|occhi_bella (occhi_bella) wrote in unknown_fandom,|
@ 2007-08-04 20:23:00
|Current music:||Modest Mouse - It's a Long Drive...|
|Entry tags:||fan fiction, sleepy hollow (movie)|
Title: After the Storm
Fandom: Sleepy Hollow (movie)
Character/Pairing: Ichabod Crane
Prompt/Claim: sane/insane, second part of a multi-part story
Word Count: 1209
Disclaimer: Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me.
Link here for 1st part of fic.
Ichabod slept fitfully along one side of the wall in the same room in the jail house, on a bedroll on the floor. Constable Jackson had allowed him to stay, taking into consideration the late hour and the events of the evening, and suggesting that he not venture back out. Tucked in his pocket now was a slip of paper upon which the constable had written down the name and address of the book and print shop. He planned to go there first thing the next day.
When he woke in the morning another constable with brown hair sat at the desk.
“Oh,” the young man mumbled abashedly after starting when he sat up and saw him.
This man was heavy-set and rather jowly and cross-looking. He frowned down at Ichabod from where he sat behind the desk, then turned his gaze away with a sniff.
“Jackson told me you spent the night in here when I relieved him this morning.” His words were clipped, his tone condescending as he addressed him curtly.
“Pardon my intrusion,” Ichabod answered softly. “I’ll be…”
His words were cut off by the noise of hundreds of shouting voices slowly beginning to crescendo and then the sound of shattering glass.
“Bring out your doctors! Bring out your doctors!”
“What the…?” The constable rose from his chair and took up his night stick. “Stay here,” he ordered and strode out of the room purposefully.
Despite the success the authorities had in subduing the rabble the previous evening, once more people were riled up this morning. Too terrified to leave, Ichabod was grateful that the surly constable had ordered him to stay where he was. He hurried to his feet and moved to the window. Though he’d observed the room the night before, he hadn’t yet glimpsed the area surrounding the building where he temporarily remained safe.
He noted that he was on the second floor of a three-story building. It stood inside a small park that was surrounded by a fence, which had been torn down. Several two- and three-storey buildings stood a few yards away. Below, at ground-level, the enraged mob was gathered outside of the jail house, screaming ferociously and hurling sticks and stones at the building. Several constables stood between them and the entrance, ducking the flying objects and attempting to reason with the crowd, but ultimately resorting to the use of their batons. The windows on the lower level had been smashed and several men were reaching in, attempting to drag their prey out. The panic-stricken occupants hammered at the groping hands that meant to pull them out to their deaths.
Stones and bricks slashed the air and Ichabod leaped aside just in time to avoid a brick that sailed right in through the window where he’d been standing, very nearly missing his head. He stepped around the jagged fragments of glass that lay strewn about the floor now and crouched down in a corner as far as possible from the window. His hand went to his chest to still his fluttering heart and he slowly began to catch his breath.
He didn’t know how much time had passed when he heard the barking of gunshots. Gasping, he stood up and rushed back to the window, staring in dismay at the scene down below. Troops had surrounded the mob, armed with muskets, and several bodies had fallen to the earth. The rioters finally began to scatter in fear as the soldiers prepared to fire a second round of shots at them.
Quiet had descended upon the jail house. Now that the dust had cleared, constables in uniform and men in plain clothes picked their way among the wounded rioters that had been left behind, sprawled on the grass. The men in plain dress knelt among the injured and began to tend to them. As he watched from the second story window, Ichabod gathered that they were the doctors that had finally been able to emerge from the cells.
He studied the angle of the sun then glanced around the office for a time piece. The afternoon was waning, but perhaps it wasn’t too late to walk over to the book shop and ask about the job. He took up his bag and headed off, but when he reached the bottom of the stairs, the sour-looking constable who had been sitting at the desk when he woke that morning stopped him.
“Hold on, boy. They’re working out there.”
“Pardon, Mr. Constable, sir, I was hoping to inquire about a job today…”
“No one’s giving out jobs today,” he interrupted sharply. “The city is in an uproar.”
The look of annoyance in the constable’s eyes cut his words off like a knife. Ichabod suppressed a sigh and turned away. He moved to the window and watched as the medics worked and carts were brought to transport the injured away. Blankets covered the faces of the five men that had been killed in the gunfire.
The front door opened and Constable Jackson entered the jail house.
“Constable Thompson,” he greeted the other constable.
He noticed Ichabod then and nodded to him, greeting him pleasantly.
“Greetings, Young Crane.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“You’re early, Jackson,” Constable Thompson drawled. Ichabod had come to the conclusion that he was a most unpleasant man.
“Yes. I reported to the Watch House to see if I could be of assistance. Things seem to be quieting down here finally.”
“Thankfully. It was a madhouse earlier.”
“The Burgomaster and High Constable Wilkins have suggested that the physicians and the medical students be sent to the country for a short time, until this is all truly past. A small military escort will take them.”
“And what of him?” Constable Thompson jerked a thumb disdainfully at Ichabod.
“This young man is interested in earning an honest living. I have already given him a referral to a possible job. Have you been stuck in here all day, Young Crane?”
“Well, tomorrow morning will not be too late to inquire about work there. I take it you have not made arrangements for a place to sleep either.”
“I have not.”
“Very well. You may remain here again.”
“And now, it would be best if you would return to the office upstairs and wait there. I will join you momentarily.”
Ichabod nodded and turned away, beginning to ascend the stairs once more.
“You are mad, Jackson,” he overheard Constable Thompson remark as he reached the top of the landing.
“For helping a young man in need of work?”
“No. For thinking that you can save every runaway boy that crosses your path.”
“I merely guide them in the right direction, to give them a fighting chance. They come here with nothing. But if given the opportunity to find work and learn a profession, maybe we won’t have so many of them living in Canvas Town, or worse, in our jail cells. Besides, that young man is already sixteen, and very intelligent. He’s literate and obviously well-educated. I have no doubt that he will be a useful and contributing member of society.”
“As long as I’m not the one looking after him,” Constable Thompson muttered. “But I still say you’re mad.”