Writing home; 7th May

"Thanks. F'r teachin me, like." He looked down at the piece of paper. The letters were a bit wonky, which was only to be expected after all. But it was the first time in the twenty-six years of his life that he'd ever written his own name, and he could find no words to adequately say what it meant.

He pulled the letter from his shirt and unfolded it, careful to hold it tight to prevent it blowing away.

"You think... you think I c'n sign this'n, then?" he said.

He looked at the letter, then at the words that the marine wrote and nodded with confidence laid in the hands of that man." Certainly." He answered. "n' yer mom' will be impressed. " He added, knowing that as George didn't know how to write, so his mother didn't. But to know her son was learning things, perhaps it would make her more proud.

"Jus' concentrate to write as yer did now. n' don't ferget ter take t' ink..but as ye've seen, not too much n' not too lil' is right." He hadn't known when the deal which would have brought him a tot of drink turned into a lesson on how to write one's name. And more so, how he had not asked nothing in return, yet taught without much more but the enjoyment of doing so. That wasn't right. But, he could let it slide, blame the shock for it and George. The persistant marine who spent time with him when asked and asked nothing much in return.

"Would you... just write, that I signed it, me own self?" he asked, passing the letter and the quill to the lad. "An' then, I c'n write me name to it."

He'd tried to teach the lad, just by being himself and talking about what he knew, and trying to show him that things didn't have to be the way they were aboard Confidence or whatever she was called.

And he'd never asked for anything in return. And now... He ran a finger over his name, on the sheet of paper in front of him. He'd never expected to be able to write his name.

"Thanks," he said softly. He felt a little choked, but wouldn't admit it.

He took the quill carefully from George's hand and wrote under it as the marine asked. He smiled and held the quill back to him. "There, ye've just ter sign it. 's all there is now. Right here, below wot' I added."

It must've meant a lot to the marine. How glad he looked and how many times he had said thanks, if that was an indication then he was right. It meant a very great deal to him. He smiled warmly, and felt embarrassed to sense such gratitude, to be on the recieving end of it. And he knew it wasn't spite or a lie, or a pretense but genuienly meant.

"'s' alright. George." How strange it was to say his name, and yet he felt at ease with it. A friend, he asked him to write. He looked at the marine again. He'd felt alone and lost on Terpsy, he'd felt the solitude on Confidence, where there weren't any friends. And sometimes at home, but at that instant he felt like he had a friend, someone to fall back to and talk with when things went the wrong way, or even when they didn't. "Wos'..a nice thing fer me too." He added.

He took the sheet back, and dipped the pen as de Guarde had, carefully writing his name, trying to keep it neat and make all the letters the same size, apart from the one at the beginning of each word. He held it in the sun for a moment to let it dry, before folding it up again to put it back in his shirt, where it would be safe until he could send it on its way home.

"Have you ever... learned anyone to write afore?" he asked curiously, and ran his finger over the second attempt on the other sheet of paper, slightly disbelieving that he'd written that himself.

Mathew shook his head. "No. Yer t' firs' I tried.. or did. Because yer know how ter write yer name now." He plugged his ink bottle again and wiped clean the quill so that none of the ink would dry on it.

"Ye'um take that paper too. 's all written over now, n' yer need to remember how to write it. 's easy ter forget n' with t' letter sent off, you won't be able ter see back, no?" He enjoyed the warm sun that cast its rays onto the deck. "So take it, yer firs' writtin' it is anyho'!"

"Thanks," he said and folded it up to put it with his letter. "When I send me letter off, I'll have to check it's the one with the nice writin' on it, or it won't get anywheres, will it?" He grinned, feeling prouder of writing his own name than he could recall feeling about anything else recently.

"Will you.. will you mebbe, learn me some more, later on? Please?"

He studied George a moment, deciding if he would do it, could do it. Of course for that he might need his tablet that he had locked away in his chest, or more paper. A good deal more than what he had here. Should he teach the man. He found himself nodding. "Alright." He mouth said, while his mind was still thinking on it.

"I'll have yer learn summat more." This time his mind and his tongue were of one 'mind'. "Don't ferget to send of t' right letter. Even if by a miracle t' other could reach t' right person.. I don' think they'd understand much why someone's name was written all over it." He stretched out his legs and arms and looked a moment quite like miss Emily taking to sunbathing on deck. "So's you bring me summat to do too. Wot' ye can, as bein' wot' ye are. N' don' worry it not bein' a sailor's thing..I'll have plenty too much o' that.... I think... in t' next days."

"Y'can help me clean me kit, then," Thompson said, sounding a little amused. "I'll find you summat you c'n do, anyway. Or we c'n talk, like we've bin doin' since, well, since almost the first time we seen each other."

He would have to find Cob and ask about a skylarking. And he couldn't tell de Guarde that he was doing well and learning, however slowly, what it meant to be a Terpsy. At least, he thought that if he did, it would spoil the mood between them. He certainly seemed closer to being a Terpsy, properly, than Thompson had ever known.

