AN HONORABLE MAN
by
Susanne L. Lambdin
A whistle split the air loudly, three tweets in all, announcing the arrival
of the Indefatigable's new first mate, Lt. Commander Robert Gawain Preston,
age twenty-nine, tall as a ship's mast and built as solidly as any frigate,
as he walked down the pier toward where the impressive frigate was temporarily
docked. His handsome features were carved from granite, without an outlandishly
squared jaw, a long, straight nose, and skin browned by years in the sun.
His attitude was one of superiority, suggesting nobility, as he walked up the
gangplank, his blonde head bowed, a sword slapping at his left leg. Behind
him followed a man of lesser breeding, cut from the same common broad cloth
as any sailor found on board a British naval vessel, carrying several pieces
of luggage under his arms which he obviously struggled to manage.
The crew on board the Indie winced and looked away quicky as the officer's
piercing eyes, the shade of cerulean blue, raked over those standing at attention
as he boarded the vessel, followed by the lesser ranked officer carrying his
gear. Their initial good humor upon hearing the news that Dreadnaught Foster
himself was sending over a new replacement to serve as first mate on the Indefatigable
dwindled as Lt. Commander Preston came on board and glowered at the gathered
crowd with disapproval. He towered over the men, his shoulders as broad as his
hips were lean, moving gracefully on muscular legs that stretched his tight
white britches at the very seams. He looked impeccable neat and lean in his
dark blue uniform, wearing his naval cap low on his furrowed brow, a scowl marring
his good looks as soon as he noticed the torn clothing of the sailors around
him. Preston dismissed the men with callous indifference and regarded a stout
officer who approached him and identified himself as Mr. Bowles with a haughty
demeanor that was not meant to garner him the affection of those he would
command.
"Lt. Commander Robert G. Preston reporting in for duty," said the
tall, blonde man, in a glib tone. "Permission to come aboard?"
Bowles glanced nervously about him and pulled down at the ends of his jacket,
suddenly feeling poorly dressed despite the fact that the men served in the
British Navy and therefore wore identical uniforms. His own uniform was of
a cheaper material and his toes wiggled in his pathetic looking shoes. He glanced
upwards at the bridge where Captain Edward Pellew and his second lieutenant,
Horatio Hornblower, watched with obvious curiosity and the arrogant new arrival.
Pellew, a dark haired man in his late forties, his craggy face retaining a handsome
allure despite his many years at sea, lifted his proud head a noticed and
slowly nodded. At his side, young Horatio Hornblower, a quivering smile on
his angular face, seemed about to protest, but immediately fell silent at a
hand signal from Pellew. All this was missed by Lt. Preston but was taken
in quickly by Bowels who instantly knew that there were rough waters ahead.
"Permission granted, Commander," said Bowles, startled by the softness
of his voice. "We were all expecting you a while ago, sir. Captain Pellew
is most anxious to make your acquaintance."
"Then let him say so for himself. The only waxing over required here
is on this deck."
"Captain Pellew...."
"Can speak for himself, Lieutenant." Preston looked at the portly
man as though he desired to hang him from the yardarm. "Show my ensign
where to stow my gear, Lt. Bowels. I'll introduce myself to Captain Pellew
personally." He stared up at the bridge and considered the impressive officers
standing at the railing, looking down at him in curiously in return.
Caught off guard by Commander Preston's brusqueness, an intimidated Bowles
hesitated in obeying the order and found the large man bending down to peer
at him more intently. He quaked in his shoes and glanced out of the corners
of his eyes at Midshipman Kennedy to see a smirk on the young officer's face,
which vanished the moment Preston noticed whom Bowles turned to for assistance.
Kennedy lowered his eyes, praying he would not be singled out by the new first
officer and blasted into a million pieces before the crew.
"I have been studying the Indie while she has been anchored in Plymouth,"
said Preston loud enough for all to hear, "and frankly, sir, I am not at
all impressed. The paint on her hull is chipped at the prow, I suspect neglected
by some careless sailor assigned to repaint her after a skirmish with the French,
and I also note the stitches poorly made in the sails."
Preston laughed along as several sailors behind Bowles started to snicker,
surprising all by laughing at himself, then just as abruptly, he let out throaty
growl that silenced the men.
"You can put these fine fellows to work scraping off the barnacles on
the anchor. I want it to shine. Then tend to the deck. I want to see my reflection
when I walk past."
"No doubt," muttered Kennedy. He merely smiled when Preston looked
his way.
"Yes, sir," said Bowles, swallowing his bouncing Adam's apple. He
motioned for Kennedy to assume the duties given by the first officer. His
delay caused Preston to bark.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Asked Lt. Preston, brushing off
a speck of dust from his sleeve. "You heard my orders. Make it so, Lt....?"
"Bowles, sir. My name is Bowles."
"Indeed. Carry on then, Bowels."
Preston smiled thinly, amused by something he along was privy to, and puffing
out his impressive chest, he swaggered across the desk through the line of dazed
men and up the stairs as regally as though he approached a royal throne. He
headed started toward Captain Pellew and saluted stiffly. The salute was returned
by Pellew, then by Midshipman, standing at his commander's side like a guard
dog. Preston took several inches over Hornblower, a nervous willow before
a mighty oak tree, but completely dominated the legendary commander of the Indie.
Preston took little notice of Hornblower, aware of who he was by means of
his close friend, Captain Foster, but did not act impressed by the young man's
accomplishments, which were apparently vast indeed, keeping his full attention
on an unamused Captain Pellew.
"You are half an hour late, Commander Preston," replied Pellew, his
voice terse. He stiffly lifted up his head a notch as he clasped his hands
behind his back and rolled up on his toes, bouncing slightly, before falling
back to glare up at the blonde giant. "I suppose you have a good excuse?"
"I never make excuses for my conduct, Sir Edward. I was delayed by a
very attractive young woman by the name of Pearl. As the Indie does not set
sail until this evening's tide, I saw no reason to report in earlier. Have
I inconvenienced you in any way, sir?"
"Your attitude is inconvenient! And your tardiness is inexcusable. A
woman, indeed."
Preston lifted up an eyebrow and leaned down. "She was very pretty,
sir."
His reply hit Pellew broadside and he was left with the impression that someone
was playing a joke on him. While the officer was nothing less than visual perfection
itself, whatever was rolling around in his brain, like an untied pickle barrel
in a storm at sea, was the obvious reason for his inability to rise to command.
"Commander Preston, you seem bound and determined to get off on the wrong
foot with me. Very well. You have chosen this tact with some purpose in mind,
therefore, I shall accommodate you, as it seems you have no intention of making
a long haul aboard the Indie. I do not tolerate tardiness of any kind. Nor do
I tolerate excuses. Of any kind. I will note this in your report. Do not let
this happen again. Not while you serve under me. Perhaps the captain of your
last vessel allowed you to come and go as you please, but I am not a fair
weather commander, so do not get comfortable with the thought that I will
put up with your insubordination. I never thought Captain Gantry ran a tight
ship. As you served under him for the last six months, it is no wonder that
he lost his war prizes to a Spanish man-o-war without ever firing a shot. Were
you asleep at the helm that day or perhaps writing to one of your many female
admirers, which I am sure you are not wanting for, Commander?"
Preston suddenly smiled. It was a beautiful smile that caught Pellew and
his line of officers completely off guard. Then he laughed. His laughter rolled
across the ship as though it was cannon fire. When he finally grew quiet,
he made no apology for his conduct and instead withdrew a perfumed lady's kerchief
from out of his sleeve, wiping it beneath his nose and tucking it away. His
every gesture was made with exact precision, as though he was acting upon
a stage, yet the moment he fell silent, a mask fell over his blue eyes and his
humor abated, leaving a sour look on his handsome face. "I expected to
be made captain last month and placed in command of my own war ship. The Admiralty
offered me a garbage scowl instead. So I turned her down and instead signed
aboard the Indie as first mate."
"You have high expectations," Edward Pellew said, so beside himself
with anger, and so uncharacteristically displayed, that he was surprised at
the feeling of Horatio Hornblower's hand brushing against his leg. He lowered
his voice, aware every pair of eyes on desk where watching them, and stepped
closer to the tall young officer. "Cross swords with me, Commander Preston,
and I'll have you reduced in rank and carrying my baggage before day's end."
"I do apologize if I have offended you in any way, Sir Edward. Captain
Foster reminded me many times in the past that my absolute intolerance for authority
will be the end of my career. I have the stripes to show for it, however,
I am attempting to rise above my short comings. I'm very much aware that as
a perfectionist, I can never be pleased nor easily impressed. Not even Dreadnaught
himself could break my pride, and believe me, he did try."
"I am not here to impress you, Commander Preston."
"But you already have, Sir Edward. Or rather the Indie has. The Indie
has sent my French and Spanish galleons to the bottom of the sea that any other
frigate in her class. However, I judge a ship's performance by the abilities
of her captain." Preston smiled again, and while it was warm and friendly,
he'd already annoyed Pellew to the extent that it was regarded by the captain
as a further slap in the face. "That is why I requested Captain Foster
arrange through the Admiralty that I be selected as your first mate. Gantry
found me very reliable, and I might have been with him longer, however, he
was keenly aware that I preferred his cabin more than my own and I believe he
was a little uncomfortable with that."
"I do not intend to give up my cabin."
"And I hear it is the most luxuriant in the fleet. So said Captain Foster."
"Did he? Did he indeed? Did he say anything else I should be aware of?"
Preston glanced at Hornblow and smiled in that infuriating manner of his,
which Pellew received as though he'd drank a glass of dynamite. Nothing else
came from Preston's lips, he merely smiled, and at Pellew's signal to stand
at ease, he placed his hands behind his back, clasping them together, braced
his feet apart and peered down at the captain with an impertinence that sent
the hair's along Pellew's neck standing straight up. The older man placed
his hands on his hips and tilted back his head to better regard the smug new
arrival, disliking him at once and wanting to put the lieutenant in his place,
but having been warned earlier of Preston's connections at the royal court,
including a matronly aunt with blue blood stemming from the Plantagenet kings,
along with having a proper education in the most elite schools that final
ended at the naval academy and his first assignment as midshipman, until he
caught the attention of Captain Charles Foster. It was Foster who has insisted
Preston take on the available position as first mate on the Indie, in fact,
he'd practically crammed the young man's credentials down his gullet.
"Let us be clear on one thing, Commander Preston, you are a subordinate
and have no right to speak to me as an equal." Pellew heard Hornblow snort
in amusement, but never once looked away from the dark blue eyes holding his
own captive. He felt personally attacked by Preston and found himself truly
wanting to hate the young man, not only because of his inappropriate behavior
but for the simple fact that he found the other utterly attractive in his
pristine uniform, with his bulging muscles and his square jaw and long, lean
fingered hands. "Either learn to get along with my authority while on
board the Indie, or I'll make good on my threat, Mr. Preston. Do I make myself
clear?"
"Absolutely."
"Do I, Mr. Preston? I detect a note of sarcasm in your tenor."
"I am your dutiful servant, Sir Edward." Preston spoke in a husky
voice that came out as clear as a proposition by any common lady bird. His
grin, however, faded and he took on a stony appearance, the same as when he'd
arrived on board, all humor and sarcasm replaced by an expression of complete
submission.
