(no subject)
I stand on the deck of the Icarus, the sun on my face. I wear full dress uniform, a cutlass hanging bravely at my side. I am proud of it. It is said to have a history. All I know is that it is one of the finest swords ever made, even inlaid with gold filigree in the handle.
I am being made Lieutenant today. Lieutenants must go to an Admiral and swear allegiance, etc to be truly made a Lieutenant, but this feels like the true ceremony, here among the men I have served with, eaten with, laughed with, and fought with.
The Navy is my home. I knew it the instant I set foot on a ship. Man-made, unstable, merely a trifle in the eyes of the sea, who will either show you favor or dash you to bits depending upon her mood. I joined up later than most, making it all the more remarkable that I am being made Lieutenant at the tender age of 24, a new record I believe to be penned into the history of the Royal Navy. Today they would read the Articles of War, which they did with great regularity on any suitable occasion. The theme of the tome was death and I always thought it macabre, but the sailors loved it as boys love stories of fatalities.
I enjoy the routine, the discipline. My early life had little of either. I hear my name called. “William Weatherby Turner” and I step forward to receive my new commission. I have to admit to being excited and very proud. I sent word to Mother and she sent back a missive telling me that she was not surprised in the least and that she too was very proud.
My life entire life rushes before me like a book with three quarters of the pages missing. But I remember.
When I was five, I cried myself to sleep every night because the other boys teased me that they had fathers and mine saw fit to stay away from my mother and I.
At the age of eight, I asked my mother if she missed my father and she would say, “More than anything in the world.” But the question invariably made her cry and I quickly stopped asking.
At the age of nine, I came to understand the means by which poor, but beautiful women were able to make money, but my mother resolutely refused. One particular man was after her for some time. She stated that she could never betray her husband. The man stared at me. Hard. And then he laughed a cruel laugh. My mother then began to curse and berate the man with such language, I still have never heard its like, even here amongst the saltiest sailors in the Caribbean.
I finally met the man at the age of ten. He was a complete stranger to me and when he patted my head, I had the urge to kick him square in the knees. I did not like him for abandoning my mother and I. Who was he to stay gone so long and then come back like the Lord of the keep? I never knew why he stayed gone and my mother was less than forthcoming with the details. He told me great stories of days gone by, epic battles, and as the hours went by, I liked him more and more. I was then sent to go play and I heard grunting and moans coming from our cottage. He and I played outside after that and then he stared at me. Hard. That night there was loud arguing. I heard the words “Black Pearl” from my little bed and then I heard him call Mother a whore. I got up to defend her, but upon entering their room, the man blasted me with a tirade and I could see the red spot where Mother struck him developing on his cheek. I was not sorry to see him go.
Over the years, Mother became increasingly despondent and unpredictable. She would sit watching the sea for hours. I would ask her if she was watching for Father and she said “yes.” She said she longed for white sails on the horizon, and I asked no more since I knew Father had come to us in a little boat. Some days she was unreasonably happy, other nights she would drink her way through two bottles of rum and I could not rouse her in the morning. Some nights I could hear her crying, and other nights I could hear her moaning with what could only be pleasure. I could hear her repeat the same name, “James”, over and over like a litany. I was named William after my father, and I knew better than to ask questions of her at that point.
When I was sixteen, I asked her why she was so sad. However poor we were, books were the one thing Mother spent money on. She sent me off with Homer and asked that I pay particular attention to the character of Penelope.
At seventeen, I joined the Navy. I had stayed with her so long for her sake, but that little cottage had become nothing but a place where people waited to die, and I was happy to breathe fresh air when I left it.
At eighteen, I had the great fortune of meeting Admiral Gillette at a ball. When he saw me, he stared. Hard. He then promised to take me under his tutelage and saw to my advancement himself. He wrote me twice per annum and asked if I needed anything and if I was treated well. He was more of a father to me than my own.
Upon Mother’s insistence, I returned briefly four years ago to see my father again. He was a changed man. Sad, pathetic, and broken, he honestly seemed to have lost his wits. He stared at me. Hard. “You look as though you have seen a ghost”, I said. “I have”, was his enigmatic answer. We largely avoided each other that day, and he left again in the morning.
And so now, I step forward to receive my commission, my life no clearer to me now upon reflection than it ever was. But I have certainly come far from the poor little boy in the cottage by the sea and I am more than happy to send Mother most of my wages. We travel the seven seas and have been in every Port in the Caribbean. I am overly fond of Port Royal and that is where I met a lovely young woman and dare admit to myself I am hoping she will have me for her husband. But she is a member of the peerage and I cannot marry her on a Lieutenant’s salary. Even a Captain would not do, and I hope she will wait for me until I can reach the rank of Commodore and keep her in the manner in which she grew up. It will be a long wait. But I am carved of sturdy pillars my mother always said and I am steadfast as the battlements.
After the ceremony is over, I stare out to sea. I have never thought on them overly much, but there is not a man in the service over 50 who does not comment on my green eyes. The young lady I presumptuously hope is my own has commented on them too. I want to hold her in my arms even now. I long to be worthy of her and to be a good man in her father's estimation. Duty comes first.
