the ghost of fandoms past
Right, so a while back my computer died. We're talking Marley-was-dead-to-begin-with, dead-as-a-doornail, it's-six-months-later-and-Michael-Jackson-is-still-dead-and-while-that-is-very-sad-it-does-not-qualify-as-news type dead: the sort where one's computer whirs one last time, and the screen flickers half-heartedly, and then-- nothing. Not even a blue screen of death.
Thankfully, I have an external harddrive to which I had recently backed up all of my files. Which means that I didn't lose anything.
In fact, I'm now going through all those not-lost files, and I found this DCU snippet from god knows when. I have no idea why I was writing this, but apparently I was: it's a fusion between the DC Universe and C.S. Forester's Horatio Hornblower novels. With Tim Drake in the role of Hornblower, and Dick Grayson playing the part of Lieutenant Bush. As well as a long involved author's note with historical background.
Look, I don't even know.
I mean, there's not a chance in hell that I'll ever finish this, because I am so far removed from DCU these days that I doubt I'd be able to recognize most of the characters, let alone the storylines. And then there's the fact that the story notes I've got on this indicate that there was totally going to be sex in a hammock at some point, which-- wouldn't that, like, probably result in lots of elbows in faces? Not to mention the friction burns from the canvass.
But. All that aside, I like the snippet too well to let it wallow on the harddrive forever, so:
Red Sky at Morning
By SomeInstant
Disclaimer: DC Comics owns Tim Drake and Dick Grayson, although I doubt they’d dress them up in breeches and set them sailing any time soon. The illustrious C.S. Forester (or rather, his estate) owns the Renown, her crew, and most of the exploits contained herein. I just mashed the two universes together.
Rating: We’ll call it a light R.
Summary: In which the Renown takes on an acrobatic third lieutenant, the captain loses his footing, Wellard looks appropriately cowed, and Lieutenant Timothy Drake knows more than he ought about a variety of subjects.
Notes: I feel horribly unoriginal. However, the sensation of being second to the party hasn’t really resulted in too much guilt, since it was so much fun to do this. The main thread of plot here is entirely the work of Mr. Forester in Lieutenant Hornblower. Unfortunately, this story may be a little confusing for those who haven’t read any of the Hornblower books-- and even for those who’ve seen the A&E movies. Thus, a quick rundown seems to be in order:
Tim Drake is being plugged into the slot usually occupied by Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, a rather remarkable (if self-deprecating) naval officer and whist-player. He is the only child of a country doctor, and joined the Royal Navy at seventeen as a midshipman. His claims to fame thus far in his naval career include: getting seasick while still at anchor in Portsmouth, sinking his first prize ship with nothing more than a hold full of rice, and spending nearly two years in Spanish custody as a prisoner of war. I’m playing with Hornblower-slash-Tim’s age a little, however-- he ought to be twenty-five, but I’m shaving off a few birthdays. Tim’s a precocious fellow anyway; he can handle it.
Dick Grayson is currently occupying the role usually played by Lieutenant William Bush. However, he is not taking on many of the man’s characteristics, mainly because I couldn’t stand to change either of their essential characters. Plus, I had to keep them separate in my head because, dear god, I was about to wind up with a composite character whose combined name would be Dick Bush, and I just don’t have the strength to write that without snickering madly.
Other characters are pretty much straight from the Hornblower novels. Mr. Archie Kennedy of A&E fame makes no appearance in this little wooden world, I’m sad to say. There are, however, a few nods to the DC side of things. A guinea and a ration of ale to anyone who spots all of ‘em.
Zee historical set-up goes something like this:
In January of 1793, five years after the beginning of the Revolution, the presiding government in France decides to separate the head from the body of Louis XVI by means of the guillotine. Britain, as we all know from A Tale of Two Cities and The Scarlet Pimpernel, has been on the Royalist side of things, and is therefore less than impressed. Whitehall immediately breaks diplomatic ties, and eight days later, France declares war. Great Britain returns the favor in March, and poof! Let the battles begin.
Things continue to role merrily along in this mildly bloodthirsty manner for several years, with a young fellow named Bonaparte eventually being named supreme commander of the Italian army in 1796. Concurrently, a fellow by the name of Horatio Nelson gains a fair measure of fame in British naval circles for various feats of daring-do. By 1798, Bonaparte wrestles control of France from the disorganized hands of the Directory and stretches France's territory to Cairo. By the end of 1799 he’s installed a military dictatorship in France, and things start looking mighty grim for the rest of Europe. In November of 1801-- which is where we begin our story-- Britain is alone in its fight against Bonaparte, as the Continent has all but surrendered.
