The Morning After - day

"I know that." John acknowledged. "I'm not a bairn"
adopting a more relaxed look he settled in for what he hoped would prove a profitable conversation, in the long run at least.
"D'ye know whats heppening down there with Mr. de Guarde? what's he done this time?"
that was a fairly simple question, John thought, just right to set the mood of the talk.

"Well, I dunno who said what, but he started argufyin' with Corporal Johnson over summat. And he got so worked up and aireated that he hit him. Slapped him hard, right across the face."

He still couldn't believe it. Nor could he believe the Corporal had merely seized him byt the collar and called for Mister Leat. Must've been taken completely by surprise, not to have done anything worse.

"So he's gettin' to meet the gunner's daughter. And won't he yell when Johnson lays into him."

John smiled slightly. "Slapped him, did he? Well know that's a story and a half. I was wonderin' more what they were saying. He seems awfully hung up on honour and duty and such, don't he? Maybe he don't have much of it himself."
John laughed, probably unkindly, at his little comment. "He got 12, did he? Pleased I'm not him now." He squitched his shoulders instinctively. "Wouldn't mind seeing that meself. Guess I'm not the only one, either." he added, glancing at Thompson.

"You ain't the only one. Didn't really hear what they were sayin', though he said some disgraceful things about the Corps, just afore lashin' out at the Corporal." He grinned. "I reckon half the crew'll want to see it, and the other half will when they find out about it. And if it don't improve Corporal's temper, best tell your mates to stay out of his way today."

(OOC - 'fraid it's half three in the morning here, and I'm falling asleep. I'll see you later...)

(OOC: thats alright. you're allowed to fall asleep I guees.)

John grinned "Insulted the Corps, did he?" and swallowed the many many comments he could have made about the deservingness of the insults. They weren't a bad lot really, he figured. Just men doing their duty.
"thanks for the tip. I'll be getting out of his way sharpish, you just watch. Don't want another run in after de Guardes one."

He walked slowly and fairly composed between the two men, both much taller than himself. For the first time the darker quarters of below felt far from welcoming him compared to the harsh light from above. He stopped as both men did, looking to the Lieutenant for further instructions. He knew what was about to happen, he knew the process well. Still he was in no hurry to complete nor to start it. His hands held the sides of his coat, gently tugging at the cloth. Though he had been a quivering mess earlier, he looked rather resigned now, but no longer asking, nor pleading.

He took a small breath in and exhaled it gently, glancing first to the corporal and then to the man he had chosen as second. He hoped the word would not spread, as childish a hope that would be, and that none of the others would know, neither on time of the punishment, nor later. His hands moved to hold onto his breeches and again he turned towards the Lieutenant. He had finally pushed too far. He regretted the slap, but only because it got him in trouble. He surely would have done more than slapping that man if he could get away with it.

The doctor was late in arriving, having been busy in the dispensary when the summons had reached him to attend the caning of one of the boys. He was startled to see De Guarde between the marines. He wanted to ask for the whole explanation, but that could wait. "You sent for me, Mister Leat?"

"Yes, doctor. If you would please stand in attendance, Mister De Guarde is about to receive a dozen from Johnson."

The lieutenant stood stiffly with his hands behind his back, his face voice of any feeling, and indicated the cannon which was to be used.

"Lower your breeches, Mister De Guarde."

The boy flushed. He bit his lip again and approached the indicated cannon.

His hands worked to unbutton his breeches and ease them across his hips. He felt ashamed, avoiding the doctor's gaze and that of Johnson and of Leat. The worst news was that it was the man he shamed and insulted, that was now to deliver punishment. He felt dread twist at his heart while the white fabric was lowered. His cheeks were burning as he faced the cannon, looking anything but comfortable bared like that. He hadn't wanted to show his bottom, not to Dr. Crozier before when he was trembling in the cold, nor Yates who had been present at the time. Nor to anyone since his service aboard his former ship.

