I worried for Hornblower during Renown’s return voyage to England. Ordinarily, I would think little on the officers I no longer served with – the Navy saw comrades parting company all the time, and it was best not to become attached – but the presence of Lt. Buckland left me unable to push Kingston from my mind.

Long hours of recovery certainly provided ample time for thought. I would hear my fellow lieutenant’s snores through the bulkhead, his cabin next to mine, and wonder how Buckland managed to sleep at night. My thoughts would wander back to the events of the trial, and I would wonder how Hornblower slept at night. Not long passed before I realized that I was not sleeping soundly either.

Damn Kennedy, impertinent to the last, manipulating the hour of his death so that we could never forget him.

Hornblower had locked himself away after Kennedy’s passing. I had the suspicion he was avoiding us all, and out of respect for his grief made no effort to find him. To be perfectly honest, I feared he hated me for not stopping his friend – not that I believe there was anything I could have done.

Renown set sail on the 29th of January, and that journey stretched uneventfully, though during the voyage I decided I would seek out Hornblower once I had leave. Kennedy had asked nothing of me before his death – we were not close, scarcely friends after all – but looking after his friend seemed the least I could do for the man by whose sacrifice I have to thank for my life.

We made Portsmouth on the 30th of March, and found her buzzing with conversation. The Peace of Amiens had been signed, which meant half-pay for me, and after some inquiries I learned that it meant Hornblower’s promotion had been recalled, leaving him on half-pay as well and worse, obliged to return the wages given him as a Commander. My first thought when I heard the news was that, after the loss of his ship, the ambitious Hornblower must believe Kennedy’s sacrifice to be in vain.

In any case, I learned from Admiral Pellew that Hornblower had left the city, and had gone to stay at the London estate of one Earl of Edrington. That struck me as odd, as Hornblower never seemed the type to accept charity, and I noted that the Admiral was less than pleased with the arrangement.

I had a cousin in London, who had been prompting me to visit for months now. Since my transfer to Renown I had not found the time, of course, but now I found that the journey inland would serve two purposes.

While on the road I wondered if this Earl were Kennedy’s father, he had spoken of a family estate in London, after all -- Kennedy had spoken of many things in passing, the theatre, the actors he knew, and I began to see that I knew more of Kennedy than I realized. Hornblower proved more a mystery, but I knew enough to suspect he would be audacious enough to go to Kennedy’s family and present the grim news personally.

After passing a day with my cousin, I wasted no time in calling on Hornblower. He invited me to see him straightaway, a sharp contrast from the grieving man who had seemed to want nothing more than to hide from the world. I found this encouraging, and then found myself in a manor house ushered up too many stairs and into a private parlor adorned with more finery than my kind had ever set eyes on.

I grew nervous when, after a few moments, footsteps echoed in the hall, and then became puzzled when I heard Hornblower protesting in a hushed voice very unlike the commanding tone he used with the men, and servants as well, I imagine. I would have immediately dismissed him as mad, were it not for the answering laughter that perhaps I should have recognized at once. The door opened, and a man pushed his way in front of Hornblower, extending his hand to me.

“Mr. Bush,” a familiar voice greeted me, cracked and high with emotion. “Mr. Bush . . .” This gentleman’s grip was surprisingly strong as he stared up at me, determined not to let go.

After he released my hand, I realized I had been a fool, dismissing him on account of his civilian garb and therefore not bothering to look at his face to determine if I knew him and if there was cause for him to react to my presence so emotionally. I studied him now and, I think, stood frozen inside with disbelief. But who else would dare push their way before Hornblower through a door?

“Archie . . .” the concern in Hornblower’s eyes told me I was not dreaming. And if I were dreaming, I would see a healthy, broad-shouldered officer in uniform, with long blond hair spilling down his neck from under his hat. The man before me was certainly not healthy, but thinner and paler, as if he had not seen the sun for weeks, his pigtail was gone and a faint shadow of stubble framed his face as if he had not yet made up his mind whether to grow a beard.

Kennedy noticed my incredulity, and twitched his lips in that smirk that had once sent my blood boiling with irritation. “The virtue of surprise, Mr. Bush,” he tossed back the old barb with far less insolence this time.

Hornblower moved to intercede, offering me his hand briefly before he took Kennedy by the shoulders. “Mr. Bush, I fear he’s unwell, sir. Archie sit down.”

