The Legacy: Book Two: Chapter One: "The Last Cockney"
AUTHOR'S NOTE: For the characters presented in this chapter, I have done my best to recreate cockney in written form. Forgive any errors, and please e- mail me if you have any trouble understanding what the characters are saying. Enjoy!
"Bloody 'ell!" Thomas Ridgeford Thompson (of the Liverpool Thompsons) exclaimed.
Receiving a sharp blow to the back of the head is never a pleasant way of waking up. Sadly, it was a way of waking up that Thomas Thompson had grown accustomed to.
"Eh, Oi'm gettin' ta work!"
He pulled his tall, lanky body into a sitting position. Expecting to see his employer, Mr. Garron the printer, he was instead greeted by the round, smiling, often red-nosed face of his friend Tucker. No one knew whether Tucker was his first name or his last name, seeing as it was the only name he ever gave anyone. When confronted about it, he would simply say, "Tucka's good enough for the like a' ya!"
"Bloody 'ell, Tucka'!" Thompson cried, rubbing the lump forming on the back of his head. "What'd ya 'it me in the 'ead for? Oi! It ain't toim for work yet." He reached into his pocket for his watch, forgetting that he'd had to sell it a few days ago to help Tucker pay for a couple of glasses he had 'accidentally' broken down at the local pub. Thompson was always the sort to help out a friend, seeing as friends didn't come easily.
"I ain't toim for work, thank God!" Tucker replied. He pulled a bottle of cheap wine from somewhere in his ragged clothes and took suck a violent swig that some of the liquid missed his mouth and spilled onto Thompson's coat.
"Careful Tucka, this is me good jacket!"
"It's ya only jacket."
Thompson thought about this for a moment.
"So it'd best be me good one then!"
Tucker secreted the bottle away. Thompson fumbled around in the dark for his glasses, a pair of round lenses set in a battered wire frame that he perched on the end of his long, pointed nose. It wasn't that the cockney needed glasses, he had simply found them on the street several years ago and upon trying them on discovered that they made him look considerably more dignified.
Thompson's living quarters were impressive for a man of his social class, especially a man who had left England to seek his fortune in a far off exotic colony. The small room was attached to Garron's Printing Shop and often grew mercilessly hot during the day, but it had a bed, a washbasin, and a table. That was more furniture than most of India's poor could even dream about, though it was considerably less than Thompson was used to, having been raised by his beloved 'Aunt' Morganna.
"What is it ya wanted, Tucka?" Thompson asked, adjusted his glasses to achieve a look that was something between dignified and ridiculous. He had a long face that his eyes were far too small for. The glasses did help a bit.
"'Ave ya 'eard the news?" Tucker asked. Like most of his class, he had a very high tolerance for alcohol and despite the fact that he had drunken several men under the table that night, his speech was unaffected, or maybe it was just impossible to detect beneath his thick cockney.
"Oi ain't 'eard the news. What new are ya talkin' 'bout, Tucka?"
"Oi! Bloody 'ell, Thompson you're the most ignorant cockney Oi now, and that's sayin' quoit a bit!"
"Tell me the new already, Tucka! Oi gotta work in the mornin'. Oi can't be stayin' up all bloody noight now!"
A wicked yet good-natured smile spread across Tucker's round features.
"Ya could foind out for yourself, ya know. Why should Oi tell ya?"
"Tucka! Ya woke me up ta tell me!"
The drunken cockney stroked his chin, which was badly in need of a shave. "Oi woke ya up ta tell ya that there was news, not what it was. But Oi could be pur-saude-ed ta tell ya, for a point or two."
Thompson was indignant. "Now Tucka, ya know Oi ain't go no money!"
Tucker brought out his wine bottle and took another swig, a less messy one this time. "Ya gots a job! What does Mista Garron pay ya in? Pois*?"
(*Roughly, the cockney pronunciation of the word pies, a dessert Thompson happened to be quite fond of.)
A dreamy look came over Thompson's face. "Oi wish 'e poid me in pois. I loik pois, they're me favorite."
