Your life is in my hands.

The Captain’s words from the previous night still echoed chillingly in Horatio’s mind. They had plagued him throughout the interminable hours of keeping watch on the quarterdeck, forcing his eyes open so that he would stay alert; he could not afford to fall asleep again. Those words even followed him here, below decks in the officers’ privy.

Horatio closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the bulkhead. The sheer relief of ridding the pressure in his near-bursting bladder came almost like the ecstasy of orgasm, he had put off doing so for so long. For a moment, as he held himself and drained the discomfort away without any prying eyes to watch, he felt like he owned his own body again. All day, he had felt like a hostage on the quarterdeck, the stare of that rabid watchdog Hobbs like a pistol threatening against any foolish moves.

Yawning, Horatio rubbed at his face with his free hand. He had been on watch for thirty hours, with another forty-two to go. That meant 2520 minutes remaining, or 151200 seconds. He had done the calculations in his head, telling himself that with each breath the remaining hours dwindled, that nothing could stop the time from passing; it was a scientific certainty. During the past thirty hours, Archie had visited him twice – once with coffee – and he had left his post twice on account of Styles. But throughout the day he had put off visiting the roundhouse until near soiling himself for fear he would be hanged for the unpardonable transgression of shirking his duty even for a moment.

Horatio straightened, buttoning up his trousers. Everything had begun to feel like a transgression – pissing, eating, even sharing a civil word with another of his shipmates. A moment alone with Archie was out of the question, and he had no idea whether or not his friend was still angry with him over Wellard’s second beating. But Horatio reluctantly supposed, in the scheme of things, that Wellard did not matter.

Bush had been kind enough to take his place for a moment. Horatio hoped that small offer of pity might indicate the man’s changing view of him, but on this ship he knew better than to hope for new allies. Probably the man had only meant it as a courtesy, and Horatio would do best to return to his post as quickly as possible. After straightening the skirts of his jacket, Horatio turned and made every effort to do so.

The shouts and laughter of Renown’s half-drunk, ill-disciplined crew rang through every nook of the ship, drowning out the softer noises. Yet Horatio felt like a mouse scurrying across an empty room, as though his every sound would alert predators lurking around corners. Hobbs, Clive – either of them could spell disaster for him if they caught sight of him. That was ridiculous; an officer was entitled to piss and both men were occupied with their duties. Yet Horatio found himself breathing hard when he paused on the upper gundeck to replace his hat. Panic rose in him that he had even been a few moments without the thing – Properly dressed, Sawyer had ordered. His eyes darted in the shadows as though expecting . . . .

“So, you think to test my limits, do you, Mr. Hornblower?”

Horatio froze, going cold inside as though a net had been thrown over him. Then he turned, finding the stolid if not withered form of Captain Sawyer looming behind him.

He swallowed hard, trying to show a calm face though his heart would not stop pounding as he reached up to give the older man his due salute.

“My apologies, sir.” Thank whatever god might be up there that his voice did not shake. “Call of nature. I’ll resume my watch at once.” He turned to go, his heart still beating fast. Bush was waiting and he did not want the man to catch any trouble on his account.

The mere sound of Sawyer stepping forward halted him.

“You’ll dismiss yourself at my word, Mr. Hornblower.” Sawyer let that sink in as Horatio stood frozen, hands at his sides. The man expected something from him, though what it was Horatio could not guess. He only knew that his failure to give it agitated the Captain further; a few tense heartbeats passed and then Sawyer broke the silence with an angry sigh. “A word in my cabin, if you please,” he commanded in a voice as irritated.

Again, Horatio swallowed. He had no choice but to obey, fear clenching round his heart or no. Whatever happened now, there was nothing he could do it stop it. Squaring his shoulders, Horatio saluted a second time before standing back and waiting for Sawyer to go first up the ladder.

As Horatio came up after him, he caught a glimpse of Bush in the orange light of sunset on the quarterdeck. Archie, however, was nowhere to be found and in all likelihood reposed below with one of his books. Though the sight of his friend had its reassuring quality, Horatio was on some level glad for his absence now; the last thing he needed was for Archie to do something rash in his defense. Still, if he was to be hanged now Horatio would have liked to say goodbye.

