Buried Truth Part Six - Hornblower, PG

[charleygirl]

Title: Buried Truth Part Six
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, action/adventure, romance, AU
Characters Involved/Pairing: Hornblower, Bush, Kennedy, Styles, Matthews, Hobbs, Cotard 
Summary: The return of Hobbs, and trouble on board the Amelie...
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

Thank you to sharpiefan for the assistance! :)

BURIED TRUTH

 

PART SIX

 

 

 

“My apologies for disturbing you at this hour, captain,” Hobbs said, coming properly into the kitchen and removing his hat. The arrogance was still there, Hornblower noted, despite all that had happened – Hobbs had only to stand in a room to make it appear that he had every right to be there. The gunner nodded politely. “Mr Matthews.”

 

“Mr ‘Obbs,” Matthews replied warily. The two men had never seen eye to eye in the past, their loyalty to their respective officers coming between them at every turn. Had Hobbs’s devotion not turned the man so completely against him, Hornblower might have admired the loyalty he had given to his captain.

 

Maria was still standing in the doorway, watching them.

 

“It’s all right, Maria, nothing to worry about,” Hornblower told his curious wife. She looked at him, and then at Anna, mutely questioning why she should have to leave while the other woman remained, but obediently left the room. He closed the door firmly behind her, and took up a position in front of it, clasping his hands behind his back. “To what do I owe this honour, Hobbs? The last I heard, you were on the Andromeda in the Mediterranean.”

 

“I was, sir, but she was damaged in a fierce storm as we neared the Channel. She’ll be in the yard for some weeks yet,” Hobbs replied. “Between that disaster and a bout of dysentery on board, it was decided to pay off what was left of the crew.”

 

“And so here you are. Have you come to me looking for work? I fear I must disappoint you – Hotspur has her full complement of men at present.” Hornblower spoke lightly, but there was something distinctly unsettling about having been talking about Hobbs a few minutes before only for the man himself to turn up large as life on his doorstep. It was almost as if someone, somewhere, had been listening…

 

“That’s not strictly true, though, is it, sir? She’s missing a first lieutenant and a bos’n’s mate, I believe.”

 

Anna and Matthews exchanged a glance. It was true that keeping secrets in the navy was a difficult business, but Bush’s plight had not been made common knowledge due to the delicacy of the situation. Pellew was understandably loath to let confidential details leak out, and Hotspur’s mission had certainly been that. Hobbs had somehow obtained inside knowledge, or found a Hotspur with a very loose tongue.

 

Hornblower frowned, and decided to err on the side of caution. “What do you mean?”

 

Hobbs laid his hat down on the table. “The past is catching up with us, captain, faster than any of us perhaps would like.”

 

“This is no time for games, Hobbs. Get to the point.”

 

“Very well.” The gunner reached into his coat and withdrew a folded newspaper, which he carefully laid on the table beside his hat. “I take it that you’ve not yet seen this? It’s last month’s Naval Chronicle.”

 

Reluctant to trust the man, even after his quite unexpected turnaround at the court martial in Kingston, Hornblower did not hurry to the table. Anna was already looking at the paper, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead. “I don’t understand,” she said, “Should this mean something?”

 

Looking over her shoulder and skimming the page, Hornblower understood. Hobbs had turned to the list of deaths in service. At the foot of the page was a familiar name: Lt HG Buckland, HMS Pegasus. Hornblower was surprised at the lack of emotion he felt at reading of Buckland’s death. The man had been a coward, and tried to put the entire blame for the mutiny he had himself endorsed on Hornblower’s shoulders, would have been prepared to see him hang to save his own neck, and yet Horatio felt…nothing. After the Renown debacle, Buckland had been lucky to get another commission, and now… “How did he die?” he asked.

 

“Cleaning a pistol – the charge hadn’t been properly emptied and it went off in his face,” said Hobbs emotionlessly. “Very nasty.”

 

“An accident, then.”

 

“Officially. Unofficially, some see it as suicide. Guilt over what happened on Renown, and afterwards,” Hobbs added, in answer to Hornblower’s questioning glance.

 

Immediately after the trial, Hornblower could have believed that. Buckland had certainly appeared to go to pieces then, after seeing Kennedy stagger half-dead into the courtroom and take the blame, but after all this time..? “Nearly three years is a long time to nurse a guilty conscience.”

 

“Exactly, sir. But there is another theory. And now that Doctor Clive is also dead…”

 

“Two old Renowns, dead within a few weeks of each other.” Hornblower felt his blood run cold once more.