“I can see that.” I half expected to be reprimanded for the dry remark in typical Hornblower fashion. The man did not take well to any perceived doubt or disrespect where his friend was concerned. I meant no such thing, but could think of nothing else to say given that my mind had gone numb trying to comprehend how Kennedy’s presence was even possible.

“Good of you to come, Mr. Bush,” Kennedy smiled up at me with what for the first time I took for genuine affection, settling in a chair while Hornblower hovered over his shoulder. “I’ve had precious few visitors from the real world of late, you see?”

There was something so quietly discontent in Kennedy’s tone that I glanced up at Hornblower in alarm. My former shipmate would not meet my eyes; his gaze strayed to the floor, his features tight with some emotion he would not reveal to me. That he was clearly uncomfortable in my presence did not really unnerve me; I had already guessed that it was Kennedy who had invited me here.

After another moment, Hornblower cleared his throat. “Mr. Bush, would you care for brandy?”

“It is bitter cold,” Kennedy chimed in, and though I hardly noticed the weather I was at least astute enough to take the man’s hint that he wanted me to stay.

**

Months ago, I would never have imagined a civil conversation between Kennedy and I – not because I ever really disliked him, but because, save where Wellard was concerned, his infuriating flippancy and sarcasm made it difficult to discuss anything seriously – but I think it safe to say he was not himself tonight. He recounted for me what he remembered of leaving Kingston, of how Commodore Pellew had clandestinely rewarded his confession with the service of a good doctor under a trustworthy captain who agreed to sail him home. He had gone to his actor friends – people he had helped in the past – and had crossed paths with the Earl at Drury Lane one night. All this, while Pellew never breathed a word to Hornblower, no doubt given the slim chance that Kennedy had actually survived.

Hornblower appeared distressed by the tale, and retired to bed within an hour. I made to leave as well but again Kennedy urged me to stay. He seemed to want to talk and yet for the past several moments he had been silent, draining yet another glass of the Earl’s brandy. I had never known Kennedy as a man to drink to access, and considering his fragile health I regretted that Hornblower was not here to stop him.

“Are you all right, Mr. Kennedy?” I broke the silence to ask. His eyes were half closed and he slumped in his chair, his jacket thrown over the arm, leaving him in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves.

He blinked, and then set his glass down on the small table beside him. “Fine, thank you, Mr. Bush.”

Lowering my own glass – I’d only had two – I learned forward to study him. Strange, that in my thoughts of him over the past weeks I remembered only our times aboard ship, and had seemed to forget the fevered man who had shared the infirmary with me. I remembered him now; Kennedy had borne his wound, and the knowledge that it was likely mortal, with unbelievable grace, which is why I could not understand, now that the danger had passed, why he suddenly appeared so worse for wear. Then again it was natural that weeks of illness would eventually take their toll on any man, even one with the iron constitution of Lt. Kennedy.

“Do you need a doctor?” I pressed after another pause. “You look pale.”

His eyes snapped open, and he shook his head more forcefully than necessary. “No, Mr. Bush, please . . . I’m weary of doctors and laudanum and the like. Another drop and I’ll go as mad as . . .” Kennedy stopped himself, raking his fingers through his blond hair. “Forgive me.”

I was pleased that the habitually irreverent lieutenant had enough respect not to slander Sawyer in death, but our late Captain – who owed the preservation of his good name to Kennedy’s sacrifice – was hardly my concern now. “I understand you’re need for caution in seeking help, but I owe my life to you. If there’s anything I can do to –”

That sent Kennedy back to the brandy. He poured another glass and emptied it in one swallow, his eyes wild and sharp above it as he looked at me, making clear that I had struck a nerve.

“Does anyone do anything for me out of sincerity anymore?” he challenged in that haughty, fettered tone he had often used with me aboard ship. “Or have I become an eternal obligation?”

His bluntness surprised me, and I’m ashamed to say I was peeved at his apparent ingratitude. Over the past weeks I had thought of nothing more than how I was beholden to him, and here he had spurned my pitiful offer of assistance in return like a spoiled child on the verge of a tantrum. I knew he was certainly no child, merely a product of the aristocracy, and so I calmly took another sip of my liquor.

“Mr. Kennedy . . .” You’re drunk, I meant to tell him, but somehow, given all he had been through, I lost the heart to fault him for his indecorum.

