Other Sons
Nov. 12th, 2011 05:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anteros_lmcTitle: Other Sons
Author: Anteros
Characters: Archie Kennedy
Rating: R
Notes: This was inspired by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eglantine_br's beautiful piece Fathers and Forgiving.
Ayrshire, 12th February 1794
Kennedy gazed out the tall windows and frowned. Every year it was the same, every February a shadow fell over his wife’s fine lively features. Despite the approach of her half-century and the inevitable toll of the six children she had borne him, Lady Catherine wore the years lightly. But for February. In that short month she paled and fell silent, her laughing mouth drawn into a thin tight line, the roses on her cheeks faded and her shining blue eyes grew clouded and dim.
They never spoke of her sorrow. There was nothing to be gained from raking over those coals. It was five years since he had gone. Five years since he had sent their youngest son to sea. They were at war now. They must all make sacrifices. Besides, he had their good name and the reputation of the family to think of. And they had other sons.
Beyond the parlour windows the morning light was glittering on the sea, dancing in silver sparks over the blue water. It was one of those breath-taking days that appeared unexpectedly on the west coast, crystallising from the depths of winter. Suddenly, out of the bleak unending grey, and bitter gales of winter, sky and sea were shining, a clear unending blue. A brief, bright glimpse of spring, before the sleet and storms of the long Scottish winder bore down on them once more.
Their youngest had arrived, equally unexpectedly, on just such a day. Struggling into the world with a determination that belied his size. It had been a late and difficult confinement, their youngest daughter had already left the nursery for the schoolroom and they had expected no more. The doctor had warned Kennedy that neither mother nor babe might survive, and the first few weeks had been precarious for both. Survive they did though, and despite his uncertain start in life, his youngest son grew hale and strong and healthy.
Kennedy had three sons, his first had been a long time coming, but the coveted heir had barely lived to draw breath in his mother’s arms. Undaunted, Lady Catherine dutifully presented Kennedy with another heir, closely followed by a second and a brace of daughters. Archibald came last, the youngest of five. On his christening, the minister had thanked the family for producing an extra son “for the church”.
All the children grew fine and strong but Kennedy could not help reflecting that all the fire had passed into his daughters. They were as bright as they were beautiful and they were daunted by nothing. Not that his sons were a disappointment, they were fine young men, with their father’s dark countenance and sober intelligence but they lacked the wit and vitality that was so characteristic of his wife and daughters.
Archibald was different though. Along with his mother’s tawny golden locks and peerless blue eyes, he had inherited her innate strength and unquenchable spirit. Lady Catherine loved all her children, unquestioningly, unconditionally, but she had been devoted to her youngest. The unexpected offspring of her later years.
Despite his quick wits and enquiring mind, the boy’s high spirits and sharp irreverent tongue frequently brought him into conflict with the dominies. As a result, young Archie was no stranger to the sting of the tawse. However he was as adept at talking his way out of trouble as he was at getting into it and his mother frequently sighed that he could charm the birds from the trees if only he would sit still for long enough.
Archie had been an engaging and affectionate boy, popular with the children of lairds and tenants alike. As a child he had frequently been admonished for his familiarity with the village boys; fighting in the byre, running naked on the sands, scrambling over the rocks on the shore, returning home with his breeches torn and dirty, and his pockets full of sandy treasures. His wife had indulged her youngest’s high spirits, and stayed his father’s hand. However as the summers passed and he had shown no inclination to put aside his childish games and unsuitable boyhood friends, he had been beaten soundly and reminded of his position in society and his duty to uphold the honour of the family name. Little good it did. The more Archibald was beaten the more wilful he became, and a tough stubborn streak emerged that could scarcely be credited in one who appeared so mild and fair. It was a quality that Kennedy recognised as his own legacy to his son.
It had been no small relief to Kennedy when Archibald had taken up with young Dalrymple, second son of the Earl of Stair, newly returned from a tour of the continent. Despite the Earl’s not inconsiderable standing, his wife had been less impressed, maintaining that the young man was much too old a companion for her son. And besides, she had heard from her circle that Dalrymple was nothing more than a dissolute rake who had squandered his inheritance in the clubs of Paris, leaving a trail of debt and rumour in his wake. Kennedy had rebuked her for stooping to listen to gossip and tittle-tattle. Archibald was nearly thirteen, it was high time he entered into the world and became accustomed to gentlemanly pursuits and the company of his peers. Six years had passed, but Kennedy still remembered vividly how his wife had stormed furiously from the room when he told her she must stop spoiling and cossetting the boy.
