All right, here we go with the first of the interludes! As I mentioned last week, this one won't be rated M, although next week's will. I hope you all enjoy the all-new format and insight into Harry's life! And Rose1421: I sent you a PM, but in case you didn't get it, I'd love to read your prologue - please send it my way!
And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But pride congealed the drop within his e'e:
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,
And from his native land resolved to go,
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;
With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.
The Childe departed from his father's hall;
It was a vast and venerable pile;
So old, it seemed only not to fall,
Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.
Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!
Where superstition once had made her den,
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;
And monks might deem their time was come agen,
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood,
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,
As if the memory of some deadly feud
Or disappointed passion lurked below:
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;
For his was not that open, artless soul
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.
And none did love him: though to hall and bower
He gathered revellers from far and near,
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;
The heartless parasites of present cheer.
Yea, none did love him—not his lemans dear—
But pomp and power alone are woman's care,
And where these are light Eros finds a feere;
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
Childe Harold had a mother—not forgot,
Though parting from that mother he did shun;
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
Before his weary pilgrimage begun:
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel;
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.
His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,
And all that mote to luxury invite,
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line.
The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew
As glad to waft him from his native home;
And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
And soon were lost in circumambient foam;
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam
Repented he, but in his bosom slept
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept...
'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage', Lord Byron
1897 - 1903
"I hate him," Harold Lowe mumbled, his lower lip trembling.
Except it wasn't really true. He didn't hate his father. He loved him... despite everything, he loved him. And he wanted his father's love, too... but there were always conditions.
'You're going to be apprenticed, and that is that, Harold. You will not defy me.'
And that's why he was hastily stuffing a spare pair of trousers, drawers, socks, and a few shirts into a ditty bag.
'But I want to be paid for my labor. And I've told you what I want to do. Please, Father, if you'll just-'
'You're never going to be a sailor, Harold. That's for the dregs of society. You're a gentleman and a Lowe, not an uncivilized brute, and you'll do as you're told!'
He sniveled and wiped the back of his hand over his eyes. He was so tired of crying; he despised crying. At fourteen, he should have been long past it. And yet-
'You're too old for a beating. But I have other ways of punishing you.'
The flaming hulk, his anguished cries, his father's eyes glittering mercilessly in the glare.
He brushed away the last of his shameful tears, slung the bag over his shoulder, walked over to the window, and raised the sash. Taking one last glance around his luxurious bedroom, he threw one leg over the windowsill and searched with his foot for the thick branch that would carry him out of this toxic, oppressive house and to freedom.
And that's when his sister Ada burst into the room. "Harry! Father wants you to-"
She froze, taking in the bag, the open window, his defiant expression.
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you think you're doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing, Ada?" he retorted, straddling the windowsill.
She crossed her arms. "Oh, no you don't, Harry. You're not running away. It's not fair that you get to-" She cut off the rest of her sentence, stomping her foot in frustration and chagrin. "If you try to go, I'm... I'm telling!"
"No, you won't," he snapped.
"I most certainly will," she taunted, her eyes hard.
Harold took a deep breath. "He burned the punt, Ada. Did you know that? Lit it and pushed it out into the bay. It's gone." His voice quavered slightly.
She gasped loudly, her face paling. "He didn't..." she whispered. "Not George's punt. Why?"
"To teach me a lesson," he spat, bile rising in his throat. "For defying him."
"Oh, Harry..."
"So I'm leaving, and you're not going to stop me."
Brother and sister looked at each other steadily for a long minute. Then she sighed in defeat, nodding her agreement. "What about Mother?" she asked quietly.
His face softened. "I left her a note," he said, gesturing to the table by the bed. "But you tell her... tell her that I'm sorry." He couldn't keep his face from crumpling with grief and regret.
"She'll understand. You know how she feels about... about what Father's doing," Ada assured him gently.
He stared down at the floor for a long moment, then met her eyes again. "Take care of her for me, all right?"
"Where... where are you going? She'll want to know."
"To sea, of course."
Alarm spilled onto her features then. "No, Harry, you can't! You don't know the first thing about sailing! You'll drown, just like George-" Her voice caught in her throat.
"No, I won't," he insisted. And somehow, as he said it, he knew it was the truth. His words were firm as he continued, "The sea won't take me, I promise. It's my destiny, not my doom. I'm going to live my life on my own terms, and I'm going to make a name for myself. I'm going to be more than just Harry, George Lowe's son." He took a deep breath. "So when I come home again - if I ever come home - I want you to call me Harold."
