Mess deck

Chase didn't bother to hide a smirk. He'd stayed quiet since Seward and Jimmy Squeak had left, but De Guarde's outburst was prompting enough for him to speak up again.

"Don't be fergettin' where yer at, boy," Chase said flatly, pointedly refraining from using any formal name. It seemed that De Guarde was still stuck thinking he had some form of authority. Apparently there was still a fair way to go in making him "normal".

"... I don't need an audience.. n' yer need ter go n' do summat more productive...than starin'. Numbs the mind. That." His voice lost some of its edge, and gained some of the sulk. Jacob Chase was his mentor in some manner, while his word kept him somewhat safer with the other men. He eyed the elder man.

"Makin' sure ya does a good job cleanin' is productive," Chase pointed out, grinning.

".. Oh.. and I need all of yer lot makin' sure.. don't I." He answered unimpressed and unconvinced. He set the kid back against the table and pushed it forward so that it wouldn't tip over then straightened his sleeves.

Billy grinned, but he was too tired from a very long days' work - or two long weeks' work - to care. "Well I reckon I'm no good for anythin' else but staring. But if I'm gonna stare at sommat, I'd rather go sit in the chains and watch the stars go by than sit down here and stare at De Guarde. I already know what he looks like!" And with that he departed, chuckling at his own witicism.

"And he ain't half so pretty as the girls in Lisbon!" Oates called, hooting with laughter as he followed Billy.

The sailors chuckled and broke up, some following Barrow and Oates, others moving off in various directions to pursue their own interests. It was little more than their natural way.

Chase said, "Guess yer still not used t'the ribbin' an' all, eh?"

"Ribbin'?" He glared after the sailors. He frowned and looked at the dirty dishes and the desk that had a speck here and there, where some of the sailors had sat and ate.

"I do not consider it amusin' that they be insultin' me, Chase." He took hold of the kid again. "N' they ought to have learn't already. Ain't Mathew ter them. None of 'em. 's De Guarde. Don't care wot' ye be speakin' n' calling people like below 'ere. Barrow, you, Westdale.. no matter!"

Chase shook his head. "Y'still don't get it, but that's no surprise. If ya'd pay closer attention, ya'd see the lads don't spare nobody when it comes t'pokin' fun."

There almost wasn't any point trying to tell the boy. Shrugging, Chase said, "Long's y'let on it bothers ya, them lads'll keep right at it. Learn t'jes' shurrup an' bear it, or yer not gonna make it back t'yer vaunted middies' berth."

"..Yet if I'll let 'em fer example call me by me Christian name.. n' not say a thing, they'll think it's alright n' so do it." He sat down carefully, his bottom still tender yet compared to how it was, nearly full well.

"Wot' should I then do..Chase, ter have them know they can only call me De Guarde n' not Mathew? I can.." He could bite down on his pride and perhaps give them back their own medicine if only he knew how, but his name was hardly a problem he knew how to solve.

"t' rest.. but that I see no way." It may have come as a surprise to Chase that the boy was not telling him to 'shurrup' and even that he'd asked for a way to solve the problem. It sure had surprised the former midshipman.

"Aye, mebbe so." Chase shrugged. "If y'don't wanna bear it, find another way 'round it. Sure ya've heared the lads callin' me Cob, aye? 'Cause I can't 'bide the name Jacob. See?"

It was too likely that De Guarde wouldn't, but the attempt had to be made.

The topman flicked a crumb off the mess-table and added, "That's harf the trick t'most things down here, y'know. Findin' a way 'round it. A good way, mind."

"Aye I have heared it." He stood again and placed the kid on one of the sea chests used as seats, and began to wipe the desk. He started at one side, close to Chase.

"..Cob.." He didn't see how Mat would be any different than Mathew. Could have a not too desired a meaning also.

Still he tried to figure a way. What Jacob was telling him was simple. Can't swim against the current to cross the channel. Try to find a way around it instead. It wasn't just about the name, it seemed. He knew the bad ways well enough, but those were well enough when he were a midshipman. Being a sailor most wouldn't work.

He paused at the side of the table. "... If you were ter call me summat... they'd follow your example?"

