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FILM: The Libertine (2004) John Wilmot, The young Earl of Rochester. His greatest romance is fraught with struggle, as is the Court of King Charles II! Please Read and Review!
RATED - T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.
No copyright infringement is taking place. John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester was a historical figure and therefore is not the property of anyone! The recent movie does not depict the early years of his life in any depth. Please read and review!
Chapter 2: THE ROYAL CHARLES
August 1666, at sea, off the shores of England
The messenger grabbed hold of a rope as the ship took a sideways dip, surprising him. The sailor beside him grinned, showing more than a few missing teeth.
"Never been at sea, have y' sir?" he asked. The messenger shook his head. He wasn't about to voice how much he already wished that were not the case at that very minute!
"No, I'm afraid not. It really is amazing how quickly you've made repairs since the battle. Did you put into port?" he asked, looking around as they moved along the rail of the frigate 'The Royal Charles".
"No, just commandeered a few things is all sir. Now, who is it the Captain said you was lookin' for?" he asked as he looked up at the tall, tall masts and rigging of the ship. The messenger followed his gaze, grabbing another rope as now the ship tilted in the opposite direction. Above them the motion was severely amplified, sending the masts suddenly swinging a good 20 feet or more through the air, and the men upon it as well. They men above did not seem to even notice, but the messenger's stomach certainly did. He swallowed dryly.
"Lord Rochester – if you please sir?" he asked and the man nodded, looking upwards again, now using a grubby hand to block out the sun. The messenger followed his gaze, his eyes widening in alarm.
"His lordship isn't up - THERE – is he?" he breathed. The ship creaked as suddenly as its' bow dipped downwards and the messenger was forced to stagger a step, clutching quickly at the railing.
"Rochester? Sure he is! The lad seems to have taken a real liking to it. Anytime we need men aloft that one is half way up before the others even get started. Good lad." The sailor praised sincerely, and then cupped his hands to his mouth.
"Rochester! Come on down lad!" he bellowed upwards.
There came a downwards sinking of the messenger's stomach as the large frigate rode into the depression side of the ocean swell, banners above fluttering brightly. The man held on tighter, glad he had not eaten shortly before.
The sailor who was his guide hollered again, and this time a lithe figure way, way, way near the very top of the tallest swaying mast raised a hand in acknowledgement – then quickly grabbed hold as the ship dipped to one side. The messenger put his free hand to his mouth in silent prayer, eyes wide still.
He swallowed dryly as he watched the young man quickly move to a thinner rope and climb down a bit. Then he took up another and used it to swing down a long distance. The ship rocked, swinging him outwards over the railing and the messenger gasped in alarm. The sailor beside him chuckled in amusement as the young man above landed on a cross beam quite casually.
"Get down here, y' monkey! You'll end up in the drink, and it'll serve y' right!" he scolded lightly.
The young man took a shorter rope and now swung down to the wooden deck not far away. He landed quite solidly and sure of himself.
"I won't end up in the drink Smithy, and even if I did, I know how to swim. Besides, you'd fish me out – you'd have to considering it's my night to be giving out the rum rations!" he retorted brightly as he came over. The sailor laughed, cuffing the young man affectionately on the head.
The messenger smiled widely. It was impossible not to. The 18 year old young man before him was thin, his smile even and confident, if slightly teasing, his dark eyes ablaze with the energy of youth. His white shirt was no cleaner than the older sailor's, which meant it had definitely seen more than a few days of use, his breeches were slightly stained, his boots well worn and a length of cloth tied around his waist was positively grubby with dark smudges, but he was definitely not troubled by any of this. He took up an end of the cloth to wipe at his hands, which were quite dark and smeared liberally with something that looked quite unspeakable. The messenger frowned with distaste.
"Tha's pitch sir, so he don't fall off the lines. Old sailor's trick. Won't hurt him none. It'll come off – with a few weeks of hard scrubbin'," the sailor grinned. The young man laughed softly and nodded. He considered the messenger and recognized him.
"Mr. Marston, I remember you from before. How can I assist you sir?" he asked cheerfully.
"I bring messages, Lord Rochester. From his Majesty, and the Duke of Buckingham," the messenger told him. The young man looked quite surprised.
"From the King? Messages for me? And from Bucks? Is something wrong?" he asked with a frown. Mr. Marston shook his head quickly. He fumbled at the leather packet attached to his belt. The ship tipped forward and he nearly fell, clutching quickly at the railing instead.
