charleygirl | Buried Truth Part Seven - Hornblower, PG (Reply)

Title: Buried Truth Part Seven
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, action/adventure, romance, AU
Characters Involved/Pairing: Hornblower, Bush, Kennedy, Styles, Matthews, Hobbs, Cotard
Summary: Danger on land and sea...
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters except Anna and her family - they belong to CSF/A&E. I just play with them from time to time.

Previous chapters: Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six

BURIED TRUTH

PART SEVEN

“Archie? Archie!”

There was no response. Bush coughed, spluttered, and spat out the water that spilled into his mouth. He kicked desperately, trying to keep his head out of the water, gasping for breath. It was virtually impossible to see anything, the struggling sun hidden behind a thick bank of black cloud. He could hear nothing but the creaking and groaning of the Amelié as she sank, barely audible itself over the rushing of blood and water in his ears. Cotard, Styles and Lady Isobel were nowhere to be seen. Somewhere a crack of thunder boomed overhead, the sound becoming dimmer as the storm began to move away.

Bush glanced again at Kennedy – his friend had been little more than two feet away, but now, to his alarm, there was no sign of him. He had been able to see him just a few moments ago, a dark shape in the water, blood running down the side of his face from where his head had hit the mast as the lifeboat overturned.

For some fraught minutes it had seemed that they might all be dragged down with the ship, as they struggled to launch the lifeboat between them. The French sailors had abandoned them, more interested in saving their own skins than helping others to escape. Bush, Kennedy and Styles had somehow, with a combined effort that took most of their strength, got the small boat over the side and into the water, Cotard shouting directions as he danced around them waving his one good arm. They sent down Lady Isobel first, her skirts flying in the wind as she climbed down the side of the lurching ship, the sea roiling beneath her. Bush looked over the side and met her eyes, suddenly assailed by unpleasant memories of his own similar predicament not so long ago, washed overboard in a storm, remembering the sheer terror at the moment when he lost his grip on his lifeline and pitched into the torrent below. He shook himself, trying to keep his attention on the matter in hand, and motioned to Kennedy to follow her.

Styles, with dogged determination, would not descend until he was sure Bush and Kennedy were safely on board, despite the fact that the ship was now leaning at a precarious angle, her stern rail almost level with the waterline, her prow in the air. Bush had called him a fool, knowing that Styles could not swim either, but the big man had just said, “Yes, sir,” and stayed put at the entry port. Now, with them all in the boat and the Amelié almost on her side, Bush was becoming desperate.

“Come on, Styles!” he shouted, as the ship groaned, more loudly than before. “She’s going to go!!”

Styles’s reply was lost as a flash of lightning lit up the dark sky and deafened everyone. There was a resounding crack, and a spark - the mast began to topple towards the water, one end now clearly on fire. What was left of the sailcloth flapped madly, ropes flailing into the air, blocking out any view of the ship for several moments. Bush clambered past Cotard, to the bow of the little boat, peering into the gloom for some glimpse of Styles.

“Styles!!” he yelled. “Styles! Where are you, man?!”

There was a shout from ahead – Styles was waving from the rail. And there was someone with him. Lady Isobel cried out in alarm – “Carlotta!” The maid was clinging to Styles’s arm, looking terrified, her dark hair whipping around her head. They were half in the water now, the stern of the ship partly submerged. Someone grabbed Bush’s arm – he glanced round to see that it was Kennedy.

“William! The oars!” he shouted over the din of another roll of thunder. “We have to pick them up!”

Bush didn’t need to be told twice. Between them they manhandled the oars into the rowlocks and began to row desperately towards the ship. Cotard seated himself in the bow, yelling directions and encouragement to them as the craft bobbed madly on the angry sea. It seemed to take forever, but at last they guided the boat nearer to the stricken ship. Cotard and Kennedy dragged the shaking Carlotta into the boat, soaked to the skin and mumbling what sounded like prayers in Italian.

Bush held out a hand to Styles. “Come on, man! It’s your last chance!”

