Grey to Black
Title: Grey to Black
Author: Anteros
Characters: Archie Kennedy, Horatio Hornblower, Jack Simpson
Rating: No idea, any suggestions?
Notes: First time fic. Mine not theirs ;-)
My very first attempt at writing any kind of fic, ever, so please consider this a beta. Feedback and comments greatly appreciated. Can't claim this is particularly original, just my attempt at filling in the gaps. Also hugely influenced by all those wonderful fics that have gone before.
I
Slowly he opened his eyes and attempted to focus. Grey. All grey. For an instant Kennedy wondered if he might be dead but a dull nauseous pain spreading across his brow suggested otherwise. Struggling to reorder his senses he gradually became aware of a swaying motion and the rhythmic lap of water. A damp chill was seeping through his bones, his neck ached and he could feel something digging into his back. Spars, an oar.
He was in a boat.
Cautiously he attempted to move and was rewarded with a stab of pain in his left temple. Stars flared before his eyes and his head swam. He lifted his hand and felt an open wound and congealing blood plastering his hair to his forehead. His fingers came away sticky with blood.
Archie closed his eyes and let his mind drift with the rocking of the boat until the pain subsided. So, he was in an open boat. The faintly luminous mist suggested it might be dusk or dawn but where he was or how he came to be there he had no clue. The boat continued to drift with the current and gradually images started to float into his consciousness. Seemingly random at first like scenes from Drury Lane. Half remembered events, which Archie watched with remote detachment.
The Ayrshire estate. Looking west across the blue gulfs of sea to Ailsa, Arran, Ireland and beyond. His father’s cold distain and casual violence. His mother consoling him. Compassion gone too soon. Snatches of plays. Justinian. The endless shame and dread of Justinian.
No, that wasn’t it. Kennedy screwed his eyes tight and, ignoring the pain, struggled to think. The Indefatigable. That was it, the Indy. The thrill of war and the promise of bright horizons. His first taste of action. Blood spattering his face. Warm, surprisingly warm. And Horatio.
Horatio.
But then the horror had returned. Archie’s mind reeled but the images became clearer and started to coalesce into memories.
II
The reality of Simpson’s return was still washing over him in waves of terror and disbelief as he sat opposite Horatio in Pellew’s day cabin. Panic was rising in every fibre of his body as Simpson related his version of events just feet away. It took a supreme effort of will just to sit and to breath. Archie gazed down at the polished surface of the table without focusing. Drawing in on himself. Become invisible, insignificant. Become silent. Nothing. As Pellew interrupted the charade Archie glanced across at Horatio, incredulity written clearly across his face. The officers commenced the briefing but their words slid across Archie’s mind leaving only the vaguest impression. "Gironde….Papillion….shore batteries….go in with the boats….cut her out." He barely managed to turn his head and acknowledge Eccleston when he addressed him directly..."Mr Kennedy, Mr Horblower, board as you see fit and at once ascend the main rigging..." The physical threat of the figure to his left permeated his being. Simpson’s threats and curses and worse rang in his head drowning out the officers' words. Without warning the voice in Archie’s head fused with reality “Sir, I would like to volunteer to go in with the boats.” For a second everything was thrown into sharp relief. The mahogany of the table top, Simpson’s smirking voice, a look of impatience from Pellew and barely suppressed fury from Hornblower. Kennedy blinked slowly, exhaled a long breath, looked once at Horatio and felt his world start to cave in around him like so much rotten driftwood.
The hours between the briefing and the cutting out passed in a daze. Around him the men laughed and joked with a bravado that gradually petered out as the watches of the night passed. Undoubtedly some would not return. Kennedy went about the duty of preparation like an automaton, barely aware of what he as doing. He felt like he was wading through a quagmire and everywhere he turned Simpson was there, leering through the dark, his eyes following him, always following, waiting. Archie felt the weight of his unnatural malice bearing down on him. But it also seemed that wherever Simpson was Horatio was there also. Always but a few yards away, always with the same look of grim determination.
As the hour approached and the boats were readied for launch Kennedy made his way down to the gunroom to collect something. What? His hat? It didn't matter. Simpson had momentarily disappeared and Hornblower was talking quietly to his division across the deck. Archies’s mind was leagues away when he entered the dimly lit gunroom and then suddenly he was there. Looming out of the shadows like a familiar nightmare. Kennedy froze. "Hello Archie. It's been a long time." Simpson advanced towards him, radiating menace. Archie could remember the stale breath foul and hot against his cheek. "Jack’s missed you boy." Time ran slowly like damp sand in a cracked hourglass. A suffocating terror gripped his chest and clawed at his throat. Archie fought silently for breath.
