The Wooden World, Part 19: The Ratcliffe Highwayman
He was not yet twenty, the usual required age for taking the Lieutenant's Exam, but his captain and most of the Lieutenants on board the Valiant thought that he should take it anyway. During the years since he'd recovered from the fever, he'd worked very hard and fearlessly on everything that came his way. He had become rather proficient in the sword, though no one would ever mistake him for the best duellist in the world, and a very noteworthy shot with a pistol and with lining up cannonfire; the captain had put him on nearly every boarding action, commending his usefulness. He knew his mathematical figures, his gunnery charts, and the critical aspects of seamanship that he'd been lucky to learn as a boy.
So it was that he found himself upon a sloop, the Nike, with twelve other hopefuls from various ships, headed to London. Watts was with him, as he was twenty, and this would also be his first (and preferably only) exam.
Rothwell had been back to England several times in his years as a midshipman, and twice was able to see his family again, which was what he preferred to be doing if he was not out at sea. But this time, he would not get a chance to go north to Yorkshire but remain in the great city of London itself, the location of the Admiralty wherein all exams took place.
He wanted to be thinking about the exam, and he had his books to pour over, but on such a small boat it was difficult not to be pulled in all directions by the twelve passengers filled with enthusiasm and bravado. Today, they were making a huge din of singing, whooping, and the like, and had nearly dragged Rothwell into their group to do the same.
The subject today was the area just north of the docks along Ratcliffe road; it was infamous for whorehouses and dancehalls frequented by sailors, and affectionately called the 'Ratcliffe Highway.' He'd heard about it before, of course, but had not heard this particular song:
As I wuz a roll-in' down the High-way one morn,
I spied a flash pack-et from ol' Wapping town
As soon as I seed her I slacked me main brace,
An' I hoist-ed me stun-sl's an' to her gave chase,
Oh, me rig-gin's slack, Aye me ratt-lin's are fray'd,
I've ratt-led me rig-gin' down Rat-cliffe High-way!
I fired me bow-chaser, the signal she knew
She backed her main tops'l an' for me hove to'
I lowered down me jolly-boat an' roved alongside,
An' I found madam's gangway wuz open an' wide.
Oh, me rig-gin's slack, Aye me ratt-lin's are fray'd,
I've ratt-led me rig-gin' down Rat-cliffe High-way!
I entered her little cubby-hole, an' swore, "Damn your eyes!"
She wuz nothin' but a fireship rigged up in disguise;
She had a foul bottom, from sternpost to fore;
'Tween the wind and water she ran me ashore.
Oh, me rig-gin's slack, Aye me ratt-lin's are fray'd,
I've ratt-led me rig-gin' down Rat-cliffe High-way!
She set fire to me riggin', as well as me hull,
An' away to the lazareet I had to scull.
Wid me helm hard-a-starboard as I rolled along,
Me shipmates cried, "Hey, Jack, yer mainyard is sprung!"
Oh, me rig-gin's slack, Aye me ratt-lin's are fray'd,
I've ratt-led me rig-gin' down Rat-cliffe High-way!
Here's a health to the gal wid the black, curly locks;
Here's a health to the gal who ran me on the rocks,
Here's a health to the quack, boys, who eased me from pain,
If I meet that flash packet I'll board her again!
Oh, me rig-gin's slack, Aye me ratt-lin's are fray'd,
I've ratt-led me rig-gin' down Rat-cliffe High-way!
The young men erupted into laughter, though Rothwell was rather horrified. Not by the lewdness of the song, which one would grow used to hearing on board any ship, but at the flippant attitude toward the idea of meeting up with a fireship - a diseased whore - and getting the clap. He'd seen plenty of results of the diseases the women carried, and there was no room for casual dismissal of it in his mind.
"After the Exam, we'll all relax right proper!" Said one. "Come on, we'll all go together, and take on the town." The young men all agreed, even Watts, eventually, though Rothwell had never noted Watts being too interested in chasing women. They all turned on Rothwell for not agreeing yet, and clapped him on the back, shaking him by the arm. "You too! All of us, for good luck and celebration!"
He felt rather pressured to say yes at the mention of good luck, since he'd seen how luck really worked at sea, and presumably on land, many times before. He didn't want to be the one to break their charm. So, he forced a quick, wan smile.