The big man let go of the rail, hand reaching out to Bush’s. In the moment before they touched, Styles looked up, eyes wide in alarm. “Look out, sir!”

Bush looked up, too, and gasped. Above them the mast had been hanging at an angle – now, with a great creak loud enough to be the earth splitting in two, it fell towards them. There was no time to move – shouts, oaths and what must either have been Carlotta or Lady Isobel screaming filled Bush’s ears as the mast hit the boat and everything went black.

***

“Archie?” The word came out more as a gurgle than a shout. Bush flailed, trying to drag himself upwards, to keep as far above the surface as he could. He spat out water once more. “Archie!” He could have sworn he heard a groan – or maybe he had imagined it in his desperation.

He looked around wildly, and spotted a shape rising to the surface not far away. At that moment the sun chose to reveal itself, its light glancing off a fair head of hair. Bush felt panic, an unfamiliar emotion, welling up within him. Kennedy was unconscious and unable to help himself – if Bush didn’t so something quickly it was obvious that he would drown. But what could he do?

Hornblower had been, much to the amusement of Orrock and Prowse, attempting to teach him how to swim, but it was difficult, and he could barely keep himself afloat. What good would he be to Kennedy? Bush hated the sheer helplessness he felt in the water. His legs were tiring, his chest tight, and there was no one he could turn to for help.

A leaden feeling was taking over his body. He had a momentary feeling of light-headedness before the water closed over his head and he thrashed about in terror, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might break out of his chest. For several awful moments he thought he was lost, until eventually, astonishingly, his head broke the surface and he was gulping down air. His flailing hands hit something solid with a painful crack – senses reeling, Bush dazedly realised that it must be the mast of the Amelié, lying in the water as she turned on her side. He clung to it, chest heaving, feeling like a drowned rat.

As his vision gradually cleared, he tried to spot Kennedy. It was a hopeless task – the sea would surely by now have dragged an unconscious man into her depths to be lost forever. In his weakness, Bush felt tears spike in his eyes a the thought that Archie had come through so much only to die in such a pointless fashion as this.

Utterly exhausted, he rested his head on his arm, draped over the mast like a discarded cloak on a chair back. The day was warm, but the sea cold; the wind had died down, but a chill breeze had sprung up some time before. It was not long before Bush was shivering and wondering whether he would be reunited with his friend sooner rather than later.

***

Anna stared at her cousin.

“Why would Doctor Clive introduce you to Mr Hobbs?” she demanded. Hornblower had been about to ask the same question. Salomé Saint Clair was a spy for a secret league in France, a league of Royalists determined to have revenge upon the revolutionaries whom had taken advantage of the Terror to persecute enemies and settle old scores. Salomé’s father had been one of those guillotined, and she had been sadistically forced to watch by a man who was now, thankfully, dead.

“Because he thought that I might be able to give Mr Hobbs some assistance,” Salomé said with a slight smile. “I have some talent for discovering information that others cannot.”

Hornblower opened his mouth to ask if Kennedy, who had been almost a kind of partner of Salomé’s, knew that she was helping a man none of those involved in the disaster aboard the Renown would find it easy to trust. He closed it again, remembering in time that Salomé knew Archie only by his alias, and therefore would probably not be aware of his real identity. Perhaps Clive had introduced her to Hobbs imagining that she knew who Kennedy really was, and would therefore be more ready to help.

“Miss Saint Clair went to Captain Sawyer’s grave for me,” said Hobbs. “She found another paper had replaced the one I showed you.”

Salomé withdrew a folded paper from the pocket of her cloak. “I kept a watch,” she said, “but I saw no one suspicious enter the church. The paper was propped upon the tomb, unaddressed and simply sealed.”

Hornblower took the latest note, unfolding it with a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. The writing was just the same as before, no indication of whether it belonged to a man or a woman. This time it took the form of a list, seven lines, which read:

THE FOOL

THE QUACK

THE WISE MAN

THE FIGHTER

THE QUIET MAN

THE LEADER

THE DEAD MAN

He passed it to Anna, who read it with a frown. “What does that mean?” she wondered aloud.

