By Cape Mondego

He was going to apologise to Andrew Shepherd for Foley's little deception - later. He thought it was Andrew Shepherd sitting there, anyway; it was never easy for even the folks who knew them to tell them apart.

"I think we're friends again, anyways," he said, chasing a lump of something around his plate. He couldn't tell them about going up aloft, not if they thought he was talking about either one of the Shepherd twins. It'd likely only get them in trouble, and for no reason.

There were nods around the mess table. It was hard to dislike the Shepherds, despite their unrelenting penchant for practical jokes.

"Good news, that," Foley said, swiping his plate clean with two fingers. He could clean it properly later. "I'm goin' up topside for a bit. See you lot later. And hopefully when Higgins ain't mess cook."

He ignored the scowl and harrumph from Higgins, and the chuckles from the others. He glanced pointedly at Oxley as he stood up, figuring the lad wanted to give a more full report about his latest encounter with De Guarde. It was usually pretty hard to be honest about things like that when around a crowd.

Oxley saw Foley's glance and nodded, hastily swallowing the rest of his dinner. He could dump his plate back with his own mess for Grattan to clean along with the rest of their mess's things.

"Topside sounds good after bein' stuck down on the gundeck without seein' any fun," he said. He got up to take his plate back over to his own mess before following Foley up on deck.

Good lad. Foley waited at the base of the ladder for a moment, letting Oxley catch up, then he went clattering up the ladder to the weather deck. Despite the lack of wind, it was tolerably pleasant topside.

"Wonder how those lads ashore are farin'," he mused, looking out toward the dark curve of land.

Lieutenant George had sent Chandos up to the crosstrees. He was not worried about the Frog ship. That had caught the wind and fled, and even if it tried to return, it would suffer from the same dead windless calm as the Terpsichore. But from aloft Chandos - the most experienced of the midshipmen - would spot the ruffling of the water that presaged a breeze, perhaps even enable them to move the ship just those few hundred yards that would fill their sails.

De Guarde was much easier to tire than the other Tars, which was only to be expected. Younger and less learnt in the hardships even the amount spent disrated couldn't have him be a match to the others.

He looked at the oar with not a small bit of hatred, which followed to be spread at the calm sea. The bloody wind. It worked first in the favour of the French and then against them. It had been the second fight he had missed. one that only he did, and now one that he could have been part of, if it happened at all.

He stalled, his oar splashing into the water with its dead weight, and sending a good portion of water against the closest man. It hadn't been done on purpose, though he neither thought to apologise for it.

The wind seemed still to be at bay, happily observing from somewhere, where none of them could sense it. De Guarde huffed and with great effort had the oar lifted, but not enough this time, so that instead of coming clear, it had more water going forth. At the very last he managed to have it up and then down again, pushing.

Westdale's arms were sore, his eyes were itchy, he was hungry and his back...he broke off thinking about the bloody thing. Stupid back.
The oars moved steadily, though with much less excitement than if they were chasing, being chased or could make out the people on shore.
From behind him and a little way to his left he could just make out the last strains as dinner was served. Ah well. It would be their turn soon...Grimly he shifted his shoulders, stretching them as much as he could while staying in time.
From in front he heard a splash and peered through dirty hair to see de Guarde catch a crab or two. Yes, he could have had it much worse off.

It was nice up here, even without any wind. Oxley glanced towards the shoreline. "'Spect they're doin' all right. They've got Sar'nt Quinn with them, ain't they. And all the medical folks."

He looked up at Foley. "I don't think I said thanks, yesterday. For, well, listenin'. And for makin' a better day than I was expectin' it to be at first."

That they did. Sergeant Quinn and a number of Marines with him. Foley pulled his hat off and ran a hand through his tangle of hair, frowning thoughtfully. He hoped the lads ashore were going all right.

"You're sure welcome, boyo," he said, his frown disappearing in favour of a grin. "Never hurts to listen an' pretend to be wise."

Pretend?