She paused for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was queer, almost deferential. "All right... Harold. I'll let you go. I'll even cover for you. Give you a head start. Just this once, mind."
"Thanks, Ada. I'm in your debt." He gave her one last, lingering look, and disappeared out the window.
"Please, sir," he begged, pulling on the captain's sleeve.
He had walked most of the night, stopping once to collapse in a field near the road for a few hours of much-needed sleep. But he had made it to Portmadoc early that morning, hoping to catch the ships before they left the harbor.
His luck had held, at least in that respect. But the masters wanted seasoned sailors, not green boys like him. One after another, they had refused him.
As the morning wore on, Harold grew more and more desperate. He had to hurry; his father might only be a few hours behind him, if he had guessed his destination - which he probably had. He had to make sure he was safely out of reach, or else... well, he didn't even want to contemplate the alternative.
The captain he was accosting gave him a quick assessing glance. His eyes held a healthy dose of skepticism. Harold was a slender boy, not an ounce of fat on him, and rather short for his age. He knew that was why the other skippers had refused him a berth; they didn't think he could pull his weight.
He was determined to prove them all wrong.
"How old are you, son?" the captain asked gruffly, looking down at him.
"Sixteen," Harold lied.
The man studied him. "You don't look a day over twelve." Harold's ears burned.
"Gimme your hands." Harold held them out for examination.
The man felt his palms roughly. "No calluses. Where did you say you're from, anyway?"
I'm a Lowe, from Penrallt. You know my father; everyone does. "A farm near Llandderfel. Ran away." That part was true enough.
"Ever been on a sailing ship before, lad?"
Harold hesitated. He had been on fishing skiffs, and of course, the punt, but nothing large... nothing like the wooden schooners that sat in the stinking harbor, with their sails, lines, and men running up and down the ropes. He was a boatman, not a sailor. "No sir," he admitted sheepishly.
"Then why the hell do you want to work on mine?" the captain asked, his eyes penetrating.
"Because being a sailor is the only thing I've ever wanted to do," Harold said honestly.
The captain must have seen something worthwhile in that statement, because he asked grudgingly, "What's your name?"
"Er... um... I..." he stammered, unable to remember the name he had made up for himself.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. To these men, you'll be George, hear?"
Harold flinched, but nodded. "Aye aye, sir." The last thing he wanted was to be called by his father's - and his dead brother's - name, but he didn't dare protest.
"All right, then. Come aboard, lad."
A thin stream of drool dangled from Harold's lips as he lay prone on the deck, his head hanging over the edge of the ship. He groaned as his stomach heaved again, this time bringing up nothing. There was nothing left inside him; he was totally hollowed out, in more ways than one. As he lay there, shaking and sodden with sweat, he found himself praying for death. Death would be preferable to this misery-
"Look lively, boy," the cook said, nudging him with his foot. "Skipper's on his way over."
Harold rolled over and pulled himself up into a sitting position. It was all he could manage for the moment; he was so weak that he could barely hold his head up, and the dizziness caused by the soaring and dipping of the schooner threatened to render him prone again.
The captain stopped in front of him, and Harold's gaze traveled up from the man's worn shoes, to the slops, to the jumper, and finally to his face. It was weathered and creased with lines, but his eyes were kind. "You all right, son?"
"Yes, sir," Harold croaked, wiping his hand across his mouth.
"Crew's waitin' on their dinner, you know," he reminded him.
At the thought of food, Harold's gut lurched again, and he gagged before somehow getting himself under control.
The captain contemplated him for a moment, then crouched down, knees popping, until his keen, sympathetic eyes were level with Harold's miserable own. "You know, a life at sea isn't for everyone," he said gently. "I wouldn't think ill of you if you signed off at Portmadoc and didn't come back."
'You're never going to be a sailor.'
Harold took a deep breath and slowly rose to his feet. Swallowing his gorge once again, he swayed, but somehow stayed upright.
He held out his hand to the cook. "Pass me a knife and those potatoes."
Funny, he didn't feel any different.
He had put his clothes back on, paid the woman, and left before his mind could even process what had just happened.
