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The November gales finish late this year. Even nearing Christmas the northern winds beating down the Channel from Denmark are fierce and biting. The Hotspur fights her way painstakingly northward under tops’ls alone, ocean riding high and winds shrieking in her masts. The sailors, Bush knows, will be blaming the solstice. He’s heard all the whispers, all the stories before.
Bush, unlike most sailors but like most officers, was not strictly raised at sea. Going into his first ship at the age of 12 was early enough for him to pick up on the broader superstitions – the equinox starting the fall gales, swallows bringing luck – but he came to sea too late to become ensnared entirely in the complicated superstitious net of the common sailor. Still, December 21st comes every year, and since going into his first ship Bush has been at sea for most of them; he looks for no good luck on the night of the solstice. With a dark sea running and the ship headed for a destination in a country most of the men have never clapped eyes on along a coast studded with shoals and other navigational hazards, it’s hardly surprising the uneasiness is spreading. Bush can feel it in his bones, and unlike the complicated emotions of superiors, the men’s common anxiety is something he recognizes and understands perfectly.
***
“They’re nervous,” says the captain, sitting at his desk and staring absently at Bush’s shoulder while he balances a quill between his fingers.
“It’s the solstice, sir. That, and the unusual conditions.”
Hornblower frowns. “Gales in December are hardly unusual, especially this far north.”
Bush says nothing; Hornblower knows the men’s weaknesses as well as he does. He’s perfectly aware that the men measure most phenomenon against what they’re used to rather than against the conditions of their current location. Down south, the gales are finished. Here, they beat on. Hence, the suspicions of eldritch doings.
“I suppose Styles started it?” he asks with a kind of tired acceptance. Bush inclines his head.
“Likely, sir, although I haven’t heard him specifically.”
“Well, put a stopper on him if you do, and set Matthews to keep an eye on him. We don’t need the hands so tense at the possibility of our floundering that they cause it.”
“Yes, sir.” Bush glances out the galley windows in the rear of the captain’s cabin. Although the glass is thick and not particularly clean, he can still see the churning of the dark waves in Hotspur’s wake, lit by the stern lanterns. Unusual as they might be for this time of year, the winds are not in fact so harsh; there is little risk from rogue waves, and the Hotspur has been able to beat forward almost into the eye of the storm. There really is no need for concern; he frowns at the thought of the men, so busy in working themselves into a fury of paranoia and fear that they may by their own foolishness cause the trouble they are predicting.
Hornblower misinterprets his expression. “Surely you don’t believe the superstitions?” he asks, with a hint of teasing in his tone. Bush glances at him, eyes wide.
“No, sir. Of course not. I’ve lived through,” he pauses to do the adding up, and then gives up and moves on, “nearly thirty odd winter solstices aboard ship – twenty, at least. And nothing untoward in any of ‘em, save Lieutenant Frobisher falling down a ladder in ’81, and that was the drink, sir, and no solstice.” Now that he considers it, possibly drink aimed at relieving the suffocating dark of the longest night.
Hornblower runs a hand across his brow, still frowning. “Well, we’ll have a rough ride of this one, if the sea keeps running and the hands don’t ease up. I don’t want to lose anyone off the yardarms.”
“No, sir. But if you’ll forgive me saying so, the men won’t take well to being told off for it, sir.”
“No, no, of course not Mr. Bush. Carry on as usual. But do try to quash any dangerous talk if you hear it, will you? You may pass that on to the midshipmen and watch-keeping officers.”
“Yes, sir.”
***
The day of the solstice dawns dark and foggy. The clouds are heavy in the sky and the wind still howling down on them. The captain orders a reef taken in the tops’ls, and they don’t have much sail left to pull in before they’ll be lying hove-to in the middle of the channel. The wind isn’t so strong as to be dangerous to the sloop, and if they were running down the channel they would be making the truly wonderful turn of speed the Hotspur manages when the wind’s behind her, but sailing nearly due north the winds do her no good at all. Bush stands on the quarterdeck most of the day, licking his dry lips and trying to calculate any minute changes to nurse all possible speed from the unfavourable winds. Most of the time the captain is standing beside him doing a far better job of it, while Prowse the master stands glumly by.
No one is more surprised than Bush when the winds begin to die with the sun as it dips below the horizon just at the end of the afternoon watch. The strong northern breeze fades and the Channel’s natural systems begin to assert themselves, winds shifting wildly for nearly half an hour before settling into a decent westerly flow. Eager to take advantage of the first favourable currents they’ve had in days, Hornblower orders the ship tacked and the mains’ls set. Bush watches as the men go about the task, eye on Styles as he grumbles with a group of idlers down by the stairs.
