24th May, Morning - Deck

Thompson had been relieved of duty on the spirit room, and had changed into his off-duty jacket and forage hat. He was about to head up on deck to get some air when a small figure came down the ladder and nearly bumped into him.

"Easy, there, lad," he said, not recognising him at first. He blinked, seeing him properly. "Everythin' all right, Mathew lad?"

De Guarde looked startled and stiffened and looked up so quickly that he nearly fell back and he felt a tad dizzy for a moment. The last time he hadn't been paying attention the outcome had been much worse, but this time he felt quite fortunate to hear and spot before him that one marine.

"No." He shook his head biting at his lip. He knew not why, but he felt as if tears were to come and slide down his cheeks at any moment. "... ..I guess." He changed his response and frowned. "..should be." He finished and sounded even less convincing, though he tried adding. "...you's.. jus' gettin' of duty?"

"Aye. I'm off duty." The boy's voice sounded a little choked, somehow. "What's wrong, then?" he asked, concerned. De Guarde hadn't been like this since... well, since he'd got disrated, that Thompson could think of. "Want to talk 'bout it, mate?"

Before he knew to say no, his head bobbed up and down in reply. The small pouch slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the floor. He reached for it in haste and bumped against the marine. With a rain of apologies which faded into silence he snatched the pouch back up.

"..Aye." He hesitated:" If'..um you 'ave time."

"I got time. If you don't mind me workin' on the lock of me musket while we talk." He showed a rag that was folded around something. "You look like you need a friendly chat," he said, pulling another, clean, rag out of his pocket and passing it over. "Will you be all right if we go up on deck, if we keep out of folks' way?"

De Guarde nodded numbly and took the rag unsure what he was to do with it. He turned up the companion way and began making his way back up. He didn't speak a word even as they would both have reached the deck, and only looked up, glancing briefly at the mast closest to them. He looked over his shoulder to see if the marine had even followed him, and tried to smile faintly at him. "..is' ..brighter 'ere... 'least.. more ter see." He murmured.

There was an area that seemed rather deserted. "There.., is allright fer you?" He asked, somewhat resigned.

"Looks good to me," the Marine said, crossing to sit with his back to the ship's side. "You've got a smut on your cheek," he said, thinking the lad wouldn't want it pointed out that he looked as though he'd been crying.

He unwrapped the musket lock, putting a small tin oil-bottle down beside him, giving the lad a bit of space to get his thoughts together.

He lifted the rag to his cheek, his lip quivering a little as he dabbed it first under one eye and then the other. He lowered his gaze and stared at his feet, a bit dirty since they were bare, and no longer as tender and soft as when he'd first come aboard. He rubbed the cloth a bit roughly over his eyes before dropping it into his lap, where it was to stay.

"'s... cleaned up." He whispered, his eyes still on the ground, following the wood and its direction, the lines that remained on it, the abuse it might've suffered day by day, under the sun, salt and rain. He was silent then, perhaps not knowing how to begin, what to say or even if he had the voice to say it. Perhaps he should've found a quiet corner just for the first wave of emotions and only once that was done, find himself company again. But what was done, was done and the marine's company was comforting anyway. Which was just as well.

He scratched at a bit of powder residue, glancing sidelong at the lad. "You start talkin' when you'm ready, lad," he said. "Or if you don't want to talk, that's fine too. Only summat's got you all upset, like."

"...Thanks." He smiled weakly at the marine. His voice may have been shaky, but it was clear that slowly the boy was trying to get his control back. There was something to rejoice for too. He was allowed a shore leave which should've been enough to have him smile.

He sighed instead and clutched a hold on the rag that Thompson had given him. "..I .. talked with the captain." An impressive feat. He looked at Thompson's musket, and watched how his fingers and rag worked along the lock. "..he.." Should the good news not be said first, and the bad sort, which weren't quite the news or anything new really, told second?

"..is , there's one summat that didn't get me upset though.. though other things did." He stood and slowly walked closer to the marine and sat at his side. He leaned closer to observe the musket being cleaned.

"'e says I may go on shore leave now. But I 'ave ter be on me best behavour , or else. If 'e 'ears summat happened .." His voice dropped lower. "...George, he mus not 'ear about yesterday. Though I know you wouldn't, or they wouldn't say. Well I 'ope."

"Ah," he said, as the lad explained he'd just seen the captain. He'd taken the lock off his musket and was cleaning the inside of it, where it sat against the musket stock and touch-hole. He hastened to reassure the boy. "We won't tell. We ain't the sort who would."

He wiped the pan and frizzen with an already-dirty cloth before carefully pulling the cork out of the oil-bottle, using the metal dip-stick embedded in it to smooth a little oil over the moving parts of the lock.

