Victorious Horatio
May. 21st, 2007 12:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mylodonWhich it is a fic and a notice of shore leave; the next part of Bride's will be posted on Thursday, then there'll be nought till about 4th June. Next weekend is the annual pilgramage to ogle Olazabal watch golf, then a week today we're off for a short break in 'gay Paree'.
One of the great things about Regeneration Universe is that, when![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
calavarna says "I've never seen a fic where Horatio ends up in modern day Portsmouth and stands on the deck of the Victory" I have the vehicle to make it happen.
“Blondie!” The voice was unmistakable, although Kennedy hadn’t heard it in ten years. He turned, scanning the busy street until he saw the face he sought.
“Jack!”
“Not forgotten me then.” Harkness shook Archie’s hand enthusiastically, having stopped himself just short of delivering a bear hug. He could not, however, resist ruffling the man’s hair. “Just one or two grey ones appearing there; or shall we say it’s the sun bleaching the old thatch?”
“Let’s settle for the sun, even if age is the likelier cause. I turned forty this April; just slightly ahead of Horatio, but I’m saving my powder for that great day. You’ve not changed a bit, though; I should have expected as much.” Kennedy’s attention turned to the man at Harkness’ side, who was grinning and waiting to shake hands, too, as if he was another old friend. “I’m sorry; I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
The man – a thin, nervous looking lad, lacking in any sensible amount of chin – smiled, an expression that transformed his face into something almost acceptable. “Well you have, even if you don’t remember. Doesn’t the name William Bush mean anything to you?”
“William! Doctor! Well, I’m jiggered. I know you said it could happen but I didn’t expect you to change quite so much.” Archie slapped the man’s shoulder, which felt much bonier than Bush’s ever had. “We must go and find Horatio; we’re both serving in the Pacific squadron and are searching out some adequate cordage to replace what was destroyed in those squalls off Chile. But I guess you knew that, didn’t you, or else why turn up here?”
Jack beamed. “Of course – what’s the use of google if you can’t locate your old pals? Fancy a little bit of leave?”
“The sort that finishes before it starts?” Archie may have been into his fifth decade, but his eyes shone like a boy’s.
“The very same.”
“Let’s find Captain Hornblower then.” He started off, then turned to the Doctor. “He’s in for one hell of a shock when he sees you…”
***
Ten years had indeed passed since last they had been whisked off to the twenty first century, a decade in which they had both been made post and were working their way up the captains’ list in the quest for the blessed promotion in rank. Their ultimate plan – to be Admiral and flag captain together - was now becoming a distinct possibility.
But in those same years they had never forgotten the frailty of life. Neither had been at Trafalgar, being stationed further north at the time and neither of them had ever had the honour of serving under Nelson, but the tales of that battle – and many since – had chilled them. A bullet, a ball, a splinter; any of these might part them, even if their own volition would not. Nor had they forgotten their old friends, and the daft adventures they had been privileged to undertake together, both in Cardiff and London. They had even strayed across the Atlantic – which seemed supremely ironic, considering who they had been fighting these last few years. They had trodden the decks of Old Ironsides both long before and long after they had sought to blast her out of the water; even their intimate knowledge of her construction had not helped them much in that pursuit, although it had made them change their strategies often enough in consequence.
And now they were in Portsmouth, a place they had signally never been allowed to visit before. It was only when approaching the Historic dockyard along the front that they realised exactly why, in 1804, they had been denied the privilege. The sense of England’s loss pervaded the place; not just concerning the ravages of 1805’s momentous battle, but the subsequent threats to Britain’s independence from mainland Europe. It would have been too much knowledge to bear at the time. Now that it seemed appropriate, they visited the garrison church, sombrely read the tributes to men who had fought on sea or land over the last two hundred years, then walked along the walls, admiring the view over to Wight.
By the time they had skirted the retail and leisure complexes that were sprouting up behind Spice Island and then reached the dockyard itself, past a Keppels Head that looked as if it hadn’t had a lick of paint since Hornblower last drank in it two hundred odd years previously, they were all feeling their emotions welling up. It had seemed such a lovely idea – Victory still exists? Let’s go and see her! – but the closer they drew, especially when they first glimpsed her top yards over the modern skyscape, the more Kennedy grew apprehensive. Not for himself, necessarily, but for Horatio, who had worshipped Nelson and who had been sadly affected by the passing of so gallant a man.