“First decent breeze we’ve had in a week, on solstice eve? Not likely. There’s naught but ill luck in this, you take my word for it.” Styles, with his back to the quarterdeck, doesn’t notice Bush stepping over. The other men, more observant, fade away.
“Looking a gift horse in the mouth, Styles?” Bush watches with cold eyes while the man turns, expression half-worried, half-sulky.
“No, sir,” he says, looking down.
“Enough of the gossip, Styles,” replies Bush sternly. “You mind that talk; it does no good. The men can draw their own conclusions.”
“Aye aye, sir,” says Styles, more sulkily now, and Bush has little doubt that given the first chance he’ll be spreading his usual thoughtless malice below-decks. It’s not so much that he wilfully intends to cause trouble, as that he seems utterly incapable of drawing or even recognizing the line between voicing his opinions and putting the ship in danger. Bush, quite frankly, would have seen the man had been left behind somewhere or the other if he hadn’t proven himself helpful in the past – and if he wasn’t acting under a captain with an unequalled concern for his crew. Bush sometimes wishes nothing more than the chance to beat into the men an understanding of just how much potential their idiocy has to endanger that captain – and can’t, due to the captain’s distaste for corporal punishment. It’s a frustrating cycle.
“Alright then. See that you mind your tongue.” He turns away, absently hearing Styles’ final “Yes, sir.” He’s just in time to see 8 bells struck, and steps out of the way as the watch begins to change. The wardroom will be dining in half an hour, but Hornblower has invited him to share his meal in celebration of the solstice. Bush grins humourlessly in the dim light. Celebration indeed.
***
Bush steps up on deck for a breath of air before going down to join the captain in his cabin. The fog has set in good and strong now, and has a biting cold to it as it deposits thick droplets of moisture on his jacket and face. The ship’s lanterns glow eerily over the deck, each its own floating moon in this nebulous cloud, casting a buttery circle of light. Bush glances over the side and to his surprise cannot see the water running by, although he can of course hear it. Fog so thick sitting right on the surface of the water is unusual, but his thoughts run with a crook of his lips – the sailors may feel vindicated by this weather. He is sure below-decks Styles and his watch are chattering like bumboat men about this new dark omen. Perhaps it will keep them occupied enough to forget tension over any further unknown dangers. He descends to the captain’s room with a light heart.
Hornblower’s steward has, as usual, done a mediocre job with his dinner. However Bush, raised on quite equal fare and perfectly aware of his captain’s financial straits, has no complaints to make except to think it a shame the captain should have to put up with such a state of affairs. Nevertheless there is a good bottle of wine – most wine falls into Bush’s good graces – and the captain is less dour than he can be at times. They discuss the charted geography of the coastline further north, as well as the reported currents and weather patterns for Denmark in the winter. The talk turns from there to weather in general, then to the November squalls. And, from there, to superstitions. To the sailor’s belief that the solstice brings ill luck, then to beliefs more generally. Bush, not inconsiderately lubricated with wine, leans back.
“I wouldn’t wonder if the ship were rancid with talk of the dead ships tonight, sir,” he says, staring blurrily into his past rather than at the bare bulkhead behind the captain.
Hornblower nods, not exactly smiling but with a flicker in his eye that suggests amusement to Bush. “They used to tell them all in the old Justinian. Stories to make a young midshipman’s blood curdle. Many a long night’s watch I had staring out into the darkness, fancying moonlight on the waves to be the lanterns of some long-drowned ship.” He does smile, now, staring fondly at the wall. “Just as you say, I am sure much the same goes on today. I shouldn’t at all wonder if the watches haven’t convinced Orrock and young Mitchel that the ghost ships are out there on the seas.”
“One of the old lieutenants in the Naiad reckoned he’d seen one as a boy, sir,” remembers Bush, staring down into his empty glass. “Told me about it, when I was just a midshipman in her. Said he was sailing for Cape Horn in filthy weather. It’d been blowing fit to drown the world for days, and they were sailing by dead reckoning alone in black seas and black skies. It was night, ‘though from what he said of the storm it might as well have been day, and he looked out and in a flash of lightning saw a ship in full sail.” He pauses, glancing at his captain to see if he’s boring him, but Hornblower shows no signs of it. He’s watching Bush quietly, neither captivated nor tired; Bush goes on. “Well, sir, they’d been hove-to for going on 24 hours by that point, and he checked twice to see if he wasn’t seeing things. But in the next lightning strike there she was, all her sails set and riding on the waves, all her lanterns blazing blue fire. Finally he looked away to see if anyone else had noticed her, and then when he glanced back again she was gone.”
