After the Battle

It was at times like this that Crozier felt most alone. He wished above all other things that he had a fellow surgeon, an equal, who could share the burden and the pain of responsibility. Of course the men had been wounded in battle. Green had died before he ever reached the orlop. But for those who died while in his care, even if their cases were hopeless before they reached him, Crozier felt such a burden, regrets, doubts. His was the last hand to grasp at life.

But he realized of course that he was not alone. There was someone close by who would understand exactly. There was a French surgeon. Mister Bush had said he would allow the French wounded to be treated in the Victorieuse's sick bay. Crozier determined that as soon as the service was over, he would pay his counterpart a visit. He realized that his mind was wandering now, but he allowed it. He must not dwell overmuch on death. Oh, that way madness lies.

Three more bodies that were to join the rest. A splash of the first, A slide and splash of the second, and at last it was the last of the bodies that departed and left their friends behind forever.

De Guarde observed the men to his side , the marines across and even the midshipmen, as few as they now had on Terpsy. Mr. Fletcher was a brave boy and though his eyes were moist he did not cry. Not yet, under the scrunity of so many men. Dunnock was his good friend and a boy that he learnt many a thing on that ship. He was also the one who had calmed him that fateful day as many others. He was a good, a very good friend who was now lost, gone. The boy held back tears, even if the struggle was great. He'd noticed that there was another midshipman amis, but that paled in the realisation that Dunnock was dead. Lost to injuries and he wasn't even there to see him, before he passed.

It was a clean and rather beautiful service. Peter watched the Captain - he had a clear voice - raised above the noises of the ship, it still retained its clarity. As the names of each of the dead was called, a special stillness seemed to lie on the members - when Dunnock's body slipped from the board, to slide into the sea with a splash, the remaining midshipmen swallowed. Peter squared his shoulders, and glanced down at Fletcher. The boy was doing well - he had fought too, which was more than Peter had done - defending yourself didn't count, he decided.

Across the space his eyes met those of de Guarde. There was no sadness in them for the loss of Dunnock, only a sort of contempt and self-pity, and that 'Why is everyone against me?' expression... That had worked on the Marine, but ...

Peter gave Fletcher a quick pat, and Chandos, on the other side, did the same. Then Chandos looked down at them both. "He's my problem," he said, "Mine, and the lieutenants' and the Captain's. Don't have any more to do with him than is absolutely necessary."

"How long will it be for?" Fletcher asked, with a nervous glance. "I wouldn't like to do it, and I ... I think the men like me..."

Chandos grinned: "Of course they do - what have you done to make them dislike you?" He sniffed. "Mr George says there's no time limit to it - when de Guarde convinces them he's better, he'll be made up again. Damn it. He'll play the little angel, and someone will tell the Captain that, oh, yes, he understands, and he'll be back in the berth before I've had time to... So watch your step, boys."

Peter paled. And stared across into de Guarde's eyes.

Mathew sensed there were eyes watching him from the direction of the midshipmen and when he lifted his own he saw and confirmed it. Still, his eyes did not express those feelings of threat or warning, nor of promise and ill meaning. Instead if was solely genuine yerning to be a midshipman again, and near jealousy of the boys that still were. He'd quickly lowered his gaze.

Though they thought he would return to being a good midshipman soon, or a bad one, he hadn't had such high hopes.

In truth he had wished for it yes, but expected neither to happen. The captain decided and he doubted that without the support of his lieutenants, he would change his mind. And Leat was a firm standing man who wouldn't sway to a little bit of pretence. He remembered how he had read through him. George would do so neither. And, there was of course the thoughts that he really didn't believe that the officers would busy their minds with a midshipman fallen from grace. Watch him? Maybe for a few days, but think of his return, they will just find this to be a lot better for the whole ship. So while the midshipmen held despair in thinking he would return, he felt quite the opposite would happen.

And his loathing about his present station made it hard to try and show he could do better, or that he would pretend to change. His cheeks turned red, and it was at that time that they could see shame on the boy's face.

He knew that Yates disliked him, Fletcher must've been afraid of him and Chandos.. well, that was one man who would not be afraid. Not the eldest of midshipmen, who knew how to deal with others and who was, as all three, now superior to him.

He sighed. He looked up again and saw young Yates and his pale skin and he couldn't bring himself to smirk. What with it, when the last to laugh would be that boy. He looked instead to where young Dunnock disappeared. Poor midshipman who'd lost an arm, and his face was shown before his eyes, the pale features of deathly complextion returning so that he shut them tight. His frown deepened as he looked to the floor.

Mr George had said he should see Dr Crozier, but no sooner was the service over than the doctor had taken one of the ship's boats across to the Victorieuse. It was not his arm that troubled him, Peter thought, and settled it more comfortably in the sling. It was everything but the arm... And there was no one to whom he could unburden himself, who would not be tempted to act on what he said, or capitalize on it.