Though the two cockneys had known each other for many years, there were still times went Tucker was utterly annoyed by Thompson's love of desserts.
"Oh, get off Thompson! Bloody 'ell, ya can afford a point!"
"And Oi think you've 'ad one too many points tonoight, Tucka!"
"Them's 'arsh words, Thompson! A man can neva 'ave too many points in an evenin'."
"They can, Tucka." Thompson considered himself something of an expert on alcoholism, the only education he had received has a young child came from his mother in the form of directions to the local pub so that he could fetch a pint of ale whenever she might desire one. "Me mum was always passed out on the couch when Oi was a boy. 'Ell, she's probably passed out on the couch now. Not that Oi would know, seein' as she's quite a distance awoy, but that's where Oi'd guess she is roight now."
Tucker finished off his wine and wiped his lips with the back of a filthy hand. His face was filthy enough already that it made little difference.
"Come on, Tucka. Just tell me what's goin' on so Oi can get back ta sleep. If Oi don't get ta sleep then Oi can't work, and if Oi can't work then Oi can't boi ya any points and Oi can't boi meself any pois."
Unable to deny the logic in this argument, though his skills in the department of logic were considerably lacking, Tucker decided to get on with it.
"Rememba 'ow you told me that before ya met me you was a manservant to a guy 'oo was a green dragoon?"
Thompson's baby blue eyes lit up. "Ya mean Tavin'ton?"
"Aye, that was 'is name. Well, they woi I 'eard it down at the pub, the guvna-genral is bloody angry 'cause the guvment back in England thinks 'e's such a idyit that they've sent two otha genrals ta take charge of the Bri'ish army 'ere in Indya. An' I 'eard tell that one of 'em's a green dragoon, Oi think they said 'is name was Tavin'ton, or somethin' loik that."
Thompson jumped out of bed, and a couple feet into the air, nearly receiving another bump on the head from the low ceiling.
"Tavin'ton! Me old best friend!" he cried. "Oh Tucka, that's the best news Oi ever got woken up ta 'ere!"
"There's more," Tucker added quickly, "Thoi say that the ship carryin' the green dragoons 'as just landed down at ole Fort William. The guvna-genral an' all 'is staff 'ave gone down there ta meet 'em. Thoi say that ole Lord Cornwallis said that if the Bri'ish guvment is gonna make 'im put up with that bloody dragoon bastard again, then 'e's gonna shoot 'imself! Oi'm goin' down ta the docks! It's been a while since Oi've seen a good shootin'!"
"Tucka, ya ain't neva seen a shootin'," Thompson reminded his friend.
"Loik Oi said, it's been a while!"
Thompson didn't hear his friend's reply. He spat on his hands and ran them through his unruly blond curls. There, much better. Oftentimes, Thompson's hair gave him more trouble than his nearly comical height or his glasses. The stuff grew like a mass of unbendable wires.
He splashed his face with water and dried it on the bedclothes and took a quick look in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. Finding himself presentable, Thompson turned to Tucker, who was wandering about the room, trying to locate any secret place where Thompson might be hiding liquor.
"Come on, Tucka!"
Tucker rubbed the back of his neck. "Where we goin', Thompson? We're goin' to the docks ain't we? Oi though ya 'ad work in the mornin'."
"Oi! Oi do! But somethings is more important than work, loik seein' me old best friend!"
"But Thompson, rememba what ya said about if ya didn't work then ya couldn't boi me points?"
"Oi rememba! Don't ya unda'stand anything, Tucka? Oi ain't got ta work for Mista Garron no more. If Tavin'ton's 'ere then Oi gots me ole job back!"
Without another word, which was rare for them, the two cockneys set out into the night. They crept through streets where natives were preparing for market and through back alleys filled with opium addicts. The scent of exotic spices and animal waste wafted through the air. Finally they emerged near the decaying docks at Old Fort William. Anchored in the harbor was the most impressive ship either cockney had ever seen, long and studded with monstrous black cannon. Red sails hung from the masts.
"Bloody 'ell!" they both exclaimed as one.