Hanged for visiting the privy . . . Horatio tried to tell himself that was irrational. Captain Pellew would have growled at him for a fool had Horatio even expressed fear of such a thing. But nothing was rational about this ship, her Captain least of all, and after falling asleep on watch he was good as dead if he did not prove himself to Sawyer. His conduct in the action the previous afternoon had failed on that score; his efforts to frighten off those frigates went unappreciated to say the least.

The Marine scarcely looked at him as he followed Sawyer into the great cabin, though Horatio supposed that meant nothing one way or the other. Putting the sentry from his mind, Horatio found himself recalling happier days aboard Indefatigable, where fear was the last emotion he would have felt upon a summons to the great cabin. On the contrary, it had always been an honor. But this was not the Indie and Horatio stood at attention now with icy apprehension coiled around his chest as he watched the figure he had once thought twice the hero Captain Pellew was stalk slowly around to face him.

“You still haven’t learned, have you, sir?” Horatio tried not to shiver as Sawyer’s eyes raked over him, sharp with disdain. “After last night I could hang you on a whim and yet you still behave as though you have the authority to act as you will.”

Last night . . . . Horatio’s expression hardened to remember it, the glint of cold steel in the moonlight as Sawyer held that pistol out to him, a mad challenge in his eyes that named Horatio a coward for lacking the courage to take it. Horatio thought of all the times he had not been unable to pull a trigger – Simpson, Bunting, and others – and he had felt as though Sawyer knew of those times, knew his every moral weakness like cracks in a fortress wall. That boy on the mast, Wellard’s beatings, and Styles . . . . The Captain constantly threatened against disobedience yet consistently, deliberately provoked him toward that path. Last night had been the worst of it. He’d had enough, and thought of the way Archie deflected the man with simple answers in a reasonable, if not impatient tone. Perhaps that would work now.

“For God’s sake, sir, I was merely relieving myself.”

Reason did not work. Sawyer straightened and advanced on him. “You would go from ingenious fairy stories to bold-face lies?” He stopped not an inch from Horatio, his irate gaze burrowing into Horatio’s skin like an inquisitor’s instrument, seeking out his devils. “You were plotting, Mr. Hornblower, whispering in dark corners . . . “ the word was a sibilant hiss, “ . . .orchestrating the overthrow of your lawful superior.”

Horatio straightened, angry now. It was not right that one should feel contempt toward his captain, who should receive the utmost of his officers’ admiration, but after so many baseless and ridiculous accusations he could no longer keep his blood from boiling. The man’s suspicion impeached his honor after he had faithfully protected his drunken shipmates and his captain in battle only yesterday.

“Sir, I would never –“

Sawyer cut him off, stepping around him and seizing his shoulders. “You think to toy with me? I know your kind. Virile, ambitious . . .”

The Captain’s hands smoothed over the curves of his narrow shoulders in the way that Archie’s might when he wanted affection. Horatio bit his lip, clamping down on that thought, afraid Sawyer would sense it like the other things and hang him for a sodomite if nothing else. It was not until the Captain’s fingers slipped under his lapels that Horatio realized the man was removing his jacket.

“We’ll have a little demonstration, Mr. Hornblower . . .” Sawyer spoke in his ear now, so close that Horatio felt trapped between the Captain’s person and the desk. “I’ll teach you that your body is a tool I command. Do you hear me, sir?” Horatio’s jacket slid away, leaving him cold and unnervingly vulnerable to the evening air and the Captain’s penetrating eyes. A dozen trivial worries tumbled through Horatio’s mind. Properly dressed . . . . Was his shirt as clean as he had thought? Had he tucked it in neatly enough after using the privy? His jacket hit the floor and then Sawyer went on. “I command and you submit.” Horatio’s breath caught soundlessly; the Captain’s hands moved to his back, pushing him facedown onto the desk.

His hands felt sticky against the cool wooden surface empty of charts and papers and the hard edge cut painfully against his belly, but Horatio concentrated on the question and forced himself to answer as reasonably as he could.

“Of course, sir.”