Sure, it was pleasant - while it had lasted. It felt much better than his hand, certainly. Something he'd definitely want to do again, as a matter of fact. But it hadn't changed him in any fundamental way, the way the stories implied it would, the way the priests in church had told him it would. There was nothing sacred, nothing holy, about what he had done. It was just a physical act. This morning, he hadn't known what it felt like; now, he did. It was as simple as that.
Oh, but his father would be furious with him, if he only knew. Sullying himself with a prostitute was not something a gentleman did. His father had made that very clear. Which is why it was the first thing he did once he was paid off. If his father didn't love him, maybe someone else would-
He quickly pushed that ridiculous thought away. He wasn't looking for love anyway, he told himself angrily. The notion that the act he had just performed was somehow tied up with love was for romantic, wet-eyed saps - and he most definitely was not one of those. Not anymore.
His feet turned him unerringly back in the direction of the schooner. His curiosity - and his body - satisfied for now, all he could think about was returning to the sea. Despite the misery of his first voyage, he was smitten.
It was the only mistress he'd ever love, he promised himself.
Harold's bare feet dangled as he straddled the bowsprit, watching the prow cut through the waves beneath him. He was memorizing sails.
"Flying jib, jib, and fore staysail... no, stays'l," he murmured to himself. "In that order, from the bow. And then foresail, attached to the fore mast, and mains'l, attached to the main mast, and above those, the tops'ls-"
"Hey! Boy! Get in here afore ya drown!"
Crouched on the yard at the very top of the ship, Harold let his hands run over the rigging.
"The halliard raises the sail, the braces trim the yard, the lifts support the yard when it's lowered, the sheets haul clews out to the yard below-"
"Boy! Climb down outta those shrouds! Dinner's burnin'!"
The sea dog and the boy sat in their hammocks in the fo'c'sle, several lengths of thick knotted rope stretched between them. "This 'ere's a reef knot," the old man said, showing him. "What's that one?" he asked, pointing.
"A sheet bend," Harold said promptly.
"Good. Now tie me a bowline. Quick, like. Your life may depend on it someday."
When Harold finished, he examined it. "Not bad. Faster next time, though. Now, what's the difference between a lashing and a seizing?"
"A lashing is-"
"Boy! Where are you? Cap'n wants you to learn how to trim the sails!"
Always an interruption. Never enough time. And yet... somehow, despite everything, he was becoming a sailor.
"Agent's here with the mail!"
As soon as the shout went out, sailors began drifting over to the gangway. Mail call was always eagerly anticipated, and because they were preparing the ship for another voyage, the men were anxious to receive their letters before they departed. Even though their ports of call were close to home and they never spent extended periods of time at sea, notes from sweethearts, wives, friends, and parents were treasured keepsakes. They connected the sailors to the homes and families they missed, to the people that loved them.
Harold, who was scrubbing the deck, studiously turned away.
When all the letters had been distributed, he heard the agent sing out, "Is there a Harold Lowe aboard? There's some letters here for him, addressed to this ship."
"Who the hell is that?" one of his shipmates retorted. "We don't have a Harold or a Harry on board."
Shrugging his shoulders, the agent tossed the letters on the dock.
His heart aching, Harold forced himself to leave them there.
After the four bells that signaled the end of his dog watch, Harold sought out the OS the others had told him about. He found him on the main deck, splicing rope.
"Can you give me a tattoo?"
The burly, foul-smelling man shrugged. "Sure. Whatta ye want?"
"A heart."
The man smirked. "With yer sweetheart's initials in the middle, lover boy?"
Harold stared him down, unblinking. "No. My own."
The man looked at him appraisingly before nodding. "All right. Lemme get my kit."
Harold paced the deck until the man returned. He opened a small wooden box to reveal several needles and jars of ink. Squatting on the deck, he gestured for Harold to sit as well.
"What's yer full name, anyway? For the initials."
He hesitated. "Harold Godfrey Lowe." It was time he took back his real name.
The man squinted at him. "That so? Here I thought 'twas George."
Harold shook his head. "A misunderstanding," he said steadily.
The man tied several needles together, then dipped them in black ink.
"Ye sure, lad? This is permanent," he warned.
Harold held out his right arm unflinchingly. "Sure. Just do it."
His father had once said that only men of ill repute used tattoos to mark themselves. 'They're like savages,' he had sneered.
As the needles stabbed him over and over, Harold squeezed his eyes shut and welcomed the pain.
The pain was unrelenting.
