A Good Bit of Scrubbin'

"You've got somethin' there that oughtn't to be there, that's what," Thompson said. "Mebbe if you kept your hair tied back like Chase does, it wouldn't get so tangled." He couldn't help feeling sorry for the poor kid, though.

Tide picked at a clump of something dark that had stopped his brush cold. "There's lotta somethin's ain't oughta be here," he said in wonderment. "Never seen the like!"

"It's fine how it's at," Fingers protested, clutching the brush in his hands so tightly his knuckles were white. "Stoppit!"

Poor Fingers. It couldn't be easy for him, not with hair like a bird's nest that went every which way it could. Though it beat Terry why he didn't tie it up as the older men did - it must be long enough.

"Some lad oughta get him tyin' his hair up proper," Branning said, shaking his head.

"You alright there Mister Evans?" Thompson asked, sending a reassuring smile at the nervous youngster.

Whatever this was caught in Fingers' hair, it wasn't coming out easily. "Dunno," Tide answered honestly. "This's stuck fast."

The surgeon frowned and waved at the two men at the pump, who ceased working it. "Let us see that," he said.

Terry's eye went round. The surgeon wanted a look at him? It must be bad, whatever it was that had got the two on the pump to stop pumping.

The knot of mess in the boy's hair was black and greasy to the touch. Farley wrinkled his nose. He had no idea what that was, but if picking at it was not dislodging it, there was only one other solution.

"You, fellow," he said, pointing at Frank Butcher. "Run below and fetch some scissors, if you please."

The boy with this deplorable hair trembled and let out a wail.

Scissors. Branning lifted a hand to touch his queue. Poor Fingers.

"Sure it can't be picked out, sir?" He asked, hoping to spare the lad this particular indignity.

They couldn't. Not his hair - that was just not fair. Terry was torn between trying to help Fingers, who was a friend even if he was as dirty as a street arab, and ducking round the big Marine and hiding completely out of sight in case they decided to do the same to him.

His lip was beginning to quiver as the surgeon's words sank home. They were going to cut his hair. It was an insult! Unbearable!

"Pick it out, sir," Fingers pleaded. "Please!"

Mister Evans' fingers were at work again, tugging at the tangled hair. Even he wanted to avoid this. "Might be able to get it out with some work, sir."

"It looks quite immovable," Mister Farley said. "I should not like to think how long it has been there, either."

The quartermaster frowned at the greasy black mess he was determinedly trying to dislodge from Fingers' hair. Getting a hair cutting something he wouldn't wish on anyone.

"Might have it, sir," he said hopefully, though he spotted Butcher coming back from below, a canvas-wrapped bundle in hand.

Terry bit his lip in an agony of indecision. The sight of Butcher coming up from below, holding a canvas wrapped bundle of who knew what, decided him, and he left the protective shelter of the big Marine's side, stepping forward to where the surgeon could see him.

"Please, sir, don'... don' do that, sir, please. It can't be so bad as that," he blurted out, and froze as the gathered men all turned to look his way. "Oh, s**t," he mumbled, his face flushing crimson as he darted back towards the big Marine again, wishing the deck would open up beneath him.

The outburst from another boy caused Farley to turn.

"I am afraid it is," the surgeon said regretfully. How had this boy been allowed... it was a disgrace. Pure and simple. "Had more care been taken with his health, I am sure he would not be in such a state."

"Scissors, sir," Butcher reported, holding out the small canvas bundle.

Terry sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Can't look," he mumbled, screwing his eyes closed. He hoped the surgeon wasn't very angry with him for interrupting, though he thought he'd find out sooner or later. And now they all remembered he was here, too, which was even worse.

But... to threaten to cut Fingers' hair like that. That was just horrible.

This was almost like watching a surgery. He would have preferred to look away, but Branning's gaze was held unwaveringly by the scissors as the surgeon unwrapped them.

Fingers stood impossibly motionless, the brush still gripped in his small hands. His eyes were squeezed tight shut and silent tears ran down his half-washed cheeks. He was apparently resigned to his fate but still felt sharply about it.

"Poor beggar," Branning muttered.

Danny turned and tried to smile encouragingly at Terry -- it came out as more of a grimace -- before turning back to where Fingers was. His small face wore a comically serious expression as he stared fixedly at the packet in the surgeon's hands, as if just the weight of his thoughts could make it disappear. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right of them to take a lad's hair like that.

This wasn't funny any more - not that it had ever really been 'funny', not for the boys concerned, but poor Fingers looked utterly bereft. Oxley found himself clasping his hands and chewing his bottom lip. They didn't need to cut it all off, did they? Just the worst bits? And with the lad's hair as full and curly as it was, even that wouldn't be seen.

If only they weren't going to cut it all off.

There was a rasping scrape as the sawbones opened the scissors and an accompanying tug at his hair when Mister Evans relinquished the tangled locks.

Even though his eyes were clenched shut, Fingers could almost see his precious hair falling to the deck. But he bit down on his tongue, determined not to make a sound. He hated this with every fibre of his being but he wasn't going to cry about it. No. Not him.

Poor little mite. He was being brave about it, but there was no denying how it was affecting him. Thompson almost wished de Guarde were still on deck, to witness how someone else could face up to a personal disaster. The contrast between the two boys, in attitude as well as appearance, was stark.

Now why couldn't that weasel De Guarde have borne up this well? Tide kept a hand on Fingers' thin shoulder, more to keep the lad steady than to restrain him from running. If Fingers had wanted to bolt, he would have already done so.

"Good lad," the quartermaster murmured and pretended not to see the thick curly locks as they felt to the deck.

They'd remembered he was here, now, which couldn't be helped. He opened his eyes, blinking to focus them on Fingers, who looked very small and forlorn, surrounded by all those grown men. He was worth at least three of de Guarde, the way he was holding up. He'd have to tell him so, afterwards.

The first bit of sticky mess was gone, leaving several others to deal with. Had this boy's hair never known a comb? Farley worked as steadily as he could with the scissors, failing utterly to understand the significance of what he was doing.

Presently, after doing his best to make the lad's remaining hair as even as possible, he handed the scissors back to Butcher.

"There now," he said gently. "You're a brave lad."

"He's awfu' brave," Terry muttered, not caring whether the Marine heard him or not. "Much braver'n that Buckles."

Branning nodded. "That's so," he agreed.

"You may finish washing him," Mister Farley told Mister Evans, stepping safely out of the path of the deck-hose. There was the barest of pauses before Mister Evans nodded at the pair manning the pump. It was a halfhearted scrubbing that Fingers received, though most of the dirt had been washed off him already.