The Silver Razor: Portsmouth
Title: The Silver Razor: Portsmouth
Author: Anteros
Characters: Hornblower, Maria, Bush, (Kennedy)
Rating: G
Notes: Continuing the story of The Silver Razor. Another of those odd series / book hybrids. DKU. Sorry :(
Portsmouth, March 1803
Hornblower woke, even before he opened his eyes he could tell from the light filtering through his lids that it was late. He had slept through most of the morning. Good. That was good. The longer he slept, the less he would have to endure the cold. He would be able to get up and go straight to work, Jenkins was always happy to let him in a little early, before the club opened at mid day. Hornblower thought longingly of the fire that blazed in the Long Room’s huge ornate hearth. The warmth would take his mind of the familiar hunger gnawing at the pit of his stomach, but it would do nothing to ease the awful weight of emptiness, the permanent irrevocable absence that had haunted him since Kingston. No, don’t think on it.
Opening his eyes, Hornblower attempted to flex his cramped fingers and stretch out his legs. He was numb with cold despite having slept with all his clothes on and his great coat thrown over the bed’s two thin blankets. The second blanket had appeared unexpectedly the week before. It was worn and patched like everything else in the lodging house on Highbury Street, but it was bright and colourful, knitted out of ends of wool and linen. It was Maria’s doing, she had put it in his room while he was out. Her petty kindnesses mortified him; he resented being indebted to her and then resented his own ingratitude more. Of course he had thanked her for the blanket, insisting that he did not need it, and offering the return it immediately. She had blushed and demurred, assuring him that she did not need it either, it was old, and besides, she ran warm at night. She was a poor liar. As was he. Archie had always said so. No, don’t think on it.
The blood was flowing again to his fingers and toes, making them pinch and nip, so Hornblower rolled himself out of bed and stamped about the room, arms flapping to bring some life and warmth back into his limbs. The fire was set in the grate but he didn’t light it, he had no money to pay for the fuel. Better to sleep all morning and then go straight to the Long Rooms in the hope that today his luck would turn.
This was what he had been reduced to; from master and commander, the hero of Samana Bay, to beached lieutenant, without even half pay to keep body and soul together. A run down lodging house on a dingy Portsmouth side street; days and nights at the Long Rooms, hired out by the Marquis to any that required his services, at the card tables, or behind the curtained door; returning to his attic room in the small hours to drop into bed and sleep through the morning, until he could rise and hurry back to the club to warm his frozen bones. If he had been lucky at the tables he might earn enough to fill his belly at one of the chop houses by the quay, then the nights passed more quickly and the cold bit less deeply as he slept through the day. But this week he had not been lucky, nor the week before that. It was days since he had eaten a hot meal, he was behind with his rent and had only Maria to thank for keeping him off the streets. He was under no illusion that he kept his lodgings only by Maria’s grace and favour, Mrs Mason would have sent him packing long since. Hornblower had known and pitied women like Maria all his life. They thronged every port town, douce and decent and hard working. They served in kitchens and lodging houses, they changed the linen, laundered the sheets, and darned the clothes, they cleaned and they fetched and they carried and, above all, they dreamed of snaring a young officer to raise them above their station, to join the hallowed ranks of the gentility. Hornblower grimaced. A poor catch he made now. To think that he was reduced to receiving charity from the likes of Maria. Anger twisted inside. He knew he should not resent her, knew he should be grateful, and on one level he was, deeply, humbly, furiously grateful. She was possibly the only person in the world that cared whether he lived or died, now that Archie... No, don’t think on it.
Hornblower did not resent his position, far from it, he embraced his penury. Surely it was just to suffer this paltry existence? This was his purgatory, his penance for surviving, for living on, when everything he had lived for had gone. The war was over and with it his ship, his livelihood, his friends. And Archie. Hornblower turned his thoughts away. Better to focus on living, on enduring his retribution.
