Journey

The carriage rocked to a stop amid a swirl of dancing of snowflakes. The young boy, nervous, but composed, stepped down and looked about the town square which seemed to be as far as the coach would take him. His bag was handed down and deposited at his feet. No one was there to meet him. He knew no one in the town.

As the clatter of the departing coach faded away, he was left alone to wonder what to do next. He was hungry and he was getting cold standing there. The snow was beginning to fall in earnest and it was getting dark. Sundown came early in Kent on a January afternoon.

He had been told that someone would be here when he arrived. His father had said that someone from the school would be there to see him safely to the campus. Mistaking the word for `canvas', he had asked where the ship would take him. Seeing his look of confusion, the man had explained, none too patiently, that was where the school had its buildings and yard. Someone associated with the school would meet him and take him to the dormitory and show him about.

Knowing that he had somehow angered his father again, he had begun to cry, but quickly stopped when he saw the look on the old man's face, wiping his face on his sleeve and further annoying his father with the action. He had no time for such nonsense. The child had been put on the seat and told to behave, the carriage door had shut behind him and the horses started off. Putting his head out the window to wave goodbye to his father, he saw the receding figure, back turned to him, already walking home.

The trip had taken over ten hours, with stops to change horses and to navigate the frozen, rutted roads. He had been afraid to talk to the other passengers, afraid to annoy them and his shyness prevented him responding when a very occasional comment was tossed his way.

But now there was no one here. The green was deserted in the bad weather and gathering dusk. Not knowing what else to do, he sat on his bag, huddled in his jacket and scarf and mittens, and simply waited.

After what seemed to be hours, but was in fact likely fifteen or twenty minutes, a middle-aged man approached him. That looked like the boy he was told about, about the right age, skinny, tall for his years, dark hair and eyes. "Hornblower? Is that you, lad?"

He stood. "Yes, sir." It was barely audible. He looked up. The man was even taller than his father, but quite a bit wider. His cheeks were pink from the cold and he was hitting his gloved hands together in an effort to warm them.

"Well, come along." The man picked up his bag and started off at a good pace, making the boy shift into a sort of half run to keep up.

After a brisk and somewhat slippery ten-minute walk they arrived at a two story brick building that the man, Mr. Bolton, said was the main classroom building and the dormitory for the younger lads. He would live here with the rest of the first termers.

They entered the door into the warmth and light of the front hallway, to be greeted by a gray haired woman wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "I was wondering when you'd get back, Frank. I've been keeping your dinner warm in the kitchen." She turned her attention to the now wet, bedraggled and shivering child hanging back by the front door. "And who have we here. Umm?"

"Mrs. Greaves, may I introduce Master Horatio Hornblower whom I have reason to believe will become our star pupil should he choose to apply himself whilst he's here. Master Hornblower, Mrs. Greaves. She is the housemother here at school. You are to treat her as you would your own mother, or hopefully even better, if you've any sense."

The joking remark, kindly spoken, failed to generate the smile that could usually be counted on and instead brought on a silent flood of tears running down the cold cheeks.

Mrs. Greaves, a kindhearted soul, knelt by the crying boy, surprised that he made no sound. "Homesick, are you lad? You'll be getting any number of lovely packages from your Mum before you know it, you will. All the lads do, you'll see." She caught the shake of Mr. Bolton's head.

"I'm afraid that this young man's mother has passed on recently, Mrs. Greaves. His father feels that we might make a better job of his education than the village school he was going to at home."

She nodded. This was a common enough story for them to hear. "Ah then, I see. How old are you then, lad?"

"Five, Mrs. And a half."

"Well, you'll do just fine here. Five and a half is the best age to be, and you'll have lots of lovely brothers to play with." The large dark eyes regarded her solemnly, registering doubt that he didn't give voice to. "Have you eaten, then?" He nodded, lying. "Well then, let's show you your cot and introduce you to some of the lads you'll be with, shall we?"

Taking his hand, she led him up the stairs to the dormitory, lined on either side with a row of cots, perhaps twenty in all. About half of the beds had an occupant ranging in age from about six to, perhaps, nine. Each one of them was staring at the newcomer. There were small windows at each end and a smallish fireplace in the middle of one wall. The overall impression was one of dark and cramped and cold.