Transfixed like a rat before a snake Kennedy was unaware that Horatio had entered the gunroom until his measured voice broke through the horror. Archie didn’t comprehend his words but Simpson seemed momentarily wrong footed, guilty almost. Caught off guard. Caught in the act. "We were just catching up on old times Mr Hornblower." Caught in the act. Shame burned brighter than fear in Archie. Although Simpson had been feet away from him Horatio had to have seen that look. Had to know. Archie’s mortification could not have been more complete if Horatio had witnessed....No. Don't think it. Bury those images deep. He was stripped bare. All that was left was shame.
Archie let his gaze fall to the floor.
The memories started to fragment once more into disjointed images. Kennedy vaguely remembered following Hornblower out of the gunroom and onto the deck. His sense of detachment increasing as they stood in the pitch darkness ready to launch the boats. Disembodied, he appeared to observe events from aloft the main yard. He thought Horatio had spoken this name as they waited for the command - boat crews away. But there the images dissolved. Nothing more.
III
Kennedy cautiously struggled to raise himself up on one elbow. So, he was in an open jolly boat. From what little he could remember his current predicament must have resulted from the cutting out expedition. But how? What had happened? There were some obvious possibilities. Perhaps he had been injured in action and returned to the boat by his shipmates? This seemed unlikely. With the exception of the ugly head wound, he was without doubt otherwise uninjured. The pistol at his belt was still loaded and his sword untarnished. Archie concluded with a sinking feeling that he had seen no action. More likely he had been repelled or fallen back into the boat while attempting to board the Papillion. A likely enough occurrence on such a mission. And it was certainly not uncommon for tethered boats to be cut or cast adrift in the thick of action. Such a turn of events could also account for the head wound. But it could not account for the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. The last thing he remembered with any semblance of clarity was the sense of shimmering detachment as he stood waiting on the deck. It was a sensation he knew well. And it often preceded a fit. Dear Lord no.
Archie had been beset by too many fears in his short life, but he was not afraid to face action. Nevertheless he had always dreaded that this would happen. His weakness not only laid bare for all to see but also no doubt endangering the lives of the men around him. Men who should have been able to trust him. Men like Horatio. If he had had a fit the head wound was likely self-inflicted and if his shipmates had cast him off then it was little more than he deserved.
Archie slumped back in the stern sheets. Justinian had beaten every last jot of self-pity out of him but at that moment he could have wept. With horrible ironic inevitability his dreams of glory at Horatio’s side had come to this. To naught.
IV
How long, how desperately, had he prayed for anything, anything at all, to get him off that stinking hulk and away from Jack Simpson’s unnatural attentions? Latterly death, whether by his own hand, Simpson’s, or even by the noose, had seemed preferable. In the darkest hours that had found him curled numb with pain and shame in the furthest recesses of the hold he had almost wished that Keane, or Eccleston, or anyone, please god anyone, would stop turning a blind eye, invoke the twenty-ninth article, hang them both and be done with it.
But death hadn’t come. Some innate instinct for self-preservation had taught Kennedy to withdraw to the point that he could submit to Simpson’s depredations while maintaining almost complete detachment from his self. This combination of disconnected compliance and stubborn defiance enraged his tormentor and Archie had stoically endured horrors that would have driven lesser men over the edge, and most likely over the side. That others, had they looked, might have seen extraordinary endurance and courage where he himself saw only capitulation and cowardice was lost on Archie.
And then finally it appeared some fickle higher power had deigned to take note of Archie Kennedy. After years of monotonous dread and endless mundane horror, in a matter of a scant few months Archie’s world was turned upside down. Simpson had been promoted to acting lieutenant, Horatio Hornblower had clambered over the side, green and shivering, war had been declared and at last, at long last a transfer on to a frigate. And not just any frigate, not just any captain, but the Indefatigable under no less a captain than Sir Edward Pellew.
True Simpson had returned, Horatio had gambled everything on that mad duel and poor Clayton had paid the price. But Archie had got away. And he’d got away with Horatio. Even in his wildest flights of fancy, Archie could not credit Hornblower with Louis untimely demise, however in his mind this astonishing turn of events all revolved around Horatio. In those few months they had served on the Indy Archie had almost started to believe in some kind of shining future of duty and glory. Believed that he could be someone, someone like Horatio, someone other than Jack’s whore.
