Prompt Post 2
Welcome to the second round of the_eagle_kink .
Please see the rules before posting.
Please check our delcious account before prompting.
Happy Kink, everyone.
~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
Please see the rules before posting.
Please check our delcious account before prompting.
Happy Kink, everyone.
~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
- MORE MOD NOTES: Alright guys I know this fandom is really into historical accuracy and all that jazz but here's the thing. This is a KINK MEME and therefore historical accuracy is not ( Read more... )
My dear Jane Eyre, how do you not know? Each of us mortals is but a line on a ship, passive and patient, waiting for the capable Hands of the Lord to pull us this way and that as He uses us for His purpose. It matters not if we know to what end we are used; it is enough to wait and allow Him to use us as He will. I cannot see what will happen in India, I cannot know down what paths I will be lead. But the knowledge that the Lord guides my every step according to His perfect will glows within my sinner's heart. That is my passion.
Two hours later he was still seated on the half-deck, in a spot he had found to be well out of the way of the sailors and officers, yet not totally isolated from the operations of the ship. This was the normal run of his days: breakfast, morning devotions with the petty officers (the captain and other senior officers possessed their own chaplain who also formally ministered to the crew, although St. John privately wondered how attentive he was, based on the number of sailors who came to him asking consolation or guidance), walking the decks in prayer and contemplation and trying to avoid Rev. Hollum, luncheon, nap, research below decks with his commentaries and philosophical treatises, more walking, dinner, and then an hour of reading the Bible and prayer before he either drifted off or emerged from his small stateroom to pace the decks. Reverend Crow making his rounds. At present, based on the ringings of the watch bell, he had at least an hour to go before he lunched. As he settled back, flitting idly through his Book of Common Prayer and discarding yet another half-written letter to Jane from his mind, he heard the shouting from the lookout aloft.
“On deck! Captain!”
“On deck aye!” the captain returned the hail. St. John snapped to attention; the Albert of Wales was a company ship, not a naval vessel, but similar discipline held throughout the nautical world and only an urgent and unusual event would compel an unranked crew member to directly address the captain.
The watch called down from his position above the main t'gallant sail, 180 feet above the decks. “Captain! Two points abaft the beam on the port side-land!”
As the word began to spread that their final port had been spotted more passengers came up on deck, straining for a first look. Naturally the Rev. Hollum joined them, huffing and puffing, seeking out the wretchedly afflicted Rev. Rivers to discuss the news.
“By His grace, Rev. Rivers! How true you have spoken. Shifting the wind to the … the other side has done the trick after all this time! Calcutta, finally. Do you know, I have been on this ship a good fortnight? Such a long journey. Tests the limits of man's endurance, a voyage like mine. Do you suppose I should offer the captain my congratulations, for his decision to get us there faster?”
St. John gave his eager assent, then took his opportunity to vanish below-decks the moment the good Rev. Hollum began making his way aft.
Reply
(Naturally I should mention that Nonny does not actually endorse many/any of these attitudes. Story does not = author, etc. But Good Luck writing about St. John while not making it too religious...)
also, it is still a kink meme. There will be sex. PASSIONATE, REPRESSED, CALVINIST-GUILT-RIDDLED sex. Because YAY SEX.
Reply
I am so in favor of this it's not even funny. Even though I kind of hate St. John as a character every time he opens his mouth.
Reply
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!
Reply
Reply
This was the prompt of my HEART and I was torn between desperately wanting someone to fill it and being terrified that someone wouldn't do it justice and this. is. amazing.
I AM SCREAMING A LOT ON THE INSIDE.
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH.
Reply
Reply
Reply
**********************************************************
Chapter 2
In which the Rev. St. John kedges his way to Calcutta, attempts to visit a Bishop, meets a Singularly Helpful Man and discovers that in Travel, as in Life, the Devil is in the Details.