"That ain't all that's botherin' you, is it, Mathew?" he asked, firmly re-corking the little bottle and looking up.

(Oil bottle)

Thompson knew him well and seemed as wise as he ever was. He seemed to notice when he was upset and not just merely looking dully at the world, and now too he was right. He nodded slowly and felt he should not have thought to be surprised about his observation.

"..I asked him.. 'bout when he might think to.. well ter make me a middie again, n' he said that if he'll make me...'s not like he's going ter tell me. Not when he'll be thinking and considering it.. if he'll be thinkin' n' considering it at all." He looked over his shoulder and gazed at the spot where he had hid first, drinking himself away silly and where he met that nasty man whom he now feared. He was neither there, nor in sight and the boy relaxed a little. The oil bottle looked so small, and he wondered how often it had to be used and how often refilled.

"..maybe.. he won't be considering it.. ever."

"Ah," he said again, and paused. "Y'know, it ain't the end of the world if he don't. He ain't goin' to be your cap'n forever an' always, after all. And you're young yet. You... you learn everythin' you can, make yourself friendly an' 'greeable, smart, polite, willin' an' if he don't, mebbe your next captain will. Or will make you a petty officer or summat at least."

He poked at the lock again. "Y'know, startin' on the lower deck ain't so bad. it don't mean you can't get to be an officer - you just got a bit further to go afore you can. But you'm young enough, an' you can read, and stuff. There's some fine officers started out on the lower deck, after all."

It was probably cold comfort for the lad; he was young enough that even a year could seem forever.

"N' I heard that if ye'um an officer started from before the mast... you'll always be looked down on. N' mebbe ..promotions will go past yer ter be given ter others who'd never been...like it. Ye'd end up a drunk with no career prospects!" The boy answered more stiffly than he had meant to.

"N' it would take so much, much, much longer.. if at all! Wot' if t' captain.. he stays with this ship too, 'cos he don't get a chance fer another. As long as he's here I'll...I'll reach ter be twenty n' I'll still be a tar!" Which for the boy felt like a life time already. There was another reason he had wished to reach his rank earlier than that. He looked at Thompson. "..I...I can't 'fford ter be Tar for that long...or much, much longer."

"You've got the... the breedin' they don't," Thompson pointed out mildly. "That's what holds 'em back the most, I think." Though he didn't know; he was never going to be privileged and find out, and he was comfortable with that.

"Even if the captain stays with Terpsy, it don't matter. You make yourself a useful sailor, an' he'll see that. You might get sent off as prize crew or summat an' that'll give you a chance under another captain."

He gave a half-shrug. "You've got more chance of becomin' an officer again than I do, ever," he said. "It's... it's a fine life, even if you don't, though it ain't nothin' like the same, o' course." He really didn't know what to say that might help the lad and poked at his musket lock again.

"You... you don't understand." He clenched his fists and only then realised that he was still holding that dreaded pouch. He couldn't have found it in himself to throw it over board, still he did not want to spend not a single dime of it. It was blood money to him, tainted, wrong to spend or else with it he would admit that he had been paid and admit that he was in agreement of fulfilling what he had been demanded of, admitting that he was a rat.

He frowned. Yes, he had the breeding that they didn't. Thompson was again right. In the points that he suggested, though he would possibly disagree that being a Tar was that great - mind, it hadn't been as awful as he thought it before, but if he was to compare..

"If'um I am sent with the prize crew.. which only may not be very soon at all, I'd serve under Mister Leat, or Mister Bush... or if it were a smaller boat, I'd have been under the midshipmen of our ship.. n' I see not one... not one that would have disagreed with our captain. A chance?...for them maybe, not fer me."

He sighed and hugged his shoulders then held out his hand. What if he gave that pouch as gift to the marine. It would not mean that he used it, it would not mean that he threw it away and wasted it, if it were a gift, then it wouldn't be paying nothing! And he would pay with his own penny or own grog, for the one he'd sipped the other night.

But if he gave it to him, would it not mean that he was telling the marine too, what this was? Or making him suspicious of its origin? He felt his throat contract again, felt his chest ache and he bit at his lip, the pain a pleasant relief.

"I can't. .is jus'... I can't..Not now, anymore." He dropped his gaze. "Things...they's different, George...I.. I don't mind bein' a Tar... I did before, now I don't but.. but.." He turned silent again for his voice felt too broken and he hoped fear was not sensed in his tone.

