Hatherton, 13th of January 1712
Jul. 16th, 2017 09:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doesnotkneelWhy couldn’t Edward be happy with her? Caroline had asked. But Edward was happy with her. Why couldn’t Edward be happy with his life? she’d asked. No, Edward wasn’t happy with his life.
He tried. He begged and pleaded with her. Pointed out that he was still her husband, that he was doing this for her. But his pleas fell on deaf ears.
She was worried about Edward being hurt. Edward replied that he would be careful; that he would return with coin or send for her. He told her he needed her faith, but it helped him none.
It was the day Edward was due to leave, and he went home and packed his bags, slung them over his horse and left, with those very same recriminatory looks boring into his back, stabbing at him like arrows. As evening fell Edward rode to the dock with a heavy heart, and there found the Emperor. But instead of the expected industry, it was practically empty. The only people present were a group of six men who sat gambling with leather flasks of rum close at hand, casks for chairs, a crate for a dice table.
Edward looked from them to the Emperor. A refitted merchant ship, she was riding high in the water. The decks were empty, none of the lamps were lit, and the railings shone in the moonlight. A sleeping giant, she was. On those decks Edward would serve. On hammocks in quarters below decks he would sleep. The masts I would climb. He was looking at his new home.
One of the men eyed Edward carefully.
“Now, what can I do for you?” he said.
He swallowed, suddenly feeling very young and inexperienced and suddenly, tragically wondering if everything they said about him — Caroline’s father, the drinkers in the taverns, even Caroline herself —
might be true. That, actually, Edward might not be cut out for life at sea.
“I’m here to join up,” he said, “sent here by Dylan Wallace.”
A snicker ran through the group of four and each of them looked at Edward with an even greater interest. “Dylan Wallace, the recruitment man, eh?” said the first. “He’s sent one or two to us before. What is it you can do, boy?”
“Mr. Wallace thought I would be material enough to serve,” he said, hoping he sounded more confident and able than he felt.
“How’s your eyesight?” said one.
“My eyesight is fine.”
“Do you have a head for heights?”
Edward finally knew what they meant, as they pointed up to the highest point of the Emperor’s rigging, the crow’s nest, home to the lookout.
“Mr. Wallace had me more in mind as deck-hand, I think.”
Officer material was what he’d actually said, but Edward wasn’t about to tell this lot. He was young and nervous. Not stupid.
“Well, can you sew, lad?” came the reply.
They were mocking me, surely. “What does sewing have to do with privateering, then?” Edward asked, feeling a little impudent despite the circumstances.
“The deck-hand needs to be able to sew, boy,” said one of the other men. Like all the others he had a tarred pigtail and tattoos that crept from the sleeves and neck of his shirt. “Needs to be good with knots too. Are you good with knots, boy?”
“These are things I can learn,” Edward replied.
He stared at the ship with its furled sails, rigging hanging in tidy loops from the masts and the hull studded with brass barrels peeking from its gun-deck. He saw himself like the men who sat on the casks before me, their faces leathery and tanned from their time at sea, eyes that gleamed with menace and adventure. Custodians of the ship.
“You have to get used to a lot else as well besides,” said one man, “scraping barnacles off the hull, caulking the boat with tar.”
“You got your sea legs, son?” asked another. They were laughing at Edward by then. “Can you keep your stomach when she’s lashed with waves and hurricane winds?”
“I reckon I can,” he replied, adding with a surge of impetuous anger, “Either way, that’s not why Mr. Wallace thought I might make a good crewmate.”
A look passed between them. The atmosphere changed a little.
“Oh yes?” said one of them, swinging his legs round. He wore dirty canvas trousers. “Why is it that the recruiting officer thought you might make a good crewmate, then?”
“Having seen me in action, he thought I might be useful in a battle.”
He stood. “A fighter, eh?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, you have ample opportunity to prove your abilities in that area, boy, starting tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll put myself down for a bout, shall I?”
“What do you mean, ‘tomorrow’?” I asked.
He had sat down, returning his attention to the game. “Tomorrow, when we sail.”
“I was told we sailed tonight.”
“Sail tomorrow, lad. Captain isn’t even here yet. We sail first thing.”
Edward left them, knowing he might well have made his first enemies on ship; still, he had some time — time to put things right. He retrieved his horse and headed for home.
