- Influence
- 3,891.00
“We’re rollin’, we’re haulin, we’re flyin’ on the port tack,
I’ll be scamperin’ aloft, to prove I ain’t gone soft,
Wind’s checked around, chopped about, now we’re headin’ aback,
We’re close-hauled, on the starboard bow, steering full and by,
I’ll be lazin’ in the mess, with grog to drown me stress,
I do me ‘ardest work with footpaws up, warm an’ dry!”
- Darragh Harper, Wish for Better Weather: Collected Sea Rhymes and Poetry
Nonsense songs and half-written poems jabbered inanely in Darragh’s head. In the few weeks he’d been at sea, an entire dictionary of nautical terms had been haphazardly flung into his vocabulary with the force of a cannon shot, scattering bits of grammar and rhyme schemes in its wake. Learning new words in the Navy always seemed to come at the exact moment where understanding them was the difference between life or death.
Put yer footpaws there on the footropes ye daft stoat, that’s what they’re for! Keep ahold of the truss-tackle lad, or the topsail yard’ll dash your brains out! Don’t touch that, it’s the throttle valve for the steam engine! If it blows, you’ll be cooked medium-rare where you stand, boy!”
There were many duties Darragh rotated through, bit-by-bit acclimatising him to every aspect of Navy life. His initial terror at going aloft up the rigging was starting to turn into exhilaration, as he began to trust that the heavy hemp shrouds and creaking yardarms would hold, and that he could trust himself to hang on. He was getting the hang of the rhythm of the Golden Hide herself, from her sonorous voice in the bell, to the steady groan-slosh of her bilge pumps, whenever he was sent down below, huffing and sweating away to dry out the ship’s innermost depths. Her engine was her mechanical heart, the thrumming of her inner works and the rattle of the steam pipes becoming a wordless lullaby to the stoat when he lay exhausted in his hammock.
Outside of learning about his duties, Darragh was also learning about the rowdy, close-knit society-in-miniature he rubbed shoulders with. He had been a wandering stoat for long enough to recognise the knowing looks and whispered cadence of the Vagrant’s Economy - the invisible marketplace of junk and scrap collectors, rag-and-bone beasts, and the furtive procurers of illicit goods who always know-a-fella. The Golden Hide had her own shadowy commerce exchange, in practicalities like tobacco, scraps of writing paper, a pair of gloves, or even a very illicit shot of pure rum. There were also items of more abstract value, such as good-luck charms, a golden earring, Seer’s bones, or even just plain old gambling dice. Just like on land though, you had to know-a-fella, and gain his trust. Fortunately for Darragh, any perceptive eye could pick up that he was no tattle-tale.
Not all had been plain sailing for Darragh. For every grizzled old senior seabeast that was willing to teach him better knot-tying through mouthfuls of curses and spit, there would also be some cheeky younger jack that outranked him by a hair, and enjoyed treating him like a new punching-bag. There had been a few beasts so far that had challenged him to a proper boxing match - deep in the hold when the Middle Watch was on and no officers were likely to get wind of it. Darragh had made good account of himself, and given out a few black eyes, in return for the lesser share of bruises. Most of the crew and the fighters would honour the outcome of such a fight as the final word on a disagreement. Most.
Darragh hadn’t fought Able Seabeast Jinks, but he had beaten Jinks’ friend, Harrow, in one of these under-deck scraps. He’d shaken Harrow’s paw, the two had agreed that Darragh did not owe the ferret a month’s worth of doing his laundry, and that should have been the end of it. Jinks, however, seemed to hold a grudge on his friend’s behalf. Perhaps it was because they were both ferrets, or just that Darragh was a lowly deckswab who should have rightly lost to a more experienced Navy jack. Whatever the reason, Jinks wouldn’t challenge Darragh to a fight directly, but instead pulled rank to assign him a continuous barrage of tasks that the stoat couldn’t justifiably refuse.
“Oi! Harper! Get me the ship’s Timmynocky, sharpish!”
