The Silver Razor: Kingston
Title: The Silver Razor: Kingston
Author: Anteros
Characters: Bush, Kennedy
Rating: G
Notes: Another instalment of the (very!) occasional Silver Razor series. In one way or another, this is also related to Pointless.
Bush had given up shortly after midnight; he knew this was one battle he couldn’t win. Kennedy’s mind was made up and there was no point in arguing further. He had rebutted ever one of Bush’s arguments with a determination and lucidity that belied the fever that had seen him slipping in and out of consciousness and delirium for the last four days. The man had a stubborn streak as wide as a barn door and a sharp temper to boot. Bush could be equally stubborn in his own quiet way but he was pragmatic enough to know when he had been beaten. The man was dying, and there could be only one victor in that fight. So instead of arguing further, Bush had quietly conceded defeat and agreed to help prepare Kennedy for the courtroom in the morning.
Bush woke with a start as the rattle of the guard’s keys in the lock announced daybreak. When he had finally retired to his cot in the small hours, he had not imagined for one minute that he would sleep and he was both surprised and ashamed to find that he had done so. Caught sleeping on last watch, he reproached himself. He levered himself up carefully from his cot, his wound tugging and stretching uncomfortably. Kennedy was awake, his head turned towards Bush, he twitched a lopsided smile. “Good morning Mr Bush, well rested?” Bush nodded awkwardly. He wondered if Kennedy had slept at all, probably not, there would be time soon enough. The lock rattled again and a boy entered with a pitcher and basin. Bush indicated to the table between their cots, then dismissed him with a nod.
Even before they had arrived in Kingston, it had become apparent that with each day that passed, Kennedy was growing weaker, just as surely as Bush was regaining his strength. Once his wound had healed sufficiently to allow him to move, Bush had done what he could for Kennedy. He helped him to wash and shave, eat and drink. He helped Clive to change the bandages that kept the blood soaked dressing in place. He read to him through the long stifling afternoons, and sometimes, when the fever gripped him, Bush sat beside the cot and held his hand, soothing him with simple words, just as his sisters had done when he was a child. He did what he could, it helped Kennedy and it helped himself, gave him something to do, something to occupy his mind other than the trial.
Though he felt awkward at first, Bush had soon grown accustomed to the peculiar intimacy afforded by assuming the mantel of valet and nurse. Despite an irreverence that had bordered on insubordination at times, Kennedy had always kept something of himself aloof from Bush. That was to be expected of course, Bush was his senior officer. It was different with Hornblower though; the two men had shared an easy intimacy, a connection that went beyond words. Bush did not judge or question this, but he was aware of it, and he was aware that it excluded him.
Seating himself on the side of Kennedy’s cot Bush slid his arm under his shoulders and helped him to struggle up, careful not to burst his own wound or cause Kennedy any unnecessary pain. It took some effort and no little discomfort to manoeuvre him into a sitting position, Kennedy was heavy and had little strength left. He had not uttered a sound but his face was grey and his mouth set into a tight hard line by the time he was sitting upright. Bush was exhausted by the simple effort, his head spinning and his wound throbbing painfully. For some time he didn’t dare move in case one or both of them collapsed back onto the cot. He simply sat beside Kennedy, one arm around his shoulders, feeling his shallow breathing against his side, the heat of his skin beneath his hand.
It was Kennedy who spoke first. “Are you all right William? Perhaps we should call the boy back?”
“No. No, I’m fine, no need.”
Bush released his grip on Kennedy’s shoulder and carefully stood up, feeling his wound pull and tug as he straightened. The pain was still sharp enough to make him catch his breath, but it felt good to be standing on his own two legs. He poured some water from the pitcher into the basin and, picking up the brush and soap, spread a thin lather over Kennedy’s cheeks, then he opened the faded leather case and lifted out the bright silver razor. Bush always wondered why Kennedy had never bought a new case for such a fine blade, or at least repaired the clasp.
It was the bo’sun, Matthews, who had brought the razor to the gaol, along with clean linen from their sea chests and some other small items of their belongings. Bush had thanked him kindly, as Kennedy had been drifting in and out of fevered unconsciousness at the time. Matthews had stood silently at the foot of Kennedy’s cot for a few moments, before knuckled his forehead and departing with a frown.