Hornblower smiles, just a tiny crook of his lips. “Not so frightening, then,” he says, lightly. Bush shakes his head.
“From what he said, it scared him blue, sir. But the story’s not quite finished. He finished his watch and went below, still not so sure about what he’d seen. ‘Til the next morning, when he was woken with the news the captain had gone down the stairs without clapping onto the rope in the storm. Pitched right down and broke his neck, dead before he’d stopped rolling.” Bush is watching for it, otherwise he wouldn’t have seen the slight flicker in Hornblower’s eyes. But the captain keeps his faint grin all the same.
“You could give the men a few tips in the frightening of young midshipmen, William,” is all he says. Bush shrugs, eyes twinkling.
“Aye, perhaps, sir.”
Hornblower opens his mouth to reply when there comes a quick knock at the door; both officers turn towards the door.
“Come,” says the captain, and Bush stands to be out of the way. Even after the wine he has no trouble keeping his balance on the deck, but then half a bottle would hardly serve to greatly inebriate him.
It’s Orrock at the door, looking pale and anxious. “Sir, some of the hands have reported hearing… something.” He glances at Bush and then back to the captain, as if looking for support. Hornblower stands, all traces of good humour wiped immediately off his face by this possible threat to his ship.
“What kind of thing?”
“They say, sir, that they’ve been hearing a bell.”
“A bell,” says Hornblower, flatly. “We’re well in the centre of the Channel. Any sighting of a ship?”
“No, sir. But the fog is very thick; you can hardly see the end of the bowsprit.”
“Very well, I’ll come. Thank you for your company, Mr. Bush.”
“Thank you for the meal, sir,” replies Bush after an instant, grasping for civilities. He follows the captain and Orrock out and up onto the deck. The shock of the cold mist against his face is enough to wash away the effects of the wine, such as they are. He pads quietly on the pale deck, and listens.
They walk all the way around the ship, to the forec’s’le deck and back around to the very end of the quarterdeck, going slowly along the railings. Apart from the splashing of water as they cut through the sea, Bush hears nothing. The fog is as thick as it was when he descended for dinner, the Hotspur lost in her own tiny world, only as big as the dimly lit circle she casts into the mist. Bush sets his back against a shiver, and turns up his collar.
They return to the wheel where two seamen are hunched against the cold, waiting. Walters and Armstrong, Bush recognizes, from the starboard watch. They knuckle to the captain and himself, and glance fearfully around.
“You say you heard a bell?” asks Hornblower, sternly.
“Yes, sir,” they say together.
“What kind of bell? A ship’s bell?”
“Yes, sir,” answers Armstrong, glancing at Walters who nods. “Off to starboard some ways. More’n a cable, sir, but less’n two.”
“And you’re sure?” asks Hornblower, frowning severely. They both nod, despite the threat of the captain’s anger.
“Yes, sir.”
The captain’s countenance lightens, slightly. “Very well. Go back to your posts and report any more…” he breaks off, and Bush can guess the word sightings is on the tip of his tongue. “Report anything unusual to the watch-keeping officer.”
“Yes, sir.” They knuckle again and scramble off to their posts. Hornblower nods at Orrock.
“Mr. Orrock, you have the con. Send for me if there are any more disturbances.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hornblower turns, Bush following him. “Well, Mr. Bush. An interesting end to an uneventful solstice.”
“Yes, sir,” says Bush, stepping aside to let the captain descend first. “Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight.”
***
It’s not unusual for the captain and the first lieutenant – in this case the only lieutenant – to take day watches. A large part of the duty of the average midshipman is to endure the worst shifts and duties in the worst weather. Nevertheless, in retrospect it occurs to Bush that either the captain or he himself should have remained on duty tonight, with the hands so jumpy.
This thought comes to him while he’s being roused from his hammock sometime in the middle of the night by a terrified sailor. He tumbles out and into his shoes, having left his trousers on from two years’ experience as the highest point of authority on the ship directly below the god-like position of captain.
“What the hell’s going on?” He pulls his jacket and pistol from the wall as he stands, tucking the primed gun into his belt for a moment as he pulls the heavy woollen jacket on over the white of his nightshirt.
“Sir, there’s a bell, sir. In the mist.”