"If it was all only a pretend, you're still wiser'n what I am. You're older'n me, see. Makes you wiser, don't it, 'cause you know more 'bout stuff than I do." He shrugged. "It worked, though. I was just goin' to keep away from him if I could. Only, what you said, and what the Lieutenant said... Well, I figured it'd be worth tryin' to say sorry. 'Cause, well, I did say things to him I oughtn't have said."

They have been rowing with the effort of more men than there were in the boat. There was though no release by the wind. Indeed the only motion of the air whatsoever was done, with their bodies going forth and back. The sun was merciless at its point in the sky, the clouds so few and so scattered, thin, and far at the horizon, that no relief would come from them coming to the sun. No, they'd not have been covering it any time soon.

A swarm of fish was seen in the water beneath them, coming rather close to the surface. They passed the boats easily, their glittering bodies soon lost to the depths. The ropes were still taut, and the ship was making some progress. Some though was little compared to the effort that came into it. Red cheeked, no rather, red faced former middie, had his eyes low at the back of the sailor infront of him and sometimes at his oar, never sparing a glance towards land, for it felt that it was coming no closer at all. As if their ship had been anchored in place and somebody had forgotten to raise it, before telling them to move.

He hoped so dearly that the other watch would have eaten soon, and that it was their turn to take on this task then. His shirt felt soaked through and clung to his body as if it were a second bit of skin. His hair curled up, glued to the sides of his face and was so, against the neck too. Any amount of sea water though was more than welcome. His muscles ached something most unpleasant. The bloody oar was heavy and some small blisters on his palms had reopened during this.

The wind though, did not wish to return. Not just yet.

Jonathan Padstowe wrote:Padstowe frowned.

"Yes," he said flatly, lowering his voice and dropping the facade of cheerfulness. "He will, though I do not know how on earth we are to stop him at the moment unless one of us suddenly develops the power of mind-reading. He was the only doctor aboard when Crozier received his injury, and we could not halt his determination then. Barely. We cannot even begin to think of halting him until he is returned to us, and though it is a worry I will not permit myself to voice it until he is back. It will ohnly upset people already uoset."

Raoul could not disagree, and they sat for some time in silence, two men equally worried about their friend. Markham, returning from his station grunted with dissatisfaction, but did inform them that the Frog had got away from them this time, without darig to exchange a single shot. But he made coffee, taking some up to the quarterdeck but deigning to give a cup to Padstowe and Raoul.

As the way came off the ship, the angle righted itself and the table levelled. The regular movements died away completely, to be replaced by nothing more than a gentle rocking. After a long silence, Raoul finished his coffee and stood up. "We're not moving," he said. "I am going on deck to find out what is happening."

He turned and went up the companionway to the boat deck, crossing from there to the stairs to the quarterdeck.

Almost there for the second watch to take the place of the present one rowing. It was about time too. The men were tired, they have gone against odds - well the sea and the calm - to have the vast body of the ship move even a little. They gave it their best, even if they might have still felt sour about the Frenchman escaping, felt sour about the calm, about them rowing because of it and the heat that the effort and lack of breeze caused.

But now, they were spent and they still needed to make a journey back on deck, to exchange places with the other men. And not to go rowing back just so that the larboard watch would then row away from the ship again. They were going to use the quicker way, with that strength that they still had, of course.

There was a slight stir- as much as could occur while rowing your arms out of your back- as the news sifted down of the change they were about to get. Finally, he thought. Never had a meal passed so slowly, he'd bet. Except they would probably take even longer, with this stiffness and exhaustion.

There was to be now rowing back- good. A break from that stupid oar would be pleasant. Not that the alternative was going to be a walk in the park, but still. THey'd get to do it once less than the other watch, having rowed out to their spot, instead of clambering out and back. tHat was something to think about, gloat over. From such were small bursts of energy found.

The rowing had at last stopped. They would exchange places, and the men could relax their hands and their muscles for a little while, before they would be coming back, one by one. De Guarde was slouched over his, and looked glad that they've stopped, but not looking forward to the manner in which they would be returning either.

