The Keel Row (1/?)
TITLE: The Keel Row (1/?)
CHARACTERS: Bush/Hornblower
RATING: PG
GENRE: A bit difficult to define really - just general fiction with a bit of angst around the edges
WORD: Whole thing is 10,500 but this bit is 3,225. It is all written but just editing other bits.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine; all owned by the esteemed Mr Forester and his estate and the like - long may they prosper.
NOTES: This may win an award for the latest reponse to a challenge. Orignally prompted by Sarlania's painting challenge it was inspired by Turner's 'Keelmen heaving in coals by Moonlight' (1835) ( http://www.flickr.com/photos/71026782@N00/192392136) but sort of grew. I wanted to have a try at writing longer fiction, so would be interested to know what you think as I have found the whole business much more compliated than my usual short 'state of mind' pieces. Thanks to my super dooper beta draugdur who has steered this for months when I just wanted to dump it in the river. Her advice has been truly invaluable. However, any nonsense or poor research is all my own fault. I will also give advance warning of some rather dodgy dialect in later parts, but it felt wrong just to write that characters in my estaurine English so HUGE apologies to any Geordies out there, no insult intended - it is 18th century after all (she says desperate for a get out clause). I also apologise for painting such a grim picture of the area and want to go on record as saying that Newcastle in in fact a beautiful city that everyone should visit. Right, I'll just let you get on with it now.
The keel men werre an interesting bunch who worked the River Tyne in Newcastle, shifting coal from the colliery staithes out to the collier ships at the river mouth. They had extremely hard lives but had a close knit independant community on the peripheral of 18th century Newcastle society. I would recommend googling them for a bit of background if you are interested.
SUMMARY: Book canon set just before 'The Happy Return' - Hornblower goes missing during a short visit to the Port of Tyne and Bush searches for him.
The Keel Row
Leaning against the harbour rail, Lieutenant Bush watched the ugly, squat, keelboats swarm around the quay like flies on a bloated corpse. This was a filthy place. A dense fog hung heavy over the river which flowed dark, sluggish and oily. On the opposite shore the receding tide had exposed an expanse of black mud which glistened in the last of the wintery sunlight. Bush could just make out a group of ragged women and children picking their way across its treacherous surface, looking for coal and driftwood vomited up by the tide. The viscous ooze might suck them down in an instant, but they moved amongst the great piles of rotting seaweed as creatures of another element. Along the shore, the timbers of a rotten hulk lolled on the tide like the carcass of a decayed whale.
Gulls circled and cawed overhead, occasionally swooping low over the river. The mordant cries of the birds added to the general discord assailing Bush’s ears. Everywhere there was noise. Mostly the sounds of any port - men shouting, the rattle of carts over cobbles, the constant creaking of ships anchored too close together, and the staccato of the ratchet winch - but underlying all this was a reverberant bass, low and rumbling, which seemed to come from all around, even from beneath the earth itself. Bursts of furnace flame punctuated the darkening skyline, and everywhere there was the smell of sulphur.
He spat into the water and willed Hornblower to return quickly. The Captain had disappeared off some time earlier to Trinity House, leaving Bush behind on the quay with orders to await his return. The Lieutenant had had a number of small tasks to attend to, but these had all been dispatched quickly and now all he could do was wait and watch. Time hung heavy.
The Lydia had not been out of Portsmouth more than a few days after being re-coppered. This had apparently been a matter of great consternation to her Captain, who had been observed on many an afternoon pacing the dock like an expectant father, or arguing with the shipwright about bolts and rivets. A wry smile crept across Bush’s face at the memory of it.
The Lieutenant was aware that the Lydia was being prepared for a long voyage, but as yet the Captain had not confided in him the details of their orders. In fact, Hornblower had said very little to him of late, except for instructions which were always succinct and to the point, at times even terse, and Bush could find no trace of the friendly discourse the two men had previously shared. He understood Hornblower’s reasons, at least in part, but he missed the talkative young officer he had known aboard the Renown. He understood that time and rank could make taciturn even the most garrulous of men yet he felt something else had past. In truth, his friend seemed to be receding further from him and he knew of no way to forestall it. A resounding crash brought him abruptly back from his thoughts. Across the river a ratchet arm had broken off sending a weight of cotton crashing into the river. He watched the ensuing chaos on the quayside, and pulled his collar up tight against the bitter north wind.
