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barefoot_bard) wrote2010-05-31 03:10 pm
barefoot_bard) wrote2010-05-31 03:10 pm
Entry tags:
The Ropemaker's Arms
Title: The Ropemaker's Arms
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The characters Bessie Thompson and her son George are the property of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sharpiefan. All other characters appearing within belong to me.
Original pen-date: 30 May 2010
Summary: After returning from the West Indies, a Marine unintentionally becomes responsible for a young boy.
Author's Note: This is a fun bit of speculative fluff concerning the origins of one Private George Thompson RM. I hope to not be hunted down and beaten with stuffed toys for writing this...
Their first sight of England came in the form of Land's End, away off to larboard. The Cornish coast lay under a thin haze, just barely visible to the plain eye, but the knowledge that Cornwall was within sight of her namesake brought most of the crew on deck. It had been years since any of them had seen England and weeks since they'd seen land at all. The occasion was, therefore, cause for celebration. Cheers broke out around the weather deck. Fortunately for them, Lieutenant Alderbury was officer of the watch and permitted them to give vent to their relief, for a few minutes. He shared similar feelings as the chattering, excited pack of men crowding along the larboard rail. Eventually, however, he ordered all but the duty watch to clear the deck. There was still some distance to go before they were truly home.
It took three days after that first sight of land to reach their destination. Chatham harbour, from which the frigate had sailed nearly four years before. Their approach to the Medway was slow and methodical, giving ample display of Cornwall's easy grace. Mister Simcoe, being eager to prove his ability and try to secure a place for himself on the captains' list, took charge of the last approach to the river's mouth himself. He would not take on a pilot until the very last moment, a decision that aroused quiet anxiety from the crew. Being so close to the end of their long commission, they were in no hurry to suffer needless mishap. On the messdeck, the low murmur of chatter buzzed, as the men of the off-watch discussed their various plans for when they were all turned ashore. Several men, having snuck onto the gundeck, stared out through the opened gunports, keen to see what they could.
"Look'at it, Wick," Edgar Tomilson said, peering around the muzzle of the Number Seven starboard gun. He looked a moment, then reached out a grey-sleeved arm and slapped the other Marine on the shoulder. "Never thought I'd see the like of that again!"
George Wicklow craned his neck to see what his mate was looking at. "Thing of beauty, so it is," he agreed, deciding that Tomilson meant the long stretch of shore line. "Be good to get ashore again."
"Aye," one of the seamen chimed in, hovering close over Wicklow's shoulder so he could catch a glimpse of the land as it slid casually by. "There's nothin' so fine as a good romp 'round Chatham, m'lads."
The two Marines grinned at each other over the gun's wide barrel. 'A good romp' sounded like just the thing. Corporal Davenport came onto the gundeck then, effortlessly sniffing out idlers in his unnerving way. Marines and seamen alike scattered upon the corporal's iron-voiced bawling. Wicklow couldn't help grinning as he tumbled down the aft ladder, though. They'd all be back at the gunports soon enough, once Davenport had gone off to check the sentries.
Hours later, after Cornwall had anchored and the ship was given a thorough going-over, the first groups of libertymen went ashore. Formal discharges and paying off would begin the following day. Wicklow and Tomilson were in the second boat to depart, now smartly dressed in their long-tailed red coats and their cleanest white smallclothes. Their first run ashore in weeks required the sharpest appearance they could manage.
"You stick with me," young Tomilson said. "I know my way around here'n there."
Wicklow chuckled. "No you don't. All you know's what the Shepherds've told you."
"Maybe so," Tomilson replied cheerfully. "But it's still more'n you know."
"Silence in the boat!" The coxswain cried.
The two Marines exchanged glances and nearly burst into laughter. They said nothing more until the jolly-boat had hooked on at the dock. Then, together with the four other Marines and the boat's crew, they made their way onto solid land. As might be expected, none of them were steady on their feet at first; Sam Lachlan fell flat onto his face, in fact, after tripping over his own feet. He was hauled upright again with no small amount of teasing. The group soon dispersed, each man seeking his own amusements. Wicklow and Tomilson stuck together and, after a few minutes' wandering, found themselves at a tavern called, oddly enough, the Burning Thistle.
