lady_branwyn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lady_branwyn) wrote2009-03-13 09:53 pm
lady_branwyn) wrote2009-03-13 09:53 pm
Entry tags:
Hornblower Fic: Second to None (Part 4)
Characters: Bush, others
Warnings: None except fluff warning
Note: William Bush belongs to the Forester Estate; I am responsible for the rest of this.
*********************************************
Bush’s first thought was that he was dealing with a madman, and yet… And yet he could not deny that, at such a close range, the explosion should have killed him. They were fighting on the barges when some fool had panicked and fired a pistol, setting off enough powder to demolish the walls of a fort. He had played a game of hazard for years, setting his life at chance in the service of his country; the odds had always been that he would lose it in the end. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Bush managed to say at last.
“There’s a different place for that,” the surgeon replied with a wry chuckle. “You are taking this far more calmly than most new arrivals, but no doubt you are already on familiar terms with death. That is a given for men in your sanguine occupation.”
Bush had only a vague idea what this statement meant, but it did convince him that John Watson was indeed a military surgeon, for they all spoke in that strange lingo.
Offering a hand, Dr. Watson continued, “I haven’t had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, sir.”
Bush shook the surgeon’s hand. “Captain William Bush, Royal Navy.” Formerly of the Nonsuch, he thought, and it gave him an odd turn as if he had just read his own death notice in The Times.
The surgeon gave him a kindly glance. “This all must come as a shock. That is most understandable, sir. If you wish, I can show you your quarters, or perhaps you would care to join the others for some brandy?”
“The others?” Bush asked as he hauled himself to his feet.
“We are quite a large contingent. All loyal friends of great men. Patroclus, Aaron, Oliver—they all are here.”
“I’ll think I’ll take that brandy,” Bush replied.
He followed the surgeon into the common room of the inn. The lamps burned like the glare of white magnesium, and for a long moment he stood blinking in the sudden brightness.
“Fluorescent lights, they take some getting used to,” the surgeon told him.
At the nearest table, three card players were huddled over the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. One of them, a silver-haired man with spectacles, looked up at Dr. Watson and called out, “Heeeeeere’s Johnny!” His voice boomed like a 32-pounder, and every head in the room swiveled about to stare.
Across the table, a red-skinned man rolled his eyes and said, “Me think that funny the first ten thousand times you say.” He wore a fringed leather shirt and a strange headdress of long feathers.
Doctor Watson cleared his throat loudly. “Gentlemen, I have the honor of introducing Captain William Bush, late of the Royal Navy.”
The crowd raised a good-natured cheer. Bush caught a few shouts of “Huzzah!” and “God Save the Queen!”
“Captain Bush, may I present to you Mr. Edward McMahon.” The surgeon nodded toward the white-haired man and muttered under his breath “You’ll get used to him. He’s an American” as if that were all the explanation required.
McMahon grabbed onto Bush’s hand like a lamprey and shook it up and down. “Great to meet you, great to meet you. Just call me Ed.”
Dr. Watson saved him from having to reply by pointing toward the red-skinned man. “And this gentleman is Tonto.”
The red-skinned man rose from his seat and bowed low from the waist, his feathered headdress fluttering about his shoulders. “Tonto happy to meet Captain Bush.”
Astonished, Bush blurted out, “You’re one of the red Indians!” He had seen engravings of the savages who lived in the American grasslands.
“That right, Kemo Sabe,” the red man replied. “Though me prefer the term ‘Native Americans,’ ’First Peoples,’ or ‘Amerindians.’”
“I’m sure that the captain will do his best to remember,” Dr. Watson said, and then he gestured toward a slight, dark-haired man. “And this is Monsieur Passepartout, a native of France but a citizen of the world.” With cheerful grin, the Frenchman rose from his chair and held out a hand.
“A Frenchman?” What in the hell were the Frogs doing in Heaven? Bush drew back a step and his hand fell to his hip, reaching for the missing cutlass. Dead or not, he had been a fool to venture into this place unarmed. For a man with a wooden leg, flight was hardly an option, so he seized a wine bottle from the table. Startled, the Frenchman cast about for a weapon and, seizing a long loaf of bread, brandished it like a sword.
“Easy, sir,” the surgeon said quickly. “The war against France is over for you. Here we must put aside the enmities of the past.” When Bush did not move, he added, “Passepartout is already dead. If you struck him unconscious, he would wake up with a headache, but you could not kill him if you tried. You no longer have any reason to fight.”
And to Bush, this seemed even stranger than the notion of being dead. For twenty years, the business of war had been his sole occupation. Slowly, carefully, he set the bottle down.
“Me get you glass,” Tonto said.
The End
Warnings: None except fluff warning
Note: William Bush belongs to the Forester Estate; I am responsible for the rest of this.
*********************************************
Bush’s first thought was that he was dealing with a madman, and yet… And yet he could not deny that, at such a close range, the explosion should have killed him. They were fighting on the barges when some fool had panicked and fired a pistol, setting off enough powder to demolish the walls of a fort. He had played a game of hazard for years, setting his life at chance in the service of his country; the odds had always been that he would lose it in the end. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Bush managed to say at last.
“There’s a different place for that,” the surgeon replied with a wry chuckle. “You are taking this far more calmly than most new arrivals, but no doubt you are already on familiar terms with death. That is a given for men in your sanguine occupation.”
Bush had only a vague idea what this statement meant, but it did convince him that John Watson was indeed a military surgeon, for they all spoke in that strange lingo.
Offering a hand, Dr. Watson continued, “I haven’t had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, sir.”
Bush shook the surgeon’s hand. “Captain William Bush, Royal Navy.” Formerly of the Nonsuch, he thought, and it gave him an odd turn as if he had just read his own death notice in The Times.