---
Edward galloped towards Hatherton, towards home. Why was he going back? Perhaps to tell them he was sorry. Perhaps to explain what was going through his mind. After all, Edward was their son. Maybe his father would recognize in him some vestige of himself and maybe if Father did, he would forgive him.
As Edward travelled back along the highway, what he realized more than anything was that he wanted Father to forgive him. Both of them.
It left him distracted, his guard down.
Edward was near to home, where the trees formed a narrow avenue, when he sensed a movement in the hedgerow. He drew to a halt and listened. When you live in the countryside you sense the changes and something was different. From above came a sharp whistle that could only have been a warning whistle and at the same time He saw more movement ahead of him, except this was in the yard of the farmhouse.
Edward's heart hammered as he spurred his horse and galloped towards the yard. At the same time he saw the unmistakable flare of a torch. Not a lamp, but a torch. The kind of torch you might use if you were intending to set something ablaze. At the same time he saw running figures and in the glare of torchlight saw that they wore hoods.
“Hey,” Edward shouted, as much to try and wake Mother and Father as to frighten off their attackers.
“Hey,” he yelled again.
A torch arced through the air, twirling end over end, leaving an orange trail in the night sky before landing in a shower of sparks on the thatch of their home. It was dry—tinder dry and it went up with a whoompf.
He saw more figures, three, perhaps four. Just as Edward came into the yard and pulled up, a shape flew at him from the side, hands grabbed his tunic and he was dragged from the back of his horse.
The breath was driven from him as he thumped hard to the ground. Nearby were rocks for a stone wall.
Weapons. Then above him loomed a figure that blocked out the moon, hooded, like the others. Before Edward could react he stooped, and Ed caught a brief impression of the hood fabric pulsing at his mouth as he breathed hard; and then his fist smashed into Edward's face. He twisted and the second blow landed on Ed's neck. Beside him appeared another figure, and Edward saw a glint of steel. But the first man stopped the new arrival with a simple barked, “No,” and he was saved from the blade at least, but not from the beating, and a boot in my midriff doubled him up.
That boot — Edward recognized that boot.
Again it came, again, until at last it stopped and Ed's attacker spat and ran off. His hands went to his wounded belly and he rolled onto my front and coughed, the blackness threatening to engulf him. Maybe Edward’d let it. The idea of sinking into oblivion seemed tempting. Let unconsciousness take the pain. Deliver him into the future.
The sound of running feet as his attackers escaped. Some indistinct shouting. The cries of the disturbed ewes.
But no. Edward was still alive. About to kiss steel he’d been given a second chance and that was too good a chance to pass up. He had his parents to save and even then Edward knew that he was going to make these people pay. The owner of those boots would regret not killing him when he had the chance. Of that Edward was sure.
He pulled himself up. Smoke drifted across the yard like a bank of incoming fog. One of the barns was already alight. The house too. Edward needed to wake them, needed to wake his mother and father.
The dirt around him was bathed in the orange glow of the fire. As Edward stood he was aware of horses’ hooves and swung about to see several riders retreating — riding away from the farmhouse, their job done, the place well alight by then. He snatched up a rock and considered hurling it at one of the riders, but there were more important matters to worry about, and with a grunt that was part effort and part pain, Edward launched the rock at the top window of the farmhouse.
His aim was true and he prayed it would be enough to rouse his parents. The smoke was thick in the yard, the roar of the flames like an escaped hell.
At the door they appeared: Father battling his way out of the flames with Mother in his arms. His face was set, his eyes blank. All he could think about was making sure she was safe. After he’d taken Mother out of the reach of the flames and laid her carefully down in the yard near where Edward stood, he straightened and like me gaped helplessly at the burning building.
Then, his face hot and glowing in the light of the flames, Edward's father did something he’d never seen. He began to cry.
“Father . . .” Edward reached for him, and he pulled his shoulder away with an angry shrug, and when he turned to Ed, his face blackened with smoke and streaked by tears he shook with restrained violence, as though it was taking every ounce of his self-control to stop himself from lashing out. From lashing out at Edward.
“Poison. That’s what you are,” Father said through clenched teeth, “poison. The ruin of our lives.”
“Father . . .”
“Get out of here,” he spat. “Get out of here. I never want to see you again.”
