cayenne #11: tactics
Author: gabe
Challenge: Cayenne #11: tactics
Toppings/Extras: none
Story: The Ballad of Gilead Plunkett, Ch. 2: Tell Me, Mary
Wordcount: 1016
Rating: R (generally - some violence and adult situations, but this chapter is pretty mild)
Summary: Historical fic: It's 1837; no police, no consulting detectives, no telephone, no profiling, DNA tests, or international criminal databases. But there is Gilead Plunkett, who, for the right price and a hunk of chewing tobacco, will sort out your fugitive criminal problems. If you're not too fussy about the "bring 'em back alive" thing. It's a long way from New York to Liverpool, and Plunkett's accent, smell, and river-rat fashion sense are attracting a certain amount of attention, even in a crowded port. Still, he's got a lead. In this chapter, we learn what he's after.
Author's Notes: Kind of violent, kind of funny, kind of gay. Concrit is welcome.
And that was how Gilead Plunkett found himself sitting naked in a large tin tub in front of a small coal fire in a Liverpool boarding-house without even a chew or a cabin-steward to console him, wondering how close the nearest public house was, and how much it was going to cost him to get Mrs. Flynn to spill about a couple of guests she might or might not have had three months earlier.
Ch. 2 - Tell Me, Mary
The answer was plenty, but that was later, and not unexpected. Plunkett, more or less clean, had had a few errands to do - the first was getting some substitute for clothes that he realized were attracting more attention than they would have back in New York, where they'd've marked him out as a buck rabbit in the neighbourhoods where it would have mattered, or New Orleans, where they would have made people cross the mired streets to avoid him… or Louisville or Baltimore or… Plunkett had never thought of himself as having a home, but now he wondered if he was sickening for it, after all. Just a swallow of Tennessee corn whiskey, or a buckwheat cake sopped in molasses, or a plate of dirty rice the way they made it at Louizette's… shit, there he went again. It was the music doing it - a dirty fiddler in a corner of a Limeypool tavern scraping out what sounded like "Tell Me, Mary," something he'd last heard played, and with considerably more verve, by a darky sitting on pile of rope in the stern of an Ohio keelboat.
Seemed like fiddlers were the same wherever you went - which couldn't be said for beer. He swallowed another mouthful of the soapy brew and poked at the mass on his plate he'd been told was game-pie. There was definitely meat of some kind buried in the thick pale crust and gravy; Plunkett extracted a piece of bone and squinted at it. Rib. Too thick for bird and too thin and flat for rabbit - someone in the neighbourhood would be missing their moggie, he reckoned, flicking the scrap away and reaching for the bread and cheese and pickled onions. He'd eaten worse, and recently, but not because he'd wanted to.
A stunted urchin like a monkey in an apron hovered near Plunkett's table, hefting a jug, threatening to refill the mug Plunkett hadn't got anywhere near the bottom of. "Christ, no," Plunkett said, alarmed. "Get me a bottle of gin. Big one." Judging by Mrs. Flynn's heft and those spidery red lines he'd noticed in her cheeks, it'd likely take a demijohn. Black bottle in his pocket, bundle of slightly-used new clothes under his arm, he made his way back to the house in Canary Street.
The beaker of hot water and the sugar-bowl sat disregarded; his landlady had abandoned the pretense of a genteel toddy two or three drinks ago and was now swallowing the stuff down neat, although her little finger remained crooked out in a ladylike question-mark. And the glitter was still in her eyes, possibly reflected from the small tower of coin Plunkett had just added to that stood on the table between them.
"Good-lookin' feller, seemingly. Gingery sidewhiskers. Travellin' with a young lady. This is her." Plunkett pulled a gold locket from an inner pocket, thumbed it open and put it on the table, keeping a hold of the shining chain it was attached to. No use tempting those capable mitted hands. From one half of the oval shell, a girl with dark ringlets looked out with equally dark eyes, a conventional simper on her face.