His entire body ached, from his scalp to the soles of his feet. They been lying in wait when he disembarked. He had known they would be, but there was nothing to be done for it. He had refused to give them his rations, had refused to do their bidding, and they made him pay the price for it once they signed off, pummeling him mercilessly with their fists and feet. Afterward, while Harold groveled in the mud, cowering with his arms shielding his head, they had spat on him. As a final insult, the ringleader slipped his hand in his pocket and nicked his pay.
"Don't look so pretty now, do you, toff?" he taunted, giving Harold one last kick in the ribs before sauntering off.
As Harold lay in a bloody, bruised heap on the ground, his humiliation and degradation complete, he heard the tough shout: "Don't you dare come back to the ship, neither." The sinister threat floated back to him over the discordant jangle of raucous laughter from the others.
"Yeah, go home to your old man, Little Lord Lowe," another chimed in, voice fading as they disappeared down the dirty alley.
Harold groaned and rolled over with an effort. He couldn't see out of his left eye at all; it had swelled shut, but he fixed his right eye on the night sky, at the panoply of stars twinkling in the heavens.
"Ursa Minor," he whispered through battered lips. "Cassiopeia... Polaris." He made a fist and extended it to the horizon. "One... two..." Fist over fist, he counted until he reached the North Star. "Five." That was a little over fifty degrees latitude. Just about right for Liverpool. And almost the same latitude as Barmouth...
He pushed away the pain, both the physical aches as well as the emotional torment, and focused on the constellations, which now slowly swirled in the sky above him.
"Perseus... Andromeda... Draco..." he murmured. "...Orion..."
Harold slipped into unconsciousness.
"You say you're an OS?"
"Yes, sir."
"You got proof of that?" Harold nodded and produced the creased and dirty letter, the one thing that hadn't been stolen from him that night.
The captain glanced at it briefly before looking back up at him. "What happened to your face?"
"I tripped. Fell down a hatch."
The man studied him for a long moment. "I don't want no trouble on my ship."
"There won't be any trouble," Harold assured him. "I promise."
"Come aboard, then."
A new ship, same conditions. The gusty snoring of his shipmates, the stench of the quarters, the squeaking of the rats. The water that always seemed to drip onto his forehead just as he was deciphering a tricky part of the ship's moldy navigational textbook.
Harold had moved up to OS... had gone from schooners to square-rigged sailing ships... but he craved more, much more. He nurtured ambitions of obtaining a berth as an AB or a quartermaster... and maybe even someday getting his mate's certificates and becoming a proper officer on a steamer. Standing watch in the shiny wheelhouse of a Cunard or White Star liner was something he fantasized about nearly every night.
And so he studied, as hard as he could, as frequently as he could, which usually meant sneaking in a few moments of reading after a brutal and grueling watch. But on this night, with the ship tossing and rolling and the torrential rain leaking into their quarters from the deck above, he found it especially difficult to concentrate.
Harold yawned, forcing his tired eyes to refocus on the words dancing on the page in front of him.
"To take a sight using the intercept method, observe the altitude above the horizon of a celestial body using a sextant and note the time of the observation," he read aloud. "Compute the altitude and the azimuth of the star using the estimated position and the data from the nautical almanac at the time of observation. Mark the assumed position on the chart and draw a line in the direction of the azimuth. Measure the intercept distance along this azimuth line-"
"Oi! Lowe! Put out that light!"
The next time Harold's feet touched land, he bought himself a sextant.
A few nights later, when the skies were clear, he approached the second mate, who was officer of the watch. "Show me how to use this," he said, holding up the instrument.
"Bugger off, lad. I've got no time for foolishness," the man growled.
Harold jingled the coins in his pocket. "I'll pay you," he countered.
The man turned toward him slowly. "All right then. You have a deal." He gestured. "Hand it over."
He examined the sextant with a grunt of admiration. "That's a tidy one, that is. You got a rich patron or somethin'?"
"No, sir."
"Did you steal it?"
Harold bristled. "Not damn likely."
The man chuckled approvingly. "That's better. Now you sound like a proper sailor."
Harold, who was still stewing from the indignity of being called a thief, didn't appreciate the man's mocking and was about to stalk away when the mate grabbed his arm.
"Now see here- what did you say your name was?"
"Lowe," he mumbled sullenly.
"Well, Lowe, if you wanna learn, come here, then."
Harold forced his shoulders to relax, his belligerence to evaporate. He took his place next to the man, who was holding the sextant up to his eye.