It was because of what snaked its way across the soft flesh. Thin pale marks that marred its smoothness. Some darker some lighter, as if aged in time, but in all there were a good plenty. Some must have been delievered in the small time - perhaps few days - appart.

He felt the draft of cool air moving to the cannon slowly. He waited for the next order, wishing that it was all over then or that he could disappear in the depths of the ship, when a different face could take his place. It wasn't the punishment itself that had him despair so, but the humiliation he felt.

De Guarde's rear was towards Johnson and Higgins on the other side of the cannon, and so Leat did not see the thin scars that criss-crossed the boy's pale flesh. He looked across to Dr. Crozier.

"If you will take you post, doctor. Corporal, you may begin."

The cane felt odd in Johnson's hand, as if he'd never wielded it before. In truth, there had only been one occasion before this when he had caned a midshipman. That had been years ago.

"Aye sir," the corporal said and raised his arm. Some of his anger had dwindled, but not enough to make him care to give De Guarde anything less than a good hiding. One, he thought as the first blow was struck.


OOC - Off to bed, at last. See y'all again in the wee hours, I'm sure!

He braced himself for the blow. The cold surface of the gun felt unpleasant to his skin, his hands curled around it nervously. He shut his eyes tightly when Johnson answered to the lieutenant. Breathing in sharply, he was barely able to hold a sound in when the cane came down on him. The cane left but the pain blossomed into a burning sensation and he felt himself shift, just slightly against the gun. He released a shaky breath. One.. only eleven more to go.

The middies have stood in line bit further back. They've come silently and looked more confused at first as to what was going on. Chandos stood first and to his side the middies passed in seniority - age -, the very last being Fletcher.

Peter had heard that this was the proper punishment for a midshipman, but in his short time in the Terpsichore it had seemed unlikely that it would ever be used. His fellows were all pleasant, sensible, and if sometimes slightly over-excitable, not to the extent that they should expect to be punished for it. And then de Guarde had arrived, and the enitre mood of the ship had changed. The flogging had been terrible, and so, if he was honest, had the dinner been, with the constant feeling that the other boy would expose himself and all of them to disgust. The thought that someone had tried to rid them of this burden, that there was a conspiracy on the lower deck... That was unthinkable. And now - had de Guarde lost all sense? Raging around threatening seamen and striking a corporal of the Marines? Did he seek this punishment for himself, if he could not see others punished? Were the marks Peter had seen the signs that de Guarde was irredeemably bad, or the signs that a basically decent boy had been brutalized by his previous ship? Peter did not know, and until he knew, he could not decide how to respond to de Guarde. Distance seemed the only safe option, and at least he was not on the same watch as him. To his side, he heard Fletcher draw in his breath sharply as the cane bit down.

Two

Where the two strikes landed the skin turned red, an imprint of the cane evident and growing more so. De Guarde grit his teeth.

Three.


Mr. Kinsella watched with little emotion, perhaps believing that justice was served, Mr. Chandos too had held perhaps the mildest interest to the caning, wondering which of the sins the boy committed this time. Young Fletcher felt queasy though he struggled not to show. The sight made him most uncomfortable and he jumped at the third strike as if it had been he, who was stricken.

Mr. Dunnock shook his head lightly and glanced briefly to Yates. A silent exchange of looks, willing for conversation but knowing that this was the least proper moment to do so.

Master De Guarde's breath was unsteady, though he had managed so far to keep himself from sounding the discomfort and the pain that he was in. His lips were thin, and pale with pressure, a small bit of sweat running down his temple. The corporal was certainly not sparing him any, and he loathed the moment for the man to have such an opportunity. Such a vile opportunity to make even! Damn him!

Four.

Johnson drew the cane back again, striving to keep his expression completely blank. He was enjoying this, to a degree, but the feeling that the entire affair should not be happening at all was dancing around in the back of his mind. It was probably just as well.

The cane came down again. Five.

