This is a story of how Kennedy could have joined the Navy, and how he and Clayton could have been together. This story is very AU. In it, Clayton and Simpson both survive the duel. What can I say? Clayton was just too good a character to waste, and this is my way of ensuring him a life somewhere.

Disclaimer: I didn't write this with the intention of infringing copyrights, or to make money. Permission is given to archive and print for personal use, provided this disclaimer and my name remain attached. The characters are purloined, the story is mine, and hopefully, the enjoyment is yours.

Rating: NC-17 Pairings: AK/C

The moment he stepped onto the stage, he knew he was home. He never even saw the sea of faces, or felt the heat of the lights. He became his role, and never surfaced to himself until it was over. He fairly floated to the alehouse with his fellow actors, needing no intoxicant in the euphoria of doing what he knew he was meant to. He should have known that it was too good to be true.

The small shop was rich with the smell of tobacco and mellow light winked from polished wood and mirrored glass. Jonathan Kennedy looked up as the bell over the door tinkled. The pleasant face he wore for customers lit up with genuine warmth as the tall uniformed man entered.

"Joshua!" he came forward and made his friend welcome. "A thousand thanks for coming so soon!"

Joshua grinned back, and took the hands extended to him. His blue eyes twinkled in a face seamed by all weathers, and the gold at collar and cuff gleamed in the warm light. "'Twas easily done, Jon, and I thank you for your kind invitation. I fear there's little enough to occupy me at present."

Jonathan moved to the door and quickly closed his small business, then ushered his guest to the back room where a fire and a decanter beckoned.

****

Archie started at the sight of Joshua Hartshorn standing outside the stage door. It had been several years since he'd seen his godfather, and he had literally been the last thing the boy had expected.

"How are you, Archie," Hartshorn asked. His gaze swept over the youth, and, truth to tell, he did not like what he saw. Jon had been right to be concerned. Long hair curled artfully over a threadbare velvet collar. The shirt underneath it was scarcely more serviceable. "Will you come and take a glass with me, lad?"

Archie wanted to refuse, and was on the point of doing so, but something in his godfather's eye led him to follow him to the taproom close by the theatre. Even this early in the afternoon, it was well tenanted, and Archie could feel Hartshorn's disapproval. So like his father's. The reason for the unexpected visit was now perfectly clear.

Hartshorn got right to the point. "Your father has asked me to arrange for a midshipman's berth for you." He looked measuringly at his godson. "I can see by the look of you that he was right to do so."

Archie looked coldly back at his godfather. "I realize that my father does not approve of my choice of profession, but I am firm in my course. I ask for nothing from him, save that he allow me my choice."

Hartshorn's eyes narrowed. "Just what do you mean by that, you young pup? Profession? You're barely fifteen years old, you've left your schooling unfinished for the chance to strut about on a stage? How much have you made at it, then?" He leaned forward in his chair. "Well? Have you made a brass farthing from this, or are you still living off the last of what was meant for your education?"

Archie dropped his eyes. He had hoped that his godfather had not known about that. How he had taken the money his older brother had entrusted him with for the term and instead of taking it to the school, had run off to Drury Lane. It was exhausted now, as were his dreams of returning it when he had been paid for the part he was now playing. It had gone much faster than he had anticipated, and the part had been much smaller than he had hoped. He had been luckier than most, and had been engaged at one of the smaller houses to play background roles. He had agreed to take the job at a rate far below what was usually given for such work, hoping to better his situation as he gained experience. The manager of the house had refused his pleas for an increase though, and now the meager amount he earned was barely sufficing to cover a corner in a communal lodging. Food and drink he came by however he could, and the season had nearly finished its run. He had learned much over the last few months, and now knew that the road to fame was long and arduous. He had nothing but his talent to offer, which he now knew was not what he thought it to be. Vainly he had tried to come to the notice of someone, anyone, who could bring him to the notice of a suitable patron. Soon he would be forced to take other, darker means of making a living. He listened meekly to the lecture his godfather delivered.

****

The Midshipmen's berth was the roughest living Kennedy had ever experienced. He had thought that being crammed in two rooms with four other actors was close quarters, but here, there was no escape from his fellows. One or the other of the denizens of Drury Lane were always out, on occasion he had had the lodging entirely to himself. Those had always been delicious moments, to be spent reading or learning lines. Here, there was no such luxury. One had always to provide conversation, or consider the preferences of the others as regarded study or leisure. Clayton and his incessant drinking, or Hether and his tendency to mutter as he read. And then there was Simpson.

Kennedy's life became one of unremitting terror from the first day aboard Justinian. Simpson had begun by commenting on the delicate appearance of the new midshipman, and had progressed to stealing from his sea chest. When Kennedy caught him inside it and protested, he was beaten senseless and left on the deck. He had woken to Clayton's concerned face. The older midshipman helped him to a bench, and gently assessed his injuries.

"So you've met with Raging Jack," he said, easing the shirt from Kennedy's back and carefully prodding around the bruises, checking for broken bones as the younger man bit back groans. "Not too bad," he said. "He's capable of much worse, you realize. He's sent more than one seaman to the surgeon." He dipped a rag in water and cleaned the blood from Kennedy's nose and mouth, then helped the younger man to his hammock. "Do you have anything you particularly value in there?" The enquiry was made in a light tone, but the implications were obvious.

"No," Kennedy answered slowly. Everything he had formerly valued was left in Drury Lane. He had left the playbooks and finery behind, prepared to take up a new life. The textbooks his godfather had provided held no interest for Simpson, that much had been apparent from the first day aboard. The invasion of his privacy was hellish, but the act itself was the injury. The shirt and stockings Simpson had taken meant nothing in and of themselves. He realized then just how much his life had changed, and that there was absolutely no escape.

What he felt must have been mirrored in his face, for Clayton's grew grave in answer. "Just do what he says. He'll lose interest in you if you do. If you don't react, other than to give him what he wants, you'll get on, after a fashion." He smiled. It was meant to be reassuring, Kennedy knew, but it made his face mask-like. "And pray that you're transferred." He smoothed the hair back from the damp forehead and went back to the table to sit. Kennedy heard him pour himself a tankard before he knew no more.

He woke, much later, to darkness and the soft sounds of his companions in sleep in their hammocks all about him. Though his body ached, his soul was strangely light. The memory of the gentle hand tending him, and the words spoken to help him through his misery cheered him, and allowed him to admit to himself what his own heart already knew. Henry Thomas Clayton. Even the cadence of the name was beautiful. Archie knew he was following an obsession, but did nothing to stop his heart from following the course it had chosen. Such a course had led to Drury Lane, and however the adventure had turned out in the end, it had touched something good and true in him, and he could not regret it. His heart could never steer him wrong, even when it drew him to things he could never have. He wondered if desire alone also shaped a man. It seemed so, for he could feel his love pulling him to be more than he was before, to endure Simpson with as good a heart as Henry did, to turn an impassive face to his tormentor no matter what he was forced to endure. He made a silent promise to the darkness, and the man who had slung his hammock beside him, and slept again.

