lady_branwyn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lady_branwyn) wrote2010-10-30 01:10 am
lady_branwyn) wrote2010-10-30 01:10 am
Entry tags:
Hornblower/LOTR Fic: Hic Sunt Dracones
Title: Hic Sunt Dracones
Characters: C.S. Forester, Tolkien, Hornblower, Bush, Faramir
Rating: PG (for violence)
Warning: Work in progress
Note: None of these characters belong to me. For the Help_Pakistan auction,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
msilverstar requested a LOTR/Hornblower crossover. The nautical, sailorly parts were quite a challenge, and it probably shows. :D
**************************
The ticket office was jammed with most of the foreigners left in Rotterdam. Forester knew many of them from his work as a correspondent for the Times—fellow journalists, diplomats, merchants and the idle rich. They waited in the late August heat, some chatting with studied nonchalance, others smoking one foul cigarette after another, a few sitting with their heads bowed in despair. A middle-aged man with sandy-colored hair scribbled wildly in a notebook as he waited, his lips moving silently as he wrote. A large satchel of books rested at his feet. An academic, Forester guessed. He’s probably wishing he were safe in his ivory tower.
Every few moments, the ticket clerk called out a lucky name. On the schedule blackboard, all of the ships were crossed out except for the Lothian, an aging steamer out of Portsmouth. Mechanical problems had kept her in Rotterdam, and now her captain meant to hazard a dash across the North Sea before the war began and Germany loosed its U-boats. For war was coming. There was no doubt about that. Orders had been issued for the Royal Navy to mobilize.
“Tolkien, John R. R.,” the clerk shouted, and the academic shoved the notebook into his satchel and hurried to the ticket window. Lucky bastard, Forester thought. He needed safe passage to England more than that professor. The Low Countries were probably next on the list of German acquisitions, and his dispatches about the occupation of Czechoslovakia had not endeared him to the Nazis. He needed to get on this ship, for he had seen first-hand how they dealt with their enemies.
The waiting room was half empty and Forester’s nerves were nearly shot when the clerk called “Forester, Cecil S.” He grabbed his valise and ran to join the happy few who had made the passenger list.
“I hope you can swim,” the first officer told him grimly as he boarded. “We don’t have life vests for the half of you.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Forester replied.
The crew herded the passengers below, and a steward pointed him toward his cabin. The door was open, and the sandy-haired academic stood by the porthole, peering at a book. Startled, he looked up at Forester.
“Cecil Forester. I’m a writer for the Times, until recently assigned to the Rotterdam desk.” He held out his hand.
The academic gave him a cheerful grin as he took his hand. “John Ronald Tolkien, Pembroke College, Oxford. Until recently on sabbatical in the Netherlands. You’re not C.S. Forester, the novelist?”
“The very same.”
“I’m honored to meet you, sir. You have a rare gift for language, and coming from a linguist, that’s no faint praise. Though your Hornblower is too modern a hero for my taste. He seems to be adrift, without any moral compass besides his own sense of reason.”
Forester shrugged. This was not a new criticism of his work. “So are we all.”
“Alone and adrift in the Universe? That is the modern view of the human condition, Mr. Forester, but it is not the only view.”
Forester did not reply. In his years as a war correspondent, he had seen no evidence of the existence of divine providence. The faithful and the ungodly had perished with equal ease. Though a religious man would counter that all these deaths were merely a part of God’s great plan.
They stowed their luggage and tossed a coin for the lower berth. Forester won. The engine’s low hum resonated throughout the ship, and the deck under their feet began to vibrate. The two men went above and stood with the other passengers as the ship gained weigh. The green banks of the estuary slid by with increasing speed, and the Lothian’s wake trailed behind in a gleaming ribbon. Rotterdam, mercantile, crowded, filthy Rotterdam, shone golden in the setting sun. Forester doubted he would ever see it again. The city receded and disappeared. As dusk fell, the banks of the estuary sank away, and the emptiness of the ocean filled the horizon. There was nothing more to see, so the passengers went below.
The Times would want a dispatch, though Forester felt too discouraged to write. There was no desk in the tiny cabin, so he set his battered typewriter on the lower berth and typed while sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by his notes. The professor crawled into the upper berth with his notebook and a pen. Forester struggled to hammer his notes into a newsworthy story, but his mood was restless and gloomy. This would be his final dispatch from Europe, written on a steamer fleeing from the German advance.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” the professor asked from the upper berth.
“I’ll join you. I need a break.” Forester searched for his cigarettes. “What are you working on, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Technically, it’s a novel, though it would be better described as a fairy tale for the old. Tales of wonder are wasted on little children. They have so little need for them.”
“A literary fairy tale? Like Dunsany and George MacDonald?”