I am being made Lieutenant today. Lieutenants must go to an Admiral and swear allegiance, etc to be truly made a Lieutenant, but this feels like the true ceremony, here among the men I have served with, eaten with, laughed with, and fought with.
The Navy is my home. I knew it the instant I set foot on a ship. Man-made, unstable, merely a trifle in the eyes of the sea, who will either show you favor or dash you to bits depending upon her mood. I joined up later than most, making it all the more remarkable that I am being made Lieutenant at the tender age of 24, a new record I believe to be penned into the history of the Royal Navy. Today they would read the Articles of War, which they did with great regularity on any suitable occasion. The theme of the tome was death and I always thought it macabre, but the sailors loved it as boys love stories of fatalities.
I enjoy the routine, the discipline. My early life had little of either. I hear my name called. “William Weatherby Turner” and I step forward to receive my new commission. I have to admit to being excited and very proud. I sent word to Mother and she sent back a missive telling me that she was not surprised in the least and that she too was very proud.
My life entire life rushes before me like a book with three quarters of the pages missing. But I remember.
When I was five, I cried myself to sleep every night because the other boys teased me that they had fathers and mine saw fit to stay away from my mother and I.
At the age of eight, I asked my mother if she missed my father and she would say, “More than anything in the world.” But the question invariably made her cry and I quickly stopped asking.
At the age of nine, I came to understand the means by which poor, but beautiful women were able to make money, but my mother resolutely refused. One particular man was after her for some time. She stated that she could never betray her husband. The man stared at me. Hard. And then he laughed a cruel laugh. My mother then began to curse and berate the man with such language, I still have never heard its like, even here amongst the saltiest sailors in the Caribbean.
I finally met the man at the age of ten. He was a complete stranger to me and when he patted my head, I had the urge to kick him square in the knees. I did not like him for abandoning my mother and I. Who was he to stay gone so long and then come back like the Lord of the keep? I never knew why he stayed gone and my mother was less than forthcoming with the details. He told me great stories of days gone by, epic battles, and as the hours went by, I liked him more and more. I was then sent to go play and I heard grunting and moans coming from our cottage. He and I played outside after that and then he stared at me. Hard. That night there was loud arguing. I heard the words “Black Pearl” from my little bed and then I heard him call Mother a whore. I got up to defend her, but upon entering their room, the man blasted me with a tirade and I could see the red spot where Mother struck him developing on his cheek. I was not sorry to see him go.
Over the years, Mother became increasingly despondent and unpredictable. She would sit watching the sea for hours. I would ask her if she was watching for Father and she said “yes.” She said she longed for white sails on the horizon, and I asked no more since I knew Father had come to us in a little boat. Some days she was unreasonably happy, other nights she would drink her way through two bottles of rum and I could not rouse her in the morning. Some nights I could hear her crying, and other nights I could hear her moaning with what could only be pleasure. I could hear her repeat the same name, “James”, over and over like a litany. I was named William after my father, and I knew better than to ask questions of her at that point.
When I was sixteen, I asked her why she was so sad. However poor we were, books were the one thing Mother spent money on. She sent me off with Homer and asked that I pay particular attention to the character of Penelope.
At seventeen, I joined the Navy. I had stayed with her so long for her sake, but that little cottage had become nothing but a place where people waited to die, and I was happy to breathe fresh air when I left it.
At eighteen, I had the great fortune of meeting Admiral Gillette at a ball. When he saw me, he stared. Hard. He then promised to take me under his tutelage and saw to my advancement himself. He wrote me twice per annum and asked if I needed anything and if I was treated well. He was more of a father to me than my own.
Upon Mother’s insistence, I returned briefly four years ago to see my father again. He was a changed man. Sad, pathetic, and broken, he honestly seemed to have lost his wits. He stared at me. Hard. “You look as though you have seen a ghost”, I said. “I have”, was his enigmatic answer. We largely avoided each other that day, and he left again in the morning.
And so now, I step forward to receive my commission, my life no clearer to me now upon reflection than it ever was. But I have certainly come far from the poor little boy in the cottage by the sea and I am more than happy to send Mother most of my wages. We travel the seven seas and have been in every Port in the Caribbean. I am overly fond of Port Royal and that is where I met a lovely young woman and dare admit to myself I am hoping she will have me for her husband. But she is a member of the peerage and I cannot marry her on a Lieutenant’s salary. Even a Captain would not do, and I hope she will wait for me until I can reach the rank of Commodore and keep her in the manner in which she grew up. It will be a long wait. But I am carved of sturdy pillars my mother always said and I am steadfast as the battlements.
After the ceremony is over, I stare out to sea. I have never thought on them overly much, but there is not a man in the service over 50 who does not comment on my green eyes. The young lady I presumptuously hope is my own has commented on them too. I want to hold her in my arms even now. I long to be worthy of her and to be a good man in her father's estimation. Duty comes first.