But for the moment there was enough to do, so he went back to the foc'sle, as the men returned to work on the damaged ropes.

In passing Mr. Yates he silently saluted him. And then he walked back to where he had left his rope unfinished and set himself down. He touched his temple briefly then turned to pick the rope, place it across his lap, and start tucking the threads in.

He saw the troubled face on the middie's face andat first considered it being just a sad face at the friend he had lost. It wouldn't be quite unlogical that it was, after all. But it wasn't for him to consider it. If Yates wished to worry and look bitter, then by all means he was still a midshipman and should have been grateful for it. Atleast that's what Mathew thought.

He needed to speak to Mister Yates as soon as he could, to set his mind at rest. Or at least, to find out whether the lad was going to report him. But the midshipman turned away, heading for the foc'sle, and there were too many men around. Maybe when he was off-duty... which, if Corporal Johnson remembered his threat to him, wouldn't be for some time.

It was just a complete mess, that's what it was, he thought with a sigh.

He turned to head aft to resume his post by the door of the Captain's cabin.

"Chase. We'um almost done." He looked at the ropes, there indeed were fewer to be spliced, while the good ropes were now in abundance. he rubbed his hands together and touched his fingers. He was hungry and thirsty and dreaded the moment that he would have to eat with the sailors down below. He was annoyed at the work that he just had to do and already forgetting the honour he was given to sew young Dunnock up. Perhaps the midshipman wouldn't have been as happy if he knew.

He was also frustrated as he had no sailors stepping out of his way and instead had had to go twice around one and felt that another two had been standing in his way rather purposefully. Of course, it could've just been his mind, thinking that. And lastly, his bum ached and he had been trying to sit somehow and wasn't able, and once he'd forgotten about the pain and sat, he was cursing his way up into a kneeling possition. Which in turn had made his knees ache , lying against the hard floors, and again his bitterness increased and though he might've come into a conclusion of one as a spoiled brat, he was thinking he had all the right to feel like complaining.

This really wasn't a middie's life, even if the latter's wasn't all that glamourous either.

Well that was certainly something one never got used to, thought here was a certain comfort in repitition, which he took refuge in. And, as always, it was back to work. Not that he minded, and there were certainly worse things to be doing, but the feeling that de Guarde was going to be a lot of trouble wouldn't go away, and didn't feel at all...wrong.

Still. There was always the hope that they'd work something out and John wouldn't forever just be 'the man who cut himself to get out of work'. Not that he -had-.
Comfortably he squatted down again. "At this rate we'll be off here afore grubs up." he affirmed, smiling ecouragingly at de Guarde.

Westdale wasn't met with the kindest look in turn. The boy instead planted his eyes firmly on his rope, pulling at it to test its firmness. He did speak however, though his tone wasn't warm: "..How is your finger, Westdale?"

He tugged at the rope again, yet hadn't replaced it with a new one. Just tugged and tested, more times than was needed.

Westdale bit his lip. It was his thumb, fer crying out loud. He'd gone on about it enough!

"Why, it stopped bleeding soon enough- could be far worse off, ye know" He nodded to the sea below, seeing the bodies slip down.

He tried another course of friendship, wondering what he was supposed to say to someone obviously not doing work at the moment. "It's a nice tight rope ye made there, ye know. Good and proper." he tried to keep his tone as friendly and sincere as possible, but his shoulders were tense, scar tissue bucnhed up against his neck.

"Aye.. it is." He pulled at it again and looked at Westdale." Perhaps. " He paused, left it in his lap and glanced at the other sailor.

"Didn't get it reopened, 'ave ye?" He asked, still not moving to take the next rope. "bes' be careful now." Which had two meanings, one a wanring that Westdale ought not to try that again, and another more true, that he indeed should be careful not to injure himself.

John shrugged. "Cheers, I won't." The first meaning was easy to be addressed, thus, and the second..well, he hadn't been intending to do anything stupid anyway. He'd just try not to do anything else, either, now.

He was working steadily still, and looked up, with a smile. It was tempting now to ask a question, but he just contented himself with returning to the rope, fearful anything he said turned out to be seen as wrong.

The youth observed Westdale. The man was afraid, or atleast that was the feeling that the young sailor was getting, which did make him smile some, even if he wasn't sure of what use it could be.

He leaned over his rope but as he worked it was more a pretence of doing so, instead of an actual effort. He'd thought he had done enough, and his hands needed rest, which the burial of their dead did not offer for long enough. Neither was he interested in hurrying, feeling the task still as below him as earlier.

JOhn took a deep breath, looking at the lad opposite him not doing the work with as much enthusiasm as would be called for.
"err... de Guarde, ye'll find it a better product if ye pull them tighter, thusly."

He gave a completely exaggerated pull, then allowed the fibres to relax slightly, not wanting to get them overly tight, to breaking point. "Just like CHase was doing, remember?"
The frustrating thing- he knew de gUarde could do this. He didn't want to get in trouble for someone thinking it wasn't important work.