"I'll go too, of course," he said, glancing at Watts who was eyeing him with an odd look of surprise, and something else he couldn't quite place. The men started in with their songs again, so Rothwell decided that he really needed to at least try to get some reading done. Off to the lower deck he went, with the words still audible behind him...
And when we get to London docks,
There we shall see the cunt in flocks!
One to another they will say
O welcome Jack with his three-years pay!
For he is homeward bou-ou-ound,
For he is homeward bound!
********
Waiting for the exam was the most difficult part. They were crammed into a narrow hall paneled with oiled wainscoting, and the young men's bravado was mostly replaced by nerves, pacing, and desperate last-minute reading. Rothwell was certain he had done all he could in his preparation, but he found himself filling with adrenaline as if he was awaiting a battle, and this concerned him, for if he began to lose that rush, he knew that his hands would begin to shake and he would not be as quick witted as he'd prefer. This would give the wrong impression, to say the least.
When he stood before the board, he did not recognize anyone on it. He knew that it was always best to have a friend in high places at one's Exam but planning such things was nearly impossible. They questioned him, about everything from the names of obscure parts of the ship, to the method of dead reckoning, to the mathematics of the gunnery. They tried to pressure him with a sudden description of a battle and demanded his orders; these he gave without hesitation. By the end, however, his hands had begun to shake and the energy in his form to drain. He did his best to not let that show, and stood there with upright posture while the officers of the board discussed amongst themselves. He would not know the results today, they said; they had to deliberate on the matter of his age. Then, he was dismissed.
He had battling emotions of hope and despair about that pronouncement, and spent far too much time racking his brain with all of its possible meanings. Therefore, he was not thinking of what was likely to happen next when twelve familiar uniformed young men gathered him into their group and took off on foot toward Ratcliffe road.
It was too late to try to get out of it, and besides, he had promised. Still, the exam was nothing to how terrified he felt at the prospects of the evening, and he looked around wildly to find Watts. He was greeted with a wry smile and a shrug, a commiserating sort of look, lost in the throng of shouts and cheers. Rothwell was certain that not all of the midshipmen had passed their exams, because that never happened, but they didn't care with the prospects of their upcoming entertainments.
They had just gone past Sail Street when Watts made his escape. "Sorry chaps," he said, moments before dashing down the side street. "See you at the inn!" he called, probably to Rothwell, though it didn't make him feel any less abandoned. He started to make a dash himself but was caught up by his erstwhile friends by the arms. They laughed about Watts being afraid and how they'd ridicule him later.
Rothwell did his best to remain unnoticed in the center of his group, and at first he was fairly successful. The women in the streets, with short skirts cut to show the curve of their stockinged calves, and bodices cut low to show their other wares, would pay attention to whichever among them was the most forward and obviously enthusiastic about paying them. However, as they made their way down the crowded street, past dilapidated tenements and boisterous taverns, their numbers dwindled and it was harder for Rothwell to avoid the notice of these very forward women. One of the men, Gepp, noticed Rothwell's cringing every time a woman tried to lasso him with her shawl, and made what he likely thought to be a helpful pronouncement. "Come on, all you lot! To the dancehall, for beer and women!" He steered the remaining four men into the nearest establishment, Rothwell in direct tow.
The smoky, musky, sweaty smell of the place hit him as they swept in through the doors; the noise was like a physical buffet. Musicians played, barely heard over the shouting and calling, and there were indeed people dancing though the attention to the form of the line was obviously not the point. Every time the couples would sweep past each other, there was much groping and kissing, and some of the dancers would swirl off to a dark corner for a slightly more private set.
Gepp thrust a very large mug of beer into Rothwell's hand and shouted over the din, "Drink up! You'll feel better!" At this point, it just seemed the best way to get through it all, and so he very industriously drank it all down. Gepp nodded in approval, and handed him another. "Go dance!" he commanded, and then he was off, dragged to the other side of the room by a hefty, bouncy wench.
Down the hatch with the beer, which was stronger than the usual stuff one had with dinner, and no sooner had he lowered his mug than a woman took hold of his arm. "Come dance!" she said, and pulled him toward the end of the line to join the rest of the group. With a sort of shock, he noted that this woman looked an awful lot like his mother; wavy dark hair, round face, straight brows, short. This did very little for his enthusiasm and a great deal for his sense of trepidation. A wave of dizziness struck him, which was likely due to the combination of everything he'd experienced that day rather than just the two large pints of beer. She probably took it for drunkenness, and clasped him to her as they passed in the next step; this threw him badly off his stride, and he tripped over his feet to sag heavily against her before he could try to right himself again. A very industrious wench, she used the opportunity to 'help' him up, by indecently grabbing at his crotch.