There looked to be a fair number of seamen and other Marines, as well as regular townsfolk, filling the interior from wall to wall. Getting inside proved something of a challenge, managed only by roughly elbowing their way past the door. Their arrival was noticed immediately by a pair of business-minded women, who came briskly toward them even before they were able to find a place to stand.
"A lovely evenin', gennelmen," one of them purred, sidling up to Tomilson without delay. "Come to find yer pleasures, have you?"
Tomilson's face flushed hot with scarlet, which prompted a chuckle from Wicklow. "Pleasure indeed, and some rum too. We're fair parched from so many months at sea, we are."
The second woman offered a smile and linked her arm with Wicklow's. "Rum and pleasure it is," she said. "Come you with us, boys, and you'll have plenty of both."
With matching grins, the two Marines let themselves be guided deeper into the crowded tavern. Not bad for only having just arrived, Wicklow thought. Marvellous luck indeed. What a fine way to make a homecoming. Of a sort, anyway.
"Hey, you two lads," a rough voice called out. "You don't wanna be goin' with them, you don't. They'll steal you blind, sure's there's a devil in Hell."
Both of them regarded the seaman who'd spoken with sceptical interest. Whores were indeed thieves, in their own ways. Everyone knew that. What was notably different about these two? "What d'you mean?" Tomilson asked, unable to contain the question.
The seaman pointed at the two women with the stem of his pipe. "Light fingers, them two got. Carry off your purse and all your pay, they will. Brassy's you please 'bout it, too."
"Don't be lissenin' to him," the shorter woman cooed. She might have been convincing were it not for the disgusted expression on her face. Maybe the seaman might be right after all. Wicklow slipped his arm free and nodded at the seaman. He couldn't think why the Tar had troubled himself to speak up, but he was glad he had. No use in risking his money so foolishly.
"Cheers, mate. D'you know sommers better?"
The seaman nodded. "Down the road a ways and 'round the corner, lads. It's a smaller sorta place. Ropemaker's Arms, it is. Fair quieter'n this one, too. This here place's more for stirrin' up scraps."
Ah. The two Marines glanced at each other, and Wicklow shrugged. Smaller could indeed be better. Tomilson said, "We'll shove off to there, then."
"Good lads," the seaman replied and puffed calmly at his pipe. "Tell 'em ol' Black Joe sentcha an' they'll take right good care of you."
That settled that. The two Marines knuckled their brows at the seaman - the only way they could think to show grateful deference - and elbowed their way back toward the door. Behind them, audible even over the rumble of chatter, came raised voices and they heard the seaman cry "Serves you two poxy thievin' swine right, don't it?"
"Fine sorta lad, him," Wicklow remarked, once they were on the street again and free of the closely-packed tavern.
"Aye," his mate agreed. "C'mon. Let's find this other house Black Joe was talkin' of."
They headed off down the street, dodging around stumbling drunks and a fight that broke out almost directly in front of them. Both were alert for a 'smaller sorta house' by the name of Ropemaker's Arms. After a short search, during which they had succeeded in walking past their intended destination, they found the cathouse and headed directly inside. It was indeed smaller than the Burning Thistle, but was less crowded and seemed nominally more comfortable. The main room was decorated with a couple of tables in the middle, a pair of well-worn settees and an armchair along one wall, and a staircase in the far corner. A curtained doorway in the opposite wall led off to some other room.
Interestingly, it seemed they were not the only redcoats present. With only two exceptions, the handful of men in the main room wore red. But they were soldiers, as given away by their facings. None of them in the trademark white of the Marines. Pity, Wicklow thought. A plain-looking girl appeared from behind the curtain upon their entrance, alerted somehow to their presence. She ignored the other men in the main room, which suggested that they were not in immediate need of service.
"Lookin' for some comp'ny, gents?"
"Aye, of a sort. Black Joe sent us," Tomilson answered carefully, with a wary glance at the soldiers who were studying the newly-arrived Marines with open curiosity.