"I pull them as much as I can." Well, it was true that the boy had hardly the amount of strength an adult would, and his arms were not as trained for the hardships as that of the sailors who had done more physical work in a day than many a man in a week.

He still fussed over the one rope, and though from a glance he might've looked as if he was indeed doing his work, under a closer and longer observation it would have been clear, he'd not moved from that rope already a while.

"You test it then." He finally muttered and held the rope out to Westdale.

Testing a rope that had been tested? or doing the rope he wouldn't do? John took it reluctantly and looked it over. "This bits fine...good work." he grinned up at the lad, "but here, ye've not been pulling it quite right, see?"

He undid a bit and redid it himself, talking him through it again, a monotonous drone of words. "THere. Neatly done, wouldn't ye say?"

(ooc- and sorry. Music takes over the rest of the next two days. So, I shall have to say goodbye for a while now. Be good- don't kill westdale, and don't give Sinclair a heart attack, will ye noo?)

He wasn't happy to being critisized about his work and felt that a sailor shouldn't have even dared, not seeing that Westdale's effort was not to tell him what he did wrong for the sake of it, but rather to tell him so that he could do better.

His feelings did mirror on his face and he took the rope back, and tested it again as if hoping that it would tear appart and thus proove that the sailor hadn't done a fair good job. Of course, it didn't.

"...yes.." He placed the rope carelessly with the others and picked another that needed splicing and hefted it closer to himself. His efforts were, slower again. Not because he couldn't, but because he did not wish to. Atleast what he did, he followed some of the sailor's instructions.

(OOC - bye bye! And be well!)

Chandos watched de Guarde wasting time, and gritted his teeth. It was the boy's first day, and decency said that some allowance should be made for that, to allow for the total shock to work through. But he thought that he understood him, and de Guarde himself had not shown decent restraint, or even common sense, in dealing with the men. The men around him, who had fought a battle today, were working harder.

"De Guarde," he said, raising his voice. "You are idling. Get on with your work."

He had a moment or two... or thought he did.

Mister Yates had hurried for'rard, which meant he'd have to run aft to be in place, but that was neither here nor there. He needed to talk to the lad, ask him not to report his lapse of attention earlier.

"Sir! Mister Yates, sir." He waited till the lad turned before coming to attention and saluting. "Can I have a word with you, quiet-like, please, sir?"

Peter turned, and faced the Marine, returning his salute. "What is it, Private?" he said. A quiet word? This was not something he wanted to shout about. He stepped to the side, out of the way of men still moving to their work.

"I... I... Sir, please... I don't... Please don't report me for slackin' earlier, sir. I know I should have bin standin' outside, sir, only he was upset an' I didn't know what else to do, sir." He trailed off, feeling miserable. The plea would probably just encourage the lad to report him, and then he'd be in all sorts of trouble with Lieutenant Bush.

The boy stiffened, his hands pousing at the ropes for a moment. He looked to Mr. Chandos. For a moment there was a look of defiance which at last turned into submission and obedience. He looked back to the rope, and his work with it quickened some, though the sour look on his face remained.

Still partly in shock and still angry and frustrated, the boy was hardly acting with most sense. Yet atleast he had not thrown a fit, nor did anything as excessive. Not that his slow work was to be excused, it was only an excuse he might have made.

Peter stared at him, the red blood flowing into his face, and then draining, leaving him as pale as he had been when he had first broken his arm. "Slacking," he whispered. "He ought to have been upset, Private - that surely is the whole point of punishment. You did not see him cuddling Chase to make up for the topman being upset at being flogged, did you? No, he carried on bullying and threatening him and making his and everyone else's life a misery. He terrified Mr Fletcher, who will be a decent boy when he grows up a bit - why? So he could have his grog ration, because he is a sot. He tried to threaten me, for the same reason. But Chase he just bullied out of nastiness. What does he want from you, Thompson? Your grog ration? Keys to the spirit store?" His voice was rising in level and pitch, and he brought it down, with a visible effort.

"But I won't report you to the Captain. Because you were kind to me, when I fell. And I don't want to see you..." He swallowed. "Now, we are short handed. And I have my duty to perform. Thank you, Private."

He hadn't realised De Guarde had sunk so low as to threaten Mister Fletcher... though maybe he should have seen it.

And Chase had his friends, anyway. De Guarde had... nobody.

"Thank you, sir," he said numbly, and managed another salute before turning to head aft to resume his duty.

Why did De Guarde want his grog ration? It had made sense to him at the time: that was how things were paid for below decks, after all. That, or baccy, and he didn't think the lad would appreciate the offer of a chew of baccy as payment, somehow. He would have to think real hard about that letter... Well, it had waited long enough. Another few days, or a week, or whatever, wouldn't hurt.