3 June; Concerned Shipmates

Fletcher shook his head.

"My parents are dead, and I was raised by my grandfather. So no, there is not much difference between us there, either."

"Did you... Did you ever knowed 'em, sir?" he asked curiously. "I never knowed mine, see."

And a grandfather was some sort of family, wasn't it? Which was a lot more than Terry had had. He was obscurely glad, though, that the midshipman had had that, at least.

Fletcher shook his head again.

"They died when I was three, and I don't remember them at all. I have seen portraits, and I suppose that is what they must have looked like..."

He did not say that he remembered feeling his mother. There was a memory, if he closed his eyes and thought hard, of a distant sense of being held in soft, delicately scented arms and rocked gently; but that is all he had. Beyond that, for all he knew, his parents could have been fictional; only Simon knew men like the Admiral did not make up such things.

Portraits? That must be pictures or something, from the sounds of it. Terry didn't really have anything else to say on the subject of family, never having had one, and gave a half-shrug.

He wasn't quite sure what else to say now, and then something occurred to him. "What was you was frighted of, up aloft?" he asked curiously, hastily adding, "Sir!" and looking down, twisting his fingers together in embarrassment. He'd probably said the wrong thing again, and was going to get himself into awful trouble for cheeking the young gentleman.

Fletcher looked up from the deck planks he was studying and wondered what had made Button ask the question. He felt another twist of embarrassment, but tried to answer truthfully.

"It was cold and windy, and the mast was moving, and there was not much to hold onto."

Terry nodded. "I know." It wasn't all that long since he'd gone up aloft himself for the first time. "Um... ever thought about askin' Mister Leat or someone to see if there's someone would go up wiv you a coupla times, till you gets used to it?"

It was different for the midshipmen, though, of course. If Mister Fletcher was anther boy like Terry, he'd ask Cob Chase or someone. But Mister Fletcher being a young gentleman, they'd have to ask an officer's permission first, wouldn't they?

"Don't s'pose Mister Leat'd let you an' me go up on us own," he added, almost to himself.

The thought of asking Mr. Leat for anything of the sort made Fletcher feel frozen with fear once more. He shook his head violently.

"Never! I'd not dare ask him! That is, I... Jacob Chase said he'd go up with me." Then, realizing that the last statement may have sounded rude, said; "Thank you for offering, though. It may not be good for you to get in trouble with Mr. Leat again so soon."

"He... 'e ain't all bad," Terry said, and nodded. "Though I don't fink I'd want to ask 'im, neiver. Though Cob Chase's nice. You'll be all right wiv 'im." At least there was someone who could help the midshipman out, even if Terry couldn't do so himself.

"Don't wanna get in trouble wiv 'im again - was bad enough the first time," he added.

"It would not have been so bad had I spoken up," Fletcher said apologetically. "I... think he was more upset with me than you - I was th eone who fell. But it would be good to stay out of his way for a while."

"Ain't that easy, stayin' out of his way f'r me, not now," Terry said, shrugging a thin shoulder. "I just got made 'is servant." He looked at the other boy. "It don't matter. Could've just as easily bin me or Fingers who slipped. An' you didn't hurt yourself, did you? Sir."

Fletcher was tsill gaping at the news that Button had just imparted.

"Oh. I'm... No, I didn't get hurt. A bit of rope burn. But you're his servant? How?"

What he really meant to ask was 'Why'? Mr. Leat had never had a servant before, and he felt the deepest sympathy for Button for whatever evil had chosen him for this fate.

"A-cause the capting says so." He shrugged. "It... it ain't quite what I 'spected, neiver. He was... he was kinda nice t'me." He still couldn't quite believe just how nice the officer had been, either.

"Well I never..." Fletcher murmured. It was almost as unbelievable as if Button had said that he'd seen Mr. Bush smile (Which of course would never happen). "So... he's not angry at you anymore? For what happened up the mast?"

"Don't fink so." He considered what Mister Leat had said about it, at the time and since, and continued slowly, "Fink mebbe 'e was relieved you 'adn't 'urt yourself and that made 'im angry." He shrugged. "Dunno, really."

It escaped Fletcher utterly how anyone could be relieved and angry, and why they would take that anger out on the people who they were relieved to see well and whole.

"I don't know either," he said weakly. "But... I think it's good that he'd been kind to you; I don't think he'd be kind if he was still angry with you."

But Fletcher would keep his own head down to be sure, just in case. The worst thing to do, he had learnt from experience, was to assume you had been forgiven; more often the case that you were not so.

Terry wasn't sure what to say now. He couldn't really reassure Mister Fletcher; he didn't know if Mister Leat was still angry with him. Mister Fletcher seemed... lonely. And that thought startled Terry; he'd never thought an officer, even a midshipman, could be lonely.

If Mister Fletcher was like Terry - a boy, third class - he'd do what he did with the other boys: start some silly idiotic game of tag or something, to show he was accepted. But he couldn't do that, not with Mister Fletcher being a midshipman and all. And he had no idea at all how he could help the other boy, not without doing something that would make Mister Leat angry at them both all over again.

And it wasn't as though he could really ask anyone else's advice about it, either.

"I... I wish I could 'elp," he said, helplessly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Fletcher looked across at Button, somewhat wistfully. He reached out and patted Button on the shoulder in a reassuring manner.

"Me too," he said.

It wasn't fair, really it wasn't. Why should Mister Fletcher have to be all on his own without any friends just because he was a midshipman? Terry wondered vaguely whether the officers would allow him to join in with a skylarking, even sort-of, once he figured out what to do aloft.

He'd have to ask someone for advice. Mister Evans, probably - the quartermaster's mate was nice enough to talk to, and might have some ideas of how Terry could help.

And really, even a game of tag was out of the question - the tag was passed by tapping another boy, and usually it devolved to slapping them. And you just couldn't tap an officer - it would be hitting him, wouldn't it, and there were awful penalties for that.

"What sort of games did you play back at 'ome, sir?" he asked instead, trying to think of something they could do to help, even a bit.

Simon's brow wrinkled in thought.

"I played fives against the wall in the kitchen garden," he said. "And Patience. I'm good with cards."

"What's fives?" Terry asked, and belatedly added "Sir!" He bit his lip and studied his ragged fingernails, what little of them he could see in the darkness. "Din't you ever play wiv anyone else, sir?" he said, looking back up at the other boy.