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anteros_lmcTitle: Reprieve
Author: Anteros
Characters: Don Massaredo, Archie Kennedy, Horatio Hornblower
Rating: PG
Notes: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
following_sea The Day Before Challenge. This is a variation on part of a fic called The Tithe To Hell that I originally wrote for the Remix Challenge a couple of years ago. It's prison fic so it's not very cheerful, but at least you know what will happen tomorrow ;)
ETA Reprieve has been beautifully illustrated by Горацио here.
The man’s continued existence was an affront to his dignity, a stain on the honour of his house. Don Massaredo flicked irritably through the dog-eared dossier on the table in front of him, the cover was faded and weather stained, but he could still make out the neat French script; Kenedé, Aspirant de Vaisseau, Marine Royale Britannique. The Don had been warned he was trouble and it angered him that he had been foolish enough to ignore that warning. Truth be told, he had initially regarded the young man as more of a disappointment than a danger.
For too long Don Massaredo’s fortress on the outskirts El Ferrol had been filled with an endless stream of conscripts and deserters, simple men fleeing the tide of war sweeping inexorably south from France. Officers were rare, British officers rarer still, so he had been pleased when he was informed by despatch that a British naval officer would be arriving with a group of prisoners from Corunna. The Don admired the English, there was a nation that understood the old values, a nation that appreciated the virtues of dignity, nobility, duty and honour. These were values that he himself held dear, values that meant nothing to the upstart French Jacobins.
But there had been little to admire in the half starved creature that had stumbled into the courtyard, shackled hand and foot, with chains around his neck. The French sergeant from Corunna had pushed the man to his knees in the dirt and presented the Don with the correspondence dossier, warning him that the prisoner was a deserter and possibly a spy, a dangerous criminal to be kept shackled at all times. Don Massaredo regarded the man sceptically, he was little more than a boy really, with a starved feral look about him, but there was something in the tilt of the chin that hinted at wilfulness and determination. He dismissed the sergeant perfunctorily and ordered his guards to remove the prisoner’s chains. To keep an officer shackled, even an unruly junior officer, a boy such as this, was an affront to decency. Officers were gentlemen and Don Massaredo prided himself as treating them as such, regardless of the opinion of his esteemed French allies.
The young officer was too junior to be deemed worthy of parole, but Don Massaredo had graciously extended to him the courtesies deserving of his lower rank; freedom to come and go as he pleased within the confines of the courtyard, access to the Don’s own private library, and the sanctuary of his chapel. He had even invited the young man to dine at his table. It was pointless; Kennedy had stubbornly ignored all attempts at civility with an obstinate belligerent silence.
Furious at this insult to the sacrosanct code of courtesy and hospitality, Don Massaredo had ordered the boy’s privileges to be revoked and his cell to be locked. Three days later the prisoner had escaped, injuring one of the guards in a foolish attempt to scale the wall. The Don had him punished; stripped and beaten in the courtyard. He was not afraid to be cruel when circumstances demanded. Little good it did. The prisoner had continued trying to escape, each attempt more futile and violent that the last. Eventually Don Massaredo’s patience had worn thin and he had the troublesome Kennedy thrown into the pit. And there it should have ended.
But it had not ended. Kennedy had refused to die. Don Massaredo knew the garrison placed bets on how long a man would survive the pit, and he knew that this time all bets had been confounded, causing considerable discontent in the ranks. Four weeks the stubborn creature had endured, then two was usually enough to finish off the strongest of men. Eventually the Don had lost patience and ordered the prisoner to be returned to his cell. And there he remained. Broken, but living. Languishing day after day in dumb stupor, a ruined shadow of a man. Better if he had been shot during one of his hopeless attempts to escape. The Don’s men had certainly expended enough lead on him, but somehow Kennedy had always managed to avoid the fatal bullet. Mother of God, someone must be watching over that man, though whether the Holy Father or the devil himself Don Massaredo did not like to say.