“In a very general sense, yes. Though I suspect that my story and style of prose may not suit your taste.”
“I would have to be the judge of that,” Forester replied. His professional interest was roused, and the tedious dispatch could wait.
Tolkien rummaged in the satchel then handed him a sheaf of handwritten pages. This was probably the only copy in existence, so Forester took the manuscript with a care that was close to reverence.
The writing style was archaic which was not surprising for a fairy tale, but the heroes were a race of pipe-smoking midgets who drank tea and beer and inhabited burrows. What a bizarre piece of writing, Forester thought but decided to read a few pages more. He soon lost track of the time and was still reading at midnight when the steward brought a late supper.
He sat with Tolkien on the lower berth eating cold roast mutton. “I don’t understand the threat from the pirates of Umbar,” he told the professor. “Didn’t Gondor have a navy?”
“Yes, but greatly diminished from its former glory, reduced to more of a coast guard than a deep water navy.”
“Just as Gondor’s armies had been weakened over the centuries. So by the time of the War of the Ring, they lacked the ships to face the pirates at sea,” Forester said. “I like your use of the beacons. Very similar to the beacon towers that were built during the wars with Napoleon.” Then he bolted the rest of his supper and went back to reading.
Just as the men of Gondor prepared to defend the Causeway Forts, the electric lights blinked out. Forester hurried on deck, followed by the professor. The entire ship was in darkness. Most of the passengers must have been asleep or they would have noticed the sudden blackout. To the west of the Lothian, the shape of a vessel rose above the horizon.
“A heavy cruiser, but I don’t think she’s one of ours,” the first officer told them. “The superstructure looks odd. The captain would rather not attract her attention.” Lights darkened, the old steamer ploughed ahead, waves slapping against her steel hull.
“I never thought I’d live to see a second Great War,” Tolkien said quietly as they waited by the railing.
“This time around, we’re both too old to do a damned thing except watch,” Forester replied.
The warship swept past, black against the night sky, less than a mile away. Oblivious or uninterested, she did not attack the steamer. After she had vanished, Forester bowed his head and rubbed his eyes. He suddenly felt so tired. It had been an exhausting day, and the hour was long past midnight. “I’m going to turn in,” he told Professor Tolkien then stumbled down the dark companionway to the cabin. He collapsed on the lower berth, not even bothering to pull off his shoes. If the Germans torpedoed the Lothian, he doubted that it would wake him. The steady pulse of the ship’s engine soon lulled him to sleep.
*********************
From the depths of a dreamless sleep, Hornblower started awake, a hand gently shaking his shoulder. “Sorry to wake you, sir,” Bush’s voice said from the darkness, “but we’ve sighted a ship and she looks like a Spaniard.” The first lieutenant did not carry a lantern; outside the frigate’s stern windows, the sky was the grey of early dawn.
“Thank you, Mr. Bush,” Hornblower replied shortly. “I will join you on deck.” He didn’t need a light to find his clothing and sword. They were hanging on the same hooks where he had left them every night for the past three months. He knew exactly where they were, just as he knew exactly what he would eat for breakfast, lunch, and supper. The days passed in a grey blur, each one seeming no different from the next, though the Lydia had made good progress and now sailed off the coast of Brazil. After the monotony of the voyage, it would almost be a relief to sight an enemy ship.
On deck, the crew spoke in hushed voices though the unknown ship was over a mile away. The officer of the watch, Gerard, had had the sense to extinguish any lights. He handed Hornblower a telescope. “She appears to be alone, sir. She’s given no sign that she sees us.”
The ship had the high stern and antiquated sail plan of a Spanish galley. Two great black sails were rigged fore and aft, and a row of sweeps projected from her lower deck, rising and falling in a graceful arc. The open Atlantic would smash her to pieces, but her shallow draught and oars made her well-suited to rivers and sheltered coastal waters. She might have strayed from a fleet, or perhaps she’d been sent ahead as a scout. Hornblower scowled at the black ensign that fluttered at the foremast. Or perhaps she was a pirate—they had long haunted these waters.
Hornblower turned, sweeping the horizon with the telescope. The captain of the galley was heading north to the mouth of the Sao Francisco. The Portuguese Navy patrolled these waters, but Hornblower saw no sign of its ships. According to the charts, many small settlements crowded the lower river. Left unguarded, they would be easy prey for marauders.
The steward Polwheal silently appeared with a steaming cup of coffee. Used to his captain’s early morning temper, he moved with the care of a gunner working in the ship’s magazine. Hornblower took the cup and drank without thinking, his mind fixed on the strange ship. Brazil was Britain’s ally, and he had been told to aid her in any way possible as long as it did not conflict with his more specific orders regarding Nicaragua. Hornblower glanced at his first lieutenant.