 

“Wait a moment,” Anna said sharply, fixing Hobbs with a gimlet stare, “How did you know of Doctor Clive’s death? No one here has mentioned it.”

 

The gunner smiled slightly. “I followed you and Mr Matthews here from the doctor’s lodgings. It was lucky for you that I did – it put the fellow who was trying to tail you in a right…shall we say, difficulty?”

 

Matthews looked perplexed. “Someone else were followin’ us? Surely not the Watch - ”

 

“This bilge-rat was certainly not there in an official capacity, Mr Matthews.”

 

“And exactly what were you doing waiting outside the doctor’s lodgings if you knew he was dead?” asked Anna. “Are we to believe that you simply went there to speak with him and discovered the body?”

 

Hobbs met her stare with a steady pale one. “Is that not what you did, Miss Maitland?”

 

Before Anna, her expression indignant, could reply, Hornblower said impatiently, “What does all this mean, Hobbs?”

 

“All right.” The gunner straightened, folding his arms and leaning on the table. “Tell me, Mr Hornblower, do you believe in ghosts?”

 

 

***

 

 

“I don’t like it, sir. She’s listing a little to port – can you feel it?”

 

Bush certainly could. There was a definite movement under his feet as he stood on the deck, far more than was usual. The breeze had turned into a strong wind in the short time he had been absent, battering the sails and causing Cotard to hold onto his hat with his one hand. “Check the hold, Styles,” Bush said. The big man knuckled his forehead and ran off. Bush turned to Cotard. “Colonel, are we carrying any cargo?”

 

The Frenchman shook his head. “Nothing more than ‘er ladyship’s luggage and the usual necessities for a ship of this size. Is there a problem?”

 

“There could be. She's listing, almost as though the hold were badly stowed. I could understand it if there was a strong cross wind, but that isn’t the case – we’re running before the wind.” Bush glanced above him. “We’re carrying too much sail, though – we’ll need to take a reef. Mr Devereaux?”

 

Kennedy smiled slightly. “Just like old times,” he muttered, moving to the rail and shouting the order in French. Bush watched in approval as the crew – albeit reluctantly - went about the practised motions of taking in the sail, swarming into the rigging like monkeys. Given some time, and without the language barrier, he could make something of them, he was sure. Gradually, as the canvas was brought in and tied, shortening the sail, the Amelié wavered and then returned to something like an even keel.

 

Bush nodded, satisfied. “That’s better. I’d better go and inspect the ballast, just in case. Take charge, Mr Devereaux.”

 

Kennedy threw him a jaunty salute. “Aye, aye, captain.”

 

“Thank you, Mr Devereaux,” said Bush, arching an eyebrow. “Carry on.”

 

 

***

 

 

An inspection of the ballast turned up nothing untoward, but to his dismay the ship began to list again, more than before. He was taking a look at the well, to check for leaks, when Styles found him a little while later.

 

“Sorry to disturb you, sir.” The big man was looking extremely worried, his face pale in the lamplight.

 

Bush’s stomach lurched – if Styles was looking like that, there must be something seriously amiss. “What’s the matter?” he asked, dreading the answer.

 

“We’re takin’ in water, sir, badly. There’s an ’ole, below the water line. It’s only ankle-deep down there now, sir, but it’ll only get worse if we don’t stop it quick.”

 

“Good God.” The colour must have drained from Bush’s own face – he felt suddenly cold. Was this why they had been allowed to escape from France with such ease, because the ship had been sabotaged? To his shame, he must have stood frozen for some moments, before Styles said gently,

 

“Sir?”

 

Bush shook himself. He had no time for daydreaming. “Get a team on the pumps, Styles. I’ll find out which of these Frogs is the carpenter.” Styles nodded and hurried off. Bush made his way back above deck, where Kennedy was shouting to the hands, who were milling about uselessly as the ship continued to list. He ran up the last few steps, struggling to keep his balance. “There’s a leak! We have to get as many hands on the pumps as possible!”

 

“A leak?” repeated Cotard, blinking in surprise. “’Ow is this possible?”

 

“Perhaps you could tell me, colonel, as you have allowed us to put to sea on a vessel which was evidently not worthy!” Bush snarled. “Did your men not check the hull?”

 

“My men would ‘ave made every preparation. ‘Ow dare you accuse them of incompetence!” the Frenchman snapped back. “Remember to whom you are speaking, Bush!”

 

Bush was in no mood for a landlubber to be pulling rank on him. Someone was to blame for this disaster, and as Cotard had come up with the plan in the first place that made him culpable in Bush’s eyes. “Oh, I am well aware of that, sir!”

