The trial dragged on and on, ad infinitum, testing the limits of patience and sanity. If it had been summer, and Jamaica's heat rising to its insufferable peak, Archie would have been sure that he'd stumbled into some special level of hell inside that courtroom, slowly roasting while those three idiots in gold braid dithered on.
He drew in deep breaths and held his tongue when Hammond hinted and smirked and twisted every bit of testimony into the direction he wanted. He dug his fingernails into the bench and bit his lip when Dr. Clive qualified his own judgment with those hateful words- "under duress." He refrained from shouting with frustration when Pellew baited Buckland into finally making open and clear the accusation that had hovered in the stale air since this whole circus began.
And the moment the gavel slammed down to indicate the recess, he rushed out of the courtroom, too blindly angry to remain within those walls for another minute. He passed a knot of Renown's crewmen in the courtyard, dimly heard Styles sneering at Hobbs, but didn't pause. It hardly mattered. Archie remembered the look on Hobbs' face there in Sawyer's cabin, kneeling beside little Wellard's body. Clearly, the midshipman's last words had been something damning, and precisely what Hobbs had hoped to hear. And now the man had a chance to use them, to back up Buckland's spiteful accusation, and there wasn't a damned thing to be done...
He walked up and down the main street of Kingston twice, seeking control of his temper, before he finally walked to the city's only decent inn, where the members of the tribunal were lodging. Pellew only kept him cooling his heels for twenty minutes; not at all unreasonable for a lowly lieutenant seeking audience with a Commodore.
"Mr. Kennedy," Pellew said, when his steward finally ushered Archie into the sitting room of the suite. "A most unhappy turn of events this morning, I'm afraid."
"Yes, sir." One must maintain a certain respect, a certain detachment, one must respect a superior's choice of understatement and not lunge over the desk for his throat. "Is there nothing left to be done?"
"If Hobbs confirms Lieutenant Buckland's accusation, then I'm afraid not." Pellew shuffled through some papers, his face a blank, studied mask; Archie thought that he could actually see the man removing himself from any connection to his former protege in his mind, cutting Horatio loose as a once-good idea now gone sour. "The evidence against our mutual friend is...quite damning."
"Could you not gather his testimony?" Archie asked, clenching his hands together behind his back. "Allow him to speak in his own defense?"
"The evidence is sufficient enough that there hardly seems to be a point, Mr. Kennedy." Pellew tapped the sheaf of papers against the desk once, aligning them into a perfect stack to be set aside. "Mr. Hornblower's view of the story would only...confuse the issue, at this juncture." He looked up then, catching Archie's eyes. "We must think of the good of the Service, of course."
A wave of dizziness swept through Archie's mind, as bad as any he'd felt since the days of his fits. He was uncertain if he wanted to be sick or bash Pellew across the face. "Of course, sir," he muttered through numb lips. "Might I be dismissed, sir?"
He went by the prison infirmary, but Clive said both of his patients were asleep and not to be disturbed. It would be best if he returned in the morning.
***
In the morning, of course, his presence was required in court, where Hobbs said precisely what he'd been longing to say since Sawyer fell. Whispers swept through the courtroom, as Pellew irritably pounded the gavel and demanded order. Hammond smiled, his prize in sight, though Archie still had no idea why the man hated Horatio so much. Perhaps it went all the way back to when an Acting Lieutenant stood for his examination, fumbled it, and still managed to save the fleet at anchor. Stranger things planted poison in the minds of men. The third member of the tribunal-- Archie could not even bother to note the man's name, he was so useless. He'd slept through half the testimony, and would follow Hammond's lead, as it appeared Pellew would now as well. Hobbs had placed the last board to build the gibbet.
Pellew called yet another recess, and again Archie fled the room as one would a burning building. In the infirmary, Clive was changing Horatio's bandages, a daily ordeal of sweat and blood and muffled exhalations of pain. Archie hated the sight of it, the way Horatio seemed to believe his pride was required even here, even in the face of a likely-mortal wound. The same pride that had placed him on Renown's deck, white-faced and silent, when Archie had come up from Sawyer's cabin after that battle. Horatio hadn't sought help because it hurt too much to move, but he hadn't cried out because that would lack dignity, and so he'd sat there bleeding his uniform through until Archie found him.
