The Silver Razor: Smallbridge
Title: The Silver Razor: Smallbridge
Author: Anteros
Characters: Hornblower, OMC, Brown, Annette, (Bush), (Kennedy)
Rating: G
Notes: The last instalment of The Silver Razor series. Lord Hornblower's valet is curious about the origins of the old silver razor.
John saw the cutler off at the back door; the snow that had been falling all morning was starting to lie, settling on the branches of the great oak in the park behind the house and muffling the wheels of the cabriolet as it pulled away down the drive. Brushing the snow off his sleeves, John carried the precious package past the kitchens and up the stairs to the Admiral’s study. Placing the small faded box on the large oak desk, he breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps the black mood that had descended on His Lordship would lift now. He had been like the proverbial bear with a sore head ever since the pivot pin of the old silver razor had broken a week since. The entire household had been obliged to tiptoe around him lest they incur first his wrath, then his awkward apologies for his damned ill humour.
His Lordship had insisted that the cutler come to the house to repair the razor; the local cutler would not do, it must be Mr Conway from the town. But Mr Conway was not able to come for a week. Though really it was a task more fitting for one of the boys than for His Lordship’s valet, John had offered to take the razor into town himself, but His Lordship would not countenance the ancient thing leaving the house.
John was used to Lord Hornblower’s eccentricities, as were all the household, several of whom, as former seamen rather than proper gentlemen’s gentlemen, were somewhat eccentric themselves. It was to be expected of course, the Admiral was an old man now, but John had grown up hearing stories of his adventures in the French wars from grandda’ Brown, who was proud to have served first as His Lordship’s coxswain, and later as his butler. He’d loved those tales as a boy, improbable thought they seemed now. Tales of how His Lordship had sailed to the far side of the world, fought battles in the Mediterranean, endured the ice of the Baltic, been captured by the Spanish, by the French and by pirates in the West Indies, Napoleon himself had wanted his head they said. They were grand tales, though it was hard to imagine the old boy, with his rheumatic joints and failing eye-sight, managing to board a wherry, never mind fighting off a ship of the line. But John’s grandda’ swore His Lordship had been the greatest fighting admiral of his age, greater even than Lord Nelson, God rest his soul. And grandda’ Brown should know, he’d sailed with him through thick and thin. He’d even been there with him in France, built the boat they’d used to escape down the river, him and Mr Bush. That was where he’d met gran maman of course. She’d been in the service of a grand old count who had helped them flee from Napoleon’s henchmen. John had always been a favourite of his gran maman and would happily sit for hours by her feet listening to stories of the great French house and the ancien régime she had served.
John stepped back and regarded the worn leather box; it looked shabby and out of place on the gleaming oak desk. Strange place to keep a razor of course, though they all knew better than to question His Lordship. He insisted that the razor was kept on the large desk in his private study. For many years Lord Hornblower had excused the services of his valet on Sunday mornings and had used the silver razor to shave himself. His eyesight was too poor now to continue this ritual, so John shaved him every day, but Sunday was still the day for the silver razor.
Though John had grown up with fantastical tales of the Admiral’s exploits, the origins of the silver razor were as obscure as His Lordship’s attachment to it. The razor had been a gift, that much they all knew. But not from Her Ladyship. Some said the razor had been a gift from Russian noblewoman, others that it was a last gift from a doomed French countess. Gran maman had vehemently denied this suggestion, before exclaiming "Oh my poor dear Mistress!" and dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron. The old seamen scorned the kitchen maids’ romantic stories of doomed foreign lovers, insisting that the razor was a memento from an old shipmate; His Lordship’s first lieutenant and flag captain, who had served him faithfully through the long French wars, loosing first his leg and then his life along the way.