"Mosta 'em would, I s'pose," Chase answered. "If y'had summat ya'd rather be called instead. Like Chicken Dyer - we dunno his true name. He got pressed after runnin' inta a press-gang, an' turns out he were a chicken thief."

The topman shrugged again. "Think of summat, anyways."

"I see. Thought he had.. .a rather particular.. name... being Chicken Dyer... n'all. So ..'s because he were a chicken thief." He looked thoughtfully at the table, and wiped a few crumbs off of it. He knew that the rats or the cat would come and pick it up. "What would you call me... not sayin' I'll take it but.." He looked at Chase, a serious look on his face.

"..not bein' me Christian name... or a shortenin' of it. What would yer have thought t' use..." He couldn't have asked about a nickname that the sailors sometimes had for the officers. Neither had he been long enough aboard the ship to earn one, nor did he expect it to be pleasant, if there was one.

He couldn't resist a grin. "Could call ya Buckle, fer them ol' fancy buckles wot middies wear on their shoes."

Buckle. To remind him he were after all a middie, even if he were at present a sailor. It didn't sound half bad, with Chase's explanation. De Guarde found himself smiling. He dusted the last of the crumbs of their mess table and flicked the cloth twice over, so as to be sure it was also clean.

"Buckle." He repeated and climbed over the chest. His bare feet were seen for a moment before his slightly oversized slops slipped over them. "I could do with that." He walked to the kid stationed beside Chase. He looked up at the taller man. "How am I ter clean this up again?" He motioned to the dirty dishes making a small grimace.

It seemed that De Guarde wasn't opposed to the name. That was a step forward, at least.

"Here," Chase said, reaching out for one of the wooden plates. "Can't waste good water on 'em, so we use old knots of rope t'scrub 'em, then rinse 'em off with sea-water."


OOC - I actually don't know how they did it, so I'm making it up as I go along. :/

"Don't make much difference bein' salty.. eh? Since s' salted food on it anyhow." He smiled and picked one of the plates. He had made a face." They'um filthy." He murmured and reached for the given knot of rope , worn down so it was barely recognisable.

"Like this?"

(ooc is alright. I was looking for that data, but only came so far as to, it being cleaned, but no other details. Does seem to make sense!)

"Aye, like that," Chase affirmed. He moved away briefly to retrieve the bucket of sea-water that Fingers, one of the ship's boys, had brought down.

"Pass 'em over here when yer done scrubbin'."

"Aye, right 'way." He smiled, scrubbing the worn out knot against the first plate till it looked ready to be doused in water. He held it out to Chase and gripped his makeshift 'sponge' in his other hand.

"Here is one." He looked surprised and uncertain whether Chase meant that he would help him washing the dishes, or whether he only meant that they would be put there to wait for him to finish scrubbing first.

Chase took the plate and dunked it into the bucket. He pretended not to notice the boy's expression as he swirled his fingers over the freshly-scrubbed plate, clearing away any last clinging bits of food.

"Goes faster when there's willin' help, don't it?"

"Yes. ..it does." He looked down at his plate to seem as if he were very busy with cleaning it. Once the plate could be made no cleaner with just the knot he held it again to Chase. There was a word at the end of his tongue, yet it refused to leave his mouth.

He kept his gaze down then reached for the next plate as he did with the first and the second."...Why ye'um willin' ter help me?" He asked, hoping that the question wouldn't trigger a response in which Chase would realise his mistake, snap out of it, and up and leave. Help was very welcome, even more so.. the unexpected.

Chase accepted the second plate and gave it a similar treatment to the one before it.

" 'Cause yer a foremast Jack, an' in me own division," he replied, as if that explained everything.

He flinched. Then he nodded. He was a foremast Jack, he wasn't a midshipman. As much as he loathed it it was stating fact.

"But I'um.. t' middie ...was a middie that had you....flogged. Of all o' them.. ye'um..I'd have understood if ye wanted least ter do with me...no more than is yer duty."

He bit at his lip and held out the next plate. He held his gaze downcast at first, then lifted it to meet with Chase's gaze.

"Gotta getcha shaped up proper, former middie or not," Chase said lightly. "A floggin's a floggin', an' it happened on'y once."