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barefoot_bard) wrote2014-08-30 06:00 pm
barefoot_bard) wrote2014-08-30 06:00 pm
Entry tags:
September Morning
Title: September Morning
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: All names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Story summary: An old seaman observes the goings-on by the docks in Amble, Northumberland. September, 1797.
Author's Note: Any factual errors that occur within are my own.
For a September morning, the weather was surprisingly mild. A light westerly breeze brushed over the harbour, whispering and humming through the rigging of the dozen or so vessels swinging gently at their anchors. The sun was barely free of the horizon yet already seemed as bright and warm as if it was greeting a midsummer day. In the strengthening light, Ben Heweslee puffed lazily at his worn clay pipe and watched a red-painted launch pull purposefully toward the long dock that jutted out into the harbour. The Navy. In the outer roads, a third-rate lay at anchor, with the vague outlines of men busily working just visible on her weatherdeck and aloft.
The dockside street was thinly crowded with women going about their daily business. There was hardly a pair of trousers to be seen anywhere. All the town's men had vanished inland to safety as soon as the man-o'-war had been sighted at the mouth of the bay the previous evening. Almost all of them, anyway. A few had stayed behind. Ben was one. He had no fear of being pressed. He sat back in his comfortable beer barrel-turned-chair, puffed his pipe, and watched the launch glide in to bump gently against the dock, the white-bladed oars tossed and dripping water onto the black tarred hats worn by the boat crew. An officer sat in the sternsheets, his cocked hat and long blue coat setting him instantly apart. As Ben watched, the bowman sprang lightly up onto the dock and in an instant tied off the painter line to the nearest cleat. The officer climbed out of the boat with a stiff sort of grace and stood off three paces while the boat crew, minus one man left behind to guard the launch, clambered onto the dock and formed themselves up into two uneven files.
A couple of weary-bodied harlots emerged from the tavern in front of which Ben was sitting and arranged themselves boredly on the adjacent bench. The three of them sat without speaking until the shambling band of sailors reached the street and headed toward them. Ben reckoned his presence had been the deciding factor. He was the only man in sight, after all. He offered the approaching sailors a snaggle-toothed smile around the stem of his pipe but made no greeting. It would be entirely up to the weather-beaten officer to exchange pleasantries. If he was that sort of fellow. The last one had been brusque to the point of rudeness and had subsequently been shown the error of his ways.
"I am Lieutenant Morgan, second of HMS Triumph. I am obliged by my captain to search this town for any able-bodied seamen who may be hiding or otherwise found here. We will use this tavern to hold any such men we discover. Are you the landlord here?"
Ben gave the lieutenant a careful, deliberate looking-over before nodding toward the tavern's door. "Inside, liek. Find 'im yersel'."
The two whores cackled at that, which made the sea officer very briefly look uncomfortable. Without a further word, he and his gang headed inside. One or two of the rearmost sailors gave the women second glances, with obvious interest. Ben rumbled a chuckle and sucked at his pipe. It had nearly gone out.
"D'ye reckon them'll stay long, er will they shove erff soon's they realise there's nerne aboot 'ere but bairns?" One of the women asked as she fished a small pouch of chewing tobacco from the folds her skirts.
"Divinit knaa, maybes," Ben answered with a slow shrug. He had turned his gaze back out over the harbour, where a handful of wind-worn women were preparing to set sail in a coble. In the absence of their men, they had little choice but to fill in the void. It was only temporary but the hard work of making a living could not be set aside. The same held true for those bustling around the dock street. And, of course, the two whores who were discussing the wisdom of paying a call on the lone seaman left behind in Triumph's launch.
The tavern's door banged open abruptly and a red-faced Lieutenant Morgan swept past, closely followed by his men. A fresh outburst of cackling arose from the two whores when they noticed the telltale damp on the front and shoulders of the lieutenant's coat. George Fisher had given the sea officer his usual warm welcome, it seemed.
"Divvil tak yer press gangs!" One of the women sneered. "We'll ner 'elp the lieks o' ye heer aboot."
One of the seamen stepped out of his file and made as if he meant to strike her, but Polly had never been one to tolerate abuse from any man. She got to her feet and, fixing the sailor with a steely-eyed glare, remarked, "Jis' ye try it."
"Come along, Danforth," Lieutenant Morgan said hastily. Polly's companion had also stood up and was watching the seamen with an expression of predatory interest. Ben had not moved from his chair but his own gaze was steadily on the would-be press gang, his pipe still between his lips.
Without a further word, the boat crew and its officer went hurrying off down the street, no doubt to carry out a futile search for any men to press. Polly rasped out a laugh and spat some tobacco juice into a nearby basin kept out for the purpose. She and her companion went back into the tavern and left Ben alone again. It suited him fine. The coble and its female crew was underway now, its single lug sail set and seeming to draw well. Ben puffed at his pipe and privately wished that plucky crew good luck. Any other day, he would have gone out with them, but today he was content to sit in his barrel-chair with his pipe.
A smile turned up the corners of his mouth at the thought of an honest day's fishing. What a simple life that was, really. Simple and difficult of course but he could think of no better life. Well. Almost. A fisherman in Amble or a farmer in High Hauxley. Both were the sorts of work a man could take genuine pride in. Then a youthful voice trampled in over his drifting thoughts, with a curious, "What ye smilin' a', Granda?"
Who else would that be but wee Jem. Ben turned his sightless eyes in the direction of his grandson's voice. "Nowt t'all but mem'ries, young'n. Be a good lad an' fetch yer granda a tot, then gan 'elp yer mairm in th' garden."
