A Good Bit of Scrubbin'

First Cob Chase and now one of the Marines? Had they gone mad? Terry rubbed his eyes to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was. No doubt about it; they'd gone completely mad. "Oughta be put ashore 'n' sent to Bedlam," he muttered, and twisted around to look up at the big Marine who was still holding his shoulder. "You ain't goin' to join 'em, are you?" he asked, half-fearfully, half-hopefully. If the big Marine decided to join them, he could get away from this madness and sneak below to his secret hidey-hole...

"Course there's room," Chase replied, breaking off to hoot when the icy water splashed over his naked front. "Couldn't've warmed it first, Mister Evans? Hoo!"

Now Fingers laughed outright. Two of the adults volunteering for a washing! It was too perfect!

Thompson chuckled, and gasped as the icy jet was turned on him. "Anyone seen any soap 'tall?" he asked, shivering a little under the rush of cold water, as he fumbled for the tie of his queue. If he was going to wash himself, he might as well do it properly, after all.

He threw the strip of leather across to the pile of wet clothes he'd left near the pinrail and ran his fingers through his hair, shaking it free.

"Daft as lights!" Tide chortled, tossing a brush Thompson's way. At this rate, he would end up joining in too, for the sheer hell of it.

Thompson caught the brush and started work in earnest to scrub himself clean, working fast because of the chill of the water.

It felt as though his important bits were shrivelling away to nothing. Chase shivered and scraped away at his stomach and ribs with the brush. Cold water sure gave a fellow reason to hurry!

"Get me back, Mister Evans?" The topman asked, after trying unsuccessfully to bend his arm around to scrub between his shoulders.

Dear God.

It had been all Bush could do not to put his head in his hands through the whole ordeal of De Guarde's "bath." He had known the boy had a penchant for trouble, but this whole affair had surpassed even his expectations for just how low the boy could sink. If there had needed to be confirmation as to why he and Leat had called for De Guarde's demotion, this fiasco had certainly been it. Out of the corner of his eye, Bush glanced at Bolitho standing beside him, and found himself feeling even more furious when he saw the disapproving look on Bolitho's face. Not only had De Guarde made a fool out of himself, he had made fools out of the crew and the officers as well. Did the boy have no sense at all?

Thompson winked at the quartermaster. "I'll do yourn if'n you'll do mine, Cob," he said, having twisted himself every which way to try to get to his own back, and failed.

Though he tried, Cartwright was not quite able to keep an expression of disbelief off his face, as he watched not only one of the sailors but also Private Thompson cast off clothing and put themselves before the streaming water from the wash-hose.

It was a marked improvement from the disgraceful scene made by De Guarde, but Cartwright was torn between relief for that and dismay for what had replaced it.

If he had not seen the whole affair with his own eyes, Bolitho most likely would not have believed it. But even though he had seen it, he was still utterly flabbergasted. He knew De Guarde was quite a handful, but he would never have thought him incapable of doing something as simple as taking a bath. And now Bolitho surely was going to have to deal with De Guarde yet again, since the boy had made such a fuss as to get himself taken below. He sighed softly. Was he doomed to forever deal with De Guarde and his foolishness?

At least he could trust the sailors currently bathing not to make a spectacle of themselves. Well, at least not as much of a spectacle as De Guarde had made.

"Aye, s'fair," Chase agreed, turning around so Thompson could scour the brush over his back. Doing so, however, brought him back into full contact with the frigid water pouring out of the hose. Blimey!

Thompson couldn't help laughing, even as he scrubbed the Tar's back for him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped that Mister Cartwright wouldn't learn of this, though he'd far rather the officer heard of this than the damn disgraceful show de Guarde had put on.

"How's that, Cob?" he asked, unsure how tender the other man's scars were from his recent flogging.

It hurt, just enough, but he grinned to cover the pain. "Feels grand," he replied. "Gotta make sure them stripes get a proper shine an' all!"

Thompson chuckled. "Ain't nobody better'n a Marine for shinin' things," he said, before handing the brush over to Chase. "Here, you can do mine now. Feels like bits of me are goin' to drop off if we keep out here much longer!"

Chase glanced down at his front and grimaced. "I think bits of me've already done!"

He was only too glad to let Thompson stand square in front of the stream of water, though. With his own brush in hand, he stepped around the Marine and set the soapy bristles against the man's back. At least he wasn't the only one standing out here with stripes!

That was cold! He couldn't help cupping his hands in front of himself to try to ward off some of the cold water; he was definitely shrinking under the icy deluge. It was fun, though, and he chuckled at the looks on the faces of the boys waiting nervously for their own turns. He winked at them. "Better'n droppin' dead o' somethin' nasty, though, ain't it?"

Crazy. Button was watching the whole thing with wide eyes, but even so he tried to shake off the heavy hand that was resting on his shoulder. He didn't want to have to go through that himself, dammit. He was small enough and thin enough that he'd be shivering for weeks afterwards, he was sure he would.

Chase laughed. "Oh aye, that's so. Reckon that'll do you. Let's get dry, 'fore somethin' really does drop clean off!"

"Ain't heard a better idea in a long while," Thompson said, still chuckling as he darted out of the spray of cold water. He sighed. His clothes were just as wet as he was. There was nothing else for it. He pulled them on; wet or not, he couldn't go running around the ship as naked as the day he was born. And if any of the other lads needed holding still, or scrubbing, he was wet enough now.

He'd have to head below and find some dry gear to shift into as soon as this malarkey was over, though.

The two adults had finished now, and Terry shrank back a little against the big Marine, hoping not to be seen. It looked horribly cold, that.

There were hands pressing into his back, forcing him forward. Fingers twisted, squeaking in surprise as Johnny Stenhouse shoved him toward Mister Evans.

"I ain't - "

"Fingers!" Mister Evans had spotted him. "Just the lad. Strip, then!"

Hell.

"Will you be needin' a hand with this one, Mister Evans?" Thompson asked, tying his hair back roughly into a loose queue, securing it with a bit of spun-yarn he'd found in his trousers pocket.

Tide sized the wary little Fingers up and shrugged. "Might need an extra pair of hands with a brush to get him properly clean," he mused. Which was no more than the truth. Fingers was easily the filthiest boy in the lot.

"C'mon lad. No bein' shy, now."

With a grimace, Fingers peeled slowly out of his shirt and trousers.

"Y'know, if you washed yourself once in a blue moon, we wouldn't have to go through all this," Thompson said, finding the brush he'd used earlier. The boy's reluctance was plain, as was his need for a good scrub.