Nonetheless, he rolled his eyes at the ceiling and then shook his head in a gesture of general annoyance. “Archie – if you please,” his tone softened, bringing me to understand that his outburst had not been directed at me, and once again I rebuked myself for letting this imagined tension between us get the better of me.

“Archie,” I tried again, more patiently, “if you would prefer to get some sleep . . .”

I anticipated another outburst, for Kennedy to rave that he was not a child and would not be ordered off to bed as one, but once again I had let my initial impression of him cloud my judgment into underestimating him. He leaned back in his chair, opening the buttons of his shirt as if he were alone – warm from the brandy – and then let his hand drop, his attention fixed on the empty glass he held in the other.

“No, no,” he sighed after a moment. “I’m . . . I’m glad you’ve come, Mr. Bush –“

The tremor in his voice worried me, and so I interrupted him with barely a thought. “William,” I insisted, leaning forward a little more in my chair, eager for him to drop his cavalier shield and allow me to help him. I had often felt similar urges toward him during the time we served together; Hornblower was a guarded man merely out of regard for the unattached propriety necessary to run a ship, but Kennedy . . . . I imagined him as a man damnably hard to get through to.

“William,” he paused over my name, and then frowned. “If I seem distracted it is only because this curious predicament of mine leaves me with much on my mind.”

“It’s a miracle you’re alive,” I tried to sound hopeful. He looked so damned troubled I wanted to shake him. What worldly care could possibly weigh so heavy after he had escaped death so narrowly? No doubt he was relieved to be free of the Navy, and I doubted he was in much danger of being discovered by the Admiralty, considering that few knew his face or would think to look for him. But I spoke to soothe him anyway. “Mr. Hornblower and the Earl will help you through the difficulties, I’m sure.”

Kennedy’s laugh was bitter and despairing. “Oh they all mean to help me, Mr. Bush,” he reached to pour more brandy, but at least had the sense to sip slowly this time. “My own father believes my confession to be the work of Pellew and Clive taking advantage of my fever, and he would have their necks for it if he could.” He stopped and stared at me with unbearable gravity. “How can I let him malign the men to whom I am indebted for my life?”

I narrowed my eyes, suddenly wondering if Kennedy’s father’s suspicion had any truth to it, given that Kennedy had not mentioned his family in hospital. No sane man would cast away his good name and tarnish that of his family as well. “I can see the difficulty, but a man of your birth should understand that family honor must be satisfied.” A poor choice of words when, as a loyal officer, I hardly wished to see so well reputed a leader as Pellew felled by a vengeful nobleman.

“I hardly think it that,” Kennedy dismissed my remark with his usual airiness, “but he knows too well the deeds for which I have been denied recognition.”

And rightly so. If the man had any sense he would be proud of his son, if not furious on his behalf that Kennedy spoke of these deeds as if they were nothing. “Is he such an unreasonable man that he can’t hear some version of the truth?”

Kennedy bit his lip and lowered his head to keep from laughing. Then he sobered – another poor choice of words considering how much he had drunk – and shook his head at me. “I love my father . . .” the words came so awkwardly I wondered if he had ever admitted this before in his life, “but we have not always seen eye to eye.”

“To be expected.” Relations within noble families were said to be distant, teeming with rivalry between siblings and littered with fear where parents were concerned. Given how nonchalantly Kennedy had disregarded my authority aboard Renown, I doubted his father had ever taught him fear. If he had, I was certain Kennedy would not bother to tell the man he was even alive at all. “I take it he and Edrington are friends?” I thought it prudent to change the subject.

His expression tightened. “You might say that. My older brother saved him in battle once – in Egypt last year – though poor Robert never made it home. Perhaps His Lordship has aided me to repay that debt.” A playful lift of his eyebrows told me he did not actually believe this, but he licked the brandy from his lips and went on. “In any case, he is invariably on the side of my father in that I should be married and settled into whatever proper life they can arrange for me. And as for my sister, she insists Horatio has bewitched me. I believe dear Fiona would not flinch to see him hang.”

“So much for a woman’s tender heart,” I muttered dryly, beginning to see why he needed the brandy.

We shared a rueful smile that only men with sisters can appreciate, and suddenly things seemed a little easier between us. “Well, there is Mother,” he protested after a moment. ”She is glad to simply let me be alive at least, but unfortunately my father considers her to be too sentimental, and it is Fiona who holds sway in this matter.”