Shrugging out of his crumpled jacket Hornblower unbuttoned his waistcoat. His hand strayed automatically to his breast pocket. Empty. His ten pound corps de réserve was gone, he had long since pawned his pistols, sword and sextant, and he had already asked the Marquis for an advance on his half-guinea wages. The Marquis had pursed his lips. It wasn’t good business to lend to his own staff. Hornblower had bridled at the proprietorial insinuation, but held his tongue. Business was suffering as it was, it was weeks since a ship requiring the services of Portsmouth’s prize agents had put into port, the Marquis explained regretfully. His customers were feeling the pinch. Still, Mr Hornblower was a fabulous asset to the club, very popular with the clients. Perhaps he might be able to help after all? The Marquis’ small beady eyes had flickered across the card tables to the curtained door. He smelled of perfume and hair powder.
That had been a week ago. And now the advance was gone. If he was to take his place at the tables the money would have to come from somewhere. The Marquis and his clients were unlikely to be so obliging second time around. Hornblower’s spine crawled. He closed his eyes and breathed hard. Sacrifices had to be made.
Opening his eyes, Hornblower found a gaunt white face peering back at him from the cracked glass above the small washstand, his pallor exaggerated by the dark circles under his eyes and black stubble on his cheeks and chin. Pouring some water into the basin he took a deep breath before plunging his hands into the water and splashing is over his face. He gasped as the cold water stung his cheeks. There was just enough of the gritty soap left to work a thin lather over his cheeks. From the small drawer under the washstand Hornblower lifted out a faded grey box, opened it carefully so as not to damage the broken clasp, and lifted out the silver razor. He held it for a moment, closing his hand around the familiar smooth shape. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine… No, don’t think on it. Opening the razor he placed the hinge on the tip of his finger, attempting to balance it there as he had seen Archie do, effortlessly, thoughtlessly, so many times before. The razor seesawed for a moment before clattering to the floor. Frustration and anger flared. As he bent to pick up the razor up, a thin shaft of late morning sun filtered through the grimy skylight and glinted off the blade. Hornblower paused, holding the razor in his open palm, it was old to be sure, the delicate tracery of the handle worn smooth in places, but it was solid silver and its provenance might add to its value. Archie had casually explained that it was said to have been a gift from a French monarch to some long forgotten ancestor, but when Hornblower had questioned him further as to its history, Archie had shrugged, it was just something that had been in the family as long as anyone could remember. Hornblower had not been fooled for a moment by Archie’s casual disinterest; as the only legacy from his father, his only inheritance, he knew that Archie treasured the silver razor beyond measure.
The razor’s provenance might be obscure, and its tracery worn, but silver was still silver, and though the pawn shop would only pay half the value, and would cheat him at that, it would certainly raise enough to see him through the next week, two if he was careful. Surely his luck at the tables would turn soon? Though he had no wish or expectation for any fortune beyond that which would allow him to endure his penance, Hornblower’s stomach was fluttering with something akin to elation and relief. If he sold the razor, he could stop at one of eating houses in Broad Street before taking his place at the Long Rooms’ tables, there might even be enough to pay off his rent. Hornblower closed the blade carefully, running his finger over the familiar curve of the handle. Archie would understand. He had been pragmatic enough to know that you had to do what you could to survive. God knows, Archie had made enough sacrifices.
Only it hadn’t been enough. Archie had not survived. And his final sacrifice had not been for himself, but for Hornblower. It was only by Archie’s grace, by the sacrifice of his life and his good name that Hornblower was here at all. And how did he repay that incomparable gift? By this bitter paltry existence. By wallowing in self-pity and recrimination. And now here he was, ready to pawn Archie’s silver razor, his only inheritance, the only link back to his family, back to the father who had all but disowned him, the only link back to Archie himself. Everything else was gone. Only the silver razor remained; the silver razor and that awful crushing weight of irrevocable emptiness. But Hornblower knew he had to go on, had to keep living, just as Archie had kept living, through the purgatory of Justinian, through France and Spain, and those final suffocating days and nights in Kingston.