The girl nodded briskly. "I got just the thing. Come ya this way. Coupla girls back yon what'd fit perfickt. Bess! Maria!"
There was a pause as the two Marines followed their spindly-limbed guide through the frayed curtain. The room they found themselves was dominated by a stained settee and a three-legged table, upon which sat a chipped tea service. Two women were present, one having just served herself some tea, as indicated by the steam wafting up from the mug in her hand.
"That's Bess," the girl said, indicating the dark-haired woman with the steaming mug. "And that's Maria. It's a tuppence for a half-hour. I'll leave you lads to it."
Her departure, back through the curtain, opened a brief, restless silence, during which each pair regarded the other speculatively. Neither Marine had quite expected to be left so summarily to their own devices like this. It was something of an unwelcome surprise.
"D'you fancy a drink, m'lad?" The lighter-haired Maria asked, coming gracefully to her feet. Her gaze, Wicklow noted, was on Tomilson. "A proper drink, perhaps?"
Tomilson blinked, then blushed and said, "Yes - a rum'd go nice."
"C'mon then." Maria favoured him with a bemused smile and, taking him by the hand, led him out through the curtain and out of sight. Wicklow and Bess were left alone to stare at each other, while the steam from her mug of tea began to slowly dissipate. Suddenly, inexplicably, Wicklow felt hopelessly awkward, which was embarrassing. This was far from his first visit to a cathouse, after all, but he'd never been to one that was quite like this.
"You gonna just stand there for the whole half-hour?"
"Er - " Wicklow glanced quickly at the curtain, trying to recover his sense of purpose. "No - I hadn't thought to."
A playful smirk flickered across Bess' face and she took a healthy swallow of tea. "Well come on then. 'Less you'd rather stick to standin' there." She drained her mug, but kept it in hand as she started toward the curtain. "You got a name, or somethin', at least?"
Name? "Wha - er, aye. Wick," he replied, a little sheepishly, as he followed her up the narrow staircase.
"Wick. Strange sorta Christian name, ain't it?"
"Oh - me ma called me George." Few people other than his ma ever called him that, though. There were too many other Georges aboard ship. It was easier to be known by his surname, or some variation of it. He had gotten to thinking that 'Wick' was actually his Christian name, in fact.
She paused a moment at a thin wooden door, which undoubtedly opened to her own allotted room. "George. Fine, strong name. I like it. Well. C'mon in, George, lad. I reckon you want as much of a half-hour's you can get."
Wicklow managed a nod, even as he tossed his hat and then his coat aside. He did, indeed.
~
By some fortunate twist of fate - or, as the rumours ran, officerly intervention - Wicklow and most of his fellows from Cornwall were able to escape discharges. They were assigned to the Chatham Division and given over to sentry duties at the Dockyard. It was a far more sedentary life than Wicklow had previously been used to, but he adjusted to it quickly. He was lucky to remain in service, when so many others had been summarily abandoned on the beach. Any employment, even as mind-numbing as standing guard at the Dockyard's gates, was better than begging on the streets.
The years faded by, slow-moving in the relative peace since the end of the war. Wicklow, ever since that first visit to the Ropemaker's Arms, had become a regular there, being fond of the comfortable simplicity of the place. A promotion to corporal three years on afforded him a little more money with which to entertain himself, and he used it well. With rank came responsibility, however, and Wicklow found that his visits to his preferred cathouse became less regular. He disliked being so confined by duties required by virtue of the knot on his shoulder. At the same time, he enjoyed not being a lowly private Marine any longer.
It was six years after the war's end when Wicklow first noticed the boy. Children were far from an uncommon sight near the Marines' barracks, they having learned that the men who lived there could be easy pickings for scraps of food. This one stood out from them, however. Wicklow was newly relieved from duty at the Dockyard when he spotted the lad wandering along the edge of the street, bare-footed and dirty-faced. There was something vaguely familiar about the lad, though of course Wicklow could not imagine what that was, or why. It was not until his next visit to the Ropemaker's Arms that he worked it out. The woman called Bess had borne a child; a boy, and the same one Wicklow had seen near the barracks.
