6 June; Unwell

Left alone once more Leat sank back into his cot, praying that the midshipman would have the sense to pass on his message to Bush as soon as possible. He had dreadful visions of the glass being turned and eight bells struck, but he not there and the smooth running of the ship being sent into disorder. He could imagione tadcock's frown of disapproval, Bolitho being called, Marines sent to find him out and then Bush's look of disgust when he was found to be languishing in his cot. He let out another groan at the thought of the disgrace he would suffer. Perhaps he should try to make it on deck? If he started now he might make it in time to relieve Tadcock.

Mustering his reserves of strength, Leat heaved himself up out of the cot. He landed unsteadily, his legs feeling as if they had turned to water, but managed to grip onto the beam above his head and so keep himself upright. Fighting down the urge to bring up the contents of his stomach once again, Leat buttoned up his coat one handed, reaching out for his hat and waiting for the uproll of the ship, aimed for the cabin door and so into the wardroom.

"Come on, lads, keep it orderly. Hurry it up, man!" Deverel called to the sailor within the 'house of ease.' He looked up and saw Leat. "Ah, lieutenant, these men have been taken with - damn me, sir, you don't look at all the thing! Sit down, sit down! You're positively green! Markham!" He pulled out a chair and looked around for the wardroom steward.

Leat found it incredibly difficult to stifle the groan that rose up from within him when he found himself confronted by Deverel. He could afford no delay in getting up on deck, else he may not make it at all. He gritted his teeth and steadied himself before speaking.

"I cannot, Deverel. I must report for my watch."

"No, never mind that now, you need the surgeon. Markham! Where is the man?" Deverel looked around but the steward did not appear. He turned to the two boys who were seemingly idling there. "Bailey!"

"Y... Yes, sir," Terry replied, startled by Mr Bailey's presence, and hastily knuckling his forehead. "Um... p... please 'scuse me, sir?"

He needed to get a basin for the officer to throw up in, and a bucket and scrubbing brush to clear up the mess on the deck. And he'd probably need his shoes - uncomfortable things! - in case of any more messes on the deck.

He stepped back as the cabin door opened and Mister Leat stepped out, looking as white as a new sail.

"Sir." The boy answered dutifully, passing around the stammering Button to approach the other lieutenant. "You've called ,sir?" He allowed his voice to turn its tone into a slight arch, so that it was clearly a question.

"Bailey, give my compliments to Mister Tadcock, and Mister Leat is indisposed and unable to relieve him. You'll stand in until I come on deck, understood?" It was unusual to let a midshipman stand as officer of the watch, but Deverel would technically be the one taking the duty.

"Sir?" He bit his tongue not to appear as if he might have been questioning that decision. If anything he would have a small reason to boast a little. Being picked to be the 'officer of the watch' even if in fact solely temporarily and even then, not really so, was a good thing as any to feel proud of. Even if he was picked solely for being there and not someone else. "Yes, sir. I shall. May I go and inform Lieutenant Bush about lieutenant Leat's particular state, and then proceed to Mister Tadcock?"

He puffed out his chest thinking he appeared taller and older that way, but was careful to keep more from showing. Being made to stand watch meant work... Darn.

"Mister Bush?" Deverel repeated with a frown. And then, "Button, fetch the surgeon for Mister Leat."

"But..." Terry began, before seeing the look on Mister Deverel's face. He swallowed. "Aye, aye, sir!"

He knuckled his forehead, apologetically squeezed past Mister Bailey and darted out of the wardroom. He might even be able to get his shoes before going for that bucket and scrubbing brush...

"Aye, sir. Was requested to do so." He nodded politely, glancing at Button as the boy moved past him. He was rather quick, possibly in enough haste to please, that the lieutenants would indeed be satisfied. He'd learn to take it at a better pace some time, else he might wrench his little pair of lungs out of his chest with that hurry!

"That is, By Mister Leat, sir." He hoped to be quick on his way, be it to have someone else inform the lieutenant while he took his station, or be it he that did so. A quick encounter when helpful would earn points. Always good when with one's superiors.

"I'll tell him myself," Deverel answered, and moved to leave the gunroom. "Fear not, Mister Leat. The surgeon's on his way. Cut along now, Bailey."

Bailey gave a quick nod and skipped out of the gunroom as well in search of Mister Tadcock. Officer of the watch coming! Make way! Make way! All that in his mind only, a grin subdued and then changed into a confident smile. He went out of his way just a little to see how his little group of sailors fared. Confident that they would be alright without his supervision, he continued in his wake. Compliments to Mister Tadcock from Mister Deverel and then...