But it was grandda’ Brown who told the strangest tale of all; he swore the razor was no gift from a great lady, it was true it was a memento from a shipmate, but not Mr Bush, from before that. The razor had belonged to a shipmate who His Lordship had met when he was nothing more than a seasick snottie, wet behind the ears and green around the gills. They had served time together as midshipmen on the old Indefatigable, the greatest frigate of her day, under Admiral Lord Exmouth. He’d been Ned Pellew back then, a sir to be sure, but still just Red Ned. After that they’d served in the West Indies as third and fourth of the Renown, Captain Sawyer. One of Nelson’s own so he was, a great captain and a great man, though some said his mind was going, his brains addled by laudanum and war. Grandda’ Brown couldn’t say of course, he was on the other side of the world at the time, but what he did know, what everyone knew, was that Captain Sawyer never came back from the West Indies. Captain Sawyer had died in Samana Bay, "a great leader until the last"; at least that’s what the Gazette had said. But that wasn’t the whole story, the papers didn’t mention it, but there were rumours that there had been a mutiny aboard Renown and that one of the lieutenants had pushed the captain into the hold, bringing about his untimely death. There had been a court martial in Kingston and the third lieutenant had confessed to the terrible crime. His Lordship and Mr Bush had been highly commended for their actions and Lieutenant Hornblower had sailed home aboard Retribution, his first command. No one knew what had happened to the mutineer, grandda’ Brown supposed he’d been hung, but from what he had heard, he was the one who had given His Lordship the silver razor.
The thought of Lord Hornblower, that upstanding scion of naval rectitude, associating with a convicted criminal and keeping a memento from a self-confessed mutineer seemed so improbable that John had laughed the first time he heard the tale, convinced that his grandfather was spinning him a yarn. His laughter had earned him a swift clip round the ear and a stern warning to respect the dead. God knows, the old man had added, Nelson’s own or no, some captains had been more of a danger to their men than the frogs and the dons combined.
Fascinated by the outlandish tale, John had pestered his grandfather for more details of the mutiny. Surely His Lordship had tried to prevent them taking the ship? Had the mutineer really murdered the captain? How many had been killed? What was the mutineer’s name? At first, all grandda’ Brown would say was that there were two sides to every story, but eventually, worn down by John’s persistent questions, he admitted that Mr Bush had once told him that the mutineer was a brave man who had sacrificed his life and his name for the good of the ship and that he and His Lordship owed their lives to the man. But beyond that he know nothing. Mr Bush had known the mutineer’s name of course, but never said; nobody knew now, the man had long since been forgotten.
Forgotten perhaps, John reflected, but not by all. Ever since Her Ladyship had passed away the previous spring, the Admiral had spent more and more time contemplating the silver razor. John had been alarmed the first time he entered His Lordship’s study late at night and found him sitting by the fire with the open blade balanced like a motionless seesaw on one finger of his right hand. The Admiral had borne Lady Barbara’s passing with his habitual dignity and stoicism, thought anyone who cared enough to look could see the depth of his grief etched in his face. Strangely, the razor seemed to give the old man some degree of comfort, though why, John could not say. It had become a ritual now; every night the he sat there with the box on his lap and the blade in his hand, sometime open, sometimes closed, until sleep overtook him.
All day the snow continued to fall. By the time the lights of the great house were snuffed out, the manor and the grounds were blanketed in thick silent drifts. After completing his rounds to check the fires were smoored and the lights doused, John returned to the Admiral’s study. The old man was sleeping soundly before the dying embers of the fire, snoring quietly, the silver razor clasped in his right hand. He woke with a start as John roused him. “Archie?” he muttered, gazing up at the young man by his side, his dim eyes lost in his dreams. “No, sir, John, sir. Come along now, sir. Let me help you through to bed.” John slipped the silver razor from the old man’s hand, helped him to his feet and guided him through to his chamber.
Later, lying in his own bed at the back of the house, listening to the silence of the snow, the name drifted back to John. Archie. There was no one of that name in the family or the household and he had never heard His Lordship mention it before. He knew he was being fanciful, but John couldn’t help wondering if this was the name of the mutineer, the man who had sacrificed his own life to save His Lordship’s, the owner of the silver razor.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Hornblower, OMC, Brown, Annette, (Bush), (Kennedy)
Rating: G
Notes: The last instalment of The Silver Razor series. Lord Hornblower's valet is curious about the origins of the old silver razor.
