Allhands and bodies too, aft - 1st June

Terry shuffled his feet on the wooden planking of the deck, wishing he was somewhere else - anywhere else, even getting run ragged by Mister Foxley. He looked over at Fingers and pulled a face, indicating the proceeding with the shrug of one thin shoulder.

"That's right boys. Better see what you get if you's deservin'." Cattling muttered finding his way closer to the young pair. Unlike the two he observed the proceedings with satisfaction. He believed the boy more than deserving of what he got and it was good that the little brats see it too. They might think to behave better from that example.

"You lot watch that. Might remember it then." He muttered in a hushed tone and looked to the boy on the gun.

De Guarde's knuckles where as white as the clouds carried on the wind above them. In comparison to that, his rear was rather as red as a marine's coat and the cuts, much fresher than the rest, gained at his last caning began to open up and bleed. He hiccuped once, perhaps in pain, and grit his teeth harder, glaring at the same spot like he meant to drill a hole through it, with only his intent, focused gaze. How many? Was it six already? Eight? Or not even five?

"You had best be silent," Henry Leaford growled, straightening up slightly from where he lounged against the breech of a nearby gun. He did not look at the man who'd spoken but he did not need to.

With a grunt, Mister Colburn drew his arm back and gave another stroke. Two more and his role in this was over.

Terry shivered a little and said nothing, contenting himself with glaring at the sailor once he'd turned back to watching what was going on. Though he shuffled a little closer to Fingers.

Cattling dismissed the retort with a smirk. "Jus' sayin' what you all are thinkin'. That brat's no good." He looked at Terry and Fingers. " Watch. You lot could be next, if you do it like him!" He pointed at the boy.

De Guarde's legs buckled. No real sound yet. He swore he would not make a sound and thought of the times that it had happened before. Never so public, true, never public at all but for perhaps other midshipmen. There was some blood that the tails spread across his thighs, and some that came there of its own accord, from the cuts the tails had made.

He jerked a little, jumped slightly at the next blow. It felt like it took forever. Surely they had to be 12 strikes by now. The man was not counting!

De Guarde took a sharp breath and lowered his head a little. He braced himself for another hit, but it never came. 12. First dozen, finished.

Leaford frowned. "You'll mind your tongue, damn your eyes!" The master's mate glanced pointedly toward the boy being flogged. "Or I'll have you up for a few lashes next!"

The boys' cat was changing hands, passing from Colburn to Rutland. In the pause between blows, something like a sigh seemed to ripple over the weather deck.

Leat watched on as Colburn passed the cat to Rutland, the latter taking up his stance behind De Guarde. Another twelve to go, and then this whole sorry farce would be over for the day. It would keep De Guarde out of the way too, down below with the surgeon, for a day or so. The boy would not forget this in a hurry.

The lieutenant had, however, observed the thin white scars across De Guarde's backside when his britches had been lowered, and at these he had wondered. Surely the boy was too young, could not have been so disobedient on his last ship to have already been so permanently scarred? He had not seen De Guarde's record for himself - only the captain had that priviledge - but surely had Bolitho known he was getting a problem midshipman he would have dropped some hint his way?

He resolved to ask Bolitho later. He had another matter to see the captain about anyway, one that was weighing heavily on his mind, and he would see how much he could learn then.

Standing with the other midshipmen Fletcher had seen the white scars too, as had the rest of the ship, but unlike Mr. Leat he had known they were there beforehand. He had seen them and shivered in revulsion, fascination and a shade of empathy the last time De Guarde had been bent over a gun.

Unlike Mr. Leat, Simon Fletcher knew what it was to be on the receiving end of regular canings, but even the wrath of Sir Gregory had not been so savage as those blows that must have struck De Guarde repeatedly to cause such lasting scars. He wondered what De Guarde must have done... or possibly not done to have been treated so roughly. Much the same as his behaviour on Terpsichore? But surely that would have been mentioned in his character from his previous captain. Would Captain Bolitho have taken on a known troublemaker in the hopes if reform? Fletcher did not know.

He winced as Rutland struck the first of the second dozen. So far De Guarde had not cried out, and so far Fletcher had not felt sick as he had done watching the previous beating. He had prepared himself for this; reminded himself of what he would be seeing, hearing and feeling, and he would carry himself with more dignity than he had shown before. Neither Chandos or Kinsella would have cause to feel ashamed of him.

And it seemed De Guarde had made a similar decision.

De Guarde breathed in sharply. He steadied his breath looked over his shoulder. The boy's cat exchanged hands. He glanced and caught sight of Leat. Some sweat trickled down his temple. He abruptly averted his gaze and stared ahead again.

"...jus' twelve more." He whispered so quietly that nobody but himself could hear him. He gulped, and nodded, though it was not exactly an aknowledgement for this to continue. It was more he saying he was ready to himself.

Cattling remained quiet ever since he was warned that he might join the boy. No sense in getting flogged, because he was certain he would be flogged on the back with the real cat.

And then the first strike came and he had to concentrate on something, anything, to keep himself from crying out. He would not give them the pleasure of hearing him cry out. Dignity and pride and perhaps just stubborness kept the boy's will so far fairly strong, even through the pain.

Only another dozen. That was better than two only a few minutes before. Chase exhaled through his nose and managed to keep from rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Suddeny he wanted nothing more than to go aloft just then. Away up to the royal top. The weather deck seemed much too crowded and confined.