Following her refit, the Lydia had put to sea to test the soundness and manoeuvrability of her new hull. The Captain had been wary ever since leaving Portsmouth, insisting on hourly reports from the hold as to the depth of water in the bilges, and on more than one occasion venturing down to the orlop himself to gaze out over the stygial gloom, listening for any change in sound which might signify the ship was taking on water. However, his fears proved ill-founded; the Lydia was a good ship and performed well, excellently in fact. Previously, she had been fast but the new sheath had undoubtedly improved her speed, although it had taken a while to adjust to the subtle differences in the way she handled but eventually Hornblower had the lie of her, and sent her speeding exuberantly across the waves. Bush standing next to him on the quarterdeck, felt the familiar pitch and roll beneath his feet - giddy in the pleasure of her motion.
To test the ship on active duty she had been instructed to intercept a small flotilla of merchant ships carrying a cargo of Baltic timber to Newcastle, intended for the naval shipyards on the Tyne. The convoy had recently come under threat from French privateers and the frigate was to proceed with all haste to rendezvous with the ships and ensure their safe passage. That had been two days ago now, and with her charges safely delivered, the Lydia currently lay anchored downriver at North Shields. Bush thought he could just see the tops of her foremast sticking out above the mist. It gave him some comfort although, given the distance, he knew he was probably just deceiving himself.
He wished Hornblower would hurry up, what was keeping him? He cursed the admiralty under his breath. He could well imagine the dogged insistence that the Captain stay to dinner. The stilted conversation over port and cigars and then, oh lord, probably endless games of Whist. Bush groaned into the wind and rolled his eyes. Once the Captain came back they could leave this infernal place and return to the open sea. He was tired of playing nursemaid to merchant ships and eager to return to the fleet. The anticipation of their next voyage was wearing heavy on his nerves, and he longed to be underway with the prospect of action pregnant on the air. He wanted to feel the roll of the deck under his feet again, and gaze out across the broad horizon with the wind filling the shrouds and singing in the rigging. Out there he could breathe again. Out there there was order. Out there it was clean. Where the hell was the Captain? He sank his chin into his upturned collar and fumed.
‘Light?’
Bush span round as someone nudged his shoulder. Behind him there stood a man brandishing a clay pipe. Well, he assumed it was a man, but in the dwindling light he looked more like a phantasm; one of those grisly spectres his school masters had told him laid in wait for insolent boys. The figure was about Bush’s height and build, but with hugely muscular arms. In fact, so large was the man’s shoulder that he looked oddly triangular, and completely out of proportion to the rest of his body. Now, the Lieutenant was well used to seeing men made strong by years of hauling on ropes and climbing the ratlines. Indeed, he himself was no stripling and had ensured that, despite his rank, he could still climb aloft without hesitation; although he had to admit to slowing down a little as the years progressed. Yet, the muscles on this fellow were quite remarkable, and despite himself Bush was impressed.
The man appeared strangely dressed in a blue jacket with yellow waistcoat and tatty bell-bottomed trousers; although it was almost impossible to discern the colour of his apparel given that from head to foot he was as black as a Moor. It took Bush a few moments to realise that this was because of a thick covering of coal dust, so ingrained as to be almost part of the fellow’s skin. His hair was matted and dark; snaking down his neck and loosely bound together with cord, while thick curls framed his face, blowing gently in the chill wind.
The man nudged the pipe forward again, and Bush noticed that the he had very fine tapered fingers, though the nails on each hand were either missing or smashed; the knuckles swollen and bloody. This man was a fighter, he thought. The stranger’s eyes were a piercing blue, made more so in contrast with his coal blackened face. They were remarkably expressive and seemed to reflect an intelligence which far outshone his station. Still, such an approach was an affront - an intolerable impertinence - and Bush twisted his shoulder violently away. ‘No!’ he snapped with obvious contempt, his face a mask of revulsion. Then, spinning quickly on his heels, he strode off down the quayside in the direction of the Customs House where he the jolly boat lay moored.