It was a mark of Lady Catherine’s character that she had not thrown his lack of judgement back in his face when Dalrymple’s inclinations had proved to be considerably less gentlemanly than was deemed proper. Stair swiftly despatched the young man on yet another tour of the continent and Kennedy was left to deal with his own son, and the unfortunate rumours associated with his name.
Kennedy had been all for sending the boy to the seminary, but even he had to acknowledge that his son had neither the temperament nor inclination for the church. Instead he was persuaded by his wife to send Archibald to London, where they kept a modest town house and where they could join him later in the season. So the boy was despatched to London in the care of a stern faced tutor whose formidable reputation for discipline had been bolstered by Kennedy’s own instruction not to spare the rod.
Archie had left on a clear spring morning, with his cheeks dry and his chin lifted high. Lady Catherine had waved him off with a bright smile and a few restrained motherly tears. When the carriage turned the bend in the road she retired to her chamber and remained there alone for the rest of the day.
The summer passed uneventfully and the fishwives soon lost interest in second hand stories about “the Kennedy boy.” Archibald wrote regularly and diligently. His tutor reported that the boy was barely out of his sight and was attending to his lessons tolerably well. Kennedy was relieved. He had to admit that he missed his youngest’s bright smile and high spirits, but he had other sons, and the family name to think of.
It was unfortunate for all concerned that the tutor’s stern looks and grim demeanour hid a duplicitous nature and an over fondness for porter. When the family removed to London for the winter season, they discovered that while their son had indeed been attending to his lessons, more by his own volition than through any effort on the part of his tutor, he had also been attending rather more studiously to the delights of Drury Lane. The tutor was dismissed on the spot and Archibald was confined to barracks and had his allowance stopped. Kennedy hoped the matter might end there, but as ever more scandalous rumours of his son’s stage door liaisons reached his ears it was more than he could thole. The boy had to learn his lesson and his proper place in society once and for all.
The military was the obvious answer but Kennedy simply could not afford to purchase a commission for Archibald. His eldest son’s commission in the 21st Regiment of Foot had carved a considerable hole in his meagre capital. Despite Kennedy’s lateral connection to the great house of Cassilis, his particular branch of the clan was sadly diminished. Kennedy, had inherited title and entail but little else. A commission was out of the question and no son of his would join the ranks; therefore it would have to be the navy. After all, hadn’t Cassilis himself won considerable renown for his services at sea? Kennedy briefly considered approaching the Earl to take interest in his son but quickly rejected the idea. The fewer questions asked about the boy the better. Best to send him off quietly.
So uniforms with gleaming white collar patches were purchased, a sea chest filled and Archibald Kennedy, a week shy of his fourteenth birthday, was shipped off to Portsmouth to take up the position of Boy, First Class, on His Majesty’s Ship of the line Justinian, captained by one James Keene, an acquaintance of a business associate of his father.
Archibald accepted his fate with good grace and an equal degree of expectation and trepidation. He had written at first, letters full of wit and wonder, dutiful letters commending himself to his parents. But within a bare three months the letters had petered out to occasional terse missives. His mother had fretted, and suggested they take temporary lodgings in Portsmouth for a time, or at least return to London in the hope that shore leave might be forthcoming. Kennedy had reminded her that was hardly wise. Did she wish to bring more disgrace on the family name?
The brief letters dwindled and finally stopped. His wife continued to write regularly but for a long year they heard nothing. Kennedy himself had other preoccupations, the situation on the continent continued to deteriorate and everywhere the talk was of war. After months of rumour and speculation, quite suddenly, the unpleasantness in France came to a head, Louis was executed and war declared. And just as suddenly his son’s correspondence resumed. The letters arrived irregularly but they were long, garrulous and colourful. Archibald was to be transferred to a frigate, HMS Indefatigable captained by “none other” than the renowned Captain Sir Edward Pellew. (Kennedy had never heard of Sir Edward Pellew or his “renown”). He had been made midshipman. The captain had invited the mids to dine in the great cabin. The captain had said this. The captain had done that. They had seen action. He had boarded a French ship. He had killed two frogs, well one certainly. They had taken prizes. He hoped to be given command of one some day soon. And throughout, the letters were peppered with the outlandish name of one Horatio Hornblower.