"Bloody hell!" Governor-General Lord Cornwallis exclaimed in a nearly instinctive response.
He stood at the front of a massive crowd that had gathered, made up of both Britons and natives alike. Despite the heat he wore a heavily decorated red jacket. He was flanked on both sides by his two aides, traditional older military men, Generals Lawrence and Bauer.
"It's damned impressive," Lawrence said scratching his protruding belly. "I've heard that this Carrenworth is more of a showman than the last one. They weren't kidding."
"I suppose that when you're a duke you can afford to build any kind of ship you might want," Gen. Bauer, who was as bony as Lawrence was fat, mused.
"I don't like it," Cornwallis whispered to his aides. "A ship like that says that the owner cares too much for his own image."
"Yes, my dear Lord Cornwallis, I do care quite a bit for my image. Every man should. Why a man's own image reflects upon the image of his country, does it not?"
The eyes of the crowd snapped upward almost simultaneously, including those of the two cockneys who were craning their necks to get a better view. All those dozens of pairs of eyes fixed their gazes on the pale, red-haired man leaning against the railing of the ship. Cornwallis recognized him immediately, though they had never met before the boy's blue eyes and thick red hair identified him as a Carrenworth, and more than likely a Carrenworth with the talent.
"In fact, my dear Cornwallis, you appear to be a man who is most concerned with his appearance, as well."
The governor-general's face flushed red with embarrassment, an uncommon occurrence for the normally composed Cornwallis.
"It is certainly a pleasure to meet you at long last, your lordship." Cornwallis bowed. Lawrence and Bauer followed suit.
Always a man who liked to get the unpleasant things in life over and done with so that he might move on to more pleasant ones, Cornwallis wasted no time in asking the question he had dreaded asking.
"And where is Col. Tavington?"
"You must mean General Tavington," Victor corrected. He had always derived some form of pleasure from delivering bad news.
"Yes, General Tavington." The governor-general coughed a couple of times in an attempt to remove the bad taste the words had left in his mouth.
Victor's twisted smile, dimmed for several months of depression, resurfaced.
"Ya were roight, Tucka!" Thompson told his friend. "Tavin'ton really is comin' 'ere, 'ere ta Indya!"
"Bloody 'ell, Thompson, you know I only loi when Oi'm drunk!" "I'm afraid that dear Gen. Tavington has been delayed, his ship was damaged in the most recent storm. However, I had the good fortune of coming upon his ship and convincing him to allow his second in command to finish the journey to India with my dragoons so that he might extend the noble sentiments of the Green Dragoons, reaffirm their loyalty to the British Crown, and their dedication to serve your noble lordship."
"Well, where is this second in command?" the governor-general inquired.
Victor glanced backwards and whispered something that none of the assembled could hear. Another man stepped forward, dressed in the uniform of the green dragoons. Lord Cornwallis' tongue caught in his throat. His eyes stared from their sockets. After several awkward seconds, during which Gen. Bauer had been fishing around in his pockets for some smelling salts since it seemed highly likely that the governor-general would faint, Cornwallis drew in a deep breath. Victor pulled one of those odd scarlet handkerchiefs from his sleeve and coughed into it.
"O'Hara?" Cornwallis croaked.
O'Hara did not flinch. He kept his composure despite the dueling emotions threatening to tear the very fiber of his being apart. The green dragoon stepped to the railing, looked down at his former commander, and announced, "I am Capt. O'Hara, Green Dragoons. I represent General William Tavington XIII, Commander of the Green Dragoons. My commander wishes for me to tell you that we have come to India under direct orders of the British Government and that we are prepared to serve the British Empire in whatever capacity your lordship sees fit."
Try as he might, Cornwallis couldn't speak. His tongue had turned to rubber and his mind could only think one thought. O'Hara. O'Hara had betrayed him.
"If ponies rode men, and if grass ate cows, And cats should be chased into holes by the mouse. Summer were spring, and the other way 'round, Then all the world would be upside down."*
General's Lawrence and Bauer stared at the governor-general. They were the only ones who had heard what we was mumbling under his breath, and thought it an odd bit of poetry for such an occasion.