Young Jem scampered noisily off into the cottage to do as he was bidden. What a good lad, thought Ben as he sat back in his barrel-chair, drew in on his pipe, and let the midmorning sun warm his weathered face.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: All names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Story summary: An old seaman observes the goings-on by the docks in Amble, Northumberland. September, 1797.
Author's Note: Any factual errors that occur within are my own.
For a September morning, the weather was surprisingly mild. A light westerly breeze brushed over the harbour, whispering and humming through the rigging of the dozen or so vessels swinging gently at their anchors. The sun was barely free of the horizon yet already seemed as bright and warm as if it was greeting a midsummer day. In the strengthening light, Ben Heweslee puffed lazily at his worn clay pipe and watched a red-painted launch pull purposefully toward the long dock that jutted out into the harbour. The Navy. In the outer roads, a third-rate lay at anchor, with the vague outlines of men busily working just visible on her weatherdeck and aloft.
The dockside street was thinly crowded with women going about their daily business. There was hardly a pair of trousers to be seen anywhere. All the town's men had vanished inland to safety as soon as the man-o'-war had been sighted at the mouth of the bay the previous evening. Almost all of them, anyway. A few had stayed behind. Ben was one. He had no fear of being pressed. He sat back in his comfortable beer barrel-turned-chair, puffed his pipe, and watched the launch glide in to bump gently against the dock, the white-bladed oars tossed and dripping water onto the black tarred hats worn by the boat crew. An officer sat in the sternsheets, his cocked hat and long blue coat setting him instantly apart. As Ben watched, the bowman sprang lightly up onto the dock and in an instant tied off the painter line to the nearest cleat. The officer climbed out of the boat with a stiff sort of grace and stood off three paces while the boat crew, minus one man left behind to guard the launch, clambered onto the dock and formed themselves up into two uneven files.
A couple of weary-bodied harlots emerged from the tavern in front of which Ben was sitting and arranged themselves boredly on the adjacent bench. The three of them sat without speaking until the shambling band of sailors reached the street and headed toward them. Ben reckoned his presence had been the deciding factor. He was the only man in sight, after all. He offered the approaching sailors a snaggle-toothed smile around the stem of his pipe but made no greeting. It would be entirely up to the weather-beaten officer to exchange pleasantries. If he was that sort of fellow. The last one had been brusque to the point of rudeness and had subsequently been shown the error of his ways.
"I am Lieutenant Morgan, second of HMS Triumph. I am obliged by my captain to search this town for any able-bodied seamen who may be hiding or otherwise found here. We will use this tavern to hold any such men we discover. Are you the landlord here?"
Ben gave the lieutenant a careful, deliberate looking-over before nodding toward the tavern's door. "Inside, liek. Find 'im yersel'."
The two whores cackled at that, which made the sea officer very briefly look uncomfortable. Without a further word, he and his gang headed inside. One or two of the rearmost sailors gave the women second glances, with obvious interest. Ben rumbled a chuckle and sucked at his pipe. It had nearly gone out.
"D'ye reckon them'll stay long, er will they shove erff soon's they realise there's nerne aboot 'ere but bairns?" One of the women asked as she fished a small pouch of chewing tobacco from the folds her skirts.
"Divinit knaa, maybes," Ben answered with a slow shrug. He had turned his gaze back out over the harbour, where a handful of wind-worn women were preparing to set sail in a coble. In the absence of their men, they had little choice but to fill in the void. It was only temporary but the hard work of making a living could not be set aside. The same held true for those bustling around the dock street. And, of course, the two whores who were discussing the wisdom of paying a call on the lone seaman left behind in Triumph's launch.
The tavern's door banged open abruptly and a red-faced Lieutenant Morgan swept past, closely followed by his men. A fresh outburst of cackling arose from the two whores when they noticed the telltale damp on the front and shoulders of the lieutenant's coat. George Fisher had given the sea officer his usual warm welcome, it seemed.
"Divvil tak yer press gangs!" One of the women sneered. "We'll ner 'elp the lieks o' ye heer aboot."
One of the seamen stepped out of his file and made as if he meant to strike her, but Polly had never been one to tolerate abuse from any man. She got to her feet and, fixing the sailor with a steely-eyed glare, remarked, "Jis' ye try it."
"Come along, Danforth," Lieutenant Morgan said hastily. Polly's companion had also stood up and was watching the seamen with an expression of predatory interest. Ben had not moved from his chair but his own gaze was steadily on the would-be press gang, his pipe still between his lips.
Without a further word, the boat crew and its officer went hurrying off down the street, no doubt to carry out a futile search for any men to press. Polly rasped out a laugh and spat some tobacco juice into a nearby basin kept out for the purpose. She and her companion went back into the tavern and left Ben alone again. It suited him fine. The coble and its female crew was underway now, its single lug sail set and seeming to draw well. Ben puffed at his pipe and privately wished that plucky crew good luck. Any other day, he would have gone out with them, but today he was content to sit in his barrel-chair with his pipe.
A smile turned up the corners of his mouth at the thought of an honest day's fishing. What a simple life that was, really. Simple and difficult of course but he could think of no better life. Well. Almost. A fisherman in Amble or a farmer in High Hauxley. Both were the sorts of work a man could take genuine pride in. Then a youthful voice trampled in over his drifting thoughts, with a curious, "What ye smilin' a', Granda?"
Who else would that be but wee Jem. Ben turned his sightless eyes in the direction of his grandson's voice. "Nowt t'all but mem'ries, young'n. Be a good lad an' fetch yer granda a tot, then gan 'elp yer mairm in th' garden."
Young Jem scampered noisily off into the cottage to do as he was bidden. What a good lad, thought Ben as he sat back in his barrel-chair, drew in on his pipe, and let the midmorning sun warm his weathered face.