chs

@iamchs.bsky.social

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Dear to me the hour when all the world doth sleep. Writer of Victorian mysteries, gothic horrors, and TTRPG adventures. www.christianhydesmith.com

I saw he had drawn the wedding ring from his finger. "Will you see it home to my wife? She must know that I did not abandon her willingly. Do not let me die a pirate." I placed the ring back in his hand and closed his fingers over it. "You can tell her yourself." "No, my friend. My future is black, and you do me no service by attempting to brighten it by will-o'-the-wisps." Our talk drifted away into more familiar channels. We spoke of our years at sea, of storms weathered and sights seen. Of the time he lashed himself to the helm through a freezing gale. Of an evening in Portugal when we drank bad wine and spent hours addressing a Portuguese count in Spanish, firmly convinced it was Portuguese. Of the last time Easton left his wife, who had seen him off at the dock and told him the roses in the garden would be in bloom by the time he returned. I could almost see the memories passing through his eyes like a weary swell, now clearing to a distant blue, now ash-grey and sinking into the shoreless deep. And as his eyes slowly faded, the ring slipped gently from his hand.
The reports came at intervals; but before long a heavy squall moved across the northern sea, trailing darkness upon the water. The outer fringe brushed the island, and a scatter of cold drops rattled in the leaves above us. By then the speck had grown to visible canvas even to my eyes, only to be lost behind the hanging rain. It did not matter. There was no pause, as the guns were run back into the boats and rowed along the curve of the bay. They were landed again beneath the headlands and hauled upward by main strength and tackle until, at last, their mouths were turned upon the sea. I stood there when the ship took shape once more out of the thinning rain. At first she was no more than a dark blur within the grey; then she rent the veil of her husk and slipped free. A ragged mist hung in the wake of the squall, still clinging to her like a ghostly shroud. The canvases heaved and swelled in the unsettled gusts. There was no mistaking her. She was our hunter.
An excerpt from a novel which reads: We stayed overnight at the rest-house below the pass. Our bellies were warm from a hearty breakfast, but the air was raw and cold. I drew my coat into tighter compass as I climbed up into the cart. Father took a minute to apply liniment to the horses. I chose then to voice my final misgivings with respect to our way of travel, rattling off the dangers which had occupied my thoughts during the night. I make no pretence of foresight in having done so, for none of them was the one which ultimately befell us. "Father, why are we going higher when we mean to go down?" He did not look up from the horse. "Because it is quicker and safer." "What if we encounter reavers?" "Reavers!" He burst into laughter so hard that the horse flinched. "Sometimes I wonder which century you live in." "Oh, brigands, then. Or rebels." "Rebels don't hold the pass. We do." "The soldier we spoke to last night said something quite different." "No, dear; he didn't." "Yes, he did! He said there were only a handful of men holding the entire mountain." "He said they only needed a handful of men to hold the mountain. We shall see the very spot when we come up to it, it has been chosen with a soldier's eye. At that position a picket could defend against an entire army." "Well, what do I know about such things?" "Trust your father then."
Black-and-white sketch page showing a woman character study. At top left is a detailed portrait of a serious-looking woman with dark, curly hair pulled back, strong eyebrows, and a high-collared dress. At top right, handwritten text reads “Nokwanda kaZungu / Abigaile White.” Bottom left shows a full-body sketch of the same woman in a long dress and short cape, standing near a small campfire and holding a coiled whip or rope. Bottom right is a close-up of a hand gripping the handle of the whip. The overall style is pencil concept art on off-white paper.
A snippet from a novel which reads: From Doyle's notes, we know that he interviewed a retired Scotland Yard inspector about an old case. They met on Saturday, 13 April, 1895—the day before Easter Sunday. After suffering a bullet wound, the inspector had retired to Haslemere, a quiet little market town tucked into the Surrey hills. With his notebook at the ready, seated across the kitchen table, Doyle listened as the inspector launched into his tale. Initially, at least, Doyle didn't imagine reviving Sherlock Holmes for this story, nor did he intend to frame it as a prequel. He was intent on casting the retired inspector in the central role, just as it had been in real life. Before long, however, he began to have serious reservations about the choice. In an early draft, he launches into a full tirade on the nature and quality of heroes in fiction, and how his poor inspector seemed to embody none of them: "Beneath every scar lies a story [a reference to the inspector's wound]. Yet, as I have come to discover, today's discerning reader is not satisfied with a mere story. He demands a compelling hero. And since this was supposed to be a detective story, the hero should embody the virtues expected of the modern detective: a profound insight into human nature, a sharp and analytical intellect, and the faculty of a player [actor] who can assume any character that his case may require. What, then, had I been given for my hero? A broad-shouldered inspector with the grace of a wardrobe and the subtlety of a battering ram. Indeed, he towered even over me, which makes me doubt very much that he could remain incognito across an entire field."