John saw the cutler off at the back door; the snow that had been falling all morning was starting to lie, settling on the branches of the great oak in the park behind the house and muffling the wheels of the cabriolet as it pulled away down the drive. Brushing the snow off his sleeves, John carried the precious package past the kitchens and up the stairs to the Admiral’s study. Placing the small faded box on the large oak desk, he breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps the black mood that had descended on His Lordship would lift now. He had been like the proverbial bear with a sore head ever since the pivot pin of the old silver razor had broken a week since. The entire household had been obliged to tiptoe around him lest they incur first his wrath, then his awkward apologies for his damned ill humour.
His Lordship had insisted that the cutler come to the house to repair the razor; the local cutler would not do, it must be Mr Conway from the town. But Mr Conway was not able to come for a week. Though really it was a task more fitting for one of the boys than for His Lordship’s valet, John had offered to take the razor into town himself, but His Lordship would not countenance the ancient thing leaving the house.
John was used to Lord Hornblower’s eccentricities, as were all the household, several of whom, as former seamen rather than proper gentlemen’s gentlemen, were somewhat eccentric themselves. It was to be expected of course, the Admiral was an old man now, but John had grown up hearing stories of his adventures in the French wars from grandda’ Brown, who was proud to have served first as His Lordship’s coxswain, and later as his butler. He’d loved those tales as a boy, improbable thought they seemed now. Tales of how His Lordship had sailed to the far side of the world, fought battles in the Mediterranean, endured the ice of the Baltic, been captured by the Spanish, by the French and by pirates in the West Indies, Napoleon himself had wanted his head they said. They were grand tales, though it was hard to imagine the old boy, with his rheumatic joints and failing eye-sight, managing to board a wherry, never mind fighting off a ship of the line. But John’s grandda’ swore His Lordship had been the greatest fighting admiral of his age, greater even than Lord Nelson, God rest his soul. And grandda’ Brown should know, he’d sailed with him through thick and thin. He’d even been there with him in France, built the boat they’d used to escape down the river, him and Mr Bush. That was where he’d met gran maman of course. She’d been in the service of a grand old count who had helped them flee from Napoleon’s henchmen. John had always been a favourite of his gran maman and would happily sit for hours by her feet listening to stories of the great French house and the ancien régime she had served.
John stepped back and regarded the worn leather box; it looked shabby and out of place on the gleaming oak desk. Strange place to keep a razor of course, though they all knew better than to question His Lordship. He insisted that the razor was kept on the large desk in his private study. For many years Lord Hornblower had excused the services of his valet on Sunday mornings and had used the silver razor to shave himself. His eyesight was too poor now to continue this ritual, so John shaved him every day, but Sunday was still the day for the silver razor.
Though John had grown up with fantastical tales of the Admiral’s exploits, the origins of the silver razor were as obscure as His Lordship’s attachment to it. The razor had been a gift, that much they all knew. But not from Her Ladyship. Some said the razor had been a gift from Russian noblewoman, others that it was a last gift from a doomed French countess. Gran maman had vehemently denied this suggestion, before exclaiming "Oh my poor dear Mistress!" and dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron. The old seamen scorned the kitchen maids’ romantic stories of doomed foreign lovers, insisting that the razor was a memento from an old shipmate; His Lordship’s first lieutenant and flag captain, who had served him faithfully through the long French wars, loosing first his leg and then his life along the way.
