But he has the ear of the Captain and the heart of the crew. They listen to him in ways that they should not on both ends of the spectrum. He commands their loyalty and they give it to him willingly because they know he asks nothing from them that he will not give in return. Pellew stares down at him often, from his high station, and nods, the job done and done well enough for him.

Below decks he stills the shouts and insults that fly from angry mouths and stinging pride. He silences them with words when needed, when a well-placed glance will not suffice. He will threaten, and they know the threats will become sting of the cat or the snap of the rope over the yardarm. They don't fear him, they respect him, and that lays a burden on him heavier than any other he suffers under.

At night, when he has the chance to sleep, he stares at the hammock slung above his and runs his hand over the scars on his chest, tracing them like tracks of silver, though the deep tan of his flesh paints them almost gold. He knows the origin of each one, knows how close death came from the hard pucker of skin where wounds did not heal.

He closes his eyes and rests his hands on his stomach, feeling the rise and fall of each breath as he wills himself to sleep, the sway of his hammock and the low roll of his ship a private lullaby sung by sirens teasing him to fall.

He roars his orders over the firing of cannons, his voice carrying across the din as powder and smoke fly around him. Sweat beads on his skin, but he keeps moving, never resting. His men make no sound of dissention as they obey his sharp voice, moving like well oiled machinery, firing with precision and deadly skill. Silence falls as the last cannon rings true, the smoke trailing through the sky until it sinks with deadly accuracy through splintered, dry wood.

The men suddenly become men again, falling into themselves as he turns and offers a salute, receiving an appraising look and a satisfied nod in return.

War rages around him and the ground comes alive with gunfire, spitting bullets to the dirt at his feet, to the trees behind him. He motions to his crew and they move as one again, the desire to survive fueling them as strongly as the need to do well, and to do well for him. He nods and they begin their job, each man to his own task. He can time the men by their movements, needing nothing of the hourglass as each second ticks by in the grain of powder, the swab of sponge, the spark of fire and the scent of sulfur that burns the back of his throat.

There are dead and they are his, conscripted to the sea with rounds shot at their feet. He nods as each one is released and offers a quiet prayer for those who will not find peace in the depths. The Bible is closed and he bows his head and wonders if the ocean is any warmer when you're dead.

He stops, as he must, at the sight of his commanding officer and salutes, his tired body protesting the formality. "Sir," he offers with a duck of his head, his eyes firmly on the ones watching him. There is much to be done, and he is the one who has to do it, but his bones ache with weariness. "Whenever you're ready, Sir."

He's surprised, though not as much as one might think, as the man across from him shakes his head. "Get some sleep, Matthews."

"But, Sir."

There is something in Hornblower's tone that brooks no argument, yet still remains almost deferential. "You've done your duty." Mr. Hornblower nods and offers Matthews a ghost of a smile. "Let your men do their job."

"That's a lesson many a Commander never learns, Mr. Hornblower, Sir."

"Very true, Matthews." Hornblower clasps his hands behind his back and turns, falling into step with Matthews. "Let us never be that Commander, hm?"

Matthews stops and smiles and sketches another salute. "Aye, Aye, Mr. Hornblower, Sir."

Hornblower'ss smile stays firmly in place as he returns the salute with full honor. "Goodnight, Matthews."