of course, William.” Hornblower could not contain a smile of his own as Bush crossed not to the bos’n, but to the table, where Styles, worn out by his dancing, had collapsed.
***
“As I’ve said before, Styles, you never cease to amaze me.”
Styles looked up – Bush was standing there, leaning on the sword he still carried. “Sir?”
“Your Christmas enthusiasm got the better of you, did it?”
Matthews watched his friend struggle to form an answer to this. Eventually, Styles shrugged. “I just reckon everyone should be able t’ celebrate, sir, that’s all,” he mumbled.
There was a pause. Bush seemed to be considering his words. Finally he said, “They should indeed. Thank you.” To Matthews’s surprise and Styles’s complete astonishment, he held out a hand.
Gingerly, a bit overwhelmed at having an officer offer a hand to him, Styles took it, to have his own firmly shaken. His mouth worked up and down for a few seconds before he could manage to say, “Thank you, sir. Err…does that mean I’m off barnacle-duty, then?”
The smile abruptly slid away from Bush’s face. He fixed Styles with a glare, though it had little weight as his eyes were dancing. “Don’t push your luck, Styles,” he growled.
“No, sir. Course not, sir,” said Styles, grinning now himself.
“Something to eat, sir?” Matthews asked, gesturing to the table. “We’ve plenty of food.”
“So I see. Did you make this, Styles?” Bush ran an eye over the feast with an air of trepidation.
“No, sir. I promise. Matty’s – Mr Matthews’s - wife’s a rare good cook, sir,” Styles said quickly. He added in a glum tone, “She ran me outta the kitchen. I were only tryin’ to help.”
Bush exchanged a glance with Matthews, mouth twitching as he tried not to laugh. “Mrs Matthews sounds like an eminently sensible woman.”
“Oh, she is that, sir,” the bos’n said, containing a grin.
“Maybe she could give you some lessons, Styles.”
“I’ll ask her, sir.” Styles looked at Matthews, who rolled his eyes. “’Ere, Matty, pass us that carving knife. Roast beef, sir?” he called to Hornblower, who had wandered over by now.
“Thank you, Styles, I think I will,” the captain replied.
Styles eagerly set about carving the joint, making up for in enthusiasm what he lacked in finesse.
“This is the best way to spend Christmas, sir,” Bush remarked.
Hornblower threw him a puzzled look. “Really, William? On board ship, in the middle of the night?”
Bush smiled and shook his head. “No, sir – in good company.”
“Ah. You’re right, of course.” Hornblower looked round at his small crew, and raised his voice, declaring, “A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all!”
A cheer went up from the assembled men. “And a very merry Christmas to you, too, sir!” shouted Styles, waving the carving knife at a rather dangerous angle. The musicians struck up once more, and as he doled out the meat he sang , noisily and out of tune, a huge grin on his face.
Bush and Hornblower glanced at each other. “Well, it is Christmas, sir,” Bush said wearily.
“Yes.” The captain winced. “We’ll have to put a stop to that in the New Year, Mr Bush.”
Bush laughed. “Aye, aye, sir.”
“To stuff your guts is in our song
Nor lean, nor boiled nor roast
We hope you will not think us wrong
If we give you a toast
Contempt to every tradesman here
And peasants in their huts
A lasting peace and trade increased
And we may stuff our guts!”
The End
Author’s note: Stuff Your Guts is a real, contemporary song – lyrics mentioning the French Convention and the guillotine appear to date it to the mid-1790s.
“When holidays they are begun
The lads and lasses gay
For mirth and fun away they run
Who so blithe as they
There’s Ralph and Poll, there’s Jack and Moll
Such capers sure they cuts
Resolved to cram on beef an’ ‘am
Lord ‘ow they stuff their guts!”
“STYLES!”
At the sound of the familiar bark, Styles jumped upright in a hurry, nearly knocking his head on the stove in the process. He looked up in trepidation to find Lieutenant Bush standing in the galley doorway, a pained expression on his face.
“What the devil is that racket in aid of?” he demanded, “I should think the Frogs must be able to hear you back in Brest!”