Over the next weeks, Kennedy took that well meant advice to heart, doing his best to evade Simpson's notice. He applied himself to learning his profession, studying the books his godfather had given him, and doing the tasks he was set. He learned the practical applications of the facts contained in the books, and the language of the sea. He found that the time he had spent learning lines served him well. He seldom forgot terminology, once it was told to him. He was soon making sense of the entirely different lines that made up the standing and running rigging, the mazelike webbing that had seemed like such a hopeless jumble when he had come aboard. It now began to resolve itself into a delicately balanced system where each individual part had an essential purpose. His young age and unthreatening appearance proved to be an advantage in this, as well as his practice of asking even the common seamen the things that he did not know. He was soon well liked, and was gaining respect among the crew, if not in the wardroom. His understanding grew quickly, even if his confidence did not. He was soon able to go aloft with all the unconscious grace of the topman, and could find his way about the ship without mishap, even in pitch darkness. He also found that aloft was the place where he could see the least of Simpson.

In this fashion, he got on, until the night when he came down the ladder to the Midshipmens' mess and suddenly found himself sprawled on the rough planking of the deck. He had landed on his face and lay, stunned, then felt himself hauled roughly to his feet. "Clumsy bugger," came Simpson's hated voice in his ear. He was dragged off to the side, away from the circle of light from the lantern, his head still ringing from the fall. The hands shifted, then slammed him up hard against the bulkhead. "Pretty figure you cut, as you play at being an officer." Simpson's face was close against Kennedy's. The young midshipman could smell his stale sweat, the cheap brandy on his breath. The face loomed closer, then the hard lips pressed against his, forcing his mouth open. Kennedy began to struggle, and Simpson pulled back long enough to deliver a ringing slap across his victim's face, drawing blood and forcing the boy's head into the planks. He pulled him forward by the collar, and slammed his head back against the wood again. Semiconscious, he couldn't resist further as Simpson pulled roughly at his breeches and bent him over a cask.

Kennedy was sobbing helplessly by the time Simpson was finished with him, and slid limply down to the deck. He curled up around himself as his tormentor pulled his own trousers to rights and sauntered back to the mess table. He heard the clink of a bottle, and presently the smell of tobacco drifted over to where he lay in a haze of pain. No matter what he was forced to endure. The childish promise he had entrusted to the darkness seemed meaningless now.

It was Clayton who finally came looking for him when Kennedy did not appear. The others were getting into their hammocks. Simpson was snoring peacefully and his messmates were moving as quietly as possible in order not to wake him. He found the boy as Simpson had left him. It was obvious what had happened. Clayton could recount the scenario from memory, if he so chose. Instead, he put a gentle hand on the midshipman's shoulder. Kennedy flinched as if he had been burned.

"Ssh, Archie--it's me, Henry." Clayton kept his voice pitched to reassure and evade Simpson's notice. Kennedy scuttled backwards noisily and pressed his back to the bulkhead. "Quiet," Clayton hissed. "He'll hear you!"

Kennedy's eyes began to focus, and he quieted. Tears started from his eyes, but they fell silently. Clayton sat down on the deck beside him and gently pulled the boy into his arms. "It's over now," he whispered as Kennedy buried his face in his shoulder.

Kennedy clung to the older midshipman, not realizing till then just how much he had craved the touch of another human being. In Drury Lane, his natural affections had been fed by the life of the theatre, where people touched each other as naturally as they drew breath. In Justinian, the only time he had ever felt the hand of another had been to receive a blow. The knowledge only made him sob the harder, wishing heartily that he had never left his uncertain life there. The comforting arms only tightened around him, and held him until he was drained and empty of grief. He heard the words of comfort the other man whispered, and was strengthened by them, and the kindness that lay behind them.

Clayton held the boy tightly, wishing fervently that there was something he could do, something that would do some good. "Sssh. It's all right." He murmured the comforting words, hoping Kennedy wouldn't notice how meaningless they were. They were all at Simpson's mercy, and his unpredictable appetites. He only hoped that Jack hadn't enjoyed it, or would tire of Archie soon.

That vain hope was shattered in the coming weeks. Kennedy's pleading and utter despair were very much to Simpson's taste, it seemed, and Clayton had his hands full trying to put the young man back together each time it happened. He wasn't so lucky with himself. He had formerly had certain firm rules regarding alcohol. They went by the board as he watched the cheerful, innocent lad's pathetic play at being untouched by it all. The flask, which he had formerly left below until after noon came on deck with him each morning. By supper each night, he was often staggering. He felt their eyes upon him, Kennedy's full of concern, Simpson's gleeful, but he simply didn't care any more.

One evening, when Simpson had gone ashore after yet another attack on Kennedy, the inevitable happened. The boy had ceased to become hysterical afterwards, he would just sit quietly in the dark until he had mastered himself. Clayton found him sitting against a bulkhead, and handed him one of the tankards he carried. The hot gin and lemon was by no means Clayton's first drink of the night, and he slid down to sit beside him with a thump, barely keeping the contents of his own vessel where they belonged. Kennedy looked at him sympathetically, but said nothing.

Clayton's heart twisted. Kennedy was the one who had been abused, it wasn't right that so noble a boy should be so ill used. Neither should he waste his concern on a drunken sot like himself. He was on the point of telling him so when the boy spoke.

"Henry, what is it like to be in love?"

Ah, he had thought that the pain could not be any worse, nor that he could endure it if it were. He had been wrong on both counts. What was love, indeed? Right now, it was torture. "It is something you'll discover in time, Archie," he said quietly.

A bitter laugh came out of the darkness. "I wonder." Kennedy took a long drink.

"You won't be in Justinian forever," Clayton said kindly. As I surely will, the unspoken thought ran through his mind. "And you are far too young to decide what your life will hold." He tossed off the rest of his tankard. It didn't help.

Kennedy put his head on Clayton's shoulder. The older man could feel him trembling, but somehow resisted the overwhelming urge to put his arms around him. He would not become merely another tormentor to the boy. As long as he hid his desire, it was pure, and something that was his alone. If he was the tormented one instead, then it was a punishment he would gladly endure, and if he were honest, it was not without its own pleasures. He knew that Kennedy had no idea what he was doing to him. 'God, how you try me' he thought drunkenly. It seemed that the Almighty had a sense of humor as well as justice. If he didn't take pleasure in things that were forbidden, after all, he would not be in this sweet state. He shifted uncomfortably, to ease the growing tightness in his breeches. His breath caught in his throat as Kennedy's hand stole out and assessed the situation for himself.

Archie was astonished and delighted at the physical evidence of his shipmate's desire. He had known men before Simpson--truth be told, he had enjoyed the favors of both sexes in his short career as an actor, and he had scarcely believed it when Henry had begun to move against him so deliciously. He had come to see his friend as almost a sexless creature, moved only by drink, and kindness, and the desire to keep the peace in the berth as well as he could.

"Henry--" the low plaintive voice sent shivers up Clayton's spine. He tried to rise, but the combination of lust, drunkenness and the hand that was not removed kept him from doing so. And, he admitted to himself, he had no real desire to.

"Please, Archie," he said, with the last shreds of dignity and honor he had, "Don't make it any worse than it is."

"How could it be worse?" There was a slight thump of metal against wood as Kennedy set his tankard down on the deck. "If we are forced to endure that monster, we can at least take what comfort we can in each other." He had been dreaming of this chance, and now that it was within his reach, he had no intention of letting it pass by him.

Clayton wanted to resist, but found that his body would not obey him. Only words came to him. "You do realize the consequences for this sort of behavior, Archie--why risk your career and your life for such a thing?" He managed to pull the hand away at last, but found himself unable to let go of it. "Such pastimes as this are not appropriate for officers, or gentlemen. Best not to develop such tastes." He felt Kennedy's other hand at his face.