Don Massaredo snapped the correspondence dossier shut and pushed it away in disgust, turning his attention instead to the hurried despatch that had arrived that morning informing him that another contingent of British prisoners would be arriving the following day. A junior lieutenant, a midshipman, and a dozen men, the crew of a prize vessel that had the misfortunate to sail right into the heart of the Spanish fleet. Don Massaredo could not help but smile. Here was misfortune indeed, could the formidable British Navy ever have produced such an ill-fated commander? His pleasure at the immanent arrival of the new British officers was diminished only by the presence of the filthy wreck of a man languishing in his cells. It offended Don Massaredo to think that the luckless lieutenant might presume that this was how an honourable Spanish nobleman treated officers and gentlemen who had the misfortune to find themselves temporarily detained at the pleasure of His Most Catholic Majesty.
Of course the simple answer was to have him swiftly despatched. One word and it would be done. One shot and Kennedy’s ignominious existence would be over. But Don Massaredo would not bring himself to stoop so low as to shoot an officer in cold blood, even one so mired in dishonour and disgrace. De Vergasse had no such delicacy of course. The French officer had sneered at the Don’s high morals. “Officer? Il est un mauvais sujet. He killed two of my men before we reached Corunna. He is a criminal and he deserves to die like one. Have him shot. Of course, if you do not have the stomach for it, I would be happy to oblige.” Don Massaredo had graciously declined Vergasse’s offer, and wondered how long he would survive in the pit.
As long as noble Spanish blood flowed in his veins he would not sacrifice his honour simply to be rid of such a pitiful wretch. After all, what but honour distinguished them from the French? Honour, decency, dignity and sovereignty. Don Massaredo cleaved to the old ways. Not so the French with their liberté, égalité, fraternité. What had the glorious revolution brought them? The freedom and equality to die like dogs. They were all brothers under the blade of Madame Guillotine.
No, he would not have the prisoner shot. Let him lie there and rot. The British officers arriving the following day would see him for what he was, a contemptible wretch undeserving of name or rank. The lieutenant at least would understand. Don Massaredo squinted at the name scrawled in the margin of the despatch, Acting Lieutenant Hornblower, yes, if he was a gentleman worthy of his rank, he would recognise Kennedy for what he truly was.
Artwork by Горацио
Author: Anteros
Characters: Don Massaredo, Archie Kennedy, Horatio Hornblower
Rating: PG
Notes: Written for the
following_sea The Day Before Challenge. This is a variation on part of a fic called The Tithe To Hell that I originally wrote for the Remix Challenge a couple of years ago. It's prison fic so it's not very cheerful, but at least you know what will happen tomorrow ;)ETA Reprieve has been beautifully illustrated by Горацио here.
The man’s continued existence was an affront to his dignity, a stain on the honour of his house. Don Massaredo flicked irritably through the dog-eared dossier on the table in front of him, the cover was faded and weather stained, but he could still make out the neat French script; Kenedé, Aspirant de Vaisseau, Marine Royale Britannique. The Don had been warned he was trouble and it angered him that he had been foolish enough to ignore that warning. Truth be told, he had initially regarded the young man as more of a disappointment than a danger.
For too long Don Massaredo’s fortress on the outskirts El Ferrol had been filled with an endless stream of conscripts and deserters, simple men fleeing the tide of war sweeping inexorably south from France. Officers were rare, British officers rarer still, so he had been pleased when he was informed by despatch that a British naval officer would be arriving with a group of prisoners from Corunna. The Don admired the English, there was a nation that understood the old values, a nation that appreciated the virtues of dignity, nobility, duty and honour. These were values that he himself held dear, values that meant nothing to the upstart French Jacobins.
But there had been little to admire in the half starved creature that had stumbled into the courtyard, shackled hand and foot, with chains around his neck. The French sergeant from Corunna had pushed the man to his knees in the dirt and presented the Don with the correspondence dossier, warning him that the prisoner was a deserter and possibly a spy, a dangerous criminal to be kept shackled at all times. Don Massaredo regarded the man sceptically, he was little more than a boy really, with a starved feral look about him, but there was something in the tilt of the chin that hinted at wilfulness and determination. He dismissed the sergeant perfunctorily and ordered his guards to remove the prisoner’s chains. To keep an officer shackled, even an unruly junior officer, a boy such as this, was an affront to decency. Officers were gentlemen and Don Massaredo prided himself as treating them as such, regardless of the opinion of his esteemed French allies.