First Captain Hammond, and now a pair of aristocrats ready to rake Hornblower across the coals. The man had a talent for making enemies. “Well, I hope Hornblower will accept the Earl’s protection at least.”

“Oh, no,” Kennedy’s features fell under a mix of emotions I did not know him well enough to read. He must have guessed this, because he went on. “Horatio resents him now – my doing, of course. You see, Mr. Bush – William, “ he corrected himself, giving me a rueful quirk of lips by way of apology, “far easier for everyone had I not survived at all.”

Again, I battled the urge to shake him, to remind him of the risks taken by all those who had helped him, who were helping him now, but his earlier remarks told me he was painfully aware of them. Yet it was more than his lack of appreciation for his life that troubled me. He was honestly despondent, a man trapped by circumstance and perhaps too far under the influence of the brandy to realize what he implied. I supposed it was not my place to wonder whether Hornblower knew of these dangerous thoughts his friend entertained, and instead I tried to offer Kennedy what encouragement I could.

“I admit I was taken by your fortitude aboard Renown.” I told him gently. “You shine in adversity, Mr. – Archie.”

It was true, the disaster in the hold had left Hornblower on edge, but Kennedy had not batted an eye no matter how many times the words “court martial” had been tossed around. At first I had mistaken his behavior for callous incomprehension, but it took only one look in his eyes while Sawyer raved at Hornblower to see the spark of ruthlessness in him, detached enough from conventional notions of honor to do what must be done. And I suppose there is a part of me that wonders if he did not go to that courtroom to martyr himself, but to confess the truth. It hardly mattered; I could never ask..

Yet the events aboard Renown seemed far from his mind. He eyes rested on my uniform jacket and then moved down to my hat on the table. “I am a ghost, Mr. Bush.” He spoke the words with more emotion than I was comfortable dealing with. “Undead, invisible to all I used to know . . . It’s more than I can bear.”

I wanted to tell him that the brandy had gone to his head, that so long as Hornblower, the Earl and his family knew the truth what did it matter? But reluctantly I considered his situation a second time. Locked away, no doubt given a new name, not free to speak of the terrible circumstances that had befallen him, fearing one day his luck would run out and the Admiralty would finally demand the hanging he had conveniently escaped. Or perhaps hearing those who could not be so well trusted as the privileged few who knew the truth condemn his actions or grieve for him while he remained unable to defend his choice or give them consolation. He was bound to a life of endless deceit, and – as I try to be compassionate – I wondered how a man could manage the hardship of simply not being allowed to be himself.

And he had never thought of any of this back in the infirmary; he had been bent on being so bloody self-sacrificing. Damn him, but I was staring at a man who had walked unaided with a pistol ball in his liver to give the false testimony that would save us all, after he had made the hard-hearted deduction that the walk would see him bleed to death long before Hammond could get a noose around his neck. After all that, he could not fall apart on us now.

“Your courage in going to court. . .” I began softly, though there was little else I could say.

‘Yes, yes, I know.” He spared me the trouble, brushing me off as though tired of hearing this. “I tell you, William, there is no courage on the brink of death, only a few short moments to make peace before you must answer for all you’ve done.” Yes, he had said as much when I had tried to protest with him in the hospital, but he did not seem to recall. After another sip of his drink he softened his voice and sank further into the chair. “Then, William, you wake up, and those you love make war on each other.”

He was so innately dramatic that I could only shake my head at him. “Mr. Hornblower would defer to your wishes, I’m sure.” Hornblower had huddled us all in Renown’s hold because Kennedy could not stand to see Wellard beaten, after all.

“One must be gallant in his presence, William.” Kennedy deflected, reverting to his airy cynicism. “One melancholy word and he’ll storm off to the gallows believing himself the cause of all my pain.”

“Isn’t he?” I muttered wryly, but I could see that Kennedy did not appreciate my humor. In any case, Hornblower’s monstrous guilt was a difficult demon for any man to keep at bay, let alone one in Kennedy’s condition. I wondered what use Hornblower was to him if Kennedy could not share his troubles without fear of him doing something rash, but then again Kennedy’s fierce determination to protect Hornblower from himself was what had begun this mess in the first place. I no longer wanted to consider it, and tried for a more reasonable topic. “Pellew can do no more for you? A new identity and you could have a place aboard ship. The peace won’t hold.”