And now that I’ve lectured-- up curtain.
*
1. The Powder Keg
In retrospect, Grayson thought it fitting that his first impression of H.M.S. Renown should have been as it was. The north wind bit at both the waves and his nose during the crossing in the open boat, and between the spray and stinging rain, he was wet through and stiff with cold by the time he came on board and managed to find the officer of the watch.
“Lieutenant Richard Grayson come aboard, sir,” he said, addressing the slight, dark-haired lieutenant to whom he had been directed. The fellow was most likely four or five years his junior-- he looked scarcely old enough to shave, but Grayson was well aware that age had little to do with the date of one’s commission, and it did not do to assume seniority.
The officer nodded in response. “Welcome aboard, sir,” he said, sticking nicely to formula. “My name’s Drake. The captain’s ashore, and the first lieutenant is for’ard at the moment.” The boy-- for the descriptor fit, however improper for a commissioned officer-- stood at attention, his wind-chapped face preternaturally serious, blue eyes masked and brow furrowed, as though working a trigonometry problem in his head. A sudden crash near the gangway, however, erased the thoughtful posture immediately.
“Mr. Hobbs!” bellowed Drake, surprisingly loud given his stature. “You’ll have a care with that powder, or I’ll know the reason why.” The sailor in question scowled, and Drake’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to Grayson, and strode towards the sulky Mr. Hobbs.
Grayson watched as the lieutenant leaned in towards the sailor, speaking quietly enough that he couldn’t be heard over the noise on deck. The boyishness seemed to drain away from Drake’s face in moments, and what was left was a strangely bare intensity, unpleasantly harsh.
Drake only spoke to Hobbs for a moment, but whatever it was he said had its effect, as Grayson could see the flush rise on Hobbs’ face from where he stood. Drake offered one last parting shot, and the sailor touched his forehead before picking up the dropped keg and joining the rest of his fellows. Obviously, Drake was not a man to be crossed, and Hobbs knew it.
Well, Grayson thought as the lieutenant rejoined him, have to watch this one. More of a temper on him than I’d’ve guessed.
But even as Grayson determined that Drake was one to keep an eye on, the fellow’s mouth slid up at one corner, and the blank boyish look was back in place.
“He’s not a bad hand, Hobbs,” Drake said. “Just a bit careless. And what he does the others tend to do, and frankly I’d rather they not follow his lead with barrels of powder in their hands.”
Grayson made a noise which they both understood to be agreement, and thought, Well. Well, indeed. Drake promised to make an interesting shipmate, if not a terribly predictable one.
“Richard Grayson, was it?” Drake directed the question to him with a casual air. Grayson agreed that, yes, it was.
“You’ll be third, then, sir,” he said.
“Third?” asked Grayson. He’d been distracted, watching Hobbs and the men hoist up another load of powder-- this time with more care-- but the all-important ‘sir’ caught his attention.
“My commission’s August ’97, and Smith’s is January ’97. You’re senior,” Drake explained matter-of-factly. “Buckland’s first, Roberts’s second, and you’ll make third, sir.”
Third lieutenant was an excellent position; the chances of advancement were relatively high. With battles and prizes crews and Lord knew what else, Grayson might be able to make commander sometime in the next few years. Drake, on the other hand, was stuck at fifth lieutenant-- a little too close to the midshipmen for comfort or hope of promotion.
Still, it was hard to find any sort of dissatisfaction on Drake’s face. In all truth, the boy looked pleased. Odd, thought Grayson. But there was something odder still, and Grayson asked, “But how did you know the date of my commission?” before stopping to think.
“I, ah. Read of you in the Gazette, sir,” Drake said, looking intently at the shore. It is perhaps possible Drake colored a little as he said this, but then it has also been noted that the wind was brisk and cold, and it seems kinder to attribute any sudden flush to the weather than to embarrassment.
“Ah,” said Grayson, and nodded, although he and Drake were both aware that this was a flimsy explanation.
Most read the Gazette for the latest news of naval battles; very few bothered to read the items detailing newly-commissioned officers. It seemed highly unlikely that Drake would have simply happened upon news of one Richard Grayson’s commission while reading the Gazette in September of ’96, and managed to remember such an incidental piece of information five years later.