Part of the skin gave under the cane which had hit the spot earlier affected, and a some blood was seen coming from the cut. The boy bit down a whimper willing himself with all his might that he would not utter a sound even when he wanted to cry. His breathing had been quiet and sometimes laboured, as he struggled to ease himself against the pain, which grew with each strike of the stiff cane.

Six.

Half a dozen now. He felt his knees weak and had to scold himself then. You've been through that before. Up with you, damn you. You can take six bloody more without a flinch! Don't be a wimp.. cursed boy. A dozen is nothing. Do you hear? NOTHING. You're alright there! Just a dozen, n' it has been some time since. See. Damn you if you dare to cry out. No way I shall. No.. let that man do what he will, he won't make me. I won't give him that pleasure. Let him try as he might, I'll show him what I think of it. Wimpy strikes of a grandmother. That's it! 's nothing more. Just that.

The inner dialogue helped with the slight distraction, and had the boy take on a stubborn, stiff look. Lips pursed together tighter, the boyish muscles of his arms, now tensing.

He craned his neck briefly to see the man that stood behind him. He wasn't quite sure if he wanted to see what the look on the Corporal's face had been or if his movement had been done without much thought.

Fletcher turned paler and struggled not to cover his eyes. This is what a caning was? He swore he would never never never never never do anything to anger his captain. Never, never! And some more nevers. This looked awful! This must've felt awful. And Johnson was a big scary man too.

There was blood on the boy's rump now. Johnson's brow creased in instinctive disgust. Halfway done with it. Would this do anything to teach the boy? By now, of course, he was swinging the cane with all his strength.

Seven. The cane widened the thin welt and drew forth a little more blood. Johnson found himself hoping that the middie was realising what it had to have been like for Chase, even in some small part. The corporal set his jaw to keep from showing any expression and raised his arm again.

Eight.

The sting was worse now, that the flesh had been in part opened, and the boy had to bite down on his lip hard for a moment, when the urge to yelp and grunt out in pain came over him. More blood was drawn, the force of the strike breaking the skin further. A full force strike, each one of them, and to think that Johnson was not of the weakest men.

At the Eight the boy felt his knees buckle somewhat, and blood rushed to his cheeks.

Don't move an inch. Hold on for those blasted few. He wants to see you cry, 's why he is channeling his strikes right there where it hurts most! Don't you bloody let him feel the satisfaction.

It was easier thought than done.

Nine.

A silent cry he made. Lips parting but without the sound leaving them.

Again the blood was drawn, and little Fletcher looked positively horrified. Chandos looked on, Dunnock slightly unsettled. Kinsella thinking that this would certainly take some time for the boy to consider. It would hurt good well to sit now too. But the damned boy deserved it for soiling the reputation of the midshipmen here.

Behind Johnson, Higgins watched the punishment expressionlessly. Inside however, the Marine was quite alive with thoughts and emotions. He felt no pity for the unlucky midshipman now bent over the cannon, even though Higgins knew nothing at all of the events which had brought them all here. He didn't always think well of Johnson but the man was a corporal and there were times, like now, when he was plenty happy to have Johnson around. He, at least, could provide some bit of force where the officers wouldn't.

Ten. There was a trickle of sweat rolling slowly down over his temple and his arm was beginning to get heavy. Only two more strokes left. De Guarde's backside was looking almost as red as Johnson's coat, but it would take a good many more blows for it to be as flayed as a man's back after twelve lashes from the cat. If only. Another welt had opened up and Johnson shifted his attention to that one now.

Eleven. The corporal felt his temper flare up again. What would it take for this scene to repeat again? Or more appropriately, how long would it be?

Peter had looked away when blood was drawn, towards the Lieutenant. He could stop this, decide that the lesson had be learned. But he made no move, and the blows continued, striking the same spot. Ten.