"Too late, I fear," he said. "And if I were caught with you or Jack, there would be no difference in my punishment." He chuckled. "You, at least, will be more discreet, and far more to my taste." He followed the soft touch with softer lips on the hand that held his. At last, he allowed himself to explore the flesh he had lain awake in his hammock thinking about. It was even better than he had imagined, and the feel of it, combined with the soft, comforting smell of Henry, sent a wave of desire through him.

Clayton's head spun, the alcohol and the desire he had held back for so long making him almost faint with his need for the boy. He gave up the fight then. He knew that he would despise himself later, but right now, he didn't care. He pulled the other midshipman across his lap and kissed him hungrily. Archie responded with enthusiasm. He reached up and twined his fingers in Henry's hair, and kissed him breathless.

Clayton was lost in a world of sensation. He ravaged the young man's mouth as he had longed to do for so long, then moved on to his neck and the parts of his chest that were bared by the open white shirt. The taste of the sweet flesh only made him hunger for more, and Kennedy arched in his arms as he pulled him closer. The moans and small cries the boy was making inflamed him further, but they also brought him back to some semblance of awareness. What was he doing? They would surely be caught if they continued. This was madness! With an effort, he pulled his face from the hollow of Kennedy's neck and tried to calm himself. Their hoarse breathing was loud in his ears. "Archie, we must not do this," he managed to say.

Kennedy responded by caressing the back of Clayton's neck with talented fingers. "Why?" His tone was amused. "Surely you still aren't worried about my lost virtue." He tried to pull Henry's head down for another kiss.

Clayton resisted, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. "We'll be caught. I won't have you hang for me."

"No one seemed to hear or care when Simpson had me," Archie said bitterly. "It seems that the Articles of War are taken less seriously in Justinian."

"The Midshipmens' berth was empty then," Clayton pointed out. "And while I find your *erm* enthusiasm quite delightful, it will leave the rest of them in no doubt as to what we are doing."

Kennedy colored, though Clayton couldn't see it in the dimness. "Then I will have to restrain myself, won't I?" He turned his lips to Henry's neck, teasing his shirt open below the stock.

His actions had the desired effect. Clayton felt the warm lips at his chest, followed by a soft tongue. His head hit the bulkhead as he arched back, but he hardly felt it as desire shot through him. He pulled Archie to him, his hands exploring through the shirt and under it, as he pulled it free of the waistband of the breeches. He filled his hands with the firm, warm flesh of Kennedy's back and their lips met again.

The boy willingly climbed into his lap, straddling him. Clayton's erection was pressed between Kennedy's open legs, his moan muffled by the soft mouth. Surely this was heaven, he thought as their tongues dueled lovingly. His hands dipped lower to hold the rounded arse, learning the feel of what had tantalized him for so long. Kennedy's tongue traced trails of fire across his face and neck, and he sat back in Clayton's lap to undo the stock that kept him from what he wanted. As he did so, Clayton ran his hands across the firm flesh of Archie's belly, relishing the way the boy's eyes closed briefly, the wanton grin that never left his face. He wanted to touch him everywhere at once, and tried, but the boy pressed himself against him, and had somehow managed to lift both their shirts out of the way, so that bare chest met chest, pressing him back against the bulkhead, fire flashing through his body.

Kennedy had wanted this for so long, and he could scarcely believe that such a beautiful man as Clayton could take any interest in an awkward boy like him. He felt the older man trembling underneath him in his efforts to keep silent and reveled in the feeling of being in control of something at last! Drury Lane had taught him more than the theatre, though he had not expected to ever use those skills again. He had thought them left behind with the playbooks and the ragged finery, the hollow heroes that his godfather had so despised. Now he lavished them on the man who lay helpless beneath him. In passionate coin he repaid Clayton for all the times he had cared for him.

Clayton felt Archie undo his breeches, and felt his hardness spring free into the waiting hand. Later, he would have sworn he saw stars as the hand surrounded him, as the other traveled over him. He felt the searing touch of Archie's lips on his face, his chest, everywhere, and he wanted it to go on forever, he wanted to live for eternity in the perfect moment of his orgasm.

Archie smiled happily against Clayton's mouth, and continued to caress and kiss him tenderly as his body slowly quieted. He curled up against him, amazed that he could be so content while his own body was still hard and aching to be touched. At last he had been able to do something for Clayton, and the warmth of that knowledge filled him as no mere physical release could.

Clayton came back to himself in Archie's arms. He felt the boy slide off his lap and snuggle up against his side. He turned and took him in his arms. "My sweet angel," he murmured softly. He leaned forward and lay the unresisting lad on the deck. "Let me show you the heaven you have shown to me." He was full on top of Kennedy, feeling him move underneath him. Slowly, gently, he learned every inch of the sweet body, delighting in the responsiveness of his lover. He kissed the boy again, trying to make his forget everything that had gone before, trying to wipe Simpson's foul touch from his treasure. He slid the loose shirt up and over the firm curves of Archie's chest, and filled his mouth with the delight his hands had known. The sturdy, compact body tensed and rose to meet him, the slight musk of Archie's sweat better than any liquor had ever been. When his downward journey was stopped by the waistband of the white breeches, he nibbled and licked his way around it, feeling Archie's belly tremble beneath his mouth.

Clayton smiled, and took the cloth in his teeth, pulling slightly, and teasingly, he ran his hand across the front of Archie's breeches. The boy's sharp intake of breath, and the hardness he felt beneath his fingers made him dizzy. Suddenly he was grateful for the alcohol that kept his body from responding as he knew it would have, had he been sober. Listening to Archie as he fought for silence was somehow more arousing than his cries would have been. He undid the flap that kept him from his treasure and took the boy's sweet member in his mouth. Archie's shoulders came off the deck as the warm lips surrounded him, and Clayton quickly clamped his hand over Archie's mouth as the lad spent himself.

It was a long time before they made their way back to their hammocks.

***

Then, the fits began.

The first time Clayton saw it happen was at supper one night. Kennedy was staring vacantly out into space, a habit he had begun to acquire since Simpson had included buggery in the list of tortures the young man was expected to endure. Suddenly, he began to scream incoherently and fell from his place on the bench.

Clayton jumped from his own place, and to his horror, saw Kennedy jerking on the deck like a marionette manipulated by a mad puppeteer. His head hit the leg of the bench before Clayton could pull it away. The other midshipmen stood staring in shock as Clayton dropped to his knees and grabbed Kennedy, to try to prevent him from doing any more harm to himself. Simpson looked nonchalantly over from his place at the head of the table, then calmly took another bite of meat.

"Oh shut up, Kennedy," he said wearily. " Clayton, deal with him. The rest of you, get back to your places. No sense in wasting a good meal because our younger men have no self control."

Clayton glared at Simpson from his place on the floor, but turned back to Kennedy without a word. It seemed an eternity before the body in his arms relaxed and grew still. Clayton took him by the shoulders, and turned the boy to face him. The vacant eyes were frightening.

"Archie, can you hear me?" Clayton asked softly. There was no response. He turned to his table mates. "Cleveland, help me get him to Doctor Hepplewhite!"

Simpson was on his feet, livid. "*I* give the orders in this mess, Mr. Clayton! I refuse to have our meals interrupted by this nonsense! Get him to the surgeon yourself, and the rest of you, sit yourselves back down!"