“She’s no match for the Lydia, sir.” Bush’s face was expressionless, but his right hand was clenched as if holding a sword. Among both officers and men, a special hatred was reserved for Spain’s galleys. Those graceful oars were rowed by prisoners, wretches who were left chained to their benches until they died from mistreatment and exhaustion.
Hornblower snapped shut the telescope and handed it back to Lieutenant Gerard. “Close with her as the wind allows.” He wanted to avoid using the sweeps and tiring the men before a fight.
In the wake of the galley, the Lydia slowly tacked up the river. Frowning slightly, Gerard studied an old Spanish chart. Its edges were curled and tattered, and mermaids and dragons had been inked in the unexplored areas. Hic sunt dracones, Hornblower thought. Here there be dragons.
Gerard pointed to where a black line ran inland from the Atlantic coast. “According to this chart, sir, the course of the river should take us northwest, but instead we’re heading due north.”
“One heavy storm could have changed this river beyond recognition,” Hornblower said. “We’ll have to take our own soundings.”
A sailor was set to working the lead line, calling the depth to the helmsman as they slowly tacked upstream. On the western side of the river, the land was neatly divided into orderly fields and orchards. They passed several villages where racks of fish dried in the sun and fishing boats swayed at their moorings. A string of stone forts overlooked the river, but strangely, they had no artillery, not even the ancient cannon that Hornblower had seen in some Spanish fortifications.
“No wonder they have trouble with pirates,” Bush remarked, shaking his head at the vagaries of foreigners.
On the eastern shore, there was no sign of habitation except for the rotted pilings of long-abandoned piers, and tangled thickets grew down to the water’s edge. The Sao Francisco basin belonged to the Crown of Portugal. Why was one shore devoid of any settlement? The chart had shown villages along both sides. It made no sense to Hornblower. Had the Spanish invaded the eastern shore? Gerard and Bush retreated across the quarterdeck as Hornblower started to pace.
He stopped for a moment to stare at the black sails of the galley. She was only a mile away. She must have seen the Lydia and would try to escape by heading upstream, hoping to reach water too shallow for the frigate. Hornblower doubted that she would succeed. Even with the need to tack, they would soon overtake her.
The man taking the soundings called out, “There’s something ahead, sir. Looks like a fishing weir.” These were a common hazard when sailing close to the shore. Lines of sturdy poles, interwoven with sticks, were used to trap large fish and funnel them toward a holding pen. Anchored firmly to the riverbed, this type of structure could cause serious damage to a ship. Gerard ran forward to look then gave the course correction to the helmsman.
As the Lydia drew abreast of the weir, Hornblower noticed that something was caught in the poles. He realized what it was just as the lookout shouted, “Man overboard! To port!” Someone was clinging to the weir, his head just above the water.
“Bring her about,” Hornblower snapped at Gerard then ran to the stern. Bush was already in the jolly boat, shouting orders. The first lieutenant looked up in surprise as his captain swung gracelessly from the davits into the boat.
“You need someone who can speak Spanish,” Hornblower told him before he could protest. The boat swayed sickeningly as Midshipman Clay dropped from the davits, followed by three sailors. Someone tossed them a pile of blankets, and the boat lurched down to the river. They made good speed and soon reached the weir, but wary of fouling the oars on the poles, they stopped when the man was still ten feet away.
“We are going to throw you a line to tie around yourself,” Hornblower called in Spanish. The man looked up at them, his face white against the dark water, but he didn’t seem to understand. Even if he spoke Portuguese, he should have been able to follow the meaning. Hornblower tried again in Spanish, this time more slowly, but the man just shook his head weakly. “Throw him the line,” Hornblower ordered. Still clinging to the weir, the man reached out with one hand, but the rope slid through his grasp.
“He’s been in the water too long, sir; he’s lost the feeling in his hands,” Bush said. “But we’ll hit either him or those poles if we try to come any closer.”
Unbuckling his sword belt as he spoke, Hornblower replied, “Keep the boat back—I’ll bring him in.” Unlike Bush and the others, Hornblower was a strong swimmer. Most sailors never learned to swim, viewing the water with a superstitious dread.
“Be careful of the current, sir,” his first lieutenant told him with a worried scowl. “It’s likely faster than it looks.”
Hornblower pulled off his coat so it wouldn’t hinder his movements, then he slipped over the gunwale and into the water. He thought his heart would stop from the shock of the cold, but he forced himself to keep moving. A coil of rope was looped around his arm. One end was tied to the boat, and he paid out the slack as he swam toward the weir.
He knotted the line around the man then kept him afloat as the crew hauled them in. Hornblower had feared the stranger would panic and try to drown them both, but he scarcely had enough strength to keep his face above water.