“Not bloody again,” growls Bush, pushing past the man and out into the narrow corridor. “Did you call the captain?” he asks as he hurries for the stairs, hoping to spare Hornblower being unnecessarily roused.
“Yes, sir.”
Bush mounts the stairs, about to snarl an answer, but emerges out onto the deck before he can. He comes to a stop immediately, staring out at what should be the main deck, exclamation stifled.
There is nothing but mist visible, lit in a yellowish glow from somewhere overhead, like the light of a will-o-the-wisp. He cannot even see the main mast some two yards away, can see nothing but the eerily glowing fog. The knowledge that the light comes from the lanterns hung high overhead somehow does not reduce the strangeness of the effect. All around him the ship is silent except for the rush of the ocean along her sides, and somewhere to starboard, the tolling of a ship’s bell. It is paced to toll the hours, but continues without stopping, cling-cling, cling-cling, cling-cling. The cold, wet air slides in under Bush’s collar and beneath his open jacket, snaking around him and licking against his skin through the flimsy protection of his cotton shift.
He has never been in a fog like this.
“Where’s the captain?” he asks, speaking unaccountably softly. The sailor who fetched him indicates the starboard side.
“He went to listen,” says the man, cowering pathetically. Bush curses at him and strides over to the railing. He is able to avoid the many obstacles of the crowded sloop only by memory and instinct cultivated by long-use; he can’t see a yard in front of him.
The railing looms up out of the mist, and Bush stops there, glancing left and right. There is no sign of anyone, no sailor, no midshipmen, not even the captain. The ship seems empty, uninhabited, dead. Bush, never one for fanciful thoughts, reins himself in with a firm hand.
“Captain?” he shouts, voice swallowed up into the silence.
“Here,” comes Hornblower’s voice from somewhere closer to the bow. Bush follows it, nearly running into a crowd of blue as it forms suddenly ahead of him. Here are both midshipmen, the captain and Matthews. They are clustered around the rails near the forec’s’l, staring out intently into the mist. The ship’s bell is still ringing somewhere out there, and Bush fancies it may be nearer now than it was. It keeps the same rhythm, the same steady tolling. Cling-cling, cling-cling, cling-cling.
“How far would you say she is?” asks Hornblower, and while he isn’t whispering he isn’t speaking in his usual voice either.
“A cable, sir?” suggests Matthews.
“Maybe a bit more,” puts in Orrock.
“More likely a bit less,” says Bush, grimly. Hornblower nods.
“Depends how hard they’re ringing the bell, I suppose,” he says. And then, “Mr. Bush, I want us cleared for action, but I want it done silently. Have the men take their quarters, but no drums.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The midshipmen come away with him, and he sends them below to turn out the men and bring them up on deck. He himself hurries off to give the appropriate orders to the men at their stations, and sends a hand up to warn the men in the topmasts. When he returns, Hornblower is staring out into the mist with his glass, cold tendrils wrapped about his dark frame. He snaps it shut just as Bush comes up on him. The bell is drawing nearer.
“What the hell is it?” asks Bush, not bothering to try a glass. “Some merchantman afraid of running into another ship in the dark and losing his cargo?”
“He should be more afraid of being taken as a prize,” refutes Hornblower in a rough voice. The captain’s shoulders are high and sharp under his jacket, his eyes narrow. He hasn’t done up his uniform either, the lieutenant notes; the white of his own nightshirt looks for a moment like unnaturally pale skin, like a corpse’s pallor.
“Sir, the men are at quarters,” reports Orrock, startling Bush as he appears behind them. “Guns loaded and run out on the starboard side.”
“Very good, Mr. Orrock. I want you to run to the helm and tell them to be ready to act on my orders at a moment’s notice. If we’re going to come up on a ship, we may need to turn suddenly.”
“Yes, sir.” Orrock fades out, leaving the two senior officers alone again.
“She can’t be French, sir,” says Bush, running through the possibilities. Hornblower says nothing, and Bush nods to himself, opinion confirmed. “I’d be surprised to know the Danes kept naval tradition down to the bell, although I suppose it’s possible, but why would they be trolling out here in this weather if they had a harbour to run to?”
“You know what it is,” comes a quiet whisper from the starboard guns, unaccountably carried by the breeze to their ears. “We all do. ’S a ghost ship. They say Rodriguez, 38 guns, went down here twenty years back, and every man-jack aboard went to the bottom with her. That many dead has a weight. And the dead ships toll their bell for those who are about to die, everyone knows that.”
“Styles,” bellows Bush, furious, voice echoing over the water like a thunderclap. He’s about to stride over there to see that the man never speaks out of turn again, when a hand on his wrist stops him.
