The Keel Row Part II
TITLE: The Keel Row (2/?)
CHARACTERS: Bush/Hornblower
RATING: PG, you may see slash if you want to but it is more an issue of loyalty and the nature of friendship (not that I am opposed to a bit of slash :))
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 2,200 ish. 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: Do look at Part I for blurb, I won't take up space repeating it but I would just like to say thanks to my great beta, and mate, 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 this part, 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).
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 Part II
Pushing his reservations aside, the keelman limped over to the crumpled figure at the bottom of the stairs. He lightly slapped the sides of the man’s face with the back of his hand.
‘Oi?’ he called quietly, causing the figure to stir a little, but not open his eyes. He shook the stranger more vigorously. ‘Can thaas hear us?’ but there was no response.
Damn, he thought. He couldn’t just leave the man here for a footpad to come along and slit his throat. He would have to find some way to get him back to Sandgate. His lass would know to what to do, and if not, well the river was deep and dark and had swallowed up more than one naval officer in its time.
Removing the man’s jacket he turned it inside out, and tied it round his own waist so as not to attract too much attention. Then he took hold of the stranger’s arm, and gritting his teeth, he hoisted the figure up across his shoulders. The pain was excruciating: almost unbearable. It made his head spin and patches of light swim behind his closed eyes. It was like someone drawing a blade across his spine - cutting to the bone. He swayed a little but bit back the agony; sucking short breaths through clenched teeth. Then, after re-adjusting the dead weight, he very slowly made his way down the narrow street, keeping to the back lanes and shadows where he knew there would be few people. He glowered at those he did meet, daring them with his eyes to ask any questions. They all dropped their gaze and moved briskly out of his way. A couple of times he stopped to rest, but feared laying down his burden in case he was unable to heft the man up again. Instead, he simply leaned against a wall to catch his breath as the sweat trickled down his face, streaking through the grimy blackness.
In this laboured way he made his passage down the quayside, passed the city wall, and out into the familiar streets beyond. It was late now, but most of the keel crews had still had not returned. The winter was taking hold and many of the men remained late on the river knowing that work would soon be scarce. Deep into the night the ghostly keels could be seen looming through the sea fog like a funeral cortege. Those few crews that had returned had headed straight over to the ale house. He could see the bright lights of the tavern at the end of the street and hear the shouts of the men, brief snatches of their song carried out through the mist, but no one interrupted his laboured journey.
Eventually he passed down a narrow vennel and turned into his yard. Kicking at the door he bawled for Annie to let him in. In a few moments she flung the door open, a look of cautious indignation on her face as, cowering a little, she tried to gauge his mood. Then she saw the figure slung over his shoulders and her face turned white.
‘Jeez, Tom, what hevyee doon?’ She trembled slightly, backing away into the house.
‘Aah’s doon nowt, woman,’ he replied exasperated, pushing past her and into the small dimly lit room beyond. Just as he thought, everyone jumped to conclusions, even his own kin. ‘Aah joost found him lying in the street donby Broad Chare. Reckon his been bashed on the heed, but it wasna us. Jeez Annie,’ he glared at her defiantly. ‘Noo willya stop yer noise woman. Bugger weighs mar than a sack of coal e’s that heavy; aah’s breeking me bleeding back.’
The room was small but neat, a meagre fire burning in the hearth. With a grunt of pain, Tom set down his burden in a low wooden chair in front of the grate. His wife scuttled around to support the stranger’s head, while a small boy, about seven or eight years old, stood solemnly in the corner holding his younger sister by the hand. She was little more than a baby, about two years old, with dark brown curls like her father. The two children moved cautiously to their mother’s side, clinging to her skirt, but she pushed them gently away and moved over to the slumped figure.
‘Is e deed, Tom?’ she asked cautiously.
‘E wasna wen aah picked em up, but aah reckon e’s tyuk a fair clout to the heed.’
The keelman rubbed his chin. He wasn’t at all sure what to do next. He looked at his lass hoping she might make the whole sorry mess go away. She had dropped to her knees in front of the stranger and was pressing the back of her hand to his cheek and forehead. Hesitantly, she lent over and placed her ear to his mouth, then glanced up at Tom with a small smile as she felt the officer’s breath ghost her skin.
‘E’s, still breething’ she said consolingly. ‘That’s summit.’
‘Aye, thank God for that,’ the keelman answered, stretching out his back.
‘But e’s so cold Tom, and wet reet through. Can yer bank up the fire a bit? Daniel, come here,’ she gestured at the young boy who advanced warily. ‘Gan doon to the Barley Mow and ask Jack ta giv yer a penneth worth o’ rum.’ She waved her hands at her husband who fished around in his pockets for coins to give the child. ‘If e says owt, say our Alice’s been tyuk bad again with the croup,’ she inclined her head towards the toddler. The older child nodded solemnly. ‘Then yous come reet back mind, no dawdling.’
Tom watched as she moved round the back of the stranger and un-tied the black ribbon which bound his hair. Carefully, she parted the thick, dark curls and checked his scalp for wounds. A wince flashed across her face.
‘E’s tyuk a fair crack to his heed, reet enough. A lump big as an egg!’