"First you look through the sighting scope at the horizon line. See it through the mirror? Good. That's called the horizon mirror. Now, move the index arm - no, you pillock, this part here - until you can see the Pole Star reflected onto that mirror by the one on the index arm, see?"
Harold nodded eagerly.
"Now, adjust the arm a wee bit to bring Polaris as close to the level of the horizon as possible..."
Mesmerized, Harold fine-tuned the arm and knobs and recorded angles and times as instructed, marveling as a whole new world opened up before his eyes.
Harold stood on the poop, staring out into the dark night. These days, he spent every spare second - when he wasn't on duty or sleeping, that is - next to the wheel, avidly absorbing everything he could. He and the second mate, Williams, had even struck up a friendship after a fashion.
Williams turned to him now, as Harold was peering into the binnacle. "What is the formula for calculating a dead reckoning position, Lowe?"
Harold straightened up and looked at him. "There are several variations of the formula depending on what you want to know, sir. Which variable would you like me to solve for?"
Williams rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "You're a real Jack the Lad, aren't you? Well, then. Suppose I want to know the position of the ship at eight o'clock in the evening."
Harold pondered. "Well, I'd first determine the speed of the ship. I'd get it by averaging the log reads from our noon fix to the current time. That gives her a run of eight hours to take a mean on."
"Go on."
"And then I'd multiply speed by time elapsed to get the distance traveled, sir. Of course, this would then need to be applied to the recorded heading and any directional changes."
"Right. Now tell me why dead reckoning is less accurate than celestial navigation. And drop the 'sir' shit, if you please, Lowe."
"Because it's subject to errors, s-... er, Williams. For one thing, it doesn't account for directional drift during travel through water. And both speed and direction must be precisely known at all times."
"Right again. And your calculations'd better be accurate, too. Get it wrong, and you'll end up wrecked on the shoals."
"Not me," Harold grinned confidently. "I wouldn't arse it up."
Williams laughed. "Cocky son of a bitch."
Williams barged into the crew mess where Harold was sitting at the table, tapping his pencil absently on the pages of an open book. "Captain just granted us shore leave, Lowe. You comin'?"
Harold looked up from his studies with a weary sigh. "Thank you, but I'll have to pass."
"C'mon, you bell-end. You need to get your nose outta those books. Let's get tight and pick up a few pretty tarts, eh?"
Harold, who had been smiling politely, blanched at the glib mention of going on the lash. "I don't drink, Williams. Ever."
His father's blotchy face and bloodshot eyes... the pungent, sickening smell of spirits on his breath... the twisting grip of his fingers on Harold's arm as he loomed menacingly over him...
Harold pushed the memories away with an effort.
Williams gave him a perplexed look, but recovered quickly. "How about those birds, then?" he persisted. "Surely you can't refuse them?"
Harold's mouth quirked up into a grin. His weakness was well known. "Maybe tomorrow," he said lightly.
Williams shrugged. "Suit yourself."
As the man left, Harold returned to the page he had been reading, his lips moving over the words: "'Vessels' Lights and Rules of the Road. A sea-going steamship when underway shall carry: On or in front of the foremast, a bright white light... on the starboard side, a green light... on the port side, a red light...'"
"All hands! Turn out you bastards!"
Harold awoke instantly. He tumbled out of his bunk along with the rest of the watch, pulled on his clothes, and clattered up the ladder to the deck, wondering with trepidation what they were going to face when they got above.
Even before he stepped on deck, though, he could tell that something was wrong; the ladder was swaying under his feet, and he nearly fell backward onto another sailor when the ship took a mighty lurch. As he staggered onto the deck at last, he took a quick assessing look around and immediately realized how dire the situation was. The calm sea that he remembered from a few hours ago during his watch had completely transformed, and was now heaving with mountainous swells. The heavily laden ship wallowed in the waves that periodically burst over the main deck, sending rivers of water and foam racing over the deck and the men.
Adrenaline and alarm coursed through him, making his body shiver in the drenching downpour. From the motion of the ship, it seemed like they had lost control of her, and as Harold let his eyes travel upward he understood why. The captain had been hard driving with all sail set - and the inevitable result was that the ship had become unmanageable. Indeed, a sudden gust of wind sent them nearly heeling over, the yards groaning with the strain as the wind caught the upper sails and threatened to tear them apart.