The artist had tried to pretty her up, but a long stubborn chin and a sulky underlip had proved too much for his skill. Simper aside, it probably wasn't a bad likeness of Miss Aurelia Clark of Baltimore, sixteen years old and missing since May. Plunkett took another look at the underlip and reflected that he wouldn't have run off with her for all the gold in the Seven Lost Cities of Cibola, even if he'd had a liking for young ladies. Miss Aurelia Clark looked like an awkward little piece of goods, to him. However, her mother wanted her back before the scandal heated up to boiling, and she wanted the man who'd absconded with her. Or so her lawyer had told him, Mrs. Margaretta Clark not being the kind of individual who did much business with hired bravos in waterfront taverns.
"Likely I can find 'em," Plunkett had said; since he'd never not found who he was sent after, it seemed safe enough. "What if they're already hitched over there in England? Her ma still want her back?"
"She's under the age of consent," the lawyer, Mr. De Vyse, had growled, looking uneasily over his shoulder. This wasn't exactly his usual stomping-ground either, but he fit in pretty well; Sharks and spooks, Plunkett thought.
"Happens every day."
"And it's still illegal."
Plunkett had shrugged. "Well, yeah, that's so, but she won't exactly be pantin' to go to law about it, will she? Nor her ma, no matter what she says now. Not to mention the young lady won't be so much of a -"
The sound of Mr. De Vyse grinding his teeth could be heard even over the rowdydow up at the bar. "Find them. Take the blasted girl to her mother's blasted second cousin in Chiswick. We'll sort it out from there. As for MacArthur, or Tremayne or whatever he's calling himself, find out what he'll take to go away." De Vyse leaned a little closer to Plunkett across the greasy table. "And if he won't go away, make him."
"Likely I can do that too," Plunkett had said, and left the place with a packet of papers, an address, a leather bag that chinked faintly, and a locket.
Now here he was, dangling that same locket out like bait with a stack of gold behind it as a hook, having crossed a whole lot of water to fish this particular hole.
TBC
Challenge: Cayenne #11: tactics
Toppings/Extras: none
Story: The Ballad of Gilead Plunkett, Ch. 2: Tell Me, Mary
Wordcount: 1016
Rating: R (generally - some violence and adult situations, but this chapter is pretty mild)
Summary: Historical fic: It's 1837; no police, no consulting detectives, no telephone, no profiling, DNA tests, or international criminal databases. But there is Gilead Plunkett, who, for the right price and a hunk of chewing tobacco, will sort out your fugitive criminal problems. If you're not too fussy about the "bring 'em back alive" thing. It's a long way from New York to Liverpool, and Plunkett's accent, smell, and river-rat fashion sense are attracting a certain amount of attention, even in a crowded port. Still, he's got a lead. In this chapter, we learn what he's after.
Author's Notes: Kind of violent, kind of funny, kind of gay. Concrit is welcome.
And that was how Gilead Plunkett found himself sitting naked in a large tin tub in front of a small coal fire in a Liverpool boarding-house without even a chew or a cabin-steward to console him, wondering how close the nearest public house was, and how much it was going to cost him to get Mrs. Flynn to spill about a couple of guests she might or might not have had three months earlier.
Ch. 2 - Tell Me, Mary
The answer was plenty, but that was later, and not unexpected. Plunkett, more or less clean, had had a few errands to do - the first was getting some substitute for clothes that he realized were attracting more attention than they would have back in New York, where they'd've marked him out as a buck rabbit in the neighbourhoods where it would have mattered, or New Orleans, where they would have made people cross the mired streets to avoid him… or Louisville or Baltimore or… Plunkett had never thought of himself as having a home, but now he wondered if he was sickening for it, after all. Just a swallow of Tennessee corn whiskey, or a buckwheat cake sopped in molasses, or a plate of dirty rice the way they made it at Louizette's… shit, there he went again. It was the music doing it - a dirty fiddler in a corner of a Limeypool tavern scraping out what sounded like "Tell Me, Mary," something he'd last heard played, and with considerably more verve, by a darky sitting on pile of rope in the stern of an Ohio keelboat.