 

“Gentlemen, please,” said Kennedy, stepping between them. “This will not help our situation!”

 

Bush rounded on him. “I’m amazed at you for allowing yourself to be caught up in such a ludicrous plan as this! You, a sailor yourself - ”

 

“An ex-sailor, Mr Bush,” Kennedy corrected calmly. “But you are wrong – I checked the ship myself meticulously. There was no leak two days ago.”

 

“Well, there most certainly is now! It might perhaps have been wise to allow me the necessary time to check the ship before we left, instead of being in such a damned hurry,” Bush pointed out, glaring at his friend. “For God’s sake, get those men moving, and find out which one of them is the carpenter – we need to plug that bloody hole before the ship goes down!”

 

 

***

 

“No,” said Hornblower firmly, “No, I most certainly do not believe in ghosts.”

 

“Do you, Mr Hobbs?” asked Anna, arching an eyebrow.

 

“Not in the normal run of things, ma’am, no,” the gunner replied. “I’m not what you would call a superstitious man, but I had a little shore leave a few months ago, and during that time I made a pilgrimage to Captain Sawyer’s grave. To pay my respects.”

 

“A trip to the West Indies must have set you back a tidy sum.”

 

Hobbs smiled thinly at the gibe. “My captain was a hero, Miss Maitland. He may have died on his way to Jamaica, but his body was preserved in a cask of rum and returned to England, where he was buried as was right and proper. I make it my duty to visit the grave whenever I am ashore. It is not visited as often as it should be, in my view, so I was certainly surprised this time to find a single flower and this letter on the tomb.” He reached into his coat pocket once more and produced a rather crumpled sheet of writing paper, which he passed to Hornblower. “It was sealed, and addressed to ‘The Mutineers’.”

 

Hornblower took the paper. On it was written a single sentence: VENGEANCE IS MINE, SAYETH THE LORD. The words were clearly printed – in his mind’s eye he could see another paper bearing the same handwriting…he scrabbled in his pocket and pulled out the bloodstained note that Anna had found clutched in Clive’s hand. Everyone watched as he laid the two papers side by side on the table. His heart almost missed a beat.

 

The writing was exactly the same.

 

“Two Renowns dead,” said Hobbs, “Five more to go?”

 

“I take it you’re including yourself in that, then, Mr ‘Obbs?” asked Matthews.

 

“Why should I, Mr Matthews? I was always loyal to the captain.”

 

“So was the doctor, but it didn’t do ‘im much good, did it?” the bos’n pointed out.

 

Five, thought Hornblower. Himself, Bush, Matthews, Styles and…Kennedy? But as far as the world was concerned Kennedy was dead… “How did you know of Clive’s death, Hobbs?” he asked. “Were you watching the house waiting for an opportunity of your own, or did you try to warn him?”

 

“And how do you know my name?” Anna added. “We have never met to my knowledge – I think I would have remembered you.”

 

“That is true, Miss Maitland. I came across Doctor Clive purely by chance in the Keppel’s Head, two weeks back. He introduced me to someone who has been most useful.” Hobbs glanced across the room, to the shadowy corner on the far side of the fireplace – Hornblower had not noticed until that moment that someone was standing there, someone who must have entered the room with a silent tread at some point during the conversation.

 

“And that person was - ?”

 

A diminutive figure stepped forwards, turning back the voluminous hood on her heavy cloak. Dark hair tumbled back from a doll-like face dominated by large black eyes which regarded them all with a calm, unflinching gaze.

 

“That person was me,” said Salomé Saint Clair.

 

 

***

 

The Amelié rocked again.

 

“For Christ’s sake, get those men on the pumps!” Bush bellowed, hanging onto the rail and trying to claw his way back up the tilting deck. Somewhere to starboard there was a cry and a splash as another man chose to take his chance with the sea rather than waiting to be dragged down with the ship. “What the bloody hell are they doing? Do they want to drown?”

 

“They’re panicking!” Kennedy shouted from behind him. “Some of them think the ship is cursed because there’s an Englishman in command!”

 

If he hadn’t been otherwise preoccupied, Bush would have stared in amazement at such stupidity. “Hell’s teeth, what a crew!”

 

“They’re simple men, William, not trained British hands – we can’t expect them to behave as our own sailors would!”

 

“We should expect them to know what to do when the damned ship is sinking!” The ship listed heavily to port, timbers creaking, throwing them both against the railing. Bush looked up, seeing sailcloth flapping loose, the mast tilting crazily overhead. “If we don’t do something soon we’ll all be dead before morning. How could you let Cotard draw you into this bloody nightmare? A child could have planned better!”