Much as she fretted about the war, his wife had been delighted by her son’s renewed enthusiasm for correspondence. But once again, quite suddenly, the letters stopped. One more letter came, in a different hand, a week after his eighteenth birthday. It regretfully informed them that their son, Mr Midshipman Archibald Kennedy of His Majesty’s Ship Indefatigable had been lost at sea, missing in action in the Gironde estuary. The letter continued with respectful and sincere sympathy and was signed Ed. Pellew.
That had been almost a year ago. There had been one further letter. Addressed to Lady Catherine in a tall looping hand Kennedy did not recognise. A letter of condolence from one of his son’s shipmates. His wife had read the letter and folded it away. She made no further mention of it but Kennedy had found her reading and rereading it at frequent intervals. Whether it was a sign of her weakness as a woman or her determination as a mother, Lady Catherine refused to give her youngest son up for dead. She scanned the Gazette and the papers weekly and wrote every month to the Admiralty and the Transport Board. But to no avail. Nothing more was heard of Archibald Kennedy.
For his own part, Kennedy let it be known that his youngest son had been lost at sea in the service of his country. The minister had commemorated the young man in a dignified sermon and any taint associated with his name was respectfully overlooked in light of his dutiful sacrifice. Choosing to believe him dead, Kennedy had inured himself to his son’s loss. It would not have been seemly to mourn over much a son lost in the glorious service of King and country. Not when he had two sons yet living.
But still, when Kennedy looked out across the shining sea on a clear blue February morning he could not prevent a pang of grief and regret for the loss of his youngest son. For all his irreverence, disobedience and misdemeanours Archie had more courage and spirit in him than any lordly interest could impart or costly commission purchase. Kennedy frowned and turned his back on the tall bright windows. He should not grieve. He had other sons.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Archie Kennedy
Rating: R
Notes: This was inspired by
eglantine_br's beautiful piece Fathers and Forgiving.Ayrshire, 12th February 1794
Kennedy gazed out the tall windows and frowned. Every year it was the same, every February a shadow fell over his wife’s fine lively features. Despite the approach of her half-century and the inevitable toll of the six children she had borne him, Lady Catherine wore the years lightly. But for February. In that short month she paled and fell silent, her laughing mouth drawn into a thin tight line, the roses on her cheeks faded and her shining blue eyes grew clouded and dim.
They never spoke of her sorrow. There was nothing to be gained from raking over those coals. It was five years since he had gone. Five years since he had sent their youngest son to sea. They were at war now. They must all make sacrifices. Besides, he had their good name and the reputation of the family to think of. And they had other sons.
Beyond the parlour windows the morning light was glittering on the sea, dancing in silver sparks over the blue water. It was one of those breath-taking days that appeared unexpectedly on the west coast, crystallising from the depths of winter. Suddenly, out of the bleak unending grey, and bitter gales of winter, sky and sea were shining, a clear unending blue. A brief, bright glimpse of spring, before the sleet and storms of the long Scottish winder bore down on them once more.
Their youngest had arrived, equally unexpectedly, on just such a day. Struggling into the world with a determination that belied his size. It had been a late and difficult confinement, their youngest daughter had already left the nursery for the schoolroom and they had expected no more. The doctor had warned Kennedy that neither mother nor babe might survive, and the first few weeks had been precarious for both. Survive they did though, and despite his uncertain start in life, his youngest son grew hale and strong and healthy.
Kennedy had three sons, his first had been a long time coming, but the coveted heir had barely lived to draw breath in his mother’s arms. Undaunted, Lady Catherine dutifully presented Kennedy with another heir, closely followed by a second and a brace of daughters. Archibald came last, the youngest of five. On his christening, the minister had thanked the family for producing an extra son “for the church”.
All the children grew fine and strong but Kennedy could not help reflecting that all the fire had passed into his daughters. They were as bright as they were beautiful and they were daunted by nothing. Not that his sons were a disappointment, they were fine young men, with their father’s dark countenance and sober intelligence but they lacked the wit and vitality that was so characteristic of his wife and daughters.