Another huge wash spilled over the bulwark, and Harold lost his balance, catching up against the mainmast in an ungainly sprawl. As he regained his feet, sudden anger flared up, momentarily replacing his anxiety. The unnecessary risk they had taken by cracking on in that storm-tossed sea was exacerbating the already dangerous predicament they were in. They were liable to get dismasted, or worse-
As if reading his mind, someone next to him shouted, "My God, we'll be thrown on our beam ends!" Harold looked over and saw that it was a boy, a few years younger than him, nearly hysterical with terror and panic.
Harold put a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder and spoke as calmly as his racing heart would allow. "Belay that, lad. We'll be all right. Captain knows what he's doing."
But did he? He always said he knew how much sail she could carry, but she was most definitely lugging too much. They needed to take in some canvas... but the captain had a reputation as a daredevil-
"Hands to the halliards, clewlines, and braces!"
Harold breathed an inward sigh of relief as he and the rest of the crew scrambled to their stations at the whip crack of the captain's voice. He was doing the sensible thing, then; it seemed that even his recklessness had its limits. But if they didn't hurry and shorten sail immediately, it would be too late.
"Clew down the t'gallants!" came the command at last, and Harold joined in with the other hands as they scurried from halliards to clewlines, lowering the yard and furling the sail as the gale bore down on them.
A series of rapid-fire orders followed that one: "Take in the flying-jib! Clew down the mizzen topsail! Haul up the mainsail and spanker!" His body obeyed instinctively, a product of months of hard work and constant drill to instill discipline. As the men flew frantically around the rolling deck, trying to bring the ship to bear, Harold's mind was working rapidly. From his textbook reading, he knew that the captain was trying to fling her up before the wind. But he had a sneaking suspicion that they had waited too long. In her unstable condition, if she were put before heavy seas, a mistake on the helmsman's part could cause her to veer broadside, heel over and fill as the seas crashed aboard, and probably sink if the rigging were not cut away in time-
"Put her hard up, Mr. Williams!"
Startled, Harold swiped the water from his face and glanced aft. With a sinking heart, he confirmed that it was indeed Williams at the wheel. He had been the officer of the watch, and the storm had likely come on so suddenly that he had had to push the helmsman out of the way and grab the wheel himself. His eyes were wide with fear, and he was gripping the spokes so tightly his knuckles were white.
Harold saw what was going to happen before it did. Williams gave her a little too much helm just as a gust of wind came sweeping over the waves...
The ship pitched and lurched, rolling sickeningly to starboard. With an enormous leap, Harold threw himself into the rigging, clinging to the lee braces in a death grip to avoid being thrown overboard. And from his perch, he watched in horror as an enormous comber broke over the stern, sweeping the poop. It scooped Williams up, tearing him away from the wheel and dumping him against the bulwark half-drowned and unconscious.
"No!" Harold screamed, and flung himself down from the ropes, racing to his friend's side. He was there in an instant, covering the distance between them in a few hurried bounds. Williams was still breathing, and as Harold lifted the upper half of his body out of the pooling water, he stirred slightly.
"Wake up, you bastard," Harold whimpered as he cradled Williams in his arms. Absorbed in his desperate attempt to rouse the man, he was heedless of the cacophony of sound, the frenzied motion swirling all around him, the ship still laboring in the gigantic seas, until-
"Lowe! Take that wheel!"
At the captain's roar, he hesitated, torn between concern for his friend and the absolute authority and power of the master. In the next instant, a jagged flash of lightning lit the sky like a sign from above, illuminating the deck in sharp clarity. In it, Harold saw the wheel spinning wildly, unmanned.
If he didn't do something, they were all going to drown.
That premonition was what finally broke through his indecision. He had no choice. His duty to his shipmates, as well as his own sense of responsibility, compelled him to act.
Gently, Harold lay Williams back down on the deck and then bolted for the wheel, his feet sliding on the slippery, slanting wood. But once he reached it, he saw that steering her was going to be damn near impossible. He had stood a few tricks at the wheel before, but only in calm seas. This was going to be like trying to stop a runaway freight train.
But he would do it, or die trying.
As the ship's bow rose, Harold threw all his weight against the wheel, stopping its clockwise motion and ignoring the wrenching pain in his arms as he fought the twenty-five hundred ton ship. A sudden blast of hail and rain came whipping across the deck, nearly lifting him from his feet, but he hung on grimly, refusing to yield even an inch of the hard-fought ground he had gained.