Already Horatio’s hair itched with sweat beneath his hat. He had a fleeting memory of Simpson and the monster’s damned inquisition, but quickly pushed it from his mind; this was hardly a time to lose his wits. Sawyer’s hands drifted lower, down to his waist, and then Horatio realized in a moment of stark shock that they were opening the buttons on his trousers.

Those trite worries mounted again. Horatio panicked suddenly that he had donned no underclothes. Did that count for slackness? He had not meant it as such, only that he found the additional cloth uncomfortable and almost never bothered. And was he clean enough? He’d had no time to wash today. The punishment for uncleanliness was . . . .

Without a word, the man pushed the cloth down over Horatio’s hips. It slid to his ankles until only his shirt covered him from behind. But not for long; Sawyer took hold of the hem and pushed it up against the small of his back, exposing him. Horatio’s color rose, searing his cheeks like a fever. His throat worked to choke down the queasiness rising in his belly at being bent over and demeaned in this way. Was he to be caned? The dignity of his rank should have spared him that humiliation, but the rules went so far ignored on this ship that he could take no comfort in them. He had never been beaten before and supposed he should be thankful no one else stood by to see – it was better than hanging, in any case – yet the indignity of even one man seeing him this way twisted him up inside.

His hopes of a mere caning crumbled, however, when Sawyer next spoke.

“I promised you a more imaginative punishment than Mr. Wellard’s. Did you think a few hours on the quarterdeck could atone for the contempt you’ve heaped at me?”

Sawyer did not wait for an answer; his hands drifted down, hot upon Horatio’s unprotected backside. All at once, Horatio understood that his thoughts of Simpson had not been far off the mark. The blood drained from his face in a cold rush. His stomach turned and his muscles went rigid in defiance, and somewhere – in the pounding, queasy inner pandemonium – Horatio managed to find his voice.

“This is against the laws of –“

He expected to be called a hypocrite and to have an accusation about he and Archie flung in his face. But the Captain only tightened his hands, squeezing until his nails dug painfully into Horatio’s flesh, cutting him off.

“I am the law on this ship, Mr. Hornblower, and let me remind you that any resistance on your part will be considered mutiny against king and country.”

Horatio bit hard into his lip, dearly wishing he could struggle and free himself. Yet aside from the sickness, sheer pride alone had him paralyzed, his hands pressing hard into the desk to fight the shaking in his body. Somehow he could not allow the other man to see his anger or fear. Somehow he believed that if he felt nothing, showed nothing, than Sawyer could take nothing from him.

“So you see, Mr. Hornblower?” Sawyer went on, his voice thick and rasping mow, no doubt taking Horatio’s stillness for compliance. “You’re in a very tight little spot. And for that, I’ll avail myself of the opportunity to be in your tight . . . little . . . spot.”

Rough, calloused hands – as rough as the older man’s ragged breathing above him – cupped his arse and opened him. Sawyer pushed his lower body against Horatio’s, his manhood poised against Horatio’s backside so that he could not mistake the Captain’s meaning.

Hunched over the desk now with the Captain there between his legs, Horatio learned what it was to pray for mercy. It was just like Archie had said in his sickening memories of Simpson aboard Justinian. He wished for an enemy ship to fire on them, for an urgent knock at the door, anything that would demand the Captain’s attention. He wished it with all his sick, silently quivering, heart-racing might. But nothing stopped this madness from happening. The Captain sucked in a breath and squeezed his manhood into him.

The pain cut through Horatio’s restraint. He shuddered visibly in resistance. There was no way to suppress it, impaled by that unwelcome hardness inside him. Yet all at once Horatio wanted to weep, as though revealing his distress and acknowledging this was even happening were a worse surrender than the violation itself, like the shame of a rating crying out under the lash. He could not fight the man off either and that defeat crushed him too; he was tall but not particularly strong. Sawyer knew it and used it as he knew and used all his other weaknesses.

“Do you feel that, Mr. Hornblower?” The man demanded smugly above him through his harsh uneven breathing, forcing his hard flesh all the way into Horatio’s resisting body. .