*Thanks, MKawaii!!!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: For the characters presented in this chapter, I have done my best to recreate cockney in written form. Forgive any errors, and please e- mail me if you have any trouble understanding what the characters are saying. Enjoy!
"Bloody 'ell!" Thomas Ridgeford Thompson (of the Liverpool Thompsons) exclaimed.
Receiving a sharp blow to the back of the head is never a pleasant way of waking up. Sadly, it was a way of waking up that Thomas Thompson had grown accustomed to.
"Eh, Oi'm gettin' ta work!"
He pulled his tall, lanky body into a sitting position. Expecting to see his employer, Mr. Garron the printer, he was instead greeted by the round, smiling, often red-nosed face of his friend Tucker. No one knew whether Tucker was his first name or his last name, seeing as it was the only name he ever gave anyone. When confronted about it, he would simply say, "Tucka's good enough for the like a' ya!"
"Bloody 'ell, Tucka'!" Thompson cried, rubbing the lump forming on the back of his head. "What'd ya 'it me in the 'ead for? Oi! It ain't toim for work yet." He reached into his pocket for his watch, forgetting that he'd had to sell it a few days ago to help Tucker pay for a couple of glasses he had 'accidentally' broken down at the local pub. Thompson was always the sort to help out a friend, seeing as friends didn't come easily.
"I ain't toim for work, thank God!" Tucker replied. He pulled a bottle of cheap wine from somewhere in his ragged clothes and took suck a violent swig that some of the liquid missed his mouth and spilled onto Thompson's coat.
"Careful Tucka, this is me good jacket!"
"It's ya only jacket."
Thompson thought about this for a moment.
"So it'd best be me good one then!"
Tucker secreted the bottle away. Thompson fumbled around in the dark for his glasses, a pair of round lenses set in a battered wire frame that he perched on the end of his long, pointed nose. It wasn't that the cockney needed glasses, he had simply found them on the street several years ago and upon trying them on discovered that they made him look considerably more dignified.
Thompson's living quarters were impressive for a man of his social class, especially a man who had left England to seek his fortune in a far off exotic colony. The small room was attached to Garron's Printing Shop and often grew mercilessly hot during the day, but it had a bed, a washbasin, and a table. That was more furniture than most of India's poor could even dream about, though it was considerably less than Thompson was used to, having been raised by his beloved 'Aunt' Morganna.
"What is it ya wanted, Tucka?" Thompson asked, adjusted his glasses to achieve a look that was something between dignified and ridiculous. He had a long face that his eyes were far too small for. The glasses did help a bit.
"'Ave ya 'eard the news?" Tucker asked. Like most of his class, he had a very high tolerance for alcohol and despite the fact that he had drunken several men under the table that night, his speech was unaffected, or maybe it was just impossible to detect beneath his thick cockney.
"Oi ain't 'eard the news. What new are ya talkin' 'bout, Tucka?"
"Oi! Bloody 'ell, Thompson you're the most ignorant cockney Oi now, and that's sayin' quoit a bit!"
"Tell me the new already, Tucka! Oi gotta work in the mornin'. Oi can't be stayin' up all bloody noight now!"
A wicked yet good-natured smile spread across Tucker's round features.
"Ya could foind out for yourself, ya know. Why should Oi tell ya?"
"Tucka! Ya woke me up ta tell me!"
The drunken cockney stroked his chin, which was badly in need of a shave. "Oi woke ya up ta tell ya that there was news, not what it was. But Oi could be pur-saude-ed ta tell ya, for a point or two."
Thompson was indignant. "Now Tucka, ya know Oi ain't go no money!"
Tucker brought out his wine bottle and took another swig, a less messy one this time. "Ya gots a job! What does Mista Garron pay ya in? Pois*?"
(*Roughly, the cockney pronunciation of the word pies, a dessert Thompson happened to be quite fond of.)
A dreamy look came over Thompson's face. "Oi wish 'e poid me in pois. I loik pois, they're me favorite."
Though the two cockneys had known each other for many years, there were still times went Tucker was utterly annoyed by Thompson's love of desserts.