Clayton got up and put Kennedy's arm around his neck, dragging him to his feet. The boy seemed to rouse somewhat at this, and allowed his messmate to walk him out of the midshipmens' berth to the orlop.

Hepplewhite listened gravely to Clayton's account, gave Kennedy a perfunctory examination, and pronounced him fit for duty. He then promptly sent the pair of them back to their berth. Indeed, Kennedy had been regaining his wits steadily, and could now walk unaided.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Clayton stopped and faced his friend. "Are you really all right, Archie? What happened?"

Kennedy had almost lost the glassy look that had so frightened his messmate. "I don't know, Henry. It just comes upon me. Everything around me becomes unreal and far away, and I don't care any more. I go to a place where Simpson can't touch me." He touched his head suddenly, wincing as his fingers brushed the large lump where his head had hit the bench. "Did Simpson hit me again? He doesn't like it when I don't react. He told me so."

"No," Clayton answered slowly, as the implications of Kennedy's statement sank in. "Don't you remember? You had a fit and hit your head on the bench. I had to hold you down so worse wouldn't happen."

"A fit?" Kennedy looked genuinely confused.

"Yes, don't you recall?"

"I remember sitting at the table, and then Doctor Hepplewhite examining me." Confusion was replaced by fear in the young face. "Henry, what happened to me?"

Clayton told him. Then he walked back to the mess with him, and proceeded to get as drunk as he possibly could. It didn't help. He still saw Kennedy's despairing face. It followed him into sodden dreams and stayed with him till morning.

***

After that evening, Simpson seemed to tire of Kennedy. He terrorized him as he did all the midshipmen, but he paid little attention to him otherwise. Then, all their prayers were answered, and Jack went away to take his examination for lieutenant. The dark cloud that had wrapped the midshipmans berth began to lift, and Clayton began to take joy in something besides Archie's willing attentions and his spirit ration.

Until Hornblower came aboard.

The new midshipman was a fitting addition to their sorry company at first, all clumsy feet and hands, and absolutely ignorant of even the most basic principles of seamanship. He spent much of his time buried in books--as if a printed page could make up for his deficiencies! But he quickly found his feet and began to learn his trade. He found Kennedy to be a willing teacher, and picked up his habit of asking questions of any who would answer him. Kennedy, for his part, basked in the attention, and the chance to be senior to someone, anyone in Justinian. Clayton found the whole exercise amusing, and touching, in a way. Kennedy chose to treat the new arrival with kindness, rather than savagery, and it only made Clayton care the more for him. Clayton was musing on the uncommon sense of peace that was beginning to fill the berth that night, playing his fiddle softly, when the worst happened. The low, threatening voice shot fear down his spine.

"You're in my seat".

The terror had started again. Of course, Hornblower was Jack's first target, and the boy had the temerity to stand up for himself. Clayton saw the vacant look return to Archie's face, and that night, the fits started again. To his surprise, Hornblower was there with him, helping to pick the shaking boy up off the deck and put him in his hammock again.

Archie's kindness had not been misplaced, for Hornblower genuinely seemed to return it. Even when he was deprived of sleep for days, at Simpson's order, Hornblower never lost his courtly manner, or his care for the others. Clayton could see Archie's attention subtly shift from himself to Hornblower as the days passed, but to his amazement, he could not hate the lad for it.On the contrary, he found himself welcoming it. Part of it was sheer relief. Archie would inevitably have tired of him someday, and better it should happen now, while the boy still had some chance for advancement. Horatio's friendship was also a far healthier outlet for Archie's natural affections than their fumbled gropings in the darkness had been.

Clayton found himself thinking far less charitably of the new arrival a few nights later. Once again, Hornblower's naivete had left him dealing with the aftermath. The idiot had dared to outshine Simpson at solving certain problems in navigation, and had paid for his error by being beaten senseless. The fool had refused to stay down, and Clayton had had to intervene, holding Simpson at pistol point until Horatio could be removed from the fray. Simpson had turned his thwarted fury on Clayton instead, advancing slowly on him after knocking the pistol from his hand.

"What's the matter, Henry," Simpson sneered. "Are you only man enough to face me with a pistol?" He raised the knotted rope's end menacingly. "I said that any who did not aid me should take Hornblower's place, and so you shall." He slashed out viciously, drawing blood from the hand the other man held across his face. "I shall not ask you again."

Resignedly, Clayton lay across the table and allowed Simpson what liberties he wished.

A few days later, Clayton took Hornblower aside.

"Horatio, you cannot continue this. He'll kill you if you do." They were standing on the lee side of the foredeck, braving the light rain for the privacy it afforded.

"I cannot submit to him either, Henry," Hornblower answered. "There are some things worse than death."

Clayton put his hand on the blue-clad arm. "You might have a care for the rest of us!"

Hornblower turned, and fixed Clayton with his gaze. "You might have a care for yourselves." He shook the hand from his sleeve and made his way to the hatch, to disappear below.

Weeks later, Clayton found Hornblower on deck, musing on death. The latest marks of Simpson's harshness had faded from his face, but his eyes were haunted. He was sent ashore with Simpson, and when he came back, the fool had challenged Simpson to a duel. It was too much. Even a coward like himself could only be pushed so far, and Clayton knew that if he allowed Horatio to die in such a foolhardy and senseless way, he would not be able to live with the consequences. So he had taken a belaying pin, and had gone in Horatio's stead.

The duel had left both men in their blood on the snow-covered ground. Clayton didn't remember the trip back to the Lamb, and had woken to Archie's tense face above him. Fervently he hoped that the boy would not forget himself, as Doctor Hepplewhite had bound the bandage across his chest. Archie had held him still when the pain of being tended had grown too much to bear, and he had slipped into unconsciousness again.

Archie watched Henry's face go slack, and felt himself go numb. He feared that he would have a fit, but the numbness was calming, and he remained aware of his surroundings. He listened to Doctor Hepplewhite's calm assessment, and knew that his friend hung between life and death. He could not bring himself to feel anything, not until Horatio came. He swallowed his anger at his friend, as he swallowed his fear for Clayton. When Horatio sent him from the room, he was grateful. At least he would have no further chance to betray his true feelings.

Now that it seemed that he was about to lose Henry, he was brought to painful awareness of his love for the man. When Horatio came down and told him that it was now in the hands of the Almighty whether Henry would live or die, Kennedy had impatiently brushed his words aside, and had told him instead of the death of Louis, and had speculated on the chances the war would bring them. Only later, alone in his hammock, had he allowed the events of the day to overwhelm him. When they had been posted to Indefatigable, there had not even been time to go ashore and bid Henry farewell.

****

Clayton lay in Haslar Hospital with ample time to reflect on his foolishness. He had not managed to kill Simpson, and in retaliation, Simpson had nearly killed him. He had heard the other man's lusty screams as he had been tended, and knew then that things had turned out as they usually did. Even now, he hadn't the heart to be angry with Horatio, the lad had had only the best intentions. Clayton gingerly eased his position on the hospital cot. What was it about the boy? He had been posted to the Indefatigable, a frigate, damn him, while he, Clayton lay here rotting in hospital! The only saving grace was that Simpson was here with him, and so Archie was at last free of the bastard!

Months later, Clayton carefully climbed back aboard Justinian. He made his way aft, to report to the officer of the watch. To his surprise, Simpson was in charge, and his face split in an evil grin as he beheld the new arrival.

