Mr Bush's hat - tales from the gundeck
Jul. 4th, 2006 12:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mylodonTitle: Mr Bush's hat - tales from the gundeck.
Rating: Gen - hints of slash, usual culprits
Notes: Yes, I wrote another hat story. Call the men in white coats............
No claim made on or profit made from these characters.
Mr Bush's hat - tales from the gundeck.
Gunnery practice wasn't a matter of life and death - it was far more important than that. At least that's what Shankly, the handsome scraper belonging to William Bush - the equally handsome second lieutenant of the Renown - had always been brought up to believe. Right from the moment he was created in the little workshop back of the outfitters in Liverpool he had been told that a lieutenant's hat needed to remember three things. To back the captain in anything - unless the man was a fool or a scrub - to look after his owner - take the splinter instead of him, even if it meant consignment to the rags bag - and make sure that the gunnery passed muster.
And not only that - to make sure that his man's gunnery was superior to any other on the ship. Which was what made it so awkward, that whippersnapper of a third lieutenant being so set on making sure that his crews were the quickest and most efficient. His hat wasn't a problem - Shankly could take Peasemold (an interesting name, not unsuited to its owner) any time, so long as the fourth lieutenant's fore-and-aft job wasn't around to intervene. Refined piece of work was Fotheringham, best tailors he had come from, but he fought dirty, especially if Mr Hornblower's hat's honour was involved.
It was Hornblower himself that was the issue - keen (some said too keen), almost suicidal at times in his efforts to impress; he was licking his crews into some semblance of efficiency - not an unimpressive feat in itself given the state of the ship in general. But Shankly wanted Mr Bush's crews to outshine them all. He took to threatening the headgear of his man's teams - get your ruddy lot of half-sodden oafs to lick themselves into shape or I'll be taking one of the surgeon's knives to you, you miserable, moth-ridden rags. It sometimes worked.
And he wasn't above having a word with some of the opposition, suggesting that if neckerchiefs that had been tied round heads in anticipation of a bit of practice were to accidentally slip and temporarily blind their owners then that would be a very good idea and reduce the risk of said neckerchiefs finding themselves falling overboard on a dark night.
It had some effect, but not enough and the consequence on Mr Bush's hat's temper was not positive.
"Lampwick, if you don't stop fiddling with that effing spyglass, I will take it and insert it where the sun don't shine." Shankly was not best pleased with the way the latest set of drills had gone - Mr Cocky-face Hornblower's crews had been fastest again and even Mr la-di-da you can call me The Honourable if you wish but I don't expect it Kennedy's lot had put one over on his man's teams. On the crews of that good, honest, yeoman William Bush who did not even know the meaning of the word 'prevaricate', let alone use it. (In this Shankly was actually wrong - Billy Bush knew plenty of highbrow words and could pronounce them excellently well, if displaying a trace of scouse in the process.)
Anyway it was bloody annoying and he was going have to do something about it. He contemplated getting Lampwick involved but that particular hat seemed not to trust him after the jape about the rigging. He thought of putting a bit of pressure on Hornblower's scraper - sure the captain's fine fore and aft job would love to know that two of his lieutenant's hats were just a little too close for comfort on occasion - although Mr Smarty-pants Peasemold would only point out again that the Articles of War were not designed to apply to items of uniform, thank you very much. Pointless trying.
And he would achieve nothing by putting the screws on Fotheringham, as the scraper had no great respect for anybody or anything and would cheerfully have pushed Sawyer's hat down a convenient ladder should the opportunity have arisen. So this had to be a solo job; not even his fine and brave Mr Bush had to get wind that something was up - his sense of fair play wouldn't stand for any hanky-panky.
Shankly had heard a few tales along the way as he'd braved the weather for his owner or had a wee surreptitious stroll around the ship when 'himself' was off duty or asleep. Interesting what you could hear in corners about different ways you could slow a gun down. But most of them were beyond his capabilities, he having no hands or legs to speak of, although like the other hats, he could get around the ship if need be and they could all communicate with each other when the big 'uns weren't about. Could communicate with anything that wasn't human, really - rats, wigs, ship's cat, anything that could respond. He'd tried talking to the guns - Hornblower's ones - but the great lumpish things were so thick that they took half an hour to comprehend that you were merely saying hello and that was all your hookey time used up.
The answer when it came was stunning in its simplicity - nobble the man himself. When next a gunnery exercise was due, make sure that gloomy pants was not in any fit state to do himself credit; there were things that could be taken, doses that could be administered and that festering wig of Clive's was going to oblige or spend the rest of its life as wadding.
