Whiskey Lullaby
Feb. 9th, 2012 05:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: Whiskey Lullaby
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Summary: The formal end of war does not always mean peace for men who fought it. Wales, 1786.
Author's Note: Inspired by the song “Whiskey Lullaby” by Brad Paisley and Alison Krauss.
Coming home had cost him more than almost all of his carefully-saved pay and prize money. Travelling from Chatham to Haverford was no mean feat for a man with limited funds but he had done it. Weeks had passed since his discharge and he didn’t like to think of the journey, arduous as it had been. By the time Oliver Jones reached the street on which he had grown up, he was tired, hungry, and quite foot-sore. His clothes were worn nearly to rags and he could not recall the last time a razor had touched his face. He probably smelled quite disreputable as well, but he hardly cared. He was much too weary.
By rights he should have made some effort to clean up before presenting himself at his family’s home, yet adhering to those old rules of propriety did not figure at all in his mind. His thought processes had been reduced to the simpler functions of living. When he knocked at that worn old door, his main concern was with finding something of substance to eat. Something to eat and a strong drink to go with it. That was all he wanted. It never occurred to him that his appearance on the doorstep now, after so many years, would touch off an uproar.
An uproar was precisely what happened. His elder sister was the first to see him and her startled outcry brought the rest of the house’s occupants running. Jones very quickly found himself dragged bodily indoors, once they had realised who he was. He did his best not to think about the rest of that day. In the months and years that followed this inglorious homecoming, he’d done his best to fit back into life as it had been before he’d gone for a Marine. He said as little of his service as he could get away with. Even thinking about it shamed him. That life was over and he just wanted to forget it.
This was nothing easy and, as he had before the peace, Jones began spending as much time as he could in taverns. His habit had cost him his rank, in the end, but even this blessing had come too late. The burden of that responsibility and his inability to rise to it had gone on unchecked for far too long. The fault was no man’s but his own. Even when Captain Collins had tried to save him, when most other officers wouldn’t, Jones had fallen short. It was something his family would never understand and he was not sure why he had even bothered to come back. Nothing was the same. It seemed to him that his coming home was as good as an admission of failure.
“You’ve got to work, boy,” was his father’s favourite remark. But old William Jones never had been able to see things in anything other than black and white. A man had to work to be considered worth anything and even the barest hint of dissolution was enough to overturn any form of good opinion. There was only so much of his father’s preaching he could bear. Each one only ground more salt into those mental wounds. Eventually, Jones simply stopped coming round. It didn’t help him a bit to hear his habits constantly held up as dire examples of a road leading directly to hell. His father had no idea what hell was like.
Of course, even without his father’s longwinded lectures, there was recrimination enough. Jones himself found it impossible to come to grips with the reality of his own weaknesses. Before the Saintes, he thought he might have been able to muddle through, to keep up the pretense of usefulness. Then Admiral Rodney had taken his ships into battle and whatever remained of Jones’ resolve had been lost. In the aftermath of that action, there was no escaping the reality that he was no longer worth anything as a Marine. For indeed, what sort of Marine - or even, what sort of man - crouched behind the hammock nettings and did nothing except cower while the rest of the crew fought on around him?
Jones’ fingers gripped the drinking glass, which seemed never to stay full, and he closed his eyes. No matter what he did, he could never completely scour away that memory, or the many others that were like it. What was the use, anyway? They were all he had to show for his years in the King’s service. No one wanted a man who had so narrowly avoided being drummed out. That was something his father would preach away about endlessly if he was to know about it. His father loved to do that. There were plenty of failings in other men and old William never ignored an opportunity to pontificate about them. What would he say if he knew the truth about his own son?
With a sigh, he refilled his glass, but quickly drained it a moment later. This had become the mainstay of his existence. He could not recall a day since coming back to this miserable place that he had not ended up with only a whiskey bottle for company. Early on, he had tried to explain what it had all been like, that war far away, but none of his words really expressed it. Not like it had been, or what it had done. Probably just as well. It was bad enough that he could not summon the motivation to even pretend to seek work. Jones filled the glass again and contemplated the colour of the whiskey through the chipped glass, before tossing it back. It didn’t matter anyway.