"I'll make sure to send the right one off. Wouldn't want Mum to wonder why she'd got a piece of paper with nothin' on it but me name, an' that not written too good," he said finally, smiling.

"Clean yer kit?" He played at being struck in shock, for the next moment he had looked near eager to do so." Ter learn how ter do it.. t' would be summat to do, n' talk we can too." Which they could, both busy with their own thing. And how long had they talked, he blinked and found just how familiar it could feel, and natural with such a short time that it happened.

And to think that the redcoat was something men were not too keen on seeing, not at all comfortable to be about. The enforcer of law, the sentry of the damned among other things. Many times they would forget that the marines were also, the extra weight to be thrown about when additional muscle was needed.

"Written well, George. N' its' been yer first try.. what more could yer be asked ter do than how you wrote it?" He smiled. " Well, per'aps yer wanted ter learn in ye drill sort o' way? Shoutin' n' shoutin' till yer ears fall?" He laughed softly and merrily, though quickly making it less loud. He did not wish to draw the attention of any of the sailors or officers, be it clad in red or blue.

"Shoutin's good on a parade ground, or out here, with a wind, when y'need to be heard in the open, an' you ain't so close to folks. But I don't think shoutin' would work when you need to be careful not to spill the ink, or break the quill. Makes you jump to it, shoutin' does."

It was probably going to be four bells soon, he thought, and time for 'Up spirits' and the change of watch.

"No. Don't want ter have that happen. " He looked as attentive to the time. "t' quill's not ter be broken.. n' there's jus' so much ink I have. No more." He looked to the masts again and the sails. Undisturbed by the midshipmen, left alone by the sailors and lieutenants, and even other marines. It was a bit of heaven to be resting like that. Especially when his muscles still ached, and he'd learned that he had a few in places he'd never imagined to have.

"Don't want to use up all your ink, Mathew," Thompson said, still feeling a little shy at using the lad's name. Maybe he could get a pencil or something from the purser? Or, failing that, maybe Sergeant Quinn could help? He always had something stashed away somewhere.

"Think I might be goin' on duty again meself," he said, instead, hoping for something a bit more interesting than standing sentry on the spirit room this time.

"Now 'ready? Or later ye mean?" He shrugged his shoulders lightly. Thompson was paying for ink with his drink. The play of words and letters amused the boy for a moment before he slowly moved to sit, or do as close to sitting as he could.

" Later goin' t' ..duty meself.. Hope it isn' anythin' like earlier!"

"At four bells, start of the second dog-watch, I mean. Though it'll be after 'Up spirits'. I ain't forgotten."

And again the picture of Yates' troubled expression came to mind. He was usually such a cheerful boy, Mister Yates, and Thompson wasn't quite sure what, if anything, he'd done to upset him. Though he had tried to speak with him, but he didn't think it had really helped much, and he didn't know what else he could do.

"You'll get used to it," he said, in response to de Guarde's statement. "I know it ain't what you'm used to, but you'll get used to it, though it might take a bit of time. We all had to get used to doin' things that, well, that made you ache in places you din't know you could ache. An' at least you don't have someone like Sar'nt Sweetman to keep you all-on doin' it at all hours of the day."

The bosun's mates might like wielding their starters, but they never kept on thrashing you, which was something to be thankful for.

"Up Spirits." The boy couldn't help himself when he did smile very fondly. He hadn't though of reminding the marine about it any more. The secret was safe, and Yates could do nothing to find out about it. Even less he could now do to stop it. What he did not know, he would not care about.

"Think ye were a right brave kin' 'o' man to last that man. N' still be here, n' lookin' as fresh as a flower in spring."

(and now this middie go sleep.. *curls up in hammock* Good night!!)

"You should've seen me when I went aboard me first ship. Was that scairt of the Corporal an' the Sergeant both, I could hardly even say 'Yes, Sar'nt' if he asked me if the sky was blue."

He'd been young, and terrified of almost everything, and it was only with a lot of encouragement that he'd been able to learn properly what it was to be one of His Majesty's Marines and become the man he was now.

"you've changed a deal now. What I see 'tleast. But you know that. Weren't yer to tell me.. I wouldn't have thought you were ever scared.. in yer profession." He smiled at the marine. he seemed sound and brave, perhaps timid at times but certainly not one trembling at the sound of another.

but it was many a year that passed before that, still only with a proper environment could he have become as he was now. Braver and in ways different for the experience he had.

"Well now yer aren't no? N' ye lasted...n'..do marines try ter flee as well?" Their own , he doubted, would ever flee. They were like.. puppets. And Puppets did not have a though to run no matter how abusive the child.

"Well, there's times we'd rather not have to do summat, but that's what our trainin's about, y'see. The sailors mightn't be able to stand there, but they do things I can't do. So, we'm all got things we can do, an' things we can't do."

And twelve years did change a man, Thompson knew that much. If someone had told him twelve years ago that he'd be someone a lad could look up to, he'd have thought they were joking. He wondered how different de Guarde would be in twelve years' time.

