A Silent Night on the Caribbean

December 24, 1821

It did not seem like Christmas. But then he had not expected it to. At least, not with temperatures that remained consistently summer-like throughout the year. He had stubbornly resisted his staff’s attempts to decorate his office to impart the feeling of the season and he had actually taken some pleasure in seeing their faces fall when he turned away the grand conical towers of citrus fruit and greenery. Back at Smallbridge, he would have welcomed them, quietly relishing the fact that he was wealthy enough to fill his entire home with the decorations. Here in the Caribbean, where pineapples and oranges could be had for practically nothing, they seemed less tasteful than they did in England. Something within him delighted in being able to shun what was common…however comfortable and familiar.

Admiral Lord Hornblower sat at his desk, looking over the last of what had been a mound of paperwork. He had worked steadily through it all morning long and finally, unable to tolerate the perpetual task of reading and signing any longer, had announced that he wished for everyone to be dismissed this afternoon so that they may begin their Christmas festivities early. Of course, they were only working a few hours less than they usually did, but the gratitude evident in his secretary’s face (after the initial shock had worn off) amply proved that his small gesture was not unappreciated. And, while he would not readily admit it to himself, it was rather pleasant to revive in some miniscule way the legendary unpredictability of Hornblower…

There were unforeseen consequences, though, which he did not consider to be wholly positive—though not wholly negative, either. He had to endure numerous interruptions that afternoon as various staff poked their heads into his office to offer their thanks—which he had accepted, perhaps, a bit gruffly. He was glad when the building was at last empty and he had a moment to think. But there was work to finish. Work that he could not in good conscience leave until after the holiday.

He dashed his name off hastily on the last of the documents and set them aside. He stared at them wearily for a moment before grabbing the stack and making for the door. Commanding from behind a desk had quickly taught Hornblower that sealing every single paper that came to him was one of the more pointless and time consuming tasks in which an Admiral could engage. The duty had been quickly reassigned to his secretary, and Hornblower was pleased to say that he had not seen a seal or the wax that accompanied one since he first took up his posting earlier this year. But his blasted soft-heartedness would not allow him to clog another’s desk over the holiday with work that was just as easily and—this was the point—more properly done by himself.

He sifted irritably through Spendlove’s desk, simultaneously cursing and praising the man for hiding the seal so efficiently. Just as he felt his goodwill ebbing permanently, his eye caught sight of it. His patience wearing thin, Hornblower grabbed the familiar wooden box, setting it on the desk roughly without another thought and readied the first document to be stamped. He flipped open the lid, consumed in his task, when the faint odor of stained wood stopped him. He remembered the smell…remembered the first time his nose had caught the scent…and he gave the little box another look.

There was nothing particularly stunning about it. Just an ordinary pencil box. The interior was marked with tiny hardened colored puddles and small black spots where still-warm sealing wax and carelessly cleaned nibs had been deposited in haste. Its exterior was dented in places, but overall, it still retained its clean lines and glossy surface. The brass, perhaps, was in need of a bit of polishing, but who had time for that…?

The Admiral sat down heavily in his secretary’s chair, gazing as if in a trance at the box holding the seal that so long ago had been nothing more than a joke between friends. At least, it had been a joke to Hornblower. Perhaps Archie had taken the jest more seriously…

But that was a fanciful—and ridiculous—thought.

Well, whatever Archie Kennedy had foreseen, he could not have known all that would transpire in the year after he had presented that box. It had been a Christmas gift—the last Christmas gift, Hornblower recalled with more than a bit of sadness. A token of almost a decade’s worth of friendship, purchased while on a final visit to Portsmouth together…on one last shared shore leave…

Hornblower heard himself clear his throat. All these ‘lasts’ and ‘finals’… He was becoming maudlin and that would not do. Not tonight.

Almost as if it had been willed there, the sudden memory of the other gift he had been presented with that same Christmas popped into his head and Hornblower let out a sudden laugh.

Underwear.