**************************
The final 100 miles of his voyage were such a torment to St. John that he nearly, on more than one occasion, considered demanding passage off the ship in order to cross the remaining distance on foot. Wind, sand and tide all worked in concert to delay his arrival. Specifically, every time the current moved towards Calcutta the wind blew away; by the time the wind shifted toward Calcutta the current flowed into the Bay of Bengal. To make an already challenging situation worse, the proud river Ganges had been silting for decades, a problem known to the British Army Corps of Engineers but not yet solved. This served to make the banks of the river so shallow that a deep-drafted ship such as the Albert of Wales could not take advantage of the local horse- or mule-towing options. She was forced to kedge her way upstream 500 feet of anchor-rode at a time.
St. John spent the entire fortnight on the Ganges watching the exhausted longboat crew as they rowed out with the light anchor, dropped it as far ahead of the Albert as they could reach, then made their way back while the deck crews, in weary, back-breaking shifts, turned the capstan and winched the ship forward on the rode until they reached the anchor. There-500 feet of river gained. Then the longboat men took the anchor once more, paddled ahead while the deck crew gasped for air in the punishing heat, waiting for the longboat to heave the anchor so they could begin the kedge all over. It seemed to St. John like a cruel game of tug-a-war in which the Ganges always won; he estimated that covering 100 miles in this fashion would mean kedging at least a thousand times.
It provided plenty of opportunity for him to pray and meditate over the nature of work while chewing morosely on his neglected pipe (the bosun having forbade all smoking due to the fierce, dry winds; yet one more way the weather tormented them all). Reverend Crow, deep in thought.
Heavenly Father, in Thy infinite mercy I thank Thee. Thou hast ordained a place and a purpose for every man in Thy creation, the king to rule and the priest to pray and the peasant to toil. I know that Thou judgest each according to their abilities, and I know that Thou will be no less vengeful with me, on that final, fateful day, should I fail in my earnest service to Thee than Thou wouldst be to one of those sailors should they cast down their oars and declare a premature end to their labors. Yet Lord, I am pleased to serve Thee with a life of the mind.
He frowned at the prayer; it felt inadequate, lacking in reassurance to the Lord that he sufficiently understood the challenges of manual labor and did not need to experience them first-hand.
I claim enough of effort simply to stand here in the tropical sun, let alone to do physical work in it. May I keep these poor souls in the front of my mind the next time I am tempted to protest my lot, bent over a flickering candle and straining at your Words some dark evening. Amen.
Reply
Once safely docked in Calcutta, St. John bid a hasty farewell to the Rev. Hollum (the good man was continuing up the river to Hugli, there to claim his position as assistant rector for the newly-formed parish) and began determining how to make his next step.
Lord, as we are to be grateful in all situations I thank Thee for sending the Rev. Hollum to be my companion on this journey. Test me and tempt me, Father, that I might burn away the anger and impatience within me.
It shamed him to admit how much easier it was to look back on his burdensome traveling companion with gratitude now that their mutual voyage was finished.
He stood on a packing crate to get his bearings and was nearly overwhelmed at the crowds of humanity that swirled around him. The docks of Calcutta thronged with sailors of all color and stripe, solidly British custom officials wearing broad-beamed hats and starched collars, beasts of burden swaying under obscuring loads of cotton, silk, tea and strangely-shaped but enchantingly-scented fruits, barefoot and turbaned coolies running errands for their English masters, women in vivid saris and ropes of black hair as thick as a man's wrist swaying past with lumpy bundles balanced on their heads, and small crowds of dirty beggar children tumbling in the dust and pulling at the heels of the passing white men. St. John struggled to take it all in impassively as a group of young Indian girls in gem-colored dresses scurried past, giggling amongst themselves as school-aged girls everywhere were wont to do. He clamped his lips tightly over the stem of his pipe to keep from gaping at the chaotic beauty of the sight.
Ash. It is all ash. What I am seeing is nothing more than shadows, a poor reflection of the glories and wonders of the life to come. God be merciful I shall see that paradise, store up my crowns in heaven rather than aim for joys on earth.
