Afternoon Aloft, 1st July

What it was, in Private Tom Oxley's considered opinion, was a nice day to go aloft. The mainmast was out, of course, and there was no way he was going to head up the mizzenmast - for one thing, he'd have to cross the quarterdeck to reach the mizzen shrouds.

So that meant the foremast.

He had discarded his hat, stock and jacket when he'd come off duty, and scrambled up the shrouds, very little giving him away as a Marine rather than a ship's boy. He found himself in the foretop with a sailor who was doing something Oxley couldn't see.

"Arternoon, mate," he said cheerily, dropping to the platform and dangling one foot carelessly over the edge before stretching. "Nice day, ain't it?"

There was somebody else coming up to the mast platform. Dyer did not look up from his work, but replied, "It is, aye. Didja bring up that pitch?"

Then he frowned. This was all wrong. A greeting and a query like that did not match at all with what he was expecting. He looked up from the length of cordage across his knees. "Oh. Well! A visitor, is it?"

"'Lo, Chicken," Oxley said in reply. "You don't mind, do ya? I'll try an' stay outta the way, like." He twisted round to try to see what the man was doing. "Too nice to stay below, though. I kinda like it up here." The fact that his face was almost permanently wind-burnt testified to that.

The nipper was in the right of it there, though Dyer's grin was not wholly innocent. "Ain't a bother t'me," he said. "But if yer up here, you'll be workin'."

He was not about to get blown up by Mister Watts for having anyone aloft who was there simply to idle. At least not while Dyer himself was working!

Blow it. He'd come up here to get away from doing any work. Though, really, the sort of thing Chicken was doing was going to be a thousand million times better than pipeclaying his crossbelt or blacking his shoes or whatever.

"Whatcha doin' then?" he asked, scooting a little closer to get a better look at the piece of cordage the tar was working on. "And whatcha want me t'do?"

"Finishin' a new horse," was Dyer's reply. He nodded toward the larboard yard. "That'n's come up a bit worn, like. So the bo'sun's said to knock up a new one."

He indicated the neat coil of cordage beside him and added, "Only thing left now's the pitch to seal it, see. Then course it needs layin' out an' all. That'd be a perfick job fer you, I think."

Oxley blinked. "Y'mean, goin' out on the yard, like?" he said, just to make sure he'd heard right. He'd been in the tops hundreds of times - using the futtock shrouds to get there, too! - but he'd never actually gone out on the yards before.

"Wouldn't know what t'do when I'm there, though," he added, taking a closer look at the neat coil of rope.

"Aye. It'll need three lads, least, to snake this out. S'pose the yardarm'd be the right place fer you?" Dyer grinned, then leaned out a bit to look down over the edge of the platform. "There he comes, the laggard. 'Bout time!"

A smirking Chase shinned up over the edge of the platform, a bucket of pitch and a brush dangling from one shoulder by a length of rope. "Coulda been you gone down, couldn't it? What's this, then?"

Terry had seen Cob Chase heading up the foremast with a bucket of pitch. He'd been about to go up there himself, and seeing the sailor had nearly changed his mind for him - it wasn't like he was avoiding the purser any more, after all.

But just what was Cob Chase doing, going aloft with a bucket of pitch? There was only one way to find out, and it was a bare minute later that he peered over the edge of the foretop from a precarious position on the lee futtock shrouds, to find that Cob Chase wasn't alone. He sighed and shifted to begin the climb down again.

Too late.

Instead of answering his mate's question, Dyer abruptly lunged toward the edge of the platform, one arm slashing quickly down out of sight. A second later, he let out a smug-sounding, "Lookit I caught!"

"Here! Gerroff me, you!" Terry protested, as his collar was grabbed - by Chicken Dyer, it turned out.

Oxley couldn't help letting out a low whistle at the scene, though he bit his lip and looked suitably abashed immediately he realised what he'd done. "They's settin' up a new footrope - wanna help?" he asked, though from the look of Chicken's grip, he might not have a choice.

"Never been any sense lettin' a noser go," said Dyer mildly as he hauled his catch up onto the platform. "Jus' our luck, though. Two young'ns to bear us a hand!"

Chase grinned, already busy with brushing pitch onto the new footrope. "High good fortune, that. Anyways, wasn't you wantin' to learn the trade, Button?"

A noser? He wasn't one to split on his mates, not Terry Button, and he protested so, vigorously, even as he straightened his shirt out.

"I bleedin' ain't, though I betcha you was a walkin' poulterer," he muttered, scowling in Dyer's direction. "That, or peter-layin', ya... ya sneaksy sod, 'cause you wasn't no cadge."

