Hornblower watched through his cabin window as the Liberty slowly turned to windward. The snow was heavy upon her, but she was a good ship for an American vessel, and he had faith that she would reach her port without incident. He hoped Mrs. Bonaparte and her new steward would be content with their new circumstances, and that her husband would someday find his way to her.

She had called him 'damn heartless.' He did not think himself so, yet this stung at him. Her parting words echoed those said the night she was brought aboard the Hotspur. Had he failed at love? And if so, what of friendship?

Bracegirdle. Another old friend lost to bloody war. It was the fate of the service, all men knew that. If you did not perish yourself then you would watch as those you knew met their ends, and what untimely ends they were. He himself risked life and limb a dozen times over the course of this latest assignment, and he would risk it again with the next, and the next after that, until one day he would not have thick woolen gloves with which to extinguish a burning fuse. A naval officer's wife had no choice but to understand that.

Even survival held danger. Bracegirdle lost his ship and his crew to the blasted Frogs and there had been nothing left of him. A carcass of a man, dead in all but body. He had rallied himself to complete his final mission, but Hornblower knew what fate awaited him in England. No hope of command, a life outside the service. He shuddered to think of it. To comfort himself, he closed his eyes and felt the rock of his ship upon the waves, heard the creak of her timbers.

No, he was not heartless. Yet in his duty to the service, he had failed in his duty to his wife. He had failed in his loyalty to his friends. He had risen as an officer and fallen as a man.

"Archie," he breathed, "must you always be right?"

And then there was Bush. Hornblower's cheeks burned at the memory of their night together. He had been selfish, using their drunken state as an excuse to take comfort from his friend. He spurned that friendship out of shame and pledged himself to Maria for reasons he knew to be ill-considered. Even on his wedding day, what should have been the happiest day of his life, his strongest sentiment was irritation: at himself, at Maria, at Bush for standing there looking as if he had been kicked.

What he felt in his heart did not merit comparison to war. But he was the man Maria married, and he was the man Kennedy and Bush had pledged to serve with. What could he do? He touched his cheek, thinking of Mrs. Bonaparte's cold kiss. There was only one thing for it: he must make amends.

He turned from the window and made his way towards Bush's quarters. It was with him that his errors had begun. Hornblower composed an apology as he walked, slowing his pace to give himself time to prepare. As he turned down the hall, he stopped and listened. The laughter was coming from his destination. He quietly eased himself closer and listened, curious.

"William, surely you jest!" It was Kennedy.

"I do not!" Bush protested. His voice held more cheer than Hornblower could remember hearing. "I was ambushed in my very bed."

"I hope that you did not surrender so quickly."

"Are you mad? One against three, man, I was outnumbered. And they had fortified themselves. Elizabeth was the worst."

"What did she do?"

"Put snow up my nightshirt. They say I screamed so loudly it startled the horses." Kennedy barked with laughter, and Bush chuckled warmly.

Elizabeth. One of Bush's sisters, then? Hornblower realized suddenly that he had never learnt their names. He thought of them only as mentions in passing, recipients of half his lieutenant's pay.

"Do you miss them, William?" asked Kennedy.

"Terribly. It is worst just after I leave them, for they know I may not return. I have become accustomed to finding small gifts tucked into the folds of my clothing."

"They care for you deeply."

"They dote on me. Perhaps it is to make up for their nightly attacks upon me during our childhood." Hornblower could hear the grin in his voice, but his words were laced with melancholy.

"You must show me one of these gifts," said Kennedy.

"They are but small things. Pressed flowers, warm socks... sometimes Charlotte writes short poems, to remind me of our home."

"I am not surprised. She is the romantic, is she not?"

"Oh yes," Bush said. "When I return she always tells me of her latest suitor. She is amazingly fickle. I wonder if she will ever choose a husband."

"She is young yet, give her time."

"I have told her that she must decide soon, for I wish to be there to give her away."

"This does not encourage her?"

