#its me and horatio hornblower

[lost-victorian-sailor]

have you ever seen a protestant guy and be like. i can fix him. i can make him catholic.

[aye-aye-captain]

tell me you're thinking what i'm thinking

[hms-lurking-latinist]

guess who just got all the Hornblower DVDs for $6 at the library book sale

[zarvasace]

Help one of my favorite 90s A&E dramas doesn't have a published soundtrack I can only find the end title track on the composer's SoundCloud 😭

Glory in this old slideshow video with two of the songs grabbed from the show and random pictures of random characters:

[silverfoxstole]

I have no idea what to title this gifset so I’ll just leave it here.

[chiropteracupola]

once again I have been utterly captivated (to the point of illustration!) by one of @sanguinarysanguinity's hornblower fics!

bush's face was really cute in the sketch so you get to see that as well

[isaacathom]

if you were wondering how the specific fixation situation is going, i am finally drawing my oc in the navy uniform and committing to the curly haired naielle agenda at the same time

[bbcphile]

3, 13, 17, and 29?

Thanks for the ask, @deathdefyinglifeleaps!

3. What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written?

Hmm. I think it's "What's Sealed Away" (MLC). I was really proud of how I fleshed out what the show gave us about how a-Fei's amnesia works with aspects of my own lived experiences of having amnesia and tried to answer some questions that the show (possibly unintentionally) raised with some character decisions that happen later in that arc. I'm really pleased with the emotional range it covered and I really love the voice I used for it. There are some more lyrical passages from it that I sometimes go back and reread if I need reminders that I do in fact know how to write, no matter what my brain tells me. :D

13. How much planning do you do before writing?

Hah. 😅 Ummmmm. *nervous laughter * A lot. So much. So, whenever I write for a new fandom, I make a document where I write particularly characteristic lines of dialogue (and translate some of the lines myself if I feel like the translation is obscuring something), make note of what sorts of things they ask as questions vs state as assertions, how they express different types of emotions verbally, physically, etc. Basically, trying to capture a full model of them so that when I plot things and write dialogue, I can reference what they've done in the show and then make sure what I'm doing is in keeping with the show, or if it's different, then make sure that the differences are justified by something else that's happened in my fic.

When it comes to actually writing fic itself, I first do a really detailed outline that will have some chunks of dialogue as a part of it, but will mainly focus on the main scenes/beats that are the meat of the story: for a shorter fic, it's basically a very sloppy first draft and it includes emotional beats, choreography/blocking, internal monologue, etc. If it's a multi-chaptered fic, then I do an outline for the whole thing, then a detailed outline like I described above for each chapter. I'll also usually do a character outline to look at the growth or emotional trajectory I want to cover to make sure the pacing makes sense and that the things in my plot outline are showcasing the character-specific themes I'm invested in. Once I have my outlines, I'll do a fleshed out version of what I wrote there, and it usually takes 3-4 drafts before it's something I'm happy with (sometimes they are VERY different from each other and from the original draft and have involved TONS of rewriting.)

17. What’s something you’ve learned about while doing research for a fic?

I researched the Drury Lane theater for a Hornblower fic; specifically, when its renovations happened, what the renovations included, what shows were done in which year, what concessions would be served, etc., so I could write a fic where Archie drags Horatio to see his first Shakespeare play. :D

Oh, and I spent SO MANY HOURS with Google Street maps to research Greenwich for Harboured and Encompassed; I especially spent ages watching videos and images of the Emerites Air Line (now the IFS Cloud Cable Car) for That One Scene. I was a little embarrassed to discover when I actually got to go on it several years later that they couldn't have escaped it the way I wrote it, but oh well! AU where the support pillars double as emergency exits! :D

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic.

I feel like most of my followers wouldn't be very interested in the scene I was contemplating sharing from the sequel to Harboured and Encompassed, so I guess I'll bend the rules a little and share an alternate version of an argument in a chapter that will be included in my long MLC fic (although it goes in a different direction so it doesn't include these lines):

Di Feisheng’s hands shook so hard Dao rattled in its scabbard. “This whole time, you thought I would kill you for a rematch?” Xiangyi scratched a spot near the bridge of his nose. “Not . . . the whole time,” he countered. “Just . . . some of it.” “Li Xiangyi!” he shouted, just barely keeping his voice steady. “I told you multiple times I wanted you to live!” “When you didn’t have your memories!” Xiangyi yelled. “That doesn’t count!” If Xiangyi didn’t believe he wanted him to live while he had amnesia, and he wouldn’t have changed his mind during the time he was pretending to work for Shan Gudao, then that meant– Oh. Oh gods, no. He swallowed until he was sure he could open his mouth without being sick all over the bed, took a long, slow breath that caught and snagged on every rib, and forced himself to look him in the eye. “Li Xiangyi,” he said, his voice shaking as hard as his hands, “When we drank wedding wine and fucked in the newly wed suite, tell me you didn’t still think I planned to kill you!”