Pellew trembled, not merely from anger and annoyance, but from a certain
frustration that he felt uncoil in the pit of his stomach and drift downward,
stirring his manhood and causing images to form in his mind of himself assuming
the role of master over the brash Goliath. He motioned for Hornblower to be
dismissed and might have moved closer to Preston, but already near enough
to feel the man's hot breath on his brow, he didn't dare come nearer and place
himself in harm's way. Once Hornblower and the other officers standing on the
quarter deck cleared off, leaving Pellew reasonably alone with Preston, he
felt his anger begin to fade as the handsome officer sighed heavily and let
his shoulders slightly slump.
"The tide will come early. There's a full moon tonight."
"But no breeze," commented Pellew. He suddenly felt at ease with
Preston, given his current relaxed state, which was almost friendly. Pellew
refused to fall for any traps, which he was certain Foster intended him to
do, or else he would not have sent Preston to the Indie. The officer was far
too handsome for his own good, and his discourteous manner was so upsetting,
on so many levels, that Pellew knew he had to remain on his guard at all times.
He felt his mouth go dry when Preston silently walked up to the railing and
gazed out toward sea, with a longing in his eyes that reflected how Pellew
fell within his heart. "It will be good to be at sea again."
"Yes. I've been a fortnight on land," offered Preston, as if this
was enough explanation for his previous bad manners. "Another night and
I fear I would be unsalvageable. But I shall endeavor not to disappoint you,
Captain Pellew. I am different at sea."
"If you mean agreeable, then that will be a relief." Pellew started
to walk off, noted Preston remained at the railing, then turned back, eyeing
the man's shoes, noting they were expensive, and allowed his gaze to slowly
travel upwards. The man never balked. "Take command, Mr. Preston. You may
shove off as soon as the tide allows."
"Yes, sir."
Preston watched Pellew walk away, admiring the captain far more than he'd
let on, however, not without further scrutiny of the cut of his gib, which he
found extremely pleasing. More so than Pearl, he thought. He sighed as Bowles
approached with the same young fellow who seemed so possessive of Pellew earlier.
"This is Midshipman Hornblower," explained Bowles. "Captain
Pellew said, I mean, well, Hornblower and his men are at your use. This is
Matthews, Oldroyd, Styles, and Bunting. Mr. Kennedy and his own unit are available
as well, proving that Mr. Hornblower does not give you pleasure, sir."
Preston eyed Horatio with appreciation, noting the lad's tall frame and dark
brown eyes, but said nothing to alleviate the tension in the air. He signaled
out Matthews, liking his look, that of an old salt, and ordered him to take
the helm, sending the others with Bowles to tidy up the quarter deck to his
specifications. Within two hours, the ship was sparkling in the gold of the
setting sun, and as the men, complaining at their extra duties were alerted
by the dinner bell that grub was being served bellow deck, Preston noticed the
tide was up and gave immediate orders to set sail. He took pleasure in hearing
the complaints of the crew, and though he approved of the cleanliness of the
Indie, which had not needed further scrubbing upon his arrival and for which
he'd ordered merely to put the crew on the defense, he further enjoyed frustrating
the men by depriving them of a hot meal. All crews grumbled, and Preston intended
to give the men something to dislike him for, knowing from experience that
by instilling such darker emotions, including fear if at all possible, that
the men would respond quicker for him in battle than if they admired or respected
him based merely on a pleasant personality. He wasn't there to be liked. He
was there to send the French and their allies to the bottom of the sea.
As the ship pulled away from the pier, a carriage rolled up and several gentlemen
and ladies rushed toward the gangplank, too late to stop the Indie, and instead
waved and shouted from where they stood, until they caught Lt. Commander's
full attention. He recognized his land loving friends with some annoyance,
for Lady Pearl Sinclair was in their midst, and he assumed anxious to hear back
from him once he was at sea to confirm whether or not he would marry her.
Which he would not. He was married to the sea, but no female ever understood
such logic, though he knew his new captain would perfectly understand him
and his true reason for being on the Indie; in time. He surprised the officers
around him by lifting his hat and waving back at the group on the pier as though
he were a court dandy, but as the sails were lowered and the Indie picked
up speed in the water, he turned away, scowling and set his sights on the
water, not once turning back though his name was repeatedly shouted into the
breeze.
"You seem to be quite popular," said Matthews, feeling unusually
comfortable in the presence of the tall, broad shouldered first officer. "It's
always a relief to leave those who don't understand the sea behind. I left
my wife a day ago. I don't regret not having her send me off. All those tears.
I prefer the company of men and a long voyage."
"As do I," Preston replied, in a warm, sincere voice. He stepped
away from the railing, which he'd positioned himself as though fastened to
it, and without asking, took the wheel from Matthews, easily steering the
ship past the rows of war ships, heading toward clear water. "I always
wondered what she would feel like."
"Sir?"
"The Indie. I have always envied Pellew for this post. He and the Indie
were made for one another. He is the perfect bridegroom and she the willing
bride. Yes, I envy him for finding such a love. That is why I wanted to be
on her. To feel what is it like to be on a worthy vessel, with a captain so
easy to respect and admire. I have always admired Captain Pellew. His distinguished
career in the service of His Majesty's fleet is something I would like to
duplicate, if at all possible. Of course some men think old Dreadnaught Foster
is the captain to model themselves after. But I don't agree. Vinegar and hot
air do not when men over. The Indie's crew respect Pellew because he has earned
their respect by example. I should think a man would follow Pellew to the end's
of the earth. Fortunately, the earth is round."
Matthew's realized his jaw was touching the desk when Preston turned toward
him and chuckled softly, good humored, touching a chord inside the sailor that
responded. "I had no idea you felt that way, sir. I'm sure Captain Pellew
would like to hear this."
"Oh, I should never tell him how I truly feel. You get that burden,
Matthews."
"Why me, sir?" The sailor took the wheel back at a nod from the
first officer. It was then he noticed a crowd standing below the quarter deck,
staring up at him and gesturing toward Preston, as though he'd befriended
the Devil himself. "I mean, you made it a point to get off on the wrong
foot with the crew and the captain. Why let me know your true self?"
"I like the scars on the back of your knuckles."
"Sir?"
Preston patted Matthews on the back. "I don't expect to be understood,
Matthews, only obeyed when I give an order. Commanders like Pellew and Foster
are impossible to duplicate, yet men would lay their lives down for them without
batting an eyelid. I would rather the crew dislike me and try their damndest
to earn my affection in battle, than have a group of doe eyed bastards gazing
up at me as though I could save them from a sure death. They expect that of
commanders like Pellew and Foster. That is an anchor I don't want about my neck."
"I still don't follow you, sir," replied Matthews.
"That's alright. I don't expect you too, Matthews.
Taking a double shift, Lt. Commander Preston remained at his post, utilizing
Midshipman Hornblower and his five men until the dawn, and as the sun began
to rise on the far horizon, he finally turned over command of the ship to
Lt. Bowles, allowing Matthews to show him the way to his quarters. His room
was next to the captain's and upon entering his room, shrugging out of his
uniform and lying down in his bed, he heard Pellew's voice, nothing more than
a muttering whisper, coming through the walls and luring him to sleep. He wore
about after a few hours of restless sleep, bathed, put on a clean uniform
which he found half a dozen hanging in his wardrobe, tied back his hair, put
on his hat and stepped out of his room. The moment he came out he found Midshipman
Hornblower waiting for him with an apprehensive look on his face. Preston
brushed passed the handsome young man and headed up the stairs, only to feel
a hand on his sleeve pulling him back. He swung back, his head moving back over
his shoulder, to catch Hornblower's eyes.
"Sir, you are to take inventory of the supplies in the hold."
Preston stared intently at Hornblower. "You must be joking?"
"Captain Pellew's orders. He was...he was expecting you at dinner last
night. He said that he sent Kennedy to find you, but you replied you had other
matters to attend to."
"Indeed. I was at the helm all night. I prefer sailing under the stars."
"I am to go with you."
"Hornblower? That is your name, correct? Hornblower, the last thing
I intend to do is go below deck and muck my new shoes up trotting about in the
briny water and sludge amongst the rats." Preston started for the stairs
and again for a hand on his arm. This time, he whirled around in anger, caught
Hornblower by his shoulders and slammed him up against the bulkhead. The young
man winced in pain but did not fight back as Preston pressed forward, until
there were only an inch separating the two men. His breath hot on Hornblower's
neck, he watched the young man blush and smiled wide. "You are the captain's
pet, I can see. And no wonder. If you want to show me below deck, lad, then
lead the way. I'll follow you."
"I did not mean to anger you, sir."
"Of course you did, Hornblower. But your efforts will not be in vain,"
said Preston, dragging the young man forward by the lapel of his coat.
The first mate shoved Hornblower away from him, laughing when he stumbled,
then waved his hand to indicate he was ready to follow. He fell in behind Hornblower,
keeping on the young man's heels so he moved at a fast pace through the tight
corridors and down a second flight of stairs, then another. In the darkness
of the hold, with only a single lantern in the hands of Hornblower to light
the way, the two men came up against a number of crates lashed together, stacked
against the sides of the vessel on either side. Preston picked up an inventory
list found on top of a crate, glanced over it with a growl, then tossed it
down and leaned back against the crates, his muscular arms crossed over his
chest.
"All is in order. This is merely tack carried onto the ship when we
were birthed in Plymouth. I hardly need to see the contents of the crate."
"You have your orders," whispered Hornblower, glanced toward the
light coming down from the stairwell. He looked ready to bolt but had no time
to exercise his long legs when two hands shot out and caught hold of his arms.
He soon found himself pressed against the crates, with Preston looming over
him dangerously. "The crew is right above. I have only to shout."
"No one will hear you down here, boy. Only the rats."
"Do you expect me to fight you?"
"Is that what you want?" Asked Preston, caressing the side of Hornblower's
jaw. He caught the lad by the chin, while pinning him with one hand flat against
the youth's chest, able to feel the pounding of his heart and the hardness
of his body. He waited for no reply, as none was offered, and allowed his hand
to lightly flutter down the length of Hornblower's body, then slid his long
fingered hand up along his crotch. The young man caught his breath, looking
again toward the stairwell for help, but by then, Preston's lips were at his
neck, and the grip on his genitals had tightened. "I want to make it
clear, boy, who is in command here." He lifted his head and then kissed
Hornblower on his lips, noting they quivered under his own and were as plaint
as he'd imagined. "You are submissive. I like that."
"I will scream," said Hornblower, throatily. "I'll report you."
"To Edward? Won't he be jealous," said Preston, rubbing at Hornblower's
cock until it was hard in his hands. He kept the boy pushed up against the crates
as he unbuttoned and opened the front of his pants. He let Hornblower's fall
to the boy's knees, stroking the length of the hardened cock, letting his fingers
rub across the seeping head, laughing softly. He suddenly yanked Hornblower
into his strong arms, kissing him on the mouth, letting his tongue slide in
and dance with the younger man's, until he felt his prey sag against him with
an audible sigh. He continued to kiss the lad, holding him arched over one
arm, while stroking the length of his cock until it was pulsating with a life
of its own in his hand.
Preston finally pulled back, but before Hornblower could dart away, he jerked
him around, leaning him over a crate and returned his hand to the cradle between
the tight buttocks. He lifted his hand to spit onto his fingers, which returned
to the youth's back entrance, working him gently, then more vigorously until
entry was allowed for several fingers, before releasing an enormous erection
that slapped upwards, eager for action. Horatio glanced over his shoulder
and groaned as he saw the weapon coming toward him, bracing his feet apart,
prepared for a jolt of pain as his ass was rightly plundered by the much larger
first mate. He felt the impact as Preston shoved his full massive length inside,
groaning between clutched teeth, tears watering his eyes, but his pain began
to faded as he felt a gentle rocking behind him. He soon was groaning softly
as the motions quickened, lambasting him fast and urgently, leaving Hornblower
so weak he could barely remain on his feet. He might have collapsed had Preston
not kept him upright, working away at him, building a sweat that covered both
with their efforts, and as the thrusting grew intense, he felt the first mate's
hand on his cock right as he shot out his seed, followed close behind by his
attacker. As he sagged against the crates, too worn out to tug up his own
pants, he felt Preston lift up his britches and dress him. He managed to turn
around and watched as Preston adjusted himself and straightened his clothing.
