Alphabet Soup Ficathon
For the letter Q in lokei's William Bush Alphabet Soup ficathon
Length: about 200 words
Rating: G
His leg-what was left of his leg-burned with agony at each jolt of the carriage, but Bush closed his eyes and tried to feign sleep. He’d be damned if he gave the captain another cause for worry. Willing himself not to flinch as the carriage swayed and shuddered, he watched his companions from under his eyelashes. Hands on his knees, Brown sat with sailorly patience, as Hornblower stared out the window, his face rigid and pale.
They were being taken to Paris for questioning. Of course that is what the captain would say, trying to spare them the burden of the truth. Yet Bush was no fool. That colonel of the police could have interrogated them in Rosas and sent a messenger to the capital. And at every inn, Bush heard the servants whisper “les corsairs Anglaises” as the soldiers carried him past. He could guess the purpose of this journey. No quarter was given to pirates, and Bonaparte killed his enemies for lesser offenses than sailing under false colours.
Yet Bush felt strangely unmoved by his fate. He would face it when the time came. What grieved him now was the sight of his friend, staring out the rain-streaked window, clenching his empty hands until the skin on his knuckles turned white.
Length: about 200 words
Rating: G
His leg-what was left of his leg-burned with agony at each jolt of the carriage, but Bush closed his eyes and tried to feign sleep. He’d be damned if he gave the captain another cause for worry. Willing himself not to flinch as the carriage swayed and shuddered, he watched his companions from under his eyelashes. Hands on his knees, Brown sat with sailorly patience, as Hornblower stared out the window, his face rigid and pale.
They were being taken to Paris for questioning. Of course that is what the captain would say, trying to spare them the burden of the truth. Yet Bush was no fool. That colonel of the police could have interrogated them in Rosas and sent a messenger to the capital. And at every inn, Bush heard the servants whisper “les corsairs Anglaises” as the soldiers carried him past. He could guess the purpose of this journey. No quarter was given to pirates, and Bonaparte killed his enemies for lesser offenses than sailing under false colours.
Yet Bush felt strangely unmoved by his fate. He would face it when the time came. What grieved him now was the sight of his friend, staring out the rain-streaked window, clenching his empty hands until the skin on his knuckles turned white.