"Well, well, the prodigal returns," he said nastily. "I trust you enjoyed your stay ashore, Mr. Clayton." He indicated the deck, which, Clayon noticed belatedly, was nearly empty. "As you can see, there have been some changes in your absence. My sudden elevation to Acting Lieutenant being one. That obliges you to address me as 'sir'." The grin grew wider.

Clayton nodded and gave the required salute, the picture of calm, though inwardly he was shaking. "I am glad to see that you are well, sir."

"No thanks to you, I'm sure," Simpson's tone was petulant. "I trust you realize your error, Henry." He fixed Clayton in his gaze like a rabbit cornered by a fox. "I know it was that jumped-up little whoreson Hornblower who put you up to it. You see the return for your misplaced loyalty, don't you?" He flung out a careless hand to encompass the sadly dilapidated ship whose deck they stood on. "He is now serving in a frigate, while we are left to rot in Justinian."

Clayton was then allowed to escape below. The quiet he found there was oppressive. The few remnants of the crew rattled around the empty gundeck like dice in a cup. The absolute silence of the midshipmens' berth filled him with dread. He collapsed at the table, unable to stop his shaking.

He had stopped shaking, but had not moved from the table when Simpson came below at the end of the watch. He sauntered in with the obvious air of a man who had been anticipating something for a long time, and knew he was about to receive it. He sat down at the head of the table and turned to his companion.

"How now, Henry?" Simpson reached for a tankard and poured himself a measure of ship-issue beer. Clayton tried not to let the hunger show in his eyes as he watched him down it. He had known better than to touch anything on the table before Jack arrived. He had contented himself with what little had remained in his flask. "So now we are two," he continued softly, menacingly. He looked innocently at his companion. "What say you, Henry? Have you nothing to say to me after so long an absence?"

Clayton pasted a smile on his face and sat up straighter. "You're looking well, Jack. I congratulate you on making Acting Lieutenant again so soon!"

"Do you," said Simpson carelessly. Suddenly, he slammed the tankard down onto the table. Clayton jumped at the sudden noise. "There are matters to be settled between us, Henry, deep and serious matters."

Clayton kept his silence. What point would there have been in speech?

Later, when Simpson had finished with him, he had handed the trembling Clayton a tankard of rum. He had gulped it, sick and ashamed at the usual "pay" for his services, but unable to stop himself from taking the only comfort to be had. It was the beginning of the blackest days he had ever known. Clayton wished for death often, but even the strength to put an end to himself was denied him, swallowed up in the copious quantities of rum that Simpson made sure he had handy.

When Justinian was sunk in battle, he was grateful. At last, the release he craved was upon him! He didn't even try to swim for it.

****

Clayton floated endlessly in a warm sea. Occasionally, a face broke the water above him. Was this death? It was comforting, and a relief to drift, and not have to do anything. He gave himself up gratefully. Archie's dear face swam above him, and Horatio's, concerned and anxious. He wanted to tell them not to worry, that he was fine, but he could not move, so insistent was the embrace of those warm waves. All sense, all reason drifted away and he gladly gave them up, surrendering himself to peace at last.

He woke eventually, and knew that he had survived, though the knowledge gave him no comfort. He had no idea where he was or how he had come to be there, save for the fact that he was once again aboard a ship. There was no mistaking the deck beams over his head, nor the familiar sway of the hammock he lay in. He wanted to cry, he wanted a tankard of rum, anything to dull the pain of life. It seemed that the Almighty was not done with him yet.

"Sir, he's awake." A loblolly boy had called a surgeon's mate, and presently and perfunctorily, he was examined. He endured the process, and mechanically drank the broth that they gave him, and gratefully abandoned himself to sleep when at last they left him in peace.

When next he woke, Horatio was making his way toward him across the tiny, airless orlop.

Awkward as ever, Clayton thought wearily as the midshipman made his way stiffly to his hammock. He was holding his shoulder as if it pained him though.

"How are you, Henry?" Hornblower's warm brown eyes smiled down into his.

Clayton smiled back, drowning in that comforting gaze. "Well, I think. How has it been with you, Horatio?" He felt as if he were floating still in that warm sea.

"He's dead at last." Hornblower's gaze was faraway, and for a moment held such sadness that Clayton felt the warmth that surrounded him dissipate. "I thought you'd want to know. He'll never hurt anyone ever again."

"Dead?" What was the boy talking about?

"Simpson."

"What?" Clayton's mind refused to work. It must be a fever dream. "Simpson? How did it happen?"

"Captain Pellew shot him down like the dog he was," Horatio said calmly. "He challenged me to a duel, and when I did not fall, he attacked me from behind."

"Thank God," Clayton said, and he meant it. He had indeed been delivered, though not in the manner he had expected.

Hornblower watched him drift off to sleep again. He was glad, for it freed him, for the moment, from the responsibility of telling him about Archie, but the fever-bright eyes and clammy skin frightened him. He remembered how Finch had died, and he had no wish to watch Henry's sailcloth-shrouded form slip into the depths. For the last four days, he had come below every day to see if Clayton had improved, and had watched him toss restlessly in his hammock in the grip of fever. Today had been the first day he had known him.

Hornblower remembered the moment when the black-tattooed hand had grabbed the gunwale of the launch and Simpson's hated face had stared into his. His other hand had been twisted in Clayton's collar. Why Jack had bothered to pull his fellow midshipman from the sea, Hornblower did not know, but he was grateful that he had. He had taken hold of the limp body and pulled it over the transom to lay it in the bottom of the boat. There had been no time to do more in the nightmarish search for survivors. True to form, Simpson had not waited, but had hauled himself over the gunwale, making the boat rock dangerously and forcing the men to move hastily to the other side to preserve the trim. He had crouched in the bow, doing nothing to help as they pulled men from the water. There had been so many, thank God! The launch had had barely four inches of freeboard, so heavily was it laden, by the time they returned to Indefatigable.

The news of Simpson's death seemed to be a turning point for Clayton, to Hornblower's relief. He seemed to take strength from it, and soon was able to stay awake through his daily visits. They were stilted affairs, for Hornblower knew not how to breach the wall of melancholy that wrapped Clayton like a shroud, and he dared not mention Kennedy or Simpson. He dreaded each trip down the ladders to the bowels of the ship, not knowing what could be done for his friend, yet feeling deep within him that if something were not done, he would die as surely as if he had been drowned with Justinian. "Do you feel strong enough to walk, Henry," he asked as soon as it seemed practical. Well he knew how men died in the close, fetid atmosphere of the orlop, and if Clayton were to survive, he needed to get back to light and fresh air as soon as possible.

Clayton did not wish to do anything, to walk anywhere, unless it were to throw himself over the side. But how could he say such a thing to the man who stood before him with such concern plain on his handsome face? Time had drifted away from him in the perpetual night of the world below the waterline. He could not drift away with it, no matter how much he wished to. It seemed that his punishment was to live. "I think so, Horatio." He struggled to sit up. The world spun, as it had on the occasions he had managed to drag himself from the hammock to tend to his body's needs. Horatio's arm was behind his back, and he gently helped Clayton to stand, and then up the ladder and forward to the midshipmens' berth. By then, it was all he could do to climb into another hammock and lie there, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Horatio woke him in the evening, laden with a plate of mutton and cabbage, and a tankard of beer. "You're lucky, Henry, the supply ship is only a week gone." He looked distastefully at the tankard. "I'm afraid the water hoy won't arrive for a week or more yet."

