2 June; Bit of wind

OOC - The squall is referenced after the fact here.

IC -

The motion of the ship was becoming increasingly irregular. It was a sign Tide recognised from old experience. The sea was getting up. He didn't need to be on deck to know that much. He was just swinging his legs over the edge of his hammock when the familiar shriek of boatswains' calls lanced down the hatchways.

"All Hands! All Hands to take in sail!"

Tide tumbled out of his hammock, knocking carelessly into another petty officer who had been soundly asleep until an instant earlier. "Shift aside," the quartermaster snapped, grabbing for his oilskin from his sea-chest. He ignored the glare and reply from the other sailor as he hurried toward the companionway, caught inescapably in the stream of men making their way topside.

Somebody was shouting near the top of the ladder, but Tide ignored it too. Aft was where he was most needed.

"Wha...?" Terry asked, his mind blurred with sleep. He felt for his wet-weather gear, in between sleepy swipes at his eyes. He had his oilskins in his arms when his collar was grabbed and he was hauled bodily up the companionway, struggling to scramble into his oilies and work out what was going on, all at the same time.

He twisted in the grasp on his collar. "Wha's goin' on?" It was half-mumbled, but the sailor let go of him, allowing him to get the rest of the way into his oilies. What was he supposed to do, up here in this weather? It wasn't like he was big enough to go out on the yards, not really, not to help take in a reef or two.

He shrugged and hurried after a figure heading aft with a familiar, though urgent, stride.

Mister Evans would know what he could do to help, surely.

"Mister Evans?" he asked, his words whipped away by the wind that seemed much stronger now than it had earlier.

What the hell?

"What're you doin' up - " Tide cut himself off when he saw Chicken Dyer briefly, as the topman dashed to join his division. He remembered hearing them talking about getting Button onto the working part of the crew, last night. Those bastards. He'd sort them later. No time for it now. "C'mon. Get with the afterguard."

It wasn't the right place for the lad either, but at least he could keep an eye on him there.

Terry was valiantly fighting his way into his wet-weather gear and couldn't answer for a moment. He pulled his hat down a bit further against the rain.

"S' all right, ain't it, Mister Evans?" he asked, anxious not to be any trouble or to get in anyone's way. He followed the quartermaster up to the quarterdeck, and bit his lip. He shouldn't be here, really, but he'd been told to be.

He shrugged and found an out-of-the-way spot near the leeward rail, eyes eyes darting between Mister Evans and the officer of the watch, Mister Leat.

"Just you mind what Penny over there says," Tide told the lad, making it up the angled deck to the wheel. "Shift over, Sullivan. Let an ol' hand have a go at it!"

This was insane. Unbearable. Chaos.

"Help!" Hales felt himself skidding uselessly on the wave-washed deck and flailed out to grab hold of the closest person to him. It didn't matter who it actually was, as long as they were more stationary than he was.

"Y... yes, an' I will, Mister Evans," he replied nervously, trying to tuck himself further against the side out of the way. He was only small, he knew he was, but he could be useful... he hoped.

He let out a startled squawk as someone grabbed at him, sending him helplessly sliding down into the scuppers that were swimming in water.

For an instant, Hales had felt assured of safety. The sailor he'd latched onto was indeed steady. That feeling dissolved in a heartbeat when his would-be anchor toppled over too.

"Ahgh!" Hales found himself sprawling on the deck and with a mouthful of foul salty seawater to boot.

Mister Rutland was there for some reason, and Terry found himself being hauled off the deck by a tight hold on the back of his collar. "On your feet, boy, no slacking!"

He found a brace to hang onto as the bosun's mate moved over to the other fallen sailor and nearly repeated the manoeuvre.

A hand with a grip of iron seized his collar and Hales, inexplicably, panicked.

"I don't want to!" He burst out, struggling to find his footing.

Terry was wet, cold and miserable now, but even so he couldn't imagine protesting about his situation. So his jaw dropped when someone did just that.

"Doesn't matter," Mister Rutland replied. "None o' the rest of us want to neither. But we 'ave to." He let the man's collar go and turned to direct men into the rigging to reduce sail further in the press of wind.

That meant nothing to Hales. This life was one that those men had chosen for themselves. He was different. It had been chosen for him. And he hated it.