But there had been more, there had been so much more than youthful dreams of naval gallantry. For a brief moment there had been joy. Joy that he was free and that he had a companion, a friend.
Although Horatio learned faster than anyone Archie had met before or since he had been utterly lost when they transferred to the Indefatigable. He had barely served two months aboard Justinian and that hell hole bore little resemblance to the small but pristine frigate. Within a matter of days, while Horatio was still getting turned around below decks, Archie knew every inch of the ship. Admittedly this was a throw back to Justinian where knowing every nook, cranny and hiding place from the orlop to the tops had been a matter of basic survival for Kennedy.
Horatio wasted no time in plugging the not inconsiderable gaps in his knowledge of the practical workings of the ship and it was Archie to whom he turned. The few hours they had free between watches, navigation lessons and other duties were spent together pacing the decks or scrambling up the rigging (Horatio manfully attempting to master this fear of heights) as Archie pointed out this line, that brace or the other sail. Archie positively reveled in this unexpected role as Horatio's tutor and his friend's eager desire to learn fueled his own.
Reprieved from Justinian Archie's naturally buoyant spirits and wicked humour gradually reasserted themselves and he regularly scandalized Horatio and the other mids by mimicking officers and ratings alike. They had been aboard the Indefatigable for perhaps a week when Archie realised that he could make Horatio laugh. By nature Hornblower was an somewhat serious young man with a tendency to hide lack of confidence behind gravity and formality. Consequently he gave the impression of being rather sombre and aloof. Archie however quickly learned that once Horatio did start to laugh he had considerable difficulty regaining his composure. So Archie studiously wasted no time in exercising his unique talent and gained endless vicarious pleasure from making the serious Mr Hornblower laugh. Some days he had only to catch Horatio's eye across he deck and raise an eyebrow to reduce his friend to a fit of barely suppressed and most unseemly giggling.
Archie knew that a splinter or French cannon shot could end it all at any moment. They were at war to be sure. But it didn't matter, now he had an even chance and he grasped it with all his might. And if it all ended in battle tomorrow, so be it, at least for a brief moment he had been granted something he had never dreamed of finding on a ship of war. A friend. Horatio.
V
But it hadn't been cannon shot or splinter it had been Simpson. Jack Simpson who had turned up like the damnably proverbial bad penny and it was over. In true Kennedy fashion Archie’s moment of joy and brief bright dream of glory was evaporating with the mist that hung in damp banks over the Gironde estuary. He was alone again.
And where were his shipmates? If the cutting out had been successful the Indefatigable and the Papillion would long since have cleared the mouth of the Gironde and set a course for Gibraltar. If the mission had failed, then in all likelihood his shipmates were dead or captured and those that remained on the Indy would be mourning their loss.
And Horatio? What of Horatio? Was he back aboard the Indy being congratulated and berated by Captain Pellew in the same breath? Was he familiarising himself with the inside a French gaol? Or was his corpse floating in the cold waters of the estuary?
The peculiar calm that had enveloped Kennedy since he resurfaced into consciousness evaporated in an instant. He tried to swallow but his throat was thick and his mouth sticky. Not dead. Please god, let him not be dead. Archie’s heart was hammering against this chest. As he struggled to suppress rising panic he suddenly became aware of the soft rhythmic plash of oars and the quiet murmur of voices through the clearing mist. Archie’s will to survive immediately took over despite any conscious desire to do so. He slid further down into the stern sheets, turned over and cautiously peered over the gunwale. With the distorting effect of the mist over the water he could see little and could not judge how far away the approaching boat might be. Something in the intonation of the muffled voices told Archie they were French. He cautiously eased his pistol from his belt and steadied it against the gunwale. They were on him before he had time to check the charge. A bump against the jolly boat and a figure rose out of the mist shouting in French too rapid for Kennedy to catch. Archie pulled the trigger, it responded with a damp click as the man in the bow of the boat lifted the butt off his rifle to strike. Reflex made Archie flinch before the blow but just as the silhouette before him dissolved into a dim haze of fading stars he had one last vision of startling clarity.
“Shut up! Archie, for mercy, shut up!” Horatio. Standing over him with a tiller raised in his hand.