In an instant, he felt his knees wobble, but he was back in Preston's arms,
being kissed once more, this time tenderly and he closed his eyes for the first
time, allowing a pleasurable warm sensation spread throughout his body.
"I...I must get back up on deck," said Horatio, softly.
"You are lovely. Simply lovely." Preston's blue eyes rover over
Horatio's face. "Did I hurt you, boy? I tried to take it easy. I've been
unable to think of anything else but you since we met. If you tell Edward,
you might warn him how well I am hung. Tell him, won't you?"
"Absolutely not, sir. I would never dream of it."
"But me? Will you dream of me?"
"Yes."
Preston laughed softly. "You did enjoy yourself, I can tell. While I
am a bit of a brute, as well I know, I can also be a very gentle lover. You
will come to my quarters late at night. I'll not take another double shift.
But I will take you again, and regularly. Unless you protest and find me unworthy
to be your lover. Is that the case, Hornblower?"
"No, sir," said the young midshipman, shaking his head. "You
took me be surprise, that's all. I hadn't realized, I mean, I thought you
were a lady's man. What about Pearl?"
"I have a girl in every port. Sometimes more. But I prefer men."
"Captain Pellew...."
"Need know nothing about this. Not about us. I don't like to see jealously
in men, not unless it is over me and not such a pretty young boy as yourself."
Preston stepped back, releasing Hornblower and headed toward the stairs. He
paused and glanced back. "Come along, lad. The inventory is in order and
I need some fresh air. I never liked being in the hold. I suggest you go to
your cabin and rest before you come up. Your eyes are misty. It will be obvious
to your captain what you've been doing if you run up there like that."
Leaving Hornblower to attend to his own needs, Lt. Commander Preston went
about touring the entire vessel, something he had not yet done, taking the time
to introduce himself to the crew still lounging about in their hammocks and
those greasing the cannons, to the young midshipman still off-duty who lingered
in the mess hall playing chess. Preston presented himself in such a friendly
and open manner, playing several games of chess and beating the younger men
within a few moves yet exhibiting no gloating manners, soon started gossip that
spread from port to starboard, aft to stern, leaving the crew in a state of
confusion as to his true character. He was in such fine spirits, so amiable
and polite, that in no time, Matthews and his cohorts started trailing behind
like a royal entourage.
By the time Preston came up top side, Matthews commenced chatting with him
about their destination off the coast of France, where they would be meeting
up with a number of other war ships, including that of Dreadnaught Foster
who was in command of a counter-attack against the enemy. Preston kept the
names of the ship, eight in all, which they would rendevous and avoided giving
the exact coordinates, all which he'd gone over with the Admiralty prior to
boarding the Indie, however, he was concerned that Pellew was not prepared to
confide in him and would bypass him for the lower ranked offers he'd served
with for a longer period of time. As he'd already been in a number of battles,
at least a dozen since spring, and not only survived, but received several distinguished
metals of honor for his bravery, he was anxious to impress upon Captain Pellew
that his first mate was not only a man of honor, but the finest first officer
he might have procured for the Indie. But his ready smile soon faded the moment
he turned into the sun, shielding his eyes with his broad hand and looked
up at the bridge overhead to see none other than Captain Edward Pellew glaring
down at him with obvious disapproval.
"The deck is shined so brightly, sir, that you can see your reflection,"
said Matthews, at the taller man's elbow. He grinned as Preston acknowledged
him, but felt an immediate depressing mood fall upon him which came from the
officer himself, who not only did not look at the shine of the deck, but appeared
to fall into a sudden melancholy air. Matthews glanced at his friends, Styles,
Oldroyd and Bunting, shrugging when Preston said nothing further and stiffly
walked away from them, heading up the stairs to the upper deck. "That is
a man of many thoughts," replied the old sailor. "He's as deep and
mysterious as the wide blue ocean."
Styles snorted. "He's an elitist snob that should be lined up against
a wall and shot."
"You're a bit hard on him. Didn't you see how he made the younger officers,
even the cabin boys, feel proud about serving the Indie?" Matthews glared
at his poxed face friend and thumbed him in the chest. "You're problem
is you're not a man of vision. He is, that Commander Preston, and I have every
confidence he'll soon win over Captain Pellew."
"Not bloody likely," snicked Styles, elbowing Oldroyd in the side,
while Bunting hung his head, looking greatly troubled for he apparently liked
the tall officer. He fell silent as Midshipman Hornblower darted out of the
hold and came up onto desk, tugged his hat low on his brow as Preston wore his
own, and walked past the sailors as light on his feet as though he walked
on a cloud, with a large smile on his handsome face and a blush on his cheeks.
Styles let out a low whistle and gave Matthews a shove in the back. "Another
one he's won over like he was almighty God himself. That Preston is a trickster.
Reminds me of the Devil himself, with all the mind games he plays on the men
and the captain. What's he after, anyway, Matthews?"
"He's here to fight the French. Leave 'em be, Styles."
"I'm not panting after him like Hornblower!"
"I said that's enough, Styles," growled Matthews. "Commander
Preston is a gentleman. Your kind can't understand what is going on inside
his head. Besides, you're too damn ugly for him to waste time explaining it
all to you any how." He laughed when Styles darted him a furious look but
his amusement was short-lived, for Lt. Bowles arrived with orders from Captain
Pellew to send them all into the rigging above, as the wind was picking up
and the billowing sails required additional attention with the makings of a
storm at sea brewing.
The moment Robert Preston arrived at the upper desk, pushed by a strong September
breeze, his mood had blackened and a sour expression turned down the corners
of his mouth. By the time he reached Captain Pellew's side, he was a fright
to behold and those officers closest to their commander gathered close around
him, blocking Preston from approaching. Instead of causing a scene, Preston
walked up to the railing and calmly looked down at the men polishing the desk,
noting it was gleaming brightly, and that the men were eager for him to notice.
He merely smiled but this was noticed and the sailors seemed more enthusiastic
about their chores.
"We should be seeing Dreadnaught Foster's ship by now," said Hornblower,
coming up beside Preston, as friendly as a puppy wanting the attention of its
master. He stood as straight and tall as possible, but still stood several
inches under Preston. The older man turned his way and smiled at him thinly,
bringing a fine blush to the youth's cheeks.
"He'll not be looking for us," replied Robert Preston. "Not
with a tempest about to unleash its wrath upon us. But tell the men to keep
their eyes open. We'll either run into Foster and the British Fleet or we'll
find ourselves smack dab in the middle of the French or Spanish. Either way,
we're in for one helluva storm, Mr. Hornblower."
"There is not a cloud in the sky."
"Feel that wind, it's a northeasterly wind, and it will bring waves
that will toss this old frigate about like a children's toy ship in a bath tub."
Preston felt eyes boring into his back, knew it was Pellew and deliberately
placed his hand on Hornblower's shoulder. "Go below, lad, and make certain
everything is tied up good and tight. And you might mention to the lads in
the rigging above to finish up and get down. There is water on the wind. It
will be raining within the hour."
"Commander Preston?!"
The voice of Sir Edward Pellew cut through the breeze like a knife. Midshipman
Hornblower caught the attention of his best friend, Kenney, and the two scampered
off, leaving Robert Preston to fend for himself, while the other officers
backed far out of the way and pretended to take interest in the grey cast on
the far horizon. Preston remained at the railing, merely turning his head,
watching Pellew as he joined him and gripped the wooden rail until his knuckles
turned white. With half a smile on his handsome face, Preston placed his own
hands on the railing, keeping that closest to Pellew nothing more than a hair's
breadth away, so that as the ship rolled on the growing waves, the sides of
their hands touched. A soft sigh came from Pellew that ended at the touch of
Preston's blue eyes on his face, and warming under the other man's stare,
the captain quickly removed the hand burning from his first officer's caress,
and placed it behind his back. He kept his eyes forward, refusing to look
at his first officer and give him any satisfaction in the least. But Preston
sighed as well, completely undoing Pellew and he finally turned toward him,
biting his bottom lip to keep from blushing with excitement.
"Our latitude is in line with the town of Cologne off the French coast.
I'd said we are put ten nautical miles from Foster. There is a warmer current
off of Cologne that he'll weigh anchor in, while we are stuck in the middle
of a current straight off the North Sea."
"Commander Preston, I am aware of all this," replied Pellew, his
dark brown eyes filled with angst. "You are quite the character, aren't
you? First you come on board acting as swell headed as any peacock, and now
this snake charmer's act, which you perform quite well. I half believe you are
sincere, Commander Preston. But you are put me on guard and I shall not forget
you wear a mask."
"Not by choice," Preston offered. "I come from a long line of
seamen. My father and grandfather were both admirals. I went to boarding school
at the age of four. My mother said I was gifted, but my father never liked
me. I was beaten regularly at school, not by fault of my own, but under the
instruction of my father, as his father had ordered done to him, and so on
and so forth. If it had not been for the navy, I think I might have turned
into a criminal."
"You jest."
"Do I? Can't you see me as a pirate, sailing the pristine blue waters
of the Caribbean? I fear Captain Theodore Gantry always feared I'd mutiny and
take his ship to Martinique. Of course, when he challenged me to a duel while
we docked at Calais for repairs, I had no other choice but to defend myself.
Gantry was drunk, when wasn't he, and it was easy enough to defeat him by
beating him over the head with a large cologne." Preston chuckled but
he fell silent when Pellew remained silent. "I am jesting now, Captain.
I am not a pirate and I never bludgeoned my commander with a cologne."
"Be quiet, sir. You make my head reel with all your magpie chattering.
I think I preferred you indifferent and glib," said Sir Edward Pellew,
pausing to breath in deeply of the salty breeze, and with the roll of his
ship on large wave, he careened into Preston. As the man's hands caught him
by the arms, supporting him and keeping him steady on his feet, he allowed
himself to indulge in the strength of Preston, yet it was a luxury he could
not afford to enjoy long and he finally withdrew.
"I am sorry, sir," said Preston, in a soft voice. "Perhaps you
should go below during the storm. You'll only get wet."
"I can manage," snapped Pellew. "In case you weren't aware of
this, I did very well without you and will do even better once you've been
made captain. The Indie will certainly be more peaceful without you. You are
nothing short of a major distraction, as the odd behavior of my midshipmen can
attest to. You walk a thin line between the crew's love and hate, Commander
Preston. I wonder how they'll feel about you when they see your true colors?"
Grabbing hold of the railing once more, Edward Pellew inwardly winced as
he felt the man's arm brush against his own, which he felt certain was deliberate.
He was certain Charles Foster had sent him the handsome demon to test him.
As he'd known Foster in an intimate manner in the past, on several occasions
which he now regretted, he imagined his adversary wanted to see if he would
weak and had sent him an Adonis with the soul of Loki to tempt him.
While he'd vowed not to involve himself with any man on his own ship, apart
from his private relationship with Horatio Hornblower, he'd not indulged in
sexual privacies with any other sailor but he did strongly desire Preston;
and he feared the lady's man knew it and would mock him if by chance he learned
how Pellew truly felt. This would never happen, thought Pellew, vowing to
keep his secret longings to himself.