"No, no, no, my Lord! Everything is fine that I am aware of. Just – correspondence I believe – friendly correspondence." He said as the ship began to tilt sideways in the other direction. The older sailor looked surprised and considered the young man.
"Letters from the King? And his grace you say? Well sink me t' Davey Jones Locker!" he reacted with. Rochester blushed mildly.
"It's probably conveying missives from my mother Smithy. Be a good boy – say your prayers – read your bible – turn away from sin. She's in service at the court." He told the man. The sailor chuckled lightly.
"Well take the gent below then so he's can hand 'em over without takin' a swim. It's nearly time for supper anyway. Let 'im stay – see how hard we try to put some meat on those skinny bones of yers!" he said with a jab at Rochester's side, making him grin again.
Marston nodded quickly. He'd feel a lot safer with solid walls, which were not quite as apt to allow one to be tossed overboard by the ship's constant moving about in every direction imaginable!
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Rochester pushed aside the grey blanket that hung from a heavy beam to divide off a small area at the rear of the boat below decks. He hung the lantern he carried from a hook screwed into the wooden ceiling and turned back, seeming rather embarrassed.
"I'm afraid there's not much room," he said in apology as the messenger stepped into the small area. He looked around curiously. He had not seen the young man's quarters the last time he had come.
The area was small, no longer than the wooden bunk it held. He was glad to see the young aristocrat was not sleeping in a rope hammock at least! Over the foot of the bed was a small, enclosed set of two shelves that had netting over the front to hold things in. There were several books stacked there and other small objects. The bunk was a tangle strewn with blankets that Rochester made a hurried swipe at straightening and pulling the covers up over.
A rather small sea trunk sat near the other end of the bed. The dark wood of the ship made the area seem close, but snug and it gave at least the impression of sheltered safety. Rochester climbed up onto the bunk and moved to the end near the shelves, his legs and feet hung off the bunk casually.
"I wouldn't advise sitting on the trunk – I managed to spill ink trying to write something there last night. Bottles of ink and moving ships do not seem to agree with each other." He remarked casually, and gestured at the rest of the empty bunk beside him. Marston smiled as he sat down.
"How is your arm healing?" he asked, noticing a dirty scrap of wrapping under the lad's shirtsleeve. The one looked down at it and frowned mildly.
"Not too badly now. It got infected after a couple of days, but the ship's surgeon cleaned it out with hot water, lye soap and alcohol. It has another bandage on under this one, and linen under that. It got me out of washing dishes though!" he said easily. The messenger frowned mildly with concern.
"They have you washing dishes?" he asked and the young man smiled and shrugged.
"It's a lot better to just be one of them Mr. Marston. Besides, I like them really, and I don't mind. They all take turns at working in the galley it seems. The cook tells wonderful stories though. Of sea serpents and mermaids and deadly sirens… he's almost as good as Homer!" he said and the messenger chuckled as now he opened the packet and removed two envelopes that he gave the young man.
He watched as the young man opened the one from the King first, pulling out what turned out to be a good 3 pages of writing that he seemed to only quickly scan, then put back. He opened the next to find another good 2 pages of writing and scanned that as well, then folded it and put it back. He stood up and carefully placed them inside the netting with the books.
"Will you have a reply my Lord?" Marston asked and Rochester shook his head with a mildly sheepish look.
"No, I didn't see anything that needed one. But, I'll save them for tonight to truly enjoy. It's more than kind of you to deliver them. Besides, I'm afraid when I spilled the ink that was the last of it. No one seems to have ink here, aside from the Captain, and he's not going to let me use his just for my scribbles." He said and the messenger smiled at him.
"I am sure he would if you wished to write a response to his Majesty." He suggested and the young man looked suddenly reluctant. The messenger wondered why.
"I'd rather not have to ask him." He said lowly, looking away soberly.
"Have you not been getting along, my Lord?" Marston asked kindly and the one made a face of dismay.
"No, that's not it. But, after you came the last time, he was very grumpy whenever he saw me doing anything. Then he got all upset about my arm. It wasn't that bad really but he had the doctor come in here to see me. Told him to make me stay in bed until the fever was gone… it was embarrassing!" he said and the messenger smiled at him kindly.
"Well, he might have been justified a little my Lord. It would be a shame for you to lose a hand from a splinter. He may have just been trying to make sure you didn't pay an unfair price for your bravery. I did bring him a message today from his Majesty – before I was brought to see you." He said and Rochester frowned.