Then nothing.
Black.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Archie Kennedy, Horatio Hornblower, Jack Simpson
Rating: No idea, any suggestions?
Notes: First time fic. Mine not theirs ;-)
My very first attempt at writing any kind of fic, ever, so please consider this a beta. Feedback and comments greatly appreciated. Can't claim this is particularly original, just my attempt at filling in the gaps. Also hugely influenced by all those wonderful fics that have gone before.
I
Slowly he opened his eyes and attempted to focus. Grey. All grey. For an instant Kennedy wondered if he might be dead but a dull nauseous pain spreading across his brow suggested otherwise. Struggling to reorder his senses he gradually became aware of a swaying motion and the rhythmic lap of water. A damp chill was seeping through his bones, his neck ached and he could feel something digging into his back. Spars, an oar.
He was in a boat.
Cautiously he attempted to move and was rewarded with a stab of pain in his left temple. Stars flared before his eyes and his head swam. He lifted his hand and felt an open wound and congealing blood plastering his hair to his forehead. His fingers came away sticky with blood.
Archie closed his eyes and let his mind drift with the rocking of the boat until the pain subsided. So, he was in an open boat. The faintly luminous mist suggested it might be dusk or dawn but where he was or how he came to be there he had no clue. The boat continued to drift with the current and gradually images started to float into his consciousness. Seemingly random at first like scenes from Drury Lane. Half remembered events, which Archie watched with remote detachment.
The Ayrshire estate. Looking west across the blue gulfs of sea to Ailsa, Arran, Ireland and beyond. His father’s cold distain and casual violence. His mother consoling him. Compassion gone too soon. Snatches of plays. Justinian. The endless shame and dread of Justinian.
No, that wasn’t it. Kennedy screwed his eyes tight and, ignoring the pain, struggled to think. The Indefatigable. That was it, the Indy. The thrill of war and the promise of bright horizons. His first taste of action. Blood spattering his face. Warm, surprisingly warm. And Horatio.
Horatio.
But then the horror had returned. Archie’s mind reeled but the images became clearer and started to coalesce into memories.
II
The reality of Simpson’s return was still washing over him in waves of terror and disbelief as he sat opposite Horatio in Pellew’s day cabin. Panic was rising in every fibre of his body as Simpson related his version of events just feet away. It took a supreme effort of will just to sit and to breath. Archie gazed down at the polished surface of the table without focusing. Drawing in on himself. Become invisible, insignificant. Become silent. Nothing. As Pellew interrupted the charade Archie glanced across at Horatio, incredulity written clearly across his face. The officers commenced the briefing but their words slid across Archie’s mind leaving only the vaguest impression. "Gironde….Papillion….shore batteries….go in with the boats….cut her out." He barely managed to turn his head and acknowledge Eccleston when he addressed him directly..."Mr Kennedy, Mr Horblower, board as you see fit and at once ascend the main rigging..." The physical threat of the figure to his left permeated his being. Simpson’s threats and curses and worse rang in his head drowning out the officers' words. Without warning the voice in Archie’s head fused with reality “Sir, I would like to volunteer to go in with the boats.” For a second everything was thrown into sharp relief. The mahogany of the table top, Simpson’s smirking voice, a look of impatience from Pellew and barely suppressed fury from Hornblower. Kennedy blinked slowly, exhaled a long breath, looked once at Horatio and felt his world start to cave in around him like so much rotten driftwood.
The hours between the briefing and the cutting out passed in a daze. Around him the men laughed and joked with a bravado that gradually petered out as the watches of the night passed. Undoubtedly some would not return. Kennedy went about the duty of preparation like an automaton, barely aware of what he as doing. He felt like he was wading through a quagmire and everywhere he turned Simpson was there, leering through the dark, his eyes following him, always following, waiting. Archie felt the weight of his unnatural malice bearing down on him. But it also seemed that wherever Simpson was Horatio was there also. Always but a few yards away, always with the same look of grim determination.
As the hour approached and the boats were readied for launch Kennedy made his way down to the gunroom to collect something. What? His hat? It didn't matter. Simpson had momentarily disappeared and Hornblower was talking quietly to his division across the deck. Archies’s mind was leagues away when he entered the dimly lit gunroom and then suddenly he was there. Looming out of the shadows like a familiar nightmare. Kennedy froze. "Hello Archie. It's been a long time." Simpson advanced towards him, radiating menace. Archie could remember the stale breath foul and hot against his cheek. "Jack’s missed you boy." Time ran slowly like damp sand in a cracked hourglass. A suffocating terror gripped his chest and clawed at his throat. Archie fought silently for breath.
