Friday morning with the Marines

He turned back, breathing in shortly. He did have to rest his arms a little, too much strain was already felt on his muscles, and he hardly had as much of those as any of the ol' Tars. He'd glanced over again but made no attempt to approach them, nor did he call out to them.

He could be upset, but he would be a fool if he'd caused trouble or even made any step in that direction. He could watch them though. When he rested his arms and back a little, he could - from that safe distance.

Oxley took the shirt and laid it out as bidden, smoothing it out as much as he could so that it wouldn't dry creased. He didn't want Foley to give a bad report of him to Mister Cartwright, later, and he didn't want Cartwright to think that he couldn't learn from his mistakes - and he had promised to do his best, after all.

"I don't mind, if he does want me to do that," he said, slowly, repeating what he'd said only a moment ago. He wanted Foley and Cartwright both to have a good opinion of him, and shrinking from doing that wouldn't help. Besides, there were times folks got roped into doing it anyway, like when they had visitors aboard.

He pulled the next item out of the bag and passed it over.

Foley smiled to himself. "He ain't gonna make you do it, boyo, if you don't want to."

That was one thing he'd learned about Cartwright. He didn't always give orders, but preferred getting lads to do what he wanted by subtle persuasion. He knew when not to push lads, too. Clever sod, was his officer.

"Don't s'pose that Tar over there has a name," the steward added casually, after a moment. He hadn't missed the sailor's self-initiated break from his own work.

Oxley frowned. "This here's s'posed to be a punishment detail. How's it a punishment if I don't do summat I don't want to do?" Whoever heard of an officer giving a man a choice about which bits of a punishment you did or didn't do?

He barely glanced over his shoulder. "Name's de Guarde. He's the one what used t'be a middy, till he got so uppity the Cap'n disrated him." And it seemed he was one of those as couldn't be helped - but that didn't explain why he spent so much time jawing with Thompson.

"I'm keepin' aways from 'im," he said, scowling at the shirt laid out in the sun.

He gripped on the broom again. The ache was still there, but any longer and he might've been getting himself a telling to. He frowned a little and went back to his task, working out the tension with some actual effort. While doing so, he no longer looked at the two marines, and up till now still hadn't learnt what they talked of, solely that they did.

"Maybe it's punishment, aye, but there's more to do than tendin' dinner. It don't work too well if he was to sit for dinner without his good coat, neither! Tucked up in his sea-chest, that is, needin' stitch-work on its sleeve."

Foley lifted a dripping hand from the wash-tub and looked closely at the trouser cuff he had been scrubbing. Just about gone, that stain. He glanced at the Tar across the foc's'le and was relieved to see he'd gone back to work. "That's the one I was hearin' about, then. Probably smart to keep well clear of him. 'Sides, I figure Mister Cartwright'd have the lad up by his toes if he tried anything."

Sewing up the Lieutenant's coat was probably going to be worse than waiting table, but if that's what Foley decided he should do instead, that's what he'd do.

"You don't want to get anywhere near him, 'less you can help it," Oxley said. "Though he spends an awful lot of time talkin' to Thompson, seems to me. An' I only tried t'be friendly to 'im, and all. Ain't my fault he gots no friends his age, the stupid thing."

He rubbed unconsciously at the bruise on his shoulder. He had a way of hurting folks, that boy did, and Oxley had seen Johnny's shoulder after that meal. His own bruise was probably just as bad as that one had been.

The steward's brow creased, just a little. "Maybe that's the closest he can get to a friend," he said thoughtfully. While he didn't have any interest in getting acquainted with the Tar himself, he figured the lad had to have somebody aboard he could at least talk to. Even if it was another Marine.

"You din't have any mates when you first came aboard, did you?" Foley asked. "Probably it's the same for him."

Oxley shrugged. "Mebbe. He did sound... sorta upset... when I come up las' night. So I stopped to talk to 'im, try to be a bit friendly, y'know. And I dunno quite how it happened, though it was summat I said, 'bout folks bein' willing to be friendly if he showed willin', an' how he hadn't seemed like it when he come aboard, an' he went for me."

He sighed. "I know I don't allus think right afore I say things, times, but I was tryin' to be friendly. On'y, well, I dunno. Mebbe I shouldn't have bothered."