“Yes, sir . . .” His voice was raw now, like two stones scraping together, but strangely the ability to speak gave him comfort. He felt it, and he did not know whether the burning, stretching pain or the sheer force of his panicking heart leaping against the wood would break him open first.

The Captain kept still as if relishing the moment of conquest, letting out a sound between a grunt and a chuckle. “That’s proof of a man still more virile and in command than you think. You can’t outwit me and you can’t fool me, Mr. Hornblower.” He brought his hands to Horatio’s shoulders, holding him fast against the desk. Horatio suddenly felt frail, those implacable hands squeezing so hard they could have broken his thin, lanky bones. “Let this be a reminder that the wisest course of action is to bend yourself to my will. Do I make myself clear, sir?”

Sawyer barked the last bit, but Horatio could not answer and the man knew it; he was too intent on biting his lip to detract from the raw pain below. But an answer was apparently not required. Sawyer began to thrust, hard and powerful for a man his age, grinding Horatio’s bony hips into the table’s edge.

There would be bruises later, Horatio knew. Archie would see them. But he tried not to think of that. He turned to calculations instead, wondering how many thrusts it took a man to reach orgasm. With Archie he had never thought to count, had never had the presence of mind. And it occurred to him, as Sawyer bucked into him, as his sweating fingers slipped on the wood, that between his legs Sawyer was creating perfect evidence to undo himself in the eyes of the law. Yet Sawyer was correct; he was the law, and his henchman that damned Dr. Clive would never allow such evidence to be put to use. Horatio squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to scream. It was as though Sawyer had breached his sanctuary of order and reason along with his body. The whole situation assaulted him, tearing its way in. There was no revenge, no justice, no mercy available on this ship, and when the law failed only primal chaos and the drive to survive could take its place.

At last the hands pinning him down lost their strength. Sawyer let out another grunt and then sticky wetness trickled onto Horatio’s skin, a stain to mark him. Thank God the man did not slump onto his back but pulled away from him, out of him, leaving Horatio with nothing but a sharply stinging below, sore hipbones, and an even sorer cheek where it had been pressed into the wood. Sawyer’s hands remained upon his shoulders, however, and as much as Horatio longed to shake them off, he found he could not move.

He itched. His skin crawled. He could not bear inhabiting his own body with this sense of contamination. But he could not bear remaining here either, and so he swallowed down all the pain and nausea inside and straightened from the desk, reaching for his trousers.

“Very well,” Sawyer said from behind him, still out of breath. “You are dismissed, Mr. Hornblower. See that you are presentable on deck. Your next transgression will earn you the noose.”

“Indeed.” Horatio forced himself to nod, touching his hat in the cold parody of a salute. His next transgression . . . A gauntlet had been thrown down between them, and all the rules had been cast aside. There was satisfaction to demand, his honor to retrieve, and his own life to save. God help him. Perhaps, once Horatio made it down away from Sawyer and the others, he trembled for fear of that as much for what had happened in that cabin.

**

Horatio was still shaking when he reached the wardroom, but when he caught sight of Archie he finally let out the breath he had been holding. His friend was naked, bathing himself using the washbasin and a sponge. It was with some relief that Horatio found his eyes drawn to the glistening bulk of Archie’s muscular body. After what had happened with Sawyer he feared he would never feel attraction or passion again.

But Horatio had no time for ogling. Archie bent to dry himself with a pale length of towel and Horatio seized his chance while the wardroom lay empty. Stalking forward, he locked a hand in his friend’s elbow. “Archie, in here,” he hissed, yanking him in the direction of their cabin. .

He latched the door shut, releasing Archie’s arm, and for several heartbeats could only think to relish the safety and the silence of being shut away from Sawyer and the rest of the ship. But then he found Archie’s expectant eyes searching his face and he turned. There was a flood of words inside him somewhere and this was the time to let them out. But Horatio had never been good with words, and therefore could only stand there with his back to Archie, counting his own heartbeats, illogically thinking that if he did not speak of what had happened he could somehow contain the reality of its existence.

That hope failed, however, when Archie gripped the back of his shoulder. Horatio jumped despite himself, remembering the Captain’s hands on his body. Archie did not take his hand away, and the sheer tension and surprise seeping through his fingertips at Horatio’s reaction cut through everything.