The silver razor was much lighter than Bush was used to, he preferred his own heavier ivory handled blade. With practice he had grown more accustomed to its weight and balance but he was still careful lest a heavy-handed stroke nicked the skin. Kennedy closed his eyes as Bush drew the blade down over his cheek and he was reminded of the numerous times he had seen Kennedy shave Hornblower with that same razor. The same closed eyes, lips slightly parted, curving into the slightest smile. Kennedy’s eyes were closed now but the crease in his brow and the tight set of his jaw betrayed the effort it took to remain upright. Bush hesitated between strokes and the closed lids flickered open momentarily; Kennedy’s eyes were blue and clear, unclouded by the fever that had harried him for the last week. As Bush drew the razor over the sharp angle of Kennedy’s jaw, some of the grey pallor seemed to lift away with the thin lather of soap. His skin still had the deep golden hue of the West Indian sun and, not for the first time, Bush was struck forcefully by the improbability of death. God knows he had seen enough of it, but the inevitability of death did nothing to extinguish the vain spark of hope. There was life in Kennedy yet, not much to be sure, but perhaps enough.
Bush finished scraping away the last of the lather and wiped away the remaining flecks of soap with the rag. He hesitated for a moment and then ran the back of his hand lightly over Kennedy’s cheek. Just to check he hadn’t missed a spot he told himself. Eyes closed, Kennedy exhaled a shallow breath and the corner of his mouth lifted imperceptibly. Bush found he was loath to remove his hand, to break that simple human contact. He remained perfectly still, one hand resting against Kennedy’s cheek, the other holding the open blade, until the sound of the garrison turning out startled him back to his senses. He withdrew his hand with a jerk and snapped the razor shut with more force than he had intended. Kennedy opened his eyes and held his gaze for a long moment.
“Thank you Mr Bush, you have been…” he paused, searching for the right word, “a good friend.”
Bush nodded and, turning away, returned the razor to its case.
“He’ll need that.” Kennedy added quietly.
Later, Bush sat on the edge of his cot counting off the hours since Hornblower had left, hammering on the door of the infirmary and calling for the guards. There was a book in his hand though he had no recollection of picking it up, but he could still recall the smooth warmth of Kennedy’s skin against his hand and the weight of him by his side. The silver razor, inside the faded leather case lay on the washstand beside him, the light of its blade hidden, the case closed. There was nothing more to be done, but wait.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Bush, Kennedy
Rating: G
Notes: Another instalment of the (very!) occasional Silver Razor series. In one way or another, this is also related to Pointless.
Bush had given up shortly after midnight; he knew this was one battle he couldn’t win. Kennedy’s mind was made up and there was no point in arguing further. He had rebutted ever one of Bush’s arguments with a determination and lucidity that belied the fever that had seen him slipping in and out of consciousness and delirium for the last four days. The man had a stubborn streak as wide as a barn door and a sharp temper to boot. Bush could be equally stubborn in his own quiet way but he was pragmatic enough to know when he had been beaten. The man was dying, and there could be only one victor in that fight. So instead of arguing further, Bush had quietly conceded defeat and agreed to help prepare Kennedy for the courtroom in the morning.
Bush woke with a start as the rattle of the guard’s keys in the lock announced daybreak. When he had finally retired to his cot in the small hours, he had not imagined for one minute that he would sleep and he was both surprised and ashamed to find that he had done so. Caught sleeping on last watch, he reproached himself. He levered himself up carefully from his cot, his wound tugging and stretching uncomfortably. Kennedy was awake, his head turned towards Bush, he twitched a lopsided smile. “Good morning Mr Bush, well rested?” Bush nodded awkwardly. He wondered if Kennedy had slept at all, probably not, there would be time soon enough. The lock rattled again and a boy entered with a pitcher and basin. Bush indicated to the table between their cots, then dismissed him with a nod.
Even before they had arrived in Kingston, it had become apparent that with each day that passed, Kennedy was growing weaker, just as surely as Bush was regaining his strength. Once his wound had healed sufficiently to allow him to move, Bush had done what he could for Kennedy. He helped him to wash and shave, eat and drink. He helped Clive to change the bandages that kept the blood soaked dressing in place. He read to him through the long stifling afternoons, and sometimes, when the fever gripped him, Bush sat beside the cot and held his hand, soothing him with simple words, just as his sisters had done when he was a child. He did what he could, it helped Kennedy and it helped himself, gave him something to do, something to occupy his mind other than the trial.