"It's shit," Hales grumbled, managing somehow to get to his feet. He grabbed half-blindly for the rail and hung on for dear life.

OH. Old Misery-Guts. It would be. Terry shrank a little. He was in no mood to start talking with the man, about how wasn't the only pressed man aboard and that he hadn't exactly had a choice either. And, to be fair, this weather was shit. Cold wet and miserable - and it wasn't as though he could really be of any use up here, only being a boy.

He offered a non-comittal grunt and turned his head to look toward Mister Evans and the other helmsmen, trying to ignore the thin cold trickle of water going down his neck.

"You there!"

Hales shrank instinctively against the rail. There was only one 'you' possibly meant with such an angry, ringing tone. Him.

"Stand up, you filthy - " Strong hands were dragging him upright. "To the braces there, and be useful, if you got any worth in your bones!"

Terry almost didn't dare look at the owner of that angry voice but hurried over, careful not to lose his footing again, trying to find a place where even his meagre weight would be of some use. The wet rope felt slick and coarse to his cold hands.

He didn't want to draw any attention, either. Especially for him and boys like him, coming to the attention of officers, midshipmen or master's mates was never good.

Just look at what had happened the other day!

It was a good thing he'd shoved Sullivan aside, Tide thought acidly. The idiot had been letting the wheel do what it wanted and they were now at least two points off their proper course. You couldn't do anything with these newly-promoted fools!

"She's full an' bye, sir!" Tide called, standing firmly straddle-legged beside Wise, another quartermaster. A better fellow than Sullivan, anyway! He glanced up at the thundering sails. "Wind's backin' some though, I think!"

He couldn't resist giving the landsman a rough shake before letting him go. "You'll bloody stand up on the quarterdeck, if you want to be able to keep standing at all!"

Damned lubbers! Leaford scowled and pointed at the lee braces. "Get over there and heave, like your bleedin' life depends on it!"

He was doing his best, but the cold and wet, the darkness and the heaving deck all meant that it wasn't nearly as good a best effort as it had been the other night, even though he knew, more or less, what needed doing.

The voice that had addressed the lubber hadn't been Mister Rutland's, and its owner was standing a damn sight too close to Terry for comfort.

The lubber wasn't moving nearly fast enough. That he was probably terrified and confused cut no ice with Leaford. All he knew was that he had given this sailor an order and he was taking his fine time carrying it out.

"Light along! Legless pensioners could move faster!" He helped the landsman along with a shove, then his gaze fell on another sailor close by. "Well! When'd we let powder monkeys on the working crew?"

Shit!

He'd been spotted - despite hoping that he wouldn't be. He tried to make himself look taller, although really he wanted to do nothing more than curl up and hide somewhere until Mister Leaford had forgotten he even existed.

He swallowed dryly. "I... I know the job, sir," he managed, his voice sounding reedy and nervous even in his own ears.

Did he, now?

"Knowing and being able to do the job are two broadly different things," the master's mate snapped. "Shift off, before you trip somebody up!"

"I..." He caught himself, just in time. "Aye, aye, sir."

He let go of the brace - there were enough men around that it probably didn't make the slightest bit of difference, really, and moved away, knuckling his forehead to Mister Leaford and wondering where he could possibly go that was out of the way.

Didn't it make more sense to have someone on the braces who knew what to do despite being only a boy rather than a grown man who didn't have the first clue?

He kept a watchful eye on Mister Leaford as he stepped past him, wary in case the master's mate should say or do anything to make things even more miserable. Terry wouldn't put that past him.

What was this nonsense? Why was the boy being dismissed when he was forced to work the same task?

"That is hardly fair," Hales burst out, before he could stop himself.

Terry froze. That wasn't a good thing to say - it was never a good idea to say something like that where an officer could hear you. Lubbers were all the same.

He was perfectly willing to do his fair share of the work, even if he was half the height of any of the men. But the lubber wasn't even going to do that, apparently.

He sent a fearful glance at Mister Leaford, wondering what was going to happen now.

He froze, midstep. He had not just heard that. "Bite your vile tongue," Leaford snarled, turning sharply and stalking back the few feet to grab the lubber by the scruff. "You want unfair? Well then!"

A quick glance to the side showed that the boy was lingering nearby. "You. Take this trash to the Master-at-Arms. A flogging will set him right!"