North Sea Christmas
Dec. 22nd, 2014 09:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: North Sea Christmas
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: With the exception of George and Nicholas Dowrick, who are my own creations, all names given in the story belong to men who served aboard Adamant - and later fought at Camperdown.
Story summary: A Marine gets an unexpected surprise for Christmas. HMS Adamant, December, 1796.
Author's Note: I have taken some liberties with names and facts, but intend no disrespect in so doing.
"Figgers it's bleedin' rainin' again," Thomas Smith muttered, peering disonsolately out into the haze of rain that had come drifting in on the westerly breeze.
George Dowrick shrugged and shielded his pipe from the drizzle. He hardly minded the rain, or the chill that came with it. "Might be blawin' instead, y'knaw," he observed in his lazy Cornish drawl. "This be jes' a luvvly wee skew."
"I dunner like bein' damp," was Smith's response.
"Yer in the wrong trade, Tom, 'f that be so. Why-fer's ye at sea, then?" Dowrick teased.
"Better fer to be at sea than marchin' me pins off, wi' the Army. 'Sides. I'da bin prest if I'd stayed to home." Smith shrugged and hunched his shoulders against the rain. Shaking his head, Dowrick offered no reply. Smith loved to grouse about his lot but it was seldom anything more than empty talk. If it was sunny, Smith complained that it was too warm. If it was raining, he didn't like being damp. There was just no winning.
Smith spat out a stream of brown tobacco juice over the side and sighed. "S'Chrissmas tomarrra," he remarked idly. "S'pose they'll give us'n an extry tot fer celebratin' with?"
"Mebbe. A decent tiddley-oggie wuddn't go amiss nether."
"Mhm. Now thar's an idear, Jory. Figger we can talk Slushy inter makin' one up fer us?"
They might, even with the ship's cook being a stubborn old git. Christmas fell on a pork day. It could just be worth trying. Dowrick sucked at his pipe and grimaced when he realised it had gone out. "Need Doyle fer it. He cudd talk a sparra outta a hedge."
"Aye, he can, that. I'll set him on it inna bit." Smith swiped rainwater off his face and grimaced. "Where'd you be this minute, if you din't hafta be here?"
"Home," answered Dowrick without hesitation as he knocked the dottle from his pipe so he could stow the old, stained clay implement away. "Tucked up in me cottage wi' the lass an' me young'ns. Bunch-hangin' wudda bin done a'ready an' there'd be candle dancin' this evenin' down at the squire's hall. Ol' Ben Roscrow'd have his spiced wine out, aye, an' there'd be more cakes an' pudds an' broths'n ye'd knaw what t'do wi'. Be more'n wudd feed the ship, reckon." He grinned at Smith. "S'how good farmin' folk lives, lak."
"You'd naught get anythin' o' that heer," Smith told him, ignoring the playful jab. He did not come from a farming family and Dowrick liked to tease him about it on occasion. "More's the pitty."
"Aye, well. An extry tot'd be a'right too. I'd nat say 'no' to a run ashore, nether."
"Nor me, too, but - "
"The boat ahoay!" A nearby seaman abruptly bellowed, springing up into the shrouds so he could see more clearly the blue-painted launch pulling purposefully toward Adamant. Dowrick caught the glare directed at them from Mister Shields, the boatswain, but only shrugged. They were not on duty, and neither were they looking toward the larboard quarter, from which the launch approached.
"No, no!" Came the prompt reply, though the launch's coxswain had already ordered his crew to stand off until permission to come alongside was granted by an officer. This was not long in coming and the black oarblades stirred into motion again.
Smith quirked an eyebrow. "New bods fer Chrissmas?"
"Seems lak." Dowrick counted the red-coated men sitting between the two files of oarsmen and shook his head. "Five only. Ain't much." A couple of the Marines in the launch were big lads though, sturdy in their build and no doubt bluff in their features. He could recognise a farmer from a mile distant and those two lads were farmers.
"I'll go fer Sarn't Tippen." Smith was already moving toward the forrard ladder, the unchewed lump of tobacco swept from his cheek and flung over the side. Addressing an NCO or an officer with chewing 'baccy in one's mouth was a sure way to earn a spell of field punishment. Dowrick remained at the foc's'le rail, a thoughtful frown wrinkling his brow. He couldn't be sure but the broad back and shoulders of one of those new Marines seemed familiar somehow.
The launch had hooked on by now and the Marines were clambering up the side-ladder, to a man struggling with this obstacle. None of them had been aboard a ship before, clearly. A couple of seamen, including the man who'd hailed the boat, were idling nearby and watching the spectacle with open interest. They were, like Dowrick, amused. It was not every day the foremast hands had such an opportunity to marvel at lubberly, unseasoned, Marines.
Still, Dowrick felt a measure of defensive annoyance at the seamen's comments as they watched one of the ex-farmers manage, after an effort, to drag himself through the entry-port. He did not recognise the lad, who shifted immediately to the side and then stamped smartly to attention at the appearance on deck of Sergeant Tippen. The next man up through the entry-port was the second ex-farmer and upon laying eyes on him, Dowrick felt as though the deck had dropped abruptly from beneath his feet.
