The Dirty Duck (revision)
Posted: Sun Dec 05, 2021 11:25 am
revision
Bess pushed the bowl towards him.
“Take this broth boy, while it’s hot.”
She was the barmaid at The Dirty Duck, skinny and snappy, but strangely warm hearted about the orphan. Anthony's spoon dived in, but there was no meat, just root veg. He burnt his tongue, but believed he was too much the man to admit it. He was just fourteen, but tall for his age. He paid her the compliment of a winning smile. Smiles were currency. Folk like to be appreciated. She’d taught him well.
“I’m going to Jake's cove…there’s a shipment,’’ he bragged.
She scowled. Such boasts cost lives. He was still too much the child. She had lost her man to transportation one year into marriage, better than the hangman the gossip wisdom said, but none came back. Australia was crawling with widow spiders they said. She cared for the orphan, but he needled her conscience. She watched the boy as he chased the last of the broth in the bowl with a scrap of bread. He has the lungs to run from the Excise, she thought, but not enough wit to hide. All the scrawny village of Holcombe were desperate and greedy with talk. Her quiet ways fed more.
A tinker stood alone at the bar. He had a drinker’s belly and a vacant grin. He tipped his glass gently to a level where the grog flowed easily into his mouth. He wanted to show how he appreciated his drink.
“So there will be a lugger shipment tonight?” he asked Bess.
Bess kept her head down and shrugged. She knew him, knew his coin.
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“No? Just chatter I guess.”
He nodded. He understood her well enough. He finished the grog and set the empty glass down quietly.
“I’ll be off. The wind has the devil’s tongue tonight.”
It would be less than an hour to the cove.
Bess went to the window and watched the tinker hurry down the path. The moon behind him cast menacing shadows and lit the hamlet as if seeking the guilty. Then a cloud shrouded the moon. It was a sign. All would be well. Anthony would have the legs to outrun an Excise man.
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original
“Take that broth boy, while it’s hot.” Bess gestured towards the steaming bowl.
She was the barmaid at The Dirty Duck, skinny and snappy, but warm hearted about the orphan. Anthony‘s spoon dived in, but there was no meat, just root veg. He burnt his tongue, but he was too much the man already to admit it. He was just fourteen, but tall for his age. He paid her the compliment of a winning smile. Smiles were currency. Folk like to be appreciated. She’d taught him well.
“I’m going to the cove…there’s a shipment,’’ he bragged.
She scowled. Such talk cost lives. He was still too much the child. She had lost her man to transportation, better than the hangman most said, but none came back. Australia was crawling with widow spiders they said. She cared for the orphan, but he needled her conscience. He had the lungs to run from the Excise, but not enough wit to hide. All the scrawny village of Holcombe were desperate and greedy with talk. Her quiet ways fed more.
A stranger stood alone at the bar. He had a drinker’s belly and a vacant grin. He tipped his glass gently to a level where the grog flowed easily into his mouth. He wanted to show how he appreciated his drink.
“So there will be a lugger shipment tonight?” he drawled.
Bess kept her head down and shrugged. She knew him. He had paid enough to ease her conscience.
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“No? Just chatter I guess.”
He nodded. He understood the code. He finished the grog.
“I’ll be off. No point waiting. The wind has the devil’s tongue tonight.”
It would be less than an hour to rendezvous.
Bess went to the window and watched the man hurry down the path. The moon behind him cast a menacing shadow and lit the hamlet as if seeking the guilty. Then a cloud shrouded the moon. It was a sign. All would be well. Anthony would have the legs to outrun an Excise man.
Bess pushed the bowl towards him.
“Take this broth boy, while it’s hot.”
She was the barmaid at The Dirty Duck, skinny and snappy, but strangely warm hearted about the orphan. Anthony's spoon dived in, but there was no meat, just root veg. He burnt his tongue, but believed he was too much the man to admit it. He was just fourteen, but tall for his age. He paid her the compliment of a winning smile. Smiles were currency. Folk like to be appreciated. She’d taught him well.
“I’m going to Jake's cove…there’s a shipment,’’ he bragged.
She scowled. Such boasts cost lives. He was still too much the child. She had lost her man to transportation one year into marriage, better than the hangman the gossip wisdom said, but none came back. Australia was crawling with widow spiders they said. She cared for the orphan, but he needled her conscience. She watched the boy as he chased the last of the broth in the bowl with a scrap of bread. He has the lungs to run from the Excise, she thought, but not enough wit to hide. All the scrawny village of Holcombe were desperate and greedy with talk. Her quiet ways fed more.
A tinker stood alone at the bar. He had a drinker’s belly and a vacant grin. He tipped his glass gently to a level where the grog flowed easily into his mouth. He wanted to show how he appreciated his drink.
“So there will be a lugger shipment tonight?” he asked Bess.
Bess kept her head down and shrugged. She knew him, knew his coin.
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“No? Just chatter I guess.”
He nodded. He understood her well enough. He finished the grog and set the empty glass down quietly.
“I’ll be off. The wind has the devil’s tongue tonight.”
It would be less than an hour to the cove.
Bess went to the window and watched the tinker hurry down the path. The moon behind him cast menacing shadows and lit the hamlet as if seeking the guilty. Then a cloud shrouded the moon. It was a sign. All would be well. Anthony would have the legs to outrun an Excise man.
================================================
original
“Take that broth boy, while it’s hot.” Bess gestured towards the steaming bowl.
She was the barmaid at The Dirty Duck, skinny and snappy, but warm hearted about the orphan. Anthony‘s spoon dived in, but there was no meat, just root veg. He burnt his tongue, but he was too much the man already to admit it. He was just fourteen, but tall for his age. He paid her the compliment of a winning smile. Smiles were currency. Folk like to be appreciated. She’d taught him well.
“I’m going to the cove…there’s a shipment,’’ he bragged.
She scowled. Such talk cost lives. He was still too much the child. She had lost her man to transportation, better than the hangman most said, but none came back. Australia was crawling with widow spiders they said. She cared for the orphan, but he needled her conscience. He had the lungs to run from the Excise, but not enough wit to hide. All the scrawny village of Holcombe were desperate and greedy with talk. Her quiet ways fed more.
A stranger stood alone at the bar. He had a drinker’s belly and a vacant grin. He tipped his glass gently to a level where the grog flowed easily into his mouth. He wanted to show how he appreciated his drink.
“So there will be a lugger shipment tonight?” he drawled.
Bess kept her head down and shrugged. She knew him. He had paid enough to ease her conscience.
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“No? Just chatter I guess.”
He nodded. He understood the code. He finished the grog.
“I’ll be off. No point waiting. The wind has the devil’s tongue tonight.”
It would be less than an hour to rendezvous.
Bess went to the window and watched the man hurry down the path. The moon behind him cast a menacing shadow and lit the hamlet as if seeking the guilty. Then a cloud shrouded the moon. It was a sign. All would be well. Anthony would have the legs to outrun an Excise man.