 

Kennedy struggled to his feet again, eyes wide. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, you fool!”

 

“Fool, am I?” Bush muttered. Hand over hand, he made his way across the deck, which was sloping drunkenly. If something wasn’t done quickly the ship would be on her side and there would be no saving her. There was only one thing left to do. He reached the companionway, and clung onto the rope handrail, swinging himself down to the steps.

 

“Where are you going?” Kennedy bawled after him.

 

“To bail this bloody ship out by myself, if that’s what it takes!”

 

 

 

***

 

 

Below deck, all was confusion.

 

The lamps swung crazily overhead, sending huge shadows across the ship – in brief flashes of light Bush could make out men running this way and that, babbling in French. He stalked through them, trying to roll with the ship as he walked, grabbing them by the shoulders and practically throwing them towards the companionway that led to the hold. “Pull yourself together, man!” he shouted at a hand who turned a terrified face to him and, seeing Bush’s furious expression, quickly crossed himself. “Man the pumps! The pumps, do you hear me?” The boy just stared at him, uncomprehending. Growling, Bush pushed past him and continued on his way. Cursed, were they? Cursed with bloody coward Frogs, certainly!

 

As he moved the ship listed again, sending him staggering into one of the bulkheads. By the time he had righted himself there was someone at his side, someone it took him several seconds to identify in the poor light: Carlotta, Lady Isobel’s Italian maid, whom Bush had seen only briefly as the women came aboard and forgotten about until now. The girl was wringing her hands, her eyes wide with fear.

 

“Il mio dio, il mio dio,” she cried. “What is happening? Are we all going to die?”

 

“Not if I can help it,” Bush told her impatiently. The last thing he needed at this moment was a panicking woman. “Tell your mistress to get up on deck. She’ll be safer there.” When she hesitated, staring at him, he gave her a swat on the rear. “Go!!”

 

Carlotta ran. Under normal circumstances Bush would have gone to help Lady Isobel to safety himself, but there was a far more pressing problem to deal with. He resumed his journey towards the hold, feeling the ship repeatedly lurch under his feet. She was going over, there was no doubt about it, and there would be very little he could do to stop her, but he had to try. The steps to the hold were slick with water – he all but slid down them to find a scene from a nightmare awaiting him.

 

Water was pouring into the hold, gushing from a hole about three feet wide. Styles, soaked and bedraggled, was working at one of the pumps with a couple of the French sailors he had evidently coerced into helping him. They were working like demons, but appeared to making little headway against the flow. Bush stood at the foot of the ladder, knee deep in water, and knew that all was lost. The Amelié apparently carried no carpenter, giving them no chance of making repairs, of blocking the hole and pumping out the hold. All Styles and his men were doing was exhausting themselves and prolonging the inevitable.

 

“Leave it, Styles!” Bush yelled over the rush of the water. “Get out now, and quickly!”

 

The big man lifted his head, shaking away droplets and blinking in surprise to see Bush there. “Sir?”

 

“I’ve decided it’s hopeless, Styles. Get those men on deck, and hurry!” Bush turned, not waiting to hear if he had been acknowledged – once given an order Styles would know exactly what to do. He hauled himself back up the steps and hurried through the rolling lower deck, ignoring the pain in his ankle, which was making itself known again. Roaring wordlessly, he drove what few men remained below before him, ushering them up the companionway. He could hear Styles and the others clattering behind, and all of a sudden the ship heaved, as though she had been breached. Bush grabbed for the rope rail, all but pulling his arm from its socket as the force of the movement nearly threw him from the ladder. He felt his legs go from beneath him, his feet flailing in mid-air before someone caught hold of him, setting him back on the ladder. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the battered face of Styles. The man always seemed to arrive at just the right moment, God knew how.

 

“It’s all right, sir, I’ve got yer,” the big man said.

 

Bush tried to recover his dignity, but gave it up as a lost cause. “Thank you, Styles.” He started up the ladder again. Above them as they emerged onto the deck timbers were creaking, the ship groaning under the pressure. The sky was black and angry, clouds scudding across its surface and hiding the dawn light that was trying to break through. The storm that had been threatening, brought by the heat of the day, had finally caught up with them, and with astounding speed. The mast lurched into his vision, tilted crazily. There was only one thing left to do, if any of them were to see the morning.

 

“Man the boats!” Bush yelled, “Abandon ship!!”

 

 

TBC