He gave the boy's origins no further thought until some months later, when his old mate Tomilson pointed the lad out to him with the comment of "That 'un's got a face on him that looks fair close to yours, don't he?"
Wicklow, of course, brushed the remark aside, certain that he could not be responsible for any child, when so many could be found roaming the streets. Certainly, even if he was, it was not likely that child would be seen continually so near to where Wicklow lived and worked. Not possible at all, was his final, firm thought at the time, before he sent Tomilson on his way to re-black his shoes. But of course the question of the boy's strange likeness would not go completely away. Eventually, in light of the lad's frequent appearances either near the barracks or along the river outside the dockyard, Wicklow found himself contemplating making some sort of contribution to the boy's upbringing. It was difficult to manage discreetly, since he was not so foolish as to insult the lad by offering outright charity, but the odd bit of salt pork or bread here, and a farthing for running small errands there seemed to do the trick.
His quiet kindness came to an end only a few short years later, when an outbreak of ague crippled the barracks. Many men were confined to hospital and more than a few of them succumbed. Amongst them was an Irishman called George Wicklow, who was fortunate enough at least to perish in his sleep. His old mate, Edgar Tomilson, took over the responsibility for the boy, but he did not have the same instinctive fondness for it. In time, his efforts fell off, and ended completely when he was sent to join HMS Unicorn. With his departure from the Chatham barracks, any solid knowledge of the dirty-faced boy's lineage faded.
The lad carried on with his life, never aware of such adult concerns. He is hardly the one to be pitied, however. His is the blissful ignorance of the young. Rather, it is the unfortunate Corporal Wicklow who deserves some measure of sympathy. He went to his grave unresolved, and worse, without even the barest inkling that the boy he had come to feel protective of would, within a couple of years, become a Marine himself. Like father, like son, some might say...
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The characters Bessie Thompson and her son George are the property of
sharpiefan. All other characters appearing within belong to me.Original pen-date: 30 May 2010
Summary: After returning from the West Indies, a Marine unintentionally becomes responsible for a young boy.
Author's Note: This is a fun bit of speculative fluff concerning the origins of one Private George Thompson RM. I hope to not be hunted down and beaten with stuffed toys for writing this...
Their first sight of England came in the form of Land's End, away off to larboard. The Cornish coast lay under a thin haze, just barely visible to the plain eye, but the knowledge that Cornwall was within sight of her namesake brought most of the crew on deck. It had been years since any of them had seen England and weeks since they'd seen land at all. The occasion was, therefore, cause for celebration. Cheers broke out around the weather deck. Fortunately for them, Lieutenant Alderbury was officer of the watch and permitted them to give vent to their relief, for a few minutes. He shared similar feelings as the chattering, excited pack of men crowding along the larboard rail. Eventually, however, he ordered all but the duty watch to clear the deck. There was still some distance to go before they were truly home.
It took three days after that first sight of land to reach their destination. Chatham harbour, from which the frigate had sailed nearly four years before. Their approach to the Medway was slow and methodical, giving ample display of Cornwall's easy grace. Mister Simcoe, being eager to prove his ability and try to secure a place for himself on the captains' list, took charge of the last approach to the river's mouth himself. He would not take on a pilot until the very last moment, a decision that aroused quiet anxiety from the crew. Being so close to the end of their long commission, they were in no hurry to suffer needless mishap. On the messdeck, the low murmur of chatter buzzed, as the men of the off-watch discussed their various plans for when they were all turned ashore. Several men, having snuck onto the gundeck, stared out through the opened gunports, keen to see what they could.
"Look'at it, Wick," Edgar Tomilson said, peering around the muzzle of the Number Seven starboard gun. He looked a moment, then reached out a grey-sleeved arm and slapped the other Marine on the shoulder. "Never thought I'd see the like of that again!"
George Wicklow craned his neck to see what his mate was looking at. "Thing of beauty, so it is," he agreed, deciding that Tomilson meant the long stretch of shore line. "Be good to get ashore again."