"Maybe he ain't ready for talkin' with lads near to his own age, then," Foley said, shrugging. He lifted the trousers from the wash-tub and wrung them out carefully before handing them over to Oxley. "You been aboard for long?"

That sounded stupid. How could anybody not want friends their own age? But Foley was older than he was, and probably wiser, and maybe he was right, even if it did sound daft.

He laid the trousers out next to the shirt, smoothing them down in the same way. "I bin aboard Terpsy since she was commish'ned, which was mebbe two years ago. She's me second ship, y'see."

He wished he needn't have to report for the afternoon punishment as well, but Mr. Leat was clear on that, and to defy him would've spelled disaster for him. The wind carried little of the conversation back to him, so it was as earlier, not knowing anything of which they talked.

He glanced at them. He knew it wouldn't be possible, but he had wished for the marine to have been there as he was for a while below with the horses. It was strange yet understandable. Having tasted from the fruit of what he thought was friendship, he wanted no longer to be alone. Yet at the same he feared that this want would've been ridiculed as he felt himself being, with his slops and shirt so high up in the rigging. He had been nude, and though a punch he could forgive, the humiliation still sat in his mind like the most unpleasant thorn, drawn deep in one's foot. It had opened his eyes though, for up till then being a Tar was the play, and being a middie in his mind was true.

With the later action, the fight as well though and now the punishment, he'd seen the side he hadn't wished to. Upon reflection and finding himself staring at the two marines, without wanting to, he turned again. No need to call on the attention of a bos'un. He frowned and moved again.

Oxley pulled the next item out of the canvas bag, and stared at it in confusion for a moment before handing it over. He'd never seen drawers before.

"Was I wrong, to try to be a bit friendly?" he asked, trying to imagine what it must be like to have no friends your own age and barely a chance of having one, either. Though if Oxley had no friends, he knew he'd try to be friendly - as he had - to make friends. He simply couldn't understand why de Guarde had reacted the way he had. And the jab about being a disgrace to his uniform simply couldn't be borne, coming from someone like de Guarde.

He smoothed the shirt down a bit, thinking. Maybe he'd gone a bit too far, but he'd been angry at the ex-Midshipman, and a bit hurt. Should he try to make up, or not? It wasn't as though he didn't have any friends of his own to spend his off-watch hours with, though. He was surprised to find himself still feeling a little sorry for the other boy, though maybe he was best left alone.

He sighed. "I just.. dunno what to do for the best, Mikey," he said, looking at the older Marine.

Foley shook his head firmly. "Not wrong to be friendly at all. Hard to know what lads are good and what are bad if you ain't friendly to 'em first." He took the drawers and dipped them into the wash-tub, taking a moment to consider his next words.

"I figure... you oughta do somethin' that'll sit right in your own head," the steward said slowly. "It's well and good to do somethin' 'cause you're 'xpected to, but doin' it 'cause it ain't 'xpected is somethin' else."

Oxley sighed a little. "I... I guess I oughta 'pologise to him, really. I reckon if I hadn't've said what I done, there wouldn't have been no fight. So it's all my fault." He turned to look back at the clean garments spread out to dry, and blinked furiously against the tears stinging at his eyes again. "Oughta be me cleanin' the heads, really," he said, almost to himself.

He finally got himself back under control, swallowing hard before turning to look at Foley again. "Thanks, Mikey. You've... helped. A lot." He watched the man for a moment s he scrubbed. "I... think I'm goin' to try to 'pologise. Though he prob'ly won't accept it. Prob'ly won't even let me near him, after all what he's bin made to do today."

Poor lad. Foley flicked as much water from his hands as he could, then searched around in his jacket for the battered old neckcloth that he kept as a handkerchief. "Too easy, blamin' yourself. Don't forget there was that Tar standin' there too." He grinned reassuringly at the drummer. "All a pleasure, boyo. What good's bein' a Marine if you don't help out another fellow? Here, swab your cheeks dry. Looks like you been starin' into the wind or somethin'."

"You come and lemme know if that Tar does anythin' stupid when you do talk to him," the steward added, more quietly.

Oxley took the offered cloth, smiling wanly. What was wrong with him today, that he ended up practically in tears over something stupid? And not just once but twice. Anyone would think he was a girl, the way he came over all emotional about stupid things.