Hornblower took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He opened the razor again, shaved briskly and returned it to its case. Then, for reasons he could not quite fathom, instead of replacing it in the drawer, he turned to his bed and slipped the faded case under the thin pillow. His greatcoat was still lying draped across the foot of the bed, it was not new, and it had seen some wear, but it was good quality and the cloth was neither worn nor patched. It might not get him far, not as far as the silver razor by any means, but it might just raise enough to allow him to take his place at the tables. Perhaps today his luck would turn.
It was colder than ever when Hornblower returned the following morning; an iron frost gripped the port. He pulled his jacket round him but it made little difference. The biting wind pierced him to the bone and he thought longingly of his greatcoat, hanging in the back room of the pawnshop. Though he bitterly regretted having to pawn his coat, it had served his purpose and indeed his luck seemed to be turning. He had won a modest sum at the tables, enough to replenish his corps de réserve and keep body and soul together for a few more days at least.
But is was not the reassuring presence of the bills folded in his pocket that had brightened Hornblower’s world, it was the memory of a strong rough hand pressed into his, and the heartfelt offer of solace that had followed. Hornblower had no words to express the sudden surge of joy he had felt on recognising the familiar but unexpected figure of William Bush outside the Keppel’s Head. And though he would be eternally grateful for Bush’s undoubtedly rash offer of financial assistance, it was the promise of friendship renewed that had touched him to the core; a friendship that went deep beyond words, connecting him back to the sea, back to his ships, back to all that he had lived for. Back to everyone he had lived for.
The lodging house on Highbury Street was scarcely less cold than the bitter streets as Hornblower let himself in and quietly climbed the narrow wooden staircase to his room. His breath fogged before him in the dark as he slid into bed and gratefully pulled Maria’s blanket up round his chin. Under the thin pillow Hornblower could feel the hard rise of the razor case beneath his head. Sliding one hand under the pillow he curled his finders around the smooth leather case of the silver razor and fell into an exhausted sleep. A sleep shot through with dreams of the sea, of strong sure hands, and eyes like summer.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Hornblower, Maria, Bush, (Kennedy)
Rating: G
Notes: Continuing the story of The Silver Razor. Another of those odd series / book hybrids. DKU. Sorry :(
Portsmouth, March 1803
Hornblower woke, even before he opened his eyes he could tell from the light filtering through his lids that it was late. He had slept through most of the morning. Good. That was good. The longer he slept, the less he would have to endure the cold. He would be able to get up and go straight to work, Jenkins was always happy to let him in a little early, before the club opened at mid day. Hornblower thought longingly of the fire that blazed in the Long Room’s huge ornate hearth. The warmth would take his mind of the familiar hunger gnawing at the pit of his stomach, but it would do nothing to ease the awful weight of emptiness, the permanent irrevocable absence that had haunted him since Kingston. No, don’t think on it.
Opening his eyes, Hornblower attempted to flex his cramped fingers and stretch out his legs. He was numb with cold despite having slept with all his clothes on and his great coat thrown over the bed’s two thin blankets. The second blanket had appeared unexpectedly the week before. It was worn and patched like everything else in the lodging house on Highbury Street, but it was bright and colourful, knitted out of ends of wool and linen. It was Maria’s doing, she had put it in his room while he was out. Her petty kindnesses mortified him; he resented being indebted to her and then resented his own ingratitude more. Of course he had thanked her for the blanket, insisting that he did not need it, and offering the return it immediately. She had blushed and demurred, assuring him that she did not need it either, it was old, and besides, she ran warm at night. She was a poor liar. As was he. Archie had always said so. No, don’t think on it.
The blood was flowing again to his fingers and toes, making them pinch and nip, so Hornblower rolled himself out of bed and stamped about the room, arms flapping to bring some life and warmth back into his limbs. The fire was set in the grate but he didn’t light it, he had no money to pay for the fuel. Better to sleep all morning and then go straight to the Long Rooms in the hope that today his luck would turn.