Mention of the Navy only produced a confused, uncomfortable look from him. “The Commodore has given me my reward and is done with me,” he returned without any palpable emotion, and then added. “I’ve no right to complain.”

Spoken from a man so hotly opinionated, this sudden fairness toward a superior startled me. I knew he was not being honest with me, that Pellew’s disregard for him cut deep, but I let it pass with a short, “I can imagine it’s hard to think kindly of him,” and then asked the question I suspected neither Hornblower nor his father had yet. “What do you want, Mr. Kennedy?”

He rolled his head against the back of the chair, his silence painting his dilemma more clearly than all his words had. I meant to press on, but before I could the heavy door creaked open, admitting a tall, lean figure into the room.

“Mr. Hornblower,” I nodded in acknowledgement, and at the same time Archie straightened in his chair, making an effort to compose himself. I recalled Kennedy’s remark about gallantry and found myself aware of his efforts to smooth the traces of despondency from his demeanor.

A smile played about his mouth now as he angled his head to let his eyes meet his friend’s. “Horatio,” he intoned with clear affection and the same perpetual amusement with which he had always regarded his awkward companion even in the midst of battle. A strange way for one man to treat another, but I am not one who presumes to judge.

Hornblower did no more than return my nod and shoot his friend a sidelong glance before he cleared his throat. “Your pardon, gentlemen, I could not sleep.”

“Brandy, Horatio?” Kennedy lifted his unfinished glass, his hand unsteady as he offered it to Hornblower, splashing a few drops onto his lap before catching himself.

I could not help but shake my head, though I was humored to see the normally graceful lieutenant make such a blunder. “Well, Mr. Hornblower, it appears Mr. Kennedy has let the brandy get the better of him.”

A flash of dark eyes told me Hornblower was not amused. “Indeed,” he muttered and then tilted his head to scrutinize Kennedy more thoroughly, as though checking for blood. After finding nothing outwardly wrong with his friend, he huffed and turned back to me. “Mr. Bush, need I remind you of –“

“I’m quite all right, Horatio,” Kennedy intercepted in as patient a tone as I had heard from him yet. “No need to . . .” He pushed himself up from the chair, leaving off words in an effort to put all his concentration into keeping his balance. Hornblower caught his arm when he stumbled, scowling at the bashful grin Kennedy flashed in my direction.

“Damn you, Mr. Bush, if you’ve encouraged this senseless endangerment of . . .”

I opened my mouth in my own defense, but Kennedy disengaged himself from Hornblower before I could get a word out, turning to me with the cool formality I knew him to retreat to when he could barely restrain all his wild emotion. I was strangely grateful to see his fury directed at Hornblower and not at me this time.

“Good night, William,” he pronounced a little too cordially. “Come again, certainly.” And with that he stepped carefully into the hall without Hornblower’s assistance, his rigid determination not to stumble in our view all too reminiscent of that damned journey to the courtroom in Kingston.

Hornblower and I stared at one another after Kennedy had gone. I could see he was upset, and worried, and from Kennedy’s words I understood he had every right to be, whether he knew it or not. He glanced once toward the hall at his back, indicating that he wanted to run after his friend, and though I knew I dared not suggest Hornblower think less of his own fears and more of his friend’s woes, I thought perhaps I could at least secure Kennedy a few hours of peace.

“I suggest you let him be for the night. He needs sleep.”

It seemed harmless – a natural enough statement to make about a drunken man – but Hornblower appeared particularly irked. His eyes sharpened and his forehead creased as he pressed his lips together, regarding me with a stone countenance betraying the indignation beneath. I had already gathered Kennedy’s troubles went deeper than what he had imparted to me, but by Hornblower’s face I drew the conclusion that matters between them were not as sound as they seemed.

“Yes. Thank you,” he replied quite curtly, though less angrily. I understood the quiet hint that I had overstepped my place – all Kennedy’s influence, no doubt – and rose, taking up my hat.

“I suppose I ought to take my leave, then.” I held out my hand to him, and he took it, nodding to me though obviously preoccupied, but he stepped aside and allowed me to pass through the door.

As the servant led me out I wondered if I would take up Kennedy’s invitation to call again. I doubted I would remain in London long, but perhaps we would arrange to write, under whatever name he went by now. After all, offering myself as a confidant seemed the least I could do, not on account of what he had given, but because I could only pity the man who bore Horatio Hornblower’s love.