He turned his back on the distractions of the world and went searching instead for the mundanities of the custom office. As he wove through the crowds he listened with a keen ear to see if he could as of yet understand the Hindustani language, but to his disappointment he could not make out a single word of what was being spoken around him. Surely all his abilities of reading and writing the strange tongue would soon lend themselves to speaking it, as well.
Naturally the customs officers, all as English as himself, were able to assist in the minor details with which every traveler must contend. In no time he had exchanged some of his currency sterling for rupees, stored his luggage trunks away to be retrieved once he had sorted out his lodgings, and now sat perched in a strange, two-wheeled carriage of sorts, rather like the handsom-cabs of London but here drawn not by a horse but by a short, thin native wearing nothing but a dirty red loincloth and a length of turban.
It would make a weaker man blush to see how some of the natives clothe themselves. Perhaps Jane did well in staying behind. I would feel nothing but shame in bringing a lady to witness a man wearing little more than our forebearers in the Garden. He felt somewhat comforted to see that not all Indians dressed so immodestly; many a man wore a woolen suit and leather shoes, the women in full cotton shifts. Maybe civilization could bear fruit even in such a place.
Reply
The customs official had assured St. John that a rickshaw was far preferable to traveling through the city on foot, but as he clung with whitened knuckles while the native raced over cobblestone streets, a bone-bruising jolt past parasoled ladies and peasant carts and beggars with twisted legs, he wondered if it was merely a matter of becoming accustomed to the conveyance or if he was the butt of some foolish joke. He kept his face stern and dispassionate, but churned inside with nervous tension and sensations even more concerning; the mal de mer he never experienced at sea had apparently chosen to finally visit him on land. The need to make less haste became more pressing, and he leaned forward to request his runner move slower.
“Dhimi, accha mahodaya krpaya ja'o!”
His request was resolutely ignored. St. John thumped his fist angrily upon one of the two wooden poles the native ran between. The native, without breaking stride, turned his head to peer questioningly at his English passenger.
“Dhima karane ke li'e krpaya,” St. John gasped out. He wondered if he was beginning to display a green countenance the way the Rev. Hollum had. The runner smiled at him, a broad flash of surprisingly white teeth in a dusky-brown face.
“Slow, sahib? Slow?” St. John whispered a silent prayer of gratitude that some of the natives apparently spoke a modicum of English, even if they refused to acknowledge his Hindustani. He nodded fervently, not quite trusting his voice, and the runner resumed at a more leisurely pace. The jolting did not let up, if anything it increased the intensity with which he felt each individual cobblestone they rolled over, but the queasiness slowly diminished. He had begun to feel positively refreshed by the time they arrived at the front of St. Paul Cathedral, seat of the Bishop of Calcutta, the Right Rev. Daniel Wilson.
His rickshaw runner bowed and scraped and salaamed as he descended the carriage, going so far as to rub the tops of his shoes with one greasy end of his unraveling turban. St. John frowned at the undignified display-he was of course the man's superior, being educated and British and a Christian, but the overt servility still rankled his English sensibilities-and he handed the native a rupee to send him on his way. The native looked at the coin in his palm, then at St. John, looked back to the coin once more and salaamed twice as deeply, bowing so far that his turban scarcely missed the dusty street. He gave a final wide, white grin at the Reverend and returned to his rickshaw, secreting the rupee away in his loincloth as he left.
Oriental decadence at its worst, St. John sighed. These poor creatures already almost spurn our offers of civilization and salvation. Perhaps the diocese office will provide tea; I would happily drink a cup and wash this taste from my mouth.
Reply
“Accha dopahara, sahaba! Maim Rev. St. John Rivers hum, Stoke-on-Trent ke dera se.”
The clerk smiled a merry smile and replied “Kalakatta, srimana apaka svagata hai! Tuma sabase yahamm svagata hai-but perhaps you would prefer we continue in English? I can assure you it will make our conversation more easy, as my Hindu has faded with time. May I offer you any tea?”
