"Can I get you anything, Mr. Kennedy?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Bush. I'm quite well."

He can hear the amusement in Kennedy's voice, wrapped around the delicate lie. Kennedy is anything but well, though no one will speak the words that seal his fate. It seems impossible to think on their own fates when they know Hornblower and Buckland's fates lie in the hands of officers and Admirals and in suspicious evidence given by men who know the truth of the sea and that of the land are not the same.

Bush sits up and watches Kennedy in the faint moonlight that filters in through the iron bars. His covers are ratcheted at his hips, giving heavy air a chance to move over his bare chest and bloodstained bandages. The stain is like a dark purple mass in the strange half-light, spreading and growing constantly even with Dr. Clive's daily attention.

"I was in prison once, you know. Well, six times by last accounting." Kennedy's voice still holds that strange laughter that doesn't quite make sense to Bush, an ease with the moment that seems contrary to his current situation. "In France and Spain and now here. At least then I was held captive by a country other than my own."

"We knew well it would come to this."

"We did," Kennedy agrees softly. "We knew it would come to this but we did it anyway, for the good of the ship and the crew. You would think they'd look at it all and see that. What men would risk mutiny and still sail to Kingston? Who would not turn tail and run another way, to another country? Would we desirous to simply rule ourselves, would we bring the ship home here and face death?"

"We do what we must."

"We do. We do indeed."

Bush sits silent for a moment, staring across at Kennedy's rough, labored breathing. "Dr. Clive says things are going poorly. Buckland has finally made a decision and it appears that is to lay the blame for the entire situation on Hornblower's shoulders."

"I'm sure my lack of shock won't be surprising." Kennedy laughs then coughs, the sound wrenching in the sudden darkness as a cloud slips across the moon. "No one would believe Buckland capable of mutiny on his own. Hell, the man's lucky he can manage to put his pants on without help. If he weren't in uniform, no doubt he'd waste the day wondering which trousers would be least offensive to wear."

Bush laughs and leans back, watching shadows slide across the ceiling. "Who pushed the Captain, Mr. Kennedy?"

The lightness in Kennedy's tone disappears instantly. "The Captain fell, Mr. Bush."

"Convenient of him, don't you think?"

"I assure you, Mr. Bush, had Captain Sawyer been at the bottom of the hold by my hand or Horatio's, he would not have woken. We learned long ago that men who do things in half measures are dead men."

"You'll soon be a dead man, Mr. Kennedy."

Another laugh, this one thick with the sound of blood, followed by another cough. Bush gets to his feet and moves over to Kennedy's bed, sitting on the edge of it, dabbing Kennedy's red lips with his handkerchief. "But, Mr. Bush, if you are to listen to Dr. Clive, there is simply no way he can possibly manage to tell anyone if I'll make it through the night alive or dead. It's good to know that his dubious grasp of life-threatening wounds extends through all the ranks and not just the upper echelons of service."

"It would take a fool to not see that you and Mr. Hornblower are friends."

"And you are not a fool, Mr. Bush? Is that what you wish to tell me?" Kennedy shakes his head, closing his eyes slowly. "I would award you a fine medal were it not to be added weight on your chest when we all are hanged."

"Someone will hang, Mr. Kennedy." Bush crumples the handkerchief in his hand and stares down at it, the snowy-white mottled with crimson. "Someone will have to hang."

"And you would prefer it not be you? That you don't live through Clive's fine handiwork only to swing from the gallows?" Kennedy's hand moves, the back of his fingers brushing Bush's knee. "Half measures, Mr. Bush."

"Neither of us are on trial, simply by virtue of our wounds. Otherwise it would be you and I in that courtroom, facing the gallows alongside our shipmates. Buckland's neck is not worth saving."

"But Horatio's is." Kennedy nods. "I know." There is a long silence between then, neither sure of what to say in wake of the words unspoken. "Something must be done."

"Yes."

"And it is mine to do."

"Mr. Kennedy…"

"Mr. Bush, Horatio is my friend, my dearest friend. I owe him more than…I owe him. And, as you say, hanging Buckland will not be a salve in the wound. He is too ineffectual, too weak. They need someone strong to pay for what was done, someone who will speak up, speak out."

"They need Mr. Hornblower."

Kennedy closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them, something burning in the normally bright and incautious blue. "They will not have him." He looks away from Bush, back up to the ceiling and the things only he can see. "I should have died long ago, Mr. Bush. I thought I had been saved by grace."

"And now?"

"Is it not every man's wish to die for a cause, Mr. Bush? Die for England?" Kennedy's smile fades and leaves behind something Bush recognizes, the strange determination that fires Hornblower's steady countenance. "And so I will."

"You will lose everything."

"No, Mr. Bush. Not the things that matter. Those will go with me to my grave, no matter whether it is marked or spit upon." He manages another smile, harder now, and Bush can see that it is not just levity that Kennedy gave Hornblower, but there is something Hornblower gave Kennedy as well. "Perhaps England will thank me some day, by rewarding him as he deserves."

"They will, Mr. Kennedy. I don't doubt that."