Clayton chuckled. "Still no taste for ship's beer, Horatio?" He took the tankard and drained it. It seemed like days since he had had a drink. Beer was not what he wanted, but he dared not ask for anything stronger, not with the pitying gaze Horatio tried too late to hide from him. The mutton tasted like ashes, but he forced himself to eat it all. He washed it down far more circumspectly with the second tankard of beer Hornblower brought without asking if he wanted it. "Thank you, Horatio," he said when he had finished. "It was kind of you to think of me." It had been doubly difficult to eat with his friend standing over him, trying not to look anxious and hanging onto the deckhead against the roll of the ship.

"Nonsense," Hornblower said, smiling with a heartiness he did not feel. Clayton's colorless face and the weakness of his tone frightened him far more than he cared to admit. "I am grateful to have you back." He took the empty plate from Clayton's lap and placed it on the sea chest against the bulkhead behind the hammock.

You truly are, Clayton thought miserably. The lad was as noble and as misguided as ever. Why hadn't he been drowned? It certainly would have been simpler for all concerned.

"We took a prize yesterday," Hornblower said, desperate to erase the lost look on his friend's face. "She's already on her way back to Plymouth." He was heartened to see Clayton smile slightly. "And as soon as you're well, you shall have a share in it."

Suddenly Clayton could not bear to pretend any more, to allow the man to divert him once again with his endless prattle about the life of the ship, a life he had no interest or share in any more, no matter what Horatio might think. He allowed himself to ask the one thing that had been preying on his mind for days.

"Horatio, where is Archie?"

The question hung in the air between them.

Oh God! Hornblower froze. He had been dreading this moment for days, not knowing what he would do when it came, and hoping that when it did he would have a satisfactory answer to give. He did not. "He isn't here," he said at last.

As the face of his friend changed, Clayton waited for a moment, remembering the laughing boy who had joked at the wardroom table, the taste of him as he had lain on the deck beside him. He could almost hear his dear voice still. If he waited a moment longer, perhaps Archie would walk down the companionway, his face alight with recognition. Perhaps Horatio's silence was no more than a pause between words. Perhaps Archie had been sent to England with the prize. Archie would be so proud to be a prizemaster--But no. Horatio's eyes were on the deck now, and he could deceive himself no longer. "How did it happen," he forced himself to ask.

"It was during the capture of the Papillon," Hornblower began. "He was in the jolly boat, and Simpson set it adrift during the battle. By the time anyone realized it was missing it was too late."

Clayton closed his eyes, but it didn't help. The pain still ripped through him, and the tears still came. Silently he lay there while they ran down his cheeks, and he barely registered the fact that Horatio was no longer speaking. He had known Heaven in Archie's embrace, and now he was paying for his time there in Hell.

Hornblower was shocked to see his friend's naked despair, and frantically cast about for a way to pull him back to himself. He could feel him coming adrift, as surely as the jolly boat had. "Henry?" He had expected that the news would pain Clayton, but had never dreamt that the blow would be this devastating. "Listen to me--you must--" Clayton just lay there, eyes open, unseeing, while the tears ran down his face. Hornblower felt the ice of fear as he hadn't during yesterday's battle. He leaned over the hammock. "Henry, can you hear me?" No reaction. He shook the man, and Clayton hung like a doll in his grasp. Suddenly, he grabbed hold of Hornblower, reaching for life as he hadn't when he had been drowning before. Pain stabbed through him as his shot-wounded shoulder was jostled, but Hornblower's arms automatically went round his friend, and he held him unflinchingly as he sobbed. "Shh, Henry, it will be all right," he said softly. Remarkably, even though his shoulders shook enough to make it difficult for Hornblower to hold him in the hammock, Clayton still made almost no sound in his grief. He murmured words of comfort, knowing that they were meaningless even as he said them, and he thanked God that at last the dam was breached. He felt the poison drain out of the man, even as it would have out of a physical wound. What had Simpson done to him, he wondered yet again, certain that he did not want to know the answer.

At last, Clayton came back to himself, and the shame of lying, completely unmanned, in Hornblower's arms. He tried to pull himself free, and felt himself gently laid back in his hammock. The coolness of a wet cloth soothed his burning eyes and wiped the tears from his face. Fresh water, though musty smelling from the cask. He opened his eyes, knowing that sooner or later, he must face his friend.

Hornblower wrung out his handkerchief, dipped in the tankard of water he had gotten for himself when he had fetched Clayton's beer, and bathed the hot face again. It was little enough, but it was the only thing he could think to do for him. "I know, I loved him too," he said simply.

Did you? Clayton knew that Horatio had no idea what he was saying, or how hollow that declaration sounded, coming from such innocent lips. He felt the tears start again, and was ashamed at his weakness, but could do nothing to hold them back. When he could speak again, he asked for a tankard of rum, no longer caring what Horatio thought. He must have been weaker than he knew, for drinking it was the last thing he remembered.

Hornblower slung his own hammock next to Clayton's and carefully eased himself into it. The shot wound still pulled painfully at him each time he moved his arm, and it took him a considerable time to get comfortable. He stared at the deckhead beams above him and listened to Clayton's sodden breathing. He had resolved not to tell him about Archie, had resolved to lie if necessary, until Henry got his strength back. He hadn't even managed to evade the first inquiry, he thought bitterly. He didn't know if he had given Henry the rum he had requested out of pity or selfishness, so he wouldn't have to watch the man's silent grief any longer. It seemed that Simpson had the power to reach out from the grave. His ability to torment his chosen victims still lingered. Hornblower prayed that this would be the last time it would be so. The rest of the berth slept contentedly, the sleep of men who had risked death and done their duty well. There was no sleep for Hornblower that night.

****

At four bells of the morning watch, Hornblower rose. Clayton still slept, and though he was pale, he already looked better than he had under the surgeon's care. Hornblower put a gentle hand on his forehead, carefully, not wanting to wake him. The fever seemed to have passed, and the man to rest easily. Archie's loss had been a blow to Hornblower as well, but in his weakened state, it had hit Clayton especially hard. Why couldn't the news have waited until the man was strong enough to bear it? Well, there was no help for it now. Hornblower hoped that being in Indefatigable would work the same miracle on Clayton that it had for Kennedy. He ducked his head under the deck beams and went on deck.

The morning was glorious, the sun low in the eastern sky. It seemed as if the world was new again, the awful moment when he had told Clayton of Archie's fate a bad dream. Hornblower took a great lungful of the cold, fresh air. He loved this time of morning, the great ship coming to life around him, and the bulk of the crew still below decks. He automatically looked aft, and was surprised to see his captain already on the quarterdeck. He touched his hat, and was about to go forward when Pellew's voice stopped him.

"A word, Mr. Hornblower, if you please--"

"Of course, sir," Hornblower replied, and made his way up the ladder to where his captain stood by the windward nettings.

Pellew looked out to starboard, into the crisp wind. His neatly tied pigtail lay off to the side of the collar picked out in gold, blown askew by the breeze. They both stood there companionably a moment, hands clasped behind their backs, enjoying the morning.

"How is Mr Clayton," Pellew said at last.