Styles hung his head. “Sorry, sir. I were just singin’, sir.”
“Is that what it was? For a moment I thought the cat must have caught its tail in the stove.” When Styles glanced up, he thought there might have been the tiniest flicker of amusement in Bush’s eyes. It was gone so quickly, the stern mask back in place, that it was virtually impossible to tell.
“It ‘elps me with me work, sir,” Styles explained, “And what with it bein’ Christmas an’ all - ”
“Hmm.” Bush had noticed the book open on the table – he came round the stove to peer at the pages. “What’s this?”
“Doughty’s recipe book, sir – ‘e left it behind when ‘e…err, ‘ad to go in such an’ ‘urry. I were thinkin’ of doin’ summat special fer the captain’s Christmas dinner.”
“You know he doesn’t like to make a fuss, Styles.” Bush looked at the page Styles had left open – his left eyebrow arched upwards. “Is this - ?”
“Gooseducken,” Styles said proudly, “Chicken inside a duck, inside a - ”
“ – goose. Yes, I’m familiar with it.”
“Well, you did tell me to learn how to cook, sir.”
“Hmm,” Bush said again. He was looking sceptical. “Bit ambitious for you, isn’t it, Styles, given your limited culinary expertise?”
“Oh, I can manage it, sir. I like a challenge.”
Even in the shadows of the galley, Styles could see that Bush had paled a little. At that moment, however, there was a shout from the deck and the lieutenant was hurrying for the door. “Just keep the noise down, Styles, or I’ll have you scraping barnacles off the hull from now until Easter, do you hear me?” he called over his shoulder before he vanished from sight.
Styles grinned and went back to the stove. “Aye, aye, sir.”
***
There was a knock on the cabin, door, making Hornblower glance up from the letter he had been examining. His First Lieutenant was as punctual as ever. “Come in, Mr Bush!” he called.
The door opened, and Bush stepped in, hat tucked under one arm. “Good morning, sir.”
“Sit down, William. What on Earth was that ungodly howling I heard earlier?”
“Styles, sir. He seems to be getting a little…overenthusiastic about Christmas.” There was amusement in Bush’s tone, but his expression remained as impassive as ever. “He was…singing, sir. At least, that’s what he told me.”
“Good God. I’ve heard men at the wrong end of the cat make less noise. I don’t think we’ll put him forward for the stage just yet, Mr Bush.”
“Very wise, sir.” Bush took a seat at the table. He reached for one of the cups of coffee Styles had brought in five minutes before, sniffing at it apprehensively.
“It’s all right, “ Hornblower assured him, having already braved a cup, “It almost tastes like coffee this morning.”
Bush gingerly took a sip, and pulled a face. “Almost, but not quite. In six months he might have learnt how to make a cup that doesn’t have the consistency of mud.”
“I have hopes that we may have found a new steward before then ”
“He does try, sir.” Bush would never have made the comment in front of Styles. “He has plans for your Christmas dinner.”
Hornblower shuddered at the thought. “Fortunately, we will have reached Portsmouth before such a trial becomes necessary.” He held up the letter. “A despatch from the Admiralty.”
“New orders, sir?”
“We are being granted Christmas leave, William.”
Bush’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, an unusual display of emotion. “Leave, sir?”
Hornblower nodded. “I am as amazed as you. The hands are to be granted forty-eight hours’ shore leave, and the admiral gives me permission to return to…to Maria.”
“That’s very generous of the admiral, sir. But surely someone will have to take charge of the ship – she cannot be left entirely without a crew.”
“Indeed.” Hornblower sighed. This was going to be difficult – he had been dreading it since receiving Pellew’s despatch. He could not refuse the admiral’s very kind (though undoubtedly misplaced) command that he spend Christmas with his family, even though he would have preferred to remain on board Hotspur until the holiday was over. Unfortunately, the orders dictated that someone would have to remain, an officer and a skeleton crew. “Volunteers will be called for to remain on board - they will naturally be allowed visits from their wives. An officer will have to take charge. I cannot stay – the admiral would not hear of it. And though Orrock is enthusiastic and capable, he lacks experience. I suppose Prowse - ”
“I will stay, sir,” Bush said, cutting him off. The surprise had gone – his professional mask was back in place.