This was what he had been reduced to; from master and commander, the hero of Samana Bay, to beached lieutenant, without even half pay to keep body and soul together. A run down lodging house on a dingy Portsmouth side street; days and nights at the Long Rooms, hired out by the Marquis to any that required his services, at the card tables, or behind the curtained door; returning to his attic room in the small hours to drop into bed and sleep through the morning, until he could rise and hurry back to the club to warm his frozen bones. If he had been lucky at the tables he might earn enough to fill his belly at one of the chop houses by the quay, then the nights passed more quickly and the cold bit less deeply as he slept through the day. But this week he had not been lucky, nor the week before that. It was days since he had eaten a hot meal, he was behind with his rent and had only Maria to thank for keeping him off the streets. He was under no illusion that he kept his lodgings only by Maria’s grace and favour, Mrs Mason would have sent him packing long since. Hornblower had known and pitied women like Maria all his life. They thronged every port town, douce and decent and hard working. They served in kitchens and lodging houses, they changed the linen, laundered the sheets, and darned the clothes, they cleaned and they fetched and they carried and, above all, they dreamed of snaring a young officer to raise them above their station, to join the hallowed ranks of the gentility. Hornblower grimaced. A poor catch he made now. To think that he was reduced to receiving charity from the likes of Maria. Anger twisted inside. He knew he should not resent her, knew he should be grateful, and on one level he was, deeply, humbly, furiously grateful. She was possibly the only person in the world that cared whether he lived or died, now that Archie... No, don’t think on it.
Hornblower did not resent his position, far from it, he embraced his penury. Surely it was just to suffer this paltry existence? This was his purgatory, his penance for surviving, for living on, when everything he had lived for had gone. The war was over and with it his ship, his livelihood, his friends. And Archie. Hornblower turned his thoughts away. Better to focus on living, on enduring his retribution.
Shrugging out of his crumpled jacket Hornblower unbuttoned his waistcoat. His hand strayed automatically to his breast pocket. Empty. His ten pound corps de réserve was gone, he had long since pawned his pistols, sword and sextant, and he had already asked the Marquis for an advance on his half-guinea wages. The Marquis had pursed his lips. It wasn’t good business to lend to his own staff. Hornblower had bridled at the proprietorial insinuation, but held his tongue. Business was suffering as it was, it was weeks since a ship requiring the services of Portsmouth’s prize agents had put into port, the Marquis explained regretfully. His customers were feeling the pinch. Still, Mr Hornblower was a fabulous asset to the club, very popular with the clients. Perhaps he might be able to help after all? The Marquis’ small beady eyes had flickered across the card tables to the curtained door. He smelled of perfume and hair powder.
That had been a week ago. And now the advance was gone. If he was to take his place at the tables the money would have to come from somewhere. The Marquis and his clients were unlikely to be so obliging second time around. Hornblower’s spine crawled. He closed his eyes and breathed hard. Sacrifices had to be made.
Opening his eyes, Hornblower found a gaunt white face peering back at him from the cracked glass above the small washstand, his pallor exaggerated by the dark circles under his eyes and black stubble on his cheeks and chin. Pouring some water into the basin he took a deep breath before plunging his hands into the water and splashing is over his face. He gasped as the cold water stung his cheeks. There was just enough of the gritty soap left to work a thin lather over his cheeks. From the small drawer under the washstand Hornblower lifted out a faded grey box, opened it carefully so as not to damage the broken clasp, and lifted out the silver razor. He held it for a moment, closing his hand around the familiar smooth shape. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine… No, don’t think on it. Opening the razor he placed the hinge on the tip of his finger, attempting to balance it there as he had seen Archie do, effortlessly, thoughtlessly, so many times before. The razor seesawed for a moment before clattering to the floor. Frustration and anger flared. As he bent to pick up the razor up, a thin shaft of late morning sun filtered through the grimy skylight and glinted off the blade. Hornblower paused, holding the razor in his open palm, it was old to be sure, the delicate tracery of the handle worn smooth in places, but it was solid silver and its provenance might add to its value. Archie had casually explained that it was said to have been a gift from a French monarch to some long forgotten ancestor, but when Hornblower had questioned him further as to its history, Archie had shrugged, it was just something that had been in the family as long as anyone could remember. Hornblower had not been fooled for a moment by Archie’s casual disinterest; as the only legacy from his father, his only inheritance, he knew that Archie treasured the silver razor beyond measure.
