reflection.
It’s a good face, Barrett thinks.
He doesn’t look at it often. Even if he were the sort to do so, it just isn’t possible. Any shaving mirror picked up at port is inevitably broken before half the men get a chance to use it. And it’s even more rare for the ship to calm herself long enough for the water in the rain barrels to go still and glassy, showing you a dim ghost of yourself if you peer into its depths. Barrett does exactly that, his hands still cupped in the warm water, distracted from the intent of washing his face by the surprise of actually seeing it. He stands motionless for a moment, watching the small ripples smooth out and blinking at the translucent face that stares back at him. It tilts a bit, looking at him curiously. He looks back.
The skin on this face is rough and dark; shaded with grime and thick with sun and wind, lined far heavier around the eyes than his age ought to allow. At least he reckons so - he hasn’t got much reference in that area. Most of the lads on board seem younger than he, even the few who aren’t. More fresh-faced, less weather-beaten. But few of these lads have been at sea as long as Barrett has: few of them learned to walk on the gun deck and had to gain their land legs; few of them have spent their entire lives in the salt and the sand, squinting at the horizon and facing the south wind until your skin goes numb. Barrett can feel the sea in his skin now, all the time, just under the surface. Salted like a herring, he thinks, and the face in the water smiles at the thought.
A woman once told him he had a lad’s smile. Granted, at that point she was merely trying to earn her pay, but the remark has stuck with Barrett for all these years. He wonders if it is true. He knows that when he laughs, others follow him. He knows that the Captain has accused him of “smirking” more than once (though he’s still not sure if that is a compliment or a chastisement). The memory makes his grin break out into a wide smile for a moment, and Barrett thinks it’s not a completely horrid sight. He’s got all his teeth, at any rate, which is rather surprising considering his landward hobbies. And he’s been trying to keep them clean, after the Doctor told him that it might prevent the toothache. It’s possible the lass wasn’t lying entirely, even if she was tucking his sixpence into her bodice as she spoke.
The scar beneath his eye deepens when he smiles, and his grin falters a little. The twist of it is vivid and harsh, a dark curling slash of shadow that tugs at the corner of his eyelid every time he blinks. He remembers sitting on a crate in Jamaica with his head bent back, blood in his eyes and rum in his nostrils, baring his teeth against the sting of the needle and hearing a voice say you’re damn lucky you weren’t blinded, boyo... gonna make a right ugly scar, no mistake about that. Barrett twitches his cheek, feeling the numbness there, and wonders if it is ugly. He hasn’t got much reference on that either. Not as nice as Lieutenant Pullings, but not quite as grisly as Blind Rob either. He reckons it was worth the prize money, and the tavern-keeper’s daughter checking up on him personally.
You’re lucky you weren’t blinded, boyo. He was, at that. The last of the smile disappears, with a twinge of guilt. Barrett knows how foolish it is to risk his eyes at every port for a few quid and some free pints in the pub. His good eyes, the ones the Captain values so highly, the ones that can count the guns on a frigate a hundred yards before the officers can put down their lead. He can spot more stars at night than anyone on board, can pick out deadly shoals in deeper water, spot rocks in the fog and call noon a soul’s breath before the bell is struck. One misplaced fist could take that from him one day, if he’s not careful. Lucky thing he’s far too good to let that happen. The scar puckers a bit, and he thinks he knows what a smirk is now.
The warm water feels good on his hands, still a bit sore from last night’s watch. He wiggles his fingers a bit to loosen them. His eyes and smirk and scar scatter and fall away, and all he can see are his hands, thick and stiff in the water. He stares at the scars on his palms, years of rope burn through his gloves, opaque calluses on his fingers and swollen, gnarled joints. His hands he knows well, much more than the curious face that is slowly coming together again above them. Now he can see them both, his scarred palms open and his scarred face scowling down with knit brows and set mouth.
Foolish, this is, preening like a lad going to port for the first time. How he’s always teased them, the young ones scrubbing their necks and queuing their hair on the way into town. Pointless, all that. Barrett is not the sort for earrings and cockernonnies. He is quite content to be far more familiar with his hands than to give any thought to the face in the water. He was just curious, is all. He is what he is, and nothing more. He is what the sea has made him.
And that idea brings the small smile back to his laddish mouth, and makes the livid scar crinkle beneath his eyes. Young Warley he ain’t, but he ain’t Old Joe yet either. He’s neither fine nor scurvy, young nor old, but simply Barrett Bonden, salted herring of the HMS Surprise. His face is the face of a sailor.
It is a good face, he thinks, and then breaks up the reflection for good as he stops dawdling and starts washing.