Archibald was different though. Along with his mother’s tawny golden locks and peerless blue eyes, he had inherited her innate strength and unquenchable spirit. Lady Catherine loved all her children, unquestioningly, unconditionally, but she had been devoted to her youngest. The unexpected offspring of her later years.
Despite his quick wits and enquiring mind, the boy’s high spirits and sharp irreverent tongue frequently brought him into conflict with the dominies. As a result, young Archie was no stranger to the sting of the tawse. However he was as adept at talking his way out of trouble as he was at getting into it and his mother frequently sighed that he could charm the birds from the trees if only he would sit still for long enough.
Archie had been an engaging and affectionate boy, popular with the children of lairds and tenants alike. As a child he had frequently been admonished for his familiarity with the village boys; fighting in the byre, running naked on the sands, scrambling over the rocks on the shore, returning home with his breeches torn and dirty, and his pockets full of sandy treasures. His wife had indulged her youngest’s high spirits, and stayed his father’s hand. However as the summers passed and he had shown no inclination to put aside his childish games and unsuitable boyhood friends, he had been beaten soundly and reminded of his position in society and his duty to uphold the honour of the family name. Little good it did. The more Archibald was beaten the more wilful he became, and a tough stubborn streak emerged that could scarcely be credited in one who appeared so mild and fair. It was a quality that Kennedy recognised as his own legacy to his son.
It had been no small relief to Kennedy when Archibald had taken up with young Dalrymple, second son of the Earl of Stair, newly returned from a tour of the continent. Despite the Earl’s not inconsiderable standing, his wife had been less impressed, maintaining that the young man was much too old a companion for her son. And besides, she had heard from her circle that Dalrymple was nothing more than a dissolute rake who had squandered his inheritance in the clubs of Paris, leaving a trail of debt and rumour in his wake. Kennedy had rebuked her for stooping to listen to gossip and tittle-tattle. Archibald was nearly thirteen, it was high time he entered into the world and became accustomed to gentlemanly pursuits and the company of his peers. Six years had passed, but Kennedy still remembered vividly how his wife had stormed furiously from the room when he told her she must stop spoiling and cossetting the boy.
It was a mark of Lady Catherine’s character that she had not thrown his lack of judgement back in his face when Dalrymple’s inclinations had proved to be considerably less gentlemanly than was deemed proper. Stair swiftly despatched the young man on yet another tour of the continent and Kennedy was left to deal with his own son, and the unfortunate rumours associated with his name.
Kennedy had been all for sending the boy to the seminary, but even he had to acknowledge that his son had neither the temperament nor inclination for the church. Instead he was persuaded by his wife to send Archibald to London, where they kept a modest town house and where they could join him later in the season. So the boy was despatched to London in the care of a stern faced tutor whose formidable reputation for discipline had been bolstered by Kennedy’s own instruction not to spare the rod.
Archie had left on a clear spring morning, with his cheeks dry and his chin lifted high. Lady Catherine had waved him off with a bright smile and a few restrained motherly tears. When the carriage turned the bend in the road she retired to her chamber and remained there alone for the rest of the day.
The summer passed uneventfully and the fishwives soon lost interest in second hand stories about “the Kennedy boy.” Archibald wrote regularly and diligently. His tutor reported that the boy was barely out of his sight and was attending to his lessons tolerably well. Kennedy was relieved. He had to admit that he missed his youngest’s bright smile and high spirits, but he had other sons, and the family name to think of.
It was unfortunate for all concerned that the tutor’s stern looks and grim demeanour hid a duplicitous nature and an over fondness for porter. When the family removed to London for the winter season, they discovered that while their son had indeed been attending to his lessons, more by his own volition than through any effort on the part of his tutor, he had also been attending rather more studiously to the delights of Drury Lane. The tutor was dismissed on the spot and Archibald was confined to barracks and had his allowance stopped. Kennedy hoped the matter might end there, but as ever more scandalous rumours of his son’s stage door liaisons reached his ears it was more than he could thole. The boy had to learn his lesson and his proper place in society once and for all.