This was really, really too much. Wrenching himself away, Rothwell pushed his way through the crowd, and stumbled out into the street. Even before he could catch his breath and pull his hat back onto his head, he was cursing himself; if he ran back to the inn, and then was questioned about it all on the morrow, the ridicule would never stop. He became instantly determined to get the deed done, and over with; his mood probably helped a great deal by the fortification of the beer. The next woman, he vowed, would be the one he chose, and then he could get the hell out of here.
He did not have long to wait. Almost immediately, he heard a feminine voice behind him, and a shawl was draped over his arm. He took a deep breath, turned about, and moved in the voice's direction.
She was a Jamaican girl, no doubt, which struck him as ironic given his distance from Port Royal at the moment. She was not voluptuous above, but with her waist cinched small by stays, her hips and backside were exceedingly prominent and likely lured a lot of customers. She was very, very dark, and her hair was tightly curled and unfettered by style or hat. "Come wid me!" she grinned, pulling him into the door of a narrow, shabby tenement behind her.
Through a narrow, rough hall, and into a door, they were trapped together in a tiny little room with a cot and a pile of what looked like clothing next to a small bedstand. Dim lighting was had by a wall lamp, but it was enough to see this woman, whom he had not spoken to or learned her name, beckoning to him.
He had the sudden thought that he might like to see her naked, and hoped she would strip, since he'd never seen a naked woman and especially had not seen a naked black woman, and part of his brain was very much curious about it. That, however, was not to be, as she pulled him down with her to the cot, unbuttoned his breeches (she could tell he was going to be rather slow about it) and hiked up her skirts.
The actual act was so brief as to be unworthy of a proper sentence. Even before his head cleared, she was pushing him up to a standing position, and telling him the price. He fumbled with the coins, taking far too long compared to the event he was paying for, simultaneously buttoning up his breeches and getting neither one done very efficiently. She laughed, and said something about him being too 'fine looking to be so nervous.' He didn't really hear her, as unsettled as he was, and once the coins were pressed into her palm, she directed him right back outside to the street.
Dazed, he blinked as he watched her sling her shawl at another passing man, and it occurred to him that she had probably just come out of her room to get him in the same way, having just finished up with some other man previously. The thought twisted his insides with nausea, and his beer was emptied into the nearest dark alley.
It was not long before he found his way back to the inn where he and Watts were staying. Watts was not there, he noted, which was just fine because he was more interested in washing very thoroughly and trying to pretend that the evening had just not taken place. Unfortunately, the latter proved difficult and he was up all night with fears of disease; every little itch made him panic, certain that he was going to get the clap and end up going through horrible treatment with mercury and red hot wires. He also finally remember that she'd called him fine looking, which he'd never heard in his life before, but he was pretty certain she was just hoping for more coin by saying such a thing.
When morning came, he was still awake, and much the worse for wear. As soon as the inn had some hot food below, he was at one of their tables and doing his best to eat it, when Watts came down to join him. Rothwell noted with chagrin that Watts looked just fine, and well rested; in fact, quite happy. It was the exact opposite of his current state, and he felt that was the most obvious lesson he could possibly learn about the matter.
"God's teeth, Rothwell, you look a mess," Watts said, sitting beside him. "What happened?" Giving his friend a brief, but unstinting discussion of his fears in a lowered voice so they could not be overheard, Rothwell shuddered with weariness and revulsion. Watts wrapped a comradely arm about his shoulders, patting his opposite shoulder soothingly. "Well, I don't blame you," he said. "We don't need to go to the likes of them, it's nothing but trouble. We have better things to do, and I daresay we'll be each other's company. Sod the rest."
This was quite comforting to Rothwell, to know that he was not alone in his oddities, and the encouragement was just what he needed to hear. He gave Watts one of his rare smiles, and nodded once with determination. "You're right," he said. "I'll never do that again, and they can think what they like." Somewhere in the back of his mind, he imagined that someone like Norrington would never lower himself to such behavior either, and such nobility of spirit was much more agreeable to him than the nonsense so many seamen engaged in. He'd chalk this up to experience, but he'd be damned if he ever let anyone push him into something against his better judgement again.