Darragh inwardly groaned at the sound of Jinks’ petulant tone. He had just finished a lesson in tying the gaskets for a furled sail, and the ferret had cornered him as he’d been coming down the foremast shrouds. The stoat was not very good at hiding his emotions, his muzzle wrinkling in frustration as he tried to recall if he’d heard that word before.
“Aye, okay-so, Able Seabeast, but what manner of thing is a Timmynocky?” Darragh asked, bracing himself for the explosion to follow. As expected, he received a firm cuff to his head. Jinks was taller and heavier than Darragh, his shirt sleeves always rolled up to show off his strong arms, and a blue cotton cloth he'd bought in some far-off port tied around his thick neck.
“What, they didn’t have ‘em in Ould Took-um-berry?” Jinks sneered, in a poor imitation of Darragh’s lilting accent. “Why don’tcha show some o’ them smarts you pretend to ‘ave under that ugly hat, an’ find out? Call it a um… trainin’ exercise! I want that Timmynocky by the first dog watch, Harper, or I’ll make it a disciplinary matter! Now shift it!”
“Aye-aye, Able Seabeast,” Darragh said miserably, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice, which brought a satisfied smirk to Jinks' face. The skinny stoat tugged a scrap of his headfur and scarpered, trying to look busy and determined.
Spiteful gutless Jinks, why doesn’t he just call me out, if he hates me so much? Let’s just have a good fight and get it over with. Tch, typical cowardly bully, Darragh ruminated to himself. Now where would I keep a Timmynocky, if I had one and knew what it was for?
Perhaps it was a part for the engine? Or maybe some kind of specialised tool? The trouble was everything on the ship seemed to have at least more than a few nicknames, so for all he knew, he’d been holding a Timmynocky not an hour ago without even knowing that’s what it was called.
“Erm, just after the ol’ Timmynocky, mate, ye haven’t seen it?” Darragh asked around. Blank stares. Shrugs A guffaw and a shake of the head. Darragh felt his shoulders droop, as he headed below decks. Maybe it was in a storage room. Or maybe, come this evening, he was utterly doomed.
I’ll be scamperin’ aloft, to prove I ain’t gone soft,
Wind’s checked around, chopped about, now we’re headin’ aback,
We’re close-hauled, on the starboard bow, steering full and by,
I’ll be lazin’ in the mess, with grog to drown me stress,
I do me ‘ardest work with footpaws up, warm an’ dry!”
- Darragh Harper, Wish for Better Weather: Collected Sea Rhymes and Poetry
Nonsense songs and half-written poems jabbered inanely in Darragh’s head. In the few weeks he’d been at sea, an entire dictionary of nautical terms had been haphazardly flung into his vocabulary with the force of a cannon shot, scattering bits of grammar and rhyme schemes in its wake. Learning new words in the Navy always seemed to come at the exact moment where understanding them was the difference between life or death.
Put yer footpaws there on the footropes ye daft stoat, that’s what they’re for! Keep ahold of the truss-tackle lad, or the topsail yard’ll dash your brains out! Don’t touch that, it’s the throttle valve for the steam engine! If it blows, you’ll be cooked medium-rare where you stand, boy!”
There were many duties Darragh rotated through, bit-by-bit acclimatising him to every aspect of Navy life. His initial terror at going aloft up the rigging was starting to turn into exhilaration, as he began to trust that the heavy hemp shrouds and creaking yardarms would hold, and that he could trust himself to hang on. He was getting the hang of the rhythm of the Golden Hide herself, from her sonorous voice in the bell, to the steady groan-slosh of her bilge pumps, whenever he was sent down below, huffing and sweating away to dry out the ship’s innermost depths. Her engine was her mechanical heart, the thrumming of her inner works and the rattle of the steam pipes becoming a wordless lullaby to the stoat when he lay exhausted in his hammock.