A shout from the crow's nest brought all eyes on deck up to the main mast,
where Styles hung by his foot from the rigging, screaming and thrashing, doing
himself no service as he wiggled like a fish out of water. Pellew noticed
at once, bellowing orders, sending Hornblower up the side net on the port side,
while two more men headed up on the starboard side. Styles let out a scream
as his foot began to slip out of the knotted rope hooked around his ankle.
A hat was thrust into Pellew's chest, then a jacket was tossed over the railing,
while a pair of shoes clattered out of the way. Reaching out for the nearest
line, Preston cut it low with a knife and hanging on with one hang, the half-clad
first officer jumped off of the bridge and swung across the desk, while men
moved out of the way to give him room. He hit the netting hard but well over
ten feet higher than Hornblower and scrambled like a monkey up the net.
"I'm slipping!"
A large hand darted out and caught Styles by the ankle as he slipped out
of the knot and started to fall toward the deck. Muscles straining, his teeth
flashing, Commander Preston hung onto the rigging with one hang, his feet
entangled in the net for better grip, while he hauled Styles to safety. He up
righted the man before Hornblower arrived on the scene and once Styles was
holding onto the ropes, Preston patted him on the shoulder and started to
climb down to the desk under a loud applause and cheering from the men. He took
the crew's praise all in stride, merely smiling at the lads thinly, as he
hurried across the desk, waves crashing upwards across the sides of the desk
and wetting his thin white shirt so it clung to his massive chest and broad
shoulders. By the time he gave orders for the rope he's cut to be tied off
at a short angle, causing the aft mast no hindrance by loosening it, and rejoined
Captain Pellew and several officers at the bridge, Robert Preston was soaked
to the skin.
"Here is your hat," replied Pellew, handing the item to his first
officer. He was so stunned by what he's seen, that he could neither thank
nor praise the man. He watched as Preston put his coat on over his wet clothes,
slipped into his shoes, then put on his hat, making no fuss at the state of
his dampness. In fact, by what Pellew could see, it appeared his first mate
actually thrived on danger and was as pleased to be wet as dry. He suddenly
felt himself relax and turned toward the storm, facing it as it swept across
the prow of the Indie, finding it a bit more thrilling than normal, which
he knew was largely due to his first mate.
The storm continued to howl through the next few days, sending the Indie
far off its course and away from the English fleet waiting for them. Eventually,
the French coast was sited and the worn crew persisted in their nagging at
Commander Preston, until he sent word to Pellew, resting below in his quarters,
that he was seeking shelter from the storm. Under his orders, the Indie drew
close to the French shoreline and set anchor in a quiet bay, while the gale
howled further out beyond the breakers. He sent several men aloft to battle
against the wind in order to keep a look out on the beach, least they be ambushed,
and dismissed as many as possible from their duties on deck, sending them
below to their hammocks or the mess hall for hot grub. He remained on deck long
enough to ensure the Indie was in no imminent danger, and leaving Lt. Bowles
in charge, he went to his own quarters to change his clothes.
A light tap on his door and his weary reply brought in Horatio Hornblower.
The midshipman waited until Preston was undressed, before he flung himself into
the other man's strong arms, kissing his jawline and hugging him close. Preston
kissed Horatio sweetly on the mouth and drew him over to his bed. He chuckled
when the young midshipman insisted that he lay down and bent down over Preston's
hips, his mouth closing over the first mate's enormous erect cock. Hornblower
worked his magic upon the giant, bringing him to orgasm within a relatively
short time, but Preston was not at all through and finally yanked the lad down
onto his chest, his hands eagerly fishing within the other's britches until
he located the hardened prick and drew it out.
They toyed with one another at length, before Preston finally rolled Horatio
gently onto his stomach, using a lubricant he always carried with him that was
normally for waxing a moustache he'd never bothered to grow, and when ready,
he entered the young man. As they'd met late at night for the last few days,
always in secret and while the crew was on deck, Preston took deliberate measures
to keep Horatio quiet while he rocked against his white buttocks, bringing
the lad to the fringes of ecstasy each time before pulling back. However, he
took little notice in the fact that each time he thrust against Horatio, that
the young man's head thumped against the wall of Captain Pellew's quarters.
As Preston felt himself ready to come, he increased his pounding against Horatio,
and when at last he shot his sticky warmth into the young man, he saw Horatio
spray his wall in white goo. He laughed and allowed Horatio to collapse on
his bed, flipped a blanket over him and washed up.
"I think I love you," said Horatio, batting his eyes from where he
lay upon the pillow. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, shivering in the
nude, for it was colder inside than outside where a light rain pelted at the
closed porthole window. His lips quivered as he spoke and tears made his eyes
misty as he looked up with utter adoration at the tall first mate.
"You're a child," replied Preston. "Love to you is nothing more
than soft clouds and shades of pink. When you are ten years older and say
that to another man, you will mean it then, Horatio." He leaned down
and brushed away a tear from the lad's check. "I am very fond of you. It's
because of you that I can even smile on this ship. I'd tell you more, but
I think you'd rather float awhile in your daydreams of love and romance, and
that is just as well, for when you are a boy, you should indulge in your fantasies.
You have time enough later to know bitterness and rejection, as I have, dear
Horatio. So for now, go ahead and say that you love me, and it shall be our
little secret, hmm?"
"Don't laugh. I do love you. It's true. After what you did for Styles
today, everyone loves you now, sir."
"Very well, Horatio. I won't argue with you, lad. Not over love."
"But you are going? Where are you going?" Asked Horatio, sitting
up and pushing a strange of dark hair from his forehead. "You have been
on duty for hours. Why don't you come to bed with me? I'm not at all tired."
"Stay where you are then," said Preston. "I won't be long. But
I promised to join your captain for dinner. I have yet to dine with him. Nor
have I been invited to his quarters before. Lt. Bowles said I was not to be
late. It's already a minute past my appointment." He reached down and cupped
his large tan hand around Horatio's chin. "You are so pretty, lady. Why
don't you dress and join your friends in the mess hall? I don't like you waiting
for me."
"But I don't mind."
"No, you wouldn't. You are a good lad." Preston sat down, indulging
the boy in his fantasies and lifted him up by the shoulders to kiss his soft
lips. "You smell good. If I don't get out of here and now, I won't leave
at all. Would you have me whipped for my transgressions?"
"I don't mind the scars on your back."
"Horatio, you are so completely mine, that I wonder where you've gone,
lad. You follow after me like a pet dog. You watch my every move. It's so obvious
how you feel, that I am quite certain everyone knows we are lovers. Matthews
looks at me a bit oddly, and I know your friend, Kennedy, is jealous of us.
I suspect Pellew might be too. And speaking of Pellew, I really must go, Horatio."
Preston kissed Horatio one last time, then rose to his immense 6'5"
and headed toward the door, giving the coat of his uniform one final jerk down.
He winked at Horatio and then went out, closing the door behind him. Once
outside his own room, with a cold breeze on his face coming down the stairs
from the upper deck, he found he could barely walk the short distance to Captain
Pellew's quarters. The hallway was empty. He went to Pellew's door and knocked
loudly. The soft reply from within was clearly Pellew's voice, but there was
something negative in the sound of it that upset Preston before he opened
the door. When he did and entered the well lit room, finding Pellew standing
at the large windows at the stern of the ship, he found that it was difficult
to move his legs, as though they were cast in iron. He dragged himself into
the room and noted the table was set with a white cloth and made for two. A
glass of wine had already been poured for him and another across the table
was half full. He downed his wine and set the glass down, surprised to find
that his hand was shaking.
"You did ask that I join you for dinner?" Preston heard his own deep
voice but didn't recognize it, for it was quaking with sounded to him like
unabashed fear. He expected a reply and when he received only silence, he
refilled his wine glass down it, then still ignored, he walked over and finished
off Pellew's. "The wine is French. A war prize, hmm? I helped myself
to your glass. In fact, I think I'll drink the whole god damn bottle while
you stare out that window like a fretting fish wife."
"Sit down," barked Pellew, without turning around.
"Didn't you hear me?"
"And pipe down, Commander Preston. I have more on my mind than worrying
about whether or not you like the damn wine served with your damn meal."
Pellew crossed his arms and half turned his head so the side of his face was
revealed. "That was a ridiculous stunt you pulled out there, and not unlike
the antics of an ape in a zoo, but it was not the conduct of a first officer,
and especially not a captain in his Majesty's Royal Navy."
"I saved Styles life."
"And made an ass out of yourself in the process. If I wanted my first
officer to careen across the desk like an ape, I'd have asked you to dress the
part in a fur coat."
Preston filled up his glass of wine and let the red liquid spill onto the
white table cloth, his anger risen to the surface and bubbling to get out. He
downed the wine as he sat down heavily in a wooden chair, bumping the table
in the process and sending candle wax flipping onto the cloth and a plate of
rolls. He cared not if the bread was spoiled, nor the cloth, downed his wine
and poured another glass. Pellew had not looked at him yet. Dressed so formally,
in his best uniform, his black shoes polished to a sheen, Pellew looked ready
to receive royalty, but for Preston, he acted the ass and entirely destroyed
any semblance of a friendly accord between the two, thus spoiling the meal
about to be served.
"This is our first meal together," said Preston, trying hard to
remain cool. "Will you sit down with me or continue to heckle me from the
bloody sidelines?"
"Hold your tongue," snarled Pellew.
"I'll not be addressed in this fashion. I'm warning you. Tread carefully."
"You are warning me?" Pellew finally spun around, his hands on his
hips, his face lined with a contorted mask of rage. "How dare you talk
to me in that fashion? We are not equals! I am your captain. You are the first
mate. Yet, you continue to parade around this ship as if the Indie was your
own piss pot. I won't have it, Preston. I won't have you grandiosing your
rank about as if you were a peacock in mating season, and I won't have you
riding my midshipman as if they were your damn breeding mares. You think I don't
hear. You think these walls are thick. Every night and morning I hear you
grunting away like the rutting boar you are in the next room. All for my benefit
I supposed. And you think I won't care. You think I'll have nothing to say
on the matter and will let you have your way with Hornblower and the others."
"There are no others," countered Preston, growling at the back of
his throat. He tossed down the glass of wine and suddenly realized he was
already quite drunk. "I might have had a go at one of your men. The prettiest
and the sweetest. But I won't name names. I'm surprised you are, for now you've
revealed that you are in fact jealous and that Hornblower was at one time
your lover."
"You pig," snarled Pellew. "Get out! Get out before I thrash
you!"
Preston rose to his feet, shoving back the table and knocking over both wine
glasses and a great many number of the cutlery which clanked or broke upon the
deck. He kicked back his chair, sending it crashing back into the closed door,
then stalked over to Pellew, wanting desperately to strangle him, but instead
he clasped his hands behind his back.
"I'll have you on report for this, I swear I will," Pellew continued.
"Never before in all my naval career have I sent such a performance as
you've provided us. I'm sure Foster is laughing his fool head off. And I'd
blame you for the damn storm that put us off course if I didn't now it was the
hand of God and not your own that caused it."
"Oh...."
"This is all you have to say about your gross misconduct. And if you'd
fallen and cracked your skull, damn you, Preston, where would the Indie be then?
Without a first mate and dangerously close to enemy lines? You put your own
glorification before the welfare of this ship and her crew, and you think I'll
thank you for this? I'd rather dine with a Spanish man-of-war, and I do mean
the jellyfish, Preston, for seeing you across the table, will surely give
me a worse case of indigestion that I already have since meeting you."