He spent the rest of the day in Watt's company, who seemed brilliantly happy about it all for some reason. It wasn't until he received word that he had passed his Lieutenant's exam that he was reminded; both of them were no longer midshipmen, or boys. They had become men, and greater challenges lay in store.
So it was that he found himself upon a sloop, the Nike, with twelve other hopefuls from various ships, headed to London. Watts was with him, as he was twenty, and this would also be his first (and preferably only) exam.
Rothwell had been back to England several times in his years as a midshipman, and twice was able to see his family again, which was what he preferred to be doing if he was not out at sea. But this time, he would not get a chance to go north to Yorkshire but remain in the great city of London itself, the location of the Admiralty wherein all exams took place.
He wanted to be thinking about the exam, and he had his books to pour over, but on such a small boat it was difficult not to be pulled in all directions by the twelve passengers filled with enthusiasm and bravado. Today, they were making a huge din of singing, whooping, and the like, and had nearly dragged Rothwell into their group to do the same.
The subject today was the area just north of the docks along Ratcliffe road; it was infamous for whorehouses and dancehalls frequented by sailors, and affectionately called the 'Ratcliffe Highway.' He'd heard about it before, of course, but had not heard this particular song:
As I wuz a roll-in' down the High-way one morn,
I spied a flash pack-et from ol' Wapping town
As soon as I seed her I slacked me main brace,
An' I hoist-ed me stun-sl's an' to her gave chase,
Oh, me rig-gin's slack, Aye me ratt-lin's are fray'd,
I've ratt-led me rig-gin' down Rat-cliffe High-way!
I fired me bow-chaser, the signal she knew
She backed her main tops'l an' for me hove to'
I lowered down me jolly-boat an' roved alongside,
An' I found madam's gangway wuz open an' wide.
Oh, me rig-gin's slack, Aye me ratt-lin's are fray'd,
I've ratt-led me rig-gin' down Rat-cliffe High-way!
I entered her little cubby-hole, an' swore, "Damn your eyes!"
She wuz nothin' but a fireship rigged up in disguise;
She had a foul bottom, from sternpost to fore;
'Tween the wind and water she ran me ashore.
Oh, me rig-gin's slack, Aye me ratt-lin's are fray'd,
I've ratt-led me rig-gin' down Rat-cliffe High-way!
She set fire to me riggin', as well as me hull,
An' away to the lazareet I had to scull.
Wid me helm hard-a-starboard as I rolled along,
Me shipmates cried, "Hey, Jack, yer mainyard is sprung!"
Oh, me rig-gin's slack, Aye me ratt-lin's are fray'd,
I've ratt-led me rig-gin' down Rat-cliffe High-way!
Here's a health to the gal wid the black, curly locks;
Here's a health to the gal who ran me on the rocks,
Here's a health to the quack, boys, who eased me from pain,
If I meet that flash packet I'll board her again!
Oh, me rig-gin's slack, Aye me ratt-lin's are fray'd,
I've ratt-led me rig-gin' down Rat-cliffe High-way!
The young men erupted into laughter, though Rothwell was rather horrified. Not by the lewdness of the song, which one would grow used to hearing on board any ship, but at the flippant attitude toward the idea of meeting up with a fireship - a diseased whore - and getting the clap. He'd seen plenty of results of the diseases the women carried, and there was no room for casual dismissal of it in his mind.
"After the Exam, we'll all relax right proper!" Said one. "Come on, we'll all go together, and take on the town." The young men all agreed, even Watts, eventually, though Rothwell had never noted Watts being too interested in chasing women. They all turned on Rothwell for not agreeing yet, and clapped him on the back, shaking him by the arm. "You too! All of us, for good luck and celebration!"
He felt rather pressured to say yes at the mention of good luck, since he'd seen how luck really worked at sea, and presumably on land, many times before. He didn't want to be the one to break their charm. So, he forced a quick, wan smile.
"I'll go too, of course," he said, glancing at Watts who was eyeing him with an odd look of surprise, and something else he couldn't quite place. The men started in with their songs again, so Rothwell decided that he really needed to at least try to get some reading done. Off to the lower deck he went, with the words still audible behind him...
And when we get to London docks,
There we shall see the cunt in flocks!
One to another they will say
O welcome Jack with his three-years pay!