"Every man on a ship has a reason fer bein' there.. from an unlearnt' landie, to the cap'n of t' ship." true it was. Sailors could do things that the marines couldn't or weren't asked to do, the marines on the other hand did things that the sailors were not trained for, officers had tasks that a sailor would never be requested to do or asked, and had a responsibility greater than each of them sailors. A surgeon would mend injuries, which the captain, no matter how high he was ranked, could not.

Like a small city at sea. "Is there anythin' yer see others doin' n' yer wished you could too? But yer can't bein' that yer a marine, or so?"

"Can't tie all them knots an' things like a sailor. Y'know, it's one way of showin' they'm good sailors, by what their knottin' and splicin' looks like. I've heard tell there's different sorts of splicin', that all does the same job, but some looks fancier or whatever, an' it's a way of showin' your pride in doin' summat."

He shrugged. "I c'n tie a reef knot, but only 'cause it's simple an' easy to do. Don't think I can do any others, but then, I don't need to. Like the sailors don't need to know how to pipeclay, 'cause they ain't got crossbelts like us'n. An' the belts for the cutlasses that the sailors wear, they'm black anyways."

"Aye, well t' sailors are gettin' dirty often.. now I've a feelin they do it on purpose. Chase sure did it on me." He indicated his slops. "while yer .. well ye can't right roll in t' mud n' stand out at attention. Wouldn't seem right, ter us.. or ter yer superiors." He pointed out stretching a little where he lay.

"Think I.... I'll know all the splicin' n' knottin' I've ever wanter ter know in me life. "He lifted his hands and looked at them as if to tell what he meant. There wasn't much evidence there really. "'tleast i'um not that tall ter be made ter carry a sailor size'd bags yet. Ye'um will have ter... if we come to port and t' ship needs loadin' eh?" He grinned.

(might have to disappear for a while! If I do.. well this just be a warning !)

"They don't, then. But you have to think, all the shrouds an' everythin's covered in tar, to help preserve the cordage. So they ain't goin' to stay clean, climbin' up to set or reef sails, or do whatever. An' I've got me workin' clothes as well, for things like storin' ship or raisin' anchor, or whatever. I try an' keep me trousers clean, though it ain't allus easy to do it. S'why I've got this shirt, see? Ain't what we get issued with - that's just plain white. This'n come from pusser's slop chest. Like yourn did."

It could be quite difficult to tell a Marine in his undress, off-duty clothes from a sailor in his working rig. And Thompson wasn't wearing his drill jacket at the moment, either.

He pulled a little at one strap of his braces* and grinned. "And us'll be helpin' bring the stores aboard just like the rest of youse. But, if'n you'm a topman, you won't be helpin' raise the anchor. That'll be us Marines, the waisters an' the afterguard doin' that."

(*American suspenders)

(I wouldn't know what suspenders were.. XD but I think I figured out on the braces. - oh and i still don't know.. eh, is Mathew a topman or an what is he - so as to know which tasks befall him and which he can avoid XD. )

"Yer know that ..well you do know, but still. 's a punishable offense if yer found smellin' real bad. Aye, yer can't be all dirty n' of course.. fer when they be seein' yer.. in a line, then ye... we will have ter have t' other slops." Which having only a pair, would mean, that one was to be cleaned often and used for when he was climbing and doing all the dirty jobs, while his other pair would only see the light of day, when there'd be a need to look most proper and prim.

"N' some sailors think good of sellin' their clothes fer drink.. ye 'ave ter check that too. See to it! n' if they do it.. they'd be sure not in a good one. " He shook his head slightly and smiled.

"Oh, t' heavy work that. With t' anchor. n' one needin' much care too. Don't want one of em ter bash into t' side. Right bad damage it can make. And if it does. We might not be goin' anywhere.. and.. boy, that would be an embarrassement infront of t' people of port. Seein' t' navy bash their own ships. Shame!"

He felt his hand down the queue that Thompson made for him. It was nice, well turned out and would last a while. He wondered if he could persuade the marine later for another, should his break or be needing repair. He knew he would probably be given a hearing about how he should ask the sailors and that a marine's queue was not proper, but he was damned to trust turning his back to one of them. Even Chase. Could end without his hair at the very best, or black and blue and at the very worst.. he didn't even want to think of that.

"Lookin' dirty is diff'rent f'rm bein' dirty. Ain't nobody likes havin' a dirty mess-mate, after all. They get pretty short shrift, fr'm the others. An' we do get fresh water to wash in, an' there's wash-day once a week an' all. An' if'n you need more slops - another shirt or summat, like - from pusser, y'can get one. Or he can give you the fabric to make one, like I'm doin', to replace me other shirt that's near in pieces."

He frowned. He might be able to cut his other shirt down, taking out the worst of the wear and turning it, to make it into another shirt for the boy. But that would probably be taking things too far. The lad wasn't a Marine, after all, and he didn't think it was the sort of thing he could offer to him, as tentative as their friendship was. Maybe later, though. It would be a bit before he finished his new shirt anyway, and once that was done, he might feel a bit more confident in making the offer.

(OOC - I've got work this afternoon, so I've got to go. See you later!)