Pellew's rage started to fade as he took a deep breath and again crossed his
arms over his chest. "You heard me. I said to get out. Are you incapable
of obeying my direct orders?" He smiled when Preston shook his head.
"You are dismissed, Commander Preston. You may dine in the mess hall,
as usual."
Preston stared down at him, his hands twisting at his sides, frustrated.
As Pellew fell silent and his ferocious barking subsided, Preston turned to
go, but another barb in his side brought him to an immediate standstill when
he heard, "Without a doubt, you are the most disappointing officer that
has ever step foot on the Indie." The rancor in Pellew's voice brought
tears to his eyes and his battle against his own rage was immediately lost.
Before he could stop himself, he laid hands upon his captain, grabbing him by
the shoulders as he pushed him back up against the wall. He hissed through
his clenched teeth directly in the face of Pellew, jerking the older man into
his embrace and without warning, he kissed him on the lips.
He moved fast as he kept Pellew penned against the wall, using one arm like
a board to hold him, while he lowered his hand and fished into the front of
the captain's pants. He felt his fingers brushed across a flaccid penis, and
finding it so in a state of slumber enraged him more than Pellew's hostile and
cruel words. Ripping open the front of Pellew's white slacks, he knelt down
on his knees, jerked the small member out of its berth, and smothered it with
his hot kisses and the laps of his long, quick tongue, before pulling it in
to suckle upon, bringing it to full attention. Hard and thick in his hand,
Pellew's swollen prick reminded him of a Polish sausage as he engorged himself
upon it, drawing it completely down his throat, working it while he felt Pellew's
fingers in his hair, holding him captive against his rutting hips. He grasped
Pellew's ass in both of his hands, holding him firm while he sucked and pulled
on the cock thrust down his throat, keeping at it, until he felt the veins
begin to rumble. Aware that the captain was about to come, he held onto him
fast when Pellew would have pulled away, taking in the semen as it shot into
his throat, gulping it down and continuing to suck long after he heard the
captain cry out for him to stop. He finally released Pellew, drawing back
quickly, so the other man fell against the wall, subsequently unsupported. He
stood up and turned his back on Pellew, wiping his hand across his mouth as
though in disgust, then he crossed to the table and drank directly from the
wine bottle until he'd finished the last drops. Then Preston belched.
"Well, Captain Pellew," he said without turning to see what his
commander was doing, "I thank you for the supper. It is not normally enough
to cure my appetite, however, in this instance, I feel quite appeased. And
I might add, it was a very fine vintage. Not the wine, of course."
The door to the room suddenly opened, then came the knock, and a sailor in
an apron came in carrying a tray. Preston blocked the captain who stood behind
him and caught the sailor's eyes, nodding for the other to set the tray down
and be gone. He followed after the sailor, keeping him moving and not allowing
him to try to steal a glance at Pellew, and when he'd secured the door, he
finally turned back but only to look at the tray of food.
"You shouldn't waste good food. I'll send Hornblower to you. You can
at least be civil to the boy and allow him a good meal."
"...fine," came Pellew's soft reply.
"Fine. Well, I'm certainly glad everything is fine between us."
Preston took a step out of the door, then tucking his chin down, he turned back
enough so his hiss could plainly be heard. "You ever treat me like a
midshipman again and I'll treat you like a common whore." With that, he
slammed the door shut, went to his own room, roused the young man, bid him
dress but before Horatio was up, he grabbed a cigar out of a drawer and went
up on deck to smoke.
On the following morning, a shout went up on the deck of the Indie, a lookout
having spotted the English vessels sailing in line toward a destination noted
on a map in Captain Pellew's quarters. After a brief meeting with his officers,
Pellew ordered the crew to assume battle readiness, relaying messages to Foster's
ship through flags. The ships headed eastward and as prior advised by a reliable
envoy, they found a convoy of French vessels escorting merchant vessels toward
friendly shores. With Foster in the lead, the English vessels assumed a t-shaped
formation and confronted the French ship, totally a dozen, in a swarm. Foster's
ship opened fired, hitting a French frigate broadside, the signal an open
invitation for the English ships to commence a barrage that soon left half her
ships in flame and headed toward the bottom of the sea. Those that attempted
to run, letting their sails down in full to catch the hearty breeze, were
picked off individually by the Indie and two other smaller war ships.
Captain Pellew, flanked by Commander Preston and a line of officers who echoed
orders down to the seaman at the cannons and the Marines firing back at the
enemy from the rigging, soon closed in on the last of the French ships. A
succession of volleys from the port side brought the main mast toppling down
from the French vessel and her prow began to sink into the water. Giving Commander
Preston the order he'd been waiting for since coming to the Indie to board
the enemy vessel, Pellew watched as young Midshipman Hornblower hurried off
to follow his hero, not across planks hurriedly thrown onto the French ship,
but by cutting the rigging, as did other Indie sailors. The Indie crew led
by Preston swung across like pirates and landed on the desk of the flame engulfed
ship, fighting hand-to-hand with the French, overpowering them.
With a loud groan, the French ship seemed to rip apart where the main mast
had fallen, splitting open, allowing a wall of water on either side to enter
the cabins below. The ship groaned and commenced to quickly sink, while the
British crew quickly scrambled back to the Indie, taking only a few prisoners
who put up no resistance. Frenchmen unwilling to be taken as prisoners, jumped
into the boiling water, some being sucked down, while others drifted off and
disappeared in the choppy sea.
Preston was the last man to leave the French vessel and he swung back on
a robe, casually, as though he was unaware that the ship he'd left was finally
sucked down into the water with a loud groan, vanishing accept for a lone
flag that floated off on a wave. As soon as he set foot on the Indie, the crew
rallied around him, cheering lustily and hoisted the large blonde officer
onto their shoulders, parading him about the deck as the hero of the day.
Once Preston was set back down on the hard planks of the deck, he embraced those
of the crew he thought the most outstanding in battle, including Horatio Hornblower,
a cut on his cheek now dried, a token of honor for his bravery. He alone was
hugged the hardest by Preston and twirled about, before being offered to the
rest of the crew to be patted and embraced.
"The day is our's lads,"shouted Preston, waving at the men, before
he started to walk back through the carnage and mangled bodies on the deck.
He helped severely sailors rise to their feet, each wounded, shouting for
the surgeon to attend them, moving on and up the stairs to join his fellow officers
and the captain who stood next to Matthews at the helm. "That was a bit
of fine sport for the day. Eh, Captain Pellew?"
"Well done, Commander Preston."
"I'd have claimed the French flag for you, however, I was not in the
mood to go down with their ship. She went fast," Preston commented, patting
several lower officers on the shoulders. He whispered a few orders, sending
off a number of men to help the wounded and restore order on the Indie. His
spirits were high and a smile dominated his face that spread from ear to ear.
He patted each man on the back as the passed, then at last, saluted his captain
and assumed a relaxed position against the fail to wipe the beads of perspiration
from his face with a kerchief. The cloth came away covered with black soot
and blood. "I seem to be wounded."
"It's not your blood," said Pellew. "But the man you decapitated
with your sword. I saw the blood spray from here. You are a blood thirsty
one, Commander Preston. If ever you find yourself out of the navy, you'll
make a very effective swashbuckler."
"Coming from you, I'll take that as high praise."
Pellew studied his first mate closely. He lifted his hand before he realized
what he was doing and brushed off debris from the officer's jacket. But when
he caught Preston staring back at him, confused and annoyed, he dropped his
hand. "Go see to the men. I'll expect you at dinner. Foster is sure to
come aboard. I'm sure you have a great deal to say to him."
"Do you intend for me to be the entertainment? I wouldn't like Foster
to hear a bad report on my abilities. I have, sir, served the Indie and her
captain to the best of my abilities."
"And pulled the crew this way and that with your damnable mood swings.
You have more contrary moods than the most fickle of women. It does concern
me."
With a sigh, Preston glanced down at his bloody hands and suddenly shivered.
"I wouldn't expect you to understand me, sir. No one does. Least of all
my father. I should have liked for him to have seen me made captain before
his death. Alas, the old bastard died last winter, so he'll have to be content
to know I've done my share of killing." He looked off at the horizon,
watching the last of the French vessels sink to the bottom of the sea, and
suddenly, without provocation wiped a string of tears off his cheek. He caught
Pellew watching him and put on a phoney smile, but the captain saw through
it and eventually he let it slide off his chiseled face and assumed his other
mask, the sour look of a prima dona. "I reek of death. I'll see to the
men before I retire to my cabin to clean up. I wouldn't want Foster to see
me like this."
"You care so much for Foster?" Inquired Pellew, unable to restrain
the edge of anger in his voice. "That arrogant bastard nearly allowed
the French convoy to slip away from us. But you did well today, Preston. Very
well. I can now say that I am impressed."
"Are you?" Preston placed his hands behind his back, disgusted by
the blood. "I wouldn't imagine I could ever impress you. I remember seeing
you the first time, back when I was at the academy, when you arrived one day
to give a lecture to my class. I saw you next when you served on the Agamemnon.
My tenure as midshipman lasted on a few months before I was promoted to a
lieutenant second class. It was Foster who signaled me out from the Highlander
and arranged for me to be assigned to the Black Prince. I served there for four
years, the longest I served on any vessel, which perhaps you did not know,
was my father's own ship. I would have preferred to have spent those years
in the brig." He caught Pellew's eyes. "It was while I was on that
ship that I learned to hate those in authority. My father enjoyed using fear
to command his men and he had no qualms at using the lash. Even on his son."
"I didn't know."
"No. Foster doesn't even know, and he's been more of a father to me
than my own, I can assure you. When he would ask why I was such a moody fellow,
I told him...well, I shouldn't bother you with my reminiscing. I know my company
is tedious for you. I shall therefore go see to the men." Preston reached
up for his hat, felt it missing, and glanced toward the water, feeling a bit
lost without it. He suddenly laughed but it sounded hollow to Pellew. "At
least my hair is not messed and still in a tail. Excuse me, sir. I have much
to do before dinner."
"I'll notify you with Captain Foster arrives."
"That would be good of you."
Preston saluted once more and walked off, his shoulders slumped. He returned
to the men still being lifted up off the ground and taken down to the hold for
medical attention. One young lad whose leg had been blown clean off, remained
near his lost leg, crying hysterically. It took only one quick move and Preston
had the young man in his arms, cradling him like a child, then carried him
down below. He assisted the surgeon, acting as nurse, up to his elbows in
blood and was feeling a bit faint from the stench and the heat in the hold,
when Midship Hornblower found him and offered him a cool cup of water. Preston
took a sip, then handed it over to the surgeon, assuming he was far more thirstier
than the two and being correct. As he ordered several seamen to take his place
to aid the exhausted surgeon, only then did he leave with Hornblower, throwing
his arm about the lad's shoulder, relying on him for support.
"You overworked yourself," said Horatio. "I am worried about
you."
"Don't scold as me. I was needed here. When you reach the age of twenty-nine,
young Horatio, and have seen as much death as I have, you will know then why
I always put the crew first after a battle. I have the luxury of my own room.
I can shut out the dark images, but they, they have to live with it day in and
day out."
Horatio nodded. "I understand. I really do. But Foster is already here
with several other captains. They are with Pellew now. You are to join them
as soon as possible. But I think you should rest. You're about to drop."
"Not with your sound shoulder to lean against." Preston smiled
thinly. Horatio looked up at him, tears in his eyes. "Now boy, how can
I keep a stiff upper lip if you're going to shed womanly tears. I'm fine.