"Aye," one of the seamen chimed in, hovering close over Wicklow's shoulder so he could catch a glimpse of the land as it slid casually by. "There's nothin' so fine as a good romp 'round Chatham, m'lads."
The two Marines grinned at each other over the gun's wide barrel. 'A good romp' sounded like just the thing. Corporal Davenport came onto the gundeck then, effortlessly sniffing out idlers in his unnerving way. Marines and seamen alike scattered upon the corporal's iron-voiced bawling. Wicklow couldn't help grinning as he tumbled down the aft ladder, though. They'd all be back at the gunports soon enough, once Davenport had gone off to check the sentries.
Hours later, after Cornwall had anchored and the ship was given a thorough going-over, the first groups of libertymen went ashore. Formal discharges and paying off would begin the following day. Wicklow and Tomilson were in the second boat to depart, now smartly dressed in their long-tailed red coats and their cleanest white smallclothes. Their first run ashore in weeks required the sharpest appearance they could manage.
"You stick with me," young Tomilson said. "I know my way around here'n there."
Wicklow chuckled. "No you don't. All you know's what the Shepherds've told you."
"Maybe so," Tomilson replied cheerfully. "But it's still more'n you know."
"Silence in the boat!" The coxswain cried.
The two Marines exchanged glances and nearly burst into laughter. They said nothing more until the jolly-boat had hooked on at the dock. Then, together with the four other Marines and the boat's crew, they made their way onto solid land. As might be expected, none of them were steady on their feet at first; Sam Lachlan fell flat onto his face, in fact, after tripping over his own feet. He was hauled upright again with no small amount of teasing. The group soon dispersed, each man seeking his own amusements. Wicklow and Tomilson stuck together and, after a few minutes' wandering, found themselves at a tavern called, oddly enough, the Burning Thistle.
There looked to be a fair number of seamen and other Marines, as well as regular townsfolk, filling the interior from wall to wall. Getting inside proved something of a challenge, managed only by roughly elbowing their way past the door. Their arrival was noticed immediately by a pair of business-minded women, who came briskly toward them even before they were able to find a place to stand.
"A lovely evenin', gennelmen," one of them purred, sidling up to Tomilson without delay. "Come to find yer pleasures, have you?"
Tomilson's face flushed hot with scarlet, which prompted a chuckle from Wicklow. "Pleasure indeed, and some rum too. We're fair parched from so many months at sea, we are."
The second woman offered a smile and linked her arm with Wicklow's. "Rum and pleasure it is," she said. "Come you with us, boys, and you'll have plenty of both."
With matching grins, the two Marines let themselves be guided deeper into the crowded tavern. Not bad for only having just arrived, Wicklow thought. Marvellous luck indeed. What a fine way to make a homecoming. Of a sort, anyway.
"Hey, you two lads," a rough voice called out. "You don't wanna be goin' with them, you don't. They'll steal you blind, sure's there's a devil in Hell."
Both of them regarded the seaman who'd spoken with sceptical interest. Whores were indeed thieves, in their own ways. Everyone knew that. What was notably different about these two? "What d'you mean?" Tomilson asked, unable to contain the question.
The seaman pointed at the two women with the stem of his pipe. "Light fingers, them two got. Carry off your purse and all your pay, they will. Brassy's you please 'bout it, too."
"Don't be lissenin' to him," the shorter woman cooed. She might have been convincing were it not for the disgusted expression on her face. Maybe the seaman might be right after all. Wicklow slipped his arm free and nodded at the seaman. He couldn't think why the Tar had troubled himself to speak up, but he was glad he had. No use in risking his money so foolishly.
"Cheers, mate. D'you know sommers better?"
The seaman nodded. "Down the road a ways and 'round the corner, lads. It's a smaller sorta place. Ropemaker's Arms, it is. Fair quieter'n this one, too. This here place's more for stirrin' up scraps."
Ah. The two Marines glanced at each other, and Wicklow shrugged. Smaller could indeed be better. Tomilson said, "We'll shove off to there, then."