“Looks almost like a list o’ them cards the fortune tellers ‘ave,” Matthews remarked, after reading it for himself, “All them strange pictures that tell you the future.”

“Tarot cards,” said Hornblower absently, rubbing his chin.

“Mebbe, sir. Don’t rightly know what they’re called, just seen ‘em in Jamaica once or twice.”

“Heathen things,” said Hobbs, disapprovingly. “You see that ‘The Fool’ has been struck through? I believe it to refer to Mr Buckland.”

Hornblower agreed. “Then ‘The Quack’ must be Clive.”

Anna looked at the list again, holding it up the light. Hornblower did not need to see it – with the first two identified, the meaning of the other names became clear. “‘The Leader’,” Anna read, “That must be you, Horatio, which means that ‘The Quiet Man’ can only be referring to William. ‘The Fighter’?”

“Styles,” Hornblower, Matthews and Hobbs said together, without hesitation.

“Yes, of course. And ‘The Wise Man’?”

“Matthews,” said Hornblower immediately.

The bos’n looked flattered, and a little embarrassed. “Thank you, sir.”

“Then that only leaves ‘The Dead Man’,” Hobbs said, looking straight at Hornblower. There was something unsettling about the gunner’s pale eyes. Hornblower recalled Buckland’s vehemence at the trial, his certainty that Horatio had pushed Sawyer into the hold, and his conviction that Hobbs could corroborate his claim. Had Sawyer told the gunner something, just before he died?

He met Hobbs’s gaze, knowing exactly to whom the note referred but not wanting to voice the name unless he had to. “Mr Wellard, surely?”

Hobbs smiled, and it was a smile of satisfaction. “I don’t think so, sir. More than one man died, did he not?”

Anna and Matthews exchanged a sharp glance. Hobbs didn’t see it, not taking his eyes from Hornblower’s face.

“What about Mr Kennedy, sir?”

***

“Archie…”

Bush drifted in and out of consciousness.

He dimly remembered clinging onto the mast. Sometimes it seemed that he was still in the water; at others that he was somehow back on board the Hotspur, the deck swaying beneath him with a familiar rhythm. Occasionally he became aware of faces and voices, random snatches of conversation that slipped away almost as soon as they broke through his confusion.

“Will he be all right, do you think?” a woman asked.

“Don’t know, miss – difficult to tell. ‘E’ strong though, ‘e’s come through a lot.” Was that Styles?

Were they talking about him? He felt cold, a deep cold, through to his bones. An attempt to open his eyes revealed nothing more than a blur of dark shapes around him, white splashes that might have been faces swimming across his vision. The effort exhausted him, and he let them fall shut again.

When he came back once more he recalled more of what had happened. The mast crashing down, the boat overturning, and…

“Archie…?” His voice sounded distant, almost as though it didn’t belong to him.

Someone laid a hand on his forehead. “Be easy, Mr Bush,” a vaguely familiar voice said softly, “Mr Kennedy will live to fight another day.”

The hand gently stroked his hair. Bush was aware of a feeling of relief before the voice faded and he drifted off again.

***

“Mr Kennedy is dead,” Hornblower said firmly. “He died in Jamaica. I was with him.”

“Interesting that, sir,” Hobbs remarked. “I’ve been told that there’s no grave in Kingston. No trace of Mr Kennedy at all. You’d think his family would wish to have his last resting place marked.”

“Mr Kennedy was a convicted criminal. He had disgraced his family. His grave would not have been marked – those of criminals never are.” As he said the words Hornblower hoped Archie would forgive him blackening his name even further.

“I would have thought that maybe the commodore, as he was then, might have organised some small memorial,” said Hobbs, evidently unwilling to let the subject drop. “After all,” he added, again looking Hornblower square in the eye, “Mr Kennedy was a brave man.”

Horatio looked back, trying not to give any reaction. That was what Hobbs wanted from him. He knows, he thought, Damn it, he knows…

“Did Sawyer have any family?” Anna asked suddenly, breaking the moment and making Hobbs look away. “Anyone who might wish to avenge him?”

