A Good Bit of Scrubbin'

He was not even half scrubbed and already he was hauled up. The pump was set to work. His eyes widened. The water spray was strong and cold. Very darn cold! His breath caught sharply in his throat and then he sputtered as he could not breathe with the spray pointed at him. He shivered and pulled. He twisted and coughed. It was cold. It was freezing! It showed. His cheeks burnt but did not warm him. Not really.

He uttered a stifled groan. His body strained against the arms holding him up, and he jerked once or twice but the men held on successfully.

The brush was back in Tide's hand and he set to work scrubbing at the boy's back. Butcher was busy unwrapping - or trying to unwrap - De Guarde's queue, while Chase and his mates kept the boy upright. No easy task with the steady stream of water from the hose soaking all of them.

As he worked the brush over the boy's back, Tide found himself wondering what the officers were thinking of all this. It wasn't how this was supposed to go at all!

"Here, mate, let me," Thompson said, shifting the Tar aside. He'd been the one to tie the lads' queue, after all, and the Tar obviously was at a loss when faced with a Marine's queue rather than a sailor's one.

That water was cold and his shirt was plastered to his back, his trousers were soaking wet and he thought he had water in his shoes as well. Though the chance that the boy would appreciate this were slim to none.

De Guarde was shivering, goosebumps clear on his skin. He was trembling. "C..col.." And then he coughed. "Cold." He sputtered and shook his head. He felt someone work at his hair. Whoever it was, was pulling and tugging at the strip of cloth and strands of hair and failing to do a good work disentangling them from it.

"Ow.. Daft.." Cough. " Get.. " And then he decided to keep his attention on the breathing. The trembling was most visible on his lower lip, which was trembling. He hated it. Hated the brush on his back, which was making him squirm because when it was not uncomfortable, it was tickling him instead. He hated it too because it was getting to his butt. A miserable kitten.

They weren't going to be occupied with de Guarde for much longer, and Terry had no intention of being around when they'd finished with him. Only a few more steps and he could scuttle down the main companionway to the berthdeck and hide out of sight until it was all over.

Only a few steps...

Butcher was only too glad to let Thompson take over wrestling with the queue ribbon. Bloody Marines and their daft way of tying hair!

"Quit squirmin'!" Tide scraped the brush over the lad's backside, moving it briskly down to the backs of his thighs. If he had been capable of behaving himself, this work might have been given to him to do.

A big hand came down lightly onto Button's shoulder. "Where you headin' off to, mate?" Branning asked cheerfully.

Youch! That was hard! He squirmed around in the grasp on his shoulder and looked up into Branning's face. "Um... Mister Foxley wants his errands runnin' for him," he said innocently, as though he hadn't noticed what was going on, or the gaggle of boys looking apprehensive and amused by turns, as they glanced from the row of buckets to de Guarde and back again.

When the brush came across his buttocks the boy renewed his attempts to free himself. He growled and cursed rather colorfully. He pulled his left leg up when the brush came across the back of his thigh. "Can.. can I do it. I'll do it!" There was still the front, some of it. "I'll do t' rest.. please. Stop, I'll do it. Won't run! You can start on t' other boys." He felt frozen, the water was cold and beating against his bare skin rather unpleasantly.

"Does he?" Branning lifted an eyebrow. "Can't be so important, I don't reckon, that it can't wait 'til you're washed."

Terry sagged slightly. "I ain't so bad as that, honest I ain't," he said. He didn't really want to face those brushes or that cold water if he possibly help... but he wasn't so stupid as to kick up a fuss like de Guarde had done.

"Will you, now?" Tide ducked the brush into the bucket, the water inside which was beginning to turn brown. " 'Vast pumpin', you lads. We'll see if this 'un can finish the job his own self."

He held out the brush with a blank expression on his face.

Branning relaxed his grip on the boy's shoulder. "I knows it," he said. "S'pose if you was to take it quiet-like, it wouldn't take long t'all. An' you hold fast there, Fingers lad."

The grubby boy froze, his eyes going round.

"Will." He reached for the brush. His fingers felt numb and as he tried to grab onto it, he couldn't curl them around to hold it. He blinked as it cluttered to the ground. He rubbed his shoulders and knelt carefully beside the brush pressing his palm against it. Shakily he lifted the thing and looked up at Tide.

He took a step forward and sagged to the ground. Defiantly he glared at Tide Evans he rubbed the brush against the lower part of his legs pulling them closer together to cover himself. With about two or three swipes, quick and fast. "There.. done. I'll dress now!"

That was it? He'd barely touched the brush to skin. Tide frowned. "Pump!" He said and there was a clatter as the two grinning seamen at the wash-pump started it working again.

"It ain't done, but that's no more'n I 'xpect outta you," the quartermaster told De Guarde, heedless of the cold splash of water over his legs and feet. "Scrub it proper, now. Quick-like an' this'll be over."

"S..c..c...c..cold." He might have wanted to run, but his legs barely let him move. He looked at Thompson and quickened his crawl into a scamper behind the marine. He grabbed his leg, to hold him in place as a living, breathing shield. The number of Tars so close stood in the way of those who were watching them. He could not reach his shirt or his trousers and still had only the brush for company. "Look! Other boys 'r tryin' ter run!" He said sharply. His hair was now down, the ribbon probably still held by the marine. The lad represented a drowned cat very well.

Terry prodded at a seam in the deck with one bare toe. "S'long's it's quick," he muttered sullenly. "'T'ain't fair."

"Hey, none o' that," Thompson said. He was nearly as wet as de Guarde and his clothes were sticking to him horribly. "C'mon an' face up to it. Sooner you'm done, sooner you can get dressed again."

"Put the brush to his hair," Tide told Butcher, as he reached to grab De Guarde so the boy could be dragged back. This was ridiculous. And this boy was rated able? He was worse than a bloody powder monkey!

Branning shook his head at the disgraceful scene the boy De Guarde was making. "No," the big Marine allowed, "it ain't so fair, but I reckon you got more sense than that'un, there."

De Guarde held tight onto the brush, actually scrubbed it across his other leg and then huffed. He ducked around Thompson and kept the marine between himself and Evans. "You'll pull it out! Gimme' m' clothes n' I'll brush m' hair."

Terry wished his didn't have more sense than that'un. Or that he was younger and could get away with it.

He prodded the deck seam again and rubbed the top of his foot against the back of his other leg. "Don't want to," he said, sulkily.

"I ain't a bleedin' maypole, you. Hold still." The Marine rolled his eyes as de Guarde ducked around him. "Here, gimme that brush an' I'll do your hair." He probably wasn't going to be much better than Butcher at it, but the quicker this stupid charade was over, the quicker he could go below and shift into some dry clothes himself.

"Be quick with it, whoever's doin' it," Tide snapped irritably, his usually-pliant patience worn thin.

It was a surprising turn as the boy held the brush out to Thompson. It did not mean that he would get up and stand for the marine. No. But he did nod and agree on the arrangement. "..yer can brush it." He said and nodded.