"Oh, get off Thompson! Bloody 'ell, ya can afford a point!"
"And Oi think you've 'ad one too many points tonoight, Tucka!"
"Them's 'arsh words, Thompson! A man can neva 'ave too many points in an evenin'."
"They can, Tucka." Thompson considered himself something of an expert on alcoholism, the only education he had received has a young child came from his mother in the form of directions to the local pub so that he could fetch a pint of ale whenever she might desire one. "Me mum was always passed out on the couch when Oi was a boy. 'Ell, she's probably passed out on the couch now. Not that Oi would know, seein' as she's quite a distance awoy, but that's where Oi'd guess she is roight now."
Tucker finished off his wine and wiped his lips with the back of a filthy hand. His face was filthy enough already that it made little difference.
"Come on, Tucka. Just tell me what's goin' on so Oi can get back ta sleep. If Oi don't get ta sleep then Oi can't work, and if Oi can't work then Oi can't boi ya any points and Oi can't boi meself any pois."
Unable to deny the logic in this argument, though his skills in the department of logic were considerably lacking, Tucker decided to get on with it.
"Rememba 'ow you told me that before ya met me you was a manservant to a guy 'oo was a green dragoon?"
Thompson's baby blue eyes lit up. "Ya mean Tavin'ton?"
"Aye, that was 'is name. Well, they woi I 'eard it down at the pub, the guvna-genral is bloody angry 'cause the guvment back in England thinks 'e's such a idyit that they've sent two otha genrals ta take charge of the Bri'ish army 'ere in Indya. An' I 'eard tell that one of 'em's a green dragoon, Oi think they said 'is name was Tavin'ton, or somethin' loik that."
Thompson jumped out of bed, and a couple feet into the air, nearly receiving another bump on the head from the low ceiling.
"Tavin'ton! Me old best friend!" he cried. "Oh Tucka, that's the best news Oi ever got woken up ta 'ere!"
"There's more," Tucker added quickly, "Thoi say that the ship carryin' the green dragoons 'as just landed down at ole Fort William. The guvna-genral an' all 'is staff 'ave gone down there ta meet 'em. Thoi say that ole Lord Cornwallis said that if the Bri'ish guvment is gonna make 'im put up with that bloody dragoon bastard again, then 'e's gonna shoot 'imself! Oi'm goin' down ta the docks! It's been a while since Oi've seen a good shootin'!"
"Tucka, ya ain't neva seen a shootin'," Thompson reminded his friend.
"Loik Oi said, it's been a while!"
Thompson didn't hear his friend's reply. He spat on his hands and ran them through his unruly blond curls. There, much better. Oftentimes, Thompson's hair gave him more trouble than his nearly comical height or his glasses. The stuff grew like a mass of unbendable wires.
He splashed his face with water and dried it on the bedclothes and took a quick look in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. Finding himself presentable, Thompson turned to Tucker, who was wandering about the room, trying to locate any secret place where Thompson might be hiding liquor.
"Come on, Tucka!"
Tucker rubbed the back of his neck. "Where we goin', Thompson? We're goin' to the docks ain't we? Oi though ya 'ad work in the mornin'."
"Oi! Oi do! But somethings is more important than work, loik seein' me old best friend!"
"But Thompson, rememba what ya said about if ya didn't work then ya couldn't boi me points?"
"Oi rememba! Don't ya unda'stand anything, Tucka? Oi ain't got ta work for Mista Garron no more. If Tavin'ton's 'ere then Oi gots me ole job back!"
Without another word, which was rare for them, the two cockneys set out into the night. They crept through streets where natives were preparing for market and through back alleys filled with opium addicts. The scent of exotic spices and animal waste wafted through the air. Finally they emerged near the decaying docks at Old Fort William. Anchored in the harbor was the most impressive ship either cockney had ever seen, long and studded with monstrous black cannon. Red sails hung from the masts.
"Bloody 'ell!" they both exclaimed as one.
"Bloody hell!" Governor-General Lord Cornwallis exclaimed in a nearly instinctive response.