[raisinchallah]

you know i think they keep saying the captains starlog thing as part of the general light shifting of star trek names for stuff to make it seem more prequel like phase pistols not phasers tactical alert not red alert (plus joke about reed alert whatever) and suchlike but its driving me insane because captains log is not a star trek name that needs explaining people were keeping captains logs in the 1700s its short for logbook and is part of the nautical naval and horatio hornblower influence on star trek lol

[blue-eyed-cutiepatootie]

Get To Know Me tag game

@ineffable-snowman thanks for the tag!

1. 3 ships: to all of my followers im obviously a destiel blog, but other than that- aziracrow, buddie, and steddie

2. First ever ship: Horatio Hornblower and Archie Kennedy

3. Last song: something from tick tick boom on my showtunes playlist

4. Last movie: um. So it was twilight. I had never seen it and my best friend made me watch it with her.

5. Currently reading: so many wips!!! Not currently reading a published book. Married At Fist Sight just updated and this fic is killing me slowly i love it (aziracrow)

6. Currently watching: a TL Yarn Crafts video 💜

7. Currently consuming: quiche and coffee

8. Currently craving: a weekend with no obligations

No pressure tags:

@deancasdeancas hello! welcome!

@bloody-castiel @thembo-cowboy @not-here-to-nowhere @castieldelamancha @penelopemiles @stunudo @bloodydeanwinchester @angelcasendgame @transfangbenny (im going to finally get to your benny drawing this weekend- its been haunting me!!!)

[hoochieblues]

@aria-i-adagio tagged me for this a while ago (tysm!) and it has been languishing in my drafts. So… woe and behold?

three ships: ooh. My Dragon Age brainrot could fill all three, but let's go mage!Handers, plus Hannigram as this was the year of that glorious rabbithole, and… I'm inclined to say the Dracula polycule (Harker also starts with H, you know) given that Tumblr Book Club is still in full swing and putting me in my gothic feels.

first ever ship: Good question. Small me had multiple Feels upon reading LOTR for the first time, which I now understand as Hobbit Polycule and Tall Boyfriends, with a side order of Gosh, WWI-era Masculine Ideals Were Quite Homoerotic Weren't They? Honorable mention for - and it may be niche but I'm sure there are like three other people who remember it - Horatio/Archie (old timey ITV Hornblower adaptation anyone?). I haven't thought about that in years but ask me a question and you will get some sort of answer. Apparently.

last song: uh… Lay All Your Love On Me by Pale Honey, according to the shuffle gods. I can only assume an ABBA cover is mandatory at some point in the career of every Swedish band. Probably the law.

last movie: When this post entered my drafts folder it was Visiting Hours (1982) which I had low expectations for but actually liked and would recommend as a movie containing a pretty neat critique of its genre (a self-identified 'feminist' slasher). If I was going to make those video essays I keep saying I'd like to, I'd write an hour's script making cross-references to Network (1976) and Maniac (1980) for those reasons. If someone provided me with enough vodka tonics and Twizzlers, maybe I'd even do a side-by-side takedown with the famously also 'feminist' Slumber Party Massacre II, though goodness knows we'd all regret it. Anyway, since then the most recent is El Conde (2023), which should probably also merit a hypothetical video essay. Not necessarily for the same reasons, but oh my it's worth seeing if you want to get hit in the face with a 2x4 of darkly comic political commentary.

currently reading: I am only just slowly climbing out of short deadline hell and cannot concentrate on my TBR pile but - when I get back to it - it's time to reread Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes. 'tis the season, and I'm looking forward to it.

currently watching: Deutsche Oper am Rhein - Tchaikovsky's The Maid of Orleans, which I'm liking as a production even though musically or plotwise I wouldn't say it's a fave. Then again, tf do I know about music. Also: foster dogs wrestling. One is trying to choke the other out (affectionately). I'm commentating in the style of Jim Ross: 'as god is my witness she's broken in haaaaaalf!' etc. etc.

currently eating/drinking: Grumpy Mule coffee, a brand name I am currently relating to on a spiritual level. It's not bad.

currently craving: crispy tofu with a jalapeno peach dipping sauce. Peanut noodles. Mushroom tortellini. Apparently I haven't eaten yet. Also, the excuse to make some overly involved ridiculous patisserie thing like Paris-Brest because a) I haven't made or eaten overly froofy desserts in ages, and b) I wanna get stupid with it and make earl grey/cardamom infused namelaka for proof of concept reasons. I've been thinking about this idea for a week now. Send help.

I am really late with this so, if you would like to consider yourself tagged please do so. There's not a one of you I wouldn't like to know better <3

[acrossthewavesoftime]

Numbers 2 and 19 for the book-ask please. :-)

But of course, my dear! :-)

2. top 5 books of all time?

That's another tough one! I decided to interpret "top 5 books of all time" as the five fiction-reads (seven, actually, since I was not sure if the two plays count) that impacted me most, at different stages of my life:

Kabale und Liebe by Friedrich Schiller- how I learned that I enjoy 18th century literature and theatre.

Richard III by William Shakespeare- to this day my favourite play.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë- the first literary classic novel I recall having read in English.

Horatio Hornblower and Aubrey-Maturin series by C. S. Forester and Patrick O'Brien respectively- sometimes, one just needs to go to sea, debauch a sloth, and/or debate your personal honour.