Mother stirred as though she was about to protest, and rather than face more upset — rather than be the cause of more upset — Edward mounted his horse and left.
[[ i finally remembered to do this. taken from the Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag novelization ]]
He tried. He begged and pleaded with her. Pointed out that he was still her husband, that he was doing this for her. But his pleas fell on deaf ears.
She was worried about Edward being hurt. Edward replied that he would be careful; that he would return with coin or send for her. He told her he needed her faith, but it helped him none.
It was the day Edward was due to leave, and he went home and packed his bags, slung them over his horse and left, with those very same recriminatory looks boring into his back, stabbing at him like arrows. As evening fell Edward rode to the dock with a heavy heart, and there found the Emperor. But instead of the expected industry, it was practically empty. The only people present were a group of six men who sat gambling with leather flasks of rum close at hand, casks for chairs, a crate for a dice table.
Edward looked from them to the Emperor. A refitted merchant ship, she was riding high in the water. The decks were empty, none of the lamps were lit, and the railings shone in the moonlight. A sleeping giant, she was. On those decks Edward would serve. On hammocks in quarters below decks he would sleep. The masts I would climb. He was looking at his new home.
One of the men eyed Edward carefully.
“Now, what can I do for you?” he said.
He swallowed, suddenly feeling very young and inexperienced and suddenly, tragically wondering if everything they said about him — Caroline’s father, the drinkers in the taverns, even Caroline herself —
might be true. That, actually, Edward might not be cut out for life at sea.
“I’m here to join up,” he said, “sent here by Dylan Wallace.”
A snicker ran through the group of four and each of them looked at Edward with an even greater interest. “Dylan Wallace, the recruitment man, eh?” said the first. “He’s sent one or two to us before. What is it you can do, boy?”
“Mr. Wallace thought I would be material enough to serve,” he said, hoping he sounded more confident and able than he felt.
“How’s your eyesight?” said one.
“My eyesight is fine.”
“Do you have a head for heights?”
Edward finally knew what they meant, as they pointed up to the highest point of the Emperor’s rigging, the crow’s nest, home to the lookout.
“Mr. Wallace had me more in mind as deck-hand, I think.”
Officer material was what he’d actually said, but Edward wasn’t about to tell this lot. He was young and nervous. Not stupid.
“Well, can you sew, lad?” came the reply.
They were mocking me, surely. “What does sewing have to do with privateering, then?” Edward asked, feeling a little impudent despite the circumstances.
“The deck-hand needs to be able to sew, boy,” said one of the other men. Like all the others he had a tarred pigtail and tattoos that crept from the sleeves and neck of his shirt. “Needs to be good with knots too. Are you good with knots, boy?”
“These are things I can learn,” Edward replied.
He stared at the ship with its furled sails, rigging hanging in tidy loops from the masts and the hull studded with brass barrels peeking from its gun-deck. He saw himself like the men who sat on the casks before me, their faces leathery and tanned from their time at sea, eyes that gleamed with menace and adventure. Custodians of the ship.
“You have to get used to a lot else as well besides,” said one man, “scraping barnacles off the hull, caulking the boat with tar.”
“You got your sea legs, son?” asked another. They were laughing at Edward by then. “Can you keep your stomach when she’s lashed with waves and hurricane winds?”
“I reckon I can,” he replied, adding with a surge of impetuous anger, “Either way, that’s not why Mr. Wallace thought I might make a good crewmate.”
A look passed between them. The atmosphere changed a little.
“Oh yes?” said one of them, swinging his legs round. He wore dirty canvas trousers. “Why is it that the recruiting officer thought you might make a good crewmate, then?”
“Having seen me in action, he thought I might be useful in a battle.”
He stood. “A fighter, eh?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, you have ample opportunity to prove your abilities in that area, boy, starting tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll put myself down for a bout, shall I?”
“What do you mean, ‘tomorrow’?” I asked.
He had sat down, returning his attention to the game. “Tomorrow, when we sail.”
“I was told we sailed tonight.”
“Sail tomorrow, lad. Captain isn’t even here yet. We sail first thing.”
Edward left them, knowing he might well have made his first enemies on ship; still, he had some time — time to put things right. He retrieved his horse and headed for home.
---
Edward galloped towards Hatherton, towards home. Why was he going back? Perhaps to tell them he was sorry. Perhaps to explain what was going through his mind. After all, Edward was their son. Maybe his father would recognize in him some vestige of himself and maybe if Father did, he would forgive him.
