Two days had passed since the Retribution had left Kingston, and Horatio knew he could no longer put it off.

Bush had offered to take on the sad duty. He had offered it a number of times, in fact, but Horatio had refused the offer each and every time, knowing it was his duty and his alone.

"If you should have changed your mind, Captain..." Bush said once again, watching Horatio's eyes darken when the subject arose over lunch.

"No, thank you, Mister Bush. I truly do feel it is up to me." Horatio managed a laboured smile, and Bush returned it, sensing the pain his young superior suffered.

"There is one other matter, Captain."

Horatio looked up at Bush, who had stood to take his leave, and he knew what the 'other matter' entailed. "The ceremony, Mister Bush..."

"Indeed."

Horatio nodded. "Yes, I know it is time. Perhaps it is just as well to deal with all these sad matters at once."

Bush agreed, and went to take care of preparations.

Horatio, once alone, made his way to the writing desk in the far corner of his cabin. He bent to slide one plain wooden drawer from its hold and extracted a small packet. He turned it over in his hands a few times.

What Horatio beheld was all that was left on this Earth of Midshipman Henry Wellard - his private notes and the personal belongings accumulated over the very few short years of his life.

Horatio sat down at the desk, his heart heavy and his throat constricted. He undid the loose rope around the packet and laid it down. Then he unwrapped the sail-cloth to reveal two small bundles of papers tied up separately, a well-thumbed book of poetry, and a modest but delicately designed pocket-watch, the face of which snapped open to reveal a miniature painting of a dark-haired beauty with high cheeks and rosy lips - Wellard's mother, without doubt.

So far as Horatio knew, Wellard had never known his parents. It gave the young Commander a turn to find a trinket so very similar to the one he himself had carried with him on first going to sea. For him, too, it had been the only memento of his mother.

Horatio was about to attend to the papers when another small item fell from the packet... a single uniform button.

Horatio frowned at this odd item, confused because it was not the kind of button which belonged to a midshipman's uniform.

But he gave it little thought, deciding to go over the papers instead. He had considered simply burning them as they held Wellard's private writings, but even though the young officer had been known to have been an orphan and without siblings, Horatio thought it best to establish whether or not there might be someone who needed to be told the sad news - a distant relative perhaps, or a guardian.

But there was no hint of the existence of any such person amongst the written documents. Aside from Wellard's official papers, holding only the name of a solicitor who had arranged for his placing in the Navy, no mention of personal relations was to be found. The papers were in fact almost without exception a personal log of the boy's first - and last - voyage at sea.

Horatio considered destroying them unread, but he could not bring himself to do so. These notes were all that was left of Wellard's life, and he had been too fond of the boy to not attempt to learn even a little of what had moved him and occupied his thoughts during the off-watches. And thus, Horatio began to read.

The first few pages were dated many weeks prior and held little in the way of personal thoughts. There was mention of almost everyone Wellard had dealt with onboard the Renown, but it was in such level tones as to give no true indication of the boy's feelings at the time.

Then, as time progressed, the writing changed. Horatio could track exactly how Wellard had been affected by the events onboard ship. The boy's suffering at the hands of Captain Sawyer was not dwelled upon, but there was a deep pain inherent in the words on paper, in spite of a curious lack of reproach and anger. It seemed the boy had managed to detach himself remarkably from his unjustified beatings, and Horatio felt even then, on reading the objective accounts, a great pride mingled with deep regret that he would never see all that Wellard would have become. What a grand officer he would have made some day...

The diaries went on, and Horatio smiled melancholically at the first more personal mentions of himself and Archie. He had been very aware of Wellard's deep worship of himself, remembering only too well how he had felt when he had first entered into his dear Edward's service.

A sad, longing sigh escaped Horatio's lips, and he spared a thought for just how long a time he would have to spend apart from his love this time before they would once more be reunited.

Returning to the paper before him, Horatio noted that Wellard's mentions of Archie too were only of the sweetest, gentlest kind, praising him as a man of deep understanding and loyalty, entirely devoid of airs.

Horatio's eyes grew misty when he read of his dear, dead friend in those gracious words, and he began to cry silently when Wellard went on to praise him, Horatio, as if he were the greatest officer in His Majesty's Navy and the greatest man anyone might ever know.

Wellard had, in spite of his seemingly impassive view of life, been capable of deep sentiment, and Horatio remembered only too well how vulnerable he had always appeared to him. Horatio knew deep down that, had his own heart not been given already a number of years prior, he would have made a home there for Henry Wellard, and for no one else. Best not to think of that, he told himself. Best not to dwell.