"No, I don't understand, though I'm tryin' to," he said,and sighed a little. "I'm jus' tryin' to say that things gen'rally ain't so bad as you think they are. An' I know that it seems pretty bad right now, but if you keep doin' what you'm doin', the officers'll see you ain't the same as the lad who come aboard wantin' to get everyone in trouble just a-cause. An' they'll see that you'm cheerful an' reliable an' everythin' else, though it might take a bit of time."

He smiled at the lad. "You're doin' all right, really you are, Mathew. There's a lot of folks who couldn't cope with it all, but you'm doin' just fine." he ran his thumb along the flint and frowned before looking up again. "That wasn't all, though, was it? There's summat else that's got you real down, the way you ain't been in... ages."

Mathew sighed and spread the rag then rolled it up. "..Say.. .if there wos' summat." He began then turned silent. How could he say it. It was worse than he'd thought! Not because he was a Tar though, there were other things that had gone awry. He looked at Thompson seriously. Would the man believe him, would it even be smart to say, when he was ashamed of it himself? What would the man think? Probably that he hadn't changed at all, that he was just nicer on the outside!

"..summat more than jus' being a Tar." He murmured. "Summat more than knowin' t' captain... don't trust me at all or think..think o' me in any but a bad way.." He waited, he didn't know what he was waiting for, but his eyes were on the marine and he seemed to expect the man to say something.

Thompson sighed, laid his work aside and clasped his hands around an updrawn knee. "You're worritin' over summat, lad, an' that ain't right. You'll make yerself ill, if you keep all on thinkin' over it by yerself. Has... has someone bin sayin' things they shouldn't? An' give the captain time, he'll see you's a good lad, 'venchally."

"No! God no I hope they don't.. don't want ter hear a single one...." He had spoken so hastly, so fervently that he now looked ashamed and shocked about his outburst. He fidgeted, and his hand began to tug nervously at his sleeve, which was becoming a teltale sign that something wasn't right at all.

"..say...say..." He began twice, and stopped both times. "He looked at his lap, at his hands, then up again. "Say'um..." He frowned. If it had been anyone but the marine, he would've been quiet. It wasn't the sort of conversation he would have with just about any Tar or marine. But now he was so torn, for just that reason.

"..um..." He looked away and pretended that he wished to change the topic of their conversation. "...Wot' do ye think... of t' new.. arrivals, that we 'ad recently.., like.. Sam Oxley, the master-at-arms,.. t' other lieutenant.. or t' new one..."

"Ol' Tom's brother seems all right. Like Cob Chase an' the other topmen, him. He'll fit right in afore we know it. Dunno 'bout the officers..." He trailed off and looked sharply at de Guarde. Something he'd said didn't sound quite right, and he was pulling at his sleeve again. He reached out a hand to stop him before he started pulling his shirt to threads. "It's the new master-at-arms? What's he bin doin'... or sayin' to you, then?"

If it was the master at arms, and Thompson wasn't just imagining it. Quite what he could do about the master-at-arms, if whatever it was involved him, Thompson couldn't say.

"N..nothing." He stammered and froze. It wasn't the hand on his that caused the tensing of his shoulders but Thompson's words. He looked away, avoiding the man's gaze as if feeling that it would judge him. It was something he couldn't bare, not from George. He bit at his lip then chewed on it.

"..Why would he do summat. He's jus'..jus' a master-at-arms." He tried to sound as nonchalant as if that was true. "I....'um glad.. Socks is going ter..be a'right. He looks like it, he does.. I mean. He does good, I think. And he's a learnt Tar, that's obvious." He sighed. His hands shifted a little, so that one had found a hold of a few of Thompson's fingers and held onto it, as a drowning man would to a rope.

"...did ye see 'im today?.." He paused. ".. not Sam."

"I dunno why he'd do anythin', but summat's got you all het up," he said, wondering precisely what it was that he'd said to de Guarde to get him this way. It seemed that his guess had been right, and it was the master-at-arms who was to blame for... for getting de Guarde so worried and worked up. There was strength in the hand holding his, as though de Guarde was terrified to let go and find himself alone.

"No, Mathew lad, I ain't seen him today. Hardly seen him since he come aboard, even." He lowered his voice. "What's he bin sayin' to you, to get all worked up like this?"

"Promise ter be.. quiet 'bout it. N.." He looked seriously at the man, though there was fear and doubt in his eyes too. Could he trust him with what he was to say? It was George though, the marine who had seen him cry, who'd seen him fall from grace and made sure that he did not suffer so much when the transition had been made. He even went to the purser to make sure.

"...n' promise not ter..judge me." His voice was filled with anguish, his hold even tighter.

"Judge you? Ain't judged you yet, have I?" Thompson replied, mystified by what was causing de Guarde to behave in this way. "I won't tell, neither... not 'less... 'less I can help, if I tell someone. But only if it'd help."