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thismazPosted early because I'm going to WriterconUK tomorrow. Back on Sunday.
Title: Everything they touch
Prompt: 108 - Dead at the wheel
At:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tamingthemuse
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,670
Summary: I googled the phrase 'Dead at the wheel' and in with the stories of a shooting in Liverpool was this article from The New York Times, dated Saturday 6th April 1907. This story is inspired by that one. Names have been changed to protect the innocent (and because I really doubt that Spike and Dru were actually there *g*).
Note: I also googled and googled for information on the locks in place on the Ohio River in 1907, but couldn't get a fix on their location. So if you happen to know that I've placed mine wrongly, I would love to be told.
Comments: Are greatly appreciated, loved and cherished.
Disclaimer: here.
Everything they touch
Nodding to Frank Boden, hunched over in the bow, as he passed, John Richmond took up position a few yards aft and fumbled in his pocket for his flask while he cupped the bowl of his pipe in his other hand. The fog was as thick as pea soup and as cold as the grave. It reminded John of the fogs that came down over the Thames Estuary when he was just a young whippersnapper, tagging a berth from his father, both of them colluding in the fiction that he was a useful member of the crew.
Occasionally he heard the sound of another engine churning the water, but the fog that helped the sounds to carry also made the direction of their origin difficult to place - hence his decision to rest here for a while. On such a night there was need for a man with good eyes in the grey darkness. Frank's eyes were younger than John's and no doubt keener, but it did no harm to double the watch. With a grim smile, John admitted to himself that he was also seeking some peace in the open air after an evening spent with the eternal demands of the passengers. There were times when he felt some nostalgia for his father's dirty old Star of the North and her fifty years of shuttling back and forth between the Thames and the Tyne. She'd carried coal south and whatever they could find for the return trip to Newcastle. The Star had been small and scruffy. She had no boiler to assist her on her way and so her course was subject to the vagaries of the winds, but the cargo was inert; it never complained about the quality of the supper, or the company.
That was all a long time ago now. His father was dead, The Star lost, his sisters married and he'd eventually made his way here to the New World. He'd worked his passage and then fled inland in search of adventure. Instead he'd met Molly, who, he'd be willing to boast to any man who asked after his lost dreams, was an adventure in herself.
Chuckling quietly to himself, John took a swig of his bourbon, amused at his own fate, because somehow, in spite of all the miles he'd run, here he was, still afloat.
Unlike The Star, The Lady Liane steamed through the water efficiently, her powerful boiler driving her paddles around, scooping the water behind her with contemptuous ease. Feeling indulgent, he patted the rail at his side. "You may be bound by the banks of this river, lass," he thought, "but you're still a proper ship."
He had pride in the gold braid on his shoulders, even knowing it was there mainly to impress the fares. He had pride in the knowledge that, with The Lady's engine running clean and smooth, they'd bring those fares to shore in Pittsburgh on time, as laid down on the docket. There was pleasure in knowing that come evening he'd be sleeping in his own bed, in his own house, with his own wife again. However, there were days when he wished that he didn't have to also endure the social duties attached to his job.
They'd left Zanesville early, at the crack of dawn, down the Muskingum River to Marietta. There they'd taken on more passengers, then turning into the Ohio, heading upstream. John had spent most of the day on the bridge, reading the paper, plotting their progress in the chart room and overseeing the crew as they manoeuvred The Lady though the locks. At supper time he'd descended to fulfil his duties as host. Now he was on the foredeck, keeping watch in the still of the foggy night, just in case.
The last of the passengers had settled into their beds more than an hour ago, even the socialites who'd sat up playing cards at the big table in the saloon. Even the Englishman and his fey wife were on the point of retiring as John set off to do a final round of the decks before seeking his own bunk. They'd passed through Lock Number 8, the last on the approach to East Liverpool and the rest of the duty crew had no doubt gone below, out of the cold, until they reached Lock Number 7. John didn't blame them. George Connors was at the wheel and he was the best pilot on this stretch of the Ohio. There was no real cause for concern. In spite of that, though, he stationed himself near the bow, because if any other vessel was making towards them, he and Frank had a better chance of hearing their engine and might have more luck in spotting their lights than George did up in the pilot house.