"Nicca!" The name sprang forth entirely unbidden. It had the instant effect of making the new arrival - and nearly everyone else on deck - look sharply in his direction, which made Dowrick's face flush hot. He hadn't meant to speak out of turn but he could not help it. At the scowl from Sergeant Tippen, he brought his heels together with a thump, his back automatically straightening in the same heartbeat.
"You was sayin', Private Dowrick?"
"Parding, Sarn't. No 'scuse."
Tippen grunted and turned back to the short rank of new Marines, the last of them having scrambled awkwardly up the side. Five men only but one of them, Dowrick thought dazedly, should not be standing there in that uniform at all. So why was he?
"Devil's got inter ya?" Smith asked in an undertone, appearing wraith-like at Dowrick's elbow. There was no chance for the Cornishman to reply for the five new lads had just been dismissed to go below with their dunnage. To Dowrick's surprise, Sergeant Tippen went aft instead of coming forrard to give him a roasting for his one-word outburst. Did that mean he was not to get one? It might. It might not. He was prepared to risk the sergeant's temper by not waiting around to find out.
Ignoring Smith, Dowrick all but dove down the forrard ladder to the messdeck. It was dry down below, as well as stuffy, smelly, and poorly lit, but he knew exactly who he was looking for. "Nicca!" He said again, this time with a warmth reserved for a man who had not seen a dear relative in some time.
"Papa!" Nicholas Dowrick all but tackled his father to the deck, to the surprise of the other Marines around the messdeck. None of them had seen Dowrick this animated or expressive. He was ordinarily a great deal more reserved. In the moment, Dowrick himself hardly cared. His son was a Marine. His son had just joined his ship. What better cause for celebration was there?
"The hell's alla this, Jory?" Smith demanded, having followed Dowrick down from the weatherdeck.
Beaming, Dowrick slung an arm round his son's shoulders and declared, "Lads, s'Chrissmas, righ' 'nuff. This be m'boy, Nicca. I ain't set eyes on him in three year. He's growed up!"
A round of laughter arose and men pressed forward to greet the grinning youngster, making cheeky remarks about his hard luck having Dowrick for a father. It all passed harmless past Dowrick's ears. Of all the things he could have gotten for Christmas, this was the one thing he'd expected least and thus, naturally, the one thing he treasured the most. It went without saying that he could not go home but a piece of home had come to him and that was more than good enough.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: With the exception of George and Nicholas Dowrick, who are my own creations, all names given in the story belong to men who served aboard Adamant - and later fought at Camperdown.
Story summary: A Marine gets an unexpected surprise for Christmas. HMS Adamant, December, 1796.
Author's Note: I have taken some liberties with names and facts, but intend no disrespect in so doing.
"Figgers it's bleedin' rainin' again," Thomas Smith muttered, peering disonsolately out into the haze of rain that had come drifting in on the westerly breeze.
George Dowrick shrugged and shielded his pipe from the drizzle. He hardly minded the rain, or the chill that came with it. "Might be blawin' instead, y'knaw," he observed in his lazy Cornish drawl. "This be jes' a luvvly wee skew."
"I dunner like bein' damp," was Smith's response.
"Yer in the wrong trade, Tom, 'f that be so. Why-fer's ye at sea, then?" Dowrick teased.
"Better fer to be at sea than marchin' me pins off, wi' the Army. 'Sides. I'da bin prest if I'd stayed to home." Smith shrugged and hunched his shoulders against the rain. Shaking his head, Dowrick offered no reply. Smith loved to grouse about his lot but it was seldom anything more than empty talk. If it was sunny, Smith complained that it was too warm. If it was raining, he didn't like being damp. There was just no winning.
Smith spat out a stream of brown tobacco juice over the side and sighed. "S'Chrissmas tomarrra," he remarked idly. "S'pose they'll give us'n an extry tot fer celebratin' with?"
"Mebbe. A decent tiddley-oggie wuddn't go amiss nether."
"Mhm. Now thar's an idear, Jory. Figger we can talk Slushy inter makin' one up fer us?"
They might, even with the ship's cook being a stubborn old git. Christmas fell on a pork day. It could just be worth trying. Dowrick sucked at his pipe and grimaced when he realised it had gone out. "Need Doyle fer it. He cudd talk a sparra outta a hedge."
"Aye, he can, that. I'll set him on it inna bit." Smith swiped rainwater off his face and grimaced. "Where'd you be this minute, if you din't hafta be here?"
"Home," answered Dowrick without hesitation as he knocked the dottle from his pipe so he could stow the old, stained clay implement away. "Tucked up in me cottage wi' the lass an' me young'ns. Bunch-hangin' wudda bin done a'ready an' there'd be candle dancin' this evenin' down at the squire's hall. Ol' Ben Roscrow'd have his spiced wine out, aye, an' there'd be more cakes an' pudds an' broths'n ye'd knaw what t'do wi'. Be more'n wudd feed the ship, reckon." He grinned at Smith. "S'how good farmin' folk lives, lak."