"Port her!"
With herculean strength, he carried out the order, wresting the wheel anti-clockwise, hand over hand, as the muscles and sinews in his shoulders and back tore from the strain. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the wheel turned, wet spokes ripping the flesh from his palms as he did everything in his power to prevent her from broaching to the waves and wind.
The ship dipped and yawed again, throwing up huge geysers of spray, and then shuddered, balancing on the knife-edge between disaster and salvation. If they were going to be taken flat aback, where a sudden reversal in the wind would press against the forward side of the sails and twist the masts out of her, it would be now-
Another deep plunge. But this time, Harold felt the helm bite into the water when she straightened herself up. The wind caught the sails, the little bit of canvas they still had on the ship strained to bursting, but he was unaware of it; he could see nothing but the blood-soaked wheel in front of him as he focused all his attention on keeping it from jolting and flinging the spokes out of his hands.
He was not conscious that he had mastered the ship - and the roiling sea below them - until he felt her charge forward suddenly under his feet. She had stopped rolling about in the troughs and was now lifting herself above the waves that dashed futilely against her sides. The gale still shrieked around them as she surged and clawed her way through the furious sea, and deluges of spray still blinded them, but the danger of being taken under had passed. In a matter of minutes they were racing before the wind, tearing through the water with everything flying, the captain bellowing himself hoarse to 'keep her full and by, lads!'.
Only once they were out of harm's way did the significance of his actions finally sink in. He had done it; he had fought the ship and won, had brought her under his control and saved everyone from impending doom. Through sheer force of will, he had once again cheated his jealous mistress from condemning him to her watery depths.
Seized by a mad, sudden exultation, he tilted his head up to the black sky. A triumphant cackle escaped his lips, building and escalating until it bubbled from him in uncontrolled bursts. The rain lashed his face as he screamed at the top of his lungs above the howl of the wind, "Look at me, Father! Look at me now!" In his ecstasy, he was unaware of both his crazed ranting and the tears streaming down his face. "You said I would never be a sailor? Well, FUCK YOU!"
Only Williams, who was wobbling to his feet nearby, heard his defiant declaration. But although his words were snatched by the wind, his maniacal laughter drifted forward to the men working the lines with startling clarity. And despite their relief at being out of danger, unease rippled through the watch at the unholy and unnerving sound.
Even Williams avoided him after that.
Another port, another girl.
He was better at it now; better at the act itself, better at the art of seduction leading up to it. The storm - and its aftermath - had taught him a valuable lesson: to conceal the more turbulent, unpredictable aspects of his personality. He had learned how to assimilate, to be charming and confident. And because of it, he was attracting a whole different class of women.
The one he had just tumbled was sitting up in bed, watching him. "You're not like the other sailors I've known," she remarked contemplatively, a sheet covering her modesty.
He flashed her a cocky, self-assured grin. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Her pretty face, still flushed with satiety, dimpled. "Can I see you again?" she inquired as he dressed.
He shook his head. "No. I'm sorry. I sail tomorrow. Won't be back for several months, if at all."
He turned away, ignoring her look of disappointment. She had known what she was getting into when he rented this room, when she eagerly agreed to the terms and conditions he had set. Still, he paused, suddenly hesitant. The departure was always the tricky part, the part that made him feel a melancholy tenderness at odds with his wanton behavior. "Stay here as long as you like, though. I... I hope you enjoyed yourself. I thought it was lush. Wonderful, I mean." He knew he was babbling, so he finished awkwardly, "Well, farewell then." Touching the brim of his cap, he left before she could see the hint of guilt and regret in his eyes.
That was how all of his flings ended - with a fulfilled body and an untouched heart. He refused to allow them to be anything more than empty embraces, having told himself long ago that he would never make the mistake of equating sex with love. And he didn't need love, anyway. His only love was the sea. Unpredictable, terrible, vengeful... but also beautiful, mysterious, seductive, irresistible... a living thing that offered him what his father no longer did: a place to call home.
"Letter for you, Mr. Lowe."
The captain had approached Harold while he was helping to muscle a heavy load of slate into the ship's hold. He paused, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and then turned to see the man looking at him expectantly.
Harold took the outstretched envelope and felt his heart turn over as he recognized the familiar, spidery scrawl.
His father had found him. Had written to him.
Did he dare open it?