A few more pages to read, and Horatio felt he might finally get to understand all of the boy. What he could not know was that those few pages - kept in a separate bundle as if they'd never been meant to be found with the others - held Henry Wellard's great secret.

Horatio read, barely above a whisper, to take in all that he found there...

January 14, 1802

I do believe this might be the last time I shall write down my thoughts in this way, for I find that they sadden me more once I do. And besides, there is nothing to be gained by it, other than to make them clear to myself.

I have not enjoyed being the Captain's whipping boy. I have not enjoyed being taunted and treated with utter disrespect by the men who remained on his side throughout all of this, and who have their sport with me not because of loyalty to Captain Sawyer, but because it is convenient to them that he has gone out of his mind, for it allows them to taunt me unpunished.

None of that matters, really. I have found men on his ship whose kind hearts and thoughts have helped me through it all, who have made this ship, despite all the cruelty which takes place upon her, a home of sorts for me. I have found so much sympathy and goodness here that it quite obliterates all the bad that has happened. And no matter what else may happen before we reach Kingston - and what may happen to me as a result of my future actions - it shames me to think that I must repay this goodness with an act of violence.

I pray that Lieutenant Hornblower, to whom my deepest loyalties belong, will not think too unkindly of me in years to come. I pray also that Lieutenant Kennedy may forgive me for not having confided in him what I had in mind to do to ensure that no true, kind man would be hanged. I pray that Lieutenant Bush - dear, gruff and kind Lieutenant Bush - who taught me so much in such a short time will not hate me. And I pray that the warm-hearted Matthews and Styles, who have both been like fathers to me, will not think my memory too tarnished.

But most of all, I pray the forgiveness of the man whose hero I am going to kill. I need his forgiveness all the more because I understand him. I know why he must protect Captain Sawyer with every weapon at his disposal. I quite know he must hate the lieutenants, and I know he must hate me.

Poor Mister Hobbs - I can but imagine what he goes through. I dare not think of it... were I to serve many years into the future with my dear Lieutenant Hornblower still, were he to be my Captain and to go mad as Captain Sawyer has done, how would I fare? I could not turn upon him any more than Hobbs can turn on his Captain. I fear I would feel much the same resentment toward anyone who might attack him or attempt to take away his authority, even if it were for the good of the ship.

Mister Hobbs is wrong, of course, in clinging to Captain Sawyer's glorious past as he does. But I cannot blame him for it, for I know that in his place, I too would do the wrong thing and would reason and struggle with myself to make it seem right.

I know that he must taunt me because his Captain taunts me. I know that he must treat me like a cowardly child because his Captain treats me so.

But knowing is all very well. I wish with all my heart that his Captain would not hate me as he does. Then perhaps, Mister Hobbs would not hate me quite so much either, and that should make my life infinitely more worthwhile. I dare not think what my kind Lieutenant Hornblower would make of my secret, and I pray he will never learn of it, at least not until after I have departed this life.

Would he... could he understand why I have fallen so very deeply in love with a man who treats me with such contempt? How could I ever explain why my heart belongs to Mister Hobbs, except by stating that loyalty must surely be the grandest virtue of them all, and there is possibly no man alive who possesses a greater capacity for it than Mister Hobbs, who would die or kill for his Captain, whichever was required.

I often find myself under Mister Hobbs' heavy barrage, and strange and impossible as it may seem, while he shouts and threatens, taunts and teases me, I can do nothing but think how proud I am of him, of his loyalty and honesty and of the lengths he goes to in protecting his Captain.

I am so very frequently in his line of fire, with his piercing blue eyes shooting deadly daggers at me, but can I resent him for it? After all, it is only at such times that I see the fire in his soul at all, the very depth of emotion he is capable of, and I can dream. Dream of how it would be if it were me he was so fiercely protective of.

What I would not give to feel that raw power of his conviction work in my defence. How very safe I would feel to know he uses that strength of his to look after me.

And not only his strength, but the great tenderness of sentiment he possesses as well. I have seen how he looks at Captain Sawyer. I have seen his cold eyes grow gentle and warm, the icy daggers melting into pools of blue when beholding the man he protects. And then there was his friendship with Randall - a man so undeserving of it. Yet, I admired him for that too, because he gives his all for those he is close to, undeterred even by their ingratitude and utter worthlessness.

If only his gruff voice would once in a while soften when he speaks to me, as it did briefly, and with deceptive intent, when he teased me about my clumsy hold of the pistol. When I told him it had a light trigger, he asked me, 'Have you?' And for a moment, my foolish heart beat faster, for his eyes went soft, and his voice low and intimate, and I thought that...