St. John accepted his offer of refreshment with gratitude. The clerk's accent was purest Manchester, the barefoot coolie who brought them cups and a steaming pot of water made tea as well as any London hotel, and they spent an entirely satisfactory few minutes sipping Earl Gray and exchanging pleasantries.
Mr. Patel, chief clerk to the Right Rev. Wilson, had been raised in an English-speaking home by forward-thinking parents, baptized into the Anglican church at the appropriate age, and sent off to Oxford at age 17 with the intention of studying engineering. There, however, he had met Daniel Wilson at St. Edmond Hall and become captivated, as he described at fond length, by the great man's religious fervor and and passion for bettering mankind. After university they had kept in touch through affectionate correspondence, the Rev. Wilson having remained in England while Mr. Patel returned to Calcutta and took a humble position at the East India Trading Company, translating for purchase negotiations. They wrote of life's greater joys, the births of children and career advancements and personal satisfactions, and as the years progressed also had cause to share sorrows as children were taken by fever or dropsy and their wives both departed the earthly realm. Then, one unexpected morning, Mr. Patel had received a letter stating that the newly Right Rev. Wilson had taken up the bishopric in Calcutta; he was in need of a chief clerk to manage the daily administration of the diocese. And so in 1832 the two men, who had not been in each other's company in 28 years, were reunited in friendship on the far side of the globe.
This very personal tale of the Bishop's good nature and kindly disposition only added to the store of knowledge St. John already held of the man: his passion for education, his desire to spread the Word of Christ throughout the entire sub-continent, his hatred for the shameful caste system and its perpetuation in the church, his special compassion for the Dalits, who he had likened to the beggars and lepers with whom the Lord Jesus had chosen to feast.
Alas for St. John that the Bishop was not in that afternoon! His desire to meet the great man must needs be put off for another day. So he regretfully took his leave, inquired about instructions on how to find the Victoria Hotel and bid farewell to Mr. Patel, who promised he would pass along the news that the Rev. Rivers had arrived.
Whether it was the tea or the company or simply the opportunity to engage in civil conversation, St. John descended the steps of the office with a renewed confidence and enthusiasm to explore the city. Mr. Patel's instructions had been so straightforward-half a mile down College Street, west onto the busy Red Road, north on Rashbehari Street to Victoria Lane and the hotel would be on his right-that he decided to take advantage of the late afternoon by walking instead of enduring yet another ride in a rickshaw. He threaded his way amongst street-side shops and beggars with weeping sores, feral dogs and a very large but mercifully docile bull, past English ladies and Indian gentlemen and a litter draped with golden silk and innumerable tassels, borne aloft by four African slaves in matching scarlet tunics and presumably carrying a high-caste lady keeping purdah even as she traveled.
Reply
Red Road was simple enough to discern; wide, busy and with numerous red-tinged buildings lining the corridor. But he had not inquired as to how far down Red Road his destination, Rashbehari Street, would be located; he searched in vain for an Englishman before pausing to ask a porter carrying large bunches of an oblong yellow fruit.
“Krpaya Rashbehari strita kaham hai?”
The porter shrugged and waved a hand further down the road. St. John tipped his hat and continued on his way. A few blocks down and the street looked promising, so he turned north and trusted to Providence that the Victoria Hotel was nearby. His chosen street, however, proved in reality to be little more than a cul-de-sac, quickly narrowing into an alleyway crowded with natives. He turned back and had nearly returned to Red Road when his eye fell upon a beggar child with stunted limbs, hollow-faced and holding up his grubby hands in a gesture that needed no translation.
Father, there is such great poverty here I scarce can imagine having any good influence. Guide every action I make, that I may follow Thy Footsteps and carry myself according to Thy Will.
He handed the beggar boy a single rupee, blessing him in the name of Christ as he did. The boy looked at him blankly but grasped the coin with great enthusiasm. St. John resisted the temptation to pat him on the head as he turned to go.