"Do you know what it said?" he asked and the one sighed and shrugged.
"No, I didn't read it. Probably just words of encouragement and appreciation for Captain Spragge's efforts. But I do think the King was rather anxious about the incident with the rowboat during the battle. He might have mentioned something regarding that." He said and the young man grinned at him.
"That was rather splendidly exciting. I'd not want to do it again tomorrow though!" he said cheerfully and the messenger couldn't help but chuckle a little.
"Is there anything you need my Lord? Anything I can have sent to you?" he asked and the young man quickly shook his head.
"No, I've been fine really. You've already brought me the best thing I could have asked for!" he said and Mr. Marston smiled more.
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The young man tossed in his bunk, far more than the sea was forcing him to. He frowned deeply in his sleep, his breath speeding up as his heartbeat raced. One hand fisted into the blankets and he mumbled incoherently. His muscles stiffened as he gave a soft moan, perspiration breaking out on his forehead. The ship creaked softly as it moved, making the very dimly lit lantern swing from its strong hook in the beam above him.
He tossed his head restlessly, eyes darting beneath the closed lids. He mumbled softly as he rolled onto his back. His breathing picked up, faster, quicker, until he was panting breathlessly. He gave a deep groan as he seemed to freeze, and then suddenly with a jerk he bolted up in the bunk, stifling a cry of alarm. He froze, blinking into the dimness, but there was no sound from the other side of the blanket. Shaking still, he wiped at his face, trying to catch his breath.
"It was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream," he whispered to himself anxiously, but it wasn't really helping. He pushed aside the blankets some and rose up onto his knees, shaking harder now as the cold night air met the sweat on his skin. He turned up the lantern a bit and found the two letters he had put inside the netting for later reading. His teeth chattered lightly as he moved back, pulling up the blankets and bringing the pillow around to half hug as he opened one, his hands still shaking some.
He'd been having the bad dreams for weeks now. Since he'd boarded the ship in fact, so waking in the middle of the night shaking, cold and frightened was getting to be a far too familiar thing – but he didn't know how to make it stop. How did one keep the images of spattered brains and spilled intestines and the horrific shrieks of dying friends out of one's mind when you were asleep?
Good Lord, what he wouldn't give for a bottle of wine right now. A couple of bottles even! He'd pretty much given up hard drinking during the years of his Grand Tour through Europe. For years even. At first, at the court he had even resisted the urges of the others to join them in the pursuit of sodden cheer. But, the bad dreams left from the death of his friends in this violent war had haunted him persistently.
Wyndham and he had made a pact. A pact, which pledged that if one of them, was killed, he would appear to the other to tell them of the nature of the afterlife. They had sworn solemnly, even made it a religious bond between them…. and now it had been over a year since his friend had been blown into oblivion on the deck of the' Revenge', before his very eyes… and Mr. Montegu as well.
And – Wyndham had never come. Not even once. Not even a hint of him. Not even so much as a wisp. So – if there were no such things as heaven or hell – if man were nothing more than skin and bones and blood – well that made the idea of dying all that more terrifying. It almost made one wish it would just happen so you did not have to dread it in one's future! He shivered hard, more from his thoughts than from the cold.
Enough of this! If he didn't find a way to distract himself – it would be dawn before he knew it – and he'd had enough nights like that here recently. This was exactly why he had saved the two letters.
He read through both quickly, then read the one from the King again – and again – and again! The young Miss Mallet had really been concerned about him? Surely she was jesting – making fun of him in some way! The young lady in question possessed both beauty, and a very sharp tongue, he knew that for fact. He'd heard of her reactions to him even asking after her health – had something changed?
He threw himself back onto his bunk and stared up at the low ceiling, not seeing it. Was it even remotely possible that she didn't completely hate him with every fiber of her lovely being? He'd certainly thought she did. God only knew her stepfather and grandfather certainly gave him the evil eye anytime he so much as breathed loudly.
All of a sudden, it occurred to him that maybe he'd like to survive this mess and get back to London after all!
Recommended Reading:
1) THE SATYR: An Account of the Life and Work, Death and Salvation of John Wilmot 2nd Earl of Rochester. Author: Cephas Goldsworthy. Publisher: Weidenfeld & Nicholson. Year / ISBN:2001 / 0297643193
2) THE LETTERS OF JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER Author: Jeremy Treglown. Publisher: University of Chicago Press. Year/ISBN: 1980 / 0226811816
