Christine Wheelwright
Well-Known Member
A post in another thread made me think of this novel that I wrote several years ago. I'm thinking of giving it a tidy-up and putting it back out there. It is historical fiction, not sff, but I'd be glad to hear any comments. This is the opening:
Hooke's Law
“Mr Hooke! My dear Henry! Wait one moment!”
I turned to face him as he approached, noting that he had a companion; a small, stout, red-faced older man struggling to keep pace beside him.
“This is well met! And what a fine evening, Hal,” he said. “I see you plan to drink your fill tonight; perhaps a wise course for a man with such duties to carry out in the morning.”
“Will you not join me Lieutenant?” I asked, reluctantly. For he was right; I had meant to turn myself half insensible with rum and perhaps find a wench to make the night’s smaller hours pass less painfully.
“Indeed not. And while I enjoy your company, Hal, a more amusing excursion presents itself tonight. But I forget myself! This is Dr Calver, physician to Governor Lawes. Dr Calver, I assume Mr Hooke’s reputation precedes him.”
Johnson waited while his companion and I exchanged pleasantries before continuing, “No Hal, the good Doctor and I are off to pay our respects to Rackham at the gaol. It should be fine sport, don’t you think? But wait! You should join us of course. No doubt you need to size him up, eh?”
I looked at him icily.
“I am to hang him, Lieutenant, not make him a casket.”
“Ha! Of course Hal. But I insist. I think the evening will be jollier with you along, and rum is being sent for. Good rum, not the slops you will find in there,” and he waved his hand dismissively at the door of The Swan. “Surely Rackham will be encouraged to see a familiar face, even if it is that of his executioner.”
“I do not know the man,” I said, calmly. It was a lie I had often repeated, and now it was so familiar that I was able to pretend it to be true and state it almost as a fact. Practice makes perfect they say, and never more so than in the art of the lie. But that devil Johnson stared with scepticism into my eyes as I spoke.
“Yes, very well Hal. If you say so. What would it matter anyway? All are pardoned now, are they not? Save those who sailed this last voyage with Rackham and now languish in irons, awaiting their fates.”
The Lieutenant took my arm, giving me no opportunity to protest, and turned me away from The Swan. He led the way across the dusty street towards the harbour, past the master’s house, within sight of the quays where British naval ships could be seen unloading. Further away there were slave ships at anchor and, still further, sloops resting on sandy beaches, their underbellies exposed for careening. Men moved around them like ants, even at this late hour, labouring on their hulls by the flickering light of torches. Port Royal was a much-changed town in those last twenty years; no longer the ‘Sodom of the New World’. For sure, there had been a time when every resident was either innkeeper, pirate or whore. But God had taken his terrible revenge, destroying the town with tremors and causing it to be reclaimed by the sea, not even sparing the few meagre churches. After that, the Navy arrived along with judges, clergymen and God-fearing governors, and those that would prefer a life of crime and debauchery, away from the prying eyes of authority, moved on to Nassau. Not that the odd thief or whore could never be found in Port Royal - those, after all, are the oldest and most resilient of professions.
Hooke's Law
Chapter 1
It was that b**tard Vane who once said to me that there are but two conditions in which to kill a man; either cold sober or blind drunk. The former when a fight is needed, and the latter when it is to be simple slaughter. Nothing in between will do, he had said, laughing and slapping me hard on the back. And he was a man who knew plenty about slaughter, although less than you may think about fighting. But these past two years I had thought little enough of Vane, at least until that still November night in Port Royal when his words returned to me. I knew there to be wisdom in them, you see, and I resolved to seek out a tavern lest I go mad sitting in my room, staring at the walls until dawn. And indeed I had almost reached the door of The Swan and could taste the first sip of rum on my lips when Lieutenant Charles Johnson’s voice pierced the evening air behind me.“Mr Hooke! My dear Henry! Wait one moment!”
I turned to face him as he approached, noting that he had a companion; a small, stout, red-faced older man struggling to keep pace beside him.
“This is well met! And what a fine evening, Hal,” he said. “I see you plan to drink your fill tonight; perhaps a wise course for a man with such duties to carry out in the morning.”
“Will you not join me Lieutenant?” I asked, reluctantly. For he was right; I had meant to turn myself half insensible with rum and perhaps find a wench to make the night’s smaller hours pass less painfully.
“Indeed not. And while I enjoy your company, Hal, a more amusing excursion presents itself tonight. But I forget myself! This is Dr Calver, physician to Governor Lawes. Dr Calver, I assume Mr Hooke’s reputation precedes him.”
Johnson waited while his companion and I exchanged pleasantries before continuing, “No Hal, the good Doctor and I are off to pay our respects to Rackham at the gaol. It should be fine sport, don’t you think? But wait! You should join us of course. No doubt you need to size him up, eh?”
I looked at him icily.
“I am to hang him, Lieutenant, not make him a casket.”
“Ha! Of course Hal. But I insist. I think the evening will be jollier with you along, and rum is being sent for. Good rum, not the slops you will find in there,” and he waved his hand dismissively at the door of The Swan. “Surely Rackham will be encouraged to see a familiar face, even if it is that of his executioner.”
“I do not know the man,” I said, calmly. It was a lie I had often repeated, and now it was so familiar that I was able to pretend it to be true and state it almost as a fact. Practice makes perfect they say, and never more so than in the art of the lie. But that devil Johnson stared with scepticism into my eyes as I spoke.
“Yes, very well Hal. If you say so. What would it matter anyway? All are pardoned now, are they not? Save those who sailed this last voyage with Rackham and now languish in irons, awaiting their fates.”
The Lieutenant took my arm, giving me no opportunity to protest, and turned me away from The Swan. He led the way across the dusty street towards the harbour, past the master’s house, within sight of the quays where British naval ships could be seen unloading. Further away there were slave ships at anchor and, still further, sloops resting on sandy beaches, their underbellies exposed for careening. Men moved around them like ants, even at this late hour, labouring on their hulls by the flickering light of torches. Port Royal was a much-changed town in those last twenty years; no longer the ‘Sodom of the New World’. For sure, there had been a time when every resident was either innkeeper, pirate or whore. But God had taken his terrible revenge, destroying the town with tremors and causing it to be reclaimed by the sea, not even sparing the few meagre churches. After that, the Navy arrived along with judges, clergymen and God-fearing governors, and those that would prefer a life of crime and debauchery, away from the prying eyes of authority, moved on to Nassau. Not that the odd thief or whore could never be found in Port Royal - those, after all, are the oldest and most resilient of professions.
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