Lydia's Just Desserts

Wickham clung miserably to the railing of the pitching ship as men shouted, ran and did incomprehensible things with sails and rope to keep the sea from sending the ship to the depths. He swallowed as his bile rose again and contemplated going belowdecks, but the memory of the smell of vomiting children and many livestock kept him clinging, despite the fierce salt spray that soaked him without warning. He shivered, and could not remember being warm. Damn that Darcy for driving him from his home, he thought acidly. But the larger part of the money had had from Lidum was safe in his chest in what passed for his cabin. He would be able to set himself up well once he reached his destination, and he clung to that thought harder than he clung to the soaked railing.
Remembering the money, he decided to brave the stench again to check on it. Some of the scum crossing the Atlantic may be desperate enough to steal from a gentleman, he thought as the carefully made his way to the hatchway.
"Make way," a sailor cried, hurridly crossing his path with arms full of rope. Wickham skirted out of his way just as another huge wave caught the ship. For a moment, he was flying through the air. It lasted long enough for him to appreciate the end of the unceasing rocking of the ship, just before he hit the water.

The dim sounds of cursing in French woke Wickham. He lay on rough decking, soaking wet and shivering. When he tried to move, the pain in his back flared and he spasmed and was still again. He lay still, the morning sun doing little to warm him through his sopping clothes. He was fighting the urge to cough when a booted foot caught him lightly on the side. He blearily peered up to see a sailor staring down at him in displeasure.
"Qui l'enfer tu est?," the man demanded. Wickham moaned and tried to speak.
"Je suis un gentilhomme," he managed. The sailor sneered down at him and muttered, "l'Anglais," before walking away.
Wickham dimly realized that he must have been picked up by another ship, a French ship, after he had passed out in the cold water. He desperately wondered if Napoleon's last caper had brought a declaration of war, but since he left Meryton, he had ceased to keep up on military matters.
Heavy footsteps roused him from his miserable contemplations.
"So you are an English gentleman?" a harsh voice said. Wickham looked up and saw a fierce-looking man, better-dressed than the sailors.
"Oui, Capitane," Wickham said.
"Speak English, your accent est terrible," the captain ordered. "So, gentleman, you are not an officer in the English army?"
Wickham blanched as he recalled that he had kept his commission papers on his person, in case they might come in handy in some awkward situation. He felt for the lump in his coat where they should be, and found the wet fabric distressingly flat. He cleared his through and thought fast.
"I was leaving England and that conflict behind. I had enough of England's unwarranted hostility toward your countrymen and hoped to make a new start in the Americas."
The captain laughed, a sound that made Wickham's hair stand on end.
"Poor excuse, Englishman. You are running away from your home and service, which means you are a refugee from justice. As the hand of Napolean, I sentence you to serve my men on this ship until I think of something better to do with you."
A cheer went up among the sailors and Wickham was gripped with rough hands and pushed over a barrel. The abrupt change made him vomit seawater and the men laughed as they tied him in place.
"Plus d'espace pour moi," one sailor cried as he watched Wickham finish upheaving, then undid his trousers and shoved his soft, smelly cock toward the Englishman's face.
Wickham heard ripping and he felt his pants being torn from him, then howled with pain as a cock was thrust into his arse. The sailor before him took the opportunity to shove his cock into his open mouth. The two men rocked him back and forth over the barrel while the other sailors cheered, and Wickham began to cry.