Though he felt awkward at first, Bush had soon grown accustomed to the peculiar intimacy afforded by assuming the mantel of valet and nurse. Despite an irreverence that had bordered on insubordination at times, Kennedy had always kept something of himself aloof from Bush. That was to be expected of course, Bush was his senior officer. It was different with Hornblower though; the two men had shared an easy intimacy, a connection that went beyond words. Bush did not judge or question this, but he was aware of it, and he was aware that it excluded him.
Seating himself on the side of Kennedy’s cot Bush slid his arm under his shoulders and helped him to struggle up, careful not to burst his own wound or cause Kennedy any unnecessary pain. It took some effort and no little discomfort to manoeuvre him into a sitting position, Kennedy was heavy and had little strength left. He had not uttered a sound but his face was grey and his mouth set into a tight hard line by the time he was sitting upright. Bush was exhausted by the simple effort, his head spinning and his wound throbbing painfully. For some time he didn’t dare move in case one or both of them collapsed back onto the cot. He simply sat beside Kennedy, one arm around his shoulders, feeling his shallow breathing against his side, the heat of his skin beneath his hand.
It was Kennedy who spoke first. “Are you all right William? Perhaps we should call the boy back?”
“No. No, I’m fine, no need.”
Bush released his grip on Kennedy’s shoulder and carefully stood up, feeling his wound pull and tug as he straightened. The pain was still sharp enough to make him catch his breath, but it felt good to be standing on his own two legs. He poured some water from the pitcher into the basin and, picking up the brush and soap, spread a thin lather over Kennedy’s cheeks, then he opened the faded leather case and lifted out the bright silver razor. Bush always wondered why Kennedy had never bought a new case for such a fine blade, or at least repaired the clasp.
It was the bo’sun, Matthews, who had brought the razor to the gaol, along with clean linen from their sea chests and some other small items of their belongings. Bush had thanked him kindly, as Kennedy had been drifting in and out of fevered unconsciousness at the time. Matthews had stood silently at the foot of Kennedy’s cot for a few moments, before knuckled his forehead and departing with a frown.
The silver razor was much lighter than Bush was used to, he preferred his own heavier ivory handled blade. With practice he had grown more accustomed to its weight and balance but he was still careful lest a heavy-handed stroke nicked the skin. Kennedy closed his eyes as Bush drew the blade down over his cheek and he was reminded of the numerous times he had seen Kennedy shave Hornblower with that same razor. The same closed eyes, lips slightly parted, curving into the slightest smile. Kennedy’s eyes were closed now but the crease in his brow and the tight set of his jaw betrayed the effort it took to remain upright. Bush hesitated between strokes and the closed lids flickered open momentarily; Kennedy’s eyes were blue and clear, unclouded by the fever that had harried him for the last week. As Bush drew the razor over the sharp angle of Kennedy’s jaw, some of the grey pallor seemed to lift away with the thin lather of soap. His skin still had the deep golden hue of the West Indian sun and, not for the first time, Bush was struck forcefully by the improbability of death. God knows he had seen enough of it, but the inevitability of death did nothing to extinguish the vain spark of hope. There was life in Kennedy yet, not much to be sure, but perhaps enough.
Bush finished scraping away the last of the lather and wiped away the remaining flecks of soap with the rag. He hesitated for a moment and then ran the back of his hand lightly over Kennedy’s cheek. Just to check he hadn’t missed a spot he told himself. Eyes closed, Kennedy exhaled a shallow breath and the corner of his mouth lifted imperceptibly. Bush found he was loath to remove his hand, to break that simple human contact. He remained perfectly still, one hand resting against Kennedy’s cheek, the other holding the open blade, until the sound of the garrison turning out startled him back to his senses. He withdrew his hand with a jerk and snapped the razor shut with more force than he had intended. Kennedy opened his eyes and held his gaze for a long moment.
“Thank you Mr Bush, you have been…” he paused, searching for the right word, “a good friend.”
Bush nodded and, turning away, returned the razor to its case.
“He’ll need that.” Kennedy added quietly.
Later, Bush sat on the edge of his cot counting off the hours since Hornblower had left, hammering on the door of the infirmary and calling for the guards. There was a book in his hand though he had no recollection of picking it up, but he could still recall the smooth warmth of Kennedy’s skin against his hand and the weight of him by his side. The silver razor, inside the faded leather case lay on the washstand beside him, the light of its blade hidden, the case closed. There was nothing more to be done, but wait.