They had purchased tickets to see Victory and been allotted a time, like any other of the tourists who flocked to see this and the other ships preserved for a grateful nation to esteem. They had admired her beautiful lines as they stood waiting for their guide, discoursed knowledgably with William about the advantages of a ship of the line over a frigate and vice versa, speculated whether the cannon were real or some cunning effigies. Several foreign tourists had edged closer, fascinated by the authority with which these men spoke and surmising that they were second O’Brian’s, immersed in the ways of the Age of Sail for the purpose of writing books.
It was the first and only time they had been aboard her, although they had known many a similar ship over the years, but they resisted showing too much of their knowledge – the last thing they wanted was questions. And they were genuinely moved, firstly at the sight of the little brass plate which marked where Nelson had fallen to the sniper’s bullet. So exposed the man had been, some might say so reckless of his own hide. Horatio would have done the same, Kennedy knew – nothing would have made him hide his decorations or bury himself below decks.
The emotions had swelled again on viewing the small space below decks where the great man had drawn his last breath. The wooden walls that protected England had been buttressed by flesh and blood and noble hearts. As the guide recalled the story of Nelson’s last moments, Kennedy had just touched Horatio’s arm once and caught his eye; they did not need to say anything – each knew that the other was thinking of what end might lie in wait for them.
“Will you come and look at the sail?” William – whose face Horatio really could not come to terms with – had gestured towards one of the large old colonnaded buildings. “One from this old girl – they lost it for years and then it was found again. Full of shot holes and repairs; made me feel very nostalgic when I saw it.”
“Do you ever miss those days? We three, on that accursed ship?”
“I don’t miss the ship’s biscuit. Nor mad captains and drunken surgeons. I can still feel that scar you know, even two regenerations later.”
“Two?”
“Don’t ask,” Jack butted in. “Suffice to say his face gets worse every time.”
“I’d hardly say that; I remember what I first looked like.” They had reached the entrance to the exhibition, where a pair of young sailors – by appearance rather bored but trying hard to hide it – were guarding this great treasure.
Horatio recognised the music and pictures that were being played alongside the great canvas relic; they were from a film that Ianto had shown him, one that featured a gallant captain who was not insane and his valiant surgeon who was not drunk. He appreciated that for everyone else present that cinematographic representation was as close as they would ever get to the enervating, frightening reality of life on board during an engagement. He turned to catch Kennedy’s eye and saw the tears welling there, felt his own beginning to sting.
There were other people present – a couple with their family, the woman’s eyes as wet as his. People had not forgotten; they would not forget. He and Archie had seen enough evidence of that in the statues, the displays, the names of buildings, the emotions demonstrated by the visitors, some of whom seemed to have come half way around the world to walk in their hero’s footsteps.
“Come on,” Jack’s voice was unusually soft and kind. He gently took Horatio’s elbow and drew the men away in search of a decent hostelry.
***
“Will they remember us, Archie? Will some lady who has never met us weep over one of the sails from our flagship and say poor Admiral Hornblower?”
“She’ll say poor Captain Kennedy for having to put up with him.”
“I was being serious.” They were back in their own time, on the quay watching the small fleet load its supplies.
“Do you wish we had not gone?”
“No, never in life. The world will have changed so much by then, but our remembrance will remain, I hope.”
“It will, Horatio. Don’t forget those awful films. We will be preserved in memory forever.”
Hornblower shivered. “I asked you never to remind me of those films.” He looked around, decided he could risk getting closer, and whispered. “No-one would ever forget you, Blondie…”
One of the great things about Regeneration Universe is that, when
calavarna says "I've never seen a fic where Horatio ends up in modern day Portsmouth and stands on the deck of the Victory" I have the vehicle to make it happen.“Blondie!” The voice was unmistakable, although Kennedy hadn’t heard it in ten years. He turned, scanning the busy street until he saw the face he sought.
“Jack!”
“Not forgotten me then.” Harkness shook Archie’s hand enthusiastically, having stopped himself just short of delivering a bear hug. He could not, however, resist ruffling the man’s hair. “Just one or two grey ones appearing there; or shall we say it’s the sun bleaching the old thatch?”