"Mending, sir," Hornblower replied. "The fever has passed and he is regaining his strength." His private fears he kept to himself, and the memory of Clayton's despair of the night before.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, for Pellew looked at him sharply. "Was there anything else, Mr. Hornblower?"

"No sir," Hornblower answered slowly. His voice sounded false to his own ears.

His captain was not fooled either. The look that had flitted across Hornblower's face disturbed him, sending up signals in his mind. He had not led men for so long not to see what was in front of him. Not for the first time, he wondered just what Keene had allowed to go on under his command. "Come, sir, out with it!" Pellew said expectantly. He rested his hand on the nettings as he faced the uncomfortable midshipman. The wind ruffled his hair where stray locks escaped under the brim of his hat.

Hornblower met the warm brown eyes of his captain, and considered his words carefully. His half formed suspicions were not something he wished to share with Pellew, and he thought furiously for a way to avoid doing so. He knew what Simpson was capable of, and Henry had been in his hands for some time now. God knew what he had suffered, all because of Hornblower's ill considered challenge. He did not want to cause the man yet more pain. "I fear he has taken the loss of Mr. Kennedy hard, sir," he said at last.

"As have we all." Pellew surveyed Hornblower's guarded face. The same closed look that he had observed on the faces of the former Justinians during Simpson's debriefing. Something besides a mutual dislike and a childish display of temper was involved here, and he resolved to get to the bottom of it! "Thank you, Mr. Hornblower," he said. Now was neither the time nor the place, however. His brown eyes bored into those of his subordinate. "I trust you will keep me apprised of his condition?"

"Yes sir!"

He nodded to the midshipman, and Hornblower gratefully went forward.

Something in the way Simpson had looked at the half drowned Clayton as he lay on the deck, the guarded looks Eccleston and Chadd had exchanged as he had come aboard had bothered Pellew. He had never gotten the chance to question his officers concerning Simpson, and now they both were forever silent. He turned the pieces of the puzzle over in his mind as he paced the length of the quarterdeck, his feet avoiding ringbolts and gun tackles automatically. His morning walk was as familiar a part of the ship's routine as the holystoning or the polishing of the brasswork.

He considered the debriefing again, the normally open and willing Hornblower and Kennedy. At the time, he had considered their subdued demeanor due to the sinking of Justinian. His officers had been somber, and a bit embarrassed at Simpson's unmanly display. He himself had been disgusted at the lack of self control the midshipman had shown. It had been no mystery to him why the man had been refused promotion in the past. Now he wondered, what had the whole spectacle been meant to accomplish? There was another purpose behind it, he was sure of that in the wake of Hornblower's second duel with the man. The blatant cowardice, the complete lack of honor had combined to leave Pellew with absolutely no regrets for shooting the man down like the dog he was! The picture got no clearer as he paced, and Pellew at last put it from his mind, for the moment.

****

The next morning, Pellew sent for his newest officer. Clayton dreaded the meeting, but saw no way to escape it. He went aft and nodded to the sentry outside the captain's cabin before knocking at the door.

"Come," came the crisp response.

He did as he was bid and presented himself before his new captain.

Pellew was seated at a table in the middle of the great day cabin, the early morning light from the stern windows falling in golden bars on the chart upon it. He had a pair of dividers in his hand, and set them down as Clayton entered. "Ah, Mr Clayton, isn't it?"

"Yes sir," came the answer.

Pellew wondered at the complete lack of animation in the fellow, but supposed it was to be expected, in the aftermath of the fever that had nearly claimed him. "Well enough. I don't suppose you have any certificates to present, owing to the manner of your arrival, Mr. Clayton, but no matter."

But Clayton automatically fumbled in his pocket for the hole in the lining of his coat as Pellew asked the question, and wiggled his hand down into the tail of it. He quickly produced the requested papers, stained by salt water, but still legible. "I have them here, sir."

Pellew took them, surprised, and pleased, truth to tell. Resourcefulness was always a quality to be admired in a future officer. He wondered at the reason behind it, though. "However did you manage that, sir?" he asked.

Clayton cast frantically about for an answer. How could he tell this man that he had placed them into the lining of his coat, long before, for fear that Simpson would destroy them out of spite? Safeguarding them had seemed an important action then, when he had discovered that the contents of his sea chest were no longer his alone. The papers had thus followed him on shore to the hospital, and from there back to Justinian. "Seemed the safest place sir," he said lamely.

But Pellew was already leafing through them. Clayton waited for the questions he knew would come. He paused at the passing certificate and looked up at his new man, the question in his eyes. "I see you passed for lieutenant some years back--why were you serving as midshipman?"

"There was no berth available at the time, sir," he replied, hoping that this answer would suffice.

"I suppose not," Pellew allowed. "The Navy in peacetime is a difficult place to pursue a living in." And trying to put a roof over one's head, and food in one's belly on a lieutenant's half-pay would make even a midshipman's berth a viable alternative, he reflected. He paused, looking searchingly at Clayton. "But when Justinian was short of officers, after war was declared, why then, were you not given a berth? Captain Keene had need of every experienced man he could get, I imagine."

"He said that he would not have a drunkard for an officer, sir." Clayton looked straight ahead as he said this. He would spare himself nothing, and he would not begin as a liar here, no matter what the truth might cost him.

Pellew's shock showed on his face. "No more will I, sir--nor a midshipman, for that matter." He faced the stern windows for a moment, considering what he had been told. "But Keene is dead, and cannot speak against you. I wonder why you did not keep that to yourself? Many men would have. " He faced Clayton expectantly. What the Devil was the man about?

"That is not the action of an officer, or a gentleman, sir," Clayton answered. And what would be the point, he thought wearily. Better to declare his unfitness now, and be thrown on the beach with the rest of the flotsam. He was utterly tired of it all, and lacked the heart to pretend any longer.

"No," Pellew agreed, "it is not." He rose, and placed the pile of papers on the table. "So are you a drunkard, Mr. Clayton?"

"Yes sir." Clayton answered.

Pellew sighed. The declaration rang as false as Simpson's tears had. He observed the man standing stiffly in the center of his cabin, as if waiting for a blow. The stony grey eyes told him nothing. The same impenetrable façade he had found since Keene's men had come aboard. He paced the length of his cabin slowly, then pulled up in front of Clayton. "Mr Clayton, I do not believe you. Here you stand before me, clear of eye and none the worse for either drink or the absence of same. " Pellew's face was inches from his subordinate's.

Clayton said nothing. His eyes straight ahead, he took in the buff paneling, bounded by the white of the beams. The table in front of him was beautiful, as well as a solid piece of furniture.

"Mr Clayton, I trust I have your full attention," Pellew's tone was ominous, to any who knew him. "And I am waiting for an explanation."

"I have none to give, sir."

Damn the man! What game was he playing at? Pellew tried another tack. "You cannot avoid your duty so easily, sir! England is at war and she needs every man to do his utmost to defend her. Are you a coward?" Did that firm mouth quiver slightly? He was sure of the pain that shone out of the slate eyes before it was buried again.

"Yes sir."

"Again, I do not believe you, sir. Did you not fight a duel in a messmate's stead? Come now, what is this nonsense, Mr. Clayton?" Pellew resisted the urge to raise his voice. Instinctively he knew that this was not the course to take with this man. It was what he wanted, and expected, and Pellew would far rather have the satisfaction of knowing why this was so than the mere relief of his frustration.

