Midshipman Fletcher Goes Up In The World

The purser was shaking his head grimly. "Some day, boy. Some day you'll learn. Hand..."

"It were me faul'," Fingers burst out, surprising himself with the bold declaration. Oh hell! "I dunnit. Made'im go skylarkin', sir."

Terry reluctantly brought his hands out from behind his back, presenting the purser with his left hand, palm upwards. He gripped his wrist with his other hand, determined not to flinch, not to cry out, not in front of his friend.

That determination was dashed at Fingers' interjection. He gaped at the younger boy. He hadn't done anything of the sort! And if he didn't just shut it damn quick, he was likely to get just the same punishment as Terry was.

Had he really just said that? Fingers couldn't quite believe it either.

"Really." Mister Foxley was hardly impressed. The imposing strip of leather in his hand looked even more fearsome, suddenly. "I'm sure Mister Hennock will be interested to hear that. Be thankful you're not under my charge!"

Fingers' eyes were on the tawse, but he bobbed his head anyway.

Terry couldn't tear his eyes away from the horrid, hateful tawse in the purser's hand. At least Fingers wasn't going to get this as well. The delay wasn't helping - this was going to hurt awful bad, he was sure it would.

He'd tried, at least. That counted. Right?

"Hand," Mister Foxley said, needlessly. Button's hand was already held out to receive however many blows. "When'll you learn?"

The tawse rose and fell.

He was shaking a little. The leather strap cracked down solidly and he nearly snatched his hands away. Oh, that hurt like fury!

He honestly didn't think it would make any difference if he never skived off - he was sure Mister Foxley would just find some other excuse to get his tawse out.

Fingers winced sympathetically. That didn't look pleasant at all. At least Mister Foxley didn't seem interested in wasting time with it. Was that... four? He thought so.

"Now," the purser said roughly, turning away. "Go about your duties, the pair of you."

His hand felt as though it was on fire by the time Mister Foxley finished, and he blinked furiously at the tears pricking at his eyes. He could take a damned whipping - had before, and this wasn't the first time he'd had the tawse here, not by a long chalk.

Duties? With a hand that felt as though the slightest touch to it was going to be agony?

He wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve, and looked towards Fingers. Mister Foxley was a bastard, making his friend watch that.

Fingers looked back, wide eyed. What were Button's usual duties?

"Well? Get to it. I expect to see some progress when I return." The purser frowned down at Fingers. "I'm going have a word with Mister Hennock about you!"

He was gone without a backward glance. Fingers blinked. "Whaa...?"

He was gone and Terry finally allowed a moan to escape him, cradling his hand for a moment before blowing on it in a futile attempt to make the hurting stop. "'Is... 'is cabin - 'e like it nice an' tidy," he managed, before swearing in a low voice. "Broom... wouldja get the broom, mate?"

He indicated where the broom was propped up. At least this time, hopefully, h wouldn't have to do any sweeping till his hand felt a bit less painful.

Ah! That was easy enough. Fingers nodded, stirring his mop of curls to bob comically. "Gottit. Siddown, woul'ja?"

"Fanks, mate," he said, moving out of the way and continuing to nurse his hand. He thought it was four strokes that he'd received, which was better than the six or more he'd been expecting. But it still hurt like all hell.

Fingers grinned and set to work, moving the broom briskly over the deck beams.

"Izz'e like that allus?"

"Mostly, yeah. Mean sod 'e is. I bloody 'ate that strap." The pain was receding, although not fast enough for Terry's liking. "Telled you 'e's worse'n Mister Hennock."

"I'onno 'bout that," Fingers told him. The gunner had his own ways.

"Least you don't get that bloody tawse ev'ry time 'e's pissed off wiv you," Terry pointed out. Work was... Well, work was boring, but at least it didn't hurt.

No, that was true.

"He don' needit," Fingers told him.

"Don't reckon the bloody pusser needs it." He looked at his hand in the dim light of the lanthorn. He couldn't see anything wrong, but it did hurt. "What's 'e do instead, then?" he asked.

"He gets quiet like. If he's 'nnoyed, he'll shout'n all. But iff'e's good'n'proper mad, he gets soundin' a'most gennel." Fingers shuddered and leaned the broom. "Clever way wid words too. Good't makin' you feel mis'r'ble."

"Ugh." Maybe the strap was better - although it didn't feel that way. "'E get mad easy?" Terry asked, wondering. It wasn't something he'd really discussed with any of the other boys - how their particular masters reacted.

The boys tended to concentrate more on having fun when they were together, after all.

"Som'times. 'Specially if there's sommat inna magazine wha' shoul'n't be. Us'ally he's arrigh'."

"Sounds better'n the pusser," Terry said, blowing on his hand again. "You gotta be real careful inna magazine, ain't you - all that powder'n all." Working there would scare him stiff every time with imagining what could happen if something went wrong.

He grinned. "Ain't so bad. Takes gettin' used to, is all."

"It'd scare me silly. Well... prob'ly." He looked at the other boy. "'E lets you go in there? I mean... you's jus' a boy, like me." He couldn't quite imagine a boy being allowed into the magazine. The closest he'd ever got, himself, was getting cartridges passed through the thick fearnought curtain during battle or exercise, when he was a powder monkey.

"Som'times. Mister Hennock's a good'un for teachin', too." Fingers scraped the broom over the deck some more. "Showin' wha's what, like."