A Good Bit of Scrubbin'

"Hey! Now wait a moment!" They would both be scrubbing him down? Wasn't it bad enough that they thought it had to be done? He lifted his foot and then brought it down with all his might onto Thompson's own. He wished he had a pair of boots, shoes even, as that might have given much more of a jolt. "'said leggo!"

Tide, by now, had a grip on the boy's sleeve. "No more of that," he snapped, "or we'll let an officer sort you out!"

The Master-at-Arms scoffed and made a sudden grab for the boy's feet. He was in no mood to tolerate this foolishness.

"It's either me, nicely, or one of them Tars not so nicely," Thompson pointed out. "You little..." He closed his eyes at the sudden flare of pain in his foot as de Guarde practically jumped on it. "I oughta just leave you to get scrubbed by them Tars, at that. An' no, I won't leggo, you young rascal!"

Terry elbowed the lad nearest him. "Lookit that," he said, his own misery nearly forgotten as he watched de Guarde twist and turn in the solid grip the Marine had on his shirt collar. He let out a low whistle as the boy stamped on the man's toes, with the obvious intention of making him let go of his shirt.

He was close. He was so close to kicking out at the Master, but common sense prevailed and the boy only tried to step back fast enough to avoid the hands. He did not understand why he'd have gone for something down there, let alone his feet, but he was rather safe than sorry. That is, if he succeeded in avoiding the grab at all.

"Com' on.." He was beginning to realize the battle was lost. "You should'a let me pass!" The boy knew Thompson did not deserve to have his foot stomped in by his own. Still, he was very much to blame for the failed escape.

De Guarde swept his feet away from the Master-at-Arms, prompting an angry curse from the big sailor. Enough was enough. There was only one solution for this. Tide had it in hand. "That'll do, boy!" The quartermaster snapped and gave the young seaman a sharp rap between his shoulder blades with his starter.

"No, I shouldn't've," Thompson retorted. Evans' starter licked out then, catching the lad across the back. "Right. On your own two feet, or I carry you. Choice is yourn. These fine gennelmen have had enough o' your dawdlin', that's what."

Held in place as he was, he could not have avoided the snap even if he had seen it coming. He yelped in surprise and in pain. That hurt. It left the boy quiet for a while, his mind set on the pain rather than an attempt to bolt again. But then, even if he wanted to, there were too many men far too close.

"Ow!" He glared and though he stood on his two feet again, he made himself deliberately heavier, leaning on the arm that held him by the collar. Dead weight, done right.

"Up with him," the Master-at-Arms ordered, reaching again for the boy's feet. Tide lifted his starter again, only too ready to deliver another blow if one was needed. Any more of this and this stupid boy would end in the irons.

"Heft him up!"

"Right, that does it," Thompson said. "Watch yourself, Mister Evans." He bent to pick the boy up, swinging him onto his shoulder as though he were a sack of grain. "Told you I'd carry you, Mathew, lad. Next time mebbe you'll believe me."

He did not try to avoid getting his feet caught by a pair of hands this time.  Any blame for that was on Evans. De Guarde glared at the starter as if it was about to jump up and bite him and kept his silence. For the most part.

"Hate you." He muttered and thumped one fist half heartedly against Thompson's shoulder blade. "Hate you." He repeated just as quietly.

"Wouldja lookit that!" Terry said wonderingly as the Marine bent and picked de Guarde up, swinging him over his shoulder as though he weighted no more than a feather, almost. "I never seed the like afore, not never!"

It seemed another blow was called for. Tide delivered it, careful to avoid striking Thompson.

"Anymore of that foolery from you," he growled, "and you'll get your scrubbin' on the deck, at the irons!"

The spectacle unfolding on deck had stopped even Fingers' quiet attempt to escape. He stared in wide-eyed wonder at the sight of De Guarde being swung up onto the Marine's shoulder. Such a thing had never been seen before! It was brilliant!

After the second strike and a pained yelp, muffled by a hand that moved to his mouth, De Guarde turned quiet as a mouse, with a look as dark as the day of a perfect storm. The skin where the starter struck had gotten redder and felt rather warm compared to that nearby.

Sullenly he stared at the floor, his hands balled into small fists, but kept resting against Thompson's back rather than causing a stir.

Two lashes from Mister Evans' starter and being carried like that. Even Terry wasn't as bad as that - he only ever got one stroke at a time from a starter, unless the petty officer wielding it was in a temper, which wasn't unknown.

This was going to be the talk of the ship, Terry knew it was.

"Right. You can be first, then, 'stead of goin' last when folks have got tired o' watchin'," Thompson said, and headed over to where the knot of reluctant boys were standing.

The second blow seemed to have done the trick. Good then. Tide was not fond of using his starter, but when pushed to it - as he had been just now - he had no qualms about it.

"Strip him," the quartermaster said, shoving the starter back through his belt. "Don't trust him to do it his own self."

Then, with both hands now free, he picked up one of the soft-bristled brushes and dipped it into the nearest bucket. He was more than ready to give this little ruffian a good hard scouring.

"F....first?" The attempts to squirm, wiggle, twist out of Thompson's hold were renewed. "No, no, no. Not first! Isn't fair. Wos' last in line. Put me down! I don't want to be first!" Thompson was really being cruel, and the rest would more than happily grab onto his idea!

He pulled the man's queue angrily. "Not goin' first! Put me back in line, where I wos!"

"Ow!" Thompson dumped de Guarde to the deck, making sure to keep hold of his collar. "Now, there really weren't no call for that. Now, you get your shirt an' trousers off, or I'll get Mister Evans here to hold you while I get 'em off for you, that clear?"

"Here, lay hold of his arm!" Tide dropped the brush for a moment, thoroughly fed up with this nonsense.

"I got him," Cob Chase said, appearing from the growing crowd of disbelieving seamen around them. "Taylor! Preddie!"

Between them, the four sailors managed to dislodge the kicking, protesting De Guarde from Thompson's shoulder and tackled him to the deck.

"Strip him!" Tide cried.

De Guarde struggles and protests had caught everyone's attention by now, and the gaggle of boys were all standing there, wearing various expressions of disbelief. Terry Button's eyes were round as the other boy pulled at the Marine's queue to try to make the man put him down. Which he did, hard, but he still had a good grip on de Guarde's collar.

"Right. You want to be careful, else we might end up tearin' your shirt an' that won't be good," Thompson said, reaching to untuck that garment from de Guarde's trousers.

The boy's struggles were renewed when he realised that just trying to curl up on himself or cling to his shirt, wouldn't do any good. Strip him, they said. He tried to kick out at one of the seamen, he had even attempted to twist around, thanking his smaller form for a part way success. "Off you stupid oaf!"

He was just a boy though, and they were men, strong and hardened by the life at sea. The kitten could hiss, sputter and claw, but it was still a kitten compared to the old alley cats. "M' shirt!" Both his hands hooked onto the fabric of it. They held tight. He went to sink his teeth, indeed to bite, in the Tar's shoulder closest to his mouth. It left him with a bitter, bland taste in his mouth. Eugh. Some seamen did need to wash themselves first before passing judgement onto others!

Half out of his shirt, Danny Milburn gaped at the spectacle, privately glad that he had not chosen to overturn the buckets of soapy water, not if this was what was to be got for resisting.