Clayton wanted to run, to be anywhere but this cabin. Why was this captain asking such questions? He had no answers. His mind beat itself against his skull like a trapped bird. "He did not know what he was doing, sir. I could not watch a boy of such promise die so young."

Pellew smiled. "So. We are agreed upon something."

"Sir?" Clayton's surprised question came before he thought better of it.

"I agree with your assessment of Mr. Hornblower, Mr. Clayton." Pellew turned to look out the stern windows. "Are you so very surprised at that?"

Clayton again said nothing. Truth be known, he had no idea what to say. This was certainly the strangest interview he had ever had. Even a simple 'yes sir' or 'no sir' seemed fraught with peril before this man.

"Mr Clayton, I ask you again," said Pellew gently. "What you have said, with the exception of that last, makes no sense at all, and does not square with what I know of you or see before me. You are neither drunkard nor coward, and I would know why you name yourself as such." He faced the man again. "We are at war, sir, and I have just lost two lieutenants. You are commissioned, and I need you, but I must know what kind of man you are before I can place you in such a position." The brown eyes searched the impassive face before him. "Mr. Clayton, you will not leave me to the mercy of our young gentlemen, will you?"

"Sir, I know that they are better suited to the task than I." Clayton's eyes were haunted now.

"Mr, Clayton, exactly what did you do that makes you name yourself coward?"

Oh God! Pellew's soft question was the last thing Clayton had expected. How could he tell the man of all the little things that had brought his bitter secret out into the open? All the times he had lain under Jack Simpson, or had stood by and allowed him to force others to do so? All the times he had played the tune that Jack had called, simply to keep the peace? A smile twisted his lips briefly. Pellew would not hold one desperate act up as an example of his supposed courage if he knew the truth.

He saw the bitter smile, and knew, at last, that he was on the scent. "Jack Simpson is dead, Mr. Clayton. You need fear him no longer." The shocked look that rewarded this simple declaration was like wine to Pellew. 'Got you, by God!' he thought exultantly.

Clayton froze. How had he known? How could he possibly know such a thing? He stood dumbly, fearing to speak at all.

Pellew sat down at the table and waited. His question had been born of the same mixture of reason and intuition that had always served him in the past. He had been right about Simpson, it seemed. The man had nagged at him since he had first come aboard. He meant to find out why. This was no longer a matter of simple curiosity about Keene's command, it now affected the running of his own vessel. "Sit yourself down, Mr Clayton," Pellew said kindly. The man's terror was doing neither of them any good. The man looked at him as if he could not believe his ears. "Sit down," Pellew repeated patiently, but firmly. This time, his order was obeyed. "Tell me of Jack Simpson."

Clayton sank into the chair, the blood roaring in his ears. The habit of silence was so ingrained that when he opened his mouth no sound came. What could he say? "He was a monster," he finally whispered. "He bent us to his will and made us do his bidding. Not one of us stood against him, until Mr. Hornblower came and showed us how pathetic we had become."

Pellew knew not what to make of the quiet confession. But he knew that here was a man of honor, no matter what he thought of himself. The grey eyes were now cast down at the tabletop, a terrible secret hidden in them. "What of your officers," Pellew prompted gently.

The bitter smile returned. "They were not involved, sir."

Pellew remembered his conversation with Hornblower on the same subject. Chadd and Eccleston should praise God that they had died before he got hold of them! He fought his anger, knowing that the man who sat before him would not understand that he was not its source. "Mr. Clayton, foul or fair, your officers are always involved. That is their duty, as it will be yours. If they did not do it, then they bear the blame as well." He paused a moment, to sort his thoughts in the silence.

"That was not the case in Justinian, sir,." Clayton said.

"It is the case in every ship in the Royal Navy, sir!" Pellew had not intended to raise his voice, but at last the provocation was too great.

Clayton's head jerked up at the sudden outburst. So like Simpson's bursts of shouting, but for such a different purpose. Pellew had not spoken so out of any effort to control him, but out of honest outrage. Would that he had served under Pellew, rather than Keene, came the unbidden thought.

"What did he do, sir, that you will not speak of it even now?"

The calm tone lulled him, again, like Simpson's habit of alternating between soft words and shouts, but unlike it. Clayton felt the same sense of powerlessness as well, but strangely, it carried no fear with it this time. Once again, he bent to the will of the stronger man. "He demanded our absolute obedience, sir. He broke us, one by one, and used our weaknesses against us. He had the pick of the victuals, our spirit rations, the contents of our sea chests. Only Mr. Hornblower had the courage to stand against him. If you have need of an officer, that is where you will find him, sir." At last, it was done. He waited for the order that would send him back to the berth, or even into the ranks of the common seamen. He had no doubt that he would at last be dismissed from a position he no longer merited. Relieved that the charade was over at last, he wondered if he would be lucky enough to retain his half pay.

"I suspected something of the sort," Pellew said. At last the whole situation began to make a twisted sort of sense. "And what was your part in this, Mr. Clayton? I would know why you named yourself coward."

"I did nothing to stop him, sir." Why was the man still questioning him?

"And what exactly did you do, sir?" Pellew was far more interested in this than a recitation of supposed shortcomings. It told him far more about the man.

"I allowed it to go on, sir." Clayton was bewildered at this obscure line of inquiry. "I gave him what he wanted in the hopes that it would satisfy him. That is the action of a coward, is it not, sir?"

"Yes, " said Pellew slowly, "and if it were the only action you had taken, I would have nothing else to base my opinion of you upon. But your assumption of Mr. Hornblower's affair of honor puts things in rather a different light." He paused, placing a hand on the edge of the table. "We are at war, sir, and I do not have the luxury of reflection, or many men in which to place my trust. You will assume Mr. Eccleston's duties, for now, and when we reach England again, I will decide whether or not to confirm your appointment." He pushed the certificates across the table to his new lieutenant. "Make no mistake, Mr Clayton, I will have my eye on you. I will not allow an officer to serve under my command who does not do his duty. However, every man should have the chance to prove himself, and I intend to see that you get yours. " He rose, and Clayton did the same. "His effects have been moved from his cabin, with the exception of his seagoing kit. I would have you occupy it and make use of what is there until you can arrange to purchase what you need. Your lieutenant's pay will start from this day, but we may not touch at any English port for some time, I fear. That will be all, sir."

Clayton left the great cabin in a daze, automatically going forward to the midshipmens berth. He was standing in the cramped mess before he realized that he had no possessions to move from it.

Hornblower was sitting at the table, a book open before him. He turned on the bench at Clayton's entrance, and was filled with dread at the dazed look his friend wore. "Henry, what's wrong?"

Clayton smiled reassuringly at his friend. "Nothing, Horatio. I've just been promoted." The words seemed unreal, the event more fantastic still. Somehow, the delighted grin that spread itself across the young man's face at the news made it seem closer, as if the interview in Pellew's cabin really had taken place. He felt the state of limbo he had lived in for so long lose its grip somewhat.

In the days that followed, the awful numbness began to leave him, his new duties taking its place. He woke each morning with a sense of purpose, and tumbled into his bunk at night exhausted. Mindful of the debt he owed Pellew, he never touched his spirit ration. Mindful of the debt he owed Eccleston's relations, he sold his tots and held the money till they should touch an English port. He did his duties as well as he could, feeling the boundless optimism that was the spirit of Indefatigable slowly seep into his soul. But Archie's face was always the first thing he saw on awakening, and the last thought he had before sleep claimed him each night.

The End