The military was the obvious answer but Kennedy simply could not afford to purchase a commission for Archibald. His eldest son’s commission in the 21st Regiment of Foot had carved a considerable hole in his meagre capital. Despite Kennedy’s lateral connection to the great house of Cassilis, his particular branch of the clan was sadly diminished. Kennedy, had inherited title and entail but little else. A commission was out of the question and no son of his would join the ranks; therefore it would have to be the navy. After all, hadn’t Cassilis himself won considerable renown for his services at sea? Kennedy briefly considered approaching the Earl to take interest in his son but quickly rejected the idea. The fewer questions asked about the boy the better. Best to send him off quietly.
So uniforms with gleaming white collar patches were purchased, a sea chest filled and Archibald Kennedy, a week shy of his fourteenth birthday, was shipped off to Portsmouth to take up the position of Boy, First Class, on His Majesty’s Ship of the line Justinian, captained by one James Keene, an acquaintance of a business associate of his father.
Archibald accepted his fate with good grace and an equal degree of expectation and trepidation. He had written at first, letters full of wit and wonder, dutiful letters commending himself to his parents. But within a bare three months the letters had petered out to occasional terse missives. His mother had fretted, and suggested they take temporary lodgings in Portsmouth for a time, or at least return to London in the hope that shore leave might be forthcoming. Kennedy had reminded her that was hardly wise. Did she wish to bring more disgrace on the family name?
The brief letters dwindled and finally stopped. His wife continued to write regularly but for a long year they heard nothing. Kennedy himself had other preoccupations, the situation on the continent continued to deteriorate and everywhere the talk was of war. After months of rumour and speculation, quite suddenly, the unpleasantness in France came to a head, Louis was executed and war declared. And just as suddenly his son’s correspondence resumed. The letters arrived irregularly but they were long, garrulous and colourful. Archibald was to be transferred to a frigate, HMS Indefatigable captained by “none other” than the renowned Captain Sir Edward Pellew. (Kennedy had never heard of Sir Edward Pellew or his “renown”). He had been made midshipman. The captain had invited the mids to dine in the great cabin. The captain had said this. The captain had done that. They had seen action. He had boarded a French ship. He had killed two frogs, well one certainly. They had taken prizes. He hoped to be given command of one some day soon. And throughout, the letters were peppered with the outlandish name of one Horatio Hornblower.
Much as she fretted about the war, his wife had been delighted by her son’s renewed enthusiasm for correspondence. But once again, quite suddenly, the letters stopped. One more letter came, in a different hand, a week after his eighteenth birthday. It regretfully informed them that their son, Mr Midshipman Archibald Kennedy of His Majesty’s Ship Indefatigable had been lost at sea, missing in action in the Gironde estuary. The letter continued with respectful and sincere sympathy and was signed Ed. Pellew.
That had been almost a year ago. There had been one further letter. Addressed to Lady Catherine in a tall looping hand Kennedy did not recognise. A letter of condolence from one of his son’s shipmates. His wife had read the letter and folded it away. She made no further mention of it but Kennedy had found her reading and rereading it at frequent intervals. Whether it was a sign of her weakness as a woman or her determination as a mother, Lady Catherine refused to give her youngest son up for dead. She scanned the Gazette and the papers weekly and wrote every month to the Admiralty and the Transport Board. But to no avail. Nothing more was heard of Archibald Kennedy.
For his own part, Kennedy let it be known that his youngest son had been lost at sea in the service of his country. The minister had commemorated the young man in a dignified sermon and any taint associated with his name was respectfully overlooked in light of his dutiful sacrifice. Choosing to believe him dead, Kennedy had inured himself to his son’s loss. It would not have been seemly to mourn over much a son lost in the glorious service of King and country. Not when he had two sons yet living.
But still, when Kennedy looked out across the shining sea on a clear blue February morning he could not prevent a pang of grief and regret for the loss of his youngest son. For all his irreverence, disobedience and misdemeanours Archie had more courage and spirit in him than any lordly interest could impart or costly commission purchase. Kennedy frowned and turned his back on the tall bright windows. He should not grieve. He had other sons.
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no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 05:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 05:27 pm (UTC)I would like to read the letter from one of Archie's shipmates....
I was hoping someone else might write that ;)
no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 05:28 pm (UTC)Not I, dear, not I.
Nodbear or mylodon, mayhap?
no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 05:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 05:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-13 12:25 pm (UTC)Lovely, thought provoking stuff, appropriate for this weekend. Well done.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-13 12:55 pm (UTC)Would love to but have more than enough things I'm not doing already.