Oxley's eyes widened at the younger boy's words. He hadn't quite worked out what Chicken had said to him to get him so riled, but obviously it wasn't anything good, judging by the stream of words Terry had directed him. It was probably the most he'd said at once to any grown man since he'd come aboard.

He sighed, looking at the pitch Cob was painting onto the new foot-rope. He'd have to be real careful he didn't get any of that onto his trousers...

The lad's speech only made Dyer grin. "Jus' a roost lay, act'lly," was his casual response. "Might mark you's a little snakesman, mebbe, way you go on."

Despite not understanding the words being bandied about, Chase recognised tension when he heard it. He frowned slightly and gave the pitch-covered brush a short wave. "Hoi. There's cordage needs sealin' here, what ain't gonna seal itself."

"You'd be wrong, then," was Terry's reply. "Ain't wrong in figgerin' you fer a prig, though, was I?" Though he'd be willing to bet that he'd not done anything of the sort recently. And from Chase's words, he hadn't understood a word of what they'd been saying - and nor, it seemed, had Oxley. Good. "Ain't gonna blow yer gaff, neever, so don'tcha go figgering me for a conk, aright?"

He shifted over toward Chase. "Watcha want doin', then?"

Oxley had recognised one or two words - enough to know they were talking in thieves' cant - but precisely what they were saying was beyond him. And it was unlikely that either of them would tell him if he asked, either.

He shifted to Chicken's side. "Anythin' I can do fer now?" he asked, glad that things hadn't grown violent - though really, they were hardly likely to, with Terry being only a boy and Chicken being a grown man.

"It ain't ever been a secret." Dyer grinned and swiped a couple stray droplets of pitch off his face. He'd get Chase back for that. "Even if you is, you'll not do a thing, or I'll cut yer painter fer you."

Chase dipped his fingers into the bucket of pitch and reached quickly to smear the black sticky substance over the side of Dyer's head. "Makin' this toad look better," the Cornishman answered cheerfully. "Then it's back to paintin' this thing all over."

"Either of you nippers got any head for layin' out?" Dyer asked, gamely pretending that his hair and ear had not been freshly decorated.

"Arready said as I wouldn't, din't I?" He shrugged. "Dunno why the beak sent ya inta the Navy, less'n it was 'cos you was on the kid-lay." He chuckled as Chase daubed Dyer over with a streak of pitch. "Now there's a bit o' queer-fun!"

It was surprising how easy it had been to fall back into speaking the cant. What was even better, of course, was the expressions on the faces of Oxley and Cob Chase.

He shrugged. "Us use the futtock shrouds easy enough, though I never bin out on the yard. Dunno if Ol' Tom has, neever."

His supposition was backed up by a shrug from Oxley.

Dyer smirked. "I volunteered, like. Anyways. There's a firs' time fer everythin', ain't there? You two's jus' gotta do what me an' Cob says."

The other seaman nodded. He was making good progress with the brush; the freshly-painted length of footrope was growing, steadily taking over the mast platform as Chase snaked it carefully back and forth so it would not stick to itself.

"I reckon it'll be fine if you both was to stick nearer the mast," he said. "Easier piece of the work happens there."

Volunteered, my arse, Terry thought to himself. Chicken was probably just as much a volunteer as Terry himself. Which was to say, not at all - volunteer or get stabbed with a Bridport dagger, most likely.

"Aright," he said, looking across at the yard with some misgivings. It was probably like going aloft for the first time, and he'd survived that well enough, hadn't he?

"I'll go out on the yard afore you, you want, mate," Oxley offered, noticing Terry's wary look. Oxley had misgivings of his own, but he was the taller of the two so it was more fair - and young though they both were, they knew enough not to lark around too much up here.

He looked across at Chicken. "Am I gonna be all right with me shoes on, though?" he asked. He'd take them off if he had to, of course - no sense in making things even more risky than they already were. And he hoped that Sergeant Quinn wouldn't have too much out of his hide if he did get pitch on his trousers. Luckily they weren't his best pair, at least.

"Best if they was off," said Chase, glancing up from his work. "Don't need you slippin' off the horse on your first time out, do we?"

Dyer shook his head and gave a sharp experimental tug to the splice he'd just finished. "This'll hold. Ain't you finished with that yet?"

No, they didn't. Oxley promptly dropped to sit on the planking of the top so he could unbutton his gaiters and pull his shoes off. He wriggled his bare toes and grinned, before putting his shoes together, with his gaiters neatly folded on top of them, making sure that they would be out of the way and wouldn't fall to the deck below. "There. Now what?"