The surgeon gave him a kindly glance. “This all must come as a shock. That is most understandable, sir. If you wish, I can show you your quarters, or perhaps you would care to join the others for some brandy?”
“The others?” Bush asked as he hauled himself to his feet.
“We are quite a large contingent. All loyal friends of great men. Patroclus, Aaron, Oliver—they all are here.”
“I’ll think I’ll take that brandy,” Bush replied.
He followed the surgeon into the common room of the inn. The lamps burned like the glare of white magnesium, and for a long moment he stood blinking in the sudden brightness.
“Fluorescent lights, they take some getting used to,” the surgeon told him.
At the nearest table, three card players were huddled over the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. One of them, a silver-haired man with spectacles, looked up at Dr. Watson and called out, “Heeeeeere’s Johnny!” His voice boomed like a 32-pounder, and every head in the room swiveled about to stare.
Across the table, a red-skinned man rolled his eyes and said, “Me think that funny the first ten thousand times you say.” He wore a fringed leather shirt and a strange headdress of long feathers.
Doctor Watson cleared his throat loudly. “Gentlemen, I have the honor of introducing Captain William Bush, late of the Royal Navy.”
The crowd raised a good-natured cheer. Bush caught a few shouts of “Huzzah!” and “God Save the Queen!”
“Captain Bush, may I present to you Mr. Edward McMahon.” The surgeon nodded toward the white-haired man and muttered under his breath “You’ll get used to him. He’s an American” as if that were all the explanation required.
McMahon grabbed onto Bush’s hand like a lamprey and shook it up and down. “Great to meet you, great to meet you. Just call me Ed.”
Dr. Watson saved him from having to reply by pointing toward the red-skinned man. “And this gentleman is Tonto.”
The red-skinned man rose from his seat and bowed low from the waist, his feathered headdress fluttering about his shoulders. “Tonto happy to meet Captain Bush.”
Astonished, Bush blurted out, “You’re one of the red Indians!” He had seen engravings of the savages who lived in the American grasslands.
“That right, Kemo Sabe,” the red man replied. “Though me prefer the term ‘Native Americans,’ ’First Peoples,’ or ‘Amerindians.’”
“I’m sure that the captain will do his best to remember,” Dr. Watson said, and then he gestured toward a slight, dark-haired man. “And this is Monsieur Passepartout, a native of France but a citizen of the world.” With cheerful grin, the Frenchman rose from his chair and held out a hand.
“A Frenchman?” What in the hell were the Frogs doing in Heaven? Bush drew back a step and his hand fell to his hip, reaching for the missing cutlass. Dead or not, he had been a fool to venture into this place unarmed. For a man with a wooden leg, flight was hardly an option, so he seized a wine bottle from the table. Startled, the Frenchman cast about for a weapon and, seizing a long loaf of bread, brandished it like a sword.
“Easy, sir,” the surgeon said quickly. “The war against France is over for you. Here we must put aside the enmities of the past.” When Bush did not move, he added, “Passepartout is already dead. If you struck him unconscious, he would wake up with a headache, but you could not kill him if you tried. You no longer have any reason to fight.”
And to Bush, this seemed even stranger than the notion of being dead. For twenty years, the business of war had been his sole occupation. Slowly, carefully, he set the bottle down.
“Me get you glass,” Tonto said.
The End
no subject
First off, the hint at Sankey and the 'classic torso' line. Me loves you. But really the line for me was at the end. That the strangest thing for Bush is that he no longer has any reason to fight. 20 years of warfare as his sole occupation. OH BUSH. *draws big emo heart around him*
HH seemed to think that Bush would have enjoyed peace like any sensible man. Oh how that seems like a projection of HH's own thoughts on Bush. Because what would Bush have done if he had survived? Become a relic of an era that passed into history as the world snapped forward into the 19th century. Just like his beloved Temeraire.
I've always been of a mind that CSF showed his great love for Bush by killing him off so he wouldn't be left in a world that no longer had a place for him.
no subject
no subject
“There’s a different place for that,” the surgeon replied with a wry chuckle.
Well, I'm wryly chuckling over that too.
McMahon grabbed onto Bush’s hand like a lamprey and shook it up and down.
*claps hands* Excellent simile!
he seized a wine bottle from the table. Startled, the Frenchman cast about for a weapon and, seizing a long loaf of bread, brandished it like a sword.
*chortle*
“Me get you glass,” Tonto said.
You know, the movie of this that's running in my head has me laughing and laughing. You're so droll! (of course, I always knew you were.)
no subject
no subject
My Passepartout looks just like that guy (who wasn't French at all) in the 1956 movie with David Niven.
no subject
My fascination with India originated in that film and book! Though I *head desk* now at the idea of Shirley MacClaine as an Indian princess.
no subject
If Forester hadn't crippled him, Bush could have made a place for himself in the colonies or merchant marine or in a foreign navy. Many British officers served in foreign navies. I am told that I have an ancestor who was a Scottish captain who served in the navy of the Tsar--it was not that uncommon.
However, being crippled would really limit Bush's choices. I have always had some trouble believing that he would have been sent on the raid to Caudebec. If someone can find evidence to the contrary, I will stand corrected, but I don't believe that someone with a wooden leg would be able to fight with a sword--or at least not very well. The entire body is behind the sword stroke, not just the upper body. Pistols would not be as much of a problem, but even then, would he have been able to move quickly and surely on unknown terrain? So what was Hornblower thinking when he sent his best friend on that mission?
But I ramble. :D
Anyway, you do wonder what would have happened to him if he had lived to see peace.
Thanks so much for reading and commenting.
no subject