The relief that ran through Hornblower made him feel terrible. Here was he, a man to whom the celebration of a centuries old myth meant next to nothing, forced to take a holiday he neither needed nor wanted, and poor Bush, who had a close, loving family to return to, would be left alone on the ship with just a few of the hands for company. “I am sorry, William,” he said, and meant it. “I know how much you would have liked to spend Christmas with your sisters.”
“It’s all right, sir.” Bush’s tone was neutral. “I could never have made it home and back in the time. And I’ll have the other William for company.”
Hornblower’s mouth twitched in an involuntary smile. He hadn’t realised that Bush was aware the ship’s cat had been named after him – Orrock had dubbed the solitary animal ‘William’, after commenting that the cat’s inscrutable demeanour reminded him of Bush. It was certainly true – Bush’s expression was studiously blank. Rare was the occasion when Hornblower could guess what his First Lieutenant was thinking. Bush was pathologically discreet. Just at that moment, Hornblower wished he could grab the man by his shoulders and shake him, demanding that he at least show some anger over a situation that was unfair and infuriating.
But he couldn’t. Instead he said the only thing he could: “Very good, Mr Bush.”
***
Hotspur reached Portsmouth on Christmas Eve.
The crew were eagerly awaiting their leave – naturally volunteers to remain had not been forthcoming until Hornblower had promised an extra rum ration and allowed the families of those staying to come aboard. Little had been said between the Captain and his First Lieutenant on the subject – as always, Bush had been keeping his own counsel. He was well aware that life in the navy was never fair or just – it was something you accepted and got on with. Hornblower had always had difficulty in accepting injustice, and was still mentally trying to resolve the problem. There was, however, little he could do under the circumstances.
He stood at the entry port, boat waiting below to take him to the shore, and to Maria. Bush stood beside him, the model of a perfect officer, his face betraying no emotion whatsoever.
“I hope you have an enjoyable Christmas, sir,” he said evenly, smiling faintly and holding out a hand.
Hornblower cracked. He could make out the smallest flicker of hurt in his friend’s eyes, something he knew he only saw because he was looking for it. “William, I wish I - ” he began, but Bush quietly interrupted him.
“Mrs Hornblower will be waiting for you.”
Reluctantly, Hornblower nodded. He shook the hand, feeling as though he was betraying Bush by leaving him. “I wish you the compliments of the season, Mr Bush,” he said, the words sounding hollow.
He glanced back, as the jollyboat swayed over the water to the jetty. Bush was still at the rail, talking to Matthews and Styles. Both men had been first to volunteer to stay behind, but Bush wouldn’t hear of it.
“Horry!”
He turned, to see Maria on the jetty, a delighted smile on her ruddy face and her bonnet slightly askew. He forced a smile in return as he alighted from the boat, dropping a kiss on her cheek as she threw herself into his arms.
“Oh, I was so happy when I learned you would be home for Christmas!” she exclaimed. “Now we can be a proper family!”
“Indeed, my dear.” Hornblower cast another look at the ship – more boats were leaving, taking the hands ashore. A solitary figure stood at the rail – as he watched, Bush raised a hand in salute.
Maria realised his attention had wandered – she peered at Hotspur, confused. “Horry, what are you looking at?”
Her voice returned him to reality. He looked down, to see her perplexed face upturned to his. “Nothing, my love.”
When he looked again, Bush had gone.
***
“Tain’t right. Tain’t fair. No one should be alone at Christmas.”
Matthews sighed and shook his head. “What’re you mutterin’ about now, Styles?”
“Mr Bush. It’s ‘ardly fair that we all get t’ go ‘ome and ‘e ‘as to stay on the ship. ‘S not right,” grumbled Styles as he scrambled out of the boat. Matthews grabbed his hand and, with an effort, pulled him up onto the jetty.