I know. You're not exactly sitting around twiddling your thumbs right now are you?! Good luck getting through it all.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 05:52 pm (UTC)I've already done one letter to Archie's family. I don't know that I could bear to do two.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 07:30 pm (UTC)Oh and btw don't worry too much about the accent. The Scottish aristocracy invariably have posh English accents! Though that was probably slightly less the case then than now. Also Captain Archibald Kennedy, 11th Earl of Cassillis was actually American as was his son!
I've already done one letter to Archie's family. I don't know that I could bear to do two.
Well if you do ever get the urge.... ;)
no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 07:56 pm (UTC)Americans wouldn't have sounded AS American, then, although there was already a difference.
I posited an English gentlewoman who'd married a Scottish laird, who'd managed to run through his money and mortgage his estate through gambling and drink, and their carriage overturned when Archie was barely breeched. He was brought up in London by his mother's sister, who'd married a wealthy member of the East India Company; he grew up in comfort and privilege (what was another small mouth to feed or body to clothe, when they'd already engaged a governess for their own brood and he could ride Edward's outgrown pony?) but was not provided with capital, and John Company's influence only goes so far in His Majesty's Navy.
I probably ought to post this as meta, except I'm trying to work up a sequence set after The Frogs and the Lobsters that should let me bring a lot of it in. Now I have to read yours!
no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 08:21 pm (UTC)Yep, it's a well known fact that posh Scots sound like Sassenachs! Denis Lawson is from Perth but he has a much broader accent than most folks from that part of the country, I think he has developed it over the years ;)
I like your back story very much, it's both plausible and original. Feel free to post meta to the comm btw! It's always interesting to hear other people's ideas :)
no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 09:00 pm (UTC)A handy feature of my backstory was also that it took Archie out of Scotland and into the relatively more familiar territory of Georgian London, where I had a Very Good Idea about the household complement of servants, and how the food got from farm to market to table, and what keeping a carriage entailed, and so on. Scotland's much harder for me - I could tell you the life of a crofter, easy enough, but I haven't got as much of a grasp on the material surroundings of the nobles. Much, much simpler.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 10:24 pm (UTC)We're hoping to do some podfic on
the relatively more familiar territory of Georgian London
Very wise. I'm on rather shaky ground in Georgian London I confess :} I'm much safer on ships and Scottish estates!
I could tell you the life of a crofter
You could?? I was partially brought up on a croft, the icon above is the view from the family croft :)
no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 10:49 pm (UTC)And, yes, I spent a year doing medieval studies before I failed out of that school, and I've always had a very strong interest in the Child ballads and the world they sprang from, so a croft is MUCH easier for me to feel on solid ground. Not to mention that a friend of my mother's keeps sheep. ;-)
Ships, now... I feel I'd still be handwaving A LOT, but my roommate and I went on a Hornblower-inspired round of visits to the nearest tall ship museums (Mystic Seaport, and the USS Constitution) and so not only have I walked around on a few, the museum at the Constutition had stations where you could stand on a foot-rope (which started out only knee-high, no danger) and try to furl a sail (hung over a sort of balcony), and others where you could lie in hammocks, and Mystic Seaport let you help haul on a line (with a chantey not countenanced in His Majesty's Navy, it was representing a merchant ship) so I think I've got at least SOME of the sensory details.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-13 01:03 pm (UTC)I've always had a very strong interest in the Child ballads and the world they sprang from
Really? Fascinating! That's what I love about this fandom, people have such eclectic interests. I did a year of Scottish Lit at uni years back, we didn't do Child but over the years I've read many versions of the ballads he collected.
Ships, now... I feel I'd still be handwaving A LOT.
Why do you think shore leave was invented?! ;D If you've visited USS Constitution I'm sure you must already have a good feel for the layout of a ship. Most of us round these parts, me included, are armchair sailors so you can get away with plenty of handwaving *g*
no subject
Date: 2011-11-13 05:02 pm (UTC)As for the Child ballads - I dare anyone to hear Sandy Denny singing Tam Lin or June Tabor doing The Cruel. Sister and not get hooked. Fairport Convention and Steeleye Span, going on today's playlist, yes...