Grayson looked steadily at his fellow officer. Drake didn’t seem the type to gossip, but then--
But then pipes whistled, and the call went out: the captain was coming aboard.
*
Captain Sawyer was, by all accounts, a great man. He had an impressive list of victories to his name, and was well-liked by his peers and the Admiralty. Indeed, Grayson himself had eagerly followed Sawyer’s exploits in the Gazette as a boy, and had therefore been extraordinarily pleased at the chance to serve under the man. But that had been more than ten years ago, and Sawyer had evidently altered since.
“Sir,” said Drake, stepping forward to report to his captain. “This is Lieutenant Grayson, come aboard.”
Grayson bowed, and moved to say something usual, like: “A pleasure, sir,” or perhaps more formally, “An honor, sir,” but the captain cut him off with a quick glance and a sniff.
“And while you were making new friends, Drake,” the captain asked, “did you perhaps spare some time to see the supplies stowed?”
Drake stiffened, but answered “Yes, sir,” evenly enough. “The last load of power came on board just prior to your arrival, sir.”
Sawyer grunted. “Cutting it rather close, Mr. Drake. You’ll take Mr. Smith’s next watch for him and learn some diligence while you’re at it.” This struck Grayson as somewhat harsh, but Drake’s face remained impassive.
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Shall I have Mr. Grayson’s dunnage sent below?”
“Grayson?” Captain Sawyer had obviously forgotten about his new lieutenant. “Ah. Yes,” he said, looking Grayson over shrewdly. “Mr. Wellard can see to it,” he said, a small smile teasing the corner of his mouth.
It was odd; for a moment Grayson was certain Drake had been about to refuse to relay the order. It was not that Drake hesitated, or looked disapproving-- but there was something like flint in the officer’s eyes as he called out. The captain’s smile widened as a pale smudge of a boy stumbled over to take Grayson’s sea chest below, and Grayson knew the man had felt the same reluctance from Drake as he had.
The boy, Wellard, was perhaps fifteen and not yet grown into himself. He was at once both short and lanky, all elbows and feet and hesitation, moving inelegantly and with great reluctance. Grayson had packed lightly-- he had few personal items, aside from a fine new pair of pistols-- but the strain was evident in the young midshipman’s face as he lifted the chest and walked stiff-legged across the deck.
Drake was looking somewhere over the captain’s shoulder as he asked, “Will that be all, sir?” although Grayson was certain that it wasn’t.
“Eager to leave, Drake, are we?” the captain sneered. “Some meeting to attend, sir? No, thank you. You’ll stay where I can see you, Mr. Drake.”
Drake said nothing. Grayson resolved to never play cards with the young man; his face was set like a mask and it was impossible to know his thoughts.
“Now,” said the captain, turning towards Grayson and suddenly jovial. “Mr. Grayson. We’ll have no trouble from you, I am very sure-- not with your background, not unless we have trouble keeping you out of the rigging, ha!”
Grayson suppressed the urge to scowl; it had been too much to hope that he might escape notice, but he hardly wanted his upbringing discussed on the quarterdeck before all of Creation. Captain Sawyer, however, either did not notice or did not care about his lieutenant’s visible discomfort.
“Flying Dick Grayson,” the captain said absently. “Imagine that. Lord, but Wayne laughed.” His cloudy eyes sharpened then, and he seemed to come back from a very far distance. “Well. To your duties, then,” he said, and left Drake and Grayson abruptly.
The two men stood silently for a moment. Grayson wondered how best to ask a man who one had only just met to keep a secret. As if reading his thoughts, Drake said, “Every man’s entitled to his privacy, sir.”
“Bit hard to find on a ship of this size,” Grayson responded, sounding glum even to his own ears. “I suppose it’ll get ‘round by supper.”
Drake shrugged. “Some secrets keep better than one might think. There might be a few in the ward room who know your name, but I doubt it will spread, sir.”
Grayson raised an eyebrow. Sailors were worse than washerwomen for gossip, and it was inconceivable that the Renown be more discreet than any other ship in the king’s navy. Either Drake was a hopeless fool, or there was reason to be close-mouthed. And Grayson could not imagine Drake a fool; a sneak, perhaps, or an unforgiving taskmaster-- but not a fool.
“The captain,” Grayson offered neutrally. “He seems--,” he let his words trail off, waiting for Drake’s response.