“I know that,” the bos’n said when they were both on dry land and walking through the dockyard to the sally port, “but what can we do? He wouldn’t let us stay with ‘im, would ‘e?”
“Well, ‘e wouldn’t – ‘e’s too proud fer that.”
“Styles, it weren’t so long ago that you were always tellin’ me that Mr Bush was a bastard, and you wouldn’t bother savin’ ‘im if ‘e fell overboard,” Matthews pointed out.
Styles looked uncomfortable, his huge frame hunched as he walked. “Well, I can change me mind, can’t I?”
“You wouldn’t be able t’ save ‘im, anyway – you can’t swim.”
“You can laugh at me, Matty, but I still don’t think it’s fair t’ leave ‘im alone.”
Matthews stopped and stared at his friend in surprise. He had known Styles a long time, and it was rare that the big man showed affection for anyone. They were both steadfastly loyal to Hornblower, and had been to Mr Kennedy, too – his death had hit them both hard. Bush was a different kettle of fish altogether – Matthews had realised that the lieutenant wasn’t as hard and self-important as he had at first appeared when he came aboard the Renown, but Styles had felt himself persecuted by Bush, and had not hesitated to make Matthews aware of his feelings. Matthews knew, as, he quickly divined, did Bush, that Styles would never realise his potential without someone to keep him in line – he was deliberately hard on Styles because the big man would never respect a weak officer, and would run wild if not checked. It had evidently taken some time for Styles to come to this conclusion himself.
“God ‘elp us,” he said now, trying to keep away the smile that was creeping onto his face, “anyone would think you were actually fond of Mr Bush!”
Styles glared at him.
“Oh, all right.” Matthews sobered with an effort. “What’re you planning?”
“Well, that brother-in-law of yours, the butcher - ”
Matthews blinked. “What about ‘im?”
Styles grinned. “D’you reckon ‘e might owe yer a favour…?”
***
It was quiet aboard Hotspur.
Though the stiff breeze coming off the Solent still made the usual creaks and groans in the rigging, the ship had almost gone into hibernation. There was none of the activity of a ship of war going about her duty – the decks were empty, the few hands that remained below no doubt making the most of their extra rum ration and temporary freedom from duty.
Bush sighed and leaned back in his chair. It was pleasant to spend some time in his own cabin, having been forced out of it by circumstances more than once in the last few months. William the ship’s cat lay curled up on the small desk, licking his paws and completely ignoring his namesake. Solitude was not something which frightened Bush – he had always been quite content with his own company – but he was feeling increasingly lonely since Hornblower’s departure. He did not make friends with ease – to have been admitted into the tight camaraderie that existed between Hornblower and Archie Kennedy, and to find later that Hornblower still valued him as a friend, had surprised and pleased him.
It felt strange to be alone on Christmas Eve.
Christmas Eve…
He thought about the likely activity at home, in the cottage in Chichester he shared with his sisters. No doubt Sally would be making plum pudding, the kitchen filling with the smell, mingling with the scent of the mulled wine Lizzie always prepared. The hall would be decorated with holly and mistletoe from the garden, and the best china, rarely used, would come out from the back of the dresser. One of them, probably Charlotte, would have been industrious with tatting or embroidery, and he would receive a new scarf or waistcoat as a gift.
Bush sighed again, sharply, and ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the curls. They probably wouldn’t even receive the last letter he had written until the New Year. He hadn’t expected to spend Christmas ashore, but when he realised that he would have to be the one to stay behind he had felt disappointment creeping over him, though he had been careful not to let Hornblower see. He wasn’t one to argue with commands, or question them – it was life, you had to do things you didn’t want to more often than not in the navy. And he had chosen this life – he knew nothing else. Pellew obviously had an affection for Hornblower that leant towards the paternal – Bush had noticed that more than once, seen the way the admiral looked at Horatio, the fond smile that crept onto his face sometimes. The permission for Hornblower to spend Christmas away from Hotspur (permission which, in time of war, only an admiral could give) was unusual, but understandable. Bush could never have expected the same consideration for himself.