As fine as any underwear that could possibly be made, but underwear nonetheless. Perhaps not the most elegant demonstration of affection, yet somehow appropriate. Archie had always had a way of knowing precisely what Horatio had needed at any given moment and had always been determined to give it—regardless of what anyone (including Horatio himself!) thought about it. That underwear had served him well…lasting longer than any other pair that he had possessed up to that point and it was only years later, after being nagged mercilessly by Maria for keeping the ratty undergarment that he had finally allowed her to turn it into proper rags…

Admiral Lord Hornblower wondered with a grin what Archie Kennedy would have thought of that…

His eyes returned to the pencil box. Somewhere there was another just like it; most likely at Hallowfield, in Archie’s sister’s possession. At least, Horatio hoped that it was in Emily’s care. While she might not have realized its particular significance, it seemed fitting that she should be its keeper. He cringed to think it might be in the hands of a more indifferent party…

Nearly ten years that had ended over twenty years ago… Ten years that, whether he cared to admit it or not, had impacted his life perhaps more than any other decade before or after. He had been friends with Bush for longer. Yet, try as he might, he could not recall exchanging gifts with Bush in any of the time they had known each other. Archie had never forgotten a Christmas—that is to say, he had never forgotten Horatio on Christmas.

Hornblower chided himself for his disloyalty to Bush—their service together had been longer and harder it seemed than had his first years at sea. There had hardly been time for merriment and seasonal pleasantries. And, to be fair, Bush did not have the endless funds that Kennedy seemed to possess…

But neither had he, he recalled. Certainly there had been shore leaves replete with skipped meals, fewer drinks and self-denied luxuries, but they had always been amply repaid with the almost childlike joy with which he had anticipated the look on Archie’s face when the paper had been thrown aside and the gift revealed. And though, even after two decades, he could still remember every Christmas gift that he had given to and received from Archie, it was the closeness of those long ago days—a bond unlike any other he had known before—that resonated more than anything else. There had been a warmth to Christmas then…

Horatio suddenly longed for Smallbridge and Barbara and Richard. He longed for the mountains of decorative oranges that rapidly disappeared due to the well-known—yet ignored (with much fond head-shaking)—conspiratorial thefts for the Lord by the Master. He longed for the smell of pine and wassail that drifted through the manor around this time of the year and for the stacks of beautifully wrapped packages that seemed to inspire Richard’s round face to smile unceasingly from the moment of their appearance. He even began to miss the carolers who stopped by to assault his tone-deaf ears if for no other reason than to have the opportunity to pretend not to notice the admiration in Barbara’s knowing eyes at his feigned enjoyment of the concert.

He had missed too many Christmases. Too many Christmases consumed by orders and command and duty. And he wondered, as he looked at the little box, how many more he might have missed had it not been for Archie…

Shaking off thoughts of home and yesteryear, the Admiral reluctantly removed the seal and sealing wax, intent on finishing what he had started. By the time he completed his task, the light had long since faded. He scooped the papers into a relatively neat stack, scraped away the few errant drips of sealing wax that had missed the parchment, returned the seal to the pencil box and closed it. He was about to replace it in the desk, but thought better of it…and, grabbing his hat, coat, a pencil and paper, darted from Admiralty House with his seal and his box in hand…

*****

The cool air of the tropical night blew across his face as he looked out over the bay, which sparkled in the moonlight. The ships below rocked quietly at anchor. Hornblower took a deep breath. He did not come here often. In fact, he had only been here once since he first arrived on the island. But it was peaceful…as it should be on tonight of all nights.

He turned towards the bottom of the hill, where his coachman (no doubt grumbling even now to himself at his master’s strange and troublesome habits) waited. "Bring one of those lanterns here!" he bellowed through the darkness. He watched long enough to ensure that his orders were being followed, then turned back to water. At last the distinct sound of a man’s panting reached his ears.

"’Ere you are, my lord…" The wretched coachman presented him with the requested lantern between heavy breaths. Under other circumstances, Hornblower might have snatched the light from him, with a gaze that would make plain that he had been kept waiting for far too long. But the poor man had driven over an hour at the Admiral’s request—and on Christmas Eve, no less. And, inexplicable though it might be, Hornblower found it hard to act so uncharitably here...

"Thank you," he managed, praying that the coachman was not so obtuse that he would miss the subtle hint that he wished to be left alone. "I shall be down in an hour or two…"

The man bowed his head in understanding. "Aye, my lord," he answered, obediently starting the downhill trek.

Hornblower waited until the darkness had swallowed him, then took a seat on the cool, wet grass. He placed the lantern beside him, then brought the box and paper out from his pocket.

"You’re a sentimental fool, Hornblower." He muttered to himself, realizing that he had neglected to bring along something to press on. Shaking his head, he took up his hat—it would do well enough—then lifted the lid of the old wooden box. Ostensibly, it was to retrieve his pencil, but a part of him absurdly delighted in displaying the seal within.

**"…every time it opens its lid too wide, you may think of me..."**

My Darling Barbara,

As I write these lines, Christmas day is but an hour hence. It seems ludicrous, but England seems a little closer tonight…