Drake met his eyes briefly, as though looking for something, and Grayson had the uncomfortable sensation of being on trial. Drake evidently found him satisfactory, however, as he nodded slightly after a few moments. “Mercurial, sir.”
“Mercurial,” echoed Grayson, looking over the side at the choppy grey water. This was not the auspicious beginning for which he had hoped.
....
And that's all you're getting from me.
I mean, aside from my very rough outlines for the rest of the story. The following is what I have down for my notes (and yes, most of my story notes are composed entirely of titles and sound like the descriptions of a Winnie-the-Pooh story).
2. The Romance of Mr. Wellard and the Gunner’s Daughter
(Hmm. Didn't seem to have anything written here, although I imagine I had thought to rip the plot straight from Forrester in this section, and have Wellard be whipped for something (hence the gunner's daughter thing, I think), and have Drake get in trouble for backing him up.)
3. Janus and the Captain
In which Sawyer tosses a coin, Drake and Wellard are dodgy and suspicious, and Grayson tries desperately not to think too much. Also: Buckland remains an ass.
(I know I had planned to use Sawyer as Two-Face in this story, which explains the Janus reference. This would be the chapter where Dick tries really, really, really hard not to notice that Tim is Seckritly organizing a mutiny. Until Sawyer manages to crack his head open falling down into the hold (accident? don't ask Tim. he knows nothing) and a mutiny is no longer necessary.)
4. The Flying Grayson
In which there are heroics and showers. Also: the difficulty of hammocks.
(I... have no idea what I meant by this, except that I also have an enthusiastic note that reads, "HAMMOCK SEX! Research?" And. I honestly don't know what sort of research I thought I could do with that topic.)
5. A Place with Three Names
In which Drake and Grayson nearly hang themselves, Buckland almost grows a spine, Sawyer screams like a girl, Wellard has a mad crush and is adorably doomed, and the author creates a false ending because she is tired of writing the damn thing. Also: the problem with climbing coconut palms.
(Okay. I know the "place with three names" thing refers to Hispaniola, so-- presumably they make it to the Caribbean. I'm not sure how Tim and Dick nearly hang themselves, but gosh it sounds interesting! I think I might have been planning on killing off Wellard, though. And I have no fucking idea about the palm trees.)
So that's it. That's the story I'm not going to finish, but. At least it's out there? Or something.
And hey-- if anyone feels inspired to pick up what I've got and run mad with it, please do.
Thankfully, I have an external harddrive to which I had recently backed up all of my files. Which means that I didn't lose anything.
In fact, I'm now going through all those not-lost files, and I found this DCU snippet from god knows when. I have no idea why I was writing this, but apparently I was: it's a fusion between the DC Universe and C.S. Forester's Horatio Hornblower novels. With Tim Drake in the role of Hornblower, and Dick Grayson playing the part of Lieutenant Bush. As well as a long involved author's note with historical background.
Look, I don't even know.
I mean, there's not a chance in hell that I'll ever finish this, because I am so far removed from DCU these days that I doubt I'd be able to recognize most of the characters, let alone the storylines. And then there's the fact that the story notes I've got on this indicate that there was totally going to be sex in a hammock at some point, which-- wouldn't that, like, probably result in lots of elbows in faces? Not to mention the friction burns from the canvass.
But. All that aside, I like the snippet too well to let it wallow on the harddrive forever, so:
Red Sky at Morning
By SomeInstant
Disclaimer: DC Comics owns Tim Drake and Dick Grayson, although I doubt they’d dress them up in breeches and set them sailing any time soon. The illustrious C.S. Forester (or rather, his estate) owns the Renown, her crew, and most of the exploits contained herein. I just mashed the two universes together.
Rating: We’ll call it a light R.
Summary: In which the Renown takes on an acrobatic third lieutenant, the captain loses his footing, Wellard looks appropriately cowed, and Lieutenant Timothy Drake knows more than he ought about a variety of subjects.