It had grown dark while he was thinking. Deciding not to bother lighting the lamp, Bush pulled off his jacket, untying his stock and loosening the ribbon that kept his hair in its neat queue. He kicked off his shoes and rolled into his cot.
He lay there, feeling the gentle movement of the ship as she lay at anchor. After some time, William descended from the desk and leapt onto Bush’s chest, curling up there like a furry, purring hot brick. Bush stroked him absently, until eventually he fell asleep himself, listening to the waves lap against Hotspur’s hull, and the sounds of merriment from below.
***
Hornblower was having a nightmare of an evening.
It seemed that the knocks upon the front door would never cease, that the bands of merry Wassaillers would never leave them alone. Maria invited each group into the warm, to partake of the mulled wine and ale she kept ready, joining in with their carols and songs with gusto. To Hornblower, tone deaf as he was, this was torture. For what seemed to be hours, the kitchen and parlour were full of noisy, irritatingly cheerful people he had never seen before in his life, all wishing him a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Maria teased her Horry for being grumpy – feeling justified in being more than a little annoyed by the overdose of festive cheer he was being forced to endure, Hornblower stumped upstairs to the bedroom to read until the house emptied.
It was a little after eleven o’clock that the front door shut behind the last group of revellers. He heard their song becoming fainter as they reached the end of the street and turned the corner – “Wassail, wassail, all over the town…” It seemed safe to venture downstairs once more.
Mrs Mason shot him a glare as reached the foot of the stairs. “I do think you might make more of an effort, for her sake,” she told him sharply, “It is Christmas, after all.”
“A fact it seems I am not to be allowed to forget,” he replied, stung.
“If all you’re going to do is sit around and look miserable, you might as well have stayed on the ship.”
Hornblower felt his anger rise. “Believe me, had I been given the choice, I would have done so! At least then a good friend would not be spending his Christmas alone!”
“You have very strange priorities, Horatio,” Mrs Mason snapped, “Your wife deserves your company more than your lieutenant!”
It was fortunate that just at that moment there was yet another knock on the front door. Mrs Mason flounced off to answer it – when she opened the door, two rather disreputable figures were revealed on the step, bundled up against the cold.
She stared at them in astonishment. “What in God’s name - ”
“It’s all right,” Hornblower said, a smile creeping over his face as he recognised the visitors, “They’ve come to see me.”
“That,” his mother-in-law told him, “does not surprise me in the least.”
“Matthews, Styles!” Hornblower exclaimed when Mrs Mason had gone. “What’re you doing here?”
“Season’s greetings to yer, cap’n,” said Styles, knuckling his forehead.
Hornblower pulled a rueful face. “ I believe I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime. What’s the matter? Is it the ship - ?”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Matthews, squeezing past Styles’s bulk into the hall, “ but Styles ‘ere has an idea.”
That was a surprise – Styles wasn’t known for his ingenuity. “And this idea involves me?”
“Aye, sir. We’re sorry to disturb you, but it’s about Mr Bush…”
***
Some two hours later, in the inky darkness of the harbour, Hotspur lay at anchor. She was silent now, as the clock struck one, the revelry of her remaining crew done for the night.
Silent, that was, until the rhythmic splash of oars disturbed the peace. A boat was heading out from the jetty, heading towards the ship.
***
Sometime later, a sound woke Bush.
He lay there, blind in the impenetrable blackness of the cabin, listening.
There it was again. He hadn’t dreamed it – someone was moving about outside. The hands were most likely in a drunken stupor. They certainly wouldn’t be shifting something heavy, but someone was, if the noises he could hear were anything to go by. Had someone come aboard? It was the only logical explanation.
But who could be coming aboard in the middle of the night? No one with good intent, Bush was certain of that. Though Hotspur was at anchor in Portsmouth harbour, there was still a threat – the French had made it as far as the Isle of Wight in the past. He still recalled the taking of the Renown as if it had been yesterday – the scars from the Spanish blade that had cut him down still ached in the cold weather, reminding him that, had he not awoken by chance and raised the alarm, complete disaster would have befallen the ship. As it was, things had been bad enough.
He wasn’t about to let it happen again.
