19th May : First watch - when some boys sleep

It felt like the longest day. With but two hours of leisure time, from morning till evening, and some hard and filthy work, the boy had been barely able to keep his eyes from closing when the first watch began. A short while ago he just wanted to curl up somewhere dark and hope that nobody would notice him not being there. The temptation was strong and he near begun looking for such a spot. But then, at the very last moment he'd changed his mind. He couldn't idle and he was daft to believe that his lack of presence would not have been noticed.

Not his atleast, if any other's ever by the slimmest chance would've. He rubbed his eyes and hands. The longest day it was, the worst day for what he had to do and what happened. The ache at his bruised, covered eye reminded him that he could touch and rub but one. It had been a learning experience with such vision.

He could have played dumb and not know what all of the work had been for. But he knew full well it was punishment. And he knew the reason or thought he had a fair idea about it. Punishment for fighting. He wondered a moment what Oxley's 'reward' for behavour had been. Did he too, as he, come to work overtime? Do jobs that were not best desired and liked?

Wake up, he felt a tremmor jerk him awake. He blinked and found himself leaning against some heavy rope coils. It had gotten chillier, which was something of a blessing. Cold kept minds more awake than a warm wind caressing one's skin, while the soft tilt of the ship would lul many to sleep. He blinked again, for his thoughts had strayed and had him loose his bond with the world of the awake again. He pinched his arm as hard as he could and was momentarily saved from the night's spell.

He looked across the deck. Somewhere, in a dark coat he knew a midshipman or two were be standing. They might recieve some additional lessons, they could just stand watch, while their fellows were already below and asleep. Sleep... another pinch to his arm and he was feeling somewhat revigourated.

Thompson had been a bright spark to the dull day. He had been that a few times now. Always there to talk to, kind and caring. A friend, he thought more fondly, yet he felt worried that to accept it, might bring with it the volunaribility that he couldn't afford. Still, didn't it feel nice?

He sighed and followed the rest of the sailors as they were again on their way, following orders, doing much that was needed to keep the ship alive and safe even at night.

Fighting. It wasn't on his mind right now. Another day as today and he wondered if he'd want to wake up the next. It wasn't only that the work had been hard, but it was the kind of work, that bothered the boy. Filth, a horse's bodily 'gifts of the trade' even the officer's own and then the cook's dirty cauldrons which may have just stiffled his appetite during supper. He had no strength to protest at the present moment. Be it out loud or in thought. Not even the willpower to rejoice that once the watch was over, he could climb into his hammock and call it a day, if only for some time. He looked up to look at the stars and with them he saw sails and with those more work. He shook his head lightly, a last look , past that work only at the beauty that the sky itself offered. The peace and serenity which could so often, so quickly turn into nought but the most vile of opposites, storms that raged and killed. Still, right now, there was just the peace.

In his own cot Fletcher was curled up, lying awake and thinking. He should try to go to sleep. He knew he needed to learn to sleep whenever he could, as he had been told it was a very useful skill to be used in action when the time for sleep was scarce - yet try as he might he could not, and with every moment he lay awake he felt the opportunity dwindle.

A lot had happened today. A lot, and not very much of it for the best. First of all there had been that incident with the seaman's slops up the rigging, then that disasterous affair of Crozier having his head kicked in by General Wellesley's horse (Fletcher did not like horses in the first place, and now this had put a mortal fear into him of descending into the hold), and then finally the Frenchman had assaulted or been assaulted by one of the Marine, Shriver. Also because he had been down with the horses.

Oddly enough, what worried Fletcher the most and kept him awake was not the thought of vengeful seamen, Marines or Frenchmen; but the thought of the gnashing teeth, the angry snorts, whinnies and the flailing hooves of the horses. Every shadow in the berth seemed to represent a ghostly black horse with fiendish red eyes and yellowed teeth, every creak of the ship heralding the phantasms' appraoch to come and get him. He closed his eyes, frozen in fear under his blankets, as he told himself that the horses could not get up from the hold. It was impossible... yet as most would know, the brain in such a state of irrational fear does not listen to logic, and Fletcher lay shivering in his hammock, his eyes wide as they peered out over his blankets, past the sleeping forms of his messmates and waited for the dark horses to come and devour him.

Day or night, the ship was always awake, be it in part or in full. Always bustling with life, and bristling with sound. He rubbed his eyes, struggling again to keep himself attentive with the work that had to be done. A climb up the rigging was precarious at best, but atleast there was light enough that he could see the dark gleaming ropes, some of the deck and the great vastness of the sea.

While one boy had trouble to sleep when he should've, another had trouble staying awake when he shouldn't have been sleeping. He'd delivered himself a sharp smack to the face. while the stinging sensation grew some, he had, atleast for that moment, felt a bit more awake and yet not quite.

They were going down again, orders fulfilled. One step after another and yet not too slow. Couldn't be too slow else it would be slacking, idling and being in the way. The ship had to run, no matter whether it was day or night.

He slipped onto the deck, bare feet slapping against the cold wooden surface, skin rubbed from the climbing when before it had been used to the fine shoes of a gentleman. He yawned and felt his muscles protest as he stretched, but did so , standing aside for those other men to come down. No complaint any longer, just a dull acceptance.