As Edward travelled back along the highway, what he realized more than anything was that he wanted Father to forgive him. Both of them.
It left him distracted, his guard down.
Edward was near to home, where the trees formed a narrow avenue, when he sensed a movement in the hedgerow. He drew to a halt and listened. When you live in the countryside you sense the changes and something was different. From above came a sharp whistle that could only have been a warning whistle and at the same time He saw more movement ahead of him, except this was in the yard of the farmhouse.
Edward's heart hammered as he spurred his horse and galloped towards the yard. At the same time he saw the unmistakable flare of a torch. Not a lamp, but a torch. The kind of torch you might use if you were intending to set something ablaze. At the same time he saw running figures and in the glare of torchlight saw that they wore hoods.
“Hey,” Edward shouted, as much to try and wake Mother and Father as to frighten off their attackers.
“Hey,” he yelled again.
A torch arced through the air, twirling end over end, leaving an orange trail in the night sky before landing in a shower of sparks on the thatch of their home. It was dry—tinder dry and it went up with a whoompf.
He saw more figures, three, perhaps four. Just as Edward came into the yard and pulled up, a shape flew at him from the side, hands grabbed his tunic and he was dragged from the back of his horse.
The breath was driven from him as he thumped hard to the ground. Nearby were rocks for a stone wall.
Weapons. Then above him loomed a figure that blocked out the moon, hooded, like the others. Before Edward could react he stooped, and Ed caught a brief impression of the hood fabric pulsing at his mouth as he breathed hard; and then his fist smashed into Edward's face. He twisted and the second blow landed on Ed's neck. Beside him appeared another figure, and Edward saw a glint of steel. But the first man stopped the new arrival with a simple barked, “No,” and he was saved from the blade at least, but not from the beating, and a boot in my midriff doubled him up.
That boot — Edward recognized that boot.
Again it came, again, until at last it stopped and Ed's attacker spat and ran off. His hands went to his wounded belly and he rolled onto my front and coughed, the blackness threatening to engulf him. Maybe Edward’d let it. The idea of sinking into oblivion seemed tempting. Let unconsciousness take the pain. Deliver him into the future.
The sound of running feet as his attackers escaped. Some indistinct shouting. The cries of the disturbed ewes.
But no. Edward was still alive. About to kiss steel he’d been given a second chance and that was too good a chance to pass up. He had his parents to save and even then Edward knew that he was going to make these people pay. The owner of those boots would regret not killing him when he had the chance. Of that Edward was sure.
He pulled himself up. Smoke drifted across the yard like a bank of incoming fog. One of the barns was already alight. The house too. Edward needed to wake them, needed to wake his mother and father.
The dirt around him was bathed in the orange glow of the fire. As Edward stood he was aware of horses’ hooves and swung about to see several riders retreating — riding away from the farmhouse, their job done, the place well alight by then. He snatched up a rock and considered hurling it at one of the riders, but there were more important matters to worry about, and with a grunt that was part effort and part pain, Edward launched the rock at the top window of the farmhouse.
His aim was true and he prayed it would be enough to rouse his parents. The smoke was thick in the yard, the roar of the flames like an escaped hell.
At the door they appeared: Father battling his way out of the flames with Mother in his arms. His face was set, his eyes blank. All he could think about was making sure she was safe. After he’d taken Mother out of the reach of the flames and laid her carefully down in the yard near where Edward stood, he straightened and like me gaped helplessly at the burning building.
Then, his face hot and glowing in the light of the flames, Edward's father did something he’d never seen. He began to cry.
“Father . . .” Edward reached for him, and he pulled his shoulder away with an angry shrug, and when he turned to Ed, his face blackened with smoke and streaked by tears he shook with restrained violence, as though it was taking every ounce of his self-control to stop himself from lashing out. From lashing out at Edward.
“Poison. That’s what you are,” Father said through clenched teeth, “poison. The ruin of our lives.”
“Father . . .”
“Get out of here,” he spat. “Get out of here. I never want to see you again.”
Mother stirred as though she was about to protest, and rather than face more upset — rather than be the cause of more upset — Edward mounted his horse and left.
[[ i finally remembered to do this. taken from the Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag novelization ]]
