By Cape Mondego

"Beat me up? Yer might have yer experience t' aid yer, but I have me youth n' agility." He quickened his pace though hissed as skin stretched over his his bruised arms, too close to the elbow for comfort. It didn't stop him to try and be quicker than Westdale, even if it meant taking a bit of a risk.

"There, ol' man." He smiled, almost grinned, again up in the shrouds, up in the tops, he felt more at ease, happier.

wEstdale stretched out his arms more, pressed down with his feet more firmly and matched de Guarde pull for pull. "Ol' man, is it? Yer just remember that I'm older'n yer, and stronger, too."

Happy with this improved vantage point he looked out at the shore line, able to make out the boat. "Looks like they're all still there." Of course he couldn't see that...but to move they'd need a certain number of people, and they ahd moved.

"So? Stronger yer may be but we have plenty of those with t' marines, n' they ain't climbing too quickly up shrouds." He answered and tried to ignore the burning sensation at both of his arms each time he went to bend them.

"Heave yer .. arse over unless yer mean t' drop t' sail all on ye own." The smile turned into a weak grin.

"Yer ordering me aroun' again?" he said it with a small smile, the tone of voice which had been used by de Guarde exactly the same as the tone used by every other man up and down the lines, not one of an aggreived ex-middie.

"THough if yer so young..." he shifted over to the correct place, "yer could do it all yerself, couldn't yer?"

"Maybe." He managed even a faint look of mischief there.

To Westdale's suggestion that he ought to do it all on his own, he answered: "I could, but then wot would all t' res' of you be doin'?" He adjusted his footing and leaned over, a hand at the rolled up, tied sail. The men were still coming to their stations so they had to wait.

"Wot d'yer think? We'd be up here gettin' in yer way, laughin at yer, most likely."
He watched the slower men make their ways up, "and gettin paid ter do it, too." he added with a grin.
"Don't that sound like a plan?"

"Aye, t' wors' kind I've ever heard. But yer welcome ter do it in me place. " He glanced down. His muscles were aching and he was in need of changing his shirt, what sleeve was concerned.

"Show me wot' yer think n'all."

"I think tis a good plan." His back was sore, his arms were sore, he was crusty and tired and thirsty, having not had time to stop for a drink in a while.
"Yer thinking I'm a bit lazy, then? I'd prefer ter say...I've a healthy sense of self interest, wouldn't yer agree."

" Everybody's lazy by nature.. s' duty, or order or.. jus' t' need that makes 'em do anythin'." He shifted his stand at the foot ropes. There, better now.

Men on the foremast were nearly all there, the mainmast was missing two, that scrambled up the rigging and the mizzen had fewer of them getting ready.

They cast of the gaskets and gathered canvas under their arms, waiting for the next order. " Here it goes, eh?"

"Let fall!" Came the next shout, and with it again the familiar piping of the bosun and his mates. With the wind just right, neither to frail nor too strong, she would let loose much of her sheets to catch up on the time lost earlier.

at the order waiting men jumped to it, briskly dropping and secruing their own areas of canvas, moving in practised synch and forgetting, for a while, the edge of their weariness.

"yer couldn't do it so neatly." westdale grunted at de Guarde, impressed by the movements and glancing up from his own work, "So mebbe yer'll not be gettin t'chance ter do it alone." It was a jest anyway, one he knew would never come true.
Silly to imagine needing anything less than this number of men to make a boat move through the water.

"True that." There was a soft pull, and then another, as wind caught in the vast sails. Another tug, while the sails swelled up, secured and tightened by the ropes.

" And she flies." He smiled wiping his brow. Terpsy was moving, and this time it was of her own accord with no man rowing out at the front.

Left alone below in the wardroom Padstowe went and sat himself down in his cabin in the chair, leaving the door open and removed the letter from his bosom. He looked at the cover, and thought. Should he open it now? the Capitaine would be back down in a moment with whatever intelligence he had to report and he must present a good countenance - and considering he suspected that the contents of the letter would be disagreeable, it was perhaps not best to open it now.

But if not now, when?

He continued to stare at the letter's cover, indecisive until he heard what sounded like the tread of Raoul's boots on the companionway, and hastily shoved the missive back into his coat.

Raoul came down into the wardroom and went to stand at the door to Padstowe's cabin, the other man's embarrassment unnoticed. "The wind died away, they have been rowing," he said curtly. "There is some wind now, but how long it will before the ship returns to the doctor I cannot say. The damned Marine would not let me speak to the Captain - nor to any of the lieutenants." His expression was bleak. "I think they are disappointed not to have killed a few Frogs, or perhaps it is the prize money they regret more. I do not know, but I was not welcome on deck."

"The ship was French then?" Padstowe asked, invited Raoul to perch on hios seachest. Damn those wretched Marines... though to be fair, for those who were not even the least acquainted with the Capitaine, their attitude would be understandable.

"She does, and nicely, too." It was good to feel the breeze, to be able to balance there and watch the sea, not exactly foaming, but certainly moving with Terpsy's own movements.
"S'Good ter know we won't be out there rowing again?" He knew the answer to that question in his own tired arms and back, and imagined it was no different in his smaller companions.