For he is homeward bou-ou-ound,
For he is homeward bound!
********
Waiting for the exam was the most difficult part. They were crammed into a narrow hall paneled with oiled wainscoting, and the young men's bravado was mostly replaced by nerves, pacing, and desperate last-minute reading. Rothwell was certain he had done all he could in his preparation, but he found himself filling with adrenaline as if he was awaiting a battle, and this concerned him, for if he began to lose that rush, he knew that his hands would begin to shake and he would not be as quick witted as he'd prefer. This would give the wrong impression, to say the least.
When he stood before the board, he did not recognize anyone on it. He knew that it was always best to have a friend in high places at one's Exam but planning such things was nearly impossible. They questioned him, about everything from the names of obscure parts of the ship, to the method of dead reckoning, to the mathematics of the gunnery. They tried to pressure him with a sudden description of a battle and demanded his orders; these he gave without hesitation. By the end, however, his hands had begun to shake and the energy in his form to drain. He did his best to not let that show, and stood there with upright posture while the officers of the board discussed amongst themselves. He would not know the results today, they said; they had to deliberate on the matter of his age. Then, he was dismissed.
He had battling emotions of hope and despair about that pronouncement, and spent far too much time racking his brain with all of its possible meanings. Therefore, he was not thinking of what was likely to happen next when twelve familiar uniformed young men gathered him into their group and took off on foot toward Ratcliffe road.
It was too late to try to get out of it, and besides, he had promised. Still, the exam was nothing to how terrified he felt at the prospects of the evening, and he looked around wildly to find Watts. He was greeted with a wry smile and a shrug, a commiserating sort of look, lost in the throng of shouts and cheers. Rothwell was certain that not all of the midshipmen had passed their exams, because that never happened, but they didn't care with the prospects of their upcoming entertainments.
They had just gone past Sail Street when Watts made his escape. "Sorry chaps," he said, moments before dashing down the side street. "See you at the inn!" he called, probably to Rothwell, though it didn't make him feel any less abandoned. He started to make a dash himself but was caught up by his erstwhile friends by the arms. They laughed about Watts being afraid and how they'd ridicule him later.
Rothwell did his best to remain unnoticed in the center of his group, and at first he was fairly successful. The women in the streets, with short skirts cut to show the curve of their stockinged calves, and bodices cut low to show their other wares, would pay attention to whichever among them was the most forward and obviously enthusiastic about paying them. However, as they made their way down the crowded street, past dilapidated tenements and boisterous taverns, their numbers dwindled and it was harder for Rothwell to avoid the notice of these very forward women. One of the men, Gepp, noticed Rothwell's cringing every time a woman tried to lasso him with her shawl, and made what he likely thought to be a helpful pronouncement. "Come on, all you lot! To the dancehall, for beer and women!" He steered the remaining four men into the nearest establishment, Rothwell in direct tow.
The smoky, musky, sweaty smell of the place hit him as they swept in through the doors; the noise was like a physical buffet. Musicians played, barely heard over the shouting and calling, and there were indeed people dancing though the attention to the form of the line was obviously not the point. Every time the couples would sweep past each other, there was much groping and kissing, and some of the dancers would swirl off to a dark corner for a slightly more private set.
Gepp thrust a very large mug of beer into Rothwell's hand and shouted over the din, "Drink up! You'll feel better!" At this point, it just seemed the best way to get through it all, and so he very industriously drank it all down. Gepp nodded in approval, and handed him another. "Go dance!" he commanded, and then he was off, dragged to the other side of the room by a hefty, bouncy wench.
Down the hatch with the beer, which was stronger than the usual stuff one had with dinner, and no sooner had he lowered his mug than a woman took hold of his arm. "Come dance!" she said, and pulled him toward the end of the line to join the rest of the group. With a sort of shock, he noted that this woman looked an awful lot like his mother; wavy dark hair, round face, straight brows, short. This did very little for his enthusiasm and a great deal for his sense of trepidation. A wave of dizziness struck him, which was likely due to the combination of everything he'd experienced that day rather than just the two large pints of beer. She probably took it for drunkenness, and clasped him to her as they passed in the next step; this threw him badly off his stride, and he tripped over his feet to sag heavily against her before he could try to right himself again. A very industrious wench, she used the opportunity to 'help' him up, by indecently grabbing at his crotch.