“Let’s settle for the sun, even if age is the likelier cause. I turned forty this April; just slightly ahead of Horatio, but I’m saving my powder for that great day. You’ve not changed a bit, though; I should have expected as much.” Kennedy’s attention turned to the man at Harkness’ side, who was grinning and waiting to shake hands, too, as if he was another old friend. “I’m sorry; I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
The man – a thin, nervous looking lad, lacking in any sensible amount of chin – smiled, an expression that transformed his face into something almost acceptable. “Well you have, even if you don’t remember. Doesn’t the name William Bush mean anything to you?”
“William! Doctor! Well, I’m jiggered. I know you said it could happen but I didn’t expect you to change quite so much.” Archie slapped the man’s shoulder, which felt much bonier than Bush’s ever had. “We must go and find Horatio; we’re both serving in the Pacific squadron and are searching out some adequate cordage to replace what was destroyed in those squalls off Chile. But I guess you knew that, didn’t you, or else why turn up here?”
Jack beamed. “Of course – what’s the use of google if you can’t locate your old pals? Fancy a little bit of leave?”
“The sort that finishes before it starts?” Archie may have been into his fifth decade, but his eyes shone like a boy’s.
“The very same.”
“Let’s find Captain Hornblower then.” He started off, then turned to the Doctor. “He’s in for one hell of a shock when he sees you…”
***
Ten years had indeed passed since last they had been whisked off to the twenty first century, a decade in which they had both been made post and were working their way up the captains’ list in the quest for the blessed promotion in rank. Their ultimate plan – to be Admiral and flag captain together - was now becoming a distinct possibility.
But in those same years they had never forgotten the frailty of life. Neither had been at Trafalgar, being stationed further north at the time and neither of them had ever had the honour of serving under Nelson, but the tales of that battle – and many since – had chilled them. A bullet, a ball, a splinter; any of these might part them, even if their own volition would not. Nor had they forgotten their old friends, and the daft adventures they had been privileged to undertake together, both in Cardiff and London. They had even strayed across the Atlantic – which seemed supremely ironic, considering who they had been fighting these last few years. They had trodden the decks of Old Ironsides both long before and long after they had sought to blast her out of the water; even their intimate knowledge of her construction had not helped them much in that pursuit, although it had made them change their strategies often enough in consequence.
And now they were in Portsmouth, a place they had signally never been allowed to visit before. It was only when approaching the Historic dockyard along the front that they realised exactly why, in 1804, they had been denied the privilege. The sense of England’s loss pervaded the place; not just concerning the ravages of 1805’s momentous battle, but the subsequent threats to Britain’s independence from mainland Europe. It would have been too much knowledge to bear at the time. Now that it seemed appropriate, they visited the garrison church, sombrely read the tributes to men who had fought on sea or land over the last two hundred years, then walked along the walls, admiring the view over to Wight.
By the time they had skirted the retail and leisure complexes that were sprouting up behind Spice Island and then reached the dockyard itself, past a Keppels Head that looked as if it hadn’t had a lick of paint since Hornblower last drank in it two hundred odd years previously, they were all feeling their emotions welling up. It had seemed such a lovely idea – Victory still exists? Let’s go and see her! – but the closer they drew, especially when they first glimpsed her top yards over the modern skyscape, the more Kennedy grew apprehensive. Not for himself, necessarily, but for Horatio, who had worshipped Nelson and who had been sadly affected by the passing of so gallant a man.
They had purchased tickets to see Victory and been allotted a time, like any other of the tourists who flocked to see this and the other ships preserved for a grateful nation to esteem. They had admired her beautiful lines as they stood waiting for their guide, discoursed knowledgably with William about the advantages of a ship of the line over a frigate and vice versa, speculated whether the cannon were real or some cunning effigies. Several foreign tourists had edged closer, fascinated by the authority with which these men spoke and surmising that they were second O’Brian’s, immersed in the ways of the Age of Sail for the purpose of writing books.
It was the first and only time they had been aboard her, although they had known many a similar ship over the years, but they resisted showing too much of their knowledge – the last thing they wanted was questions. And they were genuinely moved, firstly at the sight of the little brass plate which marked where Nelson had fallen to the sniper’s bullet. So exposed the man had been, some might say so reckless of his own hide. Horatio would have done the same, Kennedy knew – nothing would have made him hide his decorations or bury himself below decks.
