6 June; Unwell

The quiet grumbling unease in his stomach had begun the night before, after the second dogwatch. He had striven to ignore it but when the grumbling unease became twinging pain, accompanied by a frequent need to visit the heads, Chase was faced with the unhappy necessity of needing to see the surgeon.

To his disbelief, he discovered that he was not the only one. There were five other men waiting in varying states of patience for the surgeon to attend them. What the devil...? Chase grimaced but fell in at the end of the queue, hoping the wait would not be too long. Already he was feeling the prickling sense of urgency that meant he'd have to dash for the heads.

Sternly telling himself to hold it in would do no good. Neither would shifting from foot to foot in an effort to distract himself. Nope. Chase balled his hands into fists and all but hopped in place, impatient to be waved into the sick berth but keenly aware that he would have to abandon his place in line very shortly.

Oh stuff it! He couldn't wait. With a distressed oath, he scampered for the ladder, making no attempt to maintain a topman's dignity in his haste. All that mattered was getting on deck and thence to the heads. What in the hell was wrong with him?

At the rate the lads ahead of him were moving, they'd still be standing here waiting for a chance to use the heads by nightfall. Thom Boyles hitched up his striped trousers and did his best not to scowl. He had no idea where this unsettled feeling in his guts had come from, but it could go away again right now, thank'ee much.

There were another couple lads coming up to join the trailing line now as well. Boyles lifted an eyebrow at one of them, surprised that he was surprised to see Chase up here. Even though the foretopman was just as likely as anyone to fall sick with this damned ailment.

"Shift 'long up there!" Somebody ahead of Boyles called in plain irritation. Boyles stifled a grunt and tried to distract himself by staring up at the sails. Maybe if he didn't think about it, he wouldn't have to go so badly. Maybe.

There was a bloody line at the surgeons, another at the heads. He had hoped, perhaps similarly to that Tar, that if the surgeon was not available, the Heads were. But it appeared now that groans and moans had reason. He had left his coat thrown across his sea chest, his stock perhaps similarly dropped wherever was fastest. The unease started mild at first and so he had ignored it. But then as if on cue there was the pain as if someone had twisted his innards then a strange rumble and the need, stronger than ever, to feed the fishes with something more solid.

Though now, he wondered if it would happen to be solid at all! "Ugh. .Not hurry ahead?" He complained in his broken up English, followed by a colourfull serenade of curses in his own - Irish gaelic.

"Stow that nonsense babble," Johnson snapped, folding his arms over his chest as he joined the long queue. The unsteadiness in his guts annoyed him and made his temper - never good to begin with - all the more sharp.

Gunn whirled about, but the moment his eyes met Johnson's his retaliation remained unspoken. He grumbled something under his breath. Ugh, there was another tug at his bowels and he shifted unhappily on his feet. He chewed on his lip and shifted again. He was having a fancy hard time keeping his trousers clean and that annoyed him more than anything. What was wrong? And why was the whole ship having the same problem. Even Corporal Johnson!

"Corp'ral. What's on?"

The corporal scowled. "What the bloody hell d'you think?" He retorted.

Ahead of them, one of the seamen let out a wail of despair and, perhaps improperly, stripped out of his trousers. The once-white slops were next seen flying over the side.

"..There goes.."James Gunn blinked. He had not exactly expected a pair of slops going a'ways. Well, the poor thing had certianly shown reason for it though. It reminded his own bowels that it was not embarrassing if he were to consider a similar option. The discomfort had him bending low and clutching at his belly.

He wanted to shout at the man who was taking so long, and behind him the many who would take so long! "The surgeon's got many too." He spoke then thought. Was there not another place , right by the surgeon's where one could relieve themselves. And then of course the officers had their own but.... but they could not go there. "What causes this?!"

"Bos'un!" Leaford barked, glaring toward the groaning, uneasy line of men. "Sort out those men!"

This was nothing short of disgraceful. One man now standing half-naked and nearly a dozen others waiting impatiently for the heads, some with similarly-stained slops. It was unseemly in the highest!

~



"Water," Boyles said through clenched teeth. "It is the water."

Leaford could yell all he liked. Gunn only hoped he might shorten the line with the 'sorting' of men, so that his turn would come sooner.