It took a moment for the significance of the motion of the deck beneath his feet to penetrate his mind. The Lady was swinging. Without having sight of the shoreline it had not been obvious, but the way his feet braced against the slight tipping of the deck at each change of course eventually registered. He turned and looked up at the bridge, even knowing that he'd not be able to see anything. Tapping his pipe out on the rail, he shoved it in his pocket and, with a final, quick scan of the surrounding darkness, set off at a calm, fast walk. If George had become confused by the fog, then it was John's task to send him to his bunk and take his place himself, schedules and timekeeping be damned. John didn't have as sure a knowledge of the river as George did, but this was a well marked section and he could get them in to port safely, while a drunken man at the wheel would most likely wreck them.
As he hurried towards the pilot-house, John berated himself for a fool. He'd known George for nine years and never seen him take a drink on duty. Unfortunately, he also knew that for every drunk alive, there had to be a first time.
Approaching the companionway, he thought he spied movement near where the longboat was stored on the deck and he paused. A man's voice came to him through the fog, whispering fiercely, "Hang on, Dru. Let me get the blasted thing over the side first; then I'll jump in. I'll not get wet."
John hesitated, torn between investigating what appeared to be a theft in progress and the fear that George had been partaking. A female giggle interrupted his indecision, followed by the man again. "No need when they've so kindly provided transport, eh? Wouldn't help them much to leave it, anyway."
He knew he should challenge them, or shout out, but something in the man's words heightened his nagging feeling of unease and he scrambled up the companionway to the bridge instead.
The sight that met his eyes was one he would take to his grave. George was hanging by one arm hooked through the wheel. John knew immediately that he was dead, but that alone was not the cause of John's future nightmares; there was blood everywhere. At first it appeared to his shocked gaze to be splattered over every surface, but a second look showed it was mostly confined to the deck. By contrast George's skin was deadly pale. A fire axe lying next to his knee suggested that he had at least tried to fight back, unless that was what his murderers had used to kill him.
John rushed to the controls, pulling George's arm free at the same time as he grabbed the horn and yelled for Tom Harvey, down in the boiler house, to put them hard astern. A glance at the compass told him how far they were off their proper course and he held on grimly as he corrected, praying for the fog to clear and give him an estimate of how far they were from the bank.
Gradually The Lady lost way and he also began to relax. After a few minutes he signalled Tom for half steam ahead. It was fortunate that they were heading against the current, since that meant they had good steerage even at low speed. Finally, he reached for the bell and sounded the alarm to rouse the rest of the crew.
His arms and knees were trembling and even as he worried about what he'd say to George's woman, a part of him was already occupied by thoughts of cleaning up the mess. If the papers got hold of the truth, they'd blow it up into a major scandal and he'd be out of a job on his ear. The owners would be sure to blame him if the public decided that The Lady Liane was cursed. Tying off the wheel, he went to the top of the companionway steps to intercept his first mate and send him to put the whole crew on look out duties and investigate the loss of the longboat, assuming it was gone.
Returning to the pilot-house, he hauled George's body to the back to the room and laid him out against the wall. There were some odd marks on his neck, but John didn't have time to investigate those. They'd have to dock briefly at East Liverpool and telegraph the owners. He had a feeling he'd be needing some help from the company lawyer, once they got to Pittsburgh. Depending on what the lawyer said, he would wash the blood away using the deck hose, or they would call the police. In the meantime, he'd concentrate on keeping the crew busy elsewhere and on getting them all safely into port. Be it at sea or on a mighty river like the Ohio, the safety of the ship and her cargo always came first. With a hand on the wheel and an eye on the compass, he concentrated on calculating the fewest number of words needed to ask for help, without causing alarm.