“What’s wrong, Horatio?” he demanded in a whisper. His hand tightened when Horatio did not answer. ”Horatio, what is it?”

Horatio swallowed, ducking his head. He remembered Archie’s stammering confession about Simpson in prison, and the smaller one in France years ago. I panicked. Archie had been ashamed, but he had spoken out of the simple need for comfort and counsel, needs stronger than pride. Horatio found he needed the same now. Archie was the only one he could trust, and Archie would see the bruises anyway and want to know why he jumped when Archie touched him. Horatio nodded to himself, making to speak.

“The Captain. He forced . . . forced me to . . .” No, that was not right. He had not done anything. But perhaps that was his folly. Perhaps he had allowed . . . . No. Had he inflicted any injury Sawyer would have called for the Marines. He had been helpless, that was the worst of it. Horatio cleared his throat. “. . . Forced himself upon . . .”

Giving up, Horatio turned around, letting Archie read the truth in his face; his friend knew him well enough. Horatio watched Archie’s palms press flat against the door and then the play of emotions over his face as understanding took hold. First his mouth fell open and then Archie clamped it shut, his expression turning outraged and fierce. His whole body bristled and he made no effort to hide it, standing there naked with his fingernails digging into the wood at his back.

Guilt swept over Horatio without preamble. He hung his head again, feeling like an adulterer or a criminal, or at the very least that he had somehow failed or disappointed Archie unforgivably. He was not supposed to hurt Archie, yet there Archie stood, riven across from him; it did not matter whether it was on his behalf or not. If only Horatio had stayed on the quarterdeck and chosen a better moment to visit the roundhouse. If only . . . .

Archie stepped forward, his thicker, shorter arms sliding around Horatio’s body, fingers clutching into the folds of Horatio’s jacket at his back. Horatio tensed, but then realized he was being comforted and did not pull away, reaching up to give Archie’s hair a perfunctory pat as he was clutched either protectively or possessively, wanting to assure Archie that there was no need to be upset.

“It could have been worse,” Horatio tried to force a cheerful tone, anything that would take that horrified look from Archie’s face. “He could have hanged me.”

Archie’s expression altered, but he did not laugh or even offer any cynical retort, only shook his head, his mouth working for a moment. “That isn’t funny,” he managed, burying his face in Horatio’s shoulder.

“I know,” Horatio murmured, his hand tightening in Archie’s hair. Archie felt warm and reassuring against him, and if Horatio leaned forward and rested his cheek against his soft hair he might break down and sob all the illness out of him. He had no time for that, and his body was too sore to be embraced like this. There was nothing to do but take Archie by the shoulders and push him away. “Thank you,” he said when they stood apart again, only a little choked. Swallowing down the welling emotion, Horatio shrugged his shoulders. “I . . . I think I needed that.”

Wetting his lips, Archie merely looked at him, his blue eyes both fierce and troubled, searching. Horatio swallowed again, remembering his own anger and concern when Archie had told him about Simpson and all the times Archie had told him not to fuss or even think about it. He understood and wanted the same now. Thankfully Archie allowed the anger to win out over the pity, and stretching up close enough to kiss him, he urgently whispered,

“We’ve got to do something. I won’t –“

Horatio put a hand up to keep Archie from saying the words aloud. His next transgression . . . . Was this it? Finding a way to take away that madman’s power? And why not, after Sawyer had so mightily abused it? Clive had failed them. Who else had they to turn to but themselves? Horatio cleared his throat, staring down into his friend’s face and trying to affect the necessary conviction.

“Well, Archie, are you prepared to do what looks to be our duty?” It could mean hanging in Kingston, or it could not if the Admiralty believed Renown’s officers had reasonable grounds. Archie had once returned to prison to uphold his honor, but Horatio did not expect him to risk his neck for the same now. Yet every man had a right to choose his destiny; with the Admiralty, they at least had a chance. But under command of that lunatic there was no hope of reaching Kingston alive.

All the conviction he needed lay there in Archie’s face. His friend met his gaze, angry and impatient to be on with it. “I’ve been prepared for a long time now,” he said.

