(no subject)
Title: Stormy Weather
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 6 February 2011
Summary: Show the Colours AU; Cob Chase suffers an injury. At sea, 1814.
Author's Note: Written for a Kink meme on DreamWidth. Prompt - Any characters/pairing - serious injury.
"All hands! All hands, take in sail!" The harsh cry was accompanied by the shrilling of the boatswain's call, repeated at least twice that Chase could hear. He and his mates stirred themselves reluctantly from where they were huddled against whatever solid surface they could. This storm was a proper hard blow. None of them wanted to go aloft again in this wind, but it was no surprise their hard-horse captain was making them.
"Move along there!" Courtland the boatswain was pacing between the hatchways, his starter in hand like always. "Move yer sorry carcasses! I swear there's not a proper seaman in the whole pack of you!"
Chase scowled as he swung onto the shrouds, having been briefly detained near the foremast by his mast captain, who was checking his list to make sure every man who needed to be was on deck. The boatswain had no idea what made a proper seaman. He'd hardly been a topman himself! There was scarcely a lazier beggar aboard.
"Lively now, boys!" The mast captain was chivvying them along too, as he made his way to his customary spot at the mast platform. Chase and his fellow foretopmen spread themselves out carefully along the yard, none of them keen to risk being blown clean off the footropes. "No bloody dawdling out there!"
"Fine 'nuff for you!" Chase snapped but his words were lost in the howling wind. He hooked one arm around the yard and used the other to claw at the sodden, heavy sail. It was not the fastest method of handing sail but it was the safer way, in this weather. The men on either side of him were working in the same fashion. This was brutal work, there was no denying it.
A tinny bellow echoed up from the deck. "Stop that lubberly nonsense! Work like seamen not women!" That could only be the captain. Chase grimaced. They were working like seamen. Smart seamen.
But their mast captain, as ever seeking to curry favour with the officers, was quick to follow that ridiculous direction. "Both hands, boys. Sooner it's done sooner we're safe below again, yeah?"
There was an audible groan from the men on the yard. They couldn't disobey, however. The captain would have them all seized up if they did. Chase curled his bare toes tighter around the footrope and shifted so he could use both arms in the work of fighting with the rebellious sail. That this made the work marginally faster was true. The foretop crew were able, at length, to wrestle the thick canvas up into one reef and make it fast, but not without the loss of a few fingernails. It was a miracle that nothing worse had happened.
Orders to return to the deck below were being shouted to the cursing topmen. Chase, from his place nearly at the far end of the yard, found himself obliged to wait for his mates to shift toward the mast before he could move inward as well. It was an anxious wait. If it was even slightly less of a gale, he would have shinned down a stay. Not today, though. He eased himself along the yard a few inches at a time, following close behind Blind Tom, wanting only to get down onto the solid deck again. It had been another happily uneventful trip aloft.
Disaster, however, had merely been waiting the opportune moment. The ship suddenly pitched down into a trough and just as suddenly rose again, carried by a rising wave. Chase felt his grip slip, as he had at that instant the misfortune to have only one foot on the footrope. He had been shifting himself over one of the supporting lines that kept the footrope even. As the ship began its upward motion, Chase's unsecured leg was just enough weight to put him off-balance. He tried to swing his leg forward again, but the angle of the ship was working against him.
"Tom!" The cry, even if it was heard, was useless. Blind Tom couldn't have turned back in time to be any help. The grip Chase had on the newly-reefed sail was anything but steady and his fragile footing on the wet footrope was lost in the same second as his call for help. The wind tore eagerly at him and a heartbeat later his faltering grip on the yard was lost. He did not fall so much as he plummeted. Chase was nearly able to grab hold of the footrope on his way down, but that would have only made it worse.
When he hit the deck, it was with all his weight coming down on his right leg first.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 6 February 2011
Summary: Show the Colours AU; Cob Chase suffers an injury. At sea, 1814.
Author's Note: Written for a Kink meme on DreamWidth. Prompt - Any characters/pairing - serious injury.
"All hands! All hands, take in sail!" The harsh cry was accompanied by the shrilling of the boatswain's call, repeated at least twice that Chase could hear. He and his mates stirred themselves reluctantly from where they were huddled against whatever solid surface they could. This storm was a proper hard blow. None of them wanted to go aloft again in this wind, but it was no surprise their hard-horse captain was making them.
"Move along there!" Courtland the boatswain was pacing between the hatchways, his starter in hand like always. "Move yer sorry carcasses! I swear there's not a proper seaman in the whole pack of you!"
Chase scowled as he swung onto the shrouds, having been briefly detained near the foremast by his mast captain, who was checking his list to make sure every man who needed to be was on deck. The boatswain had no idea what made a proper seaman. He'd hardly been a topman himself! There was scarcely a lazier beggar aboard.
"Lively now, boys!" The mast captain was chivvying them along too, as he made his way to his customary spot at the mast platform. Chase and his fellow foretopmen spread themselves out carefully along the yard, none of them keen to risk being blown clean off the footropes. "No bloody dawdling out there!"
"Fine 'nuff for you!" Chase snapped but his words were lost in the howling wind. He hooked one arm around the yard and used the other to claw at the sodden, heavy sail. It was not the fastest method of handing sail but it was the safer way, in this weather. The men on either side of him were working in the same fashion. This was brutal work, there was no denying it.
A tinny bellow echoed up from the deck. "Stop that lubberly nonsense! Work like seamen not women!" That could only be the captain. Chase grimaced. They were working like seamen. Smart seamen.
But their mast captain, as ever seeking to curry favour with the officers, was quick to follow that ridiculous direction. "Both hands, boys. Sooner it's done sooner we're safe below again, yeah?"
There was an audible groan from the men on the yard. They couldn't disobey, however. The captain would have them all seized up if they did. Chase curled his bare toes tighter around the footrope and shifted so he could use both arms in the work of fighting with the rebellious sail. That this made the work marginally faster was true. The foretop crew were able, at length, to wrestle the thick canvas up into one reef and make it fast, but not without the loss of a few fingernails. It was a miracle that nothing worse had happened.
Orders to return to the deck below were being shouted to the cursing topmen. Chase, from his place nearly at the far end of the yard, found himself obliged to wait for his mates to shift toward the mast before he could move inward as well. It was an anxious wait. If it was even slightly less of a gale, he would have shinned down a stay. Not today, though. He eased himself along the yard a few inches at a time, following close behind Blind Tom, wanting only to get down onto the solid deck again. It had been another happily uneventful trip aloft.
Disaster, however, had merely been waiting the opportune moment. The ship suddenly pitched down into a trough and just as suddenly rose again, carried by a rising wave. Chase felt his grip slip, as he had at that instant the misfortune to have only one foot on the footrope. He had been shifting himself over one of the supporting lines that kept the footrope even. As the ship began its upward motion, Chase's unsecured leg was just enough weight to put him off-balance. He tried to swing his leg forward again, but the angle of the ship was working against him.
"Tom!" The cry, even if it was heard, was useless. Blind Tom couldn't have turned back in time to be any help. The grip Chase had on the newly-reefed sail was anything but steady and his fragile footing on the wet footrope was lost in the same second as his call for help. The wind tore eagerly at him and a heartbeat later his faltering grip on the yard was lost. He did not fall so much as he plummeted. Chase was nearly able to grab hold of the footrope on his way down, but that would have only made it worse.
When he hit the deck, it was with all his weight coming down on his right leg first.