Title: Everything they touch
Prompt: 108 - Dead at the wheel
At:
tamingthemuseRating: PG
Word Count: 1,670
Summary: I googled the phrase 'Dead at the wheel' and in with the stories of a shooting in Liverpool was this article from The New York Times, dated Saturday 6th April 1907. This story is inspired by that one. Names have been changed to protect the innocent (and because I really doubt that Spike and Dru were actually there *g*).
Note: I also googled and googled for information on the locks in place on the Ohio River in 1907, but couldn't get a fix on their location. So if you happen to know that I've placed mine wrongly, I would love to be told.
Comments: Are greatly appreciated, loved and cherished.
Disclaimer: here.
Everything they touch
Nodding to Frank Boden, hunched over in the bow, as he passed, John Richmond took up position a few yards aft and fumbled in his pocket for his flask while he cupped the bowl of his pipe in his other hand. The fog was as thick as pea soup and as cold as the grave. It reminded John of the fogs that came down over the Thames Estuary when he was just a young whippersnapper, tagging a berth from his father, both of them colluding in the fiction that he was a useful member of the crew.
Occasionally he heard the sound of another engine churning the water, but the fog that helped the sounds to carry also made the direction of their origin difficult to place - hence his decision to rest here for a while. On such a night there was need for a man with good eyes in the grey darkness. Frank's eyes were younger than John's and no doubt keener, but it did no harm to double the watch. With a grim smile, John admitted to himself that he was also seeking some peace in the open air after an evening spent with the eternal demands of the passengers. There were times when he felt some nostalgia for his father's dirty old Star of the North and her fifty years of shuttling back and forth between the Thames and the Tyne. She'd carried coal south and whatever they could find for the return trip to Newcastle. The Star had been small and scruffy. She had no boiler to assist her on her way and so her course was subject to the vagaries of the winds, but the cargo was inert; it never complained about the quality of the supper, or the company.
That was all a long time ago now. His father was dead, The Star lost, his sisters married and he'd eventually made his way here to the New World. He'd worked his passage and then fled inland in search of adventure. Instead he'd met Molly, who, he'd be willing to boast to any man who asked after his lost dreams, was an adventure in herself.
Chuckling quietly to himself, John took a swig of his bourbon, amused at his own fate, because somehow, in spite of all the miles he'd run, here he was, still afloat.
Unlike The Star, The Lady Liane steamed through the water efficiently, her powerful boiler driving her paddles around, scooping the water behind her with contemptuous ease. Feeling indulgent, he patted the rail at his side. "You may be bound by the banks of this river, lass," he thought, "but you're still a proper ship."
He had pride in the gold braid on his shoulders, even knowing it was there mainly to impress the fares. He had pride in the knowledge that, with The Lady's engine running clean and smooth, they'd bring those fares to shore in Pittsburgh on time, as laid down on the docket. There was pleasure in knowing that come evening he'd be sleeping in his own bed, in his own house, with his own wife again. However, there were days when he wished that he didn't have to also endure the social duties attached to his job.
They'd left Zanesville early, at the crack of dawn, down the Muskingum River to Marietta. There they'd taken on more passengers, then turning into the Ohio, heading upstream. John had spent most of the day on the bridge, reading the paper, plotting their progress in the chart room and overseeing the crew as they manoeuvred The Lady though the locks. At supper time he'd descended to fulfil his duties as host. Now he was on the foredeck, keeping watch in the still of the foggy night, just in case.
The last of the passengers had settled into their beds more than an hour ago, even the socialites who'd sat up playing cards at the big table in the saloon. Even the Englishman and his fey wife were on the point of retiring as John set off to do a final round of the decks before seeking his own bunk. They'd passed through Lock Number 8, the last on the approach to East Liverpool and the rest of the duty crew had no doubt gone below, out of the cold, until they reached Lock Number 7. John didn't blame them. George Connors was at the wheel and he was the best pilot on this stretch of the Ohio. There was no real cause for concern. In spite of that, though, he stationed himself near the bow, because if any other vessel was making towards them, he and Frank had a better chance of hearing their engine and might have more luck in spotting their lights than George did up in the pilot house.