The Flight of the Heron and the William of Orange triologies by D. K. Broster and Marjorie Bowen respectively- both reads that were recommended to me on this site, and that touched me profoundly for taking surprising approaches to their protagonists and themes that are rarely found in historical fiction today.

19. most disliked popular books?

I don't think I have touched anything that qualifies as 'popular' in ages. What I defnitively don't get behind is the soulless dystopia that is booktok with its ever-recurring storylines by the same three authors. It lacks originality, and hurts authors who would have original tales to tell and don't find a publisher.

[groundcontrol21]

Shore Leave (M, Hornblower, 3/3)

Read part 1 and part 2 here.

The day passed in relative peace. Horatio was an easy patient, likely stemming in no small part from the fact he didn’t feel well enough to do anything but sleep. He awoke periodically, just long enough to have a sip of water or relieve himself, before dozing off again. Archie placed the compress on Horatio's brow every so often, still concerned at the sheer heat which radiated from his friend’s skin. When he did this, Horatio murmured his thanks. Archie would then ask if he could get anything else to ease Horatio’s obvious discomfort, but the answer was always no. Feeling slightly guilty but not much of a nursemaid himself, Archie accepted the refusals and went back to his chair to read and keep a vigil. 

When night fell, Archie slid into bed next to Horatio. The latter immediately moved to the edge of the bed, as far away from Archie as physically possible, and flipped to face away.

“Horatio, don’t worry,” Archie whispered. “Come closer. You can’t be comfortable on the edge like that.”

Horatio sniffed but did not move. Once his breathing had faded into soft, congested snores, Archie gingerly sat up in bed. All the time he’d spent that day watching over his friend had given him time to consider the reason there was something endearing about Horatio being ill. And in the soft night light dancing across Horatio’s pallid cheeks, the reason was evident. He was more open, vulnerable even, than he’d ever be when he was well. Archie exhaled, easing himself back into a prone position and wishing that Horatio would come to his senses and make full use of his share of the bed. And yet somehow, Archie got the sense that there would be more nonsense to come before this illness had run its course.

****** Archie sighed heavily. “I can’t urge you to reconsider?”

Horatio, trying to conserve what little voice he still possessed, pursed his lips and shook his head.

“Horatio, the captain won’t think less of you if you say you’re ill. It happens to everyone. If what he has to say is that important, he’ll send another messenger.”

Horatio shook his head again. Rationally, he knew what Archie said was true, but his fear of displaying weakness in front of the very man who should never see him as such reigned supreme. He would meet Captain Pellew in his quarters as the messenger that morning had requested, discuss what needed to be discussed, and then come back to the inn for all his coughing and sneezing. Since they were at port, the meeting couldn’t possibly be very long, and Horatio simply needed to perform his duty and be off. The captain wouldn’t be any the wiser. As far as he should know, Horatio Hornblower never took ill.

This time it was Archie’s turn to shake his head. He pressed a palm to Horatio’s forehead, which Horatio quickly shook off. “At least your fever’s gone down a bit since yesterday. Just don’t make yourself too much worse.”

Horatio rolled his eyes. “You should go out a bit too. You have better ways to spend your leave than breathing in my sorry air.” Though his voice was scarcely a whisper, Horatio paid the price for his words, doubling over and twisting away from Archie to cough breathlessly into a handkerchief. Once he was finished, he flushed and looked at Archie through watery eyes.

Archie smiled. “I can’t think of any.” He nudged his friend’s shoulder. “Go on then, if you must. Best not keep the captain waiting.”

******

“Captain Pellew, sir,” Horatio rasped upon entering the man’s quarters. Pellew spun in his seat, his head cocked, regarding Horatio with an expression of shock and something else the lieutenant couldn’t quite place but didn’t care for. He coughed a few times behind his handkerchief, trying his best to suppress them but not quite succeeding. He winced at the sound. “Forgive me.”

Pellow cleared his throat perfunctorily, that look of shock still knit across his brow. “Under the weather, Mister Hornblower?”

Horatio swallowed heavily, wishing he could sink through the floor. His cheeks felt hot, and he was sure at this moment that it didn’t have to do with his fever. “A slight cough, sir. Nothing, really.” Of course, he couldn’t help but cough a few more times, his throat voicing its displeasure. Already he was cursing himself for choosing to come, for being so foolish as to think he could hide his rather noticeable ailment from the captain’s keen eyes.

“Yes, slight,” Pellew said, imbuing the words with trace amounts of sarcasm, which Horatio detected straightaway. The captain rose and went to his decanter of rum. He poured his lieutenant a healthy glass. “This’ll help keep it at bay.”

Horatio had half a mind to respectfully refuse, but his nose tickled and he had no breath to spare. “Heh’NGT! Hih’INGXT!” He had barely had time to pinch the bridge of his nose to stifle; horrified, he retrieved his handkerchief and mopped himself up quickly. “My apologies, sir.” He gulped down a sip of rum to save face. “Thank you.”