“Bush,” hisses Hornblower, and the lack of title makes Bush freeze just as much as the hand on his sleeve. He turns to look at the captain; the man is staring, white-faced, into the dark fog. Bush follows his glance, sharp eyes narrowed for focus.
At first he sees nothing, but then notices what Hornblower saw, not a particular feature but a pale foxfire glow. A light in the darkness, headed for them.
Before Bush can speak the wind shifts, a hard and fierce shift, to wail down from the north once more. The Hotspur bucks like a whipped horse, nose flying up and then down again as the wind slams into her full spread of sails and turns her by main force to the starboard.
“Take in the mains’ls,” shouts Hornblower before Bush can, doing his lieutenant’s job for him. Above them there’s the thick sound of the sail cloth being heaved upwards, no doubt heavy with the moisture. Bush has no attention to pay to it, however, because the wind is blowing the fog away for them, clearing the dark night and – holy Christ –
It’s only by the skin of his teeth that Bush can restrain himself from throwing out an arm to push the captain back from the railing as a frigate slices boldly out of the remaining wisps of mist, all her lanterns ablaze with blue fire, her sails set but the lines parsed so that the canvas flaps loose in the wind, her bell striking wildly.
“Helm a-lee,” bellow Hornblower and Bush in terrible synchronization, and the Hotspur’s deck rises sharply at the ill treatment as the hand at the wheel curses aloud and spins it for all he’s worth. Every timber groans at the sudden twist of the rudder, every inch of cordage strains at the sudden pull put on the sails as the wind abruptly changes angles and the Hotspur comes around in the choppy sea, fighting her way bravely against the waves.
She’s a beautifully quick ship, one of the handiest in the fleet, and even under such rough handling turns swift as a bird to her new heading. It still isn’t fast enough.
“Run in the guns,” shouts Hornblower with fierce desperation, turning his back on the ship barrelling down on them. The men, trained for years by incessant gunnery drills and combat experience, do as they’re ordered without question, running the guns back in without firing them in record time.
The frigate, sailing under the Lord alone knows what power, scrapes against the Hotspur’s starboard side like a giant razor, sheering off paint and gunports as she goes. The impact alone is enough to send Bush and Hornblower tumbling from the side, Bush slamming into the mizzenmast while his captain disappears towards the port side. He has enough sense despite the fall to know that if Hornblower hadn’t ordered the guns run in they would have acted as eight independent anchors, tearing a wide gash through Hotspur’s side and pinning her to the frigate, possibly inseparably. As it is there’s a God-awful screech as the ships collide, an inhuman, unbearable scream. Bush actually claps his hands to his ears, hardly able to keep his eyes open; all about him the hands are lying on the deck similarly prostrated, curled into balls with their heads buried away from the sound.
It stops slow as a fiddle-note fading into silence, disappearing at last against the natural, comforting sound of the ocean rushing under Hotspur’s hull and against her sides. Bush allows his eyes to focus, and acts before he has entirely processed what he is seeing. He is on his feet, pistol in hand and aimed, before he quite knows that there is an enemy frigate sitting against the Hotspur, the sloop’s lower side even with her upper gun deck.
“Marines to me!” he bellows in the silence following the impact, “Matthews, the small arms.” The Marines, the only men apart from himself and possibly the captain who are armed, gather at his side with their rifles in hand and their red coats dull as old blood in the poor light. Someone behind him, probably Matthews, scrambles below-deck in a clatter.
And still all around him there is nothing but eerie silence, the whisper of the waves, and the bell. Cling-cling, cling-cling, cling-cling.
Hornblower appears through the line of Marines, white and furious, holding a ship’s cutlass – if Bush catches the man who had one on deck they will be rigging a lashing next Thursday, assuming they live through tonight.
“We board from the quarterdeck and forecastle. Sergeant, send half of your men to each. Mr. Bush, lead the forecastle attack. Wait for the men with the arms.”
“Aye, sir,” says Bush, and leads the Marines indicated by the sergeant to the forecastle. He does not ask the question every hand in the ship must have on the tip of his tongue: Why have they not attacked?