Transfixed like a rat before a snake Kennedy was unaware that Horatio had entered the gunroom until his measured voice broke through the horror. Archie didn’t comprehend his words but Simpson seemed momentarily wrong footed, guilty almost. Caught off guard. Caught in the act. "We were just catching up on old times Mr Hornblower." Caught in the act. Shame burned brighter than fear in Archie. Although Simpson had been feet away from him Horatio had to have seen that look. Had to know. Archie’s mortification could not have been more complete if Horatio had witnessed....No. Don't think it. Bury those images deep. He was stripped bare. All that was left was shame.
Archie let his gaze fall to the floor.
The memories started to fragment once more into disjointed images. Kennedy vaguely remembered following Hornblower out of the gunroom and onto the deck. His sense of detachment increasing as they stood in the pitch darkness ready to launch the boats. Disembodied, he appeared to observe events from aloft the main yard. He thought Horatio had spoken this name as they waited for the command - boat crews away. But there the images dissolved. Nothing more.
III
Kennedy cautiously struggled to raise himself up on one elbow. So, he was in an open jolly boat. From what little he could remember his current predicament must have resulted from the cutting out expedition. But how? What had happened? There were some obvious possibilities. Perhaps he had been injured in action and returned to the boat by his shipmates? This seemed unlikely. With the exception of the ugly head wound, he was without doubt otherwise uninjured. The pistol at his belt was still loaded and his sword untarnished. Archie concluded with a sinking feeling that he had seen no action. More likely he had been repelled or fallen back into the boat while attempting to board the Papillion. A likely enough occurrence on such a mission. And it was certainly not uncommon for tethered boats to be cut or cast adrift in the thick of action. Such a turn of events could also account for the head wound. But it could not account for the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. The last thing he remembered with any semblance of clarity was the sense of shimmering detachment as he stood waiting on the deck. It was a sensation he knew well. And it often preceded a fit. Dear Lord no.
Archie had been beset by too many fears in his short life, but he was not afraid to face action. Nevertheless he had always dreaded that this would happen. His weakness not only laid bare for all to see but also no doubt endangering the lives of the men around him. Men who should have been able to trust him. Men like Horatio. If he had had a fit the head wound was likely self-inflicted and if his shipmates had cast him off then it was little more than he deserved.
Archie slumped back in the stern sheets. Justinian had beaten every last jot of self-pity out of him but at that moment he could have wept. With horrible ironic inevitability his dreams of glory at Horatio’s side had come to this. To naught.
IV
How long, how desperately, had he prayed for anything, anything at all, to get him off that stinking hulk and away from Jack Simpson’s unnatural attentions? Latterly death, whether by his own hand, Simpson’s, or even by the noose, had seemed preferable. In the darkest hours that had found him curled numb with pain and shame in the furthest recesses of the hold he had almost wished that Keane, or Eccleston, or anyone, please god anyone, would stop turning a blind eye, invoke the twenty-ninth article, hang them both and be done with it.
But death hadn’t come. Some innate instinct for self-preservation had taught Kennedy to withdraw to the point that he could submit to Simpson’s depredations while maintaining almost complete detachment from his self. This combination of disconnected compliance and stubborn defiance enraged his tormentor and Archie had stoically endured horrors that would have driven lesser men over the edge, and most likely over the side. That others, had they looked, might have seen extraordinary endurance and courage where he himself saw only capitulation and cowardice was lost on Archie.
And then finally it appeared some fickle higher power had deigned to take note of Archie Kennedy. After years of monotonous dread and endless mundane horror, in a matter of a scant few months Archie’s world was turned upside down. Simpson had been promoted to acting lieutenant, Horatio Hornblower had clambered over the side, green and shivering, war had been declared and at last, at long last a transfer on to a frigate. And not just any frigate, not just any captain, but the Indefatigable under no less a captain than Sir Edward Pellew.
True Simpson had returned, Horatio had gambled everything on that mad duel and poor Clayton had paid the price. But Archie had got away. And he’d got away with Horatio. Even in his wildest flights of fancy, Archie could not credit Hornblower with Louis untimely demise, however in his mind this astonishing turn of events all revolved around Horatio. In those few months they had served on the Indy Archie had almost started to believe in some kind of shining future of duty and glory. Believed that he could be someone, someone like Horatio, someone other than Jack’s whore.