But it was grandda’ Brown who told the strangest tale of all; he swore the razor was no gift from a great lady, it was true it was a memento from a shipmate, but not Mr Bush, from before that. The razor had belonged to a shipmate who His Lordship had met when he was nothing more than a seasick snottie, wet behind the ears and green around the gills. They had served time together as midshipmen on the old Indefatigable, the greatest frigate of her day, under Admiral Lord Exmouth. He’d been Ned Pellew back then, a sir to be sure, but still just Red Ned. After that they’d served in the West Indies as third and fourth of the Renown, Captain Sawyer. One of Nelson’s own so he was, a great captain and a great man, though some said his mind was going, his brains addled by laudanum and war. Grandda’ Brown couldn’t say of course, he was on the other side of the world at the time, but what he did know, what everyone knew, was that Captain Sawyer never came back from the West Indies. Captain Sawyer had died in Samana Bay, "a great leader until the last"; at least that’s what the Gazette had said. But that wasn’t the whole story, the papers didn’t mention it, but there were rumours that there had been a mutiny aboard Renown and that one of the lieutenants had pushed the captain into the hold, bringing about his untimely death. There had been a court martial in Kingston and the third lieutenant had confessed to the terrible crime. His Lordship and Mr Bush had been highly commended for their actions and Lieutenant Hornblower had sailed home aboard Retribution, his first command. No one knew what had happened to the mutineer, grandda’ Brown supposed he’d been hung, but from what he had heard, he was the one who had given His Lordship the silver razor.
The thought of Lord Hornblower, that upstanding scion of naval rectitude, associating with a convicted criminal and keeping a memento from a self-confessed mutineer seemed so improbable that John had laughed the first time he heard the tale, convinced that his grandfather was spinning him a yarn. His laughter had earned him a swift clip round the ear and a stern warning to respect the dead. God knows, the old man had added, Nelson’s own or no, some captains had been more of a danger to their men than the frogs and the dons combined.
Fascinated by the outlandish tale, John had pestered his grandfather for more details of the mutiny. Surely His Lordship had tried to prevent them taking the ship? Had the mutineer really murdered the captain? How many had been killed? What was the mutineer’s name? At first, all grandda’ Brown would say was that there were two sides to every story, but eventually, worn down by John’s persistent questions, he admitted that Mr Bush had once told him that the mutineer was a brave man who had sacrificed his life and his name for the good of the ship and that he and His Lordship owed their lives to the man. But beyond that he know nothing. Mr Bush had known the mutineer’s name of course, but never said; nobody knew now, the man had long since been forgotten.
Forgotten perhaps, John reflected, but not by all. Ever since Her Ladyship had passed away the previous spring, the Admiral had spent more and more time contemplating the silver razor. John had been alarmed the first time he entered His Lordship’s study late at night and found him sitting by the fire with the open blade balanced like a motionless seesaw on one finger of his right hand. The Admiral had borne Lady Barbara’s passing with his habitual dignity and stoicism, thought anyone who cared enough to look could see the depth of his grief etched in his face. Strangely, the razor seemed to give the old man some degree of comfort, though why, John could not say. It had become a ritual now; every night the he sat there with the box on his lap and the blade in his hand, sometime open, sometimes closed, until sleep overtook him.
All day the snow continued to fall. By the time the lights of the great house were snuffed out, the manor and the grounds were blanketed in thick silent drifts. After completing his rounds to check the fires were smoored and the lights doused, John returned to the Admiral’s study. The old man was sleeping soundly before the dying embers of the fire, snoring quietly, the silver razor clasped in his right hand. He woke with a start as John roused him. “Archie?” he muttered, gazing up at the young man by his side, his dim eyes lost in his dreams. “No, sir, John, sir. Come along now, sir. Let me help you through to bed.” John slipped the silver razor from the old man’s hand, helped him to his feet and guided him through to his chamber.
Later, lying in his own bed at the back of the house, listening to the silence of the snow, the name drifted back to John. Archie. There was no one of that name in the family or the household and he had never heard His Lordship mention it before. He knew he was being fanciful, but John couldn’t help wondering if this was the name of the mutineer, the man who had sacrificed his own life to save His Lordship’s, the owner of the silver razor.