By the time the Marines have gathered behind him the sailors have been provided with ship’s pistols and cutlasses and are massing as well; in the lamplight he can see a second crowd gathering behind the captain’s dark figure at the rail of the quarterdeck, superstition outweighed by the hard and imminent threat of death. Bush glances behind him to see that the men are prepared to follow and, seeing they are, scrambles up onto the Hotspur’s starboard rail. Climbing the frigate’s side, even without the ladder, would have been no trouble except for the fact that he is hampered by his pistol as well as the darkness. “Give me a boost,” he hisses and immediately the two foremost Marines put their shoulders to his thighs and toss him high in the air. He scrambles at the railings of the frigate, latches on, and leaps over the side with his pistol held at the ready.
The frigate’s wide deck is completely empty.
Bush has boarded many ships of all ratings, and is familiar with all manner of ploys. But no ship, even one with few hands, is advantaged by allowing itself to be boarded. Although his mind immediately turns to the possibility of a hostile crew waiting below-decks to trap the Hotspurs and slaughter them in the darkness, he discounts it as unlikely only a second later.
Behind him, the Marines are labouring up the sides and stopping behind him, glancing around in dull confusion, while behind them the seamen swarm up like spiders. “With me,” whispers Bush, uncertain why he should be whispering, and leads his men forward. He can see the other group gathering more slowly on the higher quarterdeck, men creeping forward just as furtively as himself. He pauses at the mainmast, staring down into the dark cave-like mouth of the staircase to the gun-deck, and then up at the quarterdeck. In the blue light of the frigate’s lanterns, and the homely yellow of the Hotspur’s, he sees the captain make his way over to the ship’s bell. And, keen eyes focusing hard, sees that there is no one standing beside it. It is ringing entirely on its own.
Bush feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge as his blood turns cold. Behind him the men are muttering, cagey and afraid, and he knows if they will break and flee if not quickly reined in. Bush has enough superstition to know they should leave, now, and enough Royal Navy training to know the ship must be investigated if not sailed back to the nearest friendly harbour as a prize. And, he knows his captain well enough to know which option Hornblower will support.
“With me, weapons at the ready,” he barks at the Marines, mastering their fear with rough decisiveness, and steps down sharply into the gun deck.
There are more blue lights here, swinging in their glass holders, illuminating a long run of iron guns glinting dully and an empty deck. He strides forwards to the abaft staircase and descends that as well, down into the depths of the frigate’s hold. Here there are fewer lamps and thicker glass surrounding tiny flames, the gunpowder magazine close by requiring the utmost caution with the smallest spark. And, although the shadows are long and deep, Bush can see in a glance that there is no ship’s crew hiding in here. The frigate is empty, derelict, sailing the seas with all her lights burning and her canvas flapping in the breeze.
They need to leave. They need to get right off this ship, right now. He knows it in his bones, blood freezing to ice under his skin, gut twisting in slippery knots.
“Back to the main deck,” he hisses, turning, and watches as the men turn and flee as soon as his first word releases them from the possibility of corporal punishment, scampering up the staircases so rapidly that even the usually sure-footed seamen stumble and trip. Bush follows at the quickest pace he can manage without running; by the time he feels the cold night air on his face the frigate’s deck is deserted once again, hands on the Hotspur breaking out spars to begin levering the two ships apart, spurred by mortal terror.
Bush, at the forecastle railing, glances at the Hotspur’s quarterdeck, looking for the captain’s silhouette. And doesn’t see it.
“Hotspur there, where’s the captain?” he hails, looking hurriedly around the frigate’s deck to make sure the captain is not still aboard. There’s no sign of him. Bush’s heart constricts in his chest.
“He went below, sir,” shouts a familiar voice in a wavering tone – Styles.
“What the hell’re you about, man, leaving him –” Bush breaks off without finishing and dives back below, into the thicker darkness of the lower decks.
And the dead ships toll their bell for those who are about to die, everyone knows that. Style’s words echo in his mind as he scrambles down the black stairs, offset by an older, cracked voice, He pitched right down on his head, snapped his neck clean through and was dead afore he’d finished the fall.
“Captain? Captain Hornblower? Sir?” Bush, path lit only by the eldritch glow of the lanterns, barrels into the captain’s cabin, and finding it empty dashes forward to check what would have been officer’s quarters. They too are empty, long shadows twisting and laughing in the blue light. He slams out again and takes a further flight of stairs, tripping in his haste – pitched right down on his head – and heads for the wardroom. “Captain, sir?! Captain Hornblower!”
“Bush?”
Bush’s heart nearly stops at the familiar tone and he skids to a hasty stop in the doorway of the wardroom where Hornblower is standing, a paper magazine in his hand and a wary look in his eye. “The places are all set,” he says, indicating the table behind him. Bush glances in and sees the long wardroom table with its plates and cutlery all set out, tureens of salt beef and crocks of ship’s biscuit sitting in the middle ready for eating. “Everything is shipshape, all the decks clean, the guns polished. And look at this.”