"Good lads," the seaman replied and puffed calmly at his pipe. "Tell 'em ol' Black Joe sentcha an' they'll take right good care of you."
That settled that. The two Marines knuckled their brows at the seaman - the only way they could think to show grateful deference - and elbowed their way back toward the door. Behind them, audible even over the rumble of chatter, came raised voices and they heard the seaman cry "Serves you two poxy thievin' swine right, don't it?"
"Fine sorta lad, him," Wicklow remarked, once they were on the street again and free of the closely-packed tavern.
"Aye," his mate agreed. "C'mon. Let's find this other house Black Joe was talkin' of."
They headed off down the street, dodging around stumbling drunks and a fight that broke out almost directly in front of them. Both were alert for a 'smaller sorta house' by the name of Ropemaker's Arms. After a short search, during which they had succeeded in walking past their intended destination, they found the cathouse and headed directly inside. It was indeed smaller than the Burning Thistle, but was less crowded and seemed nominally more comfortable. The main room was decorated with a couple of tables in the middle, a pair of well-worn settees and an armchair along one wall, and a staircase in the far corner. A curtained doorway in the opposite wall led off to some other room.
Interestingly, it seemed they were not the only redcoats present. With only two exceptions, the handful of men in the main room wore red. But they were soldiers, as given away by their facings. None of them in the trademark white of the Marines. Pity, Wicklow thought. A plain-looking girl appeared from behind the curtain upon their entrance, alerted somehow to their presence. She ignored the other men in the main room, which suggested that they were not in immediate need of service.
"Lookin' for some comp'ny, gents?"
"Aye, of a sort. Black Joe sent us," Tomilson answered carefully, with a wary glance at the soldiers who were studying the newly-arrived Marines with open curiosity.
The girl nodded briskly. "I got just the thing. Come ya this way. Coupla girls back yon what'd fit perfickt. Bess! Maria!"
There was a pause as the two Marines followed their spindly-limbed guide through the frayed curtain. The room they found themselves was dominated by a stained settee and a three-legged table, upon which sat a chipped tea service. Two women were present, one having just served herself some tea, as indicated by the steam wafting up from the mug in her hand.
"That's Bess," the girl said, indicating the dark-haired woman with the steaming mug. "And that's Maria. It's a tuppence for a half-hour. I'll leave you lads to it."
Her departure, back through the curtain, opened a brief, restless silence, during which each pair regarded the other speculatively. Neither Marine had quite expected to be left so summarily to their own devices like this. It was something of an unwelcome surprise.
"D'you fancy a drink, m'lad?" The lighter-haired Maria asked, coming gracefully to her feet. Her gaze, Wicklow noted, was on Tomilson. "A proper drink, perhaps?"
Tomilson blinked, then blushed and said, "Yes - a rum'd go nice."
"C'mon then." Maria favoured him with a bemused smile and, taking him by the hand, led him out through the curtain and out of sight. Wicklow and Bess were left alone to stare at each other, while the steam from her mug of tea began to slowly dissipate. Suddenly, inexplicably, Wicklow felt hopelessly awkward, which was embarrassing. This was far from his first visit to a cathouse, after all, but he'd never been to one that was quite like this.
"You gonna just stand there for the whole half-hour?"
"Er - " Wicklow glanced quickly at the curtain, trying to recover his sense of purpose. "No - I hadn't thought to."
A playful smirk flickered across Bess' face and she took a healthy swallow of tea. "Well come on then. 'Less you'd rather stick to standin' there." She drained her mug, but kept it in hand as she started toward the curtain. "You got a name, or somethin', at least?"
Name? "Wha - er, aye. Wick," he replied, a little sheepishly, as he followed her up the narrow staircase.
"Wick. Strange sorta Christian name, ain't it?"
"Oh - me ma called me George." Few people other than his ma ever called him that, though. There were too many other Georges aboard ship. It was easier to be known by his surname, or some variation of it. He had gotten to thinking that 'Wick' was actually his Christian name, in fact.