But there had been more, there had been so much more than youthful dreams of naval gallantry. For a brief moment there had been joy. Joy that he was free and that he had a companion, a friend.
Although Horatio learned faster than anyone Archie had met before or since he had been utterly lost when they transferred to the Indefatigable. He had barely served two months aboard Justinian and that hell hole bore little resemblance to the small but pristine frigate. Within a matter of days, while Horatio was still getting turned around below decks, Archie knew every inch of the ship. Admittedly this was a throw back to Justinian where knowing every nook, cranny and hiding place from the orlop to the tops had been a matter of basic survival for Kennedy.
Horatio wasted no time in plugging the not inconsiderable gaps in his knowledge of the practical workings of the ship and it was Archie to whom he turned. The few hours they had free between watches, navigation lessons and other duties were spent together pacing the decks or scrambling up the rigging (Horatio manfully attempting to master this fear of heights) as Archie pointed out this line, that brace or the other sail. Archie positively reveled in this unexpected role as Horatio's tutor and his friend's eager desire to learn fueled his own.
Reprieved from Justinian Archie's naturally buoyant spirits and wicked humour gradually reasserted themselves and he regularly scandalized Horatio and the other mids by mimicking officers and ratings alike. They had been aboard the Indefatigable for perhaps a week when Archie realised that he could make Horatio laugh. By nature Hornblower was an somewhat serious young man with a tendency to hide lack of confidence behind gravity and formality. Consequently he gave the impression of being rather sombre and aloof. Archie however quickly learned that once Horatio did start to laugh he had considerable difficulty regaining his composure. So Archie studiously wasted no time in exercising his unique talent and gained endless vicarious pleasure from making the serious Mr Hornblower laugh. Some days he had only to catch Horatio's eye across he deck and raise an eyebrow to reduce his friend to a fit of barely suppressed and most unseemly giggling.
Archie knew that a splinter or French cannon shot could end it all at any moment. They were at war to be sure. But it didn't matter, now he had an even chance and he grasped it with all his might. And if it all ended in battle tomorrow, so be it, at least for a brief moment he had been granted something he had never dreamed of finding on a ship of war. A friend. Horatio.
V
But it hadn't been cannon shot or splinter it had been Simpson. Jack Simpson who had turned up like the damnably proverbial bad penny and it was over. In true Kennedy fashion Archie’s moment of joy and brief bright dream of glory was evaporating with the mist that hung in damp banks over the Gironde estuary. He was alone again.
And where were his shipmates? If the cutting out had been successful the Indefatigable and the Papillion would long since have cleared the mouth of the Gironde and set a course for Gibraltar. If the mission had failed, then in all likelihood his shipmates were dead or captured and those that remained on the Indy would be mourning their loss.
And Horatio? What of Horatio? Was he back aboard the Indy being congratulated and berated by Captain Pellew in the same breath? Was he familiarising himself with the inside a French gaol? Or was his corpse floating in the cold waters of the estuary?
The peculiar calm that had enveloped Kennedy since he resurfaced into consciousness evaporated in an instant. He tried to swallow but his throat was thick and his mouth sticky. Not dead. Please god, let him not be dead. Archie’s heart was hammering against this chest. As he struggled to suppress rising panic he suddenly became aware of the soft rhythmic plash of oars and the quiet murmur of voices through the clearing mist. Archie’s will to survive immediately took over despite any conscious desire to do so. He slid further down into the stern sheets, turned over and cautiously peered over the gunwale. With the distorting effect of the mist over the water he could see little and could not judge how far away the approaching boat might be. Something in the intonation of the muffled voices told Archie they were French. He cautiously eased his pistol from his belt and steadied it against the gunwale. They were on him before he had time to check the charge. A bump against the jolly boat and a figure rose out of the mist shouting in French too rapid for Kennedy to catch. Archie pulled the trigger, it responded with a damp click as the man in the bow of the boat lifted the butt off his rifle to strike. Reflex made Archie flinch before the blow but just as the silhouette before him dissolved into a dim haze of fading stars he had one last vision of startling clarity.
“Shut up! Archie, for mercy, shut up!” Horatio. Standing over him with a tiller raised in his hand.
Then nothing.
Black.