There was a woman in the tavern, suddenly. He could sense it by the slight pause in the conversations going on around him. Members of the fairer sex were rarely seen in this tavern. It was why Jones came here. He had little desire to have his daily routine interfered with by his bloody sisters. They had been chasing him for ever, it seemed like. Almost since he had dragged himself home. It often felt as though he could not go a day without nearly running into one of them. In his efforts to elude them, he took refuge in alehouses and taverns, but they had quickly got wise to that. Their determination rivalled his father’s preaching for Jones’ most scathing dislike. Why was it so hard for them to simply leave him be?
At least he had been able to steal a coat since the last time any of them had come looking for him. It would be hard for them to spot him with it, and sitting hunched over his empty glass helped. He was comforted that no one in the place gave an answer to Bethan’s queries after him. Of course, no one in here knew his name anyway. Eventually, his sister went away, having met with no success. Hopefully she would give up entirely. Jones had little interest in being found out and nattered at to go home and make amends. There was no going back to that damn house any more than there was retrieving his lost pride. He refilled his glass and tried to feel content that at least he didn’t have to suffer on as a Marine any longer. The effort fell flat. All he could muster was despair.
It was dark when at last he quit the tavern. Or, more accurately, was heaved out into the street. He could barely summon the energy to pick himself up off the hardpacked dirt, never mind stir himself to the nearest alley. Some time during the day, a light snow had begun to fall but in his present state, Jones took no notice of it. His only goal was to find a clear patch of ground on which to pass the night. He had become fond of the alley between the butcher’s and an alehouse, chiefly because of its close confines. No one ever troubled him when he slept there.
Such was his state that when he sagged bonelessly down to the trash-strewn earth that he did not realise he had somehow lost his hat. Not that he would have cared even if he knew. Jones closed his bleary, unfocussed eyes after wrapping his coat around himself as tightly as he could. There couldn’t be any real chance of actually falling asleep here with those unearthly flakes of ash fluttering against his face and reminding him of the grit of powder smoke in the midst of a sea-battle. Even drunk nearly blind, he could never completely escape from memories of his cowardice.
The snow continued to fall throughout the night. Oliver Jones did eventually go to sleep. Sleep that, for once, was not troubled by unhappy dreams. A form of peace had come to him at last and he welcomed it.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Summary: The formal end of war does not always mean peace for men who fought it. Wales, 1786.
Author's Note: Inspired by the song “Whiskey Lullaby” by Brad Paisley and Alison Krauss.
Coming home had cost him more than almost all of his carefully-saved pay and prize money. Travelling from Chatham to Haverford was no mean feat for a man with limited funds but he had done it. Weeks had passed since his discharge and he didn’t like to think of the journey, arduous as it had been. By the time Oliver Jones reached the street on which he had grown up, he was tired, hungry, and quite foot-sore. His clothes were worn nearly to rags and he could not recall the last time a razor had touched his face. He probably smelled quite disreputable as well, but he hardly cared. He was much too weary.
By rights he should have made some effort to clean up before presenting himself at his family’s home, yet adhering to those old rules of propriety did not figure at all in his mind. His thought processes had been reduced to the simpler functions of living. When he knocked at that worn old door, his main concern was with finding something of substance to eat. Something to eat and a strong drink to go with it. That was all he wanted. It never occurred to him that his appearance on the doorstep now, after so many years, would touch off an uproar.
An uproar was precisely what happened. His elder sister was the first to see him and her startled outcry brought the rest of the house’s occupants running. Jones very quickly found himself dragged bodily indoors, once they had realised who he was. He did his best not to think about the rest of that day. In the months and years that followed this inglorious homecoming, he’d done his best to fit back into life as it had been before he’d gone for a Marine. He said as little of his service as he could get away with. Even thinking about it shamed him. That life was over and he just wanted to forget it.
This was nothing easy and, as he had before the peace, Jones began spending as much time as he could in taverns. His habit had cost him his rank, in the end, but even this blessing had come too late. The burden of that responsibility and his inability to rise to it had gone on unchecked for far too long. The fault was no man’s but his own. Even when Captain Collins had tried to save him, when most other officers wouldn’t, Jones had fallen short. It was something his family would never understand and he was not sure why he had even bothered to come back. Nothing was the same. It seemed to him that his coming home was as good as an admission of failure.