He dipped his hand into the cool water and rubbed it across his face and hair. Did the same again against his neck, rubbing away much of the sweat and replacing it with the sea water. He looked back at the ship, then to the land. Well, now it was good ol' larboard watch's turn to row! Ha, they were done! He sighed near happily.. which, with what strength he had left, looked much like a faint, crooked smile.

A rest! Grateful for small mercies he slumped back against the oar behind him, shifting only when nudged impatiently by the arm of the other man trying to slump forwards. SLowly he shifted out of the way, letting his arms hang loosely and breathing heavily. He hoped all their hard work wasn't undone, but it was an idle thought rather than something he was going to voice.

Slowly, starting from the closest boat, each man stood, gripped the rope and starting hauling himself along it. Westdale cupped cool water in his hands and emptied it over his heated face and neck. It would be their turn soon enough.

One by one the sailors would go, while others began getting up when it was their turn. De Guarde chose not to move yet, and watched at the men moved, some impatient, many grateful.

There was a heavy hand on his shoulder as the man behind him levered himself up, moving towards the secure rope. They were less than half full now and Westdale leant forwards to tap de Guarde on the shoulder. "COme on then, we should think 'bout making a move"

De Guarde scowled, but very slowly moved himself up, standing somewhat steadily. He turned away from the land and faced in the direction of Terpsichore. "..Go 'head then. " He murmured. "I'm a goin'." He rubbed his hands unhappily.

Somewhere at a fine distance there was a stirring, yet at the moment unseen to the Tars in the boats.

"BListers?" he grunted his own commiserations and stepped towards the rope, bowing under the weight of several men. THe first were up on deck and looking about for dinner, making their way through the mass of the ones waiting to come down and take their places.

SLowly he leant forwards and shinned up above the level of the water then hung upside down, resting and preparing to move off.

"Aye...blisters." The boy frowned. As much as they were nothing big when injuries were considered they were annoying, and they stung and felt unpleasant. It was all much an inconvenience rather than an awful predicament. He waited for Westdale to move off ahead, so he could take a turn behind him. There was a slight ripple in the water, but no more than that. Still though nothing one would pay much attention to.

SLowly he hauled himself further up the rope, rough fibres pulling on his hands and rubbing his feet and ankles. WEll, it was better than rowing, at least for now, and pulled somewhat differently, whough was hardly relaxing.

He glanced down and noticed the fish again, milling round. Maybe there was a large school of food down there, of some sort? THe going was slow, but more because he was tired and sore and was trying to hurry than because of anything else.

De Guarde took a step to the back of the boat - the closest part of the boat to the ship - and reached to the rope so that he could begin climbing. A hand extended for it as he, leaned back just a little, and lifted a leg to adjust his footing.

Just as his foot was half way in the air, the breeze had reached them, the ripple becoming a lot more. It's direction had been somewhat diagonal to the boat, a steeper angle. The boat jerked with the combination and set the youth out of balance.

He slipped and fell backward with a startled cry. Not overboard, thank god.

THe twisting of the boat caused a twisting of the rope attached to it, felt more by those closer. REflexivly tightened hands kept him up, barely, and all along the lines there were curses as men were twisted out of their accustomed position.
He craned his head and peered back downwards. De Guarde was reappearing from the bottom of the boat, but he didn't seem hurt. Cuatiously westdale turned back and lifted a hand to continue climbing. If another wave struck with one hand off the rope he'd be dropping like a stone into that water, he just knew it.

De Guarde sat up and cursed under his breath, unlike any of a Tar all the way along the rope. He winced and glared at the seat whose edge has cushioned his fall - or was it, made the fall less pleasant? - and pulled himself up. The breath of wind had passed them for a moment. He pulled himself up on the rope, feeling the throb where he'd struck himself, but ignored it. The hands were enough of an annoyance as it were.

"Wes'dale, ye movin'?" He called to the man, his teeth gritted. This time atleast the boat was put to rest, and did not attempt to shake off the men climbing the ropes.