Shore leave was invented to give those dear boys a proper bed and a door that locks, of course!
It was very strange taking the tour of the Constitution, because it's the only ship in the US Navy with an undefeated record, and of course I feel a certain hometown pride in that just as I do in the Red Sox's World Series victories, but when the tour guide talked about the battle with the Java, all I could think about was poor Jack and Stephen!
I also have a very handy enormous picture book with cross-sections of HMS Victory. It's so big it has to sit on my shelf sideways. That's helpful too.
I have to admit I'm likely to spend more time on the clothes. I feel safer there; I've SEWN some. Alas, not their coats - I made a much simpler one as I'm a tolerable dressmaker but no tailor -- but shirts and breeches and waistcoats, THOSE are familiar.
I'm already 250 words and a lot of notes into my next story. This is going to be fun!
no subject
Date: 2011-11-13 10:06 pm (UTC)Partner and I are both huge fans of Sandy Denny. Her version of Tam Lini is the best one I have heard. Crazy Man Michael is beautiful too.
Shore leave was invented to give those dear boys a proper bed and a door that locks, of course!
And to give fic writers a break ;)
shirts and breeches and waistcoats, THOSE are familiar.
Mmmmm breeches.... ;) I myself have conducted extensive research into Naval Knickers.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-13 11:11 pm (UTC)I've seen that article before! Pleased to meet the author!
no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 08:07 pm (UTC)I have an almost 14 year old. She is pretty and lively, and very sure that she is right about everything. She feels truly oppressed that I will not let her take the subway to Manhattan with friends. ("But mo-o-m...")
BTW, Anteros. I have recorded a small pod of my own. I am trying to pick between your stories for one that is not too long. In the meantime, I have gotten a terrible cold. I sound like a turtle! So I am waiting for my voice, (such as it is,) to come back.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-12 09:05 pm (UTC)She is pretty and lively, and very sure that she is right about everything.
Of course she is right about everything. She is 14! In nine years time I will be coming to you for advice on how to deal with "But mo-o-m..." :}
I have recorded a small pod of my own.
Yay! How exciting! Do I get a preview? Or do I have to be patient and wait? I haven't had a chance to record any more but I did manage to edit another of yours that I recorded at the same time as Knives to Think About. I'll e-mail it over to you.
I sound like a turtle!
I'm not sure what turtles sound like! Awww sorry you have a cold. Go and make yourself one of those hot toddys I recommended. Otherwise I will have to send Dr Clive to see you...
no subject
Date: 2011-11-13 12:25 am (UTC)full of great things -the high clear view and the brigh tlight , the attempts of tehe earl to jsutify himself to himself -wonderfully handled as I would expect.The different messages of those sets of letters - and especially the ones from the Indy made me smile and cry
We know that they really exist = the ones that begin every other sentence with Sir Edward says , Sir Edward thinks
and Nicholsa who was a fourth son and George who was an 8th son
and the ones Sir Edward had to write that never got easier.
" i cannot bear to write " as he once wrote to his brother
I know you feel as I about the boys of the Indy and that Archie is a shining version of them is a special thing indeed1
And as for Horatio's - that is perhpas bewteen him and Lady Catherine - though who knows:)
very sad and with hope because of Archie#s indomitable nature and with a poignant feel at the " other sons" .
Am glad you got this posted
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Date: 2011-11-13 12:52 pm (UTC)As for Horatio's letter to Lady Catherine...perhaps one day it will come to light in the Bamber Special Collections Archive ;)
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Date: 2011-12-08 09:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-08 07:56 pm (UTC)I've kind of shied away from writing too much about Archie's background for ages as I know everyone has their own ideas as to his origins. Although I have already written a little about Archie's family here: The Factor ;)
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Date: 2011-12-09 08:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-09 08:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-09 09:45 am (UTC)I am looking forward to that like you wouldn't believe :-D
(I must say, Archie's sprawling pose in your icon makes a valid point for the breeches side of the argument.)
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Date: 2011-12-09 10:48 pm (UTC)I must say, Archie's sprawling pose in your icon makes a valid point for the breeches side of the argument.
Funny you should mention that.... ;)
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Date: 2011-12-10 12:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-23 05:01 am (UTC)I am sure it drove his parents and teachers bananas!