“The captain had a daughter,” the gunner replied, “Charlotte. He kept a miniature of her in his cabin – I saw it many times.”

Hornblower, thankful for the rescue, frowned. “And you think that perhaps this woman might be involved?”

Anna shrugged. “It’s surely worth considering, is it not?”

It certainly was, and for a few moments seemed the only lead they might have until Hobbs, with typical bluntness, poured cold water over it.

“Unfortunately, Miss Sawyer won’t be much help to us. She died, back in 1799,” he explained, when they all looked questioningly at him. “It was a bitter blow to the captain.”

1799…Sawyer had been dangerously unstable just two years later, when Hornblower and Kennedy transferred to his command. It was not inconceivable that he might have been driven towards insanity by the loss of a beloved daughter, and it would certainly explain a few things, Hornblower thought. However, it did not help them now. They were left with a threat and two deaths, with a motive but no clue as to who might be behind them.

“Why would anyone want to avenge the captain now?” Matthews said, “And why do it in such a roundabout way? Makes no sense to me.”

“Some killers like their victims to know that they are being stalked,” said Anna, quietly. She glanced at her cousin, who nodded. “Salomé and I have experienced it. There are some people who delight in teasing, taunting, making the one they intend to kill constantly wonder when the fatal blow will come. They find it…amusing.” Her lip curled in disgust. “These are evil, twisted individuals, with a depraved sense of humour.”

Hornblower fell to pacing the room once more, his only outlet for his frustration. “We have very little to go on. If the person behind this is unknown to any of us then we have little chance of identifying them before it is too late.”

“Is there a possibility it could be someone you know?” Salomé asked. “A disgruntled crew member, perhaps, loyal to his captain?”

“I doubt it. The one person to fit that description is standing there.” Hornblower nodded at Hobbs, who just stared back.

“And the person who wrote these letters is evidently educated;” Anna pointed out, “which surely rules out an ordinary seaman, and all the officers involved are accounted for, are they not?”

“Yes.” Hornblower paced some more, thinking furiously. If the last letter was anything to go by, Styles was next on the list, with Matthews after him. The bos’n he at least had by his side – God knew where Styles was at that moment, and Bush was with him…if the person behind this had discovered that Bush and Styles were together might they ignore Matthews and go after William instead? The mission had been betrayed, it would be an ideal opportunity… And where the hell was Archie? How would they get the news to him that he was also in danger? “Damn it, I wish Bush and Styles were not still missing!”

Anna raised an eyebrow. “As do I,” she said pointedly.

He ignored the jibe. “We would be stronger, safer were we all together. Mademoiselle Saint Clair,” he said, turning to her, “could you find out a little more about Captain Sawyer’s daughter? It may be of use to us.”

Salomé gracefully inclined her dark head. “I have contacts. I will ask.”

“What do you intend to do, sir?” asked Hobbs.

“The only thing I can do, in the circumstances – take it to the admiral. He was there at the trial, he knows what happened,” Hornblower said, his mind now made up.

The gunner gave him an odd look. “I’ll wager he doesn’t know everything that happened.”

Again there was that unmistakable feeling in Horatio’s bones that Hobbs somehow knew. Before he could say anything, however, Matthews said sharply, “And what d’you mean by that, Mr ‘Obbs?”

Hobbs met the bos’n’s gaze steadily. “Nothing, Mr Matthews. I was merely making an observation. Pellew was not aboard the Renown. He does not know the full story.”

There was a tense pause, as the two men stared each other down. Anna was looking at Hobbs with outward dislike; Salomé regarded the scene impassively, her face inscrutable. For what seemed like an age nobody moved. Even after all this time, Renown still had an effect on those involved, one from which they might never escape. Sawyer was still sowing distrust from beyond the grave.

“Nevertheless,” Hornblower said finally, breaking the spell, “I will see the admiral in the morning.” And try to get a message through him to Archie; he added silently, the list staring up at him from the table.

He had to do something.

Any one of them could be next.

TBC