Pellew’s eyes held a twinkle for a brief moment, before it was gone and he launched into the details of why he had requested Horatio’s presence on board. Horatio caught a few words about gun repairs and drills and new seamen, but in truth he found it uncommonly difficult to follow what the captain was saying. Every so often he would snap to and bite the inside of his cheek in the hopes of keeping himself alert, but then he would slip off again and come to, only to find himself hopelessly adrift once more.

After what felt like hours, Pellew paused, his back to Horatio as he peered out one of the ship’s windows. “And what say you to that, Mister Hornblower?”

Horatio’s stomach clenched. He had absolutely no idea what Pellew was asking his opinion on, and he couldn’t even discern enough from the captain’s voice or body language to gauge whether he wanted a positive or negative response. Horatio was debating the merits of choosing one or the other, when a sneeze burst from him without warning.

“Hih’ETCHHH!” Horatio felt a mess spill onto his upper lip, and he slapped his handkerchief to his face. “I’b dreadfully sorry sir, but I--” his voice broke and gave way to a cough. “I don’t know what you just asked me.”

Horatio’s gaze immediately fell to the floor, unable to raise his eyes to see the fury that was undoubtedly fleshing out across his captain’s face. He felt his shoulders quake at the thought, and he tried to square his back to keep them still, but exhausted as he was he couldn’t manage it. Now in addition to his whole host of other symptoms, he was sick to his stomach, and it was all he could do not to lose control and embarrass himself all over the captain’s floor the way he had done in the midshipman’s berth years ago.

“Mister Hornblower,” Pellew said, his voice low and even. “You are dismissed.”

“Sir, it was a temporary lapse of--”

“Lapse be damned,” Pellew said, and the twinkle returned. “It would be an smear on my skills of perception if I didn’t notice when one of my officers was ill.” Horatio squirmed, sure his cheeks were the color of the Royal Marine’s jackets by then. “Finish that glass if you’d like, and then you are to find yourself a warm bed and, by God, stay in it.”

“Sir, I--”

“Do I have to make that an order?”

“No, sir.” Horatio hung his head and drank the rest of the rum guiltily, unable to look at any more than the floor.

“You are a strange man indeed, Mister Hornblower.”

Horatio choked on his drink. “Sir?”

“I’ve given you a chance to rest, and yet you look as though I’ve sentenced you to be flogged ‘round the fleet. Most men would jump at the opportunity to lay about.”

Horatio tried to think up a response, but his body determined one for him. “Ihh’TSHHH’uhh!”

“Go on. Take yourself off to bed. Hard luck to be caught ill on shore leave, eh?”

Horatio cleared his throat awkwardly. “Indeed, sir.”

“Rest well, Mister Hornblower,” Pellew said, his usual gruff manner returning as he turned to look out the windows once more. “The Indefatigable will require all hands in fighting condition when we leave port.”

Horatio returned to the inn and all but collapsed into bed, out of shame or bodily exhaustion or perhaps a bit of both. But whatever the motivation that put him there, the fact was that Horatio did rest and, much to his chagrin, Archie kept him company all the while. So when the time did come for the Indy to shove away from land, Horatio felt well again and satisfied that all hands were indeed in fighting condition as the captain had hoped. That was, until he was jolted awake in the middle of the night by a loud sneeze from the direction of Mister Kennedy’s hammock.

[oftincturedwords]

No Quiet Find sounds super cool!

I'm picturing the crew to stumbled upon a nest of sirens and Bush ends up with a siren baby by accident. But I also can see Bush with a water dragon baby to take care of

I bet the actual story is even better!

Ask Me About My WIPs !

thank you !! & agdkflgl aaah i love that idea so much , the very thought of bush becoming a guardian to a siren baby or water dragon baby is too adorable

especially since i can envision it being entirely by accident & reluctantly so , like the babe is only calm & happy when around or with bush thus bush is given charge of them. bush silently frets but does become endeared to them , it's unavoidable agdkflg xD

alas sadly my wip isn't about that :( although i very much love that idea , mine is rather less lighthearted , at least in the beginning that is. it more so along the vein of angst / hurt / comfort :||| bUT if you must know a spoiler , a tiny one that is ;P it does get better , for all characters involved , i cannot write angst without the happy ending. it just doesn't for my muse , it's too sad ahdkfgl

now for the actual idea instead of my cryptic ramblings agdkflg ; it's set during hornblower and the hotspur , more specifically during the end of chapter sixteen. it could be said to be set during the series' three episode two : duty , but it would be even more so an au than it already is but eh the series played with the timelines so why shouldn't i ? ahdkflflg xD however it does follow more so book canon than the series , i do have matthews & styles in it because i do love what the series did with those characters , their development & the dynamics they have with horatio & bush , & with each other. it's personable & fun !