But no, it was not me he had spoken of, but the damned pistol! He had no interest in me whatsoever. Perhaps I am the mere boy he thinks me. My reactions to his closeness do, at times, frighten and confuse me, as everything frightens and confuses a child.

While he clearly intends nothing good with me, I find that a single intense look from his stern but beautiful eyes sends shivers of pleasure down my spine. When he towers before me, looking down upon me fiercely, I wish nothing more than that he should gather me up in his arms and hold me close, stroke his hands through my hair and whisper endearments in my ear, instead of shouting abuse.

The captain is wrong in calling me a coward - he should be calling me a fool instead. A silly, childish fool, unable to articulate his emotions in any way but to look pleadingly into the eyes of the man he loves as if that man should be able to simply read his sentiments there.

Not that it matters, for Mister Hobbs... oh how I wish I knew his Christian name... would certainly not care to know my feelings for him. So it is just as well that all he ever sees when he looks down upon me is a sheepish, child-like face.

But I can dream - everyone has the right to dream - of one day being able to tell him my secret. One day, maybe not so far into the future, when Captain Sawyer no longer has need of his loyalty, he might be willing to listen to my plea.

How will I know when that day comes? If it comes? I will recognize it because he will cease taunting me and will begin to speak kindly to me, much like Lieutenants Hornblower, Kennedy and Bush are in the habit of doing. And then he will know - because I will tell him - that I wish to give him all the things I give Mister Hornblower, and more.

That will be the day that I shall lay my loyalty, my adoration, my friendship and my love before him. And in this dream of mine, when that day comes, he will not laugh at me, but he will hold me and kiss me and make me his.

And - because it is a dream - he will forgive me for what I am about to do to his Captain, for right now, I too am bound by my loyalties. I must see to it that a great, brilliant and kind man does not hang for a crime that is not a crime. I must kill, for the first time in my life.

Forgive me, Mister Hobbs. Please, forgive me. And should I fail in my mission and not be fortunate enough to see you at my side when I die, I also bid you my fondest farewell - may we meet again in some way or other, in another life perhaps. Surely, there must be some way we mere mortals can make amends for the wrong we do in life, or the things we omit doing...

Horatio wept over these pages for some time. Regret, infinite sadness and pride mingled in him, and awe as well at how a young boy's heart had divined truths he himself - and those around him - had failed to understand and appreciate.

With icy fingers, he folded up the pages, his thoughts returning to Kingston and the dreadful scene he had found there not long before the Retribution had departed for home.

It had been a mere two days ago that he had gone to see Hobbs about their new orders - orders which were to place them both aboard the Retribution - only to find that the gunner had ended his life with a clean shot to his own heart.

At that time Horatio, horrified and sickened, had found a note on the man's desk, consisting of a single paragraph:

'I must do this for I find it impossible to continue living with myself. No one is to blame but me. I ask only to be buried at sea, close to where my Captain Sawyer's life and those of other brave men have come to an end.'

Horatio remembered that there had been the remains of another note on a small metal dish, but they had been burnt well beyond recognition, and it had seemed of little or no consequence at the time.

Now, however, Horatio wished he had been able to read the gunner's true last thoughts. Of whom had they been? Whose pistol had Hobbs used to do the deed, for while the weapon which had killed him had lain in a pool of blood beside his body, his own pistol had lain on his uniform jacket upon the bed - the jacket which, as Horatio remembered then, had been missing a button.

Was it Captain Sawyer next to whom Hobbs wished to lie at the bottom of the Sea? Or was it Wellard, next to whom Hobbs had knelt in Sawyer's cabin that day both the boy and the captain had died? Wellard... on whom Hobbs' eyes had come to rest sadly when he had said, 'It's all over now.'

Lieutenant Bush knocked on the Captain's door only once and was admitted right away. "Everything is in order and the crew are on deck, Captain," he said gravely. "Matthews is nearly done preparing the body."

Horatio nodded. "I am ready, Mister Bush." And after a moment's thought, he wrapped up the bundle of papers and tokens in the sail-cloth from which he had extracted them, and clutched them to his heart as he followed Lieutenant Bush above deck.

Matthews was about to finish stitching up the hammock which once belonged to Mister Hobbs and was now to be his funeral shroud, when Horatio appeared by his side. "One moment if you please, Mister Matthews."

Matthews looked up and found his captain holding out a small package to him. "Sir?" he asked.

"Please include this in the shroud before you finish stitching it. These papers ... They belong to Mister Hobbs."

Matthews did not question Horatio in any way. He simply nodded and saluted. "Aye aye, Captain."

Horatio smiled sadly. "Good man, Matthews. Good man."