A third strike, if he added it up to the earlier 12 meant he had just gotten 15 lashes on his bare posteriors which were riddled with red welts and blood where the welts broke. It looked messier probably, than it was and perhaps would have looked better if not for having been somewhat recently caned as well. It was getting harder to keep quiet. He could not easily tell where the burning sensation of the earlier strikes stopped and where the pain of the next one began. There were licks of the cat's tails on the upper part of his thighs, and a couple that snuck across to his inner thighs hurting just as much as the rest. It was not intentional, but unlike a cane neither a normal nor a boy's cat could be completely controlled.

His knees buckled again and he could feel grateful that the gun supported him. He tensed with the following strike, and shuddered with the next, somewhat surprised at the sudden burst of pain. Yet still, he made no sound. He could weep, cry and whimper once he was in the confines of the lower deck.

Six. Rutland hissed out a disgusted breath and laid on the seventh stroke. What were the odds he and Colburn would be going through this same stupid ritual with the boy, except with the grating and the proper cat?

At least it was nearly over. Eight.

Nine.

Fletcher watched as De Guarde's knees buckled again, his hands gripping at the ropes that lashed him to the gun.

Ten.

Just two more. He had counted this time. Just two more and he was free. He could not make a sound now when he was so close to the end. He shut his eyes and breathed in sharply.

Eleven.

Just one more. One single strike and he would be let go. The captain would no longer need him on deck. He gripped tighter on the ropes. He could make it. Not a sound. He would make it.

Twelve.

The second dozen. It was over. He breathed out, relief flooding his mind. He needed no longer to fear he would make a sound and humiliate himself. He could smile and feel proud. It was over and done with. He was feeling dizzy and even as he opened his eyes he felt no better. He was week in his knees but..he would walk off the scene. He would not be carried, did not want to be carried. He could do his slops up, button them properly and then walk. Even before any of that was set into motion he made a detailed plan and braced himself for the pain the rubbing fabric would cause. Curse it. His slops would be red, surely. Dirty.

Deverel sighed as the punishment was concluded. It was a naval custom, of course, though he had never witnessed a boy, rated able, flogged on deck in full view of the crew. A bit unusual, but no less tedious. And that was the boy who had been a midshipman, so he was told. A young gentleman turned before the mast. He glanced at Docker standing amongst the other midshipmen, and he hid a grin of amusement at the lad's stupid face, dull and doughy as usual. There was no reading his thoughts, if he had any.

Like Leat, Deverel had noticed the young man's scars. "Must be quite a troublemaker?" he said quietly, looking at the other lieutenants. Either that or the officers were exceedingly generous with punishment. He did not yet know.

Bush glanced at Deverel out of the corner of his eye. As much as he would have liked to blame the man's lack of knowledge on his usual ignorance, he could not really fault Deverel for not knowing about De Guarde. He had only been aboard for a short while, and thus did not know of the hell the boy had been raising ever since he had joined the ship.

"You have no idea, Mr. Deverel," he replied in an equally low voice.

The boy looked around. It was a mere quick glimpse, just to see if he was fortunate and most men did not look his way. He was not fortunate however, as the lieutenants all did, and possibly the captain too, and with them much of the crew.

He decided that it was thus, even through the pain he was just then feeling, the time to show he was not a trembling, little boy. He nodded with some confidence, keeping his lips from tugging downwards in a pained grimace.

Instead, even, he forced them up slightly. He did feel some relief when he was let go. He buttoned his trousers loosely and actually let the length of his shirt to stretch over his injured bottom. He waited then. he could not walk off till he was told to. A hand was placed to rest against the side of the gun. It did not appear he was supporting much weight on it, though in truth he was.

The punishment having been concluded, there was no need for De Guarde to remain on deck any longer. Let him go below and be tended by the surgeon.

"You may be dismissed, De Guarde," Bolitho said, then he turned to Bush. "Dismiss the hands, Mr. Bush."

"Aye sir," Bush replied, and promptly shouted, "All hands, dismissed!"

Thank God for that. Terry turned, as the crowd of sailors started to disperse, muttering to themselves.

Stupid boy shouldn't have made such a fuss. And then they wouldn't have had to watch that horrible whipping. He headed towards the fore companionway, feeling subdued.

De Guarde began to walk slowly towards the companion way. He grit his teeth and kept his lips in a thin line. The men were leaving. He stumbled, straightened himself again and set a foot infront of the other. It hurt so much, but he could not show it just yet. With a sigh of relief he placed his hand at the companionway.

There he stood for a few moments. He pulled at his trousers to ease them from his battered rump, feeling the material already somewhat moist. He looked at his hand and it came away with a few specks of crimson. He tugged his shirt lower and pulled his trousers higher so that the fabric was held loose.

A step at the time, was what he could take, and keep his balance, though once his rump did strike against the step, and he moved forward faster than he meant to. He came down without any further incident and here again took a few breaths for rest. As it was dark, he felt entitled to let just a bit of his mask fall.

"Steadily, my boy," Farley said, following close behind the newly-flogged seaman. "Take it slowly and you'll fare fine."

De Guarde held onto the fabric, still keeping it higher than he needed to, usually. It was now all to relieve the continuous tugging and pulling across the tender flesh, where the trousers seemed more persistent than a shirt would ever be. He nodded towards Farley, putting on a brave face.

"Ain' that bad." He lied, forcing a smile. "Jus' a pat on t' there."

Right. Farley nodded slightly. "Good lad," the surgeon said bracingly.

And then they were there. Having shuffled past the few men that were returning from the deck, he stopped in the sickbay with some form of relief. He laid his hand to his forehead, not to test whether he was feverish but to rub it as if that might clear his mind.

He looked at Farley hoping the man would not tell him to sit down. It would be a habitual thing, but rather inappropriate. "When will I be able to return ter duty, sir?"