He stared at the letter, frozen with indecision. His father was probably ordering him to come home. That was the most logical scenario, after all. If he had gone to all the trouble of tracking him down, it meant that he had been driven by strong emotions - and given his father's temperament, fury and disapproval were the likely culprits. His father had always demanded unquestioning obedience, and this time would be no different. He might even threaten to cut off Harold's inheritance - not that he gave a damn, anyway, but he wouldn't put it past his father to leverage his legacy to try and bring him back into line.
But what if he was wrong? What if it was an apology?
Harold pondered the likelihood for a moment. Was it possible that over time, his father had realized that his cruel and oppressive behavior was the reason Harold had run away in the first place? What if he had come to his senses and now regretted his actions? Perhaps the letter was his father's way of offering an olive branch, trying to make peace between them.
Sudden longing pierced his heart. That would mean he could see his mother and siblings again, maybe even patch up his relationship with his father. He could return to Barmouth, to the terraced cliffs and lush gardens of his childhood... to the comfort and familiarity of his home...
No.
Harold shook off the sentimental thoughts with an effort, berating himself for his uncharacteristic moment of weakness. He had established himself in his career, had made his own way, just as he had promised Ada he would long ago. But it was a tenuous independence. Opening that letter might dredge up his long-buried need for acceptance and love; it might even make him doubt his own resolve. A single sentence, a single word, had the power to undo all the progress he had made over the past few years. If he allowed his father back into his heart, he would belong to him forever. And a lifetime of obedience weighed against the freedoms that he had experienced when he answered the siren song of the sea... well, there was no comparison. He would forge his own path, come hell or high water.
He couldn't - wouldn't - go back to the life he had lived before.
Harold made his decision. He handed the letter back to the captain with a shaking hand.
"Return that to the sender, sir," said Harold. "Tell him you couldn't find me."
Someday, he thought to himself, blinking away the sudden mist that clouded his eyes. When he was strong enough, he would go home and try to make amends with his father. After he had earned all his certificates and become an officer. When he could stand proud, knowing that he had reached the pinnacle of his achievements.
But not today.
"Where the runaways are running the night..." - 'Greatest Showman'
'I ran away and went on these schooners, and from there I went to square-rigged sailing ships, and from there to steam, and got all my certificates...'
This was RealLowe's description of his early years at sea. There's not a lot of detail about his life from that time period, so everything in this interlude is fictional. However, because he never had a proper apprenticeship, nor did he attend any cram schools, I am making an educated guess that most of his knowledge of sailing was either self-learned, or taught by sympathetic shipmates (in this story, represented by his first captain and Williams, among others).
I am also making an educated guess about the relationship with his father - or at least, the severity of it - given that he ran away at 14 to avoid an apprenticeship, and also that his father had a problem with alcohol. I doubt that George Lowe was as hard-hearted as I've depicted here. However, worth noting is that on the Titanic's crew agreement document, where every other officer lists their current home address, Lowe has written 'on board no other', which I find incredibly sad. It also hints at the ongoing rift with his family.
Lowe's tattoo - 'HGL in heart on right fore arm' - was listed under 'personal marks' on all of his Board of Trade applications.
I am a total nautical novice, so I used multiple sources for each section on sailing and navigation to try and make sure I got the terminology and concepts correct. Even so I'm sure I have made errors; if you spot any, please feel free to let me know and I will fix them. One of my most useful resources was 'Text-Book of Seamanship, 1891' by S.B. Luce of the US Navy, which covers everything from knots to reefing sails. I also used parts of Lightoller's and Bisset's memoirs to piece together the events of this fictional storm (similar events are described by both of these men). One article in particular - 'Life in the Dying World of Sail, 1870 - 1910', by Robert Foulke - was enormously informative, and painted a vivid picture about the hardships of sailing life. All of the Titanic's officers - from Smith to Moody - learned their craft on sailing vessels. It was truly eye-opening to learn what those men had to endure - no wonder they were all so tough!
Song inspiration: Whatever It Takes - Imagine Dragons
Final note: this interlude wouldn't even exist if it weren't for my dear friend Rosie. Her beautiful and touching short, written a few months ago when I was at my lowest, inspired me to explore a whole new chapter in Harry's world, and I now consider this one of the lynchpins of the entire story - I don't think his character can be understood without it. So THANK YOU DARLING ROSIE, for all you have done and continue to do for me and for W&S! This one's for you ;)