Hornblower waited while the crew hoisted him into the boat. Then it was his turn, and they reached down and pulled him over the gunwale. Midshipman Clay handed him a blanket, and he gratefully drew it around his shoulders.
The stranger lay shivering in the bottom of the boat, naked except for knee-length trousers. Bush was already beside him, checking for signs of injury. “He’s from that Spanish ship, sir,” the first lieutenant said flatly. “Look at the stripes on his back. And the sores on his ankles from the leg irons.”
“Dago bastards,” one of the sailors muttered. “They just threw him over the side.”
They wrapped the man in blankets, and Midshipman Clay brought a flask of brandy, the cure for all ills in the Navy. Bush held the man propped against his shoulder while Hornblower tried to coax him to drink. “It’s wine,” Hornblower told him, speaking slowly in Spanish. “It will help restore your strength.”
“Where am I?” the stranger murmured in English. “I was drowning…so cold.”
“By God, sir, he’s British,” the first lieutenant said under his breath.
“You are on a British ship,” Hornblower replied, which was close enough to the truth. “And under the protection of the Royal Navy.”
The stranger stared up at him through half-closed eyes. “I must find the rangers…must warn Captain Faramir...”
“By God, sir, he’s one of our soldiers,” Bush said.
Hornblower glanced at the first lieutenant and saw his own horror reflected in his face. There were well-established rules regarding the treatment of prisoners of war. “We’ll get you back to your regiment,” Hornblower told the man, unsure what else to say to reassure him.
“I’ll wager he’s from the Connaught Rangers,” Bush said. Less than a year before, the 88th Regiment of Foot--also known as the Connaught Rangers--had been sent to invade Argentina. After a disastrous campaign, the entire regiment had surrendered to the Spanish. And then by some final stroke of misfortune, this ranger had ended up in a galley.
As they rowed back to the Lydia, every idler and off-watch crewman was watching from the rigging, and there was a great cheer as the jolly boat came alongside. The news spread quickly that the rescued man was a British soldier, and the cheers for the captain grew even louder. Hornblower tried to pretend that he did not notice, while Bush made no attempt to hide his grin.
The frigate resumed her course up the river, slowly closing the distance to the galley. Now Hornblower could see the small figures of the Spanish officers walking on the upper deck. A sword hilt or pistol glinted in the midday sun. She would soon be within range for round shot, though still too far away for canister or grape. The ranger had been given into the care of Acting Surgeon Laurie and carried below to the relative safety of the orlop deck, while under Bush’s watchful eye, the ship’s crew readied for battle.
Hornblower listened to the clatter as the bulkheads were taken down, and he felt as if the ship were suddenly coming alive after a long sleep. Sailors hurriedly spread sand on the gun deck and filled the buckets of water by each gun. With a solid rumble, the cannon were run out the ports. He had decided there was nothing to be gained by being coy, and there was even the slight possibility that the Spaniard would strike her colors at the sight of thirty-six guns bearing down on her. She had not been designed to withstand that sort of damage.
They were close enough now that the shouts of the overseer drifted across the water. To the steady beat of a drum, the sweeps rose and fell. Bush peered at the enemy through his telescope then gave Hornblower a puzzled frown. “They must have her guns hidden, sir. I don’t see a one, not even on the quarterdeck.”
Hornblower ordered the crew to fire a warning shot. It sailed high above the galley and fell with a great splash in front of her bow. Her officers threw themselves to the deck, but the overseer only shouted more loudly and the drum beat picked up speed. Her captain showed no intention of stopping.
“We asked politely, sir,” the first lieutenant said. “But it seems they won’t listen to reason.”
“Well, I don’t mean to ask a second time,” Hornblower said shortly. He needed to finish this quickly, before the rowers died from exhaustion. He ordered the cannon loaded with chain shot.
The broadside tore through the rigging and left the black sails trailing over the side. Abandoning their posts, men flung themselves in the water, while others ran below deck. A second broadside sheared off the top of the foremast. The drum beat was silenced, and the sweeps faltered in their arc then stopped. Through the smoke, Hornblower called in Spanish, “Surrender yourselves, and your lives will be spared.” But there was no response except for the shrieks and frantic splashing of the sailors in the water. The crewmen left on the galley stayed hidden.
Hornblower silently cursed her captain for not surrendering. The galley had little value as a prize. He would gladly have sent her to the river bottom if it weren’t for the prisoners who were trapped below deck. Now he had no choice but to board her.
To be continued....