“You’ve got to work, boy,” was his father’s favourite remark. But old William Jones never had been able to see things in anything other than black and white. A man had to work to be considered worth anything and even the barest hint of dissolution was enough to overturn any form of good opinion. There was only so much of his father’s preaching he could bear. Each one only ground more salt into those mental wounds. Eventually, Jones simply stopped coming round. It didn’t help him a bit to hear his habits constantly held up as dire examples of a road leading directly to hell. His father had no idea what hell was like.
Of course, even without his father’s longwinded lectures, there was recrimination enough. Jones himself found it impossible to come to grips with the reality of his own weaknesses. Before the Saintes, he thought he might have been able to muddle through, to keep up the pretense of usefulness. Then Admiral Rodney had taken his ships into battle and whatever remained of Jones’ resolve had been lost. In the aftermath of that action, there was no escaping the reality that he was no longer worth anything as a Marine. For indeed, what sort of Marine - or even, what sort of man - crouched behind the hammock nettings and did nothing except cower while the rest of the crew fought on around him?
Jones’ fingers gripped the drinking glass, which seemed never to stay full, and he closed his eyes. No matter what he did, he could never completely scour away that memory, or the many others that were like it. What was the use, anyway? They were all he had to show for his years in the King’s service. No one wanted a man who had so narrowly avoided being drummed out. That was something his father would preach away about endlessly if he was to know about it. His father loved to do that. There were plenty of failings in other men and old William never ignored an opportunity to pontificate about them. What would he say if he knew the truth about his own son?
With a sigh, he refilled his glass, but quickly drained it a moment later. This had become the mainstay of his existence. He could not recall a day since coming back to this miserable place that he had not ended up with only a whiskey bottle for company. Early on, he had tried to explain what it had all been like, that war far away, but none of his words really expressed it. Not like it had been, or what it had done. Probably just as well. It was bad enough that he could not summon the motivation to even pretend to seek work. Jones filled the glass again and contemplated the colour of the whiskey through the chipped glass, before tossing it back. It didn’t matter anyway.
There was a woman in the tavern, suddenly. He could sense it by the slight pause in the conversations going on around him. Members of the fairer sex were rarely seen in this tavern. It was why Jones came here. He had little desire to have his daily routine interfered with by his bloody sisters. They had been chasing him for ever, it seemed like. Almost since he had dragged himself home. It often felt as though he could not go a day without nearly running into one of them. In his efforts to elude them, he took refuge in alehouses and taverns, but they had quickly got wise to that. Their determination rivalled his father’s preaching for Jones’ most scathing dislike. Why was it so hard for them to simply leave him be?
At least he had been able to steal a coat since the last time any of them had come looking for him. It would be hard for them to spot him with it, and sitting hunched over his empty glass helped. He was comforted that no one in the place gave an answer to Bethan’s queries after him. Of course, no one in here knew his name anyway. Eventually, his sister went away, having met with no success. Hopefully she would give up entirely. Jones had little interest in being found out and nattered at to go home and make amends. There was no going back to that damn house any more than there was retrieving his lost pride. He refilled his glass and tried to feel content that at least he didn’t have to suffer on as a Marine any longer. The effort fell flat. All he could muster was despair.
It was dark when at last he quit the tavern. Or, more accurately, was heaved out into the street. He could barely summon the energy to pick himself up off the hardpacked dirt, never mind stir himself to the nearest alley. Some time during the day, a light snow had begun to fall but in his present state, Jones took no notice of it. His only goal was to find a clear patch of ground on which to pass the night. He had become fond of the alley between the butcher’s and an alehouse, chiefly because of its close confines. No one ever troubled him when he slept there.
Such was his state that when he sagged bonelessly down to the trash-strewn earth that he did not realise he had somehow lost his hat. Not that he would have cared even if he knew. Jones closed his bleary, unfocussed eyes after wrapping his coat around himself as tightly as he could. There couldn’t be any real chance of actually falling asleep here with those unearthly flakes of ash fluttering against his face and reminding him of the grit of powder smoke in the midst of a sea-battle. Even drunk nearly blind, he could never completely escape from memories of his cowardice.
The snow continued to fall throughout the night. Oliver Jones did eventually go to sleep. Sleep that, for once, was not troubled by unhappy dreams. A form of peace had come to him at last and he welcomed it.
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Date: 2012-02-09 10:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 11:05 pm (UTC)