Entwhistle - for that's what the snivelling, little, half sodden creature was called - found himself cornered later that night, when all the ship's company bar those on watch were in their blameless slumbers, (All apart from the third and fourth lieutenants who were playing an interesting game or two in Kennedy's cabin.) The requirements were made very plain; something that could be slipped into Hornblower's drink on the sly - easily done when Bush often left his hat on the table next to the glasses. Lean over, slip it in and Bob's your uncle - one rather uncomfortable lieutenant who would be dreading every explosion and recoil in case it triggered another visit to the quarter gallery. Perfect.
Clive's wig coughed up of course - didn't dare not to really - and the dose was secreted away under Shankly's lining band for the opportune moment. Which came the next day, with immaculate timing vis a vis the interval needed for the foul dose to work and the length of time to the next drill. By the time Hornblower got to the second 'fiyah' he'd hardly be able to talk above a whisper for fear of you know what happening you know where.
***
Bush could not believe his eyes, ears or watch. It was unheard of. He shook his timepiece and listened carefully to see if it was functioning properly - no easy thing in itself when he was half deafened from the noise of the cannon. It seemed to be fine, so it must be a fact - his crews were faster today. Faster than Hornblower's. Not by much - a few seconds here and there - but they were showing a reasonable pair of heels to the other gun teams. Horatio did seem preoccupied, of course - there was a distinct air of discomfort about him, had been since about a half an hour before the drills started, when he seemed to have to keep disappearing off somewhere.
And talking of things becoming scarce, William would have loved to have known where his best scraper had got to because it was not in any of the places he usually left it. On sober reflection it often was not in the places he had left it - if he didn't know better he'd have said that it had grown legs and walked on occasions, if the concept wasn't a daft one.
He smiled indulgently at his gun crews, who themselves wore smiles that spoke of both pride - getting one over on the third lieutenant's nasty gang of thugs - and a slight nervousness because Bush wasn't being so much of a bastard as usual. Almost sweet-tempered he was and they weren't sure they liked it; they liked what they were used to, which was a second lieutenant who was upright and efficient, hard as nails and a bit tasty with the language. There had been hardly more than a watch out there you idiot all through the exercise and it wasn't right. Still, they were swiftly winning bragging rights over the poxy mob that usually crowed about their prowess at the cannon, so they were loathe to complain too much.
The reappearance of Mr Hornblower after another short absence occasioned another bout of run out, fire, swab and reload and Bush's men triumphed again. This was a day to be remembered long and loudly.
Shankly should have been pleased - by all rights he should have been dancing around the deck after lights out, making rude remarks about Peasemold and having a dig at Fotheringham if the mood took him. But there was no joy in triumph - he had received his come-uppance good and proper and he would have to grin and bear it. That idiot Entwhistle should have wrapped the bolus - it had been a particularly powerful one, as evidenced by the remarkable effect it had had on Mr Hornblower - and some particles must have rubbed off its surface while it lay secreted under the band that circumferenced Shankly's middle. A little of the stuff had gone an awfully long way.
He didn't feel right; he felt distinctly wrong. He never realised that hats could suffer such powerful sensations of discomfort in the nether regions, right where he had heard the old seamstress who had made him refer to as 'the corsets, rather than the bodice'. There was nothing to be produced of course - not like the poor third lieutenant - but the feeling of unease persisted. Shankly decided that he wanted to find a nice quiet corner and die - which he couldn't because his master found him first.
The second lieutenant seemed in a fine mood, due in no small part to the excellence of his gun crews and also to the tiny libation of falling-down-water with which he had just treated his own intestinal system. There you are, you mange-ridden thing, he had said, just a fraction too loud, had picked up the scraper, brushed it off and placed it under his arm. Not one of these movements added to Shankly's state of well being - indeed it could be asserted that they had all been designed to render his condition even more uncomfortable. He broke the cardinal rule of all nominally inanimate objects in wriggling slightly to gain a less distressing position, but was lucky enough that his owner was just a little too tired and emotional to notice.
Back to the ward room, with much muttering along the lines of wonderful day, great victory, unequalled gunnery - as if the event recalled had been the battle of Cape St Vincent rather than two ship's officers matching their men's skill. Shankly started to feel the first swell of pride break through the queasiness - he had done it, he had achieved glory for his man and none could gainsay it, not even Mr Smarty-pants Fotheringham. Although the hat in question's owner was probably trying a little of the old 'hurt-and-comfort' routine on the defeated man, the dirty little toad.
Shankly reflected on the nature of glory - Buckland was probably too preoccupied to notice the second lieutenant's triumph, Sawyer too insensible, Clive three sheets to the wind. Hornblower and Kennedy had probably forgotten the drills had happened - most likely couldn't remember the guns existed.