Characters: C.S. Forester, Tolkien, Hornblower, Bush, Faramir
Rating: PG (for violence)
Warning: Work in progress
Note: None of these characters belong to me. For the Help_Pakistan auction,
msilverstar requested a LOTR/Hornblower crossover. The nautical, sailorly parts were quite a challenge, and it probably shows. :D **************************
The ticket office was jammed with most of the foreigners left in Rotterdam. Forester knew many of them from his work as a correspondent for the Times—fellow journalists, diplomats, merchants and the idle rich. They waited in the late August heat, some chatting with studied nonchalance, others smoking one foul cigarette after another, a few sitting with their heads bowed in despair. A middle-aged man with sandy-colored hair scribbled wildly in a notebook as he waited, his lips moving silently as he wrote. A large satchel of books rested at his feet. An academic, Forester guessed. He’s probably wishing he were safe in his ivory tower.
Every few moments, the ticket clerk called out a lucky name. On the schedule blackboard, all of the ships were crossed out except for the Lothian, an aging steamer out of Portsmouth. Mechanical problems had kept her in Rotterdam, and now her captain meant to hazard a dash across the North Sea before the war began and Germany loosed its U-boats. For war was coming. There was no doubt about that. Orders had been issued for the Royal Navy to mobilize.
“Tolkien, John R. R.,” the clerk shouted, and the academic shoved the notebook into his satchel and hurried to the ticket window. Lucky bastard, Forester thought. He needed safe passage to England more than that professor. The Low Countries were probably next on the list of German acquisitions, and his dispatches about the occupation of Czechoslovakia had not endeared him to the Nazis. He needed to get on this ship, for he had seen first-hand how they dealt with their enemies.
The waiting room was half empty and Forester’s nerves were nearly shot when the clerk called “Forester, Cecil S.” He grabbed his valise and ran to join the happy few who had made the passenger list.
“I hope you can swim,” the first officer told him grimly as he boarded. “We don’t have life vests for the half of you.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Forester replied.
The crew herded the passengers below, and a steward pointed him toward his cabin. The door was open, and the sandy-haired academic stood by the porthole, peering at a book. Startled, he looked up at Forester.
“Cecil Forester. I’m a writer for the Times, until recently assigned to the Rotterdam desk.” He held out his hand.
The academic gave him a cheerful grin as he took his hand. “John Ronald Tolkien, Pembroke College, Oxford. Until recently on sabbatical in the Netherlands. You’re not C.S. Forester, the novelist?”
“The very same.”
“I’m honored to meet you, sir. You have a rare gift for language, and coming from a linguist, that’s no faint praise. Though your Hornblower is too modern a hero for my taste. He seems to be adrift, without any moral compass besides his own sense of reason.”
Forester shrugged. This was not a new criticism of his work. “So are we all.”
“Alone and adrift in the Universe? That is the modern view of the human condition, Mr. Forester, but it is not the only view.”
Forester did not reply. In his years as a war correspondent, he had seen no evidence of the existence of divine providence. The faithful and the ungodly had perished with equal ease. Though a religious man would counter that all these deaths were merely a part of God’s great plan.
They stowed their luggage and tossed a coin for the lower berth. Forester won. The engine’s low hum resonated throughout the ship, and the deck under their feet began to vibrate. The two men went above and stood with the other passengers as the ship gained weigh. The green banks of the estuary slid by with increasing speed, and the Lothian’s wake trailed behind in a gleaming ribbon. Rotterdam, mercantile, crowded, filthy Rotterdam, shone golden in the setting sun. Forester doubted he would ever see it again. The city receded and disappeared. As dusk fell, the banks of the estuary sank away, and the emptiness of the ocean filled the horizon. There was nothing more to see, so the passengers went below.
The Times would want a dispatch, though Forester felt too discouraged to write. There was no desk in the tiny cabin, so he set his battered typewriter on the lower berth and typed while sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by his notes. The professor crawled into the upper berth with his notebook and a pen. Forester struggled to hammer his notes into a newsworthy story, but his mood was restless and gloomy. This would be his final dispatch from Europe, written on a steamer fleeing from the German advance.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” the professor asked from the upper berth.
“I’ll join you. I need a break.” Forester searched for his cigarettes. “What are you working on, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Technically, it’s a novel, though it would be better described as a fairy tale for the old. Tales of wonder are wasted on little children. They have so little need for them.”
“A literary fairy tale? Like Dunsany and George MacDonald?”
“In a very general sense, yes. Though I suspect that my story and style of prose may not suit your taste.”
“I would have to be the judge of that,” Forester replied. His professional interest was roused, and the tedious dispatch could wait.
Tolkien rummaged in the satchel then handed him a sheaf of handwritten pages. This was probably the only copy in existence, so Forester took the manuscript with a care that was close to reverence.
The writing style was archaic which was not surprising for a fairy tale, but the heroes were a race of pipe-smoking midgets who drank tea and beer and inhabited burrows. What a bizarre piece of writing, Forester thought but decided to read a few pages more. He soon lost track of the time and was still reading at midnight when the steward brought a late supper.