I promise. I'm just a little tired."
"I...I heard what you told Captain Pellew. About your father."
"That bloody bastard."
"The captain?"
"No, my father, may his soul rot in hell for all eternity."
His blue eyes hardened to pin points and he grumbled to himself as they made
their way through the ship to the officer's quarters. He threw open his door
himself, mindful that a number of lower ranked officers were hovering outside
of the officer's mess where dinner was to be served, saying nothing to provoke
the unwanted attention of strangers while Hornblower maneuvered him inside.
Collapsing on the bed, he could do little but watch as Horatio went about
removing Preston's clothes and cleaning him as best he could with a wet rage.
He then set out a fresh uniform for the first officer, but when he turned,
Preston was fast asleep. He would do nothing else but shake him awake.
"I'm sorry, Robert. You really must get read."
"Robert. You called me Robert."
Horatio licked his lips. "Am I not entitled to that right?"
"Aye, lad. You are. You are my dear friend." Preston sighed heavily.
Dark rings hung under his eyes like scimitars. "Get me dressed as best
you can. You need to sit down yourself for a while. I've worn you out having
you drag around my big frame around this ship."
"I don't mind," said Horatio. "I love you, sir. You can do no
wrong in my eyes."
"I'm a brute and you should admit it, instead of pretending otherwise."
Rising to his feet, Preston stripped off the last of his underclothes, took
the wet rag from Horatio and went to the basin to clean, following his frenzy
with a rush to put on his clothes. Horatio noticed the scars across Preston's
shoulders and shivered, as all the while, the first mate he worshiped muttered
under his breath, allowing him to hear his thoughts. "This well not go
well. Not with Foster and Pellew in the same bloody room together. In Foster
will keep his mouth shut, maybe then, only then, but if he starts dragging
up my father, if he tells, then I'll have no choice but to blow his god damn
brains out."
"Sir?"
"What? What is it, Horatio? You think I like the baggage I carry around.
Do you think I damn well like the fact that I could never live up to my father's
expectations? Every time I see my back, it all comes rushing back to me. I
feel them on my skin, those scars, and every day I'm reminded of the cursed
black goat who sired me. Only Foster ever understood. Oh, I think he suspected
all along that I'm bitter, so he has done his best to interfere in my career,
sending me to ships and captains he think will be the most lenient. The most
lenient. As if I care whether or not I am ever captain."
"But you do....you say it all the time. I have heard you. So have the
men. You have always said you wanted to be captain more than anything else."
"Did I say that? I must be losing my mind in my old age."
"You're hardly old," said Horatio, starting to get angry. "And
I don't like the way you are right now, acting so sorry for yourself, I could
almost puke my guts out hearing it. I like you better the other way, when
you are confident and brash and care little how anyone else feels. That's the
man who led us over to take the French ship. That's the man who saved Styles.
I don't know you when you are gloomy and moody. I don't understand you at
all."
"No. I don't understand myself either, Horatio. That's why I try to
smile, so no one knows that inside there is nothing. Nothing at all but memories
of the past." Finished with his dressing, he pushed Horatio aside to
assess himself in the mirror. "Damn, I am handsome. You are right. What
reason do I have to be so down in the mouth? I am the perfect specimen. You
have said so yourself while you languish under me in my bed."
"What is it?" Horatio followed the well dressed officer to his door.
He grabbed Preston by the arm, holding him back. "I want an answer from
you. I demand to know why you are the way you are. I want to know. I...I have
to know. Otherwise, I won't sleep all night."
Straightening his coat one last time, Preston reached out for the latch and
growled when Horatio threw his arms around his tall, lean body to prevent him
from leaving. He turned around, angry, and caught Horatio by the arms. Seeing
the tears on the boy's cheek, his look softened before his grip, then he held
Horatio tenderly, stroking his hair as he would a child.
"I can't tell you, lad. I want too. But I can't. It's something I have
to keep inside of me and never let out. If you knew, if you knew what was inside,
I doubt you'd love me anymore."
"How can it be that bad?"
"It can be bad," snapped Preston. He set Horatio back. "Damn
it all, it can be so bad that the only way to deal with it is to take it to
the grave with me. I can tell no man or I shall be damned for all times. Don't
you understand?" He turned away. "I am cursed, Horatio. And if I ever
become captain, if I ever do, then I have no doubt that within a few years,
if that long, I shall end up the same way as my father did, stabbed in the back
by a man who hated him for being the cruel, cold-hearted bastard that he was.
Now leave it alone. I told you more than I intended. And if I hear word of
these amongst the crew, you'll be sorry you ever knew me, boy. Do you understand?
Keep your tongue quiet. If you love me, you'll do that at the very least."
"I swear I'll tell no one. But....?"
"The officers on the Black Prince swore before a board of inquiry that
he was murdered by a Spaniard. That is who we were at war with then. That is
who was blamed. But they never caught the fellow," said Preston, letting
it all out in a whisper. "Now let me go before I fall into a heap. I have
a performance to put on, and you, you need to have some super and better company
than I can afford you right now, lad. Wish me luck, hmm? I shall need it."
Arriving at the formal dinner, Preston was shown in by an ensign and seated
mid-table, nestled between two first officers with a lackluster shine about
them, while Foster was seated at one end of the long table, as was Pellew,
looking reasonably relaxed after a skirmish. Wine was served, French, and the
conversation went around the table as the captains traded stories about the
heroics performed on their ships during the battle. All the officers seated
were in good spirits and a fine atmosphere of camaraderie was shared at the
table, until it came to Commander Preston to revel in his own triumphs that
day. Having already shaken the hand of every man there, as well as embracing
Foster, Preston felt he'd done his duty. He took little pleasure in the company
of so many captains who reminded him far too much of his own father, the man
he still hated, and he wondered to himself how he ever though he'd be happy
in one of their uniforms.
"We've already heard how ferocious Preston fought today for you, Pellew.
But let's here it from him. Preston is always good for a story about his own
adventures," stated Captain Charles Foster, his eyes merrily running
up and down Preston's handsome features, while sipping on his wine which he
continually held up to be refilled by one of the Indie midshipmen.
Picking up his own wine glass, aware Edward Pellew was watching him, he gave
the performance of his life, relating how he and the Indie crew boarded the
French frigate like a band of pirates, cutting a swatch through their line,
as the ship commenced to sink around them. He told the story so well that the
men toasted not only his exploits, but Captain Pellew and the Indefatigable
several times. Several more bottles of wine were brought in, along with the
meal, through which Foster traded stories with Preston, entertaining the officers
soundly. By the time cigars and port were broken out and the lower officers
dismissed, Preston was only too relieved to be allowed to fall quiet while
the captains spoke amongst one another, allowing the first mates to drift out
of the room and chat on the landing, if so deserved. But Preston, after bidding
goodnight to his peers, retired to his quarters and shedding his uniform,
collapsed on the bed, burying his face in his pillows, an image of his father
tormenting him until he feel asleep.
Somewhere between midnight and dawn, Preston woke up with a start. He was
covered in a fine sheen of sweat and his hands were trembling so much he had
to place them under his rump to keep them still. He lay quietly, listening
to the creaks and groans made by the ship, then with a growl, he slammed his
fist into the side of the wall several times until it stung. He tried to close
his eyes and return to sleep, but his hand was killing him and all he could
see was his father standing there, his back to his son, laughing as a midship
man was strung out and beaten by the crew with batons, until he was black
and blue, until he was nearly dead, all covered with blood and his screams
filling the air. And that's when Preston had struck the death blow.
"I can't take it anymore," he said out loud, convinced that through
the wall separating his room from Pellew's, that he could hear the chuckling
of Foster. The longer he listened, the angrier he grew as jealously clinched
at his heart, ripping it from his chest, as he imagined Pellew lounging in Foster's
rough embrace, while the two rolled over one another in his dear captain's
bunk. He suddenly sat up in bed and threw his long legs off the side, his
feet touching the cold floor, and standing stiffly, he left his room wearing
on his britches, creeping across the deck until he was at Pellew's door. He
shivered violently as he lifted his hand to know, then thinking better of it,
he kicked the door open and stormed in, prepared to see Foster pounding away
behind Pellew, but instead, he was confronted by an entire different picture.
An unfinished game of chess was left on Pellew's private desk, and the captain
lay alone in his bed, his back to the door, trembling himself in his sleep.
Preston closed the door with one arm, not looking back to see if any of the
other offices had heard him or would foolish enough to venture into the corridor
at such a late hour while Preston was in a black mood. He could hear himself
breathing raggedly and was surprised that Pellew wasn't alarmed, and as he
crossed the floor, his breathing growing louder in his ears, he wondered what
he intended to do to the man whose back was turned to him. Turned as his father's
had been, waiting for the kiss of a cold blade between his shoulder blades.
But as he stopped at the side of Pellew's bed, his anger left him, falling away
as though it were rusty armor, and he lifted his hand to touch the other man's
shoulder. He was not prepared for Pellew to be awake or prepared to greet
him.
"What is it, Robert?" Asked Pellew, staring back at him, partially
afraid, partially aroused, from where he lay on the pillows. The blanket was
draped across his chest, low enough so Preston could see that Pellew wore
only a night shirt and that his chest was lightly sprinkled with dark hairs.
He looked extremely surprised when Preston pulled back the covers and crawled
into bed with him, nestling against his chest and drawing him into a fierce
embrace.
Preston clung to Pellew, holding him tighter than he'd ever held anyone.
His captain felt firm and soft at the same time, and he let his hands rove,
drawing up the night shirt to touch the warm skin beneath. His chest, his
stomach, his hips, and finally the engorged, fat cock between Pellew's legs.
As he stroked the prick with his hand, lifting his face to kiss Pellew, he
was met by a startled pair of dark eyes that caused him to draw back and reconsider
his actions.
"I'm sorry," said Preston. "I was dreaming. I was...I was
scared."
"So you came to me?"
"I heard something. I thought...you were Charles." At the look of
anger flashing like lightening bolts in Pellew's eyes, he looked away but
refused to release the other man. "He told me about the two of you. I
know as much as needs to be known by an outside. Far more than I'm sure you
would like. Enough that I knew you would not mind if I came here and joined
you. I thought that was what you wanted. That my reluctance to do so earlier,
my singling out of Hornblower instead, was the reason you've been so angry with
me."
"You think far too much for your own good," replied Edward. "And
Foster has a mouth as large as an ocean. I'd like to fill it with my fist,
that much is for certain." He sighed as Preston started to withdraw.
"No one saw you come in?" The younger man shook his head. Pellew couldn't
help himself and drew him back, kissing the blonde head he held against his
chest, stroking the tense muscles of his shoulders, as at the same time, the
hand of his first mate returned to rub his twitching manhood. "You know
I disapprove of this, on board my own ship. You know that and still you came
in. Why did you, Robert? Are you that jealous of me? Of my being a captain and
you're merely being my first mate?"
"Jealous? Of you being a captain?" Preston released him, pushed him
back and practically threw himself out of the cot. He paced before Pellew,
his rage draped around him like a cloak, as he shook his fist in the air with
each ranted word. "Do you think I want to be captain and replace you on
the Indie? Do you think I want that? If you do, then you know nothing about
me at all. I could have been a captain years ago. Foster offered me a post.
Others have as well, and I'm sure I'm the curiosity at the Admiralty for having
turned them down one too many times, but the bloody truth of the matter is
that I'm terrified of the post. I don't want to be captain anymore than I wanted
to come in here and find you in Foster's arms. If I had, I don't know what
I would have done, but I'm sure you wouldn't have liked it."