It took a moment for the significance of the motion of the deck beneath his feet to penetrate his mind. The Lady was swinging. Without having sight of the shoreline it had not been obvious, but the way his feet braced against the slight tipping of the deck at each change of course eventually registered. He turned and looked up at the bridge, even knowing that he'd not be able to see anything. Tapping his pipe out on the rail, he shoved it in his pocket and, with a final, quick scan of the surrounding darkness, set off at a calm, fast walk. If George had become confused by the fog, then it was John's task to send him to his bunk and take his place himself, schedules and timekeeping be damned. John didn't have as sure a knowledge of the river as George did, but this was a well marked section and he could get them in to port safely, while a drunken man at the wheel would most likely wreck them.
As he hurried towards the pilot-house, John berated himself for a fool. He'd known George for nine years and never seen him take a drink on duty. Unfortunately, he also knew that for every drunk alive, there had to be a first time.
Approaching the companionway, he thought he spied movement near where the longboat was stored on the deck and he paused. A man's voice came to him through the fog, whispering fiercely, "Hang on, Dru. Let me get the blasted thing over the side first; then I'll jump in. I'll not get wet."
John hesitated, torn between investigating what appeared to be a theft in progress and the fear that George had been partaking. A female giggle interrupted his indecision, followed by the man again. "No need when they've so kindly provided transport, eh? Wouldn't help them much to leave it, anyway."
He knew he should challenge them, or shout out, but something in the man's words heightened his nagging feeling of unease and he scrambled up the companionway to the bridge instead.
The sight that met his eyes was one he would take to his grave. George was hanging by one arm hooked through the wheel. John knew immediately that he was dead, but that alone was not the cause of John's future nightmares; there was blood everywhere. At first it appeared to his shocked gaze to be splattered over every surface, but a second look showed it was mostly confined to the deck. By contrast George's skin was deadly pale. A fire axe lying next to his knee suggested that he had at least tried to fight back, unless that was what his murderers had used to kill him.
John rushed to the controls, pulling George's arm free at the same time as he grabbed the horn and yelled for Tom Harvey, down in the boiler house, to put them hard astern. A glance at the compass told him how far they were off their proper course and he held on grimly as he corrected, praying for the fog to clear and give him an estimate of how far they were from the bank.
Gradually The Lady lost way and he also began to relax. After a few minutes he signalled Tom for half steam ahead. It was fortunate that they were heading against the current, since that meant they had good steerage even at low speed. Finally, he reached for the bell and sounded the alarm to rouse the rest of the crew.
His arms and knees were trembling and even as he worried about what he'd say to George's woman, a part of him was already occupied by thoughts of cleaning up the mess. If the papers got hold of the truth, they'd blow it up into a major scandal and he'd be out of a job on his ear. The owners would be sure to blame him if the public decided that The Lady Liane was cursed. Tying off the wheel, he went to the top of the companionway steps to intercept his first mate and send him to put the whole crew on look out duties and investigate the loss of the longboat, assuming it was gone.
Returning to the pilot-house, he hauled George's body to the back to the room and laid him out against the wall. There were some odd marks on his neck, but John didn't have time to investigate those. They'd have to dock briefly at East Liverpool and telegraph the owners. He had a feeling he'd be needing some help from the company lawyer, once they got to Pittsburgh. Depending on what the lawyer said, he would wash the blood away using the deck hose, or they would call the police. In the meantime, he'd concentrate on keeping the crew busy elsewhere and on getting them all safely into port. Be it at sea or on a mighty river like the Ohio, the safety of the ship and her cargo always came first. With a hand on the wheel and an eye on the compass, he concentrated on calculating the fewest number of words needed to ask for help, without causing alarm.
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