.... again i tangent away from the aCTUAL idea ahdkflg sorry , i think i am nervous ?? about sharing this because i don't know if it's even a good idea & i worry over getting the details right , but aaaah sorry i will get on with it agdjfkf i am just being anxious & weird about it & i don't mean to be , so here goes the idea : horatio reacts harshly to something bush says , although horatio does regret how he reacted & the words said , duty gets in the way of him making any attempts at amends because , i as the writer , has a storm begin to come in soon thereafter & thus duty to the ship outweighs any personal matters

except fate is never kind to those who leave things for fixing later because bush goes overboard during the storm :||| & that's all i will say on it agskdlflg no jk , you know i would never do harm to bush ... or much harm that is xD just a little tiny bit of harm to him & lots of angst for horatio agdkflf at least in this there's more than his fair share :|| but as you know it all is better in the end ^^ i cannot have angst without the happy ending , i just cannot write it , it's an impossible feat for me agdkflf

anyway , enough of my ramblings , here's an excerpt :

'... It was hours later, when the sea had ran dry of its tumultuous ire, when the waves had ceased their violent churning and the relentless sheets of rain had tapered off to a mere drizzle of drops and unsettled seaspray, that Hornblower found himself in his cabin without recalling his descent from the deck above. Dressed still in his sea drenched uniform, his hat hung limply between his fingers from where his hands rested between his knees. Shoulders drooped and back slumped to the point of strain against the tight, military fashioning of his still buttoned navy coat. Yet heedless was he of it.

Soaked to the bone as he was, his brown curls lay plastered to his head to run rivulets of water down his face and neck. It too dripped off the ends of his cloak, tracing wet lines along the curves of his hands down to the points on his bicorne hat in intermittent plips to create small puddles beneath him. Their size marked the time elapsed since he’d come to his cabin to sit before the table, unmoved and unable to draw his gaze from where it had remained riveted upon the polished wood of the deck. Even a precursory knock at his door nor click of the door latch ere Doughty entered didn’t rouse an acknowledgement from Hornblower.

“Some hot tea, sir.” Came Doughty’s diffident voice, the muted clatter of a tray being set down and a pouring of liquid followed.

A clink of dishware, a spoon being indelicately stirred in a cup to be more precise upon the nature of the sound, came next. It indicated that Doughty had taken the liberty to add sugar to steaming cup… that, or rum, but the part of Honrblower’s brain recognising all this, knew his steward would never presume so much. Especially with the Captain’s misliking of the mind numbing effects of alcohol.

The sound itself had been odd, known was Doughty’s proclivities for decorum and pedantic nature that hearing such a noticeable clink of spoon on teacup had to be his steward’s way of trying to draw his Captain’s attention. Subtle yet distinct enough for Doughty to know it’d work.

For Hornblower had raised his head then, his features equally as sodden as his uniform yet less expressive in the turmoil that’d transpired hardly two hours prior. Rumpled and doused they were, from standing so long on a storm raged deck, whereas his face, albeit pale, held fast to the rigid mask he had set.

He was not to know his brown gaze now held, granted unconscious leave by the privacy of his quarters and with it being only his steward present, a hollowness that usually took root in those bereft. The natural melancholy cast to his countenance was held in a stark highlight by the low, flickering candlelight and the thinly veiled sorrow reflected in those brown eyes of his.

“Won’t you have some, sir?” Doughty set the teacup and saucer off the tray onto the desk in front of Hornblower, taking another liberty it seemed, but not so near enough to appear officious.

“Thank you, Doughty.” It was with a mechanical stiffness that Hornblower accepted the proffering, straightening his posture and reaching out with a pale hand to grasp the delicate teacup to drink from it.

Merely the action and appearance of wellness that was so precariously crafted and adhered to, especially under any scrutiny, and he could feel his steward’s gaze watching him, even as Doughty attempted to busy himself with collecting the tray and its contents to rightness. It wasn’t a task that could occupy him long, too soon it seemed for the obsequious steward, who straightened when finished... '

:) such happiness right ?? xD agdkflflg & there's a bit more to it , that's the main gist.

thank you for sending this in asking after this wip of mine ! <33 i loved being able to talk of this wip , i adore it so & truly need to work on finishing it. i have only to fill the gaps between a few scenes & then edit it & it'll be finished. just trying to get my muse to write those bits has been a hassle.

[fandomsmeantheworldtome]

me watching Hornblower series for the plot

The plot

[silverfoxstole]

I’d intended to write something completely different this afternoon, but the Hornblower/Night at the Museum AU has apparently taken over my brain and I ended up with nearly 3500 words of that instead.

Thank you so much to @lacnunga for coming up with this wonderful idea in the first place, and to @amalthea9 for the fantastic additions I’ve used as well. I will just point out that I’ve never actually seen any of the NATM films, though I am of course vaguely aware of the set up. This is me riffing on the concept.

The gallery seemed subdued when Styles started his patrol.

It was strange; unlike most nights there was little apparent activity in the display cases, and it wasn’t until he’d made two rounds of the room that he realised there had been no small voice barking at him and demanding to know why he had turned up thirty seconds late for his shift again, chastising him for his terrible time-keeping. Frowning, he passed his torch over the Hotspur’s home only to find that the diorama was curiously low on figures; the ship was drastically undermanned, though he could see Matthews chivvying some of the hands that were milling about on deck. Prowse was there, too, waddling back and forth, but there was no sign of Bush or Hornblower and the whole model had an air of despondency that Styles had never seen before, as though something momentous had happened in his absence. When Matthews caught sight of him the bos’n just shook his grey head before Styles could ask and pointed towards another case, one that Styles had never really paid much attention to before because it didn’t really contain much of any interest.

