Hornblower Fic: Second to None (Part 2)
Mar. 1st, 2009 10:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lady_branwynCharacters: Bush and others
Warnings: none
Rating: G
Note: William Bush belongs to the Forester estate.
*********
A dark line of cypress trees, their tops rising out of the fog like buoys, marked the landward side of the path. The flow of the black river had undercut the bank, until in places the path hung precariously over the water. One slip or short misstep would swiftly end his journey. Like many seamen, he had never mastered the art of swimming, and now that he was short one leg, he could do little more than dog-paddle against the strong current.
He had a vague sense that something was very wrong, and he scowled for a moment as he stumped along until it struck him that this river was strangely silent. Even in early March, he still should have heard the cry of water birds and the occasional splash of a fish breaking the surface. Yet there was no sound except for the rush of the water.
The cypress trees ended abruptly at the edge of an open meadow. The path led to the front steps of a stone building that was two stories tall. Muffled laughter and the lilting of a fiddle pierced the shuttered windows, and the sign above the door read “The Second Banana.” From his travels, Bush recognized the bunches of fruit that were painted in a lurid yellow. It seemed odd that a French tavern would have an English name, but at the moment he had greater concerns and could spare little thought on the matter. His officer’s clothes would betray him on sight to the enemy, yet the weather was too cold to go without a coat, and he had neither food nor weapons for his cutlass and pistols had been missing when he awoke.
The company of Frenchmen shouted out a song, hammering the tables in time with the beat. The words could have been Greek for all that Bush could tell. Hunted and alone, he listened a little wistfully to the sounds of their drunken revelry. He remembered wild nights in port when he and Hornblower had emptied bottle after bottle of bad rum or wine that was even worse, until they could barely stagger from the table. He remembered their long-ago drinking bouts, and then he had a sudden idea. Bush stumped back to the cypress trees and tore off a heavy branch, then he hobbled quietly around the building. Near the backdoor, he found what he was looking for. Holding the makeship club, he crouched behind the privy and waited for a likely victim.
TBC
Warnings: none
Rating: G
Note: William Bush belongs to the Forester estate.
*********
A dark line of cypress trees, their tops rising out of the fog like buoys, marked the landward side of the path. The flow of the black river had undercut the bank, until in places the path hung precariously over the water. One slip or short misstep would swiftly end his journey. Like many seamen, he had never mastered the art of swimming, and now that he was short one leg, he could do little more than dog-paddle against the strong current.
He had a vague sense that something was very wrong, and he scowled for a moment as he stumped along until it struck him that this river was strangely silent. Even in early March, he still should have heard the cry of water birds and the occasional splash of a fish breaking the surface. Yet there was no sound except for the rush of the water.
The cypress trees ended abruptly at the edge of an open meadow. The path led to the front steps of a stone building that was two stories tall. Muffled laughter and the lilting of a fiddle pierced the shuttered windows, and the sign above the door read “The Second Banana.” From his travels, Bush recognized the bunches of fruit that were painted in a lurid yellow. It seemed odd that a French tavern would have an English name, but at the moment he had greater concerns and could spare little thought on the matter. His officer’s clothes would betray him on sight to the enemy, yet the weather was too cold to go without a coat, and he had neither food nor weapons for his cutlass and pistols had been missing when he awoke.
The company of Frenchmen shouted out a song, hammering the tables in time with the beat. The words could have been Greek for all that Bush could tell. Hunted and alone, he listened a little wistfully to the sounds of their drunken revelry. He remembered wild nights in port when he and Hornblower had emptied bottle after bottle of bad rum or wine that was even worse, until they could barely stagger from the table. He remembered their long-ago drinking bouts, and then he had a sudden idea. Bush stumped back to the cypress trees and tore off a heavy branch, then he hobbled quietly around the building. Near the backdoor, he found what he was looking for. Holding the makeship club, he crouched behind the privy and waited for a likely victim.
TBC
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no subject
Date: 2009-03-10 01:39 pm (UTC)And, despite my fear of being annoying about the Greek thing ("And one time, when we were in Greece, we...") but cypress trees exactly as you are describing them were all over the place, so I have a perfect picture in my mind (And there will probably be a zillion pictures, too - I wasn't the photographer). I can't wait to see what's going on inside that tavern! Fortunately, I don't have long to wait, do I?
no subject
Date: 2009-03-10 10:37 pm (UTC)