But he knew and Bush knew and the man was happy and that was all that mattered.
Rating: Gen - hints of slash, usual culprits
Notes: Yes, I wrote another hat story. Call the men in white coats............
No claim made on or profit made from these characters.
Mr Bush's hat - tales from the gundeck.
Gunnery practice wasn't a matter of life and death - it was far more important than that. At least that's what Shankly, the handsome scraper belonging to William Bush - the equally handsome second lieutenant of the Renown - had always been brought up to believe. Right from the moment he was created in the little workshop back of the outfitters in Liverpool he had been told that a lieutenant's hat needed to remember three things. To back the captain in anything - unless the man was a fool or a scrub - to look after his owner - take the splinter instead of him, even if it meant consignment to the rags bag - and make sure that the gunnery passed muster.
And not only that - to make sure that his man's gunnery was superior to any other on the ship. Which was what made it so awkward, that whippersnapper of a third lieutenant being so set on making sure that his crews were the quickest and most efficient. His hat wasn't a problem - Shankly could take Peasemold (an interesting name, not unsuited to its owner) any time, so long as the fourth lieutenant's fore-and-aft job wasn't around to intervene. Refined piece of work was Fotheringham, best tailors he had come from, but he fought dirty, especially if Mr Hornblower's hat's honour was involved.
It was Hornblower himself that was the issue - keen (some said too keen), almost suicidal at times in his efforts to impress; he was licking his crews into some semblance of efficiency - not an unimpressive feat in itself given the state of the ship in general. But Shankly wanted Mr Bush's crews to outshine them all. He took to threatening the headgear of his man's teams - get your ruddy lot of half-sodden oafs to lick themselves into shape or I'll be taking one of the surgeon's knives to you, you miserable, moth-ridden rags. It sometimes worked.
And he wasn't above having a word with some of the opposition, suggesting that if neckerchiefs that had been tied round heads in anticipation of a bit of practice were to accidentally slip and temporarily blind their owners then that would be a very good idea and reduce the risk of said neckerchiefs finding themselves falling overboard on a dark night.
It had some effect, but not enough and the consequence on Mr Bush's hat's temper was not positive.
"Lampwick, if you don't stop fiddling with that effing spyglass, I will take it and insert it where the sun don't shine." Shankly was not best pleased with the way the latest set of drills had gone - Mr Cocky-face Hornblower's crews had been fastest again and even Mr la-di-da you can call me The Honourable if you wish but I don't expect it Kennedy's lot had put one over on his man's teams. On the crews of that good, honest, yeoman William Bush who did not even know the meaning of the word 'prevaricate', let alone use it. (In this Shankly was actually wrong - Billy Bush knew plenty of highbrow words and could pronounce them excellently well, if displaying a trace of scouse in the process.)
Anyway it was bloody annoying and he was going have to do something about it. He contemplated getting Lampwick involved but that particular hat seemed not to trust him after the jape about the rigging. He thought of putting a bit of pressure on Hornblower's scraper - sure the captain's fine fore and aft job would love to know that two of his lieutenant's hats were just a little too close for comfort on occasion - although Mr Smarty-pants Peasemold would only point out again that the Articles of War were not designed to apply to items of uniform, thank you very much. Pointless trying.
And he would achieve nothing by putting the screws on Fotheringham, as the scraper had no great respect for anybody or anything and would cheerfully have pushed Sawyer's hat down a convenient ladder should the opportunity have arisen. So this had to be a solo job; not even his fine and brave Mr Bush had to get wind that something was up - his sense of fair play wouldn't stand for any hanky-panky.
Shankly had heard a few tales along the way as he'd braved the weather for his owner or had a wee surreptitious stroll around the ship when 'himself' was off duty or asleep. Interesting what you could hear in corners about different ways you could slow a gun down. But most of them were beyond his capabilities, he having no hands or legs to speak of, although like the other hats, he could get around the ship if need be and they could all communicate with each other when the big 'uns weren't about. Could communicate with anything that wasn't human, really - rats, wigs, ship's cat, anything that could respond. He'd tried talking to the guns - Hornblower's ones - but the great lumpish things were so thick that they took half an hour to comprehend that you were merely saying hello and that was all your hookey time used up.
The answer when it came was stunning in its simplicity - nobble the man himself. When next a gunnery exercise was due, make sure that gloomy pants was not in any fit state to do himself credit; there were things that could be taken, doses that could be administered and that festering wig of Clive's was going to oblige or spend the rest of its life as wadding.