Notes: I feel horribly unoriginal. However, the sensation of being second to the party hasn’t really resulted in too much guilt, since it was so much fun to do this. The main thread of plot here is entirely the work of Mr. Forester in Lieutenant Hornblower. Unfortunately, this story may be a little confusing for those who haven’t read any of the Hornblower books-- and even for those who’ve seen the A&E movies. Thus, a quick rundown seems to be in order:
Tim Drake is being plugged into the slot usually occupied by Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, a rather remarkable (if self-deprecating) naval officer and whist-player. He is the only child of a country doctor, and joined the Royal Navy at seventeen as a midshipman. His claims to fame thus far in his naval career include: getting seasick while still at anchor in Portsmouth, sinking his first prize ship with nothing more than a hold full of rice, and spending nearly two years in Spanish custody as a prisoner of war. I’m playing with Hornblower-slash-Tim’s age a little, however-- he ought to be twenty-five, but I’m shaving off a few birthdays. Tim’s a precocious fellow anyway; he can handle it.
Dick Grayson is currently occupying the role usually played by Lieutenant William Bush. However, he is not taking on many of the man’s characteristics, mainly because I couldn’t stand to change either of their essential characters. Plus, I had to keep them separate in my head because, dear god, I was about to wind up with a composite character whose combined name would be Dick Bush, and I just don’t have the strength to write that without snickering madly.
Other characters are pretty much straight from the Hornblower novels. Mr. Archie Kennedy of A&E fame makes no appearance in this little wooden world, I’m sad to say. There are, however, a few nods to the DC side of things. A guinea and a ration of ale to anyone who spots all of ‘em.
Zee historical set-up goes something like this:
In January of 1793, five years after the beginning of the Revolution, the presiding government in France decides to separate the head from the body of Louis XVI by means of the guillotine. Britain, as we all know from A Tale of Two Cities and The Scarlet Pimpernel, has been on the Royalist side of things, and is therefore less than impressed. Whitehall immediately breaks diplomatic ties, and eight days later, France declares war. Great Britain returns the favor in March, and poof! Let the battles begin.
Things continue to role merrily along in this mildly bloodthirsty manner for several years, with a young fellow named Bonaparte eventually being named supreme commander of the Italian army in 1796. Concurrently, a fellow by the name of Horatio Nelson gains a fair measure of fame in British naval circles for various feats of daring-do. By 1798, Bonaparte wrestles control of France from the disorganized hands of the Directory and stretches France's territory to Cairo. By the end of 1799 he’s installed a military dictatorship in France, and things start looking mighty grim for the rest of Europe. In November of 1801-- which is where we begin our story-- Britain is alone in its fight against Bonaparte, as the Continent has all but surrendered.
And now that I’ve lectured-- up curtain.
*
1. The Powder Keg
In retrospect, Grayson thought it fitting that his first impression of H.M.S. Renown should have been as it was. The north wind bit at both the waves and his nose during the crossing in the open boat, and between the spray and stinging rain, he was wet through and stiff with cold by the time he came on board and managed to find the officer of the watch.
“Lieutenant Richard Grayson come aboard, sir,” he said, addressing the slight, dark-haired lieutenant to whom he had been directed. The fellow was most likely four or five years his junior-- he looked scarcely old enough to shave, but Grayson was well aware that age had little to do with the date of one’s commission, and it did not do to assume seniority.
The officer nodded in response. “Welcome aboard, sir,” he said, sticking nicely to formula. “My name’s Drake. The captain’s ashore, and the first lieutenant is for’ard at the moment.” The boy-- for the descriptor fit, however improper for a commissioned officer-- stood at attention, his wind-chapped face preternaturally serious, blue eyes masked and brow furrowed, as though working a trigonometry problem in his head. A sudden crash near the gangway, however, erased the thoughtful posture immediately.
“Mr. Hobbs!” bellowed Drake, surprisingly loud given his stature. “You’ll have a care with that powder, or I’ll know the reason why.” The sailor in question scowled, and Drake’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to Grayson, and strode towards the sulky Mr. Hobbs.
Grayson watched as the lieutenant leaned in towards the sailor, speaking quietly enough that he couldn’t be heard over the noise on deck. The boyishness seemed to drain away from Drake’s face in moments, and what was left was a strangely bare intensity, unpleasantly harsh.
Drake only spoke to Hobbs for a moment, but whatever it was he said had its effect, as Grayson could see the flush rise on Hobbs’ face from where he stood. Drake offered one last parting shot, and the sailor touched his forehead before picking up the dropped keg and joining the rest of his fellows. Obviously, Drake was not a man to be crossed, and Hobbs knew it.
Well, Grayson thought as the lieutenant rejoined him, have to watch this one. More of a temper on him than I’d’ve guessed.
But even as Grayson determined that Drake was one to keep an eye on, the fellow’s mouth slid up at one corner, and the blank boyish look was back in place.