He doesn’t look at it often. Even if he were the sort to do so, it just isn’t possible. Any shaving mirror picked up at port is inevitably broken before half the men get a chance to use it. And it’s even more rare for the ship to calm herself long enough for the water in the rain barrels to go still and glassy, showing you a dim ghost of yourself if you peer into its depths. Barrett does exactly that, his hands still cupped in the warm water, distracted from the intent of washing his face by the surprise of actually seeing it. He stands motionless for a moment, watching the small ripples smooth out and blinking at the translucent face that stares back at him. It tilts a bit, looking at him curiously. He looks back.
The skin on this face is rough and dark; shaded with grime and thick with sun and wind, lined far heavier around the eyes than his age ought to allow. At least he reckons so - he hasn’t got much reference in that area. Most of the lads on board seem younger than he, even the few who aren’t. More fresh-faced, less weather-beaten. But few of these lads have been at sea as long as Barrett has: few of them learned to walk on the gun deck and had to gain their land legs; few of them have spent their entire lives in the salt and the sand, squinting at the horizon and facing the south wind until your skin goes numb. Barrett can feel the sea in his skin now, all the time, just under the surface. Salted like a herring, he thinks, and the face in the water smiles at the thought.
A woman once told him he had a lad’s smile. Granted, at that point she was merely trying to earn her pay, but the remark has stuck with Barrett for all these years. He wonders if it is true. He knows that when he laughs, others follow him. He knows that the Captain has accused him of “smirking” more than once (though he’s still not sure if that is a compliment or a chastisement). The memory makes his grin break out into a wide smile for a moment, and Barrett thinks it’s not a completely horrid sight. He’s got all his teeth, at any rate, which is rather surprising considering his landward hobbies. And he’s been trying to keep them clean, after the Doctor told him that it might prevent the toothache. It’s possible the lass wasn’t lying entirely, even if she was tucking his sixpence into her bodice as she spoke.
The scar beneath his eye deepens when he smiles, and his grin falters a little. The twist of it is vivid and harsh, a dark curling slash of shadow that tugs at the corner of his eyelid every time he blinks. He remembers sitting on a crate in Jamaica with his head bent back, blood in his eyes and rum in his nostrils, baring his teeth against the sting of the needle and hearing a voice say you’re damn lucky you weren’t blinded, boyo... gonna make a right ugly scar, no mistake about that. Barrett twitches his cheek, feeling the numbness there, and wonders if it is ugly. He hasn’t got much reference on that either. Not as nice as Lieutenant Pullings, but not quite as grisly as Blind Rob either. He reckons it was worth the prize money, and the tavern-keeper’s daughter checking up on him personally.
You’re lucky you weren’t blinded, boyo. He was, at that. The last of the smile disappears, with a twinge of guilt. Barrett knows how foolish it is to risk his eyes at every port for a few quid and some free pints in the pub. His good eyes, the ones the Captain values so highly, the ones that can count the guns on a frigate a hundred yards before the officers can put down their lead. He can spot more stars at night than anyone on board, can pick out deadly shoals in deeper water, spot rocks in the fog and call noon a soul’s breath before the bell is struck. One misplaced fist could take that from him one day, if he’s not careful. Lucky thing he’s far too good to let that happen. The scar puckers a bit, and he thinks he knows what a smirk is now.
The warm water feels good on his hands, still a bit sore from last night’s watch. He wiggles his fingers a bit to loosen them. His eyes and smirk and scar scatter and fall away, and all he can see are his hands, thick and stiff in the water. He stares at the scars on his palms, years of rope burn through his gloves, opaque calluses on his fingers and swollen, gnarled joints. His hands he knows well, much more than the curious face that is slowly coming together again above them. Now he can see them both, his scarred palms open and his scarred face scowling down with knit brows and set mouth.
Foolish, this is, preening like a lad going to port for the first time. How he’s always teased them, the young ones scrubbing their necks and queuing their hair on the way into town. Pointless, all that. Barrett is not the sort for earrings and cockernonnies. He is quite content to be far more familiar with his hands than to give any thought to the face in the water. He was just curious, is all. He is what he is, and nothing more. He is what the sea has made him.
And that idea brings the small smile back to his laddish mouth, and makes the livid scar crinkle beneath his eyes. Young Warley he ain’t, but he ain’t Old Joe yet either. He’s neither fine nor scurvy, young nor old, but simply Barrett Bonden, salted herring of the HMS Surprise. His face is the face of a sailor.
It is a good face, he thinks, and then breaks up the reflection for good as he stops dawdling and starts washing.