Entwhistle - for that's what the snivelling, little, half sodden creature was called - found himself cornered later that night, when all the ship's company bar those on watch were in their blameless slumbers, (All apart from the third and fourth lieutenants who were playing an interesting game or two in Kennedy's cabin.) The requirements were made very plain; something that could be slipped into Hornblower's drink on the sly - easily done when Bush often left his hat on the table next to the glasses. Lean over, slip it in and Bob's your uncle - one rather uncomfortable lieutenant who would be dreading every explosion and recoil in case it triggered another visit to the quarter gallery. Perfect.
Clive's wig coughed up of course - didn't dare not to really - and the dose was secreted away under Shankly's lining band for the opportune moment. Which came the next day, with immaculate timing vis a vis the interval needed for the foul dose to work and the length of time to the next drill. By the time Hornblower got to the second 'fiyah' he'd hardly be able to talk above a whisper for fear of you know what happening you know where.
***
Bush could not believe his eyes, ears or watch. It was unheard of. He shook his timepiece and listened carefully to see if it was functioning properly - no easy thing in itself when he was half deafened from the noise of the cannon. It seemed to be fine, so it must be a fact - his crews were faster today. Faster than Hornblower's. Not by much - a few seconds here and there - but they were showing a reasonable pair of heels to the other gun teams. Horatio did seem preoccupied, of course - there was a distinct air of discomfort about him, had been since about a half an hour before the drills started, when he seemed to have to keep disappearing off somewhere.
And talking of things becoming scarce, William would have loved to have known where his best scraper had got to because it was not in any of the places he usually left it. On sober reflection it often was not in the places he had left it - if he didn't know better he'd have said that it had grown legs and walked on occasions, if the concept wasn't a daft one.
He smiled indulgently at his gun crews, who themselves wore smiles that spoke of both pride - getting one over on the third lieutenant's nasty gang of thugs - and a slight nervousness because Bush wasn't being so much of a bastard as usual. Almost sweet-tempered he was and they weren't sure they liked it; they liked what they were used to, which was a second lieutenant who was upright and efficient, hard as nails and a bit tasty with the language. There had been hardly more than a watch out there you idiot all through the exercise and it wasn't right. Still, they were swiftly winning bragging rights over the poxy mob that usually crowed about their prowess at the cannon, so they were loathe to complain too much.
The reappearance of Mr Hornblower after another short absence occasioned another bout of run out, fire, swab and reload and Bush's men triumphed again. This was a day to be remembered long and loudly.
Shankly should have been pleased - by all rights he should have been dancing around the deck after lights out, making rude remarks about Peasemold and having a dig at Fotheringham if the mood took him. But there was no joy in triumph - he had received his come-uppance good and proper and he would have to grin and bear it. That idiot Entwhistle should have wrapped the bolus - it had been a particularly powerful one, as evidenced by the remarkable effect it had had on Mr Hornblower - and some particles must have rubbed off its surface while it lay secreted under the band that circumferenced Shankly's middle. A little of the stuff had gone an awfully long way.
He didn't feel right; he felt distinctly wrong. He never realised that hats could suffer such powerful sensations of discomfort in the nether regions, right where he had heard the old seamstress who had made him refer to as 'the corsets, rather than the bodice'. There was nothing to be produced of course - not like the poor third lieutenant - but the feeling of unease persisted. Shankly decided that he wanted to find a nice quiet corner and die - which he couldn't because his master found him first.
The second lieutenant seemed in a fine mood, due in no small part to the excellence of his gun crews and also to the tiny libation of falling-down-water with which he had just treated his own intestinal system. There you are, you mange-ridden thing, he had said, just a fraction too loud, had picked up the scraper, brushed it off and placed it under his arm. Not one of these movements added to Shankly's state of well being - indeed it could be asserted that they had all been designed to render his condition even more uncomfortable. He broke the cardinal rule of all nominally inanimate objects in wriggling slightly to gain a less distressing position, but was lucky enough that his owner was just a little too tired and emotional to notice.
Back to the ward room, with much muttering along the lines of wonderful day, great victory, unequalled gunnery - as if the event recalled had been the battle of Cape St Vincent rather than two ship's officers matching their men's skill. Shankly started to feel the first swell of pride break through the queasiness - he had done it, he had achieved glory for his man and none could gainsay it, not even Mr Smarty-pants Fotheringham. Although the hat in question's owner was probably trying a little of the old 'hurt-and-comfort' routine on the defeated man, the dirty little toad.
Shankly reflected on the nature of glory - Buckland was probably too preoccupied to notice the second lieutenant's triumph, Sawyer too insensible, Clive three sheets to the wind. Hornblower and Kennedy had probably forgotten the drills had happened - most likely couldn't remember the guns existed.
But he knew and Bush knew and the man was happy and that was all that mattered.