This was really, really too much. Wrenching himself away, Rothwell pushed his way through the crowd, and stumbled out into the street. Even before he could catch his breath and pull his hat back onto his head, he was cursing himself; if he ran back to the inn, and then was questioned about it all on the morrow, the ridicule would never stop. He became instantly determined to get the deed done, and over with; his mood probably helped a great deal by the fortification of the beer. The next woman, he vowed, would be the one he chose, and then he could get the hell out of here.
He did not have long to wait. Almost immediately, he heard a feminine voice behind him, and a shawl was draped over his arm. He took a deep breath, turned about, and moved in the voice's direction.
She was a Jamaican girl, no doubt, which struck him as ironic given his distance from Port Royal at the moment. She was not voluptuous above, but with her waist cinched small by stays, her hips and backside were exceedingly prominent and likely lured a lot of customers. She was very, very dark, and her hair was tightly curled and unfettered by style or hat. "Come wid me!" she grinned, pulling him into the door of a narrow, shabby tenement behind her.
Through a narrow, rough hall, and into a door, they were trapped together in a tiny little room with a cot and a pile of what looked like clothing next to a small bedstand. Dim lighting was had by a wall lamp, but it was enough to see this woman, whom he had not spoken to or learned her name, beckoning to him.
He had the sudden thought that he might like to see her naked, and hoped she would strip, since he'd never seen a naked woman and especially had not seen a naked black woman, and part of his brain was very much curious about it. That, however, was not to be, as she pulled him down with her to the cot, unbuttoned his breeches (she could tell he was going to be rather slow about it) and hiked up her skirts.
The actual act was so brief as to be unworthy of a proper sentence. Even before his head cleared, she was pushing him up to a standing position, and telling him the price. He fumbled with the coins, taking far too long compared to the event he was paying for, simultaneously buttoning up his breeches and getting neither one done very efficiently. She laughed, and said something about him being too 'fine looking to be so nervous.' He didn't really hear her, as unsettled as he was, and once the coins were pressed into her palm, she directed him right back outside to the street.
Dazed, he blinked as he watched her sling her shawl at another passing man, and it occurred to him that she had probably just come out of her room to get him in the same way, having just finished up with some other man previously. The thought twisted his insides with nausea, and his beer was emptied into the nearest dark alley.
It was not long before he found his way back to the inn where he and Watts were staying. Watts was not there, he noted, which was just fine because he was more interested in washing very thoroughly and trying to pretend that the evening had just not taken place. Unfortunately, the latter proved difficult and he was up all night with fears of disease; every little itch made him panic, certain that he was going to get the clap and end up going through horrible treatment with mercury and red hot wires. He also finally remember that she'd called him fine looking, which he'd never heard in his life before, but he was pretty certain she was just hoping for more coin by saying such a thing.
When morning came, he was still awake, and much the worse for wear. As soon as the inn had some hot food below, he was at one of their tables and doing his best to eat it, when Watts came down to join him. Rothwell noted with chagrin that Watts looked just fine, and well rested; in fact, quite happy. It was the exact opposite of his current state, and he felt that was the most obvious lesson he could possibly learn about the matter.
"God's teeth, Rothwell, you look a mess," Watts said, sitting beside him. "What happened?" Giving his friend a brief, but unstinting discussion of his fears in a lowered voice so they could not be overheard, Rothwell shuddered with weariness and revulsion. Watts wrapped a comradely arm about his shoulders, patting his opposite shoulder soothingly. "Well, I don't blame you," he said. "We don't need to go to the likes of them, it's nothing but trouble. We have better things to do, and I daresay we'll be each other's company. Sod the rest."
This was quite comforting to Rothwell, to know that he was not alone in his oddities, and the encouragement was just what he needed to hear. He gave Watts one of his rare smiles, and nodded once with determination. "You're right," he said. "I'll never do that again, and they can think what they like." Somewhere in the back of his mind, he imagined that someone like Norrington would never lower himself to such behavior either, and such nobility of spirit was much more agreeable to him than the nonsense so many seamen engaged in. He'd chalk this up to experience, but he'd be damned if he ever let anyone push him into something against his better judgement again.
He spent the rest of the day in Watt's company, who seemed brilliantly happy about it all for some reason. It wasn't until he received word that he had passed his Lieutenant's exam that he was reminded; both of them were no longer midshipmen, or boys. They had become men, and greater challenges lay in store.