Allen, still on sentry duty, bristled at the Frenchie's angry comment about the Marines. When the Frenchie had made to leave the wardroom, Allen had followed him, but once he heard Turner's voice denying him access to the deck, he had stopped and stayed where he was. He knew Turner wouldn't let the Frenchie get past, so it was only a matter of time before he came back down.

Sure enough, the Frenchie had reappeared a bit later, and was now complaining to the army captain about the whole affair, comments which were starting to verge on insulting the rest of the Terpsy's crew. The talk was starting to rile Allen quite a bit, but he fought back his indignation and remained silent, reluctantly resuming his position as sentry, and attempting to ignore the derogatory remarks as best he could.

"That may be so - though they did not fire at each other, so they may simply be basing on the fact that the other ship - is fled quite the word? Went faster, at least." Raoul sat down, feeling wretched. "Now, having been cheated of battle, they cannot make their way back without great difficulty."

John Westdale wrote:"She does, and nicely, too." It was good to feel the breeze, to be able to balance there and watch the sea, not exactly foaming, but certainly moving with Terpsy's own movements.
"S'Good ter know we won't be out there rowing again?" He knew the answer to that question in his own tired arms and back, and imagined it was no different in his smaller companions.

"It is...the damn oars will never be me friends, that's fer sure." And he hoped he wouldn't need to get accustomed to rowing them. Wasn't the kind of life he aspired to living, nor did he looked forward to it. He looked at the sails sweeling in the wind, graceful as the ship's own lithe form.

"Les' get down 'afore they sent them bloody bosun's mates up fer encouragement."

"Them oars can be handy." he reached out a hand and fell backwards, sliding downwards. "Though not if yer not used ter them." He nodded at his own callouses, compared to the softer hands of de Guarde.

Back towards a more natural level, though he felt no different up or down, he looked forwards to maybe a longer rest than the one they'd just had, though with less beleif. No doubt soon they'd be picking up their companions. But after that hustle there'd be nothing to do- and plenty of noise would be allowed again, if Dr Crozier was on the mend as he likely was.

"...heavy is more t' word." The youth answered and looked at the palms of his hands. They had blisters and some had opened and others had looked raw enough. A few fresh ones were caused all by the oars rubbing against his skin. One inbetween the forefinger and thumb, right at the soft stretch of flesh too.

With a grunt he followed behind the other sailor, careful to distribute his weight properly on the ropes, wincing when he'd touched the bruise against one such, and in general looking fairly well at peace.

" Would've been better t' join that Shore Party. Did nothin' but been lazy, that lot! Only t' doctor was workin' hisself out!"

[OOC: I did not say the bit about the Marines out loud.]

"But we are making our way back," Padstowe said, seeing the disappointment and hurt in Raoul's attitude but also conscious of their situation. "For all we are slow, we are moving. I know it must be vexing for you, but you must see that at present it is not convenient nor possible for you to go above, should it be said so. It is perhaps as well for your own safety if there is such a level of 'disappointment' as you claim, that you remain here."

He flexed the fingers of his left hand a few times experimentally. There was hardly any stiffness now...

"If our positions were reversed and you were my parole officer, would you think it advisable that I be on the deck of a French ship near engaging an English vessel?"

[OOC: And, as usual, I fail at reading posts properly. Many apologies... ]

Raoul looked up and shrugged. "I do not know what they think I can do," he said. "And there is now no French ship to chase or to fire at. But no, I would not wish to be on the deck during a battle - in fact, I would have asked to be confined. For you must think what my position would have been had the French been victorious..." He smiled wryly. "I would have preferred in those circumstances to be clearly a prisoner, not a guest or ally."

[But I did speak irritably of a damned Marine, and bloodthirsty crew, so you were right there. But I am upset...]

"...heavy is more t' word." The youth answered and looked at the palms of his hands. They had blisters and some had opened and others had looked raw enough. A few fresh ones were caused all by the oars rubbing against his skin. One inbetween the forefinger and thumb, right at the soft stretch of flesh too.

With a grunt he followed behind the other sailor, careful to distribute his weight properly on the ropes, wincing when he'd touched the bruise against one such, and in general looking fairly well at peace.

" Would've been better t' join that Shore Party. Did nothin' but been lazy, that lot! Only t' doctor was workin' hisself out!"

"Be better, aye. But..there was t'chance of chasing that Frenchie, wasn't there." Now they were under way again, whispering along the surface, he felt better about their loss. Not happy, by any means, but able to speak of it as a comforting thing as opposed to something to be bitter about.
"WE'll have ter get them from t'shore ter work harder, ter make up fer it."

Padstowe nodded. The first moments after the men got through the breach in a siege were the worst; he supposed that a successful boarding would be no less bloodthirsty.

"It's not a good situation to be in, no," he agreed. He would offer to go above decks and ask himself, but at that moment he really did not wish to move from his cabin. "All I can say again, capitaine, is that I'm sorry you find yourself in such a difficult position. It is never easy, and although a gentleman's word of honour is sacred there are those who do not quite believe that to be the rule; in those that give it and take it."

But he could not make things easier - that was beyond his power until they got back onto dry land, and they were still clearly on the wet stuff.