A Good Bit of Scrubbin'

"I waz washed when I came inta the Navy," Fingers told them, eying the brushes fearfully. He was as naked as Thompson and Chase had just been, but he clearly was far less comfortable with it. That it had been about three years since he'd come into the Navy was irrelevant. Bathing was an evil!

The boy squealed in surprise when Mister Colburn turned the stream of cold water onto his little body. Reacting purely out of instinct, Fingers bolted - straight into Thompson's legs.

"So was I," Thompson pointed out, about a second before Mister Colburn turned the hose on the boy. "C'mon," he said. "You can wash yourself, but if we don't reckon you'm doin' a good enough job, we'll take over." He held the brush out for Fingers to take.

His gaze was fixed on the brush. Such a hateful, un-fun thing. But he remembered what had happened to De Guarde. So he took it in a grimy hand and set to work scouring the dirt off his body.

"Good lad," Thompson said, prepared to hold the boy if he decided he'd rather run for it - though after the scene of earlier, he didn't think any of the boys would be inclined to try that.

"Reckon we'll be here awhile," Chase observed as he reknotted his neckcloth. "You oughta at least clean your face once a month, Fingers!"

The boy glared at him and scrubbed determinedly at his neck. A smear of tallow was stuck there.

"How do you get yourself into such a state anyhow?" Thompson asked. "Most folks'd splash a bit o' water on their faces afore they turned black with the dirt."

Ewww. Fingers stared at the blackened bristles before shuffling toward the bucket Mister Evans had used to dampen the brush.

"I works inna magazine," he told the Marine, unable to keep from puffing his narrow chest out proudly.

"Shouldn't stop you gettin' the powder off'f your face afore you turn in of a night," Thompson pointed out patiently, while Fingers rinsed the brush off.

The boy made a noise of dismissal and resumed his efforts to scrub off the tallow smear. " 'Oo needs that?"

"It'd mean your beddin' be a darn sight easier to clean of a washday, for one thing," Thompson replied.

This was obviously a foreign concept to him, given the confused frown on his face.

"Here, lad," Mister Evans said, taking some pity on Fingers. "Look over yon, I'll scrape that off for ya."

The tallow was shortly gotten off his neck, but it would have to be picked out painfully from the boy's matted hair.

"Best send a lad to check his beddin'," Chase remarked. "I'd reckon it ain't seen an airin' since it was brought 'board."

Upon hearing this, Mister Farley the sawbones looked mildly alarmed.

Tommy Edwin affected to look frightened. "I ain't touchin' anything of his. His bedding oughta be burned, only it's like to explode, all the powder in it! Same with his hair. Oughta be shorn like a sheep."

Fingers' eyes went impossibly round. "Nobody touchin' me hair!" He burst out indignantly.

Terry was torn between feeling sorry for Fingers and grateful that the other boy was, finally, going to be clean. Though only God knew how long that state would last. He shrank back against the big Marine's leg, peering round him to see what was going on without being seen. Maybe they'd forget about him, if he just stayed still and quiet.

The layers of dirt were literally washing away off Fingers, which struck Branning as oddly fascinating. He'd never thought the boy could look anything other than pale grey.

"Steady, lad," he rumbled quietly. "Leastaways it ain't gonna be so bad's for him."

"Still gonna be bad 'nough," Terry muttered miserably into Branning's coat. Though, watching the dirt come off Fingers was strangely fascinating. The boy was white underneath it all, the same colour as Button himself, which was a strange thought. He'd always been a sort of grubby dirty colour.

There was probably some truth to that. Branning remembered Chase's hoot of surprise when the blast of water struck him square in the front.

"Well," the Marine mused. "Long's you ain't been stickin' your head in a powder barrel ever' night, or somethin', shouldn't be unbearable."

It looked horribly unbearable, despite the fact that two grown-ups had just been playing around in the water as though it was the best thing they'd ever done.

"You think I'd..." he began indignantly and bit his lip. That sort of outburst was just going to attract Mister Evans' attention, and that was the last thing Terry wanted right now.

This boy was in a deplorable state. Farley watched the dirt and grime as it was washed away and shook his head. If this lad was indicative of the state of the others... a sad state of affairs indeed.

"Be certain to brush his hair out well," the surgeon said. These were his first words since this had all started.

Branning gave Button's head an awkward pat. "Ain't gonna be so bad's all that."

He didn't see what was so horrible about it all. It was only cold water and soap.

"But... but it's cold. Even them men said so," Terry said, biting his lip. He pressed a little closer to the big Marine, who seemed like a friendly sort of man, despite his size and the fact he seemed to think being scrubbed in cold water with everyone staring was a good idea.

"Aye, that it is," Branning agreed. "Better cold than steamin' hot though."

The surgeon's direction was being taken to heart by Mister Evans, who with Cob Chase's help was working intently at combing out the knots in Fingers' hair.

Hot sounded like it would be... nice, possibly. And now they were attacking the knots and snarls in Fingers' hair. Terry winced in sympathy - that looked horribly painful.

Not the hair! Fingers twisted futilely in Chase's grip, the brush in his little hands all but forgotten. Why were they pulling so roughly at his hair?

"I don't needit! Gerroff! Please!"