“He’s not a bad hand, Hobbs,” Drake said. “Just a bit careless. And what he does the others tend to do, and frankly I’d rather they not follow his lead with barrels of powder in their hands.”
Grayson made a noise which they both understood to be agreement, and thought, Well. Well, indeed. Drake promised to make an interesting shipmate, if not a terribly predictable one.
“Richard Grayson, was it?” Drake directed the question to him with a casual air. Grayson agreed that, yes, it was.
“You’ll be third, then, sir,” he said.
“Third?” asked Grayson. He’d been distracted, watching Hobbs and the men hoist up another load of powder-- this time with more care-- but the all-important ‘sir’ caught his attention.
“My commission’s August ’97, and Smith’s is January ’97. You’re senior,” Drake explained matter-of-factly. “Buckland’s first, Roberts’s second, and you’ll make third, sir.”
Third lieutenant was an excellent position; the chances of advancement were relatively high. With battles and prizes crews and Lord knew what else, Grayson might be able to make commander sometime in the next few years. Drake, on the other hand, was stuck at fifth lieutenant-- a little too close to the midshipmen for comfort or hope of promotion.
Still, it was hard to find any sort of dissatisfaction on Drake’s face. In all truth, the boy looked pleased. Odd, thought Grayson. But there was something odder still, and Grayson asked, “But how did you know the date of my commission?” before stopping to think.
“I, ah. Read of you in the Gazette, sir,” Drake said, looking intently at the shore. It is perhaps possible Drake colored a little as he said this, but then it has also been noted that the wind was brisk and cold, and it seems kinder to attribute any sudden flush to the weather than to embarrassment.
“Ah,” said Grayson, and nodded, although he and Drake were both aware that this was a flimsy explanation.
Most read the Gazette for the latest news of naval battles; very few bothered to read the items detailing newly-commissioned officers. It seemed highly unlikely that Drake would have simply happened upon news of one Richard Grayson’s commission while reading the Gazette in September of ’96, and managed to remember such an incidental piece of information five years later.
Grayson looked steadily at his fellow officer. Drake didn’t seem the type to gossip, but then--
But then pipes whistled, and the call went out: the captain was coming aboard.
*
Captain Sawyer was, by all accounts, a great man. He had an impressive list of victories to his name, and was well-liked by his peers and the Admiralty. Indeed, Grayson himself had eagerly followed Sawyer’s exploits in the Gazette as a boy, and had therefore been extraordinarily pleased at the chance to serve under the man. But that had been more than ten years ago, and Sawyer had evidently altered since.
“Sir,” said Drake, stepping forward to report to his captain. “This is Lieutenant Grayson, come aboard.”
Grayson bowed, and moved to say something usual, like: “A pleasure, sir,” or perhaps more formally, “An honor, sir,” but the captain cut him off with a quick glance and a sniff.
“And while you were making new friends, Drake,” the captain asked, “did you perhaps spare some time to see the supplies stowed?”
Drake stiffened, but answered “Yes, sir,” evenly enough. “The last load of power came on board just prior to your arrival, sir.”
Sawyer grunted. “Cutting it rather close, Mr. Drake. You’ll take Mr. Smith’s next watch for him and learn some diligence while you’re at it.” This struck Grayson as somewhat harsh, but Drake’s face remained impassive.
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Shall I have Mr. Grayson’s dunnage sent below?”
“Grayson?” Captain Sawyer had obviously forgotten about his new lieutenant. “Ah. Yes,” he said, looking Grayson over shrewdly. “Mr. Wellard can see to it,” he said, a small smile teasing the corner of his mouth.
It was odd; for a moment Grayson was certain Drake had been about to refuse to relay the order. It was not that Drake hesitated, or looked disapproving-- but there was something like flint in the officer’s eyes as he called out. The captain’s smile widened as a pale smudge of a boy stumbled over to take Grayson’s sea chest below, and Grayson knew the man had felt the same reluctance from Drake as he had.
The boy, Wellard, was perhaps fifteen and not yet grown into himself. He was at once both short and lanky, all elbows and feet and hesitation, moving inelegantly and with great reluctance. Grayson had packed lightly-- he had few personal items, aside from a fine new pair of pistols-- but the strain was evident in the young midshipman’s face as he lifted the chest and walked stiff-legged across the deck.
Drake was looking somewhere over the captain’s shoulder as he asked, “Will that be all, sir?” although Grayson was certain that it wasn’t.