She carefully rocked the man’s head from side to side, and ran her hands firmly up through his hair again. ‘But his skulls not broke. Aah reckon e’ll live,’ she smiled and looked over at her husband. ‘Aah h’ve nursed yous through far worse, Tom Robson, when yer been out sobbling blows on a nite.’
He smiled at her, for the first time breaking the tension in the room; the flickering firelight glinted momentarily in his blue eyes. He watched as his wife laid the stranger’s head back down gently on the chair, and turned to the hearth to pour a little hot water from the kettle into an earthenware bowl. Mixing in a little cold water from a pitcher, she took a cloth and carefully wiped the man’s clammy face, sweeping an errant curl from his forehead and smoothing it back in place.
‘Come on me hinny, come back ti us,’ she cooed, stroking his cheek. ‘Who is e, Tom?’
‘Aah divvent knar, hen,’ the keelman shrugged, ‘but es coat’s king’s navy nd es an officer aah reckon,’ he nodded at the mud splattered jacket which hung on the back of the door. ‘Aah seed anuther bluecoat this afternoon, dunby the Customs Hoose. E gave us such a crabby look when aah asked him for a light, bloody rusty-gut sod. E might be from the same ship,’ he gestured hopefully towards the unconscious figure by the fireside.
Ships of the line were not an uncommon sight, but still rare enough to attract a small crowd whenever they sailed up the mouth of the river. The arrival of the Lydia two days before had caused some small degree of interest in the town, not least amongst the merchants who hoped to re-provision the vessel. Tom was not aware of any other naval ship in port at the moment. There were of course the staff at Trinity House, but he knew most of them by sight, although he never paid them much attention.
Annie had started to rub the stranger’s hands between her own, blowing on his long fingers in an attempt warm them.
‘Aye, come on now me pet,’ she murmured softly, and the man seemed to stir.
‘William,’ he groaned, turning his head a little, though his eyes remained firmly shut.
A silence hung over the room. The keelman and his wife each held their breath waiting to see if the stranger would continue, but he slipped back into unconsciousness.
Bush rested his cheek against the castle wall and let the cold wet stone cool his aching head. He was exhausted and felt nauseous; panic now flooding his senses and knotting in his stomach. He took several deep breadths and wiped a calloused hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose hard till it hurt. Above him the castle towered in stolid defiance out over the smog bound town.
He did not know why he had come up here, except to escape the choking air of the cramped streets, but somehow he had thought that if Hornblower was searching for him then this is where he would come. It made little sense, but nothing made sense anymore. He felt everything was seeping through his fingers into chaos. He knew what he should do, what it was his duty to do. He should go back to the ship, relieve Gerard and send Galbraith back to shore with a proper search party. But somehow Bush was unable to do that: he just could not leave. He felt that if he only kept looking, if he tried one more street, one more back lane, one more tavern, then he would find Hornblower safe and well. But if he left, then all would be lost.
A simmering rage, mixed with fear, was gnawing away at him. He felt impotent. All those times before when he had walked the quarterdeck waiting for Hornblower’s to return from a mission, he had always been secure in the knowledge that he had done his utmost. He had personally seen to it that the best men had been chosen for any shore party, and that they were well trained and loyal men who would fight with their hearts and their heads for duty, and not because they feared a flogging. Bush would ensure that each was properly briefed and knew as much as he needed to know. In turn, he would make sure that Simmons chose the most adept of his marines, and made it clear that the there would be hell to pay if anyone stepped out of line. Then he would check and re-checked the equipment himself until he was happy that every rope was sound, each musket and pistol was clean and oiled, and that cartridges and powder were properly mixed and kept watertight. Only when he was satisfied that all was correct would he finally let the Captain disembark. Bush believed his Captain to be a man of rare courage, skill and insight: one of god’s chosen men who would always shine in adversity. However, he felt that it did no harm to give fate, and the almighty, a helping hand, and that in some small way his own diligence could at least forestall the whimsy of chance.
Only when all was correct and in its place would Bush stoically say goodbye, assured in the knowledge that he had done all he could to keep his Captain safe. Sometimes it was a sober farewell; the sky already set aflame by enemy fire and the taste of defeat sour in the air. Else, there were words whispered as Hornblower slipped away into the darkness; the barest ripple of an oar captured in the moonlight. At other times it was a moment of bravado, ripe with the promise of action, when a strong handshake and resolute nod would suffice. But always there would be that one last look before each turned away, a second in which to silently pour all the unsaid words of a lifetime.
Then Bush would return to the quarterdeck and watch the Jolly Boats hauled away till they were just tiny specs captured in the lens of his glass. And he would stand and scan the horizon, anxious yet calm, and wait for news - a cutlass slash to the stomach, a lunge through the ribs and into the heart, a hail of musket fire, a single bullet, a French firing squad, a Spanish noose, a rapid bombardment, a sudden explosion reducing a body to tatters - he was prepared for all of these, but not for this. He was not ready to lose his Captain in some filthy little coal port at the arse end of England. This was home soil, this was safe. Here there was no danger. He had let Hornblower walk off unprotected, let his Captain leave unaided and alone because he had believed all this to be true. How could he have been so wrong?