Clive brushed past him in the doorway with a small nod, then looked back over his shoulder at the patient. Archie waited for the same admonishment Clive gave on every visit- Don't overtire him, Mr. Kennedy. But this time the man only shrugged. "Take as long as you need," he muttered, and vanished into the corridor.
So he'd heard already, then. News traveled fast in this warren. Horatio noticed the difference as well, frowning a little from where he lay slumped against the pillow, still pale and sweaty. "Things have taken a bad turn, then," he said softly.
Archie said nothing, only pulled the chair up to Horatio's bedside and clasped his hands between his knees, bowing his head.
"Archie." Horatio's fierce officer's tone had not completely left him. "Tell me."
"Hobbs testified today." Archie struggled to keep his voice low and level, his face expressionless. "The picture that has been painted for the court indicates that you pushed Captain Sawyer into the hold with malice aforethought."
Horatio stared at him, utter bewilderment on his face. "But...that's not how it happened."
"I know." Archie forced himself to lift his head, to look at his friend. "But it's what the court seems to want to believe."
"But..." Horatio stared up at the ceiling. "But they haven't even asked for my account."
"Apparently that would only muddy the waters." It was becoming difficult to maintain his composure, to refrain from storming back down to that inn and putting a bullet in each member of the tribunal's forehead.
"But I don't understand," Horatio whispered. He looked at Archie, his face set in hopeless confusion, a child looking for reassurance. "I have only ever served as best I could..."
"I know," Archie repeated, taking Horatio's hand in both of his own, holding it before his face. All Horatio had ever done was protect the Navy and its honor, and now those same things would have his head.
Horatio went a shade paler as realization dawned in his eyes. "They'll hang me," he said, rolling his head on the pillow to stare at the shadows of the room, away from Archie. "They'll call me a traitor, and they'll strip me of my rank, and then they'll hang me."
There was nothing to say. Archie swallowed and squeezed Horatio's hand tighter, feeling the frantic flutter of pulse inside as Horatio struggled not to panic.
"You shouldn't be here." Somehow Horatio's voice was almost normal, as he turned his head back to stare straight up at the ceiling again. "You can't be seen with me, it will compromise you."
"I don't care," Archie snapped, refusing to let Horatio pull his hand away.
"Archie. Be reasonable." Horatio still wouldn't look at him, but his voice cracked a bit on his name. "There's nothing to be gained from ruining you as well. Maybe this is better- being hanged will be a damned sight quicker than rotting away in here..." His voice wavered more, and he blinked rapidly to clear his eyes. "...and it's only my good name, after all..."
That was too patently absurd for either one of them to believe, coming from Horatio. They sat in chilly silence for a moment, Horatio's breathing becoming more and more rapid as he struggled to maintain his composure. "Don't come to the hanging," he muttered finally, twisting a little against the pillow. "I don't want you to see-- that."
"I have to, Horatio." It was difficult to get the words out from between clenched teeth, difficult to remember that it wasn't Horatio he was angry at, but the rest of the world. "You know that. The entire squadron."
"Oh. Yes." Horatio nodded quickly, his breathing still ragged, a flush rising into his cheeks. "Of course. You all have to-- repudiate me, first, and then--" A tremor went through his body, and he groaned in pain, though if it was of mind or body, Archie wasn't sure.
"I won't say the words," Archie said, staring down at Horatio's hand between his own, realizing he'd been clenching it hard enough that he must be adding to his friend's pain. "I won't."
"Don't compromise yourself for me," Horatio muttered, eyes tightly closed now. "There's no reason-- it doesn't--" He swallowed hard. "I don't understand," he whispered again, before his entire body stiffened and he writhed against the sheets, crying out.
"Dr. Clive!" Archie shouted, shoving the chair back from the bed. The doctor hurried in a moment later, bottle of laudanum already in hand, scarcely glancing at Archie.
"You'd best leave, Mr. Kennedy," he said briefly, guiding the bottle to Horatio's lips, ignoring his patient's feeble attempts to struggle away. "He's done for today."
He's done for good, Archie thought, numb inside, turning for the door. And no one cares to do a thing to change it.
***
The verdict came down the next morning, exactly as expected. Archie considered going back to the infirmary afterwards, but Horatio would likely refuse to see him, and he wasn't sure he could trust himself to maintain any sort of composure at any rate.