He sat with Tolkien on the lower berth eating cold roast mutton. “I don’t understand the threat from the pirates of Umbar,” he told the professor. “Didn’t Gondor have a navy?”
“Yes, but greatly diminished from its former glory, reduced to more of a coast guard than a deep water navy.”
“Just as Gondor’s armies had been weakened over the centuries. So by the time of the War of the Ring, they lacked the ships to face the pirates at sea,” Forester said. “I like your use of the beacons. Very similar to the beacon towers that were built during the wars with Napoleon.” Then he bolted the rest of his supper and went back to reading.
Just as the men of Gondor prepared to defend the Causeway Forts, the electric lights blinked out. Forester hurried on deck, followed by the professor. The entire ship was in darkness. Most of the passengers must have been asleep or they would have noticed the sudden blackout. To the west of the Lothian, the shape of a vessel rose above the horizon.
“A heavy cruiser, but I don’t think she’s one of ours,” the first officer told them. “The superstructure looks odd. The captain would rather not attract her attention.” Lights darkened, the old steamer ploughed ahead, waves slapping against her steel hull.
“I never thought I’d live to see a second Great War,” Tolkien said quietly as they waited by the railing.
“This time around, we’re both too old to do a damned thing except watch,” Forester replied.
The warship swept past, black against the night sky, less than a mile away. Oblivious or uninterested, she did not attack the steamer. After she had vanished, Forester bowed his head and rubbed his eyes. He suddenly felt so tired. It had been an exhausting day, and the hour was long past midnight. “I’m going to turn in,” he told Professor Tolkien then stumbled down the dark companionway to the cabin. He collapsed on the lower berth, not even bothering to pull off his shoes. If the Germans torpedoed the Lothian, he doubted that it would wake him. The steady pulse of the ship’s engine soon lulled him to sleep.
*********************
From the depths of a dreamless sleep, Hornblower started awake, a hand gently shaking his shoulder. “Sorry to wake you, sir,” Bush’s voice said from the darkness, “but we’ve sighted a ship and she looks like a Spaniard.” The first lieutenant did not carry a lantern; outside the frigate’s stern windows, the sky was the grey of early dawn.
“Thank you, Mr. Bush,” Hornblower replied shortly. “I will join you on deck.” He didn’t need a light to find his clothing and sword. They were hanging on the same hooks where he had left them every night for the past three months. He knew exactly where they were, just as he knew exactly what he would eat for breakfast, lunch, and supper. The days passed in a grey blur, each one seeming no different from the next, though the Lydia had made good progress and now sailed off the coast of Brazil. After the monotony of the voyage, it would almost be a relief to sight an enemy ship.
On deck, the crew spoke in hushed voices though the unknown ship was over a mile away. The officer of the watch, Gerard, had had the sense to extinguish any lights. He handed Hornblower a telescope. “She appears to be alone, sir. She’s given no sign that she sees us.”
The ship had the high stern and antiquated sail plan of a Spanish galley. Two great black sails were rigged fore and aft, and a row of sweeps projected from her lower deck, rising and falling in a graceful arc. The open Atlantic would smash her to pieces, but her shallow draught and oars made her well-suited to rivers and sheltered coastal waters. She might have strayed from a fleet, or perhaps she’d been sent ahead as a scout. Hornblower scowled at the black ensign that fluttered at the foremast. Or perhaps she was a pirate—they had long haunted these waters.
Hornblower turned, sweeping the horizon with the telescope. The captain of the galley was heading north to the mouth of the Sao Francisco. The Portuguese Navy patrolled these waters, but Hornblower saw no sign of its ships. According to the charts, many small settlements crowded the lower river. Left unguarded, they would be easy prey for marauders.
The steward Polwheal silently appeared with a steaming cup of coffee. Used to his captain’s early morning temper, he moved with the care of a gunner working in the ship’s magazine. Hornblower took the cup and drank without thinking, his mind fixed on the strange ship. Brazil was Britain’s ally, and he had been told to aid her in any way possible as long as it did not conflict with his more specific orders regarding Nicaragua. Hornblower glanced at his first lieutenant.
“She’s no match for the Lydia, sir.” Bush’s face was expressionless, but his right hand was clenched as if holding a sword. Among both officers and men, a special hatred was reserved for Spain’s galleys. Those graceful oars were rowed by prisoners, wretches who were left chained to their benches until they died from mistreatment and exhaustion.
Hornblower snapped shut the telescope and handed it back to Lieutenant Gerard. “Close with her as the wind allows.” He wanted to avoid using the sweeps and tiring the men before a fight.
In the wake of the galley, the Lydia slowly tacked up the river. Frowning slightly, Gerard studied an old Spanish chart. Its edges were curled and tattered, and mermaids and dragons had been inked in the unexplored areas. Hic sunt dracones, Hornblower thought. Here there be dragons.
