Departure by Clonesgirl
Warning: Angst
Part I - The VigilThe wet grass crunched beneath his boots as the man strode purposefully toward the cliff. The path was seldom used and considerably overgrown. It had rained during the night and, from the looks of the leaden, overcast sky, it would again very soon. The man was of medium height, slim and muscular, though not with the slenderness of youth for youth had passed him by. Beneath his hat, his face was weathered and sun-tanned; the face of a man who had spent many years before the mast. Clearly a man of the sea, although not in uniform, he had the dignified bearing of a man of some considerable authority. His clothing, including a heavy dark grey wool cloak and soft, black leather boots bore the hallmark of a man of means.
In no time he reached the bare cliff top. Exposed to the weather and northerly gales, there were no trees here and only grass, lichens and moss grew in the crevices of the rocks. Drawing closer to the edge, he found a good vantage point with an excellent view of the harbour beneath him. Perching himself on a heavy boulder, its surface worn smooth by the harshness of the climate, he sighed; the sound melancholy as it was carried away by the stiff breeze.
There were many ships in Plymouth harbour that day, however, he had eyes for only one - a third-rater boasting seventy-four guns. The man took out his glass and trained it on her. On this day, she was by far the largest ship in the harbour and her name was 'Renown'. Currently, as though anxious to be off, she was tugging at her twin anchor chains as she rode a choppy swell and a turning tide.
To the trained seaman's eye, it was more than apparent that she was ready up anchor, for she rode like a ship that was full. Also, there was much activity to be seen on her decks with men scurrying about their tasks.
So intent was the man on observing the activities on board the ship that he did not notice the small boat pull out from the dock until it was almost alongside her. However, much to his frustration, at that moment the rain began, only light, but enough to obscure his vision of the ship. He could barely make out two figures as they clambered aboard. Apparently, they were late arrivals for their dunnage was also retrieved before the small boat departed.
As he continued to observe 'Renown', the rain grew heavier and he could barely make out the figures of the men swarming up the rigging. She would be departing very soon now - and the solitary figure observing her from the nearby cliff wondered if the ache in his heart would ever leave him.
Taking the glass, he placed it carefully on the wet ground. Hanging his head, he was overcome by grief. He had known this day was coming; had known it for the last six years and vowed not to think of it. Those times when it had briefly skittered across his thoughts, he had prayed to stave off the inevitable a little longer, hoping against hope that the fates would be kind. However, circumstances had proved otherwise, as he had always known they eventually would, and now he had to live with the consequences.
Oh, he had always told himself that somehow he would endure. Never thought about how, just that he would somehow get through it; that he would somehow survive the absence of his dear ones just as he had survived the death of his wife. A tough man, he yet found his eyes stinging and savagely wiped away the moisture there before once more lifting the glass.
Peering through the glass, he saw that 'Renown' was now setting sail. He could imagine her captain and her officers giving orders - he knew precisely what those orders would be. Her sails unfurled and luffing, she swung slowly on her starboard anchor, her bow now pointed to the sea. The rain eased off and it was at that point that, to his horror, the watching man saw one of the men fall from the rigging straight to the deck - a very bad fall, he noted. He watched closely, waiting for a boat to be lowered so the injured man could be rowed ashore. However, whatever the nature of his injuries, he was taken below, presumably to the sick bay, and the decks were cleared of onlookers.
A very bad omen, the watcher reflected. Others would have said that the voyage was cursed for it was apparent that her captain would let nothing and no one delay the ship's departure. What manner of man would fail to transport to shore an injured man when he could so easily do so? he wondered. It would cost him at most perhaps another twenty to thirty minutes and he would still be able to catch the tide. So why? he wondered. He did not know her captain and now wished that he did.
His heart breaking, the watcher observed the billowing gusts of wind now driving down the harbour. The men on the capstan would be working furiously to raise her bower anchor and, as it rose out of the water, the great ship began to move, manoeuvring slowly and gracefully down the harbour, until she was in clear water and heading out toward open sea on an ebbing tide. The watcher felt as though his heart was going with her.
As he continued to observe, he saw the remaining sails being set, and, with the wind at her stern quarters, 'Renown' sailed on, taking with it the two people who meant most to him in the whole world. He knew bitter disappointment that, even at the last, he had been deprived of a view of them by the foul weather.