The emotions had swelled again on viewing the small space below decks where the great man had drawn his last breath. The wooden walls that protected England had been buttressed by flesh and blood and noble hearts. As the guide recalled the story of Nelson’s last moments, Kennedy had just touched Horatio’s arm once and caught his eye; they did not need to say anything – each knew that the other was thinking of what end might lie in wait for them.
“Will you come and look at the sail?” William – whose face Horatio really could not come to terms with – had gestured towards one of the large old colonnaded buildings. “One from this old girl – they lost it for years and then it was found again. Full of shot holes and repairs; made me feel very nostalgic when I saw it.”
“Do you ever miss those days? We three, on that accursed ship?”
“I don’t miss the ship’s biscuit. Nor mad captains and drunken surgeons. I can still feel that scar you know, even two regenerations later.”
“Two?”
“Don’t ask,” Jack butted in. “Suffice to say his face gets worse every time.”
“I’d hardly say that; I remember what I first looked like.” They had reached the entrance to the exhibition, where a pair of young sailors – by appearance rather bored but trying hard to hide it – were guarding this great treasure.
Horatio recognised the music and pictures that were being played alongside the great canvas relic; they were from a film that Ianto had shown him, one that featured a gallant captain who was not insane and his valiant surgeon who was not drunk. He appreciated that for everyone else present that cinematographic representation was as close as they would ever get to the enervating, frightening reality of life on board during an engagement. He turned to catch Kennedy’s eye and saw the tears welling there, felt his own beginning to sting.
There were other people present – a couple with their family, the woman’s eyes as wet as his. People had not forgotten; they would not forget. He and Archie had seen enough evidence of that in the statues, the displays, the names of buildings, the emotions demonstrated by the visitors, some of whom seemed to have come half way around the world to walk in their hero’s footsteps.
“Come on,” Jack’s voice was unusually soft and kind. He gently took Horatio’s elbow and drew the men away in search of a decent hostelry.
***
“Will they remember us, Archie? Will some lady who has never met us weep over one of the sails from our flagship and say poor Admiral Hornblower?”
“She’ll say poor Captain Kennedy for having to put up with him.”
“I was being serious.” They were back in their own time, on the quay watching the small fleet load its supplies.
“Do you wish we had not gone?”
“No, never in life. The world will have changed so much by then, but our remembrance will remain, I hope.”
“It will, Horatio. Don’t forget those awful films. We will be preserved in memory forever.”
Hornblower shivered. “I asked you never to remind me of those films.” He looked around, decided he could risk getting closer, and whispered. “No-one would ever forget you, Blondie…”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-22 12:01 pm (UTC)Who told you it wasn't real?
I bet Archie broke the sink and had to beg the Doctor to fix it *g* I reckon he ran around it in a circle trying to set the water off as he moved. Horatio was most displeased, and Jack regaled everyone with the story of the time he accidentally broke the pillar of water thingy in Cardiff and Ianto gave him instant coffee for a week as punishment *g*
*lets go reluctantly*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-22 12:48 pm (UTC)Yeah, but wouldn't they have been dead swanky around Action Stations - bet they could have steered the boat and not nearly been sick in the simulator.
In re the fight, you are correct in what it would have been about. Bollards would be no good as Sal would have won; I think the only soultion would have been to get either Ianto or Jonny Wilkinson there and H could have gone and got the ice creams or summat.
And I bet Archie insisted on walking along the torpedoes and leaping on the capstans and generally cavorting until he had to be spanked. Twice.
*happy sighs*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-23 09:37 am (UTC)Oh, the lovely simulator. I bet Horry would have staggered out, all pale and limp *g* And I have a feeling Jack wouldn't have let anybody else have a go at piloting the helicopter because he wanted to show off his flying skills.
I've got the best mental image of H trailing along holding a handful of ice creams while the others are running around like loons *g* Maybe we're going about this battle in the wrong way - maybe we should let the boys decide? *conveniently drops a stopwatch infront of Jack*
Twice? Ooooh. He must have been naughty - although I wanted to walk along to torpedos myself *g*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-23 10:04 am (UTC)Jack and Archie would have fought over the controls and Sal would have laughed and Ros would have poked them both. Horry would have puked (like we nearly did) and Ten would have rolled his eyes.
Let the boys decide? Are you mad? Those four couldn't decide on the colour of an orange. (Loads of HH allusions there, girl.)
Well why didn't you say so? We do that all the time - and leap on the capstans and generally arse about.