Going to one of the beds, Mrs. Greaves sat down, motioning for him to sit beside her. "This is the room where the younger boys are housed. The youngest ones, like you, stay close to the fire. This is to be your bed, Horatio. Your belongings are to be kept here and your bed is to be made every morning before you go down. Do your schoolwork; mind your manners and you'll be fine. Now, it's getting to be bedtime, so you get ready and then, when I come back, we'll have a lovely story as a special treat." Nodding, he opened his bag, digging for a moment and then pulled out his nightshirt. Mrs. Greaves left, leaving him the object of the other boys open scrutiny.

"Can you read?" He nodded, his eyes down.

"Can you do sums?" Another nod.

"Did you get sent here because you were bad?" Unsure of the truth, he shook his head. It seemed the best response.

"Can't you talk?"

"Yes, I can talk."

"Are you one of the ones who got sent away because one of your parents is dead?" Another nod. "Who's dead? Your mother or your father?"

"My mother." It seemed brave to just come out and say it like that.

"Like Peter. His Mum is dead, too." Horatio had no answer for that particular comment so remained silent. "You're not going to cry a lot, are you?"

"No."

To the best of anyone's knowledge, there was never a time in his entire tenure at the school when he was seen to ever cry after that first day.

As the first few months of his enrollment passed, Mrs. Greaves worried about the new lad. Oh, he did just fine in his school work, better than most of the lads, truth be known, but he hardly ate enough to keep a bird alive and he never seemed to want to play with the others after class. He was usually to be found up in the room on his cot, curled with a book. When asked, he would politely decline all entreaties to the outside unless actually ordered. He didn't seem to be making friends with the other lads, either, another thing that caused concern. She spoke to the Headmaster about the boy, but he seemed unconcerned. "Just leave him. He's young and still new here. Before you know it he'll be joining in with the others."

But it didn't happen. Oh, he was polite enough when directly spoken to and he seemed to make no enemies, but equally, he made no particular friends, preferring his own company and silence.

She thought that he would likely have been a target for the older lads if his intelligence hadn't set him apart almost immediately. Even as young as he was, he was quick witted and advanced in his lessons. The others, instead of taunting him, seemed to grant him a degree of respect that they reserved for few of the pupils. He always seemed willing to help the others, too, should they seek him out for assistance in a particular project or lesson.

The third year he was at the school, there had been an incident involving the local swimming pond and the boys late at night when they had been assumed to be in bed asleep. It had been an early hot spell in the spring and they had snuck out, getting caught in the process when, returning to the dormitory around two in the morning they had decided to take a detour into a cow field to tip over the sleeping animals amid much hilarity.

The next morning the irate farmer had stood in the office confronting the six boys he claimed he could identify. They were all in the twelve to fourteen age group of lads.

Though not among those accused, Horatio had politely spoken up, claiming that they had, in fact tipped the cows, but he could prove that they had caused no harm or damage to the animals. Asking if the milk production had been off, the farmer had to admit that morning's tally had been normal. Asking then if any animal had been injured in any way, the farmer had to admit that they were all in perfect health.

Mr. Bolton then asked what recompense he would like to see for the disturbance they had caused. A grumble and a halfhearted suggestion that the boys clean out his barn was accepted by all involved as easy payment and the matter was let drop with no letters to anyone's home. They older boys, from that moment on would allow no harm to come to the ungainly youngster, becoming his protectors. He accepted this calmly and remained silent and solemn. Shy and self possessed, he still largely kept to himself.

The other students seemed to just take him as he was. Whereas another boy as unusual as this one might have become an easy target for the bully that lives close to the surface of most youngsters, somehow he was set apart, recognized as somehow above such things and not to be trifled with.

It was this same year that Mr. Bolton had reason to see why there was smoke coming from the younger boys room when they were all thought to be at home for the Easter holiday. He was surprised to see young Hornblower curled up on his cot reading. The bed had been dragged closer to the fire.