For a long time he watched as the wind grew colder and the rain heavier. The rain had soaked through his heavy clothing, but still he sat there. When 'Renown's' masts disappeared into the grey gloom, still he sat there. Vaguely, he realised that he had not even worn gloves and his hands were like ice.
He thought of going back to the house; a house far too big for one man; a house built for a large family. He did not really call it home, for home was 'Indefatigable'. How empty the house would be now without the presence of his dear ones; without their youthful exuberance, their laughter and their love. Most of all, their love, he reflected sadly. The memories of nights the three of them had spent there over the years were bittersweet. Especially vivid were the memories of the last two weeks; the wonderful, lustful nights; the illicit afternoons; and the delicious, sleepy mornings when he would wake in a wonderful tangle of arms and legs. God, how marvellous! And how quickly the three of them always adjusted to it, no matter how long they had been at sea. How splendid it was to share his bed with two such sweet and delightful lovers. Truly, he had been blessed with good fortune to have had the love of such fine young men.
Now, he found that he did not want to go back to the house; a house now empty of their presence, their warmth; but there was nowhere else to go. The Indy was undergoing repairs and refitting.
For the first time he realised that he had been gazing at the harbour and had not even spared her a passing glance. He looked now. She was safe, hauled onto her side for careening. No respite there, he ruminated. Briefly, he wondered if drowning his sorrows would do any good, but he did not want company and the thought of one of the town's many inns repulsed him.
A six-week refit they had told him. He was not needed for a whole six weeks, and he had rejoiced at the news; they all had; but then they took his officers from him; his best officers and most experienced crew after only two short weeks. Emptiness filled him once more as the rain began to patter down again.
He remembered as though it were yesterday how the three of them had become lovers; how he had blatantly gone about seducing the beautiful Horatio, only to find that the lad already loved him and had even been having illicit dreams of him. And then there had been Archie Kennedy... Dear Archie! Until his dying day he would remember that night; how he had been anticipating a visit from his wonderful Horatio, but when the expected knock on his door came, it had instead been Mr Kennedy. He remembered the dismay he had felt when he saw that it was not Horatio.
"Mr Kennedy?"
"Captain, s-sir, I have a message from Mr Hornblower."
Kennedy seemed unaccountably flustered.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Sir, Mr Hornblower s-sends his compliments and regrets that a slight d-distemper has confined him to his bunk. I am his substitute."
Those astonishing words, engraved on his memory, had led to him having the two most wonderful and beautiful lovers he could ever have imagined. And they had been his for the last six years. Six incredible years of clandestine meetings and desperate discretion aboard ship; long, sensual and languid hours spent together when on leave. Dear God, now that he looked back on it, he wondered how in hell he had survived it!
Given only two day's notice, all three had been stunned by the unexpected and distressing news that their time together was ended, perhaps for good. Their happiness shattered, all had sunk into a state of severe melancholia, barely able to comprehend their imminent separation. Their leave, which all three had been looking forward to so much, now cut arbitrarily and brutally short, their farewells had been most painful.
Their new orders, so impersonal in their wording, so calamitous in their consequences, had necessitated that he become the Captain once more, not the lover. When they had said their farewells only two days ago he had held himself straight, his head high, knowing that he had to be strong for the younger ones, though he had never felt so devastated in his life. He had once vowed that whether it lasted six weeks, six months, or six years he would be eternally grateful for whatever time they had together. Well it was now time to pay the piper; time to keep his vow.
"God, keep them safe always," he prayed aloud. "That is all I ask. Bring them back safely to me."
Against his will, the tears started again, but there was no one to see. Half blinded, he fumbled for his somewhat damp handkerchief.
"My dearest Horatio, my dearest Archie, I am grateful that at least they transferred you together. And what new adventures await you now, my dears? Would that I could be there with you to watch over you! Both of you, the best, the finest young officers I have ever known." He gave an ironic snort. "That is why they took you from me, to place you where your experience could better serve His Majesty. Would that they had taken others instead!" he exclaimed in bitter regret.
Eventually, he forced himself to rise, his joints stiff with the cold and damp. His hands were frozen as he folded the glass and placed it in his pocket. The wind had picked up considerably and was tugging his saturated cloak this way and that as he picked his way listlessly back along the cliff top. The rain, even heavier now, hit him in gusts as though trying to blow him toward the edge, though the bleakness of the weather was as nothing compared to the cold in his heart and the mourning of his soul.
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