Leat could do little but protest feebly as Deverel sat him down in the chair, and he watched helpless as events hastily spiralled out his control.

"Damn you, Deverel!" he moaned, but he was unable to make his words carry any sort of conviction.

It wasn't long before Terry found the surgeon, but it was a few minutes before he could get the man to pay him any heed.

He came back to the gunroom downcast, slightly wan and feeling as though he wanted to throw up, though he didn't think it was because he was coming down with that the rest of the crew seemed to have. Thankfully.

"Surgeon's too busy, Mister Dev'rel," he reported. "'Ere, Mister Leat. You... you prob'ly oughta be in bed, sir." He bit his lip at the enormity of what he'd just done. He, Terry Button, had just told Mister Leat - an officer! - to go back to bed.

He was going to be in awful trouble now.

Leat looked at Button, disheartened by the fact that in the face of great adversity he would have to admit defeat.

"I ought to be on deck, Button," Leat sighed, wiping a weary hand across his forehead. He was mildly distressed to feel unaccustomed warmth there. "But I suppose it is where I had better be at this moment."

"But... but you ain't well, sir," Terry said, wondering at his own daring in disagreeing - arguing, indeed - with an officer. Mister Leat was one of the very few people who had ever been kind to him, and that kindness could only be repaid one way. He would do almost anything for Mister Leat now - and right now, that meant getting him back to bed somehow.

"You'll feel better after you've 'ad a bit of a sleep, sir," he said, wishing there was something he could do to make the officer better.

Leat doubted very much whether he would feel any better - it would certainly compound his sense of guilt - but he couldn't occupy this chair forever. He had to do something, if only it were to stand up.

"I... suppose so," he said heavily. Bracing himself against the edge of the table he got up shakily, studiously ignoring the horrible twisting sensation in his stomach.

Biting his lip at his own audacity, Terry stepped to the Lieutenant's side to steady him. "You'll be all right, sir," he said, looking around for Markham or the Marine officer's steward - he was going to need a bit of help to get Mister Leat into his cot, after all - he was at least a foot shorter than the officer.

The poor boy did sound genuinely worried, and Leat aimed a wry smile down in Button's direction. Quite unthinkingly he placed his arm across Button's shoulders - and not purely to give himself support.

"You shan't be rid of me so easily, Button," he jested weakly.

"I wasn'..." he began, and shyly smiled up at the officer, slipping his thin arm around the man's waist. He gave a very brief squeeze, the closest he dared to come to a hug, and hoped that nobody else had noticed. He opened the door to the officer's cabin. "Sorry I ain't had time to sort out that..." he began. "I'll get to it jus' as soon as..."

And here was Markham to help get the Lieutenant into his cot.

Leat frowned to himself. Had he imagined it, or had Button just hugged him? No, surely not. He was imagining it.

"Very well, I -"

But Markham was suddenly there, an expression somewhere between extreme frustration and concern on his face.

"Dear God, sir, you look a state! What on earth's he been doing, boy?"

"He was tryin' to get on deck to take his watch," Terry said anxiously. "But he ain't in no fit state to be goin' anywheres. Beg parding, sir, but you ain't."

And he really needed to get that bucket and scrubbing brush now.

"Wouldja 'elp 'im into 'is cot, please?" he asked. "I've... I've gotta go fin' a brush an' some water."

This was one hell of a day! The worst was possibly yet to come.

Marine lieutenant Sebastian Sewell had just detailed the last men that hadn't succumbed to the illness to stand sentry and fervently hoped that at least some marines did recover before it was necessary to relieve them.

And of course it was impossible not to post sentries, because the ship more than ever felt like a madhouse. Half the Tars were ill enough to be no longer quite rational, and the rest was in a terrible hurry and would be exhausted before long. And of course no-one was where he was supposed to be. Sewell thought he had even seen sailors heading to the officers' head, but at least there was little else they could do there. But if something didn't happen soon, there simply wouldn't be enough men left on their feet to run the ship.

So now he was on his way to the gunroom, hoping that someone had by now come up with any idea how to stop this outbreak. The picture that presented itself as he opened the door wasn't particularly promising, however. Deeming that the presence of a marine officer at the moment was probably less needed than another pair of hands, he simply asked: "How can I help?"

"Min' the mess on the deck!" he added belatedly, hoping Markham hadn't gone and stood in it. He really wanted his shoes, if he could find them; horrid, uncomfortable things though they were, they would be far better than risking standing in that stuff in his bare feet.