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The resplendency of the uniform does not surprise him, though it shines bitterly bright to his dulled eyes. His thumb rubs the hilt of his sword, and he wonders for a brief moment of insanity if it would be better to deny honor and force the blade through the throat of the Captain in front of him and find himself leaking his life's blood on the deck of his own ship. He glances at his men, bound and shackled all, even the wounded and sighs to himself, knowing that he has spilled enough blood today for nothing. He will spill no more. "Monsieur le Capitaine." The Captain cocks an eyebrow and he bows his head, respect for a battle fought enough to grant honor, though his eyes reflect victories of his own. Outnumbered, outgunned and he brought them low. Just not low enough. "Horatio Hornblower, Captain of the Sutherland." He turns his sword and presents it, resigns it. Surrenders it. A cheer goes up on the French ship, and he can hear his name spoken brokenly in French, their voices mangling the words, taking even that from him. Swords and pikes, bayonets and guns shove and push at his men, sending them limping and dragging off to their fate, Rosas looming above them. His mind cannot process the movements as he moves forward and seeks out Bush, easing his Lieutenant's arm around his shoulders, not surprised to see Brown at Bush's other side. Death, Hornblower thinks. Death awaits Bush. Awaits them all, in the end. He glances back at Sutherland as they row toward shore. Imprisoned. Dishonored. Surrendered. Death would be a blessing.
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