Happy Bush at last..
Yes, finally I give him something to smile about.
TITLE: The Properties of Linen
CHARACTERS: Bush/Hornblower
RATING: G
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, all owned by the esteemed Mr Forester and his estate and I mean them no diservice. Just messing with them for my own amusement..sorry.
Book canon set no particular time
Huge thanks to Draugdur (and her AM) for advice and beta reading, though any inaccuracies and plain nonsense are all my very own. This piece partially inspired by our shared loved of strapping fellows in billowing shirts.
After several months of being laundered at sea, a linen shirt tends to become stiff and unyielding. Saline permeates the fabric making it always slightly sticky to the touch and uncomfortable for the wearer. The garment will tend to chaff when in restrictive contact with exposed skin, such as at the collar and wrists, and will often cause intolerable itching. In the hot, dry climes of the Indies and Americas the cloth will bleach bright white, but salt, reacting with the sun, will make it brittle and weak, requiring constant mending. In contrast, the damp inclement conditions of the Baltic and the Channel will see the material turn a sullen, clammy grey, the moisture rotting the stitching and weakening the seams.
* * * * * * * *
Unable to sleep, Bush had ventured up on deck. It was a warm and glorious night with a gentle breeze just stirring the staysails and making the canvas flutter and crack. Behind him he heard the sounds of the ship carried on the air - the officer of the watch calling to tighten sail, the rhythmical creak of the shrouds and the doleful toll of the bell marking the end of the first watch. He stood alone at the taffrail letting the wind billow through his open shirt, luxuriating in the feel of the fine new linen against his skin. The garment, a gift from his sisters, had arrived early that morning with dispatches from Portsmouth. He caressed the soft fabric as though to touch the hands that had stitched it with such affection. It felt glorious and cool and for a moment he closed his eyes and thought of Chichester.
* * * * * * * *
In his cabin Hornblower worked his way through what seemed an insurmountable pile of correspondence. The night was warm and sticky below deck and the heat prickled his skin. Poor light made his eyes ache as he strained to read the spidery scrawl of the chandler’s clerk, and for the umpteenth time tried to calculate the ratio of pitch to oakum needed for the coming six months. His uniform itched horribly and sweat glistened across his forehead, matting together his hair and trickling down the side of his cheek. He cuffed it away in irritation and tugged at his stock which felt like it was choking him. Desperate for any breeze he glanced up at the open grating and there, on the aft deck, glimpsed a spectral figure, wings unfurled in the argent moonlight. Arael, angel of the waters of earth, archon of the winds - he shivered, a chill coursing down his spine. Mesmerised, he laid down his pen and snuffed out the candle.