It still didn’t, though this time not because its miniature landscape was devoid of ships and therefore much in the way of excitement. Styles shone a light into the case and blinked in astonishment: in place of village buildings that usually clustered around the mouth of a serpentine river, tiny people bustling back and forth on the quay, there was what could only be described as devastation. If he hadn’t known better he would have said that some kind of fire or explosion had taken place; the houses and offices had been flattened, what remained burnt-out husks of wood and paper, and the mirrored water was cracked, its surface peeling away and curling at the corners. Here and there a battered figure lay, though most of them had apparently already been removed. Belatedly Styles realised that the case itself was taped off, and a hastily-printed sign stuck to the glass that declared it was awaiting redisplay.

For a moment he thought of returning to Hotspur and asking Matthews what had happened, but then he spotted movement in Lady Barbara’s frame, illuminated by a spot lamp above, and heard a very distinct hiss from that direction; as he approached he could see that she was waving to him, and looking quite distressed, which was most unusual when she normally radiated an aura of serenity no matter what chaos erupted around her. When he got close his torch beam revealed the small figure sitting on the edge of the frame: Hornblower was hunched over, hat on his knees, and even in the horrible white light from the LED bulb Styles could see the strain on his face; he didn’t appear to be paying Lady Barbara much attention, an odd development when he only normally climbed all the way up there to moon over her.

“What’s going on?” Styles asked. “Where’s Mr Bush? He’s never been fighting those Frenchies in that wrecked case; looks like there’s been a right old battle.”

“It was only meant to be a quick sortie,” Hornblower said, though the words didn’t appear to be addressed to Styles; he was staring at his hat, apparently unaware of Styles’s presence, and Lady Barbara sighed.

“Something of a disaster has happened,” she explained sadly. “Mr Bush is - ”

“He’s dead.” Hornblower’s voice as he cut her off was flat. “I sent him. Sent him to his death.”

“No, you didn’t, Horatio,” Lady Barbara told him, glancing helplessly at Styles. “He wanted to go; you couldn’t have stopped him.”

“I should have refused permission. I’m his senior officer; I should have said no.”

Styles wasn’t sure what happened to models that were classed as dead; whatever had occurred some considerable damage had been afflicted, but there hadn’t been many obvious casualties, no remains, just the lack of hands aboard Hotspur. “Are you absolutely sure he’s dead?”

“Yes,” Hornblower replied, just as Lady Barbara answered in the negative.

“We don’t know that,” she said firmly.

“He hasn’t come back; he must be.” With an effort Hornblower sat up, squaring his shoulders. His face closed as though a shutter had come down on it and he set his hat back on his head. “I’ll have to inform the admiral, though he must have heard by now.”

“D’you want some help gettin’ there, sir?” Styles put out a hand with the intention of letting Hornblower step onto it but as usual the little captain just straightened, clasping his hands behind his back, and fixed him with a hard stare.

“No, thank you,” he said. “I need no assistance; I can manage perfectly well.”

“He can’t,” Lady Barbara remarked as she watched him slide awkwardly off the frame. “He’ll go to pieces without William to keep an eye on him, fret himself to ribbons.”

“Did you see what happened to the crew, ma’am?” Styles asked hopefully, but she shook her head.

“There were too many people about when they found the mess; Sawyer was down here, hopping mad. I didn’t dare move. “

“But you saw the explosion?” Though Styles couldn’t be sure that was what had caused the devastation in case thirty-three, it certainly looked as though some such accident had occurred.

Lady Barbara’s painted eyes met his. “I saw the fire,” she replied.

~

With no more information forthcoming Styles decided to use his rounds to make a few enquiries.

The figureheads at the other end of the hall could usually be relied upon to know the comings and goings of the museum, day or night, but on this occasion it seemed they’d taken their collective eyes off the ball. Even Hammond and Foster, the most vocal of the bunch, denied all knowledge of any action between the British and French contingents last night, though when Styles was about to leave Foster told him that if Hammond hadn’t been snoring he would have seen what happened as thirty-three was directly in his line of sight, a charge immediately refuted by the carved Irishman in the strongest terms. Inevitably the bickering soon escalated into a full-blown argument that had the rest of the heads calling for quiet, a request that of course was ignored and Styles slipped away, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour. He could still hear them as he made his way along to the uniform displays, throwing increasingly creative insults at each other.

He had half-thought that Cotard might have played one of his habitual pranks on Bush and stuffed him into a pocket or stuck a glass over him but incredibly the mannequin appeared to be genuinely insulted by such a suggestion, running off into a tide of incomprehensible French accompanied by some vociferous arm-waving when Styles dared to broach the subject. Orrock stepped in and explained gravely that they’d heard what had happened, adding in a low voice that Cotard had been quite despondent at the thought that his little adversary might be gone for good.