"Bit bright up here after bein' 'tween-decks,' he muttered, wiping his face, feeling embarrassed. What would the Lieutenant think, if he was watching?

"I... I'll do that, Mikey," he said, scrunching the cloth up into a ball to try to hide his embarrassment. "And... can I come and tell you, if he don't do anythin' stupid, as well, like? Only, you've helped. An' so's the Lieutenant, though I can't hardly go an' talk to him about stuff, really, him bein' a officer and all."

He realised what he was doing to Foley's handkerchief and held it out to him, looking apologetic.

"Course you can," Foley told him. "You're a good sorta lad. I like helpin' out good sorts, 'specially younger lads. Catch 'em young and set 'em right, so they get to be first-rate Marines. That was me first officer's favourite sayin', and he lived by it right enough."

Grinning, he accepted the crumpled-up handkerchief and stuffed it unceremoniously back into his pocket. "It is a wee bit bright up here, innit?"

"I wasn't goin' wrong. Least, I don't think I was. Don't think you have to be bad, to get into some sort of stupid fight." He traced a deck seam with his finger. "Though, if you was goin' wrong, you wouldn't know 'bout it, would you?" He looked up. "Wonder if that's what happened to him?" He indicated de Guarde with a thumb, though it was probably obvious who he meant.

"And it is awful bright up here. Though it'll mean these things of Mister Cartwright's will dry a bit quicker." He felt the shirt, to test his theory, and nodded. "Bit damp, but it ain't wet through no more, anyway."

'A good sort of lad', Foley thought he was. And Mister Cartwright had said the same sort of thing. And, well, anyone could make a mistake about something. It was what you did afterwards that mattered, really, wasn't it?

(OOC - Think it's about time I hit the hay! See you later, hopefully. )

"Ol' Cap'n Brent used to say it was better catchin' it before it goes wrong," Foley said. "Even if it weren't wrong. Ain't sayin' you're any sorta wrong, boyo, but you got a point. Hard to see if you're goin' wrong your own self, 'til somebody else sets you on your nose."

He glanced at the clothes lying around them on the deck and nodded. "They'll be dry by time I'm done with this one here."

"That's prob'ly what happened to him, then." He tested the shirt again. It was dry by now and he picked it up to fold it carefully, putting it down next to him when he was done.

"You'd tell me if you thought I was goin' wrong, wouldn't you? So's I could see it, an' try to put things right afore it got too bad." And wasn't that, really, what this whole punishment was about, anyway? And Foley had called him a 'good sort', which had to mean he wasn't going wrong, not really.

"You're real nice to talk to, Mikey," he said, a little shyly. "And, thanks f'r your time." It could so easily have been a bad day with someone grumpy that his routine had been disturbed by someone who didn't know anything, and who couldn't be bothered teaching him.

"Could be." The steward picked a previously-invisible splinter out of the drawers, examined it for a second, then shook his head. "Gotta scrape his sea-chest again, it's puttin' splinters into everythin'."

He paused to look over at Oxley. "Cheers, boyo. No point in bein' cross, is there? I ain't met a lad that I didn't try gettin' to know, neither. 'Sides, ain't we supposed to get along, mostly?"

"It helps, yes. And it's much nicer to talk with someone than... not. I just... Well, you might've minded me bein' sent down to see you, an' thought I was goin' to be all in your way." He shrugged. "There's plenty of folks think that, 'specially when you're young, see."

He'd said something about splinters and Mister Cartwright's sea-chest, which didn't sound good. "I can see if the carpenter will let me have a bit of shark-skin or something, to rub his sea-chest down with, if it'll help at all," he offered. "Once we're done up here, I mean. Else you'll have to carry everythin' back down, and that ain't right."

That was true. Foley wasn't one of those sorts, though. "Aye, that'd be fine if you did. Been awhile since I scrubbed it down. Nearly done with this lot anyway; think you might scare up the carpenter while I get this last bit washed up?"

"Won't you want a hand with takin' all this stuff back down to Mister Cartwright's cabin?" Oxley asked. "If you do, I'll nip along once we've got all this put away. It shouldn't take too long, 'less I can't find him."