Sooner than....

He was still holding it.

Barely holding it, his teeth clenched tight, knuckles white on his fists which would probably have crushed a small human head had they clenched onto it.

Still holding. He prayed, prayed in a hushed murmur of Irish for the staying of his bowels. He promised and... all promises came to nothing when he felt the first rush. Grunting he fumbled with the buttons of his trousers. Decency be damned!

To Chase's dismay, the man ahead of him proved unable to contain himself and in his exasperation at having soiled his trousers, stripped out of them and threw them unceremoniously overboard. It was not a good sign. Not the least because it might very well be him suffering such an undignified accident next.

"C'mon up there an' move it along!"

There went another pair of trousers over board. Some men were sensible to keep them on board, though how sensible that would prove when they needed to wash them was yet to be seen. Bailey had been through his usual enjoyment of 'study' and was drawn to the scene by the all the noise the ailed men were making. He barely managed to get past the line at the surgeons. Boy did it stink there too. Here, it was no better, and the bare posteriors were revealed indiscriminately.

His own bowels were at peace at the moment, so he was observing the pained men with mere mild curiosity. "You." He singled Chase out. "What's going on?" Other than the obvious. The ship going mad.

"Dunno," Chase answered through gritted teeth. "Sir. Seems lads are sick."

Wasn't it obvious? Then again, it was a midshipman asking the question. A newer one at that! Any other time, he would have been able to answer the boy better, but with his insides threatening like they were going to pickle themselves, he was hardly in a mood to be charitable.

"Hm. " Tobias thought for a moment. Right. "You look like you really need to go. Come along then. Follow me and I'll have you in for the one there's no line infront." He said cheerfully. This seaman was friendly enough and he still had his slops that weren't soiled. There was some hope for him, which was lost on the others. And,.. he felt like it.

Was the middie out of his mind? Chase blinked. "They're all busy, sir," he replied, a little dumbfounded.

"All the ones you Tars can get to. Certainly. But surely not all that are on the ship." Bailey answered with a broad grin. "So, are ye coming? Or are you going to soil your slops like the rest of them?"

Chase shook his head. "No, sir. Not 'less every lad 'head of me goes too."

He was not about to get into a game of favourites. Not today!

"Can't have all of them go." Bailey studied the line. "Say what. Pick five of them you want to go with you, and you go. Preferably those five that don't have their slops dirty. If there's some still waiting here, we'll pick the next five." They could not make a line where the officers committed to their own relief but five at a time was more doable. Maybe.

This wasn't an arrangement Chase liked, but it was a little better than it had been a second before. The queue hadn't moved forward much at all either.

"A'right," he said, giving in. "Them lads at the very front."

"Call them up and I'll meet you at t' companionway." Tobias said cheerfully. His bowels being in check, he had no concerns whatsoever. The display of bare buttocks and moaning Tars amused him, but he was wiser than to laugh. Turning on his heel he headed in the direction, his book which had a smaller one inserted between the pages, tucked nicely under his arm.

"Wot's t'is?" Boyles demanded, managing somehow to scowl even though his eyebrows were arched in surprise. Chase had already shuffled forward to select his five companions. This was rubbish. That's what this was!

"Good day,..." He searched his memory for the correct name, and then smiled: "Boyles. Captain o' t' maintop, correct?" He said politely and with a smile.

"T'at's me, sar," Boyles replied, eying the middie warily. He didn't trust the lad or his apparent generosity. Midshipmen never did anything purely out of the goodness of their hearts.

"If you want or need to come with us, you are welcome." Bailey smiled cheerfully. The poor Tars looked wretched with their stomachs in a twist, the marines looked no better. "But we will be hurrying along very quickly. You must understand... present events. They do demand it, regretfully."

"No t'anks, sar."

The men Chase had selected were trying their best not to dance from foot to foot as they waited.

"Alright then." Bailey glanced about at the assembled men. "I will return promptly." He saidto Boyles, and then he signaled the men that they would follow. The poor wretches had had to wait long enough. Down the companion way they would go and right to the heads that not too many would be allowed to use. But this was a special case anyway! "Did you work out the order of who goes first yet?" He asked glancing at the assembled group.