By the time he’d patrolled the rest of the building and returned to the first floor, unable to find any trace of Bush whatsoever, Styles was feeling much the same way. He’d even checked the rubbish bin where he’d discovered the broken remains of Kennedy, but it was empty, no sign of even a single battered deck hand or Imperial soldier.

He was still wondering whether he’d somehow missed something when morning rolled around and his shift came to an end; it was only when he was getting ready to go home that his eye was caught by the door leading to the offices occupied by the curatorial staff, and in particular the sign that pointed towards the display department. He’d sneaked into the model shop to pilfer a few bits and bobs with which to put Archie back together, and then it had been full of half-built dioramas and pieces that were no longer in use; if damaged miniatures were going to end up anywhere, it would have to be there. Deciding that breakfast and sleep could wait, Styles pushed through the door and headed down the corridor.

Annoyingly Wallis, the one in charge of fixing broken displays and building new ones, had a habit of starting early and was already there when Styles stuck his head in; Styles had been hoping to have a poke about without interference, something that was going to be impossible with glue, wood and paint spread all over the place and instructions not to touch shouted as soon as he went near anything.

Wallis glanced at him over his John Lennon specs for a second before returning to whatever it was he was intent on, paintbrush in hand. “Shouldn’t you be heading home, mate? It’s gone half past eight.”

“I’m on my way.  Saw the mess in thirty-three,” Styles added before it could be pointed out that the exit was in the opposite direction. “Have you got the survivors?”

For a moment the other man looked puzzled but then the question seemed to register and he nodded towards a plastic crate on the table. “In there. It’s a bit of a mess; not sure how much I’ll be able to fix.”

“D’you know what happened?” Styles sidled slowly towards the box, stopping to peer at a newly-rigged model of HMS Pickle on the way. “Looked like a fire, but that’s not possible, is it?”

“You’d think so, but sadly it’s true. Derek was covering for you last night and he thought he’d have a crafty fag.” Wallis’s lips pursed in annoyance. “Dropped the bloody thing, didn’t he? Right when the lid was off the case, too; Tim removed it so I could put these guys back this morning.” He gestured to the couple of French sailors and a rowboat that he’d been putting the finishing touches to. “Before he managed to put it out half the scenery was wrecked, and the rest copped it when the sprinklers kicked in. It’s going to take forever to put right; might have to start from scratch.”

Styles stared. “Bloody hell.”

“Quite. Of course, he’s out on his ear; Sawyer went barmy when he saw what’d happened. Practically turned purple; I really thought he was going to explode this time.”

Styles knew he wouldn’t have liked to be on the receiving end of that. James Sawyer in a temper was truly a sight to behold, especially if he’d forgotten to take his medication. “Have you...”  - he glanced around the room, trying to sound casual - “...have you seen a little lieutenant anywhere? About three inches high, dark hair, blue eyes? He’s usually with the Hotspur but I couldn’t find him anywhere last night.”

Wallis frowned. “Not to my knowledge, but you’re welcome to take a look. Though why he’d be in with that lot if he’s part of Hotspur’s crew I’ve no idea; the models don’t just get up and move around.”

That’s what you think, Styles retorted inwardly. Given permission now, he lifted the lid off the crate; inside was a jumble of twisted miniature figures, some melted, some snapped in half, almost all with their paint chipped and flaking. Trying to be gentle, he sifted carefully through, wondering if any of them could be properly repaired; most were missing limbs, even heads in some cases, and it was hard to tell which were meant to be French and which British.

“Why such an interest?” Wallis enquired, sounding amused as he watched Styles’s attempts to handle the remains without damaging them any further. “Are all these nights on your own starting to get to you, mate? You’re making friends with the displays?”

Styles muttered something appropriately filthy and the other man just chuckled, turning back to his work. Frustratingly, it seemed that the contents of the box was just what was left of the French peasants and possibly a couple of sailors, and eventually Styles had to admit defeat. Just as he was about to replace the lid, however, he spotted a splash of navy blue right at the bottom and his heart ridiculously skipped a beat. Wincing inwardly as he shifted a couple of dismembered townspeople out of the way, he slid a hand underneath the tiny figure and lifted it out. It appeared to have taken a considerable battering, as half the paint on the face had gone and the left leg was broken away below the knee, but what remained was recognisable: Bush’s face looked pained and in this light the one eye that was visible seemed to be closed, but it was definitely him and Styles nearly trembled with relief.

Without preamble he turned and presented what remained of Bush to Wallis. “Can you fix him?” he asked.

The conservator blinked in surprise, but he took Bush from Styles; Styles tried not to wince again when he was less than gentle. “He’s from one of the older scenes,” Wallis said, putting Bush down on the table and pulling over a magnifying glass on a stand to take a closer look. “Don’t think I’ve seen him before; must have been made well before my time.”

Styles huffed impatiently as the broken lieutenant was examined in minute detail. “Can you fix him?” he asked again.

Wallis sat back. “Possibly.” He jerked a thumb towards the bookshelves behind him. “There should be schematics and plans somewhere in amongst that lot. Might take me a while to find ‘em, though, and I’ve got a load of other work on. Thirty-three’s going to be a bugger to put right.”

