Hold Hideaway

The boys laughed. Fingers dipped his nose into his own tankard, the misshapen tin feeling comfortable in his hands.

"Be glad fer me hammock, after alla this." It had been a trying day, in all respects. Then he remembered his old hammock was gone. A very trying day.

"Yeah, me an' all," Terry added. It had been a very busy day, and not entirely pleasant, for any of them. Though, it had been worst of all for poor Fingers. He glanced sidelong at the smaller boy, who looked strange without all the masses of hair that usually got in his face. He looked even younger without it, which was silly, somehow. He was young enough to start with, anyway.

"Prolly a good idea fer alla us," Jimmy Young said.

Fingers licked some gravy off his palm. "Least they feedin' us decent."

"Yeah," Terry agreed, scooping up another bit of biscuit and cramming it into his mouth. "Be'er'n grool alla time," he said, his mouth full.

"Won't last," Stenhouse said wisely. "Give it a coupla weeks, mates. We'll be on old salt pork and hard tack then!"

Ah well. That was life at sea, wasn't it? Fingers scraped a couple sodden peas off the plate with a crust of biscuit and managed, barely, to stifle a yawn. The two swallows of neat rum were already working their magic.

"Still berrer'n grool," Terry said and swallowed mouthful. "Gruel alla time, ev'ry day, ain't no fun at all. Least here we get meat." Even if it was salty and had to be soaked in the steep-tub.

"Mhm." Fingers reached for his lumpy tankard. Maybe he shouldn't have been greedy and taken that extra mouthful of rum. His head was beginning to feel heavy from it, but he couldn't think why. It wasn't the first time he'd had neat rum!

"Bisc't?" He offered half of one to Button, making up for the bit he'd nicked.

"Aw'right," Terry said, and yawned. That was strange... he hadn't thought he was that tired. He'd finished his food, mostly, and wiped the plate round with a finger to get any gravy he'd missed.

Jimmy Young glanced over and chuckled. "Poor sod!" He shook his head, then reached for Fingers' tin tankard. "He won't be drinkin' this, will'e?"

The small fellow had fallen asleep, his pink face planted cheek-first amidst the remnants of his meal.

"Don' you go gettin' drunk now, willyer?" Jacky Fisher said from the other side of the table. "You know what the bosun'll say if you do!"

"Fink 'e needs 'is 'ammick," Terry said, grinning at Fingers. He'd never seen anyone fall asleep in their food before.

"Won't!" Jimmy said firmly, before lifting the tankard to his lips.

Johnny Stenhouse was looking at the sleeping Fingers with something like distress. "How're we gonna move him?"

"Dunno," Terry said, honestly. "Could ask one of the Tars to - Chicken, p'raps. Or Cob Chase...?" He trailed off, doubtfully. It was rather unlikely that an adult would bother himself over any of the boys.

There it was. Finally. Hales had found his missing tankard at all. Some spiteful soul had stolen it off his table. He wasn't sorry to be without that foul muck they called 'grog' but he was rather fond of the tankard.

"Excuse me," he said carefully, looking over this table's occupants with unease. "May I have my tankard, please?"

It was all he could not to tug nervously at his neatly-tied cravat, which he'd gotten back from one of the sailors only an hour before. Being left un-tormented was apparently impossible on this ship.

Ah. Terry thought it might have belonged to someone. "Help y'rself," he said, and looked at the man. "Hey - you do us a favour? Get Fingers 'ere inta 'is 'ammick for us, wouldja?"

What? Hales blinked. Get... who?

"I'm sorry?"

Was he stupid or something? "Fingers, 'ere." He indicated the comatose boy. "Inta 'is 'ammick' So's 'e can 'ave a proper sleep. Please."

"Oh." Right. Of course. Hales eyed the boy, who was lying square in the middle of his unfinished dinner. Well. It should be easy enough. The lad didn't look like he weighed anything at all.

"Mind your heads, then," he said as he stepped carefully forward to heft the sleeping boy up off the table.

"'Is 'ammick's this way," Terry said, getting up, and turned back. "'Ere, Johnny, you might let this fella finish that grog there." Seein' as we've prolly drunk 'is.

Hales felt distinctly awkward, standing on the crowded messdeck with a sleeping ship's boy in his arms. The hammock was 'this way', which told him little. Come on, lad, be quick. He spotted one of his usual harassers across the deck, just rising from his own table. Be more than quick!

"Over 'ere," Terry said, leading the way to Fingers' hammock. "Johnny, give that tankard here!" He picked up the empty one, ready to give it to the man. "'E might as well have the rest of Fingers' grog," he said, debating whether he shoul snatch Fingers' battered tankard from Johnny or not.

Bless the lad. Hales followed gratefully, his face losing all expression. "Thank you," he said to his guide as he settled the sleeping boy into the hammock. The lad's small face looked strange with the gravy smeared across it. Hales unknotted his cravat and quickly unwound it from his neck. It was quick work to wipe the boy's face clean.

"I don't want the... grog," he said, a little hastily. The round-faced sailor with the wiry sidewhiskers was coming his way. It was very close to time for him to find somewhere else to be.

"You don't?" Terry said. He shifted sideways, artlessly getting into the approaching sailor's way. "You sure?"

Hales shook his head, the soiled cravat hanging from his hand. Grog was like pond water to him. "Thank you, no. I'm... going on my way now, if you don't mind..."

"Arrigh'. Fanks." He grinned, and winked at the other boys. Jacky got it and came to join him, deliberately getting in between the approaching sailor and the strange, almost shy, man.

The boys were clever ones, it seemed. Hales nodded gratefully at them and hastened toward the forrard ladder, the dirty cravat clutched in one hand.

~

"Hey!" Jonny Seward snapped, finding his path blocked. "What're you sods about? Clear away!"