He hands Bush the magazine even as Bush protests – “Sir, we must –” while quickly flipping to the front page, and stops as he reads Naval Gazette, November 1st, 1769. No ship would keep a Gazette more than a year or two old, and only then if it recorded some especially daring action in which the crew had taken part. He looks up to see Hornblower watching him with bright, confused eyes. Bush is not confused. Not one bit. “Sir, we must leave this ship immediately. You’re in danger – we all are.”
“William, I doubt,” begins Hornblower, uncertainly, voice failing as he considers everything they’ve witnessed.
“I don’t sir,” says Bush, and actually takes his captain’s arm, an unspeakable liberty. “The de – the drifting ships aren’t kind to captains, sir. Nor to those who sight her. We must leave this ship.”
Somewhere above there’s a prolonged creaking, and both men start. And then, echoing down the stairwell, a high, mocking tone. Cling-cling, cling-cling, cling-cling. “Now, sir,” says Bush, and hears the fear in his voice. Hornblower doesn’t hesitate any longer, and the two of them dash up the abaft stairs, stumbling and bruising their legs on the gloomy stairs. Just as they reach the gun deck all the lanterns go out at once, as if blown out by a single breath.
Hornblower hisses, and Bush grabs for his arm, fingers feeling thick Navy wool in the absolute suffocating darkness; they cannot afford to be separated. They scramble over the deck, barking their shins on unseen obstacles, blundering into cannons and bulkheads. Hornblower, on the inside, turns sharply and latches on to Bush’s arm himself to pull his lieutenant around after him; he’s found the upper staircase.
There is no light above, nothing but the pitch blackness of the solstice night and the cold air blowing over them, reeking now of salt water dredged up from the deeps. The clatter of their shoes on the wooden stairs fades as Bush feels the stairs soften under him, as if the wood is rotting, disintegrating. He pushes into a faster run, and feels a stair give under him, catches himself with his momentum alone.
Behind him there’s a crack, and the captain’s sleeve slips from his grasp. Right down – Bush lunges backwards without thought – snapped his neck – grasps a thick edge, feels it beginning to tear with the weight – dead afore he’d finished – and gives an almighty heave. Hornblower stumbles up, grabbing Bush’s shoulder for balance, and the two of them trip out onto the main deck, panting for breath in the frigid air. The bell is still sounding, still ringing merrily in the faint breeze as the ship rots to pieces around them. And there, pushing away, is the Hotspur. Her lanterns glow a bright, beautiful, real yellow in the night, calling to them. Bush can hear Orrock and Prowse shouting, trying to marshal the terrified men into sense as they desperately shove the derelict from their bows, Matthews and even Styles trying to hold the men back. Already the ships are parting – the creak they heard below-decks – the Hotspur drifting free of the horror clinging to her with fierce malignance.
“Ahoy there,” shouts Hornblower as the two of them cross the deck, Bush plunging once into a hole that opens up beneath his foot, Hornblower tripping on a fallen heap of rigging. “Hotspur!”
There is no reuniting the ships, Bush knows, and already the breeze is pulling Hotspur away, no men in her tops to take in the sails. There must be at least a good two yards between their rails, he judges, as he finally comes up even with the frigate’s side. “There’s nothing for it, we’ll have to jump,” says Hornblower, and Bush is reminded of a different jump some years ago on a warm summer’s day.
“Best to aim for the quarterdeck, sir, to avoid the cannons.” The Hotspur is picking up speed, and that means little chance of judging distances and angles.
Hornblower nods, and they turn to the frigate’s quarterdeck. And stop, dead.
There is a man at the wheel. In the blackness he is nothing but a silhouette in a long coat and a hat worn in the old fashion. Without thought, Bush raises his pistol and fires, the flash a spot of blinding brightness. Blinking away the red spot in his vision, he peers at the quarterdeck.
The man is still there, although now behind him there is what looks like a second shadow, less opaque. Bush sees it reach out for its dark captain; in the darkness all he can make out of it is a blur of gold under the outline of its modern-style hat, the only colour on the whole ship. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t want to see the dead men move to pick out the captain. “Jump, sir, now,” he hisses, turning away. Hornblower doesn’t need telling, is already backing up to get his distance. The Hotspur is slipping by, they will be even with her quarterdeck in a minute, an equal height from the frigate’s main deck. Hornblower marks his moment and runs, leaping up onto the railing and bridging the black water between the ships in a flash. Bush hears him land with a rolling thump, hears the men’s exclamations. He doesn’t wait any longer.