“How about overtime?”

Wallis laughed. “I don’t get paid for that, mate.”

Styles had a sudden vision of the broken Bush being thrown into a box and shoved on a shelf to be forgotten until the next clear-out of the model store, when someone was likely to decide he was past saving, just like Kennedy. “What if I said I’d pay you?”

“What? Why the hell would you do that?” Wallis demanded in astonishment.

With a shrug that he hoped was appropriately nonchalant, Styles just replied, “Don’t want to see him chucked away, that’s all. The ship doesn’t look right without him.”

For a long moment Wallis stared at him as though he thought he’d run completely mad, but then he looked back at the little figure on the table and a gleam came into his eye. “OK,” he said. “Leave it with me. No promises, though.”

Styles grinned. “Brilliant.”

~

The next few weeks were filled with the usual kind of madness Styles had come to expect of his magical charges, but though he relished rugby-tackling Cotard to the floor when the mannequin made his next break for freedom in the direction of the Channel Tunnel he didn’t really derive the satisfaction he’d experienced in the past without Bush to congratulate him, no doubt smirking at Cotard’s voluble disgust as he was led back to his case for the umpteenth time.

He hadn’t dared sneak back to the model shop in case he discovered the worst: that Wallis wasn’t able to fix the lieutenant as he had hoped. Though he checked the bins periodically and found nothing that didn’t mean that Bush wasn’t already languishing somewhere on a top shelf along with all the other bits and pieces of miniatures that Wallis couldn’t be bothered to dispose of just yet. No more action had taken place in the gallery; both sides appeared to have agreed upon a ceasefire for now, given what had happened to the inhabitants of case thirty-three, and for that Styles was grateful. He had quite enough to do without ducking tiny cannonballs and having to rescue sailors that had become entangled in their own rigging.

It was a Friday evening and he had just come on shift (actually a minute early for once) when he finally saw Wallis again. The conservator was waiting for him in the Napoleonic gallery with a small box and a big smile. “Surprise!” he announced, adding when Styles just looked baffled, “Finished him this afternoon. Thought you might like to do the honours and return him to his ship.”

“You were really able to put him back together?” Styles asked as he took the box, making sure he wasn’t going to drop it.

Wallis shrugged. “Well, he’s so old I couldn’t find any appropriate replacement material so I had to give him a wooden leg, but I daresay he’ll cope. Not unusual for sailors, is it?”

Styles almost didn’t like to lift the lid, but when he did there was Bush, looking as good as new if not better, the eyes that glared up at him an even brighter blue than before thanks to their fresh coat of paint. It was hardly possible to see that he’d been damaged at all, but for the slightly different shape of that substitute leg. “Blimey,” he said, relieved and glad to see his tiny nemesis again. “You’ve done a great job.”

“Well, it turned into a bit of a side project; I’ve never looked through all that old stuff before. It was fascinating; found design drawings for him, so I was able to replicate the face pretty much as it was.” Wallis dug into his pocket and produced a ring of keys. “Want to put him back where he belongs? His shipmates are probably missing him.”

Reflecting that there was many a true word spoken in jest, Styles nodded, and Wallis unlocked Hotspur’s case. As the door swung open from the corner of his eye Styles saw Hornblower glance up in surprise, turning away from the quarterdeck rail, but when he looked properly all was still: the captain stood by the wheel, head high and hands behind his back, while Prowse consulted with the helmsman and in the waist below Matthews supervised the hands at work. With deliberate care Styles grasped Bush between finger and thumb and lifted him from the box, leaning into the case and setting him down on the deck beside Hornblower, who naturally didn’t react. He tried not to smile at the sight of them both there together once more as he stepped back and let Wallis secure the door; it was still a complete mystery to him how they managed to get out of a locked display cabinet but somehow they did, along with all the others who so enlivened his working hours.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Wallis said, checking his watch. “I think I’m the last one; d’you want to lock up after me?”

When Styles returned to the gallery it was nearly ten minutes later and he wasn’t even remotely surprised to see that things had changed aboard Hotspur in his absence. As he approached Hornblower and Bush came to the rail to meet him, the captain doing his best to look stern and in control despite the smile that was apparently trying to break onto his face and Bush now with a slight limp thanks to his mismatched legs that thankfully didn’t seem to be hindering him too much.

“Well done, Styles,” Hornblower said after some considerable awkward throat-clearing, nodding in approval. “Thank you, for your efforts and for bringing Mr Bush back to us.”

Amazingly, Styles found himself blushing at the compliment; such things weren’t exactly a regular occurrence. “Weren’t nothing, sir.”

“Nevertheless, I’m grateful to you.” Hornblower exchanged a glance with his first lieutenant. “We both are. Aren’t we, William?”

“Indeed we are, sir,” Bush agreed. He looked up at Styles and his eyebrow lifted a fraction. “Late on duty again, eh?”

“Actually, sir - ” Styles began, but then he realised that newly-repaired face was smiling at him, ever so slightly.

“Carry on, Mr Styles,” Bush said, touching his hat in salute, and Styles just laughed, knuckling his forehead in reply.

“Aye aye, sir!”