"Calm down, Robert. Come sit down beside me."
"I can't! Can't you see what I am? Can't you get behind the handsome
face and the blue eyes and blonde hair? Can't you see that I'm a black monster
inside? You should be afraid of me, Edward. I am dangerous. Not only to you,
but to others, and mostly myself. Do you think I risk my life because I want
to save the lives of others? I'm not trying to save anyone, or, kill anyone,
which I'd thought you'd figured out by now. I am trying, have been trying
for years, to get myself killed before I kill again. If you have any sense in
that head of your's, you'd call for the Marines and lock me up before I really
do hurt you."
Pellew said nothing. He sat up in bed and merely watched the caged animal
pace across his room, but made no effort to get up or draw further attention
to himself. He glanced at his pistol and sword, placed on his desk, but to
reach them would have meant he had to get through Preston, and in his current
mad state, he doubted he would have gotten very far. Instead, he reclined
and tried to behave in a calm and relaxed manner. His efforts were not in
vain, and as Preston realized Pellew was not calling the guard, nor was attempting
to defend himself, he stopped dead in his tracks and covered his face in his
hands.
"Come to bed," said Edward, wondering if his order would be obeyed
or if he'd further incite the huge fellow to wring his neck. He patted the
mattress beside him. The sound of his hand hitting it brought Preston's hands
down from his face. The cold smile was spread across his handsome face, chilling
Edward to the bone. He managed to put on a mask of warmth. "Do as I say,
Robert, and come sit beside me. I only want to hold you. I won't...I won't
hurt you."
"That's what he said...."
"I'm not your father."
Preston winced. He wiped away a tear. "You won't laugh at me?"
"I'm not laughing at all. I imagine trying to live up to your father's
expectations and your own high opinion of yourself is very difficult. And I
don't for a minute believe you don't want to be a captain or intend to kill
yourself. You are upset at seeing Captain Foster. Why? I don't know, but he
has upset you and I intend to comfort you. That is what you need, Robert.
You need to lie down here with me and let me hold you. It will be alright.
I promise."
"Do you...do you love me?"
"I...I don't know," said Edward, truthfully. "I desire you.
I did the moment I laid eyes on you. As every man on this ship did. You're
beautiful, Robert. I don't think I've ever see a more handsome man as yourself.
I never dreamed that you wanted me in that way. I thought you, well, let's just
say that this foolish old man thought you hated him as much as you appear
to hate all authority. But apparently I was wrong about you."
"I'm a two headed beast, that's what I am. Do us both a favor and just
put a bullet into my head, Edward. I don't want to think anymore. I can't think,
for he is there, he is always there, waiting for me to make a mistake, waiting
to get his revenge against me."
"Who? Your father?"
"Yes, bloody Captain Montgomery Tristan Preston!"
"I'm not him," said Edward. "Happily, I never met the man, though
I have heard a great deal about him, mainly from Foster, and now from you.
Dear god, Robert. If you would just sit down and try to be reasonable, I might
be able to make sense out of all this for you. The last thing I need on this
ship is a madman. Now do sit down or I will call out the Marines?"
"Alright."
Preston came over and sat down on Pellew's bed. He allowed the older man
to draw him back against him and cover him up with the shared blanket. He laid
back against the mattress, feeling as though he were nothing but a corpse,
wondering all the while why Pellew was making such a fuss over him, as he was
dead and good to no one but the craps and the sharks. But as Pellew commenced
to stroke his face and shoulders, working his magic over his body, he let
out a tortured sigh that came from the depths of his soul. At the feel of Edward's
lips on his cock, as it sprang to life in the experienced man's hands, he
shivered from head to toe as he was drawn into the warm, moist mouth. He lay
still, letting Edward have his way with him, doing nothing to pleasure his captain,
taking it all for himself, giving himself time to be healed and feel healed
by the sorcery working so steadfastly upon him.
"I love you," Preston heard himself saying out loud. He expected
to be rejected by the older man, the same way as his father had rejected him
upon such an utterance, countless times before he'd learned to keep his mouth
shut. It meant nothing if a young man said the words or he to a boy, for it
was merely childish play, not at all the stuff he considered worthy of a lifetime
relationship with one man. And certainly he would never consider marrying
a woman and making her as miserable as his philandering pederast father had
to his own mother. He felt darker images trying to rise to the surface, scenes
in a small cabin on board a ship between himself and his father, but he refused
to think about it and he suddenly cried out, pushing Edward's hands away when
all he truly wanted was to be with Edward Pellew, far more than he'd ever
wanted another soul or even a captaincy of his own. Edward Pellew was the one
and only reason he was on the Indie, but as he pushed him away and considered
his own behavior since he'd arrived, he felt certain he'd already doomed himself
to a life without true love.
"I can't," explained Preston. "You mustn't be kind to me. You
mustn't touch me so gently. I can't...I can't breath, Edward. It's too much.
You are hurting me. You must let me go or I'll go mad, I tell you. Let me
go before I suffocate to death, for god's sake."
"Go then," Edward retorted, feeling hurt and angry himself. He
watched Preston crawl out bed, his manhood hanging like an enormous sagging
catapult out of his trousers. He'd not finished. He'd barely begun. He desperately
wanted Preston to return to bed as the first officer stormed across the room
in that long, fast pace that was only his, muscles rippling with each step
he took, sending a stab of pain through Edward's heart.
Long after Preston closed the door and left, Edward could hear him in his
room beyond the wall, making noises that were unmistakably the sound of self-flagellation..
Each time the whip cracked across Preston's shoulders, Edward winced and lifted
his blanket further over his head, until finally he was completely covered,
but the sound would not end. It remained in his ears and the image of the white
flesh bursting open and blood dripping down the firm back and lean flanks
of the young man kept him awake throughout the night.
Morning brought a cold wind and choppy waters that lapped at the sides of
the ship, trying desperately to come over the sides and douse the sailors at
work. At the helm beside Matthews stood and grim and serious Robert Preston,
a cup of hot tea in his hand. Something he drank every morning while on deck,
but on this morn, he took little pleasure in it and seemed to hold the cup
merely to give himself something to do. Matthews kept quiet, aware the first
mate was a sulky man that was not to be roused by mockery or pity, and he merely
drank in the cold fall wind and watched the waves.
"What are our new orders, sir?" Asked Matthews at last. "I noticed
Foster leading the other ships off, so I wondered where we were headed, as
opposed to back toward the Channel."
"Picking up strays, if any, from the French convoy." With a hand
to his brow, Preston scoured the horizon, whistling softly. "The sea
is troubled this morning, Matthews. We are in for another storm."
"It's certainly cold today, sir. Might mean we're in for a hard winter."
"I agree, Matthews," said Preston, though the bite of the cold felt
good. He felt feverish and ached all over. His energy had left his limbs and
he felt as if he moved and thought in an automated fashion that was as unlike
himself as the stranger that greeted him in the mirror that morning. His brief
night with Pellew had only increased his level of anxiety, and as he searched
the water, not knowing what he thought was out there, but hopeful that whatever
it was would either end his suffering or repair his damaged mental state.
Suddenly, Preston let out a loud cry, pointing at something he alone could
see in the water. He waved frantically up at the poor lad in the crow's nest
high above, while shouting for a spy glass, and once one was handed to him
by Lt. Bowles, he raised it to his eye and found the small bobbing shape upon
the water. "Turn her north, northeast, Mr. Matthews. We have a man out
there on a raft. Order Kennedy to lower a long boat. I want to reach that
man before these swells get so large he vanished from sight."
Leaving Matthews at the helm and headed toward the stairs, motioning for
Hornblower to join him, handing him over the spy glass so he could look at the
shape in the water. The long boat was lowered, containing Kennedy at the helm
with several lively lads, eager to be the ones to fish the stray man out of
the water. Preston put his hand on Hornblower's shoulder, finding comfort
in the youths' suppleness and friendly smile, as he always did whenever the
lad was near, finding his company a soothing balm to his aching heart. As the
long boat neared the shape, with the ending trailing slowly behind, fighting
against a strong head wind, Preston grabbed hold of a line and leaned forward,
trying to better see who was cast adrift. He found the spy glass placed back
into his hands by Hornblower and watched, surprised, as the young man started
shouting at Kennedy and his small crew to put their backs into it, as the
waves were growing larger and the bobbing raft seemed to be drifting further
away.
The Indie groaned, breaking through the waves, passing the long boat as gale
winds howled against the canvas, billowing out the sails. The speed of the ship
brought them closer to the raft, and in seconds, both Preston and Hornblower
had shed out of their hats, jackets and shoes and stood ready to dive in once
they were close enough. Styles and Burns rushed up and tied off robes around
the two men's waists, and at Preston's signal, the two men dove into the water
and surfaced near the raft. But the waves had a mind of their own, and as the
raft spun about on the crest of a wave, it slammed into Hornblower, striking
him in the head. He let out a grunt of pain and feebly reached for the raft.
Preston grabbed the young man around the waist and hoisted him up so he could
throw him onto the raft, on top of a slighter built fellow who could barely
lift his head, for the water was so cold and he'd been in it so long, to see
what was going on. There was no room on the raft for Preston to pull himself
up and out of the frigid water, so he held onto the side of it, while the
crew proceeded to yank him back toward the boat. He concentrated on holding
onto the raft, while keeping the two men on top of it, while he felt a sickening
tightness squeezing his ribs and making it difficult to breath. Then he felt
the slime and roughness of wood scraping against his back, knew it was the
Indie, but another wave came and momentarily, he lost grip on the raft and sunk
beneath the haul. A yank brought Preston back up out of the water, and with
the realization that the crew were pulling him up, while Horatio and the cast
away huddling together on the raft, moved further away from him.
"Not yet," screamed Preston into the wind. He jerked on the robe,
giving himself some line by sheer forced, and struck out in the water, swimming
hard. The moment he touched the raft, he threw himself up onto it, slid one
arm around either man. The raft shot out from under Preston, breaking apart
as it was hit by the next wave, leaving him floundering in the water weighted
down by two men. He kicked with his strong legs, keeping all three of their
heads up and out of the water, while the crew above began to hoist them upwards.
From the corner of his eyes he could see Kennedy finally arrive in the blasted
long boat, but he was no longer interested in his help and instead turned
himself around in the water, so he could walk up the side of the ship, his head
down, keeping the two men hooked under his arms. He grunted and groaned all
the way up, until at last, they were hauled over the side of the ship.
"Stand aside," shouted Captain Pellew. He broke through the group
of men, sending midshipman dashing forward with warm blankets, which were
wrapped around the three men as they were gently helped down to the hold and
into separate rooms. Pellew stayed with Preston and entered his room, stripping
the man's clothing off himself and rubbing him down hard with the course blanket.
All the while, Preston watched him through half-cast eyes, his strength gone
from his limbs but for the chattering of his teeth. "You damn fool. You've
likely cracked a few ribs with that crazy stunt of your's. But god bless you,
Robert. You saved two men this day and I won't forget that any time soon.
Bless you indeed."
"Thanks," said Preston, weakly, then he faded off and knew no more.
Sometime in the evening, Robert Preston woke up to find himself covered with
so many blankets that he was boiling hot. He kicked off the blankets, dressed,
took a little water, and went out to find a number of sailors and officers
standing in the hallway. He caught a few words about the man being "French"
and "the size of a child", and found their conversation intriguing
enough that he brushed passed them and entered the cabin. Pellew was bent
over the unconscious Frenchman, having had no luck in reviving him to question
him, and as Preston entered, he looked up, immensely relieved to see him among
the living.