Gerard pointed to where a black line ran inland from the Atlantic coast. “According to this chart, sir, the course of the river should take us northwest, but instead we’re heading due north.”
“One heavy storm could have changed this river beyond recognition,” Hornblower said. “We’ll have to take our own soundings.”
A sailor was set to working the lead line, calling the depth to the helmsman as they slowly tacked upstream. On the western side of the river, the land was neatly divided into orderly fields and orchards. They passed several villages where racks of fish dried in the sun and fishing boats swayed at their moorings. A string of stone forts overlooked the river, but strangely, they had no artillery, not even the ancient cannon that Hornblower had seen in some Spanish fortifications.
“No wonder they have trouble with pirates,” Bush remarked, shaking his head at the vagaries of foreigners.
On the eastern shore, there was no sign of habitation except for the rotted pilings of long-abandoned piers, and tangled thickets grew down to the water’s edge. The Sao Francisco basin belonged to the Crown of Portugal. Why was one shore devoid of any settlement? The chart had shown villages along both sides. It made no sense to Hornblower. Had the Spanish invaded the eastern shore? Gerard and Bush retreated across the quarterdeck as Hornblower started to pace.
He stopped for a moment to stare at the black sails of the galley. She was only a mile away. She must have seen the Lydia and would try to escape by heading upstream, hoping to reach water too shallow for the frigate. Hornblower doubted that she would succeed. Even with the need to tack, they would soon overtake her.
The man taking the soundings called out, “There’s something ahead, sir. Looks like a fishing weir.” These were a common hazard when sailing close to the shore. Lines of sturdy poles, interwoven with sticks, were used to trap large fish and funnel them toward a holding pen. Anchored firmly to the riverbed, this type of structure could cause serious damage to a ship. Gerard ran forward to look then gave the course correction to the helmsman.
As the Lydia drew abreast of the weir, Hornblower noticed that something was caught in the poles. He realized what it was just as the lookout shouted, “Man overboard! To port!” Someone was clinging to the weir, his head just above the water.
“Bring her about,” Hornblower snapped at Gerard then ran to the stern. Bush was already in the jolly boat, shouting orders. The first lieutenant looked up in surprise as his captain swung gracelessly from the davits into the boat.
“You need someone who can speak Spanish,” Hornblower told him before he could protest. The boat swayed sickeningly as Midshipman Clay dropped from the davits, followed by three sailors. Someone tossed them a pile of blankets, and the boat lurched down to the river. They made good speed and soon reached the weir, but wary of fouling the oars on the poles, they stopped when the man was still ten feet away.
“We are going to throw you a line to tie around yourself,” Hornblower called in Spanish. The man looked up at them, his face white against the dark water, but he didn’t seem to understand. Even if he spoke Portuguese, he should have been able to follow the meaning. Hornblower tried again in Spanish, this time more slowly, but the man just shook his head weakly. “Throw him the line,” Hornblower ordered. Still clinging to the weir, the man reached out with one hand, but the rope slid through his grasp.
“He’s been in the water too long, sir; he’s lost the feeling in his hands,” Bush said. “But we’ll hit either him or those poles if we try to come any closer.”
Unbuckling his sword belt as he spoke, Hornblower replied, “Keep the boat back—I’ll bring him in.” Unlike Bush and the others, Hornblower was a strong swimmer. Most sailors never learned to swim, viewing the water with a superstitious dread.
“Be careful of the current, sir,” his first lieutenant told him with a worried scowl. “It’s likely faster than it looks.”
Hornblower pulled off his coat so it wouldn’t hinder his movements, then he slipped over the gunwale and into the water. He thought his heart would stop from the shock of the cold, but he forced himself to keep moving. A coil of rope was looped around his arm. One end was tied to the boat, and he paid out the slack as he swam toward the weir.
He knotted the line around the man then kept him afloat as the crew hauled them in. Hornblower had feared the stranger would panic and try to drown them both, but he scarcely had enough strength to keep his face above water.
Hornblower waited while the crew hoisted him into the boat. Then it was his turn, and they reached down and pulled him over the gunwale. Midshipman Clay handed him a blanket, and he gratefully drew it around his shoulders.
The stranger lay shivering in the bottom of the boat, naked except for knee-length trousers. Bush was already beside him, checking for signs of injury. “He’s from that Spanish ship, sir,” the first lieutenant said flatly. “Look at the stripes on his back. And the sores on his ankles from the leg irons.”
“Dago bastards,” one of the sailors muttered. “They just threw him over the side.”
They wrapped the man in blankets, and Midshipman Clay brought a flask of brandy, the cure for all ills in the Navy. Bush held the man propped against his shoulder while Hornblower tried to coax him to drink. “It’s wine,” Hornblower told him, speaking slowly in Spanish. “It will help restore your strength.”