The young officer was too junior to be deemed worthy of parole, but Don Massaredo had graciously extended to him the courtesies deserving of his lower rank; freedom to come and go as he pleased within the confines of the courtyard, access to the Don’s own private library, and the sanctuary of his chapel. He had even invited the young man to dine at his table. It was pointless; Kennedy had stubbornly ignored all attempts at civility with an obstinate belligerent silence.
Furious at this insult to the sacrosanct code of courtesy and hospitality, Don Massaredo had ordered the boy’s privileges to be revoked and his cell to be locked. Three days later the prisoner had escaped, injuring one of the guards in a foolish attempt to scale the wall. The Don had him punished; stripped and beaten in the courtyard. He was not afraid to be cruel when circumstances demanded. Little good it did. The prisoner had continued trying to escape, each attempt more futile and violent that the last. Eventually Don Massaredo’s patience had worn thin and he had the troublesome Kennedy thrown into the pit. And there it should have ended.
But it had not ended. Kennedy had refused to die. Don Massaredo knew the garrison placed bets on how long a man would survive the pit, and he knew that this time all bets had been confounded, causing considerable discontent in the ranks. Four weeks the stubborn creature had endured, then two was usually enough to finish off the strongest of men. Eventually the Don had lost patience and ordered the prisoner to be returned to his cell. And there he remained. Broken, but living. Languishing day after day in dumb stupor, a ruined shadow of a man. Better if he had been shot during one of his hopeless attempts to escape. The Don’s men had certainly expended enough lead on him, but somehow Kennedy had always managed to avoid the fatal bullet. Mother of God, someone must be watching over that man, though whether the Holy Father or the devil himself Don Massaredo did not like to say.
Don Massaredo snapped the correspondence dossier shut and pushed it away in disgust, turning his attention instead to the hurried despatch that had arrived that morning informing him that another contingent of British prisoners would be arriving the following day. A junior lieutenant, a midshipman, and a dozen men, the crew of a prize vessel that had the misfortunate to sail right into the heart of the Spanish fleet. Don Massaredo could not help but smile. Here was misfortune indeed, could the formidable British Navy ever have produced such an ill-fated commander? His pleasure at the immanent arrival of the new British officers was diminished only by the presence of the filthy wreck of a man languishing in his cells. It offended Don Massaredo to think that the luckless lieutenant might presume that this was how an honourable Spanish nobleman treated officers and gentlemen who had the misfortune to find themselves temporarily detained at the pleasure of His Most Catholic Majesty.
Of course the simple answer was to have him swiftly despatched. One word and it would be done. One shot and Kennedy’s ignominious existence would be over. But Don Massaredo would not bring himself to stoop so low as to shoot an officer in cold blood, even one so mired in dishonour and disgrace. De Vergasse had no such delicacy of course. The French officer had sneered at the Don’s high morals. “Officer? Il est un mauvais sujet. He killed two of my men before we reached Corunna. He is a criminal and he deserves to die like one. Have him shot. Of course, if you do not have the stomach for it, I would be happy to oblige.” Don Massaredo had graciously declined Vergasse’s offer, and wondered how long he would survive in the pit.
As long as noble Spanish blood flowed in his veins he would not sacrifice his honour simply to be rid of such a pitiful wretch. After all, what but honour distinguished them from the French? Honour, decency, dignity and sovereignty. Don Massaredo cleaved to the old ways. Not so the French with their liberté, égalité, fraternité. What had the glorious revolution brought them? The freedom and equality to die like dogs. They were all brothers under the blade of Madame Guillotine.
No, he would not have the prisoner shot. Let him lie there and rot. The British officers arriving the following day would see him for what he was, a contemptible wretch undeserving of name or rank. The lieutenant at least would understand. Don Massaredo squinted at the name scrawled in the margin of the despatch, Acting Lieutenant Hornblower, yes, if he was a gentleman worthy of his rank, he would recognise Kennedy for what he truly was.