Embarrassed to be caught when he was thought to have gone, Horatio had merely shrugged and mumbled when asked why he was still there. Finally, after much gentle coaxing, the truth came out. The boy had simply refused to go home, claiming that he was merely in the way when he was there and so would rather avoid the awkwardness of the situation. When asked if his father knew that he had remained at the school, he had shrugged and said that he wouldn't care. When the headmaster had written to the father, asking if he were aware of the situation, he received a brief reply stating that he was and the decision rested with the child.

From then on, the boy had rarely gone home other than for the six week summer holiday. He lived at the school, taking his meals in the kitchen when the others were away, helping with the chores and generally making himself useful, then burying his nose once more is some book. His grades excelled even more than they had previously.

By the time he was old enough to enter the form with the other twelve year olds, he was at least two years ahead of the other boys and regularly sat in with the fourteen and fifteen year olds, generally besting them in accomplishments. His French, Latin and Greek were exceptional. His composition and grammar above the average, but it was in Mathematics and science that he really stood out. By the time Horatio was fourteen, the teacher conceded to the student.

An arrangement was made to reduce his term fees under the condition that he teach the younger forms in sums. He agreed and from then on he was an assistant teacher in all but name.

The reports that Mr. Bolton sent home were uniformly of a glowing nature, full of praise for the young man's abilities, work habits, diligence and superior intelligence. If there were any areas in which he might have needed work, they were considered minor ones.

He remained shy, making no real friends, though he was not disliked. He preferred a book to a game of rugby or tennis, would rather sit on the bank of the pond on a hot day with a treatise on the new world than swim with the lads, though he would often swim alone.

The Father never came for a visit. The boy only went home when he had no choice. If he'd had friends, he would have likely gone with them. The father wrote no more than once a year, the boy would dutifully respond once.

A childhood friend from his village was his only correspondent. To these frequent letters, he reacted eagerly, obviously looking forward to them.

He never once mentioned his mother in the entire ten years he was at the school.

Mrs. Greaves had gotten into the habit of including him in with her own sons when the holidays came round. He would often be found at the pantry table with the two younger boys, almost like an older brother. They would ask him questions about the current work they were doing and he would help them with their assignments. Occasionally, he would read to them, but there was never a time when he made any attempt to actually join her family and it was apparent that he regarded her as a kindly woman, but not as a substitute mother. He kept a restrained distance from everyone.

Through his personality, his shyness and his natural reserve, he held himself apart. The others accepted him as he was and, for the most part, left him in peace.

Finally the day came when, at sixteen, he completed the course. The school had taught him all that it could and he was free to make his way without their further guidance. There had been a small passing out ceremony that his father had not attended and now the boy stood, calmly, before Mr. Bolton's desk. "You've done well, you know. You're the finest student and possess the keenest mind I've ever had the privilege to pass through these rooms. You've made me proud, Horatio, and you should be proud of yourself."

The dark eyes steadily met the look directed at him. It was plain that he took the compliments as mere words. If he had any idea just how good he was, he certainly hadn't allowed it to go to his head.

"Sit down, I've something I think you'd like to see." He passed several letters over to the lad. They were written on thick stationary with embossed headings and were addressed to the headmaster of St. Hubben's School.

Quickly scanning the contents, Horatio saw that they were letters of acceptance to both Oxford and Cambridge. They were each accepting him to begin with the fall term in a matter of months and both letters said that they looked forward to his joining the entering class in which they had every confidence he would be successful.

"Congratulations, Horatio. Which one will have the honor of your attendance next fall?"

"Forgive me, sir, but I don't understand."

"I applied for you lad! I knew that's where you belong, for Heaven's sake. With your intellect you should be at one of those places, and they agree. All you need do is decide which one you will grace with your presence."

Speechless, the youngster sat before him, his eyes blinking, and his head down, his hands in his lap. "But sir, does my father know about his?"

"I thought that you would like to tell him yourself. Horatio, he'll be pleased, I promise you. Any parent would be thrilled to have a son at one of the best universities on the planet."

He was shaking his head to himself. The voice that came out was resigned, quiet. "No sir, forgive me, but you don't understand. He'll be angry that this was done behind his back. He'll never agree."