Seemed like fiddlers were the same wherever you went - which couldn't be said for beer. He swallowed another mouthful of the soapy brew and poked at the mass on his plate he'd been told was game-pie. There was definitely meat of some kind buried in the thick pale crust and gravy; Plunkett extracted a piece of bone and squinted at it. Rib. Too thick for bird and too thin and flat for rabbit - someone in the neighbourhood would be missing their moggie, he reckoned, flicking the scrap away and reaching for the bread and cheese and pickled onions. He'd eaten worse, and recently, but not because he'd wanted to.
A stunted urchin like a monkey in an apron hovered near Plunkett's table, hefting a jug, threatening to refill the mug Plunkett hadn't got anywhere near the bottom of. "Christ, no," Plunkett said, alarmed. "Get me a bottle of gin. Big one." Judging by Mrs. Flynn's heft and those spidery red lines he'd noticed in her cheeks, it'd likely take a demijohn. Black bottle in his pocket, bundle of slightly-used new clothes under his arm, he made his way back to the house in Canary Street.
The beaker of hot water and the sugar-bowl sat disregarded; his landlady had abandoned the pretense of a genteel toddy two or three drinks ago and was now swallowing the stuff down neat, although her little finger remained crooked out in a ladylike question-mark. And the glitter was still in her eyes, possibly reflected from the small tower of coin Plunkett had just added to that stood on the table between them.
"Good-lookin' feller, seemingly. Gingery sidewhiskers. Travellin' with a young lady. This is her." Plunkett pulled a gold locket from an inner pocket, thumbed it open and put it on the table, keeping a hold of the shining chain it was attached to. No use tempting those capable mitted hands. From one half of the oval shell, a girl with dark ringlets looked out with equally dark eyes, a conventional simper on her face.
The artist had tried to pretty her up, but a long stubborn chin and a sulky underlip had proved too much for his skill. Simper aside, it probably wasn't a bad likeness of Miss Aurelia Clark of Baltimore, sixteen years old and missing since May. Plunkett took another look at the underlip and reflected that he wouldn't have run off with her for all the gold in the Seven Lost Cities of Cibola, even if he'd had a liking for young ladies. Miss Aurelia Clark looked like an awkward little piece of goods, to him. However, her mother wanted her back before the scandal heated up to boiling, and she wanted the man who'd absconded with her. Or so her lawyer had told him, Mrs. Margaretta Clark not being the kind of individual who did much business with hired bravos in waterfront taverns.
"Likely I can find 'em," Plunkett had said; since he'd never not found who he was sent after, it seemed safe enough. "What if they're already hitched over there in England? Her ma still want her back?"
"She's under the age of consent," the lawyer, Mr. De Vyse, had growled, looking uneasily over his shoulder. This wasn't exactly his usual stomping-ground either, but he fit in pretty well; Sharks and spooks, Plunkett thought.
"Happens every day."
"And it's still illegal."
Plunkett had shrugged. "Well, yeah, that's so, but she won't exactly be pantin' to go to law about it, will she? Nor her ma, no matter what she says now. Not to mention the young lady won't be so much of a -"
The sound of Mr. De Vyse grinding his teeth could be heard even over the rowdydow up at the bar. "Find them. Take the blasted girl to her mother's blasted second cousin in Chiswick. We'll sort it out from there. As for MacArthur, or Tremayne or whatever he's calling himself, find out what he'll take to go away." De Vyse leaned a little closer to Plunkett across the greasy table. "And if he won't go away, make him."
"Likely I can do that too," Plunkett had said, and left the place with a packet of papers, an address, a leather bag that chinked faintly, and a locket.
Now here he was, dangling that same locket out like bait with a stack of gold behind it as a hook, having crossed a whole lot of water to fish this particular hole.
TBC