Quietly, he rolled out of the cot, finding his shoes on the floor by instinct. That same instinct led him to the flint and lantern on the desk – lighting the lamp, he retrieved sword and pistol from their hooks on the bulkhead and padded towards the door.
He stopped, listening once more. Beyond the door, he could hear people moving about, talking in hushed voices. Possibly the few hands that remained aboard were not yet abed, but Bush couldn’t afford to take that chance. As silently as possible, he opened the door, hoping that it wouldn’t make its customary creak. The door obliged him, swinging open without a sound. It would be awkward to take the lantern, but madness to move about the ship without it – there were too many potential obstacles, and he would be at a distinct disadvantage should he be forced to fight.
He cautiously put his head out, looking left and right. A light was coming from somewhere up ahead. The voices were louder out here, though still indistinguishable, as their owners were deliberately keeping them low. Bush crept towards the light, extinguishing his own lantern as he did – there was no reason to alert them to his presence.
A crash from ahead made him withdraw into the shadows and wait. The shout accompanying the crash sounded vaguely familiar, as did the hiss that followed it. Bush frowned. Words were exchanged in consternation, the pitch and inflection reminding him of…
He continued, gripping the hit of his sword a little tighter. The voices began to clear, and finally Bush recognised them. He rounded the steps to see several very familiar figures in the lamplight, figures he had watched rowed ashore hours before.
He cleared his throat, and was gratified to see them all jump guiltily. Raising an eyebrow, Bush said, “Well, this is certainly a surprise.”
***
“Styles, be careful with that!”
Too late – Styles yelled as the keg slipped from his grasp and hit the deck, catching his toe as it did.
A chorus of “Shhh!” was his reply, profoundly lacking in sympathy. He glowered, shouldering the keg once more and moving it across the deck.
It had been difficult to negotiate the passage of several men, food and drink from the jetty to Hotspur, but somehow it had been accomplished, and with the least noise possible until now. Orrock had been discovered in one of the taverns, drinking with friends but more than willing to join in with the plan. Even the usually lugubrious Prowse was there, after Hornblower had literally bumped into him in the street. Styles had recruited those of the hands still sufficiently sober to help bring the provisions aboard. So far, everything had gone like clockwork.
“Watch it, Styles!” Matthews hissed.
Styles glared at him. “I coulda broken me foot!”
“Styles!” whispered Hornblower sharply. “Quietly!”
There was suddenly a cough from behind, making everyone jump.
They all turned, to see Bush standing there, half out of uniform, a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other. Hornblower blinked in surprise – he had never seen Bush without his hair in its impossibly tidy queue before. It was a considerable mane, curling over his shoulders and giving the normally staid lieutenant a distinctly wild appearance.
Bush quirked an eyebrow. “Well, this is certainly a surprise,” he said dryly.
“Ha hmm,” Hornblower said, clearing his throat. “Mr Bush – ”
“Sir?” The eyebrow inched up a little further.
“Mr Bush.” Hornblower surveyed their work. The deck had been hastily decorated with holly and ivy procured by Styles (probably from someone’s garden, but Hornblower decided to turn a blind eye just this once), one of the trestle tables laid with food: roast beef, plum pudding, and plenty of wine, ale and rum. A couple of the more musical hands struck up a refrain on fiddle and accordion – Hornblower tried not to wince. He turned back to Bush. “Since you are unable to come to Christmas, Christmas has come to you.”
A smile twitched at the corner of Bush’s mouth. “An interesting festive ceremony, Mr Hornblower,” he remarked, glancing at his friend. Hornblower returned the glance – after a moment they both burst out laughing.
Orrock hurried over with two glasses of claret, a big smile on his face. “Merry Christmas, Captain, Mr Bush.”
"And the same to you, Mr Orrock,” Hornblower said, accepting a glass. He raised it in toast. “The Season’s greetings to you, Mr Bush.”
Bush raised his own glass. “And to you, sir. To a Happy New Year.”
“Indeed. For us all, I hope.”