“Where am I?” the stranger murmured in English. “I was drowning…so cold.”
“By God, sir, he’s British,” the first lieutenant said under his breath.
“You are on a British ship,” Hornblower replied, which was close enough to the truth. “And under the protection of the Royal Navy.”
The stranger stared up at him through half-closed eyes. “I must find the rangers…must warn Captain Faramir...”
“By God, sir, he’s one of our soldiers,” Bush said.
Hornblower glanced at the first lieutenant and saw his own horror reflected in his face. There were well-established rules regarding the treatment of prisoners of war. “We’ll get you back to your regiment,” Hornblower told the man, unsure what else to say to reassure him.
“I’ll wager he’s from the Connaught Rangers,” Bush said. Less than a year before, the 88th Regiment of Foot--also known as the Connaught Rangers--had been sent to invade Argentina. After a disastrous campaign, the entire regiment had surrendered to the Spanish. And then by some final stroke of misfortune, this ranger had ended up in a galley.
As they rowed back to the Lydia, every idler and off-watch crewman was watching from the rigging, and there was a great cheer as the jolly boat came alongside. The news spread quickly that the rescued man was a British soldier, and the cheers for the captain grew even louder. Hornblower tried to pretend that he did not notice, while Bush made no attempt to hide his grin.
The frigate resumed her course up the river, slowly closing the distance to the galley. Now Hornblower could see the small figures of the Spanish officers walking on the upper deck. A sword hilt or pistol glinted in the midday sun. She would soon be within range for round shot, though still too far away for canister or grape. The ranger had been given into the care of Acting Surgeon Laurie and carried below to the relative safety of the orlop deck, while under Bush’s watchful eye, the ship’s crew readied for battle.
Hornblower listened to the clatter as the bulkheads were taken down, and he felt as if the ship were suddenly coming alive after a long sleep. Sailors hurriedly spread sand on the gun deck and filled the buckets of water by each gun. With a solid rumble, the cannon were run out the ports. He had decided there was nothing to be gained by being coy, and there was even the slight possibility that the Spaniard would strike her colors at the sight of thirty-six guns bearing down on her. She had not been designed to withstand that sort of damage.
They were close enough now that the shouts of the overseer drifted across the water. To the steady beat of a drum, the sweeps rose and fell. Bush peered at the enemy through his telescope then gave Hornblower a puzzled frown. “They must have her guns hidden, sir. I don’t see a one, not even on the quarterdeck.”
Hornblower ordered the crew to fire a warning shot. It sailed high above the galley and fell with a great splash in front of her bow. Her officers threw themselves to the deck, but the overseer only shouted more loudly and the drum beat picked up speed. Her captain showed no intention of stopping.
“We asked politely, sir,” the first lieutenant said. “But it seems they won’t listen to reason.”
“Well, I don’t mean to ask a second time,” Hornblower said shortly. He needed to finish this quickly, before the rowers died from exhaustion. He ordered the cannon loaded with chain shot.
The broadside tore through the rigging and left the black sails trailing over the side. Abandoning their posts, men flung themselves in the water, while others ran below deck. A second broadside sheared off the top of the foremast. The drum beat was silenced, and the sweeps faltered in their arc then stopped. Through the smoke, Hornblower called in Spanish, “Surrender yourselves, and your lives will be spared.” But there was no response except for the shrieks and frantic splashing of the sailors in the water. The crewmen left on the galley stayed hidden.
Hornblower silently cursed her captain for not surrendering. The galley had little value as a prize. He would gladly have sent her to the river bottom if it weren’t for the prisoners who were trapped below deck. Now he had no choice but to board her.
To be continued....
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Looking forward to see where you take this! :D
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I suspect that people are scared off by the whole idea of a Hornblower/LOTR crossover.
Surely that's more possible that my recent Sherlock/LOTR crossover =p... though... okay technically more of an AU.
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I did some research about Gondor's navy, and the results were puzzling. Back in the days of Thorogil, they clearly had one, but Tolkien doesn't tell us the size or location of Gondor's navy at the time of the Ring War. Some readers have speculated that the navy was blockaded by the corsairs in the harbor at Pelargir or that it had never recovered its strength from earlier defeats. Tolkien was in the cavalry (as a very young man) and in the infantry; maybe he didn't feel comfortable writing naval warfare. Aragorn's fight with the corsairs is described very briefly and after the fact.
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BTW, the Many Paths to Tread archive welcomes crossovers! So if you want to put it there, we'd be thrilled.
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And you actually do have an account at MPTT-- you took part in one of our challenges, and all the challenge stories are posted there! But if you want to use it, email our tech mod Dawn, and she'll see that you get your password!