"Of course he will. He'll be proud of you. How could he not?"

The boy stood, he'd gotten quite tall since he'd been with them. He attempted a smile. "Thank you, sir. You've been so kind to me. I shall miss you and Mrs. Greaves."

"Horatio, are you not going to even consider the possibility of your accepting one of these offers?"

His color was heightened and the Headmaster realized that the lad was as close to an outburst as the reserved young man might be capable of.

"Sir, please, forgive me. I'm honored and grateful for what you've done for me and for your confidence in me, but you must see that this is impossible. He will never agree to this, never."

Frank Bolton sat heavily back in his chair. The young man in front of him hadn't left, obviously wanting more from him.

"Horatio, if you don't do this, what shall you do now? You will be wasted in a small village. You know this as well as I. You need the stimulation that you will find at one of these schools, they will lead you to a life that will fulfill you. To do less will be tantamount to intellectual suicide for you."

"Sir, I will find something, I have some thoughts and I shall..."

Angry now at the opportunity being thrown aside, he snapped at the young fool before him. "What thoughts? That you might apprentice to the local linen merchant? Perhaps you could become a wheelwright or a baker? Dear God, for the first time since I've met you, you've disappointed me, lad." Seeing the look on the young face before him, he relented a bit. "Tell me why it is that you think he'll object. Just explain that to me. Perhaps we might have a solution."

"Sir, forgive me, but I …"

"Horatio, you owe me that much, surely."

A deep breath a hesitation and the lad spoke. "There isn't enough money, sir."

There. Simple. A statement of fact. Bolton sat up in his chair, his hands clasped together on the desk before him. The schools were expensive; there was no denying that, but to deny an intellect like the one he had nurtured for the last ten years was an outrage.

"I believe that there might be some help available in that area. There is also the possibility of paying over the course of time. Arrangements can be made, lad."

"He will never agree to borrowing anything. To be thought of as "in need" he'd rather cut off his arm than allow that. If the tuition money isn't in his hand, he'll not permit me to go, and I know that he hasn't the money. Not for this, anyway."

That was a telling remark if ever there was one. "What do you mean by that, lad?"

Another hesitation. "He told me, the last time I was back there." Bolton noticed that he didn't refer to his father's house as `home'. "He told me that he was glad I was almost finished so that he might finally be done paying school fees and might have some extra for himself."

"So you'll sell yourself off to someone to ease your father's bills."

"Sir, I'm no longer a child. It's time I was on my own" He stopped, at a loss as to what to say. There was little that he could add.

"Perhaps if I wrote to your father, explained to him…" He trailed off. There was no point in continuing the thought with the lad looking as he did.

The Headmaster stood again. "Very well, Horatio. As you wish."

They both moved to the office door. "I wish you all the best, son. You know that. If you ever need anything, you know that I'm your friend. Damn, I'd hire you to teach here if I thought that you'd agree to it."

"You're kind, sir, and that's meant much to me all this time, but I'd prefer to make my own way."

The older man nodded, understanding. He held out his hand. They shook and the boy left. He would be gone in an hour or two. He was the best to pass through these rooms, and that couldn't be denied.

Turning back to his desk, he paused, deciding that he would forward the acceptance letters to the lad's father with his own letter accompanying them. The man must see the chance the boy had been offered. He must.

There was no possible way that he couldn't see that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Twenty years later, found among Frank Bolton's effects were several worn copies of the Naval Chronicle. In each was either an article or correspondence concerning Captain Sir Horatio Hornblower, tracing his remarkable career to that point.

Tucked into the yellowing papers was a letter from Sir Horatio to his old headmaster.

It read, in part: "When we last parted I told you I wished to make my own way in the world. It is my greatest hope that you have not been disappointed in the path I have chosen. You were more of a father to me than the man who's name I carry. Were it at all possible for me to express to you what you have meant in my life, I would do so, but I fear that I am unequal to the task. Please know, dear sir, that had I not had the great good fortune to have known you, my life would not be as it is today.

Whatever I am, I owe to you.

Your grateful student, Horatio Hornblower.

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