And the winner is by Mylodon
TITLE: And the winner is
AUTHOR: mylodon
CHARACTERS: Pullings and Mowett
RATING: Gen
DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters, but I like to play with them.
CHALLENGE PROMPT: prizes
AUTHOR'S NOTE: On occasions, Tom Pullings is at pains to remind me that he was my first love, before Archie Kennedy stuck his little nose in….
“Jack Aubrey, if there were a prize for the most stubborn man in His Majesty’s Navy then you would take it by a furlong.” Stephen Maturin turned on his heels, flinging open the door to the great cabin with such force that he nearly knocked over the marine on duty.
“They’ve had words again,” Killick muttered darkly to his mate Bill, then took refuge in the polishing of the Captain’s silver. Perhaps if he kept his head down there wouldn’t be a bellowing of his name from either of them. Perhaps.
Eyebrows were raised up on the quarterdeck, the shouting having been so loud that it had filtered up through the broken pane of glass. Mowett looked at Pullings, Tom merely shrugged and tried to ignore the sounds of dissent, but the last phrase had been delivered with such vehemence that it had been unmistakable.
William tried to cover up the awkwardness - as was his wont - with an attempt at levity. “What prize could we give our good Dr Maturin? Best surgeon in the fleet?”
“Worst linen on the ship… Bonden, who had the wheel, muttered under his breath.
Pullings considered. “In that case Mr Allen would have to be awarded the prize for the best voice. Such a fine tenor.”
“Indeed. And our stalwart Bonden, “ Mowett had not missed the aside from the wheel, “would have to be best fighter for his weight.” He was gratified to see the man blush - served him right.
Tom was enjoying this pastime; he admired William’s wit and ingenuity. “Mr Boyle?”
“Spottiest face.”
“Mr Williamson?”
“Snottiest nose.”
“Mr Calamy?”
“Worst handwriting. It’s like a spider has crawled through the inkwell and disported itself all over his paper.”
It was noted that Tom did not suggest Mr Hollom or Mr Blakeney for consideration; it would have been poor taste, the former being such an unfortunate specimen and the latter not long out of sickbay. “Mr Hollar?” he ventured.
“Loudest whistle.”
“Captain Howard?”
“Worst shot.” Mowett uttered the last remark sotto voce, just in case.
“You’d win some prize for your poetry, in course.” Tom’s enthusiasm for his friend’s verse knew no bounds - in his humble opinion it was better than Shakespeare by miles. “And I suppose I could do so for the biggest scar.” He rarely referred to the wound he had picked up in the Med, and then would only do so to his closest friend. But today the puckering around the gash was giving him gip and it was preying on his mind.
“Never in life. I’ve seen much worse - and much lesser cuts borne with less fortitude.” William’s smile spoke volumes for the admiration he bore his fellow officer.
The sound of feet thundering up the ladder cut the conversation short as Jove appeared on the deck and took his rightful place to windward.
Later, alone together at the table over a glass of wine, Mowett sought to express what had been on his mind all day. “We never did decide what prize you would have, Tom.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’d ever deserve one. The only prize I’d like is a nice plump French corvette.”
“You are worthy of much more than that. Most loyal friend. Stoutest heart. Most dependable of men.” He noticed Pullings, face, then nudged him gently. “And not forgetting the reddest blush.”
AUTHOR: mylodon
CHARACTERS: Pullings and Mowett
RATING: Gen
DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters, but I like to play with them.
CHALLENGE PROMPT: prizes
AUTHOR'S NOTE: On occasions, Tom Pullings is at pains to remind me that he was my first love, before Archie Kennedy stuck his little nose in….
“Jack Aubrey, if there were a prize for the most stubborn man in His Majesty’s Navy then you would take it by a furlong.” Stephen Maturin turned on his heels, flinging open the door to the great cabin with such force that he nearly knocked over the marine on duty.
“They’ve had words again,” Killick muttered darkly to his mate Bill, then took refuge in the polishing of the Captain’s silver. Perhaps if he kept his head down there wouldn’t be a bellowing of his name from either of them. Perhaps.
Eyebrows were raised up on the quarterdeck, the shouting having been so loud that it had filtered up through the broken pane of glass. Mowett looked at Pullings, Tom merely shrugged and tried to ignore the sounds of dissent, but the last phrase had been delivered with such vehemence that it had been unmistakable.
William tried to cover up the awkwardness - as was his wont - with an attempt at levity. “What prize could we give our good Dr Maturin? Best surgeon in the fleet?”
“Worst linen on the ship… Bonden, who had the wheel, muttered under his breath.
Pullings considered. “In that case Mr Allen would have to be awarded the prize for the best voice. Such a fine tenor.”
“Indeed. And our stalwart Bonden, “ Mowett had not missed the aside from the wheel, “would have to be best fighter for his weight.” He was gratified to see the man blush - served him right.
Tom was enjoying this pastime; he admired William’s wit and ingenuity. “Mr Boyle?”
“Spottiest face.”
“Mr Williamson?”
“Snottiest nose.”
“Mr Calamy?”
“Worst handwriting. It’s like a spider has crawled through the inkwell and disported itself all over his paper.”
It was noted that Tom did not suggest Mr Hollom or Mr Blakeney for consideration; it would have been poor taste, the former being such an unfortunate specimen and the latter not long out of sickbay. “Mr Hollar?” he ventured.
“Loudest whistle.”
“Captain Howard?”
“Worst shot.” Mowett uttered the last remark sotto voce, just in case.
“You’d win some prize for your poetry, in course.” Tom’s enthusiasm for his friend’s verse knew no bounds - in his humble opinion it was better than Shakespeare by miles. “And I suppose I could do so for the biggest scar.” He rarely referred to the wound he had picked up in the Med, and then would only do so to his closest friend. But today the puckering around the gash was giving him gip and it was preying on his mind.
“Never in life. I’ve seen much worse - and much lesser cuts borne with less fortitude.” William’s smile spoke volumes for the admiration he bore his fellow officer.
The sound of feet thundering up the ladder cut the conversation short as Jove appeared on the deck and took his rightful place to windward.
Later, alone together at the table over a glass of wine, Mowett sought to express what had been on his mind all day. “We never did decide what prize you would have, Tom.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’d ever deserve one. The only prize I’d like is a nice plump French corvette.”
“You are worthy of much more than that. Most loyal friend. Stoutest heart. Most dependable of men.” He noticed Pullings, face, then nudged him gently. “And not forgetting the reddest blush.”