"You'd naught get anythin' o' that heer," Smith told him, ignoring the playful jab. He did not come from a farming family and Dowrick liked to tease him about it on occasion. "More's the pitty."
"Aye, well. An extry tot'd be a'right too. I'd nat say 'no' to a run ashore, nether."
"Nor me, too, but - "
"The boat ahoay!" A nearby seaman abruptly bellowed, springing up into the shrouds so he could see more clearly the blue-painted launch pulling purposefully toward Adamant. Dowrick caught the glare directed at them from Mister Shields, the boatswain, but only shrugged. They were not on duty, and neither were they looking toward the larboard quarter, from which the launch approached.
"No, no!" Came the prompt reply, though the launch's coxswain had already ordered his crew to stand off until permission to come alongside was granted by an officer. This was not long in coming and the black oarblades stirred into motion again.
Smith quirked an eyebrow. "New bods fer Chrissmas?"
"Seems lak." Dowrick counted the red-coated men sitting between the two files of oarsmen and shook his head. "Five only. Ain't much." A couple of the Marines in the launch were big lads though, sturdy in their build and no doubt bluff in their features. He could recognise a farmer from a mile distant and those two lads were farmers.
"I'll go fer Sarn't Tippen." Smith was already moving toward the forrard ladder, the unchewed lump of tobacco swept from his cheek and flung over the side. Addressing an NCO or an officer with chewing 'baccy in one's mouth was a sure way to earn a spell of field punishment. Dowrick remained at the foc's'le rail, a thoughtful frown wrinkling his brow. He couldn't be sure but the broad back and shoulders of one of those new Marines seemed familiar somehow.
The launch had hooked on by now and the Marines were clambering up the side-ladder, to a man struggling with this obstacle. None of them had been aboard a ship before, clearly. A couple of seamen, including the man who'd hailed the boat, were idling nearby and watching the spectacle with open interest. They were, like Dowrick, amused. It was not every day the foremast hands had such an opportunity to marvel at lubberly, unseasoned, Marines.
Still, Dowrick felt a measure of defensive annoyance at the seamen's comments as they watched one of the ex-farmers manage, after an effort, to drag himself through the entry-port. He did not recognise the lad, who shifted immediately to the side and then stamped smartly to attention at the appearance on deck of Sergeant Tippen. The next man up through the entry-port was the second ex-farmer and upon laying eyes on him, Dowrick felt as though the deck had dropped abruptly from beneath his feet.
"Nicca!" The name sprang forth entirely unbidden. It had the instant effect of making the new arrival - and nearly everyone else on deck - look sharply in his direction, which made Dowrick's face flush hot. He hadn't meant to speak out of turn but he could not help it. At the scowl from Sergeant Tippen, he brought his heels together with a thump, his back automatically straightening in the same heartbeat.
"You was sayin', Private Dowrick?"
"Parding, Sarn't. No 'scuse."
Tippen grunted and turned back to the short rank of new Marines, the last of them having scrambled awkwardly up the side. Five men only but one of them, Dowrick thought dazedly, should not be standing there in that uniform at all. So why was he?
"Devil's got inter ya?" Smith asked in an undertone, appearing wraith-like at Dowrick's elbow. There was no chance for the Cornishman to reply for the five new lads had just been dismissed to go below with their dunnage. To Dowrick's surprise, Sergeant Tippen went aft instead of coming forrard to give him a roasting for his one-word outburst. Did that mean he was not to get one? It might. It might not. He was prepared to risk the sergeant's temper by not waiting around to find out.
Ignoring Smith, Dowrick all but dove down the forrard ladder to the messdeck. It was dry down below, as well as stuffy, smelly, and poorly lit, but he knew exactly who he was looking for. "Nicca!" He said again, this time with a warmth reserved for a man who had not seen a dear relative in some time.
"Papa!" Nicholas Dowrick all but tackled his father to the deck, to the surprise of the other Marines around the messdeck. None of them had seen Dowrick this animated or expressive. He was ordinarily a great deal more reserved. In the moment, Dowrick himself hardly cared. His son was a Marine. His son had just joined his ship. What better cause for celebration was there?
"The hell's alla this, Jory?" Smith demanded, having followed Dowrick down from the weatherdeck.
Beaming, Dowrick slung an arm round his son's shoulders and declared, "Lads, s'Chrissmas, righ' 'nuff. This be m'boy, Nicca. I ain't set eyes on him in three year. He's growed up!"
A round of laughter arose and men pressed forward to greet the grinning youngster, making cheeky remarks about his hard luck having Dowrick for a father. It all passed harmless past Dowrick's ears. Of all the things he could have gotten for Christmas, this was the one thing he'd expected least and thus, naturally, the one thing he treasured the most. It went without saying that he could not go home but a piece of home had come to him and that was more than good enough.
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Date: 2014-12-23 03:10 am (UTC)Too tired for proper comments and all, but I like it, I do! :D
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Date: 2014-12-23 10:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-25 10:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-26 11:00 pm (UTC)