He stood at the front of a massive crowd that had gathered, made up of both Britons and natives alike. Despite the heat he wore a heavily decorated red jacket. He was flanked on both sides by his two aides, traditional older military men, Generals Lawrence and Bauer.
"It's damned impressive," Lawrence said scratching his protruding belly. "I've heard that this Carrenworth is more of a showman than the last one. They weren't kidding."
"I suppose that when you're a duke you can afford to build any kind of ship you might want," Gen. Bauer, who was as bony as Lawrence was fat, mused.
"I don't like it," Cornwallis whispered to his aides. "A ship like that says that the owner cares too much for his own image."
"Yes, my dear Lord Cornwallis, I do care quite a bit for my image. Every man should. Why a man's own image reflects upon the image of his country, does it not?"
The eyes of the crowd snapped upward almost simultaneously, including those of the two cockneys who were craning their necks to get a better view. All those dozens of pairs of eyes fixed their gazes on the pale, red-haired man leaning against the railing of the ship. Cornwallis recognized him immediately, though they had never met before the boy's blue eyes and thick red hair identified him as a Carrenworth, and more than likely a Carrenworth with the talent.
"In fact, my dear Cornwallis, you appear to be a man who is most concerned with his appearance, as well."
The governor-general's face flushed red with embarrassment, an uncommon occurrence for the normally composed Cornwallis.
"It is certainly a pleasure to meet you at long last, your lordship." Cornwallis bowed. Lawrence and Bauer followed suit.
Always a man who liked to get the unpleasant things in life over and done with so that he might move on to more pleasant ones, Cornwallis wasted no time in asking the question he had dreaded asking.
"And where is Col. Tavington?"
"You must mean General Tavington," Victor corrected. He had always derived some form of pleasure from delivering bad news.
"Yes, General Tavington." The governor-general coughed a couple of times in an attempt to remove the bad taste the words had left in his mouth.
Victor's twisted smile, dimmed for several months of depression, resurfaced.
"Ya were roight, Tucka!" Thompson told his friend. "Tavin'ton really is comin' 'ere, 'ere ta Indya!"
"Bloody 'ell, Thompson, you know I only loi when Oi'm drunk!" "I'm afraid that dear Gen. Tavington has been delayed, his ship was damaged in the most recent storm. However, I had the good fortune of coming upon his ship and convincing him to allow his second in command to finish the journey to India with my dragoons so that he might extend the noble sentiments of the Green Dragoons, reaffirm their loyalty to the British Crown, and their dedication to serve your noble lordship."
"Well, where is this second in command?" the governor-general inquired.
Victor glanced backwards and whispered something that none of the assembled could hear. Another man stepped forward, dressed in the uniform of the green dragoons. Lord Cornwallis' tongue caught in his throat. His eyes stared from their sockets. After several awkward seconds, during which Gen. Bauer had been fishing around in his pockets for some smelling salts since it seemed highly likely that the governor-general would faint, Cornwallis drew in a deep breath. Victor pulled one of those odd scarlet handkerchiefs from his sleeve and coughed into it.
"O'Hara?" Cornwallis croaked.
O'Hara did not flinch. He kept his composure despite the dueling emotions threatening to tear the very fiber of his being apart. The green dragoon stepped to the railing, looked down at his former commander, and announced, "I am Capt. O'Hara, Green Dragoons. I represent General William Tavington XIII, Commander of the Green Dragoons. My commander wishes for me to tell you that we have come to India under direct orders of the British Government and that we are prepared to serve the British Empire in whatever capacity your lordship sees fit."
Try as he might, Cornwallis couldn't speak. His tongue had turned to rubber and his mind could only think one thought. O'Hara. O'Hara had betrayed him.
"If ponies rode men, and if grass ate cows, And cats should be chased into holes by the mouse. Summer were spring, and the other way 'round, Then all the world would be upside down."*
General's Lawrence and Bauer stared at the governor-general. They were the only ones who had heard what we was mumbling under his breath, and thought it an odd bit of poetry for such an occasion.
*Thanks, MKawaii!!!