"I don't know what else to do for this poor fellow," replied Pellew.
"Leave him to me. If you have not seen Horatio, then you should, as
I have not yet."
A hand fell onto Preston's shoulder. Preston looked up, caught Pellew's warm
brown eyes and felt his heart lift at the captain's smile. He returned the smile,
actually believing it might remain on his face, and turned to watched Pellew
leave the room and shoo the men away. The door was closed behind him, Preston
knew not why, only that left along with the unconscious French, the size of
a child, at least compared to him, that Pellew was expecting a miracle from
him. He wanted to laugh but he couldn't remember quite how. He turned his attention
to the prostrated Frenchman, covered by as equally the same about of blankets
as he had been, and throw them back, he proceeded to massage the entire length
of the pale, slender, nude body. The man's skin was as soft as a woman's and
slightly retained the scent of perfume. The scent wafted up into Preston's
nose, arousing him, as did the fragile face and soft, cupid-like lips. He
could see the faintest of blue blood vessels through the man's thin skin on
his face and he caressed the brow, bending low to kiss it for no particular
reason other than he'd saved the man's life and felt that he belonged to him
somehow.
"You've been through hell and back," said Robert Preston to the
Indie's prisoner. "It's alright to wake up. You're still with the Devil,
but I won't hurt you. I give you my word of honor. You may be a prisoner,
but you will certainly be treated like the gentleman I can tell that you are.
Surely that is real blue blood I see coursing through your veins. But you
are still so very cold, monsieur. You must wake up and let me warm you better
or you will surely die."
"Mon dieu," said a voice that reminded Preston of an angel. The
accent was thick, but not French as he'd expected, but something else he couldn't
quite put his finger on. He gave the man a drink of water. "Have you
no wine?"
"Not now. Drink your water. Wine will only make you ill."
"And now you act the role of mother instead of savior. I see," came
the man's soft reply.
Eyes the color of coals met Preston's. He suddenly felt as though he'd found
an arch-angel in the water, possibly Gabriel himself, and he took a seat beside
the man, covering him back up once he'd sat down the cup of water. The Frenchman
leaned back against the bulkhead and shivered under the blankets. Robert commenced
to reach under the blanket and rub his large hands against the other man's legs,
but at the touch of a soft hand upon his cheek, he quickly sucked in his breath
and stared with wonderment at the prisoner. The Frenchman had age old eyes,
as though he'd lived through many experiences. Perhaps some worse than his
own, thought Preston, allowing the man to touch his face, stroking his cheek,
then his square jaw, before tracing the contours of his mouth.
"You are the Devil with blue eyes," said the Frenchman.
"We're taking you back to Plymouth. You'll be turned over to the authorities
there."
"Why do you tell me this?"
Preston shrugged, turning his head as the gentle hand stroked his hair. He
felt his member stirring to life and before he could help himself, he drew the
man tenderly into his arms and kissed his bow-shaped mouth. The lips of the
Frenchman were cool and soft. Preston felt himself drifting as the lips opened
and a tiny tongue darted out and met his own in a twisting, twining dance
that left him breathless. He was about to pull back when the Frenchman literally
pounced upon him, throwing back the blankets, and drawing Preston's large body
upon his own. He felt a hand at the front of his pant's and could not help
himself from stroking the soft, white body from head to toe, finally centralizing
on the growing erection surrounded by a thick thatch of black hair, the same
as was on the Frenchman's head, only growing thicker between his legs.
"I'm here to get answers," said Preston. "Who you are. What
ship you came from. Whether you are a captain or merely one of the crew."
"I shall answer everything for you, my cherie. All in good time."
"But a name...I must have a name."
"No names," said the Frenchman. "You are my savior. And I am
your's. When I remove the thorn from you heart, in turn, you shall do the
same for me and set me free. I can see in your eyes that you are a kind man,
a man who has been deeply hurt, so my gift to you for saving my life will be
to remove the pain that I see there, as your gift to me shall be my release."
Preston smiled but it was brushed away with a feather soft kiss. He leaned
back as the man crawled over him, nude as the day he was born, as erect as a
flag pole, his hands and mouth playing all sorts of tricks over Preston's
large, muscular frame. As he pants were opened and his erection sprang forward,
the Frenchman curled around his lap, suckling upon his prick as though it
were a pacifier. Tiny teeth nipped at his flesh and soft hands kneaded his
balls, as a single finger dipped further, probing at his anus. Preston bolted
and immediately climbed over the small fellow, wanting to take charge, but
he was greeted by a soft womanly laugh that he somehow found endearing.
"You are so lovely," said Preston, kissing the pliant lips beneath
his own, wiggling his hand between the fellow's legs. His finger pried where
the other man's had not been allowed to go, but it was the Frenchman, having
frisked the Englishman, who produced the small jar of cream which he handed
over to his captor. "And very clever."
"I am French. Of course."
Eager now, Preston slathered it upon his fingers, gently entering the other's
body, readying him for the taking, and as he kissed the man once more, he felt
his pain sliding away from him, as if by magic. He moved up, pushing his pants
of his flanks, and spread the man's slender legs apart which were then lifted
onto his shoulders. Positioning himself between the velvety thighs, Preston
worked his fingers in the tiny, tight anus, until it seemed pliable, then
he carefully, slowly, slid his erection inside of the man. The legs quivered
against his shoulders and as Preston started to move, the Frenchman placed
his arms around his shoulders, holding him down so their love-making remained
gentle and tender. In this position, belly to belly, face to face, Preston was
forced to take his time, as the other wielded powerful magic over him, teaching
him to care and be cared for in the very touch of his hands and the soft cries
of his responses. But finally, at long last, the Frenchman chewed at his lips,
then bit Preston's lower lip, moaning and withering beneath him. Only then
did Preston begin to move faster, more frantically, doing his best to remain
quiet, while the Frenchman licked at his ear and neck, driving him wild.
As Preston was about to come within his French lover, he felt the smaller
arm of steel between them, nestled against their stomachs, shoot out a sticky
warmth, then it was over for him, and with a quiver, he emptied himself into
the other. He sank against the smaller man, longing to remain in the rapturous
moment, butterfly kisses landing on his cheeks and mouth. He finally kissed
the Frenchman, long and deep, with a languid motion that he intended to last
forever. But finally his secret lover was pushing him back, a smile on his bowed
lips, and with a wink, the Frenchman pointed to the door.
"Your captain will want to see you, I think. Leave my door unlocked
on the outside and unguarded. I shall see myself out, my handsome English lover.
We shall not see one another again, I should think. But it has been lovely,
and very unexpected."
"I can't let you go."
"Have I not lifted the pain from your heart? Is it not a pain from childhood,
caused perhaps by your abusive and cruel father and a negligent mother? And
have you not suffered enough under his lash? You carry your scars inside as
well, monsieur. I know. I can read your mind and your heart."
Preston refused to break the magical moment. He dressed but remained close
enough that when finished, he could easily draw the Frenchman back into his
arms and kiss him once more until the man was breathless and slightly woozy.
He apparently felt the same magic between them. Preston took the other man's
hand in his own, kissing it as he would a woman or a king, then placed it over
his heart.
"Can you read my mind? Is it true?"
"Oui. I knew when you saved my life that I'd returned from the dead,"
said the man, in his strange slightly French, slightly something else, foreign
accent. "I was dead and you gave me life. Surely that is enough repayment
for your sin. You killed him, did you not? This tyrannical father of your's.
No one knows what you did. But I know. I saw it in your eyes. And I said to
myself that to repay you, I must free you from this burden. A life for a life.
You took his and you have given mine back to me. You are cured, monsieur. You
are no longer a monster but a saint. Take what I have given you, your strong,
noble heart, and go to your captain and tell him of your heart. For you see,
that too I can see. I know everything."
"I want to say more."
The Frenchman laughed ever so softly. He saw his clothes, partially dried,
crumpled on the floor and motioned for Preston to fetch them for him. Preston
handed him the clothes but remained close, afraid if they parted, that the
pain would return. But the man did not vanish and he kissed Preston once more
on the mouth.
"Shall I say I love you then, my dear Englishman? So it is. I love you."
"You don't know me," said Preston, partially afraid, and immensely
curious to know more. "How can you say that you love me?"
"Do you not love me?"
"I...I think I do. I don't know. I'm so confused. Yet, I feel so...so....?"
"Happy. Relieved. Free. Yes, it is love that we feel for one another.
I am your friend and you are mine. I gave you what you needed and wanted. Now,
do as I say, my strong warrior, and leave my cage unlocked. When you return
to find me, I will not be here. You will think it only a dream, but the crew
will tell you that they saw me, and you will search for the pain in your heart
but no longer will it be there. That is my gift to you. So be gentle to the
next Frenchman you find, eh? For it could be my brother."
Preston suddenly grinned as wide as possible. "Of course. I will let
you go. I can not help it, sir, for strangely enough, I do love you. Very much."
He got up from the bed and watched as the little sprite quickly rose and started
to dress. "It shall be as you requested, only, only what you tell me your
name? I am Robert Gawain Preston."
"A mouthful, in more ways than one." The dark haired man pulled up
his britches and at last shook his head. "No. You will know my name soon
enough. But not be me. Now go my handsome warrior. Go before I let you keep
me your prisoner forever more. Go."
Taking hold of the latch, Preston glanced back at the man, smiled at him
once more, then left the room. He gave orders for the crew to be dismissed,
assuring the confused officers that he would guard the door himself. But as
soon as the men were away, he glanced in on Horatio, saw that he was sleeping
restfully, then went to Pellew's door and tapped softly.
"Enter," stated Pellew loudly.
Opening the door, Preston came in and shut it behind him. He found Pellew
at a table looking over charts and came up behind him, wrapping his muscular
arms around the other's waist. Pellew came to full attention, arching back
in the tight embrace, sighing softly as Preston pressed his lips to his neck.
He kissed the salty, rough skin, so unlike the Frenchman, his excitement growing
as Edward turned around in his embrace and wrapped his arms around Preston's
neck. The kiss was mutually pressed upon the other and as lips collided, melded
and meshed, opening for the dance of the tongue, Preston felt a great happiness
swell up inside of him, taking full control of his heart and soul, and knew
then he was no longer afraid or angry. Somehow the mysterious little Frenchman
had cured him. He felt whole again and as he thought of his father, he saw
him only in the grave and no longer a threat. His eyes sought and held Pellew's
and the kiss ended, followed by numerous little kisses that made by men laugh.
"You have changed, Robert. Is it the cold water or a brush with death?"
"I am whole again, Edward. I can't explain it other than I am whole
and happy, and if you don't mind me saying so, madly in love with my captain.
With you, Edward. It has always been you since that day I first saw you at
the academy. That is why I came to the Indie, to find you and to see for myself
if I could find what so many romantics call true love. I think I have found
it, but I don't know yet for sure."
Pellew kissed him again. "Why don't you know, Robert?" He held him
close, snuggling against him, wanting only comfort not sexual love, not yet.
"Would you believe me now if I said that I love you as well? That I loved
you the moment I saw you set foot on the Indie. Would you believe me then?"
He kissed his strong giant. "Do you believe it now?"
"My love, my captain, of course I do. Now I do."
The two men embraced and kissed deeply. While outside, unheard by any, a
door opened and a small, petite Frenchman slid out, finding his way on deck
and to a long ship, then he was gone. And within the Indie, in the captain's
room, Pellew finally led Preston to his bed and showed him all the secrets of
true love.
THE END
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