Before he had gotten a dozen steps he found himself surrounded by children, some so young they could hardly toddle, others on the cusp of adulthood. They crowded around him, tugging on his greatcoat and trouser legs, holding out a multitude of hands, all begging for a coin and chattering in a street patois that his Hindustani textbooks had not emphasized. He attempted to walk away but they clung tenaciously. No sooner did he get one off his trousers than two more attached themselves to his collar, one hand on cloth and the other in the air, demanding a rupee of their own.
“Mujhase dura ho ja'o! Ghara ja'o!” he cried, but the children shouted louder. He tried to break free, considering an undignified run to be the best of his few options, but got no more than three or four steps when the crowd closed in again, increasing in their fervor.
“Mujhase dura ho ja'o! Ghara ja'o!” His voice nearly broke in desperation.
“Cale ja'o, bhikhari! Banda sapha!” A clear voice rang out somewhere outside the crowd of children. St. John looked up over the roiling mass of dirty black hair to see an Englishman in a red army coat swinging a cane against the backs of the children unfortunate enough to be closest to him. Taller than St. John and tanned from the tropical sun, he smiled briefly at the Reverend over the heads of the beggar children as he continued shouting and hitting.
Reply
“Banda sapha! Banda sapha!” A few last indiscriminately-aimed blows on unhappy flesh and the children scurried away, off to seek less-well-defended prey. St. John took a hasty account of his clothing and pockets to ensure all was present as expected, then turned his attention to the soldier, who gazed down at him with a look of mingled concern and amusement. His friendly, good-natured face managed to bring a smile to St. John in return before he recollected himself and turned serious. He held out a hand in gratitude.
“Upon my honor, good sir, I believe you have nearly saved my life today, and I am in your debt.” They clasped hands. “Your servant, Reverend Rivers.” The stranger's grip was firm and confident, although St. John noticed he leaned more heavily than expected on the cane with his left arm.
“Captain Aquilaine of the 3rd Infantry, Calcutta Corps. And the pleasure is all mine. This often happens to persons of good heart who are freshly arrived. My advice is never to give coins to beggars. Are you going someplace in particular? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
Lord, I thank Thee in Thy generosity. Truly Thou doest provide in all circumstances.
“I am trying to find the Victoria Hotel. Surely it is around here somewhere close?”
“The Victoria Hotel?” Cpt. Aquilaine startled and looked at him closely. “My dear man, that hotel is nearly a mile south of our location. Perhaps you would like to accompany me to my club for the evening instead? It is mere blocks from here and I can assure you the food and company will be better than any you would find at the Victoria.”
Evening fell rapidly in the tropics and St. John did not relish the idea of walking yet another mile through the streets to find his lodgings. “Thank you, sir, I shall accept your offer with gladness, although I fear it puts me even further in your debt.”
Cpt. Aquilaine grinned, a look of good breeding and charm tinged by a hint of soldierly roguishness. “Then we shall simply have to be amiable to one another, for there is no debt among friends, especially not when one is an Englishman in India.” They set off in the direction he indicated.
“So tell me then, my new friend, how is it that you have such command over the language here and I do not? Is it merely the cane?” St. John pursed his lips in frustration. “I have been making a study of Hindustani for the last six months, and yet every time I speak to someone they simply stare at me as if I were attempting French. Further, I can not make out a word of what they say in return! Is my accent yet that poor? Will I soon make heads or tails of the matter?”
For this admission he received another look of concern from Cpt. Aquilaine, who smiled more gently this time and gripped him on the elbow, an overly-familiar action that marked him a born soldier. St. John, having spent the last three months surrounded by the markedly similar temperment of naval officers, took no offense.
“Reverend, I regret being the one who must present you with yet more unpleasant information, but clearly that is my lot this evening. For did you not know? The language spoken in Calcutta is Bengali.” Seeing the look on crestfallen St. John's face, he squeezed his elbow harder. “Come, come. Bengali is easy once you can read Hindu, and you will always have me at your disposal to assist. Here, this is my club right behind the footman.” He ushered St. John past a native bowing and opening a solid wooden door, and then they were inside.
Reply
Reply
Also yay captain Aquilaine!! Is it next Friday yet???
Reply
Leave a comment