He was amazed at how silent de Guarde was. He knew he would not have managed to restrain all sound, even if he would not have screamed or begged for mercy. But perhaps that was the way de Guarde had survived what had been done to him. Peter felt the next stroke, and bit back his own sympathetic gasp.

Eleven.

Eleven.
He bit down a sob. It had near escaped him.

Twelve.

Even harder this time. It felt as if all strength left in the corporal was put into that strike. And the aim had been for the skin most tender and most hurt and open. Twice before, he had near made a sound, drawing out a silent cry instead.

His breath had been laboured and harsh, his chest pressed against the cannon, rose and fell with the restriction. Still he could finally find time with the last of the dozen ended, to try and relax, though the pain seemed instead to delight in remaining. The lieutenant hadn't stopped the caning, though he knew he wouldn't. What for would he halt it? Not for the guilty.

The last strikes felt worst. The corporal had known where to hit, had known his strength and it took the toll at the very last one of them. He didn't move from the cannon yet and instead trusted himself only to shift, so slightly and tenderly as he could.

He felt something warm at his eyes and knew they were tears so, hastly he reached to them and wiped them clean and dry before another could see them. Just like the other times, bear it.. just like then. - he told himself. Never to slap a corporal again, no. He hated him so much, so much that should he have had the chance, he would have ended that man's life. Ended it with a delight greater than that of achieving a command. But he would not slap him again. He feared to. It hurt too much to do so.

Kinsella nodded and to his side Chandos relaxed. None of the midshipmen enjoyed the sight as much even if it had been justified. The most affected was young Fletcher, who still looked as white as chalk and he, though already the kindest and most eager a soul, would be certain never to displease the captain. Never, not when this was what could happen.

It was done. Johnson lowered the cane, satisfied with his work. It would be a good while before the middie was able to sit properly and well might he remember the reason for it!

"Permission to recover, sir?" He asked, directing the question to Mister Leat. Somebody would have to carry De Guarde to the sick berth, after all.

"Granted."

Leat had watched De Guarde's struggle to bear the beating and keep silent. The boy was certainly no coward or weak, and knew how to take a beating - perhaps too well? If Captain Adams had been overly fond of the lash for his men, then perhaps such sentiments had extended to the caning of the Midshipmen? It was not, however, a subject to speculate on fully now; the punishment was over and De Guarde needed treatment.

"I release Mister De Guardeinto you care, doctor," he said to Crozier, his face and voice as expressionless as before.

He felt glad that it was over and listened barely to what the others were saying. he knew what would happen now, and as it was necessary it would offer that much relief from his discomfort. But it was over, and that was what mattered. And he would have noone to speak of it again.
Well, he would hope, but he reckoned that though the lieutenant would remain silent, others would not. A shaky breath was heard as the boy struggled to get more upright. His breeches still rested low on his person and he had the urge to refasten them as quick as he was able. But he did not. Hurrying in such way now would disturb the flesh which was already throbbing painfully with the effects of the harsh cane against it. He licked his lips and let out another shaky breath, steeling himself against the hurt. Allowing nothing but a blank expression on his face, void of emotion that bubbled beneath, he looked behind him now. He saw the two men and further there the middies, and the doctor and lieutenant.

He forced a smile to his lips at the sight of young Fletcher. See boy, this was discipline allright. But.. it was necessary. Necessary for he had done something wrong. He loathed it, hated the fact that the corporal escaped scot free, but didn't deny that his own was fair justified. He may have not liked taking it, even less from the corporal, but it was so. Nothing to say about it.

He did not flinch at the emotionless face and tone of the lieutenant. It was better than if he would smile or sneer. Much better. He closed his eyes again. Boy it hurt. No matter how many times, it always hurt afresh, the same.

At Leat's word, Johnson stepped back and waited. He needed only the sawbones' say-so in order to give his own orders. Half a step behind him, Higgins waited as well, the faintest hint of boredom showing on his boyish face. The other midshipmen were still there too. It seemed everyone was waiting on the sawbones to speak.