“Eager to leave, Drake, are we?” the captain sneered. “Some meeting to attend, sir? No, thank you. You’ll stay where I can see you, Mr. Drake.”
Drake said nothing. Grayson resolved to never play cards with the young man; his face was set like a mask and it was impossible to know his thoughts.
“Now,” said the captain, turning towards Grayson and suddenly jovial. “Mr. Grayson. We’ll have no trouble from you, I am very sure-- not with your background, not unless we have trouble keeping you out of the rigging, ha!”
Grayson suppressed the urge to scowl; it had been too much to hope that he might escape notice, but he hardly wanted his upbringing discussed on the quarterdeck before all of Creation. Captain Sawyer, however, either did not notice or did not care about his lieutenant’s visible discomfort.
“Flying Dick Grayson,” the captain said absently. “Imagine that. Lord, but Wayne laughed.” His cloudy eyes sharpened then, and he seemed to come back from a very far distance. “Well. To your duties, then,” he said, and left Drake and Grayson abruptly.
The two men stood silently for a moment. Grayson wondered how best to ask a man who one had only just met to keep a secret. As if reading his thoughts, Drake said, “Every man’s entitled to his privacy, sir.”
“Bit hard to find on a ship of this size,” Grayson responded, sounding glum even to his own ears. “I suppose it’ll get ‘round by supper.”
Drake shrugged. “Some secrets keep better than one might think. There might be a few in the ward room who know your name, but I doubt it will spread, sir.”
Grayson raised an eyebrow. Sailors were worse than washerwomen for gossip, and it was inconceivable that the Renown be more discreet than any other ship in the king’s navy. Either Drake was a hopeless fool, or there was reason to be close-mouthed. And Grayson could not imagine Drake a fool; a sneak, perhaps, or an unforgiving taskmaster-- but not a fool.
“The captain,” Grayson offered neutrally. “He seems--,” he let his words trail off, waiting for Drake’s response.
Drake met his eyes briefly, as though looking for something, and Grayson had the uncomfortable sensation of being on trial. Drake evidently found him satisfactory, however, as he nodded slightly after a few moments. “Mercurial, sir.”
“Mercurial,” echoed Grayson, looking over the side at the choppy grey water. This was not the auspicious beginning for which he had hoped.
....
And that's all you're getting from me.
I mean, aside from my very rough outlines for the rest of the story. The following is what I have down for my notes (and yes, most of my story notes are composed entirely of titles and sound like the descriptions of a Winnie-the-Pooh story).
2. The Romance of Mr. Wellard and the Gunner’s Daughter
(Hmm. Didn't seem to have anything written here, although I imagine I had thought to rip the plot straight from Forrester in this section, and have Wellard be whipped for something (hence the gunner's daughter thing, I think), and have Drake get in trouble for backing him up.)
3. Janus and the Captain
In which Sawyer tosses a coin, Drake and Wellard are dodgy and suspicious, and Grayson tries desperately not to think too much. Also: Buckland remains an ass.
(I know I had planned to use Sawyer as Two-Face in this story, which explains the Janus reference. This would be the chapter where Dick tries really, really, really hard not to notice that Tim is Seckritly organizing a mutiny. Until Sawyer manages to crack his head open falling down into the hold (accident? don't ask Tim. he knows nothing) and a mutiny is no longer necessary.)
4. The Flying Grayson
In which there are heroics and showers. Also: the difficulty of hammocks.
(I... have no idea what I meant by this, except that I also have an enthusiastic note that reads, "HAMMOCK SEX! Research?" And. I honestly don't know what sort of research I thought I could do with that topic.)
5. A Place with Three Names
In which Drake and Grayson nearly hang themselves, Buckland almost grows a spine, Sawyer screams like a girl, Wellard has a mad crush and is adorably doomed, and the author creates a false ending because she is tired of writing the damn thing. Also: the problem with climbing coconut palms.
(Okay. I know the "place with three names" thing refers to Hispaniola, so-- presumably they make it to the Caribbean. I'm not sure how Tim and Dick nearly hang themselves, but gosh it sounds interesting! I think I might have been planning on killing off Wellard, though. And I have no fucking idea about the palm trees.)
So that's it. That's the story I'm not going to finish, but. At least it's out there? Or something.
And hey-- if anyone feels inspired to pick up what I've got and run mad with it, please do.