The keelman watched him go. ‘Bloody sea scab,’ he muttered under his breath. He’d only asked for a light of his pipe. Navy men, they were all the same to him: damn the lot of them! He leaned against the rail where the officer had stood just moments before, and looked out over the river. Soon he would have to return to the stinking hulk of the keel and make the trip downriver to the collier at Shields. He was buggered if he was going to waste another thought on that skyet-gob faggit.
Drawing in a deep lungful of air, he blinked away the dust and the grit from his eyes and arched his aching back. It hurt like the devil. Rotating his head from side to side, he tried to relieve the tension that knotted there, and rubbed firmly at the base of his spine, kneading the contracted muscles. Soon he was afraid his back would seize on him altogether, and then what would he do? He tried not to dwell on it, things were bad enough as it was with production down and winter here, and anytime soon they would be laying men off. He watched the keelboat turning, the puoy churning up the muddy water behind. He hated that fucking keel. He sniffed, ran his fingers through his hair and walked off down the quayside, feeling the first few drops of rain.
Far too quickly for his liking, he reached the stone steps that would take him back down to quay where the strange, oval shaped boat was waiting. She was low in the water, weighed down by the 20 tons of black diamonds in her belly. His two bullies moved over the craft, levelling out the load, and checking the waterline. He knew he should go down and help them but he was rooted to the spot. There would be all hell to pay if he were to just up and leave. He would probably loose his job, or at the very least face a tongue lashing from the skipper and be docked a day's pay, but that would be nothing to the look of guarded reproach and disappointment he would see on Annie’s face when he got home. Yet, his back burned like the pits of hell, and he knew of only one way to stop it: he needed a drink. Turning his back on the river he weaved his way through the crowd, passing by a mess of stalls and carts, until he reached the base of a long flight of steps. Above him he could just make out the outline of All Saint’s church looming out of the gathering darkness. Feeling a pang of guilt he crossed himself in some misplaced act of contrition, he wasn’t sure why, then painfully made his way up the steep steps. At the top he turned right, disappearing into the maze of streets leading out towards the old city wall.
He was unfamiliar with this part of town. It was full of merchant men and mariners and not the sort of place where his kind was welcome, but he pressed on, huddled down in his jacket, careful not to catch anyone’s eye. Home to him was outside the crumbling town walls, amongst the tenements of Sandgate. Everyone knew him there. Most people would generally smile when they saw him, and maybe stop for a bit of a chat. He smiled at the thought of him and his bullies heading down to the Barley Mow for an ale, or rum if there was money to be had. Not that everyone liked him mind, he had his fair share of fights when it mattered, but generally he knew who to steer clear of. That was the way it should be. Your bullies and you stuck together, they watched your back and you watched theirs. You were a team, helping each other out, but he’d just upped and left without saying owt. He really shouldn’t have done that, but it was too late now. He felt shame burn and eat at his gut. That was why he was here, away from the quay where no one knew him. He just wanted to drink till he couldn’t feel his miserable back any longer, and then just leave the rest to take care of itself.
‘Aye, fuck em awl,’ he spat under his breath. It was his bleeding sorry life and he could do with it as he pleased - they could all go hang. He kicked angrily at a bottle in the street and it shattered against the wall sending shards of glass spinning over the cobbles.
The surface of the street was slick under his feet and the air cold and dank. A harr lay thick over the river and seeped up the narrow streets, muffling the surrounding sound till only his footsteps rang out. Suddenly he stopped. Coming from one of the back lanes further down the bank there was a strange keening sound. He looked around but there was no one in sight. In his search for a beer house where they wouldn’t ask too many questions, he had wandered away from the main street, and wasn’t too sure where he was anymore.