The run-up passes in a flash, but the jump itself seems to stretch towards eternity as he flies over the rushing water below, seconds extending to hours as he watches the Hotspur’s deck draw up. Then he is landing, his own momentum mixed with the Hotspur’s throwing him utterly off-balance so that he tumbles forwards and sideways and rolls across the sanded planks until a pair of men tackle him and hold him still. He stares up in confused amazement at Matthews as the bos’n leans over him, trying to piece together the thoughts the landing drummed out of him. They come together under one word – “The captain,” he croaks, even as his mind forms the thoughts stairs, cannon, tariff railing, snapped clean through.
“Fine, thank you, Mr. Bush.” The captain’s voice cuts through the dark veil of his thoughts like a bright sword, and he sits up to see Hornblower brushing himself off beside the wheel, looking down at him. “And yourself?” His tone is almost right.
Bush hurries to scramble to his feet, finding his balance almost immediately. “Fine, sir,” he says. And then, forcing himself to look despite the iron-sided fear in his gut, turns to look at the Hotspur’s starboard rail.
There is nothing but dark water there.
There’s a long, slow, natural groan from the rigging as the northern wind picks up further, filling the sails.
“Turn the glass and strike the bell,” says the quartermaster’s voice, and the Hotspur’s own bell rings out, cling-cling, cling-cling, cling-cling, cling-cling. Midnight. The solstice is over.
“Dismiss all hands not on watch, Mr. Bush,” says Hornblower after a minute, and Bush becomes conscious of the men still standing here and there on the deck, swords and pistols in hand, some staring at the empty sea to starboard, others at the ship’s bell. Bush does so, reflecting that it’s unlikely they will be getting much sleep tonight.
“Very well, Mr. Bush,” says Hornblower when he’s finished. “I believe I will turn in as well. Good night to you.” He nods to Bush who nods back, wondering whether the captain is thinking, as he is, I won’t wish you a happy solstice.
The captain has only just disappeared into the stairwell when Bush remembers, and nearly trips down the quarterdeck stairs himself in his haste – “Sir-!”
He catches Hornblower on the second stair, the captain turning to look at him with surprise, and Bush shrinks back.
“Sorry, sir. Just – never mind.”
Hornblower doesn’t smile, but Bush thinks he may detect a hint of sympathy in the man’s eye. “Be careful of staircases? Believe me, Mr. Bush, I will.” Hornblower turns, and disappears down into the lower deck, leaving Bush to follow at his own speed.
He turns in that night with, understandably he thinks, significant concerns. He knows the men will be speaking of it for days, and that it will throw them off. Knows they will be wondering just how bad an omen they have encountered, and whether it will have cursed the ship. It will be difficult to get them to work, difficult to disperse their fears, difficult to stop rumours of the Hotspur’s misfortune.
The practical side knows that, and is if not dismayed at least somewhat daunted at having it to deal with.
The impractical side of him is fearing for the captain, for the man who represents the ship, for the man who spent the most time in the… the derelict (he does not consider himself, few curses are levied specifically upon lieutenants). That is the thought ruling his mind as he rolls back into his hammock, nightshirt cold with cooled sweat, breeches on as always. The thought that rules his mind; there are few more dangerous places in the world than a ship – even a sloop – of war, and although Bush is fatalistic enough not to grieve over-much at most men’s deaths, he would go to Hell’s gates and beyond to save the captain.
He’s nearly asleep, the Hotspur’s solid rocking as she beats north against the wind a familiar comfort, and in fact so close to sleep he thinks he must have dreamed the voice when it starts him awake: He’ll be fine.
Bush sits up and stares, blinking, as his mind plays the words over and over. A familiar voice, and his first thought is that some fool among the crew snuck into his quarters, but none would be fool enough for that and in any case what kind of message would that be to pass? He settles back down, puzzling vaguely over the familiarity and wondering at the words until he finally does drift into sleep.
He dreams of blue skies, of wind in his hair and warm water against his skin. Of sand in his shoes and the hot fire of guns, of mosquitos and cutting grass and falling, falling, falling.
Bush wakes with the same voice echoing in his ears, It’s only water, Mr. Bush. You won’t break anything. And, staring in uncomprehending amazement at the wooden deck above his head, knows all the same that they don’t have anything to worry about. He isn’t the only one who would go to Hell’s gates – and beyond – to see that the captain doesn’t.