"No. Instead she cuffs my head with Shakespeare's Sonnets and says that I must ensure to remain alive until she weds." At this Hornblower could not stop himself from letting out a chuckle. The sudden silence from Bush's room meant that he had given himself away. He cleared his throat loudly and presented himself at the door.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said. Both men stood as he entered. "Mister Bush, if you have a moment?" Kennedy made to leave, but Hornblower held out a hand. "Archie, wait. Please, sit down." Kennedy sat back down and looked with concern at Bush, whose expression was somber. "Both of you." Bush frowned and took his seat.

"Yes, sir?" Bush asked. He did not quite meet Hornblower's eyes.

"I..." Horatio began to pace the small cabin, but quickly stopped himself. He sat down next to Bush. "William," he said.

"Sir?" Bush said, confused.

"I have come to apologize," Hornblower said. "To both of you." He glanced at Kennedy and received a warning glare. "Especially to you, William." He took a deep breath, bracing himself. "I am sorry for how I have treated you. I have been a poor friend."

"Sir," Bush began.

"Horatio," Hornblower insisted.

"Horatio," Bush said, and Hornblower caught the ghost of a smile as it graced his features.

"What happened between us..." Horatio said, faltering slightly. "I regret my behavior to you that night, and my rudeness since. It was most... unseemly." Bush said nothing, but looked at Hornblower with open eyes. "I imposed upon our friendship for my own selfish needs and did not consider the consequences. And when they came, as they must, I imposed upon you again. I have hurt you, and for that I am sorry." When Bush still did not reply, he looked to Kennedy pleadingly.

"And?" prompted Kennedy.

"And I promise to try to be a better friend. If you will have me."

Bush rose and walked across the room, keeping his back to Hornblower. Still he said nothing. Hornblower shifted uneasily.

"If you wish, I will put a request to Admiral Pellew that you be transferred. You will be given the highest recommendation from me, William. You are an excellent and valuable officer; any captain would be honored for you to serve with him."

"That is very kind of you," said Bush. "I accept your apology." Hornblower breathed a sigh of relief. "But..." Bush said, turning to face him.

So much for relief. "Yes?" he asked.

"But I cannot forgive you." At this even Kennedy looked surprised. "You give me your word, and I know you will keep it as best you can. You are a man of honor," Bush continued, "but it is not your honor that concern me."

"Do you wish to leave the Hotspur?" asked Kennedy, clearly concerned.

"I do not know," Bush admitted. "I would miss your company, Archie, and I would hate to lose it again after so short a time."

Hornblower swallowed. "Is he all that holds you here?"

"No," Bush sighed. "No. Horatio... as your First Lieutenant I would gladly remain. But as your friend, you have given no more than promises to stay my leave."

"I have little else to offer," Hornblower protested. "I have done you great wrong, I know this. But can I not request a second chance? I value you, William. You have stood by me when I needed you."

"I am not another Maria," Bush said, suddenly angry, "to lay with and abandon at your convenience. You were more to me than a friend!" He forced a calm upon himself, but his anger smoldered beneath it.

"William," Kennedy soothed.

"No," interrupted Bush. "It must be said. Horatio, I asked... I asked if you were mine." His voice trembled with anger and pain. "In answer you threw me from your quarters and married that poor woman out of broken charity."

Hornblower sat silent. He had no defense, and gave none.

"I do not have an answer for you," Bush continued, returning to himself. "You cannot expect me to give one, not yet. I need... I need time."

"Then you shall have it, all that you need," Hornblower said, determined. "I am deeply sorry, William. If I could give you more than this beggarly offering I would, for you were more than a friend to me as well.

"But now I am pledged to my poor wife, whom everyone pities. I have wronged her more than anyone, but she is the woman I married, and I must make things right between us. We are bound together in the eyes of God.

"William, you are bound here by only duty and loyalty. If I have abused either past the point of mending then say the words and you are free of me. Yet if there is hope, then let us unbend this knot together."

Hornblower stood and walked to Bush and asked, simply, "please." Bush had stayed mute throughout his plea, and for a minute longer he did not speak. Finally, he nodded.

"There is hope," he said.