There was a companionable pause - Bush took a meditative sip of wine, tapping his foot in time with the music. Styles, having already started drinking earlier, had launched into an impromptu hornpipe.
“This was his idea, you know,” Hornblower said quietly. He watched for any sign of surprise on Bush’s face, but his lieutenant was evidently being very careful not to give him any.
“Really, sir?”
“I have served with Styles for some time, and I have very rarely seen him form an attachment to anyone within the navy.” Hornblower kept his tone deliberately casual, looking at Bush from the corner of his eye. He was rewarded with the slightest hint of a lop-sided smile.
Bush took another sip from his glass, and rested it on a nearby barrel. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I need to have a word with Matthews.”
“Of course, William.” Hornblower could not contain a smile of his own as Bush crossed not to the bos’n, but to the table, where Styles, worn out by his dancing, had collapsed.
***
“As I’ve said before, Styles, you never cease to amaze me.”
Styles looked up – Bush was standing there, leaning on the sword he still carried. “Sir?”
“Your Christmas enthusiasm got the better of you, did it?”
Matthews watched his friend struggle to form an answer to this. Eventually, Styles shrugged. “I just reckon everyone should be able t’ celebrate, sir, that’s all,” he mumbled.
There was a pause. Bush seemed to be considering his words. Finally he said, “They should indeed. Thank you.” To Matthews’s surprise and Styles’s complete astonishment, he held out a hand.
Gingerly, a bit overwhelmed at having an officer offer a hand to him, Styles took it, to have his own firmly shaken. His mouth worked up and down for a few seconds before he could manage to say, “Thank you, sir. Err…does that mean I’m off barnacle-duty, then?”
The smile abruptly slid away from Bush’s face. He fixed Styles with a glare, though it had little weight as his eyes were dancing. “Don’t push your luck, Styles,” he growled.
“No, sir. Course not, sir,” said Styles, grinning now himself.
“Something to eat, sir?” Matthews asked, gesturing to the table. “We’ve plenty of food.”
“So I see. Did you make this, Styles?” Bush ran an eye over the feast with an air of trepidation.
“No, sir. I promise. Matty’s – Mr Matthews’s - wife’s a rare good cook, sir,” Styles said quickly. He added in a glum tone, “She ran me outta the kitchen. I were only tryin’ to help.”
Bush exchanged a glance with Matthews, mouth twitching as he tried not to laugh. “Mrs Matthews sounds like an eminently sensible woman.”
“Oh, she is that, sir,” the bos’n said, containing a grin.
“Maybe she could give you some lessons, Styles.”
“I’ll ask her, sir.” Styles looked at Matthews, who rolled his eyes. “’Ere, Matty, pass us that carving knife. Roast beef, sir?” he called to Hornblower, who had wandered over by now.
“Thank you, Styles, I think I will,” the captain replied.
Styles eagerly set about carving the joint, making up for in enthusiasm what he lacked in finesse.
“This is the best way to spend Christmas, sir,” Bush remarked.
Hornblower threw him a puzzled look. “Really, William? On board ship, in the middle of the night?”
Bush smiled and shook his head. “No, sir – in good company.”
“Ah. You’re right, of course.” Hornblower looked round at his small crew, and raised his voice, declaring, “A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all!”
A cheer went up from the assembled men. “And a very merry Christmas to you, too, sir!” shouted Styles, waving the carving knife at a rather dangerous angle. The musicians struck up once more, and as he doled out the meat he sang , noisily and out of tune, a huge grin on his face.
Bush and Hornblower glanced at each other. “Well, it is Christmas, sir,” Bush said wearily.
“Yes.” The captain winced. “We’ll have to put a stop to that in the New Year, Mr Bush.”
Bush laughed. “Aye, aye, sir.”
“To stuff your guts is in our song
Nor lean, nor boiled nor roast
We hope you will not think us wrong
If we give you a toast
Contempt to every tradesman here
And peasants in their huts
A lasting peace and trade increased
And we may stuff our guts!”
The End
Author’s note: Stuff Your Guts is a real, contemporary song – lyrics mentioning the French Convention and the guillotine appear to date it to the mid-1790s.