Artwork by Горацио
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no subject
Date: 2013-02-22 12:09 pm (UTC)You know, I don't even read the ones I wrote for that time, they hurt. And it hurts worse, knowing it was real, for real mauvais sujet.
You captured the Don's mixture of prickly pride and brittle kindness. Noble Spanish blood... Yech.
And yes, Hornblower will know who Kennedy really is. Always that.
This is lovely writing.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-22 11:34 pm (UTC)I'm also quite fascinated by Don Massaredo, he is a deeply ambiguous character. Have you ever read George Orwell's Homage to Catalonia? It's an brilliant book for many reasons, but it also presents a fascinating portrait of the character of the Spanish at war.
And yes, Hornblower will know who Kennedy really is. Always that.
Always that.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-23 12:29 am (UTC)I have not read that Orwell. have not read a terrible lot of him really. I will get on that.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-23 12:54 am (UTC)Yes, you're right I think. This is the point where it all turns, where all that determination and endurance pays off. I hesitate to use a word like redemption, but that's what it is really.
I haven't read much Orwell either, but a friend recommended Homage to Catalonia when I visited Barcelona for the first time. It's a great book, well worth a read. It's also just occurred to me that Basil Hall has some typically insightful observations on the Spanish at war, in some of his memoirs. I think he would have recognised Don Massaredo.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-22 04:25 pm (UTC)Thank you for writing this, no matter how painful it is to read.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-22 11:40 pm (UTC)As I said to
no subject
Date: 2013-02-22 10:43 pm (UTC)Dave
no subject
Date: 2013-02-22 11:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-23 01:01 am (UTC)there is more to that image but won't witter on here - I have periodically thought about Archie writing a poem to pair with his "choosing life" sonnet. I have always considered that in the end he embraces his decision to live as deteminedly as he had previously death and darkness but the right poem may not come.
this is haunting and not least because of the gulf between MAssaredo and Archie who cannot understand one another or meet on any common ground.
good that we know the day after brings the beginning of a whole other stage of Archie's life
Am posting you a little Donne as an extra coda to this very strong piece of Anteros fic.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-23 10:53 am (UTC)have always considered that in the end he embraces his decision to live as deteminedly as he had previously death and darkness but the right poem may not come.
I can't help wondering if at this point in time he has lost the will either to live or die. It's that conscious determination that has been lost. I think he only recovers that will sometime after Horatio finds him. It's a slow process but once he's recovered that determination if never leaves him.
this is haunting and not least because of the gulf between MAssaredo and Archie who cannot understand one another or meet on any common ground.
Very true indeed. And this despite the fact that beneath it all they share a broad streak of stubborness.
Am posting you a little Donne as an extra coda to this
I'll look forward to it, you know that I am always happy to read Donne.
Thank you for your very thoughtful and thought provoking comment :)
no subject
Date: 2013-02-23 05:18 pm (UTC)wisely the Dean of St Paul's work was only published well after his death in 1608 = the work was first seen in 1648
In Biathanatos he wrote about suicide as an active and defensible choice and this excerpt from the preface expresses the need at least for understanding.
As you say I agree Archie has been driven beyond any choice at all at that point = indeed there is almost the sense that, once he recognises he has a choice again it is the beginning of the beginning .
Donne writes :
•
''Whensoever any affliction assails me, me thinks I have the keyes of my prison in mine owne hand, and no remedy presents it selfe so soone to my heart, as mine own sword. Often meditation of this hath wonne me to a charitable interpretation of their action, who dy so: and provoked me a little to watch and exagitate their reasons, which pronounce so peremptory judgements upon them.''
no subject
Date: 2013-02-25 12:02 am (UTC)Wow. That's really powerful stuff. As I said when we spoke, I have never come across the Biathanatos before but it sounds like an intensely fascinating work.
As you say I agree Archie has been driven beyond any choice at all at that point = indeed there is almost the sense that, once he recognises he has a choice again it is the beginning of the beginning .
Yes, definitely. It's the recovery of volition that is the starting point. But what is the spark that keeps alight when the will has been negated? As you said, that's the real imponderable.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-23 11:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-24 11:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-27 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-01 10:59 pm (UTC)