He heard the sound again and started to cautiously move towards it. On impulse he picked up a fragment of the broken bottle and held it out in front of him, his eyes scouring the darkness. There, slumped up against the wall at the base of a small flight of steps, was a figure. As he drew closer the figure moaned again, and the keelman could just make out the dark blue of a naval jacket with the gold epaulette of an officer. Just for a moment he thought it was the crabby sod he had met at the quayside, but when he drew nearer he could see that this man was much taller and thinner - all gangling arms and legs. Christ, another bluecoat, that was all he needed, and a half dead one at that. His first compunction was to just walk away, keep going down the bank to the river and mingle in with the crowds on the quayside. Let the devil take him, he thought, but he couldn’t do it - damn his eyes. It was obvious that the man’s pockets had been emptied, and a trickle of blood ran down his forehead. The keelman remained indecisive; no one would believe it wasn’t him. They would surely string him up from the nearest yardarm as soon as look at him.
Bush was starting to panic. It was a feeling he was unused to. A disconcerting sensation which had started gradually enough but now gripped him like an icy hand laid across his belly. It had begun simply as a vague sense of unease, as he had paced the quayside in front of the Customs House waiting for the Captain’s return; the shadows beginning to lengthen into dusk. He had easily dismissed the feeling, choosing instead to focus on his simmering anger. Where the hell was Hornblower? It was damn inconsiderate keeping him here waiting so long when he had duties back aboard the Lydia. Why had the Captain not sent a message if he was going to be delayed? Was it really too much to ask just to be kept informed? He could understand the secrecy surrounding their upcoming mission but this was too much. He just could not function being kept in the dark like this. How could he perform his duty without the right information, surely Hornblower could see that? The man had not changed that much! As the answers to these questions formed in Bush’s head he began to realise that something had to be dreadfully wrong. It was then that fear had began to seed itself in his mind. The sky darkened and unremittingly the rain set in.
Ordering Lieutenant Galbraith to wait with the Jolly Boat crew in case the Captain’s returned, Bush set off in search of Hornblower. First, he had checked the obvious, running up the steep flight of steps to Trinity House two at a time, only to be told by the Admiral’s staff that the Captain had left some time ago. With growing trepidation he had then searched all the back lanes and alleyways in the area, but only succeeded in getting himself thoroughly lost. Somehow he had managed to get turned round and had started heading north, exiting through one of the crumbling town gates. A large building on his left had seemed to be some kind of seaman’s hospital, and he had considered going inside to ask after the Captain, but the men in the grounds all wore the same odd uniform as his earlier assailant on the quayside. For some reason that encounter had now taken on a sinister air in his mind, though he could not work out why. Had it been some kind of omen? Bush mused, then shook his head in disgust - Christ he must be going mad to think such nonsense. He was getting as superstitious as Brown. He would be pouring wine on the deck and babbling about a Jonah next
Forcing himself to stop, he tried to keep calm and think rationally. Running around aimlessly was serving no purpose; he had to think clearly. He knew that he should return to the river and the quayside which, by his reckoning, lay to the south. Turning, he had passed down several narrow streets till he had reached the long stretches of a Ropery - the huge, taut cables smelling damp and fusty in the night air. Then heading west he had passed several bonded warehouses. Here the whole area had thrummed with the constant clatter of horses’ hooves over cobble and men milled about in all directions carrying sacks and bails, barrels and boxes. He stopped one or two to ask if they had seen a naval Captain, but mostly he just glowered or snapped at those that got in his way.
Continuing back along the quayside he had returned to where Galbraith waited with the Jolly Boat, but there was still no sign of the Captain. The men were fretting, and the young officer was having some trouble keeping them in line. Bush gave them short thrift, ‘Cross me and I’ll have you flogged everyday till Lammas,’ he barked at the recalcitrant crew. Damn them, he didn’t have time for this and leaving them knuckling their foreheads, and standing at least to some semblance of attention, he hurried on. Passing the majestic Guildhall, he headed west into the bowels of the city. Here, rotting timber houses overhung the road, blocking out the night sky. The whole area reeked. The smell of piss festering in the tannery vats clung to his nostrils making him retch. Eager to escape the stench, he climbed upwards and eventually found himself standing at the base of the castle. Its massive walls seeming to disappear into the sky above him as the rain lashed down on smog blackened stone.