She paused a moment at a thin wooden door, which undoubtedly opened to her own allotted room. "George. Fine, strong name. I like it. Well. C'mon in, George, lad. I reckon you want as much of a half-hour's you can get."
Wicklow managed a nod, even as he tossed his hat and then his coat aside. He did, indeed.
~
By some fortunate twist of fate - or, as the rumours ran, officerly intervention - Wicklow and most of his fellows from Cornwall were able to escape discharges. They were assigned to the Chatham Division and given over to sentry duties at the Dockyard. It was a far more sedentary life than Wicklow had previously been used to, but he adjusted to it quickly. He was lucky to remain in service, when so many others had been summarily abandoned on the beach. Any employment, even as mind-numbing as standing guard at the Dockyard's gates, was better than begging on the streets.
The years faded by, slow-moving in the relative peace since the end of the war. Wicklow, ever since that first visit to the Ropemaker's Arms, had become a regular there, being fond of the comfortable simplicity of the place. A promotion to corporal three years on afforded him a little more money with which to entertain himself, and he used it well. With rank came responsibility, however, and Wicklow found that his visits to his preferred cathouse became less regular. He disliked being so confined by duties required by virtue of the knot on his shoulder. At the same time, he enjoyed not being a lowly private Marine any longer.
It was six years after the war's end when Wicklow first noticed the boy. Children were far from an uncommon sight near the Marines' barracks, they having learned that the men who lived there could be easy pickings for scraps of food. This one stood out from them, however. Wicklow was newly relieved from duty at the Dockyard when he spotted the lad wandering along the edge of the street, bare-footed and dirty-faced. There was something vaguely familiar about the lad, though of course Wicklow could not imagine what that was, or why. It was not until his next visit to the Ropemaker's Arms that he worked it out. The woman called Bess had borne a child; a boy, and the same one Wicklow had seen near the barracks.
He gave the boy's origins no further thought until some months later, when his old mate Tomilson pointed the lad out to him with the comment of "That 'un's got a face on him that looks fair close to yours, don't he?"
Wicklow, of course, brushed the remark aside, certain that he could not be responsible for any child, when so many could be found roaming the streets. Certainly, even if he was, it was not likely that child would be seen continually so near to where Wicklow lived and worked. Not possible at all, was his final, firm thought at the time, before he sent Tomilson on his way to re-black his shoes. But of course the question of the boy's strange likeness would not go completely away. Eventually, in light of the lad's frequent appearances either near the barracks or along the river outside the dockyard, Wicklow found himself contemplating making some sort of contribution to the boy's upbringing. It was difficult to manage discreetly, since he was not so foolish as to insult the lad by offering outright charity, but the odd bit of salt pork or bread here, and a farthing for running small errands there seemed to do the trick.
His quiet kindness came to an end only a few short years later, when an outbreak of ague crippled the barracks. Many men were confined to hospital and more than a few of them succumbed. Amongst them was an Irishman called George Wicklow, who was fortunate enough at least to perish in his sleep. His old mate, Edgar Tomilson, took over the responsibility for the boy, but he did not have the same instinctive fondness for it. In time, his efforts fell off, and ended completely when he was sent to join HMS Unicorn. With his departure from the Chatham barracks, any solid knowledge of the dirty-faced boy's lineage faded.
The lad carried on with his life, never aware of such adult concerns. He is hardly the one to be pitied, however. His is the blissful ignorance of the young. Rather, it is the unfortunate Corporal Wicklow who deserves some measure of sympathy. He went to his grave unresolved, and worse, without even the barest inkling that the boy he had come to feel protective of would, within a couple of years, become a Marine himself. Like father, like son, some might say...
no subject
Wicklow found himself contemplating making some sort of contribution to the boy's upbringing. It was difficult to manage discreetly, since he was not so foolish as to insult the lad by offering outright charity, but the odd bit of salt pork or bread here, and a farthing for running small errands there seemed to do the trick.
That bit was wonderful and made me grin like an idiot.
no subject
Wicklow's a doll like that, ain't he. :D