The razor’s provenance might be obscure, and its tracery worn, but silver was still silver, and though the pawn shop would only pay half the value, and would cheat him at that, it would certainly raise enough to see him through the next week, two if he was careful. Surely his luck at the tables would turn soon? Though he had no wish or expectation for any fortune beyond that which would allow him to endure his penance, Hornblower’s stomach was fluttering with something akin to elation and relief. If he sold the razor, he could stop at one of eating houses in Broad Street before taking his place at the Long Rooms’ tables, there might even be enough to pay off his rent. Hornblower closed the blade carefully, running his finger over the familiar curve of the handle. Archie would understand. He had been pragmatic enough to know that you had to do what you could to survive. God knows, Archie had made enough sacrifices.
Only it hadn’t been enough. Archie had not survived. And his final sacrifice had not been for himself, but for Hornblower. It was only by Archie’s grace, by the sacrifice of his life and his good name that Hornblower was here at all. And how did he repay that incomparable gift? By this bitter paltry existence. By wallowing in self-pity and recrimination. And now here he was, ready to pawn Archie’s silver razor, his only inheritance, the only link back to his family, back to the father who had all but disowned him, the only link back to Archie himself. Everything else was gone. Only the silver razor remained; the silver razor and that awful crushing weight of irrevocable emptiness. But Hornblower knew he had to go on, had to keep living, just as Archie had kept living, through the purgatory of Justinian, through France and Spain, and those final suffocating days and nights in Kingston.
Hornblower took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He opened the razor again, shaved briskly and returned it to its case. Then, for reasons he could not quite fathom, instead of replacing it in the drawer, he turned to his bed and slipped the faded case under the thin pillow. His greatcoat was still lying draped across the foot of the bed, it was not new, and it had seen some wear, but it was good quality and the cloth was neither worn nor patched. It might not get him far, not as far as the silver razor by any means, but it might just raise enough to allow him to take his place at the tables. Perhaps today his luck would turn.
It was colder than ever when Hornblower returned the following morning; an iron frost gripped the port. He pulled his jacket round him but it made little difference. The biting wind pierced him to the bone and he thought longingly of his greatcoat, hanging in the back room of the pawnshop. Though he bitterly regretted having to pawn his coat, it had served his purpose and indeed his luck seemed to be turning. He had won a modest sum at the tables, enough to replenish his corps de réserve and keep body and soul together for a few more days at least.
But is was not the reassuring presence of the bills folded in his pocket that had brightened Hornblower’s world, it was the memory of a strong rough hand pressed into his, and the heartfelt offer of solace that had followed. Hornblower had no words to express the sudden surge of joy he had felt on recognising the familiar but unexpected figure of William Bush outside the Keppel’s Head. And though he would be eternally grateful for Bush’s undoubtedly rash offer of financial assistance, it was the promise of friendship renewed that had touched him to the core; a friendship that went deep beyond words, connecting him back to the sea, back to his ships, back to all that he had lived for. Back to everyone he had lived for.
The lodging house on Highbury Street was scarcely less cold than the bitter streets as Hornblower let himself in and quietly climbed the narrow wooden staircase to his room. His breath fogged before him in the dark as he slid into bed and gratefully pulled Maria’s blanket up round his chin. Under the thin pillow Hornblower could feel the hard rise of the razor case beneath his head. Sliding one hand under the pillow he curled his finders around the smooth leather case of the silver razor and fell into an exhausted sleep. A sleep shot through with dreams of the sea, of strong sure hands, and eyes like summer.