He was no longer confined or under observation, and so he found a tavern in which to spend the afternoon, ordering one drink after another and staring down into them, too raw inside to properly think, only remember, and imagine, and silently rage.
He was surprised to find it was only mid-afternoon when he stepped outside again, unable to bear sitting still while his mind whirled so. He moved up the street, not nearly as drunk as he expected; damn portside watered beer. Still, it took a bit of concentration to place his feet properly, which was why he didn't notice Captain Hammond until he'd run into him.
"Have a care, Lieutenant," Hammond said, sounding more amused than annoyed. "Ah, I see you've been celebrating your good fortune."
Celebrating. Archie stared at him, unable to even begin to formulate a reply to that. None was required; Hammond swept on.
"Your fortune might go farther than you thought, Mr. Kennedy-- the Gaditana's going to need a commander inside of a few days, and your conduct through all this has moved you right to the top of the list."
Surely he was joking. "It would be pointless to speculate, sir," Archie muttered stiffly.
"Don't bore me with false modesty, young man. Bush isn't fit to command yet, Buckland's proven himself a worthless waste of a uniform, and Hornblower's set to swing in the morning. You're the only choice left of Renown's officers, and it's good luck for the Admiralty that you're a solid one. I expect Pellew will be by to visit you tomorrow after the hanging, and give you your papers." He squinted over Archie shoulder then. "Ah-- there's the man I needed to see. Enjoy your freedom, Kennedy. Have a drink on me." He slipped a coin into Archie's hand and hurried off down the street.
Archie stood there for a moment, dizzy all over again. They meant to make him a commander. They meant to give him his own ship-- and on the same day that they hanged his dearest friend. And not a single thought that he might object to any of it.
The coin dropped forgotten into the dust as he walked away.
***
Like all hangings, it had the festive atmosphere of a holiday. Archie stood beside Buckland, with the other men of Renown, a small cluster at the far side of the squadron gathered around the gallows and waiting to see an officer swing for treason.
The prison doors opened and two Marines marched Horatio out into the courtyard. No uniform for him now, of course; he'd lost the right to that. Just a plain white shirt and the second-best dark trousers he'd been wearing when he was shot. The Marines were supporting most of his weight, but the movement had clearly torn the wound; it was bleeding through the bandages and from there through his shirt as he stumbled toward his death. The shirt was tucked in neatly, Archie noted with near-physical pain. He could picture Horatio sitting on his infirmary cot, on the edge of weeping from the agony of the wound, and still taking care to tuck his shirt in. Surely the Marines and Clive would never think of it.
They stood him in his place on the gallows and settled the noose around his throat. He was white as a sheet, standing there, staring out over the crowd as they jeered and shouted. Archie looked away, eyes darting through the crowd. Buckland didn't notice when he stepped away from Renown's men and began moving through the crowd. Matthews and Styles looked askance at him, but didn't try to interfere. They knew better.
He drifted easily through the shouting men as the executioner read out the sentence. This man is a traitor, a worthless cur, sentenced to hang by the neck until dead as prescribed by the Articles and His Majesty. This man had served the Navy with more devotion than any other Archie had ever known. This man had only ever tried to serve to the best of his abilities. Archie glanced up then as he drew closer to the gallows. He saw Horatio's face, so pale, his eyes so huge and dark and still full of so much terrible confusion. I don't understand. He could hear that soft, childlike, bewildered voice in his mind again. But I don't understand.
There. The three officers of the tribunal, standing in a neat row, watching their verdict carried out. Archie drew up behind them easy, hands slipping beneath his jacket to find the pistols tucked safely away. Only two shots, a pity; he'd only take two of them before he himself was hauled off and hanged. Maybe only one, if the surrounding soldiers reacted quickly enough. Maybe none at all, if he misfired. So many possibilities. He'd certainly do his best to get two, though. He could die satisfied if he at least made the effort.
Maybe they'd hang him right here on the spot, without benefit of trial, just cut Horatio's body down and string Archie up within an hour. That would be...appropriate.
He drew one pistol, held it down by his thigh, cocked it. He kept his eyes fixed on Pellew and Hammond's heads, refusing to look up again as he heard the dull thunk of the trapdoor opening, and the crowd's roar of approval. He didn't want to see.
He lifted the gun, and fired.