Outside of learning about his duties, Darragh was also learning about the rowdy, close-knit society-in-miniature he rubbed shoulders with. He had been a wandering stoat for long enough to recognise the knowing looks and whispered cadence of the Vagrant’s Economy - the invisible marketplace of junk and scrap collectors, rag-and-bone beasts, and the furtive procurers of illicit goods who always know-a-fella. The Golden Hide had her own shadowy commerce exchange, in practicalities like tobacco, scraps of writing paper, a pair of gloves, or even a very illicit shot of pure rum. There were also items of more abstract value, such as good-luck charms, a golden earring, Seer’s bones, or even just plain old gambling dice. Just like on land though, you had to know-a-fella, and gain his trust. Fortunately for Darragh, any perceptive eye could pick up that he was no tattle-tale.
Not all had been plain sailing for Darragh. For every grizzled old senior seabeast that was willing to teach him better knot-tying through mouthfuls of curses and spit, there would also be some cheeky younger jack that outranked him by a hair, and enjoyed treating him like a new punching-bag. There had been a few beasts so far that had challenged him to a proper boxing match - deep in the hold when the Middle Watch was on and no officers were likely to get wind of it. Darragh had made good account of himself, and given out a few black eyes, in return for the lesser share of bruises. Most of the crew and the fighters would honour the outcome of such a fight as the final word on a disagreement. Most.
Darragh hadn’t fought Able Seabeast Jinks, but he had beaten Jinks’ friend, Harrow, in one of these under-deck scraps. He’d shaken Harrow’s paw, the two had agreed that Darragh did not owe the ferret a month’s worth of doing his laundry, and that should have been the end of it. Jinks, however, seemed to hold a grudge on his friend’s behalf. Perhaps it was because they were both ferrets, or just that Darragh was a lowly deckswab who should have rightly lost to a more experienced Navy jack. Whatever the reason, Jinks wouldn’t challenge Darragh to a fight directly, but instead pulled rank to assign him a continuous barrage of tasks that the stoat couldn’t justifiably refuse.
“Oi! Harper! Get me the ship’s Timmynocky, sharpish!”
Darragh inwardly groaned at the sound of Jinks’ petulant tone. He had just finished a lesson in tying the gaskets for a furled sail, and the ferret had cornered him as he’d been coming down the foremast shrouds. The stoat was not very good at hiding his emotions, his muzzle wrinkling in frustration as he tried to recall if he’d heard that word before.
“Aye, okay-so, Able Seabeast, but what manner of thing is a Timmynocky?” Darragh asked, bracing himself for the explosion to follow. As expected, he received a firm cuff to his head. Jinks was taller and heavier than Darragh, his shirt sleeves always rolled up to show off his strong arms, and a blue cotton cloth he'd bought in some far-off port tied around his thick neck.
“What, they didn’t have ‘em in Ould Took-um-berry?” Jinks sneered, in a poor imitation of Darragh’s lilting accent. “Why don’tcha show some o’ them smarts you pretend to ‘ave under that ugly hat, an’ find out? Call it a um… trainin’ exercise! I want that Timmynocky by the first dog watch, Harper, or I’ll make it a disciplinary matter! Now shift it!”
“Aye-aye, Able Seabeast,” Darragh said miserably, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice, which brought a satisfied smirk to Jinks' face. The skinny stoat tugged a scrap of his headfur and scarpered, trying to look busy and determined.
Spiteful gutless Jinks, why doesn’t he just call me out, if he hates me so much? Let’s just have a good fight and get it over with. Tch, typical cowardly bully, Darragh ruminated to himself. Now where would I keep a Timmynocky, if I had one and knew what it was for?
Perhaps it was a part for the engine? Or maybe some kind of specialised tool? The trouble was everything on the ship seemed to have at least more than a few nicknames, so for all he knew, he’d been holding a Timmynocky not an hour ago without even knowing that’s what it was called.
“Erm, just after the ol’ Timmynocky, mate, ye haven’t seen it?” Darragh asked around. Blank stares. Shrugs A guffaw and a shake of the head. Darragh felt his shoulders droop, as he headed below decks. Maybe it was in a storage room. Or maybe, come this evening, he was utterly doomed.