Horatio nodded. Indeed Archie had. “It’ll have to be tonight while we’re on watch. See if you can’t get Buckland. Come up on deck and tell me what you’ve arranged.”

Pulling back, Archie nodded. But then his expression softened, his blue eyes searching Horatio’s face once more. “Are you –?“

Was he all right? He had to be if he would keep his wits about him through the night. In any case, he had to clean himself up and resume his post on deck. Horatio put a hand on his friend’s bare arm. If Archie wanted to fuss over him, it would have to wait.

“There’s no time,” he shook his head. “Get dressed.”

Nodding once more, Archie turned, slipping out of the cabin and back into the wardroom where he had left his clean clothes. Horatio let out a heavy breath when he found himself alone, sinking down onto his hammock. He had no time to dawdle, but he felt dizzy and sick, as though he could not go up there and face that madman and the reality of their circumstances. His skin still itched and he longed for a proper bath to scrub away the evidence. Horatio’s hands curled into the blankets, miserable and defiant, but he could not afford to break down now. At least he had Archie to talk with later, Archie who would understand and think no less of him.

The thought brought Horatio’s eye to the small pile upon Archie’s bed; a shirt, a book, and the rest of the clothes he had taken off to wash. Horatio took up the shirt, and after he washed he would put it on. He wanted control of his own body again, even in such a small way as whose scent lay on his skin. But small things were all he had to help him keep his head until they decided their course of action tonight.

**

Their meeting had been discovered. If Sawyer reached them before they could return to their posts they were all as good as hanged. Horatio turned to Wellard crouched with him behind the barrels. The boy was scared and wide-eyed, looking to him for help.

“Go on. Get out of here,” Horatio hissed. God willing Wellard would make it back on deck in time.

Wellard did not get far before a storeroom door creaked open at their right. Horatio’s breath caught; Archie stepped out, moving slowly toward the Captain just as Sawyer commanded. The blood left Horatio’s face. What did Archie think to do, distract the man so he and Wellard could get away? God damn him and his selfless fucking courage. The man had two loaded pistols for God’s sake.

“Don’t come any closer.” Sawyer’s voice trembled through the silence. The man was afraid, backing away from Archie and raising his weapons. Archie was unarmed and the man was afraid. Damn it. Horatio’s heart pounded and he rose from his knees. Sawyer knew they were particular friends. If nothing else, would he shoot Archie as the final blow in his scheme of provocation? Horatio could not allow that to happen. He drew a breath and began creeping forward toward his friend.

But Archie did not appear daunted by the prospect of being shot. He advanced another step, the Captain’s pistols level with his chest. “Sir . . .” His head was high, his attention fixed on something, and there was something deliberate in the way Archie moved. But it was not until Horatio moved into the light that he saw.

The hatchway at Sawyer’s back lay open. The man’s feet were at the edge. Archie had maneuvered him there. Now that Horatio could see Archie’s face clearly he knew why the Captain was afraid. Archie’s eyes blazed, steady upon Sawyer’s face, a physical force driving the man backward. Did Archie want revenge for what had happened earlier? Horatio wanted to shout at him that his honor was not worth that much.

But Sawyer was teetering and would not hold his balance for long at the edge of the hatchway. The man must have known it, cocking one of his pistols. Dear God, he would shoot Archie on the way down.

Horatio darted out, seizing the Captain’s arm to aim the pistol away from Archie. Archie gasped and reached out too, no doubt for the same reason though. In a heartbeat, Horatio realized that between the two of them they could pull the Captain back up. But they had been caught plotting mutiny and if Sawyer survived to tell of it they would hang. Archie knew it as well as he, Archie who had advised him to let Sawyer die.

The fall was shallow, but there was a chance Sawyer would break his neck, or at the very least sustain a head injury. Horatio’s earlier thought echoed through his mind again; when the rules were gone there was only survival. The Captain had already thrown honor aside earlier. Now it was either Sawyer or the two of them. Steeled by that, Horatio let go the Captain’s arm, heard the pistol shot, and watched him fall roaring into the hold.